STILL I did not wholly neglect the paper put into my hands, and sometimes
even devoted an entire day or night to writing. But here I only treated
of literary matters. I composed at that time the _Ester d’Engaddi_, the
_Iginia d’Asti_, and the _Cantichi_, entitled, _Tanereda Rosilde_,
_Eligi_ and _Valafrido_, _Adello_, besides several sketches of tragedies,
and other productions, in the list of which was a poem upon the _Lombard
League_, and another upon _Christopher Columbus_.
As it was not always so easy an affair to get a reinforcement of paper, I
was in the habit of committing my rough draughts to my table, or the
wrapping-paper in which I received fruit and other articles. At times I
would give away my dinner to the under-jailer, telling him that I had no
appetite, and then requesting from him the favour of a sheet of paper.
This was, however, only in certain exigencies, when my little table was
full of writing, and I had not yet determined on clearing it away. I was
often very hungry, and though the jailer had money of mine in his
possession, I did not ask him to bring me anything to eat, partly lest he
should suspect I had given away my dinner, and partly that the
under-jailer might not find out that I had said the thing which was not
when I assured him of my loss of appetite. In the evening I regaled
myself with some strong coffee, and I entreated that it might be made by
the little _sioa_, Zanze. {13} This was the jailer’s daughter, who, if
she could escape the lynx-eye of her sour mamma, was good enough to make
it exceedingly good; so good, indeed, that, what with the emptiness of my
stomach, it produced a kind of convulsion, which kept me awake the whole
of the night.
In this state of gentle inebriation, I felt my intellectual faculties
strangely invigorated; wrote poetry, philosophized, and prayed till
morning with feelings of real pleasure. I then became completely
exhausted, threw myself upon my bed, and, spite of the gnats that were
continually sucking my blood, I slept an hour or two in profound rest.
I can hardly describe the peculiar and pleasing exaltation of mind which
continued for nights together, and I left no means untried to secure the
same means of continuing it. With this view I still refused to touch a
mouthful of dinner, even when I was in no want of paper, merely in order
to obtain my magic beverage for the evening.
How fortunate I thought myself when I succeeded; not unfrequently the
coffee was not made by the gentle Angiola; and it was always vile stuff
from her mother’s hands. In this last case, I was sadly put out of
humour, for instead of the electrical effect on my nerves, it made me
wretched, weak, and hungry; I threw myself down to sleep, but was unable
to close an eye. Upon these occasions I complained bitterly to Angiola,
the jailer’s daughter, and one day, as if she had been in fault, I
scolded her so sharply that the poor girl began to weep, sobbing out,
“Indeed, sir, I never deceived anybody, and yet everybody calls me a
deceitful little mix.”
“Everybody! Oh then, I see I am not the only one driven to distraction
by your vile slops.”
“I do not mean to say that, sir. Ah, if you only knew; if I dared to
tell you all that my poor, wretched heart—”
“Well, don’t cry so! What is all this ado? I beg your pardon, you see,
if I scolded you. Indeed, I believe you would not, you could not, make
me such vile stuff as this.”
“Dear me! I am not crying about that, sir.”
“You are not!” and I felt my self-love not a little mortified, though I
forced a smile. “Are you crying, then, because I scolded you, and yet
not about the coffee?”
“Yes, indeed, sir?”
“Ah! then who called you a little deceitful one before?”
“_He_ did, sir.”
“_He_ did; and who is _he_?”
“My lover, sir;” and she hid her face in her little hands.
Afterwards she ingenuously intrusted to my keeping, and I could not well
betray her, a little serio-comic sort of pastoral romance, which really
interested me.