The Monk: A Romance
never failed to find in him a compassionate Auditor: His abilities were
quick and shining, and his judgment, vast, solid, and decisive. With
such qualifications He would have been an ornament to his Country: That
He possessed them, He had given proofs in his earliest infancy, and his
Parents had beheld his dawning virtues with the fondest delight and
admiration. Unfortunately, while yet a Child He was deprived of those
Parents. He fell into the power of a Relation whose only wish about him
was never to hear of him more; For that purpose He gave him in charge
to his Friend, the former Superior of the Capuchins. The Abbot, a very
Monk, used all his endeavours to persuade the Boy that happiness
existed not without the walls of a Convent. He succeeded fully. To
deserve admittance into the order of St. Francis was Ambrosio’s highest
ambition. His Instructors carefully repressed those virtues whose
grandeur and disinterestedness were ill-suited to the Cloister. Instead
of universal benevolence, He adopted a selfish partiality for his own
particular establishment: He was taught to consider compassion for the
errors of Others as a crime of the blackest dye: The noble frankness of
his temper was exchanged for servile humility; and in order to break
his natural spirit, the Monks terrified his young mind by placing
before him all the horrors with which Superstition could furnish them:
They painted to him the torments of the Damned in colours the most
dark, terrible, and fantastic, and threatened him at the slightest
fault with eternal perdition. No wonder that his imagination constantly
dwelling upon these fearful objects should have rendered his character
timid and apprehensive. Add to this, that his long absence from the
great world, and total unacquaintance with the common dangers of life,
made him form of them an idea far more dismal than the reality. While
the Monks were busied in rooting out his virtues and narrowing his
sentiments, they allowed every vice which had fallen to his share to
arrive at full perfection. He was suffered to be proud, vain,
ambitious, and disdainful: He was jealous of his Equals, and despised
all merit but his own: He was implacable when offended, and cruel in
his revenge. Still in spite of the pains taken to pervert them, his
natural good qualities would occasionally break through the gloom cast
over them so carefully:
At such times the contest for superiority between his real and acquired
character was striking and unaccountable to those unacquainted with his
original disposition. He pronounced the most severe sentences upon
Offenders, which, the moment after, Compassion induced him to mitigate:
He undertook the most daring enterprizes, which the fear of their
consequences soon obliged him to abandon: His inborn genius darted a
brilliant light upon subjects the most obscure; and almost
instantaneously his Superstition replunged them in darkness more
profound than that from which they had just been rescued. His Brother
Monks, regarding him as a Superior Being, remarked not this
contradiction in their Idol’s conduct. They were persuaded that what He
did must be right, and supposed him to have good reasons for changing
his resolutions. The fact was, that the different sentiments with which
Education and Nature had inspired him were combating in his bosom: It
remained for his passions, which as yet no opportunity had called into
play, to decide the victory. Unfortunately his passions were the very
worst Judges, to whom He could possibly have applied. His monastic
seclusion had till now been in his favour, since it gave him no room
for discovering his bad qualities. The superiority of his talents
raised him too far above his Companions to permit his being jealous of
them: His exemplary piety, persuasive eloquence, and pleasing manners
had secured him universal Esteem, and consequently He had no injuries
to revenge: His Ambition was justified by his acknowledged merit, and
his pride considered as no more than proper confidence. He never saw,
much less conversed with, the other sex: He was ignorant of the
pleasures in Woman’s power to bestow, and if He read in the course of
his studies
“That men were fond, he smiled, and wondered how!”
For a time, spare diet, frequent watching, and severe penance cooled
and represt the natural warmth of his constitution: But no sooner did
opportunity present itself, no sooner did He catch a glimpse of joys to
which He was still a Stranger, than Religion’s barriers were too feeble
to resist the overwhelming torrent of his desires. All impediments
yielded before the force of his temperament, warm, sanguine, and
voluptuous in the excess.
As yet his other passions lay dormant; But they only needed to be once
awakened, to display themselves with violence as great and
irresistible.
He continued to be the admiration of Madrid. The Enthusiasm created by
his eloquence seemed rather to increase than diminish.
Every Thursday, which was the only day when He appeared in public, the
Capuchin Cathedral was crowded with Auditors, and his discourse was
always received with the same approbation. He was named Confessor to
all the chief families in Madrid; and no one was counted fashionable
who was injoined penance by any other than Ambrosio. In his resolution
of never stirring out of his Convent, He still persisted. This
circumstance created a still greater opinion of his sanctity and
self-denial. Above all, the Women sang forth his praises loudly, less
influenced by devotion than by his noble countenance, majestic air, and
well-turned, graceful figure. The Abbey door was thronged with
Carriages from morning to night; and the noblest and fairest Dames of
Madrid confessed to the Abbot their secret peccadilloes.
The eyes of the luxurious Friar devoured their charms: Had his
Penitents consulted those Interpreters, He would have needed no other
means of expressing his desires. For his misfortune, they were so
strongly persuaded of his continence, that the possibility of his
harbouring indecent thoughts never once entered their imaginations. The
climate’s heat, ’tis well known, operates with no small influence upon
the constitutions of the Spanish Ladies: But the most abandoned would
have thought it an easier task to inspire with passion the marble
Statue of St. Francis than the cold and rigid heart of the immaculate
Ambrosio.
On his part, the Friar was little acquainted with the depravity of the
world; He suspected not that but few of his Penitents would have
rejected his addresses. Yet had He been better instructed on this head,
the danger attending such an attempt would have sealed up his lips in
silence. He knew that it would be difficult for a Woman to keep a
secret so strange and so important as his frailty; and He even trembled
lest Matilda should betray him. Anxious to preserve a reputation which
was infinitely dear to him, He saw all the risque of committing it to
the power of some vain giddy Female; and as the Beauties of Madrid
affected only his senses without touching his heart, He forgot them as
soon as they were out of his sight. The danger of discovery, the fear
of being repulsed, the loss of reputation, all these considerations
counselled him to stifle his desires: And though He now felt for it the
most perfect indifference, He was necessitated to confine himself to
Matilda’s person.
One morning, the confluence of Penitents was greater than usual. He was
detained in the Confessional Chair till a late hour. At length the
crowd was dispatched, and He prepared to quit the Chapel, when two
Females entered and drew near him with humility. They threw up their
veils, and the youngest entreated him to listen to her for a few
moments. The melody of her voice, of that voice to which no Man ever
listened without interest, immediately caught Ambrosio’s attention. He
stopped. The Petitioner seemed bowed down with affliction: Her cheeks
were pale, her eyes dimmed with tears, and her hair fell in disorder
over her face and bosom. Still her countenance was so sweet, so
innocent, so heavenly, as might have charmed an heart less susceptible,
than that which panted in the Abbot’s breast. With more than usual
softness of manner He desired her to proceed, and heard her speak as
follows with an emotion which increased every moment.
“Reverend Father, you see an Unfortunate, threatened with the loss of
her dearest, of almost her only Friend! My Mother, my excellent Mother
lies upon the bed of sickness. A sudden and dreadful malady seized her
last night; and so rapid has been its progress, that the Physicians
despair of her life. Human aid fails me; Nothing remains for me but to
implore the mercy of Heaven. Father, all Madrid rings with the report
of your piety and virtue. Deign to remember my Mother in your prayers:
Perhaps they may prevail on the Almighty to spare her; and should that
be the case, I engage myself every Thursday in the next three Months to
illuminate the Shrine of St. Francis in his honour.”
“So!” thought the Monk; “Here we have a second Vincentio della Ronda.
Rosario’s adventure began thus,” and He wished secretly that this might
have the same conclusion.
He acceded to the request. The Petitioner returned him thanks with
every mark of gratitude, and then continued.
“I have yet another favour to ask. We are Strangers in Madrid; My
Mother needs a Confessor, and knows not to whom She should apply. We
understand that you never quit the Abbey, and Alas! my poor Mother is
unable to come hither! If you would have the goodness, reverend Father,
to name a proper person, whose wise and pious consolations may soften
the agonies of my Parent’s deathbed, you will confer an everlasting
favour upon hearts not ungrateful.”
With this petition also the Monk complied. Indeed, what petition would
He have refused, if urged in such enchanting accents? The suppliant was
so interesting! Her voice was so sweet, so harmonious! Her very tears
became her, and her affliction seemed to add new lustre to her charms.
He promised to send to her a Confessor that same Evening, and begged
her to leave her address. The Companion presented him with a Card on
which it was written, and then withdrew with the fair Petitioner, who
pronounced before her departure a thousand benedictions on the Abbot’s
goodness. His eyes followed her out of the Chapel. It was not till She
was out of sight that He examined the Card, on which He read the
following words.
“Donna Elvira Dalfa, Strada di San Iago, four doors from the Palace
d’Albornos.”
The Suppliant was no other than Antonia, and Leonella was her
Companion. The Latter had not consented without difficulty to accompany
her Niece to the Abbey: Ambrosio had inspired her with such awe that
She trembled at the very sight of him. Her fears had conquered even her
natural loquacity, and while in his presence She uttered not a single
syllable.
The Monk retired to his Cell, whither He was pursued by Antonia’s
image. He felt a thousand new emotions springing in his bosom, and He
trembled to examine into the cause which gave them birth. They were
totally different from those inspired by Matilda, when She first
declared her sex and her affection. He felt not the provocation of
lust; No voluptuous desires rioted in his bosom; Nor did a burning
imagination picture to him the charms which Modesty had veiled from his
eyes. On the contrary, what He now felt was a mingled sentiment of
tenderness, admiration, and respect. A soft and delicious melancholy
infused itself into his soul, and He would not have exchanged it for
the most lively transports of joy. Society now disgusted him: He
delighted in solitude, which permitted his indulging the visions of
Fancy: His thoughts were all gentle, sad, and soothing, and the whole