“That men were fond, he smiled, and wondered how.”
For a time spare diet, frequent watching, and severe penance cooled and repressed the natural warmth of his constitution: but no sooner did opportunity present itself, no sooner did he catch a glimpse of joys to which he was still a stranger, than religion’s barriers were too feeble to resist the overwhelming torrent of his desires. All impediments yielded before the force of his temperament, warm, sanguine, and voluptuous in the excess. As yet his other passions lay dormant; but they only needed to be once awakened, to display themselves with violence as great and irresistible.
He continued to be the admiration of Madrid. The enthusiasm created by his eloquence seemed rather to increase than diminish. Every Thursday, which was the only day when he appeared in public, the Capuchin cathedral was crowded with auditors, and his discourse was always received with the same approbation. He was named confessor to all the chief families in Madrid; and no one was counted fashionable who was injoined penance by any other than Ambrosio. In his resolution of never stirring out of his convent he still persisted. This circumstance created a still greater opinion of his sanctity and self-denial. Above all, the women sang forth his praises loudly, less influenced by devotion than by his noble countenance, majestic air, and well-turned graceful figure. The abbey-door was thronged with carriages from morning to night; and the noblest and fairest dames of Madrid confessed to the abbot their secret peccadilloes. The eyes of the luxurious friar devoured their charms. Had his penitents consulted those interpreters, he would have needed no other means of expressing his desires. For his misfortune, they were so strongly persuaded of his continence, that the possibility of his harbouring indecent thoughts never once entered their imaginations. The climate’s heat, ’Tis well known, operates with no small influence upon the constitutions of the Spanish ladies: but the most abandoned would have thought it an easier task to inspire with passion the marble statue of St. Francis than the cold and rigid heart of the immaculate Ambrosio.
On his part, the friar was little acquainted with the depravity of the world: he suspected not that but few of his penitents would have rejected his addresses. Yet had he been better instructed on this head, the danger attending such an attempt would have sealed up his lips in silence. He knew that it would be difficult for a woman to keep a secret so strange and so important as his frailty; and he even trembled, lest Matilda should betray him. Anxious to preserve a reputation which was infinitely dear to him, he saw all the risque of committing it to the power of some vain giddy female; and as the beauties of Madrid affected only his senses without touching his heart, he forgot them as soon as they were out of his sight. The danger of discovery, the fear of being repulsed, the loss of reputation; all these considerations counselled him to stifle his desires; and though he now felt for it the most perfect indifference, he was necessitated to confine himself to Matilda’s person.
One morning, the confluence of penitents was greater than usual. He was detained in the confessional chair till a late hour. At length the crowd was dispatched, and he prepared to quit the chapel, when two females entered, and drew near him with humility. They threw up their veils, and the youngest entreated him to listen to her for a few moments. The melody of her voice, of that voice to which no man ever listened without interest, immediately caught Ambrosio’s attention. He stopped. The petitioner seemed bowed down with affliction: her cheeks were pale, her eyes dimmed with tears, and her hair fell in disorder over her face and bosom. Still her countenance was so sweet, so innocent, so heavenly, as might have charmed an heart less susceptible than that which panted in the abbot’s breast. With more than usual softness of manner he desired her to proceed, and heard her speak as follows, with an emotion which increased every moment.
“Reverend father, you see an unfortunate threatened with the loss of her dearest, of almost her only friend! My mother, my excellent mother lies upon the bed of sickness. A sudden and dreadful malady seized her last night, and so rapid has been its progress that the physicians despair of her life. Human aid fails me; nothing remains for me but to implore the mercy of heaven. Father, all Madrid rings with the report of your piety and virtue. Deign to remember my mother in your prayers: perhaps they may prevail on the Almighty to spare her; and should that be the case, I engage myself every Thursday in the next three months to illuminate the shrine of St. Francis in his honour.”
“So!” thought the monk; “here we have a second Vincentio della Ronda. Rosario’s adventure began thus;” and he wished secretly that this might have the same conclusion.
He acceded to the request. The petitioner returned him thanks with every mark of gratitude, and then continued:
“I have yet another favour to ask. We are strangers in Madrid: my mother needs a confessor, and knows not to whom she should apply. We understand that you never quit the abbey, and, alas! my poor mother is unable to come hither! If you would have the goodness, reverend father, to name a proper person, whose wise and pious consolations may soften the agonies of my parent’s death-bed, you will confer an everlasting favour upon hearts not ungrateful.”
With this petition also the monk complied. Indeed, what petition would he have refused, if urged in such enchanting accents? The suppliant was so interesting! Her voice was so sweet, so harmonious! Her very tears became her, and her affliction seemed to add new lustre to her charms. He promised to send to her a confessor that same evening, and begged her to leave her address. The companion presented him with a card on which it was written, and then withdrew with the fair petitioner, who pronounced before her departure a thousand benedictions on the abbot’s goodness. His eyes followed her out of the chapel. It was not till she was out of sight that he examined the card, on which he read the following words:
“Donna Elvira Dalfa, strada di San Iago, four doors from the palace d’Albornos.”
The suppliant was no other than Antonia, and Leonella was her companion. The latter had not consented without difficulty to accompany her niece to the abbey: Ambrosio had inspired her with such awe, that she trembled at the very sight of him. Her fears had conquered even her natural loquacity, and while in his presence she uttered not a single syllable.
The monk retired to his cell, whither he was pursued by Antonia’s image. He felt a thousand new emotions springing in his bosom, and he trembled to examine into the cause which gave them birth. They were totally different from those inspired by Matilda, when she first declared her sex and her affection. He felt not the provocation of lust; no voluptuous desires rioted in his bosom; nor did a burning imagination picture to him the charms which modesty had veiled from his eyes. On the contrary, what he now felt was a mingled sentiment of tenderness, admiration, and respect. A soft and delicious melancholy infused itself into his soul, and he would not have exchanged it for the most lively transports of joy. Society now disgusted him: he delighted in solitude, which permitted his indulging the visions of fancy: his thoughts were all gentle, sad, and soothing; and the whole wide world presented him with no other object than Antonia.
“Happy man!” he exclaimed in his romantic enthusiasm, “happy man, who is destined to possess the heart of that lovely girl! what delicacy in her features! what elegance in her form! how enchanting was the timid innocence of her eyes! and how different from the wanton expression, the wild luxurious fire, which sparkles in Matilda’s! Oh! sweeter must one kiss be, snatched from the rosy lips of the first, than all the full and lustful favours bestowed so freely by the second. Matilda gluts me with enjoyment even to loathing, forces me to her arms, apes the harlot, and glories in her prostitution. Disgusting! Did she know the inexpressible charm of modesty, how irresistibly it enthrals the heart of man, how firmly it chains him to the throne of beauty, she never would have thrown it off. What would be too dear a price for this lovely girl’s affections? What would I refuse to sacrifice, could I be released from my vows, and permitted to declare my love in the sight of earth and heaven? While I strove to inspire her with
tenderness, with friendship and esteem, how tranquil and undisturbed would the hours roll away! Gracious God! to see her blue downcast eyes beam upon mine with timid fondness! to sit for days, for years, listening to that gentle voice! to acquire the right of obliging her, and hear the artless expressions of her gratitude! to watch the emotions of her spotless heart! to encourage each dawning virtue! to share in her joy when happy, to kiss away her tears when distressed, and to see her fly to my arms for comfort and support! Yes; if there is perfect bliss on earth, ’Tis his lot alone who becomes that angel’s husband.”
While his fancy coined these ideas, he paced his cell with a disordered air. His eyes were fixed upon vacancy: his head reclined upon his shoulder: a tear rolled down his cheek, while he reflected that the vision of happiness for him could never be realized.
“She is lost to me;” he continued, “by marriage she cannot be mine: and to seduce such innocence, to use the confidence reposed in me to work her ruin——Oh! it would be a crime, blacker than yet the world ever witnessed! Fear not, lovely girl! your virtue runs no risque from me. Not for Indies would I make that gentle bosom know the tortures of remorse.”
Again he paced his chamber hastily. Then stopping, his eye fell upon the picture of his once-admired Madona. He tore it with indignation from the wall: he threw it on the ground, and spurned it from him with his foot.
“The prostitute!”
Unfortunate Matilda! her paramour forgot, that for his sake alone she had forfeited her claim to virtue; and his only reason for despising her was, that she had loved him much too well.
He threw himself into a chair, which stood near the table. He saw the card with Elvira’s address. He took it up, and it brought to his recollection his promise respecting a confessor. He passed a few minutes in doubt: but Antonia’s empire over him was already too much decided to permit his making a long resistance to the idea which struck him. He resolved to be the confessor himself. He could leave the abbey unobserved without difficulty: by wrapping up his head in his cowl he hoped to pass through the streets without being recognised: by taking these precautions, and by recommending secrecy to Elvira’s family, he doubted not to keep Madrid in ignorance that he had broken his vow never to see the outside of the abbey-walls. Matilda was the only person whose vigilance he dreaded: but by informing her at the refectory, that during the whole of that day business would confine him to his cell, he thought himself secure from her wakeful jealousy. Accordingly, at the hours when the Spaniards are generally taking their siesta, he ventured to quit the abbey by a private door, the key of which was in his possession. The cowl of his habit was thrown over his face: from the heat of the weather the streets were almost totally deserted: the monk met with few people, found the strada di San Iago, and arrived without accident at Donna Elvira’s door. He rang, was admitted, and immediately ushered into an upper apartment.
It was here that he ran the greatest risque of a discovery. Had Leonella been at home, she would have recognized him directly. Her communicative disposition would never have permitted her to rest, till all Madrid was informed that Ambrosio had ventured out of the abbey, and visited her sister. Fortune here stood the monk’s friend. On Leonella’s return home, she found a letter instructing her, that a cousin was just dead, who had left what little he possessed between herself and Elvira. To secure this bequest she was obliged to set out for Cordova without losing a moment. Amidst all her foibles, her heart was truly warm and affectionate, and she was unwilling to quit her sister in so dangerous a state. But Elvira insisted upon her taking the journey, conscious that in her daughter’s forlorn situation, no increase of fortune, however trifling, ought to be neglected. Accordingly Leonella left Madrid, sincerely grieved at her sister’s illness, and giving some few sighs to the memory of the amiable but inconstant Don Christoval. She was fully persuaded, that at first she had made a terrible breach in his heart; but hearing nothing more of him, she supposed that he had quitted the pursuit, disgusted by the lowness of her origin, and knowing upon other terms than marriage he had nothing to hope from such a dragon of virtue as she professed herself; or else, that being naturally capricious and changeable, the remembrance of her charms had been effaced from the Condé’s heart by those of some newer beauty. Whatever was the cause of her losing him, she lamented it sorely. She strove in vain, as she assured every body who was kind enough to listen to her, to tear his image from her too susceptible heart. She affected the airs of a love-sick virgin, and carried them all to the most ridiculous excess. She heaved lamentable sighs, walked with her arms folded, uttered long soliloquies, and her discourse generally turned upon some forsaken maid, who expired of a broken heart! Her fiery looks were always ornamented with a garland of willow. Every evening she was seen straying upon the banks of a rivulet by moon-light; and she declared herself a violent admirer of murmuring streams and nightingales——
“Of lonely haunts, and twilight groves,
“Places which pale passion loves!”
Such was the state of Leonella’s mind when obliged to quit Madrid. Elvira was out of patience at all these follies, and endeavoured at persuading her to act like a reasonable woman. Her advice was thrown away: Leonella assured her at parting, that nothing could make her forget the perfidious Don Christoval. In this point she was fortunately mistaken. An honest youth of Cordova, journeyman to an apothecary, found that her fortune would be sufficient to set him up in a genteel shop of his own. In consequence of this reflection he avowed himself her admirer. Leonella was not inflexible; the ardour of his sighs melted her heart, and she soon consented to make him the happiest of mankind. She wrote to inform her sister of her marriage; but, for reasons which will be explained hereafter, Elvira never answered her letter.
Ambrosio was conducted into the anti-chamber to that where Elvira was reposing. The female domestic who had admitted him, left him alone, while she announced his arrival to her mistress. Antonia, who had been by her mother’s bed-side, immediately came to him.
“Pardon me, father,” said she, advancing towards him; when recognizing his features, she stopped suddenly, and uttered a cry of joy. “Is it possible?” she continued, “do not my eyes deceive me? Has the worthy Ambrosio broken through his resolution, that he may soften the agonies of the best of women? What pleasure will this visit give my mother! Let me not delay for a moment the comfort which your piety and wisdom will afford her.”
Thus saying, she opened the chamber-door, presented to her mother her distinguished visitor, and, having placed an arm-chair by the side of the bed, withdrew into another apartment.
Elvira was highly gratified by this visit: her expectations had been raised high by general report, but she found them far exceeded. Ambrosio, endowed by nature with powers of pleasing, exerted them to the utmost, while conversing with Antonia’s mother. With persuasive eloquence he calmed every fear, and dissipated every scruple. He bid her reflect on the infinite mercy of her judge, despoiled death of his darts and terrors, and taught her to view without shrinking the abyss of eternity, on whose brink she then stood. Elvira was absorbed in attention and delight; while she listened to his exhortations, confidence and comfort stole insensibly into her mind. She unbosomed to him without hesitation her cares and apprehensions. The latter respecting a future life he had already quieted, and he now removed the former, which she felt for the concerns of this. She trembled for Antonia; she had none to whose care she could recommend her, save to the marquis de las Cisternas, and her sister Leonella. The protection of the one was very uncertain; and as to the other, though fond of her niece, Leonella was so thoughtless and vain, as to make her an improper person to have the sole direction of a girl so young and ignorant of the world. The friar no sooner learned the cause of her alarms, than he begged her to make herself easy upon that head. He doubted not being able to secure for Antonia a safe refuge in the house of one of his penitents, the marchioness of Villa-Franca: this was a lady of acknowledged virtue, remarkable for strict principles and extensi
ve charity. Should accident deprive her of this resource, he engaged to procure Antonia’s reception in some respectable convent, that is to say, in quality of boarder; for Elvira had declared herself no friend to a monastic life, and the monk was either candid or complaisant enough to allow that her disapprobation was not unfounded.
These proofs of the interest which he felt for her, completely won Elvira’s heart. In thanking him, she exhausted every expression which gratitude could furnish, and protested, that now she should resign herself with tranquillity to the grave. Ambrosio rose to take leave; he promised to return the next day at the same hour, but requested that his visits might be kept secret.
“I am unwilling,” said he, “that my breaking through a rule imposed by necessity, should be generally known. Had I not resolved never to quit my convent, except upon circumstances as urgent as that which has conducted me to your door, I should be frequently summoned upon insignificant occasions; that time would be engrossed by the curious, the unoccupied, and the fanciful, which I now pass at the bed-side of the sick, in comforting the expiring penitent, and clearing the passage to eternity from thorns.”
Elvira commended equally his prudence and compassion, promising to conceal carefully the honour of his visits. The monk then gave her his benediction, and retired from the chamber.
In the anti-room he found Antonia; he could not refuse himself the pleasure of passing a few moments in her society. He bid her take comfort, for that her mother seemed composed and tranquil, and he hoped that she might yet do well. He enquired who attended her, and engaged to send the physician of his convent to see her, one of the most skilful in Madrid. He then launched out in Elvira’s commendation, praised her purity and fortitude of mind, and declared that she had inspired him with the highest esteem and reverence. Antonia’s innocent heart swelled with gratitude, joy danced in her eyes, where a tear still sparkled. The hopes which he gave her of her mother’s recovery, the lively interest which he seemed to feel for her, and the flattering way in which she was mentioned by him, added to the report of his judgment and virtue, and to the impression made upon her by his eloquence, confirmed the favourable opinion with which his first appearance had inspired Antonia. She replied with diffidence, but without restraint: she feared not to relate to him all her little sorrows, all her little fears and anxieties; and she thanked him for his goodness with all the genuine warmth which favours kindle in a young and innocent heart. Such alone knows how to estimate benefits at their full value. They who are conscious of mankind’s perfidy and selfishness, ever receive an obligation with apprehension and distrust; they suspect that some secret motive must lurk behind it; they express their thanks with restraint and caution, and fear to praise a kind action to its full extent, aware that some future day a return may be required. Not so Antonia—she thought the world was composed only of those who resembled her, and that vice existed was to her still a secret. The monk had been of service to her; he said that he wished her well; she was grateful for his kindness, and thought that no terms were strong enough to be the vehicle of her thanks. With what delight did Ambrosio listen to the declaration of her artless gratitude! The natural grace of her manners, the unequalled sweetness of her voice, her modest vivacity, her unstudied elegance, her expressive countenance and intelligent eyes united to inspire him with pleasure and admiration; while the solidity and correctness of her remarks received additional beauty from the unaffected simplicity of the language in which they were conveyed.
The Monk Page 24