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selenakFor my last post from Venice, I shall turn over my blog to a guest star, in whose former house I am currently staying. However, in the spirit of performance art and what with being dead, he will be incorporated by a living local. Attend, audience, to Giacomo Casanova as embodied by Tiziano the cat:
Now I realise my fame is everlasting and universal, but maybe a small reminder of my most famous escapade could be of use. I am, of course, referring toHenriette Bellino Lucrezia C. my escape from the lead chambers in the Ducal Palace of Venice. Trust me, faithful reader, I was motivated. There were flees all over the place, the food was horrid, and the company, well, my two most memorable fellow prisoners were a lovelorn hairdresser who'd let himself be caught with a count's daughter, and a priest named Padre Balbio. As you can see, I was less than thrilled by his presence.
However, he insisted on talking to me. His favourite subject was himself; if you are maliciously inclined, you could say we had that in common. As beggars can't be choosers, I learned quite a lot about him. He was imprisoned for having gotten three young women pregnant and having acknowledged the children in public. This was too much for even the most lenient bishop, who probably wondered whether Padre Balbio was confusing himself with Rodrigo Borgio. I, on the other hand, was suffering the injustice of having been imprisoned for an attempt at improving Venetian-French relations. With the French ambassador, and two nuns.
Being bored out my skull by Balbio's tales of woe, which came in writing, since we corresponded through having the warden exchange books between us, I had begun to gouge through the wooden floor underneath my bed, knowing that my cell was directly above the Inquisitor’s chamber. I was almost through, and would you believe it? Balbio felt lonely. The guard thought he was doing me favour by transferring me into another cell.
I was not thrilled. Again. There was nothing to it: my next escape plan had to include Balbio. I had to break the news to him. He did not take it well.
I shall spare you the ways he almost managed to bungle our one shot at liberty with his endless fretting and hysterics. Finally, my hour had come. I was observed leaving the Ducal Palace, but the Inquisition was so unpopular in Venice that those who watched, without knowing who I am, simply wished me Godspeed.
In subsequent years, this turned out to be one of the two things everyone in Europe knew about me. Well, there are worse things to be famous for than a prison break and being an expert in the art of love. But I admit I miss Venice. Oh, not the lead chambers. But let me give you a glimpse at the place I lived at before I was unceremoniously dragged there. Today, it looks a bit run down from the outside:
But then you go up the stairs:
And enter the main salon:
This studiolo is not uncomfortable, either:
Nor is the main bedroom (a point of obvious importance):
Now, wouldn't you miss such a residence as well? Yet some people who shall be nameless insist on returning to Munich tomorrow, without having the Inquisition after them. Munich! I visited the place once or twice in my later years. The most memorable people there were of couse my fellow Venetians. We spoke of our last sights of home. Which in my case was the then dreadful and still dreadful Mestre, but I prefer to remember the Ducal Palace instead, looking all the more beautiful for me having just managed to escape it.
The most beautiful promenade of the world:
And the sun of a new day, rising:
Now I realise my fame is everlasting and universal, but maybe a small reminder of my most famous escapade could be of use. I am, of course, referring to
However, he insisted on talking to me. His favourite subject was himself; if you are maliciously inclined, you could say we had that in common. As beggars can't be choosers, I learned quite a lot about him. He was imprisoned for having gotten three young women pregnant and having acknowledged the children in public. This was too much for even the most lenient bishop, who probably wondered whether Padre Balbio was confusing himself with Rodrigo Borgio. I, on the other hand, was suffering the injustice of having been imprisoned for an attempt at improving Venetian-French relations. With the French ambassador, and two nuns.
Being bored out my skull by Balbio's tales of woe, which came in writing, since we corresponded through having the warden exchange books between us, I had begun to gouge through the wooden floor underneath my bed, knowing that my cell was directly above the Inquisitor’s chamber. I was almost through, and would you believe it? Balbio felt lonely. The guard thought he was doing me favour by transferring me into another cell.
I was not thrilled. Again. There was nothing to it: my next escape plan had to include Balbio. I had to break the news to him. He did not take it well.
I shall spare you the ways he almost managed to bungle our one shot at liberty with his endless fretting and hysterics. Finally, my hour had come. I was observed leaving the Ducal Palace, but the Inquisition was so unpopular in Venice that those who watched, without knowing who I am, simply wished me Godspeed.
In subsequent years, this turned out to be one of the two things everyone in Europe knew about me. Well, there are worse things to be famous for than a prison break and being an expert in the art of love. But I admit I miss Venice. Oh, not the lead chambers. But let me give you a glimpse at the place I lived at before I was unceremoniously dragged there. Today, it looks a bit run down from the outside:
But then you go up the stairs:
And enter the main salon:
This studiolo is not uncomfortable, either:
Nor is the main bedroom (a point of obvious importance):
Now, wouldn't you miss such a residence as well? Yet some people who shall be nameless insist on returning to Munich tomorrow, without having the Inquisition after them. Munich! I visited the place once or twice in my later years. The most memorable people there were of couse my fellow Venetians. We spoke of our last sights of home. Which in my case was the then dreadful and still dreadful Mestre, but I prefer to remember the Ducal Palace instead, looking all the more beautiful for me having just managed to escape it.
The most beautiful promenade of the world:
And the sun of a new day, rising:
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