“I don’t doubt it.”
“My brother, you answer at random.”
“Just as I feel—but don’t heed that.”
“Will you take a turn in the garden?”
“If you please.”
“Or will you seek a moment’s consolation from the Superior?”
“If you please.”
“But why do you speak with such apathy? are the odour of the flowers, and the consolations of your Superior, to be appreciated in the same breath?”
“I believe so.”
“Why?”
“Because I am to be a monk.”
“Nay, brother, will you never utter anything but that phrase, which carries no meaning with it but that of stupefaction or delirium?”
“Imagine me, then, stupefied, delirious—what you please—you know I must be a monk.”
At these words, which I suppose I uttered in a tone unlike that of the usual chaunt of monastic conversation, another interposed, and asked what I was uttering in so loud a key?
“I am only saying,” I replied, “that I must be a monk.”
“Thank God it is no worse,” replied the querist, “your contumacy must long ago have wearied the Superior and the brethren—thank God it’s no worse.”
At these words I felt my passions resuscitated—I exclaimed, “Worse! what have I to dread?—am I not to be a monk?”
From that evening (I forget when it occurred), my liberty was abridged; I was no longer suffered to walk, to converse with the boarders or novices—a separate table was spread for me in the refectory—the seats near mine were left vacant at service—yet still my cell was embellished with flowers and engravings, and exquisitely-wrought toys were left on my table. I did not perceive they were treating me as a lunatic, yet certainly my foolishly reiterated expressions might have justified them in doing so—they had their own plans in concert with the Director—my silence went for proof. The Director came often to visit me, and the hypocritical wretches would accompany him to my cell. I was generally (for want of other occupation) attending to my flowers, or gazing at the engravings—and they would say, “You see he is as happy as he wishes to be—he wants for nothing—he is quite occupied in watching those roses.”
“No, I am not occupied,” I returned, “it is occupation I want.”
Then they shrugged their shoulders, exchanged mysterious looks with the Director, and I was glad when they were gone, without reflecting on the mischief their absence threatened me with. At this moment, consultation after consultation was held at the palace de Monçada, whether I could be induced to show sufficient intellect to enable me to pronounce the vows. It seems the reverend fathers were as anxious as their old enemies the Moors, to convert an idiot into a saint. There was now a party combined against me, that it would have required more than the might of man to resist. All was uproar from the palace de Monçada to the convent, and back again. I was mad, “contumacious,” heretical, idiotical—anything—everything—that could appease the jealous agony of my parents, the cupidity of the monks, or the ambition of the ex-Jesuits, who laughed at the terror of all the rest, and watched intently over their own interests. Whether I was mad or not, they cared very little; to enroll a son of the first house of Spain among their converts, or to imprison him as a madman, or to exorcise him as a demoniac, was all the same to them. There was a coup de théâtre to be exhibited, and provided they played first parts, they cared little about the catastrophe. Luckily, during all this uproar of imposture, fear, falsehood, and misrepresentation, the Superior remained steady. He let the tumult go on, to aggrandize his importance; but he was resolved all the time that I should have sanity enough to enable me to take the vows. I knew nothing of all this, but was astonished at being summoned to the parlour on the last eve of my noviciate. I had performed my religious exercises with regularity, had received no rebukes from the master of the novices, and was totally unprepared for the scene that awaited me. In the parlour were assembled my father, mother, the Director, and some other persons whom I did not recognize.
I advanced with a calm look, and equal step. I believe I was as much in possession of my reason as anyone present. The Superior, taking my arm, led me round the room, saying, “You see—”
I interrupted him—“Sir, what is this intended for?”
He answered only by putting his finger on his lips, and then desired me to exhibit my drawings. I brought them, and offered them on one knee, first to my mother, and then to my father. They were sketches of monasteries and prisons. My mother averted her eyes—and my father said, pushing them away, “I have no taste in those things.”
“But you are fond of music doubtless,” said the Superior; “you must hear his performance.” There was a small organ in the room adjacent to the parlour; my mother was not admitted there, but my father followed to listen. Involuntarily I selected an air from the Sacrifice of Jephtha. My father was affected, and bid me cease. The Superior imagined this was not only a tribute to my talent, but an acknowledgement of the power of his party, and he applauded without measure or judgement. Till that moment, I had never conceived I could be the object of a party in the convent. The Superior was determined to make me a Jesuit, and therefore was pledged for my sanity. The monks wished for an exorcism, an auto de fe, or some such bagatelle, to diversify the dreariness of monasticism, and therefore were anxious I should be, or appear, deranged or possessed. Their pious wishes, however, failed. I had appeared when summoned, behaved with
