AT the windows of the side prisons I recognised six other prisoners, all
there on account of politics. Just then, as I was composing my mind to
perfect solitude, I found myself comparatively in a little world of human
beings around me. The change was, at first, irksome to me, such complete
seclusion having rendered me almost unsociable, add to which, the
disagreeable termination of my correspondence with Julian. Still, the
little conversation I was enabled to carry on, partly by signs, with my
new fellow-prisoners, was of advantage by diverting my attention. I
breathed not a word respecting my correspondence with Julian; it was a
point of honour between us, and in bringing it forward here, I was fully
aware that in the immense number of unhappy men with which these prisons
were thronged, it would be impossible to ascertain who was the assumed
Julian.
To the interest derived from seeing my fellow-captives was added another
of a yet more delightful kind. I could perceive from my large window,
beyond the projection of prisons, situated right before me, a surface of
roofs; decorated with cupolas, _campanili_, towers, and chimneys, which
gradually faded in a distant view of sea and sky. In the house nearest
to me, a wing of the Patriarchal palace, lived an excellent family, who
had a claim to my gratitude, for expressing, by their salutations, the
interest which they took in my fate. A sign, a word of kindness to the
unhappy, is really charity of no trivial kind. From one of the windows I
saw a little boy, nine or ten years old, stretching out his hands towards
me, and I heard him call out, “Mamma, mamma, they have placed somebody up
there in the Piombi. Oh, you poor prisoner, who are you?”
“I am Silvio Pellico,” was the reply.
Another older boy now ran to the same window, and cried out, “Are you
Silvio Pellico?”
“Yes; and tell me your names, dear boys.”
“My name is Antonio S—, and my brother’s is Joseph.”
He then turned round, and, speaking to some one within, “What else ought
I to ask him?” A lady, whom I conjecture to have been their mother, then
half concealed, suggested some pretty words to them, which they repeated,
and for which I thanked them with all my heart. These sort of
communications were a small matter, yet it required to be cautious how we
indulged in them, lest we should attract the notice of the jailer.
Morning, noon, and night, they were a source of the greatest consolation;
the little boys were constantly in the habit of bidding me good night,
before the windows were closed, and the lights brought in, “Good night,
Silvio,” and often it was repeated by the good lady, in a more subdued
voice, “Good night, Silvio, have courage!”
When engaged at their meals they would say, “How we wish we could give
you any of this good coffee and milk. Pray remember, the first day they
let you out, to come and see us. Mamma and we will give you plenty of
good things, {17} and as many kisses as you like.”