The Count of Monte Cristo

Chapter 16. A Learned Italian-2

thought of having a companion outweighed the sympathy he felt for the

failure 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 things

which appear so impossible that the mind does not dwell on them for an

instant. To undermine the ground for fifty feet—to devote three years to

a labor which, if successful, would conduct you to a precipice

overhanging the sea—to plunge into the waves from the height of fifty,

sixty, perhaps a hundred feet, at the risk of being dashed to pieces

against the rocks, should you have been fortunate enough to have escaped

the 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 miles

ere you could reach the shore—were difficulties so startling and

formidable 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 a

courage, gave a fresh turn to his ideas, and inspired him with new

courage. Another, older and less strong than he, had attempted what he

had not had sufficient resolution to undertake, and had failed only

because of an error in calculation. This same person, with almost

incredible patience and perseverance, had contrived to provide himself

with tools requisite for so unparalleled an attempt. Another had done

all this; why, then, was it impossible to Dantès? Faria had dug his way

through fifty feet, Dantès would dig a hundred; Faria, at the age of

fifty, 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 the

idea of risking his life by trying to swim a distance of three miles to

one of the islands—Daume, Rattonneau, or Lemaire; should a hardy sailor,

an experienced diver, like himself, shrink from a similar task; should

he, who had so often for mere amusement’s sake plunged to the bottom of

the sea to fetch up the bright coral branch, hesitate to entertain the

same project? He could do it in an hour, and how many times had he, for

pure pastime, continued in the water for more than twice as long! At

once Dantès resolved to follow the brave example of his energetic

companion, and to remember that what has once been done may be done

again.

After continuing some time in profound meditation, the young man

suddenly exclaimed, “I have found what you were in search of!”

Faria started: “Have you, indeed?” cried he, raising his head with quick

anxiety; “pray, let me know what it is you have discovered?”

“The corridor through which you have bored your way from the cell you

occupy here, extends in the same direction as the outer gallery, does it

not?”

“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 the

corridor by forming a side opening about the middle, as it were the top

part of a cross. This time you will lay your plans more accurately; we

shall get out into the gallery you have described; kill the sentinel who

guards it, and make our escape. All we require to insure success is

courage, and that you possess, and strength, which I am not deficient

in; as for patience, you have abundantly proved yours—you shall now see

me prove mine.”

“One instant, my dear friend,” replied the abbé; “it is clear you do not

understand the nature of the courage with which I am endowed, and what

use I intend making of my strength. As for patience, I consider that I

have abundantly exercised that in beginning every morning the task of

the night before, and every night renewing the task of the day. But

then, young man (and I pray of you to give me your full attention), then

I thought I could not be doing anything displeasing to the Almighty in

trying to set an innocent being at liberty—one who had committed no

offence, and merited not condemnation.”

“And have your notions changed?” asked Dantès with much surprise; “do

you think yourself more guilty in making the attempt since you have

encountered me?”

“No; neither do I wish to incur guilt. Hitherto I have fancied myself

merely waging war against circumstances, not men. I have thought it no

sin to bore through a wall, or destroy a staircase; but I cannot so

easily persuade myself to pierce a heart 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 can

allow any such scruple to deter you from obtaining it?”

“Tell me,” replied Faria, “what has hindered you from knocking down your

jailer with a piece of wood torn from your bedstead, dressing yourself

in 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 commission

of such a crime prevented you from thinking of it; and so it ever is

because in simple and allowable things our natural instincts keep us

from deviating from the strict line of duty. The tiger, whose nature

teaches him to delight in shedding blood, needs but the sense of smell

to show him when his prey is within his reach, and by following this

instinct he is enabled to measure the leap necessary to permit him to

spring on his victim; but man, on the contrary, loathes the idea of

blood—it is not alone that the laws of social life inspire him with a

shrinking dread of taking life; his natural construction and

physiological formation——”

Dantès was confused and silent at this explanation of the thoughts which

had unconsciously been working in his mind, or rather soul; for there

are two distinct sorts of ideas, those that proceed from the head and

those that emanate from the heart.

“Since my imprisonment,” said Faria, “I have thought over all the most

celebrated cases of escape on record. They have rarely been successful.

Those that have been crowned with full success have been long meditated

upon, and carefully arranged; such, for instance, as the escape of the

Duc de Beaufort from the Château de Vincennes, that of the Abbé Dubuquoi

from For l’Evêque; of Latude from the Bastille. Then there are those for

which chance sometimes affords opportunity, and those are the best of

all. Let us, therefore, wait patiently for some favorable moment, and

when it presents itself, profit by it.”

“Ah,” said Dantès, “you might well endure the tedious delay; you were

constantly employed in the task you set yourself, and when weary with

toil, you had your hopes to refresh and encourage you.”

“I assure you,” replied the old man, “I did not turn to that source for

recreation 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 will

show you an entire work, the fruits of the thoughts and reflections of

my whole life; many of them meditated over in the shades of the

Colosseum at Rome, at the foot of St. Mark’s column at Venice, and on

the borders of the Arno at Florence, little imagining at the time that

they 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 General

Monarchy 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 as

smooth 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 after

reading them over many times, I found out that with one hundred and

fifty well-chosen books a man possesses, if not a complete summary of

all human knowledge, at least all that a man need really know. I devoted

three years of my life to reading and studying these one hundred and

fifty volumes, till I knew them nearly by heart; so that since I have

been in prison, a very slight effort of memory has enabled me to recall

their contents as readily as though the pages were open before me. I

could recite you the whole of Thucydides, Xenophon, Plutarch, Titus

Livius, 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 to

have 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 learned

modern Greek—I don’t speak it so well as I could wish, but I am still

trying 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, and

arranged them, so as to enable me to express my thoughts through their

medium. I know nearly one thousand words, which is all that is

absolutely necessary, although I believe there are nearly one hundred

thousand in the dictionaries. I cannot hope to be very fluent, but I

certainly 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 with

one gifted with supernatural powers; still hoping to find some

imperfection which might bring him down to a level with human beings, he

added, “Then if you were not furnished with pens, how did you manage to

write the work you speak of?”

“I made myself some excellent ones, which would be universally preferred

to all others if once known. You are aware what huge whitings are served

to us on maigre days. Well, I selected the cartilages of the heads of

these fishes, and you can scarcely imagine the delight with which I

welcomed the arrival of each Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday, as

affording me the means of increasing my stock of pens; for I will freely

confess that my historical labors have been my greatest solace and

relief. While retracing the past, I forget the present; and traversing

at will the path of history I cease to remember that I am myself a

prisoner.”

“But the ink,” said Dantès; “of what did you make your ink?”

“There was formerly a fireplace in my dungeon,” replied Faria, “but it

was closed up long ere I became an occupant of this prison. Still, it

must have been many years in use, for it was thickly covered with a

coating of soot; this soot I dissolved in a portion of the wine brought

to me every Sunday, and I assure you a better ink cannot be desired. For

very important notes, for which closer attention is required, I pricked

one 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 subterranean

passage, in which he soon disappeared, followed by Dantès.