The Monk: A Romance
philosophy communicated to her by Antonia, and which accorded but ill
with his conversation in her presence, all these circumstances inspired
her with doubts respecting the purity of Ambrosio’s friendship. In
consequence, She resolved, when He should next be alone with Antonia,
to endeavour at surprizing him. Her plan had succeeded. ’Tis true, that
when She entered the room, He had already abandoned his prey; But the
disorder of her Daughter’s dress, and the shame and confusion stamped
upon the Friar’s countenance, sufficed to prove that her suspicions
were but too well-founded. However, She was too prudent to make those
suspicions known. She judged that to unmask the Imposter would be no
easy matter, the public being so much prejudiced in his favour: and
having but few Friends, She thought it dangerous to make herself so
powerful an Enemy. She affected therefore not to remark his agitation,
seated herself tranquilly upon the Sopha, assigned some trifling reason
for having quitted her room unexpectedly, and conversed on various
subjects with seeming confidence and ease.
Reassured by her behaviour, the Monk began to recover himself. He
strove to answer Elvira without appearing embarrassed: But He was still
too great a novice in dissimulation, and He felt that He must look
confused and awkward. He soon broke off the conversation, and rose to
depart. What was his vexation, when on taking leave, Elvira told him in
polite terms, that being now perfectly reestablished, She thought it an
injustice to deprive Others of his company, who might be more in need
of it! She assured him of her eternal gratitude, for the benefit which
during her illness She had derived from his society and exhortations:
And She lamented that her domestic affairs, as well as the multitude of
business which his situation must of necessity impose upon him, would
in future deprive her of the pleasure of his visits. Though delivered
in the mildest language this hint was too plain to be mistaken. Still,
He was preparing to put in a remonstrance when an expressive look from
Elvira stopped him short. He dared not press her to receive him, for
her manner convinced him that He was discovered: He submitted without
reply, took an hasty leave, and retired to the Abbey, his heart filled
with rage and shame, with bitterness and disappointment.
Antonia’s mind felt relieved by his departure; Yet She could not help
lamenting that She was never to see him more. Elvira also felt a secret
sorrow; She had received too much pleasure from thinking him her
Friend, not to regret the necessity of changing her opinion: But her
mind was too much accustomed to the fallacy of worldly friendships to
permit her present disappointment to weigh upon it long. She now
endeavoured to make her Daughter aware of the risque which She had ran:
But She was obliged to treat the subject with caution, lest in removing
the bandage of ignorance, the veil of innocence should be rent away.
She therefore contented herself with warning Antonia to be upon her
guard, and ordering her, should the Abbot persist in his visits, never
to receive them but in company. With this injunction Antonia promised
to comply.
Ambrosio hastened to his Cell. He closed the door after him, and threw
himself upon the bed in despair. The impulse of desire, the stings of
disappointment, the shame of detection, and the fear of being publicly
unmasked, rendered his bosom a scene of the most horrible confusion. He
knew not what course to pursue. Debarred the presence of Antonia, He
had no hopes of satisfying that passion which was now become a part of
his existence. He reflected that his secret was in a Woman’s power: He
trembled with apprehension when He beheld the precipice before him, and
with rage, when He thought that had it not been for Elvira, He should
now have possessed the object of his desires. With the direct
imprecations He vowed vengeance against her; He swore that, cost what
it would, He still would possess Antonia. Starting from the Bed, He
paced the chamber with disordered steps, howled with impotent fury,
dashed himself violently against the walls, and indulged all the
transports of rage and madness.
He was still under the influence of this storm of passions when He
heard a gentle knock at the door of his Cell. Conscious that his voice
must have been heard, He dared not refuse admittance to the Importuner:
He strove to compose himself, and to hide his agitation. Having in some
degree succeeded, He drew back the bolt: The door opened, and Matilda
appeared.
At this precise moment there was no one with whose presence He could
better have dispensed. He had not sufficient command over himself to
conceal his vexation. He started back, and frowned.
“I am busy,” said He in a stern and hasty tone; “Leave me!”
Matilda heeded him not: She again fastened the door, and then advanced
towards him with an air gentle and supplicating.
“Forgive me, Ambrosio,” said She; “For your own sake I must not obey
you. Fear no complaints from me; I come not to reproach you with your
ingratitude. I pardon you from my heart, and since your love can no
longer be mine, I request the next best gift, your confidence and
friendship. We cannot force our inclinations; The little beauty which
you once saw in me has perished with its novelty, and if it can no
longer excite desire, mine is the fault, not yours. But why persist in
shunning me? Why such anxiety to fly my presence? You have sorrows, but
will not permit me to share them; You have disappointments, but will
not accept my comfort; You have wishes, but forbid my aiding your
pursuits. ’Tis of this which I complain, not of your indifference to my
person. I have given up the claims of the Mistress, but nothing shall
prevail on me to give up those of the Friend.”
Her mildness had an instantaneous effect upon Ambrosio’s feelings.
“Generous Matilda!” He replied, taking her hand, “How far do you rise
superior to the foibles of your sex! Yes, I accept your offer. I have
need of an adviser, and a Confident: In you I find every needful
quality united. But to aid my pursuits .... Ah! Matilda, it lies not in
your power!”
“It lies in no one’s power but mine. Ambrosio, your secret is none to
me; Your every step, your every action has been observed by my
attentive eye. You love.”
“Matilda!”
“Why conceal it from me? Fear not the little jealousy which taints the
generality of Women: My soul disdains so despicable a passion. You
love, Ambrosio; Antonia Dalfa is the object of your flame. I know every
circumstance respecting your passion: Every conversation has been
repeated to me. I have been informed of your attempt to enjoy Antonia’s
person, your disappointment, and dismission from Elvira’s House. You
now despair of possessing your Mistress; But I come to revive your
hopes, and point out the road to success.”
“To success? Oh! impossible!”
“To them who dare nothing is impossible. Rely upon me, and you may yet
be happy. The time is come, Ambrosio, when regard for your comfort and
tranquillity compels me to reveal a part of my History, with which you
are still unacquainted. Listen, and do not interrupt me: Should my
confession disgust you, remember that in making it my sole aim is to
satisfy your wishes, and restore that peace to your heart which at
present has abandoned it. I formerly mentioned that my Guardian was a
Man of uncommon knowledge: He took pains to instil that knowledge into
my infant mind. Among the various sciences which curiosity had induced
him to explore, He neglected not that which by most is esteemed
impious, and by many chimerical. I speak of those arts which relate to
the world of Spirits. His deep researches into causes and effects, his
unwearied application to the study of natural philosophy, his profound
and unlimited knowledge of the properties and virtues of every gem
which enriches the deep, of every herb which the earth produces, at
length procured him the distinction which He had sought so long, so
earnestly. His curiosity was fully slaked, his ambition amply
gratified. He gave laws to the elements; He could reverse the order of
nature; His eye read the mandates of futurity, and the infernal Spirits
were submissive to his commands. Why shrink you from me? I understand
that enquiring look. Your suspicions are right, though your terrors are
unfounded. My Guardian concealed not from me his most precious
acquisition. Yet, had I never seen _you_, I should never have exerted
my power. Like you I shuddered at the thoughts of Magic: Like you I had
formed a terrible idea of the consequences of raising a daemon. To
preserve that life which your love had taught me to prize, I had
recourse to means which I trembled at employing. You remember that
night which I past in St. Clare’s Sepulchre? Then was it that,
surrounded by mouldering bodies, I dared to perform those mystic rites
which summoned to my aid a fallen Angel. Judge what must have been my
joy at discovering that my terrors were imaginary: I saw the Dæmon
obedient to my orders, I saw him trembling at my frown, and found that,
instead of selling my soul to a Master, my courage had purchased for
myself a slave.”
“Rash Matilda! What have you done? You have doomed yourself to endless
perdition; You have bartered for momentary power eternal happiness! If
on witchcraft depends the fruition of my desires, I renounce your aid
most absolutely. The consequences are too horrible: I doat upon
Antonia, but am not so blinded by lust as to sacrifice for her
enjoyment my existence both in this world and the next.”
“Ridiculous prejudices! Oh! blush, Ambrosio, blush at being subjected
to their dominion. Where is the risque of accepting my offers? What
should induce my persuading you to this step, except the wish of
restoring you to happiness and quiet. If there is danger, it must fall
upon me: It is I who invoke the ministry of the Spirits; Mine therefore
will be the crime, and yours the profit. But danger there is none: The
Enemy of Mankind is my Slave, not my Sovereign. Is there no difference
between giving and receiving laws, between serving and commanding?
Awake from your idle dreams, Ambrosio! Throw from you these terrors so
ill-suited to a soul like yours; Leave them for common Men, and dare to
be happy! Accompany me this night to St. Clare’s Sepulchre, witness my
incantations, and Antonia is your own.”
“To obtain her by such means I neither can, or will. Cease then to
persuade me, for I dare not employ Hell’s agency.
“You DARE not? How have you deceived me! That mind which I esteemed so
great and valiant, proves to be feeble, puerile, and grovelling, a
slave to vulgar errors, and weaker than a Woman’s.”
“What? Though conscious of the danger, wilfully shall I expose myself
to the Seducer’s arts? Shall I renounce for ever my title to salvation?
Shall my eyes seek a sight which I know will blast them? No, no,
Matilda; I will not ally myself with God’s Enemy.”
“Are you then God’s Friend at present? Have you not broken your
engagements with him, renounced his service, and abandoned yourself to
the impulse of your passions? Are you not planning the destruction of
innocence, the ruin of a Creature whom He formed in the mould of
Angels? If not of Dæmons, whose aid would you invoke to forward this
laudable design? Will the Seraphims protect it, conduct Antonia to your
arms, and sanction with their ministry your illicit pleasures? Absurd!
But I am not deceived, Ambrosio! It is not virtue which makes you
reject my offer: You WOULD accept it, but you dare not. ’Tis not the
crime which holds your hand, but the punishment; ’Tis not respect for
God which restrains you, but the terror of his vengeance! Fain would
you offend him in secret, but you tremble to profess yourself his Foe.