The Monk: A Romance
for himself and Antonia He possessed an ample share, supplied a
knowledge of the arts of seduction. He easily distinguished the
emotions which were favourable to his designs, and seized every means
with avidity of infusing corruption into Antonia’s bosom. This He found
no easy matter. Extreme simplicity prevented her from perceiving the
aim to which the Monk’s insinuations tended; But the excellent morals
which She owed to Elvira’s care, the solidity and correctness of her
understanding, and a strong sense of what was right implanted in her
heart by Nature, made her feel that his precepts must be faulty. By a
few simple words She frequently overthrew the whole bulk of his
sophistical arguments, and made him conscious how weak they were when
opposed to Virtue and Truth. On such occasion He took refuge in his
eloquence; He overpowered her with a torrent of Philosophical
paradoxes, to which, not understanding them, it was impossible for her
to reply; And thus though He did not convince her that his reasoning
was just, He at least prevented her from discovering it to be false. He
perceived that her respect for his judgment augmented daily, and
doubted not with time to bring her to the point desired.
He was not unconscious that his attempts were highly criminal: He saw
clearly the baseness of seducing the innocent Girl: But his passion was
too violent to permit his abandoning his design. He resolved to pursue
it, let the consequences be what they might. He depended upon finding
Antonia in some unguarded moment; And seeing no other Man admitted into
her society, nor hearing any mentioned either by her or by Elvira, He
imagined that her young heart was still unoccupied. While He waited for
the opportunity of satisfying his unwarrantable lust, every day
increased his coldness for Matilda. Not a little was this occasioned by
the consciousness of his faults to her. To hide them from her He was
not sufficiently master of himself: Yet He dreaded lest, in a transport
of jealous rage, She should betray the secret on which his character
and even his life depended. Matilda could not but remark his
indifference: He was conscious that She remarked it, and fearing her
reproaches, shunned her studiously. Yet when He could not avoid her,
her mildness might have convinced him that He had nothing to dread from
her resentment. She had resumed the character of the gentle interesting
Rosario: She taxed him not with ingratitude; But her eyes filled with
involuntary tears, and the soft melancholy of her countenance and voice
uttered complaints far more touching than words could have conveyed.
Ambrosio was not unmoved by her sorrow; But unable to remove its cause,
He forbore to show that it affected him. As her conduct convinced him
that He needed not fear her vengeance, He continued to neglect her, and
avoided her company with care. Matilda saw that She in vain attempted
to regain his affections: Yet She stifled the impulse of resentment,
and continued to treat her inconstant Lover with her former fondness
and attention.
By degrees Elvira’s constitution recovered itself. She was no longer
troubled with convulsions, and Antonia ceased to tremble for her
Mother. Ambrosio beheld this reestablishment with displeasure. He saw
that Elvira’s knowledge of the world would not be the Dupe of his
sanctified demeanour, and that She would easily perceive his views upon
her Daughter. He resolved therefore, before She quitted her chamber, to
try the extent of his influence over the innocent Antonia.
One evening, when He had found Elvira almost perfectly restored to
health, He quitted her earlier than was his usual custom. Not finding
Antonia in the Antichamber, He ventured to follow her to her own. It
was only separated from her Mother’s by a Closet, in which Flora, the
Waiting-Woman, generally slept. Antonia sat upon a Sopha with her back
towards the door, and read attentively. She heard not his approach,
till He had seated himself by her. She started, and welcomed him with a
look of pleasure: Then rising, She would have conducted him to the
sitting-room; But Ambrosio taking her hand, obliged her by gentle
violence to resume her place. She complied without difficulty: She knew
not that there was more impropriety in conversing with him in one room
than another. She thought herself equally secure of his principles and
her own, and having replaced herself upon the Sopha, She began to
prattle to him with her usual ease and vivacity.
He examined the Book which She had been reading, and had now placed
upon the Table. It was the Bible.
“How!” said the Friar to himself; “Antonia reads the Bible, and is
still so ignorant?”
But, upon a further inspection, He found that Elvira had made exactly
the same remark. That prudent Mother, while She admired the beauties of
the sacred writings, was convinced that, unrestricted, no reading more
improper could be permitted a young Woman. Many of the narratives can
only tend to excite ideas the worst calculated for a female breast:
Every thing is called plainly and roundly by its name; and the annals
of a Brothel would scarcely furnish a greater choice of indecent
expressions. Yet this is the Book which young Women are recommended to
study; which is put into the hands of Children, able to comprehend
little more than those passages of which they had better remain
ignorant; and which but too frequently inculcates the first rudiments
of vice, and gives the first alarm to the still sleeping passions. Of
this was Elvira so fully convinced, that She would have preferred
putting into her Daughter’s hands “_Amadis de Gaul_,” or “_The Valiant
Champion, Tirante the White;_” and would sooner have authorised her
studying the lewd exploits of “_Don Galaor_,” or the lascivious jokes
of the “_Damsel Plazer di mi vida_.” She had in consequence made two
resolutions respecting the Bible. The first was that Antonia should not
read it till She was of an age to feel its beauties, and profit by its
morality: The second, that it should be copied out with her own hand,
and all improper passages either altered or omitted. She had adhered to
this determination, and such was the Bible which Antonia was reading:
It had been lately delivered to her, and She perused it with an
avidity, with a delight that was inexpressible. Ambrosio perceived his
mistake, and replaced the Book upon the Table.
Antonia spoke of her Mother’s health with all the enthusiastic joy of a
youthful heart.
“I admire your filial affection,” said the Abbot; “It proves the
excellence and sensibility of your character; It promises a treasure to
him whom Heaven has destined to possess your affections. The Breast, so
capable of fondness for a Parent, what will it feel for a Lover? Nay,
perhaps, what feels it for one even now? Tell me, my lovely Daughter;
Have you known what it is to love? Answer me with sincerity: Forget my
habit, and consider me only as a Friend.”
“What it is to love?” said She, repeating his question; “Oh! yes,
undoubtedly; I have loved many, many People.”
“That is not what I mean. The love of which I speak can be felt only
for one. Have you never seen the Man whom you wished to be your
Husband?”
“Oh! No, indeed!”
This was an untruth, but She was unconscious of its falsehood: She knew
not the nature of her sentiments for Lorenzo; and never having seen him
since his first visit to Elvira, with every day his Image grew less
feebly impressed upon her bosom. Besides, She thought of an Husband
with all a Virgin’s terror, and negatived the Friar’s demand without a
moment’s hesitation.
“And do you not long to see that Man, Antonia? Do you feel no void in
your heart which you fain would have filled up? Do you heave no sighs
for the absence of some one dear to you, but who that some one is, you
know not? Perceive you not that what formerly could please, has charms
for you no longer? That a thousand new wishes, new ideas, new
sensations, have sprang in your bosom, only to be felt, never to be
described? Or while you fill every other heart with passion, is it
possible that your own remains insensible and cold? It cannot be! That
melting eye, that blushing cheek, that enchanting voluptuous melancholy
which at times overspreads your features, all these marks belye your
words. You love, Antonia, and in vain would hide it from me.”
“Father, you amaze me! What is this love of which you speak? I neither
know its nature, nor if I felt it, why I should conceal the sentiment.”
“Have you seen no Man, Antonia, whom though never seen before, you
seemed long to have sought? Whose form, though a Stranger’s, was
familiar to your eyes? The sound of whose voice soothed you, pleased
you, penetrated to your very soul? In whose presence you rejoiced, for
whose absence you lamented? With whom your heart seemed to expand, and
in whose bosom with confidence unbounded you reposed the cares of your
own? Have you not felt all this, Antonia?”
“Certainly I have: The first time that I saw you, I felt it.”
Ambrosio started. Scarcely dared He credit his hearing.
“Me, Antonia?” He cried, his eyes sparkling with delight and
impatience, while He seized her hand, and pressed it rapturously to his
lips. “Me, Antonia? You felt these sentiments for me?”
“Even with more strength than you have described. The very moment that
I beheld you, I felt so pleased, so interested! I waited so eagerly to
catch the sound of your voice, and when I heard it, it seemed so sweet!
It spoke to me a language till then so unknown! Methought, it told me a
thousand things which I wished to hear! It seemed as if I had long
known you; as if I had a right to your friendship, your advice, and
your protection.
I wept when you departed, and longed for the time which should restore
you to my sight.”
“Antonia! my charming Antonia!” exclaimed the Monk, and caught her to
his bosom; “Can I believe my senses? Repeat it to me, my sweet Girl!
Tell me again that you love me, that you love me truly and tenderly!”
“Indeed, I do: Let my Mother be excepted, and the world holds no one
more dear to me!”
At this frank avowal Ambrosio no longer possessed himself; Wild with
desire, He clasped the blushing Trembler in his arms. He fastened his
lips greedily upon hers, sucked in her pure delicious breath, violated
with his bold hand the treasures of her bosom, and wound around him her
soft and yielding limbs. Startled, alarmed, and confused at his action,
surprize at first deprived her of the power of resistance. At length
recovering herself, She strove to escape from his embrace.
“Father! .... Ambrosio!” She cried; “Release me, for God’s sake!”
But the licentious Monk heeded not her prayers: He persisted in his
design, and proceeded to take still greater liberties. Antonia prayed,
wept, and struggled: Terrified to the extreme, though at what She knew
not, She exerted all her strength to repulse the Friar, and was on the
point of shrieking for assistance when the chamber door was suddenly
thrown open. Ambrosio had just sufficient presence of mind to be
sensible of his danger. Reluctantly He quitted his prey, and started
hastily from the Couch. Antonia uttered an exclamation of joy, flew
towards the door, and found herself clasped in the arms of her Mother.
Alarmed at some of the Abbot’s speeches, which Antonia had innocently
repeated, Elvira resolved to ascertain the truth of her suspicions. She
had known enough of Mankind not to be imposed upon by the Monk’s
reputed virtue. She reflected on several circumstances, which though
trifling, on being put together seemed to authorize her fears. His
frequent visits, which as far as She could see, were confined to her
family; His evident emotion, whenever She spoke of Antonia; His being
in the full prime and heat of Manhood; and above all, his pernicious