Melmoth the Wanderer

by Charles Maturin

  ‘This man was faithful, but he was timid; and what confidence can we have in a being whose right hand is held out to you, while his left trembles to be employed in transferring your secret to your enemy. This man died a few weeks after. I believe I owed his dying fidelity to the delirium that seized on his last moments. But what I suffered during those moments! – his death under such circumstances, and the unchristian joy I felt at it, were only in my mind stronger evidences against the unnatural state of life that could render such an event, and such feelings, almost necessary. It was on the evening after this, that I was surprised to see the Superior, with four of the monks, enter my cell. I felt this visit boded me no good. I trembled all over, while I received them with deference. The Superior seated himself opposite to me, arranging his seat so as that I was opposite the light. I did not understand what this precaution meant, but I conceive now, that he wished to watch every change in my countenance, while his was concealed from me. The four monks stood at the back of his chair; their arms were folded, their lips closed, their eyes half shut, their heads declined – they looked like men assembled reluctantly to witness the execution of a criminal. The Superior began, in a mild voice, ‘My son, you have been intently employed on your confession for some time – that was laudable. But have you, then, accused yourself of every crime your conscience charges you with?’ ‘I have, my father.’ ‘Of all, you are sure?’ ‘My father, I have accused myself of all I was conscious of. Who but God can penetrate the abysses of the heart? I have searched mine as far as I could.’ ‘And you have recorded all the accusations you found there?’ ‘I have.’ ‘And you did not discover among them the crime of obtaining the means of writing out your confession, to abuse them to a very different purpose?’ – This was coming to the point. I felt it necessary to summon my resolution – and I said, with a venial equivocation,2 ‘That is a crime of which my conscience does not accuse me.’ ‘My son, do not dissemble with your conscience, or with me. I should be even above it in your estimation; for if it errs and deceives you, it is to me you should apply to enlighten and direct it. But I see it is in vain to attempt to touch your heart. I make my last appeal to it in these plain words. A few moments only of indulgence await you – use them or abuse them, as you will. I have to ask you a few plain questions, which, if you refuse to answer, or do not answer truly, your blood be on your own head.’ I trembled, but I said, ‘My father, have I then refused to answer your questions?’ ‘Your answers are all either interrogations or evasions. They must be direct and simple to the questions I am about to propose in the presence of these brethren. More depends on your answer than you are aware of. The warning voice breaks forth in spite of me.’ – Terrified at these words, and humbled to the wish to propitiate them, I rose from my chair – then gasping, I leant on it for support. I said, ‘My God! what is all this terrible preparation for? Of what am I guilty? Why am I summoned by this warning voice so often, whose warnings are only so many mysterious threatenings? Why am I not told of my offence?’

  The four monks, who had never spoken or lifted up their heads till that moment, now directed their livid eyes at me, and repeated, all together, in a voice that seemed to issue from the bottom of a sepulchre, ‘Your crime is –’ The Superior gave them a signal to be silent, and this interruption increased my consternation. It is certain, that when we are conscious of guilt, we always suspect that a greater degree of it will be ascribed to us by others. Their consciences avenge the palliations of our own, by the most horrible exaggerations. I did not know of what crime they might be disposed to accuse me; and already I felt the accusation of my clandestine correspondence as dust in the balance of their resentment. I had heard the crimes of convents were sometimes unutterably atrocious; and I felt as anxious now for a distinct charge to be preferred against me, as I had a few moments before to evade it. These indefinite fears were soon exchanged for real ones, as the Superior proposed his questions. ‘You have procured a large quantity of paper – how did you employ it?’ I recovered myself, and said, ‘As I ought to do.’ ‘How, in unburdening your conscience?’ ‘Yes, in unburdening my conscience.’ ‘That is false; the greatest sinner on earth could not have blotted so many pages with the record of his crimes.’ ‘I have often been told in the convent, I was the greatest sinner on earth.’ ‘You equivocate again, and convert your ambiguities into reproaches – this will not do – you must answer plainly: For what purpose did you procure so much paper, and how have you employed it?’ ‘I have told you already.’ ‘It was, then, employed in your confession?’ – I was silent, but bowed assentingly. – ‘You can, then, shew us the proofs of your application to your duties. Where is the manuscript that contains your confession?’ I blushed and hesitated, as I showed about half-a-dozen blotted and scrawled pages as my confession. It was ridiculous. It did not occupy more than a tenth part of the paper which I had received. ‘And this is your confession?’ ‘It is.’ ‘And you dare to say that you have employed all the paper entrusted to you for that purpose.’ – I was silent. ‘Wretch!’ said the Superior, losing all patience, ‘disclose instantly for what purpose you have employed the paper granted you. Acknowledge instantly that it was for some purpose contrary to the interests of this house.’ – At these words I was roused. I saw again the cloven foot of interest peeping from beneath the monastic garb. I answered, ‘Why am I suspected if you are not guilty? What could I accuse you of? What could I complain of if there were no cause? Your own consciences must answer this question for me.’ At these words, the monks were again about to interpose, when the Superior, silencing them by a signal, went on with his matter-of-fact questions, that paralyzed all the energy of passion. ‘You will not tell me what you have done with the paper committed to you?’ – I was silent. – ‘I enjoin you, by your holy obedience, to disclose it this moment.’ – His voice rose in passion as he spoke, and this operated as a signal on mine. I said, ‘You have no right, my father, to demand such a declaration.’ ‘Right is not the question now. I command you to tell me. I require your oath on the altar of Jesus Christ, and by the image of his blessed Mother.’ ‘You have no right to demand such an oath. I know the rules of the house – I am responsible to the confessor.’ ‘Do you, then, make a question between right and power? You shall soon feel, within these walls, they are the same.’ ‘I make no question – perhaps they are the same.’ ‘And you will not tell what you have done with those papers, blotted, doubtless, with the most infernal calumnies?’ ‘I will not.’ ‘And you will take the consequences of your obstinacy on your own head?’ ‘I will.’ And the four monks chorussed again, all in the same unnatural tone, ‘The consequences be on his own head.’ But while they spoke thus, two of them whispered in my ears, ‘Deliver up your papers, and all is well. The whole convent knows you have been writing.’ I answered, ‘I have nothing to give up – nothing on the faith of a monk. I have not a single page in my possession, but what you have seized on.’ The monks, who had whispered in a conciliatory tone to me before, quitted me. They conversed in whispers with the Superior, who, darting on me a terrible look, exclaimed, ‘And you will not give up your papers?’ ‘I have nothing to give up: Search my person – search my cell – every thing is open to you.’ ‘Every thing shall be soon,’ said the Superior in fury. In a moment the examination commenced. There was not an article of furniture in my cell that was not the object of their investigation. My chair and table were overturned, shaken, and finally broken, in the attempt to discover whether any papers had been secreted in them. The prints were snatched from the walls, – held up between them and the light. – Then the very frames were broken, to try if any thing was concealed in them. Then they examined my bed; – they threw all the furniture about the floor, they unripped the mattress, and tore out the straw; one of them, during this operation, actually applied his teeth to facilitate it, – and this malice of activity formed a singular contrast to the motionless and rigid torpor with which they had clothed themselves but a few moments before. All this time, I s
tood in the centre of the floor, as I was ordered, without turning to right or left. Nothing was found to justify their suspicions. They then surrounded me; and the examination of my person was equally rapid, minute, and indecorous. Every thing I wore was on the floor in a moment: The very seams of my habit were ript open; and, during the examination, I covered myself with one of the blankets they had taken from my bed. When it was over, I said, ‘Have you discovered any thing?’ The Superior answered, in a voice of rage, struggling proudly, but vainly, with disappointment, ‘I have other means of discovery – prepare for them, and tremble when they are resorted to.’ At these words he rushed from my cell, giving a sign to the four monks to follow him. I was left alone. I had no longer any doubt of my danger. I saw myself exposed to the fury of men who would risk nothing to appease it. I watched, waited, trembled, at every step I heard in the gallery – at the sound of every door that opened or shut near me. Hours went on in this agony of suspense, and terminated at last without an event. No one came near me that night – the next was to be that of the great confession. In the course of the day, I took my place in the choir, trembling, and watching every eye. I felt as if every countenance was turned on me, and every tongue said in silence, ‘Thou art the man.’ Often I wished that the storm I felt was gathering around me, would burst at once. It is better to hear the thunder than to watch the cloud. It did not burst, however, then. And when the duties of the day were over, I retired to my cell, and remained there, pensive, anxious, and irresolute.

  ‘The confession had begun; and as I heard the penitents, one by one, return from the church, and close the doors of their cells, I began to dread that I was to be excluded from approaching the holy chair, and that this exclusion from a sacred and indispensible right, was to be the commencement of some mysterious course of rigour. I waited, however, and was at last summoned. This restored my courage, and I went through my duties more tranquilly. After I had made my confession, only a few simple questions were proposed to me, as, Whether I could accuse myself of any inward breach of conventual duty? of any thing I had reserved? any thing in my conscience? &c. – and on my answering them in the negative, was suffered to depart. It was on that very night the porter died. My last packet had gone some days before, – all was safe and well. Neither voice or line could bear witness against me now, and hope began to revisit me, as I reflected that my brother’s zealous industry would discover some other means for our future communication.

  ‘All was profound calm for a few days, but the storm was to come soon enough. On the fourth evening after the confession, I was sitting alone in my cell, when I heard an unusual bustle in the convent. The bell was rung, – the new porter seemed in great agitation, – the Superior hurried to the parlour first, then to his cell, – then some of the elder monks were summoned. The younger whispered in the galleries, – shut their doors violently, – all seemed in agitation. In a domestic building, occupied by the smallest family, such circumstances would hardly be noticed, but, in a convent, the miserable monotony of what may be called their internal existence, gives an importance, – an interest, to the most trivial external circumstance in common life. I felt all this. I said to myself, ‘Something is going on.’ – I added, ‘Something is going on against me.’ I was right in both my conjectures. Late in the evening I was ordered to attend the Superior in his own apartment, – I said I was ready to go. Two minutes after the order was reversed, and I was desired to remain in my cell, and await the approach of the Superior, – I answered I was willing to obey. But this sudden change of orders filled me with an indefinite fear; and in all the changes of my life, and vicissitude of my feelings, I have never felt any fear so horrible. I walked up and down, I repeated incessantly, ‘My God protect me! my God strengthen me!’ Then I dreaded to ask the protection of God, doubting whether the cause in which I was engaged merited his protection. My ideas, however, were all scattered by the sudden entrance of the Superior and the four monks who had attended him on the visit previous to the confession. At their entrance I rose, – no one desired me to sit down. The Superior advanced with a look of fury, and, dashing some papers on my table, said, ‘Is that your writing?’ I threw a hurried and terrified eye over the papers, – they were a copy of my memorial. I had presence of mind enough to say, ‘That is not my writing.’ ‘Wretch! you equivocate, it is a copy of your writing.’ – I was silent. – ‘Here is a proof of it,’ he added, throwing down another paper. It was a copy of the memoir of the advocate, addressed to me, and which, by the influence of a superior court, they had not the power of withholding from me. I was expiring with anxiety to examine it, but I did not dare to glance at it. The Superior unfolded page after page. He said, ‘Read, wretch! read, – look into it, examine it line by line.’ I approached trembling, – glanced at it, – in the very first lines I read hope. My courage revived. – I said, ‘My father, I acknowledge this to be the copy of my memorial. I demand your permission to read the answer of the advocate, you cannot refuse me this right.’ ‘Read it,’ said the Superior, and he flung it towards me.

  ‘You may readily believe, Sir, that, under such circumstances, I could not read with very steady eyes; and my penetration was not at all quickened by the four monks disappearing from the cell, at a signal I did not see. The Superior and I were now alone. He walked up and down my cell, while I appeared to hang over the advocate’s memoir. Suddenly he stopped; – he struck his hand with violence on the table, – the pages I was trembling over quivered from the violence of the blow, – I started from my chair. ‘Wretch,’ said the Superior, ‘when have such papers as those profaned the convent before? When, till your unhallowed entrance, were we insulted with the memoirs of legal advocates? How comes it that you have dared to –’ ‘Do what, my father?’ ‘Reclaim your vows, and expose us to all the scandal of a civil court and its proceedings.’ ‘I weighed it all against my own misery.’ ‘Misery! is it thus you speak of a conventual life, the only life that can promise tranquillity here, or ensure salvation hereafter.’ These words, uttered by a man convulsed by the most frantic passion, were their own refutation. My courage rose in proportion to his fury; and besides, I was driven to a point, and forced to act on my defence. The sight of the papers added to my confidence. I said, ‘My father, it is in vain to endeavour to diminish my repugnance to the monastic life; the proof that that repugnance is invincible lies before you. If I have been guilty of a step that violates the decorum of a convent, I am sorry, – but I am not reprehensible. Those who forced me into a convent, are guilty of the violence which is falsely ascribed to me. I am determined, if it be possible, to change my situation. You see the efforts I have already made, be assured they will never cease. Disappointment will only redouble their energy; and if it be in the power of heaven or earth to procure the annulment of my vows, there is no power in either I will not have recourse to.’ I expected he would not have heard me out, but he did. He even listened with calmness, and I prepared myself to encounter and repel that alternation of reproach and remonstrance, of solicitation and menace, which they so well know how to employ in a convent. ‘Your repugnance to a conventual life is then invincible?’ ‘It is.’ ‘But to what do you object? – not to your duties, for you perform them with the most edifying punctuality, – not to the treatment you receive, for it has been the most indulgent that our discipline admits of, – not to the community itself, who are all disposed to cherish and love you; – of what do you complain?’ ‘Of the life itself, – that comprehends every thing. I am not fit to be a monk.’ ‘Remember, I implore you, that though the forms of earthly courts must be obeyed, from the necessity that makes us dependent on human institutions, in all matters between man and man, they never can be available in matters between God and man. Be assured, my deluded child, that if all the courts on earth pronounced you absolved from your vows this moment, your own conscience never can absolve you. All your ignominious life, it will continue to reproach you with the violation of a vow, whose breach man has connived at, but God ha
s not. And, at your last hour, how horrible will those reproaches be!’ ‘Not so horrible as at the hour I took that vow, or rather at the hour when it was extorted.’ ‘Extorted!’ ‘Yes, my father, yes, – I take Heaven to witness against you. On that disastrous morning, your anger, your remonstrances, your pleadings, were as ineffectual as they are now, till you flung the body of my mother before my feet.’ ‘And do you reproach me with my zeal in the cause of your salvation?’ ‘I do not wish to reproach you. You know the step I have taken, you must be aware I will pursue it with all the powers of nature, – that I will never rest till my vows are annulled, while a hope of it remains, – and that a soul, determined as mine, can convert despair itself into hope. Surrounded, suspected, watched as I have been, I yet found the means of conveying my papers to the hands of the advocate. Calculate the strength of that resolution which could effectuate such a measure in the very heart of a convent. Judge of the futility of all future opposition, when you failed in defeating, or even detecting, the first steps of my design.’ At these words the Superior was silent. I believed I had made an impression on him. I added, ‘If you wish to spare the community the disgrace of my prosecuting my appeal within its walls, the alternative is easy. Let the door be left unguarded some day, connive at my escape, and my presence shall never molest or dishonour you another hour.’ ‘How! would you make me not only a witness, but an accomplice in your crime? Apostate from God, and plunged in perdition as you are, do you repay the hand stretched out to save you, by seizing it, that you may drag me into the infernal gulph along with you?’ and he walked up and down the cell in the most violent agitation. This unlucky proposal operated on his master-passion, (for he was exemplarily rigid in discipline), and produced only convulsions of hostility. I stood waiting till this fresh burst had subsided, while he continued to exclaim incessantly, ‘My God, for what offence am I thus humiliated? – for what inconceivable crime is this disgrace precipitated on the whole convent? What will become of our character? What will all Madrid say?’ ‘My father, whether an obscure monk lives, dies, or recalls his vows, is an object of little importance beyond the walls of his convent. They will forget me soon, and you will be consoled by the restored harmony of the discipline, in which I should always be a jarring note. Besides, all Madrid, with all the interest you ascribe to it, could never be made responsible for my salvation.’ He continued to walk up and down, repeating, ‘What will the world say? What will become of us?’ till he had worked himself into a state of fury; and, suddenly turning on me, he exclaimed, ‘Wretch! renounce your horrible resolution, – renounce it this moment! I give you but five minutes for consideration.’ ‘Five thousand would make no change.’ ‘Tremble, then, lest you should not have life spared to see the fulfilment of your impious purposes.’