Melmoth the Wanderer

by Charles Maturin

  ‘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 every one 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, &c. &c. An old monk whispered in his ear, ‘Laudanum, – it will procure a deep and sound sleep.17 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 bed. He had witnessed it, and I have no reason to doubt his sincerity. In fact, I always considered it as rather a palliation than an aggravation of their cruelty to me. They had made me suffer worse than many deaths, – the single suffering would have been instantaneous, – the single act would have been mercy. The next day the visit of the Bishop was expected. There was an indescribable kind of terrified preparation among the community. This house was the first in Madrid, and the singular circumstance of the son of one of the highest families in Spain having entered it in early youth, – having protested against his vows in a few months, – having been accused of being in a compact with the infernal spirit a few weeks after, – the hope of a scene of exorcism, – the doubt of the success of my appeal, – the probable interference of the Inquisition, – the possible festival of an auto da fe, – had set the imagination of all Madrid on fire; and never did an audience long more for the drawing up of the curtain at a popular opera, than the religious and irreligious of Madrid did for the development of the scene which was acting at the convent of the Ex – Jesuits.

  ‘In Catholic countries, Sir, religion is the national drama; the priests are the principal performers, the populace the audience; and whether the piece concludes with a ‘Don Giovanni’ plunging in flames, or the beatification of a saint, the applause and the enjoyment is the same.18

  ‘I feared my destiny was to be the former. I knew nothing of the Bishop, and hoped nothing from his visit; but my hopes began to rise in proportion to the visible fears of the society. I argued, with the natural malignity of wretchedness, If they tremble, I may exult.’ When suffering is thus weighed against suffering, the hand is never steady; we are always disposed to make the balance incline a little on our own side. The Bishop came early, and passed some hours with the Superior in his own apartment. During this interval, there was a stillness in the house that was strongly contrasted with its previous agitation. I stood alone in my cell, – stood, for I had no seat left me. I said to myself, ‘This event bodes neither good or evil to me. I am not guilty of what they accuse me of. They never can prove it, – an accomplice with Satan! – the victim of diabolical delusion! – Alas! my only crime is my involuntary subjection to the delusions they have practised on me. This man, this Bishop, cannot give me freedom, but he may at least do me justice.’ All this time the community were in a fever – the character of the house was at stake – my situation was notorious. They had laboured to represent me as a possessed being beyond their walls, and to make me appear as one within them. The hour of trial approached. For the honour of human nature, – from the dread of violating decency, – from the dread of apparently violating truth, I will not attempt to relate the means they had recourse to the morning of the Bishop’s visitation, to qualify me to perform the part of a possessed, insane, and blasphemous wretch. The four monks I have before mentioned, were the principal executioners, (I must call them so). – Under pretence that there was no part of my person which was not under the influence of the demon,

  *

  This was not enough. I was deluged almost to suffocation with aspersions of holy water. Then followed, &c.

  *

  ‘The result was, that I remained half-naked, half–drowned, gasping, choaking and delirious with rage, shame and fear, when I was summoned to attend the Bishop, who, surrounded by the Superior and the community, awaited me in the church. This was the moment they had fixed on – I yielded myself to them. I said, stretching out my arms, ‘Yes, drag me naked, mad – religion and nature alike violated in my abused figure – before your Bishop. If he speaks truth, – if he feels conscience, – woe be to you, hypocritical, tyrannical wretches. You have half-driven me mad! – half–murdered me, by the unnatural cruelties you have exercised on me! and in this state you drag me before the Bishop! Be it so, I must follow you.’ As I uttered these words, they bound my arms and legs with ropes, carried me down, and placed me at the door of the church, standing close to me. The Bishop was at the altar, the Superior near him; the community filled the choir. They flung me down like a heap of carrion, and retreated as if they fled from the pollution of my touch. This sight struck the Bishop: He said, in a loud voice, ‘Rise, unhappy, and come forward.’ I answered, in a voice whose tones appeared to thrill him, ‘Bid them unbind me, and I will obey you.’ The Bishop turned a cold and yet indignant look on the Superior, who immediately approached and whispered him. This whispering consultation was carried on for some time; but, though lying on the ground, I could perceive the Bishop shook his head at every whisper of the Superior; and the end of the business was an order to unbind me. I did not fare much the better for this order, for the four monks were still close to me. They held my arms as they led me up the steps to the altar. I was then, for the first time, placed opposite to the Bishop. He was a man, the effect of whose physiognomy was as indelible as that of his character. – The one left its impress on the senses, as strongly as the other did on the soul. He was tall, majestic and hoary; not a feeling agitated his frame – not a passion had left its trace on his features. He was a marble statue of Episcopacy, chiselled out by the hand of Catholicism, – a figure magnificent and motionless. His cold black eyes did no
t seem to see you, when they were turned on you. His voice, when it reached you, did not address you, but your soul. Such was his exterior: – for the rest, his character was unimpeachable, his discipline exemplary, his life that of an Anchorite hewed out in stone. But he was partially suspected of what is called liberality in opinions, (that is, of an inclination to Protestantism), and the sanctity of his character went bail in vain for this imputed heterodoxy, which the Bishop could hardly redeem by his rigid cognizance of every conventual abuse in his district, among which my convent happened to be. Such was the man before whom I stood. At the command to unloose me, the Superior shewed much agitation; but the command was positive, and I was released. I was then between the four monks, who held me, and I felt that my appearance must have justified the impression he had received. I was ragged, famished, livid and on fire, with the horrible treatment I had just received. I hoped, however, that my submission to whatever was to be performed, might, in some degree, redeem the opinion of the Bishop. He went with evident reluctance through the forms of exorcism, which were delivered in Latin, while all the time, the monks crossed themselves, and the Acolytes were not sparing of holy water and of incense. Whenever the terms ‘diabole te adjuro‘19 occurred, the monks who held me twisted my arms, so that I appeared to make contortions, and uttered cries of pain. This, at first, seemed to disturb the Bishop; but when the form of exorcism was over, he commanded me to approach the altar alone. I attempted to do so; but the four monks surrounding me, made it appear an act of great difficulty. He said, ‘Stand apart – let him alone.’ They were compelled to obey. I advanced alone, trembling. I knelt. The Bishop, placing his stole on my head, demanded, ‘Did I believe in God, and the holy Catholic church?’ Instead of answering, I shrieked, flung off the stole, and trampled in agony on the steps of the altar. The Bishop retreated, while the Superior and the rest advanced. I collected courage as I saw them approach; and, without uttering a word, pointed to the pieces of broken glass which had been thrown on the steps where I stood, and which had pierced me through my torn sandals. The Bishop instantly ordered a monk to sweep them away with the sleeve of his tunic. The order was obeyed in a moment, and the next I stood before him without fear or pain. He continued to ask, ‘Why do you not pray in the church?’ – ‘Because its doors are shut against me.’ – ‘How? what is this? A memorial is in my hands urging many complaints against you, and this among the first, that you do not pray in the church.’ – ‘I have told you the doors of the church are shut against me. – Alas! I could no more open them, than I could open the hearts of the community – everything is shut against me here.’ He turned to the Superior, who answered, ‘The doors of the church are always shut to the enemies of God.’ The Bishop said, with his usual stern calmness, ‘I am asking a plain question – evasive and circuitous answers will not do. Have the doors of the church been shut against this wretched being? – have you denied him the privilege of addressing God?’ – ‘I did so, because I thought and believed –’ ‘I ask not what you thought or believed; I ask a plain answer to a matter–of– fact question. Did you, or did you not, deny him access to the house of God?’ – ‘I had reason to believe that – ’ ‘I warn you, these answers may compel me to make you exchange situations in one moment with the object you accuse. Did you, or did you not, shut the doors of the church against him? – answer yes or no.’ The Superior, trembling with fear and rage, said, ‘I did; and I was justified in doing so.’ – ‘That is for another tribunal to judge. But it seems you plead guilty to the fact of which you accuse him.’ The Superior was dumb. The Bishop then examining his paper, addressed me again, ‘How is it that the monks cannot sleep in their cells from the disturbance you cause?’ – ‘I know not – you must ask them.’ – ‘Does not the evil spirit visit you nightly? Are not your blasphemies, your execrable impurities, disgorged even in the ears of those who have the misfortune to be placed near you? Are you not the terror and the torment of the whole community?’ I answered, ‘I am what they have made me. I do not deny there are extraordinary noises in my cell, but they can best account for them. I am assailed by whispers close to my bed – side: It seems these whispers reach the ears of the brethren, for they burst into my cell, and take advantage of the terror with which I am overwhelmed, to put the most incredible constructions on it.’ – ‘Are there no cries, then, heard in your cell at night?’ – ‘Yes, cries of terror – cries uttered not by one who is celebrating infernal orgies, but dreading them.’ –‘But the blasphemies, the imprecations, the impurities, which proceed from your lips?’ – ‘Sometimes, in irrepressible terror, I have repeated the sounds that were suggested to my ears; but it was always with an exclamation of horror and aversion, that proved these sounds were not uttered but echoed by me, – as a man may take up a reptile in his hand, and gaze on its hideousness a moment, before he flings it from him. I take the whole community to witness the truth of this. The cries I uttered, the expressions I used, were evidently those of hostility to the infernal suggestions which had been breathed into my ears. Ask the whole community – they must testify, that when they broke into my cell, they found me alone, trembling, convulsed. That I was the victim of those disturbances, they affected to complain of; and though I never was able to guess the means by which this persecution was effected, I am not rash in ascribing it to the hands that covered the walls of my cell with representations of demons, the traces of which still remain.’ –‘You are also accused of having burst into the church at midnight, defaced the images, trampled on the crucifix, and performed all the acts of a demon violating the sanctuary.’ At this accusation, so unjust and cruel, I was agitated beyond control. I exclaimed, ‘I flew to the church for protection in a paroxysm of terror, which their machinations had filled me with! I flew there at night, because it was shut against me during the day, as you have discovered! I prostrated myself before the cross, instead of trampling on it! I embraced the images of the blessed saints, instead of violating them! And I doubt whether prayers more sincere were ever offered within these walls, than those I uttered that night amid helplessness, terror, and persecutions!’ – ‘Did you not obstruct and deter the community next morning by your cries, as they attempted to enter the church?’ – ‘I was paralyzed from the effects of lying all night on the stone pavement, where they had flung me. I attempted to rise and crawl away at their approach, and a few cries of pain were extorted from me by my efforts to do so – efforts rendered more painful by their refusing to offer me the slightest assistance. In a word, the whole is a fabrication. I flew to the church to implore for mercy, and they represent it as the outrages of an apostate spirit. Might not the same arbitrary and absurd construction be put on the daily visits of multitudes of afflicted souls, who weep and groan audibly as I did? If I attempted to overturn the crucifix, to deface the images, would not the marks of this violence remain? Would they not have been preserved with care, to substantiate the accusation against me? Is there a trace of them? – there is not, there cannot be, because they never existed.’ The Bishop paused. An appeal to his feelings would have been vain, but this appeal to facts had its full effect. After some time, he said, ‘You can have no objection, then, to render before the whole community the same homage to the representations of the Redeemer and the holy saints, that you say it was your purpose to render them that night?’ –‘None.’ A crucifix was brought me, which I kissed with reverence and unction, and prayed, while the tears streamed from my eyes, an interest in the infinite merits of the sacrifice it represented. The Bishop then said, ‘Make a deed of faith, of love, of hope.’ I did so; and though they were extempore, my expressions, I could perceive, made the dignified ecclesiastics who attended on the Bishop, cast on each other looks in which were mingled compassion, interest and admiration. The Bishop said, ‘Where did you learn those prayers?’ – ‘My heart is my only teacher – I have no other – I am allowed no book.’ – ‘How! – recollect what you say.’ – ‘I repeat I have none. They have taken away my breviary, my crucifix;
– they have stript my cell of all its furniture. I kneel on the floor – I pray from the heart. If you deign to visit my cell, you will find I have told you the truth.’ At these words, the Bishop cast a terrible look on the Superior. He recovered himself, however, immediately, for he was a man unaccustomed to any emotion, and felt it at once a suspension of his habits, and an infringement of his rank. In a cold voice he bid me retire; then, as I was obeying him, he recalled me, – my appearance for the first time seemed to strike him. He was a man so absorbed in the contemplation of that waveless and frozen tide of duty in which his mind was anchored, without fluctuation, progress, or improvement, that physical objects must be presented before him a long time before they made the least impression on him, – his senses were almost ossified. Thus he had come to examine a supposed demoniac; but he had made up his mind that there must be injustice and imposture in the case, and he acted in the matter with a spirit, decision and integrity, that did him honour.