The greatest trial entailed by the carcere duro was the lack of sufficient food. Pellico was constantly tormented with hunger. Some of his comrades suffered much more, for they had lived more freely than he and felt the spare diet more keenly. It was so well known throughout the prison that the political prisoners were half-starved, that many kindly souls wished to add to their allowance. The ordinary prisoner, who acted as orderly in bringing in the daily rations, secretly smuggled in a loaf of white bread which Pellico, although much touched, absolutely refused to accept. “We get so much more than you do,” the poor fellow pleaded, “I know you are always hungry.” But Pellico still refused. It was the same when Schiller, the grim gaoler, brought in parcels of food, bread and pieces of boiled meat, pressing them on his prisoner, assuring him that they cost him nothing. Pellico invariably refused everything except baskets of fruit, cherries and pears, which were irresistible, although he was sorry afterward for yielding to the weakness.
At last the prison surgeon interposed and put all the Italians upon hospital diet. This was somewhat better, but a meagre enough supply, consisting daily of three issues of thin soup, a morsel of roast mutton which could be swallowed in one mouthful, and three ounces of white bread. As Silvio Pellico’s health improved this allowance proved more and more insufficient and he was always hungry. Even the barber who came up from Brünn to attend on the prisoners said it was common talk in the town that they did not get enough to eat and wanted to bring a white loaf when he arrived every Saturday.
Permission to exercise in the open air twice weekly had been conceded from the first, and was at the last allowed daily. Each prisoner was marched out singly, escorted by two gaolers armed with loaded muskets. This took place in the general yard where there were often many ordinary prisoners, all of whom saluted courteously and were often heard to remark, “This poor man is no real offender and yet he is treated much worse than we are.” Now and again one would come up to Pellico and say sympathetically that he hoped he was feeling better, and beg to be allowed to shake his hand. Visitors who came to call on the officials were always deeply interested in the Italians and watched them curiously but kindly. “There is a gentleman who will not make old bones,”—Pellico heard some one say,—“death is written on his face.” At this time so great was his weakness that, heavily chained as he was, he could barely crawl to the yard, where he threw himself full length on the grass to lie there in the sunshine until the exercise was over.
The officers’ families lived near at hand and the members, particularly the ladies and children, never failed when they met the Italian prisoners to greet them with kindly looks and expressions. The superintendent’s wife, who was in failing health and was always carried out on a sofa, smiled and spoke hopefully to Pellico, and other ladies never failed to regret that they could do nothing to soften the prisoners’ lot. It was a great grief to Pellico when circumstances led to the removal of these tender-hearted friends from Spielberg.
Schiller and his prisoner had a serious quarrel because the latter would not humble himself to petition the authorities to relieve him of his leg irons, which incommoded him grievously and prevented him from sleeping at night. The unfeeling doctor did not consider the removal of these chains essential to health and ruled that Pellico must patiently suffer the painful infliction till he grew accustomed to them. Schiller insisted that Pellico should ask the favour of the authorities, and when he was subjected to the chagrin of a refusal, he vented his disappointment upon his gaoler, who was deeply hurt and declined to enter the cell, but stood outside rattling his heavy keys. Food and water were carried in by Kemda, the prison orderly, and it now was Pellico’s turn to be offended. “You must not bear malice; it increases my suffering,” he cried sadly. “What am I to do to please you? Laugh, sing, dance, perhaps?” said Schiller, and he set himself to jump about with his thin, long legs in the most ridiculous fashion.
A great joy came unexpectedly to Pellico. He was returning from exercise one day when he found the door of Oroboni’s cell wide open. Before his guards could stop him, he rushed in and clasped his comrade in his arms. The officials were much shocked, but had not the heart to separate them. Schiller came up and also a sentry, but neither liked to check this breach of the regulations. At last the brief interview was ended and the friends parted, never to meet again. Oroboni was really hopelessly ill and unable to bear up against the burden of his miserable existence, and after a few months he passed away.
Prison life in Spielberg was dull and monotonous. It was little less than solitary confinement broken only by short talks with Schiller or Oroboni. Silvio Pellico has recorded minutely the slow passage of each twenty-four hours. He awoke at daylight, climbed up at once to his cell windows and clung to the bars until Oroboni appeared at his window with a morning salutation. The view across the valley below was superb; the fresh voices of the peasants were heard laughing and singing as they went out to work in the fields, free and light-hearted, in bitter contrast to the captives languishing within the prison walls. Then came the morning inspection of the cell and its occupant, when every corner was scrupulously examined, the walls tapped and tried, and every link of the chains tested, one by one, to see whether any had been tampered with or broken.
There were three of these inspections daily; one in the early morning, a second in the evening, and the third at midnight. Such scrupulous vigilance absolutely forbade all attempts at escape. The broad rule in prison management is obvious and unchanging; it is impossible for those immured to break prison if regularly watched and visited. The remarkable efforts made by Trenck, as detailed in a previous chapter, and indeed the story of all successful evasions, depended entirely upon the long continued exemption from observation and the unobstructed leisure afforded to clever and untiring hands. In the Spielberg prison, so close and constant was the surveillance exercised that no one turned his thoughts to flight.
After the first meal—a half cup of colourless soup and three fingers of dry bread—the prisoner took to his books, of which at first he had plenty, for Maroncelli had brought a small library with him. The emperor had been petitioned to permit the prisoners to purchase others. No answer came for a year or more and then in the negative, while the leave granted provisionally to read those in use was arbitrarily withdrawn. For four full years this cruel restriction was imposed. All studies hitherto followed were abruptly ended. Pellico was deprived of his Homer and his English classics, his works on Christian philosophy, Bourdaloue, Pascal and Thomas à Kempis. After a time the emperor himself supplied a few religious books, but he positively forbade the issue of any that might serve for literary improvement.
The fact was that political agitation had increased in Italy, and Austrian despots were resolved to draw the reins tighter and crush rebellion by the more savage treatment of the patriot prisoners. Many more were brought to Spielberg about this time and the discipline became more severe. The exercising yard on the open terrace was enclosed by a high wall to prevent people at a distance from watching the prisoners with telescopes, and later a narrower place was substituted which had no outlook at all. More rigorous searches were instituted and carried out by the police, who explored even the hems and linings of clothing. Pellico’s condition had become much worse. He suffered grievously from the misfortunes of his friends. Oroboni died, and Maroncelli was attacked by a tumour in the knee which caused intense suffering and in the end necessitated amputation. Added to this was acute anxiety concerning his relatives and friends. No correspondence was permitted; no news came from outside, but there were vague rumours that evil had overtaken Pellico’s family.