The Memoirs of Jacques Casanova de Seingalt, 1725-1798. Volume 06: Paris — Inside the Classic

The Pantomime of Emotion

Casanova frames his emotional reversals through theatrical language. When Henriette invites him to Parma, he describes the change as "as sudden as a transformation in a pantomime," moving from tragic to gentle mood. This is not mere embellishment; it reflects a structural habit in the memoirs. Scenes of high drama—arguments, reconciliations, departures—are staged with clear entrances and exits. The captain's decision to travel separately is presented as a practical arrangement that also preserves the couple's privacy, but Casanova notes it was "doubtless as agreeable" to them, acknowledging the theatrical necessity of removing a witness. The reader is repeatedly shown how emotion is performed and managed, with Casanova falling at Henriette's knees, kissing them "with raptures of gratitude," only to rise and order the carriage. These gestures are both sincere and calculated, part of a repertoire he deploys across different settings.

The Servant Without a Past

When Casanova hires Esprit, the servant reveals he has no fixed name: "Every master I serve calls me according to his fancy." He has served over fifty masters and forgotten his original name. This exchange, brief as it is, introduces a counterpoint to Casanova's own identity construction. Where Casanova presents himself as a man of many names and titles (de Seingalt, chevalier), Esprit's namelessness is a mark of his station. The hiring process is methodical: Casanova asks for references, sets wages at thirty sous a day, and stipulates that Esprit must find his own clothes and sleep where he likes. The scene is notable for its lack of sentiment. Casanova does not moralize or pity; he simply records the transaction. Esprit, for his part, responds with practiced deference: "You do me a great honour." The exchange underscores the memoir's interest in social roles as negotiated performances, not fixed identities.

The Garden as Stage

Casanova's first visit to the Palais-Royal is a set piece of urban observation. He notes the layout—"walks lined with big trees, fountains, high houses all round"—and the commercial activities: benches serving as shops for newspapers, perfumes, tooth-picks. He sits at a small table and orders chocolate, then coffee, then orgeat, each request met with the waiter's explanations. The scene is structured by a series of encounters: a waiter who claims to have made coffee "yesterday," an abbé who corrects the news about the dauphine's delivery, a stranger who offers to guide him. Casanova's attention to detail—the silver-gilt cup, the narrow staircase hidden under foliage—gives the garden a theatrical quality. He watches others watching the meridian, each holding a watch. The garden becomes a stage where social information is exchanged, and Casanova positions himself as both participant and observer, a foreigner learning the city's codes.

Conversational Gambits and Literary Taste

In the Palais-Royal, Casanova meets a young man introduced as a learned Italian scholar. When the man speaks Italian in the style of Boccaccio, Casanova corrects him, noting that it is not the right way to speak, however perfect the ancient writer's language. This moment reveals Casanova's own literary standards: he admires French literature and insists on contemporary usage. The two become friends, exchanging addresses, and Casanova promises to visit often. The episode is typical of his method: a chance encounter leads to a display of knowledge, which in turn forges a social bond. The abbé who first accompanies him serves as a guide, naming the women they pass. Casanova does not record their names, only the act of naming. The scene shows how he builds his Paris network through small, improvised performances of taste and expertise, each conversation a step deeper into the city's social fabric.

Readers approaching this volume should attend to the rhythm of its scenes: the way Casanova moves from intimate coach conversations to public gardens, from hiring a servant to correcting a stranger's Italian. The memoir does not offer a continuous plot but a series of vignettes linked by the narrator's restless curiosity. Pay attention to the objects and gestures he records—the silver-gilt cup, the act of kissing knees, the servant who has no name—for they reveal the texture of eighteenth-century social life as much as any grand event.

Casanova's Paris feels like a series of small doorways—each chance encounter opening onto another room of the city. I found myself thinking of a very different memoir, A Belle of the Fifties Memoirs of Mrs. Clay of Alabama, covering social and political life in Washington and the South, 1853-1866. Put into narrative form by Ada — Story, Setting & Ideas, where Washington's parlors held the same quiet weight of observation, the same patient reading of faces across a crowded room.