acting. I felt really sorry for
her, while observing this progressive deterioration in her art. She had
been an excellent comedian in the Italian style, and would certainly
have been appreciated on the stage at Paris. Now she had become an ape
of the French race, surcharged with affectation, and unsuccessful in her
travesty. It is impossible, I thought, that the Parisians, who require
an Italian actress, and not a mongrel imitation of themselves, will put
up with her. This prognostication, to my sincere regret, was verified
when she appeared in that metropolis.

We had reached the first days of November in the year 1776, and Sacchi's
receipts were languishing. He had been spoiled by getting gratis at my
hands two or three pieces annually, which found favour with the public.
This made him careless about supplying himself with novelties; while I
was so engaged with law business that I had no time to dramatise my
_Metafisico_ and _Bianca di Melfi_. In fact, I had nothing on hand but
the _Droghe d'Amore_. Pestered by perpetual applications for this
comedy, in an evil moment I drew it from its sepulchre and tossed it
over to the _capocomico_. I told him that he might take the manuscript
as a gift, but that if the play failed before the public, as I thought
it would, I should never exercise my pen again on compositions for the
stage.

It was impossible to foresee that a chain of untoward circumstances
would convert this harmless drama into an indecent personal satire upon
Signor Gratarol. Mendacious and vindictive meddling on the part of an
infuriated actress, false steps and ill-considered opposition on the
part of the man whom she deceived, the pique of great folk who disliked
him, and the ingenuity of comedians eager for pecuniary gains, effected
the transformation. I was placed in a false light--shown up to public
curiosity as the prime agent in a piece of vulgar retaliation, the
victim of a weak and jealous fancy. If I could have divined what lay
beyond the scope of divination, I swear to God that I should have flung
that comedy into the flames rather than let it become the property of a
_capocomico_.

Far be it from me to assert that Gratarol was not brought upon the stage
in that very comedy of my creation. He certainly was. But he owed this
painful distinction to his own bad management, to the credulity with
which he drank the venom of a spiteful woman's tongue, to the steps he
took for prohibiting my play which ro