The petty squabbles and intrigues of the convent, the bitter
and incessant conflict of habits, tempers, and interests, the efforts of
incarcerated minds for objects of excitement, the struggles to diversify
endless monotony, and elevate hopeless mediocrity;--all that makes
monastic life like the wrong side of tapestry, where we see only uncouth
threads, and the harsh outlines, without the glow of the colours, the
richness of the tissue, or the splendour of the embroidery, that renders
the external surface so rich and dazzling; all this was carefully
concealed. I heard something of it, however, and, young as I was, could
not help wondering how men who carried the worst passions of life into
their retreat, could imagine _that_ retreat was a refuge from the
erosions of their evil tempers, the monitions of conscience, and the
accusations of God. The same dissimulation was practised by the
boarders; the whole house was in masquerade from the moment I entered
it. If I joined the latter at the time of recreation, they went through
the few amusements allowed them with a kind of languid impatience, as if
it was an interruption of better pursuits to which they were devoted. One of them, coming up to me, would say, “What a pity that these
exercises are necessary for the support of our frail nature! what a pity
we cannot devote its whole powers to the service of God!” Another would
say, “I never am so happy as in the choir! What a delightful eulogy was
that pronounced by the Superior on the departed Fre Jose! How thrilling
was that requiem! I imagined the heavens opened, and angels descending
to receive his soul, as I listened to it!”

“All this, and much more, I had been accustomed to hear every day. I now
began to understand it. I suppose they thought they had a very weak
person to deal with; but the bare-faced coarseness of their manœuvres
only quickened my penetration, which began to be fearfully awake. I said
to them, “Are you, then, intended for the monastic life?” “We hope so.”
“Yet I have heard you, Oliva, _once_ (it was when you did not think I
overheard you) I heard you complain of the length and tediousness of the
homilies delivered on the eves of the saints.”--“I was then under the
influence of the evil spirit doubtless,” said Oliva, who was a boy not
older than myself; “Satan is sometimes permitted to buffet those whose
vocation is but commencing, and whom he is therefore more afraid to
lose.” “And I have heard you, Balcastro, say you had not taste for
music; and to me, I confess, that of the choir appears least likely to
inspire a taste for it.” “God has touched my heart since,” replied the
young hypocrite, crossing himself; “and you know, friend of my soul,
there is a promise, that the ears of the deaf shall be opened.” “Where
are those words?” “In the Bible.” “The Bible?--But we are not permitted
to read it.” “True, dear Monçada, but we have the word of our Superior
and the brethren for it, and that is enough.” “Certainly; our spiritual
guides must take on themselves the whole responsibility of that state,
whose enjoyments and punishments they reserve in their own hands; but,
Balcastro, are you willing to take this life on their word, as well as
the next, and resign it before you have tried it?” “My dear friend, you
only speak to tempt me.” “_I do not speak to tempt_,” said I, and was
turning indignantly away, when the bell ringing, produced its usual
effect on us all. My companions assumed a more sanctified air, and I
struggled for a more composed one. “As we went to the church, they conversed in whispers, but those
whispers were intended to reach my ear. I could hear them say, “It is in
vain that he struggles with grace; there never was a more decided
vocation; God never obtained a more glorious victory. Already he has the
look of a child of heaven;--the monastic gait,--the downcast look;--the
motion of his arms naturally imitates the sign of the cross, and the
very folds of his mantle arrange themselves, by a divine instinct, into
those of a Monk’s habit.” And all this while my gait was disturbed, my
countenance flushed, and often lifted to heaven, and my arms employed in
hastily adjusting my cloak, that had fallen off my shoulder from my
agitation, and whose disordered folds resembled any thing but those of a
Monk’s habit. From that evening I began to perceive my danger, and to
meditate how to avert it. I had no inclination for the monastic life;
but after vespers, and the evening exercise in my own cell, I began to
doubt if this very repugnance was not itself a sin. Silence and night
deepened the impression, and I lay awake for many hours, supplicating
God to enlighten me, to enable me not to oppose his will, but clearly to
reveal that will to me; and if he was not pleased to call me to a
monastic life, to support my resolution in undergoing every thing that
might be inflicted on me, sooner than profane that state by extorted
vows and an alienated mind. That my prayers might be more effectual, I
offered them up first in the name of the Virgin, then in that of the
Patron-saint of the family, and then of the Saint on whose eve I was
born. I lay in great agitation till morning, and went to matins without
having closed my eyes, I had, however, I felt, acquired
_resolution_,--at least I thought so. Alas! I knew not what I had to
encounter. I was like a man going to sea with a day’s provision, and
imagining he is victualled for a voyage to the poles. I went through my
exercises (as they were called) with uncommon assiduity that day;
already I felt the necessity of imposition,--fatal lesson of monastic
institutions. We dined at noon; and soon after my father’s carriage
arrived, and I was permitted to go for an hour on the banks of the
Manzanares. To my surprise my father was in the carriage, and though he
welcomed me with a kind of embarrassment, I was delighted to meet him. He was a layman at least,--_he might have a heart_. “I was disappointed at the measured phrase he addressed me in, and this
froze me at once into a rigid determination, to be as much _on my guard
with him_, as I must be within the walls of the convent. The
conversation began, “You like your convent, my son?” “Very much,” (there
was not a word of truth in my answer, but the fear of circumvention
always teaches falsehood, and we have only to thank our instructors).