In a strangely tranquillized, almost happy mood, which was a surprise
to himself, Casanova sat at table with the others, and paid court to
Marcolina in the sportive manner which might seem appropriate from a
distinguished elderly gentleman towards a well-bred young woman of the
burgher class. She accepted his attentions gracefully, in the spirit in
which they appeared to be offered. He found it difficult to believe that
his demure neighbor was the same Marcolina from whose bedroom window he
had seen a young officer emerge, a man who had obviously held her in
his arms but a few moments earlier. It was equally difficult for him to
realize how this tender girl, who was fond of romping on the grass with
other children, could conduct a learned correspondence with Saugrenue,
the renowned mathematician of Paris. Yet simultaneously he derided
himself for the inertness of his imagination. Had he not learned a
thousand times that in the souls of all persons who are truly alive,
discrepant elements, nay, apparently hostile elements, may coexist in
perfect harmony? He himself, who shortly before had been so profoundly
moved, had been desperate, had been ready for evil deeds, was now so
gentle, so kindly, in so merry a mood, that Olivo’s little daughters
were shaking their sides with laughter. Nevertheless, as was usual with
him after strong excitement, his appetite was positively ferocious, and
this served to warn him that order was not yet fully restored in his
soul.
With the last course, the maid brought in a despatch which had just
arrived for the Chevalier by special messenger from Mantua. Olivo
noticed that Casanova grew pale. He told the servant to provide the
messenger with refreshment, then turned to his guest.
“Pray don’t stand upon ceremony, Chevalier. Read your letter.”
“If you will excuse me,” answered Casanova. He went to the window and
opened the missive with simulated indifference. It was from Signor
Bragadino, an old friend of the family and a confirmed bachelor, over
eighty years of age, and for the last decade a member of the Supreme
Council. He had shown more interest than other patrons in pressing
Casanova’s suit. The letter was beautifully written, although the
characters were a little shaky. It was as follows:
“My dear Casanova:
“I am delighted, at length, to be able to send you news which will, I
hope, be substantially accordant with your wishes. The Supreme Council,
at its last sitting, which took place yesterday evening, did not merely
express its willingness to permit your return to Venice. It went
further. The Council desires that your advent should be as speedy as
possible, since there is an intention to turn to immediate account the
active gratitude which you have foreshadowed in so many of your letters.
“Since Venice has been deprived for so long of the advantage of your
presence, you may perhaps be unaware, my dear Casanova, that quite
recently the internal affairs of our beloved native city have taken a
rather unfavorable trend both politically and morally. Secret societies
have come into existence, directed against the constitution of the
Venetian state, and even, it would seem, aiming at its forcible
overthrow. As might be expected, the members of these societies, persons
whom it would not be too harsh to denominate conspirators, are chiefly
drawn from certain free-thinking, irreligious, and lawless circles. Not
to speak of what goes on in private, we learn that in the public squares
and in coffee houses, the most outrageous, the most treasonable
conversations, take place. But only in exceptional instances has it been
possible to catch the guilty in the act, or to secure definite proof
against the offenders. A few admissions have been enforced by the rack,
but these confessions have proved so untrustworthy that several members
of the Council are of opinion that for the future it would be better to
abstain from methods of investigation which are not only cruel but are
apt to lead us astray. Of course there is no lack of individuals
well-affected towards public order and devoted to the welfare of the
state, individuals who would be delighted to place their services at the
disposal of the government; but most of them are so well known as
stalwart supporters of the existing constitution that when they are
present people are chary in their utterances and are most unlikely to
give vent to treasonable expressions.
“At yesterday’s sitting, one of the senators, whom I will not name,
expressed the opinion that a man who had the reputation of being without
moral principle and who was furthermore regarded as a freethinker--in
short, Casanova, such a man as yourself--if recalled to Venice would not
fail to secure prompt and sympathetic welcome in the very circles which
the government regards with such well-grounded suspicion. If he played
his cards well, such a man would soon inspire the most absolute
confidence.
“In my opinion, irresistibly, and as if by the force of a law of nature,
there would gravitate around your person the very elements which the
Supreme Council, in its indefatigable zeal for the state, is most eager
to render harmless and to punish in an exemplary manner. For your
part, my dear Casanova, you would give us an acceptable proof of your
patriotic zeal, and would furnish in addition an infallible sign of your
complete conversion from all those tendencies for which, during your
imprisonment in The Leads, you had to atone by punishment which, though
severe, was not, as you now see for yourself (if we are to believe your
epistolary assurances), altogether unmerited. I mean, should you be
prepared, immediately on your return home, to act in the way previously
suggested, to seek acquaintance with the elements sufficiently specified
above, to introduce yourself to them in the friendliest fashion as
one who cherishes the same tendencies, and to furnish the Senate
with accurate and full reports of everything which might seem to you
suspicious or worthy of note.
“For these services the authorities would offer you, to begin with,
a salary of two hundred and fifty lire per month, apart from special
payments in cases of exceptional importance. I need hardly say that you
would receive in addition, without too close a scrutiny of the items, an
allowance for such expenses as you might incur in the discharge of your
duties (I refer, for instance, to the treating of this individual or of
that, little gifts made to women, and so on).
“I do not attempt to conceal from myself that you may have to fight down
certain scruples before you will feel inclined to fulfil our wishes.
Permit me, however, as your old and sincere friend (who was himself
young once), to remind you that it can never be regarded as dishonorable
for a man to perform any services that may be essential for the safety
of his beloved fatherland--even if, to a shallow-minded and unpatriotic
citizen, such services might seem to be of an unworthy character.
Let me add, Casanova, that your knowledge of human nature will certainly
enable you to draw a distinction between levity and criminality, to
differentiate the jester from the heretic. Thus it will be within your
power, in appropriate cases, to temper justice with mercy, and to
deliver up to punishment those only who, in your honest opinion, may
deserve it.
“Above all I would ask you to consider that, should you reject the
gracious proposal of the Supreme Council, the fulfilment of your dearest
wish--your return to Venice--is likely to be postponed for a long and I
fear for an indefinite period; and that I myself, if I may allude to the
matter, as an old man of eighty-one, should be compelled in all human
probability to renounce the pleasing prospect of ever seeing you again
in this life.
“Since, for obvious reasons, your appointment will be of a confidential
and not of a public nature, I beg you to address to me personally your
reply, for which I make myself responsible, and which I wish to present
to the Council at its next sitting a week hence. Act with all convenient
speed, for, as I have previously explained, we are daily receiving
offers from thoroughly trustworthy persons who, from patriotic
motives, voluntarily place themselves at the disposal of the Supreme
Council. Nevertheless, there is hardly one among them who can compare
with you, my dear Casanova, in respect of experience or intelligence.
If, in addition to all the arguments I have adduced, you take my
personal feelings into account, I find it difficult to doubt that you
will gladly respond to the call which now reaches you from so exalted
and so friendly a source.
“Till then, receive the assurances of my undying friendship.
“BRAGADINO.”
“Postscript. Immediately upon receipt of your acceptance, it will be a
pleasure to me to send you a remittance of two hundred lire through the
banking firm of Valori in Mantua. The sum is to defray the cost of your
journey.
“B.”
* * * * *
Long after Casanova had finished reading the letter, he stood holding
the paper so as to conceal the deathly pallor of his countenance. From
the dining-table came a continuous noise, the rattle of plates and the
clinking of glasses; but conversation had entirely ceased. At length
Amalia ventured to say: “The food is getting cold, Chevalier; won’t
you go on with your meal?”
“You must excuse me,” replied Casanova, letting his face be seen once
more, for by now, owing to his extraordinary self-control, he had
regained outward composure. “I have just received the best possible news
from Venice, and I must reply instantly. With your leave, I will go to
my room.”
“Suit yourself, Chevalier,” said Olivo. “But do not forget that our card
party begins in an hour.”
In the turret chamber Casanova sank into a chair. A chill sweat broke
out over his body; he shivered as if in the cold stage of a fever; he
was seized with such nausea that he felt as if he were about to choke.
For a time he was unable to think clearly, and he could do no more than
devote his energies to the task of self-restraint without quite knowing
why he did so. But there was no one in the house upon whom he could vent
his fury; and he could not fail to realize the utter absurdity of a
half-formed idea that Marcolina must be in some way contributory to the
intolerable shame which had been put upon him.
As soon as he was in some degree once more master of himself, his first
thought was to take revenge upon the scoundrels who had believed that he
could be hired as a police spy. He would return to Venice in disguise,
and would exert all his cunning to compass the death of these
wretches--or at least of whomever it was that had conceived the
despicable design.
Was Bragadino the prime culprit? Why not? An old man so lost to all
sense of shame that he had dared to write such a letter to Casanova; a
dotard who could actually believe that Casanova, whom he had personally
known, would set his hand to this ignominious task. He no longer knew
Casanova! Nor did anyone know him, in Venice or elsewhere. But people
should learn to know him once more.
It was true that he was no longer young enough or handsome enough to
seduce an honest girl. Nor did he now possess the skill and the agility
requisite for an escape from prison, or for gymnastic feats upon the
roof-tops. But in spite of his age, he was cleverer than anyone else!
Once back in Venice, he could do anything he pleased. The first step,
the essential step, was to get back. Perhaps it would not be necessary
to kill anyone. There were other kinds of revenge, grimmer, more
devilish, than a commonplace murder. If he were to feign acceptance of
the Council’s proposal, it would be the easiest thing in the world to
compass the destruction of those whom he wished to destroy, instead of
bringing about the ruin of those whom the authorities had in mind, and
who were doubtless the finest fellows among all the inhabitants of
Venice! Monstrous! Because they were the enemies of this infamous
government, because they were reputed heretics, were they to languish in
The Leads where he had languished twenty-five years ago, or were they to
perish under the executioner’s axe? He detested the government a hundred
times more than they did, and with better reason. He had been a lifelong
heretic; was a heretic to-day, upon sincerer conviction than them all.
What a queer comedy he had been playing of late years--simply from
tedium and disgust. He to believe in God? What sort of a God was it who
was gracious only to the young, and left the old in the lurch? A God
who, when the fancy took him, became a devil; who transformed wealth
into poverty, fortune into misfortune, happiness into despair. “You play
with us--and we are to worship you? To doubt your existence is the only
resource left open to us if we are not to blaspheme you! You do not
exist; for if you did exist, I should curse you!”
Shaking his clenched fists heavenward, he rose to his feet.
Involuntarily, a detested name rose to his lips. Voltaire! Yes, now he
was in the right mood to finish his polemic against the sage of Ferney.
To finish it? No, now was the time to begin it. A new one! A different
one! One in which the ridiculous old fool should be shown up as he
deserved: for his pusillanimity, his half-heartedness, his subservience.
He an unbeliever? A man of whom the latest news was that he was on
excellent terms with the priests, that he visited church, and on feast
days actually went to confession! He a heretic? He was a chatterbox, a
boastful coward, nothing more! But the day of reckoning was at hand,
and soon there would be nothing left of the great philosopher but a
quill-driving buffoon.
What airs he had given himself, this worthy M. Voltaire! “My dear M.
Casanova, I am really vexed with you. What concern have I with the works
of Merlin? It is your fault that I have wasted four hours over such
nonsense.”
All a matter of taste, excellent M. Voltaire! People will continue to
read Merlin long after _La Pucelle_ has been forgotten. Possibly they
will continue to prize my sonnets, the sonnets you returned to me with
a shameless smile, and without saying a word about them. But these
are trifles. Do not let us spoil a great opportunity because of our
sensitiveness as authors. We are concerned with philosophy--with God! We
shall cross swords, M. Voltaire, unless you die before I have a chance
to deal with you.
He was already in the mind to begin his new polemic, when it occurred to
him that the messenger was waiting for an answer. He hastily indited
a letter to the old duffer Bragadino, a letter full of hypocritical
humility and simulated delight. With joy and gratitude he accepted the
pardon of the Council. He would expect the remittance by return of post,
so that with all possible speed he might present himself before his
patrons, and above all before the honored old family friend, Bragadino.
When he was in the act of sealing the letter, someone knocked gently at
the door. At the word, Olivo’s eldest daughter, the thirteen-year-old
Teresina, entered, to tell him that the whole company was assembled
below, and that the Chevalier was impatiently awaited at the card
table. Her eyes gleamed strangely; her cheeks were flushed; her thick,
black hair lay loose upon her temples; her little mouth was half open.
“Have you been drinking wine, Teresina?” asked Casanova striding towards
her.
“Yes. How did you know?” She blushed deeper, and in her embarrassment
she moistened her lips with her tongue.
Casanova seized her by the shoulders, and, breathing in her face, drew
her to the bed. She looked at him with great helpless eyes in which
the light was now extinguished. But when she opened her mouth as if to
scream, Casanova’s aspect was so menacing that she was almost paralyzed
with fear, and let him do whatever he pleased.
He kissed her with a tender fierceness, whispering: “You must not tell
the Abbate anything about this, Teresina, not even in confession. Some
day, when you have a lover or a husband, there is no reason why he
should know anything about it. You should always keep your own counsel.
Never tell the truth to your father, your mother, or your sisters, that
it may be well with you on earth. Mark my words.” As he spoke thus
blasphemously, Teresina seemed to regard his utterance as a pious
admonition, for she seized his hand and kissed it reverently as if it
had been a priest’s.
He laughed. “Come,” he said, “come, little wife, we will walk arm in arm
into the room downstairs!”
She seemed a little coy at first, but smiled with genuine gratification.
It was high time for them to go down, for they met Olivo coming up. He
was flushed and wore a frown, so that Casanova promptly inferred that
the Marchese or the Abbate had roused his suspicions by some coarse jest
concerning Teresina’s prolonged absence. His brow cleared when he beheld
Casanova on the threshold, standing arm in arm with the girl as if in
sport.
“I’m sorry to have kept you all waiting, Olivo,” said Casanova. “I had
to finish my letter.” He held the missive out to Olivo in proof of his
words.
“Take it,” said Olivo to Teresina, smoothing her rumpled hair. “Hand it
to the messenger.”
“Here are two gold pieces for the man,” added Casanova. “He must bestir
himself, so that the letter may leave Mantua for Venice to-day. And ask
him to tell my hostess at the inn that I shall return this evening.”
“This evening?” exclaimed Olivo. “Impossible!”
“Oh, well, we’ll see,” observed Casanova affably. “Here, Teresina, take
this, a gold piece for yourself.” When Olivo demurred, Casanova added:
“Put it in your moneybox, Teresina. That letter is worth any amount of
gold pieces!”
Teresina tripped away, and Casanova nodded to himself contentedly. In
days gone by he had possessed the girl’s mother and grandmother also,
and he thought it a particularly good joke that he was paying the little
wench for her favors under the very eyes of her father.