If Ambrosio's surprise was great at her first avowal, upon
hearing her second it exceeded all bounds. Amazed, embarrassed,
and irresolute He found himself incapable of pronouncing a
syllable, and remained in silence gazing upon Matilda: This gave
her opportunity to continue her explanation as follows.
'Think not, Ambrosio, that I come to rob your Bride of your
affections. No, believe me: Religion alone deserves you; and
far is it from Matilda's wish to draw you from the paths of
virtue. What I feel for you is love, not licentiousness; I sigh
to be possessor of your heart, not lust for the enjoyment of your
person. Deign to listen to my vindication: A few moments will
convince you that this holy retreat is not polluted by my
presence, and that you may grant me your compassion without
trespassing against your vows.'--She seated herself: Ambrosio,
scarcely conscious of what He did, followed her example, and She
proceeded in her discourse.
'I spring from a distinguished family: My Father was Chief of
the noble House of Villanegas. He died while I was still an
Infant, and left me sole Heiress of his immense possessions.
Young and wealthy, I was sought in marriage by the noblest Youths
of Madrid; But no one succeeded in gaining my affections. I had
been brought up under the care of an Uncle possessed of the most
solid judgment and extensive erudition. He took pleasure in
communicating to me some portion of his knowledge. Under his
instructions my understanding acquired more strength and
justness than generally falls to the lot of my sex: The ability
of my Preceptor being aided by natural curiosity, I not only made
a considerable progress in sciences universally studied, but in
others, revealed but to few, and lying under censure from the
blindness of superstition. But while my Guardian laboured to
enlarge the sphere of my knowledge, He carefully inculcated every
moral precept: He relieved me from the shackles of vulgar
prejudice; He pointed out the beauty of Religion; He taught me to
look with adoration upon the pure and virtuous, and, woe is me!
I have obeyed him but too well!
'With such dispositions, Judge whether I could observe with any
other sentiment than disgust the vice, dissipation, and
ignorance, which disgrace our Spanish Youth. I rejected every
offer with disdain. My heart remained without a Master till
chance conducted me to the Cathedral of the Capuchins. Oh!
surely on that day my Guardian Angel slumbered neglectful of his
charge! Then was it that I first beheld you: You supplied the
Superior's place, absent from illness. You cannot but remember
the lively enthusiasm which your discourse created. Oh! how I
drank your words! How your eloquence seemed to steal me from
myself! I scarcely dared to breathe, fearing to lose a syllable;
and while you spoke, Methought a radiant glory beamed round your
head, and your countenance shone with the majesty of a God. I
retired from the Church, glowing with admiration. From that
moment you became the idol of my heart, the never-changing object
of my Meditations. I enquired respecting you. The reports which
were made me of your mode of life, of your knowledge, piety, and
self-denial riveted the chains imposed on me by your eloquence.
I was conscious that there was no longer a void in my heart; That
I had found the Man whom I had sought till then in vain. In
expectation of hearing you again, every day I visited your
Cathedral: You remained secluded within the Abbey walls, and I
always withdrew, wretched and disappointed. The Night was more
propitious to me, for then you stood before me in my dreams; You
vowed to me eternal friendship; You led me through the paths of
virtue, and assisted me to support the vexations of life. The
Morning dispelled these pleasing visions; I woke, and found
myself separated from you by Barriers which appeared
insurmountable. Time seemed only to increase the strength of my
passion: I grew melancholy and despondent; I fled from society,
and my health declined daily. At length no longer able to exist
in this state of torture, I resolved to assume the disguise in
which you see me. My artifice was fortunate: I was received
into the Monastery, and succeeded in gaining your esteem.
'Now then I should have felt compleatly happy, had not my quiet
been disturbed by the fear of detection. The pleasure which I
received from your society, was embittered by the idea that
perhaps I should soon be deprived of it: and my heart throbbed so
rapturously at obtaining the marks of your friendship, as to
convince me that I never should survive its loss. I resolved,
therefore, not to leave the discovery of my sex to chance, to
confess the whole to you, and throw myself entirely on your mercy
and indulgence. Ah! Ambrosio, can I have been deceived? Can you
be less generous than I thought you? I will not suspect it. You
will not drive a Wretch to despair; I shall still be permitted to
see you, to converse with you, to adore you! Your virtues shall
be my example through life; and when we expire, our bodies shall
rest in the same Grave.'
She ceased. While She spoke, a thousand opposing sentiments
combated in Ambrosio's bosom. Surprise at the singularity of
this adventure, Confusion at her abrupt declaration, Resentment
at her boldness in entering the Monastery, and Consciousness of
the austerity with which it behoved him to reply, such were the
sentiments of which He was aware; But there were others also
which did not obtain his notice. He perceived not, that his
vanity was flattered by the praises bestowed upon his eloquence
and virtue; that He felt a secret pleasure in reflecting that a
young and seemingly lovely Woman had for his sake abandoned the
world, and sacrificed every other passion to that which He had
inspired: Still less did He perceive that his heart throbbed
with desire, while his hand was pressed gently by Matilda's ivory
fingers.
By degrees He recovered from his confusion. His ideas became
less bewildered: He was immediately sensible of the extreme
impropriety, should Matilda be permitted to remain in the Abbey
after this avowal of her sex. He assumed an air of severity, and
drew away his hand.
'How, Lady!' said He; 'Can you really hope for my permission to
remain amongst us? Even were I to grant your request, what good
could you derive from it? Think you that I ever can reply to an
affection, which . . .'.
'No, Father, No! I expect not to inspire you with a love like
mine. I only wish for the liberty to be near you, to pass some
hours of the day in your society; to obtain your compassion, your
friendship and esteem. Surely my request is not unreasonable.'
'But reflect, Lady! Reflect only for a moment on the impropriety
of my harbouring a Woman in the Abbey; and that too a Woman, who
confesses that She loves me. It must not be. The risque of your
being discovered is too great, and I will not expose myself to so
dangerous a temptation.'
'Temptation, say you? Forget that I am a Woman, and it no
longer exists: Consider me only as a Friend, as an Unfortunate,
whose happiness, whose life depends upon your protection. Fear
not lest I should ever call to your remembrance that love the
most impetuous, the most unbounded, has induced me to disguise my
sex; or that instigated by desires, offensive to YOUR vows and my
own honour, I should endeavour to seduce you from the path of
rectitude. No, Ambrosio, learn to know me better. I love you
for your virtues: Lose them, and with them you lose my
affections. I look upon you as a Saint; Prove to me that you are
no more than Man, and I quit you with disgust. Is it then from
me that you fear temptation? From me, in whom the world's
dazzling pleasures created no other sentiment than contempt?
From me, whose attachment is grounded on your exemption from
human frailty? Oh! dismiss such injurious apprehensions! Think
nobler of me, think nobler of yourself. I am incapable of
seducing you to error; and surely your Virtue is established on a
basis too firm to be shaken by unwarranted desires. Ambrosio,
dearest Ambrosio! drive me not from your presence; Remember your
promise, and authorize my stay!'
'Impossible, Matilda; YOUR interest commands me to refuse your
prayer, since I tremble for you, not for myself. After
vanquishing the impetuous ebullitions of Youth; After passing
thirty years in mortification and penance, I might safely permit
your stay, nor fear your inspiring me with warmer sentiments than
pity. But to yourself, remaining in the Abbey can produce none
but fatal consequences. You will misconstrue my every word and
action; You will seize every circumstance with avidity, which
encourages you to hope the return of your affection; Insensibly
your passions will gain a superiority over your reason; and far
from these being repressed by my presence, every moment which we
pass together, will only serve to irritate and excite them.
Believe me, unhappy Woman! you possess my sincere compassion. I
am convinced that you have hitherto acted upon the purest
motives; But though you are blind to the imprudence of your
conduct, in me it would be culpable not to open your eyes. I
feel that Duty obliges my treating you with harshness: I must
reject your prayer, and remove every shadow of hope which may
aid to nourish sentiments so pernicious to your repose. Matilda,
you must from hence tomorrow.'
'Tomorrow, Ambrosio? Tomorrow? Oh! surely you cannot mean it!
You cannot resolve on driving me to despair! You cannot have the
cruelty. . . .'
'You have heard my decision, and it must be obeyed. The Laws of
our Order forbid your stay: It would be perjury to conceal that
a Woman is within these Walls, and my vows will oblige me to
declare your story to the Community. You must from hence!--I
pity you, but can do no more!'
He pronounced these words in a faint and trembling voice: Then
rising from his seat, He would have hastened towards the
Monastery. Uttering a loud shriek, Matilda followed, and
detained him.
'Stay yet one moment, Ambrosio! Hear me yet speak one word!'
'I dare not listen! Release me! You know my resolution!'
'But one word! But one last word, and I have done!'
'Leave me! Your entreaties are in vain! You must from hence
tomorrow!'
'Go then, Barbarian! But this resource is still left me.'
As She said this, She suddenly drew a poignard: She rent open
her garment, and placed the weapon's point against her bosom.
'Father, I will never quit these Walls alive!'
'Hold! Hold, Matilda! What would you do?'
'You are determined, so am I: The Moment that you leave me, I
plunge this Steel in my heart.'
'Holy St. Francis! Matilda, have you your senses? Do you know
the consequences of your action? That Suicide is the greatest of
crimes? That you destroy your Soul? That you lose your claim to
salvation? That you prepare for yourself everlasting torments?'
'I care not! I care not!' She replied passionately; 'Either your
hand guides me to Paradise, or my own dooms me to perdition!
Speak to me, Ambrosio! Tell me that you will conceal my story,
that I shall remain your Friend and your Companion, or this
poignard drinks my blood!'
As She uttered these last words, She lifted her arm, and made a
motion as if to stab herself. The Friar's eyes followed with
dread the course of the dagger. She had torn open her habit, and
her bosom was half exposed. The weapon's point rested upon her
left breast: And Oh! that was such a breast! The Moonbeams
darting full upon it enabled the Monk to observe its dazzling
whiteness. His eye dwelt with insatiable avidity upon the
beauteous Orb. A sensation till then unknown filled his heart
with a mixture of anxiety and delight: A raging fire shot
through every limb; The blood boiled in his veins, and a thousand
wild wishes bewildered his imagination.
'Hold!' He cried in an hurried faultering voice; 'I can resist no
longer! Stay, then, Enchantress; Stay for my destruction!'
He said, and rushing from the place, hastened towards the
Monastery: He regained his Cell and threw himself upon his
Couch, distracted irresolute and confused.
He found it impossible for some time to arrange his ideas. The
scene in which He had been engaged had excited such a variety of
sentiments in his bosom, that He was incapable of deciding which
was predominant. He was irresolute what conduct He ought to hold
with the disturber of his repose. He was conscious that
prudence,
religion, and propriety necessitated his obliging her to quit the
Abbey: But on the other hand such powerful reasons authorized
her stay that He was but too much inclined to consent to her
remaining. He could not avoid being flattered by Matilda's
declaration, and at reflecting that He had unconsciously
vanquished an heart which had resisted the attacks of Spain's
noblest Cavaliers: The manner in which He had gained her
affections was also the most satisfactory to his vanity: He
remembered the many happy hours which He had passed in Rosario's
society, and dreaded that void in his heart which parting with
him would occasion. Besides all this, He considered, that as
Matilda was wealthy, her favour might be of essential benefit to
the Abbey.
'And what do I risque,' said He to himself, 'by authorizing her
stay? May I not safely credit her assertions? Will it not be
easy for me to forget her sex, and still consider her as my
Friend and my disciple? Surely her love is as pure as She
describes. Had it been the offspring of mere licentiousness,
would She so long have concealed it in her own bosom? Would She
not have employed some means to procure its gratification? She
has done quite the contrary: She strove to keep me in ignora
nce
of her sex; and nothing but the fear of detection, and my
instances, would have compelled her to reveal the secret. She
has observed the duties of religion not less strictly than
myself. She has made no attempts to rouze my slumbering
passions, nor has She ever conversed with me till this night on
the subject of Love. Had She been desirous to gain my
affections, not my esteem, She would not have concealed from me
her charms so carefully: At this very moment I have never seen
her face: Yet certainly that face must be lovely, and her person
beautiful, to judge by her . . . by what I have seen.'
As this last idea passed through his imagination, a blush spread
itself over his cheek. Alarmed at the sentiments which He was
indulging, He betook himself to prayer; He started from his
Couch, knelt before the beautiful Madona, and entreated her
assistance in stifling such culpable emotions. He then returned
to his Bed, and resigned himself to slumber.
He awoke, heated and unrefreshed. During his sleep his inflamed
imagination had presented him with none but the most voluptuous
objects. Matilda stood before him in his dreams, and his eyes
again dwelt upon her naked breast. She repeated her
protestations of eternal love, threw her arms round his neck, and
loaded him with kisses: He returned them; He clasped her
passionately to his bosom, and . . . the vision was dissolved.
Sometimes his dreams presented the image of his favourite Madona,
and He fancied that He was kneeling before her: As He offered up
his vows to her, the eyes of the Figure seemed to beam on him
with inexpressible sweetness. He pressed his lips to hers, and
found them warm: The animated form started from the Canvas,
embraced him affectionately, and his senses were unable to
support delight so exquisite. Such were the scenes, on which his
thoughts were employed while sleeping: His unsatisfied Desires
placed before him the most lustful and provoking Images, and he
rioted in joys till then unknown to him.
He started from his Couch, filled with confusion at the
remembrance of his dreams. Scarcely was He less ashamed, when He
reflected on his reasons of the former night which induced him
to authorize Matilda's stay. The cloud was now dissipated which
had obscured his judgment: He shuddered when He beheld his
arguments blazoned in their proper colours, and found that He had
The Monk - A Romance Page 7
