Oh! could I but have cast off
this crime that festered in my heart; could I but have regained the
innocence that reigned in my breast as I entered the garden at Sestri;
could I but have restored my victim to life, I felt as if I could look
on with transport even though Bianca were in his arms.
By degrees this frenzied fever of remorse settled into a permanent
malady of the mind. Into one of the most horrible that ever poor wretch
was cursed with. Wherever I went, the countenance of him I had slain
appeared to follow me. Wherever I turned my head I beheld it behind me,
hideous with the contortions of the dying moment. I have tried in every
way to escape from this horrible phantom; but in vain. I know not
whether it is an illusion of the mind, the consequence of my dismal
education at the convent, or whether a phantom really sent by heaven to
punish me; but there it ever is - at all times - in all places - nor has
time nor habit had any effect in familiarizing me with its terrors. I
have travelled from place to place, plunged into amusements - tried
dissipation and distraction of every kind - all - all in vain.
I once had recourse to my pencil as a desperate experiment. I painted
an exact resemblance of this phantom face. I placed it before me in
hopes that by constantly contemplating the copy I might diminish the
effect of the original. But I only doubled instead of diminishing the
misery.
Such is the curse that has clung to my footsteps - that has made my life
a burthen - but the thoughts of death, terrible. God knows what I have
suffered. What days and days, and nights and nights, of sleepless
torment. What a never-dying worm has preyed upon my heart; what an
unquenchable fire has burned within my brain. He knows the wrongs that
wrought upon my poor weak nature; that converted the tenderest of
affections into the deadliest of fury. He knows best whether a frail
erring creature has expiated by long-enduring torture and measureless
remorse, the crime of a moment of madness. Often, often have I
prostrated myself in the dust, and implored that he would give me a
sign of his forgiveness, and let me die. -
Thus far had I written some time since. I had meant to leave this
record of misery and crime with you, to be read when I should be no
more. My prayer to heaven has at length been heard. You were witness to
my emotions last evening at the performance of the Miserere; when the
vaulted temple resounded with the words of atonement and redemption. I
heard a voice speaking to me from the midst of the music; I heard it
rising above the pealing of the organ and the voices of the choir; it
spoke to me in tones of celestial melody; it promised mercy and
forgiveness, but demanded from me full expiation.
