I, for a wonder, consented; but,
as the carriage conveyed me to the convent, I repeated to the Director,
“Remember, my brother is not to be a monk.”

“(After these lines several were unintelligible to me, apparently from
the agitation under which they were written;--the precipitancy and fiery
ardor of my brother’s character communicated itself to his writings. After many a defaced page I could trace the following words.) * * * * *
*

“It was singular enough that you, who were the object of my inveterate
hatred before my residence in the convent, became the object of my
interest from that moment. I had adopted your cause from pride, I now
upheld it from experience. Compassion, instinct, whatever it was, began
to assume the character of a duty. When I saw the indignity with which
the lower classes were treated, I said to myself, “No, he shall never
suffer that,--he is my brother.” When I succeeded in my exercises, and
was applauded, I said, “This is applause in which he never can share.”
When I was punished, and that was much more frequently, I said, “He
shall never feel this mortification.” My imagination expanded. I
believed myself your future patron, I conceived myself redeeming the
injustice of nature, aiding and aggrandizing you, forcing you to confess
that you owed more to me than to your parents, and throwing myself, with
a disarmed and naked heart, on your gratitude alone for affection. I
heard you call me brother,--I bid you stop, and call me benefactor. My
nature, proud, generous, and fiery, had not yet quite emancipated itself
from the influence of the Director, but every effort it made pointed, by
an indescribable impulse, towards you. Perhaps the secret of this is to
be found in the elements of my character, which always struggled against
dictation, and loved to teach itself all it wished to know, and inspire
itself with the object of its own attachments. It is certain that I
wished for your friendship, at the moment I was instructed to hate you. Your mild eyes and affectionate looks haunted me perpetually in the
convent. To the professions of friendship repeatedly made me by the
boarders, I answered, “I want a brother.” My conduct was eccentric and
violent,--no wonder, for my conscience had begun to operate against my
habits. Sometimes I would apply with an eagerness that made them tremble
for my health; at others, no punishment, however severe, could make me
submit to the ordinary discipline of the house. The community grew weary
of my obstinacy, violence, and irregularities. They wrote to the
Director to have me removed, but before this could be accomplished I was
seized with a fever. They paid me unremitting attention, but there was
something on my mind no cares of theirs could remove. When they brought
me medicine with the most scrupulous punctuality, I said, “Let my
brother fetch it, and if it be poison I will drink it from his hand; I
have injured him much.” When the bell tolled for matins and vespers, I
said, “Are they going to make my brother a monk? The Director promised
me differently, but you are all deceivers.” At length they muffled the
bell. I heard its stifled sound, and I exclaimed, “You are tolling for
his funeral, but I,--I am his murderer!” The community became terrified
at these exclamations so often repeated, and with the meaning of which
they could not accuse themselves. I was removed in a state of delirium
to my father’s palace in Madrid. A figure like yours sat beside me in
the carriage, alighted when we stopped, accompanied me where I remained,
assisted me when I was placed again in the carriage. So vivid was the
impression, that I was accustomed to say to the attendants, “Stop, my
brother is assisting me.” When they asked me in the morning how I had
rested? I answered, “Very well,--Alonzo has been all night at my
bed-side.” I invited this visionary companion to continue his
attentions; and when the pillows were arranged to my satisfaction, I
would say, “How kind my brother is,--how useful,--but _why will he not
speak_?” At one stage I absolutely refused nourishment, because the
phantom appeared to decline it. I said, “Do not urge me, my brother, you
see, will not accept of it. Oh, I entreat his pardon, it is a day of
abstinence,--that is his reason, you see how he points to his
habit,--that is enough.” It is very singular that the food at this house
happened to be poisoned, and that two of my attendants died of partaking
of it before they could reach Madrid. I mention these circumstances,
merely to prove the rivetted hold you had taken both of my imagination
and my affections. On the recovery of my intellect, my first inquiry was
for you. This had been foreseen, and my father and mother, shunning the
discussion, and even trembling for the event, as they knew the violence
of my temper, intrusted the whole business to the Director. He undertook
it,--how he executed it is yet to be seen. On our first meeting he
approached me with congratulations on my convalescence, with regrets for
the constraints I must have suffered in the convent, with assurances
that my parents would make my home a paradise. When he had gone on for
some time, I said, “What have you done with my brother?” “He is in the
bosom of God,” said the Director, crossing himself. I understood him in
a moment,--I rushed past him before he had finished. “Where are you
going, my son?” “To my parents.” “Your parents,--it is impossible that
you can see them now.” “But it is certain that I will see them. Dictate
to me no longer,--degrade yourself not by this prostituted humiliation,”
for he was putting himself in a posture of intreaty,--“I _will_ see my
parents. Procure for me an introduction to them this moment, or tremble
for the continuance of your influence in the family.” At these words he
trembled. He did not indeed dread my influence, but he dreaded my
passions. His own lessons were bitterly retaliated on him that moment. He had made me fierce and impetuous, because that suited his purpose,
but he had neither calculated on, or prepared himself for, this
extraordinary direction which my feelings had taken, so opposite to that
which he had laboured to give them. He thought, in exciting my passions,
he could ascertain their direction. Woe be to those, who, in teaching
the elephant to direct his trunk against their foes, forget that by a
sudden convolution of that trunk, he may rend the driver from his back,
and trample him under his feet into the mire. Such was the Director’s
situation and mine, I insisted on going instantly to my father’s
presence. He interposed, he supplicated; at last, as a hopeless
resource, he reminded me of his continual indulgence, his flattery of my
passions. My answer was brief, but Oh that it might sink into the souls
of such tutors and such priests! “And that has made me what I am.