by Ruskin Bond
On Casanova desiring that his thanks might be conveyed to the secretary for having given him a room to himself, instead of placing him with such rascals as he supposed to be the inmates of these dungeons, the surprised jailer, who at first thought the speech was in jest, assured him that none but people of condition were put there, and that far from being a favour, his insulated condition was intended as an aggravation of punishment. The fellow was right,' says Casanova, 'as I learned some days afterwards but too well. I then learned that a man who is alone in his confinement, without the power of employing himself, in a cell nearly dark, and where he only sees once a day the person who brings him food, and in which he cannot even walk about upright, becomes the most miserable of living creatures; he may at last even long for the company of a murderer, a madman, or even a bear. Solitude in these prisons brings despair; but none know that who have not had the experience.'
Drawing his table towards the grating, for the sake of the gleam of light that entered there, Casanova sat down to his repast; an ivory spoon was his only substitute for a knife and fork. He had, however, little occasion for carving implements. Long fasting and anxiety had taken away his appetite, and he could not swallow more than a spoonful of soup. Seated in his arm-chair, he passed the whole of the day in feverish expectation of the promised books. At night sleep was banished from his couch by a combination of circumstances: rats in the adjacent garret were persevering and noisy in their gambols; the clock of St Mark's tower, nigh at hand, was as audible as though it had been in the cell; and he was overrun and tormented by myriads of fleas, which, he says, almost sent him into convulsions. At daybreak Lorenzo, the jailer, appeared, ordered the cell to be swept out, placed the victuals on the table, and produced two large books, which were sent by the secretary. Casanova wished to go into the garret, but his favour was refused. When he had eaten his soup, he examined the books by the help of the light which passed through the grating. They were not of a nature to captivate a man like him, or indeed any one but a cracked-brained fanatic. One bore the title of The Mystic City of God, by Maria of Jesus, called Agreda; the other was a work written by a Jesuit, to inculcate a particular veneration for the heart of the Saviour. Mystic City was a wild rhapsody, the production of a nun whose intellect was evidently disordered by ascetic practices and visionary contemplation. Having nothing else to beguile the tedious hours with, Casanova persisted for a whole week in reading it, and there was some danger of his becoming as mad as the writer. 'I felt,' says he 'the influence of the disorder which the nun of Agreda had engrafted on a mind depressed by melancholy and bad food. I smile now when I recall my fantastic dreams. If I had possessed pen and paper, a work might have been produced in the prisons of the Camerotti, more extraordinary than that which Signor Cavalli had sent me. Such a work can overset a man's reason, if, like me, he were a captive in the Camerotti, and deprived of every employment and mental occupation.'
In nine days Casanova's stock of money was exhausted; and when Lorenzo asked to whom he should apply for more, he was told to no one. This was unpleasant news to the jailer, who was fond of pelf, and doubtless took care to remunerate himself liberally for acting as purveyor to whose whom he held in custody. On the following morning he announced to the prisoner that the tribunal would allow about fifteen shillings weekly for his subsistence; and he proposed to lay out the sum for him, keep an account, and return any overplus at the month's end. This arrangement was acceeded to by the captive. In the present condition of Casanova, the allowance was more than sufficient; for his health had now begun to give way, and he had little inclination to eat. The burning sun of the dog-days, beating on the leaden roof, converted his cell into a kind of vapour bath. He was obliged to remain wholly unclothed, and as he sat in his arm-chair the perspiration ran down on both sides of him. Fever next came on, and he took to his bed; but he suffered in silence. In the course of two or three days, Lorenzo, who does not appear to have been at bottom an inhuman man, and who, besides, had an interest in keeping him alive, discovered the illness of his prisoner, and applied for medical assistance. It was granted. 'You will be astonished,' said he, 'to hear of the bounty of the tribunal, for you shall have a doctor, surgeon, and medicines, without its costing you anything.'
A physician was introduced by the jailer, but Casanova declared that to his physician and his confessor he would not open his lips in the presence of witnesses. Lorenzo at first refused to leave them together, but was finally obliged to yield. Ill as he was, the prisoner still retained a portion of his satirical spirit. 'If you wish to get well,' said the doctor, 'you must banish your melancholy.' 'Write a receipt for that purpose,' said the patient, 'and bear it to the only apothecary who can prepare a dose of it for me. Signor Cavalli, the secretary, is the fatal doctor, who prescribed for me The Heart of Jesus and the Mystic City; those works have reduced me to this condition.' By the care of his medical attendant, who also lent him Boethius to read, and obtained from the secretary a promise of other books, the health of the prisoner was speedily improved. 'Nothing now tormented me,' says he, 'but heat, vermin, and ennui; for I could not read Boethius eternally.'
A slight favour was now granted to Casanova by the pity or the policy of his jailer. He was permitted to enter the garret while his cell was being set in order. During the eight or ten minutes which were thus occupied, he walked rapidly up and down, as much for the purpose of scaring away his enemies the rats, as for the sake of exercise. Casanova prudently rewarded the jailer for what he had already done, and thus tempted him to do more. When Lorenzo on the same day came to settle his accounts, 'there remained,' says Casanova, 'a balance of about five-and-twenty shillings in my favour, but I gave it to him, telling him that he might have masses said for it; he thanked me as if he were the priest who was to say them. At the end of each month I repeated this gift, but I never saw any receipt from a priest.'
From day to day Casanova continued to flatter himself that the morrow would set him free. When repeated failures had weakened his confidence of immediate liberation, he took up the hope that some term of imprisonment had originally been fixed; and it struck him that the term would probably expire on the 1st of October, that being the day on which the state inquisitors were changed. On the night preceding that day, his feelings would not suffer him to sleep. The morning for which he had so ardently longed brought him nothing but disappointment. Nearly the whole of the following week was passed in paroxysms of rage and despair. When he subsided into a calmer mood, and was capable of reflecting, he began to think it probable he was to be confined for life. This idea did not, however, bring back his fits of fury or despondency. The fearful thought,' says he, 'excited a laugh, but nothing more; I resolved to free myself, or perish in the attempt.' Thenceforth his whole attention was turned to that one great purpose. It is true that he had neither gold to bribe with, nor the power of corresponding and concerting with his friends, nor weapons, nor tools, but still he was not to be deterred from his enterprise; for in his opinion there was no object a man might not obtain by incessantly devoting his thoughts to it.
While his mind was occupied in pondering upon the means to carry his resolve into effect, a circumstance occurred, which showed that the idea of recovering liberty was so predominant as to leave no room for that of danger. He was standing in his cell on the 1st of November, looking up to the window in the roof, and scanning the large beam that crossed it. All at once he saw the massive timber shake, bend to the right, and then resume its place, while he himself lost his balance. He knew that this was caused by the shock of an earthquake, and he inwardly rejoiced. In about five minutes the shock was renewed. He could no longer contain himself; he exultingly exclaimed aloud, Another, another, great God! but stronger!' The earthquake which he felt was the same that shook the city of Lisbon into a heap of ruins. That he might escape by the destruction of the prison was the sole thought that flashed upon his brain; it never entered into his head that he might be crushed by the falling pile.
The monotony of Casanova's existence was now somewhat relieved by his having a companion in misfortune. The first was a youth named Maggiorino, who had been valet to a count, and was sent hither for having gained the affections of his master's daughter.
He was an agreeable, honest young man, but madly in love; and all his sighs and tears seemed to be vented more on his mistress's account than his own. On the unlucky lover coming in, Casanova lent him his own mattress to sleep on. Lorenzo brought one the next morning, and informed the new prisoner that a small sum was allowed for his support. Casanova, however, told the jailer that he would share his provisions with Maggiorino, and that he might keep the money to have masses said weekly for his soul. Lorenzo was so enchanted by this generosity, that he gave the donor leave to walk for half an hour every day up and down the gallery. Poor Maggiorino did not long remain with Casanova. He was removed to another part of the prison, where daylight never entered, its place being supplied by an oil lamp. There he continued five years, at the expiration of which period he was banished for ten.
Casanova was sorry for the loss of his companion, and for a short time his spirits were depressed. In a few days the vacancy was transiently filled up by a less pleasing character. The stranger was a thin, stooping, shabbily-dressed man of about fifty, with a sinister expression of countenance. He feasted at Casanova's expense on the first day; on the second, when Lorenzo asked for money to purchase food, the newcomer declared that he had not a single farthing. Lorenzo coolly replied, 'Oh, very well! Then you shall have a pound and a half of ship-biscuit and excellent water'; and with this humble fare he provided him. Seeing that his fellow-captive seemed low-spirited, Casanova offered to let him share in his repasts, at the same time telling him that he was very imprudent to come there entirely without money. 'I have money,' he replied; 'but one must not let these harpies know it.' He was a usurer, and had attempted to defraud a nobleman, who had unwarily entrusted him with a considerable sum. He had been cast in a suit for the recovery of the deposit, and was to be held in durance till he made restitution, and paid the costs. After he had been imprisoned for four days, he was summoned before the secretary, and in his hurry he slipped on Casanova's shoes instead of his own. In about half an hour he returned with a most woebegone look, took out of his own shoes two purses containing three hundred and fifty sequins, and went back to the secretary. Casanova saw no more of him. Stimulated, perhaps, by the threat of torture, the usurer had regained his liberty by parting with his idolised gold. Some months elapsed before he was succeeded by another tenant.
'On the 1st of January 1756,' says Casanova, 'I received a new year's gift. Lorenzo brought me a beautiful dressing-gown lined with fox-fur, a silken coverlid quilted with wool, and a case of bear-skin to put my feet in; for in proportion as my prison was hot in summer was it cold in winter. At the same time he informed me that six sequins monthly were placed at my disposal, and that I might buy what books and newspapers I pleased. He added that this present came from my friend and patron the patrician Bragadino. I begged of him some paper and a pencil, and wrote on it, 'My thanks for the clemency of the tribunal, and the generosity of Signor Bragadino.' A person must have been in my situation to be able to appreciate the effect this had on me. In the fulness of my heart I pardoned my oppressors; indeed, I was nearly induced to give up all thoughts of escaping, so pliant is man, after misery has bowed him down and degraded him.'
The feeling of submission to his fate was, however, only momentary. His mind was again incessantly employed in dwelling upon the subject of his intended flight. The garrulity of the jailer, who had an inordinate love of babbling, supplied him with some particulars relative to the prison, which ultimately proved useful. But it was from the leave to walk in the gallery that he derived the greatest advantage. At first the favour was considered valuable only as affording him an enlarged space for exercise; but it was not long before he began to imagine that he might turn it to better account. In the course of his brief visits to this spot, he discovered in a corner two chests, round which was a quantity of old lumber. One of the chests was locked; that which was open contained feathers, paper, and twine, and a piece of what seemed to be smooth black marble about an inch thick, three inches wide, and six inches long. Apparently without having settled what use he could make of it, he carried the stone to his cell, and hid it under his shirts.
Some time after this, while he was walking, his eyes rested on a bolt as thick as a thumb and eighteen inches in length, which he had more than once seen among the lumber; and the thought suddenly struck him, that it might be converted into a tool and a weapon. He concealed it under his clothes and took it to his cell. He now examined more closely the supposed piece of marble, and was delighted to find that it was in reality a whet-stone. Quite uncertain as to what purpose he should apply the bolt, but with a vague hope that it might possibly be of service, Casanova set to work to point it. This was a wearisome. task. He was nearly in the dark, held the stone in his hand because he had no place where he could fix it, and for want of oil was obliged to moisten it with spittle. For fourteen days he worked incessantly, till his left hand became one blister, and his right arm could not be moved without difficulty. He had, however, succeeded in converting the rusty bolt into an octangular stiletto, which might have done credit to a swordmaker's skill. When it was finished, he hid it in the straw of his arm-chair. Whether it would be employed in committing murder or giving freedom, or perhaps both, circumstances alone could decide.
After having pondered for five days on what was to be done, Casanova decided that to break through the floor of his cell was the only plan which afforded a chance of success. The state cells, in one of which he was immured, were in the roof, and were covered with plates of lead three feet square and about a line in thickness. They occupied the two opposite sides, eastern and western, of the building, four on the former side and three on the latter. The eastern cells were light, and would allow a man to stand upright in them, while the others were rendered low and dark by the beams which crossed the windows. The only access was through the gates of the Palace, the Bridge of Sighs, and the galleries, and the secretary kept the key, which was daily returned to him by the jailer, after he had attended on the prisoners.
Casanova was aware that under his cell was the secretary's chamber, and that the chamber was open every morning. If by the help of the bedclothes he could descend unseen into it, he purposed to hide himself under the table of the tribunal, and watch an opportunity to sally forth. If, contrary to his expectations, he should find a sentinel in the room, he made up his mind to kill him. He could not, however, yet begin his work, for the cold was so intense, that when he grasped the iron his hands became frozen; and besides, for nineteen hours out of the twenty-four he was in complete darkness, the winter fogs at Venice being so thick, that even in the daytime he had not light enough to read by. He was therefore compelled to postpone till a more favourable season the commencement of his operations.
This compulsory delay, and the want of something to beguile the lagging hours, depressed his spirits. He again sunk into despondency. A lamp would have made him happy. He thought how he could supply the place of one. He required a lamp, wick, oil, flint and steel, and tinder, and he had not one of them all. By dint of contrivance he soon procured a part of them. An earthen pipkin, which he managed to conceal, was the lamp; the oil was saved from his salad; a wick he formed from cotton taken out of his bed; and a buckle in his girdle was converted into a steel. A flint, matches, and tinder were still deficient. These, too, his perseverance obtained. Pretending to have a violent toothache, he prevailed on Lorenzo to give him a fragment of flint, for the purpose of being steeped in vinegar and applied to the tooth; and to prevent suspicion, he put three pieces of it into vinegar in the presence of the jailer. Sulphur he got by a similar stratagem. He was very opportunely attacked by an irritation of the skin, for which the article he stood in need of was one of the remedies prescribed.
But now for the tinde
r; to contrive a substitute for that was the work of three days. It at last occurred to him that he had ordered his tailor to stuff his silken vest under the arms with sponge, to prevent the appearance of stain. The clothes lay before him. 'My heart beat,' he says; 'the tailor might not have fulfilled my orders; I hesitated between fear and hope. It only required two steps, and I should be out of suspense; but I could not resolve on those two steps. At last I advanced to where the clothes lay, and feeling unworthy of such a favour if I should find the sponge there, I fell on my knees and prayed fervently. Comforted by this, I took up the dress and found the sponge. I was no sooner in possession of it than I poured the oil into the pipkin, set the wick in, and the lamp was ready. It was no little addition to the pleasure this luxury afforded me, that I owed it entirely to my own ingenuity, and that I had violated one of the strictest laws of the prison. I dreaded the approach of night no longer.'
The pleasure which he derived from this acquisition enabled him to bear with tolerable patience the necessary postponement of his great undertaking. Considering that during the riotous festivities of the Carnival he would be daily liable to have companions sent to him, he resolved not to begin his labours till the first Monday in Lent. But here he was staggered by another obstacle, which he had not hitherto taken into account. He had always manifested an eagerness to have his room swept, for the purpose of keeping down the vermin that annoyed him. But if he persisted in having this done, the jailer could not fail to discover the breach which the prisoner was making in the floor. He was therefore obliged to desire that the sweeping might be discontinued. For about a week Lorenzo humoured the prisoner, but he seems at last to have felt an undefined suspicion that something wrong was intended. He ordered the cell to be swept and the bed removed, and he brought in a light, on pretence of ascertaining whether the work had been thoroughly done. But his vigilance was thrown away; he was no match for the wily captive. Next morning he found Casanova in bed, and was greeted with 'I have coughed so violently that I have burst a blood-vessel.' Then, holding up a handkerchief which he had stained by purposely cutting his thumb, the speaker added, 'See how I have bled! Pray, send for a physician!' A doctor came, prescribed, listened to his complaint against the jailer, assented to its justice, and directed that the broom should thenceforth be banished.