ALONG the same gallery, upon a level with my prison, I saw other
prisoners passing and repassing the whole day to the place of
examination. They were, for the chief part, of lowly condition, but
occasionally one or two of better rank. All, however, attracted my
attention, brief as was the sight of them, and I truly compassionated
them. So sorrowful a spectacle for some time filled me with grief, but
by degrees I became habituated to it, and at last it rather relieved than
added to the horror of my solitude. A number of women, also, who had
been arrested, passed by. There was a way from the gallery, through a
large vault, leading to another court, and in that part were placed the
female prisoners, and others labouring under disease. A single wall, and
very slight, separated my dwelling from that of some of the women.
Sometimes I was almost deafened with their songs, at others with their
bursts of maddened mirth. Late at evening, when the din of day had
ceased, I could hear them conversing, and, had I wished, I could easily
have joined with them. Was it timidity, pride, or prudence which
restrained me from all communication with the unfortunate and degraded of
their sex? Perhaps it partook of all. Woman, when she is what she ought
to be, is for me a creature so admirable, so sublime, the mere seeing,
hearing, and speaking to her, enriches my mind with such noble fantasies;
but rendered vile and despicable, she disturbs, she afflicts, she
deprives my heart, as it were, of all its poetry and its love. Spite of
this, there were among those feminine voices, some so very sweet that,
there is no use in denying it, they were dear to me. One in particular
surpassed the rest; I heard it more seldom, and it uttered nothing
unworthy of its fascinating tone. She sung little and mostly kept
repeating these two pathetic lines:—
Chi rende alla meschina
La sua felicità?
Ah, who will give the lost one
Her vanished dream of bliss?
At other times, she would sing from the litany. Her companions joined
with her; but still I could discern the voice of Maddalene from all
others, which seemed only to unite for the purpose of robbing me of it.
Sometimes, too, when her companions were recounting to her their various
misfortunes, I could hear her pitying them; could catch even her very
sighs, while she invariably strove to console them: “Courage, courage, my
poor dear,” she one day said, “God is very good, and He will not abandon
us.”
How could I do otherwise than imagine she was beautiful, more unfortunate
than guilty, naturally virtuous, and capable of reformation? Who would
blame me because I was affected with what she said, listened to her with
respect, and offered up my prayers for her with more than usual
earnestness of heart. Innocence is sacred, and repentance ought to be
equally respected. Did the most perfect of men, the Divinity on earth,
refuse to cast a pitying eye on weak, sinful women; to respect their fear
and confusion, and rank them among the minds he delighted to consort with
and to honour? By what law, then, do we act, when we treat with so much
contempt women fallen into ignominy?
While thus reasoning, I was frequently tempted to raise my voice and
speak, as a brother in misfortune, to poor Maddalene. I had often even
got out the first syllable; and how strange! I felt my heart beat like
an enamoured youth of fifteen; I who had reached thirty-one; and it
seemed as if I should never be able to pronounce the name, till I cried
out almost in a rage, “Mad! Mad!” yes, mad enough, thought I.