CHAPTER V.
The two prisoners had no longer any secrets from each other. After glancing rapidly over the history of their several lives, they returned to the various incidents of each, and the emotions to which they had given rise. They sometimes spoke of Teresa; but at the very mention of her name, a vivid blush overspread the face of Charney, and the old man himself grew grave and sad. Any allusion to the absent angel was sure to be followed by an interval of mournful silence.
Their discourse usually turned upon the discussion of some point of morality; or comments upon the eccentricities of human nature. Girardi’s philosophy, mild and benevolent, invested the happiness of man in the love of his fellow-creatures; nor could Charney, though half converted to his opinions, understand by what means this spirit of tenderness and indulgence could survive the injuries which the philosopher had endured from mankind.
“Surely,” said he, “you must have bestowed your malediction on those who, after basely calumniating you, tore you from the bosom of domestic happiness—from the arms of—your daughter?”
“The offence of a few,” replied Girardi, “was not to subvert my principles of action towards the whole. Even thosefew, blinded by political fanaticism, fancied they were fulfilling a duty. Trust me, my young friend, it is indispensable to survey even the injuries we receive through a medium of pardon and pity. Which of us has not required forgiveness for faults? Which of us has not, in his turn, mistaken error for the truth? St. John bequeathed to us the blessed axiom thatGod is love! True and beautiful proposition!—since by love alone the soul re-elevates itself to its celestial source, and finds courage for the endurance of misfortune! Had I entered into captivity with a particle of hatred in my soul against my fellow-creatures, I should have expired in my embittered loneliness. But Heaven be praised, I have never been the prey of a single painful reflection. The recollection of my good and faithful friends, whose hearts I knew were suffering with every suffering of my own, served to stimulate my affection towards mankind; and the only unlucky moment of my captivity was that in which I was debarred the sight of a fellow-creature.”
“How!” cried Charney, “were you ever subjected to such a deprivation?”
“At my first arrest,” resumed Girardi, “I was transported to a dungeon in the citadel of Turin, so framed as to render communication impossible even with my jailer. My food was conveyed to me by a turning box inserted in the wall; and during a whole month not the slightest sound interrupted the stillness of my solitude. It needs to have undergone all I then experienced, fully to comprehend the fallacy of that savage philosophy which denied society to be the natural condition of the human species. The wretch condemned to isolation from his kind is a wretch indeed! To hear no human voice—to meet no human eye—to be denied the pressure of a human hand—to find only cold and inanimate objects on which to rest one’s brow—one’s breast—one’s heart, is a privation to which the strongest might fall a victim! The month I thus endured weighed like years upon my nature; and when, every second day, I discerned the footsteps of my jailer in the corridor, coming to renew my provisions, the meresound caused my heart to leap within me. While the box was turning round, I used to strain my eyes in hopes to catch, at the crevice, the slightest glimpse of his face, his hand, his very dress; and my disappointment drove me to despair. Could I have discerned a human face, even bearing the characters of cruelty or wickedness, I should have thought it full of beauty; and had the man extended his arms towards me in kindness, have blessed him for the concession! But the sight of a human face was denied me till the day of my translation to Fenestrella; and my only resource consisted in feeding the reptiles which shared my captivity, and in meditating upon my absent child!”
Charney started at the allusion; but his venerable companion was himself too much distressed to notice the emotion of his young friend.
“At length,” said he, after a long pause, which served to restore him to his usual serenity, “a favourable change befel me even in my dungeon. I discovered, by means of a straggling ray of light, a crevice produced by the insertion of an iron cross by way of support into the walls of my dungeon: which, though it enabled me to obtain only an oblique glimpse of the opposite wall, became a source of exquisite enjoyment. My cell happened to be situated under the keep of the citadel; and one blessed day, I noticed for the first time the shadow of a man distinctly reflected upon the wall. A sentinel had doubtless been posted on the platform over my head; for the shadow went and came, and I could distinguish the form of the man’s uniform, the epaulet, the knapsack, the point of his bayonet—the very vacillation of his feather!
“Till evening extinguished my resource, I remained at my post; and how shall I describe the thrill of joy with whichI acknowledged so unexpected a consolation! I was no longer alone; I had once more a living companion. Next day and the days succeeding, the shadow of another soldier appeared; the sentinels were ever changing, but my enjoyment was the same. It was always a man—always a fellow-creature I knew to be near me—a living, breathing fellow-creature, whose movements I could watch, and whose dispositions conjecture. When the moment came for relieving guard, I welcomed the new-comer, and bade good-by to his predecessor. I knew the corporal by sight; I could recognise the different profiles of the men; nay (dare I avow such a weakness!), some among them were objects of my predilection. The attitude of their persons, or comparative vivacity of their movements, became so many indications of character, from which their age and sentiments might be inferred. One paced gaily along, turning lightly on his heel, balancing his musket in sport, or waving his head in cadence to the air he was whistling;hewas doubtless young and gay, cheered by visions of happiness and love. Another paced along, with his brow inclining, pausing often, and leaning with his arms crossed upon his musket, meditating mournfully, perhaps, upon his distant village, his absent mother, his childhood’s friends. He passed his hand rapidly over his eyes—perhaps to dash away the tears gathered by these tender retrospections!
“For many of these shadows I felt a lively interest, an inexplicable compassion; and the balm thus called into existence within my bosom shed its soothing influence over my fate. Trust me, my good young friend, the truest happiness is that we derive from our sympathy with our fellow-creatures.”
“Why did I not become earlier acquainted with you, excellent man?” cried Charney, deeply affected. “How different, then, had been the tenor of my life! But what right have I to complain? Have I not found in this desolate spot all that was denied me amid the splendour of the world?—a devoted heart—a noble soul—an anchor of strength—virtue and truth—Girardi and Picciola?”
For among all these effusions of the heart, Picciola was not forgotten. The two friends had constructed a more capacious seat beside her; where, side by side, and facing the lovely plant, they passed hour after hour together, all three in earnest conversation. Charney had given to this new seat the name of “The Bench of Conference.”
There did the simple-minded Girardi aspire for once to eloquence: for without eloquence in the expositor, no conviction. Nor were the eloquence or conviction wanting.
The bench had become the rostrum of a professor; a professor, though less learned than his scholar, infinitely wiser and more enlightened. The professor is Giacomo Girardi, the pupil the Count de Charney, and the book in process of exposition—Picciola!