The Monk: A Romance
Full oft shall Memory trace, my soul’s Tormentor,
And turn each pleasure past to present woe.
But Lo! The Sun beneath the waves retires;
Night speeds apace her empire to restore:
Clouds from my sight obscure the village-spires,
Now seen but faintly, and now seen no more.
Oh! breathe not, Winds! Still be the Water’s motion!
Sleep, sleep, my Bark, in silence on the Main!
So when to-morrow’s light shall gild the Ocean,
Once more mine eyes shall see the coast of Spain.
Vain is the wish! My last petition scorning,
Fresh blows the Gale, and high the Billows swell:
Far shall we be before the break of Morning;
Oh! then for ever, native Spain, farewell!
Lorenzo had scarcely time to read these lines, when Elvira returned to
him: The giving a free course to her tears had relieved her, and her
spirits had regained their usual composure.
“I have nothing more to say, my Lord,” said She; “You have heard my
apprehensions, and my reasons for begging you not to repeat your
visits. I have thrown myself in full confidence upon your honour: I am
certain that you will not prove my opinion of you to have been too
favourable.”
“But one question more, Segnora, and I leave you. Should the Duke of
Medina approve my love, would my addresses be unacceptable to yourself
and the fair Antonia?”
“I will be open with you, Don Lorenzo: There being little probability
of such an union taking place, I fear that it is desired but too
ardently by my Daughter. You have made an impression upon her young
heart, which gives me the most serious alarm: To prevent that
impression from growing stronger, I am obliged to decline your
acquaintance. For me, you may be sure that I should rejoice at
establishing my Child so advantageously. Conscious that my
constitution, impaired by grief and illness, forbids me to expect a
long continuance in this world, I tremble at the thought of leaving her
under the protection of a perfect Stranger. The Marquis de las
Cisternas is totally unknown to me:
He will marry; His Lady may look upon Antonia with an eye of
displeasure, and deprive her of her only Friend. Should the Duke, your
Uncle, give his consent, you need not doubt obtaining mine, and my
Daughter’s: But without his, hope not for ours. At all events, what
ever steps you may take, what ever may be the Duke’s decision, till you
know it let me beg your forbearing to strengthen by your presence
Antonia’s prepossession. If the sanction of your Relations authorises
your addressing her as your Wife, my Doors fly open to you: If that
sanction is refused, be satisfied to possess my esteem and gratitude,
but remember, that we must meet no more.”
Lorenzo promised reluctantly to conform to this decree: But He added
that He hoped soon to obtain that consent which would give him a claim
to the renewal of their acquaintance. He then explained to her why the
Marquis had not called in person, and made no scruple of confiding to
her his Sister’s History. He concluded by saying that He hoped to set
Agnes at liberty the next day; and that as soon as Don Raymond’s fears
were quieted upon this subject, He would lose no time in assuring Donna
Elvira of his friendship and protection.
The Lady shook her head.
“I tremble for your Sister,” said She; “I have heard many traits of the
Domina of St. Clare’s character, from a Friend who was educated in the
same Convent with her. She reported her to be haughty, inflexible,
superstitious, and revengeful. I have since heard that She is
infatuated with the idea of rendering her Convent the most regular in
Madrid, and never forgave those whose imprudence threw upon it the
slightest stain. Though naturally violent and severe, when her
interests require it, She well knows how to assume an appearance of
benignity. She leaves no means untried to persuade young Women of rank
to become Members of her Community: She is implacable when once
incensed, and has too much intrepidity to shrink at taking the most
rigorous measures for punishing the Offender. Doubtless, She will
consider your Sister’s quitting the Convent as a disgrace thrown upon
it: She will use every artifice to avoid obeying the mandate of his
Holiness, and I shudder to think that Donna Agnes is in the hands of
this dangerous Woman.”
Lorenzo now rose to take leave. Elvira gave him her hand at parting,
which He kissed respectfully; and telling her that He soon hoped for
the permission to salute that of Antonia, He returned to his Hotel. The
Lady was perfectly satisfied with the conversation which had past
between them. She looked forward with satisfaction to the prospect of
his becoming her Son-in-law; But Prudence bad her conceal from her
Daughter’s knowledge the flattering hopes which Herself now ventured to
entertain.
Scarcely was it day, and already Lorenzo was at the Convent of St.
Clare, furnished with the necessary mandate. The Nuns were at Matins.
He waited impatiently for the conclusion of the service, and at length
the Prioress appeared at the Parlour Grate. Agnes was demanded. The old
Lady replied, with a melancholy air, that the dear Child’s situation
grew hourly more dangerous; That the Physicians despaired of her life;
But that they had declared the only chance for her recovery to consist
in keeping her quiet, and not to permit those to approach her whose
presence was likely to agitate her. Not a word of all this was believed
by Lorenzo, any more than He credited the expressions of grief and
affection for Agnes, with which this account was interlarded. To end
the business, He put the Pope’s Bull into the hands of the Domina, and
insisted that, ill or in health, his Sister should be delivered to him
without delay.
The Prioress received the paper with an air of humility: But no sooner
had her eye glanced over the contents, than her resentment baffled all
the efforts of Hypocrisy. A deep crimson spread itself over her face,
and She darted upon Lorenzo looks of rage and menace.
“This order is positive,” said She in a voice of anger, which She in
vain strove to disguise; “Willingly would I obey it; But unfortunately
it is out of my power.”
Lorenzo interrupted her by an exclamation of surprize.
“I repeat it, Segnor; to obey this order is totally out of my power.
From tenderness to a Brother’s feelings, I would have communicated the
sad event to you by degrees, and have prepared you to hear it with
fortitude. My measures are broken through: This order commands me to
deliver up to you the Sister Agnes without delay; I am therefore
obliged to inform you without circumlocution, that on Friday last, She
expired.”
Lorenzo started back with horror, and turned pale. A moment’s
recollection convinced him that this assertion must be false, and it
restored him to himself.
“You deceive me!” said He passionately; “But five minutes past since
you assured me that though ill She was still alive. Produce her this
instant! See her I must and will, and every attempt to keep her from me
will be unavailing.”
“You forget yourself, Segnor; You owe respect to my age as well as my
profession. Your Sister is no more. If I at first concealed her death,
it was from dreading lest an event so unexpected should produce on you
too violent an effect. In truth, I am but ill repaid for my attention.
And what interest, I pray you, should I have in detaining her? To know
her wish of quitting our society is a sufficient reason for me to wish
her absence, and think her a disgrace to the Sisterhood of St. Clare:
But She has forfeited my affection in a manner yet more culpable. Her
crimes were great, and when you know the cause of her death, you will
doubtless rejoice, Don Lorenzo, that such a Wretch is no longer in
existence. She was taken ill on Thursday last on returning from
confession in the Capuchin Chapel. Her malady seemed attended with
strange circumstances; But She persisted in concealing its cause:
Thanks to the Virgin, we were too ignorant to suspect it! Judge then
what must have been our consternation, our horror, when She was
delivered the next day of a stillborn Child, whom She immediately
followed to the Grave. How, Segnor? Is it possible that your
countenance expresses no surprize, no indignation? Is it possible that
your Sister’s infamy was known to you, and that still She possessed
your affection? In that case, you have no need of my compassion. I can
say nothing more, except repeat my inability of obeying the orders of
his Holiness. Agnes is no more, and to convince you that what I say is
true, I swear by our blessed Saviour, that three days have past since
She was buried.”
Here She kissed a small crucifix which hung at her girdle. She then
rose from her chair, and quitted the Parlour. As She withdrew, She cast
upon Lorenzo a scornful smile.
“Farewell, Segnor,” said She; “I know no remedy for this accident: I
fear that even a second Bull from the Pope will not procure your
Sister’s resurrection.”
Lorenzo also retired, penetrated with affliction: But Don Raymond’s at
the news of this event amounted to Madness. He would not be convinced
that Agnes was really dead, and continued to insist that the Walls of
St. Clare still confined her. No arguments could make him abandon his
hopes of regaining her: Every day some fresh scheme was invented for
procuring intelligence of her, and all of them were attended with the
same success.
On his part, Medina gave up the idea of ever seeing his Sister more:
Yet He believed that She had been taken off by unfair means. Under this
persuasion, He encouraged Don Raymond’s researches, determined, should
He discover the least warrant for his suspicions, to take a severe
vengeance upon the unfeeling Prioress. The loss of his Sister affected
him sincerely; Nor was it the least cause of his distress that
propriety obliged him for some time to defer mentioning Antonia to the
Duke. In the meanwhile his emissaries constantly surrounded Elvira’s
Door. He had intelligence of all the movements of his Mistress: As She
never failed every Thursday to attend the Sermon in the Capuchin
Cathedral, He was secure of seeing her once a week, though in
compliance with his promise, He carefully shunned her observation. Thus
two long Months passed away. Still no information was procured of
Agnes: All but the Marquis credited her death; and now Lorenzo
determined to disclose his sentiments to his Uncle. He had already
dropt some hints of his intention to marry; They had been as favourably
received as He could expect, and He harboured no doubt of the success
of his application.
CHAPTER VI.
While in each other’s arms entranced They lay,
They blessed the night, and curst the coming day.
LEE.
The burst of transport was past: Ambrosio’s lust was satisfied;
Pleasure fled, and Shame usurped her seat in his bosom. Confused and
terrified at his weakness, He drew himself from Matilda’s arms. His
perjury presented itself before him: He reflected on the scene which
had just been acted, and trembled at the consequences of a discovery.
He looked forward with horror; His heart was despondent, and became the
abode of satiety and disgust. He avoided the eyes of his Partner in
frailty; A melancholy silence prevailed, during which Both seemed
busied with disagreeable reflections.
Matilda was the first to break it. She took his hand gently, and
pressed it to her burning lips.
“Ambrosio!” She murmured in a soft and trembling voice.
The Abbot started at the sound. He turned his eyes upon Matilda’s: They
were filled with tears; Her cheeks were covered with blushes, and her
supplicating looks seemed to solicit his compassion.
“Dangerous Woman!” said He; “Into what an abyss of misery have you
plunged me! Should your sex be discovered, my honour, nay my life, must