In reply, being a scholarly rascal, he wrote six verses himself. Having no pen he cut the long nail of his little finger to a point, and, splitting it, supplied the want. For ink he used the juice of mulberries. In addition to the verses, he wrote a list of the books in his possession, which he placed at the disposal of his fellow captive. He concealed the written sheet in the spine of that vellum-bound volume; and on the title-page, in warning of this, he wrote the single Latin word /Latet/. Next morning he handed the book to Lorenzo, telling him that he had read it, and requesting the second volume.
That second volume came on the next day, and in the spine of it a long letter, some sheets of paper, pens, and a pencil. The writer announced himself as one Marino Balbi, a patrician and a monk, who had been four years in that prison, where he had since been given a companion in misfortune, Count Andrea Asquino.
Thus began a regular and very full correspondence between the prisoners, and soon Casanova — who had not lived on his wits for nothing — was able to form a shrewd estimate of Balbi’s character. The monk’s letters revealed it as compounded of sensuality, stupidity, ingratitude, and indiscretion.
“In the world,” says Casanova, “I should have had no commerce with a fellow of his nature. But in the Piombi I was obliged to make capital out of everything that came under my hands.”
The capital he desired to make in this instance was to ascertain whether Balbi would be disposed to do for him what he could not do for himself. He wrote, enquiring, and proposing flight.
Balbi replied that he and his companion would do anything possible to make their escape from that abominable prison, but his lack of resource made him add that he was convinced that nothing was possible.
“All that you have to do,” wrote Casanova in answer, “is to break through the ceiling of my cell and get me out of this, then trust to me to get you out of the Piombi. If you are disposed to make the attempt, I will supply you with the means, and show you the way.”
It was a characteristically bold reply, revealing to us the utter gamester that he was in all things.
He knew that Balbi’s cell was situated immediately under the leads, and he hoped that once in it he should be able readily to find a way through the roof. That cell of Balbi’s communicated with a narrow corridor, no more than a shaft for light and air, which was immediately above Casanova’s prison. And no sooner had Balbi written, consenting, than Casanova explained what was to do. Balbi must break through the wall of his cell into the little corridor, and there cut a round hole in the floor — precisely as Casanova had done in his former cell — until nothing but a shell of ceiling remained — a shell that could be broken down by half a dozen blows when the moment to escape should have arrived.
To begin with, he ordered Balbi to purchase himself two or three dozen pictures of saints, with which to paper his walls, using as many as might be necessary for a screen to hide the hole he would be cutting.
When Balbi wrote that his walls were hung with pictures of saints, it became a question of conveying the spontoon to him. This was difficult, and the monk’s fatuous suggestions merely served further to reveal his stupidity. Finally, Casanova’s wits found the way. He bade Lorenzo buy him an in-folio edition of the Bible which had just been published, and it was into the spine of this enormous tome that he packed the precious spontoon, and thus conveyed it to Balbi, who immediately got to work.
This was at the commencement of October. On the eighth of that month Balbi wrote to Casanova that a whole night devoted to labour had resulted merely in the displacing of a single brick, which so discouraged the faint-hearted monk that he was for abandoning an attempt whose only result must be to increase in the future the rigour of their confinement.
Without hesitation, Casanova replied that he was assured of success — although he was far from having any grounds for any such assurance. He enjoined the monk to believe him, and to persevere, confident that as he advanced he would find progress easier. This proved, indeed, to be the case, for soon Balbi found the brickwork yielding so rapidly to his efforts that one morning, a week later, Casanova heard three light taps above his head — the preconcerted signal by which they were to assure themselves that their notions of the topography of the prison were correct.
All that day he heard Balbi at work immediately above him, and again on the morrow, when Balbi wrote that as the floor was of the thickness of only two boards, he counted upon completing the job on the next day, without piercing the ceiling.
But it would seem as if fortune were intent upon making a mock of Casanova, luring him to heights of hope, merely to cast him down again into the depths of despair. Just as upon the eve of breaking out of his former cell mischance had thwarted him, so now, when again he deemed himself upon the very threshold of liberty, came mischance again to thwart him.
Early in the afternoon the sound of bolts being drawn outside froze his very blood and checked his breathing. Yet he had the presence of mind to give the double knock that was the agreed alarm signal, whereupon Balbi instantly desisted from his labours overhead.
Came Lorenzo with two archers, leading an ugly, lean little man of between forty and fifty years of age, shabbily dressed and wearing a round, black wig, whom the tribunal had ordered should share Casanova’s prison for the present. With apologies for leaving such a scoundrel in Casanova’s company, Lorenzo departed, and the newcomer went down upon his knees, drew forth a chaplet, and began to tell his beads.
Casanova surveyed this intruder at once in disgust and in despair. Presently his disgust was increased when the fellow, whose name was Soradici, frankly avowed himself a spy in the service of the Council of Ten, a calling which he warmly defended from the contempt universally — but unjustly, according to himself — meted out to it. He had been imprisoned for having failed in his duty on one occasion through succumbing to a bribe.
Conceive Casanova’s frame of mind — his uncertainty as to how long this monster, as he calls him, might be left in his company, his curbed impatience to regain his liberty, and his consciousness of the horrible risk of discovery which delay entailed! He wrote to Balbi that night while the spy slept, and for the present their operations were suspended. But not for very long. Soon Casanova’s wits resolved how to turn to account the weakness which he discovered in Soradici.
The spy was devout to the point of bigoted, credulous superstition. He spent long hours in prayer, and he talked freely of his special devotion to the Blessed Virgin, and his ardent faith in miracles.
Casanova — the arch-humbug who had worked magic to delude the credulous — determined there and then to work a miracle for Soradici. Assuming an inspired air, he solemnly informed the spy one morning that it had been revealed to him in a dream that Soradici’s devotion to the Rosary was about to be rewarded; that an angel was to be sent from heaven to deliver him from prison, and that Casanova himself would accompany him in his flight.
If Soradici doubted, conviction was soon to follow. For Casanova foretold the very hour at which the angel would come to break through the roof of the prison, and at that hour precisely — Casanova having warned Balbi — the noise made by the angel overhead flung Soradici into an ecstasy of terror.
But when, at the end of four hours, the angel desisted from his labours, Soradici was beset by doubts. Casanova explained to him that, since angels invariably put on the garb of human flesh when descending upon earth, they labour under human conditions. He added the prophecy at the angel would return on the last day of the month, the eve of All Saints — two days later — and that he would then conduct them out of captivity.
By this means Casanova ensured that no betrayal should be feared from the thoroughly duped Soradici, who now spent the time in praying, weeping, and talking of his sins and of the inexhaustibility of divine grace. To make doubly sure, Casanova added the most terrible oath that if, by a word to the gaoler, Soradici should presume to frustrate the divine intentions, he would immediately strangle him with his own hands.
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br /> On October 31 Lorenzo paid his usual daily visit early in the morning. After his departure they waited some hours, Soradici in expectant terror, Casanova in sheer impatience to be at work. Promptly at noon fell heavy blows overhead, and then, in a cloud of plaster and broken laths, the heavenly messenger descended clumsily into Casanova’s arms.
Soradici found this tall, gaunt, bearded figure, clad in a dirty shirt and a pair of leather breeches, of a singularly unangelic appearance; indeed, he looked far more like a devil.
When he produced a pair of scissors, so that the spy might cut Casanova’s beard, which, like the angel’s, had grown in captivity, Soradici ceased to have any illusions on the score of Balbi’s celestial nature. Although still intrigued — since he could not guess at the secret correspondence that had passed between Casanova and Balbi — he perceived quite clearly that he had been fooled.
Leaving Soradici in the monk’s care, Casanova hoisted himself through the broken ceiling and gained Balbi’s cell, where the sight of Count Asquino dismayed him. He found a middle-aged man of a corpulence which must render it impossible for him to face the athletic difficulties that lay before them; of this the count himself seemed already persuaded.
“If you think,” was his greeting, as he shook Casanova’s hand, “to break through the roof and find a way down from the leads, I don’t see how you are to succeed without wings. I have not the courage to accompany you,” he added. “I shall remain and pray for you.”
Attempting no persuasions where they must have been idle, Casanova passed out of the cell again, and approaching as nearly as possible to the edge of the attic, he sat down where he could touch the roof as it sloped immediately above his head. With his spontoon he tested the timbers, and found them so decayed that they almost crumbled at the touch. Assured thereby that the cutting of a hole would be an easy matter, he at once returned to his cell, and there he spent the ensuing four hours in preparing ropes. He cut up sheets, blankets, coverlets, and the very cover of his mattress, knotting the strips together with the utmost care. In the end he found himself equipped with some two hundred yards of rope, which should be ample for any purpose.
Having made a bundle of the fine taffeta suit in which he had been arrested, his gay cloak of floss silk, some stockings, shirts, and handkerchiefs, he and Balbi passed up to the other cell, compelling Soradici to go with them. Leaving the monk to make a parcel of his belongings, Casanova went to tackle the roof. By dusk he had made a hole twice as large as was necessary, and had laid bare the lead sheeting with which the roof was covered. Unable, single-handed, to raise one of the sheets, he called Balbi to his aid, and between them, assisted by the spontoon, which Casanova inserted between the edge of the sheet and the gutter, they at last succeeded in tearing away the rivets. Then by putting their shoulders to the lead they bent it upwards until there was room to emerge, and a view of the sky flooded by the vivid light of the crescent moon.
Not daring in that light to venture upon the roof, where they would be seen, they must wait with what patience they could until midnight, when the moon would be set. So they returned to the cell where they had left Soradici with Count Asquino.
From Balbi, Casanova had learnt that Asquino, though well-supplied with money, was of an avaricious nature. Nevertheless, since money would be necessary, Casanova asked the count for the loan of thirty gold sequins. Asquino answered him gently that, in the first place, they would not need money to escape; that, in the second, he had a numerous family; that, in the third, if Casanova perished the money would be lost; and that in the fourth he had no money.
“My reply,” writes Casanova, “lasted half an hour.”
“Let me remind you,” he said in concluding his exhortation, “of your promise to pray for us, and let me ask you what sense there can be in praying for the success of an enterprise to which you refuse to contribute the most necessary means.”
The old man was so far conquered by Casanova’s eloquence that he offered him two sequins, which Casanova accepted, since he was not in case to refuse anything.
Thereafter, as they sat waiting for the moon to set, Casanova found his earlier estimate of the monk’s character confirmed. Balbi now broke into abusive reproaches. He found that Casanova had acted in bad faith by assuring him that he had formed a complete plan of escape. Had he suspected that this was a mere gambler’s throw on Casanova’s part, he would never have laboured to get him out of his cell. The count added his advice that they should abandon an attempt foredoomed to failure, and, being concerned for the two sequins with which he had so reluctantly parted, he argued the case at great length. Stifling his disgust, Casanova assured them that, although it was impossible for him to afford them details of how he intended to proceed, he was perfectly confident of success.
At half-past ten he sent Soradici — who had remained silent throughout — to report upon the night. The spy brought word that in another hour or so the moon would have set, but that a thick mist was rising, which must render the leads very dangerous.
“So long as the mist isn’t made of oil, I am content,” said Casanova. “Come, make a bundle of your cloak. It is time we were moving.”
But at this Soradici fell on his knees in the dark, seized Casanova’s hands, and begged to be left behind to pray for their safety, since he would be sure to meet his death if he attempted to go with them.
Casanova assented readily, delighted to be rid of the fellow. Then in the dark he wrote as best he could a quite characteristic letter to the Inquisitors of State, in which he took his leave of them, telling them that since he had been fetched into the prison without his wishes being consulted, they could not complain that he had departed without consulting theirs.
The bundle containing Balbi’s clothes, and another made up of half the rope, he slung from the monk’s neck, thereafter doing the same in his own case. Then, in their shirtsleeves, their hats on their heads, the pair of them started on their perilous journey, leaving Count Asquino and Soradici to pray for them.
Casanova went first, on all fours, and thrusting the point of his spontoon between the joints of the lead sheeting so as to obtain a hold, he crawled slowly upwards. To follow, Balbi took a grip of Casanova’s belt with his right hand, so that in addition to making his own way, Casanova was compelled to drag the weight of his companion after him, and this up the sharp gradient of a roof rendered slippery by the mist.
Midway in that laborious ascent, the monk called to him to stop. He had dropped the bundle containing the clothes, and he hoped that it had not rolled beyond the gutter, though he did not mention which of them should retrieve it. After the unreasonableness already endured from this man, Casanova’s exasperation was such in that moment that, he confesses, he was tempted to kick him after his bundle. Controlling himself, however, he answered patiently that the matter could not now be helped, and kept steadily amain.
At last the apex of the roof was reached, and they got astride of it to breathe and to take a survey of their surroundings. They faced the several cupolas of the Church of St Mark, which is connected with the ducal palace, being, in fact, no more than the private chapel of the Doge.
They set down their bundles, and, of course, in the act of doing so the wretched Balbi must lose his hat, and send it rolling down the roof after the bundle he had already lost. He cried out that it was an evil omen.
“On the contrary,” Casanova assured him patiently, “it is a sign of divine protection; for if your bundle or your hat had happened to roll to the left instead of the right it would have fallen into the courtyard, where it would be seen by the guards, who must conclude that someone is moving on the roof, and so, no doubt, would have discovered us. As it is, your hat has followed your bundle into the canal, where it can do no harm.”
Thereupon, bidding the monk to await his return, Casanova set off alone on a voyage of discovery, keeping for the present astride of the roof in his progress. He spent a full hour wandering along the vast roof, going to right and to
left in his quest, but failing completely to make any helpful discovery, or to find anything to which he could attach a rope. In the end it began to look as if, after all, he must choose between returning to prison and flinging himself from the roof into the canal. He was almost in despair when, in his wanderings, his attention was caught by a dormer window on the canal side, about two-thirds of the way down the slope of the roof. With infinite precaution he lowered himself down the steep, slippery incline until he was astride of the little dormer roof. Leaning well forward, he discovered that a slender grating barred the leaded panes of the window itself, and for a moment this grating gave him pause.
Midnight boomed just then from the Church of St Mark, like a reminder that but seven hours remained in which to conquer this and further difficulties that might confront him, and in which to win clear of that place, or else submit to a resumption of his imprisonment under conditions, no doubt, a hundredfold more rigorous.
Lying flat on his stomach, and hanging far over, so as to see what he was doing, he worked one point of his spontoon into the sash of the grating, and, levering outwards, he strained until at last it came away completely in his hands. After that it was an easy matter to shatter the little latticed window.
Having accomplished so much, he turned, and, using his spontoon as before, he crawled back to the summit of the roof, and made his way rapidly along this to the spot where he had left Balbi. The monk, reduced by now to a state of blending despair, terror, and rage, greeted Casanova in terms of the grossest abuse for having left him there so long.
“I was waiting only for daylight,” he concluded, “to return to prison.”
“What did you think had become of me?” asked Casanova.
“I imagined that you had tumbled off the roof.”
“And is this abuse the expression of your joy at finding yourself mistaken?”
“Where have you been all this time?” the monk counter-questioned sullenly.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 540