.... He breathed the word once more. Its splendor captivated
his imagination, and in a moment its old power over him had been
restored. The city of his youth rose before his eyes, enshrined in all
the charms of memory. His heart ached with yearning more intense than
any that he could recall. To renounce the idea of returning home seemed
to him the most incredible of the sacrifices which his destiny might
demand. How could he go on living in this poor and faded world without
the hope, without the certainty, that he was one day to see the beloved
city again? After the years and decades of wanderings and adventures,
after all the happiness and unhappiness he had experienced, after
all the honor and all the shame, after so many triumphs and so many
discomfitures--he must at length find a resting place, must at length
find a home.
Was there any other home for him than Venice? Was there any good fortune
reserved for him other than this, that he should have a home once
more? It was long since in foreign regions he had been able to command
enduring happiness. He could still at times grasp happiness, but for
a moment only; he could no longer hold it fast.
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