Fortune, which had taken pleasure in giving me a specimen of its despotic caprice, had insured my happiness through means which sages would disavow.
Yet it had not the power to make me adopt a system of moderation and prudence which alone could establish my future welfare on a firm basis.
My new position demanded reserve.
I had none.
My nature was too ardent, my love of pleasure too strong, my independence unconquerable.
I began to lead a life of complete freedom, caring for nothing but what ministered to my tastes, and I thought that, as long as I respected the laws, I could trample all prejudices under my feet.
That was my mistake.
I imagined that a man could live free and independent in Venice.
Venice, of all places.
A republic ruled by an aristocracy does not forgive independence merely because it is harmless. Even had fortune raised me to a seat in that same government, I would not have been free. The Republic, having made self-preservation its first duty, had become the slave of its own policy. Everything could be sacrificed to that idol, and when preservation was invoked, even the laws ceased to be inviolable.
But let us not linger over a truth which has now grown common. Humankind in Europe at least is satisfied that unlimited liberty is nowhere consistent with a properly-regulated state of society.
I touch the matter only to make my conduct understood.
In my own country, intoxicated by my new elevation, I began to walk a path that seemed at first paved with pleasure, confidence, and triumph. I did not yet see where it led.
At the end of that path waited a state prison, as inscrutable as it was unconstitutional.
With enough money, endowed by nature with a pleasing and commanding physical appearance, a confirmed gambler, a true spendthrift, a great talker, very far from modest, intrepid, always running after pretty women, supplanting my rivals without remorse, and calling no company good unless it served my pleasure.
It was inevitable that I should be disliked.
I knew it, and cared little. I was always ready to face danger, always ready to answer for my actions, and from that courage I drew my right to do as I pleased. Whenever an obstacle rose before me, I struck it down at once.
Such conduct could not please the three worthy men whose oracle I had become.
They saw me rush from pleasure to pleasure, squander money, court scandal, and carry their mysterious treasure, for so they considered me, into all the noisy follies of youth. Yet they did not like to complain.
Their affection for me was too tender, and perhaps their superstition too strong. A man may scold his son; he hesitates to scold his oracle.
The excellent M. de Bragadin alone ventured now and then to warn me.
"My dear son," he would say, "you are giving me a repetition of the foolish life I myself had led at your age, but you must prepare to pay the penalty of your follies, and to feel the punishment when you should reach my time of life"
I listened with respect.
And without failing in the reverence I owed him, I turned his dark prophecies into jests and continued my course of extravagance.
However, I must mention here the first proof he gave me of his true wisdom.
At the house of Madame Avogadro, a woman whose wit had not grown old with her sixty years, I made the acquaintance of a young Polish nobleman named Zawoiski.
He was waiting for money from Poland. In the meantime, the Venetian ladies took care that he lacked none. His handsome face and Polish manners had conquered them all. We soon became friends. My purse was his whenever he needed it. Twenty years later, he assisted me to a far greater extent in Munich.
Zawoiski was honest, he had only a small dose of intelligence, but it was enough for his happiness. He died in Trieste five or six years ago, ambassador of the Elector of Treves. I shall speak of him again in another part of these Memoirs.
This amiable young man, beloved by everyone and thought a free-thinker because he frequented Angelo Querini and Lunardo Venier, presented me one day, during a walk, to a countess unknown to me.
She took my fancy at once.
That evening, Zawoiski and I called on her. She introduced me to her husband, Count Rinaldi, and invited us to stay for supper.
During the evening, the count opened a faro bank. I punted with his wife as a partner and won some fifty ducats.
The next morning, full of my new acquaintance, I called on the countess alone.
The count received me and apologized for his wife, who was not yet up. Then he took me to her room.
She received me with graceful ease.
When her husband left us alone, she displayed her art of letting me hope for every favour, yet without committing herself.
When I took leave, she invited me to supper that evening.
I went.
After supper we played again. She was still my partner, and I won again. I left her house more in love than before.
Naturally, I returned the next morning.
She was out.
In the evening I called again. She excused her absence with perfect sweetness, and the faro bank began.
This time fortune changed sides.
I lost all my money, still playing with the countess as my partner.
After supper, when the other guests had gone, I remained with Zawoiski. Count Rinaldi, obliging as a host, offered us our revenge.
As I had no more money, I played upon trust, and the count threw down the cards after I had lost five hundred sequins.
I went away in great sorrow. I was bound in honour to pay the next morning, and I did not possess a groat.
Love sharpened my despair.
I saw myself on the brink of losing the esteem of a woman who had already taken possession of my imagination. The thought tormented me so visibly that M. de Bragadin noticed it the moment we met in the morning.
He looked at me kindly.
"My son, what troubles you?"
That tenderness conquered me. I knew he was my only hope, and I told him everything: the countess, the faro bank, the partnership, the loss, the five hundred sequins, and my absolute poverty.
I ended my story by saying: "As things stand, I shall not survive my disgrace."
"My dear son," he consoled me, "I promise that your debt will be cancelled in the course of the day, if you would swear never to play again upon trust."
I swore.
Then I kissed his hand and went out to walk, relieved of a crushing weight. I had no doubt that my excellent father would give me the five hundred sequins before evening. Already I enjoyed in imagination the figure I would cut before the lovely countess when I paid my debt with promptitude and dignity. My loss ceased to pain me. It even seemed useful, since it gave me an occasion to appear honorable in her eyes.
On the other hand, grateful for the great generosity of my benefactor I was fully determined on keeping my promise.
I dined with the three friends. Not one word was said of the matter. But as we rose from the table, a servant brought M. de Bragadin a letter and a parcel.
He read the letter, then said to me,
"Come with me to my study."
I followed him into his study.
The moment we were alone, he handed me the parcel.
"Here is a parcel for you."
I opened it and found about forty sequins.
Seeing my surprise, M. de Bragadin laughed merrily and handed me the letter, the contents of which ran thus:
"M. de Casanova may be sure that our playing last night was only a joke: he owes me nothing. My wife begs to send him half of the gold which he has lost in cash. "COUNT RINALDI."
I stood motionless, the letter in my hand.
I looked at M. de Bragadin, perfectly amazed, and he burst out laughing. I guessed the truth, thanked him, and embracing him tenderly I promised to be wiser for the future.
The mist before my eyes vanished at once. My love for the countess died on the spot. I saw that I had been the dupe of the wife as well as of the husband.
"This evening," said my clever physician, "you can have a gay supper with the charming countess."
"This evening, my dear, respected benefactor, I will have supper with you. You have given me a masterly lesson."
"The next time you lose money upon trust," said M. de Bragadin, "you had better not pay it."
"But I should be dishonoured."
"Never mind. The sooner you dishonour yourself, the more you will save."
I stared at him.
He smiled.
"You will always be compelled to accept your dishonour whenever you find yourself utterly unable to pay your losses. It is therefore more prudent not to wait until then."
"It is much better still," I said, "to avoid that fatal impossibility by never playing otherwise than with money in hand."
"No doubt of it, for then you will save both your honour and your purse. But, as you are fond of games of chance, I advise you never to punt. Make the bank, and the advantage must be on your side."
"A very slight advantage."
"As slight as you please, but it will be on your side, and when the game is over you will find yourself a winner and not a loser. The punter is excited, the banker is calm. The last says, 'I bet you do not guess,' while the first says, 'I bet I can guess.' Which is the fool, and which is the wise man? The question is easily answered."
"I urge you to be prudent," he continued, "but if you should punt and win, recollect that you are only an idiot if at the end you lose."
"Why an idiot? Fortune is very fickle."
"It must necessarily be so; it is a natural consequence. Leave off playing, believe me, the very moment you see luck turning, even if you should, at that moment, win but one groat."
I had read Plato, and I was astonished at finding a man who could reason like Socrates.
The next morning, Zawoiski came to me very early.
"You were expected at supper last night," he said. "Count Rinaldi praised your promptness in paying debts of honour."
I did not think it necessary to undeceive him.
Nor did I return to Count Rinaldi's house.
I saw the count again sixteen years later in Milan. As for Zawoiski, I did not tell him the story until forty years had passed, when I met him at Carlsbad, old and deaf.
Three or four months later, M. de Bragadin gave me another of his masterly lessons.
Through Zawoiski, I had become acquainted with a Frenchman named L'Abbadie. He was then soliciting the Venetian government for the post of inspector of the armies of the Republic. The senate had to appoint him, and I presented him to my protector.
de Bragadin received him well and promised him his vote, but an incident soon prevented him from keeping his promise.
I needed one hundred sequins to discharge a few debts, and, as usual, went to my adopted father.
"My dear father," I said, "I must ask you for one hundred sequins."
He looked at me quietly.
"Why, my dear son, do you not ask M. de L'Abbadie to render you that service?"
"I should not dare to do so, dear father."
"Try him; I am certain that he will be glad to lend you that sum."
"I doubt it, but I will try."