The Monk: A Romance
of the dagger. She had torn open her habit, and her bosom was half
exposed. The weapon’s point rested upon her left breast: And Oh! that
was such a breast! The Moonbeams darting full upon it enabled the Monk
to observe its dazzling whiteness. His eye dwelt with insatiable
avidity upon the beauteous Orb. A sensation till then unknown filled
his heart with a mixture of anxiety and delight: A raging fire shot
through every limb; The blood boiled in his veins, and a thousand wild
wishes bewildered his imagination.
“Hold!” He cried in an hurried faultering voice; “I can resist no
longer! Stay, then, Enchantress; Stay for my destruction!”
He said, and rushing from the place, hastened towards the Monastery: He
regained his Cell and threw himself upon his Couch, distracted
irresolute and confused.
He found it impossible for some time to arrange his ideas. The scene in
which He had been engaged had excited such a variety of sentiments in
his bosom, that He was incapable of deciding which was predominant. He
was irresolute what conduct He ought to hold with the disturber of his
repose. He was conscious that prudence, religion, and propriety
necessitated his obliging her to quit the Abbey: But on the other hand
such powerful reasons authorized her stay that He was but too much
inclined to consent to her remaining. He could not avoid being
flattered by Matilda’s declaration, and at reflecting that He had
unconsciously vanquished an heart which had resisted the attacks of
Spain’s noblest Cavaliers: The manner in which He had gained her
affections was also the most satisfactory to his vanity: He remembered
the many happy hours which He had passed in Rosario’s society, and
dreaded that void in his heart which parting with him would occasion.
Besides all this, He considered, that as Matilda was wealthy, her
favour might be of essential benefit to the Abbey.
“And what do I risque,” said He to himself, “by authorizing her stay?
May I not safely credit her assertions? Will it not be easy for me to
forget her sex, and still consider her as my Friend and my disciple?
Surely her love is as pure as She describes. Had it been the offspring
of mere licentiousness, would She so long have concealed it in her own
bosom? Would She not have employed some means to procure its
gratification? She has done quite the contrary: She strove to keep me
in ignorance of her sex; and nothing but the fear of detection, and my
instances, would have compelled her to reveal the secret. She has
observed the duties of religion not less strictly than myself. She has
made no attempts to rouze my slumbering passions, nor has She ever
conversed with me till this night on the subject of Love. Had She been
desirous to gain my affections, not my esteem, She would not have
concealed from me her charms so carefully: At this very moment I have
never seen her face: Yet certainly that face must be lovely, and her
person beautiful, to judge by her ... by what I have seen.”
As this last idea passed through his imagination, a blush spread itself
over his cheek. Alarmed at the sentiments which He was indulging, He
betook himself to prayer; He started from his Couch, knelt before the
beautiful Madona, and entreated her assistance in stifling such
culpable emotions. He then returned to his Bed, and resigned himself to
slumber.
He awoke, heated and unrefreshed. During his sleep his inflamed
imagination had presented him with none but the most voluptuous
objects. Matilda stood before him in his dreams, and his eyes again
dwelt upon her naked breast. She repeated her protestations of eternal
love, threw her arms round his neck, and loaded him with kisses: He
returned them; He clasped her passionately to his bosom, and ... the
vision was dissolved. Sometimes his dreams presented the image of his
favourite Madona, and He fancied that He was kneeling before her: As He
offered up his vows to her, the eyes of the Figure seemed to beam on
him with inexpressible sweetness. He pressed his lips to hers, and
found them warm: The animated form started from the Canvas, embraced
him affectionately, and his senses were unable to support delight so
exquisite. Such were the scenes, on which his thoughts were employed
while sleeping: His unsatisfied Desires placed before him the most
lustful and provoking Images, and he rioted in joys till then unknown
to him.
He started from his Couch, filled with confusion at the remembrance of
his dreams. Scarcely was He less ashamed, when He reflected on his
reasons of the former night which induced him to authorize Matilda’s
stay. The cloud was now dissipated which had obscured his judgment: He
shuddered when He beheld his arguments blazoned in their proper
colours, and found that He had been a slave to flattery, to avarice,
and self-love. If in one hour’s conversation Matilda had produced a
change so remarkable in his sentiments, what had He not to dread from
her remaining in the Abbey? Become sensible of his danger, awakened
from his dream of confidence, He resolved to insist on her departing
without delay. He began to feel that He was not proof against
temptation; and that however Matilda might restrain herself within the
bounds of modesty, He was unable to contend with those passions, from
which He falsely thought himself exempted.
“Agnes! Agnes!” He exclaimed, while reflecting on his embarrassments,
“I already feel thy curse!”
He quitted his Cell, determined upon dismissing the feigned Rosario. He
appeared at Matins; But his thoughts were absent, and He paid them but
little attention. His heart and brain were both of them filled with
worldly objects, and He prayed without devotion. The service over, He
descended into the Garden. He bent his steps towards the same spot
where, on the preceding night, He had made this embarrassing discovery.
He doubted not but that Matilda would seek him there: He was not
deceived. She soon entered the Hermitage, and approached the Monk with
a timid air. After a few minutes during which both were silent, She
appeared as if on the point of speaking; But the Abbot, who during this
time had been summoning up all his resolution, hastily interrupted her.
Though still unconscious how extensive was its influence, He dreaded
the melodious seduction of her voice.
“Seat yourself by my side, Matilda,” said He, assuming a look of
firmness, though carefully avoiding the least mixture of severity;
“Listen to me patiently, and believe, that in what I shall say, I am
not more influenced by my own interest than by yours: Believe, that I
feel for you the warmest friendship, the truest compassion, and that
you cannot feel more grieved than I do, when I declare to you that we
must never meet again.”
“Ambrosio!” She cried, in a voice at once expressive of surprise and
sorrow.
“Be calm, my Friend! My Rosario! Still let me call you by that name so
dear to me! Our separation is unavoidable; I blush to own, how sensibly
it affects me.— But yet it must be so. I feel myself incapable of
treating you with indifference, and that very conviction obliges me to
insist upon your departure. Matilda, you must stay here no longer.”
“Oh! where shall I now seek for probity? Disgusted with a perfidious
world, in what happy region does Truth conceal herself? Father, I hoped
that She resided here; I thought that your bosom had been her favourite
shrine. And you too prove false? Oh God! And you too can betray me?”
“Matilda!”
“Yes, Father, Yes! ’Tis with justice that I reproach you. Oh! where are
your promises? My Noviciate is not expired, and yet will you compell me
to quit the Monastery? Can you have the heart to drive me from you? And
have I not received your solemn oath to the contrary?”
“I will not compell you to quit the Monastery: You have received my
solemn oath to the contrary. But yet when I throw myself upon your
generosity, when I declare to you the embarrassments in which your
presence involves me, will you not release me from that oath? Reflect
upon the danger of a discovery, upon the opprobrium in which such an
event would plunge me: Reflect that my honour and reputation are at
stake, and that my peace of mind depends on your compliance. As yet my
heart is free; I shall separate from you with regret, but not with
despair. Stay here, and a few weeks will sacrifice my happiness on the
altar of your charms. You are but too interesting, too amiable! I
should love you, I should doat on you! My bosom would become the prey
of desires which Honour and my profession forbid me to gratify. If I
resisted them, the impetuosity of my wishes unsatisfied would drive me
to madness: If I yielded to the temptation, I should sacrifice to one
moment of guilty pleasure my reputation in this world, my salvation in
the next. To you then I fly for defence against myself. Preserve me
from losing the reward of thirty years of sufferings! Preserve me from
becoming the Victim of Remorse! _your_ heart has already felt the
anguish of hopeless love; Oh! then if you really value me, spare mine
that anguish! Give me back my promise; Fly from these walls. Go, and
you bear with you my warmest prayers for your happiness, my friendship,
my esteem and admiration: Stay, and you become to me the source of
danger, of sufferings, of despair! Answer me, Matilda; What is your
resolve?”—She was silent—“Will you not speak, Matilda? Will you not
name your choice?”
“Cruel! Cruel!” She exclaimed, wringing her hands in agony; “You know
too well that you offer me no choice! You know too well that I can have
no will but yours!”
“I was not then deceived! Matilda’s generosity equals my expectations.”
“Yes; I will prove the truth of my affection by submitting to a decree
which cuts me to the very heart. Take back your promise. I will quit
the Monastery this very day. I have a Relation, Abbess of a Covent in
Estramadura: To her will I bend my steps, and shut myself from the
world for ever. Yet tell me, Father, shall I bear your good wishes with
me to my solitude? Will you sometimes abstract your attention from
heavenly objects to bestow a thought upon me?”
“Ah! Matilda, I fear that I shall think on you but too often for my
repose!”
“Then I have nothing more to wish for, save that we may meet in heaven.
Farewell, my Friend! my Ambrosio!— And yet methinks, I would fain bear
with me some token of your regard!”
“What shall I give you?”
“Something.—Any thing.—One of those flowers will be sufficient.” (Here
She pointed to a bush of Roses, planted at the door of the Grotto.) “I
will hide it in my bosom, and when I am dead, the Nuns shall find it
withered upon my heart.”
The Friar was unable to reply: With slow steps, and a soul heavy with
affliction, He quitted the Hermitage. He approached the Bush, and
stooped to pluck one of the Roses. Suddenly He uttered a piercing cry,
started back hastily, and let the flower, which He already held, fall
from his hand. Matilda heard the shriek, and flew anxiously towards
him.
“What is the matter?” She cried; “Answer me, for God’s sake! What has
happened?”
“I have received my death!” He replied in a faint voice; “Concealed
among the Roses ... A Serpent....”
Here the pain of his wound became so exquisite, that Nature was unable
to bear it: His senses abandoned him, and He sank inanimate into
Matilda’s arms.
Her distress was beyond the power of description. She rent her hair,
beat her bosom, and not daring to quit Ambrosio, endeavoured by loud
cries to summon the Monks to her assistance. She at length succeeded.
Alarmed by her shrieks, Several of the Brothers hastened to the spot,
and the Superior was conveyed back to the Abbey. He was immediately put
to bed, and the Monk who officiated as Surgeon to the Fraternity
prepared to examine the wound. By this time Ambrosio’s hand had swelled