Alexander shook his friend cordially by the hand, and they parted.
THREE LEAVES FROM THE DIARY OF A TRAVELER.
I.
Milan, 4th May, 1811.
Am I dreaming?—or do I still tread the earth? Scarce two days have passed, and yet I have lived through events that might occupy a year. On the second of May, at eight in the evening, I arrived at this place. My road brought me first to the cathedral. The slender sickle of the new moon hung in the violet expanse; the western sky was yet crimson with the last rays of the sun; a range of lamps just lighted, threw a red glare on the streets. The lofty obelisk of the Gothic temple, surmounted with its bronze statue, rose in the clear blue ether; a holy silence seemed to wrap its summit, that contrasted with the crowd and excitement below, of people hastening to the theatre. I stood long absorbed in mute admiration. Suddenly two figures stepped out from the shadow of a large pillar; they were, like myself, in traveling gear. As they were passing, I heard familiar voices, and sprang forward to greet Hermann and Adolph, two intimate friends, whom I had not seen for several years. How joyful this unexpected meeting!
We repaired to the nearest café and took seats at a table near the door, to enjoy the fresh breath of evening. While the lights flared in the breeze, and flasks of the Lombard champagne—the foaming wine of Asti—stood before us, each told what had befallen him since the current of time had carried us in different directions after our last separation. Necessity had sundered us, not only from each other, but from our fatherland. My friends were just from the Tyrol; they had visited the ever-memorable scene of that holy strife which those true-hearted sons of the mountains, trusting in justice human and divine, maintained against the over-bearing power of France. Our conversation, more earnest than was altogether prudent, naturally turned to these events, so interesting to the heart of the patriot. “We visited, also,” said Adolph, “the dwelling of Hofer—that noble hero. Let me read you”—here he drew out his tablets, and turned to me—“a poem which I composed on this sacred spot.” Here he read me some verses on Andreas Hofer’s dwelling, a copy of which I took, and have placed in my journal.
We remained in conversation till midnight, when the people came back from the theatre; then separated with promises of seeing each other again. I had gone but a few hundred steps on the way to my lodgings, when I became aware that the heavy jingling tread of a French gend’arme was closely following me. To see if I was the object of his pursuit, I suddenly turned and crossed towards a side street. He followed. I glanced at him; he seized me by the arm. “Monsieur, votre portefeuille,” said he. I gave it up. “Vous me suivrez.” I obeyed. I now understood all.
He led me to a lofty old building, which I had never before seen; a huge door, fastened with heavy bolts, was opened: within were French soldiers on guard. My conductor spoke a few words to the officer, apart. I was then led away by two soldiers, preceded by a turnkey with a lamp. We mounted some steps, then passed through a dark gallery. The turnkey stopped at a door strongly secured with iron bars, and I found myself in a narrow cell, ventilated only by a small grated window, through which glimmered a ray of starlight. The gend’arme entered after me, and I was subjected to a rigorous search. My papers were all taken away, but my watch and purse were courteously handed back. The jailer asked if I wanted anything; I laughed bitterly. “Well, to-morrow morning,” said he, and went out. I remained alone in the darkness.
For an hour or more I lay on the straw matting, and pictured to myself the horrors of my fate. Only twenty-one, and full of hope—ready to serve and save my country, to perform great deeds! What was now before me? Was I ever again to see my parents, my sisters, my beloved? A prisoner, perhaps to be led forth to-morrow to kneel on the ground and receive the bullets of the soldiers—for my love to my native land. Thoughts on these subjects filled my tortured brain. But suddenly my attention was arrested; the stillness of night was broken by a tone of melody so soft, so exquisite, so melancholy, that it pierced my inmost heart, and tears sprang to my eyes. Was it a song? No; there was no voice, but a melody such as was never heard before—such as Orpheus might have drawn forth! It was—yes, let the cold-hearted laugh—it was the sound of a violin!
How shall I describe that music? Sunk in despair as I was—the dungeon, the galleys, death before my eyes—it raised me to the height of rapture; it filled me with the joy of freedom, and yet, strangest of all, with feelings solemn and profound! On the silence of night it stole like magic; the light breeze wafted it through the bars of my window; clear, softly swelling like the sigh of the mourner’s breast—plaintive and imploring, like the accents of love—gently yielding, like the timid bride—that wondrous harmony took possession of my care-fraught soul. Then the player, as it seemed, improvised airs on his instrument; now glided the tones along; now he rose into energy and power, now melted in the most seducing melody; yet the notes were ever clear, as if they had been drops of pearl. After these rhapsodical strains, he passed, by a strange but charming transition, into a melody of wonderful pathos. Never can I forget the effect of this music, so sweet and exquisite, yet full of sadness; now swelling into silvery richness, now dying gently away. It was like the noble, melancholy plaint of an imprisoned king. The thought entered my bosom—how much have those who are better than we oft to suffer!—and in the midst of misfortune I felt a calmness and a trust which I could never have obtained through the pleadings of reason. The player continued his music, and I knew not whether to wonder most at his compositions or his execution. He seemed at length under the influence of inspiration; his music was full of fire; he passed into stranger combinations, into bolder and wilder flights, yet surpassing harmony was in all; and he appeared to create difficulties only to triumph over them. Friends who read my journal, you will say, perhaps, the imagination of the prisoner deceived him. No, I have myself played the violin, (I do it now no more,) and could never have conceived aught like what I heard. The music at last ceased, but it lingered unforgotten in my soul—ay, I longed more to hear it again than to recover freedom.