The Monk

by matthew lewis

  I laboured incessantly to please her: unluckily I succeeded but too well. She seemed gratified by my attention, and treated me with a distinction accorded by her to no one else. One of my daily occupations was reading to her for several hours: those hours I should much rather have passed with Agnes; but as I was conscious that complaisance for her aunt would advance our union, I submitted with a good grace to the penance imposed upon me. Donna Rodolpha’s library was principally composed of old Spanish romances: these were her favourite studies, and once a day one of these unmerciful volumes was put regularly into my hands. I read the wearisome adventures of “Perceforest,” “Tirante the White,” “Palmerin of England,” and “the Knight of the Sun,” till the book was on the point of falling from my hands through ennui. However, the increasing pleasure which the baroness seemed to take in my society, encouraged me to persevere; and latterly she shewed for me a partiality so marked, that Agnes advised me to seize the first opportunity of declaring our mutual passion to her aunt.

  One evening I was alone with Donna Rodolpha, in her own apartment. As our readings generally treated of love, Agnes was never permitted to assist at them. I was just congratulating myself on having finished “the Loves of Tristan and the Queen Iseult——”

  “Ah! the unfortunates!” cried the baroness: “How say you, Segnor? Do you think it possible for man to feel an attachment so disinterested and sincere?”

  “I cannot doubt it,” replied I; “my own heart furnishes me with the certainty. Ah! Donna Rodolpha, might I but hope for your approbation of my love! might I but confess the name of my mistress, without incurring your resentment!”

  She interrupted me.

  “Suppose I were to spare you that confession? Suppose I were to acknowledge that the object of your desires is not unknown to me? Suppose I were to say, that she returns your affection, and laments not less sincerely than yourself the unhappy vows which separate her from you?”

  “Ah! Donna Rodolpha!” I exclaimed, throwing myself upon my knees before her, and pressing her hand to my lips, “you have discovered my secret! What is your decision? Must I despair, or may I reckon upon your favour?”

  She withdrew not the hand which I held; but she turned from me, and covered her face with the other.

  “How can I refuse it you?” she replied: “Ah! Don Alphonso, I have long perceived to whom your attentions were directed, but till now I perceived not the impression which they made upon my heart. At length, I can no longer hide my weakness either from myself or from you. I yield to the violence of my passion, and own that I adore you! For three long months I stifled my desires; but growing stronger by resistance, I submit to their impetuosity. Pride, fear, and honour, respect for myself, and my engagements to the baron, all are vanquished. I sacrifice them to my love for you, and it still seems to me that I pay too mean a price for your possession.”

  She paused for an answer.—Judge, my Lorenzo, what must have been my confusion at this discovery. I at once saw all the magnitude of this obstacle, which I had myself raised to my happiness. The baroness had placed those attentions to her own account, which I had merely paid her for the sake of Agnes: and the strength of her expressions, the looks which accompanied them, and my knowledge of her revengeful disposition, made me tremble for myself and my beloved. I was silent for some minutes. I knew not how to reply to her declaration: I could only resolve to clear up the mistake without delay, and for the present to conceal from her knowledge the name of my mistress. No sooner had she avowed her passion, than the transports which before were evident in my features gave place to consternation and constraint. I dropped her hand, and rose from my knees. The change in my countenance did not escape her observation.

  “What means this silence?” said she in a trembling voice: “Where is that joy which you led me to expect?”

  “Forgive me, Segnora,” I answered, “if what necessity forces from me should seem harsh and ungrateful. To encourage you in an error, which, however it may flatter myself, must prove to you the source of disappointment, would make me appear criminal in every eye. Honour obliges me to inform you, that you have mistaken for the solicitude of love what was only the attention of friendship. The latter sentiment is that which I wished to excite in your bosom: to entertain a warmer, respect for you forbids me, and gratitude for the baron’s generous treatment. Perhaps these reasons would not be sufficient to shield me from your attractions, were it not that my affections are already bestowed upon another. You have charms, Segnora, which might captivate the most insensible; no heart unoccupied could resist them. Happy is it for me, that mine is no longer in my possession, or I should have to reproach myself for ever with having violated the laws of hospitality. Recollect yourself, noble lady! recollect what is owed by you to honour, by me to the baron, and replace by esteem and friendship those sentiments which I never can return.”

  The baroness turned pale at this unexpected and positive declaration: she doubted whether she slept or woke. At length recovering from her surprise, consternation gave place to rage, and the blood rushed back into her cheeks with violence.

  “Villain!” she cried; “Monster of deceit! Thus is the avowal of my love received? Is it thus that.… but, no, no! it cannot, it shall not be! Alphonso, behold me at your feet! Be witness of my despair! Look with pity on a woman who loves you with sincere affection! She who possesses your heart, how has she merited such a treasure? What sacrifice has she made to you? What raises her above Rodolpha?”

  I endeavoured to lift her from her knees.

  “For God’s sake, Segnora, restrain these transports; they disgrace yourself and me. Your exclamations may be heard, and your secret divulged to your attendants. I see that my presence only irritates you: permit me to retire.”

  I prepared to quit the apartment: the baroness caught me suddenly by the arm.

  “And who is this happy rival?” said she in a menacing tone; “I will know her name, and when I know it.….! She is some one in my power; you entreated my favour, my protection! Let me but find her, let me but know who dares to rob me of your heart, and she shall suffer every torment which jealousy and disappointment can inflict. Who is she? Answer me this moment. Hope not to conceal her from my vengeance! Spies shall be set over you; every step, every look shall be watched; your eyes will discover my rival; I shall know her; and when she is found, tremble, Alphonso, for her and for yourself.”

  As she uttered these last words, her fury mounted to such a pitch as to stop her powers of respiration. She panted, groaned, and at length fainted away. As she was falling I caught her in my arms, and placed her upon a sopha. Then hastening to the door, I summoned her women to her assistance; I committed her to their care, and seized the opportunity of escaping.

  Agitated and confused beyond expression, I bent my steps towards the garden. The benignity with which the baroness had listened to me at first, raised my hopes to the highest pitch: I imagined her to have perceived my attachment for her niece, and to approve of it. Extreme was my disappointment at understanding the true purport of her discourse. I knew not what course to take: the superstition of the parents of Agnes, aided by her aunt’s unfortunate passion, seemed to oppose such obstacles to our union as were almost insurmountable.

  As I passed by a low parlour, whose windows looked into the garden, through the door which stood half open I observed Agnes seated at a table. She was occupied in drawing, and several unfinished sketches were scattered round her. I entered, still undetermined whether I should acquaint her with the declaration of the baroness.

  “Oh! is it only you?” said she, raising her head: “You are no stranger, and I shall continue my occupation without ceremony. Take a chair, and seat yourself by me.”

  I obeyed, and placed myself near the table. Unconscious what I was doing, and totally occupied by the scene which had just passed, I took up some of the drawings, and cast my eyes over them. One of the subjects struck me from its singularity. It represented the great hall of the castle of Lindenb
erg. A door conducting to a narrow stair-case stood half open. In the foreground appeared a group of figures, placed in the most grotesque attitudes; terror was expressed upon every countenance. Here was one upon his knees, with his eyes cast up to heaven, and praying most devoutly; there, another was creeping away upon all fours. Some hid their faces in their cloaks, or the laps of their companions; some had concealed themselves beneath a table, on which the remnants of a feast were visible; while others, with gaping mouths and eyes wide-stretched, pointed to a figure supposed to have created this disturbance. It represented a female of more than human stature, clothed in the habit of some religious order. Her face was veiled; on her arm hung a chaplet of beads; her dress was in several places stained with the blood which trickled from a wound upon her bosom. In one hand she held a lamp, in the other a large knife, and she seemed advancing towards the iron gates of the hall.

  “What does this mean, Agnes?” said I: “Is this some invention of your own?”

  She cast her eyes upon the drawing.

  “Oh! no,” she replied; “ ’Tis the invention of much wiser heads than mine. But can you possibly have lived at Lindenberg for three whole months without hearing of the bleeding nun?”

  “You are the first who ever mentioned the name to me. Pray, who may the lady be?”

  “That is more than I can pretend to tell you. All my knowledge of her history comes from an old tradition in this family, which has been handed down from father to son, and is firmly credited throughout the baron’s domains. Nay, the baron believes it himself; and as for my aunt, who has a natural turn for the marvellous, she would sooner doubt the veracity of the Bible than of the bleeding nun. Shall I tell you this history?”

  I answered, that she would oblige me much by relating it: she resumed her drawing, and then proceeded as follows in a tone of burlesqued gravity:

  “It is surprising that in all the chronicles of past times this remarkable personage is never once mentioned. Fain would I recount to you her life; but unluckily till after her death she was never known to have existed. Then first did she think it necessary to make some noise in the world, and with that intention she made bold to seize upon the castle of Lindenberg. Having a good taste, she took up her abode in the best room of the house; and once established there, she began to amuse herself by knocking about the tables and chairs in the middle of the night. Perhaps she was a bad sleeper, but this I have never been able to ascertain. According to the tradition, this entertainment commenced about a century ago. It was accompanied with shrieking, howling, groaning, swearing, and many other agreeable noises of the same kind. But though one particular room was more especially honoured with her visits, she did not entirely confine herself to it. She occasionally ventured into the old galleries, paced up and down the spacious halls; or, sometimes stopping at the doors of the chambers, she wept and wailed there to the universal terror of the inhabitants. In these nocturnal excursions she was seen by different people, who all describe her appearance as you behold it here traced by the hand of her unworthy historian.”

  The singularity of this account insensibly engaged my attention.

  “Did she never speak to those who met her?” said I.

  “Not she. The specimens indeed which she gave nightly of her talents for conversation, were by no means inviting. Sometimes the castle rung with oaths and execrations: a moment after she repeated her paternoster: now she howled out the most horrible blasphemies, and then chaunted De profundis as orderly as if still in the choir. In short, she seemed a mighty capricious being: but whether she prayed or cursed, whether she was impious or devout, she always contrived to terrify her auditors out of their senses. The castle became scarcely habitable; and its lord was so frightened by these midnight revels, that one fine morning he was found dead in his bed. This success seemed to please the nun mightily, for now she made more noise than ever. But the next baron proved too cunning for her. He made his appearance with a celebrated exorciser in his hand, who feared not to shut himself up for a night in the haunted chamber. There it seems that he had a hard battle with the ghost before she would promise to be quiet. She was obstinate, but he was more so; and at length she consented to let the inhabitants of the castle take a good night’s rest. For some time after no news was heard of her. But at the end of five years the exorciser died, and then the nun ventured to peep abroad again. However, she was now grown much more tractable and well-behaved. She walked about in silence, and never made her appearance above once in five years. This custom, if you will believe the baron, she still continues. He is fully persuaded, that on the fifth of May of every fifth year, as soon as the clock strikes one, the door of the haunted chamber opens. [Observe, that this room has been shut up for near a century.] Then out walks the ghostly nun with her lamp and dagger: she descends the stair-case of the eastern tower, and crosses the great hall. On that night the porter always leaves the gates of the castle open, out of respect to the apparition: not that this is thought by any means necessary, since she could easily whip through the key-hole if she chose it; but merely out of politeness, and to prevent her from making her exit in a way so derogatory to the dignity of her ghostship.”

  “And whither does she go on quitting the castle?”

  “To heaven, I hope; but if she does, the place certainly is not to her taste, for she always returns after an hour’s absence. The lady then retires to her chamber, and is quiet for another five years.”

  “And you believe this, Agnes?”

  “How can you ask such a question? No, no, Alphonso! I have too much reason to lament superstition’s influence to be its victim myself. However, I must not avow my incredulity to the baroness: she entertains not a doubt of the truth of this history. As to dame Cunegonda, my governess, she protests that fifteen years ago she saw the spectre with her own eyes. She related to me one evening, how she and several other domestics had been terrified while at supper by the appearance of the bleeding nun, as the ghost is called in the castle: ’Tis from her account that I drew this sketch, and you may be certain that Cunegonda was not omitted. There she is! I shall never forget what a passion she was in, and how ugly she looked while she scolded me for having made her picture so like herself!”

  Here she pointed to a burlesque figure of an old woman in an attitude of terror.

  In spite of the melancholy which oppressed me, I could not help smiling at the playful imagination of Agnes: she had perfectly preserved dame Cunegonda’s resemblance, but had so much exaggerated every fault, and rendered every feature so irresistibly laughable, that I could easily conceive the duenna’s anger.

  “The figure is admirable, my dear Agnes! I knew not that you possessed such talents for the ridiculous.”

  “Stay a moment,” she replied; “I will shew you a figure still more ridiculous than dame Cunegonda’s. If it pleases you, you may dispose of it as seems best to yourself.”

  She rose, and went to a cabinet at some little distance: unlocking a drawer, she took out a small case, which she opened, and presented to me.

  “Do you know the resemblance?” said she, smiling.

  It was her own.

  Transported at the gift, I pressed the portrait to my lips with passion: I threw myself at her feet, and declared my gratitude in the warmest and most affectionate terms. She listened to me with complaisance, and assured me that she shared my sentiments; when suddenly she uttered a loud shriek, disengaged the hand which I held, and flew from the room by a door which opened to the garden. Amazed at this abrupt departure, I rose hastily from my knees. I beheld with confusion the baroness standing near me, glowing with jealousy, and almost choaked with rage. On recovering from her swoon, she had tortured her imagination to discover her concealed rival. No one appeared to deserve her suspicions more than Agnes. She immediately hastened to find her niece, tax her with encouraging my addresses, and assure herself whether her conjectures were well-grounded. Unfortunately she had already seen enough to need no other confirmation. She arrived at the
door of the room, at the precise moment when Agnes gave me her portrait. She heard me profess an everlasting attachment to her rival, and saw me kneeling at her feet. She advanced to separate us; we were too much occupied by each other to perceive her approach, and were not aware of it till Agnes beheld her standing by my side.

  Rage on the part of Donna Rodolpha, embarrassment on mine, for some time kept us both silent. The lady recovered herself first.

  “My suspicions then were just,” said she; “the coquetry of my niece has triumphed, and ’Tis to her that I am sacrificed. In one respect, however, I am fortunate; I shall not be the only one who laments a disappointed passion. You, too, shall know what it is to love without hope! I daily expect orders for restoring Agnes to her parents. Immediately upon her arrival in Spain, she will take the veil, and place an insuperable barrier to your union. You may spare your supplications.” She continued, perceiving me on the point of speaking: “My resolution is fixed and immoveable. Your mistress shall remain a close prisoner in her chamber, till she exchanges this castle for the cloister. Solitude will perhaps recall her to a sense of her duty: but to prevent your opposing that wished event, I must inform you, Don Alphonso, that your presence here is no longer agreeable either to the baron or myself. It was not to talk nonsense to my niece, that your relations sent you to Germany: your business was to travel, and I should be sorry to impede any longer so excellent a design. Farewell, Segnor; remember, that to-morrow morning we meet for the last time.”