examination: He had no resource to comfort him in his distress.
Religion could not inspire him with fortitude: If He read the
Books of morality which were put into his hands, He saw in them
nothing but the enormity of his offences; If he attempted to
pray, He recollected that He deserved not heaven's protection,
and believed his crimes so monstrous as to baffle even God's
infinite goodness. For every other Sinner He thought there
might be hope, but for him there could be none. Shuddering at
the past, anguished by the present, and dreading the future, thus
passed He the few days preceding that which was marked for his
Trial.
That day arrived. At nine in the morning his prison door was
unlocked, and his Gaoler entering, commanded him to follow him.
He obeyed with trembling. He was conducted into a spacious Hall,
hung with black cloth. At the Table sat three grave,
stern-looking Men, also habited in black: One was the Grand
Inquisitor, whom the importance of this cause had induced to
examine into it himself. At a smaller table at a little distance
sat the Secretary, provided with all necessary implements for
writing. Ambrosio was beckoned to advance, and take his station
at the lower end of the Table. As his eye glanced downwards, He
perceived various iron instruments lying scattered upon the
floor. Their forms were unknown to him, but apprehension
immediately guessed them to be engines of torture. He turned
pale, and with difficulty prevented himself from sinking upon the
ground.
Profound silence prevailed, except when the Inquisitors whispered
a few words among themselves mysteriously. Near an hour past
away, and with every second of it Ambrosio's fears grew more
poignant. At length a small Door, opposite to that by which He
had entered the Hall, grated heavily upon its hinges. An Officer
appeared, and was immediately followed by the beautiful Matilda.
Her hair hung about her face wildly; Her cheeks were pale, and
her eyes sunk and hollow. She threw a melancholy look upon
Ambrosio: He replied by one of aversion and reproach. She was
placed opposite to him. A Bell then sounded thrice. It was the
signal for opening the Court, and the Inquisitors entered upon
their office.
In these trials neither the accusation is mentioned, or the name
of the Accuser. The Prisoners are only asked, whether they will
confess: If they reply that having no crime they can make no
confession, they are put to the torture without delay. This is
repeated at intervals, either till the suspected avow themselves
culpable, or the perseverance of the examinants is worn out and
exhausted: But without a direct acknowledgment of their guilt,
the Inquisition never pronounces the final doom of its Prisoners.
In general much time is suffered to elapse without their being
questioned: But Ambrosio's trial had been hastened, on account
of a solemn Auto da Fe which would take place in a few days, and
in which the Inquisitors meant this distinguished Culprit to
perform a part, and give a striking testimony of their vigilance.
The Abbot was not merely accused of rape and murder: The crime
of Sorcery was laid to his charge, as well as to Matilda's. She
had been seized as an Accomplice in Antonia's assassination. On
searching her Cell, various suspicious books and instruments were
found which justified the accusation brought against her. To
criminate the Monk, the constellated Mirror was produced, which
Matilda had accidentally left in his chamber. The strange figures
engraved upon it caught the attention of Don Ramirez, while
searching the Abbot's Cell: In consequence, He carried it away
with him. It was shown to the Grand Inquisitor, who having
considered it for some time, took off a small golden Cross which
hung at his girdle, and laid it upon the Mirror. Instantly a loud
noise was heard, resembling a clap of thunder, and the steel
shivered into a thousand pieces. This circumstance confirmed the
suspicion of the Monk's having dealt in Magic: It was even
supposed that his former influence over the minds of the People
was entirely to be ascribed to witchcraft.
Determined to make him confess not only the crimes which He had
committed, but those also of which He was innocent, the
Inquisitors began their examination. Though dreading the
tortures, as He dreaded death still more which would consign him
to eternal torments, the Abbot asserted his purity in a voice
bold and resolute. Matilda followed his example, but spoke with
fear and trembling. Having in vain exhorted him to confess, the
Inquisitors ordered the Monk to be put to the question. The
Decree was immediately executed. Ambrosio suffered the most
excruciating pangs that ever were invented by human cruelty:
Yet so dreadful is Death when guilt accompanies it, that He had
sufficient fortitude to persist in his disavowal. His agonies
were redoubled in consequence: Nor was He released till fainting
from excess of pain, insensibility rescued him from the hands of
his Tormentors.
Matilda was next ordered to the torture: But terrified by the
sight of the Friar's sufferings, her courage totally deserted
her. She sank upon her knees, acknowledged her corresponding
with infernal Spirits, and that She had witnessed the Monk's
assassination of Antonia: But as to the crime of Sorcery, She
declared herself the sole criminal, and Ambrosio perfectly
innocent. The latter assertion met with no credit. The Abbot
had recovered his senses in time to hear the confession of his
Accomplice: But He was too much enfeebled by what He had already
undergone to be capable at that time of sustaining new torments.
He was commanded back to his Cell, but first informed that as
soon as He had gained strength sufficient, He must prepare
himself for a second examination. The Inquisitors hoped that He
would then be less hardened and obstinate. To Matilda it was
announced that She must expiate her crime in fire on the
approaching Auto da Fe. All her tears and entreaties could
procure no mitigation of her doom, and She was dragged by force
from the Hall of Trial.
Returned to his dungeon, the sufferings of Ambrosio's body were
far more supportable than those of his mind. His dislocated
limbs, the nails torn from his hands and feet, and his fingers
mashed and broken by the pressure of screws, were far surpassed
in anguish by the agitation of his soul and vehemence of his
terrors. He saw that, guilty or innocent, his Judges were bent
upon condemning him: The remembrance of what his denial had
already cost him terrified him at the idea of being again
applied to the question, and almost engaged him to confess his
crimes. Then again the consequences of his confession flashed
before him, and rendered him once more irresolute. His death
would be inevitable, and that a death the most dreadful: He had
listened to Matilda's doom, and doubted not
that a similar was
reserved for him. He shuddered at the approaching Auto da Fe, at
the idea of perishing in flames, and only escaping from indurable
torments to pass into others more subtile and ever-lasting! With
affright did He bend his mind's eye on the space beyond the
grave; nor could hide from himself how justly he ought to dread
Heaven's vengeance. In this Labyrinth of terrors, fain would He
have taken his refuge in the gloom of Atheism: Fain would He
have denied the soul's immortality; have persuaded himself that
when his eyes once closed, they would never more open, and that
the same moment would annihilate his soul and body. Even this
resource was refused to him. To permit his being blind to the
fallacy of this belief, his knowledge was too extensive, his
understanding too solid and just. He could not help feeling the
existence of a God. Those truths, once his comfort, now
presented themselves before him in the clearest light; But they
only served to drive him to distraction. They destroyed his
ill-grounded hopes of escaping punishment; and dispelled by the
irresistible brightness of Truth and convinction, Philosophy's
deceitful vapours faded away like a dream.
In anguish almost too great for mortal frame to bear, He expected
the time when He was again to be examined. He busied himself in
planning ineffectual schemes for escaping both present and future
punishment. Of the first there was no possibility; Of the second
Despair made him neglect the only means. While Reason forced him
to acknowledge a God's existence, Conscience made him doubt the
infinity of his goodness. He disbelieved that a Sinner like him
could find mercy. He had not been deceived into error:
Ignorance could furnish him with no excuse. He had seen vice in
her true colours; Before He committed his crimes, He had computed
every scruple of their weight; and yet he had committed them.
'Pardon?' He would cry in an access of phrenzy 'Oh! there can be
none for me!'
Persuaded of this, instead of humbling himself in penitence, of
deploring his guilt, and employing his few remaining hours in
deprecating Heaven's wrath, He abandoned himself to the
transports of desperate rage; He sorrowed for the punishment of
his crimes, not their commission; and exhaled his bosom's anguish
in idle sighs, in vain lamentations, in blasphemy and despair.
As the few beams of day which pierced through the bars of his
prison window gradually disappeared, and their place was
supplied by the pale and glimmering Lamp, He felt his terrors
redouble, and his ideas become more gloomy, more solemn, more
despondent. He dreaded the approach of sleep: No sooner did his
eyes close, wearied with tears and watching, than the dreadful
visions seemed to be realised on which his mind had dwelt during
the day. He found himself in sulphurous realms and burning
Caverns, surrounded by Fiends appointed his Tormentors, and who
drove him through a variety of tortures, each of which was more
dreadful than the former. Amidst these dismal scenes wandered
the Ghosts of Elvira and her Daughter. They reproached him with
their deaths, recounted his crimes to the Daemons, and urged them
to inflict torments of cruelty yet more refined. Such were the
pictures which floated before his eyes in sleep: They vanished
not till his repose was disturbed by excess of agony. Then would
He start from the ground on which He had stretched himself, his
brows running down with cold sweat, his eyes wild and phrenzied;
and He only exchanged the terrible certainty for surmizes
scarcely more supportable. He paced his dungeon with disordered
steps; He gazed with terror upon the surrounding darkness, and
often did He cry,
'Oh! fearful is night to the Guilty!'
The day of his second examination was at hand. He had been
compelled to swallow cordials, whose virtues were calculated to
restore his bodily strength, and enable him to support the
question longer. On the night preceding this dreaded day, his
fears for the morrow permitted him not to sleep. His terrors
were so violent, as nearly to annihilate his mental powers. He
sat like one stupefied near the Table on which his Lamp was
burning dimly. Despair chained up his faculties in Idiotism, and
He remained for some hours, unable to speak or move, or indeed to
think.
'Look up, Ambrosio!' said a Voice in accents well-known to him--
The Monk started, and raised his melancholy eyes. Matilda stood
before him. She had quitted her religious habit. She now wore a
female dress, at once elegant and splendid: A profusion of
diamonds blazed upon her robes, and her hair was confined by a
coronet of Roses. In her right hand She held a small Book: A
lively expression of pleasure beamed upon her countenance; But
still it was mingled with a wild imperious majesty which
inspired the Monk with awe, and represt in some measure his
transports at seeing her.
'You here, Matilda?' He at length exclaimed; 'How have you gained
entrance? Where are your Chains? What means this magnificence,
and the joy which sparkles in your eyes? Have our Judges
relented? Is there a chance of my escaping? Answer me for pity,
and tell me, what I have to hope, or fear.'
'Ambrosio!' She replied with an air of commanding dignity; 'I
have baffled the Inquisition's fury. I am free: A few moments
will place kingdoms between these dungeons and me. Yet I
purchase my liberty at a dear, at a dreadful price! Dare you pay
the same, Ambrosio? Dare you spring without fear over the
bounds which separate Men from Angels?--You are silent.--You
look upon me with eyes of suspicion and alarm--I read your
thoughts and confess their justice. Yes, Ambrosio ; I have
sacrificed all for life and liberty. I am no longer a candidate
for heaven! I have renounced God's service, and am enlisted
beneath the banners of his Foes. The deed is past recall: Yet
were it in my power to go back, I would not. Oh! my Friend, to
expire in such torments! To die amidst curses and execrations!
To bear the insults of an exasperated Mob! To be exposed to all
the mortifications of shame and infamy! Who can reflect without
horror on such a doom? Let me then exult in my exchange. I have
sold distant and uncertain happiness for present and secure: I
have preserved a life which otherwise I had lost in torture; and
I have obtained the power of procuring every bliss which can
make that life delicious! The Infernal Spirits obey me as their
Sovereign: By their aid shall my days be past in every
refinement of luxury and voluptuousness. I will enjoy
unrestrained the gratification of my senses: Every passion shall
be indulged, even to satiety; Then will I bid my Servants invent
new pleasures, to revive and stimulate my glutted appetites! I
go impatient to exercise my newly-gained dominion. I pant to be
at liberty. Nothing should hold me one moment longer in this
abho
rred abode, but the hope of persuading you to follow my
example. Ambrosio, I still love you: Our mutual guilt and
danger have rendered you dearer to me than ever, and I would fain
save you from impending destruction. Summon then your resolution
to your aid; and renounce for immediate and certain benefits the
hopes of a salvation, difficult to obtain, and perhaps altogether
erroneous. Shake off the prejudice of vulgar souls; Abandon a
God who has abandoned you, and raise yourself to the level of
superior Beings!'
She paused for the Monk's reply: He shuddered, while He gave it.
'Matilda!' He said after a long silence in a low and unsteady
voice; 'What price gave you for liberty?'
She answered him firm and dauntless.
'Ambrosio, it was my Soul!'
'Wretched Woman, what have you done? Pass but a few years, and
how dreadful will be your sufferings!'
'Weak Man, pass but this night, and how dreadful will be your
own! Do you remember what you have already endured? Tomorrow
you must bear torments doubly exquisite. Do you remember the
horrors of a fiery punishment? In two days you must be led a
Victim to the Stake! What then will become of you? Still dare
you hope for pardon? Still are you beguiled with visions of
salvation? Think upon your crimes! Think upon your lust, your
perjury, inhumanity, and hypocrisy! Think upon the innocent
blood which cries to the Throne of God for vengeance, and then
hope for mercy! Then dream of heaven, and sigh for worlds of
light, and realms of peace and pleasure! Absurd! Open your
eyes, Ambrosio, and be prudent. Hell is your lot; You are doomed
to eternal perdition; Nought lies beyond your grave but a gulph
of devouring flames. And will you then speed towards that Hell?
Will you clasp that perdition in your arms, ere 'tis needful?
Will you plunge into those flames while you still have the power
to shun them? 'Tis a Madman's action. No, no, Ambrosio: Let us
for awhile fly from divine vengeance. Be advised by me; Purchase
by one moment's courage the bliss of years; Enjoy the present,
and forget that a future lags behind.'
'Matilda, your counsels are dangerous: I dare not, I will not
follow them. I must not give up my claim to salvation.
Monstrous are my crimes; But God is merciful, and I will not
despair of pardon.'
'Is such your resolution? I have no more to say. I speed to joy
The Monk - A Romance Page 48
