The Memoirs of Jacques Casanova de Seingalt, 1725-1798. Volume 17: Return to ItalyCasanova, Giacomo
History
The Memoirs of Jacques Casanova de Seingalt, 1725-1798. Volume 17: Return to Italy
Casanova, Giacomo
Casanova, Giacomo, 1725-1798; Europe -- History -- 18th century -- Biography
"What a pity!" said Veronique's eyes; but she said it with her eyes
alone, while I was waiting for these words to issue from her lips. We
were both of us wrong: she for not speaking, and I for waiting for her to
speak. It was a favourable moment, but we let it pass by, and love
punished us. I had, it is true, another reason for abstaining. I wished
to reserve myself for the night. Veronique went to her own bed to quiet
her excited feelings, and I stayed in bed with my sleeping beauty till
noon, when I wished her good morning by a fresh assault which was
completed neither on her side nor on mine to the best of my belief.
The day was spent in talking about ourselves, and determined to eat only
one meal, we did not sit down to table till night began to fall. We spent
two hours in the consumption of delicate dishes, and in defying Bacchus
to make us feel his power. We rose as we saw Annette falling asleep, but
we were not much annoyed at the thought that she would not see the
pleasures we promised each other. I thought that I should have enough to
do to contemplate the charms of the one nymph without looking at
Annette's beauties. We went to bed, our arms interlaced, our bodies tight
together, and lip pressed on lip, but that was all. Veronique saw what
prevented me going any further, and she was too polite and modest to
complain. She dissembled her feelings and continued to caress me, while I
was in a frenzy of rage. I had never had such a misfortune, unless as the
result of complete exhaustion, or from a strong mental impression capable
of destroying my natural faculties. Let my readers imagine what I
suffered; in the flower of my age, with a strong constitution, holding
the body of a woman I had ardently desired in my arms, while she tenderly
caressed me, and yet I could do nothing for her. I was in despair; one
cannot offer a greater insult to a woman.
At last we had to accept the facts and speak reasonably, and I was the
first to bewail my misfortune.
"You tired yourself too much yesterday," said she, "and you were not
sufficiently temperate at supper. Do not let it trouble you, dearest, I
am sure you love me. Do not try to force nature, you will only weaken
yourself more. I think a gentle sleep would restore your manly powers
better than anything. I can't sleep myself, but don't mind me. Sleep, we
will make love together afterwards."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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