I considered these as the final words addressed to me, and was about to retire, when I was recalled. I was desired to utter some words, which everyone was eager to put into my mouth, of expostulation, of remonstrance, of supplication. I resisted them all as steadily as if I had known (which I did not) that the Bishop had himself instituted the examination into the deranged state of the convent; and that instead of the Superior inviting the Bishop to examine into the cause of the disturbance in his convent (the very last step he would have taken), the Bishop (a man whose character will shortly be developed), had been apprised of the scandal of the convent, and had determined to take the matter into his own hands. Sunk in solitude and persecution, I knew not that all Madrid was on fire—that the Bishop had determined to be no longer a passive hearer of the extraordinary scenes reported to pass in the convent—that, in a word, my exorcism and my appeal were quivering in alternate scales, and that the Superior himself doubted which way the scale might incline. All this I was ignorant of, for no one dared to tell it to me. I therefore was about to retire without uttering a word in answer to the many whispered speeches to humble myself to the Superior, to implore his intercession with the Bishop to suspend this disgraceful examination that threatened us all.
I broke from them as they surrounded me; and standing calm and sullen at the door, I threw a retorting look at them, and said, “God forgive you all, and grant you such an acquittal at his judgment-seat, as I hesitate not to claim at that of the Bishop-visitant.” These words, though uttered by a ragged demoniac (as they thought me), made them tremble. Truth is rarely heard in convents, and therefore its language is equally emphatical and portentous.
The monks crossed themselves, and, as I left the apartment, repeated, “But how then—what if we prevented this mischief?”
“By what means?”
“By any that the interests of religion may suggest—the character of the convent is at stake. The Bishop is a man of a strict and scrutinizing character—he will keep his eyes open to the truth—he will inquire into facts—what will become of us? Were it not better that—”
“What?”
“You comprehend us.”
“And if I dared to comprehend you, the time is too short.”
“We have heard of the death of maniacs being very sudden, of—”
“What do you dare to hint at?”
“Nothing, we only spoke of what everyone knows, that a profound sleep is often a restorative to lunatics. He is a lunatic, as all the convent are ready to swear—a wretch possessed by the infernal spirit, whom he invocates every night in his cell—he disturbs the whole convent by his outcries.”
The Superior all this time walked impatiently up and down his apartment. He entangled his fingers in his rosary—he threw on the monks angry looks from time to time; at last he said, “I am myself disturbed by his cries—his wanderings—his undoubted commerce with the enemy of souls. I need rest—I require a profound sleep to repair my exhausted spirits—what would you prescribe?”
Several pressed forward, not understanding the hint, and eagerly recommended the common opiates—Mithridate, etc. etc. An old monk whispered in his ear, “Laudanum—it will procure a deep and sound sleep. Try it, my father, if you want rest; but to make the experiment sure, were it not best to try it first on another?”
The Superior nodded, and the party were about to disperse, when the Superior caught the old monk by his habit, and whispered, “But no murder!”
“Oh no! only profound sleep.—What matter when he wakes? It must be to suffering in this life or the next. We are not guilty in the business. What signifies a few moments sooner or later?”
The Superior was of a timid and passionate character. He still kept hold of the monk’s habit;—he whispered, “But it must not be known.”
“But who can know it?”
At this moment the clock struck, and an old ascetic monk, who occupied a cell adjacent to the Superior’s, and who had accustomed himself to the exclamation, “God knoweth all things,” whenever the clock struck, repeated it aloud. The Superior quitted his hold of the monk’s habit—the monk crawled to his cell “God-struck,” if I may use the expression—the laudanum was not administered that night—the voice did not return—I slept the entire night, and the whole convent was delivered from the harassings of the infernal spirit. Alas! none haunted it, but that spirit which the natural malignity of solitude raises within the circle of every heart, and forces us, from the terrible economy of misery, to feed on the vitals of others, that we may spare our own.
This conversation was repeated to me afterwards by a monk who was on his dying
