It‘s also one of the few times he (Casanova) mentions his own present day (when he‘s writing the memoirs as an old man), which is triggered by remembering something D‘Argnens tells him. Also commented on in the excerpts I‘m quoting: Fritz and Gustav!
The next day I asked about the Marquis d'Argens and found out that he was in the country with his brother, the President of the Parliament, Marquis d'Eguilles. I went there. The Marquis, who became more famous through the constant friendship of the late Frederick II than through his works that no one reads today, was already old at the time. The Marquis d'Argens lived with the actress Cochois, whom he had married and who knew how to show herself worthy of this honor. As his wife, she felt obliged to be her husband's first servant. The Marquis himself had a thorough knowledge of the Greek and the Hebrew language; he was gifted with a wonderful memory and consequently grafted with scholarship. He received me very well because he remembered what his friend, the Lord Marshal, had written to him about me. He introduced me to his wife and his rather wealthy brother, the President d'Eguilles and a member of parliament in Aix. The later was a friend of literature. He lived a strictly moral way of life, and that was more due to his character than his religious belief. That says a lot; for he was truly pious even though he was a smart man. He was very close to the Jesuits and was even one himself, one of those who were called the short-skinned Jesuits; he loved his brother tenderly and lamented him; but he still hoped that sooner or later the effect of grace would lead him back to the lap of the church. His brother encouraged him to hope and laughed at the same time. Neither could avoid annoying the other with words about religion. (...)
When I had fully regained my strength, I went to the Marquis d'Argens at the President d'Eguilles to say goodbye. After lunch I spent three hours with the learned old gentleman, who told me a hundred stories about the private life of the Prussian king, all of which could be published as anecdotes as soon as I had the time and the desire. He was a ruler with great qualities and big mistakes, like almost all important men; but the entirety and severity of his mistakes were less. The murdered King of Sweden found pleasure in provoking and defying hatred by following his inclinations. He was born a despot and had to be a despot in order to satisfy his passions, which were dominating him: namely, to talk about himself and be considered a great man. That is why his enemies had dedicated themselves to death to rob him of life. The king should have foreseen his end, for his acts of violence had long driven the oppressed to despair. The Marquis d'Argens gave me all of his works. I asked him if I could really boast of owning all of them and he replied: "Yes, with the exception of part of my life story, which I wrote in my youth and which I printed at that time; now I regret having it written." „Why?" "Because I had the enthusiasm of just telling the truth and thereby made myself immortally ridiculous. If you ever feel tempted, dismiss it. I can assure you that you will regret it; because as a man of honor you could only write the truth and as a truth-loving rapporteur you would not only be obliged not to keep silent, but you should not even be cowardly indulgent with the mistakes you made, and as a true philosopher you would then have to list your good deeds as well. You would be obliged to blame and praise yourself alternately... Believe me, dear friend, if a person is not allowed to speak of himself, he is much less permitted to write about himself(. ...)Listen to me, never make the mistake and write down your memoirs. " Convinced by his wise speeches, I promised him never to commit such foolishness; nevertheless, I have not been doing anything else for seven years, and it has gradually become a necessity for me to finish this, although I already regret starting it. But I write in the hope that my story will never be published; I am sure that during my last illness I will finally be sensible enough to have all my notebooks burned in my presence. If this should not be the case, I count on the indulgence of my readers, and they will not withhold it from me when they learn that writing down my memories was the only cure for me so as not to go mad or die angry at the inconvenience that the villains have given me in the castle of the Count of Waldstein in Dux. By writing ten or twelve hours a day, I prevented the gloomy annoyance from killing me or robbing me of my reason. We'll talk about it in due course.
D‘Argens according to Giacomo Casanova
The next day I asked about the Marquis d'Argens and found out that he was in the country with his brother, the President of the Parliament, Marquis d'Eguilles. I went there. The Marquis, who became more famous through the constant friendship of the late Frederick II than through his works that no one reads today, was already old at the time. The Marquis d'Argens lived with the actress Cochois, whom he had married and who knew how to show herself worthy of this honor. As his wife, she felt obliged to be her husband's first servant. The Marquis himself had a thorough knowledge of the Greek and the Hebrew language; he was gifted with a wonderful memory and consequently grafted with scholarship. He received me very well because he remembered what his friend, the Lord Marshal, had written to him about me. He introduced me to his wife and his rather wealthy brother, the President d'Eguilles and a member of parliament in Aix. The later was a friend of literature. He lived a strictly moral way of life, and that was more due to his character than his religious belief. That says a lot; for he was truly pious even though he was a smart man. He was very close to the Jesuits and was even one himself, one of those who were called the short-skinned Jesuits; he loved his brother tenderly and lamented him; but he still hoped that sooner or later the effect of grace would lead him back to the lap of the church. His brother encouraged him to hope and laughed at the same time. Neither could avoid annoying the other with words about religion. (...)
When I had fully regained my strength, I went to the Marquis d'Argens at the President d'Eguilles to say goodbye. After lunch I spent three hours with the learned old gentleman, who told me a hundred stories about the private life of the Prussian king, all of which could be published as anecdotes as soon as I had the time and the desire. He was a ruler with great qualities and big mistakes, like almost all important men; but the entirety and severity of his mistakes were less.
The murdered King of Sweden found pleasure in provoking and defying hatred by following his inclinations. He was born a despot and had to be a despot in order to satisfy his passions, which were dominating him: namely, to talk about himself and be considered a great man. That is why his enemies had dedicated themselves to death to rob him of life. The king should have foreseen his end, for his acts of violence had long driven the oppressed to despair. The Marquis d'Argens gave me all of his works. I asked him if I could really boast of owning all of them and he replied: "Yes, with the exception of part of my life story, which I wrote in my youth and which I printed at that time; now I regret having it written."
„Why?"
"Because I had the enthusiasm of just telling the truth and thereby made myself immortally ridiculous. If you ever feel tempted, dismiss it. I can assure you that you will regret it; because as a man of honor you could only write the truth and as a truth-loving rapporteur you would not only be obliged not to keep silent, but you should not even be cowardly indulgent with the mistakes you made, and as a true philosopher you would then have to list your good deeds as well. You would be obliged to blame and praise yourself alternately... Believe me, dear friend, if a person is not allowed to speak of himself, he is much less permitted to write about himself(. ...)Listen to me, never make the mistake and write down your memoirs. "
Convinced by his wise speeches, I promised him never to commit such foolishness; nevertheless, I have not been doing anything else for seven years, and it has gradually become a necessity for me to finish this, although I already regret starting it. But I write in the hope that my story will never be published; I am sure that during my last illness I will finally be sensible enough to have all my notebooks burned in my presence. If this should not be the case, I count on the indulgence of my readers, and they will not withhold it from me when they learn that writing down my memories was the only cure for me so as not to go mad or die angry at the inconvenience that the villains have given me in the castle of the Count of Waldstein in Dux. By writing ten or twelve hours a day, I prevented the gloomy annoyance from killing me or robbing me of my reason. We'll talk about it in due course.