10-11-2002
AS MEMÓRIAS DE CASANOVA
(1725 - 1798)
Adorei ler as Memórias de Casanova. Nos anos 60, a Livre de Poche editou os primeiros cinco volumes, mas nunca chegou a completar a edição, que se previa ter 12. É uma escrita cheia de humor e delicadeza, mesmo quando o tema é… pornográfico. (À venda a edição de 1993 nas edições Robert Laffont, com o título Histoire de ma vie, 3 vols.) |
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Après le petit souper, assis au milieu d'elles, prenant leurs mains, et leurs baisant je leur ai demandé si elles étaient mes véritables amies, et si elles approuvaient la façon indigne dont Angéla m'avait traité. Elles me répondirent d'accord que je leur avait fait verser des larmes. Laissez donc, leur dis-je, que j'ai pour vous la tendresse d'un vrai frère, et partagez-là comme ci vous étiez mes soeurs; donnons-nous-en des gages dans l'innocence de nos coeurs; embrassons-nous,et jurons nous une fidélité éternelle. Les premiers baisers que je leur ai donnés ne sortirent ni d'un désir amoureux, ni d'un projet tendant à les séduire, et de leur côté, elles me jurèrent quelques jours après qu'elles ne me les rendirent que pour m'assurer qu'elles partageaient mes honnêtes sentiments de fraternité; mais ces baisers innocents ne tardèrent pas à devenir enflammés, et à susciter en nous trois un incendie, dont nous dûmes être fort surpris, car nous les suspendîmes nous entre-regardant après tous étonnés, et fort sérieux. Les deux soeurs bougèrent sous un prétexte, et je suis resté absorbé dans la réflexion. Ce n'est pas étonnant que le feu de ces baisers avait allumé dans mon âme, et qui serpentait dans tous mes membres m'ait rendu dans l'instant invinciblement amoureux de ces deux filles. Elles étaient toutes les deux plus jolies qu'Angéla, et Nanette par l'esprit, comme Marton par son caractère doux et naïf lui étaient infiniment supérieures: je me suis trouvé fort surpris de ne pas avoir reconnu leur mérite avant ce moment-là. Mais ces filles étaient nobles, et fort honnêtes, le hasard qui les avait mises entre mes mains ne devait pas leur devenir fatal. Je ne pouvais pas croire sans fatuité qu'elles m'aimaient; mais je pouvaient supposer que les baisers avaient fait sur elles le même effet qu'ils avaient fait sur moi. Dans cette supposition j'ai vu avec évidence qu'employant des ruses et des tournures, dont elles ne pouvaient pas connaître la force, il ne me serait pas difficile, dans le courrant de la longue nuit que je devait passer avec elles, de les faire consentir à des complaisances, dont les suites pouvaient devenir très décisives. Cette pensée me fit horreur. Je me suis imposé une loi sévère, et je n'ai pas douter de la force qu'il m'était nécessaire pour l'observer. Je les voyais reparaître portant dans leur physionomie le caractère de la sécurité et du contentement, je me suis dans l'instant même donné le même vernis bien déterminé à ne plus m'exposer au feu des baisers. Nous passâmes une heure à parler d'Angéla. Je leur ai dit que je me sentais déterminé à ne plus la voir, puisque j'étais convaincu qu'elle ne m'aimait pas. Elle vous aime, me dit la naïve Marton, et j'en suis sûre; mais si vous ne pensez pas à l'épouser, vous ferez fort bien de rompre avec elle tout à fait, car elle est décidé à ne vous accorder pas un seul baiser tant que vous ne serez pas amoureux: il faut donc la quitter, ou vous disposer à ne la trouver complaisante en rien. - Vous raisonner comme un ange; mais comment pouvez-vous être sûre qu'elle m'aime? - Très sûre. Dans l'amitié fraternelle que nous nous sommes promis, je peux sincèrement vous le dire. Quand Angéla couche avec nous, elle m'appelle, me couvrant de baisers, son cher abbé. Nanette alors, éclatant de rire, lui mais une main sur la bouche; mais cette naïveté me mit tellement en feu, que j'ai eu la plus grande des peines à conserver ma contenance. Marton dit à Nanette qu'il était impossible, ayant beaucoup d'esprit, que j'ignorasse ce que deux filles bonnes amies faisaient quand elles couchaient ensemble. - Sans doute, lui ajoutai-je, personne n'ignore ces bagatelles, et je ne crois pas, ma chère Nanette, que vous ayez trouvé dans cette confidence amicale votre soeur trop indiscrète. - A présent c'est fait; mais ce sont des choses qu'on ne dit pas. Si Angéla le savait!... - Elle serait au désespoir, je le sais bien; mais Marton m'a donné une telle marque d'amitié, que je lui serai reconnaissant jusqu'à la mort. C'en est fait. Je déteste Angéla; je ne lui parlerai plus. C'est une âme fausse; elle vise à mon précipice. - Mais elle n'a pas trot, si elle vous aime, de vous désirer pour mari. - D'accord, mais employant ce moyen, elle ne pense qu'à ses propres intérêts, et sachant ce que je souffre, elle ne peut procéder ainsi que ne l'aimant pas. En attendant par une fausse imagination monstrueuse elle soulage elle soulage ses désires brutaux sur avec cette charmant Marton qui veut bien lui servir de mari. Les éclats de rire de Nanette redoublèrent alors; mais je n'ai pas quitté mon air sérieux, ni changé de style avec Marton faisant les plus pompeux éloges à sa sincérité. Ce propos me faisait le plus grand plaisir, j'ai dit à Marton qu'Angéla à son tour devait lui servir de mari, et pour lors elle me dit en riant qu'elle n'était mari que de Nanette, et Nanette du en convenir. Mais comment nomme-t-elle son mari, lui dis-je, dans ses transports? - Personne n'en sait rien. - Vous aimez donc quelqu'un, dis-je à Nanette. - C'est vrai mais personne ne saura jamais mon secret. Je me suis alors flatté que Nanette en secret pouvait être la rivale d'Angéla. Mais avec ces jolis propos j'ai perdu l'envie de passer la nuit sans rien faire avec ces deux filles qui étaient faites pour l'amour. Je leur ai dit que j'étais bien heureux d'avoir pour elle que des sentiments d'amitié, car sans cela je me trouverai fort embarrassé à passer la nuit avec elles sans leur des marques de ma tendresse, et d'en recevoir, car, leur dis-je d'un air très froid, vous êtes l'une et l'autre jolies à ravir, et faites pour faire tourner la tête à tout homme que vous mettrez à même de vous connaître à fond. Après avoir parlé ainsi, j'ai fait semblant d'avoir envie de dormir. Ne faites pas de façon, me dit Nanette, mettez-vous au lit: nous irons dormir dans l'autre chambre sur le canapé. - Je me croirais, faisant cela, le plus lâche des hommes. Causons: l'envie de dormir me passera. Je suis seulement fâché à cause de vous. C'est vous qui désirez vous coucher; et c'est moi qui irai dans l'autre chambre. Si vous me craignez, enfermez-vous; mais vous auriez tort car je ne vous aime qu'avec les entrailles de frère. - Nous ne ferons jamais cela, me dit Nanette, laissez-vous persuader, couchez-vous ici. -Habillé, je ne peux pas dormir. - Déshabillez-vous. Nous ne vous regarderons pas. - Je ne crains pas cela: mais je ne pourrais jamais m'endormir vous voyant obligées à veiller à cause de moi. - Nous nous coucherons aussi, me dit Marton, mais sans nous déshabiller. - C'est une méfiance qui insulte ma probité. Dites-moi, Nanette, si vous me croyez honnête homme. - Oui, certainement. - Fort bien. Vous devez m'en convaincre? Vous devez vous coucher toutes les deux à mes côtés tout à fait déshabillées, et compter sur la parole d'honneur que je vous donne que je ne vous toucherai pas. Vous êtes deux, et je suis un: que pouvez-vous craindre? Ne serez vous pas les maîtresses de sortir du lit, si je cesse d'être sage? Bref, si vous ne me promettez pas de me donner cette marque de confiance du moins quand vous me verrez endormi, je n'irai pas me coucher. J'ai alors cesser de parler faisant semblant de m'endormir: et elles se parlèrent tout bas; puis Marton me dit d'aller me coucher, et qu'elles en feraient de même quand elles me verraient endormi. Nanette me le promit aussi, et pour lors je leur ai tourné le dos, et après m'être entièrement déshabillé, je me suis mis au lit, et je leur ai souhaité la bonne nuit. J'ai d'abord fait semblant de dormir, mais un quart d'heure après, je me suis endormi tout de bon. Je ne me suis réveillé que quand elles vinrent se coucher; mais je me suis d'abord tourné pour reprendre mon sommeil, et j'ai commencé à agir que quand je me suis vu le maître de les croire endormies. Si elles ne dormaient pas, il ne tenait qu'à elles d'en faire semblant. Elles m'avaient tourné le dos, et nous étions à l'obscur. J'ai commencé par celle vers laquelle j'étais tourné ne savant pas si c'était Nanette ou Marton. Je l'ai trouvée accroupie, et enveloppée dans sa chemise, mais ne brusquait rien, et n'avançant l'entreprise qu'aux pas les plus petits elle se trouva convaincue que le meilleur parti qu'elle pût prendre était celui de faire semblant de dormir, et de me laisser faire. Peu à peu je l'ai développée, peu à peu elle se déploya, et peu à peu par des mouvements suivis, et très lents, mais merveilleusement bien d'après nature, elle se mit dans une position, dont elle n'aurait pu m'en offrir une autre plus agréable que se trahissant. J'ai entamé l'ouvrage, mais pour le rendre parfait, j'avais besoin qu'elle s'y prêtât de façon à ne plus pouvoir le désavouer, et la nature enfin l'obligea à s'y déterminer. J'avais trouvé la première exempte de doute, et ne pouvant pas douter non plus de la douleur qu'on avait dû endurer j'en fus surpris. En devoir de respecter religieusement un préjugé auquel je devais une jouissance dont je goûtais la douceur pour la première fois de ma vie, j'ai laissé la victime tranquille, et je me suis tourné de l'autre côté pour agir de même avec la soeur qui devait compter sur toute ma reconnaissance. Je l'ai trouvé immobile dans la posture qu'on peut avoir quand on est couché sur le dos, dorment profondément, et sans aucune crainte. Avec les plus grands ménagements, et toute l'apparence de crainte de la réveiller j'ai commencé par flatter son âme m'assurant qu'elle était toute neuve comme sa soeur: et je n'ai différé à la traiter de même que jusqu'au moment qu'affectant un mouvement très naturel, et sans lequel il m'aurait été impossible de couronner l'oeuvre, elle m'aida à triompher; mais dans le moment de la crise, elle n'eut pas la force de poursuivre la fiction. Elle se démasqua en me serrant très étroitement entre ses bras, et collant sa bouche sur la mienne. Après le fait, je suis sûre, lui dis-je, que vous êtes Nanette. - Oui, et je m'appelle heureuse, comme ma soeur, si vous êtes honnête, et constant. - Jusqu'à la mort mes anges, tout ce que nous avons fait fut l'ouvrage de l'amour, et qu'il n'y ait plus question d'Angéla. Je l'ai alors prié de se lever pour aller allumer des bougies, et ce fut Marton qui eut cette complaisance. Quand j'ai vu Nanette entre mes bras animée par le feu de l'amour, et Marton et Marton qui tenant une bougie nous regardait, et paraissait nous accuser d'ingratitude de ce que nous ne lui disons rien, tant qu'ayant été la première a se rendre a mes caresses, elle avait encouragé sa soeur à l'imiter, j'ai senti tout mon bonheur. Levons nous, leur dis-je, pour nous jurer une amitié éternelle, et pour nous rafraîchir. Nous fîmes tous les trois dans un baquet plein d'eau une toilette de mon invention qui nous fit rire, et qui renouvela tous nos désirs; puis dans le costume de l'ange d'or nous mangeâmes le reste de la langue, et vidâmes une autre bouteille. Après nous être dit cent choses, que dans l'ivresse de nos sens il n'est permis d'interpréter qu'à l'amour, nous nous recouchâmes, et nous passâmes dans des débats toujours diversifiés tout le reste de la nuit. Ce fût Nanette qui en fit la clôture. Mme Orio étant allée à la messe j'ai dû les quitter abrégeant tous les propos. Après leur avoir juré que je ne pensais plus à Angéla, je suis allé chez moi m'ensevelir dans le sommeil jusqu'à l'heure de dîner. M. de Malipiero me trouva l’air joyeux et les yeux fatigués ; mais, discret, je lui laissai croire tout ce qu’il voulut sans lui rien dire. Le surlendemain je fis une visite à Mme Orio, et comme Angela n’y était pas, je restai à souper, et je me retirai en même temps que M. Rosa. Nanette pendant ma visite trouva le moment de me remettre une lettre et un petit paquet. Le paquet contenait un morceau de cure sur lequel était l’empreinte d’une clef, et le billet me disait de faire faire la clef et de m’en servir pour aller passer les nuits avec elles quand l’en aurais envie. Elle m’informait en outre qu’Angela avait été passer avec elles la nuit du lendemain, et que dans le habitudes où elle étaient elle avait deviné tout ce qui s’était passé ; qu’elles en étaient convenues en lui reprochant qu’elle en avait été la cause ; que là-dessus elle leur avait dit les plus fortes injures, promettant qu’elle ne remettrait plus les pieds chez elle, mais que cela leur était fort égal. Quelques jours après la fortune nous délivra d’Angela ; son père, ayant été appelé à Vicence pour une couple d’années afin d’y peindre à fresco des appartements, l’emmena avec lui. Je me trouvai par son absence tranquille possesseur de ces deux charmantes filles, avec lesquelles je passai au moins deux nuits par semaine, n’introduisant facilement chez elles au moyen de la clef, que j’avais eu soin de faire faire.
in Histoire de ma vie, volume 1 chapitre V
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After our supper, which was delicious, I sat between them, holding their hands, which I pressed to my lips, asking them whether they were truly my friends, and whether they approved of Angela's conduct towards me. They both answered that it had made them shed many tears. "Then let me," I said, "have for you the tender feelings of a brother, and share those feelings yourselves as if you were my sisters; let us exchange, in all innocence, proofs of our mutual affection, and swear to each other an eternal fidelity." The first kiss I gave them was prompted by entirely harmless motives, and they returned the kiss, as they assured me a few days afterwards only to prove to me that they reciprocated my brotherly feelings; but those innocent kisses, as we repeated them, very soon became ardent ones, and kindled a flame which certainly took us by surprise, for we stopped, as by common consent, after a short time, looking at each other very much astonished and rather serious. They both left me without affectation, and I remained alone with my thoughts. Indeed, it was natural that the burning kisses I had given and received should have sent through me the fire of passion, and that I should suddenly have fallen madly in love with the two amiable sisters. Both were handsomer than Angela, and they were superior to her-- Nanette by her charming wit, Marton by her sweet and simple nature; I could not understand how I had been so long in rendering them the justice they deserved, but they were the innocent daughters of a noble family, and the lucky chance which had thrown them in my way ought not to prove a calamity for them. I was not vain enough to suppose that they loved me, but I could well enough admit that my kisses had influenced them in the same manner that their kisses had influenced me, and, believing this to be the case, it was evident that, with a little cunning on my part, and of sly practices of which they were ignorant, I could easily, during the long night I was going to spend with them, obtain favours, the consequences of which might be very positive. The very thought made me shudder, and I firmly resolved to respect their virtue, never dreaming that circumstances might prove too strong for me. When they returned, I read upon their countenances perfect security and satisfaction, and I quickly put on the same appearance, with a full determination not to expose myself again to the danger of their kisses. For one hour we spoke of Angela, and I expressed my determination never to see her again, as I had every proof that she did not care for me. "She loves you," said the artless Marton; "I know she does, but if you do not mean to marry her, you will do well to give up all intercourse with her, for she is quite determined not to grant you even a kiss as long as you are not her acknowledged suitor. You must therefore either give up the acquaintance altogether, or make up your mind that she will refuse you everything." "You argue very well, but how do you know that she loves me?" "I am quite sure of it, and as you have promised to be our brother, I can tell you why I have that conviction. When Angela is in bed with me, she embraces me lovingly and calls me her dear abbe." The words were scarcely spoken when Nanette, laughing heartily, placed her hand on her sister's lips, but the innocent confession had such an effect upon me that I could hardly control myself. Marton told Nanette that I could not possibly be ignorant of what takes place between young girls sleeping together. "There is no doubt," I said, "that everybody knows those trifles, and I do not think, dear Nanette, that you ought to reproach your sister with indiscretion for her friendly confidence." "It cannot be helped now, but such things ought not to be mentioned. If Angela knew it!" "She would be vexed, of course; but Marton has given me a mark of her friendship which I never can forget. But it is all over; I hate Angela, and I do not mean to speak to her any more! she is false, and she wishes my ruin." "Yet, loving you, is she wrong to think of having you for her husband?" "Granted that she is not; but she thinks only of her own self, for she knows what I suffer, and her conduct would be very different if she loved me. In the mean time, thanks to her imagination, she finds the means of satisfying her senses with the charming Marton who kindly performs the part of her husband." Nanette laughed louder, but I kept very serious, and I went on talking to her sister, and praising her sincerity. I said that very likely, and to reciprocate her kindness, Angela must likewise have been her husband, but she answered, with a smile, that Angela played husband only to Nanette, and Nanette could not deny it. "But," said I, "what name did Nanette, in her rapture, give to her husband?" "Nobody knows." "Do you love anyone, Nanette?" "I do; but my secret is my own." This reserve gave me the suspicion that I had something to do with her secret, and that Nanette was the rival of Angela. Such a delightful conversation caused me to lose the wish of passing an idle night with two girls so well made for love. "It is very lucky," I exclaimed, "that I have for you only feelings of friendship; otherwise it would be very hard to pass the night without giving way to the temptation of bestowing upon you proofs of my affection, for you are both so lovely, so bewitching, that you would turn the brains of any man." As I went on talking, I pretended to be somewhat sleepy; Nanette being the first to notice it, said, "Go to bed without any ceremony, we will lie down on the sofa in the adjoining room."
"I would be a very poor-spirited fellow indeed, if I agreed to this;
let us talk; my sleepiness will soon pass off, but I am anxious about
you. Go to bed yourselves, my charming friends, and I will go into
the next room. If you are afraid of me, lock the door, but you would
do me an injustice, for I feel only a brother's yearnings towards
you." Guessing her to be Nanette, I whisper her name. "Yes, I am Nanette," she answers; "and I declare myself happy, as well as my sister, if you prove yourself true and faithful." "Until death, my beloved ones, and as everything we have done is the work of love, do not let us ever mention the name of Angela." After this, I begged that she would give us a light; but Marton, always kind and obliging, got out of bed leaving us alone. When I saw Nanette in my arms, beaming with love, and Marton near the bed, holding a candle, with her eyes reproaching us with ingratitude because we did not speak to her, who, by accepting my first caresses, had encouraged her sister to follow her example, I realized all my happiness. "Let us get up, my darlings," said I, "and swear to each other eternal affection." When we had risen we performed, all three together, ablutions which made them laugh a good deal, and which gave a new impetus to the ardour of our feelings. Sitting up in the simple costume of nature, we ate the remains of our supper, exchanging those thousand trifling words which love alone can understand, and we again retired to our bed, where we spent a most delightful night giving each other mutual and oft-repeated proofs of our passionate ardour. Nanette was the recipient of my last bounties, for Madame Orio having left the house to go to church, I had to hasten my departure, after assuring the two lovely sisters that they had effectually extinguished whatever flame might still have flickered in my heart for Angela. I went home and slept soundly until dinner-time.
M. de Malipiero passed a remark upon my cheerful looks and the dark
circles around my eyes, but I kept my own counsel, and I allowed him
to think whatever he pleased. On the following day I paid a visit to
Madame Orio, and Angela not being of the party, I remained to supper
and retired with M. Rosa. During the evening Nanette contrived to
give me a letter and a small parcel. The parcel contained a small
lump of wax with the stamp of a key, and the letter told me to have a
key made, and to use it to enter the house whenever I wished to spend
the night with them. She informed me at the same time that Angela
had slept with them the night following our adventures, and that,
thanks to their mutual and usual practices, she had guessed the real
state of things, that they had not denied it, adding that it was all
her fault, and that Angela, after abusing them most vehemently, had
sworn never again to darken their doors; but they did not care a jot.
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Pode encontrar o texto integral das Memórias aqui
The Memoirs, in english, here
25-6-2008
Casanova: philosopher, gambler, lover, priest
Frances Wilson
Frances Wilson reviews Casanova: Philosopher, Gambler, Lover, Priest by Ian Kelly
What is Casanova's biographer to do? The retired libertine did the job so well himself in his Histoire de ma vie that no one could possibly improve on his story, just as no one setting out to describe his extraordinarily restless life could have read, travelled or written more than Casanova, or thought more about the business of living than he did, or lived as bravely or as excessively.
The Histoire, which Casanova wrote at the end of his days when he was working as a librarian at Dux Castle in Bohemia, details with such wit, candour and style his peripatetic years as a priest, con-man, cabbalist, violinist, soldier, alchemist, prisoner, fugitive, gambler, intellectual, writer and lover, while inadvertently giving such a vivid picture of mid-18th-century Europe, that not only is there little for anyone to add but due to its sheer bulk - over 3,800 pages, making up 12 volumes - the beleaguered biographer must rather choose what to take away in order to make his own version a reasonable length.
Casanova has baffled and thwarted many of those writers who, while trying to describe and evaluate his experiences, have succeeded only in repeating in edited form the events as he tells them, but in Ian Kelly he has at last found his Boswell. Himself an actor, Kelly is immediately alert to the theatricality of his subject.
Born the illegitimate son of a Venetian actress in a city where it was mandatory to be masked from October to Ash Wednesday, Casanova lived a life shaped by the slipperiness of the masquerade and the playfulness of the theatre. It is as a player of parts on the great European stage that he describes himself in his Histoire.
Accordingly, Kelly shapes his biography around not chapters but dramatic acts and scenes, with refreshing intermezzi where he pauses to discourse, in true Enlightenment fashion, not only on Casanova's involvement in the Cabbala, the 'fusion of Gnosticism, Egyptian mathematics, neo-Platonism, Judaic mysticism and personal revelation' by which he was so mysteriously intrigued; but also on his means of travel (important in terms of sex-on-the-road), his love of food (equal and analogous to his love of women), and his attitude to women (most appreciated when they smelt of cheese).
To focus on the women. Between the age of 16, when he lost his virginity, and his late forties, when he lost his potency, Casanova slept with around 130 of them, which works out at an average of four a year. This may or may not seem a great deal for a man who never married or stayed in one place for too long, but Kelly argues that Casanova deserves his place in history not because of the quantity of bodies he enjoyed but because of the guilt-free quality of the enjoyment as he describes it in his memoirs. The Histoire 'posited firmly, for the first time in the Western canon, the idea that an understanding of sex - with all its irrationality and destructive potential - is key to an understanding of the self'.
Behind the masks, Casanova's 'self' emerges as a complex affair. His first sexual encounter was with a pair of sisters whom he enjoyed simultaneously; much later he would enjoy his own daughter in the same bed as her mother. While he was uncharacteristically cagey about his genuine homosexual encounters, he was particularly drawn to women who dressed as men - at one point embarking on a dizzying affair with a girl disguised as a castrato disguised as a girl.
The manner of Casanova's affairs suggest that he was busy avoiding pain as much as pursuing pleasure; he behaved, as Wordsworth would say, 'more like a man /Flying from something that he dreads, than one Who sought the thing he loved'. He would become emotionally attached and then sharply detach himself: his need to leave was as strong as his need to love. What is striking is how repetitive his affairs were, as though he were performing the same scene again and again. At one point, years after a liaison with a nun he calls by the pseudonym MM, he meets another nun and he calls her MM too.
An unexpected pleasure is the book's focus on food. Casanova loved eating; 'sex is like eating and eating is like sex', he wrote, and Kelly speculates that he may be the originator of the reputation of oysters as an aphrodisiac. He was born into the 'last great age of Venetian cooking', he liked his macaroni sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar, and during his final years, while he mouldered away in Dux Castle, 'A day did not go by', a friend observed, 'that he did not have a quarrel, over his coffee, over his milk, his plate of macaroni on which he insisted…'
Kelly's narrative loses its momentum only once, in his disappointingly flat account of Casanova's spectacular escape over the leads of the Doge's palace, where he was imprisoned for 'a question of religion'. But because this particular scene was Casanova's party piece - even his enemies admitted that he told the story brilliantly - and the crowning achievement of his life, perhaps it is best that the biographer does not steal the show.
Ian Kelly has taken on a tremendous challenge and produced a great blast of a book, packed with energy and information, marinated in sympathy and understanding, and rippling with enthusiasm right down to the final footnote.
July 6, 2008
James McConnachie
Casanova by Ian Kelly
Those two most notorious rakes and lovers, the fictional Don Giovanni and the electrifyingly historical Giacomo Casanova, are easy to confuse. With good reason: as the author of this lively new biography observes, Casanova actually had a box at the premiere of Mozart's opera, in 1787, and he may even have helped write the libretto.
Casanova recorded sexual skirmishes with some 130 women, and “a handful, as it were”, as Kelly puts it, of men. Among the women were novices and nuns, mothers, sisters and daughters (including his own), matriarchs and ingenues, aristocrats and prostitutes, women dressed as soldiers and women masquerading as operatic castrati. Among the men were a handsome young seminarian for whose sake Casanova got kicked out of the seminary, and a Turkish man of letters with whom Casanova charmingly confessed he “had to submit to his taking turnabout. It would have been impolite to refuse”.
Don Giovanni, of course, catalogued 1,003 conquests in Spain alone. But if Casanova can't compete on numbers, his life was easily as colourful as that of his fictional counterpart. His witty ripostes, his duels, his dialogues with philosophers and queens and, above all, his daring escape from prison in Venice (he peeled back the roof leads, climbed into the Doge's palace, summoned a watchman to open the gate, walked across the Piazzetta and took a gondola to freedom) were the very stuff of society gossip.
In Ian Kelly's hands, the story makes for a thrilling read - and is somewhat more manageable than the 4,000 folio pages of Casanova's original memoirs. Kelly's subtitle is Actor, Spy, Lover, Priest, but he is no more interested in religion or diplomacy than was his subject. The young Venetian saw the church as a vaulting-horse for his ambition and a passport to travel, but church and Casanova soon realised they weren't suited. As for spying, we hear only rumblings of the era's political rivalries, and Casanova's man-on-the-make role in them.
The love affairs, rather than politics, are Kelly's consuming interest. Few have loved as widely, or written about it as vividly and honestly, as Casanova. Kelly, oddly, is a little more circumspect. He recounts Casanova's first sexual experience (in bed, in 1741, with two sisters) in full, but otherwise avoids pornographic detail.
When Casanova meets Anna Maria d'Antoni Vallati in the gorgeously classical gardens of the Villa Aldobrandini, Kelly tells us how statues of “naked gods and monsters grappled with mountain streams and each other”, but doesn't indulge overmuch in the real-life grappling. “We unlaced, we unbuttoned, our hearts throbbed, our hands hurried to calm their impatience,” Kelly quotes - and that's about it. When, many years later, Casanova makes love to his own adult daughter by that same Anna Maria, the page is alive with blushing triplets of full stops.
Kelly is an actor as well as a biographer, and he plays up Casanova the self-dramatist. (He even divides his book into acts and scenes rather than chapters, with intermezzi covering key themes. It's cleverly done, but maybe labours the point.) Casanova was both an actress's son and a Venetian, a habitual masquerader from what was then the most theatrical city in Europe. He spent much of his career pursuing - or, on occasion, fleeing - actress-prostitutes across the Continent. “The thing,” he wrote, “is to dazzle.”
Kelly evokes the 18th-century demi-monde captivatingly. It is a world of condoms closed by ribbons in green or scarlet silk, oysters and Oeil de Perdrix champagne, coffee and malvasia wine, and financial and sexual bills of exchange. Kelly is less successful in getting to his subject's heart, perhaps because Casanova really was the quintessential actor. His affairs and intrigues seem to have motivations no deeper than to make himself famous, rich and, above all, beloved. Casanova's candour and wit were clearly beguiling. He was hard to resist but equally hard to fall in love with - and remains so. Kelly does rescue Casanova's previous reputation as an “erotic fantasist, con-artist and serial dissembler”, as he puts it, and cross-references other sources to prove that he really didn't make it all up. What Kelly can't do is make his hero seem any less of a chancer.
Casanova funded his louche lifestyle by gambling, living off his patrons and conquests, and by launching France's first state lottery - a speculation from which he made one of Europe's fastest fortunes. He lost it almost as quickly. Casanova also made kabbalistic predictions for credulous aristocrats, presenting himself as a Freemason-meets-sorcerer. Kelly believes this brings “an unexpected spiritual dimension to this most fleshly of men” but Casanova himself admitted how cynically he exploited his clients.
When he attempted to impregnate the wealthy and aged Marquise d'Urfe (by deflowering a virgin in her presence and ejaculating inside her three times, stimulated by a naked gyrating dancer, who happened to be his mistress), his esoteric justifications were as fake as his second and third orgasms. Even when Casanova was compassionate he had an eye out for sexual opportunity. He was asked to perform an abortion for a friend in need. To the alchemical prescription of saffron and myrrh applied to the mouth of the womb, Casanova added his own extra ingredient and method of delivery.
The sheer exuberance and excess of Casanova's life is at times overwhelming. Chapters burst with the names of salons and theatres, cities and capitals, lovers and rivals. Our hero has hardly extricated himself from one financial embarrassment when he is implicated in an erotic one. His life reads like a classic 18th-century novel. This is hardly surprising. Casanova may have lived life as an actor, but he recounted it as a true writer.
Casanova's memoirs are the swan song of the libertine 18th century. He died in June 1798, surrounded not by lovers but by books, and his own voluminous memoirs. “He did not go down shouting his disdain for morality, like Don Giovanni,” Kelly writes, “he went with a wry smile and a knowing joke as the curtain fell.”
A year earlier, Napoleon had brought an end to the long debauch of the Venetian republic and its even longer decline. The whole culture of transcontinental philandering would soon die, too, in a welter of cannon smoke and Romantic ideals. Europe was about to become what Casanova could never manage to be: serious.
The Man Who Loved Women
Toni Bentley
CASANOVA
Actor Lover Priest Spy
By Ian Kelly
Illustrated. 403 pp. Jeremy P. Tarcher/Penguin. $28.95