It was written, apparently, in the book of fate that I should return to Venice exactly as I had left it: a simple ensign.
The general did not keep his word. The lieutenancy promised to me was given to the bastard son of a nobleman.
From that moment, the military profession disgusted me. Of all careers, it is the one most exposed to arbitrary despotism.
I determined to give it up.
But that disappointment was not my deepest sorrow. Fortune herself seemed to have turned against me. From the hour of my degradation with Melulla, every misfortune appeared to follow naturally, as if one vile weakness had opened the gate to all the rest.
The greatest blow was one I had the good sense to try to call a favour.
A week before the army was to leave, M. D. R. took me back as his adjutant, and M. F. had to engage another in my place.
This removed me from Madame F.'s house.
When the change was settled, she told me, with an appearance of regret, that in Venice, for many reasons, we could not continue our intimacy.
I begged her to spare me the reasons, as I foresaw that they would only throw humiliation upon me.
I began to discover that the goddess I had worshipped was, after all, a poor human being like all other women, and to think that I should have been very foolish to give up my life for her.
I probed in one day the real worth of her heart, for she told me, I cannot recollect in reference to what, that I excited her pity.
I saw clearly that she no longer loved me; pity is a debasing feeling which cannot find a home in a heart full of love, for that dreary sentiment is too near a relative of contempt.
From that day, I was never again alone with Madame F.
I loved her still; I could easily have made her blush, but I did not do it.
As soon as we reached Venice, Madame F. attached herself to M. F. R., whom she loved until death took him from her. Twenty years later, she had the misfortune to lose her sight. I believe she is still alive.
The last two months of my stay in Corfu taught me bitter lessons, and useful ones. In later years, I often found in that experience a warning, though I had bought it dearly.
Before my miserable adventure with Melulla, I had everything.
My health was excellent. My purse was full. Fortune smiled at my play. Everyone liked me. The most beautiful woman in Corfu loved me. When I spoke, people listened. My wit was admired, my judgments repeated, my words treated almost like oracles. The world agreed with me because fortune stood at my shoulder.
After that fatal night, everything changed.
My health failed first. Then my money began to go. Credit followed. Cheerfulness left me. Consideration cooled. Even my wit, that faithful servant which had so often rescued me, seemed to desert with the rest.
I would talk, but people knew that I was unfortunate, and I no longer interested or convinced my hearers.
My influence over Madame F. faded by degrees.
She did not notice it at once. Perhaps I did not either. No great rupture came, no violent scene, no final word. Her tenderness withdrew quietly, like water sinking into sand.
The lovely woman who had once trembled at my sorrow, who had given me her hair, her kisses, her tears, became, almost without knowing it, completely indifferent to me.
I left Corfu without money.
I had sold or pledged everything I possessed of value, and still I was poor. Twice I had reached that island rich and happy; twice I left it poor and miserable. This time I left with debts behind me, debts I never paid, not through want of will but through carelessness.
Rich and in good health, everyone received me with open arms; poor and looking sick, no one shewed me any consideration.
With a full purse and the tone of a conqueror, I was thought witty, amusing; with an empty purse and a modest air, all I said appeared dull and insipid.
If I had become rich again, how soon I would have been again accounted the eighth wonder of the world!
Oh, men! oh, fortune! Everyone avoided me as if the ill luck which crushed me down was infectious.
We left Corfu towards the end of September with five galleys, two galleasses, and several smaller vessels, all under the command of M. Renier. We sailed northward along the Adriatic, keeping close to the coast, where harbours are plentiful, and entered one every night.
I saw Madame F. every evening. She came with her husband to sup aboard our galleass. I spoke to her when occasion required, and kept within the cold boundaries to which we had both retreated.
There is a pain more bitter than absence: the daily presence of a woman who once belonged to your hope and now belongs only to memory.
The voyage was favourable.
On the 14th of October, 1745, we cast anchor in the harbour of Venice. After performing quarantine aboard our ships, we landed on the 25th of November.
Two months later, the galleasses were abolished altogether.
Their origin went far back into antiquity, which was perhaps the best argument ever made for getting rid of them. They cost a fortune to maintain and served almost no purpose. A galleass had the body of a frigate and the oars of a galley; when the wind failed, five hundred slaves had to pull that heavy carcass through the water.
Before simple good sense managed to prevail and to enforce the suppression of these useless carcasses, there were long discussions in the senate, and those who opposed the measure took their principal ground of opposition in the necessity of respecting and conserving all the institutions of olden times.
That is the disease of persons who can never identify themselves with the successive improvements born of reason and experience; worthy persons who ought to be sent to China, or to the dominions of the Grand Lama, where they would certainly be more at home than in Europe.
In a republic, such arguments have great power. A republic trembles before novelty, whether the matter is great or small. It fears that by touching one old stone, the whole building may fall. Superstition lends its support to this fear, and between superstition and habit, the most absurd things often find excellent defenders.
There is however one naval institution Venice will never abolish: the galleys.
The Venetians need vessels which can move in all weathers, especially in a narrow sea where calms are frequent. Besides, they would not know what to do with the men condemned to hard labour.
At Corfu, where there are often as many as three thousand galley slaves, I observed a strange distinction.
It is that the men who row on the galleys, in consequence of a sentence passed upon them for some crime, are held in a kind of opprobrium, whilst those who are there voluntarily are, to some extent, respected.
I have always thought it ought to be the reverse, because misfortune, whatever it may be, ought to inspire some sort of respect; but the vile fellow who condemns himself voluntarily and as a trade to the position of a slave seems to me contemptible in the highest degree.
The convicts of the Republic, however, enjoy many privileges, and in many respects they are better treated than soldiers.
It often happens that soldiers desert and present themselves to a sopracomito in order to become galley slaves. When that occurs, the captain who has lost the soldier has nothing to do but to submit patiently, for he would claim the man in vain.
The reason is simple. The Republic has always believed galley slaves more necessary than soldiers. Perhaps now, in 1797 as I write these lines, the Venetians are beginning to discover their mistake.
A galley slave, for example, has the privilege of stealing almost with impunity.
Theft is considered the least crime such a man may commit, and therefore the most pardonable. His master says to you:
"Keep on your guard. If you you catch him in the act of stealing, thrash him, but be careful not to cripple him; otherwise you must pay me the one hundred ducats the man has cost me."
Even a court of justice cannot remove a slave from a galley unless it first reimburses the master for the sum he paid.
As soon as I landed in Venice, I went to Madame Orio's house.
I found it empty.
A neighbour told me she had married Procurator Rosa and moved into his house. I went there at once and was received kindly.
Madame Orio told me what had become of the two charming sisters. Nanette had become Countess R. and was living at Guastalla with her husband.
Twenty-four years later, I met her eldest son, then a distinguished officer in the service of the Infante of Parma.
As for Marton, the grace of Heaven had touched her, and she had become a nun in the convent at Muran.
Two years afterwards, I received from her a letter full of unction, in which she adjured me, in the name of Our Saviour and of the Holy Virgin, never to present myself before her eyes.
Christian charity, she wrote, obliged her to forgive me for the crime I had committed in seducing her. She was certain of the reward promised to the elect, and she assured me that she would pray constantly for my conversion.
I never saw her again.
She, however, saw me in 1754, as I shall relate when we come to that year.
I found Madame Manzoni unchanged.
She had once predicted that I would not remain in the military profession. When I told her I had resolved to leave it, because I could not swallow the injustice done to me, she burst out laughing.
"And what profession do you intend to follow after giving up the army?"
"I intend to become an advocate."
She laughed again and said.
"It is too late."
Yet I was only twenty.
From her I went to the Abbé Grimani. He welcomed me in a friendly fashion. When I asked after my brother François, he told me that he had placed him in Fort Saint André, the very same fort where I had once been confined before the arrival of the Bishop of Martorano.
"He works for the major there," said Grimani. "He copies Simonetti's battle-pieces, and the major pays him for them; in that manner he earns his living, and is becoming a good painter."
"But he is not a prisoner?"
"Well, very much like it, for he cannot leave the fort. The major, whose name is Spiridion, is a friend of Razetta, who could not refuse him the pleasure of taking care of your brother."
Razetta again.
I felt it a dreadful curse that the fatal Razetta should be the tormentor of all my family, but I concealed my anger.
"And my sister? Is she still with him?"
"No. She has gone to your mother in Dresden."
That, at least, was good news.
I took leave of Grimani with all the cordiality I could command, and went at once to Fort Saint André.
I found François at work.
He looked healthy, neither pleased nor displeased with his position. I embraced him tenderly.
"What crime have you committed," I asked, "to be kept here like a prisoner?"
"Ask the major," he said, "for I have not the faintest idea."
At that moment the major entered.
I saluted him as a soldier.
"By what authority, sir, do you keep my brother under arrest?"
"I am not accountable to you for my actions."
"That remains to be seen."
I turned to François.
"Take your hat. You will dine with me."
The major laughed and said, "I have no objection provided the sentinel allows him to pass."
I saw that I should only waste my time in discussion, and I left the fort fully bent on obtaining justice.
The next day I went to the war office, where I had the pleasure of meeting my dear Major Pelodoro, then commander of the fortress of Chioggia.
I told him two things: first, that I meant to complain to the secretary of war about my brother's arrest; second, that I had resolved to leave the army.
He approved both resolutions. As for my commission, he promised that, as soon as the secretary gave permission, he would find a purchaser willing to pay the same hundred sequins I had paid.
I did not have to wait long.
The secretary of war came into the office, and in half an hour everything was arranged. He promised to authorize the sale of my commission once he had examined the abilities of the purchaser.
Major Spiridion happened to make his appearance in the office while I was still there, the secretary turned to him and rather angrily ordered him to set my brother free immediately and warned him never again to indulge in such arbitrary and reprehensible conduct.
I went straight to Fort Saint André.
François came out with me.
We took furnished lodgings and lived together.
A few days later, I received my discharge and my hundred sequins. I threw off the uniform and found myself once more my own master.
I had to earn my living in one way or another, and I decided for the profession of gamester.
Dame Fortune did not approve the appointment. From my first steps in that career she turned her back on me, and in less than a week I had not a groat left.
What was I to do?
A man must live.
So I became a fiddler.
Doctor Gozzi had taught me enough to scrape a violin in a theatre orchestra. I mentioned my need to M. Grimani, and he procured me an engagement at his own theatre of Saint Samuel. There I earned a crown a day, and supported myself while I awaited better things.
Fully aware of my true position, I kept away from the fashionable circles which I used to frequent before my fortune had sunk so low.
I knew very well what people thought of me. To them I was a ruined young man, a worthless fellow, one of those meteors who shine for a moment and then fall into the mud. They most certainly despised me.
I did not complain.
What comforted me, strangely enough, was the knowledge that I had earned part of that contempt. A man suffers less from public judgment when his conscience, severe but honest, tells him the sentence is not entirely unjust.
I felt humiliated.
How could I not? I had played a brilliant part in society. I had worn the uniform, commanded attention, told stories before generals, made women laugh, handled gold, won applause, and been treated as a man of consequence. Now I scraped a violin in the orchestra of a theatre for a crown a day.
But I kept my fall to myself.
That made the difference. I was ashamed, yes, but not degraded. Shame belongs to the soul; degradation begins when one consents to wear it before others.
Besides, I had not exchanged my last word with Dame Fortune, and was still in hope of reckoning with her some day, because I was young, and youth is dear to Fortune.