The Monk: A Romance
anger. But from the anger of God, Oh! Raymond! who shall shield me? Who
can protect me against my conscience, against myself? I dare not dwell
upon these thoughts; They will drive me mad. I have taken my
resolution: Procure a dispensation from my vows; I am ready to fly with
you. Write to me, my Husband! Tell me, that absence has not abated your
love, tell me that you will rescue from death your unborn Child, and
its unhappy Mother. I live in all the agonies of terror: Every eye
which is fixed upon me seems to read my secret and my shame. And you
are the cause of those agonies! Oh! When my heart first loved you, how
little did it suspect you of making it feel such pangs!
“AGNES.”
Having perused the letter, Lorenzo restored it in silence. The Marquis
replaced it in the Cabinet, and then proceeded.)
“Excessive was my joy at reading this intelligence so
earnestly-desired, so little expected. My plan was soon arranged. When
Don Gaston discovered to me his Daughter’s retreat, I entertained no
doubt of her readiness to quit the Convent: I had, therefore, entrusted
the Cardinal-Duke of Lerma with the whole affair, who immediately
busied himself in obtaining the necessary Bull. Fortunately I had
afterwards neglected to stop his proceedings. Not long since I received
a letter from him, stating that He expected daily to receive the order
from the Court of Rome. Upon this I would willingly have relyed: But
the Cardinal wrote me word, that I must find some means of conveying
Agnes out of the Convent, unknown to the Prioress. He doubted not but
this Latter would be much incensed by losing a Person of such high rank
from her society, and consider the renunciation of Agnes as an insult
to her House. He represented her as a Woman of a violent and revengeful
character, capable of proceeding to the greatest extremities. It was
therefore to be feared, lest by confining Agnes in the Convent She
should frustrate my hopes, and render the Pope’s mandate unavailing.
Influenced by this consideration, I resolved to carry off my Mistress,
and conceal her till the arrival of the expected Bull in the
Cardinal-Duke’s Estate. He approved of my design, and profest himself
ready to give a shelter to the Fugitive. I next caused the new Gardener
of St. Clare to be seized privately, and confined in my Hotel. By this
means I became Master of the Key to the Garden door, and I had now
nothing more to do than prepare Agnes for the elopement. This was done
by the letter, which you saw me deliver this Evening. I told her in it,
that I should be ready to receive her at twelve tomorrow night, that I
had secured the Key of the Garden, and that She might depend upon a
speedy release.
You have now, Lorenzo, heard the whole of my long narrative. I have
nothing to say in my excuse, save that my intentions towards your
Sister have been ever the most honourable: That it has always been, and
still is my design to make her my Wife: And that I trust, when you
consider these circumstances, our youth, and our attachment, you will
not only forgive our momentary lapse from virtue, but will aid me in
repairing my faults to Agnes, and securing a lawful title to her person
and her heart.
CHAPTER V.
O You! whom Vanity’s light bark conveys
On Fame’s mad voyage by the wind of praise,
With what a shifting gale your course you ply,
For ever sunk too low, or borne too high!
Who pants for glory finds but short repose,
A breath revives him, and a breath o’er-throws.
POPE.
Here the Marquis concluded his adventures. Lorenzo, before He could
determine on his reply, past some moments in reflection. At length He
broke silence.
“Raymond,” said He taking his hand, “strict honour would oblige me to
wash off in your blood the stain thrown upon my family; But the
circumstances of your case forbid me to consider you as an Enemy. The
temptation was too great to be resisted. ’Tis the superstition of my
Relations which has occasioned these misfortunes, and they are more the
Offenders than yourself and Agnes. What has past between you cannot be
recalled, but may yet be repaired by uniting you to my Sister. You have
ever been, you still continue to be, my dearest and indeed my only
Friend. I feel for Agnes the truest affection, and there is no one on
whom I would bestow her more willingly than on yourself. Pursue then
your design. I will accompany you tomorrow night, and conduct her
myself to the House of the Cardinal. My presence will be a sanction for
her conduct, and prevent her incurring blame by her flight from the
Convent.”
The Marquis thanked him in terms by no means deficient in gratitude.
Lorenzo then informed him that He had nothing more to apprehend from
Donna Rodolpha’s enmity. Five Months had already elapsed since, in an
excess of passion, She broke a blood-vessel and expired in the course
of a few hours. He then proceeded to mention the interests of Antonia.
The Marquis was much surprized at hearing of this new Relation: His
Father had carried his hatred of Elvira to the Grave, and had never
given the least hint that He knew what was become of his eldest Son’s
Widow. Don Raymond assured his friend that He was not mistaken in
supposing him ready to acknowledge his Sister-in-law and her amiable
Daughter. The preparations for the elopement would not permit his
visiting them the next day; But in the meanwhile He desired Lorenzo to
assure them of his friendship, and to supply Elvira upon his account
with any sums which She might want. This the Youth promised to do, as
soon as her abode should be known to him: He then took leave of his
future Brother, and returned to the Palace de Medina.
The day was already on the point of breaking when the Marquis retired
to his chamber. Conscious that his narrative would take up some hours,
and wishing to secure himself from interruption on returning to the
Hotel, He ordered his Attendants not to sit up for him. Consequently,
He was somewhat surprised on entering his Antiroom, to find Theodore
established there. The Page sat near a Table with a pen in his hand,
and was so totally occupied by his employment that He perceived not his
Lord’s approach. The Marquis stopped to observe him. Theodore wrote a
few lines, then paused, and scratched out a part of the writing: Then
wrote again, smiled, and seemed highly pleased with what He had been
about. At last He threw down his pen, sprang from his chair, and
clapped his hands together joyfully.
“There it is!” cried He aloud: “Now they are charming!”
His transports were interrupted by a laugh from the Marquis, who
suspected the nature of his employment.
“What is so charming, Theodore?”
The Youth started, and looked round. He blushed, ran to the Table,
seized the paper on which He had been writing, and concealed it in
confusion.
“Oh! my Lord, I knew not that you were so near me. Can I be of use to
you? Lucas is already gone to bed.”
“I shall follow his example when I have given my opinion of your
verses.”
“My verses, my Lord?”
“Nay, I am sure that you have been writing some, for nothing else could
have kept you awake till this time of the morning. Where are they,
Theodore? I shall like to see your composition.”
Theodore’s cheeks glowed with still deeper crimson: He longed to show
his poetry, but first chose to be pressed for it.
“Indeed, my Lord, they are not worthy your attention.”
“Not these verses, which you just now declared to be so charming?
Come, come, let me see whether our opinions are the same. I promise
that you shall find in me an indulgent Critic.”
The Boy produced his paper with seeming reluctance; but the
satisfaction which sparkled in his dark expressive eyes betrayed the
vanity of his little bosom. The Marquis smiled while He observed the
emotions of an heart as yet but little skilled in veiling its
sentiments. He seated himself upon a Sopha: Theodore, while Hope and
fear contended on his anxious countenance, waited with inquietude for
his Master’s decision, while the Marquis read the following lines.
LOVE AND AGE
The night was dark; The wind blew cold;
Anacreon, grown morose and old,
Sat by his fire, and fed the chearful flame:
Suddenly the Cottage-door expands,
And lo! before him Cupid stands,
Casts round a friendly glance, and greets him by his name.
“What is it Thou?” the startled Sire
In sullen tone exclaimed, while ire
With crimson flushed his pale and wrinkled cheek:
“Wouldst Thou again with amorous rage
Inflame my bosom? Steeled by age,
Vain Boy, to pierce my breast thine arrows are too weak.
“What seek You in this desart drear?
No smiles or sports inhabit here;
Ne’er did these vallies witness dalliance sweet:
Eternal winter binds the plains;
Age in my house despotic reigns,
My Garden boasts no flower, my bosom boasts no heat.
“Begone, and seek the blooming bower,
Where some ripe Virgin courts thy power,
Or bid provoking dreams flit round her bed;
On Damon’s amorous breast repose;
Wanton—on Chloe’s lip of rose,
Or make her blushing cheek a pillow for thy head.
“Be such thy haunts; These regions cold
Avoid! Nor think grown wise and old
This hoary head again thy yoke shall bear:
Remembering that my fairest years
By Thee were marked with sighs and tears,
I think thy friendship false, and shun the guileful snare.
“I have not yet forgot the pains
I felt, while bound in Julia’s chains;
The ardent flames with which my bosom burned;
The nights I passed deprived of rest;
The jealous pangs which racked my breast;
My disappointed hopes, and passion unreturned.
“Then fly, and curse mine eyes no more!
Fly from my peaceful Cottage-door!
No day, no hour, no moment shalt Thou stay.
I know thy falsehood, scorn thy arts,
Distrust thy smiles, and fear thy darts;
Traitor, begone, and seek some other to betray!”
“Does Age, old Man, your wits confound?”
Replied the offended God, and frowned;
(His frown was sweet as is the Virgin’s smile!)
“Do You to Me these words address?
To Me, who do not love you less,
Though You my friendship scorn, and pleasures past revile!
“If one proud Fair you chanced to find,
An hundred other Nymphs were kind,
Whose smiles might well for Julia’s frowns atone:
But such is Man! His partial hand
Unnumbered favours writes on sand,
But stamps one little fault on solid lasting stone.
“Ingrate! Who led Thee to the wave,
At noon where Lesbia loved to lave?
Who named the bower alone where Daphne lay?
And who, when Caelia shrieked for aid,
Bad you with kisses hush the Maid?
What other was’t than Love, Oh! false Anacreon, say!
“Then You could call me—‘Gentle Boy!
‘My only bliss! my source of joy!’—
Then You could prize me dearer than your soul!
Could kiss, and dance me on your knees;
And swear, not wine itself would please,
Had not the lip of Love first touched the flowing bowl!
“Must those sweet days return no more?
Must I for aye your loss deplore,
Banished your heart, and from your favour driven?
Ah! no; My fears that smile denies;
That heaving breast, those sparkling eyes
Declare me ever dear and all my faults forgiven.
“Again beloved, esteemed, carest,
Cupid shall in thine arms be prest,
Sport on thy knees, or on thy bosom sleep:
My Torch thine age-struck heart shall warm;
My Hand pale Winter’s rage disarm,
And Youth and Spring shall here once more their revels keep.”—
A feather now of golden hue
He smiling from his pinion drew;
This to the Poet’s hand the Boy commits;
And straight before Anacreon’s eyes
The fairest dreams of fancy rise,
And round his favoured head wild inspiration flits.