but not elsewhere; his face lacks expression."

"But his plays give satisfaction?"

"Not to persons who understand play writing; they would be hissed if they
were intelligible."

"And what do you think of Goldoni?"

"I have the highest opinion of him. Goldoni is the Italian Moliere."

"Why does he call himself poet to the Duke of Parma?"

"No doubt to prove that a wit as well as a fool has his weak points; in
all probability the duke knows nothing about it. He also calls himself a
barrister, though he is such only in his own imagination. Goldoni is a
good play writer, and nothing more. Everybody in Venice knows me for his
friend, and I can therefore speak of him with authority. He does not
shine in society, and in spite of the fine satire of his works he is a
man of an extremely gentle disposition."

"So I have been told. He is poor, and wants to leave Venice. The managers
of the theatres where they play his pieces will not like that."

"People talked about getting him a pension, but the project has been
relegated to the Greek Kalends, as they said that if he had a pension he
would write no more."

"Cumae refused to give a pension to Homer, for fear that all the blind
men would ask for a pension."

We spent a pleasant day, and he thanked me heartily for the copy of the
Macaronicon, which he promised to read. He introduced me to a Jesuit he
had in his household, who was called Adam, and he added, after telling me
his name, "not the first Adam." I was told afterwards that Voltaire used
to play backgammon with him, and when he lost he would throw the dice and
the box at his head. If Jesuits were treated like that all the world
over, perhaps we should have none but inoffensive Jesuits at last, but
that happy time is still far off.

I had scarcely got to my inn in the evening when I received my three
golden balls, and as soon as the syndic came we set off to renew our
voluptuous orgy. On the way he talked about modesty, and said,--

"That feeling which prevents our shewing those parts which we have been
taught to cover from our childhood, may often proceed from virtue, but is
weaker than the force of education, as it cannot resist an attack when
the attacking party knows what he is about. I think the easiest way to
vanquish modesty is to ignore its presence, to turn it into ridicule, to
carry it by storm. Victory is certain. The hardihood of the assailer
subdues the assailed, who usually only wishes to be conqu