Previous - next
for expressing, by their salutations, the interest which they took
in my fate. A sign, a word of kindness to the unhappy, is really
charity of no trivial kind. From one of the windows I saw a little
boy, nine or ten years old, stretching out his hands towards me, and
I heard him call out, "Mamma, mamma, they have placed somebody up
there in the Piombi. Oh, you poor prisoner, who are you?"
"I am Silvio Pellico," was the reply.
Another older boy now ran to the same window, and cried out, "Are
you Silvio Pellico?"
"Yes; and tell me your names, dear boys."
"My name is Antonio S-, and my brother's is Joseph."
He then turned round, and, speaking to some one within, "What else
ought I to ask him?" A lady, whom I conjecture to have been their
mother, then half concealed, suggested some pretty words to them,
which they repeated, and for which I thanked them with all my heart.
These sort of communications were a small matter, yet it required to
be cautious how we indulged in them, lest we should attract the
notice of the jailer. Morning, noon, and night, they were a source
of the greatest consolation; the little boys were constantly in the
habit of bidding me good night, before the windows were closed, and
the lights brought in, "Good night, Silvio," and often it was
repeated by the good lady, in a more subdued voice, "Good night,
Silvio, have courage!"
When engaged at their meals they would say, "How we wish we could
give you any of this good coffee and milk. Pray remember, the first
day they let you out, to come and see us. Mamma and we will give
you plenty of good things, {17} and as many kisses as you like."
CHAPTER XLIV.
The month of October brought round one of the most disagreeable
anniversaries in my life. I was arrested on the 13th of that month
in the preceding year. Other recollections of the same period, also
pained me. That day two years, a highly valued and excellent man
whom I truly honoured, was drowned in the Ticino. Three years
before, a young person, Odoardo Briche, {18} whom I loved as if he
had been my own son, had accidentally killed himself with a musket.
Earlier in my youth another severe affliction had befallen me in the
same month.
Though not superstitious, the remembrance of so many unhappy
occurrences at the same period of the year, inspired a feeling of
extreme sorrow. While conversing at the window with the children,
and with my fellow prisoners, I assumed an air of mirth, but hardly
had I re-entered my cave than an irresistible feeling of melancholy
weighed down every faculty of my mind. In vain I attempted to
engage in some literary composition; I was involuntarily impelled to
write upon other topics. I thought of my family, and wrote letters
after letters, in which I poured forth all my burdened spirit, all I
had felt and enjoyed of home, in far happier days, surrounded by
Previous - next
