I lived very quietly at Vienna; my health was good, and I thought of nothing but my journey to Portugal, which I intended to take place in the spring.  I saw no company of any kind, whether good or ill.  I often called on Calsabigi, who made a parade of his Atheism, and slandered my friend Metastasio, who despised him.  Calsabigi knew it and laughed at him; he was a profound politician and the right hand of Prince Kaunitz.

One day after dinner, as I was sitting at table with my friend Campioni, a pretty little girl, between twelve and thirteen, as I should imagine, came into my room with mingled boldness and fear, and made me a low bow.  I asked her what she wanted, and she replied in Latin verse to the effect that her mother was in the next room, and that if I liked she would come in.  I replied in Latin prose that I did not care about seeing her mother, telling her my reasons with great plainness.  She replied with four Latin lines, but as they were not to the point I could see that she had learnt them by heart, and repeated them like a parrot.  She went on-still in Latin verse—­to tell me that her mother must come in or else the authorities might think I was abusing her.

This last phrase was uttered with all the directness of the Latin style.  It made me burst out laughing, and I felt inclined to explain to her what she had said in her own language.  The little slut told me she was a Venetian, and this putting me at my ease I told her that the authorities would never suspect her of doing such a thing as she was too young.  At this the girl seemed to reflect a moment, and then recited some verses from the Priapeia to the effect that unripe fruit is often more piquant than that which is ripe.  This was enough to set me on fire, and Campioni, seeing that he was not wanted, went back to his room.

I drew her gently to me and asked her if her father was at Vienna.  She said yes, and instead of repulsing my caresses she proceeded to accompany my actions with the recital of erotic verses.  I sent her away with a fee of two ducats, but before she went she gave me her address written in German with four Latin verses beneath, stating that her bedfellow would find her either Hebe or Ganymede, according to his liking.

I could not help admiring the ingenuity of her father, who thus contrived to make a living out of his daughters.  She was a pretty girl enough, but at Vienna pretty girls are so common that they often have to starve in spite of their charms.  The Latin verses had been thrown in as an attraction in this case, but I did not think she would find it very remunerative in Vienna.