At daybreak I got up from the straw. Stephano followed, yawning and scratching himself.
The room looked even more miserable in the gray light. The two women had vanished. Their corner was empty, the bundles of rags gone.
The old man had not moved from his pallet. Something about his stillness did not feel like sleep. I went closer. A dark swelling bloomed on his forehead, round and hard as a walnut.
"You have likely killed him," I said to Stephano, pointing at the bruise.
He shrugged.
"Possible," he answered. "I did not do it on purpose."
He bent over his great cloak, thrust his arm into the famous back pocket, and found it flat.
At that discovery he turned purple, stamping and cursing Saint Francis, the women, the dog and the whole house.
For my part I felt almost relieved. If the women had meant to fetch the constable, they would not have taken time to empty his batticulo.
They had robbed us and run.
Their absence, and the emptied cloak, seemed the best guarantee that no one would come back with irons for our wrists.
"We must get out of here before anyone sees us," I told him. "If the old man is dead and we are found beside him, nothing will save us from the gallows."
I piled on every possible danger … the judge, the chains, the galleys.
Stephano stopped raging, grabbed his cloak and hurried out with me behind him.
On the road we soon overtook a waggoner bound for Foligno. For a few coins he let us climb up beside the sacks.
We ate our breakfast in Foligno, happy to make a greater distance between us and the scene of our last adventures.
While we were still chewing our bread, another empty waggon creaked into the square. For a trifle we bought places on it and let it carry us to Pisignano.
There a pious soul, devoted to the sons of Saint Francis, gave us a bed and a bowl of soup in the name of charity.
That night I slept without straw, without dogs, without women, and, above all, without the fear of waking up in the hands of the law.
Early next morning we entered Spoleto. Stephano grew lively at once. He had, he told me, two benefactors there.
"And you will offend neither," I said.
He tapped his nose with a sanctimonious grin, already congratulating himself on the delicacy of his conscience.
He managed it like a diplomat.
We dined with the first patron, who served us as if we were envoys from the Pope. Silver, white bread, meat enough for a regiment, and servants who watched attentively for our every need.
Stephano played humble, lowered his eyes, spoke in sighs and blessings, and left with his belly full and his pockets heavier.
At dusk we presented ourselves at the second house, that of a wine merchant, rich, broad-shouldered, and blessed with a home noisy with children and happiness.
The man received us with an honest warmth. His wife brought steaming dishes to the table and smiled at my compliments.
Everything promised a peaceful night.
It would have been so, if Stephano had not been Stephano.
The good dinner from noon was still fermenting in his head.
He drank again. And with each cup his piety turned into insolence.
Suddenly he began to praise this host by insulting the other.
"The wine he gave us was watered," he cried, smacking his lips with theatrical disgust. "A thief! A cheat! He sells sin and vinegar!"
I saw the merchant's face change, not from anger, but from embarrassment. To accuse a neighbor at table is to throw mud on the cloth.
"That is a lie," I said. "And you are a scoundrel for saying it."
The merchant and his wife hurried to soften the blow, as decent people do when a madman ruins their evening.
They assured me they knew their neighbor well, that there was no need to trouble myself. They spoke gently, as if speaking to a child who has spilled wine.
Stephano answered by flinging his napkin into my face.
The gesture was so stupid, so base, that my hand rose before my reason could catch it. The merchant was quicker.
He took the monk by the arm, almost tenderly, like a father dealing with a drunk son, led him out, shut him in a room, and turned the key without any drama.
I slept alone, grateful for the lock.
At dawn I dressed in silence. My thoughts ran ahead of my feet. Leave him. Walk to Rome without this plague in a cowl.
I had just about resolved it when the door opened and Stephano appeared, pale, sober, and suddenly full of brotherly wisdom.
"We must live like good friends," he said, with the air of a man forgiving me. "We must not surrender to anger."
I looked at him. His eyes were clear now, but his soul was the same lazy fraud.
Still, fate held my collar. I swallowed my answer and followed him out once more.
We resumed our road and came to Soma, where the inn was kept by a woman of rare beauty.
She fed us well, poured us Cyprus wine, and moved between the tables with that careless grace which makes men feel poor for being mortal.
I learned from the couriers that the wine came from Venice, paid for in truffles dug from the hills around Soma, black and fragrant, worth their weight in pleasure.
As for me, I left the inn with my stomach warmed, my head lightened by the Cyprus, and a small, inconvenient wound in the heart that I had not possessed when I entered.
Two miles out of Terni the monk stopped, his eyes shining with greedy triumph, and pulled a small greasy bag from under his cloak.
He loosened the string and thrust it under my nose. The smell rose at once, rich and earthy. Truffles.
The very same perfume that had floated from the kitchen at Soma.
He laughed.
"Our holy father Saint Francis," he said, "has provided for us again."
I took the bag from his hand and opened it. It was full.
There was at least the value of two sequins inside, stolen crumb by crumb from the woman who had fed us and treated us kindly.
My blood went hot.
"You stole these from her," I said. "And you did it after she trusted you at her table."
He shrugged, already reaching for the bag again.
"She has plenty. We are poor. Give it back, and do not preach."
"I will give it back," I answered, "but not to you."
I turned on my heel to head back to Soma.
That was all it took.
He sprang at me, claws out, his stick swinging for my head.
He had forgotten that I was young and angry.
We grappled in the dust beside the road. His breath stank of wine, mine of rage.
He aimed wild blows, howling that the truffles were his by the grace of Saint Francis.
I caught his stick on a rush, wrenched it from his hands, and sent him stumbling backward into the ditch.
He fell in a tangle of brown cloth and curses. 1
I did not trouble myself to answer him. I slung the little bag at my belt and walked on alone.
In Terni I found ink, paper, and a man who knew the road to Soma.
I wrote to the lovely innkeeper, begged her pardon for arriving with such a companion, and confessed the theft in all its detail. I sent the truffles back with my letter, the only reparation I could offer.
From Terni I went on foot to Otricoli, stayed only long enough to look at the ancient bridge and feel the weight of history in its stones, then bargained with a carter for four paoli to take me as far as Castelnuovo.
From there I walked again to Rome.
I entered the Eternal City on the first day of September, just as the bells were sounding the hour, and saw the domes of Rome rise out of the morning haze.
I must not forget to mention here a rather peculiar circumstance, which, however ridiculous it may be in reality, will please many of my readers.
About an hour after leaving Castel-Nuovo, the air was perfectly still and the sky so clear that every star seemed newly washed.
I was walking at an easy pace, thinking of Rome, when a sudden light drew my eye to the right.
Within ten paces of me, above the ditch by the roadside, a flame stood upright like a torch no hand had kindled.
It rose in a pointed pyramid, perhaps two feet in height, floating four or five feet above the earth. It did not flicker as a candle does. It burned steadily, calmly, as if the night itself had sprouted fire.
I stopped.
It stopped too.
I took three quick steps toward it.
At once it slid away, keeping the same distance, as though it mocked my curiosity.
I advanced again.
It retreated again.
When I halted, it hung there, patient, waiting, companionable in its insolence.
The road soon entered a line of trees. Their branches swallowed the light, and I saw nothing but darkness between the trunks.
Yet the moment I came out into an open stretch, it appeared again on my right, in the same place, at the same height, keeping pace with me like a silent guide that refused to be approached.
Once, purely to test it, I turned back.
The flame vanished as if snuffed by an unseen finger.
I walked forward toward Rome again, and after a few minutes it returned -faithful, teasing, always ten paces off, always beyond reach- until the eastern sky began to pale.
With the first true light of dawn it weakened, thinned, and disappeared into the morning, leaving nothing but wet grass and my own footsteps.
Had anyone seen it with me, they would have made a prophecy of it.
Had I later become a great man in Rome, it would have been recorded solemnly as an omen, and grave scholars would have argued over the meaning of my little roadside flame.
Even I, who had read some physics and thought myself tolerably guarded against illusions, felt my mind play with strange fancies as it followed that wandering fire.
But I was prudent enough not to mention the circumstance to anyone.
When I reached that ancient capital of the world, I had only seven paoli in my purse. That sum leaves no leisure for admiration.
I did not even turn my head toward the pompous gateway lined with poplars, absurdly called the People's Gate.
I did not pause in the square, nor lift my eyes to the façades of churches, nor to those vast buildings that make other travelers stop short as if struck by wonder. My hunger kept my gaze level.
My poverty pulled me forward like a cord.
I went straight to Monte Magnanopoli, where, according to the address I carried, I was to find the bishop.
At the door they told me, almost indifferently, that he had left Rome ten days earlier. He had, however, been charitable enough to leave instructions.
I was to be sent to Naples at no cost to myself. A coach would depart the next day.
Rome, therefore, might as well have been a painted backdrop. I saw it only as one sees a room while searching for the exit.
I found a bed and lay in it like a man hiding from his own misfortune.
When the hour came, I climbed into the coach with three fellows whose faces inspired neither curiosity nor trust.
I did not speak to them. They did not speak to me.
We travelled in a silence broken only by wheels, whips, and the groaning of tired wood.
On the sixth day of September, I entered Naples.
I hurried to the address that had been given to me in Rome.
No bishop.
I went at once to the convent of the Minims.
He had left Naples as well, and had gone on to Martorano.
"Did he leave word for me?" I asked.
They looked at one another, then at me.
No one knew anything.
And there I was, in a great city that roared and glittered around me, without a friend, without a guide, with eight carlini in my pocket, and with my future reduced to a question I could not answer.
For a moment I simply stood, listening to the street, feeling small beneath the noise of Naples. Then I shrugged, the only wisdom poverty teaches quickly.
"Very well," I said to myself. "Since fate calls me to Martorano, to Martorano I shall go."
The distance was only two hundred miles. Only, when one has a carriage. Not quite so little when one has an empty pocket.
I sought out drivers bound for Cosenza. There were several. I offered myself as a passenger.
They looked me over.
"No trunk?" one asked.
"No."
"Then pay now."
I could not. I would not.
They turned away as if I had insulted them.
They were right to be prudent, and I was left with the only road open to the truly poor.
I would walk.
I tightened my belt, pulled my coat close, and set my face toward Martorano, resolved to beg bread and shelter like the very reverend Brother Stephano, whose lesson, it seemed, I was now forced to practice.
I began by doing what an empty purse always advises.
I ate lightly, yet it cost me a full quarter of what I possessed, and that single fact warned me how quickly Naples could devour a man.
I asked my way, was told to take the Salerno road, and set off toward Portici. In an hour and a half, I reached it, already feeling my legs protest.
My head still held itself proud, but my limbs dragged me into an inn as if they had paid for the lodging themselves.
I ordered a room and supper.
The landlord served me with a civility that felt almost luxurious. Hunger sharpened every flavour.
I ate with a great appetite, then slept without dreams in a clean bed.
At daybreak I told the innkeeper I would be back for dinner, and went out to see the royal palace.
As I passed the gate, a man stepped toward me, brisk and smiling, dressed in the Eastern fashion. His clothes had that neat richness which speaks without boasting.
His eyes measured me in an instant, yet his tone was all kindness.
"Signore," he said, "I can show you the whole palace. You will save your money."
To save money was at that moment the finest poetry in the world. I thanked him at once and accepted.
While we spoke I mentioned, casually, that I was Venetian. He stopped as if the word had struck a bell.
"Then I am your subject," he said, with a respectful bow. "I am from Zante."
I returned his civility with a little reverence of my own. The exchange pleased him. It also made him bolder.
"I have muscatel," he went on, lowering his voice. "Grown in the East. I can sell it cheaply."
"I may buy," I said. "But understand me. I am not easily deceived where wine is concerned."
His teeth flashed.
"So much the better," he replied. "Which do you prefer?"
"The Cerigo."
He clapped his hands softly, delighted.
"You are a man of taste. I have Cerigo muscatel, rare and excellent. Come dine with me, and we will taste it."
I had no reason to refuse, and every reason to accept.
"Gladly," I said.
He walked a little closer, as if we were already friends, and began to scatter other temptations in my path.
"I can also offer Samos, and Cephalonia." Then, as if wine were only the beginning of his wealth, he added, "And minerals. Vitriol. Cinnabar. Antimony. A hundred quintals of mercury."
I looked at him more carefully.
"And are these wonders here in Portici?" I asked.
He laughed, shaking his head.
"No. In Naples. Here I have only the muscatel… and the mercury."
A young man who has grown up poor does not lie by design. He lies by reflex.
Poverty has taught him shame, and shame teaches him boasting.
When he speaks to a rich stranger, his tongue suddenly discovers estates, revenues, prospects. He makes himself sound secure, not to deceive so much as to breathe.
As I walked beside my new Greek acquaintance, a little scrap of chemistry rose in my memory.
I had once seen an amalgam of mercury with lead and bismuth, by which the mercury seems to gain a fourth of its weight.
I kept my face smooth and my mouth shut.
Inside, my thoughts began to sharpen.
If the Greek did not know the trick, I might turn it to my advantage.
But no man pays for a secret that is offered like a beggar's hand.
I needed to lay bait.
I resolved to astonish him first, to make him see the miracle with his own eyes, then to laugh at it as if it were nothing.
A man who thinks you are careless begins to grow greedy. And greed opens the purse more easily than persuasion.
Cheating is a crime, but honest cunning may be considered as a species of prudence. 2
True, it is a quality which is near akin to roguery; but that cannot be helped, and the man who, in time of need, does not know how to exercise his cunning nobly is a fool.
The Greeks call this sort of wisdom Cerdaleophyon from the word cerdo; fox, and it might be translated by foxdom if there were such a word in English.
Author Note
1- This is almost the last we will see of our precious monk, the great Brother Stephano
2- There is nothing better than Casanova's wholesome self-reflections and justifications … the term "honest cunning", quite impressive I have to say