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Memoirs of Jacques Casanova, The - Vol. 1

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A strong breeze sprang up towards evening, so I ordered them to clap on all sail and scud before the wind, even if it should get stronger. In order to escape the pirate, I had made up my mind to cross the gulf. We took the wind through the night, and in the morning we were eighty miles from Corfu, which I determined to reach by rowing. We were in the middle of the gulf, and the sailors were worn out with fatigue, but I had no longer any fear. A gale began to blow from the north, and in less than an hour it was blowing so hard that we were compelled to sail close to the wind in a fearful manner. The felucca looked every moment as if it must capsize. Every one looked terrified but kept complete silence, for I had enjoined it on penalty of death. In spite of our dangerous position, I could not help laughing when I heard the sobs of the cowardly scaramouch. The helmsman was a man of great nerve, and the gale being steady I felt we would reach Corfu without mishap. At day-break we sighted the town, and at nine in the morning we landed at Mandrachia. Everybody was surprised to see us arrive that way. </p> <p> As soon as my company was landed, the young officers naturally came to inspect the actresses, but they did not find them very desirable, with the exception of Marina, who received uncomplainingly the news that I could not renew my acquaintance with her. I felt certain that she would not lack admirers. But my actresses, who had appeared ugly at the landing, produced a very different effect on the stage, and particularly the pantaloon's wife. M. Duodo, commander of a man-of-war, called upon her, and, finding master pantaloon intolerant on the subject of his better-half, gave him a few blows with his cane. Fastidio informed me the next day that the pantaloon and his wife refused to perform any more, but I made them alter their mind by giving them a benefit night. </p> <p> The pantaloon's wife was much applauded, but she felt insulted because, in the midst of the applause, the pit called out, "Bravo, Duodo!" She presented herself to the general in his own box, in which I was generally, and complained of the manner in which she was treated. The general promised her, in my name, another benefit night for the close of the carnival, and I was of course compelled to ratify his promise. The fact is, that, to satisfy the greedy actors, I abandoned to my comedians, one by one, the seventeen nights I had reserved for myself. The benefit I gave to Marina was at the special request of Madame F&mdash;&mdash;, who had taken her into great favour since she had had the honour of breakfasting alone with M. D&mdash;&mdash; R&mdash;&mdash; in a villa outside of the city. </p> <p> My generosity cost me four hundred sequins, but the faro bank brought me a thousand and more, although I never held the cards, my management of the theatre taking up all my time. My manner with the actresses gained me great kindness; it was clearly seen that I carried on no intrigue with any of them, although I had every facility for doing so. Madame F&mdash;&mdash; complimented me, saying that she had not entertained such a good opinion of my discretion. I was too busy through the carnival to think of love, even of the passion which filled my heart. It was only at the beginning of Lent, and after the departure of the comedians, that I could give rein to my feelings. </p> <p> One morning Madame F&mdash;&mdash; sent, a messenger who, summoned me to her presence. It was eleven o'clock; I immediately went to her, and enquired what I could do for her service. </p> <p> "I wanted to see you," she said, "to return the two hundred sequins which you lent me so nobly. Here they are; be good enough to give me back my note of hand." </p> <p> "Your note of hand, madam, is no longer in my possession. I have deposited it in a sealed envelope with the notary who, according to this receipt of his, can return it only to you." </p> <p> "Why did you not keep it yourself?" </p> <p> "Because I was afraid of losing it, or of having it stolen. And in the event of my death I did not want such a document to fall into any other hands but yours." </p> <p> "A great proof of your extreme delicacy, certainly, but I think you ought to have reserved the right of taking it out of the notary's custody yourself." </p> <p> "I did not forsee the possibility of calling for it myself." </p> <p> "Yet it was a very likely thing. Then I can send word to the notary to transmit it to me?" </p> <p> "Certainly, madam; you alone can claim it." </p> <p> She sent to the notary, who brought the himself. </p> <p> She tore the envelope open, and found only a piece of paper besmeared with ink, quite illegible, except her own name, which had not been touched. </p> <p> "You have acted," she said, "most nobly; but you must agree with me that I cannot be certain that this piece of paper is really my note of hand, although I see my name on it." </p> <p> "True, madam; and if you are not certain of it, I confess myself in the wrong." </p> <p> "I must be certain of it, and I am so; but you must grant that I could not swear to it." </p> <p> "Granted, madam." </p> <p> During the following days it struck me that her manner towards me was singularly altered. She never received me in her dishabille, and I had to wait with great patience until her maid had entirely dressed her before being admitted into her presence. </p> <p> If I related any story, any adventure, she pretended not to understand, and affected not to see the point of an anecdote or a jest; very often she would purposely not look at me, and then I was sure to relate badly. If M. D&mdash;&mdash; R&mdash;&mdash; laughed at something I had just said, she would ask what he was laughing for, and when he had told her, she would say it was insipid or dull. If one of her bracelets became unfastened, I offered to fasten it again, but either she would not give me so much trouble, or I did not understand the fastening, and the maid was called to do it. I could not help shewing my vexation, but she did not seem to take the slightest notice of it. If M. D&mdash;&mdash; R&mdash;&mdash; excited me to say something amusing or witty, and I did not speak immediately, she would say that my budget was empty, laughing, and adding that the wit of poor M. Casanova was worn out. Full of rage, I would plead guilty by my silence to her taunting accusation, but I was thoroughly miserable, for I did not see any cause for that extraordinary change in her feelings, being conscious that I had not given her any motive for it. I wanted to shew her openly my indifference and contempt, but whenever an opportunity offered, my courage would forsake me, and I would let it escape. </p> <p> One evening M. D&mdash;&mdash; R&mdash;&mdash; asking me whether I had often been in love, I answered, </p> <p> "Three times, my lord." </p> <p> "And always happily, of course." </p> <p> "Always unhappily. The first time, perhaps, because, being an ecclesiastic, I durst not speak openly of my love. The second, because a cruel, unexpected event compelled me to leave the woman I loved at the very moment in which my happiness would have been complete. The third time, because the feeling of pity, with which I inspired the beloved object, induced her to cure me of my passion, instead of crowning my felicity." </p> <p> "But what specific remedies did she use to effect your cure?" </p> <p> "She has ceased to be kind." </p> <p> "I understand she has treated you cruelly, and you call that pity, do you? You are mistaken." </p> <p> "Certainly," said Madame F&mdash;&mdash;, "a woman may pity the man she loves, but she would not think of ill-treating him to cure him of his passion. That woman has never felt any love for you." </p> <p> "I cannot, I will not believe it, madam." </p> <p> "But are you cured?" </p> <p> "Oh! thoroughly; for when I happen to think of her, I feel nothing but indifference and coldness. But my recovery was long." </p> <p> "Your convalescence lasted, I suppose, until you fell in love with another." </p> <p> "With another, madam? I thought I had just told you that the third time I loved was the last." </p> <p> A few days after that conversation, M. D&mdash;&mdash; R&mdash;&mdash; told me that Madame F&mdash;&mdash; was not well, that he could not keep her company, and that I ought to go to her, as he was sure she would be glad to see me. I obeyed, and told Madame F&mdash;&mdash; what M. D&mdash;&mdash; R&mdash;&mdash; had said. She was lying on a sofa. Without looking at me, she told me she was feverish, and would not ask me to remain with her, because I would feel weary. </p> <p> "I could not experience any weariness in your society, madam; at all events, I can leave you only by your express command, and, in that case, I must spend the next four hours in your ante-room, for M. D&mdash;- R&mdash;&mdash; has told me to wait for him here." </p> <p> "If so, you may take a seat." </p> <p> Her cold and distant manner repelled me, but I loved her, and I had never seen her so beautiful, a slight fever animating her complexion which was then truly dazzling in its beauty. I kept where I was, dumb and as motionless as a statue, for a quarter of an hour. Then she rang for her maid, and asked me to leave her alone for a moment. I was called back soon after, and she said to me, </p> <p> "What has become of your cheerfulness?" </p> <p> "If it has disappeared, madam, it can only be by your will. Call it back, and you will see it return in full force." </p> <p> "What must I do to obtain that result?" </p> <p> "Only be towards me as you were when I returned from Casopo. I have been disagreeable to you for the last four months, and as I do not know why, I feel deeply grieved." </p> <p> "I am always the same: in what do you find me changed?" </p> <p> "Good heavens! In everything, except in beauty. But I have taken my decision." </p> <p> "And what is it?" </p> <p> "To suffer in silence, without allowing any circumstance to alter the feelings with which you have inspired me; to wish ardently to convince you of my perfect obedience to your commands; to be ever ready to give you fresh proofs of my devotion." </p> <p> "I thank you, but I cannot imagine what you can have to suffer in silence on my account. I take an interest in you, and I always listen with pleasure to your adventures. As a proof of it, I am extremely curious to hear the history of your three loves." </p> <p> I invented on the spot three purely imaginary stories, making a great display of tender sentiments and of ardent love, but without alluding to amorous enjoyment, particularly when she seemed to expect me to do so. Sometimes delicacy, sometimes respect or duty, interfered to prevent the crowning pleasure, and I took care to observe, at such moments of disappointment, that a true lover does not require that all important item to feel perfectly happy. I could easily see that her imagination was travelling farther than my narrative, and that my reserve was agreeable to her. I believed I knew her nature well enough to be certain that I was taking the best road to induce her to follow me where I wished to lead her. She expressed a sentiment which moved me deeply, but I was careful not to shew it. We were talking of my third love, of the woman who, out of pity, had undertaken to cure me, and she remarked, </p> <p> "If she truly loved you, she may have wished not to cure you, but to cure herself." </p> <p> On the day following this partial reconciliation, M. F&mdash;&mdash;, her husband, begged my commanding officer, D&mdash;&mdash; R&mdash;&mdash;-, to let me go with him to Butintro for an excursion of three days, his own adjutant being seriously ill. </p> <p> Butintro is seven miles from Corfu, almost opposite to that city; it is the nearest point to the island from the mainland. It is not a fortress, but only a small village of Epirus, or Albania, as it is now called, and belonging to the Venetians. Acting on the political axiom that "neglected right is lost right," the Republic sends every year four galleys to Butintro with a gang of galley slaves to fell trees, cut them, and load them on the galleys, while the military keep a sharp look-out to prevent them from escaping to Turkey and becoming Mussulmans. One of the four galleys was commanded by M. F&mdash;&mdash; who, wanting an adjutant for the occasion, chose me. </p> <p> I went with him, and on the fourth day we came back to Corfu with a large provision of wood. I found M. D&mdash;&mdash; R&mdash;&mdash; alone on the terrace of his palace. It was Good Friday. He seemed thoughtful, and, after a silence of a few minutes, he spoke the following words, which I can never forget: </p> <p> "M. F&mdash;&mdash;-, whose adjutant died yesterday, has just been entreating me to give you to him until he can find another officer. I have told him that I had no right to dispose of your person, and that he, ought to apply to you, assuring him that, if you asked me leave to go with him, I would not raise any objection, although I require two adjutants. Has he not mentioned the matter to you?" </p> <p> "No, monsignor, he has only tendered me his thanks for having accompanied him to Butintro, nothing else." </p> <p> "He is sure to speak to you about it. What do you intend to say?" </p> <p> "Simply that I will never leave the service of your excellency without your express command to do so." </p> <p> "I never will give you such an order." </p> <p> As M. D&mdash;&mdash; R&mdash;&mdash; was saying the last word, M. and Madame F&mdash;&mdash; came in. Knowing that the conversation would most likely turn upon the subject which had just been broached, I hurried out of the room. In less than a quarter of an hour I was sent for, and M. F&mdash;&mdash; said to me, confidentially, </p> <p> "Well, M. Casanova, would you not be willing to live with me as my adjutant?" </p> <p> "Does his excellency dismiss me from his service?" </p> <p> "Not at all," observed M. D&mdash;&mdash; R&mdash;&mdash;, "but I leave you the choice." </p> <p> "My lord, I could not be guilty of ingratitude." </p> <p> And I remained there standing, uneasy, keeping my eyes on the ground, not even striving to conceal my mortification, which was, after all, very natural in such a position. I dreaded looking at Madame F&mdash;&mdash;, for I knew that she could easily guess all my feelings. An instant after, her foolish husband coldly remarked that I should certainly have a more fatiguing service with him than with M. D&mdash;&mdash; R&mdash;&mdash;, and that, of course, it was more honourable to serve the general governor of the galeazze than a simple sopra-committo. I was on the point of answering, when Madame F&mdash;&mdash; said, in a graceful and easy manner, "M. Casanova is right," and she changed the subject. I left the room, revolving in my mind all that had just taken place. </p> <p> My conclusion was that M. F&mdash;&mdash; had asked M. D&mdash;&mdash; R&mdash;&mdash; to let me go with him at the suggestion of his wife, or, at least with her consent, and it was highly flattering to my love and to my vanity. But I was bound in honour not to accept the post, unless I had a perfect assurance that it would not be disagreeable to my present patron. "I will accept," I said to myself, "if M. D&mdash;&mdash; R&mdash;&mdash; tells me positively that I shall please him by doing so. It is for M. F to make him say it." </p> <p>
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