I SET out the same evening for Brescia. There I took leave of my other
fellow-prisoner, Andrea Torrelli. The unhappy man had just heard that he
had lost his mother, and the bitterness of his grief wrung my heart; yet,
agonised as were my feelings from so many different causes, I could not
help laughing at the following incident.
Upon the table of our lodging-house I found the following theatrical
announcement:—_Francesca da Rimini_; _Opera da Musica_, &c. “Whose work
is this?” I inquired of the waiter.
“Who versified it, and composed the music, I cannot tell, but it is the
_Francesca da Rimini_ which everybody knows.”
“Everybody! you must be wrong there. I come from Germany, yet what do I
know of your Francescas?” The waiter was a young man with rather a
satirical cast of face, quite _Brescian_; and he looked at me with a
contemptuous sort of pity. “What should you know, indeed, of our
Francescas? why, no, sir, it is only _one_ we speak of—_Francesca des
Rimini_, to be sure, sir; I mean the tragedy of Signor Silvio Pellico.
They have here turned it into an opera, spoiling it a little, no doubt,
but still it is always Pellico.”
“Ah, Silvio Pellico! I think I have heard his name. Is it not that same
evil-minded conspirator who was condemned to death, and his sentence was
changed to hard imprisonment, some eight or ten years ago?”
I should never have hazarded such a jest. He looked round him, fixed his
eyes on me, showed a fine set of teeth, with no amiable intention; and I
believe he would have knocked me down, had he not heard a noise close by
us.
He went away muttering: “Ill-minded conspirator, indeed!” But before I
left, he had found me out. He was half out of his wits; he could neither
question, nor answer, nor write, nor walk, nor wait. He had his eyes
continually upon me, he rubbed his hands, and addressing himself to every
one near him; “_Sior si_, _Sior si_; Yes, sir! Yes, sir!” he kept
stammering out, “coming! coming!”
Two days afterwards, on the 9th of September, I arrived with the
commissary at Milan. On approaching the city, on seeing the cupola of
the cathedral, in repassing the walk by Loretto, so well known, and so
dear, on recognising the corso, the buildings, churches, and public
places of every kind, what were my mingled feelings of pleasure and
regret! I felt an intense desire to stop, and embrace once more my
beloved friends. I reflected with bitter grief on those, whom, instead
of meeting here, I had left in the horrible abode of Spielberg,—on those
who were wandering in strange lands,—on those who were no more. I
thought, too, with gratitude upon the affection shown me by the people;
their indignation against all those who had calumniated me, while they
had uniformly been the objects of my benevolence and esteem.
We went to take up our quarters at the _Bella Venezia_. It was here I
had so often been present at our social meetings; here I had called upon
so many distinguished foreigners; here a respectable, elderly _Signora_
invited me in vain to follow her into Tuscany, foreseeing, she said, the
misfortunes that would befall me if I remained at Milan. What affecting
recollections! How rapidly past times came thronging over my memory,
fraught with joy and grief!
The waiters at the hotel soon discovered who I was. The report spread,
and towards evening a number of persons stopped in the square, and looked
up at the windows. One, whose name I did not know, appeared to recognise
me, and raising both his arms, made a sign of embracing me, as a welcome
back to Italy.
And where were the sons of Porro; I may say my own sons? Why did I not
see them there?