Melmoth the Wanderer 1820

by Charles Robert Maturin

  ‘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 casuists 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, 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, 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 enter 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.

  ‘This prostration, so unexpected, so revolting, and so like the monastic habit of artificial humiliation, completely annihilated the effect of his language. I retreated from his arms, which were extended towards me. “My father, I cannot, – I will never become a monk.” “Wretch! and you refuse, then, to listen to the call of your conscience, the adjuration of your parents, and the voice of God?” The fury with which he uttered these words, – the change from a ministering angel to an infuriated and menacing demon, had an effect just contrary to what he expected. I said calmly, “My conscience does not reproach me, – I have never disobeyed its calls. My parents have adjured me only through your mouth; and I hope, for their sakes, the organ has not been inspired by them. And the voice of God, echoed from my own heart, bids me not to obey you, by adulterating his service with prostituted vows.” As I spoke thus, the Director changed the whole character of his figure, his attitude, and his language; – from the extreme of supplication or of terror, he passed in a moment, with the facility of an actor, to a rigid and breathless sternness. His figure rose from the ground before me like that of the Prophet Samuel before the astonished eyes of Saul. He dropt the dramatist, and was the monk in a moment. “And you will not take the vows?” “I will not, my father.” “And you will brave the resentment of your parents, and the denunciations of the church.” “I have done nothing to deserve either.” “But you will encounter both, to cherish your horrid resolution of being the enemy of God.” “I am not the enemy of God for speaking the truth.” “Liar and hypocrite, you blaspheme!” “Stop, my father, these are words unbecoming your profession, and unsuited to this place.” “I acknowledge the justice of the rebuke, and submit to it, though uttered by
the mouth of a child.” – And he dropped his hypocritical eyes, folded his hands on his breast, and murmured, “Fiat voluntas tua. My dear child, my zeal for the service of God, and the honour of your family, to which I am attached equally by principle and affection, have carried me too far, – I confess it; but have I to ask pardon of you also, my child, for a redundance of that affection and zeal for your house, which its descendant has proved himself destitute of?” The mingled humiliation and irony of this address had no effect on me. He saw it had not; for after slowly raising his eyes to watch that effect, he saw me standing in silence, not trusting my voice with a word, lest I should utter something rash and disrespectful, – not daring to lift up my eyes, lest their expression should speak without making language necessary.