Kitabı oku: «The Prime Minister», sayfa 42

Volume Three – Chapter Nineteen

Ours is a tale of human woe and human suffering; of blighted hopes, of disappointed ambition, of noble promise, and of bright aspirations doomed never to be realised; of crime, of repentance, of despair a description of a dark and gloomy picture, with but a few green spots to enliven it – a picture of the world!

We have long lost sight of the beloved of the Count d’Almeida, the fair Donna Clara Christovaö, and we now return to her with delight, for we love to gaze upon a being young, innocent, and lovely as she was. On her return from Lisbon, her father had allowed her to remain at home for some months, to recruit her strength and spirits among the scenes of her childhood, after all the terror and danger she had undergone; nor did he, during that time, once refer to the monastic life to which he had dedicated her; indeed, he tried to forget it himself; and would, perhaps, though not addicted to changing his purpose, have deferred the fatal time from year to year till death had removed him from the world, had he not his father confessor by his side, who at length thought fit to remind him of his vow. It is needless to say, he had repented of it, though he would not acknowledge it to himself, and he strenuously endeavoured to persuade the father that he could in no way compromise his soul by deferring the commencement of the year of probation to a future period; but the latter was firm, painting the enormity of such conduct in colours so glowing, so that the unhappy father was obliged to yield, and promised to make no further delay.

For reasons known only to herself, Donna Clara had firmly refused to perform her confession before Father Alfonzo, and taking advantage of the privilege allowed to every member of a family, she had selected a venerable and worthy priest as her confessor, whose best qualification was his kind and simple heart, and his innocent and credulous belief in all the miracles, the relics, and the infallibility of his Church.

Father Alfonzo, who well knew his character, lost no opportunity of winning his regard, and thus making a tool of him in his plans on Clara, which, though delayed, he had not abandoned. No; the devil, in whatever shape he appear is ever treacherous, watchful, and persevering, and naught but the armour of innocence can turn aside his deadly shafts.

Clara had learnt to confide in the good priest, and flew to him on all occasions for consolation and advice; and now, when the fidalgo, urged on by his confessor, again proposed to her to fulfil her mother’s vow by entering a convent, she requested permission, before determining, to consult her ghostly adviser on the subject.

She hastened to the aged priest, telling him her unwillingness to give up the world, and her feeling of unfitness for a life devoted wholly to the services of the Church.

“Alas! my daughter, it is hard for an old man, broken by infirmities, with one foot in the grave, to advise a young and joyous being to abandon all her hopes of domestic felicity, and the pleasures which the world affords, for a life of ascetic seclusion,” he answered; and Clara felt her heart lighter at his words. “But,” he continued, “as a minister of religion, it behoves me to advise you to obey your father’s wishes, and to fulfil your mother’s vow. There is but one course, my daughter, marked out for you to follow – the stern one of duty; and your duty demands the sacrifice of yourself; yet weep not, my child, a few years will quickly pass away, and you will no longer regret the world you have left, with all its vanities, while an immortal crown of glory will assuredly await you, the blessed reward of your virtue and resignation. Think of this world as it truly is, a vale of tears, and place your hopes of happiness in a heavenly future. – My fair daughter, you must become a nun.”

Pale and trembling, Clara listened, and bent her head in meek resignation, while the tears stole down her fair cheeks. The advice, though good and pious, doubtless, was not such as to afford consolation to a lovely girl of nineteen, who might naturally and innocently hope to find some enjoyment in the world her aged confessor likened to a vale of tears; yet she had determined to abide by his counsel, and her fate was sealed.

She made no further resistance to the fidalgo’s commands, consenting to recommence her noviciate whenever he should think fit. A day at a short distance was fixed, and Father Alfonzo saw with malignant satisfaction the commencement of his long sought for triumph.

The Convent of Santa Clara, at Oporto, is situated on the brow of a steep hill to the east of the city, overlooking the rapid Douro. It is a lofty and handsome building of carved stone, the windows looking towards the outer side being strongly barred; the church stands on one side of the entrance, which is through a court-yard with wide oaken gates. A long and steep flight of steps leads up to it from the river, but on the other side it is approachable by a broad though winding road, with the backs chiefly of some large houses and dead walls on each side, making it altogether a most secluded situation. The garden is surrounded by a high dark wall, with pointed battlements, exactly similar to the walls of the city; indeed, one side of it is enclosed by them, and at the end furthest removed from the convent is a summer-house, likewise, alas! securely grated, from whence a beautiful view is obtained both up and down the river. On the opposite side, on the summit of a precipitous cliff, at whose foot the river rushes with impetuous force, stands the Serra Convent, with its high cupola-roofed church, then surrounded by groves of fine trees and lovely gardens, and inhabited by the most wealthy and high-born monks of Oporto, that of Santa Clara receiving none but the daughters of fidalgos. On the right is a view of the city, and the town of Villa Nova, with the heights beyond, between which the river winds its way towards the sea; while on the left, a soft and smiling scene, with rich green banks rising from the water, is beheld, beyond a narrow gorge of dark rocks.

To this convent Clara was now conveyed, and, torn from the embrace of the good Senhora Gertrudes, notwithstanding all the old nurse’s entreaties that her darling might be allowed to remain at home with her.

It must be confessed that Clara had but little to complain of during her noviciate in this lovely spot, and she had much to make her contented. She had many companions of her own age; merry, light-hearted girls, who laughed and talked all day long, hurrying over the daily ceremonials of their religion to laugh and talk again. Then their confessors would come, who never troubled them with too severe penances, entertaining them instead with many laughable stories. They would no more have thought of imposing any disagreeable task on the fair young fidalgas, than would a fashionable preacher in London of annoying the consciences of his hearers. Then the doctor would come and feel their pulses, while he detailed all the anecdotes he had collected during his professional visits, and indeed everything that was going forward in the world.

All, however, were not thus happy; the young love of some had been blighted in the bud, and they had retired thither in the expectation of finding peace and a solace for their woe in the duties of religion; others had been compelled by cajolery or threats to embrace a life they detested and despised, these invariably recompensing themselves by indulging in every license within their power, for they soon discovered “that where there’s a will there’s a way.” We well recollect the Convent of Santa Clara, the most fashionable of our day, so we must not be scandalous.

The fair flower of his garden, as her father used to delight to call Clara, found naught congenial to her feelings and thoughts in this new life, and with fear and sad forebodings she looked forward to the time when it must irrevocably become hers for ever. She pined for freedom, and she thought of the love and devotion of her poor, though high-born, lover, Don Luis. In vain she tried, for she thought it her duty to banish his image from her mind, but she had engraven it too deeply to eradicate it. Each time it returned with greater beauty than before, till at last she gave up the attempt as hopeless; so she cherished it with greater fondness than ever.

About two months of her noviciate had passed, when one evening, as she was seated in the summer-house, inhaling the fresh breeze, and gazing on the lovely view, her companions having all quitted her, she heard a low strain of music, sounding as if it came from far down the cliff below her. She listened attentively for some minutes – it ceased – when it again sounded as if from directly beneath the wall. At one of the windows a bar had been loosened, so that it could be easily removed, as the fair birds were, it must be confessed, rather frequently in the habit of doing. She soon discovered the necessary way to do it, and, looking out, she beheld a graceful figure, with a cloak over his arm and a guitar in his hand. As he gazed up towards the window of the high tower, he struck a few low notes on his guitar, as if to draw the attention of any fair captive within. The eye of love was not slow in piercing the thickening shades of evening, and her heart beat with tender emotion as she distinguished Don Luis d’Almeida. He stood evidently uncertain whether he was known, or whether it was Donna Clara herself towards whom he was looking; he feared, she thought, to pronounce her name, lest it might in any way betray her, and she equally trembled to speak his. She held in her hand a handkerchief marked with her name, “Would it be wrong?” she let it drop, and had just time to see him spring forward, seize it, and press it rapturously to his lips, when the bell for vespers rang, and she was obliged to hasten into the convent.

The following evening she anxiously watched, from the window of the tower, the return of Luis. He at length appeared, having climbed, with great difficulty and danger, the steep heights from the river; but this time he had not encumbered himself with a guitar. Clara looked hastily into the garden below her – no one was within hearing.

“Oh, Luis,” she cried, “your presence gives me both joy and pain; joy to know that you are near me, and pain that I feel it will soon be sin even to think of you.”

“Say not so, my beloved Clara; I come to tell you to hope,” answered Luis. “Resist to the utmost taking the fatal vows. Defer it in every possible way, and something may yet occur to favour our wishes.”

“Heaven grant there may!” exclaimed Clara; “but, much as I delight in seeing you, for my sake, do not venture here. Ten months must elapse before the dreaded time arrives; ere that time, return again here, and believe me, I will trust in your constancy. I have seen and heard such things within these walls as make me almost doubt whether I am bound to obey my father’s commands by remaining in them till released by death. It is treason to speak this; but thus much I must tell you, Luis. Hark! some one approaches. Farewell!”

“I will rescue you or die,” whispered Luis, yet loud enough to reach her ears; and while she watched him, as he disappeared over the brow of the cliff, a young novice entered the tower.

“What! sister Clara, ever meditating in our bower?” exclaimed the girl, laughing, “I shall begin to suspect you have some lover among the gallant friars opposite, or perhaps some one has managed to fly to the foot of the tower; for Love, we are told, has wings, though he generally uses them rather to fly away; but in no other way could a human being contrive to get there, I am sure. I quite forgot – I came to bring you a message from the Lady Abbess, to say that your father and a certain Padre Alfonzo are waiting to see you.”

“I will accompany you,” answered Clara, taking the arm of Sister Amalia; and the two young ladies entered the convent together.

More trials awaited Clara. Her father received her with an angry brow, unusual to him, and chiding her, gravely informed her that he had received intimation that Don Luis had been seen at Oporto, whither he had doubtless been attracted for her sake, insisting on her promising never, without his leave, to see him. He little suspected that she had, within the last few minutes, both seen and heard him.

“Remember, too,” concluded the Fidalgo, “that although he has not been convicted as the murderer of your brother, he has not proved his innocence, and he is without either fortune or influence; were it not so also, you are dedicated to the Church, and can never be his. Pass your word to me, therefore, that you will not see him; if not, you must, by the advice of the Lady Abbess and the good Father Alfonzo, be subjected to such a confinement as will preclude the possibility of seeing him, or receiving any account of him.”

“I trust, my father, that the love and respect I hear you, and my own honour, are a sufficient guarantee of my not disobeying your commands when they are just and right; but no further promise will I make,” answered Clara, firmly. “Pardon me, my beloved father, that I should ever have spoken thus to you; but I will not be unjust to myself, or to one whom I know truly as innocent of any crime except that of loving me.”

Clara continued firm in her determination, notwithstanding all the Lady Abbess, her father, or the priest, could say to her; and at last, wearied out, they were obliged to desist from all further attempts to make her alter it. Their system of tactics then changed. She was from henceforth never allowed to leave her chamber, or to walk in the garden without an attendant; and though at first she bore up with spirit against this irksome species of petty tyranny, at last her health gave way, and it was not till she was allowed, as before, to wander alone in the garden that she at all recovered. It certainly did not increase her taste for a monastic life. Her father at length departed for Lisbon. Three months of her noviciate only remained to be accomplished, and she had not heard from Luis. Week after week passed by, yet he came not. With all a woman’s trusting love, she felt confident he would come to see her, and bid her farewell, if not to bring proofs that her brother fell by another’s hand, and to rescue her.

At last the alarming accounts reached her of the apprehension of the conspirators, among whom the name of the Count d’Almeida was mentioned. She believed him innocent; but he was in prison, and escape was hopeless. Then arrived the dreadful description of the cruel execution. She trembled as she listened, but his name was not among the sufferers. She thanked Heaven that he was preserved, though for herself she had ceased to hope.

At last came the stunning intelligence that her father also was a prisoner on the charge of high treason. It was the very day before she was to pronounce the final vows. She longed to fly to him, to comfort him in prison, but she was told such was impossible. With tears and entreaties she petitioned the Lady Abbess to allow her to depart, yet in vain. The fidalgo had committed his daughter to her charge, and by his permission alone could she allow her to quit the convent under any pretext. His confessor, in whom he placed implicit confidence, assured her such was his wish, and by him was she guided.

Despairing, therefore, of all human aid, Clara yielded to her fate, trusting, as she did so, that Heaven would afford her peace of mind, and reward her for obeying her father’s commands and her mother’s wish.

It was a bright and lovely morning, although in winter, when she rose from her couch, whereon she had spent a sleepless night; several attendants being in readiness to robe her for the last time in the garments of the vain world. Bright flowers were braided in her fair hair, glittering jewels decked her neck, and a robe of white satin, richly ornamented with lace, clothed her graceful form. She appeared as a bride about to be led to the altar – a lovely sacrifice to Heaven; say rather to bigoted superstition and priestcraft, the worst remnant of heathen idolatry and imposture: and let us bless the era, and the true patriot, who, with one daring stroke, banished for ever those vile institutions from his country.⁶

Before Clara left her chamber for the last time, her future abode being a narrow cell without ornament, and with but scanty furniture, old Gertrudes was permitted to visit her. Tears and sobs almost choked the poor nurse’s utterance, as she embraced and kissed, over and over again, her young charge.

“Oh! and you look so lovely in that beautiful dress!” she exclaimed; “and they are going to cut off all that fair hair, and put you on a dull, ugly habit, which you must wear all the rest of your days – Oh dear! oh dear!” and she burst into a fresh shower of tears.

“Do not thus mourn for me, my good nurse; I care not for my change of habit,” answered Clara, smiling mournfully; “and I trust I shall be happy in the consciousness of performing my duty.”

A sister now entered to inform Clara that the procession was nearly ready to enter the church, so Senhora Gertrudes was obliged to tear herself away to witness the sad ceremony, while Clara accompanied the sister to the hall, where the whole community were assembled previous to entering the church by their private door.

Two other novices were that day to be professed, and a large assemblage of their friends, kindred, and acquaintances, besides many strangers, had collected in the church to witness the ceremony.

Preceded by the cross-bearer, with slow and measured steps, and singing the hymn, “O Gloriosa Virginum,” the procession of nuns entered the sacred edifice, and took their allotted places. The holy Father Alfonzo, also the professor extraordinary to the convent, first preached a sermon from the altar, with the postulants seated before him, giving the most glowing picture of the religious life they were about to enter, so that not one of the audience could doubt they were peculiarly blest in their choice.

The Bishop of Oporto, in his full canonicals, standing before the altar, with his chaplains on either side, the postulants were next led up the steps to him, when he severally interrogated them, first addressing Clara.

“My child, what do you demand?” he said.

“The mercy of God, and the holy habit of religion,” answered Clara.

“Is it with your own free-will that you demand the holy habit of religion?”

“Yes, my lord,” faltered forth Clara.

“Reverend Mother,” said the Bishop, turning to the Lady Abbess, “have you made the necessary inquiries, and are you satisfied?”

The Lady Abbess signified her assent.

Several other questions were asked, to which the young postulants responded satisfactorily, and they were then led forth to put off the garments of the world, and assume that of religion.

During their absence, the assembled monks and nuns broke forth in a solemn harmonious chant: “Who is she who cometh up from the desert, flowing with delights, leaning on her beloved?”

They soon returned, clothed in the habit of the order, yet wearing their long hair covered by their white veils, and again knelt before the altar, holding lighted tapers in their hands.

On one side was a bier, as if prepared for the dead, on the other a table, with the act of profession and implements for writing placed on it, while the black veil, which, once assumed, would separate them for ever from the world, lay upon the altar.

Clara trembled violently – a faintness came over her – she saw not the assembled crowd; – she heard not the rich melody, and scarcely the voice of the officiating minister. A dull, stunning feeling oppressed her – she was scarcely aware of the answers she made; but the Bishop appeared satisfied. He then, with a solemn prayer, blessed the black veils, and sprinkled them with holy water. A rich melody pealed through the church, while sweet scented incense ascended to heaven.

The eldest postulant then, led forward by the Lady Abbess, after further questions from the Bishop, pronounced her vows, while he held upraised the holy sacrament, and the organ sent forth its most solemn tones. With a trembling hand the young girl signed her renunciation of the world, and a tear-drop blotted out the mark of the cross she made.

The Bishop then severing a lock from her hair, the professed sisters advanced, and placed her on the bier, and while the black veil was thrown over her, the organ now sent forth a mournful dirge for the dead. For three minutes did she thus remain, all standing round as if mourning her dead, and when the veil was again raised, the sisters, lifting her hand to aid her to rise, it fell powerless by her side. A thrill of horror crept over them – for they thought her dead indeed; yet it was not so; the solemn mummery had overcome her – she had fainted; but the organ ceasing, and then changing to a triumphant air, she gave signs of returning animation. She was lifted from the bier, and borne from the church.

It was now Clara’s turn. The Lady Abbess, taking the lighted taper from her hand, led her forward, giving her the act of confession. Almost fainting, she then knelt, the richest tones of human voices floating round the building, while the Bishop bore towards her the adorable sacrament. A dimness came over her sight – her voice faltered as the moment to pronounce her final vow had arrived. Scarce had she uttered the first word, when a voice – it sounded like that of human agony – rung through the church. “Stay, in mercy stay!” it cried; and at those tones Clara sunk senseless to the ground.