I had never heard before of either. But after weighing and comparing their testimonials and correspondence, I gave a laconic answer: "Engage Signora Ricci with her husband." This is precisely what Sacchi had resolved in his own mind on doing; and his appeal to me for counsel was only a comedian's way of feigning esteem and sense of dependence.
The Ricci and her husband were bound over under articles for three years at a salary of 520 ducats. This was a wretched stipend for a poor actress, who had to provide herself with a decent wardrobe on the stage, to meet the expenses of frequent journeys, and to maintain a husband and a son; and who, moreover, was expecting her confinement, and was about to expose herself to all the calumnies, criticisms, and venomous detractions of the allied women of the company.
My new protegé reached Venice in the Lent of 1771. I received an invitation from Sacchi to meet her and her husband at his house one evening, on their arrival from Genoa. He wanted me to hear her recite a passage from some tragedy, in order that I might form an estimate of her manner, her talent, and her disposition. I saw at once that she was a young woman of fine figure, though her pregnancy took off from its appearance. Her face was pitted with the small-pox; but this did not prevent it from being theatrically effective at a distance. The abundance of her beautiful blonde hair made up for some defects of feature. Her clothes, which betrayed a scanty purse, were well put on; and she carried them with such an air and grace that no one stopped to think whether they were of silk or wool, new or worn. She seemed to be somewhat constrained by the unfamiliar society in which she found herself. I could not make my mind up whether her reserve and shyness were the result of timidity or cunning. Yet I detected in her something of habitual impatience. She chafed because her husband did her little honour in our conversation. He, good man, slept sweetly, in spite of the clandestine nudges which she gave him.
She recited the fragment of a tragic scene in verse, with a fine and powerful voice, sound sense, intelligence, and a fire which gave good hopes of her in her profession, especially in fierce vituperative parts. I noticed a trifle of hardness and monotony in her declamation, and some other defects which could be remedied. One incurable fault she had; this was the movement of her lips, which often amounted to what is called making a wry face. Her mouth, not small by nature, had been relaxed and ravaged at its angles by the small-pox, so that the poor young woman could not overcome the involuntary fault of which I speak. I must add a physiological observation I have made, which bears upon this point. When we feel disgust for any object disagreeable to our senses, we naturally express it by a writhing of the mouth. The Ricci, through prejudice, or through something proud and wayward in her temper, was always hearing and seeing things which she felt nauseous and repulsive, and this repugnance stamped itself upon her features in a contortion of the lips. Enforcing and stereotyping the physical blemish in question, it became an ineradicable habit, or rather second nature.