Still I did not wholly neglect the paper put into my hands, and sometimes even devoted an entire day or night to writing. But here I only treated of literary matters. I composed at that time the Ester d’Engaddi, the Iginia d’Asti, and the Cantichi, entitled, Tanereda Rosilde, Eligi and Valafrido, Adello, besides several sketches of tragedies, and other productions, in the list of which was a poem upon the Lombard League, and another upon Christopher Columbus.

As it was not always so easy an affair to get a reinforcement of paper, I was in the habit of committing my rough draughts to my table, or the wrapping-paper in which I received fruit and other articles. At times I would give away my dinner to the under-jailer, telling him that I had no appetite, and then requesting from him the favour of a sheet of paper. This was, however, only in certain exigencies, when my little table was full of writing, and I had not yet determined on clearing it away. I was often very hungry, and though the jailer had money of mine in his possession, I did not ask him to bring me anything to eat, partly lest he should suspect I had given away my dinner, and partly that the under-jailer might not find out that I had said the thing which was not when I assured him of my loss of appetite. In the evening I regaled myself with some strong coffee, and I entreated that it might be made by the little sioa, Zanze. [13] This was the jailer’s daughter, who, if she could escape the lynx-eye of her sour mamma, was good enough to make it exceedingly good; so good, indeed, that, what with the emptiness of my stomach, it produced a kind of convulsion, which kept me awake the whole of the night.

In this state of gentle inebriation, I felt my intellectual faculties strangely invigorated; wrote poetry, philosophized, and prayed till morning with feelings of real pleasure. I then became completely exhausted, threw myself upon my bed, and, spite of the gnats that were continually sucking my blood, I slept an hour or two in profound rest.

I can hardly describe the peculiar and pleasing exaltation of mind which continued for nights together, and I left no means untried to secure the same means of continuing it. With this view I still refused to touch a mouthful of dinner, even when I was in no want of paper, merely in order to obtain my magic beverage for the evening.

How fortunate I thought myself when I succeeded; not unfrequently the coffee was not made by the gentle Angiola; and it was always vile stuff from her mother’s hands. In this last case, I was sadly put out of humour, for instead of the electrical effect on my nerves, it made me wretched, weak, and hungry; I threw myself down to sleep, but was unable to close an eye. Upon these occasions I complained bitterly to Angiola, the jailer’s daughter, and one day, as if she had been in fault, I scolded her so sharply that the poor girl began to weep, sobbing out, “Indeed, sir, I never deceived anybody, and yet everybody calls me a deceitful little mix.”

“Everybody! Oh then, I see I am not the only one driven to distraction by your vile slops.”

“I do not mean to say that, sir. Ah, if you only knew; if I dared to tell you all that my poor, wretched heart—”

“Well, don’t cry so! What is all this ado? I beg your pardon, you see, if I scolded you. Indeed, I believe you would not, you could not, make me such vile stuff as this.”

“Dear me! I am not crying about that, sir.”

“You are not!” and I felt my self-love not a little mortified, though I forced a smile. “Are you crying, then, because I scolded you, and yet not about the coffee?”

“Yes, indeed, sir?”

“Ah! then who called you a little deceitful one before?”

“He did, sir.”

“He did; and who is he?”

“My lover, sir;” and she hid her face in her little hands.

Afterwards she ingenuously intrusted to my keeping, and I could not well betray her, a little serio-comic sort of pastoral romance, which really interested me.