AT length the German commissioner arrived, and came to acquaint us that
within two days we were to set out. “I have the pleasure,” he added, “to
give you some consoling tidings. On my return from Spielberg, I saw his
majesty the Emperor at Vienna, who acquainted me that the penal days
appointed you will not extend to twenty-four hours, but only to twelve.
By this expression it is intended to signify that the pain will be
divided, or half the punishment remitted.” This division was never
notified to us in an official form, but there is no reason to suppose
that the commissioner would state an untruth; the less so as he made no
secret of the information, which was known to the whole commission.
Nevertheless, I could not congratulate myself upon it. To my feelings,
seven years and a half had little more horrible in them (to be spent in
chains and solitude) than fifteen; for I conceived it to be impossible to
survive so long a period. My health had recently again become wretched!
I suffered from severe pains of the chest, attended with cough, and
thought my lungs were affected. I ate little, and that little I could
not digest. Our departure took place on the night of the 25th of March.
We were permitted to take leave of our friend, Cesare Armari. A sbirro
chained us in a transverse manner, namely, the right hand and the left
foot, so as to render it impossible for us to escape.
We went into a gondola, and the guards rowed us towards Fusina. On our
arrival we found two boats in readiness for us. Rezia and Canova were
placed in one, and Maroncelli and myself in the other. The commissary
was also with two of the prisoners, and an under-commissary with the
others. Six or seven guards of police completed our convoy; they were
armed with swords and muskets; some of them at hand in the boats, others
in the box of the Vetturino.
To be compelled by misfortune to leave one’s country is always
sufficiently painful; but to be torn from it in chains, doomed to exile
in a horrible climate, to linger days, and hours, and years, in solitary
dungeons, is a fate so appalling as to defy language to convey the
remotest idea of it.
Ere we had traversed the Alps, I felt that my country was becoming doubly
dear to me; the sympathy we awakened on every side, from all ranks,
formed an irresistible appeal to my affection and gratitude. In every
city, in every village, in every group of meanest houses, the news of our
condemnation had been known for some weeks, and we were expected. In
several places the commissioners and the guards had difficulty in
dispersing the crowd which surrounded us. It was astonishing to witness
the benevolent and humane feeling generally manifested in our behalf.
In Udine we met with a singular and touching incident. On arriving at
the inn, the commissary caused the door of the court-yard to be closed,
in order to keep back the people. A room was assigned us, and he ordered
the waiters to bring supper, and make such accommodation as we required
for repose. In a few moments three men entered with mattresses upon
their shoulders. What was our surprise to see that only one of them was
a servant of the inn; the other two were our acquaintance. We pretended
to assist them in placing the beds, and had time to recognise and give
each other the hand of fellowship and sympathy. It was too much; the
tears started to our eyes. Ah! how trying was it to us all, not to be
allowed the sad satisfaction even of shedding them in a last embrace.
The commissaries were not aware of the circumstance; but I had reason to
think that one of the guards saw into the affair, just as the good Dario
grasped me by the hand. He was a Venetian; he fixed his eyes upon us
both; he turned pale; appeared in the act of making an alarm, then turned
away his eyes, as if pretending not to see us. If he felt not assured
that they were indeed our friends, he must have believed them to be some
waiters with whom we were acquainted.