Under the Leads | Page 8

suitable books, but those you
wish for are forbidden."
"Thank him for his kindness in putting me by myself."
"I will do so, but you make a mistake in jesting thus."
"I don't jest at all, for I think truly that it is much better to be alone than
to mingle with the scoundrels who are doubtless here."

"What, sir! scoundrels? Not at all, not at all. They are only respectable
people here, who, for reasons known to their excellencies alone, have
to be sequestered from society. You have been put by yourself as an
additional punishment, and you want me to thank the secretary on that
account?"
"I was not aware of that."
The fool was right, and I soon found it out. I discovered that a man
imprisoned by himself can have no occupations. Alone in a gloomy cell
where he only sees the fellow who brings his food once a day, where he
cannot walk upright, he is the most wretched of men. He would like to
be in hell, if he believes in it, for the sake of the company. So strong a
feeling is this that I got to desire the company of a murderer, of one
stricken with the plague, or of a bear. The loneliness behind the prison
bars is terrible, but it must be learnt by experience to be understood,
and such an experience I would not wish even to my enemies. To a man
of letters in my situation, paper and ink would take away nine-tenths of
the torture, but the wretches who persecuted me did not dream of
granting me such an alleviation of my misery.
After the gaoler had gone, I set my table near the grating for the sake of
the light, and sat down to dinner, but I could only swallow a few
spoonfuls of soup. Having fasted for nearly forty-eight hours, it was not
surprising that I felt ill. I passed the day quietly enough seated on my
sofa, and proposing myself to read the "suitable books" which they had
been good enough to promise me. I did not shut my eyes the whole
night, kept awake by the hideous noise made by the rats, and by the
deafening chime of the clock of St. Mark's, which seemed to be striking
in my room. This double vexation was not my chief trouble, and I
daresay many of my readers will guess what I am going to speak
of-namely, the myriads of fleas which held high holiday over me.
These small insects drank my blood with unutterable voracity, their
incessant bites gave me spasmodic convulsions and poisoned my blood.
At day-break, Lawrence (such was the gaoler's name) came to my cell
and had my bed made, and the room swept and cleansed, and one of the
guards gave me water wherewith to wash myself. I wanted to take a

walk in the garret, but Lawrence told me that was forbidden. He gave
me two thick books which I forbore to open, not being quite sure of
repressing the wrath with which they might inspire me, and which the
spy would have infallibly reported to his masters. After leaving me my
fodder and two cut lemons he went away.
As soon as I was alone I ate my soup in a hurry, so as to take it hot, and
then I drew as near as I could to the light with one of the books, and
was delighted to find that I could see to read. I looked at the title, and
read, "The Mystical City of Sister Mary of Jesus, of Agrada." I had
never heard of it. The other book was by a Jesuit named Caravita. This
fellow, a hypocrite like the rest of them, had invented a new cult of the
"Adoration of the Sacred Heart of our Lord Jesus Christ." This,
according to the author, was the part of our Divine Redeemer, which
above all others should be adored a curious idea of a besotted
ignoramus, with which I got disgusted at the first page, for to my
thinking the heart is no more worthy a part than the lungs, stomach; or
any other of the inwards. The "Mystical City" rather interested me.
I read in it the wild conceptions of a Spanish nun, devout to superstition,
melancholy, shut in by convent walls, and swayed by the ignorance and
bigotry of her confessors. All these grotesque, monstrous, and fantastic
visions of hers were dignified with the name of revelations. The lover
and bosom-friend of the Holy Virgin, she had received instructions
from God Himself to write the life of His divine mother; the necessary
information was furnished her by the Holy Ghost.
This life of Mary began, not with the day of her birth, but with