In vain did Casanova plead and protest; Delilah’s version of events had won the jury easily and definitively. The more he tried to trace the faint outlines of romance that brought him to her chambers that fateful night, the clearer it became that all the signs and suggestions took place only in his mind, indeed, that they were only signs of a mind racked with lust and obsession. Not only that, but Casanova spoke passionately and at length of his craft and intimate knowledge of his quarry. It was with a measure of sadness, but perhaps also relief, that the kingdom witnessed its most infamous womanizer reduce himself to the role of jilted lover.
There are then at least two possible truths: Delilah’s, which unmasks Casanova as a bumbler and a villain, someone who, being constantly in love with himself, is unable to comprehend unrequited affection, and drives himself to misdeeds; and Casanova’s, who sees Delilah manipulating him towards humiliation, turning his own thinking against him, turning hunter to prey. The latter is far-fetched to say the least. It shows Delilah outdoing even her biblical namesake, for her Samson ended up cutting his hair on his own.
I say at least two, for there is a third truth, which somewhat fuses the others, and also serves to humanize both Casanova and Delilah, somewhat. It tells us that there was indeed a subtle dance between those two tigers, but Casanova simply fumbled the approach. Where the tigers dance, a passing glance may indeed carry the gravity of impending bloodshed, but such delicate timing also portends a pounce too soon or too late, or too clumsy. Delilah might then be caught in a double-bind. Unable to admit she encouraged his advances, more unable still to give in. Perhaps she simply never meant for it to go that far. How then could great Casanova miscalculate her so? Perhaps he was finally faced with a conquest whose very value daunted him, blinded him with anticipation. Perhaps more than anticipation, even. After a long career in burning, breaking, and eating hearts, it might have been Casanova’s own heart that betrayed him. It might have proven a heart too small to conquer the heart he so desired.
Yet I would argue for a fourth truth, although calling it a truth stretches the word. It is a paradox, a truth of lies. What if, in the pits of her reasoning, Delilah so anticipated Casanova’s actions that even his version of the story suited her purposes. Assume Delilah is indeed a master manipulator who laid out Casanova’s own game as a trap for him to fall into. She would still suffer a reputational blow, for there would always be some Venetians who would take his word over hers. But that’s not what seems to happen, for in marketplaces and thoroughfares we are all steadfast about our Princess’s character; and as for Casanova, we all knew what he was made of. Yet at night I like to think that maybe she did indeed deceive him. Maybe it’s the power, maybe it’s simply titillating, maybe power is and should be titillating, I do not know. Chests heave with warm breezes behind the open windows of Venice on a summer night. Delilah might have deceived and seduced us all. One truth unites us, another truth excites us, and Casanova lies in his cell, destroyed doubly.
the Budafoki amended 