Our legs were enveloped in leather buskins, untanned, and we wore a coa.r.s.e white hat.

This costume was not complete without the addition of chains to the feet, that is, extending from one leg to the other, the joints being fastened with nails, which were riveted upon an anvil. The blacksmith employed upon my legs, in this operation, observed to one of the guards, thinking I knew nothing of German, "So ill as he is, one would think they might spare him this sort of fun; ere two months be over, the angel of death will loosen these rivets of mine."

"Mochte es seyn! may it be so!" was my reply, as I touched him upon the shoulder. The poor fellow started, and seemed quite confused; he then said; "I hope I may be a false prophet; and I wish you may be set free by another kind of angel."

"Yet, rather than live thus, think you not, it would be welcome even from the angel of death?" He nodded his head, and went away, with a look of deep compa.s.sion for me.

I would truly have been willing to die, but I felt no disposition towards suicide. I felt confident that the disease of my lungs would be enough, ere long, to give me freedom. Such was not the will of G.o.d. The fatigue of my journey had made me much worse, but rest seemed again to restore my powers.

A few minutes after the blacksmith left me, I heard the hammer sounding upon the anvil in one of the caverns below. Schiller was then in my room. "Do you hear those blows?" I said; "they are certainly fixing the irons on poor Maroncelli." The idea for the moment was so overwhelming, that if the old man had not caught me, I should have fallen. For more than half an hour, I continued in a kind of swoon, and yet I was sensible. I could not speak, my pulse scarcely beat at all; a cold sweat bathed me from head to foot.

Still I could hear all that Schiller said, and had a keen perception, both of what had pa.s.sed and was pa.s.sing.

By command of the superintendent and the activity of the guards, the whole of the adjacent prisons had been kept in a state of profound silence. Three or four times I had caught s.n.a.t.c.hes of some Italian song, but they were quickly stifled by the calls of the sentinels on duty. Several of these were stationed upon the ground-floor, under our windows, and one in the gallery close by, who was continually engaged in listening at the doors and looking through the bars to forbid every kind of noise.

Once, towards evening (I feel the same sort of emotion whenever I recur to it), it happened that the sentinels were less on the alert; and I heard in a low but clear voice some one singing in a prison adjoining my own. What joy, what agitation I felt at the sound. I rose from my bed of straw, I bent my ear; and when it ceased--I burst into tears. "Who art thou, unhappy one?" I cried, "who art thou? tell me thy name! I am Silvio Pellico."

"Oh, Silvio!" cried my neighbour, "I know you not by person, but I have long loved you. Get up to your window, and let us speak to each other, in spite of the jailers."

I crawled up as well as I could; he told me his name, and we exchanged few words of kindness. It was the Count Antonio Oroboni, a native of Fratta, near Rovigo, and only twenty-nine years of age.

Alas! we were soon interrupted by the ferocious cries of the sentinels. He in the gallery knocked as loud as he could with the b.u.t.t-end of his musket, both at the Count's door and at mine. We would not, and we could not obey; but the noise, the oaths, and threats of the guards were such as to drown our voices, and after arranging that we would resume our communications, upon a change of guards, we ceased to converse.

CHAPTER LXIII.

We were in hopes (and so in fact it happened) that by speaking in a lower tone, and perhaps occasionally having guards whose humanity might prompt them to pay no attention to us, we might renew our conversation. By dint of practice we learnt to hear each other in so low a key that the sounds were almost sure to escape the notice of the sentinels. If, as it rarely happened, we forgot ourselves, and talked aloud, there came down upon us a torrent of cries, and knocks at our doors, accompanied with threats and curses of every kind, to say nothing of poor Schiller's vexation, and that of the superintendent.

By degrees, however, we brought our system to perfection; spoke only at the precise minutes, quarters, and half hours when it was safe, or when such and such guards were upon duty. At length, with moderate caution, we were enabled every day to converse almost as much as we pleased, without drawing on us the attention or anger of any of the superior officers.

It was thus we contracted an intimate friendship. The Count told me his adventures, and in turn I related mine. We sympathised in everything we heard, and in all each other's joys or griefs. It was of infinite advantage to us, as well as pleasure; for often, after pa.s.sing a sleepless night, one or the other would hasten to the window and salute his friend. How these mutual welcomes and conversations helped to encourage us, and to soothe the horrors of our continued solitude! We felt that we were useful to each other; and the sense of this roused a gentle emulation in all our thoughts, and gave a satisfaction which man receives, even in misery, when he knows he can serve a fellow-creature. Each conversation gave rise to new ones; it was necessary to continue them, and to explain as we went on. It was an unceasing stimulus to our ideas to our reason, our memory, our imagination, and our hearts.

At first, indeed, calling to mind Julian, I was doubtful as to the fidelity of this new friend. I reflected that hitherto we had not been at variance; but some day I feared something unpleasant might occur, and that I should then be sent back to my solitude. But this suspicion was soon removed. Our opinions harmonised upon all essential points. To a n.o.ble mind, full of ardour and generous sentiment, undaunted by misfortune, he added the most clear and perfect faith in Christianity, while in me this had become vacillating and at times apparently extinct.

He met my doubts with most just and admirable reflections; and with equal affection, I felt that he had reason on his side: I admitted it, yet still my doubts returned. It is thus, I believe, with all who have not the Gospel at heart, and who hate, or indulge resentments of any kind. The mind catches glimpses, as it were, of the truth, but as it is unpleasing, it is disbelieved the moment after, and the attention directed elsewhere.

Oroboni was indefatigable in turning MY attention to the motives which man has to show kindness to his enemies. I never spoke of any one I abhorred but he began in a most dexterous manner to defend him, and not less by his words than by his example. Many men had injured him; it grieved him, yet he forgave all, and had the magnanimity to relate some laudable trait or other belonging to each, and seemed to do it with pleasure.

The irritation which had obtained such a mastery over me, and rendered me so irreligious after my condemnation, continued several weeks, and then wholly ceased. The n.o.ble virtue of Oroboni delighted me. Struggling as well as I could to reach him, I at least trod in the same track, and I was then enabled to pray with sincerity; to forgive, to hate no one, and dissipate every remaining doubt and gloom.

Ubi charitas et amor, Deus ibi est. {25}

CHAPTER LXIV.

To say truth, if our punishment was excessively severe, and calculated to irritate the mind, we had still the rare fortune of meeting only with individuals of real worth. They could not, indeed, alleviate our situation, except by kindness and respect, but so much was freely granted. If there were something rude and uncouth in old Schiller, it was amply compensated by his n.o.ble spirit. Even the wretched Kunda (the convict who brought us our dinner, and water three times a day) was anxious to show his compa.s.sion for us. He swept our rooms regularly twice in the week.

One morning, while thus engaged, as Schiller turned a few steps from the door, poor Kunda offered me a piece of white bread. I refused it, but squeezed him cordially by the hand. He was moved, and told me, in bad German, that he was a Pole. "Good sir," he added, "they give us so little to eat here, that I am sure you must be hungry."

I a.s.sured him I was not, but he was very hard of belief.

The physician, perceiving that we were none of us enabled to swallow the kind of food prepared for us on our first arrival, put us all upon what is considered the hospital diet. This consisted of three very small plates of soup in the day, the least slice of roast lamb, hardly a mouthful, and about three ounces of white bread.

As my health continued to improve, my appet.i.te grew better, and that "fourth portion," as they termed it, was really too little, and I began to feel the justice of poor Kunda's remarks. I tried a return to the sound diet, but do what I would to conquer my aversion, it was all labour lost. I was compelled to live upon the fourth part of ordinary meals: and for a whole year I knew by experience the tortures of hunger. It was still more severely felt by many of my fellow-prisoners, who, being far stouter, had been accustomed to a full and generous diet. I learnt that many of them were glad to accept pieces of bread from Schiller and some of the guards, and even from the poor hungry Kunda.

"It is reported in the city," said the barber, a young pract.i.tioner of our surgery, one day to me, "it is reported that they do not give you gentlemen here enough to eat."

"And it is very true," replied I, with perfect sincerity.

The next Sunday (he came always on that day) he brought me an immense white loaf, and Schiller pretended not to see him give it me. Had I listened to my stomach I should have accepted it, but I would not, lest he should repeat the gift and bring himself into some trouble. For the same reason I refused Schiller's offers. He would often bring me boiled meat, entreating me to partake of it, and protesting it cost him nothing; besides, he knew not what to do with it, and must give it away to somebody. I could have devoured it, but would he not then be tempted to offer me something or other every day, and what would it end in? Twice only I partook of some cherries and some pears; they were quite irresistible. I was punished as I expected, for from that time forth the old man never ceased bringing me fruit of some kind or other.

CHAPTER LXV.

It was arranged, on our arrival, that each of us should be permitted to walk an hour twice in the week. In the sequel, this relief was one day granted us and another refused; and the hour was always later during festivals.

We went, each separately, between two guards, with loaded muskets on their shoulders. In pa.s.sing from my prison, at the head of the gallery, I went by the whole of the Italian prisoners, with the exception of Maroncelli--the only one condemned to linger in the caverns below. "A pleasant walk!" whispered they all, as they saw me pa.s.s; but I was not allowed to exchange a single word.

I was led down a staircase which opened into a s.p.a.cious court, where we walked upon a terrace, with a south aspect, and a view of the city of Brunn and the surrounding country. In this courtyard we saw numbers of the common criminals, coming from, or going to, their labour, or pa.s.sing along conversing in groups. Among them were several Italian robbers, who saluted me with great respect. "He is no rogue, like us; yet you see his punishment is more severe"; and it was true, they had a larger share of freedom than I.

Upon hearing expressions like these, I turned and saluted them with a good-natured look. One of them observed, "It does me good to see you, sir, when you notice me. Possibly you may see something in my look not so very wicked. An unhappy pa.s.sion instigated me to commit a crime, but believe me, sir, I am no villain!"

Saying this he burst into tears. I gave him my hand, but he was unable to return the pressure. At that moment, my guard, according to their instructions, drove him away, declaring that they must permit no one to approach me. The observations subsequently addressed to me were pretended to be spoken among each other; and if my two attendants became aware of it, they quickly interposed silence.

Prisoners of various ranks, and visitors of the superintendent, the chaplain, the sergeant, or some of the captains, were likewise to be seen there. "That is an Italian, that is an Italian!" they often whispered each other. They stopped to look at me, and they would say in German, supposing I should not understand them, "That poor gentleman will not live to be old; he has death in his countenance."

In fact, after recovering some degree of strength, I again fell ill for want of nourishment, and fever again attacked me. I attempted to drag myself, as far as my chain would permit, along the walk, and throwing myself upon the turf, I rested there until the expiration of my hour. The guards would then sit down near me, and begin to converse with each other. One of them, a Bohemian, named Kral, had, though very poor, received some sort of an education, which he had himself improved by reflection. He was fond of reading, had studied Klopstock, Wieland, Goethe, Schiller, and many other distinguished German writers. He knew a good deal by memory, and repeated many pa.s.sages with feeling and correctness. The other guard was a Pole, by name Kubitzky, wholly untaught, but kind and respectful. Their society was a great relief to me.

CHAPTER LXVI.

At one end of the terrace was situated the apartments of the superintendent, at the other was the residence of a captain, with his wife and son. When I saw any one appear from these buildings, I was in the habit of approaching near, and was invariably received with marks of courtesy and compa.s.sion.

The wife of the captain had been long ill, and appeared to be in a decline. She was sometimes carried into the open air, and it was astonishing to see the sympathy she expressed for our sufferings.

She had the sweetest look I ever saw; and though evidently timid, would at times fix her eye upon me with an inquiring, confiding glance, when appealed to by name. One day I observed to her with a smile, "Do you know, signora, I find a resemblance between you and one who was very dear to me." She blushed, and replied with charming simplicity, "Do not then forget me when I shall be no more; pray for my unhappy soul, and for the little ones I leave behind me!" I never saw her after that day; she was unable to rise from her bed, and in a few months I heard of her death.

She left three sons, all beautiful as cherubs, and one still an infant at the breast. I had often seen the poor mother embrace them when I was by, and say, with tears in her eyes, "Who will be their mother when I am gone? Ah, whoever she may be, may it please the Father of all to inspire her with love, even for children not her own."

Often, when she was no more, did I embrace those fair children, shed a tear over them, and invoke their mother's blessing on them, in the same words. Thoughts of my own mother, and of the prayers she so often offered up for HER lost son, would then come over me, and I added, with broken words and sighs, "Oh, happier mother than mine, you left, indeed, these innocent ones, so young and fair, but my dear mother devoted long years of care and tenderness to me, and saw them all, with the object of them, s.n.a.t.c.hed from her at a blow!"

These children were intrusted to the care of two elderly and excellent women; one of them the mother, the other the aunt of the superintendent. They wished to hear the whole of my history, and I gave it them as briefly as I could. "How greatly we regret," they observed, with warm sympathy, "to be unable to help you in any way.