AFTER the death of Oroboni, I was again taken ill. I expected very soon
to rejoin him, and I ardently desired it. Still, I could not have parted
with Maroncelli without regret. Often, while seated on his straw-bed, he
read or recited poetry to withdraw my mind, as well as his own, from
reflecting upon our misfortunes, I gazed on him, and thought with pain,
When I am gone, when you see them bearing me hence, when you gaze at the
cemetery, you will look more sorrowful than now. I would then offer a
secret prayer that another companion might be given him, as capable of
appreciating all his worth.
I shall not mention how many different attacks I suffered, and with how
much difficulty I recovered from them. The assistance I received from my
friend Maroncelli, was like that of an attached brother. When it became
too great an effort for me to speak, he was silent; he saw the exact
moment when his conversation would soothe or enliven me, he dwelt upon
subjects most congenial to my feelings, and he continued or varied them
as he judged most agreeable to me. Never did I meet with a nobler
spirit; he had few equals, none, whom I knew, superior to him. Strictly
just, tolerant, truly religious, with a remarkable confidence in human
virtue, he added to these qualities an admirable taste for the beautiful,
whether in art or nature, and a fertile imagination teeming with poetry;
in short, all those engaging dispositions of mind and heart best
calculated to endear him to me.
Still, I could not help grieving over the fate of Oroboni while, at the
same time, I indulged the soothing reflection that he was freed from all
his sufferings, that they were rewarded with a better world, and that in
the midst of the enjoyments he had won, he must have that of beholding me
with a friend no less attached to me than he had been himself. I felt a
secret assurance that he was no longer in a place of expiation, though I
ceased not to pray for him. I often saw him in my dreams, and he seemed
to pray for me; I tried to think that they were not mere dreams; that
they were manifestations of his blessed spirit, permitted by God for my
consolation. I should not be believed were I to describe the excessive
vividness of such dreams, if such they were, and the delicious serenity
which they left in my mind for many days after. These, and the religious
sentiments entertained by Maroncelli, with his tried friendship, greatly
alleviated my afflictions. The sole idea which tormented me was the
possibility of this excellent friend also being snatched from me; his
health having been much broken, so as to threaten his dissolution ere my
own sufferings drew to a close. Every time he was taken ill, I trembled;
and when he felt better, it was a day of rejoicing for me. Strange, that
there should be a fearful sort of pleasure, anxious yet intense, in these
alternations of hope and dread, regarding the existence of the only
object left you on earth. Our lot was one of the most painful; yet to
esteem, to love each other as we did, was to us a little paradise, the
one green spot in the desert of our lives; it was all we had left, and we
bowed our heads in thankfulness to the Giver of all good, while awaiting
the hour of his summons.