In His Image: Dungeons and Divinations (2/2)
First half of this chapter --- Masterpost --- Next chapter
Our escape, of course, was far from complete. The incline of the roof was steep and covered with the lead plates for which the prison is named, so that it would have been impossible to walk or stand even had they not been so slippery as they were. There was nothing to which one might fasten a rope, and even if we had, a man descending from such a height could hardly have reached the ground by himself. Besides this, no side was safe for such a descent. By the side towards the Piazza, we would surely have been seen; if we descended into the yard of the Palace we would have found ourselves still gated in; to get to the other side of the church towards the Canonica, we should have had to climb roofs so steep that I saw no prospect of success; to the court side, we would have fallen into the hands of the arsenalotti who are always going their rounds there; on the canal side, we had no boat, and the water was too shallow to break our fall and yet deep enough to oblige us into a wretched and tiring swim towards St. Appollonia.
I got out the first, and my companion followed me. He looked with dismay at the slope of the roof, and at his own arms, which he found so weak. A creature accustomed to wings and miracles, I guessed then (and so it proved), was likely to be perplexed by the confines of human tools and human limbs in situations that called for ingenuity. I took it upon myself, therefore, to conquer the Leads. Keeping on my hands and knees, and grasping my pike firmly, I pushed it obliquely between the joining of the plates of lead, and then holding the side of the plate which I had lifted I attempted to draw myself up to the summit of the roof. My body, however, was too feeble; and so I showed the angel how to do it, and he drew me up after him to sit astride the peak.
Our backs were towards the little island of San Giorgio Maggiore, and about two hundred paces in front of us were the numerous cupolas of the Basilica di San Marco, which forms part of the ducal palace; for the cathedral is really the Doge’s private chapel, and no monarch in the world can boast of having a finer. To our left was the courtyard of the Palazzo, and beyond that the Piazza, while to our right stretched the rooftops and canals of the most serene of cities, endless in the fog, that city who during thirteen centuries of existence had had many friends and allies but never one protector. I felt my bosom swell, so deeply is the love of fatherland graven on the heart of every good man, and ventured to express something of my feelings to my companion.
His voice became amused and indulgent. “You do remember they locked you up without trial? Most men kinda resent that.”
“To deprive me of liberty in such a manner was certainly despotic, but that liberty I knowingly abused; and Venice is greater than one man.” To that, he made no reply.
We set out, my pike in my hand, sitting astride the roof for so long as we might, and climbing over the cupolas and parapets and cornices where we must. For nearly an hour we went to this side and that. Four or five times my companion over-reached himself and came close to falling, and twice he made the simple mistake of closing his hand on an edge of stone or metal too sharp to take his weight without tearing his flesh, so that he was soon tattered and grim. It was clear that, although he knew so much of great and marvellous things, he knew his own body and its capacities no better than does a child of six. You may be sure that as we went we kept a sharp look-out, but in vain; for we could see nothing to which the rope could be fastened, and I was in the greatest perplexity as to what was to be done. Nor could my companion think of how to make use of his powers to help: for he did not know what he could and could not do, and he could not change any object into another long enough to fasten a rope that would take our weight and not dash us to the cobbles below. The situation called for hardihood, but not the smallest piece of rashness.
It was necessary, however, either to escape, or to re-enter the prison, perhaps never again to leave it, or to throw ourselves into the canal. In such a dilemma it was necessary to leave a good deal to chance, and to make a start of some kind. Impelled by these thoughts, I became, perhaps, less careful than I might have been, and almost brought about both our ruin. I was thoroughly perplexed, and was beginning to lose courage when, to surmount a cupola barring our way, I was obliged to raise myself on my knees. The effort I had to use made me slip; I heard my companion’s startled yell; in an instant I was over the parapet as far as my waist, sustained only by my elbows and his hand tight around my ankle.
I shudder still when I think of this awful moment, which cannot be conceived in all its horror. The black canal lay far below me, at the bottom of a narrow ravine that promised shattered limbs at the least should I so much as tremble. The angel lay above me at an awkward angle between the gutter and the corner of a precipice, and could do no more than hold me steady without slipping and taking us both over the edge. My natural instinct made me almost unconsciously strain every nerve to regain the parapet, and - I had nearly said miraculously - I succeeded. Taking care not to let myself slip back an inch I struggled upwards with my hands and arms, while my belly was resting on the edge of the parapet. The parapet thus supporting my weight, my companion was able to scramble after me, set his heel against the angle of the cupola and take a grip on my belt, giving my limbs some relief. As soon as he could draw breath, he hissed in my ear, “You’re not a cat or a Winchester, kid - try not to turn yourself into a bloody smear.”
I had no liberty to reply. Finding myself resting on my groin on the parapet, I saw that I had only to lift up my right leg and to put up first one knee and then the other to be absolutely out of danger; but I had not yet got to the end of my trouble. My left hand had been torn against the stone, my knee was throbbing in such a way that I knew I would not walk comfortably for days, and both my calves were deeply wounded by the parapet. Moreover, the effort I had made gave me so severe a spasm that I became cramped and unable to use my limbs. However, I did not lose my head, but kept quiet till the pain had gone off, knowing by experience that keeping still is the best cure for the false cramp. It was a dreadful moment; but the grip on my belt never wavered, and I felt that I was in no further danger of falling. My companion obligingly passed that time in offering dire and elaborate warnings, with frequent scatological references, about the fates of Bellerophon, Icarus, and someone by the name of Gaston. [Note] In two minutes I made another effort, and together we had the good fortune to get my two knees on to the parapet, where I leaned back against the roof by my companion’s side and took breath.
At this moment, an incident of the simplest and most natural kind came to my aid and fortified my resolution. Philosophic reader, if you will place yourself for a moment in my position, if you will share the sufferings which for fifteen months had been my lot, if you think of our danger on the top of a roof and the hopelessness of our plight, if you consider the few hours at our disposal to overcome difficulties which might spring up at any moment, the candid confession I am about to make will not lower me in your esteem; at any rate, if you do not forget that a man in an anxious and dangerous position is in reality only half himself.
My companion, who was breathing almost as hard as I, let out an exclamation of triumph and amusement, and, after nudging his elbow into my side, raised his hand and pointed at the bulk of the church tower that loomed beyond us in the fog. “Fra il fin d’ottobre,” he said softly, “e il capo di novembre.” And as he did so, the clock of San Marco struck midnight.
The clock reminded me that the day just beginning was All Saints’ Day. But I confess that what chiefly strengthened me, both bodily and mentally, was the profane oracle of my beloved Ariosto. It seemed natural, in that moment, that my angelic comrade should know of that verse and its significance. The brilliance of his grin matched my own - and if we were, perhaps, both a little mad in that moment, it was the madness that wins battles in the face of hopelessness, and builds stairways to the very stars. The chime seemed to me a speaking talisman, commanding me to be up and doing, promising us the victory.
It was in that propitious moment that my eye caught a window on the canal side, and two-thirds of the distance from the gutter to the summit of the roof. It was a good distance from the spot we had set out from, so we concluded that the garret lighted by it did not form part of the prison we had just broken. It could only light a loft, inhabited or uninhabited, above some rooms in the palace, the doors of which would probably be opened by daybreak. I was morally sure that if the palace servants saw us they would help us to escape, and not deliver us over to the Inquisitors, even if they recognized us as criminals of the deepest dye; so heartily was the State Inquisition hated by everyone.
Letting himself slide softly down in a straight line, the angel laid himself astride on top of the dormer-roof. Then grasping the sides he stretched his head over, and reported to me that the window was covered with a small grate (which he quickly removed and dropped into the canal) and that the fall within the window to the floor below was a full fifty feet or more. This was too dangerous a jump to be risked; and so we had again to consider an object to which we might fasten our ropes.
Not knowing what to do next, and waiting for some fortunate idea, I made my way back to the ridge of the roof, and from there spied out a corner near a cupola, which I had not visited. I went towards it and found a flat roof, with a large window closed with two shutters. At hand were a tubful of plaster, a trowel, and ladder of perhaps twelve feet in length, which I thought long enough for my purpose. This was enough, and tying my rope to the first round I dragged this troublesome burden after me to the window.
I proposed that we should brace the ladder securely across the window, so that we might fasten the rope to it and let ourselves down into the loft without risk. My friend, however, would not trust my weakened and damaged limbs to the task of clambering down into the window nor of descending a rope; and so I fastened the rope about my waist and under my elbows and allowed him to lower me by degrees into the loft. It was only when my feet touched the floor and I had untied the rope that I realised the ladder would have been left outside to shew Lawrence and the guards where to look for us, and possibly to find us in the morning. When he stepped down after me, I welcomed him and explained my oversight. He made light of it, and turned the ladder with another snap of his fingers into a long silk scarf. It folded under the weight of the ropes and fell through the window, clattering wooden as it landed at our feet in its old shape. This transmutation had lasted barely the space of two heartbeats, and I guessed that my friend was weakening.
We proceeded to inspect the gloomy retreat in which we found ourselves, and judged it to be about thirty paces long by twenty wide. At one end were folding doors barred with iron. This looked bad, but putting my hand to the latch in the middle it yielded to the pressure, and the door opened. The first thing we did was to make the tour of the room, and crossing it we stumbled against a large table surrounded by stools and armchairs. Returning to the part where we had seen windows, we opened the shutters of one of them, and the light of the stars only shewed us the cupolas and the depths beneath them. I did not think for a moment of lowering myself down, as I wished to know where I was going, and I did not recognize our surroundings. I shut the window up, and we returned to the place where we had left our packages. Quite exhausted, I yielded to the demands of exhausted nature, and, placing a bundle of rope under my head, let myself fall on the floor and into a sweet sleep. I abandoned myself to it without resistance, and indeed, I believe if death were to have been the result, I should have slept all the same, and I still remember how I enjoyed that sleep.
It lasted for three and a half hours, and I was awakened by the angel’s calling out and shaking me. He told me that it had just struck four. In my exhaustion there was nothing to wonder at, since I had neither eaten nor slept for two days, and the efforts I had made - efforts almost beyond the limits of mortal endurance - might well have exhausted any man. My miraculous friend had found, to my delight, a loaf of bread and a little Parmesan cheese, which I devoured without question. In my sleep my activity had come back to me, and I was delighted to see the fog disappearing, so that we should be able to proceed with more certainty and speed.
We addressed ourselves to the end opposite to the folding-doors, and followed doorways and corridors down and about for perhaps ten minutes, emerging at last into a hall well known to me: we were in the ducal chancery. I opened a window and could have got down easily, but the result would have been that we should have been trapped in the maze of little courts around the church of San Marco. On opening a desk I saw the copy of a letter advising the Proveditore of Corfu of a grant of three thousand zecchini for the restoration of the old fortress. The money lay nearby, and I took possession of it gladly, as a gift from Heaven, regarding myself as its master by conquest. The angel, meanwhile, had tied his hair back, although it was a little too short for fashion, and had found in one corner a large cloak in which he wrapped himself to hide his strange clothing. He seemed pleased with the effect, although he made a ludicrous figure enough, and I laughed at him for it.
Leaving that room, we descended two flights of stairs and opened without difficulty the door leading into the passage whence opens the chief door to the grand staircase. The door was locked, and I saw at once that, failing a catapult or a mine of gunpowder, I could not possibly get through.
Here, I turned to my companion. “My work is done,” I said, “‘Abbia Chi regge il ciel cura del resto, o la Fortuna se non tocca a Lui’: the rest must be left to God and fortune.”
He gave me a sour look and stepped forward to the door. “Don’t hold your breath on that one. Unless asphyxiation is a kink of yours.”
As he ran his hands over the wood and the metal, I set about the task of changing my clothes; for, while my companion was by this time rather shabby, I was so blood-stained and tattered that my figure could only inspire pity or terror. I took off my stockings, and the blood gushed out of two wounds I had given myself on the parapet. It occurred to me to envy my friend his soft shoes and sturdy trousers, for the splinters of the beams and the rough stones of the parapets and walls had torn my waistcoat, shirt, breeches, legs, and thighs. I made bandages of handkerchiefs, and dressed my wounds as best I could, and then put on my fine suit, which on a winter’s day would look odd enough. Having tied up my hair, I put on white stockings, a laced shirt, failing any other, and two others over it, and then stowing away some stockings and handkerchiefs in my pockets, I threw everything else into a corner of the room. With my fine clothes, topped by my exquisite hat trimmed with Spanish lace and adorned with a white feather, I must have looked like a man who has been to a dance and has spent the rest of the night in a disorderly house, though the only foil to my reasonable elegance of attire was the bandages round my knees.
The light began to creep in through the window, touching my friend’s solemn face with pale gold as he turned his attention to the hinges and the locks. Soon, he stood back and shook his head. I could see by his face, as he tilted it up to stare at the ceiling, that his black mood had returned. “It’s too solid, and I’m tired.” He stood there for a moment, unmoving; then he looked at me with empty eyes, and reached out empty hands, like one who cannot help himself, though he has reached out many times and has learned long and bitterly to expect his hands to be spurned, or burnt. “I’m sorry, kiddo.”
I pressed his hands in mine. “Well, brother: if the fortalice be too solid to besiege, one attacks its weaker supply lines; or, to put it another way, if a man’s head be too hard to convince by direct argument, one must take the roundabout way and change little things in the world around him until he thinks the idea was his to begin with.”
His eyes opened very wide and bright; then they narrowed in resolution. “You know what? I’m going to pretend that wasn’t a metaphor. You’re a gambling man - let’s hazard a throw.” He went to the nearest window, looked covertly out, then turned to me. “Take off your hat, stand in the window, and wave to the first man you see.”
I followed his orders, and was immediately remarked by the doorkeeper, who was lounging in the palace court. He went for his keys and came towards us. I was sorry to have let myself be seen at the window. Much perplexed, I turned to my companion, who was looking smug.
“He thinks he saw a lady, finely dressed but of clearly negotiable virtue, beckoning him from the window. He supposes that he must have locked someone in last night, and doubtless expects at least a kiss for his pains.”
“You made me appear as a woman?”
“No: I made him think you did.”
“Surely to change the human mind by force is a miracle far greater than a brief alchemical transmutation or a change of shape?”
“Really changing it? Sure. But your eyes play tricks on you every day. I just helped.” He listened intently, then pulled me back against the wall behind the door. As the doorkeeper’s key sounded in the latch, his mouth curved into mischief against my ear. “First thing we need to do as soon as we get over the lagoon is find some scissors and cut your damn hair.”
The door opened; and the poor man as soon as he saw us seemed turned to a stone. Without an instant’s delay and in dead silence, we made haste to descend the stairs. Avoiding the appearance of fugitives, but walking fast, we went by the Giants’ Stairs. The church door was only about twenty paces from the stairs, but the churches were no longer sanctuaries in Venice; and no one ever took refuge in them. The safety I sought was beyond the borders of the Republic, and thitherward I began to bend my steps. Already there in spirit, I must needs be there in body also. We went straight towards the chief door of the palace, and looking at no one that might be tempted to look at us we got to the canal and entered the first gondola that we came across. There I shouted to the boatman on the poop,
“I want to go to Fusina; be quick, and call another gondolier.”
This was soon done, and while the gondola was being got off I sat down on the seat in the middle, and my companion at the side. His odd appearance, without a hat and with a fine cloak on his shoulders, with my unseasonable attire, was enough to make people take us for an astrologer and his man.
As soon as we had passed the customhouse, the gondoliers began to row with a will along the Giudecca Canal, by which we must pass to go to Fusina or to Mestre, which latter place was really our destination. When we had traversed half the length of the canal I put my head out, and said to the waterman on the poop,
“When do you think we shall get to Mestre?”
“But you told me to go to Fusina.”
“You must be mad; I said Mestre.”
The other boatman said that I was mistaken, but the angel, protesting with solemn irony that he was a zealous churchman and friend of truth, took care to tell him that he was wrong. To that they answered nothing, but a minute after the master boatman said he was ready to take me to England if I liked.
“Bravely spoken,” said I, “and now for Mestre, ho!”
“We shall be there in three quarters of an hour, as the wind and tide are in our favour.”
Well pleased I looked at the canal behind us, and thought it had never seemed so fair, especially as there was not a single boat coming our way. It was a glorious morning, the air was clear and glowing with the first rays of the sun, and my two young watermen rowed easily and well; and as I thought over the night of sorrow, the dangers we had escaped, the abode where I had been fast bound the day before, all the chances which had been in my favour, the friend at my side, and the liberty of which I now began to taste the sweets, I was so moved in my heart and grateful to my God that, well nigh choked with emotion, I burst into tears.
---
In due course we reached Mestre. There were no horses to ride post, but I found men with coaches who did as well, and I agreed with one of them to take me to Trevisa quickly.
The horses were put in in three minutes, and with the idea that my companion was behind me I turned round to say “Get up,” but he was not there. I told an ostler to go and look for him, with the intention of reprimanding him sharply, even if he had gone for a necessary occasion, for we had no time to waste, not even thus. In another moment, however, he was at my elbow; and when I saw him I could well believe him to be an angel, for he was holding two cheap clay cups which had been filled with steaming chocolate, well frothed, just as I like it, whence wafted an odour that seemed to me more delicious than any woman’s perfumes.
After giving the signal to pull out, I thanked him from the heart. I could not help some misgivings, having witnessed his unique talents, until he assured me with triumphant eyes that it would neither vanish nor turn to lead in my stomach; that I owed this miracle only to the café over the street, a little distraction, and a little sleight of hand.
I drank ardently; and as I drank, he stared at me, forgetful of his own cup, as if my pleasure were a divine revelation. As it had been almost sixteen months since chocolate had passed my lips, I was inclined to agree, almost persuaded that I held ambrosia in my hands.
In that moment, I was struck by the possibilities of freedom, and of companionship. I confess that I saw how useful a friend such as this might be; but more than that, I saw the joy he had taken even in so small a trickery; and I saw also the wondering delight as he took his own first sip of the rich chocolate, as of one who does not know or has forgotten the pleasures of the flesh, but who is at heart the truest of hedonists (I have taught too many virgins the wonders of their own bodies to mistake such a look). I judged that we would make a fine pair of adventurers; and I judged that, what was more, he needed occupation, and a friendship that would not forsake him.
“Come with me to Paris.”
My offer startled him, and he was silent for a minute as he drank and watched the houses pass us by. His eyes were fixed on the distance when at last he replied, “You don’t want me with you, kid. I’m not good companion material.”
“Your blood is as hot as mine; your wit as keen; Paris would be to your tastes, I think; and you have nowhere else you must be.”
“But I do. Even if they don’t - even if I’m kind of useless.” In the chill morning air, his grazed hands curled around the warm clay as if to protect it from the world. “Venesia, ła Finta Serenìsima, ła Rexìna Altièr de l’Adriàtigo, city of Giacomo Casanova and Carlo Goldoni and far too much paperwork and really really unsound structural foundations... half a millennium and she might sink into the sea, but hey - if it’s a choice between that and my brothers kicking her over in a screaming tantrum, guess it’s time to stop whining that the Force has flown the coop and just buckle on the old light sabre instead.”
The pale sky seemed too calm above me for the past night’s revelations of what lay behind it. “Angels are fighting?”
“They’re always fighting.” His eyes struck me, and I still remember them in my dreams: older than anything I had known, only for a moment, before he wrinkled up his face like a child. “Nothing you’ll see down here for another two hundred years and more.”
“Then sequamur deum.” I offered the old Stoic precept lightly, meaning it almost entirely as I had always meant it: let us give ourselves over to whatever fate offers and chase it willingly, and with delight. By deum, in that moment, I meant the classical Fortunam, rather than Dominum nostrum; and perhaps I let myself think that I was speaking to a brother, and not to a creature who knew Deum verum, and what it meant to follow Him, in a way beyond human comprehension. It was foolish, perhaps, and it was far beyond impudent; but when he stared at me, incredulous and brittle, I smiled, and I did not look away.
“Giacomo Casanova.” The last of the stars were fading in the west, and the horses smelled sweet. “You take a joy in this. In trickery, in adventure, in life. You are something... exceptional.”
I tossed my empty mug over my shoulder, heard it shatter on the cobbles behind us, and laughed. “Then stay a little.”
---
He stayed with me for two weeks, long enough to pass the borders of the Republic, and never told me his name. Every day he protested that on the next I would tire of him, as soon as the flash and sparkles were gone. He spoke to me in languages I had only seen written, so that we chattered in ancient Greek, in Hebrew, and in the strange Germanic English they speak in the far north of that island, where the men wear skirts. I taught him the patter of conjury and astrology. That took barely an hour: words and persuasions came easily to him. On the fifth day, he laughed. On the eighth, he switched my fine feathered hat for a parrot, which flew away to perch above the nearest horse trough, and fell into it when it changed back. By the twelfth, he could hold an illusion for almost ten minutes - long enough for us to buy a jug of a crooked merchant’s best wine when he thought he had sold us the worst, or for us to stroll past a guard in the guise of an old married couple. The next day, he could make a coin disappear from one end of a table and reappear at the other.
On the final day, we passed Borgo Valsugano, and he turned on his heel in the middle of a dusty road, clapped his hands and smiled like the sun. “Time for me to go, kiddo. I don’t think Paris is ready for the both of us.”
He made me promise - a self-fulfilling prediction - that when, in my old age, I should come to write my memoirs, I should leave him out of it. So I have done, spinning in his place as intricate a tale as any I have used to ensnare a fool: a plate of heaped macaroni, a folio bible, a pompous and ungrateful monk, and an ingratiating spy. But in duping this fictional spy, I wrote something of the truth into a story within a story: in that story, I terrified him into obedience with the tale of an angel in the body of a man, tunnelling through the roof of our cell to set us free.
Note.
In classical mythology, Bellerophon was the one who rode Pegasus too high, over-reaching his mortal capabilities, and fell to his death (Icarus is, of course, a variant on the same story, but with a different emotional and moral emphasis). In Casanova’s time there was some confusion between the figures of Bellerophon and Perseus, and the riding of Pegasus was often attributed to the latter. As Perseus was famous for other things, however, the name of Bellerophon was more likely than that of Perseus to evoke memories of that flight and downfall, and Casanova would be familiar enough with both versions to follow the reference, especially in the context of Icarus and fatal falls. Of course, if being understood was really Gabriel's priority here, he wouldn’t reference a Disney movie in the same breath. (Return.)
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