the memories of casanova 113

the memories of casanova 113

I went to bed with a great thirst for revenge, I fell asleep thinking of

it, and I awoke with the resolution of quenching it. I began to write,

but, as I wished particularly that my letter should not show the pique

of the disappointed lover, I left it on my table with the intention of

reading it again the next day. It proved a useful precaution, for when I

read it over, twenty-four hours afterwards, I found it unworthy of me,

and tore it to pieces. It contained some sentences which savoured too

much of my weakness, my love, and my spite, and which, far from

humiliating her, would only have given her occasion to laugh at me.

 

On the Wednesday after I had written to C---- C---- that very serious

reasons compelled me to give up my visits to the church of her convent,

I wrote another letter to the nun, but on Thursday it had the same fate

as the first, because upon a second perusal I found the same

deficiencies. It seemed to me that I had lost the faculty of writing.

Ten days afterwards I found out that I was too deeply in love to have

the power of expressing myself in any other way than through the

feelings of my heart.

 

'Sincerium est nisi vas, quodcunque infundis acescit.'

 

The face of M---- M---- had made too deep an impression on me; nothing

could possibly obliterate it except the all-powerful influence of time.

 

In my ridiculous position I was sorely tempted to complain to Countess

S----; but I am happy to say I was prudent enough not to cross the

threshold of her door. At last I bethought myself that the giddy nun was

certainly labouring under constant dread, knowing that I had in my

possession her two letters, with which I could ruin her reputation and

cause the greatest injury to the convent, and I sent them back to her

with the following note, after I had kept them ten days:

 

"I can assure you, madam, that it was owing only to forgetfulness that I

did not return your two letters which you will find enclosed. I have

never thought of belying my own nature by taking a cowardly revenge upon

you, and I forgive you most willingly the two giddy acts of which you

have been guilty, whether they were committed thoughtlessly or because

you wanted to enjoy a joke at my expense. Nevertheless, you will allow

me to advise you not to treat any other man in the same way, for you

might meet with one endowed with less delicacy. I know your name, I know

who you are, but you need not be anxious; it is exactly as if I did not

know it. You may, perhaps, care but little for my discretion, but if it

should be so I should greatly pity you.

 

"You may be aware that I shall not shew myself again at your church; but

let me assure you that it is not a sacrifice on my part, and that I can

attend mass anywhere else. Yet I must tell you why I shall abstain from

frequenting the church of your convent. It is very natural for me to

suppose that to the two thoughtless acts of which you have been guilty,

you have added another not less serious, namely, that of having boasted

of your exploits with the other nuns, and I do not want to be the butt

of your jokes in cell or parlour. Do not think me too ridiculous if, in

spite of being five or six years older than you, I have not thrown off

all feelings of self-respect, or trodden under, my feet all reserve and

propriety; in one word, if I have kept some prejudices, there are a few

which in my opinion ought never to be forgotten. Do not disdain, madam,

the lesson which I take the liberty to teach you, as I receive in the

kindest spirit the one which you have given me, most likely only for the

sake of fun, but by which I promise you to profit as long as I live."

 

I thought that, considering all circumstances, my letter was a very

genial one; I made up my parcel, put on my mask, and looked out for a

porter who could have no knowledge of me; I gave him half a sequin, and

I promised him as much more when he could assure me that he had

faithfully delivered my letter at the convent of Muran. I gave him all

the necessary instructions, and cautioned him to go away the very moment

he had delivered the letter at the gate of the convent, even if he were

told to wait. I must say here that my messenger was a man from Forli,

and that the Forlanese were then the most trustworthy men in Venice; for

one of them to be guilty of a breach of trust was an unheard-of thing.

Such men were formerly the Savoyards, in Paris; but everything is

getting worse in this world.

 

I was beginning to forget the adventure, probably because I thought,

rightly or wrongly, that I had put an insurmountable barrier between the

nun and myself, when, ten days after I had sent my letter, as I was

coming out of the opera, I met my messenger, lantern in hand. I called

him, and without taking off my mask I asked him whether he knew me. He

looked at me, eyed me from head to foot, and finally answered that he

did not.

 

"Did you faithfully carry the message to Muran?"

 

"Ah, sir! God be praised! I am very happy to see you again, for I have

an important communication to make to you. I took your letter, delivered

it according to your instructions, and I went away as soon as it was in

the hands of the attendant, although she requested me to wait. When I

returned from Muran I did not see you, but that did not matter. On the

following day, one of my companions, who happened to be at the gate of

the convent when I delivered your letter, came early in the morning to

tell me to go to Muran, because the attendant wanted particularly to

speak to me. I went there, and after waiting for a few minutes I was

shewn into the parlour, where I was kept for more than an hour by a nun

as beautiful as the light of day, who asked me a thousand questions for

the purpose of ascertaining, if not who you are, at least where I should

be likely to find you. You know that I could not give her any

satisfactory information. She then left the parlour, ordering me to

wait, and at the end of two hours she came back with a letter which she

entrusted to my hands, telling me that, if I succeeded in finding you

out and in bringing her an answer, she would give me two sequins. In the

mean time I was to call at the convent every day, shew her the letter,

and receive forty sons every time. Until now I have earned twenty

crowns, but I am afraid the lady will get tired of it, and you can make

me earn two sequins by answering a line."

 

"Where is the letter?"

 

"In my room under lock and key, for I am always afraid of losing it."

 

"Then how can I answer?"

 

"If you will wait for me here, you shall have the letter in less than a

quarter of an hour."

 

"I will not wait, because I do not care about the letter. But tell me

how you could flatter the nun with the hope of finding me out? You are a

rogue, for it is not likely that she would have trusted you with the

letter if you had not promised her to find me."

 

"I am not a rogue, for I have done faithfully what you told me; but it

is true that I gave her a description of your coat, your buckles, and

your figure, and I can assure you that for the last ten days I have

examined all the masks who are about your size, but in vain. Now I

recognize your buckles, but I do not think you have the same coat. Alas,

sir! it will not cost you much to write only one line. Be kind enough to

wait for me in the coffee-house close by."

 

I could not resist my curiosity any longer, and I made up my mind not to

wait for him but to accompany him as far as his house. I had only to

write, "I have received the letter," and my curiosity was gratified and

the Forlanese earned his two sequins. I could afterwards change my

buckles and my mask, and thus set all enquiries at defiance.

 

I therefore followed him to his door; he went in and brought me the

letter. I took him to an inn, where I asked for a room with a good fire,

and I told my man to wait. I broke the seal of the parcel--a rather

large one, and the first papers that I saw were the two letters which I

had sent back to her in order to allay her anxiety as to the possible

consequences of her giddiness.

 

The sight of these letters caused me such a palpitation of the heart

that I was compelled to sit down: it was a most evident sign of my

defeat. Besides these two letters I found a third one signed "S." and

addressed to M---- M----. I read the following lines:

 

"The mask who accompanied me back to my house would not, I believe, have

uttered a single word, if I had not told him that the charms of your

witty mind were even more bewitching than those of your person; and his

answer was, 'I have seen the one, and I believe in the other.' I added

that I did not understand why you had not spoken to him, and he said,

with a smile, 'I refused to be presented to her, and she punished me for

it by not appearing to know that I was present.' These few words were

all our dialogue. I intended to send you this note this morning, but

found it impossible. Adieu."

 

After reading this note, which stated the exact truth, and which could

be considered as proof, my heart began to beat less quickly. Delighted

at seeing myself on the point of being convicted of injustice, I took

courage, and I read the following letter:

 

"Owing to an excusable weakness, feeling curious to know what you would

say about me to the countess after you had seen me, I took an

opportunity of asking her to let me know all you said to her on the

following day at latest, for I foresaw that you would pay me a visit in

the afternoon. Her letter, which I enclose, and which I beg you to read,

did not reach me till half an hour after you had left the convent.

 

"This was the first fatality.

 

"Not having received that letter when you called, I had not the courage

to see you. This absurd weakness on my part was the second fatality, but

the weakness you will; I hope; forgive. I gave orders to the lay-sister

to tell you that I was ill for the whole day; a very legitimate excuse;

whether true or false, for it was an officious untruth, the correction

of which, was to be found in the words: for the whole day. You had

already left the convent, and I could not possibly send anyone to run

after you, when the old fool informed me of her having told you that I

was engaged.

 

"This was the third fatality.

 

"You cannot imagine what I had a mind to do and to say to that foolish

sister; but here one must say or do nothing; one must be patient and

dissemble, thanking God when mistakes are the result of ignorance and

not of wickedness--a very common thing in convents. I foresaw at once,

at least partly; what would happen; and what has actually, happened; for

no reasonable being could, I believe, have foreseen it all. I guessed

that, thinking yourself the victim of a joke, you would be incensed, and

I felt miserable, for I did not see any way of letting you know the

truth before the following Sunday. My heart longed ardently for that

day. Could I possibly imagine that you, would take a resolution not to

come again to our church! I tried to be patient until that Sunday; but

when I found myself disappointed in my hope, my misery became

unbearable, and it will cause my death if you refuse to listen to my

justification. Your letter has made me completely unhappy, and I shall

not resist my despair if you persist in the cruel resolve expressed by

your unfeeling letter. You have considered yourself trifled with; that

is all you can say; but will this letter convince you of your error? And

even believing yourself deceived in the most scandalous manner, you must

admit that to write such an awful letter you must have supposed me an

abominable wretch--a monster, such as a woman of noble birth and of

refined education cannot possibly be. I enclose the two letters you sent

back to me, with the idea of allaying my fears which you cruelly

supposed very different to what they are in reality. I am a better

physiognomist than you, and you must be quite certain that I have not

acted thoughtlessly, for I never thought you capable, I will not say of

crime, but even of an indelicate action. You must have read on my

features the signs only of giddy impudence, and that is not my nature.

You may be the cause of my death, you will certainly make me miserable

for the remainder of my life, if you do not justify yourself; on my side

I think the justification is complete.

 

"I hope that, even if you feel no interest in my life, you will think

that you are bound in honour to come and speak to me. Come yourself to

recall all you have written; it is your duty, and I deserve it. If you

do not realize the fatal effect produced upon me by your letter, I must

indeed pity you, in spite of my misery, for it proves that you have not

the slightest knowledge of the human heart. But I feel certain that you

will come back, provided the man to whom I trust this letter contrives to find you. Adieu! I expect life or death from you."