WHEN we begin to form a better opinion of one against whom we had
conceived a strong prejudice, we seem to discover in every feature, in
his voice, and manner, fresh marks of a good disposition, to which we
were before strangers. Is this real, or is it not rather founded upon
illusion? Shortly before, we interpreted the very same expressions in
another way. Our judgment of moral qualities has undergone a change, and
soon, the conclusions drawn from our knowledge of physiognomy are equally
different. How many portraits of celebrated men inspire us only with
respect or admiration because we know their characters; portraits which
we should have pronounced worthless and unattractive had they represented
the ordinary race of mortals. And thus it is, if we reason _vice versa_.
I once laughed, I remember, at a lady, who on beholding a likeness of
Catiline mistook it for that of Collatinus, and remarked upon the sublime
expression of grief in the features of Collatinus for the loss of his
Lucretia. These sort of illusions are not uncommon. I would not
maintain that the features of good men do not bear the impression of
their character, like irreclaimable villains that of their depravity; but
that there are many which have at least a doubtful cast. In short, I won
a little upon old Schiller; I looked at him more attentively, and he no
longer appeared forbidding. To say the truth, there was something in his
language which, spite of its rough tone, showed the genuine traits of a
noble mind. And spite of our first looks of mutual distrust and
defiance, we seemed to feel a certain respect for each other; he spoke
boldly what he thought, and so did I.
“Captain as I am,” he observed, “I have fallen,—to take my rest, into
this wretched post of jailer; and God knows it is far more disagreeable
for me to maintain it, than it was to risk my life in battle.”
I was now sorry I had asked him so haughtily to give me drink. “My dear
Schiller,” I said, grasping his hand, “it is in vain you deny it, I know
you are a good fellow; and as I have fallen into this calamity, I thank
heaven which has given me you for a guardian!”
He listened to me, shook his head, and then rubbing his forehead, like a
man in some perplexity or trouble.
“No, Sir, I am bad—rank bad. They made me take an oath, which I must,
and will keep. I am bound to treat all the prisoners, without
distinction, with equal severity; no indulgence, no permission to relent,
to soften the sternest orders, in particular as regards prisoners of
state.”
“You are a noble fellow; I respect you for making your duty a point of
conscience. You may err, humanly speaking, but your motives are pure in
the eyes of God.”
“Poor gentleman, have patience, and pity me. I shall be hard as steel in
my duty, but my heart bleeds to be unable to relieve the unfortunate.
This is all I really wished to say.” We were both affected.
He then entreated that I would preserve my calmness, and not give way to
passion, as is too frequent with solitary prisoners, and calls for
restraint, and even for severer punishment.
He afterwards resumed his gruff, affected tone as if to conceal the
compassion he felt for me, observing that it was high time for him to go.
He came back, however, and inquired how long a time I had been afflicted
with that horrible cough, reflecting sharply upon the physician for not
coming to see me that very evening. “You are ill of a horse fever,” he
added, “I know it well; you will stand in need of a straw bed, but we
cannot give you one till the doctor has ordered it.”
He retired, locked the door, and I threw myself upon the hard boards,
with considerable fever and pain in my chest, but less irritable, less at
enmity with mankind, and less alienated from God.