What Casanova Told Me Read Online Free PDF

with his companions and I set out to find the Listone, the promenade in the Piazza San Marco that Venetians like to frequent. I wanted to avoid Francis, who would be returning from an inspection of Burano’s lacemaking industry. Fortunately, Father often sends Francis off on research tasks, sparing me his company.
    It was early evening as I threaded my way through the throngs who had come out for Good Friday mass at the Basilica of San Marco. I ignored the beggars in silk who accost foreigners like myself and hurried past the pitiful coops of chickens and pigeons waiting to be auctioned for Easter dinners; I sidestepped a battalion of sturdy peasant women from Friuli selling water from buckets that hang in ox-like yokes across their shoulders, and tried to ignore a small dwarf who brought the blood to my face when he called out to me to suckle him.
    Seeking fresh sea breezes, I went and stood between the two granite pillars on the Molo. Venetians avoid this place because executions once took place there but I am not concerned by superstition. I gazed about me, imagining myself a kind of executioner’s victim, and the hand holding the noose that of my own father. Slowly, I became aware of a man by the landing where the gondolas are tied for the night, his face and body hidden in the shadows cast by the Ducal Palace. I looked to see if he was someone I knew but I couldn’t make him out. I felt rather than saw him, felt his gaze, curious and compelling. I moved away a little, taking a few steps towards the north, and he did the same. I took a few steps backwards into the Piazza and he too took a few steps backwards. I could see that he was wearing a coat and large hat shaped like a black fan. Its width marked it as a Kevenhuller.
    I am not used to exciting interest in a man, since my height lets me see over the heads of most, but this evening I felt something stir in My Poor Friend, whose misfortune it is to house the spirit of Asked For Adams. I turned away from him and headed towards the Campanile. I did not stop and look over my shoulder. I knew, that is to say,I
felt
that he was following me and I was not certain whether this was what I wanted. The Campanile has no stairs. I made my way up the wooden incline, a gently sloping floor that goes round and round inside the tower.
    At every pillar, I stopped and looked out of one of the small portholes cut into the brick. I was beginning to enjoy myself. I was alone in the Campanile and the sun was setting. This fact registered on me, nevertheless I felt neither fear nor excitement—only a sure, steady calm when I heard his footsteps echoing behind me.
    After a long climb, I reached the platform with the bells where red and green marble columns support the four arches that hold up each side of the tower. The platform above the bells offers a vantage point that allows the eye to wander over the whole of Venice and the horizon beyond. Too fatigued to climb higher, I stopped and took out Peabody’s guide and found I was looking down at the Sansovinian Library. On its roof, I saw the large white statues representing Venus and Neptune and other allegorical figures. The sudden appearance of these figures moved me greatly. Here on the rooftops, a city of white, silenced beings, created and now forgotten by the people below, were marching with steadfast expressions in the air above Venice.
    I knew he was there before he spoke. I turned. He took off his Kevenhuller and Philippe de la Haye, the brother of Countess Waldstein, stood before me.
    I did not speak and neither did he. As we studied each other, I was surprised to see signs of strength in his aged body, the huge bull neck and large aggressive nose, the sunburnt face, almost African in complexion. He was still handsome to look upon and he moved with the grace of amuch younger person, confident of his physical strength when he no longer had a right to be so.
    Then he groaned and sat down on a little bench by one of the arches and