Casanovas Homecoming | Page 7

a philosophical disquisition.
Amalia was prompt to second the proposal; and Casanova, always
willing to oblige in this matter, said in easy-going fashion that during
recent years he had been mainly engaged in secret diplomatic missions.
To mention only places of importance, he had continually been going
to and fro between Madrid, Paris, London, Amsterdam, and St.
Petersburg. He gave an account of meetings and conversations, some
grave and some gay, with men and women of all classes, and did not

forget to speak of his friendly reception at the court of Catharine of
Russia. He jestingly related how Frederick the Great had nearly
appointed him instructor at a cadet school for Pomeranian junkers--a
danger from which he had escaped by a precipitous flight. Of these and
many other things he spoke as recent happenings, although in reality
they had occurred years or decades before. Romancing freely, he was
hardly conscious when he was lying either on a small scale or on a
large, being equally delighted with his own conceits and with the
pleasure he was giving to his auditors. While thus recounting real and
imaginary incidents, he could almost delude himself into the belief that
he was still the bold, radiant Casanova, the favorite of fortune and of
beautiful women, the honored guest of secular and spiritual princes, the
man whose spendings and gamblings and gifts must be reckoned in
thousands. It was possible for him to forget that he was a decayed
starveling, supported by pitiful remittances from former friends in
England and Spain---doles which often failed to arrive, so that he was
reduced to the few and paltry gold pieces which he could win from
Baron Perotti or from the Baron's guests. He could even forget that his
highest aim now was to return to his natal city where he had been cast
into prison and from which, since his escape, he had been banned; to
return as one of the meanest of its citizens, as writer, as beggar, as
nonentity; to accept so inglorious a close to a once brilliant career.
Marcolina listened attentively like the others, but with the same
expression as if she had been listening to someone reading aloud from
an amusing narrative. Her face did not betray the remotest realization
of the fact that the speaker was Casanova; that she was listening to the
man who had had all these experiences and many more; that she was
sitting beside the lover of a thousand women. Very different was the
fire in Amalia's eyes. To her, Casanova was the same as ever. To her,
his voice was no less seductive than it had been sixteen years earlier.
He could not but be aware that at a word or a sign, and as soon as he
pleased, he could revive this old adventure. But what to him was
Amalia at this hour, when he longed for Marcolina as he had never
longed for woman before. Beneath the shimmering folds of her dress he
seemed to see her naked body; her firm young breasts allured him; once
when she stooped to pick up her handkerchief, Casanova's inflamed

fancy made him attach so ardent a significance to her movement that he
felt near to swooning. Marcolina did not fail to notice the involuntary
pause in the flow of his conversation; she perceived that his gaze had
begun to flicker strangely. In her countenance he could read a sudden
hostility, a protest, a trace of disgust.
Casanova speedily recovered his self-command, and was about to
continue his reminiscences with renewed vigor, when a portly priest
entered. Olivo introduced him as Abbate Rossi, and Casanova at once
recognized him as the man he had met twenty-seven years earlier upon
a market boat plying between Venice and Chioggia.
"You had one eye bandaged," said Casanova, who rarely missed a
chance of showing off his excellent memory. "A young peasant-woman
wearing a yellow kerchief round her head advised you to use a healing
unguent which an apothecary with an exceedingly hoarse voice
happened to have with him."
The Abbate nodded, and smiled, well-pleased. Then, with a sly
expression, he came quite close to Casanova, as if about to tell him a
secret. But he spoke out loud.
"As for you, Signor Casanova, you were with a wedding party. I don't
know whether you were one of the ordinary guests or whether you were
best man, but I remember that the bride looked at you far more
languishingly than at the bridegroom. The wind rose; there was half a
gale; you began to read a risky poem."
"No doubt the Chevalier only did so in order to lay the storm," said
Marcolina.
"I never claim the powers of a wizard," rejoined Casanova. "But I will
not deny that after I had begun