"Otherwise, if they discover the trick, there's an end to the wonder of it," said he, talking furtively. With the help of other servants, we took the jars behind the painted backcloth, representing the countryside in Cyprus. There, we found a wooden panel with holes in it. We positioned the jars so that they filled these holes with their convex sides, standing them on tripod supports. On the concave side, so as better to receive the light, we placed a lamp designed to provide light of constant intensity.
"Lift the biggest container up there," the Major-Domo ordered me, "and instead of a lamp, put a big torch behind it. Then, behind that, place a well-polished shaving bowl so that the light from the flame is reflected forward as much as possible."
Great was my surprise when, emerging from the wings to admire the results of all these preparations, I beheld a lusty sun sparkling like a diamond in the painted Cypriot sky of the back- cloth and shining paternally on fresh, luminous greenery and flowers coloured ruby, red and topaz, while the sapphire glint of the distant sea was capped by the page grey foam of the waves.
The stage had, moreover, been decorated with trees, hills, little mountains, grasses, flowers, fountains and even rustic huts, all fashioned from the finest of many-coloured silk. Thus, the liberality of the munificent Cardinal Spada and the art and skill of the architect, both enemies of ugly parsimony, had led to the destruction of much of the work of the Master Florist, so that all these things might be recreated in silk, making them even more praiseworthy than if they had been natural. The sea was rich in little cliffs, conch shells, sea snails and other creatures, coral trunks of every colour, mother-of-pearl and marine crabs nestling between the rocks, with such a variety of beautiful things that were I to attempt to describe them, I should expatiate for far too long.
The stage was simply lit with pairs of hanging torches, since the spectacle was to begin in the late afternoon when daylight is still bright and generous. Other lamps also gave both actors and spectators not only splendid lights but superb perfumes: bowls of camphor water were suspended above chandeliers or torches, so that, in accordance with the architect Serlio's formulae, they spread gentle glimmers and soft effluvia, thus preparing the hearts and minds of those present for the pleasures of the performance. In the meanwhile, the terraces, furnished with comfortable sateen-upholstered armchairs, had filled with the noble public. I too stopped briefly to admire the stage: obviously, sitting on the ground. From my awkward position, far too much to one side, I could however overhear some of the comments of the guests seated in the front rows. A trio of gentlemen was particularly voluble; I heard them exchanging jokes while the actors were coming on stage.
"The last performance I recall attending was in March, at the Palace of the Chancellery: Scarlatti's oratorio ' La Santissima Annunziata" said one of the three.
"That for which Cardinal Ottoboni wrote the text?"
"That one."
"What was the Cardinal's verse like? Was it good?"
"Terrible. Far from an Ottobonbon, 'twas truly awful — just a load of Ottobombast," replied the other.
The three gentlemen laughed heartily as they joined the audience's applause welcoming the actors.
"Apropos things terrible, what do you think of Giovan Domenico Bonmattei Pioli's play?"
"The one that was published in January last year?"
"A real horror. It was commissioned by Ottoboni, who is a member of the most learned Academy of Arcadia, but Pioli's plays are really quite nauseatingly crude."
Smiles all round. It goes without saying that the Scarlatti oratorio in March, a good four months earlier, was by no means the last spectacle the gentleman "remembered" attending… What was, however, abundantly clear was the trio's scant sympathy for the Ottoboni faction. This cardinal enjoyed a considerable following at that moment and they were — like all good theatregoers and participants in the Roman social round — enjoying the opportunity for malicious gossip, with an elegant exchange of salacious jokes at their victim's expense.
"His Holiness must again be suffering from poor health," said the third gentleman, changing the subject. "Today was the ninth anniversary of his accession. At the Quirinale, they held a service in the Pontifical Chapel, but he did not attend."
"I can tell you what was wrong with him: he was suffering from the jostling he's been given by the Spanish Ambassador and his cronies."Really?" said one of the other two. "Do you mean that they have at last succeeded in convincing him?"
"A sick old man like him could hardly stand up for long to sly foxes of that calibre."
"Poor man, the thing must have lasted until lunchtime," added the third speaker. "His Holiness came out only in the afternoon, when he went forth into the city and received much applause."
"All merited, for that poor saintly, martyred Pope."
"Let us hope that the Lord will soon call him to his glory, to put an end to his sufferings; after all, there's nothing to be done now…"
"Quiet, lupus in fabula," said the third, pointing towards the drive from which Cardinal Spada was arriving, followed by the bridal couple, greeted by a renewed salvo of applause.
With a brief gesture, the master of the house called for the play to begin. This was a farce from the pen of the Roman Epifanio Gizzi, entitled Love, the Prize of Constancy. Both title and content were consonant with noble sentiments and with the gifts of fidelity and perseverance called for by the sacred bonds of matrimony.
The stage, still empty of actors, opened onto a series of effects most pleasing to the spectators. The architect had arranged for a number of sets of little lay figures to be prepared, cut out from thick cardboard and coloured, and these crossed an arch placed on stage, running along a wooden rail placed on the ground with a dovetail joint. The operator, who was none other than the architect himself, remained hidden behind the arch and the scene was accompanied by quiet music both vocal and instrumental. At the same time and by means of the same cardboard cut-out technique, the moon and the planets crossed the heavens, pulled invisibly by a black wire. The operetta was well made and the public enjoyed it no little. The scene was set on the Isle of Cyprus. The protagonists were two gentlemen, Rosauro and Armillo, the latter accompanied by his coarse servant Barafone. With numerous ups and downs, the pair vied for the favours of two damsels, Florinda and Celidalba. After innumerable tricks and turns of fate (duels, shipwrecks, famines, disguises, fires, attempted suicides) it was revealed that Armillo was really called Alcesti and that he was Celidalba's brother, while her real name was Lindori. Florinda, meanwhile, after several times disdaining Rosau- ro's attentions, gave in at the end and even married him, thus showing that love is indeed always the prize of constancy.
The cavaliers wore splendid costumes, made of rich cloth of gold and silk, and even the servant's jerkin was lined with the finest skins of wild beasts. The fishermen's nets which appeared on the beach were of fine gold and the apparel of nymphs and shepherdesses, too, threw down the gauntlet to meanness.
While the actors drew the applause and laughter of the noble public, I cooperated backstage with the other servants in producing the most varied scenic effects. We simulated a stupefyingly realistic shipwreck. For thunder, we ran a large stone across the wooden floor; for lightning, we reeled across the stage a spool covered with sparkling gold which flashed just like the real thing. For sheet lightning, I stood behind the wings holding a little box in my hand with powdered paint in it and a lid full of holes; in the middle of the lid, there was a lit firework, of the kind that creates rather good effects of lightning. We put all the effects — thunder, lightning, flashes — together at the same time, with the greatest possible success.