The Monk - A Romance

by The Monk [lit]

  left unlocked.

  Thither Matilda bent her course. She opened the wicket and

  sought for the door leading to the subterraneous Vaults, where

  reposed the mouldering Bodies of the Votaries of St. Clare. The

  night was perfectly dark; Neither Moon or Stars were visible.

  Luckily there was not a breath of Wind, and the Friar bore his

  Lamp in full security: By the assistance of its beams, the door

  of the Sepulchre was soon discovered. It was sunk within the

  hollow of a wall, and almost concealed by thick festoons of ivy

  hanging over it. Three steps of rough-hewn Stone conducted to

  it, and Matilda was on the point of descending them when She

  suddenly started back.

  'There are People in the Vaults!' She whispered to the Monk;

  'Conceal yourself till they are past.

  She took refuge behind a lofty and magnificent Tomb, erected in

  honour of the Convent's Foundress. Ambrosio followed her

  example, carefully hiding his Lamp lest its beams should betray

  them. But a few moments had elapsed when the Door was pushed

  open leading to the subterraneous Caverns. Rays of light

  proceeded up the Staircase: They enabled the concealed

  Spectators to observe two Females drest in religious habits, who

  seemed engaged in earnest conversation. The Abbot had no

  difficulty to recognize the Prioress of St. Clare in the first,

  and one of the elder Nuns in her Companion.

  'Every thing is prepared,' said the Prioress; 'Her fate shall be

  decided tomorrow. All her tears and sighs will be unavailing.

  No! In five and twenty years that I have been Superior of this

  Convent, never did I witness a transaction more infamous!'

  'You must expect much opposition to your will;' the Other replied

  in a milder voice; 'Agnes has many Friends in the Convent, and in

  particular the Mother St. Ursula will espouse her cause most

  warmly. In truth, She merits to have Friends; and I wish I

  could prevail upon you to consider her youth, and her peculiar

  situation. She seems sensible of her fault; The excess of her

  grief proves her penitence, and I am convinced that her tears

  flow more from contrition than fear of punishment. Reverend

  Mother, would you be persuaded to mitigate the severity of your

  sentence, would you but deign to overlook this first

  transgression, I offer myself as the pledge of her future

  conduct.'

  'Overlook it, say you? Mother Camilla, you amaze me! What?

  After disgracing me in the presence of Madrid's Idol, of the very

  Man on whom I most wished to impress an idea of the strictness of

  my discipline? How despicable must I have appeared to the

  reverend Abbot! No, Mother, No! I never can forgive the insult.

  I cannot better convince Ambrosio that I abhor such crimes, than

  by punishing that of Agnes with all the rigour of which our

  severe laws admit. Cease then your supplications; They will all

  be unavailing. My resolution is taken: Tomorrow Agnes shall be

  made a terrible example of my justice and resentment.'

  The Mother Camilla seemed not to give up the point, but by this

  time the Nuns were out of hearing. The Prioress unlocked the

  door which communicated with St. Clare's Chapel, and having

  entered with her Companion, closed it again after them.

  Matilda now asked, who was this Agnes with whom the Prioress was

  thus incensed, and what connexion She could have with Ambrosio.

  He related her adventure; and He added, that since that time his

  ideas having undergone a thorough revolution, He now felt much

  compassion for the unfortunate Nun.

  'I design,' said He, 'to request an audience of the Domina

  tomorrow, and use every means of obtaining a mitigation of her

  sentence.'

  'Beware of what you do!' interrupted Matilda; 'Your sudden change

  of sentiment may naturally create surprize, and may give birth to

  suspicions which it is most our interest to avoid. Rather,

  redouble your outward austerity, and thunder out menaces against

  the errors of others, the better to conceal your own. Abandon

  the Nun to her fate. Your interfering might be dangerous, and

  her imprudence merits to be punished: She is unworthy to enjoy

  Love's pleasures, who has not wit enough to conceal them. But in

  discussing this trifling subject I waste moments which are

  precious. The night flies apace, and much must be done before

  morning. The Nuns are retired; All is safe. Give me the Lamp,

  Ambrosio. I must descend alone into these Caverns: Wait here,

  and if any one approaches, warn me by your voice; But as you

  value your existence, presume not to follow me. Your life would

  fall a victim to your imprudent curiosity.'

  Thus saying She advanced towards the Sepulchre, still holding her

  Lamp in one hand, and her little Basket in the other. She

  touched the door: It turned slowly upon its grating hinges, and

  a narrow winding staircase of black marble presented itself to

  her eyes. She descended it. Ambrosio remained above, watching

  the faint beams of the Lamp as they still proceeded up the

  stairs. They disappeared, and He found himself in total

  darkness.

  Left to himself He could not reflect without surprize on the

  sudden change in Matilda's character and sentiments. But a few

  days had past since She appeared the mildest and softest of her

  sex, devoted to his will, and looking up to him as to a superior

  Being. Now She assumed a sort of courage and manliness in her

  manners and discourse but ill-calculated to please him. She

  spoke no longer to insinuate, but command: He found himself

  unable to cope with her in argument, and was unwillingly

  obliged to confess the superiority of her judgment. Every moment

  convinced him of the astonishing powers of her mind: But what

  She gained in the opinion of the Man, She lost with interest in

  the affection of the Lover. He regretted Rosario, the fond, the

  gentle, and submissive: He grieved that Matilda preferred the

  virtues of his sex to those of her own; and when He thought of

  her expressions respecting the devoted Nun, He could not help

  blaming them as cruel and unfeminine. Pity is a sentiment so

  natural, so appropriate to the female character, that it is

  scarcely a merit for a Woman to possess it, but to be without it

  is a grievous crime. Ambrosio could not easily forgive his

  Mistress for being deficient in this amiable quality. However,

  though he blamed her insensibility, He felt the truth of her

  observations; and though He pitied sincerely the unfortunate

  Agnes, He resolved to drop the idea of interposing in her behalf.

  Near an hour had elapsed, since Matilda descended into the

  Caverns; Still She returned not. Ambrosio's curiosity was

  excited. He drew near the Staircase. He listened. All was

  silent, except that at intervals He caught the sound of Matilda's

  voice, as it wound along the subteraneous passages, and was

  re-echoed by the Sepulchre's vaulted roofs. She was at too great

  a distance for him to distinguish her words, and ere they reached

  him t
hey were deadened into a low murmur. He longed to penetrate

  into this mystery. He resolved to disobey her injunctions and

  follow her into the Cavern. He advanced to the Staircase; He

  had already descended some steps when his courage failed him.

  He remembered Matilda's menaces if He infringed her orders, and

  his bosom was filled with a secret unaccountable awe. He

  returned up the stairs, resumed his former station, and waited

  impatiently for the conclusion of this adventure.

  Suddenly He was sensible of a violent shock: An earthquake

  rocked the ground. The Columns which supported the roof under

  which He stood were so strongly shaken, that every moment

  menaced him with its fall, and at the same moment He heard a loud

  and tremendous burst of thunder. It ceased, and his eyes being

  fixed upon the Staircase, He saw a bright column of light flash

  along the Caverns beneath. It was seen but for an instant. No

  sooner did it disappear, than all was once more quiet and

  obscure. Profound Darkness again surrounded him, and the silence

  of night was only broken by the whirring Bat, as She flitted

  slowly by him.

  With every instant Ambrosio's amazement increased. Another hour

  elapsed, after which the same light again appeared and was lost

  again as suddenly. It was accompanied by a strain of sweet but

  solemn Music, which as it stole through the Vaults below,

  inspired the Monk with mingled delight and terror. It had not

  long been hushed, when He heard Matilda's steps upon the

  Staircase. She ascended from the Cavern; The most lively joy

  animated her beautiful features.

  'Did you see any thing?' She asked.

  'Twice I saw a column of light flash up the Staircase.'

  'Nothing else?'

  'Nothing.'

  'The Morning is on the point of breaking. Let us retire to the

  Abbey, lest daylight should betray us.'

  With a light step She hastened from the burying-ground. She

  regained her Cell, and the curious Abbot still accompanied her.

  She closed the door, and disembarrassed herself of her Lamp and

  Basket.

  'I have succeeded!' She cried, throwing herself upon his bosom:

  'Succeeded beyond my fondest hopes! I shall live, Ambrosio,

  shall live for you! The step which I shuddered at taking

  proves to me a source of joys inexpressible! Oh! that I dared

  communicate those joys to you! Oh! that I were permitted to

  share with you my power, and raise you as high above the level of

  your sex, as one bold deed has exalted me above mine!'

  'And what prevents you, Matilda?' interrupted the Friar; 'Why is

  your business in the Cavern made a secret? Do you think me

  undeserving of your confidence? Matilda, I must doubt the truth

  of your affection, while you have joys in which I am forbidden to

  share.'

  'You reproach me with injustice. I grieve sincerely that I am

  obliged to conceal from you my happiness. But I am not to blame:

  The fault lies not in me, but in yourself, my Ambrosio! You are

  still too much the Monk. Your mind is enslaved by the prejudices

  of Education; And Superstition might make you shudder at the idea

  of that which experience has taught me to prize and value. At

  present you are unfit to be trusted with a secret of such

  importance: But the strength of your judgment; and the curiosity

  which I rejoice to see sparkling in your eyes, makes me hope

  that you will one day deserve my confidence. Till that period

  arrives, restrain your impatience. Remember that you have given

  me your solemn oath never to enquire into this night's

  adventures. I insist upon your keeping this oath: For though'

  She added smiling, while She sealed his lips with a wanton kiss;

  'Though I forgive your breaking your vows to heaven, I expect you

  to keep your vows to me.'

  The Friar returned the embrace which had set his blood on fire.

  The luxurious and unbounded excesses of the former night were

  renewed, and they separated not till the Bell rang for Matins.

  The same pleasures were frequently repeated. The Monks rejoiced

  in the feigned Rosario's unexpected recovery, and none of them

  suspected his real sex. The Abbot possessed his Mistress in

  tranquillity, and perceiving his frailty unsuspected, abandoned

  himself to his passions in full security. Shame and remorse no

  longer tormented him. Frequent repetitions made him familiar

  with sin, and his bosom became proof against the stings of

  Conscience. In these sentiments He was encouraged by Matilda;

  But She soon was aware that She had satiated her Lover by the

  unbounded freedom of her caresses. Her charms becoming

  accustomed to him, they ceased to excite the same desires which

  at first they had inspired. The delirium of passion being past,

  He had leisure to observe every trifling defect: Where none were

  to be found, Satiety made him fancy them. The Monk was glutted

  with the fullness of pleasure: A Week had scarcely elapsed

  before He was wearied of his Paramour: His warm constitution

  still made him seek in her arms the gratification of his lust:

  But when the moment of passion was over, He quitted her with

  disgust, and his humour, naturally inconstant, made him sigh

  impatiently for variety.

  Possession, which cloys Man, only increases the affection of

  Woman. Matilda with every succeeding day grew more attached to

  the Friar. Since He had obtained her favours, He was become

  dearer to her than ever, and She felt grateful to him for the

  pleasures in which they had equally been Sharers. Unfortunately

  as her passion grew ardent, Ambrosio's grew cold; The very marks

  of her fondness excited his disgust, and its excess served to

  extinguish the flame which already burned but feebly in his

  bosom. Matilda could not but remark that her society seemed to

  him daily less agreeable: He was inattentive while She spoke:

  her musical talents, which She possessed in perfection, had lost

  the power of amusing him; Or if He deigned to praise them, his

  compliments were evidently forced and cold. He no longer gazed

  upon her with affection, or applauded her sentiments with a

  Lover's partiality. This Matilda well perceived, and redoubled

  her efforts to revive those sentiments which He once had felt.

  She could not but fail, since He considered as importunities the

  pains which She took to please him, and was disgusted by the very

  means which She used to recall the Wanderer. Still, however,

  their illicit Commerce continued: But it was clear that He was

  led to her arms, not by love, but the cravings of brutal

  appetite. His constitution made a Woman necessary to him, and

  Matilda was the only one with whom He could indulge his passions

  safely: In spite of her beauty, He gazed upon every other Female

  with more desire; But fearing that his Hypocrisy should be made

  public, He confined his inclinations to his own breast.

  It was by no means his nature to be timid: But his education had

  impressed his mind with fear so strongly, that apprehension was

  now become
part of his character. Had his Youth been passed in

  the world, He would have shown himself possessed of many

  brilliant and manly qualities. He was naturally enterprizing,

  firm, and fearless: He had a Warrior's heart, and He might have

  shone with splendour at the head of an Army. There was no want

  of generosity in his nature: The Wretched never failed to find

  in him a compassionate Auditor: His abilities were quick and

  shining, and his judgment, vast, solid, and decisive. With such

  qualifications He would have been an ornament to his Country:

  That He possessed them, He had given proofs in his earliest

  infancy, and his Parents had beheld his dawning virtues with the

  fondest delight and admiration. Unfortunately, while yet a Child

  He was deprived of those Parents. He fell into the power of a

  Relation whose only wish about him was never to hear of him

  more; For that purpose He gave him in charge to his Friend, the

  former Superior of the Capuchins. The Abbot, a very Monk, used

  all his endeavours to persuade the Boy that happiness existed

  not without the walls of a Convent. He succeeded fully. To

  deserve admittance into the order of St. Francis was Ambrosio's

  highest ambition. His Instructors carefully repressed those

  virtues whose grandeur and disinterestedness were ill-suited to

  the Cloister. Instead of universal benevolence, He adopted a

  selfish partiality for his own particular establishment: He was

  taught to consider compassion for the errors of Others as a crime

  of the blackest dye: The noble frankness of his temper was

  exchanged for servile humility; and in order to break his natural

  spirit, the Monks terrified his young mind by placing before him

  all the horrors with which Superstition could furnish them: They

  painted to him the torments of the Damned in colours the most

  dark, terrible, and fantastic, and threatened him at the

  slightest fault with eternal perdition. No wonder that his

  imagination constantly dwelling upon these fearful objects should

  have rendered his character timid and apprehensive. Add to this,

  that his long absence from the great world, and total

  unacquaintance with the common dangers of life, made him form of

  them an idea far more dismal than the reality. While the Monks

  were busied in rooting out his virtues and narrowing his

  sentiments, they allowed every vice which had fallen to his

  share to arrive at full perfection. He was suffered to be