“Is it founded upon anything in my conduct, then?—I am willing to do everything—to sacrifice everything.”
“I understand—you are willing to do everything but what is required of you—and to sacrifice everything 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 anything 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 anything—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. 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 dropped 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
