The Monk: A Romance
with Leonella, and when He entered the chamber, He found the Lady of
the House alone. She received him with less distance than before, and
desired him to place himself near her upon the Sopha. She then without
losing time opened her business, as had been agreed between herself and
Antonia.
“You must not think me ungrateful, Don Lorenzo, or forgetful how
essential are the services which you have rendered me with the Marquis.
I feel the weight of my obligations; Nothing under the Sun should
induce my taking the step to which I am now compelled but the interest
of my Child, of my beloved Antonia. My health is declining; God only
knows how soon I may be summoned before his Throne. My Daughter will be
left without Parents, and should She lose the protection of the
Cisternas family, without Friends.
She is young and artless, uninstructed in the world’s perfidy, and with
charms sufficient to render her an object of seduction. Judge then, how
I must tremble at the prospect before her! Judge how anxious I must be
to keep her from their society who may excite the yet dormant passions
of her bosom. You are amiable, Don Lorenzo: Antonia has a susceptible,
a loving heart, and is grateful for the favours conferred upon us by
your interference with the Marquis. Your presence makes me tremble: I
fear lest it should inspire her with sentiments which may embitter the
remainder of her life, or encourage her to cherish hopes in her
situation unjustifiable and futile. Pardon me when I avow my terrors,
and let my frankness plead in my excuse. I cannot forbid you my House,
for gratitude restrains me; I can only throw myself upon your
generosity, and entreat you to spare the feelings of an anxious, of a
doting Mother. Believe me when I assure you that I lament the necessity
of rejecting your acquaintance; But there is no remedy, and Antonia’s
interest obliges me to beg you to forbear your visits. By complying
with my request, you will increase the esteem which I already feel for
you, and of which everything convinces me that you are truly
deserving.”
“Your frankness charms me,” replied Lorenzo; “You shall find that in
your favourable opinion of me you were not deceived. Yet I hope that
the reasons, now in my power to allege, will persuade you to withdraw a
request which I cannot obey without infinite reluctance. I love your
Daughter, love her most sincerely: I wish for no greater happiness than
to inspire her with the same sentiments, and receive her hand at the
Altar as her Husband. ’Tis true, I am not rich myself; My Father’s
death has left me but little in my own possession; But my expectations
justify my pretending to the Condé de las Cisternas’ Daughter.”
He was proceeding, but Elvira interrupted him.
“Ah! Don Lorenzo, you forget in that pompous title the meanness of my
origin. You forget that I have now past fourteen years in Spain,
disavowed by my Husband’s family, and existing upon a stipend barely
sufficient for the support and education of my Daughter. Nay, I have
even been neglected by most of my own Relations, who out of envy affect
to doubt the reality of my marriage. My allowance being discontinued at
my Father-in-law’s death, I was reduced to the very brink of want. In
this situation I was found by my Sister, who amongst all her foibles
possesses a warm, generous, and affectionate heart. She aided me with
the little fortune which my Father left her, persuaded me to visit
Madrid, and has supported my Child and myself since our quitting
Murcia. Then consider not Antonia as descended from the Condé de la
Cisternas: Consider her as a poor and unprotected Orphan, as the
Grand-child of the Tradesman Torribio Dalfa, as the needy Pensioner of
that Tradesman’s Daughter. Reflect upon the difference between such a
situation, and that of the Nephew and Heir of the potent Duke of
Medina. I believe your intentions to be honourable; But as there are no
hopes that your Uncle will approve of the union, I foresee that the
consequences of your attachment must be fatal to my Child’s repose.”
“Pardon me, Segnora; You are misinformed if you suppose the Duke of
Medina to resemble the generality of Men. His sentiments are liberal
and disinterested: He loves me well; and I have no reason to dread his
forbidding the marriage when He perceives that my happiness depends
upon Antonia. But supposing him to refuse his sanction, what have I
still to fear? My Parents are no more; My little fortune is in my own
possession: It will be sufficient to support Antonia, and I shall
exchange for her hand Medina’s Dukedom without one sigh of regret.”
“You are young and eager; It is natural for you to entertain such
ideas. But Experience has taught me to my cost that curses accompany an
unequal alliance. I married the Condé de las Cisternas in opposition to
the will of his Relations; Many an heart-pang has punished me for the
imprudent step. Whereever we bent our course, a Father’s execration
pursued Gonzalvo. Poverty overtook us, and no Friend was near to
relieve our wants. Still our mutual affection existed, but alas! not
without interruption.
Accustomed to wealth and ease, ill could my Husband support the
transition to distress and indigence. He looked back with repining to
the comforts which He once enjoyed. He regretted the situation which
for my sake He had quitted; and in moments when Despair possessed his
mind, has reproached me with having made him the Companion of want and
wretchedness! He has called me his bane! The source of his sorrows, the
cause of his destruction! Ah God! He little knew how much keener were
my own heart’s reproaches! He was ignorant that I suffered trebly, for
myself, for my Children, and for him! ’Tis true that his anger seldom
lasted long: His sincere affection for me soon revived in his heart;
and then his repentance for the tears which He had made me shed
tortured me even more than his reproaches. He would throw himself on
the ground, implore my forgiveness in the most frantic terms, and load
himself with curses for being the Murderer of my repose. Taught by
experience that an union contracted against the inclinations of
families on either side must be unfortunate, I will save my Daughter
from those miseries which I have suffered. Without your Uncle’s
consent, while I live, She never shall be yours. Undoubtedly He will
disapprove of the union; His power is immense, and Antonia shall not be
exposed to his anger and persecution.”
“His persecution? How easily may that be avoided! Let the worst happen,
it is but quitting Spain. My wealth may easily be realised; The Indian
Islands will offer us a secure retreat; I have an estate, though not of
value, in Hispaniola: Thither will we fly, and I shall consider it to
be my native Country, if it gives me Antonia’s undisturbed possession.”
“Ah! Youth, this is a fond romantic vision. Gonzalvo thought the same.
He fancied that He could leave Spain without regret; But the moment of
parting undeceived him. You know not yet what it is to quit your native
land; to quit it, never to behold it more!
You know not, what it is to exchange the scenes where you have passed
your infancy, for unknown realms and barbarous climates! To be
forgotten, utterly eternally forgotten, by the Companions of your
Youth! To see your dearest Friends, the fondest objects of your
affection, perishing with diseases incidental to Indian atmospheres,
and find yourself unable to procure for them necessary assistance! I
have felt all this! My Husband and two sweet Babes found their Graves
in Cuba: Nothing would have saved my young Antonia but my sudden return
to Spain. Ah! Don Lorenzo, could you conceive what I suffered during my
absence! Could you know how sorely I regretted all that I left behind,
and how dear to me was the very name of Spain! I envied the winds which
blew towards it: And when the Spanish Sailor chaunted some well-known
air as He past my window, tears filled my eyes while I thought upon my
native land. Gonzalvo too ... My Husband ...”.
Elvira paused. Her voice faltered, and She concealed her face with her
handkerchief. After a short silence She rose from the Sopha, and
proceeded.
“Excuse my quitting you for a few moments: The remembrance of what I
have suffered has much agitated me, and I need to be alone. Till I
return peruse these lines. After my Husband’s death I found them among
his papers; Had I known sooner that He entertained such sentiments,
Grief would have killed me. He wrote these verses on his voyage to
Cuba, when his mind was clouded by sorrow, and He forgot that He had a
Wife and Children.
What we are losing, ever seems to us the most precious: Gonzalvo was
quitting Spain for ever, and therefore was Spain dearer to his eyes
than all else which the World contained. Read them, Don Lorenzo; They
will give you some idea of the feelings of a banished Man!”
Elvira put a paper into Lorenzo’s hand, and retired from the chamber.
The Youth examined the contents, and found them to be as follows.
THE EXILE
Farewell, Oh! native Spain! Farewell for ever!
These banished eyes shall view thy coasts no more;
A mournful presage tells my heart, that never
Gonzalvo’s steps again shall press thy shore.
Hushed are the winds; While soft the Vessel sailing
With gentle motion plows the unruffled Main,
I feel my bosom’s boasted courage failing,
And curse the waves which bear me far from Spain.
I see it yet! Beneath yon blue clear Heaven
Still do the Spires, so well beloved, appear;
From yonder craggy point the gale of Even
Still wafts my native accents to mine ear:
Propped on some moss-crowned Rock, and gaily singing,
There in the Sun his nets the Fisher dries;
Oft have I heard the plaintive Ballad, bringing
Scenes of past joys before my sorrowing eyes.
Ah! Happy Swain! He waits the accustomed hour,
When twilight-gloom obscures the closing sky;
Then gladly seeks his loved paternal bower,
And shares the feast his native fields supply:
Friendship and Love, his Cottage Guests, receive him
With honest welcome and with smile sincere;
No threatening woes of present joys bereave him,
No sigh his bosom owns, his cheek no tear.
Ah! Happy Swain! Such bliss to me denying,
Fortune thy lot with envy bids me view;
Me, who from home and Spain an Exile flying,
Bid all I value, all I love, adieu.
No more mine ear shall list the well-known ditty
Sung by some Mountain-Girl, who tends her Goats,
Some Village-Swain imploring amorous pity,
Or Shepherd chaunting wild his rustic notes:
No more my arms a Parent’s fond embraces,
No more my heart domestic calm, must know;
Far from these joys, with sighs which Memory traces,
To sultry skies, and distant climes I go.
Where Indian Suns engender new diseases,
Where snakes and tigers breed, I bend my way
To brave the feverish thirst no art appeases,
The yellow plague, and madding blaze of day:
But not to feel slow pangs consume my liver,
To die by piece-meal in the bloom of age,
My boiling blood drank by insatiate fever,
And brain delirious with the day-star’s rage,
Can make me know such grief, as thus to sever
With many a bitter sigh, Dear Land, from Thee;
To feel this heart must doat on thee for ever,
And feel, that all thy joys are torn from me!
Ah me! How oft will Fancy’s spells in slumber
Recall my native Country to my mind!
How oft regret will bid me sadly number
Each lost delight and dear Friend left behind!
Wild Murcia’s Vales, and loved romantic bowers,
The River on whose banks a Child I played,
My Castle’s antient Halls, its frowning Towers,
Each much-regretted wood, and well-known Glade,
Dreams of the land where all my wishes centre,
Thy scenes, which I am doomed no more to know,