gentlemen,’ he says, ‘I see that you are expecting some one to bring you news of the battle; but it is of no use to wait, for every one is dead.’ Thereupon he blows out his lamp, and goes off to bed.
In his memoirs Goldoni explains the rules then followed by dramatic authors. He had occasion to
Goldoni, i. xxviii.
learn them himself when he read his first piece, Amalasunta, to Count Prata, director of one of the large theatres in Milan.
‘It seems to me,’ said the Count, ‘that you have studied tolerably well the Poetics of Aristotle and the Ars Poetica of Horace, and that you have written your composition according to the true principles of tragedy. Then you did not know that a musical drama is an imperfect work, subject to rules and traditions which have no common sense, it is true, but which must be followed to the very letter. If you had been in France you might have thought more of pleasing the public, but here you must please actors and actresses, you must satisfy the composer of the music, you must consult the scene-painter; everything has its rules, and it would be a crime of lèse majesté against the art of playwriting to dare to break them or not to submit to them. Listen to me,’ he continued, ‘I am going to point out to you some rules which are unchangeable, and which you do not know. Each of the three principal characters in the drama must sing five airs—two in the first act, two in the second act, and one in the third. The second actress and the second “man” soprano can only have three, and the third parts must be satisfied with one, or two at the most. The author of the words must provide the musician with the different shades which form the chiaroscuro of the music, taking good care that two pathetic airs shall not follow each other. It is also necessary to separate with the same care showy airs, airs of action, of undefined character, minuets, and rondeaux. One must be especially careful to give no airs of affection or movement nor showy airs nor rondeaux to the second parts. These poor people must be contented with what is assigned to them, for they are not allowed to make a good figure.’
Count Prata would have said more, but Goldoni stopped him, for he had heard quite enough. He went home in that state of mind which some young authors have known, and obtained a sort of morbid satisfaction from burning his manuscript.
‘As I was poking the pieces of my manuscript together to complete the burning,’ he says, ‘it occurred to me that in no case had any disappointment made me sacrifice my supper. I called the waiter, and told him to lay the cloth and bring me something to eat at once.... I ate well, drank better, went to bed and slept with the most perfect tranquillity.’
Goldoni was of the strong, to whom is the race.
Portrait of Goldoni, P. Longhi; Museo Civico, Room IX.
From the ashes of his Amalasunta rose comedies that reformed the Italian stage.