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 noble mind.
The sun was setting, it was my hour of prayer; I felt the presence of
God; how sincere was my gratitude 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
assures 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 noble-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 assuredly meet with the
severest chastisement. Is not this consideration of itself sufficient to
decide me against undertaking any clandestine correspondence? Is it not
my absolute duty to decline it?