The Monk

by matthew lewis

  On a wealthier suitor your hand.”

  “Oh! hush these suspicions,” Fair Imogine said,

  “Offensive to love and to me!

  For, if you be living, or if you be dead,

  I swear by the Virgin, that none in your stead

  Shall husband of Imogine be.

  “If e’er I, by lust or by wealth led aside,

  Forget my Alonzo the Brave,

  God grant, that to punish my falsehood and pride

  Your ghost at the marriage may sit by my side,

  May tax me with perjury, claim me as bride,

  And bear me away to the grave!”

  To Palestine hastened the hero so bold;

  His love, she lamented him sore:

  But scarce had a twelvemonth elapsed, when behold,

  A Baron all covered with jewels and gold

  Arrived at Fair Imogine’s door.

  His treasure, his presents, his spacious domain

  Soon made her untrue to her vows:

  He dazzled her eyes; he bewildered her brain;

  He caught her affections so light and so vain,

  And carried her home as his spouse.

  And now had the marriage been blest by the priest;

  The revelry now was begun:

  The tables they groaned with the weight of the feast;

  Nor yet had the laughter and merriment ceased,

  When the bell at the castle told—“one!”

  Then first with amazement Fair Imogine found

  That a stranger was placed by her side:

  His air was terrific; he uttered no sound;

  He spoke not, he moved not, he looked not around,

  But earnestly gazed on the bride.

  His vizor was closed, and gigantic his height;

  His armour was sable to view:

  All pleasure and laughter were hushed at his sight;

  The dogs as they eyed him drew back in affright;

  The lights in the chamber burned blue!

  His presence all bosoms appeared to dismay;

  The guests sat in silence and fear.

  At length spoke the bride, while she trembled; “I pray,

  Sir Knight, that your helmet aside you would lay,

  And deign to partake of our chear.”

  The lady is silent: the stranger complies.

  His vizor he slowly unclosed:

  Oh! God! what a sight met Fair Imogine’s eyes!

  What words can express her dismay and surprise,

  When a skeleton’s head was exposed!

  All present then uttered a terrified shout;

  All turned with disgust from the scene.

  The worms they crept in, and the worms they crept out,

  And sported his eyes and his temples about,

  While the spectre addressed Imogine.

  “Behold me, thou false one! behold me!” he cried;

  “Remember Alonzo the Brave!

  God grants, that to punish thy falsehood and pride

  My ghost at thy marriage should sit by thy side,

  Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as bride,

  And bear thee away to the grave!”

  Thus saying, his arms round the lady he wound,

  While loudly she shrieked in dismay;

  Then sank with his prey through the wide-yawning ground:

  Nor ever again was Fair Imogine found,

  Or the spectre who bore her away.

  Not long lived the Baron; and none since that time

  To inhabit the castle presume;

  For chronicles tell that, by order sublime,

  There Imogine suffers the pain of her crime,

  And mourns her deplorable doom.

  At midnight four times in each year does her spright,

  When mortals in slumber are bound,

  Arrayed in her bridal apparel of white,

  Appear in the hall with the Skeleton-Knight,

  And shriek as he whirls her around.

  While they drink out of skulls newly torn from the grave,

  Dancing round them the spectres are seen:

  Their liquor is blood, and this horrible stave

  They howl:—“To the health of Alonzo the Brave,

  And his consort, the False Imogine!”

  The perusal of this story was ill calculated to dispel Antonia’s melancholy. She had naturally a strong inclination to the marvellous; and her nurse, who believed firmly in apparitions, had related to her, when an infant, so many horrible adventures of this kind, that all Elvira’s attempts had failed to eradicate their impressions from her daughter’s mind. Antonia still nourished a superstitious prejudice in her bosom: she was often susceptible of terrors, which, when she discovered their natural and insignificant cause, made her blush at her own weakness. With such a turn of mind, the adventure which she had just been reading sufficed to give her apprehensions the alarm. The hour and the scene combined to authorise them. It was the dead of night; she was alone, and in the chamber once occupied by her deceased mother. The weather was comfortless and stormy; the wind howled around the house, the doors rattled in their frames, and the heavy rain pattered against the windows. No other sound was heard. The taper, now burnt down to the socket, sometimes flaring upwards, shot a gleam of light through the room, then sinking again seemed upon the point of expiring. Antonia’s heart throbbed with agitation; her eyes wandered fearfully over the objects around her, as the trembling flame illuminated them at intervals. She attempted to rise from her seat, but her limbs trembled so violently that she was unable to proceed. She then called Flora, who was in a room at no great distance; but agitation choked her voice, and her cries died away in hollow murmurs.

  She passed some minutes in this situation, after which her terrors began to diminish. She strove to recover herself, and acquire strength enough to quit the room. Suddenly she fancied that she heard a low sigh drawn near her. This idea brought back her former weakness. She had already raised herself from her seat, and was on the point of taking the lamp from the table. The imaginary noise stopped her; she drew back her hand, and supported herself upon the back of a chair. She listened anxiously, but nothing more was heard.

  “Gracious God!” she said to herself, “what could be that sound? Was I deceived, or did I really hear it?”

  Her reflections were interrupted by a voice at the door scarcely audible; it seemed as if somebody was whispering. Antonia’s alarm increased; yet the bolt she knew to be fastened, and this idea in some degree re-assured her. Presently the latch was lifted up softly, and the door moved with caution backwards and forwards. Excess of terror now supplied Antonia with that strength, of which she had till then been deprived. She started from her place, and made towards the closet door, whence she might soon have reached the chamber where she expected to find Flora and Dame Jacintha. Scarcely had she reached the middle of the room, when the latch was lifted up a second time. An involuntary movement obliged her to turn her head. Slowly and gradually the door turned upon its hinges, and standing upon the threshold she beheld a tall thin figure, wrapped in a white shroud which covered it from head to foot.

  This vision arrested her feet; she remained as if petrified in the middle of the apartment. The stranger with measured and solemn steps drew near the table. The dying taper darted a blue and melancholy flame as the figure advanced towards it. Over the table was fixed a small clock; the hand of it was upon the stroke of three. The figure stopped opposite to the clock: it raised its right arm, and pointed to the hour, at the same time looking earnestly upon Antonia, who waited for the conclusion of this scene, motionless and silent.

  The figure remained in this posture for some moments. The clock struck. When the sound had ceased, the stranger advanced yet a few steps nearer Antonia.

  “Yet three days,” said a voice faint, hollow, and sepulchral; “yet three days, and we meet again!”

  Antonia shuddered at the words.

  “We meet again?” she pronounced at len
gth with difficulty: “Where shall we meet? Whom shall I meet?”

  The figure pointed to the ground with one hand, and with the other raised the linen which covered its face.

  “Almighty God! My mother?”

  Antonia shrieked, and fell lifeless upon the floor.

  Dame Jacintha, who was at work in a neighbouring chamber, was alarmed by the cry: Flora was just gone down stairs to fetch fresh oil for the lamp by which they had been sitting. Jacintha therefore hastened alone to Antonia’s assistance, and great was her amazement to find her extended upon the floor. She raised her in her arms, conveyed her to her apartment, and placed her upon the bed, still senseless. She then proceeded to bathe her temples, chafe her hands, and use all possible means of bringing her to herself. With some difficulty she succeeded. Antonia opened her eyes, and looked round her wildly.

  “Where is she?” she cried in a trembling voice: “Is she gone? Am I safe? Speak to me! Comfort me! Oh! speak to me, for God’s sake!”

  “Safe from whom, my child?” replied the astonished Jacintha: “What alarms you? Of whom are you afraid?”

  “In three days! She told me that we should meet in three days! I heard her say it! I saw her, Jacintha, I saw her but this moment!”

  She threw herself upon Jacintha’s bosom.

  “You saw her?—Saw whom?

  “My mother’s ghost!”

  “Christ Jesus!” cried Jacintha; and, starting from the bed, let fall Antonia upon the pillow, and fled in consternation out of the room.

  As she hastened down stairs, she met Flora ascending them.

  “Go to your mistress, Flora,” said she; “here are rare doings! Oh! I am the most unfortunate woman alive! My house is filled with ghosts and dead bodies, and the Lord knows what besides; yet I am sure nobody likes such company less than I do. But go your way to Donna Antonia, Flora, and let me go mine.”

  Thus saying, she continued her course to the street-door, which she opened; and, without allowing herself time to throw on her oil, she made the best of her way to the Capuchin-abbey. In the mean while, Flora hastened to her lady’s chamber, equally surprised and alarmed at Jacintha’s consternation. She found Antonia lying upon the bed, insensible. She used the same means for her recovery that Jacintha had already employed; but finding that her mistress only recovered from one fit to fall into another, she sent in all haste for a physician. While expecting his arrival, she undressed Antonia, and conveyed her to bed.

  Heedless of the storm, terrified almost out of her senses, Jacintha ran through the streets, and stopped not till she reached the gate of the abbey. She rang loudly at the bell; and as soon as the porter appeared, she desired permission to speak to the superior. Ambrosio was then conferring with Matilda upon the means of procuring access to Antonia. The cause of Elvira’s death remaining unknown, he was convinced that crimes were not so swiftly followed by punishment as his instructors the monks had taught him, and as till then he had himself believed. This persuasion made him resolve upon Antonia’s ruin, for the enjoyment of whose person dangers and difficulties only seemed to have increased his passion. The monk had already made one attempt to gain admission to her presence; but Flora had refused him in such a manner as to convince him that all future endeavours must be vain. Elvira had confided her suspicions to that trusty servant: she had desired her never to leave Ambrosio alone with her daughter, and, if possible, to prevent their meeting altogether. Flora promised to obey her, and had executed her orders to the very letter. Ambrosio’s visit had been rejected that morning, though Antonia was ignorant of it. He saw that to obtain a sight of his mistress by open means was out of the question; and both himself and Matilda had consumed the night in endeavouring to invent some plan, whose event might be more successful. Such was their employment when a lay-brother entered the abbot’s cell, and informed him that a woman calling herself Jacintha Zuniga requested audience for a few minutes.

  Ambrosio was by no means disposed to grant the petition of his visitor. He refused it positively, and bade the lay-brother tell the stranger to return the next day. Matilda interrupted him——

  “See this woman,” said she in a low voice; “I have my reasons.”

  The abbot obeyed her, and signified that he would go to the parlour immediately. With this answer the lay-brother withdrew. As soon as they were alone, Ambrosio enquired why Matilda wished him to see this Jacintha.

  “She is Antonia’s hostess,” replied Matilda; “she may possibly be of use to you but let us examine her, and learn what brings her hither.”

  They proceeded together to the parlour, where Jacintha was already waiting for the abbot. She had conceived a great opinion of his piety and virtue; and, supposing him to have much influence over the devil, thought that it must be an easy matter for him to lay Elvira’s ghost in the red sea. Filled with this persuasion, she had hastened to the abbey. As soon as she saw the monk enter the parlour, she dropped upon her knees, and began her story as follows:

  “Oh! reverend father! such an accident! such an adventure! I know not what course to take; and unless you can help me, I shall certainly go distracted. Well, to be sure, never was woman so unfortunate as myself! All in my power to keep clear of such abomination have I done, and yet that all is too little. What signifies my telling my beads four times a day, and observing every fast prescribed by the calendar? What signifies my having made three pilgrimages to St. James of Compostella, and purchased as many pardons from the pope as would buy off Cain’s punishment? Nothing prospers with me! All goes wrong, and God only knows whether any thing will ever go right again! Why now, be your holiness the judge—My lodger dies in convulsions; out of pure kindness I bury her at my own expence; [not that she is any relation of mine, or that I shall be benefited a single pistole by her death: I got nothing by it, and therefore you know, reverend father, that her living or dying was just the same to me. But that is nothing to the purpose; to return to what I was saying], I took care of her funeral, had every thing performed decently and properly, and put myself to expence enough, God knows! And how do you think the lady repays me for my kindness? Why truly by refusing to sleep quietly in her comfortable deal coffin, as a peaceable well disposed spirit ought to do, and coming to plague me, who never wish to set eyes on her again. Forsooth it well becomes her to go racketing about my house at midnight, popping into her daughter’s room through the key-hole, and frightening the poor child out of her wits! Though she be a ghost, she might be more civil than to bolt into a person’s house who likes her company so little. But as for me, reverend father, the plain state of the case is this: if she walks into my house, I must walk out of it, for I cannot abide such visitors—not I. Thus you see, your sanctity, that without your assistance I am ruined and undone for ever. I shall be obliged to quit my house: nobody will take it, when ’Tis known that she haunts it, and then I shall find myself in a fine situation. Miserable woman that I am! what shall I do? what will become of me?”

  Here she wept bitterly, wrung her hands, and begged to know the abbot’s opinion of her case.

  “In truth, good woman,” replied he, “it will be difficult for me to relieve you, without knowing what is the matter with you. You have forgotten to tell me what has happened, and what it is you want.”

  “Let me die,” cried Jacintha, “but your sanctity is in the right. This then is the fact stated briefly—A lodger of mine is lately dead; a very good sort of woman, that I must needs say for her; as far as my knowledge of her went, though that was not a great way. She kept me too much at a distance; for indeed she was given to be upon the high ropes; and whenever I ventured to speak to her, she had a look with her which always made me feel a little queerish: God forgive me for saying so! However, though she was more stately than needful, and affected to look down upon me (though, if I am well informed, I come of as good parents as she could do for her ears, for her father was a shoe-maker at Cordova, and mine was an hatter at Madrid—aye, and a very creditable hatter too, let me tell you), yet for a
ll her pride she was a quiet well-behaved body, and I never wish to have a better lodger. This makes me wonder the more at her not sleeping quietly in her grave; but there is no trusting to people in this world. For my part, I never saw her do amiss, except on the Friday before her death. To be sure, I was then much scandalized by seeing her eat the wing of a chicken. ‘How, Madona Flora!’ quoth I (Flora, may it please your reverence, is the name of the waiting maid)—‘how, Madona Flora!’ quoth I, ‘does your mistress eat flesh upon Fridays? Well! well! see the event, and then remember that Dame Jacintha warned you of it!’ These were my very words; but, alas! I might as well have held my tongue. Nobody minded me; and Flora, who is somewhat pert and snappish (more is the pity, say I), told me, that there was no more harm in eating a chicken than the egg from which it came: nay she even declared, that if her lady added a slice of bacon, she would not be an inch nearer damnation. God protect us! a poor ignorant sinful soul! I protest to your holiness, I trembled to hear her utter such blasphemies, and expected every moment to see the ground open and swallow her up, chicken and all; for you must know, worshipful father, that while she talked thus, she held the plate in her hand on which lay the identical roast fowl: and a fine bird it was, that I must say for it—done to a turn, for I superintended the cooking of it myself. It was a little gallician of my own raising, may it please your holiness, and the flesh was as white as an egg-shell, as indeed Donna Elvira told me herself. ‘Dame Jacintha,’ said she very good-humouredly, though to say the truth she was always very polite to me——”

  Here Ambrosio’s patience failed him. Eager to know Jacintha’s business in which Antonia seemed to be concerned, he was almost distracted while listening to the rambling of this prosing old woman. He interrupted her, and protested that if she did not immediately tell her story and have done with it, he should quit the parlour, and leave her to get out of her difficulties by herself. This threat had the desired effect. Jacintha related her business in as few words as she could manage: but her account was still so prolix, that Ambrosio had need of his patience to bear him to the conclusion.