[music] The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexander Dume Volume 1 Chapter 15 Number 34 and Number 27 Donte's pass through all the stages of torture, natural to prisoners in suspense. He was sustained at first by that pride of conscious innocence, which is the sequence to hope. Then he began to doubt his own innocence, which justified in some measure the governess believe in his mental alienation. And then, relaxing his sentiment of pride, he addressed his supplications, not to God but to men. God is always the last resource. Unfortunate, who ought to begin with God, do not have any hope in him till they have exhausted all other means of deliverance. Donte's asked to be removed from his present dungeon into another, even if it were darker and deeper, for a change, however disadvantageous, was still a change, and would afford him some amusement. He entreated to be allowed to walk about, to have fresh air, books, and writing materials. His requests were not granted, but he went on asking all the same. He accustomed himself to speaking to the new jailer, although the latter was, if possible, more taciturn than the old one, but still to speak to a man even though mute was something. Donte spoke for the sake of hearing his own voice. He had tried to speak when alone, but the sound of his voice terrified him. Often, before his captivity, Donte's mind had revolted at the idea of assemblages of prisoners, made up of thieves, vagabones, and murderers. He now wished to be amongst them, in order to see some other face besides that of his jailer. He sighed for the galleys, with the infamous costume, the chain, and the brand on the shoulder. The galleys' slaves breathed the fresh air of heaven and saw each other. They were very happy. He besought the jailer one day to let him have a companion, where it even the mad abbey. The jailer, though rough and hardened by the constant sight of so much suffering, was yet a man. At the bottom of his heart, he had often had a feeling of pity for this unhappy young man who suffered so. And he laid the request of number 34 before the governor, but the latter sapiently imagined that Donte's wish to conspire or attempt an escape and refused his request. Donte's had exhausted all human resources, and he then turned to God. All the pious ideas that had been so long forgotten returned. He recollected to prayers his mother had taught him and discovered a new meaning in every word. For in prosperity, prayers seem but amirmetally of words, until misfortune comes and the unhappy suburb first understands the meaning of the sublime language in which he invokes the pity of heaven. He prayed and prayed aloud, no long terrified at the sound of his own voice, for he fell into a sort of ecstasy. He laid every action of his life before the Almighty, proposed tasks to accomplish, and at the end of every prayer introduced the entreaty often addressed to men than to God. Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us. Yet, in spite of his earnest prayers, Donte's remained a prisoner. Then gloom settled heavily upon him. Donte's was a man of great simplicity of thought, and without education. He could not, therefore, in the solitude of his dungeon, traverse in mental vision the history of the ages, bring to life the nations that had perished, and rebuild the ancient city so fast and stupendous in the light of the imagination. And that passed before the eye glowing with celestial colors in Martin's Babylonian pictures. He could not do this. He whose past life was so short, whose presence so melancholy and his future so doubtful. Nineteen years of light to reflect upon in eternal darkness, no distraction could come to his end, his energetic spirit that would have exalted in thus revisiting the past was imprisoned like an eagle in a cage. He clung to one idea that of his happiness destroyed without apparent cause, by an unheard of fatality. He considered and reconsidered this idea, devoured it, as the implacable Huguilino devours the skull of Archbishop Roger in the Inferno of Donte. Rage supplanted religious fervor. Donte's uttered blasphemy that made his jailer recoil with horror, dashed himself furiously against the walls of his prison, rigged his anger upon everything and chiefly upon himself, so that the least thing, a grain of sand, a straw, or a breath of air that annoyed him, led to paroxysms of fury. Then the letter that Philpore had showed to him recurred to his mind, and every line gleamed forth in fiery letters on the wall like the Manet, Manet, Teckel, Yufasen of Bell, Shassar. He told himself that it was the enmity of man and not the vengeance of heaven. That had thus plunged him into the deepest misery. He consigned his unknown persecutors to the most horrible tortures he could imagine, and found them all insufficient, because after torture came death, and after death, if not repose, at least the boon of unconsciousness. By dent of constantly dwelling on the idea that tranquility was death, and if punishment were the end in view of other tortures, then death must be invented. He began to reflect on suicide. Unhappy he who, on the brink of misfortune, brutes over ideas like these. Before him is a death see that stretches in Azure calm before the eye, but he who unwearily ventures within its embrace finds himself struggling with a monster that would drag him down to perdition. Once thus ensnared, unless the protecting hand of God snatch him thence, all is over, and his struggles but tend to hasten his destruction. This state of mental anguish is, however, less terrible than the sufferings that precede or the punishment that possibly will follow. There is a sort of consolation at the contemplation of the yawning abyss at the bottom of which lie darkness and obscurity. Edmund found some solace in these ideas. All his sorrows, all his sufferings, with their train of gloomy spectres, fled from his cell when the angel of death seemed about to enter. Dante's refuelled his past life with composure, and, looking forward with terror to his future existence, chose that middle line that seemed to afford him a refuge. Sometimes, said he, in my voyages, when I was a man and commanded other men, I have seen the heavens of a cast, the sea rage and foam, the storm arise, and, like a monstrous spurt, beating the two horizons with its wings. Then I felt that my vessel was a vain refuge that trembled and shook before the tempest. Soon the fury of the waves and the sight of the sharp rocks announced the approach of death, and death then terrified me. And I used all my skill intelligence as a man in a sailor to struggle against the wrath of God. But I did so because I was happy, because I had not caught a death, because to be cast upon a bed of rocks and seaweed seemed terrible, because I was unwilling that I, a creature made for the service of God, should serve for food to the gulls and ravens. But now it is different. I have lost all that bound me to life. Death smiles and invites me to repose. I die after my own manner. I die exhausted and broken-spirited. As I fall asleep when I have paced 3,000 times around myself, that is 30,000 steps, or about 10 weeks. No sooner had this idea taken possession of him than he became more composed, arranged his couch to the best of his power, 8 little and slept less, and found existence almost supportable, because he felt that he could throw it off at pleasure, like a worn-out garment. Two methods of self-destruction were at his disposal. He could hang himself with his handkerchief to the window bars, all refuse food, and die of starvation. But the first was repugnant to him. Dante's had always entertained the greatest horror of pirates, who are hung up to the yard arm. He would not die by what seemed an infamous death. He resolved to adopt the second, and began that day to carry out his resolve. Nearly four years had passed away. At the end of the second, he had seized to mark the lapse of time. Dante said, "I wish to die," and had chosen the manner of his death. And fearful of changing his mind, he had taken an oath to die. When my morning and evening meals are brought, thought he, I will cast him out of the window, and they will think that I have eaten them. He kept his word. Twice a day he cast out, through the barred aperture, the provisions his jailer brought him. At first scaly, then with deliberation, and at last with reverence. Nothing but the recollection of his oath gave him strength to proceed. Hunger made Fiennes' funds repugnant now acceptable. He helped a plate in his hand for an hour at a time, engaged thoughtfully at the morsel of bad meat, of tainted fish, of black and mouldy bread. It was the last yearning for life, contending with the resolution of despair. Then his dungeon seemed less somber, his prospects less desperate. He was still young, he was only four or five and twenty. He had nearly fifty years to live. What unforeseen events might not open his prison door and restore him to liberty? Then he raised to his lips to repast that, like a voluntary tantalous, he refused himself. But he thought of his oath, and he would not break it. He persisted until at last, he had not sufficient strength to rise and cast his supper out of the loophole. The next morning he could not see or hear. The jailer feared he was dangerously ill. Edmund hoped he was dying. Thus the day passed away, Edmund felt a sort of stupor creeping over him, which brought with it a feeling almost of content. The gnawing pain at his stomach had ceased. His thirst had abated. He saw myriads of lights dancing before them like the willow the whipsps that play about the marshes. It was the twilight of that mysterious country called death. Suddenly, about nine o'clock in the evening, Edmund heard a hollow sound in the wall against which he was lying. So many loafsome animals inhabited the prison that their noise did not, in general, awaken. But whether abstinence had quickened his faculties or whether the noise was really louder than usual, Edmund raised his head and listened. It was a continual scratching, as if made by a huge claw, a powerful tooth or some iron instrument attacking the stones. Although weakened, the young man's brain instantly responded to the idea that haunts all prisoners, liberty. It seemed to him that Heaven had at length taken pity on him and had sent this noise to warn him on the very brink of the abyss. Perhaps one of those beloved ones he had so often thought of was thinking of him and striving to diminish the distance that separated them. No, no, doubtless he was deceived, and it was but one of those streams that forerun death. Edmund still heard the sound. It lasted nearly three hours. He then heard a noise of something falling and all was silent. Some hours afterwards he began again, nearer and more distinct. Edmund was intensely interested, suddenly the jailer entered. For a week since he had resolved to die, and during the four days that he had been carrying out his purpose, Edmund had not spoken to the attendant, had not answered him when he inquired what was the matter with him, and turned his face to the wall when he looked too curiously at him. But now the jailer might hear the noise and put an end to it, and so destroy a ray of something like hope that suit his last moments. The jailer brought him his breakfast. Dante's raised himself up and began to talk about everything, about the bad quality of the food, about the coldness of his dungeon, grumbling and complaining. In order to have an excuse for speaking louder, and wearying the patience of his jailer, who out of kindness of heart had brought broth and white bread for his prisoner. Fortunately he fancied that Dante's was delirious, and placing the food on the rickety table he withdrew. Edmund listened, and his sound became more and more distinct. There can be no doubt about it, thought he. It is some prisoner who is striving to obtain his freedom. So, if I were only there to help him, suddenly another idea took possession of his mind, so used to misfortune that it was scarcely capable of hope. The idea that the noise was made by workmen the governor had ordered to repair the neighboring dungeon. It was easy to ascertain this, but how could he risk the question? He was easy to call his jailer's attention to the noise, and watch his countenance as he listened. But might he not, by this means, destroy hopes far more important than a short-lived satisfaction of his own curiosity? Unfortunately, Edmund's brain was still so feeble that he could not ban his thoughts to anything in particular. He saw but one means of restoring lucidity and cleanness to his judgment. He turned his eyes towards the soup which the jailer had brought. Rose staggered towards it, raised a vessel to his lips, and drank off the contents with a feeling of indescribable pleasure. He had the resolution to stop with this. He had often heard that shipwrecked persons had died through having eagerly devoured too much food. Edmund replaced on a table the bread he was about to devour, and returned to his couch. He did not wish to die. He soon felt that his ideas became again collected, he could think, and strengthened his thoughts by reasoning. Then he said to himself, "I must put this to the test, but without compromising anybody. If it is a workman, I need but knock against the wall. He will cease to work in order to find out who is knocking and why he does so. But as his occupation is sanctioned by the governor, he will soon resume it. If, on a contrary, it is a prisoner, the noise I make will alarm him. He will cease and not begin again until he thinks everyone is asleep." Edmund rose again, but this time his legs did not tremble, and his sight was clear. He went to a corner of his dungeon, detached the stone, and with it knocked against the wall where the sound came. He struck thrice. At the first blow the sound seized, as if by magic, Edmund listened intently, in our past, two hours past, and no sound was heard from the wall, all was silent there. Full of hope, Edmund swallowed a few mouthfuls of bread and water, and, thanks to the figure of his constitution, found himself well-nigh recovered. The day passed away in utter silence. Night came without recurrence of the noise. "It is a prisoner," said Edmund joyfully. His brain was on fire, and life and energy returned. The night passed in perfect silence. Edmund did not close his eyes. In the morning the jailer brought him fresh proficience. He had already devoured to those of the previous day. He ate these listening anxiously for the sound, walking round and round his cell. Checking the iron bars for loophole, restoring figure and agility to his limbs by exercise, and so preparing himself for his future destiny. At intervals he listened to learn if the noise had not begun again, and grew impatient at the prudence of the prisoner, who did not guess he had been disturbed by a captive as anxious for liberty as himself. Three days passed, seventy-two long tedious hours which he counted off by minutes. At length one evening as the jailer was fisting him for the last time that night, Dante's, with his ear for the hundredth time at the wall, fancied he heard an almost imperceptible movement among the stones. He moved away, walked up and down his cell to collect his thoughts, and then went back and listened. The matter was no longer doubtful. Something was at work on the other side of the wall. The prisoner had discovered the danger and had substituted a lever for a chisel. Encouraged by this discovery had been determined to assist the indefatigable labor. He began by moving his bed and looked around for anything with which he could pierce the wall, penetrate the moist cement and displays a stone. He saw nothing. He had no knife or sharp instrument. The window grating was a vine, but he had too often assured himself of his solidity. All his furniture consisted of a bed, a chair, a table, a pale and a jug. The bed had iron clams, but they were screwed to the wood, and it would have required a screwdriver to take them off. The table and chair had nothing. The pail had once possessed a handle, but that had been removed. Don't test head but one resource, which was to break the jug, and with one of the sharp fragments tacked the wall. He let the jug fall on the floor, and it broke in pieces. Don't test concealed two or three of the sharpest fragments in his bed, leaving the rest on the floor. The breaking of his jug was too natural an extent to excite suspicion. Edmund had all the night to work it, but in the darkness he could not do much, and he soon felt that he was working against something very hard. He pushed back his bed and waited for day. All night he heard the subterranean worker, who continued to mind his work. Day came, the jailer entered. Don't test told him that the jug had fallen from his hands while he was drinking, and the jailer went grumbly to fetch another, without giving himself the trouble to remove the fragments of the broken one. He returned speedly, advised the prisoner to be more careful and departed. Don't test head joyfully the key grate in the lock. He listened until the sound of steps died away, and then hastily displacing his bed, saw by the faint light that penetrated into his cell, that he had labored uselessly the previous evening in attacking the stone instead of removing the plaster that surrounded it. The dam had rendered it friable, and Don't test was able to break it off. In small muscles it is true, but at the end of half an hour he had scraped off a handful. A mathematician might have calculated that in two years, supposing that the rock was not encountered, a passage twenty feet long and two feet broad might be formed. The prisoner reproached himself with not having thus employed the hours he had passed in vain hopes, prayer and despondency. During the six years that he had been imprisoned, what might he not have accomplished? This idea imparted new energy, and in three days he had succeeded with the utmost precaution in removing the cement and exposing the stone work. The wall was built of rough stones, among which, to give strength to the structure, blocks of humed stone were at intervals embedded. It was one of these he had uncovered, and which he must remove from its socket. Don't test drove to do this with his nails, but they were too weak. The fragments of the jug broke, and after an hour of useless toil, Don't test paused with anguish on his brow. Was he to be thus stopped at the beginning, and was he to wait inactive until his fellow workmen had completed his task, suddenly an idea occurred to him. He smiled, and the perspiration dried on his forehead. The jailer always brought Don't test soup in an iron saucepan. This saucepan contained soup for both prisoners. For Don't test had noticed that he was either quite full or half empty, according as the turnkey gave it to him or to his companion first. The handle of this saucepan was a line. Don't test would have given ten years of his life in exchange for it. The jailer was accustomed to pour the contents of the saucepan into Don't test plate. And Don't test after eating his soup with a wooden spoon, washed the plate, which thus served for every day. Now when evening came, Don't test put his plate on the ground near the door. The jailer, as he entered, stepped on it and broke it. This time he could not blame Don't test. He was wrong to leave it there, but the jailer was wrong not to have looked before him. The jailer therefore only grumbled. Then he looked about for something to pour the soup into. Don't test entire dinner service consisted of one plate. There was no alternative. "Leave the saucepan," said Don't test. "You can take it away when you bring me my breakfast." This advice was to the jailer's taste, as it spared him the necessity of making another trip. He left the saucepan. Don't test was beside himself with joy. He rapidly devoured his food, and after waiting an hour, lest the jailer should change his mind in return. He removed his bed, took the handle of the saucepan, inserted the point between the hewn stone and rough stones of the wall, and employed it as a lever. A slight oscillation showed Don't test that all went well. At the end of an hour the stone was extricated from the wall, leaving a cavity a foot and a half in diameter. Don't test carefully collected the plaster, carried it into the corner of his cell, and covered it with earth. Then, wishing to make the best use of his time while he had the means of labor, he continued to work without seizing. At the dawn of day he replaced the stone, pushed his bed against the wall, and laid down. The breakfast consisted of a piece of bread, the jailer entered, and placed the bread on the table. "Well, don't you intend to bring me another plate?" said Don't test. "No," replied the turnkey, "you destroy everything. First you break your jug, then you make me break your plate. If all the prisoners followed your example, the government would be ruined. I shall leave you the saucepan and pour your soup into that, so for the future I hope you will not be so destructive." Don't test raised his eyes to heaven and collapsed his hands beneath the cuplet. He felt more gratitude for the possession of this piece of iron than he had ever felt for anything. He had noticed, however, that the prisoner on the other side had seized to labor, no matter. This was a greater reason for proceeding. If his neighbor would not come to him, he would go to his neighbor. All day he toiled on, untiringly, and by the evening he had succeeded in extracting ten handfuls of plaster and fragments of stone. And the hour for his jailer's visit arrived. Don't test straightened the handle of the saucepan as well as he could, and placed it in its accustomed place. The turnkey poured his ration of soup into it, together with the fish. For thrice a week the prisoners were deprived of meat. This would have been a method of reckoning time, yet not Don't test long seas to do so. Having poured out the soup, the turnkey retired. Don't test wished to a certain whether his neighbor had really seized to work. He listened, all was silent, as it had been for the last three days. Don't test sight, it was evident that his neighbor distrusted him. However, he toiled on all the night without being discouraged, but after two or three hours he encountered an obstacle. The iron made no impression, but met with a smooth service. Don't test touched it and found that it was a beam. This beam crossed, or rather blocked up, the whole Dante's had made. It was necessary, therefore, to dig a bow for under it. The unhappy young man had not thought of this. "Oh, my God, my God," remembered he. "I have so earnestly prayed to you that I hope my prayers had been heard. After having deprived me of my liberty, after having deprived me of death, after having recalled me to existence, my God have pitied on me, and do not let me die in despair." Who talks of God and despair at the same time? Santa Feus that seemed to come from beneath the earth, and, deadened by the distance, sounded hollow and subpulchro in the young man's ears. Atman's hair stood on end, and he rose to his knees. "Ah," said he, "I hear human voice." Atman had not heard anyone speak, save his jailer, for four or five years, and a jailer is no man to a prisoner. He is a living door, a barrier of flesh and blood, adding strength to restraints of oak and iron. "In the name of heaven," cried Dante's, "speak again, though the sound of your voice terrifies me. Who are you? Who are you?" sent the voice. "An unhappy prisoner," replied Dante's, who made no hesitation in answering. Of what country? A Frenchman. Your name? Atman Dante's. Your profession? A sailor. How long have you been here since the 28th of February, 1815? You're crying? I'm innocent. But of what are you accused? Of having conspired to aid the Emperor's return? What? For the Emperor's return, the Emperor is no longer on the throne then. He abdicated and fought hang low in 1814 and was sent to the island of Albert. But how long have you been here that you are ignorant of all this? Since 1811. Dante shuddered. This man had been four years longer than himself in prison. "Do not dig any more," said the voice. But only tell me how high up is your excavation. On the level with the floor, how is it concealed behind my bed? Has your bed been moved since you have been the prisoner? No. What does your chamber open on? A corridor? And a corridor? On a court. Alas, remember the voice. Oh, what is the matter? Right, Dante's. I have made a mistake owing to an error in my plans. I took the wrong angle and have come out fifteen feet from where I intended. I took the wall you are mining for the outer wall of the fortress. But then you would be close to the sea. That is what I hoped. And supposing you had succeeded, I should have thrown myself into the sea. Gained one of the islands near here, the eel, the dalme, or the eel, the tibule. And then I should have been safe. Could you have swam so far? Heaven would have given me strength, but now all is lost. Oh, yes. Stop up your excavation, Catherine. Do not work any more, and wait until you hear from me. Tell me at least, who you are. I am, I am number twenty-seven. You mistrust me then, said Dante's. At the fancied he heard a bitter laugh resounding from the depths. Oh, I am a Christian, cried Dante's, guessing instinctively that this man meant to abandon him. I swear to you by him who died for us, that not shall induce me to breathe once syllable to my James, but I conjure you, do not abandon me. If you do, I swear to you, for I have got to the end of my strength, that I will dash my brains out against the wall, and you will have my death to reproach yourself. How old are you? Your voice is that of a young man. I do not know my age, for I have not counted the years I have been here. All I do know is, that I was just nineteen when I was arrested, the 28th of February, 1815. Not quite twenty-six, mermaid of voice, at that age she cannot be a traitor. Oh, no, no, cried Dante's. I swear to you again, rather than betray you, I would allow myself to be hacked in pieces. You have done well to speak to me, and ask for my assistance. For I was about to form another plan, and leave you, but your age reassures me. I will not forget you. Wait. How long? I must calculate our chances. I will give you the signal, but you will not leave me. You will come to me, or you will let me come to you. We will escape, and if we cannot escape, we will talk. You of those whom you love, and I of those whom I love. You must love somebody. No, I am alone in the world. Then you will love me. If you are young, I will be your comrade. If you are old, I will be your son. I have a father who is seventy if he yet lives. I only love him and a young girl called the messiness. My father has not yet forgotten me. I am sure, but God alone knows if she loves me still. I shall love you as I loved my father. It is well, return the voice, tomorrow. These few words was uttered with an accent that left no doubt of his sincerity. Don't as Rose dispersed the fragments with the same proportion as before and pushed his bed back against the wall. He then gave himself up to his happiness. He would no longer be alone. He was, perhaps, about to regain his liberty. At the worst, he would have a companion, and captivity that is shared is but half captivity. Planes made in common are almost prayers, and prayers where two or three are gathered together invoke the mercy of heaven. All day Dante has walked up and down his cell. He sat down occasionally on his bed, pressing his hand on his heart. At the slightest noise he bounded towards the door. Once or twice the thought crossed his mind that he might be separated from this unknown whom he loved already. And then his mind was made up when the jailer moved his bed and stooped to examine the opening. He would kill him with his water jug. He would be a condemned to die, but he was about to die of grief and despair when this miraculous noise recalled him to life. The jailer came in the evening. Don't as was on his bed. It seemed to him that thus he better guarded the unfinished opening. Doubtless, there was a strange expression in his eyes. For the jailer said, "Come, are you going mad again?" Dante did not answer. He feared that the emotion of his voice would betray him. The jailer went away shaking his head. Knight came. Dante's hope that his neighbor would profit by the silence to address him. But he was mistaken. The next morning, however, just as he removed his bed from the wall he heard three knocks. He threw himself on his knees. "Is it you?" said he. "I'm here." "Is your jailer gone?" "Yes," said Dante's. "It will not return until the evening, so that we have twelve hours before us." "I can work," said the voice. "Oh, yes, yes. This instant I entreat you." In a moment, that part of the floor on which Dante was stressing his two hands as he knelt with his head in the opening suddenly gave way. He drew back smartly while a mass of stones and earth disappeared in a hole that opened beneath the aperture he himself had formed. Then from the bottom of this passage, the depth of which it was impossible to measure, he saw appear first ahead, then the shoulders, and, lastly, the body of a man who sprang lightly into his cell. Tested turn. Tested turn. Adjective. Off a person, reserved or uncommunicative in speech, saying little. Implacable. Implacable. Adjective. Unable to be appeased or percated. Fryable. Fryable. Adjective. Easily crumbled. Sepalcro. Sepalcro. Adjective. Relating to a tomb or interment. Sapiently. Sapiently. At that, in a way that is intelligent, or shows an ability to think.
