What Casanova Told Me Read online

  His aunt gave the Count a forbidding stare, which made me curious to learn more about this adventurer.

  “Why was Monsieur Casanova put in prison?” I asked.

  “The Inquisitors considered him a threat to the Republic,” Count Waldstein said.

  Meanwhile, Father had recovered his equilibrium and was announcing to anyone who would listen that the Basilica of San Marco was an example of “the barbarous Gothick.” As I turned towards him, Father bellowed at me, “Asked For, Venice is a stinking sewer, fit only for beavers!”

  I looked away in mortification, and the Countess took my hand and whispered, “Miss Adams, you, like me, are a prisoner of your circumstances. We must do what we can—unbeknownst to the others—to set each other free.”

  I stood like a silly gawnicus and let the old woman crush me to her flat-bosomed body. She gave off the delicate scent of rosewater and soap, unlike the gamey smell of Francis. I glanced at Father to see if he had overheard but even he, by now, was absorbed in the sights of Venice.

  First Inquiry of the Day: Why did the Creator permit Father’s face to be frozen on the left side? I know Father suffered a blow to the heart last autumn. But it seems to me there is a second reason. Since Mother’s death, Father has been half a man with a half face and I am his daughter, whole and entire in her large parts.

  Second Inquiry of the Day: Why do I have to marry Francis who is five years younger than I and ignorant of everything beautiful and grand? Who reads practical books like The Farmer’s Almanac and shuns anything lively and bold such as Voltaire’s Candide? Who deplores the French and the happy months I spent in Paris as Father’s hostess? And why should Father tell one and all that Venice is a filthy place, suitable for beavers?

  Lesson Learned: It is my task to cherish my aging parent even though Father is not the source of bountiful love my soul wishes him to be. He is a Human Creature who must be cherished.

  Luce felt touched by Asked For’s desire to cherish her aggravating father as a “Human Creature.” From the west came the harmonies of string quartets, and somewhere closer to the Da Raffaele, the tolling of a bell. It struck Luce that these sounds had been heard in Venice for hundreds of years. Perhaps string quartets were playing when Asked For Adams had landed at the Molo with her father and Francis Gooch.

  She turned back to the passage with Count Waldstein’s description of Casanova’s escape from the Leads. She was sure he had escaped in 1756, not 1759, and returned in 1774 to Venice, eighteen years later, not twenty years later as Count Waldstein had told Asked For Adams. But she would double-check his dates; no account should be wholly trusted. When her aunt had told her about the journal, Luce had made it her business to research the man and his times.

  Proud to be chosen as the guardian of Casanova’s letters, she had spent hours at the Miller poring over old texts about Casanova that she had retrieved through the interlibrary loan service. She had also joined an Internet group called the Society of Casanovistes and attended a talk about eighteenth-century Venice. She had liked the French psychologist Lydia Flem who had told the smirking audience that Casanova believed that the women he loved had the same rights to sexual enjoyment, public accomplishment and respect for their intelligence as he enjoyed himself.

  At Flem’s talk, she had also discovered that Casanova had been imprisoned for the offence of owning books written by Freemasons. The Republic had charged him on the pretext that these books proved he dabbled in the occult when the truth was the independent views of the Freemasons were believed to threaten the Catholic religion.

  Luce noticed the restaurant filling with customers and wondered if the young photographer was still on the terrace. She put on her sunglasses and, yes, there he was four tables away, taking a picture of a woman with a child. As he looked up, he saw Luce watching him and gave her an ironic smile. She quickly took off her sunglasses. Flustered, she lowered her eyes back to the journal.

  Good Friday, April 17, 1797

  May I be forgiven my unkind words about Father.

  Tonight I met Philippe de la Haye, the brother of Countess Waldstein, in the Cafe Florian, situated on the great Piazza San Marco. He is tall like his sister, and like her he wears clothes long out of fashion: striped gold-and-white stockings and a faded jacket of corn-coloured satin. I saw patches on his breeches, the seams of which are cleverly hidden beneath ivory-coloured braiding. Monsieur de la Haye also sported a chestnut tie wig, and in the crook of his arm he carried a bamboo walking stick with tassels that jiggled as he moved. Several café-goers stared curiously in his direction, but most of the crowd at the Florian was too engrossed in talk about General Bonaparte to notice him. Father learned this morning that General Junot, a French officer, is in Venice to see the Doge, demanding money to finance General Bonaparte’s war against Austria.

  Monsieur de la Haye arrived with Count Waldstein and a man named Guido Pozzo, who wants to sell Father sketches from a collection called the Paper Museum. Bowing deeply in the style of the old French court, Monsieur de la Haye asked if I liked Venice.

  “Very much,” I replied. “Despite the fear of an invasion by General Bonaparte, I nevertheless feel enveloped in an atmosphere of safety.”

  Father and Monsieur Pozzo turned to listen.

  “You feel safe in Venice?” Monsieur de la Haye asked.

  “Even from the perils of time.” I paused, pretending not to see Father wiggling his eyebrows at me. “In Venice, one does not age, one floats.”

  The two gentlemen brayed with pleasure, and Father grunted. “Thank you, child. Now Mr. Pozzo and I have important matters to discuss.”

  From a small leather bag, Monsieur Pozzo produced a sketch entitled “The Artist moved by the grandeur of ancient ruins.” Drawn by a man named Fuseli, it portrayed a melancholy young nobleman sitting by the pedestal of a shattered colossus. Nothing remained of the statue except a gigantic foot and a single hand with a beckoning finger. The young nobleman’s arm was stretched across the foot’s monster arch, his head bowed as if receiving inspiration from the gigantic antiquity.

  “Fuseli’s sketch shows the impact of our great Roman heritage on the European traveller,” Monsieur Pozzo said. “In the more peaceful days of this century, no English-speaking visitor”—and here Monsieur Pozzo bowed to Father—“could see Rome without visiting the Paper Museum.”

  “What Grand Tourist goes abroad with General

  Bonaparte on the march?” Father nodded.

  As the men talked, the brother of Countess Waldstein pulled a portable writing box from his satchel. He set it on his lap and began scribbling in a journal. His concentrated expression suggested he was absorbed in his writing, and I thought of my own journal in which I am recording my travel adventures. In the style of French novels, I reproduce dialogue and other literary devices. I carry a new edition of Les Liaisons dangereuses in my trunk. Father says the French novels I admire are an immoral influence on young people like myself. So I have not told him about my method of journal keeping. I am afraid Father cannot think hypothetically. If I say. Imagine this, he will say I am taking liberties with truth. My parent prefers empirical facts, such as the number of Quincy apples he sold to the army during our revolutionary war.

  Like my parent, I, too, must check, test and verify, and in that sense at least, I am my father’s daughter.

  “Are you willing to sell me what is left of the Paper Museum?” Father asked Monsieur Pozzo. “My cousin would be pleased to display this drawing and others like it in our White House.”

  “Please approach me, sir,” Monsieur Pozzo whispered. And in a low, agitated voice, he asked my parent to adjourn to our hotel. It was then I noticed the French soldier in a tricorne hat calling out for free champagne. We overheard the man say the liberators of Venice were on their way and a few café-goers hurried out of the Florian, fear engraved on their faces. Father went off with his companions and I set out to find the Listone, the promenade in the Piazza San Marco that Venetians like to frequent.
I wanted to avoid Francis, who would be returning from an inspection of Burano’s lacemaking industry. Fortunately, Father often sends Francis off on research tasks, sparing me his company.

  It was early evening as I threaded my way through the throngs who had come out for Good Friday mass at the Basilica of San Marco. I ignored the beggars in silk who accost foreigners like myself and hurried past the pitiful coops of chickens and pigeons waiting to be auctioned for Easter dinners; I sidestepped a battalion of sturdy peasant women from Friuli selling water from buckets that hang in ox-like yokes across their shoulders, and tried to ignore a small dwarf who brought the blood to my face when he called out to me to suckle him.

  Seeking fresh sea breezes, I went and stood between the two granite pillars on the Molo. Venetians avoid this place because executions once took place there but I am not concerned by superstition. I gazed about me, imagining myself a kind of executioner’s victim, and the hand holding the noose that of my own father. Slowly, I became aware of a man by the landing where the gondolas are tied for the night, his face and body hidden in the shadows cast by the Ducal Palace. I looked to see if he was someone I knew but I couldn’t make him out. I felt rather than saw him, felt his gaze, curious and compelling. I moved away a little, taking a few steps towards the north, and he did the same. I took a few steps backwards into the Piazza and he too took a few steps backwards. I could see that he was wearing a coat and large hat shaped like a black fan. Its width marked it as a Kevenhuller.

  I am not used to exciting interest in a man, since my height lets me see over the heads of most, but this evening I felt something stir in My Poor Friend, whose misfortune it is to house the spirit of Asked For Adams. I turned away from him and headed towards the Campanile. I did not stop and look over my shoulder. I knew, that is to say, I felt that he was following me and I was not certain whether this was what I wanted. The Campanile has no stairs. I made my way up the wooden incline, a gently sloping floor that goes round and round inside the tower.

  At every pillar, I stopped and looked out of one of the small portholes cut into the brick. I was beginning to enjoy myself. I was alone in the Campanile and the sun was setting. This fact registered on me, nevertheless I felt neither fear nor excitement—only a sure, steady calm when I heard his footsteps echoing behind me.

  After a long climb, I reached the platform with the bells where red and green marble columns support the four arches that hold up each side of the tower. The platform above the bells offers a vantage point that allows the eye to wander over the whole of Venice and the horizon beyond. Too fatigued to climb higher, I stopped and took out Peabody’s guide and found I was looking down at the Sansovinian Library. On its roof, I saw the large white statues representing Venus and Neptune and other allegorical figures. The sudden appearance of these figures moved me greatly. Here on the rooftops, a city of white, silenced beings, created and now forgotten by the people below, were marching with steadfast expressions in the air above Venice.

  I knew he was there before he spoke. I turned. He took off his Kevenhuller and Philippe de la Haye, the brother of Countess Waldstein, stood before me.

  I did not speak and neither did he. As we studied each other, I was surprised to see signs of strength in his aged body, the huge bull neck and large aggressive nose, the sunburnt face, almost African in complexion. He was still handsome to look upon and he moved with the grace of a much younger person, confident of his physical strength when he no longer had a right to be so.

  Then he groaned and sat down on a little bench by one of the arches and I realized he was short of breath. With some effort, he took off his greatcoat and put it on the bench beside him, next to a leather satchel.

  I could smell urine and other bodily wastes left by Venetians who visit the watchtower, and I was glad Father was not there to disturb the moment with his righteous fastidiousness.

  “I am not who you think I am,” he said in a low voice. “Please forgive me, but it is dangerous in Venice for me to have my identity known and at this moment, even, I am being watched.”

  “Who are you?” I said.

  “I am known as the Chevalier de Seingalt.”

  “Monsieur, do you have a Christian name? I am the child of a revolutionary people, and we do not put stock in titles.”

  He smiled slightly. “I am delighted to offer you the truth, mademoiselle. You were kind to Finette on the public barge. My true name is Giacomo—or Jacob, as you would say in English.”

  “And your surname, monsieur?”

  “Casanova.”

  “You are the man who escaped from the prison in the Ducal Palace? The lover of women described by Count Waldstein?”

  He nodded.

  “I do not believe you,” I said.

  He bowed his head. Then he reached into a pocket in his greatcoat and pulled out Countess Waldstein’s great wig. He settled it on his head, causing a cloud of powder to rise slowly skyward like dust on a country road.

  From the square far below rose the noise of orchestras and people laughing. I inspected the mountainous wig whose curls had been sprinkled with poudre à maréchale. There was no sign of the shiny beetles and I found myself disappointed.

  “Mademoiselle, my disguises have been sadly necessary. I left Venice in disgrace over twenty years ago after publishing a satire of the playwright Abbé Chiaria. It was the year the Abbé’s friend headed our inquisition … There were often false charges, too.” He lowered his voice. “And since the revolution in France, Napoleon Bonaparte’s spies have been hard at work, gathering evidence against anyone suspected of sympathizing with their king. I admire neither the revolution nor Napoleon. But it makes no difference to the fools who run Venice.”

  “Surely, those fools will have no time to persecute you now that Napoleon is in Italy?” I said, seating myself on the bench across from him.

  He shrugged. “One should not expect reason from the Republic, Puritan girl. In Paris, some years ago, I met Benjamin Franklin and he told me the story of your brave young country.” He removed the wig and placed it next to his satchel, which I realized was moving with little bursts of energy.

  “Thank you for your good words about my country, but it was not I but my forebears who were Puritans,” I said, my eyes on the convulsing sack. “I was brought up in the Congregational Church and taught to value the republican virtue of simplicity.”

  “Ah, simplicity! And yet you seem to manage so well in a city like Venice!” He leaned over and opened his satchel. “Please forgive me for following you. I came to ask you a favour …”

  “Monsieur?”

  “It is said the spies know I am fond of fox terriers. Will you keep Finette while I am in Venice?”

  His fox terrier wriggled out of the satchel’s mouth and ran towards me, yapping happily as if to demonstrate how willingly she would accept her master’s suggestion. She stopped at my feet, wagging the stump of her abbreviated tail. She was cat size, with a sad grey face. I picked her up and she panted up at me with the same adoring look she had given me on the public barge.

  “Who could resist such a loving creature?”

  He consulted a gold watch and I saw him kiss a small miniature hanging from its chain.

  “It is a portrait of my great love—Aimée Dubucq de Rivery,” he said when he noticed my curious look. “Would you like to see?” Without waiting for my reply, he unhooked the miniature from the watch chain and gave it to me. Inside the dainty gold frame was a portrait of a woman sitting by a window. She looked younger than my age of twenty-five, and her clothing was in the formal style of the old French court.

  “Is she French?”

  “She was born in the West Indies. And now she rules all of Turkey. Her husband, the Sultan, recently departed from this world.”

  “She lives in a harem?”

  The shock in my voice amused him. For the first time, he laughed and his broad, sunburnt face relaxed.

  “Yes, she was a favoured wife. But she loves me still
. My greatest wish is to see her once more before I die.”

  “Oh,” I said, thinking, You are far too old for her, although perhaps she has also aged, like you. He must have divined something of this in my face because he groaned wearily.

  “Again, you do not believe me?”

  “I would like to believe you.” I hesitated. “Is your friend unhappy in the land of the Turks?”

  “One day, I will tell you our story, if you would permit me the honour. In the meantime, let me entrust you with my journal. If I have not been apprehended, I will reclaim it from you tomorrow morning at the Florian.”

  “And I will keep your dog for you,” I said, surprising myself. “We stay in Venice two months more.”

  “I am in your debt then. You saw how Count Waldstein taunts Finette. She was once a circus dog and savagely beaten by her owner.” When he saw my scandalized face, he nodded. “Count Waldstein has his faults. As do most benefactors. He likes to amuse himself with cruel jokes. The day we left Dux, his valet placed my clothes in a nest of flying ants. Even now I am not sure I am rid of the pests.”

  “You must tell him to improve his manners.”

  “Ah, Miss Adams, how you please me!” He threw back his head and laughed loudly. “There is no hope for Count Waldstein, while you are kind and pleasing to look upon.” He beckoned me close. “Can I trust you? I see that I can,” he said, as I took a nervous step forward. “Count Waldstein brought me to Venice for the purpose of a money-making venture. Out of gratitude, I have been obliged to help him. But the Pozzo drawings are fakes—worthless copies done by a talentless fraud. No great Roman or Venetian artist made those sketches. You must warn your father.”