enjoyed that calm repose which innocence alone can know, and for
which many a Monarch with pleasure would exchange his Crown.
CHAPTER IV
----Ah! how dark
These long-extended realms and rueful wastes;
Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark night,
Dark as was Chaos ere the Infant Sun
Was rolled together, or had tried its beams
Athwart the gloom profound!
The sickly Taper
By glimmering through thy low-browed misty vaults,
Furred round with mouldy damps, and ropy slime,
Lets fall a supernumerary horror,
And only serves to make
Thy night more irksome!
Blair.
Returned undiscovered to the Abbey, Ambrosio's mind was filled
with the most pleasing images. He was wilfully blind to the
danger of exposing himself to Antonia's charms: He only
remembered the pleasure which her society had afforded him, and
rejoiced in the prospect of that pleasure being repeated. He
failed not to profit by Elvira's indisposition to obtain a sight
of her Daughter every day. At first He bounded his wishes to
inspire Antonia with friendship: But no sooner was He convinced
that She felt that sentiment in its fullest extent, than his aim
became more decided, and his attentions assumed a warmer colour.
The innocent familiarity with which She treated him, encouraged
his desires: Grown used to her modesty, it no longer commanded
the same respect and awe: He still admired it, but it only made
him more anxious to deprive her of that quality which formed her
principal charm. Warmth of passion, and natural penetration, of
which latter unfortunately both for himself and Antonia He
possessed an ample share, supplied a knowledge of the arts of
seduction. He easily distinguished the emotions which were
favourable to his designs, and seized every means with avidity of
infusing corruption into Antonia's bosom. This He found no easy
matter. Extreme simplicity prevented her from perceiving the aim
to which the Monk's insinuations tended; But the excellent morals
which She owed to Elvira's care, the solidity and correctness of
her understanding, and a strong sense of what was right implanted
in her heart by Nature, made her feel that his precepts must be
faulty. By a few simple words She frequently overthrew the whole
bulk of his sophistical arguments, and made him conscious how
weak they were when opposed to Virtue and Truth. On such
occasion He took refuge in his eloquence; He overpowered her
with a torrent of Philosophical paradoxes, to which, not
understanding them, it was impossible for her to reply; And thus
though He did not convince her that his reasoning was just, He at
least prevented her from discovering it to be false. He
perceived that her respect for his judgment augmented daily, and
doubted not with time to bring her to the point desired.
He was not unconscious that his attempts were highly criminal:
He saw clearly the baseness of seducing the innocent Girl: But
his passion was too violent to permit his abandoning his design.
He resolved to pursue it, let the consequences be what they
might. He depended upon finding Antonia in some unguarded
moment; And seeing no other Man admitted into her society, nor
hearing any mentioned either by her or by Elvira, He imagined
that her young heart was still unoccupied. While He waited for
the opportunity of satisfying his unwarrantable lust, every day
increased his coldness for Matilda. Not a little was this
occasioned by the consciousness of his faults to her. To hide
them from her He was not sufficiently master of himself: Yet He
dreaded lest, in a transport of jealous rage, She should betray
the secret on which his character and even his life depended.
Matilda could not but remark his indifference: He was conscious
that She remarked it, and fearing her reproaches, shunned her
studiously. Yet when He could not avoid her, her mildness might
have convinced him that He had nothing to dread from her
resentment. She had resumed the character of the gentle
interesting Rosario: She taxed him not with ingratitude; But her
eyes filled with involuntary tears, and the soft melancholy of
her countenance and voice uttered complaints far more touching
than words could have conveyed. Ambrosio was not unmoved by her
sorrow; But unable to remove its cause, He forbore to show that
it affected him. As her conduct convinced him that He needed not
fear her vengeance, He continued to neglect her, and avoided her
company with care. Matilda saw that She in vain attempted to
regain his affections: Yet She stifled the impulse of
resentment, and continued to treat her inconstant Lover with her
former fondness and attention.
By degrees Elvira's constitution recovered itself. She was no
longer troubled with convulsions, and Antonia ceased to tremble
for her Mother. Ambrosio beheld this reestablishment with
displeasure. He saw that Elvira's knowledge of the world would
not be the Dupe of his sanctified demeanour, and that She would
easily perceive his views upon her Daughter. He resolved
therefore, before She quitted her chamber, to try the extent of
his influence over the innocent Antonia.
One evening, when He had found Elvira almost perfectly restored
to health, He quitted her earlier than was his usual custom. Not
finding Antonia in the Antichamber, He ventured to follow her
to her own. It was only separated from her Mother's by a Closet,
in which Flora, the Waiting-Woman, generally slept. Antonia sat
upon a Sopha with her back towards the door, and read
attentively. She heard not his approach, till He had seated
himself by her. She started, and welcomed him with a look of
pleasure: Then rising, She would have conducted him to the
sitting-room; But Ambrosio taking her hand, obliged her by gentle
violence to resume her place. She complied without difficulty:
She knew not that there was more impropriety in conversing with
him in one room than another. She thought herself equally secure
of his principles and her own, and having replaced herself upon
the Sopha, She began to prattle to him with her usual ease and
vivacity.
He examined the Book which She had been reading, and had now
placed upon the Table. It was the Bible.
'How!' said the Friar to himself; 'Antonia reads the Bible, and
is still so ignorant?'
But, upon a further inspection, He found that Elvira had made
exactly the same remark. That prudent Mother, while She admired
the beauties of the sacred writings, was convinced that,
unrestricted, no reading more improper could be permitted a young
Woman. Many of the narratives can only tend to excite ideas the
worst calculated for a female breast: Every thing is called
plainly and roundly by its name; and the annals of a Brothel
would scarcely furnish a greater choice of indecent expressions.
Yet this is the Book which young Women are recommend
ed to study;
which is put into the hands of Children, able to comprehend
little more than those passages of which they had better remain
ignorant; and which but too frequently inculcates the first
rudiments of vice, and gives the first alarm to the still
sleeping passions. Of this was Elvira so fully convinced, that
She would have preferred putting into her Daughter's hands
'Amadis de Gaul,' or 'The Valiant Champion, Tirante the
White;' and would sooner have authorised her studying the lewd
exploits of 'Don Galaor,' or the lascivious jokes of the
'Damsel Plazer di mi vida.' She had in consequence made two
resolutions respecting the Bible. The first was that Antonia
should not read it till She was of an age to feel its beauties,
and profit by its morality: The second, that it should be copied
out with her own hand, and all improper passages either altered
or omitted. She had adhered to this determination, and such was
the Bible which Antonia was reading: It had been lately
delivered to her, and She perused it with an avidity, with a
delight that was inexpressible. Ambrosio perceived his mistake,
and replaced the Book upon the Table.
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 an 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 sprang 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 belye 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, surprize 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 surprizing
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 Imposter
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.
Reassured 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 reestablished, 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
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