Someone was knocking at the door. Casanova awoke from a heavy sleep to
find Olivo standing before him.
“At your writing so early?”
Casanova promptly collected his wits. “It is my custom,” he said, “to
work the first thing in the morning. What time is it?”
“Eight o’clock,” answered Olivo. “Breakfast is ready in the garden.
We will start on our drive to the nunnery as early as you please,
Chevalier. How the wind has blown your papers about!”
He stooped to pick up the fallen leaves. Casanova did not interfere. He
had moved to the window, and was looking down upon the breakfast table
which had been set on the greensward in the shade of the house. Amalia,
Marcolina, and the three young girls, dressed in white, were at
breakfast. They called up a good-morning. He had no eyes for anyone but
Marcolina, who smiled at him frankly and in the friendliest fashion.
In her lap was a plateful of early-ripe grapes, which she was eating
deliberately.
Contempt, anger, and hatred vanished from Casanova’s heart. All he knew
was that he loved her. Made drunken by the very sight of her, he turned
away from the window to find Olivo on hands and knees still assembling
the scattered pages of manuscript from under the table and chest of
drawers. “Don’t trouble any further,” he said to his host. “Leave me to
myself for a moment while I get ready for the drive.”
“No hurry,” answered Olivo, rising, and brushing the dust from his
knees. “We shall easily be home in time for dinner. We want to get back
early, anyhow, for the Marchese would like us to begin cards soon after
our meal. I suppose he wants to leave before sunset.”
“It doesn’t matter to me what time you begin cards,” said Casanova, as
he arranged his manuscript in the portfolio. “Whatever happens, I shall
not take a hand in the game.”
“Yes you will,” explained Olivo with a decision foreign to his usual
manner. Laying a roll of gold pieces on the table, he continued: “Thus
do I pay my debt, Chevalier. A belated settlement, but it comes from a
grateful heart.” Casanova made a gesture of refusal.
“I insist,” said Olivo. “If you do not take the money, you will wound
us deeply. Besides, last night Amalia had a dream which will certainly
induce you--but I will let her tell the story herself.” He turned and
left the room precipitately.
Casanova counted the money. Yes, there were one hundred and fifty gold
pieces, the very sum that fifteen years earlier he had presented to the
bridegroom, the bride, or the bride’s mother--he had forgotten which.
“The best thing I could do,” he mused, “would be to pack up the money,
say farewell to Olivo and Amalia, and leave the place at once, if
possible without seeing Marcolina again. Yet when was I ever guided by
reason?--I wonder if news has reached Mantua from Venice? But my good
hostess promised to forward without fail anything that might arrive.”
The maid meanwhile had brought a large earthenware pitcher filled with
water freshly drawn from the spring. Casanova sponged himself all over.
Greatly refreshed, he dressed in his best suit, the one he had intended
to wear the previous evening had there been time to change. Now,
however, he was delighted that he would be able to appear before
Marcolina better clad than on the previous day, to present himself in a
new form as it were.
So he sauntered into the garden wearing a coat of grey satin richly
embroidered and trimmed with Spanish lace; a yellow waistcoat; and
knee-breeches of cherry-colored silk. His aspect was that of a man who
was distinguished without being proud. An amiable smile played about his
lips, and his eyes sparkled with the fire of inextinguishable youth. To
his disappointment, he found no one but Olivo, who bade him be seated,
and invited him to fall to upon the modest fare. Casanova’s breakfast
consisted of bread, butter, milk, and eggs, followed by peaches and
grapes, which seemed to him the finest he had ever eaten. Now the three
girls came running across the lawn. Casanova kissed them in turn,
bestowing on the thirteen-year-old Teresina such caresses as the Abbate
had been free with on the previous day. Her eyes gleamed in a way with
which Casanova was familiar. He was convinced this meant something more
to her than childish amusement.
Olivo was delighted to see how well the Chevalier got on with the girls.
“Must you really leave us to-morrow morning?” he enquired tentatively.
“This very evening,” rejoined Casanova jovially. “You know, my dear
Olivo, I must consider the wishes of the Venetian senators....”
“How have they earned the right to any such consideration from you?”
broke in Olivo. “Let them wait. Stay here for another two days at least;
or, better still, for a week.”
Casanova slowly shook his head. He had seized Teresina’s hands, and held
her prisoner between his knees. She drew herself gently away, with a
smile no longer that of a child. At this moment Amalia and Marcolina
emerged from the house. Olivo besought them to second his invitation.
But when neither found a word to say on the matter, Casanova’s voice and
expression assumed an unduly severe emphasis as he answered: “Quite out
of the question.”
On the way through the chestnut avenue to the road, Marcolina asked
Casanova whether he had made satisfactory progress with the polemic.
Olivo had told her that his guest had been at the writing-table since
early morning.
Casanova was half inclined to make an answer that would have been
malicious in its ambiguity, and would have startled his auditor without
betraying himself. Reflecting, however, that premature advances could
do his cause nothing but harm, he held his wit in leash, and civilly
rejoined that he had been content to make a few emendations, the fruit
of his conversation with her yesterday.
Now they all seated themselves in the lumbering carriage. Casanova sat
opposite Marcolina, Olivo opposite Amalia. The vehicle was so roomy
that, notwithstanding the inevitable joltings, the inmates were not
unduly jostled one against the other. Casanova begged Amalia to tell him
her dream. She smiled cordially, almost brightly, no longer displaying
any trace of mortification or resentment.
“In my dream, Casanova, I saw you driving past a white building in a
splendid carriage drawn by six chestnut horses. Or rather, the carriage
pulled up in front of this building, and at first I did not know who was
seated inside. Then you got out. You were wearing a magnificent white
court dress embroidered with gold, so that your appearance was almost
more resplendent than it is to-day.” Her tone conveyed a spice of gentle
mockery. “You were wearing, I am sure of it, the thin gold chain you are
wearing to-day, and yet I had never seen it until this morning!” This
chain, with the gold watch and gold snuff-box set with garnets (Casanova
was fingering it as she spoke), were the only trinkets of value still
left to him. “An old man, looking like a beggar, opened the carriage
door. It was Lorenzi. As for you, Casanova, you were young, quite young,
younger even than you seemed to me in those days.” She said “in those
days” quite unconcernedly, regardless of the fact that in the train of
these words all her memories came attendant, winging their way like a
flight of birds. “You bowed right and left, although there was not a
soul within sight; then you entered the house. The door slammed to
behind you. I did not know whether the storm had slammed it, or Lorenzi.
So startling was the noise that the horses took fright and galloped away
with the carriage. Then came a clamor from neighboring streets, as if
people were trying to save themselves from being run over; but soon all
was quiet again. Next I saw you at one of the windows. Now I knew it was
a gaming-house. Once more you bowed in all directions, though the whole
time there was no one to be seen. You looked over your shoulder, as if
someone were standing behind you in the room; but I knew that no one was
there. Now, of a sudden, I saw you at another window, in a higher story,
where the same gestures were repeated. Then higher still, and higher,
and yet higher, as if the building were piled story upon story,
interminably. From each window in succession, you bowed towards the
street, and then turned to speak to persons behind you--who were not
really there at all. Lorenzi, meanwhile, kept on running up the stairs,
flight after flight, but was never able to overtake you. He wanted you
because you had forgotten to give him a gratuity.....”
“What next?” enquired Casanova, when Amalia paused.
“There was a great deal more, but I have forgotten,” said Amalia.
Casanova was disappointed. In such cases, whether he was relating a
dream or giving an account of real incidents, it was his way to
round off the narrative, attempting to convey a meaning. He remarked
discontentedly: “How strangely everything is distorted in dreams. Fancy,
that I should be wealthy; and that Lorenzi should be a beggar, and old!”
“As far as Lorenzi is concerned,” interjected Olivo, “there is not much
wealth about him. His father is fairly well off, but no one can say that
of the son.”
Casanova had no need to ask questions. He was speedily informed that
it was through the Marchese that they had made the Lieutenant’s
acquaintance. The Marchese had brought Lorenzi to the house only a few
weeks before. A man of the Chevalier’s wide experience would hardly
need prompting to enlighten him as to the nature of the young officer’s
relationship to the Marchesa. After all, if the husband had no
objection, the affair was nobody else’s business.
“I think, Olivo,” said Casanova, “that you have allowed yourself to be
convinced of the Marchese’s complaisance too easily. Did you not notice
his manner towards the young man, the mingling of contempt and ferocity?
I should not like to wager that all will end well.”
Marcolina remained impassive. She seemed to pay no attention to this
talk about Lorenzi, but sat with unruffled countenance, and to all
appearance quietly delighting in the landscape. The road led upwards by
a gentle ascent zigzagging through groves of olives and holly trees.
Now they reached a place where the horses had to go more slowly, and
Casanova alighted to stroll beside the carriage. Marcolina talked of
the lovely scenery round Bologna, and of the evening walks she was
in the habit of taking with Professor Morgagni’s daughter. She also
mentioned that she was planning a journey to France next year, in
order to make the personal acquaintance of Saugrenue, the celebrated
mathematician at the university of Paris, with whom she had
corresponded. “Perhaps,” she said with a smile, “I may look in at Ferney
on the way, in order to learn from Voltaire’s own lips how he has
been affected by the polemic of the Chevalier de Seingalt, his most
formidable adversary.”
Casanova was walking with a hand on the side of the carriage, close to
Marcolina’s arm. Her loose sleeve was touching his fingers. He answered
quietly: “It matters less what M. Voltaire thinks about the matter
than what posterity thinks. A final decision upon the merits of the
controversy must be left to the next generation.”
“Do you really think,” said Marcolina earnestly, “that final decisions
can be reached in questions of this character?”
“I am surprised that you should ask such a thing, Marcolina. Though your
philosophic views, and (if the term be appropriate) your religious
views, seem to me by no means irrefutable, at least they must be firmly
established in your soul--if you believe that there is a soul.”
Marcolina, ignoring the personal animus in Casanova’s words, sat looking
skyward over the tree-crests, and tranquilly rejoined: “Ofttimes, and
especially on a day like this”--to Casanova, knowing what he knew, the
words conveyed the thrill of reverence in the newly awakened heart of a
woman--“I feel as if all that people speak of as philosophy and religion
were no more than playing with words. A sport nobler perhaps than
others, nevertheless more unmeaning than them all. Infinity and eternity
will never be within the grasp of our understanding. Our path leads from
birth to death. What else is left for us than to live a life accordant
with the law that each of us bears within--or a life of rebellion
against that law? For rebellion and submissiveness both issue from God.”
Olivo looked at his niece with timid admiration, then turned to
contemplate Casanova with some anxiety. Casanova was in search of a
rejoinder which should convince Marcolina that she was in one breath
affirming and denying God, or should prove to her that she was
proclaiming God and the Devil to be the same. He realized, however, that
he had nothing but empty words to set against her feelings, and to-day
words did not come to him readily. His expression showed him to be
somewhat at a loss, and apparently reminded Amalia of the confused
menaces he had uttered on the previous day. So she hastened to remark:
“Marcolina is deeply religious all the same, I can assure you,
Chevalier.”
Marcolina smiled.
“We are all religious in our several ways,” said Casanova civilly.
Now came a turn in the road, and the nunnery was in sight. The slender
tops of cypresses showed above the encircling wall. At the sound of the
approaching carriage, the great doors had swung open. The porter, an old
man with a flowing white beard, bowed gravely and gave them admittance.
Through the cloisters, between the columns of which they caught glimpses
of an overgrown garden, they advanced towards the main building, from
whose unadorned, grey, and prison-like exterior an unpleasantly cool
air was wafted. Olivo pulled the bellrope; the answering sound was
high-pitched, and died away in a moment. A veiled nun silently appeared,
and ushered the guests into the spacious parlor. It contained merely
a few plain wooden chairs, and the back was cut off by a heavy iron
grating, beyond which nothing could be seen but a vague darkness.
With bitterness in his heart, Casanova recalled the adventure which
still seemed to him the most wonderful of all his experiences. It had
begun in just such surroundings as the present. Before his eyes loomed
the forms of the two inmates of the Murano convent who had been friends
in their love for him. In conjunction they had bestowed upon him hours
of incomparable sweetness. When Olivo, in a whisper, began to speak
of the strict discipline imposed upon this sisterhood--once they were
professed, the nuns must never appear unveiled before a man, and they
were vowed to perpetual silence--a smile flitted across Casanova’s face.
The Abbess suddenly emerged from the gloom, and was standing in their
midst. In silence she saluted her guests, and with an exaggerated
reverence of her veiled head acknowledged Casanova’s expressions of
gratitude for the admission of himself, a stranger. But when Marcolina
wished to kiss her hand, the Abbess gathered the girl in her arms. Then,
with a wave of the hand inviting them to follow, she led the way through
a small room into a cloister surrounding a quadrangular flower-garden.
In contrast to the outer garden, which had run wild, this inner garden
was tended with especial care. The flower-beds, brilliant in the
sunshine, showed a wonderful play of variegated colors. The warm odors
were almost intoxicating. One, intermingled with the rest, aroused no
responsive echo in Casanova’s memory. Puzzled, he was about to say a
word on the subject to Marcolina, when he perceived that the enigmatic,
stimulating fragrance emanated from herself. She had removed her shawl
from her shoulders and was carrying it over her arm. From the opening of
her gown came a perfume at once kindred to that of the thousand flowers
of the garden, and yet unique.
The Abbess, still without a word, conducted the visitors between the
flower-beds upon narrow, winding paths which traversed the garden like
a lovely labyrinth. The graceful ease of her gait showed that she was
enjoying the chance of showing others the motley splendors of her
garden. As if she had determined to make her guests giddy, she moved on
faster and ever faster like the leader of a lively folk-dance. Then,
quite suddenly, so that Casanova seemed to awaken from a confusing
dream, they all found themselves in the parlor once more. On the other
side of the grating, dim figures were moving. It was impossible to
distinguish whether, behind the thick bars, three or five or twenty
veiled women were flitting to and fro like startled ghosts. Indeed, none
but Casanova, with eyes preternaturally acute to pierce the darkness,
could discern that they were human outlines at all.
The Abbess attended her guests to the door, mutely gave them a sign
of farewell, and vanished before they had found time to express their
thanks for her courtesy.
Suddenly, just as they were about to leave the parlor, a woman’s voice
near the grating breathed the word “Casanova.” Nothing but his name, in
a tone that seemed to him quite unfamiliar. From whom came this breach
of a sacred vow? Was it a woman he had once loved, or a woman he had
never seen before? Did the syllables convey the ecstasy of an unexpected
reencounter, or the pain of something irrecoverably lost; or did it
convey the lamentation that an ardent wish of earlier days had been so
late and so fruitlessly fulfilled? Casanova could not tell. All that he
knew was that his name, which had so often voiced the whispers of tender
affection, the stammerings of passion, the acclamations of happiness,
had to-day for the first time pierced his heart with the full resonance
of love. But, for this very reason, to probe the matter curiously would
have seemed to him ignoble and foolish. The door closed behind the
party, shutting in a secret which he was never to unriddle. Were it not
that the expression on each face had shown timidly and fugitively that
the call to Casanova had reached the ears of all, each might have
fancied himself or herself a prey to illusion. No one uttered a word as
they walked through the cloisters to the great doors. Casanova brought
up the rear, with bowed head, as if on the occasion of some profoundly
affecting farewell.
The porter was waiting. He received his alms. The visitors stepped into
the carriage, and started on the homeward road. Olivo seemed perplexed;
Amalia was distrait. Marcolina, however, was quite unmoved. Too
pointedly, in Casanova’s estimation, she attempted to engage Amalia in a
discussion of household affairs, a topic upon which Olivo was compelled
to come to his wife’s assistance. Casanova soon joined in the
discussion, which turned upon matters relating to kitchen and cellar. An
expert on these topics, he saw no reason why he should hide his light
under a bushel, and he seized the opportunity of giving a fresh proof
of versatility. Thereupon, Amalia roused herself from her brown study.
After their recent experience--at once incredible and haunting--to all,
and especially to Casanova, there was a certain comfort derivable from
an extremely commonplace atmosphere of mundane life. When the carriage
reached home, where an inviting odor of roast meat and cooking
vegetables assailed their nostrils, Casanova was in the midst of an
appetizing description of a Polish pasty, a description to which even
Marcolina attended with a flattering air of domesticity.