by Stefan Zweig
On the other hand the counterparts of these artists, easy-going men of pleasure, usually lack the power of describing their manifold experiences. They lose themselves in the passing moment, so that when the moment has passed it is lost forever, whereas the artist knows how to perpetuate the most trifling experience. Thus do the ends gape, instead of rounding the full circle; one lacks the wine, while the other lacks the goblet. Insoluble paradox: men of action and men of pleasure have more experience to report than any creative artist, but they cannot tell their story; the poets, on the other hand, must fable, for they have seldom had experiences worth reporting. Imaginative writers rarely have a biography, and men who have biographies are only in exceptional instances able to write them.
Casanova is a splendid, almost unique exception. In him at length we find a man afire with the love of pleasure, a man who plucks at the fleeting hour, grasps at the skirts of happy chance, and is dowered by fate with the most extraordinary adventures; a man with an amazingly good memory, and one whose character knows nothing of inhibitions. This man tells us the tremendous story of his life, tells it without any moral restraints, without poetic adornments, without philosophic embroidery; he gives us a plain, matter-of-fact account of his life as it actually was, passionate, hazardous, rascally, reckless, amusing, vulgar, unseemly, impudent, lascivious, but always tense and unexpected. He is moved to tell his story; not by literary ambition, not by boastfulness or penitence, or an exhibitionist urge towards confession; but by a straightforward desire to tell it. He tells it, therefore, simply and easily; as a veteran in a tavern, pipe in mouth, talks his best when he relates a few crisp and perhaps rather salacious adventures to unprejudiced auditors. Here the narrator is not a fabulist, an inventor, but the master of poesy, of life itself, life whose world is richer than any world of fancy. All that Casanova need do is satisfy the most modest of the demands made upon the artist; he must render the almost incredible, credible. To this task he is fully equal, despite the language of the memoirs, a somewhat awkward French.
(I have no love either for footnotes or for controversy. I am impelled, however, to point out here that we still lack the original text of Casanova’s memoirs, in default of which we have no right to pass a final judgment upon his capacity as a prose writer. The text we know is only a bowdlerized version made by a French teacher of languages a century ago to the order of F. A. Brockhaus, the owner of the original manuscript. It is surely natural to expect that scientific students, at least, would at long last be allowed to see Casanova’s actual text; and it need hardly be said that scholars of all lands, members of various academies, have urgently besought this favor. But against the Brockhauses, even the gods fight in vain. The owner of the manuscript, an obdurate autocrat, keeps the precious document locked up in the firm’s safe, and, thanks to this arbitrary determination of an individual, one of the most interesting works in the literature of the whole world can only be read and appraised in a grossly distorted form. Hitherto, the firm of Brockhaus has not even vouchsafed any adequate reason for this obstinate refusal).
Not even in a dream, however, did this tremulous, gouty, and discontented old fellow, who passed the evening of his days in his sinecure occupation of librarian, ever think that in times to come these memoirs of his would be regarded by men of letters and historians as the most valuable record of eighteenth-century life. What would he have thought if Feltkirchner, the steward at Dux, had prophesied that a hundred and twenty years later there would be founded in Paris a Casanova Society, simply in order to scrutinize every fragment of the adventurer’s handwriting, to check every date, and to discover if possible the names of the ladies represented in the book by blanks. Paris was forbidden ground; Feltkirchner, his housemate, was his enemy; and the good Giacomo, vain though he was, would have regarded such a prophecy as an ill-natured jest.
In truth we can congratulate ourselves that, despite his vanity, Casanova had no inkling that he was destined to become famous, and therefore was never inclined to pull out the moral, the pathetical, or the psychological stop — for only one who is free from purposes of this order can preserve the heedless and therefore elemental straightforwardness characteristic of the memoirs. The old gamester sits down to his writing table at Dux with his usual composure, and the writing of his book is his last win at the gaming table. But he never learns that he is a winner, for he departs this life before the cards are turned. Yet he has won immortality, nonetheless. Nothing will ever dislodge him from his place among the immortals, this sometime librarian at Dux, from his place beside his adversary Monsieur de Voltaire and other famous authors. We have not yet finished writing the story of his life, and its inexhaustible treasures are continually attracting fresh literary craftsmen to pen works of fancy about him. Unquestionably he has been a winner in the game of life, this “commediante in fortuna,” this man who was ever ready to try his luck; and no protests of posterity will deprive him of his gains. Some may despise him for his immorality, others may convict him of errors of historical fact, and yet others may disavow him as an artist. But there is one thing that no objector can do — make an end of him! For since he lived his life and wrote his story, no romancer and no thinker has invented a more romantic tale than that of his life, or fabled a stranger personality than Casanova’s.
LIKENESS OF CASANOVA IN YOUTH
Do you know that you are an exceedingly handsome man?
SAID BY FREDERICK THE GREAT TO CASANOVA, WALKING IN THE PARK AT SANS-SOUCI (1764)
In the theater of a petty capital, the singer has just finished her aria with a fine coloratura passage; there has been a thunder of applause; but now, during the recitative, the attention of the audience has wandered. The fops are paying visits to the boxes; the ladies are eyeing people through their lorgnons, and are daintily eating jelly or sipping orange-tinted sherbet, paying scant attention to the antics of Harlequin and Columbine on the stage. Suddenly all eyes are turned inquisitively towards a stranger who, with the easy air of a man of distinction, makes a late entry into the auditorium. Of herculean figure, he is attired as a man of wealth. An upper garment of ash-tinted velvet falls in rich folds over an embroidered brocade waistcoat and costly lace; the darker lines of his vesture are relieved by the gleam of gold lace, which extends from the clasp at his neck on either side of his shirt-frill down to the top of his silk stockings. In his right hand, negligently held, is a white-plumed hat. An aroma of the latest fashionable scent radiates from the unknown, as he leans in an elegant posture against the balustrade, his left hand, gleaming with rings, resting on the jeweled hilt of his sword. As if unaware that he is the cynosure of all eyes, he lifts his golden lorgnon, and with feigned indifference scans the boxes. There is a rustle of whispered inquiries. Who is it? A prince? A rich foreigner? The whisperers draw one another’s attention to the diamond-spangled order which hangs from the scarlet ribbon that crosses his breast, the order he has disguised with so many brilliants that no one recognizes it for one of the papal spurred crosses which are as common as blackberries. The singers on the stage are quick to note the distraction of the audience, and their efforts are relaxed. The ballet dancers, peeping from the wings across the violins and the cellos, wonder whether this stranger is a person whose acquaintance is worth making.
Before anyone has been able to solve the riddle of the newcomer’s identity, or to learn whence he has come, the ladies in the boxes have been quick to note how handsome he is, how fine a figure of a man. He is tall and broad-shouldered, his hands are strong and sinewy, his frame is tense as steel without a line of softness in it. He stands lightly poised, his head a little lowered, like that of a bull before the charge. Seen in profile, his face recalls those seen on Roman coins, so finely chiseled is it in every line. The forehead is splendidly arched beneath the chestnut hair; the nose is aquiline, the chin powerful, and beneath the chin is a big Adam’s apple (which women regard as a sure sign of virility). His features, one and all, give unmistakable proof of dash, resolution, a conque
ror’s gifts. Only the lips are soft, being red and sensual, gently curved, while peeping from between them, like the flesh of a pomegranate, gleam the white teeth. As the handsome stranger scans the audience, though he does it in leisurely fashion, we note a certain impatience in the eyes that flash from beneath the arched bushy brows. He has a hunter’s glance, the expression of one surveying a quarry, of one who is ready to pounce upon his prey. As yet, however, he is not fully aflame, while his eyes roam along the boxes, and while, paying scant heed to the men, he samples (as a merchant samples wares) the women whose bare necks and shoulders are visible in the shadowy nests. He looks at them one after another, fastidiously, with the eye of a connoisseur, knowing that they are contemplating him in return. As he does so, his sensual lips part a little more widely, and a smile begins to form, a smile that almost reminds us of the snarl of a beast ready to bite. As yet this smile is not directed towards any one woman in particular; it is for them all, for women in general, the essential woman whose warm nudities are hidden under the clothes. Now, in one of the boxes, he recognizes an acquaintance. Instantly his gaze is arrested, his eyes, which a moment before were impudently questioning, show a velvety glitter; he draws his left hand away from his sword hilt, while in his right he grips his heavy plumed hat more firmly; and he moves to greet his lady friend, a word of recognition on his lips. Gracefully he bends to kiss her proffered fingers, and speak to her courteously. For her part, the lady is confused, his caressive tone disturbs her, but she manages to control herself and introduces the stranger to her companions saying: “Le Chevalier de Seingalt.”
There are the usual polite amenities. The guest is invited to a place in the box. A conversation ensues. By degrees Casanova raises his voice a little, till it dominates the others. Like a trained actor, he articulates clearly, and tends more and more to speak to a wider audience than that of the box he has entered. He wants all those nearby to hear what excellent French and Italian he speaks, and how cleverly he can quote Horace. As if by chance, he has let one of his hands fall upon the breastwork of the box in such a way as to display the lace ruffle on his sleeve, and to show the sparkle of the great solitaire on his finger. Then, taking from his pocket a diamond-studded snuffbox he offers the gentlemen some Mexican snuff, saying: “My friend the Spanish ambassador sent it to me yesterday by special courier.” When one of the gentlemen admires the miniature painted on the snuffbox, he says indifferently, but loud enough to be heard through the auditorium: “A present from my friend and gracious lord the Elector of Cologne.” Though he seems to say these things quite casually, the braggart is all the while eyeing those to right and left of him with the questing gaze of a bird of prey, that he may judge the effect of his words.
He sees that he is the center of all eyes; he feels that the women are eager to know more about him; and he grows bolder. With an adroit turn of the conversation, he is able to make it lap over into the adjoining box, where the prince’s inamorata is listening well-pleased (he is sure of it) to his admirable Parisian French. Preening himself before this handsome woman, he utters a gallantry, which she smilingly answers. Now his acquaintance has no choice but to introduce the Chevalier to this exalted dame. He has gained his end. Next day at noon he will dine in distinguished company; tomorrow evening, in one of the palaces of the nobility, he will propose a little game of faro, and will plunder his host; tomorrow night he will sleep with one of these pretty women, whose nudity he has already relished in his mind. He will succeed in doing all these things thanks to his bold, self-confident, and energetic entry, his conqueror’s will, and the virile beauty of his dark-skinned face. To these he owes everything: the smiles of women, the solitaire on his finger, the diamond watch chain and the gold lace, credit at the bank, the friendship of men of title, and, best of all, freedom to roam at will through an infinitely varied life.
Meanwhile the prima donna has begun a new aria. Bowing profoundly, acknowledging urgent invitations from gentlemen charmed by his conversation, and graciously invited to her levee by the prince’s inamorata, Casanova takes his leave and returns to his place. There he sits down, his left hand again poised on the hilt of his sword, while he leans forward to listen to the song. Behind him runs a whisper from box to box, a buzz of questions, which are all answered: “The Chevalier de Seingalt.” Nothing more is known of him. No one can say whence he has come, or why, or whither he is going. But the name ripples through the eager hall, and at length makes its way across the footlights to the stage, where the singers have been no less curious as to his identity. On hearing it, a little Venetian dancer laughs contemptuously, and exclaims: “Chevalier de Seingalt? The swindler! He is Casanova, the son of La Buranella; he is the abbot who seduced my sister five years ago; old Bragadin’s court jester; the braggart, the rascal, the adventurer.” Nevertheless, this cheerful young lady does not seem to take his misdeeds altogether unkindly, for she nods to him from the wings, and kisses her hand to him coquettishly. Catching sight of this, he remembers who she is, and is quite unperturbed. He is sure that she will not try to put a spoke in his wheel, will not interfere with his plucking of the distinguished geese. No doubt she will be ready enough to sleep with him tonight!
THE ADVENTURERS
Does she know that your whole fortune is the stupidity of your fellow men?
CASANOVA TO CROCE, THE CARDSHARP
From the close of the Seven Years’ War down to the outbreak of the French Revolution, calm prevailed throughout Europe for a quarter of a century. The great dynasties of Habsburg, Bourbon, and Hohenzollern had fought till they were tired. The burghers sat at home smoking their pipes in comfort; the soldiers powdered their pigtails and polished the muskets for which they no longer had any use; the countries, so long tormented, could at length enjoy a quiet doze. But the rulers found life tedious without any wars. They were bored to death, all the German and Italian and other petty princes, in their diminutive capitals; and they looked around eagerly in search of amusement. Infinitely tedious did they find it, these little grandees, these electors and dukes, in their newly-built and damp rococo palaces. It was dull for them there, despite all their pleasure gardens and fountains and orangeries, despite their dungeons and galleries and game parks and treasure chambers.
With the aid of money extorted from their subjects, and with manners learned from Parisian dancing masters, they ape Trianon and Versailles, each one of them fancying himself cast for the part of le roi soleil. Ennui even leads them to become patrons of the arts, to affect literary tastes, so that they correspond with Voltaire and Diderot; collect china, coins, old masters; have French comedies and Italian operas staged at their court theaters, showering their favors on foreign artists — for only one of them, the ruler in Weimar, has had the good sense to invite to his court a few Germans, Schiller, Goethe, and Herder by name. Their only other amusements are boar hunts and water pageants. As always when people of the fashionable world find life tedious, theatricals and dancing assume peculiar importance. That is why these princes outbid one another, that is why they set diplomacy at work, in order to secure the most lively entertainers, the best dancers, instrumentalists, castrati, philosophers, alchemists, and organists. Gluck and Händel, Metastasio and Hasse, are lured from one court to another, turn by turn with cabalists and cocottes, firework artists and huntsmen, illuminators and ballet masters. Each one of these petty princes wants his palace to be distinguished by the presence of the newest, the most splendid, the most fashionable among the famous, being moved rather by the desire to outdo his brother prince at the court twenty miles away than by any reasonable motive. At one court after another they have secured efficient masters of ceremonies, have built fine theaters and opera houses, and have graced these with successful performances; only one thing more is needed to relieve the monotony of life, and to make the eternal round of social intercourse among fifty or sixty titled families assume the aspect of really distinguished society — notable visitors, interesting guests, cosmopolitan strangers, a few ra
isins for the dough of provincial boredom, a breath from the great world to clear the stuffy atmosphere of a capital containing no more than thirty streets.
They hear of a court, and in a trice they flock thither, the adventurers, in hundreds of masks and disguises. No one can tell you whence they come. They arrive in traveling carriages, or maybe in coaches of the best English pattern, to rent the finest front rooms in the most expensive inns. They wear brilliant uniforms, said to be those of some Indian or Mongolian army; and they bear pompous names, false as the jewels they flaunt on their shoe buckles. They speak all languages; claim to be the familiar friends of rulers and other people of importance; have served in every army of note; and have studied at all the universities. Their pockets bulge with memoranda of schemes; their mouths are full of promises; they plan lotteries, new taxes, alliances, factories; they offer women and orders and castrati. Although they have not as much as half a dozen gold pieces in their purses, they whisper in every ear that they know the secret of the philosopher’s stone. They devise a new trick for each court. In one they let it be given out that they are freemasons and Rosicrucians; in another, where the ruler has a lust for money, they claim to be extraordinarily well versed in the law of transmutation and in the writings of Theophrastus. To a prince whose chief interest is in the fair sex, they offer their services as pimps; to one who has warlike ambitions, they present themselves as spies; to a ruler with a taste for literature and the arts, they introduce themselves as philosophers and poetasters. They snare the superstitious with horoscopes; the credulous with schemes for enrichment; the gamblers with false cards; and the unsuspicious with a veneer of good breeding. But whatever the role they choose, they are careful to invest it with an aroma of mystery which will make it more interesting than ever. Like will o’ the wisps, flaring suddenly and leading the unwary into danger, they flourish in the stagnant and marshy air of the courts.
