The Monastery. Вальтер СкоттЧитать онлайн книгу.
a side-aisle to watch the Benedictine’s motions, but presently returned, and told me in a whisper that “the gentleman was on his knees amang the cauld stanes, praying like ony saunt.”
I stole back, and beheld the old man actually employed as Mattocks had informed me. The language seemed to be Latin; and as, the whispered, yet solemn accent, glided away through the ruined aisles, I could not help reflecting how long it was since they had heard the forms of that religion, for the exercise of which they had been reared at such cost of time, taste, labour, and expense. “Come away, come away,” said I; “let us leave him to himself, Mattocks; this is no business of ours.”
“My certes, no, Captain,” said Mattocks; “ne’ertheless, it winna be amiss to keep an eye on him. My father, rest his saul, was a horse-couper, and used to say he never was cheated in a naig in his life, saving by a west-country whig frae Kilmarnock, that said a grace ower a dram o’ whisky. But this gentleman will be a Roman, I’se warrant?”
“You are perfectly right in that, Saunders,” said I.
“Ay, I have seen twa or three of their priests that were chased ower here some score o’ years syne. They just danced like mad when they looked on the friars’ heads, and the nuns’ heads, in the cloister yonder; they took to them like auld acquaintance like. – Od, he is not stirring yet, mair than he were a through-stane! {Footnote: A tombstone.} I never kend a Roman, to say kend him, but ane – mair by token, he was the only ane in the town to ken – and that was auld Jock of the Pend. It wad hae been lang ere ye fand Jock praying in the Abbey in a thick night, wi’ his knees on a cauld stane. Jock likit a kirk wi’ a chimley in’t. Mony a merry ploy I hae had wi’ him down at the inn yonder; and when he died, decently I wad hae earded him; but, or I gat his grave weel howkit, some of the quality, that were o’ his ain unhappy persuasion, had the corpse whirried away up the water, and buried him after their ain pleasure, doubtless – they kend best. I wad hae made nae great charge. I wadna hae excised Johnnie, dead or alive. – Stay, see – the strange gentleman is coming.”
“Hold the lantern to assist him, Mattocks,” said I. – “This is rough walking, sir.”
“Yes,” replied the Benedictine; “I may say with a poet, who is doubtless familiar to you – ”
I should be surprised if he were, thought I internally.
The stranger continued:
“Saint Francis be my speed! how oft to-night
Have my old feet stumbled at graves!”
“We are now clear of the churchyard,” said I, “and have but a short walk to David’s, where I hope we shall find a cheerful fire to enliven us after our night’s work.”
We entered, accordingly, the little parlour, into which Mattocks was also about to push himself with sufficient effrontery, when David, with a most astounding oath, expelled him by head and shoulders, d – ning his curiosity, that would not let gentlemen be private in their own inn. Apparently mine host considered his own presence as no intrusion, for he crowded up to the table on which I had laid down the leaden box. It was frail and wasted, as might be guessed, from having lain so many years in the ground. On opening it, we found deposited within, a case made of porphyry, as the stranger had announced to us.
“I fancy,” he said, “gentlemen, your curiosity will not be satisfied, – perhaps I should say that your suspicions will not be removed, – unless I undo this casket; yet it only contains the mouldering remains of a heart, once the seat of the noblest thoughts.”
He undid the box with great caution; but the shrivelled substance which it contained bore now no resemblance to what it might once have been, the means used having been apparently unequal to preserve its shape and colour, although they were adequate to prevent its total decay. We were quite satisfied, notwithstanding, that it was, what the stranger asserted, the remains of a human heart; and David readily promised his influence in the village, which was almost co-ordinate with that of the bailie himself, to silence all idle rumours. He was, moreover, pleased to favour us with his company to supper; and having taken the lion’s share of two bottles of sherry, he not only sanctioned with his plenary authority the stranger’s removal of the heart, but, I believe, would have authorized the removal of the Abbey itself, were it not that it happens considerably to advantage the worthy publican’s own custom.
The object of the Benedictine’s visit to the land of his forefathers being now accomplished, he announced his intention of leaving us early in the ensuing day, but requested my company to breakfast with him before his departure. I came accordingly, and when we had finished our morning’s meal, the priest took me apart, and pulling from his pocket a large bundle of papers, he put them into my hands. “These,” said he, “Captain Clutterbuck, are genuine Memoirs of the sixteenth century, and exhibit in a singular, and, as I think, an interesting point of view, the manners of that period. I am induced to believe that their publication will not be an unacceptable present to the British public; and willingly make over to you any profit that may accrue from such a transaction.”
I stared a little at this annunciation, and observed, that the hand seemed too modern for the date he assigned to the manuscript.
“Do not mistake me, sir,” said the Benedictine; “I did not mean to say the Memoirs were written in the sixteenth century, but only, that they were compiled from authentic materials of that period, but written in the taste and language of the present day. My uncle commenced this book; and I, partly to improve my habit of English composition, partly to divert melancholy thoughts, amused my leisure hours with continuing and concluding it. You will see the period of the story where my uncle leaves off his narrative, and I commence mine. In fact, they relate in a great measure to different persons, as well as to a different period.”
Retaining the papers in my hand, I proceeded to state to him my doubts, whether, as a good Protestant, I could undertake or superintend a publication written probably in the spirit of Popery.
“You will find,” he said, “no matter of controversy in these sheets, nor any sentiments stated, with which, I trust, the good in all persuasions will not be willing to join. I remembered I was writing for a land unhappily divided from the Catholic faith; and I have taken care to say nothing which, justly interpreted, could give ground for accusing me of partiality. But if, upon collating my narrative with the proofs to which I refer you – for you will find copies of many of the original papers in that parcel – you are of opinion that I have been partial to my own faith, I freely give you leave to correct my errors in that respect. I own, however, I am not conscious of this defect, and have rather to fear that the Catholics may be of opinion, that I have mentioned circumstances respecting the decay of discipline which preceded, and partly occasioned, the great schism, called by you the Reformation, over which I ought to have drawn a veil. And indeed, this is one reason why I choose the papers should appear in a foreign land, and pass to the press through the hands of a stranger.”
To this I had nothing to reply, unless to object my own incompetency to the task the good father was desirous to impose upon me. On this subject he was pleased to say more, I fear, than his knowledge of me fully warranted – more, at any rate, than my modesty will permit me to record. At length he ended, with advising me, if I continued to feel the diffidence which I stated, to apply to some veteran of literature, whose experience might supply my deficiencies. Upon these terms we parted, with mutual expressions of regard, and I have never since heard of him.
After several attempts to peruse the quires of paper thus singularly conferred on me, in which I was interrupted by the most inexplicable fits of yawning, I at length, in a sort of despair, communicated them to our village club, from whom they found a more favourable reception than the unlucky conformation of my nerves had been able to afford them. They unanimously pronounced the work to be exceedingly good, and assured me I would be guilty of the greatest possible injury to our flourishing village, if I should suppress what threw such an interesting and radiant light upon the history of the ancient Monastery of Saint Mary.
At length, by dint of listening to their opinion, I became dubious of my own; and, indeed, when I heard passages read forth by the sonorous voice of our worthy pastor, I was scarce more tired than I have felt myself at some