THE increasing rigour of our prison discipline rendered our lives one
unvaried scene. The whole of 1824, of 1825, of 1826, of 1827, presented
the same dull, dark aspect; and how we lived through years like these is
wonderful. We were forbidden the use of books. The prison was one
immense tomb, though without the peace and unconsciousness of death. The
director of police came every month to institute the most strict and
minute search, assisted by a lieutenant and guards. They made us strip
to the skin, examined the seams of our garments, and ripped up the straw
bundles called our beds in pursuit of—nothing. It was a secret affair,
intended to take us by surprise, and had something about it which always
irritated me exceedingly, and left me in a violent fever.
The preceding years had appeared to me very unhappy, yet I now remembered
them with regret. The hours were fled when I could read my Bible, and
Homer, from whom I had imbibed such a passionate admiration of his
glorious language. Oh, how it irked me to be unable to prosecute my
study of him! And there were Dante, Petrarch, Shakespeare, Byron, Walter
Scott, Schiller, Goethe, &c.—how many friends, how many innocent and true
delights were withheld from me. Among these I included a number of
works, also, upon Christian knowledge; those of Bourdaloue, Pascal, “The
Imitation of Christ,” “The Filotea,” &c., books usually read with narrow,
illiberal views by those who exult in every little defect of taste, and
at every common-place thought which impels the reader to throw them for
ever aside; but which, when perused in a true spirit free from scandalous
or malignant construction, discover a mine of deep philosophy, and
vigorous nutriment both for the intellect and the heart. A few of
certain religious books, indeed, were sent us, as a present, by the
Emperor, but with an absolute prohibition to receive works of any other
kind adapted for literary occupation.
This imperial gift of ascetic productions arrived in 1825 by a Dalmatian
Confessor, Father Stefano Paulowich, afterwards Bishop of Cattaro, who
was purposely sent from Vienna. We were indebted to him for performing
mass, which had been before refused us, on the plea that they could not
convey us into the church and keep us separated into two and two as the
imperial law prescribed. To avoid such infraction we now went to mass in
three groups; one being placed upon the tribune of the organ, another
under the tribune, so as not to be visible, and the third in a small
oratory, from which was a view into the church through a grating. On
this occasion Maroncelli and I had for companions six convicts, who had
received sentence before we came, but no two were allowed to speak to any
other two in the group. Two of them, I found, had been my neighbours in
the Piombi at Venice.
We were conducted by the guards to the post assigned us, and then brought
back after mass in the same manner, each couple into their former
dungeon. A Capuchin friar came to celebrate mass; the good man ended
every rite with a “let us pray” for “liberation from chains,” and “to set
the prisoner free,” in a voice which trembled with emotion.
On leaving the altar he cast a pitying look on each of the three groups,
and bowed his head sorrowfully in secret prayer.