Antonia spoke of her mother’s health with all the enthusiastic joy of a youthful heart.
“I admire your filial affection,” said the abbot; “it proves the excellence and sensibility of your character; it promises a treasure to him whom Heaven has destined to possess your affections. The breast so capable of fondness for a parent, what will it feel for a lover? Nay, perhaps, what feels it for one even now? Tell me, my lovely daughter, have you known what it is to love? Answer me with sincerity: forget my habit, and consider me only as a friend.”
“What it is to love?” said she, repeating his question. “Oh! yes, undoubtedly; I have loved many, many people.”
“That is not what I mean. The love of which I speak can be felt only for one. Have you never seen the man whom you wished to be your husband?”
“Oh! no, indeed!”
This was an untruth, but she was unconscious of its falsehood: she knew not the nature of her sentiments for Lorenzo; and never having seen him since his first visit to Elvira, with every day his image grew less feebly impressed upon her bosom: besides, she thought of a husband with all a virgin’s terror, and negatived the friar’s demand without a moment’s hesitation.
“And do you not long to see that man, Antonia? Do you feel no void in your heart, which you fain would have filled up? Do you heave no sighs for the absence of some one dear to you, but who that some one is you know not? Perceive you not that what formerly could please, has charms for you no longer? that a thousand new wishes, new ideas, new sensations, have sprung in your bosom, only to be felt, never to be described? Or, while you fill every other heart with passion, is it possible that your own remains insensible and cold? It cannot be! That melting eye, that blushing cheek, that enchanting voluptuous melancholy which at times overspreads your features—all these marks belie your words: you love, Antonia, and in vain would hide it from me.”
“Father, you amaze me! What is this love of which you speak? I neither know its nature, nor, if I felt it, why I should conceal the sentiment.”
“Have you seen no man, Antonia, whom, though never seen before, you seemed long to have sought? whose form, though a stranger’s, was familiar to your eyes? the sound of whose voice soothed you, pleased you, penetrated to your very soul? in whose presence you rejoiced, for whose absence you lamented? with whom your heart seemed to expand, and in whose bosom, with confidence unbounded, you reposed the cares of your own? Have you not felt all this, Antonia?”
“Certainly I have: the first time that I saw you, I felt it.”
Ambrosio started. Scarcely dared he credit his hearing.
“Me, Antonia?” he cried, his eyes sparkling with delight and impatience, while he seized her hand, and pressed it rapturously to his lips. “Me, Antonia? You felt these sentiments for me?”
“Even with more strength than you have described. The very moment that I beheld you, I felt so pleased, so interested! I waited so eagerly to catch the sound of your voice; and, when I heard it, it seemed so sweet! it spoke to me a language till then so unknown! Methought it told me a thousand things which I wished to hear! It seemed as if I had long known you; as if I had a right to your friendship, your advice, and your protection. I wept when you departed, and longed for the time which should restore you to my sight.”
“Antonia! my charming Antonia!” exclaimed the monk, and caught her to his bosom: “Can I believe my senses? Repeat it to me, my sweet girl! Tell me again that you love me, that you love me truly and tenderly!”
“Indeed, I do: let my mother be excepted, and the world holds no one more dear to me.”
At this frank avowal Ambrosio no longer possessed himself: wild with desire, he clasped the blushing trembler in his arms. He fastened his lips greedily upon hers, sucked in her pure delicious breath, violated with his bold hand the treasures of her bosom, and wound around him her soft and yielding limbs. Startled, alarmed, and confused at his action, surprise at first deprived her of the power of resistance. At length recovering herself, she strove to escape from his embrace.
“Father!—Ambrosio!” she cried, “release me, for God’s sake!”
But the licentious monk heeded not her prayers: he persisted in his design, and proceeded to take still greater liberties. Antonia prayed, wept, and struggled: terrified to the extreme, though at what she knew not, she exerted all her strength to repulse the friar, and was on the point of shrieking for assistance, when the chamber-door was suddenly thrown open. Ambrosio had just sufficient presence of mind to be sensible of his danger. Reluctantly he quitted his prey, and started hastily from the couch. Antonia uttered an exclamation of joy, flew towards the door, and found herself clasped in the arms of her mother.
Alarmed at some of the abbot’s speeches, which Antonia had innocently repeated, Elvira resolved to ascertain the truth of her suspicions. She had known enough of mankind, not to be imposed upon by the monk’s reputed virtue. She reflected on several circumstances, which, though trifling, on being put together seemed to authorize her fears. His frequent visits, which, as far as she could see, were confined to her family; his evident emotion, whenever she spoke of Antonia; his being in the full prime and heat of manhood; and above all, his pernicious philosophy communicated to her by Antonia, and which accorded but ill with his conversation in her presence; all these circumstances inspired her with doubts respecting the purity of Ambrosio’s friendship. In consequence she resolved, when he should next be alone with Antonia, to endeavour at surprising him. Her plan had succeeded. ’Tis true, that when she entered the room, he had already abandoned his prey; but the disorder of her daughter’s dress, and the shame and confusion stamped upon the friar’s countenance, sufficed to prove that her suspicions were but too well founded. However, she was too prudent to make those suspicions known. She judged, that to unmask the impostor would be no easy matter, the public being so much prejudiced in his favour: and having but few friends, she thought it dangerous to make herself so powerful an enemy. She affected therefore not to remark his agitation, seated herself tranquilly upon the sopha, assigned some trifling reason for having quitted her room unexpectedly, and conversed on various subjects with seeming confidence and ease.
Re-assured by her behaviour, the monk began to recover himself. He strove to answer Elvira without appearing embarrassed: but he was still too great a novice in dissimulation, and he felt that he must look confused and awkward. He soon broke off the conversation, and rose to depart. What was his vexation when, on taking leave, Elvira told him, in polite terms, that being now perfectly re-established, she thought it an injustice to deprive others of his company who might be more in need of it! She assured him of her eternal gratitude, for the benefit which during her illness she had derived from his society and exhortations: and she lamented that her domestic affairs, as well as the multitude of business which his situation must of necessity impose upon him, would in future deprive her of the pleasure of his visits. Though delivered in the mildest language, this hint was too plain to be mistaken. Still he was preparing to put in a remonstrance, when an expressive look from Elvira stopped him short. He dared not press her to receive him, for her manner convinced him that he was discovered: he submitted without reply, took an hasty leave, and retired to the abbey, his heart filled with rage and shame, with bitterness and disappointment.
Antonia’s mind felt relieved by his departure; yet she could not help lamenting that she was never to see him more. Elvira also felt a secret sorrow: she had received too much pleasure from thinking him her friend, not to regret the necessity of changing her opinion; but her mind was too much accustomed to the fallacy of worldly friendships to permit her present disappointment to weigh upon it long. She now endeavoured to make her daughter aware of the risk which she had run: but she was obliged to treat the subject with caution, lest, in removing the bandage of ignorance, the veil of innocence should be rent away. She therefore contented herself with warning Antonia to be upon her guard, and ordering her, should the abbot persist in his visits, n
ever to receive them but in company. With this injunction Antonia promised to comply.
Ambrosio hastened to his cell. He closed the door after him, and threw himself upon the bed in despair. The impulse of desire, the stings of disappointment, the shame of detection, and the fear of being publicly unmasked, rendered his bosom a scene of the most horrible confusion. He knew not what course to pursue. Debarred the presence of Antonia, he had no hopes of satisfying that passion which was now become a part of his existence. He reflected that his secret was in a woman’s power: he trembled with apprehension when he beheld the precipice before him, and with rage when he thought that, had it not been for Elvira, he should now have possessed the object of his desires. With the direst imprecations he vowed vengeance against her: he swore that, cost what it would, he still would possess Antonia. Starting from the bed, he paced the chamber with disordered steps, howled with impotent fury, dashed himself violently against the walls, and indulged all the transports of rage and madness.
He was still under the influence of this storm of passions, when he heard a gentle knock at the door of his cell. Conscious that his voice must have been heard, he dared not refuse admittance to the importuner. He strove to compose himself, and to hide his agitation. Having in some degree succeeded, he drew back the bolt: the door opened, and Matilda appeared.
At this precise moment there was no one with whose presence he could better have dispensed. He had not sufficient command over himself to conceal his vexation. He started back, and frowned.
“I am busy,” said he in a stern and hasty tone; “leave me.”
Matilda heeded him not: she again fastened the door, and then advanced towards him with an air gentle and supplicating.
“Forgive me, Ambrosio,” said she; “for your own sake I must not obey you. Fear no complaints from me; I come not to reproach you with your ingratitude. I pardon you from my heart; and since your love can no longer be mine, I request the next best gift, your confidence and friendship. We cannot force our inclinations: the little beauty which you once saw in me has perished with its novelty; and if it can no longer excite desire, mine is the fault, not yours. But why persist in shunning me? why such anxiety to fly my presence? You have sorrows, but will not permit me to share them; you have disappointments, but will not accept my comfort; you have wishes, but forbid my aiding your pursuits. ’Tis of this which I complain, not of your indifference to my person. I have given up the claims of the mistress, but nothing shall prevail on me to give up those of the friend.”
“Generous Matilda!” he replied, taking her hand, “how far do you rise superior to the foibles of your sex! Yes, I accept your offer. I have need of an adviser, and a confident: in you I find every needful quality united. But to aid my pursuits——Ah! Matilda, it lies not in your power!”
“It lies in no one’s power but mine. Ambrosio, your secret is none to me: your every step, your every action has been observed by my attentive eye. You love.”
“Matilda!”
“Why conceal it from me? Fear not the little jealousy which taints the generality of women: my soul disdains so despicable a passion. You love, Ambrosio; Antonia Dalfa is the object of your flame. I know every circumstance respecting your passion. Every conversation has been repeated to me. I have been informed of your attempt to enjoy Antonia’s person, your disappointment, and dismission from Elvira’s house. You now despair of possessing your mistress; but I come to revive your hopes, and point out the road to success.”
“To success? Oh! impossible.”
“To those who dare, nothing is impossible. Rely upon me, and you may yet be happy. The time is come, Ambrosio, when regard for your comfort and tranquillity compels me to reveal a part of my history, with which you are still unacquainted. Listen, and do not interrupt me. Should my confession disgust you, remember that in making it my sole aim is to satisfy your wishes, and restore that peace to your heart which at present has abandoned it. I formerly mentioned, that my guardian was a man of uncommon knowledge. He took pains to instil that knowledge into my infant mind. Among the various sciences which curiosity had induced him to explore, he neglected not that which by most is esteemed impious, and by many chimerical: I speak of those arts which relate to the world of spirits. His deep researches into causes and effects, his unwearied application to the study of natural philosophy, his profound and unlimited knowledge of the properties and virtues of every gem which enriches the deep, of every herb which the earth produces, at length procured him the distinction which he had sought so long, so earnestly. His curiosity was fully slaked, his ambition amply gratified. He gave laws to the elements: he could reverse the order of nature: his eye read the mandates of futurity, and the infernal spirits were submissive to his commands. Why shrink you from me? I understand that enquiring look. Your suspicions are right, though your terrors are unfounded. My guardian concealed not from me his most precious acquisition. Yet, had I never seen you, I should never have exerted my power. Like you, I shuddered at the thoughts of magic. Like you, I had formed a terrible idea of the consequences of raising a dæmon. To preserve that life which your love had taught me to prize, I had recourse to means which I trembled at employing. You remember that night which I passed in St. Clare’s sepulchre? Then was it that, surrounded by mouldering bodies, I dared to perform those mystic rites, which summoned to my aid a fallen angel. Judge what must have been my joy at discovering that my terrors were imaginary. I saw the dæmon obedient to my orders: I saw him trembling at my frown; and found that, instead of selling my soul to a master, my courage had purchased for myself a slave.”
“Rash Matilda! What have you done? You have doomed yourself to endless perdition; you have bartered for momentary power eternal happiness! If on witchcraft depends the fruition of my desires, I renounce your aid most absolutely. The consequences are too horrible. I dote upon Antonia, but am not so blinded by lust, as to sacrifice for her enjoyment my existence both in this world and in the next.”
“Ridiculous prejudices! Oh! blush, Ambrosio, blush at being subjected to their dominion. Where is the risque of accepting my offers? What should induce my persuading you to this step, except the wish of restoring you to happiness and quiet? If there is danger, it must fall upon me. It is I who invoke the ministry of the spirits: mine therefore will be the crime, and yours the profit; but danger there is none. The enemy of mankind is my slave, not my sovereign. Is there no difference between giving and receiving laws, between serving and commanding? Awake from your idle dreams, Ambrosio! throw from you these terrors so ill suited to a soul like yours; leave them for common men, and dare to be happy! Accompany me this night to St. Clare’s sepulchre; there witness my incantations, and Antonia is your own.”
“To obtain her by such means, I neither can nor will. Cease then to persuade me, for I dare not employ hell’s agency.”
“You dare not? How have you deceived me! That mind which I esteemed so great and valiant, proves to be feeble, puerile, and grovelling, a slave to vulgar errors, and weaker than a woman’s.”
“What? Though conscious of the danger, wilfully shall I expose myself to the seducer’s arts? Shall I renounce for ever my title to salvation? Shall my eyes seek a sight which I know will blast them? No, no, Matilda, I will not ally myself with God’s enemy.”
“Are you then God’s friend at present? Have you not broken your engagements with him, renounced his service, and abandoned yourself to the impulse of your passions? Are you not planning the destruction of innocence, the ruin of a creature whom he formed in the mould of angels? If not of dæmons, whose aid would you invoke to forward this laudable design? Will the seraphims protect it, conduct Antonia to your arms, and sanction with their ministry your illicit pleasures? Absurd! But I am not deceived, Ambrosio! It is not virtue which makes you reject my offer; you would accept it, but you dare not. ’Tis not the crime which holds your hand, but the punishment; ’Tis not respect for God which restrains you, but the terror of his vengeance! Fain would you offend him
in secret, but you tremble to profess yourself his foe. Now shame on the coward soul, which wants the courage either to be a firm friend, or an open enemy!”
“To look upon guilt with horror, Matilda, is in itself a merit: in this respect I glory to confess myself a coward. Though my passions have made me deviate from her laws, I still feel in my heart an innate love of virtue. But it ill becomes you to tax me with my perjury; you who first seduced me to violate my vows; you who first roused my sleeping vices, made me feel the weight of religion’s chains, and bade me be convinced that guilt had pleasures. Yet though my principles have yielded to the force of temperament, I still have sufficient grace to shudder at sorcery, and avoid a crime so monstrous, so unpardonable!”
“Unpardonable, say you? Where then is your constant boast of the Almighty’s infinite mercy? Has he of late set bounds to it? Receives he no longer a sinner with joy? You injure him, Ambrosio; you will always have time to repent, and he have goodness to forgive. Afford him a glorious opportunity to exert that goodness: the greater your crime, the greater his merit in pardoning. Away then with these childish scruples; be persuaded to your good, and follow me to the sepulchre.”
“Oh! cease, Matilda! That scoffing tone, that bold and impious language is horrible in every mouth, but most so in a woman’s. Let us drop a conversation, which excites no other sentiments than horror and disgust. I will not follow you to the sepulchre, or accept the services of your infernal agents. Antonia shall be mine, but mine by human means.”
“Then yours she will never be! You are banished her presence; her mother has opened her eyes to your designs, and she is now upon her guard against them. Nay, more, she loves another; a youth of distinguished merit possesses her heart; and unless you interfere, a few days will make her his bride. This intelligence was brought me by my invisible servants, to whom I had recourse on first perceiving your indifference. They watched your every action, related to me all that passed at Elvira’s, and inspired me with the idea of favouring your designs. Their reports have been my only comfort. Though you shunned my presence, all your proceedings were known to me; nay, I was constantly with you in some degree, thanks to this most precious gift!”
The Monk Page 26