The Monk - A Romance

by The Monk [lit]

  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