The Monk: A Romance
still sparkled. The hopes which He gave her of her Mother’s recovery,
the lively interest which He seemed to feel for her, and the flattering
way in which She was mentioned by him, added to the report of his
judgment and virtue, and to the impression made upon her by his
eloquence, confirmed the favourable opinion with which his first
appearance had inspired Antonia. She replied with diffidence, but
without restraint: She feared not to relate to him all her little
sorrows, all her little fears and anxieties; and She thanked him for
his goodness with all the genuine warmth which favours kindle in a
young and innocent heart. Such alone know how to estimate benefits at
their full value. They who are conscious of Mankind’s perfidy and
selfishness, ever receive an obligation with apprehension and distrust:
They suspect that some secret motive must lurk behind it: They express
their thanks with restraint and caution, and fear to praise a kind
action to its full extent, aware that some future day a return may be
required. Not so Antonia; She thought the world was composed only of
those who resembled her, and that vice existed, was to her still a
secret. The Monk had been of service to her; He said that He wished her
well; She was grateful for his kindness, and thought that no terms were
strong enough to be the vehicle of her thanks. With what delight did
Ambrosio listen to the declaration of her artless gratitude! The
natural grace of her manners, the unequalled sweetness of her voice,
her modest vivacity, her unstudied elegance, her expressive
countenance, and intelligent eyes united to inspire him with pleasure
and admiration, While the solidity and correctness of her remarks
received additional beauty from the unaffected simplicity of the
language in which they were conveyed.
Ambrosio was at length obliged to tear himself from this conversation
which possessed for him but too many charms. He repeated to Antonia his
wishes that his visits should not be made known, which desire She
promised to observe. He then quitted the House, while his Enchantress
hastened to her Mother, ignorant of the mischief which her Beauty had
caused. She was eager to know Elvira’s opinion of the Man whom She had
praised in such enthusiastic terms, and was delighted to find it
equally favourable, if not even more so, than her own.
“Even before He spoke,” said Elvira, “I was prejudiced in his favour:
The fervour of his exhortations, dignity of his manner, and closeness
of his reasoning, were very far from inducing me to alter my opinion.
His fine and full-toned voice struck me particularly; But surely,
Antonia, I have heard it before. It seemed perfectly familiar to my
ear. Either I must have known the Abbot in former times, or his voice
bears a wonderful resemblance to that of some other, to whom I have
often listened.
There were certain tones which touched my very heart, and made me feel
sensations so singular, that I strive in vain to account for them.”
“My dearest Mother, it produced the same effect upon me: Yet certainly
neither of us ever heard his voice till we came to Madrid. I suspect
that what we attribute to his voice, really proceeds from his pleasant
manners, which forbid our considering him as a Stranger. I know not
why, but I feel more at my ease while conversing with him than I
usually do with people who are unknown to me. I feared not to repeat to
him all my childish thoughts; and somehow I felt confident that He
would hear my folly with indulgence. Oh! I was not deceived in him! He
listened to me with such an air of kindness and attention! He answered
me with such gentleness, such condescension! He did not call me an
Infant, and treat me with contempt, as our cross old Confessor at the
Castle used to do. I verily believe that if I had lived in Murcia a
thousand years, I never should have liked that fat old Father Dominic!”
“I confess that Father Dominic had not the most pleasing manners in the
world; But He was honest, friendly, and well-meaning.”
“Ah! my dear Mother, those qualities are so common!”
“God grant, my Child, that Experience may not teach you to think them
rare and precious: I have found them but too much so! But tell me,
Antonia; Why is it impossible for me to have seen the Abbot before?”
“Because since the moment when He entered the Abbey, He has never been
on the outside of its walls. He told me just now, that from his
ignorance of the Streets, He had some difficulty to find the Strada di
San Iago, though so near the Abbey.”
“All this is possible, and still I may have seen him BEFORE He entered
the Abbey: In order to come out, it was rather necessary that He should
first go in.”
“Holy Virgin! As you say, that is very true.—Oh! But might He not have
been born in the Abbey?”
Elvira smiled.
“Why, not very easily.”
“Stay, Stay! Now I recollect how it was. He was put into the Abbey
quite a Child; The common People say that He fell from heaven, and was
sent as a present to the Capuchins by the Virgin.”
“That was very kind of her. And so He fell from heaven, Antonia?
He must have had a terrible tumble.”
“Many do not credit this, and I fancy, my dear Mother, that I must
number you among the Unbelievers. Indeed, as our Landlady told my Aunt,
the general idea is that his Parents, being poor and unable to maintain
him, left him just born at the Abbey door. The late Superior from pure
charity had him educated in the Convent, and He proved to be a model of
virtue, and piety, and learning, and I know not what else besides: In
consequence, He was first received as a Brother of the order, and not
long ago was chosen Abbot. However, whether this account or the other
is the true one, at least all agree that when the Monks took him under
their care, He could not speak: Therefore, you could not have heard his
voice before He entered the Monastery, because at that time He had no
voice at all.”
“Upon my word, Antonia, you argue very closely! Your conclusions are
infallible! I did not suspect you of being so able a Logician.”
“Ah! You are mocking me! But so much the better. It delights me to see
you in spirits: Besides you seem tranquil and easy, and I hope that you
will have no more convulsions. Oh! I was sure the Abbot’s visit would
do you good!”
“It has indeed done me good, my Child. He has quieted my mind upon some
points which agitated me, and I already feel the effects of his
attention. My eyes grow heavy, and I think I can sleep a little. Draw
the curtains, my Antonia: But if I should not wake before midnight, do
not sit up with me, I charge you.”
Antonia promised to obey her, and having received her blessing drew the
curtains of the Bed. She then seated herself in silence at her
embroidery frame, and beguiled the hours with building Castles in the
air. Her spirits were enlivened by the evident change for the better in
Elvira, and her fancy presented her with visions bright and pleasing.
In these dreams Ambrosio made no despicable figure. She thought of him
with joy and gratitude; But for every idea which fell to the Friar’s
share, at least two were unconsciously bestowed upon Lorenzo. Thus
passed the time, till the Bell in the neighbouring Steeple of the
Capuchin Cathedral announced the hour of midnight: Antonia remembered
her Mother’s injunctions, and obeyed them, though with reluctance. She
undrew the curtains with caution. Elvira was enjoying a profound and
quiet slumber; Her cheek glowed with health’s returning colours: A
smile declared that her dreams were pleasant, and as Antonia bent over
her, She fancied that She heard her name pronounced. She kissed her
Mother’s forehead softly, and retired to her chamber. There She knelt
before a Statue of St. Rosolia, her Patroness; She recommended herself
to the protection of heaven, and as had been her custom from infancy,
concluded her devotions by chaunting the following Stanzas.
MIDNIGHT HYMN
Now all is hushed; The solemn chime
No longer swells the nightly gale:
Thy awful presence, Hour sublime,
With spotless heart once more I hail.
’Tis now the moment still and dread,
When Sorcerers use their baleful power;
When Graves give up their buried dead
To profit by the sanctioned hour:
From guilt and guilty thoughts secure,
To duty and devotion true,
With bosom light and conscience pure,
Repose, thy gentle aid I woo.
Good Angels, take my thanks, that still
The snares of vice I view with scorn;
Thanks, that to-night as free from ill
I sleep, as when I woke at morn.
Yet may not my unconscious breast
Harbour some guilt to me unknown?
Some wish impure, which unreprest
You blush to see, and I to own?
If such there be, in gentle dream
Instruct my feet to shun the snare;
Bid truth upon my errors beam,
And deign to make me still your care.
Chase from my peaceful bed away
The witching Spell, a foe to rest,
The nightly Goblin, wanton Fay,
The Ghost in pain, and Fiend unblest:
Let not the Tempter in mine ear
Pour lessons of unhallowed joy;
Let not the Night-mare, wandering near
My Couch, the calm of sleep destroy;
Let not some horrid dream affright
With strange fantastic forms mine eyes;
But rather bid some vision bright
Display the bliss of yonder skies.
Show me the crystal Domes of Heaven,
The worlds of light where Angels lie;
Shew me the lot to Mortals given,
Who guiltless live, who guiltless die.
Then show me how a seat to gain
Amidst those blissful realms of
Air; Teach me to shun each guilty stain,
And guide me to the good and fair.
So every morn and night, my Voice
To heaven the grateful strain shall raise;
In You as Guardian Powers rejoice,
Good Angels, and exalt your praise:
So will I strive with zealous fire
Each vice to shun, each fault correct;
Will love the lessons you inspire,
And Prize the virtues you protect.
Then when at length by high command
My body seeks the Grave’s repose,
When Death draws nigh with friendly hand
My failing Pilgrim eyes to close;
Pleased that my soul has ’scaped the wreck,
Sighless will I my life resign,
And yield to God my Spirit back,
As pure as when it first was mine.
Having finished her usual devotions, Antonia retired to bed. Sleep soon
stole over her senses; and for several hours She enjoyed that calm
repose which innocence alone can know, and for which many a Monarch
with pleasure would exchange his Crown.
CHAPTER VII.
——Ah! how dark
These long-extended realms and rueful wastes;
Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark night,
Dark as was Chaos ere the Infant Sun
Was rolled together, or had tried its beams
Athwart the gloom profound!
The sickly Taper
By glimmering through thy low-browed misty vaults,
Furred round with mouldy damps, and ropy slime,
Lets fall a supernumerary horror,
And only serves to make
Thy night more irksome!
BLAIR.
Returned undiscovered to the Abbey, Ambrosio’s mind was filled with the
most pleasing images. He was wilfully blind to the danger of exposing
himself to Antonia’s charms: He only remembered the pleasure which her
society had afforded him, and rejoiced in the prospect of that pleasure
being repeated. He failed not to profit by Elvira’s indisposition to
obtain a sight of her Daughter every day. At first He bounded his
wishes to inspire Antonia with friendship: But no sooner was He
convinced that She felt that sentiment in its fullest extent, than his
aim became more decided, and his attentions assumed a warmer colour.
The innocent familiarity with which She treated him, encouraged his
desires: Grown used to her modesty, it no longer commanded the same
respect and awe: He still admired it, but it only made him more anxious
to deprive her of that quality which formed her principal charm. Warmth
of passion, and natural penetration, of which latter unfortunately both