‘Alonzo,’ said my father to me, ‘embrace your brother.’ I advanced with all the eagerness of youthful affection, that feels delight from new claims on its store, and half wishes those new claims were endless; but the slow step of my brother, the measured air with which he extended his arms, and declined his head on my left shoulder for a moment, and then raising it, viewed me with eyes in whose piercing and haughty lustre there was not one beam of fraternity, repelled and disconcerted me. We had obeyed our father, however, and embraced. ‘Let me see you hand in hand together,’ said my father, as if he would have enjoyed the sight. I held out my hand to my brother, and we stood thus linked for a few moments, my father and mother remaining at some distance to gaze on us; during these few moments, I had leisure to glance from my parents to my brother, and judge of the comparative effect our appearance thus contrasted might produce on them. The contrast was by no means favourable to me. I was tall, but my brother was much taller; he had an air of confidence, of conquest I might say; the brilliancy of his complexion could be equalled only by that of his dark eyes, which turned from me to our parents, and seemed to say, ‘Chuse between us, and reject me if you dare.’
‘My father and mother advanced and embraced us both. I clung round their necks; my brother submitted to their caresses with a kind of proud impatience, that seemed to demand a more marked recognition.
‘I saw no more of them, – that evening the whole household, which perhaps contain two hundred domestics, were in despair. The Duke de Monçada, that awful vision of anticipated mortality whom I had seen but once, was dead. The tapestry was torn from the walls; every room was filled with ecclesiastics; I was neglected by my attendants, and wandered through the spacious rooms, till I by chance lifted up a curtain of black velvet, and saw a sight which, young as I was, paralyzed me. My father and mother, dressed in black, sat beside a figure which I believed to be my grandfather asleep, but his sleep was very profound; my brother was there too, in a mourning dress, but its strange and grotesque disfigurement could not conceal the impatience with which he wore it, and the flashing eagerness of his expression, and the haughty brilliancy of his eye, shewed a kind of impatience of the part he was compelled to act. – I rushed forward; – I was withheld by the domestics; – I asked, ‘Why am I not permitted to be here, where my younger brother is?’ An ecclesiastic drew me from the apartment. I struggled with him, and demanded, with an arrogance which suited my pretensions better than my prospects, ‘Who I was?’ ‘The grandson of the late Duke of Monçada,’ was the answer. ‘And why am I thus treated?’ To this no answer. I was conveyed to my apartment, and closely watched during the interment of the Duke of Monçada. I was not permitted to attend his funeral. I saw the splendid and melancholy cavalcade depart from the palace. I ran from window to window to witness the funeral pomp, but was not allowed to accompany it. Two days after I was told a carriage waited for me at the gate. I entered it, and was conveyed to a convent of Ex-Jesuits,11 (as they were well known to be, though no one in Madrid dared to say so), where an agreement had been made for my board and education, and where I became an inmate that very day. I applied myself to my studies, my teachers were pleased, my parents visited me frequently, and gave the usual marks of affection, and all was well; till one day as they were retiring, I heard an old domestic in their suite remark, how singular it was, that the eldest son of the (now) Duke de Monçada should be educated in a convent, and brought up to a monastic life, while the younger, living in a superb palace, was surrounded by teachers suited to his rank. The word ‘monastic life’ thrilled in my ears; it furnished me with an interpretation not only of the indulgence I had experienced in the convent, (an indulgence quite inconsistent with the usual severity of their discipline), but of the peculiar language in which I had been always addressed by the Superior, the brethren, and the boarders. The former, whom I saw once a week, bestowed the most flattering praises on the progress I had made in my studies, (praises that covered me with blushes, for I well knew it was very moderate compared with that of the other boarders), and then gave me his benediction, but never without adding, ‘My God! thou wilt not suffer this lamb to wander from thy fold.’
‘The brethren always assumed before me an air of tranquillity, that eulogized their situation more powerfully than the most exaggerated eloquence. The petty squabbles and intrigues of the convent, the bitter and incessant conflicts of habits, tempers, and interests, the efforts of incarcerated minds for objects of excitement, the struggles to diversify endless monotony, and elevate hopeless mediocrity; – all that makes monastic life like the wrong side of tapestry, where we see only uncouth threads, and the harsh outlines, without the glow of the colours, the richness of the tissue, or the splendour of the embroidery, that renders the external surface so rich and dazzling; all this was carefully concealed. I heard something of it, however, and, young as I was, could not help wondering how men who carried the worst passions of life into their retreat, could imagine that retreat was a refuge from the erosions of their evil tempers, the monitions of conscience, and the accusations of God. The same dissimulation was practised by the boarders; the whole house was in masquerade12 from the moment I entered it. If I joined the latter at the time of recreation, they went through the few amusements allowed them with a kind of languid impatience, as if it was an interruption of better pursuits to which they were devoted. One of them, coming up to me, would say, ‘What a pity that these exercises are necessary for the support of our frail nature! what a pity we cannot devote its whole powers to the service of God!’ Another would say, ‘I never am so happy as in the choir! What a delightful eulogy was that pronounced by the Superior on the departed Fre Jose! How thrilling was that requiem! I imagined the heavens opened, and angels descending to receive his soul, as I listened to it!’
‘All this, and much more, I had been accustomed to hear every day. I now began to understand it. I suppose they thought they had a very weak person to deal with; but the bare-faced coarseness of their manœuvres only quickened my penetration, which began to be fearfully awake. I said to them, ‘Are you, then, intended for the monastic life?’ ‘We hope so.’ ‘Yet I have heard you, Oliva, once (it was when you did not think I overheard you) I heard you complain of the length and tediousness of the homilies delivered on the eves of the saints.’ – ‘I was then under the influence of the evil spirit doubtless,’ said Oliva, who was a boy not older than myself; ‘Satan is sometimes permitted to buffet those whose vocation is but commencing, and whom he is therefore more afraid to lose.’ ‘And I have heard you, Balcastro, say you had not taste for music; and to me, I confess, that of the choir appears least likely to inspire a taste for it.’ ‘God has touched my heart since,’ replied the young hypocrite,13 crossing himself; ‘and you know, friend of my soul, there is a promise, that the ears of the deaf shall be opened.’ ‘Where are those words?’ ‘In the Bible.’ ‘The Bible? – But we are not permitted to read it.’ ‘True, dear Monçada, but we have the word of our Superior and the brethren for it, and that is enough.’ ‘Certainly; our spiritual guides must take on themselves the whole responsibility of that state, whose enjoyments and punishments they reserve in their own hands; but, Balcastro, are you willing to take this life on their word, as well as the next, and resign it before you have tried it?’ ‘My dear friend, you only speak to tempt me.’ ‘I do not speak to tempt,’ said I, and was turning indignantly away, when the bell ringing, produced its usual effect on us all. My companions assumed a more sanctified air, and I struggled for a more composed one.
‘As we went to the church, they conversed in whispers, but those whispers were intended to reach my ear. I could hear them say, ‘It is in vain that he struggles with grace; there never was a more decided vocation; God never obtained a more glorious victory. Already he has the look of a child of heaven; – the monastic gait, – the downcast look; – the motion of his arms naturally imitates the sign of the cross, and the very folds of his mantle arrange themselves, by a divine instinct, into
those of a Monk’s habit.’ And all this while my gait was disturbed, my countenance flushed, and often lifted to heaven, and my arms employed in hastily adjusting my cloak, that had fallen off my shoulder from my agitation, and whose disordered folds resembled any thing but those of a Monk’s habit. From that evening I began to perceive my danger, and to meditate how to avert it. I had no inclination for the monastic life; but after vespers, and the evening exercise in my own cell, I began to doubt if this very repugnance was not itself a sin. Silence and night deepened the impression, and I lay awake for many hours, supplicating God to enlighten me, to enable me not to oppose his will, but clearly to reveal that will to me; and if he was not pleased to call me to a monastic life, to support my resolution in undergoing every thing that might be inflicted on me, sooner than profane that state by extorted vows and an alienated mind. That my prayers might be more effectual, I offered them up first in the name of the Virgin, then in that of the Patron-saint of the family, and then of the Saint on whose eve I was born. I lay in great agitation till morning, and went to matins without having closed my eyes. I had, however, I felt, acquired resolution, – at least I thought so. Alas! I knew not what I had to encounter. I was like a man going to sea with a day’s provision, and imagining he is victualled for a voyage to the poles. I went through my exercises (as they were called) with uncommon assiduity that day; already I felt the necessity of imposition, – fatal lesson of monastic institutions. We dined at noon; and soon after my father’s carriage arrived, and I was permitted to go for an hour on the banks of the Manzanares. To my surprise my father was in the carriage, and though he welcomed me with a kind of embarrassment, I was delighted to meet him. He was a layman at least, – he might have a heart.
‘I was disappointed at the measured phrase he addressed me in, and this froze me at once into a rigid determination, to be as much on my guard with him, as I must be within the walls of the convent. The conversation began, ‘You like your convent, my son?’ ‘Very much,’ (there was not a word of truth in my answer, but the fear of circumvention always teaches falsehood, and we have only to thank our instructors). ‘The Superior is very fond of you.’ ‘He seems so.’ ‘The brethren are attentive to your studies, and capable of directing them, and appreciating your progress.’ ‘They seem so.’ ‘And the boarders – they are sons of the first families in Spain, they appear all satisfied with their situation, and eager to embrace its advantages.’ ‘They seem so.’ ‘My dear son, why have you thrice answered me in the same monotonous, unmeaning phrase?’ ‘Because I thought it all seeming.’ ‘How, then, would you say that the devotion of those holy men, and the profound attention of their pupils, whose studies are alike beneficial to man, and redounding to the glory of the church to which they are dedicated –’ ‘My dearest father, – I say nothing of them, – but I dare to speak of myself, – I can never be a monk, – if that is your object – spurn me, – order your lacqueys to drag me from this carriage, – leave me a beggar in the streets to cry ‘fire and water,’* – but do not make me a monk.’ My father appeared stunned by this apostrophe. He did not utter a word. He had not expected such a premature development of the secret which he imagined he had to disclose, not to hear disclosed. At this moment the carriage turned into the Prado; a thousand magnificent equipages, with plumed horses, superb caparisons, and beautiful women bowing to the cavaliers, who stood for a moment on the foot-board, and then bowed their adieus to the ‘ladies of their love,’ passed before our eyes. I saw my father, at this moment, arrange his superb mantle, and the silk net in which his long black hair was bound, and give the signal to his lacqueys to stop, that he might mingle among the crowd. I caught this moment, – I grasped his mantle. – ‘Father, you find this world delightful then, – would you ask me to resign it, – me, – who am your child.’ – ‘But you are too young for it, my son.’ ‘Oh, then, my father, I am surely much too young for another world, to which you would force me.’ ‘Force you, my child, my first-born!’ And these words he uttered with such tenderness, that I involuntarily kissed his hands, while his lips eagerly pressed my forehead. It was at this moment that I studied, with all the eagerness of hope, my father’s physiognomy, or what artists would call his physique.
‘He had been my parent before he was sixteen; his features were beautiful, his figure the most graceful and lover-like I ever beheld, and his early marriage had preserved him from all the evils of youthful excess, and spared the glow of feature, and elasticity of muscle, and grace of juvenility, so often withered by vice, almost before they have bloomed. He was now but twenty-eight, and looked ten years younger. He was evidently conscious of this, and as much alive to the enjoyments of youth, as if he were still in its spring. He was at the same moment rushing into all the luxuries of youthful enjoyment and voluptuous splendour, and dooming one, who was at least young enough to be his son, to the frozen and hopeless monotony of a cloister. I laid hold of this with the grasp of a drowning man. But a drowning man never grasped a straw so weak as he who depends on the worldly feeling of another for the support of his own.
‘Pleasure is very selfish; and when selfishness pleads to selfishness for relief, it is like a bankrupt asking his fellow-prisoner to go bail for him. This was my conviction at the moment, yet still I reflected, (for suffering supplies the place of experience in youth, and they are most expert casuists14 who have graduated only in the school of misfortune), I reflected, that a taste for pleasure, while it renders a man selfish in one sense, renders him generous in another. The real voluptuary, though he would not part with his slightest indulgence to save the world from destruction, would yet wish all the world to be enjoying itself, (provided it was not at his expence), because his own would be increased by it. To this I clung, and intreated my father to indulge me with another view of the brilliant scene before us. He complied, and his feelings, softened by this compliance, and exhilarated by the spectacle, (which interested him more than me, who observed it only for its effect on him), became more favourable than ever. I availed myself of this, and, while returning to the convent, threw the whole power of my nature and intellect into one (almost) shrieking appeal to his heart. I compared myself to the unhappy Esau,15 deprived of his birthright by a younger brother, and I exclaimed in his language, ‘Hast thou no blessing for me! Bless me, even me also, Oh my Father!’ My father was affected; he promised my intreaty every consideration; but he hinted some difficulty to be encountered on my mother’s part, much on that of her Director, who (I afterwards found) governed the whole family, and still more remotely hinted at something insurmountable and inexplicable. He suffered me, however, to kiss his hands at parting, and vainly struggled with his emotions when he felt it damp with my tears.
‘It was not till two days after, that I was summoned to attend my mother’s Director, who was waiting for me in the parlour. I deemed this delay the result of a long family debate, or (as it seemed to me) conspiracy; and I tried to prepare myself for the multifarious warfare in which I had now to engage with parents, directors, superiors, and monks, and boarders, all sworn to win the day, and not caring whether they carried their point by storm, sap,16 mine, or blockade. I began to measure the power of the assailants, and to try to furnish myself with weapons suited to their various modes of attack. My father was gentle, flexible, and vacillating. I had softened him in my favour, and I felt that was all that could be done with him. But the Director was to be encountered with different arms. As I went down to the parlour, I composed my looks, my gait, I modulated my voice, I adjusted my dress. I was on my guard, body, mind, mien, clothes, every thing. He was a grave, but mild-looking ecclesiastic; one must have had the treachery of Judas to suspect him of treachery. I felt disarmed, I even experienced some compunction. ‘Perhaps,’ said I, ‘I have all this while armed myself against a message of reconciliation.’ The Director began with some trifling inquiries about my health, and my progress in study, but he asked them in a tone of interest. I said to myself, it would not be decorous for him to ente
r on the subject of his visit too soon; – I answered him calmly, but my heart palpitated with violence. A silence ensued, and then suddenly turning towards me, he said, ‘My dear child, I understand your objections to a monastic life are insurmountable. I do not wonder at it; its habits must appear very unconciliating to youth, and, in fact, I know not to what period of life abstinence, privation, and solitude, are particularly agreeable; it was the wish of your parents doubtless; but’ – This address, so full of candour, almost overpowered me; caution and every thing else forsook me as I exclaimed, ‘But what then, my father?’ ‘But, I was going to observe, how rarely our own views coincide with those which others entertain for us, and how difficult it is to decide which are the least erroneous.’ ‘Was that all?’ said I, shrinking with disappointment. ‘That was all; for instance, some people, (of whom I once happened to be one), might be fanciful enough to imagine, that the superior experience and proved affection of parents should qualify them to decide on this point better than their children; nay, I have heard some carry their absurdity so far, as to talk of the rights of nature, the obligations of duty, and the useful coercion of restraint; but since I had the pleasure of becoming acquainted with your resolution, I am beginning to be of opinion, that a youth, not thirteen years of age, may be an incomparable judge in the last resort, particularly when the question bears a trifling relation to his eternal as well as temporal interest; in such a case, he has doubtless the double advantage of dictating both to his spiritual and natural parents.’ ‘My father, I beg you to speak without irony or ridicule; you may be very clever, but I merely wish you to be intelligible and serious.’ ‘Do you wish me, then, to speak seriously?’ and he appeared to collect himself as he asked this question. ‘Certainly.’ ‘Seriously, then, my dear child, do you not believe that your parents love you? Have you not received from your infancy every mark of affection from them? Have you not been pressed to their bosoms from your very cradle?’ At these words I struggled vainly with my feelings, and wept, while I answered, ‘Yes.’ ‘I am sorry, my dear child, to see you thus overpowered; my object was to appeal to your reason, (for you have no common share of reasoning power), – and to your reason I appeal; – can you suppose that parents, who have treated you with such tenderness, who love you as they do their own souls, could act (as your conduct charges them) with causeless and capricious cruelty towards you? Must you not be aware there is a reason, and that it must be a profound one? Would it not be more worthy of your duty, as well as your superior sense, to inquire into, than contend with it?’ ‘Is it founded upon any thing in my conduct, then? – I am willing to do every thing, – to sacrifice every thing.’ – ‘I understand, – you are willing to do every thing but what is required of you, – and to sacrifice every thing but your own inclination.’ ‘But you have hinted at a reason.’ The Director was silent. ‘You urged me to inquire into it.’ The Director was silent still. ‘My father, I adjure you, by the habit you wear, unmuffle this terrible phantom to me; there is nothing I cannot encounter’ – ‘Except the commands of your parents. But am I at liberty to discover this secret to you?’ said the Director, in a tone of internal debate. ‘Can I imagine that you, who have in the very outset outraged parental authority, will revere parental feelings?’ ‘My father, I do not understand you.’ ‘My dear child, I am compelled to act with a caution and reserve unsuited to my character, which is naturally as open as yours. I dread the disclosure of a secret; it is repugnant to my habits of profound confidence; and I dread disclosing any thing to a character impetuous like yours. I feel myself reduced to a most painful situation.’ ‘My father, act and speak with candour, my situation requires it, and your own profession demands it from you. My father, remember the inscription over the confessional which thrilled my very blood to read, ‘God hears thee.’ Remember God hears you always, and will you not deal sincerely with one whom God has placed at your mercy?’ I spoke with much agitation, and the Director appeared affected for a moment; that is, he passed his hand over his eyes, which were as dry as – his heart. He paused for several minutes, and then said, ‘My dear child, dare I trust you? I confess I came prepared to treat you like a boy, but I feel I am disposed to consider you as a man. You have the intelligence, the penetration, the decision of a man. Have you the feelings of one?’ ‘Try me, my father.’ I did not perceive that his irony, his secret, and his parade of feeling, were all alike theatrical, and substitutionary for real interest and sincerity. ‘If I should be inclined to trust you, my dear child,’ – ‘I shall be grateful.’ ‘And secret.’ ‘And secret, my father.’ ‘Then imagine yourself’ – ‘Oh! my father, let me not have to imagine any thing – tell me the truth.’ ‘Foolish boy, – am I then so bad a painter, that I must write the name under the figure.’ ‘I understand you, my father, and shall not interrupt you again.’ ‘Then imagine to yourself the honour of one of the first houses in Spain; the peace of a whole family, – the feelings of a father, – the honour of a mother, – the interests of religion, – the eternal salvation of an individual, all suspended in one scale. What do you think could outweigh them?’ ‘Nothing,’ I replied ardently. ‘Yet, in the opposite scale you throw nothing, – the caprice of a boy not thirteen years old; – this is all you have to oppose to the claims of nature, of society, and of God.’ ‘My father, I am penetrated with horror at what you have said, – does all this depend on me?’ ‘It does, – it does all depend on you.’ ‘But how, then, – I am bewildered, – I am willing to make a sacrifice, – tell me what I am to do.’ ‘Embrace, my dear child, the monastic life; this will accomplish the views of all who love you, ensure your own salvation, and fulfil the will of God, who is calling you at this moment by the voices of your affectionate parents, and the supplications of the minister of heaven, who is now kneeling before you.’ And he sunk on his knees before me.
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