My Ten Years' Imprisonment [84]
years before, when I last saw him. How the good old man had deceived himself in the expectation that I should so soon rejoin him at Turin! Could he then have borne the idea of a son's ten years' captivity, and in such a prison? But when these flattering hopes vanished, did he, and did my mother bear up against so unexpected a calamity? was I ever to see them again in this world? Had one, or which of them, died during the cruel interval that ensued?
Such was the suspense, the distracting doubt which yet clung to me. I was about to knock at the door of my home without knowing if they were in existence, or what other members of my beloved family were left me.
The director of police received me in a friendly manner. He permitted me to stay at the Bella Venezia with the imperial commissary, though I was not permitted to communicate with any one, and for this reason I determined to resume my journey the following morning. I obtained an interview, however, with the Piedmontese consul, to learn if possible some account of my relatives. I should have waited on him, but being attacked with fever, and compelled to keep my bed, I sent to beg the favour of his visiting me. He had the kindness to come immediately, and I felt truly grateful to him.
He gave me a favourable account of my father, and of my eldest brother. Respecting my mother, however, my other brother, and my two sisters, I could learn nothing.
Thus in part comforted, I could have wished to prolong the conversation with the consul, and he would willingly have gratified me had not his duties called him away. After he left me, I was extremely affected, but, as had so often happened, no tears came to give me relief. The habit of long, internal grief, seemed yet to prey upon my heart; to weep would have alleviated the fever which consumed me, and distracted my head with pain.
I called to Stundberger for something to drink. That good man was a sergeant of police at Vienna, though now filling the office of valet-de-chambre to the commissary. But though not old, I perceived that his hand trembled in giving me the drink. This circumstance reminded me of Schiller, my beloved Schiller, when, on the day of my arrival at Spielberg, I ordered him, in an imperious tone, to hand me the jug of water, and he obeyed me.
How strange it was! The recollection of this, added to other feelings of the kind, struck, as it were, the rock of my heart, and tears began to flow.
CHAPTER XCVII.
The morning of the 10th of September, I took leave of the excellent commissary, and set out. We had only been acquainted with each other for about a month, and yet he was as friendly as if he had known me for years. His noble and upright mind was above all artifice, or desire of penetrating the opinions of others, not from any want of intelligence, but a love of that dignified simplicity which animates all honest men.
It sometimes happened during our journey that I was accosted by some one or other when unobserved, in places where we stopped. "Take care of that ANGEL KEEPER of yours; if he did not belong to those neri (blacks), they would not have put him over you."
"There you are deceived," said I; "I have the greatest reason to believe that you are deceived."
"The most cunning," was the reply, "can always contrive to appear the most simple."
"If it were so, we ought never to give credit to the least goodness in any one."
"Yes, there are certain social stations," he replied, "in which men's manners may appear to great advantage by means of education; but as to virtue, they have none of it."
I could only answer, "You exaggerate, sir, you exaggerate."
"I am only consistent," he insisted. We were here interrupted, and I called to mind the cave a censequentariis of Leibnitz.
Too many are inclined to adopt this false and terrible doctrine. I follow the standard A, that is JUSTICE. Another follows standard B; it must therefore be that of INJUSTICE, and, consequently, he must be a villain!
Give ME none of your logical madness; whatever standard
Such was the suspense, the distracting doubt which yet clung to me. I was about to knock at the door of my home without knowing if they were in existence, or what other members of my beloved family were left me.
The director of police received me in a friendly manner. He permitted me to stay at the Bella Venezia with the imperial commissary, though I was not permitted to communicate with any one, and for this reason I determined to resume my journey the following morning. I obtained an interview, however, with the Piedmontese consul, to learn if possible some account of my relatives. I should have waited on him, but being attacked with fever, and compelled to keep my bed, I sent to beg the favour of his visiting me. He had the kindness to come immediately, and I felt truly grateful to him.
He gave me a favourable account of my father, and of my eldest brother. Respecting my mother, however, my other brother, and my two sisters, I could learn nothing.
Thus in part comforted, I could have wished to prolong the conversation with the consul, and he would willingly have gratified me had not his duties called him away. After he left me, I was extremely affected, but, as had so often happened, no tears came to give me relief. The habit of long, internal grief, seemed yet to prey upon my heart; to weep would have alleviated the fever which consumed me, and distracted my head with pain.
I called to Stundberger for something to drink. That good man was a sergeant of police at Vienna, though now filling the office of valet-de-chambre to the commissary. But though not old, I perceived that his hand trembled in giving me the drink. This circumstance reminded me of Schiller, my beloved Schiller, when, on the day of my arrival at Spielberg, I ordered him, in an imperious tone, to hand me the jug of water, and he obeyed me.
How strange it was! The recollection of this, added to other feelings of the kind, struck, as it were, the rock of my heart, and tears began to flow.
CHAPTER XCVII.
The morning of the 10th of September, I took leave of the excellent commissary, and set out. We had only been acquainted with each other for about a month, and yet he was as friendly as if he had known me for years. His noble and upright mind was above all artifice, or desire of penetrating the opinions of others, not from any want of intelligence, but a love of that dignified simplicity which animates all honest men.
It sometimes happened during our journey that I was accosted by some one or other when unobserved, in places where we stopped. "Take care of that ANGEL KEEPER of yours; if he did not belong to those neri (blacks), they would not have put him over you."
"There you are deceived," said I; "I have the greatest reason to believe that you are deceived."
"The most cunning," was the reply, "can always contrive to appear the most simple."
"If it were so, we ought never to give credit to the least goodness in any one."
"Yes, there are certain social stations," he replied, "in which men's manners may appear to great advantage by means of education; but as to virtue, they have none of it."
I could only answer, "You exaggerate, sir, you exaggerate."
"I am only consistent," he insisted. We were here interrupted, and I called to mind the cave a censequentariis of Leibnitz.
Too many are inclined to adopt this false and terrible doctrine. I follow the standard A, that is JUSTICE. Another follows standard B; it must therefore be that of INJUSTICE, and, consequently, he must be a villain!
Give ME none of your logical madness; whatever standard