The Punishment of Marazzani--I Leave Lugano--Turin--M. Dubois at
Parma--Leghorn--The Duke of Orloff--Pisa--Stratico--Sienna--The
Marchioness Chigi--My Departure from Sienna With an Englishwoman
These unforeseen, haphazard meetings with old friends have always been
the happiest moments of my life.
We all remained for some time dumb with delight. M. de R. was the first
to break the silence by giving me a cordial embrace. We burst out into
mutual excuses, he for having imagined that there might be other
Casanovas in Italy, and I for not having ascertained his name. He made me
take pot-luck with him the same day, and we seemed as if we had never
parted. The Republic had given him this employ--a very lucrative one--and
he was only sorry that it would expire in two years. He told me he was
delighted to be able to be of use to me, and begged me to consider he was
wholly at my service. He was delighted to hear that I should be engaged
in seeing my work through the press for three or four months, and seemed
vexed when I told him that I could not accept his hospitality more than
once a week as my labours would be incessant.
Madame de R---- could scarcely recover from her surprise. It was nine
years since I had seen her at Soleure, and then I thought her beauty must
be at its zenith; but I was wrong, she was still more beautiful and I
told her so. She shewed me her only child, who had been born four years
after my departure. She cherished the child as the apple of her eye, and
seemed likely to spoil it; but I heard, a few years ago, that this child
is now an amiable and accomplished man.
In a quarter of an hour Madame de R---- informed me of all that had
happened at Soleure since my departure. Lebel had gone to Besancon, where
he lived happily with his charming wife.
She happened to observe in a casual way that I no longer looked as young
as I had done at Soleure, and this made me regulate my conduct in a
manner I might not otherwise have done. I did not let her beauty carry me
away; I resisted the effect of her charms, and I was content to enjoy her
friendship, and to be worthy of the friendship of her good husband.
The work on which I was engaged demanded all my care and attention, and a
love affair would have wasted most of my time.
I began work the next morning, and save for an hour's visit from M. de
R---- I wrote on till nightfall. The next day I had the first proof-sheet
with which I was well enough pleased.
I spent the whole of the next month in my room, working assiduously, and
only going out to mass on feast days, to dine with M. de R----, and to
walk with his wife and her child.
At the end of a month my first volume was printed and stitched, and the
manuscript of the second volume was ready for the press. Towards the end
of October the printer sent in the entire work in three volumes, and in
less than a year the edition was sold out.
My object was not so much to make money as to appease the wrath of the
Venetian Inquisitors; I had gone all over Europe, and experienced a
violent desire to see my native land once more.
Amelot de la Houssaye had written his book from the point of view of an
enemy of Venice. His history was rather a satire, containing learned and
slanderous observations mingled together. It had been published for
seventy years, but hitherto no one had taken the trouble to refute it. If
a Venetian had attempted to do so he would not have obtained permission
from his Government to print it in the States of Venice, for the State
policy is to allow no one to discuss the actions of the authorities,
whether in praise or blame; consequently no writer had attempted to
refute the French history, as it was well known that the refutation would
be visited with punishment and not with reward.
My position was an exceptional one. I had been persecuted by the Venetian
Government, so no one could accuse me of being partial; and by my
exposing the calumnies of Amelot before all Europe I hoped to gain a
reward, which after all would only be an act of justice.
I had been an exile for fourteen years, and I thought the Inquisitors
would be glad to repair their injustice on the pretext of rewarding my
patriotism.
My readers will see that my hopes were fulfilled, but I had to wait for
five more years instead of receiving permission to return at once.
M. de Bragadin was dead, and Dandolo and Barbaro were the only friends I
had left at Venice; and with their aid I contrived to subscribe fifty
copies of my book in my native town.
Throughout my stay at Lugano I only frequented the house of M. de R----,
where I saw the Abbe Riva, a learned and discreet man, to whom I had been
commended by M. Querini, his relation. The abbe enjoyed such a reputation
for wisdom amongst his fellow-countrymen that he was a kind of arbiter in
all disputes, and thus the expenses of the law were saved. It was no
wonder that the gentlemen of the long robe hated him most cordially. His
nephew, Jean Baptiste Riva, was a friend of the Muses, of Bacchus, and of
Venus; he was also a friend of mine, though I could not match him with
the bottles. He lent me all the nymphs he had initiated into the
mysteries, and they liked him all the better, as I made them some small
presents. With him and his two pretty sisters I went to the Borromean
Isles. I knew that Count Borromeo, who had honoured me with his
friendship at Turin, was there, and from him I felt certain of a warm
welcome. One of the two sisters had to pass for Riva's wife, and the
other for his sister-in-law.
Although the count was a ruined man he lived in his isles like a prince.
It would be impossible to describe these Islands of the Blest; they must
be seen to be imagined. The inhabitants enjoy an everlasting spring;
there is neither heat nor cold.
The count regaled us choicely, and amused the two girls by giving them
rods and lines and letting them fish. Although he was ugly, old, and
ruined, he still possessed the art of pleasing.
On the way back to Lugano, as I was making place for a carriage in a
narrow road, my horse slipped and fell down a slope ten feet high. My
head went against a large stone, and I thought my last hour was come as
the blood poured out of the wound. However, I was well again in a few
days. This was my last ride on horseback.
During my stay at Lugano the inspectors of the Swiss cantons came there
in its turn. The people dignified them with the magnificent title of
ambassadors, but M. de R---- was content to call them avoyers.
These gentlemen stayed at my inn, and I had my meals with them throughout
their stay.
The avoyer of Berne gave me some news of my poor friend M. F----. His
charming daughter Sara had become the wife of M, de V----, and was happy.
A few days after these pleasant and cultured men had left, I was startled
one morning by the sudden appearance of the wretched Marazzani in my
room. I seized him by his collar, threw him out, and before he had time
to use his cane or his sword, I had kicked, beaten, and boxed him most
soundly. He defended himself to the best of his ability, and the landlord
and his men ran up at the noise, and had some difficulty in separating
us.
"Don't let him go!" I cried, "send for the bargello and have him away to
prison."
I dressed myself hastily, and as I was going out to see M. de R----, the
bargello met me, and asked me on what charge I gave the man into custody.
"You will hear that at M. de R----'s, where I shall await you."
I must now explain my anger. You may remember, reader, that I left the
wretched fellow in the prison of Buen Retiro. I heard afterwards that the
King of Spain, Jerusalem, and the Canary Islands, had given him a small
post in a galley off the coast of Africa.
He had done me no harm, and I pitied him; but not being his intimate
friend, and having no power to mitigate the hardship of his lot, I had
well-nigh forgotten him.
Eight months after, I met at Barcelona Madame Bellucci, a Venetian
dancer, with whom I had had a small intrigue. She gave an exclamation of
delight on seeing me, and said she was glad to see me delivered from the
hard fate to which a tyrannous Government had condemned me.
"What fate is that?" I asked, "I have seen a good deal of misfortune
since I left you."
"I mean the presidio."
"But that has never been my lot, thank God! Who told you such a story?"
"A Count Marazzani, who was here three weeks ago, and told me he had been
luckier than you, as he had made his escape."
"He's a liar and a scoundrel; and if ever I meet him again he shall pay
me dearly."
From that moment I never thought of the rascal without feeling a lively
desire to give him a thrashing, but I never thought that chance would
bring about so early a meeting.
Under the circumstances I think my behaviour will be thought only
natural. I had beaten him, but that was not enough for me. I seemed to
have done nothing, and indeed, I had got as good as I gave.
In the mean time he was in prison, and I went to M. de R---- to see what
he could do for me.
As soon as M. de R heard my statement he said he could neither keep him
in prison nor drive him out of the town unless I laid a plea before him,
craving protection against this man, whom I believed to have come to
Lugano with the purpose of assassinating me.
"You can make the document more effective," he added, "by placing your
actual grievance in a strong light, and laying stress on his sudden
appearance in your room without sending in his name. That's what you had
better do, and it remains to be seen how I shall answer your plea. I
shall ask him for his passport and delay the case, and order him to be
severely treated; but in the end I shall only be able to drive him out of
the town, unless he can find good bail."
I could ask no more. I sent in my plea, and the next day I had the
pleasure of seeing him brought into the court bound hand and foot.
M. de R began to examine him, and Marazzani swore he had no evil
intentions in calling on me. As to the calumny, he protested he had only
repeated common rumour, and professed his joy at finding it had been
mistaken.
This ought to have been enough for me, but I continued obdurate.
M. de R---- said the fact of my being sent to the galleys having been
rumoured was no justification for his repeating it.
"And furthermore," he proceeded, "M. Casanova's suspicion that you were
going to assassinate him is justified by your giving a false name, for
the plaintiff maintains that you are not Count Marazzani at all. He
offers to furnish surety on this behalf, and if M. Casanova does you
wrong, his bail will escheat to you as damages. In the mean time you will
remain in prison till we have further information about your real
status."
He was taken back, and as the poor devil had not a penny in his pocket it
would have been superfluous to tell the bargedlo to treat him severely.
M. de R wrote to the Swiss agent at Parma to obtain the necessary
information; but as the rascal knew this would be against him, he wrote
me a humble letter, in which he confessed that he was the son of a poor
shopkeeper of Bobbio, and although his name was really Marazzani, he had
nothing to do with the Marazzanis of Plaisance. He begged me to set him
at liberty.
I shewed the letter to M. de R----, who let him out of prison with orders
to leave Lugano in twenty-four hours.
I thought I had been rather too harsh with him, and gave the poor devil
some money to take him to Augsburg, and also a letter for M. de
Sellentin, who was recruiting there for the Prussian king. We shall hear
of Marazzani again.
The Chevalier de Breche came to the Lugano Fair to buy some horses, and
stopped a fortnight. I often met him at M. de R----'s, for whose wife he
had a great admiration, and I was sorry to see him go.
I left Lugano myself a few days later, having made up my mind to winter
in Turin, where I hoped to see some pleasant society.
Before I left I received a friendly letter from Prince Lubomirski, with a
bill for a hundred ducats, in payment of fifty copies of my book. The
prince had become lord high marshal on the death of Count Bilinski.
When I got to Turin I found a letter from the noble Venetian M. Girolamo
Zulian, the same that had given me an introduction to Mocenigo. His
letter contained an enclosure to M. Berlendis, the representative of the
Republic at Turin, who thanked me for having enabled him to receive me.
The ambassador, a rich man, and a great lover of the fair sex, kept up a
splendid establishment, and this was enough for his Government, for
intelligence is not considered a necessary qualification for a Venetian
ambassador. Indeed it is a positive disadvantage, and a witty ambassador
would no doubt fall into disgrace with the Venetian Senate. However,
Berlendis ran no risk whatever on this score; the realm of wit was an
unknown land to him.
I got this ambassador to call the attention of his Government to the work
I had recently published, and the answer the State Inquisitors gave may
astonish my readers, but it did not astonish me. The secretary of the
famous and accursed Tribunal wrote to say that he had done well to call
the attention of the Inquisitors to this work, as the author's
presumption appeared on the title-page. He added that the work would be
examined, and in the mean time the ambassador was instructed to shew me
no signal marks of favour lest the Court should suppose he was protecting
me as a Venetian.
Nevertheless, it was the same tribunal that had facilitated my access to
the ambassador to Madrid--Mocenigo.
I told Berlendis that my visits should be limited in number, and free
from all ostentation.
I was much interested in his son's tutor; he was a priest, a man of
letters, and a poet. His name was Andreis, and he is now resident in
England, where he enjoys full liberty, the greatest of all blessings.
I spent my time at Turin very pleasantly, in the midst of a small circle
of Epicureans; there were the old Chevalier Raiberti, the Comte de la
Perouse, a certain Abbe Roubien, a delightful man, the voluptuous Comte
de Riva, and the English ambassador. To the amusements which this society
afforded I added a course of reading, but no love affairs whatever.
While I was at Turin, a milliner, Perouse's mistress, feeling herself in
'articulo mortis', swallowed the portrait of her lover instead of the
Eucharist. This incident made me compose two sonnets, which pleased me a
good deal at the time, and with which I am still satisfied. No doubt some
will say that every poet is pleased with his own handiwork, but as a
matter of fact, the severest critic of a sensible author is himself.
The Russian squadron, under the command of Count Alexis Orloff, was then
at Leghorn; this squadron threatened Constantinople, and would probably
have taken it if an Englishman had been in command.
As I had known Count Orloff in Russia, I imagined that I might possibly
render myself of service to him, and at the same time make my fortune.
The English ambassador having given me a letter for the English consul, I
left Turin with very little money in my purse and no letter of credit on
any banker.
An Englishman named Acton commended me to an English banker at Leghorn,
but this letter did not empower me to draw any supplies.
Acton was just then involved in a curious complication. When he was at
Venice he had fallen in love with a pretty woman, either a Greek or a
Neapolitan. The husband, by birth a native of Turin, and by profession a
good-for-nothing, placed no obstacle in Acton's way, as the Englishman
was generous with his money; but he had a knack of turning up at those
moments when his absence would have been most desirable.
The generous but proud and impatient Englishman could not be expected to
bear this for long. He consulted with the lady, and determined to shew
his teeth. The husband persisted in his untimely visits, and one day
Acton said, dryly,--
"Do you want a thousand guineas? You can have them if you like, on the
condition that your wife travels with me for three years without our
having the pleasure of your society."
The husband thought the bargain a good one, and signed an agreement to
that effect.
After the three years were over the husband wrote to his wife, who was at
Venice, to return to him, and to Acton to put no obstacle in the way.
The lady replied that she did not want to live with him any more, and
Acton explained to the husband that he could not be expected to drive his
mistress away against her will. He foresaw, however, that the husband
would complain to the English ambassador, and determined to be
before-handed with him.
In due course the husband did apply to the English ambassador, requesting
him to compel Acton to restore to him his lawful wife. He even asked the
Chevalier Raiberti to write to the Commendatore Camarana, the Sardinian
ambassador at Venice, to apply pressure on the Venetian Government, and
he would doubtless have succeeded if M. Raiberti had done him this
favour. However, as it was he did nothing of the sort, and even gave
Acton a warm welcome when he came to Turin to look into the matter. He
had left his mistress at Venice under the protection of the English
consul.
The husband was ashamed to complain publicly, as he would have been
confronted with the disgraceful agreement he had signed; but Berlendis
maintained that he was in the right, and argued the question in the most
amusing manner. On the one hand he urged the sacred and inviolable
character of the marriage rite, and on the other he shewed how the wife
was bound to submit to her husband in all things. I argued the matter
with him myself, shewing him his disgraceful position in defending a man
who traded on his wife's charms, and he was obliged to give in when I
assured him that the husband had offered to renew the lease for the same
time and on the same terms as before.
Two years later I met Acton at Bologna, and admired the beauty whom he
considered and treated as his wife. She held on her knees a fine little
Acton.
I left Turin for Parma with a Venetian who, like myself, was an exile
from his country. He had turned actor to gain a livelihood; and was going
to Parma with two actresses, one of whom was interesting. As soon as I
found out who he was, we became friends, and he would have gladly made me
a partner in all his amusements, by the way, if I had been in the humour
to join him.
This journey to Leghorn was undertaken under the influence of chimerical
ideas. I thought I might be useful to Count Orloff, in the conquest he
was going to make, as it was said, of Constantinople. I fancied that it
had been decreed by fate that without me he could never pass through the
Dardanelles. In spite of the wild ideas with which my mind was occupied,
I conceived a warm friendship for my travelling companion, whose name was
Angelo Bentivoglio. The Government never forgave him a certain crime,
which to the philosophic eye appears a mere trifle. In four years later,
when I describe my stay at Venice, I shall give some further account of
him.
About noon we reached Parma, and I bade adieu to Bentivoglio and his
friends. The Court was at Colorno, but having nothing to gain from this
mockery of a court, and wishing to leave for Bologna the next morning, I
asked Dubois-Chateleraux, Chief of the Mint, and a talented though vain
man, to give me some dinner. The reader will remember that I had known
him twenty two years before, when I was in love with Henriette. He was
delighted to see me, and seemed to set great store by my politeness in
giving him the benefit of my short stay at Parma. I told him that Count
Orloff was waiting for me at Leghorn, and that I was obliged to travel
day and night.
"He will be setting sail before long," said he; "I have advices from
Leghorn to that effect."
I said in a mysterious tone of voice that he would not sail without me,
and I could see that my host treated me with increased respect after
this. He wanted to discuss the Russian Expedition, but my air of reserve
made him change the conversation.
At dinner we talked a good deal about Henriette, whom he said he had
succeeded in finding out; but though he spoke of her with great respect,
I took care not to give him any information on the subject. He spent the
whole afternoon in uttering complaints against the sovereigns of Europe,
the King of Prussia excepted, as he had made him a baron, though I never
could make out why.
He cursed the Duke of Parma who persisted in retaining his services,
although there was no mint in existence in the duchy, and his talents
were consequently wasted there.
I listened to all his complaints, and agreed that Louis XV. had been
ungrateful in not conferring the Order of St. Michael on him; that Venice
had rewarded his services very shabbily; that Spain was stingy, and
Naples devoid of honesty, etc., etc. When he had finished, I asked him if
he could give me a bill on a banker for fifty sequins.
He replied in the most friendly manner that he would not give me the
trouble of going to a banker for such a wretched sum as that; he would be
delighted to oblige me himself.
I took the money promising to repay him at an early date, but I have
never been able to do so. I do not know whether he is alive or dead, but
if he were to attain the age of Methuselah I should not entertain any
hopes of paying him; for I get poorer every day, and feel that my end is
not far off.
The next day I was in Bologna, and the day after in Florence, where I met
the Chevalier Morosini, nephew of the Venetian procurator, a young man of
nineteen, who was travelling with Count Stratico, professor of
mathematics at the University of Padua. He gave me a letter for his
brother, a Jacobin monk, and professor of literature at Pisa, where I
stopped for a couple of hours on purpose to make the celebrated monk's
acquaintance. I found him even greater than his fame, and promised to
come again to Pisa, and make a longer stay for the purpose of enjoying
his society.
I stopped an hour at the Wells, where I made the acquaintance of the
Pretender to the throne of Great Britain, and from there went on to
Leghorn, where I found Count Orloff still waiting, but only because
contrary winds kept him from sailing.
The English consul, with whom he was staying, introduced me at once to
the Russian admiral, who received me with expressions of delight. He told
me he would be charmed if I would come on board with him. He told me to
have my luggage taken off at once, as he would set sail with the first
fair wind. When he was gone the English consul asked me what would be my
status with the admiral.
"That's just what I mean to find out before embarking my effects."
"You won't be able to speak to him till to-morrow." Next morning I called
on Count Orloff, and sent him in a short note, asking him to give me a
short interview before I embarked my mails.
An officer came out to tell me that the admiral was writing in bed, and
hoped I would wait.
"Certainly."
I had been waiting a few minutes, when Da Loglio, the Polish agent at
Venice and an old friend of mine, came in.
"What are you doing here, my dear Casanova?" said he.
"I am waiting for an interview with the admiral."
"He is very busy."
After this, Da Loglio coolly went into the admiral's room. This was
impertinent of him; it was as if he said in so many words that the
admiral was too busy to see me, but not too busy to see him.
A moment after, Marquis Manucci came in with his order of St. Anne and
his formal air. He congratulated me on my visit to Leghorn, and then said
he had read my work on Venice, and had been surprised to find himself in
it.
He had some reason for surprise, for there was no connection between him
and the subject-matter; but he should have discovered before that the
unexpected often happens. He did not give me time to tell him so, but
went into the admiral's room as Da Loglio had done.
I was vexed to see how these gentlemen were admitted while I danced
attendance, and the project of sailing with Orloff began to displease me.
In five hours Orloff came out followed by a numerous train. He told me
pleasantly that we could have our talk at table or after dinner.
"After dinner, if you please," I said.
He came in and sat down at two o'clock, and I was among the guests.
Orloff kept on saying, "Eat away, gentlemen, eat away;" and read his
correspondence and gave his secretary letters all the time.
After dinner he suddenly glanced up at me, and taking me by the hand led
me to the window, and told me to make haste with my luggage, as he should
sail before the morning if the wind kept up.
"Quite so; but kindly tell me, count, what is to be my status or
employment an board your ship?"
"At present I have no special employ to give you; that will come in time.
Come on board as my friend."
"The offer is an honourable one so far as you are concerned, but all the
other officers might treat me with contempt. I should be regarded as a
kind of fool, and I should probably kill the first man who dared to
insult me. Give me a distinct office, and let me wear your uniform; I
will be useful to you. I know the country for which you are bound, I can
speak the language, and I am not wanting in courage."
"My dear sir, I really have no particular office to give you."
"Then, count, I wish you a pleasant sail; I am going to Rome. I hope you
may never repent of not taking me, for without me you will never pass the
Dardanelles."
"Is that a prophecy?"
"It's an oracle."
"We will test its veracity, my dear Calchus."
Such was the short dialogue I had with the worthy count, who, as a matter
of fact, did not pass the Dardanelles. Whether he would have succeeded if
I had been on board is more than I can say.
Next day I delivered my letters to M. Rivarola and the English banker.
The squadron had sailed in the early morning.
The day after I went to Pisa, and spent a pleasant week in the company of
Father Stratico, who was made a bishop two or three years after by means
of a bold stroke that might have ruined him. He delivered a funeral
oration over Father Ricci, the last general of the Jesuits. The Pope,
Ganganelli, had the choice of punishing the writer and increasing the
odium of many of the faithful, or of rewarding him handsomely. The
sovereign pontiff followed the latter course. I saw the bishop some years
later, and he told me in confidence that he had only written the oration
because he felt certain, from his knowledge of the human heart, that his
punishment would be a great reward.
This clever monk initiated me into all the charms of Pisan society. He
had organized a little choir of ladies of rank, remarkable for their
intelligence and beauty, and had taught them to sing extempore to the
guitar. He had had them instructed by the famous Gorilla, who was crowned
poetess-laureate at the capitol by night, six years later. She was
crowned where our great Italian poets were crowned; and though her merit
was no doubt great, it was, nevertheless, more tinsel than gold, and not
of that order to place her on a par with Petrarch or Tasso.
She was satirised most bitterly after she had received the bays; and the
satirists were even more in the wrong than the profaners of the capitol,
for all the pamphlets against her laid stress on the circumstance that
chastity, at all events, was not one of her merits. All poetesses, from
the days of Homer to our own, have sacrificed on the altar of Venus. No
one would have heard of Gorilla if she had not had the sense to choose
her lovers from the ranks of literary men; and she would never have been
crowned at Rome if she had not succeeded in gaining over Prince Gonzaga
Solferino, who married the pretty Mdlle. Rangoni, daughter of the Roman
consul, whom I knew at Marseilles, and of whom I have already spoken.
This coronation of Gorilla is a blot on the pontificate of the present
Pope, for henceforth no man of genuine merit will accept the honour which
was once so carefully guarded by the giants of human intellect.
Two days after the coronation Gorilla and her admirers left Rome, ashamed
of what they had done. The Abbe Pizzi, who had been the chief promoter of
her apotheosis, was so inundated with pamphlets and satires that for some
months he dared not shew his face.
This is a long digression, and I will now return to Father Stratico, who
made the time pass so pleasantly for me.
Though he was not a handsome man, he possessed the art of persuasion to
perfection; and he succeeded in inducing me to go to Sienna, where he
said I should enjoy myself. He gave me a letter of introduction for the
Marchioness Chigi, and also one for the Abbe Chiaccheri; and as I had
nothing better to do I went to Sienna by the shortest way, not caring to
visit Florence.
The Abbe Chiaccheri gave me a warm welcome, and promised to do all he
could to amuse me; and he kept his word. He introduced me himself to the
Marchioness Chigi, who took me by storm as soon as she had read the
letter of the Abbe Stratico, her dear abbe, as she called him, when she
read the superscription in his writing.
The marchioness was still handsome, though her beauty had begun to wane;
but with her the sweetness, the grace, and the ease of manner supplied
the lack of youth. She knew how to make a compliment of the slightest
expression, and was totally devoid of any affection of superiority.
"Sit down," she began. "So you are going to stay a week, I see, from the
dear abbe's letter. That's a short time for us, but perhaps it may be too
long for you. I hope the abbe has not painted us in too rosy colours."
"He only told me that I was to spend a week here, and that I should find
with you all the charms of intellect and sensibility."
"Stratico should have condemned you to a month without mercy."
"Why mercy? What hazard do I run?"
"Of being tired to death, or of leaving some small morsel of your heart
at Sienna."
"All that might happen in a week, but I am ready to dare the danger, for
Stratico has guarded me from the first by counting on you, and from the
second by counting on myself. You will receive my pure and intelligent
homage. My heart will go forth from Sienna as free as it came, for I have
no hope of victory, and defeat would make me wretched."
"Is it possible that you are amongst the despairing?"
"Yes, and to that fact I owe my happiness."
"It would be a pity for you if you found yourself mistaken."
"Not such a pity as you may think, Madam. 'Carpe diem' is my motto. 'Tis
likewise the motto of that finished voluptuary, Horace, but I only take
it because it suits me. The pleasure which follows desires is the best,
for it is the most acute.
"True, but it cannot be calculated on, and defies the philosopher. May
God preserve you, madam, from finding out this painful truth by
experience! The highest good lies in enjoyment; desire too often remains
unsatisfied. If you have not yet found out the truth of Horace's maxim, I
congratulate you."
The amiable marchioness smiled pleasantly and gave no positive answer.
Chiaccheri now opened his mouth for the first time, and said that the
greatest happiness he could wish us was that we should never agree. The
marchioness assented, rewarding Chiaccheri with a smile, but I could not
do so.
"I had rather contradict you," I said, "than renounce all hopes of
pleasing you. The abbe has thrown the apple of discord between us, but if
we continue as we have begun I shall take up my abode at Sienna."
The marchioness was satisfied with the sample of her wit which she had
given me, and began to talk commonplaces, asking me if I should like to
see company and enjoy society of the fair sex. She promised to take me
everywhere.
"Pray do not take the trouble," I replied. "I want to leave Sienna with
the feeling that you are the only lady to whom I have done homage, and
that the Abbe Chiaccheri has been my only guide."
The marchioness was flattered, and asked the abbe and myself to dine with
her on the following day in a delightful house she had at a hundred paces
from the town.
The older I grew the more I became attached to the intellectual charms of
women. With the sensualist, the contrary takes place; he becomes more
material in his old age: requires women well taught in Venus's shrines,
and flies from all mention of philosophy.
As I was leaving her I told the abbe that if I stayed at Sienna I would
see no other woman but her, come what might, and he agreed that I was
very right.
The abbe shewed me all the objects of interest in Sienna, and introduced
me to the literati, who in their turn visited me.
The same day Chiaccheri took me to a house where the learned society
assembled. It was the residence of two sisters--the elder extremely ugly
and the younger very pretty, but the elder sister was accounted, and very
rightly, the Corinna of the place. She asked me to give her a specimen of
my skill, promising to return the compliment. I recited the first thing
that came into my head, and she replied with a few lines of exquisite
beauty. I complimented her, but Chiaccheri (who had been her master)
guessed that I did not believe her to be the author, and proposed that we
should try bouts rimes. The pretty sister gave out the rhymes, and we all
set to work. The ugly sister finished first, and when the verses came to
be read, hers were pronounced the best. I was amazed, and made an
improvisation on her skill, which I gave her in writing. In five minutes
she returned it to me; the rhymes were the same, but the turn of the
thought was much more elegant. I was still more surprised, and took the
liberty of asking her name, and found her to be the famous "Shepherdess,"
Maria Fortuna, of the Academy of Arcadians.
I had read the beautiful stanzas she had written in praise of Metastasio.
I told her so, and she brought me the poet's reply in manuscript.
Full of admiration, I addressed myself to her alone, and all her
plainness vanished.
I had had an agreeable conversation with the marchioness in the morning,
but in the evening I was literally in an ecstacy.
I kept on talking of Fortuna, and asked the abbe if she could improvise
in the manner of Gorilla. He replied that she had wished to do so, but
that he had disallowed it, and he easily convinced me that this
improvisation would have been the ruin of her fine talent. I also agreed
with him when he said that he had warned her against making impromptus
too frequently, as such hasty verses are apt to sacrifice wit to rhyme.
The honour in which improvisation was held amongst the Greeks and Romans
is due to the fact that Greek and Latin verse is not under the dominion
of rhyme. But as it was, the great poets seldom improvised; knowing as
they did that such verses were usually feeble and common-place.
Horace often passed a whole night searching for a vigorous and
elegantly-turned phrase. When he had succeeded, he wrote the words on the
wall and went to sleep. The lines which cost him nothing are generally
prosaic; they may easily be picked out in his epistles.
The amiable and learned Abbe Chiaccheri, confessed to me that he was in
love with his pupil, despite her ugliness. He added that he had never
expected it when he began to teach her to make verses.
"I can't understand that," I said, "sublata lucerna', you know."
"Not at all," said he, with a laugh, "I love her for her face, since it
is inseparable from my idea of her."
A Tuscan has certainly more poetic riches at his disposal than any other
Italian, and the Siennese dialect is sweeter and more energetic than that
of Florence, though the latter claims the title of the classic dialect,
on account of its purity. This purity, together with its richness and
copiousness of diction it owes to the academy. From the great richness of
Italian we can treat a subject with far greater eloquence than a French
writer; Italian abounds in synonyms, while French is lamentably deficient
in this respect. Voltaire used to laugh at those who said that the French
tongue could not be charged with poverty, as it had all that was
necessary. A man may have necessaries, and yet be poor. The obstinacy of
the French academy in refusing to adopt foreign words skews more pride
than wisdom. This exclusiveness cannot last.
As for us we take words from all languages and all sources, provided they
suit the genius of our own language. We love to see our riches increase;
we even steal from the poor, but to do so is the general characteristic
of the rich.
The amiable marchioness gave us a delicious dinner in a house designed by
Palladio. Chiaccheri had warned me to say nothing about the Shepherdess
Fortuna; but at dinner she told him she was sure he had taken me to her
house. He had not the face to deny it, and I did not conceal the pleasure
I had received.
"Stratico admires Fortuna," said the marchioness, "and I confess that her
writings have great merit, but it's a pity one cannot go to the house,
except under an incognito."
"Why not?" I asked, in some astonishment.
"What!" said she to the abbe, "you did not tell him whose house it is?"
"I did not think it necessary, her father and mother rarely shew
themselves."
"Well, it's of no consequence."
"But what is her father?" I asked, "the hangman, perhaps?"
"Worse, he's the 'bargello', and you must see that a stranger cannot be
received into good society here if he goes to such places as that."
Chiaccheri looked rather hurt, and I thought it my duty to say that I
would not go there again till the eve of my departure.
"I saw her sister once," said the marchioness; "she is really charmingly
pretty, and it's a great pity that with her beauty and irreproachable
morality she should be condemned to marry a man of her father's class."
"I once knew a man named Coltellini," I replied; "he is the son of the
bargello of Florence, and is poet-in-ordinary to the Empress of Russia. I
shall try to make a match between him and Fortuna's sister; he is a young
man of the greatest talents."
The marchioness thought my idea an excellent one, but soon after I heard
that Coltellini was dead.
The 'bargello' is a cordially-detested person all over Italy, if you
except Modena, where the weak nobility make much of the 'bargello', and
do justice to his excellent table. This is a curious fact, for as a rule
these bargellos are spies, liars, traitors, cheats, and misanthropes, for
a man despised hates his despisers.
At Sienna I was shewn a Count Piccolomini, a learned and agreeable man.
He had a strange whim, however, of spending six months in the year in the
strictest seclusion in his own house, never going out and never seeing
any company; reading and working the whole time. He certainly did his
best to make up for his hibernation during the other six months in the
year.
The marchioness promised she would come to Rome in the course of the
summer. She had there an intimate friend in Bianconi who had abandoned
the practice of medicine, and was now the representative of the Court of
Saxony.
On the eve of my departure, the driver who was to take me to Rome came
and asked me if I would like to take a travelling companion, and save
myself three sequins.
"I don't want anyone."
"You are wrong, for she is very beautiful."
"Is she by herself?"
"No, she is with a gentleman on horseback, who wishes to ride all the way
to Rome."
"Then how did the girl come here?"
"On horseback, but she is tired out, and cannot bear it any longer. The
gentleman has offered me four sequins to take her to Rome, and as I am a
poor man I think you might let me earn the money."
"I suppose he will follow the carriage?"
"He can go as he likes; that can't make much difference to either of us."
"You say she is young and pretty."
"I have been told so, but I haven't seen her myself."
"What sort of a man is her companion?"
"He's a fine man, but he can speak very little Italian."
"Has he sold the lady's horse?"
"No, it was hired. He has only one trunk, which will go behind the
carriage."
"This is all very strange. I shall not give any decision before speaking
to this man."
"I will tell him to wait on you."
Directly afterwards, a brisk-looking young fellow, carrying himself well
enough, and clad in a fancy uniform, came in. He told me the tale I had
heard from the coachman, and ended by saying that he was sure I would not
refuse to accommodate his wife in my carriage.
"Your wife, sir?"
I saw he was a Frenchman, and I addressed him in French.
"God be praised! You can speak my native tongue. Yes, sir, she is an
Englishwoman and my wife. I am sure she will be no trouble to you."
"Very good. I don't want to start later than I had arranged. Will she be
ready at five o'clock?"
"Certainly."
The next morning when I got into my carriage, I found her already there.
I paid her some slight compliment, and sat down beside her, and we drove
off.