IT was a delightful moment, when, after a separation of three months, and
having suffered so greatly, I met my friend. For some moments we forgot
even the severity of our sentence, conscious only of each other’s
presence.
But I soon turned from my friend to perform a more serious duty—that of
writing to my father. I was desirous that the first tidings of my sad
lot should reach my family from myself; in order that the grief which I
knew they would all feel might be at least mitigated by hearing my state
of mind, and the sentiments of peace and religion by which I was
supported. The judges had given me a promise to expedite the letter the
moment it was written.
Maroncelli next spoke to me respecting his trial; I acquainted him with
mine, and we mutually described our prison walks and adventures,
complimenting each other on our peripatetic philosophy. We approached
our window, and saluted three of our friends, whom we beheld standing at
theirs. Two of these were Canova and Rezia, in the same apartment; the
first of whom was condemned to six-years’ hard imprisonment, and the last
to three. The third was Doctor Cesare Armari, who had been my neighbour
some preceding months, in the prisons of the Piombi. He was not,
however, among the condemned, and soon obtained his liberty.
The power of communicating with one or other of our fellow-prisoners, at
all hours, was a great relief to our feelings. But when buried in
silence and darkness, I was unable to compose myself to rest; I felt my
head burn, and my heart bleed, as my thoughts reverted to home. Would my
aged parents be enabled to bear up against so heavy a misfortune? would
they find a sufficient resource in their other children? They were
equally attached to all, and I valued myself least of all in that family
of love; but will a father and a mother ever find in the children that
remain to them a compensation for the one of whom they are deprived.
Had I dwelt only upon my relatives and a few other dear friends, much as
I regretted them, my thoughts would have been less bitter than they were.
But I thought of the insulting smile of that judge, of the trial, the
cause of the respective sentences, political passions and enmities, and
the fate of so many of my friends . . . It was then I could no longer
think with patience or indulgence of any of my persecutors. God had
subjected me to a severe trial, and it was my duty to have borne it with
courage. Alas! I was neither able nor willing. The pride and luxury of
hatred pleased me better than the noble spirit of forgiveness; and I
passed a night of horror after receiving sentence.
In the morning I could not pray. The universe appeared to me, then, to
be the work of some power, the enemy of good. I had previously, indeed,
been guilty of calumniating my Creator; but little did I imagine I should
revert to such ingratitude, and in so brief a time. Julian, in his most
impious moods, could not express himself more impiously than myself. To
gloat over thoughts of hatred, or fierce revenge, when smarting under the
scourge of heaviest calamity, instead of flying to religion as a refuge,
renders a man criminal, even though his cause be just. If we hate, it is
a proof of rank pride; and where is the wretched mortal that dare stand
up and declare in the face of Heaven, his title to hatred and revenge
against his fellows? to assert that none have a right to sit in judgment
upon him and his actions;—that none can injure him without a bad
intention, or a violation of all justice? In short, he dares to arraign
the decrees of Heaven itself, if it please Providence to make him suffer
in a manner which he does not himself approve.
Still I was unhappy because I could not pray; for when pride reigns
supreme, it acknowledges no other god than the self-idol it has created.
How I could have wished to recommend to the Supreme Protector, the care
of my bereaved parents, though at that unhappy moment I felt as if I no
more believed in Him.