VENICE - Chapter X
My Stay in Vienna--Joseph II--My Departure for Venice
Arrived, for the first time, in the capital of Austria, at the age of
eight-and-twenty, well provided with clothes, but rather short of
money--a circumstance which made it necessary for me to curtail my
expenses until the arrival of the proceeds of a letter of exchange
which I had drawn upon M. de Bragadin. The only letter of
recommendation I had was from the poet Migliavacca, of Dresden,
addressed to the illustrious Abbe Metastasio, whom I wished ardently
to know. I delivered the letter the day after my arrival, and in one
hour of conversation I found him more learned than I should have
supposed from his works. Besides, Metastasio was so modest that at
first I did not think that modesty natural, but it was not long
before I discovered that it was genuine, for when he recited
something of his own composition, he was the first to call the
attention of his hearers to the important parts or to the fine
passages with as much simplicity as he would remark the weak ones.
I spoke to him of his tutor Gravina, and as we were on that subject
he recited to me five or six stanzas which he had written on his
death, and which had not been printed. Moved by the remembrance of
his friend, and by the sad beauty of his own poetry, his eyes were
filled with tears, and when he had done reciting the stanzas he said,
in a tone of touching simplicity,'Ditemi il vero, si puo air meglio'?
I answered that he alone had the right to believe it impossible.
I then asked him whether he had to work a great deal to compose his
beautiful poetry; he shewed me four or five pages which he had
covered with erasures and words crossed and scratched out only
because he had wished to bring fourteen lines to perfection, and he
assured me that he had never been able to compose more than that
number in one day. He confirmed my knowledge of a truth which I had
found out before, namely, that the very lines which most readers
believe to have flowed easily from the poet's pen are generally those
which he has had the greatest difficulty in composing.
"Which of your operas," I enquired, "do you like best?"
"'Attilio Regolo; ma questo non vuol gia dire che sia il megliore'."
"All your works have been translated in Paris into French prose, but
the publisher was ruined, for it is not possible to read them, and it
proves the elevation and the power of your poetry."
"Several years ago, another foolish publisher ruined himself by a
translation into French prose of the splendid poetry of Ariosto.
I laugh at those who maintain that poetry can be translated into
prose."
"I am of your opinion."
"And you are right."
He told me that he had never written an arietta without composing the
music of it himself, but that as a general rule he never shewed his
music to anyone.
"The French," he added, "entertain the very strange belief that it is
possible to adapt poetry to music already composed."
And he made on that subject this very philosophical remark:
"You might just as well say to a sculptor, 'Here is a piece of
marble, make a Venus, and let her expression be shewn before the
features are chiselled.'"
I went to the Imperial Library, and was much surprised to meet De la
Haye in the company of two Poles, and a young Venetian whom his
father had entrusted to him to complete his education. I believed
him to be in Poland, and as the meeting recalled interesting
recollections I was pleased to see him. I embraced him repeatedly
with real pleasure.
He told me that he was in Vienna on business, and that he would go to
Venice during the summer. We paid one another several visits, and
hearing that I was rather short of money he lent me fifty ducats,
which I returned a short time after. He told me that Bavois was
already lieutenant-colonel in the Venetian army, and the news
afforded me great pleasure. He had been fortunate enough to be
appointed adjutant-general by M. Morosini, who, after his return from
his embassy in France, had made him Commissary of the Borders. I was
delighted to hear of the happiness and success of two men who
certainly could not help acknowledging me as the original cause of
their good fortune. In Vienna I acquired the certainty of De la Haye
being a Jesuit, but he would not let anyone allude to the subject.
Not knowing where to go, and longing for some recreation, I went to
the rehearsal of the opera which was to be performed after Easter,
and met Bodin, the first dancer, who had married the handsome
Jeoffroi, whom I had seen in Turin. I likewise met in the same place
Campioni, the husband of the beautiful Ancilla. He told me that he
had been compelled to apply for a divorce because she dishonoured him
too publicly. Campioni was at the same time a great dancer and a
great gambler. I took up my lodgings with him.
In Vienna everything is beautiful; money was then very plentiful, and
luxury very great; but the severity of the empress made the worship
of Venus difficult, particularly for strangers. A legion of vile
spies, who were decorated with the fine title of Commissaries of
Chastity, were the merciless tormentors of all the girls. The
empress did not practise the sublime virtue of tolerance for what is
called illegitimate love, and in her excessive devotion she thought
that her persecutions of the most natural inclinations in man and
woman were very agreeable to God. Holding in her imperial hands the
register of cardinal sins, she fancied that she could be indulgent
for six of them, and keep all her severity for the seventh, lewdness,
which in her estimation could not be forgiven.
"One can ignore pride," she would say, "for dignity wears the same
garb. Avarice is fearful, it is true; but one might be mistaken
about it, because it is often very like economy. As for anger, it is
a murderous disease in its excess, but murder is punishable with
death. Gluttony is sometimes nothing but epicurism, and religion
does not forbid that sin; for in good company it is held a valuable
quality; besides, it blends itself with appetite, and so much the
worse for those who die of indigestion. Envy is a low passion which
no one ever avows; to punish it in any other way than by its own
corroding venom, I would have to torture everybody at Court; and
weariness is the punishment of sloth. But lust is a different thing
altogether; my chaste soul could not forgive such a sin, and I
declare open war against it. My subjects are at liberty to think
women handsome as much as they please; women may do all in their
power to appear beautiful; people may entertain each other as they
like, because I cannot forbid conversation; but they shall not
gratify desires on which the preservation of the human race depends,
unless it is in the holy state of legal marriage. Therefore, all the
miserable creatures who live by the barter of their caresses and of
the charms given to them by nature shall be sent to Temeswar. I am
aware that in Rome people are very indulgent on that point, and that,
in order to prevent another greater crime (which is not prevented),
every cardinal has one or more mistresses, but in Rome the climate
requires certain concessions which are not necessary here, where the
bottle and the pipe replace all pleasures. (She might have added,
and the table, for the Austrians are known to be terrible eaters.)
"I will have no indulgence either for domestic disorders, for the
moment I hear that a wife is unfaithful to her husband, I will have
her locked up, in spite of all, in spite of the generally received
opinion that the husband is the real judge and master of his wife;
that privilege cannot be granted in my kingdom where husbands are by
far too indifferent on that subject. Fanatic husbands may complain
as much as they please that I dishonour them by punishing their
wives; they are dishonoured already by the fact of the woman's
infidelity."
"But, madam, dishonour rises in reality only from the fact of
infidelity being made public; besides, you might be deceived,
although you are empress."
"I know that, but that is no business of yours, and I do not grant
you the right of contradicting me."
Such is the way in which Maria Teresa would have argued, and
notwithstanding the principle of virtue from which her argument had
originated, it had ultimately given birth to all the infamous deeds
which her executioners, the Commissaries of Chastity, committed with
impunity under her name. At every hour of the day, in all the
streets of Vienna, they carried off and took to prison the poor girls
who happened to live alone, and very often went out only to earn an
honest living. I should like to know how it was possible to know
that a girl was going to some man to get from him consolations for
her miserable position, or that she was in search of someone disposed
to offer her those consolations? Indeed, it was difficult. A spy
would follow them at a distance. The police department kept a crowd
of those spies, and as the scoundrels wore no particular uniform, it
was impossible to know them; as a natural consequence, there was a
general distrust of all strangers. If a girl entered a house, the
spy who had followed her, waited for her, stopped her as she came
out, and subjected her to an interrogatory. If the poor creature
looked uneasy, if she hesitated in answering in such a way as to
satisfy the spy, the fellow would take her to prison; in all cases
beginning by plundering her of whatever money or jewellery she
carried about her person, and the restitution of which could never be
obtained. Vienna was, in that respect a true den of privileged
thieves. It happened to me one day in Leopoldstadt that in the midst
of some tumult a girl slipped in my hand a gold watch to secure it
from the clutches of a police-spy who was pressing upon her to take
her up. I did not know the poor girl, whom I was fortunate enough to
see again one month afterwards. She was pretty, and she had been
compelled to more than one sacrifice in order to obtain her liberty.
I was glad to be able to hand her watch back to her, and although she
was well worthy of a man's attention I did not ask her for anything
to reward my faithfulness. The only way in which girls could walk
unmolested in the streets was to go about with their head bent down
with beads in hand, for in that case the disgusting brood of spies
dared not arrest them, because they might be on their way to church,
and Maria Teresa would certainly have sent to the gallows the spy
guilty of such a mistake.
Those low villains rendered a stay in Vienna very unpleasant to
foreigners, and it was a matter of the greatest difficulty to gratify
the slightest natural want without running the risk of being annoyed.
One day as I was standing close to the wall in a narrow street, I was
much astonished at hearing myself rudely addressed by a scoundrel
with a round wig, who told me that, if I did not go somewhere else to
finish what I had begun, he would have me arrested!
"And why, if you please?"
"Because, on your left, there is a woman who can see you."
I lifted up my head, and I saw on the fourth story, a woman who, with
the telescope she had applied to her eye, could have told whether I
was a Jew or a Christian. I obeyed, laughing heartily, and related
the adventure everywhere; but no one was astonished, because the same
thing happened over and over again every day.
In order to study the manners and habits of the people, I took my
meals in all sorts of places. One day, having gone with Campioni to
dine at "The Crawfish," I found, to my great surprise, sitting at the
table d'hote, that Pepe il Cadetto, whose acquaintance I had made at
the time of my arrest in the Spanish army, and whom I had met
afterwards in Venice and in Lyons, under the name of Don Joseph
Marcati. Campioni, who had been his partner in Lyons, embraced him,
talked with him in private, and informed me that the man had resumed
his real name, and that he was now called Count Afflisio. He told me
that after dinner there would be a faro bank in which I would have an
interest, and he therefore requested me not to play. I accepted the
offer. Afflisio won: a captain of the name of Beccaxia threw the
cards at his face--a trifle to which the self-styled count was
accustomed, and which did not elicit any remark from him. When the
game was over, we repaired to the coffee-room, where an officer of
gentlemanly appearance, staring at me, began to smile, but not in an
offensive manner.
"Sir," I asked him, politely, "may I ask why you are laughing?"
"It makes me laugh to see that you do not recognize me."
"I have some idea that I have seen you somewhere, but I could not say
where or when I had that honour."
"Nine years ago, by the orders of the Prince de Lobkowitz, I escorted
you to the Gate of Rimini."
"You are Baron Vais:"
"Precisely."
We embraced one another; he offered me his friendly services,
promising to procure me all the pleasure he could in Vienna. I
accepted gratefully, and the same evening he presented me to a
countess, at whose house I made the acquaintance of the Abbe
Testagrossa, who was called Grosse-Tete by everybody. He was
minister of the Duke of Modem, and great at Court because he had
negotiated the marriage of the arch-duke with Beatrice d'Este. I
also became acquainted there with the Count of Roquendorf and Count
Sarotin, and with several noble young ladies who are called in
Germany frauleins, and with a baroness who had led a pretty wild
life, but who could yet captivate a man. We had supper, and I was
created baron. It was in vain that I observed that I had no title
whatever: "You must be something," I was told, "and you cannot be
less than baron. You must confess yourself to be at least that, if
you wish to be received anywhere in Vienna."
"Well, I will be a baron, since it is of no importance."
The baroness was not long before she gave me to understand that she
felt kindly disposed towards me, and that she would receive my
attentions with pleasure; I paid her a visit the very next day. "If
you are fond of cards," she said, "come in the evening." At her
house I made the acquaintance of several gamblers, and of three or
four frauleins who, without any dread of the Commissaries of
Chastity, were devoted to the worship of Venus, and were so kindly
disposed that they were not afraid of lowering their nobility by
accepting some reward for their kindness--a circumstance which proved
to me that the Commissaries were in the habit of troubling only the
girls who did not frequent good houses.
The baroness invited me to introduce, all my friends, so I brought to
her house Vais, Campioni, and Afflisio. The last one played, held
the bank, won; and Tramontini, with whom I had become acquainted,
presented him to his wife, who was called Madame Tasi. It was
through her that Afflisio made the useful acquaintance of the Prince
of Saxe-Hildburghausen. This introduction was the origin of the
great fortune made by that contrabrand count, because Tramontini, who
had become his partner in all important gambling transactions,
contrived to obtain for him from the prince the rank of captain in
the service of their imperial and royal majesties, and in less than
three weeks Afflisio wore the uniform and the insignia of his grade.
When I left Vienna he possessed one: hundred thousand florins. Their
majesties were fond of gambling but not of punting. The emperor had
a creature of his own to hold the bank. He was a kind, magnificent,
but not extravagant, prince. I saw him in his grand imperial
costume, and I was surprised to see him dressed in the Spanish
fashion. I almost fancied I had before my eyes Charles V. of Spain,
who had established that etiquette which was still in existence,
although after him no emperor had been a Spaniard, and although
Francis I. had nothing in common with that nation.
In Poland, some years afterwards, I saw the same caprice at the
coronation of Stanislas Augustus Poniatowski, and the old palatine
noblemen almost broke their hearts at the sight of that costume; but
they had to shew as good a countenance as they could, for under
Russian despotism the only privilege they enjoyed was that of
resignation.
The Emperor Francis I. was, handsome, and would have looked so under
the hood of a monk as well as under an imperial crown. He had every
possible consideration for his wife, and allowed her to get the state
into debt, because he possessed the art of becoming himself the
creditor of the state. He favoured commerce because it filled his
coffers. He was rather addicted to gallantry, and the empress, who
always called him master feigned not to notice it, because she did
not want the world to know that her charms could no longer captivate
her royal spouse, and the more so that the beauty of her numerous
family was generally admired. All the archduchesses except the
eldest seemed to me very handsome; but amongst the sons I had the
opportunity of seeing only the eldest, and I thought the expression
of his face bad and unpleasant, in spite of the contrary opinion of
Abbe Grosse-Tete, who prided himself upon being a good physiognomist.
"What do you see," he asked me one day, "on the countenance of that
prince?"
"Self-conceit and suicide."
It was a prophecy, for Joseph II. positively killed himself, although
not wilfully, and it was his self-conceit which prevented him from
knowing it. He was not wanting in learning, but the knowledge which
he believed himself to possess destroyed the learning which he had in
reality. He delighted in speaking to those who did not know how to
answer him, whether because they were amazed at his arguments, or
because they pretended to be so; but he called pedants, and avoided
all persons, who by true reasoning pulled down the weak scaffolding
of his arguments. Seven years ago I happened to meet him at
Luxemburg, and he spoke to me with just contempt of a man who had
exchanged immense sums of money, and a great deal of debasing
meanness against some miserable parchments, and he added,--
"I despise men who purchase nobility."
"Your majesty is right, but what are we to think of those who sell
it?"
After that question he turned his back upon me, and hence forth he
thought me unworthy of being spoken to.
The great passion of that king was to see those who listened to him
laugh, whether with sincerity or with affectation, when he related
something; he could narrate well and amplify in a very amusing manner
all the particulars of an anecdote; but he called anyone who did not
laugh at his jests a fool, and that was always the person who
understood him best. He gave the preference to the opinion of
Brambilla, who encouraged his suicide, over that of the physicians
who were directing him according to reason. Nevertheless, no one
ever denied his claim to great courage; but he had no idea whatever
of the art of government, for he had not the slightest knowledge of
the human heart, and he could neither dissemble nor keep a secret; he
had so little control over his own countenance that he could not even
conceal the pleasure he felt in punishing, and when he saw anyone
whose features did not please him, he could not help making a wry
face which disfigured him greatly.
Joseph II. sank under a truly cruel disease, which left him until the
last moment the faculty of arguing upon everything, at the same time
that he knew his death to be certain. This prince must have felt the
misery of repenting everything he had done and of seeing the
impossibility of undoing it, partly because it was irreparable,
partly because if he had undone through reason what he had done
through senselessness, he would have thought himself dishonoured, for
he must have clung to the last to the belief of the infallibility
attached to his high birth, in spite of the state of languor of his
soul which ought to have proved to him the weakness and the
fallibility of his nature. He had the greatest esteem for his
brother, who has now succeeded him, but he had not the courage to
follow the advice which that brother gave him. An impulse worthy of
a great soul made him bestow a large reward upon the physician, a man
of intelligence, who pronounced his sentence of death, but a
completely opposite weakness had prompted him, a few months before,
to load with benefits the doctors and the quack who made him believe
that they had cured him. He must likewise have felt the misery of
knowing that he would not be regretted after his death--a grievous
thought, especially for a sovereign. His niece, whom he loved
dearly, died before him, and, if he had had the affection of those
who surrounded him, they would have spared him that fearful
information, for it was evident that his end was near at hand, and no
one could dread his anger for having kept that event from him.
Although very much pleased with Vienna and with the pleasures I
enjoyed with the beautiful frauleins, whose acquaintance I had made
at the house of the baroness, I was thinking of leaving that
agreeable city, when Baron Vais, meeting me at Count Durazzo's
wedding, invited me to join a picnic at Schoenbrunn. I went, and I
failed to observe the laws of temperance; the consequence was that I
returned to Vienna with such a severe indigestion that in twenty-four
hours I was at the point of death.
I made use of the last particle of intelligence left in me by the
disease to save my own life. Campioni, Roquendorf and Sarotin were
by my bedside. M. Sarotin, who felt great friendship for me, had
brought a physician, although I had almost positively declared that I
would not see one. That disciple of Sangrado, thinking that he could
allow full sway to the despotism of science, had sent for a surgeon,
and they were going to bleed me against my will. I was half-dead; I
do not know by what strange inspiration I opened my eyes, and I saw a
man, standing lancet in hand and preparing to open the vein.
"No, no!" I said.
And I languidly withdrew my arm; but the tormentor wishing, as the
physician expressed it, to restore me to life in spite of myself, got
hold of my arm again. I suddenly felt my strength returning. I put
my hand forward, seized one of my pistols, fired, and the ball cut
off one of the locks of his hair. That was enough; everybody ran
away, with the exception of my servant, who did not abandon me, and
gave me as much water as I wanted to drink. On the fourth day I had
recovered my usual good health.
That adventure amused all the idlers of Vienna for several days, and
Abbe Grosse-Tete assured me that if I had killed the poor surgeon, it
would not have gone any further, because all the witnesses present in
my room at the time would have declared that he wanted to use
violence to bleed me, which made it a case of legitimate self-
defence. I was likewise told by several persons that all the
physicians in Vienna were of opinion that if I had been bled I should
have been a dead man; but if drinking water had not saved me, those
gentlemen would certainly not have expressed the same opinion. I
felt, however, that I had to be careful, and not to fall ill in the
capital of Austria, for it was likely that I should not have found a
physician without difficulty. At the opera, a great many persons
wished after that to make my acquaintance, and I was looked upon as a
man who had fought, pistol in hand, against death. A miniature-
painter named Morol, who was subject to indigestions and who was at
last killed by one, had taught me his system which was that, to cure
those attacks, all that was necessary was to drink plenty of water
and to be patient. He died because he was bled once when he could
not oppose any resistance.
My indigestion reminded me of a witty saying of a man who was not
much in the habit of uttering many of them; I mean M. de Maisonrouge,
who was taken home one day almost dying from a severe attack of
indigestion: his carriage having been stopped opposite the Quinze-
Vingts by some obstruction, a poor man came up and begged alms,
saying,
"Sir, I am starving."
"Eh! what are you complaining of?" answered Maisonrouge, sighing
deeply; "I wish I was in your place, you rogue!"
At that time I made the acquaintance of a Milanese dancer, who had
wit, excellent manners, a literary education, and what is more--great
beauty. She received very good society, and did the honours of her
drawing-room marvellously well. I became acquainted at her house
with Count Christopher Erdodi, an amiable, wealthy and generous man;
and with a certain Prince Kinski who had all the grace of a
harlequin. That girl inspired me with love, but it was in vain, for
she was herself enamoured of a dancer from Florence, called
Argiolini. I courted her, but she only laughed at me, for an
actress, if in love with someone, is a fortress which cannot be
taken, unless you build a bridge of gold, and I was not rich. Yet I
did not despair, and kept on burning my incense at her feet. She
liked my society because she used to shew me the letters she wrote,
and I was very careful to admire her style. She had her own portrait
in miniature, which was an excellent likeness. The day before my
departure, vexed at having lost my time and my amorous compliments, I
made up my mind to steal that portrait--a slight compensation for not
having won the original. As I was taking leave of her, I saw the
portrait within my reach, seized it, and left Vienna for Presburg,
where Baron Vais had invited me to accompany him and several lovely
frauleins on a party of pleasure.
When we got out of the carriages, the first person I tumbled upon was
the Chevalier de Talvis, the protector of Madame Conde-Labre, whom I
had treated so well in Paris. The moment he saw me, he came up and
told me that I owed him his revenge.
"I promise to give it to you, but I never leave one pleasure for
another," I answered; "we shall see one another again."
"That is enough. Will you do me the honour to introduce me to these
ladies?"
"Very willingly, but not in the street."
We went inside of the hotel and he followed us. Thinking that the
man, who after all was as brave as a French chevalier, might amuse
us, I presented him to my friends. He had been staying at the same
hotel for a couple of days, and he was in mourning. He asked us if
we intended to go to the prince-bishop's ball; it was the first news
we had of it. Vais answered affirmatively.
"One can attend it," said Talvis, "without being presented, and that
is why we intend to go, for I am not known to anybody here."
He left us, and the landlord, having come in to receive our orders,
gave us some particulars respecting the ball. Our lovely frauleins
expressing a wish to attend it, we made up our minds to gratify them.
We were not known to anyone, and were rambling through the
apartments, when we arrived before a large table at which the prince-
bishop was holding a faro bank. The pile of gold that the noble
prelate had before him could not have been less than thirteen or
fourteen thousand florins. The Chevalier de Talvis was standing
between two ladies to whom he was whispering sweet words, while the
prelate was shuffling the cards.
The prince, looking at the chevalier, took it into his head to ask
him, in a most engaging manner to risk a card.
"Willingly, my lord," said Talvis; "the whole of the bank upon this
card."
"Very well," answered the prelate, to shew that he was not afraid.
He dealt, Talvis won, and my lucky Frenchman, with the greatest
coolness, filled his pockets with the prince's gold. The bishop,
astonished, and seeing but rather late how foolish he had been, said
to the chevalier,
"Sir, if you had lost, how would you have managed to pay me?"
"My lord, that is my business."
"You are more lucky than wise."
"Most likely, my lord; but that is my business."
Seeing that the chevalier was on the point of leaving, I followed
him, and at the bottom of the stairs, after congratulating him, I
asked him to lend me a hundred sovereigns. He gave them to me at
once, assuring me that he was delighted to have it in his power to
oblige me.
"I will give you my bill."
"Nothing of the sort."
I put the gold into my pocket, caring very little for the crowd of
masked persons whom curiosity had brought around the lucky winner,
and who had witnessed the transaction. Talvis went away, and I
returned to the ball-room.
Roquendorf and Sarotin, who were amongst the guests, having heard
that the chevalier had handed me some gold, asked me who he was. I
gave them an answer half true and half false, and I told them that
the gold I had just received was the payment of a sum I had lent him
in Paris. Of course they could not help believing me, or at least
pretending to do so.
When we returned to the inn, the landlord informed us that the
chevalier had left the city on horseback, as fast as he could gallop,
and that a small traveling-bag was all his luggage. We sat down to
supper, and in order to make our meal more cheerful, I told Vais and
our charming frauleins the manner in which I had known Talvis, and
how I had contrived to have my share of what he had won.
On our arrival in Vienna, the adventure was already known; people
admired the Frenchman and laughed at the bishop. I was not spared by
public rumour, but I took no notice of it, for I did not think it
necessary to defend myself. No one knew the Chevalier de Talvis, and
the French ambassador was not even acquainted with his name. I do
not know whether he was ever heard of again.
I left Vienna in a post-chaise, after I had said farewell to my
friends, ladies and gentlemen, and on the fourth day I slept in
Trieste. The next day I sailed for Venice, which I reached in the
afternoon, two days before Ascension Day. After an absence of three
years I had the happiness of embracing my beloved protector, M. de
Bragadin, and his two inseparable friends, who were delighted to see
me in good health and well equipped.
