Sorry, there's no sex in "I Piombi," Casanova's great escape story, translated and available right here on this website. It is, after all, the story of a year and a half in jail, under the giant rafters and lead roof of the attic of the Doge's Palace in Venice.
But I wouldn't want to disappoint the reader too greatly and there is, bien sur, sex aplenty in the HISTOIRE DE JACQUES CASANOVA DE SEINGALT, VENITIEN, ÉCRITE PAR LUI-MEME À DUX, EN BOHÉME, hereinafter referred to as the MÉMOIRES.
The original manuscript is said to be approximately 3700 pages long and documents love affairs with 137 women according to someone who counted.
But Casanova wasn't counting; he wasn't notching his gun. He was relishing his life twice: once in real-time and once again in memory.
Most of his erotic adventures would probably be rated "R" rather than "X" by today's community standards. Certainly, there's little new and nothing shocking.
What Casanova provides as no one else could is a courtly grace in his style, a bold honesty in his telling, and a sense of humor, especially about himself, that's as close to wisdom as anyone I've ever read has come.
His love-life, like most I venture to guess, begins imperfectly. Seventeen years old and still a virgin, he falls head over heels for a beautiful orphan living with her two sisters and her Aunt.
Here is the story of that first "grande passion." The game of "colin-maillard" or blindman's buff (not bluff - look it up, surprised me too) is illustrated with an enhanced version of a drawing from a 19th Century edition of the Mémoires by Jules A. Chauvet and included on this website for the carnal delight of mature visitors only.
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Casanova relates how he devotes hour after hour and finally an entire night to the seduction of a certain Angélique, and gets nowhere.
She is immune to his efforts in part because she hasn't the slightest interest in Casanova's favorite poet Ariosto, whom he quotes at length, irritating her enormously.
He gets impatient:
"Vous prétendez donc que je me tienne ici comme ça jusqu'à l'aube?"
(You're proposing I sit here like this till dawn?)
"Go lie on the bed, then. Take a nap," she suggests.
"You amaze me," Casanova replies, "that you would find it possible…" for me to take a nap "avec mon feu" - on fire.
He proposes a game of blindman's buff with Angelique and her two sisters, Nanette and Marton and the majority agree to it but Casanova is frustrated again. Angelique is unobtainable. Her sisters, by contrast, are easy to find by palpation. They even blurt out their identities right away:
"Je me saisis de quelqu'un; mais c'est toujours Nanette ou Marton, qui par effet d'amour-propre se nomment dans l'instant."
(I grab someone but it's always Nanette or Marton, who - out of vanity - instantly give their names.)
Casanova resumes his entreaties marveling at his own energy:
"L'amour est grand poète; sa matiere est inépuisable"
(Love is a great poet; its material is inexhaustible. )
"J'ai employé les prières, puis les larmes. Mais quand je les ai reconnues pour inutiles, la sensation qui s'empara de moi fut la juste indignation qui annoblit la colère."
(I used prayers, then tears. But when I recognized their futility, the sensation which swept me away was of that righteous indignation which ennobles anger.)
He could have beaten the "fièr monstre" (proud monster) but restrains himself. He informs her that all his love has turned to hatred; he hurls the most fanciful curses at her and warns her that she'd better stay hidden because he'll kill her if he sees her.
As dawn breaks and the Aunt, Madame d'Orio, threatens to show up, Casanova is appalled to discover Angélique's beautiful cheeks stained by tears. Her two sisters have been crying as well.
"Étranglé" - strangled - with emotion, ashamed that his "brutality" was the cause of such sorrow to "ces trois belles âmes" (these three beautiful souls), Casanova is ready to kill himself. Instead, he bursts into tears and all four have a good long cry before he goes home to bed. There will be other opportunities.
