Which now are spent on useless show.
Think on your Maker, not a suitor;
Think on your past faults, not on future;
And think Time’s scythe will quickly mow
The few red hairs, which deck your brow.
The audience rang with laughter during the gipsy’s address; and—“fifty-one,—squinting eyes,—red hair,—paint and patches,”—&c. were bandied from mouth to mouth. Leonella was almost choaked with passion, and loaded her malicious adviser with the bitterest reproaches. The swarthy prophetess for some time listened to her with a contemptuous smile: at length she made her a short answer, and then turned to Antonia.
THE GIPSY.
“Peace, lady! What I said was true.
And now, my lovely maid, to you;
Give me your hand, and let me see
Your future doom, and heaven’s decree.”
In imitation of Leonella, Antonia drew off her glove, and presented her white hand to the gipsy, who, having gazed upon it for some time with a mingled expression of pity and astonishment, pronounced her oracle in the following words:
THE GIPSY.
“Jesus! what a palm is there!
Chaste, and gentle, young and fair,
Perfect mind and form possessing,
You would be some good man’s blessing:
But, alas! this line discovers
That destruction o’er you hovers;
Lustful man and crafty devil
Will combine to work your evil;
And from earth by sorrows driven,
Soon your soul must speed to heaven.
Yet your sufferings to delay,
Well remember what I say.
When you one more virtuous see
Than belongs to man to be,
One, whose self no crimes assailing,
Pities not his neighbour’s failing,
Call the gipsy’s words to mind:
Though he seem so good and kind,
Fair exteriors oft will hide
Hearts that swell with lust and pride.
Lovely maid, with tears I leave you.
Let not my prediction grieve you:
Rather, with submission bending,
Calmly wait distress impending,
And expect eternal bliss
In a better world than this.
Having said this, the gipsy again whirled herself round thrice, and then hastened out of the street with frantic gesture. The crowd followed her; and Elvira’s door being now unembarrassed, Leonella entered the house, out of humour with the gipsy, with her niece, and with the people; in short, with every body but herself and her charming cavalier. The gipsy’s predictions had also considerably affected Antonia; but the impression soon wore off, and in a few hours she had forgotten the adventure, as totally as had it never taken place.
CHAP. II.
Fòrse sé tu gustassi una sòl volta,
La millésima parte délle giòje,
Ché gusta un còr amato riamando,
Diresti ripentita sospirando,
Perduto è tutto il tempo
Ché in amar non si spènde.
TASSO.
Hadst thou but tasted once the thousandth part
Of joys, which bless the loved and loving heart,
Your words repentant and your sighs would prove,
Lost is the time which is not past in love.
The monks having attended their abbot to the door of his cell, he dismissed them with an air of conscious superiority, in which humility’s semblance combated with the reality of pride.
He was no sooner alone, than he gave free loose to the indulgence of his vanity. When he remembered the enthusiasm which his discourse had excited, his heart swelled with rapture, and his imagination presented him with splendid visions of aggrandizement. He looked round him with exultation; and pride told him loudly, that he was superior to the rest of his fellow-creatures.
“Who,” thought he, “who but myself has passed the ordeal of youth, yet sees no single stain upon his conscience? Who else has subdued the violence of strong passions and an impetuous temperament, and submitted even from the dawn of life to voluntary retirement? I seek for such a man in vain. I see no one but myself possessed of such resolution. Religion cannot boast Ambrosio’s equal! How powerful an effect did my discourse produce upon its auditors! How they crowded round me! How they loaded me with benedictions, and pronounced me the sole uncorrupted pillar of the church! What then now is left for me to do? Nothing, but to watch as carefully over the conduct of my brethren, as I have hitherto watched over my own. Yet hold! May I not be tempted from those paths, which till now I have pursued without one moment’s wandering? Am I not a man, whose nature is frail and prone to error? I must now abandon the solitude of my retreat; the fairest and noblest dames of Madrid continually present themselves at the abbey, and will use no other confessor. I must accustom my eyes to objects of temptation, and expose myself to the seduction of luxury and desire. Should I meet in that world which I am constrained to enter, some lovely female—lovely as you—Madona—!”
As he said this, he fixed his eyes upon a picture of the Virgin, which was suspended opposite to him: this for two years had been the object of his increasing wonder and adoration. He paused, and gazed upon it with delight.
“What beauty in that countenance!” he continued after a silence of some minutes; “how graceful is the turn of that head! what sweetness, yet what majesty in her divine eyes! how softly her cheek reclines upon her hand! Can the rose vie with the blush of that cheek? can the lily rival the whiteness of that hand? Oh! if such a creature existed, and existed but for me! were I permitted to twine round my fingers those golden ringlets, and press with my lips the treasures of that snowy bosom! gracious God, should I then resist the temptation? Should I not barter for a single embrace the reward of my sufferings for thirty years? Should I not abandon——Fool that I am! Whither do I suffer my admiration of this picture to hurry me? Away, impure ideas! Let me remember, that woman is for ever lost to me. Never was mortal formed so perfect as this picture. But even did such exist, the trial might be too mighty for a common virtue; but Ambrosio’s is proof against temptation. Temptation, did I say? To me it would be none. What charms me, when ideal and considered as a superior being, would disgust me, become woman and tainted with all the failings of mortality. It is not the woman’s beauty that fills me with such enthusiasm: it is the painter’s skill that I admire; it is the Divinity that I adore. Are not the passions dead in my bosom? have I not freed myself from the frailty of mankind? Fear not, Ambrosio! Take confidence in the strength of your virtue. Enter boldly into the world, to whose failings you are superior; reflect that you are now exempted from humanity’s defects, and defy all the arts of the spirits of darkness. They shall know you for what you are!”
Here his reverie was interrupted by three soft knocks at the door of his cell. With difficulty did the abbot awake from his delirium. The knocking was repeated.
“Who is there?” said Ambrosio at length.
“It is only Rosario,” replied a gentle voice.
“Enter! enter, my son!”
The door was immediately opened, and Rosario appeared with a small basket in his hand.
Rosario was a young novice belonging to the monastery, who in three months intended to make his profession. A sort of mystery enveloped this youth, which rendered him at once an object of interest and curiosity. His hatred of society, his profound melancholy, his rigid observation of the duties of his order, and his voluntary seclusion from the world, at his age so unusual, attracted the notice of the whole fraternity. He seemed fearful of being recognised, and no one had ever seen his face. His head was continually muffled up in his cowl; yet such of his features as accident discovered, appeared the most beautiful and noble. Rosario was the only name by which he was known in the monastery. No one knew from whence he came, and when questioned on the subject he preserved a profound silence. A stranger, whose rich hab
it and magnificent equipage declared him to be of distinguished rank, had engaged the monks to receive a novice, and had deposited the necessary sums. The next day he returned with Rosario, and from that time no more had been heard of him.
The youth had carefully avoided the company of the monks: he answered their civilities with sweetness, but reserve, and evidently showed that his inclination led him to solitude. To this general rule the superior was the only exception. To him he looked up with a respect approaching idolatry: he sought his company with the most attentive assiduity, and eagerly seized every means to ingratiate himself in his favour. In the abbot’s society his heart seemed to be at ease, and an air of gaiety pervaded his whole manners and discourse. Ambrosio on his side did not feel less attracted towards the youth; with him alone did he lay aside his habitual severity. When he spoke to him, he insensibly assumed a tone milder than was usual to him; and no voice sounded so sweet to him as did Rosario’s. He repaid the youth’s attentions by instructing him in various sciences; the novice received his lessons with docility; Ambrosio was every day more charmed with the vivacity of his genius, the simplicity of his manners, and the rectitude of his heart: in short, he loved him with all the affection of a father. He could not help sometimes indulging a desire secretly to see the face of his pupil; but his rule of self-denial extended even to curiosity, and prevented him from communicating his wishes to the youth.
“Pardon my intrusion, father,” said Rosario, while he placed his basket upon the table; “I come to you a suppliant. Hearing that a dear friend is dangerously ill, I entreat your prayers for his recovery. If supplications can prevail upon heaven to spare him, surely yours must be efficacious.”
“Whatever depends upon me, my son, you know that you may command. What is your friend’s name?”
“Vincentio della Ronda.”
“ ’Tis sufficient. I will not forget him in my prayers, and may our thrice-blessed St. Francis deign to listen to my intercession!—What have you in your basket, Rosario?”
“A few of those flowers, reverend father, which I have observed to be most acceptable to you. Will you permit my arranging them in your chamber?”
“Your attentions charm me, my son.”
While Rosario dispersed the contents of his basket in small vases, placed for that purpose in various parts of the room, the abbot thus continued the conversation:
“I saw you not in the church this evening, Rosario.”
“Yet I was present, father. I am too grateful for your protection to lose an opportunity of witnessing your triumph.”
“Alas! Rosario, I have but little cause to triumph: the saint spoke by my mouth; to him belongs all the merit. It seems then you were contented with my discourse?”
“Contented, say you? Oh! you surpassed yourself! Never did I hear such eloquence—save once!”
Here the novice heaved an involuntary sigh.
“When was that once?” demanded the abbot.
“When you preached upon the sudden indisposition of our late superior.”
“I remember it: that is more than two years ago. And were you present? I knew you not at that time, Rosario.”
“ ’Tis true, father; and would to God I had expired ere I beheld that day! What sufferings, what sorrows should I have escaped!”
“Sufferings at your age, Rosario?”
“Aye, father; sufferings, which if known to you, would equally raise your anger and compassion! Sufferings, which form at once the torment and pleasure of my existence! Yet in this retreat my bosom would feel tranquil, were it not for the tortures of apprehension. Oh God! oh God! how cruel is a life of fear!—Father! I have given up all; I have abandoned the world and its delights for ever: nothing now remains, nothing now has charms for me, but your friendship, but your affection. If I lose that, father! oh! if I lose that, tremble at the effects of my despair!”
“You apprehend the loss of my friendship? How has my conduct justified this fear? Know me better, Rosario, and think me worthy of your confidence. What are your sufferings? Reveal them to me, and believe, that if ’Tis in my power to relieve them——”
“Ah! ’Tis in no one’s power but yours. Yet I must not let you know them. You would hate me for my avowal! you would drive me from your presence with scorn and ignominy.”
“My son, I conjure you! I entreat you——”
“For pity’s sake, enquire no further! I must not—I dare not—Hark! the bell rings for vespers! Father, your benediction, and I leave you.”
As he said this, he threw himself upon his knees, and received the blessing which he demanded. Then pressing the abbot’s hand to his lips, he started from the ground, and hastily quitted the apartment. Soon after Ambrosio descended to vespers (which were celebrated in a small chapel belonging to the abbey), filled with surprise at the singularity of the youth’s behaviour.
Vespers being over, the monks retired to their respective cells. The abbot alone remained in the chapel to receive the nuns of St. Clare. He had not been long seated in the confessional chair, before the prioress made her appearance. Each of the nuns was heard in her turn, while the others waited with the domina in the adjoining vestry. Ambrosio listened to the confessions with attention, made many exhortations, enjoined penance proportioned to each offence, and for some time every thing went on as usual: till at last one of the nuns, conspicuous from the nobleness of her air and elegance of her figure, carelessly permitted a letter to fall from her bosom. She was retiring, unconscious of her loss. Ambrosio supposed it to have been written by some one of her relations, and picked it up, intending to restore it to her.
“Stay, daughter,” said he; “you have let fall——”
At this moment, the paper being already open, his eye involuntarily read the first words. He started back with surprise. The nun had turned round on hearing his voice: she perceived her letter in his hand, and, uttering a shriek of terror, flew hastily to regain it.
“Hold!” said the friar in a tone of severity; “daughter, I must read this letter.”
“Then I am lost!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands together wildly.
All colour instantly faded from her face; she trembled with agitation, and was obliged to fold her arms round a pillar of the chapel to save herself from sinking upon the floor. In the mean while the abbot read the following lines:
“All is ready for your escape, my dearest Agnes! At twelve to-morrow night I shall expect to find you at the garden-door: I have obtained the key, and a few hours will suffice to place you in a secure asylum. Let no mistaken scruples induce you to reject the certain means of preserving yourself and the innocent creature whom you nourish in your bosom. Remember that you had promised to be mine, long ere you engaged yourself to the church; that your situation will soon be evident to the prying eyes of your companions; and that flight is the only means of avoiding the effects of their malevolent resentment. Farewell, my Agnes! my dear and destined wife! Fail not to be at the garden-door at twelve!”
As soon as he had finished, Ambrosio bent an eye stern and angry upon the imprudent nun.
“This letter must to the prioress,” said he, and passed her.
His words sounded like thunder to her ears: she awoke from her torpidity only to be sensible of the dangers of her situation. She followed him hastily, and detained him by his garment.
“Stay! oh! stay!” she cried in the accents of despair, while she threw herself at the friar’s feet, and bathed them with her tears. “Father, compassionate my youth! Look with indulgence on a woman’s weakness, and deign to conceal my frailty! The remainder of my life shall be employed in expiating this single fault, and your lenity will bring back a soul to heaven!”
“Amazing confidence! What! shall St. Clare’s convent become the retreat of prostitutes? Shall I suffer the church of Christ to cherish in its bosom debauchery and shame? Unworthy wretch! such lenity would make me your accomplice. Mercy would here be criminal. You have abandoned yourself to a seducer’s lust; you have
defiled the sacred habit by your impurity; and still dare you think yourself deserving my compassion? Hence, nor detain me longer. Where is the lady prioress?” he added, raising his voice.
“Hold! father, hold! Hear me but for one moment! Tax me not with impurity, nor think that I have erred from the warmth of temperament. Long before I took the veil, Raymond was master of my heart: he inspired me with the purest, the most irreproachable passion, and was on the point of becoming my lawful husband. An horrible adventure, and the treachery of a relation, separated us from each other. I believed him for ever lost to me, and threw myself into a convent from motives of despair. Accident again united us; I could not refuse myself the melancholy pleasure of mingling my tears with his. We met nightly in the gardens of St. Clare, and in an unguarded moment I violated my vows of chastity. I shall soon become a mother. Reverend Ambrosio, take compassion on me; take compassion on the innocent being whose existence is attached to mine. If you discover my imprudence to the domina, both of us are lost. The punishment which the laws of St. Clare assign to unfortunates like myself, is most severe and cruel. Worthy, worthy father! let not your own untainted conscience render you unfeeling towards those less able to withstand temptation! Let not mercy be the only virtue of which your heart is unsusceptible! Pity me, most reverend! Restore my letter, nor doom me to inevitable destruction!”
“Your boldness confounds me. Shall I conceal your crime—I whom you have deceived by your feigned confession?—No, daughter, no. I will render you a more essential service. I will rescue you from perdition, in spite of yourself. Penance and mortification shall expiate your offence, and severity force you back to the paths of holiness. What, ho! Mother St. Agatha!”
“Father! by all that is sacred, by all that is most dear to you, I supplicate, I entreat——”
“Release me. I will not hear you. Where is the domina? Mother St. Agatha, where are you?”
The door of the vestry opened, and the prioress entered the chapel, followed by her nuns.
“Cruel, cruel!” exclaimed Agnes, relinquishing her hold.
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