ALL human consolations were one by one fast deserting us, and our
sufferings still increased. I resigned myself to the will of God, but my
spirit groaned. It seemed as if my mind, instead of becoming inured to
evil, grew more keenly susceptible of pain. One day there was secretly
brought to me a page of the Augsburgh Gazette, in which I found the
strangest assertions respecting myself on occasion of mention being made
of one of my sisters retiring into a nunnery. It stated as follows:—“The
Signora Maria Angiola Pellico, daughter, &c., took the veil (on such a
day) in the monastery of the Visitazione at Turin, &c. This lady is
sister to the author of _Francesca da Rimini_, Silvio Pellico, who was
recently liberated from the fortress of Spielberg, being pardoned by his
Majesty, the emperor—a trait of clemency worthy of so magnanimous a
sovereign, and a subject of gratulation to the whole of Italy, inasmuch
as,” &c., &c.
And here followed some eulogiums which I omit. I could not conceive for
what reason the hoax relating to the gracious pardon had been invented.
It seemed hardly probable it could be a mere freak of the editor’s; and
was it then intended as some stroke of oblique German policy? Who knows!
However this may be, the names of Maria Angiola were precisely those of
my younger sister, and doubtless they must have been copied from the
Turin Gazette into other papers. Had that excellent girl, then, really
become a nun? Had she taken this step in consequence of the loss of her
parents? Poor Maria! she would not permit me alone to suffer the
deprivations of a prison; she too would seclude herself from the world.
May God grant her patience and self-denial, far beyond what I have
evinced; for often I know will that angel, in her solitary cell, turn her
thoughts and her prayers towards me. Alas, it may be, she will impose on
herself some rigid penance, in the hope that God may alleviate the
sufferings of her brother! These reflections agitated me greatly, and my
heart bled. Most likely my own misfortunes had helped to shorten the
days both of my father and my mother; for, were they living, it would be
hardly possible that my Marietta would have deserted our parental roof.
At length the idea oppressed me with the weight of absolute certainty,
and I fell into a wretched and agonised state of mind. Maroncelli was no
less affected than myself. The next day he composed a beautiful elegy
upon “the sister of the prisoner.” When he had completed it, he read it
to me. How grateful was I for such a proof of his affection for me!
Among the infinite number of poems which had been written upon similar
subjects, not one, probably, had been composed in prison, for the brother
of the nun, and by his companion in captivity and chains. What a field
for pathetic and religious ideas was here, and Maroncelli filled his lyre
with wild and pathetic tones, which drew delicious tears from my eyes.
It was thus friendship sweetened all my woes. Seldom from that day did I
forget to turn my thoughts long and fondly to some sacred asylum of
virgin hearts, and that one beloved form did not rise before my fancy,
dressed in all that human piety and love can picture in a brother’s
heart. Often did I beseech Heaven to throw a charm round her religious
solitude, and not permit that her imagination should paint in too
horrible colours the sufferings of the sick and weary captive.