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.