The Monk: A Romance
to an extraordinary size; The remedies which had been administered to
him, ’tis true, restored him to life, but not to his senses; He raved
in all the horrors of delirium, foamed at the mouth, and four of the
strongest Monks were scarcely able to hold him in his bed.
Father Pablos, such was the Surgeon’s name, hastened to examine the
wounded hand. The Monks surrounded the Bed, anxiously waiting for the
decision: Among these the feigned Rosario appeared not the most
insensible to the Friar’s calamity. He gazed upon the Sufferer with
inexpressible anguish; and the groans which every moment escaped from
his bosom sufficiently betrayed the violence of his affliction.
Father Pablos probed the wound. As He drew out his Lancet, its point
was tinged with a greenish hue. He shook his head mournfully, and
quitted the bedside.
“’Tis as I feared!” said He; “There is no hope.”
“No hope?” exclaimed the Monks with one voice; “Say you, no hope?”
“From the sudden effects, I suspected that the Abbot was stung by a
cientipedoro:[1] The venom which you see upon my Lancet confirms my
idea: He cannot live three days.”
[1] The cientipedoro is supposed to be a native of Cuba, and to
have been brought into Spain from that island in the vessel of
Columbus.
“And can no possible remedy be found?” enquired Rosario.
“Without extracting the poison, He cannot recover; and how to extract
it is to me still a secret. All that I can do is to apply such herbs to
the wound as will relieve the anguish: The Patient will be restored to
his senses; But the venom will corrupt the whole mass of his blood, and
in three days He will exist no longer.”
Excessive was the universal grief at hearing this decision. Pablos, as
He had promised, dressed the wound, and then retired, followed by his
Companions: Rosario alone remained in the Cell, the Abbot at his urgent
entreaty having been committed to his care. Ambrosio’s strength worn
out by the violence of his exertions, He had by this time fallen into a
profound sleep. So totally was He overcome by weariness, that He
scarcely gave any signs of life; He was still in this situation, when
the Monks returned to enquire whether any change had taken place.
Pablos loosened the bandage which concealed the wound, more from a
principle of curiosity than from indulging the hope of discovering any
favourable symptoms. What was his astonishment at finding, that the
inflammation had totally subsided! He probed the hand; His Lancet came
out pure and unsullied; No traces of the venom were perceptible; and
had not the orifice still been visible, Pablos might have doubted that
there had ever been a wound.
He communicated this intelligence to his Brethren; their delight was
only equalled by their surprize. From the latter sentiment, however,
they were soon released by explaining the circumstance according to
their own ideas: They were perfectly convinced that their Superior was
a Saint, and thought, that nothing could be more natural than for St.
Francis to have operated a miracle in his favour. This opinion was
adopted unanimously: They declared it so loudly, and vociferated,—“A
miracle! a miracle!”—with such fervour, that they soon interrupted
Ambrosio’s slumbers.
The Monks immediately crowded round his Bed, and expressed their
satisfaction at his wonderful recovery. He was perfectly in his senses,
and free from every complaint except feeling weak and languid. Pablos
gave him a strengthening medicine, and advised his keeping his bed for
the two succeeding days: He then retired, having desired his Patient
not to exhaust himself by conversation, but rather to endeavour at
taking some repose. The other Monks followed his example, and the Abbot
and Rosario were left without Observers.
For some minutes Ambrosio regarded his Attendant with a look of mingled
pleasure and apprehension. She was seated upon the side of the Bed, her
head bending down, and as usual enveloped in the Cowl of her Habit.
“And you are still here, Matilda?” said the Friar at length. “Are you
not satisfied with having so nearly effected my destruction, that
nothing but a miracle could have saved me from the Grave? Ah! surely
Heaven sent that Serpent to punish....”
Matilda interrupted him by putting her hand before his lips with an air
of gaiety.
“Hush! Father, Hush! You must not talk!”
“He who imposed that order, knew not how interesting are the subjects
on which I wish to speak.”
“But I know it, and yet issue the same positive command. I am appointed
your Nurse, and you must not disobey my orders.”
“You are in spirits, Matilda!”
“Well may I be so: I have just received a pleasure unexampled through
my whole life.”
“What was that pleasure?”
“What I must conceal from all, but most from you.”
“But most from me? Nay then, I entreat you, Matilda....”
“Hush, Father! Hush! You must not talk. But as you do not seem inclined
to sleep, shall I endeavour to amuse you with my Harp?”
“How? I knew not that you understood Music.”
“Oh! I am a sorry Performer! Yet as silence is prescribed you for eight
and forty hours, I may possibly entertain you, when wearied of your own
reflections. I go to fetch my Harp.”
She soon returned with it.
“Now, Father; What shall I sing? Will you hear the Ballad which treats
of the gallant Durandarte, who died in the famous battle of
Roncevalles?”
“What you please, Matilda.”
“Oh! call me not Matilda! Call me Rosario, call me your Friend! Those
are the names, which I love to hear from your lips. Now listen!”
She then tuned her harp, and afterwards preluded for some moments with
such exquisite taste as to prove her a perfect Mistress of the
Instrument. The air which She played was soft and plaintive:
Ambrosio, while He listened, felt his uneasiness subside, and a
pleasing melancholy spread itself into his bosom. Suddenly Matilda
changed the strain: With an hand bold and rapid She struck a few loud
martial chords, and then chaunted the following Ballad to an air at
once simple and melodious.
DURANDARTE AND BELERMA
Sad and fearful is the story
Of the Roncevalles fight;
On those fatal plains of glory
Perished many a gallant Knight.
There fell Durandarte; Never
Verse a nobler Chieftain named:
He, before his lips for ever
Closed in silence thus exclaimed.
“Oh! Belerma! Oh! my dear-one!
For my pain and pleasure born!
Seven long years I served thee, fair-one,
Seven long years my fee was scorn:
“And when now thy heart replying
To my wishes, burns like mine,
Cruel Fate my bliss denying
Bids me every hope resign.
“Ah! Though young I fall, believe me,
Death would never claim a sigh;
’Tis to lose thee, ’tis to leave thee,
Makes me think it hard to die!
“Oh! my Cousin Montesinos,
By that friendship firm and dear
Which from Youth has lived between us,
Now my last petition hear!
“When my Soul these limbs forsaking
Eager seeks a purer air,
From my breast the cold heart taking,
Give it to Belerma’s care.
Say, I of my lands Possessor
Named her with my dying breath:
Say, my lips I op’d to bless her,
Ere they closed for aye in death:
“Twice a week too how sincerely
I adored her, Cousin, say;
Twice a week for one who dearly
Loved her, Cousin, bid her pray.
“Montesinos, now the hour
Marked by fate is near at hand:
Lo! my arm has lost its power!
Lo! I drop my trusty brand!
“Eyes, which forth beheld me going,
Homewards ne’er shall see me hie!
Cousin, stop those tears o’er-flowing,
Let me on thy bosom die!
“Thy kind hand my eyelids closing,
Yet one favour I implore:
Pray Thou for my Soul’s reposing,
When my heart shall throb no more;
“So shall Jesus, still attending
Gracious to a Christian’s vow,
Pleased accept my Ghost ascending,
And a seat in heaven allow.”
Thus spoke gallant Durandarte;
Soon his brave heart broke in twain.
Greatly joyed the Moorish party,
That the gallant Knight was slain.
Bitter weeping Montesinos
Took from him his helm and glaive;
Bitter weeping Montesinos
Dug his gallant Cousin’s grave.
To perform his promise made, He
Cut the heart from out the breast,
That Belerma, wretched Lady!
Might receive the last bequest.
Sad was Montesinos’ heart, He
Felt distress his bosom rend.
“Oh! my Cousin Durandarte,
Woe is me to view thy end!
“Sweet in manners, fair in favour,
Mild in temper, fierce in fight,
Warrior, nobler, gentler, braver,
Never shall behold the light!
“Cousin, Lo! my tears bedew thee!
How shall I thy loss survive!
Durandarte, He who slew thee,
Wherefore left He me alive!”
While She sung, Ambrosio listened with delight: Never had He heard a
voice more harmonious; and He wondered how such heavenly sounds could
be produced by any but Angels. But though He indulged the sense of
hearing, a single look convinced him that He must not trust to that of
sight. The Songstress sat at a little distance from his Bed. The
attitude in which She bent over her harp, was easy and graceful: Her
Cowl had fallen backwarder than usual: Two coral lips were visible,
ripe, fresh, and melting, and a Chin in whose dimples seemed to lurk a
thousand Cupids. Her Habit’s long sleeve would have swept along the
Chords of the Instrument: To prevent this inconvenience She had drawn
it above her elbow, and by this means an arm was discovered formed in
the most perfect symmetry, the delicacy of whose skin might have
contended with snow in whiteness. Ambrosio dared to look on her but
once: That glance sufficed to convince him, how dangerous was the
presence of this seducing Object. He closed his eyes, but strove in
vain to banish her from his thoughts. There She still moved before him,
adorned with all those charms which his heated imagination could
supply: Every beauty which He had seen, appeared embellished, and those
still concealed Fancy represented to him in glowing colours. Still,
however, his vows and the necessity of keeping to them were present to
his memory. He struggled with desire, and shuddered when He beheld how
deep was the precipice before him.
Matilda ceased to sing. Dreading the influence of her charms, Ambrosio
remained with his eyes closed, and offered up his prayers to St.
Francis to assist him in this dangerous trial! Matilda believed that He
was sleeping. She rose from her seat, approached the Bed softly, and
for some minutes gazed upon him attentively.
“He sleeps!” said She at length in a low voice, but whose accents the
Abbot distinguished perfectly; “Now then I may gaze upon him without
offence! I may mix my breath with his; I may doat upon his features,
and He cannot suspect me of impurity and deceit!—He fears my seducing
him to the violation of his vows! Oh! the Unjust! Were it my wish to
excite desire, should I conceal my features from him so carefully?
Those features, of which I daily hear him....”
She stopped, and was lost in her reflections.
“It was but yesterday!” She continued; “But a few short hours have
past, since I was dear to him! He esteemed me, and my heart was
satisfied! Now!... Oh! now how cruelly is my situation changed! He
looks on me with suspicion! He bids me leave him, leave him for ever!
Oh! You, my Saint! my Idol! You, holding the next place to God in my
breast! Yet two days, and my heart will be unveiled to you.—Could you
know my feelings, when I beheld your agony! Could you know, how much
your sufferings have endeared you to me! But the time will come, when
you will be convinced that my passion is pure and disinterested. Then
you will pity me, and feel the whole weight of these sorrows!”
As She said this, her voice was choaked by weeping. While She bent over
Ambrosio, a tear fell upon his cheek.
“Ah! I have disturbed him!” cried Matilda, and retreated hastily.
Her alarm was ungrounded. None sleep so profoundly, as those who are