IT was now my favourite wish that the chaplain who had attended me in my
first illness, might be allowed to visit us as our confessor. But
instead of complying with our request, the governor sent us an Augustine
friar, called Father Battista, who was to confess us until an order came
from Vienna, either to confirm the choice, or to nominate another in his
place.
I was afraid we might suffer by the change, but was deceived. Father
Battista was an excellent man, highly educated, of polished manners, and
capable of reasoning admirably, even profoundly, upon the duties of man.
We entreated him to visit us frequently; he came once a month, and
oftener when in his power to do so; he always brought us some book or
other with the governor’s permission, and informed us from the abbot that
the entire library of the convent was at our service. This was a great
event for us; and we availed ourselves of the offer during several
months.
After confession, he was accustomed to converse with us and gave evidence
of an upright and elevated mind, capable of estimating the intrinsic
dignity and sanctity of the human mind. We had the advantage of his
enlightened views, of his affection, and his friendship for us during the
space of a year. At first I confess that I distrusted him, and imagined
that we should soon discover him putting out his feelers to induce us to
make imprudent disclosures. In a prisoner of state this sort of
diffidence is but too natural; but how great the satisfaction we
experience when it disappears, and when we acknowledge in the interpreter
of God no other zeal than that inspired by the cause of God and of
humanity.
He had a most efficacious method of administering consolation. For
instance, I accused myself of flying into a rage at the rigours imposed
upon me by the prison discipline. He discoursed upon the virtue of
suffering with resignation, and pardoning our enemies; and depicted in
lively colours the miseries of life—in ranks and conditions opposite to
my own. He had seen much of life, both in cities and the country, known
men of all grades, and deeply reflected upon human oppression and
injustice. He painted the operation of the passions, and the habits of
various social classes. He described them to me throughout as the strong
and the weak, the oppressors and the oppressed: and the necessity we were
under, either of hating our fellow-man or loving him by a generous effort
of compassion.
The examples he gave to show me the prevailing character of misfortune in
the mass of human beings, and the good which was to be hence derived, had
nothing singular in them; in fact they were obvious to view; but he
recounted them in language so just and forcible, that I could not but
admit the deductions he wished to draw from them.
The oftener he repeated his friendly reproaches, and has noble
exhortations, the more was I incited to the love of virtue; I no longer
felt capable of resentment—I could have laid down my life, with the
permission of God, for the least of my fellow-creatures, and I yet blest
His holy name for having created me—MAN!
Wretch that he is who remains ignorant of the sublime duty of confession!
Still more wretched who, to shun the common herd, as he believes, feels
himself called upon to regard it with scorn! Is it not a truth that even
when we know what is required of us to be good, that self-knowledge is a
dead letter to us? reading and reflection are insufficient to impel us to
it; it is only the living speech of a man gifted with power which can
here be of avail. The soul is shaken to its centre, the impressions it
receives are more profound and lasting. In the brother who speaks to
you, there is a life, and a living and breathing spirit—one which you can
always consult, and which you will vainly seek for, either in books or in
your own thoughts.