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 Brunn 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 tomorrow,–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 Brunn, 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 Brunn,–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.”
“Mochte 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 Brunn 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 Brunn 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 Brunn. 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 Brunn 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?”