My Ten Years' Imprisonment [57]
he added the most clear and perfect faith in Christianity, while in me this had become vacillating and at times apparently extinct.
He met my doubts with most just and admirable reflections; and with equal affection, I felt that he had reason on his side: I admitted it, yet still my doubts returned. It is thus, I believe, with all who have not the Gospel at heart, and who hate, or indulge resentments of any kind. The mind catches glimpses, as it were, of the truth, but as it is unpleasing, it is disbelieved the moment after, and the attention directed elsewhere.
Oroboni was indefatigable in turning MY attention to the motives which man has to show kindness to his enemies. I never spoke of any one I abhorred but he began in a most dexterous manner to defend him, and not less by his words than by his example. Many men had injured him; it grieved him, yet he forgave all, and had the magnanimity to relate some laudable trait or other belonging to each, and seemed to do it with pleasure.
The irritation which had obtained such a mastery over me, and rendered me so irreligious after my condemnation, continued several weeks, and then wholly ceased. The noble virtue of Oroboni delighted me. Struggling as well as I could to reach him, I at least trod in the same track, and I was then enabled to pray with sincerity; to forgive, to hate no one, and dissipate every remaining doubt and gloom.
Ubi charitas et amor, Deus ibi est. {25}
CHAPTER LXIV.
To say truth, if our punishment was excessively severe, and calculated to irritate the mind, we had still the rare fortune of meeting only with individuals of real worth. They could not, indeed, alleviate our situation, except by kindness and respect, but so much was freely granted. If there were something rude and uncouth in old Schiller, it was amply compensated by his noble spirit. Even the wretched Kunda (the convict who brought us our dinner, and water three times a day) was anxious to show his compassion for us. He swept our rooms regularly twice in the week. One morning, while thus engaged, as Schiller turned a few steps from the door, poor Kunda offered me a piece of white bread. I refused it, but squeezed him cordially by the hand. He was moved, and told me, in bad German, that he was a Pole. "Good sir," he added, "they give us so little to eat here, that I am sure you must be hungry." I assured him I was not, but he was very hard of belief.
The physician, perceiving that we were none of us enabled to swallow the kind of food prepared for us on our first arrival, put us all upon what is considered the hospital diet. This consisted of three very small plates of soup in the day, the least slice of roast lamb, hardly a mouthful, and about three ounces of white bread.
As my health continued to improve, my appetite grew better, and that "fourth portion," as they termed it, was really too little, and I began to feel the justice of poor Kunda's remarks. I tried a return to the sound diet, but do what I would to conquer my aversion, it was all labour lost. I was compelled to live upon the fourth part of ordinary meals: and for a whole year I knew by experience the tortures of hunger. It was still more severely felt by many of my fellow-prisoners, who, being far stouter, had been accustomed to a full and generous diet. I learnt that many of them were glad to accept pieces of bread from Schiller and some of the guards, and even from the poor hungry Kunda.
"It is reported in the city," said the barber, a young practitioner of our surgery, one day to me, "it is reported that they do not give you gentlemen here enough to eat."
"And it is very true," replied I, with perfect sincerity.
The next Sunday (he came always on that day) he brought me an immense white loaf, and Schiller pretended not to see him give it me. Had I listened to my stomach I should have accepted it, but I would not, lest he should repeat the gift and bring himself into some trouble. For the same reason I refused Schiller's offers. He would often bring me boiled meat,
He met my doubts with most just and admirable reflections; and with equal affection, I felt that he had reason on his side: I admitted it, yet still my doubts returned. It is thus, I believe, with all who have not the Gospel at heart, and who hate, or indulge resentments of any kind. The mind catches glimpses, as it were, of the truth, but as it is unpleasing, it is disbelieved the moment after, and the attention directed elsewhere.
Oroboni was indefatigable in turning MY attention to the motives which man has to show kindness to his enemies. I never spoke of any one I abhorred but he began in a most dexterous manner to defend him, and not less by his words than by his example. Many men had injured him; it grieved him, yet he forgave all, and had the magnanimity to relate some laudable trait or other belonging to each, and seemed to do it with pleasure.
The irritation which had obtained such a mastery over me, and rendered me so irreligious after my condemnation, continued several weeks, and then wholly ceased. The noble virtue of Oroboni delighted me. Struggling as well as I could to reach him, I at least trod in the same track, and I was then enabled to pray with sincerity; to forgive, to hate no one, and dissipate every remaining doubt and gloom.
Ubi charitas et amor, Deus ibi est. {25}
CHAPTER LXIV.
To say truth, if our punishment was excessively severe, and calculated to irritate the mind, we had still the rare fortune of meeting only with individuals of real worth. They could not, indeed, alleviate our situation, except by kindness and respect, but so much was freely granted. If there were something rude and uncouth in old Schiller, it was amply compensated by his noble spirit. Even the wretched Kunda (the convict who brought us our dinner, and water three times a day) was anxious to show his compassion for us. He swept our rooms regularly twice in the week. One morning, while thus engaged, as Schiller turned a few steps from the door, poor Kunda offered me a piece of white bread. I refused it, but squeezed him cordially by the hand. He was moved, and told me, in bad German, that he was a Pole. "Good sir," he added, "they give us so little to eat here, that I am sure you must be hungry." I assured him I was not, but he was very hard of belief.
The physician, perceiving that we were none of us enabled to swallow the kind of food prepared for us on our first arrival, put us all upon what is considered the hospital diet. This consisted of three very small plates of soup in the day, the least slice of roast lamb, hardly a mouthful, and about three ounces of white bread.
As my health continued to improve, my appetite grew better, and that "fourth portion," as they termed it, was really too little, and I began to feel the justice of poor Kunda's remarks. I tried a return to the sound diet, but do what I would to conquer my aversion, it was all labour lost. I was compelled to live upon the fourth part of ordinary meals: and for a whole year I knew by experience the tortures of hunger. It was still more severely felt by many of my fellow-prisoners, who, being far stouter, had been accustomed to a full and generous diet. I learnt that many of them were glad to accept pieces of bread from Schiller and some of the guards, and even from the poor hungry Kunda.
"It is reported in the city," said the barber, a young practitioner of our surgery, one day to me, "it is reported that they do not give you gentlemen here enough to eat."
"And it is very true," replied I, with perfect sincerity.
The next Sunday (he came always on that day) he brought me an immense white loaf, and Schiller pretended not to see him give it me. Had I listened to my stomach I should have accepted it, but I would not, lest he should repeat the gift and bring himself into some trouble. For the same reason I refused Schiller's offers. He would often bring me boiled meat,