The Monk - A Romance

by The Monk [lit]

  enjoyed that calm repose which innocence alone can know, and for

  which many a Monarch with pleasure would exchange his Crown.

  CHAPTER IV

  ----Ah! how dark

  These long-extended realms and rueful wastes;

  Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark night,

  Dark as was Chaos ere the Infant Sun

  Was rolled together, or had tried its beams

  Athwart the gloom profound!

  The sickly Taper

  By glimmering through thy low-browed misty vaults,

  Furred round with mouldy damps, and ropy slime,

  Lets fall a supernumerary horror,

  And only serves to make

  Thy night more irksome!

  Blair.

  Returned undiscovered to the Abbey, Ambrosio's mind was filled

  with the most pleasing images. He was wilfully blind to the

  danger of exposing himself to Antonia's charms: He only

  remembered the pleasure which her society had afforded him, and

  rejoiced in the prospect of that pleasure being repeated. He

  failed not to profit by Elvira's indisposition to obtain a sight

  of her Daughter every day. At first He bounded his wishes to

  inspire Antonia with friendship: But no sooner was He convinced

  that She felt that sentiment in its fullest extent, than his aim

  became more decided, and his attentions assumed a warmer colour.

  The innocent familiarity with which She treated him, encouraged

  his desires: Grown used to her modesty, it no longer commanded

  the same respect and awe: He still admired it, but it only made

  him more anxious to deprive her of that quality which formed her

  principal charm. Warmth of passion, and natural penetration, of

  which latter unfortunately both for himself and Antonia He

  possessed an ample share, supplied a knowledge of the arts of

  seduction. He easily distinguished the emotions which were

  favourable to his designs, and seized every means with avidity of

  infusing corruption into Antonia's bosom. This He found no easy

  matter. Extreme simplicity prevented her from perceiving the aim

  to which the Monk's insinuations tended; But the excellent morals

  which She owed to Elvira's care, the solidity and correctness of

  her understanding, and a strong sense of what was right implanted

  in her heart by Nature, made her feel that his precepts must be

  faulty. By a few simple words She frequently overthrew the whole

  bulk of his sophistical arguments, and made him conscious how

  weak they were when opposed to Virtue and Truth. On such

  occasion He took refuge in his eloquence; He overpowered her

  with a torrent of Philosophical paradoxes, to which, not

  understanding them, it was impossible for her to reply; And thus

  though He did not convince her that his reasoning was just, He at

  least prevented her from discovering it to be false. He

  perceived that her respect for his judgment augmented daily, and

  doubted not with time to bring her to the point desired.

  He was not unconscious that his attempts were highly criminal:

  He saw clearly the baseness of seducing the innocent Girl: But

  his passion was too violent to permit his abandoning his design.

  He resolved to pursue it, let the consequences be what they

  might. He depended upon finding Antonia in some unguarded

  moment; And seeing no other Man admitted into her society, nor

  hearing any mentioned either by her or by Elvira, He imagined

  that her young heart was still unoccupied. While He waited for

  the opportunity of satisfying his unwarrantable lust, every day

  increased his coldness for Matilda. Not a little was this

  occasioned by the consciousness of his faults to her. To hide

  them from her He was not sufficiently master of himself: Yet He

  dreaded lest, in a transport of jealous rage, She should betray

  the secret on which his character and even his life depended.

  Matilda could not but remark his indifference: He was conscious

  that She remarked it, and fearing her reproaches, shunned her

  studiously. Yet when He could not avoid her, her mildness might

  have convinced him that He had nothing to dread from her

  resentment. She had resumed the character of the gentle

  interesting Rosario: She taxed him not with ingratitude; But her

  eyes filled with involuntary tears, and the soft melancholy of

  her countenance and voice uttered complaints far more touching

  than words could have conveyed. Ambrosio was not unmoved by her

  sorrow; But unable to remove its cause, He forbore to show that

  it affected him. As her conduct convinced him that He needed not

  fear her vengeance, He continued to neglect her, and avoided her

  company with care. Matilda saw that She in vain attempted to

  regain his affections: Yet She stifled the impulse of

  resentment, and continued to treat her inconstant Lover with her

  former fondness and attention.

  By degrees Elvira's constitution recovered itself. She was no

  longer troubled with convulsions, and Antonia ceased to tremble

  for her Mother. Ambrosio beheld this reestablishment with

  displeasure. He saw that Elvira's knowledge of the world would

  not be the Dupe of his sanctified demeanour, and that She would

  easily perceive his views upon her Daughter. He resolved

  therefore, before She quitted her chamber, to try the extent of

  his influence over the innocent Antonia.

  One evening, when He had found Elvira almost perfectly restored

  to health, He quitted her earlier than was his usual custom. Not

  finding Antonia in the Antichamber, He ventured to follow her

  to her own. It was only separated from her Mother's by a Closet,

  in which Flora, the Waiting-Woman, generally slept. Antonia sat

  upon a Sopha with her back towards the door, and read

  attentively. She heard not his approach, till He had seated

  himself by her. She started, and welcomed him with a look of

  pleasure: Then rising, She would have conducted him to the

  sitting-room; But Ambrosio taking her hand, obliged her by gentle

  violence to resume her place. She complied without difficulty:

  She knew not that there was more impropriety in conversing with

  him in one room than another. She thought herself equally secure

  of his principles and her own, and having replaced herself upon

  the Sopha, She began to prattle to him with her usual ease and

  vivacity.

  He examined the Book which She had been reading, and had now

  placed upon the Table. It was the Bible.

  'How!' said the Friar to himself; 'Antonia reads the Bible, and

  is still so ignorant?'

  But, upon a further inspection, He found that Elvira had made

  exactly the same remark. That prudent Mother, while She admired

  the beauties of the sacred writings, was convinced that,

  unrestricted, no reading more improper could be permitted a young

  Woman. Many of the narratives can only tend to excite ideas the

  worst calculated for a female breast: Every thing is called

  plainly and roundly by its name; and the annals of a Brothel

  would scarcely furnish a greater choice of indecent expressions.

  Yet this is the Book which young Women are recommend
ed to study;

  which is put into the hands of Children, able to comprehend

  little more than those passages of which they had better remain

  ignorant; and which but too frequently inculcates the first

  rudiments of vice, and gives the first alarm to the still

  sleeping passions. Of this was Elvira so fully convinced, that

  She would have preferred putting into her Daughter's hands

  'Amadis de Gaul,' or 'The Valiant Champion, Tirante the

  White;' and would sooner have authorised her studying the lewd

  exploits of 'Don Galaor,' or the lascivious jokes of the

  'Damsel Plazer di mi vida.' She had in consequence made two

  resolutions respecting the Bible. The first was that Antonia

  should not read it till She was of an age to feel its beauties,

  and profit by its morality: The second, that it should be copied

  out with her own hand, and all improper passages either altered

  or omitted. She had adhered to this determination, and such was

  the Bible which Antonia was reading: It had been lately

  delivered to her, and She perused it with an avidity, with a

  delight that was inexpressible. Ambrosio perceived his mistake,

  and replaced the Book upon the Table.

  Antonia spoke of her Mother's health with all the enthusiastic

  joy of a youthful heart.

  'I admire your filial affection,' said the Abbot; 'It proves the

  excellence and sensibility of your character; It promises a

  treasure to him whom Heaven has destined to possess your

  affections. The Breast, so capable of fondness for a Parent,

  what will it feel for a Lover? Nay, perhaps, what feels it for

  one even now? Tell me, my lovely Daughter; Have you known what

  it is to love? Answer me with sincerity: Forget my habit, and

  consider me only as a Friend.'

  'What it is to love?' said She, repeating his question; 'Oh! yes,

  undoubtedly; I have loved many, many People.'

  'That is not what I mean. The love of which I speak can be felt

  only for one. Have you never seen the Man whom you wished to be

  your Husband?'

  'Oh! No, indeed!'

  This was an untruth, but She was unconscious of its falsehood:

  She knew not the nature of her sentiments for Lorenzo; and never

  having seen him since his first visit to Elvira, with every day

  his Image grew less feebly impressed upon her bosom. Besides,

  She thought of an Husband with all a Virgin's terror, and

  negatived the Friar's demand without a moment's hesitation.

  'And do you not long to see that Man, Antonia? Do you feel no

  void in your heart which you fain would have filled up? Do you

  heave no sighs for the absence of some one dear to you, but who

  that some one is, you know not? Perceive you not that what

  formerly could please, has charms for you no longer? That a

  thousand new wishes, new ideas, new sensations, have sprang in

  your bosom, only to be felt, never to be described? Or while you

  fill every other heart with passion, is it possible that your own

  remains insensible and cold? It cannot be! That melting eye,

  that blushing cheek, that enchanting voluptuous melancholy which

  at times overspreads your features, all these marks belye your

  words. You love, Antonia, and in vain would hide it from me.'

  'Father, you amaze me! What is this love of which you speak? I

  neither know its nature, nor if I felt it, why I should conceal

  the sentiment.'

  'Have you seen no Man, Antonia, whom though never seen before,

  you seemed long to have sought? Whose form, though a Stranger's,

  was familiar to your eyes? The sound of whose voice soothed you,

  pleased you, penetrated to your very soul? In whose presence you

  rejoiced, for whose absence you lamented? With whom your heart

  seemed to expand, and in whose bosom with confidence unbounded

  you reposed the cares of your own? Have you not felt all this,

  Antonia?'

  'Certainly I have: The first time that I saw you, I felt it.'

  Ambrosio started. Scarcely dared He credit his hearing.

  'Me, Antonia?' He cried, his eyes sparkling with delight and

  impatience, while He seized her hand, and pressed it rapturously

  to his lips. 'Me, Antonia? You felt these sentiments for me?'

  'Even with more strength than you have described. The very

  moment that I beheld you, I felt so pleased, so interested! I

  waited so eagerly to catch the sound of your voice, and when I

  heard it, it seemed so sweet! It spoke to me a language till

  then so unknown! Methought, it told me a thousand things which I

  wished to hear! It seemed as if I had long known you; as if I

  had a right to your friendship, your advice, and your protection.

  I wept when you departed, and longed for the time which should

  restore you to my sight.'

  'Antonia! my charming Antonia!' exclaimed the Monk, and caught

  her to his bosom; 'Can I believe my senses? Repeat it to me, my

  sweet Girl! Tell me again that you love me, that you love me

  truly and tenderly!'

  'Indeed, I do: Let my Mother be excepted, and the world holds no

  one more dear to me!'

  At this frank avowal Ambrosio no longer possessed himself; Wild

  with desire, He clasped the blushing Trembler in his arms. He

  fastened his lips greedily upon hers, sucked in her pure

  delicious breath, violated with his bold hand the treasures of

  her bosom, and wound around him her soft and yielding limbs.

  Startled, alarmed, and confused at his action, surprize at first

  deprived her of the power of resistance. At length recovering

  herself, She strove to escape from his embrace.

  'Father! . . . . Ambrosio!' She cried; 'Release me, for God's

  sake!'

  But the licentious Monk heeded not her prayers: He persisted in

  his design, and proceeded to take still greater liberties.

  Antonia prayed, wept, and struggled: Terrified to the extreme,

  though at what She knew not, She exerted all her strength to

  repulse the Friar, and was on the point of shrieking for

  assistance when the chamber door was suddenly thrown open.

  Ambrosio had just sufficient presence of mind to be sensible of

  his danger. Reluctantly He quitted his prey, and started hastily

  from the Couch. Antonia uttered an exclamation of joy, flew

  towards the door, and found herself clasped in the arms of her

  Mother.

  Alarmed at some of the Abbot's speeches, which Antonia had

  innocently repeated, Elvira resolved to ascertain the truth of

  her suspicions. She had known enough of Mankind not to be

  imposed upon by the Monk's reputed virtue. She reflected on

  several circumstances, which though trifling, on being put

  together seemed to authorize her fears. His frequent visits,

  which as far as She could see, were confined to her family; His

  evident emotion, whenever She spoke of Antonia; His being in the

  full prime and heat of Manhood; and above all, his pernicious

  philosophy communicated to her by Antonia, and which accorded but

  ill with his conversation in her presence, all these

  circumstances inspired her with doubts respecting the purity of

  Ambrosio's friendship.
In consequence, She resolved, when He

  should next be alone with Antonia, to endeavour at surprizing

  him. Her plan had succeeded. 'Tis true, that when She entered

  the room, He had already abandoned his prey; But the disorder of

  her Daughter's dress, and the shame and confusion stamped upon

  the Friar's countenance, sufficed to prove that her suspicions

  were but too well-founded. However, She was too prudent to make

  those suspicions known. She judged that to unmask the Imposter

  would be no easy matter, the public being so much prejudiced in

  his favour: and having but few Friends, She thought it dangerous

  to make herself so powerful an Enemy. She affected therefore not

  to remark his agitation, seated herself tranquilly upon the

  Sopha, assigned some trifling reason for having quitted her room

  unexpectedly, and conversed on various subjects with seeming

  confidence and ease.

  Reassured by her behaviour, the Monk began to recover himself.

  He strove to answer Elvira without appearing embarrassed: But He

  was still too great a novice in dissimulation, and He felt that

  He must look confused and awkward. He soon broke off the

  conversation, and rose to depart. What was his vexation, when on

  taking leave, Elvira told him in polite terms, that being now

  perfectly reestablished, She thought it an injustice to deprive

  Others of his company, who might be more in need of it! She

  assured him of her eternal gratitude, for the benefit which

  during her illness She had derived from his society and

  exhortations: And She lamented that her domestic affairs, as

  well as the multitude of business which his situation must of

  necessity impose upon him, would in future deprive her of the

  pleasure of his visits. Though delivered in the mildest language

  this hint was too plain to be mistaken. Still, He was preparing

  to put in a remonstrance when an expressive look from Elvira

  stopped him short. He dared not press her to receive him, for

  her manner convinced him that He was discovered: He submitted

  without reply, took an hasty leave, and retired to the Abbey, his

  heart filled with rage and shame, with bitterness and

  disappointment.

  Antonia's mind felt relieved by his departure; Yet She could not

  help lamenting that She was never to see him more. Elvira also

  felt a secret sorrow; She had received too much pleasure from

  thinking him her Friend, not to regret the necessity of changing