I AWOKE on Thursday morning, after a horrible night, weak, aching in all
my bones, from the hard boards, and in a profuse perspiration. The visit
hour came, but the superintendent was absent; and he only followed at a
more convenient time. I said to Schiller, “Just see how terribly I
perspire; but it is now growing cold upon me; what a treat it would be to
change my shirt.”
“You cannot do it,” he said, in a brutal tone. At the same time he
winked, and moved his hand. The captain and guards withdrew, and
Schiller made me another sign as he closed the door. He soon opened it
again, and brought one of his own shirts, long enough to cover me from
head to feet, even if doubled.
“It is perhaps a little too long, but I have no others here.”
“I thank you, friend, but as I brought with me a whole trunk full of
linen, I do hope I may be permitted the use of it. Have the kindness to
ask the superintendent to let me have one of my shirts.”
“You will not be permitted, Sir, to use any of your linen here. Each
week you will have a shirt given you from the house like the other
prisoners.”
“You see, good man, in what a condition I am. I shall never go out of
here alive. I shall never be able to reward you.”
“For shame, Sir! for shame!” said the old man. “Talk of reward to one
who can do you no good! to one who dare hardly give a dry shirt to a sick
fellow creature in a sweat!” He then helped me on with his long shirt,
grumbling all the while, and slammed the door to with violence on going
out, as if he had been in a great rage.
About two hours after, he brought me a piece of black bread. “This,” he
said, “is your two days’ fare!” he then began to walk about in a sulky
mood.
“What is the matter?” I inquired; “are you vexed at me? You know I took
the shirt.”
“I am enraged at that doctor; though it be Thursday he might show his
ugly face here.”
“Patience!” said I; but though I said it, I knew not for the life of me
how to get the least rest, without a pillow, upon those hard boards.
Every bone in my body suffered. At eleven I was treated to the prison
dinner—two little iron pots, one of soup, the other of herbs, mixed in
such a way as to turn your stomach with the smell. I tried to swallow a
few spoonfuls, but did not succeed. Schiller encouraged me: “Never
despair,” said he; “try again; you will get used to it in time. If you
don’t, you will be like many others before you, unable to eat anything
but bread, and die of mere inanition.”
Friday morning came, and with it came Dr. Bayer at last. He found me
very feverish, ordered me a straw bed, and insisted I should be removed
from the caverns into one of the abodes above. It could not be done;
there was no room. An appeal was made to the Governor of Moravia and
Silesia, residing at Brünn, who commanded, on the urgency of the case,
that the medical advice should be followed.
There was a little light in the room to which I was removed. I crawled
towards the bars of the narrow window, and had the delight of seeing the
valley that lay below,—part of the city of Brünn,—a suburb with
gardens,—the churchyard,—the little lake of Certosa,—and the woody hills
which lay between us and the famous plains of Austerlitz. I was
enchanted, and oh, what double pleasure, thought I, would be mine, were I
enabled to share it with my poor friend Maroncelli!