IN the beginning of 1824 the superintendent who had his office at one end
of our gallery, removed elsewhere, and the chambers, along with others,
were converted into additional prisons. By this, alas, we were given to
understand that other prisoners of state were expected from Italy.
They arrived in fact very shortly—a third special commission was at
hand—and they were all in the circle of my friends or my acquaintance.
What was my grief when I was told their names! Borsieri was one of my
oldest friends. To Confalonieri I had been attached a less time indeed,
but not the less ardently. Had it been in my power, by taking upon
myself the _carcere durissimo_, or any other imaginable torment, how
willingly would I have purchased their liberation. Not only would I have
laid down my life for them,—for what is it to give one’s life? I would
have continued to suffer for them.
It was then I wished to obtain the consolations of Father Battista; but
they would not permit him to come near me.
New orders to maintain the severest discipline were received from Vienna.
The terrace on which we walked was hedged in by stockades, and in such a
way that no one, even with the use of a telescope, could perceive our
movements. We could no longer catch the beautiful prospect of the
surrounding hills, and part of the city of Brünn which lay below. Yet
this was not enough. To reach the terrace, we were obliged, as before
stated, to traverse the courtyard, and a number of persons could perceive
us. That we might be concealed from every human eye, we were prohibited
from crossing it, and we were confined in our walk to a small passage
close to our gallery, with a north aspect similar to that of our
dungeons.
To us such a change was a real misfortune, and it grieved us. There were
innumerable little advantages and refreshments to our worn and wasted
spirits in the walk of which we were deprived. The sight of the
superintendent’s children; their smiles and caresses; the scene where I
had taken leave of their mother; the occasional chit-chat with the old
smith, who had his forge there; the joyous songs of one of the captains
accompanied by his guitar; and last not least, the innocent badinage of a
young Hungarian fruiteress—the corporal’s wife, who flirted with my
companions—were among what we had lost. She had, in fact, taken a great
fancy for Maroncelli.
Previous to his becoming my companion, he had made a little of her
acquaintance; but was so sincere, so dignified, and so simple in his
intentions as to be quite insensible of the impression he had produced.
I informed him of it, and he would not believe I was serious, though he
declared that he would take care to preserve a greater distance.
Unluckily the more he was reserved, the more did the lady’s fancy for him
seemed to increase.
It so happened that her window was scarcely above a yard higher than the
level of the terrace; and in an instant she was at our side with the
apparent intention of putting out some linen to dry, or to perform some
other household offices; but in fact to gaze at my friend, and, if
possible, enter into conversation with him.
Our poor guards, half wearied to death for want of sleep, had, meantime,
eagerly caught at an opportunity of throwing themselves on the grass,
just in this corner, where they were no longer under the eye of their
superiors. They fell asleep; and meanwhile Maroncelli was not a little
perplexed what to do, such was the resolute affection borne him by the
fair Hungarian. I was no less puzzled; for an affair of the kind, which,
elsewhere, might have supplied matter for some merriment, was here very
serious, and might lead to some very unpleasant result. The unhappy
cause of all this had one of those countenances which tell you at once
their character—the habit of being virtuous, and the necessity of being
esteemed. She was not beautiful, but had a remarkable expression of
elegance in her whole manner and deportment; her features, though not
regular, fascinated when she smiled, and with every change of sentiment.
Were it my purpose to dwell upon love affairs, I should have no little to
relate respecting this virtuous but unfortunate woman—now deceased.
Enough that I have alluded to one of the few adventures which marked my
prison-hours.