IT was now my only consideration how to die like a Christian, and with
proper fortitude. I felt, indeed, a strong temptation to avoid the
scaffold by committing suicide, but overcame it. What merit is there in
refusing to die by the hand of the executioner, and yet to fall by one’s
own? To save one’s honour? But is it not childish to suppose that there
can be more honour in cheating the executioner, than in not doing this,
when it is clear that we must die. Even had I not been a Christian, upon
serious reflection, suicide would have appeared to me both ridiculous and
useless, if not criminal in a high degree.
“If the term of life be expired,” continued I, “am I not fortunate in
being permitted to collect my thoughts and purify my conscience with
penitence and prayer becoming a man in affliction. In popular
estimation, the being led to the scaffold is the worst part of death; in
the opinion of the wise, is not this far preferable to the thousand
deaths which daily occur by disease, attended by general prostration of
intellect, without power to raise the thoughts from the lowest state of
physical exhaustion.”
I felt the justice of this reasoning, and lost all feeling of anxiety or
terror at the idea of a public execution. I reflected deeply on the
sacraments calculated to support me under such an appalling trial, and I
felt disposed to receive them in a right spirit. Should I have been
enabled, had I really been conducted to the scaffold, to preserve the
same elevation of mind, the same forgiveness of my enemies, the same
readiness to lay down my life at the will of God, as I then felt? Alas,
how inconsistent is man! when most firm and pious, how liable is he to
fall suddenly into weakness and crime! Is it likely I should have died
worthily? God only knows; I dare not think well enough of myself to
assert it.
The probable approach of death so riveted my imagination, that not only
did it seem possible but as if marked by an infallible presentiment. I
no longer indulged a hope of avoiding it, and at every sound of footsteps
and keys, or the opening of my door, I was in the habit of exclaiming:
“Courage! Perhaps I am going to receive sentence. Let me hear it with
calm dignity, and bless the name of the Lord.”
I considered in what terms I should last address my family, each of my
brothers, and each of my sisters, and by revolving in my mind these
sacred and affecting duties, I was often drowned in tears, without losing
my fortitude and resignation.
I was naturally unable to enjoy sound repose; but my sleeplessness was
not of the same alarming character as before; no visions, spectres, or
concealed enemies were ready to deprive me of life. I spent the night in
calm and reviving prayer. Towards morning I was enabled to sleep for
about two hours, and rose late to breakfast.
One night I had retired to rest earlier than usual; I had hardly slept a
quarter of an hour, when I awoke, and beheld an immense light upon the
wall opposite to me. At first I imagined that I had been seized with my
former illness; but this was no illusion. The light shone through the
north window, under which I then lay.
I started up, seized my table, placed it on my bed, and a chair again
upon the table, by means of all which I mounted up, and beheld one of the
most terrific spectacles of fire that can be imagined. It was not more
than a musket shot distant from our prison; it proceeded from the
establishment of the public ovens, and the edifice was entirely consumed.
The night was exceedingly dark, and vast globes of flame spouted forth on
both sides, borne away by a violent wind. All around, it seemed as if
the sky rained sparks of fire. The adjacent lake reflected the
magnificent sight; numbers of gondolas went and came, but my sympathy was
most excited at the danger and terrors of those who resided nearest to
the burning edifice. I heard the far off voices of men and women calling
to each other. Among others, I caught the name of Angiola, and of this
doubtless there are some thousands in Venice: yet I could not help
fearing it might be the one of whom the recollection was so sweet to me.
Could it be her?—was she surrounded by the flames? how I longed to fly to
her rescue.
Full of excitement, wonder, and terror, I stood at the window till the
day dawned, I then got down oppressed by a feeling of deep sorrow, and
imagined much greater misfortune than had really occurred. I was
informed by Tremerello that only the ovens and the adjoining magazine had
suffered, the loss consisting chiefly of corn and sacks of flour.