I WAS enabled to keep up until the 11th of January, 1823. On that
morning, I rose with a slight pain in my head, and a strong tendency to
fainting. My legs trembled, and I could scarcely draw my breath.
Poor Oroboni, also, had been unable to rise from his straw for several
days past. They brought me some soup, I took a spoonful, and then fell
back in a swoon. Some time afterwards the sentinel in the gallery,
happening to look through the pane of my door, saw me lying senseless on
the ground, with the pot of soup at my side; and believing me to be dead,
he called Schiller, who hastened, as well as the superintendent, to the
spot.
The doctor was soon in attendance, and they put me on my bed. I was
restored with great difficulty. Perceiving I was in danger, the
physician ordered my irons to be taken off. He then gave me some kind of
cordial, but it would not stay on my stomach, while the pain in my head
was horrible. A report was forthwith sent to the governor, who
despatched a courier to Vienna, to ascertain in what manner I was to be
treated. The answer received, was, that I should not be placed in the
infirmary, but was to receive the same attendance in my dungeon as was
customary in the former place. The superintendent was further authorised
to supply me with soup from his own kitchen so long as I should continue
unwell.
The last provision of the order received was wholly useless, as neither
food nor beverage would stay on my stomach. I grew worse during a whole
week, and was delirious without intermission, both day and night.
Kral and Kubitzky were appointed to take care of me, and both were
exceedingly attentive. Whenever I showed the least return of reason,
Kral was accustomed to say, “There! have faith in God; God alone is
good.”
“Pray for me,” I stammered out, when a lucid interval first appeared;
“pray for me not to live, but that he will accept my misfortunes and my
death as an expiation.” He suggested that I should take the sacrament.
“If I asked it not, attribute it to my poor head; it would be a great
consolation to me.”
Kral reported my words to the superintendent, and the chaplain of the
prisons came to me. I made my confession, received the communion, and
took the holy oil. The priest’s name was Sturm, and I was satisfied with
him. The reflections he made upon the justice of God, upon the injustice
of man, upon the duty of forgiveness, and upon the vanity of all earthly
things, were not out of place. They bore moreover the stamp of a
dignified and well-cultivated mind as well as an ardent feeling of true
love towards God and our neighbour.