The Monk

part, never composed more than six lines in my life: those six produced so unlucky an effect that I am fully resolved never to compose another. But I wander from my subject. I was going to say that you cannot employ your time worse than in making verses. An author, whether good or bad, or between both, is an animal whom everybody is privileged to attack; for though all are not able to write books, all conceive themselves able to judge them. A bad composition carries with it its own punishment, contempt and ridicule. A good one excites envy, and entails upon its author a thousand mortifications. He finds himself assailed by partial and ill-humoured criticism: one man finds fault with the plan, another with the style, a third with the precept, which it strives to inculcate; and they who cannot succeed in finding fault with the book, employ themselves in stigmatizing its author. They maliciously rake out from obscurity every little circumstance which may throw ridicule upon his private character or conduct, and aim at wounding the man, since they cannot hurt the writer. In short, to enter the lists of literature is wilfully to expose yourself to the arrows of neglect, ridicule, envy, and disappointment. Whether you write well or ill, be assured that you will not escape from blame; indeed this circumstance contains a young author’s chief consolation: he remembers that Lope de Vega and Calderona had unjust and envious critics, and he modestly conceives himself to be exactly in their predicament. But I am conscious that all these sage observations are thrown away upon you. Authorship is a mania to conquer which no reasons are sufficiently strong; and you might as easily persuade me not to love, as I persuade you not to write. However, if you cannot help being occasionally seized with a poetical paroxysm, take at least the precaution of communicating your verses to none but those whose partiality for you secures their approbation.”

“Then, my lord, you do not think these lines tolerable?” said Theodore with an humble and dejected air.

“You mistake my meaning. As I said before, they have pleased me much; but my regard for you makes me partial, and others might judge them less favourably. I must still remark that even my prejudice in your favour does not blind me so much as to prevent my observing several faults. For instance, you make a terrible confusion of metaphors; you are too apt to make the strength of your lines consist more in the words than sense; some of the verses only seem introduced in order to rhyme with others; and most of the best ideas are borrowed from other poets, though possibly you are unconscious of the theft yourself. These faults may occasionally be excused in a work of length; but a short poem must be correct and perfect.”

“All this is true, señor; but you should consider that I only write for pleasure.”

“Your defects are the less excusable. Their incorrectness may be forgiven in those who work for money, who are obliged to complete a given task in a given time, and are paid according to the bulk, not value of their productions. But in those whom no necessity forces to turn author, who merely write for fame, and have full leisure to polish their compositions, faults are impardonable, and merit the sharpest arrows of criticism.”

The Marquis rose from the sofa; the page looked discouraged and melancholy, and this did not escape his master’s observation.

“However,” added he smiling, “I think that these lines do you no discredit. Your versification is tolerably easy, and your ear seems to be just. The perusal of your little poem upon the whole gave me much pleasure; and if it is not asking too great a favour, I shall be highly obliged to you for a copy.”

The youth’s countenance immediately cleared up. He perceived not the smile, half approving, half ironical, which accompanied the request, and he promised the copy with great readiness. The Marquis withdrew to his chamber, much amused by the instantaneous effect produced upon Theodore’s vanity by the conclusion of his criticism. He threw himself upon his couch; sleep soon stole over him, and his dreams presented him with the most flattering pictures of happiness with Agnes.

On reaching the Hotel de Medina, Lorenzo’s first care was to enquire for letters. He found several waiting for him; but that which he sought was not amongst them. Leonella had found it impossible to write that evening. However, her impatience to secure Don Christoval’s heart, on which she flattered herself with having made no slight impression, permitted her not to pass another day without informing him where she was to be found. On her return from the Capuchin church, she had related to her sister with exultation how attentive an handsome cavalier had been to her; as also how his companion had undertaken to plead Antonia’s cause with the Marquis de las Cisternas. Elvira received this intelligence with sensations very different from those with which it was communicated. She blamed her sister’s imprudence in confiding her history to an absolute stranger, and expressed her fears lest this inconsiderate step should prejudice the Marquis against her. The greatest of her apprehensions she concealed in her own breast. She had observed with inquietude that at the mention of Lorenzo, a deep blush spread itself over her daughter’s cheek. The timid Antonia dared not to pronounce his name: without knowing wherefore, she felt embarrassed when he was made the subject of discourse, and endeavoured to change the conversation to Ambrosio. Elvira perceived the emotions of this young bosom: in consequence, she insisted upon Leonella’s breaking her promise to the cavaliers. A sigh, which on hearing this order escaped from Antonia, confirmed the wary mother in her resolution.

Through this resolution Leonella was determined to break: she conceived it to be inspired by envy, and that her sister dreaded her being elevated above her. Without imparting her design to anyone, she