IN the adjoining prison, once occupied by Oroboni, D. Marco Fortini and
Antonio Villa were now confined. The latter, once as strong as Hercules,
was nearly famished the first year, and when a better allowance was
granted he had wholly lost the power of digestion. He lingered a long
time, and when reduced almost to the last extremity, he was removed into
a somewhat more airy prison. The pestilential atmosphere of these narrow
receptacles, so much resembling real tombs, was doubtless very injurious
to others as well as to him. But the remedy sought for was too late or
insufficient to remove the cause of his sufferings. He had scarcely been
a month in this spacious prison, when, in consequence of bursting several
blood-vessels, and his previously broken health, he died.
He was attended by his fellow-prisoner, D. Fortini, and by the Abate
Paulowich, who hastened from Vienna upon hearing that he was dying.
Although I had not been on the same intimate terms with him as with Count
Oroboni, his death a good deal affected me. He had parents and a wife,
all most tenderly attached to him. _He_, indeed, was more to be envied
than regretted; but, alas, for the unhappy survivors to whom he was
everything! He had, moreover, been my neighbour when under the _Piombi_.
Tremerello had brought me several of his poetical pieces, and had
conveyed to him some lines from me in return. There was sometimes a
depth of sentiment and pathos in his poems which interested me. I seemed
to become still more attached to him after he was gone; learning, as I
did from the guards, how dreadfully he had suffered. It was with
difficulty, though truly religious, that he could resign himself to die.
He experienced to the utmost the horror of that final step, while he
blessed the name of the Lord, and called upon His name with tears
streaming from his eyes. “Alas,” he said, “I cannot conform my will unto
thine, yet how willingly would I do it; do thou work this happy change in
me!” He did not possess the same courage as Oroboni, but followed his
example in forgiving all his enemies.
At the close of the year (1826) we one evening heard a suppressed noise
in the gallery, as if persons were stealing along. Our hearing had
become amazingly acute in distinguishing different kinds of noises. A
door was opened; and we knew it to be that of the advocate Solera.
Another! it was that of Fortini! There followed a whispering, but we
could tell the voice of the police director, suppressed as it was. What
could it be? a search at so late an hour! and for what reason?
In a brief space, we heard steps again in the gallery; and ah! more
plainly we recognised the voice of our excellent Fortini: “Unfortunate as
I am! excuse it? go out! I have forgotten a volume of my breviary!” And
we then heard him run back to fetch the book mentioned, and rejoin the
police. The door of the staircase opened, and we heard them go down. In
the midst of our alarm we learnt that our two good friends had just
received a pardon; and although we regretted we could not follow them, we
rejoiced in their unexpected good fortune.