My Stay in Naples; It Is Short but Happy

My Stay in Naples; It Is Short but Happy–Don Antonio
Casanova–Don Lelio Caraffa–I Go to Rome in Very Agreeable
Company, and Enter the Service of Cardinal Acquaviva–
Barbara–Testaccio–Frascati

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I had no difficulty in answering the various questions which Doctor
Gennaro addressed to me, but I was surprised, and even displeased, at the
constant peals of laughter with which he received my answers. The piteous
description of miserable Calabria, and the picture of the sad situation
of the Bishop of Martorano, appeared to me more likely to call forth
tears than to excite hilarity, and, suspecting that some mystification
was being played upon me, I was very near getting angry when, becoming
more composed, he told me with feeling that I must kindly excuse him;
that his laughter was a disease which seemed to be endemic in his family,
for one of his uncles died of it.

“What!” I exclaimed, “died of laughing!”

“Yes. This disease, which was not known to Hippocrates, is called li
flati.”

“What do you mean? Does an hypochondriac affection, which causes sadness
and lowness in all those who suffer from it, render you cheerful?”

“Yes, because, most likely, my flati, instead of influencing the
hypochondrium, affects my spleen, which my physician asserts to be the
organ of laughter. It is quite a discovery.”

“You are mistaken; it is a very ancient notion, and it is the only
function which is ascribed to the spleen in our animal organization.”

“Well, we must discuss the matter at length, for I hope you will remain
with us a few weeks.”

“I wish I could, but I must leave Naples to-morrow or the day after.”

“Have you got any money?”

“I rely upon the sixty ducats you have to give me.”

At these words, his peals of laughter began again, and as he could see
that I was annoyed, he said, “I am amused at the idea that I can keep you
here as long as I like. But be good enough to see my son; he writes
pretty verses enough.”

And truly his son, although only fourteen, was already a great poet.

A servant took me to the apartment of the young man whom I found
possessed of a pleasing countenance and engaging manners. He gave me a
polite welcome, and begged to be excused if he could not attend to me
altogether for the present, as he had to finish a song which he was
composing for a relative of the Duchess de Rovino, who was taking the
veil at the Convent of St. Claire, and the printer was waiting for the
manuscript. I told him that his excuse was a very good one, and I offered
to assist him. He then read his song, and I found it so full of
enthusiasm, and so truly in the style of Guidi, that I advised him to
call it an ode; but as I had praised all the truly beautiful passages, I
thought I could venture to point out the weak ones, and I replaced them
by verses of my own composition. He was delighted, and thanked me warmly,
inquiring whether I was Apollo. As he was writing his ode, I composed a
sonnet on the same subject, and, expressing his admiration for it he
begged me to sign it, and to allow him to send it with his poetry.

While I was correcting and recopying my manuscript, he went to his father
to find out who I was, which made the old man laugh until supper-time. In
the evening, I had the pleasure of seeing that my bed had been prepared
in the young man’s chamber.

Doctor Gennaro’s family was composed of this son and of a daughter
unfortunately very plain, of his wife and of two elderly, devout sisters.
Amongst the guests at the supper-table I met several literary men, and
the Marquis Galiani, who was at that time annotating Vitruvius. He had a
brother, an abbe whose acquaintance I made twenty years after, in Paris,
when he was secretary of embassy to Count Cantillana. The next day, at
supper, I was presented to the celebrated Genovesi; I had already sent
him the letter of the Archbishop of Cosenza. He spoke to me of Apostolo
Zeno and of the Abbe Conti. He remarked that it was considered a very
venial sin for a regular priest to say two masses in one day for the sake
of earning two carlini more, but that for the same sin a secular priest
would deserve to be burnt at the stake.

The nun took the veil on the following day, and Gennaro’s ode and my
sonnet had the greatest success. A Neapolitan gentleman, whose name was
the same as mine, expressed a wish to know me, and, hearing that I
resided at the doctor’s, he called to congratulate him on the occasion of
his feast-day, which happened to fall on the day following the ceremony
at Sainte-Claire.

Don Antonio Casanova, informing me of his name, enquired whether my
family was originally from Venice.

“I am, sir,” I answered modestly, “the great-grandson of the unfortunate
Marco Antonio Casanova, secretary to Cardinal Pompeo Colonna, who died of
the plague in Rome, in the year 1528, under the pontificate of Clement
VII.” The words were scarcely out of my lips when he embraced me, calling
me his cousin, but we all thought that Doctor Gennaro would actually die
with laughter, for it seemed impossible to laugh so immoderately without
risk of life. Madame Gennaro was very angry and told my newly-found
cousin that he might have avoided enacting such a scene before her
husband, knowing his disease, but he answered that he never thought the
circumstance likely to provoke mirth. I said nothing, for, in reality, I
felt that the recognition was very comic. Our poor laugher having
recovered his composure, Casanova, who had remained very serious, invited
me to dinner for the next day with my young friend Paul Gennaro, who had
already become my alter ego.

When we called at his house, my worthy cousin showed me his family tree,
beginning with a Don Francisco, brother of Don Juan. In my pedigree,
which I knew by heart, Don Juan, my direct ancestor, was a posthumous
child. It was possible that there might have been a brother of Marco
Antonio’s; but when he heard that my genealogy began with Don Francisco,
from Aragon, who had lived in the fourteenth century, and that
consequently all the pedigree of the illustrious house of the Casanovas
of Saragossa belonged to him, his joy knew no bounds; he did not know
what to do to convince me that the same blood was flowing in his veins
and in mine.

He expressed some curiosity to know what lucky accident had brought me to
Naples; I told him that, having embraced the ecclesiastical profession, I
was going to Rome to seek my fortune. He then presented me to his family,
and I thought that I could read on the countenance of my cousin, his
dearly beloved wife, that she was not much pleased with the newly-found
relationship, but his pretty daughter, and a still prettier niece of his,
might very easily have given me faith in the doctrine that blood is
thicker than water, however fabulous it may be.

After dinner, Don Antonio informed me that the Duchess de Bovino had
expressed a wish to know the Abbe Casanova who had written the sonnet in
honour of her relative, and that he would be very happy to introduce me
to her as his own cousin. As we were alone at that moment, I begged he
would not insist on presenting me, as I was only provided with travelling
suits, and had to be careful of my purse so as not to arrive in Rome
without money. Delighted at my confidence, and approving my economy, he
said, “I am rich, and you must not scruple to come with me to my tailor;”
and he accompanied his offer with an assurance that the circumstance
would not be known to anyone, and that he would feel deeply mortified if
I denied him the pleasure of serving me. I shook him warmly by the hand,
and answered that I was ready to do anything he pleased. We went to a
tailor who took my measure, and who brought me on the following day
everything necessary to the toilet of the most elegant abbe. Don Antonio
called on me, and remained to dine with Don Gennaro, after which he took
me and my friend Paul to the duchess. This lady, according to the
Neapolitan fashion, called me thou in her very first compliment of
welcome. Her daughter, then only ten or twelve years old, was very
handsome, and a few years later became Duchess de Matalona. The duchess
presented me with a snuff-box in pale tortoise-shell with arabesque
incrustations in gold, and she invited us to dine with her on the morrow,
promising to take us after dinner to the Convent of St. Claire to pay a
visit to the new nun.

As we came out of the palace of the duchess, I left my friends and went
alone to Panagiotti’s to claim the barrel of muscatel wine. The manager
was kind enough to have the barrel divided into two smaller casks of
equal capacity, and I sent one to Don Antonio, and the other to Don
Gennaro. As I was leaving the shop I met the worthy Panagiotti, who was
glad to see me. Was I to blush at the sight of the good man I had at
first deceived? No, for in his opinion I had acted very nobly towards
him.

Don Gennaro, as I returned home, managed to thank me for my handsome
present without laughing, and the next day Don Antonio, to make up for
the muscatel wine I had sent him, offered me a gold-headed cane, worth at
least fifteen ounces, and his tailor brought me a travelling suit and a
blue great coat, with the buttonholes in gold lace. I therefore found
myself splendidly equipped.

At the Duchess de Bovino’s dinner I made the acquaintance of the wisest
and most learned man in Naples, the illustrious Don Lelio Caraffa, who
belonged to the ducal family of Matalona, and whom King Carlos honoured
with the title of friend.

I spent two delightful hours in the convent parlour, coping successfully
with the curiosity of all the nuns who were pressing against the grating.
Had destiny allowed me to remain in Naples my fortune would have been
made; but, although I had no fixed plan, the voice of fate summoned me to
Rome, and therefore I resisted all the entreaties of my cousin Antonio to
accept the honourable position of tutor in several houses of the highest
order.

Don Antonio gave a splendid dinner in my honour, but he was annoyed and
angry because he saw that his wife looked daggers at her new cousin. I
thought that, more than once, she cast a glance at my new costume, and
then whispered to the guest next to her. Very likely she knew what had
taken place. There are some positions in life to which I could never be
reconciled. If, in the most brilliant circle, there is one person who
affects to stare at me I lose all presence of mind. Self-dignity feels
outraged, my wit dies away, and I play the part of a dolt. It is a
weakness on my part, but a weakness I cannot overcome.

Don Lelio Caraffa offered me a very liberal salary if I would undertake
the education of his nephew, the Duke de Matalona, then ten years of age.
I expressed my gratitude, and begged him to be my true benefactor in a
different manner–namely, by giving me a few good letters of introduction
for Rome, a favour which he granted at once. He gave me one for Cardinal
Acquaviva, and another for Father Georgi.

I found out that the interest felt towards me by my friends had induced
them to obtain for me the honour of kissing the hand of Her Majesty the
Queen, and I hastened my preparations to leave Naples, for the queen
would certainly have asked me some questions, and I could not have
avoided telling her that I had just left Martorano and the poor bishop
whom she had sent there. The queen likewise knew my mother; she would
very likely have alluded to my mother’s profession in Dresden; it would
have mortified Don Antonio, and my pedigree would have been covered with
ridicule. I knew the force of prejudice! I should have been ruined, and I
felt I should do well to withdraw in good time. As I took leave of him,
Don Antonio presented me with a fine gold watch and gave me a letter for
Don Gaspar Vidaldi, whom he called his best friend. Don Gennaro paid me
the sixty ducats, and his son, swearing eternal friendship, asked me to
write to him. They all accompanied me to the coach, blending their tears
with mine, and loading me with good wishes and blessings.

From my landing in Chiozza up to my arrival in Naples, fortune had seemed
bent upon frowning on me; in Naples it began to shew itself less adverse,
and on my return to that city it entirely smiled upon me. Naples has
always been a fortunate place for me, as the reader of my memoirs will
discover. My readers must not forget that in Portici I was on the point
of disgracing myself, and there is no remedy against the degradation of
the mind, for nothing can restore it to its former standard. It is a case
of disheartening atony for which there is no possible cure.

I was not ungrateful to the good Bishop of Martorano, for, if he had
unwittingly injured me by summoning me to his diocese, I felt that to his
letter for M. Gennaro I was indebted for all the good fortune which had
just befallen me. I wrote to him from Rome.

I was wholly engaged in drying my tears as we were driving through the
beautiful street of Toledo, and it was only after we had left Naples that
I could find time to examine the countenance of my travelling companions.
Next to me, I saw a man of from forty to fifty, with a pleasing face and
a lively air, but, opposite to me, two charming faces delighted my eyes.
They belonged to two ladies, young and pretty, very well dressed, with a
look of candour and modesty. This discovery was most agreeable, but I
felt sad and I wanted calm and silence. We reached Avessa without one
word being exchanged, and as the vetturino stopped there only to water
his mules, we did not get out of the coach. From Avessa to Capua my
companions conversed almost without interruption, and, wonderful to
relate! I did not open my lips once. I was amused by the Neapolitan
jargon of the gentleman, and by the pretty accent of the ladies, who were
evidently Romans. It was a most wonderful feat for me to remain five
hours before two charming women without addressing one word to them,
without paying them one compliment.

At Capua, where we were to spend the night, we put up at an inn, and were
shown into a room with two beds–a very usual thing in Italy. The
Neapolitan, addressing himself to me, said,

“Am I to have the honour of sleeping with the reverend gentleman?”

I answered in a very serious tone that it was for him to choose or to
arrange it otherwise, if he liked. The answer made the two ladies smile,
particularly the one whom I preferred, and it seemed to me a good omen.

We were five at supper, for it is usual for the vetturino to supply his
travellers with their meals, unless some private agreement is made
otherwise, and to sit down at table with them. In the desultory talk
which went on during the supper, I found in my travelling companions
decorum, propriety, wit, and the manners of persons accustomed to good
society. I became curious to know who they were, and going down with the
driver after supper, I asked him.

“The gentleman,” he told me, “is an advocate, and one of the ladies is
his wife, but I do not know which of the two.”

I went back to our room, and I was polite enough to go to bed first, in
order to make it easier for the ladies to undress themselves with
freedom; I likewise got up first in the morning, left the room, and only
returned when I was called for breakfast. The coffee was delicious. I
praised it highly, and the lady, the one who was my favourite, promised
that I should have the same every morning during our journey. The barber
came in after breakfast; the advocate was shaved, and the barber offered
me his services, which I declined, but the rogue declared that it was
slovenly to wear one’s beard.

When we had resumed our seats in the coach, the advocate made some remark
upon the impudence of barbers in general.

“But we ought to decide first,” said the lady, “whether or not it is
slovenly to go bearded.”

“Of course it is,” said the advocate. “Beard is nothing but a dirty
excrescence.”

“You may think so,” I answered, “but everybody does not share your
opinion. Do we consider as a dirty excrescence the hair of which we take
so much care, and which is of the same nature as the beard? Far from it;
we admire the length and the beauty of the hair.”

“Then,” remarked the lady, “the barber is a fool.”

“But after all,” I asked, “have I any beard?”

“I thought you had,” she answered.

“In that case, I will begin to shave as soon as I reach Rome, for this is
the first time that I have been convicted of having a beard.”

“My dear wife,” exclaimed the advocate, “you should have held your
tongue; perhaps the reverend abbe is going to Rome with the intention of
becoming a Capuchin friar.”

The pleasantry made me laugh, but, unwilling that he should have the last
word, I answered that he had guessed rightly, that such had been my
intention, but that I had entirely altered my mind since I had seen his
wife.

“Oh! you are wrong,” said the joyous Neapolitan, “for my wife is very
fond of Capuchins, and if you wish to please her, you had better follow
your original vocation.” Our conversation continued in the same tone of
pleasantry, and the day passed off in an agreeable manner; in the evening
we had a very poor supper at Garillan, but we made up for it by
cheerfulness and witty conversation. My dawning inclination for the
advocate’s wife borrowed strength from the affectionate manner she
displayed towards me.

The next day she asked me, after we had resumed our journey, whether I
intended to make a long stay in Rome before returning to Venice. I
answered that, having no acquaintances in Rome, I was afraid my life
there would be very dull.

“Strangers are liked in Rome,” she said, “I feel certain that you will be
pleased with your residence in that city.”

“May I hope, madam, that you will allow me to pay you my respects?”

“We shall be honoured by your calling on us,” said the advocate.

My eyes were fixed upon his charming wife. She blushed, but I did not
appear to notice it. I kept up the conversation, and the day passed as
pleasantly as the previous one. We stopped at Terracina, where they gave
us a room with three beds, two single beds and a large one between the
two others. It was natural that the two sisters should take the large
bed; they did so, and undressed themselves while the advocate and I went
on talking at the table, with our backs turned to them. As soon as they
had gone to rest, the advocate took the bed on which he found his
nightcap, and I the other, which was only about one foot distant from the
large bed. I remarked that the lady by whom I was captivated was on the
side nearest my couch, and, without much vanity, I could suppose that it
was not owing only to chance.

I put the light out and laid down, revolving in my mind a project which I
could not abandon, and yet durst not execute. In vain did I court sleep.
A very faint light enabled me to perceive the bed in which the pretty
woman was lying, and my eyes would, in spite of myself, remain open. It
would be difficult to guess what I might have done at last (I had already
fought a hard battle with myself for more than an hour), when I saw her
rise, get out of her bed, and go and lay herself down near her husband,
who, most likely, did not wake up, and continued to sleep in peace, for I
did not hear any noise.

Vexed, disgusted…. I tried to compose myself to sleep, and I woke only
at day-break. Seeing the beautiful wandering star in her own bed, I got
up, dressed myself in haste, and went out, leaving all my companions fast
asleep. I returned to the inn only at the time fixed for our departure,
and I found the advocate and the two ladies already in the coach, waiting
for me.

The lady complained, in a very obliging manner, of my not having cared
for her coffee; I pleaded as an excuse a desire for an early walk, and I
took care not to honour her even with a look; I feigned to be suffering
from the toothache, and remained in my corner dull and silent. At Piperno
she managed to whisper to me that my toothache was all sham; I was
pleased with the reproach, because it heralded an explanation which I
craved for, in spite of my vexation.

During the afternoon I continued my policy of the morning. I was morose
and silent until we reached Serinonetta, where we were to pass the night.
We arrived early, and the weather being fine, the lady said that she
could enjoy a walk, and asked me politely to offer her my arm. I did so,
for it would have been rude to refuse; besides I had had enough of my
sulking fit. An explanation could alone bring matters back to their
original standing, but I did not know how to force it upon the lady. Her
husband followed us at some distance with the sister.

When we were far enough in advance, I ventured to ask her why she had
supposed my toothache to have been feigned.

“I am very candid,” she said; “it is because the difference in your
manner was so marked, and because you were so careful to avoid looking at
me through the whole day. A toothache would not have prevented you from
being polite, and therefore I thought it had been feigned for some
purpose. But I am certain that not one of us can possibly have given you
any grounds for such a rapid change in your manner.”

“Yet something must have caused the change, and you, madam, are only half
sincere.”

“You are mistaken, sir, I am entirely sincere; and if I have given you
any motive for anger, I am, and must remain, ignorant of it. Be good
enough to tell me what I have done.”

“Nothing, for I have no right to complain.”

“Yes, you have; you have a right, the same that I have myself; the right
which good society grants to every one of its members. Speak, and shew
yourself as sincere as I am.”

“You are certainly bound not to know, or to pretend not to know the real
cause, but you must acknowledge that my duty is to remain silent.”

“Very well; now it is all over; but if your duty bids you to conceal the
cause of your bad humour, it also bids you not to shew it. Delicacy
sometimes enforces upon a polite gentleman the necessity of concealing
certain feelings which might implicate either himself or others; it is a
restraint for the mind, I confess, but it has some advantage when its
effect is to render more amiable the man who forces himself to accept
that restraint.” Her close argument made me blush for shame, and carrying
her beautiful hand to my lips, I confessed my self in the wrong.

“You would see me at your feet,” I exclaimed, “in token of my repentance,
were I not afraid of injuring you—”

“Do not let us allude to the matter any more,” she answered.

And, pleased with my repentance, she gave me a look so expressive of
forgiveness that, without being afraid of augmenting my guilt, I took my
lips off her hand and I raised them to her half-open, smiling mouth.
Intoxicated with rapture, I passed so rapidly from a state of sadness to
one of overwhelming cheerfulness that during our supper the advocate
enjoyed a thousand jokes upon my toothache, so quickly cured by the
simple remedy of a walk. On the following day we dined at Velletri and
slept in Marino, where, although the town was full of troops, we had two
small rooms and a good supper. I could not have been on better terms with
my charming Roman; for, although I had received but a rapid proof of her
regard, it had been such a true one–such a tender one! In the coach our
eyes could not say much; but I was opposite to her, and our feet spoke a
very eloquent language.

The advocate had told me that he was going to Rome on some ecclesiastical
business, and that he intended to reside in the house of his
mother-in-law, whom his wife had not seen since her marriage, two years
ago, and her sister hoped to remain in Rome, where she expected to marry
a clerk at the Spirito Santo Bank. He gave me their address, with a
pressing invitation to call upon them, and I promised to devote all my
spare time to them.

We were enjoying our dessert, when my beautiful lady-love, admiring my
snuff-box, told her husband that she wished she had one like it.

“I will buy you one, dear.”

“Then buy mine,” I said; “I will let you have it for twenty ounces, and
you can give me a note of hand payable to bearer in payment. I owe that
amount to an Englishman, and I will give it him to redeem my debt.”

“Your snuff-box, my dear abbe, is worth twenty ounces, but I cannot buy
it unless you agree to receive payment in cash; I should be delighted to
see it in my wife’s possession, and she would keep it as a remembrance of
you.”

His wife, thinking that I would not accept his offer, said that she had
no objection to give me the note of hand.

“But,” exclaimed the advocate, “can you not guess the Englishman exists
only in our friend’s imagination? He would never enter an appearance, and
we would have the snuff-box for nothing. Do not trust the abbe, my dear,
he is a great cheat.”

“I had no idea,” answered his wife, looking at me, “that the world
contained rogues of this species.”

I affected a melancholy air, and said that I only wished myself rich
enough to be often guilty of such cheating.

When a man is in love very little is enough to throw him into despair,
and as little to enhance his joy to the utmost. There was but one bed in
the room where supper had been served, and another in a small closet
leading out of the room, but without a door. The ladies chose the closet,
and the advocate retired to rest before me. I bid the ladies good night
as soon as they had gone to bed; I looked at my dear mistress, and after
undressing myself I went to bed, intending not to sleep through the
night. But the reader may imagine my rage when I found, as I got into the
bed, that it creaked loud enough to wake the dead. I waited, however,
quite motionless, until my companion should be fast asleep, and as soon
as his snoring told me that he was entirely under the influence of
Morpheus, I tried to slip out of the bed; but the infernal creaking which
took place whenever I moved, woke my companion, who felt about with his
hand, and, finding me near him, went to sleep again. Half an hour after,
I tried a second time, but with the same result. I had to give it up in
despair.

Love is the most cunning of gods; in the midst of obstacles he seems to
be in his own element, but as his very existence depends upon the
enjoyment of those who ardently worship him, the shrewd, all-seeing,
little blind god contrives to bring success out of the most desperate
case.

I had given up all hope for the night, and had nearly gone to sleep, when
suddenly we hear a dreadful noise. Guns are fired in the street, people,
screaming and howling, are running up and down the stairs; at last there
is a loud knocking at our door. The advocate, frightened out of his
slumbers, asks me what it can all mean; I pretend to be very indifferent,
and beg to be allowed to sleep. But the ladies are trembling with fear,
and loudly calling for a light. I remain very quiet, the advocate jumps
out of bed, and runs out of the room to obtain a candle; I rise at once,
I follow him to shut the door, but I slam it rather too hard, the double
spring of the lock gives way, and the door cannot be reopened without the
key.

I approach the ladies in order to calm their anxiety, telling them that
the advocate would soon return with a light, and that we should then know
the cause of the tumult, but I am not losing my time, and am at work
while I am speaking. I meet with very little opposition, but, leaning
rather too heavily upon my fair lady, I break through the bottom of the
bedstead, and we suddenly find ourselves, the two ladies and myself, all
together in a heap on the floor. The advocate comes back and knocks at
the door; the sister gets up, I obey the prayers of my charming friend,
and, feeling my way, reach the door, and tell the advocate that I cannot
open it, and that he must get the key. The two sisters are behind me. I
extend my hand; but I am abruptly repulsed, and judge that I have
addressed myself to the wrong quarter; I go to the other side, and there
I am better received. But the husband returns, the noise of the key in
the lock announces that the door is going to be opened, and we return to
our respective beds.

The advocate hurries to the bed of the two frightened ladies, thinking of
relieving their anxiety, but, when he sees them buried in their
broken-down bedstead, he bursts into a loud laugh. He tells me to come
and have a look at them, but I am very modest, and decline the
invitation. He then tells us that the alarm has been caused by a German
detachment attacking suddenly the Spanish troops in the city, and that
the Spaniards are running away. In a quarter of an hour the noise has
ceased, and quiet is entirely re-established.

The advocate complimented me upon my coolness, got into bed again, and
was soon asleep. As for me, I was careful not to close my eyes, and as
soon as I saw daylight I got up in order to perform certain ablutions and
to change my shirt; it was an absolute necessity.

I returned for breakfast, and while we were drinking the delicious coffee
which Donna Lucrezia had made, as I thought, better than ever, I remarked
that her sister frowned on me. But how little I cared for her anger when
I saw the cheerful, happy countenance, and the approving looks of my
adored Lucrezia! I felt a delightful sensation run through the whole of
my body.

We reached Rome very early. We had taken breakfast at the Tour, and the
advocate being in a very gay mood I assumed the same tone, loading him
with compliments, and predicting that a son would be born to him, I
compelled his wife to promise it should be so. I did not forget the
sister of my charming Lucrezia, and to make her change her hostile
attitude towards me I addressed to her so many pretty compliments, and
behaved in such a friendly manner, that she was compelled to forgive the
fall of the bed. As I took leave of them, I promised to give them a call
on the following day.

I was in Rome! with a good wardrobe, pretty well supplied with money and
jewellery, not wanting in experience, and with excellent letters of
introduction. I was free, my own master, and just reaching the age in
which a man can have faith in his own fortune, provided he is not
deficient in courage, and is blessed with a face likely to attract the
sympathy of those he mixes with. I was not handsome, but I had something
better than beauty–a striking expression which almost compelled a kind
interest in my favour, and I felt myself ready for anything. I knew that
Rome is the one city in which a man can begin from the lowest rung, and
reach the very top of the social ladder. This knowledge increased my
courage, and I must confess that a most inveterate feeling of self-esteem
which, on account of my inexperience, I could not distrust, enhanced
wonderfully my confidence in myself.

The man who intends to make his fortune in this ancient capital of the
world must be a chameleon susceptible of reflecting all the colours of
the atmosphere that surrounds him–a Proteus apt to assume every form,
every shape. He must be supple, flexible, insinuating; close,
inscrutable, often base, sometimes sincere, some times perfidious, always
concealing a part of his knowledge, indulging in one tone of voice,
patient, a perfect master of his own countenance as cold as ice when any
other man would be all fire; and if unfortunately he is not religious at
heart–a very common occurrence for a soul possessing the above
requisites–he must have religion in his mind, that is to say, on his
face, on his lips, in his manners; he must suffer quietly, if he be an
honest man the necessity of knowing himself an arrant hypocrite. The man
whose soul would loathe such a life should leave Rome and seek his
fortune elsewhere. I do not know whether I am praising or excusing
myself, but of all those qualities I possessed but one–namely,
flexibility; for the rest, I was only an interesting, heedless young
fellow, a pretty good blood horse, but not broken, or rather badly
broken; and that is much worse.

I began by delivering the letter I had received from Don Lelio for Father
Georgi. The learned monk enjoyed the esteem of everyone in Rome, and the
Pope himself had a great consideration for him, because he disliked the
Jesuits, and did not put a mask on to tear the mask from their faces,
although they deemed themselves powerful enough to despise him.

He read the letter with great attention, and expressed himself disposed
to be my adviser; and that consequently I might make him responsible for
any evil which might befall me, as misfortune is not to be feared by a
man who acts rightly. He asked me what I intended to do in Rome, and I
answered that I wished him to tell me what to do.

“Perhaps I may; but in that case you must come and see me often, and
never conceal from me anything, you understand, not anything, of what
interests you, or of what happens to you.”

“Don Lelio has likewise given me a letter for the Cardinal Acquaviva.”

“I congratulate you; the cardinal’s influence in Rome is greater even
than that of the Pope.”

“Must I deliver the letter at once?”

“No; I will see him this evening, and prepare him for your visit. Call on
me to-morrow morning, and I will then tell you where and when you are to
deliver your letter to the cardinal. Have you any money?”

“Enough for all my wants during one year.”

“That is well. Have you any acquaintances?”

“Not one.”

“Do not make any without first consulting me, and, above all, avoid
coffee-houses and ordinaries, but if you should happen to frequent such
places, listen and never speak. Be careful to form your judgment upon
those who ask any questions from you, and if common civility obliges you
to give an answer, give only an evasive one, if any other is likely to
commit you. Do you speak French?”

“Not one word.”

“I am sorry for that; you must learn French. Have you been a student?”

“A poor one, but I have a sufficient smattering to converse with ordinary
company.”

“That is enough; but be very prudent, for Rome is the city in which
smatterers unmask each other, and are always at war amongst themselves. I
hope you will take your letter to the cardinal, dressed like a modest
abbe, and not in this elegant costume which is not likely to conjure
fortune. Adieu, let me see you to-morrow.”

Highly pleased with the welcome I had received at his hands, and with all
he had said to me, I left his house and proceeded towards Campo-di-Fiore
to deliver the letter of my cousin Antonio to Don Gaspar Vivaldi, who
received me in his library, where I met two respectable-looking priests.
He gave me the most friendly welcome, asked for my address, and invited
me to dinner for the next day. He praised Father Georgi most highly, and,
accompanying me as far as the stairs, he told me that he would give me on
the morrow the amount his friend Don Antonio requested him to hand me.

More money which my generous cousin was bestowing on me! It is easy
enough to give away when one possesses sufficient means to do it, but it
is not every man who knows how to give. I found the proceeding of Don
Antonio more delicate even than generous; I could not refuse his present;
it was my duty to prove my gratitude by accepting it.

Just after I had left M. Vivaldi’s house I found myself face to face with
Stephano, and this extraordinary original loaded me with friendly
caresses. I inwardly despised him, yet I could not feel hatred for him; I
looked upon him as the instrument which Providence had been pleased to
employ in order to save me from ruin. After telling me that he had
obtained from the Pope all he wished, he advised me to avoid meeting the
fatal constable who had advanced me two sequins in Seraval, because he
had found out that I had deceived him, and had sworn revenge against me.
I asked Stephano to induce the man to leave my acknowledgement of the
debt in the hands of a certain merchant whom we both knew, and that I
would call there to discharge the amount. This was done, and it ended the
affair.

That evening I dined at the ordinary, which was frequented by Romans and
foreigners; but I carefully followed the advice of Father Georgi. I heard
a great deal of harsh language used against the Pope and against the
Cardinal Minister, who had caused the Papal States to be inundated by
eighty thousand men, Germans as well as Spaniards. But I was much
surprised when I saw that everybody was eating meat, although it was
Saturday. But a stranger during the first few days after his arrival in
Rome is surrounded with many things which at first cause surprise, and to
which he soon gets accustomed. There is not a Catholic city in the world
in which a man is half so free on religious matters as in Rome. The
inhabitants of Rome are like the men employed at the Government tobacco
works, who are allowed to take gratis as much tobacco as they want for
their own use. One can live in Rome with the most complete freedom,
except that the ‘ordini santissimi’ are as much to be dreaded as the
famous Lettres-de-cachet before the Revolution came and destroyed them,
and shewed the whole world the general character of the French nation.

The next day, the 1st of October, 1743, I made up my mind to be shaved.
The down on my chin had become a beard, and I judged that it was time to
renounce some of the privileges enjoyed by adolescence. I dressed myself
completely in the Roman fashion, and Father Georgi was highly pleased
when he saw me in that costume, which had been made by the tailor of my
dear cousin, Don Antonio.

Father Georgi invited me to take a cup of chocolate with him, and
informed me that the cardinal had been apprised of my arrival by a letter
from Don Lelio, and that his eminence would receive me at noon at the
Villa Negroni, where he would be taking a walk. I told Father Georgi that
I had been invited to dinner by M. Vivaldi, and he advised me to
cultivate his acquaintance.

I proceeded to the Villa Negroni; the moment he saw me the cardinal
stopped to receive my letter, allowing two persons who accompanied him to
walk forward. He put the letter in his pocket without reading it,
examined me for one or two minutes, and enquired whether I felt any taste
for politics. I answered that, until now, I had not felt in me any but
frivolous tastes, but that I would make bold to answer for my readiness
to execute all the orders which his eminence might be pleased to lay upon
me, if he should judge me worthy of entering his service.

“Come to my office to-morrow morning,” said the cardinal, “and ask for
the Abbe Gama, to whom I will give my instructions. You must apply
yourself diligently to the study of the French language; it is
indispensable.” He then enquired after Don Leilo’s health, and after
kissing his hand I took my leave.

I hastened to the house of M. Gaspar Vivaldi, where I dined amongst a
well-chosen party of guests. M. Vivaldi was not married; literature was
his only passion. He loved Latin poetry even better than Italian, and
Horace, whom I knew by heart, was his favourite poet. After dinner, we
repaired to his study, and he handed me one hundred Roman crowns, and Don
Antonio’s present, and assured me that I would be most welcome whenever I
would call to take a cup of chocolate with him.

After I had taken leave of Don Gaspar, I proceeded towards the Minerva,
for I longed to enjoy the surprise of my dear Lucrezia and of her sister;
I inquired for Donna Cecilia Monti, their mother, and I saw, to my great
astonishment, a young widow who looked like the sister of her two
charming daughters. There was no need for me to give her my name; I had
been announced, and she expected me. Her daughters soon came in, and
their greeting caused me some amusement, for I did not appear to them to
be the same individual. Donna Lucrezia presented me to her youngest
sister, only eleven years of age, and to her brother, an abbe of fifteen,
of charming appearance. I took care to behave so as to please the mother;
I was modest, respectful, and shewed a deep interest in everything I saw.
The good advocate arrived, and was surprised at the change in my
appearance. He launched out in his usual jokes, and I followed him on
that ground, yet I was careful not to give to my conversation the tone of
levity which used to cause so much mirth in our travelling coach; so
that, to, pay me a compliment, he told nee that, if I had had the sign of
manhood shaved from my face, I had certainly transferred it to my mind.
Donna Lucrezia did not know what to think of the change in my manners.

Towards evening I saw, coming in rapid succession, five or six
ordinary-looking ladies, and as many abbes, who appeared to me some of
the volumes with which I was to begin my Roman education. They all
listened attentively to the most insignificant word I uttered, and I was
very careful to let them enjoy their conjectures about me. Donna Cecilia
told the advocate that he was but a poor painter, and that his portraits
were not like the originals; he answered that she could not judge,
because the original was shewing under a mask, and I pretended to be
mortified by his answer. Donna Lucrezia said that she found me exactly
the same, and her sister was of opinion that the air of Rome gave
strangers a peculiar appearance. Everybody applauded, and Angelique
turned red with satisfaction. After a visit of four hours I bowed myself
out, and the advocate, following me, told me that his mother-in-law
begged me to consider myself as a friend of the family, and to be certain
of a welcome at any hour I liked to call. I thanked him gratefully and
took my leave, trusting that I had pleased this amiable society as much
as it had pleased me.

The next day I presented myself to the Abbe Gama. He was a Portuguese,
about forty years old, handsome, and with a countenance full of candour,
wit, and good temper. His affability claimed and obtained confidence. His
manners and accent were quite Roman. He informed me, in the blandest
manner, that his eminence had himself given his instructions about me to
his majordomo, that I would have a lodging in the cardinal’s palace, that
I would have my meals at the secretaries’ table, and that, until I
learned French, I would have nothing to do but make extracts from letters
that he would supply me with. He then gave me the address of the French
teacher to whom he had already spoken in my behalf. He was a Roman
advocate, Dalacqua by name, residing precisely opposite the palace.

After this short explanation, and an assurance that I could at all times
rely upon his friendship, he had me taken to the major-domo, who made me
sign my name at the bottom of a page in a large book, already filled with
other names, and counted out sixty Roman crowns which he paid me for
three months salary in advance. After this he accompanied me, followed by
a ‘staffiere’ to my apartment on the third floor, which I found very
comfortably furnished. The servant handed me the key, saying that he
would come every morning to attend upon me, and the major-domo
accompanied me to the gate to make me known to the gate-keeper. I
immediately repaired to my inn, sent my luggage to the palace, and found
myself established in a place in which a great fortune awaited me, if I
had only been able to lead a wise and prudent life, but unfortunately it
was not in my nature. ‘Volentem ducit, nolentem trahit.’

I naturally felt it my duty to call upon my mentor, Father Georgi, to
whom I gave all my good news. He said I was on the right road, and that
my fortune was in my hands.

“Recollect,” added the good father, “that to lead a blameless life you
must curb your passions, and that whatever misfortune may befall you it
cannot be ascribed by any one to a want of good luck, or attributed to
fate; those words are devoid of sense, and all the fault will rightly
fall on your own head.”

“I foresee, reverend father, that my youth and my want of experience will
often make it necessary for me to disturb you. I am afraid of proving
myself too heavy a charge for you, but you will find me docile and
obedient.”

“I suppose you will often think me rather too severe; but you are not
likely to confide everything to me.”

“Everything, without any exception.”

“Allow me to feel somewhat doubtful; you have not told me where you spent
four hours yesterday.”

“Because I did not think it was worth mentioning. I made the acquaintance
of those persons during my journey; I believe them to be worthy and
respectable, and the right sort of people for me to visit, unless you
should be of a different opinion.”

“God forbid! It is a very respectable house, frequented by honest people.
They are delighted at having made your acquaintance; you are much liked
by everybody, and they hope to retain you as a friend; I have heard all
about it this morning; but you must not go there too often and as a
regular guest.”

“Must I cease my visits at once, and without cause?”

“No, it would be a want of politeness on your part. You may go there once
or twice every week, but do not be a constant visitor. You are sighing,
my son?”

“No, I assure you not. I will obey you.”

“I hope it may not be only a matter of obedience, and I trust your heart
will not feel it a hardship, but, if necessary, your heart must be
conquered. Recollect that the heart is the greatest enemy of reason.”

“Yet they can be made to agree.”

“We often imagine so; but distrust the animism of your dear Horace. You
know that there is no middle course with it: ‘nisi paret, imperat’.”

“I know it, but in the family of which we were speaking there is no
danger for my heart.”

“I am glad of it, because in that case it will be all the easier for you
to abstain from frequent visits. Remember that I shall trust you.”

“And I, reverend father; will listen to and follow your good advice. I
will visit Donna Cecilia only now and then.” Feeling most unhappy, I took
his hand to press it against my lips, but he folded me in his arms as a
father might have done, and turned himself round so as not to let me see
that he was weeping.

I dined at the cardinal’s palace and sat near the Abbe Gama; the table
was laid for twelve persons, who all wore the costume of priests, for in
Rome everyone is a priest or wishes to be thought a priest and as there
is no law to forbid anyone to dress like an ecclesiastic that dress is
adopted by all those who wish to be respected (noblemen excepted) even if
they are not in the ecclesiastical profession.

I felt very miserable, and did not utter a word during the dinner; my
silence was construed into a proof of my sagacity. As we rose from the
table, the Abbe Gama invited me to spend the day with him, but I declined
under pretence of letters to be written, and I truly did so for seven
hours. I wrote to Don Lelio, to Don Antonio, to my young friend Paul, and
to the worthy Bishop of Martorano, who answered that he heartily wished
himself in my place.

Deeply enamoured of Lucrezia and happy in my love, to give her up
appeared to me a shameful action. In order to insure the happiness of my
future life, I was beginning to be the executioner of my present
felicity, and the tormentor of my heart. I revolted against such a
necessity which I judged fictitious, and which I could not admit unless I
stood guilty of vileness before the tribunal of my own reason. I thought
that Father Georgi, if he wished to forbid my visiting that family, ought
not to have said that it was worthy of respect; my sorrow would not have
been so intense. The day and the whole of the night were spent in painful
thoughts.

In the morning the Abbe Gama brought me a great book filled with
ministerial letters from which I was to compile for my amusement. After a
short time devoted to that occupation, I went out to take my first French
lesson, after which I walked towards the Strada-Condotta. I intended to
take a long walk, when I heard myself called by my name. I saw the Abbe
Gama in front of a coffee-house. I whispered to him that Minerva had
forbidden me the coffee-rooms of Rome. “Minerva,” he answered, “desires
you to form some idea of such places. Sit down by me.”

I heard a young abbe telling aloud, but without bitterness, a story,
which attacked in a most direct manner the justice of His Holiness.
Everybody was laughing and echoing the story. Another, being asked why he
had left the services of Cardinal B., answered that it was because his
eminence did not think himself called upon to pay him apart for certain
private services, and everybody laughed outright. Another came to the
Abbe Gama, and told him that, if he felt any inclination to spend the
afternoon at the Villa Medicis, he would find him there with two young
Roman girls who were satisfied with a ‘quartino’, a gold coin worth
one-fourth of a sequin. Another abbe read an incendiary sonnet against
the government, and several took a copy of it. Another read a satire of
his own composition, in which he tore to pieces the honour of a family.
In the middle of all that confusion, I saw a priest with a very
attractive countenance come in. The size of his hips made me take him for
a woman dressed in men’s clothes, and I said so to Gama, who told me that
he was the celebrated castrato, Bepino delta Mamana. The abbe called him
to us, and told him with a laugh that I had taken him for a girl. The
impudent fellow looked me full in the face, and said that, if I liked, he
would shew me whether I had been right or wrong.

At the dinner-table everyone spoke to me, and I fancied I had given
proper answers to all, but, when the repast was over, the Abbe Gama
invited me to take coffee in his own apartment. The moment we were alone,
he told me that all the guests I had met were worthy and honest men, and
he asked me whether I believed that I had succeeded in pleasing the
company.

“I flatter myself I have,” I answered.

“You are wrong,” said the abbe, “you are flattering yourself. You have so
conspicuously avoided the questions put to you that everybody in the room
noticed your extreme reserve. In the future no one will ask you any
questions.”

“I should be sorry if it should turn out so, but was I to expose my own
concerns?”

“No, but there is a medium in all things.”

“Yes, the medium of Horace, but it is often a matter of great difficulty
to hit it exactly.”

“A man ought to know how to obtain affection and esteem at the same
time.”

“That is the very wish nearest to my heart.”

“To-day you have tried for the esteem much more than for the affection of
your fellow-creatures. It may be a noble aspiration, but you must prepare
yourself to fight jealousy and her daughter, calumny; if those two
monsters do not succeed in destroying you, the victory must be yours.
Now, for instance, you thoroughly refuted Salicetti to-day. Well, he is a
physician, and what is more a Corsican; he must feel badly towards you.”

“Could I grant that the longings of women during their pregnancy have no
influence whatever on the skin of the foetus, when I know the reverse to
be the case? Are you not of my opinion?”

“I am for neither party; I have seen many children with some such marks,
but I have no means of knowing with certainty whether those marks have
their origin in some longing experienced by the mother while she was
pregnant.”

“But I can swear it is so.”

“All the better for you if your conviction is based upon such evidence,
and all the worse for Salicetti if he denies the possibility of the thing
without certain authority. But let him remain in error; it is better thus
than to prove him in the wrong and to make a bitter enemy of him.”

In the evening I called upon Lucrezia. The family knew my success, and
warmly congratulated me. Lucrezia told me that I looked sad, and I
answered that I was assisting at the funeral of my liberty, for I was no
longer my own master. Her husband, always fond of a joke, told her that I
was in love with her, and his mother-in-law advised him not to show so
much intrepidity. I only remained an hour with those charming persons,
and then took leave of them, but the very air around me was heated by the
flame within my breast. When I reached my room I began to write, and
spent the night in composing an ode which I sent the next day to the
advocate. I was certain that he would shew it to his wife, who loved
poetry, and who did not yet know that I was a poet. I abstained from
seeing her again for three or four days. I was learning French, and
making extracts from ministerial letters.

His eminence was in the habit of receiving every evening, and his rooms
were thronged with the highest nobility of Rome; I had never attended
these receptions. The Abbe Gama told me that I ought to do so as well as
he did, without any pretension. I followed his advice and went; nobody
spoke to me, but as I was unknown everyone looked at me and enquired who
I was. The Abbe Gama asked me which was the lady who appeared to me the
most amiable, and I shewed one to him; but I regretted having done so,
for the courtier went to her, and of course informed her of what I had
said. Soon afterwards I saw her look at me through her eye-glass and
smile kindly upon me. She was the Marchioness G—-, whose ‘cicisbeo’ was
Cardinal S—- C—-.

On the very day I had fixed to spend the evening with Donna Lucrezia the
worthy advocate called upon me. He told me that if I thought I was going
to prove I was not in love with his wife by staying away I was very much
mistaken, and he invited me to accompany all the family to Testaccio,
where they intended to have luncheon on the following Thursday. He added
that his wife knew my ode by heart, and that she had read it to the
intended husband of Angelique, who had a great wish to make my
acquaintance. That gentleman was likewise a poet, and would be one of the
party to Testaccio. I promised the advocate I would come to his house on
the Thursday with a carriage for two.

At that time every Thursday in the month of October was a festival day in
Rome. I went to see Donna Cecilia in the evening, and we talked about the
excursion the whole time. I felt certain that Donna Lucrezia looked
forward to it with as much pleasure as I did myself. We had no fixed
plan, we could not have any, but we trusted to the god of love, and
tacitly placed our confidence in his protection.

I took care that Father Georgi should not hear of that excursion before I
mentioned it to him myself, and I hastened to him in order to obtain his
permission to go. I confess that, to obtain his leave, I professed the
most complete indifference about it, and the consequence was that the
good man insisted upon my going, saying that it was a family party, and
that it was quite right for me to visit the environs of Rome and to enjoy
myself in a respectable way.

I went to Donna Cecilia’s in a carriage which I hired from a certain
Roland, a native of Avignon, and if I insist here upon his name it is
because my readers will meet him again in eighteen years, his
acquaintance with me having had very important results. The charming
widow introduced me to Don Francisco, her intended son-in-law, whom she
represented as a great friend of literary men, and very deeply learned
himself. I accepted it as gospel, and behaved accordingly; yet I thought
he looked rather heavy and not sufficiently elated for a young man on the
point of marrying such a pretty girl as Angelique. But he had plenty of
good-nature and plenty of money, and these are better than learning and
gallantry.

As we were ready to get into the carriages, the advocate told me that he
would ride with me in my carriage, and that the three ladies would go
with Don Francisco in the other. I answered at once that he ought to keep
Don Francisco company, and that I claimed the privilege of taking care of
Donna Cecilia, adding that I should feel dishonoured if things were
arranged differently. Thereupon I offered my arm to the handsome widow,
who thought the arrangement according to the rules of etiquette and good
breeding, and an approving look of my Lucrezia gave me the most agreeable
sensation. Yet the proposal of the advocate struck me somewhat
unpleasantly, because it was in contradiction with his former behaviour,
and especially with what he had said to me in my room a few days before.
“Has he become jealous?” I said to myself; that would have made me almost
angry, but the hope of bringing him round during our stay at Testaccio
cleared away the dark cloud on my mind, and I was very amiable to Donna
Cecilia. What with lunching and walking we contrived to pass the
afternoon very pleasantly; I was very gay, and my love for Lucrezia was
not once mentioned; I was all attention to her mother. I occasionally
addressed myself to Lucrezia, but not once to the advocate, feeling this
the best way to shew him that he had insulted me.

As we prepared to return, the advocate carried off Donna Cecilia and went
with her to the carriage in which were already seated Angelique and Don
Francisco. Scarcely able to control my delight, I offered my arm to Donna
Lucrezia, paying her some absurd compliment, while the advocate laughed
outright, and seemed to enjoy the trick he imagined he had played me.

How many things we might have said to each other before giving ourselves
up to the material enjoyment of our love, had not the instants been so
precious! But, aware that we had only half an hour before us, we were
sparing of the minutes. We were absorbed in voluptuous pleasure when
suddenly Lucrezia exclaims,—

“Oh! dear, how unhappy we are!”

She pushes me back, composes herself, the carriage stops, and the servant
opens the door. “What is the matter?” I enquire. “We are at home.”
Whenever I recollect the circumstance, it seems to me fabulous, for it is
not possible to annihilate time, and the horses were regular old screws.
But we were lucky all through. The night was dark, and my beloved angel
happened to be on the right side to get out of the carriage first, so
that, although the advocate was at the door of the brougham as soon as
the footman, everything went right, owing to the slow manner in which
Lucrezia alighted. I remained at Donna Cecilia’s until midnight.

When I got home again, I went to bed; but how could I sleep? I felt
burning in me the flame which I had not been able to restore to its
original source in the too short distance from Testaccio to Rome. It was
consuming me. Oh! unhappy are those who believe that the pleasures of
Cythera are worth having, unless they are enjoyed in the most perfect
accord by two hearts overflowing with love!

I only rose in time for my French lesson. My teacher had a pretty
daughter, named Barbara, who was always present during my lessons, and
who sometimes taught me herself with even more exactitude than her
father. A good-looking young man, who likewise took lessons, was courting
her, and I soon perceived that she loved him. This young man called often
upon me, and I liked him, especially on account of his reserve, for,
although I made him confess his love for Barbara, he always changed the
subject, if I mentioned it in our conversation.

I had made up my mind to respect his reserve, and had not alluded to his
affection for several days. But all at once I remarked that he had ceased
his visits both to me and to his teacher, and at the same time I observed
that the young girl was no longer present at my lessons; I felt some
curiosity to know what had happened, although it was not, after all, any
concern of mine.

A few days after, as I was returning from church, I met the young man,
and reproached him for keeping away from us all. He told me that great
sorrow had befallen him, which had fairly turned his brain, and that he
was a prey to the most intense despair. His eyes were wet with tears. As
I was leaving him, he held me back, and I told him that I would no longer
be his friend unless he opened his heart to me. He took me to one of the
cloisters, and he spoke thus:

“I have loved Barbara for the last six months, and for three months she
has given me indisputable proofs of her affection. Five days ago, we were
betrayed by the servant, and the father caught us in a rather delicate
position. He left the room without saying one word, and I followed him,
thinking of throwing myself at his feet; but, as I appeared before him,
he took hold of me by the arm, pushed me roughly to the door, and forbade
me ever to present myself again at his house. I cannot claim her hand in
marriage, because one of my brothers is married, and my father is not
rich; I have no profession, and my mistress has nothing. Alas, now that I
have confessed all to you, tell me, I entreat you, how she is. I am
certain that she is as miserable as I am myself. I cannot manage to get a
letter delivered to her, for she does not leave the house, even to attend
church. Unhappy wretch! What shall I do?”

I could but pity him, for, as a man of honour, it was impossible for me
to interfere in such a business. I told him that I had not seen Barbara
for five days, and, not knowing what to say, I gave him the advice which
is tendered by all fools under similar circumstances; I advised him to
forget his mistress.

We had then reached the quay of Ripetta, and, observing that he was
casting dark looks towards the Tiber, I feared his despair might lead him
to commit some foolish attempt against his own life, and, in order to
calm his excited feelings, I promised to make some enquiries from the
father about his mistress, and to inform him of all I heard. He felt
quieted by my promise, and entreated me not to forget him.

In spite of the fire which had been raging through my veins ever since
the excursion to Testaccio, I had not seen my Lucrezia for four days. I
dreaded Father Georgi’s suave manner, and I was still more afraid of
finding he had made up his mind to give me no more advice. But, unable to
resist my desires, I called upon Lucrezia after my French lesson, and
found her alone, sad and dispirited.

“Ah!” she exclaimed, as soon as I was by her side, “I think you might
find time to come and see me!”

“My beloved one, it is not that I cannot find time, but I am so jealous
of my love that I would rather die than let it be known publicly. I have
been thinking of inviting you all to dine with me at Frascati. I will
send you a phaeton, and I trust that some lucky accident will smile upon
our love.”

“Oh! yes, do, dearest! I am sure your invitation will be accepted:”

In a quarter of an hour the rest of the family came in, and I proffered
my invitation for the following Sunday, which happened to be the Festival
of St. Ursula, patroness of Lucrezia’s youngest sister. I begged Donna
Cecilia to bring her as well as her son. My proposal being readily
accepted, I gave notice that the phaeton would be at Donna Cecilia’s door
at seven o’clock, and that I would come myself with a carriage for two
persons.

The next day I went to M. Dalacqua, and, after my lesson, I saw Barbara
who, passing from one room to another, dropped a paper and earnestly
looked at me. I felt bound to pick it up, because a servant, who was at
hand, might have seen it and taken it. It was a letter, enclosing another
addressed to her lover. The note for me ran thus: “If you think it to be
a sin to deliver the enclosed to your friend, burn it. Have pity on an
unfortunate girl, and be discreet.”

The enclosed letter which was unsealed, ran as follows: “If you love me
as deeply as ‘I love you, you cannot hope to be happy without me; we
cannot correspond in any other way than the one I am bold enough to
adopt. I am ready to do anything to unite our lives until death. Consider
and decide.”

The cruel situation of the poor girl moved me almost to tears; yet I
determined to return her letter the next day, and I enclosed it in a note
in which I begged her to excuse me if I could not render her the service
she required at my hands. I put it in my pocket ready for delivery. The
next day I went for my lesson as usual, but, not seeing Barbara, I had no
opportunity of returning her letter, and postponed its delivery to the
following day. Unfortunately, just after I had returned to my room, the
unhappy lover made his appearance. His eyes were red from weeping, his
voice hoarse; he drew such a vivid picture of his misery, that, dreading
some mad action counselled by despair, I could not withhold from him the
consolation which I knew it was in my power to give. This was my first
error in this fatal business; I was the victim of my own kindness.

The poor fellow read the letter over and over; he kissed it with
transports of joy; he wept, hugged me, and thanked me for saving his
life, and finally entreated me to take charge of his answer, as his
beloved mistress must be longing for consolation as much as he had been
himself, assuring me that his letter could not in any way implicate me,
and that I was at liberty to read it.

And truly, although very long, his letter contained nothing but the
assurance of everlasting love, and hopes which could not be realized. Yet
I was wrong to accept the character of Mercury to the two young lovers.
To refuse, I had only to recollect that Father Georgi would certainly
have disapproved of my easy compliance.

The next day I found M. Dalacqua ill in bed; his daughter gave me my
lesson in his room, and I thought that perhaps she had obtained her
pardon. I contrived to give her her lover’s letter, which she dextrously
conveyed to her pocket, but her blushes would have easily betrayed her if
her father had been looking that way. After the lesson I gave M. Dalacqua
notice that I would not come on the morrow, as it was the Festival of St.
Ursula, one of the eleven thousand princesses and martyr-virgins.

In the evening, at the reception of his eminence, which I attended
regularly, although persons of distinction seldom spoke to me, the
cardinal beckoned to me. He was speaking to the beautiful Marchioness
G—-, to whom Gama had indiscreetly confided that I thought her the
handsomest woman amongst his eminence’s guests.

“Her grace,” said the Cardinal, “wishes to know whether you are making
rapid progress in the French language, which she speaks admirably.”

I answered in Italian that I had learned a great deal, but that I was not
yet bold enough to speak.

“You should be bold,” said the marchioness, “but without showing any
pretension. It is the best way to disarm criticism.”

My mind having almost unwittingly lent to the words “You should be bold”
a meaning which had very likely been far from the idea of the
marchioness, I turned very red, and the handsome speaker, observing it,
changed the conversation and dismissed me.

The next morning, at seven o’clock, I was at Donna Cecilia’s door. The
phaeton was there as well as the carriage for two persons, which this
time was an elegant vis-a-vis, so light and well-hung that Donna Cecilia
praised it highly when she took her seat.

“I shall have my turn as we return to Rome,” said Lucrezia; and I bowed
to her as if in acceptance of her promise.

Lucrezia thus set suspicion at defiance in order to prevent suspicion
arising. My happiness was assured, and I gave way to my natural flow of
spirits. I ordered a splendid dinner, and we all set out towards the
Villa Ludovisi. As we might have missed each other during our ramblings,
we agreed to meet again at the inn at one o’clock. The discreet widow
took the arm of her son-in-law, Angelique remained with her sister, and
Lucrezia was my delightful share; Ursula and her brother were running
about together, and in less than a quarter of an hour I had Lucrezia
entirely to myself.

“Did you remark,” she said, “with what candour I secured for us two hours
of delightful ‘tete-a-tete’, and a ‘tete-a-tete’ in a ‘vis-a-vis’, too!
How clever Love is!”

“Yes, darling, Love has made but one of our two souls. I adore you, and
if I have the courage to pass so many days without seeing you it is in
order to be rewarded by the freedom of one single day like this.”

“I did not think it possible. But you have managed it all very well. You
know too much for your age, dearest.”

“A month ago, my beloved, I was but an ignorant child, and you are the
first woman who has initiated me into the mysteries of love. Your
departure will kill me, for I could not find another woman like you in
all Italy.”

“What! am I your first love? Alas! you will never be cured of it. Oh! why
am I not entirely your own? You are also the first true love of my heart,
and you will be the last. How great will be the happiness of my
successor! I should not be jealous of her, but what suffering would be
mine if I thought that her heart was not like mine!”

Lucrezia, seeing my eyes wet with tears, began to give way to her own,
and, seating ourselves on the grass, our lips drank our tears amidst the
sweetest kisses. How sweet is the nectar of the tears shed by love, when
that nectar is relished amidst the raptures of mutual ardour! I have
often tasted them–those delicious tears, and I can say knowingly that
the ancient physicians were right, and that the modern are wrong.

In a moment of calm, seeing the disorder in which we both were, I told
her that we might be surprised.

“Do not fear, my best beloved,” she said, “we are under the guardianship
of our good angels.”

We were resting and reviving our strength by gazing into one another’s
eyes, when suddenly Lucrezia, casting a glance to the right, exclaimed,

“Look there! idol of my heart, have I not told you so? Yes, the angels
are watching over us! Ah! how he stares at us! He seems to try to give us
confidence. Look at that little demon; admire him! He must certainly be
your guardian spirit or mine.”

I thought she was delirious.

“What are you saying, dearest? I do not understand you. What am I to
admire?”

“Do you not see that beautiful serpent with the blazing skin, which lifts
its head and seems to worship us?”

I looked in the direction she indicated, and saw a serpent with
changeable colours about three feet in length, which did seem to be
looking at us. I was not particularly pleased at the sight, but I could
not show myself less courageous than she was.

“What!” said I, “are you not afraid?”

“I tell you, again, that the sight is delightful to me, and I feel
certain that it is a spirit with nothing but the shape, or rather the
appearance, of a serpent.”

“And if the spirit came gliding along the grass and hissed at you?”

“I would hold you tighter against my bosom, and set him at defiance. In
your arms Lucrezia is safe. Look! the spirit is going away. Quick, quick!
He is warning us of the approach of some profane person, and tells us to
seek some other retreat to renew our pleasures. Let us go.”

We rose and slowly advanced towards Donna Cecilia and the advocate, who
were just emerging from a neighbouring alley. Without avoiding them, and
without hurrying, just as if to meet one another was a very natural
occurrence, I enquired of Donna Cecilia whether her daughter had any fear
of serpents.

“In spite of all her strength of mind,” she answered, “she is dreadfully
afraid of thunder, and she will scream with terror at the sight of the
smallest snake. There are some here, but she need not be frightened, for
they are not venomous.”

I was speechless with astonishment, for I discovered that I had just
witnessed a wonderful love miracle. At that moment the children came up,
and, without ceremony, we again parted company.

“Tell me, wonderful being, bewitching woman, what would you have done if,
instead of your pretty serpent, you had seen your husband and your
mother?”

“Nothing. Do you not know that, in moments of such rapture, lovers see
and feel nothing but love? Do you doubt having possessed me wholly,
entirely?”

Lucrezia, in speaking thus, was not composing a poetical ode; she was not
feigning fictitious sentiments; her looks, the sound of her voice, were
truth itself!

“Are you certain,” I enquired, “that we are not suspected?”

“My husband does not believe us to be in love with each other, or else he
does not mind such trifling pleasures as youth is generally wont to
indulge in. My mother is a clever woman, and perhaps she suspects the
truth, but she is aware that it is no longer any concern of hers. As to
my sister, she must know everything, for she cannot have forgotten the
broken-down bed; but she is prudent, and besides, she has taken it into
her head to pity me. She has no conception of the nature of my feelings
towards you. If I had not met you, my beloved, I should probably have
gone through life without realizing such feelings myself; for what I feel
for my husband…. well, I have for him the obedience which my position
as a wife imposes upon me.”

“And yet he is most happy, and I envy him! He can clasp in his arms all
your lovely person whenever he likes! There is no hateful veil to hide
any of your charms from his gaze.”

“Oh! where art thou, my dear serpent? Come to us, come and protect us
against the surprise of the uninitiated, and this very instant I fulfil
all the wishes of him I adore!”

We passed the morning in repeating that we loved each other, and in
exchanging over and over again substantial proofs of our mutual passion.

We had a delicious dinner, during which I was all attention for the
amiable Donna Cecilia. My pretty tortoise-shell box, filled with
excellent snuff, went more than once round the table. As it happened to
be in the hands of Lucrezia who was sitting on my left, her husband told
her that, if I had no objection, she might give me her ring and keep the
snuff-box in exchange. Thinking that the ring was not of as much value as
my box, I immediately accepted, but I found the ring of greater value.
Lucrezia would not, however, listen to anything on that subject. She put
the box in her pocket, and thus compelled me to keep her ring.

Dessert was nearly over, the conversation was very animated, when
suddenly the intended husband of Angelique claimed our attention for the
reading of a sonnet which he had composed and dedicated to me. I thanked
him, and placing the sonnet in my pocket promised to write one for him.
This was not, however, what he wished; he expected that, stimulated by
emulation, I would call for paper and pen, and sacrifice to Apollo hours
which it was much more to my taste to employ in worshipping another god
whom his cold nature knew only by name. We drank coffee, I paid the bill,
and we went about rambling through the labyrinthine alleys of the Villa
Aldobrandini.

What sweet recollections that villa has left in my memory! It seemed as
if I saw my divine Lucrezia for the first time. Our looks were full of
ardent love, our hearts were beating in concert with the most tender
impatience, and a natural instinct was leading us towards a solitary
asylum which the hand of Love seemed to have prepared on purpose for the
mysteries of its secret worship. There, in the middle of a long avenue,
and under a canopy of thick foliage, we found a wide sofa made of grass,
and sheltered by a deep thicket; from that place our eyes could range
over an immense plain, and view the avenue to such a distance right and
left that we were perfectly secure against any surprise. We did not
require to exchange one word at the sight of this beautiful temple so
favourable to our love; our hearts spoke the same language.

Without a word being spoken, our ready hands soon managed to get rid of
all obstacles, and to expose in a state of nature all the beauties which
are generally veiled by troublesome wearing apparel. Two whole hours were
devoted to the most delightful, loving ecstasies. At last we exclaimed
together in mutual ecstasy, “O Love, we thank thee!”

We slowly retraced our steps towards the carriages, revelling in our
intense happiness. Lucrezia informed me that Angelique’s suitor was
wealthy, that he owned a splendid villa at Tivoli, and that most likely
he would invite us all to dine and pass the night there. “I pray the god
of love,” she added, “to grant us a night as beautiful as this day has
been.” Then, looking sad, she said, “But alas! the ecclesiastical lawsuit
which has brought my husband to Rome is progressing so favourably that I
am mortally afraid he will obtain judgment all too soon.”

The journey back to the city lasted two hours; we were alone in my
vis-a-vis and we overtaxed nature, exacting more than it can possibly
give. As we were getting near Rome we were compelled to let the curtain
fall before the denouement of the drama which we had performed to the
complete satisfaction of the actors.

I returned home rather fatigued, but the sound sleep which was so natural
at my age restored my full vigour, and in the morning I took my French
lesson at the usual hour.