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My Ten Years' Imprisonment

by Silvio Pellico · English · Gutenberg #2792 · 383,017 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: My Ten Years' Imprisonment

Author: Silvio Pellico

Translator: Thomas Roscoe


        
Release date: September 1, 2001 [eBook #2792]
                Most recently updated: September 19, 2014

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2792

Credits: Transcribed from the 1886 Cassell & Co. edition by David Price


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY TEN YEARS' IMPRISONMENT ***


Transcribed from the 1886 Cassell & Co. edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org

                          [Picture: Book cover]

                       CASSELL’S NATIONAL LIBRARY.

                                * * * * *





                                    MY
                         TEN YEARS’ IMPRISONMENT.


                                    BY
                             SILVIO PELLICO.

                      _TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN_
                                    BY
                              THOMAS ROSCOE.

                      [Picture: Decorative graphic]

                       CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED:
                _LONDON_, _PARIS_, _NEW YORK & MELBOURNE_.
                                  1886.




INTRODUCTION.


SILVIO PELLICO was born at Saluzzo, in North Italy, in the year of the
fall of the Bastille, 1789.  His health as a child was feeble, his temper
gentle, and he had the instincts of a poet.  Before he was ten years old
he had written a tragedy on a theme taken from Macpherson’s Ossian.  His
chief delight as a boy was in acting plays with other children, and he
acquired from his father a strong interest in the patriotic movements of
the time.  He fastened upon French literature during a stay of some years
at Lyons with a relation of his mother’s.  Ugo Foscolo’s _Sepolcri_
revived his patriotism, and in 1810, at the age of twenty-one, he
returned to Italy.  He taught French in the Soldiers’ Orphans’ School at
Milan.  At Milan he was admitted to the friendship of Vincenzo Monti, a
poet then touching his sixtieth year, and of the younger Ugo Foscolo, by
whose writings he had been powerfully stirred, and to whom he became
closely bound.  Silvio Pellico wrote in classical form a tragedy,
_Laodicea_, and then, following the national or romantic school, for a
famous actress of that time, another tragedy, _Francesca di Rimini_,
which was received with great applause.

After the dissolution of the kingdom of Italy, in April 1814, Pellico
became tutor to the two children of the Count Porro Lambertenghi, at
whose table he met writers of mark, from many countries; Byron (whose
_Manfred_ he translated), Madame de Stael, Schlegel, Manzoni, and others.
In 1819 Silvio Pellico began publishing _Il Conciliatore_, a journal
purely literary, that was to look through literature to the life that it
expresses, and so help towards the better future of his country.  But the
merciless excisions of inoffensive passages by the Austrian censorship
destroyed the journal in a year.

A secret political association had been formed in Italy of men of all
ranks who called themselves the Carbonari (charcoal burners), and who
sought the reform of government in Italy.  In 1814 they had planned a
revolution in Naples, but there was no action until 1820.  After
successful pressure on the King of the two Sicilies, the forces of the
Carbonari under General Pepe entered Naples on the ninth of July, 1820,
and King Ferdinand I. swore on the 13th of July to observe the
constitution which the Carbonari had proclaimed at Nola and elsewhere
during the preceding month.  On the twenty-fifth of August, the Austrian
government decreed death to every member of a secret society, and
_carcere duro e durissimo_, severest pains of imprisonment, to all who
had neglected to oppose the progress of Carbonarism.  Many seizures were
made, and on the 13th of October the gentle editor of the _Conciliatore_,
Silvio Pellico, was arrested as a friend of the Carbonari, and taken to
the prison of Santa Margherita in Milan.

In the same month of October, the Emperors of Austria and Russia, and the
Prince of Prussia met at Troppau to concert measures for crushing the
Carbonari.

In January, 1821, they met Ferdinand I. at Laybach and then took arms
against Naples.  Naples capitulated on the 20th of March, and on the 24th
of March, 1821, its Revolutionary council was closed.  A decree of April
10th condemned to death all persons who attended meetings of the
Carbonari, and the result was a great accession to the strength of this
secret society, which spread its branches over Germany and France.

On the 19th of February, 1821, Silvio Pellico was transferred to
imprisonment under the leads, on the isle of San Michele, Venice.  There
he wrote two plays, and some poems.  On the 21st of February, 1822, he
and his friend Maroncelli were condemned to death; but, their sentence
being commuted to twenty years for Maroncelli, and fifteen years for
Pellico, of _carcere duro_, they entered their underground prisons at
Spielberg on the 10th of April, 1822.  The government refused to transmit
Pellico’s tragedies to his family, lest, though harmless in themselves,
the acting of them should bring good-will to a state prisoner.  At
Spielberg he composed a third tragedy, _Leoniero da Dordona_, though
deprived of books, paper, and pens, and preserved it in his memory.  In
1828, a rumour of Pellico’s death in prison caused great excitement
throughout Italy.  On the 17th of September, 1830, he was released, by
the amnesty of that year, and, avoiding politics thenceforth, devoted
himself to religion.  The Marchesa Baroli, at Turin, provided for his
maintenance, by engaging him as her secretary and librarian.  With health
made weaker by his sufferings, Silvio Pellico lived on to the age of
sixty-five, much honoured by his countrymen.  Gioberti dedicated a book
to him as “The first of Italian Patriots.”  He died at Turin on the 1st
of February, 1854.

Silvio Pellico’s account of his imprisonment, _Le Mie Prigioni_, was
first published in Paris in 1833.  It has been translated into many
languages, and is the work by which he will retain his place in European
literature.  His other plays, besides the two first named, were _Eufemia
di Messina_; _Iginia di Asti_; _Leoniero da Dordona_, already named as
having been thought out at Spielberg; his _Gismonda_; _l’Erodiade_;
_Ester d’Engaddi_; _Corradino_; and a play upon Sir Thomas More.  He
wrote also poems, _Cantiche_, of which the best are _Eligi e Valfrido_
and _Egilde_; and, in his last years, a religious manual on the _Duties
of Men_.

                                                                     H. M.




AUTHOR’S PREFACE.


HAVE I penned these memorials, let me ask myself, from any paltry vanity,
or desire to talk about that self?  I hope this is not the case, and
forasmuch as one may be able to judge in one’s own cause, I think I was
actuated by better views.  These, briefly, were to afford consolation to
some unfortunate being, situated like myself, by explaining the evils to
which I was exposed, and those sources of relief which I found were
accessible, even when labouring under the heaviest misfortune; to bear
witness, moreover, that in the midst of my acute and protracted torments,
I never found humanity, in the human instruments around me, so hopelessly
wicked, so unworthy of consideration, or so barren of noble minds in
lowly station, as it is customary to represent it; to engage, if
possible, all the generous and good-hearted to love and esteem each
other, to become incapable of hating any one; to feel irreconcilable
hatred only towards low, base falsehood; cowardice, perfidy, and every
kind of moral degradation.  It is my object to impress on all that
well-known but too often forgotten truth, namely, that both religion and
philosophy require calmness of judgment combined with energy of will, and
that without such a union, there can be no real justice, no dignity of
character, and no sound principles of human action.




CHAPTER I.


ON Friday, the 15th of October, 1820, I was arrested at Milan, and
conveyed to the prison of Santa Margherita.  The hour was three in the
afternoon.  I underwent a long examination, which occupied the whole of
that and several subsequent days; but of this I shall say nothing.  Like
some unfortunate lover, harshly dealt with by her he adored, yet resolved
to bear it with dignified silence, I leave _la Politica_, such as SHE IS,
and proceed to something else.

At nine in the evening of that same unlucky Friday, the actuary consigned
me to the jailer, who conducted me to my appointed residence.  He there
politely requested me to give up my watch, my money, and everything in my
pockets, which were to be restored to me in due time; saying which he
respectfully bade me good-night.

“Stop, my dear sir,” I observed, “I have not yet dined; let me have
something to eat.”

“Directly; the inn is close by, and you will find the wine good, sir.”

“Wine I do not drink.”

At this announcement Signor Angiolino gave me a look of unfeigned
surprise; he imagined that I was jesting.  “Masters of prisons,” he
rejoined, “who keep shop, have a natural horror of an abstemious
captive.”

“That may be; I don’t drink it.”

“I am sorry for you, sir; you will feel solitude twice as heavily.”

But perceiving that I was firm, he took his leave; and in half an hour I
had something to eat.  I took a mouthful, swallowed a glass of water, and
found myself alone.  My chamber was on the ground floor, and overlooked
the court-yard.  Dungeons here, dungeons there, to the right, to the
left, above, below, and opposite, everywhere met my eye.  I leaned
against the window, listened to the passing and repassing of the jailers,
and the wild song of a number of the unhappy inmates.  A century ago, I
reflected, and this was a monastery; little then thought the pious,
penitent recluses that their cells would now re-echo only to the sounds
of blasphemy and licentious song, instead of holy hymn and lamentation
from woman’s lips; that it would become a dwelling for the wicked of
every class—the most part destined to perpetual labour or to the gallows.
And in one century to come, what living being will be found in these
cells?  Oh, mighty Time! unceasing mutability of things!  Can he who
rightly views your power have reason for regret or despair when Fortune
withdraws her smile, when he is made captive, or the scaffold presents
itself to his eye? yesterday I thought myself one of the happiest of men;
to-day every pleasure, the least flower that strewed my path, has
disappeared.  Liberty, social converse, the face of my fellow-man, nay,
hope itself hath fled.  I feel it would be folly to flatter myself; I
shall not go hence, except to be thrown into still more horrible
receptacles of sorrow; perhaps, bound, into the hands of the executioner.
Well, well, the day after my death it will be all one as if I had yielded
my spirit in a palace, and been conveyed to the tomb, accompanied with
all the pageantry of empty honours.

It was thus, by reflecting on the sweeping speed of time, that I bore up
against passing misfortune.  Alas, this did not prevent the forms of my
father, my mother, two brothers, two sisters, and one other family I had
learned to love as if it were my own, from all whom I was, doubtless, for
ever cut off, from crossing my mind, and rendering all my philosophical
reasoning of no avail.  I was unable to resist the thought, and I wept
even as a child.




CHAPTER II.


THREE months previous to this time I had gone to Turin, where, after
several years of separation, I saw my parents, one of my brothers, and
two sisters.  We had always been an attached family; no son had ever been
more deeply indebted to a father and a mother than I; I remember I was
affected at beholding a greater alteration in their looks, the progress
of age, than I had expected.  I indulged a secret wish to part from them
no more, and soothe the pillow of departing age by the grateful cares of
a beloved son.  How it vexed me, too, I remember, during the few brief
days I passed with them, to be compelled by other duties to spend so much
of the day from home, and the society of those I had such reason to love
and to revere; yes, and I remember now what my mother said one day, with
an expression of sorrow, as I went out—“Ah! our Silvio has not come to
Turin to see _us_!”  The morning of my departure for Milan was a truly
painful one.  My poor father accompanied me about a mile on my way; and,
on leaving me, I more than once turned to look at him, and, weeping,
kissed the ring my mother had just given me; nor did I ever before quit
my family with a feeling of such painful presentiment.  I am not
superstitious; but I was astonished at my own weakness, and I more than
once exclaimed in a tone of terror, “Good God! whence comes this strange
anxiety and alarm?” and, with a sort of inward vision, my mind seemed to
behold the approach of some great calamity.  Even yet in prison I retain
the impression of that sudden dread and parting anguish, and can recall
each word and every look of my distressed parents.  The tender reproach
of my mother, “Ah! Silvio has not come to Turin to see _us_!” seemed to
hang like a weight upon my soul.  I regretted a thousand instances in
which I might have shown myself more grateful and agreeable to them; I
did not even tell them how much I loved; all that I owed to them.  I was
never to see them more, and yet I turned my eyes with so much like
indifference from their dear and venerable features!  Why, why was I so
chary of giving expression to what I felt (would they could have read it
in my looks), to all my gratitude and love?  In utter solitude, thoughts
like these pierced me to the soul.

I rose, shut the window, and sat some hours, in the idea that it would be
in vain to seek repose.  At length I threw myself on my pallet, and
excessive weariness brought me sleep.




CHAPTER III.


TO awake the first night in a prison is a horrible thing.  Is it
possible, I murmured, trying to collect my thoughts, is it possible I am
here?  Is not all that passed a dream?  Did they really seize me
yesterday?  Was it I whom they examined from morning till night, who am
doomed to the same process day after day, and who wept so bitterly last
night when I thought of my dear parents?  Slumber, the unbroken silence,
and rest had, in restoring my mental powers, added incalculably to the
capability of reflecting, and, consequently, of grief.  There was nothing
to distract my attention; my fancy grew busy with absent forms, and
pictured, to my eye the pain and terror of my father and mother, and of
all dear to me, on first hearing the tidings of my arrest.

At this moment, said I, they are sleeping in peace; or perhaps, anxiety
for me may keep them watching, yet little anticipating the fate to which
I am here consigned.  Happy for them, were it the will of God, that they
should cease to exist ere they hear of this horrible misfortune.  Who
will give them strength to bear it?  Some inward voice seemed to whisper
me, He whom the afflicted look up to, love and acknowledge in their
hearts; who enabled a mother to follow her son to the mount of Golgotha,
and to stand under His cross.  He, the friend of the unhappy, the friend
of man.

Strange this should be the first time I truly felt the power of religion
in my heart; and to filial love did I owe this consolation.  Though not
ill-disposed, I had hitherto been little impressed with its truth, and
had not well adhered to it.  All common-place objections I estimated at
their just value, yet there were many doubts and sophisms which had
shaken my faith.  It was long, indeed, since they had ceased to trouble
my belief in the existence of the Deity; and persuaded of this, it
followed necessarily, as part of His eternal justice, that there must be
another life for man who suffers so unjustly here.  Hence, I argued, the
sovereign reason in man for aspiring to the possession of that second
life; and hence, too, a worship founded on the love of God, and of his
neighbour, and an unceasing impulse to dignify his nature by generous
sacrifices.  I had already made myself familiar with this doctrine, and I
now repeated, “And what else is Christianity but this constant ambition
to elevate and dignify our nature?” and I was astonished, when I
reflected how pure, how philosophical, and how invulnerable the essence
of Christianity manifested itself, that there could come an epoch when
philosophy dared to assert, “From this time forth I will stand instead of
a religion like this.”  And in what manner—by inculcating vice?
Certainly not.  By teaching virtue?  Why that will be to teach us to love
God and our neighbour; and that is precisely what Christianity has
already done, on far higher and purer motives.  Yet, notwithstanding such
had, for years, been my opinion, I had failed to draw the conclusion,
Then be a Christian!  No longer let corruption and abuses, the work of
man, deter you; no longer make stumbling-blocks of little points of
doctrine, since the principal point, made thus irresistibly clear, is to
love God and your neighbour.

In prison I finally determined to admit this conclusion, and I admitted
it.  The fear, indeed, of appearing to others more religious than I had
before been, and to yield more to misfortune than to conviction, made me
sometimes hesitate; but feeling that I had done no wrong, I felt no
debasement, and cared nothing to encounter the possible reproaches I had
not deserved, resolving henceforward to declare myself openly a
Christian.




CHAPTER IV.


I ADHERED firmly to this resolution as time advanced; but the
consideration of it was begun the first night of my captivity.  Towards
morning the excess of my grief had grown calmer, and I was even
astonished at the change.  On recalling the idea of my parents and others
whom I loved, I ceased to despair of their strength of mind, and the
recollection of those virtues which I knew they had long possessed gave
me real consolation.  Why had I before felt such great dismay on thinking
of them, and now so much confidence in their strength of mind?  Was this
happy change miraculous, or the natural effect of my renewed belief in
God?  What avails the distinction, while the genuine sublime benefits of
religion remain the same.

At midnight two _secondini_ (the under jailers are so termed) had paid me
a visit, and found me in a very ill mood; in the morning they returned,
and were surprised to see me so calm, and even cheerful.

“Last night, sir, you had the face of a basilisk,” said Tirola; “now you
are quite another thing; I rejoice at it, if, indeed, it be a sign,
forgive me the expression, that you are not a scoundrel.  Your scoundrels
(for I am an old hand at the trade, and my observations are worth
something) are always more enraged the second day after their arrest than
the first.  Do you want some snuff?”

“I do not take it, but will not refuse your offer.  If I have not a
gorgon-face this morning, it must surely be a proof of my utter
insensibility, or easy belief of soon regaining my freedom.”

“I should doubt that, even though you were not in durance for state
matters.  At this time of day they are not so easily got over as you
might think; you are not so raw as to imagine such a thing.  Pardon me,
but you will know more by and by.”

“Tell me, how come you to have so pleasant a look, living only, as you
do, among the unfortunate?”

“Why, sir, you will attribute it to indifference to others’ sufferings;
of a truth, I know not how it is; yet, I assure you, it often gives me
pain to see the prisoners weep.  Truly, I sometimes pretend to be merry
to bring a smile upon their faces.”

“A thought has just struck me, my friend, which I never had before; it
is, that a jailer may be made of very congenial clay.”

“Well, the trade has nothing to do with that, sir.  Beyond that huge
vault you see there, without the court-yard, is another court, and other
prisons, all prepared for women.  They are, sir, women of a certain
class; yet are there some angels among them, as to a good heart.  And if
you were in my place, sir—”

“I?” and I laughed out heartily.

Tirola was quite disconcerted, and said no more.  Perhaps he meant to
imply that had I been a _secondino_, it would have been difficult not to
become attached to some one or other of these unfortunates.

He now inquired what I wished to take for breakfast, left me, and soon
returned with my coffee.  I looked hard at him, with a sort of malicious
smile, as much as to say, “Would you carry me a bit of a note to an
unhappy friend—to my friend Piero?” {1}  He understood it, and answered
with another: “No sir; and if you do not take heed how you ask any of my
comrades, they will betray you.”

Whether or not we understood each other, it is certain I was ten times
upon the point of asking him for a sheet of paper, &c.; but there was a
something in his eye which seemed to warn me not to confide in any one
about me, and still less to others than himself.




CHAPTER V.


HAD Tirola, with his expression of good-nature, possessed a less roguish
look, had there been something a little more dignified in his aspect, I
should have tried to make him my ambassador; for perhaps a brief
communication, if in time, might prevent my friend committing some fatal
error, perhaps save him, poor fellow; besides several others, including
myself: and too much was already known.  Patience! it was fated to be
thus.

I was here recalled to be examined anew.  The process continued through
the day, and was again and again repeated, allowing me only a brief
interval during dinner.  While this lasted, the time seemed to pass
rapidly; the excitement of mind produced by the endless series of
questions put to me, and by going over them at dinner and at night,
digesting all that had been asked and replied to, reflecting on what was
likely to come, kept me in a state of incessant activity.  At the end of
the first week I had to endure a most vexatious affair.  My poor friend
Piero, eager as myself to have some communication, sent me a note, not by
one of the jailers, but by an unfortunate prisoner who assisted them.  He
was an old man from sixty to seventy, and condemned to I know not how
long a period of captivity.  With a pin I had by me I pricked my finger,
and scrawled with my blood a few lines in reply, which I committed to the
same messenger.  He was unluckily suspected, caught with the note upon
him, and from the horrible cries that were soon heard, I conjectured that
he was severely bastinadoed.  At all events I never saw him more.

On my next examination I was greatly irritated to see my note presented
to me (luckily containing nothing but a simple salutation), traced in my
blood.  I was asked how I had contrived to draw the blood; was next
deprived of my pin, and a great laugh was raised at the idea and
detection of the attempt.  Ah, I did not laugh, for the image of the poor
old messenger rose before my eyes.  I would gladly have undergone any
punishment to spare the old man.  I could not repress my tears when those
piercing cries fell upon my ear.  Vainly did I inquire of the jailers
respecting his fate.  They shook their heads, observing, “He has paid
dearly for it, he will never do such like things again; he has a little
more rest now.”  Nor would they speak more fully.  Most probably they
spoke thus on account of his having died under, or in consequence of, the
punishment he had suffered; yet one day I thought I caught a glimpse of
him at the further end of the court-yard, carrying a bundle of wood on
his shoulders.  I felt a beating of the heart as if I had suddenly
recognised a brother.




CHAPTER VI.


WHEN I ceased to be persecuted with examinations, and had no longer
anything to fill up my time, I felt bitterly the increasing weight of
solitude.  I had permission to retain a bible, and my Dante; the governor
also placed his library at my disposal, consisting of some romances of
Scuderi, Piazzi, and worse books still; but my mind was too deeply
agitated to apply to any kind of reading whatever.  Every day, indeed, I
committed a canto of Dante to memory, an exercise so merely mechanical,
that I thought more of my own affairs than the lines during their
acquisition.  The same sort of abstraction attended my perusal of other
things, except, occasionally, a few passages of scripture.  I had always
felt attached to this divine production, even when I had not believed
myself one of its avowed followers.  I now studied it with far greater
respect than before; yet my mind was often almost involuntarily bent upon
other matters; and I knew not what I read.  By degrees I surmounted this
difficulty, and was able to reflect upon its great truths with higher
relish than I had ever before done.  This, in me, did not give rise to
the least tendency to moroseness or superstition, nothing being more apt
than misdirected devotion to weaken and distort the mind.  With the love
of God and mankind, it inspired me also with a veneration for justice,
and an abhorrence of wickedness, along with a desire of pardoning the
wicked.  Christianity, instead of militating against anything good, which
I had derived from Philosophy, strengthened it by the aid of logical
deductions, at once more powerful and profound.

Reading one day that it was necessary to pray without ceasing, and that
prayer did not consist in many words uttered after the manner of the
Pharisees, but in making every word and action accord with the will of
God, I determined to commence with earnestness, to pray in the spirit
with unceasing effort: in other words, to permit no one thought which
should not be inspired by a wish to conform my whole life to the decrees
of God.

The forms I adopted were simple and few; not from contempt of them (I
think them very salutary, and calculated to excite attention), but from
the circumstance of my being unable to go through them at length, without
becoming so far abstracted as to make me forget the solemn duty in which
I am engaged.  This habitual observance of prayer, and the reflection
that God is omnipresent as well as omnipotent in His power to save, began
ere long to deprive solitude of its horrors, and I often repeated, “Have
I not the best society man can have?” and from this period I grew more
cheerful, I even sang and whistled in the new joy of my heart.  And why
lament my captivity?  Might not a sudden fever have carried me off? and
would my friends then have grieved less over my fate than now? and cannot
God sustain them even as He could under a more trying dispensation?  And
often did I offer up my prayers and fervent hopes that my dear parents
might feel, as I myself felt, resigned to my lot; but tears frequently
mingled with sweet recollections of home.  With all this, my faith in God
remained undisturbed, and I was not disappointed.




CHAPTER VII.


TO live at liberty is doubtless much better than living in a prison; but,
even here, the reflection that God is present with us, that worldly joys
are brief and fleeting, and that true happiness is to be sought in the
conscience, not in external objects, can give a real zest to life.  In
less than one month I had made up my mind, I will not say perfectly, but
in a tolerable degree, as to the part I should adopt.  I saw that, being
incapable of the mean action of obtaining impunity by procuring the
destruction of others, the only prospect that lay before me was the
scaffold, or long protracted captivity.  It was necessary that I should
prepare myself.  I will live, I said to myself, so long as I shall be
permitted, and when they take my life, I will do as the unfortunate have
done before me; when arrived at the last moment, I can die.  I
endeavoured, as much as possible, not to complain, and to obtain every
possible enjoyment of mind within my reach.  The most customary was that
of recalling the many advantages which had thrown a charm round my
previous life; the best of fathers, of mothers, excellent brothers and
sisters, many friends, a good education, and a taste for letters.  Should
I now refuse to be grateful to God for all these benefits, because He had
pleased to visit me with misfortune?  Sometimes, indeed, in recalling
past scenes to mind, I was affected even to tears; but I soon recovered
my courage and cheerfulness of heart.

At the commencement of my captivity I was fortunate enough to meet with a
friend.  It was neither the governor, nor any of his under-jailers, nor
any of the lords of the process-chamber.  Who then?—a poor deaf and dumb
boy, five or six years old, the offspring of thieves, who had paid the
penalty of the law.  This wretched little orphan was supported by the
police, with several other boys in the same condition of life.  They all
dwelt in a room opposite my own, and were only permitted to go out at
certain hours to breathe a little air in the yard.  Little deaf and dumb
used to come under my window, smiled, and made his obeisance to me.  I
threw him a piece of bread; he took it, and gave a leap of joy, then ran
to his companions, divided it, and returned to eat his own share under
the window.  The others gave me a wistful look from a distance, but
ventured no nearer, while the deaf and dumb boy expressed a sympathy for
me; not, I found, affected, out of mere selfishness.  Sometimes he was at
a loss what to do with the bread I gave him, and made signs that he had
eaten enough, as also his companions.  When he saw one of the
under-jailers going into my room, he would give him what he had got from
me, in order to restore it to me.  Yet he continued to haunt my window,
and seemed rejoiced whenever I deigned to notice him.  One day the jailer
permitted him to enter my prison, when he instantly ran to embrace my
knees, actually uttering a cry of joy.  I took him up in my arms, and he
threw his little hands about my neck, and lavished on me the tenderest
caresses.  How much affection in his smile and manner! how eagerly I
longed to have him to educate, raise him from his abject condition, and
snatch him, perhaps, from utter ruin.  I never even learnt his name; he
did not himself know that he had one.  He seemed always happy, and I
never saw him weep except once, and that was on being beaten, I know not
why, by the jailer.  Strange that he should be thus happy in a receptacle
of so much pain and sorrow; yet he was light-hearted as the son of a
grandee.  From him I learnt, at least, that the mind need not depend on
situation, but may be rendered independent of external things.  Govern
the imagination, and we shall be well, wheresoever we happen to be
placed.  A day is soon over, and if at night we can retire to rest
without actual pain and hunger, it little matters whether it be within
the walls of a prison, or of a kind of building which they call a palace.
Good reasoning this; but how are we to contrive so to govern the
imagination?  I began to try, and sometimes I thought I had succeeded to
a miracle; but at others the enchantress triumphed, and I was
unexpectedly astonished to find tears starting into my eyes.




CHAPTER VIII.


I AM so far fortunate, I often said, that they have given me a dungeon on
the ground floor, near the court, where that dear boy comes within a few
steps of me, to converse in our own mute language.  We made immense
progress in it; we expressed a thousand various feelings I had no idea we
could do, by the natural expressions of the eye, the gesture, and the
whole countenance.  Wonderful human intelligence!  How graceful were his
motions! how beautiful his smile! how quickly he corrected whatever
expression I saw of his that seemed to displease me!  How well he
understands I love him, when he plays with any of his companions!
Standing only at my window to observe him, it seemed as if I possessed a
kind of influence over his mind, favourable to his education.  By dint of
repeating the mutual exercise of signs, we should be enabled to perfect
the communication of our ideas.  The more instruction he gets, the more
gentle and kind he becomes, the more he will be attached to me.  To him I
shall be the genius of reason and of good; he will learn to confide his
sorrows to me, his pleasures, all he feels and wishes; I will console,
elevate, and direct him in his whole conduct.  It may be that this my lot
may be protracted from month to month, even till I grow grey in my
captivity.  Perhaps this little child may continue to grow under my eye,
and become one in the service of this large family of pain, and grief,
and calamity.  With such a disposition as he has already shown, what
would become of him?  Alas; he would at most be made only a good
under-keeper, or fill some similar place.  Yet I shall surely have
conferred on him some benefit if I can succeed in giving him a desire to
do kind offices to the good and to himself, and to nourish sentiments of
habitual benevolence.  This soliloquy was very natural in my situation; I
was always fond of children, and the office of an instructor appeared to
me a sublime duty.  For a few years I had acted in that capacity with
Giacomo and Giulio Porro, two young men of noble promise, whom I loved,
and shall continue to love as if they were my own sons.  Often while in
prison were my thoughts busied with them; and how it grieved me not to be
enabled to complete their education.  I sincerely prayed that they might
meet with a new master, who would be as much attached to them as I had
been.

At times I could not help exclaiming to myself, What a strange burlesque
is all this! instead of two noble youths, rich in all that nature and
fortune can endow them with, here I have a pupil, poor little fellow!
deaf, dumb, a castaway; the son of a robber, who at most can aspire only
to the rank of an under-jailer, and which, in a little less softened
phraseology, would mean to say a _sbirro_. {2}  This reflection confused
and disquieted me; yet hardly did I hear the _strillo_ {3} of my little
dummy than I felt my heart grow warm again, just as a father when he
hears the voice of a son.  I lost all anxiety about his mean estate.  It
is no fault of his if he be lopped of Nature’s fairest proportions, and
was born the son of a robber.  A humane, generous heart, in an age of
innocence, is always respectable.  I looked on him, therefore, from day
to day with increased affection, and was more than ever desirous of
cultivating his good qualities, and his growing intelligence.  Nay,
perhaps we might both live to get out of prison, when I would establish
him in the college for the deaf and dumb, and thus open for him a path
more fortunate and pleasing than to play the part of a _shirro_.  Whilst
thus pleasingly engaged in meditating his future welfare, two of the
under-jailers one day walked into my cell.

“You must change your quarters, sir!”

“What mean you by that?”

“We have orders to remove you into another chamber.”

“Why so?”

“Some other great bird has been caged, and this being the better
apartment—you understand.”

“Oh, yes! it is the first resting-place for the newly arrived.”

They conveyed me to the opposite side of the court, where I could no
longer converse with my little deaf and dumb friend, and was far removed
from the ground floor.  In walking across, I beheld the poor boy sitting
on the ground, overcome with grief and astonishment, for he knew he had
lost me.  Ere I quite disappeared, he ran towards me; my conductors tried
to drive him away, but he reached me, and I caught him in my arms, and
returned his caresses with expressions of tenderness I sought not to
conceal.  I tore myself from him, and entered my new abode.




CHAPTER IX.


IT was a dark and gloomy place; instead of glass it had pasteboard for
the windows; the walls were rendered more repulsive by being hung with
some wretched attempts at painting, and when free from this lugubrious
colour, were covered with inscriptions.  These last gave the name and
country of many an unhappy inmate, with the date of the fatal day of
their captivity.  Some consisted of lamentations on the perfidy of false
friends, denouncing their own folly, or women, or the judge who condemned
them.  Among a few were brief sketches of the victims’ lives; still fewer
embraced moral maxims.  I found the following words of Pascal: “Let those
who attack religion learn first what religion is.  Could it boast of
commanding a direct view of the Deity, without veil or mystery, it would
be to attack that religion to say, ‘that there is nothing seen in the
world which displays Him with such clear evidence.’  But since it rather
asserts that man is involved in darkness, far from God, who is hidden
from human knowledge, insomuch as to give Himself the name in scripture
of ‘_Deus absconditus_,’ what advantage can the enemies of religion
derive when, neglecting, as they profess to do, the science of truth,
they complain that the truth is not made apparent to them?”  Lower down
was written (the words of the same author), “It is not here a question of
some trivial interest relating to a stranger; it applies to ourselves,
and to all we possess.  The immortality of the soul is a question of that
deep and momentous importance to all, as to imply an utter loss of reason
to rest totally indifferent as to the truth or the fallacy of the
proposition.”  Another inscription was to this effect: “I bless the hour
of my imprisonment; it has taught me to know the ingratitude of man, my
own frailty, and the goodness of God.”  Close to these words again
appeared the proud and desperate imprecations of one who signed himself
an Atheist, and who launched his impieties against the Deity, as if he
had forgotten that he had just before said there was no God.  Then
followed another column, reviling the cowardly fools, as they were
termed, whom captivity had converted into fanatics.  I one day pointed
out these strange impieties to one of the jailers, and inquired who had
written them?  “I am glad I have found this,” was the reply, “there are
so many of them, and I have so little time to look for them;” and he took
his knife, and began to erase it as fast as he could.

“Why do you do that?” I inquired of him.

“Because the poor devil who wrote it was condemned to death for a
cold-blooded murder; he repented, and made us promise to do him this
kindness.”

“Heaven pardon him!” I exclaimed; “what was it he did?”

“Why, as he found he could not kill his enemy, he revenged himself by
slaying the man’s son, one of the finest boys you ever saw.”

I was horror-struck.  Could ferocity of disposition proceed to such
lengths? and could a monster, capable of such a deed, hold the insulting
language of a man superior to all human weaknesses? to murder the
innocent, and a child!




CHAPTER X.


IN my new prison, black and filthy to an extreme, I sadly missed the
society of my little dumb friend.  I stood for hours in anxious, weary
mood, at the window which looked over a gallery, on the other side of
which could be seen the extremity of the court-yard, and the window of my
former cell.  Who had succeeded me there?  I could discern his figure, as
he paced quickly to and fro, apparently in violent agitation.  Two or
three days subsequently, I perceived that he had got writing materials,
and remained busied at his little table the whole of the day.  At length
I recognised him.  He came forth accompanied by his jailer; he was going
to be examined, when I saw he was no other than Melchiorre Gioja. {4}  It
went to my heart: “You, too, noble, excellent man, have not escaped!”
Yet he was more fortunate than I.  After a few months’ captivity, he
regained his liberty.  To behold any really estimable being always does
me good; it affords me pleasant matter for reflection, and for
esteem—both of great advantage.  I could have laid down my life to save
such a man from captivity; yet merely to see him was some consolation to
me.  After regarding him intently, some time, to ascertain if he were
tranquil or agitated, I offered up a heart-felt prayer for his
deliverance; I felt my spirits revived, a greater flow of ideas, and
greater satisfaction with myself.  Such an incident as this has a charm
for utter solitude, of which you can form no idea without experiencing
it.  A poor dumb boy had before supplied me with this real enjoyment, and
I now derived it from a distant view of a man of distinguished merit.

Perhaps some one of the jailers had informed him where I was.  One
morning, on opening his window, he waved his handkerchief in token of
salutation, and I replied in the same manner.  I need not describe the
pleasure I felt; it appeared as if we were no longer separated; and we
discoursed in the silent intercourse of the spirit, which, when every
other medium is cut off, in the least look, gesture, or signal of any
kind, can make itself comprehended and felt.

It was with no small pleasure I anticipated a continuation of this
friendly communication.  Day after day, however, went on, and I was never
more gratified by the appearance of the same favourite signals.  Yet I
frequently saw my friend at his window; I waved my handkerchief, but in
vain; he answered it no more.  I was now informed by our jailers, that
Gioja had been strictly prohibited from exciting my notice, or replying
to it in any manner.  Notwithstanding, he still continued to look at me,
and I at him, and in this way, we conversed upon a great variety of
subjects, which helped to keep us alive.




CHAPTER XI.


ALONG the same gallery, upon a level with my prison, I saw other
prisoners passing and repassing the whole day to the place of
examination.  They were, for the chief part, of lowly condition, but
occasionally one or two of better rank.  All, however, attracted my
attention, brief as was the sight of them, and I truly compassionated
them.  So sorrowful a spectacle for some time filled me with grief, but
by degrees I became habituated to it, and at last it rather relieved than
added to the horror of my solitude.  A number of women, also, who had
been arrested, passed by.  There was a way from the gallery, through a
large vault, leading to another court, and in that part were placed the
female prisoners, and others labouring under disease.  A single wall, and
very slight, separated my dwelling from that of some of the women.
Sometimes I was almost deafened with their songs, at others with their
bursts of maddened mirth.  Late at evening, when the din of day had
ceased, I could hear them conversing, and, had I wished, I could easily
have joined with them.  Was it timidity, pride, or prudence which
restrained me from all communication with the unfortunate and degraded of
their sex?  Perhaps it partook of all.  Woman, when she is what she ought
to be, is for me a creature so admirable, so sublime, the mere seeing,
hearing, and speaking to her, enriches my mind with such noble fantasies;
but rendered vile and despicable, she disturbs, she afflicts, she
deprives my heart, as it were, of all its poetry and its love.  Spite of
this, there were among those feminine voices, some so very sweet that,
there is no use in denying it, they were dear to me.  One in particular
surpassed the rest; I heard it more seldom, and it uttered nothing
unworthy of its fascinating tone.  She sung little and mostly kept
repeating these two pathetic lines:—

    Chi rende alla meschina
    La sua felicità?

    Ah, who will give the lost one
    Her vanished dream of bliss?

At other times, she would sing from the litany.  Her companions joined
with her; but still I could discern the voice of Maddalene from all
others, which seemed only to unite for the purpose of robbing me of it.
Sometimes, too, when her companions were recounting to her their various
misfortunes, I could hear her pitying them; could catch even her very
sighs, while she invariably strove to console them: “Courage, courage, my
poor dear,” she one day said, “God is very good, and He will not abandon
us.”

How could I do otherwise than imagine she was beautiful, more unfortunate
than guilty, naturally virtuous, and capable of reformation?  Who would
blame me because I was affected with what she said, listened to her with
respect, and offered up my prayers for her with more than usual
earnestness of heart.  Innocence is sacred, and repentance ought to be
equally respected.  Did the most perfect of men, the Divinity on earth,
refuse to cast a pitying eye on weak, sinful women; to respect their fear
and confusion, and rank them among the minds he delighted to consort with
and to honour?  By what law, then, do we act, when we treat with so much
contempt women fallen into ignominy?

While thus reasoning, I was frequently tempted to raise my voice and
speak, as a brother in misfortune, to poor Maddalene.  I had often even
got out the first syllable; and how strange!  I felt my heart beat like
an enamoured youth of fifteen; I who had reached thirty-one; and it
seemed as if I should never be able to pronounce the name, till I cried
out almost in a rage, “Mad!  Mad!” yes, mad enough, thought I.




CHAPTER XII.


THUS ended my romance with that poor unhappy one; yet it did not fail to
produce me many sweet sensations during several weeks.  Often, when
steeped in melancholy, would her sweet calm voice breathe consolation to
my spirit; when, dwelling on the meanness and ingratitude of mankind, I
became irritated, and hated the world, the voice of Maddalene gently led
me back to feelings of compassion and indulgence.

How I wish, poor, unknown, kind-hearted repentant one, that no heavy
punishment may befall thee.  And whatever thou shalt suffer, may it well
avail thee, re-dignify thy nature, and teach thee to live and die to thy
Saviour and thy Lord.  Mayest thou meet compassion and respect from all
around thee, as thou didst from me a stranger to thee.  Mayest thou teach
all who see thee thy gentle lesson of patience, sweetness, the love of
virtue, and faith in God, with which thou didst inspire him who loved
without having beheld thee.  Perhaps I erred in thinking thee beautiful,
but, sure I am, thou didst wear the beauty of the soul.  Thy
conversation, though spoken amidst grossness and corruption of every
kind, was ever chaste and graceful; whilst others imprecated, thou didst
bless; when eager in contention, thy sweet voice still pacified, like oil
upon the troubled waters.  If any noble mind hath read thy worth, and
snatched thee from an evil career; hath assisted thee with delicacy, and
wiped the tears from thy eyes, may every reward heaven can give be his
portion, that of his children, and of his children’s children!

Next to mine was another prison occupied by several men.  I also heard
_their_ conversation.  One seemed of superior authority, not so much
probably from any difference of rank, as owing to greater eloquence and
boldness.  He played, what may musically be termed, the first fiddle.  He
stormed himself, yet put to silence those who presumed to quarrel by his
imperious voice.  He dictated the tone of the society, and after some
feeble efforts to throw off his authority they submitted, and gave the
reins into his hands.

There was not a single one of those unhappy men who had a touch of that
in him to soften the harshness of prison hours, to express one kindly
sentiment, one emanation of religion, or of love.  The chief of these
neighbours of mine saluted me, and I replied.  He asked me how I
contrived to pass such a cursed dull life?  I answered, that it was
melancholy, to be sure; but no life was a cursed one to me, and that to
our last hour, it was best to do all to procure oneself the pleasure of
thinking and of loving.

“Explain, sir, explain what you mean!”

I explained, but was not understood.  After many ingenious attempts, I
determined to clear it up in the form of example, and had the courage to
bring forward the extremely singular and moving effect produced upon me
by the voice of Maddalene; when the magisterial head of the prison burst
into a violent fit of laughter.  “What is all that, what is that?” cried
his companions.  He then repeated my words with an air of burlesque;
peals of laughter followed, and I there stood, in their eyes, the picture
of a convicted blockhead.

As it is in prison, so it is in the world.  Those who make it their
wisdom to go into passions, to complain, to defy, to abuse, think that to
pity, to love, to console yourself with gentle and beautiful thoughts and
images, in accord with humanity and its great Author, is all mere folly.




CHAPTER XIII.


I LET them laugh and said not a word; they hit at me again two or three
times, but I was mute.  “He will come no more near the window,” said one,
“he will hear nothing but the sighs of Maddalene; we have offended him
with laughing.”  At length, the chief imposed silence upon the whole
party, all amusing themselves at my expense.  “Silence, beasts as you
are; devil a bit you know what you are talking about.  Our neighbour is
none so long eared an animal as you imagine.  You do not possess the
power of reflection, no not you.  I grin and joke; but afterwards I
reflect.  Every low-born clown can stamp and roar, as we do here.  Grant
a little more real cheerfulness, a spark more of charity, a bit more
faith in the blessing of heaven;—what do you imagine that all this would
be a sign of?”  “Now, that I also reflect,” replied one, “I fancy it
would be a sign of being a little less of a brute.”

“Bravo!” cried his leader, in a most stentorian howl! “now I begin to
have some hope of you.”

I was not overproud at being thus rated a _little less of a brute_ than
the rest; yet I felt a sort of pleasure that these wretched men had come
to some agreement as to the importance of cultivating, in some degree,
more benevolent sentiments.

I again approached the window, the chief called me, and I answered,
hoping that I might now moralise with him in my own way.  I was deceived;
vulgar minds dislike serious reasoning; if some noble truth start up,
they applaud for a moment, but the next withdraw their notice, or scruple
not to attempt to shine by questioning, or aiming to place it in some
ludicrous point of view.

I was next asked if I were imprisoned for debt?

“Perhaps you are paying the penalty of a false oath, then?”

“No, it is quite a different thing.”

“An affair of love, most likely, I guess?”

“No.”

“You have killed a man, mayhap?”

“No.”

“It’s for carbonarism, then?”

“Exactly so.”

“And who are these carbonari?”

“I know so little of them, I cannot tell you.”

Here a jailer interrupted us in great anger; and after commenting on the
gross improprieties committed by my neighbours, he turned towards me, not
with the gravity of a _sbirro_, but the air of a master: “For shame, sir,
for shame! to think of talking to men of this stamp! do you know, sir,
that they are all robbers?”

I reddened up, and then more deeply for having shown I blushed, and
methought that to deign to converse with the unhappy of however lowly
rank, was rather a mark of goodness than a fault.




CHAPTER XIV.


NEXT morning I went to my window to look for Melchiorre Gioja; but
conversed no more with the robbers.  I replied to their salutation, and
added, that I had been forbidden to hold conversation.  The secretary who
had presided at my examinations, told me with an air of mystery, I was
about to receive a visit.  After a little further preparation, he
acquainted me that it was my father; and so saying, bade me follow him.
I did so, in a state of great agitation, assuming at the same time an
appearance of perfect calmness in order not to distress my unhappy
parent.  Upon first hearing of my arrest, he had been led to suppose it
was for some trifling affair, and that I should soon be set at liberty.
Finding his mistake, however, he had now come to solicit the Austrian
government on my account.  Here, too, he deluded himself, for he never
imagined I could have been rash enough to expose myself to the penalty of
the laws, and the cheerful tone in which I now spoke persuaded him that
there was nothing very serious in the business.

The few words that were permitted to pass between us gave me
indescribable pain; the more so from the restraint I had placed upon my
feelings.  It was yet more difficult at the moment of parting.  In the
existing state of things, as regarded Italy, I felt convinced that
Austria would make some fearful examples, and that I should be condemned
either to death or long protracted imprisonment.  It was my object to
conceal this from my father and to flatter his hopes at a moment when I
was inquiring for a mother, brother, and sisters, whom I never expected
to behold more.  Though I knew it to be impossible, I even calmly
requested of him that he would come and see me again, while my heart was
wrung with the bitter conflict of my feelings.  He took his leave, filled
with the same agreeable delusion, and I painfully retraced my steps back
into my dungeon.  I thought that solitude would now be a relief to me;
that to weep would somewhat ease my burdened heart? yet, strange to say,
I could not shed a tear.  The extreme wretchedness of feeling this
inability even to shed tears excites, under some of the heaviest
calamities, is the severest trial of all, and I have often experienced
it.

An acute fever, attended by severe pains in my head, followed this
interview.  I could not take any nourishment; and I often said, how happy
it would be for me, were it indeed to prove mortal.  Foolish and cowardly
wish! heaven refused to hear my prayer, and I now feel grateful that it
did.  Though a stern teacher, adversity fortifies the mind, and renders
man what he seems to have been intended for; at least, a good man, a
being capable of struggling with difficulty and danger; presenting an
object not unworthy, even in the eyes of the old Romans, of the
approbation of the gods.




CHAPTER XV.


TWO days afterwards I again saw my father.  I had rested well the
previous night, and was free from fever; before him I preserved the same
calm and even cheerful deportment, so that no one could have suspected I
had recently suffered, and still continued to suffer so much.  “I am in
hopes,” observed my father, “that within a very few days we shall see you
at Turin.  Your mother has got your old room in readiness, and we are all
expecting you to come.  Pressing affairs now call me away, but lose no
time, I entreat you, in preparing to rejoin us once more.”  His kind and
affecting expressions added to my grief.  Compassion and filial piety,
not unmingled with a species of remorse, induced me to feign assent; yet
afterwards I reflected how much more worthy it had been, both of my
father and myself, to have frankly told him that most probably, we should
never see each other again, at least in this world.  Let us take farewell
like men, without a murmur and without a tear, and let me receive the
benediction of a father before I die.  As regarded myself, I should wish
to have adopted language like that; but when I gazed on his aged and
venerable features, and his grey hairs, something seemed to whisper me,
that it would be too much for the affectionate old man to bear; and the
words died in my heart.  Good God! I thought, should he know the extent
of the _evil_, he might, perhaps, run distracted, such is his extreme
attachment to me: he might fall at my feet, or even expire before my
eyes.  No!  I could not tell him the truth, nor so much as prepare him
for it; we shed not a tear, and he took his departure in the same
pleasing delusion as before.  On returning into my dungeon I was seized
in the same manner, and with still more aggravated suffering, as I had
been after the last interview; and, as then, my anguish found no relief
from tears.

I had nothing now to do but resign myself to all the horrors of long
captivity, and to the sentence of death.  But to prepare myself to bear
the idea of the immense load of grief that must fall on every dear member
of my family, on learning my lot, was beyond my power.  It haunted me
like a spirit, and to fly from it I threw myself on my knees, and in a
passion of devotion uttered aloud the following prayer:—“My God! from thy
hand I will accept all—for me all: but deign most wonderfully to
strengthen the hearts of those to whom I was so very dear!  Grant thou
that I may cease to be such to them now; and that not the life of the
least of them may be shortened by their care for me, even by a single
day!”

Strange! wonderful power of prayer! for several hours my mind was raised
to a contemplation of the Deity, and my confidence in His goodness
proportionately increased; I meditated also on the dignity of the human
mind when, freed from selfishness, it exerts itself to will only that
which is the will of eternal wisdom.  This can be done, and it is man’s
duty to do it.  Reason, which is the voice of the Deity, teaches us that
it is right to submit to every sacrifice for the sake of virtue.  And how
could the sacrifice which we owe to virtue be completed, if in the most
trying afflictions we struggle against the will of Him who is the source
of all virtue?  When death on the scaffold, or any other species of
martyrdom becomes inevitable, it is a proof of wretched degradation, or
ignorance, not to be able to approach it with blessing upon our lips.
Nor is it only necessary we should submit to death, but to the affliction
which we know those most dear to us must suffer on our account.  All it
is lawful for us to ask is, that God will temper such affliction, and
that he will direct us all, for such a prayer is always sure to be
accepted.




CHAPTER XVI.


FOR a period of some days I continued in the same state of mind; a sort
of calm sorrow, full of peace, affection, and religious thoughts.  I
seemed to have overcome every weakness, and as if I were no longer
capable of suffering new anxiety.  Fond delusion! it is man’s duty to aim
at reaching as near to perfection as possible, though he can never attain
it here.  What now disturbed me was the sight of an unhappy friend, my
good Piero, who passed along the gallery within a few yards of me, while
I stood at my window.  They were removing him from his cell into the
prison destined for criminals.  He was hurried by so swiftly that I had
barely time to recognise him, and to receive and return his salutation.

Poor young man! in the flower of his age, with a genius of high promise,
of frank, upright, and most affectionate disposition, born with a keen
zest of the pleasures of existence, to be at once precipitated into a
dungeon, without the remotest hope of escaping the severest penalty of
the laws.  So great was my compassion for him, and my regret at being
unable to afford him the slightest consolation, that it was long before I
could recover my composure of mind.  I knew how tenderly he was attached
to every member of his numerous family, how deeply interested in
promoting their happiness, and how devotedly his affection was returned.
I was sensible what must be the affliction of each and all under so heavy
a calamity.  Strange, that though I had just reconciled myself to the
idea in my own case, a sort of phrensy seized my mind when I depicted the
scene; and it continued so long that I began to despair of mastering it.

Dreadful as this was, it was still but an illusion.  Ye afflicted ones,
who believe yourselves victims of some irresistible, heart-rending, and
increasing grief, suffer a little while with patience, and you will be
undeceived.  Neither perfect peace, nor utter wretchedness can be of long
continuance here below.  Recollect this truth, that you may not become
unduly elevated in prosperity, and despicable under the trials which
assuredly await you.  A sense of weariness and apathy succeeded the
terrible excitement I had undergone.  But indifference itself is
transitory, and I had some fear lest I should continue to suffer without
relief under these wretched extremes of feeling.  Terrified at the
prospect of such a future, I had recourse once more to the only Being
from whom I could hope to receive strength to bear it, and devoutly bent
down in prayer.  I beseeched the Father of mercies to befriend my poor
deserted Piero, even as myself, and to support his family no less than my
own.  By constant repetition of prayers like these, I became perfectly
calm and resigned.




CHAPTER XVII.


IT was then I reflected upon my previous violence; I was angry at my own
weakness and folly, and sought means of remedying them.  I had recourse
to the following expedient.  Every morning, after I had finished my
devotions, I set myself diligently to work to recall to mind every
possible occurrence of a trying and painful kind, such as a final parting
from my dearest friends and the approach of the executioner.  I did this
not only in order to inure my nerves to bear sudden or dreadful
incidents, too surely my future portion, but that I might not again be
taken unawares.  At first this melancholy task was insupportable, but I
persevered; and in a short time became reconciled to it.

In the spring of 1821 Count Luigi Porro {5} obtained permission to see
me.  Our warm friendship, the eagerness to communicate our mutual
feelings, and the restraint imposed by the presence of an imperial
secretary, with the brief time allowed us, the presentiments I indulged,
and our efforts to appear calm, all led me to expect that I should be
thrown into a state of fearful excitement, worse than I had yet suffered.
It was not so; after taking his leave I remained calm; such to me proved
the signal efficacy of guarding against the assault of sudden and violent
emotions.  The task I set myself to acquire, constant calmness of mind,
arose less from a desire to relieve my unhappiness than from a persuasion
how undignified, unworthy, and injurious, was a temper opposite to this,
I mean a continued state of excitement and anxiety.  An excited mind
ceases to reason; carried away by a resistless torrent of wild ideas, it
forms for itself a sort of mad logic, full of anger and malignity; it is
in a state at once as absolutely unphilosophical as it is unchristian.

If I were a divine I should often insist upon the necessity of correcting
irritability and inquietude of character; none can be truly good without
that be effected.  How nobly pacific, both with regard to himself and
others, was He whom we are all bound to imitate.  There is no elevation
of mind, no justice without moderation in principles and ideas, without a
pervading spirit which inclines us rather to smile at, than fall into a
passion with, the events of this little life.  Anger is never productive
of any good, except in the extremely rare case of being employed to
humble the wicked, and to terrify them from pursuing the path of crime,
even as the usurers were driven by an angry Saviour, from polluting his
holy Temple.  Violence and excitement, perhaps, differing altogether from
what I felt, are no less blamable.  Mine was the mania of despair and
affliction: I felt a disposition, while suffering under its horrors, to
hate and to curse mankind.  Several individuals, in particular, appeared
to my imagination depicted in the most revolting colours.  It is a sort
of moral epidemic, I believe, springing from vanity and selfishness; for
when a man despises and detests his fellow-creatures, he necessarily
assumes that he is much better than the rest of the world.  The doctrine
of such men amounts to this:—“Let us admire only one another, if we turn
the rest of mankind into a mere mob, we shall appear like demi-gods on
earth.”  It is a curious fact that living in a state of hostility and
rage actually affords pleasure; it seems as if people thought there was a
species of heroism in it.  If, unfortunately, the object of our wrath
happens to die, we lose no time in finding some one to fill the vacant
place.  Whom shall I attack next, whom shall I hate?  Ah! is that the
villain I was looking out for?  What a prize!  Now my friends, at him,
give him no quarter.  Such is the world, and, without uttering a libel, I
may add that it is not what it ought to be.




CHAPTER XVIII.


IT showed no great malignity, however, to complain of the horrible place
in which they had incarcerated me, but fortunately another room became
vacant, and I was agreeably surprised on being informed that I was to
have it.  Yet strangely enough, I reflected with regret that I was about
to leave the vicinity of Maddalene.  Instead of feeling rejoiced, I
mourned over it with almost childish feeling.  I had always attached
myself to some object, even from motives comparatively slight.  On
leaving my horrible abode, I cast back a glance at the heavy wall against
which I had so often supported myself, while listening as closely as
possible to the gentle voice of the repentant girl.  I felt a desire to
hear, if only for the last time, those two pathetic lines,—

    Chi rende alla meschina
    La sua felicità?

Vain hope! here was another separation in the short period of my
unfortunate life.  But I will not go into any further details, lest the
world should laugh at me, though it would be hypocrisy in me to affect to
conceal that, for several days after, I felt melancholy at this imaginary
parting.

While going out of my dungeon I also made a farewell signal to two of the
robbers, who had been my neighbours, and who were then standing at their
window.  Their chief also got notice of my departure, ran to the window,
and repeatedly saluted me.  He began likewise to sing the little air,
_Chi rende alla meschina_; and was this, thought I, merely to ridicule
me?  No doubt that forty out of fifty would say decidedly, “It was!”  In
spite, however, of being outvoted, I incline to the opinion that the
_good robber_ meant it kindly; and, as such I received it, and gave him a
look of thanks.  He saw it, and thrust his arm through the bars, and
waved his cap, nodding kindly to me as I turned to go down the stairs.

Upon reaching the yard below, I was further consoled by a sight of the
little deaf and dumb boy.  He saw me, and instantly ran towards me with a
look of unfeigned delight.  The wife of the jailer, however, Heaven knows
why, caught hold of the little fellow, and rudely thrusting him back,
drove him into the house.  I was really vexed; and yet the resolute
little efforts he made even then to reach me, gave me indescribable
pleasure at the moment, so pleasing it is to find that one is really
loved.  This was a day full of great adventures for _me_; a few steps
further I passed the window of my old prison, now the abode of Gioja:
“How are you, Melchiorre?” I exclaimed as I went by.  He raised his head,
and getting as near me as it was _possible_, cried out, “How do you do,
Silvio?”  They would not let me stop a single moment; I passed through
the great gate, ascended a flight of stairs, which brought us to a large,
well-swept room, exactly over that occupied by Gioja.  My bed was brought
after me, and I was then left to myself by my conductors.  My first
object was to examine the walls; I met with several inscriptions, some
written with charcoal, others in pencil, and a few incised with some
sharp point.  I remember there were some very pleasing verses in French,
and I am sorry I forgot to commit them to mind.  They were signed “The
duke of Normandy.”  I tried to sing them, adapting to them, as well as I
could, the favourite air of my poor Maddalene.  What was my surprise to
hear a voice, close to me, reply in the same words, sung to another air.
When he had finished, I cried out, “Bravo!” and he saluted me with great
respect, inquiring if I were a Frenchman.

“No; an Italian, and my name is Silvio Pellico.”

“The author of _Francesca da Rimini_?” {6}

“The same.”

Here he made me a fine compliment, following it with the condolences
usual on such occasions, upon hearing I had been committed to prison.  He
then inquired of what part of Italy I was a native.  “Piedmont,” was the
reply; “I am from Saluzzo.”  Here I was treated to another compliment, on
the character and genius of the Piedmontese, in particular, the
celebrated men of Saluzzo, at the head of whom he ranked Bodoni. {7}  All
this was said in an easy refined tone, which showed the man of the world,
and one who had received a good education.

“Now, may I be permitted,” said I, “to inquire who you are, sir?”

“I heard you singing one of my little songs,” was the reply.

“What! the two beautiful stanzas upon the wall are yours!”

“They are, sir.”

“You are, therefore,—”

“The unfortunate duke of Normandy.”




CHAPTER XIX.


THE jailer at that moment passed under our windows, and ordered us to be
silent.

What can he mean by the unfortunate duke of Normandy? thought I, musing
to myself.  Ah! is not that the title said to be assumed by the son of
Louis XVI.? but that unhappy child is indisputably no more.  Then my
neighbour must be one of those unlucky adventurers who have undertaken to
bring him to life again.  Not a few had already taken upon themselves to
personate this Louis XVII., and were proved to be impostors; how is my
new acquaintance entitled to greater credit for his pains?

Although I tried to give him the advantage of a doubt, I felt an
insurmountable incredulity upon the subject, which was not subsequently
removed.  At the same time, I determined not to mortify the unhappy man,
whatever sort of absurdity he might please to hazard before my face.

A few minutes afterwards he began again to sing, and we soon renewed our
conversation.  In answer to my inquiry, “What is your real name?” he
replied, “I am no other than Louis XVII.”  And he then launched into very
severe invectives against his uncle, Louis XVIII., the usurper of his
just and natural rights.

“But why,” said I, “did you not prefer your claims at the period of the
restoration?”

“I was unable, from extreme illness, to quit the city of Bologna.  The
moment I was better I hastened to Paris; I presented myself to the allied
monarchs, but the work was done.  The good Prince of Condé knew, and
received me with open arms, but his friendship availed me not.  One
evening, passing through a lonely street, I was suddenly attacked by
assassins, and escaped with difficulty.  After wandering through
Normandy, I returned into Italy, and stopped some time at Modena.  Thence
I wrote to the allied powers, in particular to the Emperor Alexander, who
replied to my letter with expressions of the greatest kindness.  I did
not then despair of obtaining justice, or, at all events, if my rights
were to be sacrificed, of being allowed a decent provision, becoming a
prince.  But I was arrested, and handed over to the Austrian government.
During eight months I have been here buried alive, and God knows when I
shall regain my freedom.”

I begged him to give me a brief sketch of his life.  He told me very
minutely what I already knew relating to Louis XVII. and the cruel Simon,
and of the infamous calumnies that wretch was induced to utter respecting
the unfortunate queen, &c.  Finally he said, that while in prison, some
persons came with an idiot boy of the name of Mathurin, who was
substituted for him, while he himself was carried off.  A coach and four
was in readiness; one of the horses was merely a wooden-machine, in the
interior of which he was concealed.  Fortunately, they reached the
confines, and the General (he gave me the name, which has escaped me) who
effected his release, educated him for some time with the attention of a
father, and subsequently sent, or accompanied him, to America.  There the
young king, without a sceptre, had room to indulge his wandering
disposition; he was half famished in the forests; became at length a
soldier, and resided some time, in good credit, at the court of the
Brazils.  There, too, he was pursued and persecuted, till compelled to
make his escape.  He returned to Europe towards the close of Napoleon’s
career, was kept a close prisoner at Naples by Murat; and, at last, when
he was liberated, and in full preparation to reclaim the throne of
France, he was seized with that unlucky illness at Bologna, during which
Louis XVIII. was permitted to assume his nephew’s crown.




CHAPTER XX.


ALL this he related with an air of remarkable frankness and truth.
Although not justified in believing him, I nevertheless was astonished at
his knowledge of the most minute facts connected with the revolution.  He
spoke with much natural fluency, and his conversation abounded with a
variety of curious anecdotes.  There was something also of the soldier in
his expression, without showing any want of that sort of elegance
resulting from an intercourse with the best society.

“Will it be permitted me,” I inquired, “to converse with you on equal
terms, without making use of any titles?”

“That is what I myself wish you to do,” was the reply.  “I have at least
reaped one advantage from adversity; I have learnt to smile at all these
vanities.  I assure you that I value myself more upon being a man, than
having been born a prince.”

We were in the habit of conversing together both night and morning, for a
considerable time; and, in spite of what I considered the comic part of
his character, he appeared to be of a good disposition, frank, affable,
and interested in the virtue and happiness of mankind.  More than once I
was on the point of saying, “Pardon me; I wish I could believe you were
Louis XVII., but I frankly confess I cannot prevail on myself to believe
it; be equally sincere, I entreat you, and renounce this singular fiction
of yours.”  I had even prepared to introduce the subject with an edifying
discourse upon the vanity of all imposture, even of such untruths as may
appear in themselves harmless.

I put off my purpose from day to day; I partly expected that we should
grow still more friendly and confidential, but I had never the heart
really to try the experiment upon his feelings.  When I reflect upon this
want of resolution, I sometimes attempt to reconcile myself to it on the
ground of proper urbanity, unwillingness to give offence, and other
reasons of the kind.  Still these excuses are far from satisfying me; I
cannot disguise that I ought not to have permitted my dislike to
preaching him a sermon to stand in the way of speaking my real
sentiments.  To affect to give credit to imposture of any kind is
miserable weakness, such as I think I should not, even in similar
circumstances, exhibit again.  At the same time, it must be confessed
that, preface it as you will, it is a harsh thing to say to any one, “I
don’t believe you!”  He will naturally resent it; it would deprive us of
his friendship or regard: nay it would, perhaps, make him hate us.  Yet
it is better to run every risk than to sanction an untruth.  Possibly,
the man capable of it, upon finding that his imposture is known, will
himself admire our sincerity, and afterwards be induced to reflect in a
manner that may produce the best results.

The under-jailers were unanimously of opinion that he was really Louis
XVII., and having already seen so many strange changes of fortune, they
were not without hopes that he would some day ascend the throne of
France, and remember the good treatment and attentions he had met with.
With the exception of assisting in his escape, they made it their object
to comply with all his wishes.  It was by such means I had the honour of
forming an acquaintance with this grand personage.  He was of the middle
height, between forty and forty-five years of age, rather inclined to
corpulency, and had features strikingly like those of the Bourbons.  It
is very probable that this accidental resemblance may have led him to
assume the character he did, and play so melancholy a part in it.




CHAPTER XXI.


THERE is one other instance of unworthy deference to private opinion, of
which I must accuse myself.  My neighbour was not an Atheist, he rather
liked to converse on religious topics, as if he justly appreciated the
importance of the subject, and was no stranger to its discussion.  Still,
he indulged a number of unreasonable prejudices against Christianity,
which he regarded less in its real nature than its abuses.  The
superficial philosophy which preceded the French revolution had dazzled
him.  He had formed an idea that religious worship might be offered up
with greater purity than as it had been dictated by the religion of the
Evangelists.  Without any intimate acquaintance with the writings of
Condillac and Tracy, he venerated them as the most profound thinkers, and
really thought that the last had carried the branch of metaphysics to the
highest degree of perfection.

I may fairly say that _my_ philosophical studies had been better
directed; I was aware of the weakness of the experimental doctrine, and I
knew the gross and shameless errors in point of criticism, which
influenced the age of Voltaire in libelling Christianity.  I had also
read Guénée, and other able exposers of such false criticism.  I felt a
conviction that, by no logical reasoning, could the being of a God be
granted, and the Bible rejected, and I conceived it a vulgar degradation
to fall in with the stream of antichristian opinions, and to want
elevation of intellect to apprehend how the doctrine of Catholicism in
its true character, is religiously simple and ennobling.  Yet I had the
meanness to bow to human opinion out of deference and respect.  The wit
and sarcasms of my neighbour seemed to confound me, while I could not
disguise from myself that they were idle and empty as the air.  I
dissimulated, I hesitated to announce my own belief, reflecting how far
it were seasonable thus to contradict my companion, and persuading myself
that it would be useless, and that I was perfectly justified in remaining
silent.  What vile pusillanimity! why thus respect the presumptuous power
of popular errors and opinions, resting upon no foundation.  True it is
that an ill-timed zeal is always indiscreet, and calculated to irritate
rather than convert; but to avow with frankness and modesty what we
regard as an important truth, to do it even when we have reason to
conclude it will not be palatable, and to meet willingly any ridicule or
sarcasm which may be launched against it; this I maintain to be an actual
duty.  A noble avowal of this kind, moreover, may always be made, without
pretending to assume, uncalled for, anything of the missionary character.

It is, I repeat, a duty, not to keep back an important truth at any
period; for though there may be little hope of it being immediately
acknowledged; it may tend to prepare the minds of others, and in due
time, doubtless, produce a better and more impartial judgment, and a
consequent triumph of truth.




CHAPTER XXII.


I CONTINUED in the same apartment during a month and some days.  On the
night of February the 18th, 1821, I was roused from sleep by a loud noise
of chains and keys; several men entered with a lantern, and the first
idea that struck me was, that they were come to cut my throat.  While
gazing at them in strange perplexity, one of the figures advanced towards
me with a polite air; it was Count B—, {8} who requested I would dress
myself as speedily as possible to set out.

I was surprised at this announcement, and even indulged a hope that they
were sent to conduct me to the confines of Piedmont.  Was it likely the
storm which hung over me would thus early be dispersed? should I again
enjoy that liberty so dearly prized, be restored to my beloved parents,
and see my brothers and sisters?

I was allowed short time to indulge these flattering hopes.  The moment I
had thrown on my clothes, I followed my conductors without having an
opportunity of bidding farewell to my royal neighbour.  Yet I thought I
heard him call my name, and regretted it was out of my power to stop and
reply.  “Where are we going?” I inquired of the Count, as we got into a
coach, attended by an officer of the guard.  “I cannot inform you till we
shall be a mile on the other side the city of Milan.”  I was aware the
coach was not going in the direction of the Vercelline gate; and my hopes
suddenly vanished.  I was silent; it was a beautiful moonlight night; I
beheld the same well-known paths I had traversed for pleasure so many
years before.  The houses, the churches, and every object renewed a
thousand pleasing recollections.  I saw the _Corsia_ of Porta Orientale,
I saw the public gardens, where I had so often rambled with Foscolo, {9}
Monti, {10} Lodovico di Breme, {11} Pietro Borsieri, {12} Count Porro,
and his sons, with many other delightful companions, conversing in all
the glow of life and hope.  How I felt my friendship for these noble men
revive with double force when I thought of having parted from them for
the last time, disappearing as they had done, one by one, so rapidly from
my view.  When we had gone a little way beyond the gate, I pulled my hat
over my eyes, and indulged these sad retrospections unobserved.

After having gone about a mile, I addressed myself to Count B-.  “I
presume we are on the road to Verona.”  “Yes, further,” was the reply;
“we are for Venice, where it is my duty to hand you over to a special
commission there appointed.”

We travelled post, stopped nowhere, and on the 20th of February arrived
at my destination.  The September of the year preceding, just one month
previous to my arrest, I had been at Venice, and had met a large and
delightful party at dinner, in the Hotel della Luna.  Strangely enough, I
was now conducted by the Count and the officer to the very inn where we
had spent that evening in social mirth.

One of the waiters started on seeing me, perceiving that, though my
conductors had assumed the dress of domestics, I was no other than a
prisoner in their hands.  I was gratified at this recognition, being
persuaded that the man would mention my arrival there to more than one.

We dined, and I was then conducted to the palace of the Doge, where the
tribunals are now held.  I passed under the well-known porticoes of the
_Procuratie_, and by the Florian Hotel, where I had enjoyed so many
pleasant evenings the last autumn; but I did not happen to meet a single
acquaintance.  We went across the piazzetta, and there it struck me that
the September before, I had met a poor mendicant, who addressed me in
these singular words:—

“I see, sir, you are a stranger, but I cannot make out why you, sir, and
all other strangers, should so much admire this place.  To me it is a
place of misfortune, and I never pass it when I can avoid it.”

“What, did you here meet with some disaster?”

“I did, sir; a horrible one, sir; and not only I.  God protect you from
it, God protect you!”  And he took himself off in haste.

At this moment it was impossible for me to forget the words of the poor
beggarman.  He was present there, too, the next year, when I ascended the
scaffold, whence I heard read to me the sentence of death, and that it
had been commuted for fifteen years hard imprisonment.  Assuredly, if I
had been inclined ever so little to superstition, I should have thought
much of the mendicant, predicting to me with so much energy, as he did,
and insisting that this was a place of misfortune.  As it is, I have
merely noted it down for a curious incident.  We ascended the palace;
Count B— spoke to the judges, then, handing me over to the jailer, after
embracing me with much emotion, he bade me farewell.




CHAPTER XXIII.


I FOLLOWED the jailer in silence.  After turning through a number of
passages, and several large rooms, we arrived at a small staircase, which
brought us under the _Piombi_, those notorious state prisons, dating from
the time of the Venetian republic.

There the jailer first registered my name, and then locked me up in the
room appointed for me.  The chambers called _I Piombi_ consist of the
upper portion of the Doge’s palace, and are covered throughout with lead.

My room had a large window with enormous bars, and commanded a view of
the roof (also of lead), and the church, of St. Mark.  Beyond the church
I could discern the end of the Piazza in the distance, with an immense
number of cupolas and belfries on all sides.  St. Mark’s gigantic
Campanile was separated from me only by the length of the church, and I
could hear persons speaking from the top of it when they talked at all
loud.  To the left of the church was to be seen a portion of the grand
court of the palace, and one of the chief entrances.  There is a public
well in that part of the court, and people were continually in the habit
of going thither to draw water.  From the lofty site of my prison they
appeared to me about the size of little children, and I could not at all
hear their conversation, except when they called out very loud.  Indeed,
I found myself much more solitary than I had been in the Milanese
prisons.

During several days the anxiety I suffered from the criminal trial
appointed by the special commission, made me rather melancholy, and it
was increased, doubtless, by that painful feeling of deeper solitude.

I was here, moreover, further removed from my family, of whom I heard no
more.  The new faces that appeared wore a gloom at once strange and
appalling.  Report had greatly exaggerated the struggle of the Milanese
and the rest of Italy to recover their independence; it was doubted if I
were not one of the most desperate promoters of that mad enterprise.  I
found that my name, as a writer, was not wholly unknown to my jailer, to
his wife, and even his daughter, besides two sons, and the under-jailers,
all of whom, by their manner, seemed to have an idea that a writer of
tragedies was little better than a kind of magician.  They looked grave
and distant, yet as if eager to learn more of me, had they dared to waive
the ceremony of their iron office.

In a few days I grew accustomed to their looks, or rather, I think, they
found I was not so great a necromancer as to escape through the lead
roofs, and, consequently, assumed a more conciliating demeanour.  The
wife had most of the character that marks the true jailer; she was dry
and hard, all bone, without a particle of heart, about forty, and
incapable of feeling, except it were a savage sort of instinct for her
offspring.  She used to bring me my coffee, morning and afternoon, and my
water at dinner.  She was generally accompanied by her daughter, a girl
of about fifteen, not very pretty, but with mild, compassionating looks,
and her two sons, from ten to thirteen years of age.  They always went
back with their mother, but there was a gentle look and a smile of love
for me upon their young faces as she closed the door, my only company
when they were gone.  The jailer never came near me, except to conduct me
before the special commission, that terrible ordeal for what are termed
crimes of state.

The under-jailers, occupied with the prisons of the police, situated on a
lower floor, where there were numbers of robbers, seldom came near me.
One of these assistants was an old man, more than seventy, but still able
to discharge his laborious duties, and to run up and down the steps to
the different prisons; another was a young man about twenty-five, more
bent upon giving an account of his love affairs than eager to devote
himself to his office.




CHAPTER XXIV.


I HAD now to confront the terrors of a state trial.  What was my dread of
implicating others by my answers!  What difficulty to contend against so
many strange accusations, so many suspicions of all kinds!  How
impossible, almost, not to become implicated by these incessant
examinations, by daily new arrests, and the imprudence of other parties,
perhaps not known to you, yet belonging to the same movement!  I have
decided not to speak on politics; and I must suppress every detail
connected with the state trials.  I shall merely observe that, after
being subjected for successive hours to the harassing process, I retired
in a frame of mind so excited, and so enraged, that I should assuredly
have taken my own life, had not the voice of religion, and the
recollection of my parents restrained my hand.  I lost the tranquillity
of mind I had acquired at Milan; during many days, I despaired of
regaining it, and I cannot even allude to this interval without feelings
of horror.  It was vain to attempt it, I could not pray; I questioned the
justice of God; I cursed mankind, and all the world, revolving in my mind
all the possible sophisms and satires I could think of, respecting the
hollowness and vanity of virtue.  The disappointed and the exasperated
are always ingenious in finding accusations against their
fellow-creatures, and even the Creator himself.  Anger is of a more
universal and injurious tendency than is generally supposed.  As we
cannot rage and storm from morning till night, and as the most ferocious
animal has necessarily its intervals of repose, these intervals in man
are greatly influenced by the immoral character of the conduct which may
have preceded them.  He appears to be at peace, indeed, but it is an
irreligious, malignant peace; a savage sardonic smile, destitute of all
charity or dignity; a love of confusion, intoxication, and sarcasm.

In this state I was accustomed to sing—anything but hymns—with a kind of
mad, ferocious joy.  I spoke to all who approached my dungeon, jeering
and bitter things; and I tried to look upon the whole creation through
the medium of that commonplace wisdom, the wisdom of the cynics.  This
degrading period, on which I hate to reflect, lasted happily only for six
or seven days, during which my Bible had become covered with dust.  One
of the jailer’s boys, thinking to please me, as he cast his eye upon it,
observed, “Since you left off reading that great, ugly book, you don’t
seem half so melancholy, sir.”  “Do you think so?” said I.  Taking the
Bible in my hands, I wiped off the dust, and opening it hastily, my eyes
fell upon the following words:—“And he said unto his disciples, it must
needs be that offences come; but woe unto him by whom they come; for
better had it been for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck,
and he cast into the sea, than that he should offend one of these little
ones.”

I was affected upon reading this passage, and I felt ashamed when I
thought that this little boy had perceived, from the dust with which it
was covered, that I no longer read my Bible, and had even supposed that I
had acquired a better temper by want of attention to my religious duties,
and become less wretched by forgetting my God.  “You little graceless
fellow,” I exclaimed, though reproaching him in a gentle tone, and
grieved at having afforded him a subject of scandal; “this is not a
great, ugly book, and for the few days that I have left off reading it, I
find myself much worse.  If your mother would let you stay with me a
little while, you would see that I know how to get rid of my ill-humour.
If you knew how hard it was to be in good humour, when left so long
alone, and when you hear me singing and talking like a madman, you would
not call this a great ugly book.”




CHAPTER XXV.


THE boy left me, and I felt a sort of pleasure at having taken the Bible
again in my hands, more especially at having owned I had been worse for
having neglected it.  It seemed as if I had made atonement to a generous
friend whom I had unjustly offended, but had now become reconciled to.
Yes! I had even forgotten my God! I exclaimed, and perverted my better
nature.  Could I have been led to believe that the vile mockery of the
cynic was applicable to one in my forlorn and desperate situation?

I felt an indescribable emotion on asking myself this question; I placed
the Bible upon a chair, and, falling on my knees, I burst into tears of
remorse: I who ever found it so difficult to shed even a tear.  These
tears were far more delightful to me than any physical enjoyment I had
ever felt.  I felt I was restored to God, I loved him, I repented of
having outraged religion by degrading myself; and I made a vow never,
never more to forget, to separate myself from, my God.

How truly a sincere return to faith, and love, and hope, consoles and
elevates the mind.  I read and continued to weep for upwards of an hour.
I rose with renewed confidence that God had not abandoned me, but had
forgiven my every fault and folly.  It was then that my misfortunes, the
horrors of my continued examinations, and the probable death which
awaited me, appeared of little account.  I rejoiced in suffering, since I
was thus afforded an occasion to perform some duty, and that, by
submitting with a resigned mind, I was obeying my Divine Master.  I was
enabled, thanks be to Heaven, to read my Bible.  I no longer estimated it
by the wretched, critical subterfuges of a Voltaire, heaping ridicule
upon mere expressions, in themselves neither false nor ridiculous, except
to gross ignorance or malice, which cannot penetrate their meaning.  I
became clearly convinced how indisputably it was the code of sanctity,
and hence of truth itself; how really unphilosophical it was to take
offence at a few little imperfections of style, not less absurd than the
vanity of one who despises everything that wears not the gloss of elegant
forms; what still greater absurdity to imagine that such a collection of
books, so long held in religious veneration, should not possess an
authentic origin, boasting, as they do, such a vast superiority over the
Koran, and the old theology of the Indies.

Many, doubtless, abused its excellence, many wished to turn it into a
code of injustice, and a sanction of all their bad passions.  But the
triumphant answer to these is, that every thing is liable to abuse; and
when did the abuse of the most precious and best of things lead us to the
conclusion that they were in their own nature bad?  Our Saviour himself
declared it; the whole law and the Prophets, the entire body of these
sacred books, all inculcate the same precept to love God and mankind.
And must not such writings embrace the truth—truth adapted to all times
and ages? must they not ever constitute the living word of the Holy
Spirit?

Whilst I made these reflections, I renewed my intention of identifying
with religion all my thoughts concerning human affairs, all my opinions
upon the progress of civilisation, my philanthropy, love of my country,
in short, all the passions of my mind.

The few days in which I remained subjected to the cynic doctrine, did me
a deal of harm.  I long felt its effects, and had great difficulty to
remove them.  Whenever man yields in the least to the temptation of
undignifying his intellect, to view the works of God through the infernal
medium of scorn, to abandon the beneficent exercise of prayer, the injury
which he inflicts upon his natural reason prepares him to fall again with
but little struggle.  For a period of several weeks I was almost daily
assaulted with strong, bitter tendencies to doubt and disbelief; and it
called for the whole power of my mind to free myself from their grasp.




CHAPTER XXVI.


WHEN these mental struggles had ceased, and I had again become habituated
to reverence the Deity in all my thoughts and feelings, I for some time
enjoyed the most unbroken serenity and peace.  The examinations to which
I was every two or three days subjected by the special commission,
however tormenting, produced no lasting anxiety, as before.  I succeeded
in this arduous position, in discharging all which integrity and
friendship required of me, and left the rest to the will of God.  I now,
too, resumed my utmost efforts to guard against the effects of any sudden
surprise, every emotion and passion, and every imaginable misfortune; a
kind of preparation for future trials of the greatest utility.

My solitude, meantime, grew more oppressive.  Two sons of the jailer,
whom I had been in the habit of seeing at brief intervals, were sent to
school, and I saw them no more.  The mother and the sister, who had been
accustomed, along with them, to speak to me, never came near me, except
to bring my coffee.  About the mother I cared very little; but the
daughter, though rather plain, had something so pleasing and gentle, both
in her words and looks, that I greatly felt the loss of them.  Whenever
she brought the coffee, and said, “It was I who made it,” I always
thought it excellent: but when she observed, “This is my mother’s
making,” it lost all its relish.

Being almost deprived of human society, I one day made acquaintance with
some ants upon my window; I fed them; they went away, and ere long the
placed was thronged with these little insects, as if come by invitation.
A spider, too, had weaved a noble edifice upon my walls, and I often gave
him a feast of gnats or flies, which were extremely annoying to me, and
which he liked much better than I did.  I got quite accustomed to the
sight of him; he would run over my bed, and come and take the precious
morsels out of my hand.  Would to heaven these had been the only insects
which visited my abode.  It was still summer, and the gnats had begun to
multiply to a prodigious and alarming extent.  The previous winter had
been remarkably mild, and after the prevalence of the March winds
followed extreme heat.  It is impossible to convey an idea of the
insufferable oppression of the air in the place I occupied.  Opposed
directly to a noontide sun, under a leaden roof, and with a window
looking on the roof of St. Mark, casting a tremendous reflection of the
heat, I was nearly suffocated.  I had never conceived an idea of a
punishment so intolerable: add to which the clouds of gnats, which, spite
of my utmost efforts, covered every article of furniture in the room,
till even the walls and ceiling seemed alive with them; and I had some
apprehension of being devoured alive.  Their bites, moreover, were
extremely painful, and when thus punctured from morning till night, only
to undergo the same operation from day to day, and engaged the whole time
in killing and slaying, some idea may be formed of the state both of my
body and my mind.

I felt the full force of such a scourge, yet was unable to obtain a
change of dungeon, till at length I was tempted to rid myself of my life,
and had strong fears of running distracted.  But, thanks be to God, these
thoughts were not of long duration, and religion continued to sustain me.
It taught me that man was born to suffer, and to suffer with courage: it
taught me to experience a sort of pleasure in my troubles, to resist and
to vanquish in the battle appointed me by Heaven.  The more unhappy, I
said to myself, my life may become, the less will I yield to my fate,
even though I should be condemned in the morning of my life to the
scaffold.  Perhaps, without these preliminary and chastening trials, I
might have met death in an unworthy manner.  Do I know, moreover, that I
possess those virtues and qualities which deserve prosperity; where and
what are they?  Then, seriously examining into my past conduct, I found
too little good on which to pride myself; the chief part was a tissue of
vanity, idolatry, and the mere exterior of virtue.  Unworthy, therefore,
as I am, let me suffer!  If it be intended that men and gnats should
destroy me, unjustly or otherwise, acknowledge in them the instruments of
a divine justice, and be silent.




CHAPTER XXVII.


DOES man stand in need of compulsion before he can be brought to humble
himself with sincerity? to look upon himself as a sinner?  Is it not too
true that we in general dissipate our youth in vanity, and, instead of
employing all our faculties in the acquisition of what is good, make them
the instruments of our degradation?  There are, doubtless, exceptions,
but I confess they cannot apply to a wretched individual like myself.
There is no merit in thus being dissatisfied with myself; when we see a
lamp which emits more smoke than flame, it requires no great sincerity to
say that it does not burn as it ought to do.

Yes, without any degradation, without any scruples of hypocrisy, and
viewing myself with perfect tranquillity of mind, I perceived that I had
merited the chastisement of my God.  An internal monitor told me that
such chastisements were, for one fault or other, amply merited; they
assisted in winning me back to Him who is perfect, and whom every human
being, as far as their limited powers will admit, are bound to imitate.
By what right, while constrained to condemn myself for innumerable
offences and forgetfulness towards God, could I complain, because some
men appeared to me despicable, and others wicked?  What if I were
deprived of all worldly advantages, and was doomed to linger in prison,
or to die a violent death?  I sought to impress upon my mind reflections
like these, at once just and applicable; and this done, I found it was
necessary to be consistent, and that it could be effected in no other
manner than by sanctifying the upright judgments of the Almighty, by
loving them, and eradicating every wish at all opposed to them.  The
better to persevere in my intention, I determined, in future, carefully
to revolve in my mind all my opinions, by committing them to writing.
The difficulty was that the Commission, while permitting me to have the
use of ink and paper, counted out the leaves, with an express prohibition
that I should not destroy a single one, and reserving the power of
examining in what manner I had employed them.  To supply the want of
paper, I had recourse to the simple stratagem of smoothing with a piece
of glass a rude table which I had, and upon this I daily wrote my long
meditations respecting the duties of mankind, and especially of those
which applied to myself.  It is no exaggeration to say that the hours so
employed were sometimes delightful to me, notwithstanding the difficulty
of breathing I experienced from the excessive heat, to say nothing of the
bitterly painful wounds, small though they were, of those poisonous
gnats.  To defend myself from the countless numbers of these tormentors,
I was compelled, in the midst of suffocation, to wrap my head and my legs
in thick cloth, and not only write with gloves on, but to bandage my
wrist to prevent the intruders creeping up my sleeves.

Meditations like mine assumed somewhat of a biographical character.  I
made out an account of all the good and the evil which had grown up with
me from my earliest youth, discussing them within myself, attempting to
resolve every doubt, and arranging, to the best of my power, the various
kinds of knowledge I had acquired, and my ideas upon every subject.  When
the whole surface of the table was covered with my lucubrations, I
perused and re-perused them, meditated on what I had already meditated,
and, at length, resolved (however unwillingly) to scratch out all I had
done with the glass, in order to have a clean superficies upon which to
recommence my operations.

From that time I continued the narrative of my experience of good and
evil, always relieved by digressions of every kind, by some analysis of
this or that point, whether in metaphysics, morals, politics, or
religion; and when the whole was complete, I again began to read, and
re-read, and lastly, to scratch out.  Being anxious to avoid every chance
of interruption, or of impediment, to my repeating with the greatest
possible freedom the facts I had recorded, and my opinions upon them, I
took care to transpose and abbreviate the words in such a manner as to
run no risk from the most inquisitorial visit.  No search, however, was
made, and no one was aware that I was spending my miserable prison-hours
to so good a purpose.  Whenever I heard the jailer or other person open
the door I covered my little table with a cloth, and placed upon it the
ink-stand, with the _lawful_ quantity of state paper by its side.




CHAPTER XXVIII.


STILL I did not wholly neglect the paper put into my hands, and sometimes
even devoted an entire day or night to writing.  But here I only treated
of literary matters.  I composed at that time the _Ester d’Engaddi_, the
_Iginia d’Asti_, and the _Cantichi_, entitled, _Tanereda Rosilde_,
_Eligi_ and _Valafrido_, _Adello_, besides several sketches of tragedies,
and other productions, in the list of which was a poem upon the _Lombard
League_, and another upon _Christopher Columbus_.

As it was not always so easy an affair to get a reinforcement of paper, I
was in the habit of committing my rough draughts to my table, or the
wrapping-paper in which I received fruit and other articles.  At times I
would give away my dinner to the under-jailer, telling him that I had no
appetite, and then requesting from him the favour of a sheet of paper.
This was, however, only in certain exigencies, when my little table was
full of writing, and I had not yet determined on clearing it away.  I was
often very hungry, and though the jailer had money of mine in his
possession, I did not ask him to bring me anything to eat, partly lest he
should suspect I had given away my dinner, and partly that the
under-jailer might not find out that I had said the thing which was not
when I assured him of my loss of appetite.  In the evening I regaled
myself with some strong coffee, and I entreated that it might be made by
the little _sioa_, Zanze. {13}  This was the jailer’s daughter, who, if
she could escape the lynx-eye of her sour mamma, was good enough to make
it exceedingly good; so good, indeed, that, what with the emptiness of my
stomach, it produced a kind of convulsion, which kept me awake the whole
of the night.

In this state of gentle inebriation, I felt my intellectual faculties
strangely invigorated; wrote poetry, philosophized, and prayed till
morning with feelings of real pleasure.  I then became completely
exhausted, threw myself upon my bed, and, spite of the gnats that were
continually sucking my blood, I slept an hour or two in profound rest.

I can hardly describe the peculiar and pleasing exaltation of mind which
continued for nights together, and I left no means untried to secure the
same means of continuing it.  With this view I still refused to touch a
mouthful of dinner, even when I was in no want of paper, merely in order
to obtain my magic beverage for the evening.

How fortunate I thought myself when I succeeded; not unfrequently the
coffee was not made by the gentle Angiola; and it was always vile stuff
from her mother’s hands.  In this last case, I was sadly put out of
humour, for instead of the electrical effect on my nerves, it made me
wretched, weak, and hungry; I threw myself down to sleep, but was unable
to close an eye.  Upon these occasions I complained bitterly to Angiola,
the jailer’s daughter, and one day, as if she had been in fault, I
scolded her so sharply that the poor girl began to weep, sobbing out,
“Indeed, sir, I never deceived anybody, and yet everybody calls me a
deceitful little mix.”

“Everybody!  Oh then, I see I am not the only one driven to distraction
by your vile slops.”

“I do not mean to say that, sir.  Ah, if you only knew; if I dared to
tell you all that my poor, wretched heart—”

“Well, don’t cry so!  What is all this ado?  I beg your pardon, you see,
if I scolded you.  Indeed, I believe you would not, you could not, make
me such vile stuff as this.”

“Dear me!  I am not crying about that, sir.”

“You are not!” and I felt my self-love not a little mortified, though I
forced a smile.  “Are you crying, then, because I scolded you, and yet
not about the coffee?”

“Yes, indeed, sir?”

“Ah! then who called you a little deceitful one before?”

“_He_ did, sir.”

“_He_ did; and who is _he_?”

“My lover, sir;” and she hid her face in her little hands.

Afterwards she ingenuously intrusted to my keeping, and I could not well
betray her, a little serio-comic sort of pastoral romance, which really
interested me.




CHAPTER XXIX.


FROM that day forth, I know not why, I became the adviser and confidant
of this young girl, who returned and conversed with me for hours.  She at
first said, “You are so good, sir, that I feel just the same when I am
here as if I were your own daughter.”

“That is a very poor compliment,” replied I, dropping her hand; “I am
hardly yet thirty-two, and you look upon me as if I were an old father.”

“No, no, not so; I mean as a brother, to be sure;” and she insisted upon
taking hold of my hand with an air of the most innocent confidence and
affection.

I am glad, thought I to myself, that you are no beauty; else, alas, this
innocent sort of fooling might chance to disconcert me; at other times I
thought it is lucky, too, she is so young, there could never be any
danger of becoming attached to girls of her years.  At other times,
however, I felt a little uneasy, thinking I was mistaken in having
pronounced her rather plain, whereas her whole shape and features were by
no means wanting in proportion or expression.  If she were not quite so
pale, I said, and her face free from those marks, she might really pass
for a beauty.  It is impossible, in fact, not to find some charm in the
presence and in the looks and voice of a young girl full of vivacity and
affection.  I had taken not the least pains to acquire her good-will; yet
was I as dear to either as a father or a brother, whichever title I
preferred.  And why?  Only because she had read _Francesca da Rimini_ and
_Eufemio_, and my poems, she said, had made her weep so often; then,
besides, I was a solitary prisoner, _without having_, as she observed,
either robbed or murdered anybody.

In short, when I had become attached to poor Maddalene, without once
seeing her, how was it likely that I could remain indifferent to the
sisterly assiduity and attentions, to the thousand pleasing little
compliments, and to the most delicious cups of coffee of this young
Venice girl, my gentle little jailer? {14}  I should be trying to impose
on myself, were I to attribute to my own prudence the fact of my not
having fallen in love with Angiola.  I did not do so, simply from the
circumstance of her having already a lover of her own choosing, to whom
she was desperately, unalterably attached.  Heaven help me! if it had not
been thus I should have found myself in a very _critical_ position,
indeed, for an author, with so little to keep alive his attention.  The
sentiment I felt for her was not, then, what is called love.  I wished to
see her happy, and that she might be united to the lover of her choice; I
was not jealous, nor had I the remotest idea she could ever select me as
the object of her regard.  Still, when I heard my prison-door open, my
heart began to beat in the hope it was my Angiola; and if she appeared
not, I experienced a peculiar kind of vexation; when she really came my
heart throbbed yet more violently, from a feeling of pure joy.  Her
parents, who had begun to entertain a good opinion of me, and were aware
of her passionate regard for another, offered no opposition to the visits
she thus made me, permitting her almost invariably to bring me my coffee
in a morning, and not unfrequently in the evening.

There was altogether a simplicity and an affectionateness in her every
word, look, and gesture, which were really captivating.  She would say,
“I am excessively attached to another, and yet I take such delight in
being near you!  When I am not in _his_ company, I like being nowhere so
well as here.”  (Here was another compliment.)

“And don’t you know why?” inquired I.

“I do not.”

“I will tell you, then.  It is because I permit you to talk about your
lover.”

“That is a good guess; yet still I think it is a good deal because I
esteem you so very much!”

Poor girl! along with this pretty frankness she had that blessed sin of
taking me always by the hand, and pressing it with all her heart, not
perceiving that she at once pleased and disconcerted me by her
affectionate manner.  Thanks be to Heaven, that I can always recall this
excellent little girl to mind without the least tinge of remorse.




CHAPTER XXX.


THE following portion of my narrative would assuredly have been more
interesting had the gentle Angiola fallen in love with me, or if I had at
least run half mad to enliven my solitude.  There was, however, another
sentiment, that of simple benevolence, no less dear to me, which united
our hearts in one.  And if, at any moment, I felt there was the least
risk of its changing its nature in my vain, weak heart, it produced only
sincere regret.

Once, certainly, having my doubts that this would happen, and finding
her, to my sorrow, a hundred times more beautiful than I had at first
imagined; feeling too so very melancholy when she was absent, so joyous
when near, I took upon myself to play the _unamiable_, in the idea that
this would remove all danger by making her leave off the same
affectionate and familiar manner.  This innocent stratagem was tried in
vain; the poor girl was so patient, so full of compassion for me.  She
would look at me in silence, with her elbow resting upon the window, and
say, after a long pause, “I see, sir, you are tired of my company, yet
_I_ would stay here the whole day if I could, merely to keep the hours
from hanging so heavy upon you.  This ill-humour of yours is the natural
effect of your long solitude; if you were able to chat awhile, you would
be quite well again.  If you don’t like to talk, I will talk for you.”

“About your lover, eh?”

“No, no; not always about him; I can talk of many things.”

She then began to give me some extracts from the household annals,
dwelling upon the sharp temper of her mother, her good-natured father,
and the monkey-tricks of her little brothers; and she told all this with
a simple grace and innocent frankness not a little alluring.  Yet I was
pretty near the truth; for, without being aware of it, she uniformly
concluded with the one favourite theme: her ill-starred love.  Still I
went on acting the part of the _unamiable_, in the hope that she would
take a spite against me.  But whether from inadvertency or design, she
would not take the hint, and I was at last fairly compelled to give up by
sitting down contented to let her have her way, smiling, sympathising
with, and thanking her for the sweet patience with which she had so long
borne with me.

I no longer indulged the ungracious idea of spiting her against me, and,
by degrees, all my other fears were allayed.  Assuredly I had not been
smitten; I long examined into the nature of my scruples, wrote down my
reflections upon the subject, and derived no little advantage from the
process.

Man often terrifies himself with mere bugbears of the mind.  If we would
learn not to fear them, we have only to examine them a little more nearly
and attentively.  What harm, then, if I looked forward to her visits to
me with a tender anxiety, if I appreciated their sweetness, if it did me
good to be compassioned by her, and to interchange all our thoughts and
feelings, unsullied, I will say, as those of childhood.  Even her most
affectionate looks, and smiles, and pressures of the hand, while they
agitated me, produced a feeling of salutary respect mingled with
compassion.  One evening, I remember, when suffering under a sad
misfortune, the poor girl threw her arms round my neck, and wept as if
her heart would break.  She had not the least idea of impropriety; no
daughter could embrace a father with more perfect innocence and
unsuspecting affection.  I could not, however, reflect upon that embrace
without feeling somewhat agitated.  It often recurred to my imagination,
and I could then think of no other subject.  On another occasion, when
she thus threw herself upon my confidence, I was really obliged to
disentangle myself from her dear arms, ere I once pressed her to my
bosom, or gave her a single kiss, while I stammered out, “I pray you,
now, sweet Angiola, do not embrace me ever again; it is not quite
proper.”  She fixed her eyes upon me for a moment, then cast them down,
while a blush suffused her ingenuous countenance; and I am sure it was
the first time that she read in my mind even the possibility of any
weakness of mine in reference to her.  Still she did not cease to
continue her visits upon the same friendly footing, with a little mere
reserve and respect, such as I wished it to be; and I was grateful to her
for it.




CHAPTER XXXI.


I AM unable to form an estimate of the evils which afflict others; but,
as respects myself, I am bound to confess that, after close examination,
I found that no sufferings had been appointed me, except to some wise
end, and for my own advantage.  It was thus even with the excessive heat
which oppressed, and the gnats which tormented me.  Often have I
reflected that but for this continual suffering I might not have
successfully resisted the temptation of falling in love, situated as I
was, and with one whose extremely affectionate and ardent feelings would
have made it difficult always to preserve it within respectful limits.
If I had sometimes reason to tremble, how should I have been enabled to
regulate my vain imagination in an atmosphere somewhat inspiring, and
open to the breathings of joy.

Considering the imprudence of Angiola’s parents, who reposed such
confidence in me, the imprudence of the poor girl herself, who had not an
idea of giving rise to any culpable affection on my part, and
considering, too, the little steadfastness of my virtue, there can be
little doubt but the suffocating heat of my great oven, and the cruel
warfare of the gnats, were effectual safeguards to us both.

Such a reflection reconciled me somewhat to these scourges; and I then
asked myself, Would you consent to become free, and to take possession of
some handsome apartment, filled with flowers and fresh air, on condition
of never more seeing this affectionate being?  I will own the truth; I
had not courage to reply to this simple question.

When you really feel interested about any one, it is indescribable what
mere trifles are capable of conferring pleasure.  A single word, a smile,
a tear, a Venetian turn of expression, her eagerness in protecting me
from my enemies, the gnats, all inspired me with a childish delight that
lasted the whole day.  What most gratified me was to see that her own
sufferings seemed to be relieved by conversing with me, that my
compassion consoled her, that my advice influenced her, and that her
heart was susceptible of the warmest devotion when treating of virtue and
its great Author.

When we had sometimes discussed the subject of religion, she would
observe, “I find that I can now pray with more willingness and more faith
than I did.”  At other times, suddenly breaking off some frivolous topic,
she took the Bible, opened it, pressed her lips to it, and then begged of
me to translate some passages, and give my comments.  She added, “I could
wish that every time you happen to recur to this passage you should call
to mind that I have kissed and kissed it again.”

It was not always, indeed, that her kisses fell so appropriately, more
especially if she happened to open at the spiritual songs.  Then, in
order to spare her blushes, I took advantage of her want of acquaintance
with the Latin, and gave a turn to the expressions which, without
detracting from the sacredness of the Bible, might serve to respect her
innocence.  On such occasions I never once permitted myself to smile; at
the same time I was not a little perplexed, when, not rightly
comprehending my new version, she entreated of me to translate the whole,
word for word, and would by no means let me shy the question by turning
her attention to something else.




CHAPTER XXXII.


NOTHING is durable here below!  Poor Angiola fell sick; and on one of the
first days when she felt indisposed, she came to see me, complaining
bitterly of pains in her head.  She wept, too, and would not explain the
cause of her grief.  She only murmured something that looked like
reproaches of her lover.  “He is a villain!” she said; “but God forgive
him, as I do!”

I left no means untried to obtain her confidence, but it was the first
time I was quite unable to ascertain why she distressed herself to such
an excess.  “I will return to-morrow morning,” she said, one evening on
parting from me; “I will, indeed.”  But the next morning came, and my
coffee was brought by her mother; the next, and the next, by the
under-jailers; and Angiola continued grievously ill.  The under-jailers,
also, brought me very unpleasant tidings relating to the love-affair;
tidings, in short, which made me deeply sympathize with her sufferings.
A case of seduction!  But, perhaps, it was the tale of calumny.  Alas!  I
but too well believed it, and I was affected at it more than I can
express; though I still like to flatter myself that it was false.  After
upwards of a month’s illness, the poor girl was taken into the country,
and I saw her no more.

It is astonishing how deeply I felt this deprivation, and how much more
horrible my solitude now appeared.  Still more bitter was the reflection
that she, who had so tenderly fed, and watched, and visited me in my sad
prison, supplying every want and wish within her power, was herself a
prey to sorrow and misfortune.  Alas! I could make her no return; yet,
surely she will feel aware how truly I sympathize with her; that there is
no effort I would not make to afford her comfort and relief, and that I
shall never cease to offer up my prayers for her, and to bless her for
her goodness to a wretched prisoner.

Though her visits had been too brief, they were enough to break upon the
horrid monotony of my solitude.  By suggesting and comparing our ideas, I
obtained new views and feelings, exercised some of the best and sweetest
affections, gave a zest to life, and even threw a sort of lustre round my
misfortunes.

Suddenly the vision fled, and my dungeon became to me really like a
living tomb.  A strange sadness for many days quite oppressed me.  I
could not even write: it was a dark, quiet, nameless feeling, in no way
partaking of the violence and irritation which I had before experienced.
Was it that I had become more inured to adversity, more philosophical,
more of a Christian?  Or was it really that the extremely enervating heat
of my dungeon had so prostrated my powers that I could no longer feel the
pangs of excessive grief.  Ah, no! for I can well recollect that I then
felt it to my inmost soul; and, perhaps, more intensely from the want
both of will and power to give vent to it by agitation, maledictions, and
cries.  The fact is, I believe, that I had been severely schooled by my
past sufferings, and was resigned to the will of God.  I had so often
maintained that it was a mark of cowardice to complain, that, at length,
I succeeded in restraining my passion, when on the point of breaking out,
and felt vexed that I had permitted it to obtain any ascendancy over me.

My mental faculties were strengthened by the habit of writing down my
thoughts; I got rid of all my vanity, and reduced the chief part of my
reasonings to the following conclusions: There is a God: THEREFORE
unerring justice; THEREFORE all that happens is ordained to the best end;
consequently, the sufferings of man on earth are inflicted for the good
of man.

Thus, my acquaintance with Angiola had proved beneficial, by soothing and
conciliating my feelings.  Her good opinion of me had urged me to the
fulfilment of many duties, especially of that of proving one’s self
superior to the shocks of fortune, and of suffering in patience.  By
exerting myself to persevere for about a month, I was enabled to feel
perfectly resigned.

Angiola had beheld me two or three times in a downright passion; once, as
I have stated, on account of her having brought me bad coffee, and a
second time as follows:—

Every two or three weeks the jailer had brought me a letter from some of
my family.  It was previously submitted to the Commission, and most
roughly handled, as was too evident by the number of _erasures_ in the
blackest ink which appeared throughout.  One day, however, instead of
merely striking out a few passages, they drew the black line over the
entire letter, with the exception of the words, “MY DEAREST SILVIO,” at
the beginning, and the parting salutation at the close, “_All unite in
kindest love to you_.”

This act threw me into such an uncontrollable fit of passion, that, in
presence of the gentle Angiola, I broke out into violent shouts of rage,
and cursed I know not whom.  The poor girl pitied me from her heart; but,
at the same time, reminded me of the strange inconsistency of my
principles.  I saw she had reason on her side, and I ceased from uttering
my maledictions.




CHAPTER XXXIII.


ONE of the under-jailers one day entered my prison with a mysterious
look, and said, “Sometime, I believe, that Siora Zanze (Angiola) . . .
was used to bring you your coffee . . . She stopped a good while to
converse with you, and I was afraid the cunning one would worm out all
your secrets, sir.”

“Not one,” I replied, in great anger; “or if I had any, I should not be
such a fool as to tell them in that way.  Go on.”

“Beg pardon, sir; far from me to call you by such a name . . . But I
never trusted to that Siora Zanze.  And now, sir, as you have no longer
any one to keep you company . . . I trust I—”

“What, what! explain yourself at once!”

“Swear first that you will not betray me.”

“Well, well; I could do that with a safe conscience.  I never betrayed
any one.”

“Do you say really you will swear?”

“Yes; I swear not to betray you.  But what a wretch to doubt it; for any
one capable of betraying you will not scruple to violate an oath.”

He took a letter from his coat-lining, and gave it me with a trembling
hand, beseeching I would destroy it the moment I had read it.

“Stop,” I cried, opening it; “I will read and destroy it while you are
here.”

“But, sir, you must answer it, and I cannot stop now.  Do it at your
leisure.  Only take heed, when you hear any one coming, you will know if
it be I by my singing, pretty loudly, the tune, _Sognai mi gera un gato_.
You need, then, fear nothing, and may keep the letter quietly in your
pocket.  But should you not hear this song, set it down for a mark that
it cannot be me, or that some one is with me.  Then, in a moment, out
with it, don’t trust to any concealment, in case of a search; out with
it, tear it into a thousand bits, and throw it through the window.”

“Depend upon me; I see you are prudent, I will be so too.”

“Yet you called me a stupid wretch.”

“You do right to reproach me,” I replied, shaking him by the hand, “and I
beg your pardon.”  He went away, and I began to read

“I am (and here followed the name) one of your admirers: I have all your
_Francesca da Rimini_ by heart.  They arrested me for—(and here he gave
the reason with the date)—and I would give, I know not how many pounds of
my blood to have the pleasure of being with you, or at least in a dungeon
near yours, in order that we might converse together.  Since I heard from
Tremerello, so we shall call our confidant, that you, sir, were a
prisoner, and the cause of your arrest, I have longed to tell you how
deeply I lament your misfortune, and that no one can feel greater
attachment to you than myself.  Have you any objection to accept the
offer I make, namely, that we should try to lighten the burden of our
solitude by writing to each other.  I pledge you my honour, that not a
being shall ever hear of our correspondence from me, and am persuaded
that I may count upon the same secresy on your part, if you adopt my
plan.  Meantime, that you may form some idea, I will give you an abstract
from my life.”—(It followed.)




CHAPTER XXXIV.


THE reader, however deficient in the imaginative organ, may easily
conceive the electric effect of such a letter upon the nerves of a poor
prisoner, not of the most savage disposition, but possessing an
affectionate and gregarious turn of mind.  I felt already an affection
for the unknown; I pitied his misfortunes, and was grateful for the kind
expressions he made use of.  “Yes,” exclaimed I, “your generous purpose
shall be effected.  I wish my letters may afford you consolation equal to
that which I shall derive from yours.”

I re-perused his letter with almost boyish delight, and blessed the
writer; there was not an expression which did not exhibit evidence of a
clear and noble mind.

The sun was setting, it was my hour of prayer; I felt the presence of
God; how sincere was my gratitude for his providing me with new means of
exercising the faculties of my mind.  How it revived my recollection of
all the invaluable blessings he had bestowed upon me!

I stood before the window, with my arms between the bars, and my hands
folded; the church of St. Mark lay below me, an immense flock of pigeons,
free as the air, were flying about, were cooing and billing, or busied in
constructing their nests upon the leaden roof; the heavens in their
magnificence were before me; I surveyed all that part of Venice visible
from my prison; a distant murmur of human voices broke sweetly on my ear.
From this vast unhappy prison-house did I hold communion with Him, whose
eyes alone beheld me; to Him I recommended my father, my mother, and,
individually, all those most dear to me, and it appeared as if I heard
Him reply, “Confide in my goodness,” and I exclaimed, “Thy goodness
assures me.”

I concluded my prayer with much emotion, greatly comforted, and little
caring for the bites of the gnats, which had been joyfully feasting upon
me.  The same evening, my mind, after such exaltation, beginning to grow
calmer, I found the torment from the gnats becoming insufferable, and
while engaged in wrapping up my hands and face, a vulgar and malignant
idea all at once entered my mind, which horrified me, and which I vainly
attempted to banish.

Tremerello had insinuated a vile suspicion respecting Angiola; that, in
short, she was a spy upon my secret opinions!  She! that noble-hearted
creature, who knew nothing of politics, and wished to know nothing of
them!

It was impossible for me to suspect her; but have I, said I, the same
certainty respecting Tremerello?  Suppose that rogue should be the bribed
instrument of secret informers; suppose the letter had been fabricated by
_who knows whom_, to induce me to make important disclosures to my new
friend.  Perhaps his pretended prison does not exist; or if so, he may be
a traitor, eager to worm out secrets in order to make his own terms;
perhaps he is a man of honour, and Tremerello himself the traitor who
aims at our destruction in order to gain an additional salary.

Oh, horrible thought, yet too natural to the unhappy prisoner, everywhere
in fear of enmity and fraud!

Such suspicions tormented and degraded me.  I did not entertain them as
regarded Angiola a single moment.  Yet, from what Tremerello had said, a
kind of doubt clung to me as to the conduct of those who had permitted
her to come into my apartment.  Had they, either from their own zeal, or
by superior authority, given her the office of spy? in that case, how ill
had she discharged such an office!

But what was I to do respecting the letter of the unknown?  Should I
adopt the severe, repulsive counsel of fear which we call prudence?
Shall I return the letter to Tremerello, and tell him, I do not wish to
run any risk.  Yet suppose there should be no treason; and the unknown be
a truly worthy character, deserving that I should venture something, if
only to relieve the horrors of his solitude?  Coward as I am, standing on
the brink of death, the fatal decree ready to strike me at any moment,
yet to refuse to perform a simple act of love!  Reply to him I must and
will.  Grant that it be discovered, no one can fairly be accused of
writing the letter, though poor Tremerello would assuredly meet with the
severest chastisement.  Is not this consideration of itself sufficient to
decide me against undertaking any clandestine correspondence?  Is it not
my absolute duty to decline it?




CHAPTER XXXV.


I WAS agitated the whole evening; I never closed my eyes that night, and
amidst so many conflicting doubts, I knew not on what to resolve.

I sprung from my bed before dawn, I mounted upon the window-place, and
offered up my prayers.  In trying circumstances it is necessary to appeal
with confidence to God, to heed his inspirations, and to adhere to them.

This I did, and after long prayer, I went down, shook off the gnats, took
the bitten gloves in my hands, and came to the determination to explain
my apprehensions to Tremerello and warn him of the great danger to which
he himself was exposed by bearing letters; to renounce the plan if he
wavered, and to accept it if its terrors did not deter him.  I walked
about till I heard the words of the song:—_Segnai mi gera un gato_, _E ti
me carezzevi_.  It was Tremerello bringing me my coffee.  I acquainted
him with my scruples and spared nothing to excite his fears.  I found him
staunch in his desire to _serve_, as he said, _two such complete
gentlemen_.  This was strangely at variance with the sheep’s face he
wore, and the name we had just given him. {15}  Well, I was as firm on my
part.

“I shall leave you my wine,” said I, “see to find me the paper; I want to
carry on this correspondence; and, rely on it, if any one comes without
the warning song, I shall make an end of every suspicious article.”

“Here is a sheet of paper ready for you; I will give you more whenever
you please, and am perfectly satisfied of your prudence.”

I longed to take my coffee; Tremerello left me, and I sat down to write.
Did I do right? was the motive really approved by God?  Was it not rather
the triumph of my natural courage, of my preference of that which pleased
me, instead of obeying the call for painful sacrifices.  Mingled with
this was a proud complacency, in return for the esteem expressed towards
me by the unknown, and a fear of appearing cowardly, if I were to adhere
to silence and decline a correspondence, every way so fraught with peril.
How was I to resolve these doubts?  I explained them frankly to my
fellow-prisoner in replying to him, stating it nevertheless, as my
opinion, that if anything were undertaken from good motives, and without
the least repugnance of conscience, there could be no fear of blame.  I
advised him at the same time to reflect seriously upon the subject, and
to express clearly with what degree of tranquillity, or of anxiety, he
was prepared to engage, in it.  Moreover, if, upon reconsideration, he
considered the plan as too dangerous, we ought to have firmness enough to
renounce the satisfaction we promised ourselves in such a correspondence,
and rest satisfied with the acquaintance we had formed, the mutual
pleasure we had already derived, and the unalterable goodwill we felt
towards each other, which resulted from it.  I filled four pages with my
explanations, and expressions of the warmest friendship; I briefly
alluded to the subject of my imprisonment; I spoke of my family with
enthusiastic love, as well as of some of my friends, and attempted to
draw a full picture of my mind and character.

In the evening I sent the letter.  I had not slept during the preceding
night; I was completely exhausted, and I soon fell into a profound sleep,
from which I awoke on the ensuing morning, refreshed and comparatively
happy.  I was in hourly expectation of receiving my new friend’s answer,
and I felt at once anxious and pleased at the idea.




CHAPTER XXXVI.


THE answer was brought with my coffee.  I welcomed Tremerello, and,
embracing him, exclaimed, “May God reward you for this goodness!”  My
suspicions had fled, because they were hateful to me; and because, making
a point of never speaking imprudently upon politics, they appeared
equally useless; and because, with all my admiration for the genius of
Tacitus, I had never much faith in the justice of _tacitising_ as he
does, and of looking upon every object on the dark side.  Giuliano (as
the writer signed himself), began his letter with the usual compliments,
and informed me that he felt not the least anxiety in entering upon the
correspondence.  He rallied me upon my hesitation; occasionally assumed a
tone of irony; and then more seriously declared that it had given him no
little pain to observe in me “a certain scrupulous wavering, and a
subtilty of conscience, which, however Christian-like, was little in
accordance with true philosophy.”  “I shall continue to esteem you,” he
added, “though we should not agree upon that point; for I am bound, in
all sincerity, to inform you, that I have no religion, that I abhor all
creeds, and that I assume from a feeling of modesty the name of Julian,
from the circumstance of that good emperor having been so decided an
enemy of the Christians, though, in fact, I go much further than he ever
did.  The sceptred Julian believed in God, and had his own little
superstitions.  I have none; I believe not in a God, but refer all virtue
to the love of truth, and the hatred of such as do not please me.”  There
was no reasoning in what he said.  He inveighed bitterly against
Christianity, made an idol of worldly honour and virtue; and in a half
serious and jocular vein took on himself to pronounce the Emperor
Julian’s eulogium for his apostasy, and his philanthropic efforts to
eradicate all traces of the gospel from the face of the earth.

Apprehending that he had thus given too severe a shock to my opinions, he
then asked my pardon, attempting to excuse himself upon the ground of
_perfect sincerity_.  Reiterating his extreme wish to enter into more
friendly relations with me, he then bade me farewell.

In a postscript he added:—“I have no sort of scruples, except a fear of
not having made myself sufficiently understood.  I ought not to conceal
that to me the Christian language which you employ, appears a mere mask
to conceal your real opinions.  I wish it may be so; and in this case,
throw off your cloak, as I have set you an example.”

I cannot describe the effect this letter had upon me.  I had opened it
full of hope and ardour.  Suddenly an icy hand seemed to chill the
life-blood of my heart.  That sarcasm on my conscientiousness hurt me
extremely.  I repented having formed any acquaintance with such a man, I
who so much detest the doctrine of the cynics, who consider it so wholly
unphilosophical, and the most injurious in its tendency: I who despise
all kind of arrogance as it deserves.

Having read the last word it contained, I took the letter in both my
hands, and tearing it directly down the middle, I held up a half in each
like an executioner, employed in exposing it to public scorn.




CHAPTER XXXVII.


I KEPT my eye fixed on the fragments, meditating for a moment upon the
inconstancy and fallacy of human things I had just before eagerly desired
to obtain, that which I now tore with disdain.  I had hoped to have found
a companion in misfortune, and how I should have valued his friendship!
Now I gave him all kinds of hard names, insolent, arrogant, atheist, and
self-condemned.

I repeated the same operation, dividing the wretched members of the
guilty letter again and again, till happening to cast my eye on a piece
remaining in my hand, expressing some better sentiment, I changed my
intention, and collecting together the _disjecta membra_, ingeniously
pieced them with the view of reading it once more.  I sat down, placed
them on my great Bible, and examined the whole.  I then got up, walked
about, read, and thought, “If I do not answer,” said I, “he will think he
has terrified me at the mere appearance of such a philosophical hero, a
very Hercules in his own estimation.  Let us show him, with all due
courtesy, that we fear not to confront him and his vicious doctrines, any
more than to brave the risk of a correspondence, more dangerous to others
than to ourselves.  I will teach him that true courage does not consist
in ridiculing _conscience_, and that real dignity does not consist in
arrogance and pride.  He shall be taught the reasonableness of
Christianity, and the nothingness of disbelief.  Moreover, if this mock
Julian start opinions so directly opposite to my own, if he spare not the
most biting sarcasm, if he attack me thus uncourteously; is it not all a
proof that he can be no spy?  Yet, might not this be a mere stratagem, to
draw me into a discussion by wounding my self-love?  Yet no!  I am
unjust—I smart under his bitter irreligious jests, and conclude at once
that he must be the most infamous of men.  Base suspicion, which I have
so often decried in others! he may be what he appears—a presumptuous
infidel, but not a spy.  Have I even a right to call by the name of
_insolence_, what he considers _sincerity_.  Is this, I continued, thy
humility, oh, hypocrite?  If any one presume to maintain his own
opinions, and to question your faith, he is forthwith to be met with
contempt and abuse.  Is not this worse in a Christian, than the bold
sincerity of the unbeliever?  Yes, and perhaps he only requires one ray
of Divine grace, to employ his noble energetic love of truth in the cause
of true religion, with far greater success than yourself.  Were it not,
then, more becoming in me to pray for, than to irritate him?  Who knows,
but while employed in destroying his letter with every mark of ignominy,
he might be reading mine with expressions of kindness and affection;
never dreaming I should fly into such a mighty passion at his plain and
bold sincerity.  Is he not the better of the two, to love and esteem me
while declaring he is no Christian; than I who exclaim, I am a Christian,
and I detest you.  It is difficult to obtain a knowledge of a man during
a long intercourse, yet I would condemn him on the evidence of a single
letter.  He may, perhaps, be unhappy in his atheism, and wish to hear all
my arguments to enable him the better to arrive at the truth.  Perhaps,
too, I may be called to effect so beneficent a work, the humble
instrument of a gracious God.  Oh, that it may indeed be so, I will not
shrink from the task.”




CHAPTER XXXVIII.


I SAT down to write to Julian, and was cautious not to let one irritating
word proceed from my pen.  I took in good part his reflection upon my
fastidiousness of conscience; I even joked about it, telling him he
perhaps gave me too much credit for it, and ought to suspend his good
opinion till he knew me better.  I praised his sincerity, assuring him
that he would find me equal to him in this respect, and that as a proof
of it, I had determined to defend Christianity, “Well persuaded,” I
added, “that as I shall readily give free scope to your opinions, you
will be prepared to give me the same advantage.”

I then boldly entered upon my task, arguing my way by degrees, and
analysing with impartiality the essence of Christianity; the worship of
God free from superstitions, the brotherhood of mankind, aspiration after
virtue, humility without baseness, dignity without pride, as exemplified
in our Divine Saviour! what more philosophical, and more truly grand?

It was next my object to demonstrate, “that this divine wisdom had more
or less displayed itself to all those who by the light of reason had
sought after the truth, though not generally diffused till the arrival of
its great Author upon the earth.  He had proved his heavenly mission by
effecting the most wonderful and glorious results, by human means the
most mean and humble.  What the greatest philosophers had in vain
attempted, the overthrow of idolatry, and the universal preaching of love
and brotherhood, was achieved by a few untutored missionaries.  From that
era was first dated the emancipation of slaves, no less from bondage of
limbs than of mind, until by degrees a civilisation without slavery
became apparent, a state of society believed to be utterly impracticable
by the ancient philosophers.  A review of history from the appearance of
Christ to the present age, would finally demonstrate that the religion he
established had invariably been found adapted to all possible grades in
civilised society.  For this reason, the assertion that the gospel was no
longer in accordance with the continued progress of civilisation, could
not for a moment be maintained.”

I wrote in as small characters as I could, and at great length, but I
could not embrace all which I had ready prepared upon the subject.  I
re-examined the whole carefully.  There was not one revengeful,
injurious, or even repulsive word.  Benevolence, toleration, and
forbearance, were the only weapons I employed against ridicule and
sarcasm of every kind; they were also employed after mature deliberation,
and dictated from the heart.

I despatched the letter, and in no little anxiety waited the arrival of
the next morning, in hopes of a speedy reply.

Tremerello came, and observed; “The gentleman, sir, was not able to
write, but entreats of you to continue the joke.”

“The joke!” I exclaimed.  “No, he could not have said that! you must have
mistaken him.”

Tremerello shrugged up his shoulders: “I suppose I must, if you say so.”

“But did it really seem as if he had said a joke?”

“As plainly as I now hear the sound of St. Mark’s clock;” (the
_Campanone_ was just then heard.)  I drank my coffee and was silent.

“But tell me; did he read the whole of the letter?”

“I think he did; for he laughed like a madman, and then squeezing your
letter into a ball, he began to throw it about, till reminding him that
he must not forget to destroy it, he did so immediately.”

“That is very well.”

I then put my coffee cup into Tremerello’s hands, observing that it was
plain the coffee had been made by the Siora Bettina.

“What! is it so bad?”

“Quite vile!”

“Well!  I made it myself; and I can assure you that I made it strong;
there were no dregs.”

“True; it may be, my mouth is out of taste.”




CHAPTER XXXIX.


I WALKED about the whole morning in a rage.  “What an abandoned wretch is
this Julian! what, call my letter a joke! play at ball with it, reply not
a single line!  But all your infidels are alike!  They dare not stand the
test of argument; they know their weakness, and try to turn it off with a
jest.  Full of vanity and boasting, they venture not to examine even
themselves.  They philosophers, indeed! worthy disciples of Democritus;
who _did_ nothing but laugh, and _was_ nothing but a buffoon.  I am
rightly served, however, for beginning a correspondence like this; and
still more for writing a second time.”

At dinner, Tremerello took up my wine, poured it into a flask, and put it
into his pocket, observing: “I see that you are in want of paper;” and he
gave me some.  He retired, and the moment I cast my eye on the paper, I
felt tempted to sit down and write to Julian a sharp lecture on his
intolerable turpitude and presumption, and so take leave of him.  But
again, I repented of my own violence, and uncharitableness, and finally
resolved to write another letter in a better spirit as I had done before.

I did so, and despatched it without delay.  The next morning I received a
few lines, simply expressive of the writer’s thanks; but without a single
jest, or the least invitation to continue the correspondence.  Such a
billet displeased me; nevertheless I determined to persevere.  Six long
letters were the result, for each of which I received a few laconic lines
of thanks, with some declamation against his enemies, followed by a joke
on the abuse he had heaped upon them, asserting that it was extremely
natural the strong should oppress the weak, and regretting that he was
not in the list of the former.  He then related some of his love affairs,
and observed that they exercised no little sway over his disturbed
imagination.

In reply to my last on the subject of Christianity, he said he had
prepared a long letter; for which I looked out in vain, though he wrote
to me every day on other topics—chiefly a tissue of obscenity and folly.

I reminded him of his promise that he would answer all my arguments, and
recommended him to weigh well the reasonings with which I had supplied
him before he attempted to write.  He replied to this somewhat in a rage,
assuming the airs of a philosopher, a man of firmness, a man who stood in
no want of brains to distinguish “a hawk from a hand-saw.” {16}  He then
resumed his jocular vein, and began to enlarge upon his experiences in
life, and especially some very scandalous love adventures.




CHAPTER XL.


I BORE all this patiently, to give him no handle for accusing me of
bigotry or intolerance, and in the hope that after the fever of erotic
buffoonery and folly had subsided, he might have some lucid intervals,
and listen to common sense.  Meantime I gave him expressly to understand
that I disapproved of his want of respect towards women, his free and
profane expressions, and pitied those unhappy ones, who, he informed me,
had been his victims.

He pretended to care little about my disapprobation, and repeated: “spite
of your fine strictures upon immorality, I know well you are amused with
the account of my adventures.  All men are as fond of pleasure as I am,
but they have not the frankness to talk of it without cloaking it from
the eyes of the world; I will go on till you are quite enchanted, and
confess yourself compelled in _very conscience_ to applaud me.”  So he
went on from week to week, I bearing with him, partly out of curiosity
and partly in the expectation he would fall upon some better topic; and I
can fairly say that this species of tolerance, did me no little harm.  I
began to lose my respect for pure and noble truths, my thoughts became
confused, and my mind disturbed.  To converse with men of degraded minds
is in itself degrading, at least if you possess not virtue very superior
to mine.  “This is a proper punishment,” said I, “for my presumption;
this it is to assume the office of a missionary without its sacredness of
character.”

One day I determined to write to him as follows:—“ I have hitherto
attempted to turn your attention to other subjects, and you persevere in
sending me accounts of yourself which no way please me.  For the sake of
variety, let us correspond a little respecting worthier matters; if not,
give the hand of fellowship, and let us have done.”

The two ensuing days I received no answer, and I was glad of it.  “Oh,
blessed solitude;” often I exclaimed, “how far holier and better art thou
than harsh and undignified association with the living.  Away with the
empty and impious vanities, the base actions, the low despicable
conversations of such a world.  I have studied it enough; let me turn to
my communion with God; to the calm, dear recollections of my family and
my true friends.  I will read my Bible oftener than I have done, I will
again write down my thoughts, will try to raise and improve them, and
taste the pleasure of a sorrow at least innocent; a thousand fold to be
preferred to vulgar and wicked imaginations.”

Whenever Tremerello now entered my room he was in the habit of saying, “I
have got no answer yet.”

“It is all right,” was my reply.

About the third day from this, he said, with a serious look, “Signor N.
N. is rather indisposed.”

“What is the matter with him?”

“He does not say, but he has taken to his bed, neither eats nor drinks,
and is sadly out of humour.”

I was touched; he was suffering and had no one to console him.

“I will write him a few lines,” exclaimed I.

“I will take them this evening, then,” said Tremerello, and he went out.

I was a little perplexed on sitting down to my table: “Am I right in
resuming this correspondence?” was I not, just now, praising solitude as
a treasure newly found? what inconsistency is this!  Ah! but he neither
eats nor drinks, and I fear must be very ill.  Is it, then, a moment to
abandon him?  My last letter was severe, and may perhaps have caused him
pain.  Perhaps, in spite of our different ways of thinking, he wished not
to end our correspondence.  Yes, he has thought my letter more caustic
than I meant it to be, and taken it in the light of an absolute and
contemptuous dismission.




CHAPTER XLI.


I SAT down and wrote as follows:—

“I hear that you are not well, and am extremely sorry for it.  I wish I
were with you, and enabled to assist you as a friend.  I hope your
illness is the sole cause why you have not written to me during the last
three days.  Did you take offence at my little strictures the other day?
Believe me they were dictated by no ill will or spleen, but with the
single object of drawing your attention to more serious subjects.  Should
it be irksome for you to write, send me an exact account, by word, how
you find yourself.  You shall hear from me every day, and I will try to
say something to amuse you, and to show you that I really wish you well.”

Imagine my unfeigned surprise when I received an answer, couched in these
terms:

“I renounce your friendship: if you are at a loss how to estimate mine, I
return the compliment in its full force.  I am not a man to put up with
injurious treatment; I am not one, who, once rejected, will be ordered to
return.”

“Because you heard I was unwell, you approach me with a hypocritical air,
in the idea that illness will break down my spirit, and make me listen to
your sermons . . . ”

In this way he rambled on, reproaching and despising me in the most
revolting terms he could find, and turning every thing I had said into
ridicule and burlesque.  He assured me that he knew how to live and die
with consistency; that is to say, with the utmost hatred and contempt for
all philosophical creeds differing from his own.  I was dismayed!

“A pretty conversion I have made of it!” I exclaimed; “yet God is my
witness that my motives were pure.  I have done nothing to merit an
attack like this.  But patience!  I am once more undeceived.  I am not
called upon to do more.”

In a few days I became less angry, and conceived that all this bitterness
might have resulted from some excitement which might pass away.  Probably
he repents, yet scorns to confess he was in the wrong.  In such a state
of mind, it might be generous of me to write to him once more.  It cost
my self-love something, but I did it.  To humble one’s self for a good
purpose is not degrading, with whatever degree of unjust contempt it may
be returned.

I received a reply less violent, but not less insulting.  The implacable
patient declared that he admired what he called my evangelical
moderation.  “Now, therefore,” he continued, “let us resume our
correspondence, but let us speak out.  We do not like each other, but we
will write, each for his own amusement, setting everything down which may
come into our heads.  You will tell me your seraphic visions and
revelations, and I will treat you with my profane adventures; you again
will run into ecstasies upon the dignity of man, yea, and of woman; I
into an ingenuous narrative of my various profanations; I hoping to make
a convert of you, and you of me.

“Give me an answer should you approve these conditions.”

I replied, “Yours is not a compact, but a jest.  I was full of good-will
towards you.  My conscience does not constrain me to do more than to wish
you every happiness both as regards this and another life.”

Thus ended my secret connexion with that strange man.  But who knows; he
was perhaps more exasperated by ill fortune, delirium, or despair, than
really bad at heart.




CHAPTER XLII.


I ONCE more learnt to value solitude, and my days tracked each other
without any distinction or mark of change.

The summer was over; it was towards the close of September, and the heat
grew less oppressive; October came.  I congratulated myself now on
occupying a chamber well adapted for winter.  One morning, however, the
jailer made his appearance, with an order to change my prison.

“And where am I to go?”

“Only a few steps, into a fresher chamber.”

“But why not think of it when I was dying of suffocation; when the air
was filled with gnats, and my bed with bugs?”

“The order did not come before.”

“Patience! let us be gone!”

Notwithstanding I had suffered so greatly in this prison, it gave me pain
to leave it; not simply because it would have been best for the winter
season, but for many other reasons.  There I had the ants to attract my
attention, which I had fed and looked upon, I may almost say, with
paternal care.  Within the last few days, however, my friend the spider,
and my great ally in my war with the gnats, had, for some reason or
other, chosen to emigrate; at least he did not come as usual.  “Yet
perhaps,” said I, “he may remember me, and come back, but he will find my
prison empty, or occupied by some other guest—no friend perhaps to
spiders—and thus meet with an awkward reception.  His fine woven house,
and his gnat-feasts will all be put an end to.”

Again, my gloomy abode had been embellished by the presence of Angiola,
so good, so gentle and compassionate.  There she used to sit, and try
every means she could devise to amuse me, even dropping crumbs of bread
for my little visitors, the ants; and there I heard her sobs, and saw the
tears fall thick and fast, as she spoke of her cruel lover.

The place I was removed to was under the leaden prisons, (_I Piombi_)
open to the north and west, with two windows, one on each side; an abode
exposed to perpetual cold and even icy chill during the severest months.
The window to the west was the largest, that to the north was high and
narrow, and situated above my bed.

I first looked out at this last, and found that it commanded a view of
the Palace of the Patriarch.  Other prisons were near mine, in a narrow
wing to the right, and in a projection of the building right opposite.
Here were two prisons, one above the other.  The lower had an enormous
window, through which I could see a man, very richly drest, pacing to and
fro.  It was the Signor Caporale di Cesena.  He perceived me, made a
signal, and we pronounced each other’s names.

I next looked out at my other window.  I put the little table upon my
bed, and a chair upon my table; I climbed up and found myself on a level
with part of the palace roof; and beyond this was to be seen a fine view
of the city and the lake.

I paused to admire it; and though I heard some one open the door, I did
not move.  It was the jailer; and perceiving that I had clambered up, he
got it into his head I was making an attempt to escape, forgetting, in
his alarm, that I was not a mouse to creep through all those narrow bars.
In a moment he sprung upon the bed, spite of a violent sciatica which had
nearly bent him double, and catching me by the legs, he began to call
out, “thieves and murder!”

“But don’t you see,” I exclaimed, “you thoughtless man, that I cannot
conjure myself through these horrible bars?  Surely you know I got up
here out of mere curiosity.”

“Oh, yes, I see, I apprehend, sir; but quick, sir, jump down, sir; these
are all temptations of the devil to make you think of it! come down, sir,
pray.”

I lost no time in my descent, and laughed.




CHAPTER XLIII.


AT the windows of the side prisons I recognised six other prisoners, all
there on account of politics.  Just then, as I was composing my mind to
perfect solitude, I found myself comparatively in a little world of human
beings around me.  The change was, at first, irksome to me, such complete
seclusion having rendered me almost unsociable, add to which, the
disagreeable termination of my correspondence with Julian.  Still, the
little conversation I was enabled to carry on, partly by signs, with my
new fellow-prisoners, was of advantage by diverting my attention.  I
breathed not a word respecting my correspondence with Julian; it was a
point of honour between us, and in bringing it forward here, I was fully
aware that in the immense number of unhappy men with which these prisons
were thronged, it would be impossible to ascertain who was the assumed
Julian.

To the interest derived from seeing my fellow-captives was added another
of a yet more delightful kind.  I could perceive from my large window,
beyond the projection of prisons, situated right before me, a surface of
roofs; decorated with cupolas, _campanili_, towers, and chimneys, which
gradually faded in a distant view of sea and sky.  In the house nearest
to me, a wing of the Patriarchal palace, lived an excellent family, who
had a claim to my gratitude, for expressing, by their salutations, the
interest which they took in my fate.  A sign, a word of kindness to the
unhappy, is really charity of no trivial kind.  From one of the windows I
saw a little boy, nine or ten years old, stretching out his hands towards
me, and I heard him call out, “Mamma, mamma, they have placed somebody up
there in the Piombi.  Oh, you poor prisoner, who are you?”

“I am Silvio Pellico,” was the reply.

Another older boy now ran to the same window, and cried out, “Are you
Silvio Pellico?”

“Yes; and tell me your names, dear boys.”

“My name is Antonio S—, and my brother’s is Joseph.”

He then turned round, and, speaking to some one within, “What else ought
I to ask him?”  A lady, whom I conjecture to have been their mother, then
half concealed, suggested some pretty words to them, which they repeated,
and for which I thanked them with all my heart.  These sort of
communications were a small matter, yet it required to be cautious how we
indulged in them, lest we should attract the notice of the jailer.
Morning, noon, and night, they were a source of the greatest consolation;
the little boys were constantly in the habit of bidding me good night,
before the windows were closed, and the lights brought in, “Good night,
Silvio,” and often it was repeated by the good lady, in a more subdued
voice, “Good night, Silvio, have courage!”

When engaged at their meals they would say, “How we wish we could give
you any of this good coffee and milk.  Pray remember, the first day they
let you out, to come and see us.  Mamma and we will give you plenty of
good things, {17} and as many kisses as you like.”




CHAPTER XLIV.


THE month of October brought round one of the most disagreeable
anniversaries in my life.  I was arrested on the 13th of that month in
the preceding year.  Other recollections of the same period, also pained
me.  That day two years, a highly valued and excellent man whom I truly
honoured, was drowned in the Ticino.  Three years before, a young person,
Odoardo Briche, {18} whom I loved as if he had been my own son, had
accidentally killed himself with a musket.  Earlier in my youth another
severe affliction had befallen me in the same month.

Though not superstitious, the remembrance of so many unhappy occurrences
at the same period of the year, inspired a feeling of extreme sorrow.
While conversing at the window with the children, and with my fellow
prisoners, I assumed an air of mirth, but hardly had I re-entered my cave
than an irresistible feeling of melancholy weighed down every faculty of
my mind.  In vain I attempted to engage in some literary composition; I
was involuntarily impelled to write upon other topics.  I thought of my
family, and wrote letters after letters, in which I poured forth all my
burdened spirit, all I had felt and enjoyed of home, in far happier days,
surrounded by brothers, sisters, and friends who had always loved me.
The desire of seeing them, and long compulsory separation, led me to
speak on a variety of little things, and reveal a thousand thoughts of
gratitude and tenderness, which would not otherwise have occurred to my
mind.

In the same way I took a review of my former life, diverting my attention
by recalling past incidents, and dwelling upon those happier periods now
for ever fled.  Often, when the picture I had thus drawn, and sat
contemplating for hours, suddenly vanished from my sight, and left me
conscious only of the fearful present, and more threatening future, the
pen fell from my hand; I recoiled with horror; the contrast was more than
I could bear.  These were terrific moments; I had already felt them, but
never with such intense susceptibility as then.  It was agony.  This I
attributed to extreme excitement of the passions, occasioned by
expressing them in the form of letters, addressed to persons to whom I
was so tenderly attached.

I turned to other subjects, I determined to change the form of expressing
my ideas, but could not.  In whatever way I began, it always ended in a
letter teeming with affection and with grief.

“What,” I exclaimed, “am I no more master of my own will?  Is this
strange necessity of doing that which I object to, a distortion of my
brain?  At first I could have accounted for it; but after being inured to
this solitude, reconciled, and supported by religious reflections; how
have I become the slave of these blind impulses, these wanderings of
heart and mind? let me apply to other matters!”  I then endeavoured to
pray; or to weary my attention by hard study of the German.  Alas!  I
commenced and found myself actually engaged in writing a letter!




CHAPTER XLV.


SUCH a state of mind was a real disease, or I know not if it may be
called a kind of somnambulism.  Without doubt it was the effect of
extreme lassitude, occasioned by continual thought and watchfulness.

It gained upon me.  I grew feverish and sleepless.  I left off coffee,
but the disease was not removed.  It appeared to me as if I were two
persons, one of them eagerly bent upon writing letters, the other upon
doing something else.  “At least,” said I, “you shall write them in
German if you do; and we shall learn a little of the language.”
Methought _he_ then set to work, and wrote volumes of bad German, and he
certainly brought me rapidly forward in the study of it.  Towards
morning, my mind being wholly exhausted, I fell into a heavy stupor,
during which all those most dear to me haunted my dreams.  I thought that
my father and mother were weeping over me; I heard their lamentations,
and suddenly I started out of my sleep sobbing and affrighted.
Sometimes, during short, disturbed slumbers, I heard my mother’s voice,
as if consoling others, with whom she came into my prison, and she
addressed me in the most affectionate language upon the duty of
resignation, and then, when I was rejoiced to see her courage, and that
of others, suddenly she appeared to burst into tears, and all wept.  I
can convey no idea of the species of agony which I at these times felt.

To escape from this misery, I no longer went to bed.  I sat down to read
by the light of my lamp, but I could comprehend nothing, and soon I found
that I was even unable to think.  I next tried to copy something, but
still copied something different from what I was writing, always
recurring to the subject of my afflictions.  If I retired to rest, it was
worse; I could lie in no position; I became convulsed, and was
constrained to rise.  In case I slept, the same visions reappeared, and
made me suffer much more than I did by keeping awake.  My prayers, too,
were feeble and ineffectual; and, at length, I could simply invoke the
name of the Deity; of the Being who had assumed a human form, and was
acquainted with grief.  I was afraid to sleep; my prayers seemed to bring
me no relief; my imagination became excited, and, even when awake, I
heard strange noises close to me, sometimes sighs and groans, at others
mingled with sounds of stifled laughter.  I was never superstitious, but
these apparently real and unaccountable sights and sounds led me to
doubt, and I then firmly believed that I was the victim of some unknown
and malignant beings.  Frequently I took my light, and made a search for
those mockers and persecutors of my waking and sleeping hours.  At last
they began to pull me by my clothes, threw my books upon the ground, blew
out my lamp, and even, as it seemed, conveyed me into another dungeon.  I
would then start to my feet, look and examine all round me, and ask
myself if I were really mad.  The actual world, and that of my
imagination, were no longer distinguishable, I knew not whether what I
saw and felt was a delusion or truth.  In this horrible state I could
only repeat one prayer, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”




CHAPTER XLVI.


ONE morning early, I threw myself upon my pallet, having first placed my
handkerchief, as usual, under my pillow.  Shortly after, falling asleep,
I suddenly woke, and found myself in a state of suffocation; my
persecutors were strangling me, and, on putting my hand to my throat, I
actually found my own handkerchief, all knotted, tied round my neck.  I
could have sworn I had never made those knots; yet I must have done this
in my delirium; but as it was then impossible to believe it, I lived in
continual expectation of being strangled.  The recollection is still
horrible.  They left me at dawn of day; and, resuming my courage, I no
longer felt the least apprehension, and even imagined it would be
impossible they should again return.  Yet no sooner did the night set in,
than I was again haunted by them in all their horrors; being made
sensible of their gradual approach by cold shiverings, the loss of all
power, with a species of fascination which riveted both the eye and the
mind.  In fact, the more weak and wretched I felt, at night, the greater
were my efforts during the day to appear cheerful in conversing with my
companions, with the two boys at the palace, and with my jailers.  No one
to hear my jokes, would have imagined it possible that I was suffering
under the disease I did.  I thought to encourage myself by this forced
merriment, but the spectral visions which I laughed at by day became
fearful realities in the hours of darkness.

Had I dared, I should have petitioned the commission to change my
apartment, but the fear of ridicule, in case I should be asked my
reasons, restrained me.  No reasonings, no studies, or pursuits, and even
no prayers, were longer of avail, and the idea of being wholly abandoned
by heaven, took possession of my mind.

All those wicked sophisms against a just Providence, which, while in
possession of reason, had appeared to me so vain and impious, now
recurred with redoubled power, in the form of irresistible arguments.  I
struggled mightily against this last and greatest evil I had yet borne,
and in the lapse of a few days the temptation fled.  Still I refused to
acknowledge the truth and beauty of religion; I quoted the assertions of
the most violent atheists, and those which Julian had so recently dwelt
upon: “Religion serves only to enfeeble the mind,” was one of these, and
I actually presumed that by renouncing my God I should acquire greater
fortitude.  Insane idea!  I denied God, yet knew not how to deny those
invisible malevolent beings, that appeared to encompass me, and feast
upon my sufferings.

What shall I call this martyrdom? is it enough to say that it was a
disease? or was it a divine chastisement for my pride, to teach me that
without a special illumination I might become as great an unbeliever as
Julian, and still more absurd.  However this may be, it pleased God to
deliver me from such evil, when I least expected it.  One morning, after
taking my coffee, I was seized with violent sickness, attended with
colic.  I imagined that I had been poisoned.  After excessive vomiting, I
burst into a strong perspiration and retired to bed.  About mid-day I
fell asleep, and continued in a quiet slumber till evening.  I awoke in
great surprise at this unexpected repose, and, thinking I should not
sleep again, I got up.  On rising I said, “I shall now have more
fortitude to resist my accustomed terrors.”  But they returned no more.
I was in ecstasies; I threw myself upon my knees in the fulness of my
heart, and again prayed to my God in spirit and in truth, beseeching
pardon for having denied, during many days, His holy name.  It was almost
too much for my newly reviving strength, and while even yet upon my
knees, supporting my head against a chair, I fell into a profound sleep
in that very position.

Some hours afterwards, as I conjectured, I seemed in part to awake, but
no sooner had I stretched my weary limbs upon my rude couch than I slept
till the dawn of day.  The same disposition to somnolency continued
through the day, and the next night, I rested as soundly as before.  What
was the sort of crisis that had thus taken place?  I know not; but I was
perfectly restored.




CHAPTER XLVII.


THE sickness of the stomach which I had so long laboured under now
ceased, the pains of the head also left me, and I felt an extraordinary
appetite.  My digestion was good, and I gained strength.  Wonderful
providence! that deprived me of my health to humble my mind, and again
restored it when the moment was at hand that I should require it all,
that I might not sink under the weight of my sentence.

On the 24th of November, one of our companions, Dr. Foresti, was taken
from the _Piombi_, and transported no one knew whither.  The jailer, his
wife, and the assistants, were alike alarmed, and not one of them
ventured to throw the least light upon this mysterious affair.

“And why should you persist,” said Tremerello, “in wishing to know, when
nothing good is to be heard?  I have told you too much—too much already.”

“Then what is the use of trying to hide it?  I know it too well.  He is
condemned to death.”

“Who? . . . he . . . Doctor Foresti?”

Tremerello hesitated, but the love of gossip was not the least of his
virtues.

“Don’t say, then,” he resumed, “that I am a babbler; I never wished to
say a word about these matters; so, remember, it is you who compel me.”

“Yes, yes, I do compel you; but courage! tell me every thing you know
respecting the poor Doctor?”

“Ah, Sir! they have made him cross the Bridge of Sighs! he lies in the
dungeons of the condemned; sentence of death has been announced to him
and two others.”

“And will it be executed?  When?  Oh, unhappy man! and what are the
others’ names?”

“I know no more.  The sentences have not been published.  It is reported
in Venice that they will be commuted.  I trust in God they may, at least,
as regards the good Doctor.  Do you know, I am as fond of that noble
fellow, pardon the expression, as if he were my own brother.”

He seemed moved, and walked away.  Imagine the agitation I suffered
throughout the whole of that day, and indeed long after, as there were no
means of ascertaining anything further respecting the fate of these
unfortunate men.

A month elapsed, and at length the sentences connected with the first
trial were published.  Nine were condemned to death, _graciously_
exchanged for hard imprisonment, some for twenty, and others for fifteen
years in the fortress of Spielberg, near the city of Brunn, in Moravia;
while those for ten years and under were to be sent to the fortress of
Lubiana.

Were we authorised to conclude, from this commutation of sentence in
regard to those first condemned, that the parties subject to the second
trial would likewise be spared?  Was the indulgence to be confined only
to the former, on account of their having been arrested previous to the
publication of the edicts against secret societies; the full vengeance of
the law being reserved for subsequent offenders?

Well, I exclaimed, we shall not long be kept in suspense; I am at least
grateful to Heaven for being allowed time to prepare myself in a becoming
manner for the final scene.




CHAPTER XLVIII.


IT was now my only consideration how to die like a Christian, and with
proper fortitude.  I felt, indeed, a strong temptation to avoid the
scaffold by committing suicide, but overcame it.  What merit is there in
refusing to die by the hand of the executioner, and yet to fall by one’s
own?  To save one’s honour?  But is it not childish to suppose that there
can be more honour in cheating the executioner, than in not doing this,
when it is clear that we must die.  Even had I not been a Christian, upon
serious reflection, suicide would have appeared to me both ridiculous and
useless, if not criminal in a high degree.

“If the term of life be expired,” continued I, “am I not fortunate in
being permitted to collect my thoughts and purify my conscience with
penitence and prayer becoming a man in affliction.  In popular
estimation, the being led to the scaffold is the worst part of death; in
the opinion of the wise, is not this far preferable to the thousand
deaths which daily occur by disease, attended by general prostration of
intellect, without power to raise the thoughts from the lowest state of
physical exhaustion.”

I felt the justice of this reasoning, and lost all feeling of anxiety or
terror at the idea of a public execution.  I reflected deeply on the
sacraments calculated to support me under such an appalling trial, and I
felt disposed to receive them in a right spirit.  Should I have been
enabled, had I really been conducted to the scaffold, to preserve the
same elevation of mind, the same forgiveness of my enemies, the same
readiness to lay down my life at the will of God, as I then felt?  Alas,
how inconsistent is man! when most firm and pious, how liable is he to
fall suddenly into weakness and crime!  Is it likely I should have died
worthily?  God only knows; I dare not think well enough of myself to
assert it.

The probable approach of death so riveted my imagination, that not only
did it seem possible but as if marked by an infallible presentiment.  I
no longer indulged a hope of avoiding it, and at every sound of footsteps
and keys, or the opening of my door, I was in the habit of exclaiming:
“Courage!  Perhaps I am going to receive sentence.  Let me hear it with
calm dignity, and bless the name of the Lord.”

I considered in what terms I should last address my family, each of my
brothers, and each of my sisters, and by revolving in my mind these
sacred and affecting duties, I was often drowned in tears, without losing
my fortitude and resignation.

I was naturally unable to enjoy sound repose; but my sleeplessness was
not of the same alarming character as before; no visions, spectres, or
concealed enemies were ready to deprive me of life.  I spent the night in
calm and reviving prayer.  Towards morning I was enabled to sleep for
about two hours, and rose late to breakfast.

One night I had retired to rest earlier than usual; I had hardly slept a
quarter of an hour, when I awoke, and beheld an immense light upon the
wall opposite to me.  At first I imagined that I had been seized with my
former illness; but this was no illusion.  The light shone through the
north window, under which I then lay.

I started up, seized my table, placed it on my bed, and a chair again
upon the table, by means of all which I mounted up, and beheld one of the
most terrific spectacles of fire that can be imagined.  It was not more
than a musket shot distant from our prison; it proceeded from the
establishment of the public ovens, and the edifice was entirely consumed.

The night was exceedingly dark, and vast globes of flame spouted forth on
both sides, borne away by a violent wind.  All around, it seemed as if
the sky rained sparks of fire.  The adjacent lake reflected the
magnificent sight; numbers of gondolas went and came, but my sympathy was
most excited at the danger and terrors of those who resided nearest to
the burning edifice.  I heard the far off voices of men and women calling
to each other.  Among others, I caught the name of Angiola, and of this
doubtless there are some thousands in Venice: yet I could not help
fearing it might be the one of whom the recollection was so sweet to me.
Could it be her?—was she surrounded by the flames? how I longed to fly to
her rescue.

Full of excitement, wonder, and terror, I stood at the window till the
day dawned, I then got down oppressed by a feeling of deep sorrow, and
imagined much greater misfortune than had really occurred.  I was
informed by Tremerello that only the ovens and the adjoining magazine had
suffered, the loss consisting chiefly of corn and sacks of flour.




CHAPTER XLIX.


THE effect of this accident upon my imagination had not yet ceased, when
one night, as I was sitting at my little table reading, and half perished
with cold, I heard a number of voices not far from me.  They were those
of the jailer, his wife, and sons, with the assistants, all crying:

“Fire! fire.  Oh, blessed Virgin! we are lost, we are lost!”

I felt no longer cold, I started to my feet in a violent perspiration,
and looked out to discover the quarter from which the fire proceeded.  I
could perceive nothing, I was informed, however, that it arose in the
palace itself, from some public chambers contiguous to the prisons.  One
of the assistants called out, “But, sir governor, what shall we do with
these caged birds here, if the fire keeps a head?”  The head jailer
replied, “Why, I should not like to have them roasted alive.  Yet I
cannot let them out of their bars without special orders from the
commission.  You may run as fast as you can, and get an order if you
can.”

“To be sure I will, but, you know, it will be too late for the
prisoners.”

All this was said in the rude Venetian dialect, but I understood it too
well.  And now, where was all my heroic spirit and resignation, which I
had counted upon to meet sudden death?  Why did the idea of being burnt
alive throw me into such a fever?  I felt ashamed of this unworthy fear,
and though just on the point of crying out to the jailer to let me out, I
restrained myself, reflecting that there might be as little pleasure in
being strangled as in being burnt.  Still I felt really afraid.

“Here,” said I, “is a specimen of my courage, should I escape the flames,
and be doomed to mount the scaffold.  I will restrain my fear, and hide
it from others as well as I can, though I know I shall tremble.  Yet
surely it is courage to behave as if we were not afraid, whatever we may
feel.  Is it not generosity to give away that which it costs us much to
part with?  It is, also, an act of obedience, though we obey with great
repugnance.”

The tumult in the jailer’s house was so loud and continued that I
concluded the fire was on the increase.  The messenger sent to ask
permission for our temporary release had not returned.  At last I thought
I heard his voice; no; I listened, he is not come.  Probably the
permission will not be granted; there will be no means of escape; if the
jailer should not humanely take the responsibility upon himself, we shall
be suffocated in our dungeons!  Well, but this, I exclaimed, is not
philosophy, and it is not religion.  Were it not better to prepare myself
to witness the flames bursting into my chamber, and about to swallow me
up.

Meantime the clamour seemed to diminish; by degrees it died away; was
this any proof that the fire had ceased?  Or, perhaps, all who could had
already fled, and left the prisoners to their fate.

The silence continued, no flames appeared, and I retired to bed,
reproaching myself for the want of fortitude I had evinced.  Indeed, I
began to regret that I had not been burnt alive, instead of being handed
over, as a victim, into the hands of men.

The next morning, I learnt the real cause of the fire from Tremerello,
and laughed at his account of the fear he had endured, as if my own had
not been as great—perhaps, in fact, much greater of the two.




CHAPTER L.


ON the 11th of January, 1822, about nine in the morning, Tremerello came
into my room in no little agitation, and said,

“Do you know, Sir, that in the island of San Michele, a little way from
Venice, there is a prison containing more than a hundred Carbonari.”

“You have told me so a hundred times.  Well! what would you have me hear,
speak out; are some of them condemned?”

“Exactly.”

“Who are they?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is my poor friend Maroncelli among them?”

“Ah, Sir, too many . . . I know not who.”  And he went away in great
emotion, casting on me a look of compassion.

Shortly after came the jailer, attended by the assistants, and by a man
whom I had never before seen.  The latter opened his subject as follows:
“The commission, Sir, has given orders that you come with me!”

“Let us go, then,” I replied; “may I ask who you are?”

“I am jailer of the San Michele prisons, where I am going to take you.”

The jailer of the _Piombi_ delivered to the new governor the money
belonging to me which he had in his hands.  I obtained permission to make
some little present to the under jailers; I then put my clothes in order,
put my Bible under my arm, and departed.  In descending the immense track
of staircases, Tremerello for a moment took my hand; he pressed it as
much as to say, “Unhappy man! you are lost.”

We came out at a gate which opened upon the lake, and there stood a
gondola with two under jailers belonging to San Michele.

I entered the boat with feelings of the most contradictory nature; regret
at leaving the prison of the _Piombi_, where I had suffered so much, but
where I had become attached to some individuals, and they to me; the
pleasure of beholding once more the sky, the city, and the clear waters,
without the intervention of iron bars.  Add to this the recollection of
that joyous gondola, which, in time past, had borne me on the bosom of
that placid lake; the gondolas of the lake of Como, those of Lago
Maggiore, the little barks of the Po, those of the Rodano, and of the
Sonna!  Oh, happy vanished years! who, who then so happy in the world as
I?

The son of excellent and affectionate parents, in a rank of life,
perhaps, the happiest for the cultivation of the affections, being
equally removed from riches and from poverty; I had spent my infancy in
the participation of the sweetest domestic ties; had been the object of
the tenderest domestic cares.  I had subsequently gone to Lyons, to my
maternal uncle, an elderly man, extremely wealthy, and deserving of all
he possessed; and at his mansion I partook of all the advantages and
delights of elegance and refined society, which gave an indescribable
charm to those youthful days.  Thence returning into Italy, under the
parental roof, I at once devoted myself with ardour to study, and the
enjoyment of society; everywhere meeting with distinguished friends and
the most encouraging praise.  Monti and Foscolo, although at variance
with each other, were kind to me.  I became more attached to the latter,
and this irritable man, who, by his asperities, provoked so many to
quarrel with him, was with me full of gentleness and cordiality.  Other
distinguished characters likewise became attached to me, and I returned
all their regard.  Neither envy nor calumny had the least influence over
me, or I felt it only from persons who had not the power to injure me.
On the fall of the kingdom of Italy, my father removed to Turin, with the
rest of his family.  I had preferred to remain at Milan, where I spent my
time at once so profitably and so happily as made me unwilling to leave
it.  Here I had three friends to whom I was greatly attached—D. Pietro
Borsieri, Lodovico di Breme, and the Count Luigi Porro Lambertenghi.
Subsequently I added to them Count Federigo Confalonieri. {19}  Becoming
the preceptor of two young sons of Count Porro, I was to them as a
father, and their father acted like a brother to me.  His mansion was the
resort not only of society the most refined and cultivated of Italy, but
of numbers of celebrated strangers.  It was there I became acquainted
with De Stael, Schlegel, Davis, Byron, Brougham, Hobhouse, and
illustrious travellers from all parts of Europe.  How delightful, how
noble an incentive to all that is great and good, is an intercourse with
men of first-rate merit!  I was then happy; I would not have exchanged my
lot with a prince; and now, to be hurled, as I had been, from the summit
of all my hopes and projects, into an abyss of wretchedness, and to be
hurried thus from dungeon to dungeon, to perish doubtless either by a
violent death or lingering in chains.




CHAPTER LI.


ABSORBED in reflections like these, I reached San Michele, and was locked
up in a room which embraced a view of the court yard, of the lake, and
the beautiful island of Murano.  I inquired respecting Maroncelli from
the jailer, from his wife, and the four assistants; but their visits were
exceedingly brief, very ceremonious, and, in fact, they would tell me
nothing.

Nevertheless where there are five or six persons, it is rarely you do not
find one who possesses a compassionate, as well as a communicative
disposition.  I met with such a one, and from him I learnt what follows:—

Maroncelli, after having been long kept apart, had been placed with Count
Camillo Laderchi. {20}  The last, within a few days, had been declared
innocent, and discharged from prison, and the former again remained
alone.  Some other of our companions had also been set at liberty; the
Professor Romagnosi, {21} and Count Giovanni Arrivabene. {22}  Captain
Rezia {23} and the Signor Canova were together.  Professor Ressi {24} was
dying at that time, in a prison next to that of the two before mentioned.
“It follows then,” said I, “that the sentences of those not set at
liberty must have arrived.  How are they to be made known?  Perhaps, poor
Ressi will die; and will not be in a state to hear his sentence; is it
true?”

“I believe it is.”

Every day I inquired respecting the unhappy man.  “He has lost his voice;
he is rather better; he is delirious; he is nearly gone; he spits blood;
he is dying;” were the usual replies; till at length came the last of
all, “He is dead.”

I shed a tear to his memory, and consoled myself with thinking that he
died ignorant of the sentence which awaited him.

The day following, the 21st of February, 1822, the jailer came for me
about ten o’clock, and conducted me into the Hall of the Commission.  The
members were all seated, but they rose; the President, the Inquisitor,
and two assisting Judges.—The first, with a look of deep commiseration,
acquainted me that my sentence had arrived; that it was a terrible one;
but that the clemency of the Emperor had mitigated it.

The Inquisitor, fixing his eye on me, then read it:—“Silvio Pellico,
condemned to death; the imperial decree is, that the sentence be commuted
for fifteen years hard imprisonment in the fortress of Spielberg.”

“The will of God be done!” was my reply.

It was really my intention to bear this horrible blow like a Christian,
and neither to exhibit nor to feel resentment against any one whatever.
The President then commended my state of mind, warmly recommending me to
persevere in it, and that possibly by affording an edifying example, I
might in a year or two be deemed worthy of receiving further favours from
the imperial clemency.

Instead, however, of one or two, it was many years before the full
sentence was remitted.

The other judges also spoke encouragingly to me.  One of them, indeed,
had appeared my enemy on my trial, accosting me in a courteous but
ironical tone, while his look of insulting triumph seemed to belie his
words.  I would not make oath it was so, but my blood was then boiling,
and I was trying to smother my passion.  While they were praising me for
my Christian patience, I had not a jot of it left me.  “To-morrow,”
continued the Inquisitor, “I am sorry to say, you must appear and receive
your sentence in public.  It is a formality which cannot be dispensed
with.”

“Be it so!” I replied.

“From this time we grant you the company of your friend,” he added.  Then
calling the jailer, he consigned me into his hands, ordering that I
should be placed in the same dungeon with Maroncelli.




CHAPTER LII.


IT was a delightful moment, when, after a separation of three months, and
having suffered so greatly, I met my friend.  For some moments we forgot
even the severity of our sentence, conscious only of each other’s
presence.

But I soon turned from my friend to perform a more serious duty—that of
writing to my father.  I was desirous that the first tidings of my sad
lot should reach my family from myself; in order that the grief which I
knew they would all feel might be at least mitigated by hearing my state
of mind, and the sentiments of peace and religion by which I was
supported.  The judges had given me a promise to expedite the letter the
moment it was written.

Maroncelli next spoke to me respecting his trial; I acquainted him with
mine, and we mutually described our prison walks and adventures,
complimenting each other on our peripatetic philosophy.  We approached
our window, and saluted three of our friends, whom we beheld standing at
theirs.  Two of these were Canova and Rezia, in the same apartment; the
first of whom was condemned to six-years’ hard imprisonment, and the last
to three.  The third was Doctor Cesare Armari, who had been my neighbour
some preceding months, in the prisons of the Piombi.  He was not,
however, among the condemned, and soon obtained his liberty.

The power of communicating with one or other of our fellow-prisoners, at
all hours, was a great relief to our feelings.  But when buried in
silence and darkness, I was unable to compose myself to rest; I felt my
head burn, and my heart bleed, as my thoughts reverted to home.  Would my
aged parents be enabled to bear up against so heavy a misfortune? would
they find a sufficient resource in their other children?  They were
equally attached to all, and I valued myself least of all in that family
of love; but will a father and a mother ever find in the children that
remain to them a compensation for the one of whom they are deprived.

Had I dwelt only upon my relatives and a few other dear friends, much as
I regretted them, my thoughts would have been less bitter than they were.
But I thought of the insulting smile of that judge, of the trial, the
cause of the respective sentences, political passions and enmities, and
the fate of so many of my friends . . . It was then I could no longer
think with patience or indulgence of any of my persecutors.  God had
subjected me to a severe trial, and it was my duty to have borne it with
courage.  Alas!  I was neither able nor willing.  The pride and luxury of
hatred pleased me better than the noble spirit of forgiveness; and I
passed a night of horror after receiving sentence.

In the morning I could not pray.  The universe appeared to me, then, to
be the work of some power, the enemy of good.  I had previously, indeed,
been guilty of calumniating my Creator; but little did I imagine I should
revert to such ingratitude, and in so brief a time.  Julian, in his most
impious moods, could not express himself more impiously than myself.  To
gloat over thoughts of hatred, or fierce revenge, when smarting under the
scourge of heaviest calamity, instead of flying to religion as a refuge,
renders a man criminal, even though his cause be just.  If we hate, it is
a proof of rank pride; and where is the wretched mortal that dare stand
up and declare in the face of Heaven, his title to hatred and revenge
against his fellows? to assert that none have a right to sit in judgment
upon him and his actions;—that none can injure him without a bad
intention, or a violation of all justice?  In short, he dares to arraign
the decrees of Heaven itself, if it please Providence to make him suffer
in a manner which he does not himself approve.

Still I was unhappy because I could not pray; for when pride reigns
supreme, it acknowledges no other god than the self-idol it has created.
How I could have wished to recommend to the Supreme Protector, the care
of my bereaved parents, though at that unhappy moment I felt as if I no
more believed in Him.




CHAPTER LIII.


AT nine in the morning Maroncelli and I were conducted into the gondola
which conveyed us into the city.  We alighted at the palace of the Doge,
and proceeded to the prisons.  We were placed in the apartment which had
been occupied by Signor Caporali a few days before, but with whose fate
we were not acquainted.  Nine or ten sbirri were placed over us as a
guard, and walking about, we awaited the moment of being brought into the
square.  There was considerable delay.  The Inquisitor did not make his
appearance till noon, and then informed us that it was time to go.  The
physician, also, presented himself, and advised us to take a small glass
of mint-water, which we accepted on account of the extreme compassion
which the good old man expressed for us.  It was Dr. Dosmo.  The head
bailiff then advanced and fixed the hand-cuffs upon us.  We followed him,
accompanied by the other bailiffs.

We next descended the magnificent staircase of the Giganti, and we called
to mind the old Doge Faliero, who was beheaded there.  We entered through
the great gate which opens upon the small square from the court-yard of
the palace, and we then turned to the left, in the direction of the lake.
In the centre of the small square was raised the scaffold which we were
to ascend.  From the staircase of the Giganti, extending to the scaffold,
were two lines of Austrian soldiers, through which we passed.

After ascending the platform, we looked around us, and saw an immense
assembly of people, apparently struck with terror.  In other directions
were seen bands of armed men, to awe the multitude; and we were told that
cannon were loaded in readiness to be discharged at a moment’s notice.  I
was now exactly in the spot where, in September, 1820, just a month
previous to my arrest, a mendicant had observed to me, “This is a place
of misfortune.”

I called to mind the circumstance, and reflected that very possibly in
that immense throng of spectators the same person might be present, and
perhaps even recognise me.

The German Captain now called out to us to turn towards the palace, and
look up; we did so, and beheld, upon the lodge, a messenger of the
Council, with a letter in his hand; it was the sentence; he began to read
it in a loud voice.

It was ushered in by solemn silence, which was continued until he came to
the words, _Condemned to death_.  There was then heard one general murmur
of compassion.  This was followed by a similar silence, in order to hear
the rest of the document.  A fresh murmur arose on the announcement of
the following:—condemned to hard imprisonment, Maroncelli for _twenty
years_, and Pellico for _fifteen_.

The Captain made a sign for us to descend.  We cast one glance around us,
and came down.  We re-entered the court-yard, mounted the great
staircase, and were conducted into the room from which we had been
dragged.  The manacles were removed, and we were soon reconducted to San
Michele.




CHAPTER LIV.


THE prisoners who had been condemned before us had already set out for
Lubiana and Spielberg, accompanied by a commissary of police.  He was now
expected back, in order to conduct us to our destination; but the
interval of a month elapsed.

My time was chiefly spent in talking, and listening to the conversation
of others, in order to distract my attention.  Maroncelli read me some of
his literary productions, and in turn, I read him mine.  One evening I
read from the window my play of _Ester d’Engaddi_, to Canova, Rezia, and
Armari; and the following evening, the _Iginia d’Asti_.  During the
night, however, I grew irritable and wretched, and was unable to sleep.
I both desired and feared t

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