I followed him, exclaiming, in a voice that must have filled him
with horror, “I exclaim against the vows--let those who forced me to it,
take the guilt on themselves--let my father, in his own person, expiate
his guilt in bringing me into the world--let my brother sacrifice his
pride--why must I be the only victim of the crime of the one, and the
passions of the other?” “My son, all this was arranged before.” “Yes, I
know that--I know that by a decree of the Almighty I was doomed to be
cursed even in my mother’s womb, but I will never subscribe that decree
with my own hand.” “My son, what can I say to you--you have passed your
noviciate.” “Yes, in a state of stupefaction.” “All Madrid is assembled
to hear you take your vows.” “Then all Madrid shall hear me renounce
them, and disavow them.” “This is the very day fixed on. The ministers
of God are prepared to yield you to his arms. Heaven and earth,--all
that is valuable in time, or precious in eternity, are summoned, are
waiting for the irrevocable words that seal your salvation, and ensure
that of those you love. What demon has taken possession of you, my
child, and seized the moment you were coming to Christ, to cast you
down, and tear you? How shall I--how shall the fraternity, and all the
souls who are to escape from punishment by the merit of your prayers,
answer to God for your horrible apostacy?” “Let them answer for
themselves--let every one of us answer for ourselves--that is the
dictate of reason.” “Of reason, my deluded child,--when had reason any
thing to do with religion?” I had sat down, folded my arms on my breast,
and forbore to answer a word. The Superior stood with his arms crossed,
his head declined, his whole figure in an air of profound and mortified
contemplation. Any one else would have imagined him seeking God in the
abysses of meditation, but I felt he was only seeking him where he is
never to be found,--in the abyss of that heart which is “deceitful and
desperately wicked.” He approached--I exclaimed, “Come not near me!--you
will renew again the story of my submission--I tell you it was
artificial;--of my regularity in devotional exercises--it was all
mechanism or imposture;--of my conformity to discipline--it was all
practised with the hope of escaping from it ultimately. Now, I feel my
conscience discharged and my heart lightened. Do you hear, do you
understand me? These are the first words of truth I ever uttered since I
entered these walls--the only ones that will, perhaps, ever be uttered
within them--aye, treasure them up, knit your brows, and cross yourself,
and elevate your eyes as you will. Go on with your religious drama. What
is there you see before you so horrible, that you recoil, that you cross
yourself, that you lift your eyes and hands to heaven?--a creature whom
despair has driven to utter desperate truth! Truth may be horrible to
the inmates of a convent, whose whole life is artificial and
perverted,--whose very hearts are sophisticated beyond the hand even of
Heaven (which they alienate by their hypocrisy) to touch. But I feel I
am at this moment an object of less horror in the sight of the Deity,
than if I were standing at his altar, to (as you would urge me) insult
him with vows, which my heart was bursting from my bosom to contradict,
at the moment I uttered them.”

“At these words, which I must have uttered with the most indecent and
insulting violence, I almost expected the Superior would have struck me
to the earth,--would have summoned the lay-brothers to bear me to
confinement,--would have shut me up in the dungeon of the convent, for I
knew there was such a place. Perhaps I wished for all this. Driven to
extremity myself, I felt a kind of pride in driving others to it in
return. Any thing of violent excitement, of rapid and giddy vicissitude,
or even of intense suffering, I was prepared for, and equal to, at that
moment. But these paroxysms soon exhaust themselves and us by their
violence. Astonished by the Superior’s silence, I raised my eyes to him. I said,
in a tone of moderation that seemed unnatural to my own ears, “Well, let
me hear my sentence.” He was silent still. He had _watched the crisis_,
and now skilfully seized the turn of the mental disease, to exhibit his
applications. He was standing before me meek and motionless, his arms
crossed, his eyes depressed, not the slightest indication of resentment
to be traced in his whole figure. The folds of his habit, refusing to
announce his internal agitation, seemed as they were cut out of stone. His silence imperceptibly softened me,--I blamed myself for my violence. Thus men of the world command us by their passions, and men of the other
world by the apparent suppression of them. At last he said, “My son, you
have revolted from God, resisted his Holy Spirit, profaned his
sanctuary, and insulted his minister,--in his name and my own I forgive
you all. Judge of the various characters of our systems, by their
different results on us two. You revile, defame, and accuse,--I bless
and forgive; which of us is then under the influence of the gospel of
Christ, and within the pale of the church’s benediction? But leaving
this question, which you are not at present in a frame to decide, I
shall urge but one topic more; if that fails, I shall no longer oppose
your wishes, or urge you to prostitute a sacrifice which man would
despise, and God must disdain. I add, I will even do my utmost to
facilitate your wishes, which are now in fact my own.” At these words,
so full of truth and benignity, I was rushing to prostrate myself at his
feet, but fear and experience checked me, and I only bowed. “Promise me
merely that you will wait with patience till this last topic is urged;
whether it succeeds or not I have now little interest, and less care.” I
promised,--he went out. A few moments after he returned. His air was a
little more disturbed, but still struggling for a calmness of
expression. There was agitation about him, but I knew not whether it was
felt on his own account or mine. He held the door half open, and his
first sentence astonished me.--“My son, you are well acquainted with the
classical histories.” “But what is that to the purpose, my father?” “You
remember a remarkable story of the Roman general, who spurned from the
steps of his tribune, people, senators, and _priests_,--trampled on all
law,--outraged all religion,--but was at last moved by nature, for, when
his mother prostrated herself before him, and exclaimed, ‘My son, before
you tread the streets of Rome, you must first tread on the body of her
who bore you!’ he relented.” “I remember all, but to what does this
tend?” “_To this_,” and he threw open the door; “now, prove yourself, if
you can, more obdurate than a heathen.” As the door opened, across the
threshold lay my mother, prostrate on her face.