The Monk - A Romance

by The Monk [lit]

  and She declared herself a violent Admirer of murmuring Streams

  and Nightingales;

  'Of lonely haunts, and twilight Groves,

  'Places which pale Passion loves!'

  Such was the state of Leonella's mind, when obliged to quit

  Madrid. Elvira was out of patience at all these follies, and

  endeavoured at persuading her to act like a reasonable Woman.

  Her advice was thrown away: Leonella assured her at parting that

  nothing could make her forget the perfidious Don Christoval. In

  this point She was fortunately mistaken. An honest Youth of

  Cordova, Journeyman to an Apothecary, found that her fortune

  would be sufficient to set him up in a genteel Shop of his own:

  In consequence of this reflection He avowed himself her Admirer.

  Leonella was not inflexible. The ardour of his sighs melted her

  heart, and She soon consented to make him the happiest of

  Mankind. She wrote to inform her Sister of her marriage; But,

  for reasons which will be explained hereafter, Elvira never

  answered her letter.

  Ambrosio was conducted into the Antichamber to that where

  Elvira was reposing. The Female Domestic who had admitted him

  left him alone while She announced his arrival to her Mistress.

  Antonia, who had been by her Mother's Bedside, immediately came

  to him.

  'Pardon me, Father,' said She, advancing towards him; when

  recognizing his features, She stopped suddenly, and uttered a cry

  of joy. 'Is it possible!' She continued;

  'Do not my eyes deceive me? Has the worthy Ambrosio broken

  through his resolution, that He may soften the agonies of the

  best of Women? What pleasure will this visit give my Mother!

  Let me not delay for a moment the comfort which your piety and

  wisdom will afford her.'

  Thus saying, She opened the chamber door, presented to her Mother

  her distinguished Visitor, and having placed an armed-chair by

  the side of the Bed, withdrew into another department.

  Elvira was highly gratified by this visit: Her expectations had

  been raised high by general report, but She found them far

  exceeded. Ambrosio, endowed by nature with powers of pleasing,

  exerted them to the utmost while conversing with Antonia's

  Mother. With persuasive eloquence He calmed every fear, and

  dissipated every scruple: He bad her reflect on the infinite

  mercy of her Judge, despoiled Death of his darts and terrors, and

  taught her to view without shrinking the abyss of eternity, on

  whose brink She then stood. Elvira was absorbed in attention and

  delight: While She listened to his exhortations, confidence and

  comfort stole insensibly into her mind. She unbosomed to him

  without hesitation her cares and apprehensions. The latter

  respecting a future life He had already quieted: And He now

  removed the former, which She felt for the concerns of this. She

  trembled for Antonia. She had none to whose care She could

  recommend her, save to the Marquis de las Cisternas and her

  Sister Leonella. The protection of the One was very uncertain;

  and as to the Other, though fond of her Niece, Leonella was so

  thoughtless and vain as to make her an improper person to have

  the sole direction of a Girl so young and ignorant of the World.

  The Friar no sooner learnt the cause of her alarms than He

  begged her to make herself easy upon that head. He doubted not

  being able to secure for Antonia a safe refuge in the House of

  one of his Penitents, the Marchioness of Villa-Franca: This was

  a Lady of acknowledged virtue, remarkable for strict principles

  and extensive charity. Should accident deprive her of this

  resource, He engaged to procure Antonia a reception in some

  respectable Convent: That is to say, in quality of boarder; for

  Elvira had declared herself no Friend to a monastic life, and the

  Monk was either candid or complaisant enough to allow that her

  disapprobation was not unfounded.

  These proofs of the interest which He felt for her completely

  won Elvira's heart. In thanking him She exhausted every

  expression which Gratitude could furnish, and protested that now

  She should resign herself with tranquillity to the Grave.

  Ambrosio rose to take leave: He promised to return the next day

  at the same hour, but requested that his visits might be kept

  secret.

  'I am unwilling' said He, 'that my breaking through a rule

  imposed by necessity should be generally known. Had I not

  resolved never to quit my Convent, except upon circumstances as

  urgent as that which has conducted me to your door, I should be

  frequently summoned upon insignificant occasions: That time

  would be engrossed by the Curious, the Unoccupied, and the

  fanciful, which I now pass at the Bedside of the Sick, in

  comforting the expiring Penitent, and clearing the passage to

  Eternity from Thorns.'

  Elvira commended equally his prudence and compassion, promising

  to conceal carefully the honour of his visits. The Monk then

  gave her his benediction, and retired from the chamber.

  In the Antiroom He found Antonia: He could not refuse himself

  the pleasure of passing a few moments in her society. He bad her

  take comfort, for that her Mother seemed composed and tranquil,

  and He hoped that She might yet do well. He enquired who

  attended her, and engaged to send the Physician of his Convent to

  see her, one of the most skilful in Madrid. He then launched out

  in Elvira's commendation, praised her purity and fortitude of

  mind, and declared that She had inspired him with the highest

  esteem and reverence. Antonia's innocent heart swelled with

  gratitude: Joy danced in her eyes, where a tear still sparkled.

  The hopes which He gave her of her Mother's recovery, the lively

  interest which He seemed to feel for her, and the flattering way

  in which She was mentioned by him, added to the report of his

  judgment and virtue, and to the impression made upon her by his

  eloquence, confirmed the favourable opinion with which his first,

  appearance had inspired Antonia. She replied with diffidence,

  but without restraint: She feared not to relate to him all her

  little sorrows, all her little fears and anxieties; and She

  thanked him for his goodness with all the genuine warmth which

  favours kindle in a young and innocent heart. Such alone know

  how to estimate benefits at their full value. They who are

  conscious of Mankind's perfidy and selfishness, ever receive an

  obligation with apprehension and distrust: They suspect that

  some secret motive must lurk behind it: They express their

  thanks with restraint and caution, and fear to praise a kind

  action to its full extent, aware that some future day a return

  may be required. Not so Antonia; She thought the world was

  composed only of those who resembled her, and that vice existed,

  was to her still a secret. The Monk had been of service to her;

  He said that He wished her well; She was grateful for his

  kindness, and thought that no terms were strong enough to be the

  vehicle of her thanks. With what d
elight did Ambrosio listen to

  the declaration of her artless gratitude! The natural grace of

  her manners, the unequalled sweetness of her voice, her modest

  vivacity, her unstudied elegance, her expressive countenance, and

  intelligent eyes united to inspire him with pleasure and

  admiration, While the solidity and correctness of her remarks

  received additional beauty from the unaffected simplicity of the

  language in which they were conveyed.

  Ambrosio was at length obliged to tear himself from this

  conversation which possessed for him but too many charms. He

  repeated to Antonia his wishes that his visits should not be

  made known, which desire She promised to observe. He then

  quitted the House, while his Enchantress hastened to her Mother,

  ignorant of the mischief which her Beauty had caused. She was

  eager to know Elvira's opinion of the Man whom She had praised in

  such enthusiastic terms, and was delighted to find it equally

  favourable, if not even more so, than her own.

  'Even before He spoke,' said Elvira, 'I was prejudiced in his

  favour: The fervour of his exhortations, dignity of his manner,

  and closeness of his reasoning, were very far from inducing me to

  alter my opinion. His fine and full-toned voice struck me

  particularly; But surely, Antonia, I have heard it before. It

  seemed perfectly familiar to my ear. Either I must have known

  the Abbot in former times, or his voice bears a wonderful

  resemblance to that of some other, to whom I have often listened.

  There were certain tones which touched my very heart, and made me

  feel sensations so singular, that I strive in vain to account for

  them.'

  'My dearest Mother, it produced the same effect upon me: Yet

  certainly neither of us ever heard his voice till we came to

  Madrid. I suspect that what we attribute to his voice, really

  proceeds from his pleasant manners, which forbid our considering

  him as a Stranger. I know not why, but I feel more at my ease

  while conversing with him than I usually do with people who are

  unknown to me. I feared not to repeat to him all my childish

  thoughts; and somehow I felt confident that He would hear my

  folly with indulgence. Oh! I was not deceived in him! He

  listened to me with such an air of kindness and attention! He

  answered me with such gentleness, such condescension! He did not

  call me an Infant, and treat me with contempt, as our cross old

  Confessor at the Castle used to do. I verily believe that if I

  had lived in Murcia a thousand years, I never should have liked

  that fat old Father Dominic!'

  'I confess that Father Dominic had not the most pleasing manners

  in the world; But He was honest, friendly, and well-meaning.'

  'Ah! my dear Mother, those qualities are so common!'

  'God grant, my Child, that Experience may not teach you to think

  them rare and precious: I have found them but too much so! But

  tell me, Antonia; Why is it impossible for me to have seen the

  Abbot before?'

  'Because since the moment when He entered the Abbey, He has never

  been on the outside of its walls. He told me just now, that from

  his ignorance of the Streets, He had some difficulty to find the

  Strada di San Iago, though so near the Abbey.'

  'All this is possible, and still I may have seen him BEFORE He

  entered the Abbey: In order to come out, it was rather necessary

  that He should first go in.'

  'Holy Virgin! As you say, that is very true.--Oh! But might He

  not have been born in the Abbey?'

  Elvira smiled.

  'Why, not very easily.'

  'Stay, Stay! Now I recollect how it was. He was put into the

  Abbey quite a Child; The common People say that He fell from

  heaven, and was sent as a present to the Capuchins by the

  Virgin.'

  'That was very kind of her. And so He fell from heaven, Antonia?

  He must have had a terrible tumble.'

  'Many do not credit this, and I fancy, my dear Mother, that I

  must number you among the Unbelievers. Indeed, as our Landlady

  told my Aunt, the general idea is that his Parents, being poor

  and unable to maintain him, left him just born at the Abbey door.

  The late Superior from pure charity had him educated in the

  Convent, and He proved to be a model of virtue, and piety, and

  learning, and I know not what else besides: In consequence, He

  was first received as a Brother of the order, and not long ago

  was chosen Abbot. However, whether this account or the other is

  the true one, at least all agree that when the Monks took him

  under their care, He could not speak: Therefore, you could not

  have heard his voice before He entered the Monastery, because at

  that time He had no voice at all.'

  'Upon my word, Antonia, you argue very closely! Your conclusions

  are infallible! I did not suspect you of being so able a

  Logician.'

  'Ah! You are mocking me! But so much the better. It delights me

  to see you in spirits: Besides you seem tranquil and easy, and I

  hope that you will have no more convulsions. Oh! I was sure the

  Abbot's visit would do you good!'

  'It has indeed done me good, my Child. He has quieted my mind

  upon some points which agitated me, and I already feel the

  effects of his attention. My eyes grow heavy, and I think I can

  sleep a little. Draw the curtains, my Antonia: But if I should

  not wake before midnight, do not sit up with me, I charge you.'

  Antonia promised to obey her, and having received her blessing

  drew the curtains of the Bed. She then seated herself in silence

  at her embroidery frame, and beguiled the hours with building

  Castles in the air. Her spirits were enlivened by the evident

  change for the better in Elvira, and her fancy presented her with

  visions bright and pleasing. In these dreams Ambrosio made no

  despicable figure. She thought of him with joy and gratitude;

  But for every idea which fell to the Friar's share, at least two

  were unconsciously bestowed upon Lorenzo. Thus passed the time,

  till the Bell in the neighbouring Steeple of the Capuchin

  Cathedral announced the hour of midnight: Antonia remembered her

  Mother's injunctions, and obeyed them, though with reluctance.

  She undrew the curtains with caution. Elvira was enjoying a

  profound and quiet slumber; Her cheek glowed with health's

  returning colours: A smile declared that her dreams were

  pleasant, and as Antonia bent over her, She fancied that She

  heard her name pronounced. She kissed her Mother's forehead

  softly, and retired to her chamber. There She knelt before a

  Statue of St. Rosolia, her Patroness; She recommended herself to

  the protection of heaven, and as had been her custom from

  infancy, concluded her devotions by chaunting the following

  Stanzas.

  MIDNIGHT HYMN

  Now all is hushed; The solemn chime

  No longer swells the nightly gale:

  Thy awful presence, Hour sublime,

  With spotless heart once more I hail.

  'Tis now the moment still and dread,

  When Sorcerers use t
heir baleful power;

  When Graves give up their buried dead

  To profit by the sanctioned hour:

  From guilt and guilty thoughts secure,

  To duty and devotion true,

  With bosom light and conscience pure,

  Repose, thy gentle aid I woo.

  Good Angels, take my thanks, that still

  The snares of vice I view with scorn;

  Thanks, that to-night as free from ill

  I sleep, as when I woke at morn.

  Yet may not my unconscious breast

  Harbour some guilt to me unknown?

  Some wish impure, which unreprest

  You blush to see, and I to own?

  If such there be, in gentle dream

  Instruct my feet to shun the snare;

  Bid truth upon my errors beam,

  And deign to make me still your care.

  Chase from my peaceful bed away

  The witching Spell, a foe to rest,

  The nightly Goblin, wanton Fay,

  The Ghost in pain, and Fiend unblest:

  Let not the Tempter in mine ear

  Pour lessons of unhallowed joy;

  Let not the Night-mare, wandering near

  My Couch, the calm of sleep destroy;

  Let not some horrid dream affright

  With strange fantastic forms mine eyes;

  But rather bid some vision bright

  Display the blissof yonder skies.

  Show me the crystal Domes of Heaven,

  The worlds of light where Angels lie;

  Shew me the lot to Mortals given,

  Who guiltless live, who guiltless die.

  Then show me how a seat to gain

  Amidst those blissful realms of

  Air; Teach me to shun each guilty stain,

  And guide me to the good and fair.

  So every morn and night, my Voice

  To heaven the grateful strain shall raise;

  In You as Guardian Powers rejoice,

  Good Angels, and exalt your praise:

  So will I strive with zealous fire

  Each vice to shun, each fault correct;

  Will love the lessons you inspire,

  And Prize the virtues you protect.

  Then when at length by high command

  My body seeks the Grave's repose,

  When Death draws nigh with friendly hand

  My failing Pilgrim eyes to close;

  Pleased that my soul has 'scaped the wreck,

  Sighless will I my life resign,

  And yield to God my Spirit back,

  As pure as when it first was mine.

  Having finished her usual devotions, Antonia retired to bed.

  Sleep soon stole over her senses; and for several hours She