RETURN TO VENICE - Chapter XVIII
I lead a dissolute life--Zawoiski--Rinaldi--L'Abbadie--The young countess--
The Capuchin friar Z. Steffani--Ancilla--La Ramor--I take a
gondola at St. Job to go to Mestra.
Fortune, which had taken pleasure in giving me a specimen of its
despotic caprice, and had insured my happiness through means which
sages would disavow, had not the power to make me adopt a system of
moderation and prudence which alone could establish my future welfare
on a firm basis.
My ardent nature, my irresistible love of pleasure, my unconquerable
independence, would not allow me to submit to the reserve which my
new position in life demanded from me. I began to lead a life of
complete freedom, caring for nothing but what ministered to my
tastes, and I thought that, as long as I respected the laws, I could
trample all prejudices under my feet. I fancied that I could live
free and independent in a country ruled entirely by an aristocratic
government, but this was not the case, and would not have been so
even if fortune had raised me to a seat in that same government, for
the Republic of Venice, considering that its primary duty is to
preserve its own integrity, finds itself the slave of its own policy,
and is bound to sacrifice everything to self-preservation, before
which the laws themselves cease to be inviolable.
But let us abandon the discussion of a principle now too trite, for
humankind, at least in Europe, is satisfied that unlimited liberty is
nowhere consistent with a properly-regulated state of society. I
have touched lightly on the matter, only to give to my readers some
idea of my conduct in my own country, where I began to tread a path
which was to lead me to a state prison as inscrutable as it was
unconstitutional.
With enough money, endowed by nature with a pleasing and commanding
physical appearance, a confirmed gambler, a true spendthrift, a great
talker, very far from modest, intrepid, always running after pretty
women, supplanting my rivals, and acknowledging no good company but
that which ministered to my enjoyment, I was certain to be disliked;
but, ever ready to expose myself to any danger, and to take the
responsibility of all my actions, I thought I had a right to do
anything I pleased, for I always broke down abruptly every obstacle I
found in my way.
Such conduct could not but be disagreeable to the three worthy men
whose oracle I had become, but they did not like to complain. The
excellent M. de Bragadin would only tell me that I was giving him a
repetition of the foolish life he had himself led at my age, but that
I must prepare to pay the penalty of my follies, and to feel the
punishment when I should reach his time of life. Without wanting in
the respect I owed him, I would turn his terrible forebodings into
jest, and continue my course of extravagance. However, I must
mention here the first proof he gave me of his true wisdom.
At the house of Madame Avogadro, a woman full of wit in spite of her
sixty years, I had made the acquaintance of a young Polish nobleman
called Zawoiski. He was expecting money from Poland, but in the mean
time the Venetian ladies did not let him want for any, being all very
much in love with his handsome face and his Polish manners. We soon
became good friends, my purse was his, but, twenty years later, he
assisted me to a far greater extent in Munich. Zawoiski was honest,
he had only a small dose of intelligence, but it was enough for his
happiness. He died in Trieste five or six years ago, the ambassador
of the Elector of Treves. I will speak of him in another part of
these Memoirs.
This amiable young man, who was a favourite with everybody and was
thought a free-thinker because he frequented the society of Angelo
Querini and Lunardo Venier, presented me one day, as we were out
walking, to an unknown countess who took my fancy very strongly.
We called on her in the evening, and, after introducing me to her
husband, Count Rinaldi, she invited us to remain and have supper.
The count made a faro bank in the course of the evening, I punted
with his wife as a partner, and won some fifty ducats.
Very much pleased with my new acquaintance, I called alone on the
countess the next morning. The count, apologizing for his wife who
was not up yet, took me to her room. She received me with graceful
ease, and, her husband having left us alone, she had the art to let
me hope for every favour, yet without committing herself; when I took
leave of her, she invited me to supper for the evening. After supper
I played, still in partnership with her, won again, and went away
very much in love. I did not fail to pay her another visit the next
morning, but when I presented myself at the house I was told that she
had gone out.
I called again in the evening, and, after she had excused herself for
not having been at home in the morning, the faro bank began, and I
lost all my money, still having the countess for my partner. After
supper, and when the other guests had retired, I remained with
Zawoiski, Count Rinaldi having offered to give us our revenge. As I
had no more money, I played upon trust, and the count threw down the
cards after I had lost five hundred sequins. I went away in great
sorrow. I was bound in honour to pay the next morning, and I did not
possess a groat. Love increased my despair, for I saw myself on the
point of losing the esteem of a woman by whom I was smitten, and the
anxiety I felt did not escape M. de Bragadin when we met in the
morning. He kindly encouraged me to confess my troubles to him.
I was conscious that it was my only chance, and candidly related the
whole affair, and I ended by saying that I should not survive my
disgrace. He consoled me by promising that my debt would be
cancelled in the course of the day, if I would swear never to play
again upon trust. I took an oath to that effect, and kissing his
hand, I went out for a walk, relieved from a great load. I had no
doubt that my excellent father would give me five hundred sequins
during the day, and I enjoyed my anticipation the honour I would
derive, in the opinion of the lovely countess, by my exactitude and
prompt discharge of my debt. I felt that it gave new strength to my
hopes, and that feeling prevented me from regretting my heavy loss,
but grateful for the great generosity of my benefactor I was fully
determined on keeping my promise.
I dined with the three friends, and the matter was not even alluded
to; but, as we were rising from the table, a servant brought M. de
Bragadin a letter and a parcel.
He read the letter, asked me to follow him into his study, and the
moment we were alone, he said;
"Here is a parcel for you."
I opened it, and found some forty sequins. Seeing my surprise, M.
de Bragadin laughed merrily and handed me the letter, the contents of
which ran thus:
"M. de Casanova may be sure that our playing last night was only a
joke: he owes me nothing. My wife begs to send him half of the gold
which he has lost in cash.
"COUNT RINALDI."
I looked at M. de Bragadin, perfectly amazed, and he burst out
laughing. I guessed the truth, thanked him, and embracing him
tenderly I promised to be wiser for the future. The mist I had
before my eyes was dispelled, I felt that my love was defunct, and I
remained rather ashamed, when I realized that I had been the dupe of
the wife as well as of the husband.
"This evening," said my clever physician, "you can have a gay supper
with the charming countess."
"This evening, my dear, respected benefactor, I will have supper with
you. You have given me a masterly lesson."
"The next time you lose money upon trust, you had better not pay it."
"But I should be dishonoured."
"Never mind. The sooner you dishonour yourself, the more you will
save, for you will always be compelled to accept your dishonour
whenever you find yourself utterly unable to pay your losses. It is
therefore more prudent not to wait until then."
"It is much better still to avoid that fatal impossibility by never
playing otherwise than with money in hand."
"No doubt of it, for then you will save both your honour and your
purse. But, as you are fond of games of chance, I advise you never
to punt. Make the bank, and the advantage must be on your side."
"Yes, but only a slight advantage."
"As slight as you please, but it will be on your side, and when the
game is over you will find yourself a winner and not a loser. The
punter is excited, the banker is calm. The last says, 'I bet you do
not guess,' while the first says, 'I bet I can guess.' Which is the
fool, and which is the wise man? The question is easily answered. I
adjure you to be prudent, but if you should punt and win, recollect
that you are only an idiot if at the end you lose."
"Why an idiot? Fortune is very fickle."
"It must necessarily be so; it is a natural consequence. Leave off
playing, believe me, the very moment you see luck turning, even if
you should, at that moment, win but one groat."
I had read Plato, and I was astonished at finding a man who could
reason like Socrates.
The next day, Zawoiski called on me very early to tell me that I had
been expected to supper, and that Count Rinaldi had praised my
promptness in paying my debts of honour. I did not think it
necessary to undeceive him, but I did not go again to Count
Rinaldi's, whom I saw sixteen years afterwards in Milan. As to
Zawoiski, I did not tell him the story till I met him in Carlsbad,
old and deaf, forty years later.
Three or four months later, M. de Bragadin taught me another of his
masterly lessons. I had become acquainted, through Zawoiski, with a
Frenchman called L'Abbadie, who was then soliciting from the Venetian
Government the appointment of inspector of the armies of the
Republic. The senate appointed, and I presented him to my protector,
who promised him his vote; but the circumstance I am going to relate
prevented him from fulfilling his promise.
I was in need of one hundred sequins to discharge a few debts, and I
begged M. de Bragadin to give them to me.
"Why, my dear son, do you not ask M. de l'Abbadie to render you that
service?"
"I should not dare to do so, dear father."
"Try him; I am certain that he will be glad to lend you that sum."
"I doubt it, but I will try."
I called upon L'Abbadie on the following day, and after a short
exchange of compliments I told him the service I expected from his
friendship. He excused himself in a very polite manner, drowning his
refusal in that sea of commonplaces which people are sure to repeat
when they cannot or will not oblige a friend. Zawoiski came in as he
was still apologizing, and I left them together. I hurried at once
to M. de Bragadin, and told him my want of success. He merely
remarked that the Frenchman was deficient in intelligence.
It just happened that it was the very day on which the appointment of
the inspectorship was to be brought before the senate. I went out to
attend to my business (I ought to say to my pleasure), and as I did
not return home till after midnight I went to bed without seeing my
father. In the morning I said in his presence that I intended to
call upon L'Abbadie to congratulate him upon his appointment.
"You may spare yourself that trouble; the senate has rejected his
nomination."
"How so? Three days ago L'Abbadie felt sure of his success."
"He was right then, for he would have been appointed if I had not
made up my mind to speak against him. I have proved to the senate
that a right policy forbade the government to trust such an important
post to a foreigner."
"I am much surprised, for your excellency was not of that opinion the
day before yesterday."
"Very true, but then I did not know M. de l'Abbadie. I found out
only yesterday that the man was not sufficiently intelligent to fill
the position he was soliciting. Is he likely to possess a sane
judgment when he refuses to lend you one hundred sequins? That
refusal has cost him an important appointment and an income of three
thousand crowns, which would now be his."
When I was taking my walk on the same day I met Zawoiski with
L'Abbadie, and did not try to avoid them. L'Abbadie was furious, and
he had some reason to be so.
"If you had told me," he said angrily, "that the one hundred sequins
were intended as a gag to stop M. de Bragadin's mouth, I would have
contrived to procure them for you."
"If you had had an inspector's brains you would have easily guessed
it."
The Frenchman's resentment proved very useful to me, because he
related the circumstance to everybody. The result was that from that
time those who wanted the patronage of the senator applied to me.
Comment is needless; this sort of thing has long been in existence,
and will long remain so, because very often, to obtain the highest of
favours, all that is necessary is to obtain the good-will of a
minister's favourite or even of his valet. My debts were soon paid.
It was about that time that my brother Jean came to Venice with
Guarienti, a converted Jew, a great judge of paintings, who was
travelling at the expense of His Majesty the King of Poland, and
Elector of Saxony. It was the converted Jew who had purchased for
His Majesty the gallery of the Duke of Modena for one hundred
thousand sequins. Guarienti and my brother left Venice for Rome,
where Jean remained in the studio of the celebrated painter Raphael
Mengs, whom we shall meet again hereafter.
Now, as a faithful historian, I must give my readers the story of a
certain adventure in which were involved the honour and happiness of
one of the most charming women in Italy, who would have been unhappy
if I had not been a thoughtless fellow.
In the early part of October, 1746, the theatres being opened, I was
walking about with my mask on when I perceived a woman, whose head
was well enveloped in the hood of her mantle, getting out of the
Ferrara barge which had just arrived. Seeing her alone, and
observing her uncertain walk, I felt myself drawn towards her as if
an unseen hand had guided me.
I come up to her, and offer my services if I can be of any use to
her. She answers timidly that she only wants to make some enquiries.
"We are not here in the right place for conversation," I say to her;
"but if you would be kind enough to come with me to a caf‚, you would
be able to speak and to explain your wishes."
She hesitates, I insist, and she gives way. The tavern was close at
hand; we go in, and are alone in a private room. I take off my mask,
and out of politeness she must put down the hood of her mantle. A
large muslin head-dress conceals half of her face, but her eyes, her
nose, and her pretty mouth are enough to let me see on her features
beauty, nobleness, sorrow, and that candour which gives youth such an
undefinable charm. I need not say that, with such a good letter of
introduction, the unknown at once captivated my warmest interest.
After wiping away a few tears which are flowing, in spite of all her
efforts, she tells me that she belongs to a noble family, that she
has run away from her father's house, alone, trusting in God, to meet
a Venetian nobleman who had seduced her and then deceived her, thus
sealing her everlasting misery.
"You have then some hope of recalling him to the path of duty? I
suppose he has promised you marriage?"
"He has engaged his faith to me in writing. The only favour I claim
from your kindness is to take me to his house, to leave me there, and
to keep my secret."
"You may trust, madam, to the feelings of a man of honour. I am
worthy of your trust. Have entire confidence in me, for I already
take a deep interest in all your concerns. Tell me his name."
"Alas! sir, I give way to fate."
With these words, she takes out of her bosom a paper which she gives
me; I recognize the handwriting of Zanetto Steffani. It was a
promise of marriage by which he engaged his word of honour to marry
within a week, in Venice, the young countess A---- S----. When I
have read the paper, I return it to her, saying that I knew the
writer quite well, that he was connected with the chancellor's
office, known as a great libertine, and deeply in debt, but that he
would be rich after his mother's death.
"For God's sake take me to his house."
"I will do anything you wish; but have entire confidence in me, and
be good enough to hear me. I advise you not to go to his house. He
has already done you great injury, and, even supposing that you
should happen to find him at home, he might be capable of receiving
you badly; if he should not be at home, it is most likely that his
mother would not exactly welcome you, if you should tell her who you
are and what is your errand. Trust to me, and be quite certain that
God has sent me on your way to assist you. I promise you that
to-morrow at the latest you shall know whether Steffani is in Venice,
what he intends to do with you, and what we may compel him to do.
Until then my advice is not to let him know your arrival in Venice."
"Good God! where shall I go to-night?"
"To a respectable house, of course."
"I will go to yours, if you are married."
"I am a bachelor."
I knew an honest widow who resided in a lane, and who had two
furnished rooms. I persuade the young countess to follow me, and we
take a gondola. As we are gliding along, she tells me that, one
month before, Steffani had stopped in her neighbourhood for necessary
repairs to his travelling-carriage, and that, on the same day he had
made her acquaintance at a house where she had gone with her mother
for the purpose of offering their congratulations to a newly-married
lady.
"I was unfortunate enough," she continued, "to inspire him with love,
and he postponed his departure. He remained one month in C----, never
going out but in the evening, and spending every night under my
windows conversing with me. He swore a thousand times that he adored
me, that his intentions were honourable. I entreated him to present
himself to my parents to ask me in marriage, but he always excused
himself by alleging some reason, good or bad, assuring me that he
could not be happy unless I shewed him entire confidence. He would
beg of me to make up my mind to run away with him, unknown to
everybody, promising that my honour should not suffer from such a
step, because, three days after my departure, everybody should
receive notice of my being his wife, and he assured me that he would
bring me back on a visit to my native place shortly after our
marriage. Alas, sir! what shall I say now? Love blinded me; I fell
into the abyss; I believed him; I agreed to everything. He gave me
the paper which you have read, and the following night I allowed him
to come into my room through the window under which he was in the
habit of conversing with me.
I consented to be guilty of a crime which I believed would be atoned
for within three days, and he left me, promising that the next night
he would be again under my window, ready to receive me in his arms.
Could I possibly entertain any doubt after the fearful crime I had
committed for him? I prepared a small parcel, and waited for his
coming, but in vain. Oh! what a cruel long night it was! In the
morning I heard that the monster had gone away with his servant one
hour after sealing my shame. You may imagine my despair! I adopted
the only plan that despair could suggest, and that, of course, was
not the right one. One hour before midnight I left my father's roof,
alone, thus completing my dishonour, but resolved on death, if the
man who has cruelly robbed me of my most precious treasure, and whom
a natural instinct told me I could find here, does not restore me the
honour which he alone can give me back. I walked all night and
nearly the whole day, without taking any food, until I got into the
barge, which brought me here in twenty-four hours. I travelled in
the boat with five men and two women, but no one saw my face or heard
my voice, I kept constantly sitting down in a corner, holding my head
down, half asleep, and with this prayer-book in my hands. I was left
alone, no one spoke to me, and I thanked God for it. When I landed
on the wharf, you did not give me time to think how I could find out
the dwelling of my perfidious seducer, but you may imagine the
impression produced upon me by the sudden apparition of a masked man
who, abruptly, and as if placed there purposely by Providence,
offered me his services; it seemed to me that you had guessed my
distress, and, far from experiencing any repugnance, I felt that I
was acting rightly in trusting myself in your hands, in spite of all
prudence which, perhaps, ought to have made me turn a deaf ear to
your words, and refuse the invitation to enter alone with you the
house to which you took me.
"You know all now, sir; but I entreat you not to judge me too
severely; I have been virtuous all through my life; one month ago I
had never committed a fault which could call a blush upon my face,
and the bitter tears which I shed every day will, I hope, wash out my
crime in the eyes of God. I have been carefully brought up, but love
and the want of experience have thrown me into the abyss. I am in
your hands, and I feel certain that I shall have no cause to repent
it."
I needed all she had just told' me to confirm me in the interest
which I had felt in her from the first moment. I told her
unsparingly that Steffani had seduced and abandoned her of malice
aforethought, and that she ought to think of him only to be revenged
of his perfidy. My words made her shudder, and she buried her
beautiful face in her hands.
We reached the widow's house. I established her in a pretty,
comfortable room, and ordered some supper for her, desiring the good
landlady to skew her every attention and to let her want for nothing.
I then took an affectionate leave of her, promising to see her early
in the morning.
On leaving this interesting but hapless girl, I proceeded to the
house of Steffani. I heard from one of his mother's gondoliers that
he had returned to Venice three days before, but that, twenty-four
hours after his return, he had gone away again without any servant,
and nobody knew his whereabouts, not even his mother. The same
evening, happening to be seated next to an abbe from Bologna at the
theatre, I asked him several questions respecting the family of my
unfortunate protegee.
The abbe being intimately acquainted with them, I gathered from him
all the information I required, and, amongst other things, I heard
that the young countess had a brother, then an officer in the papal
service.
Very early the next morning I called upon her. She was still asleep.
The widow told me that she had made a pretty good supper, but without
speaking a single word, and that she had locked herself up in her
room immediately afterwards. As soon as she had opened her door, I
entered her room, and, cutting short her apologies for having kept me
waiting, I informed her of all I had heard.
Her features bore the stamp of deep sorrow, but she looked calmer,
and her complexion was no longer pale. She thought it unlikely that
Steffani would have left for any other place but for C-----.
Admitting the possibility that she might be right, I immediately
offered to go to C----- myself, and to return without loss of time to
fetch her, in case Steffani should be there. Without giving her time
to answer I told her all the particulars I had learned concerning her
honourable family, which caused her real satisfaction.
"I have no objection," she said, "to your going to C----, and I thank
you for the generosity of your offer, but I beg you will postpone
your journey. I still hope that Steffani will return, and then I can
take a decision."
"I think you are quite right," I said. "Will you allow me to have
some breakfast with you?"
"Do you suppose I could refuse you?"
"I should be very sorry to disturb you in any way. How did you use
to amuse yourself at home?"
"I am very fond of books and music; my harpsichord was my delight."
I left her after breakfast, and in the evening I came back with a
basket full of good books and music, and I sent her an excellent
harpsichord. My kindness confused her, but I surprised her much more
when I took out of my pocket three pairs of slippers. She blushed,
and thanked me with great feeling. She had walked a long distance,
her shoes were evidently worn out, her feet sore, and she appreciated
the delicacy of my present. As I had no improper design with regard
to her, I enjoyed her gratitude, and felt pleased at the idea she
evidently entertained of my kind attentions. I had no other purpose
in view but to restore calm to her mind, and to obliterate the bad
opinion which the unworthy Steffani had given her of men in general.
I never thought of inspiring her with love for me, and I had not the
slightest idea that I could fall in love with her. She was unhappy,
and her unhappiness--a sacred thing in my eyes--called all the more
for my most honourable sympathy, because, without knowing me, she had
given me her entire confidence. Situated as she was, I could not
suppose her heart susceptible of harbouring a new affection, and I
would have despised myself if I had tried to seduce her by any means
in my power.
I remained with her only a quarter of an hour, being unwilling that
my presence should trouble her at such a moment, as she seemed to be
at a loss how to thank me and to express all her gratitude.
I was thus engaged in a rather delicate adventure, the end of which I
could not possibly foresee, but my warmth for my prot1gee did not
cool down, and having no difficulty in procuring the means to keep
her I had no wish to see the last scene of the romance. That
singular meeting, which gave me the useful opportunity of finding
myself endowed with generous dispositions, stronger even than my love
for pleasure, flattered my self-love more than I could express. I
was then trying a great experiment, and conscious that I wanted sadly
to study myself, I gave up all my energies to acquire the great
science of the ''.
On the third day, in the midst of expressions of gratitude which I
could not succeed in stopping she told me that she could not conceive
why I shewed her so much sympathy, because I ought to have formed but
a poor opinion of her in consequence of the readiness with which she
had followed me into the caf‚. She smiled when I answered that I
could not understand how I had succeeded in giving her so great a
confidence in my virtue, when I appeared before her with a mask on my
face, in a costume which did not indicate a very virtuous character.
"It was easy for me, madam," I continued, "to guess that you were a
beauty in distress, when I observed your youth, the nobleness of your
countenance, and, more than all, your candour. The stamp of truth
was so well affixed to the first words you uttered that I could not
have the shadow of a doubt left in me as to your being the unhappy
victim of the most natural of all feelings, and as to your having
abandoned your home through a sentiment of honour. Your fault was
that of a warm heart seduced by love, over which reason could have no
sway, and your flight--the action of a soul crying for reparation or
for revenge-fully justifies you. Your cowardly seducer must pay with
his life the penalty due to his crime, and he ought never to receive,
by marrying you, an unjust reward, for he is not worthy of possessing
you after degrading himself by the vilest conduct."
"Everything you say is true. My brother, I hope, will avenge me."
"You are greatly mistaken if you imagine that Steffani will fight
your brother; Steffani is a coward who will never expose himself to
an honourable death."
As I was speaking, she put her hand in her pocket and drew forth,
after a few moments' consideration, a stiletto six inches long, which
she placed on the table.
"What is this?" I exclaimed.
"It is a weapon upon which I reckoned until now to use against myself
in case I should not succeed in obtaining reparation for the crime I
have committed. But you have opened my eyes. Take away, I entreat
you, this stiletto, which henceforth is useless to me. I trust in
your friendship, and I have an inward certainty that I shall be
indebted to you for my honour as well as for my life."
I was struck by the words she had just uttered, and I felt that those
words, as well as her looks, had found their way to my heart, besides
enlisting my generous sympathy. I took the stiletto, and left her
with so much agitation that I had to acknowledge the weakness of my
heroism, which I was very near turning into ridicule; yet I had the
wonderful strength to perform, at least by halves, the character of a
Cato until the seventh day.
I must explain how a certain suspicion of the young lady arose in my
mind. That doubt was heavy on my heart, for, if it had proved true,
I should have been a dupe, and the idea was humiliating. She had
told me that she was a musician; I had immediately sent her a
harpsichord, and, yet, although the instrument had been at her
disposal for three days, she had not opened it once, for the widow
had told me so. It seemed to me that the best way to thank me for my
attentive kindness would have been to give me a specimen of her
musical talent. Had she deceived me? If so, she would lose my
esteem. But, unwilling to form a hasty judgment, I kept on my guard,
with a firm determination to make good use of the first opportunity
that might present itself to clear up my doubts.
I called upon her the next day after dinner, which was not my usual
time, having resolved on creating the opportunity myself. I caught
her seated before a toilet-glass, while the widow dressed the most
beautiful auburn hair I had ever seen. I tendered my apologies for
my sudden appearance at an unusual hour; she excused herself for not
having completed her toilet, and the widow went on with her work. It
was the first time I had seen the whole of her face, her neck, and
half of her arms, which the graces themselves had moulded. I
remained in silent contemplation. I praised, quite by chance, the
perfume of the pomatum, and the widow took the opportunity of telling
her that she had spent in combs, powder, and pomatum the three livres
she had received from her. I recollected then that she had told me
the first day that she had left C----- with ten paoli.
I blushed for very shame, for I ought to have thought of that.
As soon as the widow had dressed her hair, she left the room to
prepare some coffee for us. I took up a ring which had been laid by
her on the toilet-table, and I saw that it contained a portrait
exactly like her; I was amused at the singular fancy she had had of
having her likeness taken in a man's costume, with black hair. "You
are mistaken," she said, "it is a portrait of my brother. He is two
years older than I, and is an officer in the papal army."
I begged her permission to put the ring on her finger; she consented,
and when I tried, out of mere gallantry, to kiss her hand, she drew
it back, blushing. I feared she might be offended, and I assured her
of my respect.
"Ah, sir!" she answered, "in the situation in which I am placed, I
must think of defending myself against my own self much more than
against you."
The compliment struck me as so fine, and so complimentary to me, that
I thought it better not to take it up, but she could easily read in
my eyes that she would never find me ungrateful for whatever feelings
she might entertain in my favour. Yet I felt my love taking such
proportions that I did not know how to keep it a mystery any longer.
Soon after that, as she was again thanking me for the books--I had
given her, saying that I had guessed her taste exactly, because she
did not like novels, she added, "I owe you an apology for not having
sung to you yet, knowing that you are fond of music." These words
made me breathe freely; without waiting for any answer, she sat down
before the instrument and played several pieces with a facility, with
a precision, with an expression of which no words could convey any
idea. I was in ecstacy. I entreated her to sing; after some little
ceremony, she took one of the music books I had given her, and she
sang at sight in a manner which fairly ravished me. I begged that
she would allow me to kiss her hand, and she did not say yes, but
when I took it and pressed my lips on it, she did not oppose any
resistance; I had the courage to smother my ardent desires, and the
kiss I imprinted on her lovely hand was a mixture of tenderness,
respect, and admiration.
I took leave of her, smitten, full of love, and almost determined on
declaring my passion. Reserve becomes silliness when we know that
our affection is returned by the woman we love, but as yet I was not
quite sure.
The disappearance of Steffani was the talk of Venice, but I did not
inform the charming countess of that circumstance. It was generally
supposed that his mother had refused to pay his debts, and that he
had run away to avoid his creditors. It was very possible. But,
whether he returned or not, I could not make up my mind to lose the
precious treasure I had in my hands. Yet I did not see in what
manner, in what quality, I could enjoy that treasure, and I found
myself in a regular maze. Sometimes I had an idea of consulting my
kind father, but I would soon abandon it with fear, for I had made a
trial of his empiric treatment in the Rinaldi affair, and still more
in the case of l'Abbadie. His remedies frightened me to that extent
that I would rather remain ill than be cured by their means.
One morning I was foolish enough to enquire from the widow whether
the lady had asked her who I was. What an egregious blunder! I saw
it when the good woman, instead of answering me, said,
"Does she not know who you are?"
"Answer me, and do not ask questions," I said, in order to hide my
confusion.
The worthy woman was right; through my stupidity she would now feel
curious; the tittle-tattle of the neighbourhood would of course take
up the affair and discuss it; and all through my thoughtlessness! It
was an unpardonable blunder. One ought never to be more careful than
in addressing questions to half-educated persons. During the
fortnight that she had passed under my protection, the countess had
shewn me no curiosity whatever to know anything about me, but it did
not prove that she was not curious on the subject. If I had been
wise, I should have told her the very first day who I was, but I made
up for my mistake that evening better than anybody else could have
done it, and, after having told her all about myself, I entreated her
forgiveness for not having done so sooner. Thanking me for my
confidence, she confessed how curious she had been to know me better,
and she assured me that she would never have been imprudent enough to
ask any questions about me from her landlady. Women have a more
delicate, a surer tact than men, and her last words were a home-
thrust for me.
Our conversation having turned to the extraordinary absence of
Steffani, she said that her father must necessarily believe her to be
hiding with him somewhere. "He must have found out," she added,
"that I was in the habit of conversing with him every night from my
window, and he must have heard of my having embarked for Venice on
board the Ferrara barge. I feel certain that my father is now in
Venice, making secretly every effort to discover me. When he visits
this city he always puts up at Boncousin; will you ascertain whether
he is there?"
She never pronounced Steffani's name without disgust and hatred, and
she said she would bury herself in a convent, far away from her
native place, where no one could be acquainted with her shameful
history.
I intended to make some enquiries the next day, but it was not
necessary for me to do so, for in the evening, at supper-time, M.
Barbaro said to us,
"A nobleman, a subject of the Pope, has been recommended to me, and
wishes me to assist him with my influence in a rather delicate and
intricate matter. One of our citizens has, it appears, carried off
his daughter, and has been hiding somewhere with her for the last
fortnight, but nobody knows where. The affair ought to be brought
before the Council of Ten, but the mother of the ravisher claims to
be a relative of mine, and I do not intend to interfere."
I pretended to take no interest in M. Barbaro's words, and early the
next morning I went to the young countess to tell her the interesting
news. She was still asleep; but, being in a hurry, I sent the widow
to say that I wanted to see her only for two minutes in order to
communicate something of great importance. She received me, covering
herself up to the chin with the bed-clothes.
As soon as I had informed her of all I knew, she entreated me to
enlist M. Barbaro as a mediator between herself and her father,
assuring me that she would rather die than become the wife of the
monster who had dishonoured her. I undertook to do it, and she gave
me the promise of marriage used by the deceiver to seduce her, so
that it could be shewn to her father.
In order to obtain M. Barbaro's mediation in favour of the young
countess, it would have been necessary to tell him that she was under
my protection, and I felt it would injure my protegee. I took no
determination at first, and most likely one of the reasons for my
hesitation was that I saw myself on the point of losing her, which
was particularly repugnant to my feelings.
After dinner Count A--- S---- was announced as wishing to see M.
Barbaro. He came in with his son, the living portrait of his sister.
M. Barbaro took them to his study to talk the matter over, and within
an hour they had taken leave. As soon as they had gone, the
excellent M. Barbaro asked me, as I had expected, to consult my
heavenly spirit, and to ascertain whether he would be right in
interfering in favour of Count A---S---. He wrote the question
himself, and I gave the following answer with the utmost coolness:
"You ought to interfere, but only to advise the father to forgive his
daughter and to give up all idea of compelling her to marry her
ravisher, for Steffani has been sentenced to death by the will of
God."
The answer seemed wonderful to the three friends, and I was myself
surprised at my boldness, but I had a foreboding that Steffani was to
meet his death at the hands of somebody; love might have given birth
to that presentiment. M. de Bragadin, who believed my oracle
infallible, observed that it had never given such a clear answer, and
that Steffani was certainly dead. He said to M. de Barbaro,
"You had better invite the count and his son to dinner hereto-morrow.
You must act slowly and prudently; it would be necessary to know
where the daughter is before you endeavour to make the father forgive
her."
M. Barbaro very nearly made me drop my serious countenance by telling
me that if I would try my oracle I could let them know at once where
the girl was. I answered that I would certainly ask my spirit on the
morrow, thus gaining time in order to ascertain before hand the
disposition of the father and of his son. But I could not help
laughing, for I had placed myself under the necessity of sending
Steffani to the next world, if the reputation of my oracle was to be
maintained.
I spent the evening with the young countess, who entertained no doubt
either of her father's indulgence or of the entire confidence she
could repose in me.
What delight the charming girl experienced when she heard that I
would dine the next day with her father and brother, and that I would
tell her every word that would be said about her! But what happiness
it was for me to see her convinced that she was right in loving me,
and that, without me, she would certainly have been lost in a town
where the policy of the government tolerates debauchery as a solitary
species of individual freedom. We congratulated each other upon our
fortuitous meeting and upon the conformity in our tastes, which we
thought truly wonderful. We were greatly pleased that her easy
acceptance of my invitation, or my promptness in persuading her to
follow and to trust me, could not be ascribed to the mutual
attraction of our features, for I was masked, and her hood was then
as good as a mask. We entertained no doubt that everything had been
arranged by Heaven to get us acquainted, and to fire us both, even
unknown to ourselves, with love for each other.
"Confess," I said to her, in a moment of enthusiasm, and as I was
covering her hand with kisses, "confess that if you found me to be in
love with you you would fear me."
"Alas! my only fear is to lose you."
That confession, the truth of which was made evident by her voice and
by her looks, proved the electric spark which ignited the latent
fire. Folding her rapidly in my arms, pressing my mouth on her lips,
reading in her beautiful eyes neither a proud indignation nor the
cold compliance which might have been the result of a fear of losing
me, I gave way entirely to the sweet inclination of love, and
swimming already in a sea of delights I felt my enjoyment increased a
hundredfold when I saw, on the countenance of the beloved creature
who shared it, the expression of happiness, of love, of modesty, and
of sensibility, which enhances the charm of the greatest triumph.
She had scarcely recovered her composure when she cast her eyes down
and sighed deeply. Thinking that I knew the cause of it, I threw
myself on my knees before her, and speaking to her words of the
warmest affection I begged, I entreated her, to forgive me.
"What offence have I to forgive you for, dear friend? You have not
rightly interpreted my thoughts. Your love caused me to think of my
happiness, and in that moment a cruel recollection drew that sigh
from me. Pray rise from your knees."
Midnight had struck already; I told her that her good fame made it
necessary for me to go away; I put my mask on and left the house. I
was so surprised, so amazed at having obtained a felicity of which I
did not think myself worthy, that my departure must have appeared
rather abrupt to her. I could not sleep. I passed one of those
disturbed nights during which the imagination of an amorous young man
is unceasingly running after the shadows of reality. I had tasted,
but not savoured, that happy reality, and all my being was longing
for her who alone could make my enjoyment complete. In that
nocturnal drama love and imagination were the two principal actors;
hope, in the background, performed only a dumb part. People may say
what they please on that subject but hope is in fact nothing but a
deceitful flatterer accepted by reason only because it is often in
need of palliatives. Happy are those men who, to enjoy life to the
fullest extent, require neither hope nor foresight.
In the morning, recollecting the sentence of death which I had passed
on Steffani, I felt somewhat embarrassed about it. I wished I could
have recalled it, as well for the honour of my oracle, which was
seriously implicated by it, as for the sake of Steffani himself, whom
I did not hate half so much since I was indebted to him for the
treasure in my possession.
The count and his son came to dinner. The father was simple,
artless, and unceremonious. It was easy to read on his countenance
the grief he felt at the unpleasant adventure of his daughter, and
his anxiety to settle the affair honourably, but no anger could be
traced on his features or in his manners. The son, as handsome as
the god of love, had wit and great nobility of manner. His easy,
unaffected carriage pleased me, and wishing to win his friendship I
shewed him every attention.
After the dessert, M. Barbaro contrived to persuade the count that we
were four persons with but one head and one heart, and the worthy
nobleman spoke to us without any reserve. He praised his daughter
very highly. He assured us that Steffani had never entered his
house, and therefore he could not conceive by what spell, speaking to
his daughter only at night and from the street under the window, he
had succeeded in seducing her to such an extent as to make her leave
her home alone, on foot, two days after he had left himself in his
post-chaise.
"Then," observed M. Barbaro, "it is impossible to be certain that he
actually seduced her, or to prove that she went off with him."
"Very true, sir, but although it cannot be proved, there is no doubt
of it, and now that no one knows where Steffani is, he can be nowhere
but with her. I only want him to marry her."
"It strikes me that it would be better not to insist upon a
compulsory marriage which would seal your daughter's misery, for
Steffani is, in every respect, one of the most worthless young men we
have amongst our government clerks."
"Were I in your place," said M. de Bragadin, "I would let my
daughter's repentance disarm my anger, and I would forgive her."
"Where is she? I am ready to fold her in my arms, but how can I
believe in her repentance when it is evident that she is still with
him."
"Is it quite certain that in leaving C---- she proceeded to this
city?"
"I have it from the master of the barge himself, and she landed
within twenty yards of the Roman gate. An individual wearing a mask
was waiting for her, joined her at once, and they both disappeared
without leaving any trace of their whereabouts."
"Very likely it was Steffani waiting there for her."
"No, for he is short, and the man with the mask was tall. Besides, I
have heard that Steffani had left Venice two days before the arrival
of my daughter. The man must have been some friend of Steffani, and
he has taken her to him."
"But, my dear count, all this is mere supposition."
"There are four persons who have seen the man with the mask, and
pretend to know him, only they do not agree. Here is a list of four
names, and I will accuse these four persons before the Council of
Ten, if Steffani should deny having my daughter in his possession."
The list, which he handed to M. Barbaro, gave not only the names of
the four accused persons, but likewise those of their accusers. The
last name, which M. Barbaro read, was mine. When I heard it, I
shrugged my shoulders in a manner which caused the three friends to
laugh heartily.
M. de Bragadin, seeing the surprise of the count at such uncalled-
for mirth, said to him,
"This is Casanova my son, and I give you my word of honour that, if
your daughter is in his hands, she is perfectly safe, although he may
not look exactly the sort of man to whom young girls should be
trusted."
The surprise, the amazement, and the perplexity of the count and his
son were an amusing picture. The loving father begged me to excuse
him, with tears in his eyes, telling me to place myself in his
position. My only answer was to embrace him most affectionately.
The man who had recognized me was a noted pimp whom I had thrashed
some time before for having deceived me. If I had not been there
just in time to take care of the young countess, she would not have
escaped him, and he would have ruined her for ever by taking her to
some house of ill-fame.
The result of the meeting was that the count agreed to postpone his
application to the Council of Ten until Steffani's place of refuge
should be discovered.
"I have not seen Steffani for six months, sir," I said to the count,
"but I promise you to kill him in a duel as soon as he returns."
"You shall not do it," answered the young count, very coolly, "unless
he kills me first."
"Gentlemen," exclaimed M. de Bragadin, "I can assure you that you
will neither of you fight a duel with him, for Steffani is dead."
"Dead!" said the count.
"We must not," observed the prudent Barbaro, "take that word in its
literal sense, but the wretched man is dead to all honour and self-
respect."
After that truly dramatic scene, during which I could guess that the
denouement of the play was near at hand, I went to my charming
countess, taking care to change my gondola three times--a necessary
precaution to baffle spies.
I gave my anxious mistress an exact account of all the conversation.
She was very impatient for my coming, and wept tears of joy when I
repeated her father's words of forgiveness; but when I told her that
nobody knew of Steffani having entered her chamber, she fell on her
knees and thanked God. I then repeated her brother's words,
imitating his coolness: "You shall not kill him, unless he kills me
first." She kissed me tenderly, calling me her guardian angel, her
saviour, and weeping in my arms. I promised to bring her brother on
the following day, or the day after that at the latest. We had our
supper, but we did not talk of Steffani, or of revenge, and after
that pleasant meal we devoted two hours to the worship of the god of
love.
I left her at midnight, promising to return early in the morning--my
reason for not remaining all night with her was that the landlady
might, if necessary, swear without scruple that I had never spent a
night with the young girl. It proved a very lucky inspiration of
mine, for, when I arrived home, I found the three friends waiting
impatiently for me in order to impart to me wonderful news which M.
de Bragadin had heard at the sitting of the senate.
"Steffani," said M. de Bragadin to me, "is dead, as our angel
Paralis revealed it to us; he is dead to the world, for he has become
a Capuchin friar. The senate, as a matter of course, has been
informed of it. We alone are aware that it is a punishment which God
has visited upon him. Let us worship the Author of all things, and
the heavenly hierarchy which renders us worthy of knowing what
remains a mystery to all men. Now we must achieve our undertaking,
and console the poor father. We must enquire from Paralis where the
girl is. She cannot now be with Steffani. Of course, God has not
condemned her to become a Capuchin nun."
"I need not consult my angel, dearest father, for it is by his
express orders that I have been compelled until now to make a mystery
of the refuge found by the young countess."
I related the whole story, except what they had no business to know,
for, in the opinion of the worthy men, who had paid heavy tribute to
Love, all intrigues were fearful crimes. M. Dandolo and M. Barbaro
expressed their surprise when they heard that the young girl had been
under my protection for a fortnight, but M. de Bragadin said that he
was not astonished, that it was according to cabalistic science, and
that he knew it.
"We must only," he added, "keep up the mystery of his daughter's
place of refuge for the count, until we know for a certainty that he
will forgive her, and that he will take her with him to C----, or to
any other place where he may wish to live hereafter."
"He cannot refuse to forgive her," I said, "when he finds that the
amiable girl would never have left C---- if her seducer had not given
her this promise of marriage in his own handwriting. She walked as
far as the barge, and she landed at the very moment I was passing the
Roman gate. An inspiration from above told me to accost her and to
invite her to follow me. She obeyed, as if she was fulfilling the
decree of Heaven, I took her to a refuge impossible to discover, and
placed her under the care of a God-fearing woman."
My three friends listened to me so attentively that they looked like
three statues. I advised them to invite the count to dinner for the
day after next, because I needed some time to consult 'Paralis de
modo tenendi'. I then told M. Barbaro to let the count know in what
sense he was to understand Steffani's death. He undertook to do it,
and we retired to rest.
I slept only four or five hours, and, dressing myself quickly,
hurried to my beloved mistress. I told the widow not to serve the
coffee until we called for it, because we wanted to remain quiet and
undisturbed for some hours, having several important letters to
write.
I found the lovely countess in bed, but awake, and her eyes beaming
with happiness and contentment. For a fortnight I had only seen her
sad, melancholy, and thoughtful. Her pleased countenance, which I
naturally ascribed to my influence, filled me with joy. We commenced
as all happy lovers always do, and we were both unsparing of the
mutual proofs of our love, tenderness, and gratitude.
After our delightful amorous sport, I told her the news, but love had
so completely taken possession of her pure and sensitive soul, that
what had been important was now only an accessory. But the news of
her seducer having turned a Capuchin friar filled her with amazement,
and, passing very sensible remarks on the extraordinary event, she
pitied Steffani. When we can feel pity, we love no longer, but a
feeling of pity succeeding love is the characteristic only of a great
and generous mind. She was much pleased with me for having informed
my three friends of her being under my protection, and she left to my
care all the necessary arrangements for obtaining a reconciliation
with her father.
Now and then we recollected that the time of our separation was near
at hand, our grief was bitter, but we contrived to forget it in the
ecstacy of our amorous enjoyment.
"Ah! why can we not belong for ever to each other?" the charming girl
would exclaim. "It is not my acquaintance with Steffani, it is your
loss which will seal my eternal misery."
But it was necessary to bring our delightful interview to a close,
for the hours were flying with fearful rapidity. I left her happy,
her eyes wet with tears of intense felicity.
At the dinner-table M. Barbaro told me that he had paid a visit to
his relative, Steffani's mother, and that she had not appeared sorry
at the decision taken by her son, although he was her only child.
"He had the choice," she said, "between killing himself and turning
friar, and he took the wiser course."
The woman spoke like a good Christian, and she professed to be one;
but she spoke like an unfeeling mother, and she was truly one, for
she was wealthy, and if she had not been cruelly avaricious her son
would not have been reduced to the fearful alternative of committing
suicide or of becoming a Capuchin friar.
The last and most serious motive which caused the despair of
Steffani, who is still alive, remained a mystery for everybody. My
Memoirs will raise the veil when no one will care anything about it.
The count and his son were, of course, greatly surprised, and the
event made them still more desirous of discovering the young lady.
In order to obtain a clue to her place of refuge, the count had
resolved on summoning before the Council of Ten all the parties,
accused and accusing, whose names he had on his list, with the
exception of myself. His determination made it necessary for us to
inform him that his daughter was in my hands, and M. de Bragadin
undertook to let him know the truth.
We were all invited to supper by the count, and we went to his
hostelry, with the exception of M. de Bragadin, who had declined the
invitation. I was thus prevented from seeing my divinity that
evening, but early the next morning I made up for lost time, and as
it had been decided that her father would on that very day be
informed of her being under my care, we remained together until noon.
We had no hope of contriving another meeting, for I had promised to
bring her brother in the afternoon.
The count and his son dined with us, and after dinner M. de Bragadin
said,
"I have joyful news for you, count; your beloved daughter has been
found!"
What an agreeable surprise for the father and son! M. de Bragadin
handed them the promise of marriage written by Steffani, and said,
"This, gentlemen, evidently brought your lovely young lady to the
verge of madness when she found that he had gone from C---- without
her. She left your house alone on foot, and as she landed in Venice
Providence threw her in the way of this young man, who induced her to
follow him, and has placed her under the care of an honest woman,
whom she has not left since, whom she will leave only to fall in your
arms as soon as she is certain of your forgiveness for the folly she
has committed."
"Oh! let her have no doubt of my forgiving her," exclaimed the
father, in the ecstacy of joy, and turning to me, "Dear sir, I beg of
you not to delay the fortunate moment on which the whole happiness of
my life depends."
I embraced him warmly, saying that his daughter would be restored to
him on the following day, and that I would let his son see her that
very afternoon, so as to give him an opportunity of preparing her by
degrees for that happy reconciliation. M. Barbaro desired to
accompany us, and the young man, approving all my arrangements,
embraced me, swearing everlasting friendship and gratitude.
We went out all three together, and a gondola carried us in a few
minutes to the place where I was guarding a treasure more precious
than the golden apples of the Hesperides. But, alas! I was on the
point of losing that treasure, the remembrance of which causes me,
even now, a delicious trembling.
I preceded my two companions in order to prepare my lovely young
friend for the visit, and when I told her that, according to my
arrangements, her father would not see her till on the following day:
"Ah!" she exclaimed with the accent of true happiness, "then we can
spend a few more hours together! Go, dearest, go and bring my
brother."
I returned with my companions, but how can I paint that truly
dramatic situation? Oh! how inferior art must ever be to nature!
The fraternal love, the delight beaming upon those two beautiful
faces, with a slight shade of confusion on that of the sister, the
pure joy shining in the midst of their tender caresses, the most
eloquent exclamations followed by a still more eloquent silence,
their loving looks which seem like flashes of lightning in the midst
of a dew of tears, a thought of politeness which brings blushes on
her countenance, when she recollects that she has forgotten her duty
towards a nobleman whom she sees for the first time, and finally
there was my part, not a speaking one, but yet the most important of
all. The whole formed a living picture to which the most skilful
painter could not have rendered full justice.
We sat down at last, the young countess between her brother and M.
Barbaro, on the sofa, I, opposite to her, on a low foot-stool.
"To whom, dear sister, are we indebted for the happiness of having
found you again?"
"To my guardian angel," she answered, giving me her hand, "to this
generous man who was waiting for me, as if Heaven had sent him with
the special mission of watching over your sister; it is he who has
saved me, who has prevented me from falling into the gulf which
yawned under my feet, who has rescued me from the shame threatening
me, of which I had then no conception; it is to him I am indebted for
all, to him who, as you see, kisses my hand now for the first time."
And she pressed her handkerchief to her beautiful eyes to dry her
tears, but ours were flowing at the same time.
Such is true virtue, which never loses its nobleness, even when
modesty compels it to utter some innocent falsehood. But the
charming girl had no idea of being guilty of an untruth. It was a
pure, virtuous soul which was then speaking through her lips, and she
allowed it to speak. Her virtue seemed to whisper to her that, in
spite of her errors, it had never deserted her. A young girl who
gives way to a real feeling of love cannot be guilty of a crime, or
be exposed to remorse.
Towards the end of our friendly visit, she said that she longed to
throw herself at her father's feet, but that she wished to see him
only in the evening, so as not to give any opportunity to the gossips
of the place, and it was agreed that the meeting, which was to be the
last scene of the drama, should take place the next day towards the
evening.
We returned to the count's hostelry for supper, and the excellent
man, fully persuaded that he was indebted to me for his honour as
well as for his daughter's, looked at me with admiration, and spoke
to me with gratitude. Yet he was not sorry to have ascertained
himself, and before I had said so, that I had been the first man who
had spoken to her after landing. Before parting in the evening, M.
Barbaro invited them to dinner for the next day.
I went to my charming mistress very early the following morning, and,
although there was some danger in protracting our interview, we did
not give it a thought, or, if we did, it only caused us to make good
use of the short time that we could still devote to love.
After having enjoyed, until our strength was almost expiring, the
most delightful, the most intense voluptuousness in which mutual
ardour can enfold two young, vigorous, and passionate lovers, the
young countess dressed herself, and, kissing her slippers, said she
would never part with them as long as she lived. I asked her to give
me a lock of her hair, which she did at once. I meant to have it
made into a chain like the one woven with the hair of Madame F----,
which I still wore round my neck.
Towards dusk, the count and his son, M. Dandolo, M. Barbaro, and
myself, proceeded together to the abode of the young countess. The
moment she saw her father, she threw herself on her knees before him,
but the count, bursting into tears, took her in his arms, covered her
with kisses, and breathed over her words of forgiveness, of love and
blessing. What a scene for a man of sensibility! An hour later we
escorted the family to the inn, and, after wishing them a pleasant
journey, I went back with my two friends to M. de Bragadin, to whom I
gave a faithful account of what had taken place.
We thought that they had left Venice, but the next morning they
called at the place in a peotta with six rowers. The count said that
they could not leave the city without seeing us once more; without
thanking us again, and me particularly, for all we had done for them.
M. de Bragadin, who had not seen the young countess before, was
struck by her extraordinary likeness to her brother.
They partook of some refreshments, and embarked in their peotta,
which was to carry them, in twenty-four hours, to Ponte di Lago
Oscuro, on the River Po, near the frontiers of the papal states. It
was only with my eyes that I could express to the lovely girl all the
feelings which filled my heart, but she understood the language, and
I had no difficulty in interpreting the meaning of her looks.
Never did an introduction occur in better season than that of the
count to M. Barbaro. It saved the honour of a respectable family;
and it saved me from the unpleasant consequences of an interrogatory
in the presence of the Council of Ten, during which I should have
been convicted of having taken the young girl with me, and compelled
to say what I had done with her.
A few days afterwards we all proceeded to Padua to remain in that
city until the end of autumn. I was grieved not to find Doctor Gozzi
in Padua; he had been appointed to a benefice in the country, and he
was living there with Bettina; she had not been able to remain with
the scoundrel who had married her only for the sake of her small
dowry, and had treated her very ill.
I did not like the quiet life of Padua, and to avoid dying from ennui
I fell in love with a celebrated Venetian courtesan. Her name was
Ancilla; sometime after, the well-known dancer, Campioni, married her
and took her to London, where she caused the death of a very worthy
Englishman. I shall have to mention her again in four years; now I
have only to speak of a certain circumstance which brought my love
adventure with her to a close after three or four weeks.
Count Medini, a young, thoughtless fellow like myself, and with
inclinations of much the same cast, had introduced me to Ancilla.
The count was a confirmed gambler and a thorough enemy of fortune.
There was a good deal of gambling going on at Ancilla's, whose
favourite lover he was, and the fellow had presented me to his
mistress only to give her the opportunity of making a dupe of me at
the card-table.
And, to tell the truth, I was a dupe at first; not thinking of any
foul play, I accepted ill luck without complaining; but one day I
caught them cheating. I took a pistol out of my pocket, and, aiming
at Medini's breast, I threatened to kill him on the spot unless he
refunded at once all the gold they had won from me. Ancilla fainted
away, and the count, after refunding the money, challenged me to
follow him out and measure swords. I placed my pistols on the table,
and we went out. Reaching a convenient spot, we fought by the bright
light of the moon, and I was fortunate enough to give him a gash
across the shoulder. He could not move his arm, and he had to cry
for mercy.
After that meeting, I went to bed and slept quietly, but in the
morning I related the whole affair to my father, and he advised me to
leave Padua immediately, which I did.
Count Medini remained my enemy through all his life. I shall have
occasion to speak of him again when I reach Naples.
The remainder of the year 1746 passed off quietly, without any events
of importance. Fortune was now favourable to me and now adverse.
Towards the end of January, 1747, I received a letter from the young
countess A---- S----, who had married the Marquis of ---- . She
entreated me not to appear to know her, if by chance I visited the
town in which she resided, for she had the happiness of having linked
her destiny to that of a man who had won her heart after he had
obtained her hand.
I had already heard from her brother that, after their return to
C----, her mother had taken her to the city from which her letter was
written, and there, in the house of a relative with whom she was
residing, she had made the acquaintance of the man who had taken upon
himself the charge of her future welfare and happiness. I saw her
one year afterwards, and if it had not been for her letter, I should
certainly have solicited an introduction to her husband. Yet, peace
of mind has greater charms even than love; but, when love is in the
way, we do not think so.
For a fortnight I was the lover of a young Venetian girl, very
handsome, whom her father, a certain Ramon, exposed to public
admiration as a dancer at the theatre. I might have remained longer
her captive, if marriage had not forcibly broken my chains. Her
protectress, Madame Cecilia Valmarano, found her a very proper
husband in the person of a French dancer, called Binet, who had
assumed the name of Binetti, and thus his young wife had not to
become a French woman; she soon won great fame in more ways than one.
She was strangely privileged; time with its heavy hand seemed to have
no power over her. She always appeared young, even in the eyes of
the best judges of faded, bygone female beauty. Men, as a general
rule, do not ask for anything more, and they are right in not racking
their brain for the sake of being convinced that they are the dupes
of external appearance. The last lover that the wonderful Binetti
killed by excess of amorous enjoyment was a certain Mosciuski, a
Pole, whom fate brought to Venice seven or eight years ago; she had
then reached her sixty-third year!
My life in Venice would have been pleasant and happy, if I could have
abstained from punting at basset. The ridotti were only open to
noblemen who had to appear without masks, in their patrician robes,
and wearing the immense wig which had become indispensable since the
beginning of the century. I would play, and I was wrong, for I had
neither prudence enough to leave off when fortune was adverse, nor
sufficient control over myself to stop when I had won. I was then
gambling through a feeling of avarice. I was extravagant by taste,
and I always regretted the money I had spent, unless it had been won
at the gaming-table, for it was only in that case that the money had,
in my opinion, cost me nothing.
At the end of January, finding myself under the necessity of
procuring two hundred sequins, Madame Manzoni contrived to obtain for
me from another woman the loan of a diamond ring worth five hundred.
I made up my mind to go to Treviso, fifteen miles distant from
Venice, to pawn the ring at the Mont-de-piete, which there lends
money upon valuables at the rate of five per cent. That useful
establishment does not exist in Venice, where the Jews have always
managed to keep the monopoly in their hands.
I got up early one morning, and walked to the end of the canale
regio, intending to engage a gondola to take me as far as Mestra,
where I could take post horses, reach Treviso in less than two hours,
pledge my diamond ring, and return to Venice the same evening.
As I passed along St. Job's Quay, I saw in a two-oared gondola a
country girl beautifully dressed. I stopped to look at her; the
gondoliers, supposing that I wanted an opportunity of reaching Mestra
at a cheap rate, rowed back to the shore.
Observing the lovely face of the young girl, I do not hesitate, but
jump into the gondola, and pay double fare, on condition that no more
passengers are taken. An elderly priest was seated near the young
girl, he rises to let me take his place, but I politely insist upon
his keeping it.
