Melmoth the Wanderer

reflect on a destiny thus singularly entrusted to a being whose affections honoured humanity, and a being whose crimes disgraced it. I was suspended like Muhammad’s tomb between heaven and earth. I felt an antipathy indescribable to hold any communication with a monster who had tried to hide the stains of parricide, by casting over their bloody and ineffaceable traces the shroud of monasticism. I felt also an inexpressible terror of Juan’s passions and precipitancy; and I felt ultimately that I was in the power of all I dreaded most, and must submit to the operation of that power for my liberation.

I was in the cloisters the following evening. I cannot say I walked with a step so equal, but I am sure I did with a step much more artificially regular. For the second time the same person touched my habit, and whispered the name of Juan.

After this I could no longer hesitate. I said, in passing, “I am in your power.”

A hoarse repulsive voice answered, “No, I am in yours.”

I murmured, “Well, then, I understand you, we belong to each other.”

“Yes. We must not speak here, but a fortunate opportunity presents itself for our communication. Tomorrow will be the eve of the feast of Pentecost; the vigil is kept by the whole community, who go two and two every hour to the altar, pass their hour in prayer, and then are succeeded by two more, and this continues all night. Such is the aversion with which you have inspired the community, that they have one and all refused to accompany you during your hour, which is to be from two till three. You will therefore be alone, and during your hour I will come and visit you⁠—we shall be undisturbed and unsuspected.”

At these words he quitted me. The next night was the eve of Pentecost, the monks went two and two all night to the altar⁠—at two o’clock my turn arrived. They rapped at my cell, and I descended to the church alone.

VIII

Ye monks and nuns throughout the land,
Who go to church at night in pairs,
Never take bell-ropes in your hands,
To raise you up again from prayers.

Colman

I am not superstitious, but, as I entered the church, I felt a chill of body and soul inexpressible. I approached the altar, and attempted to kneel⁠—an invisible hand repelled me. A voice seemed to address me from the recesses of the altar, and demand what brought me there? I reflected that those who had just quitted that spot had been absorbed in prayer, that those who were to succeed me would be engaged in the same profound homage, while I sought the church with a purpose of imposture and deception, and abused the hour allotted to the divine worship in contriving the means to escape from it. I felt I was a deceiver, shrouding my fraud in the very veils of the temple. I trembled at my purpose and at myself. I knelt, however, though I did not dare to pray. The steps of the altar felt unusually cold⁠—I shuddered at the silence I was compelled to observe. Alas! how can we expect that object to succeed, which we dare not entrust to God. Prayer, sir, when we are deeply engaged in it, not only makes us eloquent, but communicates a kind of answering eloquence to the objects around us. At former times, while I poured out my heart before God, I felt as if the lamps burnt brighter, and the images smiled⁠—the silent midnight air was filled with forms and voices, and every breeze that sighed by the casement bore to my ear the harpings of a thousand angels. Now all was stilled⁠—the lamps, the images, the altar, the roof, seemed to behold me in silence. They surrounded me like witnesses, whose presence alone is enough to condemn you, without their uttering a word. I dared not look up⁠—I dared not speak⁠—I dared not pray, lest it would unfold a thought I could not supplicate a blessing on; and this kind of keeping a secret, which God must know, is at once so vain and impious.

I had not remained long in this state of agitation, when I heard a step approach⁠—it was that of him I expected. “Rise,” said he, for I was on my knees; “rise⁠—we have no time to lose. You have but an hour to remain in the church, and I have much to tell you in that hour.” I rose. “Tomorrow night is fixed for your escape.”

“Tomorrow night⁠—merciful God!”

“Yes; in desperate steps there is always more danger from delay than from precipitation. A thousand eyes and ears are on the watch already⁠—a single sinister or ambiguous movement would render it impossible to escape their vigilance. There may be some danger in hastening matters thus, but it is unavoidable. Tomorrow night, after midnight, descend to the church, it is probable no one will then be here. If anyone should (engaged in recollection or in penance), retire to avoid suspicion. Return as soon as the church is empty⁠—I will be here. Do you observe that door?” and he pointed to a low door which I had often observed before, but never remembered to have seen opened; “I have obtained the key of that door⁠—no matter by what means. It formerly led to the vaults of the convent, but, for some extraordinary reasons, which I have not time to relate, another passage has been opened, and the former has not been employed or frequented for many years. From thence branches another passage, which, I have heard, opens by a trapdoor into the garden.”

“Heard,” I repeated; “Good God! is it on report, then, you depend in a matter so momentous? If you are not certain that such a passage exists, and that you will be able to trace its windings, may we not be wandering amid them all night? Or perhaps⁠—”

“Interrupt me no more with those faint objections; I have