"In the first case," I added, "I can pronounce it in your church, and no
responsibility can possibly fall upon your shoulders; in the second, I
must, of course, give way."
The abbe was struck by my determination and he said,
"Do not go to the patriarch; I accept your sermon; I only request you to
change your text. Horace was a villain."
"Why do you quote Seneca, Tertullian, Origen, and Boethius? They were
all heretics, and must, consequently, be considered by you as worse
wretches than Horace, who, after all, never had the chance of becoming a
Christian!"
However, as I saw it would please M. de Malipiero, I finally consented
to accept, as a substitute for mine, a text offered by the abbe,
although it did not suit in any way the spirit of my production; and in
order to get an opportunity for a visit to his niece, I gave him my
manuscript, saying that I would call for it the next day. My vanity
prompted me to send a copy to Doctor Gozzi, but the good man caused me
much amusement by returning it and writing that I must have gone mad,
and that if I were allowed to deliver such a sermon from the pulpit I
would bring dishonour upon myself as well as upon the man who had
educated me.
I cared but little for his opinion, and on the appointed day I delivered
my sermon in the Church of the Holy Sacrament in the presence of the
best society of Venice. I received much applause, and every one
predicted that I would certainly become the first preacher of our
century, as no young ecclesiastic of fifteen had ever been known to
preach as well as I had done. It is customary for the faithful to
deposit their offerings for the preacher in a purse which is handed to
them for that purpose.
The sexton who emptied it of its contents found in it more than fifty
sequins, and several billets-doux, to the great scandal of the weaker
brethren. An anonymous note amongst them, the writer of which I thought
I had guessed, let me into a mistake which I think better not to relate.
This rich harvest, in my great penury, caused me to entertain serious
thoughts of becoming a preacher, and I confided my intention to the
parson, requesting his assistance to carry it into execution. This gave
me the privilege of visiting at his house every day, and I improved the
opportunity of conversing with Angela, for whom my love was daily
increasing. But Angela was virtuous. She did not object to my love, but
she wished me to renounce the Church and to marry her. In spite of my
infatuation for her, I could not make up my mind to such a step, and I
went on seeing her and courting her in the hope that she would alter her
decision.
The priest, who had at last confessed his admiration for my first
sermon, asked me, some time afterwards, to prepare another for St.
Joseph's Day, with an invitation to deliver it on the 19th of March,
1741. I composed it, and the abbe spoke of it with enthusiasm, but fate
had decided that I should never preach but once in my life. It is a sad
tale, unfortunately for me very true, which some persons are cruel
enough to consider very amusing.
Young and rather self-conceited, I fancied that it was not necessary for
me to spend much time in committing my sermon to memory. Being the
author, I had all the ideas contained in my work classified in my mind,
and it did not seem to me within the range of possibilities that I could
forget what I had written. Perhaps I might not remember the exact words
of a sentence, but I was at liberty to replace them by other expressions
as good, and as I never happened to be at a loss, or to be struck dumb,
when I spoke in society, it was not likely that such an untoward
accident would befall me before an audience amongst whom I did not know
anyone who could intimidate me and cause me suddenly to lose the faculty
of reason or of speech. I therefore took my pleasure as usual, being
satisfied with reading my sermon morning and evening, in order to
impress it upon my memory which until then had never betrayed me.
The 19th of March came, and on that eventful day at four o'clock in the
afternoon I was to ascend the pulpit; but, believing myself quite secure
and thoroughly master of my subject, I had not the moral courage to deny
myself the pleasure of dining with Count Mont-Real, who was then
residing with me, and who had invited the patrician Barozzi, engaged to
be married to his daughter after the Easter holidays.
I was still enjoying myself with my fine company, when the sexton of the
church came in to tell me that they were waiting for me in the vestry.
With a full stomach and my head rather heated, I took my leave, ran to
the church, and entered the pulpit. I went through the exordium with
credit to myself, and I took breathing time; but scarcely had I
pronounced the first sentences of the narration, before I forgot what I
was saying, what I had to say, and in my endeavours to proceed, I fairly
wandered from my subject and I lost myself entirely. I was still more
discomforted by a half-repressed murmur of the audience, as my
deficiency appeared evident. Several persons left the church, others
began to smile, I lost all presence of mind and every hope of getting
out of the scrape.
I could not say whether I feigned a fainting fit, or whether I truly
swooned; all I know is that I fell down on the floor of the pulpit,
striking my head against the wall, with an inward prayer for
annihilation.
Two of the parish clerks carried me to the vestry, and after a few
moments, without addressing a word to anyone, I took my cloak and my
hat, and went home to lock myself in my room. I immediately dressed
myself in a short coat, after the fashion of travelling priests, I
packed a few things in a trunk, obtained some money from my grandmother,
and took my departure for Padua, where I intended to pass my third
examination. I reached Padua at midnight, and went to Doctor Gozzi's
house, but I did not feel the slightest temptation to mention to him my
unlucky adventure.
I remained in Padua long enough to prepare myself for the doctor's
degree, which I intended to take the following year, and after Easter I
returned to Venice, where my misfortune was already forgotten; but
preaching was out of the question, and when any attempt was made to
induce me to renew my efforts, I manfully kept to my determination never
to ascend the pulpit again.
On the eve of Ascension Day M. Manzoni introduced me to a young
courtesan, who was at that time in great repute at Venice, and was nick-
named Cavamacchia, because her father had been a scourer. This named
vexed her a great deal, she wished to be called Preati, which was her
family name, but it was all in vain, and the only concession her friends
would make was to call her by her Christian name of Juliette. She had
been introduced to fashionable notice by the Marquis de Sanvitali, a
nobleman from Parma, who had given her one hundred thousand ducats for
her favours. Her beauty was then the talk of everybody in Venice, and it
was fashionable to call upon her. To converse with her, and especially
to be admitted into her circle, was considered a great boon.
As I shall have to mention her several times in the course of my
history, my readers will, I trust, allow me to enter into some
particulars about her previous life.
Juliette was only fourteen years of age when her father sent her one day
to the house of a Venetian nobleman, Marco Muazzo, with a coat which he
had cleaned for him. He thought her very beautiful in spite of the dirty
rags in which she was dressed, and he called to see her at her father's
shop, with a friend of his, the celebrated advocate, Bastien Uccelli,
who; struck by the romantic and cheerful nature of Juliette still more
than by her beauty and fine figure, gave her an apartment, made her
study music, and kept her as his mistress. At the time of the fair,
Bastien took her with him to various public places of resort; everywhere
she attracted general attention, and secured the admiration of every
lover of the sex. She made rapid progress in music, and at the end of
six months she felt sufficient confidence in herself to sign an
engagement with a theatrical manager who took her to Vienna to give her
a 'castrato' part in one of Metastasio's operas.
The advocate had previously ceded her to a wealthy Jew who, after giving
her splendid diamonds, left her also.
In Vienna, Juliette appeared on the stage, and her beauty gained for her
an admiration which she would never have conquered by her very inferior
talent. But the constant crowd of adorers who went to worship the
goddess, having sounded her exploits rather too loudly, the august
Maria-Theresa objected to this new creed being sanctioned in her
capital, and the beautiful actress received an order to quit Vienna
forthwith.
Count Spada offered her his protection, and brought her back to Venice,
but she soon left for Padua where she had an engagement. In that city
she kindled the fire of love in the breast of Marquis Sanvitali, but the
marchioness having caught her once in her own box, and Juliette having
acted disrespectfully to her, she slapped her face, and the affair
having caused a good deal of noise, Juliette gave up the stage
altogether. She came back to Venice, where, made conspicuous by her
banishment from Vienna, she could not fail to make her fortune.
Expulsion from Vienna, for this class of women, had become a title to
fashionable favour, and when there was a wish to depreciate a singer or
a dancer, it was said of her that she had not been sufficiently prized
to be expelled from Vienna.
After her return, her first lover was Steffano Querini de Papozzes, but
in the spring of 1740, the Marquis de Sanvitali came to Venice and soon
carried her off. It was indeed difficult to resist this delightful
marquis! His first present to the fair lady was a sum of one hundred
thousand ducats, and, to prevent his being accused of weakness or of
lavish prodigality, he loudly proclaimed that the present could scarcely
make up for the insult Juliette had received from his wife--an insult,
however, which the courtesan never admitted, as she felt that there
would be humiliation in such an acknowledgment, and she always professed
to admire with gratitude her lover's generosity. She was right; the
admission of the blow received would have left a stain upon her charms,
and how much more to her taste to allow those charms to be prized at
such a high figure!
It was in the year 1741 that M. Manzoni introduced me to this new Phryne
as a young ecclesiastic who was beginning to make a reputation. I found
her surrounded by seven or eight well-seasoned admirers, who were
burning at her feet the incense of their flattery. She was carelessly
reclining on a sofa near Querini. I was much struck with her appearance.
She eyed me from head to foot, as if I had been exposed for sale, and
telling me, with the air of a princess, that she was not sorry to make
my acquaintance, she invited me to take a seat. I began then, in my
turn, to examine her closely and deliberately, and it was an easy
matter, as the room, although small, was lighted with at least twenty
wax candles.
Juliette was then in her eighteenth year; the freshness of her
complexion was dazzling, but the carnation tint of her cheeks, the
vermilion of her lips, and the dark, very narrow curve of her eyebrows,
impressed me as being produced by art rather than nature. Her teeth--two
rows of magnificent pearls--made one overlook the fact that her mouth
was somewhat too large, and whether from habit, or because she could not
help it, she seemed to be ever smiling. Her bosom, hid under a light
gauze, invited the desires of love; yet I did not surrender to her
charms. Her bracelets and the rings which covered her fingers did not
prevent me from noticing that her hand was too large and too fleshy, and
in spite of her carefully hiding her feet, I judged, by a telltale
slipper lying close by her dress, that they were well proportioned to
the height of her figure--a proportion which is unpleasant not only to
the Chinese and Spaniards, but likewise to every man of refined taste.
We want a tall women to have a small foot, and certainly it is not a
modern taste, for Holofernes of old was of the same opinion; otherwise
he would not have thought Judith so charming: 'et sandalid ejus
rapuerunt oculos ejus'. Altogether I found her beautiful, but when I
compared her beauty and the price of one hundred thousand ducats paid
for it, I marvelled at my remaining so cold, and at my not being tempted
to give even one sequin for the privilege of making from nature a study
of the charms which her dress concealed from my eyes.
I had scarcely been there a quarter of an hour when the noise made by
the oars of a gondola striking the water heralded the prodigal marquis.
We all rose from our seats, and M. Querini hastened, somewhat blushing,
to quit his place on the sofa. M. de Sanvitali, a man of middle age, who
had travelled much, took a seat near Juliette, but not on the sofa, so
she was compelled to turn round. It gave me the opportunity of seeing
her full front, while I had before only a side view of her face.
After my introduction to Juliette, I paid her four or five visits, and I
thought myself justified, by the care I had given to the examination of
her beauty, in saying in M. de Malipiero's draw-room, one evening, when
my opinion about her was asked, that she could please only a glutton
with depraved tastes; that she had neither the fascination of simple
nature nor any knowledge of society, that she was deficient in well-
bred, easy manners as well as in striking talents and that those were
the qualities which a thorough gentleman liked to find in a woman. This
opinion met the general approbation of his friends, but M. de Malipiero
kindly whispered to me that Juliette would certainly be informed of the
portrait I had drawn of her, and that she would become my sworn enemy.
He had guessed rightly.
I thought Juliette very singular, for she seldom spoke to me, and
whenever she looked at me she made use of an eye-glass, or she
contracted her eye-lids, as if she wished to deny me the honour of
seeing her eyes, which were beyond all dispute very beautiful. They were
blue, wondrously large and full, and tinted with that unfathomable
variegated iris which nature only gives to youth, and which generally
disappears, after having worked miracles, when the owner reaches the
shady side of forty. Frederick the Great preserved it until his death.
Juliette was informed of the portrait I had given of her to M. de
Malipiero's friends by the indiscreet pensioner, Xavier Cortantini. One
evening I called upon her with M. Manzoni, and she told him that a
wonderful judge of beauty had found flaws in hers, but she took good
care not to specify them. It was not difficult to make out that she was
indirectly firing at me, and I prepared myself for the ostracism which I
was expecting, but which, however, she kept in abeyance fully for an
hour. At last, our conversation falling upon a concert given a few days
before by Imer, the actor, and in which his daughter, Therese, had taken
a brilliant part, Juliette turned round to me and inquired what M. de
Malipiero did for Therese. I said that he was educating her. "He can
well do it," she answered, "for he is a man of talent; but I should like
to know what he can do with you?"
"Whatever he can."
"I am told that he thinks you rather stupid."
As a matter of course, she had the laugh on her side, and I, confused,
uncomfortable and not knowing what to say, took leave after having cut a
very sorry figure, and determined never again to darken her door. The
next day at dinner the account of my adventure caused much amusement to
the old senator.
Throughout the summer, I carried on a course of Platonic love with my
charming Angela at the house of her teacher of embroidery, but her
extreme reserve excited me, and my love had almost become a torment to
myself. With my ardent nature, I required a mistress like Bettina, who
knew how to satisfy my love without wearing it out. I still retained
some feelings of purity, and I entertained the deepest veneration for
Angela. She was in my eyes the very palladium of Cecrops. Still very
innocent, I felt some disinclination towards women, and I was simple
enough to be jealous of even their husbands.
Angela would not grant me the slightest favour, yet she was no flirt;
but the fire beginning in me parched and withered me. The pathetic
entreaties which I poured out of my heart had less effect upon her than
upon two young sisters, her companions and friends: had I not
concentrated every look of mine upon the heartless girl, I might have
discovered that her friends excelled her in beauty and in feeling, but
my prejudiced eyes saw no one but Angela. To every outpouring of my love
she answered that she was quite ready to become my wife, and that such
was to be the limit of my wishes; when she condescended to add that she
suffered as much as I did myself, she thought she had bestowed upon me
the greatest of favours.
Such was the state of my mind, when, in the first days of autumn, I
received a letter from the Countess de Mont-Real with an invitation to
spend some time at her beautiful estate at Pasean. She expected many
guests, and among them her own daughter, who had married a Venetian
nobleman, and who had a great reputation for wit and beauty, although
she had but one eye; but it was so beautiful that it made up for the
loss of the other. I accepted the invitation, and Pasean offering me a
constant round of pleasures, it was easy enough for me to enjoy myself,
and to forget for the time the rigours of the cruel Angela.
I was given a pretty room on the ground floor, opening upon the gardens
of Pasean, and I enjoyed its comforts without caring to know who my
neighbours were.
The morning after my arrival, at the very moment I awoke, my eyes were
delighted with the sight of the charming creature who brought me my
coffee. She was a very young girl, but as well formed as a young person
of seventeen; yet she had scarcely completed her fourteenth year. The
snow of her complexion, her hair as dark as the raven's wing, her black
eyes beaming with fire and innocence, her dress composed only of a
chemise and a short petticoat which exposed a well-turned leg and the
prettiest tiny foot, every detail I gathered in one instant presented to
my looks the most original and the most perfect beauty I had ever
beheld. I looked at her with the greatest pleasure, and her eyes rested
upon me as if we had been old acquaintances.
"How did you find your bed?" she asked.
"Very comfortable; I am sure you made it. Pray, who are you?"
"I am Lucie, the daughter of the gate-keeper: I have neither brothers
nor sisters, and I am fourteen years old. I am very glad you have no
servant with you; I will be your little maid, and I am sure you will be
pleased with me."
Delighted at this beginning, I sat up in my bed and she helped me to put
on my dressing-gown, saying a hundred things which I did not understand.
I began to drink my coffee, quite amazed at her easy freedom, and struck
with her beauty, to which it would have been impossible to remain
indifferent. She had seated herself on my bed, giving no other apology
for that liberty than the most delightful smile.
I was still sipping my coffee, when Lucie's parents came into my room.
She did not move from her place on the bed, but she looked at them,
appearing very proud of such a seat. The good people kindly scolded her,
begged my forgiveness in her favour, and Lucie left the room to attend
to her other duties. The moment she had gone her father and mother began
to praise their daughter.
"She is," they said, "our only child, our darling pet, the hope of our
old age. She loves and obeys us, and fears God; she is as clean as a new
pin, and has but one fault."
"What is that?"
"She is too young."
"That is a charming fault which time will mend."
I was not long in ascertaining that they were living specimens of
honesty, of truth, of homely virtues, and of real happiness. I was
delighted at this discovery, when Lucie returned as gay as a lark,
prettily dressed, her hair done in a peculiar way of her own, and with
well-fitting shoes. She dropped a simple courtesy before me, gave a
couple of hearty kisses to both her parents, and jumped on her father's
knees. I asked her to come and sit on my bed, but she answered that she
could not take such a liberty now that she was dressed, The simplicity,
artlessness, and innocence of the answer seemed to me very enchanting,
and brought a smile on my lips. I examined her to see whether she was
prettier in her new dress or in the morning's negligee, and I decided in
favour of the latter. To speak the truth, Lucie was, I thought, superior
in everything, not only to Angela, but even to Bettina.
The hair-dresser made his appearance, and the honest family left my
room. When I was dressed I went to meet the countess and her amiable
daughter. The day passed off very pleasantly, as is generally the case
in the country, when you are amongst agreeable people.
In the morning, the moment my eyes were opened,
I rang the bell, and pretty Lucie came in, simple and natural as before,
with her easy manners and wonderful remarks. Her candour, her innocence
shone brilliantly all over her person. I could not conceive how, with
her goodness, her virtue and her intelligence, she could run the risk of
exciting me by coming into my room alone, and with so much familiarity.
I fancied that she would not attach much importance to certain slight
liberties, and would not prove over-scrupulous, and with that idea I
made up my mind to shew her that I fully understood her. I felt no
remorse of conscience on the score of her parents, who, in my
estimation, were as careless as herself; I had no dread of being the
first to give the alarm to her innocence, or to enlighten her mind with
the gloomy light of malice, but, unwilling either to be the dupe of
feeling or to act against it, I resolved to reconnoitre the ground. I
extend a daring hand towards her person, and by an involuntary movement
she withdraws, blushes, her cheerfulness disappears, and, turning her
head aside as if she were in search of something, she waits until her
agitation has subsided. The whole affair had not lasted one minute. She
came back, abashed at the idea that she had proved herself rather
knowing, and at the dread of having perhaps given a wrong interpretation
to an action which might have been, on my part, perfectly innocent, or
the result of politeness. Her natural laugh soon returned, and, having
rapidly read in her mind all I have just described, I lost no time in
restoring her confidence, and, judging that I would venture too much by
active operations, I resolved to employ the following morning in a
friendly chat during which I could make her out better.
In pursuance of that plan, the next morning, as we were talking, I told
her that it was cold, but that she would not feel it if she would lie
down near me.
"Shall I disturb you?" she said.
"No; but I am thinking that if your mother happened to come in, she
would be angry."
"Mother would not think of any harm."
"Come, then. But Lucie, do you know what danger you are exposing
yourself to?"
"Certainly I do; but you are good, and, what is more, you are a priest."
"Come; only lock the door."
"No, no, for people might think.... I do not know what." She laid down
close by me, and kept on her chatting, although I did not understand a
word of what she said, for in that singular position, and unwilling to
give way to my ardent desires, I remained as still as a log.
Her confidence in her safety, confidence which was certainly not
feigned, worked upon my feelings to such an extent that I would have
been ashamed to take any advantage of it. At last she told me that nine
o'clock had struck, and that if old Count Antonio found us as we were,
he would tease her with his jokes. "When I see that man," she said, "I
am afraid and I run away." Saying these words, she rose from the bed and
left the room.
I remained motionless for a long while, stupefied, benumbed, and
mastered by the agitation of my excited senses as well as by my
thoughts. The next morning, as I wished to keep calm, I only let her sit
down on my bed, and the conversation I had with her proved without the
shadow of a doubt that her parents had every reason to idolize her, and
that the easy freedom of her mind as well as of her behaviour with me
was entirely owing to her innocence and to her purity. Her artlessness,
her vivacity, her eager curiosity, and the bashful blushes which spread
over her face whenever her innocent or jesting remarks caused me to
laugh, everything, in fact, convinced me that she was an angel destined
to become the victim of the first libertine who would undertake to
seduce her. I felt sufficient control over my own feelings to resist any
attempt against her virtue which my conscience might afterwards reproach
me with. The mere thought of taking advantage of her innocence made me
shudder, and my self-esteem was a guarantee to her parents, who
abandoned her to me on the strength of the good opinion they entertained
of me, that Lucie's honour was safe in my hands. I thought I would have
despised myself if I had betrayed the trust they reposed in me. I
therefore determined to conquer my feelings, and, with perfect
confidence in the victory, I made up my mind to wage war against myself,
and to be satisfied with her presence as the only reward of my heroic
efforts. I was not yet acquainted with the axiom that "as long as the
fighting lasts, victory remains uncertain."
As I enjoyed her conversation much, a natural instinct prompted me to
tell her that she would afford me great pleasure if she could come
earlier in the morning, and even wake me up if I happened to be asleep,
adding, in order to give more weight to my request, that the less I
slept the better I felt in health. In this manner I contrived to spend
three hours instead of two in her society, although this cunning
contrivance of mine did not prevent the hours flying, at least in my
opinion, as swift as lightning.
Her mother would often come in as we were talking, and when the good
woman found her sitting on my bed she would say nothing, only wondering
at my kindness. Lucie would then cover her with kisses, and the kind old
soul would entreat me to give her child lessons of goodness, and to
cultivate her mind; but when she had left us Lucie did not think herself
more unrestrained, and whether in or out of her mother's presence, she
was always the same without the slightest change.
If the society of this angelic child afforded me the sweetest delight,
it also caused me the most cruel suffering. Often, very often, when her
face was close to my lips, I felt the most ardent temptation to smother
her with kisses, and my blood was at fever heat when she wished that she
had been a sister of mine. But I kept sufficient command over myself to
avoid the slightest contact, for I was conscious that even one kiss
would have been the spark which would have blown up all the edifice of
my reserve. Every time she left me I remained astounded at my own
victory, but, always eager to win fresh laurels, I longed for the
following morning, panting for a renewal of this sweet yet very
dangerous contest.
At the end of ten or twelve days, I felt that there was no alternative
but to put a stop to this state of things, or to become a monster in my
own eyes; and I decided for the moral side of the question all the more
easily that nothing insured me success, if I chose the second
alternative. The moment I placed her under the obligation to defend
herself Lucie would become a heroine, and the door of my room being
open, I might have been exposed to shame and to a very useless
repentance. This rather frightened me. Yet, to put an end to my torture,
I did not know what to decide. I could no longer resist the effect made
upon my senses by this beautiful girl, who, at the break of day and
scarcely dressed, ran gaily into my room, came to my bed enquiring how I
had slept, bent familiarly her head towards me, and, so to speak,
dropped her words on my lips. In those dangerous moments I would turn my
head aside; but in her innocence she would reproach me for being afraid
when she felt herself so safe, and if I answered that I could not
possibly fear a child, she would reply that a difference of two years
was of no account.
Standing at bay, exhausted, conscious that every instant increased the
ardour which was devouring me, I resolved to entreat from herself the
discontinuance of her visits, and this resolution appeared to me sublime
and infallible; but having postponed its execution until the following
morning, I passed a dreadful night, tortured by the image of Lucie, and
by the idea that I would see her in the morning for the last time. I
fancied that Lucie would not only grant my prayer, but that she would
conceive for me the highest esteem. In the morning, it was barely day-
light, Lucie beaming, radiant with beauty, a happy smile brightening her
pretty mouth, and her splendid hair in the most fascinating disorder,
bursts into my room, and rushes with open arms towards my bed; but when
she sees my pale, dejected, and unhappy countenance, she stops short,
and her beautiful face taking an expression of sadness and anxiety:
"What ails you?" she asks, with deep sympathy.
"I have had no sleep through the night:"
"And why?"
"Because I have made up my mind to impart to you a project which,
although fraught with misery to myself, will at least secure me your
esteem."
"But if your project is to insure my esteem it ought to make you very
cheerful. Only tell me, reverend sir, why, after calling me 'thou'
yesterday, you treat me today respectfully, like a lady? What have I
done? I will get your coffee, and you must tell me everything after you
have drunk it; I long to hear you."
She goes and returns, I drink the coffee, and seeing that my countenance
remains grave she tries to enliven me, contrives to make me smile, and
claps her hands for joy. After putting everything in order, she closes
the door because the wind is high, and in her anxiety not to lose one
word of what I have to say, she entreats artlessly a little place near
me. I cannot refuse her, for I feel almost lifeless.
I then begin a faithful recital of the fearful state in which her beauty
has thrown me, and a vivid picture of all the suffering I have
experienced in trying to master my ardent wish to give her some proof of
my love; I explain to her that, unable to endure such torture any
longer, I see no other safety but in entreating her not to see me any
more. The importance of the subject, the truth of my love, my wish to
present my expedient in the light of the heroic effort of a deep and
virtuous passion, lend me a peculiar eloquence. I endeavour above all to
make her realize the fearful consequences which might follow a course
different to the one I was proposing, and how miserable we might be.
At the close of my long discourse Lucie, seeing my eyes wet with tears,
throws off the bed-clothes to wipe them, without thinking that in so
doing she uncovers two globes, the beauty of which might have caused the
wreck of the most experienced pilot. After a short silence, the charming
child tells me that my tears make her very unhappy, and that she had
never supposed that she could cause them.
"All you have just told me," she added, "proves the sincerity of your
great love for me, but I cannot imagine why you should be in such dread
of a feeling which affords me the most intense pleasure. You wish to
banish me from your presence because you stand in fear of your love, but
what would you do if you hated me? Am I guilty because I have pleased
you? If it is a crime to have won your affection, I can assure you that
I did not think I was committing a criminal action, and therefore you
cannot conscientiously punish me. Yet I cannot conceal the truth; I am
very happy to be loved by you. As for the danger we run, when we love,
danger which I can understand, we can set it at defiance, if we choose,
and I wonder at my not fearing it, ignorant as I am, while you, a
learned man, think it so terrible. I am astonished that love, which is
not a disease, should have made you ill, and that it should have exactly
the opposite effect upon me. Is it possible that I am mistaken, and that
my feeling towards you should not be love? You saw me very cheerful when
I came in this morning; it is because I have been dreaming all night,
but my dreams did not keep me awake; only several times I woke up to
ascertain whether my dream was true, for I thought I was near you; and
every time, finding that it was not so, I quickly went to sleep again in
the hope of continuing my happy dream, and every time I succeeded. After
such a night, was it not natural for me to be cheerful this morning? My
dear abbe, if love is a torment for you I am very sorry, but would it be
possible for you to live without love? I will do anything you order me
to do, but, even if your cure depended upon it, I would not cease to
love you, for that would be impossible. Yet if to heal your sufferings
it should be necessary for you to love me no more, you must do your
utmost to succeed, for I would much rather see you alive without love,
than dead for having loved too much. Only try to find some other plan,
for the one you have proposed makes me very miserable. Think of it,
there may be some other way which will be less painful. Suggest one more
practicable, and depend upon Lucie's obedience."
These words, so true, so artless, so innocent, made me realize the
immense superiority of nature's eloquence over that of philosophical
intellect. For the first time I folded this angelic being in my arms,
exclaiming, "Yes, dearest Lucie, yes, thou hast it in thy power to
afford the sweetest relief to my devouring pain; abandon to my ardent
kisses thy divine lips which have just assured me of thy love."
An hour passed in the most delightful silence, which nothing interrupted
except these words murmured now and then by Lucie, "Oh, God! is it true?
is it not a dream?" Yet I respected her innocence, and the more readily
that she abandoned herself entirely and without the slightest
resistance. At last, extricating herself gently from my arms, she said,
with some uneasiness, "My heart begins to speak, I must go;" and she
instantly rose. Having somewhat rearranged her dress she sat down, and
her mother, coming in at that moment, complimented me upon my good looks
and my bright countenance, and told Lucie to dress herself to attend
mass. Lucie came back an hour later, and expressed her joy and her pride
at the wonderful cure she thought she had performed upon me, for the
healthy appearance I was then shewing convinced her of my love much
better than the pitiful state in which she had found me in the morning.
"If your complete happiness," she said, "rests in my power, be happy;
there is nothing that I can refuse you."
The moment she left me, still wavering between happiness and fear, I
understood that I was standing on the very brink of the abyss, and that
nothing but a most extraordinary determination could prevent me from
falling headlong into it.
I remained at Pasean until the end of September, and the last eleven
nights of my stay were passed in the undisturbed possession of Lucie,
who, secure in her mother's profound sleep, came to my room to enjoy in
my arms the most delicious hours. The burning ardour of my love was
increased by the abstinence to which I condemned myself, although Lucie
did everything in her power to make me break through my determination.
She could not fully enjoy the sweetness of the forbidden fruit unless I
plucked it without reserve, and the effect produced by our constantly
lying in each other's arms was too strong for a young girl to resist.
She tried everything she could to deceive me, and to make me believe
that I had already, and in reality, gathered the whole flower, but
Bettina's lessons had been too efficient to allow me to go on a wrong
scent, and I reached the end of my stay without yielding entirely to the
temptation she so fondly threw in my way. I promised her to return in
the spring; our farewell was tender and very sad, and I left her in a
state of mind and of body which must have been the cause of her
misfortunes, which, twenty years after, I had occasion to reproach
myself with in Holland, and which will ever remain upon my conscience.
A few days after my return to Venice, I had fallen back into all my old
habits, and resumed my courtship of Angela in the hope that I would
obtain from her, at least, as much as Lucie had granted to me. A certain
dread which to-day I can no longer trace in my nature, a sort of terror
of the consequences which might have a blighting influence upon my
future, prevented me from giving myself up to complete enjoyment. I do
not know whether I have ever been a truly honest man, but I am fully
aware that the feelings I fostered in my youth were by far more upright
than those I have, as I lived on, forced myself to accept. A wicked
philosophy throws down too many of these barriers which we call
prejudices.
The two sisters who were sharing Angela's embroidery lessons were her
intimate friends and the confidantes of all her secrets. I made their
acquaintance, and found that they disapproved of her extreme reserve
towards me. As I usually saw them with Angela and knew their intimacy
with her, I would, when I happened to meet them alone, tell them all my
sorrows, and, thinking only of my cruel sweetheart, I never was
conceited enough to propose that these young girls might fall in love
with me; but I often ventured to speak to them with all the blazing
inspiration which was burning in me--a liberty I would not have dared to
take in the presence of her whom I loved. True love always begets
reserve; we fear to be accused of exaggeration if we should give
utterance to feelings inspired, by passion, and the modest lover, in his
dread of saying too much, very often says too little.
The teacher of embroidery, an old bigot, who at first appeared not to
mind the attachment I skewed for Angela, got tired at last of my too
frequent visits, and mentioned them to the abbe, the uncle of my fair
lady. He told me kindly one day that I ought not to call at that house
so often, as my constant visits might be wrongly construed, and prove
detrimental to the reputation of his niece. His words fell upon me like
a thunder-bolt, but I mastered my feelings sufficiently to leave him
without incurring any suspicion, and I promised to follow his good
advice.
Three or four days afterwards, I paid a visit to the teacher of
embroidery, and, to make her believe that my visit was only intended for
her, I did not stop one instant near the young girls; yet I contrived to
slip in the hand of the eldest of the two sisters a note enclosing
another for my dear Angela, in which I explained why I had been
compelled to discontinue my visits, entreating her to devise some means
by which I could enjoy the happiness of seeing her and of conversing
with her. In my note to Nanette, I only begged her to give my letter to
her friend, adding that I would see them again the day after the morrow,
and that I trusted to her to find an opportunity for delivering me the
answer. She managed it all very cleverly, and, when I renewed my visit
two days afterwards, she gave me a letter without attracting the
attention of anyone. Nanette's letter enclosed a very short note from
Angela, who, disliking letter-writing, merely advised me to follow, if I
could, the plan proposed by her friend. Here is the copy of the letter
written by Nanette, which I have always kept, as well as all other
letters which I give in these Memoirs:
"There is nothing in the world, reverend sir, that I would not readily
do for my friend. She visits at our house every holiday, has supper with
us, and sleeps under our roof. I will suggest the best way for you to
make the acquaintance of Madame Orio, our aunt; but, if you obtain an
introduction to her, you must be very careful not to let her suspect
your preference for Angela, for our aunt would certainly object to her
house being made a place of rendezvous to facilitate your interviews
with a stranger to her family. Now for the plan I propose, and in the
execution of which I will give you every assistance in my power. Madame
Orio, although a woman of good station in life, is not wealthy, and she
wishes to have her name entered on the list of noble widows who receive
the bounties bestowed by the Confraternity of the Holy Sacrament, of
which M. de Malipiero is president. Last Sunday, Angela mentioned that
you are in the good graces of that nobleman, and that the best way to
obtain his patronage would be to ask you to entreat it in her behalf.
The foolish girl added that you were smitten with me, that all your
visits to our mistress of embroidery were made for my special benefit
and for the sake of entertaining me, and that I would find it a very
easy task to interest you in her favour. My aunt answered that, as you
are a priest, there was no fear of any harm, and she told me to write to
you with an invitation to call on her; I refused. The procurator Rosa,
who is a great favourite of my aunt's, was present; he approved of my
refusal, saying that the letter ought to be written by her and not by
me, that it was for my aunt to beg the honour of your visit on business
of real importance, and that, if there was any truth in the report of
your love for me, you would not fail to come. My aunt, by his advice,
has therefore written the letter which you will find at your house. If
you wish to meet Angela, postpone your visit to us until next Sunday.
Should you succeed in obtaining M. de Malipiero's good will in favour of
my aunt, you will become the pet of the household, but you must forgive
me if I appear to treat you with coolness, for I have said that I do not
like you. I would advise you to make love to my aunt, who is sixty years
of age; M. Rosa will not be jealous, and you will become dear to
everyone. For my part, I will manage for you an opportunity for some
private conversation with Angela, and I will do anything to convince you
of my friendship. Adieu."
This plan appeared to me very well conceived, and, having the same
evening received Madame Orio's letter, I called upon her on the
following day, Sunday. I was welcomed in a very friendly manner, and the
lady, entreating me to exert in her behalf my influence with M. de
Malipiero, entrusted me with all the papers which I might require to
succeed. I undertook to do my utmost, and I took care to address only a
few words to Angela, but I directed all my gallant attentions to
Nanette, who treated me as coolly as could be. Finally, I won the
friendship of the old procurator Rosa, who, in after years, was of some
service to me.
I had so much at stake in the success of Madame Orio's petition, that I
thought of nothing else, and knowing all the power of the beautiful
Therese Imer over our amorous senator, who would be but too happy to
please her in anything, I determined to call upon her the next day, and
I went straight to her room without being announced. I found her alone
with the physician Doro, who, feigning to be on a professional visit,
wrote a prescription, felt her pulse, and went off. This Doro was
suspected of being in love with Therese; M. de Malipiero, who was
jealous, had forbidden Therese to receive his visits, and she had
promised to obey him. She knew that I was acquainted with those
circumstances, and my presence was evidently unpleasant to her, for she
had certainly no wish that the old man should hear how she kept her
promise. I thought that no better opportunity could be found of
obtaining from her everything I wished.
I told her in a few words the object of my visit, and I took care to add
that she could rely upon my discretion, and that I would not for the
world do her any injury. Therese, grateful for this assurance, answered
that she rejoiced at finding an occasion to oblige me, and, asking me to
give her the papers of my protege, she shewed me the certificates and
testimonials of another lady in favour of whom she had undertaken to
speak, and whom, she said, she would sacrifice to the person in whose
behalf I felt interested. She kept her word, for the very next day she
placed in my hands the brevet, signed by his excellency as president of
the confraternity. For the present, and with the expectation of further
favours, Madame Orio's name was put down to share the bounties which
were distributed twice a year.
Nanette and her sister Marton were the orphan daughters of a sister of
Madame Orio. All the fortune of the good lady consisted in the house
which was her dwelling, the first floor being let, and in a pension
given to her by her brother, member of the council of ten. She lived
alone with her two charming nieces, the eldest sixteen, and the youngest
fifteen years of age. She kept no servant, and only employed an old
woman, who, for one crown a month, fetched water, and did the rough
work. Her only friend was the procurator Rosa; he had, like her, reached
his sixtieth year, and expected to marry her as soon as he should become
a widower.
The two sisters slept together on the third floor in a large bed, which
was likewise shared by Angela every Sunday.
As soon as I found myself in possession of the deed for Madame Orio, I
hastened to pay a visit to the mistress of embroidery, in order to find
an opportunity of acquainting Nanette with my success, and in a short
note which I prepared, I informed her that in two days I would call to
give the brevet to Madame Orio, and I begged her earnestly not to forget
her promise to contrive a private interview with my dear Angela.
When I arrived, on the appointed day, at Madame Orio's house, Nanette,
who had watched for my coming, dexterously conveyed to my hand a billet,
requesting me to find a moment to read it before leaving the house. I
found Madame Orio, Angela, the old procurator, and Marton in the room.
Longing to read the note, I refused the seat offered to me, and
presenting to Madame Orio the deed she had so long desired, I asked, as
my only reward, the pleasure of kissing her hand, giving her to
understand that I wanted to leave the room immediately.
"Oh, my dear abbe!" said the lady, "you shall have a kiss, but not on my
hand, and no one can object to it, as I am thirty years older than you."
She might have said forty-five without going much astray. I gave her two
kisses, which evidently satisfied her, for she desired me to perform the
same ceremony with her nieces, but they both ran away, and Angela alone
stood the brunt of my hardihood. After this the widow asked me to sit
down.
"I cannot, Madame."
"Why, I beg?"
"I have--."
"I understand. Nanette, shew the way." |
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