proud, vain, ambitious, and disdainful: He was jealous of his
Equals, and despised all merit but his own: He was implacable
when offended, and cruel in his revenge. Still in spite of the
pains taken to pervert them, his natural good qualities would
occasionally break through the gloom cast over them so carefully:
At such times the contest for superiority between his real and
acquired character was striking and unaccountable to those
unacquainted with his original disposition. He pronounced the
most severe sentences upon Offenders, which, the moment after,
Compassion induced him to mitigate: He undertook the most daring
enterprizes, which the fear of their consequences soon obliged
him to abandon: His inborn genius darted a brilliant light upon
subjects the most obscure; and almost instantaneously his
Superstition replunged them in darkness more profound than that
from which they had just been rescued. His Brother Monks,
regarding him as a Superior Being, remarked not this
contradiction in their Idol's conduct. They were persuaded that
what He did must be right, and supposed him to have good reasons
for changing his resolutions. The fact was, that the different
sentiments with which Education and Nature had inspired him
were combating in his bosom: It remained for his passions, which
as yet no opportunity had called into play, to decide the
victory. Unfortunately his passions were the very worst Judges,
to whom He could possibly have applied. His monastic seclusion
had till now been in his favour, since it gave him no room for
discovering his bad qualities. The superiority of his talents
raised him too far above his Companions to permit his being
jealous of them: His exemplary piety, persuasive eloquence, and
pleasing manners had secured him universal Esteem, and
consequently He had no injuries to revenge: His Ambition was
justified by his acknowledged merit, and his pride considered as
no more than proper confidence. He never saw, much less
conversed with, the other sex: He was ignorant of the pleasures
in Woman's power to bestow, and if He read in the course of his
studies
'That Men were fond, He smiled, and wondered how!'
For a time, spare diet, frequent watching, and severe penance
cooled and represt 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
deathbed, 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
enthralls 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 distrest, 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
weat
her 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 Conde'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 lovesick
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 locks
were always ornamented with a garland of willow; Every evening
She was seen straying upon the Banks of a rivulet by Moonlight;
The Monk - A Romance Page 27