My Heart, Hitherto Unnaturally
Shrunk Up, Expanded Into A Riot Of Vague, But Delicious Emotions.
The
beauty of nature intoxicated, bewildered me.
The song of the peasants;
their cheerful looks; their happy avocations; the picturesque gayety of
their dresses; their rustic music; their dances; all broke upon me like
witchcraft. My soul responded to the music; my heart danced in my
bosom. All the men appeared amiable, all the women lovely.
I returned to the convent, that is to say, my body returned but my
heart and soul never entered there again. I could not forget this
glimpse of a beautiful and a happy world; a world so suited to my
natural character. I had felt so happy while in it; so different a
being from what I felt myself while in the convent - that tomb of the
living. I contrasted the countenances of the beings I had seen, full of
fire and freshness and enjoyment, with the pallid, leaden, lack-lustre
visages of the monks; the music of the dance, with the droning chant of
the chapel. I had before found the exercises of the cloister wearisome;
they now became intolerable. The dull round of duties wore away my
spirit; my nerves became irritated by the fretful tinkling of the
convent bell; evermore dinging among the mountain echoes; evermore
calling me from my repose at night, my pencil by day, to attend to some
tedious and mechanical ceremony of devotion.
I was not of a nature to meditate long, without putting my thoughts
into action. My spirit had been suddenly aroused, and was now all awake
within me. I watched my opportunity, fled from the convent, and made my
way on foot to Naples. As I entered its gay and crowded streets, and
beheld the variety and stir of life around me, the luxury of palaces,
the splendor of equipages, and the pantomimic animation of the motley
populace, I seemed as if awakened to a world of enchantment, and
solemnly vowed that nothing should force me back to the monotony of the
cloister.
I had to inquire my way to my father's palace, for I had been so young
on leaving it, that I knew not its situation. I found some difficulty
in getting admitted to my father's presence, for the domestics scarcely
knew that there was such a being as myself in existence, and my
monastic dress did not operate in my favor. Even my father entertained
no recollection of my person. I told him my name, threw myself at his
feet, implored his forgiveness, and entreated that I might not be sent
back to the convent.
He received me with the condescension of a patron rather than the
kindness of a parent. He listened patiently, but coldly, to my tale of
monastic grievances and disgusts, and promised to think what else could
be done for me. This coldness blighted and drove back all the frank
affection of my nature that was ready to spring forth at the least
warmth of parental kindness. All my early feelings towards my father
revived; I again looked up to him as the stately magnificent being that
had daunted my childish imagination, and felt as if I had no
pretensions to his sympathies. My brother engrossed all his care and
love; he inherited his nature, and carried himself towards me with a
protecting rather than a fraternal air. It wounded my pride, which was
great. I could brook condescension from my father, for I looked up to
him with awe as a superior being, but I could not brook patronage from
a brother, who, I felt, was intellectually my inferior. The servants
perceived that I was an unwelcome intruder in the paternal mansion,
and, menial-like, they treated me with neglect. Thus baffled at every
point; my affections outraged wherever they would attach themselves, I
became sullen, silent, and despondent. My feelings driven back upon
myself, entered and preyed upon my own heart. I remained for some days
an unwelcome guest rather than a restored son in my father's house. I
was doomed never to be properly known there. I was made, by wrong
treatment, strange even to myself; and they judged of me from my
strangeness.
I was startled one day at the sight of one of the monks of my convent,
gliding out of my father's room. He saw me, but pretended not to notice
me; and this very hypocrisy made me suspect something. I had become
sore and susceptible in my feelings; every thing inflicted a wound on
them. In this state of mind I was treated with marked disrespect by a
pampered minion, the favorite servant of my father. All the pride and
passion of my nature rose in an instant, and I struck him to the earth.
My father was passing by; he stopped not to inquire the reason, nor
indeed could he read the long course of mental sufferings which were
the real cause. He rebuked me with anger and scorn; he summoned all the
haughtiness of his nature, and grandeur of his look, to give weight to
the contumely with which he treated me. I felt I had not deserved it - I
felt that I was not appreciated - I felt that I had that within me which
merited better treatment; my heart swelled against a father's
injustice. I broke through my habitual awe of him. I replied to him
with impatience; my hot spirit flushed in my cheek and kindled in my
eye, but my sensitive heart swelled as quickly, and before I had half
vented my passion I felt it suffocated and quenched in my tears. My
father was astonished and incensed at this turning of the worm, and
ordered me to my chamber. I retired in silence, choking with contending
emotions.
I had not been long there when I overheard voices in an adjoining
apartment. It was a consultation between my father and the monk, about
the means of getting me back quietly to the convent.
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