The Monk: A Romance
Now shame on the coward soul, which wants the courage either to be a
firm Friend or open Enemy!”
“To look upon guilt with horror, Matilda, is in itself a merit: In this
respect I glory to confess myself a Coward. Though my passions have
made me deviate from her laws, I still feel in my heart an innate love
of virtue. But it ill becomes you to tax me with my perjury: You, who
first seduced me to violate my vows; You, who first rouzed my sleeping
vices, made me feel the weight of Religion’s chains, and bad me be
convinced that guilt had pleasures. Yet though my principles have
yielded to the force of temperament, I still have sufficient grace to
shudder at Sorcery, and avoid a crime so monstrous, so unpardonable!”
“Unpardonable, say you? Where then is your constant boast of the
Almighty’s infinite mercy? Has He of late set bounds to it? Receives He
no longer a Sinner with joy? You injure him, Ambrosio; You will always
have time to repent, and He have goodness to forgive. Afford him a
glorious opportunity to exert that goodness: The greater your crime,
the greater his merit in pardoning. Away then with these childish
scruples: Be persuaded to your good, and follow me to the Sepulchre.”
“Oh! cease, Matilda! That scoffing tone, that bold and impious
language, is horrible in every mouth, but most so in a Woman’s. Let us
drop a conversation which excites no other sentiments than horror and
disgust. I will not follow you to the Sepulchre, or accept the services
of your infernal Agents. Antonia shall be mine, but mine by human
means.”
“Then yours She will never be! You are banished her presence; Her
Mother has opened her eyes to your designs, and She is now upon her
guard against them. Nay more, She loves another. A Youth of
distinguished merit possesses her heart, and unless you interfere, a
few days will make her his Bride. This intelligence was brought me by
my invisible Servants, to whom I had recourse on first perceiving your
indifference. They watched your every action, related to me all that
past at Elvira’s, and inspired me with the idea of favouring your
designs. Their reports have been my only comfort. Though you shunned my
presence, all your proceedings were known to me: Nay, I was constantly
with you in some degree, thanks to this precious gift!”
With these words She drew from beneath her habit a mirror of polished
steel, the borders of which were marked with various strange and
unknown characters.
“Amidst all my sorrows, amidst all my regrets for your coldness, I was
sustained from despair by the virtues of this Talisman. On pronouncing
certain words, the Person appears in it on whom the Observer’s thoughts
are bent: thus though _I_ was exiled from _your_ sight, you, Ambrosio,
were ever present to mine.”
The Friar’s curiosity was excited strongly.
“What you relate is incredible! Matilda, are you not amusing yourself
with my credulity?”
“Be your own eyes the Judge.”
She put the Mirror into his hand. Curiosity induced him to take it, and
Love, to wish that Antonia might appear. Matilda pronounced the magic
words. Immediately, a thick smoke rose from the characters traced upon
the borders, and spread itself over the surface. It dispersed again
gradually; A confused mixture of colours and images presented
themselves to the Friar’s eyes, which at length arranging themselves in
their proper places, He beheld in miniature Antonia’s lovely form.
The scene was a small closet belonging to her apartment. She was
undressing to bathe herself. The long tresses of her hair were already
bound up. The amorous Monk had full opportunity to observe the
voluptuous contours and admirable symmetry of her person. She threw off
her last garment, and advancing to the Bath prepared for her, She put
her foot into the water. It struck cold, and She drew it back again.
Though unconscious of being observed, an inbred sense of modesty
induced her to veil her charms; and She stood hesitating upon the
brink, in the attitude of the Venus de Medicis. At this moment a tame
Linnet flew towards her, nestled its head between her breasts, and
nibbled them in wanton play. The smiling Antonia strove in vain to
shake off the Bird, and at length raised her hands to drive it from its
delightful harbour. Ambrosio could bear no more: His desires were
worked up to phrenzy.
“I yield!” He cried, dashing the mirror upon the ground: “Matilda, I
follow you! Do with me what you will!”
She waited not to hear his consent repeated. It was already midnight.
She flew to her Cell, and soon returned with her little basket and the
Key of the Cemetery, which had remained in her possession since her
first visit to the Vaults. She gave the Monk no time for reflection.
“Come!” She said, and took his hand; “Follow me, and witness the
effects of your resolve!”
This said, She drew him hastily along. They passed into the
Burying-ground unobserved, opened the door of the Sepulchre, and found
themselves at the head of the subterraneous Staircase. As yet the beams
of the full Moon had guided their steps, but that resource now failed
them. Matilda had neglected to provide herself with a Lamp. Still
holding Ambrosio’s hand She descended the marble steps; But the
profound obscurity with which they were overspread obliged them to walk
slow and cautiously.
“You tremble!” said Matilda to her Companion; “Fear not; The destined
spot is near.”
They reached the foot of the Staircase, and continued to proceed,
feeling their way along the Walls. On turning a corner suddenly, they
descried faint gleams of light which seemed burning at a distance.
Thither they bent their steps: The rays proceeded from a small
sepulchral Lamp which flamed unceasingly before the Statue of St.
Clare. It tinged with dim and cheerless beams the massy Columns which
supported the Roof, but was too feeble to dissipate the thick gloom in
which the Vaults above were buried.
Matilda took the Lamp.
“Wait for me!” said She to the Friar; “In a few moments I am here
again.”
With these words She hastened into one of the passages which branched
in various directions from this spot, and formed a sort of Labyrinth.
Ambrosio was now left alone: Darkness the most profound surrounded him,
and encouraged the doubts which began to revive in his bosom. He had
been hurried away by the delirium of the moment: The shame of betraying
his terrors, while in Matilda’s presence, had induced him to repress
them; But now that he was abandoned to himself, they resumed their
former ascendancy. He trembled at the scene which He was soon to
witness. He knew not how far the delusions of Magic might operate upon
his mind, and possibly might force him to some deed whose commission
would make the breach between himself and Heaven irreparable. In this
fearful dilemma, He would have implored God’s assistance, but was
conscious that He had forfeited all claim to such protection. Gladly
would He have returned to the Abbey; But as He had past through
innumerable Caverns and winding passages, the attempt of regaining the
Stairs was hopeless. His fate was determined: No possibility of escape
presented itself: He therefore combated his apprehensions, and called
every argument to his succour, which might enable him to support the
trying scene with fortitude. He reflected that Antonia would be the
reward of his daring: He inflamed his imagination by enumerating her
charms. He persuaded himself that (as Matilda had observed), He always
should have time sufficient for repentance, and that as He employed
_her_ assistance, not that of the Dæmons, the crime of Sorcery could
not be laid to his charge. He had read much respecting witchcraft: He
understood that unless a formal Act was signed renouncing his claim to
salvation, Satan would have no power over him. He was fully determined
not to execute any such act, whatever threats might be used, or
advantages held out to him.
Such were his meditations while waiting for Matilda. They were
interrupted by a low murmur which seemed at no great distance from him.
He was startled. He listened. Some minutes past in silence, after which
the murmur was repeated. It appeared to be the groaning of one in pain.
In any other situation, this circumstance would only have excited his
attention and curiosity:
In the present, his predominant sensation was that of terror. His
imagination totally engrossed by the ideas of sorcery and Spirits, He
fancied that some unquiet Ghost was wandering near him; or else that
Matilda had fallen a Victim to her presumption, and was perishing under
the cruel fangs of the Dæmons. The noise seemed not to approach, but
continued to be heard at intervals. Sometimes it became more audible,
doubtless as the sufferings of the person who uttered the groans became
more acute and insupportable. Ambrosio now and then thought that He
could distinguish accents; and once in particular He was almost
convinced that He heard a faint voice exclaim,
“God! Oh! God! No hope! No succour!”
Yet deeper groans followed these words. They died away gradually, and
universal silence again prevailed.
“What can this mean?” thought the bewildered Monk.
At that moment an idea which flashed into his mind, almost petrified
him with horror. He started, and shuddered at himself.
“Should it be possible!” He groaned involuntarily; “Should it but be
possible, Oh! what a Monster am I!”
He wished to resolve his doubts, and to repair his fault, if it were
not too late already: But these generous and compassionate sentiments
were soon put to flight by the return of Matilda. He forgot the
groaning Sufferer, and remembered nothing but the danger and
embarrassment of his own situation. The light of the returning Lamp
gilded the walls, and in a few moments after Matilda stood beside him.
She had quitted her religious habit: She was now cloathed in a long
sable Robe, on which was traced in gold embroidery a variety of unknown
characters: It was fastened by a girdle of precious stones, in which
was fixed a poignard. Her neck and arms were uncovered. In her hand She
bore a golden wand. Her hair was loose and flowed wildly upon her
shoulders; Her eyes sparkled with terrific expression; and her whole
Demeanour was calculated to inspire the beholder with awe and
admiration.
“Follow me!” She said to the Monk in a low and solemn voice; “All is
ready!”
His limbs trembled, while He obeyed her. She led him through various
narrow passages; and on every side as they past along, the beams of the
Lamp displayed none but the most revolting objects; Skulls, Bones,
Graves, and Images whose eyes seemed to glare on them with horror and
surprize. At length they reached a spacious Cavern, whose lofty roof
the eye sought in vain to discover. A profound obscurity hovered
through the void. Damp vapours struck cold to the Friar’s heart; and He
listened sadly to the blast while it howled along the lonely Vaults.
Here Matilda stopped. She turned to Ambrosio. His cheeks and lips were
pale with apprehension. By a glance of mingled scorn and anger She
reproved his pusillanimity, but She spoke not. She placed the Lamp upon
the ground, near the Basket. She motioned that Ambrosio should be
silent, and began the mysterious rites. She drew a circle round him,
another round herself, and then taking a small Phial from the Basket,
poured a few drops upon the ground before her. She bent over the place,
muttered some indistinct sentences, and immediately a pale sulphurous
flame arose from the ground. It increased by degrees, and at length
spread its waves over the whole surface, the circles alone excepted in
which stood Matilda and the Monk. It then ascended the huge Columns of
unhewn stone, glided along the roof, and formed the Cavern into an