The Memoirs of Jacques Casanova de Seingalt, 1725-1798. Complete. Giacomo Casanova
minuet, and my ear is good enough to enable me to go through a quadrille; but with the exception of that I cannot dance one step.”
“Most of the ballet girls,” said Baletti, “know no more than you do.”
“And how much must I ask from M. Lani? I do not think I can expect much.”
“Nothing. The ballet girls are not paid.”
“Then where is the advantage for me?” she said, with a sigh; “how shall I live?”
“Do not think of that. Such as you are, you will soon find ten wealthy noblemen who will dispute amongst themselves for the honour of making up for the absence of salary. You have only to make a good choice, and I am certain that it will not be long before we see you covered with diamonds.”
“Now I understand you. You suppose some great lord will keep me?”
“Precisely; and that will be much better than a pension of four hundred francs, which you would, perhaps, not obtain without making the same sacrifice.”
Very much surprised, she looked at me to ascertain whether I was serious or only jesting.
Baletti having left us, I told her it was truly the best thing she could do, unless she preferred the sad position of waiting-maid to some grand lady.
“I would not be the ‘femme de chambre’ even of the queen.”
“And ‘figurante’ at the opera?”
“Much rather.”
“You are smiling?”
“Yes, for it is enough to make me laugh. I the mistress of a rich nobleman, who will cover me with diamonds! Well, I mean to choose the oldest.”
“Quite right, my dear; only do not make him jealous.”
“I promise you to be faithful to him. But shall he find a situation for my brother? However, until I am at the opera, until I have met with my elderly lover, who will give me the means to support myself?”
“I, my dear girl, my friend Baletti, and all my friends, without other interest than the pleasure of serving you, but with the hope that you will live quietly, and that we shall contribute to your happiness. Are you satisfied?”
“Quite so; I have promised myself to be guided entirely by your advice, and I entreat you to remain always my best friend.”
We returned to Paris at night, I left Mdlle. Vesian at the hotel, and accompanied Baletti to his mother’s. At supper-time, my friend begged Silvia to speak to M. Lani in favour of our ‘protegee’, Silvia said that it was a much better plan than to solicit a miserable pension which, perhaps, would not be granted. Then we talked of a project which was then spoken of, namely to sell all the appointments of ballet girls and of chorus singers at the opera. There was even some idea of asking a high price for them, for it was argued that the higher the price the more the girls would be esteemed. Such a project, in the midst of the scandalous habits and manners of the time, had a sort of apparent wisdom; for it would have ennobled in a way a class of women who with very few exceptions seem to glory in being contemptible.
There were, at that time at the opera, several figurantes, singers and dancers, ugly rather than plain, without any talent, who, in spite of it all, lived in great comfort; for it is admitted that at the opera a girl must needs renounce all modesty or starve. But if a girl, newly arrived there, is clever enough to remain virtuous only for one month, her fortune is certainly made, because then the noblemen enjoying a reputation of wisdom and virtue are the only ones who seek to get hold of her. Those men are delighted to hear their names mentioned in connection with the newly-arrived beauty; they even go so far as to allow her a few frolics, provided she takes pride in what they give her, and provided her infidelities are not too public. Besides, it is the fashion never to go to sup with one’s mistress without giving her notice of the intended visit, and everyone must admit that it is a very wise custom.
I came back to the hotel towards eleven o’clock, and seeing that Mdlle. Vesian’s room was still open I went in. She was in bed.
“Let me get up,” she said, “for I want to speak to you.”
“Do not disturb yourself; we can talk all the same, and I think you much prettier as you are.”
“I am very glad of it.”
“What have you got to tell me?”
“Nothing, except to speak of the profession I am going to adopt. I am going to practice virtue in order to find a man who loves it only to destroy it.”
“Quite true; but almost everything is like that in this life. Man always refers everything to himself, and everyone is a tyrant in his own way. I am pleased to see you becoming a philosopher.”
“How can one become a philosopher?”
“By thinking.”
“Must one think a long while?”
“Throughout life.”
“Then it is never over?”
“Never; but one improves as much as possible, and obtains the sum of happiness which one is susceptible of enjoying.”
“And how can that happiness be felt?”
“By all the pleasure which the philosopher can procure when he is conscious of having obtained them by his own exertions, and especially by getting rid of the many prejudices which make of the majority of men a troop of grown-up children.”
“What is pleasure? What is meant by prejudices?”
“Pleasure is the actual enjoyment of our senses; it is a complete satisfaction given to all our natural and sensual appetites; and, when our worn-out senses want repose, either to have breathing time, or to recover strength, pleasure comes from the imagination, which finds enjoyment in thinking of the happiness afforded by rest. The philosopher is a person who refuses no pleasures which do not produce greater sorrows, and who knows how to create new ones.”
“And you say that it is done by getting rid of prejudices? Then tell me what prejudices are, and what must be done to get rid of them.”
“Your question, my dear girl, is not an easy one to answer, for moral philosophy does not know a more important one, or a more difficult one to decide; it is a lesson which lasts throughout life. I will tell you in a few words that we call prejudice every so-called duty for the existence of which we find no reason in nature.”
“Then nature must be the philosopher’s principal study?”
“Indeed it is; the most learned of philosophers is the one who commits the fewest errors.”
“What philosopher, in your opinion, has committed the smallest quantity of errors?”
“Socrates.”
“Yet he was in error sometimes?”
“Yes, in metaphysics.”
“Oh! never mind that, for I think he could very well manage without that study.”
“You are mistaken; morals are only the metaphysics of physics; nature is everything, and I give you leave to consider as a madman whoever tells you that he has made a new discovery in metaphysics. But if I went on, my dear, I might appear rather obscure to you. Proceed slowly, think; let your maxims be the consequence of just reasoning, and keep your happiness in view; in the end you must be happy.”
“I prefer the lesson you have just taught me to the one which M. Baletti will give me to-morrow; for I have an idea that it will weary me, and now I am much interested.”
“How do you know that you are interested?”
“Because I wish you not to leave me.”
“Truly, my dear Vesian, never has a philosopher described sympathy better than you have just done. How happy I feel! How is it that I wish to prove it by kissing you?”
“No doubt because, to be happy, the soul must agree with the senses.”
“Indeed, my divine Vesian? Your intelligence