RETURN TO ITALY - Chapter VI
A Clever Cheat--Passano--Pisa--Corilla--My Opinion of Squinting
Eyes--Florence- I See Therese Again--My Son--Corticelli
I was standing at some distance from my carriage into which they
were putting four horses, when a man accosted me and asked me if I
would pay in advance or at the next stage. Without troubling to
look at him I said I would pay in advance, and gave him a coin
requesting him to bring me the change.
"Directly, sir," said he, and with that he went into the inn.
A few minutes after, just as I was going to look after my change,
the post-master came up and asked me to pay for the stage.
"I have paid already, and I am waiting for my change. Did I not
give the money to you?"
"Certainly not, sir."
"Whom did I give it to, then?"
"I really can't say; but you will be able to recognize the man,
doubtless."
"It must have been you or one of your people."
I was speaking loud, and all the men came about me.
"These are all the men in my employ," said the master, and he
asked if any of them had received the money from me.
They all denied the fact with an air of sincerity which left no
room for suspicion. I cursed and swore, but they let me curse and
swear as much as I liked. At last I discovered that there was no
help for it, and I paid a second time, laughing at the clever
rascal who had taken me in so thoroughly. Such are the lessons of
life; always full of new experiences, and yet one never knows
enough. From that day I have always taken care not to pay for
posting except to the proper persons.
In no country are knaves so cunning as in Italy, Greece ancient
and modern excepted.
When I got to the best inn at Leghorn they told me that there was
a theatre, and my luck made me go and see the play. I was
recognized by an actor who accosted me, and introduced me to one
of his comrades, a self-styled poet, and a great enemy of the Abbe
Chiari, whom I did not like, as he had written a biting satire
against me, and I had never succeeded in avenging myself on him.
I asked them to come and sup with me--a windfall which these
people are not given to refusing. The pretended poet was a
Genoese, and called himself Giacomo Passano. He informed me that
he had written three hundred sonnets against the abbe, who would
burst with rage if they were ever printed. As I could not
restrain a smile at the good opinion the poet had of his works, he
offered to read me a few sonnets. He had the manuscript about
him, and I could not escape the penance. He read a dozen or so,
which I thought mediocre, and a mediocre sonnet is necessarily a
bad sonnet, as this form of poetry demands sublimity; and thus
amongst the myriads of sonnets to which Italy gives birth very few
can be called good.
If I had given myself time to examine the man's features, I
should, no doubt, have found him to be a rogue; but I was blinded
by passion, and the idea of three hundred sonnets against the Abbe
Chiari fascinated me.
I cast my eyes over the title of the manuscript, and read, "La
Chiareide di Ascanio Pogomas."
"That's an anagram of my Christian name and my surname; is it not
a happy combination?"
This folly made me smile again. Each of the sonnets was a dull
diatribe ending with "l'abbate Chiari e un coglione." He did not
prove that he was one, but he said so over and over again, making
use of the poet's privilege to exaggerate and lie. What he wanted
to do was to annoy the abbe, who was by no means what Passano
called him, but on the contrary, a wit and a poet; and if he had
been acquainted with the requirements of the stage he would have
written better plays than Goldoni, as he had a greater command of
language.
I told Passano, for civility's sake, that he ought to get his
Chiareide printed.
"I would do so," said he, "if I could find a publisher, for I am
not rich enough to pay the expenses, and the publishers are a pack
of ignorant beggars. Besides, the press is not free, and the
censor would not let the epithet I give to my hero pass. If I
could go to Switzerland I am sure it could be managed; but I must
have six sequins to walk to Switzerland, and I have not got them."
"And when you got to Switzerland, where there are no theatres,
what would you do for a living?"
"I would paint in miniature. Look at those."
He gave me a number of small ivory tablets, representing obscene
subjects, badly drawn and badly painted.
"I will give you an introduction to a gentleman at Berne," I said;
and after supper I gave him a letter and six sequins. He wanted
to force some of his productions on me, but I would not have them.
I was foolish enough to give him a letter to pretty Sara's father,
and I told him to write to me at Rome, under cover of the banker
Belloni.
I set out from Leghorn the next day and went to Pisa, where I
stopped two days. There I made the acquaintance of an Englishman,
of whom I bought a travelling carriage. He took me to see
Corilla, the celebrated poetess. She received me with great
politeness, and was kind enough to improvise on several subjects
which I suggested. I was enchanted, not so much with her grace
and beauty, as by her wit and perfect elocution. How sweet a
language sounds when it is spoken well and the expressions are
well chosen. A language badly spoken is intolerable even from a
pretty mouth, and I have always admired the wisdom of the Greeks
who made their nurses teach the children from the cradle to speak
correctly and pleasantly. We are far from following their good
example; witness the fearful accents one hears in what is called,
often incorrectly, good society.
Corilla was 'straba', like Venus as painted by the ancients--why,
I cannot think, for however fair a squint-eyed woman may be
otherwise, I always look upon her face as distorted. I am sure
that if Venus had been in truth a goddess, she would have made the
eccentric Greek, who first dared to paint her cross-eyed, feel the
weight of her anger. I was told that when Corilla sang, she had
only to fix her squinting eyes on a man and the conquest was
complete; but, praised be God! she did not fix them on me.
At Florence I lodged at the "Hotel Carrajo," kept by Dr. Vannini,
who delighted to confess himself an unworthy member of the Academy
Della Crusca. I took a suite of rooms which looked out on the
bank of the Arno. I also took a carriage and a footman, whom, as
well as a coachman, I clad in blue and red livery. This was M.
de Bragadin's livery, and I thought I might use his colours, not
with the intention of deceiving anyone, but merely to cut a dash.
The morning after my arrival I put on my great coat to escape
observation, and proceeded to walk about Florence. In the evening
I went to the theatre to see the famous harlequin, Rossi, but I
considered his reputation was greater than he deserved. I passed
the same judgment on the boasted Florentine elocution; I did not
care for it at all. I enjoyed seeing Pertici; having become old,
and not being able to sing any more, he acted, and, strange to
say, acted well; for, as a rule, all singers, men and women, trust
to their voice and care nothing for acting, so that an ordinary
cold entirely disables them for the time being.
Next day I called on the banker, Sasso Sassi, on whom I had a good
letter of credit, and after an excellent dinner I dressed and went
to the opera an via della Pergola, taking a stage box, not so much
for the music, of which I was never much of an admirer, as because
I wanted to look at the actress.
The reader may guess my delight and surprise when I recognised in
the prima donna Therese, the false Bellino, whom I had left at
Rimini in the year 1744; that charming Therese whom I should
certainly have married if M. de Gages had not put me under arrest.
I had not seen her for seventeen years, but she looked as
beautiful and ravishing as ever as she came forward on the stage.
It seemed impossible. I could not believe my eyes, thinking the
resemblance must be a coincidence, when, after singing an air, she
fixed her eyes on mine and kept them there. I could no longer
doubt that it was she; she plainly recognized me. As she left the
stage she stopped at the wings and made a sign to me with her fan
to come and speak to her.
I went out with a beating heart, though I could not explain my
perturbation, for I did not feel guilty in any way towards
Therese, save in that I had not answered the last letter she had
written me from Naples, thirteen years ago. I went round the
theatre, feeling a greater curiosity as to the results of our
interview than to know what had befallen her during the seventeen
years which seemed an age to me.
I came to the stage-door, and I saw Therese standing at the top of
the stair. She told the door-keeper to let me pass; I went up and
we stood face to face. Dumb with surprise I took her hand and
pressed it against my heart.
"Know from that beating heart," said I, "all that I feel."
"I can't follow your example," said she, "but when I saw you I
thought I should have fainted. Unfortunately I am engaged to
supper. I shall not shut my eyes all night. I shall expect you
at eight o'clock to-morrow morning. Where are you staying?"
"At Dr. Vannini's."
"Under what name?"
"My own."
"How long have you been here?"
"Since yesterday."
"Are you stopping long in Florence?"
"As long as you like."
"Are you married?"
"No."
"Cursed be that supper! What an event! You must leave me now,
I have to go on. Good-bye till seven o'clock to-morrow."
She had said eight at first, but an hour sooner was no harm.
I returned to the theatre, and recollected that I had neither asked
her name or address, but I could find out all that easily. She
was playing Mandane, and her singing and acting were admirable.
I asked a well-dressed young man beside me what that admirable
actress's name was.
"You have only come to Florence to-day, sir?"
"I arrived yesterday."
"Ah! well, then it's excusable. That actress has the same name as
I have. She is my wife, and I am Cirillo Palesi, at your
service."
I bowed and was silent with surprise. I dared not ask where she
lived, lest he might think my curiosity impertinent. Therese
married to this handsome young man, of whom, of all others, I had
made enquiries about her! It was like a scene in a play.
I could bear it no longer. I longed to be alone and to ponder
over this strange adventure at my ease, and to think about my
visit to Therese at seven o'clock the next morning. I felt the
most intense curiosity to see what the husband would do when he
recognized me, and he was certain to do so, for he had looked at
me attentively as he spoke. I felt that my old flame for Therese
was rekindled in my heart, and I did not know whether I was glad
or sorry at her being married.
I left the opera-house and told my footman to call my carriage.
"You can't have it till nine o'clock, sir; it was so cold the
coachman sent the horses back to the stable."
"We will return on foot, then."
"You will catch a cold."
"What is the prima donna's name?"
"When she came here, she called herself Lanti, but for the last
two months she has been Madame Palesi. She married a handsome
young man with no property and no profession, but she is rich, so
he takes his ease and does nothing."
"Where does she live?"
"At the end of this street. There's her house, sir; she lodges on
the first floor."
This was all I wanted to know, so I said no more, but took note of
the various turnings, that I might be able to find my way alone
the next day. I ate a light supper, and told Le Duc to call me at
six o'clock.
"But it is not light till seven."
"I know that."
"Very good"
At the dawn of day, I was at the door of the woman I had loved so
passionately. I went to the first floor, rang the bell, and an
old woman came out and asked me if I were M. Casanova. I told her
that I was, whereupon she said that the lady had informed her I
was not coming till eight.
"She said seven."
"Well, well, it's of no consequence. Kindly walk in here. I will
go and awake her."
In five minutes, the young husband in his night-cap and dressing-
gown came in, and said that his wife would not be long. Then
looking at me attentively with an astounded stare, he said,
"Are you not the gentleman who asked me my wife's name last
night?"
"You are right, I did. I have not seen your wife for many years,
but I thought I recognized her. My good fortune made me enquire
of her husband, and the friendship which formerly attached me to
her will henceforth attach me to you."
As I uttered this pretty compliment Therese, as fair as love,
rushed into the room with open arms. I took her to my bosom in a
transport of delight, and thus we remained for two minutes, two
friends, two lovers, happy to see one another after a long and sad
parting. We kissed each other again and again, and then bidding
her husband sit down she drew me to a couch and gave full course
to her tears. I wept too, and my tears were happy ones. At last
we wiped our eyes, and glanced towards the husband whom we had
completely forgotten. He stood in an attitude of complete
astonishment, and we burst out laughing. There was something so
comic in his surprise that it would have taxed all the talents of
the poet and the caricaturist to depict his expression of
amazement. Therese, who knew how to manage him, cried in a
pathetic an affectionate voice,--
"My dear Palesi, you see before you my father--nay, more than a
father, for this is my generous friend to whom I owe all. Oh,
happy moment for which my heart has longed for these ten years
past."
At the word "father" the unhappy husband fixed his gaze on me, but
I restrained my laughter with considerable difficulty. Although
Therese was young for her age, she was only two years younger than
I; but friendship gives a new meaning to the sweet name of father.
"Yes, sir," said I, "your Therese is my daughter, my sister, my
cherished friend; she is an angel, and this treasure is your
wife."
"I did not reply to your last letter," said I, not giving him time
to come to himself.
"I know all," she replied. "You fell in love with a nun. You
were imprisoned under the Leads, and I heard of your almost
miraculous flight at Vienna. I had a false presentiment that I
should see you in that town. Afterwards I heard of you in Paris
and Holland, but after you left Paris nobody could tell me any
more about you. You will hear some fine tales when I tell you all
that has happened to me during the past ten years. Now I am
happy. I have my dear Palesi here, who comes from Rome. I
married him a couple of months ago. We are very fond of each
other, and I hope you will be as much his friend as mine."
At this I arose and embraced the husband, who cut such an
extraordinary figure. He met me with open arms, but in some
confusion; he was, no doubt, not yet quite satisfied as to the
individual who was his wife's father, brother, friend, and perhaps
lover, all at once. Therese saw this feeling in his eyes, and
after I had done she came and kissed him most affectionately,
which confused me in my turn, for I felt all my old love for her
renewed, and as ardent as it was when Don Sancio Pico introduced
me to her at Ancona.
Reassured by my embrace and his wife's caress, M. Palesi asked me
if I would take a cup of chocolate with them, which he himself
would make. I answered that chocolate was my favourite breakfast-
dish, and all the more so when it was made by a friend. He went
away to see to it. Our time had come.
As soon as we were alone Therese threw herself into my arms, her
face shining with such love as no pen can describe.
"Oh, my love! whom I shall love all my life, clasp me to your
breast! Let us give each other a hundred embraces on this happy
day, but not again, since my fate has made me another's bride.
To-morrow we will be like brother and sister; to-day let us be
lovers."
She had not finished this speech before my bliss was crowned. Our
transports were mutual, and we renewed them again and again during
the half hour in which we had no fear of an interruption. Her
negligent morning dress and my great coat were highly convenient
under the circumstances.
After we had satiated in part our amorous ardour we breathed again
and sat down. There was a short pause, and then she said,
"You must know that I am in love with my husband and determined
not to deceive him. What I have just done was a debt I had to pay
to the remembrance of my first love. I had to pay it to prove how
much I love you; but let us forget it now. You must be contented
with the thought of my great affection for you--of which you can
have no doubt--and let me still think that you love me; but
henceforth do not let us be alone together, as I should give way,
and that would vex me. What makes you look so sad?"
"I find you bound, while I am free. I thought we had met never to
part again; you had kindled the old fires. I am the same to you
as I was at Ancona. I have proved as much, and you can guess how
sad I feel at your decree that I am to enjoy you no more. I find
that you are not only married but in love with your husband.
Alas! I have come too late, but if I had not stayed at Genoa I
should not have been more fortunate. You shall know all in due
time, and in the meanwhile I will be guided by you in everything.
I suppose your husband knows nothing of our connection, and my
best plan will be to be reserved, will it not?"
"Yes, dearest, for he knows nothing of my affairs, and I am glad
to say he shews no curiosity respecting them. Like everybody else,
he knows I made my fortune at Naples; I told him I went there when
I was ten years old. That was an innocent lie which hurts nobody;
and in my position I find that inconvenient truths have to give
way to lies. I give myself out as only twenty-four, how do you
think I look?"
"You look as if you were telling the truth, though I know you must
be thirty-two."
"You mean thirty-one, for when I knew you I couldn't have been
more than fourteen."
"I thought you were fifteen at least."
"Well, I might admit that between ourselves; but tell me if I look
more than twenty-four."
"I swear to you you don't look as old, but at Naples . . . ."
"At Naples some people might be able to contradict me, but nobody
would mind them. But I am waiting for what ought to be the
sweetest moment of your life."
"What is that, pray?"
"Allow me to keep my own counsel, I want to enjoy your surprise.
How are you off? If you want money, I can give you back all you
gave me, and with compound interest. All I have belongs to me; my
husband is not master of anything. I have fifty thousand ducats
at Naples, and an equal sum in diamonds. Tell me how much you
want--quick! the chocolate is coming."
Such a woman was Therese. I was deeply moved, and was about to
throw my arms about her neck without answering when the chocolate
came. Her husband was followed by a girl of exquisite beauty, who
carried three cups of chocolate on a silver-gilt dish. While we
drank it Palesi amused us by telling us with much humour how
surprised he was when he recognized the man who made him rise at
such an early hour as the same who had asked him his wife's name
the night before. Therese and I laughed till our sides ached, the
story was told so wittily and pleasantly. This Roman displeased
me less than I expected; his jealousy seemed only put on for
form's sake.
"At ten o'clock," said Theresa, "I have a rehearsal here of the
new opera. You can stay and listen if you like. I hope you will
dine with us every day, and it will give me great pleasure if you
will look upon my house as yours."
"To-day," said I, "I will stay with you till after supper, and
then I will leave you with your fortunate husband."
As I pronounced these words M. Palesi embraced me with effusion,
as if to thank me for not objecting to his enjoying his rights as
a husband.
He was between the ages of twenty and twenty-two, of a fair
complexion, and well-made, but too pretty for a man. I did not
wonder at Therese being in love with him, for I knew too well the
power of a handsome face; but I thought that she had made a
mistake in marrying him, for a husband acquires certain rights
which may become troublesome.
Therese's pretty maid came to tell me that my carriage was at the
door.
"Will you allow me," said I to her, "to have my footman in?"
"Rascal," said I, as soon as he came in, "who told you to come
here with my carriage?"
"Nobody, sir, but I know my duty."
"Who told you that I was here?"
"I guessed as much."
"Go and fetch Le Duc, and come back with him."
When they arrived I told Le Duc to pay the impertinent fellow
three days' wages, to strip him of his livery, and to ask Dr.
Vannini to get me a servant of the same build, not gifted with the
faculty of divination, but who knew how to obey his master's
orders. The rascal was much perturbed at the result of his
officiousness, and asked Therese to plead for him; but, like a
sensible woman, she told him that his master was the best judge of
the value of his services.
At ten o'clock all the actors and actresses arrived, bringing with
them a mob of amateurs who crowded the hall. Therese received
their greetings graciously, and I could see she enjoyed a great
reputation. The rehearsal lasted three hours, and wearied me
extremely. To relieve my boredom I talked to Palesi, whom I liked
for not asking me any particulars of my acquaintance with his
wife. I saw that he knew how to behave in the position in which
he was placed.
A girl from Parma, named Redegonde, who played a man's part and
sang very well, stayed to dinner. Therese had also asked a young
Bolognese, named Corticelli. I was struck with the budding charms
of this pretty dancer, but as I was just then full of Therese, I
did not pay much attention to her. Soon after we sat down I saw a
plump abbe coming in with measured steps. He looked to me a
regular Tartuffe, after nothing but Therese. He came up to her as
soon as he saw her, and going on one knee in the Portuguese
fashion, kissed her hand tenderly and respectfully. Therese
received him with smiling courtesy and put him at her right hand;
I was at their left. His voice, manner, and all about him told me
that I had known him, and in fact I soon recognized him as the
Abbe Gama, whom I had left at Rome seventeen years before with
Cardinal Acquaviva; but I pretended not to recognize him, and
indeed he had aged greatly. This gallant priest had eyes for no
one but Therese, and he was too busy with saying a thousand soft
nothings to her to take notice of anybody else in the company. I
hoped that in his turn he would either not recognize me or pretend
not to do so, so I was continuing my trifling talk with the
Corticelli, when Therese told me that the abbe wanted to know
whether I did not recollect him. I looked at his face
attentively, and with the air of a man who is trying to recollect
something, and then I rose and asked if he were not the Abbe Gama,
with whose acquaintance I was honoured.
"The same," said he, rising, and placing his arms round my neck he
kissed me again and again. This was in perfect agreement with his
crafty character; the reader will not have forgotten the portrait
of him contained in the first volume of these Memoirs.
After the ice had been thus broken it will be imagined that we had
a long conversation. He spoke of Barbaruccia, of the fair
Marchioness G----, of Cardinal S---- C----, and told me how he had
passed from the Spanish to the Portuguese service, in which he
still continued. I was enjoying his talk about numerous subjects
which had interested me in my early youth, when an unexpected
sight absorbed all my thinking faculties. A young man of fifteen
or sixteen, as well grown as Italians usually are at that age,
came into the room, saluted the company with easy grace, and
kissed Therese. I was the only person who did not know him, but I
was not the only one who looked surprised. The daring Therese
introduced him to me with perfect coolness with the words:--
"That is my brother."
I greeted him as warmly as I could, but my manner was slightly
confused, as I had not had time to recover my composure. This so-
called brother of Therese was my living image, though his
complexion was rather clearer than mine. I saw at once that he
was my son; nature had never been so indiscreet as in the amazing
likeness between us. This, then, was the surprise of which
Therese had spoken; she had devised the pleasure of seeing me at
once astounded and delighted, for she knew that my heart would be
touched at the thought of having left her such a pledge of our
mutual love. I had not the slightest foreknowledge in the matter,
for Therese had never alluded to her being with child in her
letters. I thought, however, that she should not have brought
about this meeting in the presence of a third party, for everyone
has eyes in their head, and anyone with eyes must have seen that
the young man was either my son or my brother. I glanced at her,
but she avoided meeting my eye, while the pretended brother was
looking at me so attentively that he did not hear what was said to
him. As to the others, they did nothing but look first at me and
then at him, and if they came to the conclusion that he was my son
they would be obliged to suppose that I had been the lover of
Therese's mother, if she were really his sister, for taking into
consideration the age she looked and gave herself out to be she
could not possibly be his mother. It was equally impossible that
I could be Therese's father, as I did not look any older than she
did.
My son spoke the Neapolitan dialect perfectly, but he also spoke
Italian very well, and in whatever he said I was glad to recognize
taste, good sense, and intelligence. He was well-informed, though
he had been brought up at Naples, and his manners were very
distinguished. His mother made him sit between us at table.
"His favourite amusement," she said to me, "is music. You must
hear him on the clavier, and though I am eight years older I shall
not be surprised if you pronounce him the better performer."
Only a woman's delicate instinct could have suggested this remark;
men hardly ever approach women in this respect.
Whether from natural impulses or self-esteem, I rose from the
table so delighted with my son that I embraced him with the utmost
tenderness, and was applauded by the company. I asked everybody
to dine with me the next day, and my invitation was joyfully
accepted; but the Corticelli said, with the utmost simplicity,
"May I come, too?"
"Certainty; you too."
After dinner the Abbe Gama asked me to breakfast with him, or to
have him to breakfast the next morning, as be was longing for a
good talk with me.
"Come and breakfast with me," said I, "I shall be delighted to see
you."
When the guests had gone Don Cesarino, as the pretended brother of
Therese was called, asked me if I would walk with him. I kissed
him, and replied that my carriage was at his service, and that he
and his brother-in-law could drive in it, but that I had resolved
not to leave his sister that day. Palesi seemed quite satisfied
with the arrangement, and they both went away.
When we were alone, I gave Therese an ardent embrace, and
congratulated her on having such a brother.
"My dear, he is the fruit of our amours; he is your son. He makes
me happy, and is happy himself, and indeed he has everything to
make him so."
"And I, too, am happy, dear Therese. You must have seen that I
recognized him at once."
"But do you want to give him a brother? How ardent you are!"
"Remember, beloved one, that to-morrow we are to be friends, and
nothing more."
By this my efforts were crowned with success, but the thought that
it was the last time was a bitter drop in the cup of happiness.
When we had regained our composure, Therese said,--
"The duke who took me from Rimini brought up our child; as soon as
I knew that I was pregnant I confided my secret to him. No one
knew of my delivery, and the child was sent to nurse at Sorrento,
and the duke had him baptized under the name of Caesar Philip
Land. He remained at Sorrento till he was nine, and then he was
boarded with a worthy man, who superintended his education and
taught him music. From his earliest childhood he has known me as
his sister, and you cannot think how happy I was when I saw him
growing so like you. I have always considered him as a sure
pledge of our final union. I was ever thinking what would happen
when we met, for I knew that he would have the same influence over
you as he has over me. I was sure you would marry me and make him
legitimate."
"And you have rendered all this, which would have made me happy,
an impossibility."
"The fates decided so; we will say no more about it. On the death
of the duke I left Naples, leaving Cesarino at the same boarding
school, under the protection of the Prince de la Riccia, who has
always looked upon him as a brother. Your son, though he does not
know it, possesses the sum of twenty thousand ducats, of which I
receive the interest, but you may imagine that I let him want for
nothing. My only regret is that I cannot tell him I am his
mother, as I think he would love me still more if he knew that he
owed his being to me. You cannot think how glad I was to see your
surprise to-day, and how soon you got to love him."
"He is wonderfully like me."
"That delights me. People must think that you were my mother's
lover. My husband thinks that our friendship is due to the
connection between you and my mother. He told me yesterday that
Cesarino might be my brother on the mother's side, but not on my
father's; as he had seen his father in the theatre, but that he
could not possibly be my father, too. If I have children by
Palesi all I have will go to them, but if not Cesarino will be my
heir. My property is well secured, even if the Prince de Riccia
were to die."
"Come," said she, drawing me in the direction of her bed-room.
She opened a large box which contained her jewels and diamonds,
and shares to the amount of fifty thousand ducats. Besides that
she had a large amount of plate, and her talents which assured her
the first place in all the Italian theatres.
"Do you know whether our dear Cesarino has been in love yet?" said I.
"I don't think so, but I fancy my pretty maid is in love with him.
I shall keep my eyes open."
"You mustn't be too strict."
"No, but it isn't a good thing for a young man to engage too soon
in that pleasure which makes one neglect everything else."
"Let me have him, I will teach him how to live."
"Ask all, but leave me my son. You must know that I never kiss
him for fear of my giving way to excessive emotion. I wish you
knew how good and pure he is, and how well he loves me, I could
not refuse him anything.
What will people say in Venice when they see Casanova again, who
escaped from The Leads and has become twenty years younger?"
"You are going to Venice, then, for the Ascensa?"
"Yes, and you are going to Rome?"
"And to Naples, to see my friend the Duke de Matalone."
"I know him well. He has already had a son by the daughter of the
Duke de Bovino, whom he married. She must be a charming woman to
have made a man of him, for all Naples knew that he was impotent."
"Probably, she only knew the secret of making him a father."
"Well, it is possible."
We spent the time by talking with interest on various topics till
Cesarino and the husband came back. The dear child finished his
conquest of me at supper; he had a merry random wit, and all the
Neapolitan vivacity. He sat down at the clavier, and after
playing several pieces with the utmost skill he began to sing
Neapolitan songs which made us all laugh. Therese only looked at
him and me, but now and again she embraced her husband, saying,
that in love alone lies happiness.
I thought then, and I think now, that this day was one of the
happiest I have ever spent.
