The Monk (20 page)
The adjoining room was only separated from mine by a thin partition; it was occupied by the host and his wife: the former was roused by my groan, and immediately hastened to my chamber; the hostess soon followed him. With some difficulty they succeeded in restoring me to my senses, and immediately sent for the physician, who arrived in all diligence. He declared my fever to be very much increased, and that, if I continued to suffer such violent agitation, he would not take upon him to ensure my life. Some medicines which he gave me, in some degree tranquillized my spirits. I fell into a sort of slumber towards day-break, but fearful dreams prevented me from deriving any benefit from my repose. Agnes and the bleeding nun presented themselves by turns to my fancy, and combined to harass and torment me. I awoke fatigued and unrefreshed. My fever seemed rather augmented than diminished; the agitation of my mind impeded my fractured bones from knitting: I had frequent fainting fits, and during the whole day the physician judged it expedient not to quit me for two hours together.
The singularity of my adventure made me determine to conceal it from every one, since I could not expect that a circumstance so strange should gain credit. I was very uneasy about Agnes. I knew not what she would think at not finding me at the rendezvous, and dreaded her entertaining suspicions of my fidelity. However, I depended upon Theodore’s discretion, and trusted that my letter to the baroness would convince her of the rectitude of my intentions. These considerations somewhat lightened my inquietude upon her account; but the impression left upon my mind by my nocturnal visitor, grew stronger with every succeeding moment. The night drew near; I dreaded its arrival; yet I strove to persuade myself that the ghost would appear no more, and at all events I desired that a servant might sit up in my chamber.
The fatigue of my body, from not having slept on the former night, co-operating with the strong opiates administered to me in profusion, at length procured me that repose of which I was so much in need. I sunk into a profound and tranquil slumber, and had already slept for some hours, when the neighbouring clock roused me by striking “one.” Its sound brought with it to my memory all the horrors of the night before. The same cold shivering seized me. I started up in my bed, and perceived the servant fast asleep in an arm-chair near me. I called him by his name: he made no answer. I shook him forcibly by the arm, and strove in vain to wake him: he was perfectly insensible to my efforts. I now heard the heavy steps ascending the stair-case; the door was thrown open, and again the bleeding nun stood before me. Once more my limbs were chained in second infancy: once more I heard those fatal words repeated,
“Raymond! Raymond! Thou art mine!
“Raymond! Raymond! I am thine!” &c.—
The scene which had shocked me so sensibly on the former night, was again presented. The spectre again pressed her lips to mine, again touched me with her rotting fingers, and, as on her first appearance, quitted the chamber as soon as the clock told “two.”
Every night was this repeated. Far from growing accustomed to the ghost, every succeeding visit inspired me with greater horror. Her idea pursued me continually, and I became the prey of habitual melancholy. The constant agitation of my mind naturally retarded the re-establishment of my health. Several months elapsed before I was able to quit my bed; and when, at length, I was moved to a sopha, I was so faint, spiritless, and emaciated, that I could not cross the room without assistance. The looks of my attendants sufficiently denoted the little hope which they entertained of my recovery. The profound sadness which oppressed me without remission, made the physician consider me to be an hypochondriac. The cause of my distress I carefully concealed in my own bosom, for I knew that no one could give me relief. The ghost was not even visible to any eye but mine. I had frequently caused attendants to sit up in my room; but the moment that the clock struck “one,” irresistible slumber seized them, nor left them till the departure of the ghost.
You may be surprised that during this time I made no enquiries after your sister. Theodore, who with difficulty had discovered my abode, had quieted my apprehensions for her safety; at the same time he convinced me, that all attempts to release her from captivity must be fruitless, till I should be in a condition to return to Spain. The particulars of her adventure, which I shall now relate to you, were partly communicated to me by Theodore, and partly by Agnes herself.
On the fatal night when her elopement was to have taken place, accident had not permitted her to quit her chamber at the appointed time. At length she ventured into the haunted room, descended the stair-case leading into the hall, found the gates open as she expected, and left the castle unobserved. What was her surprise at not finding me ready to receive her! She examined the cavern, ranged through every alley of the neighbouring wood, and passed two full hours in this fruitless enquiry. She could discover no traces either of me or of the carriage. Alarmed and disappointed, her only resource was to return to the castle before the baroness missed her; but here she found herself in a fresh embarrassment. The bell had already tolled “two,” the ghostly hour was past, and the careful porter had locked the folding gates. After much irresolution, she ventured to knock softly. Luckily for her, Conrad was still awake: he heard the noise, and rose, murmuring at being called up a second time. No sooner had he opened one of the doors, and beheld the supposed apparition waiting there for admittance, then he uttered a loud cry, and sunk upon his knees. Agnes profited by his terror: she glided by him, flew to her own apartment, and, having thrown off her spectre’s trappings, retired to bed, endeavouring in vain to account for my disappearing.
In the mean while, Theodore having seen my carriage drive off with the false Agnes, returned joyfully to the village. The next morning he released Cunegonda from her confinement, and accompanied her to the castle. There he found the baron, his lady, and Don Gaston, disputing together upon the porter’s relation. All of them agreed in believing the existence of spectres; but the latter contended, that for a ghost to knock for admittance was a proceeding till then unwitnessed, and totally incompatible with the immaterial nature of a spirit. They were still discussing the subject, when the page appeared with Cunegonda, and cleared up the mystery. On hearing his deposition, it was agreed unanimously, that the Agnes whom Theodore had seen step into my carriage must have been the bleeding nun, and that the ghost who had terrified Conrad was no other than Don Gaston’s daughter.
The first surprise which this discovery occasioned being over, the baroness resolved to make it of use in persuading her niece to take the veil. Fearing lest so advantageous an establishment for his daughter should induce Don Gaston to renounce his resolution, she suppressed my letter, and continued to represent me as a needy unknown adventurer. A childish vanity had led me to conceal my real name even from my mistress; I wished to be loved for myself, not for being the son and heir of the marquis de las Cisternas. The consequence was, that my rank was known to no one in the castle except the baroness, and she took good care to confine the knowledge to her own breast. Don Gaston having approved his sister’s design, Agnes was summoned to appear before them. She was taxed with having meditated an elopement, obliged to make a full confession, and was amazed at the gentleness with which it was received: but what was her affliction, when informed that the failure of her project must be attributed to me! Cunegonda, tutored by the baroness, told her, that when I released her I had desired her to inform her lady that our connexion was at an end, that the whole affair was occasioned by a false report, and that it by no means suited my circumstances to marry a woman without fortune or expectations.
To this account my sudden disappearing gave but too great an air of probability. Theodore, who could have contradicted the story, by Donna Rodolpha’s order was kept out of her sight. What proved a still greater confirmation of my being an impostor, was the arrival of a letter from yourself, declaring that you had no sort of acquaintance with Alphonso d’Alvarada. These seeming proofs of my perfidy, aided by the artful insinuations of her aunt, by Cunegonda’s flattery, and her father’s threats and anger, entirely conquered your sister’s repugnance to a convent. Incensed at my behaviour, and disgusted with the world in general, she consented to receive the veil. She passed another month at the castle of Lindenberg, during which my non-appearance confirmed her in her resolution, and then accompanied Don Gaston into Spain. Theodore was now set at liberty. He hastened to Munich, where I had promised to let him hear from me; but finding from Lucas that I never arrived there, he pursued his search with indefatigable perseverance, and at length succeeded in rejoining me at Ratisbon.
So much was I altered, that scarcely could he recollect my features: the distress visible upon his, sufficiently testified how lively was the interest which he felt for me. The society of this amiable boy, whom I had always considered rather as a companion than a servant, was now my only comfort. His conversation was gay, yet sensible, and his observations shrewd and entertaining. He had picked up much more knowledge than is usual at his age; but what rendered him most agreeable to me, was his having a delightful voice, and some skill in music. He had also acquired some taste in poetry, and even ventured sometimes to write verses himself. He occasionally composed little ballads in Spanish. His compositions were but indifferent, I must confess, yet they were pleasing to me from their novelty; and hearing him sing them to his guitar was the only amusement which I was capable of receiving. Theodore perceived well enough that something preyed upon my mind; but as I concealed the cause of my grief even from him, respect would not permit him to pry into my secrets.
One evening I was lying upon my sopha, plunged in reflections very far from agreeable: Theodore amused himself by observing from the window a battle between two postillions, who were quarrelling in the inn-yard.
“Ha! ha!” cried he, suddenly, “yonder is the Great Mogul.”
“Who?” said I.
“Only a man who made me a strange speech at Munich.”
“What was the purport of it?”
“Now you put me in mind of it, Segnor, it was a kind of message to you, but truly it was not worth delivering. I believe the fellow to be mad, for my part. When I came to Munich in search of you, I found him living at ‘the King of the Romans,’ and the host gave me an odd account of him. By his accent he is supposed to be a foreigner, but of what country nobody can tell. He seemed to have no acquaintance in the town, spoke very seldom, and never was seen to smile. He had neither servants nor baggage; but his purse seemed well furnished, and he did much good in the town. Some supposed him to be an Arabian astrologer, others to be a travelling mountebank, and many declared that he was Doctor Faustus, whom the devil had sent back to Germany. The landlord, however, told me, that he had the best reasons to believe him to be the Great Mogul incognito.”
“But the strange speech, Theodore—”
“True, I had almost forgotten the speech: indeed, for that matter, it would not have been a great loss if I had forgotten it altogether. You are to know, Segnor, that while I was enquiring about you of the landlord, this stranger passed by. He stopped, and looked at me earnestly—‘Youth,’ said he, in a solemn voice, ‘he whom you seek, has found that which he would fain lose. My hand alone can dry up the blood. Bid your master wish for me when the clock strikes ‘one.’ ”
“How?” cried I, starting from my sopha. [The words which Theodore had repeated, seemed to imply the stranger’s knowledge of my secret] “Fly to him, my boy! Entreat him to grant me one moment’s conversation.”
Theodore was surprised at the vivacity of my manner: however, he asked no questions, but hastened to obey me. I waited his return impatiently. But a short space of time had elapsed, when he again appeared, and ushered the expected guest into my chamber. He was a man of majestic presence; his countenance was strongly marked, and his eyes were large, black, and sparkling: yet there was a something in his look, which, the moment that I saw him, inspired me with a secret awe, not to say horror. He was dressed plainly, his hair was unpowdered, and a band of black velvet which encircled his forehead, spread over his features an additional gloom. His countenance wore the marks of profound melancholy, his step was slow, and his manner grave, stately, and solemn.
He saluted me with politeness; and having replied to the usual compliments of introduction, he motioned to Theodore to quit the chamber. The page instantly withdrew.
“I know your business,” said he, without giving me time to speak. “I have the power of releasing you from your nightly visitor; but this cannot be done before Sunday. On the hour when the sabbath morning breaks, spirits of darkness have least influence over mortals. After Saturday the nun shall visit you no more.”
“May I not enquire,” said I, “by what means you are in possession of a secret, which I have carefully concealed from the knowledge of every one?”
“How can I be ignorant of your distresses, when their cause at this moment stands beside you?”
I started. The stranger continued.
“Though to you only visible for one hour in the twenty-four, neither day nor night does she ever quit you; nor will she ever quit you till you have granted her request.”
“And what is that request?”
“That she must herself explain: it lies not in my knowledge. Wait with patience for the night of Saturday: all shall be then cleared up.”
I dared not press him further. He soon after changed the conversation, and talked of various matters. He named people who had ceased to exist for many centuries, and yet with whom he appeared to have been personally acquainted. I could not mention a country, however distant, which he had not visited, nor could I sufficiently admire the extent and variety of his information. I remarked to him, that having travelled, seen and known so much, must have given him infinite pleasure. He shook his head mournfully.