And the voice
of God, echoed from my own heart, bids me not to obey you, by
adulterating his service with prostituted vows.” As I spoke thus, the
Director changed the whole character of his figure, his attitude, and
his language;--from the extreme of supplication or of terror, he passed
in a moment, with the facility of an actor, to a rigid and breathless
sternness. His figure rose from the ground before me like that of the
Prophet Samuel before the astonished eyes of Saul. He dropt the
dramatist, and was the monk in a moment. “And you will not take the
vows?” “I will not, my father.” “And you will brave the resentment of
your parents, and the denunciations of the church.” “I have done nothing
to deserve either.” “But you will encounter both, to cherish your horrid
resolution of being the enemy of God.” “I am not the enemy of God for
speaking the truth.” “Liar and hypocrite, you blaspheme!” “Stop, my
father, these are words unbecoming your profession, and unsuited to this
place.” “I acknowledge the justice of the rebuke, and submit to it,
though uttered by the mouth of a child.”--And he dropped his
hypocritical eyes, folded his hands on his breast, and murmured, “Fiat
voluntas tua. My dear child, my zeal for the service of God, and the
honour of your family, to which I am attached equally by principle and
affection, have carried me too far,--I confess it; but have I to ask
pardon of you also, my child, for a redundance of that affection and
zeal for your house, which its descendant has proved himself destitute
of?” The mingled humiliation and irony of this address had no effect on
me. He saw it had not; for after slowly raising his eyes to watch that
effect, he saw me standing in silence, not trusting my voice with a
word, lest I should utter something rash and disrespectful,--not daring
to lift up my eyes, lest their expression should speak without making
language necessary. “I believe the Director felt his situation rather critical; his interest
in the family depended on it, and he attempted to cover his retreat with
all the expertness and fertility of manœuvre which belong to an
ecclesiastical tactician. “My dear child, we have been both wrong, I
from zeal, and you from--no matter what; our business is to exchange
forgiveness with each other, and to implore it of God, whom we have both
offended. My dear child, let us prostrate ourselves before him, and even
while our hearts are glowing with human passion, God may seize that
moment to impress the seal of his grace on both, and fix it there for
ever. Often the earthquake and the whirlwind are succeeded by the still,
small voice, and God is there.--Let us pray.” I fell on my knees,
resolved to pray in my heart; but in a short time, the fervour of his
language, the eloquence and energy of his prayers, dragged me along with
him, and I felt myself compelled to pray against every dictate of my own
heart. He had reserved this display for the last, and he had judged
well. I never heard any thing so like inspiration; as I listened, and
involuntarily, to effusions that seemed to issue from no mortal lips, I
began to doubt my own motives, and search my heart. I had disdained his
taunts, I had defied and conquered his passion, but as he prayed, I
wept. This going over the same ground with the heart, is one of the most
painful and humiliating of all exercises; the virtue of yesterday
becomes the vice of to-day; we ask with the desponding and restless
scepticism of Pilate, “What is truth?” but the oracle that was so
eloquent one moment, is dumb the next, or if it answers, it is with that
ambiguity that makes us dread we have to consult again--again--and for
ever--in vain. “I was now in a state quite fit for the Director’s purpose; but he was
fatigued with the part he had played with so little success, and took
his leave, imploring me to continue my importunities to Heaven to direct
and enlighten me, while he himself would supplicate all the saints in
heaven to touch the hearts of my parents, and reveal to them some means
of saving me from the crime and perjury of a forced vocation, without
_involving themselves in a crime, if possible, of blacker dye and
greater magnitude_. Saying so he left me, to urge my parents, with all
his influence, to pursue the most rigorous measures to enforce my
adoption of the conventual life. His motives for doing so were
sufficiently strong when he visited me, but their strength was increased
tenfold before his departure. He had reckoned confidently on the power
of his remonstrances; he had been repulsed; the disgrace of such a
defeat rankled in the core of his heart. He had been only a _partizan_
in the cause, but he was now a _party_. What was a matter of conscience
before, was now a matter of honour with him; and I rather believe that
the Director laid a greater stress on the latter, or made a great havock
of confusion between both in his mind. Be that as it may, I passed a few
days after his visit in a state of indescribable excitement. I had
something to hope, and that is often better than something to enjoy. The
cup of hope always excites thirst, that of fruition disappoints or
quenches it. I took long walks in the garden alone. I framed imaginary
conversations to myself. The boarders observed me, and said to each
other, according to their instructions, “He is meditating on his
vocation, he is supplicating for illuminating grace, let us not disturb
him.” I did not undeceive them; but I reflected with increasing horror
on a system that _forced_ hypocrisy to a precocity unparalleled, and
made the last vice of life the earliest of conventual youth. But I soon
forgot reflection, to plunge into reverie. I imagined myself at the
palace of my father; I saw him, my mother, and the Director, engaged in
debate. I spoke for each, and felt for all. I supplied the passionate
eloquence of the Director, his strong representations of my aversion to
the habit, his declaration that further importunity on their part would
be as impious as it was fruitless. I saw all the impression I once
flattered myself I had made on my father revived. I saw my mother yield. I heard the murmur of doubtful acquiescence,--the decision, the
congratulations. I saw the carriage approaching,--I heard the convent
doors fly open. Liberty,--liberty,--I was in their arms; no, I was at
their feet. Let those who smile at me, ask themselves whether they have
been indebted most to imagination or reality for all they have enjoyed
in life, if indeed they have ever enjoyed any thing. In these internal
dramas, however, I always felt that the persons did not speak with the
interest I wished; and the speeches I put into their mouths would have
been spoken with ten thousand times more animation by myself. Still I
felt the most exquisite enjoyment in these reveries, and perhaps it was
not diminished by the thought how I was deceiving my companions the
whole time.