The Monk - A Romance

by The Monk [lit]

  irreparable. In this fearful dilemma, He would have implored

  God's assistance, but was conscious that He had forfeited all

  claim to such protection. Gladly would He have returned to the

  Abbey; But as He had past through innumerable Caverns and winding

  passages, the attempt of regaining the Stairs was hopeless. His

  fate was determined: No possibility of escape presented itself:

  He therefore combated his apprehensions, and called every

  argument to his succour, which might enable him to support the

  trying scene with fortitude. He reflected that Antonia would be

  the reward of his daring: He inflamed his imagination by

  enumerating her charms. He persuaded himself that (as Matilda

  had observed), He always should have time sufficient for

  repentance, and that as He employed HER assistance, not that of

  the Daemons, the crime of Sorcery could not be laid to his

  charge. He had read much respecting witchcraft: He understood

  that unless a formal Act was signed renouncing his claim to

  salvation, Satan would have no power over him. He was fully

  determined not to execute any such act, whatever threats might be

  used, or advantages held out to him.

  Such were his meditations while waiting for Matilda. They were

  interrupted by a low murmur which seemed at no great distance

  from him. He was startled. He listened. Some minutes past in

  silence, after which the murmur was repeated. It appeared to be

  the groaning of one in pain. In any other situation, this

  circumstance would only have excited his attention and curiosity:

  In the present, his predominant sensation was that of terror. His

  imagination totally engrossed by the ideas of sorcery and

  Spirits, He fancied that some unquiet Ghost was wandering near

  him; or else that Matilda had fallen a Victim to her presumption,

  and was perishing under the cruel fangs of the Daemons. The

  noise seemed not to approach, but continued to be heard at

  intervals. Sometimes it became more audible, doubtless as the

  sufferings of the person who uttered the groans became

  more acute and insupportable. Ambrosio now and then thought

  that He could distinguish accents; and once in particular He was

  almost convinced that He heard a faint voice exclaim,

  'God! Oh! God! No hope! No succour!'

  Yet deeper groans followed these words. They died away

  gradually, and universal silence again prevailed.

  'What can this mean?' thought the bewildered Monk.

  At that moment an idea which flashed into his mind, almost

  petrified him with horror. He started, and shuddered at himself.

  'Should it be possible!' He groaned involuntarily; 'Should it but

  be possible, Oh! what a Monster am I!'

  He wished to resolve his doubts, and to repair his fault, if it

  were not too late already: But these generous and compassionate

  sentiments were soon put to flight by the return of Matilda. He

  forgot the groaning Sufferer, and remembered nothing but the

  danger and embarrassment of his own situation. The light of the

  returning Lamp gilded the walls, and in a few moments after

  Matilda stood beside him. She had quitted her religious habit:

  She was now cloathed in a long sable Robe, on which was traced in

  gold embroidery a variety of unknown characters: It was fastened

  by a girdle of precious stones, in which was fixed a poignard.

  Her neck and arms were uncovered. In her hand She bore a golden

  wand. Her hair was loose and flowed wildly upon her shoulders;

  Her eyes sparkled with terrific expression; and her whole

  Demeanour was calculated to inspire the beholder with awe and

  admiration.

  'Follow me!' She said to the Monk in a low and solemn voice; 'All

  is ready!'

  His limbs trembled, while He obeyed her. She led him through

  various narrow passages; and on every side as they past along,

  the beams of the Lamp displayed none but the most revolting

  objects; Skulls, Bones, Graves, and Images whose eyes seemed to

  glare on them with horror and surprize. At length they reached a

  spacious Cavern, whose lofty roof the eye sought in vain to

  discover. A profound obscurity hovered through the void. Damp

  vapours struck cold to the Friar's heart; and He listened sadly

  to the blast while it howled along the lonely Vaults. Here

  Matilda stopped. She turned to Ambrosio. His cheeks and lips

  were pale with apprehension. By a glance of mingled scorn and

  anger She reproved his pusillanimity, but She spoke not. She

  placed the Lamp upon the ground, near the Basket. She motioned

  that Ambrosio should be silent, and began the mysterious rites.

  She drew a circle round him, another round herself, and then

  taking a small Phial from the Basket, poured a few drops upon the

  ground before her. She bent over the place, muttered some

  indistinct sentences, and immediately a pale sulphurous flame

  arose from the ground. It increased by degrees, and at length

  spread its waves over the whole surface, the circles alone

  excepted in which stood Matilda and the Monk. It then ascended

  the huge Columns of unhewn stone, glided along the roof, and

  formed the Cavern into an immense chamber totally covered with

  blue trembling fire. It emitted no heat: On the contrary, the

  extreme chillness of the place seemed to augment with every

  moment. Matilda continued her incantations: At intervals She

  took various articles from the Basket, the nature and name of

  most of which were unknown to the Friar: But among the few which

  He distinguished, He particularly observed three human fingers,

  and an Agnus Dei which She broke in pieces. She threw them all

  into the flames which burned before her, and they were instantly

  consumed.

  The Monk beheld her with anxious curiosity. Suddenly She uttered

  a loud and piercing shriek. She appeared to be seized with an

  access of delirium; She tore her hair, beat her bosom, used the

  most frantic gestures, and drawing the poignard from her girdle

  plunged it into her left arm. The blood gushed out plentifully,

  and as She stood on the brink of the circle, She took care that

  it should fall on the outside. The flames retired from the spot

  on which the blood was pouring. A volume of dark clouds rose

  slowly from the ensanguined earth, and ascended gradually, till

  it reached the vault of the Cavern. At the same time a clap of

  thunder was heard: The echo pealed fearfully along the

  subterraneous passages, and the ground shook beneath the feet of

  the Enchantress.

  It was now that Ambrosio repented of his rashness. The solemn

  singularity of the charm had prepared him for something strange

  and horrible. He waited with fear for the Spirit's appearance,

  whose coming was announced by thunder and earthquakes. He looked

  wildly round him, expecting that some dreadful Apparition would

  meet his eyes, the sight of which would drive him mad. A cold

  shivering seized his body, and He sank upon one knee, unable to

  support himself.

  'He comes!' exclaimed Matilda in a joyful accent.


  Ambrosio started, and expected the Daemon with terror. What was

  his surprize, when the Thunder ceasing to roll, a full strain of

  melodious Music sounded in the air. At the same time the cloud

  dispersed, and He beheld a Figure more beautiful than Fancy's

  pencil ever drew. It was a Youth seemingly scarce eighteen, the

  perfection of whose form and face was unrivalled. He was

  perfectly naked: A bright Star sparkled upon his forehead; Two

  crimson wings extended themselves from his shoulders; and his

  silken locks were confined by a band of many-coloured fires,

  which played round his head, formed themselves into a variety of

  figures, and shone with a brilliance far surpassing that of

  precious Stones. Circlets of Diamonds were fastened round his

  arms and ankles, and in his right hand He bore a silver branch,

  imitating Myrtle. His form shone with dazzling glory: He was

  surrounded by clouds of rose-coloured light, and at the moment

  that He appeared, a refreshing air breathed perfumes through the

  Cavern. Enchanted at a vision so contrary to his expectations,

  Ambrosio gazed upon the Spirit with delight and wonder: Yet

  however beautiful the Figure, He could not but remark a wildness

  in the Daemon's eyes, and a mysterious melancholy impressed upon

  his features, betraying the Fallen Angel, and inspiring the

  Spectators with secret awe.

  The Music ceased. Matilda addressed herself to the Spirit: She

  spoke in a language unintelligible to the Monk, and was answered

  in the same. She seemed to insist upon something which the

  Daemon was unwilling to grant. He frequently darted upon

  Ambrosio angry glances, and at such times the Friar's heart sank

  within him. Matilda appeared to grow incensed. She spoke in a

  loud and commanding tone, and her gestures declared that She was

  threatening him with her vengeance. Her menaces had the desired

  effect: The Spirit sank upon his knee, and with a submissive air

  presented to her the branch of Myrtle. No sooner had She

  received it, than the Music was again heard; A thick cloud spread

  itself over the Apparition; The blue flames disappeared, and

  total obscurity reigned through the Cave. The Abbot moved not

  from his place: His faculties were all bound up in pleasure,

  anxiety, and surprize. At length the darkness dispersing, He

  perceived Matilda standing near him in her religious habit, with

  the Myrtle in her hand. No traces of the incantation, and the

  Vaults were only illuminated by the faint rays of the sepulchral

  Lamp.

  'I have succeeded,' said Matilda, 'though with more difficulty

  than I expected. Lucifer, whom I summoned to my assistance, was

  at first unwilling to obey my commands: To enforce his compliance

  I was constrained to have recourse to my strongest charms. They

  have produced the desired effect, but I have engaged never more

  to invoke his agency in your favour. Beware then, how you employ

  an opportunity which never will return. My magic arts will now

  be of no use to you: In future you can only hope for

  supernatural aid by invoking the Daemons yourself, and accepting

  the conditions of their service. This you will never do: You

  want strength of mind to force them to obedience, and unless you

  pay their established price, they will not be your voluntary

  Servants. In this one instance they consent to obey you: I offer

  you the means of enjoying your Mistress, and be careful not to

  lose the opportunity. Receive this constellated Myrtle: While

  you bear this in your hand, every door will fly open to you. It

  will procure you access tomorrow night to Antonia's chamber:

  Then breathe upon it thrice, pronounce her name, and place it

  upon her pillow. A death-like slumber will immediately seize

  upon her, and deprive her of the power of resisting your

  attempts. Sleep will hold her till break of Morning. In this

  state you may satisfy your desires without danger of being

  discovered; since when daylight shall dispel the effects of the

  enchantment, Antonia will perceive her dishonour, but be ignorant

  of the Ravisher. Be happy then, my Ambrosio, and let this

  service convince you that my friendship is disinterested and

  pure. The night must be near expiring: Let us return to the

  Abbey, lest our absence should create surprize.'

  The Abbot received the talisman with silent gratitude. His ideas

  were too much bewildered by the adventures of the night to

  permit his expressing his thanks audibly, or indeed as yet to

  feel the whole value of her present. Matilda took up her Lamp

  and Basket, and guided her Companion from the mysterious Cavern.

  She restored the Lamp to its former place, and continued her

  route in darkness, till She reached the foot of the Staircase.

  The first beams of the rising Sun darting down it facilitated the

  ascent. Matilda and the Abbot hastened out of the Sepulchre,

  closed the door after them, and soon regained the Abbey's western

  Cloister. No one met them, and they retired unobserved to their

  respective Cells.

  The confusion of Ambrosio's mind now began to appease. He

  rejoiced in the fortunate issue of his adventure, and reflecting

  upon the virtues of the Myrtle, looked upon Antonia as already in

  his power. Imagination retraced to him those secret charms

  betrayed to him by the Enchanted Mirror, and He waited with

  impatience for the approach of midnight.

  VOLUME III

  CHAPTER I

  The crickets sing, and Man's o'er-laboured sense

  Repairs itself by rest: Our Tarquin thus

  Did softly press the rushes, ere He wakened

  The chastity He wounded--Cytherea,

  How bravely thou becom'st thy bed! Fresh Lily!

  And whiter than the sheets!

  Cymbeline.

  All the researches of the Marquis de las Cisternas proved vain:

  Agnes was lost to him for ever. Despair produced so violent an

  effect upon his constitution, that the consequence was a long and

  severe illness. This prevented him from visiting Elvira as He

  had intended; and She being ignorant of the cause of his neglect,

  it gave her no trifling uneasiness. His Sister's death had

  prevented Lorenzo from communicating to his Uncle his designs

  respecting Antonia: The injunctions of her Mother forbad his

  presenting himself to her without the Duke's consent; and as She

  heard no more of him or his proposals, Elvira conjectured that He

  had either met with a better match, or had been commanded to give

  up all thoughts of her Daughter. Every day made her more uneasy

  respecting Antonia's fate: While She retained the Abbot's

  protection, She bore with fortitude the disappointment of her

  hopes with regard to Lorenzo and the Marquis. That resource now

  failed her. She was convinced that Ambrosio had meditated her

  Daughter's ruin: And when She reflected that her death would

  leave Antonia friendless and unprotected in a world so base, so

  perfidious and depraved, her heart swelled with the bitterness of

  apprehension. At such times She would sit for hours gazing upon
<
br />   the lovely Girl; and seeming to listen to her innocent prattle,

  while in reality her thoughts dwelt upon the sorrows into which

  a moment would suffice to plunge her. Then She would clasp her

  in her arms suddenly, lean her head upon her Daughter's bosom,

  and bedew it with her tears.

  An event was in preparation which, had She known it, would have

  relieved her from her inquietude. Lorenzo now waited only for a

  favourable opportunity to inform the Duke of his intended

  marriage: However, a circumstance which occurred at this period,

  obliged him to delay his explanation for a few days longer.

  Don Raymond's malady seemed to gain ground. Lorenzo was

  constantly at his bedside, and treated him with a tenderness

  truly fraternal. Both the cause and effects of the disorder were

  highly afflicting to the Brother of Agnes: yet Theodore's grief

  was scarcely less sincere. That amiable Boy quitted not his

  Master for a moment, and put every means in practice to console

  and alleviate his sufferings. The Marquis had conceived so

  rooted an affection for his deceased Mistress, that it was

  evident to all that He never could survive her loss: Nothing

  could have prevented him from sinking under his grief but the

  persuasion of her being still alive, and in need of his

  assistance. Though convinced of its falsehood, his Attendants

  encouraged him in a belief which formed his only comfort. He

  was assured daily that fresh perquisitions were making

  respecting the fate of Agnes: Stories were invented recounting

  the various attempts made to get admittance into the Convent; and

  circumstances were related which, though they did not promise her

  absolute recovery, at least were sufficient to keep his hopes

  alive. The Marquis constantly fell into the most terrible excess

  of passion when informed of the failure of these supposed

  attempts. Still He would not credit that the succeeding ones

  would have the same fate, but flattered himself that the next

  would prove more fortunate.

  Theodore was the only one who exerted himself to realize his

  Master's Chimoeras. He was eternally busied in planning schemes

  for entering the Convent, or at least of obtaining from the Nuns

  some intelligence of Agnes. To execute these schemes was the

  only inducement which could prevail on him to quit Don Raymond.

  He became a very Proteus, changing his shape every day; but all