CHAPTER VI.
Τηλε μἐιργουσι ψυχαι ειδωλα καμοντων.
Homer.
When, after some days interval, the
Spaniard attempted to describe his feelings
on the receipt of his brother’s letter, the
sudden resuscitation of heart, and hope, and
existence, that followed its perusal, he trembled,—uttered
some inarticulate sounds;—wept;—and
his agitation appeared to Melmoth,
with his uncontinental feelings, so
violent, that he entreated him to spare the
description of his feelings, and proceed
with his narrative.
“You are right,” said the Spaniard, drying
his tears, “joy is a convulsion, but
grief is a habit, and to describe what we
never can communicate, is as absurd as to
talk of colours to the blind. I will hasten
on, not to tell of my feelings, but of the
results which they produced. A new world
of hope was opened to me. I thought I
saw liberty on the face of heaven when I
walked in the garden. I laughed at the
jar of the doors as they opened, and said
to myself, “You shall soon expand to me
for ever.” I behaved with uncommon
complacency to the community. But I did
not, amid all this, neglect the most scrupulous
precautions suggested by my brother.
Am I confessing the strength or
the weakness of my heart? In the midst
of all the systematic dissimulation that I
was prepared and eager to carry on, the
only circumstance that gave me real compunction,
was my being obliged to destroy
the letters of that dear and generous
youth who had risked every thing for my
emancipation. In the mean time, I pursued
my preparations with industry inconceivable
to you, who have never been in a
convent.
“Lent was now begun,—all the community
were preparing themselves for the
great confession. They shut themselves
up,—they prostrated themselves before the
shrines of the saints,—they occupied themselves
whole hours in taking minutes of
their consciences, and magnifying the trivial
defects of conventual discipline into
offences in the eye of God, in order to
give consequence to their penitence in
the hearing of the confessor,—in fact,
they would have been glad to accuse
themselves of a crime, to escape from the
monotony of a monastic conscience.
There was a kind of silent bustle in the
house, that very much favoured my purposes.
Hour after hour I demanded paper
for my confession. I obtained it, but
my frequent demands excited suspicion,—they
little knew what I was writing.
Some said, for every thing excites inquiry
in a convent, “He is writing the history
of his family; he will discharge it into the
ears of the confessor, along with the secrets
of his own soul.” Others said, “He
has been in a state of alienation for some
time, he is giving an account to God for
it,—we shall never hear a word about it.”
Others, who were more judicious, said,
“He is weary of the monastic life, he is
writing an account of his monotony and
ennui, doubtless that must be very long;”
and the speakers yawned as they uttered
these words, which gave a very strong attestation
to what they said. The Superior
watched me in silence. He was alarmed,
and with reason. He consulted with some
of the discreet brethren, whom I mentioned
before, and the result was a restless
vigilance on their part, to which I supplied
an incessant fuel, by my absurd and perpetual
demand for paper. Here, I acknowledge,
I committed a great oversight.
It was impossible for the most exaggerated
conscience to charge itself, even in a convent,
with crimes enough to fill all the
paper I required. I was filling them all
the time with their crimes, not my own.
Another great mistake I made, was being
wholly unprepared for the great confession
when it came on. I received intimations
of this as we walked in the garden,—I
have before mentioned that I had assumed
an amicability of habit toward them. They
would say to me, “You have made ample
preparations for the great confession.” “I
have prepared myself.” “But we expect
great edification from its results.” “I
trust you will receive it.”—I said no
more, but I was very much disturbed at
these hints. Others would say, “My
brother, amid the multitudinous offences
that burden your conscience, and which
you have found necessary to employ quires
of paper to record, would it not be a relief
to you to open your mind to the Superior,
and ask for a few previous moments
of consolation and direction from
him.” To this I answered, “I thank you,
and will consider of it.”—I was thinking
all the time of something else.
“It was a few nights before the time of
the great confession, that I had to entrust
the last packet of my memorial to the
porter. Our meetings had been hitherto
unsuspected. I had received and answered
my brother’s communications, and our
correspondence had been conducted with a
secrecy unexampled in convents. But this
last night, as I put my packet into the
porter’s hand, I saw a change in his appearance
that terrified me. He had been a
comely, robust man, but now, even by the
moon-light, I could perceive he was wasted
to a shadow,—his hands trembled as he
took the papers from me,—his voice faultered
as he promised his usual secrecy.
The change, which had been observed by
the whole convent, had escaped me till
that night; my mind had been too much
occupied by my own situation. I noticed
it then, however, and I said, “But what
is the matter?” “Can you then ask? I
am withered to a spectre by the terrors of
the office I have been bribed to. Do you
know what I risk?—incarceration for life,
or rather for death,—perhaps a denunciation
to the Inquisition. Every line I deliver
from you, or to you, seems a charge
against my own soul,—I tremble when I
meet you. I know that you have the
sources of life and death, temporal and
eternal, in your hands. The secret in
which I am an agent should never be intrusted
but to one, and you are another.
As I sit in my place, I think every step
in the cloister is advancing to summon me
to the presence of the Superior. When I
attend in the choir, amid the sounds of
devotion your voice swells to accuse me.
When I lie down at night, the evil spirit
is beside my bed, reproaching me with
perjury, and reclaiming his prey;—his
emissaries surround me wherever I move,—I
am beset by the tortures of hell. The
saints from their shrines frown on me,—I
see the painting of the traitor Judas on
every side I turn to. When I sleep for a
moment, I am awakened by my own cries.
I exclaim, “Do not betray me, he has
not yet violated his vows, I was but an agent,—I
was bribed,—do not kindle those
fires for me.” I shudder,—I start up in a
cold sweat. My rest, my appetite, are
gone. Would to God you were out of
this convent;—and O! would that I had
never been instrumental to your release,
then both of us might have escaped damnation
to all eternity.” I tried to pacify
him, to assure him of his safety, but nothing
could satisfy him but my solemn
and sincere assurance that this was the
last packet I would ever ask him to deliver.
He departed tranquillized by this assurance;
and I felt the dangers of my attempt
multiplying around me every hour.
“This man was faithful, but he was timid;
and what confidence can we have in
a being whose right hand is held out to
you, while his left trembles to be employed
in transferring your secret to your enemy.
This man died a few weeks after. I
believe I owed his dying fidelity to the
delirium that seized on his last moments.
But what I suffered during those moments!—his
death under such circumstances,
and the unchristian joy I felt at it,
were only in my mind stronger evidences
against the unnatural state of life that
could render such an event, and such feelings,
almost necessary. It was on the evening
after this, that I was surprised to see
the Superior, with four of the monks, enter
my cell. I felt this visit boded me no
good. I trembled all over, while I received
them with deference. The Superior
seated himself opposite to me, arranging
his seat so as that I was opposite the light.
I did not understand what this precaution
meant, but I conceive now, that he wished
to watch every change in my countenance,
while his was concealed from me. The
four monks stood at the back of his chair;
their arms were folded, their lips closed,
their eyes half shut, their heads declined—they
looked like men assembled reluctantly
to witness the execution of a criminal.
The Superior began, in a mild voice, “My
son, you have been intently employed on
your confession for some time—that was
laudable. But have you, then, accused
yourself of every crime your conscience
charges you with?” “I have, my father.”
“Of all, you are sure?” “My father, I
have accused myself of all I was conscious
of. Who but God can penetrate the abysses
of the heart? I have searched mine as
far as I could.” “And you have recorded
all the accusations you found there?” “I
have.” “And you did not discover among
them the crime of obtaining the means of
writing out your confession, to abuse them
to a very different purpose?”—This was
coming to the point. I felt it necessary
to summon my resolution—and I said,
with a venial equivocation, “That is a
crime of which my conscience does not accuse
me.” “My son, do not dissemble
with your conscience, or with me. I
should be even above it in your estimation;
for if it errs and deceives you, it is
to me you should apply to enlighten and
direct it. But I see it is in vain to attempt
to touch your heart. I make my
last appeal to it in these plain words. A
few moments only of indulgence await
you—use them or abuse them, as you will.
I have to ask you a few plain questions,
which, if you refuse to answer, or do not
answer truly, your blood be on your own
head.” I trembled, but I said, “My father,
have I then refused to answer your questions?”
“Your answers are all either interrogations
or evasions. They must be direct
and simple to the questions I am about to
propose in the presence of these brethren.
More depends on your answer than you
are aware of. The warning voice breaks
forth in spite of me.”—Terrified at these
words, and humbled to the wish to propitiate
them, I rose from my chair—then
gasping, I leant on it for support. I said,
“My God! what is all this terrible preparation
for? Of what am I guilty? Why
am I summoned by this warning voice so
often, whose warnings are only so many
mysterious threatenings? Why am I not
told of my offence?”
“The four monks, who had never spoken
or lifted up their heads till that moment,
now directed their livid eyes at me,
and repeated, all together, in a voice that
seemed to issue from the bottom of a sepulchre,
“Your crime is—” The Superior
gave them a signal to be silent, and
this interruption increased my consternation.
It is certain, that when we are conscious
of guilt, we always suspect that a
greater degree of it will be ascribed to us
by others. Their consciences avenge the
palliations of our own, by the most horrible
exaggerations. I did not know of
what crime they might be disposed to accuse
me; and already I felt the accusation
of my clandestine correspondence as dust
in the balance of their resentment. I had
heard the crimes of convents were sometimes
unutterably atrocious; and I felt as
anxious now for a distinct charge to be
preferred against me, as I had a few moments
before to evade it. These indefinite
fears were soon exchanged for real ones, as
the Superior proposed his questions. “You
have procured a large quantity of paper—how
did you employ it?” I recovered
myself, and said, “As I ought to do.”
“How, in unburdening your conscience?”
“Yes, in unburdening my conscience.”
“That is false; the greatest sinner on
earth could not have blotted so many pages
with the record of his crimes.” “I have
often been told in the convent, I was the
greatest sinner on earth.” “You equivocate
again, and convert your ambiguities
into reproaches—this will not do—you
must answer plainly: For what purpose did
you procure so much paper, and how have
you employed it?” “I have told you already.”
“It was, then, employed in your
confession?”—I was silent, but bowed assentingly.—“You
can, then, shew us the
proofs of your application to your duties.
Where is the manuscript that contains
your confession?” I blushed and hesitated,
as I showed about half-a-dozen blotted
and scrawled pages as my confession. It
was ridiculous. It did not occupy more
than a tenth part of the paper which I had
received. “And this is your confession?”
“It is.” “And you dare to say that you
have employed all the paper entrusted to
you for that purpose.”—I was silent.
“Wretch!” said the Superior, losing all
patience, “disclose instantly for what purpose
you have employed the paper granted
you. Acknowledge instantly that it
was for some purpose contrary to the interests
of this house.”—At these words I
was roused. I saw again the cloven foot
of interest peeping from beneath the monastic
garb. I answered, “Why am I
suspected if you are not guilty? What
could I accuse you of? What could I
complain of if there were no cause? Your
own consciences must answer this question
for me.” At these words, the monks were
again about to interpose, when the Superior,
silencing them by a signal, went on
with his matter-of-fact questions, that paralyzed
all the energy of passion. “You will
not tell me what you have done with the
paper committed to you?”—I was silent.—“I
enjoin you, by your holy obedience,
to disclose it this moment.”—His voice rose
in passion as he spoke, and this operated
as a signal on mine. I said, “You have
no right, my father, to demand such a declaration.”
“Right is not the question now.
I command you to tell me. I require
your oath on the altar of Jesus Christ, and
by the image of his blessed Mother.”
“You have no right to demand such an
oath. I know the rules of the house—I
am responsible to the confessor.” “Do
you, then, make a question between right
and power? You shall soon feel, within
these walls, they are the same.” “I make
no question—perhaps they are the same.”
“And you will not tell what you have
done with those papers, blotted, doubtless,
with the most infernal calumnies?” “I
will not.” “And you will take the consequences
of your obstinacy on your own
head?” “I will.” And the four monks
chorussed again, all in the same unnatural
tone, “The consequences be on his own
head.” But while they spoke thus, two
of them whispered in my ears, “Deliver
up your papers, and all is well. The
whole convent knows you have been
writing.” I answered, “I have nothing
to give up—nothing on the faith of a
monk. I have not a single page in my
possession, but what you have seized on.”
The monks, who had whispered in a conciliatory
tone to me before, quitted me.
They conversed in whispers with the Superior,
who, darting on me a terrible look,
exclaimed, “And you will not give up
your papers?” “I have nothing to give
up: Search my person—search my cell—every
thing is open to you.” “Every
thing shall be soon,” said the Superior in
fury. In a moment the examination commenced.
There was not an article of furniture
in my cell that was not the object
of their investigation. My chair and table
were overturned, shaken, and finally broken,
in the attempt to discover whether
any papers had been secreted in them.
The prints were snatched from the walls,—held
up between them and the light.—Then
the very frames were broken, to try
if any thing was concealed in them. Then
they examined my bed;—they threw all
the furniture about the floor, they unripped
the mattress, and tore out the straw;
one of them, during this operation, actually
applied his teeth to facilitate it,—and
this malice of activity formed a singular
contrast to the motionless and rigid torpor
with which they had clothed themselves
but a few moments before. All this time,
I stood in the centre of the floor, as I was
ordered, without turning to right or left.
Nothing was found to justify their suspicions.
They then surrounded me; and
the examination of my person was equally
rapid, minute, and indecorous. Every
thing I wore was on the floor in a moment:
The very seams of my habit were
ript open; and, during the examination, I
covered myself with one of the blankets
they had taken from my bed. When it
was over, I said, “Have you discovered
any thing?” The Superior answered, in
a voice of rage, struggling proudly, but
vainly, with disappointment, “I have
other means of discovery—prepare for
them, and tremble when they are resorted
to.” At these words he rushed from my
cell, giving a sign to the four monks to
follow him. I was left alone. I had no
longer any doubt of my danger. I saw
myself exposed to the fury of men who
would risk nothing to appease it. I watched,
waited, trembled, at every step I heard
in the gallery—at the sound of every door
that opened or shut near me. Hours went
on in this agony of suspense, and terminated
at last without an event. No one came
near me that night—the next was to be
that of the great confession. In the course
of the day, I took my place in the choir,
trembling, and watching every eye. I felt
as if every countenance was turned on me,
and every tongue said in silence, “Thou
art the man.” Often I wished that the
storm I felt was gathering around me,
would burst at once. It is better to hear
the thunder than to watch the cloud. It
did not burst, however, then. And when
the duties of the day were over, I retired
to my cell, and remained there, pensive,
anxious, and irresolute.
“The confession had begun; and as I
heard the penitents, one by one, return
from the church, and close the doors of
their cells, I began to dread that I was to
be excluded from approaching the holy
chair, and that this exclusion from a sacred
and indispensible right, was to be the commencement
of some mysterious course of
rigour. I waited, however, and was at
last summoned. This restored my courage,
and I went through my duties more
tranquilly. After I had made my confession,
only a few simple questions were
proposed to me, as, Whether I could accuse
myself of any inward breach of conventual
duty? of any thing I had reserved?
any thing in my conscience? &c.—and
on my answering them in the negative,
was suffered to depart. It was on
that very night the porter died. My last
packet had gone some days before,—all
was safe and well. Neither voice or line
could bear witness against me now, and
hope began to revisit me, as I reflected
that my brother’s zealous industry would
discover some other means for our future
communication.
“All was profound calm for a few days,
but the storm was to come soon enough.
On the fourth evening after the confession,
I was sitting alone in my cell, when I
heard an unusual bustle in the convent.
The bell was rung,—the new porter seemed
in great agitation,—the Superior hurried
to the parlour first, then to his cell,—then
some of the elder monks were summoned.
The younger whispered in the
galleries,—shut their doors violently,—all
seemed in agitation. In a domestic building,
occupied by the smallest family, such
circumstances would hardly be noticed,
but, in a convent, the miserable monotony
of what may be called their internal existence,
gives an importance,—an interest, to
the most trivial external circumstance in
common life. I felt all this. I said to myself,
“Something is going on.”—I added,
“Something is going on against me.” I
was right in both my conjectures. Late in
the evening I was ordered to attend the
Superior in his own apartment,—I said
I was ready to go. Two minutes after the
order was reversed, and I was desired to
remain in my cell, and await the approach
of the Superior,—I answered I was willing
to obey. But this sudden change of orders
filled me with an indefinite fear; and in all
the changes of my life, and vicissitude of
my feelings, I have never felt any fear so
horrible. I walked up and down, I repeated
incessantly, “My God protect me!
my God strengthen me!” Then I dreaded
to ask the protection of God, doubting
whether the cause in which I was engaged
merited his protection. My ideas, however,
were all scattered by the sudden entrance
of the Superior and the four monks
who had attended him on the visit previous
to the confession. At their entrance
I rose,—no one desired me to sit down.
The Superior advanced with a look of
fury, and, dashing some papers on my
table, said, “Is that your writing?” I
threw a hurried and terrified eye over the
papers,—they were a copy of my memorial.
I had presence of mind enough to
say, “That is not my writing.” “Wretch!
you equivocate, it is a copy of your writing.”—I
was silent.—“Here is a proof of
it,” he added, throwing down another paper.
It was a copy of the memoir of the
advocate, addressed to me, and which, by
the influence of a superior court, they
had not the power of withholding from
me. I was expiring with anxiety to examine
it, but I did not dare to glance at it.
The Superior unfolded page after page.
He said, “Read, wretch! read,—look into
it, examine it line by line.” I approached
trembling,—I glanced at it,—in the
very first lines I read hope. My courage
revived.—I said, “My father, I acknowledge
this to be the copy of my memorial.
I demand your permission to read the answer
of the advocate, you cannot refuse
me this right.” “Read it,” said the Superior,
and he flung it towards me.
“You may readily believe, Sir, that,
under such circumstances, I could not read
with very steady eyes; and my penetration
was not at all quickened by the four
monks disappearing from the cell, at a signal
I did not see. The Superior and I
were now alone. He walked up and down
my cell, while I appeared to hang over
the advocate’s memoir. Suddenly he stopped;—he
struck his hand with violence on
the table,—the pages I was trembling over
quivered from the violence of the blow,—I
started from my chair. “Wretch,” said the
Superior, “when have such papers as those
profaned the convent before? When, till
your unhallowed entrance, were we insulted
with the memoirs of legal advocates?
How comes it that you have dared
to——” “Do what, my father?” “Reclaim
your vows, and expose us to all the
scandal of a civil court and its proceedings.”
“I weighed it all against my own
misery.” “Misery! is it thus you speak
of a conventual life, the only life that can
promise tranquillity here, or ensure salvation
hereafter.” These words, uttered by a man
convulsed by the most frantic passion, were
their own refutation. My courage rose in
proportion to his fury; and besides, I was
driven to a point, and forced to act on my
defence. The sight of the papers added
to my confidence. I said, “My father,
it is in vain to endeavour to diminish my
repugnance to the monastic life; the proof
that that repugnance is invincible lies before
you. If I have been guilty of a step
that violates the decorum of a convent, I
am sorry,—but I am not reprehensible.
Those who forced me into a convent, are
guilty of the violence which is falsely ascribed
to me. I am determined, if it be
possible, to change my situation. You see
the efforts I have already made, be assured
they will never cease. Disappointment
will only redouble their energy; and if it
be in the power of heaven or earth to procure
the annulment of my vows, there is
no power in either I will not have recourse
to.” I expected he would not have heard
me out, but he did. He even listened
with calmness, and I prepared myself to
encounter and repel that alternation of reproach
and remonstrance, of solicitation
and menace, which they so well know how
to employ in a convent. “Your repugnance
to a conventual life is then invincible?”
“It is.” “But to what do you
object?—not to your duties, for you perform
them with the most edifying punctuality,—not
to the treatment you receive,
for it has been the most indulgent that our
discipline admits of,—not to the community
itself, who are all disposed to cherish
and love you;—of what do you complain?”
“Of the life itself,—that comprehends
every thing. I am not fit to be a monk.”
“Remember, I implore you, that though
the forms of earthly courts must be obeyed,
from the necessity that makes us dependent
on human institutions, in all matters
between man and man, they never
can be available in matters between God
and man. Be assured, my deluded child,
that if all the courts on earth pronounced
you absolved from your vows this moment,
your own conscience never can absolve
you. All your ignominious life, it will
continue to reproach you with the violation
of a vow, whose breach man has connived
at, but God has not. And, at your
last hour, how horrible will those reproaches
be!” “Not so horrible as at the
hour I took that vow, or rather at the hour
when it was extorted.” “Extorted!”
“Yes, my father, yes,—I take Heaven to
witness against you. On that disastrous
morning, your anger, your remonstrances,
your pleadings, were as ineffectual as they
are now, till you flung the body of my
mother before my feet.” “And do you
reproach me with my zeal in the cause of
your salvation?” “I do not wish to reproach
you. You know the step I have
taken, you must be aware I will pursue it
with all the powers of nature,—that I will
never rest till my vows are annulled, while
a hope of it remains,—and that a soul, determined
as mine, can convert despair itself
into hope. Surrounded, suspected,
watched as I have been, I yet found the
means of conveying my papers to the
hands of the advocate. Calculate the
strength of that resolution which could
effectuate such a measure in the very heart
of a convent. Judge of the futility of all
future opposition, when you failed in defeating,
or even detecting, the first steps of
my design.” At these words the Superior
was silent. I believed I had made an impression
on him. I added, “If you wish
to spare the community the disgrace of
my prosecuting my appeal within its walls,
the alternative is easy. Let the door be
left unguarded some day, connive at my
escape, and my presence shall never molest
or dishonour you another hour.”
“How! would you make me not only a
witness, but an accomplice in your crime?
Apostate from God, and plunged in perdition
as you are, do you repay the hand
stretched out to save you, by seizing it,
that you may drag me into the infernal
gulph along with you?” and he walked up
and down the cell in the most violent agitation.
This unlucky proposal operated
on his master-passion, (for he was exemplarily
rigid in discipline), and produced only
convulsions of hostility. I stood waiting
till this fresh burst had subsided, while he
continued to exclaim incessantly, “My
God, for what offence am I thus humiliated?—for
what inconceivable crime is this
disgrace precipitated on the whole convent?
What will become of our character?
What will all Madrid say?” “My father,
whether an obscure monk lives, dies,
or recalls his vows, is an object of little importance
beyond the walls of his convent.
They will forget me soon, and you will be
consoled by the restored harmony of the
discipline, in which I should always be a
jarring note. Besides, all Madrid, with all
the interest you ascribe to it, could never
be made responsible for my salvation.”
He continued to walk up and down, repeating,
“What will the world say? What
will become of us?” till he had worked
himself into a state of fury; and, suddenly
turning on me, he exclaimed, “Wretch!
renounce your horrible resolution,—renounce
it this moment! I give you but
five minutes for consideration.” “Five
thousand would make no change.” “Tremble,
then, lest you should not have life
spared to see the fulfilment of your impious
purposes.”
“As he uttered these words he rushed
from my cell. The moments I passed
during his absence were, I think, the most
horrible of my life. Their terror was
aggravated by darkness, for it was now
night, and he had carried away the light
along with him. My agitation did not at
first permit me to observe this. I felt I
was in the dark, but knew not how or
why. A thousand images of indescribable
horror rushed in a host on me. I
had heard much of the terrors of convents,—of
their punishments, often carried to
the infliction of death, or of reducing their
victim to a state in which death would
have been a blessing. Dungeons, chains,
and scourges, swam before my eyes in a
fiery mist. The threatening words of the
Superior appeared emblazoned on the
darkened walls of my cell in characters of
flame. I shuddered,—I cried aloud, though
conscious that my voice would be echoed
by no friendly answering tones in a community
of sixty persons,—such is the sterility
of humanity in a convent. At last
my very fears recovered me by their excess.
I said to myself, “They dare not
murder me,—they dare not incarcerate me;—they
are answerable to the court to which
I have appealed for my forthcoming,—they
dare not be guilty of any violence.”
Just as I had come to this comfortable
conclusion, which indeed was the triumph
of the sophistry of hope, the door of my
cell was thrown open, and the Superior,
attended by his four satellites, re-entered.
My eyes were dim from the darkness
in which I had been left, but I could
distinguish that they carried with them a
rope and a piece of sackcloth. I drew the
most frightful presages from this apparatus.
I altered my reasoning in a moment, and
instead of saying they dare not do so and
so, I instantly argued, “What dare they
not do? I am in their power,—they know
it. I have provoked them to the utmost,—what
is it monks will not do in the impotence
of their malignity?—what is to become
of me?” They advanced, and I imagined
the rope was to strangle me, and the
sackcloth to inclose my murdered body.
A thousand images of blood swam before
me,—a gush of fire choaked up my respiration.
The groans of a thousand victims
seemed to rise from the vaults of the convent,
to which they had been hurried by
a fate like mine. I know not what is
death, but I am convinced I suffered the
agonies of many deaths in that moment.
My first impulse was to throw myself on
my knees. I said, “I am in your power,—I
am guilty in your eyes,—accomplish
your purpose, but do not keep me long in
pain.” The Superior, without heeding,
or perhaps hearing me, said, “Now you
are in the posture that becomes you.” At
hearing these words, which sounded less
dreadful than I had feared, I prostrated
myself to the ground. A few moments
before I would have thought this a degradation,
but fear is very debasing. I had a
dread of violent means,—I was very young,
and life was not the less attractive from its
being arrayed only in the brilliant drapery
of imagination. The monks observed my
posture,—they feared its effect on the Superior.
They said, in that choral monotony,—that
discordant unison that had
frozen my blood when I knelt in the same
posture but a few nights before, “Reverend
father, do not suffer yourself to be
imposed on by this prostituted humiliation,—the
time for mercy is past. You
gave him his moments of deliberation,—he
refused to avail himself of them. You
come now not to listen to pleadings, but
to inflict justice.” At these words, that
announced every thing horrible, I went on
my knees from one to the other, as they
all stood in a grim and executioner-like
row. I said to each with tears, “Brother
Clement,—Brother Justin,—why do you
try to irritate the Superior against me?
Why do you precipitate a sentence which,
whether just or not, must be severe, since
you are to be the executioners? What
have I done to offend you? I interceded
for you when you were guilty of any slight
deviation—Is this my return?” “This is
wasting time,” said the monks. “Hold,”
said the Superior; “give him leave to
speak. Will you avail yourself of the last
moment of indulgence I can ever afford
you, to renounce your horrible resolution
of recalling your vows?” Those words
renewed all my energies. I stood upright
before them all. I said, in a loud distinct
voice, “Never—I stand at the bar of
God.” “Wretch! you have renounced
God.” “Well, then, my father, I have
only to hope that God will not renounce
me. I have appealed to a bar also, over
which you have no power.” “But we
have power here, and that you shall feel.”
He made a signal, and the four monks approached.
I uttered one short cry of fear,
but submitted the next moment. I felt
convinced it was to be my last. I was astonished,
when, instead of fastening the
cords round my neck, they bound my arms
with them. They then took off my habit,
and covered me with the sackcloth. I made
no resistance; but shall I confess to you,
Sir, I felt some disappointment. I was
prepared for death, but something worse
than death appeared threatened in these
preparations. When we are driven to the
precipice of mortality, we spring forward
with resolution, and often defeat the triumph
of our murderers, by merging it in our
own. But when we are led to it step by step,
held often over it, and then withdrawn, we
lose our resolution along with our patience;
and feel, that the last blow would be mercy,
compared with its long-suspended, slowly
descending, wavering, mutilating, hesitating
stroke. I was prepared for every thing
but what followed. Bound with this rope
as fast as a felon, or a galley-slave, and covered
only with the sackcloth, they dragged
me along the gallery. I uttered no
cry, made no resistance. They descended
the stairs that led to the church. I followed,
or rather was dragged after them.
They crossed the aisle; there was a dark
passage near it which I had never observed
before. We entered it. A low door at
the end presented a frightful perspective.
At sight of it I cried aloud, “You will not
immure me? You will not plunge me in
that horrible dungeon, to be withered by
damps, and devoured by reptiles? No,
you will not,—remember you are answerable
for my life.” At these words, they
surrounded me; then, for the first time, I
struggled,—I called for help;—this was the
moment they waited for; they wanted
some repugnance on my part. The signal
was instantly given to a lay-brother, who
waited in the passage,—the bell was rung,—that
terrible bell, that requires every
member of a convent to plunge into
his cell, as something extraordinary is
going on in the house. At the first
toll I lost all hope. I felt as if not a living
being was in existence but those who
surrounded me, and who appeared, in the
livid light of one taper burning faintly in
that dismal passage, like spectres hurrying
a condemned soul to his doom. They
hurried me down the steps to this door,
which was considerably below the level of
the passage. It was a long time before
they could open it; many keys were tried;
perhaps they might have felt some agitation
at the thoughts of the violence they
were going to commit. But this delay
increased my terrors beyond expression; I
imagined this terrible vault had never been
inclosed before; that I was to be the first
victim inhumed within it; and that their
determination was, I should never quit it
alive. As these thoughts occurred, in unutterable
agony I cried aloud, though I
felt I was beyond all human hearing; but
my cries were drowned in the jarring of the
heavy door, as it yielded to the efforts of the
monks, who, uniting their strength, pushed
it with extended arms, grating all the way
against the floor of stone. The monks
hurried me in, while the Superior stood at
the entrance with the light, appearing to
shudder at the view it disclosed. I had
time to view all the furniture of what I
thought my last abode. It was of stone; the
roof formed an arch; a block of stone supported
a crucifix, and a death’s head, with
a loaf and a pitcher of water. There was a
mat on the floor, to lie on; another rolled
up at the end of it formed a pillow. They
flung me on it, and prepared to depart. I
no longer struggled, for I knew escape was
in vain, but I supplicated them at least to
leave me a light; and I petitioned for this
with as much earnestness as I could have
done for my liberty. Thus it is that misery
always breaks down the mind into
petty details. We have not strength to
comprehend the whole of our calamity.
We feel not the mountain which is heaped
on us, but the nearest grains press on and
grind us. I said, “In Christian mercy
leave me a light, if it be but to defend myself
against the reptiles that must swarm
here.” And already I saw this was true,
for some of extraordinary size, disturbed
by the phænomenon of the light, came
crawling down the walls. All this time
the monks were straining their strength
to close the heavy door; they did not utter
a word. “I adjure you to leave me light,
if it is but to gaze on that skull; fear not
the exercise of sight can be any indulgence
in this place; but still let me have a light;
think that when I wish to pray, I must feel
my way to that crucifix.” As I spoke, the
door was with difficulty closed and locked,
and I heard their departing steps. You
will hardly believe, Sir, that I slept profoundly;
yet I did; but I would rather
never sleep again, than awake so horribly.
I awoke in the darkness of day. I was to
behold the light no more; nor to watch
those divisions of time, which, by measuring
our portions of suffering, appear to
diminish them. When the clock strikes,
we know an hour of wretchedness is past,
never to return. My only time-keeper
was the approach of the monk, who every
day renewed my allowance of bread and
water; and had he been the object I loved
most on earth, the sound of his steps could
not have made more delicious music.
These æras by which we compute the
hours of darkness and inanity are inconceivable
to any but those who are situated
as I was. You have heard, Sir, no
doubt, that the eye which, on its being
first immersed into darkness, appears deprived
of the power of vision for ever, acquires,
imperceptibly, a power of accommodating
itself to its darkened sphere, and
even of distinguishing objects by a kind of
conventional light. The mind certainly
possesses the same power, otherwise, how
could I have had the power to reflect, to
summon some resolution, and even to indulge
some hope, in this frightful abode?
Thus it is, when all the world seems sworn
to hostility against us, we turn friends to
ourselves with all the obstinacy of despair;—and
while all the world is flattering and
deifying us, we are the perpetual victims
of lassitude and self-reproach.
“The prisoner whose hours are visited by
a dream of emancipation, is less a prey to
ennui than the sovereign on a throne, begirt
with adulation, voluptuousness, and
satiety. I reflected that all my papers
were safe,—that my cause was prosecuting
with vigour,—that, owing to my brother’s
zeal, I had the ablest advocate in Madrid,—that
they dared not murder me, and
were answerable with the whole credit of
the house for my re-appearance whenever
the courts demanded it,—that the very
rank of my family was a powerful protection,
though none of them but my generous
fiery Juan was probably favourable
to me;—that if I was permitted to receive
and read the advocate’s first memoir, even
through the hands of the Superior, it was
absurd to imagine that I could be denied
intercourse with him in a more advanced
and important stage of the business. These
were the suggestions of my hope, and
they were plausible enough. What were
the suggestions of my despair, I shudder
even at this moment to reflect on. The
most terrible of all was, that I might be
murdered conventually before it was possible
that my liberation could be accomplished.
“Such, Sir, were my reflections; you
may ask, what were my occupations? My
situation supplied me with those, and, revolting
as they were, they were still occupations.
I had my devotions to perform;
religion was my only resource in solitude
and darkness, and while I prayed only for
liberty and peace, I felt I was not at least
insulting God by the prayers of hypocrisy,
which I would have been compelled to utter
in the choir. There I was obliged to
join in a sacrifice that was odious to me,
and offensive to him;—in my dungeon I
offered up the sacrifice of my heart, and
felt it was not unacceptable. During the
glimpse of light afforded me by the approach
of the monk who brought me
bread and water, I arranged the crucifix
so as that I could feel it when I awoke.
This was very often, and not knowing
whether it was day or night, I uttered my
prayers at random. I knew not whether
it was matins or vespers; there was neither
morning or evening for me, but it
was like a talisman to me to touch the crucifix,
and I said as I felt for it, “My God
is with me in the darkness of my dungeon;
he is a God who has suffered, and can pity
me. My extremest point of wretchedness
can be nothing to what this symbol of divine
humiliation for the sins of man, has
undergone for mine!”—and I kissed the
sacred image (with lips wandering from
the darkness) with more emotion than I
had ever felt when I saw it illuminated by
the blaze of tapers, amid the elevation of
the Host, the tossing of the perfumed
censers, the gorgeous habits of the priests,
and the breathless prostration of the faithful.
I had other occupations less dignified,
but quite as necessary. The reptiles, who
filled the hole into which I had been
thrust, gave me opportunity for a kind of
constant, miserable, ridiculous hostility.
My mat had been placed in the very seat
of warfare;—I shifted it,—still they pursued
me;—I placed it against the wall,—the
cold crawling of their bloated limbs
often awoke me from my sleep, and still
oftener made me shudder when awake. I
struck at them;—I tried to terrify them
by my voice, to arm myself against them
by the help of my mat; but above all, my
anxiety was ceaseless to defend my bread
from their loathsome incursions, and my
pitcher of water from their dropping into
it. I adopted a thousand precautions, trivial
as they were inefficacious, but still
there was occupation. I do assure you,
Sir, I had more to do in my dungeon than
in my cell. To be fighting with reptiles
in the dark appears the most horrible
struggle that can be assigned to man; but
what is it compared to his combat with
those reptiles which his own heart hourly
engenders in a cell, and of which, if his
heart be the mother, solitude is the father.
I had another employment,—I cannot call
it occupation. I had calculated with myself,
that sixty minutes made an hour,
and sixty seconds a minute. I began to
think I could keep time as accurately as
any clock in a convent, and measure the
hours of my confinement or—my release.
So I sat and counted sixty; a doubt always
occurred to me, that I was counting
them faster than the clock. Then I wished
to be the clock, that I might have no
feeling, no motive for hurrying on the approach
of time. Then I reckoned slower.
Sleep sometimes overtook me in this exercise,
(perhaps I adopted it from that hope);
but when I awoke, I applied to it again
instantly. Thus I oscillated, reckoned, and
measured time on my mat, while time
withheld its delicious diary of rising and
setting suns,—of the dews of dawn and
of twilight,—of the glow of morning and
the shades of the evening. When my
reckoning was broken by my sleep, (and
I knew not whether I slept by day or by
night), I tried to eke it out by my incessant
repetition of minutes and seconds,
and I succeeded; for I always consoled
myself, that whatever hour it was, sixty
minutes must go to an hour. Had I led
this life much longer, I might have been
converted into the idiot, who, as I have
read, from the habit of watching a clock,
imitated its mechanism so well, that when
it was down, he sounded the hour as faithfully
as ear could desire. Such was my
life. On the fourth day, (as I reckoned
by the visits of the monk), he placed my
bread and water on the block of stone as
usual, but hesitated for some time before
he departed. In fact, he felt a repugnance
at delivering an intimation of hope; it
was not consonant either to his profession,
or the office which, in the wantonness of
monastic malignity, he had accepted as
penance. You shudder at this, Sir, but
it is nevertheless true; this man thought
he was doing service to God, by witnessing
the misery of a being incarcerated
amid famine, darkness, and reptiles. He
recoiled when his penance terminated.
Alas! how false is that religion which
makes our aggravating the sufferings of
others our mediator with that God who
willeth all men to be saved. But this is a
question to be solved in convents. This
man hesitated long, struggled with the
ferocity of his nature, and at last departed
and bolted the door, that he might indulge
it a few moments longer. Perhaps in
those moments he prayed to God, and ejaculated
a petition, that this protraction of
my sufferings might be accepted as a melioration
of his own. I dare say he was
very sincere; but if men were taught to
look to the one great Sacrifice, would they
be so ready to believe that their own, or
those of others, could ever be accepted as
a commutation for it? You are surprised,
Sir, at these sentiments from a Catholic;
but another part of my story will disclose
the cause of my uttering them. At length
this man could delay his commission no
longer. He was obliged to tell me that
the Superior was moved by my sufferings,
that God had touched his heart in my behalf,
and that he permitted me to quit my
dungeon. The words were scarce out of
his mouth, before I rose, and rushed out
with a shout that electrified him. Emotion
is very unusual in convents, and the
expression of joy a phenomenon. I had
gained the passage before he recovered
his surprise; and the convent walls, which
I had considered as those of a prison, now
appeared the area of emancipation. Had
its doors been thrown open to me that
moment, I don’t think I could have felt a
more exquisite sensibility of liberty. I
fell on my knees in the passage to thank
God. I thanked him for the light, for the
air, for the restored power of respiration.
As I was uttering these effusions, (certainly
not the least sincere that were ever
poured forth within those walls), suddenly
I became sick,—my head swam round,—I
had feasted on the light to excess. I fell to
the ground, and remember nothing for many
hours afterwards. When I recovered my
senses, I was in my cell, which appeared just
as I had left it; it was day-light, however;
and I am persuaded that circumstance contributed
more to my restoration, than the
food and cordials with which I was now
liberally supplied. All that day I heard
nothing, and had time to meditate on the
motives of the indulgence with which I
had been treated. I conceived that an
order might have been issued to the Superior
to produce me, or, at all events, that
he could not prevent those interviews between
the advocate and me, which the
former might insist on as necessary while
my cause was carrying on. Towards
evening some monks entered my cell;
they talked of indifferent matters,—affected
to consider my absence as the result of
indisposition, and I did not undeceive
them. They mentioned, as if incidentally,
that my father and mother, overwhelmed
with grief at the scandal I had brought
on religion by appealing against my vows,
had quitted Madrid. At this intelligence
I felt much more emotion than I showed.
I asked them how long I had been ill?
They answered, Four days. This confirmed
my suspicions with regard to the
cause of my liberation, for the advocate’s
letter had mentioned, that on the fifth day
he would require an interview with me on
the subject of my appeal. They then departed;
but I was soon to receive another
visitor. After vespers, (from which I was
excused), the Superior entered my cell
alone. He approached my bed. I attempted
to rise, but he desired me to
compose myself, and sat down near me
with a calm but penetrating look. He
said, “You have now found we have it in
our power to punish.”—“I never doubted
it.”—“Before you tempt that power to an
extremity, which, I warn you, you will
not be able to endure, I come to demand
of you to resign this desperate appeal
against your vows, which can terminate
only in dishonouring God, and disappointing
yourself.”—“My father, without entering
into details, which the steps taken
on both sides have rendered wholly unnecessary,
I can only reply, that I will support
my appeal with every power Providence
puts within my reach, and that my
punishment has only confirmed my resolution.”—“And
this is your final determination?”—“It
is, and I implore you to
spare me all further importunity,—it will
be useless.” He was silent for a long time;
at length he said, “And you will insist
on your right to an interview with the
advocate to-morrow?”—“I shall claim it.”—“It
will not be necessary, however, to
mention to him your late punishment.”
These words struck me. I comprehended
the meaning which he wished to conceal
in them, and I answered, “It may not be
necessary, but it will probably be expedient.”—“How?—would
you violate the
secrets of the house, while you are yet
within its walls?”—“Pardon me, my father,
for saying, that you must be conscious
of having exceeded your duty, to
be so anxious for its concealment. It is
not, then, the secrets of your discipline,
but the violation of it, I shall have to disclose.”—He
was silent, and I added, “If
you have abused your power, though I
have been the sufferer, it is you who are
guilty.”—The Superior rose, and quitted
my cell in silence. The next morning I
attended matins. Service went on as
usual, but at its conclusion, when the
community were about to rise from their
knees, the Superior, striking the desk
violently with his hand, commanded them
all to remain in the same posture. He
added, in a thundering voice, “The intercession
of this whole community with
God is supplicated for a monk who, abandoned
by the Spirit of God, is about to
commit an act dishonourable to Him, disgraceful
to the church, and infallibly destructive
of his own salvation.” At these
terrible sounds the monks, all shuddering,
sunk on their knees again. I was kneeling
among them, when the Superior, calling
me by my name, said aloud, “Rise,
wretch! rise, and pollute not our incense
with your unhallowed breath!” I
rose, trembling and confounded, and
shrunk to my cell, where I remained
till I was summoned by a monk to the
parlour, to meet the advocate, who waited
for me there. This interview was
rendered quite ineffective by the presence
of the monk, who was desired
by the Superior to witness our conference,
and whom the advocate could not
order away. When we entered into details,
he interrupted us with declarations,
that his duty would not permit such a violation
of the rules of the parlour. When
I asserted a fact, he contradicted it, gave
me the lie repeatedly, and finally disturbed
the purpose of our conference so completely,
that in mere self-defence, I spoke
of the subject of my punishment, which
he could not deny, and to which my livid
looks bore a testimony invincible. The
moment I spoke on this subject the monk
became silent, (he was treasuring every
word for the Superior), and the advocate
redoubled his attention. He took minutes
of every thing I said, and appeared to lay
more stress on the matter than I had imagined,
or indeed wished for. When the
conference was over, I retired again to my
cell. The advocate’s visits were repeated
for some days, till he had obtained the information
requisite for carrying on my
suit; and during this time, my treatment
in the convent was such as to give me no
cause of complaint; and this doubtless
was the motive of their forbearance. But
the moment those visits ceased, the warfare
of persecution commenced. They
considered me as one with whom no measures
were to be kept, and they treated
me accordingly. I am convinced it was
their intention that I should not survive
the event of my appeal; at least it is certain
they left nothing unaccomplished that
could verify that intention. This began,
as I mentioned, on the day of the advocate’s
last visit. The bell rung for refection;—I
was going to take my place as
usual, when the Superior said, “Hold,—place
a mat for him in the midst of the
hall.” This was done, and I was required
to sit down on it, and supplied with bread
and water. I eat a little, which I moistened
with my tears. I foresaw what I
had to undergo, and did not attempt to
expostulate. When grace was about to
be said, I was desired to stand without the
door, lest my presence should frustrate the
benediction they implored.
“I retired, and when the bell rung for
vespers, I presented myself among the rest
at the door of the church. I was surprised
to find it shut, and they all assembled.
When the bell ceased, the Superior appeared,
the door was opened, and the monks hurried
in. I was following, when the Superior repelled
me, exclaiming, “You, wretch, you!
Remain where you are.” I obeyed; and
the whole community entered the church,
while I remained at the door. This species
of excommunication produced its full
effect of terror on me. As the monks
slowly came out, and cast on me looks of
silent horror, I thought myself the most
abject being on earth; I could have hid
myself under the pavement till the event
of my appeal was over.
“The next morning, when I went to matins,
the same scene was renewed, with the
horrible addition of audible reproaches, and
almost imprecations, denounced against
me, as they entered and returned. I knelt
at the door. I did not answer a word. I
returned not “railing for railing,” and lifted
up my heart with a trembling hope,
that this offering might be as acceptable to
God as the sonorous chaunt of the choir,
which I still felt it was miserable to be excluded
from joining.
“In the course of the day, every sluice
of monastic malignity and vengeance was
thrown open. I appeared at the door of the
refectory. I did not dare to enter. Alas!
Sir, how are monks employed in the hour
of refection? It is an hour, when, while
they swallow their meal, they banquet on
the little scandal of the convent. They
ask, “Who was late at prayers? Who is
to undergo penance?” This serves them
for conversation; and the details of their
miserable life supply no other subject for
that mixture of exhaustless malignity and
curiosity, which are the inseparable twins
of monastic birth. As I stood at the door
of the refectory, a lay-brother, to whom
the Superior nodded, bid me retire. I went
to my cell, waited for several hours, and
just when the bell for vespers had rung,
was supplied with food, which famine itself
would have shrunk from. I tried to
swallow it, but could not, and hurried
away, as the bell tolled, to attend vespers;
for I wished to have no cause of complaint
against my neglect of duties. I hastened
down. The door was again shut; service
began; and again I was compelled to
retire without partaking of it. The next
day I was excluded from matins; the
same degrading scene was acted over when
I appeared at the door of the refectory.
Food was sent to my cell, that a dog would
have rejected; and the door was shut when
I attempted to enter the church. A thousand
circumstances of persecution, too contemptible,
too minute, either for recollection
or repetition, but infinitely harassing to the
sufferer, were heaped on me every day.
Imagine, Sir, a community of upwards of
sixty persons, all sworn to each other to
make the life of one individual insupportable;
joined in a common resolution to insult,
harass, torment, and persecute him;
and then imagine how that individual
can support such a life. I began to
dread the preservation of my reason—of
my existence, which, miserable as it was,
still fed on the hope of my appeal. I will
sketch one day of my life for you. Ex
uno disce omnes. I went down to matins,
and knelt at the door; I did not dare to
enter. When I retired to my cell, I found
the crucifix taken away. I was about to
go to the Superior’s apartment to complain
of this outrage; in the passage I happened
to meet a monk and two boarders. They
all shrunk close to the walls; they drew
in their garments, as if trembling to encounter
the pollution of my touch. I said
mildly, “There is no danger; the passage
is wide enough.” The monk replied,
“Apage Satana. My children,” addressing
the boarders, “repeat with me, apage
Satana; avoid the approach of that demon,
who insults the habit he desecrates.” They
did so; and to render the exorcism complete,
they spit in my face as they passed.
I wiped it off, and thought how little of
the spirit of Jesus was to be found in the
house of his nominal brethren. I proceeded
to the apartment of the Superior, and
knocked timidly at the door. I heard the
words, “Enter in peace;” and I prayed that
it might be in peace. As I opened the
door, I saw several monks assembled with
the Superior. The latter uttered an exclamation
of horror when he saw me, and
threw his robe over his eyes; the monks
understood the signal; the door was closed,
and I was excluded. That day I waited
several hours in my cell before any food
was brought me. There is no state of
feeling that exempts us from the wants of
nature. I had no food for many days requisite
for the claims of adolescence, which
were then rapidly manifesting themselves
in my tall, but attenuated frame. I descended
to the kitchen to ask for my share
of food. The cook crossed himself as I
appeared at the door; for even at the door
of the kitchen I faultered at the threshold.
He had been taught to consider me as a
demon incarnate, and shuddered, while he
asked, “What do you want?”—“Food,” I
replied; “food;—that is all.”—“Well, you
shall have it—but come no further—there
is food.” And he flung me the offal of
the kitchen on the earth; and I was so
hungry, that I devoured it eagerly. The
next day I was not so lucky; the cook had
learned the secret of the convent, (that of
tormenting those whom they no longer
have hopes of commanding), and mixed the
fragments he threw to me, with ashes, hair,
and dust. I could hardly pick out a morsel
that, famished as I was, was eatable.
They allowed me no water in my cell; I
was not permitted to partake of it at refection;
and, in the agonies of thirst, aggravated
by my constant solicitude of
mind, I was compelled to kneel at the
brink of the well, (as I had no vessel to
drink out of), and take up the water in
my hand, or lap it like a dog. If I descended
to the garden for a moment, they
took the advantage of my absence to enter
my cell, and remove or destroy every
article of furniture. I have told you that
they took away my crucifix. I had still
continued to kneel and repeat my prayers
before the table on which it stood. That
was taken away,—table, chair, missal, rosary,
every thing, disappeared gradually;
and my cell presented nothing but four bare
walls, with a bed, on which they had rendered
it impossible for me to taste repose.
Perhaps they dreaded I might, however,
and they hit on an expedient, which, if it
had succeeded, might have deprived me of
reason as well as repose.
“I awoke one night, and saw my cell in
flames; I started up in horror, but shrunk
back on perceiving myself surrounded by
demons, who, clothed in fire, were breathing
forth clouds of it around me. Desperate
with horror, I rushed against the
wall, and found what I touched was cold.
My recollection returned, and I comprehended,
that these were hideous figures
scrawled in phosphorus, to terrify me. I
then returned to my bed, and as the day-light
approached, observed these figures
gradually decline. In the morning, I took
a desperate resolution of forcing my way
to the Superior, and speaking to him. I
felt my reason might be destroyed amid
the horrors they were surrounding me
with.
“It was noon before I could work myself
up to execute this resolution. I knocked
at his cell, and when the door was opened,
he exhibited the same horror as at my former
intrusion, but I was not to be repelled.
“My father, I require you to hear me, nor
will I quit this spot till you do so.”—“Speak.”—“They
famish me,—I am not
allowed food to support nature.”—“Do
you deserve it?”—“Whether I do or not,
neither the laws of God or man have yet
condemned me to die of hunger; and if
you do, you commit murder.”—“Have
you any thing else to complain of?”—“Every
thing; I am not allowed to enter
the church,—I am forbid to pray,—they
have stripped my cell of crucifix, rosary,
and the vessel for holy water. It is impossible
for me to perform my devotions
even alone.”—“Your devotions!”—“My
father, though I am not a monk, may I
not still be a Christian?”—“In renouncing
your vows, you have abjured your claim
to either character.”—“But I am still a human
being, and as such—But I appeal not
to your humanity, I call on your authority
for protection. Last night, my cell was
covered with representations of fiends.
I awoke in the midst of flames and spectres.”—“So
you will at the last day!”—“My
punishment will then be enough, it
need not commence already.”—“These are
the phantoms of your conscience.”—“My
father, if you will deign to examine my
cell, you will find the traces of phosphorus
on the walls.”—“I examine your cell?
I enter it?”—“Am I then to expect no
redress? Interpose your authority for the
sake of the house over which you preside.
Remember that, when my appeal becomes
public, all these circumstances will become
so too, and you are to judge what degree
of credit they will attach to the community.”
“Retire!” I did so, and found
my application attended to, at least with regard
to food, but my cell remained in the
same dismantled state, and I continued
under the same desolating interdiction from
all communion, religious or social. I assure
you, with truth, that so horrible was
this amputation from life to me, that I
have walked hours in the cloister and the
passages, to place myself in the way of the
monks, who, I knew, as they passed, would
bestow on me some malediction or reproachful
epithet. Even this was better
than the withering silence which surrounded
me. I began almost to receive it
as a customary salutation, and always returned
it with a benediction. In a fortnight
my appeal was to be decided on;
this was a circumstance I was kept in ignorance
of, but the Superior had received
a notification of it, and this precipitated his
resolution to deprive me of the benefit of
its eventual success, by one of the most
horrible schemes that ever entered the human
(I retract the expression) the monastic
heart. I received an indistinct intimation
of it the very night after my application
to the Superior; but had I been apprised,
from the first, of the whole extent
and bearings of their purpose, what resources
could I have employed against
it?
“That evening I had gone into the garden;
my heart felt unusually oppressed.
Its thick troubled beatings, seemed like
the vibrations of a time-piece, as it measures
our approach to some hour of sorrow.
“It was twilight; the garden was
empty; and kneeling on the ground, in
the open air, (the only oratory they had
left me), I attempted to pray. The attempt
was in vain;—I ceased to articulate
sounds that had no meaning—and, overcome
by a heaviness of mind and body
inexpressible, I fell on the ground, and remained
extended on my face, torpid, but
not senseless. Two figures passed, without
perceiving me; they were in earnest
conversation. One of them said, “More
vigorous measures must be adopted. You
are to blame to delay them so long. You
will be answerable for the disgrace of the
whole community, if you persist in this
foolish lenity.”—“But his resolution remains
unbroken,” said the Superior, (for
it was he).—“It will not be proof against
the measure I have proposed.”—“He is
in your hands then; but remember I will
not be accountable for——” They were by
this time out of hearing. I was less terrified
than you will believe, by what I had
heard. Those who have suffered much,
are always ready to exclaim, with the unfortunate
Agag, “Surely the bitterness of
death is past.” They know not, that that
is the very moment when the sword is
unsheathed to hew them in pieces. That
night, I had not been long asleep, when I
was awoke by a singular noise in my cell:
I started up, and listened. I thought I
heard some one hurry away barefooted.
I knew I had no lock to my door, and
could not prevent the intrusion of any one
into my cell who pleased to visit it; but
still I believed the discipline of the convent
too strict to allow of this. I composed
myself again, but was hardly asleep,
when I was again awoke by something
that touched me. I started up again; a
soft voice near me said in whispers, “Compose
yourself; I am your friend.”—“My
friend? Have I one?—but why visit me
at this hour?”—“It is the only hour at
which I am permitted to visit you.”—“But
who are you, then?”—“One whom these
walls can never exclude. One to whom,
if you devote yourself, you may expect
services beyond the power of man.”—There
was something frightful in these words.
I cried out, “Is it the enemy of souls that
is tempting me?” As I uttered these
words, a monk rushed in from the passage,
(where he had been evidently
waiting, for his dress was on). He exclaimed,
“What is the matter? You
have alarmed me by your cries,—you pronounced
the name of the infernal spirit,—what
have you seen? what is it you fear?”
I recovered myself, and said, “I have seen
or heard nothing extraordinary. I have
had frightful dreams, that is all. Ah!
Brother St Joseph, no wonder, after passing
such days, my nights should be disturbed.”
“The monk retired, and the next day
passed as usual; but at night the same
whispering sounds awoke me again. The
preceding night these sounds had only
startled me; they now alarmed me. In
the darkness of night, and the solitude of
my cell, this repeated visitation overcame
my spirits. I began almost to admit the
idea that I was exposed to the assaults of
the enemy of man. I repeated a prayer,
but the whisper, which seemed close to
my ear, still continued. It said, “Listen,—listen
to me, and be happy. Renounce
your vows, place yourself under
my protection, and you shall have no
cause to complain of the exchange. Rise
from your bed, trample on the crucifix
which you will find at the foot of it, spit
on the picture of the Virgin that lies beside
it, and——” At these words I
could not suppress a cry of horror. The
voice ceased in a moment, and the same
monk, who occupied the cell next to mine,
rushed in with the same exclamations as
on the preceding night; and, as he entered
my cell, the light in his hand shewed a
crucifix, and a picture of the blessed Virgin,
placed at the foot of my bed. I had
sprung up when the monk entered my
cell; I saw them, and recognized them to
be the very crucifix and picture of the
Virgin which had been taken from my
cell. All the hypocritical outcries of the
monk, at the disturbance I had again
caused him, could not efface the impression
which this slight circumstance made
on me. I believed, and not without reason,
they had been left there by the hands
of some human tempter. I started, awake
to this horrible imposition, and required
the monk to leave my cell. He demanded,
with a frightful paleness in his looks,
why I had again disturbed him? said it
was impossible to obtain repose while such
noises were occurring in my cell; and,
finally, stumbling over the crucifix and
picture, demanded how they came there.
I answered, “You know best.”—“How,
then, do you accuse me of a compact with
the infernal demon? By what means could
these have been brought to your cell?”—“By
the very hands that removed them,”
I answered; and these words appeared to
produce an effect on him for a moment;
but he retired, declaring, that if the nightly
disturbance in my cell continued, he
must represent it to the Superior. I answered,
the disturbance did not proceed
from me,—but I trembled for the following
night.
“I had reason to tremble. That night,
before I lay down, I repeated prayer after
prayer, the terrors of my excommunication
pressing heavy on my soul. I also
repeated the prayers against possession or
temptation by the evil spirit. These I was
compelled to utter from memory, for I
have told you that they had not left a book
in my cell. In repeating these prayers,
which were very long, and somewhat verbose,
I at last fell asleep. That sleep was
not to continue long. I was again addressed
by the voice that whispered close
to my bed. The moment I heard it, I
rose without fear. I crept around my cell
with my hands extended, and my feet
bare. I could feel nothing but the empty
walls,—not a single object, tangible or visible,
could I encounter. I lay down again,
and had hardly begun the prayer
with which I tried to fortify myself, when
the same sounds were repeated close to
my ear, without the possibility either of
my discovering from whence they proceeded,
or preventing their reaching me. Thus
I was completely deprived of sleep; and if
I dozed for a moment, the same terrible
sounds were re-echoed in my dreams. I
became feverish from want of rest. The
night was passed in watching for these
sounds, or listening to them, and the day
in wild conjectures or fearful anticipations.
I felt a mixture of terror and impatience
inconceivable at the approach
of night. I had a consciousness of imposture
the whole time, but this gave me no
consolation, for there is a point to which
human malice and mischief may be carried,
that would baffle those of a demon. Every
night the persecution was renewed, and
every night it became more terrible. At
times the voice would suggest to me the
most unutterable impurities,—at another,
blasphemies that would make a demon
shudder. Then it would applaud me in a
tone of derision, and assure me of the
final success of my appeal, then change to
the most appalling menaces. The wretched
sleep I obtained, during the intervals
of this visitation, was any thing but refreshing.
I would awake in a cold perspiration,
catching at the bed-furniture,
and repeating in an inarticulate voice, the
last sounds that had rung in my closing
ears. I would start up and see the bed
surrounded by monks, who assured me
they had been disturbed by my cries,—that
they had hurried in terror to my cell.
Then they would cast looks of fear and
consternation on each other and on me;
say, “Something extraordinary is the matter,—something
presses on your mind that
you will not disburden it of.” They implored
me, in the most awful names, and
for the interests of my salvation, to disclose
the cause of these extraordinary visitations.
At these words, however agitated
before, I always became calm. I said,
“Nothing is the matter,—why do you intrude
into my cell?” They shook their
heads, and affected to retire slowly and reluctantly,
as if from pity of my dreadful
situation, while I repeated, “Ah, Brother
Justin, ah Brother Clement, I see you, I
understand you,—remember there is a God
in heaven.”
“One night I lay for a considerable
time without hearing any sound. I fell asleep,
but was soon awoke by an extraordinary
light. I sat up in my bed, and beheld
displayed before me the mother of
God, in all the glorious and irradiated incarnation
of beatitude. She hovered, rather
than stood, in an atmosphere of light
at the foot of my bed, and held a crucifix
in her hand, while she appeared to invite
me, with a benign action, to kiss the five
mysterious wounds. For a moment I
almost believed in the actual presence of
this glorious visitor, but just then the voice
was heard louder than ever, “Spurn them,—spit
on them,—you are mine, and I claim
this homage from my vassal.” At these
words the figure disappeared instantly,
and the voice was renewing its whispers,
but they were repeated to an insensible
ear, for I fell into a swoon. I could easily
distinguish between this state and sleep,
by the deadly sickness, the cold sweats,
and the horrid sense of evanition, that
preceded it, and by the gasping, sobbing,
choaking efforts that attended my recovery.
In the mean time the whole community
carried on and even aggravated the terrible
delusion, which, while it was my torment
to detect, it was my greater to be the victim
of. When art assumes the omnipotence
of reality, when we feel we suffer as
much from an illusion as from truth, our
sufferings lose all dignity and all consolation.
We turn demons against ourselves,
and laugh at what we are writhing under.
All day long I was exposed to the stare of
horror, the shudder of suspicion, and,
worst of all, the hastily-averted glance of hypocritical
commiseration, that dropt its pitying
ray on me for a moment, and was then
instantly raised to heaven, as if to implore
forgiveness for the involuntary crime of
compassionating one whom God had renounced.
When I encountered any of
them in the garden, they would strike into
another walk, and cross themselves in
my sight. If I met them in the passages
of the convent, they drew their garments
close, turned their faces to the wall, and
told their beads as I went by. If I ventured
to dip my hands in the holy water
that stood at the door of the church, it
was thrown out before my face. Certain
extraordinary precautions were adopted by
the whole community against the power
of the evil one. Forms of exorcism were
distributed, and additional prayers were
used in the service of matins and vespers.
A report was industriously diffused, that
Satan was permitted to visit a favoured
and devoted servant of his in the convent,
and that all the brethren might expect the
redoubled malice of his assaults. The effect
of this on the young boarders was indescribable.
They flew with the speed of
lightning from me, whenever they saw
me. If accident forced us to be near each
other for a moment, they were armed with
holy water, which they flung at me in
pailfuls; and when that failed, what cries,—what
convulsions of terror! They knelt,—they
screamed,—they shut their eyes,—they
cried, “Satan have mercy on me,—do
not fix your infernal talons on me,—take
your victim,” and they mentioned
my name. The terror that I inspired I at
last began to feel. I began to believe myself—I
know not what, whatever they
thought me. This is a dreadful state of
mind, but one impossible to avoid. In
some circumstances, where the whole
world is against us, we begin to take its
part against ourselves, to avoid the withering
sensation of being alone on our own
side. Such was my appearance, too, my
flushed and haggard look, my torn dress,
my unequal gait, my constant internal
muttering, and my complete isolation from
the habits of the house, that it was no
wonder I should justify, by my exterior,
all of horrible and awful that might be
supposed passing in my mind. Such an
impression I must have made on the
minds of the younger members. They
had been taught to hate me, but their hatred
was now combined with fear, and
such a union is the most terrible amid all
the complications of human passion. Desolate
as my cell was, I retired to it early, as
I was excluded from the exercises of the
community. The bell for vespers would
ring, I would hear the steps of those who
were hastening to join in the service of
God, and tedious as that service had once
appeared to me, I would now have given
worlds to be permitted to join in it, as a
defence against that horrible midnight
mass of Satan, that I was awaiting
to be summoned to. I knelt however
in my cell, and repeated what prayers
I could recollect, while every toll of the
bell struck on my heart, and the chaunt of
the choir from below sounded like a repulsive
echo to an answer which my fears already
anticipated from heaven.
“One evening that I still continued to
pray, and audibly, as the monks passed
my cell they said, “Do you presume to
pray? Die, desperate wretch,—die and be
damned. Precipitate yourself into the infernal
gulph at once, no longer desecrate
these walls by your presence.” At these
words I only redoubled my prayers; but
this gave greater offence, for churchmen
cannot bear to hear prayers uttered in a
form different from their own. The cry
of a solitary individual to God, sounds like
profanation in their ears. They ask, Why
do they not employ our form? How dare
they hope to be heard? Alas! is it forms
then that God regards? or is it not rather
the prayer of the heart which alone reaches
him, and prospers in its petition? As they
called out, passing my cell, “Perish, impious
wretch, perish,—God will not hear
you,” I answered them on my knees with
blessings,—which of us had the spirit of
prayer? That night was one of trial I
could no longer support. My frame was
exhausted, my mind excited, and, owing
to our frail nature, this battle of the senses
and soul is never long carried on without
the worst side remaining conqueror. I
was no sooner laid down than the voice
began to whisper. I began to pray, but
my head swam round, my eyes flashed
fire,—fire almost tangible, my cell appeared
in flames. Recollect my frame worn
out with famine, my mind worn out with
persecution. I struggled with what I was
conscious was delirium,—but this consciousness
aggravated its horror. It is better
to be mad at once, than to believe that
all the world is sworn to think and make
you be so, in spite of your own consciousness
of your sanity. The whispers this
night were so horrible, so full of ineffable
abominations, of—I cannot think of them,—that
they maddened my very ear. My
senses seemed deranged along with my intellect.
I will give you an instance, it is
but a slight one, of the horrors which——”
Here the Spaniard whispered Melmoth.
The hearer shuddered, and the Spaniard
went on in an agitated tone.
“I could bear it no longer. I sprung
from my bed, I ran through the gallery
like a maniac, knocking at the doors of
the cells, and exclaiming, “Brother such
a one, pray for me,—pray for me, I beseech
you.” I roused the whole convent.
Then I flew down to the church; it was
open, and I rushed in. I ran up the aisle,
I precipitated myself before the altar, I
embraced the images, I clung to the crucifix
with loud and reiterated supplications.
The monks, awakened by my outcries, or
perhaps on the watch for them, descended
in a body to the church, but, perceiving I
was there, they would not enter,—they remained
at the doors, with lights in their
hands, gazing on me. It was a singular
contrast between me, hurrying round the
church almost in the dark, (for there were
but a few lamps burning dimly), and the
groupe at the door, whose expression of
horror was strongly marked by the light,
which appeared to have deserted me to
concentrate itself among them. The most
impartial person on earth might have supposed
me deranged, or possessed, or both,
from the state in which they saw me.
Heaven knows, too, what construction
might have been put on my wild actions,
which the surrounding darkness exaggerated
and distorted, or on the prayers
which I uttered, as I included in them the
horrors of the temptation against which I
implored protection. Exhausted at length,
I fell to the ground, and remained there,
without the power of moving, but able to
hear and observe every thing that passed.
I heard them debate whether they should
leave me there or not, till the Superior
commanded them to remove that abomination
from the sanctuary; and such was
the terror of me into which they had acted
themselves, that he had to repeat his
orders before he could procure obedience
to them. They approached me at last, with
the same caution that they would an infected
corse, and dragged me out by the habit,
leaving me on the paved floor before the
door of the church. They then retired,
and in this state I actually fell asleep, and
continued so till I was awoke by the bell for
matins. I recollected myself, and attempted
to rise; but my having slept on a damp
floor, when in a fever from terror and excitement,
had so cramped my limbs, that
I could not accomplish this without the
most exquisite pain. As the community
passed in to matins, I could not suppress
a few cries of pain. They must have seen
what was the matter, but not one of them
offered me assistance, nor did I dare to implore
it. By slow and painful efforts, I
at last reached my cell; but, shuddering
at the sight of the bed, I threw myself on
the floor for repose.
“I was aware that some notice must be
taken of a circumstance so extraordinary—that
such a subversion of the order and
tranquillity of a convent, would force an
inquiry, even if the object was less remarkable.
But I had a sad foreboding, (for
suffering makes us full of presages), that
this inquiry, however conducted, would
terminate unfavourably to me. I was the
Jonah of the vessel—let the storm blow
from what point it would, I felt the lot
was to fall on me. About noon, I was
summoned to the apartment of the Superior.
I went, but not as at former times,
with a mixture of supplication and remonstrance
on my lips,—with hope and fear
in my heart,—in a fever of excitement or
of terror,—I went sullen, squalid, listless,
reckless; my physical strength, borne
down by fatigue and want of sleep; my
mental, by persecution, incessant and insupportable.
I went no longer shrinking
from, and deprecating their worst, but defying,
almost desiring it, in the terrible
and indefinite curiosity of despair. The
apartment was full of monks; the Superior
stood among them, while they formed
a semicircle at a respectful distance from
him. I must have presented a miserable
contrast to these men arrayed against me
in their pride of power,—their long and
not ungraceful habits, giving their figures
an air of solemnity, perhaps more imposing
than splendour—while I stood opposed to
them, ragged, meagre, livid, and obdurate,
the very personification of an evil spirit
summoned before the angels of judgment.
The Superior addressed me in a long discourse,
in which he but slightly touched
on the scandal given by the attempt to repeal
my vows. He also suppressed any
allusion to the circumstance which was
known to every one in the convent but
myself, that my appeal would be decided
on in a few days. But he adverted in
terms that (in spite of my consciousness
that they were hollow) made me shudder,
to the horror and consternation diffused
through the convent by my late tremendous
visitation, as he called it. “Satan hath
desired to have you,” he said, “because you
have put yourself within his power, by
your impious reclamation of your vows.
You are the Judas among the brethren;
a branded Cain amid a primitive family;
a scape-goat that struggles to burst from
the hands of the congregation into the
wilderness. The horrors that your presence
is hourly heaping on us here, are
not only intolerable to the discipline of a
religious house, but to the peace of civilized
society. There is not a monk who
can sleep within three cells of you. You
disturb them by the most horrible cries—you
exclaim that the infernal spirit is perpetually
beside your bed—that he is whispering
in your ears. You fly from cell to
cell, supplicating the prayers of the brethren.
Your shrieks disturb the holy sleep
of the community—that sleep which they
snatch only in the intervals of devotion.
All order is broken, all discipline subverted,
while you remain among us. The imaginations
of the younger members are at
once polluted and inflamed, by the idea of
the infernal and impure orgies which the
demon celebrates in your cell; and of
which we know not whether your cries,
(which all can hear), announce triumph in,
or remorse for. You rush at midnight into
the church, deface the images, revile the
crucifix, spurn at the altar; and when the
whole community is forced, by this unparalleled
atrocity of blasphemy, to drag you
from the spot you are desecrating, you disturb,
by your cries, those who are passing
to the service of God. In a word, your
howls, your distortions, your demoniac
language, habits, and gestures, have but
too well justified the suspicion entertained
when you first entered the convent.
You were abominable from your
very birth,—you were the offspring of
sin—you are conscious of it. Amid the
livid paleness, that horrible unnatural
white that discolours your very lips, I
see a tinge like crimson burning on
your cheek at the mention of it. The
demon who was presiding at your natal
hour—the demon of impurity and anti-monasticism—pursues
you in the very
walls of a convent. The Almighty, in my
voice, bids you begone;—depart, and trouble
us no more.—Stop,” he added, as he
saw I was obeying his directions literally,
“hold, the interests of religion, and of the
community, have required that I should
take particular notice of the extraordinary
circumstances that have haunted your unhallowed
presence within these walls. In
a short time you may expect a visit from
the Bishop—prepare yourself for it as you
may.” I considered these as the final
words addressed to me, and was about to
retire, when I was recalled. I was desired
to utter some words, which every one was
eager to put into my mouth, of expostulation,
of remonstrance, of supplication. I
resisted them all as steadily as if I had
known (which I did not) that the Bishop
had himself instituted the examination into
the deranged state of the convent; and
that instead of the Superior inviting the
Bishop to examine into the cause of the
disturbance in his convent, (the very last
step he would have taken), the Bishop, (a
man whose character will shortly be developed),
had been apprized of the scandal
of the convent, and had determined to
take the matter into his own hands.
Sunk in solitude and persecution, I knew
not that all Madrid was on fire,—that the
Bishop had determined to be no longer a
passive hearer of the extraordinary scenes
reported to pass in the convent,—that, in
a word, my exorcism and my appeal were
quivering in alternate scales, and that the
Superior himself doubted which way the
scale might incline. All this I was ignorant
of, for no one dared to tell it to me.
I therefore was about to retire without
uttering a word in answer to the many
whispered speeches to humble myself to
the Superior, to implore his intercession
with the Bishop to suspend this disgraceful
examination that threatened us all. I
broke from them as they surrounded me;
and standing calm and sullen at the door,
I threw a retorting look at them, and said,
“God forgive you all, and grant you such
an acquittal at his judgment-seat, as I hesitate
not to claim at that of the Bishop-visitant.”
These words, though uttered
by a ragged demoniac, (as they thought
me), made them tremble. Truth is rarely
heard in convents, and therefore its language
is equally emphatical and portentous.
“The monks crossed themselves, and,
as I left the apartment, repeated, “But
how then,—what if we prevented this
mischief?”—“By what means?”—“By
any that the interests of religion may
suggest,—the character of the convent is
at stake. The Bishop is a man of a strict
and scrutinizing character,—he will keep
his eyes open to the truth,—he will inquire
into facts,—what will become of us?
Were it not better that——” “What?”—“You
comprehend us.”—“And if I
dared to comprehend you, the time is
too short.”—“We have heard of the death
of maniacs being very sudden, of——”
“What do you dare to hint at?”—“Nothing,
we only spoke of what every one
knows, that a profound sleep is often a restorative
to lunatics. He is a lunatic, as
all the convent are ready to swear,—a
wretch possessed by the infernal spirit,
whom he invocates every night in his cell,—he
disturbs the whole convent by his
outcries.”
“The Superior all this time walked impatiently
up and down his apartment. He
entangled his fingers in his rosary,—he
threw on the monks angry looks from
time to time; at last he said, “I am myself
disturbed by his cries,—his wanderings,—his
undoubted commerce with the
enemy of souls. I need rest,—I require
a profound sleep to repair my exhausted
spirits,—what would you prescribe?” Several
pressed forward, not understanding
the hint, and eagerly recommended the
common opiates—Mithridate, &c. &c. An
old monk whispered in his ear, “Laudanum,—it
will procure a deep and sound
sleep. Try it, my father, if you want
rest; but to make the experiment sure,
were it not best to try it first on another?”
The Superior nodded, and the party were
about to disperse, when the Superior
caught the old monk by his habit, and
whispered, “But no murder!”—“Oh no!
only profound sleep.—What matter when
he wakes? It must be to suffering in this
life or the next. We are not guilty in
the business. What signifies a few moments
sooner or later?” The Superior
was of a timid and passionate character.
He still kept hold of the monk’s habit;—he
whispered, “But it must not be
known.”—“But who can know it?” At
this moment the clock struck, and an old
ascetic monk, who occupied a cell adjacent
to the Superior’s, and who had accustomed
himself to the exclamation, “God
knoweth all things,” whenever the clock
struck, repeated it aloud. The Superior
quitted his hold of the monk’s habit,—the
monk crawled to his cell God-struck, if I
may use the expression,—the laudanum
was not administered that night,—the
voice did not return,—I slept the entire
night, and the whole convent was delivered
from the harassings of the infernal
spirit. Alas! none haunted it, but that
spirit which the natural malignity of solitude
raises within the circle of every heart,
and forces us, from the terrible economy
of misery, to feed on the vitals of others,
that we may spare our own.
“This conversation was repeated to me
afterwards by a monk who was on his dying
bed. He had witnessed it, and I have
no reason to doubt his sincerity. In fact,
I always considered it as rather a palliation
than an aggravation of their cruelty to me.
They had made me suffer worse than
many deaths,—the single suffering would
have been instantaneous,—the single act
would have been mercy. The next day
the visit of the Bishop was expected.
There was an indescribable kind of terrified
preparation among the community.
This house was the first in Madrid, and
the singular circumstance of the son of one
of the highest families in Spain having entered
it in early youth,—having protested
against his vows in a few months,—having
been accused of being in a compact
with the infernal spirit a few weeks after,—the
hope of a scene of exorcism,—the
doubt of the success of my appeal,—the
probable interference of the Inquisition,—the
possible festival of an auto da fe,—had
set the imagination of all Madrid on fire;
and never did an audience long more for
the drawing up of the curtain at a popular
opera, than the religious and irreligious of
Madrid did for the developement of the
scene which was acting at the convent of
the Ex-Jesuits.
“In Catholic countries, Sir, religion is
the national drama; the priests are the
principal performers, the populace the audience;
and whether the piece concludes
with a “Don Giovanni” plunging in
flames, or the beatification of a saint, the
applause and the enjoyment is the same.
“I feared my destiny was to be the
former. I knew nothing of the Bishop,
and hoped nothing from his visit; but my
hopes began to rise in proportion to the
visible fears of the society. I argued,
with the natural malignity of wretchedness,
“If they tremble, I may exult.”
When suffering is thus weighed against
suffering, the hand is never steady; we
are always disposed to make the balance
incline a little on our own side. The
Bishop came early, and passed some hours
with the Superior in his own apartment.
During this interval, there was a stillness
in the house that was strongly contrasted
with its previous agitation. I stood alone
in my cell,—stood, for I had no seat left
me. I said to myself, “This event bodes
neither good or evil to me. I am not
guilty of what they accuse me of. They
never can prove it,—an accomplice with
Satan!—the victim of diabolical delusion!—Alas!
my only crime is my involuntary
subjection to the delusions they have practised
on me. This man, this Bishop, cannot
give me freedom, but he may at least
do me justice.” All this time the community
were in a fever—the character of
the house was at stake—my situation was
notorious. They had laboured to represent
me as a possessed being beyond their
walls, and to make me appear as one within
them. The hour of trial approached.
For the honour of human nature,—from
the dread of violating decency,—from the
dread of apparently violating truth, I will
not attempt to relate the means they had
recourse to the morning of the Bishop’s
visitation, to qualify me to perform the
part of a possessed, insane, and blasphemous
wretch. The four monks I have before
mentioned, were the principal executioners,
(I must call them so).—Under
pretence that there was no part of my person
which was not under the influence of
the demon, * * *
* * * *
“This was not enough. I was deluged
almost to suffocation with aspersions of
holy water. Then followed, &c. *
* * * *
“The result was, that I remained half-naked,
half-drowned, gasping, choaking,
and delirious with rage, shame, and fear,
when I was summoned to attend the
Bishop, who, surrounded by the Superior
and the community, awaited me in the
church. This was the moment they had
fixed on—I yielded myself to them. I
said, stretching out my arms, “Yes, drag
me naked, mad—religion and nature alike
violated in my abused figure—before your
Bishop. If he speaks truth,—if he feels
conscience,—woe be to you, hypocritical,
tyrannical wretches. You have half-driven
me mad!—half-murdered me, by the unnatural
cruelties you have exercised
on me!—and in this state you drag me
before the Bishop! Be it so, I must follow
you.” As I uttered these words, they
bound my arms and legs with ropes, carried
me down, and placed me at the door
of the church, standing close to me. The
Bishop was at the altar, the Superior near
him; the community filled the choir.
They flung me down like a heap of carrion,
and retreated as if they fled from the
pollution of my touch. This sight struck
the Bishop: He said, in a loud voice,
“Rise, unhappy, and come forward.” I
answered, in a voice whose tones appeared
to thrill him, “Bid them unbind me, and I
will obey you.” The Bishop turned a cold
and yet indignant look on the Superior,
who immediately approached and whispered
him. This whispering consultation was
carried on for some time; but, though
lying on the ground, I could perceive the
Bishop shook his head at every whisper of
the Superior; and the end of the business
was an order to unbind me. I did
not fare much the better for this order, for
the four monks were still close to me.
They held my arms as they led me up
the steps to the altar. I was then, for
the first time, placed opposite to the
Bishop. He was a man, the effect of
whose physiognomy was as indelible as
that of his character.—The one left its
impress on the senses, as strongly as the
other did on the soul. He was tall, majestic,
and hoary; not a feeling agitated
his frame—not a passion had left its trace
on his features. He was a marble statue
of Episcopacy, chiselled out by the hand
of Catholicism,—a figure magnificent and
motionless. His cold black eyes did not
seem to see you, when they were turned
on you. His voice, when it reached
you, did not address you, but your soul.
Such was his exterior:—for the rest, his
character was unimpeachable, his discipline
exemplary, his life that of an Anchorite
hewed out in stone. But he was partially
suspected of what is called liberality in
opinions, (that is, of an inclination to Protestantism),
and the sanctity of his character
went bail in vain for this imputed heterodoxy,
which the Bishop could hardly
redeem by his rigid cognizance of every
conventual abuse in his district, among
which my convent happened to be. Such
was the man before whom I stood. At
the command to unloose me, the Superior
shewed much agitation; but the command
was positive, and I was released. I was
then between the four monks, who held
me, and I felt that my appearance must
have justified the impression he had received.
I was ragged, famished, livid, and
on fire, with the horrible treatment I had
just received. I hoped, however, that my
submission to whatever was to be performed,
might, in some degree, redeem the opinion
of the Bishop. He went with evident
reluctance through the forms of exorcism,
which were delivered in Latin, while all
the time, the monks crossed themselves,
and the Acolytes were not sparing of holy
water and of incense. Whenever the terms
“diabole te adjuro” occurred, the monks
who held me twisted my arms, so that I
appeared to make contortions, and uttered
cries of pain. This, at first, seemed to disturb
the Bishop; but when the form of
exorcism was over, he commanded me to
approach the altar alone. I attempted to
do so; but the four monks surrounding
me, made it appear an act of great difficulty.
He said, “Stand apart—let him
alone.” They were compelled to obey. I
advanced alone, trembling. I knelt. The
Bishop, placing his stole on my head, demanded,
“Did I believe in God, and the
holy Catholic church?” Instead of answering,
I shrieked, flung off the stole, and
trampled in agony on the steps of the altar.
The Bishop retreated, while the Superior
and the rest advanced. I collected
courage as I saw them approach; and,
without uttering a word, pointed to the
pieces of broken glass which had been
thrown on the steps where I stood, and
which had pierced me through my torn
sandals. The Bishop instantly ordered a
monk to sweep them away with the sleeve
of his tunic. The order was obeyed in a
moment, and the next I stood before him
without fear or pain. He continued to
ask, “Why do you not pray in the
church?”—“Because its doors are shut
against me.”—“How? what is this? A
memorial is in my hands urging many
complaints against you, and this among
the first, that you do not pray in the
church.”—“I have told you the doors
of the church are shut against me.—Alas!
I could no more open them, than
I could open the hearts of the community—every
thing is shut against me
here.” He turned to the Superior, who
answered, “The doors of the church
are always shut to the enemies of God.”
The Bishop said, with his usual stern
calmness, “I am asking a plain question—evasive
and circuitous answers will not
do. Have the doors of the church been
shut against this wretched being?—have
you denied him the privilege of addressing
God?”—“I did so, because I thought and
believed—” “I ask not what you thought
or believed; I ask a plain answer to a matter-of-fact
question. Did you, or did you
not, deny him access to the house of God?”—“I
had reason to believe that—” “I warn
you, these answers may compel me to make
you exchange situations in one moment
with the object you accuse. Did you, or
did you not, shut the doors of the church
against him?—answer yes or no.” The
Superior, trembling with fear and rage,
said, “I did; and I was justified in doing
so.”—“That is for another tribunal to
judge. But it seems you plead guilty to
the fact of which you accuse him.” The
Superior was dumb. The Bishop then
examining his paper, addressed me again,
“How is it that the monks cannot sleep
in their cells from the disturbance you
cause?”—“I know not—you must ask
them.”—“Does not the evil spirit visit
you nightly? Are not your blasphemies,
your execrable impurities, disgorged even
in the ears of those who have the misfortune
to be placed near you? Are you
not the terror and the torment of the
whole community?” I answered, “I am
what they have made me. I do not deny
there are extraordinary noises in my cell,
but they can best account for them. I am
assailed by whispers close to my bed-side:
It seems these whispers reach the ears of
the brethren, for they burst into my cell,
and take advantage of the terror with
which I am overwhelmed, to put the most
incredible constructions on it.”—“Are
there no cries, then, heard in your cell at
night?”—“Yes, cries of terror—cries uttered
not by one who is celebrating infernal
orgies, but dreading them.”—“But the
blasphemies, the imprecations, the impurities,
which proceed from your lips?”—“Sometimes,
in irrepressible terror, I have
repeated the sounds that were suggested
to my ears; but it was always with an exclamation
of horror and aversion, that
proved these sounds were not uttered but
echoed by me,—as a man may take up a
reptile in his hand, and gaze on its hideousness
a moment, before he flings it
from him. I take the whole community
to witness the truth of this. The cries I
uttered, the expressions I used, were evidently
those of hostility to the infernal
suggestions which had been breathed into
my ears. Ask the whole community—they
must testify, that when they broke
into my cell, they found me alone, trembling,
convulsed. That I was the victim
of those disturbances, they affected to
complain of; and though I never was able
to guess the means by which this persecution
was effected, I am not rash in ascribing
it to the hands that covered the walls
of my cell with representations of demons,
the traces of which still remain.”—“You
are also accused of having burst into the
church at midnight, defaced the images,
trampled on the crucifix, and performed
all the acts of a demon violating the sanctuary.”
At this accusation, so unjust and
cruel, I was agitated beyond controul. I
exclaimed, “I flew to the church for protection
in a paroxysm of terror, which their
machinations had filled me with! I flew
there at night, because it was shut against
me during the day, as you have discovered!
I prostrated myself before the cross, instead
of trampling on it! I embraced the images
of the blessed saints, instead of violating
them! And I doubt whether prayers
more sincere were ever offered within these
walls, than those I uttered that night amid
helplessness, terror, and persecutions!”—“Did
you not obstruct and deter the
community next morning by your cries, as
they attempted to enter the church?”—“I
was paralyzed from the effects of lying all
night on the stone pavement, where they
had flung me. I attempted to rise and
crawl away at their approach, and a few
cries of pain were extorted from me by my
efforts to do so—efforts rendered more
painful by their refusing to offer me the
slightest assistance. In a word, the whole
is a fabrication. I flew to the church to
implore for mercy, and they represent it
as the outrages of an apostate spirit.
Might not the same arbitrary and absurd
construction be put on the daily visits of
multitudes of afflicted souls, who weep
and groan audibly as I did? If I attempted
to overturn the crucifix, to deface the
images, would not the marks of this violence
remain? Would they not have been
preserved with care, to substantiate the accusation
against me? Is there a trace of
them?—there is not, there cannot be, because
they never existed.” The Bishop
paused. An appeal to his feelings would
have been vain, but this appeal to facts
had its full effect. After some time, he
said, “You can have no objection, then,
to render before the whole community the
same homage to the representations of the
Redeemer and the holy saints, that you
say it was your purpose to render them
that night?”—“None.” A crucifix was
brought me, which I kissed with reverence
and unction, and prayed, while the tears
streamed from my eyes, an interest in the
infinite merits of the sacrifice it represented.
The Bishop then said, “Make a
deed of faith, of love, of hope.” I did so;
and though they were extempore, my expressions,
I could perceive, made the dignified
ecclesiastics who attended on the
Bishop, cast on each other looks in which
were mingled compassion, interest, and admiration.
The Bishop said, “Where did
you learn those prayers?”—“My heart is
my only teacher—I have no other—I am
allowed no book.”—“How!—recollect
what you say.”—“I repeat I have none.
They have taken away my breviary, my
crucifix;—they have stript my cell of all
its furniture. I kneel on the floor—I pray
from the heart. If you deign to visit my
cell, you will find I have told you the
truth.” At these words, the Bishop cast
a terrible look on the Superior. He recovered
himself, however, immediately,
for he was a man unaccustomed to any
emotion, and felt it at once a suspension
of his habits, and an infringement of his
rank. In a cold voice he bid me retire;
then, as I was obeying him, he recalled
me,—my appearance for the first time
seemed to strike him. He was a man so
absorbed in the contemplation of that
waveless and frozen tide of duty in which
his mind was anchored, without fluctuation,
progress, or improvement, that physical
objects must be presented before him
a long time before they made the least impression
on him,—his senses were almost
ossified. Thus he had come to examine
a supposed demoniac; but he had made
up his mind that there must be injustice
and imposture in the case, and he acted in
the matter with a spirit, decision, and integrity,
that did him honour.
“But, all the time, the horror and misery
of my appearance, which would have
made the first impression on a man whose
feelings were at all external, made the
last. They struck him as I slowly and
painfully crawled from the steps of the altar,
and the impression was forcible in proportion
to its slowness. He called me
back and inquired, as if he saw me for
the first time, “How is it your habit is so
scandalously ragged?” At these words I
thought I could disclose a scene that would
have added to the Superior’s humiliation,
but I only said, “It is the consequence of
the ill treatment I have experienced.”
Several other questions of the same kind,
relating to my appearance, which was deplorable
enough, followed, and at last I
was forced to make a full discovery. The
Bishop was incensed at the detail more
than was credible. Rigid minds, when
they yield themselves to emotion, do it
with a vehemence inconceivable, for to
them every thing is a duty, and passion
(when it occurs) among the rest. Perhaps
the novelty of emotion, too, may be a delightful
surprise to them.
“More than all this was the case now
with the good Bishop, who was as pure as
he was rigid, and shrunk with horror, disgust,
and indignation, at the detail I
was compelled to give, which the Superior
trembled at my uttering, and which
the community dared not to contradict.
He resumed his cold manner; for to him
feeling was an effort, and rigour a habit,
and he ordered me again to retire. I
obeyed, and went to my cell. The walls
were as bare as I had described them, but,
even contrasted with all the splendour and
array of the scene in the church, they
seemed emblazoned with my triumph.
A dazzling vision passed before me for a
moment, then all subsided; and, in the solitude
of my cell, I knelt and implored
the Almighty to touch the Bishop’s heart,
and impress on him the moderation and
simplicity with which I had spoken. As
I was thus employed, I heard steps in the
passage. They ceased for a moment, and
I was silent. It appeared the persons
overheard me, and paused; and these few
words, uttered in solitude, made, I found,
a deep impression on them. A few moments
after the Bishop, with some dignified
attendants, followed by the Superior,
entered my cell. The former all stopped,
horror-struck at its appearance.
“I have told you, Sir, that my cell now
consisted of four bare walls and a bed;—it
was a scandalous, degrading sight. I
was kneeling in the middle of the floor,
God knows, without the least idea of producing
an effect. The Bishop gazed around
him for some time, while the ecclesiastics
who attended him testified their
horror by looks and attitudes that needed
no interpretation. The Bishop, after a
pause, turned to the Superior, “Well,
what do you say to this?” The Superior
hesitated, and at last said, “I was ignorant
of this.”—“That is false,” said the
Bishop; “and even if it was true, it would
be your crimination, not your apology.
Your duty binds you to visit the cells
every day; how could you be ignorant of
the shameful state of this cell, without neglecting
your own duties?” He took several
turns about the cell, followed by the
ecclesiastics, shrugging their shoulders,
and throwing on each other looks of disgust.
The Superior stood dismayed. They
went out, and I could hear the Bishop
say, in the passage, “All this disorder
must be rectified before I quit the house.”
And to the Superior, “You are unworthy
of the situation you hold,—you ought to
be deposed.” And he added in severer
tones, “Catholics, monks, Christians, this
is shocking,—horrible! tremble for the consequences
of my next visit, if the same
disorders exist,—I promise you it shall be
repeated soon.” He then returned, and
standing at the door of my cell, said to
the Superior, “Take care that all the abuses
committed in this cell are rectified
before to-morrow morning.” The Superior
signified his submission to this order
in silence.
“That evening I went to sleep on a
bare mattress, between four dry walls. I
slept profoundly, from exhaustion and fatigue.
I awoke in the morning far beyond
the time for matins, and found myself
surrounded by all the comforts that
can be bestowed on a cell. As if magic
had been employed during my sleep, crucifix,
breviary, desk, table, every thing
was replaced. I sprung from bed, and actually
gazed in extasy around my cell. As
the day advanced, and the hour for refection
approached, my extasy abated, and
my terrors increased;—it is not easy to
pass from extreme humiliation and utter
abhorrence, to your former state in the society
of which you are a member. When
the bell rung I went down. I stood at
the door for a moment,—then, with an
impulse, like despair, I entered, and took
my usual place. No opposition was made,—not
a word was said. The community
separated after dinner. I watched for the
toll of the bell for vespers,—I imagined
that would be decisive. The bell tolled at
last,—the monks assembled. I joined them
without opposition,—I took my place in
the choir,—my triumph was complete, and
I trembled at it. Alas! in what moment
of success do we not feel a sensation of
terror? Our destiny always acts the part
of the ancient slave to us, who was required
every morning to remind the monarch
that he was a man; and it seldom
neglects to fulfil its own predictions before
the evening. Two days passed away,—the
storm that had so long agitated us,
seemed to have sunk into a sudden calm.
I resumed my former place,—I performed
the customary duties,—no one congratulated
or reviled me. They all seemed to
consider me as one beginning monastic life
de novo. I passed two days of perfect
tranquillity, and I take God to witness, I
enjoyed this triumph with moderation. I
never reverted to my former situation,—I
never reproached those who had been agents
in it,—I never uttered a syllable on
the subject of the visitation, which had
made me and the whole convent change
places in the space of a few hours, and the
oppressed take the part (if he pleased) of
the oppressor. I bore my success with
temperance, for I was supported by the
hope of liberation. The Superior’s triumph
was soon to come.
“On the third morning I was summoned
to the parlour, where a messenger put
into my hands a packet, containing (as I
well understood) the result of my appeal.
This, according to the rules of the convent,
I was compelled to put first into the
hands of the Superior to read, before I
was permitted to read it myself. I took
the packet, and slowly walked to the Superior’s
apartment. As I held it in my
hand, I considered it, felt every corner,
weighed it over and over again in my
hand, tried to catch an omen from its very
shape. Then a withering thought crossed
me, that, if its intelligence was auspicious,
the messenger would have put it into my
hands with an air of triumph, that, in spite
of convent etiquette, I might break open
the seals which inclosed the sentence of
my liberation. We are very apt to take
our presages from our destination, and
mine being that of a monk, no wonder
its auguries were black,—and were verified.
“I approached the Superior’s cell with
the packet. I knocked, was desired to
enter, and, my eyes cast down, could only
distinguish the hems of many habits,
whose wearers were all assembled in the
Superior’s apartment. I offered the packet
with reverence. The Superior cast a careless
eye over it, and then flung it on the
floor. One of the monks approached to
take it up. The Superior exclaimed,
“Hold, let him take it up.” I did so,
and retired to my cell, making first a profound
reverence to the Superior. I then
went to my cell, where I sat down with
the fatal packet in my hands. I was about
to open it, when a voice from within
me seemed to say,—It is useless, you must
know the contents already. It was some
hours before I perused it,—it contained
the account of the failure of my appeal.
It seemed, from the detail, that the advocate
had exerted his abilities, zeal, and
eloquence to the utmost; and that, at one
time, the court had been near deciding in
favour of my claims, but the precedent
was reckoned too dangerous. The advocate
on the other side had remarked,
“If this succeeds, we shall have all the
monks in Spain appealing against their
vows.” Could a stronger argument have
been used in favour of my cause? An impulse
so universal must surely originate in
nature, justice, and truth.”
On reverting to the disastrous issue of
his appeal, the unfortunate Spaniard was
so much overcome, that it was some days
before he could resume his narrative.