While in the full enjoyment of that luxury, “A Taste of Austrian Jails,” already related in these pages, I met with a man whose whole life would seem to signify perversion; a “dirty, villanous-looking fellow, with but one eye, and very little light in that.” A first glance at this fellow would call up the reflection, “Here is the result of bad
education, and bad example, induced perhaps by natural misfortunes, but the inevitable growth of filth and wretchedness in a large city.”
With thin, straggling wisps of hair thrown, as it were, on his head, a dull glimmer only in his one eye, and his whole features of a crafty, selfish character—such he was; clad in a long, threadbare, snuff-coloured great-coat, reaching almost to his heels, and which served to hide the trowsers, the frayed ends of which explained their condition; on his bare feet he wore a pair of trodden-down slippers, with upper leathers gaping in front with open mouths; a despicable rascal to look at, and yet this was a brother of one of the magistrates of Vienna.
It was soon evident to me that this individual was held in great respect by the rest of the prisoners; such an influence has education,—for he was an educated man,—even in such a place as a common jail.
I was soon informed of the peculiar talent which gave him a prominent position. He was an inexhaustible teller of stories; and, added my informant, “he can drink as much beer as any three men in Vienna.”
This was saying a great deal.
On the second night of my incarceration in Punishment Room No. 1, I had an opportunity of judging of his powers; for, on our retiring to our boards and rugs, which, according to prison regulations, we were bound to do at the ringing of the eight o’clock bell, I heard his peculiar voice announce from the other side of the room, where he lay, propped up against the wall by the especial indulgence of his comrades, that he was about to tell a story. I could not sleep, but lay upon the hard planks listening, as he recounted with a wonderful power of language, and no mean amount of elocutionary dignity, some principal incidents in the life of Napoleon. His companions lay entranced; they did not sleep, for I could hear their whispers, and, now and then, their uneasy shiftings on the relentless wood. And so he went on, and I fell off to sleep before he had come to a conclusion.
This was repeated each night of my confinement, for which he received his due payment in beer from his fellow prisoners.
He professed to have a great affection for me; would take my arm, and walk with me up and down the ward, telling me of his acquirements, little scraps of his history, and invariably making a request for a little beer.
On one occasion it was suggested by the “Vater” that he should tell us his own story.