Chapter 16. A Learned Italian
Seizing in his arms the friend so long and ardently desired, Dantèsalmost carried him towards the window, in order to obtain a better viewof his features by the aid of the imperfect light that struggled throughthe grating.
He was a man of small stature, with hair blanched rather by sufferingand sorrow than by age. He had a deep-set, penetrating eye, almostburied beneath the thick gray eyebrow, and a long (and still black)beard reaching down to his breast. His thin face, deeply furrowed bycare, and the bold outline of his strongly marked features, betokened aman more accustomed to exercise his mental faculties than his physicalstrength. Large drops of perspiration were now standing on his brow,while the garments that hung about him were so ragged that one couldonly guess at the pattern upon which they had originally been fashioned.
The stranger might have numbered sixty or sixty-five years; but acertain briskness and appearance of vigor in his movements made itprobable that he was aged more from captivity than the course of time.He received the enthusiastic greeting of his young acquaintance withevident pleasure, as though his chilled affections were rekindled andinvigorated by his contact with one so warm and ardent. He thanked himwith grateful cordiality for his kindly welcome, although he must atthat moment have been suffering bitterly to find another dungeon wherehe had fondly reckoned on discovering a means of regaining his liberty.
“Let us first see,” said he, “whether it is possible to remove thetraces of my entrance here—our future tranquillity depends upon ourjailers being entirely ignorant of it.”
Advancing to the opening, he stooped and raised the stone easily inspite of its weight; then, fitting it into its place, he said:
“You removed this stone very carelessly; but I suppose you had no toolsto aid you.”
“Why,” exclaimed Dantès, with astonishment, “do you possess any?”
“I made myself some; and with the exception of a file, I have all thatare necessary,—a chisel, pincers, and lever.”
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“Oh, how I should like to see these products of your industry andpatience.”
“Well, in the first place, here is my chisel.”
So saying, he displayed a sharp strong blade, with a handle made ofbeechwood.
“And with what did you contrive to make that?” inquired Dantès.
“With one of the clamps of my bedstead; and this very tool has sufficedme to hollow out the road by which I came hither, a distance of aboutfifty feet.”
“Fifty feet!” responded Dantès, almost terrified.
“Do not speak so loud, young man—don’t speak so loud. It frequentlyoccurs in a state prison like this, that persons are stationed outsidethe doors of the cells purposely to overhear the conversation of theprisoners.”
“But they believe I am shut up alone here.”
“That makes no difference.”
“And you say that you dug your way a distance of fifty feet to gethere?”
“I do; that is about the distance that separates your chamber from mine;only, unfortunately, I did not curve aright; for want of the necessarygeometrical instruments to calculate my scale of proportion, instead oftaking an ellipsis of forty feet, I made it fifty. I expected, as I toldyou, to reach the outer wall, pierce through it, and throw myself intothe sea; I have, however, kept along the corridor on which your chamberopens, instead of going beneath it. My labor is all in vain, for I findthat the corridor looks into a courtyard filled with soldiers.”
“That’s true,” said Dantès; “but the corridor you speak of only boundsone side of my cell; there are three others—do you know anything oftheir situation?”
“This one is built against the solid rock, and it would take tenexperienced miners, duly furnished with the requisite tools, as manyyears to perforate it. This adjoins the lower part of the governor’sapartments, and were we to work our way through, we should only get intosome lock-up cellars, where we must necessarily be recaptured. Thefourth and last side of your cell faces on—faces on—stop a minute, nowwhere does it face?”
The wall of which he spoke was the one in which was fixed the loopholeby which light was admitted to the chamber. This loophole, whichgradually diminished in size as it approached the outside, to an openingthrough which a child could not have passed, was, for better security,furnished with three iron bars, so as to quiet all apprehensions even inthe mind of the most suspicious jailer as to the possibility of aprisoner’s escape. As the stranger asked the question, he dragged thetable beneath the window.
“Climb up,” said he to Dantès.
The young man obeyed, mounted on the table, and, divining the wishes ofhis companion, placed his back securely against the wall and held outboth hands. The stranger, whom as yet Dantès knew only by the number ofhis cell, sprang up with an agility by no means to be expected in aperson of his years, and, light and steady on his feet as a cat or alizard, climbed from the table to the outstretched hands of Dantès, andfrom them to his shoulders; then, bending double, for the ceiling of thedungeon prevented him from holding himself erect, he managed to slip hishead between the upper bars of the window, so as to be able to command aperfect view from top to bottom.
An instant afterwards he hastily drew back his head, saying, “I thoughtso!” and sliding from the shoulders of Dantès as dextrously as he hadascended, he nimbly leaped from the table to the ground.
“What was it that you thought?” asked the young man anxiously, in histurn descending from the table.
The elder prisoner pondered the matter. “Yes,” said he at length, “it isso. This side of your chamber looks out upon a kind of open gallery,where patrols are continually passing, and sentries keep watch day andnight.”
“Are you quite sure of that?”
“Certain. I saw the soldier’s shape and the top of his musket; that mademe draw in my head so quickly, for I was fearful he might also see me.”
“Well?” inquired Dantès.
“You perceive then the utter impossibility of escaping through yourdungeon?”
“Then——” pursued the young man eagerly.
“Then,” answered the elder prisoner, “the will of God be done!” And asthe old man slowly pronounced those words, an air of profoundresignation spread itself over his careworn countenance. Dantès gazed onthe man who could thus philosophically resign hopes so long and ardentlynourished with an astonishment mingled with admiration.
“Tell me, I entreat of you, who and what you are?” said he at length.“Never have I met with so remarkable a person as yourself.”
“Willingly,” answered the stranger; “if, indeed, you feel any curiosityrespecting one, now, alas, powerless to aid you in any way.”
“Say not so; you can console and support me by the strength of your ownpowerful mind. Pray let me know who you really are?”
The stranger smiled a melancholy smile. “Then listen,” said he. “I amthe Abbé Faria, and have been imprisoned as you know in this Châteaud’If since the year 1811; previously to which I had been confined forthree years in the fortress of Fenestrelle. In the year 1811 I wastransferred to Piedmont in France. It was at this period I learned thatthe destiny which seemed subservient to every wish formed by Napoleon,had bestowed on him a son, named king of Rome even in his cradle. I wasvery far then from expecting the change you have just informed me of;namely, that four years afterwards, this colossus of power would beoverthrown. Then who reigns in France at this moment—Napoleon II.?”
“No, Louis XVIII.”
“The brother of Louis XVI.! How inscrutable are the ways ofProvidence—for what great and mysterious purpose has it pleased Heavento abase the man once so elevated, and raise up him who was so abased?”
Dantès’ whole attention was riveted on a man who could thus forget hisown misfortunes while occupying himself with the destinies of others.
“Yes, yes,” continued he, “’Twill be the same as it was in England.After Charles I., Cromwell; after Cromwell, Charles II.,
and then JamesII., and then some son-in-law or relation, some Prince of Orange, astadtholder who becomes a king. Then new concessions to the people, thena constitution, then liberty. Ah, my friend!” said the abbé, turningtowards Dantès, and surveying him with the kindling gaze of a prophet,“you are young, you will see all this come to pass.”
“Probably, if ever I get out of prison!”
“True,” replied Faria, “we are prisoners; but I forget this sometimes,and there are even moments when my mental vision transports me beyondthese walls, and I fancy myself at liberty.”
“But wherefore are you here?”
“Because in 1807 I dreamed of the very plan Napoleon tried to realize in1811; because, like Machiavelli, I desired to alter the political faceof Italy, and instead of allowing it to be split up into a quantity ofpetty principalities, each held by some weak or tyrannical ruler, Isought to form one large, compact, and powerful empire; and, lastly,because I fancied I had found my Cæsar Borgia in a crowned simpleton,who feigned to enter into my views only to betray me. It was the plan ofAlexander VI. and Clement VII., but it will never succeed now, for theyattempted it fruitlessly, and Napoleon was unable to complete his work.Italy seems fated to misfortune.” And the old man bowed his head.
Dantès could not understand a man risking his life for such matters.Napoleon certainly he knew something of, inasmuch as he had seen andspoken with him; but of Clement VII. and Alexander VI. he knew nothing.
“Are you not,” he asked, “the priest who here in the Château d’If isgenerally thought to be—ill?”
“Mad, you mean, don’t you?”
“I did not like to say so,” answered Dantès, smiling.
“Well, then,” resumed Faria with a bitter smile, “let me answer yourquestion in full, by acknowledging that I am the poor mad prisoner ofthe Château d’If, for many years permitted to amuse the differentvisitors with what is said to be my insanity; and, in all probability, Ishould be promoted to the honor of making sport for the children, ifsuch innocent beings could be found in an abode devoted like this tosuffering and despair.”
Dantès remained for a short time mute and motionless; at length he said:
“Then you abandon all hope of escape?”
“I perceive its utter impossibility; and I consider it impious toattempt that which the Almighty evidently does not approve.”
“Nay, be not discouraged. Would it not be expecting too much to hope tosucceed at your first attempt? Why not try to find an opening in anotherdirection from that which has so unfortunately failed?”
“Alas, it shows how little notion you can have of all it has cost me toeffect a purpose so unexpectedly frustrated, that you talk of beginningover again. In the first place, I was four years making the tools Ipossess, and have been two years scraping and digging out earth, hard asgranite itself; then what toil and fatigue has it not been to removehuge stones I should once have deemed impossible to loosen. Whole dayshave I passed in these Titanic efforts, considering my labor well repaidif, by night-time I had contrived to carry away a square inch of thishard-bound cement, changed by ages into a substance unyielding as thestones themselves; then to conceal the mass of earth and rubbish I dugup, I was compelled to break through a staircase, and throw the fruitsof my labor into the hollow part of it; but the well is now socompletely choked up, that I scarcely think it would be possible to addanother handful of dust without leading to discovery. Consider also thatI fully believed I had accomplished the end and aim of my undertaking,for which I had so exactly husbanded my strength as to make it just holdout to the termination of my enterprise; and now, at the moment when Ireckoned upon success, my hopes are forever dashed from me. No, I repeatagain, that nothing shall induce me to renew attempts evidently atvariance with the Almighty’s pleasure.”
Dantès held down his head, that the other might not see how joy at thethought of having a companion outweighed the sympathy he felt for thefailure of the abbé’s plans.
The abbé sank upon Edmond’s bed, while Edmond himself remained standing.Escape had never once occurred to him. There are, indeed, some thingswhich appear so impossible that the mind does not dwell on them for aninstant. To undermine the ground for fifty feet—to devote three years toa labor which, if successful, would conduct you to a precipiceoverhanging the sea—to plunge into the waves from the height of fifty,sixty, perhaps a hundred feet, at the risk of being dashed to piecesagainst the rocks, should you have been fortunate enough to have escapedthe fire of the sentinels; and even, supposing all these perils past,then to have to swim for your life a distance of at least three milesere you could reach the shore—were difficulties so startling andformidable that Dantès had never even dreamed of such a scheme,resigning himself rather to death.
But the sight of an old man clinging to life with so desperate acourage, gave a fresh turn to his ideas, and inspired him with newcourage. Another, older and less strong than he, had attempted what hehad not had sufficient resolution to undertake, and had failed onlybecause of an error in calculation. This same person, with almostincredible patience and perseverance, had contrived to provide himselfwith tools requisite for so unparalleled an attempt. Another had doneall this; why, then, was it impossible to Dantès? Faria had dug his waythrough fifty feet, Dantès would dig a hundred; Faria, at the age offifty, had devoted three years to the task; he, who was but half as old,would sacrifice six; Faria, a priest and savant, had not shrunk from theidea of risking his life by trying to swim a distance of three miles toone of the islands—Daume, Rattonneau, or Lemaire; should a hardy sailor,an experienced diver, like himself, shrink from a similar task; shouldhe, who had so often for mere amusement’s sake plunged to the bottom ofthe sea to fetch up the bright coral branch, hesitate to entertain thesame project? He could do it in an hour, and how many times had he, forpure pastime, continued in the water for more than twice as long! Atonce Dantès resolved to follow the brave example of his energeticcompanion, and to remember that what has once been done may be doneagain.
After continuing some time in profound meditation, the young mansuddenly exclaimed, “I have found what you were in search of!”
Faria started: “Have you, indeed?” cried he, raising his head with quickanxiety; “pray, let me know what it is you have discovered?”
“The corridor through which you have bored your way from the cell youoccupy here, extends in the same direction as the outer gallery, does itnot?”
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“It does.”
“And is not above fifteen feet from it?”
“About that.”
“Well, then, I will tell you what we must do. We must pierce through thecorridor by forming a side opening about the middle, as it were the toppart of a cross. This time you will lay your plans more accurately; weshall get out into the gallery you have described; kill the sentinel whoguards it, and make our escape. All we require to insure success iscourage, and that you possess, and strength, which I am not deficientin; as for patience, you have abundantly proved yours—you shall now seeme prove mine.”
“One instant, my dear friend,” replied the abbé; “it is clear you do notunderstand the nature of the courage with which I am endowed, and whatuse I intend making of my strength. As for patience, I consider that Ihave abundantly exercised that in beginning every morning the task ofthe night before, and every night renewing the task of the day. Butthen, young man (and I pray of you to give me your full attention), thenI thought I could not be doing anything displeasing to the Almighty intrying to set an innocent being at liberty—one who had committed nooffence, and merited not condemnation.”
“And have your notions changed?” asked Dantès with much surprise; “doyou think yourself more guilty in making the attempt since you haveencountered me?”
“No; neither do I wish to incur guilt. Hitherto I have fancied myselfmerely waging war against circumstances, not men. I have thought it nosin to bore through a wall, or destroy a staircase; but I cannot soeasily persuade myself to pierce a he
art or take away a life.”
A slight movement of surprise escaped Dantès.
“Is it possible,” said he, “that where your liberty is at stake you canallow any such scruple to deter you from obtaining it?”
“Tell me,” replied Faria, “what has hindered you from knocking down yourjailer with a piece of wood torn from your bedstead, dressing yourselfin his clothes, and endeavoring to escape?”
“Simply the fact that the idea never occurred to me,” answered Dantès.
“Because,” said the old man, “the natural repugnance to the commissionof such a crime prevented you from thinking of it; and so it ever isbecause in simple and allowable things our natural instincts keep usfrom deviating from the strict line of duty. The tiger, whose natureteaches him to delight in shedding blood, needs but the sense of smellto show him when his prey is within his reach, and by following thisinstinct he is enabled to measure the leap necessary to permit him tospring on his victim; but man, on the contrary, loathes the idea ofblood—it is not alone that the laws of social life inspire him with ashrinking dread of taking life; his natural construction andphysiological formation——”
Dantès was confused and silent at this explanation of the thoughts whichhad unconsciously been working in his mind, or rather soul; for thereare two distinct sorts of ideas, those that proceed from the head andthose that emanate from the heart.
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“Since my imprisonment,” said Faria, “I have thought over all the mostcelebrated cases of escape on record. They have rarely been successful.Those that have been crowned with full success have been long meditatedupon, and carefully arranged; such, for instance, as the escape of theDuc de Beaufort from the Château de Vincennes, that of the Abbé Dubuquoifrom For l’Evêque; of Latude from the Bastille. Then there are those forwhich chance sometimes affords opportunity, and those are the best ofall. Let us, therefore, wait patiently for some favorable moment, andwhen it presents itself, profit by it.”
“Ah,” said Dantès, “you might well endure the tedious delay; you wereconstantly employed in the task you set yourself, and when weary withtoil, you had your hopes to refresh and encourage you.”
“I assure you,” replied the old man, “I did not turn to that source forrecreation or support.”
“What did you do then?”
“I wrote or studied.”
“Were you then permitted the use of pens, ink, and paper?”
“Oh, no,” answered the abbé; “I had none but what I made for myself.”
“You made paper, pens and ink?”
“Yes.”
Dantès gazed with admiration, but he had some difficulty in believing.Faria saw this.
“When you pay me a visit in my cell, my young friend,” said he, “I willshow you an entire work, the fruits of the thoughts and reflections ofmy whole life; many of them meditated over in the shades of theColosseum at Rome, at the foot of St. Mark’s column at Venice, and onthe borders of the Arno at Florence, little imagining at the time thatthey would be arranged in order within the walls of the Château d’If.The work I speak of is called A Treatise on the Possibility of a GeneralMonarchy in Italy, and will make one large quarto volume.”
“And on what have you written all this?”
“On two of my shirts. I invented a preparation that makes linen assmooth and as easy to write on as parchment.”
“You are, then, a chemist?”
“Somewhat; I know Lavoisier, and was the intimate friend of Cabanis.”
“But for such a work you must have needed books—had you any?”
“I had nearly five thousand volumes in my library at Rome; but afterreading them over many times, I found out that with one hundred andfifty well-chosen books a man possesses, if not a complete summary ofall human knowledge, at least all that a man need really know. I devotedthree years of my life to reading and studying these one hundred andfifty volumes, till I knew them nearly by heart; so that since I havebeen in prison, a very slight effort of memory has enabled me to recalltheir contents as readily as though the pages were open before me. Icould recite you the whole of Thucydides, Xenophon, Plutarch, TitusLivius, Tacitus, Strada, Jornandes, Dante, Montaigne, Shakespeare,Spinoza, Machiavelli, and Bossuet. I name only the most important.”
“You are, doubtless, acquainted with a variety of languages, so as tohave been able to read all these?”
“Yes, I speak five of the modern tongues—that is to say, German, French,Italian, English, and Spanish; by the aid of ancient Greek I learnedmodern Greek—I don’t speak it so well as I could wish, but I am stilltrying to improve myself.”
“Improve yourself!” repeated Dantès; “why, how can you manage to do so?”
“Why, I made a vocabulary of the words I knew; turned, returned, andarranged them, so as to enable me to express my thoughts through theirmedium. I know nearly one thousand words, which is all that isabsolutely necessary, although I believe there are nearly one hundredthousand in the dictionaries. I cannot hope to be very fluent, but Icertainly should have no difficulty in explaining my wants and wishes;and that would be quite as much as I should ever require.”
Stronger grew the wonder of Dantès, who almost fancied he had to do withone gifted with supernatural powers; still hoping to find someimperfection which might bring him down to a level with human beings, headded, “Then if you were not furnished with pens, how did you manage towrite the work you speak of?”
“I made myself some excellent ones, which would be universally preferredto all others if once known. You are aware what huge whitings are servedto us on maigre days. Well, I selected the cartilages of the heads ofthese fishes, and you can scarcely imagine the delight with which Iwelcomed the arrival of each Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday, asaffording me the means of increasing my stock of pens; for I will freelyconfess that my historical labors have been my greatest solace andrelief. While retracing the past, I forget the present; and traversingat will the path of history I cease to remember that I am myself aprisoner.”
“But the ink,” said Dantès; “of what did you make your ink?”
“There was formerly a fireplace in my dungeon,” replied Faria, “but itwas closed up long ere I became an occupant of this prison. Still, itmust have been many years in use, for it was thickly covered with acoating of soot; this soot I dissolved in a portion of the wine broughtto me every Sunday, and I assure you a better ink cannot be desired. Forvery important notes, for which closer attention is required, I prickedone of my fingers, and wrote with my own blood.”
“And when,” asked Dantès, “may I see all this?”
“Whenever you please,” replied the abbé.
“Oh, then let it be directly!” exclaimed the young man.
“Follow me, then,” said the abbé, as he re-entered the subterraneanpassage, in which he soon disappeared, followed by Dantès.
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