Bettina eyed me with the air of triumph which perfect confidence in
victory gives to a person, and said: "You have just reached the point
where I wished you to be. You shall now be made aware of things which I
could not explain before, owing to your refusing the appointment which I
then gave you for no other purpose than to tell you all the truth.
Cordiani declared his love for me a week after he became an inmate in
our house; he begged my consent to a marriage, if his father made the
demand of my hand as soon as he should have completed his studies. My
answer was that I did not know him sufficiently, that I could form no
idea on the subject, and I requested him not to allude to it any more.
He appeared to have quietly given up the matter, but soon after, I found
out that it was not the case; he begged me one day to come to his room
now and then to dress his hair; I told him I had no time to spare, and
he remarked that you were more fortunate. I laughed at this reproach, as
everyone here knew that I had the care of you. It was a fortnight after
my refusal to Cordiani, that I unfortunately spent an hour with you in
that loving nonsense which has naturally given you ideas until then
unknown to your senses. That hour made me very happy: I loved you, and
having given way to very natural desires, I revelled in my enjoyment
without the slightest remorse of conscience. I was longing to be again
with you the next morning, but after supper, misfortune laid for the
first time its hand upon me. Cordiani slipped in my hands this note and
this letter which I have since hidden in a hole in the wall, with the
intention of shewing them to you at the first opportunity."
Saying this, Bettina handed me the note and the letter; the first ran as
follows: "Admit me this evening in your closet, the door of which,
leading to the yard, can be left ajar, or prepare yourself to make the
best of it with the doctor, to whom I intend to deliver, if you should
refuse my request, the letter of which I enclose a copy."
The letter contained the statement of a cowardly and enraged informer,
and would certainly have caused the most unpleasant results. In that
letter Cordiani informed the doctor that his sister spent her mornings
with me in criminal connection while he was saying his mass, and he
pledged himself to enter into particulars which would leave him no
doubt.
"After giving to the case the consideration it required," continued
Bettina, "I made up my mind to hear that monster; but my determination
being fixed, I put in my pocket my father's stilletto, and holding my
door ajar I waited for him there, unwilling to let him come in, as my
closet is divided only by a thin partition from the room of my father,
whom the slightest noise might have roused up. My first question to
Cordiani was in reference to the slander contained in the letter he
threatened to deliver to my brother: he answered that it was no slander,
for he had been a witness to everything that had taken place in the
morning through a hole he had bored in the garret just above your bed,
and to which he would apply his eye the moment he knew that I was in
your room. He wound up by threatening to discover everything to my
brother and to my mother, unless I granted him the same favours I had
bestowed upon you. In my just indignation I loaded him with the most
bitter insults, I called him a cowardly spy and slanderer, for he could
not have seen anything but childish playfulness, and I declared to him
that he need not flatter himself that any threat would compel me to give
the slightest compliance to his wishes. He then begged and begged my
pardon a thousand times, and went on assuring me that I must lay to my
rigour the odium of the step he had taken, the only excuse for it being
in the fervent love I had kindled in his heart, and which made him
miserable. He acknowledged that his letter might be a slander, that he
had acted treacherously, and he pledged his honour never to attempt
obtaining from me by violence favours which he desired to merit only by
the constancy of his love. I then thought myself to some extent
compelled to say that I might love him at some future time, and to
promise that I would not again come near your bed during the absence of
my brother. In this way I dismissed him satisfied, without his daring to
beg for so much as a kiss, but with the promise that we might now and
then have some conversation in the same place. As soon as he left me I
went to bed, deeply grieved that I could no longer see you in the
absence of my brother, and that I was unable, for fear of consequences,
to let you know the reason of my change. Three weeks passed off in that
position, and I cannot express what have been my sufferings, for you, of
course, urged me to come, and I was always under the painful necessity
of disappointing you. I even feared to find myself alone with you, for I
felt certain that I could not have refrained from telling you the cause
of the change in my conduct. To crown my misery, add that I found myself
compelled, at least once a week, to receive the vile Cordiani outside of
my room, and to speak to him, in order to check his impatience with a
few words. At last, unable to bear up any longer under such misery,
threatened likewise by you, I determined to end my agony. I wished to
disclose to you all this intrigue, leaving to you the care of bringing a
change for the better, and for that purpose I proposed that you should
accompany me to the ball disguised as a girl, although I knew it would
enrage Cordiani; but my mind was made up. You know how my scheme fell to
the ground. The unexpected departure of my brother with my father
suggested to both of you the same idea, and it was before receiving
Cordiani's letter that I promised to come to you. Cordiani did not ask
for an appointment; he only stated that he would be waiting for me in my
closet, and I had no opportunity of telling him that I could not allow
him to come, any more than I could find time to let you know that I
would be with you only after midnight, as I intended to do, for I
reckoned that after an hour's talk I would dismiss the wretch to his
room. But my reckoning was wrong; Cordiani had conceived a scheme, and I
could not help listening to all he had to say about it. His whining and
exaggerated complaints had no end. He upbraided me for refusing to
further the plan he had concocted, and which he thought I would accept
with rapture if I loved him. The scheme was for me to elope with him
during holy week, and to run away to Ferrara, where he had an uncle who
would have given us a kind welcome, and would soon have brought his
father to forgive him and to insure our happiness for life. The
objections I made, his answers, the details to be entered into, the
explanations and the ways and means to be examined to obviate the
difficulties of the project, took up the whole night. My heart was
bleeding as I thought of you; but my conscience is at rest, and I did
nothing that could render me unworthy of your esteem. You cannot refuse
it to me, unless you believe that the confession I have just made is
untrue; but you would be both mistaken and unjust. Had I made up my mind
to sacrifice myself and to grant favours which love alone ought to
obtain, I might have got rid of the treacherous wretch within one hour,
but death seemed preferable to such a dreadful expedient. Could I in any
way suppose that you were outside of my door, exposed to the wind and to
the snow? Both of us were deserving of pity, but my misery was still
greater than yours. All these fearful circumstances were written in the
book of fate, to make me lose my reason, which now returns only at
intervals, and I am in constant dread of a fresh attack of those awful
convulsions. They say I am bewitched, and possessed of the demon; I do
not know anything about it, but if it should be true I am the most
miserable creature in existence." Bettina ceased speaking, and burst
into a violent storm of tears, sobs, and groans. I was deeply moved,
although I felt that all she had said might be true, and yet was
scarcely worthy of belief:
'Forse era ver, ma non pero credibile A chi del senso suo fosse signor.'
But she was weeping, and her tears, which at all events were not
deceptive, took away from me the faculty of doubt. Yet I put her tears
to the account of her wounded self-love; to give way entirely I needed a
thorough conviction, and to obtain it evidence was necessary,
probability was not enough. I could not admit either Cordiani's
moderation or Bettina's patience, or the fact of seven hours employed in
innocent conversation. In spite of all these considerations, I felt a
sort of pleasure in accepting for ready cash all the counterfeit coins
that she had spread out before me.
After drying her tears, Bettina fixed her beautiful eyes upon mine,
thinking that she could discern in them evident signs of her victory;
but I surprised her much by alluding to one point which, with all her
cunning, she had neglected to mention in her defence. Rhetoric makes use
of nature's secrets in the same way as painters who try to imitate it:
their most beautiful work is false. This young girl, whose mind had not
been refined by study, aimed at being considered innocent and artless,
and she did her best to succeed, but I had seen too good a specimen of
her cleverness.
"Well, my dear Bettina," I said, "your story has affected me; but how do
you think I am going to accept your convulsions as natural, and to
believe in the demoniac symptoms which came on so seasonably during the
exorcisms, although you very properly expressed your doubts on the
matter?"
Hearing this, Bettina stared at me, remaining silent for a few minutes,
then casting her eyes down she gave way to fresh tears, exclaiming now
and then: "Poor me! oh, poor me!" This situation, however, becoming most
painful to me, I asked what I could do for her. She answered in a sad
tone that if my heart did not suggest to me what to do, she did not
herself see what she could demand of me.
"I thought," said she, "that I would reconquer my lost influence over
your heart, but, I see it too plainly, you no longer feel an interest in
me. Go on treating me harshly; go on taking for mere fictions sufferings
which are but too real, which you have caused, and which you will now
increase. Some day, but too late, you will be sorry, and your repentance
will be bitter indeed."
As she pronounced these words she rose to take her leave; but judging
her capable of anything I felt afraid, and I detained her to say that
the only way to regain my affection was to remain one month without
convulsions and without handsome Father Mancia's presence being
required.
"I cannot help being convulsed," she answered, "but what do you mean by
applying to the Jacobin that epithet of handsome? Could you suppose--?"
"Not at all, not at all--I suppose nothing; to do so would be necessary
for me to be jealous. But I cannot help saying that the preference given
by your devils to the exorcism of that handsome monk over the
incantations of the ugly Capuchin is likely to give birth to remarks
rather detrimental to your honour. Moreover, you are free to do whatever
pleases you."
Thereupon she left my room, and a few minutes later everybody came home.
After supper the servant, without any question on my part, informed me
that Bettina had gone to bed with violent feverish chills, having
previously had her bed carried into the kitchen beside her mother's.
This attack of fever might be real, but I had my doubts. I felt certain
that she would never make up her mind to be well, for her good health
would have supplied me with too strong an argument against her pretended
innocence, even in the case of Cordiani; I likewise considered her idea
of having her bed placed near her mother's nothing but artful
contrivance.
The next day Doctor Olivo found her very feverish, and told her brother
that she would most likely be excited and delirious, but that it would
be the effect of the fever and not the work of the devil. And truly,
Bettina was raving all day, but Dr. Gozzi, placing implicit confidence
in the physician, would not listen to his mother, and did not send for
the Jacobin friar. The fever increased in violence, and on the fourth
day the small-pox broke out. Cordiani and the two brothers Feitrini, who
had so far escaped that disease, were immediately sent away, but as I
had had it before I remained at home.
The poor girl was so fearfully covered with the loathsome eruption, that
on the sixth day her skin could not be seen on any part of her body. Her
eyes closed, and her life was despaired of, when it was found that her
mouth and throat were obstructed to such a degree that she could swallow
nothing but a few drops of honey. She was perfectly motionless; she
breathed and that was all. Her mother never left her bedside, and I was
thought a saint when I carried my table and my books into the patient's
room. The unfortunate girl had become a fearful sight to look upon; her
head was dreadfully swollen, the nose could no longer be seen, and much
fear was entertained for her eyes, in case her life should be spared.
The odour of her perspiration was most offensive, but I persisted in
keeping my watch by her.
On the ninth day, the vicar gave her absolution, and after administering
extreme unction, he left her, as he said, in the hands of God. In the
midst of so much sadness, the conversation of the mother with her son,
would, in spite of myself, cause me some amount of merriment. The good
woman wanted to know whether the demon who was dwelling in her child
could still influence her to perform extravagant follies, and what would
become of the demon in the case of her daughter's death, for, as she
expressed it, she could not think of his being so stupid as to remain in
so loathsome a body. She particularly wanted to ascertain whether the
demon had power to carry off the soul of her child. Doctor Gozzi, who
was an ubiquitarian, made to all those questions answers which had not
even the shadow of good sense, and which of course had no other effect
than to increase a hundred-fold the perplexity of his poor mother.
During the tenth and eleventh days, Bettina was so bad that we thought
every moment likely to be her last. The disease had reached its worst
period; the smell was unbearable; I alone would not leave her, so sorely
did I pity her. The heart of man is indeed an unfathomable abyss, for,
however incredible it may appear, it was while in that fearful state
that Bettina inspired me with the fondness which I showed her after her
recovery.
On the thirteenth day the fever abated, but the patient began to
experience great irritation, owing to a dreadful itching, which no
remedy could have allayed as effectually as these powerful words which I
kept constantly pouring into her ear: "Bettina, you are getting better;
but if you dare to scratch yourself, you will become such a fright that
nobody will ever love you." All the physicians in the universe might be
challenged to prescribe a more potent remedy against itching for a girl
who, aware that she has been pretty, finds herself exposed to the loss
of her beauty through her own fault, if she scratches herself.
At last her fine eyes opened again to the light of heaven; she was moved
to her own room, but she had to keep her bed until Easter. She
inoculated me with a few pocks, three of which have left upon my face
everlasting marks; but in her eyes they gave me credit for great
devotedness, for they were a proof of my constant care, and she felt
that I indeed deserved her whole love. And she truly loved me, and I
returned her love, although I never plucked a flower which fate and
prejudice kept in store for a husband. But what a contemptible husband!
Two years later she married a shoemaker, by name Pigozzo--a base, arrant
knave who beggared and ill-treated her to such an extent that her
brother had to take her home and to provide for her. Fifteen years
afterwards, having been appointed arch-priest at Saint-George de la
Vallee, he took her there with him, and when I went to pay him a visit
eighteen years ago, I found Bettina old, ill, and dying. She breathed
her last in my arms in 1776, twenty-four hours after my arrival. I will
speak of her death in good time.
About that period, my mother returned from St. Petersburg, where the
Empress Anne Iwanowa had not approved of the Italian comedy. The whole
of the troop had already returned to Italy, and my mother had travelled
with Carlin Bertinazzi, the harlequin, who died in Paris in the year
1783. As soon as she had reached Padua, she informed Doctor Gozzi of her
arrival, and he lost no time in accompanying me to the inn where she had
put up. We dined with her, and before bidding us adieu, she presented
the doctor with a splendid fur, and gave me the skin of a lynx for
Bettina. Six months afterwards she summoned me to Venice, as she wished
to see me before leaving for Dresden, where she had contracted an
engagement for life in the service of the Elector of Saxony, Augustus
III., King of Poland. She took with her my brother Jean, then eight
years old, who was weeping bitterly when he left; I thought him very
foolish, for there was nothing very tragic in that departure. He is the
only one in the family who was wholly indebted to our mother for his
fortune, although he was not her favourite child.
I spent another year in Padua, studying law in which I took the degree
of Doctor in my sixteenth year, the subject of my thesis being in the
civil law, 'de testamentis', and in the canon law, 'utrum Hebraei
possint construere novas synagogas'.
My vocation was to study medicine, and to practice it, for I felt a
great inclination for that profession, but no heed was given to my
wishes, and I was compelled to apply myself to the study of the law, for
which I had an invincible repugnance. My friends were of opinion that I
could not make my fortune in any profession but that of an advocate,
and, what is still worse, of an ecclesiastical advocate. If they had
given the matter proper consideration, they would have given me leave to
follow my own inclinations, and I would have been a physician--a
profession in which quackery is of still greater avail than in the legal
business. I never became either a physician or an advocate, and I never
would apply to a lawyer, when I had any legal business, nor call in a
physician when I happened to be ill. Lawsuits and pettifoggery may
support a good many families, but a greater proportion is ruined by
them, and those who perish in the hands, of physicians are more numerous
by far than those who get cured strong evidence in my opinion, that
mankind would be much less miserable without either lawyers or doctors.
To attend the lectures of the professors, I had to go to the university
called the Bo, and it became necessary for me to go out alone. This was
a matter of great wonder to me, for until then I had never considered
myself a free man; and in my wish to enjoy fully the liberty I thought I
had just conquered, it was not long before I had made the very worst
acquaintances amongst the most renowned students. As a matter of course,
the most renowned were the most worthless, dissolute fellows, gamblers,
frequenters of disorderly houses, hard drinkers, debauchees, tormentors
and suborners of honest girls, liars, and wholly incapable of any good
or virtuous feeling. In the company of such men did I begin my
apprenticeship of the world, learning my lesson from the book of
experience.
The theory of morals and its usefulness through the life of man can be
compared to the advantage derived by running over the index of a book
before reading it when we have perused that index we know nothing but
the subject of the work. This is like the school for morals offered by
the sermons, the precepts, and the tales which our instructors recite
for our especial benefit. We lend our whole attention to those lessons,
but when an opportunity offers of profiting by the advice thus bestowed
upon us, we feel inclined to ascertain for ourselves whether the result
will turn out as predicted; we give way to that very natural
inclination, and punishment speedily follows with concomitant
repentance. Our only consolation lies in the fact that in such moments
we are conscious of our own knowledge, and consider ourselves as having
earned the right to instruct others; but those to whom we wish to impart
our experience act exactly as we have acted before them, and, as a
matter of course, the world remains in statu quo, or grows worse and
worse.
When Doctor Gozzi granted me the privilege of going out alone, he gave
me an opportunity for the discovery of several truths which, until then,
were not only unknown to me, but the very existence of which I had never
suspected. On my first appearance, the boldest scholars got hold of me
and sounded my depth. Finding that I was a thorough freshman, they
undertook my education, and with that worthy purpose in view they
allowed me to fall blindly into every trap. They taught me gambling, won
the little I possessed, and then they made me play upon trust, and put
me up to dishonest practices in order to procure the means of paying my
gambling debts; but I acquired at the same time the sad experience of
sorrow! Yet these hard lessons proved useful, for they taught me to
mistrust the impudent sycophants who openly flatter their dupes, and
never to rely upon the offers made by fawning flatterers. They taught me
likewise how to behave in the company of quarrelsome duellists, the
society of whom ought to be avoided, unless we make up our mind to be
constantly in the very teeth of danger. I was not caught in the snares
of professional lewd women, because not one of them was in my eyes as
pretty as Bettina, but I did not resist so well the desire for that
species of vain glory which is the reward of holding life at a cheap
price.
In those days the students in Padua enjoyed very great privileges, which
were in reality abuses made legal through prescription, the primitive
characteristic of privileges, which differ essentially from
prerogatives. In fact, in order to maintain the legality of their
privileges, the students often committed crimes. The guilty were dealt
with tenderly, because the interest of the city demanded that severity
should not diminish the great influx of scholars who flocked to that
renowned university from every part of Europe. The practice of the
Venetian government was to secure at a high salary the most celebrated
professors, and to grant the utmost freedom to the young men attending
their lessons. The students acknowledged no authority but that of a
chief, chosen among themselves, and called syndic. He was usually a
foreign nobleman, who could keep a large establishment, and who was
responsible to the government for the behaviour of the scholars. It was
his duty to give them up to justice when they transgressed the laws, and
the students never disputed his sentence, because he always defended
them to the utmost, when they had the slightest shadow of right on their
side.
The students, amongst other privileges, would not suffer their trunks to
be searched by customhouse authorities, and no ordinary policeman would
have dared to arrest one of them. They carried about them forbidden
weapons, seduced helpless girls, and often disturbed the public peace by
their nocturnal broils and impudent practical jokes; in one word, they
were a body of young fellows, whom nothing could restrain, who would
gratify every whim, and enjoy their sport without regard or
consideration for any human being.
It was about that time that a policeman entered a coffee-room, in which
were seated two students. One of them ordered him out, but the man
taking no notice of it, the student fired a pistol at him, and missed
his aim. The policeman returned the fire, wounded the aggressor, and ran
away. The students immediately mustered together at the Bo, divided into
bands, and went over the city, hunting the policemen to murder them, and
avenge the insult they had received. In one of the encounters two of the
students were killed, and all the others, assembling in one troop, swore
never to lay their arms down as long as there should be one policeman
alive in Padua. The authorities had to interfere, and the syndic of the
students undertook to put a stop to hostilities provided proper
satisfaction was given, as the police were in the wrong. The man who had
shot the student in the coffee-room was hanged, and peace was restored;
but during the eight days of agitation, as I was anxious not to appear
less brave than my comrades who were patrolling the city, I followed
them in spite of Doctor Gozzi's remonstrances. Armed with a carbine and
a pair of pistols, I ran about the town with the others, in quest of the
enemy, and I recollect how disappointed I was because the troop to which
I belonged did not meet one policeman. When the war was over, the doctor
laughed at me, but Bettina admired my valour. Unfortunately, I indulged
in expenses far above my means, owing to my unwillingness to seem poorer
than my new friends. I sold or pledged everything I possessed, and I
contracted debts which I could not possibly pay. This state of things
caused my first sorrows, and they are the most poignant sorrows under
which a young man can smart. Not knowing which way to turn, I wrote to
my excellent grandmother, begging her assistance, but instead of sending
me some money, she came to Padua on the 1st of October, 1739, and, after
thanking the doctor and Bettina for all their affectionate care, she
bought me back to Venice. As he took leave of me, the doctor, who was
shedding tears, gave me what he prized most on earth; a relic of some
saint, which perhaps I might have kept to this very day, had not the
setting been of gold. It performed only one miracle, that of being of
service to me in a moment of great need. Whenever I visited Padua, to
complete my study of the law, I stayed at the house of the kind doctor,
but I was always grieved at seeing near Bettina the brute to whom she
was engaged, and who did not appear to me deserving of such a wife. I
have always regretted that a prejudice, of which I soon got rid, should
have made me preserve for that man a flower which I could have plucked
so easily.
CHAPTER IV
I receive the minor orders from the patriarch of Venice--I get
acquainted with Senator Malipiero, with Therese Imer, with the niece of
the Curate, with Madame Orio, with Nanette and Marton, and with the
Cavamacchia--I become a preacher--My adventure with Lucie at Pasean A
rendezvous on the third story.
"He comes from Padua, where he has completed his studies." Such were the
words by which I was everywhere introduced, and which, the moment they
were uttered, called upon me the silent observation of every young man
of my age and condition, the compliments of all fathers, and the
caresses of old women, as well as the kisses of a few who, although not
old, were not sorry to be considered so for the sake of embracing a
young man without impropriety. The curate of Saint-Samuel, the Abbe
Josello, presented me to Monsignor Correre, Patriarch of Venice, who
gave me the tonsure, and who, four months afterwards, by special favour,
admitted me to the four minor orders. No words could express the joy and
the pride of my grandmother. Excellent masters were given to me to
continue my studies, and M. Baffo chose the Abbe Schiavo to teach me a
pure Italian style, especially poetry, for which I had a decided talent.
I was very comfortably lodged with my brother Francois, who was studying
theatrical architecture. My sister and my youngest brother were living
with our grandam in a house of her own, in which it was her wish to die,
because her husband had there breathed his last. The house in which I
dwelt was the same in which my father had died, and the rent of which my
mother continued to pay. It was large and well furnished.
Although Abbe Grimani was my chief protector, I seldom saw him, and I
particularly attached myself to M. de Malipiero, to whom I had been
presented by the Curate Josello. M. de Malipiero was a senator, who was
unwilling at seventy years of age to attend any more to State affairs,
and enjoyed a happy, sumptuous life in his mansion, surrounded every
evening by a well-chosen party of ladies who had all known how to make
the best of their younger days, and of gentlemen who were always
acquainted with the news of the town. He was a bachelor and wealthy,
but, unfortunately, he had three or four times every year severe attacks
of gout, which always left him crippled in some part or other of his
body, so that all his person was disabled. His head, his lungs, and his
stomach had alone escaped this cruel havoc. He was still a fine man, a
great epicure, and a good judge of wine; his wit was keen, his knowledge
of the world extensive, his eloquence worthy of a son of Venice, and he
had that wisdom which must naturally belong to a senator who for forty
years has had the management of public affairs, and to a man who has bid
farewell to women after having possessed twenty mistresses, and only
when he felt himself compelled to acknowledge that he could no longer be
accepted by any woman. Although almost entirely crippled, he did not
appear to be so when he was seated, when he talked, or when he was at
table. He had only one meal a day, and always took it alone because,
being toothless and unable to eat otherwise than very slowly, he did not
wish to hurry himself out of compliment to his guests, and would have
been sorry to see them waiting for him. This feeling deprived him of the
pleasure he would have enjoyed in entertaining at his board friendly and
agreeable guests, and caused great sorrow to his excellent cook.
The first time I had the honour of being introduced to him by the
curate, I opposed earnestly the reason which made him eat his meals in
solitude, and I said that his excellency had only to invite guests whose
appetite was good enough to enable them to eat a double share.
"But where can I find such table companions?" he asked.
"It is rather a delicate matter," I answered; "but you must take your
guests on trial, and after they have been found such as you wish them to
be, the only difficulty will be to keep them as your guests without
their being aware of the real cause of your preference, for no
respectable man could acknowledge that he enjoys the honour of sitting
at your excellency's table only because he eats twice as much as any
other man."
The senator understood the truth of my argument, and asked the curate to
bring me to dinner on the following day. He found my practice even
better than my theory, and I became his daily guest.
This man, who had given up everything in life except his own self,
fostered an amorous inclination, in spite of his age and of his gout. He
loved a young girl named Therese Imer, the daughter of an actor residing
near his mansion, her bedroom window being opposite to his own. This
young girl, then in her seventeenth year, was pretty, whimsical, and a
regular coquette. She was practising music with a view to entering the
theatrical profession, and by showing herself constantly at the window
she had intoxicated the old senator, and was playing with him cruelly.
She paid him a daily visit, but always escorted by her mother, a former
actress, who had retired from the stage in order to work out her
salvation, and who, as a matter of course, had made up her mind to
combine the interests of heaven with the works of this world. She took
her daughter to mass every day and compelled her to go to confession
every week; but every afternoon she accompanied her in a visit to the
amorous old man, the rage of whom frightened me when she refused him a
kiss under the plea that she had performed her devotions in the morning,
and that she could not reconcile herself to the idea of offending the
God who was still dwelling in her.
What a sight for a young man of fifteen like me, whom the old man
admitted as the only and silent witness of these erotic scenes! The
miserable mother applauded her daughter's reserve, and went so far as to
lecture the elderly lover, who, in his turn, dared not refute her
maxims, which savoured either too much or too little of Christianity,
and resisted a very strong inclination to hurl at her head any object he
had at hand. Anger would then take the place of lewd desires, and after
they had retired he would comfort himself by exchanging with me
philosophical considerations.
Compelled to answer him, and not knowing well what to say, I ventured
one day upon advising a marriage. He struck me with amazement when he
answered that she refused to marry him from fear of drawing upon herself
the hatred of his relatives.
"Then make her the offer of a large sum of money, or a position."
"She says that she would not, even for a crown, commit a deadly sin."
"In that case, you must either take her by storm, or banish her for ever
from your presence."
"I can do neither one nor the other; physical as well as moral strength
is deficient in me."
"Kill her, then."
"That will very likely be the case unless I die first."
"Indeed I pity your excellency."
"Do you sometimes visit her?"
"No, for I might fall in love with her, and I would be miserable."
"You are right."
Witnessing many such scenes, and taking part in many similar
conversations, I became an especial favourite with the old nobleman. I
was invited to his evening assemblies which were, as I have stated
before, frequented by superannuated women and witty men. He told me that
in this circle I would learn a science of greater import than Gassendi's
philosophy, which I was then studying by his advice instead of
Aristotle's, which he turned into ridicule. He laid down some precepts
for my conduct in those assemblies, explaining the necessity of my
observing them, as there would be some wonder at a young man of my age
being received at such parties. He ordered me never to open my lips
except to answer direct questions, and particularly enjoined me never to
pass an opinion on any subject, because at my age I could not be allowed
to have any opinions.
I faithfully followed his precepts, and obeyed his orders so well, that
in a few days I had gained his esteem, and become the child of the
house, as well as the favourite of all the ladies who visited him. In my
character of a young and innocent ecclesiastic, they would ask me to
accompany them in their visits to the convents where their daughters or
their nieces were educated; I was at all hours received at their houses
without even being announced; I was scolded if a week elapsed without my
calling upon them, and when I went to the apartments reserved for the
young ladies, they would run away, but the moment they saw that the
intruder was only I, they would return at once, and their confidence was
very charming to me.
Before dinner, M. de Malipiero would often inquire from me what
advantages were accruing to me from the welcome I received at the hands
of the respectable ladies I had become acquainted with at his house,
taking care to tell me, before I could have time to answer, that they
were all endowed with the greatest virtue, and that I would give
everybody a bad opinion of myself, if I ever breathed one word of
disparagement to the high reputation they all enjoyed. In this way he
would inculcate in me the wise precept of reserve and discretion.
It was at the senator's house that I made the acquaintance of Madame
Manzoni, the wife of a notary public, of whom I shall have to speak very
often. This worthy lady inspired me with the deepest attachment, and she
gave me the wisest advice. Had I followed it, and profited by it, my
life would not have been exposed to so many storms; it is true that in
that case, my life would not be worth writing.
All these fine acquaintances amongst women who enjoyed the reputation of
being high-bred ladies, gave me a very natural desire to shine by my
good looks and by the elegance of my dress; but my father confessor, as
well as my grandmother, objected very strongly to this feeling of
vanity. On one occasion, taking me apart, the curate told me, with
honeyed words, that in the profession to which I had devoted myself my
thoughts ought to dwell upon the best means of being agreeable to God,
and not on pleasing the world by my fine appearance. He condemned my
elaborate curls, and the exquisite perfume of my pomatum. He said that
the devil had got hold of me by the hair, that I would be excommunicated
if I continued to take such care of it, and concluded by quoting for my
benefit these words from an oecumenical council: 'clericus qui nutrit
coman, anathema sit'. I answered him with the names of several
fashionable perfumed abbots, who were not threatened with
excommunication, who were not interfered with, although they wore four
times as much powder as I did--for I only used a slight sprinkling--who
perfumed their hair with a certain amber-scented pomatum which brought
women to the very point of fainting, while mine, a jessamine pomade,
called forth the compliment of every circle in which I was received. I
added that I could not, much to my regret, obey him, and that if I had
meant to live in slovenliness, I would have become a Capuchin and not an
abbe.
My answer made him so angry that, three or four days afterwards, he
contrived to obtain leave from my grandmother to enter my chamber early
in the morning, before I was awake, and, approaching my bed on tiptoe
with a sharp pair of scissors, he cut off unmercifully all my front
hair, from one ear to the other. My brother Francois was in the
adjoining room and saw him, but he did not interfere as he was delighted
at my misfortune. He wore a wig, and was very jealous of my beautiful
head of hair. Francois was envious through the whole of his life; yet he
combined this feeling of envy with friendship; I never could understand
him; but this vice of his, like my own vices, must by this time have
died of old age.
After his great operation, the abbe left my room quietly, but when I
woke up shortly afterwards, and realized all the horror of this unheard-
of execution, my rage and indignation were indeed wrought to the highest
pitch.
What wild schemes of revenge my brain engendered while, with a looking-
glass in my hand, I was groaning over the shameful havoc performed by
this audacious priest! At the noise I made my grandmother hastened to my
room, and amidst my brother's laughter the kind old woman assured me
that the priest would never have been allowed to enter my room if she
could have foreseen his intention, and she managed to soothe my passion
to some extent by confessing that he had over-stepped the limits of his
right to administer a reproof.
But I was determined upon revenge, and I went on dressing myself and
revolving in my mind the darkest plots. It seemed to me that I was
entitled to the most cruel revenge, without having anything to dread
from the terrors of the law. The theatres being open at that time I put
on a mask to go out, and I, went to the advocate Carrare, with whom I
had become acquainted at the senator's house, to inquire from him
whether I could bring a suit against the priest. He told me that, but a
short time since, a family had been ruined for having sheared the
moustache of a Sclavonian--a crime not nearly so atrocious as the
shearing of all my front locks, and that I had only to give him my
instructions to begin a criminal suit against the abbe, which would make
him tremble. I gave my consent, and begged that he would tell M. de
Malipiero in the evening the reason for which I could not go to his
house, for I did not feel any inclination to show myself anywhere until
my hair had grown again.
I went home and partook with my brother of a repast which appeared
rather scanty in comparison to the dinners I had with the old senator.
The privation of the delicate and plentiful fare to which his excellency
had accustomed me was most painful, besides all the enjoyments from
which I was excluded through the atrocious conduct of the virulent
priest, who was my godfather. I wept from sheer vexation; and my rage
was increased by the consciousness that there was in this insult a
certain dash of comical fun which threw over me a ridicule more
disgraceful in my estimation than the greatest crime.
I went to bed early, and, refreshed by ten hours of profound slumber, I
felt in the morning somewhat less angry, but quite as determined to
summon the priest before a court. I dressed myself with the intention of
calling upon my advocate, when I received the visit of a skilful hair-
dresser whom I had seen at Madame Cantarini's house. He told me that he
was sent by M. de Malipiero to arrange my hair so that I could go out,
as the senator wished me to dine with him on that very day. He examined
the damage done to my head, and said, with a smile, that if I would
trust to his art, he would undertake to send me out with an appearance
of even greater elegance than I could boast of before; and truly, when
he had done, I found myself so good-looking that I considered my thirst
for revenge entirely satisfied.
Having thus forgotten the injury, I called upon the lawyer to tell him
to stay all proceedings, and I hastened to M. de Malipiero's palace,
where, as chance would have it, I met the abbe. Notwithstanding all my
joy, I could not help casting upon him rather unfriendly looks, but not
a word was said about what had taken place. The senator noticed
everything, and the priest took his leave, most likely with feelings of
mortified repentance, for this time I most verily deserved
excommunication by the extreme studied elegance of my curling hair.
When my cruel godfather had left us, I did not dissemble with M. de
Malipiero; I candidly told him that I would look out for another church,
and that nothing would induce me to remain under a priest who, in his
wrath, could go the length of such proceedings. The wise old man agreed
with me, and said that I was quite right: it was the best way to make me
do ultimately whatever he liked. In the evening everyone in our circle,
being well aware of what had happened, complimented me, and assured me
that nothing could be handsomer than my new head-dress. I was delighted,
and was still more gratified when, after a fortnight had elapsed, I
found that M. de Malipiero did not broach the subject of my returning to
my godfather's church. My grandmother alone constantly urged me to
return. But this calm was the harbinger of a storm. When my mind was
thoroughly at rest on that subject, M. de Malipiero threw me into the
greatest astonishment by suddenly telling me that an excellent
opportunity offered itself for me to reappear in the church and to
secure ample satisfaction from the abbe.
"It is my province," added the senator, "as president of the
Confraternity of the Holy Sacrament, to choose the preacher who is to
deliver the sermon on the fourth Sunday of this month, which happens to
be the second Christmas holiday. I mean to appoint you, and I am certain
that the abbe will not dare to reject my choice. What say you to such a
triumphant reappearance? Does it satisfy you?"
This offer caused me the greatest surprise, for I had never dreamt of
becoming a preacher, and I had never been vain enough to suppose that I
could write a sermon and deliver it in the church. I told M. de
Malipiero that he must surely be enjoying a joke at my expense, but he
answered that he had spoken in earnest, and he soon contrived to
persuade me and to make me believe that I was born to become the most
renowned preacher of our age as soon as I should have grown fat--a
quality which I certainly could not boast of, for at that time I was
extremely thin. I had not the shadow of a fear as to my voice or to my
elocution, and for the matter of composing my sermon I felt myself equal
to the production of a masterpiece.
I told M. de Malipiero that I was ready, and anxious to be at home in
order to go to work; that, although no theologian, I was acquainted with
my subject, and would compose a sermon which would take everyone by
surprise on account of its novelty.
On the following day, when I called upon him, he informed me that the
abbe had expressed unqualified delight at the choice made by him, and at
my readiness in accepting the appointment; but he likewise desired that
I should submit my sermon to him as soon as it was written, because the
subject belonging to the most sublime theology he could not allow me to
enter the pulpit without being satisfied that I would not utter any
heresies. I agreed to this demand, and during the week I gave birth to
my masterpiece. I have now that first sermon in my possession, and I
cannot help saying that, considering my tender years, I think it a very
good one.
I could not give an idea of my grandmother's joy; she wept tears of
happiness at having a grandson who had become an apostle. She insisted
upon my reading my sermon to her, listened to it with her beads in her
hands, and pronounced it very beautiful. M. de Malipiero, who had no
rosary when I read it to him, was of opinion that it would not prove
acceptable to the parson. My text was from Horace: 'Ploravere suis non
respondere favorem sperdtum meritis'; and I deplored the wickedness and
ingratitude of men, through which had failed the design adopted by
Divine wisdom for the redemption of humankind. But M. de Malipiero was
sorry that I had taken my text from any heretical poet, although he was
pleased that my sermon was not interlarded with Latin quotations.
I called upon the priest to read my production; but as he was out I had
to wait for his return, and during that time I fell in love with his
niece, Angela. She was busy upon some tambour work; I sat down close by
her, and telling me that she had long desired to make my acquaintance,
she begged me to relate the history of the locks of hair sheared by her
venerable uncle.
My love for Angela proved fatal to me, because from it sprang two other
love affairs which, in their turn, gave birth to a great many others,
and caused me finally to renounce the Church as a profession. But let us
proceed quietly, and not encroach upon future events.
On his return home the abbe found me with his niece, who was about my
age, and he did not appear to be angry. I gave him my sermon: he read it
over, and told me that it was a beautiful academical dissertation, but
unfit for a sermon from the pulpit, and he added,
"I will give you a sermon written by myself, which I have never
delivered; you will commit it to memory, and I promise to let everybody
suppose that it is of your own composition."
"I thank you, very reverend father, but I will preach my own sermon, or
none at all."
"At all events, you shall not preach such a sermon as this in my
church."
"You can talk the matter over with M. de Malipiero. In the meantime I
will take my work to the censorship, and to His Eminence the Patriarch,
and if it is not accepted I shall have it printed."
"All very well, young man. The patriarch will coincide with me."
In the evening I related my discussion with the parson before all the
guests of M. de Malipiero. The reading of my sermon was called for, and
it was praised by all. They lauded me for having with proper modesty
refrained from quoting the holy fathers of the Church, whom at my age I
could not be supposed to have sufficiently studied, and the ladies
particularly admired me because there was no Latin in it but the Text
from Horace, who, although a great libertine himself, has written very
good things. A niece of the patriarch, who was present that evening,
promised to prepare her uncle in my favour, as I had expressed my
intention to appeal to him; but M. de Malipiero desired me not to take
any steps in the matter until I had seen him on the following day, and I
submissively bowed to his wishes.
When I called at his mansion the next day he sent for the priest, who
soon made his appearance. As he knew well what he had been sent for, he
immediately launched out into a very long discourse, which I did not
interrupt, but the moment he had concluded his list of objections I told him that there could not be two ways to decide the question; that the patriarch would either approve or disapprove my sermon. |
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