Woman's beauty that fills me with such enthusiasm; It is the
Painter's skill that I admire, it is the Divinity that I adore!
Are not the passions dead in my bosom? Have I not freed myself
from the frailty of Mankind? Fear not, Ambrosio! Take
confidence in the strength of your virtue. Enter boldly into a
world to whose failings you are superior; Reflect that you are
now exempted from Humanity's defects, and defy all the arts of
the Spirits of Darkness. They shall know you for what you are!'
Here his Reverie was interrupted by three soft knocks at the door
of his Cell. With difficulty did the Abbot awake from his
delirium. The knocking was repeated.
'Who is there?' said Ambrosio at length.
'It is only Rosario,' replied a gentle voice.
'Enter! Enter, my Son!'
The Door was immediately opened, and Rosario appeared with a
small basket in his hand.
Rosario was a young Novice belonging to the Monastery, who in
three Months intended to make his profession. A sort of mystery
enveloped this Youth which rendered him at once an object of
interest and curiosity. His hatred of society, his profound
melancholy, his rigid observation of the duties of his order, and
his voluntary seclusion from the world at his age so unusual,
attracted the notice of the whole fraternity. He seemed fearful
of being recognised, and no one had ever seen his face. His head
was continually muffled up in his Cowl; Yet such of his features
as accident discovered, appeared the most beautiful and noble.
Rosario was the only name by which He was known in the Monastery.
No one knew from whence He came, and when questioned in the
subject He preserved a profound silence. A Stranger, whose rich
habit and magnificent equipage declared him to be of
distinguished rank, had engaged the Monks to receive a Novice,
and had deposited the necessary sums. The next day He returned
with Rosario, and from that time no more had been heard of him.
The Youth had carefully avoided the company of the Monks: He
answered their civilities with sweetness, but reserve, and
evidently showed that his inclination led him to solitude. To
this general rule the Superior was the only exception. To him He
looked up with a respect approaching idolatry: He sought his
company with the most attentive assiduity, and eagerly seized
every means to ingratiate himself in his favour. In the Abbot's
society his Heart seemed to be at ease, and an air of gaiety
pervaded his whole manners and discourse. Ambrosio on his side
did not feel less attracted towards the Youth; With him alone did
He lay aside his habitual severity. When He spoke to him, He
insensibly assumed a tone milder than was usual to him; and no
voice sounded so sweet to him as did Rosario's. He repayed the
Youth's attentions by instructing him in various sciences; The
Novice received his lessons with docility; Ambrosio was every day
more charmed with the vivacity of his Genius, the simplicity of
his manners, and the rectitude of his heart: In short He loved
him with all the affection of a Father. He could not help
sometimes indulging a desire secretly to see the face of his
Pupil; But his rule of self-denial extended even to curiosity,
and prevented him from communicating his wishes to the Youth.
'Pardon my intrusion, Father,' said Rosario, while He placed his
basket upon the Table; 'I come to you a Suppliant. Hearing that
a dear Friend is dangerously ill, I entreat your prayers for his
recovery. If supplications can prevail upon heaven to spare him,
surely yours must be efficacious.'
'Whatever depends upon me, my Son, you know that you may command.
What is your Friend's name?'
'Vincentio della Ronda.'
' 'Tis sufficient. I will not forget him in my prayers, and may
our thrice-blessed St. Francis deign to listen to my
intercession!--What have you in your basket, Rosario?'
'A few of those flowers, reverend Father, which I have observed
to be most acceptable to you. Will you permit my arranging them
in your chamber?'
'Your attentions charm me, my Son.'
While Rosario dispersed the contents of his Basket in small
Vases placed for that purpose in various parts of the room, the
Abbot thus continued the conversation.
'I saw you not in the Church this evening, Rosario.'
'Yet I was present, Father. I am too grateful for your
protection to lose an opportunity of witnessing your Triumph.'
'Alas! Rosario, I have but little cause to triumph: The Saint
spoke by my mouth; To him belongs all the merit. It seems then
you were contented with my discourse?'
'Contented, say you? Oh! you surpassed yourself! Never did I
hear such eloquence . . . save once!'
Here the Novice heaved an involuntary sigh.
'When was that once?' demanded the Abbot.
'When you preached upon the sudden indisposition of our late
Superior.'
'I remember it: That is more than two years ago. And were you
present? I knew you not at that time, Rosario.'
' 'Tis true, Father; and would to God! I had expired, ere I
beheld that day! What sufferings, what sorrows should I have
escaped!'
'Sufferings at your age, Rosario?'
'Aye, Father; Sufferings, which if known to you, would equally
raise your anger and compassion! Sufferings, which form at once
the torment and pleasure of my existence! Yet in this retreat my
bosom would feel tranquil, were it not for the tortures of
apprehension. Oh God! Oh God! how cruel is a life of
fear!--Father! I have given up all; I have abandoned the world
and its delights for ever: Nothing now remains, Nothing now has
charms for me, but your friendship, but your affection. If I
lose that, Father! Oh! if I lose that, tremble at the effects of
my despair!'
'You apprehend the loss of my friendship? How has my conduct
justified this fear? Know me better, Rosario, and think me
worthy of your confidence. What are your sufferings? Reveal
them to me, and believe that if 'tis in my power to relieve them.
. . .'
'Ah! 'tis in no one's power but yours. Yet I must not let you
know them. You would hate me for my avowal! You would drive me
from your presence with scorn and ignominy!'
'My Son, I conjure you! I entreat you!'
'For pity's sake, enquire no further! I must not . . . I dare
not . . . Hark! The Bell rings for Vespers! Father, your
benediction, and I leave you!'
As He said this, He threw himself upon his knees and received
the blessing which He demanded. Then pressing the Abbot's hand
to his lips, He started from the ground and hastily quitted the
apartment. Soon after Ambrosio descended to Vespers (which were
celebrated in a small chapel belonging to the Abbey), filled with
surprise at the singularity of the Youth's behaviour.
Vespers being over, the Monks retired to their respective Cells.
The Abbot alone remained in the Chapel to receive the Nuns of St.
/>
Clare. He had not been long seated in the confessional chair
before the Prioress made her appearance. Each of the Nuns was
heard in her turn, while the Others waited with the Domina in the
adjoining Vestry. Ambrosio listened to the confessions with
attention, made many exhortations, enjoined penance proportioned
to each offence, and for some time every thing went on as usual:
till at last one of the Nuns, conspicuous from the nobleness of
her air and elegance of her figure, carelessly permitted a letter
to fall from her bosom. She was retiring, unconscious of her
loss. Ambrosio supposed it to have been written by some one of
her Relations, and picked it up intending to restore it to her.
'Stay, Daughter,' said He; 'You have let fall. . . .'
At this moment, the paper being already open, his eye
involuntarily read the first words. He started back with
surprise! The Nun had turned round on hearing his voice: She
perceived her letter in his hand, and uttering a shriek of
terror, flew hastily to regain it.
'Hold!' said the Friar in a tone of severity; 'Daughter, I must
read this letter.'
'Then I am lost!' She exclaimed clasping her hands together
wildly.
All colour instantly faded from her face; she trembled with
agitation, and was obliged to fold her arms round a Pillar of the
Chapel to save herself from sinking upon the floor. In the
meanwhile the Abbot read the following lines.
'All is ready for your escape, my dearest Agnes. At twelve
tomorrow night I shall expect to find you at the Garden door: I
have obtained the Key, and a few hours will suffice to place you
in a secure asylum. Let no mistaken scruples induce you to
reject the certain means of preserving yourself and the innocent
Creature whom you nourish in your bosom. Remember that you had
promised to be mine, long ere you engaged yourself to the church;
that your situation will soon be evident to the prying eyes of
your Companions; and that flight is the only means of avoiding
the effects of their malevolent resentment. Farewell, my Agnes!
my dear and destined Wife! Fail not to be at the Garden door at
twelve!'
As soon as He had finished, Ambrosio bent an eye stern and angry
upon the imprudent Nun.
'This letter must to the Prioress!' said He, and passed her.
His words sounded like thunder to her ears: She awoke from her
torpidity only to be sensible of the dangers of her situation.
She followed him hastily, and detained him by his garment.
'Stay! Oh! stay!' She cried in the accents of despair, while She
threw herself at the Friar's feet, and bathed them with her
tears. 'Father, compassionate my youth! Look with indulgence on
a Woman's weakness, and deign to conceal my frailty! The
remainder of my life shall be employed in expiating this single
fault, and your lenity will bring back a soul to heaven!'
'Amazing confidence! What! Shall St. Clare's Convent become the
retreat of Prostitutes? Shall I suffer the Church of Christ to
cherish in its bosom debauchery and shame? Unworthy Wretch! such
lenity would make me your accomplice. Mercy would here be
criminal. You have abandoned yourself to a Seducer's lust; You
have defiled the sacred habit by your impurity; and still dare
you think yourself deserving my compassion? Hence, nor detain me
longer! Where is the Lady Prioress?' He added, raising his
voice.
'Hold! Father, Hold! Hear me but for one moment! Tax me not with
impurity, nor think that I have erred from the warmth of
temperament. Long before I took the veil, Raymond was Master of
my heart: He inspired me with the purest, the most
irreproachable passion, and was on the point of becoming my
lawful husband. An horrible adventure, and the treachery of a
Relation, separated us from each other: I believed him for ever
lost to me, and threw myself into a Convent from motives of
despair. Accident again united us; I could not refuse myself the
melancholy pleasure of mingling my tears with his: We met
nightly in the Gardens of St. Clare, and in an unguarded moment I
violated my vows of Chastity. I shall soon become a Mother:
Reverend Ambrosio, take compassion on me; take compassion on the
innocent Being whose existence is attached to mine. If you
discover my imprudence to the Domina, both of us are lost: The
punishment which the laws of St. Clare assign to Unfortunates
like myself is most severe and cruel. Worthy, worthy Father!
Let not your own untainted conscience render you unfeeling
towards those less able to withstand temptation! Let not mercy
be the only virtue of which your heart is unsusceptible! Pity
me, most reverend! Restore my letter, nor doom me to inevitable
destruction!'
'Your boldness confounds me! Shall I conceal your crime, I whom
you have deceived by your feigned confession? No, Daughter, no!
I will render you a more essential service. I will rescue you
from perdition in spite of yourself; Penance and mortification
shall expiate your offence, and Severity force you back to the
paths of holiness. What; Ho! Mother St. Agatha!'
'Father! By all that is sacred, by all that is most dear to you,
I supplicate, I entreat. . . .'
'Release me! I will not hear you. Where is the Domina? Mother
St. Agatha, where are you?'
The door of the Vestry opened, and the Prioress entered the
Chapel, followed by her Nuns.
'Cruel! Cruel!' exclaimed Agnes, relinquishing her hold.
Wild and desperate, She threw herself upon the ground, beating
her bosom and rending her veil in all the delirium of despair.
The Nuns gazed with astonishment upon the scene before them. The
Friar now presented the fatal paper to the Prioress, informed her
of the manner in which he had found it, and added, that it was
her business to decide, what penance the delinquent merited.
While She perused the letter, the Domina's countenance grew
inflamed with passion. What! Such a crime committed in her
Convent, and made known to Ambrosio, to the Idol of Madrid, to
the Man whom She was most anxious to impress with the opinion of
the strictness and regularity of her House! Words were
inadequate to express her fury. She was silent, and darted upon
the prostrate Nun looks of menace and malignity.
'Away with her to the Convent!' said She at length to some of her
Attendants.
Two of the oldest Nuns now approaching Agnes, raised her forcibly
from the ground, and prepared to conduct her from the Chapel.
'What!' She exclaimed suddenly shaking off their hold with
distracted gestures; 'Is all hope then lost? Already do you drag
me to punishment? Where are you, Raymond? Oh! save me! save
me!'
Then casting upon the Abbot a frantic look, 'Hear me!' She
continued; 'Man of an hard heart! Hear me, Proud, Stern, and
Cruel! You could have saved me; you could have restored me to
happiness and virtue, but would not! You are the destroyer of my
and my unborn Infant's! Insolent in your yet-unshaken virtue,
you disdained the prayers of a Penitent; But God will show mercy,
though you show none. And where is the merit of your boasted
virtue? What temptations have you vanquished? Coward! you have
fled from it, not opposed seduction. But the day of Trial will
arrive! Oh! then when you yield to impetuous passions! when you
feel that Man is weak, and born to err; When shuddering you look
back upon your crimes, and solicit with terror the mercy of your
God, Oh! in that fearful moment think upon me! Think upon your
Cruelty! Think upon Agnes, and despair of pardon!'
As She uttered these last words, her strength was exhausted, and
She sank inanimate upon the bosom of a Nun who stood near her.
She was immediately conveyed from the Chapel, and her Companions
followed her.
Ambrosio had not listened to her reproaches without emotion. A
secret pang at his heart made him feel, that He had treated this
Unfortunate with too great severity. He therefore detained the
Prioress and ventured to pronounce some words in favour of the
Delinquent.
'The violence of her despair,' said He, 'proves, that at least
Vice is not become familiar to her. Perhaps by treating her with
somewhat less rigour than is generally practised, and mitigating
in some degree the accustomed penance. . . .'
'Mitigate it, Father?' interrupted the Lady Prioress; 'Not I,
believe me. The laws of our order are strict and severe; they
have fallen into disuse of late, But the crime of Agnes shows me
the necessity of their revival. I go to signify my intention to
the Convent, and Agnes shall be the first to feel the rigour of
those laws, which shall be obeyed to the very letter. Father,
Farewell.'
Thus saying, She hastened out of the Chapel.
'I have done my duty,' said Ambrosio to himself.
Still did He not feel perfectly satisfied by this reflection. To
dissipate the unpleasant ideas which this scene had excited in
him, upon quitting the Chapel He descended into the Abbey Garden.
In all Madrid there was no spot more beautiful or better
regulated. It was laid out with the most exquisite taste; The
choicest flowers adorned it in the height of luxuriance, and
though artfully arranged, seemed only planted by the hand of
The Monk - A Romance Page 5
