Such were the contents of the papers which I received in fragments, and from time to time, by the hands of the porter. I swallowed the first the moment I had read it, and the rest I found means to destroy unperceived as I received them—my attendance on the infirmary entitling me to great indulgences.
(At this part of the narrative, the Spaniard became so much agitated, though apparently more from emotion than fatigue, that Melmoth entreated him to suspend it for some days, and the exhausted narrator willingly complied.)
VI
Τηλε μἐιργουσι ψυχαι ειδωλα καμοντων.
Homer
(When, after some days interval, the Spaniard attempted to describe his feelings on the receipt of his brother’s letter, the sudden resuscitation of heart, and hope, and existence, that followed its perusal, he trembled—uttered some inarticulate sounds;—wept;—and his agitation appeared to Melmoth, with “his uncontinental feelings,” so violent, that he entreated him to spare the description of his feelings, and proceed with his narrative.)
You are right (said the Spaniard, drying his tears), joy is a convulsion, but grief is a habit, and to describe what we never can communicate, is as absurd as to talk of colours to the blind. I will hasten on, not to tell of my feelings, but of the results which they produced. A new world of hope was opened to me. I thought I saw liberty on the face of heaven when I walked in the garden. I laughed at the jar of the doors as they opened, and said to myself, “You shall soon expand to me forever.” I behaved with uncommon complacency to the community. But I did not, amid all this, neglect the most scrupulous precautions suggested by my brother. Am I confessing the strength or the weakness of my heart? In the midst of all the systematic dissimulation that I was prepared and eager to carry on, the only circumstance that gave me real compunction, was my being obliged to destroy the letters of that dear and generous youth who had risked everything for my emancipation. In the meantime, I pursued my preparations with industry inconceivable to you, who have never been in a convent.
Lent was now begun—all the community were preparing themselves for the great confession. They shut themselves up—they prostrated themselves before the shrines of the saints—they occupied themselves whole hours in taking minutes of their consciences, and magnifying the trivial defects of conventual discipline into offences in the eye of God, in order to give consequence to their penitence in the hearing of the confessor—in fact, they would have been glad to accuse themselves of a crime, to escape from the monotony of a monastic conscience. There was a kind of silent bustle in the house, that very much favoured my purposes. Hour after hour I demanded paper for my confession. I obtained it, but my frequent demands excited suspicion—they little knew what I was writing. Some said, for everything excites inquiry in a convent, “He is writing the history of his family; he will discharge it into the ears of the confessor, along with the secrets of his own soul.” Others said, “He has been in a state of alienation for some time, he is giving an account to God for it—we shall never hear a word about it.” Others, who were more judicious, said, “He is weary of the monastic life, he is writing an account of his monotony and ennui, doubtless that must be very long;” and the speakers yawned as they uttered these words, which gave a very strong attestation to what they said. The Superior watched me in silence. He was alarmed, and with reason. He consulted with some of the “discreet” brethren, whom I mentioned before, and the result was a restless vigilance on their part, to which I supplied an incessant fuel, by my absurd and perpetual demand for paper. Here, I acknowledge, I committed a great oversight. It was impossible for the most exaggerated conscience to charge itself, even in a convent, with crimes enough to fill all the paper I required. I was filling them all the time with their crimes, not my own. Another great mistake I made, was being wholly unprepared for the great confession when it came on. I received intimations of this as we walked in the garden—I have before mentioned that I had assumed an amicability of habit toward them. They would say to me, “You have made ample preparations for the great confession.”
“I have prepared myself.”
“But we expect great edification from its results.”
“I trust you will receive it.”
I said no more, but I was very much disturbed at these hints.
Others would say, “My brother, amid the multitudinous offences that burden your conscience, and which you have found necessary to employ quires of paper to record, would it not be a relief to you to open your mind to the Superior, and ask for a few previous moments of consolation and direction from him.”
To this I answered, “I thank you, and will consider of it.”—I was thinking all the time of something else.
It was a few nights before the time of the great confession, that I had to
