The morning after, on Monday—I was at my post, the first bench in Sani's shop—a person, after walking for some time up and down before the shop windows, came in and said, "Be so kind as to come with me to the Commissary of Santo Spirito, and—— Do not be alarmed; it is nothing. The Signor Commissario wishes to learn from you something about the disturbance that occurred yesterday at San Niccolò after the procession."
EXAMINATION BY THE COMMISSARIO.
"But I—be assured——"
"Don't stop to deny anything. The Signor Commissario knows all. Your name is Giovanni Duprè. You live in Via del Gelsomino, which is precisely in our quarter; and I did not go to look for you at your house, in order not to disturb the family. But I can assure you that it is a matter of no importance—perhaps a scolding, but nothing more."
I resigned myself, and went with him. This person was not absolutely a sbirro, but something of that kind; and out of a sense of delicacy, and divining my thoughts, he said to me—
"Go on before me. You know the way. I will keep behind you in the distance, and no one will perceive that we are together."
This I did, and arriving at the Commissariato, was immediately introduced to the Commissario. The Commissario was in those days a sort of justice of the peace, who possessed certain attributes and powers, by which he was enabled to adjudge by himself certain causes, and to punish by one day's imprisonment in the Commissariato itself. If the affair after the interrogatory required a longer punishment, the accused party was conducted to the Bargello.
The interrogatory then took place; and after severely blaming me for my conduct, he told me that the matter in itself was very grave, both on account of the assault and the injuries done by me to these persons, and also of the tumult which had been occasioned on a fête which was not only public but sacred, and that therefore it was beyond his power to deal with such an offence. I felt myself grow cold, and had scarcely breath to speak, so completely had the idea of being sent to the Bargello overwhelmed me. But the good magistrate hastened to add, "However, do not fear. The single deposition of only one of the corrisanti is not in itself sufficient, and therefore it may be assumed that the provocation came from their side, and that you acted in legitimate self-defence. But as there was disorder, and injuries were received, you must be content to pass the day shut up in one of our cells." Thus saying, he rang his bell, and said to a sbirro who appeared at the door, "Conduct this gentleman out, and lock him up;" and as I went out he added, "Another time be cautious, and remember that you might fall into the hands of some one whose name is not entered here;" and he laid his hand upon a large book which he had on the table. I bowed, went out, and the sbirro opened a door in the court of the Commissariato, made a gesture to me to enter, and shut me in.
MY PRISON WALLS.
The room in which I found myself was tolerably large, with a fair amount of light, which came in from a high iron-barred window. In one corner was a heap of charcoal; and from this, perhaps, the room had received the name of the Carbonaia. The walls were dirty, and covered with obscene inscriptions. There was a bench to sit upon, a closet, and nothing else. I remained standing and looking about, but I saw nothing. My thoughts were wandering sadly and confusedly from one thing to another, and fixed themselves with fear and sorrow upon my mother and Marina, who, in the state in which I found myself, seemed to me more than ever dear and worthy of honour. I thought of their grief, and felt a shudder of emotion come over me. But the assurance that I should soon be free, and should not pass the night there, strengthened me and gave me courage, and I walked up and down the room humming to myself. Then, not knowing what to do, and how to occupy the time, which is always so long and tedious when one has nothing to do, I caught sight of the charcoal, and my spirits rose, and I said, "Now I have nothing to fear, for here is an occupation which will last me as long as there is light;" and I began to draw upon the wall a composition of figures almost as large as life, the subject of which was the death of Ferruccio. This was a composition which I had seen at about that time in the exhibition of the Academy of Fine Arts, in a picture which had struck my fancy. It represented Ferruccio lying on the ground mortally wounded, and wrapped in the flag of the Commune. With a fierce and scornful look he seemed to be saying to Maramaldo, who was giving orders to finish killing him, "You kill a dead man." The author of this picture was the painter Bertoli, a young man of great promise, and who unhappily died not long afterwards in the insane asylum. The drawing that I made upon the wall was a reminiscence of that composition, and there was nothing of mine in it beyond an effort of memory.