it; but, believing myself quite secure
and thoroughly master of my subject, I had not the moral courage to deny
myself the pleasure of dining with Count Mont-Real, who was then residing
with me, and who had invited the patrician Barozzi, engaged to be married
to his daughter after the Easter holidays.

I was still enjoying myself with my fine company, when the sexton of the
church came in to tell me that they were waiting for me in the vestry.
With a full stomach and my head rather heated, I took my leave, ran to
the church, and entered the pulpit. I went through the exordium with
credit to myself, and I took breathing time; but scarcely had I
pronounced the first sentences of the narration, before I forgot what I
was saying, what I had to say, and in my endeavours to proceed, I fairly
wandered from my subject and I lost myself entirely. I was still more
discomforted by a half-repressed murmur of the audience, as my deficiency
appeared evident. Several persons left the church, others began to smile,
I lost all presence of mind and every hope of getting out of the scrape.

I could not say whether I feigned a fainting fit, or whether I truly
swooned; all I know is that I fell down on the floor of the pulpit,
striking my head against the wall, with an inward prayer for
annihilation.

Two of the parish clerks carried me to the vestry, and after a few
moments, without addressing a word to anyone, I took my cloak and my hat,
and went home to lock myself in my room. I immediately dressed myself in
a short coat, after the fashion of travelling priests, I packed a few
things in a trunk, obtained some money from my grandmother, and took my
departure for Padua, where I intended to pass my third examination. I
reached Padua at midnight, and went to Doctor Gozzi's house, but I did
not feel the slightest temptation to mention to him my unlucky adventure.

I remained in Padua long enough to prepare myself for the doctor's
degree, which I intended to take the following year, and after Easter I
returned to Venice, where my misfortune was already forgotten; but
preaching was out of the question, and when any attempt was made to
induce me to renew my efforts, I manfully kept to my determination never
to ascend the pulpit again.

On the eve of Ascension Day M. Manzoni introduced me to a young
courtesan, who was at that time in great repute at Venice, and was
nick-named Cavamacchia, because her father had been a scourer. This named
vex