History has not treated Giacomo Casanova kindly. Despite achieving renown such that his very name is now synonymous with amorous plenitude and sexual conquest, his fame in this regard has actually done him a disservice. Just as Sadism gives short shrift to the complicated, philosophical marquis whose name it bears, so Casanova has suffered from the same reductive treatment. In two recent cringe-worthy productions, one from Masterpiece Theater and the other the 2005 film starring Heath Ledger, one of the most original, engaging, prolific writers of the 18th century has been reduced to little more than a bawdy joke, a caricature of nauseating insipidity. In her new biography, “Casanova’s Women” (Bloomsbury, 365 pages, $25.95), Judith Summers attempts to rescue him from this ignominy.

Born in Venice in 1725, a child of actors, Casanova was educated at the University of Padua, where he studied law, medicine, theology, and a fair degree of charlatanism. He managed to make his way in the world with little more than his wits, a keen understanding of human nature, and an insatiable hunger for life and novelty. A social climber by inclination and by necessity, Casanova met and charmed the noble and influential of nearly every capital in Europe, making and losing fortunes with cavalier cheerfulness and falling in love and sleeping with hundreds of women along the way.

At times Casanova was extravagantly generous and honorable, at others breezily swindling of those who gave him their trust, and the remarkable honesty with which he describes his thoughts and motivations allows for an unrivalled glimpse into the 18th century. It is this disarming candor coupled with his unique, consummately urbane tone that accounts for much of the irresistible fascination of his 12-volume memoir. He personifies the brief moment of history he occupied, combining in himself the swelling crest of Enlightenment thought on the verge of the French revolution, and the obsessive frivolity that was the last gasp of the ancien regime. He writes in his memoir, “I have spent my life in pursuit of pleasure.”Casanova then carefully details his many literary and intellectual accomplishments, from the history he wrote of Poland to his attempts to best Voltaire in philosophic argument. Open-minded and tolerant in matters of religion, he pursued a career in the church, delighted in scientific observation, and dabbled in kabbalah. He was a sensitive, respectful lover, but also a callous libertine. The unself-conscious ease with which he unified these great moral and intellectual inconsistencies makes him a fascinating subject for study.

Judith Summers pays admirable tribute to this contradictoriness, presenting him with all his undeniable charisma intact, while not failing to address the less commendable sides of his nature. She places him fairly in the context of the salacious mores of his times, but rightfully draws back the rococo veil to point out his indefensible transgressions of pedophilia, rape, and incest. The premise of approaching the voluminous life of the great seducer through profiles of the most important women in his life is novel and apt; a surprisingly effective tactic for navigating the mountain of material he provides about himself. The chronology flows well, and her prose is engaging and extremely readable. While Casanova delights in providing a wealth of information about his many and varied mistresses, whether a pair of aristocratic Venetian nuns, an impoverished singer, Teresa Landi, who masqueraded as a castrato, or the love of his life, a noble Frenchwoman (mysteriously referred to as Henriette in the memoirs) fleeing an unhappy marriage, Ms. Summers sets out to fill in the aspects of their lives the seducer was less interested in, the oppressive limitations of their environments, the terrible sacrifices they made and the repercussions they bore to be able to pursue their love affairs.

The only regrettable part of “Casanova’s Women” comes when Ms. Summers attributes Casanova’s need for conquest to his abandonment by his mother. His widowed mother’s long absences under the necessity of providing for a large family and her decision to send him away to be educated were debatably innocuous, but more telling, it is injurious to a man who so willingly lays himself bare for his readers to suppose an unstated resentment of such magnitude that it would come to define his life. Casanova expends his bile elsewhere in his pages toward those he felt had done him an injury and to assume such a glaring omission seems presumptuous. The tropes of psychoanalysis fit ill with a man so resplendently evocative of his times.

Ms. Summers possesses an obvious affection for her loquacious adventurer, the inevitable outcome of spending any extended period in his charming company. All the while, she maintains a wry equanimity that by cutting through the Dresden figurine preciousness with which he is so often portrayed, pays admirable compliment to the multifaceted man behind the image. If, despite the incalculable wealth of pleasure and instruction contained therein, the 4,545 pages of Giacomo Casanova’s “History of My Life” still seem daunting, then “Casanova’s Women” is a highly gratifying alternative.

Ms. Brooks is the founder of the Literary Salon, the Accompanied Library, and a freelance writer. She is finishing her first novel.