As I attempted to lift her up, scarce
knowing if it was not a corse I held in my arms, I felt I never could
have forgiven myself if she had been reduced to that situation by my
refusing to comply with her last request. * * * * *

“I was overpowered with congratulations, blessings, and embraces. I
received them with trembling hands, cold lips, a rocking brain, and a
heart that felt turned to stone. Every thing passed before me as in a
dream. I saw the pageant move on, without a thought of who was to be the
victim. I returned to the convent--I felt my destiny was fixed--I had no
wish to avert or arrest it--I was like one who sees an enormous engine
(whose operation is to crush him to atoms) put in motion, and, stupified
with horror, gazes on it with a calmness that might be mistaken for that
of one who was coolly analysing the complication of its machinery, and
calculating the resistless crush of its blow. I have read of a wretched
Jew(14), who, by the command of a Moorish emperor, was exposed in an
area to the rage of a lion who had been purposely kept fasting for eight
and forty hours. The horrible roar of the famished and infuriated animal
made even the executioners tremble as they fastened the rope round the
body of the screaming victim. Amid hopeless struggles, supplications for
mercy, and shrieks of despair, he was bound, raised, and lowered into
the area. At the moment he touched the ground, he fell prostrate,
stupefied, annihilated. He uttered no cry--he did not draw a breath--he
did not make an effort--he fell contracting his whole body into a ball,
and lay as senseless as a lump of earth.--So it fared with me; my cries
and struggles were over,--I had been flung into the area, and I lay
there. I repeated to myself, “I am to be a monk,” and there the debate
ended. If they commended me for the performance of my exercises, or
reproved me for my deficiency, I showed neither joy nor sorrow,--I said
only, “I am to be a monk.” If they urged me to take exercise in the
garden of the convent, or reproved me for my excess in walking beyond
the allotted hours, I still answered, “I am to be a monk.” I was showed
much indulgence in these wanderings. A son--the eldest son of the Duke
de Monçada, taking the vows, was a glorious triumph for the ex-Jesuits,
and they did not fail to make the most of it. They asked what books I
would like to read,--I answered, “What they pleased.” They saw I was
fond of flowers, and vases of porcelain, filled with the most exquisite
produce of their garden, (renewed every day), embellished my apartment. I was fond of music,--that they perceived from my involuntary joining in
the choir. My voice was good, and my profound melancholy gave an
expression to my tones, which these men, always on the watch to grasp at
any thing that may aggrandize them, or delude their victims, assured me
were like the tones of inspiration. (14) Vide Buffa--_Anachronism prepense_. “Amid these displays of indulgence, I exhibited an ingratitude totally
foreign from my character. I never read the books they furnished me
with,--I neglected the flowers with which they filled my room,--and the
superb organ they introduced into my apartment, I never touched, except
to elicit some deep and melancholy chords from its keys. To those who
urged me to employ my talents for painting and music, I still answered
with the same apathetic monotony, “I am to be a monk.” “But, my brother,
the love of flowers, of music, of all that can be consecrated to God, is
also worthy of the attention of man--you abuse the indulgence of the
Superior.” “Perhaps so.” “You must, in gratitude to God, thank him for
these lovely works of his creation;”--the room was at this time filled
with carnations and roses;--“you must also be grateful to him for the
powers with which he has distinguished you in hymning his praises--your
voice is the richest and most powerful in the church.” “I don’t doubt
it.” “My brother, you answer at random.” “Just as I feel--but don’t heed
that.” “Will you take a turn in the garden?” “If you please.” “Or will
you seek a moment’s consolation from the Superior?” “If you please.”
“But why do you speak with such apathy? are the odour of the flowers,
and the consolations of your Superior, to be appreciated in the same
breath?” “I believe so.” “Why?” “Because I am to be a monk.” “Nay,
brother, will you never utter any thing but that phrase, which carries
no meaning with it but that of stupefaction or delirium?” “Imagine me,
then, stupefied, delirious--what you please--you know I must be a monk.”
At these words, which I suppose I uttered in a tone unlike that of the
usual _chaunt_ of monastic conversation, another interposed, and asked
what I was uttering in so loud a key? “I am only saying,” I replied,
“that I must be a monk.” “Thank God it is no worse,” replied the
querist, “your contumacy must long ago have wearied the Superior and the
brethren--thank God it’s no worse.” At these words I felt my passions
resuscitated,--I exclaimed, “_Worse!_ what have I to dread?--am I not to
be a monk?” From that evening, (I forget when it occurred), my liberty
was abridged; I was no longer suffered to walk, to converse with the
boarders or novices,--a separate table was spread for me in the
refectory,--the seats near mine were left vacant at service,--yet still
my cell was embellished with flowers and engravings, and
exquisitely-wrought toys were left on my table. I did not perceive they
were treating me as a lunatic, yet certainly my foolishly reiterated
expressions might have justified them in doing so,--they had their own
plans in concert with the Director,--my silence went for proof. The
Director came often to visit me, and the hypocritical wretches _would_
accompany him to my cell. I was generally (for want of other occupation)
attending to my flowers, or gazing at the engravings,--and they would
say, “You see he is as happy as he wishes to be--he wants for
nothing--he is quite occupied in watching those roses.” “No, I am not
occupied,” I returned, “it is occupation I want.” Then they shrugged
their shoulders, exchanged mysterious looks with the Director, and I was
glad when they were gone, without reflecting on the mischief their
absence threatened me with. At this moment, consultation after
consultation was held at the palace de Monçada, whether I could be
induced to shew sufficient intellect to enable me to pronounce the vows. It seems the reverend fathers were as anxious as their old enemies the
Moors, to convert an idiot into a saint. There was now a party combined
against me, that it would have required more than the might of man to
resist. All was uproar from the palace de Monçada to the convent, and
back again. I was mad, _contumacious_, heretical, idiotical,--any
thing--every thing--that could appease the jealous agony of my parents,
the cupidity of the monks, or the ambition of the ex-Jesuits, who
laughed at the terror of all the rest, and watched intently over their
own interests.