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.

Casanova now found himself with his companion in a garret-loft some thirty paces long by twenty broad. After a hurried inspection of the premises and running up against a couple of closed doors, further descent seemed hopeless, and now a sense of overpowering fatigue took possession of Casanova. He could not move hand or foot, but threw himself down on the floor with one of his bundles under his head and succumbed to sleep. The surrender was perfectly irresistible; had death been the penalty of giving way, he could not have kept awake, and the feeling of going off was delicious. He slept for three hours and a half, at the end of which Balbi indignantly shook him again into life to find his brain perfectly clear and his vigour completely restored. It was now about five o’clock in the morning. A glance around showed that this loft formed no part of the prison. There must be some way out. By forcing the lock of the door, they found their way into another chamber and passed through a gallery, that of the archives, down a little stone staircase, and entered a great hall which Casanova recognised as that of the grandducal chancery. It was not easy to get out of this chancery; the locks would not yield, so an attack had to be made on one of the panels of the door. This occupied half an hour, and Casanova, after pushing his friend to the far side, forced his own way through, despite the jagged edges of the broken wooden panel, which punished him cruelly. With clothes torn to rags and blood streaming from numerous wounds on his hips and sides, he hurried on to find a fresh obstacle in a massive door which nothing less than artillery could beat down. Casanova was in despair and ready to throw up the sponge. “I’ve done my share. I leave the rest to Providence,” he said resignedly. “We must wait till help comes.” Meanwhile he bound up his wounds, staunched the blood and changed his clothes. He put on the famous taffety coat with silver lace, adjusted his hose over his bandaged legs, put on three shirts, all gorgeously trimmed with point lace, and then laughed heartily at the figure he cut in a summer ball dress on the morning of the 1st of November. The grand silk mantle he threw over Balbi’s shoulders, telling him that he looked as if he had stolen it. Last of all, with his gold-laced hat on his head, he looked out of the window, an imprudence which might have spoiled all, but really helped them to get out. One or two early idlers observed the apparition and fetched the porter, under the impression that somebody had been locked into the ducal palace by mistake over night.

Casanova heard the rattle of keys and looking through a crack in the door saw a man alone, the porter, mounting the steps of the famous “Staircase of the Giants,” so-called from the two splendid statues at the top. He heard, too, a key inserted in the lock, and stood with ready weapon, the crowbar, awaiting his deliverer. But there was no occasion for violence. The door opened widely; the sleepy fellow also opened his eyes and mouth in utter surprise, little guessing that he had narrowly escaped with his life, and the fugitives rushed past him, not appearing in too great a hurry, but moving quickly down the staircase. They passed out of the grand entrance of the palace, crossed the little square and stepped into a gondola. “I want to go to Fucino, call another oar,” cried Casanova; and away they started. The custom house was soon left behind and the gondoliers with vigorous strokes neared the canal of the Giudecca. Half way along this canal, Casanova casually enquired:—

“Shall we be soon at Mestri?”

“But, signor, you told me to go to Fucino.”

“You are mad. I told you Mestri.”

The second rower also insisted upon Fucino, and, to the rage of Casanova, Balbi sided with the men. Casanova, feeling as if he would like to massacre his companion, burst into a fit of laughter, admitted that perhaps he did say Fucino, but he meant Mestri all the same. The gondoliers, nothing loath, agreed, and offered to take them to England if they wished. Enjoying the morning air with a zest he had never hitherto experienced, Casanova soon reached Mestri, landed and was faced with a new trouble. Balbi wandered off on his own devices and much time was wasted in hunting him up; then Casanova met a native of Mestri, one Tomasi, and was immediately recognised. “What, you here— Have you escaped? How did you manage it?” asked Tomasi. “No, I have just been released,” replied Casanova with a sinking heart. “That is quite impossible,” Tomasi said. “Last night I was at your friend Grimani’s house. I should certainly have heard of it.”

Casanova shuddered. This Tomasi would certainly give the alarm, the place was full of sbirri, and arrest was imminent. Only determined measures would serve. “Come with me,” he said, seizing him by the collar and truculently exposing the crowbar. Tomasi, affrighted, shook himself free, took a flying leap across a ditch and ran for his life. But when at a safe distance, he turned and kissed his hand as though he wished Casanova well.

It was of vital importance to get forward. A post chaise took the fugitives as far as Treviso, but was then dismissed as it was too expensive a way of travelling, and they went on afoot. After four hours’ walking Casanova was in a deplorable condition; his boots torn to bits, his ankles swollen; and he lay down, utterly exhausted, to hold discourse with his companion.

“We must separate here,” he said to the monk. “Our point is Valstagna beyond the frontier, but we must reach it by different ways. You shall go by the easiest; take all the cash and go by the woods, and I will take the mountain road. You will reach there to-morrow evening; I shall be twenty-four hours later. Wait for me in the first tavern on the left hand side of the road. Go. To-night I mean to have a good night’s rest in a bed, and I could not sleep soundly if you were anywhere within reach.”

Balbi’s reply was a flat refusal. He reminded his companion that he had promised never to separate from him. Whereupon Casanova with his crowbar proceeded to dig a hole by the roadside.

“It is your grave,” he said quietly. “I mean to bury you here dead or alive. I’ve done with you. But you may run away if you like, I shall not follow you.” Speech and manner were convincing. The monk thought it best to accept the proposal and took himself off.

Casanova, overjoyed at being alone, trudged on into the next village, Valdobbiadene by name, and here he made cautious inquiries as to the names of residents and the houses they occupied. One of the most important pointed out to him was that of the chief of police of the district, and to this with rare effrontery he at once proceeded. Some secret voice told him that he would run no danger, and on knocking at the door he heard that the man he had so much reason to dread was absent for some days. “He is helping in the search for two notorious prisoners,” said the wife who answered. “They have just escaped from the Piombi; one is called Casanova.” “Dear me, I am sorry not to find him, I am his old friend and comrade. I have come a long distance from hunting in the mountains (in silk stockings and a coat of taffety!); will you give me shelter for the night?” The warmest welcome was accorded him; he was given a good supper, his sore feet were dressed, and he slept all round the clock in a luxurious bed, and waking refreshed and restored, went on his way rejoicing. This was not the only good luck of the sort that fell to him by the way. He found food and lodging in another hospitable house, the master of which was absent, and ran into one or two people who knew him but did not interfere with him.

One last escapade must be told exhibiting his bold and desperate temper. Reaching the house of a friend of his, he entered and claimed assistance, offering to give him a draft on Signor Bragadino as security for a loan of sixty sequins. The recreant friend refused, fearing to offend the Council of Ten, and declined to give him even a glass of water. The man was under great obligations to Casanova, who fiercely resented this cruel treatment and at once adopted a menacing tone, crowbar in hand. The coward threw his keys on the table and bade Casanova help himself from a drawer.

“I will take six sequins,” he said. “It is true I asked for sixty, but that was as a loan from a friend. Now let me go in peace, or I will come back and burn your house over your head.”

The rest of the journey to the frontier, which he reached safely, was made without contretemps. Sometimes Casanova walked, sometimes he rode a donkey; the last stage he travelled in a cart with a couple of horses. At Valstagna he found Balbi in the place indicated, and the monk frankly told him he never expected to see him again. Casanova would indeed have gladly separated from him there and then, for Balbi proved a drag on him for some time to come. In the end he was recommitted to prison, was released from his vows and died in Venice a pauper, debauched and dissolute to the last.

Casanova, having received a sum of money from his friends in Venice, passed on to Munich, where he obtained permission to reside until he went to Paris in the winter of 1757, where good luck befriended him and he became one of the directors of the national lottery; he made a large income and for a time was on the top of the wave. It is beyond the scope of this volume to follow him in his varied and adventurous career in which he so nearly secured a substantial fortune but constantly missed it from the want of the more sterling qualities of steadiness and honesty. He was always a frank Bohemian, a reckless gambler and unprincipled roué and charlatan, imposing on the credulity of foolish ladies who believed him to be possessed of supernatural gifts and the secret of the “philosopher’s stone.” Bankers and great financiers befriended him and helped him to make large sums; but he wasted his capital in a foolish attempt at manufacturing printed silk at Lyons, which failed, and he was brought to the verge of ruin. He next wandered through Europe as a professional gambler, cutting a great figure in the best society at times, in which, however, he was laughed at and despised. He led a life of intrigue, fought duels, won much money, not always by fair means, and by degrees gained an evil reputation and the attentions of the police, who constantly warned him to “move on” from the capitals and great cities. Nothing prospered with him and in these days of decadence he made fresh acquaintance with the interior of prisons. When in London he was locked up in Newgate as the penalty of being engaged in a street brawl. In Madrid he was lodged in the prison of the Buen Petiro, and was afterward for a time in the citadel of Barcelona. When his fortunes were at the lowest ebb he obtained permission to return to Venice and lived in obscurity for a time in his native city; but again he visited Paris, where he made friends with Count Waldstein who offered him the hospitality of his castle at Dux in Bohemia. Here he was appointed librarian on a modest pittance and spent the last fourteen years of his life, a broken miserable man, subjected, as he thought, to constant indignities and enduring all the pangs of exile from his native Venice, with no one to console him in his last hours.

CHAPTER X

THE VICARIA OF NAPLES

The most interesting, and undoubtedly the most cruel and oppressive prisons were those of the kingdom of the Two Sicilies, and one of the worst in Naples is described as typical of the rest—the infamous prison of the Castel Capuano, so called from the district in which it was situated, and also called the Vicaria, the name it bears to this day, derived from the viceroy who ruled in the days of the Spanish domination. This prison gained an unenviable reputation in the time of King Ferdinand II, when its horrible condition drew down upon it the unmeasured reproaches of Mr. William E. Gladstone. The Bourbon government, ever cruel and tyrannical, was indeed rousing the indignation of the civilised world by its misusage of its political prisoners. Arbitrary arrests were made wholesale, trial was tardy, often there was no trial at all; conviction was obtained by perjury or conspiracy, and worse than all, the victims of these unworthy processes were thrown into the foulest dens or dungeons mostly unfit for human occupation.

In 1851 Mr. Gladstone, after a prolonged personal inquiry, addressed an open letter to the British premier, at that time Lord Aberdeen, in which he uttered his protest with indignant eloquence. He describes the prisons of Naples as being the extreme of filth and horror, and declares that in the Vicaria he saw the doctors, not going to the sick prisoners, but the sick prisoners, men almost with death upon their faces, toiling up-stairs to them, because the lower regions of such a place of darkness were too foul and loathsome to allow it to be expected that professional men should consent to earn bread by entering them. The diet consisted of black bread and soup, the first sound, but coarse to the last degree, the latter so nauseous that nothing but the extreme of hunger could overcome the repugnance of nature to it. The association was indiscriminate among a crowd of between three and four hundred murderers, thieves, all kinds of ordinary criminals, some condemned and some uncondemned, and the politically accused. They were a self-governed community, the main authority being that of the camorristi, the men of most celebrity among them for audacious crime. Employment they had none. This swarm of human beings all slept in a low long vaulted room, having no light except from a single and very moderate sized grating at one end. The political prisoners, upon payment, had the privilege of a separate chamber, but there was no division between them.

These strictures were taken in very bad part by some Neapolitan writers, who retorted with bitter denials and countercharges, expatiating upon the imperfections of the British penal system which inflicted the horrible punishment of the lash and had no reason to be proud of its prisons. The attack made no great impression, for the humane and intelligent management of the British prisons was too well known, and corporal punishment, indefensible no doubt, was but rarely administered. A better argument by way of denying the charges was to point to another Neapolitan prison, that of San Francisco, with which no great fault could be found. Nothing could better its position; it was well lighted, well ventilated, and it was kept perfectly clean,—a statement presently contradicted by the amazing admission that the Neapolitans did not mind a little dirt.

Where so much diversity of opinion prevailed, more evidence of an independent kind must be brought to bear, and we may quote from another eye-witness who visited the Vicaria soon after Mr. Gladstone and whose account was strongly corroborative. This was written by another member of Parliament, Mr. Alexander Baillie-Cochrane, who was given full permission in 1851 to inspect the prisons of Naples, and published a book, “Young Italy,” in which he relates:

“It is situated in the worst part of Naples, near the filthy, debauched quarter called the Porta Capuana. When we arrived there a sleety rain was falling and the outside, with its massive walls, triple bars and dirty aspect, conveyed most painful sensations of misery and wretchedness. From the upper stories, where the prisoners were confined for minor offences, they were leaning against the bars, their features distorted, indulging in foul and brutal observations. On entering we were met by the authorities, who at once proceeded to open those tiers of dungeons where, up to this time, no Englishman had ever penetrated. The large court into which we drove was surrounded by a portico, which must, at one time, have been handsome; but it all seemed to have caught the contagion of vice and infamy; it smelled of crime. The staircase was wide but reeking with dirt—a fitting approach to the apartments we were about to enter. At the top of the stairs a mob of tattered, decrepit, loathsome figures were collected; they were the relations of some of the prisoners, who were permitted to see them from time to time, and were admitted one by one through a small wicket, a man sitting at the desk and calling out their names; the man, wicket desk and all being in momentary danger of being carried away, from the struggles of the mob. It was with difficulty that the officers cleared a way for us; but at last the huge bars were withdrawn and we entered the outer room, which was separated from the long gallery in which the prisoners were confined by iron gates, to which they all pressed with eager curiosity: some of them with a vicious expression of countenance which made me rather wish to remain on the outside of the bars. The officers, by driving the men back, were at last able to open the gates. We entered, and they were carefully locked and barred behind us. It was a gallery perhaps some two hundred feet long by twenty wide, with small rooms branching off it, and in this gallery from two hundred to three hundred were lodged. It would be difficult to convey an idea of the horrors of the place. A damp, fetid, noxious vapour filled every cell; many of the windows by which the light entered had no glass, and the wet mist penetrated through the close bars.

“The mass of the prisoners were dressed in the most filthy rags and their features were fearfully degraded. But mingling with these were men of far different character and appearance. Hustled by the crowd of vagrants and scoundrels might be seen men who, at one time, swayed the destinies of the kingdom, and were honoured by the royal confidence. These men withdrew into their rooms where some ten or twelve slept together, and there they told me the tales of their misery. Most of them, as at the Santa Maria, had been eight months in prison without the least appearance of trial; and some did not know of what they were accused. It was distressing beyond expression to see gentlemen of education compelled to mix with the refuse, the foul refuse of the galleys. As we moved from cell to cell the crowd moved on and pressed around us. They could not at all comprehend the cause of this sudden and unexpected visit. After we had walked down the whole length of the gallery, the officers inquired whether we wished to see the lower part of the prisons in which the worst description of offenders were confined. I thought it was almost impossible that anything could well be worse than what I had seen; but anxious to have a clear knowledge of the actual state of the prisons, I assented. When we approached the gates the people pressed on us so roughly that it was with great difficulty the officers could compel them to retire; and when they saw that we were going without giving them any hope that their condition would be ameliorated, their looks of regret and disappointment would have touched any heart. We passed again through the crowd waiting outside, and then went down a steep flight of filthy steps till we came to the lower range of the building which was below the level of the ground, where we had to pass through two or three gates before we entered the place where some four to five hundred were confined. A much greater number of officers were here in attendance, as some of the prisoners were very dangerous.

“The moment the last gate was unbarred we found ourselves in a place which it would require the imagination of a Dante to paint. I could understand that if this had been visited first, I should have considered the upper floor a comfortable residence. Some were lying on the floor; others crowded together on the miserable truckle beds, howling and blaspheming and evidently always addressed and treated as brutes. Some had climbed up to the open bars and were jeering at the people in the street. It was vice in all its degradation and horror; human life in a living tomb assisting at the spectacle of its own decay, its own rottenness. The atmosphere was thick as a London fog from the horrible exhalations. The men here were wild to tell me their stories; some caught hold of my clothes, others scribbled their names on pieces of paper and thrust them into my hand, which they seized and covered with their pestilential kisses. I spoke to one old man who had been confined there twenty-five years—twenty-five years in such a place!—and he pretended, I know not with what truth, that to that day he had never been tried. I asked the officers if this was the case, but it was so long since his arrival that they could not give me any definite information. When the wretched beings were told that I could do nothing for them, their expressions of sorrow were loud and bitter. I was not sorry when, after quite forcing a way through the crowd, we reached the gates and I heard the last bar drawn which shut the poor creatures out from all hope.”

Before he left the prison, Mr. Baillie-Cochrane examined the registers and ascertained that there were 614 political prisoners in custody. What could he do for these poor sufferers for their conscience’s sake? He made up his mind to approach the king himself and put before him the whole painful story. Ferdinand graciously received him and listened with great patience and concern. The Englishman spoke out fearlessly and urged the king to freely use the prerogative of pardon, and release all who had been imprisoned, often without the semblance of a trial and on the most unfounded accusations. The king was much impressed. “I am delighted to hear the truth,” he said, “and very grateful to you for telling it. No one is more anxious than I am to do what is right. I have been shamefully traduced and calumniated, most unjustly so.” The reader will not perhaps be inclined to absolve the despotic ruler who allows such things to be done. The wished-for result was hardly achieved. In a few days the political prisoners were separated from the general population of the Vicaria, and some few were set at liberty. “So far so good,” was Mr. Cochrane’s commentary, “but, to my very deep regret, I have heard that the political prisoners were sent to a much worse place, where communication with their families was much more restricted, and that the few who were released were very unimportant people and who would under ordinary circumstances have gone out.”

Let us follow some of those who went elsewhere. One of them, Baron Porcari, was committed to the island prison of Ischia and confined in a dungeon called the Maschio, a dungeon without light and four feet below the level of the sea. He was never allowed to quit it day or night and no one was permitted to visit him there except his wife, who could see him once a fortnight.

There were others who fared still worse: Carlo Poerio, the eminent Neapolitan whose name and fame are precious possessions in Naples, was imprisoned with sixteen others in another island prison, that of Nisida, and under the most deplorable conditions. All sixteen were crowded into a single room, thirteen feet by ten. “When the beds were let down at night there was no space between them; they (the prisoners) could only get out at the foot, and, being chained two and two, only in pairs. In this room they had to cook or prepare what was sent them by the kindness of their friends.” The room on one side was below the overhanging ground and therefore reeked with dampness. There was only one window, too high to look through, unglazed and freely permitting unhealthful air to enter and at times the intense cold. The chains were very ponderous; every man wore two sets, one of cross-irons fastened to each ankle and to a waist leather; the other, half a coupling chain, sixteen feet in length, carried jointly between the two prisoners. The weight of all these chains exceeded thirty pounds. They were never taken off, and the trousers were made to button all the way down the legs so that they must be put on over the irons. The use of double irons was not common to the Neapolitan gaols but they were especially introduced just before the arrival of the political prisoners. As a further refinement of cruelty, frequently the most opposite of individuals were chained together, a political prisoner, for instance, with the informer who had sent him to gaol, or with the lowest and most ferocious criminal.

The prisons of Sicily were equally disgraceful. At Palermo the inmates were herded like cattle, exposed to the sun in the open yards or buried in underground dungeons. These dammusi were sufficient to cause a shudder; excavated far out under the Porta Carbone, but so limited in size that a man could not stand erect or lie at full length on the only bed provided, of hard stone. Complete darkness, dripping damp, and vermin innumerable, make up the horrible picture, drawn by an Italian who afterward visited the prison, escorted by Professor Pasquale Pacini, who pointed out the dammuso he had himself occupied, and cut out the very iron ring to which he had been chained to carry away with him. In this prison there was a torture chamber in which the nails and rings once used still remained. There were many such underground prisons on the mainland. I have myself seen those of the castle of St. Elmo at Naples, now thrown open and dismantled, but which are still very much like dry wells or the mouth of a coal mine, deep pits too dark and foul even for the reception of wild beasts. The male prison of Aversa was a by-word; at the gateway as late as 1830 it was the custom to hang iron baskets in which were kept the shrivelling heads of decapitated criminals. At the prison of Santa Maria, there were caverns hollowed out of the rock behind the criminal prison, the only admission to which was through an aperture like a window and inside which the unhappy occupant lay heaped up, hermetically sealed. The old fortress of the Castel dell’ Ovo at Naples contained dungeons as bad as any of those just mentioned.

Italy has largely utilised the islands that surround her shores as prisons or penal colonies. Nisida just opposite Baiæ, established under the Bourbons, is one of these, and is typical of many. The building which, seen from a short distance, looks little bigger than a martello tower, crowns the summit of a sea-girt hill and is sufficiently commodious for five hundred inmates on the “congregate” or barrack-room system. Its situation is unrivalled, commanding as it does the Bay of Naples on one side, and that of Baiæ on the other, with Cape Misenum and the islands of Ischia and Procida beyond. Its lodgers do not care as much for the view as for the privilege of purchasing wine, fruit or tobacco at the canteen; the means for which they can procure by their industry. The present writer when he visited it found all pretty busily employed; a large contingent on shoes and slippers; others were tailoring, weaving at quaint old-fashioned looms or spinning-wheels, and turning out an excellent cloth-like canvas. A few specially well-conducted convicts were employed beyond the walls in the gardens, olive grove and farm. Nisida is famous for its oil. Its lemons grow to a gigantic size; its cows give excellent milk which is churned into excellent butter. All these operations are entrusted to the prisoners. Over the outer gateway is an inscription, “Sine Pecunia,” purporting to explain that the prison was built at no cost, the expenses having been defrayed by the sale of rabbits with which the island was formerly over-run. They were caught in large quantities by the prisoners and their skins sold. Much of the farm work at one time was performed by the Abyssinian prisoners, who with their Prince Dejeac were here expiating a charge of conspiracy against the Italian government. They were very mild-eyed, harmless looking men—nearly all black Africans of the pure negro type—and they shrieked with delight at the coppers given them to spend for cigarettes. One of them, a convalescent in the hospital, attached exaggerated importance to our visit and plumped down on his knees with his hands raised in supplication, hoping we would pardon him then and there.

The interior of the prison is like that of a castle or tower, a winding staircase giving upon rooms floor after floor, the windows of which look out on the sea. The centre is an open courtyard used for exercise, and I saw a large number there mingling freely and not walking round and round in Indian file. They were rather desperate looking men and would assuredly have satisfied Professor Lombroso as to their possessing the characteristics of the criminal type. All wore chains, leg irons hanging to a waist belt and a red uniform, somewhat startling to English eyes accustomed to connect that colour with an honourable profession or a royal livery, and not with crime. These chains at night are made fast to the foot of the bedstead. In cases of misconduct, when the prisoner is relegated to the punishment cell, this chain is attached to a ring in the cell wall, and its wearer can move only its length through the open cell door into the central court. But the prisoners were orderly and gave but little trouble, as I was told. Serious insubordination was very rare and escape from such a sea-girt fortress all but impossible. If a fugitive could elude the military sentries, there were the shark-haunted waters at the base of the rocks.

The prison was clean,—obviously it was often swept and garnished,—although fresh water is a scarce commodity in this elevated position and every drop must be brought over from the mainland. There is the sea below available for scrubbing purposes, and all the stone floors and passages are washed daily—a very necessary operation in that climate. All the economic arrangements were of the simplest, most rough-and-ready character. The kitchen was a dark, dirty looking den; the soup of cabbage very poor and thin; the bread coarse and black; but the bedding was ample, the clothing good and the physical condition of the prisoners excellent. All utensils were of quaint shape; some coppers of classical form might have come straight from Pompeii. In the bakehouse the bread was being prepared in a primitive sort of trough, kneaded by a patient donkey in a roundabout, turning a wheel.

CHAPTER XI

THE CAMORRA AND THE MAFIA

We read that the system flourished in the Neapolitan prisons during the sixteenth century very much as in modern times. A Spanish viceroy, Cardinal Grand Vela, writes: “We have learnt that in the prison of the Vicaria the inmates who are most masterful practise many extortions upon their weaker fellows, demanding subscriptions to keep the Madonna’s lamp furnished with oil and imposing other taxes just as though they were the masters of the place.”

A French writer, Marc Monnier, who knew Naples by heart, has gathered together much interesting information about the commanding influence of the Camorra in the Vicaria in the latter days of the Bourbon régime. He tells us that when a new arrival entered the Castel Capuano, or Vicaria prison, and passed under the grand entrance, he reached two separate doors, both leading into the interior, and after the usual ceremonies of reception he fell at once into the hands of the Camorra. Its representative came up with outstretched hand and made the stereotyped application,—money for oil to burn in the Madonna’s lamp. This custom was universal; the lamps were to be met with everywhere, even in the lowest and vilest haunts. The sum raised in the Vicaria alone would have sufficed to illuminate the whole city, and it was, of course, only a pretext for innumerable arbitrary assessments. The prisoner was at the mercy of the Camorra, body and soul. He must buy permission to eat, or drink, or play cards, or smoke; the privilege of buying was taxed and also that of selling. He paid for justice; for the concession of rights and privileges to which he was entitled or which he had fairly earned. The ill-advised person who refused to be thus blackmailed ran the risk of being beaten to death. Even the poorest submitted at the cost of their wages or their last copper.

The Camorra in the prisons arrogated to itself the authority to allow prisoners to carry knives or to withhold the permission. When any persons of rank and importance were received at the Vicaria, a leading Camorrist came to them and formally presented each new arrival with a stiletto with a low bow: “Will your excellency accept this? We authorise you to carry it.” They were snobs, these Camorrists, and always paid their respects to persons of means, while they tyrannised only over the poor and needy. Some of the prisoners were poor indeed, and reduced to any shifts to obtain a little cash. There was a regular traffic in the food and clothes issued by the administration, which the indigent sold to the Camorrists and which the latter passed back at a price to the officials, thus making a profit out of the poor prisoners.

Although weapons were positively forbidden in the prison, the chief of the Camorra could always lay his hands upon knives, and had his own private store. It was the boast of the society that it maintained good order and gave protection to the well-disposed; that they acted as a sort of unofficial police, and if they levied blackmail, on the other hand, they prevented thefts; if they stabbed people when it suited them, they would suffer no murderous affrays. Duels might be fought, but only under their auspices; they enforced obedience to rules of discipline when the wardens themselves failed to secure it. On one occasion, when a prisoner of fierce, insubordinate temper defied authority, the warden appealed to a Camorrist for assistance and was readily backed up by him. This Camorrist, named Diego Zezza, whose favourite weapon was a razor blade forced into a handle and with which he had once sliced off an enemy’s head, seized the recalcitrant prisoner by the hair of his head and banged him against an iron gate until he cried for mercy. Diego Zezza came to a violent end. His overbearing ways were so resented by his comrades that a conspiracy was set on foot against him and he was assassinated by some of the most resolute of his own associates.

The Camorrist was obliged to maintain his authority if it was challenged. A priest from Calabria who had gotten into trouble and was sent to the Vicaria, was approached as usual for his contribution for oil, but being quite penniless could not pay. The Camorrist raised his stick threateningly—“You wouldn’t dare to do that if I had a knife,” said the priest. “You shall have one,” replied the other, and two were forthwith produced. The chief of the Camorra had always a stock in hand in spite of all regulations to the contrary. In this case the priest, like all the Calabrians, was more skilful than his adversary and speedily killed the Camorrist.

Among the perquisites of the Camorrists was the monopoly of gambling. A tax was levied upon every game of morra played,—a favourite amusement with all Neapolitans. It is simplicity itself; one player holds up his doubled fist and throws out one or more fingers and the other guesses the number as they are displayed. If one cries “five” and the number of fingers is three or four, the other player wins. In the prisons the stakes were measures of wine, also supplied by the Camorra, which in this way made money all round. The gains were very substantial when affairs prospered, and as much as £40 or £50 was paid into the society’s treasury every week.

The organisation was extensive and all the prisons were brought into it. How well the system worked was to be seen in a correspondence between the chief Camorrist and one of his subordinate lieutenants in another prison which was shown to Mr. Marc Monnier. These letters, by many different hands, proving that the chief was no scholar and had to depend upon the literary skill of others, dealt largely with the affairs of the society, which issued orders, gave decisions, inflicted punishments, and divided its funds. All the current news was passed on, prison arrivals and departures, new sentences and terms expired. The most remarkable thing was the facility and regularity with which these clandestine letters were passed in and out of the prisons; no doubt the wardens were always at the service of the Camorrists and helped them in every way.

Discipline was strict in the ranks; submission and obedience were rigorously exacted; advancement was slow and painfully earned. The recruit passed a long novitiate. He began in the lowest grade, that of the garzone chi mala vita, “youth of vicious life,” in which he was kicked about by his betters and did any kind of dirty work. Then he rose to be a picciotto, holding a certain position, but still an inferior. He might pass through years of diligent, even dangerous service, and if necessary be put to the severest trial, that of carrying out a murder at the command of the society, when some bloodthirsty vengeance was sought. If nothing of the kind pressed, it was at one time the rule to throw down a copper coin on the ground for the picciotto to pick up while his comrades stabbed at his fingers with the points of their knives. Promotion might be earned by some tremendous act of self-sacrifice, such as that of accepting the blame for a heinous crime committed by some one else. Cases have been known in which the innocent criminal received and endured a very long sentence, even ten or twenty years at the galleys, cheerfully, bearing the burden of another for the great reward of becoming a full member of the society. This probation might be greatly prolonged, but it was worth it to secure the coveted position of the Camorrist entitled to dictate to others, to take his share of the spoils when divided, and to receive the adulation and cringing respect of the lower orders. He was after that eligible to become one of the supreme chiefs, a post of great consequence and of unlimited power. He became in the argot of the society a masto or a capomasto; that is, “master” or “grand-master,”—a personage who ruled over his fellows as a superior being. When an ordinary member met a masto on the street, he was bound to remove his hat and humbly ask for orders.

Every member was addressed as “Si,” the abbreviation of signore. The Society had a rich vocabulary of slang terms. Freddare was “to kill”; il dormenté was “the dead man.” A dagger, as in ancient days, was the misericordi; the tit-tac or bobotta was a revolver; the police were lasagne, so called after a kind of macaroni; l’asparago was a gendarme. The Camorrists were loyal to each other, and any treachery was punished with death. They quarrelled among themselves and were bound to fight with knives and to strike in the chest in serious cases. A Camorrist might cease active work but could never wholly withdraw from the society. They received help in old age; their widows were pensioned and their children provided for.

After the fall of the Bourbons and in the early days of the unification of Italy, when the new régime had not consolidated its power, the Camorra in Naples was more than ever formidable; they controlled such forces and were so strongly bound together that the ordinary laws were of little avail against them. People were afraid to complain when they were robbed, and the police hesitated to pursue the robbers. If any were taken red-handed and the case was clear against them, the judges often dared not convict or sentence them. It was some time before the energetic measures taken by the government were of any avail, for even when numerous arrests had been made, there was a definite danger in collecting these terrible creatures in the same gaol. The leading Camorrists in those days were miscreants foremost in the committal of every kind of crime; they were thieves, brigands and murderers, and the careers of one or two of the worst may be quoted in support of this statement.

A prominent personage, leader and king, was Salvatore Crescenzo, who first entered the Vicaria in 1849, where he continued his violent misdeeds by wounding one fellow prisoner and killing another. After regaining his freedom in 1855, he returned to the active business of a Camorrist, was again captured and sent to gaol, but this time at a distance from Naples. After his next release, he took to politics and was for a time a member of the revolutionary police under Liborio Romano, but this was not in his line, and he again joined the Camorra and ended his life in the island of Ponza.

A long list might be made out of men of the same type.

It might be supposed that the baleful tyranny of the Camorra, which was an undoubted fact, based upon undeniable evidence, had now disappeared from the Italian prisons. Yet, according to the best authority, the society still flourishes in the south and especially in the convict colonies established in the various islands of the kingdom. A writer in the “Archivo di Psichiatria,” Signor Pucci, states positively from his personal knowledge that the Camorra is still ferociously active. It is absolute master in every colony. Although by no means numerically strong, by its admirable and unscrupulous organisation it still rules despotically, despises laws and regulations and sets the authority of all prison officials at defiance. Brutal violence may not be often practised as of old, but the society still extorts blackmail from the rest of the colonists, adopting nefarious methods of obtaining money. One is by the tax on gambling—the Italian, bond or free, is always eager to gamble; another is by the most extortionate usury at twenty or thirty per cent.; a third is by forcibly impounding the earnings of those who work. When new arrivals appear in the colony, if they have money or decent clothes they are made drunk and then robbed. The first sight, says Signor Pucci, that strikes the visitor is that of a number of lazy, truculent ruffians lounging idly in the sun or strolling and loafing about the yards and passages. These are the Camorrists; they are too lazy to lift a finger to shut a door; but on Sundays they appear in smart clothes, wearing watches and chains, the proceeds of their extortion. As these coatti “ex-convict colonists,” are mostly criminal men, it is easy to understand how soon this corrupting association drags them down. The authorities are powerless to protect them or to control the infamous practices of the Camorra. This is alleged to be the cardinal defect of the colonies and those who know declare that wherever Italians of the dangerous class congregate together in their freedom, the Camorra will always exercise its baneful control.

The influence of this criminal society has extended to all classes, and especially has it made itself felt in the municipal life of Naples, which might well be termed rotten to the core. No determined effort to strike at this plague spot and eradicate this crying evil met with any success before the royal order for inquiry into the condition of municipal government was issued in 1900, when the most astonishing facts were brought to light.

The origin of the Mafia, which flourishes chiefly in Sicily is lost. Probably it arose centuries ago as a means of self-protection among the residents of that unhappy island which has been the pawn of so many rulers. Though little is definitely known of it, apparently the society is as powerful in the twentieth century as in the eighteenth or the nineteenth.

There seems to be no closely knit organisation and yet it works with almost the precision of a machine. In the rural districts to some extent it takes the place of a police force in the protection of property. The small farmer makes a contribution to some one who is generally understood to be a leader and his crops are untouched. His neighbour neglects or refuses to do the same and his fields are plundered. Membership in the order is often tolerably well known, and thousands who are not actively engaged are in sympathy with the society and give information whenever desired. Garibaldi’s easy success in Sicily is attributed to the good wishes of the Mafia.

The worst features appear in the cities. There the members are ready for plunder, personal mutilation, and even a murder may be purchased for a few dollars. The leaders are not elected. They rise by personal force—because they can make others follow them—and yet their authority is never questioned until a rival appears, and then death settles the leadership in favour of the stronger, and another unsolved murder is added to the long list of the police. In many cases the police themselves are in collusion with the Mafiosi, or at least do not make any determined effort to bring them to justice.

Some declare that there is a “high” as well as a “low” Mafia. To the former belong many men prominent in public life, who, while they may not themselves take part in actual criminal acts, are yet able by their political influence to protect the ordinary members from the consequence of their deeds.

Count Codronchi, High Commissioner, and military commandant of the island in 1894, declares that the acknowledged leader of the society, Palizzola, Parliamentary deputy from Palermo, charged with the murder of Marquis Notarbartola, was thus shielded. It is certain that many obstacles were thrown in the way of the investigation, that Codronchi was transferred, and that Palizzola, after being convicted twice in Northern Italy, where the case had been moved, finally escaped on a technicality. Further he afterward received a decoration from the Prime Minister and is still influential in public life. In some respects his position seems analogous to that of the “boss” in an American city.

Nevertheless some members both of the Camorra and of the Mafia have been caught red-handed and have been punished, while others fled to escape arrest. Many of both classes have come to the United States along with the great stream of Italian immigration and the “Black Hand” outrages have followed. In nearly all cases only those of Italian birth have been involved, and generally the crimes have grown out of attempted blackmail.

A prosperous Italian receives a letter, signed with a picture of a black hand, demanding that a specified sum of money be left at a designated place, and threatening dire consequences for failure. Often the frightened recipient carries out the instructions and does not even report the matter to the police. In case he refuses his horses may be poisoned, his child kidnapped, his place of business wrecked by explosives, or he may even be stabbed or shot, particularly if he has reported the letter to the police who have generally been unable to protect him.

Investigators generally do not believe that either the Camorra or the Mafia has been transplanted to America, unless perhaps some crimes in New Orleans, several years ago, may be attributed to the Mafia. It is believed that the crimes have been planned by individuals or by small groups, which may include, however, old members of one or the other of the societies abroad. Generally they are simply bold spirits, some of whom have lived in America almost since childhood, who hate honest work and prefer to live upon the ignorance and the fears of their countrymen.

New York, which contains an Italian population second only to Naples, has been the centre of these crimes, which the ordinary detective force seemed unable to solve. In 1905, a special bureau of Italian-speaking detectives under Lieutenant Joseph Petrosino, was established to deal with such cases and a long string of convictions followed. In addition about sixty men, some of whom were wanted by the Italian police, were deported, because of previous criminal records. Many crimes remained unpunished, however, because of the difficulty of getting testimony against suspected persons. The victims or their friends, either because of fear or because they preferred to take private vengeance, have hindered the police instead of helping them.

Lieutenant Petrosino soon became convinced that there was little hope of repressing the Italian criminal in New York without the coöperation of the Italian government. By exchange of records the police departments of the two countries would be enabled to exercise closer supervision of suspected individuals and could report suspicious cases. Without the criminal records kept abroad, the authorities in the United States were unable to deal promptly with the immigrants.

Armed with credentials from the New York City government and from the national government as well, Lieutenant Petrosino sailed for Europe in February, 1909. Though he travelled under an assumed name he was recognised in various cities by Italians who had spent some time in the United States, and probably knowledge of his presence was widespread among the criminal classes. Though several times warned of danger, he did not flinch, but went quietly on collecting material and striving to interest the authorities in his mission. While in Palermo, Sicily, on the night of March 12, 1909, he was twice shot in the Piazza Marina, just as he was mailing a letter to his wife, and died almost instantly. Though the police were ordered to be especially active months of investigation apparently have produced no results.

Speculation has connected the tragedy with the names of many well-known Italian criminals. Guiseppe Di Primo, whom Petrosino suspected of complicity in the celebrated “barrel murder” in 1903, and who was later deported through his efforts, is said to have threatened to take his life if opportunity offered. Errico Alfano, better known as Erricone, a Camorrist of Naples, who was deported and arrested in his native city, through information given by Petrosino, is also suspected. For that matter, any one of a hundred who had felt his heavy hand may have done, or, at least, have incited the crime.

Petrosino’s work has been continued chiefly by men with whom he worked and whom he had trained. The “Black Hand” outrages have persisted and it becomes increasingly evident that they can be suppressed only by exercising closer scrutiny of the records of Italian immigrants, and perhaps also by adopting a system of espionage, heretofore entirely foreign to American ideas of the limits of police activity.