left unlocked.
Thither Matilda bent her course. She opened the wicket and
sought for the door leading to the subterraneous Vaults, where
reposed the mouldering Bodies of the Votaries of St. Clare. The
night was perfectly dark; Neither Moon or Stars were visible.
Luckily there was not a breath of Wind, and the Friar bore his
Lamp in full security: By the assistance of its beams, the door
of the Sepulchre was soon discovered. It was sunk within the
hollow of a wall, and almost concealed by thick festoons of ivy
hanging over it. Three steps of rough-hewn Stone conducted to
it, and Matilda was on the point of descending them when She
suddenly started back.
'There are People in the Vaults!' She whispered to the Monk;
'Conceal yourself till they are past.
She took refuge behind a lofty and magnificent Tomb, erected in
honour of the Convent's Foundress. Ambrosio followed her
example, carefully hiding his Lamp lest its beams should betray
them. But a few moments had elapsed when the Door was pushed
open leading to the subterraneous Caverns. Rays of light
proceeded up the Staircase: They enabled the concealed
Spectators to observe two Females drest in religious habits, who
seemed engaged in earnest conversation. The Abbot had no
difficulty to recognize the Prioress of St. Clare in the first,
and one of the elder Nuns in her Companion.
'Every thing is prepared,' said the Prioress; 'Her fate shall be
decided tomorrow. All her tears and sighs will be unavailing.
No! In five and twenty years that I have been Superior of this
Convent, never did I witness a transaction more infamous!'
'You must expect much opposition to your will;' the Other replied
in a milder voice; 'Agnes has many Friends in the Convent, and in
particular the Mother St. Ursula will espouse her cause most
warmly. In truth, She merits to have Friends; and I wish I
could prevail upon you to consider her youth, and her peculiar
situation. She seems sensible of her fault; The excess of her
grief proves her penitence, and I am convinced that her tears
flow more from contrition than fear of punishment. Reverend
Mother, would you be persuaded to mitigate the severity of your
sentence, would you but deign to overlook this first
transgression, I offer myself as the pledge of her future
conduct.'
'Overlook it, say you? Mother Camilla, you amaze me! What?
After disgracing me in the presence of Madrid's Idol, of the very
Man on whom I most wished to impress an idea of the strictness of
my discipline? How despicable must I have appeared to the
reverend Abbot! No, Mother, No! I never can forgive the insult.
I cannot better convince Ambrosio that I abhor such crimes, than
by punishing that of Agnes with all the rigour of which our
severe laws admit. Cease then your supplications; They will all
be unavailing. My resolution is taken: Tomorrow Agnes shall be
made a terrible example of my justice and resentment.'
The Mother Camilla seemed not to give up the point, but by this
time the Nuns were out of hearing. The Prioress unlocked the
door which communicated with St. Clare's Chapel, and having
entered with her Companion, closed it again after them.
Matilda now asked, who was this Agnes with whom the Prioress was
thus incensed, and what connexion She could have with Ambrosio.
He related her adventure; and He added, that since that time his
ideas having undergone a thorough revolution, He now felt much
compassion for the unfortunate Nun.
'I design,' said He, 'to request an audience of the Domina
tomorrow, and use every means of obtaining a mitigation of her
sentence.'
'Beware of what you do!' interrupted Matilda; 'Your sudden change
of sentiment may naturally create surprize, and may give birth to
suspicions which it is most our interest to avoid. Rather,
redouble your outward austerity, and thunder out menaces against
the errors of others, the better to conceal your own. Abandon
the Nun to her fate. Your interfering might be dangerous, and
her imprudence merits to be punished: She is unworthy to enjoy
Love's pleasures, who has not wit enough to conceal them. But in
discussing this trifling subject I waste moments which are
precious. The night flies apace, and much must be done before
morning. The Nuns are retired; All is safe. Give me the Lamp,
Ambrosio. I must descend alone into these Caverns: Wait here,
and if any one approaches, warn me by your voice; But as you
value your existence, presume not to follow me. Your life would
fall a victim to your imprudent curiosity.'
Thus saying She advanced towards the Sepulchre, still holding her
Lamp in one hand, and her little Basket in the other. She
touched the door: It turned slowly upon its grating hinges, and
a narrow winding staircase of black marble presented itself to
her eyes. She descended it. Ambrosio remained above, watching
the faint beams of the Lamp as they still proceeded up the
stairs. They disappeared, and He found himself in total
darkness.
Left to himself He could not reflect without surprize on the
sudden change in Matilda's character and sentiments. But a few
days had past since She appeared the mildest and softest of her
sex, devoted to his will, and looking up to him as to a superior
Being. Now She assumed a sort of courage and manliness in her
manners and discourse but ill-calculated to please him. She
spoke no longer to insinuate, but command: He found himself
unable to cope with her in argument, and was unwillingly
obliged to confess the superiority of her judgment. Every moment
convinced him of the astonishing powers of her mind: But what
She gained in the opinion of the Man, She lost with interest in
the affection of the Lover. He regretted Rosario, the fond, the
gentle, and submissive: He grieved that Matilda preferred the
virtues of his sex to those of her own; and when He thought of
her expressions respecting the devoted Nun, He could not help
blaming them as cruel and unfeminine. Pity is a sentiment so
natural, so appropriate to the female character, that it is
scarcely a merit for a Woman to possess it, but to be without it
is a grievous crime. Ambrosio could not easily forgive his
Mistress for being deficient in this amiable quality. However,
though he blamed her insensibility, He felt the truth of her
observations; and though He pitied sincerely the unfortunate
Agnes, He resolved to drop the idea of interposing in her behalf.
Near an hour had elapsed, since Matilda descended into the
Caverns; Still She returned not. Ambrosio's curiosity was
excited. He drew near the Staircase. He listened. All was
silent, except that at intervals He caught the sound of Matilda's
voice, as it wound along the subteraneous passages, and was
re-echoed by the Sepulchre's vaulted roofs. She was at too great
a distance for him to distinguish her words, and ere they reached
him t
hey were deadened into a low murmur. He longed to penetrate
into this mystery. He resolved to disobey her injunctions and
follow her into the Cavern. He advanced to the Staircase; He
had already descended some steps when his courage failed him.
He remembered Matilda's menaces if He infringed her orders, and
his bosom was filled with a secret unaccountable awe. He
returned up the stairs, resumed his former station, and waited
impatiently for the conclusion of this adventure.
Suddenly He was sensible of a violent shock: An earthquake
rocked the ground. The Columns which supported the roof under
which He stood were so strongly shaken, that every moment
menaced him with its fall, and at the same moment He heard a loud
and tremendous burst of thunder. It ceased, and his eyes being
fixed upon the Staircase, He saw a bright column of light flash
along the Caverns beneath. It was seen but for an instant. No
sooner did it disappear, than all was once more quiet and
obscure. Profound Darkness again surrounded him, and the silence
of night was only broken by the whirring Bat, as She flitted
slowly by him.
With every instant Ambrosio's amazement increased. Another hour
elapsed, after which the same light again appeared and was lost
again as suddenly. It was accompanied by a strain of sweet but
solemn Music, which as it stole through the Vaults below,
inspired the Monk with mingled delight and terror. It had not
long been hushed, when He heard Matilda's steps upon the
Staircase. She ascended from the Cavern; The most lively joy
animated her beautiful features.
'Did you see any thing?' She asked.
'Twice I saw a column of light flash up the Staircase.'
'Nothing else?'
'Nothing.'
'The Morning is on the point of breaking. Let us retire to the
Abbey, lest daylight should betray us.'
With a light step She hastened from the burying-ground. She
regained her Cell, and the curious Abbot still accompanied her.
She closed the door, and disembarrassed herself of her Lamp and
Basket.
'I have succeeded!' She cried, throwing herself upon his bosom:
'Succeeded beyond my fondest hopes! I shall live, Ambrosio,
shall live for you! The step which I shuddered at taking
proves to me a source of joys inexpressible! Oh! that I dared
communicate those joys to you! Oh! that I were permitted to
share with you my power, and raise you as high above the level of
your sex, as one bold deed has exalted me above mine!'
'And what prevents you, Matilda?' interrupted the Friar; 'Why is
your business in the Cavern made a secret? Do you think me
undeserving of your confidence? Matilda, I must doubt the truth
of your affection, while you have joys in which I am forbidden to
share.'
'You reproach me with injustice. I grieve sincerely that I am
obliged to conceal from you my happiness. But I am not to blame:
The fault lies not in me, but in yourself, my Ambrosio! You are
still too much the Monk. Your mind is enslaved by the prejudices
of Education; And Superstition might make you shudder at the idea
of that which experience has taught me to prize and value. At
present you are unfit to be trusted with a secret of such
importance: But the strength of your judgment; and the curiosity
which I rejoice to see sparkling in your eyes, makes me hope
that you will one day deserve my confidence. Till that period
arrives, restrain your impatience. Remember that you have given
me your solemn oath never to enquire into this night's
adventures. I insist upon your keeping this oath: For though'
She added smiling, while She sealed his lips with a wanton kiss;
'Though I forgive your breaking your vows to heaven, I expect you
to keep your vows to me.'
The Friar returned the embrace which had set his blood on fire.
The luxurious and unbounded excesses of the former night were
renewed, and they separated not till the Bell rang for Matins.
The same pleasures were frequently repeated. The Monks rejoiced
in the feigned Rosario's unexpected recovery, and none of them
suspected his real sex. The Abbot possessed his Mistress in
tranquillity, and perceiving his frailty unsuspected, abandoned
himself to his passions in full security. Shame and remorse no
longer tormented him. Frequent repetitions made him familiar
with sin, and his bosom became proof against the stings of
Conscience. In these sentiments He was encouraged by Matilda;
But She soon was aware that She had satiated her Lover by the
unbounded freedom of her caresses. Her charms becoming
accustomed to him, they ceased to excite the same desires which
at first they had inspired. The delirium of passion being past,
He had leisure to observe every trifling defect: Where none were
to be found, Satiety made him fancy them. The Monk was glutted
with the fullness of pleasure: A Week had scarcely elapsed
before He was wearied of his Paramour: His warm constitution
still made him seek in her arms the gratification of his lust:
But when the moment of passion was over, He quitted her with
disgust, and his humour, naturally inconstant, made him sigh
impatiently for variety.
Possession, which cloys Man, only increases the affection of
Woman. Matilda with every succeeding day grew more attached to
the Friar. Since He had obtained her favours, He was become
dearer to her than ever, and She felt grateful to him for the
pleasures in which they had equally been Sharers. Unfortunately
as her passion grew ardent, Ambrosio's grew cold; The very marks
of her fondness excited his disgust, and its excess served to
extinguish the flame which already burned but feebly in his
bosom. Matilda could not but remark that her society seemed to
him daily less agreeable: He was inattentive while She spoke:
her musical talents, which She possessed in perfection, had lost
the power of amusing him; Or if He deigned to praise them, his
compliments were evidently forced and cold. He no longer gazed
upon her with affection, or applauded her sentiments with a
Lover's partiality. This Matilda well perceived, and redoubled
her efforts to revive those sentiments which He once had felt.
She could not but fail, since He considered as importunities the
pains which She took to please him, and was disgusted by the very
means which She used to recall the Wanderer. Still, however,
their illicit Commerce continued: But it was clear that He was
led to her arms, not by love, but the cravings of brutal
appetite. His constitution made a Woman necessary to him, and
Matilda was the only one with whom He could indulge his passions
safely: In spite of her beauty, He gazed upon every other Female
with more desire; But fearing that his Hypocrisy should be made
public, He confined his inclinations to his own breast.
It was by no means his nature to be timid: But his education had
impressed his mind with fear so strongly, that apprehension was
now become
part of his character. Had his Youth been passed in
the world, He would have shown himself possessed of many
brilliant and manly qualities. He was naturally enterprizing,
firm, and fearless: He had a Warrior's heart, and He might have
shone with splendour at the head of an Army. There was no want
of generosity in his nature: The Wretched never failed to find
in him a compassionate Auditor: His abilities were quick and
shining, and his judgment, vast, solid, and decisive. With such
qualifications He would have been an ornament to his Country:
That He possessed them, He had given proofs in his earliest
infancy, and his Parents had beheld his dawning virtues with the
fondest delight and admiration. Unfortunately, while yet a Child
He was deprived of those Parents. He fell into the power of a
Relation whose only wish about him was never to hear of him
more; For that purpose He gave him in charge to his Friend, the
former Superior of the Capuchins. The Abbot, a very Monk, used
all his endeavours to persuade the Boy that happiness existed
not without the walls of a Convent. He succeeded fully. To
deserve admittance into the order of St. Francis was Ambrosio's
highest ambition. His Instructors carefully repressed those
virtues whose grandeur and disinterestedness were ill-suited to
the Cloister. Instead of universal benevolence, He adopted a
selfish partiality for his own particular establishment: He was
taught to consider compassion for the errors of Others as a crime
of the blackest dye: The noble frankness of his temper was
exchanged for servile humility; and in order to break his natural
spirit, the Monks terrified his young mind by placing before him
all the horrors with which Superstition could furnish them: They
painted to him the torments of the Damned in colours the most
dark, terrible, and fantastic, and threatened him at the
slightest fault with eternal perdition. No wonder that his
imagination constantly dwelling upon these fearful objects should
have rendered his character timid and apprehensive. Add to this,
that his long absence from the great world, and total
unacquaintance with the common dangers of life, made him form of
them an idea far more dismal than the reality. While the Monks
were busied in rooting out his virtues and narrowing his
sentiments, they allowed every vice which had fallen to his
share to arrive at full perfection. He was suffered to be
The Monk - A Romance Page 26
