heard a voice more harmonious; and He wondered how such heavenly
sounds could be produced by any but Angels. But though He
indulged the sense of hearing, a single look convinced him that
He must not trust to that of sight. The Songstress sat at a
little distance from his Bed. The attitude in which She bent
over her harp, was easy and graceful: Her Cowl had fallen back-
warder than usual: Two coral lips were visible, ripe, fresh, and
melting, and a Chin in whose dimples seemed to lurk a thousand
Cupids. Her Habit's long sleeve would have swept along the
Chords of the Instrument: To prevent this inconvenience She had
drawn it above her elbow, and by this means an arm was discovered
formed in the most perfect symmetry, the delicacy of whose skin
might have contended with snow in whiteness. Ambrosio dared to
look on her but once: That glance sufficed to convince him, how
dangerous was the presence of this seducing Object. He closed
his eyes, but strove in vain to banish her from his thoughts.
There She still moved before him, adorned with all those charms
which his heated imagination could supply: Every beauty which He
had seen, appeared embellished, and those still concealed Fancy
represented to him in glowing colours. Still, however, his vows
and the necessity of keeping to them were present to his memory.
He struggled with desire, and shuddered when He beheld how deep
was the precipice before him.
Matilda ceased to sing. Dreading the influence of her charms,
Ambrosio remained with his eyes closed, and offered up his
prayers to St. Francis to assist him in this dangerous trial!
Matilda believed that He was sleeping. She rose from her seat,
approached the Bed softly, and for some minutes gazed upon him
attentively.
'He sleeps!' said She at length in a low voice, but whose accents
the Abbot distinguished perfectly; 'Now then I may gaze upon him
without offence! I may mix my breath with his; I may doat upon
his features, and He cannot suspect me of impurity and
deceit!--He fears my seducing him to the violation of his vows!
Oh! the Unjust! Were it my wish to excite desire, should I
conceal my features from him so carefully? Those features, of
which I daily hear him. . . .'
She stopped, and was lost in her reflections.
'It was but yesterday!' She continued; 'But a few short hours
have past, since I was dear to him! He esteemed me, and my heart
was satisfied! Now!. . . Oh! now how cruelly is my situation
changed! He looks on me with suspicion! He bids me leave him,
leave him for ever! Oh! You, my Saint! my Idol! You, holding
the next place to God in my breast! Yet two days, and my heart
will be unveiled to you.--Could you know my feelings, when I
beheld your agony! Could you know, how much your sufferings have
endeared you to me! But the time will come, when you will be
convinced that my passion is pure and disinterested. Then you
will pity me, and feel the whole weight of these sorrows!'
As She said this, her voice was choaked by weeping. While She
bent over Ambrosio, a tear fell upon his cheek.
'Ah! I have disturbed him!' cried Matilda, and retreated
hastily.
Her alarm was ungrounded. None sleep so profoundly, as those who
are determined not to wake. The Friar was in this predicament:
He still seemed buried in a repose, which every succeeding minute
rendered him less capable of enjoying. The burning tear had
communicated its warmth to his heart.
'What affection! What purity!' said He internally; 'Ah! since
my bosom is thus sensible of pity, what would it be if agitated
by love?'
Matilda again quitted her seat, and retired to some distance from
the Bed. Ambrosio ventured to open his eyes, and to cast them
upon her fearfully. Her face was turned from him. She rested
her head in a melancholy posture upon her Harp, and gazed on the
picture which hung opposite to the Bed.
'Happy, happy Image!' Thus did She address the beautiful Madona;
' 'Tis to you that He offers his prayers! 'Tis on you that He
gazes with admiration! I thought you would have lightened my
sorrows; You have only served to increase their weight: You have
made me feel that had I known him ere his vows were pronounced,
Ambrosio and happiness might have been mine. With what pleasure
He views this picture! With what fervour He addresses his
prayers to the insensible Image! Ah! may not his sentiments be
inspired by some kind and secret Genius, Friend to my affection?
May it not be Man's natural instinct which informs him. . . Be
silent, idle hopes! Let me not encourage an idea which takes
from the brilliance of Ambrosio's virtue. 'Tis Religion, not
Beauty which attracts his admiration; 'Tis not to the Woman, but
the Divinity that He kneels. Would He but address to me the
least tender expression which He pours forth to this Madona!
Would He but say that were He not already affianced to the
Church, He would not have despised Matilda! Oh! let me nourish
that fond idea! Perhaps He may yet acknowledge that He feels for
me more than pity, and that affection like mine might well have
deserved a return; Perhaps, He may own thus much when I lye on my
deathbed! He then need not fear to infringe his vows, and the
confession of his regard will soften the pangs of dying. Would I
were sure of this! Oh! how earnestly should I sigh for the
moment of dissolution!'
Of this discourse the Abbot lost not a syllable; and the tone in
which She pronounced these last words pierced to his heart.
Involuntarily He raised himself from his pillow.
'Matilda!' He said in a troubled voice; 'Oh! my Matilda!'
She started at the sound, and turned towards him hastily. The
suddenness of her movement made her Cowl fall back from her head;
Her features became visible to the Monk's enquiring eye. What
was his amazement at beholding the exact resemblance of his
admired Madona? The same exquisite proportion of features, the
same profusion of golden hair, the same rosy lips, heavenly eyes,
and majesty of countenance adorned Matilda! Uttering an
exclamation of surprize, Ambrosio sank back upon his pillow, and
doubted whether the Object before him was mortal or divine.
Matilda seemed penetrated with confusion. She remained
motionless in her place, and supported herself upon her
Instrument. Her eyes were bent upon the earth, and her fair
cheeks overspread with blushes. On recovering herself, her
first action was to conceal her features. She then in an
unsteady and troubled voice ventured to address these words to
the Friar.
'Accident has made you Master of a secret, which I never would
have revealed but on the Bed of death. Yes, Ambrosio; In Matilda
de Villanegas you see the original of your beloved Madona. Soon
after I conceived my unfortunate passion, I formed the project of
conveying to you my Picture: Crowds of Admirers had persuaded me
that I possessed some beauty, and I was a
nxious to know what
effect it would produce upon you. I caused my Portrait to be
drawn by Martin Galuppi, a celebrated Venetian at that time
resident in Madrid. The resemblance was striking: I sent it to
the Capuchin Abbey as if for sale, and the Jew from whom you
bought it was one of my Emissaries. You purchased it. Judge of
my rapture, when informed that you had gazed upon it with
delight, or rather with adoration; that you had suspended it in
your Cell, and that you addressed your supplications to no other
Saint. Will this discovery make me still more regarded as an
object of suspicion? Rather should it convince you how pure is
my affection, and engage you to suffer me in your society and
esteem. I heard you daily extol the praises of my Portrait: I
was an eyewitness of the transports, which its beauty excited
in you: Yet I forbore to use against your virtue those arms, with
which yourself had furnished me. I concealed those features from
your sight, which you loved unconsciously. I strove not to
excite desire by displaying my charms, or to make myself Mistress
of your heart through the medium of your senses. To attract your
notice by studiously attending to religious duties, to endear
myself to you by convincing you that my mind was virtuous and my
attachment sincere, such was my only aim. I succeeded; I became
your companion and your Friend. I concealed my sex from your
knowledge; and had you not pressed me to reveal my secret, had I
not been tormented by the fear of a discovery, never had you
known me for any other than Rosario. And still are you resolved
to drive me from you? The few hours of life which yet remain for
me, may I not pass them in your presence? Oh! speak, Ambrosio,
and tell me that I may stay!'
This speech gave the Abbot an opportunity of recollecting
himself. He was conscious that in the present disposition of his
mind, avoiding her society was his only refuge from the power of
this enchanting Woman.
'You declaration has so much astonished me,' said He, 'that I am
at present incapable of answering you. Do not insist upon a
reply, Matilda; Leave me to myself; I have need to be alone.'
'I obey you--But before I go, promise not to insist upon my
quitting the Abbey immediately.'
'Matilda, reflect upon your situation; Reflect upon the
consequences of your stay. Our separation is indispensable, and
we must part.'
'But not to-day, Father! Oh! in pity not today!'
'You press me too hard, but I cannot resist that tone of
supplication. Since you insist upon it, I yield to your prayer:
I consent to your remaining here a sufficient time to prepare in
some measure the Brethren for your departure. Stay yet two days;
But on the third,' . . . (He sighed involuntarily)--'Remember,
that on the third we must part for ever!'
She caught his hand eagerly, and pressed it to her lips.
'On the third?' She exclaimed with an air of wild solemnity; 'You
are right, Father! You are right! On the third we must part for
ever!'
There was a dreadful expression in her eye as She uttered these
words, which penetrated the Friar's soul with horror: Again She
kissed his hand, and then fled with rapidity from the chamber.
Anxious to authorise the presence of his dangerous Guest, yet
conscious that her stay was infringing the laws of his order,
Ambrosio's bosom became the Theatre of a thousand contending
passions. At length his attachment to the feigned Rosario, aided
by the natural warmth of his temperament, seemed likely to obtain
the victory: The success was assured, when that presumption which
formed the groundwork of his character came to Matilda's
assistance. The Monk reflected that to vanquish temptation was
an infinitely greater merit than to avoid it: He thought that
He ought rather to rejoice in the opportunity given him of
proving the firmness of his virtue. St. Anthony had withstood
all seductions to lust; Then why should not He? Besides, St.
Anthony was tempted by the Devil, who put every art into practice
to excite his passions: Whereas, Ambrosio's danger proceeded
from a mere mortal Woman, fearful and modest, whose apprehensions
of his yielding were not less violent than his own.
'Yes,' said He; 'The Unfortunate shall stay; I have nothing to
fear from her presence. Even should my own prove too weak to
resist the temptation, I am secured from danger by the innocence
of Matilda.'
Ambrosio was yet to learn, that to an heart unacquainted with
her, Vice is ever most dangerous when lurking behind the Mask of
Virtue.
He found himself so perfectly recovered, that when Father Pablos
visited him again at night, He entreated permission to quit his
chamber on the day following. His request was granted. Matilda
appeared no more that evening, except in company with the Monks
when they came in a body to enquire after the Abbot's health.
She seemed fearful of conversing with him in private, and stayed
but a few minutes in his room. The Friar slept well; But the
dreams of the former night were repeated, and his sensations of
voluptuousness were yet more keen and exquisite. The same
lust-exciting visions floated before his eyes: Matilda, in all
the pomp of beauty, warm, tender, and luxurious, clasped him to
her bosom, and lavished upon him the most ardent caresses. He
returned them as eagerly, and already was on the point of
satisfying his desires, when the faithless form disappeared, and
left him to all the horrors of shame and disappointment.
The Morning dawned. Fatigued, harassed, and exhausted by his
provoking dreams, He was not disposed to quit his Bed. He
excused himself from appearing at Matins: It was the first
morning in his life that He had ever missed them. He rose late.
During the whole of the day He had no opportunity of speaking to
Matilda without witnesses. His Cell was thronged by the Monks,
anxious to express their concern at his illness; And He was still
occupied in receiving their compliments on his recovery, when the
Bell summoned them to the Refectory.
After dinner the Monks separated, and dispersed themselves in
various parts of the Garden, where the shade of trees or
retirement of some Grotto presented the most agreeable means of
enjoying the Siesta. The Abbot bent his steps towards the
Hermitage: A glance of his eye invited Matilda to accompany him.
She obeyed, and followed him thither in silence. They entered
the Grotto, and seated themselves. Both seemed unwilling to
begin the conversation, and to labour under the influence of
mutual embarrassment. At length the Abbot spoke: He conversed
only on indifferent topics, and Matilda answered him in the same
tone. She seemed anxious to make him forget that the Person who
sat by him was any other than Rosario. Neither of them dared, or
indeed wished to make an allusion, to the subject which was most
at the hearts of both.
Matilda's efforts to appear gay were evidently forced: Her
spirits were oppressed by the weight of anxiety, and when She
spoke her voice was low and feeble. She seemed desirous of
finishing a conversation which embarrassed her; and complaining
that She was unwell, She requested Ambrosio's permission to
return to the Abbey. He accompanied her to the door of her cell;
and when arrived there, He stopped her to declare his consent to
her continuing the Partner of his solitude so long as should be
agreeable to herself.
She discovered no marks of pleasure at receiving this
intelligence, though on the preceding day She had been so anxious
to obtain the permission.
'Alas! Father,' She said, waving her head mournfully; 'Your
kindness comes too late! My doom is fixed. We must separate for
ever. Yet believe, that I am grateful for your generosity, for
your compassion of an Unfortunate who is but too little deserving
of it!'
She put her handkerchief to her eyes. Her Cowl was only half
drawn over her face. Ambrosio observed that She was pale, and
her eyes sunk and heavy.
'Good God!' He cried; 'You are very ill, Matilda! I shall send
Father Pablos to you instantly.'
'No; Do not. I am ill, 'tis true; But He cannot cure my malady.
Farewell, Father! Remember me in your prayers tomorrow, while I
shall remember you in heaven!'
She entered her cell, and closed the door.
The Abbot dispatched to her the Physician without losing a
moment, and waited his report impatiently. But Father Pablos
soon returned, and declared that his errand had been fruitless.
Rosario refused to admit him, and had positively rejected his
offers of assistance. The uneasiness which this account gave
Ambrosio was not trifling: Yet He determined that Matilda should
have her own way for that night: But that if her situation did
not mend by the morning, he would insist upon her taking the
advice of Father Pablos.
He did not find himself inclined to sleep. He opened his
casement, and gazed upon the moonbeams as they played upon the
small stream whose waters bathed the walls of the Monastery. The
coolness of the night breeze and tranquillity of the hour
inspired the Friar's mind with sadness. He thought upon
Matilda's beauty and affection; Upon the pleasures which He might
have shared with her, had He not been restrained by monastic
The Monk - A Romance Page 9
