ONE evening the sentinels were more than usually kind and forbearing, and
poor Oroboni and I conversed without in the least suppressing our voices.
Maroncelli, in his subterraneous abode, caught the sound, and climbing up
to the window, listened and distinguished my voice. He could not
restrain his joy; but sung out my name, with a hearty welcome. He then
asked me how I was, and expressed his regret that he had not yet been
permitted to share the same dungeon. This favour I had, in fact, already
petitioned for, but neither the superintendent nor the governor had the
power of granting it. Our united wishes upon the same point had been
represented to the Emperor, but no answer had hitherto been received by
the governor of Brünn. Besides the instance in which we saluted each
other in song, when in our subterraneous abodes, I had since heard the
songs of the heroic Maroncelli, by fits and starts, in my dungeon above.
He now raised his voice; he was no longer interrupted, and I caught all
he said. I replied, and we continued the dialogue about a quarter of an
hour. Finally, they changed the sentinels upon the terrace, and the
successors were not “of gentle mood.” Often did we recommence the song,
and as often were interrupted by furious cries, and curses, and threats,
which we were compelled to obey.
Alas! my fancy often pictured to me the form of my friend, languishing in
that dismal abode so much worse than my own; I thought of the bitter
grief that must oppress him, and the effect upon his health, and bemoaned
his fate in silence. Tears brought me no relief; the pains in my head
returned, with acute fever. I could no longer stand, and took to my
straw bed. Convulsions came on; the spasms in my breast were terrible.
Of a truth, I believed that that night was my last.
The following day the fever ceased, my chest was relieved, but the
inflammation seemed to have seized my brain, and I could not move my head
without the most excruciating pain. I informed Oroboni of my condition;
and he too was even worse than usual. “My dear friend,” said he, “the
day is near when one or other of us will no longer be able to reach the
window. Each time we welcome one another may be the last. Let us hold
ourselves in readiness, then, to die—yes to die! or to survive a friend.”
His voice trembled with emotion; I could not speak a word in reply.
There was a pause, and he then resumed, “How fortunate you are in knowing
the German language! You can at least have the advantage of a priest; I
cannot obtain one acquainted with the Italian. But God is conscious of
my wishes; I made confession at Venice—and in truth, it does not seem
that I have met with anything since that loads my conscience.”
“I, on the contrary, confessed at Venice,” said I, “with my heart full of
rancour, much worse than if I had wholly refused the sacrament. But if I
could find a priest, I would now confess myself with all my heart, and
pardon everybody, I can assure you.”
“God bless you, Silvio!” he exclaimed, “you give me the greatest
consolation I can receive. Yes, yes; dear friend! let us both do all in
our power to merit a joyful meeting where we shall no more be separated,
where we shall be united in happiness, as now we are in these last trying
hours of our calamity.”
The next day I expected him as usual at the window. But he came not, and
I learnt from Schiller that he was grievously ill. In eight or ten days
he recovered, and reappeared at his accustomed station. I complained to
him bitterly, but he consoled me. A few months passed in this strange
alternation of suffering; sometimes it was he, at others I, who was
unable even to reach our window.