No, you will not,--remember
you are answerable for my life.” At these words, they surrounded me;
then, for the first time, I struggled,--I called for help;--this was the
moment they waited for; they wanted some repugnance on my part. The
signal was instantly given to a lay-brother, who waited in the
passage,--the bell was rung,--that terrible bell, that requires every
member of a convent to plunge into his cell, as something extraordinary
is going on in the house. At the first toll I lost all hope. I felt as
if not a living being was in existence but those who surrounded me, and
who appeared, in the livid light of one taper burning faintly in that
dismal passage, like spectres hurrying a condemned soul to his doom. They hurried me down the steps to this door, which was considerably
below the level of the passage. It was a long time before they could
open it; many keys were tried; perhaps they might have felt some
agitation at the thoughts of the violence they were going to commit. But
this delay increased my terrors beyond expression; I imagined this
terrible vault had never been inclosed before; that I was to be the
first victim inhumed within it; and that their determination was, I
should never quit it alive. As these thoughts occurred, in unutterable
agony I cried aloud, though I felt I was beyond all human hearing; but
my cries were drowned in the jarring of the heavy door, as it yielded to
the efforts of the monks, who, uniting their strength, pushed it with
extended arms, grating all the way against the floor of stone. The monks
hurried me in, while the Superior stood at the entrance with the light,
appearing to shudder at the view it disclosed. I had time to view all
the furniture of what I thought my last abode. It was of stone; the roof
formed an arch; a block of stone supported a crucifix, and a death’s
head, with a loaf and a pitcher of water. There was a mat on the floor,
to lie on; another rolled up at the end of it formed a pillow. They
flung me on it, and prepared to depart. I no longer struggled, for I
knew escape was in vain, but I supplicated them at least to leave me a
light; and I petitioned for this with as much earnestness as I could
have done for my liberty. Thus it is that misery always breaks down the
mind into petty details. We have not strength to comprehend the whole of
our calamity. We feel not the mountain which is heaped on us, but the
nearest grains press on and grind us. I said, “In Christian mercy leave
me a light, if it be but to defend myself against the reptiles that must
swarm here.” And already I saw this was true, for some of extraordinary
size, disturbed by the phænomenon of the light, came crawling down the
walls. All this time the monks were straining their strength to close
the heavy door; they did not utter a word. “I adjure you to leave me
light, _if it is but to gaze on that skull_; fear not the exercise of
sight can be any indulgence in this place; but still let me have a
light; think that when I wish to pray, I must _feel my way_ to that
crucifix.” As I spoke, the door was with difficulty closed and locked,
and I heard their departing steps. You will hardly believe, Sir, that I
slept profoundly; yet I did; but I would rather never sleep again, than
awake so horribly. I awoke in _the darkness of day_. I was to behold the
light no more; nor to watch those divisions of time, which, by measuring
our portions of suffering, appear to diminish them. When the clock
strikes, we know an hour of wretchedness is past, never to return. My
only time-keeper was the approach of the monk, who every day renewed my
allowance of bread and water; and had he been the object I loved most on
earth, the sound of his steps could not have made more delicious music. These æras by which we compute the hours of darkness and inanity are
inconceivable to any but those who are situated as I was. You have
heard, Sir, no doubt, that the eye which, on its being first immersed
into darkness, appears deprived of the power of vision for ever,
acquires, imperceptibly, a power of accommodating itself to its darkened
sphere, and even of distinguishing objects by a kind of conventional
light. The mind certainly possesses the same power, otherwise, how could
I have had the power to reflect, to summon some resolution, and even to
indulge some hope, in this frightful abode? Thus it is, when all the
world seems sworn to hostility against us, we turn friends to ourselves
with all the obstinacy of despair;--and _while all the world is
flattering and deifying us, we are the perpetual victims of lassitude
and self-reproach_. “The prisoner whose hours are visited by a dream of emancipation, is
less a prey to ennui than the sovereign on a throne, begirt with
adulation, voluptuousness, and satiety. I reflected that all my papers
were safe,--that my cause was prosecuting with vigour,--that, owing to
my brother’s zeal, I had the ablest advocate in Madrid,--that they dared
not murder me, and were answerable with the whole credit of the house
for my re-appearance whenever the courts demanded it,--that the very
rank of my family was a powerful protection, though none of them but my
generous fiery Juan was probably favourable to me;--that if I was
permitted to receive and read the advocate’s first memoir, even through
the hands of the Superior, it was absurd to imagine that I could be
denied intercourse with him in a more advanced and important stage of
the business. These were the suggestions of my hope, and they were
plausible enough. What were the suggestions of my despair, I shudder
even at this moment to reflect on. The most terrible of all was, that I
might be murdered _conventually_ before it was possible that my
liberation could be accomplished. “Such, Sir, were my reflections; you may ask, what were my occupations? My situation supplied me with those, and, revolting as they were, they
were still occupations. I had my devotions to perform; religion was my
only resource in solitude and darkness, and while I prayed only for
liberty and peace, I felt I was not at least insulting God by the
prayers of hypocrisy, which I would have been compelled to utter in the
choir. There I was obliged to join in a sacrifice that was odious to me,
and offensive to him;--in my dungeon I offered up the sacrifice of my
heart, and felt it was not unacceptable. During the glimpse of light
afforded me by the approach of the monk who brought me bread and water,
I arranged the crucifix so as that I could feel it when I awoke. This
was very often, and not knowing whether it was day or night, I uttered
my prayers at random. I knew not whether it was matins or vespers; there
was neither morning or evening for me, but it was like a talisman to me
to touch the crucifix, and I said as I felt for it, “My God is with me
in the darkness of my dungeon; he is a God who has suffered, and can
pity me.