The Duel by Giacomo Casanova

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THE DUEL

TR A N S L AT E D BY J A M E S M A R C U S

MELVILLEHOUSE BROOKLYN, NEW YORK


T H E D U E L B Y G I A C O M O C A S A N O VA O R I G I N A L LY P U B L I S H E D I N I T A L I A N A S I L D U E L LO I N O P U S C O L I M I S C E L L A N E I , V E N I C E , 178 0 © 2 011 M E LV I L L E H O U S E P U B L I S H I N G T R A N S L A T I O N © 2 011 B Y J A M E S M A R C U S F I R S T M E LV I L L E H O U S E P R I N T I N G : F E B R U A R Y 2 011 M E LV I L L E H O U S E P U B L I S H I N G 14 5 P LY M O U T H S T R E E T B R O O K LY N , N Y 112 01 W W W. M H P B O O K S . C O M I S B N : 978 -1- 9 35 5 5 4 - 4 9 -3 BO OK DE SIGN : C H RIS TOP H E R K ING, B A S E D ON A S E R I E S D E S I G N B Y D AV I D K O N O P K A P RIN T E D IN T H E U NI T E D S TAT E S OF A M E RI C A 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 L I B R A R Y O F C O N G R E S S C A T A L O G I N G - I N - P U B L I C A T I O N D A T A C A S A N O VA , G I A C O M O , 172 5 -179 8 . [DUELLO. ENGLISH] THE DUEL, OR, AN INCIDENT FROM THE LIFE OF G.C., A VENETIAN / G I A C O M O C A S A N O VA ; T R A N S L A T E D B Y J A M E S M A R C U S . P. C M . INCLUDES BIBLIOGRAPHIC AL REFERENCES AND INDEX. I S B N 978 -1- 9 35 5 5 4 - 4 9 -3 ( A L K . P A P E R ) 1 . C A S A N O VA , G I A C O M O , 172 5 -179 8 . 2 . D U E L I N G - - P O L A N D - - W A R S A W. 3 . WA R S AW ( P OL A N D ) - -S O CI A L LIFE A N D C US TOMS . I. M A R C US , JAMES. II. TITLE. D 2 8 5 . 8 . C 313 2 011 9 4 3 . 8 ’ 41- - D C 23 2 0110 213 37


THE DUEL A N E PIS ODE F ROM T H E LIFE OF G. C. , A VENE TIAN


Keep your passions in check, for when they do not obey you, they control you. Rein them in, keep them in chains. — H O R A C E , E P I S T L E S 1 , 2 , 62 – 63


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A man born in Venice to a poor family, with neither riches nor a title of any kind (which is what distinguishes families of note in the city from the ordinary people), but educated in a manner beyond his means, had the misfortune at the age of twenty-seven to incur the wrath of the city’s rulers. And at the age of twenty-eight, he was lucky enough to escape from the sacred hand of the law, whose punishments he would not willingly suffer. It is a fortunate criminal who can endure the sentence he has earned, waiting for it to be over with resigned patience. Less fortunate is the other kind, who lacks the courage to pay for his crimes and wipe clean the slate by submitting to his sentence. The Venetian in question was the latter type. He fled, even as he recognize that by fleeing, he was risking his life, the very point of which was unclear to him without liberty. Perhaps he didn’t really think it through, but merely heeded the voice of nature, as do the lowest animals. If the ruling party, from whose discipline he had fled,


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had wished to arrest him in flight, they certainly could have done so. But they didn’t bother—and in this way, they allowed the imprudent youth to discover that the charms of freedom often expose a man to much greater cruelties than a short stretch in jail. And a prisoner who escapes never arouses feelings of wrath (except in his own mind). What he arouses is pity, since by fleeing, he blindly multiplies his own misdeeds, he renounces the possibility of reestablishing himself in his homeland, and he remains guilty, just as he was before he began atoning for his crime. The Venetian left the country via the longest possible route, because he knew the shortest route is also the most fatal for a man on the run. He first went to Munich, where he stayed for a month to restore his health and supply himself with money and a respectable crew of servants. Then, passing through Swabia, Alsace, Lorraine, and Champagne, he reached Versailles on January 5, 1757, a half hour before the fanatical Robert Damiens stabbed King Louis XV. By necessity, this man had become an adventurer—as does anybody who goes out into the world without riches and in disgrace back home. In Paris, he tasted the extraordinary favors of fortune, and abused them. He moved on to Holland, where he conducted some shrewd bits of business that yielded handsome sums, which he spent. Then he went to England, where a dangerous passion nearly caused him to lose his mind and his life. He left England in 1764, and by way of French Flanders he entered the Austrian Low Countries, crossed the Rhine,


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and reached Westphalia. There he inspected the lands of Hanover and Brunswick, and traveled from Magdeburg to the capital city of Berlin. During the two months the Venetian spent there, he met twice with King Frederick the Great, thanks to His Majesty’s willingness to grant audiences to foreigners who made their requests in writing. Yet he understood that serving this king gave him no hopes of a great fortune. To that end he departed with a manservant and a mathematically inclined Frenchman, whom he employed as a secretary. (Since he intended to seek his fortune in Russia, a man with mathematical talents was a necessity.) He paused for a few days in Danzig, then for a few more in Königsberg, the capital of ducal Russia, and skirting the Baltic coast, he arrived in Mitau, capital of the Duchy of Courland in Latvia. There he spent a month being feted by the illustrious Duke Ernst Johann Biron, at whose expense he toured all the iron mines in the territory. Having suggested this inspection tour to the sovereign, and having demonstrated how to make vast improvements to the facilities, he was generously compensated. Departing Courland, he stopped for a short while in Livonia, visited Karelia and Estonia and the rest of the nearby provinces, and traveled through Ingria to St. Petersburg, where he might have found that fortune he desired, if only he had gone there by invitation. Those who visit Russia out of simple curiosity should not aspire to make a fortune there. “What has he come here for?” is the phrase that is endlessly pronounced and


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repeated. The only way to assure a job and a fat salary is to present oneself beforehand to the Russian ambassadors at various European courts. If these worthies are persuaded of a person’s merits, they will speak up on his behalf to the Empress, who will send for the individual and pay for his journey. At this point the supplicant is assured of a fortune, since nobody wants to throw away the travel expenses on a person of meager talents: this would suggest that the minister who spoke up on his behalf had been hoodwinked, and this is not acceptable, since ministers are supposed to be shrewd judges of their fellow men. The worst possible job candidate is a decent man who has traveled to Russia at his own expense. I offer this advice to those readers who are considering the idea of voyaging there without a prior summons, hoping to become rich in the imperial service. Our Venetian did not waste his time completely in Russia. It was his habit always to find employment of some kind or other. Still, he made no fortune. So at the beginning of the new year, outfitting himself as usual—with letters of recommendation, if not letters of exchange—he set out for Warsaw. He left St. Petersburg in a coach drawn by six post horses, and with two servants, but with little cash. By the time he encountered Maestro Galuppi (a musician who was traveling to Russia at the Czarina’s request) in an Ingrian forest, his purse was nearly empty. Nonetheless, he happily journeyed the nine hundred miles to the Polish capital. In such countries, those who have the air of not needing money have little difficulty finding it. And it’s not hard to cultivate this air—in contrast to Italy,


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where a purse is presumed empty until somebody actually opens it. Italiam, Italiam, as Virgil writes: O, Italy! In Warsaw, the Venetian got a warm welcome. Prince Adam Czartoryski, to whom he presented a persuasive letter of recommendation, introduced him to his father (the Palatine Prince of Russia), to his uncle (the Chancellor of Lithuania and a brilliant jurist), and to all the other notables who happened to be at Court. The Venetian used only the name derived from his humble birth. And his station could not have taken the Poles by surprise, because a great many of them had seen him fourteen years earlier in Dresden, where he and his pen had served King August III, in the company of his mother, brothers, brothersin-law, and nephews. Still, hack journalists are a patient breed. They also deserve at least a particle of our commiseration, since their lying articles, especially when they are malicious, make their own journals more popular than the factual ones. The only foreign object decorating the Venetian’s muscular figure was a battered Papal Order of the Golden Spur, which hung from a brilliant scarlet ribbon he wore around his neck en sautoir—that is, the same way that a bishop wears a cross. The Order had been a gift from Pope Clement XIII in 1760, when the Venetian had been lucky enough to kiss the sacred foot in Rome. Such a glittering medal is very useful to a man on the road, who may visit a different city almost every month. It is an ornament, a substantial decoration that elicits the respect of fools. And since the world is full of fools, all of them inclined to nastiness, and since there’s nothing like a medal to whip


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them into line and leave them confused, ecstatic, and humbled, you might as well show it off. (The Venetian finally stopped wearing the order in 1770, in Pisa, where, finding himself in need of cash, he sold his cross, which was adorned with diamonds and rubies. By then he had long since become disgusted with it, having seen similar decorations worn by various charlatans.) Eight days after arriving in Warsaw, he had the honor of dining at the home of Prince Adam Czartoryski with that monarch who was the talk of Europe, and whom he ardently longed to meet. At the round table, where eight people were seated, everyone ate a great deal or very little—aside from King Stanislaus Poniatowski and the Venetian. They were busy talking about Russia, which the monarch knew very well, and Italy, about which he was extremely curious, never having seen it. Despite this fact, many people in Rome, Naples, and Florence have insisted that he visited their homes. And I have let them make these claims, which they appeared to believe, because one runs a mighty risk in this world if one chooses to disillusion the self-deceived. After that supper, the Venetian spent the rest of that year and part of the next one cultivating His Majesty, along with his princes and wealthy prelates. He became a regular guest at all the brilliant parties that were thrown at Court and at the homes of wealthy lords. He was especially welcome at the home of the Family (as the House of Czartoryski was called), where a true magnificence reigned, far superior to that of the Court. At that time there arrived in Warsaw a Venetian


* Branicki’s title, which can also be translated as Grand Butler to the Crown, should not be taken literally. He neither waited at table nor kept track of kitchen supplies—the title of Podstoli was honorary, and signified his lofty place in the royal household. (Tr.)

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ballerina, Anna Binetti. With her graces and her charms, she captivated many souls, including that of Count Xavier Branicki, Master of the King’s Pantry.* This gentleman, who is now a great general, was then in his prime. He was a handsome man, who had been drawn to the soldier’s trade ever since his adolescence and had served France for six years. There he had learned to spill the blood of his enemies without hating them, to avenge himself without rancor, to kill with all the niceties, and to prefer honor— which is an imaginary thing—to life, which is the sole actual thing that men possess. It was King August III who had appointed him to the Equestrian Order of Grand Podstoli. He had also received the Order of the White Eagle, and at the time, Branicki had just returned from the Court in Berlin, to which he had been sent on a certain secret mission that was known to all. He was the king’s favorite, and to him he owed his good fortune, having been showered with favors. It’s also true that he had earned this preferential treatment with his wartime valor, and with his loyal companionship during an earlier period, several years before August became king, when both men were posted to the Court at St. Petersburg. It was during that time that the future monarch came to admire the spirit, the eminent qualities, and the physical charms of the Grand Duchess of Moscow, now the most glorious Empress.


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Branicki truly deserved the affection of his monarch (and his friend). When they were still more or less equals, he already treated him with the sort of respect he would muster after August attained the throne. He promptly and almost blindly executed his superior’s orders on every occasion, and with no less fervor when they involved him risking his own life. He was a fearless man who fought and antagonized the entire Polish nation, starting with that considerable cohort that took to arms when the Diet awarded the crown to Stanislaus in 1764. Branicki adored the new king no less than the old one. Binetti had no need for Branicki’s protection, given that everybody loved her and that she enjoyed other, more distinguished patrons. Still, the favor of the intrepid Podstoli, a determined and rather distant gentleman, was certainly a plus. And perhaps it restrained those members of the various theatrical factions who regarded the truly virtuous with distaste. The Venetian was a friend of Binetti’s. Yet his enthusiasm and applause did nothing to hinder his friendship with another prima ballerina, Teresa Casacci, whom he had gotten to know before the new arrival appeared in Warsaw. This dual loyalty was resented by the newcomer. She was unwilling to suffer in silence while her sole compatriot in Warsaw cheered for her rival. When a woman of the theater throws down the gauntlet, she pursues victory with such zeal that she becomes the sworn enemy of all those unwilling to help squash the competition. Such women have no idea how to pardon those who support both parties. And there is no favor they are


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