I.
Milan, May 4, 1811.
I arrived at Milan, at eight P.M., two days ago. I had never before seen the magnificent cathedral, and I had everything to set off the picture on which I came unexpectedly. The slender sickle of the new moon hung in the violet sky, crimsoned in the west with the lingering sunlight: the street-lamps, just lighted, threw before me a line of red glow; the bronze statue surmounting the lofty obelisk rose in the clear blue above; around it silence, with a tumult below of a crowd hurrying to the theatre. While I stood lost in admiration, I saw two men, dressed for travel like myself, emerge from the shadow of one of the pillars. Their voices as they approached told me who they were, though I had not seen them in five years.
"Hermann! Adolph!" I exclaimed; and they greeted me with joy.
In a few moments we were seated at a table near the door of the nearest cafe, flasks of the Lombard champagne, the foaming wine of Asti, before us, each telling his adventures since our separation. From the same Fatherland, we had travelled far in different directions. They had just come from the Tyrol; from beholding the holy strife waged against the overbearing power of France by those brave sons of the mountains. We talked of those events, of those true-hearted patriots, and of our trust in justice human and divine. Adolph had visited the noble hero, Hofer, and read us a poem he had composed in his dwelling. I took a copy of the verses.
We had little thought of our imprudence in thus discoursing, as we talked till midnight, when the people were returning from the theatre. With promises of another meeting, we then parted and I went to my lodgings. Before I had walked far, I heard heavy, jingling steps close behind me, and, turning, saw a French gendarme. I crossed toward a side street; he followed, and suddenly seized me by the arm. "Monsieur, votre portefeuille." he said; and, when I gave it up, bade me follow him.
He led me to a lofty old building, the large door of which was secured with heavy bolts. When it swung open, I saw French soldiers on guard. My captor spoke apart with an officer, who presently gave me in charge to two soldiers. A turnkey, bearing a lamp, preceded us, and, going up-stairs, we entered a gloomy gallery. An iron-barred door was opened, and I was thrust into a narrow cell, ventilated only by a small grated window, through which gleamed a ray of starlight. The gendarme then came in, searched me, and took away my papers, handing back my watch and purse. I was then asked if I wanted anything; to which I replied with a bitter laugh; and with a not uncourteous "au revoir," the soldiers departed.
I threw myself on the straw mattress, and ruminated in the darkness on my own imprudence and my probable fate. I was only twenty-one, and full of the hope of great deeds in my country's service. I had parents, sisters, and one dearer than all; yet, for my love to them and to my native land, I should, no doubt, on the morrow be forced to kneel and receive the fire of the soldiers. Thought was agony, but I could not help thinking. Suddenly the dead silence of night was broken by a tone of melody so soft, so exquisite, so melancholy, that it penetrated my soul. It was no song; it was simply a strain of melody—such as brought tears to my eyes—such as was never heard before. Orpheus might have drawn it forth! It was—yes, I was sure it was—the sound of a violin!
Only a violin and yet such music—in my cold despair, with the galleys or death before me—it raised me to the summit of rapture! With the profoundest feelings of solemnity, it blended all the joy of freedom! How it stole on the stillness of night, wafted through the bars of my window; clear, softly swelling, plaintive, imploring like a prayer of love—yielding like the timid bride—how did that wondrous harmony possess my soul! Various airs were apparently improvised; sometimes the tones glided like magic; then rising into power, they melted into the most enchanting melody; ever clear, as if the notes had been distinct pearl-drops. Then the rhapsodical strains passed, by a strange but charming transition, into deep and wonderful pathos. It was full of sadness sweet and tender, like a mourner's sigh; now it rose into silvery richness, now gradually faded away; the melancholy plaint of an imprisoned king! It filled me with calmness and trust in the midst of misfortunes.
The music continued at intervals. I knew not whether to wonder most at the composition or the execution of the player. Then he passed into strange combinations, into bolder and wilder flights; his music was full of fire; he seemed under the influence of inspiration. He seemed to create difficulties only to triumph over them, and surpassing harmony was in all. I had played the violin, (I have never attempted it since,) and could never have imagined the instrument capable of what I heard. When the music ceased, it lingered unforgotten in my soul.
At daylight I heard the beating of a drum, and I climbed to my window to see what was going on. It overlooked the court, and I saw a company of soldiers, with three prisoners standing in front of them. The officer gave a sign, and they marched away. Just then, my cell door was opened by the jailer, who, in reply to my questions, said: "Those prisoners are to die in an hour. They are suspected of treason; of having favored the insurrection among the Tyrolese."