Adventures In The South: Milan

J >> Jacques Casanova de Seingalt >> Adventures In The South: Milan


"What do you mean by that?" I cried.

"I should be unhappy with an inconstant lover, and you would be unhappy
too, for you would feel bitter remorse for having destroyed my peace of
mind."

After this she discreetly fled.

I remained still as if she had petrified me, but the count who never
wearied himself with too much thinking, exclaimed,

"Clementine is rather too romantic; she will get over it, however; she is
young yet."

We went to bid good day to the countess, whom we found suckling her baby.

"Do you know, my dear sister," said the count, "that the chevalier here
is in love with Clementine, and she seems inclined to pay him back in his
own coin?"

The countess smiled and said,--

"I hope a suitable match like that may make us relations."

There is something magical about the word "marriage."

What the countess said pleased me extremely, and I replied with a bow of
the most gracious character.

We went to pay a call on the lady who had come to the castle the day
before. There was a canon regular there, who after a great many polite
speeches in praise of my country, which he knew only from books, asked me
of what order was the cross I carried on my breast.

I replied, with a kind of boastful modesty, that it was a peculiar mark
of the favour of the Holy Father, the Pope, who had freely made me a
knight of the Order of St. John Lateran, and a prothonotary-apostolic.

This monk had stayed at home far from the world, or else he would not
have asked me such a question. However, far from thinking he was
offending me, he thought he was honouring me by giving me an opportunity
of talking of my own merit.

At London, the greatest possible rudeness is to ask anyone what his
religion is, and it is something the same in Germany; an Anabaptist is by
no means ready to confess his creed. And in fact the best plan is never
to ask any questions whatever, not even if a man has change for a louis.

Clementine was delightful at dinner. She replied wittily and gracefully
to all the questions which were addressed to her. True, what she said was
lost on the majority of her auditors--for wit cannot stand before
stupidity--but I enjoyed her talk immensely. As she kept filling up my
glass I reproached her, and this gave rise to the following little
dialogue which completed my conquest.

"You have no right to complain," said she, "Hebe's duty is to keep the
cup of the chief of the gods always full."

"Very good; but you know Jupiter sent her away."

"Yes, but I know why. I will take care not to stumble in the same way;
and no Ganymede shall take my place for a like cause."

"You are very wise. Jupiter was wrong, and henceforth I will be Hercules.
Will that please you, fair Hebe?"

"No; because he did not marry her till after her death."

"True, again. I will be Iolas then, for . . ."

"Be quiet. Iolas was old."

"True; but so was I yesterday. You have made me young again."

"I am very glad, dear Iolas; but remember what I did when he left me."

"And what did you do? I do not remember."

"I did not believe a word he said."

"You can believe."

"I took away the gift I had made."

At these words this charming girl's face was suffered with blushes. If I
had touched her with my hand, sure it would have been on fire; but the
rays that darted from her eyes froze my heart.

Philosophers, be not angry if I talk of freezing rays. It is no miracle,
but a very natural phenomenon, which is happening every day. A great
love, which elevates a man's whole nature, is a strong flame born out of
a great cold, such as I then felt for a moment; it would have killed me
if it had lasted longer.

The superior manner in which Clementine had applied the story of Hebe
convinced me not only that she had a profound knowledge of mythology, but
also that she had a keen and far-reaching intellect. She had given me
more than a glimpse of her learning; she had let me guess that I
interested her, and that she thought of me.

These ideas, entering a heart which is already warm, speedily set all the
senses in flames. In a moment all doubt was laid to rest; Clementine
loved me, and I was sure that we should be happy.

Clementine slipped away from the table to calm herself, and thus I had
time to escape from my astonishment.

"Pray where was that young lady educated?" I said to the countess.

"In the country. She was always present when my brother had his lessons,
but the tutor, Sardini, never took any notice of her, and it was only she
who gained anything; my brother only yawned. Clementine used to make my
mother laugh, and puzzle the old tutor sadly sometimes."

"Sardini wrote and published some poems which are not bad; but nobody
reads them, because they are so full of mythology."

"Quite so. Clementine possesses a manuscript with which he presented her,
containing a number of mythological tales verified. Try and make her shew
you her books and the verses she used to write; she won't shew them to
any of us."

I was in a great state of admiration. When she returned I complimented
her upon her acquirements, and said that as I was a great lover of
literature myself I should be delighted if she would shew me her verses.

"I should be ashamed. I had to give over my studies two years ago, when
my sister married and we came to live here, where we only see honest
folks who talk about the stable, the harvest, and the weather. You are
the first person I have seen who has talked to me about literature. If
our old Sardini had come with us I should have gone on learning, but my
sister did not care to have him here."

"But my dear Clementine," said the countess, "what do you think my
husband could have done with an old man of eighty whose sole
accomplishments are weighing the wind, writing verses, and talking
mythology?"

"He would have been useful enough," said the husband, "if he could have
managed the estate, but the honest old man will not believe in the
existence of rascals. He is so learned that he is quite stupid."

"Good heavens!" cried Clementine. "Sardini stupid? It is certainly easy
to deceive him, but that is because he is so noble. I love a man who is
easily deceived, but they call me silly."

"Not at all, my dear sister," said the countess. "On the contrary, there
is wisdom in all you say, but it is wisdom out of place in a woman; the
mistress of a household does not want to know anything about literature,
poetry, or philosophy, and when it comes to marrying you I am very much
afraid that your taste for this kind of thing will stand in your way."

"I know it, and I am expecting to die a maid; not that it is much
compliment to the men."

To know all that such a dialogue meant for me, the reader must imagine
himself most passionately in love. I thought myself unfortunate. I could
have given her a hundred thousand crowns, and I would have married her
that moment. She told me that Sardini was at Milan, very old and ill.

"Have you been to see him?" I asked.

"I have never been to Milan."

"Is it possible? It is not far from here."

"Distance is relative, you know."

This was beautifully expressed. It told me without any false shame that
she could not afford to go, and I was pleased by her frankness. But in
the state of mind I was in I should have been pleased with anything she
chose to do. There are moments in a man's life when the woman he loves
can make anything of him.

I spoke to her in a manner that affected her so that she took me into a
closet next to her room to shew me her books. There were only thirty in
all, but they were chosen, although somewhat elementary. A woman like
Clementine needed something more.

"Do you know, my dear Hebe, that you want more books?"

"I have often suspected it, dear Iolas, without being able to say exactly
what I want."

After spending an hour in glancing over Sardini's works, I begged her to
spew me her own.

"No," said she, "they are too bad."

"I expect so; but the good will outweigh the bad."

"I don't think so."

"Oh, yes! you needn't be afraid. I will forgive the bad grammar, bad
style, absurd images, faulty method, and even the verses that won't
scan."

"That's too much, Iolas; Hebe doesn't need so vast a pardon as all that.
Here, sir, these are my scribblings; sift the faults and the defaults.
Read what you will."

I was delighted that my scheme of wounding her vanity had succeeded, and
I began by reading aloud an anacreontic, adding to its beauties by the
modulation of my voice, and keenly enjoying her pleasure at finding her
work so fair. When I improved a line by some trifling change she noticed
it, for she followed me with her eyes; but far from being humiliated, she
was pleased with my corrections. The picture was still hers, she thought,
though with my skilled brush I brought out the lights and darkened the
shadows, and she was charmed to see that my pleasure was as great or
greater than hers. The reading continued for two hours. It was a
spiritual and pure, but a most intensely voluptuous, enjoyment. Happy,
and thrice happy, if we had gone no farther; but love is a traitor who
laughs at us when we think to play with him without falling into his
nets. Shall a man touch hot coals and escape the burning?

The countess interrupted us, and begged us to join the company.
Clementine hastened to put everything back, and thanked me for the
happiness I had given her. The pleasure she felt shewed itself in her
blushes, and when she came into the drawing-room she was asked if she had
been fighting, which made her blush still more.

The faro-table was ready, but before sitting down I told Clairmont to get
me four good horses for the following day. I wanted to go to Lodi and
back by dinnertime.

Everybody played as before, the abbe excepted, and he, to my huge
delight, did not put in an appearance at all, but his place was supplied
by a canon, who punted a ducat at a time and had a pile of ducats before
him. This made me increase my bank, and when the game was over, I was
glad to see that everybody had won except the canon, but his losses had
not spoilt his temper.

Next day I started for Lodi at day-break without telling anybody where I
was going, and bought all the books I judged necessary for Clementine,
who only knew Italian. I bought numerous translation, which I was
surprised to find at Lodi, which hitherto had been only famous in my mind
for its cheese, usually called Parmesan. This cheese is made at Lodi and
not at Parma, and I did not fail to make an entry to that effect under
the article "Parmesan" in my "Dictionary of Cheeses," a work which I was
obliged to abandon as beyond my powers, as Rousseau was obliged to
abandon his "Dictionary of Botany." This great but eccentric individual
was then known under the pseudonym of Renaud, the Botanist. 'Quisque
histrioniam exercet'. But Rousseau, great man though he was, was totally
deficient in humour.

I conceived the idea of giving a banquet at Lodi the day after next, and
a project of this kind not calling for much deliberation I went forthwith
to the best hotel to make the necessary arrangements. I ordered a choice
dinner for twelve, paid the earnest money, and made the host promise that
everything should be of the best.

When I got back to St. Angelo, I had a sackfull of books carried into
Clementine's room. She was petrified. There were more than one
hundred volumes, poets, historians, geographers, philosophers,
scientists--nothing was forgotten. I had also selected some good novels,
translated from the Spanish, English, and French, for we have no good
novels in Italian.

This admission does not prove by any means that Italian literature is
surpassed by that of any other country. Italy has little to envy in other
literatures, and has numerous masterpieces, which are unequalled the
whole world over. Where will you find a worthy companion to the Orlando
Furioso? There is none, and this great work is incapable of transalation.
The finest and truest panegyric of Ariosto was written by Voltaire when
he was sixty. If he had not made this apology for the rash judgement of
his youthful days, he would not have enjoyed, in Italy at all events,
that immortality which is so justly his due. Thirty-six years ago I told
him as much, and he took me at my word. He was afraid, and he acted
wisely.

If I have any readers, I ask their pardon for these digressions. They
must remember that these Memoirs were written in my old age, and the old
are always garrulous. The time will come to them also, and then they will
understand that if the aged repeat themselves, it is because they live in
a world of memories, without a present and without a future.

I will now return to my narrative, which I have kept steadily in view.

Clementine gazed from me to the books, and from the books to me. She
wondered and admired, and could scarcely believe this treasure belonged
to her. At last she collected herself, and said in a tone full of
gratitude,--

"You have come to St. Angelo to make me happy."

Such a saying makes a man into a god. He is sure that she who speaks thus
will do all in her power to make a return for the happiness which she has
been given.

There is something supremely lovely in the expression of gratefulness on
the face of the being one loves. If you have not experienced the feelings
I describe, dear reader, I pity you, and am forced to conclude that you
must have been either awkward or miserly, and therefore unworthy of love.

Clementine ate scarcely anything at dinner, and afterwards retired to her
room where I soon joined her. We amused ourselves by putting the books in
order, and she sent for a carpenter to make a bookcase with a lock and
key.

"It will be my pleasure to read these books," said she, "when you have
left us."

In the evening she was lucky with the cards, and in delightful spirits. I
asked them all to dine with me at Lodi, but as the dinner was for twelve
the Countess Ambrose said she would be able to find the two guests who
were wanted at Lodi, and the canon said he would take the lady friend
with her two children.

The next day was one of happy quiet, and I spent it without leaving the
castle, being engaged in instructing my Hebe on the nature of the sphere,
and in preparing her for the beauties of Wolf. I presented her with my
case of mathematical instruments, which seemed to her invaluable.

I burned with passion for this charming girl; but would I have done so in
her taste for literature and science had not been backed up by her
personal charms? I suspect not. I like a dish pleasing to the palate, but
if it is not pleasing to the eye as well, I do not taste it but put down
as bad. The surface is always the first to interest, close examination
comes afterwards. The man who confines himself to superficial charms, is
superficial himself, but with them all love begins, except that which
rises in the realm of fancy, and this nearly always falls before the
reality.

When I went to bed, still thinking of Clementine, I began to reflect
seriously, and I was astonished to find that during all the hours we had
spent together she had not caused the slightest sensual feeling to arise
in me. Nevertheless, I could not assign the reason to fear, nor to
shyness which is unknown to me, nor to false shame, nor to what is called
a feeling of duty. It was certainly not virtue, for I do not carry virtue
so far as that. Then what was it? I did not tire myself by pursuing the
question. I felt quite sure that the Platonic stage must soon come to an
end, and I was sorry, but my sorrow was virtue in extremis. The fine
things we read together interested us so strongly that we did not think
of love, nor of the pleasure we took in each other's company; but as the
saying goes, the devil lost nothing by us. When intellect enters on the
field, the heart has to yield; virtue triumphs, but the battle must not
last for long. Our conquests made us too sure, but this feeling of
security was a Colossus whose feet were of clay; we knew that we loved
but were not sure that we were beloved. But when this became manifest the
Colossus must fall to the ground.

This dangerous trust made me go to her room to tell her something about
our journey to Lodi, the carriages were already waiting. She was still
asleep, but my step on the floor made her awake with a start. I did not
even think it necessary to apologize. She told me that Tasso's Aminta had
interested her to such an extent that she had read it till she fell
asleep.

"The Pastor Fido will please you still more."

"Is it more beautiful?"

"Not exactly."

"Then why do you say it will please me more?"

"Because it charms the heart. It appeals to our softest feelings, and
seduces us--and we love seduction."

"It is a seducer, then?"

"No, not a seducer; but seductive, like you."

"That's a good distinction. I will read it this evening. Now I am going
to dress."

She put on her clothes in seeming oblivion that I was a man, but without
shewing any sights that could be called indecent. Nevertheless it struck
me that if she had thought I was in love with her, she would have been
more reserved, for as she put on her chemise, laced her corset, fastened
her garters above her knee, and drew on her boots, I saw glimpses of
beauty which affected me so strongly that I was obliged to go out before
she was ready to quench the flames she had kindled in my senses.

I took the countess and Clementine in my carriage, and sat on the bracket
seat holding the baby on my knee. My two fair companions laughed merrily,
for I held the child as if to the manner born. When we had traversed half
the distance the baby demanded nourishment, and the charming mother
hastened to uncover a sphere over which my eyes roved with delight, not
at all to her displeasure. The child left its mother's bosom satisfied,
and at the sight of the liquor which flowed so abundantly I exclaimed,--

"It must not be lost, madam; allow me to sip nectar which will elevate me
to the rank of the gods. Do not be afraid of my teeth." I had some teeth
in those days.

The smiling countess made no opposition, and I proceeded to carry out my
design, while the ladies laughed that magic laugh which not painter can
portray. The divine Homer is the only poet who has succeeded in
delineating it in those lines in which he describes Andromache with the
young Astyanax in her arms, when Hector is leaving her to return to the
battle.

I asked Clementine if she had the courage to grant me a similar favour.

"Certainly," said she, "if I had any milk."

"You have the source of the milk; I will see to the rest."

At this the girl's face suffused with such a violent blush that I was
sorry I had spoken; however, I changed the conversation, and it soon
passed away. Our spirits were so high that when the time came for us to
get down at the inn at Lodi, we could scarcely believe it possible, so
swiftly had the time gone by.

The countess sent a message to a lady friend of hers, begging her to dine
with us, and to bring her sister; while I dispatched Clairmont to a
stationer's, where he bought me a beautiful morocco case with lock and
key, containing paper, pens, sealing-wax, ink-well, paper knife, seal,
and in fact, everything necessary for writing. It was a present I meant
to give Clementine before dinner. It was delightful to watch her surprise
and pleasure, and to read gratitude so legibly written in her beautiful
eyes. There is not a woman in the world who cannot be overcome by being
made grateful. It is the best and surest way to get on, but it must be
skilfully used. The countess's friend came and brought her sister, a girl
who was dazzlingly beautiful. I was greatly struck with her, but just
then Venus herself could not have dethroned Clementine from her place in
my affections. After the friends had kissed each other, and expressed
their joy at meeting, I was introduced, and in so complimentary a manner
that I felt obliged to turn it off with a jest.

The dinner was sumptuous and delicious. At dessert two self-invited
guests came in, the lady's husband and the sister's lover, but they were
welcome, for it was a case of the more the merrier. After the meal, in
accordance with the request of the company, I made a bank at faro, and
after three hours' play I was delighted to find myself a loser to the
extent of forty sequins. It was these little losses at the right time
which gave me the reputation of being the finest gamester in Europe.

The lady's lover was named Vigi, and I asked him if he was descended from
the author of the thirteenth book of the "AEneid." He said he was, and
that in honour of his ancestor he had translated the poem into Italian
verse. I expressed myself curious as to his version, and he promised to
bring it me in two days' time. I complimented him on belonging to such a
noble and ancient family; Maffeo Vigi flourished at the beginning of the
fifteenth century.

We started in the evening, and less than two hours we got home. The moon
which shone brightly upon us prevented me making any attempts on
Clementine, who had put up her feet in order that she might be able to
hold her little nephew with more ease. The pretty mother could not help
thanking me warmly for the pleasure I had given them; I was a universal
favourite with them all.

We did not feel inclined to eat any supper, and therefore retired to our
apartments; and I accompanied Clementine, who told me that she was
ashamed at not knowing anything about the "AEneid."

"Vigi will bring his translation of the thirteenth book, and I shall not
know a word about it."

I comforted her by telling her that we would read the fine translation by
Annibale Caro that very night. It was amongst her books, as also the
version by Anguilara, Ovid's Metamorphoses, and Marchetti's Lucreece.

"But I wanted to read the Pastor Fido."

"We are in a hurry; we must read that another time."

"I will follow your advice in all things, my dear Iolas."

"That will make me happy, dearest Hebe."

We spent the night in reading that magnificent translation in Italian
blank verse, but the reading was often interrupted by my pupil's laughter
when we came to some rather ticklish passage. She was highly amused by
the account of the chance which gave 'AEneas an opportunity of proving
his love for Dido in a very inconvenient place, and still more, when
Dido, complaining of the son of Priam's treachery, says,--

"I might still pardon you if, before abandoning me, you had left me a
little AEneas to play about these halls."

Clementine had cause to be amused, for the reproach has something
laughable in it; but how is it that one does not feel inclined to smile
in reading the Latin--'Si quis mihi parvulus aula luderet AEneas?'. The
reason must be sought for in the grave and dignified nature of the Latin
tongue.

We did not finish our reading till day-break.

"What a night!" exclaimed Clementine, with a sigh.

"It has been one of great pleasure to me, has it not to you?"

"I have enjoyed it because you have."

"And if you had been reading by yourself?"

"It would have still been a pleasure, but a much smaller one. I love your
intellect to distraction, Clementine, but tell me, do you think it
possible to love the intellect without loving that which contains it?"

"No, for without the body the spirit would vanish away."

"I conclude from that that I am deeply in love with you, and that I
cannot pass six or seven hours in your company without longing to kiss
you."

"Certainly, but we resist these desires because we have duties to
perform, which would rise up against us if we left them undone."

"True again, but if your disposition at all resembles mine this
constraint must be very painful to you."

"Perhaps I feel it as much as you do, but it is my belief that it is only
hard to withstand temptation at first. By degrees one gets accustomed to
loving without running any risk and without effort. Our senses, at first
so sharp set, end by becoming blunted, and when this is the case we may
spend hours and days in safety, untroubled by desire."

"I have my doubts as far as I am concerned, but we shall see. Good night,
fair Hebe."

"Good night, my good Iolas, may you sleep well!"

"My sleep will be haunted by visions of you."




CHAPTER XXII

Our Excursion--Parting From Clementine--I Leave Milan With Croce's
Mistress My Arrival At Genoa

The ancients, whose fancy was so fertile in allegory, used to figure
Innocence as playing with a serpent or with a sharp arrow. These old
sages had made a deep study of the human heart; and whatever discoveries
modern science may have made, the old symbols may still be profitably
studied by those who wish to gain a deep insight into the working of
man's mind.

I went to bed, and after having dismissed Clairmont I began to reflect on
my relations with Clementine, who seemed to have been made to shine in a
sphere from which, in spite of her high birth, her intelligence, and her
rare beauty, her want of fortune kept her apart. I smiled to myself at
her doctrines, which were as much as to say that the best way of curing
appetite was to place a series of appetising dishes before a hungry man,
forbidding him to touch them. Nevertheless I could but approve the words
which she had uttered with such an air of innocence--that if one resists
desires, there is no danger of one being humiliated by giving way to
them.