e, he was too late. Had he in youth
but had leisure and patience to devote himself seriously to the work of
the pen, he was confident he could have ranked with the leading members
of the profession of authorship, with the greatest imaginative writers
and philosophers. He was as sure of this as he was sure that, granted
more perseverance and foresight than he actually possessed, he could
have risen to supreme eminence as financier or as diplomat.

But what availed his patience and his foresight, what became of all his
plans in life, when the lure of a new love adventure summoned? Women,
always women. For them he had again and again cast everything to the
winds; sometimes for women who were refined, sometimes for women who
were vulgar; for passionate women and for frigid women; for maidens
and for harlots. All the honors and all the joys in the world had ever
seemed cheap to him in comparison with a successful night upon a new
love quest.

Did he regret what he had lost through his perpetual seeking and
never or ever finding, through this earthly and superearthly flitting
from craving to pleasure and from pleasure back to craving once more?
No, he had no regrets. He had lived such a life as none other before
him; and could he not still live it after his own fashion? Everywhere
there remained women upon his path, even though they might no longer be
quite so crazy about him as of old.

Amalia? He could have her for the asking, at this very hour, in her
drunken husband's bed. The hostess in Mantua; was she not in love with
him, fired with affection and jealousy as if he were a handsome lad?
Perotti's mistress, pockmarked, but a woman with a fine figure? The
very name of Casanova had intoxicated her with its aroma of a thousand
conquests. Had she not implored him to grant her but a single night of
love; and had he not spurned her as one who could still choose where he
pleased?

But Marcolina--such as Marcolina were no longer at his disposal. Had
such as Marcolina ever been at his disposal? Doubtless there were women
of that kind. Perchance he had met more than one such woman before.
Always, however, some more willing than she had been available, and he
had never been the man to waste a day in vain sighing. Since not even
Lorenzi had succeeded with Marcolina, since she had rejected the hand of
this comely officer who was as handsome and as bold as he, Casanova, had
been in youth, Marcolina might well prove to be that wonde