troubles in which poor Pietro
Antonio Gratarol, for whom I was sincerely sorry, involved me by his
strange behaviour, were not slight or inconsiderable.

I think that the following incident is sufficiently comic to be worth
narration. I was living in the house of my ancestors, in the Calle della
Regina at S. Cassiano. The house was very large, and I was its sole
inhabitant; for my two brothers, Francesco and Almoro, had both married
and settled in Friuli, leaving me this mansion as part of my
inheritance. During the summer months, when people quit the city for the
country, I used also to visit Friuli. I was in the habit of leaving the
keys of my house with a corn-merchant, my neighbour, and a very honest
man. It chanced one autumn, through one of the tricks my evil fortune
never ceased to play, that rains and inundations kept me in Friuli
longer than usual, far indeed into November. Snow upon the mountains,
and the winds which brought fine weather, caused an intense cold. I
travelled toward Venice, well enveloped in furs, traversing deep bogs,
floundering through pitfalls in the road, and crossing streams in flood.
At last, one hour after nightfall, I arrived, half dead with the
discomforts of the journey, congealed, fatigued, and wanting sleep. I
left my boat at the post-house near S. Cassiano, made a porter shoulder
my portmanteau, and a servant take my hat-box under his arm. Then I set
off home, wrapped up in my pelisse, all anxiety to put myself into a
well-warmed bed. When we reached the Calle della Regina, we found it so
crowded with people in masks and folk of all sexes, that it was quite
impossible for my two attendants with their burdens to push a way to my
house-door. "What the devil is the meaning of this crowd?" I asked a
bystander. "The patrician Bragadino has been made Patriarch of Venice
to-day," was the man's reply. "They are illuminating and keeping
open-house; doles of bread, wine, and money are being given to the
people for three days. This is the reason of the enormous crowd." On
reflecting that the door of my house was close to the bridge by which
one passes to the Campo di Santa Maria Mater Domini, I thought that, by
making a turn round the Calle called del Ravano, I might be able to get
out into the Campo, then cross the bridge, and effect an entrance into
my abode.[10] I accomplished this long detour together with the bearers
of my luggage; but when I reached the Campo, I was struck dumb with
as