CHAPTER XXXV.
I was agitated the whole evening; I never closed my eyes that night, and amidst so many conflicting doubts, I knew not on what to resolve.
I sprung from my bed before dawn, I mounted upon the window-place, and offered up my prayers. In trying circumstances it is necessary to appeal with confidence to God, to heed his inspirations, and to adhere to them.
This I did, and after long prayer, I went down, shook off the gnats, took the bitten gloves in my hands, and came to the determination to explain my apprehensions to Tremerello and warn him of the great danger to which he himself was exposed by bearing letters; to renounce the plan if he wavered, and to accept it if its terrors did not deter him. I walked about till I heard the words of the song:—Segnai mi gera un gato, E ti me carezzevi. It was Tremerello bringing me my coffee. I acquainted him with my scruples and spared nothing to excite his fears. I found him staunch in his desire to serve, as he said, two such complete gentlemen. This was strangely at variance with the sheep’s face he wore, and the name we had just given him. [15] Well, I was as firm on my part.
“I shall leave you my wine,” said I, “see to find me the paper; I want to carry on this correspondence; and, rely on it, if any one comes without the warning song, I shall make an end of every suspicious article.”
“Here is a sheet of paper ready for you; I will give you more whenever you please, and am perfectly satisfied of your prudence.”
I longed to take my coffee; Tremerello left me, and I sat down to write. Did I do right? was the motive really approved by God? Was it not rather the triumph of my natural courage, of my preference of that which pleased me, instead of obeying the call for painful sacrifices. Mingled with this was a proud complacency, in return for the esteem expressed towards me by the unknown, and a fear of appearing cowardly, if I were to adhere to silence and decline a correspondence, every way so fraught with peril. How was I to resolve these doubts? I explained them frankly to my fellow-prisoner in replying to him, stating it nevertheless, as my opinion, that if anything were undertaken from good motives, and without the least repugnance of conscience, there could be no fear of blame. I advised him at the same time to reflect seriously upon the subject, and to express clearly with what degree of tranquillity, or of anxiety, he was prepared to engage, in it. Moreover, if, upon reconsideration, he considered the plan as too dangerous, we ought to have firmness enough to renounce the satisfaction we promised ourselves in such a correspondence, and rest satisfied with the acquaintance we had formed, the mutual pleasure we had already derived, and the unalterable goodwill we felt towards each other, which resulted from it. I filled four pages with my explanations, and expressions of the warmest friendship; I briefly alluded to the subject of my imprisonment; I spoke of my family with enthusiastic love, as well as of some of my friends, and attempted to draw a full picture of my mind and character.
In the evening I sent the letter. I had not slept during the preceding night; I was completely exhausted, and I soon fell into a profound sleep, from which I awoke on the ensuing morning, refreshed and comparatively happy. I was in hourly expectation of receiving my new friend’s answer, and I felt at once anxious and pleased at the idea.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
The answer was brought with my coffee. I welcomed Tremerello, and, embracing him, exclaimed, “May God reward you for this goodness!” My suspicions had fled, because they were hateful to me; and because, making a point of never speaking imprudently upon politics, they appeared equally useless; and because, with all my admiration for the genius of Tacitus, I had never much faith in the justice of tacitising as he does, and of looking upon every object on the dark side. Giuliano (as the writer signed himself), began his letter with the usual compliments, and informed me that he felt not the least anxiety in entering upon the correspondence. He rallied me upon my hesitation; occasionally assumed a tone of irony; and then more seriously declared that it had given him no little pain to observe in me “a certain scrupulous wavering, and a subtilty of conscience, which, however Christian-like, was little in accordance with true philosophy.” “I shall continue to esteem you,” he added, “though we should not agree upon that point; for I am bound, in all sincerity, to inform you, that I have no religion, that I abhor all creeds, and that I assume from a feeling of modesty the name of Julian, from the circumstance of that good emperor having been so decided an enemy of the Christians, though, in fact, I go much further than he ever did. The sceptred Julian believed in God, and had his own little superstitions. I have none; I believe not in a God, but refer all virtue to the love of truth, and the hatred of such as do not please me.” There was no reasoning in what he said. He inveighed bitterly against Christianity, made an idol of worldly honour and virtue; and in a half serious and jocular vein took on himself to pronounce the Emperor Julian’s eulogium for his apostasy, and his philanthropic efforts to eradicate all traces of the gospel from the face of the earth.