Italian Prisons / St. Angelo; the Piombi; the Vicaria; Prisons of the Roman Inquisition

by Arthur Griffiths

Something else must be tried to remedy this obvious objection, and the fertile brain of the resolute adventurer was equal to the task. St. Michael’s day was at hand, and Casanova proposed to celebrate it by offering a feast of macaroni and cheese to his fellow prisoners. Laurent brought a message to the effect that these neighbours were anxious for a sight of the great Bible. “Good,” said Casanova, “I will send it to them with the macaroni; but bring me the biggest dish you have, for I like to do things well.” The crowbar was then wrapped in paper and stowed in the back of the book, care being taken that it should project only an inch on either side. One anxiety remained,—would the macaroni dish be big enough to hide the book on which it was to be placed? By great good fortune the dish was of enormous size. Casanova himself prepared the mess, seasoned it and filled the dish almost to overflowing with melted butter. Laurent grumbled at the brimming dish, but carried it—book, crowbar, macaroni and all—safely to Balbi.

The monk got to work at once and within a week broke a hole in the ceiling, groaning all the time at the severity of the labour; but, encouraged by his correspondent and partner, he took more kindly to his business as he went on. At last, at 10 A.M. on the 16th of October, a slight tapping overhead assured Casanova that the job was accomplished so far. He had now no doubt that with the help of his companion he could in three or four hours bore a hole in the roof of the ducal palace and obtain access to the leads. All was ready for the attempt when once more it was interrupted by the unwelcome appearance of a fresh cell-companion, the most offensive and unmanageable of any as yet inflicted upon him. He heard the bolts shot back outside in the early afternoon, and had barely time to warn Balbi above to desist from work and regain his own cell, before Laurent arrived with the new prisoner and began to apologise for the annoyance he must give Casanova in bringing such a creature into close association with him.

The newcomer was not of prepossessing appearance; a man of villainous looks, forty or fifty years of age, short and thin, badly dressed and wearing a round black wig; a low blackguard evidently, and the gaoler called him that to his face without making any visible impression. When the lock was turned on him, after expressing fulsome thanks for the promise made him that he should share Casanova’s food, he took out a rosary and looked round for some sacred image before which he could tell his beads. “I was brought up a Christian and am always attentive to my religious duties,” he whined, as he went through his prayers and was greatly relieved to find that his fellow prisoner was not a Jew. After devouring greedily all the food put before him, he explained that his calling was that of a barber and spy, and that he had discovered a conspiracy against the Republic, but his revelations were deemed insufficient and he had therefore been arrested. His name was Soradaci; he had a wife, the daughter of an ex-secretary to the Council, and he expected, as did all who came into the Piombi, to be released within a few days.

Casanova thoroughly despised and distrusted this wretch, but to try him entrusted him with a couple of letters he was to deliver when free, and he worded them carefully, drawing a fancy picture of his contentment and gratitude to the inquisitors who had taught him such a salutary lesson, for he knew that Soradaci would hand them the letters at the first opportunity. Three days later Soradaci was taken before the tribunal and sought to curry favour with the inquisitors by at once betraying his comrade. It served him little for he was forthwith remanded to his cell, where he made a lying confession, and when searched the letters were found on his person and the discovery nearly cost him his life. Casanova feigned to be terribly upset, for he had sworn Soradaci to secrecy with the most frightful oaths and said that it was impossible to trust him. But the traitor was still there to be a witness to the approaching flight and he must be taken in another way, by playing on his gross superstition and abject cowardice. After solemnly declaring that by his treachery and the broken oath he had drawn down on himself the vengeance of the Holy Virgin, and that he must surely die in three days’ time, Casanova pretended to have made intercession on his behalf and that pardon had been promised in a dream. The Virgin had appeared to him and said, “Soradaci is a devout worshipper of mine, and to reward you for your kindness to him I shall send an angel down to your prison during the next few days to reach you through the ceiling and take you out.”

The appointment was fixed with Balbi to make his appearance at a certain hour, various rites were performed, ablutions with prayer and the sprinkling of the cell with holy water; the vigil was kept religiously, but it was clear that Soradaci, utterly incredulous, thought the whole business the merest farce.

Suddenly, at the first stroke of the clock, Casanova cried, awestruck, “Kneel down, throw yourself on your face. Here comes the angel,” as the monk Balbi, bearded and terrible, appeared at the opening in the wall. Soradaci fell forthwith into a paroxysm of terror; he wept and tore his hair and made humble obeisance. Balbi brought with him the crowbar and a pair of scissors with which Soradaci immediately trimmed the angel’s overgrown beard and next used his skill as a barber upon Casanova. The preparations were nearly completed now, but the most important part was still to be performed,—the actual attempt to execute the escape.

Like a prudent general, Casanova proceeded to reconnoitre the whole of his ground, so as to judge for himself how far Balbi had done his work. Leaving the monk in charge of Soradaci, he passed through the hall and paid a first visit to the corpulent count in the adjoining cell. Their meeting was cordial and they discussed future plans pleasantly. Casanova proposed to climb up and pass through the roof above, to traverse the leads, and then find some way of descent. “I cannot go with you,” sighed the count. “I am too heavy; I will remain here and pray for your success. Even you would be better off if you had wings.” Casanova by no means despaired; he felt sure of being able to penetrate the roof, and returned to his cell to provide himself with other essential appliances. Four long hours were consumed in cutting up his bedclothes into strips and manufacturing a rope one hundred feet long, taking immense care with the knots, minutely examining each, for a man’s life might hang by any one of them. By nightfall the hole in the roof was made. The woodwork had been split and splintered away, but the lifting of the riveted sheet of lead was a more serious affair. However, using their combined strength, Balbi and Casanova together managed to insert the crowbar between the gutter and the sheet above it, and putting their shoulders to it, rolled back and doubled up the sheet of lead till a sufficient opening was made.

Now a halt became necessary; it was a magnificent night, lighted by a resplendent crescent moon. Every one was certain to be abroad on the square of St. Mark and the shadows thrown on the roof by escaping prisoners could not fail to be observed. Nothing could be done till the moon sank below the horizon, after which there would be seven hours of darkness. The hours of waiting were spent in conversation and the count vainly endeavoured to dissuade his friends from their rash adventure. He harped upon the steep angle of the roof, the chances of being shot by the sentinels, the perilous descent with the agreeable prospect of being dashed to pieces. Although inwardly cursing the cowardice of his companions, Casanova concealed his wrath and bent all his energies to extracting a loan from the count, whom he persuaded to part with two gold pieces—the whole capital of the forthcoming enterprise. About this time Soradaci fell on his knees and piteously begged to be left behind, the very thing that Casanova most earnestly desired.

At last the moon disappeared and it was possible to make a start. Casanova went first and quickly passed out on to the roof followed by the monk, while Soradaci closed the opening after him. The leaden sheets which covered the roof were slippery with dew and afforded no foothold on the terrible slope. Casanova knew that the slightest mistake would precipitate him into the canal and he knew also that the water was so shallow that he must certainly be dashed to pieces in the fall. Yet with undaunted courage he led the way in making the painful and dangerous ascent until at length both, with their packs on their backs, attained the summit of the ducal palace and sitting astride upon it looked around. The prospect was not encouraging; there seemed to be nothing for it but to drop into the canal; but suddenly quick-eyed Casanova espied a skylight. This skylight, as he cleverly reasoned, opened into some garret of the ducal palace whence a descent into the deserted official chambers of the republican government would be easy. The descent of the slippery roof towards the skylight was far more dangerous than the ascent; a single slip and Casanova must miss his mark and would be powerless to save himself against the increasing force of gravity, ending in a terrible fall. A moment’s hesitation and his mind was made up. It was now or never; do or die. Sliding down the slippery leads he brought up against the skylight safely in a space of time short enough, but which seemed an interminable age of acute agony. Balbi he had left on the ridge of the roof. To penetrate this skylight was no easy matter. It was securely barred over a window of small panes let into leaded squares. The crowbar was of no avail in removing the bars. What was to be done? Suddenly the happy idea came to Casanova to dislodge the whole skylight bodily, and with a very little labour he broke it away, giving ready access to the garret below.

Balbi must now be fetched, and Casanova crept back to him to be received with fierce reproaches at his supposed desertion. “I made sure you had fallen over,” said the ill-conditioned monk, “and was wondering what would become of me. I meant to go back to the prison as soon as it was quite light. What have you been doing all this time?” Casanova told him to follow and he would see. When arrived at the skylight, Balbi begged to be lowered into the room first, leaving Casanova to get down as best he could, caring nothing whether or not he broke a limb. To descend unaided seemed impossible, but casting about Casanova found a small cupola under repair and near it a ladder to which he attached his rope and prepared to descend; but in mortal terror that the ladder when released would fall into the canal and make a splash, he climbed down to the gutter, and at imminent risk of his life, forced up one end of the ladder under the skylight till it stuck fast for a moment and ultimately dropped into the garret where its end was received by Balbi.