“Come with me and you shall see.”
And taking up his bundle again, Casanova led his companion forward, until they were in line with the dormer. There Casanova showed him what he had done, and consulted him as to the means to be adopted to enter the attic. It would be too risky for them to allow themselves to drop from the sill, since the height of the window from the floor was unknown to them, and might be considerable. It would be easy for one of them to lower the other by means of the rope. But it was not apparent how, hereafter, the other was to follow. Thus reasoned Casanova.
“You had better lower me, anyhow,” said Balbi, without hesitation; for no doubt he was very tired of that slippery roof, on which a single false step might have sent him to his account. “Once I am inside you can consider ways of following me.”
That cold-blooded expression of the fellow’s egoism put Casanova in a rage for the second time since they had left their prison. But as before he conquered it, and without uttering a word he proceeded to unfasten the coil of rope. Making one end of it secure under Balbi’s arms, he bade the monk lie prone upon the roof, his feet pointing downwards, and then paying out rope, he lowered him to the dormer. He then bade him get through the window as far as the level of his waist, and wait thus, hanging over and supporting himself upon the sill. When he had obeyed, Casanova followed, sliding carefully down to the roof of the dormer. Planting himself firmly, and taking the rope once more, he bade Balbi to let himself go without fear, and so lowered him to the floor — a height from the window, as it proved, of some fifty feet. This extinguished all Casanova’s hopes of being able to follow by allowing himself to drop from the sill. He was dismayed. But the monk, happy to find himself at last off that accursed roof, and out of all danger of breaking his neck, called foolishly to Casanova to throw him the rope so that he might take care of it.
“As may be imagined,” says Casanova, “I was careful not to take this idiotic advice.”
Not knowing now what was to become of him unless he could discover some other means than those at his command, he climbed back again to the summit of the roof, and started off desperately upon another voyage of discovery. This time he succeeded better than before. He found about a cupola a terrace which he had not earlier noticed, and on this terrace a hod of plaster, a trowel, and a ladder some seventy feet long. He saw his difficulties solved. He passed an end of rope about one of the rungs, laid the ladder flat along the slope of the roof, and then, still astride of the apex, he worked his way back, dragging the ladder with him, until he was once more on a level with the dormer.
But now the difficulty was how to get the ladder through the window, and he had cause to repent having so hastily deprived himself of his companion’s assistance. He got the ladder into position, and lowered it until one of its ends rested upon the dormer, whilst the other projected some twenty feet beyond the edge of the roof. He slid down to the dormer, and placing the ladder beside him, drew it up so that he could reach the eighth rung. To this rung he made fast his rope, then lowered the ladder again until the upper end of it was in line with the window through which he sought to introduce it. But he found it impossible to do so beyond the fifth rung, for at this point the end of the ladder came in contact with the roof inside, and could be pushed no further until it was inclined downward. Now, the only possible way to accomplish this was by raising the other end.
It occurred to him that he might, by so attaching the rope as to bring the ladder across the window-frame, lower himself hand over hand to the floor of the attic. But in so doing he must have left the ladder there to show their pursuers in the morning not merely the way they had gone, but, for all he knew at this stage, the place where they might then be still in hiding. Having come so far, at so much risk and labour, he was determined to leave nothing to chance. To accomplish his object then, he made his way down to the very edge of the roof, sliding carefully on his stomach until his feet found support against the marble gutter, the ladder meanwhile remaining hooked by one of its rungs to the sill of the dormer.
In that perilous position he lifted his end of the ladder a few inches, and so contrived to thrust it another foot or so through the window, whereby its weight was considerably diminished. If he could but get it another couple of feet further in he was sure that by returning to the dormer he would have been able to complete the job. In his anxiety to do this and to obtain the necessary elevation, he raised himself upon his knees.
But in the very act of making the thrust he slipped, and clutching wildly as he went, he shot over the edge of the roof. He found himself hanging there, suspended above that terrific abyss by his hands and his elbows, which had convulsively hooked themselves on to the edge of the gutter, so that he had it on a level with his breast.
It was a moment of dread the like of which he was never likely to endure again in a life that was to know many perils and many hairbreadth escapes. He could not write of it nearly half a century later without shuddering and growing sick with horror.
A moment he hung there gasping, then, almost mechanically, guided by the sheer instinct of self-preservation, he not merely attempted but actually succeeded in raising himself so as to bring his side against the gutter. Then continuing gradually to raise himself until his waist was on a level with the edge, he threw the weight of his trunk forward upon the roof, and slowly brought his right leg up until he had obtained with his knee a further grip of the gutter. The rest was easy, and you may conceive him as he lay there on the roof’s edge, panting and shuddering for a moment to regain his breath and nerve.
Meanwhile, the ladder, driven forward by the thrust that had so nearly cost him his life, had penetrated another three feet through the window, and hung there immovable. Recovered, he took up his spontoon, which he had placed in the gutter, and, assisted by it, he climbed back to the dormer. Almost without further difficulty, he succeeded now in introducing the ladder until, of its own weight, it swung down into position.
A moment later he had joined Balbi in the attic, and together they groped about it in the dark, and finding presently a door, passed through into another chamber, where they discovered furniture by hurtling against it. Guided by a faint glimmer of light, Casanova made his way to one of the windows and opened it. He looked out upon a black abyss, and, having no knowledge of the locality, and no inclination to adventure himself into unknown regions, he immediately abandoned all idea of attempting to climb down. He closed the window again, and going back to the other room, he lay down on the floor, with the bundle of ropes for pillow, to wait for dawn.
And so exhausted was he, not only by the efforts of the past hours, and the terrible experience in which they had culminated, but also because in the past two days he had scarcely eaten or slept, that straightway, and greatly to Balbi’s indignation and disgust, he fell into a profound sleep.
He was aroused three and a half hours later by the clamours and shakings of the exasperated monk. Protesting that such a sleep at such a time was a thing inconceivable, Balbi informed him that it had just struck five.
It was still dark, but already there was a dim grey glimmer of dawn by which objects could be faintly discerned. Searching, Casanova found another door on the opposite to that of the chamber which they had entered earlier. It was locked, but the lock was a poor one that yielded to half a dozen blows of the spontoon, and they passed into a little room beyond which by an open door they came into a long gallery lined with pigeon-holes stuffed with parchments, which they conceived to be the archives. At the end of this gallery they found a short flight of stairs, and below that yet another, which brought them to a glass door. Opening this, they entered a room which Casanova immediately identified as the ducal chancellery. Descent from one of its windows would have been easy, but they would have found themselves in the labyrinth of courts and alleys behind St Mark’s, which would not have suited them at all.
On a table Casanova found a stout bodkin with a long wooden handle, the implement used by the secretaries for pier
cing parchments that were to be joined by a cord bearing the leaden seals of the Republic. He opened a desk, and rummaging in it, found a letter addressed to the Proveditor of Corfu, advising a remittance of 3,000 sequins for the repair of the fortress. He rummaged further, seeking the 3,000 sequins, which he would have appropriated without the least scruple. Unfortunately they were not there.
Quitting the desk, he crossed to the door, to find it not merely locked but to discover that it was not the kind of lock that would yield to blows. There was no way out but by battering away one of the panels, and to this he addressed himself without hesitation, assisted by Balbi, who had armed himself with the bodkin, but who trembled fearfully at the noise of Casanova’s blows. There was danger in this, but the danger must be braved, for the time was slipping away. In half an hour they had broken down all of the panel it was possible to remove without the help of a saw. The opening they had made was at a height of five feet from the ground, and the splintered woodwork armed it with a fearful array of jagged teeth.
They dragged a couple of stools to the door, and getting on to these, Casanova bade Balbi go first. The long, lean monk folded his arms, and thrust head and shoulders through the hole; then Casanova lifted him, first by the waist, then by the legs, and so helped him through into the room beyond. Casanova threw their bundles after him, and then placing a third stool on top of the other two, climbed on to it, and, being almost on a level with the opening, was able to get through as far as his waist, when Balbi took him in his arms and proceeded to drag him out. But it was done at the cost of torn breeches and lacerated legs, and when he stood up in the room beyond he was bleeding freely from the wounds which the jagged edges of the wood had dealt him.
After that they went down two staircases, and came out at last in the gallery leading to the great doors at the head of that magnificent flight of steps known as the Giant’s Staircase. But these doors — the main entrance of the palace — were locked, and, at a glance, Casanova saw that nothing short of a hatchet would serve to open them. There was no more to be done.
With a resignation that seemed to Balbi entirely cynical, Casanova sat down on the floor.
“My task is ended,” he announced. “It is now for heaven or chance to do the rest. I don’t know whether the palace cleaners will come here today as it is All Saints, or tomorrow, which will be All Souls. Should anyone come I shall run for it the moment the door is opened, and you had best follow me. If no one comes, I shall not move from here; and, if I die of hunger, so much the worse.”
It was a speech that flung the monk into a passion. In burning terms he reviled Casanova, calling him a madman, a seducer, a deceiver, a liar. Casanova let him rave. It was just striking six. Precisely an hour had elapsed since they had left the attic.
Balbi, in his red flannel waistcoat and his puce-coloured leather breeches, might have passed for a peasant; but Casanova, in torn garments that were soaked in blood, presented an appearance that was terrifying and suspicious. This he proceeded to repair. Tearing a handkerchief, he made shift to bandage his wounds, and then from his bundle he took his fine taffeta summer suit, which on a winter’s day must render him ridiculous.
He dressed his thick, dark brown hair as best he could, drew on a pair of white stockings, and donned three lace shirts one over another. His fine cloak of floss silk he gave to Balbi, who looked for all the world as if he had stolen it.
Thus dressed, his fine laced hat with point of Spain on his head, Casanova opened a window and looked out. At once he was seen by some idlers in the courtyard, who, amazed at his appearance there, and conceiving that he must have been locked in by mistake on the previous day, went off at once to advise the porter. Meanwhile, Casanova, vexed at having shown himself where he had not expected anyone, and little guessing how excellently this was to serve his ends, left the window and went to sit beside the angry friar, who greeted him with fresh revilings.
A sound of steps and a rattle of keys stemmed Balbi’s reproaches in full flow. The lock groaned.
“Not a word,” said Casanova to the monk, “but follow me.”
Holding his spontoon ready, but concealed under his coat, he stepped to the side of the door. It opened, and the porter, who had come alone and bareheaded, stared in stupefaction at the strange apparition of Casanova.
Casanova took advantage of that paralysing amazement. Without uttering a word, he stepped quickly across the threshold, and with Balbi close upon his heels, he went down the Giant’s Staircase in a flash, crossed the little square, reached the canal, bundled Balbi into the first gondola he found there, and jumped in after him.
“I want to go to Fusine, and quickly,” he announced. “Call another oarsman.”
All was ready, and in a moment the gondola was skimming the canal. Dressed in his unseasonable suit, and accompanied by the still more ridiculous figure of Balbi in his gaudy cloak and without a hat, he imagined he would be taken for a charlatan or an astrologer.
The gondola slipped past the custom-house, and took the canal of the Giudecca. Halfway down this, Casanova put his head out of the little cabin to address the gondolier in the poop.
“Do you think we shall reach Mestre in an hour?”
“Mestre?” quoth the gondolier. “But you said Fusine.”
“No, no, I said Mestre — at least, I intended to say Mestre.”
And so the gondola was headed for Mestre by a gondolier who professed himself ready to convey his excellency to England if he desired it.
The sun was rising and the water assumed an opalescent hue. It was a delicious morning, Casanova tells us, and I suspect that never had any morning seemed to that audacious, amiable rascal as delicious as this upon which he regained his liberty, which no man ever valued more highly.
In spirit he was already safely over the frontiers of the Most Serene Republic, impatient to transfer his body thither, as he shortly did, through vicissitudes that are a narrative in themselves, and no part of this story of his escape from the Piombi and the Venetian Inquisitors of State.
THE ROOKS AND THE HAWK
It was in March of 1760 that Casanova’s roving spirit and evil genius between them took him to Stuttgart in a well-appointed chaise of his own, attended by an efficient body-servant, as became a man of his importance. For now, in his thirty-fifth year, he found himself hoisted into wealth and fame. Taking advantage of an introduction to the French Minister of Finance, he had, without the least knowledge of the subject, undertaken to organize the State lotteries in France. So impressed was the Ministry by the result that he was sent to Holland to negotiate a State loan. Again thanks to his impudence and resourcefulness, he not only succeeded in this mission, but in the course of it amassed for himself a fortune of upwards of half a million francs. Another might have settled down to easy respectability. But that was never Giacomo di Casanova’s way. He set out again upon his travels, and came presently to Stuttgart, where he put up at “The Bear”.
Having dined, he dressed with care, and went forth to study the manners of the capital of Würtemberg. He began by going to the handsome playhouse built and managed by the Grand Duke, for the theatre was the chief hobby of this ridiculous prince, pursued at enormous cost. He imported the best comedians from France and Italy; his /corps de ballet/ consisted of a score of the leading Italian dancers of the day, supported by at least a hundred coryphées; the famous Novers was his ballet-master; the composer Jumella was in his service; and some of the ablest painters available were employed as his scenographers. To pay for these and other kindred extravagances, this luxurious, debauched prince enjoyed not only the heavy revenues extracted from his long-suffering subjects, but a considerable subsidy paid him by the King of France for maintaining a force of ten thousand Würtembergers in the service of the French armies.
From his seat in a box in the first tier, Casanova considered with interest the ruler who wasted upon frivolous amusements the fruits of that unworthy traffic in the flesh and blood of his subjects. He beheld
him standing before the orchestra surrounded by a knot of courtiers, a tall, florid man in a heavy wig, with the flabby, gross habit of body that results from excesses, hard blue eyes and a sneering, sensual mouth. Casanova, himself a libertine, thought him rather disgusting, and turned his attention to the music. His Italian enthusiasm being presently aroused by the performance of a singer, he broke suddenly into applause, and as suddenly checked upon perceiving that he was applauding alone, and that the Grand Duke was directing upon him a stare of haughty displeasure.
A moment later his box was invaded by an officer who, assuming him to be a stranger, informed him in French that the sovereign being in the theatre no one was permitted to applaud unless his highness applauded.
Casanova rose with dignity.
“In that case,” said he, “I shall come some other time, when the sovereign is absent, so that I may be at liberty to express my appreciation.”
And upon that he went out, his head in the hair, and called for his carriage. But as he was in the act of stepping into it, came the same officer to inform him that his highness desired to speak to him.
Entirely master of himself, Casanova re-entered the theatre, and was presently bowing perfunctorily before the Grand Duke, whilst stared at from every quarter.
Expressionless hard blue eyes considered him.
“You are, I believe, Monsieur Casanova,” said a guttural voice.
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“Is this your first visit to Stuttgart?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“Do you intend to make a long stay?”
“Of a week or so, if your highness will permit me.”
“Readily. And I further permit you to applaud whenever you are so inclined.”
“I am grateful, your highness. I shall take advantage of the permission.”
“Very well.”
Thick lips smiled faintly, sneeringly, as was their habit, a fat hand waved dismissal, and Casanova bowed and stepped back out of the circle of intimates.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 541
