ABSORBED in reflections like these, I reached San Michele, and was locked
up in a room which embraced a view of the court yard, of the lake, and
the beautiful island of Murano. I inquired respecting Maroncelli from
the jailer, from his wife, and the four assistants; but their visits were
exceedingly brief, very ceremonious, and, in fact, they would tell me
nothing.
Nevertheless where there are five or six persons, it is rarely you do not
find one who possesses a compassionate, as well as a communicative
disposition. I met with such a one, and from him I learnt what follows:—
Maroncelli, after having been long kept apart, had been placed with Count
Camillo Laderchi. {20} The last, within a few days, had been declared
innocent, and discharged from prison, and the former again remained
alone. Some other of our companions had also been set at liberty; the
Professor Romagnosi, {21} and Count Giovanni Arrivabene. {22} Captain
Rezia {23} and the Signor Canova were together. Professor Ressi {24} was
dying at that time, in a prison next to that of the two before mentioned.
“It follows then,” said I, “that the sentences of those not set at
liberty must have arrived. How are they to be made known? Perhaps, poor
Ressi will die; and will not be in a state to hear his sentence; is it
true?”
“I believe it is.”
Every day I inquired respecting the unhappy man. “He has lost his voice;
he is rather better; he is delirious; he is nearly gone; he spits blood;
he is dying;” were the usual replies; till at length came the last of
all, “He is dead.”
I shed a tear to his memory, and consoled myself with thinking that he
died ignorant of the sentence which awaited him.
The day following, the 21st of February, 1822, the jailer came for me
about ten o’clock, and conducted me into the Hall of the Commission. The
members were all seated, but they rose; the President, the Inquisitor,
and two assisting Judges.—The first, with a look of deep commiseration,
acquainted me that my sentence had arrived; that it was a terrible one;
but that the clemency of the Emperor had mitigated it.
The Inquisitor, fixing his eye on me, then read it:—“Silvio Pellico,
condemned to death; the imperial decree is, that the sentence be commuted
for fifteen years hard imprisonment in the fortress of Spielberg.”
“The will of God be done!” was my reply.
It was really my intention to bear this horrible blow like a Christian,
and neither to exhibit nor to feel resentment against any one whatever.
The President then commended my state of mind, warmly recommending me to
persevere in it, and that possibly by affording an edifying example, I
might in a year or two be deemed worthy of receiving further favours from
the imperial clemency.
Instead, however, of one or two, it was many years before the full
sentence was remitted.
The other judges also spoke encouragingly to me. One of them, indeed,
had appeared my enemy on my trial, accosting me in a courteous but
ironical tone, while his look of insulting triumph seemed to belie his
words. I would not make oath it was so, but my blood was then boiling,
and I was trying to smother my passion. While they were praising me for
my Christian patience, I had not a jot of it left me. “To-morrow,”
continued the Inquisitor, “I am sorry to say, you must appear and receive
your sentence in public. It is a formality which cannot be dispensed
with.”
“Be it so!” I replied.
“From this time we grant you the company of your friend,” he added. Then
calling the jailer, he consigned me into his hands, ordering that I
should be placed in the same dungeon with Maroncelli.