CHAPTER TWELVE


It was on the third morning of his journey that Casanova, having reached
Mestre, sighted once more the bell tower after over twenty years of
longing--a pillar of grey stone looming distantly in the twilight. It
was but two leagues now to the beloved city in which he had been young.
He paid the driver without remembering whether this was the fifth or
the sixth with whom he had had to settle since quitting Mantua, and,
followed by a lad carrying his baggage, walked through the mean streets
to the harbor from which to-day, just as five-and-twenty years earlier,
the boat was to leave for Venice at six in the morning.

The vessel seemed to have been waiting for him; hardly had he seated
himself upon a narrow bench, among petty traders, manual workers, and
women bringing their wares to market, when she cast off. It was a cloudy
morning; mist was rolling across the lagoons; there was a smell of
bilge-water, damp wood, fish, and fruit. The Campanile grew ever higher;
additional towers appeared; cupolas became visible. The light of the
morning sun was reflected from one roof, from two, from many. Individual
houses were distinguishable, growing larger by degrees. Boats, great and
small, showed through the mist; greetings were shouted from vessel to
vessel. The chatter around him grew louder. A little girl offered him
some grapes for sale. Munching the purple berries, he spat the skins
over the side after the manner of his countrymen. He entered into
friendly talk with someone who expressed satisfaction that the weather
seemed to be clearing at last.

"What, has it been raining here for three days? That is news to me. I