Thereader, 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 bywho 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?
Iwasagitated 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 toserve, 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.
Theanswer 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 oftacitisingas 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 ofperfect 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.
Ikeptmy 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 thedisjecta 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 ridiculingconscience, 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 ofinsolence, what he considerssincerity. 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.”
Isatdown 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;” (theCampanonewas 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.”
Iwalkedabout 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; whodidnothing but laugh, andwasnothing 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.
Iboreall 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 invery conscienceto 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.
Isatdown 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.
Ioncemore 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.
Atthe 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.”
Themonth 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!
Sucha 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.” Methoughthethen 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?”
Onemorning 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.
Thesickness 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 thePiombi, 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,graciouslyexchanged 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.
Itwas 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.
Theeffect 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.
Onthe 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 thePiombidelivered 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 thePiombi, 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.
Absorbedin 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.