Arthur Griffiths

Spielberg for many centuries Imperial State prison—Its situation—Originally the castle of the ruling lords of Moravia—Silvio Pellico imprisoned there—Also Franz von der Trenck—Pellico’s relations with the Carbonari—His imprisonment in the Santa Margherita and the Piombi—Sentence of death commuted to fifteen years in Spielberg—Administration of this prison—His fellow sufferers—The gaoler, Schiller—Prison diet—Strict discipline enforced—Pellico is released at the end of ten years.

Spielberg, in Austria, served for several centuries as an imperial state prison to which many notable political and other offenders were committed. It stands on the top of an isolated hill, the Spielberg, 185 feet above the city of BrÜnn, the capital of Moravia and headquarters of the governor of the two provinces of Moravia and Silesia. The castle was originally the fortified residence of the ruling lords of Moravia and a formidable stronghold. It was the place of durance for that other baron Von der Trenck, Franz, the Colonel of Pandours or Austrian irregular cavalry, whose terrible excesses disgraced the Seven Years’ War. His unscrupulous and daring conduct gained him life-long incarceration in Spielberg which he ended by suicide. The fortress was besieged and captured by the French just before the famous battle of Austerlitz, which was fought in the neighbourhood. Its fortifications were never fully restored, but a portion of the enclosure was rebuilt and the place was again used as a place of durance, where some three hundred prisoners were constantly lodged. These were criminals largely, with a sprinkling of persons of higher and more respectable station who had become obnoxious to the Austrian government.

The lengthy sentence of imprisonment which Silvio Pellico endured at Spielberg was the penalty imposed upon him as an Italian subject who dared to conspire against the Austrian domination. The rich provinces of northern Italy had been apportioned to the emperor of Austria in the scramble for territory at the fall of Napoleon. The Italians fiercely resented the intolerable yoke of the arbitrary foreigners, and strove hard to shake it off, but in vain, for nearly fifty years. Secret societies pledged to resistance multiplied and flourished, defying all efforts to extinguish them. The most actively dangerous was that of the Carbonari, born at Naples of the hatred of the Bourbon rule and which aimed at securing general freedom for one united Italy. Its influence spread rapidly throughout the country and in the north helped forward the abortive uprisings, which were sharply repressed by the Austrian troops. Plots were constantly rife in Lombardy against the oppressive rule in force and centred in Carbonarism which the government unceasingly pursued. Silvio Pellico was drawn almost innocently into association with the society and suffered severely for it.

Silvio Pellico was born in 1788 and spent a great part of his youth at Pinerolo, a place of captivity of the mysterious “Man with the Iron Mask.” His health was delicate; he was a student consumed with literary aspirations and intense political fervour, and he presently moved to Milan, where he began to write for the stage. A famous actress inspired him with the idea of his play, Francesca da Rimini, which eventually achieved such a brilliant success. Pellico was welcomed at Milan by the best literary society and made the acquaintance of many distinguished writers, native-born and foreign—Monti, Foscolo and Manzoni, Madame de Stael, Schlegel and Lords Byron and Brougham among them. The author of “Childe Harold” paid him the compliment of translating “Francesca” into English verse.

About this time Silvio Pellico accepted the post of tutor to the sons of Count Porro, a prominent leader of the agitation against Austria, and whose dream it was to give an independent crown to Lombardy. Count Porro approached the Emperor Joseph pleading the rights of his country, and but narrowly escaped arrest. He saw that overt resistance was impossible, but never ceased to conspire and encourage the desire for freedom in his fellow-countrymen. He opened schools for the purpose and founded a newspaper, the Conciliatore, to which many talented writers contributed, including Pellico. It was a brilliant, though brief, epoch of literary splendour, and the new journal was supported by the most notable thinkers and eloquent publicists, whose productions were constantly mutilated by the censorship. In the end, the Conciliatore was suppressed.

Silvio Pellico, soon after his entry into Count Porro’s household, was invited to affiliate himself with the Carbonari but hesitated to join, having no accurate knowledge of the aims and intentions of the society. He was moved, however, to inquire further and very incautiously wrote through the post to a friend, asking what obligations he would have to assume and the form of oath he must take,—all of which he was willing to accept if his conscience would permit him. There was no inviolability for private correspondence under Austrian rule, and Silvio Pellico’s letter was intercepted and passed into the hands of Count Bubna, the governor of Milan, who was already well informed of the conspiracy brewing. He was, however, a humane official and did not wish to proceed to extreme measures, but quietly warned the most active leaders to disappear, telling them that “a trip to the country” might benefit them just then. Many took the hint and left the city, among them Count Porro, who escaped on the very day that the police meant to make a descent on his house. Confalonieri, one of the chiefs, was not so fortunate. He declined to run away until the sbirri were at his door and then climbed up to the top of the house, hoping to gain the roof, but the lock of a garret window had been changed and he was taken by the officers.

Silvio Pellico, having no suspicion of danger, was easily captured in his house and was carried at once to the prison of Santa Margherita in Milan, where he lay side by side with ordinary criminals, and also made the acquaintance of the “false” Dauphin commonly called the Duke of Normandy, the pretended heir of Louis XVI. It may be remembered that a fiction long survived of the escape of the little dauphin from the Temple prison, to which he had been sent by the French revolutionaries, and that an idiot boy had been substituted to send to the guillotine. The real dauphin—so runs the story—was spirited out of France and safely across the Atlantic to the United States and afterward to Brazil, where he passed through many dire adventures until the restoration in France. A serious illness at that time prevented him from vindicating his right to the throne, and thenceforth he became a wanderer in Europe, vainly endeavouring to win recognition and support from the various courts. The assassination of this inconvenient claimant had been more than once attempted, and his persistence ended in his arrest by the Austrian governor at the instance of the French government, and resulted in his being held a close prisoner in Milan.

The warders of the Santa Margherita assured Silvio Pellico that they were certain his fellow prisoner was the real king of France, and they hoped that some day when he came to his own he would reward them handsomely for their devoted attention to him when in gaol. Pellico was not imposed upon by this pretender, but he noticed a strong family likeness to the Bourbons and very reasonably supposed that herein was the secret of the preposterous claim.

This curious encounter no doubt served to occupy Pellico’s thoughts during his long trial which was conducted by methods abhorrent to all ideas of justice. No indictments were made public and no depositions of witnesses, who were always invisible. Conviction was a foregone conclusion, and the sentence was death, on the ground that Pellico had been concerned in a conspiracy against the state, that he had been guilty of correspondence with a Carbonaro and that he had written articles in favour of Carbonarism. His fate was communicated to him at Venice, to which he had been removed and where he occupied a portion of the Piombi, or prison under the “leads” of the ducal palace.

After a wearisome delay, the sentence was read to the prisoners, Pellico and his intimate friend and companion Maroncelli, in court, and afterward formally communicated to them on a scaffold which had been raised in the Piazzetta of San Marco. An immense crowd had collected, full of compassionate sympathy, and to overawe them a strong body of troops had been paraded with bayonets fixed, and artillery was posted with port fires alight. An usher came out upon an elevated gallery of the palace above and read the order aloud until he reached the words “condemned to death,” when the crowd, unable to restrain overwrought feeling, burst into a loud murmur of condolence, which was followed by deep silence when the words of commutation were read. Maroncelli was sentenced to twenty years’ imprisonment and Silvio Pellico to fifteen, both to be confined under the rules of carcere duro in the fortress of Spielberg.

The conditions of carcere duro may be described as extremely irksome and rigorous. The subject was closely chained by the legs; he had to sleep on a bare board—the lit de soldat or “plank bed”—and to subsist on a most limited diet, little more than bread and water, with a modicum of poor soup every other day. More merciless and brutal treatment was that of carcere durissimo, when the chaining consisted of a body belt or iron waist-band affixed to the wall by a chain so short that it allowed no movement beyond the length of the plank bed. Part of the rations was a most unpalatable and filthy food, consisting of flour fried in lard and put by in pots for six months, then ladled out and dissolved in boiling water.

An Austrian commissary of police came from Vienna to escort the patriot prisoners to Spielberg, and he brought with him news that afforded some small consolation. He had had an audience with the Emperor Joseph, who had been graciously pleased to grant a remission of sentence by making every twelve hours instead of twenty-four count as one day; in other words, diminishing the term by just half. No official endorsement of this proposal was signified and there was no certainty that it was true, and indeed, after the lapse of the first half of the sentence, release was not immediately accorded. Silvio’s seven and a half years was expanded into ten, and the imprisonment might have been dragged on for the full fifteen years but for the warm pleadings of the Sardinian ambassador at the court of Vienna.

The long journey to BrÜnn was taken in two carriages and in much discomfort, for each coach was crowded with the escort and their charges, and each prisoner was fettered with a transversal chain attached to the right wrist and left ankle. The one compensation was the kindly sympathy that greeted the prisoners everywhere along the road, in every town, village and isolated hut. The people came forth with friendly expressions, and as the news of their approach preceded them, great crowds collected to cheer them on their way. At one place, Udine, where beds had to be prepared, the hotel servants gave place to personal friends who came in, disguised, to shake them by the hand. The demonstrations were continued far across the frontier, and even Austrian subjects were anxious to commiserate the sad fate of men whose only crime was an ardent desire to free their country.

Silvio Pellico at Spielburg

After the painting by Marckl

The gifted Italian patriot, arrested as a Carbonarist in 1820, was imprisoned for ten years, first at Milan and Venice and then in the fortress of Spielburg in Austria, where he was subjected to gross indignities and cruel neglect. He wrote of his experiences in his book “My Prisons,” which struck a severe blow to Austrian tyranny.

Silvio Pellico records feelingly the emotion displayed by one charming girl in a Styrian village, who long stood watching the carriages and waving her handkerchief to the fast disappearing occupants on their way to protracted captivity. In many places aged people came up to ask if the prisoners’ parents were still alive, and offered up fervent prayers that they might meet them again. The same sentiment of pity and commiseration was freely displayed in the fortress throughout the imprisonment; the gaolers—harsh, ill-tempered old soldiers—were softened towards them; their fellow prisoners—ordinary criminals—when encountered by chance in the courts and passages, saluted them and treated them with deep respect. One whispered to Pellico, “You are not such as we are and yet your lot is far worse than ours.” Another said that although he was a convict his crime was one of passion, his heart was not bad, and he was affected to tears when Silvio Pellico took him by the hand. Visitors who came in from outside were always anxious to notice “the Italians” and give them a kindly word.

Pellico, when received by the superintendent of Spielberg, was treated to a lecture on conduct and warned that the slightest infraction of the rules would expose him to punishment. Then he was led into an underground corridor where he was ushered into one dark chamber, and his comrade Maroncelli into another at some distance. Pellico’s health was completely broken by the long wearisome journey and the dreary prospect before him. His cell was a repulsive dungeon; a great chain hung from the wall just above his plank bed, but it was not destined for him, as his gaoler told him, unless he became violently insubordinate; for the present leg irons would only be worn.

This gaoler was an aged man, of gigantic height, with a hard weather-beaten face and a forbidding look of brutal severity. He inspired Pellico with loathing as he paced the narrow cell rattling his heavy keys and scowling fiercely. Yet the man was not to be judged by appearances, for he concealed beneath a rough exterior a tender, sympathetic heart. Pellico, misjudging him entirely, bitterly resented his overbearing manner and showed a refractory spirit, addressing his warder insolently and ordering him about rudely. The old man—a veteran soldier who had served with distinction in many campaigns, behaved with extraordinary patience and good temper and shamed Pellico into more considerate behaviour. “I am no more than a corporal,” he protested, “and I am not very proud of my position as gaoler, which I will allow is far worse than being shot at by the enemy.” Pellico readily acknowledged that the man Schiller, as he was called, meant well. “Not at all,” growled Schiller, “expect nothing from me. It is my duty to be rough and harsh with you. I took an oath on my first appointment to show no indulgence and least of all to state prisoners. It is the emperor’s order and I must obey.” Pellico regretted his first impatience and gently said: “I can see plainly that is not easy for you to enforce severe discipline but I respect you for it and shall bear no malice.” Schiller thanked him and added: “Accept your lot bravely and pity rather than blame me. In the matter of duty I am of iron, and whatever I may feel for the unfortunate people who are under my control, I cannot and must not show it.” He never departed from this attitude, and though outwardly cross-grained and rough-spoken, Pellico knew he could count upon humane treatment.

Schiller was greatly concerned at the prisoner’s ailing condition. He had grown rapidly worse, was tormented with a terrible cough and was evidently in a state of high fever. Medical advice was urgently needed, but the prison doctor called only three times a week and he had visited the gaol the day before; not even the arrival of these new prisoners, nor an urgent summons to prescribe for serious sickness, would cause him to change his routine. Pellico had no mattress and it could only be supplied on medical requisition. The superintendent, cringing and timid, did not dare to issue it on his own responsibility. He came to see Pellico, and felt his pulse, but declared he could not go beyond the rules. “I should risk my appointment,” he pleaded, “if I exceeded my powers.” Schiller, after the superintendent left, was indignant with his chief. “I think I would have taken as much as this upon myself; it is only a small matter, scarcely involving the safety of the empire,” and Pellico gratefully acknowledged that he had found a real friend in the seemingly surly warder. Schiller came again that night to visit him and finding him worse, renewed his bitter complaints against the cruel neglect of the doctor. The next day the prisoner was still left without medical treatment, after a night of terrible pain and discomfort, which caused him to perspire freely. “I should like to change my shirt,” he suggested, but was told that it was impossible. It was a prison shirt and only one each week was allowed. Schiller brought one of his own which proved to be several times too large. The prisoner asked for one of his own, as he had brought a trunk full of his clothes, but this too was forbidden. He was permitted to wear no part of his own clothing and was left to lie as he was, shivering in every limb. Schiller came presently, bringing a loaf of black bread, the allowance for two days, and after handing it over burst out into fresh imprecations against the doctor. Pellico could not eat a morsel of this coarse food, nor of his dinner, which was presently brought by a prisoner and consisted of some nauseous soup, the smell of which alone was repulsive, and some vegetables dressed with a detestable sauce. He forced down a few spoonfuls of soup and again fell back upon his bare, comfortless bed, which was unprovided with a pillow; and racked with pain in every limb, he lay there half insensible, looking for little relief. At last, on the third day, the doctor came and pronounced the illness to be fever, recommending that the patient should be removed from his cell to another up-stairs. The first answer was that no room could be found, but when the matter was specially referred to the governor who ruled the two provinces of Moravia and Silesia and resided at BrÜnn, he insisted that the doctor’s advice should be followed. Accordingly the patient was moved into a room above, lighted by a small barred window from which he could get a glimpse of the smiling valley below, the view extending over garden and lake to the wooded heights of Austerlitz beyond.

When he was somewhat better, they brought him his prison clothing and he put it on for the first time. It was hideous, of course; a harlequin dress, jacket and pantaloons of two colours, gray and dark red, arranged in inverse pattern; one arm red, the other gray, one leg gray, the other red, and the colours alternating in the same way on the waistcoat. Coarse woollen stockings, a shirt of rough sailcloth with sharp excrescences in the material that irritated and tore the skin, heavy boots of untanned leather and a white hat completed the outfit. His chains were riveted on his ankles, and the blacksmith protested as he hammered on the anvil that it was an unnecessary job. “The poor creature might well have been spared this formality. He is far too ill to live many days.” It was said in German, a language with which Pellico was familiar, and he answered in the same tongue, “Please God it may be so,” much to the blacksmith’s dismay, who promptly apologised, expressing the kindly hope that release might come in another way than by death. Pellico assured him that he had no wish to live. Nevertheless, although dejected beyond measure, his thoughts did not turn toward suicide, for he firmly believed that he must shortly be carried off by disease of the lungs. But, greatly as he had been tried by the journey, and despite the fever which had followed, he gradually improved in health and recovered, not only so as to complete his imprisonment but to live on to a considerable age after release.

The prisoners suffered greatly from their isolation and the deprivation of their comrades’ company, but Silvio Pellico and a near neighbour discovered a means of communicating with each other and persisted in it despite all orders to the contrary. They began by singing Italian songs from cell to cell and refused to be silenced by the loud outcries of the sentries, of whom several were at hand. One in particular patrolled the corridor, listening at each door so as to locate the sound. Pellico had no sooner discovered that his neighbour was Count Antonio Oroboni than the sentry hammered loudly on the door with the butt end of his musket. They persisted in singing, however, modulating their voices, until they gained the good-will of the sentry, or spoke so low as to be little interfered with. This conversation continued for a long time without interruption until one day it was overheard by the superintendent, who severely reprimanded Schiller. The old gaoler was much incensed and came to Pellico forbidding him to speak again at the window. “You must give me your solemn promise not to repeat this misconduct.” Pellico stoutly replied: “I shall promise nothing of the kind; silence and solitude are so absolutely unbearable that unless I am gagged I shall continue to speak to my comrade; if he does not answer, I shall address myself to my bars or the birds or the distant hills.” Kind-hearted old Schiller sternly repeated his injunctions, but failed to impress Pellico, and at last in despair Schiller threw away his keys, declaring he would sooner resign than be a party to so much cruelty. He yielded later, only imploring Pellico to speak always in the lowest key and to prevail upon Oroboni to do likewise.

The greatest trial entailed by the carcere duro was the lack of sufficient food. Pellico was constantly tormented with hunger. Some of his comrades suffered much more, for they had lived more freely than he and felt the spare diet more keenly. It was so well known throughout the prison that the political prisoners were half-starved, that many kindly souls wished to add to their allowance. The ordinary prisoner, who acted as orderly in bringing in the daily rations, secretly smuggled in a loaf of white bread which Pellico, although much touched, absolutely refused to accept. “We get so much more than you do,” the poor fellow pleaded, “I know you are always hungry.” But Pellico still refused. It was the same when Schiller, the grim gaoler, brought in parcels of food, bread and pieces of boiled meat, pressing them on his prisoner, assuring him that they cost him nothing. Pellico invariably refused everything except baskets of fruit, cherries and pears, which were irresistible, although he was sorry afterward for yielding to the weakness.

At last the prison surgeon interposed and put all the Italians upon hospital diet. This was somewhat better, but a meagre enough supply, consisting daily of three issues of thin soup, a morsel of roast mutton which could be swallowed in one mouthful, and three ounces of white bread. As Silvio Pellico’s health improved this allowance proved more and more insufficient and he was always hungry. Even the barber who came up from BrÜnn to attend on the prisoners said it was common talk in the town that they did not get enough to eat and wanted to bring a white loaf when he arrived every Saturday.

Permission to exercise in the open air twice weekly had been conceded from the first, and was at the last allowed daily. Each prisoner was marched out singly, escorted by two gaolers armed with loaded muskets. This took place in the general yard where there were often many ordinary prisoners, all of whom saluted courteously and were often heard to remark, “This poor man is no real offender and yet he is treated much worse than we are.” Now and again one would come up to Pellico and say sympathetically that he hoped he was feeling better, and beg to be allowed to shake his hand. Visitors who came to call on the officials were always deeply interested in the Italians and watched them curiously but kindly. “There is a gentleman who will not make old bones,”—Pellico heard some one say,—“death is written on his face.” At this time so great was his weakness that, heavily chained as he was, he could barely crawl to the yard, where he threw himself full length on the grass to lie there in the sunshine until the exercise was over.

The officers’ families lived near at hand and the members, particularly the ladies and children, never failed when they met the Italian prisoners to greet them with kindly looks and expressions. The superintendent’s wife, who was in failing health and was always carried out on a sofa, smiled and spoke hopefully to Pellico, and other ladies never failed to regret that they could do nothing to soften the prisoners’ lot. It was a great grief to Pellico when circumstances led to the removal of these tender-hearted friends from Spielberg.

Schiller and his prisoner had a serious quarrel because the latter would not humble himself to petition the authorities to relieve him of his leg irons, which incommoded him grievously and prevented him from sleeping at night. The unfeeling doctor did not consider the removal of these chains essential to health and ruled that Pellico must patiently suffer the painful infliction till he grew accustomed to them. Schiller insisted that Pellico should ask the favour of the authorities, and when he was subjected to the chagrin of a refusal, he vented his disappointment upon his gaoler, who was deeply hurt and declined to enter the cell, but stood outside rattling his heavy keys. Food and water were carried in by Kemda, the prison orderly, and it now was Pellico’s turn to be offended. “You must not bear malice; it increases my suffering,” he cried sadly. “What am I to do to please you? Laugh, sing, dance, perhaps?” said Schiller, and he set himself to jump about with his thin, long legs in the most ridiculous fashion.

A great joy came unexpectedly to Pellico. He was returning from exercise one day when he found the door of Oroboni’s cell wide open. Before his guards could stop him, he rushed in and clasped his comrade in his arms. The officials were much shocked, but had not the heart to separate them. Schiller came up and also a sentry, but neither liked to check this breach of the regulations. At last the brief interview was ended and the friends parted, never to meet again. Oroboni was really hopelessly ill and unable to bear up against the burden of his miserable existence, and after a few months he passed away.

Prison life in Spielberg was dull and monotonous. It was little less than solitary confinement broken only by short talks with Schiller or Oroboni. Silvio Pellico has recorded minutely the slow passage of each twenty-four hours. He awoke at daylight, climbed up at once to his cell windows and clung to the bars until Oroboni appeared at his window with a morning salutation. The view across the valley below was superb; the fresh voices of the peasants were heard laughing and singing as they went out to work in the fields, free and light-hearted, in bitter contrast to the captives languishing within the prison walls. Then came the morning inspection of the cell and its occupant, when every corner was scrupulously examined, the walls tapped and tried, and every link of the chains tested, one by one, to see whether any had been tampered with or broken.

There were three of these inspections daily; one in the early morning, a second in the evening, and the third at midnight. Such scrupulous vigilance absolutely forbade all attempts at escape. The broad rule in prison management is obvious and unchanging; it is impossible for those immured to break prison if regularly watched and visited. The remarkable efforts made by Trenck, as detailed in a previous chapter, and indeed the story of all successful evasions, depended entirely upon the long continued exemption from observation and the unobstructed leisure afforded to clever and untiring hands. In the Spielberg prison, so close and constant was the surveillance exercised that no one turned his thoughts to flight.

After the first meal—a half cup of colourless soup and three fingers of dry bread—the prisoner took to his books, of which at first he had plenty, for Maroncelli had brought a small library with him. The emperor had been petitioned to permit the prisoners to purchase others. No answer came for a year or more and then in the negative, while the leave granted provisionally to read those in use was arbitrarily withdrawn. For four full years this cruel restriction was imposed. All studies hitherto followed were abruptly ended. Pellico was deprived of his Homer and his English classics, his works on Christian philosophy, Bourdaloue, Pascal and Thomas À Kempis. After a time the emperor himself supplied a few religious books, but he positively forbade the issue of any that might serve for literary improvement.

The fact was that political agitation had increased in Italy, and Austrian despots were resolved to draw the reins tighter and crush rebellion by the more savage treatment of the patriot prisoners. Many more were brought to Spielberg about this time and the discipline became more severe. The exercising yard on the open terrace was enclosed by a high wall to prevent people at a distance from watching the prisoners with telescopes, and later a narrower place was substituted which had no outlook at all. More rigorous searches were instituted and carried out by the police, who explored even the hems and linings of clothing. Pellico’s condition had become much worse. He suffered grievously from the misfortunes of his friends. Oroboni died, and Maroncelli was attacked by a tumour in the knee which caused intense suffering and in the end necessitated amputation. Added to this was acute anxiety concerning his relatives and friends. No correspondence was permitted; no news came from outside, but there were vague rumours that evil had overtaken Pellico’s family.

One day, however, a message was brought him through the director of police from the emperor, who was “graciously pleased” to inform Silvio Pellico that all was well with his family. He begged piteously for more precise information,—were his parents, his brothers and sisters all alive? No answer was vouchsafed; he must be satisfied with what he had been told and be grateful for the compassionate clemency of his august sovereign. A second message, equally brief and meagre, came later, but still not one word to relieve the dreadful doubts that constantly oppressed him. No wonder that his health suffered anew and that he was seized with colics and violent internal pains. Another acute grief was due to the loss of his good friend Schiller, who became so infirm that he was transferred to lighter duty and was at last sent to the military hospital, where he gradually faded away. He never forgot his dear prisoners, “his children,” as he called them and to whom he sent many affecting messages when at the point of death.

The Austrian government, although uniformly pitiless and stony-hearted, was at times uneasy, ashamed, it might be, at the consequences of its barbarous prison rÉgime. More than once special inquiries were made by eminent doctors sent on purpose from Vienna to report on the sanitary state of Spielberg and the constant presence of scurvy among the prisoners. The evil might have been diminished, if not removed, by the use of a more generous diet, but the suggestion, if made, was never adopted. One commissioner had dared to recommend that artificial light should be provided in the cells, which were so dark after nightfall that the occupant was in danger of running his head against the walls. A whole year passed before this small favour was accorded. Another visitor, hearing that the prison doctor would have prescribed coffee for Pellico but was afraid to do so, secured him that boon. A third commissioner, a man of high rank and much influence at court, was so deeply impressed by the miserable condition of the prisoners that he openly expressed his indignation, and his kind words in some measure consoled the victims of such cruel oppression.

At last the authorities were so much disturbed by the reports of the failing health of prisoners so constantly isolated, that they were moved to associate them in couples in the same cell. Silvio Pellico, to his intense delight, was given Maroncelli as his companion. He was so much overjoyed by the news that at first he fainted away, and after he had regained consciousness he again fainted at seeing how the ravages of imprisonment with its attendant dejection, starvation and poisonous air had told on his friend. The two continued together for the years that remained to be served; years of suffering, for both were continually ill, Maroncelli lost his leg, and both were attacked with persistent scurvy. They waited together for the long delayed day of release, which in the case of Pellico was greatly prolonged beyond the promised termination of seven and a half years. In the end he served fully ten years, but was finally released in 1830.

The order reached him quite unexpectedly one Sunday morning immediately after mass, when he had regained his cell for dinner. They were eating their first mouthfuls when the governor entered, apologised for his appearance, and led them off, Pellico and Maroncelli, for an interview with the director of police. They went with a very bad grace, for this official never came but to give trouble and they expected nothing better. The director was slow of speech and long hesitated to impart the joyful news that His Majesty the emperor had been mercifully disposed toward them and had set them both free.