Your own consciences must answer
this question for me.” At these words, the monks were again about to
interpose, when the Superior, silencing them by a signal, went on with
his matter-of-fact questions, that paralyzed all the energy of passion. “You will not tell me what you have done with the paper committed
to you?”--I was silent.--“I enjoin you, by your holy obedience, to
disclose it this moment.”--His voice rose in passion as he spoke, and
this operated as a signal on mine. I said, “You have no right, my
father, to demand such a declaration.” “Right is not the question now. I command you to tell me. I require your oath on the altar of Jesus
Christ, and by the image of his blessed Mother.” “You have no right to
demand such an oath. I know the rules of the house--I am responsible
to the confessor.” “Do you, then, make a question between right and
power? You shall soon feel, within these walls, they are the same.” “I
make no question--perhaps they are the same.” “And you will not tell
what you have done with those papers, blotted, doubtless, with the most
infernal calumnies?” “I will not.” “And you will take the consequences
of your obstinacy on your own head?” “I will.” And the four monks
chorussed again, all in the same unnatural tone, “The consequences be
on his own head.” But while they spoke thus, two of them whispered in
my ears, “Deliver up your papers, and all is well. The whole convent
knows you have been writing.” I answered, “I have nothing to give
up--nothing on the faith of a monk. I have not a single page in my
possession, but what you have seized on.” The monks, who had whispered
in a conciliatory tone to me before, quitted me. They conversed in
whispers with the Superior, who, darting on me a terrible look,
exclaimed, “And you will not give up your papers?” “I have nothing to
give up: Search my person--search my cell--every thing is open to you.”
“Every thing shall be soon,” said the Superior in fury. In a moment
the examination commenced. There was not an article of furniture in
my cell that was not the object of their investigation. My chair and
table were overturned, shaken, and finally broken, in the attempt to
discover whether any papers had been secreted in them. The prints were
snatched from the walls,--held up between them and the light.--Then
the very frames were broken, to try if any thing was concealed in
them. Then they examined my bed;--they threw all the furniture about
the floor, they unripped the mattress, and tore out the straw; one of
them, during this operation, actually applied his teeth to facilitate
it,--and this malice of activity formed a singular contrast to the
motionless and rigid torpor with which they had clothed themselves
but a few moments before. All this time, I stood in the centre of the
floor, as I was ordered, without turning to right or left. Nothing was
found to justify their suspicions. They then surrounded me; and the
examination of my person was equally rapid, minute, and indecorous. Every thing I wore was on the floor in a moment: The very seams of my
habit were ript open; and, during the examination, I covered myself
with one of the blankets they had taken from my bed. When it was over,
I said, “Have you discovered any thing?” The Superior answered, in a
voice of rage, struggling proudly, but vainly, with disappointment, “I
have other means of discovery--prepare for them, and tremble when they
are resorted to.” At these words he rushed from my cell, giving a sign
to the four monks to follow him. I was left alone. I had no longer any
doubt of my danger. I saw myself exposed to the fury of men who would
risk nothing to appease it. I watched, waited, trembled, at every step
I heard in the gallery--at the sound of every door that opened or shut
near me. Hours went on in this agony of suspense, and terminated at
last without an event. No one came near me that night--the next was to
be that of the great confession. In the course of the day, I took my
place in the choir, trembling, and watching every eye. I felt as if
every countenance was turned on me, and every tongue said in silence,
“Thou art the man.” Often I wished that the storm I felt was gathering
around me, would burst at once. It is better to hear the thunder than
to watch the cloud. It did not burst, however, then. And when the
duties of the day were over, I retired to my cell, and remained there,
pensive, anxious, and irresolute. “The confession had begun; and as I heard the penitents, one by one,
return from the church, and close the doors of their cells, I began
to dread that I was to be excluded from approaching the holy chair,
and that this exclusion from a sacred and indispensible right, was to
be the commencement of some mysterious course of rigour. I waited,
however, and was at last summoned. This restored my courage, and I went
through my duties more tranquilly. After I had made my confession, only
a few simple questions were proposed to me, as, Whether I could accuse
myself of any _inward_ breach of conventual duty? of any thing I had
_reserved_? any thing in my conscience? &c.--and on my answering them
in the negative, was suffered to depart. It was on that very night the
porter died. My last packet had gone some days before,--all was safe
and well. Neither voice or line could bear witness against me now, and
hope began to revisit me, as I reflected that my brother’s zealous
industry would discover some other means for our future communication. “All was profound calm for a few days, but the storm was to come soon
enough. On the fourth evening after the confession, I was sitting alone
in my cell, when I heard an unusual bustle in the convent. The bell was
rung,--the new porter seemed in great agitation,--the Superior hurried
to the parlour first, then to his cell,--then some of the elder monks
were summoned. The younger whispered in the galleries,--shut their
doors violently,--all seemed in agitation. In a domestic building,
occupied by the smallest family, such circumstances would hardly be
noticed, but, in a convent, the miserable monotony of what may be
called their internal existence, gives an importance,--an interest, to
the most trivial external circumstance in common life. I felt all this. I said to myself, “Something is going on.”--I added, “Something is
going on against me.” I was right in both my conjectures. Late in the
evening I was ordered to attend the Superior in his own apartment,--I
said I was ready to go. Two minutes after the order was reversed, and
I was desired to remain in my cell, and await the approach of the
Superior,--I answered I was willing to obey. But this sudden change of
orders filled me with an _indefinite_ fear; and in all the changes of
my life, and vicissitude of my feelings, I have never felt any fear
so horrible. I walked up and down, I repeated incessantly, “My God
protect me!