The Memoires of Casanova, Complete

J >> Jacques Casanova de Seingalt >> The Memoires of Casanova, Complete


I told M. de Malipiero that I was ready, and anxious to be at home in
order to go to work; that, although no theologian, I was acquainted with
my subject, and would compose a sermon which would take everyone by
surprise on account of its novelty.

On the following day, when I called upon him, he informed me that the
abbe had expressed unqualified delight at the choice made by him, and at
my readiness in accepting the appointment; but he likewise desired that I
should submit my sermon to him as soon as it was written, because the
subject belonging to the most sublime theology he could not allow me to
enter the pulpit without being satisfied that I would not utter any
heresies. I agreed to this demand, and during the week I gave birth to my
masterpiece. I have now that first sermon in my possession, and I cannot
help saying that, considering my tender years, I think it a very good
one.

I could not give an idea of my grandmother's joy; she wept tears of
happiness at having a grandson who had become an apostle. She insisted
upon my reading my sermon to her, listened to it with her beads in her
hands, and pronounced it very beautiful. M. de Malipiero, who had no
rosary when I read it to him, was of opinion that it would not prove
acceptable to the parson. My text was from Horace: 'Ploravere suis non
respondere favorem sperdtum meritis'; and I deplored the wickedness and
ingratitude of men, through which had failed the design adopted by Divine
wisdom for the redemption of humankind. But M. de Malipiero was sorry
that I had taken my text from any heretical poet, although he was pleased
that my sermon was not interlarded with Latin quotations.

I called upon the priest to read my production; but as he was out I had
to wait for his return, and during that time I fell in love with his
niece, Angela. She was busy upon some tambour work; I sat down close by
her, and telling me that she had long desired to make my acquaintance,
she begged me to relate the history of the locks of hair sheared by her
venerable uncle.

My love for Angela proved fatal to me, because from it sprang two other
love affairs which, in their turn, gave birth to a great many others, and
caused me finally to renounce the Church as a profession. But let us
proceed quietly, and not encroach upon future events.

On his return home the abbe found me with his niece, who was about my
age, and he did not appear to be angry. I gave him my sermon: he read it
over, and told me that it was a beautiful academical dissertation, but
unfit for a sermon from the pulpit, and he added,

"I will give you a sermon written by myself, which I have never
delivered; you will commit it to memory, and I promise to let everybody
suppose that it is of your own composition."

"I thank you, very reverend father, but I will preach my own sermon, or
none at all."

"At all events, you shall not preach such a sermon as this in my church."

"You can talk the matter over with M. de Malipiero. In the meantime I
will take my work to the censorship, and to His Eminence the Patriarch,
and if it is not accepted I shall have it printed."

"All very well, young man. The patriarch will coincide with me."

In the evening I related my discussion with the parson before all the
guests of M. de Malipiero. The reading of my sermon was called for, and
it was praised by all. They lauded me for having with proper modesty
refrained from quoting the holy fathers of the Church, whom at my age I
could not be supposed to have sufficiently studied, and the ladies
particularly admired me because there was no Latin in it but the Text
from Horace, who, although a great libertine himself, has written very
good things. A niece of the patriarch, who was present that evening,
promised to prepare her uncle in my favour, as I had expressed my
intention to appeal to him; but M. de Malipiero desired me not to take
any steps in the matter until I had seen him on the following day, and I
submissively bowed to his wishes.

When I called at his mansion the next day he sent for the priest, who
soon made his appearance. As he knew well what he had been sent for, he
immediately launched out into a very long discourse, which I did not
interrupt, but the moment he had concluded his list of objections I told
him that there could not be two ways to decide the question; that the
patriarch would either approve or disapprove my sermon.

"In the first case," I added, "I can pronounce it in your church, and no
responsibility can possibly fall upon your shoulders; in the second, I
must, of course, give way."

The abbe was struck by my determination and he said,

"Do not go to the patriarch; I accept your sermon; I only request you to
change your text. Horace was a villain."

"Why do you quote Seneca, Tertullian, Origen, and Boethius? They were all
heretics, and must, consequently, be considered by you as worse wretches
than Horace, who, after all, never had the chance of becoming a
Christian!"

However, as I saw it would please M. de Malipiero, I finally consented to
accept, as a substitute for mine, a text offered by the abbe, although it
did not suit in any way the spirit of my production; and in order to get
an opportunity for a visit to his niece, I gave him my manuscript, saying
that I would call for it the next day. My vanity prompted me to send a
copy to Doctor Gozzi, but the good man caused me much amusement by
returning it and writing that I must have gone mad, and that if I were
allowed to deliver such a sermon from the pulpit I would bring dishonour
upon myself as well as upon the man who had educated me.

I cared but little for his opinion, and on the appointed day I delivered
my sermon in the Church of the Holy Sacrament in the presence of the best
society of Venice. I received much applause, and every one predicted that
I would certainly become the first preacher of our century, as no young
ecclesiastic of fifteen had ever been known to preach as well as I had
done. It is customary for the faithful to deposit their offerings for the
preacher in a purse which is handed to them for that purpose.

The sexton who emptied it of its contents found in it more than fifty
sequins, and several billets-doux, to the great scandal of the weaker
brethren. An anonymous note amongst them, the writer of which I thought I
had guessed, let me into a mistake which I think better not to relate.
This rich harvest, in my great penury, caused me to entertain serious
thoughts of becoming a preacher, and I confided my intention to the
parson, requesting his assistance to carry it into execution. This gave
me the privilege of visiting at his house every day, and I improved the
opportunity of conversing with Angela, for whom my love was daily
increasing. But Angela was virtuous. She did not object to my love, but
she wished me to renounce the Church and to marry her. In spite of my
infatuation for her, I could not make up my mind to such a step, and I
went on seeing her and courting her in the hope that she would alter her
decision.

The priest, who had at last confessed his admiration for my first sermon,
asked me, some time afterwards, to prepare another for St. Joseph's Day,
with an invitation to deliver it on the 19th of March, 1741. I composed
it, and the abbe spoke of it with enthusiasm, but fate had decided that I
should never preach but once in my life. It is a sad tale, unfortunately
for me very true, which some persons are cruel enough to consider very
amusing.

Young and rather self-conceited, I fancied that it was not necessary for
me to spend much time in committing my sermon to memory. Being the
author, I had all the ideas contained in my work classified in my mind,
and it did not seem to me within the range of possibilities that I could
forget what I had written. Perhaps I might not remember the exact words
of a sentence, but I was at liberty to replace them by other expressions
as good, and as I never happened to be at a loss, or to be struck dumb,
when I spoke in society, it was not likely that such an untoward accident
would befall me before an audience amongst whom I did not know anyone who
could intimidate me and cause me suddenly to lose the faculty of reason
or of speech. I therefore took my pleasure as usual, being satisfied with
reading my sermon morning and evening, in order to impress it upon my
memory which until then had never betrayed me.

The 19th of March came, and on that eventful day at four o'clock in the
afternoon I was to ascend the pulpit; but, believing myself quite secure
and thoroughly master of my subject, I had not the moral courage to deny
myself the pleasure of dining with Count Mont-Real, who was then residing
with me, and who had invited the patrician Barozzi, engaged to be married
to his daughter after the Easter holidays.

I was still enjoying myself with my fine company, when the sexton of the
church came in to tell me that they were waiting for me in the vestry.
With a full stomach and my head rather heated, I took my leave, ran to
the church, and entered the pulpit. I went through the exordium with
credit to myself, and I took breathing time; but scarcely had I
pronounced the first sentences of the narration, before I forgot what I
was saying, what I had to say, and in my endeavours to proceed, I fairly
wandered from my subject and I lost myself entirely. I was still more
discomforted by a half-repressed murmur of the audience, as my deficiency
appeared evident. Several persons left the church, others began to smile,
I lost all presence of mind and every hope of getting out of the scrape.

I could not say whether I feigned a fainting fit, or whether I truly
swooned; all I know is that I fell down on the floor of the pulpit,
striking my head against the wall, with an inward prayer for
annihilation.

Two of the parish clerks carried me to the vestry, and after a few
moments, without addressing a word to anyone, I took my cloak and my hat,
and went home to lock myself in my room. I immediately dressed myself in
a short coat, after the fashion of travelling priests, I packed a few
things in a trunk, obtained some money from my grandmother, and took my
departure for Padua, where I intended to pass my third examination. I
reached Padua at midnight, and went to Doctor Gozzi's house, but I did
not feel the slightest temptation to mention to him my unlucky adventure.

I remained in Padua long enough to prepare myself for the doctor's
degree, which I intended to take the following year, and after Easter I
returned to Venice, where my misfortune was already forgotten; but
preaching was out of the question, and when any attempt was made to
induce me to renew my efforts, I manfully kept to my determination never
to ascend the pulpit again.

On the eve of Ascension Day M. Manzoni introduced me to a young
courtesan, who was at that time in great repute at Venice, and was
nick-named Cavamacchia, because her father had been a scourer. This named
vexed her a great deal, she wished to be called Preati, which was her
family name, but it was all in vain, and the only concession her friends
would make was to call her by her Christian name of Juliette. She had
been introduced to fashionable notice by the Marquis de Sanvitali, a
nobleman from Parma, who had given her one hundred thousand ducats for
her favours. Her beauty was then the talk of everybody in Venice, and it
was fashionable to call upon her. To converse with her, and especially to
be admitted into her circle, was considered a great boon.

As I shall have to mention her several times in the course of my history,
my readers will, I trust, allow me to enter into some particulars about
her previous life.

Juliette was only fourteen years of age when her father sent her one day
to the house of a Venetian nobleman, Marco Muazzo, with a coat which he
had cleaned for him. He thought her very beautiful in spite of the dirty
rags in which she was dressed, and he called to see her at her father's
shop, with a friend of his, the celebrated advocate, Bastien Uccelli,
who; struck by the romantic and cheerful nature of Juliette still more
than by her beauty and fine figure, gave her an apartment, made her study
music, and kept her as his mistress. At the time of the fair, Bastien
took her with him to various public places of resort; everywhere she
attracted general attention, and secured the admiration of every lover of
the sex. She made rapid progress in music, and at the end of six months
she felt sufficient confidence in herself to sign an engagement with a
theatrical manager who took her to Vienna to give her a 'castrato' part
in one of Metastasio's operas.

The advocate had previously ceded her to a wealthy Jew who, after giving
her splendid diamonds, left her also.

In Vienna, Juliette appeared on the stage, and her beauty gained for her
an admiration which she would never have conquered by her very inferior
talent. But the constant crowd of adorers who went to worship the
goddess, having sounded her exploits rather too loudly, the august
Maria-Theresa objected to this new creed being sanctioned in her capital,
and the beautiful actress received an order to quit Vienna forthwith.

Count Spada offered her his protection, and brought her back to Venice,
but she soon left for Padua where she had an engagement. In that city she
kindled the fire of love in the breast of Marquis Sanvitali, but the
marchioness having caught her once in her own box, and Juliette having
acted disrespectfully to her, she slapped her face, and the affair having
caused a good deal of noise, Juliette gave up the stage altogether. She
came back to Venice, where, made conspicuous by her banishment from
Vienna, she could not fail to make her fortune. Expulsion from Vienna,
for this class of women, had become a title to fashionable favour, and
when there was a wish to depreciate a singer or a dancer, it was said of
her that she had not been sufficiently prized to be expelled from Vienna.

After her return, her first lover was Steffano Querini de Papozzes, but
in the spring of 1740, the Marquis de Sanvitali came to Venice and soon
carried her off. It was indeed difficult to resist this delightful
marquis! His first present to the fair lady was a sum of one hundred
thousand ducats, and, to prevent his being accused of weakness or of
lavish prodigality, he loudly proclaimed that the present could scarcely
make up for the insult Juliette had received from his wife--an insult,
however, which the courtesan never admitted, as she felt that there would
be humiliation in such an acknowledgment, and she always professed to
admire with gratitude her lover's generosity. She was right; the
admission of the blow received would have left a stain upon her charms,
and how much more to her taste to allow those charms to be prized at such
a high figure!

It was in the year 1741 that M. Manzoni introduced me to this new Phryne
as a young ecclesiastic who was beginning to make a reputation. I found
her surrounded by seven or eight well-seasoned admirers, who were burning
at her feet the incense of their flattery. She was carelessly reclining
on a sofa near Querini. I was much struck with her appearance. She eyed
me from head to foot, as if I had been exposed for sale, and telling me,
with the air of a princess, that she was not sorry to make my
acquaintance, she invited me to take a seat. I began then, in my turn, to
examine her closely and deliberately, and it was an easy matter, as the
room, although small, was lighted with at least twenty wax candles.

Juliette was then in her eighteenth year; the freshness of her complexion
was dazzling, but the carnation tint of her cheeks, the vermilion of her
lips, and the dark, very narrow curve of her eyebrows, impressed me as
being produced by art rather than nature. Her teeth--two rows of
magnificent pearls--made one overlook the fact that her mouth was
somewhat too large, and whether from habit, or because she could not help
it, she seemed to be ever smiling. Her bosom, hid under a light gauze,
invited the desires of love; yet I did not surrender to her charms. Her
bracelets and the rings which covered her fingers did not prevent me from
noticing that her hand was too large and too fleshy, and in spite of her
carefully hiding her feet, I judged, by a telltale slipper lying close by
her dress, that they were well proportioned to the height of her
figure--a proportion which is unpleasant not only to the Chinese and
Spaniards, but likewise to every man of refined taste. We want a tall
women to have a small foot, and certainly it is not a modern taste, for
Holofernes of old was of the same opinion; otherwise he would not have
thought Judith so charming: 'et sandalid ejus rapuerunt oculos ejus'.
Altogether I found her beautiful, but when I compared her beauty and the
price of one hundred thousand ducats paid for it, I marvelled at my
remaining so cold, and at my not being tempted to give even one sequin
for the privilege of making from nature a study of the charms which her
dress concealed from my eyes.

I had scarcely been there a quarter of an hour when the noise made by the
oars of a gondola striking the water heralded the prodigal marquis. We
all rose from our seats, and M. Querini hastened, somewhat blushing, to
quit his place on the sofa. M. de Sanvitali, a man of middle age, who had
travelled much, took a seat near Juliette, but not on the sofa, so she
was compelled to turn round. It gave me the opportunity of seeing her
full front, while I had before only a side view of her face.

After my introduction to Juliette, I paid her four or five visits, and I
thought myself justified, by the care I had given to the examination of
her beauty, in saying in M. de Malipiero's draw-room, one evening, when
my opinion about her was asked, that she could please only a glutton with
depraved tastes; that she had neither the fascination of simple nature
nor any knowledge of society, that she was deficient in well-bred, easy
manners as well as in striking talents and that those were the qualities
which a thorough gentleman liked to find in a woman. This opinion met the
general approbation of his friends, but M. de Malipiero kindly whispered
to me that Juliette would certainly be informed of the portrait I had
drawn of her, and that she would become my sworn enemy. He had guessed
rightly.

I thought Juliette very singular, for she seldom spoke to me, and
whenever she looked at me she made use of an eye-glass, or she contracted
her eye-lids, as if she wished to deny me the honour of seeing her eyes,
which were beyond all dispute very beautiful. They were blue, wondrously
large and full, and tinted with that unfathomable variegated iris which
nature only gives to youth, and which generally disappears, after having
worked miracles, when the owner reaches the shady side of forty.
Frederick the Great preserved it until his death.

Juliette was informed of the portrait I had given of her to M. de
Malipiero's friends by the indiscreet pensioner, Xavier Cortantini. One
evening I called upon her with M. Manzoni, and she told him that a
wonderful judge of beauty had found flaws in hers, but she took good care
not to specify them. It was not difficult to make out that she was
indirectly firing at me, and I prepared myself for the ostracism which I
was expecting, but which, however, she kept in abeyance fully for an
hour. At last, our conversation falling upon a concert given a few days
before by Imer, the actor, and in which his daughter, Therese, had taken
a brilliant part, Juliette turned round to me and inquired what M. de
Malipiero did for Therese. I said that he was educating her. "He can well
do it," she answered, "for he is a man of talent; but I should like to
know what he can do with you?"

"Whatever he can."

"I am told that he thinks you rather stupid."

As a matter of course, she had the laugh on her side, and I, confused,
uncomfortable and not knowing what to say, took leave after having cut a
very sorry figure, and determined never again to darken her door. The
next day at dinner the account of my adventure caused much amusement to
the old senator.

Throughout the summer, I carried on a course of Platonic love with my
charming Angela at the house of her teacher of embroidery, but her
extreme reserve excited me, and my love had almost become a torment to
myself. With my ardent nature, I required a mistress like Bettina, who
knew how to satisfy my love without wearing it out. I still retained some
feelings of purity, and I entertained the deepest veneration for Angela.
She was in my eyes the very palladium of Cecrops. Still very innocent, I
felt some disinclination towards women, and I was simple enough to be
jealous of even their husbands.

Angela would not grant me the slightest favour, yet she was no flirt; but
the fire beginning in me parched and withered me. The pathetic entreaties
which I poured out of my heart had less effect upon her than upon two
young sisters, her companions and friends: had I not concentrated every
look of mine upon the heartless girl, I might have discovered that her
friends excelled her in beauty and in feeling, but my prejudiced eyes saw
no one but Angela. To every outpouring of my love she answered that she
was quite ready to become my wife, and that such was to be the limit of
my wishes; when she condescended to add that she suffered as much as I
did myself, she thought she had bestowed upon me the greatest of favours.

Such was the state of my mind, when, in the first days of autumn, I
received a letter from the Countess de Mont-Real with an invitation to
spend some time at her beautiful estate at Pasean. She expected many
guests, and among them her own daughter, who had married a Venetian
nobleman, and who had a great reputation for wit and beauty, although she
had but one eye; but it was so beautiful that it made up for the loss of
the other. I accepted the invitation, and Pasean offering me a constant
round of pleasures, it was easy enough for me to enjoy myself, and to
forget for the time the rigours of the cruel Angela.

I was given a pretty room on the ground floor, opening upon the gardens
of Pasean, and I enjoyed its comforts without caring to know who my
neighbours were.

The morning after my arrival, at the very moment I awoke, my eyes were
delighted with the sight of the charming creature who brought me my
coffee. She was a very young girl, but as well formed as a young person
of seventeen; yet she had scarcely completed her fourteenth year. The
snow of her complexion, her hair as dark as the raven's wing, her black
eyes beaming with fire and innocence, her dress composed only of a
chemise and a short petticoat which exposed a well-turned leg and the
prettiest tiny foot, every detail I gathered in one instant presented to
my looks the most original and the most perfect beauty I had ever beheld.
I looked at her with the greatest pleasure, and her eyes rested upon me
as if we had been old acquaintances.

"How did you find your bed?" she asked.

"Very comfortable; I am sure you made it. Pray, who are you?"

"I am Lucie, the daughter of the gate-keeper: I have neither brothers nor
sisters, and I am fourteen years old. I am very glad you have no servant
with you; I will be your little maid, and I am sure you will be pleased
with me."

Delighted at this beginning, I sat up in my bed and she helped me to put
on my dressing-gown, saying a hundred things which I did not understand.
I began to drink my coffee, quite amazed at her easy freedom, and struck
with her beauty, to which it would have been impossible to remain
indifferent. She had seated herself on my bed, giving no other apology
for that liberty than the most delightful smile.

I was still sipping my coffee, when Lucie's parents came into my room.
She did not move from her place on the bed, but she looked at them,
appearing very proud of such a seat. The good people kindly scolded her,
begged my forgiveness in her favour, and Lucie left the room to attend to
her other duties. The moment she had gone her father and mother began to
praise their daughter.

"She is," they said, "our only child, our darling pet, the hope of our
old age. She loves and obeys us, and fears God; she is as clean as a new
pin, and has but one fault."

"What is that?"

"She is too young."

"That is a charming fault which time will mend."

I was not long in ascertaining that they were living specimens of
honesty, of truth, of homely virtues, and of real happiness. I was
delighted at this discovery, when Lucie returned as gay as a lark,
prettily dressed, her hair done in a peculiar way of her own, and with
well-fitting shoes. She dropped a simple courtesy before me, gave a
couple of hearty kisses to both her parents, and jumped on her father
knees. I asked her to come and sit on my bed, but she answered that she
could not take such a liberty now that she was dressed, The simplicity,
artlessness, and innocence of the answer seemed to me very enchanting,
and brought a smile on my lips. I examined her to see whether she was
prettier in her new dress or in the morning's negligee, and I decided in
favour of the latter. To speak the truth, Lucie was, I thought, superior
in everything, not only to Angela, but even to Bettina.