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.