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diff --git a/2792-0.txt b/2792-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bfb75e8 --- /dev/null +++ b/2792-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7303 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, My Ten Years' Imprisonment, by Silvio Pellico, +Edited by Henry Morley, Translated by Thomas Roscoe + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: My Ten Years' Imprisonment + + +Author: Silvio Pellico + +Editor: Henry Morley + +Release Date: September 19, 2014 [eBook #2792] +[This file was first posted on 30 July 2000] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY TEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT*** + + +Transcribed from the 1886 Cassell & Co. edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + + [Picture: Book cover] + + CASSELL’S NATIONAL LIBRARY. + + * * * * * + + + + + + MY + TEN YEARS’ IMPRISONMENT. + + + BY + SILVIO PELLICO. + + _TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN_ + BY + THOMAS ROSCOE. + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED: + _LONDON_, _PARIS_, _NEW YORK & MELBOURNE_. + 1886. + + + + +INTRODUCTION. + + +SILVIO PELLICO was born at Saluzzo, in North Italy, in the year of the +fall of the Bastille, 1789. His health as a child was feeble, his temper +gentle, and he had the instincts of a poet. Before he was ten years old +he had written a tragedy on a theme taken from Macpherson’s Ossian. His +chief delight as a boy was in acting plays with other children, and he +acquired from his father a strong interest in the patriotic movements of +the time. He fastened upon French literature during a stay of some years +at Lyons with a relation of his mother’s. Ugo Foscolo’s _Sepolcri_ +revived his patriotism, and in 1810, at the age of twenty-one, he +returned to Italy. He taught French in the Soldiers’ Orphans’ School at +Milan. At Milan he was admitted to the friendship of Vincenzo Monti, a +poet then touching his sixtieth year, and of the younger Ugo Foscolo, by +whose writings he had been powerfully stirred, and to whom he became +closely bound. Silvio Pellico wrote in classical form a tragedy, +_Laodicea_, and then, following the national or romantic school, for a +famous actress of that time, another tragedy, _Francesca di Rimini_, +which was received with great applause. + +After the dissolution of the kingdom of Italy, in April 1814, Pellico +became tutor to the two children of the Count Porro Lambertenghi, at +whose table he met writers of mark, from many countries; Byron (whose +_Manfred_ he translated), Madame de Stael, Schlegel, Manzoni, and others. +In 1819 Silvio Pellico began publishing _Il Conciliatore_, a journal +purely literary, that was to look through literature to the life that it +expresses, and so help towards the better future of his country. But the +merciless excisions of inoffensive passages by the Austrian censorship +destroyed the journal in a year. + +A secret political association had been formed in Italy of men of all +ranks who called themselves the Carbonari (charcoal burners), and who +sought the reform of government in Italy. In 1814 they had planned a +revolution in Naples, but there was no action until 1820. After +successful pressure on the King of the two Sicilies, the forces of the +Carbonari under General Pepe entered Naples on the ninth of July, 1820, +and King Ferdinand I. swore on the 13th of July to observe the +constitution which the Carbonari had proclaimed at Nola and elsewhere +during the preceding month. On the twenty-fifth of August, the Austrian +government decreed death to every member of a secret society, and +_carcere duro e durissimo_, severest pains of imprisonment, to all who +had neglected to oppose the progress of Carbonarism. Many seizures were +made, and on the 13th of October the gentle editor of the _Conciliatore_, +Silvio Pellico, was arrested as a friend of the Carbonari, and taken to +the prison of Santa Margherita in Milan. + +In the same month of October, the Emperors of Austria and Russia, and the +Prince of Prussia met at Troppau to concert measures for crushing the +Carbonari. + +In January, 1821, they met Ferdinand I. at Laybach and then took arms +against Naples. Naples capitulated on the 20th of March, and on the 24th +of March, 1821, its Revolutionary council was closed. A decree of April +10th condemned to death all persons who attended meetings of the +Carbonari, and the result was a great accession to the strength of this +secret society, which spread its branches over Germany and France. + +On the 19th of February, 1821, Silvio Pellico was transferred to +imprisonment under the leads, on the isle of San Michele, Venice. There +he wrote two plays, and some poems. On the 21st of February, 1822, he +and his friend Maroncelli were condemned to death; but, their sentence +being commuted to twenty years for Maroncelli, and fifteen years for +Pellico, of _carcere duro_, they entered their underground prisons at +Spielberg on the 10th of April, 1822. The government refused to transmit +Pellico’s tragedies to his family, lest, though harmless in themselves, +the acting of them should bring good-will to a state prisoner. At +Spielberg he composed a third tragedy, _Leoniero da Dordona_, though +deprived of books, paper, and pens, and preserved it in his memory. In +1828, a rumour of Pellico’s death in prison caused great excitement +throughout Italy. On the 17th of September, 1830, he was released, by +the amnesty of that year, and, avoiding politics thenceforth, devoted +himself to religion. The Marchesa Baroli, at Turin, provided for his +maintenance, by engaging him as her secretary and librarian. With health +made weaker by his sufferings, Silvio Pellico lived on to the age of +sixty-five, much honoured by his countrymen. Gioberti dedicated a book +to him as “The first of Italian Patriots.” He died at Turin on the 1st +of February, 1854. + +Silvio Pellico’s account of his imprisonment, _Le Mie Prigioni_, was +first published in Paris in 1833. It has been translated into many +languages, and is the work by which he will retain his place in European +literature. His other plays, besides the two first named, were _Eufemia +di Messina_; _Iginia di Asti_; _Leoniero da Dordona_, already named as +having been thought out at Spielberg; his _Gismonda_; _l’Erodiade_; +_Ester d’Engaddi_; _Corradino_; and a play upon Sir Thomas More. He +wrote also poems, _Cantiche_, of which the best are _Eligi e Valfrido_ +and _Egilde_; and, in his last years, a religious manual on the _Duties +of Men_. + + H. M. + + + + +AUTHOR’S PREFACE. + + +HAVE I penned these memorials, let me ask myself, from any paltry vanity, +or desire to talk about that self? I hope this is not the case, and +forasmuch as one may be able to judge in one’s own cause, I think I was +actuated by better views. These, briefly, were to afford consolation to +some unfortunate being, situated like myself, by explaining the evils to +which I was exposed, and those sources of relief which I found were +accessible, even when labouring under the heaviest misfortune; to bear +witness, moreover, that in the midst of my acute and protracted torments, +I never found humanity, in the human instruments around me, so hopelessly +wicked, so unworthy of consideration, or so barren of noble minds in +lowly station, as it is customary to represent it; to engage, if +possible, all the generous and good-hearted to love and esteem each +other, to become incapable of hating any one; to feel irreconcilable +hatred only towards low, base falsehood; cowardice, perfidy, and every +kind of moral degradation. It is my object to impress on all that +well-known but too often forgotten truth, namely, that both religion and +philosophy require calmness of judgment combined with energy of will, and +that without such a union, there can be no real justice, no dignity of +character, and no sound principles of human action. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + +ON Friday, the 15th of October, 1820, I was arrested at Milan, and +conveyed to the prison of Santa Margherita. The hour was three in the +afternoon. I underwent a long examination, which occupied the whole of +that and several subsequent days; but of this I shall say nothing. Like +some unfortunate lover, harshly dealt with by her he adored, yet resolved +to bear it with dignified silence, I leave _la Politica_, such as SHE IS, +and proceed to something else. + +At nine in the evening of that same unlucky Friday, the actuary consigned +me to the jailer, who conducted me to my appointed residence. He there +politely requested me to give up my watch, my money, and everything in my +pockets, which were to be restored to me in due time; saying which he +respectfully bade me good-night. + +“Stop, my dear sir,” I observed, “I have not yet dined; let me have +something to eat.” + +“Directly; the inn is close by, and you will find the wine good, sir.” + +“Wine I do not drink.” + +At this announcement Signor Angiolino gave me a look of unfeigned +surprise; he imagined that I was jesting. “Masters of prisons,” he +rejoined, “who keep shop, have a natural horror of an abstemious +captive.” + +“That may be; I don’t drink it.” + +“I am sorry for you, sir; you will feel solitude twice as heavily.” + +But perceiving that I was firm, he took his leave; and in half an hour I +had something to eat. I took a mouthful, swallowed a glass of water, and +found myself alone. My chamber was on the ground floor, and overlooked +the court-yard. Dungeons here, dungeons there, to the right, to the +left, above, below, and opposite, everywhere met my eye. I leaned +against the window, listened to the passing and repassing of the jailers, +and the wild song of a number of the unhappy inmates. A century ago, I +reflected, and this was a monastery; little then thought the pious, +penitent recluses that their cells would now re-echo only to the sounds +of blasphemy and licentious song, instead of holy hymn and lamentation +from woman’s lips; that it would become a dwelling for the wicked of +every class—the most part destined to perpetual labour or to the gallows. +And in one century to come, what living being will be found in these +cells? Oh, mighty Time! unceasing mutability of things! Can he who +rightly views your power have reason for regret or despair when Fortune +withdraws her smile, when he is made captive, or the scaffold presents +itself to his eye? yesterday I thought myself one of the happiest of men; +to-day every pleasure, the least flower that strewed my path, has +disappeared. Liberty, social converse, the face of my fellow-man, nay, +hope itself hath fled. I feel it would be folly to flatter myself; I +shall not go hence, except to be thrown into still more horrible +receptacles of sorrow; perhaps, bound, into the hands of the executioner. +Well, well, the day after my death it will be all one as if I had yielded +my spirit in a palace, and been conveyed to the tomb, accompanied with +all the pageantry of empty honours. + +It was thus, by reflecting on the sweeping speed of time, that I bore up +against passing misfortune. Alas, this did not prevent the forms of my +father, my mother, two brothers, two sisters, and one other family I had +learned to love as if it were my own, from all whom I was, doubtless, for +ever cut off, from crossing my mind, and rendering all my philosophical +reasoning of no avail. I was unable to resist the thought, and I wept +even as a child. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +THREE months previous to this time I had gone to Turin, where, after +several years of separation, I saw my parents, one of my brothers, and +two sisters. We had always been an attached family; no son had ever been +more deeply indebted to a father and a mother than I; I remember I was +affected at beholding a greater alteration in their looks, the progress +of age, than I had expected. I indulged a secret wish to part from them +no more, and soothe the pillow of departing age by the grateful cares of +a beloved son. How it vexed me, too, I remember, during the few brief +days I passed with them, to be compelled by other duties to spend so much +of the day from home, and the society of those I had such reason to love +and to revere; yes, and I remember now what my mother said one day, with +an expression of sorrow, as I went out—“Ah! our Silvio has not come to +Turin to see _us_!” The morning of my departure for Milan was a truly +painful one. My poor father accompanied me about a mile on my way; and, +on leaving me, I more than once turned to look at him, and, weeping, +kissed the ring my mother had just given me; nor did I ever before quit +my family with a feeling of such painful presentiment. I am not +superstitious; but I was astonished at my own weakness, and I more than +once exclaimed in a tone of terror, “Good God! whence comes this strange +anxiety and alarm?” and, with a sort of inward vision, my mind seemed to +behold the approach of some great calamity. Even yet in prison I retain +the impression of that sudden dread and parting anguish, and can recall +each word and every look of my distressed parents. The tender reproach +of my mother, “Ah! Silvio has not come to Turin to see _us_!” seemed to +hang like a weight upon my soul. I regretted a thousand instances in +which I might have shown myself more grateful and agreeable to them; I +did not even tell them how much I loved; all that I owed to them. I was +never to see them more, and yet I turned my eyes with so much like +indifference from their dear and venerable features! Why, why was I so +chary of giving expression to what I felt (would they could have read it +in my looks), to all my gratitude and love? In utter solitude, thoughts +like these pierced me to the soul. + +I rose, shut the window, and sat some hours, in the idea that it would be +in vain to seek repose. At length I threw myself on my pallet, and +excessive weariness brought me sleep. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +TO awake the first night in a prison is a horrible thing. Is it +possible, I murmured, trying to collect my thoughts, is it possible I am +here? Is not all that passed a dream? Did they really seize me +yesterday? Was it I whom they examined from morning till night, who am +doomed to the same process day after day, and who wept so bitterly last +night when I thought of my dear parents? Slumber, the unbroken silence, +and rest had, in restoring my mental powers, added incalculably to the +capability of reflecting, and, consequently, of grief. There was nothing +to distract my attention; my fancy grew busy with absent forms, and +pictured, to my eye the pain and terror of my father and mother, and of +all dear to me, on first hearing the tidings of my arrest. + +At this moment, said I, they are sleeping in peace; or perhaps, anxiety +for me may keep them watching, yet little anticipating the fate to which +I am here consigned. Happy for them, were it the will of God, that they +should cease to exist ere they hear of this horrible misfortune. Who +will give them strength to bear it? Some inward voice seemed to whisper +me, He whom the afflicted look up to, love and acknowledge in their +hearts; who enabled a mother to follow her son to the mount of Golgotha, +and to stand under His cross. He, the friend of the unhappy, the friend +of man. + +Strange this should be the first time I truly felt the power of religion +in my heart; and to filial love did I owe this consolation. Though not +ill-disposed, I had hitherto been little impressed with its truth, and +had not well adhered to it. All common-place objections I estimated at +their just value, yet there were many doubts and sophisms which had +shaken my faith. It was long, indeed, since they had ceased to trouble +my belief in the existence of the Deity; and persuaded of this, it +followed necessarily, as part of His eternal justice, that there must be +another life for man who suffers so unjustly here. Hence, I argued, the +sovereign reason in man for aspiring to the possession of that second +life; and hence, too, a worship founded on the love of God, and of his +neighbour, and an unceasing impulse to dignify his nature by generous +sacrifices. I had already made myself familiar with this doctrine, and I +now repeated, “And what else is Christianity but this constant ambition +to elevate and dignify our nature?” and I was astonished, when I +reflected how pure, how philosophical, and how invulnerable the essence +of Christianity manifested itself, that there could come an epoch when +philosophy dared to assert, “From this time forth I will stand instead of +a religion like this.” And in what manner—by inculcating vice? +Certainly not. By teaching virtue? Why that will be to teach us to love +God and our neighbour; and that is precisely what Christianity has +already done, on far higher and purer motives. Yet, notwithstanding such +had, for years, been my opinion, I had failed to draw the conclusion, +Then be a Christian! No longer let corruption and abuses, the work of +man, deter you; no longer make stumbling-blocks of little points of +doctrine, since the principal point, made thus irresistibly clear, is to +love God and your neighbour. + +In prison I finally determined to admit this conclusion, and I admitted +it. The fear, indeed, of appearing to others more religious than I had +before been, and to yield more to misfortune than to conviction, made me +sometimes hesitate; but feeling that I had done no wrong, I felt no +debasement, and cared nothing to encounter the possible reproaches I had +not deserved, resolving henceforward to declare myself openly a +Christian. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +I ADHERED firmly to this resolution as time advanced; but the +consideration of it was begun the first night of my captivity. Towards +morning the excess of my grief had grown calmer, and I was even +astonished at the change. On recalling the idea of my parents and others +whom I loved, I ceased to despair of their strength of mind, and the +recollection of those virtues which I knew they had long possessed gave +me real consolation. Why had I before felt such great dismay on thinking +of them, and now so much confidence in their strength of mind? Was this +happy change miraculous, or the natural effect of my renewed belief in +God? What avails the distinction, while the genuine sublime benefits of +religion remain the same. + +At midnight two _secondini_ (the under jailers are so termed) had paid me +a visit, and found me in a very ill mood; in the morning they returned, +and were surprised to see me so calm, and even cheerful. + +“Last night, sir, you had the face of a basilisk,” said Tirola; “now you +are quite another thing; I rejoice at it, if, indeed, it be a sign, +forgive me the expression, that you are not a scoundrel. Your scoundrels +(for I am an old hand at the trade, and my observations are worth +something) are always more enraged the second day after their arrest than +the first. Do you want some snuff?” + +“I do not take it, but will not refuse your offer. If I have not a +gorgon-face this morning, it must surely be a proof of my utter +insensibility, or easy belief of soon regaining my freedom.” + +“I should doubt that, even though you were not in durance for state +matters. At this time of day they are not so easily got over as you +might think; you are not so raw as to imagine such a thing. Pardon me, +but you will know more by and by.” + +“Tell me, how come you to have so pleasant a look, living only, as you +do, among the unfortunate?” + +“Why, sir, you will attribute it to indifference to others’ sufferings; +of a truth, I know not how it is; yet, I assure you, it often gives me +pain to see the prisoners weep. Truly, I sometimes pretend to be merry +to bring a smile upon their faces.” + +“A thought has just struck me, my friend, which I never had before; it +is, that a jailer may be made of very congenial clay.” + +“Well, the trade has nothing to do with that, sir. Beyond that huge +vault you see there, without the court-yard, is another court, and other +prisons, all prepared for women. They are, sir, women of a certain +class; yet are there some angels among them, as to a good heart. And if +you were in my place, sir—” + +“I?” and I laughed out heartily. + +Tirola was quite disconcerted, and said no more. Perhaps he meant to +imply that had I been a _secondino_, it would have been difficult not to +become attached to some one or other of these unfortunates. + +He now inquired what I wished to take for breakfast, left me, and soon +returned with my coffee. I looked hard at him, with a sort of malicious +smile, as much as to say, “Would you carry me a bit of a note to an +unhappy friend—to my friend Piero?” {1} He understood it, and answered +with another: “No sir; and if you do not take heed how you ask any of my +comrades, they will betray you.” + +Whether or not we understood each other, it is certain I was ten times +upon the point of asking him for a sheet of paper, &c.; but there was a +something in his eye which seemed to warn me not to confide in any one +about me, and still less to others than himself. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + +HAD Tirola, with his expression of good-nature, possessed a less roguish +look, had there been something a little more dignified in his aspect, I +should have tried to make him my ambassador; for perhaps a brief +communication, if in time, might prevent my friend committing some fatal +error, perhaps save him, poor fellow; besides several others, including +myself: and too much was already known. Patience! it was fated to be +thus. + +I was here recalled to be examined anew. The process continued through +the day, and was again and again repeated, allowing me only a brief +interval during dinner. While this lasted, the time seemed to pass +rapidly; the excitement of mind produced by the endless series of +questions put to me, and by going over them at dinner and at night, +digesting all that had been asked and replied to, reflecting on what was +likely to come, kept me in a state of incessant activity. At the end of +the first week I had to endure a most vexatious affair. My poor friend +Piero, eager as myself to have some communication, sent me a note, not by +one of the jailers, but by an unfortunate prisoner who assisted them. He +was an old man from sixty to seventy, and condemned to I know not how +long a period of captivity. With a pin I had by me I pricked my finger, +and scrawled with my blood a few lines in reply, which I committed to the +same messenger. He was unluckily suspected, caught with the note upon +him, and from the horrible cries that were soon heard, I conjectured that +he was severely bastinadoed. At all events I never saw him more. + +On my next examination I was greatly irritated to see my note presented +to me (luckily containing nothing but a simple salutation), traced in my +blood. I was asked how I had contrived to draw the blood; was next +deprived of my pin, and a great laugh was raised at the idea and +detection of the attempt. Ah, I did not laugh, for the image of the poor +old messenger rose before my eyes. I would gladly have undergone any +punishment to spare the old man. I could not repress my tears when those +piercing cries fell upon my ear. Vainly did I inquire of the jailers +respecting his fate. They shook their heads, observing, “He has paid +dearly for it, he will never do such like things again; he has a little +more rest now.” Nor would they speak more fully. Most probably they +spoke thus on account of his having died under, or in consequence of, the +punishment he had suffered; yet one day I thought I caught a glimpse of +him at the further end of the court-yard, carrying a bundle of wood on +his shoulders. I felt a beating of the heart as if I had suddenly +recognised a brother. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + +WHEN I ceased to be persecuted with examinations, and had no longer +anything to fill up my time, I felt bitterly the increasing weight of +solitude. I had permission to retain a bible, and my Dante; the governor +also placed his library at my disposal, consisting of some romances of +Scuderi, Piazzi, and worse books still; but my mind was too deeply +agitated to apply to any kind of reading whatever. Every day, indeed, I +committed a canto of Dante to memory, an exercise so merely mechanical, +that I thought more of my own affairs than the lines during their +acquisition. The same sort of abstraction attended my perusal of other +things, except, occasionally, a few passages of scripture. I had always +felt attached to this divine production, even when I had not believed +myself one of its avowed followers. I now studied it with far greater +respect than before; yet my mind was often almost involuntarily bent upon +other matters; and I knew not what I read. By degrees I surmounted this +difficulty, and was able to reflect upon its great truths with higher +relish than I had ever before done. This, in me, did not give rise to +the least tendency to moroseness or superstition, nothing being more apt +than misdirected devotion to weaken and distort the mind. With the love +of God and mankind, it inspired me also with a veneration for justice, +and an abhorrence of wickedness, along with a desire of pardoning the +wicked. Christianity, instead of militating against anything good, which +I had derived from Philosophy, strengthened it by the aid of logical +deductions, at once more powerful and profound. + +Reading one day that it was necessary to pray without ceasing, and that +prayer did not consist in many words uttered after the manner of the +Pharisees, but in making every word and action accord with the will of +God, I determined to commence with earnestness, to pray in the spirit +with unceasing effort: in other words, to permit no one thought which +should not be inspired by a wish to conform my whole life to the decrees +of God. + +The forms I adopted were simple and few; not from contempt of them (I +think them very salutary, and calculated to excite attention), but from +the circumstance of my being unable to go through them at length, without +becoming so far abstracted as to make me forget the solemn duty in which +I am engaged. This habitual observance of prayer, and the reflection +that God is omnipresent as well as omnipotent in His power to save, began +ere long to deprive solitude of its horrors, and I often repeated, “Have +I not the best society man can have?” and from this period I grew more +cheerful, I even sang and whistled in the new joy of my heart. And why +lament my captivity? Might not a sudden fever have carried me off? and +would my friends then have grieved less over my fate than now? and cannot +God sustain them even as He could under a more trying dispensation? And +often did I offer up my prayers and fervent hopes that my dear parents +might feel, as I myself felt, resigned to my lot; but tears frequently +mingled with sweet recollections of home. With all this, my faith in God +remained undisturbed, and I was not disappointed. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + +TO live at liberty is doubtless much better than living in a prison; but, +even here, the reflection that God is present with us, that worldly joys +are brief and fleeting, and that true happiness is to be sought in the +conscience, not in external objects, can give a real zest to life. In +less than one month I had made up my mind, I will not say perfectly, but +in a tolerable degree, as to the part I should adopt. I saw that, being +incapable of the mean action of obtaining impunity by procuring the +destruction of others, the only prospect that lay before me was the +scaffold, or long protracted captivity. It was necessary that I should +prepare myself. I will live, I said to myself, so long as I shall be +permitted, and when they take my life, I will do as the unfortunate have +done before me; when arrived at the last moment, I can die. I +endeavoured, as much as possible, not to complain, and to obtain every +possible enjoyment of mind within my reach. The most customary was that +of recalling the many advantages which had thrown a charm round my +previous life; the best of fathers, of mothers, excellent brothers and +sisters, many friends, a good education, and a taste for letters. Should +I now refuse to be grateful to God for all these benefits, because He had +pleased to visit me with misfortune? Sometimes, indeed, in recalling +past scenes to mind, I was affected even to tears; but I soon recovered +my courage and cheerfulness of heart. + +At the commencement of my captivity I was fortunate enough to meet with a +friend. It was neither the governor, nor any of his under-jailers, nor +any of the lords of the process-chamber. Who then?—a poor deaf and dumb +boy, five or six years old, the offspring of thieves, who had paid the +penalty of the law. This wretched little orphan was supported by the +police, with several other boys in the same condition of life. They all +dwelt in a room opposite my own, and were only permitted to go out at +certain hours to breathe a little air in the yard. Little deaf and dumb +used to come under my window, smiled, and made his obeisance to me. I +threw him a piece of bread; he took it, and gave a leap of joy, then ran +to his companions, divided it, and returned to eat his own share under +the window. The others gave me a wistful look from a distance, but +ventured no nearer, while the deaf and dumb boy expressed a sympathy for +me; not, I found, affected, out of mere selfishness. Sometimes he was at +a loss what to do with the bread I gave him, and made signs that he had +eaten enough, as also his companions. When he saw one of the +under-jailers going into my room, he would give him what he had got from +me, in order to restore it to me. Yet he continued to haunt my window, +and seemed rejoiced whenever I deigned to notice him. One day the jailer +permitted him to enter my prison, when he instantly ran to embrace my +knees, actually uttering a cry of joy. I took him up in my arms, and he +threw his little hands about my neck, and lavished on me the tenderest +caresses. How much affection in his smile and manner! how eagerly I +longed to have him to educate, raise him from his abject condition, and +snatch him, perhaps, from utter ruin. I never even learnt his name; he +did not himself know that he had one. He seemed always happy, and I +never saw him weep except once, and that was on being beaten, I know not +why, by the jailer. Strange that he should be thus happy in a receptacle +of so much pain and sorrow; yet he was light-hearted as the son of a +grandee. From him I learnt, at least, that the mind need not depend on +situation, but may be rendered independent of external things. Govern +the imagination, and we shall be well, wheresoever we happen to be +placed. A day is soon over, and if at night we can retire to rest +without actual pain and hunger, it little matters whether it be within +the walls of a prison, or of a kind of building which they call a palace. +Good reasoning this; but how are we to contrive so to govern the +imagination? I began to try, and sometimes I thought I had succeeded to +a miracle; but at others the enchantress triumphed, and I was +unexpectedly astonished to find tears starting into my eyes. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + +I AM so far fortunate, I often said, that they have given me a dungeon on +the ground floor, near the court, where that dear boy comes within a few +steps of me, to converse in our own mute language. We made immense +progress in it; we expressed a thousand various feelings I had no idea we +could do, by the natural expressions of the eye, the gesture, and the +whole countenance. Wonderful human intelligence! How graceful were his +motions! how beautiful his smile! how quickly he corrected whatever +expression I saw of his that seemed to displease me! How well he +understands I love him, when he plays with any of his companions! +Standing only at my window to observe him, it seemed as if I possessed a +kind of influence over his mind, favourable to his education. By dint of +repeating the mutual exercise of signs, we should be enabled to perfect +the communication of our ideas. The more instruction he gets, the more +gentle and kind he becomes, the more he will be attached to me. To him I +shall be the genius of reason and of good; he will learn to confide his +sorrows to me, his pleasures, all he feels and wishes; I will console, +elevate, and direct him in his whole conduct. It may be that this my lot +may be protracted from month to month, even till I grow grey in my +captivity. Perhaps this little child may continue to grow under my eye, +and become one in the service of this large family of pain, and grief, +and calamity. With such a disposition as he has already shown, what +would become of him? Alas; he would at most be made only a good +under-keeper, or fill some similar place. Yet I shall surely have +conferred on him some benefit if I can succeed in giving him a desire to +do kind offices to the good and to himself, and to nourish sentiments of +habitual benevolence. This soliloquy was very natural in my situation; I +was always fond of children, and the office of an instructor appeared to +me a sublime duty. For a few years I had acted in that capacity with +Giacomo and Giulio Porro, two young men of noble promise, whom I loved, +and shall continue to love as if they were my own sons. Often while in +prison were my thoughts busied with them; and how it grieved me not to be +enabled to complete their education. I sincerely prayed that they might +meet with a new master, who would be as much attached to them as I had +been. + +At times I could not help exclaiming to myself, What a strange burlesque +is all this! instead of two noble youths, rich in all that nature and +fortune can endow them with, here I have a pupil, poor little fellow! +deaf, dumb, a castaway; the son of a robber, who at most can aspire only +to the rank of an under-jailer, and which, in a little less softened +phraseology, would mean to say a _sbirro_. {2} This reflection confused +and disquieted me; yet hardly did I hear the _strillo_ {3} of my little +dummy than I felt my heart grow warm again, just as a father when he +hears the voice of a son. I lost all anxiety about his mean estate. It +is no fault of his if he be lopped of Nature’s fairest proportions, and +was born the son of a robber. A humane, generous heart, in an age of +innocence, is always respectable. I looked on him, therefore, from day +to day with increased affection, and was more than ever desirous of +cultivating his good qualities, and his growing intelligence. Nay, +perhaps we might both live to get out of prison, when I would establish +him in the college for the deaf and dumb, and thus open for him a path +more fortunate and pleasing than to play the part of a _shirro_. Whilst +thus pleasingly engaged in meditating his future welfare, two of the +under-jailers one day walked into my cell. + +“You must change your quarters, sir!” + +“What mean you by that?” + +“We have orders to remove you into another chamber.” + +“Why so?” + +“Some other great bird has been caged, and this being the better +apartment—you understand.” + +“Oh, yes! it is the first resting-place for the newly arrived.” + +They conveyed me to the opposite side of the court, where I could no +longer converse with my little deaf and dumb friend, and was far removed +from the ground floor. In walking across, I beheld the poor boy sitting +on the ground, overcome with grief and astonishment, for he knew he had +lost me. Ere I quite disappeared, he ran towards me; my conductors tried +to drive him away, but he reached me, and I caught him in my arms, and +returned his caresses with expressions of tenderness I sought not to +conceal. I tore myself from him, and entered my new abode. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + +IT was a dark and gloomy place; instead of glass it had pasteboard for +the windows; the walls were rendered more repulsive by being hung with +some wretched attempts at painting, and when free from this lugubrious +colour, were covered with inscriptions. These last gave the name and +country of many an unhappy inmate, with the date of the fatal day of +their captivity. Some consisted of lamentations on the perfidy of false +friends, denouncing their own folly, or women, or the judge who condemned +them. Among a few were brief sketches of the victims’ lives; still fewer +embraced moral maxims. I found the following words of Pascal: “Let those +who attack religion learn first what religion is. Could it boast of +commanding a direct view of the Deity, without veil or mystery, it would +be to attack that religion to say, ‘that there is nothing seen in the +world which displays Him with such clear evidence.’ But since it rather +asserts that man is involved in darkness, far from God, who is hidden +from human knowledge, insomuch as to give Himself the name in scripture +of ‘_Deus absconditus_,’ what advantage can the enemies of religion +derive when, neglecting, as they profess to do, the science of truth, +they complain that the truth is not made apparent to them?” Lower down +was written (the words of the same author), “It is not here a question of +some trivial interest relating to a stranger; it applies to ourselves, +and to all we possess. The immortality of the soul is a question of that +deep and momentous importance to all, as to imply an utter loss of reason +to rest totally indifferent as to the truth or the fallacy of the +proposition.” Another inscription was to this effect: “I bless the hour +of my imprisonment; it has taught me to know the ingratitude of man, my +own frailty, and the goodness of God.” Close to these words again +appeared the proud and desperate imprecations of one who signed himself +an Atheist, and who launched his impieties against the Deity, as if he +had forgotten that he had just before said there was no God. Then +followed another column, reviling the cowardly fools, as they were +termed, whom captivity had converted into fanatics. I one day pointed +out these strange impieties to one of the jailers, and inquired who had +written them? “I am glad I have found this,” was the reply, “there are +so many of them, and I have so little time to look for them;” and he took +his knife, and began to erase it as fast as he could. + +“Why do you do that?” I inquired of him. + +“Because the poor devil who wrote it was condemned to death for a +cold-blooded murder; he repented, and made us promise to do him this +kindness.” + +“Heaven pardon him!” I exclaimed; “what was it he did?” + +“Why, as he found he could not kill his enemy, he revenged himself by +slaying the man’s son, one of the finest boys you ever saw.” + +I was horror-struck. Could ferocity of disposition proceed to such +lengths? and could a monster, capable of such a deed, hold the insulting +language of a man superior to all human weaknesses? to murder the +innocent, and a child! + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + +IN my new prison, black and filthy to an extreme, I sadly missed the +society of my little dumb friend. I stood for hours in anxious, weary +mood, at the window which looked over a gallery, on the other side of +which could be seen the extremity of the court-yard, and the window of my +former cell. Who had succeeded me there? I could discern his figure, as +he paced quickly to and fro, apparently in violent agitation. Two or +three days subsequently, I perceived that he had got writing materials, +and remained busied at his little table the whole of the day. At length +I recognised him. He came forth accompanied by his jailer; he was going +to be examined, when I saw he was no other than Melchiorre Gioja. {4} It +went to my heart: “You, too, noble, excellent man, have not escaped!” +Yet he was more fortunate than I. After a few months’ captivity, he +regained his liberty. To behold any really estimable being always does +me good; it affords me pleasant matter for reflection, and for +esteem—both of great advantage. I could have laid down my life to save +such a man from captivity; yet merely to see him was some consolation to +me. After regarding him intently, some time, to ascertain if he were +tranquil or agitated, I offered up a heart-felt prayer for his +deliverance; I felt my spirits revived, a greater flow of ideas, and +greater satisfaction with myself. Such an incident as this has a charm +for utter solitude, of which you can form no idea without experiencing +it. A poor dumb boy had before supplied me with this real enjoyment, and +I now derived it from a distant view of a man of distinguished merit. + +Perhaps some one of the jailers had informed him where I was. One +morning, on opening his window, he waved his handkerchief in token of +salutation, and I replied in the same manner. I need not describe the +pleasure I felt; it appeared as if we were no longer separated; and we +discoursed in the silent intercourse of the spirit, which, when every +other medium is cut off, in the least look, gesture, or signal of any +kind, can make itself comprehended and felt. + +It was with no small pleasure I anticipated a continuation of this +friendly communication. Day after day, however, went on, and I was never +more gratified by the appearance of the same favourite signals. Yet I +frequently saw my friend at his window; I waved my handkerchief, but in +vain; he answered it no more. I was now informed by our jailers, that +Gioja had been strictly prohibited from exciting my notice, or replying +to it in any manner. Notwithstanding, he still continued to look at me, +and I at him, and in this way, we conversed upon a great variety of +subjects, which helped to keep us alive. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + +ALONG the same gallery, upon a level with my prison, I saw other +prisoners passing and repassing the whole day to the place of +examination. They were, for the chief part, of lowly condition, but +occasionally one or two of better rank. All, however, attracted my +attention, brief as was the sight of them, and I truly compassionated +them. So sorrowful a spectacle for some time filled me with grief, but +by degrees I became habituated to it, and at last it rather relieved than +added to the horror of my solitude. A number of women, also, who had +been arrested, passed by. There was a way from the gallery, through a +large vault, leading to another court, and in that part were placed the +female prisoners, and others labouring under disease. A single wall, and +very slight, separated my dwelling from that of some of the women. +Sometimes I was almost deafened with their songs, at others with their +bursts of maddened mirth. Late at evening, when the din of day had +ceased, I could hear them conversing, and, had I wished, I could easily +have joined with them. Was it timidity, pride, or prudence which +restrained me from all communication with the unfortunate and degraded of +their sex? Perhaps it partook of all. Woman, when she is what she ought +to be, is for me a creature so admirable, so sublime, the mere seeing, +hearing, and speaking to her, enriches my mind with such noble fantasies; +but rendered vile and despicable, she disturbs, she afflicts, she +deprives my heart, as it were, of all its poetry and its love. Spite of +this, there were among those feminine voices, some so very sweet that, +there is no use in denying it, they were dear to me. One in particular +surpassed the rest; I heard it more seldom, and it uttered nothing +unworthy of its fascinating tone. She sung little and mostly kept +repeating these two pathetic lines:— + + Chi rende alla meschina + La sua felicità? + + Ah, who will give the lost one + Her vanished dream of bliss? + +At other times, she would sing from the litany. Her companions joined +with her; but still I could discern the voice of Maddalene from all +others, which seemed only to unite for the purpose of robbing me of it. +Sometimes, too, when her companions were recounting to her their various +misfortunes, I could hear her pitying them; could catch even her very +sighs, while she invariably strove to console them: “Courage, courage, my +poor dear,” she one day said, “God is very good, and He will not abandon +us.” + +How could I do otherwise than imagine she was beautiful, more unfortunate +than guilty, naturally virtuous, and capable of reformation? Who would +blame me because I was affected with what she said, listened to her with +respect, and offered up my prayers for her with more than usual +earnestness of heart. Innocence is sacred, and repentance ought to be +equally respected. Did the most perfect of men, the Divinity on earth, +refuse to cast a pitying eye on weak, sinful women; to respect their fear +and confusion, and rank them among the minds he delighted to consort with +and to honour? By what law, then, do we act, when we treat with so much +contempt women fallen into ignominy? + +While thus reasoning, I was frequently tempted to raise my voice and +speak, as a brother in misfortune, to poor Maddalene. I had often even +got out the first syllable; and how strange! I felt my heart beat like +an enamoured youth of fifteen; I who had reached thirty-one; and it +seemed as if I should never be able to pronounce the name, till I cried +out almost in a rage, “Mad! Mad!” yes, mad enough, thought I. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + +THUS ended my romance with that poor unhappy one; yet it did not fail to +produce me many sweet sensations during several weeks. Often, when +steeped in melancholy, would her sweet calm voice breathe consolation to +my spirit; when, dwelling on the meanness and ingratitude of mankind, I +became irritated, and hated the world, the voice of Maddalene gently led +me back to feelings of compassion and indulgence. + +How I wish, poor, unknown, kind-hearted repentant one, that no heavy +punishment may befall thee. And whatever thou shalt suffer, may it well +avail thee, re-dignify thy nature, and teach thee to live and die to thy +Saviour and thy Lord. Mayest thou meet compassion and respect from all +around thee, as thou didst from me a stranger to thee. Mayest thou teach +all who see thee thy gentle lesson of patience, sweetness, the love of +virtue, and faith in God, with which thou didst inspire him who loved +without having beheld thee. Perhaps I erred in thinking thee beautiful, +but, sure I am, thou didst wear the beauty of the soul. Thy +conversation, though spoken amidst grossness and corruption of every +kind, was ever chaste and graceful; whilst others imprecated, thou didst +bless; when eager in contention, thy sweet voice still pacified, like oil +upon the troubled waters. If any noble mind hath read thy worth, and +snatched thee from an evil career; hath assisted thee with delicacy, and +wiped the tears from thy eyes, may every reward heaven can give be his +portion, that of his children, and of his children’s children! + +Next to mine was another prison occupied by several men. I also heard +_their_ conversation. One seemed of superior authority, not so much +probably from any difference of rank, as owing to greater eloquence and +boldness. He played, what may musically be termed, the first fiddle. He +stormed himself, yet put to silence those who presumed to quarrel by his +imperious voice. He dictated the tone of the society, and after some +feeble efforts to throw off his authority they submitted, and gave the +reins into his hands. + +There was not a single one of those unhappy men who had a touch of that +in him to soften the harshness of prison hours, to express one kindly +sentiment, one emanation of religion, or of love. The chief of these +neighbours of mine saluted me, and I replied. He asked me how I +contrived to pass such a cursed dull life? I answered, that it was +melancholy, to be sure; but no life was a cursed one to me, and that to +our last hour, it was best to do all to procure oneself the pleasure of +thinking and of loving. + +“Explain, sir, explain what you mean!” + +I explained, but was not understood. After many ingenious attempts, I +determined to clear it up in the form of example, and had the courage to +bring forward the extremely singular and moving effect produced upon me +by the voice of Maddalene; when the magisterial head of the prison burst +into a violent fit of laughter. “What is all that, what is that?” cried +his companions. He then repeated my words with an air of burlesque; +peals of laughter followed, and I there stood, in their eyes, the picture +of a convicted blockhead. + +As it is in prison, so it is in the world. Those who make it their +wisdom to go into passions, to complain, to defy, to abuse, think that to +pity, to love, to console yourself with gentle and beautiful thoughts and +images, in accord with humanity and its great Author, is all mere folly. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + +I LET them laugh and said not a word; they hit at me again two or three +times, but I was mute. “He will come no more near the window,” said one, +“he will hear nothing but the sighs of Maddalene; we have offended him +with laughing.” At length, the chief imposed silence upon the whole +party, all amusing themselves at my expense. “Silence, beasts as you +are; devil a bit you know what you are talking about. Our neighbour is +none so long eared an animal as you imagine. You do not possess the +power of reflection, no not you. I grin and joke; but afterwards I +reflect. Every low-born clown can stamp and roar, as we do here. Grant +a little more real cheerfulness, a spark more of charity, a bit more +faith in the blessing of heaven;—what do you imagine that all this would +be a sign of?” “Now, that I also reflect,” replied one, “I fancy it +would be a sign of being a little less of a brute.” + +“Bravo!” cried his leader, in a most stentorian howl! “now I begin to +have some hope of you.” + +I was not overproud at being thus rated a _little less of a brute_ than +the rest; yet I felt a sort of pleasure that these wretched men had come +to some agreement as to the importance of cultivating, in some degree, +more benevolent sentiments. + +I again approached the window, the chief called me, and I answered, +hoping that I might now moralise with him in my own way. I was deceived; +vulgar minds dislike serious reasoning; if some noble truth start up, +they applaud for a moment, but the next withdraw their notice, or scruple +not to attempt to shine by questioning, or aiming to place it in some +ludicrous point of view. + +I was next asked if I were imprisoned for debt? + +“Perhaps you are paying the penalty of a false oath, then?” + +“No, it is quite a different thing.” + +“An affair of love, most likely, I guess?” + +“No.” + +“You have killed a man, mayhap?” + +“No.” + +“It’s for carbonarism, then?” + +“Exactly so.” + +“And who are these carbonari?” + +“I know so little of them, I cannot tell you.” + +Here a jailer interrupted us in great anger; and after commenting on the +gross improprieties committed by my neighbours, he turned towards me, not +with the gravity of a _sbirro_, but the air of a master: “For shame, sir, +for shame! to think of talking to men of this stamp! do you know, sir, +that they are all robbers?” + +I reddened up, and then more deeply for having shown I blushed, and +methought that to deign to converse with the unhappy of however lowly +rank, was rather a mark of goodness than a fault. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + +NEXT morning I went to my window to look for Melchiorre Gioja; but +conversed no more with the robbers. I replied to their salutation, and +added, that I had been forbidden to hold conversation. The secretary who +had presided at my examinations, told me with an air of mystery, I was +about to receive a visit. After a little further preparation, he +acquainted me that it was my father; and so saying, bade me follow him. +I did so, in a state of great agitation, assuming at the same time an +appearance of perfect calmness in order not to distress my unhappy +parent. Upon first hearing of my arrest, he had been led to suppose it +was for some trifling affair, and that I should soon be set at liberty. +Finding his mistake, however, he had now come to solicit the Austrian +government on my account. Here, too, he deluded himself, for he never +imagined I could have been rash enough to expose myself to the penalty of +the laws, and the cheerful tone in which I now spoke persuaded him that +there was nothing very serious in the business. + +The few words that were permitted to pass between us gave me +indescribable pain; the more so from the restraint I had placed upon my +feelings. It was yet more difficult at the moment of parting. In the +existing state of things, as regarded Italy, I felt convinced that +Austria would make some fearful examples, and that I should be condemned +either to death or long protracted imprisonment. It was my object to +conceal this from my father and to flatter his hopes at a moment when I +was inquiring for a mother, brother, and sisters, whom I never expected +to behold more. Though I knew it to be impossible, I even calmly +requested of him that he would come and see me again, while my heart was +wrung with the bitter conflict of my feelings. He took his leave, filled +with the same agreeable delusion, and I painfully retraced my steps back +into my dungeon. I thought that solitude would now be a relief to me; +that to weep would somewhat ease my burdened heart? yet, strange to say, +I could not shed a tear. The extreme wretchedness of feeling this +inability even to shed tears excites, under some of the heaviest +calamities, is the severest trial of all, and I have often experienced +it. + +An acute fever, attended by severe pains in my head, followed this +interview. I could not take any nourishment; and I often said, how happy +it would be for me, were it indeed to prove mortal. Foolish and cowardly +wish! heaven refused to hear my prayer, and I now feel grateful that it +did. Though a stern teacher, adversity fortifies the mind, and renders +man what he seems to have been intended for; at least, a good man, a +being capable of struggling with difficulty and danger; presenting an +object not unworthy, even in the eyes of the old Romans, of the +approbation of the gods. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + +TWO days afterwards I again saw my father. I had rested well the +previous night, and was free from fever; before him I preserved the same +calm and even cheerful deportment, so that no one could have suspected I +had recently suffered, and still continued to suffer so much. “I am in +hopes,” observed my father, “that within a very few days we shall see you +at Turin. Your mother has got your old room in readiness, and we are all +expecting you to come. Pressing affairs now call me away, but lose no +time, I entreat you, in preparing to rejoin us once more.” His kind and +affecting expressions added to my grief. Compassion and filial piety, +not unmingled with a species of remorse, induced me to feign assent; yet +afterwards I reflected how much more worthy it had been, both of my +father and myself, to have frankly told him that most probably, we should +never see each other again, at least in this world. Let us take farewell +like men, without a murmur and without a tear, and let me receive the +benediction of a father before I die. As regarded myself, I should wish +to have adopted language like that; but when I gazed on his aged and +venerable features, and his grey hairs, something seemed to whisper me, +that it would be too much for the affectionate old man to bear; and the +words died in my heart. Good God! I thought, should he know the extent +of the _evil_, he might, perhaps, run distracted, such is his extreme +attachment to me: he might fall at my feet, or even expire before my +eyes. No! I could not tell him the truth, nor so much as prepare him +for it; we shed not a tear, and he took his departure in the same +pleasing delusion as before. On returning into my dungeon I was seized +in the same manner, and with still more aggravated suffering, as I had +been after the last interview; and, as then, my anguish found no relief +from tears. + +I had nothing now to do but resign myself to all the horrors of long +captivity, and to the sentence of death. But to prepare myself to bear +the idea of the immense load of grief that must fall on every dear member +of my family, on learning my lot, was beyond my power. It haunted me +like a spirit, and to fly from it I threw myself on my knees, and in a +passion of devotion uttered aloud the following prayer:—“My God! from thy +hand I will accept all—for me all: but deign most wonderfully to +strengthen the hearts of those to whom I was so very dear! Grant thou +that I may cease to be such to them now; and that not the life of the +least of them may be shortened by their care for me, even by a single +day!” + +Strange! wonderful power of prayer! for several hours my mind was raised +to a contemplation of the Deity, and my confidence in His goodness +proportionately increased; I meditated also on the dignity of the human +mind when, freed from selfishness, it exerts itself to will only that +which is the will of eternal wisdom. This can be done, and it is man’s +duty to do it. Reason, which is the voice of the Deity, teaches us that +it is right to submit to every sacrifice for the sake of virtue. And how +could the sacrifice which we owe to virtue be completed, if in the most +trying afflictions we struggle against the will of Him who is the source +of all virtue? When death on the scaffold, or any other species of +martyrdom becomes inevitable, it is a proof of wretched degradation, or +ignorance, not to be able to approach it with blessing upon our lips. +Nor is it only necessary we should submit to death, but to the affliction +which we know those most dear to us must suffer on our account. All it +is lawful for us to ask is, that God will temper such affliction, and +that he will direct us all, for such a prayer is always sure to be +accepted. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + +FOR a period of some days I continued in the same state of mind; a sort +of calm sorrow, full of peace, affection, and religious thoughts. I +seemed to have overcome every weakness, and as if I were no longer +capable of suffering new anxiety. Fond delusion! it is man’s duty to aim +at reaching as near to perfection as possible, though he can never attain +it here. What now disturbed me was the sight of an unhappy friend, my +good Piero, who passed along the gallery within a few yards of me, while +I stood at my window. They were removing him from his cell into the +prison destined for criminals. He was hurried by so swiftly that I had +barely time to recognise him, and to receive and return his salutation. + +Poor young man! in the flower of his age, with a genius of high promise, +of frank, upright, and most affectionate disposition, born with a keen +zest of the pleasures of existence, to be at once precipitated into a +dungeon, without the remotest hope of escaping the severest penalty of +the laws. So great was my compassion for him, and my regret at being +unable to afford him the slightest consolation, that it was long before I +could recover my composure of mind. I knew how tenderly he was attached +to every member of his numerous family, how deeply interested in +promoting their happiness, and how devotedly his affection was returned. +I was sensible what must be the affliction of each and all under so heavy +a calamity. Strange, that though I had just reconciled myself to the +idea in my own case, a sort of phrensy seized my mind when I depicted the +scene; and it continued so long that I began to despair of mastering it. + +Dreadful as this was, it was still but an illusion. Ye afflicted ones, +who believe yourselves victims of some irresistible, heart-rending, and +increasing grief, suffer a little while with patience, and you will be +undeceived. Neither perfect peace, nor utter wretchedness can be of long +continuance here below. Recollect this truth, that you may not become +unduly elevated in prosperity, and despicable under the trials which +assuredly await you. A sense of weariness and apathy succeeded the +terrible excitement I had undergone. But indifference itself is +transitory, and I had some fear lest I should continue to suffer without +relief under these wretched extremes of feeling. Terrified at the +prospect of such a future, I had recourse once more to the only Being +from whom I could hope to receive strength to bear it, and devoutly bent +down in prayer. I beseeched the Father of mercies to befriend my poor +deserted Piero, even as myself, and to support his family no less than my +own. By constant repetition of prayers like these, I became perfectly +calm and resigned. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + + +IT was then I reflected upon my previous violence; I was angry at my own +weakness and folly, and sought means of remedying them. I had recourse +to the following expedient. Every morning, after I had finished my +devotions, I set myself diligently to work to recall to mind every +possible occurrence of a trying and painful kind, such as a final parting +from my dearest friends and the approach of the executioner. I did this +not only in order to inure my nerves to bear sudden or dreadful +incidents, too surely my future portion, but that I might not again be +taken unawares. At first this melancholy task was insupportable, but I +persevered; and in a short time became reconciled to it. + +In the spring of 1821 Count Luigi Porro {5} obtained permission to see +me. Our warm friendship, the eagerness to communicate our mutual +feelings, and the restraint imposed by the presence of an imperial +secretary, with the brief time allowed us, the presentiments I indulged, +and our efforts to appear calm, all led me to expect that I should be +thrown into a state of fearful excitement, worse than I had yet suffered. +It was not so; after taking his leave I remained calm; such to me proved +the signal efficacy of guarding against the assault of sudden and violent +emotions. The task I set myself to acquire, constant calmness of mind, +arose less from a desire to relieve my unhappiness than from a persuasion +how undignified, unworthy, and injurious, was a temper opposite to this, +I mean a continued state of excitement and anxiety. An excited mind +ceases to reason; carried away by a resistless torrent of wild ideas, it +forms for itself a sort of mad logic, full of anger and malignity; it is +in a state at once as absolutely unphilosophical as it is unchristian. + +If I were a divine I should often insist upon the necessity of correcting +irritability and inquietude of character; none can be truly good without +that be effected. How nobly pacific, both with regard to himself and +others, was He whom we are all bound to imitate. There is no elevation +of mind, no justice without moderation in principles and ideas, without a +pervading spirit which inclines us rather to smile at, than fall into a +passion with, the events of this little life. Anger is never productive +of any good, except in the extremely rare case of being employed to +humble the wicked, and to terrify them from pursuing the path of crime, +even as the usurers were driven by an angry Saviour, from polluting his +holy Temple. Violence and excitement, perhaps, differing altogether from +what I felt, are no less blamable. Mine was the mania of despair and +affliction: I felt a disposition, while suffering under its horrors, to +hate and to curse mankind. Several individuals, in particular, appeared +to my imagination depicted in the most revolting colours. It is a sort +of moral epidemic, I believe, springing from vanity and selfishness; for +when a man despises and detests his fellow-creatures, he necessarily +assumes that he is much better than the rest of the world. The doctrine +of such men amounts to this:—“Let us admire only one another, if we turn +the rest of mankind into a mere mob, we shall appear like demi-gods on +earth.” It is a curious fact that living in a state of hostility and +rage actually affords pleasure; it seems as if people thought there was a +species of heroism in it. If, unfortunately, the object of our wrath +happens to die, we lose no time in finding some one to fill the vacant +place. Whom shall I attack next, whom shall I hate? Ah! is that the +villain I was looking out for? What a prize! Now my friends, at him, +give him no quarter. Such is the world, and, without uttering a libel, I +may add that it is not what it ought to be. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + + +IT showed no great malignity, however, to complain of the horrible place +in which they had incarcerated me, but fortunately another room became +vacant, and I was agreeably surprised on being informed that I was to +have it. Yet strangely enough, I reflected with regret that I was about +to leave the vicinity of Maddalene. Instead of feeling rejoiced, I +mourned over it with almost childish feeling. I had always attached +myself to some object, even from motives comparatively slight. On +leaving my horrible abode, I cast back a glance at the heavy wall against +which I had so often supported myself, while listening as closely as +possible to the gentle voice of the repentant girl. I felt a desire to +hear, if only for the last time, those two pathetic lines,— + + Chi rende alla meschina + La sua felicità? + +Vain hope! here was another separation in the short period of my +unfortunate life. But I will not go into any further details, lest the +world should laugh at me, though it would be hypocrisy in me to affect to +conceal that, for several days after, I felt melancholy at this imaginary +parting. + +While going out of my dungeon I also made a farewell signal to two of the +robbers, who had been my neighbours, and who were then standing at their +window. Their chief also got notice of my departure, ran to the window, +and repeatedly saluted me. He began likewise to sing the little air, +_Chi rende alla meschina_; and was this, thought I, merely to ridicule +me? No doubt that forty out of fifty would say decidedly, “It was!” In +spite, however, of being outvoted, I incline to the opinion that the +_good robber_ meant it kindly; and, as such I received it, and gave him a +look of thanks. He saw it, and thrust his arm through the bars, and +waved his cap, nodding kindly to me as I turned to go down the stairs. + +Upon reaching the yard below, I was further consoled by a sight of the +little deaf and dumb boy. He saw me, and instantly ran towards me with a +look of unfeigned delight. The wife of the jailer, however, Heaven knows +why, caught hold of the little fellow, and rudely thrusting him back, +drove him into the house. I was really vexed; and yet the resolute +little efforts he made even then to reach me, gave me indescribable +pleasure at the moment, so pleasing it is to find that one is really +loved. This was a day full of great adventures for _me_; a few steps +further I passed the window of my old prison, now the abode of Gioja: +“How are you, Melchiorre?” I exclaimed as I went by. He raised his head, +and getting as near me as it was _possible_, cried out, “How do you do, +Silvio?” They would not let me stop a single moment; I passed through +the great gate, ascended a flight of stairs, which brought us to a large, +well-swept room, exactly over that occupied by Gioja. My bed was brought +after me, and I was then left to myself by my conductors. My first +object was to examine the walls; I met with several inscriptions, some +written with charcoal, others in pencil, and a few incised with some +sharp point. I remember there were some very pleasing verses in French, +and I am sorry I forgot to commit them to mind. They were signed “The +duke of Normandy.” I tried to sing them, adapting to them, as well as I +could, the favourite air of my poor Maddalene. What was my surprise to +hear a voice, close to me, reply in the same words, sung to another air. +When he had finished, I cried out, “Bravo!” and he saluted me with great +respect, inquiring if I were a Frenchman. + +“No; an Italian, and my name is Silvio Pellico.” + +“The author of _Francesca da Rimini_?” {6} + +“The same.” + +Here he made me a fine compliment, following it with the condolences +usual on such occasions, upon hearing I had been committed to prison. He +then inquired of what part of Italy I was a native. “Piedmont,” was the +reply; “I am from Saluzzo.” Here I was treated to another compliment, on +the character and genius of the Piedmontese, in particular, the +celebrated men of Saluzzo, at the head of whom he ranked Bodoni. {7} All +this was said in an easy refined tone, which showed the man of the world, +and one who had received a good education. + +“Now, may I be permitted,” said I, “to inquire who you are, sir?” + +“I heard you singing one of my little songs,” was the reply. + +“What! the two beautiful stanzas upon the wall are yours!” + +“They are, sir.” + +“You are, therefore,—” + +“The unfortunate duke of Normandy.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + + +THE jailer at that moment passed under our windows, and ordered us to be +silent. + +What can he mean by the unfortunate duke of Normandy? thought I, musing +to myself. Ah! is not that the title said to be assumed by the son of +Louis XVI.? but that unhappy child is indisputably no more. Then my +neighbour must be one of those unlucky adventurers who have undertaken to +bring him to life again. Not a few had already taken upon themselves to +personate this Louis XVII., and were proved to be impostors; how is my +new acquaintance entitled to greater credit for his pains? + +Although I tried to give him the advantage of a doubt, I felt an +insurmountable incredulity upon the subject, which was not subsequently +removed. At the same time, I determined not to mortify the unhappy man, +whatever sort of absurdity he might please to hazard before my face. + +A few minutes afterwards he began again to sing, and we soon renewed our +conversation. In answer to my inquiry, “What is your real name?” he +replied, “I am no other than Louis XVII.” And he then launched into very +severe invectives against his uncle, Louis XVIII., the usurper of his +just and natural rights. + +“But why,” said I, “did you not prefer your claims at the period of the +restoration?” + +“I was unable, from extreme illness, to quit the city of Bologna. The +moment I was better I hastened to Paris; I presented myself to the allied +monarchs, but the work was done. The good Prince of Condé knew, and +received me with open arms, but his friendship availed me not. One +evening, passing through a lonely street, I was suddenly attacked by +assassins, and escaped with difficulty. After wandering through +Normandy, I returned into Italy, and stopped some time at Modena. Thence +I wrote to the allied powers, in particular to the Emperor Alexander, who +replied to my letter with expressions of the greatest kindness. I did +not then despair of obtaining justice, or, at all events, if my rights +were to be sacrificed, of being allowed a decent provision, becoming a +prince. But I was arrested, and handed over to the Austrian government. +During eight months I have been here buried alive, and God knows when I +shall regain my freedom.” + +I begged him to give me a brief sketch of his life. He told me very +minutely what I already knew relating to Louis XVII. and the cruel Simon, +and of the infamous calumnies that wretch was induced to utter respecting +the unfortunate queen, &c. Finally he said, that while in prison, some +persons came with an idiot boy of the name of Mathurin, who was +substituted for him, while he himself was carried off. A coach and four +was in readiness; one of the horses was merely a wooden-machine, in the +interior of which he was concealed. Fortunately, they reached the +confines, and the General (he gave me the name, which has escaped me) who +effected his release, educated him for some time with the attention of a +father, and subsequently sent, or accompanied him, to America. There the +young king, without a sceptre, had room to indulge his wandering +disposition; he was half famished in the forests; became at length a +soldier, and resided some time, in good credit, at the court of the +Brazils. There, too, he was pursued and persecuted, till compelled to +make his escape. He returned to Europe towards the close of Napoleon’s +career, was kept a close prisoner at Naples by Murat; and, at last, when +he was liberated, and in full preparation to reclaim the throne of +France, he was seized with that unlucky illness at Bologna, during which +Louis XVIII. was permitted to assume his nephew’s crown. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + + +ALL this he related with an air of remarkable frankness and truth. +Although not justified in believing him, I nevertheless was astonished at +his knowledge of the most minute facts connected with the revolution. He +spoke with much natural fluency, and his conversation abounded with a +variety of curious anecdotes. There was something also of the soldier in +his expression, without showing any want of that sort of elegance +resulting from an intercourse with the best society. + +“Will it be permitted me,” I inquired, “to converse with you on equal +terms, without making use of any titles?” + +“That is what I myself wish you to do,” was the reply. “I have at least +reaped one advantage from adversity; I have learnt to smile at all these +vanities. I assure you that I value myself more upon being a man, than +having been born a prince.” + +We were in the habit of conversing together both night and morning, for a +considerable time; and, in spite of what I considered the comic part of +his character, he appeared to be of a good disposition, frank, affable, +and interested in the virtue and happiness of mankind. More than once I +was on the point of saying, “Pardon me; I wish I could believe you were +Louis XVII., but I frankly confess I cannot prevail on myself to believe +it; be equally sincere, I entreat you, and renounce this singular fiction +of yours.” I had even prepared to introduce the subject with an edifying +discourse upon the vanity of all imposture, even of such untruths as may +appear in themselves harmless. + +I put off my purpose from day to day; I partly expected that we should +grow still more friendly and confidential, but I had never the heart +really to try the experiment upon his feelings. When I reflect upon this +want of resolution, I sometimes attempt to reconcile myself to it on the +ground of proper urbanity, unwillingness to give offence, and other +reasons of the kind. Still these excuses are far from satisfying me; I +cannot disguise that I ought not to have permitted my dislike to +preaching him a sermon to stand in the way of speaking my real +sentiments. To affect to give credit to imposture of any kind is +miserable weakness, such as I think I should not, even in similar +circumstances, exhibit again. At the same time, it must be confessed +that, preface it as you will, it is a harsh thing to say to any one, “I +don’t believe you!” He will naturally resent it; it would deprive us of +his friendship or regard: nay it would, perhaps, make him hate us. Yet +it is better to run every risk than to sanction an untruth. Possibly, +the man capable of it, upon finding that his imposture is known, will +himself admire our sincerity, and afterwards be induced to reflect in a +manner that may produce the best results. + +The under-jailers were unanimously of opinion that he was really Louis +XVII., and having already seen so many strange changes of fortune, they +were not without hopes that he would some day ascend the throne of +France, and remember the good treatment and attentions he had met with. +With the exception of assisting in his escape, they made it their object +to comply with all his wishes. It was by such means I had the honour of +forming an acquaintance with this grand personage. He was of the middle +height, between forty and forty-five years of age, rather inclined to +corpulency, and had features strikingly like those of the Bourbons. It +is very probable that this accidental resemblance may have led him to +assume the character he did, and play so melancholy a part in it. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + + +THERE is one other instance of unworthy deference to private opinion, of +which I must accuse myself. My neighbour was not an Atheist, he rather +liked to converse on religious topics, as if he justly appreciated the +importance of the subject, and was no stranger to its discussion. Still, +he indulged a number of unreasonable prejudices against Christianity, +which he regarded less in its real nature than its abuses. The +superficial philosophy which preceded the French revolution had dazzled +him. He had formed an idea that religious worship might be offered up +with greater purity than as it had been dictated by the religion of the +Evangelists. Without any intimate acquaintance with the writings of +Condillac and Tracy, he venerated them as the most profound thinkers, and +really thought that the last had carried the branch of metaphysics to the +highest degree of perfection. + +I may fairly say that _my_ philosophical studies had been better +directed; I was aware of the weakness of the experimental doctrine, and I +knew the gross and shameless errors in point of criticism, which +influenced the age of Voltaire in libelling Christianity. I had also +read Guénée, and other able exposers of such false criticism. I felt a +conviction that, by no logical reasoning, could the being of a God be +granted, and the Bible rejected, and I conceived it a vulgar degradation +to fall in with the stream of antichristian opinions, and to want +elevation of intellect to apprehend how the doctrine of Catholicism in +its true character, is religiously simple and ennobling. Yet I had the +meanness to bow to human opinion out of deference and respect. The wit +and sarcasms of my neighbour seemed to confound me, while I could not +disguise from myself that they were idle and empty as the air. I +dissimulated, I hesitated to announce my own belief, reflecting how far +it were seasonable thus to contradict my companion, and persuading myself +that it would be useless, and that I was perfectly justified in remaining +silent. What vile pusillanimity! why thus respect the presumptuous power +of popular errors and opinions, resting upon no foundation. True it is +that an ill-timed zeal is always indiscreet, and calculated to irritate +rather than convert; but to avow with frankness and modesty what we +regard as an important truth, to do it even when we have reason to +conclude it will not be palatable, and to meet willingly any ridicule or +sarcasm which may be launched against it; this I maintain to be an actual +duty. A noble avowal of this kind, moreover, may always be made, without +pretending to assume, uncalled for, anything of the missionary character. + +It is, I repeat, a duty, not to keep back an important truth at any +period; for though there may be little hope of it being immediately +acknowledged; it may tend to prepare the minds of others, and in due +time, doubtless, produce a better and more impartial judgment, and a +consequent triumph of truth. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + + +I CONTINUED in the same apartment during a month and some days. On the +night of February the 18th, 1821, I was roused from sleep by a loud noise +of chains and keys; several men entered with a lantern, and the first +idea that struck me was, that they were come to cut my throat. While +gazing at them in strange perplexity, one of the figures advanced towards +me with a polite air; it was Count B—, {8} who requested I would dress +myself as speedily as possible to set out. + +I was surprised at this announcement, and even indulged a hope that they +were sent to conduct me to the confines of Piedmont. Was it likely the +storm which hung over me would thus early be dispersed? should I again +enjoy that liberty so dearly prized, be restored to my beloved parents, +and see my brothers and sisters? + +I was allowed short time to indulge these flattering hopes. The moment I +had thrown on my clothes, I followed my conductors without having an +opportunity of bidding farewell to my royal neighbour. Yet I thought I +heard him call my name, and regretted it was out of my power to stop and +reply. “Where are we going?” I inquired of the Count, as we got into a +coach, attended by an officer of the guard. “I cannot inform you till we +shall be a mile on the other side the city of Milan.” I was aware the +coach was not going in the direction of the Vercelline gate; and my hopes +suddenly vanished. I was silent; it was a beautiful moonlight night; I +beheld the same well-known paths I had traversed for pleasure so many +years before. The houses, the churches, and every object renewed a +thousand pleasing recollections. I saw the _Corsia_ of Porta Orientale, +I saw the public gardens, where I had so often rambled with Foscolo, {9} +Monti, {10} Lodovico di Breme, {11} Pietro Borsieri, {12} Count Porro, +and his sons, with many other delightful companions, conversing in all +the glow of life and hope. How I felt my friendship for these noble men +revive with double force when I thought of having parted from them for +the last time, disappearing as they had done, one by one, so rapidly from +my view. When we had gone a little way beyond the gate, I pulled my hat +over my eyes, and indulged these sad retrospections unobserved. + +After having gone about a mile, I addressed myself to Count B-. “I +presume we are on the road to Verona.” “Yes, further,” was the reply; +“we are for Venice, where it is my duty to hand you over to a special +commission there appointed.” + +We travelled post, stopped nowhere, and on the 20th of February arrived +at my destination. The September of the year preceding, just one month +previous to my arrest, I had been at Venice, and had met a large and +delightful party at dinner, in the Hotel della Luna. Strangely enough, I +was now conducted by the Count and the officer to the very inn where we +had spent that evening in social mirth. + +One of the waiters started on seeing me, perceiving that, though my +conductors had assumed the dress of domestics, I was no other than a +prisoner in their hands. I was gratified at this recognition, being +persuaded that the man would mention my arrival there to more than one. + +We dined, and I was then conducted to the palace of the Doge, where the +tribunals are now held. I passed under the well-known porticoes of the +_Procuratie_, and by the Florian Hotel, where I had enjoyed so many +pleasant evenings the last autumn; but I did not happen to meet a single +acquaintance. We went across the piazzetta, and there it struck me that +the September before, I had met a poor mendicant, who addressed me in +these singular words:— + +“I see, sir, you are a stranger, but I cannot make out why you, sir, and +all other strangers, should so much admire this place. To me it is a +place of misfortune, and I never pass it when I can avoid it.” + +“What, did you here meet with some disaster?” + +“I did, sir; a horrible one, sir; and not only I. God protect you from +it, God protect you!” And he took himself off in haste. + +At this moment it was impossible for me to forget the words of the poor +beggarman. He was present there, too, the next year, when I ascended the +scaffold, whence I heard read to me the sentence of death, and that it +had been commuted for fifteen years hard imprisonment. Assuredly, if I +had been inclined ever so little to superstition, I should have thought +much of the mendicant, predicting to me with so much energy, as he did, +and insisting that this was a place of misfortune. As it is, I have +merely noted it down for a curious incident. We ascended the palace; +Count B— spoke to the judges, then, handing me over to the jailer, after +embracing me with much emotion, he bade me farewell. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + + +I FOLLOWED the jailer in silence. After turning through a number of +passages, and several large rooms, we arrived at a small staircase, which +brought us under the _Piombi_, those notorious state prisons, dating from +the time of the Venetian republic. + +There the jailer first registered my name, and then locked me up in the +room appointed for me. The chambers called _I Piombi_ consist of the +upper portion of the Doge’s palace, and are covered throughout with lead. + +My room had a large window with enormous bars, and commanded a view of +the roof (also of lead), and the church, of St. Mark. Beyond the church +I could discern the end of the Piazza in the distance, with an immense +number of cupolas and belfries on all sides. St. Mark’s gigantic +Campanile was separated from me only by the length of the church, and I +could hear persons speaking from the top of it when they talked at all +loud. To the left of the church was to be seen a portion of the grand +court of the palace, and one of the chief entrances. There is a public +well in that part of the court, and people were continually in the habit +of going thither to draw water. From the lofty site of my prison they +appeared to me about the size of little children, and I could not at all +hear their conversation, except when they called out very loud. Indeed, +I found myself much more solitary than I had been in the Milanese +prisons. + +During several days the anxiety I suffered from the criminal trial +appointed by the special commission, made me rather melancholy, and it +was increased, doubtless, by that painful feeling of deeper solitude. + +I was here, moreover, further removed from my family, of whom I heard no +more. The new faces that appeared wore a gloom at once strange and +appalling. Report had greatly exaggerated the struggle of the Milanese +and the rest of Italy to recover their independence; it was doubted if I +were not one of the most desperate promoters of that mad enterprise. I +found that my name, as a writer, was not wholly unknown to my jailer, to +his wife, and even his daughter, besides two sons, and the under-jailers, +all of whom, by their manner, seemed to have an idea that a writer of +tragedies was little better than a kind of magician. They looked grave +and distant, yet as if eager to learn more of me, had they dared to waive +the ceremony of their iron office. + +In a few days I grew accustomed to their looks, or rather, I think, they +found I was not so great a necromancer as to escape through the lead +roofs, and, consequently, assumed a more conciliating demeanour. The +wife had most of the character that marks the true jailer; she was dry +and hard, all bone, without a particle of heart, about forty, and +incapable of feeling, except it were a savage sort of instinct for her +offspring. She used to bring me my coffee, morning and afternoon, and my +water at dinner. She was generally accompanied by her daughter, a girl +of about fifteen, not very pretty, but with mild, compassionating looks, +and her two sons, from ten to thirteen years of age. They always went +back with their mother, but there was a gentle look and a smile of love +for me upon their young faces as she closed the door, my only company +when they were gone. The jailer never came near me, except to conduct me +before the special commission, that terrible ordeal for what are termed +crimes of state. + +The under-jailers, occupied with the prisons of the police, situated on a +lower floor, where there were numbers of robbers, seldom came near me. +One of these assistants was an old man, more than seventy, but still able +to discharge his laborious duties, and to run up and down the steps to +the different prisons; another was a young man about twenty-five, more +bent upon giving an account of his love affairs than eager to devote +himself to his office. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + + +I HAD now to confront the terrors of a state trial. What was my dread of +implicating others by my answers! What difficulty to contend against so +many strange accusations, so many suspicions of all kinds! How +impossible, almost, not to become implicated by these incessant +examinations, by daily new arrests, and the imprudence of other parties, +perhaps not known to you, yet belonging to the same movement! I have +decided not to speak on politics; and I must suppress every detail +connected with the state trials. I shall merely observe that, after +being subjected for successive hours to the harassing process, I retired +in a frame of mind so excited, and so enraged, that I should assuredly +have taken my own life, had not the voice of religion, and the +recollection of my parents restrained my hand. I lost the tranquillity +of mind I had acquired at Milan; during many days, I despaired of +regaining it, and I cannot even allude to this interval without feelings +of horror. It was vain to attempt it, I could not pray; I questioned the +justice of God; I cursed mankind, and all the world, revolving in my mind +all the possible sophisms and satires I could think of, respecting the +hollowness and vanity of virtue. The disappointed and the exasperated +are always ingenious in finding accusations against their +fellow-creatures, and even the Creator himself. Anger is of a more +universal and injurious tendency than is generally supposed. As we +cannot rage and storm from morning till night, and as the most ferocious +animal has necessarily its intervals of repose, these intervals in man +are greatly influenced by the immoral character of the conduct which may +have preceded them. He appears to be at peace, indeed, but it is an +irreligious, malignant peace; a savage sardonic smile, destitute of all +charity or dignity; a love of confusion, intoxication, and sarcasm. + +In this state I was accustomed to sing—anything but hymns—with a kind of +mad, ferocious joy. I spoke to all who approached my dungeon, jeering +and bitter things; and I tried to look upon the whole creation through +the medium of that commonplace wisdom, the wisdom of the cynics. This +degrading period, on which I hate to reflect, lasted happily only for six +or seven days, during which my Bible had become covered with dust. One +of the jailer’s boys, thinking to please me, as he cast his eye upon it, +observed, “Since you left off reading that great, ugly book, you don’t +seem half so melancholy, sir.” “Do you think so?” said I. Taking the +Bible in my hands, I wiped off the dust, and opening it hastily, my eyes +fell upon the following words:—“And he said unto his disciples, it must +needs be that offences come; but woe unto him by whom they come; for +better had it been for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, +and he cast into the sea, than that he should offend one of these little +ones.” + +I was affected upon reading this passage, and I felt ashamed when I +thought that this little boy had perceived, from the dust with which it +was covered, that I no longer read my Bible, and had even supposed that I +had acquired a better temper by want of attention to my religious duties, +and become less wretched by forgetting my God. “You little graceless +fellow,” I exclaimed, though reproaching him in a gentle tone, and +grieved at having afforded him a subject of scandal; “this is not a +great, ugly book, and for the few days that I have left off reading it, I +find myself much worse. If your mother would let you stay with me a +little while, you would see that I know how to get rid of my ill-humour. +If you knew how hard it was to be in good humour, when left so long +alone, and when you hear me singing and talking like a madman, you would +not call this a great ugly book.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + + +THE boy left me, and I felt a sort of pleasure at having taken the Bible +again in my hands, more especially at having owned I had been worse for +having neglected it. It seemed as if I had made atonement to a generous +friend whom I had unjustly offended, but had now become reconciled to. +Yes! I had even forgotten my God! I exclaimed, and perverted my better +nature. Could I have been led to believe that the vile mockery of the +cynic was applicable to one in my forlorn and desperate situation? + +I felt an indescribable emotion on asking myself this question; I placed +the Bible upon a chair, and, falling on my knees, I burst into tears of +remorse: I who ever found it so difficult to shed even a tear. These +tears were far more delightful to me than any physical enjoyment I had +ever felt. I felt I was restored to God, I loved him, I repented of +having outraged religion by degrading myself; and I made a vow never, +never more to forget, to separate myself from, my God. + +How truly a sincere return to faith, and love, and hope, consoles and +elevates the mind. I read and continued to weep for upwards of an hour. +I rose with renewed confidence that God had not abandoned me, but had +forgiven my every fault and folly. It was then that my misfortunes, the +horrors of my continued examinations, and the probable death which +awaited me, appeared of little account. I rejoiced in suffering, since I +was thus afforded an occasion to perform some duty, and that, by +submitting with a resigned mind, I was obeying my Divine Master. I was +enabled, thanks be to Heaven, to read my Bible. I no longer estimated it +by the wretched, critical subterfuges of a Voltaire, heaping ridicule +upon mere expressions, in themselves neither false nor ridiculous, except +to gross ignorance or malice, which cannot penetrate their meaning. I +became clearly convinced how indisputably it was the code of sanctity, +and hence of truth itself; how really unphilosophical it was to take +offence at a few little imperfections of style, not less absurd than the +vanity of one who despises everything that wears not the gloss of elegant +forms; what still greater absurdity to imagine that such a collection of +books, so long held in religious veneration, should not possess an +authentic origin, boasting, as they do, such a vast superiority over the +Koran, and the old theology of the Indies. + +Many, doubtless, abused its excellence, many wished to turn it into a +code of injustice, and a sanction of all their bad passions. But the +triumphant answer to these is, that every thing is liable to abuse; and +when did the abuse of the most precious and best of things lead us to the +conclusion that they were in their own nature bad? Our Saviour himself +declared it; the whole law and the Prophets, the entire body of these +sacred books, all inculcate the same precept to love God and mankind. +And must not such writings embrace the truth—truth adapted to all times +and ages? must they not ever constitute the living word of the Holy +Spirit? + +Whilst I made these reflections, I renewed my intention of identifying +with religion all my thoughts concerning human affairs, all my opinions +upon the progress of civilisation, my philanthropy, love of my country, +in short, all the passions of my mind. + +The few days in which I remained subjected to the cynic doctrine, did me +a deal of harm. I long felt its effects, and had great difficulty to +remove them. Whenever man yields in the least to the temptation of +undignifying his intellect, to view the works of God through the infernal +medium of scorn, to abandon the beneficent exercise of prayer, the injury +which he inflicts upon his natural reason prepares him to fall again with +but little struggle. For a period of several weeks I was almost daily +assaulted with strong, bitter tendencies to doubt and disbelief; and it +called for the whole power of my mind to free myself from their grasp. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + + +WHEN these mental struggles had ceased, and I had again become habituated +to reverence the Deity in all my thoughts and feelings, I for some time +enjoyed the most unbroken serenity and peace. The examinations to which +I was every two or three days subjected by the special commission, +however tormenting, produced no lasting anxiety, as before. I succeeded +in this arduous position, in discharging all which integrity and +friendship required of me, and left the rest to the will of God. I now, +too, resumed my utmost efforts to guard against the effects of any sudden +surprise, every emotion and passion, and every imaginable misfortune; a +kind of preparation for future trials of the greatest utility. + +My solitude, meantime, grew more oppressive. Two sons of the jailer, +whom I had been in the habit of seeing at brief intervals, were sent to +school, and I saw them no more. The mother and the sister, who had been +accustomed, along with them, to speak to me, never came near me, except +to bring my coffee. About the mother I cared very little; but the +daughter, though rather plain, had something so pleasing and gentle, both +in her words and looks, that I greatly felt the loss of them. Whenever +she brought the coffee, and said, “It was I who made it,” I always +thought it excellent: but when she observed, “This is my mother’s +making,” it lost all its relish. + +Being almost deprived of human society, I one day made acquaintance with +some ants upon my window; I fed them; they went away, and ere long the +placed was thronged with these little insects, as if come by invitation. +A spider, too, had weaved a noble edifice upon my walls, and I often gave +him a feast of gnats or flies, which were extremely annoying to me, and +which he liked much better than I did. I got quite accustomed to the +sight of him; he would run over my bed, and come and take the precious +morsels out of my hand. Would to heaven these had been the only insects +which visited my abode. It was still summer, and the gnats had begun to +multiply to a prodigious and alarming extent. The previous winter had +been remarkably mild, and after the prevalence of the March winds +followed extreme heat. It is impossible to convey an idea of the +insufferable oppression of the air in the place I occupied. Opposed +directly to a noontide sun, under a leaden roof, and with a window +looking on the roof of St. Mark, casting a tremendous reflection of the +heat, I was nearly suffocated. I had never conceived an idea of a +punishment so intolerable: add to which the clouds of gnats, which, spite +of my utmost efforts, covered every article of furniture in the room, +till even the walls and ceiling seemed alive with them; and I had some +apprehension of being devoured alive. Their bites, moreover, were +extremely painful, and when thus punctured from morning till night, only +to undergo the same operation from day to day, and engaged the whole time +in killing and slaying, some idea may be formed of the state both of my +body and my mind. + +I felt the full force of such a scourge, yet was unable to obtain a +change of dungeon, till at length I was tempted to rid myself of my life, +and had strong fears of running distracted. But, thanks be to God, these +thoughts were not of long duration, and religion continued to sustain me. +It taught me that man was born to suffer, and to suffer with courage: it +taught me to experience a sort of pleasure in my troubles, to resist and +to vanquish in the battle appointed me by Heaven. The more unhappy, I +said to myself, my life may become, the less will I yield to my fate, +even though I should be condemned in the morning of my life to the +scaffold. Perhaps, without these preliminary and chastening trials, I +might have met death in an unworthy manner. Do I know, moreover, that I +possess those virtues and qualities which deserve prosperity; where and +what are they? Then, seriously examining into my past conduct, I found +too little good on which to pride myself; the chief part was a tissue of +vanity, idolatry, and the mere exterior of virtue. Unworthy, therefore, +as I am, let me suffer! If it be intended that men and gnats should +destroy me, unjustly or otherwise, acknowledge in them the instruments of +a divine justice, and be silent. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + + +DOES man stand in need of compulsion before he can be brought to humble +himself with sincerity? to look upon himself as a sinner? Is it not too +true that we in general dissipate our youth in vanity, and, instead of +employing all our faculties in the acquisition of what is good, make them +the instruments of our degradation? There are, doubtless, exceptions, +but I confess they cannot apply to a wretched individual like myself. +There is no merit in thus being dissatisfied with myself; when we see a +lamp which emits more smoke than flame, it requires no great sincerity to +say that it does not burn as it ought to do. + +Yes, without any degradation, without any scruples of hypocrisy, and +viewing myself with perfect tranquillity of mind, I perceived that I had +merited the chastisement of my God. An internal monitor told me that +such chastisements were, for one fault or other, amply merited; they +assisted in winning me back to Him who is perfect, and whom every human +being, as far as their limited powers will admit, are bound to imitate. +By what right, while constrained to condemn myself for innumerable +offences and forgetfulness towards God, could I complain, because some +men appeared to me despicable, and others wicked? What if I were +deprived of all worldly advantages, and was doomed to linger in prison, +or to die a violent death? I sought to impress upon my mind reflections +like these, at once just and applicable; and this done, I found it was +necessary to be consistent, and that it could be effected in no other +manner than by sanctifying the upright judgments of the Almighty, by +loving them, and eradicating every wish at all opposed to them. The +better to persevere in my intention, I determined, in future, carefully +to revolve in my mind all my opinions, by committing them to writing. +The difficulty was that the Commission, while permitting me to have the +use of ink and paper, counted out the leaves, with an express prohibition +that I should not destroy a single one, and reserving the power of +examining in what manner I had employed them. To supply the want of +paper, I had recourse to the simple stratagem of smoothing with a piece +of glass a rude table which I had, and upon this I daily wrote my long +meditations respecting the duties of mankind, and especially of those +which applied to myself. It is no exaggeration to say that the hours so +employed were sometimes delightful to me, notwithstanding the difficulty +of breathing I experienced from the excessive heat, to say nothing of the +bitterly painful wounds, small though they were, of those poisonous +gnats. To defend myself from the countless numbers of these tormentors, +I was compelled, in the midst of suffocation, to wrap my head and my legs +in thick cloth, and not only write with gloves on, but to bandage my +wrist to prevent the intruders creeping up my sleeves. + +Meditations like mine assumed somewhat of a biographical character. I +made out an account of all the good and the evil which had grown up with +me from my earliest youth, discussing them within myself, attempting to +resolve every doubt, and arranging, to the best of my power, the various +kinds of knowledge I had acquired, and my ideas upon every subject. When +the whole surface of the table was covered with my lucubrations, I +perused and re-perused them, meditated on what I had already meditated, +and, at length, resolved (however unwillingly) to scratch out all I had +done with the glass, in order to have a clean superficies upon which to +recommence my operations. + +From that time I continued the narrative of my experience of good and +evil, always relieved by digressions of every kind, by some analysis of +this or that point, whether in metaphysics, morals, politics, or +religion; and when the whole was complete, I again began to read, and +re-read, and lastly, to scratch out. Being anxious to avoid every chance +of interruption, or of impediment, to my repeating with the greatest +possible freedom the facts I had recorded, and my opinions upon them, I +took care to transpose and abbreviate the words in such a manner as to +run no risk from the most inquisitorial visit. No search, however, was +made, and no one was aware that I was spending my miserable prison-hours +to so good a purpose. Whenever I heard the jailer or other person open +the door I covered my little table with a cloth, and placed upon it the +ink-stand, with the _lawful_ quantity of state paper by its side. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + + +STILL I did not wholly neglect the paper put into my hands, and sometimes +even devoted an entire day or night to writing. But here I only treated +of literary matters. I composed at that time the _Ester d’Engaddi_, the +_Iginia d’Asti_, and the _Cantichi_, entitled, _Tanereda Rosilde_, +_Eligi_ and _Valafrido_, _Adello_, besides several sketches of tragedies, +and other productions, in the list of which was a poem upon the _Lombard +League_, and another upon _Christopher Columbus_. + +As it was not always so easy an affair to get a reinforcement of paper, I +was in the habit of committing my rough draughts to my table, or the +wrapping-paper in which I received fruit and other articles. At times I +would give away my dinner to the under-jailer, telling him that I had no +appetite, and then requesting from him the favour of a sheet of paper. +This was, however, only in certain exigencies, when my little table was +full of writing, and I had not yet determined on clearing it away. I was +often very hungry, and though the jailer had money of mine in his +possession, I did not ask him to bring me anything to eat, partly lest he +should suspect I had given away my dinner, and partly that the +under-jailer might not find out that I had said the thing which was not +when I assured him of my loss of appetite. In the evening I regaled +myself with some strong coffee, and I entreated that it might be made by +the little _sioa_, Zanze. {13} This was the jailer’s daughter, who, if +she could escape the lynx-eye of her sour mamma, was good enough to make +it exceedingly good; so good, indeed, that, what with the emptiness of my +stomach, it produced a kind of convulsion, which kept me awake the whole +of the night. + +In this state of gentle inebriation, I felt my intellectual faculties +strangely invigorated; wrote poetry, philosophized, and prayed till +morning with feelings of real pleasure. I then became completely +exhausted, threw myself upon my bed, and, spite of the gnats that were +continually sucking my blood, I slept an hour or two in profound rest. + +I can hardly describe the peculiar and pleasing exaltation of mind which +continued for nights together, and I left no means untried to secure the +same means of continuing it. With this view I still refused to touch a +mouthful of dinner, even when I was in no want of paper, merely in order +to obtain my magic beverage for the evening. + +How fortunate I thought myself when I succeeded; not unfrequently the +coffee was not made by the gentle Angiola; and it was always vile stuff +from her mother’s hands. In this last case, I was sadly put out of +humour, for instead of the electrical effect on my nerves, it made me +wretched, weak, and hungry; I threw myself down to sleep, but was unable +to close an eye. Upon these occasions I complained bitterly to Angiola, +the jailer’s daughter, and one day, as if she had been in fault, I +scolded her so sharply that the poor girl began to weep, sobbing out, +“Indeed, sir, I never deceived anybody, and yet everybody calls me a +deceitful little mix.” + +“Everybody! Oh then, I see I am not the only one driven to distraction +by your vile slops.” + +“I do not mean to say that, sir. Ah, if you only knew; if I dared to +tell you all that my poor, wretched heart—” + +“Well, don’t cry so! What is all this ado? I beg your pardon, you see, +if I scolded you. Indeed, I believe you would not, you could not, make +me such vile stuff as this.” + +“Dear me! I am not crying about that, sir.” + +“You are not!” and I felt my self-love not a little mortified, though I +forced a smile. “Are you crying, then, because I scolded you, and yet +not about the coffee?” + +“Yes, indeed, sir?” + +“Ah! then who called you a little deceitful one before?” + +“_He_ did, sir.” + +“_He_ did; and who is _he_?” + +“My lover, sir;” and she hid her face in her little hands. + +Afterwards she ingenuously intrusted to my keeping, and I could not well +betray her, a little serio-comic sort of pastoral romance, which really +interested me. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + + +FROM that day forth, I know not why, I became the adviser and confidant +of this young girl, who returned and conversed with me for hours. She at +first said, “You are so good, sir, that I feel just the same when I am +here as if I were your own daughter.” + +“That is a very poor compliment,” replied I, dropping her hand; “I am +hardly yet thirty-two, and you look upon me as if I were an old father.” + +“No, no, not so; I mean as a brother, to be sure;” and she insisted upon +taking hold of my hand with an air of the most innocent confidence and +affection. + +I am glad, thought I to myself, that you are no beauty; else, alas, this +innocent sort of fooling might chance to disconcert me; at other times I +thought it is lucky, too, she is so young, there could never be any +danger of becoming attached to girls of her years. At other times, +however, I felt a little uneasy, thinking I was mistaken in having +pronounced her rather plain, whereas her whole shape and features were by +no means wanting in proportion or expression. If she were not quite so +pale, I said, and her face free from those marks, she might really pass +for a beauty. It is impossible, in fact, not to find some charm in the +presence and in the looks and voice of a young girl full of vivacity and +affection. I had taken not the least pains to acquire her good-will; yet +was I as dear to either as a father or a brother, whichever title I +preferred. And why? Only because she had read _Francesca da Rimini_ and +_Eufemio_, and my poems, she said, had made her weep so often; then, +besides, I was a solitary prisoner, _without having_, as she observed, +either robbed or murdered anybody. + +In short, when I had become attached to poor Maddalene, without once +seeing her, how was it likely that I could remain indifferent to the +sisterly assiduity and attentions, to the thousand pleasing little +compliments, and to the most delicious cups of coffee of this young +Venice girl, my gentle little jailer? {14} I should be trying to impose +on myself, were I to attribute to my own prudence the fact of my not +having fallen in love with Angiola. I did not do so, simply from the +circumstance of her having already a lover of her own choosing, to whom +she was desperately, unalterably attached. Heaven help me! if it had not +been thus I should have found myself in a very _critical_ position, +indeed, for an author, with so little to keep alive his attention. The +sentiment I felt for her was not, then, what is called love. I wished to +see her happy, and that she might be united to the lover of her choice; I +was not jealous, nor had I the remotest idea she could ever select me as +the object of her regard. Still, when I heard my prison-door open, my +heart began to beat in the hope it was my Angiola; and if she appeared +not, I experienced a peculiar kind of vexation; when she really came my +heart throbbed yet more violently, from a feeling of pure joy. Her +parents, who had begun to entertain a good opinion of me, and were aware +of her passionate regard for another, offered no opposition to the visits +she thus made me, permitting her almost invariably to bring me my coffee +in a morning, and not unfrequently in the evening. + +There was altogether a simplicity and an affectionateness in her every +word, look, and gesture, which were really captivating. She would say, +“I am excessively attached to another, and yet I take such delight in +being near you! When I am not in _his_ company, I like being nowhere so +well as here.” (Here was another compliment.) + +“And don’t you know why?” inquired I. + +“I do not.” + +“I will tell you, then. It is because I permit you to talk about your +lover.” + +“That is a good guess; yet still I think it is a good deal because I +esteem you so very much!” + +Poor girl! along with this pretty frankness she had that blessed sin of +taking me always by the hand, and pressing it with all her heart, not +perceiving that she at once pleased and disconcerted me by her +affectionate manner. Thanks be to Heaven, that I can always recall this +excellent little girl to mind without the least tinge of remorse. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. + + +THE following portion of my narrative would assuredly have been more +interesting had the gentle Angiola fallen in love with me, or if I had at +least run half mad to enliven my solitude. There was, however, another +sentiment, that of simple benevolence, no less dear to me, which united +our hearts in one. And if, at any moment, I felt there was the least +risk of its changing its nature in my vain, weak heart, it produced only +sincere regret. + +Once, certainly, having my doubts that this would happen, and finding +her, to my sorrow, a hundred times more beautiful than I had at first +imagined; feeling too so very melancholy when she was absent, so joyous +when near, I took upon myself to play the _unamiable_, in the idea that +this would remove all danger by making her leave off the same +affectionate and familiar manner. This innocent stratagem was tried in +vain; the poor girl was so patient, so full of compassion for me. She +would look at me in silence, with her elbow resting upon the window, and +say, after a long pause, “I see, sir, you are tired of my company, yet +_I_ would stay here the whole day if I could, merely to keep the hours +from hanging so heavy upon you. This ill-humour of yours is the natural +effect of your long solitude; if you were able to chat awhile, you would +be quite well again. If you don’t like to talk, I will talk for you.” + +“About your lover, eh?” + +“No, no; not always about him; I can talk of many things.” + +She then began to give me some extracts from the household annals, +dwelling upon the sharp temper of her mother, her good-natured father, +and the monkey-tricks of her little brothers; and she told all this with +a simple grace and innocent frankness not a little alluring. Yet I was +pretty near the truth; for, without being aware of it, she uniformly +concluded with the one favourite theme: her ill-starred love. Still I +went on acting the part of the _unamiable_, in the hope that she would +take a spite against me. But whether from inadvertency or design, she +would not take the hint, and I was at last fairly compelled to give up by +sitting down contented to let her have her way, smiling, sympathising +with, and thanking her for the sweet patience with which she had so long +borne with me. + +I no longer indulged the ungracious idea of spiting her against me, and, +by degrees, all my other fears were allayed. Assuredly I had not been +smitten; I long examined into the nature of my scruples, wrote down my +reflections upon the subject, and derived no little advantage from the +process. + +Man often terrifies himself with mere bugbears of the mind. If we would +learn not to fear them, we have only to examine them a little more nearly +and attentively. What harm, then, if I looked forward to her visits to +me with a tender anxiety, if I appreciated their sweetness, if it did me +good to be compassioned by her, and to interchange all our thoughts and +feelings, unsullied, I will say, as those of childhood. Even her most +affectionate looks, and smiles, and pressures of the hand, while they +agitated me, produced a feeling of salutary respect mingled with +compassion. One evening, I remember, when suffering under a sad +misfortune, the poor girl threw her arms round my neck, and wept as if +her heart would break. She had not the least idea of impropriety; no +daughter could embrace a father with more perfect innocence and +unsuspecting affection. I could not, however, reflect upon that embrace +without feeling somewhat agitated. It often recurred to my imagination, +and I could then think of no other subject. On another occasion, when +she thus threw herself upon my confidence, I was really obliged to +disentangle myself from her dear arms, ere I once pressed her to my +bosom, or gave her a single kiss, while I stammered out, “I pray you, +now, sweet Angiola, do not embrace me ever again; it is not quite +proper.” She fixed her eyes upon me for a moment, then cast them down, +while a blush suffused her ingenuous countenance; and I am sure it was +the first time that she read in my mind even the possibility of any +weakness of mine in reference to her. Still she did not cease to +continue her visits upon the same friendly footing, with a little mere +reserve and respect, such as I wished it to be; and I was grateful to her +for it. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. + + +I AM unable to form an estimate of the evils which afflict others; but, +as respects myself, I am bound to confess that, after close examination, +I found that no sufferings had been appointed me, except to some wise +end, and for my own advantage. It was thus even with the excessive heat +which oppressed, and the gnats which tormented me. Often have I +reflected that but for this continual suffering I might not have +successfully resisted the temptation of falling in love, situated as I +was, and with one whose extremely affectionate and ardent feelings would +have made it difficult always to preserve it within respectful limits. +If I had sometimes reason to tremble, how should I have been enabled to +regulate my vain imagination in an atmosphere somewhat inspiring, and +open to the breathings of joy. + +Considering the imprudence of Angiola’s parents, who reposed such +confidence in me, the imprudence of the poor girl herself, who had not an +idea of giving rise to any culpable affection on my part, and +considering, too, the little steadfastness of my virtue, there can be +little doubt but the suffocating heat of my great oven, and the cruel +warfare of the gnats, were effectual safeguards to us both. + +Such a reflection reconciled me somewhat to these scourges; and I then +asked myself, Would you consent to become free, and to take possession of +some handsome apartment, filled with flowers and fresh air, on condition +of never more seeing this affectionate being? I will own the truth; I +had not courage to reply to this simple question. + +When you really feel interested about any one, it is indescribable what +mere trifles are capable of conferring pleasure. A single word, a smile, +a tear, a Venetian turn of expression, her eagerness in protecting me +from my enemies, the gnats, all inspired me with a childish delight that +lasted the whole day. What most gratified me was to see that her own +sufferings seemed to be relieved by conversing with me, that my +compassion consoled her, that my advice influenced her, and that her +heart was susceptible of the warmest devotion when treating of virtue and +its great Author. + +When we had sometimes discussed the subject of religion, she would +observe, “I find that I can now pray with more willingness and more faith +than I did.” At other times, suddenly breaking off some frivolous topic, +she took the Bible, opened it, pressed her lips to it, and then begged of +me to translate some passages, and give my comments. She added, “I could +wish that every time you happen to recur to this passage you should call +to mind that I have kissed and kissed it again.” + +It was not always, indeed, that her kisses fell so appropriately, more +especially if she happened to open at the spiritual songs. Then, in +order to spare her blushes, I took advantage of her want of acquaintance +with the Latin, and gave a turn to the expressions which, without +detracting from the sacredness of the Bible, might serve to respect her +innocence. On such occasions I never once permitted myself to smile; at +the same time I was not a little perplexed, when, not rightly +comprehending my new version, she entreated of me to translate the whole, +word for word, and would by no means let me shy the question by turning +her attention to something else. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. + + +NOTHING is durable here below! Poor Angiola fell sick; and on one of the +first days when she felt indisposed, she came to see me, complaining +bitterly of pains in her head. She wept, too, and would not explain the +cause of her grief. She only murmured something that looked like +reproaches of her lover. “He is a villain!” she said; “but God forgive +him, as I do!” + +I left no means untried to obtain her confidence, but it was the first +time I was quite unable to ascertain why she distressed herself to such +an excess. “I will return to-morrow morning,” she said, one evening on +parting from me; “I will, indeed.” But the next morning came, and my +coffee was brought by her mother; the next, and the next, by the +under-jailers; and Angiola continued grievously ill. The under-jailers, +also, brought me very unpleasant tidings relating to the love-affair; +tidings, in short, which made me deeply sympathize with her sufferings. +A case of seduction! But, perhaps, it was the tale of calumny. Alas! I +but too well believed it, and I was affected at it more than I can +express; though I still like to flatter myself that it was false. After +upwards of a month’s illness, the poor girl was taken into the country, +and I saw her no more. + +It is astonishing how deeply I felt this deprivation, and how much more +horrible my solitude now appeared. Still more bitter was the reflection +that she, who had so tenderly fed, and watched, and visited me in my sad +prison, supplying every want and wish within her power, was herself a +prey to sorrow and misfortune. Alas! I could make her no return; yet, +surely she will feel aware how truly I sympathize with her; that there is +no effort I would not make to afford her comfort and relief, and that I +shall never cease to offer up my prayers for her, and to bless her for +her goodness to a wretched prisoner. + +Though her visits had been too brief, they were enough to break upon the +horrid monotony of my solitude. By suggesting and comparing our ideas, I +obtained new views and feelings, exercised some of the best and sweetest +affections, gave a zest to life, and even threw a sort of lustre round my +misfortunes. + +Suddenly the vision fled, and my dungeon became to me really like a +living tomb. A strange sadness for many days quite oppressed me. I +could not even write: it was a dark, quiet, nameless feeling, in no way +partaking of the violence and irritation which I had before experienced. +Was it that I had become more inured to adversity, more philosophical, +more of a Christian? Or was it really that the extremely enervating heat +of my dungeon had so prostrated my powers that I could no longer feel the +pangs of excessive grief. Ah, no! for I can well recollect that I then +felt it to my inmost soul; and, perhaps, more intensely from the want +both of will and power to give vent to it by agitation, maledictions, and +cries. The fact is, I believe, that I had been severely schooled by my +past sufferings, and was resigned to the will of God. I had so often +maintained that it was a mark of cowardice to complain, that, at length, +I succeeded in restraining my passion, when on the point of breaking out, +and felt vexed that I had permitted it to obtain any ascendancy over me. + +My mental faculties were strengthened by the habit of writing down my +thoughts; I got rid of all my vanity, and reduced the chief part of my +reasonings to the following conclusions: There is a God: THEREFORE +unerring justice; THEREFORE all that happens is ordained to the best end; +consequently, the sufferings of man on earth are inflicted for the good +of man. + +Thus, my acquaintance with Angiola had proved beneficial, by soothing and +conciliating my feelings. Her good opinion of me had urged me to the +fulfilment of many duties, especially of that of proving one’s self +superior to the shocks of fortune, and of suffering in patience. By +exerting myself to persevere for about a month, I was enabled to feel +perfectly resigned. + +Angiola had beheld me two or three times in a downright passion; once, as +I have stated, on account of her having brought me bad coffee, and a +second time as follows:— + +Every two or three weeks the jailer had brought me a letter from some of +my family. It was previously submitted to the Commission, and most +roughly handled, as was too evident by the number of _erasures_ in the +blackest ink which appeared throughout. One day, however, instead of +merely striking out a few passages, they drew the black line over the +entire letter, with the exception of the words, “MY DEAREST SILVIO,” at +the beginning, and the parting salutation at the close, “_All unite in +kindest love to you_.” + +This act threw me into such an uncontrollable fit of passion, that, in +presence of the gentle Angiola, I broke out into violent shouts of rage, +and cursed I know not whom. The poor girl pitied me from her heart; but, +at the same time, reminded me of the strange inconsistency of my +principles. I saw she had reason on her side, and I ceased from uttering +my maledictions. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. + + +ONE of the under-jailers one day entered my prison with a mysterious +look, and said, “Sometime, I believe, that Siora Zanze (Angiola) . . . +was used to bring you your coffee . . . She stopped a good while to +converse with you, and I was afraid the cunning one would worm out all +your secrets, sir.” + +“Not one,” I replied, in great anger; “or if I had any, I should not be +such a fool as to tell them in that way. Go on.” + +“Beg pardon, sir; far from me to call you by such a name . . . But I +never trusted to that Siora Zanze. And now, sir, as you have no longer +any one to keep you company . . . I trust I—” + +“What, what! explain yourself at once!” + +“Swear first that you will not betray me.” + +“Well, well; I could do that with a safe conscience. I never betrayed +any one.” + +“Do you say really you will swear?” + +“Yes; I swear not to betray you. But what a wretch to doubt it; for any +one capable of betraying you will not scruple to violate an oath.” + +He took a letter from his coat-lining, and gave it me with a trembling +hand, beseeching I would destroy it the moment I had read it. + +“Stop,” I cried, opening it; “I will read and destroy it while you are +here.” + +“But, sir, you must answer it, and I cannot stop now. Do it at your +leisure. Only take heed, when you hear any one coming, you will know if +it be I by my singing, pretty loudly, the tune, _Sognai mi gera un gato_. +You need, then, fear nothing, and may keep the letter quietly in your +pocket. But should you not hear this song, set it down for a mark that +it cannot be me, or that some one is with me. Then, in a moment, out +with it, don’t trust to any concealment, in case of a search; out with +it, tear it into a thousand bits, and throw it through the window.” + +“Depend upon me; I see you are prudent, I will be so too.” + +“Yet you called me a stupid wretch.” + +“You do right to reproach me,” I replied, shaking him by the hand, “and I +beg your pardon.” He went away, and I began to read + +“I am (and here followed the name) one of your admirers: I have all your +_Francesca da Rimini_ by heart. They arrested me for—(and here he gave +the reason with the date)—and I would give, I know not how many pounds of +my blood to have the pleasure of being with you, or at least in a dungeon +near yours, in order that we might converse together. Since I heard from +Tremerello, so we shall call our confidant, that you, sir, were a +prisoner, and the cause of your arrest, I have longed to tell you how +deeply I lament your misfortune, and that no one can feel greater +attachment to you than myself. Have you any objection to accept the +offer I make, namely, that we should try to lighten the burden of our +solitude by writing to each other. I pledge you my honour, that not a +being shall ever hear of our correspondence from me, and am persuaded +that I may count upon the same secresy on your part, if you adopt my +plan. Meantime, that you may form some idea, I will give you an abstract +from my life.”—(It followed.) + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. + + +THE reader, however deficient in the imaginative organ, may easily +conceive the electric effect of such a letter upon the nerves of a poor +prisoner, not of the most savage disposition, but possessing an +affectionate and gregarious turn of mind. I felt already an affection +for the unknown; I pitied his misfortunes, and was grateful for the kind +expressions he made use of. “Yes,” exclaimed I, “your generous purpose +shall be effected. I wish my letters may afford you consolation equal to +that which I shall derive from yours.” + +I re-perused his letter with almost boyish delight, and blessed the +writer; there was not an expression which did not exhibit evidence of a +clear and noble mind. + +The sun was setting, it was my hour of prayer; I felt the presence of +God; how sincere was my gratitude for his providing me with new means of +exercising the faculties of my mind. How it revived my recollection of +all the invaluable blessings he had bestowed upon me! + +I stood before the window, with my arms between the bars, and my hands +folded; the church of St. Mark lay below me, an immense flock of pigeons, +free as the air, were flying about, were cooing and billing, or busied in +constructing their nests upon the leaden roof; the heavens in their +magnificence were before me; I surveyed all that part of Venice visible +from my prison; a distant murmur of human voices broke sweetly on my ear. +From this vast unhappy prison-house did I hold communion with Him, whose +eyes alone beheld me; to Him I recommended my father, my mother, and, +individually, all those most dear to me, and it appeared as if I heard +Him reply, “Confide in my goodness,” and I exclaimed, “Thy goodness +assures me.” + +I concluded my prayer with much emotion, greatly comforted, and little +caring for the bites of the gnats, which had been joyfully feasting upon +me. The same evening, my mind, after such exaltation, beginning to grow +calmer, I found the torment from the gnats becoming insufferable, and +while engaged in wrapping up my hands and face, a vulgar and malignant +idea all at once entered my mind, which horrified me, and which I vainly +attempted to banish. + +Tremerello had insinuated a vile suspicion respecting Angiola; that, in +short, she was a spy upon my secret opinions! She! that noble-hearted +creature, who knew nothing of politics, and wished to know nothing of +them! + +It was impossible for me to suspect her; but have I, said I, the same +certainty respecting Tremerello? Suppose that rogue should be the bribed +instrument of secret informers; suppose the letter had been fabricated by +_who knows whom_, to induce me to make important disclosures to my new +friend. Perhaps his pretended prison does not exist; or if so, he may be +a traitor, eager to worm out secrets in order to make his own terms; +perhaps he is a man of honour, and Tremerello himself the traitor who +aims at our destruction in order to gain an additional salary. + +Oh, horrible thought, yet too natural to the unhappy prisoner, everywhere +in fear of enmity and fraud! + +Such suspicions tormented and degraded me. I did not entertain them as +regarded Angiola a single moment. Yet, from what Tremerello had said, a +kind of doubt clung to me as to the conduct of those who had permitted +her to come into my apartment. Had they, either from their own zeal, or +by superior authority, given her the office of spy? in that case, how ill +had she discharged such an office! + +But what was I to do respecting the letter of the unknown? Should I +adopt the severe, repulsive counsel of fear which we call prudence? +Shall I return the letter to Tremerello, and tell him, I do not wish to +run any risk. Yet suppose there should be no treason; and the unknown be +a truly worthy character, deserving that I should venture something, if +only to relieve the horrors of his solitude? Coward as I am, standing on +the brink of death, the fatal decree ready to strike me at any moment, +yet to refuse to perform a simple act of love! Reply to him I must and +will. Grant that it be discovered, no one can fairly be accused of +writing the letter, though poor Tremerello would assuredly meet with the +severest chastisement. Is not this consideration of itself sufficient to +decide me against undertaking any clandestine correspondence? Is it not +my absolute duty to decline it? + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. + + +I WAS agitated the whole evening; I never closed my eyes that night, and +amidst so many conflicting doubts, I knew not on what to resolve. + +I sprung from my bed before dawn, I mounted upon the window-place, and +offered up my prayers. In trying circumstances it is necessary to appeal +with confidence to God, to heed his inspirations, and to adhere to them. + +This I did, and after long prayer, I went down, shook off the gnats, took +the bitten gloves in my hands, and came to the determination to explain +my apprehensions to Tremerello and warn him of the great danger to which +he himself was exposed by bearing letters; to renounce the plan if he +wavered, and to accept it if its terrors did not deter him. I walked +about till I heard the words of the song:—_Segnai mi gera un gato_, _E ti +me carezzevi_. It was Tremerello bringing me my coffee. I acquainted +him with my scruples and spared nothing to excite his fears. I found him +staunch in his desire to _serve_, as he said, _two such complete +gentlemen_. This was strangely at variance with the sheep’s face he +wore, and the name we had just given him. {15} Well, I was as firm on my +part. + +“I shall leave you my wine,” said I, “see to find me the paper; I want to +carry on this correspondence; and, rely on it, if any one comes without +the warning song, I shall make an end of every suspicious article.” + +“Here is a sheet of paper ready for you; I will give you more whenever +you please, and am perfectly satisfied of your prudence.” + +I longed to take my coffee; Tremerello left me, and I sat down to write. +Did I do right? was the motive really approved by God? Was it not rather +the triumph of my natural courage, of my preference of that which pleased +me, instead of obeying the call for painful sacrifices. Mingled with +this was a proud complacency, in return for the esteem expressed towards +me by the unknown, and a fear of appearing cowardly, if I were to adhere +to silence and decline a correspondence, every way so fraught with peril. +How was I to resolve these doubts? I explained them frankly to my +fellow-prisoner in replying to him, stating it nevertheless, as my +opinion, that if anything were undertaken from good motives, and without +the least repugnance of conscience, there could be no fear of blame. I +advised him at the same time to reflect seriously upon the subject, and +to express clearly with what degree of tranquillity, or of anxiety, he +was prepared to engage, in it. Moreover, if, upon reconsideration, he +considered the plan as too dangerous, we ought to have firmness enough to +renounce the satisfaction we promised ourselves in such a correspondence, +and rest satisfied with the acquaintance we had formed, the mutual +pleasure we had already derived, and the unalterable goodwill we felt +towards each other, which resulted from it. I filled four pages with my +explanations, and expressions of the warmest friendship; I briefly +alluded to the subject of my imprisonment; I spoke of my family with +enthusiastic love, as well as of some of my friends, and attempted to +draw a full picture of my mind and character. + +In the evening I sent the letter. I had not slept during the preceding +night; I was completely exhausted, and I soon fell into a profound sleep, +from which I awoke on the ensuing morning, refreshed and comparatively +happy. I was in hourly expectation of receiving my new friend’s answer, +and I felt at once anxious and pleased at the idea. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. + + +THE answer was brought with my coffee. I welcomed Tremerello, and, +embracing him, exclaimed, “May God reward you for this goodness!” My +suspicions had fled, because they were hateful to me; and because, making +a point of never speaking imprudently upon politics, they appeared +equally useless; and because, with all my admiration for the genius of +Tacitus, I had never much faith in the justice of _tacitising_ as he +does, and of looking upon every object on the dark side. Giuliano (as +the writer signed himself), began his letter with the usual compliments, +and informed me that he felt not the least anxiety in entering upon the +correspondence. He rallied me upon my hesitation; occasionally assumed a +tone of irony; and then more seriously declared that it had given him no +little pain to observe in me “a certain scrupulous wavering, and a +subtilty of conscience, which, however Christian-like, was little in +accordance with true philosophy.” “I shall continue to esteem you,” he +added, “though we should not agree upon that point; for I am bound, in +all sincerity, to inform you, that I have no religion, that I abhor all +creeds, and that I assume from a feeling of modesty the name of Julian, +from the circumstance of that good emperor having been so decided an +enemy of the Christians, though, in fact, I go much further than he ever +did. The sceptred Julian believed in God, and had his own little +superstitions. I have none; I believe not in a God, but refer all virtue +to the love of truth, and the hatred of such as do not please me.” There +was no reasoning in what he said. He inveighed bitterly against +Christianity, made an idol of worldly honour and virtue; and in a half +serious and jocular vein took on himself to pronounce the Emperor +Julian’s eulogium for his apostasy, and his philanthropic efforts to +eradicate all traces of the gospel from the face of the earth. + +Apprehending that he had thus given too severe a shock to my opinions, he +then asked my pardon, attempting to excuse himself upon the ground of +_perfect sincerity_. Reiterating his extreme wish to enter into more +friendly relations with me, he then bade me farewell. + +In a postscript he added:—“I have no sort of scruples, except a fear of +not having made myself sufficiently understood. I ought not to conceal +that to me the Christian language which you employ, appears a mere mask +to conceal your real opinions. I wish it may be so; and in this case, +throw off your cloak, as I have set you an example.” + +I cannot describe the effect this letter had upon me. I had opened it +full of hope and ardour. Suddenly an icy hand seemed to chill the +life-blood of my heart. That sarcasm on my conscientiousness hurt me +extremely. I repented having formed any acquaintance with such a man, I +who so much detest the doctrine of the cynics, who consider it so wholly +unphilosophical, and the most injurious in its tendency: I who despise +all kind of arrogance as it deserves. + +Having read the last word it contained, I took the letter in both my +hands, and tearing it directly down the middle, I held up a half in each +like an executioner, employed in exposing it to public scorn. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII. + + +I KEPT my eye fixed on the fragments, meditating for a moment upon the +inconstancy and fallacy of human things I had just before eagerly desired +to obtain, that which I now tore with disdain. I had hoped to have found +a companion in misfortune, and how I should have valued his friendship! +Now I gave him all kinds of hard names, insolent, arrogant, atheist, and +self-condemned. + +I repeated the same operation, dividing the wretched members of the +guilty letter again and again, till happening to cast my eye on a piece +remaining in my hand, expressing some better sentiment, I changed my +intention, and collecting together the _disjecta membra_, ingeniously +pieced them with the view of reading it once more. I sat down, placed +them on my great Bible, and examined the whole. I then got up, walked +about, read, and thought, “If I do not answer,” said I, “he will think he +has terrified me at the mere appearance of such a philosophical hero, a +very Hercules in his own estimation. Let us show him, with all due +courtesy, that we fear not to confront him and his vicious doctrines, any +more than to brave the risk of a correspondence, more dangerous to others +than to ourselves. I will teach him that true courage does not consist +in ridiculing _conscience_, and that real dignity does not consist in +arrogance and pride. He shall be taught the reasonableness of +Christianity, and the nothingness of disbelief. Moreover, if this mock +Julian start opinions so directly opposite to my own, if he spare not the +most biting sarcasm, if he attack me thus uncourteously; is it not all a +proof that he can be no spy? Yet, might not this be a mere stratagem, to +draw me into a discussion by wounding my self-love? Yet no! I am +unjust—I smart under his bitter irreligious jests, and conclude at once +that he must be the most infamous of men. Base suspicion, which I have +so often decried in others! he may be what he appears—a presumptuous +infidel, but not a spy. Have I even a right to call by the name of +_insolence_, what he considers _sincerity_. Is this, I continued, thy +humility, oh, hypocrite? If any one presume to maintain his own +opinions, and to question your faith, he is forthwith to be met with +contempt and abuse. Is not this worse in a Christian, than the bold +sincerity of the unbeliever? Yes, and perhaps he only requires one ray +of Divine grace, to employ his noble energetic love of truth in the cause +of true religion, with far greater success than yourself. Were it not, +then, more becoming in me to pray for, than to irritate him? Who knows, +but while employed in destroying his letter with every mark of ignominy, +he might be reading mine with expressions of kindness and affection; +never dreaming I should fly into such a mighty passion at his plain and +bold sincerity. Is he not the better of the two, to love and esteem me +while declaring he is no Christian; than I who exclaim, I am a Christian, +and I detest you. It is difficult to obtain a knowledge of a man during +a long intercourse, yet I would condemn him on the evidence of a single +letter. He may, perhaps, be unhappy in his atheism, and wish to hear all +my arguments to enable him the better to arrive at the truth. Perhaps, +too, I may be called to effect so beneficent a work, the humble +instrument of a gracious God. Oh, that it may indeed be so, I will not +shrink from the task.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII. + + +I SAT down to write to Julian, and was cautious not to let one irritating +word proceed from my pen. I took in good part his reflection upon my +fastidiousness of conscience; I even joked about it, telling him he +perhaps gave me too much credit for it, and ought to suspend his good +opinion till he knew me better. I praised his sincerity, assuring him +that he would find me equal to him in this respect, and that as a proof +of it, I had determined to defend Christianity, “Well persuaded,” I +added, “that as I shall readily give free scope to your opinions, you +will be prepared to give me the same advantage.” + +I then boldly entered upon my task, arguing my way by degrees, and +analysing with impartiality the essence of Christianity; the worship of +God free from superstitions, the brotherhood of mankind, aspiration after +virtue, humility without baseness, dignity without pride, as exemplified +in our Divine Saviour! what more philosophical, and more truly grand? + +It was next my object to demonstrate, “that this divine wisdom had more +or less displayed itself to all those who by the light of reason had +sought after the truth, though not generally diffused till the arrival of +its great Author upon the earth. He had proved his heavenly mission by +effecting the most wonderful and glorious results, by human means the +most mean and humble. What the greatest philosophers had in vain +attempted, the overthrow of idolatry, and the universal preaching of love +and brotherhood, was achieved by a few untutored missionaries. From that +era was first dated the emancipation of slaves, no less from bondage of +limbs than of mind, until by degrees a civilisation without slavery +became apparent, a state of society believed to be utterly impracticable +by the ancient philosophers. A review of history from the appearance of +Christ to the present age, would finally demonstrate that the religion he +established had invariably been found adapted to all possible grades in +civilised society. For this reason, the assertion that the gospel was no +longer in accordance with the continued progress of civilisation, could +not for a moment be maintained.” + +I wrote in as small characters as I could, and at great length, but I +could not embrace all which I had ready prepared upon the subject. I +re-examined the whole carefully. There was not one revengeful, +injurious, or even repulsive word. Benevolence, toleration, and +forbearance, were the only weapons I employed against ridicule and +sarcasm of every kind; they were also employed after mature deliberation, +and dictated from the heart. + +I despatched the letter, and in no little anxiety waited the arrival of +the next morning, in hopes of a speedy reply. + +Tremerello came, and observed; “The gentleman, sir, was not able to +write, but entreats of you to continue the joke.” + +“The joke!” I exclaimed. “No, he could not have said that! you must have +mistaken him.” + +Tremerello shrugged up his shoulders: “I suppose I must, if you say so.” + +“But did it really seem as if he had said a joke?” + +“As plainly as I now hear the sound of St. Mark’s clock;” (the +_Campanone_ was just then heard.) I drank my coffee and was silent. + +“But tell me; did he read the whole of the letter?” + +“I think he did; for he laughed like a madman, and then squeezing your +letter into a ball, he began to throw it about, till reminding him that +he must not forget to destroy it, he did so immediately.” + +“That is very well.” + +I then put my coffee cup into Tremerello’s hands, observing that it was +plain the coffee had been made by the Siora Bettina. + +“What! is it so bad?” + +“Quite vile!” + +“Well! I made it myself; and I can assure you that I made it strong; +there were no dregs.” + +“True; it may be, my mouth is out of taste.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX. + + +I WALKED about the whole morning in a rage. “What an abandoned wretch is +this Julian! what, call my letter a joke! play at ball with it, reply not +a single line! But all your infidels are alike! They dare not stand the +test of argument; they know their weakness, and try to turn it off with a +jest. Full of vanity and boasting, they venture not to examine even +themselves. They philosophers, indeed! worthy disciples of Democritus; +who _did_ nothing but laugh, and _was_ nothing but a buffoon. I am +rightly served, however, for beginning a correspondence like this; and +still more for writing a second time.” + +At dinner, Tremerello took up my wine, poured it into a flask, and put it +into his pocket, observing: “I see that you are in want of paper;” and he +gave me some. He retired, and the moment I cast my eye on the paper, I +felt tempted to sit down and write to Julian a sharp lecture on his +intolerable turpitude and presumption, and so take leave of him. But +again, I repented of my own violence, and uncharitableness, and finally +resolved to write another letter in a better spirit as I had done before. + +I did so, and despatched it without delay. The next morning I received a +few lines, simply expressive of the writer’s thanks; but without a single +jest, or the least invitation to continue the correspondence. Such a +billet displeased me; nevertheless I determined to persevere. Six long +letters were the result, for each of which I received a few laconic lines +of thanks, with some declamation against his enemies, followed by a joke +on the abuse he had heaped upon them, asserting that it was extremely +natural the strong should oppress the weak, and regretting that he was +not in the list of the former. He then related some of his love affairs, +and observed that they exercised no little sway over his disturbed +imagination. + +In reply to my last on the subject of Christianity, he said he had +prepared a long letter; for which I looked out in vain, though he wrote +to me every day on other topics—chiefly a tissue of obscenity and folly. + +I reminded him of his promise that he would answer all my arguments, and +recommended him to weigh well the reasonings with which I had supplied +him before he attempted to write. He replied to this somewhat in a rage, +assuming the airs of a philosopher, a man of firmness, a man who stood in +no want of brains to distinguish “a hawk from a hand-saw.” {16} He then +resumed his jocular vein, and began to enlarge upon his experiences in +life, and especially some very scandalous love adventures. + + + + +CHAPTER XL. + + +I BORE all this patiently, to give him no handle for accusing me of +bigotry or intolerance, and in the hope that after the fever of erotic +buffoonery and folly had subsided, he might have some lucid intervals, +and listen to common sense. Meantime I gave him expressly to understand +that I disapproved of his want of respect towards women, his free and +profane expressions, and pitied those unhappy ones, who, he informed me, +had been his victims. + +He pretended to care little about my disapprobation, and repeated: “spite +of your fine strictures upon immorality, I know well you are amused with +the account of my adventures. All men are as fond of pleasure as I am, +but they have not the frankness to talk of it without cloaking it from +the eyes of the world; I will go on till you are quite enchanted, and +confess yourself compelled in _very conscience_ to applaud me.” So he +went on from week to week, I bearing with him, partly out of curiosity +and partly in the expectation he would fall upon some better topic; and I +can fairly say that this species of tolerance, did me no little harm. I +began to lose my respect for pure and noble truths, my thoughts became +confused, and my mind disturbed. To converse with men of degraded minds +is in itself degrading, at least if you possess not virtue very superior +to mine. “This is a proper punishment,” said I, “for my presumption; +this it is to assume the office of a missionary without its sacredness of +character.” + +One day I determined to write to him as follows:—“ I have hitherto +attempted to turn your attention to other subjects, and you persevere in +sending me accounts of yourself which no way please me. For the sake of +variety, let us correspond a little respecting worthier matters; if not, +give the hand of fellowship, and let us have done.” + +The two ensuing days I received no answer, and I was glad of it. “Oh, +blessed solitude;” often I exclaimed, “how far holier and better art thou +than harsh and undignified association with the living. Away with the +empty and impious vanities, the base actions, the low despicable +conversations of such a world. I have studied it enough; let me turn to +my communion with God; to the calm, dear recollections of my family and +my true friends. I will read my Bible oftener than I have done, I will +again write down my thoughts, will try to raise and improve them, and +taste the pleasure of a sorrow at least innocent; a thousand fold to be +preferred to vulgar and wicked imaginations.” + +Whenever Tremerello now entered my room he was in the habit of saying, “I +have got no answer yet.” + +“It is all right,” was my reply. + +About the third day from this, he said, with a serious look, “Signor N. +N. is rather indisposed.” + +“What is the matter with him?” + +“He does not say, but he has taken to his bed, neither eats nor drinks, +and is sadly out of humour.” + +I was touched; he was suffering and had no one to console him. + +“I will write him a few lines,” exclaimed I. + +“I will take them this evening, then,” said Tremerello, and he went out. + +I was a little perplexed on sitting down to my table: “Am I right in +resuming this correspondence?” was I not, just now, praising solitude as +a treasure newly found? what inconsistency is this! Ah! but he neither +eats nor drinks, and I fear must be very ill. Is it, then, a moment to +abandon him? My last letter was severe, and may perhaps have caused him +pain. Perhaps, in spite of our different ways of thinking, he wished not +to end our correspondence. Yes, he has thought my letter more caustic +than I meant it to be, and taken it in the light of an absolute and +contemptuous dismission. + + + + +CHAPTER XLI. + + +I SAT down and wrote as follows:— + +“I hear that you are not well, and am extremely sorry for it. I wish I +were with you, and enabled to assist you as a friend. I hope your +illness is the sole cause why you have not written to me during the last +three days. Did you take offence at my little strictures the other day? +Believe me they were dictated by no ill will or spleen, but with the +single object of drawing your attention to more serious subjects. Should +it be irksome for you to write, send me an exact account, by word, how +you find yourself. You shall hear from me every day, and I will try to +say something to amuse you, and to show you that I really wish you well.” + +Imagine my unfeigned surprise when I received an answer, couched in these +terms: + +“I renounce your friendship: if you are at a loss how to estimate mine, I +return the compliment in its full force. I am not a man to put up with +injurious treatment; I am not one, who, once rejected, will be ordered to +return.” + +“Because you heard I was unwell, you approach me with a hypocritical air, +in the idea that illness will break down my spirit, and make me listen to +your sermons . . . ” + +In this way he rambled on, reproaching and despising me in the most +revolting terms he could find, and turning every thing I had said into +ridicule and burlesque. He assured me that he knew how to live and die +with consistency; that is to say, with the utmost hatred and contempt for +all philosophical creeds differing from his own. I was dismayed! + +“A pretty conversion I have made of it!” I exclaimed; “yet God is my +witness that my motives were pure. I have done nothing to merit an +attack like this. But patience! I am once more undeceived. I am not +called upon to do more.” + +In a few days I became less angry, and conceived that all this bitterness +might have resulted from some excitement which might pass away. Probably +he repents, yet scorns to confess he was in the wrong. In such a state +of mind, it might be generous of me to write to him once more. It cost +my self-love something, but I did it. To humble one’s self for a good +purpose is not degrading, with whatever degree of unjust contempt it may +be returned. + +I received a reply less violent, but not less insulting. The implacable +patient declared that he admired what he called my evangelical +moderation. “Now, therefore,” he continued, “let us resume our +correspondence, but let us speak out. We do not like each other, but we +will write, each for his own amusement, setting everything down which may +come into our heads. You will tell me your seraphic visions and +revelations, and I will treat you with my profane adventures; you again +will run into ecstasies upon the dignity of man, yea, and of woman; I +into an ingenuous narrative of my various profanations; I hoping to make +a convert of you, and you of me. + +“Give me an answer should you approve these conditions.” + +I replied, “Yours is not a compact, but a jest. I was full of good-will +towards you. My conscience does not constrain me to do more than to wish +you every happiness both as regards this and another life.” + +Thus ended my secret connexion with that strange man. But who knows; he +was perhaps more exasperated by ill fortune, delirium, or despair, than +really bad at heart. + + + + +CHAPTER XLII. + + +I ONCE more learnt to value solitude, and my days tracked each other +without any distinction or mark of change. + +The summer was over; it was towards the close of September, and the heat +grew less oppressive; October came. I congratulated myself now on +occupying a chamber well adapted for winter. One morning, however, the +jailer made his appearance, with an order to change my prison. + +“And where am I to go?” + +“Only a few steps, into a fresher chamber.” + +“But why not think of it when I was dying of suffocation; when the air +was filled with gnats, and my bed with bugs?” + +“The order did not come before.” + +“Patience! let us be gone!” + +Notwithstanding I had suffered so greatly in this prison, it gave me pain +to leave it; not simply because it would have been best for the winter +season, but for many other reasons. There I had the ants to attract my +attention, which I had fed and looked upon, I may almost say, with +paternal care. Within the last few days, however, my friend the spider, +and my great ally in my war with the gnats, had, for some reason or +other, chosen to emigrate; at least he did not come as usual. “Yet +perhaps,” said I, “he may remember me, and come back, but he will find my +prison empty, or occupied by some other guest—no friend perhaps to +spiders—and thus meet with an awkward reception. His fine woven house, +and his gnat-feasts will all be put an end to.” + +Again, my gloomy abode had been embellished by the presence of Angiola, +so good, so gentle and compassionate. There she used to sit, and try +every means she could devise to amuse me, even dropping crumbs of bread +for my little visitors, the ants; and there I heard her sobs, and saw the +tears fall thick and fast, as she spoke of her cruel lover. + +The place I was removed to was under the leaden prisons, (_I Piombi_) +open to the north and west, with two windows, one on each side; an abode +exposed to perpetual cold and even icy chill during the severest months. +The window to the west was the largest, that to the north was high and +narrow, and situated above my bed. + +I first looked out at this last, and found that it commanded a view of +the Palace of the Patriarch. Other prisons were near mine, in a narrow +wing to the right, and in a projection of the building right opposite. +Here were two prisons, one above the other. The lower had an enormous +window, through which I could see a man, very richly drest, pacing to and +fro. It was the Signor Caporale di Cesena. He perceived me, made a +signal, and we pronounced each other’s names. + +I next looked out at my other window. I put the little table upon my +bed, and a chair upon my table; I climbed up and found myself on a level +with part of the palace roof; and beyond this was to be seen a fine view +of the city and the lake. + +I paused to admire it; and though I heard some one open the door, I did +not move. It was the jailer; and perceiving that I had clambered up, he +got it into his head I was making an attempt to escape, forgetting, in +his alarm, that I was not a mouse to creep through all those narrow bars. +In a moment he sprung upon the bed, spite of a violent sciatica which had +nearly bent him double, and catching me by the legs, he began to call +out, “thieves and murder!” + +“But don’t you see,” I exclaimed, “you thoughtless man, that I cannot +conjure myself through these horrible bars? Surely you know I got up +here out of mere curiosity.” + +“Oh, yes, I see, I apprehend, sir; but quick, sir, jump down, sir; these +are all temptations of the devil to make you think of it! come down, sir, +pray.” + +I lost no time in my descent, and laughed. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII. + + +AT the windows of the side prisons I recognised six other prisoners, all +there on account of politics. Just then, as I was composing my mind to +perfect solitude, I found myself comparatively in a little world of human +beings around me. The change was, at first, irksome to me, such complete +seclusion having rendered me almost unsociable, add to which, the +disagreeable termination of my correspondence with Julian. Still, the +little conversation I was enabled to carry on, partly by signs, with my +new fellow-prisoners, was of advantage by diverting my attention. I +breathed not a word respecting my correspondence with Julian; it was a +point of honour between us, and in bringing it forward here, I was fully +aware that in the immense number of unhappy men with which these prisons +were thronged, it would be impossible to ascertain who was the assumed +Julian. + +To the interest derived from seeing my fellow-captives was added another +of a yet more delightful kind. I could perceive from my large window, +beyond the projection of prisons, situated right before me, a surface of +roofs; decorated with cupolas, _campanili_, towers, and chimneys, which +gradually faded in a distant view of sea and sky. In the house nearest +to me, a wing of the Patriarchal palace, lived an excellent family, who +had a claim to my gratitude, for expressing, by their salutations, the +interest which they took in my fate. A sign, a word of kindness to the +unhappy, is really charity of no trivial kind. From one of the windows I +saw a little boy, nine or ten years old, stretching out his hands towards +me, and I heard him call out, “Mamma, mamma, they have placed somebody up +there in the Piombi. Oh, you poor prisoner, who are you?” + +“I am Silvio Pellico,” was the reply. + +Another older boy now ran to the same window, and cried out, “Are you +Silvio Pellico?” + +“Yes; and tell me your names, dear boys.” + +“My name is Antonio S—, and my brother’s is Joseph.” + +He then turned round, and, speaking to some one within, “What else ought +I to ask him?” A lady, whom I conjecture to have been their mother, then +half concealed, suggested some pretty words to them, which they repeated, +and for which I thanked them with all my heart. These sort of +communications were a small matter, yet it required to be cautious how we +indulged in them, lest we should attract the notice of the jailer. +Morning, noon, and night, they were a source of the greatest consolation; +the little boys were constantly in the habit of bidding me good night, +before the windows were closed, and the lights brought in, “Good night, +Silvio,” and often it was repeated by the good lady, in a more subdued +voice, “Good night, Silvio, have courage!” + +When engaged at their meals they would say, “How we wish we could give +you any of this good coffee and milk. Pray remember, the first day they +let you out, to come and see us. Mamma and we will give you plenty of +good things, {17} and as many kisses as you like.” + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV. + + +THE month of October brought round one of the most disagreeable +anniversaries in my life. I was arrested on the 13th of that month in +the preceding year. Other recollections of the same period, also pained +me. That day two years, a highly valued and excellent man whom I truly +honoured, was drowned in the Ticino. Three years before, a young person, +Odoardo Briche, {18} whom I loved as if he had been my own son, had +accidentally killed himself with a musket. Earlier in my youth another +severe affliction had befallen me in the same month. + +Though not superstitious, the remembrance of so many unhappy occurrences +at the same period of the year, inspired a feeling of extreme sorrow. +While conversing at the window with the children, and with my fellow +prisoners, I assumed an air of mirth, but hardly had I re-entered my cave +than an irresistible feeling of melancholy weighed down every faculty of +my mind. In vain I attempted to engage in some literary composition; I +was involuntarily impelled to write upon other topics. I thought of my +family, and wrote letters after letters, in which I poured forth all my +burdened spirit, all I had felt and enjoyed of home, in far happier days, +surrounded by brothers, sisters, and friends who had always loved me. +The desire of seeing them, and long compulsory separation, led me to +speak on a variety of little things, and reveal a thousand thoughts of +gratitude and tenderness, which would not otherwise have occurred to my +mind. + +In the same way I took a review of my former life, diverting my attention +by recalling past incidents, and dwelling upon those happier periods now +for ever fled. Often, when the picture I had thus drawn, and sat +contemplating for hours, suddenly vanished from my sight, and left me +conscious only of the fearful present, and more threatening future, the +pen fell from my hand; I recoiled with horror; the contrast was more than +I could bear. These were terrific moments; I had already felt them, but +never with such intense susceptibility as then. It was agony. This I +attributed to extreme excitement of the passions, occasioned by +expressing them in the form of letters, addressed to persons to whom I +was so tenderly attached. + +I turned to other subjects, I determined to change the form of expressing +my ideas, but could not. In whatever way I began, it always ended in a +letter teeming with affection and with grief. + +“What,” I exclaimed, “am I no more master of my own will? Is this +strange necessity of doing that which I object to, a distortion of my +brain? At first I could have accounted for it; but after being inured to +this solitude, reconciled, and supported by religious reflections; how +have I become the slave of these blind impulses, these wanderings of +heart and mind? let me apply to other matters!” I then endeavoured to +pray; or to weary my attention by hard study of the German. Alas! I +commenced and found myself actually engaged in writing a letter! + + + + +CHAPTER XLV. + + +SUCH a state of mind was a real disease, or I know not if it may be +called a kind of somnambulism. Without doubt it was the effect of +extreme lassitude, occasioned by continual thought and watchfulness. + +It gained upon me. I grew feverish and sleepless. I left off coffee, +but the disease was not removed. It appeared to me as if I were two +persons, one of them eagerly bent upon writing letters, the other upon +doing something else. “At least,” said I, “you shall write them in +German if you do; and we shall learn a little of the language.” +Methought _he_ then set to work, and wrote volumes of bad German, and he +certainly brought me rapidly forward in the study of it. Towards +morning, my mind being wholly exhausted, I fell into a heavy stupor, +during which all those most dear to me haunted my dreams. I thought that +my father and mother were weeping over me; I heard their lamentations, +and suddenly I started out of my sleep sobbing and affrighted. +Sometimes, during short, disturbed slumbers, I heard my mother’s voice, +as if consoling others, with whom she came into my prison, and she +addressed me in the most affectionate language upon the duty of +resignation, and then, when I was rejoiced to see her courage, and that +of others, suddenly she appeared to burst into tears, and all wept. I +can convey no idea of the species of agony which I at these times felt. + +To escape from this misery, I no longer went to bed. I sat down to read +by the light of my lamp, but I could comprehend nothing, and soon I found +that I was even unable to think. I next tried to copy something, but +still copied something different from what I was writing, always +recurring to the subject of my afflictions. If I retired to rest, it was +worse; I could lie in no position; I became convulsed, and was +constrained to rise. In case I slept, the same visions reappeared, and +made me suffer much more than I did by keeping awake. My prayers, too, +were feeble and ineffectual; and, at length, I could simply invoke the +name of the Deity; of the Being who had assumed a human form, and was +acquainted with grief. I was afraid to sleep; my prayers seemed to bring +me no relief; my imagination became excited, and, even when awake, I +heard strange noises close to me, sometimes sighs and groans, at others +mingled with sounds of stifled laughter. I was never superstitious, but +these apparently real and unaccountable sights and sounds led me to +doubt, and I then firmly believed that I was the victim of some unknown +and malignant beings. Frequently I took my light, and made a search for +those mockers and persecutors of my waking and sleeping hours. At last +they began to pull me by my clothes, threw my books upon the ground, blew +out my lamp, and even, as it seemed, conveyed me into another dungeon. I +would then start to my feet, look and examine all round me, and ask +myself if I were really mad. The actual world, and that of my +imagination, were no longer distinguishable, I knew not whether what I +saw and felt was a delusion or truth. In this horrible state I could +only repeat one prayer, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” + + + + +CHAPTER XLVI. + + +ONE morning early, I threw myself upon my pallet, having first placed my +handkerchief, as usual, under my pillow. Shortly after, falling asleep, +I suddenly woke, and found myself in a state of suffocation; my +persecutors were strangling me, and, on putting my hand to my throat, I +actually found my own handkerchief, all knotted, tied round my neck. I +could have sworn I had never made those knots; yet I must have done this +in my delirium; but as it was then impossible to believe it, I lived in +continual expectation of being strangled. The recollection is still +horrible. They left me at dawn of day; and, resuming my courage, I no +longer felt the least apprehension, and even imagined it would be +impossible they should again return. Yet no sooner did the night set in, +than I was again haunted by them in all their horrors; being made +sensible of their gradual approach by cold shiverings, the loss of all +power, with a species of fascination which riveted both the eye and the +mind. In fact, the more weak and wretched I felt, at night, the greater +were my efforts during the day to appear cheerful in conversing with my +companions, with the two boys at the palace, and with my jailers. No one +to hear my jokes, would have imagined it possible that I was suffering +under the disease I did. I thought to encourage myself by this forced +merriment, but the spectral visions which I laughed at by day became +fearful realities in the hours of darkness. + +Had I dared, I should have petitioned the commission to change my +apartment, but the fear of ridicule, in case I should be asked my +reasons, restrained me. No reasonings, no studies, or pursuits, and even +no prayers, were longer of avail, and the idea of being wholly abandoned +by heaven, took possession of my mind. + +All those wicked sophisms against a just Providence, which, while in +possession of reason, had appeared to me so vain and impious, now +recurred with redoubled power, in the form of irresistible arguments. I +struggled mightily against this last and greatest evil I had yet borne, +and in the lapse of a few days the temptation fled. Still I refused to +acknowledge the truth and beauty of religion; I quoted the assertions of +the most violent atheists, and those which Julian had so recently dwelt +upon: “Religion serves only to enfeeble the mind,” was one of these, and +I actually presumed that by renouncing my God I should acquire greater +fortitude. Insane idea! I denied God, yet knew not how to deny those +invisible malevolent beings, that appeared to encompass me, and feast +upon my sufferings. + +What shall I call this martyrdom? is it enough to say that it was a +disease? or was it a divine chastisement for my pride, to teach me that +without a special illumination I might become as great an unbeliever as +Julian, and still more absurd. However this may be, it pleased God to +deliver me from such evil, when I least expected it. One morning, after +taking my coffee, I was seized with violent sickness, attended with +colic. I imagined that I had been poisoned. After excessive vomiting, I +burst into a strong perspiration and retired to bed. About mid-day I +fell asleep, and continued in a quiet slumber till evening. I awoke in +great surprise at this unexpected repose, and, thinking I should not +sleep again, I got up. On rising I said, “I shall now have more +fortitude to resist my accustomed terrors.” But they returned no more. +I was in ecstasies; I threw myself upon my knees in the fulness of my +heart, and again prayed to my God in spirit and in truth, beseeching +pardon for having denied, during many days, His holy name. It was almost +too much for my newly reviving strength, and while even yet upon my +knees, supporting my head against a chair, I fell into a profound sleep +in that very position. + +Some hours afterwards, as I conjectured, I seemed in part to awake, but +no sooner had I stretched my weary limbs upon my rude couch than I slept +till the dawn of day. The same disposition to somnolency continued +through the day, and the next night, I rested as soundly as before. What +was the sort of crisis that had thus taken place? I know not; but I was +perfectly restored. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVII. + + +THE sickness of the stomach which I had so long laboured under now +ceased, the pains of the head also left me, and I felt an extraordinary +appetite. My digestion was good, and I gained strength. Wonderful +providence! that deprived me of my health to humble my mind, and again +restored it when the moment was at hand that I should require it all, +that I might not sink under the weight of my sentence. + +On the 24th of November, one of our companions, Dr. Foresti, was taken +from the _Piombi_, and transported no one knew whither. The jailer, his +wife, and the assistants, were alike alarmed, and not one of them +ventured to throw the least light upon this mysterious affair. + +“And why should you persist,” said Tremerello, “in wishing to know, when +nothing good is to be heard? I have told you too much—too much already.” + +“Then what is the use of trying to hide it? I know it too well. He is +condemned to death.” + +“Who? . . . he . . . Doctor Foresti?” + +Tremerello hesitated, but the love of gossip was not the least of his +virtues. + +“Don’t say, then,” he resumed, “that I am a babbler; I never wished to +say a word about these matters; so, remember, it is you who compel me.” + +“Yes, yes, I do compel you; but courage! tell me every thing you know +respecting the poor Doctor?” + +“Ah, Sir! they have made him cross the Bridge of Sighs! he lies in the +dungeons of the condemned; sentence of death has been announced to him +and two others.” + +“And will it be executed? When? Oh, unhappy man! and what are the +others’ names?” + +“I know no more. The sentences have not been published. It is reported +in Venice that they will be commuted. I trust in God they may, at least, +as regards the good Doctor. Do you know, I am as fond of that noble +fellow, pardon the expression, as if he were my own brother.” + +He seemed moved, and walked away. Imagine the agitation I suffered +throughout the whole of that day, and indeed long after, as there were no +means of ascertaining anything further respecting the fate of these +unfortunate men. + +A month elapsed, and at length the sentences connected with the first +trial were published. Nine were condemned to death, _graciously_ +exchanged for hard imprisonment, some for twenty, and others for fifteen +years in the fortress of Spielberg, near the city of Brunn, in Moravia; +while those for ten years and under were to be sent to the fortress of +Lubiana. + +Were we authorised to conclude, from this commutation of sentence in +regard to those first condemned, that the parties subject to the second +trial would likewise be spared? Was the indulgence to be confined only +to the former, on account of their having been arrested previous to the +publication of the edicts against secret societies; the full vengeance of +the law being reserved for subsequent offenders? + +Well, I exclaimed, we shall not long be kept in suspense; I am at least +grateful to Heaven for being allowed time to prepare myself in a becoming +manner for the final scene. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII. + + +IT was now my only consideration how to die like a Christian, and with +proper fortitude. I felt, indeed, a strong temptation to avoid the +scaffold by committing suicide, but overcame it. What merit is there in +refusing to die by the hand of the executioner, and yet to fall by one’s +own? To save one’s honour? But is it not childish to suppose that there +can be more honour in cheating the executioner, than in not doing this, +when it is clear that we must die. Even had I not been a Christian, upon +serious reflection, suicide would have appeared to me both ridiculous and +useless, if not criminal in a high degree. + +“If the term of life be expired,” continued I, “am I not fortunate in +being permitted to collect my thoughts and purify my conscience with +penitence and prayer becoming a man in affliction. In popular +estimation, the being led to the scaffold is the worst part of death; in +the opinion of the wise, is not this far preferable to the thousand +deaths which daily occur by disease, attended by general prostration of +intellect, without power to raise the thoughts from the lowest state of +physical exhaustion.” + +I felt the justice of this reasoning, and lost all feeling of anxiety or +terror at the idea of a public execution. I reflected deeply on the +sacraments calculated to support me under such an appalling trial, and I +felt disposed to receive them in a right spirit. Should I have been +enabled, had I really been conducted to the scaffold, to preserve the +same elevation of mind, the same forgiveness of my enemies, the same +readiness to lay down my life at the will of God, as I then felt? Alas, +how inconsistent is man! when most firm and pious, how liable is he to +fall suddenly into weakness and crime! Is it likely I should have died +worthily? God only knows; I dare not think well enough of myself to +assert it. + +The probable approach of death so riveted my imagination, that not only +did it seem possible but as if marked by an infallible presentiment. I +no longer indulged a hope of avoiding it, and at every sound of footsteps +and keys, or the opening of my door, I was in the habit of exclaiming: +“Courage! Perhaps I am going to receive sentence. Let me hear it with +calm dignity, and bless the name of the Lord.” + +I considered in what terms I should last address my family, each of my +brothers, and each of my sisters, and by revolving in my mind these +sacred and affecting duties, I was often drowned in tears, without losing +my fortitude and resignation. + +I was naturally unable to enjoy sound repose; but my sleeplessness was +not of the same alarming character as before; no visions, spectres, or +concealed enemies were ready to deprive me of life. I spent the night in +calm and reviving prayer. Towards morning I was enabled to sleep for +about two hours, and rose late to breakfast. + +One night I had retired to rest earlier than usual; I had hardly slept a +quarter of an hour, when I awoke, and beheld an immense light upon the +wall opposite to me. At first I imagined that I had been seized with my +former illness; but this was no illusion. The light shone through the +north window, under which I then lay. + +I started up, seized my table, placed it on my bed, and a chair again +upon the table, by means of all which I mounted up, and beheld one of the +most terrific spectacles of fire that can be imagined. It was not more +than a musket shot distant from our prison; it proceeded from the +establishment of the public ovens, and the edifice was entirely consumed. + +The night was exceedingly dark, and vast globes of flame spouted forth on +both sides, borne away by a violent wind. All around, it seemed as if +the sky rained sparks of fire. The adjacent lake reflected the +magnificent sight; numbers of gondolas went and came, but my sympathy was +most excited at the danger and terrors of those who resided nearest to +the burning edifice. I heard the far off voices of men and women calling +to each other. Among others, I caught the name of Angiola, and of this +doubtless there are some thousands in Venice: yet I could not help +fearing it might be the one of whom the recollection was so sweet to me. +Could it be her?—was she surrounded by the flames? how I longed to fly to +her rescue. + +Full of excitement, wonder, and terror, I stood at the window till the +day dawned, I then got down oppressed by a feeling of deep sorrow, and +imagined much greater misfortune than had really occurred. I was +informed by Tremerello that only the ovens and the adjoining magazine had +suffered, the loss consisting chiefly of corn and sacks of flour. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIX. + + +THE effect of this accident upon my imagination had not yet ceased, when +one night, as I was sitting at my little table reading, and half perished +with cold, I heard a number of voices not far from me. They were those +of the jailer, his wife, and sons, with the assistants, all crying: + +“Fire! fire. Oh, blessed Virgin! we are lost, we are lost!” + +I felt no longer cold, I started to my feet in a violent perspiration, +and looked out to discover the quarter from which the fire proceeded. I +could perceive nothing, I was informed, however, that it arose in the +palace itself, from some public chambers contiguous to the prisons. One +of the assistants called out, “But, sir governor, what shall we do with +these caged birds here, if the fire keeps a head?” The head jailer +replied, “Why, I should not like to have them roasted alive. Yet I +cannot let them out of their bars without special orders from the +commission. You may run as fast as you can, and get an order if you +can.” + +“To be sure I will, but, you know, it will be too late for the +prisoners.” + +All this was said in the rude Venetian dialect, but I understood it too +well. And now, where was all my heroic spirit and resignation, which I +had counted upon to meet sudden death? Why did the idea of being burnt +alive throw me into such a fever? I felt ashamed of this unworthy fear, +and though just on the point of crying out to the jailer to let me out, I +restrained myself, reflecting that there might be as little pleasure in +being strangled as in being burnt. Still I felt really afraid. + +“Here,” said I, “is a specimen of my courage, should I escape the flames, +and be doomed to mount the scaffold. I will restrain my fear, and hide +it from others as well as I can, though I know I shall tremble. Yet +surely it is courage to behave as if we were not afraid, whatever we may +feel. Is it not generosity to give away that which it costs us much to +part with? It is, also, an act of obedience, though we obey with great +repugnance.” + +The tumult in the jailer’s house was so loud and continued that I +concluded the fire was on the increase. The messenger sent to ask +permission for our temporary release had not returned. At last I thought +I heard his voice; no; I listened, he is not come. Probably the +permission will not be granted; there will be no means of escape; if the +jailer should not humanely take the responsibility upon himself, we shall +be suffocated in our dungeons! Well, but this, I exclaimed, is not +philosophy, and it is not religion. Were it not better to prepare myself +to witness the flames bursting into my chamber, and about to swallow me +up. + +Meantime the clamour seemed to diminish; by degrees it died away; was +this any proof that the fire had ceased? Or, perhaps, all who could had +already fled, and left the prisoners to their fate. + +The silence continued, no flames appeared, and I retired to bed, +reproaching myself for the want of fortitude I had evinced. Indeed, I +began to regret that I had not been burnt alive, instead of being handed +over, as a victim, into the hands of men. + +The next morning, I learnt the real cause of the fire from Tremerello, +and laughed at his account of the fear he had endured, as if my own had +not been as great—perhaps, in fact, much greater of the two. + + + + +CHAPTER L. + + +ON the 11th of January, 1822, about nine in the morning, Tremerello came +into my room in no little agitation, and said, + +“Do you know, Sir, that in the island of San Michele, a little way from +Venice, there is a prison containing more than a hundred Carbonari.” + +“You have told me so a hundred times. Well! what would you have me hear, +speak out; are some of them condemned?” + +“Exactly.” + +“Who are they?” + +“I don’t know.” + +“Is my poor friend Maroncelli among them?” + +“Ah, Sir, too many . . . I know not who.” And he went away in great +emotion, casting on me a look of compassion. + +Shortly after came the jailer, attended by the assistants, and by a man +whom I had never before seen. The latter opened his subject as follows: +“The commission, Sir, has given orders that you come with me!” + +“Let us go, then,” I replied; “may I ask who you are?” + +“I am jailer of the San Michele prisons, where I am going to take you.” + +The jailer of the _Piombi_ delivered to the new governor the money +belonging to me which he had in his hands. I obtained permission to make +some little present to the under jailers; I then put my clothes in order, +put my Bible under my arm, and departed. In descending the immense track +of staircases, Tremerello for a moment took my hand; he pressed it as +much as to say, “Unhappy man! you are lost.” + +We came out at a gate which opened upon the lake, and there stood a +gondola with two under jailers belonging to San Michele. + +I entered the boat with feelings of the most contradictory nature; regret +at leaving the prison of the _Piombi_, where I had suffered so much, but +where I had become attached to some individuals, and they to me; the +pleasure of beholding once more the sky, the city, and the clear waters, +without the intervention of iron bars. Add to this the recollection of +that joyous gondola, which, in time past, had borne me on the bosom of +that placid lake; the gondolas of the lake of Como, those of Lago +Maggiore, the little barks of the Po, those of the Rodano, and of the +Sonna! Oh, happy vanished years! who, who then so happy in the world as +I? + +The son of excellent and affectionate parents, in a rank of life, +perhaps, the happiest for the cultivation of the affections, being +equally removed from riches and from poverty; I had spent my infancy in +the participation of the sweetest domestic ties; had been the object of +the tenderest domestic cares. I had subsequently gone to Lyons, to my +maternal uncle, an elderly man, extremely wealthy, and deserving of all +he possessed; and at his mansion I partook of all the advantages and +delights of elegance and refined society, which gave an indescribable +charm to those youthful days. Thence returning into Italy, under the +parental roof, I at once devoted myself with ardour to study, and the +enjoyment of society; everywhere meeting with distinguished friends and +the most encouraging praise. Monti and Foscolo, although at variance +with each other, were kind to me. I became more attached to the latter, +and this irritable man, who, by his asperities, provoked so many to +quarrel with him, was with me full of gentleness and cordiality. Other +distinguished characters likewise became attached to me, and I returned +all their regard. Neither envy nor calumny had the least influence over +me, or I felt it only from persons who had not the power to injure me. +On the fall of the kingdom of Italy, my father removed to Turin, with the +rest of his family. I had preferred to remain at Milan, where I spent my +time at once so profitably and so happily as made me unwilling to leave +it. Here I had three friends to whom I was greatly attached—D. Pietro +Borsieri, Lodovico di Breme, and the Count Luigi Porro Lambertenghi. +Subsequently I added to them Count Federigo Confalonieri. {19} Becoming +the preceptor of two young sons of Count Porro, I was to them as a +father, and their father acted like a brother to me. His mansion was the +resort not only of society the most refined and cultivated of Italy, but +of numbers of celebrated strangers. It was there I became acquainted +with De Stael, Schlegel, Davis, Byron, Brougham, Hobhouse, and +illustrious travellers from all parts of Europe. How delightful, how +noble an incentive to all that is great and good, is an intercourse with +men of first-rate merit! I was then happy; I would not have exchanged my +lot with a prince; and now, to be hurled, as I had been, from the summit +of all my hopes and projects, into an abyss of wretchedness, and to be +hurried thus from dungeon to dungeon, to perish doubtless either by a +violent death or lingering in chains. + + + + +CHAPTER LI. + + +ABSORBED in reflections like these, I reached San Michele, and was locked +up in a room which embraced a view of the court yard, of the lake, and +the beautiful island of Murano. I inquired respecting Maroncelli from +the jailer, from his wife, and the four assistants; but their visits were +exceedingly brief, very ceremonious, and, in fact, they would tell me +nothing. + +Nevertheless where there are five or six persons, it is rarely you do not +find one who possesses a compassionate, as well as a communicative +disposition. I met with such a one, and from him I learnt what follows:— + +Maroncelli, after having been long kept apart, had been placed with Count +Camillo Laderchi. {20} The last, within a few days, had been declared +innocent, and discharged from prison, and the former again remained +alone. Some other of our companions had also been set at liberty; the +Professor Romagnosi, {21} and Count Giovanni Arrivabene. {22} Captain +Rezia {23} and the Signor Canova were together. Professor Ressi {24} was +dying at that time, in a prison next to that of the two before mentioned. +“It follows then,” said I, “that the sentences of those not set at +liberty must have arrived. How are they to be made known? Perhaps, poor +Ressi will die; and will not be in a state to hear his sentence; is it +true?” + +“I believe it is.” + +Every day I inquired respecting the unhappy man. “He has lost his voice; +he is rather better; he is delirious; he is nearly gone; he spits blood; +he is dying;” were the usual replies; till at length came the last of +all, “He is dead.” + +I shed a tear to his memory, and consoled myself with thinking that he +died ignorant of the sentence which awaited him. + +The day following, the 21st of February, 1822, the jailer came for me +about ten o’clock, and conducted me into the Hall of the Commission. The +members were all seated, but they rose; the President, the Inquisitor, +and two assisting Judges.—The first, with a look of deep commiseration, +acquainted me that my sentence had arrived; that it was a terrible one; +but that the clemency of the Emperor had mitigated it. + +The Inquisitor, fixing his eye on me, then read it:—“Silvio Pellico, +condemned to death; the imperial decree is, that the sentence be commuted +for fifteen years hard imprisonment in the fortress of Spielberg.” + +“The will of God be done!” was my reply. + +It was really my intention to bear this horrible blow like a Christian, +and neither to exhibit nor to feel resentment against any one whatever. +The President then commended my state of mind, warmly recommending me to +persevere in it, and that possibly by affording an edifying example, I +might in a year or two be deemed worthy of receiving further favours from +the imperial clemency. + +Instead, however, of one or two, it was many years before the full +sentence was remitted. + +The other judges also spoke encouragingly to me. One of them, indeed, +had appeared my enemy on my trial, accosting me in a courteous but +ironical tone, while his look of insulting triumph seemed to belie his +words. I would not make oath it was so, but my blood was then boiling, +and I was trying to smother my passion. While they were praising me for +my Christian patience, I had not a jot of it left me. “To-morrow,” +continued the Inquisitor, “I am sorry to say, you must appear and receive +your sentence in public. It is a formality which cannot be dispensed +with.” + +“Be it so!” I replied. + +“From this time we grant you the company of your friend,” he added. Then +calling the jailer, he consigned me into his hands, ordering that I +should be placed in the same dungeon with Maroncelli. + + + + +CHAPTER LII. + + +IT was a delightful moment, when, after a separation of three months, and +having suffered so greatly, I met my friend. For some moments we forgot +even the severity of our sentence, conscious only of each other’s +presence. + +But I soon turned from my friend to perform a more serious duty—that of +writing to my father. I was desirous that the first tidings of my sad +lot should reach my family from myself; in order that the grief which I +knew they would all feel might be at least mitigated by hearing my state +of mind, and the sentiments of peace and religion by which I was +supported. The judges had given me a promise to expedite the letter the +moment it was written. + +Maroncelli next spoke to me respecting his trial; I acquainted him with +mine, and we mutually described our prison walks and adventures, +complimenting each other on our peripatetic philosophy. We approached +our window, and saluted three of our friends, whom we beheld standing at +theirs. Two of these were Canova and Rezia, in the same apartment; the +first of whom was condemned to six-years’ hard imprisonment, and the last +to three. The third was Doctor Cesare Armari, who had been my neighbour +some preceding months, in the prisons of the Piombi. He was not, +however, among the condemned, and soon obtained his liberty. + +The power of communicating with one or other of our fellow-prisoners, at +all hours, was a great relief to our feelings. But when buried in +silence and darkness, I was unable to compose myself to rest; I felt my +head burn, and my heart bleed, as my thoughts reverted to home. Would my +aged parents be enabled to bear up against so heavy a misfortune? would +they find a sufficient resource in their other children? They were +equally attached to all, and I valued myself least of all in that family +of love; but will a father and a mother ever find in the children that +remain to them a compensation for the one of whom they are deprived. + +Had I dwelt only upon my relatives and a few other dear friends, much as +I regretted them, my thoughts would have been less bitter than they were. +But I thought of the insulting smile of that judge, of the trial, the +cause of the respective sentences, political passions and enmities, and +the fate of so many of my friends . . . It was then I could no longer +think with patience or indulgence of any of my persecutors. God had +subjected me to a severe trial, and it was my duty to have borne it with +courage. Alas! I was neither able nor willing. The pride and luxury of +hatred pleased me better than the noble spirit of forgiveness; and I +passed a night of horror after receiving sentence. + +In the morning I could not pray. The universe appeared to me, then, to +be the work of some power, the enemy of good. I had previously, indeed, +been guilty of calumniating my Creator; but little did I imagine I should +revert to such ingratitude, and in so brief a time. Julian, in his most +impious moods, could not express himself more impiously than myself. To +gloat over thoughts of hatred, or fierce revenge, when smarting under the +scourge of heaviest calamity, instead of flying to religion as a refuge, +renders a man criminal, even though his cause be just. If we hate, it is +a proof of rank pride; and where is the wretched mortal that dare stand +up and declare in the face of Heaven, his title to hatred and revenge +against his fellows? to assert that none have a right to sit in judgment +upon him and his actions;—that none can injure him without a bad +intention, or a violation of all justice? In short, he dares to arraign +the decrees of Heaven itself, if it please Providence to make him suffer +in a manner which he does not himself approve. + +Still I was unhappy because I could not pray; for when pride reigns +supreme, it acknowledges no other god than the self-idol it has created. +How I could have wished to recommend to the Supreme Protector, the care +of my bereaved parents, though at that unhappy moment I felt as if I no +more believed in Him. + + + + +CHAPTER LIII. + + +AT nine in the morning Maroncelli and I were conducted into the gondola +which conveyed us into the city. We alighted at the palace of the Doge, +and proceeded to the prisons. We were placed in the apartment which had +been occupied by Signor Caporali a few days before, but with whose fate +we were not acquainted. Nine or ten sbirri were placed over us as a +guard, and walking about, we awaited the moment of being brought into the +square. There was considerable delay. The Inquisitor did not make his +appearance till noon, and then informed us that it was time to go. The +physician, also, presented himself, and advised us to take a small glass +of mint-water, which we accepted on account of the extreme compassion +which the good old man expressed for us. It was Dr. Dosmo. The head +bailiff then advanced and fixed the hand-cuffs upon us. We followed him, +accompanied by the other bailiffs. + +We next descended the magnificent staircase of the Giganti, and we called +to mind the old Doge Faliero, who was beheaded there. We entered through +the great gate which opens upon the small square from the court-yard of +the palace, and we then turned to the left, in the direction of the lake. +In the centre of the small square was raised the scaffold which we were +to ascend. From the staircase of the Giganti, extending to the scaffold, +were two lines of Austrian soldiers, through which we passed. + +After ascending the platform, we looked around us, and saw an immense +assembly of people, apparently struck with terror. In other directions +were seen bands of armed men, to awe the multitude; and we were told that +cannon were loaded in readiness to be discharged at a moment’s notice. I +was now exactly in the spot where, in September, 1820, just a month +previous to my arrest, a mendicant had observed to me, “This is a place +of misfortune.” + +I called to mind the circumstance, and reflected that very possibly in +that immense throng of spectators the same person might be present, and +perhaps even recognise me. + +The German Captain now called out to us to turn towards the palace, and +look up; we did so, and beheld, upon the lodge, a messenger of the +Council, with a letter in his hand; it was the sentence; he began to read +it in a loud voice. + +It was ushered in by solemn silence, which was continued until he came to +the words, _Condemned to death_. There was then heard one general murmur +of compassion. This was followed by a similar silence, in order to hear +the rest of the document. A fresh murmur arose on the announcement of +the following:—condemned to hard imprisonment, Maroncelli for _twenty +years_, and Pellico for _fifteen_. + +The Captain made a sign for us to descend. We cast one glance around us, +and came down. We re-entered the court-yard, mounted the great +staircase, and were conducted into the room from which we had been +dragged. The manacles were removed, and we were soon reconducted to San +Michele. + + + + +CHAPTER LIV. + + +THE prisoners who had been condemned before us had already set out for +Lubiana and Spielberg, accompanied by a commissary of police. He was now +expected back, in order to conduct us to our destination; but the +interval of a month elapsed. + +My time was chiefly spent in talking, and listening to the conversation +of others, in order to distract my attention. Maroncelli read me some of +his literary productions, and in turn, I read him mine. One evening I +read from the window my play of _Ester d’Engaddi_, to Canova, Rezia, and +Armari; and the following evening, the _Iginia d’Asti_. During the +night, however, I grew irritable and wretched, and was unable to sleep. +I both desired and feared to learn in what manner the tidings of my +calamity had been received by my family. + +At length I got a letter from my father, and was grieved to find, from +the date, that my last to him had not been sent, as I had requested of +the Inquisitor, immediately! Thus my unhappy father, while flattering +himself that I should be set at liberty, happening to take up the Milan +Gazette, read the horrid sentence which I had just received upon the +scaffold. He himself acquainted me with this fact, and left me to infer +what his feelings must have been on meeting thus suddenly with the sad +news. I cannot express the contempt and anger I felt on learning that my +letter had been kept back; and how deeply I felt for all my poor unhappy +family. There was doubtless no malice in this delay, but I looked upon +it as a refinement of the most atrocious barbarity; an eager, infernal +desire to see the iron enter, as it were, the very soul of my beloved and +innocent relatives. I felt, indeed, as if I could have delighted to shed +a sea of blood, could I only punish this flagrant and premeditated +inhumanity. + +Now that I judge calmly, I find it very improbable. The delay, +doubtless, was simply owing to inadvertency on the part of subordinate +agents. Enraged as I was, I heard with still more excited feelings that +my companions were about to celebrate Easter week ere their departure. +As for me, I considered it wholly impossible, inasmuch as I felt not the +least disposition towards forgiveness. Should I be guilty of such a +scandal! + + + + +CHAPTER LV. + + +AT length the German commissioner arrived, and came to acquaint us that +within two days we were to set out. “I have the pleasure,” he added, “to +give you some consoling tidings. On my return from Spielberg, I saw his +majesty the Emperor at Vienna, who acquainted me that the penal days +appointed you will not extend to twenty-four hours, but only to twelve. +By this expression it is intended to signify that the pain will be +divided, or half the punishment remitted.” This division was never +notified to us in an official form, but there is no reason to suppose +that the commissioner would state an untruth; the less so as he made no +secret of the information, which was known to the whole commission. +Nevertheless, I could not congratulate myself upon it. To my feelings, +seven years and a half had little more horrible in them (to be spent in +chains and solitude) than fifteen; for I conceived it to be impossible to +survive so long a period. My health had recently again become wretched! +I suffered from severe pains of the chest, attended with cough, and +thought my lungs were affected. I ate little, and that little I could +not digest. Our departure took place on the night of the 25th of March. +We were permitted to take leave of our friend, Cesare Armari. A sbirro +chained us in a transverse manner, namely, the right hand and the left +foot, so as to render it impossible for us to escape. + +We went into a gondola, and the guards rowed us towards Fusina. On our +arrival we found two boats in readiness for us. Rezia and Canova were +placed in one, and Maroncelli and myself in the other. The commissary +was also with two of the prisoners, and an under-commissary with the +others. Six or seven guards of police completed our convoy; they were +armed with swords and muskets; some of them at hand in the boats, others +in the box of the Vetturino. + +To be compelled by misfortune to leave one’s country is always +sufficiently painful; but to be torn from it in chains, doomed to exile +in a horrible climate, to linger days, and hours, and years, in solitary +dungeons, is a fate so appalling as to defy language to convey the +remotest idea of it. + +Ere we had traversed the Alps, I felt that my country was becoming doubly +dear to me; the sympathy we awakened on every side, from all ranks, +formed an irresistible appeal to my affection and gratitude. In every +city, in every village, in every group of meanest houses, the news of our +condemnation had been known for some weeks, and we were expected. In +several places the commissioners and the guards had difficulty in +dispersing the crowd which surrounded us. It was astonishing to witness +the benevolent and humane feeling generally manifested in our behalf. + +In Udine we met with a singular and touching incident. On arriving at +the inn, the commissary caused the door of the court-yard to be closed, +in order to keep back the people. A room was assigned us, and he ordered +the waiters to bring supper, and make such accommodation as we required +for repose. In a few moments three men entered with mattresses upon +their shoulders. What was our surprise to see that only one of them was +a servant of the inn; the other two were our acquaintance. We pretended +to assist them in placing the beds, and had time to recognise and give +each other the hand of fellowship and sympathy. It was too much; the +tears started to our eyes. Ah! how trying was it to us all, not to be +allowed the sad satisfaction even of shedding them in a last embrace. + +The commissaries were not aware of the circumstance; but I had reason to +think that one of the guards saw into the affair, just as the good Dario +grasped me by the hand. He was a Venetian; he fixed his eyes upon us +both; he turned pale; appeared in the act of making an alarm, then turned +away his eyes, as if pretending not to see us. If he felt not assured +that they were indeed our friends, he must have believed them to be some +waiters with whom we were acquainted. + + + + +CHAPTER LVI. + + +THE next morning we left Udine by dawn of day. The affectionate Dario +was already in the street, wrapped in his mantle; he beckoned to us and +followed us a long way. A coach also continued at some little distance +from us for several miles. Some one waved a handkerchief from it, till +it turned back; who could it have been? We had our own conjectures on +the subject. May Heaven protect those generous spirits that thus cease +not to love, and express their love for the unfortunate. I had the more +reason to prize them from the fact of having met with cowards, who, not +content with denying me, thought to benefit themselves by calumniating +their once fortunate _friend_. These cases, however, were rare, while +those of the former, to the honour of the human character, were numerous. + +I had supposed that the warm sympathy expressed for us in Italy would +cease when we entered on a foreign soil. But I was deceived; the good +man is ever the fellow-countryman of the unhappy! When traversing +Illyrian and German ground, it was the same as in our own country. There +was the same general lamentation at our fate; “Arme herren!” poor +gentlemen, was on the lips of all. + +Sometimes, on entering another district, our escort was compelled to stop +in order to decide in what part to take up our quarters. The people +would then gather round us, and we heard exclamations, and other +expressions of commiseration, which evidently came from the heart. These +proofs of popular feeling were still more gratifying to me, than such as +I had met with from my own countrymen. The consolation which was thus +afforded me, helped to soothe the bitter indignation I then felt against +those whom I esteemed my enemies. Yet, possibly, I reflected, if we were +brought more nearly acquainted, if I could see into their real motives, +and I could explain my own feelings, I might be constrained to admit that +they are not impelled by the malignant spirit I suppose, while they would +find there was as little of bad in me. Nay, they might perhaps be +induced not only to pity, but to admire and love us! + +It is true, indeed, that men too often hate each other, merely because +they are strangers to each other’s real views and feelings; and the +simple interchange of a few words would make them acknowledge their +error, and give the hand of brotherhood to each other. + +We remained a day at Lubiana; and there Canova and Rezia were separated +from us, being forthwith conducted into the castle. It is easy to guess +our feelings upon this painful occasion. + +On the evening of our arrival at Lubiana and the day following, a +gentleman came and joined us, who, if I remember rightly, announced +himself as the municipal secretary. His manners were gentle and humane, +and he spoke of religion in a tone at once elevated and impressive. I +conjectured he must be a priest, the priests in Germany being accustomed +to dress exactly in the same style as laymen. His countenance was +calculated to excite esteem. I regretted that I was not enabled further +to cultivate his acquaintance, and I blame myself for my inadvertency in +not having taken down his name. + +It irks me, too, that I cannot at this time recall the name of another +gentle being, a young girl of Styria, who followed us through the crowd, +and when our coach stopped for a few minutes, moved towards us with both +hands, and afterwards, turned weeping away, supported by a young man, +whose light hair proclaimed him of German extraction. But most probably +he had been in Italy, where he had fallen in love with our fair +countrywoman, and felt touched for our country. Yes! what pleasure it +would have given me to record the names of those venerable fathers and +mothers of families, who, in different districts, accosted us on our +road, inquiring if we had parents and friends; and on hearing that we +had, would grow pale, and exclaim, “Alas! may it please God to restore +you soon to those wretched, bereaved ones whom you have left behind.” + + + + +CHAPTER LVII. + + +ON the 10th of April we arrived at our place of destination. The city of +Brünn is the capital of Moravia, where the governor of the two provinces +of Moravia and Silesia is accustomed to reside. Situated in a pleasant +valley, it presents a rich and noble aspect. At one time it was a great +manufactory of cloth, but its prosperous days were now passed, and its +population did not exceed thirty thousand. + +Contiguous to the walls on the western side rises a mount, and on this is +placed the dreaded fortress of Spielberg, once the royal seat of the +lords of Moravia, and now the most terrific prison under the Austrian +monarchy. It was a well-guarded citadel, but was bombarded and taken by +the French after the celebrated battle of Austerlitz, a village at a +little distance from it. It was not generally repaired, with the +exception of a portion of the outworks, which had been wholly demolished. +Within it are imprisoned some three hundred wretches, for the most part +robbers and assassins, some condemned to the _carcere dare_, others to +that called _durissimo_, the severest of all. This HARD IMPRISONMENT +comprehends compulsory, daily labour, to wear chains on the legs, to +sleep upon bare boards, and to eat the worst imaginable food. The +_durissimo_, or hardest, signifies being chained in a more horrible +manner, one part of the iron being fixed in the wall, united to a hoop +round the body of the prisoner, so as to prevent his moving further than +the board which serves for his couch. We, as state prisoners, were +condemned to the _carcere duro_. The food, however, is the same, though +in the words of the law it is prescribed to be bread and water. + +While mounting the acclivity we turned our eyes as if to take a last look +of the world we were leaving, doubting if ever the portals of that living +grave would be again unclosed to us. I was calm, but rage and +indignation consumed my heart. It was in vain I had recourse to +philosophy; it had no arguments to quiet or to support me. + +I was in poor health on leaving Venice, and the journey had fatigued me +exceedingly. I had a fever, and felt severe pains, both in my head and +my limbs. Illness increased my irritation, and very probably the last +had an equally ill effect upon my frame. + +We were consigned over to the superintendent of Spielberg, and our names +were registered in the same list as that of the robbers. The imperial +commissary shook our hands upon taking leave, and was evidently affected. +“Farewell,” he said, “and let me recommend to you calmness and +submission: for I assure you the least infraction of discipline will be +punished by the governor in the severest manner.” + +The consignment being made out, my friend and myself were conducted into +a subterranean gallery, where two dismal-looking dungeons were unlocked, +at a distance from each other. In one of these I was entombed alive, and +poor Maroncelli in the other. + + + + +CHAPTER LVIII. + + +HOW bitter is it, after having bid adieu to so many beloved objects, and +there remains only a single one between yourself and utter solitude, the +solitude of chains and a living death, to be separated even from that +one! Maroncelli, on leaving me, ill and dejected, shed tears over me as +one whom, it was most probable, he would never more behold. In him, too, +I lamented a noble-minded man, cut off in the splendour of his intellect, +and the vigour of his days, snatched from society, all its duties and its +pleasures, and even from “the common air, the earth, the sky.” Yet he +survived the unheard of afflictions heaped upon him, but in what a state +did he leave his living tomb! + +When I found myself alone in that horrid cavern, heard the closing of the +iron doors, the rattling of chains, and by the gloomy light of a high +window, saw the wooden bench destined for my couch, with an enormous +chain fixed in the wall, I sat down, in sullen rage, on my hard +resting-place, and taking up the chain, measured its length, in the +belief that it was destined for me. + +In half an hour I caught the sound of locks and keys; the door opened, +and the head-jailer handed me a jug of water. + +“Here is something to drink,” he said in a rough tone, “and you will have +your loaf to-morrow.” + +“Thanks, my good man.” + +“I am not good,” was the reply. + +“The worse for you,” I answered, rather sharply. “And this great chain,” +I added, “is it for me?” + +“It is, Sir; if you don’t happen to be quiet; if you get into a rage, or +say impertinent things. But if you are reasonable, we shall only chain +you by the feet. The blacksmith is getting all ready.” + +He then walked sullenly up and down, shaking that horrid ring of enormous +keys, while with angry eye I measured his gigantic, lean, and aged +figure. His features, though not decidedly vulgar, bore the most +repulsive expression of brutal severity which I ever beheld! + +How unjust are mankind when they presume to judge by appearances, and in +deference to their vain, arrogant prejudices. The man whom I upbraided +in my heart for shaking as it were in triumph those horrible keys, to +make me more keenly sensible of his power, whom I set down as an +insignificant tyrant, inured to practices of cruelty, was then revolving +thoughts of compassion, and assuredly had spoken in that harsh tone only +to conceal his real feelings. Perhaps he was afraid to trust himself, or +that I should prove unworthy gentler treatment; doubtful whether I might +not be yet more criminal than unhappy, though willing to afford me +relief. + +Annoyed by his presence, and the sort of lordly air he assumed, I +determined to try to humble him, and called out as if speaking to a +servant, “Give me something to drink!” He looked at me, as much as to +say, “Arrogant man! this is no place for you to show the airs of a +master.” Still he was silent, bent his long back, took up the jug, and +gave it to me. I perceived, as I took it from him, that he trembled, and +believing it to proceed from age, I felt a mingled emotion of reverence +and compassion. “How old are you?” I inquired in a kinder tone. + +“Seventy-four, Sir; I have lived to see great calamities, both as regards +others and myself.” + +The tremulous emotion I had observed increased as he said this, and again +took the jug from my hand. I now thought it might be owing to some +nobler feeling than the effect of age, and the aversion I had conceived +instantaneously left me. + +“And what is your name?” I inquired. + +“It pleased fortune, Sir, to make a fool of me, by giving me the name of +a great man. My name is Schiller.” He then told me in a few words, some +particulars as to his native place, his family, the campaigns in which he +had served, and the wounds he had received. + +He was a Switzer, the son of peasants, had been in the wars against the +Turks, under Marshal Laudon, in the reign of Maria Theresa and Joseph II. +He had subsequently served in the Austrian campaigns against France, up +to the period of Napoleon’s exile. + + + + +CHAPTER LIX. + + +WHEN we begin to form a better opinion of one against whom we had +conceived a strong prejudice, we seem to discover in every feature, in +his voice, and manner, fresh marks of a good disposition, to which we +were before strangers. Is this real, or is it not rather founded upon +illusion? Shortly before, we interpreted the very same expressions in +another way. Our judgment of moral qualities has undergone a change, and +soon, the conclusions drawn from our knowledge of physiognomy are equally +different. How many portraits of celebrated men inspire us only with +respect or admiration because we know their characters; portraits which +we should have pronounced worthless and unattractive had they represented +the ordinary race of mortals. And thus it is, if we reason _vice versa_. +I once laughed, I remember, at a lady, who on beholding a likeness of +Catiline mistook it for that of Collatinus, and remarked upon the sublime +expression of grief in the features of Collatinus for the loss of his +Lucretia. These sort of illusions are not uncommon. I would not +maintain that the features of good men do not bear the impression of +their character, like irreclaimable villains that of their depravity; but +that there are many which have at least a doubtful cast. In short, I won +a little upon old Schiller; I looked at him more attentively, and he no +longer appeared forbidding. To say the truth, there was something in his +language which, spite of its rough tone, showed the genuine traits of a +noble mind. And spite of our first looks of mutual distrust and +defiance, we seemed to feel a certain respect for each other; he spoke +boldly what he thought, and so did I. + +“Captain as I am,” he observed, “I have fallen,—to take my rest, into +this wretched post of jailer; and God knows it is far more disagreeable +for me to maintain it, than it was to risk my life in battle.” + +I was now sorry I had asked him so haughtily to give me drink. “My dear +Schiller,” I said, grasping his hand, “it is in vain you deny it, I know +you are a good fellow; and as I have fallen into this calamity, I thank +heaven which has given me you for a guardian!” + +He listened to me, shook his head, and then rubbing his forehead, like a +man in some perplexity or trouble. + +“No, Sir, I am bad—rank bad. They made me take an oath, which I must, +and will keep. I am bound to treat all the prisoners, without +distinction, with equal severity; no indulgence, no permission to relent, +to soften the sternest orders, in particular as regards prisoners of +state.” + +“You are a noble fellow; I respect you for making your duty a point of +conscience. You may err, humanly speaking, but your motives are pure in +the eyes of God.” + +“Poor gentleman, have patience, and pity me. I shall be hard as steel in +my duty, but my heart bleeds to be unable to relieve the unfortunate. +This is all I really wished to say.” We were both affected. + +He then entreated that I would preserve my calmness, and not give way to +passion, as is too frequent with solitary prisoners, and calls for +restraint, and even for severer punishment. + +He afterwards resumed his gruff, affected tone as if to conceal the +compassion he felt for me, observing that it was high time for him to go. + +He came back, however, and inquired how long a time I had been afflicted +with that horrible cough, reflecting sharply upon the physician for not +coming to see me that very evening. “You are ill of a horse fever,” he +added, “I know it well; you will stand in need of a straw bed, but we +cannot give you one till the doctor has ordered it.” + +He retired, locked the door, and I threw myself upon the hard boards, +with considerable fever and pain in my chest, but less irritable, less at +enmity with mankind, and less alienated from God. + + + + +CHAPTER LX. + + +IN the evening came the superintendent, attended by Schiller, another +captain, and two soldiers, to make the usual search. Three of these +inquisitions were ordered each day, at morning, noon, and midnight. +Every corner of the prison was examined, and each article of the most +trivial kind. The inferior officers then left, and the superintendent +remained a little time to converse with me. + +The first time I saw this troop of jailers approach, a strange thought +came into my head. Being unacquainted with their habits of search, and +half delirious with fever, it struck me that they were come to take my +life, and seizing my great chain I resolved to sell it dearly by knocking +the first upon the head that offered to molest me. + +“What mean you?” exclaimed the superintendent; “we are not going to hurt +you. It is merely a formal visit to ascertain that all is in proper +order in the prisons.” + +I hesitated, but when I saw Schiller advance and stretch forth his hand +with a kind, paternal look, I dropped the chain and took his proffered +hand. “Lord! how it burns,” he said, turning towards the superintendent; +“he ought at least to have a straw bed;” and he said this in so truly +compassionate a tone as quite to win my heart. The superintendent then +felt my pulse, and spoke some consolatory words: he was a man of +gentlemanly manners, but dared not for his life express any opinion upon +the subject. + +“It is all a reign of terror here,” said he, “even as regards myself. +Should I not execute my orders to the rigour of the letter, you would no +longer see me here.” Schiller made a long face, and I could have wagered +he said within himself, “But if I were at the head, like you, I would not +carry my apprehensions so very far; for to give an opinion on a matter of +such evident necessity, and so innocuous to government, would never be +esteemed a mighty fault.” + +When left alone, I felt my heart, so long incapable of any deep sense of +religion, stirred within me, and knelt down to pray. I besought a +blessing upon the head of old Schiller, and appealing to God, asked that +he would so move the hearts of those around me, as to permit me to become +attached to them, and no longer suffer me to hate my fellow-beings, +humbly accepting all that was to be inflicted upon me from His hand. + +About midnight I heard people passing along the gallery. Keys were +sounding, and soon the door opened; it was the captain and his guards on +search. + +“Where is my old Schiller?” inquired I. He had stopped outside in the +gallery. + +“I am here—I am here!” was the answer. He came towards the table, and, +feeling my pulse, hung over me as a father would over his child with +anxious and inquiring look. “Now I remember,” said he, “to-morrow is +Thursday.” + +“And what of that?” I inquired. + +“Why! it is just one of the days when the doctor does not attend, he +comes only on a Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Plague on him.” + +“Give yourself no uneasiness about that!” + +“No uneasiness, no uneasiness!” he muttered, “but I do; you are ill, I +see; nothing is talked of in the whole town but the arrival of yourself +and friends; the doctor must have heard of it; and why the devil could he +not make the extraordinary exertion of coming once out of his time?” + +“Who knows!” said I, “he may perhaps be here to-morrow,—Thursday though +it will be?” + +The old man said no more, he gave me a squeeze of the hand, enough to +break every bone in my fingers, as a mark of his approbation of my +courage and resignation. I was a little angry with him, however, much as +a young lover, if the girl of his heart happen in dancing to press her +foot upon his; he laughs and esteems himself highly favoured, instead of +crying out with the pain. + + + + +CHAPTER LXI. + + +I AWOKE on Thursday morning, after a horrible night, weak, aching in all +my bones, from the hard boards, and in a profuse perspiration. The visit +hour came, but the superintendent was absent; and he only followed at a +more convenient time. I said to Schiller, “Just see how terribly I +perspire; but it is now growing cold upon me; what a treat it would be to +change my shirt.” + +“You cannot do it,” he said, in a brutal tone. At the same time he +winked, and moved his hand. The captain and guards withdrew, and +Schiller made me another sign as he closed the door. He soon opened it +again, and brought one of his own shirts, long enough to cover me from +head to feet, even if doubled. + +“It is perhaps a little too long, but I have no others here.” + +“I thank you, friend, but as I brought with me a whole trunk full of +linen, I do hope I may be permitted the use of it. Have the kindness to +ask the superintendent to let me have one of my shirts.” + +“You will not be permitted, Sir, to use any of your linen here. Each +week you will have a shirt given you from the house like the other +prisoners.” + +“You see, good man, in what a condition I am. I shall never go out of +here alive. I shall never be able to reward you.” + +“For shame, Sir! for shame!” said the old man. “Talk of reward to one +who can do you no good! to one who dare hardly give a dry shirt to a sick +fellow creature in a sweat!” He then helped me on with his long shirt, +grumbling all the while, and slammed the door to with violence on going +out, as if he had been in a great rage. + +About two hours after, he brought me a piece of black bread. “This,” he +said, “is your two days’ fare!” he then began to walk about in a sulky +mood. + +“What is the matter?” I inquired; “are you vexed at me? You know I took +the shirt.” + +“I am enraged at that doctor; though it be Thursday he might show his +ugly face here.” + +“Patience!” said I; but though I said it, I knew not for the life of me +how to get the least rest, without a pillow, upon those hard boards. +Every bone in my body suffered. At eleven I was treated to the prison +dinner—two little iron pots, one of soup, the other of herbs, mixed in +such a way as to turn your stomach with the smell. I tried to swallow a +few spoonfuls, but did not succeed. Schiller encouraged me: “Never +despair,” said he; “try again; you will get used to it in time. If you +don’t, you will be like many others before you, unable to eat anything +but bread, and die of mere inanition.” + +Friday morning came, and with it came Dr. Bayer at last. He found me +very feverish, ordered me a straw bed, and insisted I should be removed +from the caverns into one of the abodes above. It could not be done; +there was no room. An appeal was made to the Governor of Moravia and +Silesia, residing at Brünn, who commanded, on the urgency of the case, +that the medical advice should be followed. + +There was a little light in the room to which I was removed. I crawled +towards the bars of the narrow window, and had the delight of seeing the +valley that lay below,—part of the city of Brünn,—a suburb with +gardens,—the churchyard,—the little lake of Certosa,—and the woody hills +which lay between us and the famous plains of Austerlitz. I was +enchanted, and oh, what double pleasure, thought I, would be mine, were I +enabled to share it with my poor friend Maroncelli! + + + + +CHAPTER LXII. + + +MEANWHILE, our prison dresses were making for us, and five days +afterwards mine was brought to me. It consisted of a pair of pantaloons +made of rough cloth, of which the right side was grey, the left of a dark +colour. The waistcoat was likewise of two colours equally divided, as +well as the jacket, but with the same colours placed on the contrary +sides. The stockings were of the coarsest wool; the shirt of linen tow +full of sharp points—a true hair-cloth garment; and round the neck was a +piece of the same kind. Our legs were enveloped in leather buskins, +untanned, and we wore a coarse white hat. + +This costume was not complete without the addition of chains to the feet, +that is, extending from one leg to the other, the joints being fastened +with nails, which were riveted upon an anvil. The blacksmith employed +upon my legs, in this operation, observed to one of the guards, thinking +I knew nothing of German, “So ill as he is, one would think they might +spare him this sort of fun; ere two months be over, the angel of death +will loosen these rivets of mine.” + +“_Möchte es seyn_! may it be so!” was my reply, as I touched him upon the +shoulder. The poor fellow started, and seemed quite confused; he then +said; “I hope I may be a false prophet; and I wish you may be set free by +another kind of angel.” + +“Yet, rather than live thus, think you not, it would be welcome even from +the angel of death?” He nodded his head, and went away, with a look of +deep compassion for me. + +I would truly have been willing to die, but I felt no disposition towards +suicide. I felt confident that the disease of my lungs would be enough, +ere long, to give me freedom. Such was not the will of God. The fatigue +of my journey had made me much worse, but rest seemed again to restore my +powers. + +A few minutes after the blacksmith left me, I heard the hammer sounding +upon the anvil in one of the caverns below. Schiller was then in my +room. “Do you hear those blows?” I said; “they are certainly fixing the +irons on poor Maroncelli.” The idea for the moment was so overwhelming, +that if the old man had not caught me, I should have fallen. For more +than half an hour, I continued in a kind of swoon, and yet I was +sensible. I could not speak, my pulse scarcely beat at all; a cold sweat +bathed me from head to foot. Still I could hear all that Schiller said, +and had a keen perception, both of what had passed and was passing. + +By command of the superintendent and the activity of the guards, the +whole of the adjacent prisons had been kept in a state of profound +silence. Three or four times I had caught snatches of some Italian song, +but they were quickly stifled by the calls of the sentinels on duty. +Several of these were stationed upon the ground-floor, under our windows, +and one in the gallery close by, who was continually engaged in listening +at the doors and looking through the bars to forbid every kind of noise. + +Once, towards evening (I feel the same sort of emotion whenever I recur +to it), it happened that the sentinels were less on the alert; and I +heard in a low but clear voice some one singing in a prison adjoining my +own. What joy, what agitation I felt at the sound. I rose from my bed +of straw, I bent my ear; and when it ceased—I burst into tears. “Who art +thou, unhappy one?” I cried, “who art thou? tell me thy name! I am +Silvio Pellico.” + +“Oh, Silvio!” cried my neighbour, “I know you not by person, but I have +long loved you. Get up to your window, and let us speak to each other, +in spite of the jailers.” + +I crawled up as well as I could; he told me his name, and we exchanged +few words of kindness. It was the Count Antonio Oroboni, a native of +Fratta, near Rovigo, and only twenty-nine years of age. Alas! we were +soon interrupted by the ferocious cries of the sentinels. He in the +gallery knocked as loud as he could with the butt-end of his musket, both +at the Count’s door and at mine. We would not, and we could not obey; +but the noise, the oaths, and threats of the guards were such as to drown +our voices, and after arranging that we would resume our communications, +upon a change of guards, we ceased to converse. + + + + +CHAPTER LXIII. + + +WE were in hopes (and so in fact it happened) that by speaking in a lower +tone, and perhaps occasionally having guards whose humanity might prompt +them to pay no attention to us, we might renew our conversation. By dint +of practice we learnt to hear each other in so low a key that the sounds +were almost sure to escape the notice of the sentinels. If, as it rarely +happened, we forgot ourselves, and talked aloud, there came down upon us +a torrent of cries, and knocks at our doors, accompanied with threats and +curses of every kind, to say nothing of poor Schiller’s vexation, and +that of the superintendent. + +By degrees, however, we brought our system to perfection; spoke only at +the precise minutes, quarters, and half hours when it was safe, or when +such and such guards were upon duty. At length, with moderate caution, +we were enabled every day to converse almost as much as we pleased, +without drawing on us the attention or anger of any of the superior +officers. + +It was thus we contracted an intimate friendship. The Count told me his +adventures, and in turn I related mine. We sympathised in everything we +heard, and in all each other’s joys or griefs. It was of infinite +advantage to us, as well as pleasure; for often, after passing a +sleepless night, one or the other would hasten to the window and salute +his friend. How these mutual welcomes and conversations helped to +encourage us, and to soothe the horrors of our continued solitude! We +felt that we were useful to each other; and the sense of this roused a +gentle emulation in all our thoughts, and gave a satisfaction which man +receives, even in misery, when he knows he can serve a fellow-creature. +Each conversation gave rise to new ones; it was necessary to continue +them, and to explain as we went on. It was an unceasing stimulus to our +ideas to our reason, our memory, our imagination, and our hearts. + +At first, indeed, calling to mind Julian, I was doubtful as to the +fidelity of this new friend. I reflected that hitherto we had not been +at variance; but some day I feared something unpleasant might occur, and +that I should then be sent back to my solitude. But this suspicion was +soon removed. Our opinions harmonised upon all essential points. To a +noble mind, full of ardour and generous sentiment, undaunted by +misfortune, he added the most clear and perfect faith in Christianity, +while in me this had become vacillating and at times apparently extinct. + +He met my doubts with most just and admirable reflections; and with equal +affection, I felt that he had reason on his side: I admitted it, yet +still my doubts returned. It is thus, I believe, with all who have not +the Gospel at heart, and who hate, or indulge resentments of any kind. +The mind catches glimpses, as it were, of the truth, but as it is +unpleasing, it is disbelieved the moment after, and the attention +directed elsewhere. + +Oroboni was indefatigable in turning _my_ attention to the motives which +man has to show kindness to his enemies. I never spoke of any one I +abhorred but he began in a most dexterous manner to defend him, and not +less by his words than by his example. Many men had injured him; it +grieved him, yet he forgave all, and had the magnanimity to relate some +laudable trait or other belonging to each, and seemed to do it with +pleasure. + +The irritation which had obtained such a mastery over me, and rendered me +so irreligious after my condemnation, continued several weeks, and then +wholly ceased. The noble virtue of Oroboni delighted me. Struggling as +well as I could to reach him, I at least trod in the same track, and I +was then enabled to pray with sincerity; to forgive, to hate no one, and +dissipate every remaining doubt and gloom. + +_Ubi charitas et amor_, _Deus ibi est_. {25} + + + + +CHAPTER LXIV. + + +TO say truth, if our punishment was excessively severe, and calculated to +irritate the mind, we had still the rare fortune of meeting only with +individuals of real worth. They could not, indeed, alleviate our +situation, except by kindness and respect, but so much was freely +granted. If there were something rude and uncouth in old Schiller, it +was amply compensated by his noble spirit. Even the wretched Kunda (the +convict who brought us our dinner, and water three times a day) was +anxious to show his compassion for us. He swept our rooms regularly +twice in the week. One morning, while thus engaged, as Schiller turned a +few steps from the door, poor Kunda offered me a piece of white bread. I +refused it, but squeezed him cordially by the hand. He was moved, and +told me, in bad German, that he was a Pole. “Good sir,” he added, “they +give us so little to eat here, that I am sure you must be hungry.” I +assured him I was not, but he was very hard of belief. + +The physician, perceiving that we were none of us enabled to swallow the +kind of food prepared for us on our first arrival, put us all upon what +is considered the hospital diet. This consisted of three very small +plates of soup in the day, the least slice of roast lamb, hardly a +mouthful, and about three ounces of white bread. + +As my health continued to improve, my appetite grew better, and that +“fourth portion,” as they termed it, was really too little, and I began +to feel the justice of poor Kunda’s remarks. I tried a return to the +sound diet, but do what I would to conquer my aversion, it was all labour +lost. I was compelled to live upon the fourth part of ordinary meals: +and for a whole year I knew by experience the tortures of hunger. It was +still more severely felt by many of my fellow-prisoners, who, being far +stouter, had been accustomed to a full and generous diet. I learnt that +many of them were glad to accept pieces of bread from Schiller and some +of the guards, and even from the poor hungry Kunda. + +“It is reported in the city,” said the barber, a young practitioner of +our surgery, one day to me, “it is reported that they do not give you +gentlemen here enough to eat.” + +“And it is very true,” replied I, with perfect sincerity. + +The next Sunday (he came always on that day) he brought me an immense +white loaf, and Schiller pretended not to see him give it me. Had I +listened to my stomach I should have accepted it, but I would not, lest +he should repeat the gift and bring himself into some trouble. For the +same reason I refused Schiller’s offers. He would often bring me boiled +meat, entreating me to partake of it, and protesting it cost him nothing; +besides, he knew not what to do with it, and must give it away to +somebody. I could have devoured it, but would he not then be tempted to +offer me something or other every day, and what would it end in? Twice +only I partook of some cherries and some pears; they were quite +irresistible. I was punished as I expected, for from that time forth the +old man never ceased bringing me fruit of some kind or other. + + + + +CHAPTER LXV. + + +IT was arranged, on our arrival, that each of us should be permitted to +walk an hour twice in the week. In the sequel, this relief was one day +granted us and another refused; and the hour was always later during +festivals. + +We went, each separately, between two guards, with loaded muskets on +their shoulders. In passing from my prison, at the head of the gallery, +I went by the whole of the Italian prisoners, with the exception of +Maroncelli—the only one condemned to linger in the caverns below. “A +pleasant walk!” whispered they all, as they saw me pass; but I was not +allowed to exchange a single word. + +I was led down a staircase which opened into a spacious court, where we +walked upon a terrace, with a south aspect, and a view of the city of +Brünn and the surrounding country. In this courtyard we saw numbers of +the common criminals, coming from, or going to, their labour, or passing +along conversing in groups. Among them were several Italian robbers, who +saluted me with great respect. “He is no rogue, like us; yet you see his +punishment is more severe”; and it was true, they had a larger share of +freedom than I. + +Upon hearing expressions like these, I turned and saluted them with a +good-natured look. One of them observed, “It does me good to see you, +sir, when you notice me. Possibly you may see something in my look not +so very wicked. An unhappy passion instigated me to commit a crime, but +believe me, sir, I am no villain!” + +Saying this he burst into tears. I gave him my hand, but he was unable +to return the pressure. At that moment, my guard, according to their +instructions, drove him away, declaring that they must permit no one to +approach me. The observations subsequently addressed to me were +pretended to be spoken among each other; and if my two attendants became +aware of it, they quickly interposed silence. + +Prisoners of various ranks, and visitors of the superintendent, the +chaplain, the sergeant, or some of the captains, were likewise to be seen +there. “That is an Italian, that is an Italian!” they often whispered +each other. They stopped to look at me, and they would say in German, +supposing I should not understand them, “That poor gentleman will not +live to be old; he has death in his countenance.” + +In fact, after recovering some degree of strength, I again fell ill for +want of nourishment, and fever again attacked me. I attempted to drag +myself, as far as my chain would permit, along the walk, and throwing +myself upon the turf, I rested there until the expiration of my hour. +The guards would then sit down near me, and begin to converse with each +other. One of them, a Bohemian, named Kral, had, though very poor, +received some sort of an education, which he had himself improved by +reflection. He was fond of reading, had studied Klopstock, Wieland, +Goethe, Schiller, and many other distinguished German writers. He knew a +good deal by memory, and repeated many passages with feeling and +correctness. The other guard was a Pole, by name Kubitzky, wholly +untaught, but kind and respectful. Their society was a great relief to +me. + + + + +CHAPTER LXVI. + + +AT one end of the terrace was situated the apartments of the +superintendent, at the other was the residence of a captain, with his +wife and son. When I saw any one appear from these buildings, I was in +the habit of approaching near, and was invariably received with marks of +courtesy and compassion. + +The wife of the captain had been long ill, and appeared to be in a +decline. She was sometimes carried into the open air, and it was +astonishing to see the sympathy she expressed for our sufferings. She +had the sweetest look I ever saw; and though evidently timid, would at +times fix her eye upon me with an inquiring, confiding glance, when +appealed to by name. One day I observed to her with a smile, “Do you +know, signora, I find a resemblance between you and one who was very dear +to me.” She blushed, and replied with charming simplicity, “Do not then +forget me when I shall be no more; pray for my unhappy soul, and for the +little ones I leave behind me!” I never saw her after that day; she was +unable to rise from her bed, and in a few months I heard of her death. + +She left three sons, all beautiful as cherubs, and one still an infant at +the breast. I had often seen the poor mother embrace them when I was by, +and say, with tears in her eyes, “Who will be their mother when I am +gone? Ah, whoever she may be, may it please the Father of all to inspire +her with love, even for children not her own.” + +Often, when she was no more, did I embrace those fair children, shed a +tear over them, and invoke their mother’s blessing on them, in the same +words. Thoughts of my own mother, and of the prayers she so often +offered up for _her_ lost son, would then come over me, and I added, with +broken words and sighs, “Oh, happier mother than mine, you left, indeed, +these innocent ones, so young and fair, but my dear mother devoted long +years of care and tenderness to me, and saw them all, with the object of +them, snatched from her at a blow!” + +These children were intrusted to the care of two elderly and excellent +women; one of them the mother, the other the aunt of the superintendent. +They wished to hear the whole of my history, and I gave it them as +briefly as I could. “How greatly we regret,” they observed, with warm +sympathy, “to be unable to help you in any way. Be assured, however, we +offer up constant prayers for you, and if ever the day come that brings +you liberty, it will be celebrated by all our family, like one of the +happiest festivals.” + +The first-mentioned of these ladies had a remarkably sweet and soothing +voice, united to an eloquence rarely to be heard from the lips of woman. +I listened to her religious exhortations with a feeling of filial +gratitude, and they sunk deep into my heart. Though her observations +were not new to me, they were always applicable, and most valuable to me, +as will appear from what follows: + +“Misfortune cannot degrade a man, unless he be intrinsically mean; it +rather elevates him.”—“If we could penetrate the judgments of God, we +should find that frequently the objects most to be pitied were the +conquerors, not the conquered; the joyous rather than the sorrowful; the +wealthy rather than those who are despoiled of all.”—“The particular +kindness shown by the Saviour of mankind to the unfortunate is a striking +fact.”—“That man ought to feel honoured in bearing the cross, when he +considers that it was borne up the mount of our redemption by the +Divinity himself in human form.” + +Such were among the excellent sentiments she inculcated; but it was my +lot, as usual, to lose these delightful friends when I had become most +attached to them. They removed from the castle, and the sweet children +no longer made their appearance upon the terrace. I felt this double +deprivation more than I can express. + + + + +CHAPTER LXVII. + + +THE inconvenience I experienced from the chain upon my legs, which +prevented me from sleeping, destroyed my health. Schiller wished me to +petition, declaring that it was the duty of the physician to order it to +be taken off. For some time I refused to listen to him, I then yielded, +and informed the doctor that, in order to obtain a little sleep, I should +be thankful to have the chain removed, if only for a few days. He +answered that my fever was not yet so bad as to require it; and that it +was necessary I should become accustomed to the chain. I felt indignant +at this reply, and more so at myself for having asked the favour. “See +what I have got by following your advice,” said I to Schiller; and I said +it in a very sharp tone, not a little offensive to the old man. + +“You are vexed,” he exclaimed, “because you met with a denial; and I am +as much so with your arrogance! Could I help it?” He then began a long +sermon. “The proud value themselves mightily in never exposing +themselves to a refusal, in never accepting an offer, in being ashamed at +a thousand little matters. _Alle eselen_, asses as they all are. Vain +grandeur, want of true dignity, which consists in being ashamed only of +bad actions!” He went off, and made the door ring with a tremendous +noise. + +I was dismayed; yet his rough sincerity scarcely displeased me. Had he +not spoken the truth? to how many weaknesses had I not given the name of +dignity! the result of nothing but pride. + +At the dinner hour Schiller left my fare to the convict Kunda, who +brought me some water, while Schiller stood outside. I called him. “I +have no time,” he replied, very drily. + +I rose, and going to him, said, “If you wish my dinner to agree with me, +pray don’t look so horribly sour; it is worse than vinegar.” + +“And how ought I to look?” he asked, rather more appeased. + +“Cheerful, and like a friend,” was my reply. + +“Let us be merry, then! _Viva l’allegria_!” cried the old man. “And if +it will make your dinner agree with you, I will dance you a hornpipe into +the bargain.” And, assuming a broad grin, he set to work with his long, +lean, spindle shanks, which he worked about like two huge stilts, till I +thought I should have died with laughing. I laughed and almost cried at +the same time. + + + + +CHAPTER LXVIII. + + +ONE evening Count Oroboni and I were standing at our windows complaining +of the low diet to which we were subjected. Animated by the subject, we +talked a little too loud, and the sentinels began to upbraid us. The +superintendent, indeed, called in a loud voice to Schiller, as he +happened to be passing, inquiring in a threatening voice why he did not +keep a better watch, and teach us to be silent? Schiller came in a great +rage to complain of me, and ordered me never more to think of speaking +from the window. He wished me to promise that I would not. + +“No!” replied I; “I shall do no such thing.” + +“Oh, _der Teufel_; _der Teufel_!” {26} exclaimed the old man; “do you say +that to me? Have I not had a horrible strapping on your account?” + +“I am sorry, dear Schiller, if you have suffered on my account. But I +cannot promise what I do not mean to perform.” + +“And why not perform it?” + +“Because I cannot; because this continual solitude is such a torment to +me. No! I will speak as long as I have breath, and invite my neighbour +to talk to me. If he refuse I will talk to my window-bars, I will talk +to the hills before me, I will talk to the birds as they fly about. I +will talk!” + +“_Der Teufel_! you will! You had better promise!” + +“No, no, no! never!” I exclaimed. + +He threw down his huge bunch of keys, and ran about, crying, “_Der +Teufel_! _der Teufel_!” Then, all at once, he threw his long bony arms +about my neck: “By —, and you shall talk! Am I to cease to be a man +because of this vile mob of keys? You are a gentleman, and I like your +spirit! I know you will not promise. I would do the same in your +place.” + +I picked up his keys and presented them to him. “These keys,” said I, +“are not so bad after all; they cannot turn an honest soldier, like you, +into a villainous _sgherro_.” + +“Why, if I thought they could, I would hand them back to my superiors, +and say, ‘If you will give me no bread but the wages of a hangman, I will +go and beg alms from door to door.’” + +He took out his handkerchief, dried his eyes, and then, raising them, +seemed to pray inwardly for some time. I, too, offered up my secret +prayers for this good old man. He saw it, and took my hand with a look +of grateful respect. + +Upon leaving me he said, in a low voice, “When you speak with Count +Oroboni, speak as I do now. You will do me a double kindness: I shall +hear no more cruel threats of my lord superintendent, and by not allowing +any remarks of yours to be repeated in his ear, you will avoid giving +fresh irritation to _one_ who knows how to punish.” + +I assured him that not a word should come from either of our lips which +could possibly give cause of offence. In fact, we required no further +instructions to be cautious. Two prisoners desirous of communication are +skilful enough to invent a language of their own, without the least +danger of its being interpreted by any listener. + + + + +CHAPTER LXIX. + + +I HAD just been taking my morning’s walk; it was the 7th of August. +Oroboni’s dungeon door was standing open; Schiller was in it, and he was +not sensible of my approach. My guards pressed forward in order to close +my friend’s door, but I was too quick for them; I darted into the room, +and the next moment found myself in the arms of Count Oroboni. + +Schiller was in dismay, and cried out “_Der Teufel_! _der Teufel_!” most +vigorously, at the same time raising his finger in a threatening +attitude. It was in vain, for his eyes filled with tears, and he cried +out, sobbing, “Oh, my God! take pity on these poor young men and me; on +all the unhappy like them, my God, who knows what it is to be so very +unhappy upon earth!” The guards, also, both wept; the sentinel on duty +in the gallery ran to the spot, and even he caught the infection. + +“Silvio! Silvio!” exclaimed the Count, “this is the most delightful day +of my life!” I know not how I answered him; I was nearly distracted with +joy and affection. + +When Schiller at length beseeched us to separate, and it was necessary we +should obey, Oroboni burst into a flood of tears. “Are we never to see +each other again upon earth?” he exclaimed, in a wild, prophetic tone. + +Alas! I never saw him more! A very few months after this parting, his +dungeon was empty, and Oroboni lay at rest in the cemetery, on which I +looked out from my window! + +From the moment we had met, it seemed as if the tie which bound us were +drawn closer round our hearts; and we were become still more necessary to +each other. + +He was a fine young man, with a noble countenance, but pale, and in poor +health. Still, his eyes retained all their lustre. My affection for him +was increased by a knowledge of his extreme weakness and sufferings. He +felt for me in the same manner; we saw by how frail a tenure hung the +lives of both, and that one must speedily be the survivor. + +In a few days he became worse; I could only grieve and pray for him. +After several feverish attacks, he recovered a little, and was even +enabled to resume our conversations. What ineffable pleasure I +experienced on hearing once more the sound of his voice! “You seem +glad,” he said, “but do not deceive yourself; it is but for a short time. +Have the courage to prepare for my departure, and your virtuous +resolution will inspire me also with courage!” + +At this period the walls of our prison were about to be whitewashed, and +meantime we were to take up our abode in the caverns below. +Unfortunately they placed us in dungeons apart from each other. But +Schiller told me that the Count was well; though I had my doubts, and +dreaded lest his health should receive a last blow from the effects of +his subterranean abode. If I had only had the good fortune, thought I, +to be near my friend Maroncelli; I could distinguish his voice, however, +as he sung. We spoke to each other, spite of the shouts and conversation +of the guards. At the same period, the head physician of Brünn paid us a +visit. He was sent in consequence of the report made by the +superintendent in regard to the extreme ill health of the prisoners from +the scanty allowance of food. A scorbutic epidemic was already fast +emptying the dungeons. Not aware of the cause of his visit, I imagined +that he came to see Oroboni, and my anxiety was inexpressible; I was +bowed down with sorrow, and I too wished to die. The thought of suicide +again tormented me. I struggled, indeed; but I felt like the weary +traveller, who though compelled to press forward, feels an almost +irresistible desire to throw himself upon the ground and rest. + +I had been just informed that in one of those subterranean dens an aged +Bohemian gentleman had recently destroyed himself by beating his head +against the walls. I wish I had not heard it; for I could not, do what I +would, banish the temptation to imitate him. It was a sort of delirium, +and would most probably have ended in suicide, had not a violent gush of +blood from my chest, which made me think that death was close at hand, +relieved me. I was thankful to God that it should happen in this manner, +and spare me an act of desperation, which my reason so strongly +condemned. But Providence ordered it otherwise; I found myself +considerably better after the discharge of blood from my lungs. +Meantime, I was removed to the prison above, and the additional light, +with the vicinity of my friend Oroboni, reconciled me to life. + + + + +CHAPTER LXX. + + +I FIRST informed the Count of the terrific melancholy I had endured when +separated from him; and he declared he had been haunted with a similar +temptation to suicide. “Let us take advantage,” he said, “of the little +time that remains for us, by mutually consoling each other. We will +speak of God; emulate each other in loving him, and inculcate upon each +other that he only is Justice, Wisdom, Goodness, Beauty—is all which is +most worthy to be reverenced and adored. I tell you, friend, of a truth, +that death is not far from me. I shall be eternally grateful, Silvio, if +you will help me, in these my last moments, to become as religious as I +ought to have been during my whole life.” + +We now, therefore, confined our conversation wholly to religious +subjects, especially to drawing parallels between the Christian +philosophy and that of mere worldly founders of the Epicurean schools. +We were both delighted to discover so strict an union between +Christianity and reason; and both, on a comparison of the different +evangelical communions, fully agreed that the catholic was the only one +which could successfully resist the test of criticism,—which consisted of +the purest doctrines and the purest morality—not of those wretched +extremes, the product of human ignorance. + +“And if by any unexpected accident,” observed Oroboni, “we should be +restored to society, should we be so mean-spirited as to shrink from +confessing our faith in the Gospel? Should we stand firm if accused of +having changed our sentiments in consequence of prison discipline?” + +“Your question, my dear Oroboni,” I replied, “acquaints me with the +nature of your reply; it is also mine. The vilest servility is that of +being subjected to the opinions of others, when we feel a persuasion at +the same time that they are false. I cannot believe that either you or I +could be guilty of so much meanness.” During these confidential +communications of our sentiments, I committed one fault. I had pledged +my honour to Julian never to reveal, by mention of his real name, the +correspondence which had passed between us. I informed poor Oroboni of +it all, observing that “it never should escape my lips in any other +place; but here we are immured as in a tomb; and even should you get +free, I know I can confide in you as in myself.” + +My excellent friend returned no answer. “Why are you silent?” I +enquired. He then seriously upbraided me for having broken my word and +betrayed my friend’s secret. His reproach was just; no friendship, +however intimate, however fortified by virtue, can authorise such a +violation of confidence, guaranteed, as it had been, by a sacred vow. + +Since, however, it was done, Oroboni was desirous of turning my fault to +a good account. He was acquainted with Julian, and related several +traits of character, highly honourable to him. “Indeed,” he added, “he +has so often acted like a true Christian, that he will never carry his +enmity to such a religion to the grave with him. Let us hope so; let us +not cease to hope. And you, Silvio, try to pardon his ill-humour from +your heart; and pray for him!” His words were held sacred by me. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXI. + + +THE conversations of which I speak, sometimes with Oroboni, and sometimes +with Schiller, occupied but a small portion of the twenty-four hours +daily upon my hands. It was not always, moreover, that I could converse +with Oroboni. How was I to pass the solitary hours? I was accustomed to +rise at dawn, and mounting upon the top of my table, I grasped the bars +of my window, and there said my prayers. The Count was already at his +window, or speedily followed my example. We saluted each other, and +continued for a time in secret prayer. Horrible as our dungeons were, +they made us more truly sensible of the beauty of the world without, and +the landscape that spread around us. The sky, the plains, the far off +noise and motions of animals in the valley, the voices of the village +maidens, the laugh, the song, had a charm for us it is difficult to +express, and made us more dearly sensible of the presence of him who is +so magnificent in his goodness, and of whom we ever stand in so much +need. + +The morning visit of the guards was devoted to an examination of my +dungeon, to see that all was in order. They felt at my chain, link by +link, to be sure that no conspiracy was at work, or rather in obedience +to the laws of discipline which bound them. If it were the day for the +doctor’s visit, Schiller was accustomed to ask us if we wished to see +him, and to make a note to that effect. + +The search being over, Schiller made his appearance, accompanied by +Kunda, whose care it was to clean our rooms. Shortly after he brought +our breakfast—a little pot of hogwash, and three small slices of coarse +bread. The bread I was able to eat, but could not contrive to drink the +swill. + +It was next my business to apply to study. Maroncelli had brought a +number of books from Italy, as well as some other of our +fellow-prisoners—some more, and some less, but altogether they formed a +pretty good library. This, too, we hoped to enlarge by some purchases; +but awaited an answer from the Emperor, as to whether we might be +permitted to read them and buy others. Meantime the governor gave us +permission, _provisionally_, to have each two books at a time, and to +exchange them when we pleased. About nine came the superintendent, and +if the doctor had been summoned, he accompanied him. + +I was allowed another interval for study between this and the dinner hour +at eleven. We had then no further visits till sunset, and I returned to +my studies. Schiller and Kunda then appeared with a change of water, and +a moment afterwards, the superintendent with the guards to make their +evening inspection, never forgetting my chain. Either before or after +dinner, as best pleased the guards, we were permitted in turn to take our +hour’s walk. The evening search being over, Oroboni and I began our +conversation,—always more extended than at any other hour. The other +periods were, as related in the morning, or directly after dinner—but our +words were then generally very brief. At times the sentinels were so +kind as to say to us: “A little lower key, gentlemen, or otherwise the +punishment will fall upon us.” Not unfrequently they would pretend not +to see us, and if the sergeant appeared, begged us to stop till he were +past, when they told us we might talk again—“But as low as you possibly +can, gentlemen, if you please!” + +Nay, it happened that they would quietly accost us themselves; answer our +questions, and give us some information respecting Italy. + +Touching upon some topics, they entreated of us to be silent, refusing to +give any answer. We were naturally doubtful whether these voluntary +conversations, on their part, were really sincere, or the result of an +artful attempt to pry into our secret opinions. + +I am, however, inclined to think that they meant it all in good part, and +spoke to us in perfect kindness and frankness of heart. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXII. + + +ONE evening the sentinels were more than usually kind and forbearing, and +poor Oroboni and I conversed without in the least suppressing our voices. +Maroncelli, in his subterraneous abode, caught the sound, and climbing up +to the window, listened and distinguished my voice. He could not +restrain his joy; but sung out my name, with a hearty welcome. He then +asked me how I was, and expressed his regret that he had not yet been +permitted to share the same dungeon. This favour I had, in fact, already +petitioned for, but neither the superintendent nor the governor had the +power of granting it. Our united wishes upon the same point had been +represented to the Emperor, but no answer had hitherto been received by +the governor of Brünn. Besides the instance in which we saluted each +other in song, when in our subterraneous abodes, I had since heard the +songs of the heroic Maroncelli, by fits and starts, in my dungeon above. +He now raised his voice; he was no longer interrupted, and I caught all +he said. I replied, and we continued the dialogue about a quarter of an +hour. Finally, they changed the sentinels upon the terrace, and the +successors were not “of gentle mood.” Often did we recommence the song, +and as often were interrupted by furious cries, and curses, and threats, +which we were compelled to obey. + +Alas! my fancy often pictured to me the form of my friend, languishing in +that dismal abode so much worse than my own; I thought of the bitter +grief that must oppress him, and the effect upon his health, and bemoaned +his fate in silence. Tears brought me no relief; the pains in my head +returned, with acute fever. I could no longer stand, and took to my +straw bed. Convulsions came on; the spasms in my breast were terrible. +Of a truth, I believed that that night was my last. + +The following day the fever ceased, my chest was relieved, but the +inflammation seemed to have seized my brain, and I could not move my head +without the most excruciating pain. I informed Oroboni of my condition; +and he too was even worse than usual. “My dear friend,” said he, “the +day is near when one or other of us will no longer be able to reach the +window. Each time we welcome one another may be the last. Let us hold +ourselves in readiness, then, to die—yes to die! or to survive a friend.” + +His voice trembled with emotion; I could not speak a word in reply. +There was a pause, and he then resumed, “How fortunate you are in knowing +the German language! You can at least have the advantage of a priest; I +cannot obtain one acquainted with the Italian. But God is conscious of +my wishes; I made confession at Venice—and in truth, it does not seem +that I have met with anything since that loads my conscience.” + +“I, on the contrary, confessed at Venice,” said I, “with my heart full of +rancour, much worse than if I had wholly refused the sacrament. But if I +could find a priest, I would now confess myself with all my heart, and +pardon everybody, I can assure you.” + +“God bless you, Silvio!” he exclaimed, “you give me the greatest +consolation I can receive. Yes, yes; dear friend! let us both do all in +our power to merit a joyful meeting where we shall no more be separated, +where we shall be united in happiness, as now we are in these last trying +hours of our calamity.” + +The next day I expected him as usual at the window. But he came not, and +I learnt from Schiller that he was grievously ill. In eight or ten days +he recovered, and reappeared at his accustomed station. I complained to +him bitterly, but he consoled me. A few months passed in this strange +alternation of suffering; sometimes it was he, at others I, who was +unable even to reach our window. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXIII. + + +I WAS enabled to keep up until the 11th of January, 1823. On that +morning, I rose with a slight pain in my head, and a strong tendency to +fainting. My legs trembled, and I could scarcely draw my breath. + +Poor Oroboni, also, had been unable to rise from his straw for several +days past. They brought me some soup, I took a spoonful, and then fell +back in a swoon. Some time afterwards the sentinel in the gallery, +happening to look through the pane of my door, saw me lying senseless on +the ground, with the pot of soup at my side; and believing me to be dead, +he called Schiller, who hastened, as well as the superintendent, to the +spot. + +The doctor was soon in attendance, and they put me on my bed. I was +restored with great difficulty. Perceiving I was in danger, the +physician ordered my irons to be taken off. He then gave me some kind of +cordial, but it would not stay on my stomach, while the pain in my head +was horrible. A report was forthwith sent to the governor, who +despatched a courier to Vienna, to ascertain in what manner I was to be +treated. The answer received, was, that I should not be placed in the +infirmary, but was to receive the same attendance in my dungeon as was +customary in the former place. The superintendent was further authorised +to supply me with soup from his own kitchen so long as I should continue +unwell. + +The last provision of the order received was wholly useless, as neither +food nor beverage would stay on my stomach. I grew worse during a whole +week, and was delirious without intermission, both day and night. + +Kral and Kubitzky were appointed to take care of me, and both were +exceedingly attentive. Whenever I showed the least return of reason, +Kral was accustomed to say, “There! have faith in God; God alone is +good.” + +“Pray for me,” I stammered out, when a lucid interval first appeared; +“pray for me not to live, but that he will accept my misfortunes and my +death as an expiation.” He suggested that I should take the sacrament. + +“If I asked it not, attribute it to my poor head; it would be a great +consolation to me.” + +Kral reported my words to the superintendent, and the chaplain of the +prisons came to me. I made my confession, received the communion, and +took the holy oil. The priest’s name was Sturm, and I was satisfied with +him. The reflections he made upon the justice of God, upon the injustice +of man, upon the duty of forgiveness, and upon the vanity of all earthly +things, were not out of place. They bore moreover the stamp of a +dignified and well-cultivated mind as well as an ardent feeling of true +love towards God and our neighbour. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXIV. + + +THE exertion I made to receive the sacrament exhausted my remaining +strength; but it was of use, as I fell into a deep sleep, which continued +several I hours. + +On awaking I felt somewhat refreshed, and observing Schiller and Kral +near me, I took them by the hand, and thanked them for their care. +Schiller fixed his eyes on me. + +“I am accustomed,” he said, “to see persons at the last, and I would lay +a wager that you will not die.” + +“Are you not giving me a bad prognostic?” said I. + +“No;” he replied, “the miseries of life are great it is true; but he who +supports them with dignity and with humility must always gain something +by living.” He then added, “If you live, I hope you will some day meet +with consolation you had not expected. You were petitioning to see your +friend Signor Maroncelli.” + +“So many times, that I no longer hope for it.” + +“Hope, hope, sir; and repeat your request.” + +I did so that very day. The superintendent also gave me hopes; and +added, that probably I should not only be permitted to see him, but that +he would attend on me, and most likely become my undivided companion. + +It appeared, that as all the state prisoners had fallen ill, the governor +had requested permission from Vienna to have them placed two and two, in +order that one might assist the other in case of extreme need. + +I had also solicited the favour of writing to my family for the last +time. + +Towards the end of the second week, my attack reached its crisis, and the +danger was over. I had begun to sit up, when one morning my door opened, +and the superintendent, Schiller, and the doctor, all apparently +rejoicing, came into my apartment. The first ran towards me, exclaiming, + +“We have got permission for Maroncelli to bear you company; and you may +write to your parents.” + +Joy deprived me both of breath and speech, and the superintendent, who in +his kindness had not been quite prudent, believed that he had killed me. +On recovering my senses, and recollecting the good news, I entreated not +to have it delayed. The physician consented, and my friend Maroncelli +was conducted to my bedside. Oh! what a moment was that. + +“Are you alive?” each of us exclaimed. + +“Oh, my friend, my brother—what a happy day have we lived to see! God’s +name be ever blessed for it.” But our joy was mingled with as deep +compassion. Maroncelli was less surprised upon seeing me, reduced as I +was, for he knew that I had been very ill, but though aware how HE must +have suffered, I could not have imagined he would be so extremely +changed. He was hardly to be recognised; his once noble and handsome +features were wholly consumed, as it were, by grief, by continual hunger, +and by the bad air of his dark, subterranean dungeon. + +Nevertheless, to see, to hear, and to be near each other was a great +comfort. How much had we to communicate—to recollect—and to talk over! +What delight in our mutual compassion, what sympathy in all our ideas! +Then we were equally agreed upon subjects of religion; to hate only +ignorance and barbarism, but not man, not individuals, and on the other +hand to commiserate the ignorant and the barbarous, and to pray for their +improvement. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXV. + + +I WAS now presented with a sheet of paper and ink, in order that I might +write to my parents. + +As in point of strictness the permission was only given to a dying man, +desirous of bidding a last adieu to his family, I was apprehensive that +the letter being now of different tenour, it would no longer be sent upon +its destination. I confined myself to the simple duty of beseeching my +parents, my brothers, and my sisters, to resign themselves without a +murmur to bear the lot appointed me, even as I myself was resigned to the +will of God. + +This letter was, nevertheless, forwarded, as I subsequently learnt. It +was, in fact, the only one which, during so long protracted a captivity, +was received by my family; the rest were all detained at Vienna. My +companions in misfortune were equally cut off from all communication with +their friends and families. + +We repeatedly solicited that we might be allowed the use of pen and paper +for purposes of study, and that we might purchase books with our own +money. Neither of these petitions was granted. + +The governor, meanwhile, permitted us to read our own books among each +other. We were indebted also to his goodness for an improvement in our +diet; but it did not continue. He had consented that we should be +supplied from the kitchen of the superintendent instead of that of the +contractor; and some fund had been put apart for that purpose. The +order, however, was not confirmed; but in the brief interval it was in +force my health had greatly improved. It was the same with Maroncelli; +but for the unhappy Oroboni it came too late. He had received for his +companion the advocate Solera, and afterwards the priest, Dr. Fortini. + +We were no sooner distributed through the different prisons than the +prohibition to appear or to converse at our windows was renewed, with +threats that, if detected, the offenders would be consigned to utter +solitude. We often, it is true, broke through this prison-law, and +saluted each other from our windows, but no longer engaged in long +conversations as we had before done. + +In point of disposition, Maroncelli and I were admirably suited to each +other. The courage of the one sustained the other; if one became violent +the other soothed him; if buried in grief or gloom, he sought to rouse +him; and one friendly smile was often enough to mitigate the severity of +our sufferings, and reconcile each other to life. + +So long as we had books, we found them a delightful relief, not only by +reading, but by committing them to memory. We also examined, compared, +criticised, and collated, &c. We read and we reflected great part of the +day in silence, and reserved the feast of conversation for the hours of +dinner, for our walks, and the evenings. + +While in his subterranean abode, Maroncelli had composed a variety of +poems of high merit. He recited them and produced others. Many of these +I committed to memory. It is astonishing with what facility I was +enabled, by this exercise, to repeat very extensive compositions, to give +them additional polish, and bring them to the highest possible perfection +of which they were susceptible, even had I written them down with the +utmost care. Maroncelli did the same, and, by degrees, retained by heart +many thousand lyric verses, and epics of different kinds. It was thus, +too, I composed the tragedy of _Leoniero da Dertona_, and various other +works. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXVI. + + +COUNT OROBONI, after lingering through a wretched winter and the ensuing +spring, found himself much worse during the summer. He was seized with a +spitting of blood, and a dropsy ensued. Imagine our affliction on +learning that he was dying so near us, without a possibility of our +rendering him the last sad offices, separated only as we were by a +dungeon-wall. + +Schiller brought us tidings of him. The unfortunate young Count, he +said, was in the greatest agonies, yet he retained his admirable firmness +of mind. He received the spiritual consolations of the chaplain, who was +fortunately acquainted with the French language. He died on the 13th of +June, 1823. A few hours before he expired, he spoke of his aged father, +eighty years of age, was much affected, and shed tears. Then resuming +his serenity, he said, “But why thus lament the destiny of the most +fortunate of all those so dear to me; for _he_ is on the eve of rejoining +me in the realms of eternal peace?” The last words he uttered, were, “I +forgive all my enemies; I do it from my heart!” His eyes were closed by +his friend, Dr. Fortini, a most religious and amiable man, who had been +intimate with him from his childhood. Poor Oroboni! how bitterly we felt +his death when the first sad tidings reached us! Ah! we heard the voices +and the steps of those who came to remove his body! We watched from our +window the hearse, which, slow and solemnly, bore him to that cemetery +within our view. It was drawn thither by two of the common convicts, and +followed by four of the guards. We kept our eyes fixed upon the +sorrowful spectacle, without speaking a word, till it entered the +churchyard. It passed through, and stopped at last in a corner, near a +new-made grave. The ceremony was brief; almost immediately the hearse, +the convicts, and the guards were observed to return. One of the last +was Kubitzky. He said to me, “I have marked the exact spot where he is +buried, in order that some relation or friend may be enabled some day to +remove his poor bones, and lay them in his own country.” It was a noble +thought, and surprised me in a man so wholly uneducated; but I could not +speak. How often had the unhappy Count gazed from his window upon that +dreary looking cemetery, as he observed, “I must try to get accustomed to +the idea of being carried thither; yet I confess that such an idea makes +me shiver. It is strange, but I cannot help thinking that we shall not +rest so well in these foreign parts as in our own beloved land.” He +would then laugh, and exclaim, “What childishness is this! when a garment +as worn out, and done with, does it signify where we throw it aside?” At +other times, he would say, “I am continually preparing for death, but I +should die more willingly upon one condition—just to enter my father’s +house once more, embrace his knees, hear his voice blessing me, and die!” +He then sighed and added, “But if this cup, my God, cannot pass from me, +may thy will be done.” Upon the morning of his death he also said, as he +pressed a crucifix, which Kral brought him, to his lips; “Thou, Lord, who +wert Divine, hadst also a horror of death, and didst say, _If it be +possible_, _let this cup pass free me_, oh, pardon if I too say it; but I +will repeat also with Thee, Nevertheless, not as I will, but as thou +willest it!” + + + + +CHAPTER LXXVII. + + +AFTER the death of Oroboni, I was again taken ill. I expected very soon +to rejoin him, and I ardently desired it. Still, I could not have parted +with Maroncelli without regret. Often, while seated on his straw-bed, he +read or recited poetry to withdraw my mind, as well as his own, from +reflecting upon our misfortunes, I gazed on him, and thought with pain, +When I am gone, when you see them bearing me hence, when you gaze at the +cemetery, you will look more sorrowful than now. I would then offer a +secret prayer that another companion might be given him, as capable of +appreciating all his worth. + +I shall not mention how many different attacks I suffered, and with how +much difficulty I recovered from them. The assistance I received from my +friend Maroncelli, was like that of an attached brother. When it became +too great an effort for me to speak, he was silent; he saw the exact +moment when his conversation would soothe or enliven me, he dwelt upon +subjects most congenial to my feelings, and he continued or varied them +as he judged most agreeable to me. Never did I meet with a nobler +spirit; he had few equals, none, whom I knew, superior to him. Strictly +just, tolerant, truly religious, with a remarkable confidence in human +virtue, he added to these qualities an admirable taste for the beautiful, +whether in art or nature, and a fertile imagination teeming with poetry; +in short, all those engaging dispositions of mind and heart best +calculated to endear him to me. + +Still, I could not help grieving over the fate of Oroboni while, at the +same time, I indulged the soothing reflection that he was freed from all +his sufferings, that they were rewarded with a better world, and that in +the midst of the enjoyments he had won, he must have that of beholding me +with a friend no less attached to me than he had been himself. I felt a +secret assurance that he was no longer in a place of expiation, though I +ceased not to pray for him. I often saw him in my dreams, and he seemed +to pray for me; I tried to think that they were not mere dreams; that +they were manifestations of his blessed spirit, permitted by God for my +consolation. I should not be believed were I to describe the excessive +vividness of such dreams, if such they were, and the delicious serenity +which they left in my mind for many days after. These, and the religious +sentiments entertained by Maroncelli, with his tried friendship, greatly +alleviated my afflictions. The sole idea which tormented me was the +possibility of this excellent friend also being snatched from me; his +health having been much broken, so as to threaten his dissolution ere my +own sufferings drew to a close. Every time he was taken ill, I trembled; +and when he felt better, it was a day of rejoicing for me. Strange, that +there should be a fearful sort of pleasure, anxious yet intense, in these +alternations of hope and dread, regarding the existence of the only +object left you on earth. Our lot was one of the most painful; yet to +esteem, to love each other as we did, was to us a little paradise, the +one green spot in the desert of our lives; it was all we had left, and we +bowed our heads in thankfulness to the Giver of all good, while awaiting +the hour of his summons. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXVIII. + + +IT was now my favourite wish that the chaplain who had attended me in my +first illness, might be allowed to visit us as our confessor. But +instead of complying with our request, the governor sent us an Augustine +friar, called Father Battista, who was to confess us until an order came +from Vienna, either to confirm the choice, or to nominate another in his +place. + +I was afraid we might suffer by the change, but was deceived. Father +Battista was an excellent man, highly educated, of polished manners, and +capable of reasoning admirably, even profoundly, upon the duties of man. +We entreated him to visit us frequently; he came once a month, and +oftener when in his power to do so; he always brought us some book or +other with the governor’s permission, and informed us from the abbot that +the entire library of the convent was at our service. This was a great +event for us; and we availed ourselves of the offer during several +months. + +After confession, he was accustomed to converse with us and gave evidence +of an upright and elevated mind, capable of estimating the intrinsic +dignity and sanctity of the human mind. We had the advantage of his +enlightened views, of his affection, and his friendship for us during the +space of a year. At first I confess that I distrusted him, and imagined +that we should soon discover him putting out his feelers to induce us to +make imprudent disclosures. In a prisoner of state this sort of +diffidence is but too natural; but how great the satisfaction we +experience when it disappears, and when we acknowledge in the interpreter +of God no other zeal than that inspired by the cause of God and of +humanity. + +He had a most efficacious method of administering consolation. For +instance, I accused myself of flying into a rage at the rigours imposed +upon me by the prison discipline. He discoursed upon the virtue of +suffering with resignation, and pardoning our enemies; and depicted in +lively colours the miseries of life—in ranks and conditions opposite to +my own. He had seen much of life, both in cities and the country, known +men of all grades, and deeply reflected upon human oppression and +injustice. He painted the operation of the passions, and the habits of +various social classes. He described them to me throughout as the strong +and the weak, the oppressors and the oppressed: and the necessity we were +under, either of hating our fellow-man or loving him by a generous effort +of compassion. + +The examples he gave to show me the prevailing character of misfortune in +the mass of human beings, and the good which was to be hence derived, had +nothing singular in them; in fact they were obvious to view; but he +recounted them in language so just and forcible, that I could not but +admit the deductions he wished to draw from them. + +The oftener he repeated his friendly reproaches, and has noble +exhortations, the more was I incited to the love of virtue; I no longer +felt capable of resentment—I could have laid down my life, with the +permission of God, for the least of my fellow-creatures, and I yet blest +His holy name for having created me—MAN! + +Wretch that he is who remains ignorant of the sublime duty of confession! +Still more wretched who, to shun the common herd, as he believes, feels +himself called upon to regard it with scorn! Is it not a truth that even +when we know what is required of us to be good, that self-knowledge is a +dead letter to us? reading and reflection are insufficient to impel us to +it; it is only the living speech of a man gifted with power which can +here be of avail. The soul is shaken to its centre, the impressions it +receives are more profound and lasting. In the brother who speaks to +you, there is a life, and a living and breathing spirit—one which you can +always consult, and which you will vainly seek for, either in books or in +your own thoughts. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXIX. + + +IN the beginning of 1824 the superintendent who had his office at one end +of our gallery, removed elsewhere, and the chambers, along with others, +were converted into additional prisons. By this, alas, we were given to +understand that other prisoners of state were expected from Italy. + +They arrived in fact very shortly—a third special commission was at +hand—and they were all in the circle of my friends or my acquaintance. +What was my grief when I was told their names! Borsieri was one of my +oldest friends. To Confalonieri I had been attached a less time indeed, +but not the less ardently. Had it been in my power, by taking upon +myself the _carcere durissimo_, or any other imaginable torment, how +willingly would I have purchased their liberation. Not only would I have +laid down my life for them,—for what is it to give one’s life? I would +have continued to suffer for them. + +It was then I wished to obtain the consolations of Father Battista; but +they would not permit him to come near me. + +New orders to maintain the severest discipline were received from Vienna. +The terrace on which we walked was hedged in by stockades, and in such a +way that no one, even with the use of a telescope, could perceive our +movements. We could no longer catch the beautiful prospect of the +surrounding hills, and part of the city of Brünn which lay below. Yet +this was not enough. To reach the terrace, we were obliged, as before +stated, to traverse the courtyard, and a number of persons could perceive +us. That we might be concealed from every human eye, we were prohibited +from crossing it, and we were confined in our walk to a small passage +close to our gallery, with a north aspect similar to that of our +dungeons. + +To us such a change was a real misfortune, and it grieved us. There were +innumerable little advantages and refreshments to our worn and wasted +spirits in the walk of which we were deprived. The sight of the +superintendent’s children; their smiles and caresses; the scene where I +had taken leave of their mother; the occasional chit-chat with the old +smith, who had his forge there; the joyous songs of one of the captains +accompanied by his guitar; and last not least, the innocent badinage of a +young Hungarian fruiteress—the corporal’s wife, who flirted with my +companions—were among what we had lost. She had, in fact, taken a great +fancy for Maroncelli. + +Previous to his becoming my companion, he had made a little of her +acquaintance; but was so sincere, so dignified, and so simple in his +intentions as to be quite insensible of the impression he had produced. +I informed him of it, and he would not believe I was serious, though he +declared that he would take care to preserve a greater distance. +Unluckily the more he was reserved, the more did the lady’s fancy for him +seemed to increase. + +It so happened that her window was scarcely above a yard higher than the +level of the terrace; and in an instant she was at our side with the +apparent intention of putting out some linen to dry, or to perform some +other household offices; but in fact to gaze at my friend, and, if +possible, enter into conversation with him. + +Our poor guards, half wearied to death for want of sleep, had, meantime, +eagerly caught at an opportunity of throwing themselves on the grass, +just in this corner, where they were no longer under the eye of their +superiors. They fell asleep; and meanwhile Maroncelli was not a little +perplexed what to do, such was the resolute affection borne him by the +fair Hungarian. I was no less puzzled; for an affair of the kind, which, +elsewhere, might have supplied matter for some merriment, was here very +serious, and might lead to some very unpleasant result. The unhappy +cause of all this had one of those countenances which tell you at once +their character—the habit of being virtuous, and the necessity of being +esteemed. She was not beautiful, but had a remarkable expression of +elegance in her whole manner and deportment; her features, though not +regular, fascinated when she smiled, and with every change of sentiment. + +Were it my purpose to dwell upon love affairs, I should have no little to +relate respecting this virtuous but unfortunate woman—now deceased. +Enough that I have alluded to one of the few adventures which marked my +prison-hours. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXX. + + +THE increasing rigour of our prison discipline rendered our lives one +unvaried scene. The whole of 1824, of 1825, of 1826, of 1827, presented +the same dull, dark aspect; and how we lived through years like these is +wonderful. We were forbidden the use of books. The prison was one +immense tomb, though without the peace and unconsciousness of death. The +director of police came every month to institute the most strict and +minute search, assisted by a lieutenant and guards. They made us strip +to the skin, examined the seams of our garments, and ripped up the straw +bundles called our beds in pursuit of—nothing. It was a secret affair, +intended to take us by surprise, and had something about it which always +irritated me exceedingly, and left me in a violent fever. + +The preceding years had appeared to me very unhappy, yet I now remembered +them with regret. The hours were fled when I could read my Bible, and +Homer, from whom I had imbibed such a passionate admiration of his +glorious language. Oh, how it irked me to be unable to prosecute my +study of him! And there were Dante, Petrarch, Shakespeare, Byron, Walter +Scott, Schiller, Goethe, &c.—how many friends, how many innocent and true +delights were withheld from me. Among these I included a number of +works, also, upon Christian knowledge; those of Bourdaloue, Pascal, “The +Imitation of Christ,” “The Filotea,” &c., books usually read with narrow, +illiberal views by those who exult in every little defect of taste, and +at every common-place thought which impels the reader to throw them for +ever aside; but which, when perused in a true spirit free from scandalous +or malignant construction, discover a mine of deep philosophy, and +vigorous nutriment both for the intellect and the heart. A few of +certain religious books, indeed, were sent us, as a present, by the +Emperor, but with an absolute prohibition to receive works of any other +kind adapted for literary occupation. + +This imperial gift of ascetic productions arrived in 1825 by a Dalmatian +Confessor, Father Stefano Paulowich, afterwards Bishop of Cattaro, who +was purposely sent from Vienna. We were indebted to him for performing +mass, which had been before refused us, on the plea that they could not +convey us into the church and keep us separated into two and two as the +imperial law prescribed. To avoid such infraction we now went to mass in +three groups; one being placed upon the tribune of the organ, another +under the tribune, so as not to be visible, and the third in a small +oratory, from which was a view into the church through a grating. On +this occasion Maroncelli and I had for companions six convicts, who had +received sentence before we came, but no two were allowed to speak to any +other two in the group. Two of them, I found, had been my neighbours in +the Piombi at Venice. + +We were conducted by the guards to the post assigned us, and then brought +back after mass in the same manner, each couple into their former +dungeon. A Capuchin friar came to celebrate mass; the good man ended +every rite with a “let us pray” for “liberation from chains,” and “to set +the prisoner free,” in a voice which trembled with emotion. + +On leaving the altar he cast a pitying look on each of the three groups, +and bowed his head sorrowfully in secret prayer. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXXI. + + +IN 1825 Schiller was pronounced past his service from infirmity and old +age; though put in guard over some other prisoners, not thought to +require equal vigilance and care. It was a trying thing to part from +him, and he felt it as well as we. Kral, a man not inferior to him in +good disposition, was at first his successor. But he too was removed, +and we had a jailer of a very harsh and distant manner, wholly devoid of +emotion, though not intrinsically bad. + +I felt grieved; Schiller, Kral, and Kubitzky, but in particular the two +former, had attended us in our extreme sufferings with the affection of a +father or a brother. Though incapable of violating their trust, they +knew how to do their duty without harshness of any kind. If there were +something hard in the forms, they took the sting out of them as much as +possible by various ingenious traits and turns of a benevolent mind. I +was sometimes angry at them, but they took all I said in good part. They +wished us to feel that they had become attached to us; and they rejoiced +when we expressed as much, and approved of anything they did. + +From the time Schiller left us, he was frequently ill; and we inquired +after him with a sort of filial anxiety. When he sufficiently recovered, +he was in the habit of coming to walk under our windows; we hailed him, +and he would look up with a melancholy smile, at the same time addressing +the sentinels in a voice we could overhear: “_Da sind meine Sohne_! there +are my sons.” + +Poor old man! how sorry I was to see him almost staggering along, with +the weight of increasing infirmities, so near us, and without being +enabled to offer him even my arm. + +Sometimes he would sit down upon the grass, and read. They were the same +books he had often lent me. To please me, he would repeat the titles to +the sentinels, or recite some extract from them, and then look up at me, +and nod. After several attacks of apoplexy, he was conveyed to the +military hospital, where in a brief period he died. He left some +hundreds of florins, the fruit of long savings. These he had already +lent, indeed, to such of his old military comrades as most required them; +and when he found his end approaching, he called them all to his bedside, +and said: “I have no relations left; I wish each of you to keep what I +have lent you, for my sake. I only ask that you will pray for me.” + +One of these friends had a daughter of about eighteen, and who was +Schiller’s god-daughter. A few hours before his death, the good old man +sent for her. He could not speak distinctly, but he took a silver ring +from his finger, and placed it upon hers. He then kissed her, and shed +tears over her. The poor girl sobbed as if her heart would break, for +she was tenderly attached to him. He took a handkerchief, and, as if +trying to soothe her, he dried her eyes. Lastly, he took hold of her +hands, and placed them upon his eyes; and those eyes were closed for +ever. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXXII. + + +ALL human consolations were one by one fast deserting us, and our +sufferings still increased. I resigned myself to the will of God, but my +spirit groaned. It seemed as if my mind, instead of becoming inured to +evil, grew more keenly susceptible of pain. One day there was secretly +brought to me a page of the Augsburgh Gazette, in which I found the +strangest assertions respecting myself on occasion of mention being made +of one of my sisters retiring into a nunnery. It stated as follows:—“The +Signora Maria Angiola Pellico, daughter, &c., took the veil (on such a +day) in the monastery of the Visitazione at Turin, &c. This lady is +sister to the author of _Francesca da Rimini_, Silvio Pellico, who was +recently liberated from the fortress of Spielberg, being pardoned by his +Majesty, the emperor—a trait of clemency worthy of so magnanimous a +sovereign, and a subject of gratulation to the whole of Italy, inasmuch +as,” &c., &c. + +And here followed some eulogiums which I omit. I could not conceive for +what reason the hoax relating to the gracious pardon had been invented. +It seemed hardly probable it could be a mere freak of the editor’s; and +was it then intended as some stroke of oblique German policy? Who knows! +However this may be, the names of Maria Angiola were precisely those of +my younger sister, and doubtless they must have been copied from the +Turin Gazette into other papers. Had that excellent girl, then, really +become a nun? Had she taken this step in consequence of the loss of her +parents? Poor Maria! she would not permit me alone to suffer the +deprivations of a prison; she too would seclude herself from the world. +May God grant her patience and self-denial, far beyond what I have +evinced; for often I know will that angel, in her solitary cell, turn her +thoughts and her prayers towards me. Alas, it may be, she will impose on +herself some rigid penance, in the hope that God may alleviate the +sufferings of her brother! These reflections agitated me greatly, and my +heart bled. Most likely my own misfortunes had helped to shorten the +days both of my father and my mother; for, were they living, it would be +hardly possible that my Marietta would have deserted our parental roof. +At length the idea oppressed me with the weight of absolute certainty, +and I fell into a wretched and agonised state of mind. Maroncelli was no +less affected than myself. The next day he composed a beautiful elegy +upon “the sister of the prisoner.” When he had completed it, he read it +to me. How grateful was I for such a proof of his affection for me! +Among the infinite number of poems which had been written upon similar +subjects, not one, probably, had been composed in prison, for the brother +of the nun, and by his companion in captivity and chains. What a field +for pathetic and religious ideas was here, and Maroncelli filled his lyre +with wild and pathetic tones, which drew delicious tears from my eyes. + +It was thus friendship sweetened all my woes. Seldom from that day did I +forget to turn my thoughts long and fondly to some sacred asylum of +virgin hearts, and that one beloved form did not rise before my fancy, +dressed in all that human piety and love can picture in a brother’s +heart. Often did I beseech Heaven to throw a charm round her religious +solitude, and not permit that her imagination should paint in too +horrible colours the sufferings of the sick and weary captive. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXXIII. + + +THE reader must not suppose from the circumstance of my seeing the +Gazette, that I was in the habit of hearing news, or could obtain any. +No! though all the agents employed around me were kind, the system was +such as to inspire the utmost terror. If there occurred the least +clandestine proceeding, it was only when the danger was not felt—when not +the least risk appeared. The extreme rareness of any such occurrences +may be gathered from what has been stated respecting the ordinary and +extraordinary searches which took place, morning, noon, and night, +through every corner of our dungeons. + +I had never a single opportunity of receiving any notice, however slight, +regarding my family, even by secret means, beyond the allusions in the +Gazette to my sister and myself. The fears I entertained lest my dear +parents no longer survived were greatly augmented, soon after, by the +manner in which the police director came to inform me that my relatives +were well. + +“His Majesty the Emperor,” he said, “commands me to communicate to you +good tidings of your relations at Turin.” + +I could not express my pleasure and my surprise at this unexpected +circumstance; but I soon put a variety of questions to him as to their +health: “Left you my parents, brothers, and sisters, at Turin? are they +alive? if you have any letter from them pray let me have it.” + +“I can show you nothing. You must be satisfied. It is a mark of the +Emperor’s clemency to let you know even so much. The same favour is not +shown to every one.” + +“I grant it is a proof of the Emperor’s kindness; but you will allow it +to be impossible for me to derive the least consolation from information +like this. Which of my relations are well? have I lost no one?” + +“I am sorry, sir, that I cannot state more than I have been directed.” +And he retired. + +It must assuredly have been intended to console me by this indefinite +allusion to my family. I felt persuaded that the Emperor had yielded to +the earnest petition of some of my relatives to permit me to hear tidings +of them, and that I was permitted to receive no letter in order to remain +in the dark as to which of my dear family were now no more. I was the +more confirmed in this supposition from the fact of receiving a similar +communication a few months subsequently; but there was no letter, no +further news. + +It was soon perceived that so far from having been productive of +satisfaction to me, such meagre tidings had thrown me into still deeper +affliction, and I heard no more of my beloved family. The continual +suspense, the distracting idea that my parents were dead, that my +brothers also might be no more, that my sister Giuseppina was gone, and +that Marietta was the sole survivor, and that in the agony of her sorrow +she had thrown herself into a convent, there to close her unhappy days, +still haunted my imagination, and completely alienated me from life. + +Not unfrequently I had fresh attacks of the terrible disorders under +which I had before suffered, with those of a still more painful kind, +such as violent spasms of the stomach, exactly like _cholera morbus_, +from the effects of which I hourly expected to die. Yes! and I fervently +hoped and prayed that all might soon be over. + +At the same time, nevertheless, whenever I cast a pitying glance at my no +less weak and unfortunate companion—such is the strange contradiction of +our nature—I felt my heart inly bleed at the idea of leaving him, a +solitary prisoner, in such an abode; and again I wished to live. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXXIV. + + +THRICE, during my incarceration at Spielberg, there arrived persons of +high rank to inspect the dungeons, and ascertain that there was no abuse +of discipline. The first visitor was the Baron Von Münch, who, struck +with compassion on seeing us so sadly deprived of light and air, declared +that he would petition in our favour, to have a lantern placed over the +outside of the pane in our dungeon doors, through which the sentinels +could at any moment perceive us. His visit took place in 1825, and a +year afterwards his humane suggestion was put in force. By this +sepulchral light we could just catch a view of the walls, and prevent our +knocking our heads in trying to walk. The second visit was that of the +Baron Von Vogel. He found me in a lamentable state of health; and +learning that the physician had declared that coffee would be very good +for me, and that I could not obtain it, as being too great a luxury, he +interested himself for me, and my old, delightful beverage, was ordered +to be brought me. The third visit was from a lord of the court, with +whose name I am not acquainted, between fifty and sixty years of age, and +who, by his manners as well as his words, testified the sincerest +compassion for us; at the same time lamenting that he could do nothing +for us. Still, the expression of his sympathy—for he was really +affected—was something, and we were grateful for it. + +How strange, how irresistible, is the desire of the solitary prisoner to +behold some one of his own species! It amounts almost to a sort of +instinct, as if in order to avoid insanity, and its usual consequence, +the tendency to self-destruction. The Christian religion, so abounding +in views of humanity, forgets not to enumerate amongst its works of mercy +the visiting of the prisoner. The mere aspect of man, his look of +commiseration, and his willingness, as it were, to share with you, and +bear a part of your heavy burden, even when you know he cannot relieve +you, has something that sweetens your bitter cup. + +Perfect solitude is doubtless of advantage to some minds, but far more so +if not carried to an extreme, and relieved by some little intercourse +with society. Such at least is my constitution. If I do not behold my +fellow-men, my affections become restricted to too confined a circle, and +I begin to dislike all others; while, if I continue in communication with +an ordinary number, I learn to regard the whole of mankind with +affection. + +Innumerable times, I am sorry to confess, I have been so exclusively +occupied with a few, and so averse to the many, as to be almost terrified +at the feelings I experienced. I would then approach the window, +desirous of catching some new features, and thought myself happy when the +sentinel passed not too closely to the wall, if I got a single glance of +him, or if he lifted up his head upon hearing me cough—more especially if +he had a good-natured countenance; when he showed the least feeling of +pity, I felt a singular emotion of pleasure, as if that unknown soldier +had been one of my intimate friends. + +If, the next time, he passed by in a manner that prevented my seeing him, +or took no notice of me, I felt as much mortified as some poor lover, +when he finds that the beloved object wholly neglects him. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXXV. + + +IN the adjoining prison, once occupied by Oroboni, D. Marco Fortini and +Antonio Villa were now confined. The latter, once as strong as Hercules, +was nearly famished the first year, and when a better allowance was +granted he had wholly lost the power of digestion. He lingered a long +time, and when reduced almost to the last extremity, he was removed into +a somewhat more airy prison. The pestilential atmosphere of these narrow +receptacles, so much resembling real tombs, was doubtless very injurious +to others as well as to him. But the remedy sought for was too late or +insufficient to remove the cause of his sufferings. He had scarcely been +a month in this spacious prison, when, in consequence of bursting several +blood-vessels, and his previously broken health, he died. + +He was attended by his fellow-prisoner, D. Fortini, and by the Abate +Paulowich, who hastened from Vienna upon hearing that he was dying. +Although I had not been on the same intimate terms with him as with Count +Oroboni, his death a good deal affected me. He had parents and a wife, +all most tenderly attached to him. _He_, indeed, was more to be envied +than regretted; but, alas, for the unhappy survivors to whom he was +everything! He had, moreover, been my neighbour when under the _Piombi_. +Tremerello had brought me several of his poetical pieces, and had +conveyed to him some lines from me in return. There was sometimes a +depth of sentiment and pathos in his poems which interested me. I seemed +to become still more attached to him after he was gone; learning, as I +did from the guards, how dreadfully he had suffered. It was with +difficulty, though truly religious, that he could resign himself to die. +He experienced to the utmost the horror of that final step, while he +blessed the name of the Lord, and called upon His name with tears +streaming from his eyes. “Alas,” he said, “I cannot conform my will unto +thine, yet how willingly would I do it; do thou work this happy change in +me!” He did not possess the same courage as Oroboni, but followed his +example in forgiving all his enemies. + +At the close of the year (1826) we one evening heard a suppressed noise +in the gallery, as if persons were stealing along. Our hearing had +become amazingly acute in distinguishing different kinds of noises. A +door was opened; and we knew it to be that of the advocate Solera. +Another! it was that of Fortini! There followed a whispering, but we +could tell the voice of the police director, suppressed as it was. What +could it be? a search at so late an hour! and for what reason? + +In a brief space, we heard steps again in the gallery; and ah! more +plainly we recognised the voice of our excellent Fortini: “Unfortunate as +I am! excuse it? go out! I have forgotten a volume of my breviary!” And +we then heard him run back to fetch the book mentioned, and rejoin the +police. The door of the staircase opened, and we heard them go down. In +the midst of our alarm we learnt that our two good friends had just +received a pardon; and although we regretted we could not follow them, we +rejoiced in their unexpected good fortune. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXXVI. + + +THE liberation of our two companions brought no alteration in the +discipline observed towards us. Why, we asked ourselves, were they set +at liberty, condemned as they had been, like us, the one to twenty, the +other to fifteen years’ imprisonment, while no sort of favour was shown +to the rest? + +Were the suspicions against those who were still consigned to captivity +more strong, or did the disposition to pardon the whole, at brief +intervals of time, and two together, really exist? We continued in +suspense for some time. Upwards of three months elapsed, and we heard of +no fresh instances of pardon. Towards the end of 1827, we considered +that December might be fixed on as the anniversary of some new +liberations; but the month expired, and nothing of the kind occurred. + +Still we indulged the expectation until the summer of 1828, when I had +gone through seven years and a half of my punishment—equivalent, +according to the Emperor’s declaration, to the fifteen, if the infliction +of it were to be dated from the term of my arrest. If, on the other +hand, it were to be calculated, not from the period of my trial, as was +most probable, but from that of the publication of my sentence, the seven +years and a half would only be completed in 1829. + +Yet all these periods passed over, and there was no appearance of a +remittance of punishment. Meantime, even before the liberation of Solera +and Fortini, Maroncelli was ill with a bad tumour upon his knee. At +first the pain was not great, and he only limped as he walked. It then +grew very irksome to him to bear his irons, and he rarely went out to +walk. One autumnal morning he was desirous of breathing the fresh air; +there was a fall of snow, and unfortunately in walking his leg failed +him, and he came to the ground. This accident was followed by acute pain +in his knee. He was carried to his bed; for he was no longer able to +remain in an upright position. When the physician came, he ordered his +irons to be taken off; but the swelling increased to an enormous size, +and became more painful every day. Such at length were the sufferings of +my unhappy friend, that he could obtain no rest either in bed or out of +it. When compelled to move about, to rise or to lie down, it was +necessary to take hold of the bad leg and carry it as he went with the +utmost care; and the most trifling motion brought on the most severe +pangs. Leaches, baths, caustics, and fomentations of different kinds, +were all found ineffectual, and seemed only to aggravate his torments. +After the use of caustics, suppuration followed; the tumour broke out +into wounds, but even these failed to bring relief to the suffering +patient. + +Maroncelli was thus far more unfortunate than myself, although my +sympathy for him caused me real pain and suffering, I was glad, however, +to be near him, to attend to all his wants, and to perform all the duties +of a brother and a friend. It soon became evident that his leg would +never heal: he considered his death as near at hand, and yet he lost +nothing of his admirable calmness or his courage. The sight of his +sufferings at last was almost more than I could bear. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXXVII. + + +STILL, in this deplorable condition, he continued to compose verses, he +sang, and he conversed; and all this he did to encourage me, by +disguising from me a part of what he suffered. He lost his powers of +digestion, he could not sleep, was reduced to a skeleton, and very +frequently swooned away. Yet the moment he was restored he rallied his +spirits, and, smiling, bade me be not afraid. It is indescribable what +he suffered during many months. At length a consultation was to be held; +the head physician was called in, approved of all his colleague had done, +and, without expressing a decisive opinion, took his leave. A few +minutes after, the superintendent entered, and addressing Maroncelli, + +“The head physician did not venture to express his real opinion in your +presence; he feared you would not have fortitude to bear so terrible an +announcement. I have assured him, however, that you are possessed of +courage.” + +“I hope,” replied Maroncelli, “that I have given some proof of it in +bearing this dreadful torture without howling out. Is there anything he +would propose?” + +“Yes, sir, the amputation of the limb: only perceiving how much your +constitution is broken down, he hesitates to advise you. Weak as you +are, could you support the operation? will you run the risk—” + +“Of dying? and shall I not equally die if I go on, without ending this +diabolical torture?” + +“We will send off an account, then, direct to Vienna, soliciting +permission, and the moment it comes you shall have your leg cut off.” + +“What! does it require a _permit_ for this?” + +“Assuredly, sir,” was the reply. + +In about a week a courier arrived from Vienna with the expected news. + +My sick friend was carried from his dungeon into a larger room, for +permission to have his leg cut off had just arrived. He begged me to +follow him: “I may die under the knife, and I should wish, in that case, +to expire in your arms.” I promised, and was permitted to accompany him. +The sacrament was first administered to the unhappy prisoner, and we then +quietly awaited the arrival of the surgeons. Maroncelli filled up the +interval by singing a hymn. At length they came; one was an able +surgeon, to superintend the operation, from Vienna; but it was the +privilege of our ordinary prison apothecary, and he would not yield to +the man of science, who must be contented to look on. The patient was +placed on the side of a couch; with his leg down, while I supported him +in my arms. It was to be cut above the knee; first, an incision was +made, the depth of an inch—then through the muscles—and the blood flowed +in torrents: the arteries were next taken up with ligatures, one by one. +Next came the saw. This lasted some time, but Maroncelli never uttered a +cry. When he saw them carrying his leg away, he cast on it one +melancholy look, then turning towards the surgeon, he said, “You have +freed me from an enemy, and I have no money to give you.” He saw a rose, +in a glass, placed in a window: “May I beg of you to bring me hither that +flower?” I brought it to him; and he then offered it to the surgeon with +an indescribable air of good-nature: “See, I have nothing else to give +you in token of my gratitude.” He took it as it was meant, and even +wiped away a tear. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXXVIII. + + +THE surgeons had supposed that the hospital of Spielberg would provide +all that was requisite except the instruments, which they brought with +them. But after the amputation, it was found that a number of things +were wanting; such as linen, ice, bandages, &c. My poor friend was thus +compelled to wait two hours before these articles were brought from the +city. At length he was laid upon his bed, and the ice applied to the +trunk of the bleeding thigh. Next day it was dressed; but the patient +was allowed to take no nourishment beyond a little broth, with an egg. +When the risk of fever was over, he was permitted the use of +restoratives; and an order from the Emperor directed that he should be +supplied from the table of the superintendent till he was better. + +The cure was completed in about forty days, after which we were conducted +into our dungeon. This had been enlarged for us; that is, an opening was +made in the wall so as to unite our old den to that once occupied by +Oroboni, and subsequently by Villa. I placed my bed exactly in the same +spot where Oroboni had died, and derived a mournful pleasure from thus +approaching my friend, as it were, as nearly as possible. It appeared as +if his spirit still hovered round me, and consoled me with manifestations +of more than earthly love. + +The horrible sight of Maroncelli’s sufferings, both before and +subsequently to the amputation of his leg, had done much to strengthen my +mind. During the whole period, my health had enabled me to attend upon +him, and I was grateful to God; but from the moment my friend assumed his +crutches, and could supply his own wants, I began daily to decline. I +suffered extremely from glandular swellings, and those were followed by +pains of the chest, more oppressive than I had before experienced, +attended with dizziness and spasmodic dysentery. “It is my turn now,” +thought I; “shall I show less patience than my companion?” + +Every condition of life has its duties; and those of the sick consist of +patience, courage, and continual efforts to appear not unamiable to the +persons who surround them. Maroncelli, on his crutches, no longer +possessed the same activity, and was fearful of not doing everything for +me of which I stood in need. It was in fact the case, but I did all to +prevent his being made sensible of it. Even when he had recovered his +strength he laboured under many inconveniences. He complained, like most +others after a similar operation, of acute pains in the nerves, and +imagined that the part removed was still with him. Sometimes it was the +toe, sometimes the leg, and at others the knee of the amputated limb +which caused him to cry out. The bone, moreover, had been badly sawed, +and pushed through the newly-formed flesh, producing frequent wounds. It +required more than a year to bring the stump to a good state, when at +length it hardened and broke out no more. + + + + +CHAPTER LXXXIX. + + +NEW evils, however, soon assailed my unhappy friend. One of the +arteries, beginning at the joints of the hand, began to pain him, +extending to other parts of his body; and then turned into a scorbutic +sore. His whole person became covered with livid spots, presenting a +frightful spectacle. I tried to reconcile myself to it, by considering +that since it appeared we were to die here, it was better that one of us +should be seized with the scurvy; it is a contagious disease, and must +carry us off either together, or at a short interval from each other. We +both prepared ourselves for death, and were perfectly tranquil. Nine +years’ imprisonment, and the grievous sufferings we had undergone, had at +length familiarised us to the idea of the dissolution of two bodies so +totally broken and in need of peace. It was time the scene should close, +and we confided in the goodness of God, that we should be reunited in a +place where the passions of men should cease, and where, we prayed, in +spirit and in truth, that those who DID NOT LOVE US might meet us in +peace, in a kingdom where only one Master, the supreme King of kings, +reigned for evermore. + +This malignant distemper had destroyed numbers of prisoners during the +preceding years. The governor, upon learning that Maroncelli had been +attacked by it, agreed with the physician, that the sole hope of remedy +was in the fresh air. They were afraid of its spreading; and Maroncelli +was ordered to be as little as possible within his dungeon. Being his +companion, and also unwell, I was permitted the same privilege. We were +permitted to be in the open air the whole time the other prisoners were +absent from the walk, during two hours early in the morning, during the +dinner, if we preferred it, and three hours in the evening, even after +sunset. + +There was one other unhappy patient, about seventy years of age, and in +extremely bad health, who was permitted to bear us company. His name was +Constantino Munari; he was of an amiable disposition, greatly attached to +literature and philosophy, and agreeable in conversation. + +Calculating my imprisonment, not from my arrest, but from the period of +receiving my sentence, I had been seven years and a half (in the year +1829), according to the imperial decree, in different dungeons; and about +nine from the day of my arrest. But this term, like the other, passed +over, and there was no sign of remitting my punishment. + +Up to the half of the whole term, my friend Maroncelli, Munari, and I had +indulged the idea of a possibility of seeing once more our native land +and our relations; and we frequently conversed with the warmest hopes and +feelings upon the subject. August, September, and the whole of that year +elapsed, and then we began to despair; nothing remained to relieve our +destiny but our unaltered attachment for each other, and the support of +religion, to enable us to close our latter prison hours with becoming +dignity and resignation. It was then we felt the full value of +friendship and religion, which threw a charm even over the darkness of +our lot. Human hopes and promises had failed us; but God never forsakes +the mourners and the captives who truly love and fear Him. + + + + +CHAPTER XC. + + +AFTER the death of Villa, the Abate Wrba was appointed our confessor, on +occasion of the Abate Paulowich receiving a bishopric. He was a +Moravian, professor of the gospel at Brünn, and an able pupil of the +Sublime Institute of Vienna. This was founded by the celebrated Frinl, +then chaplain to the court. The members of the congregation are all +priests, who, though already masters of theology, prosecute their studies +under the Institution with the severest discipline. The views of the +founder were admirable, being directed to the continual and general +dissemination of true and profound science, among the Catholic clergy of +Germany. His plans were for the most part successful, and are yet in +extensive operation. + +Being resident at Brünn, Wrba could devote more of his time to our +society than Paulowich. He was a second father Battista, with the +exception that he was not permitted to lend us any books. We held long +discussions, from which I reaped great advantage, and real consolation. +He was taken ill in 1829, and being subsequently called to other duties, +he was unable to visit us more. We were much hurt, but we obtained as +his successor the Abate Ziak, another learned and worthy divine. Indeed, +among the whole German ecclesiastics we met with, not one showed the +least disposition to pry into our political sentiments; not one but was +worthy of the holy task he had undertaken, and imbued at once with the +most edifying faith and enlarged wisdom. + +They were all highly respectable, and inspired us with respect for the +general Catholic clergy. + +The Abate Ziak, both by precept and example, taught me to support my +sufferings with calmness and resignation. He was afflicted with +continual defluxions in his teeth, his throat, and his ears, and was, +nevertheless, always calm and cheerful. + +Maroncelli derived great benefit from exercise and open air; the +eruptions, by degrees, disappeared; and both Munari and myself +experienced equal advantage. + + + + +CHAPTER XCI. + + +IT was the first of August, 1830. Ten years had elapsed since I was +deprived of my liberty: for eight years and a half I had been subjected +to hard imprisonment. It was Sunday, and, as on other holidays, we went +to our accustomed station, whence we had a view from the wall of the +valley and the cemetery below, where Oroboni and Villa now reposed. We +conversed upon the subject, and the probability of our soon sharing their +untroubled sleep. We had seated ourselves upon our accustomed bench, and +watched the unhappy prisoners as they came forth and passed to hear mass, +which was performed before our own. They were women, and were conducted +into the same little chapel to which we resorted at the second mass. + +It is customary with the Germans to sing hymns aloud during the +celebration of mass. As the Austrian empire is composed partly of +Germans and partly of Sclavonians, and the greater part of the prisoners +at Spielberg consist of one or other of these people, the hymns are +alternately sung in the German and the Sclavonian languages. Every +festival, two sermons are preached, and the same division observed. It +was truly delightful to us to hear the singing of the hymns, and the +music of the organ which accompanied it. The voices of some of these +women touched us to the heart. Unhappy ones! some of them were very +young; whom love, or jealousy, or bad example, had betrayed into crime. +I often think I can still hear their fervidly devotional hymn of the +sanctus—_Heilig_! _heilig_! _heilig_!—Holy of holies; and the tears would +start into my eyes. At ten o’clock the women used to withdraw, and we +entered to hear mass. There I saw those of my companions in misfortune, +who listened to the service from the tribune of the organ, and from whom +we were separated only by a single grate, whose pale features and +emaciated bodies, scarcely capable of dragging their irons, bore witness +to their woes. + +After mass we were conveyed back to our dungeons. About a quarter of an +hour afterwards we partook of dinner. We were preparing our table, which +consisted in putting a thin board upon a wooden target, and taking up our +wooden spoons, when Signor Wagrath, the superintendent, entered our +prison. “I am sorry to disturb you at dinner; but have the goodness to +follow me; the Director of Police is waiting for us.” As he was +accustomed to come near us only for purposes of examination and search, +we accompanied the superintendent to the audience room in no very good +humour. There we found the Director of Police and the superintendent, +the first of whom moved to us with rather more politeness than usual. He +took out a letter, and stated in a hesitating, slow tone of voice, as if +afraid of surprising us too greatly: “Gentlemen, . . . I have . . . the +pleasure . . . the honour, I mean . . . of . . . of acquainting you that +his Majesty the Emperor has granted you a further favour.” Still he +hesitated to inform us what this favour was; and we conjectured it must +be some slight alleviation, some exemption from irksome labour,—to have a +book, or, perhaps, less disagreeable diet. “Don’t you understand?” he +inquired. “No, sir!” was our reply; “have the goodness, if permitted, to +explain yourself more fully.” + +“Then hear it! it is liberty for your two selves, and a third, who will +shortly bear you company.” + +One would imagine that such an announcement would have thrown us into +ecstasies of joy. We were so soon to see our parents, of whom we had not +heard for so long a period; but the doubt that they were no longer in +existence, was sufficient not only to moderate—it did not permit us to +hail, the joys of liberty as we should have done. + +“Are you dumb?” asked the director; “I thought to see you exulting at the +news.” + +“May I beg you,” replied I, “to make known to the Emperor our sentiments +of gratitude; but if we are not favoured with some account of our +families, it is impossible not to indulge in the greatest fear and +anxiety. It is this consciousness which destroys the zest of all our +joy.” + +He then gave Maroncelli a letter from his brother, which greatly consoled +him. But he told me there was no account of my family, which made me the +more fear that some calamity had befallen them. + +“Now, retire to your apartments, and I will send you a third companion, +who has received pardon.” + +We went, and awaited his arrival anxiously; wishing that all had alike +been admitted to the same act of grace, instead of that single one. Was +it poor old Munari? was it such, or such a one? Thus we went on guessing +at every one we knew; when suddenly the door opened, and Signor Andrea +Torrelli, of Brescia, made his appearance. We embraced him; and we could +eat no more dinner that day. We conversed till towards evening, chiefly +regretting the lot of the unhappy friends whom we were leaving behind us. + +After sunset, the Director of Police returned to escort us from our +wretched prison house. Our hearts, however, bled within us, as we were +passing by the dungeons of so many of our countrymen whom we loved, and +yet, alas, not to have them to share our liberty! Heaven knows how long +they would be left to linger here! to become the gradual, but certain, +prey of death. + +We were each of us enveloped in a military great-coat, with a cap; and +then, dressed as we were in our jail costume, but freed from our chains, +we descended the funereal mount, and were conducted through the city into +the police prisons. + +It was a beautiful moonlight night. The roads, the houses, the people +whom we met—every object appeared so strange, and yet so delightful, +after the many years during which I had been debarred from beholding any +similar spectacle! + + + + +CHAPTER XCII. + + +WE remained at the police prisons, awaiting the arrival of the imperial +commissioner from Vienna, who was to accompany us to the confines of +Italy. Meantime, we were engaged in providing ourselves with linen and +trunks, our own having all been sold, and defraying our prison expenses. + +Five days afterwards, the commissary was announced, and the director +consigned us over to him, delivering, at the same time, the money which +we had brought with us to Spielberg, and the amount derived from the sale +of our trunks and books, both which were restored to us on reaching our +destination. + +The expense of our journey was defrayed by the Emperor, and in a liberal +manner. The commissary was Herr Von Noe, a gentleman employed in the +office of the minister of police. The charge could not have been +intrusted to a person every way more competent, as well from education as +from habit; and he treated us with the greatest respect. + +I left Brünn, labouring under extreme difficulty of breathing; and the +motion of the carriage increased it to such a degree, that it was +expected I should hardly survive during the evening. I was in a high +fever the whole of the night; and the commissary was doubtful whether I +should be able to continue my journey even as far as Vienna. I begged to +go on; and we did so, but my sufferings were excessive. I could neither +eat, drink, nor sleep. + +I reached Vienna more dead than alive. We were well accommodated at the +general directory of police. I was placed in bed, a physician called in, +and after being bled, I found myself sensibly relieved. By means of +strict diet, and the use of digitalis, I recovered in about eight days. +My physician’s name was Singer; and he devoted the most friendly +attentions to me. + +I had become extremely anxious to set out; the more so from an account of +the _three days_ having arrived from Paris. The Emperor had fixed the +day of our liberation exactly on that when the revolution burst forth; +and surely he would not now revoke it. Yet the thing was not improbable; +a critical period appeared to be at hand, popular commotions were +apprehended in Italy, and though we could not imagine we should be +remanded to Spielberg, should we be permitted to return to our native +country? + +I affected to be stronger than I really was, and entreated we might be +allowed to resume our journey. It was my wish, meantime, to be presented +to his Excellency the Count Pralormo, envoy from Turin to the Austrian +Court, to whom I was aware how much I had been indebted. He had left no +means untried to procure my liberation; but the rule that we were to hold +no communication with any one admitted of no exception. When +sufficiently convalescent, a carriage was politely ordered for me, in +which I might take an airing in the city; but accompanied by the +commissary, and no other company. We went to see the noble church of St. +Stephen, the delightful walks in the environs, the neighbouring Villa +Lichtenstein, and lastly the imperial residence of Schoenbrunn. + +While proceeding through the magnificent walks in the gardens, the +Emperor approached, and the commissary hastily made us retire, lest the +sight of our emaciated persons should give him pain. + + + + +CHAPTER XCIII. + + +WE at length took our departure from Vienna, and I was enabled to reach +Bruck. There my asthma returned with redoubled violence. A physician +was called—Herr Jüdmann, a man of pleasing manners. He bled me, ordered +me to keep my bed, and to continue the digitalis. At the end of two days +I renewed my solicitations to continue our journey. + +We proceeded through Austria and Stiria, and entered Carinthia without +any accident; but on our arrival at the village of Feldkirchen, a little +way from Klagenfurt, we were overtaken by a counter order from Vienna. +We were to stop till we received farther directions. I leave the reader +to imagine what our feelings must have been on this occasion. I had, +moreover, the pain to reflect, that it would be owing to my illness if my +two friends should now be prevented from reaching their native land. We +remained five days at Feldkirchen, where the commissary did all in his +power to keep up our spirits. He took us to the theatre to see a comedy, +and permitted us one day to enjoy the chase. Our host and several young +men of the country, along with the proprietor of a fine forest, were the +hunters, and we were brought into a station favourable for commanding a +view of the sports. + +At length there arrived a courier from Vienna, with a fresh order for the +commissary to resume his journey with us to the place first appointed. +We congratulated each other, but my anxiety was still great, as I +approached the hour when my hopes or fears respecting my family would be +verified. How many of my relatives and friends might have disappeared +during my ten years’ absence! + +The entrance into Italy on that side is not pleasing to the eye; you +descend from the noble mountains of Germany into the Italian plains, +through a long and sterile district, insomuch that travellers who have +formed a magnificent idea of our country, begin to laugh, and imagine +they have been purposely deluded with previous accounts of _La Bella +Italia_. + +The dismal view of that rude district served to make me more sorrowful. +To see my native sky, to meet human features no more belonging to the +north, to hear my native tongue from every lip affected me exceedingly; +and I felt more inclined to tears than to exultation. I threw myself +back in the carriage, pretending to sleep; but covered my face and wept. +That night I scarcely closed my eyes; my fever was high, my whole soul +seemed absorbed in offering up vows for my sweet Italy, and grateful +prayers to Providence for having restored to her her captive son. Then I +thought of my speedy separation from a companion with whom I had so long +suffered, and who had given me so many proofs of more than fraternal +affection, and I tortured my imagination with the idea of a thousand +disasters which might have befallen my family. Not even so many years of +captivity had deadened the energy and susceptibility of my feelings! but +it was a susceptibility only to pain and sorrow. + +I felt, too, on my return, a strange desire to visit Udine, and the +lodging-house, where our two generous friends had assumed the character +of waiters, and secretly stretched out to us the hand of friendship. But +we passed that town to our left, and passed on our way. + + + + +CHAPTER XCIV. + + +PORDENONE, Conegliano, Ospedaletto, Vicenza, Verona, and Mantua, were all +places which interested my feelings. In the first resided one of my +friends, an excellent young man, who had survived the campaigns of +Russia; Conegliano was the district whither, I was told by the +under-jailers, poor Angiola had been conducted; and in Ospedaletto there +had married and resided a young lady, who had more of the angel than the +woman, and who, though now no more, I had every reason to remember with +the highest respect. The whole of these places, in short, revived +recollections more or less dear; and Mantua more than any other city. It +appeared only yesterday that I had come with Lodovico in 1815, and paid +another visit with Count Porro in 1820. The same roads, the same +squares, the same palaces, and yet such a change in all social relations! +So many of my connections snatched away for ever—so many exiled—one +generation, I had beheld when infants, started up into manhood. Yet how +painful not to be allowed to call at a single house, or to accost a +single person we met. + +To complete my misery, Mantua was the point of separation between +Maroncelli and myself. We passed the night there, both filled with +forebodings and regret. I felt agitated like a man on the eve of +receiving his sentence. + +The next morning I rose, and washed my face, in order to conceal from my +friend how much I had given way to grief during the preceding night. I +looked at myself in the glass, and tried to assume a quiet and even +cheerful air. I then bent down in prayer, though ill able to command my +thoughts; and hearing Maroncelli already upon his crutches, and speaking +to the servant, I hastened to embrace him. We had both prepared +ourselves, with previous exertions, for this closing interview, and we +spoke to each other firmly, as well as affectionately. The officer +appointed to conduct us to the borders of Romagna appeared; it was time +to set out; we hardly knew how to speak another word; we grasped each +other’s hands again and again,—we parted; he mounted into his vehicle, +and I felt as if I had been annihilated at a blow. I returned into my +chamber, threw myself upon my knees, and prayed for my poor mutilated +friend, thus separated from me, with sighs and tears. + +I had known several celebrated men, but not one more affectionately +sociable than Maroncelli; not one better educated in all respects, more +free from sudden passion or ill-humour, more deeply sensible that virtue +consists in continued exercises of tolerance, of generosity, and good +sense. Heaven bless you, my dear companion in so many afflictions, and +send you new friends who may equal me in my affection for you, and +surpass me in true goodness. + + + + +CHAPTER XCV. + + +I SET out the same evening for Brescia. There I took leave of my other +fellow-prisoner, Andrea Torrelli. The unhappy man had just heard that he +had lost his mother, and the bitterness of his grief wrung my heart; yet, +agonised as were my feelings from so many different causes, I could not +help laughing at the following incident. + +Upon the table of our lodging-house I found the following theatrical +announcement:—_Francesca da Rimini_; _Opera da Musica_, &c. “Whose work +is this?” I inquired of the waiter. + +“Who versified it, and composed the music, I cannot tell, but it is the +_Francesca da Rimini_ which everybody knows.” + +“Everybody! you must be wrong there. I come from Germany, yet what do I +know of your Francescas?” The waiter was a young man with rather a +satirical cast of face, quite _Brescian_; and he looked at me with a +contemptuous sort of pity. “What should you know, indeed, of our +Francescas? why, no, sir, it is only _one_ we speak of—_Francesca des +Rimini_, to be sure, sir; I mean the tragedy of Signor Silvio Pellico. +They have here turned it into an opera, spoiling it a little, no doubt, +but still it is always Pellico.” + +“Ah, Silvio Pellico! I think I have heard his name. Is it not that same +evil-minded conspirator who was condemned to death, and his sentence was +changed to hard imprisonment, some eight or ten years ago?” + +I should never have hazarded such a jest. He looked round him, fixed his +eyes on me, showed a fine set of teeth, with no amiable intention; and I +believe he would have knocked me down, had he not heard a noise close by +us. + +He went away muttering: “Ill-minded conspirator, indeed!” But before I +left, he had found me out. He was half out of his wits; he could neither +question, nor answer, nor write, nor walk, nor wait. He had his eyes +continually upon me, he rubbed his hands, and addressing himself to every +one near him; “_Sior si_, _Sior si_; Yes, sir! Yes, sir!” he kept +stammering out, “coming! coming!” + +Two days afterwards, on the 9th of September, I arrived with the +commissary at Milan. On approaching the city, on seeing the cupola of +the cathedral, in repassing the walk by Loretto, so well known, and so +dear, on recognising the corso, the buildings, churches, and public +places of every kind, what were my mingled feelings of pleasure and +regret! I felt an intense desire to stop, and embrace once more my +beloved friends. I reflected with bitter grief on those, whom, instead +of meeting here, I had left in the horrible abode of Spielberg,—on those +who were wandering in strange lands,—on those who were no more. I +thought, too, with gratitude upon the affection shown me by the people; +their indignation against all those who had calumniated me, while they +had uniformly been the objects of my benevolence and esteem. + +We went to take up our quarters at the _Bella Venezia_. It was here I +had so often been present at our social meetings; here I had called upon +so many distinguished foreigners; here a respectable, elderly _Signora_ +invited me in vain to follow her into Tuscany, foreseeing, she said, the +misfortunes that would befall me if I remained at Milan. What affecting +recollections! How rapidly past times came thronging over my memory, +fraught with joy and grief! + +The waiters at the hotel soon discovered who I was. The report spread, +and towards evening a number of persons stopped in the square, and looked +up at the windows. One, whose name I did not know, appeared to recognise +me, and raising both his arms, made a sign of embracing me, as a welcome +back to Italy. + +And where were the sons of Porro; I may say my own sons? Why did I not +see them there? + + + + +CHAPTER XCVI. + + +THE commissary conducted me to the police, in order to present me to the +director. What were my sensations upon recognising the house! it was my +first prison. It was then I thought with pain of Melchiorre Gioja, on +the rapid steps with which I had seen him pacing within those narrow +walls, or sitting at his little table, recording his noble thoughts, or +making signals to me; and his last look of sorrow, when forbidden longer +to communicate with me. I pictured to myself his solitary grave, unknown +to all who had so ardently loved him, and, while invoking peace to his +gentle spirit, I wept. + +Here, too, I called to mind the little dumb boy, the pathetic tones of +Maddalene, my strange emotions of compassion for her, my neighbours the +robbers, the assumed Louis XVII., and the poor prisoner who had carried +the fatal letter, and whose cries under the infliction of the bastinado, +had reached me. + +These and other recollections appeared with all the vividness of some +horrible dream; but most of all, I felt those two visits which my father +had made me ten years before, when I last saw him. How the good old man +had deceived himself in the expectation that I should so soon rejoin him +at Turin! Could he then have borne the idea of a son’s ten years’ +captivity, and in such a prison? But when these flattering hopes +vanished, did he, and did my mother bear up against so unexpected a +calamity? was I ever to see them again in this world? Had one, or which +of them, died during the cruel interval that ensued? + +Such was the suspense, the distracting doubt which yet clung to me. I +was about to knock at the door of my home without knowing if they were in +existence, or what other members of my beloved family were left me. + +The director of police received me in a friendly manner. He permitted me +to stay at the _Bella Venezia_ with the imperial commissary, though I was +not permitted to communicate with any one, and for this reason I +determined to resume my journey the following morning. I obtained an +interview, however, with the Piedmontese consul, to learn if possible +some account of my relatives. I should have waited on him, but being +attacked with fever, and compelled to keep my bed, I sent to beg the +favour of his visiting me. He had the kindness to come immediately, and +I felt truly grateful to him. + +He gave me a favourable account of my father, and of my eldest brother. +Respecting my mother, however, my other brother, and my two sisters, I +could learn nothing. + +Thus in part comforted, I could have wished to prolong the conversation +with the consul, and he would willingly have gratified me had not his +duties called him away. After he left me, I was extremely affected, but, +as had so often happened, no tears came to give me relief. The habit of +long, internal grief, seemed yet to prey upon my heart; to weep would +have alleviated the fever which consumed me, and distracted my head with +pain. + +I called to Stundberger for something to drink. That good man was a +sergeant of police at Vienna, though now filling the office of +_valet-de-chambre_ to the commissary. But though not old, I perceived +that his hand trembled in giving me the drink. This circumstance +reminded me of Schiller, my beloved Schiller, when, on the day of my +arrival at Spielberg, I ordered him, in an imperious tone, to hand me the +jug of water, and he obeyed me. + +How strange it was! The recollection of this, added to other feelings of +the kind, struck, as it were, the rock of my heart, and tears began to +flow. + + + + +CHAPTER XCVII. + + +THE morning of the 10th of September, I took leave of the excellent +commissary, and set out. We had only been acquainted with each other for +about a month, and yet he was as friendly as if he had known me for +years. His noble and upright mind was above all artifice, or desire of +penetrating the opinions of others, not from any want of intelligence, +but a love of that dignified simplicity which animates all honest men. + +It sometimes happened during our journey that I was accosted by some one +or other when unobserved, in places where we stopped. “Take care of that +_angel keeper_ of yours; if he did not belong to those _neri_ (blacks), +they would not have put him over you.” + +“There you are deceived,” said I; “I have the greatest reason to believe +that you are deceived.” + +“The most cunning,” was the reply, “can always contrive to appear the +most simple.” + +“If it were so, we ought never to give credit to the least goodness in +any one.” + +“Yes, there are certain social stations,” he replied, “in which men’s +manners may appear to great advantage by means of education; but as to +virtue, they have none of it.” + +I could only answer, “You exaggerate, sir, you exaggerate.” + +“I am only consistent,” he insisted. We were here interrupted, and I +called to mind the _cave a censequentariis_ of Leibnitz. + +Too many are inclined to adopt this false and terrible doctrine. I +follow the standard A, that is JUSTICE. Another follows standard B; it +must therefore be that of INJUSTICE, and, consequently, he must be a +villain! + +Give _me_ none of your logical madness; whatever standard you adopt, do +not reason so inhumanly. Consider, that by assuming what data you +please, and proceeding with the most violent stretch of rigour from one +consequence to another, it is easy for any one to come to the conclusion +that, “Beyond we four, all the rest of the world deserve to be burnt +alive.” And if we are at the pains of investigating a little further, we +shall find each of the four crying out, “All deserve to be burnt alive +together, with the exception of I myself.” + +This vulgar tenet of exclusiveness is in the highest degree +unphilosophical. A moderate degree of suspicion is wise, but when urged +to the extreme, it is the opposite. + +After the hint thus thrown out to me respecting that _angelo custode_, I +turned to study him with greater attention than I had before done; and +each day served to convince me more and more of his friendly and generous +nature. + +When an order of society, more or less perfect, has been established, +whether for better or worse, all the social offices, not pronounced by +general consent to be infamous, all that are adapted to promote the +public good, and the confidence of a respectable number, and which are +filled by men acknowledged to be of upright mind, such offices may +undeniably be undertaken by honest men without incurring any charge of +unconscientiousness. + +I have read of a Quaker who had a great horror of soldiers. He one day +saw a soldier throw himself into the Thames, and save the life of a +fellow-being who was drowning. “I don’t care,” he exclaimed, “I will +still be a Quaker, but there are some good fellows, even among soldiers.” + + + + +CHAPTER XCVIII. + + +STUNDBERGER accompanied me to my vehicle, into which I got with the +brigadier of _gens d’armes_, to whose care I was entrusted. It was +snowing, and the cold was excessive. + +“Wrap yourself well up in your cloak,” said Stundberger; “cover your head +better, and contrive to reach home as little unwell as you can; remember, +that a very little thing will give you cold just now. I wish it had been +in my power to go on and attend you as far as Turin.” He said this in a +tone of voice so truly cordial and affectionate that I could not doubt +its sincerity. + +“From this time you will have no German near you,” he added; “you will no +longer hear our language spoken, and little, I dare say, will you care +for that; the Italians find it very harsh. Besides, you have suffered so +greatly among us, that most probably you will not like to remember us; +yet, though you will so soon forget my very name, I shall not cease, sir, +to offer up prayers for your safety.” + +“I shall do the same for you,” I replied; as I shook his hand for the +last time. + +“Guten morgen! guten morgen! gute raise! leben sie wohl!”—farewell; a +pleasant journey! good morning he continued to repeat; and the sounds +were to me as sweat as if they had been pronounced in my native tongue. + +I am passionately attached to my country, but I do not dislike any other +nation. Civilisation, wealth, power, glory, are differently apportioned +among different people; but in all there are minds obedient to the great +vocation of man,—to love, to pity, and to assist each other. + +The brigadier who attended me, informed me that he was one of those who +arrested Confalonieri. He told me how the unhappy man had tried to make +his escape; how he had been baffled, and how he had been torn from the +arms of his distracted wife, while they both at the same time submitted +to the calamity with dignity and resignation. + +The horrible narrative increased my fear; a hand of iron seemed to be +weighing upon my heart. The good man, in his desire of showing his +sociality, and entertaining me with his remarks, was not aware of the +horror he excited in me when I cast my eye on those hands which had +seized the person of my unfortunate friend. + +He ordered luncheon at Buffalora, but I was unable to taste anything. +Many years back, when I was spending my time at Arluno, with the sons of +Count Porro, I was accustomed to walk thither (to Buffalora), along the +banks of the Ticino. I was rejoiced to see the noble bridge, the +materials of which I had beheld scattered along the Lombard shore, now +finished, notwithstanding the general opinion that the design would be +abandoned. I rejoiced to traverse the river and set my foot once more on +Piedmontese ground. With all my attachment to other nations, how much I +prefer Italy! yet Heaven knows that however much more delightful to me is +the sound of the _Italian name_, still sweeter must be that of Piedmont, +the land of my fathers. + + + + +CHAPTER XCIX. + + +OPPOSITE to Buffalora lies San Martino. Here the Lombard brigadier spoke +of the Piedmontese carabineers, saluted me, and repassed the bridge. + +“Let us go to Novara!” I said to the Vetturino. + +“Have the goodness to stay a moment,” said a carabineer. I found I was +not yet free; and was much vexed, being apprehensive it would retard my +arrival at the long-desired home. After waiting about a quarter of an +hour, a gentleman came forward and requested to be allowed to accompany +us as far as Novara. He had already missed one opportunity; there was no +other conveyance than mine; and he expressed himself exceedingly happy +that I permitted him to avail himself of it. + +This carabineer in disguise was very good-humoured, and kept me company +as far as Novara. Having reached that city, and feigning we were going +to an hotel, he stopt at the barracks of the carabineers, and I was told +there was a bed for me, and that I must wait the arrival of further +orders. Concluding that I was to set off the next day, I went to bed, +and after chatting some time with my host, I fell fast asleep; and it was +long since I had slept so profoundly. + +I awoke towards morning, rose as quickly as possible, and found the hours +hang heavy on my hands. I took my breakfast, chatted, walked about the +apartment and over the lodge, cast my eye over the host’s books, and +finally,—a visitor was announced. An officer had come to give me tidings +respecting my father, and inform me that there was a letter from him, +lying for me at Novara. I was exceedingly grateful to him for this act +of humane courtesy. After a few hours, which to me appeared ages, I +received my father’s letter. Oh what joy to behold that hand-writing +once more! what joy to learn that the best of mothers was spared to me! +that my two brothers were alive, and also my eldest sister. Alas! my +young and gentle Marietta, who had immured herself in the convent of the +Visitazione, and of whom I had received so strange an account while a +prisoner, had been dead upwards of nine months. It was a consolation for +me to believe that I owed my liberty to all those who had never ceased to +love and to pray for me, and more especially to a beloved sister who had +died with every expression of the most edifying devotion. May the +Almighty reward her for the many sufferings she underwent, and in +particular for all the anxiety she experienced on my account. + +Days passed on; yet no permission for me to quit Novara! On the morning +of the 16th of September, the desired order at length arrived, and all +superintendence over me by the carabineers ceased. It seemed strange! so +many years had now elapsed since I had been permitted to walk +unaccompanied by guards. I recovered some money; I received the +congratulations of some of my father’s friends, and set out about three +in the afternoon. The companions of my journey were a lady, a merchant, +an engraver, and two young painters; one of whom was both deaf and dumb. +These last were coming from Rome; and I was much pleased by hearing from +them that they were acquainted with the family of my friend Maroncelli, +for how pleasant a thing it is to be enabled to speak of those we love, +with some one not wholly indifferent to them. + +We passed the night at Vercelli. The happy day, the 17th of September, +dawned at last. We pursued our journey; and how slow we appeared to +travel! it was evening before we arrived at Turin. + +Who would attempt to describe the consolation I felt, the nameless +feelings of delight, when I found myself in the embraces of my father, my +mother, and my two brothers? My dear sister Giuseppina was not then with +them; she was fulfilling her duties at Chieri; but on hearing of my +felicity, she hastened to stay for a few days with our family, to make it +complete. Restored to these five long-sighed-for, and beloved objects of +my tenderness,—I was, and I still am, one of the most enviable of +mankind. + +Now, therefore, for all my past misfortunes and sufferings, as well as +for all the good or evil yet reserved for me, may the providence of God +be blessed; of God, who renders all men, and all things, however opposite +the intentions of the actors, the wonderful instruments which He directs +to the greatest and best of purposes. + + + + +FOOTNOTES + + +{1} Piero Maroncelli da Forli, an excellent poet, and most amiable man, +who had also been imprisoned from political motives. The author speaks +of him at considerable length, as the companion of his sufferings, in +various parts of his work. + +{2} A bailiff. + +{3} A sort of scream peculiar to dumb children. + +{4} Melchiorre Gioja, a native of Piacenza, was one of the most profound +writers of our times, principally upon subjects of public economy. Being +suspected of carrying on a secret correspondence, he was arrested in +1820, and imprisoned for a space of nine months. Among the more +celebrated of his works are those entitled, Nuovo prospetto delle Scienze +Economiche, Trattato del Merito e delle Ricompense, Dell’ Ingiuria e dei +Danni, Filosofia della Statistica, Ideologia e Esercizo Logico, Delle +Manifatture, Del Divorzio, Elementi di Filosofia, Nuovo Galateo, Qual +Governo convenga all’ Italia. This able writer died in the month of +January, 1829. + +{5} The Count Luigi Porro was one of the most distinguished men of +Milan, and remarkable for the zeal and liberality with which he promoted +the cultivation of literature and the arts. Having early remarked the +excellent disposition of the youthful Pellico, the Count invited him to +reside in his mansion, and take upon himself the education of his sons, +uniformly considering him, at the same time, more in the light of a +friend than of a dependent. Count Porro himself subsequently fell under +the suspicions of the Austrian Government, and having betaken himself to +flight, was twice condemned to death (as contumacious), the first time +under the charge of _Carbonarism_, and the second time for a pretended +conspiracy. The sons of Count Porro are more than once alluded to by +their friend and tutor, as the author designates himself. + +{6} This excellent tragedy, suggested by the celebrated episode in the +fifth canto of Dante’s _Inferno_, was received by the whole of Italy with +the most marked applause. Such a production at once raised the young +author to a high station in the list of Italy’s living poets. + +{7} The Cavalier Giovanni Bodoni was one of the most distinguished among +modern printers. Becoming admirably skilled in his art, and in the +oriental languages, acquired in the college of the Propaganda at Rome, he +went to the Royal Printing Establishment at Parma, of which he took the +direction in 1813, and in which he continued till the period of his +death. In the list of the numerous works which he thence gave to the +world may be mentioned the _Pater Noster Poligletto_, the _Iliad_ in +Greek, the _Epithalamia Exoticis_, and the _Manuale Tipografico_, works +which will maintain their reputation to far distant times. + +{8} The Count Bolza, of the lake of Como, who has continued for years in +the service of the Austrian Government, showing inexorable zeal in the +capacity of a Commissary of Police. + +{9} The learning of Ugo Foscolo, and the reputation he acquired by his +_Hymn upon the Tombs_, his _Last Letters of Jecopo Ortis_, his +_Treatises_ upon Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio, &c, are well-known in this +country, where he spent a considerable portion of his life, and died in +the year 1827. + +{10} The Cavalier Vincenzo Monti stands at the head of the modern poets +of Italy. His stanzas on the _Death of Uge Basville_ obtained for him +the title of _Dante Redivivo_. His works, both in verse and prose, are +numerous, and generally acknowledged to be noble models in their several +styles. His tragedy of _Aristodemo_, takes the lead among the most +admirable specimens of the Italian drama. He died at Milan in the year +1829. + +{11} Monsignor Lodovico di Breme, son of the Marquis of the same name, a +Piedmontese, an intimate friend of the celebrated Madame de Staël, of +Mons. Sismondi, &c, and a man of elevated sentiments, brilliant spirit, +high cultivation, and accomplishments. + +{12} Don Pietro Borsieri, son of a judge of the Court of Appeal at +Milan, of which, previous to his receiving sentence of death, he was one +of the state secretaries. He is the author of several little works and +literary essays, all written with singular energy and chasteness of +language. + +{13} La Signora Angiola. + +{14} “Venezianina adolescente sbirra?” + +{15} Tremerello, or the little trembler. + +{16} Per capire che le lucciole non erano lanterne. + +“To know that glowworms are not lanterns.” + +{17} Buzzolai, a kind of small loaf. + +{18} Odoardo Briche, a young man of truly animated genius, and the most +amiable disposition. He was the son of Mons. Briche, member of the +Constituent Assembly in France, who for thirty years past, had selected +Milan as his adopted country. + +{19} Respecting Pietro Borsieri, Lodovico di Breme, and Count Porro, +mention has already been made. The Count Federico Confalonieri, of an +illustrious family of Milan, a man of immense intellect, and the firmest +courage, was also the most zealous promoter of popular institutions in +Lombardy. The Austrian Government, becoming aware of the aversion +entertained by the Count for the foreign yoke which pressed so heavily +upon his country, had him seized and handed over to the special +commissions, which sat in the years 1822 and 1823. By these he was +condemned to the severest of all punishments—imprisonment for life, in +the fortress of Spielberg, where, during six months of each weary year, +he is compelled by the excess of his sufferings to lie stretched upon a +wretched pallet, more dead than alive. + +{20} The Count Camillo Laderchi, a member of one of the most +distinguished families of Faenza, and formerly prefect in the ex-kingdom +of Italy. + +{21} Gian Domenico Romagnosi, a native of Piacenza, was for some years +Professor of Criminal Law, in the University of Pavia. He is the author +of several philosophical works, but more especially of the _Genesi del +Diritto Penale_, which spread his reputation both throughout and beyond +Italy. Though at an advanced age, he was repeatedly imprisoned and +examined on the charge of having belonged to a lodge of Freemasons; a +charge advanced against him by an ungrateful Tyrolese, who had initiated +him into, and favoured him as a fellow-member of, the same society, and +who had the audacity actually to sit as judge upon his _friend’s_ trial. + +{22} The Count Giovanni Arrivabene, of Mantua, who, being in possession +of considerable fortune, made an excellent use of it, both as regarded +private acts of benevolence, and the maintenance of a school of mutual +instruction. But having more recently fallen under the displeasure of +the Government, he abandoned Italy, and during his exile employed himself +in writing, with rare impartiality, and admirable judgment, a work which +must be considered interesting to all engaged in alleviating the ills of +humanity, both here and in other countries. It is entitled, _Delle +Societa di Publica Beneficenza in Londra_. + +{23} The Capitano Rezia, one of the best artillery officers in the +Italian army, son of Professor Rezia, the celebrated anatomist, whose +highly valuable preparations and specimens are to be seen in the +Anatomical Museum at Pavia. + +{24} The Professor Ressi, who occupied, during several years, the chair +of Political Economy in the University at Pavia. He is the author of a +respectable work, published under the title of _Economica della Specie +Umana_. Having unfortunately attracted the suspicions of the Austrian +police, he was seized and committed to a dungeon, in which he died, about +a year from the period of his arrest, and while the special examinations +of the alleged conspirators were being held. + +{25} Where charity and love are, God is present. + +{26} The Devil! the Devil! + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY TEN YEARS' IMPRISONMENT*** + + +******* This file should be named 2792-0.txt or 2792-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/7/9/2792 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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