Melmoth the Wanderer 1820

by Charles Robert Maturin

  ‘One evening that I still continued to pray, and audibly, as the monks passed my cell they said, “Do you presume to pray? Die, desperate wretch, – die and be damned. Precipitate yourself into the infernal gulph at once, no longer desecrate these walls by your presence.” At these words I only redoubled my prayers; but this gave greater offence, for churchmen cannot bear to hear prayers uttered in a form different from their own. The cry of a solitary individual to God, sounds like profanation in their ears. They ask, Why do they not employ our form? How dare they hope to be heard? Alas! is it forms then that God regards? or is it not rather the prayer of the heart which alone reaches him, and prospers in its petition? As they called out, passing my cell, “Perish, impious wretch, perish, – God will not hear you,” I answered them on my knees with blessings – which of us had the spirit of prayer? That night was one of trial I could no longer support. My frame was exhausted, my mind excited, and, owing to our frail nature, this battle of the senses and soul is never long carried on without the worst side remaining conqueror. I was no sooner laid down than the voice began to whisper. I began to pray, but my head swam round, my eyes flashed fire, – fire almost tangible, my cell appeared in flames. Recollect my frame worn out with famine, my mind worn out with persecution. I struggled with what I was conscious was delirium, – but this consciousness aggravated its horror. It is better to be mad at once, than to believe that all the world is sworn to think and make you be so, in spite of your own consciousness of your sanity. The whispers this night were so horrible, so full of ineffable abominations, of – I cannot think of them, – that they maddened my very ear. My senses seemed deranged along with my intellect. I will give you an instance, it is but a slight one, of the horrors which –” Here the Spaniard whispered Melmoth.* The hearer shuddered, and the Spaniard went on in an agitated tone.

  ‘I could bear it no longer. I sprung from my bed, I ran through the gallery like a maniac, knocking at the doors of the cells, and exclaiming, “brother such a one, pray for me, – pray for me, I beseech you.” I roused the whole convent. Then I flew down to the church; it was open, and I rushed in. I ran up the aisle, I precipitated myself before the altar, I embraced the images, I clung to the crucifix with loud and reiterated supplications. The monks, awakened by my outcries, or perhaps on the watch for them, descended in a body to the church, but, perceiving I was there, they would not enter, – they remained at the doors, with lights in their hands, gazing on me. It was a singular contrast between me, hurrying round the church almost in the dark, (for there were but a few lamps burning dimly), and the groupe at the door, whose expression of horror was strongly marked by the light, which appeared to have deserted me to concentrate itself among them. The most impartial person on earth might have supposed me deranged, or possessed, or both, from the state in which they saw me. Heaven knows, too, what construction might have been put on my wild actions, which the surrounding darkness exaggerated and distorted, or on the prayers which I uttered, as I included in them the horrors of the temptation against which I implored protection. Exhausted at length, I fell to the ground, and remained there, without the power of moving, but able to hear and observe every thing that passed. I heard them debate whether they should leave me there or not, till the Superior commanded them to remove that abomination from the sanctuary; and such was the terror of me into which they had acted themselves, that he had to repeat his orders before he could procure obedience to them. They approached me at last, with the same caution that they would an infected corse, and dragged me out by the habit, leaving me on the paved floor before the door of the church. They then retired, and in this state I actually fell asleep, and continued so till I was awoke by the bell for matins. I recollected myself, and attempted to rise; but my having slept on a damp floor, when in a fever from terror and excitement, had so cramped my limbs, that I could not accomplish this without the most exquisite pain. As the community passed in to matins, I could not suppress a few cries of pain. They must have seen what was the matter, but not one of them offered me assistance, nor did I dare to implore it. By slow and painful efforts, I at last reached my cell; but, shuddering at the sight of the bed, I threw myself on the floor for repose.

  I was aware that some notice must be taken of a circumstance so extraordinary – that such a subversion of the order and tranquillity of a convent, would force an inquiry, even if the object was less remarkable. But I had a sad foreboding, (for suffering makes us full of presages), that this inquiry, however conducted, would terminate unfavourably to me. I was the Jonah of the vessel – let the storm blow from what point it would, I felt the lot was to fall on me. About noon, I was summoned to the apartment of the Superior. I went, but not as at former times, with a mixture of supplication and remonstrance on my lips, – with hope and fear in my heart, – in a fever of excitement or of terror, – I went sullen, squalid, listless, reckless; my physical strength, borne down by fatigue and want of sleep; my mental, by persecution, incessant and insupportable. I went no longer shrinking from, and deprecating their worst, but defying, almost desiring it, in the terrible and indefinite curiosity of despair. The apartment was full of monks; the Superior stood among them, while they formed a semicircle at a respectful distance from him. I must have presented a miserable contrast to these men arrayed against me in their pride of power, – their long and not ungraceful habits, giving their figures an air of solemnity, perhaps more imposing than splendour – while I stood opposed to them, ragged, meagre, livid and obdurate, the very personification of an evil spirit summoned before the angels of judgement. The Superior addressed me in a long discourse, in which he but slightly touched on the scandal given by the attempt to repeal my vows. He also suppressed any allusion to the circumstance which was known to every one in the convent but myself, that my appeal would be decided on in a few days. But he adverted in terms that (in spite of my consciousness that they were hollow) made me shudder, to the horror and consternation diffused through the convent by my late tremendous visitation, as he called it. “Satan hath desired to have you,” he said, “because you have put yourself within his power, by your impious reclamation of your vows. You are the Judas among the brethren; a branded Cain amid a primitive family; a scapegoat that struggles to burst from the hands of the congregation into the wilderness. The horrors that your presence is hourly heaping on us here, are not only intolerable to the discipline of a religious house, but to the peace of civilized society. There is not a monk who can sleep within three cells of you. You disturb them by the most horrible cries – you exclaim that the infernal spirit is perpetually beside your bed – that he is whispering in your ears. You fly from cell to cell, supplicating the prayers of the brethren. Your shrieks disturb the holy sleep of the community – that sleep which they snatch only in the intervals of devotion. All order is broken, all discipline subverted, while you remain among us. The imaginations of the younger members are at once polluted and inflamed, by the idea of the infernal and impure orgies which the demon celebrates in your cell; and of which we know not whether your cries, (which all can hear), announce triumph in, or remorse for. You rush at midnight into the church, deface the images, revile the crucifix, spurn at the altar; and when the whole community is forced, by this unparalleled atrocity of blasphemy, to drag you from the spot you are desecrating, you disturb, by your cries, those who are passing to the service of God. In a word, your howls, your distortions, your demoniac language, habits and gestures, have but too well justified the suspicion entertained when you first entered the convent. You were abominable from your very birth, – you were the offspring of sin, – you are conscious of it. Amid the livid paleness, that horrible unnatural white that discolours your very lips, I see a tingle like crimson burning on your cheek at the mention of it. The demon who was presiding at your natal hour – the demon of impurity and antimonasticism – pursues you in the very walls of a convent. The Almighty, in my voice, bids you begone; – depart, and trouble us no more. – Stop,” he added, as he saw I wa
s obeying his directions literally, “hold, the interests of religion, and of the community, have required that I should take particular notice of the extraordinary circumstances that have haunted your unhallowed presence within these walls. In a short time you may expect a visit from the Bishop – prepare yourself for it as you may.” I considered these as the final words addressed to me, and was about to retire, when I was recalled. I was desired to utter some words, which every one was eager to put into my mouth, of expostulation, of remonstrance, of supplication. I resisted them all as steadily as if I had known (which I did not) that the Bishop had himself instituted the examination into the deranged state of the convent; and that instead of the Superior inviting the Bishop to examine into the cause of the disturbance in his convent, (the very last step he would have taken), the Bishop, (a man whose character will shortly be developed), had been apprised of the scandal of the convent, and had determined to take the matter into his own hands. Sunk in solitude and persecution, I knew not that all Madrid was on fire, – that the Bishop had determined to be no longer a passive hearer of the extraordinary scenes reported to pass in the convent, – that, in a word, my exorcism and my appeal were quivering in alternate scales, and that the Superior himself doubted which way the scale might incline. All this I was ignorant of, for no one dared to tell it to me. I therefore was about to retire without uttering a word in answer to the many whispered speeches to humble myself to the Superior, to implore his intercession with the Bishop to suspend this disgraceful examination that threatened us all. I broke from them as they surrounded me; and standing calm and sullen at the door, I threw a retorting look at them, and said, “God forgive you all, and grant you such an acquittal at his judgement-seat, as I hesitate not to claim at that of the Bishop-visitant.” These words, though uttered by a ragged demoniac, (as they thought me), made them tremble. Truth is rarely heard in convents and therefore its language is equally emphatical and portentous.

  ‘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. 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.

  ‘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,