Casanova's Homecoming Page 11

  CHAPTER ELEVEN.

  Casanova leaped from the carriage. The hostess stood in the doorway. Shewas bright and smiling, in the mood apparently to give Casanova the warmwelcome of a lover whose absence has been regretted and whose returnhas been eagerly desired. But Casanova looked warningly towards thecoachman, implying that the man might be an inconvenient witness, andthen told him to eat and drink to his heart's content.

  "A letter from Venice arrived for you yesterday, Chevalier," announcedthe hostess.

  "Another?" enquired Casanova, going upstairs to his room.

  The hostess followed. A sealed despatch was lying on the table. Casanovaopened it in great excitement. He was anxious lest it should prove to bea revocation of the former offer. But the missive contained no more thana few lines from Bragadino, enclosing a draft for two hundred and fiftylire, in order that Casanova, should he have made up his mind to accept,might instantly set out for Venice.

  Turning to the hostess, Casanova explained with an air of well-simulatedvexation that he was unfortunately compelled to continue his journeyinstantly. Were he to delay, he would risk losing the post which hisfriend Bragadino had procured for him in Venice, a post for which therewere fully a hundred applicants. Threatening clouds gathered on thehostess' face, so Casanova was prompt to add that all he proposed was tomake sure of the appointment and to receive his patent as secretary tothe Supreme Council. As soon as he was installed in office, he would askpermission to return to Mantua, that he might arrange his affairs. Ofcourse this request could not be refused. He was going to leave mostof his effects here. When he returned, it would only depend upon hisbeloved and charming friend whether she would give up inn-keeping andaccompany him to Venice as his wife. She threw her arms round his neck,and with brimming eyes asked him whether before starting he would not atleast make a good breakfast, if she might bring it up to his room. Heknew she had in mind to provide a farewell feast, and though he feltno appetite for it, he agreed to the suggestion simply to be rid of her.

  As soon as she was gone, he packed his bag with such underclothing andbooks as he urgently needed. Then, making his way to the parlor, wherethe coachman was enjoying a generous meal, he asked the man whether, fora sum which was more than double the usual fare, he would with the samehorse drive along the Venice road as far as the next posting station.The coachman agreed without demur, thus relieving Casanova of hisprincipal anxiety for the time.

  Now the hostess entered, flushed with annoyance, to ask whether he hadforgotten that his breakfast was awaiting him in his room. Casanovanonchalantly replied that he had not forgotten for a moment, and beggedher, since he was short of time, to take his draft to the bank, and tobring back the two hundred and fifty lire. While she was hastening tofetch the money, Casanova returned to his room, and began to eat withwolfish voracity. He continued his meal when the hostess came back;stopping merely for an instant to pocket the money she brought him.

  When he had finished eating, he turned to the woman. Thinking that herhour had at length come, she had drawn near, and was pressing up againsthim in a manner which could not be misunderstood. He clasped hersomewhat roughly, kissed her on both cheeks, and, although she wasobviously ready to grant him the last favors then and there, exclaimed:"I must be off. Till our next meeting!" He tore himself away withsuch violence that she fell back on to the corner of the couch. Herexpression, with its mingling of disappointment, rage, and impotence,was so irresistibly funny that Casanova, as he closed the door behindhim, burst out laughing.

  The coachman could not fail to realize that his fare was in a hurry, butit was not his business to ask questions. He sat ready oil the box whenCasanova came out of the inn, and whipped up the horse the very momentthe passenger was seated. On his own initiative he decided not to drivethrough the town, but to skirt it, and to rejoin the posting road uponthe other side. The sun was not yet high, for it was only nine o'clock.Casanova reflected: "It is likely enough that Lorenzi's body has notbeen found yet." He hardly troubled to think that he himself had killedLorenzi. All he knew was that he was glad to be leaving Mantua fartherand farther behind, and glad to have rest at last.

  He fell into a deep sleep, the deepest he had ever known. It lastedpractically two days and two nights. The brief interruptions to hisslumbers necessitated by the change of horses from time to time, and theinterruptions that occurred when he was sitting in inns, or walking upand down in front of posting stations, or exchanging a few casual wordswith postmasters, innkeepers, customhouse officers, and travellers, didnot linger in his memory as individual details. Thus it came to passthat the remembrance of these two days and nights merged as it were intothe dream he had dreamed in Marcolina's bed. Even the duel between thetwo naked men upon the green turf in the early sunshine seemed somehowto belong to this dream, wherein often enough, in enigmatic fashion, hewas not Casanova but Lorenzi; not the victor but the vanquished; not thefugitive, but the slain round whose pale young body the lonely wind ofmorning played. Neither he nor Lorenzi was any more real than were thesenators in the purple robes who had knelt before him like beggars; norany less real than such as that old fellow leaning against the parapetof a bridge, to whom at nightfall he had thrown alms from the carriage.Had not Casanova bent his powers of reason to the task of distinguishingbetween real experiences and dream experiences, he might well haveimagined that in Marcolina's arms he had fallen into a mad dream fromwhich he did not awaken until he caught sight of the Campanile ofVenice.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It was on the third morning of his journey that Casanova, having reachedMestre, sighted once more the bell tower after over twenty years oflonging--a pillar of grey stone looming distantly in the twilight. Itwas but two leagues now to the beloved city in which he had been young.He paid the driver without remembering whether this was the fifth orthe sixth with whom he had had to settle since quitting Mantua, and,followed by a lad carrying his baggage, walked through the mean streetsto the harbor from which to-day, just as five-and-twenty years earlier,the boat was to leave for Venice at six in the morning.

  The vessel seemed to have been waiting for him; hardly had he seatedhimself upon a narrow bench, among petty traders, manual workers, andwomen bringing their wares to market, when she cast off. It was a cloudymorning; mist was rolling across the lagoons; there was a smell ofbilge-water, damp wood, fish, and fruit. The Campanile grew ever higher;additional towers appeared; cupolas became visible. The light of themorning sun was reflected from one roof, from two, from many. Individualhouses were distinguishable, growing larger by degrees. Boats, great andsmall, showed through the mist; greetings were shouted from vessel tovessel. The chatter around him grew louder. A little girl offered himsome grapes for sale. Munching the purple berries, he spat the skinsover the side after the manner of his countrymen. He entered intofriendly talk with someone who expressed satisfaction that the weatherseemed to be clearing at last.

  "What, has it been raining here for three days? That is news to me. Icome from the south, from Naples and Rome."

  The boat had entered the canals of the suburbs. Sordid houses stared athim with dirty windows, as if with vacant, hostile eyes. Twice or thricethe vessel stopped at a quay, and passengers came aboard; young fellows,one of whom had a great portfolio under his arm; women with baskets.

  Here, at last, was familiar ground. Was not that the church whereMartina used to go to confession? Was not that the house in which, afterhis own fashion, he had restored the pallid and dying Agatha to ruddyhealth? Was not that the place in which he had dealt with the charmingSylvia's rascal of a brother, had beaten the fellow black and blue? Upthat canal to the right, in the small yellow house upon whose splashedsteps the fat, bare-footed woman was standing....

  Before he had fully recaptured the distant memory attaching to the housein question, the boat had entered the Grand Canal, and was passingslowly up the broad waterway with palaces on either hand. To Casanova,in his dreamy reflections, it seemed as if but yesterday he hadtraversed the same route.<
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  He disembarked at the Rialto Bridge, for, before visiting SignorBragadino, he wished to make sure of a room in a modest hostelrynearby--he knew where it was, though he could not recall the name.The place seemed more decayed, or at least more neglected, than heremembered it of old. A sulky waiter, badly in need of a shave, showedhim to an uninviting room looking upon the blind wall of a houseopposite. Casanova had no time to lose. Moreover, since he had spentnearly all his cash on the journey, the cheapness of these quarters wasa great attraction. He decided, therefore, to make his lodging therefor the present. Having removed the stains of travel, he deliberated fora while whether to put on his finer suit; then decided it was better towear the soberer raiment, and walked out of the inn.

  It was but a hundred paces, along a narrow alley and across a bridge, toBragadino's small but elegant palace. A young servingman with a ratherimpudent manner took in Casanova's name in a way which implied that itscelebrity had no meaning for him. Returning from his master's apartmentswith a more civil demeanor, he bade the guest enter.

  Bragadino was seated at breakfast beside the open window, and made as ifto rise; but Casanova begged him not to disturb himself.

  "My dear Casanova," exclaimed Bragadino, "How delighted I am to seeyou once more! Who would have thought we should ever meet again?" Heextended both hands to the newcomer.

  Casanova seized them as if to kiss them, but did not do so. He answeredthe cordial greeting with warm words of thanks in the grandiloquentmanner usual to him on such occasions. Bragadino begged him to beseated, and asked him whether he had breakfasted. Told that his guestwas still fasting, Bragadino rang for his servant and gave thenecessary orders. As soon as the man had gone, Bragadino expressed hisgratification that Casanova had so unreservedly accepted the SupremeCouncil's offer. He would certainly not suffer for having decided todevote himself to the service of his country. Casanova respondedby saying that he would deem himself happy if he could but win theCouncil's approval.

  Such were Casanova's words, while his thoughts ran on. He could nolonger detect in himself any feeling of hatred towards Bragadino. Nay,he realized that he was rather sorry for this man advanced in years andgrown a trifle foolish, who sat facing him with a sparse white beard andred-rimmed eyes, and whose skinny hand trembled as he held his cup. Thelast time Casanova had seen him, Bragadino had probably been about asold as Casanova was to-day; but even then, to Casanova, Bragadino hadseemed an old man.

  The servant brought in Casanova's breakfast. The guest needed littlepressing to induce him to make a hearty meal, for on the road he had hadno more than a few snacks.

  "I have journeyed here from Mantua without pausing for a night's rest,so eager was I to show my readiness to serve the Council and to provemy undying gratitude to my benefactor."--This was his excuse forthe almost unmannerly greed with which he gulped down the steamingchocolate.

  Through the window, from the Grand Canal and the lesser canals, rose themanifold noises of Venetian life. All other sounds were dominated by themonotonous shouts of the gondoliers. Somewhere close at hand, perhaps inthe opposite palace (was it not the Fogazzari palace?), a woman with afine soprano voice was practising; the singer was young--someone whocould not have been born at the time when Casanova escaped from TheLeads.

  He ate rolls and butter, eggs, cold meat, continually excusing himselffor his outrageous hunger, while Bragadino looked on well pleased.

  "I do like young people to have a healthy appetite," said the Senator."As far as I can remember, my dear Casanova, you have always been agood trencherman!" He recalled to mind a meal which he and Casanova hadenjoyed together in the early days of their acquaintance. "Or rather, asnow, I sat looking on while you ate. I had not taken a long walk, asyou had. It was shortly after you had kicked that physician out of thehouse, the man who had almost been the death of me with his perpetualbleedings."

  They went on talking of old times--when life had been better in Venicethan it was to-day.

  "Not everywhere," said Casanova, with a smiling allusion to The Leads.

  Bragadino waved away the suggestion, as if this were not a suitable timefor a reference to such petty disagreeables. "Besides, you must knowthat I did everything I could to save you from punishment, thoughunfortunately my efforts proved unavailing. Of course, if in those daysI had already been a member of the Council of Ten!"

  This broached the topic of political affairs. Warming to his theme, theold man recovered much of the wit and liveliness of earlier days.He told Casanova many remarkable details concerning the unfortunatetendencies which had recently begun to affect some of the Venetianyouth, and concerning the dangerous intrigues of which infallible signswere now becoming manifest.

  Casanova was thus well posted for his work. He spent the day in thegloomy chamber at the inn; and, simply as a means to secure calm afterthe recent excitements, he passed the hours in arranging his papers, andin burning those of which he wished to be rid. When evening fell, hemade his way to the Cafe Quadri in the Square of St. Mark, sincethis was supposed to be the chief haunt of the freethinkers andrevolutionists. Here he was promptly recognized by an elderly musicianwho had at one time been conductor of the orchestra in the San SamueliTheatre, where Casanova had been a violinist thirty years before. Bythis old acquaintance, and without any advances on his own part, he wasintroduced to the company. Most of them were young men, and many oftheir names were those which Bragadino had mentioned in the morning asbelonging to persons of suspicious character.

  But the name of Casanova did not produce upon his new acquaintances theeffect which he felt himself entitled to anticipate. It was plain thatmost of them knew nothing more of Casanova than that, a great many yearsago, he had for one reason or another, and perhaps for no reason atall, been imprisoned in The Leads; and that, surmounting all possibledangers, he had made his escape. The booklet wherein, some yearsearlier, he had given so lively a description of his flight, hadnot indeed passed unnoticed; but no one seemed to have read it withsufficient attention. Casanova found it amusing to reflect that it laywithin his power to help everyone of these young gentlemen to a speedypersonal experience of the conditions of prison life in The Leads, andto a realization of the difficulties of escape. He was far, however,from betraying the slightest trace that he harbored so ill-natured anidea. On the contrary, he was able to play the innocent and to adopt anamiable role. After his usual fashion, he entertained the companyby recounting all sorts of lively adventures, describing them asexperiences he had had during his last journey from Rome to Venice. Insubstance these incidents were true enough, but they all dated fromfifteen or twenty years earlier. He secured an eager and interestedaudience.

  Another member of the company announced as a noteworthy item of newsthat an officer of Mantua on a visit to a friend, a neighboringlandowner, had been murdered, and that the robbers had stripped him tothe skin. The story attracted no particular attention, for in those dayssuch occurrences were far from rare. Casanova resumed his narrativewhere it had been interrupted, resumed it as if this Mantua affairconcerned him just as little as it concerned the rest of the company. Infact, being now freed from a disquiet whose existence he had hardly beenwilling to admit even to himself, his manner became brighter and bolderthan ever.

  It was past midnight when, after a light-hearted farewell, he walkedalone across the wide, empty square. The heavens were veiled in luminousmist. He moved with the confident step of a sleep-walker. Without beingreally conscious that he was on a path which he had not traversed forfive-and-twenty years, he found the way through tortuous alleys,between dark houses, and over narrow bridges. At length he reached thedilapidated inn, and had to knock repeatedly before the door was openedto him with a slow unfriendliness.

  When, a few minutes later, having but half undressed, he threw himselfupon his uneasy pallet, he was overwhelmed with a weariness amountingto pain, while upon his lips was a bitter after-taste which seemed topermeate his whole being. Thus, at the close of his long exile, didhe first woo sleep in
the city to which he had so eagerly desired toreturn. And here, when morning was about to break, the heavy anddreamless sleep of exhaustion came to console the aging adventurer.

  THE END

  POSTFACE

  It is a historical fact that Casanova visited Voltaire at Ferney. Thereis, however, no historical warrant for the account of the matter givenin the foregoing novel, and still less for the statement that Casanovawrote a polemic against Voltaire. It is a historical fact, likewise,that Casanova, when between fifty and sixty years of age, found itnecessary to enter Venetian service as a spy. Of this, and of many otherdoings of the celebrated adventurer to which casual allusion is made inthe course of the novel, fuller and more accurate accounts will be foundin Casanova's _Memoirs_. Speaking generally, nevertheless, _Casanova'sHomecoming_ is to be regarded throughout as a work of fiction.

  A. S.