The Memoirs of Jacques Casanova de Seingalt, 1725-1798. Volume 02: a Cleric in NaplesCasanova, Giacomo
History
The Memoirs of Jacques Casanova de Seingalt, 1725-1798. Volume 02: a Cleric in Naples
Casanova, Giacomo
Casanova, Giacomo, 1725-1798; Europe -- History -- 18th century -- Biography
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.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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