The Monk - A Romance

by The Monk [lit]

  too late!' Elvira woke in terror. The vision had made too

  strong an impression upon her mind, to permit her resting till

  assured of her Daughter's safety. She hastily started from her

  Bed, threw on a loose night-gown, and passing through the Closet

  in which slept the Waiting-woman, She reached Antonia's chamber

  just in time to rescue her from the grasp of the Ravisher.

  His shame and her amazement seemed to have petrified into Statues

  both Elvira and the Monk: They remained gazing upon each other

  in silence. The Lady was the first to recover herself.

  'It is no dream!' She cried; 'It is really Ambrosio, who stands

  before me! It is the Man whom Madrid esteems a Saint, that I

  find at this late hour near the Couch of my unhappy Child!

  Monster of Hypocrisy! I already suspected your designs, but

  forbore your accusation in pity to human frailty. Silence would

  now be criminal: The whole City shall be informed of your

  incontinence. I will unmask you, Villain, and convince the

  Church what a Viper She cherishes in her bosom.'

  Pale and confused the baffled Culprit stood trembling before her.

  He would fain have extenuated his offence, but could find no

  apology for his conduct: He could produce nothing but broken

  sentences, and excuses which contradicted each other. Elvira was

  too justly incensed to grant the pardon which He requested. She

  protested that She would raise the neighbourhood, and make him an

  example to all future Hypocrites. Then hastening to the Bed, She

  called to Antonia to wake; and finding that her voice had no

  effect, She took her arm, and raised her forcibly from the

  pillow. The charm operated too powerfully. Antonia remained

  insensible, and on being released by her Mother, sank back upon

  the pillow.

  'This slumber cannot be natural!' cried the amazed Elvira, whose

  indignation increased with every moment. 'Some mystery is

  concealed in it; But tremble, Hypocrite; all your villainy shall

  soon be unravelled! Help! Help!' She exclaimed aloud; 'Within

  there! Flora! Flora!'

  'Hear me for one moment, Lady!' cried the Monk, restored to

  himself by the urgency of the danger; 'By all that is sacred and

  holy, I swear that your Daughter's honour is still unviolated.

  Forgive my transgression! Spare me the shame of a discovery, and

  permit me to regain the Abbey undisturbed. Grant me this request

  in mercy! I promise not only that Antonia shall be secure from

  me in future, but that the rest of my life shall prove . . . . .'

  Elvira interrupted him abruptly.

  'Antonia secure from you? _I_ will secure her! You shall betray

  no longer the confidence of Parents! Your iniquity shall be

  unveiled to the public eye: All Madrid shall shudder at your

  perfidy, your hypocrisy and incontinence. What Ho! there! Flora!

  Flora, I say!'

  While She spoke thus, the remembrance of Agnes struck upon his

  mind. Thus had She sued to him for mercy, and thus had He

  refused her prayer! It was now his turn to suffer, and He could

  not but acknowledge that his punishment was just. In the

  meanwhile Elvira continued to call Flora to her assistance; but

  her voice was so choaked with passion that the Servant, who was

  buried in profound slumber, was insensible to all her cries:

  Elvira dared not go towards the Closet in which Flora slept, lest

  the Monk should take that opportunity to escape. Such indeed was

  his intention: He trusted that could He reach the Abbey

  unobserved by any other than Elvira, her single testimony would

  not suffice to ruin a reputation so well established as his was

  in Madrid. With this idea He gathered up such garments as He had

  already thrown off, and hastened towards the Door. Elvira was

  aware of his design; She followed him, and ere He could draw back

  the bolt, seized him by the arm, and detained him.

  'Attempt not to fly!' said She; 'You quit not this room without

  Witnesses of your guilt.'

  Ambrosio struggled in vain to disengage himself. Elvira quitted

  not her hold, but redoubled her cries for succour. The Friar's

  danger grew more urgent. He expected every moment to hear people

  assembling at her voice; And worked up to madness by the approach

  of ruin, He adopted a resolution equally desperate and savage.

  Turning round suddenly, with one hand He grasped Elvira's throat

  so as to prevent her continuing her clamour, and with the other,

  dashing her violently upon the ground, He dragged her towards the

  Bed. Confused by this unexpected attack, She scarcely had power

  to strive at forcing herself from his grasp: While the Monk,

  snatching the pillow from beneath her Daughter's head, covering

  with it Elvira's face, and pressing his knee upon her stomach

  with all his strength, endeavoured to put an end to her

  existence. He succeeded but too well. Her natural strength

  increased by the excess of anguish, long did the Sufferer

  struggle to disengage herself, but in vain. The Monk continued

  to kneel upon her breast, witnessed without mercy the convulsive

  trembling of her limbs beneath him, and sustained with inhuman

  firmness the spectacle of her agonies, when soul and body were on

  the point of separating. Those agonies at length were over. She

  ceased to struggle for life. The Monk took off the pillow, and

  gazed upon her. Her face was covered with a frightful blackness:

  Her limbs moved no more; The blood was chilled in her veins; Her

  heart had forgotten to beat, and her hands were stiff and frozen.

  Ambrosio beheld before him that once noble and majestic form, now

  become a Corse, cold, senseless and disgusting.

  This horrible act was no sooner perpetrated, than the Friar

  beheld the enormity of his crime. A cold dew flowed over his

  limbs; his eyes closed; He staggered to a chair, and sank into it

  almost as lifeless as the Unfortunate who lay extended at his

  feet. From this state He was rouzed by the necessity of flight,

  and the danger of being found in Antonia's apartment. He had no

  desire to profit by the execution of his crime. Antonia now

  appeared to him an object of disgust. A deadly cold had usurped

  the place of that warmth which glowed in his bosom: No ideas

  offered themselves to his mind but those of death and guilt, of

  present shame and future punishment. Agitated by remorse and

  fear He prepared for flight: Yet his terrors did not so

  compleatly master his recollection, as to prevent his taking the

  precautions necessary for his safety. He replaced the pillow

  upon the bed, gathered up his garments, and with the fatal

  Talisman in his hand, bent his unsteady steps towards the door.

  Bewildered by fear, He fancied that his flight was opposed by

  Legions of Phantoms; Whereever He turned, the disfigured Corse

  seemed to lie in his passage, and it was long before He succeeded

  in reaching the door. The enchanted Myrtle produced its former

  effect. The door opened, and He hastened down the staircase.

  He entered the Abbey unobserved, and having shut himself into his

&
nbsp; Cell, He abandoned his soul to the tortures of unavailing

  remorse, and terrors of impending detection.

  CHAPTER II

  Tell us, ye Dead, will none of you in pity

  To those you left behind disclose the secret?

  O! That some courteous Ghost would blab it out,

  What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be.

  I've heard that Souls departed have sometimes

  Fore-warned Men of their deaths:

  'Twas kindly done

  To knock, and give the alarum.

  Blair.

  Ambrosio shuddered at himself, when He reflected on his rapid

  advances in iniquity. The enormous crime which He had just

  committed filled him with real horror. The murdered Elvira was

  continually before his eyes, and his guilt was already punished

  by the agonies of his conscience. Time, however, considerably

  weakened these impressions: One day passed away, another

  followed it, and still not the least suspicion was thrown upon

  him. Impunity reconciled him to his guilt: He began to resume

  his spirits; and as his fears of detection died away, He paid

  less attention to the reproaches of remorse. Matilda exerted

  herself to quiet his alarms. At the first intelligence of

  Elvira's death, She seemed greatly affected, and joined the Monk

  in deploring the unhappy catastrophe of his adventure: But when

  She found his agitation to be somewhat calmed, and himself better

  disposed to listen to her arguments, She proceeded to mention his

  offence in milder terms, and convince him that He was not so

  highly culpable as He appeared to consider himself. She

  represented that He had only availed himself of the rights which

  Nature allows to every one, those of self-preservation: That

  either Elvira or himself must have perished, and that her

  inflexibility and resolution to ruin him had deservedly marked

  her out for the Victim. She next stated, that as He had before

  rendered himself suspected to Elvira, it was a fortunate event

  for him that her lips were closed by death; since without this

  last adventure, her suspicions if made public might have produced

  very disagreeable consequences. He had therefore freed himself

  from an Enemy, to whom the errors of his conduct were

  sufficiently known to make her dangerous, and who was the

  greatest obstacle to his designs upon Antonia. Those designs She

  encouraged him not to abandon. She assured him that, no longer

  protected by her Mother's watchful eye, the Daughter would fall

  an easy conquest; and by praising and enumerating Antonia's

  charms, She strove to rekindle the desires of the Monk. In this

  endeavour She succeeded but too well.

  As if the crimes into which his passion had seduced him had only

  increased its violence, He longed more eagerly than ever to enjoy

  Antonia. The same success in concealing his present guilt, He

  trusted would attend his future. He was deaf to the murmurs of

  conscience, and resolved to satisfy his desires at any price. He

  waited only for an opportunity of repeating his former

  enterprize; But to procure that opportunity by the same means was

  now impracticable. In the first transports of despair He had

  dashed the enchanted Myrtle into a thousand pieces: Matilda told

  him plainly that He must expect no further assistance from the

  infernal Powers unless He was willing to subscribe to their

  established conditions. This Ambrosio was determined not to do:

  He persuaded himself that however great might be his iniquity,

  so long as he preserved his claim to salvation, He need not

  despair of pardon. He therefore resolutely refused to enter into

  any bond or compact with the Fiends; and Matilda finding him

  obstinate upon this point, forbore to press him further. She

  exerted her invention to discover some means of putting Antonia

  into the Abbot's power: Nor was it long before that means

  presented itself.

  While her ruin was thus meditating, the unhappy Girl herself

  suffered severely from the loss of her Mother. Every morning on

  waking, it was her first care to hasten to Elvira's chamber. On

  that which followed Ambrosio's fatal visit, She woke later than

  was her usual custom: Of this She was convinced by the

  Abbey Chimes. She started from her bed, threw on a few loose

  garments hastily, and was speeding to enquire how her Mother had

  passed the night, when her foot struck against something which

  lay in her passage. She looked down. What was her horror at

  recognizing Elvira's livid Corse! She uttered a loud shriek, and

  threw herself upon the floor. She clasped the inanimate form to

  her bosom, felt that it was dead-cold, and with a movement of

  disgust, of which She was not the Mistress, let it fall again

  from her arms. The cry had alarmed Flora, who hastened to her

  assistance. The sight which She beheld penetrated her with

  horror; but her alarm was more audible than Antonia's. She made

  the House ring with her lamentations, while her Mistress, almost

  suffocated with grief, could only mark her distress by sobs and

  groans. Flora's shrieks soon reached the ears of the Hostess,

  whose terror and surprize were excessive on learning the cause of

  this disturbance. A Physician was immediately sent for: But on

  the first moment of beholding the Corse, He declared that

  Elvira's recovery was beyond the power of art. He proceeded

  therefore to give his assistance to Antonia, who by this time was

  truly in need of it. She was conveyed to bed, while the Landlady

  busied herself in giving orders for Elvira's Burial. Dame

  Jacintha was a plain good kind of Woman, charitable, generous,

  and devout: But her intellects were weak, and She was a

  Miserable Slave to fear and superstition. She shuddered at the

  idea of passing the night in the same House with a dead Body:

  She was persuaded that Elvira's Ghost would appear to her, and no

  less certain that such a visit would kill her with fright. From

  this persuasion, She resolved to pass the night at a Neighbour's,

  and insisted that the Funeral should take place the next day.

  St. Clare's Cemetery being the nearest, it was determined that

  Elvira should be buried there. Dame Jacintha engaged to defray

  every expence attending the burial. She knew not in what

  circumstances Antonia was left, but from the sparing manner in

  which the Family had lived, She concluded them to be indifferent.

  Consequently, She entertained very little hope of ever being

  recompensed; But this consideration prevented her not from taking

  care that the Interment was performed with decency, and from

  showing the unfortunate Antonia all possible respect.

  Nobody dies of mere grief; Of this Antonia was an instance.

  Aided by her youth and healthy constitution, She shook off the

  malady which her Mother's death had occasioned; But it was not

  so easy to remove the disease of her mind. Her eyes were

  constantly filled with tears: Every trifle affected her, and She

  evidently nourished in her bosom a profound and rooted

  melancholy. The slightest mention of Elvira, the mos
t trivial

  circumstance recalling that beloved Parent to her memory, was

  sufficient to throw her into serious agitation. How much would

  her grief have been increased, had She known the agonies which

  terminated her Mother's existence! But of this no one

  entertained the least suspicion. Elvira was subject to strong

  convulsions: It was supposed that, aware of their approach, She

  had dragged herself to her Daughter's chamber in hopes of

  assistance; that a sudden access of her fits had seized her, too

  violent to be resisted by her already enfeebled state of health;

  and that She had expired ere She had time to reach the medicine

  which generally relieved her, and which stood upon a shelf in

  Antonia's room. This idea was firmly credited by the few people,

  who interested themselves about Elvira: Her Death was esteemed a

  natural event, and soon forgotten by all save by her, who had but

  too much reason to deplore her loss.

  In truth Antonia's situation was sufficiently embarrassing and

  unpleasant. She was alone in the midst of a dissipated and

  expensive City; She was ill provided with money, and worse with

  Friends. Her aunt Leonella was still at Cordova, and She knew

  not her direction. Of the Marquis de las Cisternas She heard no

  news: As to Lorenzo, She had long given up the idea of

  possessing any interest in his bosom. She knew not to whom She

  could address herself in her present dilemma. She wished to

  consult Ambrosio; But She remembered her Mother's injunctions to

  shun him as much as possible, and the last conversation which

  Elvira had held with her upon the subject had given her

  sufficient lights respecting his designs to put her upon her

  guard against him in future. Still all her Mother's warnings

  could not make her change her good opinion of the Friar. She

  continued to feel that his friendship and society were requisite

  to her happiness: She looked upon his failings with a partial

  eye, and could not persuade herself that He really had intended

  her ruin. However, Elvira had positively commanded her to drop

  his acquaintance, and She had too much respect for her orders to

  disobey them.

  At length She resolved to address herself for advice and

  protection to the Marquis de las Cisternas, as being her nearest

  Relation. She wrote to him, briefly stating her desolate