One day when the prison governor intended to go to the holy communion, he stood outside my outermost door and took off his hat, and begged for my forgiveness; he knew, he said, that he had done much to annoy me, but that he was a servant. I answered, ‘I forgive you gladly!’ Then he went away, and Peder closed the door. The woman said something to Peder about the prison governor, but I could not understand what. Probably she was blaming the prison governor, for she was so angry that she puffed; she could not restrain her anger, but said: ‘Fye upon the old fool! The devil take him! I ought to beg pardon too? No’ (she added with an oath), ‘I would not do it for God’s bitter death! No! no!’ and she spat on the ground. I said afterwards: ‘What does it matter to you that the prison governor asks me for my friendship? Do you lose anything by it? If you will not live like a Christian and according to the ordinances of the Church, do not at any rate be angry with one who does. Believe assuredly that God will punish you, if you do not repent of what evil you have done and will not be reconciled with your adversaries before you seek to be reconciled with God!’
She thought that he had done nothing else than what he was ordered to do. I said, ‘You good people know best yourselves what has been ordered you.’ She asked, ‘Do I do anything to you?’ I answered, ‘I know not what you do. You can tell any amount of untruths about me without my knowing it.’ Upon this she began a long story, swearing by and asserting her fidelity; she had never lied to anyone nor done anyone a wrong. I said: ‘I hear; you are justifying yourself with the Pharisee.’ She started furiously from her seat and said, ‘What! do you abuse me as a Pharisee?’ ‘Softly, softly!’ I said; ‘while only one of us is angry, it is of no consequence; but if I get angry also, something may come of it!’ She sat down with an insolent air, and said, ‘I should well imagine that you are not good when you are angry! It is said of you that in former days you could bear but little, and that you struck at once. But now’——(with this she was silent). ‘What more?’ I said. ‘Do you think I could not do anything to anyone if I chose, just as well as then, if anyone behaved to me in a manner that I could not endure? Now much more than then! You need not refuse me a knife because I may perhaps kill you; I could do so with my bare hands. I can strangle the strongest fellow with my bare hands, if I can seize him unawares, and what more could happen to me than is happening? Therefore only keep quiet!’
She was silent, and assumed no more airs; she was cast down, and did not venture to complain to the prison governor. What she said to the others on the stairs I know not, but when she came in, when the room was locked at night, she had been weeping.[88]
On Sunday at noon I congratulated[E36] the prison governor and said: ‘You are happy! You can reconcile yourself with God, and partake of His body and blood; this is denied to me (I had twice during two years requested spiritual consolation, but had received in answer that I could not sin as I was now in prison; that I did not require religious services). And as I talked upon this somewhat fully with the prison governor, I said that those who withheld from me the Lord’s Supper must take my sins upon themselves; that one sinned as much in thought as in word and deed; so the prison governor promised that he would never desist from desiring that a clergyman should come to me; and asked whom I wished for. I said: ‘The King’s Court preacher, whom I had in the beginning of my troubles.’ He said: ‘That could scarcely be.’ I was satisfied whoever it was.
A month afterwards I received the holy communion from the German clergyman, M. Hieronimus Buk, who behaved very properly the first time, but spoke more about the law than the gospel. The prison governor congratulated me, and I thanked him, for he had brought it about.
1665. In this year, on Whitsun-eve, the prison governor ordered May-trees to be placed in my inner prison, and also in the anteroom. I broke small twigs from the branches, rubbed off the bark with glass, softened them in water, laid them to press under a board, which was used for carrying away the dirt from the floor, and thus made them flat, then fastened them together and formed them into a weaver’s reed. Peder the coachman was then persuaded to give me a little coarse thread, which I used for a warp. I took the silk from the new silk stockings which they had given me, and made some broad ribbons of it (The implements and a part of the ribbons are still in my possession.) One of the trees (which was made of the thick end of a branch which Peder had cut off) was tied to the stove, and the other I fastened to my own person. The woman held the warp: she was satisfied, and I have no reason to think that she spoke about it, for the prison governor often lamented that I had nothing with which to beguile the time, and he knew well that this had been my delight in former times, &c.[89]
He remained now again a long time with me after meals, for his fear had passed away, or he had, perhaps, forgotten, as his memory began to fail him. He said then many things which he ought not. He declined perceptibly, and was very weak; he would remain afterwards sitting outside, reading aloud, and praying God to spare his life. ‘Yes,’ he would say, ‘only a few years!’ When he had some alleviation, he talked unceasingly. Creeping along the wall to the door, he said, ‘I should like to know two things: one is, who will be prison governor after me? The other is, who is to to have my Tyrelyre?’ (That was Tyre, his wife.) I replied: ‘That is a knowledge which you cannot obtain now, especially who will woo your wife. You might, perhaps, have already seen both, but at your age you may yet have long to live.’ ‘Oh!’ said he, ‘God grant it!’ and looked up to the window. ‘Do you think so, my dear lady?’ ‘Yes, I do,’ I replied. A few days afterwards, he begged me again to forgive him, if he had done me any wrong since the last time, for he wished to make reconciliation with God before he became weaker, and he wept and protested, saying, ‘It indeed grieves me still that I should have often annoyed you, and you comfort me.’ On Sunday at noon I congratulated him on his spiritual feast.
Thus he dragged on with great difficulty for about fourteen days, and as I heard that two men were obliged almost to carry him up the stairs, I sent him word that he might remain below on the ground floor of the tower, and that he might rest assured I would go nowhere. He thanked me, crawled up for the last time to my door, and said, ‘If I did that and the Queen heard of it, my head would answer for it.’ I said: ‘Then confess your weakness and remain in bed. It may be better again; another could meanwhile attend for you.’ He took off his cap in recognition of my advice, and bade me farewell. I have never seen him again since then. One day afterwards he crawled up in the tower-chamber, but came no farther.
A man of the name of Hans Balcke was appointed in his place to keep watch over the prisoners. He was very courteous. He was a cabinet-maker by trade; his father, who had also been a cabinet-maker, had worked a good deal for me in the days of my prosperity. This man had travelled for his trade both in Italy and Germany, and knew a little Italian. I found intercourse with him agreeable, and as he dined in the anteroom outside, in the tower, I begged him to dine with me, which he did for fourteen days. One day, when he carved the joint outside, I sent him word requesting him to come in. He excused himself, which appeared strange to me.
After he had dined, he said that Peder the coachman had jeered at him, and that he had been forbidden to dine with me. When he afterwards remained rather long with me talking, I begged him myself to go, so that this also might not be forbidden. He had on one occasion a large pin stuck in his sleeve, and I begged him for it. He said, ‘I may not give it you, but if you take it yourself, I can’t help it.’ So I took it, and it has often been of use to me. He gave me several books to read, and was in every way courteous and polite. His courtesy was probably the reason why the prisons were not long entrusted to him, for he was also very good to Doctor Sperling, giving him slices of the meat which came up to me, and other good food. In his childhood he had been a playfellow of the doctor’s children. He talked also occasionally a long time with the doctor, both on unlocking and locking his door, which did not please the servants.[90] The prison governor lay constantly in bed; he endeavoured as often as he could to come up again, but there was little prospect of it. So long as the keys were not taken from him, he was satisfied.