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Updated: May 3, 2025
"I decline the favour, as I abominate the rats, which you know nothing about, and which would certainly get into my bed." "What a pity! I told M. Cavalli that he had almost killed you with his books, and he has commissioned me to take them back, and to give you Boethius; and here it is." "I am much obliged to you. I like it better than Seneca, and I am sure it will do me good."
So dismal and dreary a place did I find it that I asked its name. How I laughed when I was told that it was Agrada! "Here, then," I said to myself, "did that saintly lunatic produce that masterpiece which but for M. Cavalli I should never have known."
It strikes one as a refinement of symmetrical irony that the ink which exudes from these fish and stains everything around should be used for indicating what their price is. One sees them here lying dead; one can see them also, alive and swimming about, in the aquarium on the Lido, where the prettiest creatures are the little cavalli marini, or sea horses, roosting in the tiny submarine branches.
The wildness of my dreams made me laugh when I recalled them in my waking moments. If I had possessed the necessary materials I would have written my visions down, and I might possibly have produced in my cell a still madder work than the one chosen with such insight by Cavalli.
In the height of the conversation, what should come but a gondola, and we saw Count Rosemberg, the ambassador from Vienna, getting out of it. I got directly into M. Memmo's gondola, and we went forthwith to M. Cavalli, secretary to the State Inquisitors.
Secretary Erasso, the papal nuncio Castagna, the Venetian envoy Cavalli, all express a conviction that the death of the prince had been brought about by his own extravagant conduct and mental excitement; by alternations of starving and voracious eating, by throwing himself into the fire; by icing his bed, and by similar acts of desperation.
We then crossed one room, and entered another, where sat an individual in the dress of a noble, who, after looking fixedly at me, said, "E quello, mettetelo in deposito:" This man was the secretary of the Inquisitors, the prudent Dominic Cavalli, who was apparently ashamed to speak Venetian in my presence as he pronounced my doom in the Tuscan language.
For these two or three days past, both mind and body have been quite upset. I burn with fever; all around me grin pale blood-stained faces. Ah! Ambrose, if they had but spared the weak and innocent." A change, indeed, had come over him; be became more restless than ever, his looks savage, his buffoonery coarser and more boisterous. "Ne mai poteva pigliar requie" says Sigismond Cavalli.
"I decline the favour, as I abominate the rats, which you know nothing about, and which would certainly get into my bed." "What a pity! I told M. Cavalli that he had almost killed you with his books, and he has commissioned me to take them back, and to give you Boethius; and here it is." "I am much obliged to you. I like it better than Seneca, and I am sure it will do me good."
"Write me the prescription, and take it to the only apothecary who can make it up. M. Cavalli is the bad doctor who exhibited 'The Heart of Jesus, and 'Tire Mystical City." "Those two preparations are quite capable of having brought on the fever and the haemorrhoids. I will not forsake you" After making me a large jug of lemonade, and telling the to drink frequently, he went away.
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