Francesco and Vittoria ran out from opposite wings, and met in a joyous embrace.
Cheering wildly, the students slapped each other’s backs, and went home.
Andreini’s trick had worked perfectly. From then on, he was the Lover, the star, the one whose eloquence drew such floods of sympathy from the crowd. There was no way for Flaminio to play Amante any more; he limited himself to the role of the Captain.
Indeed, he played the Captain more and more, onstage and off. He bragged like the admiral of a toy boat, raged like a frenzied bull. He was always berating Vittoria for having betrayed his love, always scolding Francesco for a million failures and inadequacies.
But poor dumb Vittoria, who could never see further than the coarse nose on her face, was delighted by the change.
“I like playing opposite Andreini,” she told me. “He’s so much more talented, more graceful. His kiss is so much sweeter than stinking Flaminio Scala’s. He’s so much easier to respond to, he’s helping me, my acting is better than ever.”
And it was true. But there was a familiar note in her voice, which I’d heard before, among the young brides who’d come into my shop to buy cloth for their husbands’ suits. It was the way women talked about the men they loved.
As I listened to Vittoria, my head ached with envy. I knew no one would ever speak about me that way. “Vittoria,” I said, “watch out for Andreini. He’s a schemer. He’s got his sights set on bigger game than you.”
“Don’t play the father with me, Pantalone,” she said. “You’ll only make me like him more.”
And so my big cow of a daughter stumbled into Andreini’s trap. Day after day, I watched him work his magic on her, courting her with stories and sweet, flowery speeches. And I watched her falling in love with him.
“Andreini doesn’t care about you,” I warned her. “Anyone in the troupe will tell you the same thing. It’s just another one of his tricks. He’s playing with you, using you; he’s just doing it to make the Captain mad.”
But women never listen to me; I’m not that sort of man. Vittoria continued in her foolishness, and, to tell the truth, she blossomed in it; the Inamorata was never sweeter. The audiences loved to see her trying every charm, every small grace, every ruse in her efforts to enchant Francesco. They showered her with wine-red roses and silver coins.
Often I stood offstage and wondered: does the audience know it’s real? Is that why they like it so much? Do they know it’s real when the Captain hurls himself across stage in clownish agony, begging the Inamorata to sleep with him?
Did they know it was real that night in Venice, when, in an unexpected improvisation, Vittoria suddenly changed the scenario, and consented to the Captain’s pleas?
I knew. She came and told me so, the night it happened. “I told that old jackass Flaminio he can have me one more time,” she said, pacing nervously back and forth. “I’ve invited him to come to my tent tonight. If that doesn’t bring Andreini around, nothing will!”
“Why are you doing this?” I cried. “You’re playing straight into Francesco’s hands. You’re helping him destroy the Captain! Is that what you want? Do you hate Flaminio so much? Don’t you know better than to play Andreini’s fool?”
Vittoria stared at me, her dull eyes brimming with sadness. Suddenly, I pitied her, because I knew that her love for Francesco was real.
“It’s the only way,” she said. “I’m desperate. He’s got another woman, somewhere in the wealthy part of town. Everyone talks about it, it’s common knowledge: he visits her once a week. If I don’t do something drastic now, I’ll never get him, I might as well give up.”
“Vittoria,” I said, “you could sleep with Flaminio in Francesco’s own bed, and he wouldn’t care. He’d thank you for it. You’d be helping him break the Captain down.”
“It’s the only way,” she sighed.
That
Cheering wildly, the students slapped each other’s backs, and went home.
Andreini’s trick had worked perfectly. From then on, he was the Lover, the star, the one whose eloquence drew such floods of sympathy from the crowd. There was no way for Flaminio to play Amante any more; he limited himself to the role of the Captain.
Indeed, he played the Captain more and more, onstage and off. He bragged like the admiral of a toy boat, raged like a frenzied bull. He was always berating Vittoria for having betrayed his love, always scolding Francesco for a million failures and inadequacies.
But poor dumb Vittoria, who could never see further than the coarse nose on her face, was delighted by the change.
“I like playing opposite Andreini,” she told me. “He’s so much more talented, more graceful. His kiss is so much sweeter than stinking Flaminio Scala’s. He’s so much easier to respond to, he’s helping me, my acting is better than ever.”
And it was true. But there was a familiar note in her voice, which I’d heard before, among the young brides who’d come into my shop to buy cloth for their husbands’ suits. It was the way women talked about the men they loved.
As I listened to Vittoria, my head ached with envy. I knew no one would ever speak about me that way. “Vittoria,” I said, “watch out for Andreini. He’s a schemer. He’s got his sights set on bigger game than you.”
“Don’t play the father with me, Pantalone,” she said. “You’ll only make me like him more.”
And so my big cow of a daughter stumbled into Andreini’s trap. Day after day, I watched him work his magic on her, courting her with stories and sweet, flowery speeches. And I watched her falling in love with him.
“Andreini doesn’t care about you,” I warned her. “Anyone in the troupe will tell you the same thing. It’s just another one of his tricks. He’s playing with you, using you; he’s just doing it to make the Captain mad.”
But women never listen to me; I’m not that sort of man. Vittoria continued in her foolishness, and, to tell the truth, she blossomed in it; the Inamorata was never sweeter. The audiences loved to see her trying every charm, every small grace, every ruse in her efforts to enchant Francesco. They showered her with wine-red roses and silver coins.
Often I stood offstage and wondered: does the audience know it’s real? Is that why they like it so much? Do they know it’s real when the Captain hurls himself across stage in clownish agony, begging the Inamorata to sleep with him?
Did they know it was real that night in Venice, when, in an unexpected improvisation, Vittoria suddenly changed the scenario, and consented to the Captain’s pleas?
I knew. She came and told me so, the night it happened. “I told that old jackass Flaminio he can have me one more time,” she said, pacing nervously back and forth. “I’ve invited him to come to my tent tonight. If that doesn’t bring Andreini around, nothing will!”
“Why are you doing this?” I cried. “You’re playing straight into Francesco’s hands. You’re helping him destroy the Captain! Is that what you want? Do you hate Flaminio so much? Don’t you know better than to play Andreini’s fool?”
Vittoria stared at me, her dull eyes brimming with sadness. Suddenly, I pitied her, because I knew that her love for Francesco was real.
“It’s the only way,” she said. “I’m desperate. He’s got another woman, somewhere in the wealthy part of town. Everyone talks about it, it’s common knowledge: he visits her once a week. If I don’t do something drastic now, I’ll never get him, I might as well give up.”
“Vittoria,” I said, “you could sleep with Flaminio in Francesco’s own bed, and he wouldn’t care. He’d thank you for it. You’d be helping him break the Captain down.”
“It’s the only way,” she sighed.
That
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