The Monk: A Romance
pay for the pleasure of a few moments. Fool that I was, to trust myself
to your seductions! What can now be done? How can my offence be
expiated? What atonement can purchase the pardon of my crime? Wretched
Matilda, you have destroyed my quiet for ever!”
“To me these reproaches, Ambrosio? To me, who have sacrificed for you
the world’s pleasures, the luxury of wealth, the delicacy of sex, my
Friends, my fortune, and my fame? What have you lost, which I
preserved? Have _I_ not shared in _your_ guilt? Have _you_ not shared
in _my_ pleasure? Guilt, did I say? In what consists ours, unless in
the opinion of an ill-judging World? Let that World be ignorant of
them, and our joys become divine and blameless! Unnatural were your
vows of Celibacy; Man was not created for such a state; And were Love a
crime, God never would have made it so sweet, so irresistible! Then
banish those clouds from your brow, my Ambrosio! Indulge in those
pleasures freely, without which life is a worthless gift: Cease to
reproach me with having taught you what is bliss, and feel equal
transports with the Woman who adores you!”
As She spoke, her eyes were filled with a delicious languor. Her bosom
panted: She twined her arms voluptuously round him, drew him towards
her, and glewed her lips to his. Ambrosio again raged with desire: The
die was thrown: His vows were already broken; He had already committed
the crime, and why should He refrain from enjoying its reward? He
clasped her to his breast with redoubled ardour. No longer repressed by
the sense of shame, He gave a loose to his intemperate appetites. While
the fair Wanton put every invention of lust in practice, every
refinement in the art of pleasure which might heighten the bliss of her
possession, and render her Lover’s transports still more exquisite,
Ambrosio rioted in delights till then unknown to him: Swift fled the
night, and the Morning blushed to behold him still clasped in the
embraces of Matilda.
Intoxicated with pleasure, the Monk rose from the Syren’s luxurious
Couch. He no longer reflected with shame upon his incontinence, or
dreaded the vengeance of offended heaven. His only fear was lest Death
should rob him of enjoyments, for which his long Fast had only given a
keener edge to his appetite. Matilda was still under the influence of
poison, and the voluptuous Monk trembled less for his Preserver’s life
than his Concubine’s. Deprived of her, He would not easily find another
Mistress with whom He could indulge his passions so fully, and so
safely. He therefore pressed her with earnestness to use the means of
preservation which She had declared to be in her possession.
“Yes!” replied Matilda; “Since you have made me feel that Life is
valuable, I will rescue mine at any rate. No dangers shall appall me: I
will look upon the consequences of my action boldly, nor shudder at the
horrors which they present. I will think my sacrifice scarcely worthy
to purchase your possession, and remember that a moment past in your
arms in this world o’er-pays an age of punishment in the next. But
before I take this step, Ambrosio, give me your solemn oath never to
enquire by what means I shall preserve myself.”
He did so in a manner the most binding.
“I thank you, my Beloved. This precaution is necessary, for though you
know it not, you are under the command of vulgar prejudices: The
Business on which I must be employed this night, might startle you from
its singularity, and lower me in your opinion. Tell me; Are you
possessed of the Key of the low door on the western side of the
Garden?”
“The Door which opens into the burying-ground common to us and the
Sisterhood of St. Clare? I have not the Key, but can easily procure
it.”
“You have only this to do. Admit me into the burying-ground at
midnight; Watch while I descend into the vaults of St. Clare, lest some
prying eye should observe my actions; Leave me there alone for an hour,
and that life is safe which I dedicate to your pleasures. To prevent
creating suspicion, do not visit me during the day. Remember the Key,
and that I expect you before twelve. Hark! I hear steps approaching!
Leave me; I will pretend to sleep.”
The Friar obeyed, and left the Cell. As He opened the door, Father
Pablos made his appearance.
“I come,” said the Latter, “to enquire after the health of my young
Patient.”
“Hush!” replied Ambrosio, laying his finger upon his lip; “Speak
softly; I am just come from him. He has fallen into a profound slumber,
which doubtless will be of service to him. Do not disturb him at
present, for He wishes to repose.”
Father Pablos obeyed, and hearing the Bell ring, accompanied the Abbot
to Matins. Ambrosio felt embarrassed as He entered the Chapel. Guilt
was new to him, and He fancied that every eye could read the
transactions of the night upon his countenance. He strove to pray; His
bosom no longer glowed with devotion; His thoughts insensibly wandered
to Matilda’s secret charms. But what He wanted in purity of heart, He
supplied by exterior sanctity. The better to cloak his transgression,
He redoubled his pretensions to the semblance of virtue, and never
appeared more devoted to Heaven as since He had broken through his
engagements. Thus did He unconsciously add Hypocrisy to perjury and
incontinence; He had fallen into the latter errors from yielding to
seduction almost irresistible; But he was now guilty of a voluntary
fault by endeavouring to conceal those into which Another had betrayed
him.
The Matins concluded, Ambrosio retired to his Cell. The pleasures which
He had just tasted for the first time were still impressed upon his
mind. His brain was bewildered, and presented a confused Chaos of
remorse, voluptuousness, inquietude, and fear. He looked back with
regret to that peace of soul, that security of virtue, which till then
had been his portion. He had indulged in excesses whose very idea but
four and twenty hours before He had recoiled at with horror. He
shuddered at reflecting that a trifling indiscretion on his part, or on
Matilda’s, would overturn that fabric of reputation which it had cost
him thirty years to erect, and render him the abhorrence of that People
of whom He was then the Idol. Conscience painted to him in glaring
colours his perjury and weakness; Apprehension magnified to him the
horrors of punishment, and He already fancied himself in the prisons of
the Inquisition. To these tormenting ideas succeeded Matilda’s beauty,
and those delicious lessons which, once learnt, can never be forgotten.
A single glance thrown upon these reconciled him with himself. He
considered the pleasures of the former night to have been purchased at
an easy price by the sacrifice of innocence and honour. Their very
remembrance filled his soul with ecstacy; He cursed his foolish vanity,
which had induced him to waste in obscurity the bloom of life, ignorant
of the blessings of Love and Woman. He determined at all events to
continue his commerce with Matilda, and called every argument to his
aid which might confirm his resolution. He asked himself, provided his
irregularity was unknown, in what would his fault consist, and what
consequences He had to apprehend? By adhering strictly to every rule of
his order save Chastity, He doubted not to retain the esteem of Men,
and even the protection of heaven. He trusted easily to be forgiven so
slight and natural a deviation from his vows: But He forgot that having
pronounced those vows, Incontinence, in Laymen the most venial of
errors, became in his person the most heinous of crimes.
Once decided upon his future conduct, his mind became more easy. He
threw himself upon his bed, and strove by sleeping to recruit his
strength exhausted by his nocturnal excesses. He awoke refreshed, and
eager for a repetition of his pleasures. Obedient to Matilda’s order,
He visited not her Cell during the day. Father Pablos mentioned in the
Refectory that Rosario had at length been prevailed upon to follow his
prescription; But that the medicine had not produced the slightest
effect, and that He believed no mortal skill could rescue him from the
Grave. With this opinion the Abbot agreed, and affected to lament the
untimely fate of a Youth, whose talents had appeared so promising.
The night arrived. Ambrosio had taken care to procure from the Porter
the Key of the low door opening into the Cemetery. Furnished with this,
when all was silent in the Monastery, He quitted his Cell, and hastened
to Matilda’s. She had left her bed, and was drest before his arrival.
“I have been expecting you with impatience,” said She; “My life depends
upon these moments. Have you the Key?”
“I have.”
“Away then to the garden. We have no time to lose. Follow me!”
She took a small covered Basket from the Table. Bearing this in one
hand, and the Lamp, which was flaming upon the Hearth, in the other,
She hastened from the Cell. Ambrosio followed her. Both maintained a
profound silence. She moved on with quick but cautious steps, passed
through the Cloisters, and reached the Western side of the Garden. Her
eyes flashed with a fire and wildness which impressed the Monk at once
with awe and horror. A determined desperate courage reigned upon her
brow. She gave the Lamp to Ambrosio; Then taking from him the Key, She
unlocked the low Door, and entered the Cemetery. It was a vast and
spacious Square planted with yew trees: Half of it belonged to the
Abbey; The other half was the property of the Sisterhood of St. Clare,
and was protected by a roof of Stone. The Division was marked by an
iron railing, the wicket of which was generally left unlocked.
Thither Matilda bent her course. She opened the wicket and sought for
the door leading to the subterraneous Vaults, where reposed the
mouldering Bodies of the Votaries of St. Clare. The night was perfectly
dark; Neither Moon or Stars were visible. Luckily there was not a
breath of Wind, and the Friar bore his Lamp in full security: By the
assistance of its beams, the door of the Sepulchre was soon discovered.
It was sunk within the hollow of a wall, and almost concealed by thick
festoons of ivy hanging over it. Three steps of rough-hewn Stone
conducted to it, and Matilda was on the point of descending them when
She suddenly started back.
“There are People in the Vaults!” She whispered to the Monk; “Conceal
yourself till they are past.
She took refuge behind a lofty and magnificent Tomb, erected in honour
of the Convent’s Foundress. Ambrosio followed her example, carefully
hiding his Lamp lest its beams should betray them. But a few moments
had elapsed when the Door was pushed open leading to the subterraneous
Caverns. Rays of light proceeded up the Staircase: They enabled the
concealed Spectators to observe two Females drest in religious habits,
who seemed engaged in earnest conversation. The Abbot had no difficulty
to recognize the Prioress of St. Clare in the first, and one of the
elder Nuns in her Companion.
“Every thing is prepared,” said the Prioress; “Her fate shall be
decided tomorrow. All her tears and sighs will be unavailing. No! In
five and twenty years that I have been Superior of this Convent, never
did I witness a transaction more infamous!”
“You must expect much opposition to your will;” the Other replied in a
milder voice; “Agnes has many Friends in the Convent, and in particular
the Mother St. Ursula will espouse her cause most warmly. In truth, She
merits to have Friends; and I wish I could prevail upon you to consider
her youth, and her peculiar situation. She seems sensible of her fault;
The excess of her grief proves her penitence, and I am convinced that
her tears flow more from contrition than fear of punishment. Reverend
Mother, would you be persuaded to mitigate the severity of your