The Monk: A Romance
determined not to wake. The Friar was in this predicament: He still
seemed buried in a repose, which every succeeding minute rendered him
less capable of enjoying. The burning tear had communicated its warmth
to his heart.
“What affection! What purity!” said He internally; “Ah! since my bosom
is thus sensible of pity, what would it be if agitated by love?”
Matilda again quitted her seat, and retired to some distance from the
Bed. Ambrosio ventured to open his eyes, and to cast them upon her
fearfully. Her face was turned from him. She rested her head in a
melancholy posture upon her Harp, and gazed on the picture which hung
opposite to the Bed.
“Happy, happy Image!” Thus did She address the beautiful Madona; “’Tis
to you that He offers his prayers! ’Tis on you that He gazes with
admiration! I thought you would have lightened my sorrows; You have
only served to increase their weight: You have made me feel that had I
known him ere his vows were pronounced, Ambrosio and happiness might
have been mine. With what pleasure He views this picture! With what
fervour He addresses his prayers to the insensible Image! Ah! may not
his sentiments be inspired by some kind and secret Genius, Friend to my
affection? May it not be Man’s natural instinct which informs him... Be
silent, idle hopes! Let me not encourage an idea which takes from the
brilliance of Ambrosio’s virtue. ’Tis Religion, not Beauty which
attracts his admiration; ’Tis not to the Woman, but the Divinity that
He kneels. Would He but address to me the least tender expression which
He pours forth to this Madona! Would He but say that were He not
already affianced to the Church, He would not have despised Matilda!
Oh! let me nourish that fond idea! Perhaps He may yet acknowledge that
He feels for me more than pity, and that affection like mine might well
have deserved a return; Perhaps, He may own thus much when I lye on my
deathbed! He then need not fear to infringe his vows, and the
confession of his regard will soften the pangs of dying. Would I were
sure of this! Oh! how earnestly should I sigh for the moment of
dissolution!”
Of this discourse the Abbot lost not a syllable; and the tone in which
She pronounced these last words pierced to his heart. Involuntarily He
raised himself from his pillow.
“Matilda!” He said in a troubled voice; “Oh! my Matilda!”
She started at the sound, and turned towards him hastily. The
suddenness of her movement made her Cowl fall back from her head; Her
features became visible to the Monk’s enquiring eye. What was his
amazement at beholding the exact resemblance of his admired Madona? The
same exquisite proportion of features, the same profusion of golden
hair, the same rosy lips, heavenly eyes, and majesty of countenance
adorned Matilda! Uttering an exclamation of surprize, Ambrosio sank
back upon his pillow, and doubted whether the Object before him was
mortal or divine.
Matilda seemed penetrated with confusion. She remained motionless in
her place, and supported herself upon her Instrument. Her eyes were
bent upon the earth, and her fair cheeks overspread with blushes. On
recovering herself, her first action was to conceal her features. She
then in an unsteady and troubled voice ventured to address these words
to the Friar.
“Accident has made you Master of a secret, which I never would have
revealed but on the Bed of death. Yes, Ambrosio; In Matilda de
Villanegas you see the original of your beloved Madona. Soon after I
conceived my unfortunate passion, I formed the project of conveying to
you my Picture: Crowds of Admirers had persuaded me that I possessed
some beauty, and I was anxious to know what effect it would produce
upon you. I caused my Portrait to be drawn by Martin Galuppi, a
celebrated Venetian at that time resident in Madrid. The resemblance
was striking: I sent it to the Capuchin Abbey as if for sale, and the
Jew from whom you bought it was one of my Emissaries. You purchased it.
Judge of my rapture, when informed that you had gazed upon it with
delight, or rather with adoration; that you had suspended it in your
Cell, and that you addressed your supplications to no other Saint. Will
this discovery make me still more regarded as an object of suspicion?
Rather should it convince you how pure is my affection, and engage you
to suffer me in your society and esteem. I heard you daily extol the
praises of my Portrait: I was an eyewitness of the transports, which
its beauty excited in you: Yet I forbore to use against your virtue
those arms, with which yourself had furnished me. I concealed those
features from your sight, which you loved unconsciously. I strove not
to excite desire by displaying my charms, or to make myself Mistress of
your heart through the medium of your senses. To attract your notice by
studiously attending to religious duties, to endear myself to you by
convincing you that my mind was virtuous and my attachment sincere,
such was my only aim. I succeeded; I became your companion and your
Friend. I concealed my sex from your knowledge; and had you not pressed
me to reveal my secret, had I not been tormented by the fear of a
discovery, never had you known me for any other than Rosario. And still
are you resolved to drive me from you? The few hours of life which yet
remain for me, may I not pass them in your presence? Oh! speak,
Ambrosio, and tell me that I may stay!”
This speech gave the Abbot an opportunity of recollecting himself. He
was conscious that in the present disposition of his mind, avoiding her
society was his only refuge from the power of this enchanting Woman.
“You declaration has so much astonished me,” said He, “that I am at
present incapable of answering you. Do not insist upon a reply,
Matilda; Leave me to myself; I have need to be alone.”
“I obey you—But before I go, promise not to insist upon my quitting the
Abbey immediately.”
“Matilda, reflect upon your situation; Reflect upon the consequences of
your stay. Our separation is indispensable, and we must part.”
“But not to-day, Father! Oh! in pity not today!”
“You press me too hard, but I cannot resist that tone of supplication.
Since you insist upon it, I yield to your prayer: I consent to your
remaining here a sufficient time to prepare in some measure the
Brethren for your departure. Stay yet two days; But on the third,” ...
(He sighed involuntarily)—“Remember, that on the third we must part for
ever!”
She caught his hand eagerly, and pressed it to her lips.
“On the third?” She exclaimed with an air of wild solemnity; “You are
right, Father! You are right! On the third we must part for ever!”
There was a dreadful expression in her eye as She uttered these words,
which penetrated the Friar’s soul with horror: Again She kissed his
hand, and then fled with rapidity from the chamber.
Anxious to authorise the presence of his dangerous Guest, yet conscious
that her stay was infringing the laws of his order, Ambrosio’s bosom
became the Theatre of a thousand contending passions. At length his
attachment to the feigned Rosario, aided by the natural warmth of his
temperament, seemed likely to obtain the victory: The success was
assured, when that presumption which formed the groundwork of his
character came to Matilda’s assistance. The Monk reflected that to
vanquish temptation was an infinitely greater merit than to avoid it:
He thought that He ought rather to rejoice in the opportunity given him
of proving the firmness of his virtue. St. Anthony had withstood all
seductions to lust; Then why should not He? Besides, St. Anthony was
tempted by the Devil, who put every art into practice to excite his
passions: Whereas, Ambrosio’s danger proceeded from a mere mortal
Woman, fearful and modest, whose apprehensions of his yielding were not
less violent than his own.
“Yes,” said He; “The Unfortunate shall stay; I have nothing to fear
from her presence. Even should my own prove too weak to resist the
temptation, I am secured from danger by the innocence of Matilda.”
Ambrosio was yet to learn, that to an heart unacquainted with her, Vice
is ever most dangerous when lurking behind the Mask of Virtue.
He found himself so perfectly recovered, that when Father Pablos
visited him again at night, He entreated permission to quit his chamber
on the day following. His request was granted. Matilda appeared no more
that evening, except in company with the Monks when they came in a body
to enquire after the Abbot’s health. She seemed fearful of conversing
with him in private, and stayed but a few minutes in his room. The
Friar slept well; But the dreams of the former night were repeated, and
his sensations of voluptuousness were yet more keen and exquisite. The
same lust-exciting visions floated before his eyes: Matilda, in all the
pomp of beauty, warm, tender, and luxurious, clasped him to her bosom,
and lavished upon him the most ardent caresses. He returned them as
eagerly, and already was on the point of satisfying his desires, when
the faithless form disappeared, and left him to all the horrors of
shame and disappointment.
The Morning dawned. Fatigued, harassed, and exhausted by his provoking
dreams, He was not disposed to quit his Bed. He excused himself from
appearing at Matins: It was the first morning in his life that He had
ever missed them. He rose late. During the whole of the day He had no
opportunity of speaking to Matilda without witnesses. His Cell was
thronged by the Monks, anxious to express their concern at his illness;
And He was still occupied in receiving their compliments on his
recovery, when the Bell summoned them to the Refectory.
After dinner the Monks separated, and dispersed themselves in various
parts of the Garden, where the shade of trees or retirement of some
Grotto presented the most agreeable means of enjoying the Siesta. The
Abbot bent his steps towards the Hermitage: A glance of his eye invited
Matilda to accompany him.
She obeyed, and followed him thither in silence. They entered the
Grotto, and seated themselves. Both seemed unwilling to begin the
conversation, and to labour under the influence of mutual
embarrassment. At length the Abbot spoke: He conversed only on
indifferent topics, and Matilda answered him in the same tone. She
seemed anxious to make him forget that the Person who sat by him was
any other than Rosario. Neither of them dared, or indeed wished to make
an allusion, to the subject which was most at the hearts of both.
Matilda’s efforts to appear gay were evidently forced: Her spirits were
oppressed by the weight of anxiety, and when She spoke her voice was
low and feeble. She seemed desirous of finishing a conversation which
embarrassed her; and complaining that She was unwell, She requested
Ambrosio’s permission to return to the Abbey. He accompanied her to the
door of her cell; and when arrived there, He stopped her to declare his
consent to her continuing the Partner of his solitude so long as should
be agreeable to herself.
She discovered no marks of pleasure at receiving this intelligence,
though on the preceding day She had been so anxious to obtain the
permission.
“Alas! Father,” She said, waving her head mournfully; “Your kindness
comes too late! My doom is fixed. We must separate for ever. Yet
believe, that I am grateful for your generosity, for your compassion of
an Unfortunate who is but too little deserving of it!”
She put her handkerchief to her eyes. Her Cowl was only half drawn over
her face. Ambrosio observed that She was pale, and her eyes sunk and
heavy.
“Good God!” He cried; “You are very ill, Matilda! I shall send Father
Pablos to you instantly.”
“No; Do not. I am ill, ’tis true; But He cannot cure my malady.
Farewell, Father! Remember me in your prayers tomorrow, while I shall
remember you in heaven!”