“Casanova’s Europe” reveals a refined and visually seductive culture on the cusp of modernity—one characterized by pleasure seeking, movement across boundaries, and self-invention. Casanova himself inhabited many roles—entrepreneur, social climber, spy, author, and translator of the Iliad. But he was also a cheat and a libertine.”
So read the online tease for an MFA’s exhibition a few years ago on “Casanova’s Europe; Art, Pleasure, and Power in the 18th Century.” I’ve long been a fan of the old Venetian’s multi-volume memoirs (he was Armenian by birth, I’ve been reminded) providing, as it does, an unparalleled look into the everyday lives of eighteenth century people. Yes, there’s plenty of pleasure-seeking and self-invention going on, but one cannot help but be impressed by the amount and variety of wine consumed in its pages. With aid of the Gutenberg Project site, I was able to search every reference to wine in all 12 volumes of Giacomo Casanova’s Story of My Life. Here’s what learned.
Of the wines he, his friends and consorts consumed many are still familiar, among them Refosco, Moscatel, Muscat, Champagne (heaps of this), red and white Burgundy including Chambertin (“Truly Chambertin and Roquefort are excellent things to restore an old love and to ripen a young one.”), Bordeaux, Malaga, Tokay, Rhine (or Rhenish), Alicante, Cape (South Africa), La Mancha, Montepulciano, Montefiascone, Languedoc (as Beziers), Orvieto, Hermitage, Gatta, (likely Gattinara), and Aleatico (as Oleatico).
Other varieties cited still exist, but are scarcely the stylish sips they used to be. Among these: Madeira, Malmsey, Cyprus, Sillery (a kind of Champagne, though perhaps still rather than sparkling), Ratafia (a wine-based cordial), Canary (Canary Islands), and Samos and Cephalonia (from islands in the Aegean and Ionian seas, respectively). Still other wines seem permanently consigned to oblivion. No one today has any idea what Cerigo, Scopolo, or Generoydes were or tasted like.
Gem-quality anecdotes and memorable quips are thick upon the ground in these volumes – the occasional sound admonition, too. For example, who today, beset by claims of vintners that their wines are natural, organic, biodynamic, more pristine than Adam and Eve before the Fall, could fail to be tickled by this indignant outburst: You stupid fellow, how can you ever be certain of the purity of a wine unless you have made it yourself?