The Monk - A Romance

by The Monk [lit]

'For your sake, Fatal Beauty!' murmured the Monk, while gazing on

  his devoted prey; 'For your sake, have I committed this murder,

  and sold myself to eternal tortures. Now you are in my power:

  The produce of my guilt will at least be mine. Hope not that

  your prayers breathed in tones of unequalled melody, your bright

  eyes filled with tears, and your hands lifted in supplication, as

  when seeking in penitence the Virgin's pardon; Hope not that

  your moving innocence, your beauteous grief, or all your

  suppliant arts shall ransom you from my embraces. Before the

  break of day, mine you must, and mine you shall be!'

  He lifted her still motionless from the Tomb: He seated himself

  upon a bank of Stone, and supporting her in his arms, watched

  impatiently for the symptoms of returning animation. Scarcely

  could He command his passions sufficiently, to restrain himself

  from enjoying her while yet insensible. His natural lust was

  increased in ardour by the difficulties which had opposed his

  satisfying it: As also by his long abstinence from Woman, since

  from the moment of resigning her claim to his love, Matilda had

  exiled him from her arms for ever.

  'I am no Prostitute, Ambrosio;' Had She told him, when in the

  fullness of his lust He demanded her favours with more than usual

  earnestness; 'I am now no more than your Friend, and will not be

  your Mistress. Cease then to solicit my complying with desires,

  which insult me. While your heart was mine, I gloried in your

  embraces: Those happy times are past: My person is become

  indifferent to you, and 'tis necessity, not love, which makes you

  seek my enjoyment. I cannot yield to a request so humiliating

  to my pride.'

  Suddenly deprived of pleasures, the use of which had made them an

  absolute want, the Monk felt this restraint severely. Naturally

  addicted to the gratification of the senses, in the full vigour

  of manhood, and heat of blood, He had suffered his temperament to

  acquire such ascendency that his lust was become madness. Of

  his fondness for Antonia, none but the grosser particles

  remained: He longed for the possession of her person; and even

  the gloom of the vault, the surrounding silence, and the

  resistance which He expected from her, seemed to give a fresh

  edge to his fierce and unbridled desires.

  Gradually He felt the bosom which rested against his, glow with

  returning warmth. Her heart throbbed again; Her blood flowed

  swifter, and her lips moved. At length She opened her eyes, but

  still opprest and bewildered by the effects of the strong opiate,

  She closed them again immediately. Ambrosio watched her

  narrowly, nor permitted a movement to escape him. Perceiving

  that She was fully restored to existence, He caught her in

  rapture to his bosom, and closely pressed his lips to hers. The

  suddenness of his action sufficed to dissipate the fumes which

  obscured Antonia's reason. She hastily raised herself, and cast

  a wild look round her. The strange Images which presented

  themselves on every side contributed to confuse her. She put her

  hand to her head, as if to settle her disordered imagination. At

  length She took it away, and threw her eyes through the dungeon a

  second time. They fixed upon the Abbot's face.

  'Where am I?' She said abruptly. 'How came I here? Where is my

  Mother? Methought, I saw her! Oh! a dream, a dreadful dreadful

  dream told me . . . . . . But where am I? Let me go! I cannot

  stay here!'

  She attempted to rise, but the Monk prevented her.

  'Be calm, lovely Antonia!' He replied; 'No danger is near you:

  Confide in my protection. Why do you gaze on me so earnestly?

  Do you not know me? Not know your Friend? Ambrosio?'

  'Ambrosio? My Friend? Oh! yes, yes; I remember . . . . . .

  But why am I here? Who has brought me? Why are you with me?

  Oh! Flora bad me beware . . . . .! Here are nothing but Graves,

  and Tombs, and Skeletons! This place frightens me! Good Ambrosio

  take me away from it, for it recalls my fearful dream! Methought

  I was dead, and laid in my grave! Good Ambrosio, take me from

  hence. Will you not? Oh! will you not? Do not look on me thus!

  Your flaming eyes terrify me! Spare me, Father! Oh! spare me for

  God's sake!'

  'Why these terrors, Antonia?' rejoined the Abbot, folding her in

  his arms, and covering her bosom with kisses which She in vain

  struggled to avoid: 'What fear you from me, from one who adores

  you? What matters it where you are? This Sepulchre seems to me

  Love's bower; This gloom is the friendly night of mystery which

  He spreads over our delights! Such do I think it, and such must

  my Antonia. Yes, my sweet Girl! Yes! Your veins shall glow with

  fire which circles in mine, and my transports shall be doubled

  by your sharing them!'

  While He spoke thus, He repeated his embraces, and permitted

  himself the most indecent liberties. Even Antonia's ignorance

  was not proof against the freedom of his behaviour. She was

  sensible of her danger, forced herself from his arms, and her

  shroud being her only garment, She wrapped it closely round her.

  'Unhand me, Father!' She cried, her honest indignation tempered

  by alarm at her unprotected position; 'Why have you brought me to

  this place? Its appearance freezes me with horror! Convey me

  from hence, if you have the least sense of pity and humanity!

  Let me return to the House which I have quitted I know not how;

  But stay here one moment longer, I neither will, or ought.'

  Though the Monk was somewhat startled by the resolute tone in

  which this speech was delivered, it produced upon him no other

  effect than surprize. He caught her hand, forced her upon his

  knee, and gazing upon her with gloting eyes, He thus replied to

  her.

  'Compose yourself, Antonia. Resistance is unavailing, and I need

  disavow my passion for you no longer. You are imagined dead:

  Society is for ever lost to you. I possess you here alone; You

  are absolutely in my power, and I burn with desires which I must

  either gratify or die: But I would owe my happiness to

  yourself. My lovely Girl! My adorable Antonia! Let me instruct

  you in joys to which you are still a Stranger, and teach you to

  feel those pleasures in my arms which I must soon enjoy in

  yours. Nay, this struggling is childish,' He continued, seeing

  her repell his caresses, and endeavour to escape from his grasp;

  'No aid is near: Neither heaven or earth shall save you from my

  embraces. Yet why reject pleasures so sweet, so rapturous? No

  one observes us: Our loves will be a secret to all the world:

  Love and opportunity invite your giving loose to your passions.

  Yield to them, my Antonia! Yield to them, my lovely Girl! Throw

  your arms thus fondly round me; Join your lips thus closely to

  mine! Amidst all her gifts, has Nature denied her most precious,

  the sensibility of Pleasure? Oh! impossible! Every feature,

  look, and motion declares you formed to bless, and to be blessed

  yourself! Turn not on m
e those supplicating eyes: Consult your

  own charms; They will tell you that I am proof against entreaty.

  Can I relinquish these limbs so white, so soft, so delicate;

  These swelling breasts, round, full, and elastic! These lips

  fraught with such inexhaustible sweetness? Can I relinquish

  these treasures, and leave them to another's enjoyment? No,

  Antonia; never, never! I swear it by this kiss, and this! and

  this!'

  With every moment the Friar's passion became more ardent, and

  Antonia's terror more intense. She struggled to disengage

  herself from his arms: Her exertions were unsuccessful; and

  finding that Ambrosio's conduct became still freer, She shrieked

  for assistance with all her strength. The aspect of the Vault,

  the pale glimmering of the Lamp, the surrounding obscurity, the

  sight of the Tomb, and the objects of mortality which met her

  eyes on either side, were ill-calculated to inspire her with

  those emotions by which the Friar was agitated. Even his

  caresses terrified her from their fury, and created no other

  sentiment than fear. On the contrary, her alarm, her evident

  disgust, and incessant opposition, seemed only to inflame the

  Monk's desires, and supply his brutality with additional

  strength. Antonia's shrieks were unheard: Yet She continued

  them, nor abandoned her endeavours to escape, till exhausted and

  out of breath She sank from his arms upon her knees, and once

  more had recourse to prayers and supplications. This attempt had

  no better success than the former. On the contrary, taking

  advantage of her situation, the Ravisher threw himself by her

  side: He clasped her to his bosom almost lifeless with terror,

  and faint with struggling. He stifled her cries with kisses,

  treated her with the rudeness of an unprincipled Barbarian,

  proceeded from freedom to freedom, and in the violence of his

  lustful delirium, wounded and bruised her tender limbs. Heedless

  of her tears, cries and entreaties, He gradually made himself

  Master of her person, and desisted not from his prey, till He had

  accomplished his crime and the dishonour of Antonia.

  Scarcely had He succeeded in his design than He shuddered at

  himself and the means by which it was effected. The very excess

  of his former eagerness to possess Antonia now contributed to

  inspire him with disgust; and a secret impulse made him feel how

  base and unmanly was the crime which He had just committed. He

  started hastily from her arms. She, who so lately had been the

  object of his adoration, now raised no other sentiment in his

  heart than aversion and rage. He turned away from her; or if his

  eyes rested upon her figure involuntarily, it was only to dart

  upon her looks of hate. The Unfortunate had fainted ere the

  completion of her disgrace: She only recovered life to be

  sensible of her misfortune. She remained stretched upon the earth

  in silent despair: The tears chased each other slowly down her

  cheeks, and her bosom heaved with frequent sobs. Oppressed with

  grief, She continued for some time in this state of torpidity.

  At length She rose with difficulty, and dragging her feeble steps

  towards the door, prepared to quit the dungeon.

  The sound of her footsteps rouzed the Monk from his sullen

  apathy. Starting from the Tomb against which He reclined, while

  his eyes wandered over the images of corruption contained in it,

  He pursued the Victim of his brutality, and soon overtook her.

  He seized her by the arm, and violently forced her back into the

  dungeon.

  'Whither go you?' He cried in a stern voice; 'Return this

  instant!'

  Antonia trembled at the fury of his countenance.

  'What, would you more?' She said with timidity: 'Is not my ruin

  compleated? Am I not undone, undone for ever? Is not your

  cruelty contented, or have I yet more to suffer? Let me depart.

  Let me return to my home, and weep unrestrained my shame and my

  affliction!'

  'Return to your home?' repeated the Monk, with bitter and

  contemptuous mockery; Then suddenly his eyes flaming with

  passion, 'What? That you may denounce me to the world? That

  you may proclaim me an Hypocrite, a Ravisher, a Betrayer, a

  Monster of cruelty, lust, and ingratitude? No, no, no! I know

  well the whole weight of my offences; Well that your complaints

  would be too just, and my crimes too notorious! You shall not

  from hence to tell Madrid that I am a Villain; that my conscience

  is loaded with sins which make me despair of Heaven's pardon.

  Wretched Girl, you must stay here with me! Here amidst these

  lonely Tombs, these images of Death, these rotting loathsome

  corrupted bodies! Here shall you stay, and witness my

  sufferings; witness what it is to die in the horrors of

  despondency, and breathe the last groan in blasphemy and curses!

  And who am I to thank for this? What seduced me into crimes,

  whose bare remembrance makes me shudder? Fatal Witch! was it not

  thy beauty? Have you not plunged my soul into infamy? Have you

  not made me a perjured Hypocrite, a Ravisher, an Assassin! Nay,

  at this moment, does not that angel look bid me despair of God's

  forgiveness? Oh! when I stand before his judgment-throne, that

  look will suffice to damn me! You will tell my Judge that you

  were happy, till I saw you; that you were innocent, till I

  polluted you! You will come with those tearful eyes, those

  cheeks pale and ghastly, those hands lifted in supplication, as

  when you sought from me that mercy which I gave not! Then will

  my perdition be certain! Then will come your Mother's Ghost, and

  hurl me down into the dwellings of Fiends, and flames, and

  Furies, and everlasting torments! And 'tis you, who will accuse

  me! 'Tis you, who will cause my eternal anguish! You, wretched

  Girl! You! You!'

  As He thundered out these words, He violently grasped Antonia's

  arm, and spurned the earth with delirious fury.

  Supposing his brain to be turned, Antonia sank in terror upon her

  knees: She lifted up her hands, and her voice almost died away,

  ere She could give it utterance.

  'Spare me! Spare me!' She murmured with difficulty.

  'Silence!' cried the Friar madly, and dashed her upon the

  ground----

  He quitted her, and paced the dungeon with a wild and disordered

  air. His eyes rolled fearfully: Antonia trembled whenever She

  met their gaze. He seemed to meditate on something horrible, and

  She gave up all hopes of escaping from the Sepulchre with life.

  Yet in harbouring this idea, She did him injustice. Amidst the

  horror and disgust to which his soul was a prey, pity for his

  Victim still held a place in it. The storm of passion once over,

  He would have given worlds had He possest them, to have restored

  to her that innocence of which his unbridled lust had deprived

  her. Of the desires which had urged him to the crime, no trace

  was left in his bosom: The wealth of India would not have

  tempted him to a second enjoyment of her person. His nature

  seeme
d to revolt at the very idea, and fain would He have wiped

  from his memory the scene which had just past. As his gloomy

  rage abated, in proportion did his compassion augment for

  Antonia. He stopped, and would have spoken to her words of

  comfort; But He knew not from whence to draw them, and remained

  gazing upon her with mournful wildness. Her situation seemed so

  hopeless, so woebegone, as to baffle mortal power to relieve

  her. What could He do for her? Her peace of mind was lost, her

  honour irreparably ruined. She was cut off for ever from

  society, nor dared He give her back to it. He was conscious

  that were She to appear in the world again, his guilt would be

  revealed, and his punishment inevitable. To one so laden with

  crimes, Death came armed with double terrors. Yet should He

  restore Antonia to light, and stand the chance of her betraying

  him, how miserable a prospect would present itself before her.

  She could never hope to be creditably established; She would be

  marked with infamy, and condemned to sorrow and solitude for the

  remainder of her existence. What was the alternative? A

  resolution far more terrible for Antonia, but which at least

  would insure the Abbot's safety. He determined to leave the

  world persuaded of her death, and to retain her a captive in this

  gloomy prison: There He proposed to visit her every night, to

  bring her food, to profess his penitence, and mingle his tears

  with hers. The Monk felt that this resolution was unjust and

  cruel; but it was his only means to prevent Antonia from

  publishing his guilt and her own infamy. Should He release her,

  He could not depend upon her silence: His offence was too

  flagrant to permit his hoping for her forgiveness. Besides, her

  reappearing would excite universal curiosity, and the violence

  of her affliction would prevent her from concealing its cause.

  He determined therefore, that Antonia should remain a Prisoner in

  the dungeon.

  He approached her with confusion painted on his countenance. He

  raised her from the ground. Her hand trembled, as He took it,

  and He dropped it again as if He had touched a Serpent. Nature

  seemed to recoil at the touch. He felt himself at once repulsed

  from and attracted towards her, yet could account for neither

  sentiment. There was something in her look which penetrated him

  with horror; and though his understanding was still ignorant of