I let myself be persuaded, and I promised to come to him the following day; and then we proceeded to take a walk about Rome.
I had many interesting memories of my last visit, and I wanted to renew my acquaintance with those who had interested me at that happy age when such impressions are so durable because they touch the heart rather than the mind; but I had to make up my mind to a good many disappointments, considering the space of time that had elapsed since I had been in Rome.
I went to the Minerva to find Donna Cecilia; she was no more in this world. I found out where her daughter Angelica lived, and I went to see her, but she gave me a poor reception, and said that she really scarcely remembered me.
“I can say the same,” I replied, “for you are not the Angelica I used to know. Good-bye, madam!”
The lapse of time had not improved her personal appearance. I found out also where the printer’s son, who had married Barbaruccia, lived, but—I put off the pleasure of seeing him till another time, and also my visit to the Reverend Father Georgi, who was a man of great repute in Rome. Gaspar Vivaldi had gone into the country.
My brother took me to Madame Cherubini. I found her mansion to be a splendid one, and the lady welcomed me in the Roman manner. I thought her pleasant and her daughters still more so, but I thought the crowd of lovers too large and too miscellaneous. There was too much luxury and ceremony, and the girls, one of whom was as fair as Love himself, were too polite to everybody. An interesting question was put to me, to which I answered in such a manner as to elicit another question, but to no purpose. I saw that the rank of my brother, who had introduced me, prevented my being thought a person of any consequence, and on hearing an abbé say, “He’s Casanova’s brother,” I turned to him and said,—
“That’s not correct; you should say Casanova’s my brother.”
“That comes to the same thing.”
“Not at all, my dear abbé.”
I said these words in a tone which commanded attention, and another abbé said,—