At these words, unnatural as I was, I shuddered. I said, “My brother!”
“Never mind,” said the Director, “he is the enemy of God—an illegitimate impostor. Now, my child, are you prepared?” and I answered, “I am prepared.”
That night, however, I was very restless. I required the Director to be summoned. I said in my pride, “But how is this poor wretch (meaning you) to be disposed of?”
“Let him embrace the monastic life,” said the Director.
At these words I felt an interest on your account I had never recognized before. I said decidedly, for he had taught me to assume a tone of decision, “He shall never be a monk.” The Director appeared staggered, yet he trembled before the spirit he had himself raised. “Let him go into the army,” I said; “let him enlist as a common soldier, I can supply him with the means of promotion;—let him engage in the meanest profession, I shall not blush to acknowledge him, but, father, he shall never be a monk.”
“But, my dear child, on what foundation does this extraordinary objection rest? It is the only means to restore peace to the family, and procure it for the unfortunate being for whom you are so much interested.”
“My father, have done with this language. Promise me, as the condition of my obedience to your wishes tomorrow, that my brother shall never be compelled to be a monk.”
“Compelled, my dear child! there can be no compulsion in a holy vocation.”
“I am not certain of that; but I demand from you the promise I have mentioned.”
The Director hesitated, at last he said, “I promise.” And he hastened to tell my father there was no longer any opposition to our meeting, and that I was delighted with the determination which had been announced to me of my brother eagerly embracing the monastic life.
Thus was our first meeting arranged. When, at the command of my father, our arms were entwined, I swear to you, my brother, I felt them thrill with affection. But the instinct of nature was soon superseded by the force of habit, and I recoiled, collected all the forces of nature and passion in the terrible expression that I dared to direct towards our parents, while the Director stood behind them smiling, and encouraging me by gestures. I thought I had acted my part with applause, at least I gave myself enough, and retired from the scene with as proud a step as if I had trampled on a prostrate world—I had only trampled on nature and my own heart. A few days after I was sent to a convent. The Director was alarmed at the dogmatizing tone he himself had taught me to assume, and he urged the necessity of my education being attended to. My parents complied with everything he required. I, for a wonder, consented; but, as the carriage conveyed me to the convent, I repeated to the Director, “Remember, my brother is not to be a monk.”
After these lines several were unintelligible to me, apparently from the agitation under which they were written;—the precipitancy and fiery ardor of my brother’s character communicated itself to his writings. After many a defaced page I could trace the following words.
It was singular enough that you, who were the object of my inveterate hatred before my residence in the convent, became the object of my interest from that moment. I had adopted your cause from pride, I now upheld it from experience. Compassion, instinct, whatever it was, began to assume the character of a duty. When I saw the indignity with which the lower classes were treated, I said to myself, “No, he shall never suffer that—he is my brother.” When I succeeded in my exercises, and was applauded, I said, “This is applause in which he never can share.” When I was punished, and that was much more frequently, I said, “He shall never feel this mortification.” My imagination expanded. I believed myself your future patron, I conceived myself redeeming the injustice of nature, aiding and aggrandizing you, forcing you to confess that you owed more to me than to your parents, and throwing myself, with a disarmed and naked heart, on your gratitude alone for affection. I heard you call me brother—I bid you stop, and call me benefactor. My nature, proud, generous, and fiery, had not yet quite emancipated itself from the influence of the Director, but every effort it made pointed, by an indescribable impulse, towards you. Perhaps the secret of this is to be found in the elements of my character, which always struggled against dictation, and loved to teach itself all it wished to know, and inspire itself with the object of its own attachments. It is certain that I wished for your friendship, at the moment I was instructed to hate you. Your mild eyes and affectionate looks haunted me perpetually in the convent. To the professions of friendship repeatedly made me by the boarders, I answered, “I want a brother.” My conduct was eccentric and violent—no wonder, for my conscience had begun to operate against my habits. Sometimes I would apply with an eagerness that made them tremble for my health; at others, no punishment, however severe, could make me submit to the ordinary discipline of the house. The community grew weary of my obstinacy, violence, and irregularities. They wrote to the Director to have me removed, but before this could be accomplished I was seized with a fever. They paid me unremitting attention, but there was something on my mind no cares of theirs could remove. When they brought me medicine with the most scrupulous punctuality, I said, “Let my brother fetch it, and if it be poison I will drink it from his hand; I have injured him much.” When the bell tolled for matins and vespers, I said, “Are they going to make my brother a monk? The Director promised me differently, but you are
