The Monk: A Romance
sentence, would you but deign to overlook this first transgression, I
offer myself as the pledge of her future conduct.”
“Overlook it, say you? Mother Camilla, you amaze me! What? After
disgracing me in the presence of Madrid’s Idol, of the very Man on whom
I most wished to impress an idea of the strictness of my discipline?
How despicable must I have appeared to the reverend Abbot! No, Mother,
No! I never can forgive the insult. I cannot better convince Ambrosio
that I abhor such crimes, than by punishing that of Agnes with all the
rigour of which our severe laws admit. Cease then your supplications;
They will all be unavailing. My resolution is taken: Tomorrow Agnes
shall be made a terrible example of my justice and resentment.”
The Mother Camilla seemed not to give up the point, but by this time
the Nuns were out of hearing. The Prioress unlocked the door which
communicated with St. Clare’s Chapel, and having entered with her
Companion, closed it again after them.
Matilda now asked, who was this Agnes with whom the Prioress was thus
incensed, and what connexion She could have with Ambrosio. He related
her adventure; and He added, that since that time his ideas having
undergone a thorough revolution, He now felt much compassion for the
unfortunate Nun.
“I design,” said He, “to request an audience of the Domina tomorrow,
and use every means of obtaining a mitigation of her sentence.”
“Beware of what you do!” interrupted Matilda; “Your sudden change of
sentiment may naturally create surprize, and may give birth to
suspicions which it is most our interest to avoid. Rather, redouble
your outward austerity, and thunder out menaces against the errors of
others, the better to conceal your own. Abandon the Nun to her fate.
Your interfering might be dangerous, and her imprudence merits to be
punished: She is unworthy to enjoy Love’s pleasures, who has not wit
enough to conceal them. But in discussing this trifling subject I waste
moments which are precious. The night flies apace, and much must be
done before morning. The Nuns are retired; All is safe. Give me the
Lamp, Ambrosio. I must descend alone into these Caverns: Wait here, and
if any one approaches, warn me by your voice; But as you value your
existence, presume not to follow me. Your life would fall a victim to
your imprudent curiosity.”
Thus saying She advanced towards the Sepulchre, still holding her Lamp
in one hand, and her little Basket in the other. She touched the door:
It turned slowly upon its grating hinges, and a narrow winding
staircase of black marble presented itself to her eyes. She descended
it. Ambrosio remained above, watching the faint beams of the Lamp as
they still proceeded up the stairs. They disappeared, and He found
himself in total darkness.
Left to himself He could not reflect without surprize on the sudden
change in Matilda’s character and sentiments. But a few days had past
since She appeared the mildest and softest of her sex, devoted to his
will, and looking up to him as to a superior Being. Now She assumed a
sort of courage and manliness in her manners and discourse but
ill-calculated to please him. She spoke no longer to insinuate, but
command: He found himself unable to cope with her in argument, and was
unwillingly obliged to confess the superiority of her judgment. Every
moment convinced him of the astonishing powers of her mind: But what
She gained in the opinion of the Man, She lost with interest in the
affection of the Lover. He regretted Rosario, the fond, the gentle, and
submissive: He grieved that Matilda preferred the virtues of his sex to
those of her own; and when He thought of her expressions respecting the
devoted Nun, He could not help blaming them as cruel and unfeminine.
Pity is a sentiment so natural, so appropriate to the female character,
that it is scarcely a merit for a Woman to possess it, but to be
without it is a grievous crime. Ambrosio could not easily forgive his
Mistress for being deficient in this amiable quality. However, though
he blamed her insensibility, He felt the truth of her observations; and
though He pitied sincerely the unfortunate Agnes, He resolved to drop
the idea of interposing in her behalf.
Near an hour had elapsed, since Matilda descended into the Caverns;
Still She returned not. Ambrosio’s curiosity was excited. He drew near
the Staircase. He listened. All was silent, except that at intervals He
caught the sound of Matilda’s voice, as it wound along the
subterraneous passages, and was re-echoed by the Sepulchre’s vaulted
roofs. She was at too great a distance for him to distinguish her
words, and ere they reached him they were deadened into a low murmur.
He longed to penetrate into this mystery. He resolved to disobey her
injunctions and follow her into the Cavern. He advanced to the
Staircase; He had already descended some steps when his courage failed
him. He remembered Matilda’s menaces if He infringed her orders, and
his bosom was filled with a secret unaccountable awe. He returned up
the stairs, resumed his former station, and waited impatiently for the
conclusion of this adventure.
Suddenly He was sensible of a violent shock: An earthquake rocked the
ground. The Columns which supported the roof under which He stood were
so strongly shaken, that every moment menaced him with its fall, and at
the same moment He heard a loud and tremendous burst of thunder. It
ceased, and his eyes being fixed upon the Staircase, He saw a bright
column of light flash along the Caverns beneath. It was seen but for an
instant. No sooner did it disappear, than all was once more quiet and
obscure. Profound Darkness again surrounded him, and the silence of
night was only broken by the whirring Bat, as She flitted slowly by
him.
With every instant Ambrosio’s amazement increased. Another hour
elapsed, after which the same light again appeared and was lost again
as suddenly. It was accompanied by a strain of sweet but solemn Music,
which as it stole through the Vaults below, inspired the Monk with
mingled delight and terror. It had not long been hushed, when He heard
Matilda’s steps upon the Staircase. She ascended from the Cavern; The
most lively joy animated her beautiful features.
“Did you see any thing?” She asked.
“Twice I saw a column of light flash up the Staircase.”
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing.”
“The Morning is on the point of breaking. Let us retire to the Abbey,
lest daylight should betray us.”
With a light step She hastened from the burying-ground. She regained
her Cell, and the curious Abbot still accompanied her. She closed the
door, and disembarrassed herself of her Lamp and Basket.
“I have succeeded!” She cried, throwing herself upon his bosom:
“Succeeded beyond my fondest hopes! I shall live, Ambrosio, shall live
for you! The step which I shuddered at taking proves to me a source of
joys inexpressible! Oh! that I dared communicate those joys to you! Oh!
that I were permitted to share with you my power, and raise you as high
above the level of your sex, as one bold deed has exalted me above
mine!”
“And what prevents you, Matilda?” interrupted the Friar; “Why is your
business in the Cavern made a secret? Do you think me undeserving of
your confidence? Matilda, I must doubt the truth of your affection,
while you have joys in which I am forbidden to share.”
“You reproach me with injustice. I grieve sincerely that I am obliged
to conceal from you my happiness. But I am not to blame: The fault lies
not in me, but in yourself, my Ambrosio! You are still too much the
Monk. Your mind is enslaved by the prejudices of Education; And
Superstition might make you shudder at the idea of that which
experience has taught me to prize and value. At present you are unfit
to be trusted with a secret of such importance: But the strength of
your judgment; and the curiosity which I rejoice to see sparkling in
your eyes, makes me hope that you will one day deserve my confidence.
Till that period arrives, restrain your impatience. Remember that you
have given me your solemn oath never to enquire into this night’s
adventures. I insist upon your keeping this oath: For though” She added
smiling, while She sealed his lips with a wanton kiss; “Though I
forgive your breaking your vows to heaven, I expect you to keep your
vows to me.”
The Friar returned the embrace which had set his blood on fire. The
luxurious and unbounded excesses of the former night were renewed, and
they separated not till the Bell rang for Matins.
The same pleasures were frequently repeated. The Monks rejoiced in the
feigned Rosario’s unexpected recovery, and none of them suspected his
real sex. The Abbot possessed his Mistress in tranquillity, and
perceiving his frailty unsuspected, abandoned himself to his passions
in full security. Shame and remorse no longer tormented him. Frequent
repetitions made him familiar with sin, and his bosom became proof
against the stings of Conscience. In these sentiments He was encouraged
by Matilda; But She soon was aware that She had satiated her Lover by
the unbounded freedom of her caresses. Her charms becoming accustomed
to him, they ceased to excite the same desires which at first they had
inspired. The delirium of passion being past, He had leisure to observe
every trifling defect: Where none were to be found, Satiety made him
fancy them. The Monk was glutted with the fullness of pleasure: A Week
had scarcely elapsed before He was wearied of his Paramour: His warm
constitution still made him seek in her arms the gratification of his
lust: But when the moment of passion was over, He quitted her with
disgust, and his humour, naturally inconstant, made him sigh
impatiently for variety.
Possession, which cloys Man, only increases the affection of Woman.
Matilda with every succeeding day grew more attached to the Friar.
Since He had obtained her favours, He was become dearer to her than
ever, and She felt grateful to him for the pleasures in which they had
equally been Sharers. Unfortunately as her passion grew ardent,
Ambrosio’s grew cold; The very marks of her fondness excited his
disgust, and its excess served to extinguish the flame which already
burned but feebly in his bosom. Matilda could not but remark that her
society seemed to him daily less agreeable: He was inattentive while
She spoke: her musical talents, which She possessed in perfection, had
lost the power of amusing him; Or if He deigned to praise them, his
compliments were evidently forced and cold. He no longer gazed upon her
with affection, or applauded her sentiments with a Lover’s partiality.
This Matilda well perceived, and redoubled her efforts to revive those
sentiments which He once had felt. She could not but fail, since He
considered as importunities the pains which She took to please him, and
was disgusted by the very means which She used to recall the Wanderer.
Still, however, their illicit Commerce continued: But it was clear that
He was led to her arms, not by love, but the cravings of brutal
appetite. His constitution made a Woman necessary to him, and Matilda
was the only one with whom He could indulge his passions safely: In
spite of her beauty, He gazed upon every other Female with more desire;
But fearing that his Hypocrisy should be made public, He confined his
inclinations to his own breast.
It was by no means his nature to be timid: But his education had
impressed his mind with fear so strongly, that apprehension was now
become part of his character. Had his Youth been passed in the world,
He would have shown himself possessed of many brilliant and manly
qualities. He was naturally enterprizing, firm, and fearless: He had a
Warrior’s heart, and He might have shone with splendour at the head of
an Army. There was no want of generosity in his nature: The Wretched