COUNT OROBONI, after lingering through a wretched winter and the ensuing
spring, found himself much worse during the summer. He was seized with a
spitting of blood, and a dropsy ensued. Imagine our affliction on
learning that he was dying so near us, without a possibility of our
rendering him the last sad offices, separated only as we were by a
dungeon-wall.
Schiller brought us tidings of him. The unfortunate young Count, he
said, was in the greatest agonies, yet he retained his admirable firmness
of mind. He received the spiritual consolations of the chaplain, who was
fortunately acquainted with the French language. He died on the 13th of
June, 1823. A few hours before he expired, he spoke of his aged father,
eighty years of age, was much affected, and shed tears. Then resuming
his serenity, he said, “But why thus lament the destiny of the most
fortunate of all those so dear to me; for _he_ is on the eve of rejoining
me in the realms of eternal peace?” The last words he uttered, were, “I
forgive all my enemies; I do it from my heart!” His eyes were closed by
his friend, Dr. Fortini, a most religious and amiable man, who had been
intimate with him from his childhood. Poor Oroboni! how bitterly we felt
his death when the first sad tidings reached us! Ah! we heard the voices
and the steps of those who came to remove his body! We watched from our
window the hearse, which, slow and solemnly, bore him to that cemetery
within our view. It was drawn thither by two of the common convicts, and
followed by four of the guards. We kept our eyes fixed upon the
sorrowful spectacle, without speaking a word, till it entered the
churchyard. It passed through, and stopped at last in a corner, near a
new-made grave. The ceremony was brief; almost immediately the hearse,
the convicts, and the guards were observed to return. One of the last
was Kubitzky. He said to me, “I have marked the exact spot where he is
buried, in order that some relation or friend may be enabled some day to
remove his poor bones, and lay them in his own country.” It was a noble
thought, and surprised me in a man so wholly uneducated; but I could not
speak. How often had the unhappy Count gazed from his window upon that
dreary looking cemetery, as he observed, “I must try to get accustomed to
the idea of being carried thither; yet I confess that such an idea makes
me shiver. It is strange, but I cannot help thinking that we shall not
rest so well in these foreign parts as in our own beloved land.” He
would then laugh, and exclaim, “What childishness is this! when a garment
as worn out, and done with, does it signify where we throw it aside?” At
other times, he would say, “I am continually preparing for death, but I
should die more willingly upon one condition—just to enter my father’s
house once more, embrace his knees, hear his voice blessing me, and die!”
He then sighed and added, “But if this cup, my God, cannot pass from me,
may thy will be done.” Upon the morning of his death he also said, as he
pressed a crucifix, which Kral brought him, to his lips; “Thou, Lord, who
wert Divine, hadst also a horror of death, and didst say, _If it be
possible_, _let this cup pass free me_, oh, pardon if I too say it; but I
will repeat also with Thee, Nevertheless, not as I will, but as thou
willest it!”