The Eternal Quest: Switzerland

J >> Jacques Casanova de Seingalt >> The Eternal Quest: Switzerland


"I think you give an excellent turn to your letter. In refusing such an
offer you could not have better reasons than those you give, and it would
be absurd to try and persuade him that we are not lovers, as the thing is
self-evident. Nevertheless, my darling, the letter saddens me."

"Why, dearest?"

"Because I have not a hundred thousand francs to offer you."

"I despise them; and if you were to offer me such a sum, I should only
accept it to lay it at your feet. You are certainly not destined to
become miserable, but if that should come to pass, be sure that I should
be only too happy to share your misery."

We fell into one another's arms, and love made us taste all its
pleasures. Nevertheless, in the midst of bliss, some tinge of sadness
gained upon our souls. Languishing love seems to redouble its strength,
but it is only in appearance; sadness exhausts love more than enjoyment.
Love is a madcap who must be fed on laughter and mirth, otherwise he dies
of inanition.

Next day my sweetheart wrote to Lebel in the sense she had decided on,
and I felt obliged to write M. de Chavigni a letter in which love,
sentiment, and philosophy were mingled. I did not conceal from him that I
loved the woman whom Lebel coveted to distraction, but I said that as a
man of honour I would rather die than deprive my sweetheart of such solid
advantages.

My letter delighted the housekeeper, for she was anxious to know what the
ambassador thought of the affair, which needed much reflection.

I got on the same day the letters of introduction I had asked Madame
d'Urfe to give me, and I determined, to the joy of my dear Dubois, to set
out for Lausanne. But we must hark back a little.

When one is sincerely in love, one thinks the beloved object full of
deserts, and the mind, the dupe of the feelings, thinks all the world
jealous of its bliss.

A. M. de F----, member of the Council of the Two Hundred, whom I had met
at Madame de la Saone's, had become my friend. He came to see me and I
introduced him to my dear Dubois, whom he treated with the same
distinction he would have used towards my wife. He had presented us to
his wife, and had come several times to see us with her and her daughter
Sara. Sara was only thirteen, but she was extremely precocious, dark
complexioned, and full of wit; she was continually uttering naivetes, of
which she understood the whole force, although looking at her face one
would have thought her perfectly innocent. She excelled in the art of
making her father and mother believe in her innocence, and thus she
enjoyed plenty of liberty.

Sara had declared that she was in love with my housekeeper, and as her
parents laughed at her she lavished her caresses on my dear Dubois. She
often came to breakfast with us, and when she found us in bed she would
embrace my sweetheart, whom she called her wife, passing her hand over
the coverlet to tickle her, telling her that she was her wife, and that
she wanted to have a child. My sweetheart laughed and let her go on.

One day I told her jokingly that she would make me jealous, that I
thought she really was a man, and that I was going to make sure. The sly
little puss told me that I was making a mistake, but her hand seemed
rather to guide mine than to oppose it. That made me curious, and my mind
was soon set at rest as to her sex. Perceiving that she had taken me in
and got exactly what she wanted, I drew back my hand, and imparted my
suspicions to my housekeeper, who said I was right. However, as the
little girl had no part in my affections, I did not push the thing any
farther.

Two or three days after, this girl came in as I was getting up, and said
in her usual simple way,

"Now that you know I am not really a man you can not be jealous or have
objection to my taking your place beside my little wife, if she will let
me."

My housekeeper, who looked inclined to laugh, said,

"Come along."

In the twinkling of an eye she was undressed and in the arms of her
little wife, whom she proceeded to treat as an amorous husband. My
sweetheart laughed, and Sara, having contrived in the combat to rid
herself of her chemise and the coverlet, displayed herself to me without
any veil, while at the same time she shewed me all the beauties of my
sweetheart. This sight inflamed me. I shut the door, and made the little
hussy witness of my ardour with my sweetheart. Sara looked on
attentively, playing the part of astonishment to perfection, and when I
had finished she said, with the utmost simplicity,

"Do it again:"

"I can't, my dear; don't you see I am a dead man?"

"That's very funny," she cried; and with the most perfect innocence she
came over, and tried to effect my resurrection.

When she had succeeded in placing me in the wished-for condition, she
said, "Now go in;" and I should doubtless have obeyed, but my housekeeper
said, "No, dearest, since you have effected its resurrection, you must
make it die again."

"I should like to," said she, "but I am afraid I have not got enough
room;" and so saying she placed herself in a position to shew me that she
was speaking the truth, and that if she did not make me die it was not
her fault.

Imitating her simplicity I approached her, as if I wished to oblige her,
but not to go too far; but not finding any resistance I accomplished the
act in all its forms, without her giving the slightest evidence of pain,
without any of the accidents of a first trial, but, on the contrary, with
all the marks of the utmost enjoyment.

Although I was sure of the contrary, I kept my self-possession enough to
tell my housekeeper that Sara had given me what can only be given once,
and she pretended to believe me.

When the operation was finished, we had another amusing scene. Sara
begged us not to say a word about it to her papa or mamma, as they would
be sure to scold her as they had scolded her when she got her ears
pierced without asking their leave.

Sara knew that we saw through her feigned simplicity, but she pretended
not to do so as it was to her own advantage. Who could have instructed
her in the arts of deceit? Nobody; only her natural wit, less rare in
childhood than in youth, but always rare and astonishing. Her mother said
her simplicities shewed that she would one day be very intelligent, and
her father maintained that they were signs of her stupidity. But if Sara
had been stupid, our bursts of laughter would have disconcerted her; and
she would have died for shame, instead of appearing all the better
pleased when her father deplored her stupidity. She would affect
astonishment, and by way of curing one sort of stupidity she corroborated
it by displaying another. She asked us questions to which we could not
reply, and laughed at her instead, although it was evident that before
putting such questions she must have reasoned over them. She might have
rejoined that the stupidity was on our side, but by so doing she would
have betrayed herself.

Lebel did not reply to his sweetheart, but M. de Chavigni wrote me a
letter of four pages. He spoke like a philosopher and an experienced man
of the world.

He shewed me that if I were an old man like him, and able to insure a
happy and independent existence to my sweetheart after my death, I should
do well to keep her from all men, especially as there was so perfect a
sympathy between us; but that as I was a young man, and did not intend to
bind myself to her by the ties of marriage, I should not only consent to
a union which seemed for her happiness, but that as a man of honour it
was my duty to use my influence with her in favour of the match. "With
your experience," said the kind old gentleman, "you ought to know that a
time would come when you would regret both having lost this opportunity,
for your love is sure to become friendship, and then another love will
replace that which you now think as firm as the god Terminus.

"Lebel," he added, "has told me his plans, and far from disapproving, I
have encouraged him, for your charming friend won my entire esteem in the
five or six times I had the pleasure of seeing her with you. I shall be
delighted, therefore, to have her in my house, where I can enjoy her
conversation without transgressing the laws of propriety. Nevertheless,
you will understand that at my age I have formed no desires, for I could
not satisfy them even if their object were propitious." He ended by
telling me that Lebel had not fallen in love in a young man's style, that
he had reflected on what he was doing, and that he would consequently not
hurry her, as she would see in the letter he was going to send her. A
marriage ought always to be undertaken in cold blood.

I gave the letter to my housekeeper, who read it attentively, and gave it
back to me quite coolly.

"What do you think of his advice, dearest?"

"I think I had better follow it: he says there is no hurry, and delay is
all we want. Let us love each other and think only of that. This letter
is written with great wisdom, but I cannot imagine our becoming
indifferent to each other, though I know such a thing is possible."

"Never indifferent; you make a mistake there."

"Well, friends, then; and that is not much better after being lovers."

"But friendship, dearest, is never indifferent. Love, it is true, may be
in its composition. We know it, as it has been thus from the beginning of
the world."

"Then the ambassador was right. Repentance might come and torment us when
love had been replaced by calmer friendship."

"If you think so, let us marry each other to-morrow, and punish thereby
the vices of our human nature."

"Yes, we will marry, but there is no hurry; fearing lest hymen should
quicken the departure of love, let us enjoy our happiness while we can."

"You speak admirably, my angel, and deserve the greatest good fortune."

"I wish for no greater than what you procure me."

We went to bed, continuing our discussions, and when we were in each
other's arms we made an arrangement which suited us very well.

"Lausanne," said she, "is a little town where you would meet with the
warmest hospitality, and during your fortnight's stay you will have
nothing to do but to make visits and to go to suppers. I am known to all
the nobility, and the Duke of Rosebury, who wearied me with his
love-making, is still there. My appearance with you will make everybody
talk, and it will be as annoying for you as for me. My mother lives
there, too. She would say nothing, but in her heart she would be
ill-pleased to see me as the housekeeper of a man like you, for common
sense would inform everyone that I was your mistress."

I thought she was right, and that it would be well to respect the rules
of society. We decided that she should go to Lausanne by herself and stay
with her mother, that in two or three days I should follow her, and
should live by myself, as long as I liked, having full liberty to see her
at her mother's.

"When you leave Lausanne," said she, "I will rejoin you at Geneva, and
then we will travel together where you please and as long as our love
lasts."

In two days she started early in the morning, sure of my constancy, and
congratulating herself on her discretion. I was sad at her leaving me,
but my calls to take leave served to rouse me from my grief. I wished to
make M. Haller's acquaintance before I left Switzerland, and the mayor,
M. de Muralt, gave me a letter of introduction to him very handsomely
expressed. M. de Haller was the bailiff of Roche.

When I called to take leave of Madame de la Saone I found her in bed, and
I was obliged to remain by her bedside for a quarter of an hour. She
spoke of her disease, and gave the conversation such a turn that she was
able with perfect propriety to let me see that the ravages of the disease
had not impaired the beauty of her body. The sight convinced me that
Mignard had need of less courage than I thought, and I was within an inch
of doing her the same service. It was easy enough to look only at her
body, and it would have been difficult to behold anything more beautiful.

I know well that prudes and hypocrites, if they ever read these Memoirs,
will be scandalized at the poor lady, but in shewing her person so
readily she avenged herself on the malady which had disfigured her.
Perhaps, too, her goodness of heart and politeness told her what a trial
it was to look at her face, and she wished to indemnify the man who
disguised his feelings of repugnance by shewing him what gifts nature had
given her. I am sure, ladies, that the most prudish--nay, the most
virtuous, amongst you, if you were unfortunate enough to be so
monstrously deformed in the face, would introduce some fashion which
would conceal your ugliness, and display those beauties which custom
hides from view. And doubtless Madame de la Saone would have been more
chary of her person if she had been able to enchant with her face like
you.

The day I left I dined with M---- I----, and was severely taken to task by
pretty Sara for having sent her little wife away before me. The reader
will see how I met her again at London three years later. Le Duc was
still in the doctor's hands, and very weak; but I made him go with me, as
I had a good deal of property, and I could not trust it to anybody else.

I left Berne feeling naturally very sad. I had been happy there, and to
this day the thought of it is a pleasant one.

I had to consult Dr. Herrenschwand about Madame d'Urfe, so I stopped at
Morat, where he lived, and which is only four leagues from Berne. The
doctor made me dine with him that I might try the fish of the lake, which
I found delicious. I had intended to go on directly after dinner, but I
was delayed by a curiosity of which I shall inform the reader.

After I had given the doctor a fee of two Louis for his advice, in
writing, on a case of tapeworm, he made me walk with him by the Avanches
road, and we went as far as the famous mortuary of Morat.

"This mortuary," said the doctor, "was constructed with part of the bones
of the Burgundians, who perished here at the well-known battle lost by
Charles the Bold."

The Latin inscription made me laugh.

"This inscription," said I, "contains an insulting jest; it is almost
burlesque, for the gravity of an inscription should not allow of
laughter."

The doctor, like a patriotic Swiss, would not allow it, but I think it
was false shame on his part. The inscription ran as follows, and the
impartial reader can judge of its nature:

"Deo. opt. Max. Caroli inclyti et fortisimi Burgundie duds
exercitus Muratum obsidens, ab Helvetiis cesus, hoc sui
monumentum reliquit anno MCDLXXVI."

Till then I had had a great idea of Morat. Its fame of seven centuries,
three sieges sustained and repulsed, all had given me a sublime notion of
it; I expected to see something and saw nothing.

"Then Morat has been razed to the ground?" said I to the doctor.

"Not at all, it is as it always has been, or nearly so."

I concluded that a man who wants to be well informed should read first
and then correct his knowledge by travel. To know ill is worse than not
to know at all, and Montaigne says that we ought to know things well.

But it was the following comic adventure which made me spend the night at
Morat:

I found at the inn a young maid who spoke a sort of rustic Italian. She
struck me by her great likeness to my fair stocking-seller at Paris. She
was called Raton, a name which my memory has happily preserved. I offered
her six francs for her favours, but she refused the money with a sort of
pride, telling me that I had made a mistake and that she was an honest
girl.

"It may be so," said I, and I ordered my horses to be put in. When the
honest Raton saw me on the point of leaving, she said, with an air that
was at once gay and timid, that she wanted two louis, and if I liked to
give her them and pass the night with her I should be well content.

"I will stay, but remember to be kind."

"I will."

When everybody had gone to bed, she came into my room with a little
frightened manner, calculated to redouble my ardour, but by great good
luck, feeling I had a necessity, I took the light and ran to the place
where I could satisfy it. While there I amused myself by reading
innumerable follies one finds written in such places, and suddenly my
eyes lighted on these words:--

"This tenth day of August, 1760, the wretched Raton gave me the
what-d'-you-call-it: reader, beware."

I was almost tempted to believe in miracles, for I could not think there
were two Ratons in the same house. I returned gaily to my room and found
my sweetheart in bed without her chemise. I went to the place beside the
bed where she had thrown it down, and as soon as she saw me touching it
she begged me in a fright not to do so, as it was not clean. She was
right, for it bore numerous marks of the disease which infected her. It
may be imagined that my passion cooled, and that I sent her away in a
moment; but I felt at the same time the greatest gratitude to what is
called chance, for I should have never thought of examining a girl whose
face was all lilies and roses, and who could not be more than eighteen.

Next day I went to Roche to see the celebrated Haller.




CHAPTER XVIII

M. Haller--My Stay at Lausanne--Lord Rosebury--The Young
Saconai--Dissertation on Beauty--The Young Theologian

M. Haller was a man six feet high and broad in a proportion; he was a
well-made man, and a physical as well as a mental colossus. He received
me courteously, and when he had read M. de Muralt's letter, he displayed
the greatest politeness, which shews that a good letter of introduction
is never out of place. This learned man displayed to me all the treasures
of his knowledge, replying with exactitude to all my questions, and above
all with a rare modesty which astonished me greatly, for whilst he
explained the most difficult questions, he had the air of a scholar who
would fain know; but on the other hand, when he asked me a scientific
question, it was with so delicate an art that I could not help giving the
right answer.

M. de Haller was a great physiologist, a great doctor, and a great
anatomist. He called Morgagni his master, though he had himself made
numerous discoveries relating to the frame of man. While I stayed with
him he shewed me a number of letters from Morgagni and Pontedera, a
professor of botany, a science of which Haller had an extensive
knowledge. Hearing me speak of these learned men whose works I had read
at an early age, he complained that Pontedera's letters were almost
illegible and written in extremely obscure Latin. He shewed me a letter
from a Berlin Academician, whose name I have forgotten, who said that
since the king had read his letter he had no more thoughts of suppressing
the Latin language. Haller had written to Frederick the Great that a
monarch who succeeded in the unhappy enterprise of proscribing the
language of Cicero and Virgil from the republic of letters would raise a
deathless monument to his own ignorance. If men of letters require a
universal language to communicate with one another, Latin is certainly
the best, for Greek and Arabic do not adapt themselves in the same way to
the genius of modern civilization.

Haller was a good poet of the Pindaric kind; he was also an excellent
statesman, and had rendered great services to his country. His morals
were irreproachable, and I remember his telling me that the only way to
give precepts was to do so by example. As a good citizen he was an
admirable paterfamilias, for what greater proof could he give of his love
of country than by presenting it with worthy subjects in his children,
and such subjects result from a good education. His wife was still young,
and bore on her features the marks of good nature and discretion. He had
a charming daughter of about eighteen; her appearance was modest, and at
table she only opened her mouth to speak in a low tone to a young man who
sat beside her. After dinner, finding myself alone with M. Haller, I
asked him who this young man was. He told me he was his daughter's tutor.

"A tutor like that and so pretty a pupil might easily become lovers."

"Yes, please God."

This Socratic reply made me see how misplaced my remark had been, and I
felt some confusion. Finding a book to my hand I opened it to restore my
composure.

It was an octavo volume of his works, and I read in it:

"Utrum memoria post mortem dubito."

"You do not think, then," said I, "that the memory is an essential part
of the soul?"

"How is that question to be answered?" M. de Haller replied, cautiously,
as he had his reasons for being considered orthodox.

During dinner I asked if M. de Voltaire came often to see him. By way of
reply he repeated these lines of the poet:--

"Vetabo qui Cereris sacrum vulgarit arcanum sub usdem sit trabibus."

I spent three days with this celebrated man, but I thought myself obliged
to refrain from asking his opinion on any religious questions, although I
had a great desire to do so, as it would have pleased me to have had his
opinion on that delicate subject; but I believe that in matters of that
kind M. Haller judged only by his heart. I told him, however, that I
should consider a visit to Voltaire as a great event, and he said I was
right. He added, without the slightest bitterness,

"M. de Voltaire is a man who ought to be known, although, in spite of the
laws of nature, many persons have found him greater at a distance than
close at hand."

M. de Haller kept a good and abundant though plain table; he only drank
water. At dessert only he allowed himself a small glass of liqueur
drowned in an enormous glass of water. He talked a great deal of
Boerhaave, whose favourite pupil he had been. He said that after
Hypocrates, Boerhaave was the greatest doctor and the greatest chemist
that had ever existed.

"How is it," said I, "that he did not attain mature age?"

"Because there is no cure for death. Boerhaave was born a doctor, as
Homer was born a poet; otherwise he would have succumbed at the age of
fourteen to a malignant ulcer which had resisted all the best treatment
of the day. He cured it himself by rubbing it constantly with salt
dissolved in his own urine."

"I have been told that he possessed the philosopher's stone."

"Yes, but I don't believe it."

"Do you think it possible?"

"I have been working for the last thirty years to convince myself of its
impossibility; I have not yet done so, but I am sure that no one who does
not believe in the possibility of the great work can be a good chemist."

When I left him he begged me to write and tell him what I thought of the
great Voltaire, and in, this way our French correspondence began. I
possess twenty-two letters from this justly celebrated man; and the last
word written six months before, his too, early death. The longer I live
the more interest I take in my papers. They are the treasure which
attaches me to life and makes death more hateful still.

I had been reading at Berne Rousseau's "Heloise," and I asked M. Haller's
opinion of it. He told me that he had once read part of it to oblige a
friend, and from this part he could judge of the whole. "It is the worst
of all romances, because it is the most eloquently expressed. You will
see the country of Vaud, but don't expect to see the originals of the
brilliant portraits which Jean Jacques painted. He seems to have thought
that lying was allowable in a romance, but he has abused the privilege.
Petrarch, was a learned man, and told no lies in speaking of his love for
Laura, whom he loved as every man loves the woman with whom he is taken;
and if Laura had not contented her illustrious lover, he would not have
celebrated her."

Thus Haller spoke to me of Petrarch, mentioning Rousseau with aversion.
He disliked his very eloquence, as he said it owed all its merits to
antithesis and paradox. Haller was a learned man of the first class, but
his knowledge was not employed for the purpose of ostentation, nor in
private life, nor when he was in the company of people who did not care
for science. No one knew better than he how to accommodate himself to his
company he was friendly with everyone, and never gave offence. But what
were his qualifications? It would be much easier to say what he had not
than what he had. He had no pride, self-sufficiency, nor tone of
superiority--in fact, none of those defects which are often the reproach
of the learned and the witty.

He was a man of austere virtue, but he took care to hide the austerity
under a veil of a real and universal kindness. Undoubtedly he thought
little of the ignorant, who talk about everything right or wrong, instead
of remaining silent, and have at bottom only contempt for the learned;
but he only shewed his contempt by saying nothing. He knew that a
despised ignoramus becomes an enemy, and Haller wished to be loved. He
neither boasted of nor concealed his knowledge, but let it run like a
limpid stream flowing through the meadows. He talked well, but never
absorbed the conversation. He never spoke of his works; when someone
mentioned them he would turn the conversation as soon as he conveniently
could. He was sorry to be obliged to contradict anyone who conversed with
him.