The Monk - A Romance

by The Monk [lit]

  interference with the Marquis. Your presence makes me tremble:

  I fear lest it should inspire her with sentiments which may

  embitter the remainder of her life, or encourage her to cherish

  hopes in her situation unjustifiable and futile. Pardon me when

  I avow my terrors, and let my frankness plead in my excuse. I

  cannot forbid you my House, for gratitude restrains me; I can

  only throw myself upon your generosity, and entreat you to spare

  the feelings of an anxious, of a doting Mother. Believe me when

  I assure you that I lament the necessity of rejecting your

  acquaintance; But there is no remedy, and Antonia's interest

  obliges me to beg you to forbear your visits. By complying with

  my request, you will increase the esteem which I already feel for

  you, and of which everything convinces me that you are truly

  deserving.'

  'Your frankness charms me,' replied Lorenzo; 'You shall find that

  in your favourable opinion of me you were not deceived. Yet I

  hope that the reasons, now in my power to allege, will persuade

  you to withdraw a request which I cannot obey without infinite

  reluctance. I love your Daughter, love her most sincerely: I

  wish for no greater happiness than to inspire her with the same

  sentiments, and receive her hand at the Altar as her Husband.

  'Tis true, I am not rich myself; My Father's death has left me

  but little in my own possession; But my expectations justify my

  pretending to the Conde de las Cisternas' Daughter.'

  He was proceeding, but Elvira interrupted him.

  'Ah! Don Lorenzo, you forget in that pompous title the meanness

  of my origin. You forget that I have now past fourteen years in

  Spain, disavowed by my Husband's family, and existing upon a

  stipend barely sufficient for the support and education of my

  Daughter. Nay, I have even been neglected by most of my own

  Relations, who out of envy affect to doubt the reality of my

  marriage. My allowance being discontinued at my Father-in-law's

  death, I was reduced to the very brink of want. In this

  situation I was found by my Sister, who amongst all her foibles

  possesses a warm, generous, and affectionate heart. She aided me

  with the little fortune which my Father left her, persuaded me to

  visit Madrid, and has supported my Child and myself since our

  quitting Murcia. Then consider not Antonia as descended from the

  Conde de la Cisternas: Consider her as a poor and unprotected

  Orphan, as the Grand-child of the Tradesman Torribio Dalfa, as

  the needy Pensioner of that Tradesman's Daughter. Reflect upon

  the difference between such a situation, and that of the Nephew

  and Heir of the potent Duke of Medina. I believe your intentions

  to be honourable; But as there are no hopes that your Uncle will

  approve of the union, I foresee that the consequences of your

  attachment must be fatal to my Child's repose.'

  'Pardon me, Segnora; You are misinformed if you suppose the Duke

  of Medina to resemble the generality of Men. His sentiments are

  liberal and disinterested: He loves me well; and I have no

  reason to dread his forbidding the marriage when He perceives

  that my happiness depends upon Antonia. But supposing him to

  refuse his sanction, what have I still to fear? My Parents are

  no more; My little fortune is in my own possession: It will be

  sufficient to support Antonia, and I shall exchange for her hand

  Medina's Dukedom without one sigh of regret.'

  'You are young and eager; It is natural for you to entertain such

  ideas. But Experience has taught me to my cost that curses

  accompany an unequal alliance. I married the Conde de las

  Cisternas in opposition to the will of his Relations; Many an

  heart-pang has punished me for the imprudent step. Whereever we

  bent our course, a Father's execration pursued Gonzalvo. Poverty

  overtook us, and no Friend was near to relieve our wants. Still

  our mutual affection existed, but alas! not without interruption.

  Accustomed to wealth and ease, ill could my Husband support the

  transition to distress and indigence. He looked back with

  repining to the comforts which He once enjoyed. He regretted the

  situation which for my sake He had quitted; and in moments when

  Despair possessed his mind, has reproached me with having made

  him the Companion of want and wretchedness! He has called me his

  bane! The source of his sorrows, the cause of his destruction!

  Ah God! He little knew how much keener were my own heart's

  reproaches! He was ignorant that I suffered trebly, for myself,

  for my Children, and for him! 'Tis true that his anger seldom

  lasted long: His sincere affection for me soon revived in his

  heart; and then his repentance for the tears which He had made me

  shed tortured me even more than his reproaches. He would throw

  himself on the ground, implore my forgiveness in the most frantic

  terms, and load himself with curses for being the Murderer of my

  repose. Taught by experience that an union contracted against

  the inclinations of families on either side must be unfortunate,

  I will save my Daughter from those miseries which I have

  suffered. Without your Uncle's consent, while I live, She never

  shall be yours. Undoubtedly He will disapprove of the union; His

  power is immense, and Antonia shall not be exposed to his anger

  and persecution.'

  'His persecution? How easily may that be avoided! Let the worst

  happen, it is but quitting Spain. My wealth may easily be

  realised; The Indian Islands will offer us a secure retreat; I

  have an estate, though not of value, in Hispaniola: Thither will

  we fly, and I shall consider it to be my native Country, if it

  gives me Antonia's undisturbed possession.'

  'Ah! Youth, this is a fond romantic vision. Gonzalvo thought the

  same. He fancied that He could leave Spain without regret; But

  the moment of parting undeceived him. You know not yet what it

  is to quit your native land; to quit it, never to behold it more!

  You know not, what it is to exchange the scenes where you have

  passed your infancy, for unknown realms and barbarous climates!

  To be forgotten, utterly eternally forgotten, by the Companions

  of your Youth! To see your dearest Friends, the fondest objects

  of your affection, perishing with diseases incidental to Indian

  atmospheres, and find yourself unable to procure for them

  necessary assistance! I have felt all this! My Husband and two

  sweet Babes found their Graves in Cuba: Nothing would have saved

  my young Antonia but my sudden return to Spain. Ah! Don Lorenzo,

  could you conceive what I suffered during my absence! Could you

  know how sorely I regretted all that I left behind, and how dear

  to me was the very name of Spain! I envied the winds which blew

  towards it: And when the Spanish Sailor chaunted some well-known

  air as He past my window, tears filled my eyes while I thought

  upon my native land. Gonzalvo too . . . My Husband . . .'.

  Elvira paused. Her voice faltered, and She concealed her face

  with her handkerchief. After a short silence Sh
e rose from the

  Sopha, and proceeded.

  'Excuse my quitting you for a few moments: The remembrance of

  what I have suffered has much agitated me, and I need to be

  alone. Till I return peruse these lines. After my Husband's

  death I found them among his papers; Had I known sooner that He

  entertained such sentiments, Grief would have killed me. He

  wrote these verses on his voyage to Cuba, when his mind was

  clouded by sorrow, and He forgot that He had a Wife and Children.

  What we are losing, ever seems to us the most precious: Gonzalvo

  was quitting Spain for ever, and therefore was Spain dearer to

  his eyes than all else which the World contained. Read them,

  Don Lorenzo; They will give you some idea of the feelings of a

  banished Man!'

  Elvira put a paper into Lorenzo's hand, and retired from the

  chamber. The Youth examined the contents, and found them to be

  as follows.

  THE EXILE

  Farewell, Oh! native Spain! Farewell for ever!

  These banished eyes shall view thy coasts no more;

  A mournful presage tells my heart, that never

  Gonzalvo's steps again shall press thy shore.

  Hushed are the winds; While soft the Vessel sailing

  With gentle motion plows the unruffled Main,

  I feel my bosom's boasted courage failing,

  And curse the waves which bear me far from Spain.

  I see it yet! Beneath yon blue clear Heaven

  Still do the Spires, so well beloved, appear;

  From yonder craggy point the gale of Even

  Still wafts my native accents to mine ear:

  Propped on some moss-crowned Rock, and gaily singing,

  There in the Sun his nets the Fisher dries;

  Oft have I heard the plaintive Ballad, bringing

  Scenes of past joys before my sorrowing eyes.

  Ah! Happy Swain! He waits the accustomed hour,

  When twilight-gloom obscures the closing sky;

  Then gladly seeks his loved paternal bower,

  And shares the feast his native fields supply:

  Friendship and Love, his Cottage Guests, receive him

  With honest welcome and with smile sincere;

  No threatening woes of present joys bereave him,

  No sigh his bosom owns, his cheek no tear.

  Ah! Happy Swain! Such bliss to me denying,

  Fortune thy lot with envy bids me view;

  Me, who from home and Spain an Exile flying,

  Bid all I value, all I love, adieu.

  No more mine ear shall list the well-known ditty

  Sung by some Mountain-Girl, who tends her Goats,

  Some Village-Swain imploring amorous pity,

  Or Shepherd chaunting wild his rustic notes:

  No more my arms a Parent's fond embraces,

  No more my heart domestic calm, must know;

  Far from these joys, with sighs which Memory traces,

  To sultry skies, and distant climes I go.

  Where Indian Suns engender new diseases,

  Where snakes and tigers breed, I bend my way

  To brave the feverish thirst no art appeases,

  The yellow plague, and madding blaze of day:

  But not to feel slow pangs consume my liver,

  To die by piece-meal in the bloom of age,

  My boiling blood drank by insatiate fever,

  And brain delirious with the day-star's rage,

  Can make me know such grief, as thus to sever

  With many a bitter sigh, Dear Land, from Thee;

  To feel this heart must doat on thee for ever,

  And feel, that all thy joys are torn from me!

  Ah me! How oft will Fancy's spells in slumber

  Recall my native Country to my mind!

  How oft regret will bid me sadly number

  Each lost delight and dear Friend left behind!

  Wild Murcia's Vales, and loved romantic bowers,

  The River on whose banks a Child I played,

  My Castle's antient Halls, its frowning Towers,

  Each much-regretted wood, and well-known Glade,

  Dreams of the land where all my wishes centre,

  Thy scenes, which I am doomed no more to know,

  Full oft shall Memory trace, my soul's Tormentor,

  And turn each pleasure past to present woe.

  But Lo! The Sun beneath the waves retires;

  Night speeds apace her empire to restore:

  Clouds from my sight obscure the village-spires,

  Now seen but faintly, and now seen no more.

  Oh! breathe not, Winds! Still be the Water's motion!

  Sleep, sleep, my Bark, in silence on the Main!

  So when to-morrow's light shall gild the Ocean,

  Once more mine eyes shall see the coast of Spain.

  Vain is the wish! My last petition scorning,

  Fresh blows the Gale, and high the Billows swell:

  Far shall we be before the break of Morning;

  Oh! then for ever, native Spain, farewell!

  Lorenzo had scarcely time to read these lines, when Elvira

  returned to him: The giving a free course to her tears had

  relieved her, and her spirits had regained their usual composure.

  'I have nothing more to say, my Lord,' said She; 'You have heard

  my apprehensions, and my reasons for begging you not to repeat

  your visits. I have thrown myself in full confidence upon your

  honour: I am certain that you will not prove my opinion of you

  to have been too favourable.'

  'But one question more, Segnora, and I leave you. Should the

  Duke of Medina approve my love, would my addresses be

  unacceptable to yourself and the fair Antonia?'

  'I will be open with you, Don Lorenzo: There being little

  probability of such an union taking place, I fear that it is

  desired but too ardently by my Daughter. You have made an

  impression upon her young heart, which gives me the most serious

  alarm: To prevent that impression from growing stronger, I am

  obliged to decline your acquaintance. For me, you may be sure

  that I should rejoice at establishing my Child so advantageously.

  Conscious that my constitution, impaired by grief and illness,

  forbids me to expect a long continuance in this world, I tremble

  at the thought of leaving her under the protection of a perfect

  Stranger. The Marquis de las Cisternas is totally unknown to me:

  He will marry; His Lady may look upon Antonia with an eye of

  displeasure, and deprive her of her only Friend. Should the

  Duke, your Uncle, give his consent, you need not doubt obtaining

  mine, and my Daughter's: But without his, hope not for ours. At

  all events, what ever steps you may take, what ever may be the

  Duke's decision, till you know it let me beg your forbearing to

  strengthen by your presence Antonia's prepossession. If the

  sanction of your Relations authorises your addressing her as your

  Wife, my Doors fly open to you: If that sanction is refused, be

  satisfied to possess my esteem and gratitude, but remember, that

  we must meet no more.'

  Lorenzo promised reluctantly to conform to this decree: But He

  added that He hoped soon to obtain that consent which would give

  him a claim to the renewal of their acquaintance. He then

  explained to her why the Marquis had not called in person, and

  made no scruple of confiding to her his Sister's History. He

  concluded by saying that He hoped to set Agnes at liberty the

  next day; and that as soon
as Don Raymond's fears were quieted

  upon this subject, He would lose no time in assuring Donna Elvira

  of his friendship and protection.

  The Lady shook her head.

  'I tremble for your Sister,' said She; 'I have heard many traits

  of the Domina of St. Clare's character, from a Friend who was

  educated in the same Convent with her. She reported her to be

  haughty, inflexible, superstitious, and revengeful. I have since

  heard that She is infatuated with the idea of rendering her

  Convent the most regular in Madrid, and never forgave those whose

  imprudence threw upon it the slightest stain. Though naturally

  violent and severe, when her interests require it, She well knows

  how to assume an appearance of benignity. She leaves no means

  untried to persuade young Women of rank to become Members of her

  Community: She is implacable when once incensed, and has too

  much intrepidity to shrink at taking the most rigorous measures

  for punishing the Offender. Doubtless, She will consider your

  Sister's quitting the Convent as a disgrace thrown upon it: She

  will use every artifice to avoid obeying the mandate of his

  Holiness, and I shudder to think that Donna Agnes is in the

  hands of this dangerous Woman.'

  Lorenzo now rose to take leave. Elvira gave him her hand at

  parting, which He kissed respectfully; and telling her that He

  soon hoped for the permission to salute that of Antonia, He

  returned to his Hotel. The Lady was perfectly satisfied with the

  conversation which had past between them. She looked forward

  with satisfaction to the prospect of his becoming her Son-in-

  law; But Prudence bad her conceal from her Daughter's knowledge

  the flattering hopes which Herself now ventured to entertain.

  Scarcely was it day, and already Lorenzo was at the Convent of

  St. Clare, furnished with the necessary mandate. The Nuns were

  at Matins. He waited impatiently for the conclusion of the

  service, and at length the Prioress appeared at the Parlour

  Grate. Agnes was demanded. The old Lady replied, with a

  melancholy air, that the dear Child's situation grew hourly more

  dangerous; That the Physicians despaired of her life; But that

  they had declared the only chance for her recovery to consist in

  keeping her quiet, and not to permit those to approach her whose

  presence was likely to agitate her. Not a word of all this was

  believed by Lorenzo, any more than He credited the expressions of