g in
hell."

"The longer I live, the more interest I take in my papers. They are the
treasure which attaches me to life and makes death more hateful still."

And so on, through the Memoirs, Casanova supplies his own picture,
knowing very well that the end, even of his cherished memories, is not
far distant.

In 1797, Casanova relates an amusing, but irritating incident, which
resulted in the loss of the first three chapters of the second volume of
the Memoirs through the carelessness of a servant girl at Dux who took
the papers "old, written upon, covered with scribbling and erasures," for
"her own purposes," thus necessitating a re-writing, "which I must now
abridge," of these chapters. Thirty years before, Casanova would
doubtless have made love to the girl and all would have been forgiven.
But, alas for the "hateful old age" permitting no relief except
irritation and impotent anger.

On the 1st August, 1797, Cecilia Roggendorff, the daughter of the Count
Roggendorff [printed Roquendorf] whom Casanova had met at Vienna in 1753,
wrote: "You tell me in one of your letters that, at your death, you will
leave me, by your will, your Memoirs which occupy twelve volumes."

At this time, Casanova was revising, or had completed his revision of,
the twelve volumes. In July 1792, as mentioned above, Casanova wrote Opiz
that he had arrived at the twelfth volume. In the Memoirs themselves we
read, ". . . the various adventures which, at the age of seventy-two
years, impel me to write these Memoirs . . .," written probably during a
revision in 1797.

At the beginning of one of the two chapters of the last volume, which
were missing until discovered by Arthur Symons at Dux in 1899, we read:
"When I left Venice in the year 1783, God ought to have sent me to Rome,
or to Naples, or to Sicily, or to Parma, where my old age, according to
all appearances, might have been happy. My genius, who is always right,
led me to Paris, so that I might see my brother Francois, who had run
into debt and who was just then going to the Temple. I do not care
whether or not he owes me his regeneration, but I am glad to have
effected it. If he had been grateful to me, I should have felt myself
paid; it seems to me much better that he should carry the burden of his
debt on his shoulders, which from time to time he ought to find heavy. He
does not deserve a worse punishment. To-day, in the seventy-third year of
my life, my only desire is to live in p