"A Satisfactory Penitent."
"How long in thralldom's grasp I lay
I knew not; for my soul was black,
And knew no change of night or day."--Campbell.
Carlos was sleeping tranquilly in his dungeon on the following night,
when the opening of the door aroused him. He started with sickening
dread, the horrors of the torture-room rising in an instant before his
imagination. Benevidio entered, followed by Herrera, and commanded him
to rise and dress immediately. Long experience of the Santa Casa had
taught him that he might as well make an inquiry of its doors and walls
as of any of its officials. So he obeyed in silence, and slowly and
painfully enough. But he was soon relieved from his worst fear by
seeing Herrera fold together the few articles of clothing he had been
allowed to have with him, preparatory to carrying them away. "It is
only, then, a change of prison," he thought; "and wherever they bring
me, heaven will be equally near."
His limbs, enfeebled by two years of close confinement, and lame from
the effects of one terrible night, were sorely tried by what he thought
an almost interminable walk through corridors and down narrow winding
stairs. But at last he was conducted to a small postern door, which,
greatly to his surprise, Benevidio proceeded to unlock. The
kind-hearted Herrera took advantage of the moment when Benevidio was
thus occupied to whisper,--
"We are bringing you to the Dominican prison, senor; you will be better
used there."
Carlos thanked him by a grateful look and a pressure of the hand. But
an instant afterwards he had forgotten his words. He had forgotten
everything save that he stood once more in God's free air, and that
God's own boundless heaven, spangled with ten thousand stars, was over
him, no dungeon roof between. For one rapturous moment he gazed upwards,
thanking God in his heart. But the fresh air he breathed seemed to
intoxicate him like strong wine. He grew faint, and leaned for support
on Herrera.
"Courage, senor; it is not far--only a few paces," said the
under-gaoler, kindly.
Weak as he was, Carlos wished the distance a hundred times greater. But
it proved quite long enough for his strength. By the time he was
delivered over into the keeping of a couple of lay brothers, and locked
by them into a cell in the Dominican monastery, he was scarcely
conscious of anything save excessive fatigue.
The next morning was pretty far advanced before any one came to him; but
at last he was honoured with a visit from the prior himself. He said
frankly, and with perfect truth,--
"I am glad to find myself in your hands, my lord."
To one accustomed to feel himself an object of terror, it is a new and
pleasant sensation to be trusted. Even a wild beast will sometimes
spare the weak but fearless creature that ventures to play with it: and
Don Fray Ricardo was not a wild beast; he was only a stern, narrow,
conscientious man, the willing and efficient agent of a terrible system.
His brow relaxed visibly as he said,--
"I have always sought your true good, my son."
"I am well aware of it, father."
"And you must acknowledge," the prior resumed, "that great forbearance
and lenity have been shown towards you. But your infatuation has been
such that you have deliberately and persistently sought your own ruin.
You have resisted the wisest arguments, the gentlest persuasions, and
that with an obstinacy which time and discipline seem only to increase.
And now at last, as another Auto-da-fe may not be celebrated for some
time, my Lord Vice-Inquisitor-General, justly incensed at your
contumacy, would fain have thrown you into one of the underground
dungeons, where, believe me, you would not live a month. But I have
interceded for you."
"I thank your kindness, my lord. But I cannot see that it matters much
how you deal with me now. Sooner or later, in one form or other, it
must be death; and I thank God it can be no more."
While a man might count twenty, the prior looked silently in that
steadfast sorrowful young face. Then he said,--
"My son, do not yield to despair; for I come to thee this day with a
message of hope. I have also made intercession for thee with the
Supreme Council of the Holy Office; and I have succeeded in obtaining
from that august tribunal a great and unusual grace."
Carlos looked up, a sudden flush on his cheek. He hoped this unusual
grace might be permission to see some familiar face ere he died; but the
prior's next words disappointed him. Alas! it was only the offer of
escape from death on terms that he might not accept. And yet such an
offer really deserved the name the prior gave it--a great and unusual
grace. For, as has been already intimated, by the laws of the
Inquisition at that time in force, the man who had _once_ professed
heretical doctrines, however sincerely he might have retracted them, was
doomed to die. His penitence would procure him the favour of
absolution--the mercy of the garotte instead of the stake; that was all.
The prior went on to explain to Carlos, that upon the ground of his
youth, and the supposition that he had been led into error by others,
his judges had consented to show him singular favour. "Moreover," he
added, "there are other reasons for this course of action, upon which it
would be needless, and might be inexpedient, to enter at present; but
they have their weight, especially with me. For the preservation,
therefore, both of your soul and your body--upon which I take more
compassion than you do yourself--I have, in the first place, obtained
permission to remove you to a more easy and more healthful confinement,
where, besides other favours, you will enjoy the great privilege of a
companion, constant intercourse with whom can scarcely fail to benefit
you."
Carlos thought this last a doubtful boon; but as it was kindly intended,
he was bound to be grateful. He thanked the prior accordingly; adding,
"May I be permitted to ask the name of this companion?"
"You will probably find out ere long, if you conduct yourself so as to
deserve it,"--an answer Carlos found so enigmatical, that after several
vain endeavours to comprehend it, he gave up the task in despair, and
not without some apprehension that his long imprisonment had dulled his
perceptions. "Amongst us he is called Don Juan," the prior continued.
"And this much I will tell you. He is a very honourable person, who had
many years ago the great misfortune to be led astray by the same errors
to which you cling with such obstinacy. God was pleased, however, to
make use of my poor instrumentality to lead him back to the bosom of the
Church. He is now a true and sincere penitent, diligent in prayer and
penance, and heartily detesting his former evil ways. It is my last
hope for you that his wise and faithful counsels may bring you to the
same mind."
Carlos did not particularly like the prospect. He feared that this
vaunted penitent would prove a noisy apostate, who would seek to obtain
the favour of the monks by vilifying his former associates. Nor, on the
other hand, did he think it honest to accept without protest kindnesses
offered him on the supposition that he might even yet be induced to
recant. He said,--
"I ought to tell you, senor, that my mind will never change, God helping
me. Rather than lead you to imagine otherwise, I would go at once to
the darkest cell in the Triana. My faith is based on the Word of God,
which can never be overthrown."
"The penitent of whom I speak used such words as these, until God and
Our Lady opened his eyes. Now he sees all things differently. So will
you, if God is pleased to give you the inestimable benefit of his divine
grace; for it is not of him that willeth, nor of him that runneth, but
of God that showeth mercy," said the Dominican, who, like others of his
order, ingeniously managed to combine strong predestinarian theories
with the creed of Rome.
"That is most true, senor," Carlos responded.
"But to resume," said the prior; "for I have yet more to say. Should
you be favoured with the grace of repentance, I am authorized to hold
out to you a well-grounded hope, that, in consideration of your youth,
your life may even yet be spared."
"And then, if I were strong enough, I might live out ten or twenty
years--like the last two," Carlos answered, not without a touch of
bitterness.
"It is not so, my son," returned the prior mildly. "I cannot promise,
indeed, under any circumstances, to restore you to the world. For that
would be to promise what could not be performed; and the laws of the
Holy Office expressly forbid us to delude prisoners with false hopes.[#]
But this much I will say, your restraint shall be rendered so light and
easy, that your position will be preferable to that of many a monk, who
has taken the vows of his own free will. And if you like the society of
the penitent of whom I spoke anon, you shall continue to enjoy it."
[#] But these laws were often broken or evaded.
Carlos began to feel a somewhat unreasonable antipathy to this penitent,
whose face he had never seen. But what mattered the antipathies of a
prisoner of the Holy Office? He only said, "Permit me again to thank
you, my lord, for the kindness you have shown me. Though my fellow-men
cast out my name as evil, and deny me my share of God's free air and
sky, and my right to live in his world, I still take thankfully every
word or deed of pity and gentleness they give me by the way. For they
know not what they do."
The prior turned away, but turned back again a moment afterwards, to
ask--what for the credit of his humanity he ought to have asked a year
before--"Do you stand in need of any thing? or have you any request you
wish to make?"
Carlos hesitated a moment. Then he said, "Of things with in your power
to grant, my lord, there is but one that I care to ask. Two brethren of
the Society of Jesus visited me the day before yesterday. I spoke
hastily to one of them, who was named Fray Isodor, I think. Had I the
opportunity, I should be glad to offer him my hand."
"Now, of all mysterious things in heaven or earth," said the prior, "a
heretic's conscience is the most difficult to comprehend. Truly you
strain at a gnat and swallow a camel. But as for Fray Isodor, you may
rest content. For good and sufficient reasons, he cannot visit you
here. But I will repeat to him what you have said. And I know well
that his own tongue is a sharp weapon enough when used in the defence of
the faith."
The prior withdrew; and shortly afterwards one of the monks appeared,
and silently conducted Carlos to a cell, or chamber, in the highest
story of the building. Like the cells in the Triana, it had two
doors--the outer one secured by strong bolts and bars, the inner one
furnished with an aperture through which food or other things could be
passed.
But here the resemblance ceased. Carlos found himself, on entering, in
what seemed to him more like a hall than a cell; though, indeed, it must
be remembered that his eye was accustomed to ten feet square. It was
furnished as comfortably as any room needed to be in that warm climate;
and it was tolerably clean, a small mercy which he noted with no small
gratitude. Best perhaps of all, it had a good window, looking down on
the courtyard, but strongly barred, of course. Near the window was a
table, upon which stood an ivory crucifix, and a picture of the Madonna
and child.
But even before his eye took in all these objects, it turned to the
penitent, whose companionship had been granted him as so great a boon.
He was utterly unlike all that he had expected. Instead of a fussy,
noisy pervert, he saw a serene and stately old man, with long white hair
and beard, and still, clearly chiselled, handsome features. He was
dressed in a kind of mantle, of a nondescript colour, made like a monk's
cowl without the hood, and bearing two large St. Andrew's crosses, one
on the breast and the other on the back; in fact, it was a compromised
sanbenito.
As Carlos entered, he rose (showing a tall, spare figure, slightly
stooped), and greeted his new companion with a courteous and elaborate
bow, but did not speak.
Shortly afterwards, food was handed through the aperture in the door;
and the half-starved prisoner from the Triana sat down with his
fellow-captive to what he esteemed a really luxurious repast. He had
intended to be silent until obliged to speak, but the aspect and bearing
of the penitent quite disarranged his preconceived ideas. During the
meal, he tried once and again to open a conversation by some slight
courteous observation.
All in vain. The penitent did the honours of the table like a prince in
disguise, and never failed to bow and answer, "Yes, senor," or "No,
senor," to everything Carlos said. But he seemed either unable or
unwilling to do more.
As the day wore on, this silence grew oppressive to Carlos; and he
marvelled increasingly at his companion's want of ordinary interest in
him, or curiosity about him. Until at length a probable solution of the
mystery dawned upon his mind. As he considered the penitent an agent of
the monks deputed to convert him, very likely the penitent, on his side,
regarded him in the light of a spy commissioned to watch his
proceedings.
But this, if it was true at all, was only a small part of the truth.
Carlos failed to take into account the terrible effect of long years of
solitude, crushing down all the faculties of the mind and heart. It is
told of some monastery, where the rules were so severe that the brethren
were only allowed to converse with each other during one hour in the
week, that they usually sat for that hour in perfect silence: they had
nothing to say. So it was with the penitent of the Dominican convent.
He had nothing to say, nothing to ask; curiosity and interest were dead
within him--dead long ago, of absolute starvation.
Yet Carlos could not help observing him with a strange kind of
fascination. His face was too still, too coldly calm, like a white
marble statue; and yet it was a noble face. It was, although not a
thoughtful face, the face of a thoughtful man asleep. It did not lack
expressiveness, though it lacked expression. Moreover, there was in it
a look that awakened dim, undefined memories--shadowy things, that fled
away like ghosts whenever he tried to grasp them, yet persistently rose
again, and mingled with all his thoughts.
He told himself many times that he had never seen the man before. Was
it, then, an accidental likeness to some familiar face that so fixed and
haunted him? Certainly there was something which belonged to his past,
and which, even while it perplexed and baffled, strangely soothed and
pleased him.
At each of the canonical hours (which were announced to them by the
tolling of the convent bells), the penitent did not fail to kneel before
the crucifix, and, with the aid of a book and a rosary, to read or
repeat long Latin prayers, in a half audible voice. He retired to rest
early, leaving his fellow-prisoner supremely happy in the enjoyment of
his lamp and his Book of Hours. For it was two years since the eyes of
the once enthusiastic young scholar had rested on a printed page, or
since the kindly gleam of lamp or fire had cheered his solitude. The
privilege of refreshing his memory with the passages of Scripture
contained in the Romish book of devotion now appeared an unspeakable
boon to him. And although, accustomed as he was to a life of unbroken
monotony, the varied impressions of the day had produced extreme
weariness of mind and body, it was near midnight before he could prevail
upon himself to close the volume, and lie down to rest on the
comfortable pallet prepared for him.
He was just falling asleep, when the midnight bell tolled out heavily.
He saw his companion rise, throw his mantle over his shoulders, and
betake himself to his devotions. How long these lasted he could not
tell, for the stately kneeling figure soon mingled with his
dreams--strange dreams of Juan as a penitent, dressed in a sanbenito,
and with white hair and an old man's face, kneeling devoutly before the
altar in the church at Nuera, but reciting one of the songs of the Cid
instead of _De Profundis_.