University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
THE MATINS.

The ensuing morning our traveller was roused
from his short repose by the loud tolling of the
convent bell for matins, and the voice of Father
Bonaventure at the outside of the door of his dormitory.

“Wilt thou not up to morning prayer, brother?
I will attend thee to our little oratory, where we
are wont to commence the duties of the day with
orisons.”

“I thank you, brother, for so carefully watching
over my spiritual welfare,” replied the monk, rising
from the bed on which he had thrown himself,
without laying aside his disguise, and opening the
door; “I have had brief time for sleep; yet two
or three hours snatched from the twenty-four is
enough for youth, though hardly sufficient for age
like yours. I fear I broke in somewhat roughly
on your repose last night.”

“Not a whit, not a whit, brother. `It is not
wise to wake a sleeping lion,' saith the old proverb,
but the contrary may perchance be true of a sleeping
friar. Hey, brother?” said the confessor, chuckling
at his own happy conceit, and glancing at his
guest for applause, rubbing the while his hands together
to keep them warm by the friction.

“I will, nevertheless, try and atone for my intrusion
in some degree by making a speedy departure,”
observed the monk.

“Not so, good brother, not so; I would have
thee abide here as long as it may suit thy convenience.
Thy companionship will be most welcome.
It is ill biding alone among womankind;
to hold colloquy with poor silly creatures like Sister
Agathe, on whose dull senses wise words are
cast away, like the throwing of goodly pearls before
swine; and, moreover, she is deaf as a mosquenonge.”

“Is Sister Agathe the only companion of your
solitude, brother?” inquired the monk, in an indifferent
tone, of Father Bonaventure, as he slowly
led the way through the gallery, his locomotion

somewhat retarded by the spherical honours of his
outward man and a gouty halt in his left leg.

“Marry is she not!” he replied, looking back
over his shoulder, his portly dimensions not permitting
his guest to walk beside him in the passage.
“First there is the superior (between us,
brother, she would be more properly denominated
the `inferior'), whose physiognomy is compounded
of a squint and a twisted nose; and, moreover, she
suffereth under that curse to the sex, red hair;
these attractions, keeping lovers at a proper distance,
drove her, at the discreet age of thirty-five,
to take the veil; verily, a wise covering for such a
frontispiece.”

“And does this tempting specimen of the sex
comprise, with Sister Agathe, all your household,
brother?” asked the monk, gravely.

“By St. Therese, no, good brother! There are
some half dozen religieuses who are full of the
odour of sanctity; dried and withered from prayer
and fasting. Hang them up in the wind, and it
would whistle an ave through their bones. The
very floor creaks credo when they move across it.
A mouse might wear their consciences in his breast
and not sin. Yet, saints ha' mercy, brother! for
want of sins to confess—for the kind must ever be
chattering—they puzzle their brains to conjure up
vain imaginings, and din half-hatched iniquities into
mine ears. I believe they would all turn murderers
and robbers to have one good round sin to bring up
to confession.”

“Truly, you have a trying time of it, brother,”
replied the monk, in a sympathizing tone, as Father
Bonaventure paused to take breath, and draw a
long sigh of pitiable distress, as he poured his
griefs into a brother's willing ear; “your circumstances
call for the virtue of patience.”

“Assuredly do they, brother,” said Father Bonaventure,
stopping full at the door of the chapel and
taking his guest by the sleeve, “assuredly do they!
There is Sister Ursule, as straight, thin, fleshless
an anatomy as the breath of life ever flitted about
in, comes to me with a holy smile that would turn
a mug of new ale to vinegar, and says, forsooth,
she must confess to me under seal, having sinned
to her soul's damage and the church's scandal.
And what think you,” he continued, with the air
of a man seriously and grievously distressed, at the
same time looking his guest full in the eyes with
a serio-comic expression, “what think you, brother,
this great iniquity proved to be, after all?”

“I cannot well guess,” replied the monk, surveying
with a smile the fat, round bulk of the confessor,
“unless it were that the frail Ursule cast
forbidden glances on your goodly person.”

“Verily, thou hast guessed it, shrewd brother;
but, Heaven be thanked, Dan Cupid had no finger
in her holy thoughts,” he devoutly ejaculated.
“When I urged her to unburden her conscience,
she says to me, with much sighing and whispering,
`Reverend father, while I chanced to elevate my
eyes at vespers, they fell upon thy reverend whiskers”'
(here Father Bonaventure complacently
stroked these not altogether uncomely appendages
to his cheeks), “`and, tempted by the devil, I
bethought me, in the midst of a paternoster, if
holy and youthful St. Timothy's sacred cheeks
had whiskers for adornment like thine own.' Mis
éricorde!” added the father, fetching a deep suspiration,
between a sigh and a groan, as he opened
the door of the chapel and ushered in his guest,
“these women will be my death. One good round
sin of a godless freebooter were better worth listening
to the confession of than all the milk-and-water

peccadilloes of a regiment of pale-eyed religieuses,
such as daily weary out my soul and wear the flesh
from my poor bones.”

“Of a truth, you have kept the good wine until
now, good Brother Bonaventure,” whispered the
monk, as his eyes at that moment encountered a
bevy of novices, one or two with their veils, perhaps,
drawn artfully aside, and their lovely features
eloquent with curiosity as their glances were directed
towards the opening door, kneeling around
the altar of the oratory.

“Callest thou that good wine?” responded Father
Bonaventure, interrogatively, and in the same
low tone of voice, following the direction of the
monk's eyes with his own, “thou art no judge of
grapes, brother. Marry come up! They are every
soul possessed with a born devil, and give me more
disquiet than so many bear-cubs turned loose within
the convent walls. Alas! I fear they are given
over to the power of the prince of darkness, for
their hearts are prone to mischief as the sparks fly
upward. If thou wilt in part ease me of my burden,
brother, and, after prayers, take upon thyself
the confession of the tamest of them, demure as
they now look, thou wilt soon be wearied body and
soul with them, and be ready to open window, and
bid them fly with God's blessing, and leave thee to
collect thy wits together in peace, as ere now I
have prayed them to do. Good wine, is't? The
ass that carries the wine drinks but water.”

Thus speaking, the reverend father confessor,
whose constitutional indolence, combined with the
active consciences of his charges, left him, according
to his own relation of his grievances, little leisure
to attend to the thrift of his own body or
soul, and peace neither to the one nor the other, but
who, nevertheless, went good-naturedly grumbling

through life, advanced with a slow pace to the
altar, mumbling, as he passed them, a morning salutation
to the devotees, and opened the service of
the hour.

The oratory or chapel within which the monk
was introduced constituted the basement story of
the tower, the diameter of whose area was about
eighteen feet. The ceiling, which overhead was
raised several feet higher than the sides of the
oratory, was overspread with a covering of crimson
silk, radiating from a silver star in the centre
of the dome, in folds or plaits, like an immense circular
fan. Extending on every side to the extremities
of the room, it fell in hangings, bordered with
deep fringes, to the floor, concealing the brick sides
of the tower, and presenting altogether the novelty
of a silken pavilion within the walls of a convent;
a unique and costly tabernacle, illustrating, even
in this rural retreat, that taste and lavish expense
characteristic of Roman Catholics in all ages and
in all countries.

At the left of the door by which Father Bonaventure
and his guest entered stood a small altar of
black marble, surmounted by a white slab of the
same material. Several candles burned upon it,
and in the midst of them was a crucifix; the cross
only a few inches in height but of massive silver,
and the effigy of the Redeemer of fine gold. On
the right of the altar stood a mahogany confessional-box,
and on the left a low pulpit, from which
the father confessor occasionally pronounced homilies
to his little congregation. Before the altar,
awaiting the commencement of the morning service,
kneeled, in two semicircles, the females composing
his limited audience. Those who kneeled
nearest to the sanctuary were evidently the religieuses;
sisters, in age and tenderness of conscience,

to the Sister Ursule. The second row, and
that farthest from the chancel, evidently consisted
of that branch of Father Bonaventure's flock which,
in his opinion, were given over to the delusions of
sin.

They were seven in number, mystic emblems,
no doubt, of the Pleiades, at least so thought the
youthful monk; and fourteen bright eyes glanced
round and rested upon him as he followed Father
Bonaventure into the oratory, for the presence of
a stranger in the convent was not of such frequent
occurrence as to render the curiosity of females
living so retired from the world either torpid or
indifferent. In its gratification in this instance,
however, they received a check from the eye and
voice of a middle-aged female, with a sour visage,
kneeling a little in advance of them, whose physiognomical
details answered so closely to the worthy
Father Bonaventure's vivid description of the lady
superior, that the stranger was at no loss in fixing
her identity.

The oratory had no aperture for admitting the
light from without, and, except when the candles
were burning during morning and evening service,
or the performance of mass on saints' days, it remained,
save the partial illumination of a solitary
taper burning in a chased vessel of oil set before
the crucifix, in a state perfectly dark. Father
Bonaventure commenced the usual service of the
morning with habitual readiness and indifference,
hurrying through it as if anxious to bring it to a
speedy termination; while the monk, who had declined
his invitation to assist him on the plea of
fatigue, kneeled reverently by the chancel, and, as
it happened, on account of the small dimensions of
the area before the altar, near the line of novices.

During the prayers his attention was drawn to

the remarkably sweet and musical voice of the novice
nearest to him, as she repeated, in a low tone,
the customary prayers and portions of the service.
Instigated by curiosity to see the lips from which
such melodious accents flowed, and behold the
features of one whom his youthful and romantic
admiration already assured him must be surpassingly
fair, he put back his cowl and partly turned
his face to glance beneath her veil. The movement,
gentle as it was, attracted her notice, and
produced a corresponding change of her own attitude,
and their eyes met.

For an instant, as if fascinated, her gaze rested
full upon his dark, expressive eyes, which became
softened and subdued, as such eyes are wont to be
when they encounter the glance of youth and
beauty; at the same time they beamed with that
ardent and passionate admiration which the vanity
of a beautiful woman will not allow her to misconstrue.
For a moment, and for a moment only, she
forgot the nun in the woman. A blush instantly
suffused her cheeks, and, bending her head in confusion,
she hastily veiled a face which he, nevertheless,
had time to see was eminently lovely; and
then resumed, with a gentle suspiration which did
not escape his ear, and with renewed earnestness,
her momentarily forgotten devotions.

In a few minutes afterward the services of the
morning closed, and both novices and religieuses,
rising from the altar, followed in slow procession
the stern superior, who deigned to cast a glance
neither upon the father confessor nor the monk, and
disappeared through a door hitherto concealed
behind the arras, and opposite to that by which
Father Bonaventure and his guest had entered.

“Take thou the chair of confessional, brother,”
said Father Bonaventure, breathing freely, like a

man relieved by the termination of irksome duties,
as his flock were leaving the chapel; “the greatest
sinner of them all will soon be back, if for no
better purpose, at least to have an opportunity of
using her tongue; shallow waters being, as thou
knowst, always the most noisy.”

As the last novice left the chapel, she did not
fail, before dropping the folds of the tapestry from
her hand, to cast a timid glance towards the stranger
whose piercing eyes had so dangerously encountered
her own, no less brilliant and piercing,
but tempered with the softness of the gazelle's.

“Time presses, worthy brother,” replied the
monk, turning away his lingering gaze from the
spot where the graceful figure of the novice had
disappeared, and fixing it upon the very different
figure of Father Bonaventure, “and I may not
delay a longer space than it will consume to prepare
some mode of conveyance. I will break my
fast with you, and then leave your hospitable roof.”

“It will be difficult journeying, brother,” replied
the priest; “thou hast not looked forth this morning.
Come with me, though the ascent be somewhat
precipitous, and I will show thee the road thou
must travel; and, peradventure, when thou seest
its condition, thou wilt doubtless think it an argument
in favour of sojourning with me for a yet
longer space. Follow, brother: the penitents may
await our return; 'twill teach them patience. Patience,
saith the proverb, is a good plaster.”

Thus speaking, he raised the hangings and led
the way through a passage between them and the
bare walls to a small staircase that wound spirally
to the summit of the tower. The Father Bonaventure
caused his guest to mount the steps in
advance, while, step after step, slowly and laboriously,
he followed him towards the top.

“Fair and softly, fair and softly, good brother,”
he said, as his guest began to ascend with a light
step, “hasty climbers get sudden falls. The more
haste the worse speed, saith the proverb. No
human abode should be more than one story above
ground.” At length the monk emerged from the
dark stairway upon a small rectangle a few feet
square, so completely monopolized by a bell, with
its wheel, axle, and other apparatus, that there was
left but little room for him, and none for the capacious
dimensions of Father Bonaventure: he was
content to remain at the head of the stairs, with his
head thrust through the trapdoor, while his guest
looked forth from the latticed window which extended
quite around the belfry.

“Will you not come up, brother?” archly inquired
the monk of his host, whose round face was
thrust up through the aperture; “without your aid
I cannot profit by my elevated station.”

“I need not, I need not, brother,” answered
Father Bonaventure, retaining his position, and
still breathing heavily; “look forth, and thou canst
see what I would point out to thee; three good feet
of November snow on the earth, and the road thou
art to travel about as plain as the path left by a
boat on the water. Hugh! this coming up stairs
is dreadful. I am of opinion, brother, that man
was not physically constituted to go up hill or up
stairs. The effort that nature makes at such times
to sustain the forced exertion of the muscles proves
clearly that it is unnatural. Stairs are the devil's
own invention. But what seest thou? Art satisfied
that thou wilt have to be my guest yet a while
longer?”

As the monk looked forth from the window the
sun was just rising in cloudless radiance, but there
was no warmth in his beams. The prospect he

surveyed was strikingly different from that which
he contemplated when first introduced to the reader,
gazing down, from an overhanging hill, into the
lovely valley of the Chaudiere. The face of the
earth was now totally changed. The green mantle
of summer and the graver robe of autumn had
given way to the winding-sheet that winter had
thrown over the dying year! A stratum of snow
lay deep in the glen, whitening the leafless forests
and enveloping the frozen river as if it had lain
upon the solid earth. Not a trace of the path he
had travelled the night previous, except where the
absence of trees might indicate its direction, was
visible to his eye. In one short night winter had
laid field, forest, and river under the dominion of
his hoary sceptre! Not a bird broke the silence of
the morning; the flocks and herds were safely
housed; and, save a hare bounding lightly over the
snow, or a little flock of sparrows flitting upon its
surface, not a quadruped, or a loiterer of the feathered
tribe, and not a human being or living creature
was visible throughout the whole scope of his
vision. Stern desolation alone reigned over the
inhospitable scene.

“How great the change! how infinite the contrast
of the present scene,” said the monk, mentally,
“with that I beheld but yesterday! The
glory of the summer forests, the golden harvest-field,
the lowing of the kine, and the song of the
happy peasant, all have departed—”

“Brother,” said Father Bonaventure, interrupting
his train of thought, “thou seest, doubtless,
what comfort awaits thee abroad. That snow lies
two feet deep on the ground if it lay an inch.
Neither burline, traineau, nor carriole can move
the length of a rosary till the road is somewhat
broken up by heavy sleds, and the sun settles the
snow.”

“But I can take horse, brother, as I came,”
said the monk, in a confident tone.

“Thou couldst not travel a mile an hour on
horseback through such a snow; thou wouldst do
better to take to snowshoes.”

“That I will do, if there is no other alternative,”
persevered the guest, “for forward I must, let the
difficulties be what they may. If the road is to be
broken, some one must be the first to break it, and
why not I as well as another? If it is passable for
one man it also is for me. Look you, brother,” he
added, hastily, “come a step higher, and bend
your eyes through the lower part of the lattice, and
tell me what you see.”

The father confessor raised himself till his eyes
were on a level with the lower crevice of the window,
and looked in the direction indicated by his
guest.

“Speak, brother. What do you discern?” asked
the monk, exultingly.

“By St. Therese! I spy three, nay, four men
on horseback far down the glen,” replied the father,
looking into the face of his guest with something
like surprise visible in his features; “do I see
rightly, brother?”

“You see rightly,” replied the monk; “four
mounted men, half a league off, are travelling
thither through the snow, the difficulties of which
your hospitality, brother, has led you to magnify
somewhat. They seem to travel at a good round
pace, nevertheless. This is fortunate. If they
pass by and continue on farther, I shall have my
road broken before me. 'Tis a special interposition
of Heaven, brother. Dost not think so?” he
added, pleasantly.

“By St. Therese, 'tis a miracle!” answered
Father Bonaventure in a disappointed tone; “but

a miracle of Beelzebub's own making. Here I
thought to keep thee at least till to-morrow or
the day after. Well, God makes and the tailor
shapes. 'Tis an ill wind blows nobody good.
'Tis folly to fret when grief's no comfort;” and,
thus comforting himself with proverbs, Father Bonaventure
prepared to descend the stairs of the
tower.

“Beware, brother,” said the monk, as Father
Bonaventure's bald crown slowly disappeared
through the scuttle; “facilis descensus Averni,
as worthy Brother Ducosse would have it, not that
I would intimate that your oratory is the Avernus
to which Maro alludes.”

“Maro Virgilius was a heathen,” said the confessor,
as he carefully descended the stairs, perfectly
assuring himself of the safety of one foot
before he put down the other, progressing something
as we have seen children three years old
when performing the same feat. “I marvel much
Brother Ducosse should be so given to quoting
heathenish sayings. He endangereth thereby his
soul's wellbeing. But, brother, if thou wilt travel
after I have shown thee the road, why, then, go, and
the saints be with thee. 'Tis hard to make a wild
goose lay a tame egg. Youth is ever more hasty
than wise, and a little pot is soon hot. Go thou
into the confessional,” he added, as they reached
the door of the chapel; “two mornings in the
week do the sisters confess, and this is one of them.
While thou art shriving the penitents I will be
making preparations for thy departure. Heaven
send thee patience this morning, brother, for, verily,
thou wilt need it. But methinks thou art somewhat
young to be made a father confessor; but
what sayeth the proverb, `'tis not the cowl that
makes the friar, nor the cap that makes the cardinal.'
”

Thus speaking, the oracular Father Bonaventure
drew aside the hangings, and, thrusting the monk
in, said, “Go in, and, by St. Therese, make clean
hearts o' them; new brooms sweep clean.”

Then hobbling away with his usual rolling gait,
which the monk, as he followed him with his eyes,
thought resembled more the waddling of a duck
than the walk of a reverend priest, he disappeared
through a door opening from the gallery, while the
new confessor, putting aside the arras, found himself
once more within the dimly-lighted chapel.