The Corticelli--The Jew Manager Beaten--The False Charles Ivanoff and the
Trick He Played Me--I Am Ordered to Leave Tuscany--I Arrive at Rome--My
Brother Jean
At nine o'clock the next morning, the Abbe Gama was announced. The first
thing he did was to shed tears of joy (as he said) at seeing me so well
and prosperous after so many years. The reader will guess that the abbe
addressed me in the most flattering terms, and perhaps he may know that
one may be clever, experienced in the ways of the world, and even
distrustful of flattery, but yet one's self-love, ever on the watch,
listens to the flatterer, and thinks him pleasant. This polite and
pleasant abbe, who had become extremely crafty from having lived all his
days amongst the high dignitaries at the court of the 'Servus Servorum
Dei' (the best school of strategy), was not altogether an ill-disposed
man, but both his disposition and his profession conspired to make him
inquisitive; in fine, such as I have depicted him in the first volume of
these Memoirs. He wanted to hear my adventures, and did not wait for me
to ask him to tell his story. He told me at great length the various
incidents in his life for the seventeen years in which we had not seen
one another. He had left the service of the King of Spain for that of the
King of Portugal, he was secretary of embassy to the Commander Almada,
and he had been obliged to leave Rome because the Pope Rezzonico would
not allow the King of Portugal to punish certain worthy Jesuit assassins,
who had only broken his arm as it happened, but who had none the less
meant to take his life. Thus, Gama was staying in Italy corresponding
with Almada and the famous Carvalho, waiting for the dispute to be
finished before he returned to Rome. In point of fact this was the only
substantial incident in the abbe's story, but he worked in so many
episodes of no consequence that it lasted for an hour. No doubt he wished
me to shew my gratitude by telling him all my adventures without reserve;
but the upshot of it was that we both shewed ourselves true diplomatists,
he in lengthening his story, I in shortening mine, while I could not help
feeling some enjoyment in baulking the curiosity of my cassocked friend.
"What are you going to do in Rome?" said he, indifferently.
"I am going to beg the Pope to use his influence in my favour with the
State Inquisitors at Venice."
It was not the truth, but one lie is as good as another, and if I had
said I was only going for amusement's sake he would not have believed me.
To tell the truth to an unbelieving man is to prostitute, to murder it.
He then begged me to enter into a correspondence with him, and as that
bound me to nothing I agreed to do so.
"I can give you a mark of my friendship," said he, "by introducing you to
the Marquis de Botta-Adamo, Governor of Tuscany; he is supposed to be a
friend of the regent's."
I accepted his offer gratefully, and he began to sound me about Therese,
but found my lips as tightly closed as the lid of a miser's coffer. I
told him she was a child when I made the acquaintance of her family at
Bologna, and that the resemblance between her brother and myself was a
mere accident--a freak of nature. He happened to catch sight of a
well-written manuscript on the table, and asked me if that superb writing
was my secretary's. Costa, who was present, answered in Spanish that he
wrote it. Gama overwhelmed him with compliments, and begged me to send
Costa to him to copy some letters. I guessed that he wanted to pump him
about me, and said that I needed his services all the day.
"Well, well," said the abbe, "another time will do." I gave him no
answer. Such is the character of the curious.
I am not referring to that curiosity which depends on the occult
sciences, and endeavours to pry into the future--the daughter of
ignorance and superstition, its victims are either foolish or ignorant.
But the Abbe Gama was neither; he was naturally curious, and his
employment made him still more so, for he was paid to find out
everything. He was a diplomatist; if he had been a little lower down in
the social scale he would have been treated as a spy.
He left me to pay some calls, promising to be back by dinner-time.
Dr. Vannini brought me another servant, of the same height as the first,
and engaged that he should obey orders and guess nothing. I thanked the
academician and inn-keeper, and ordered him to get me a sumptuous dinner.
The Corticelli was the first to arrive, bringing with her her brother, an
effeminate-looking young man, who played the violin moderately well, and
her mother, who informed me that she never allowed her daughter to dine
out without herself and her son.
"Then you can take her back again this instant," said I, "or take this
ducat to dine somewhere else, as I don't want your company or your
son's."
She took the ducat, saying that she was sure she was leaving her daughter
in good hands.
"You may be sure of that," said I, "so be off."
The daughter made such witty observations on the above dialogue that I
could not help laughing, and I began to be in love with her. She was only
thirteen, and was so small that she looked ten. She was well-made,
lively, witty, and fairer than is usual with Italian women, but to this
day I cannot conceive how I fell in love with her.
The young wanton begged me to protect her against the manager of the
opera, who was a Jew. In the agreement she had made with him he had
engaged to let her dance a 'pas de deux' in the second opera, and he had
not kept his word. She begged me to compel the Jew to fulfil his
engagement, and I promised to do so.
The next guest was Redegonde, who came from Parma. She was a tall,
handsome woman, and Costa told me she was the sister of my new footman.
After I had talked with her for two or three minutes I found her remarks
well worthy of attention.
Then came the Abbe Gama, who congratulated me on being seated between two
pretty girls. I made him take my place, and he began to entertain them as
if to the manner born; and though the girls were laughing at him, he was
not in the least disconcerted. He thought he was amusing them, and on
watching his expression I saw that his self-esteem prevented him seeing
that he was making a fool of himself; but I did not guess that I might
make the same mistake at his age.
Wretched is the old man who will not recognize his old age; wretched
unless he learn that the sex whom he seduced so often when he was young
will despise him now if he still attempts to gain their favour.
My fair Therese, with her husband and my son, was the last to arrive. I
kissed Therese and then my son, and sat down between them, whispering to
Therese that such a dear mysterious trinity must not be parted; at which
Therese smiled sweetly. The abbe sat down between Redegonde and the
Corticelli, and amused us all the time by his agreeable conversation.
I laughed internally when I observed how respectfully my new footman
changed his sister's plate, who appeared vain of honours to which her
brother could lay no claim. She was not kind; she whispered to me, so
that he could not hear,--
"He is a good fellow, but unfortunately he is rather stupid."
I had put in my pocket a superb gold snuff-box, richly enamelled and
adorned with a perfect likeness of myself. I had had it made at Paris,
with the intention of giving it to Madame d'Urfe, and I had not done so
because the painter had made me too young. I had filled it with some
excellent Havana snuff which M. de Chavigny had given me, and of which
Therese was very fond; I was waiting for her to ask me for a pinch before
I drew it out of my pocket.
The Abbe Gama, who had some exceedingly good snuff in an Origonela box,
sent a pinch to Therese, and she sent him her snuff in a tortoise-shell
box encrusted with gold in arabesques--an exquisite piece of workmanship.
Gama criticised Therese's snuff, while I said that I found it delicious
but that I thought I had some better myself. I took out my snuff-box, and
opening it offered her a pinch. She did not notice the portrait, but she
agreed that my snuff was vastly superior to hers.
"Well, would you like to make an exchange?" said I. "Certainly, give me
some paper."
"That is not requisite; we will exchange the snuff and the snuff-boxes."
So saying, I put Therese's box in my pocket and gave her mine shut. When
she saw the portrait, she gave a cry which puzzled everybody, and her
first motion was to kiss the portrait.
"Look," said she to Cesarino, "here is your portrait."
Cesarino looked at it in astonishment, and the box passed from hand to
hand. Everybody said that it was my portrait, taken ten years ago, and
that it might pass for a likeness of Cesarino. Therese got quite excited,
and swearing that she would never let the box out of her hands again, she
went up to her son and kissed him several times. While this was going on
I watched the Abbe Gama, and I could see that he was making internal
comments of his own on this affecting scene.
The worthy abbe went away towards the evening, telling me that he would
expect me to breakfast next morning.
I spent the rest of the day in making love to Redegonde, and Therese, who
saw that I was pleased with the girl, advised me to declare myself, and
promised that she would ask her to the house as often as I liked. But
Therese did not know her.
Next morning Gama told me that he had informed Marshal Botta that I would
come and see him, and he would present me at four o'clock. Then the
worthy abbe, always the slave of his curiosity, reproached me in a
friendly manner for not having told him anything about my fortune.
"I did not think it was worth mentioning, but as you are interested in
the subject I may tell you that my means are small, but that I have
friends whose purses are always open to me."
"If you have true friends you are a rich man, but true friends are
scarce."
I left the Abbe Gama, my head full of Redegonde, whom I preferred to the
young Corticelli, and I went to pay her a visit; but what a reception!
She received me in a room in which were present her mother, her uncle,
and three or four dirty, untidy little monkeys: these were her brothers.'
"Haven't you a better room to receive your friends in?" said I.
"I have no friends, so I don't want a room."
"Get it, my dear, and you will find the friends come fast enough. This is
all very well for you to welcome your relations in, but not persons like
myself who come to do homage to your charms and your talents."
"Sir," said the mother, "my daughter has but few talents, and thinks
nothing of her charms, which are small."
"You are extremely modest, and I appreciate your feelings; but everybody
does not see your daughter with the same eyes, and she pleased me
greatly."
"That is an honour for her, and we are duly sensible of it, but not so as
to be over-proud. My daughter will see you as often as you please, but
here, and in no other place."
"But I am afraid of being in the way here."
"An honest man is never in the way."
I felt ashamed, for nothing so confounds a libertine as modesty in the
mouth of poverty; and not knowing what to answer I took my leave.
I told Therese of my unfortunate visit, and we both, laughed at it; it
was the best thing we could do.
"I shall be glad to see you at the opera," said she, "and you can get
into my dressing-room if you give the door-keeper a small piece of
money."
The Abbe Gama came as he promised, to take me to Marshal Botta, a man of
high talents whom the affair of Genoa had already rendered famous. He was
in command of the Austrian army when the people, growing angry at the
sight of the foreigners, who had only come to put them under the Austrian
yoke, rose in revolt and made them leave the town. This patriotic riot
saved the Republic. I found him in the midst of a crowd of ladies and
gentlemen, whom he left to welcome me. He talked about Venice in a way
that shewed he understood the country thoroughly, and I conversed to him
on France, and, I believe, satisfied him. In his turn he spoke of the
Court of Russia, at which he was staying when Elizabeth Petrovna, who was
still reigning at the period in question, so easily mounted the throne of
her father, Peter the Great. "It is only in Russia," said he, "that
poison enters into politics."
At the time when the opera began the marshal left the room, and everybody
went away. On my way the abbe assured me, as a matter of course, that I
had pleased the governor, and I afterwards went to the theatre, and
obtained admission to Therese's dressing-room for a tester. I found her
in the hands of her pretty chamber-maid, and she advised me to go to
Redegonde's dressing-room, as she played a man's part, and might,
perhaps, allow me to assist in her toilette.
I followed her advice, but the mother would not let me come in, as her
daughter was just going to dress. I assured her that I would turn my back
all the time she was dressing, and on this condition she let me in, and
made me sit down at a table on which stood a mirror, which enabled me to
see all Redegonde's most secret parts to advantage; above all, when she
lifted her legs to put on her breeches, either most awkwardly or most
cleverly, according to her intentions. She did not lose anything by what
she shewed, however, for I was so pleased, that to possess her charms I
would have signed any conditions she cared to impose upon me.
"Redegonde must know," I said to myself, "that I could see everything in
the glass;" and the idea inflamed me. I did not turn round till the
mother gave me leave, and I then admired my charmer as a young man of
five feet one, whose shape left nothing to be desired.
Redegonde went out, and I followed her to the wings.
"My dear," said I, "I am going to talk plainly to you. You have inflamed
my passions and I shall die if you do not make me happy."
"You do not say that you will die if you chance to make me unhappy."
"I could not say so, because I cannot conceive such a thing as possible.
Do not trifle with me, dear Redegonde, you must be aware that I saw all
in the mirror, and I cannot think that you are so cruel as to arouse my
passions and then leave me to despair."
"What could you have seen? I don't know what you are talking about."
"May be, but know that I have seen all your charms. What shall I do to
possess you?"
"To possess me? I don't understand you, sir; I'm an honest girl."
"I dare say; but you wouldn't be any less honest after making me happy.
Dear Redegonde, do not let me languish for you, but tell me my fate now
this instant."
"I do not know what to tell you, but you can come and see me whenever you
like."
"When shall I find you alone?"
"Alone! I am never alone."
"Well, well, that's of no consequence; if only your mother is present,
that comes to the same thing. If she is sensible, she will pretend not to
see anything, and I will give you a hundred ducats each time."
"You are either a madman, or you do not know what sort of people we are."
With these words she went on, and I proceeded to tell Therese what had
passed.
"Begin," said she, "by offering the hundred ducats to the mother, and if
she refuses, have no more to do with them, and go elsewhere."
I returned to the dressing-room, where I found the mother alone, and
without any ceremony spoke as follows:--
"Good evening, madam, I am a stranger here; I am only staying a week, and
I am in love with your daughter. If you like to be obliging, bring her to
sup with me. I will give you a hundred sequins each time, so you see my
purse is in your power."
"Whom do you think you are talking to, sir? I am astonished at your
impudence. Ask the townsfolk what sort of character I bear, and whether
my daughter is an honest girl or not! and you will not make such
proposals again."
"Good-bye, madam."
"Good-bye, sir."
As I went out I met Redegonde, and I told her word for word the
conversation I had had with her mother. She burst out laughing.
"Have I done well or ill?" said I.
"Well enough, but if you love me come and see me."
"See you after what your mother said?"
"Well, why not, who knows of it?"
"Who knows? You don't know me, Redegonde. I do not care to indulge myself
in idle hopes, and I thought I had spoken to you plainly enough."
Feeling angry, and vowing to have no more to do with this strange girl, I
supped with Therese, and spent three delightful hours with her. I had a
great deal of writing to do the next day and kept in doors, and in the
evening I had a visit from the young Corticelli, her mother and brother.
She begged me to keep my promise regarding the manager of the theatre,
who would not let her dance the 'pas de deux' stipulated for in the
agreement.
"Come and breakfast with me to-morrow morning," said I, "and I will speak
to the Israelite in your presence--at least I will do so if he comes."
"I love you very much," said the young wanton, "can't I stop a little
longer here."
"You may stop as long as you like, but as I have got some letters to
finish, I must ask you to excuse my entertaining you."
"Oh! just as you please."
I told Costa to give her some supper.
I finished my letters and felt inclined for a little amusement, so I made
the girl sit by me and proceeded to toy with her, but in such a way that
her mother could make no objection. All at once the brother came up and
tried to join in the sport, much to my astonishment.
"Get along with you," said I, "you are not a girl."
At this the young scoundrel proceeded to shew me his sex, but in such an
indecent fashion that his sister, who was sitting on my knee, burst out
laughing and took refuge with her mother, who was sitting at the other
end of the room in gratitude for the good supper I had given her. I rose
from my chair, and after giving the impudent pederast a box on the ear I
asked the mother with what intentions she had brought the young rascal to
my house. By way of reply the infamous woman said,--
"He's a pretty lad, isn't he?"
I gave him a ducat for the blow I had given him, and told the mother to
begone, as she disgusted me. The pathic took my ducat, kissed my hand,
and they all departed.
I went to bed feeling amused at the incident, and wondering at the
wickedness of a mother who would prostitute her own son to the basest of
vices.
Next morning I sent and asked the Jew to call on me. The Corticelli came
with her mother, and the Jew soon after, just as we were going to
breakfast.
I proceeded to explain the grievance of the young dancer, and I read the
agreement he had made with her, telling him politely that I could easily
force him to fulfil it. The Jew put in several excuses, of which the
Corticelli demonstrated the futility. At last the son of Judah was forced
to give in, and promised to speak to the ballet-master the same day, in
order that she might dance the 'pas' with the actor she named.
"And that, I hope, will please your excellency," he added, with a low
bow, which is not often a proof of sincerity, especially among Jews.
When my guests had taken leave I went to the Abbe Gama, to dine with
Marshal Botta who had asked us to dinner. I made the acquaintance there
of Sir Mann, the English ambassador, who was the idol of Florence, very
rich, of the most pleasing manners although an Englishman; full of wit,
taste, and a great lover of the fine arts. He invited me to come next day
and see his house and garden. In this home he had made--furniture,
pictures, choice books--all shewed the man of genius. He called on me,
asked me to dinner, and had the politeness to include Therese, her
husband, and Cesarino in the invitation. After dinner my son sat down at
the clavier and delighted the company by his exquisite playing. While we
were talking of likenesses, Sir Mann shewed us some miniatures of great
beauty.
Before leaving, Therese told me that she had been thinking seriously of
me.
"In what respect?" I asked.
"I have told Redegonde that I am going to call for her, that I will keep
her to supper, and have her taken home. You must see that this last
condition is properly carried out. Come to supper too, and have your
carriage in waiting. I leave the rest to you. You will only be a few
minutes with her, but that's something; and the first step leads far."
"An excellent plan. I will sup with you, and my carriage shall be ready.
I will tell you all about it to-morrow."
I went to the house at nine o'clock, and was welcomed as an unexpected
guest. I told Redegonde that I was glad to meet her, and she replied that
she had not hoped to have the pleasure of seeing me. Redegonde was the
only one who had any appetite; she ate capitally, and laughed merrily at
the stories I told her.
After supper Therese asked her if she would like to have a sedan-chair
sent for, or if she would prefer to be taken back in my carriage.
"If the gentleman will be so kind," said she, "I need not send for a
chair."
I thought this reply of such favourable omen that I no longer doubted of
my success. After she had wished the others good night, she took my arm,
pressing it as she did so; we went down the stairs, and she got into the
carriage. I got in after her, and on attempting to sit down I found the
place taken.
"Who is that?" I cried.
Redegonde burst out laughing, and informed me it was her mother.
I was done; I could not summon up courage to pass it off as a jest. Such
a shock makes a man stupid; for a moment it numbs all the mental
faculties, and wounded self-esteem only gives place to anger.
I sat down on the front seat and coldly asked the mother why she had not
come up to supper with us. When the carriage stopped at their door, she
asked me to come in, but I told her I would rather not. I felt that for a
little more I would have boxed her ears, and the man at the house door
looked very like a cut-throat.
I felt enraged and excited physically as well as mentally, and though I
had never been to see the Corticelli, told the coachman to drive there
immediately, as I felt sure of finding her well disposed. Everybody was
gone to bed. I knocked at the door till I got an answer, I gave my name,
and I was let in, everything being in total darkness. The mother told me
she would light a candle, and that if she had expected me she would have
waited up in spite of the cold. I felt as if I were in the middle of an
iceberg. I heard the girl laughing, and going up to the bed and passing
my hand over it I came across some plain tokens of the masculine gender.
I had got hold of her brother. In the meanwhile the mother had got a
candle, and I saw the girl with the bedclothes up to her chin, for, like
her brother, she was as naked as my hand. Although no Puritan, I was
shocked.
"Why do you allow this horrible union?" I said to the mother.
"What harm is there? They are brother and sister."
"That's just what makes it a criminal matter."
"Everything is perfectly innocent."
"Possibly; but it's not a good plan."
The pathic escaped from the bed and crept into his mother's, while the
little wanton told me there was really no harm, as they only loved each
other as brother and sister, and that if I wanted her to sleep by herself
all I had to do was to get her a new bed. This speech, delivered with
arch simplicity, in her Bolognese jargon, made me laugh with all my
heart, for in the violence of her gesticulations she had disclosed half
her charms, and I saw nothing worth looking at. In spite of that, it was
doubtless decreed that I should fall in love with her skin, for that was
all she had.
If I had been alone I should have brought matters to a crisis on the
spot, but I had a distaste to the presence of her mother and her
scoundrelly brother. I was afraid lest some unpleasant scenes might
follow. I gave her ten ducats to buy a bed, said good night, and left the
house. I returned to my lodging, cursing the too scrupulous mothers of
the opera girls.
I passed the whole of the next morning with Sir Mann, in his gallery,
which contained some exquisite paintings, sculptures, mosaics, and
engraved gems. On leaving him, I called on Therese and informed her of my
misadventure of the night before. She laughed heartily at my story, and I
laughed too, in spite of a feeling of anger due to my wounded
self-esteem.
"You must console yourself," said she; "you will not find much difficulty
in filling the place in your affections."
"Ah! why are you married?"
"Well, it's done; and there's no helping it. But listen to me. As you
can't do without someone, take up with the Corticelli; she's as good as
any other woman, and won't keep you waiting long."
On my return to my lodging, I found the Abbe Gama, whom I had invited to
dinner, and he asked me if I would accept a post to represent Portugal at
the approaching European Congress at Augsburg. He told me that if I did
the work well, I could get anything I liked at Lisbon.
"I am ready to do my best," said I; "you have only to write to me, and I
will tell you where to direct your letters." This proposal made me long
to become a diplomatist.
In the evening I went to the opera-house and spoke to the ballet-master,
the dancer who was to take part in the 'pas de deux', and to the Jew, who
told me that my protegee should be satisfied in two or three days, and
that she should perform her favourite 'pas' for the rest of the carnival.
I saw the Corticelli, who told me she had got her bed, and asked me to
come to supper. I accepted the invitation, and when the opera was over I
went to her house.
Her mother, feeling sure that I would pay the bill, had ordered an
excellent supper for four, and several flasks of the best Florence wine.
Besides that, she gave me a bottle of the wine called Oleatico, which I
found excellent. The three Corticellis unaccustomed to good fare and
wine, ate like a troop, and began to get intoxicated. The mother and son
went to bed without ceremony, and the little wanton invited me to follow
their example. I should have liked to do so, but I did not dare. It was
very cold and there was no fire in the room, there was only one blanket
on the bed, and I might have caught a bad cold, and I was too fond of my
good health to expose myself to such a danger. I therefore satisfied
myself by taking her on my knee, and after a few preliminaries she
abandoned herself to my transports, endeavouring to persuade me that I
had got her maidenhead. I pretended to believe her, though I cared very
little whether it were so or not.
I left her after I had repeated the dose three or four times, and gave
her fifty sequins, telling her to get a good wadded coverlet and a large
brazier, as I wanted to sleep with her the next night.
Next morning I received an extremely interesting letter from Grenoble. M.
de Valenglard informed me that the fair Mdlle. Roman, feeling convinced
that her horoscope would never come true unless she went to Paris, had
gone to the capital with her aunt.
Her destiny was a strange one; it depended on the liking I had taken to
her and my aversion to marriage, for it lay in my power to have married
the handsomest woman in France, and in that case it is not likely that
she would have become the mistress of Louis XV. What strange whim could
have made me indicate in her horoscope the necessity of her journeying to
Paris; for even if there were such a science as astrology I was no
astrologer; in fine, her destiny depended on my absurd fancy. And in
history, what a number of extraordinary events would never have happened
if they had not been predicted!
In the evening I went to the theatre, and found my Corticelli clad in a
pretty cloak, while the other girls looked at me contemptuously, for they
were enraged at the place being taken; while the proud favourite caressed
me with an air of triumph which became her to admiration.
In the evening I found a good supper awaiting me, a large brazier on the
hearth, and a warm coverlet on the bed. The mother shewed me all the
things her daughter had bought, and complained that she had not got any
clothes for her brother. I made her happy by giving her a few louis.
When I went to bed I did not find my mistress in any amorous transports,
but in a wanton and merry mood. She made me laugh, and as she let me do
as I liked I was satisfied. I gave her a watch when I left her, and
promised to sup with her on the following night. She was to have danced
the pas de deux, and I went to see her do it, but to my astonishment she
only danced with the other girls.
When I went to supper I found her in despair. She wept and said that I
must avenge her on the Jew, who had excused himself by putting the fault
on somebody else, but that he was a liar. I promised everything to quiet
her, and after spending several hours in her company I returned home,
determined to give the Jew a bad quarter of an hour. Next morning I sent
Costa to ask him to call on me, but the rascal sent back word that he was
not coming, and if the Corticelli did not like his theatre she might try
another.
I was indignant, but I knew that I must dissemble, so I only laughed.
Nevertheless, I had pronounced his doom, for an Italian never forgets to
avenge himself on his enemy; he knows it is the pleasure of the gods.
As soon as Costa had left the room, I called Le Duc and told him the
story, saying that if I did not take vengeance I should be dishonoured,
and that it was only he who could procure the scoundrel a good thrashing
for daring to insult me.
"But you know, Le Duc, the affair must be kept secret."
"I only want twenty-four hours to give you an answer."
I knew what he meant, and I was satisfied.
Next morning Le Duc told me he had spent the previous day in learning the
Jew's abode and habits, without asking anybody any questions.
"To-day I will not let him go out of my sight. I shall find out at what
hour he returns home, and to-morrow you shall know the results."
"Be discreet," said I, "and don't let anybody into your plans."
"Not I!"
Next day, he told me that if the Jew came home at the same time and by
the same way as before, he would have a thrashing before he got to bed.
"Whom have you chosen for this expedition?"
"Myself. These affairs ought to be kept secret, and a secret oughtn't to
be known to more than two people. I am sure that everything will turn out
well, but when you are satisfied that the ass's hide has been well
tanned, will there be anything to be picked up?"
"Twenty-five sequins."
"That will do nicely. When I have done the trick I shall put on my great
coat again and return by the back door. If necessary Costa himself will
be able to swear that I did not leave the house, and that therefore I
cannot have committed the assault. However, I shall put my pistols in my
pocket in case of accidents, and if anybody tries to arrest me I shall
know how to defend myself."
Next morning he came coolly into my room while Costa was putting on my
dressing-gown, and when we were alone he said,--
"The thing's done. Instead of the Jew's running away when he received the
first blow he threw himself on to the ground. Then I tanned his skin for
him nicely, but on hearing some people coming up I ran off. I don't know
whether I did for him, but I gave him two sturdy blows on the head. I
should be sorry if he were killed, as then he could not see about the
dance."
This jest did not arouse my mirth; the matter promised to be too serious.
Therese had asked me to dine with the Abbe Gama and M. Sassi, a worthy
man, if one may prostitute the name of man to describe a being whom
cruelty has separated from the rest of humanity; he was the first
castrato of the opera. Of course the Jew's mishap was discussed.
"I am sorry for him," said I, "though he is a rascally fellow."
"I am not at all sorry for him myself," said Sassi, "he's a knave."
"I daresay that everybody will be putting down his wooden baptism to my
account."
"No," said the abbe, "people say that M. Casanova did the deed for good
reasons of his own."
"It will be difficult to pitch on the right man," I answered, "the rascal
has pushed so many worthy people to extremities that he must have a great
many thrashings owing him."
The conversation then passed to other topics, and we had a very pleasant
dinner.
In a few days the Jew left his bed with a large plaster on his nose, and
although I was generally regarded as the author of his misfortune the
matter was gradually allowed to drop, as there were only vague suspicions
to go upon. But the Corticelli, in an ecstasy of joy, was stupid enough
to talk as if she were sure it was I who had avenged her, and she got
into a rage when I would not admit the deed; but, as may be guessed, I
was not foolish enough to do so, as her imprudence might have been a
hanging matter for me.
I was well enough amused at Florence, and had no thoughts of leaving,
when one day Vannini gave me a letter which someone had left for me. I
opened it in his presence, and found it contained a bill of exchange for
two hundred Florentine crowns on Sasso Sassi. Vannini looked at it and
told me it was a good one. I went into my room to read the letter, and I
was astonished to find it signed "Charles Ivanoff." He dated it from
Pistoia, and told me that in his poverty and misfortune he had appealed
to an Englishman who was leaving Florence for Lucca, and had generously
given him a bill of exchange for two hundred crowns, which he had written
in his presence. It was made payable to bearer.
"I daren't cash it in Florence," said he, "as I am afraid of being
arrested for my unfortunate affair at Genoa. I entreat you, then, to have
pity on me, to get the bill cashed, and to bring me the money here, that
I may pay my landlord and go."
It looked like a very simple matter, but I might get into trouble, for
the note might be forged; and even if it were not I should be declaring
myself a friend or a correspondent, at all events, of a man who had been
posted. In this dilemma I took the part of taking the bill of exchange to
him in person. I went to the posting establishment, hired two horses, and
drove to Pistoia. The landlord himself took me to the rascal's room, and
left me alone with him.
I did not stay more than three minutes, and all I said was that as Sassi
knew me I did not wish him to think that there was any kind of connection
between us.
"I advise you," I said, "to give the bill to your landlord, who will cash
it at M. Sassi's and bring you your change."
"I will follow your advice," he said, and I therewith returned to
Florence.
I thought no more of it, but in two days' time I received a visit from M.
Sassi and the landlord of the inn at Pistoia. The banker shewed me the
bill of exchange, and said that the person who had given it me had
deceived me, as it was not in the writing of the Englishman whose name it
bore, and that even if it were, the Englishman not having any money with
Sassi could not draw a bill of exchange.
"The inn-keeper here," said he, "discounted the bill, the Russian has
gone off, and when I told him that it was a forgery he said that he knew
Charles Ivanoff had it of you, and that thus he had made no difficulty in
cashing it; but now he wants you to return him two hundred crowns."
"Then he will be disappointed!"
I told all the circumstances of the affair to Sassi; I shewed him the
rascal's letter; I made Dr. Vannini, who had given it me, come up, and he
said he was ready to swear that he had seen me take the bill of exchange
out of the letter, that he had examined it, and had thought it good.
On this the banker told the inn-keeper that he had no business to ask me
to pay him the money; but he persisted in his demand, and dared to say
that I was an accomplice of the Russian's.
In my indignation I ran for my cane, but the banker held me by the arm,
and the impertinent fellow made his escape without a thrashing.
"You had a right to be angry," said M. Sassi, "but you must not take any
notice of what the poor fellow says in his blind rage."
He shook me by the hand and went out.
Next day the chief of police, called the auditor at Florence, sent me a
note begging me to call on him. There was no room for hesitation, for as
a stranger I felt that I might look on this invitation as an intimation.
He received me very politely, but he said I should have to repay the
landlord his two hundred crowns, as he would not have discounted the bill
if he had not seen me bring it. I replied that as a judge he could not
condemn me unless he thought me the Russian's accomplice, but instead of
answering he repeated that I would have to pay.
"Sir," I replied, "I will not pay."
He rang the bell and bowed, and I left him, walking towards the banker's,
to whom I imparted the conversation I had had from the auditor. He was
extremely astonished, and at my request called on him to try and make him
listen to reason. As we parted I told him that I was dining with the Abbe
Gama.
When I saw the abbe I told him what had happened, and he uttered a loud
exclamation of astonishment.
"I foresee," he said, "that the auditor will not let go his hold, and if
M. Sassi does not succeed with him I advise you to speak to Marshal
Botta."
"I don't think that will be necessary; the auditor can't force me to
pay."
"He can do worse."
"What can he do?".
"He can make you leave Florence."
"Well, I shall be astonished if he uses his power in this case, but
rather than pay I will leave the town. Let us go to the marshal."
We called on him at four o'clock, and we found the banker there, who had
told him the whole story.
"I am sorry to tell you," said M. Sassi, "that I could do nothing with
the auditor, and if you want to remain in Florence you will have to pay."
"I will leave as soon as I receive the order," said I; "and as soon as I
reach another state I will print the history of this shameful perversion
of justice."
"It's an incredible, a monstrous sentence," said the marshal, "and I am
sorry I cannot interfere. You are quite right," he added, "to leave the
place rather than pay."
Early the next morning a police official brought me a letter from the
auditor, informing me that as he could not, from the nature of the case,
oblige me to pay, he was forced to warn me to leave Florence in three
days, and Tuscany in seven. This, he added, he did in virtue of his
office; but whenever the Grand Duke, to whom I might appeal, had quashed
his judgment I might return.
I took a piece of paper and wrote upon it, "Your judgment is an
iniquitous one, but it shall be obeyed to the letter."
At that moment I gave orders to pack up and have all in readiness for my
departure. I spent three days of respite in amusing myself with Therese.
I also saw the worthy Sir Mann, and I promised the Corticelli to fetch
her in Lent, and spend some time with her in Bologna. The Abbe Gama did
not leave my side for three days, and shewed himself my true friend. It
was a kind of triumph for me; on every side I heard regrets at my
departure, and curses of the auditor. The Marquis Botta seemed to approve
my conduct by giving me a dinner, the table being laid for thirty, and
the company being composed of the most distinguished people in Florence.
This was a delicate attention on his part, of which I was very sensible.
I consecrated the last day to Therese, but I could not find any
opportunity to ask her for a last consoling embrace, which she would not
have refused me under the circumstances, and which I should still fondly
remember. We promised to write often to one another, and we embraced each
other in a way to make her husband's heart ache. Next day I started on my
journey, and got to Rome in thirty-six hours.
It was midnight when I passed under the Porta del Popolo, for one may
enter the Eternal City at any time. I was then taken to the custom-house,
which is always open, and my mails were examined. The only thing they are
strict about at Rome is books, as if they feared the light. I had about
thirty volumes, all more or less against the Papacy, religion, or the
virtues inculcated thereby. I had resolved to surrender them without any
dispute, as I felt tired and wanted to go to bed, but the clerk told me
politely to count them and leave them in his charge for the night, and he
would bring them to my hotel in the morning. I did so, and he kept his
word. He was well enough pleased when he touched the two sequins with
which I rewarded him.
I put up at the Ville de Paris, in the Piazza di Spagna. It is the best
inn in the town. All the world, I found, was drowned in sleep, but when
they let me in they asked me to wait on the ground floor while a fire was
lighted in my room. All the seats were covered with dresses, petticoats,
and chemises, and I heard a small feminine voice begging me to sit on her
bed. I approached and saw a laughing mouth, and two black eyes shining
like carbuncles.
"What splendid eyes!" said I, "let me kiss them."
By way of reply she hid her head under the coverlet, and I slid a hasty
hand under the sheets; but finding her quite naked, I drew it back and
begged pardon. She put out her head again, and I thought I read gratitude
for my moderation in her eyes.
"Who are you, my angel?"
"I am Therese, the inn-keeper's daughter, and this is my sister." There
was another girl beside her, whom I had not seen, as her head was under
the bolster.
"How old are you?"
"Nearly seventeen."
"I hope I shall see you in my room to-morrow morning."
"Have you any ladies with you?"
"No."
"That's a pity, as we never go to the gentlemen's rooms."
"Lower the coverlet a little; I can't hear what you say."
"It's too cold."
"Dear Therese, your eyes make me feel as if I were in flames."
She put back her head at this, and I grew daring, and after sundry
experiments I was more than ever charmed with her. I caressed her in a
somewhat lively manner, and drew back my hand, again apologizing for my
daring, and when she let me see her face I thought I saw delight rather
than anger in her eyes and on her cheeks, and I felt hopeful with regard
to her. I was just going to begin again, for I felt on fire; when a
handsome chambermaid came to tell me that my room was ready and my fire
lighted.
"Farewell till to-morrow," said I to Therese, but she only answered by
turning on her side to go to sleep.
I went to bed after ordering dinner for one o'clock, and I slept till
noon, dreaming of Therese. When I woke up, Costa told me that he had
found out where my brother lived, and had left a note at the house. This
was my brother Jean, then about thirty, and a pupil of the famous Raphael
Mengs. This painter was then deprived of his pension on account of a war
which obliged the King of Poland to live at Warsaw, as the Prussians
occupied the whole electorate of Saxe. I had not seen my brother for ten
years, and I kept our meeting as a holiday. I was sitting down to table
when he came, and we embraced each other with transport. We spent an hour
in telling, he his small adventures, and I my grand ones, and he told me
that I should not stay at the hotel, which was too dear, but come and
live at the Chevalier Mengs's house, which contained an empty room, where
I could stay at a much cheaper rate.
"As to your table, there is a restaurant in the house where one can get a
capital meal."
"Your advice is excellent," said I, "but I have not the courage to follow
it, as I am in love with my landlord's daughter;" and I told him what had
happened the night before.
"That's a mere nothing," said he, laughing; "you can cultivate her
acquaintance without staying in the house."
I let myself be persuaded, and I promised to come to him the following
day; and then we proceeded to take a walk about Rome.
I had many interesting memories of my last visit, and I wanted to renew
my acquaintance with those who had interested me at that happy age when
such impressions are so durable because they touch the heart rather than
the mind; but I had to make up my mind to a good many disappointments,
considering the space of time that had elapsed since I had been in Rome.
I went to the Minerva to find Donna Cecilia; she was no more in this
world. I found out where her daughter Angelica lived, and I went to see
her, but she gave me a poor reception, and said that she really scarcely
remembered me.
"I can say the same," I replied, "for you are not the Angelica I used to
know. Good-bye, madam!"
The lapse of time had not improved her personal appearance. I found out
also where the printer's son, who had married Barbaruccia, lived, but--I
put off the pleasure of seeing him till another time, and also my visit
to the Reverend Father Georgi, who was a man of great repute in Rome.
Gaspar Vivaldi had gone into the country.
My brother took me to Madame Cherubini. I found her mansion to be a
splendid one, and the lady welcomed me in the Roman manner. I thought her
pleasant and her daughters still more so, but I thought the crowd of
lovers too large and too miscellaneous. There was too much luxury and
ceremony, and the girls, one of whom was as fair as Love himself, were
too polite to everybody. An interesting question was put to me, to which
I answered in such a manner as to elicit another question, but to no
purpose. I saw that the rank of my brother, who had introduced me,
prevented my being thought a person of any consequence, and on hearing an
abbe say, "He's Casanova's brother," I turned to him and said,--
"That's not correct; you should say Casanova's my brother."
"That comes to the same thing."
"Not at all, my dear abbe."
I said these words in a tone which commanded attention, and another abbe
said,--
"The gentleman is quite right; it does not come to the same thing."
The first abbe made no reply to this. The one who had taken my part, and
was my friend from that moment, was the famous Winckelmann, who was
unhappily assassinated at Trieste twelve years afterwards.
While I was talking to him, Cardinal Alexander Albani arrived.
Winckelmann presented me to his eminence, who was nearly blind. He talked
to me a great deal, without saying anything worth listening to. As soon
as he heard that I was the Casanova who had escaped from The Leads, he
said in a somewhat rude tone that he wondered I had the hardihood to come
to Rome, where on the slightest hint from the State Inquisitors at Venice
an 'ordine sanctissimo' would re-consign me to my prison. I was annoyed
by this unseemly remark, and replied in a dignified voice,--
"It is not my hardihood in coming to Rome that your eminence should
wonder at, but a man of any sense would wonder at the Inquisitors if they
had the hardihood to issue an 'ordine sanctissimo' against me; for they
would be perplexed to allege any crime in me as a pretext for thus
infamously depriving me of my liberty."
This reply silenced his eminence. He was ashamed at having taken me for a
fool, and to see that I thought him one. Shortly after I left and never
set foot in that house again.
The Abbe Winckelmann went out with my brother and myself, and as he came
with me to my hotel he did me the honour of staying to supper.
Winckelmann was the second volume of the celebrated Abbe de Voisenon. He
called for me next day, and we went to Villa Albani to see the Chevalier
Mengs, who was then living there and painting a ceiling.
My landlord Roland (who knew my brother) paid me a visit at supper.
Roland came from Avignon and was fond of good living. I told him I was
sorry to be leaving him to stay with my brother, because I had fallen in
love with his daughter Therese, although I had only spoken to her for a
few minutes, and had only seen her head.
"You saw her in bed, I will bet!"
"Exactly, and I should very much like to see the rest of her. Would you
be so kind as to ask her to step up for a few minutes?"
"With all my heart."
She came upstairs, seeming only too glad to obey her father's summons.
She had a lithe, graceful figure, her eyes were of surpassing brilliancy,
her features exquisite, her mouth charming; but taken altogether I did
not like her so well as before. In return, my poor brother became
enamoured of her to such an extent that he ended by becoming her slave.
He married her next year, and two years afterwards he took her to
Dresden. I saw her five years later with a pretty baby; but after ten
years of married life she died of consumption.
I found Mengs at the Villa Albani; he was an indefatigable worker, and
extremely original in his conceptions. He welcomed me, and said he was
glad to be able to lodge me at his house in Rome, and that he hoped to
return home himself in a few days, with his whole family.
I was astonished with the Villa Albani. It had been built by Cardinal
Alexander, and had been wholly constructed from antique materials to
satisfy the cardinal's love for classic art; not only the statues and the
vases, but the columns, the pedestals--in fact, everything was Greek. He
was a Greek himself, and had a perfect knowledge of antique work, and had
contrived to spend comparatively little money compared with the
masterpiece he had produced. If a sovereign monarch had had a villa like
the cardinal's built, it would have cost him fifty million francs, but
the cardinal made a much cheaper bargain.
As he could not get any ancient ceilings, he was obliged to have them
painted, and Mengs was undoubtedly the greatest and the most laborious
painter of his age. It is a great pity that death carried him off in the
midst of his career, as otherwise he would have enriched the stores of
art with numerous masterpieces. My brother never did anything to justify
his title of pupil of this great artist. When I come to my visit to Spain
in 1767, I shall have some more to say about Mengs.
As soon as I was settled with my brother I hired a carriage, a coachman,
and a footman, whom I put into fancy livery, and I called on Monsignor
Cornaro, auditor of the 'rota', with the intention of making my way into
good society, but fearing lest he as a Venetian might get compromised, he
introduced me to Cardinal Passionei, who spoke of me to the sovereign
pontiff.
Before I pass on to anything else, I will inform my readers of what took
place on the occasion of my second visit to this old cardinal, a great
enemy of the Jesuits, a wit, and man of letters.