Nothing is durable here below! Poor Angiola fell sick; and on one of the first days when she felt indisposed, she came to see me, complaining bitterly of pains in her head. She wept, too, and would not explain the cause of her grief. She only murmured something that looked like reproaches of her lover. “He is a villain!” she said; “but God forgive him, as I do!”

I left no means untried to obtain her confidence, but it was the first time I was quite unable to ascertain why she distressed herself to such an excess. “I will return to-morrow morning,” she said, one evening on parting from me; “I will, indeed.” But the next morning came, and my coffee was brought by her mother; the next, and the next, by the under-jailers; and Angiola continued grievously ill. The under-jailers, also, brought me very unpleasant tidings relating to the love-affair; tidings, in short, which made me deeply sympathize with her sufferings. A case of seduction! But, perhaps, it was the tale of calumny. Alas! I but too well believed it, and I was affected at it more than I can express; though I still like to flatter myself that it was false. After upwards of a month’s illness, the poor girl was taken into the country, and I saw her no more.

It is astonishing how deeply I felt this deprivation, and how much more horrible my solitude now appeared. Still more bitter was the reflection that she, who had so tenderly fed, and watched, and visited me in my sad prison, supplying every want and wish within her power, was herself a prey to sorrow and misfortune. Alas! I could make her no return; yet, surely she will feel aware how truly I sympathize with her; that there is no effort I would not make to afford her comfort and relief, and that I shall never cease to offer up my prayers for her, and to bless her for her goodness to a wretched prisoner.

Though her visits had been too brief, they were enough to break upon the horrid monotony of my solitude. By suggesting and comparing our ideas, I obtained new views and feelings, exercised some of the best and sweetest affections, gave a zest to life, and even threw a sort of lustre round my misfortunes.

Suddenly the vision fled, and my dungeon became to me really like a living tomb. A strange sadness for many days quite oppressed me. I could not even write: it was a dark, quiet, nameless feeling, in no way partaking of the violence and irritation which I had before experienced. Was it that I had become more inured to adversity, more philosophical, more of a Christian? Or was it really that the extremely enervating heat of my dungeon had so prostrated my powers that I could no longer feel the pangs of excessive grief. Ah, no! for I can well recollect that I then felt it to my inmost soul; and, perhaps, more intensely from the want both of will and power to give vent to it by agitation, maledictions, and cries. The fact is, I believe, that I had been severely schooled by my past sufferings, and was resigned to the will of God. I had so often maintained that it was a mark of cowardice to complain, that, at length, I succeeded in restraining my passion, when on the point of breaking out, and felt vexed that I had permitted it to obtain any ascendancy over me.

My mental faculties were strengthened by the habit of writing down my thoughts; I got rid of all my vanity, and reduced the chief part of my reasonings to the following conclusions: There is a God: THEREFORE unerring justice; THEREFORE all that happens is ordained to the best end; consequently, the sufferings of man on earth are inflicted for the good of man.

Thus, my acquaintance with Angiola had proved beneficial, by soothing and conciliating my feelings. Her good opinion of me had urged me to the fulfilment of many duties, especially of that of proving one’s self superior to the shocks of fortune, and of suffering in patience. By exerting myself to persevere for about a month, I was enabled to feel perfectly resigned.

Angiola had beheld me two or three times in a downright passion; once, as I have stated, on account of her having brought me bad coffee, and a second time as follows:—

Every two or three weeks the jailer had brought me a letter from some of my family. It was previously submitted to the Commission, and most roughly handled, as was too evident by the number of erasures in the blackest ink which appeared throughout. One day, however, instead of merely striking out a few passages, they drew the black line over the entire letter, with the exception of the words, “My Dearest Silvio,” at the beginning, and the parting salutation at the close, “All unite in kindest love to you.”

This act threw me into such an uncontrollable fit of passion, that, in presence of the gentle Angiola, I broke out into violent shouts of rage, and cursed I know not whom. The poor girl pitied me from her heart; but, at the same time, reminded me of the strange inconsistency of my principles. I saw she had reason on her side, and I ceased from uttering my maledictions.