HOW bitter is it, after having bid adieu to so many beloved objects, and
there remains only a single one between yourself and utter solitude, the
solitude of chains and a living death, to be separated even from that
one! Maroncelli, on leaving me, ill and dejected, shed tears over me as
one whom, it was most probable, he would never more behold. In him, too,
I lamented a noble-minded man, cut off in the splendour of his intellect,
and the vigour of his days, snatched from society, all its duties and its
pleasures, and even from “the common air, the earth, the sky.” Yet he
survived the unheard of afflictions heaped upon him, but in what a state
did he leave his living tomb!
When I found myself alone in that horrid cavern, heard the closing of the
iron doors, the rattling of chains, and by the gloomy light of a high
window, saw the wooden bench destined for my couch, with an enormous
chain fixed in the wall, I sat down, in sullen rage, on my hard
resting-place, and taking up the chain, measured its length, in the
belief that it was destined for me.
In half an hour I caught the sound of locks and keys; the door opened,
and the head-jailer handed me a jug of water.
“Here is something to drink,” he said in a rough tone, “and you will have
your loaf to-morrow.”
“Thanks, my good man.”
“I am not good,” was the reply.
“The worse for you,” I answered, rather sharply. “And this great chain,”
I added, “is it for me?”
“It is, Sir; if you don’t happen to be quiet; if you get into a rage, or
say impertinent things. But if you are reasonable, we shall only chain
you by the feet. The blacksmith is getting all ready.”
He then walked sullenly up and down, shaking that horrid ring of enormous
keys, while with angry eye I measured his gigantic, lean, and aged
figure. His features, though not decidedly vulgar, bore the most
repulsive expression of brutal severity which I ever beheld!
How unjust are mankind when they presume to judge by appearances, and in
deference to their vain, arrogant prejudices. The man whom I upbraided
in my heart for shaking as it were in triumph those horrible keys, to
make me more keenly sensible of his power, whom I set down as an
insignificant tyrant, inured to practices of cruelty, was then revolving
thoughts of compassion, and assuredly had spoken in that harsh tone only
to conceal his real feelings. Perhaps he was afraid to trust himself, or
that I should prove unworthy gentler treatment; doubtful whether I might
not be yet more criminal than unhappy, though willing to afford me
relief.
Annoyed by his presence, and the sort of lordly air he assumed, I
determined to try to humble him, and called out as if speaking to a
servant, “Give me something to drink!” He looked at me, as much as to
say, “Arrogant man! this is no place for you to show the airs of a
master.” Still he was silent, bent his long back, took up the jug, and
gave it to me. I perceived, as I took it from him, that he trembled, and
believing it to proceed from age, I felt a mingled emotion of reverence
and compassion. “How old are you?” I inquired in a kinder tone.
“Seventy-four, Sir; I have lived to see great calamities, both as regards
others and myself.”
The tremulous emotion I had observed increased as he said this, and again
took the jug from my hand. I now thought it might be owing to some
nobler feeling than the effect of age, and the aversion I had conceived
instantaneously left me.
“And what is your name?” I inquired.
“It pleased fortune, Sir, to make a fool of me, by giving me the name of
a great man. My name is Schiller.” He then told me in a few words, some
particulars as to his native place, his family, the campaigns in which he
had served, and the wounds he had received.
He was a Switzer, the son of peasants, had been in the wars against the
Turks, under Marshal Laudon, in the reign of Maria Theresa and Joseph II.
He had subsequently served in the Austrian campaigns against France, up
to the period of Napoleon’s exile.