I do
not wonder at it; its habits must appear very unconciliating to youth,
and, in fact, I know not to what period of life abstinence, privation,
and solitude, are particularly agreeable; it was the wish of your
parents doubtless; but”--This address, so full of candour, almost
overpowered me; caution and every thing else forsook me as I exclaimed,
“But what then, my father?” “But, I was going to observe, how rarely our
own views coincide with those which others entertain for us, and how
difficult it is to decide which are the least erroneous.” “Was that
all?” said I, shrinking with disappointment. “That was all; for
instance, some people, (of whom I once happened to be one), might be
fanciful enough to imagine, that the superior experience and proved
affection of parents should qualify them to decide on this point better
than their children; nay, I have heard some carry their absurdity so
far, as to talk of the rights of nature, the obligations of duty, and
the useful coercion of restraint; but since I had the pleasure of
becoming acquainted with your resolution, I am beginning to be of
opinion, that a youth, not thirteen years of age, may be an incomparable
judge in the last resort, particularly when the question bears a
trifling relation to his eternal as well as temporal interest; in such a
case, he has doubtless the double advantage of dictating both to his
spiritual and natural parents.” “My father, I beg you to speak without
irony or ridicule; you may be very clever, but I merely wish you to be
intelligible and serious.” “Do you wish me, then, to speak seriously?”
and he appeared to _collect_ himself as he asked this question. “Certainly.” “Seriously, then, my dear child, do you not believe that
your parents love you? Have you not received from your infancy every
mark of affection from them? Have you not been pressed to their bosoms
from your very cradle?” At these words I struggled vainly with my
feelings, and wept, while I answered, “Yes.” “I am sorry, my dear child,
to see you thus overpowered; my object was to appeal to your reason,
(for you have no common share of reasoning power),--and to your reason I
appeal;--can you suppose that parents, who have treated you with such
tenderness, who love you as they do their own souls, could act (as your
conduct charges them) with causeless and capricious cruelty towards you? Must you not be aware there is a reason, and that it must be a profound
one? Would it not be more worthy of your duty, as well as your superior
sense, to inquire into, than contend with it?” “Is it founded upon any
thing in my conduct, then?--I am willing to do every thing,--to
sacrifice every thing.”--“I understand,--you are willing to do every
thing but what is required of you,--and to sacrifice every thing but
your own inclination.” “But you have hinted at a reason.” The Director
was silent. “You urged me to inquire into it.” The Director was silent
still. “My father, I adjure you, by the habit you wear, unmuffle this
terrible phantom to me; there is nothing I cannot encounter”--“Except
the commands of your parents. But am I at liberty to discover this
secret to you?” said the Director, in a tone of internal debate. “Can I
imagine that you, who have in the very outset outraged parental
authority, will revere parental feelings?” “My father, I do not
understand you.” “My dear child, I am compelled to act with a caution
and reserve unsuited to my character, which is naturally as open as
yours. I dread the disclosure of a secret; it is repugnant to my habits
of profound confidence; and I dread disclosing any thing to a character
impetuous like yours. I feel myself reduced to a most painful
situation.” “My father, act and speak with candour, my situation
requires it, and your own profession demands it from you. My father,
remember the inscription over the confessional which thrilled my very
blood to read, “God hears thee.” Remember God hears you always, and will
you not deal sincerely with one whom God has placed at your mercy?” I
spoke with much agitation, and the Director appeared affected for a
moment; that is, he passed his hand over his eyes, which were as dry
as--his heart. He paused for several minutes, and then said, “My dear
child, dare I trust you? I confess I came prepared to treat you like a
boy, but I feel I am disposed to consider you as a man. You have the
intelligence, the penetration, the decision of a man. Have you the
feelings of one?” “Try me, my father.” I did not perceive that his
irony, his _secret_, and his parade of feeling, were all alike
theatrical, and substitutionary for real interest and sincerity. “If I
should be inclined to trust you, my dear child,”--“I shall be grateful.”
“And secret.” “And secret, my father.” “Then imagine yourself”--“Oh! my
father, let me not have to _imagine_ any thing--tell me the truth.”
“Foolish boy,--am I then so bad a painter, that I must write the name
under the figure.” “I understand you, my father, and shall not interrupt
you again.” “Then imagine to yourself the honour of one of the first
houses in Spain; the peace of a whole family,--the feelings of a
father,--the honour of a mother,--the interests of religion,--the
eternal salvation of an individual, all suspended in one scale. What do
you think could outweigh them?” “Nothing,” I replied ardently. “Yet, in
the opposite scale you throw _nothing_,--the caprice of a boy not
thirteen years old;--this is all you have to oppose to the claims of
nature, of society, and of God.” “My father, I am penetrated with horror
at what you have said,--does all this depend on me?” “It does,--it does
all depend on you.” “But how, then,--I am bewildered,--I am willing to
make a sacrifice,--tell me what I am to do.” “Embrace, my dear child,
the monastic life; this will accomplish the views of all who love you,
ensure your own salvation, and fulfil the will of God, who is calling
you at this moment by the voices of your affectionate parents, and the
supplications of the minister of heaven, who is now kneeling before
you.” And he sunk on his knees before me. “This prostration, so unexpected, so revolting, and so like the monastic
habit of artificial humiliation, completely annihilated the effect of
his language. I retreated from his arms, which were extended towards me. “My father, _I cannot_,--I will never become a monk.” “Wretch! and you
refuse, then, to listen to the call of your conscience, the adjuration
of your parents, and the voice of God?” The fury with which he uttered
these words,--the change from a ministering angel to an infuriated and
menacing demon, had an effect just contrary to what he expected. I said
calmly, “My conscience does not reproach me,--I have never disobeyed its
calls. My parents have adjured me only through your mouth; and I hope,
for their sakes, the organ has not been inspired by them.