The Monk - A Romance

by The Monk [lit]

  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 surprize.

  '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

  since 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 stillborn Child, whom She immediately followed to the Grave.

  How, Segnor? Is it possible that your countenance expresses no

  surprize, 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 past 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

  meanwhile 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 dropt 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.

  CHAPTER III

  While in each other's arms entranced They lay,

  They blessed the night, and curst the coming day.

  Lee.

  The burst of transport was past: 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 disagreable 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 sha
red 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 glewed 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

  appall 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 past in your arms in this world

  o'er-pays 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 as 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

  that 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 p
rotection 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 drest 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