The Monk: A Romance
“Well? What have you seen this Evening? Why surely, Don Lorenzo, You
cannot be mad enough to think of making a Wife out of this
Grand-daughter of ‘as honest a painstaking Shoe-maker as any in
Cordova’?”
“You forget, that She is also the Grand-daughter of the late Marquis de
las Cisternas; But without disputing about birth and titles, I must
assure you, that I never beheld a Woman so interesting as Antonia.”
“Very possibly; But you cannot mean to marry her?”
“Why not, my dear Condé? I shall have wealth enough for both of us, and
you know that my Uncle thinks liberally upon the subject.
From what I have seen of Raymond de las Cisternas, I am certain that he
will readily acknowledge Antonia for his Niece. Her birth therefore
will be no objection to my offering her my hand. I should be a Villain
could I think of her on any other terms than marriage; and in truth She
seems possessed of every quality requisite to make me happy in a Wife.
Young, lovely, gentle, sensible....”
“Sensible? Why, She said nothing but ‘Yes,’ and ‘No’.”
“She did not say much more, I must confess—But then She always said
‘Yes,’ or ‘No,’ in the right place.”
“Did She so? Oh! your most obedient! That is using a right Lover’s
argument, and I dare dispute no longer with so profound a Casuist.
Suppose we adjourn to the Comedy?”
“It is out of my power. I only arrived last night at Madrid, and have
not yet had an opportunity of seeing my Sister; You know that her
Convent is in this Street, and I was going thither when the Crowd which
I saw thronging into this Church excited my curiosity to know what was
the matter. I shall now pursue my first intention, and probably pass
the Evening with my Sister at the Parlour grate.”
“Your Sister in a Convent, say you? Oh! very true, I had forgotten. And
how does Donna Agnes? I am amazed, Don Lorenzo, how you could possibly
think of immuring so charming a Girl within the walls of a Cloister!”
“I think of it, Don Christoval? How can you suspect me of such
barbarity? You are conscious that She took the veil by her own desire,
and that particular circumstances made her wish for a seclusion from
the World. I used every means in my power to induce her to change her
resolution; The endeavour was fruitless, and I lost a Sister!”
“The luckier fellow you; I think, Lorenzo, you were a considerable
gainer by that loss: If I remember right, Donna Agnes had a portion of
ten thousand pistoles, half of which reverted to your Lordship. By St.
Jago! I wish that I had fifty Sisters in the same predicament. I should
consent to losing them every soul without much heart-burning—”
“How, Condé?” said Lorenzo in an angry voice; “Do you suppose me base
enough to have influenced my Sister’s retirement? Do you suppose that
the despicable wish to make myself Master of her fortune could....”
“Admirable! Courage, Don Lorenzo! Now the Man is all in a blaze. God
grant that Antonia may soften that fiery temper, or we shall certainly
cut each other’s throat before the Month is over! However, to prevent
such a tragical Catastrophe for the present, I shall make a retreat,
and leave you Master of the field. Farewell, my Knight of Mount Aetna!
Moderate that inflammable disposition, and remember that whenever it is
necessary to make love to yonder Harridan, you may reckon upon my
services.”
He said, and darted out of the Cathedral.
“How wild-brained!” said Lorenzo; “With so excellent an heart, what
pity that He possesses so little solidity of judgment!”
The night was now fast advancing. The Lamps were not yet lighted. The
faint beams of the rising Moon scarcely could pierce through the gothic
obscurity of the Church. Lorenzo found himself unable to quit the Spot.
The void left in his bosom by Antonia’s absence, and his Sister’s
sacrifice which Don Christoval had just recalled to his imagination,
created that melancholy of mind which accorded but too well with the
religious gloom surrounding him. He was still leaning against the
seventh column from the Pulpit. A soft and cooling air breathed along
the solitary Aisles: The Moonbeams darting into the Church through
painted windows tinged the fretted roofs and massy pillars with a
thousand various tints of light and colours:
Universal silence prevailed around, only interrupted by the occasional
closing of Doors in the adjoining Abbey.
The calm of the hour and solitude of the place contributed to nourish
Lorenzo’s disposition to melancholy. He threw himself upon a seat which
stood near him, and abandoned himself to the delusions of his fancy. He
thought of his union with Antonia; He thought of the obstacles which
might oppose his wishes; and a thousand changing visions floated before
his fancy, sad ’tis true, but not unpleasing. Sleep insensibly stole
over him, and the tranquil solemnity of his mind when awake for a while
continued to influence his slumbers.
He still fancied himself to be in the Church of the Capuchins; but it
was no longer dark and solitary. Multitudes of silver Lamps shed
splendour from the vaulted Roof; Accompanied by the captivating chaunt
of distant choristers, the Organ’s melody swelled through the Church;
The Altar seemed decorated as for some distinguished feast; It was
surrounded by a brilliant Company; and near it stood Antonia arrayed in
bridal white, and blushing with all the charms of Virgin Modesty.
Half hoping, half fearing, Lorenzo gazed upon the scene before him.
Suddenly the door leading to the Abbey unclosed, and He saw, attended
by a long train of Monks, the Preacher advance to whom He had just
listened with so much admiration. He drew near Antonia.
“And where is the Bridegroom?” said the imaginary Friar.
Antonia seemed to look round the Church with anxiety. Involuntarily the
Youth advanced a few steps from his concealment. She saw him; The blush
of pleasure glowed upon her cheek; With a graceful motion of her hand
She beckoned to him to advance. He disobeyed not the command; He flew
towards her, and threw himself at her feet.
She retreated for a moment; Then gazing upon him with unutterable
delight;—“Yes!” She exclaimed, “My Bridegroom! My destined Bridegroom!”
She said, and hastened to throw herself into his arms; But before He
had time to receive her, an Unknown rushed between them. His form was
gigantic; His complexion was swarthy, His eyes fierce and terrible; his
Mouth breathed out volumes of fire; and on his forehead was written in
legible characters—“Pride! Lust! Inhumanity!”
Antonia shrieked. The Monster clasped her in his arms, and springing
with her upon the Altar, tortured her with his odious caresses. She
endeavoured in vain to escape from his embrace. Lorenzo flew to her
succour, but ere He had time to reach her, a loud burst of thunder was
heard. Instantly the Cathedral seemed crumbling into pieces; The Monks
betook themselves to flight, shrieking fearfully; The Lamps were
extinguished, the Altar sank down, and in its place appeared an abyss
vomiting forth clouds of flame. Uttering a loud and terrible cry the
Monster plunged into the Gulph, and in his fall attempted to drag
Antonia with him. He strove in vain. Animated by supernatural powers
She disengaged herself from his embrace; But her white Robe was left in
his possession. Instantly a wing of brilliant splendour spread itself
from either of Antonia’s arms. She darted upwards, and while ascending
cried to Lorenzo,
“Friend! we shall meet above!”
At the same moment the Roof of the Cathedral opened; Harmonious voices
pealed along the Vaults; and the glory into which Antonia was received
was composed of rays of such dazzling brightness, that Lorenzo was
unable to sustain the gaze. His sight failed, and He sank upon the
ground.
When He woke, He found himself extended upon the pavement of the
Church: It was Illuminated, and the chaunt of Hymns sounded from a
distance. For a while Lorenzo could not persuade himself that what He
had just witnessed had been a dream, so strong an impression had it
made upon his fancy. A little recollection convinced him of its
fallacy: The Lamps had been lighted during his sleep, and the music
which he heard was occasioned by the Monks, who were celebrating their
Vespers in the Abbey Chapel.
Lorenzo rose, and prepared to bend his steps towards his Sister’s
Convent. His mind fully occupied by the singularity of his dream, He
already drew near the Porch, when his attention was attracted by
perceiving a Shadow moving upon the opposite wall. He looked curiously
round, and soon descried a Man wrapped up in his Cloak, who seemed
carefully examining whether his actions were observed. Very few people
are exempt from the influence of curiosity. The Unknown seemed anxious
to conceal his business in the Cathedral, and it was this very
circumstance, which made Lorenzo wish to discover what He was about.
Our Hero was conscious that He had no right to pry into the secrets of
this unknown Cavalier.
“I will go,” said Lorenzo. And Lorenzo stayed, where He was.
The shadow thrown by the Column, effectually concealed him from the
Stranger, who continued to advance with caution. At length He drew a
letter from beneath his cloak, and hastily placed it beneath a Colossal
Statue of St. Francis. Then retiring with precipitation, He concealed
himself in a part of the Church at a considerable distance from that in
which the Image stood.
“So!” said Lorenzo to himself; “This is only some foolish love affair.
I believe, I may as well be gone, for I can do no good in it.”
In truth till that moment it never came into his head that He could do
any good in it; But He thought it necessary to make some little excuse
to himself for having indulged his curiosity. He now made a second
attempt to retire from the Church: For this time He gained the Porch
without meeting with any impediment; But it was destined that He should
pay it another visit that night. As He descended the steps leading into
the Street, a Cavalier rushed against him with such violence, that Both
were nearly overturned by the concussion. Lorenzo put his hand to his
sword.
“How now, Segnor?” said He; “What mean you by this rudeness?”
“Ha! Is it you, Medina?” replied the Newcomer, whom Lorenzo by his
voice now recognized for Don Christoval; “You are the luckiest Fellow
in the Universe, not to have left the Church before my return. In, in!
my dear Lad! They will be here immediately!”
“Who will be here?”
“The old Hen and all her pretty little Chickens! In, I say, and then
you shall know the whole History.”
Lorenzo followed him into the Cathedral, and they concealed themselves
behind the Statue of St. Francis.
“And now,” said our Hero, “may I take the liberty of asking, what is
the meaning of all this haste and rapture?”
“Oh! Lorenzo, we shall see such a glorious sight! The Prioress of St.
Clare and her whole train of Nuns are coming hither. You are to know,
that the pious Father Ambrosio (The Lord reward him for it!) will upon
no account move out of his own precincts: It being absolutely necessary
for every fashionable Convent to have him for its Confessor, the Nuns
are in consequence obliged to visit him at the Abbey; since when the
Mountain will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet must needs go to the
Mountain. Now the Prioress of St. Clare, the better to escape the gaze
of such impure eyes as belong to yourself and your humble Servant,
thinks proper to bring her holy flock to confession in the Dusk: She is
to be admitted into the Abbey Chapel by yon private door. The Porteress
of St. Clare, who is a worthy old Soul and a particular Friend of mine,
has just assured me of their being here in a few moments. There is news
for you, you Rogue! We shall see some of the prettiest faces in
Madrid!”