SILVIO PELLICO AT SPIELBERG
Spielberg for many centuries Imperial State prison--Its
situation--Originally the castle of the ruling lords of
Moravia--Silvio Pellico imprisoned there--Also Franz von
der Trenck--Pellico’s relations with the Carbonari--His
imprisonment in the Santa Margherita and the Piombi--Sentence
of death commuted to fifteen years in Spielberg--Administration
of this prison--His fellow sufferers--The gaoler,
Schiller--Prison diet--Strict discipline enforced--Pellico is
released at the end of ten years.
Spielberg, in Austria, served for several centuries as an imperial
state prison to which many notable political and other offenders were
committed. It stands on the top of an isolated hill, the Spielberg, 185
feet above the city of Brünn, the capital of Moravia and headquarters
of the governor of the two provinces of Moravia and Silesia. The
castle was originally the fortified residence of the ruling lords of
Moravia and a formidable stronghold. It was the place of durance for
that other baron Von der Trenck, Franz, the Colonel of Pandours or
Austrian irregular cavalry, whose terrible excesses disgraced the Seven
Years’ War. His unscrupulous and daring conduct gained him life-long
incarceration in Spielberg which he ended by suicide. The fortress was
besieged and captured by the French just before the famous battle of
Austerlitz, which was fought in the neighbourhood. Its fortifications
were never fully restored, but a portion of the enclosure was rebuilt
and the place was again used as a place of durance, where some three
hundred prisoners were constantly lodged. These were criminals largely,
with a sprinkling of persons of higher and more respectable station who
had become obnoxious to the Austrian government.
The lengthy sentence of imprisonment which Silvio Pellico endured at
Spielberg was the penalty imposed upon him as an Italian subject who
dared to conspire against the Austrian domination. The rich provinces
of northern Italy had been apportioned to the emperor of Austria in the
scramble for territory at the fall of Napoleon. The Italians fiercely
resented the intolerable yoke of the arbitrary foreigners, and strove
hard to shake it off, but in vain, for nearly fifty years. Secret
societies pledged to resistance multiplied and flourished, defying all
efforts to extinguish them. The most actively dangerous was that of the
Carbonari, born at Naples of the hatred of the Bourbon rule and which
aimed at securing general freedom for one united Italy. Its influence
spread rapidly throughout the country and in the north helped forward
the abortive uprisings, which were sharply repressed by the Austrian
troops. Plots were constantly rife in Lombardy against the oppressive
rule in force and centred in Carbonarism which the government
unceasingly pursued. Silvio Pellico was drawn almost innocently into
association with the society and suffered severely for it.
Silvio Pellico was born in 1788 and spent a great part of his youth at
Pinerolo, a place of captivity of the mysterious “Man with the Iron
Mask.” His health was delicate; he was a student consumed with literary
aspirations and intense political fervour, and he presently moved to
Milan, where he began to write for the stage. A famous actress inspired
him with the idea of his play, _Francesca da Rimini_, which eventually
achieved such a brilliant success. Pellico was welcomed at Milan by the
best literary society and made the acquaintance of many distinguished
writers, native-born and foreign--Monti, Foscolo and Manzoni, Madame de
Stael, Schlegel and Lords Byron and Brougham among them. The author of
“Childe Harold” paid him the compliment of translating “Francesca” into
English verse.
About this time Silvio Pellico accepted the post of tutor to the sons
of Count Porro, a prominent leader of the agitation against Austria,
and whose dream it was to give an independent crown to Lombardy. Count
Porro approached the Emperor Joseph pleading the rights of his country,
and but narrowly escaped arrest. He saw that overt resistance was
impossible, but never ceased to conspire and encourage the desire for
freedom in his fellow-countrymen. He opened schools for the purpose and
founded a newspaper, the _Conciliatore_, to which many talented writers
contributed, including Pellico. It was a brilliant, though brief,
epoch of literary splendour, and the new journal was supported by the
most notable thinkers and eloquent publicists, whose productions were
constantly mutilated by the censorship. In the end, the _Conciliatore_
was suppressed.
Silvio Pellico, soon after his entry into Count Porro’s household, was
invited to affiliate himself with the Carbonari but hesitated to join,
having no accurate knowledge of the aims and intentions of the society.
He was moved, however, to inquire further and very incautiously wrote
through the post to a friend, asking what obligations he would have
to assume and the form of oath he must take,--all of which he was
willing to accept if his conscience would permit him. There was no
inviolability for private correspondence under Austrian rule, and
Silvio Pellico’s letter was intercepted and passed into the hands of
Count Bubna, the governor of Milan, who was already well informed of
the conspiracy brewing. He was, however, a humane official and did not
wish to proceed to extreme measures, but quietly warned the most active
leaders to disappear, telling them that “a trip to the country” might
benefit them just then. Many took the hint and left the city, among
them Count Porro, who escaped on the very day that the police meant to
make a descent on his house. Confalonieri, one of the chiefs, was not
so fortunate. He declined to run away until the _sbirri_ were at his
door and then climbed up to the top of the house, hoping to gain the
roof, but the lock of a garret window had been changed and he was taken
by the officers.
Silvio Pellico, having no suspicion of danger, was easily captured in
his house and was carried at once to the prison of Santa Margherita
in Milan, where he lay side by side with ordinary criminals, and also
made the acquaintance of the “false” Dauphin commonly called the Duke
of Normandy, the pretended heir of Louis XVI. It may be remembered that
a fiction long survived of the escape of the little dauphin from the
Temple prison, to which he had been sent by the French revolutionaries,
and that an idiot boy had been substituted to send to the guillotine.
The real dauphin--so runs the story--was spirited out of France
and safely across the Atlantic to the United States and afterward
to Brazil, where he passed through many dire adventures until the
restoration in France. A serious illness at that time prevented him
from vindicating his right to the throne, and thenceforth he became
a wanderer in Europe, vainly endeavouring to win recognition and
support from the various courts. The assassination of this inconvenient
claimant had been more than once attempted, and his persistence ended
in his arrest by the Austrian governor at the instance of the French
government, and resulted in his being held a close prisoner in Milan.
The warders of the Santa Margherita assured Silvio Pellico that they
were certain his fellow prisoner was the real king of France, and
they hoped that some day when he came to his own he would reward them
handsomely for their devoted attention to him when in gaol. Pellico
was not imposed upon by this pretender, but he noticed a strong family
likeness to the Bourbons and very reasonably supposed that herein was
the secret of the preposterous claim.
This curious encounter no doubt served to occupy Pellico’s thoughts
during his long trial which was conducted by methods abhorrent to all
ideas of justice. No indictments were made public and no depositions
of witnesses, who were always invisible. Conviction was a foregone
conclusion, and the sentence was death, on the ground that Pellico had
been concerned in a conspiracy against the state, that he had been
guilty of correspondence with a Carbonaro and that he had written
articles in favour of Carbonarism. His fate was communicated to him at
Venice, to which he had been removed and where he occupied a portion of
the Piombi, or prison under the “leads” of the ducal palace.
After a wearisome delay, the sentence was read to the prisoners,
Pellico and his intimate friend and companion Maroncelli, in court, and
afterward formally communicated to them on a scaffold which had been
raised in the Piazzetta of San Marco. An immense crowd had collected,
full of compassionate sympathy, and to overawe them a strong body of
troops had been paraded with bayonets fixed, and artillery was posted
with port fires alight. An usher came out upon an elevated gallery of
the palace above and read the order aloud until he reached the words
“condemned to death,” when the crowd, unable to restrain overwrought
feeling, burst into a loud murmur of condolence, which was followed by
deep silence when the words of commutation were read. Maroncelli was
sentenced to twenty years’ imprisonment and Silvio Pellico to fifteen,
both to be confined under the rules of _carcere duro_ in the fortress
of Spielberg.
The conditions of _carcere duro_ may be described as extremely irksome
and rigorous. The subject was closely chained by the legs; he had to
sleep on a bare board--the _lit de soldat_ or “plank bed”--and to
subsist on a most limited diet, little more than bread and water, with
a modicum of poor soup every other day. More merciless and brutal
treatment was that of _carcere durissimo_, when the chaining consisted
of a body belt or iron waist-band affixed to the wall by a chain so
short that it allowed no movement beyond the length of the plank bed.
Part of the rations was a most unpalatable and filthy food, consisting
of flour fried in lard and put by in pots for six months, then ladled
out and dissolved in boiling water.
An Austrian commissary of police came from Vienna to escort the patriot
prisoners to Spielberg, and he brought with him news that afforded some
small consolation. He had had an audience with the Emperor Joseph, who
had been graciously pleased to grant a remission of sentence by making
every twelve hours instead of twenty-four count as one day; in other
words, diminishing the term by just half. No official endorsement of
this proposal was signified and there was no certainty that it was
true, and indeed, after the lapse of the first half of the sentence,
release was not immediately accorded. Silvio’s seven and a half years
was expanded into ten, and the imprisonment might have been dragged on
for the full fifteen years but for the warm pleadings of the Sardinian
ambassador at the court of Vienna.
The long journey to Brünn was taken in two carriages and in much
discomfort, for each coach was crowded with the escort and their
charges, and each prisoner was fettered with a transversal chain
attached to the right wrist and left ankle. The one compensation was
the kindly sympathy that greeted the prisoners everywhere along the
road, in every town, village and isolated hut. The people came forth
with friendly expressions, and as the news of their approach preceded
them, great crowds collected to cheer them on their way. At one place,
Udine, where beds had to be prepared, the hotel servants gave place
to personal friends who came in, disguised, to shake them by the
hand. The demonstrations were continued far across the frontier, and
even Austrian subjects were anxious to commiserate the sad fate of men
whose only crime was an ardent desire to free their country.
[_Silvio Pellico at Spielburg_
_After the painting by Marckl_
The gifted Italian patriot, arrested as a Carbonarist in 1820, was
imprisoned for ten years, first at Milan and Venice and then in the
fortress of Spielburg in Austria, where he was subjected to gross
indignities and cruel neglect. He wrote of his experiences in his book
“My Prisons,” which struck a severe blow to Austrian tyranny.
Illustration]
Silvio Pellico records feelingly the emotion displayed by one charming
girl in a Styrian village, who long stood watching the carriages and
waving her handkerchief to the fast disappearing occupants on their
way to protracted captivity. In many places aged people came up to ask
if the prisoners’ parents were still alive, and offered up fervent
prayers that they might meet them again. The same sentiment of pity
and commiseration was freely displayed in the fortress throughout the
imprisonment; the gaolers--harsh, ill-tempered old soldiers--were
softened towards them; their fellow prisoners--ordinary criminals--when
encountered by chance in the courts and passages, saluted them and
treated them with deep respect. One whispered to Pellico, “You are not
such as we are and yet your lot is far worse than ours.” Another said
that although he was a convict his crime was one of passion, his heart
was not bad, and he was affected to tears when Silvio Pellico took him
by the hand. Visitors who came in from outside were always anxious to
notice “the Italians” and give them a kindly word.
Pellico, when received by the superintendent of Spielberg, was treated
to a lecture on conduct and warned that the slightest infraction
of the rules would expose him to punishment. Then he was led into
an underground corridor where he was ushered into one dark chamber,
and his comrade Maroncelli into another at some distance. Pellico’s
health was completely broken by the long wearisome journey and the
dreary prospect before him. His cell was a repulsive dungeon; a great
chain hung from the wall just above his plank bed, but it was not
destined for him, as his gaoler told him, unless he became violently
insubordinate; for the present leg irons would only be worn.
This gaoler was an aged man, of gigantic height, with a hard
weather-beaten face and a forbidding look of brutal severity. He
inspired Pellico with loathing as he paced the narrow cell rattling
his heavy keys and scowling fiercely. Yet the man was not to be judged
by appearances, for he concealed beneath a rough exterior a tender,
sympathetic heart. Pellico, misjudging him entirely, bitterly resented
his overbearing manner and showed a refractory spirit, addressing
his warder insolently and ordering him about rudely. The old man--a
veteran soldier who had served with distinction in many campaigns,
behaved with extraordinary patience and good temper and shamed Pellico
into more considerate behaviour. “I am no more than a corporal,” he
protested, “and I am not very proud of my position as gaoler, which
I will allow is far worse than being shot at by the enemy.” Pellico
readily acknowledged that the man Schiller, as he was called, meant
well. “Not at all,” growled Schiller, “expect nothing from me. It is
my duty to be rough and harsh with you. I took an oath on my first
appointment to show no indulgence and least of all to state prisoners.
It is the emperor’s order and I must obey.” Pellico regretted his first
impatience and gently said: “I can see plainly that is not easy for you
to enforce severe discipline but I respect you for it and shall bear
no malice.” Schiller thanked him and added: “Accept your lot bravely
and pity rather than blame me. In the matter of duty I am of iron,
and whatever I may feel for the unfortunate people who are under my
control, I cannot and must not show it.” He never departed from this
attitude, and though outwardly cross-grained and rough-spoken, Pellico
knew he could count upon humane treatment.
Schiller was greatly concerned at the prisoner’s ailing condition. He
had grown rapidly worse, was tormented with a terrible cough and was
evidently in a state of high fever. Medical advice was urgently needed,
but the prison doctor called only three times a week and he had visited
the gaol the day before; not even the arrival of these new prisoners,
nor an urgent summons to prescribe for serious sickness, would cause
him to change his routine. Pellico had no mattress and it could only
be supplied on medical requisition. The superintendent, cringing and
timid, did not dare to issue it on his own responsibility. He came to
see Pellico, and felt his pulse, but declared he could not go beyond
the rules. “I should risk my appointment,” he pleaded, “if I exceeded
my powers.” Schiller, after the superintendent left, was indignant with
his chief. “I think I would have taken as much as this upon myself; it
is only a small matter, scarcely involving the safety of the empire,”
and Pellico gratefully acknowledged that he had found a real friend in
the seemingly surly warder. Schiller came again that night to visit him
and finding him worse, renewed his bitter complaints against the cruel
neglect of the doctor. The next day the prisoner was still left without
medical treatment, after a night of terrible pain and discomfort, which
caused him to perspire freely. “I should like to change my shirt,” he
suggested, but was told that it was impossible. It was a prison shirt
and only one each week was allowed. Schiller brought one of his own
which proved to be several times too large. The prisoner asked for one
of his own, as he had brought a trunk full of his clothes, but this too
was forbidden. He was permitted to wear no part of his own clothing
and was left to lie as he was, shivering in every limb. Schiller came
presently, bringing a loaf of black bread, the allowance for two days,
and after handing it over burst out into fresh imprecations against
the doctor. Pellico could not eat a morsel of this coarse food, nor of
his dinner, which was presently brought by a prisoner and consisted
of some nauseous soup, the smell of which alone was repulsive, and
some vegetables dressed with a detestable sauce. He forced down a few
spoonfuls of soup and again fell back upon his bare, comfortless bed,
which was unprovided with a pillow; and racked with pain in every
limb, he lay there half insensible, looking for little relief. At
last, on the third day, the doctor came and pronounced the illness to
be fever, recommending that the patient should be removed from his
cell to another up-stairs. The first answer was that no room could be
found, but when the matter was specially referred to the governor who
ruled the two provinces of Moravia and Silesia and resided at Brünn, he
insisted that the doctor’s advice should be followed. Accordingly the
patient was moved into a room above, lighted by a small barred window
from which he could get a glimpse of the smiling valley below, the view
extending over garden and lake to the wooded heights of Austerlitz
beyond.
When he was somewhat better, they brought him his prison clothing
and he put it on for the first time. It was hideous, of course; a
harlequin dress, jacket and pantaloons of two colours, gray and dark
red, arranged in inverse pattern; one arm red, the other gray, one leg
gray, the other red, and the colours alternating in the same way on
the waistcoat. Coarse woollen stockings, a shirt of rough sailcloth
with sharp excrescences in the material that irritated and tore the
skin, heavy boots of untanned leather and a white hat completed the
outfit. His chains were riveted on his ankles, and the blacksmith
protested as he hammered on the anvil that it was an unnecessary job.
“The poor creature might well have been spared this formality. He is
far too ill to live many days.” It was said in German, a language with
which Pellico was familiar, and he answered in the same tongue, “Please
God it may be so,” much to the blacksmith’s dismay, who promptly
apologised, expressing the kindly hope that release might come in
another way than by death. Pellico assured him that he had no wish to
live. Nevertheless, although dejected beyond measure, his thoughts did
not turn toward suicide, for he firmly believed that he must shortly
be carried off by disease of the lungs. But, greatly as he had been
tried by the journey, and despite the fever which had followed, he
gradually improved in health and recovered, not only so as to complete
his imprisonment but to live on to a considerable age after release.
The prisoners suffered greatly from their isolation and the deprivation
of their comrades’ company, but Silvio Pellico and a near neighbour
discovered a means of communicating with each other and persisted in
it despite all orders to the contrary. They began by singing Italian
songs from cell to cell and refused to be silenced by the loud outcries
of the sentries, of whom several were at hand. One in particular
patrolled the corridor, listening at each door so as to locate the
sound. Pellico had no sooner discovered that his neighbour was Count
Antonio Oroboni than the sentry hammered loudly on the door with the
butt end of his musket. They persisted in singing, however, modulating
their voices, until they gained the good-will of the sentry, or spoke
so low as to be little interfered with. This conversation continued
for a long time without interruption until one day it was overheard by
the superintendent, who severely reprimanded Schiller. The old gaoler
was much incensed and came to Pellico forbidding him to speak again at
the window. “You must give me your solemn promise not to repeat this
misconduct.” Pellico stoutly replied: “I shall promise nothing of the
kind; silence and solitude are so absolutely unbearable that unless
I am gagged I shall continue to speak to my comrade; if he does not
answer, I shall address myself to my bars or the birds or the distant
hills.” Kind-hearted old Schiller sternly repeated his injunctions, but
failed to impress Pellico, and at last in despair Schiller threw away
his keys, declaring he would sooner resign than be a party to so much
cruelty. He yielded later, only imploring Pellico to speak always in
the lowest key and to prevail upon Oroboni to do likewise.
The greatest trial entailed by the _carcere duro_ was the lack of
sufficient food. Pellico was constantly tormented with hunger. Some of
his comrades suffered much more, for they had lived more freely than
he and felt the spare diet more keenly. It was so well known throughout
the prison that the political prisoners were half-starved, that many
kindly souls wished to add to their allowance. The ordinary prisoner,
who acted as orderly in bringing in the daily rations, secretly
smuggled in a loaf of white bread which Pellico, although much touched,
absolutely refused to accept. “We get so much more than you do,” the
poor fellow pleaded, “I know you are always hungry.” But Pellico still
refused. It was the same when Schiller, the grim gaoler, brought in
parcels of food, bread and pieces of boiled meat, pressing them on his
prisoner, assuring him that they cost him nothing. Pellico invariably
refused everything except baskets of fruit, cherries and pears, which
were irresistible, although he was sorry afterward for yielding to the
weakness.
At last the prison surgeon interposed and put all the Italians upon
hospital diet. This was somewhat better, but a meagre enough supply,
consisting daily of three issues of thin soup, a morsel of roast mutton
which could be swallowed in one mouthful, and three ounces of white
bread. As Silvio Pellico’s health improved this allowance proved more
and more insufficient and he was always hungry. Even the barber who
came up from Brünn to attend on the prisoners said it was common talk
in the town that they did not get enough to eat and wanted to bring a
white loaf when he arrived every Saturday.
Permission to exercise in the open air twice weekly had been conceded
from the first, and was at the last allowed daily. Each prisoner
was marched out singly, escorted by two gaolers armed with loaded
muskets. This took place in the general yard where there were often
many ordinary prisoners, all of whom saluted courteously and were
often heard to remark, “This poor man is no real offender and yet he
is treated much worse than we are.” Now and again one would come up to
Pellico and say sympathetically that he hoped he was feeling better,
and beg to be allowed to shake his hand. Visitors who came to call on
the officials were always deeply interested in the Italians and watched
them curiously but kindly. “There is a gentleman who will not make old
bones,”--Pellico heard some one say,--“death is written on his face.”
At this time so great was his weakness that, heavily chained as he was,
he could barely crawl to the yard, where he threw himself full length
on the grass to lie there in the sunshine until the exercise was over.
The officers’ families lived near at hand and the members, particularly
the ladies and children, never failed when they met the Italian
prisoners to greet them with kindly looks and expressions. The
superintendent’s wife, who was in failing health and was always carried
out on a sofa, smiled and spoke hopefully to Pellico, and other ladies
never failed to regret that they could do nothing to soften the
prisoners’ lot. It was a great grief to Pellico when circumstances led
to the removal of these tender-hearted friends from Spielberg.
Schiller and his prisoner had a serious quarrel because the latter
would not humble himself to petition the authorities to relieve him of
his leg irons, which incommoded him grievously and prevented him from
sleeping at night. The unfeeling doctor did not consider the removal of
these chains essential to health and ruled that Pellico must patiently
suffer the painful infliction till he grew accustomed to them. Schiller
insisted that Pellico should ask the favour of the authorities, and
when he was subjected to the chagrin of a refusal, he vented his
disappointment upon his gaoler, who was deeply hurt and declined to
enter the cell, but stood outside rattling his heavy keys. Food and
water were carried in by Kemda, the prison orderly, and it now was
Pellico’s turn to be offended. “You must not bear malice; it increases
my suffering,” he cried sadly. “What am I to do to please you? Laugh,
sing, dance, perhaps?” said Schiller, and he set himself to jump about
with his thin, long legs in the most ridiculous fashion.
A great joy came unexpectedly to Pellico. He was returning from
exercise one day when he found the door of Oroboni’s cell wide open.
Before his guards could stop him, he rushed in and clasped his comrade
in his arms. The officials were much shocked, but had not the heart to
separate them. Schiller came up and also a sentry, but neither liked
to check this breach of the regulations. At last the brief interview
was ended and the friends parted, never to meet again. Oroboni was
really hopelessly ill and unable to bear up against the burden of his
miserable existence, and after a few months he passed away.
Prison life in Spielberg was dull and monotonous. It was little less
than solitary confinement broken only by short talks with Schiller or
Oroboni. Silvio Pellico has recorded minutely the slow passage of each
twenty-four hours. He awoke at daylight, climbed up at once to his cell
windows and clung to the bars until Oroboni appeared at his window with
a morning salutation. The view across the valley below was superb;
the fresh voices of the peasants were heard laughing and singing as
they went out to work in the fields, free and light-hearted, in bitter
contrast to the captives languishing within the prison walls. Then came
the morning inspection of the cell and its occupant, when every corner
was scrupulously examined, the walls tapped and tried, and every link
of the chains tested, one by one, to see whether any had been tampered
with or broken.
There were three of these inspections daily; one in the early morning,
a second in the evening, and the third at midnight. Such scrupulous
vigilance absolutely forbade all attempts at escape. The broad rule
in prison management is obvious and unchanging; it is impossible for
those immured to break prison if regularly watched and visited. The
remarkable efforts made by Trenck, as detailed in a previous chapter,
and indeed the story of all successful evasions, depended entirely upon
the long continued exemption from observation and the unobstructed
leisure afforded to clever and untiring hands. In the Spielberg prison,
so close and constant was the surveillance exercised that no one turned
his thoughts to flight.
After the first meal--a half cup of colourless soup and three fingers
of dry bread--the prisoner took to his books, of which at first he
had plenty, for Maroncelli had brought a small library with him. The
emperor had been petitioned to permit the prisoners to purchase others.
No answer came for a year or more and then in the negative, while
the leave granted provisionally to read those in use was arbitrarily
withdrawn. For four full years this cruel restriction was imposed. All
studies hitherto followed were abruptly ended. Pellico was deprived of
his Homer and his English classics, his works on Christian philosophy,
Bourdaloue, Pascal and Thomas à Kempis. After a time the emperor
himself supplied a few religious books, but he positively forbade the
issue of any that might serve for literary improvement.
The fact was that political agitation had increased in Italy, and
Austrian despots were resolved to draw the reins tighter and crush
rebellion by the more savage treatment of the patriot prisoners. Many
more were brought to Spielberg about this time and the discipline
became more severe. The exercising yard on the open terrace was
enclosed by a high wall to prevent people at a distance from watching
the prisoners with telescopes, and later a narrower place was
substituted which had no outlook at all. More rigorous searches were
instituted and carried out by the police, who explored even the hems
and linings of clothing. Pellico’s condition had become much worse.
He suffered grievously from the misfortunes of his friends. Oroboni
died, and Maroncelli was attacked by a tumour in the knee which caused
intense suffering and in the end necessitated amputation. Added to
this was acute anxiety concerning his relatives and friends. No
correspondence was permitted; no news came from outside, but there were
vague rumours that evil had overtaken Pellico’s family.
One day, however, a message was brought him through the director of
police from the emperor, who was “graciously pleased” to inform Silvio
Pellico that all was well with his family. He begged piteously for more
precise information,--were his parents, his brothers and sisters all
alive? No answer was vouchsafed; he must be satisfied with what he had
been told and be grateful for the compassionate clemency of his august
sovereign. A second message, equally brief and meagre, came later,
but still not one word to relieve the dreadful doubts that constantly
oppressed him. No wonder that his health suffered anew and that he was
seized with colics and violent internal pains. Another acute grief was
due to the loss of his good friend Schiller, who became so infirm that
he was transferred to lighter duty and was at last sent to the military
hospital, where he gradually faded away. He never forgot his dear
prisoners, “his children,” as he called them and to whom he sent many
affecting messages when at the point of death.
The Austrian government, although uniformly pitiless and stony-hearted,
was at times uneasy, ashamed, it might be, at the consequences of its
barbarous prison régime. More than once special inquiries were made by
eminent doctors sent on purpose from Vienna to report on the sanitary
state of Spielberg and the constant presence of scurvy among the
prisoners. The evil might have been diminished, if not removed, by the
use of a more generous diet, but the suggestion, if made, was never
adopted. One commissioner had dared to recommend that artificial light
should be provided in the cells, which were so dark after nightfall
that the occupant was in danger of running his head against the walls.
A whole year passed before this small favour was accorded. Another
visitor, hearing that the prison doctor would have prescribed coffee
for Pellico but was afraid to do so, secured him that boon. A third
commissioner, a man of high rank and much influence at court, was so
deeply impressed by the miserable condition of the prisoners that he
openly expressed his indignation, and his kind words in some measure
consoled the victims of such cruel oppression.
At last the authorities were so much disturbed by the reports of the
failing health of prisoners so constantly isolated, that they were
moved to associate them in couples in the same cell. Silvio Pellico,
to his intense delight, was given Maroncelli as his companion. He
was so much overjoyed by the news that at first he fainted away, and
after he had regained consciousness he again fainted at seeing how the
ravages of imprisonment with its attendant dejection, starvation and
poisonous air had told on his friend. The two continued together for
the years that remained to be served; years of suffering, for both were
continually ill, Maroncelli lost his leg, and both were attacked with
persistent scurvy. They waited together for the long delayed day of
release, which in the case of Pellico was greatly prolonged beyond the
promised termination of seven and a half years. In the end he served
fully ten years, but was finally released in 1830.
The order reached him quite unexpectedly one Sunday morning immediately
after mass, when he had regained his cell for dinner. They were eating
their first mouthfuls when the governor entered, apologised for his
appearance, and led them off, Pellico and Maroncelli, for an interview
with the director of police. They went with a very bad grace, for this
official never came but to give trouble and they expected nothing
better. The director was slow of speech and long hesitated to impart
the joyful news that His Majesty the emperor had been mercifully
disposed toward them and had set them both free.