IT was arranged, on our arrival, that each of us should be permitted to
walk an hour twice in the week. In the sequel, this relief was one day
granted us and another refused; and the hour was always later during
festivals.
We went, each separately, between two guards, with loaded muskets on
their shoulders. In passing from my prison, at the head of the gallery,
I went by the whole of the Italian prisoners, with the exception of
Maroncelli—the only one condemned to linger in the caverns below. “A
pleasant walk!” whispered they all, as they saw me pass; but I was not
allowed to exchange a single word.
I was led down a staircase which opened into a spacious court, where we
walked upon a terrace, with a south aspect, and a view of the city of
Brünn and the surrounding country. In this courtyard we saw numbers of
the common criminals, coming from, or going to, their labour, or passing
along conversing in groups. Among them were several Italian robbers, who
saluted me with great respect. “He is no rogue, like us; yet you see his
punishment is more severe”; and it was true, they had a larger share of
freedom than I.
Upon hearing expressions like these, I turned and saluted them with a
good-natured look. One of them observed, “It does me good to see you,
sir, when you notice me. Possibly you may see something in my look not
so very wicked. An unhappy passion instigated me to commit a crime, but
believe me, sir, I am no villain!”
Saying this he burst into tears. I gave him my hand, but he was unable
to return the pressure. At that moment, my guard, according to their
instructions, drove him away, declaring that they must permit no one to
approach me. The observations subsequently addressed to me were
pretended to be spoken among each other; and if my two attendants became
aware of it, they quickly interposed silence.
Prisoners of various ranks, and visitors of the superintendent, the
chaplain, the sergeant, or some of the captains, were likewise to be seen
there. “That is an Italian, that is an Italian!” they often whispered
each other. They stopped to look at me, and they would say in German,
supposing I should not understand them, “That poor gentleman will not
live to be old; he has death in his countenance.”
In fact, after recovering some degree of strength, I again fell ill for
want of nourishment, and fever again attacked me. I attempted to drag
myself, as far as my chain would permit, along the walk, and throwing
myself upon the turf, I rested there until the expiration of my hour.
The guards would then sit down near me, and begin to converse with each
other. One of them, a Bohemian, named Kral, had, though very poor,
received some sort of an education, which he had himself improved by
reflection. He was fond of reading, had studied Klopstock, Wieland,
Goethe, Schiller, and many other distinguished German writers. He knew a
good deal by memory, and repeated many passages with feeling and
correctness. The other guard was a Pole, by name Kubitzky, wholly
untaught, but kind and respectful. Their society was a great relief to
me.