 Chapter 3, Part 2 of the Memoirs of Jacques Casanova, Volume 1. This is in LibreVox Recording. All LibreVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibreVox.org, recording by Anna Simon. The Memoirs of Jacques Casanova, Volume 1, The Venetian Years, by Giacomo Casanova, translated by Arthur Macken. Episode 1, Childhood, Chapter 3, Part 2. The letter contained the statement of a cowardly and enraged informer, and would certainly have caused the most unpleasant results. In that letter, Guardiani informed the doctor, that his sister spent her mornings with me in criminal connection while he was saying his mass, and he pledged himself to enter into particulars which would leave him no doubt. After giving to the case the consideration it required, continued Bettina, I made up my mind to hear that monster, but my determination being fixed I put in my pocket my father's stiletto, and holding my door ajar I waited for him there, unwilling to let him come in, as my closet is divided only by a thin partition from the room of my father, whom the slightest noise might have roused up. My first question to Guardiani was in reference to Slander contained in the letter he threatened to deliver to my brother. He answered that it was no Slander, for he had been witness to everything that had taken place in the morning through a hole he had bored in the garret just above your bed, and to which he would apply his eye the moment he knew that I was in your room. He wound up by threatening to discover everything to my brother and to my mother, unless I granted him the same favours I had bestowed upon you. In my just indignation I loaded him with the most bitter insults. I called him a cowardly spy and Slanderer, for he could not have seen anything but childish playfulness, and I declared to him that he did not flatter himself that any threat would compel me to give the slightest compliance to his wishes. He then begged and begged my pardon a thousand times, and went on assuring me that I must lay to my rigor the odium of the step he had taken, the only excuse for it being in the fervent love I had kindled in his heart and which made him miserable. He acknowledged that his letter might be a Slander, that he had acted treacherously, and he pledged his honour never to attempt obtaining from me by violence favours which he desired to merit only by the constancy of his love. I then thought myself to some extent compelled to say that I might love him at some future time and a promise that I would not again come near your bed during the absence of my brother. In this way I dismissed him satisfied, without his daring to beg for so much as a kiss, but with the promise that we might now and then have some conversation in the same place. As soon as he left me I went to bed, deeply grieved that I could no longer see you in the absence of my brother, and that I was unable, for fear of consequences, to let you know the reason of my change. Three weeks passed off in that position, and I cannot express what have been my sufferings, for you, of course, urged me to come, and I was always under the painful necessity of disappointing you. I even feared to find myself alone with you, for I felt certain that I could not ever refrain from telling you the cause of the change in my conduct. To crown my misery, add that I found myself compelled, at least once a week, to receive the vile cardiani outside of my room and to speak to him in order to check his impatience with a few words. At last, unable to bear up any longer under such misery, threatened likewise by you, I determined to end my agony. I wished to disclose to you all this intrigue, leaving to you the care of bringing a change for the better, and for that purpose I proposed that you should accompany me to the bowl disguised as a girl, although I knew what would enrage cardiani, but my mind was made up. You know how my scheme fell to the ground. The unexpected departure of my brother with my father suggested to both of you the same idea, and it was before receiving cardiani's letter that I promised to come to you. Cardiani did not ask for an appointment. He only stated that it would be waiting for me in my closet, and I had no opportunity of telling him that I could not allow him to come, any more than I could find time to let you know that I would be with you only after midnight, as I intended to do, for I reckoned that after an hour's talk I would dismiss the wretch to his room. But my reckoning was wrong. Cardiani had conceived a scheme, and I could not help listening to all yet to say about it. His whining and exaggerated complaints had no end. He abraded me for refusing to further the plan he had concocted, and which he thought I would accept with rapture if I loved him. The scheme was for me to elope with him during holy week, and to run away to Ferrara, where he had an uncle who would have given us a kind welcome, and would soon have brought his father to forgive him and to ensure our happiness for life. The objections I made, his answers, the details to be entered into, the explanations and the ways and means to be examined to obviate the difficulties of the project, took up the whole night. My heart was bleeding as I thought of you, but my conscience is at rest, and I did nothing that could render me unworthy of your esteem. You cannot refuse it to me, unless you believe that the confession I have just made is untrue. But you will be both mistaken and unjust. Had I made up my mind to sacrifice myself and to grant favours which love alone ought to obtain, I might have got rid of the treacherous wretch within one hour. But death seemed preferable to such a dreadful expedient. Could I in any way suppose that you were outside of my door, exposed to the wind and to the snow? Both of us were deserving of pity, but my misery was still greater than yours. All these fearful circumstances were written in the Book of Fate to make me lose my reason, which now returns only at intervals, and I am in constant dread of a fresh attack of those awful convulsions. They say I am bewitched and possessed of the demon. I do not know anything about it, but if it should be true I am the most miserable creature in existence. Athena ceased speaking, and burst into a violent storm of tears, sobs, and groans. I was deeply moved, although I felt that all she had said might be true, and yet was scarcely worthy of belief. Force era verre, manon perre credibilé, a chidelsenzo sua fosse signore. But she was weeping, and her tears, which at all events were not deceptive, took away from me the faculty of doubt. Yet I put her tears to the account of her wounded self-love, to give away entirely I needed a thorough conviction, and to obtain it evidence was necessary, probability was not enough. I could not admit either Kraljani's moderation, or Bettina's patience, or the fact of seven hours employed in innocent conversation. In spite of all these considerations I felt a sort of pleasure in accepting for ready cash all the counterfeit coins that she had spread out before me. After drying her tears Bettina fixed her beautiful eyes upon mine, thinking that she could discern in them evident signs of a victory. But I surprised her much by alluding to one point which, with all her cunning, she had neglected to mention in her defence. Ratterick makes use of nature's secrets in the same way as painters who try to imitate it. Their most beautiful work is false. This young girl, whose mind had not been refined by study, aimed at being considered innocent and artless, and she did her best to succeed, but I had seen too good a specimen of her cleverness. Oh, my dear Bettina, I said, your story has affected me. But how do you think I am going to accept your convulsions as natural, and to believe in the demonic symptoms which came on so seasonably during the exorcisms, although you very properly expressed your doubts on the matter? Hearing this Bettina stared at me, remaining silent for a few minutes. Then, casting her eyes down, she gave way to fresh tears, exclaiming now and then, poor me, oh, poor me! This situation, however, becoming most painful to me, I asked what I could do for her. She answered in a sad tone that if my heart did not suggest to me what to do, she did not herself see what she could demand of me. I thought, said she, that I would reconquer my lost influence over your heart, but I see it too plainly. You no longer feel an interest in me. Go on treating me harshly. Go on taking from mere fictions sufferings which are but too real, which you have caused, and which you will now increase. Someday, but too late, you will be sorry, and your repentance will be bitter indeed. As she pronounced these words, she rose to take her leave. But, judging her capable of anything, I felt afraid, and I detained her to say that the only way to regain my affection was to remain one month without convulsions and without handsome Father Mansya's presence being required. I cannot help being convulsed, she answered, but what do you mean by applying to the Jacobin that epithet of handsome? Could you suppose— Not at all, not at all. I suppose nothing. To do so it would be necessary for me to be jealous. But I cannot help saying that the preference given by your devils to the exorcism of that handsome monk over the incantations of the ugly Capuchin is likely to give birth to remarks rather detrimental to your honour. Moreover, you are free to do whatever pleases you. Thereupon she left my room, and a few minutes later everybody came home. After supper the servant, without any question on my part, informed me that Bettina had gone to bed with violent feverish chills, having previously had her bed carried into the kitchen beside her mother's. This attack of fever might be real, but I had my doubts. I felt certain that she would never make up her mind to be well, for her good health would have supplied me with too strong an argument against her pretended innocence even in the case of Cardiani. I likewise considered her idea of having her bed placed near her mother's nothing but artful contrivance. The next day Dr. Olivo found her very feverish, and told her brother that she would most likely be excited and delirious, but that it would be the effect of the fever and not the work of the devil. And, truly, Bettina was raving all day, but Dr. Gottsey, placing implicit confidence in the physician, would not listen to his mother and did not send for the Jaco and Friar. The fever increased in violence, and on the fourth day the small pox broke out. Cardiani and the two brothers, Fetrini, who had so far escaped that disease, were immediately sent away. But as I had had it before, I remained at home. The poor girl was so fearfully covered with a loathsome eruption that on the sixth day her skin could not be seen on any part of her body, her eyes closed, and her life was despaired of when it was found that her mouth and throat were obstructed to such a degree that she could swallow nothing but a few drops of honey. She was perfectly motionless. She breathed, and that was all. Her mother never left her bedside, and I was thought a saint when I carried my table and my books into the patient's room. The unfortunate girl had become a fearful sight to look upon. Her head was dreadfully swollen, the nose could no longer be seen, and much fear was entertained for her eyes, in case her life should be spared. The odor of her perspiration was most offensive, but I persisted in keeping my watch by her. On the ninth day the vigour gave her absolution, and after administering extreme unction he left her, as he said, in the hands of God. In the midst of so much sadness the conversation of the mother with her son would, in spite of myself, cause me some amount of merriment. The good woman wanted to know whether the demon who was dwelling in her child could still influence her to perform extravagant follies, and what would become of the demon in the case of her daughter's death, for, as she expressed it, she could not think of his being so stupid as to remain in so loathsome a body. She particularly wanted to ascertain whether the demon had power to carry off the soul of her child. Dr. Götze, who was a ubiquitarian, made to all those questions answers which had not even the shadow of good sense, and which of course had no other effect than to increase a hundred fold the perplexity of his poor mother. During the tenth and eleventh days Petina was so bad that we thought every moment likely to be her last. The disease had reached its worst period. The smell was unbearable. I alone would not leave her, so sorely did I pity her. The heart of man is indeed an unfathomable abyss, for, however incredible it may appear, it was while in that fearful state that Petina inspired me with the fondness which I showed her after her recovery. On the thirteenth day the fever abated, but the patient began to experience great irritation owing to a dreadful itching, which no remedy could have elade as effectually as these powerful words which I kept constantly pouring into her ear. Petina, you are getting better, but if you dare to scratch yourself you will become such a fright that nobody will ever love you. All the physicians in the universe might be challenged to prescribe a more potent remedy against itching for a girl who, aware that she has been pretty, finds herself exposed to the loss of her beauty through her own fold if she scratches herself. At last her fine eyes opened again to the light of heaven. She was moved to her own room, but she had to keep her bed until Easter. She inoculated me with a few pucks, three of which have left upon my face everlasting marks, but in her eyes they gave me credit for great devotedness, for they were a proof of my constant care, and she felt that I indeed deserved her whole love. And she truly loved me, and I returned her love, although I never plucked a flower which fate and prejudice kept in store for a husband. But what a contemptible husband! Two years later she married a shoemaker by name Pigotso, a base, errant knave, who beggard and ill-treated her to such an extent that her brother had to take her home and to provide for her. Fifteen years afterwards, having been appointed Archpriest at St. George de la Vallée, he took her there with him, and when I went to pay him a visit eighteen years ago I found Bettina old, ill, and dying. She breathed her last in my arms in seventeen hundred and seventy-six, twenty-four hours after my arrival. I will speak of her death in good time. About that period my mother returned from St. Petersburg, where the Empress Anne Ivanovna had not approved of the Italian ceremony. The whole of the troop had already returned to Italy, and my mother had travelled with Carlin Bertinazzi, the Harlequin, who died in Paris in the year seventeen hundred and eighty-three. As soon as she had reached Parois, she informed Dr. Gottsey of her arrival, and he lost no time in accompanying me to the inn where she had put up. We dined with her, and before bidding us adieu, she presented the doctor with a splendid fur, and gave me the skin of a lynx for Bettina. Six months afterwards she summoned me to Venice as she wished to see me before leaving for Dresden, where she had contracted an engagement for life in the service of the elector of Saxony, Augustus III, king of Poland. She took with her my brother Jean, then eight years old, who was weeping bitterly when he left. I thought him very foolish, for there was nothing very tragic in that departure. He is the only one in the family who was wholly indebted to our mother for his fortune, although he was not her favourite child. I spent another year in Parois, studying law in which I took the degree of doctor in my sixteenth year, the subject of my thesis being in the civil law, the testamentis, and in the canon law, utrim hebrae porcent construire novus sinagogus. My vacation was to study medicine, and to practice it, for I felt a great inclination for that profession, but no heed was given to my wishes, and I was compelled to apply myself to the study of the law, for which I had an invincible repugnance. My friends were of opinion that I could not make my fortune in any profession but that of an advocate, and what is still worse, of an ecclesiastical advocate. If they had given them proper consideration, they would have given me leave to follow my own inclinations, and I would have been a physician, a profession in which quackery is of still greater avail than in legal business. I never became either a physician or an advocate, and I never would apply to a lawyer when I had any legal business, nor a call in a physician when I happened to be ill. May support a good many families, but a greater proportion is ruined by them, and those who perish in the hands of physicians are more numerous by far than those who get cured. Strong evidence in my opinion that mankind would be much less miserable without either lawyers or doctors. To attend the lectures of the professors, I had to go to the university, called the Bow, and it became necessary for me to go out alone. This was a matter of great wonder to me, for until then I had never considered myself a free man, and in my wish to enjoy fully the liberty I thought I'd just conquered, it was not long before I had made the very worst acquaintances amongst the most renowned students. As a matter of course, the most renowned were the most worthless, disillured fellows, gamblers, frequenters of disorderly houses, hard drinkers, debauchies, tormentors and suborners of honest girls, liars, and wholly incapable of any good or virtuous feeling. In the company of such man did I begin my apprenticeship of the world, learning my lesson from the book of experience. The theory of morals and its usefulness through the life of man can be compared to the advantage derived by running over the index of a book before reading it. When we have perused that index, we know nothing but the subject of the work. This is like the school for morals offered by the sermons, the precepts, and the tales which our instructors recite for our special benefit. We lend our whole attention to those lessons, but when an opportunity offers of profiting by the advice that's bestowed upon us, we feel inclined to ascertain for ourselves whether the result will turn out as predicted. We give way to that very natural inclination, and punishment speedily follows with concomitant repentance. Our only consolation lies in the fact that in such moments we are conscious of our own knowledge and consider ourselves as having earned the right to instruct others, but those to whom we wish to impart our experience act exactly as we have acted before them, and, as a matter of course, the world remains in static quo, or grows worse and worse. When Dr. Gottzio granted me the privilege of going out alone, he gave me an opportunity for the discovery of several truths which, until then, were not only unknown to me, but the very existence of which I had never suspected. On my first appearance the boldest scholars got hold of me and sounded my death. Knowing that I was a thorough freshman, they undertook my education, and with that worthy purpose in view they allowed me to fall blindly into every trap. They taught me gambling, one the little I possessed, and then they made me play upon trust, and put me up to dishonest practices in order to procure the means of paying my gambling debts. But I acquired at the same time the sad experience of sorrow. Yet these hard lessons proved useful, for they taught me to mistrust the impudent sycophants who openly fluttered their dupes, and never to rely upon the offers made by fawning flatterers. They taught me likewise how to behave in the company of quarrelsome dualists, the society of whom all to be avoided, unless we make up our minds to be constantly in the very teeth of danger. I was not cold in the snares of professional lewd women, because not one of them was in my eyes as pretty as Bettina, but I did not resist so well the desire for that species of vain glory which is the reward of holding life at a cheap price. In those days the students in Padua enjoyed very great privileges which were in reality abuses made legal through prescription, the primitive characteristic of privileges which differ essentially from prerogatives. In fact, in order to maintain the legality of their privileges, the students often committed crimes. The guilty were dealt with tenderly, because the interests of the city demanded that severity should not diminish the great influx of scholars who flocked to that renowned university from every part of Europe. The practice of the Venetian government was to secure at a high salary the most celebrated professors, and to grant the utmost freedom to the young man attending their lessons. The students acknowledged no authority but that of a chief chosen among themselves, and called Cyndic. He was usually a foreign nobleman who could keep a large establishment and who was responsible to the government for the behavior of the scholars. It was his duty to give them up to justice when they transgressed the laws, and the students never disputed his sentence, because he always defended them to the utmost when they had the slightest shadow of right on their side. The students, amongst other privileges, would not suffer their trunks to be surged by custom-house authorities, and no ordinary policeman would have dared to arrest one of them. They carried about them forbidden weapons, seduced helpless girls, and often disturbed the public peace by their nocturnal broils and impudent practical jokes. In one word they were a body of young fellows whom nothing could restrain, who would gratify every whim and enjoy their support without regard or consideration for any human being. It was about that time that a policeman entered a coffee-room in which were seated two students. One of them ordered him out, but the man taking no notice of it, the student fired a pistol at him and missed his aim. The policeman returned the fire, wounded the aggressor, and ran away. The students immediately mustered together at the bow, divided into bands, and went over the city, hunting the policeman to murder them, and avenged the insult they had received. In one of the encounters two of the students were killed, and all the others, assembling in one troop, swore never to lay their arms down as long as there should be one policeman alive in Padua. The authorities had to interfere, and the syndic of the students undertook to put a stop to hostilities, provided proper satisfaction was given, as the police were in the wrong. The man who had shot the student in the coffee-room was hanged and peace was restored, but during the eight days of agitation, as I was anxious not to appear less brave than my comrades who were patrolling the city, I followed them in spite of Dr. Gottsey's remonstrances. Armed with a car-bean and a pair of pistols, I ran about the town with the others, in quest for the enemy, and I recollect how disappointed I was, because the troop to which I belonged did not meet one policeman. When the war was over, the doctor laughed at me, but Bettina admired my fellow. Unfortunately, I indulged in expenses far above my means, owing to my unwillingness to seem poorer than my new friends. I sold or pledged everything I possessed, and I contracted debts which I could not possibly pay. This state of things caused my first sorrows, and they are the most poignant sorrows under which a young man can smart. Not knowing which way to turn, I wrote to my excellent grandmother, begging her assistance, but instead of sending me some money, she came to Padua on the 1st of October, 1739, and after thanking the doctor and Bettina for all their affectionate care, she brought me back to Venice. As he took leave of me, the doctor, who was shedding tears, gave me what he prized most on earth, a relic of some saint, which perhaps I might have kept to this very day, had not the setting-been of gold. It performed only one miracle, that of being of service to me in a moment of great need. Whenever I visited Padua to complete my study of the law, I stayed at the house of the kind doctor, but I was always grieved at seeing near Bettina the brute to whom she was engaged, and who did not appear to me deserving of such a wife. I have always regretted that a prejudice of which I soon got rid, should have made me preserve for that man, a flower which I could have plucked so easily. Chapter 4 Part A of the Memoirs of Jacques Casanova Volume 1 by Jacques Como Casanova. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Memoirs of Jacques Casanova Volume 1 The Venetian Years by Jacques MoCasanova. Chapter 4 Part A Chapter 4 I receive the minor orders from the Patriarch of Venice. I get acquainted with Senator Malipiero, with Therese Eimer, with the niece of the Curit, with Madame Orio, with Nanette and Martin, and with the Cavamacchia. I become a preacher, my adventure with Lucie at Pasean, a rendezvous on the third story. He comes from Padua, where he has completed his studies. Such were the words by which I was everywhere introduced, in which the moment they were uttered, called upon me the silent observation of every young man of my age and condition, the compliments of all fathers, and the caresses of old women, as well as the kisses of a few who, although not old, were not sorry to be considered so for the sake of embracing a young man without impropriety. The Curit of St. Samuel, the Abbey Giozello, presented me to Monsignor Correre, Patriarch of Venice, who gave me the tonsure, and who, four months afterwards, by special favor, admitted me to the four minor orders. No words could express the joy and the pride of my grandmother. The masters were given to me to continue my studies, and M. Baffo chose the Abbey Giovo to teach me a pure Italian style, especially poetry, for which I had a decided talent. I was very comfortably lodged with my brother François, who was studying theatrical architecture. My sister and my youngest brother were living with our grand-dum in a house of her own, in which it was her wish to die, because her husband had there breathed his last. The house in which I dwelt was the same in which my father had died, and the rent of which my mother continued to pay. It was large and well furnished. Although Abbey Grimani was my chief protector, I seldom saw him, and I particularly attached myself to M. de Manipiero, to whom I had been presented by the Curit M. Yusalo. M. de Manipiero was a senator, who was unwilling at seventy years of age, to attend any more to state affairs, and enjoyed a happy, sumptuous life in his mansion, surrounded every evening by a well-chosen party of ladies, who had all known how to make the best of their younger days, and of gentlemen who were always acquainted with the news of the town. He was a bachelor and wealthy, but unfortunately he had three or four times every year severe attacks of gout, which always left him crippled in some part or other of his body, so that all his person was disabled. His head, his lungs, and his stomach had alone escaped this cruel havoc. He was still a fine man, a great epicure, and a good judge of wine. His wit was keen, his knowledge of the world extensive, his eloquence worthy of a son of Venice, and he had that wisdom which must naturally belong to a senator who for forty years had had the management of public affairs, and to a man who has bid farewell to women after having possessed twenty mistresses, and only when he felt himself compelled to acknowledge that he could no longer be accepted by any woman. So almost entirely crippled he did not appear to be so when he was seated, when he talked, or when he was at the table. He had only one meal a day, and always took it alone because, being toothless and unable to eat otherwise than very slowly, he did not wish to hurry himself out of compliment to his guests, and would have been sorry to see them waiting for him. This feeling deprived him of the pleasure he would have enjoyed in entertaining at his board friendly and agreeable guests, and caused great sorrow to his excellent cook. The first time I had the honour of being introduced to him by the curate, I opposed earnestly the reason which made him eat his meals in solitude, and I said that his excellency had only to invite guests whose appetite was good enough to enable them to eat a double share. But where can I find such table companions, he asked. It is rather a delicate matter, I answered, but you must take your guests on trial, and after they have been found such as you wish them to be, the only difficulty will be to keep them as your guests without their being aware of the real cause of your preference, for no respectable man could acknowledge that he enjoys the honour of sitting at your excellency's table only because he eats twice as much as any other man. The senator understood the truth of my argument and asked the curate to bring me to dinner on the following day. He found my practice even better than my theory, and I became his daily guest. This man, who had given up everything in life except his own self, fostered an amorous inclination in spite of his age and of his gout. He loved a young girl named Therese Imer, the daughter of an actor residing near his mansion, her bedroom window being opposite to his own. This young girl, then in her seventeenth year, was pretty, whimsical, and a regular caquette. She was practicing music with a view to entering the theatrical profession, and by showing herself constantly at the window she had intoxicated the old senator, and was playing with him cruelly. She paid him a daily visit but always escorted by her mother, a former actress, who had retired from the stage in order to work out her salvation, and who, as a matter of course, had made up her mind to combine the interests of heaven with the works of this world. She took her daughter to mass every day and compelled her to go to confession every week. But every afternoon she accompanied her in a visit to the amorous old man, the rage of whom frightened me when she refused him a kiss under the plea that she had performed her devotions in the morning, and that she could not reconcile herself to the idea of offending the God who was still dwelling in her. What a sight for a young man of fifteen like me, whom the old man admitted as the only and silent witness of these erotic scenes. The miserable mother applauded her daughter's reserve, and went so far as to lecture the elderly lover, who, in his turn, dared not refute her maxims, which savoured either too much or too little of Christianity, and resisted a very strong inclination to hurl at her head any object he had at hand. Anger would then take the place of lewd desires, and after they had retired he would comfort himself by exchanging with me philosophical considerations. Compelled to answer him, and not knowing well what to say, I ventured one day upon advising a marriage. He struck me with amazement when he answered that she refused to marry him from fear of drawing upon herself the hatred of his relatives. Then make her the offer of a large sum of money or a position. She says that she would not, even for a crown, commit a deadly sin. In that case you must either take her by storm or banish her forever from your presence. I can do neither one nor the other. Physical as well as moral strength is deficient in me. Kill her then. That will very likely be the case unless I die first. Indeed, I pity your Excellency. Do you sometimes visit her? No, for I might fall in love with her and I would be miserable. You are right. Witnessing many such scenes and taking part in many similar conversations, I became an especial favourite with the old nobleman. I was invited to his evening assemblies, which were, as I have stated before, frequented by superannuated women and witty men. He told me that in this circle I would learn the science of greater import than Gassendi's philosophy, which I was then studying by his advice instead of Aristotle's, which he turned into ridicule. He laid down some precepts of formal conduct in these assemblies, explaining the necessity of my observing them as there would be some wonder at a young man of my age being received at such parties. He ordered me never to open my lips except to answer direct questions and particularly enjoyed me never to pass an opinion on any subject, because at my age I could not be allowed to have any opinions. I faithfully followed his precepts and obeyed his orders so well that in a few days I had gained his esteem and become the child of the house, as well as the favourite of all the ladies who visited him. In my character of a young and innocent ecclesiastic they would ask me to accompany them in their visits to the convents where their daughters or their nieces were educated. I was at all hours received at their houses without even being announced. I was scolded if a week elapsed without my calling upon them, and when I went to the apartments reserved for the young ladies they would run away, but the moment they saw that the intruder was only I they would return at once and their confidence was very charming to me. Before dinner M. de Malipiero would often inquire from me what advantages were accruing to me from the welcome I received at the hands of the respectable ladies I had become acquainted with at his house, taking care to tell me before I could have time to answer that they were all endowed with the greatest virtue and that I would give everybody a bad opinion of myself if I ever breathed one word of disparagement to the high reputation they all enjoyed. In this way he would inculcate in me the wise precept of reserve and discretion. It was at the senator's house that I made the acquaintance of Madame Manzoni, the wife of a notary public of whom I shall have to speak very often. This worthy lady inspired me with the deepest attachment and she gave me the wisest advice. Had I followed it and profited by it my life would not have been exposed to so many storms. It is true that in that case my life would not be worth writing. All these fine acquaintances amongst women who enjoyed the reputation of being high-bred ladies gave me a very natural desire to shine by my good looks and by the elegance of my dress. But my father-confessor as well as my grandmother objected very strongly to this feeling of vanity. On one occasion, taken me apart, the curate told me, with honeyed words, and in the profession to which I had devoted myself, my thoughts ought to dwell upon the best means of being agreeable to God and not unpleasing the world by my fine appearance. He condemned my elaborate curls and the exquisite perfume of my pamatum. He said that the devil had got hold of me by the hair, that I would be excommunicated if I continued to take such care of it, and concluded by quoting for my benefit these words from an ecumenical council. Klerikus qui nutrit koman anatema sit. I answered him with the names of several fashionable perfumed abbots who were not threatened with excommunication, who were not interfered with, although they wore four times as much powder as I did, for I only used a slight sprinkling, who perfumed their hair with a certain amber-scented pamatum which brought women to the very point of fainting, while mine, a jesemine pomade, called forth the compliment of every circle in which I was received. I added that I could not, much to my regret, obey him, and that if I had meant to live in slovenliness I would have become a capuchin, and not an abbey. My answer made him so angry that, three or four days afterwards, he contrived to obtain leave from my grandmother to enter my chamber early in the morning before I was awake, and, approaching my bed on tiptoe with a sharp pair of scissors, he cut off unmercifully all my front hair from one ear to the other. My brother François was in the adjoining room and saw him, but he did not interfere as he was delighted at my misfortune. He wore a wig and was very jealous of my beautiful head of hair. François was envious through the whole of his life, yet he combined this feeling of envy with friendship. I never could understand him, but this vice of his, like my own vices, must by this time have died of old age. After his great operation the abbey left my room quietly, but when I woke up shortly afterwards and realized all the horror of this unheard-of execution my rage and indignation were indeed wrought to the highest pitch. What wild schemes have avenged my brain and gendered while, with a looking-glass in my hand I was groaning over the shameful havoc performed by this audacious priest. At the noise I made my grandmother hasten to my room and had missed my brother's laughter the kind old woman by sure be that the priest would never have been allowed to enter my room if she could have foreseen his intention, and she managed to soothe my passion to some extent by confessing that he had overstepped the limits of his right to administer a reproof. But I was determined upon revenge, and I went on dressing myself and revolving in my mind the darkest plots. It seemed to me that I was entitled to the most cruel revenge without having anything to dread from the terrors of the law. The theatres being open at that time I put on a mask to go out and I went to the Advocate Carare, with whom I had become acquainted at the senator's house, to inquire from him whether I could bring a suit against the priest. He told me that, but a short time since, a family had been ruined for having sheared the mustache of a Sclavonian, a crime not nearly so atrocious as the shearing of all my front logs, and that I had only to give him my instructions to begin a criminal suit against the abbey, which would make him tremble. I gave my consent and begged that he would tell M. de Malipiero in the evening the reason for which I could not go to his house, for I did not feel any inclination to show myself anywhere until my hair had grown again. I went home and partook with my brother of every past which appeared rather scanty, in comparison to the dinners I had with the old senator. The privation of the delicate and plentiful fair to which his Excellency had accustomed me was most painful, besides all the enjoyments from which I was excluded through the atrocious conduct of the virulent priest who was my godfather. I wept from shearing fixation, and my rage was increased by the consciousness that there was in this insult a certain dash of comical fun which threw over me a ridicule more disgraceful in my estimation than the greatest crime. I went to bed early and, refreshed by ten hours of profound slumber, I felt in the morning somewhat less angry, but quite as determined to summon the priest before a court. I dressed myself with the intention of calling upon my advocate, when I received the visit of a skilful hairdresser whom I had seen at Madame Cantarini's house. He told me that he was sent by M. de Manipiero to arrange my hair so that I could go out, as the senator wished me to dine with him on that very day. He examined the damage done to my head and said, with a smile, that if I would trust to his art he would undertake to send me out with an appearance of even greater elegance than I could boast of before. And truly, when he had done, I found myself so good-looking that I considered my thirst for revenge entirely satisfied. Having thus forgotten the injury, I called upon the lawyer to tell him to stay all proceedings, and I hastened to end the Manipiero's palace, where, as chance would have it, I met the abbey. Notwithstanding all my joy, I could not help casting upon him rather unfriendly looks, but not a word was said about what had taken place. The senator noticed everything, and the priest took his leave, most likely with feelings of mortified repentance. For this time I most verily deserved excommunication by the extreme studied elegance of my curling hair. When my cruel godfather had left us, I did not assemble with M. de Manipiero. I candidly told him that I would look out for another church, and that nothing would induce me to remain under a priest who, in his wrath, could go the length of such proceedings. The wise old man agreed with me, and said that I was quite right. It was the best way to make me do ultimately whatever he liked. In the evening, everyone in our circle, being well aware of what had happened, complimented me and assured me that nothing could be handsomer than my new headdress. I was delighted, and was still more gratified when, after a fortnight had lapsed, I found that M. de Manipiero did not approach the subject of my returning to my godfather's church. My grandmother alone constantly urged me to return. But this calm was the harbinger of a storm. When my mind was thoroughly at rest on that subject, M. de Manipiero threw me into the greatest astonishment by suddenly telling me that an excellent opportunity offered itself for me to reappear in the church and to secure ample satisfaction from the abbey. It is my province, added the senator, as president of the confraternity of the holy sacrament, to choose the preacher who is to deliver the sermon on the fourth Sunday of this month, which happens to be the second Christmas holiday. I mean to appoint you, and I am certain that the abbey will not dare to reject my choice. What say you to such a triumphant reappearance? Does it satisfy you? This offer caused me the greatest surprise, for I had never dreamt of becoming a preacher, and I had never been vain enough to suppose that I could write a sermon and deliver it in the church. I told M. de Manipiero that he must surely be enjoying a joke at my expense, but he answered that he had spoken in earnest, and he soon contrived to persuade me and to make me believe that I was born to become the most renowned preacher of our age as soon as I should have grown fat. Equality which I certainly could not boast of, for at that time I was extremely thin. I had not the shadow of a fear as to my voice or to my evocation, and for the matter of composing my sermon I felt myself equal to the production of a masterpiece. I told M. de Manipiero that I was ready and anxious to be at home in order to go to work, that, although no theologian, I was acquainted with my subject, and would compose a sermon which would take everyone by surprise on account of its novelty. On the following day when I called upon him he informed me that the abbey had expressed unqualified delight at the choice made by him, and at my readiness in accepting the appointment, but he likewise desired that I should submit my sermon to him as soon as it was written, because the subject belonging to the most sublime theology he could not allow me to enter the pulpit without being satisfied that I would not utter any heresies. I agreed to this demand, and during the week I gave birth to my masterpiece. I have now that first sermon in my possession, and I cannot help saying that, considering my tender years, I think it a very good one. I could not give an idea of my grandmother's joys. She wept tears of happiness at having a grandson who had become an apostle. She insisted upon my reading my sermon to her, listened to it with her beads in her hands, and pronounced it very beautiful. Then the Malipiero, who had no rosary when I read it to him, was of opinion that it would not prove acceptable to the person. My text was from Horace, pluravere suis non responere favorem spertum veritis, and I deplored the wickedness and ingratitude of man through which had failed the design adopted by divine wisdom from the redemption of humankind. But and the Malipiero was sorry that I had taken my text from any heretical poet, although he was pleased that my sermon was not interlarded with Latin quotations. I called upon the priest to read my production, but as he was out I had to wait for his return, and during that time I fell in love with his niece, Angela. She was busy upon some tambour work. I sat down, close by her, and telling me that she had long desired to make my acquaintance, she begged me to relate the history of the locks of hair sheered by her venerable uncle. My love for Angela proved fatal to me, because from it sprang two other love affairs which, in their turn, gave birth to great many others, and caused me finally to renounce the church as a profession. But let us proceed quietly and not encroach upon future events. On his return home the Abbey found me with his niece, who was about my age and he did not appear to be angry. I gave him my sermon. He read it over and told me that it was a beautiful academical dissertation, but unfit for a sermon from the pulpit, and he added, I will give you a sermon written by myself, which I have never delivered. You will commit it to memory, and I promise to let everybody suppose that it is of your own composition. I thank you, very reverent father, but I will preach my own sermon, or none at all. At all events you shall not preach such a sermon as this in my church. You can talk the matter over with M. de Malipiero. In the meantime I will take my work to the censorship and to his eminence the patriarch, and if it is not accepted I shall have it printed. All very well, young men, the patriarch will coincide with me. In the evening I related my discussion with the person before all the guests of M. de Malipiero. The reading of my sermon was called for, and it was praised by all. They lauded me for having with proper modesty refrained from quoting the holy fathers of the church, whom at my age I could not be supposed to have sufficiently studied, and the ladies particularly admired me, because there was no Latin in it but the text from Horus, who, although a great libertine himself, has written very good things. A niece of the patriarch, who was present that evening, promised to prepare her uncle in my favor, as I had expressed my intention to appeal to him. But M. de Malipiero desired me not to take any steps in the matter until I had seen him on the following day, and I submissively bowed to his wishes. When I called at his mansion the next day, he sent for the priest who soon made his appearance. As he knew well what he had been sent for, he immediately launched out into a very long discourse, which I did not interrupt. But the moment he had concluded his list of objections I told them that there could not be two ways to decide the question, that the patriarch would either approve or disapprove my sermon. In the first case I added, I can pronounce it in your church and no responsibility can possibly fall upon your shoulders. In the second, I must, of course, give way. The abbot was struck by my determination, and he said, Do not go to the patriarch. I accept your sermon. I only request you to change your text. Horus was a villain. Why do you quote Seneca, Tertullian, Origen, and Bethias? They were all heretics, and must consequently be considered by you as worse wretches than Horus, who, after all, never had the chance of becoming a Christian. However, as I saw it would please M. de Malipiero, I finally consented to accept, as a substitute for mine, a text offered by the abbey, although it did not suit in any way the spirit of my production, and in order to get an opportunity for a visit to his niece, I gave him my manuscript, saying that I would call for it the next day. My vanity prompted me to send a copy to Dr. Gottzi, but the good man caused me much amusement by returning it and writing that I must have gone mad, and that if I were allowed to deliver such a sermon from the pulpit, I would bring this honor upon myself as well as upon the man who had educated me. I cared but little for his opinion, and on the appointed day I delivered my sermon in the Church of the Holy Sacrament, in the presence of the best society of Venice. I received much applause, and everyone predicted that I would certainly become the first preacher of our century, as no young ecclesiastic of fifteen had ever been known to preach as well as I had done. It is customary for the faithful to deposit their offerings for the preacher in a purse which is handed to them for that purpose. The sexton who emptied it of its contents founded in more than fifty sequins and several biedoux to the great scandal of the weaker brethren. An anonymous note amongst them, the writer of which I thought I had guessed, led me into a mistake which I think better not to relate. This rich harvest in my great penury caused me to entertain a serious thought of becoming a preacher, and I confided my intention to the person requesting his assistance to carry it into execution. This gave me the privilege of visiting at his house every day, and I improved the opportunity of conversing with Angela, for whom my love was daily increasing. But Angela was virtuous. She did not object to my love, but she wished me to renounce the Church and to marry her. Out of my infatuation for her I could not make up my mind to such a step, and I went on seeing her and courting her in the hope that she would alter her decision. The priest, who had at last confessed his admiration for my first sermon, asked me some time afterwards to prepare another Forcing Joseph's Day, with an invitation to deliberate it on the 19th of March, 1741. I composed it, and the abbey spoke of it with enthusiasm, but fate had decided that I should never preach but once in my life. It is a sad tale, unfortunately for me very true, which some persons are cruel enough to consider very amusing. Young and rather self-conceited, I fancied that it was not necessary for me to spend much time in committing my sermon to memory. Being the author, I had all the ideas contained in my work classified in my mind, and it did not seem to me within the range of possibilities that I could forget what I had written. Perhaps I might not remember the exact words of a sentence, but I was at liberty to replace them by other expressions as good, and as I never happened to be at a loss, or to be struck dumb, when I spoke in society, it was not likely that such an untoward accident would befall me before an audience amongst whom I did not know anyone who could intimidate me and cause me suddenly to lose the faculty of reason or of speech. I therefore took my pleasure, as usual, being satisfied with reading my sermon morning and evening in order to impress it upon my memory, which until then had never betrayed me. The nineteenth of March came, and on that eventful day at four o'clock in the afternoon I was to ascend to the pulpit. But believing myself quite secure and thoroughly master of my subject, I had not the moral courage to deny myself the pleasure of dining with Count Montréal, who was then residing with me, and who had invited the Petrician Barotzi engaged to be married to his daughter after the Easter holidays. I was still enjoying myself with my fine company when the sextant of the church came in to tell me that they were waiting for me in the vestry. With a full stomach and my head rather heated, I took my leave, ran to the church, and entered the pulpit. I went through the exhortium with credit to myself, and I took breathing time. But scarcely had I pronounced the first sentences of the narration before I forgot what I was saying, what I had to say, and in my endeavours to proceed I fairly wandered from my subject and I lost myself entirely. I was still more discomforted by a half repressed murmur of the audience as my deficiency appeared evident. Several persons left the church, others began to smile. I lost all presence of mind and every hope of getting out of this grave. I could not say whether I feigned a fainting fit or whether I truly soomed. All I know is that I fell down on the floor of the pulpit, striking my head against the wall with an inward prayer for annihilation. Two of the parish clerks carried me to the vestry, and after a few moments, without addressing a word to anyone, I took my cloak in my hand, and went home to lock myself in my room. I immediately dressed myself in a short coat after the fashion of traveling priests, I packed a few things in a trunk, obtained some money from my grandmother, and took my departure of Padua, where I intended to pass my third examination. I reached Padua at midnight and went to Dr. Gotsy's house, but I did not feel the slightest temptation to mention to him my unlucky adventure. I remained in Padua long enough to prepare myself for the doctor's degree, which I intended to take the following year and after Easter I returned to Venice, where my misfortune was already forgotten, but preaching was out of the question, and when any attempt was made to induce me to renew my efforts, I manfully kept to my determination never to ascend the pulpit again. On the eve of Ascension Day, M. Manzoni introduced me to a young courtesan who was at that time in great repute at Venice, and was nicknamed Carlamacchia, because her father had been a scourer. This named vexed her a great deal. She wished to be called Priati, which was her family name, but it was all in vain, and the only concession her friends would make was to call her by her Christian name of Juliet. She had been introduced to fashionable notice by the Marquis de San Vitali, a nobleman from Parma, who had given her one hundred thousand ducats for her favors. Her beauty was then the talk of everybody in Venice, and it was fashionable to call upon her. To converse with her, and especially to be admitted into her circle, was considered a great boon. As I shall have to mention her several times in the course of my history, my reader's will I trust, allow me to enter into some particulars about her previous life. Juliet was only fourteen years of age when her father sent her one day to the house of a Venetian nobleman, Marco Mauazzo, with a coat which he had cleaned for him. He thought her very beautiful in spite of the dirty rags in which she was dressed, and he called to see her at her father's shop, with a friend of his, the celebrated advocate Bastien Uccelli, who, struck by the romantic and cheerful nature of Juliet still more than by her beauty and fine figure, gave her an apartment, made her study music, and kept her as his mistress. At the time of the fair Bastien took her with him to various public places of resort, everywhere she attracted general attention, and secured the admiration of every lover of the sex. She made rapid progress in music, and at the end of six months she felt sufficient confidence in herself to sign an engagement with a theatrical manager who took her to Vienna to give her a castrato part in one of Metastasio's operas. The advocate had previously seated her to a wealthy Jew who, after giving her splendid diamonds, left her also. In Vienna Juliet appeared on the stage, and her beauty gained for her an admiration which she would never have conquered by her very inferior talent. But the constant crowd of adorers who went to worship the goddess, having sounded her exploits rather too loudly, the August Maria Teresa objected to this new creed being sanctioned in her capital, and the beautiful actors received an order to quit Vienna forthwith. Count Spada offered her his protection and brought her back to Venice, but she soon left for Padua where she had an engagement. In that city she kindled the fire of love in the breast of Marquis San Vitale, but the Marchioness, having caught her once in her own box, and Juliet having acted disrespectfully to her, she slapped her face, and the affair having caused a good deal of noise, Juliet gave up the stage altogether. She came back to Venice where, made conspicuous by her banishment from Vienna, she could not fail to make her fortune. Expulsion from Vienna for this class of women had become a title to fashionable favor, and when there was a wish to depreciate a singer or a dancer, it was said of her that she had not been sufficiently prized to be expelled from Vienna. After her return her first lover was Stefano Quirini de Papozzi, but in the spring of 1740 the Marchi de San Vitale came to Venice and soon carried her off. It was indeed difficult to resist this delightful Marchi. His first present to the fair lady was the sum of one hundred thousand ducas, and to prevent his being accused of weakness or of lavish prodigality he loudly proclaimed that the present could scarcely make up for the insult Juliet had received from his wife, an insult however which the courtesan never admitted, as she felt that there would be humiliation in such an acknowledgement, and she always professed to admire with gratitude her lover's generosity. She was right, the admission of the blow received would have left a disdain upon her charms, and how much more to her taste to allow those charms to be prized as such a high figure. It was in the year 1741 that Manzoni introduced me to his new priny as a young ecclesiastic who was beginning to make a reputation. I found her surrounded by seven or eight well-seasoned admirers who were burning at her feet the incense of their flattery. She was carelessly reclining on a sofa near Quarini. I was much struck with her appearance. She eyed me from head to foot as if I had been exposed for sale, and telling me with the air of a princess that she was not sorry to make my acquaintance, she invited me to take a seat. I began then, in my turn, to examine her closely and deliberately, and it was an easy matter, as the room, although small, was lighted with at least twenty wax candles. Juliet was then in her eighteenth year the freshness of her complexion was dazzling, but the carnation tint of her cheeks, the vermilion of her lips, and the dark, very narrow curve of her eyebrows impressed me as being produced by art rather than nature. Her teeth, two rows of magnificent pearls, made one overlook the fact that her mouth was somewhat too large, and whether from habit or because she could not help it, she seemed to be ever smiling. Her bosom hid under her light gauze, invited the desires of love. Yet I did not surrender to her charms. Her bracelets and the rings which covered her fingers did not prevent me from noticing that her hand was too large and too fleshy. In spite of her carefully hiding her feet, I judged by a telltale slipper lying close by her dress that they were well proportioned to the height of her figure, a proportion which is unpleasant, not only to the Chinese and Spaniards, but likewise to every man of refined taste. We want a tall woman to have a small foot, and certainly it is not a modern taste for hollow furnace of old was of the same opinion, otherwise he would not have thought Judith so charming. It's Sandalid Eju's Rapuerlont Oculus Eju's. Altogether I found her beautiful, but when I compared her beauty and the price of one hundred thousand due counts paid for it, I marveled at my remaining so cold, and at my not being tempted to give even one sequent for the privilege of making from nature a study of the charms which her dress concealed from my eyes. Chapter 4 Part B of the Memoirs of Jacques Casanova Volume 1 by Jacques Montcasanova This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The Memoirs of Jacques Casanova Volume 1 The Venetian Years by Jacques Montcasanova Episode 1 Childhood Chapter 4 B. I had scarcely been there a quarter of an hour when the noise made by the oars of a gondola striking the water heralded the prodigal marquee. We all rose from our seats and M. Quirini hastened, somewhat blushing, to quit his place on the sofa. M. de Saint Vintali, a man of middle age, who had traveled much, took a seat near Juliet, but not on the sofa so she was compelled to turn around. It gave me the opportunity of seeing her full front while I had before only a side view of her face. After my introduction to Juliet, I paid her four or five visits, and I thought myself justified by the care I had given to the examination of her beauty, in saying in M. de Malipiero's drawroom one evening, when my opinion about her was asked, that she could please only agglutton with depraved tastes, that she had neither the fascination of simple nature nor any knowledge of society, that she was deficient in well-bred, easy manners as well as in striking talents, and that those were the qualities which a thorough gentleman liked to find in a woman. This opinion met the general approbation of his friends, but M. de Malipiero kindly whispered to me that Juliet would certainly be informed of the portrait I had drawn of her, and that she would become my sworn enemy. He had guessed rightly. I thought Juliet very singular, for she seldom spoke to me, and whenever she looked at me, she made use of an eyeglass, or she contracted her eyelids, as if she wished to deny me the honour of seeing her eyes, which were beyond all dispute very beautiful. They were blue, wondrously large and full, and tinted with that unfathomable, variegated iris, which nature only gives to youth, and which general disappears after having worked miracles when the owner reaches the shady side of forty. Frederick de Grade preserved it until his death. Juliet was informed of the portrait I had given of her to M. de Malipiero's friends by the indiscreet pensioner Xavier Cortantini. One evening I called upon her with M. Manzoni, and she told him that a wonderful judge of beauty had found flaws in hers, but she took good care not to specify them. It was not difficult to make out that she was indirectly firing at me, and I prepared myself for the ostracism which I was expecting, but which, however, she kept in abeyance fully for an hour. At last our conversation falling upon a concert given a few days before my Eimer, the actor, and in which his daughter, Therese, had taken a brilliant part. Juliet turned around to me and inquired what M. de Malipiero did for Therese. I said that he was educating her. He can well do it, she answered, for he is a man of talent, but I should like to know what he can do with you, whatever he can. I am told that he thinks you rather stupid. As a matter of course she had the laugh on her side, and I, confused, uncomfortable, and not knowing what to say, took leave after having cut a very sorry figure, and determined never again to darken her door. The next day at dinner the account of my adventure caused much amusement to the old senator. Throughout the summer I carried on a course of platonic love with my charming Angela at the house of her teacher of embroidery. But her extreme reserve excited me, and my love had almost become a torment to myself. With my ardent nature I required a mistress like Bettina, who knew how to satisfy my love without wearing it out. I still retained some feelings of purity, and I entertained the deepest veneration for Angela. She was, in my eyes, the very palladium of sig-crops. Still, very innocent, I felt some disinclination towards women, and I was simple enough to be jealous of even their husbands. Angela would not grant me the slightest favor. Yet she was no flirt, but the fire beginning in me parched and withered me. The pathetic entreaties which I poured out of my heart had less effect on her than upon two young sisters, her companions and friends. Had I not concentrated every look of mine upon the heartless girl, I might have discovered that her friends excelled her in beauty and in feeling. But my prejudiced eyes saw no one but Angela. To every outpouring of my love she answered that she was quite ready to become my wife, and that such was to be the limit of my wishes. When she descended to add that she suffered as much as I did myself, she thought she had bestowed upon me the greatest of favors. Such was the state of my mind when, in the first days of autumn, I received a letter from the Countess de Montréal with an invitation to spend some time at her beautiful estate at Pasean. She expected many guests and among them her own daughter, who had married a Venetian nobleman and who had a great reputation for wit and beauty, although she had but one eye. But it was so beautiful that it made up for the loss of the other. I accepted the invitation and Pasean offered me a constant round of pleasures. It was easy enough for me to enjoy myself and to forget for the time the rickers of the cruel Angela. I was given a pretty room on the ground floor, opening upon the gardens of Pasean, and I enjoyed its comforts without caring to know who my neighbors were. The morning after my arrival, at the very moment I awoke, my eyes were delighted with the sight of the charming creature who brought me my coffee. She was a very young girl, but as well-formed as a young person of seventeen. Yet she had scarcely completed her fourteenth a year. The snow of her complexion, her hair as dark as the raven's wing, her black eyes beaming with fire and innocence, her dress composed only of a chemise and a short petticoat, which exposed a well-turned leg and the prettiest tiny foot. Every detail I gathered in one instant presented to my looks the most original and the most perfect beauty I had ever beheld. I looked at her with the greatest pleasure, and her eyes rested upon me as if we had been old acquaintances. How did you find your bed? she asked. Very comfortable. I am sure you made it. Pray, who are you? I am Lucy, the daughter of the gatekeeper. I have neither brothers nor sisters, and I am fourteen years old. I am very glad you have no servant with you. I will be your little maid, and I am sure you will be pleased with me. Delighted at this beginning, I set up in my bed, and she helped me to put on my dressing gown, saying a hundred things which I did not understand. I began to drink my coffee quite amazed at her easy freedom, and struck with her beauty, to which she would have been impossible to remain indifferent. She had seated herself on my bed, giving no other apology for that liberty than the most delightful smile. I was still sipping my coffee when Lucy's parents came into my room. She did not move from her place on the bed, but she looked at them, appearing very proud of such a seat. The good people kindly scolded her, begged my forgiveness in her favor, and Lucy left the room to attend to her other duties. The moment she had gone, her father and mother began to praise their daughter. She is, they said, our only child, our darling pet, the hope of our old age. She loves and obeys us, and fears God. She is as clean as a new pin, and has but one fault. What is that? She is too young. That is a charming fault to which time will mend. I was not long and ascertaining that they were living specimens of honesty, of truth, of homely virtues, and of real happiness. I was delighted at this discovery when Lucy returned as gay as a lark, prettily dressed, her hair done in a peculiar way of her own, and with well-fitting shoes. She dropped a simple curtsy before me, gave a couple of hearty kisses to both her parents, and jumped on her father's knees. I asked her to come and sit on my bed, but she answered that she could not take such a liberty now that she was dressed. The simplicity, artlessness, and innocence of her answer seemed to me very enchanting, and brought a smile on my lips. I examined her to see whether she was prettier in her new dress or in the morning's negligee, and I decided in favor of the latter. To speak the truth Lucy was, I thought, superior in everything, not only to Angela, but even to Bettina. The hairdresser made his appearance and the honest family left my room. When I was dressed, I went to meet the Countess and her amiable daughter. The day passed off very pleasantly, as is generally the case in the country when you are amongst agreeable people. In the morning, the moment my eyes were opened, I rang the bell and pretty Lucy came in, simple and natural as before, with her easy manners and wonderful remarks, her candor, her innocence shown brilliantly all over her person. I could not conceive how, with her goodness, her virtue and her intelligence, she could run the risk of exciting me by coming into my room alone, and with so much familiarity. I fancied that she would not attach much important to certain slight liberties, and would not prove overscrupulous, and with that idea, I made up my mind to show her that I fully understood her. I felt no remorse of conscience on the score of her parents, who, in my estimation, were as careless as herself. I had no dread of being the first to give the alarm to her innocence, or to enlighten her mind with the gloomy light of malice. But, unwilling either to be the dupe of feeling or to act against it, I resolved to reconnoitre the ground. I extended daring hand towards her person, and by an involuntary movement she withdraws, blushes, her cheerfulness disappears, and, turning her head aside as if she were in search of something, she waits until her agitation has subsided. The whole affair had not lasted one minute. She came back, abashed at the idea that she had proved herself rather knowing, and at the dread of having perhaps given a wrong interpretation to an action which might have been, on my part, perfectly innocent, or the result of politeness. Her natural laugh soon returned, and, having rapidly read in her mind all I have just described, I lost no time in restoring her confidence and judging that I would venture too much by active operations. I resolved to employ the following morning in a friendly chat, during which I could make her out better. In pursuance of that plan the next morning, as we were talking, I told her that it was cold, but she would not feel it if she would lie down near me. Shall I disturb you, she said. No, but I am thinking that if your mother happened to come in she would be angry. Mother would not think of any harm. Come, then. But, Lucy, do you know what danger you were exposing yourself to? Certainly I do, but you are a good and what is more you are a priest. Come, only lock the door. No, no, for people might think I do not know what. She laid down close by me and kept on her chatting, although I did not understand a word of what she said, for in that singular position and unwilling to give way to my ardent desires I remained as still as a log. Her confidence in her safety, confidence which was certainly not feigned, worked upon my feelings to such an extent that I would have been ashamed to take any advantage of it. At last she told me that nine o'clock had struck and that if old Count Antonio found us as we were he would tease her with his jokes. When I see that man, she said, I'm afraid and I run away. Saying these words she rose from the bed and left the room. I remained motionless for a long while, stupefied, benumbed, and mastered by the agitation of my excited senses as well as by my thoughts. The next morning, as I wished to keep calm, I only let her sit down on my bed and the conversation I had with her proved without the shadow of a doubt that her parents had every reason to idolize her, and that the easy freedom of her mind as well as of her behavior with me was entirely owing to her innocence and to her purity. Her artlessness, her vivacity, her eager curiosity, and the bashful blushes which spread over her face whenever her innocent or justing remarks caused me to laugh, everything in fact convinced me that she was an angel destined to become the victim of the first libertine who would undertake to seduce her. I felt sufficient control over my feelings to resist any attempt against her virtue which my conscience might afterwards reproach me with. The mere thought of taking advantage of her innocence made me shudder, and my self-esteem was a guarantee to her parents who abandoned her to me on the strength of my good opinion they entertained of me. That Lucy's honor was safe in my hands. I thought I would have despised myself if I had betrayed the trust they reposed on me. I therefore determined to conquer my feelings, and with perfect confidence in the victory I made up my mind to wage war against myself and to be satisfied with her presence as the only reward of my heroic efforts. I was not yet acquainted with the axiom that, as long as the fighting lasts, victory remains uncertain. As I enjoyed her conversation much, a natural instinct prompted me to tell her that she would afford me great pleasure if she could come earlier in the morning and even wake me up if I happened to be asleep, adding, in order to give more weight to my request, that the less I slept the better I felt in health. In this manner I contrived to spend three hours instead of two in her society, although this cunning contrivance of mine did not prevent the hours flying, at least in my opinion, as swift as lightning. Her mother would often come in as we were talking, and when the good woman found her sitting on my bed, she would say nothing, only wondering at my kindness. Lucy would then cover her with kisses, and the kind old soul would entreat me to give her child lessons of goodness and to cultivate her mind. But when she had left us, Lucy did not think herself more unrestrained, and whether in or out of her mother's presence she was always the same without the slightest change. If the society of this angelic child afforded me the sweetest delight, it also caused me the most cruel suffering. Often, very often, when her face was close to my lips, I felt the most ardent temptation to smother her with kisses, and my blood was at fever heat when she wished that she had been a sister of mine. But I kept sufficient command over myself to avoid the slightest contact, for I was conscious that even one kiss would have been the spark which would have blown up all the edifice of my reserve. Every time she left me, I remained astounded at my own victory, but, always eager to win fresh laurels, I longed for the following morning, panting for a renewal of the sweet, yet very dangerous, contest. At the end of ten or twelve days, I felt that there was no alternative but to put a stop to this state of things, or to become a monster in my own eyes, and I decided, for the moral side of the question, all the more easily that nothing ensured me success if I chose the second alternative. The moment I placed her under the obligation to defend herself, Lucy would become a heroine, and the door of my room being open, I might have been exposed to shame, and to a very useless repentance. This rather frightened me, yet to put an end to my torture, I did not know what to decide. I could no longer resist the effect made upon my senses by this beautiful girl, who, at the break of day and scarcely dressed, rang gaily into my room, came to my bed, inquiring how I had slept, bent familiarly her head towards me, and so to speak, dropped her words on my lips. In those dangerous moments I would turn my head aside, but in her innocence she would reproach me for being afraid when she felt herself so safe, and if I answer that I could not possibly fear a child, she would reply that a difference of two years was of no account. Standing at bay exhausted, conscious that every instant increased the ardour which was devouring me, I resolved to entreat from herself the discontinuance of her visits, and this resolution appeared to me sublime and infallible. But having postponed its execution until the following morning, I passed a dreadful night, tortured by the image of Lucy, and by the idea that I would see her in the morning for the last time. I fancied that Lucy would not only grant my prayer, but that she would conceive for me the highest esteem. In the morning it was barely daylight, Lucy beaming radiant with beauty, a happy smile brightening her pretty mouth, and her splendid hair in the most fascinating disorder bursts into my room and rushes with open arms towards my bed. But when she sees my pale, dejected, and unhappy countenance she stops short, and her beautiful face taking an expression of sadness and anxiety. What ails you, she asks, with deep sympathy. I have had no sleep through the night. And why? Because I have made up my mind to impart to you a project which, although fraught with misery to myself, will at least secure me your esteem. But if your project is to ensure my esteem, it ought to make you very cheerful. Only tell me, reverend sir, why after calling me thou yesterday, you treat me today respectfully like a lady. What have I done? I will get your coffee, and you must tell me everything after you have drunk it. I long to hear you. She goes in returns, I drink the coffee, and seeing that my countenance remains grave, she tries to enliven me, contrives to make me smile, and claps her hands for joy. After putting everything in order, she closes the door, because the wind is high, and in her anxiety not to lose one word of what I have to say, she entreats artlessly a little place near me. I cannot refuse her, for I feel almost lifeless. I then begin a faithful recital of the fearful state in which her beauty has thrown me, and a vivid picture of all the suffering I have experienced in trying to master my ardent wish to give her some proof of my love. I explain to her that I am unable to endure such torture any longer, I see no other safety, but in entreating her not to see me any more. The importance of the subject, the truth of my love, my wish to present my expedient in the light of her heroic effort of a deep and virtuous passion, lend me a peculiar eloquence. I endeavor above all to make her realize the fearful consequences which might follow a course different to the one I was proposing, and how miserable we might be. At the close of my long discourse Lucy, seeing my eyes wet with tears, throws off the bedclothes to wipe them, without thinking that in so doing she uncovers two globes, the beauty of which might have caused the wreck of the most experienced pilot. After a short silence the charming child tells me that my tears make her very unhappy, and that she had never supposed that she could cause them. All that you have just told me, she added, proves the sincerity of your great love for me, but I cannot imagine why you should be in such a dread of a feeling which affords me the most intense pleasure. You wish to banish me from your presence because you stand in fear of your love, but what would you do if you hated me? Am I guilty because I have pleased you? If it is a crime to have won your affection, I can assure you that I did not think I was committing a criminal action, and therefore you cannot conscientiously punish me. Yet I cannot conceal the truth. I am very happy to be loved by you. As for the danger we run, when we love danger which I can understand, we can set it at defiance. If we choose, and I wonder at my not fearing and ignorant as I am, while you, a learned man, think it so terrible, I am astonished that love, which is not a disease, should have made you ill, and that it should have exactly the opposite effect upon me. Is it possible that I am mistaken, and that my feelings toward you should not be love? You saw me very cheerful when I came in this morning. It is because I have been dreaming all night, but my dreams did not keep me awake. Only several times I woke up to ascertain whether my dream was true, for I thought I was near you, and every time finding that it was not so, I quickly went to sleep again in the hope of continuing my happy dream, and every time I succeeded. After such a night, was it not natural for me to be cheerful this morning? My dear Abbey, if love is a torment for you, I am very sorry, but would it be possible for you to live without love? I will do anything you order me to do, but even if your career depended upon it, I would not cease to love you, for that would be impossible. Yet if to heal your sufferings, it should be necessary for you to love me no more, you must do your utmost to succeed, for I would much rather see you alive without love than dead for having love too much. Only try to find some other plan, for the one you have proposed makes me very miserable. Think of it, there may be some other way which will be less painful. Suggest one more practicable and depend upon Lucy's obedience. These words, so true, so artless, so innocent, made me realize the immense superiority of nature's eloquence over that of philosophical intellect. For the first time I folded this angelic being in my arms, exclaiming, Yes, dearest Lucy, yes, thou hast it in thy power to afford the sweetest relief to my devouring pain, abandoned to my ardent kisses thy divine lips which have just assured me of thy love. In our past in the most delightful silence, which nothing interrupted, except these words murmured now and then by Lucy, Oh God, is it true, is it not a dream? Yet I respected her innocence and the more readily that she abandoned herself entirely and without the slightest resistance. At last, extricating herself gently from my arms, she said, with some uneasiness, my heart begins to speak, I must go, and she instantly rose. Having somewhat rearranged her dress, she sat down, and her mother, coming in at that moment, complimented me upon my good looks and my bright countenance, and told Lucy to dress herself to attend Mass. Lucy came back an hour later and expressed her joy in her pride at the wonderful cures she thought she had performed upon me. For the healthy appearance I was then showing convinced her of my love much better than the pitiful state in which she had found me in the morning. If your complete happiness, as she said, rests in my power, be happy. There is nothing that I can refuse you. The moment she left me, still wavering between happiness and fear, I understood that I was standing on the very brink of the abyss, and that nothing but a most extraordinary determination would prevent me from falling headlong into it. I remained at Paseon until the end of September, and the last eleven nights of my stay were passed in the undisturbed possession of Lucy, who, secure in her mother's profound sleep, came to my room to enjoy in my arms the most delicious hours. The burning ardor of my love was increased by the abstinence to which I condemned myself, although Lucy did everything in her power to make me break through my determination. She could not fully enjoy the sweetness of the forbidden fruit, unless I plucked it without reserve, and the effect produced by her constantly lying in each other's arms was too strong for a young girl to resist. She tried everything she could to deceive me and to make believe that I had already, and in reality, gathered the whole flower. But Bettina's lessons had been too efficient to allow me to go on a wrong scent, and I reached the end of my stay without yielding entirely to the temptation she so fondly threw in my way. I promised her to return in the spring. Our farewell was tender and very sad, and I left her in a state of mind and of body, which must have been the cause of her misfortunes which, twenty years after, I had occasion to reproach myself with in Holland, and which will ever remain upon my conscience. After a few days after my return to Venice, I had fallen back into all my old habits, and resumed my courtship of Angela in the hope that I would obtain from her, at least, as much as Lucy had granted to me. A certain dread, which today I can no longer trace in my nature, a sort of terror of the consequences which might have a blighting influence upon my future, prevented me from giving myself up to complete enjoyment. I do not know whether I have ever been a truly honest man, but I am fully aware that the feelings I fostered in my youth, whereby far more upright than those I have, as I lived on, force upon myself to accept. A wicked philosophy throws down too many of these barriers which we call prejudices. The two sisters who were sharing Angela's embroidery lessons were her intimate friends and the confidants of all her secrets. I made their acquaintance and found that they disapproved of her extreme reserve towards me. As I usually saw them with Angela and knew their intimacy with her, I would, when I happened to meet them alone, tell them all my sorrows, and thinking only of my cruel sweetheart, I never was conceited enough to propose that these young girls might fall in love with me. But I often ventured to speak to them with all the blazing inspiration which was burning in me, a liberty I would not have dared to take in the presence of her whom I loved. True love always begets reserve. We fear to be accused of exaggeration if we should give utterance to feelings inspired by passion, and the modest lover in his dread of saying too much very often says too little. The teacher of embroidery and old bigot who at first appeared not to mind the attachment I skewed for Angela got tired at last of my two frequent visits, and mentioned them to the abbey, the uncle of my fair lady. He told me kindly one day that I ought not to call at that house so often, as my constant visits might be wrongly construed and prove detrimental to the reputation of his niece. His words fell upon me like a thunderbolt, but I mastered my feelings sufficiently to leave him without incurring any suspicion, and I promised to follow his good advice. Three or four days afterwards, I paid a visit to the teacher of embroidery, and to make her believe that my visit was only intended for her, I did not stop one instant near the young girls. Yet I contrived to slip in the hand of the eldest of the two sisters, a note enclosing another for my dear Angela, in which I explained why I had been compelled to discontinue my visits, and treating her to devise some means by which I could enjoy the happiness of seeing her and of conversing with her. In my note to Nanette, I only begged her to give my letter to her friend, adding that I would see them again the day after the morrow, and that I trusted to her to find an opportunity for delivering me the answer. She managed it all very cleverly, and when I renewed my visit two days afterwards, she gave me a letter without attracting the attention of anyone. Nanette's letter enclosed a very short note from Angela, who, disliking a letter writing, merely advised me to follow, if I could, the plan proposed by her friend. Here is the copy of the letter written by Nanette, which I have always kept, as well as all other letters which I give in these memoirs. There is nothing in the world, reverend sir, that I would not readily do for my friend. She visits at our house every holiday, has supper with us, and sleeps under our roof. I will suggest the best way for you to make the acquaintance of Madame Orio, our aunt. But, if you obtain an introduction to her, you must be very careful not to let her suspect your preference for Angela, for our aunt would certainly object to her house being made a place of rendezvous to facilitate your interviews with a stranger to her family. Now, for the plan I propose, and in the execution of which I will give you every assistance in my power. Madame Orio, although a woman of good station and life, is not wealthy, and she wishes to have her name entered on the list of noble widows, who receive the bounties bestowed by the confraternity of the Holy Sacrament, of which M. de Malipiero is president. Last Sunday, Angela mentioned that you are in the good graces of that nobleman, and that the best way to obtain his patronage would be to ask you to entreat it in her behalf. The foolish girl added that you were smitten with me, that all your visits to our mistress of embroidery were made for my special benefit, and for the sake of entertaining me, and that I would find it very easy task to interest you in her favor. My aunt answered that, as you are a priest, there was no fear of any harm, and she told me to write to you with an invitation to call on her. I refused. The procurator Rosa, who is a great favorite of my aunts, was present. He approved of my refusal, saying that the letter ought to be written by her and not by me. That it was for my aunt to beg the honor of your visit on business of real importance, and that if there was any truth in the report of your love for me, you would not fail to come. My aunt, by his advice, has therefore written the letter which you will find at your house. If you wish to meet Angela, postpone your visit to us until next Sunday. Should you succeed in obtaining M. de Malipiero's good will in favor of my aunt, you will become the pet of the household. But you must forgive me if I appear to treat you with coolness, for I have said that I do not like you. I would advise you to make love to my aunt, who is sixty years of age. M. Rosa will not be jealous, and you will become dear to everyone. For my part I will manage for you an opportunity for some private conversation with Angela, and I will do anything to convince you of my friendship. Adieu. This plan appeared to me very well conceived, and having the same evening received M. Orio's letter, I called upon her on the following day, Sunday. I was welcomed in a very friendly manner, and the lady in treating me to exert in her behalf my influence with M. de Malipiero, entrusted me with all the papers which I might require to succeed. I undertook to do my utmost, and I took care to address only a few words to Angela, but I directed all my gallant attentions to Nanette, who treated me as coolly as could be. Finally I won the friendship of the old procurator Rosa, who in after years was of some service to me. I had so much at stake in the success of M. Orio's petition that I thought of nothing else, and knowing all the power of the beautiful Thérèse Eimer over our amorous senator, who would be but too happy to please her in anything, I determined to call upon her the next day, and I went straight to her room without being announced. I found her alone with the physician Doro, who feigning to be on a professional visit, wrote a prescription, felt her purse, and went off. This Doro was suspected of being in love with Thérèse, and de Malipiero, who was jealous, had forbidden Thérèse to receive his visits, and she had promised to obey him. She knew that I was acquainted with those circumstances, and my presence was evidently unpleasant to her, for she had certainly no wish that the old man should hear how she kept her promise. I thought that no better opportunity could be found of obtaining from her everything I wished. I told her, in a few words, the object of my visit, and I took care to add that she could rely upon my discretion, and that I would not, for the world, do her any injury. Thérèse, grateful for this assurance, answered that she rejoiced at finding an occasion to oblige me, and asking me to give her the papers of my protégé, she sued me, the certificates and testimonials of another lady in favor, of whom she had undertaken to speak, and whom she said she would sacrifice to the person in whose behalf I felt interested. She kept her word for the very next day she placed in my hands the Brevet, signed by his Excellency as President of the Confraternity. For the present, and with the expectation of further favors, Madame Aureo's name was put down to share the bounties, which were distributed twice a year. Nanette and her sister Martin were the orphan daughters of a sister of Madame Aureo. All the fortune of the good lady consisted in the house which was her dwelling, the first floor being let, and in a pension given to her by her brother, member of the Council of Ten. She lived alone with her two charming nieces, the eldest sixteen and the youngest fifteen years of age. She kept no servant, and only employed an old woman who, for one crown a month, fetched water and did the rough work. Her only friend was the procurator Rosa. He had, like her, reached his sixtieth year and expected to marry her as soon as she should become a widower. The two sisters slept together on the third floor in a large bed, which was likewise shared by Angela every Sunday. As soon as I found myself in possession of the deed for Madame Aureo, I hastened to pay a visit to the Mistress of Embroidery in order to find an opportunity of acquainting Nanette with my success, and in a short note which I prepared, I informed her that in two days I would call to give the brevet to Madame Aureo, and I begged her earnestly not to forget her promise to contrive a private interview with my dear Angela. When I arrived on the appointed day at Madame Aureo's house, Nanette, who had watched for my coming, dexterously conveyed to my hand a billet, requesting me to find a moment to read it before leaving the house. I found Madame Aureo, Angela, the old procurator, and Martin in the room. Longing to read the note, I refused the seat offered to me, and presenting to Madame Aureo the deed she had so long desired, I asked, as my only reward, the pleasure of kissing her hand, giving her to understand that I wanted to leave the room immediately. Oh, my dear Abbage, said the lady, you shall have a kiss, but not on my hand, and no one can object to it, as I am thirty years older than you. She might have said forty-five without much astray. I gave her two kisses, which evidently satisfy her, for she desired me to perform the same ceremony with her nieces, but they both ran away, and Angela alone stood the brunt of my hardy-hood. After this the widow asked me to sit down. I cannot, Madame. Why, I beg. I have. I understand. Nanette, show the way. Dear Aunt, excuse me. Well, then, Martin. Oh, dear Aunt, why do you not insist upon my sister obeying your orders? Alas, Madame, these young ladies are quite right. Allow me to retire. No, my dear Abbage. My nieces are very foolish, and Rosa, I am sure, will kindly. The good procurator takes me affectionately by the hand, and leads me to the third story where he leaves me. The moment I am alone, I open my letter, and I read the following. My aunt will invite you to supper. Do not accept. Go away as soon as we sit down to the table, and Martin will escort you as far as the street door. But do not leave the house. When the street door is closed again, everyone thinking you are gone, go upstairs in the dark as far as the third floor, where you must wait for us. We will come up the moment and Rosa has left the house, and our aunt has gone to bed. Angela will be at liberty to grant you throughout the night a tet-a-tet, which I entrust will prove a happy one. Oh, what joy, what gratitude for the lucky chance, which allowed me to read this letter on the very spot where I was to expect the dear abject of my love. Certain of finding my way without the slightest difficulty, I return to Madame Oreo's sitting-room, overwhelmed with happiness.