by M. G. Lewis
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 andterrified at his weakness, He drew himself from Matilda's arms. Hisperjury presented itself before him: He reflected on the scene whichhad just been acted, and trembled at the consequences of a discovery.He looked forward with horror; His heart was despondent, and became theabode of satiety and disgust. He avoided the eyes of his Partner infrailty; A melancholy silence prevailed, during which Both seemedbusied with disagreeable reflections.
Matilda was the first to break it. She took his hand gently, andpressed 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, andher supplicating looks seemed to solicit his compassion.
'Dangerous Woman!' said He; 'Into what an abyss of misery have youplunged 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 trustmyself to your seductions! What can now be done? How can my offence beexpiated? 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 youthe world's pleasures, the luxury of wealth, the delicacy of sex, myFriends, my fortune, and my fame? What have you lost, which Ipreserved? Have _I_ not shared in YOUR guilt? Have YOU not shared inMY pleasure? Guilt, did I say? In what consists ours, unless in theopinion of an ill-judging World? Let that World be ignorant of them,and our joys become divine and blameless! Unnatural were your vows ofCelibacy; Man was not created for such a state; And were Love a crime,God never would have made it so sweet, so irresistible! Then banishthose clouds from your brow, my Ambrosio! Indulge in those pleasuresfreely, without which life is a worthless gift: Cease to reproach mewith having taught you what is bliss, and feel equal transports withthe Woman who adores you!'
As She spoke, her eyes were filled with a delicious languor. Her bosompanted: She twined her arms voluptuously round him, drew him towardsher, and glewed her lips to his. Ambrosio again raged with desire:The die was thrown: His vows were already broken; He had alreadycommitted the crime, and why should He refrain from enjoying itsreward? He clasped her to his breast with redoubled ardour. No longerrepressed by the sense of shame, He gave a loose to his intemperateappetites. While the fair Wanton put every invention of lust inpractice, every refinement in the art of pleasure which might heightenthe bliss of her possession, and render her Lover's transports stillmore exquisite, Ambrosio rioted in delights till then unknown to him:Swift fled the night, and the Morning blushed to behold him stillclasped in the embraces of Matilda.
Intoxicated with pleasure, the Monk rose from the Syren's luxuriousCouch. He no longer reflected with shame upon his incontinence, ordreaded the vengeance of offended heaven. His only fear was lest Deathshould rob him of enjoyments, for which his long Fast had only given akeener edge to his appetite. Matilda was still under the influence ofpoison, and the voluptuous Monk trembled less for his Preserver's lifethan his Concubine's. Deprived of her, He would not easily findanother Mistress with whom He could indulge his passions so fully, andso safely. He therefore pressed her with earnestness to use the meansof preservation which She had declared to be in her possession.
'Yes!' replied Matilda; 'Since you have made me feel that Life isvaluable, I will rescue mine at any rate. No dangers shall appall me:I will look upon the consequences of my action boldly, nor shudder atthe horrors which they present. I will think my sacrifice scarcelyworthy to purchase your possession, and remember that a moment past inyour 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 neverto 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 youknow it not, you are under the command of vulgar prejudices: TheBusiness on which I must be employed this night, might startle you fromits singularity, and lower me in your opinion. Tell me; Are youpossessed 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 theSisterhood of St. Clare? I have not the Key, but can easily procureit.'
'You have only this to do. Admit me into the burying-ground atmidnight; Watch while I descend into the vaults of St. Clare, lest someprying eye should observe my actions; Leave me there alone for an hour,and that life is safe which I dedicate to your pleasures. To preventcreating 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, FatherPablos made his appearance.
'I come,' said the Latter, 'to enquire after the health of my youngPatient.'
'Hush!' replied Ambrosio, laying his finger upon his lip; 'Speaksoftly; I am just come from him. He has fallen into a profoundslumber, which doubtless will be of service to him. Do not disturb himat present, for He wishes to repose.'
Father Pablos obeyed, and hearing the Bell ring, accompanied the Abbotto Matins. Ambrosio felt embarrassed as He entered the Chapel. Guiltwas new to him, and He fancied that every eye could read thetransactions of the night upon his countenance. He strove to pray; Hisbosom no longer glowed with devotion; His thoughts insensibly wanderedto Matilda's secret charms. But what He wanted in purity of heart, Hesupplied by exterior sanctity. The better to cloak his transgression,He redoubled his pretensions to the semblance of virtue, and neverappeared more devoted to Heaven as since He had broken through hisengagements. Thus did He unconsciously add Hypocrisy to perjury andincontinence; He had fallen into the latter errors from yielding toseduction almost irresistible; But he was now guilty of a voluntaryfault by endeavouring to conceal those into which Another had betrayedhim.
The Matins concluded, Ambrosio retired to his Cell. The pleasureswhich He had just tasted for the first time were still impressed uponhis mind. His brain was bewildered, and presented a confused Chaos ofremorse, voluptuousness, inquietude, and fear. He looked back withregret to that peace of soul, that security of virtue, which till thenhad been his portion. He had indulged in excesses whose very idea butfour and twenty hours before He had recoiled at with horror. Heshuddered at reflecting that a trifling indiscretion on his part, or onMatilda's, would overturn that fabric of reputation which it had costhim thirty years to erect, and render him the abhorrence of that Peopleof whom He was then the Idol. Conscience painted to him in glaringcolours his perjury and weakness; Apprehension magnified to him thehorrors of punishment, and He already fancied himself in the prisons ofthe 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. Heconsidered the pleasures of the former night to have been purchased atan easy price by the sacrifice of innocence and honour. Their veryremembrance filled his soul with ecstacy; He cursed his foolish vanity,which had induced him to waste in obscurity the bloom of life, ignorantof the blessings of Love and Woman. He determined at all events tocontinue his commerce with Matilda, and called every argument to hisaid which might confirm his resolution. He asked himself, provided hisirregularity was unknown, in what would his fault consist, and whatconsequences He had to apprehend? By adhering strictly to every ruleof his order save Chastity, He doubted not to retain the esteem of Men,and even the protection of heaven. He trusted easily to be forgiven soslight and natural a deviation from his vows: But He forgot thathaving pronounced those vows, Incont
inence, in Laymen the most venialof errors, became in his person the most heinous of crimes.
Once decided upon his future conduct, his mind became more easy. Hethrew himself upon his bed, and strove by sleeping to recruit hisstrength exhausted by his nocturnal excesses. He awoke refreshed, andeager for a repetition of his pleasures. Obedient to Matilda's order,He visited not her Cell during the day. Father Pablos mentioned in theRefectory that Rosario had at length been prevailed upon to follow hisprescription; But that the medicine had not produced the slightesteffect, and that He believed no mortal skill could rescue him from theGrave. With this opinion the Abbot agreed, and affected to lament theuntimely fate of a Youth, whose talents had appeared so promising.
The night arrived. Ambrosio had taken care to procure from the Porterthe Key of the low door opening into the Cemetery. Furnished with this,when all was silent in the Monastery, He quitted his Cell, and hastenedto Matilda's. She had left her bed, and was drest before his arrival.
'I have been expecting you with impatience,' said She; 'My life dependsupon 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 onehand, and the Lamp, which was flaming upon the Hearth, in the other,She hastened from the Cell. Ambrosio followed her. Both maintained aprofound silence. She moved on with quick but cautious steps, passedthrough the Cloisters, and reached the Western side of the Garden. Hereyes flashed with a fire and wildness which impressed the Monk at oncewith awe and horror. A determined desperate courage reigned upon herbrow. She gave the Lamp to Ambrosio; Then taking from him the Key, Sheunlocked the low Door, and entered the Cemetery. It was a vast andspacious Square planted with yew trees: Half of it belonged to theAbbey; 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 aniron railing, the wicket of which was generally left unlocked.
Thither Matilda bent her course. She opened the wicket and sought forthe door leading to the subterraneous Vaults, where reposed themouldering Bodies of the Votaries of St. Clare. The night wasperfectly dark; Neither Moon or Stars were visible. Luckily there wasnot a breath of Wind, and the Friar bore his Lamp in full security: Bythe assistance of its beams, the door of the Sepulchre was soondiscovered. It was sunk within the hollow of a wall, and almostconcealed by thick festoons of ivy hanging over it. Three steps ofrough-hewn Stone conducted to it, and Matilda was on the point ofdescending them when She suddenly started back.
'There are People in the Vaults!' She whispered to the Monk; 'Concealyourself till they are past.
She took refuge behind a lofty and magnificent Tomb, erected in honourof the Convent's Foundress. Ambrosio followed her example, carefullyhiding his Lamp lest its beams should betray them. But a few momentshad elapsed when the Door was pushed open leading to the subterraneousCaverns. Rays of light proceeded up the Staircase: They enabled theconcealed Spectators to observe two Females drest in religious habits,who seemed engaged in earnest conversation. The Abbot had nodifficulty to recognize the Prioress of St. Clare in the first, and oneof the elder Nuns in her Companion.
'Every thing is prepared,' said the Prioress; 'Her fate shall bedecided tomorrow. All her tears and sighs will be unavailing. No! Infive and twenty years that I have been Superior of this Convent, neverdid I witness a transaction more infamous!'
'You must expect much opposition to your will;' the Other replied in amilder voice; 'Agnes has many Friends in the Convent, and in particularthe Mother St. Ursula will espouse her cause most warmly. In truth,She merits to have Friends; and I wish I could prevail upon you toconsider her youth, and her peculiar situation. She seems sensible ofher fault; The excess of her grief proves her penitence, and I amconvinced that her tears flow more from contrition than fear ofpunishment. Reverend Mother, would you be persuaded to mitigate theseverity of your sentence, would you but deign to overlook this firsttransgression, I offer myself as the pledge of her future conduct.'
'Overlook it, say you? Mother Camilla, you amaze me! What? Afterdisgracing me in the presence of Madrid's Idol, of the very Man on whomI 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 Ambrosiothat I abhor such crimes, than by punishing that of Agnes with all therigour of which our severe laws admit. Cease then your supplications;They will all be unavailing. My resolution is taken: Tomorrow Agnesshall be made a terrible example of my justice and resentment.'
The Mother Camilla seemed not to give up the point, but by this timethe Nuns were out of hearing. The Prioress unlocked the door whichcommunicated with St. Clare's Chapel, and having entered with herCompanion, closed it again after them.
Matilda now asked, who was this Agnes with whom the Prioress was thusincensed, and what connexion She could have with Ambrosio. He relatedher adventure; and He added, that since that time his ideas havingundergone a thorough revolution, He now felt much compassion for theunfortunate 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 ofsentiment may naturally create surprize, and may give birth tosuspicions which it is most our interest to avoid. Rather, redoubleyour outward austerity, and thunder out menaces against the errors ofothers, the better to conceal your own. Abandon the Nun to her fate.Your interfering might be dangerous, and her imprudence merits to bepunished: She is unworthy to enjoy Love's pleasures, who has not witenough to conceal them. But in discussing this trifling subject Iwaste moments which are precious. The night flies apace, and much mustbe done before morning. The Nuns are retired; All is safe. Give methe Lamp, Ambrosio. I must descend alone into these Caverns: Waithere, and if any one approaches, warn me by your voice; But as youvalue your existence, presume not to follow me. Your life would fall avictim to your imprudent curiosity.'
Thus saying She advanced towards the Sepulchre, still holding her Lampin one hand, and her little Basket in the other. She touched the door:It turned slowly upon its grating hinges, and a narrow windingstaircase of black marble presented itself to her eyes. She descendedit. Ambrosio remained above, watching the faint beams of the Lamp asthey still proceeded up the stairs. They disappeared, and He foundhimself in total darkness.
Left to himself He could not reflect without surprize on the suddenchange in Matilda's character and sentiments. But a few days had pastsince She appeared the mildest and softest of her sex, devoted to hiswill, and looking up to him as to a superior Being. Now She assumed asort of courage and manliness in her manners and discourse butill-calculated to please him. She spoke no longer to insinuate, butcommand: He found himself unable to cope with her in argument, and wasunwillingly obliged to confess the superiority of her judgment. Everymoment convinced him of the astonishing powers of her mind: But whatShe gained in the opinion of the Man, She lost with interest in theaffection of the Lover. He regretted Rosario, the fond, the gentle,and submissive: He grieved that Matilda preferred the virtues of hissex to those of her own; and when He thought of her expressionsrespecting the devoted Nun, He could not help blaming them as cruel andunfeminine. Pity is a sentiment so natural, so appropriate to thefemale character, that it is scarcely a merit for a Woman to possessit, but to be without it is a grievous crime. Ambrosio could noteasily forgive his Mistress for being deficient in this amiablequality. However, though he blamed her insensibility, He felt thetruth of her observations; and though He pitied sincerely theunfortunate Agnes, He resolved to drop the idea of interposing in herbehalf.
Near an hour had elapsed, since Matilda descended into the Caverns;Still She returned not. Ambrosio's curiosity was excited. He drewnear the Staircase. He listened. All was silent, except that atin
tervals He caught the sound of Matilda's voice, as it wound along thesubterraneous passages, and was re-echoed by the Sepulchre's vaultedroofs. She was at too great a distance for him to distinguish herwords, and ere they reached him they were deadened into a low murmur.He longed to penetrate into this mystery. He resolved to disobey herinjunctions and follow her into the Cavern. He advanced to theStaircase; He had already descended some steps when his courage failedhim. He remembered Matilda's menaces if He infringed her orders, andhis bosom was filled with a secret unaccountable awe. He returned upthe stairs, resumed his former station, and waited impatiently for theconclusion of this adventure.
Suddenly He was sensible of a violent shock: An earthquake rocked theground. The Columns which supported the roof under which He stood wereso strongly shaken, that every moment menaced him with its fall, and atthe same moment He heard a loud and tremendous burst of thunder. Itceased, and his eyes being fixed upon the Staircase, He saw a brightcolumn of light flash along the Caverns beneath. It was seen but foran instant. No sooner did it disappear, than all was once more quietand obscure. Profound Darkness again surrounded him, and the silenceof night was only broken by the whirring Bat, as She flitted slowly byhim.
With every instant Ambrosio's amazement increased. Another hourelapsed, after which the same light again appeared and was lost againas suddenly. It was accompanied by a strain of sweet but solemn Music,which as it stole through the Vaults below, inspired the Monk withmingled delight and terror. It had not long been hushed, when He heardMatilda's steps upon the Staircase. She ascended from the Cavern; Themost 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 regainedher Cell, and the curious Abbot still accompanied her. She closed thedoor, 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 livefor you! The step which I shuddered at taking proves to me a source ofjoys inexpressible! Oh! that I dared communicate those joys to you!Oh! that I were permitted to share with you my power, and raise you ashigh above the level of your sex, as one bold deed has exalted me abovemine!'
'And what prevents you, Matilda?' interrupted the Friar; 'Why is yourbusiness in the Cavern made a secret? Do you think me undeserving ofyour 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 obligedto conceal from you my happiness. But I am not to blame: The faultlies not in me, but in yourself, my Ambrosio! You are still too muchthe Monk. Your mind is enslaved by the prejudices of Education; AndSuperstition might make you shudder at the idea of that whichexperience has taught me to prize and value. At present you are unfitto be trusted with a secret of such importance: But the strength ofyour judgment; and the curiosity which I rejoice to see sparkling inyour eyes, makes me hope that you will one day deserve my confidence.Till that period arrives, restrain your impatience. Remember that youhave given me your solemn oath never to enquire into this night'sadventures. I insist upon your keeping this oath: For though' Sheadded smiling, while She sealed his lips with a wanton kiss; 'Though Iforgive your breaking your vows to heaven, I expect you to keep yourvows to me.'
The Friar returned the embrace which had set his blood on fire. Theluxurious and unbounded excesses of the former night were renewed, andthey separated not till the Bell rang for Matins.
The same pleasures were frequently repeated. The Monks rejoiced in thefeigned Rosario's unexpected recovery, and none of them suspected hisreal sex. The Abbot possessed his Mistress in tranquillity, andperceiving his frailty unsuspected, abandoned himself to his passionsin full security. Shame and remorse no longer tormented him. Frequentrepetitions made him familiar with sin, and his bosom became proofagainst the stings of Conscience. In these sentiments He wasencouraged by Matilda; But She soon was aware that She had satiated herLover by the unbounded freedom of her caresses. Her charms becomingaccustomed to him, they ceased to excite the same desires which atfirst they had inspired. The delirium of passion being past, He hadleisure to observe every trifling defect: Where none were to be found,Satiety made him fancy them. The Monk was glutted with the fullness ofpleasure: A Week had scarcely elapsed before He was wearied of hisParamour: His warm constitution still made him seek in her arms thegratification of his lust: But when the moment of passion was over, Hequitted her with disgust, and his humour, naturally inconstant, madehim 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 thanever, and She felt grateful to him for the pleasures in which they hadequally been Sharers. Unfortunately as her passion grew ardent,Ambrosio's grew cold; The very marks of her fondness excited hisdisgust, and its excess served to extinguish the flame which alreadyburned but feebly in his bosom. Matilda could not but remark that hersociety seemed to him daily less agreeable: He was inattentive whileShe spoke: her musical talents, which She possessed in perfection, hadlost the power of amusing him; Or if He deigned to praise them, hiscompliments were evidently forced and cold. He no longer gazed uponher with affection, or applauded her sentiments with a Lover'spartiality. This Matilda well perceived, and redoubled her efforts torevive those sentiments which He once had felt. She could not but fail,since He considered as importunities the pains which She took to pleasehim, and was disgusted by the very means which She used to recall theWanderer. Still, however, their illicit Commerce continued: But itwas clear that He was led to her arms, not by love, but the cravings ofbrutal appetite. His constitution made a Woman necessary to him, andMatilda was the only one with whom He could indulge his passionssafely: In spite of her beauty, He gazed upon every other Female withmore desire; But fearing that his Hypocrisy should be made public, Heconfined his inclinations to his own breast.
It was by no means his nature to be timid: But his education hadimpressed his mind with fear so strongly, that apprehension was nowbecome part of his character. Had his Youth been passed in the world,He would have shown himself possessed of many brilliant and manlyqualities. He was naturally enterprizing, firm, and fearless: He hada Warrior's heart, and He might have shone with splendour at the headof an Army. There was no want of generosity in his nature: TheWretched never failed to find in him a compassionate Auditor: Hisabilities were quick and shining, and his judgment, vast, solid, anddecisive. With such qualifications He would have been an ornament tohis Country: That He possessed them, He had given proofs in hisearliest infancy, and his Parents had beheld his dawning virtues withthe fondest delight and admiration. Unfortunately, while yet a ChildHe was deprived of those Parents. He fell into the power of a Relationwhose only wish about him was never to hear of him more; For thatpurpose He gave him in charge to his Friend, the former Superior of theCapuchins. The Abbot, a very Monk, used all his endeavours to persuadethe Boy that happiness existed not without the walls of a Convent. Hesucceeded fully. To deserve admittance into the order of St. Franciswas Ambrosio's highest ambition. His Instructors carefully repressedthose virtues whose grandeur and disinterestedness were ill-suited tothe Cloister. Instead of universal benevolence, He adopted a selfishpartiality for his own particular establishment: He was taught toconsider compassion for the errors of Others as a crime of the blackestdye: The noble frankness of his temper was exchanged for servilehumility; and in order to break his natural spirit, the Monks terrifiedhis young mind by placing before him all the horrors with whichSuperstition could furnish them:
They painted to him the torments ofthe Damned in colours the most dark, terrible, and fantastic, andthreatened him at the slightest fault with eternal perdition. Nowonder that his imagination constantly dwelling upon these fearfulobjects should have rendered his character timid and apprehensive. Addto this, that his long absence from the great world, and totalunacquaintance with the common dangers of life, made him form of theman idea far more dismal than the reality. While the Monks were busiedin rooting out his virtues and narrowing his sentiments, they allowedevery vice which had fallen to his share to arrive at full perfection.He was suffered to be proud, vain, ambitious, and disdainful: He wasjealous of his Equals, and despised all merit but his own: He wasimplacable when offended, and cruel in his revenge. Still in spite ofthe pains taken to pervert them, his natural good qualities wouldoccasionally break through the gloom cast over them so carefully:
At such times the contest for superiority between his real and acquiredcharacter was striking and unaccountable to those unacquainted with hisoriginal disposition. He pronounced the most severe sentences uponOffenders, which, the moment after, Compassion induced him to mitigate:He undertook the most daring enterprizes, which the fear of theirconsequences soon obliged him to abandon: His inborn genius darted abrilliant light upon subjects the most obscure; and almostinstantaneously his Superstition replunged them in darkness moreprofound than that from which they had just been rescued. His BrotherMonks, regarding him as a Superior Being, remarked not thiscontradiction in their Idol's conduct. They were persuaded that whatHe did must be right, and supposed him to have good reasons forchanging his resolutions. The fact was, that the different sentimentswith which Education and Nature had inspired him were combating in hisbosom: It remained for his passions, which as yet no opportunity hadcalled into play, to decide the victory. Unfortunately his passionswere the very worst Judges, to whom He could possibly have applied.His monastic seclusion had till now been in his favour, since it gavehim no room for discovering his bad qualities. The superiority of histalents raised him too far above his Companions to permit his beingjealous of them: His exemplary piety, persuasive eloquence, andpleasing manners had secured him universal Esteem, and consequently Hehad no injuries to revenge: His Ambition was justified by hisacknowledged merit, and his pride considered as no more than properconfidence. He never saw, much less conversed with, the other sex: Hewas ignorant of the pleasures in Woman's power to bestow, and if Heread 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 cooledand represt the natural warmth of his constitution: But no sooner didopportunity present itself, no sooner did He catch a glimpse of joys towhich He was still a Stranger, than Religion's barriers were too feebleto resist the overwhelming torrent of his desires. All impedimentsyielded before the force of his temperament, warm, sanguine, andvoluptuous in the excess.
As yet his other passions lay dormant; But they only needed to be onceawakened, to display themselves with violence as great and irresistible.
He continued to be the admiration of Madrid. The Enthusiasm created byhis eloquence seemed rather to increase than diminish.
Every Thursday, which was the only day when He appeared in public, theCapuchin Cathedral was crowded with Auditors, and his discourse wasalways received with the same approbation. He was named Confessor toall the chief families in Madrid; and no one was counted fashionablewho was injoined penance by any other than Ambrosio. In his resolutionof never stirring out of his Convent, He still persisted. Thiscircumstance created a still greater opinion of his sanctity andself-denial. Above all, the Women sang forth his praises loudly, lessinfluenced by devotion than by his noble countenance, majestic air, andwell-turned, graceful figure. The Abbey door was thronged withCarriages from morning to night; and the noblest and fairest Dames ofMadrid confessed to the Abbot their secret peccadilloes.
The eyes of the luxurious Friar devoured their charms: Had hisPenitents consulted those Interpreters, He would have needed no othermeans of expressing his desires. For his misfortune, they were sostrongly persuaded of his continence, that the possibility of hisharbouring indecent thoughts never once entered their imaginations.The climate's heat, 'tis well known, operates with no small influenceupon the constitutions of the Spanish Ladies: But the most abandonedwould have thought it an easier task to inspire with passion the marbleStatue of St. Francis than the cold and rigid heart of the immaculateAmbrosio.
On his part, the Friar was little acquainted with the depravity of theworld; He suspected not that but few of his Penitents would haverejected his addresses. Yet had He been better instructed on thishead, the danger attending such an attempt would have sealed up hislips in silence. He knew that it would be difficult for a Woman tokeep a secret so strange and so important as his frailty; and He eventrembled lest Matilda should betray him. Anxious to preserve areputation which was infinitely dear to him, He saw all the risque ofcommitting it to the power of some vain giddy Female; and as theBeauties of Madrid affected only his senses without touching his heart,He forgot them as soon as they were out of his sight. The danger ofdiscovery, the fear of being repulsed, the loss of reputation, allthese considerations counselled him to stifle his desires: And thoughHe now felt for it the most perfect indifference, He was necessitatedto confine himself to Matilda's person.
One morning, the confluence of Penitents was greater than usual. He wasdetained in the Confessional Chair till a late hour. At length thecrowd was dispatched, and He prepared to quit the Chapel, when twoFemales entered and drew near him with humility. They threw up theirveils, and the youngest entreated him to listen to her for a fewmoments. The melody of her voice, of that voice to which no Man everlistened without interest, immediately caught Ambrosio's attention. Hestopped. The Petitioner seemed bowed down with affliction: Her cheekswere pale, her eyes dimmed with tears, and her hair fell in disorderover her face and bosom. Still her countenance was so sweet, soinnocent, so heavenly, as might have charmed an heart less susceptible,than that which panted in the Abbot's breast. With more than usualsoftness of manner He desired her to proceed, and heard her speak asfollows with an emotion which increased every moment.
'Reverend Father, you see an Unfortunate, threatened with the loss ofher dearest, of almost her only Friend! My Mother, my excellent Motherlies upon the bed of sickness. A sudden and dreadful malady seized herlast night; and so rapid has been its progress, that the Physiciansdespair of her life. Human aid fails me; Nothing remains for me but toimplore the mercy of Heaven. Father, all Madrid rings with the reportof your piety and virtue. Deign to remember my Mother in your prayers:Perhaps they may prevail on the Almighty to spare her; and should thatbe the case, I engage myself every Thursday in the next three Months toilluminate 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 mighthave the same conclusion.
He acceded to the request. The Petitioner returned him thanks withevery mark of gratitude, and then continued.
'I have yet another favour to ask. We are Strangers in Madrid; MyMother needs a Confessor, and knows not to whom She should apply. Weunderstand that you never quit the Abbey, and Alas! my poor Mother isunable to come hither! If you would have the goodness, reverendFather, to name a proper person, whose wise and pious consolations maysoften the agonies of my Parent's deathbed, you will confer aneverlasting favour upon hearts not ungrateful.'
With this petition also the Monk complied. Indeed, what petition wouldHe have refused, if urged in such enchanting accents? The suppliantwas so interesting! Her voice was so sweet, so harmonious! Her verytears became her, and her affliction seemed to add new lustre to hercharms. He promised to send to her a Confessor that same Evening, andbegged her to leave her address. The Companion presented him with aCard on which it was written, and then withdrew wi
th the fairPetitioner, who pronounced before her departure a thousand benedictionson the Abbot's goodness. His eyes followed her out of the Chapel. Itwas not till She was out of sight that He examined the Card, on whichHe read the following words.
'Donna Elvira Dalfa, Strada di San Iago, four doors from the Palaced'Albornos.'
The Suppliant was no other than Antonia, and Leonella was herCompanion. The Latter had not consented without difficulty toaccompany her Niece to the Abbey: Ambrosio had inspired her with suchawe that She trembled at the very sight of him. Her fears hadconquered even her natural loquacity, and while in his presence Sheuttered not a single syllable.
The Monk retired to his Cell, whither He was pursued by Antonia'simage. He felt a thousand new emotions springing in his bosom, and Hetrembled to examine into the cause which gave them birth. They weretotally different from those inspired by Matilda, when She firstdeclared her sex and her affection. He felt not the provocation oflust; No voluptuous desires rioted in his bosom; Nor did a burningimagination picture to him the charms which Modesty had veiled from hiseyes. On the contrary, what He now felt was a mingled sentiment oftenderness, admiration, and respect. A soft and delicious melancholyinfused itself into his soul, and He would not have exchanged it forthe most lively transports of joy. Society now disgusted him: Hedelighted in solitude, which permitted his indulging the visions ofFancy: His thoughts were all gentle, sad, and soothing, and the wholewide world presented him with no other object than Antonia.
'Happy Man!' He exclaimed in his romantic enthusiasm; 'Happy Man, whois destined to possess the heart of that lovely Girl! What delicacy inher features! What elegance in her form! How enchanting was the timidinnocence of her eyes, and how different from the wanton expression,the wild luxurious fire which sparkles in Matilda's! Oh! sweeter mustone kiss be snatched from the rosy lips of the First, than all the fulland lustful favours bestowed so freely by the Second. Matilda gluts mewith enjoyment even to loathing, forces me to her arms, apes theHarlot, and glories in her prostitution. Disgusting! Did She know theinexpressible charm of Modesty, how irresistibly it enthralls the heartof Man, how firmly it chains him to the Throne of Beauty, She neverwould have thrown it off. What would be too dear a price for thislovely Girl's affections? What would I refuse to sacrifice, could I bereleased from my vows, and permitted to declare my love in the sight ofearth and heaven? While I strove to inspire her with tenderness, withfriendship and esteem, how tranquil and undisturbed would the hoursroll away! Gracious God! To see her blue downcast eyes beam upon minewith timid fondness! To sit for days, for years listening to thatgentle voice! To acquire the right of obliging her, and hear theartless expressions of her gratitude! To watch the emotions of herspotless heart! To encourage each dawning virtue! To share in her joywhen happy, to kiss away her tears when distrest, and to see her fly tomy arms for comfort and support! Yes; If there is perfect bliss onearth, 'tis his lot alone, who becomes that Angel's Husband.'
While his fancy coined these ideas, He paced his Cell with a disorderedair. His eyes were fixed upon vacancy: His head reclined upon hisshoulder; A tear rolled down his cheek, while He reflected that thevision 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 towork her ruin.... Oh! it would be a crime, blacker than yet theworld ever witnessed! Fear not, lovely Girl! Your virtue runs norisque from me. Not for Indies would I make that gentle bosom know thetortures of remorse.'
Again He paced his chamber hastily. Then stopping, his eye fell uponthe picture of his once-admired Madona. He tore it with indignationfrom the wall: He threw it on the ground, and spurned it from him withhis foot.
'The Prostitute!'
Unfortunate Matilda! Her Paramour forgot that for his sake alone Shehad forfeited her claim to virtue; and his only reason for despisingher was that She had loved him much too well.
He threw himself into a Chair which stood near the Table. He saw thecard with Elvira's address. He took it up, and it brought to hisrecollection his promise respecting a Confessor. He passed a fewminutes in doubt: But Antonia's Empire over him was already too muchdecided to permit his making a long resistance to the idea which struckhim. He resolved to be the Confessor himself. He could leave theAbbey unobserved without difficulty: By wrapping up his head in hisCowl He hoped to pass through the Streets without being recognised: Bytaking these precautions, and by recommending secrecy to Elvira'sfamily, He doubted not to keep Madrid in ignorance that He had brokenhis vow never to see the outside of the Abbey walls. Matilda was theonly person whose vigilance He dreaded: But by informing her at theRefectory that during the whole of that day, Business would confine himto his Cell, He thought himself secure from her wakeful jealousy.Accordingly, at the hours when the Spaniards are generally taking theirSiesta, He ventured to quit the Abbey by a private door, the Key ofwhich was in his possession. The Cowl of his habit was thrown over hisface: From the heat of the weather the Streets were almost totallydeserted: The Monk met with few people, found the Strada di San Iago,and arrived without accident at Donna Elvira's door. He rang, wasadmitted, and immediately ushered into an upper apartment.
It was here that He ran the greatest risque of a discovery. HadLeonella been at home, She would have recognized him directly: Hercommunicative disposition would never have permitted her to rest tillall Madrid was informed that Ambrosio had ventured out of the Abbey,and visited her Sister. Fortune here stood the Monk's Friend. OnLeonella's return home, She found a letter instructing her that aCousin was just dead, who had left what little He possessed betweenHerself and Elvira. To secure this bequest She was obliged to set outfor Cordova without losing a moment. Amidst all her foibles her heartwas truly warm and affectionate, and She was unwilling to quit herSister in so dangerous a state. But Elvira insisted upon her takingthe journey, conscious that in her Daughter's forlorn situation noincrease of fortune, however trifling, ought to be neglected.Accordingly, Leonella left Madrid, sincerely grieved at her Sister'sillness, and giving some few sighs to the memory of the amiable butinconstant Don Christoval. She was fully persuaded that at first Shehad made a terrible breach in his heart: But hearing nothing more ofhim, She supposed that He had quitted the pursuit, disgusted by thelowness of her origin, and knowing upon other terms than marriage Hehad nothing to hope from such a Dragon of Virtue as She professedherself; Or else, that being naturally capricious and changeable, theremembrance of her charms had been effaced from the Conde's heart bythose of some newer Beauty. Whatever was the cause of her losing him,She lamented it sorely. She strove in vain, as She assured every bodywho was kind enough to listen to her, to tear his image from her toosusceptible heart. She affected the airs of a lovesick Virgin, andcarried them all to the most ridiculous excess. She heaved lamentablesighs, walked with her arms folded, uttered long soliloquies, and herdiscourse generally turned upon some forsaken Maid who expired of abroken heart! Her fiery locks were always ornamented with a garland ofwillow; Every evening She was seen straying upon the Banks of a rivuletby Moonlight; and She declared herself a violent Admirer of murmuringStreams and Nightingales;
'Of lonely haunts, and twilight Groves, 'Places which pale Passion loves!'
Such was the state of Leonella's mind, when obliged to quit Madrid.Elvira was out of patience at all these follies, and endeavoured atpersuading her to act like a reasonable Woman. Her advice was thrownaway: Leonella assured her at parting that nothing could make herforget the perfidious Don Christoval. In this point She wasfortunately mistaken. An honest Youth of Cordova, Journeyman to anApothecary, found that her fortune would be sufficient to set him up ina genteel Shop of his own: In consequence of this reflection He avowedhimself her Admirer. Leonella was not inflexible. The ardour of hissighs melted her heart, and She soon consented to make him the happiestof Mankind. She wrote to inform her Sister of her marriage; But, forreasons whic
h will be explained hereafter, Elvira never answered herletter.
Ambrosio was conducted into the Antichamber to that where Elvira wasreposing. The Female Domestic who had admitted him left him alonewhile She announced his arrival to her Mistress. Antonia, who had beenby her Mother's Bedside, immediately came to him.
'Pardon me, Father,' said She, advancing towards him; when recognizinghis features, She stopped suddenly, and uttered a cry of joy. 'Is itpossible!' She continued;
'Do not my eyes deceive me? Has the worthy Ambrosio broken through hisresolution, that He may soften the agonies of the best of Women? Whatpleasure will this visit give my Mother! Let me not delay for a momentthe comfort which your piety and wisdom will afford her.'
Thus saying, She opened the chamber door, presented to her Mother herdistinguished Visitor, and having placed an armed-chair by the side ofthe Bed, withdrew into another department.
Elvira was highly gratified by this visit: Her expectations had beenraised high by general report, but She found them far exceeded.Ambrosio, endowed by nature with powers of pleasing, exerted them tothe utmost while conversing with Antonia's Mother. With persuasiveeloquence He calmed every fear, and dissipated every scruple: He badher reflect on the infinite mercy of her Judge, despoiled Death of hisdarts and terrors, and taught her to view without shrinking the abyssof eternity, on whose brink She then stood. Elvira was absorbed inattention and delight: While She listened to his exhortations,confidence and comfort stole insensibly into her mind. She unbosomedto him without hesitation her cares and apprehensions. The latterrespecting a future life He had already quieted: And He now removedthe former, which She felt for the concerns of this. She trembled forAntonia. She had none to whose care She could recommend her, save tothe Marquis de las Cisternas and her Sister Leonella. The protectionof the One was very uncertain; and as to the Other, though fond of herNiece, Leonella was so thoughtless and vain as to make her an improperperson to have the sole direction of a Girl so young and ignorant ofthe World. The Friar no sooner learnt the cause of her alarms than Hebegged her to make herself easy upon that head. He doubted not beingable to secure for Antonia a safe refuge in the House of one of hisPenitents, the Marchioness of Villa-Franca: This was a Lady ofacknowledged virtue, remarkable for strict principles and extensivecharity. Should accident deprive her of this resource, He engaged toprocure Antonia a reception in some respectable Convent: That is tosay, in quality of boarder; for Elvira had declared herself no Friendto a monastic life, and the Monk was either candid or complaisantenough to allow that her disapprobation was not unfounded.
These proofs of the interest which He felt for her completely wonElvira's heart. In thanking him She exhausted every expression whichGratitude could furnish, and protested that now She should resignherself with tranquillity to the Grave. Ambrosio rose to take leave:He promised to return the next day at the same hour, but requested thathis visits might be kept secret.
'I am unwilling' said He, 'that my breaking through a rule imposed bynecessity should be generally known. Had I not resolved never to quitmy Convent, except upon circumstances as urgent as that which hasconducted me to your door, I should be frequently summoned uponinsignificant occasions: That time would be engrossed by the Curious,the Unoccupied, and the fanciful, which I now pass at the Bedside ofthe Sick, in comforting the expiring Penitent, and clearing the passageto Eternity from Thorns.'
Elvira commended equally his prudence and compassion, promising toconceal carefully the honour of his visits. The Monk then gave her hisbenediction, and retired from the chamber.
In the Antiroom He found Antonia: He could not refuse himself thepleasure of passing a few moments in her society. He bad her takecomfort, for that her Mother seemed composed and tranquil, and He hopedthat She might yet do well. He enquired who attended her, and engagedto send the Physician of his Convent to see her, one of the mostskilful in Madrid. He then launched out in Elvira's commendation,praised her purity and fortitude of mind, and declared that She hadinspired him with the highest esteem and reverence. Antonia's innocentheart swelled with gratitude: Joy danced in her eyes, where a tearstill sparkled. The hopes which He gave her of her Mother's recovery,the lively interest which He seemed to feel for her, and the flatteringway in which She was mentioned by him, added to the report of hisjudgment and virtue, and to the impression made upon her by hiseloquence, confirmed the favourable opinion with which his firstappearance had inspired Antonia. She replied with diffidence, butwithout restraint: She feared not to relate to him all her littlesorrows, all her little fears and anxieties; and She thanked him forhis goodness with all the genuine warmth which favours kindle in ayoung and innocent heart. Such alone know how to estimate benefits attheir full value. They who are conscious of Mankind's perfidy andselfishness, ever receive an obligation with apprehension and distrust:They suspect that some secret motive must lurk behind it: They expresstheir thanks with restraint and caution, and fear to praise a kindaction to its full extent, aware that some future day a return may berequired. Not so Antonia; She thought the world was composed only ofthose who resembled her, and that vice existed, was to her still asecret. The Monk had been of service to her; He said that He wishedher well; She was grateful for his kindness, and thought that no termswere strong enough to be the vehicle of her thanks. With what delightdid Ambrosio listen to the declaration of her artless gratitude! Thenatural grace of her manners, the unequalled sweetness of her voice,her modest vivacity, her unstudied elegance, her expressivecountenance, and intelligent eyes united to inspire him with pleasureand admiration, While the solidity and correctness of her remarksreceived additional beauty from the unaffected simplicity of thelanguage in which they were conveyed.
Ambrosio was at length obliged to tear himself from this conversationwhich possessed for him but too many charms. He repeated to Antoniahis wishes that his visits should not be made known, which desire Shepromised to observe. He then quitted the House, while his Enchantresshastened to her Mother, ignorant of the mischief which her Beauty hadcaused. She was eager to know Elvira's opinion of the Man whom She hadpraised in such enthusiastic terms, and was delighted to find itequally favourable, if not even more so, than her own.
'Even before He spoke,' said Elvira, 'I was prejudiced in his favour:The fervour of his exhortations, dignity of his manner, and closenessof his reasoning, were very far from inducing me to alter my opinion.His fine and full-toned voice struck me particularly; But surely,Antonia, I have heard it before. It seemed perfectly familiar to myear. Either I must have known the Abbot in former times, or his voicebears a wonderful resemblance to that of some other, to whom I haveoften listened.
There were certain tones which touched my very heart, and made me feelsensations so singular, that I strive in vain to account for them.'
'My dearest Mother, it produced the same effect upon me: Yet certainlyneither of us ever heard his voice till we came to Madrid. I suspectthat what we attribute to his voice, really proceeds from his pleasantmanners, which forbid our considering him as a Stranger. I know notwhy, but I feel more at my ease while conversing with him than Iusually do with people who are unknown to me. I feared not to repeatto him all my childish thoughts; and somehow I felt confident that Hewould hear my folly with indulgence. Oh! I was not deceived in him!He listened to me with such an air of kindness and attention! Heanswered me with such gentleness, such condescension! He did not callme an Infant, and treat me with contempt, as our cross old Confessor atthe Castle used to do. I verily believe that if I had lived in Murciaa thousand years, I never should have liked that fat old FatherDominic!'
'I confess that Father Dominic had not the most pleasing manners in theworld; But He was honest, friendly, and well-meaning.'
'Ah! my dear Mother, those qualities are so common!'
'God grant, my Child, that Experience may not teach you to think themrare and precious: I have found them but too much so! But tell me,Antonia; Why is it impossible for me to have se
en the Abbot before?'
'Because since the moment when He entered the Abbey, He has never beenon the outside of its walls. He told me just now, that from hisignorance of the Streets, He had some difficulty to find the Strada diSan Iago, though so near the Abbey.'
'All this is possible, and still I may have seen him BEFORE He enteredthe Abbey: In order to come out, it was rather necessary that Heshould first go in.'
'Holy Virgin! As you say, that is very true.--Oh! But might He nothave been born in the Abbey?'
Elvira smiled.
'Why, not very easily.'
'Stay, Stay! Now I recollect how it was. He was put into the Abbeyquite a Child; The common People say that He fell from heaven, and wassent as a present to the Capuchins by the Virgin.'
'That was very kind of her. And so He fell from heaven, Antonia?
He must have had a terrible tumble.'
'Many do not credit this, and I fancy, my dear Mother, that I mustnumber you among the Unbelievers. Indeed, as our Landlady told myAunt, the general idea is that his Parents, being poor and unable tomaintain him, left him just born at the Abbey door. The late Superiorfrom pure charity had him educated in the Convent, and He proved to bea model of virtue, and piety, and learning, and I know not what elsebesides: In consequence, He was first received as a Brother of theorder, and not long ago was chosen Abbot. However, whether thisaccount or the other is the true one, at least all agree that when theMonks took him under their care, He could not speak: Therefore, youcould not have heard his voice before He entered the Monastery, becauseat that time He had no voice at all.'
'Upon my word, Antonia, you argue very closely! Your conclusions areinfallible! I did not suspect you of being so able a Logician.'
'Ah! You are mocking me! But so much the better. It delights me to seeyou in spirits: Besides you seem tranquil and easy, and I hope thatyou will have no more convulsions. Oh! I was sure the Abbot's visitwould do you good!'
'It has indeed done me good, my Child. He has quieted my mind uponsome points which agitated me, and I already feel the effects of hisattention. My eyes grow heavy, and I think I can sleep a little. Drawthe curtains, my Antonia: But if I should not wake before midnight, donot sit up with me, I charge you.'
Antonia promised to obey her, and having received her blessing drew thecurtains of the Bed. She then seated herself in silence at herembroidery frame, and beguiled the hours with building Castles in theair. Her spirits were enlivened by the evident change for the betterin Elvira, and her fancy presented her with visions bright andpleasing. In these dreams Ambrosio made no despicable figure. Shethought of him with joy and gratitude; But for every idea which fell tothe Friar's share, at least two were unconsciously bestowed uponLorenzo. Thus passed the time, till the Bell in the neighbouringSteeple of the Capuchin Cathedral announced the hour of midnight:Antonia remembered her Mother's injunctions, and obeyed them, thoughwith reluctance. She undrew the curtains with caution. Elvira wasenjoying a profound and quiet slumber; Her cheek glowed with health'sreturning colours: A smile declared that her dreams were pleasant, andas Antonia bent over her, She fancied that She heard her namepronounced. She kissed her Mother's forehead softly, and retired toher chamber. There She knelt before a Statue of St. Rosolia, herPatroness; She recommended herself to the protection of heaven, and ashad been her custom from infancy, concluded her devotions by chauntingthe following Stanzas.
MIDNIGHT HYMN
Now all is hushed; The solemn chime No longer swells the nightly gale: Thy awful presence, Hour sublime, With spotless heart once more I hail.
'Tis now the moment still and dread, When Sorcerers use their baleful power; When Graves give up their buried dead To profit by the sanctioned hour:
From guilt and guilty thoughts secure, To duty and devotion true, With bosom light and conscience pure, Repose, thy gentle aid I woo.
Good Angels, take my thanks, that still The snares of vice I view with scorn; Thanks, that to-night as free from ill I sleep, as when I woke at morn.
Yet may not my unconscious breast Harbour some guilt to me unknown? Some wish impure, which unreprest You blush to see, and I to own?
If such there be, in gentle dream Instruct my feet to shun the snare; Bid truth upon my errors beam, And deign to make me still your care.
Chase from my peaceful bed away The witching Spell, a foe to rest, The nightly Goblin, wanton Fay, The Ghost in pain, and Fiend unblest:
Let not the Tempter in mine ear Pour lessons of unhallowed joy; Let not the Night-mare, wandering near My Couch, the calm of sleep destroy;
Let not some horrid dream affright With strange fantastic forms mine eyes; But rather bid some vision bright Display the bliss of yonder skies.
Show me the crystal Domes of Heaven, The worlds of light where Angels lie; Shew me the lot to Mortals given, Who guiltless live, who guiltless die.
Then show me how a seat to gain Amidst those blissful realms of Air; Teach me to shun each guilty stain, And guide me to the good and fair.
So every morn and night, my Voice To heaven the grateful strain shall raise; In You as Guardian Powers rejoice, Good Angels, and exalt your praise:
So will I strive with zealous fire Each vice to shun, each fault correct; Will love the lessons you inspire, And Prize the virtues you protect.
Then when at length by high command My body seeks the Grave's repose, When Death draws nigh with friendly hand My failing Pilgrim eyes to close;
Pleased that my soul has 'scaped the wreck, Sighless will I my life resign, And yield to God my Spirit back, As pure as when it first was mine.
Having finished her usual devotions, Antonia retired to bed. Sleep soonstole over her senses; and for several hours She enjoyed that calmrepose which innocence alone can know, and for which many a Monarchwith pleasure would exchange his Crown.
