“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.