The Monk (26 page)

I see it yet! Beneath yon blue clear heaven
  Still do the spires, so well-beloved, appear.
From yonder craggy point the gale of even
  Still wafts my native accents to mine ear.

Propped on some moss-crowned rock, and gaily singing,
  There in the sun his nets the fisher dries;
Oft have I heard the plaintive ballad, bringing
  Scenes of past joys before my sorrowing eyes.

Ah! happy swain! he waits the accustomed hour,
  When twilight-gloom obscures the closing sky;
Then gladly seeks his loved paternal bower,
  And shares the feast his native fields supply.

Friendship and Love, his cottage guests, receive him
  With honest welcome and with smile sincere:
No threatening woes of present joys bereave him;
  No sigh his bosom owns, his cheek no tear.

Ah! happy swain! such bliss to me denying,
  Fortune thy lot with envy bids me view;
Me, who, from home and Spain an exile flying,
  Bid all I value, all I love, adieu.

No more mine ear shall list the well-known ditty
  Sung by some mountain girl, who tends her goats,
Some village-swain imploring amorous pity,
  Or shepherd chanting wild his rustic notes.

No more my arms a parent’s fond embraces,
  No more my heart domestic calm must know;
Far from these joys, with sighs which memory traces,
  To sultry skies and distant climes I go.

Where Indian suns engender new diseases,
  Where snakes and tigers breed, I bend my way
To brave the feverish thirst no art appeases,
  The yellow plague, and madding blaze of day.

But not to feel slow pangs consume my liver,
  To die by piece-meal in the bloom of age,
My boiling blood drunk by insatiate fever,
  And brain delirious with the day-star’s rage,

Can make me know such grief, as thus to sever,
  With many a bitter sigh, dear land! from thee;
To feel this heart must dote on thee for ever,
  And feel that all thy joys are torn from me!

Ah me! how oft will fancy’s spells, in slumber,
  Recall my native country to my mind!
How oft regret will bid me sadly number
  Each lost delight, and dear friend left behind!

Wild Murcia’s vales and loved romantic bowers,
  The river on whose banks a child I played,
My castle’s antient halls, its frowning towers,
  Each much-regretted wood, and well-known glade;

Dreams of the land where all my wishes centre,
  Thy scenes, which I am doomed no more to know,
Full oft shall memory trace, my soul’s tormentor,
  And turn each pleasure past to present woe.

But, lo! the sun beneath the waves retires;
  Night speeds apace her empire to restore;
Clouds from my sight obscure the village-spires,
  Now seen but faintly, and now seen no more.

Oh! breathe not, winds! Still be the water’s motion!
  Sleep, sleep, my bark, in silence on the main!
So, when to-morrow’s light shall gild the ocean,
  Once more mine eyes shall see the coast of Spain.

Vain is the wish! My last petition scorning,
  Fresh blows the gale, and high the billows swell:
Far shall we be before the break of morning:
  Oh! then, for ever, native Spain, farewell!

Lorenzo had scarcely time to read these lines, when Elvira returned to him: the giving a free course to her tears had relieved her, and her spirits had regained their usual composure.

“I have nothing more to say, my lord,” said she; “you have heard my apprehensions, and my reasons for begging you not to repeat your visits. I have thrown myself in full confidence upon your honour. I am certain that you will not prove my opinion of you to have been too favourable.”

“But one question more, Segnora, and I leave you. Should the duke of Medina approve my love, would my addresses be unacceptable to yourself and the fair Antonia?”

“I will be open with you, Don Lorenzo: there being little probability of such an union taking place, I fear that it is desired but too ardently by my daughter. You have made an impression upon her young heart which gives me the most serious alarm: to prevent that impression from growing stronger, I am obliged to decline your acquaintance. For me, you may be sure that I should rejoice at establishing my child so advantageously. Conscious that my constitution, impaired by grief and illness, forbids me to expect a long continuance in this world, I tremble at the thought of leaving her under the protection of a perfect stranger. The marquis de las Cisternas is totally unknown to me. He will marry: his lady may look upon Antonia with an eye of displeasure, and deprive her of her only friend. Should the duke, your uncle, give his consent, you need not doubt obtaining mine and my daughter’s; but, without his, hope not for ours. At all events, whatever steps you may take, whatever may be the duke’s decision, till you know it, let me beg your forbearing to strengthen, by your presence, Antonia’s prepossession. If the sanction of your relations authorises your addressing her as your wife, my doors fly open to you. If that sanction is refused, be satisfied to possess my esteem and gratitude, but remember that we must meet no more.”

Lorenzo promised reluctantly to conform to this decree: but he added, that he hoped soon to obtain that consent, which would give him a claim to the renewal of their acquaintance. He then explained to her why the marquis had not called in person; and made no scruple of confiding to her his sister’s history. He concluded by saying, “that he hoped to set Agnes at liberty the next day; and that, as soon as Don Raymond’s fears were quieted upon this subject, he would lose no time in assuring Donna Elvira of his friendship and protection.”

The lady shook her head.

“I tremble for your sister,” said she; “I have heard many traits of the domina of St. Clare’s character from a friend who was educated in the same convent with her: she reported her to be haughty, inflexible, superstitious, and revengeful. I have since heard, that she is infatuated with the idea of rendering her convent the most regular in Madrid, and never forgave those whose imprudence threw upon it the slightest stain. Though naturally violent and severe, when her interests require it, she well knows how to assume an appearance of benignity. She leaves no means untried to persuade young women of rank to become members of her community: she is implacable when once incensed, and has too much intrepidity to shrink at taking the most rigorous measures for punishing the offender. Doubtless, she will consider your sister’s quitting the convent as a disgrace thrown upon it: she will use every artifice to avoid obeying the mandate of his holiness; and I shudder to think that Donna Agnes is in the hands of this dangerous woman.”

Lorenzo now rose to take leave. Elvira gave him her hand at parting, which he kissed respectfully; and, telling her that he soon hoped for the permission to salute that of Antonia, he returned to his hotel. The lady was perfectly satisfied with the conversation which had passed between them: she looked forward with satisfaction to the prospect of his becoming her son-in-law; but prudence bade her conceal from her daughter’s knowledge the flattering hopes which herself now ventured to entertain.

Scarcely was it day, and already Lorenzo was at the convent of St. Clare, furnished with the necessary mandate. The nuns were at matins. He waited impatiently for the conclusion of the service; and at length the prioress appeared at the parlour-grate. Agnes was demanded. The old lady replied with a melancholy air, that the dear child’s situation grew hourly more dangerous: that the physicians despaired of her life; but that they had declared the only chance for her recovery to consist in keeping her quiet, and not to permit those to approach her whose presence was likely to agitate her. Not a word of all this was believed by Lorenzo, any more than he credited the expressions of grief and affection for Agnes with which this account was interlarded. To end the business, he put the pope’s bull into the hands of the domina, and insisted that, ill or in health, his sister should be delivered to him without delay.

The prioress received the paper with an air of humility; but no sooner had her eye glanced over the contents than her resentment baffled all the efforts of hypocrisy. A deep crimson spread itself over her face, and she darted upon Lorenzo looks of rage and menace.

“This order is positive,” said she, in a voice of anger, which she in vain strove to disguise: “willingly would I obey it, but, unfortunately, it is out of my power.”

Lorenzo interrupted her by an exclamation of surprise.

“I repeat it, Segnor, to obey this order is totally out of my power. From tenderness to a brother’s feelings, I would have communicated the sad event to you by degrees, and have prepared you to hear it with fortitude. My measures are broken through: this order commands me to deliver up to you the sister Agnes without delay; I am, therefore, obliged to inform you, without circumlocution, that on Friday last she expired.”

Lorenzo started back with horror, and turned pale. A moment’s recollection convinced him that this assertion must be false, and it restored him to himself.

“You deceive me!” said he, passionately: “but five minutes past you assured me that, though ill, she was still alive. Produce her this instant! See her I must and will; and every attempt to keep her from me will be unavailing.”

“You forget yourself, Segnor: you owe respect to my age as well as my profession. Your sister is no more. If I at first concealed her death, it was from dreading lest an event so unexpected should produce on you too violent an effect. In truth, I am but ill repaid for my attention. And what interest, I pray you, should I have in detaining her? To know her wish of quitting our society is a sufficient reason for me to wish her absence, and think her a disgrace to the sisterhood of St. Clare: but she has forfeited my affection in a manner yet more culpable. Her crimes were great; and when you know the cause of her death, you will doubtless rejoice, Don Lorenzo, that such a wretch is no longer in existence. She was taken ill on Thursday last on returning from confession in the Capuchin chapel: her malady seemed attended with strange circumstances; but she persisted in concealing its cause. Thanks to the Virgin, we were too ignorant to suspect it! Judge then what must have been our consternation, our horror, when she was delivered the next day of a still-born child, whom she immediately followed to the grave. How, Segnor? Is it possible that your countenance expresses no surprise, no indignation? Is it possible that your sister’s infamy was known to you, and that still she possessed your affection? In that case, you have no need of my compassion. I can say nothing more, except repeat my inability of obeying the orders of his holiness. Agnes is no more; and, to convince you that what I say is true, I swear by our blessed Saviour, that three days have passed since she was buried.”

Here she kissed a small crucifix which hung at her girdle: she then rose from her chair, and quitted the parlour. As she withdrew she cast upon Lorenzo a scornful smile.

“Farewell, Segnor,” said she; “I know no remedy for this accident. I fear that even a second bull from the pope will not procure your sister’s resurrection.”

Lorenzo also retired, penetrated with affliction: but Don Raymond’s, at the news of this event, amounted to madness: he would not be convinced that Agnes was really dead; and continued to insist that the walls of St. Clare still confined her. No arguments could make him abandon his hopes of regaining her. Every day some fresh scheme was invented for procuring intelligence of her, and all of them were attended with the same success.

On his part, Medina gave up the idea of ever seeing his sister more; yet he believed that she had been taken off by unfair means. Under this persuasion, he encouraged Don Raymond’s researches, determined, should he discover the least warrant for his suspicions, to take a severe vengeance upon the unfeeling prioress. The loss of his sister affected him sincerely: nor was it the least cause of his distress, that propriety obliged him for some time to defer mentioning Antonia to the duke. In the mean while, his emissaries constantly surrounded Elvira’s door. He had intelligence of all the movements of his mistress. As she never failed every Thursday to attend the sermon in the Capuchin cathedral, he was secure of seeing her once a week; though, in compliance with his promise, he carefully shunned her observation. Thus two long months passed away. Still no information was procured of Agnes. All but the marquis credited her death: and now Lorenzo determined to disclose his sentiments to his uncle: he had already dropped some hints of his intention to marry: they had been as favourably received as he could expect; and he harboured no doubt of the success of his application.

C
HAP
. VI.

While in each other’s arms entranced they lay
,
They blessed the night, and cursed the coming day
.

L
EE
.

The burst of transport was passed: Ambrosio’s lust was satisfied. Pleasure fled, and Shame usurped her seat in his bosom. Confused and terrified at his weakness, he drew himself from Matilda’s arms: his perjury presented itself before him: he reflected on the scene which had just been acted, and trembled at the consequences of a discovery: he looked forward with horror: his heart was despondent, and became the abode of satiety and disgust: he avoided the eyes of his partner in frailty. A melancholy silence prevailed, during which both seemed busied with disagreeable reflections.

Matilda was the first to break it. She took his hand gently, and pressed it to her burning lips.

“Ambrosio!” she murmured, in a soft and trembling voice.

The abbot started at the sound: he turned his eyes upon Matilda’s; they were filled with tears; her cheeks were covered with blushes, and her supplicating looks seemed to solicit his compassion.

“Dangerous woman!” said he; “into what an abyss of misery have you plunged me! Should your sex be discovered, my honour, nay, my life, must pay for the pleasure of a few moments. Fool that I was, to trust myself to your seductions! What can now be done? How can my offence be expiated? What atonement can purchase the pardon of my crime? Wretched Matilda, you have destroyed my quiet for ever!”

“To me these reproaches, Ambrosio? to me, who have sacrificed for you the world’s pleasures, the luxury of wealth, the delicacy of sex, my friends, my fortune, and my fame? What have you lost which I preserved? Have
I
not shared in
your
guilt? Have
you
not shared in
my
pleasure? Guilt, did I say? In what consists ours, unless in the opinion of an ill judging world? Let that world be ignorant of them, and our joys become divine and blameless! Unnatural were your vows of celibacy; man was not created for such a state: and were love a crime, God never would have made it so sweet, so irresistible! Then banish those clouds from your brow, my Ambrosio. Indulge in those pleasures freely, without which life is a worthless gift. Cease to reproach me with having taught you what is bliss, and feel equal transports with the woman who adores you!”

As she spoke, her eyes were filled with a delicious languor: her bosom panted: she twined her arms voluptuously round him, drew him towards her, and glued her lips to his. Ambrosio again raged with desire: the die was thrown: his vows were already broken: he had already committed the crime, and why should he refrain from enjoying its reward? He clasped her to his breast with redoubled ardour. No longer repressed by the sense of shame, he gave a loose to his intemperate appetites; while the fair wanton put every invention of lust in practice, every refinement in the art of pleasure, which might heighten the bliss of her possession, and render her lover’s transports still more exquisite. Ambrosio rioted in delights till then unknown to him. Swift fled the night, and the morning blushed to behold him still clasped in the embraces of Matilda.

Intoxicated with pleasure, the monk rose from the syren’s luxurious couch: he no longer reflected with shame upon his incontinence, or dreaded the vengeance of offended heaven: his only fear was lest death should rob him of enjoyments, for which his long fast had only given a keener edge to his appetite. Matilda was still under the influence of poison; and the voluptuous monk trembled less for his preserver’s life than his concubine’s. Deprived of her, he would not easily find another mistress with whom he could indulge his passions so fully, and so safely; he therefore pressed her with earnestness to use the means of preservation which she had declared to be in her possession.

“Yes!” replied Matilda; “since you have made me feel that life is valuable, I will rescue mine at any rate. No dangers shall appal me: I will look upon the consequences of my action boldly, nor shudder at the horrors which they present: I will think my sacrifice scarcely worthy to purchase your possession; and remember, that a moment passed in your arms in this world, o’erpays an age of punishment in the next. But before I take this step, Ambrosio, give me your solemn oath never to enquire by what means I shall preserve myself.”

He did so, in a manner the most binding.

“I thank you, my beloved. This precaution is necessary; for, though you know it not, you are under the command of vulgar prejudices. The business on which I must be employed this night might startle you, from its singularity, and lower me in your opinion. Tell me, are you possessed of the key of the low door on the western side of the garden?”

“The door which opens into the burying-ground common to us and the sisterhood of St. Clare? I have not the key, but can easily procure it.”

“You have only this to do. Admit me into the burying-ground at midnight. Watch while I descend into the vaults of St. Clare, lest some prying eye should observe my actions. Leave me there alone for an hour, and that life is safe which I dedicate to your pleasures. To prevent creating suspicion, do not visit me during the day. Remember the key, and that I expect you before twelve. Hark! I hear steps approaching! Leave me; I will pretend to sleep.”

The friar obeyed, and left the cell. As he opened the door, father Pablos made his appearance.

“I come,” said the latter, “to enquire after the health of my young patient.”

“Hush!” replied Ambrosio, laying his finger upon his lip; “speak softly; I am just come from him: he has fallen into a profound slumber, which doubtless will be of service to him. Do not disturb him at present, for he wishes to repose.”

Father Pablos obeyed, and, hearing the bell ring, accompanied the abbot to matins. Ambrosio felt embarrassed as he entered the chapel. Guilt was new to him, and he fancied that every eye could read the transactions of the night upon his countenance. He strove to pray: his bosom no longer glowed with devotion: his thoughts insensibly wandered to Matilda’s secret charms. But what he wanted in purity of heart, he supplied by exterior sanctity. The better to cloak his transgression, he redoubled his pretensions to the semblance of virtue, and never appeared more devoted to heaven than since he had broken through his engagements. Thus did he unconsciously add hypocrisy to perjury and incontinence: he had fallen into the latter errors from yielding to seduction almost irresistible: but he was now guilty of a voluntary fault, by endeavouring to conceal those into which another had betrayed him.

The matins concluded, Ambrosio retired to his cell. The pleasures which he had just tasted for the first time were still impressed upon his mind: his brain was bewildered, and presented a confused chaos of remorse, voluptuousness, inquietude, and fear: he looked back with regret to that peace of soul, that security of virtue, which till then had been his portion: he had indulged in excesses whose very idea, but four-and-twenty hours before, he had recoiled at with horror: he shuddered at reflecting that a trifling indiscretion on his part, or on Matilda’s, would overturn that fabric of reputation which it had cost him thirty years to erect, and render him the abhorrence of the people of whom he was then the idol. Conscience painted to him in glaring colours his perjury and weakness; apprehension magnified to him the horrors of punishment, and he already fancied himself in the prisons of the Inquisition. To these tormenting ideas succeeded Matilda’s beauty, and those delicious lessons, which once learnt can never be forgotten. A single glance thrown upon these reconciled him with himself: he considered the pleasures of the former night to have been purchased at an easy price by the sacrifice of innocence and honour. Their very remembrance filled his soul with ecstacy: he cursed his foolish vanity, which had induced him to waste in obscurity the bloom of life, ignorant of the blessings of love and woman: he determined, at all events, to continue his commerce with Matilda, and called every argument to his aid which might confirm his resolution: he asked himself, provided his irregularity was unknown, in what would his fault consist, and what consequences he had to apprehend? By adhering strictly to every rule of his order save chastity, he doubted not to retain the esteem of men, and even the protection of heaven: he trusted easily to be forgiven so slight and natural a deviation from his vows; but he forgot that, having pronounced those vows, incontinence, in laymen the most venial of errors, became in his person the most heinous of crimes.

Once decided upon his future conduct, his mind became more easy: he threw himself upon his bed, and strove by sleeping to recruit his strength, exhausted by his nocturnal excesses. He awoke refreshed, and eager for a repetition of his pleasures. Obedient to Matilda’s order, he visited not her cell during the day. Father Pablos mentioned in the refectory, that Rosario had at length been prevailed upon to follow his prescription; but that the medicine had not produced the slightest effect, and that he believed no mortal skill could rescue him from the grave. With this opinion the abbot agreed, and affected to lament the untimely fate of a youth whose talents had appeared so promising.

The night arrived. Ambrosio had taken care to procure from the porter the key of the low door opening into the cemetery. Furnished with this, when all was silent in the monastery, he quitted his cell, and hastened to Matilda’s. She had left her bed, and was dressed before his arrival.

“I have been expecting you with impatience,” said she; “my life depends upon these moments. Have you the key?”

“I have.”

“Away then to the garden. We have no time to lose. Follow me!”

She took a small covered basket from the table. Bearing this in one hand, and the lamp, which was flaming upon the hearth, in the other, she hastened from the cell. Ambrosio followed her. Both maintained a profound silence. She moved on with quick but cautious steps, passed through the cloisters, and reached the western side of the garden: her eyes flashed with a fire and wildness which impressed the monk at once with awe and horror. A determined desperate courage reigned upon her brow: she gave the lamp to Ambrosio; then taking from him the key, she unlocked the low door, and entered the cemetery. It was a vast and spacious square, planted with yew-trees; half of it belonged to the abbey, the other half was the property of the sisterhood of St. Clare, and was protected by a roof of stone: the division was marked by an iron railing, the wicket of which was generally left unlocked.

Thither Matilda bent her course: she opened the wicket, and sought for the door leading to the subterraneous vaults where reposed the mouldering bodies of the votaries of St. Clare. The night was perfectly dark: neither moon nor stars were visible. Luckily there was not a breath of wind, and the friar bore his lamp in full security: by the assistance of its beams, the door of the sepulchre was soon discovered. It was sunk within the hollow of a wall, and almost concealed by thick festoons of ivy hanging over it. Three steps of rough-hewn stone conducted to it, and Matilda was on the point of descending them, when she suddenly started back.

“There are people in the vaults!” she whispered to the monk; “conceal yourself till they are passed.”

She took refuge behind a lofty and magnificent tomb, erected in honour of the convent’s foundress. Ambrosio followed her example, carefully hiding his lamp, lest its beams should betray them. But a few moments had elapsed when the door was pushed open leading to the subterraneous caverns. Rays of light proceeded up the stair-case: they enabled the concealed spectators to observe two females dressed in religious habits, who seemed engaged in earnest conversation. The abbot had no difficulty to recognize the prioress of St. Clare in the first, and one of the elder nuns in her companion.

“Every thing is prepared,” said the prioress: “her fate shall be decided to-morrow; all her tears and sighs will be unavailing. No! In five-and-twenty years that I have been superior of this convent, never did I witness a transaction more infamous!”

“You must expect much opposition to your will,” the other replied in a milder voice: “Agnes has many friends in the convent, and in particular the mother St. Ursula will espouse her cause most warmly. In truth, she merits to have friends; and I wish I could prevail upon you to consider her youth, and her peculiar situation. She seems sensible of her fault; the excess of her grief proves her penitence, and I am convinced that her tears flow more from contrition than fear of punishment. Reverend mother, would you be persuaded to mitigate the severity of your sentence; would you but deign to overlook this first transgression; I offer myself as the pledge of her future conduct.”

“Overlook it, say you? Mother Camilla, you amaze me! What? after disgracing me in the presence of Madrid’s idol, of the very man on whom I most wished to impress an idea of the strictness of my discipline? How despicable must I have appeared to the reverend abbot! No, mother, no! I never can forgive the insult. I cannot better convince Ambrosio that I abhor such crimes, than by punishing that of Agnes with all the rigour of which our severe laws admit. Cease then your supplications, they will all be unavailing. My resolution is taken. Tomorrow Agnes shall be made a terrible example of my justice and resentment.”

The mother Camilla seemed not to give up the point, but by this time the nuns were out of hearing. The prioress unlocked the door which communicated with St. Clare’s chapel, and having entered with her companion, closed it again after them.

Matilda now asked, who was this Agnes with whom the prioress was thus incensed, and what connexion she could have with Ambrosio. He related her adventure; and he added, that since that time his ideas having undergone a thorough revolution, he now felt much compassion for the unfortunate nun.