Casanovas Homecoming | Page 2

alight, gripping the hilt of his sword, darting angry glances in all
directions as if invisible scornful eyes were watching him in the
surrounding solitude, he turned on his heel and retraced his steps back
to the town, determined to make arrangements that very hour for
immediate departure. He felt convinced that a more genial mood would
possess him were he to diminish even by a few miles the distance that
separated him from the home for which he longed. It was necessary to
hasten, so that he might be sure of booking a place in the diligence. It
was to leave at eventide by the eastward road. There was little else to
do, for he really need not bother to pay a farewell visit to Baron Perotti.
Half an hour would suffice for the packing of all his possessions. He
thought of the two suits, the shabbier of which he was wearing at that
moment; of the much darned, though once elegant, underlinen. With
two or three snuffboxes, a gold watch and chain, and a few books, these
comprised his whole worldly wealth. He called to mind past splendors,
when he had travelled as a man of distinction, driving in a fine carriage;
when he had been well furnished both with necessaries and with
superfluities; when he had even had his own servingman--who had
usually, of course, been a rogue. These memories brought impotent
anger in their train, and his eyes filled with tears. A young woman
drove towards him, whip in hand. In her little cart, amid sacks and
various odds and ends, lay her husband, drunk and snoring. Casanova
strode by beneath the chestnut trees that lined the highway, his face
working with wrath, unintelligible phrases hissing from between his
clenched teeth. The woman glanced at him inquisitively and mockingly
at first, then, on encountering an angry glare, with some alarm, and
finally, after she had passed, there was amorous invitation in the look
she gave him over her shoulder. Casanova, who was well aware that
rage and hatred can assume the semblance of youth more readily than
can gentleness and amiability, was prompt to realize that a bold

response on his part would bring the cart to a standstill, and that the
young woman would be ready to give him any assignation he pleased.
Nevertheless, although the recognition of this fact put him in a better
humor for the nonce, it seemed hardly worth while to waste minutes
upon so trivial an adventure. He was content, therefore, to allow the
peasant woman to drive her cart and all its contents unimpeded through
the dust of the roadway.
The sun was now high in the heavens, and the shade of the trees hardly
tempered the heat. Casanova was soon compelled to moderate his pace.
Under the thick powder of dust the shabbiness of his garments was no
longer apparent, so that by his dress and bearing he might easily have
been taken for a gentleman of station who had been pleased for once in
a way to walk instead of drive. He had almost reached the arched
gateway near his inn, when he met a heavy country carriage lumbering
along the road. In it was seated a stoutish man, well dressed, and still
fairly young. His hands were clasped across his stomach, his eyelids
drooped, and he seemed about to doze off, when of a sudden he caught
sight of Casanova, and a great change took place in him. His whole
aspect betrayed great excitement. He sprang to his feet, but too quickly,
and fell back into his seat. Rising again, he gave the driver a punch in
the back, to make the fellow pull up. But since the carriage did not stop
instantly, the passenger turned round so as not to lose sight of
Casanova, signalled with both hands, and finally called to him thrice by
name, in a thin, clear voice. Not till he heard the voice, did Casanova
recognize who it was. By now the carriage had stopped, and Casanova
smilingly seized two hands outstretched towards him, saying:
"Olivo, is it really you?"
"Yes, Signor Casanova, it is I. You recognize me, then?"
"Why not? Since I last saw you, on your wedding day, you've put on
flesh; but very likely I've changed a good deal, too, in these fifteen
years, though not perhaps in the same fashion."
"Not a bit of it," exclaimed Olivo. "Why, Signor Casanova, you have

hardly changed at all! And it is more than fifteen years; the sixteen
years were up a few days ago. As you can imagine, Amalia and I had a
good talk about you on the anniversary of our wedding."
"Indeed?" said Casanova cordially. "You both think of me at times?"
The tears came to Olivo's eyes.