My Ten Years' Imprisonment Part 7

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 G.o.d: 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 pa.s.sion; 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 pa.s.sages, 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 pa.s.sion, 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 x.x.xIII.

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 x.x.xIV.

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 n.o.ble mind.

The sun was setting, it was my hour of prayer; I felt the presence of G.o.d; how sincere was my grat.i.tude 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 a.s.sures 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 n.o.ble- 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 a.s.suredly meet with the severest chastis.e.m.e.nt. 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 x.x.xV.

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 circ.u.mstances it is necessary to appeal with confidence to G.o.d, 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 G.o.d? 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 x.x.xVI.