The Monk: A Romance
himself to Antonia without his Uncle’s consent, endeavoured by
occasional Serenades, to convince his Mistress that his attachment
still existed. His stratagem had not the desired effect. Antonia was
far from supposing that this nightly music was intended as a compliment
to her: She was too modest to think herself worthy such attentions; and
concluding them to be addressed to some neighbouring Lady, She grieved
to find that they were offered by Lorenzo.
The air which was played, was plaintive and melodious. It accorded with
the state of Antonia’s mind, and She listened with pleasure. After a
symphony of some length, it was succeeded by the sound of voices, and
Antonia distinguished the following words.
SERENADE
Chorus
Oh! Breathe in gentle strain, my Lyre!
’Tis here that Beauty loves to rest:
Describe the pangs of fond desire,
Which rend a faithful Lover’s breast.
Song
In every heart to find a Slave,
In every Soul to fix his reign,
In bonds to lead the wise and brave,
And make the Captives kiss his chain,
Such is the power of Love, and Oh!
I grieve so well Love’s power to know.
In sighs to pass the live-long day,
To taste a short and broken sleep,
For one dear Object far away,
All others scorned, to watch and weep,
Such are the pains of Love, and Oh!
I grieve so well Love’s pains to know!
To read consent in virgin eyes,
To press the lip ne’er prest till then
To hear the sigh of transport rise,
And kiss, and kiss, and kiss again,
Such are thy pleasures, Love, But Oh!
When shall my heart thy pleasures know?
Chorus
Now hush, my Lyre! My voice be still!
Sleep, gentle Maid! May fond desire
With amorous thoughts thy visions fill,
Though still my voice, and hushed my Lyre.
The Music ceased: The Performers dispersed, and silence prevailed
through the Street. Antonia quitted the window with regret: She as
usual recommended herself to the protection of St. Rosolia, said her
accustomed prayers, and retired to bed. Sleep was not long absent, and
his presence relieved her from her terrors and inquietude.
It was almost two o’clock before the lustful Monk ventured to bend his
steps towards Antonia’s dwelling. It has been already mentioned that
the Abbey was at no great distance from the Strada di San Iago. He
reached the House unobserved. Here He stopped, and hesitated for a
moment. He reflected on the enormity of the crime, the consequences of
a discovery, and the probability, after what had passed, of Elvira’s
suspecting him to be her Daughter’s Ravisher: On the other hand it was
suggested that She could do no more than suspect; that no proofs of his
guilt could be produced; that it would seem impossible for the rape to
have been committed without Antonia’s knowing when, where, or by whom;
and finally, He believed that his fame was too firmly established to be
shaken by the unsupported accusations of two unknown Women. This latter
argument was perfectly false: He knew not how uncertain is the air of
popular applause, and that a moment suffices to make him today the
detestation of the world, who yesterday was its Idol. The result of the
Monk’s deliberations was that He should proceed in his enterprize. He
ascended the steps leading to the House. No sooner did He touch the
door with the silver Myrtle, than it flew open, and presented him with
a free passage. He entered, and the door closed after him of its own
accord.
Guided by the moonbeams, He proceeded up the Staircase with slow and
cautious steps. He looked round him every moment with apprehension and
anxiety. He saw a Spy in every shadow, and heard a voice in every
murmur of the night breeze. Consciousness of the guilty business on
which He was employed appalled his heart, and rendered it more timid
than a Woman’s. Yet still He proceeded. He reached the door of
Antonia’s chamber. He stopped, and listened. All was hushed within. The
total silence persuaded him that his intended Victim was retired to
rest, and He ventured to lift up the Latch. The door was fastened, and
resisted his efforts: But no sooner was it touched by the Talisman,
than the Bolt flew back. The Ravisher stept on, and found himself in
the chamber, where slept the innocent Girl, unconscious how dangerous a
Visitor was drawing near her Couch. The door closed after him, and the
Bolt shot again into its fastening.
Ambrosio advanced with precaution. He took care that not a board should
creak under his foot, and held in his breath as He approached the Bed.
His first attention was to perform the magic ceremony, as Matilda had
charged him: He breathed thrice upon the silver Myrtle, pronounced over
it Antonia’s name, and laid it upon her pillow. The effects which it
had already produced permitted not his doubting its success in
prolonging the slumbers of his devoted Mistress. No sooner was the
enchantment performed than He considered her to be absolutely in his
power, and his eyes flamed with lust and impatience. He now ventured to
cast a glance upon the sleeping Beauty. A single Lamp, burning before
the Statue of St. Rosolia, shed a faint light through the room, and
permitted him to examine all the charms of the lovely Object before
him. The heat of the weather had obliged her to throw off part of the
Bed-cloathes: Those which still covered her, Ambrosio’s insolent hand
hastened to remove. She lay with her cheek reclining upon one ivory
arm; The Other rested on the side of the Bed with graceful indolence. A
few tresses of her hair had escaped from beneath the Muslin which
confined the rest, and fell carelessly over her bosom, as it heaved
with slow and regular suspiration. The warm air had spread her cheek
with higher colour than usual. A smile inexpressibly sweet played round
her ripe and coral lips, from which every now and then escaped a gentle
sigh or an half-pronounced sentence. An air of enchanting innocence and
candour pervaded her whole form; and there was a sort of modesty in her
very nakedness which added fresh stings to the desires of the lustful
Monk.
He remained for some moments devouring those charms with his eyes which
soon were to be subjected to his ill-regulated passions. Her mouth
half-opened seemed to solicit a kiss: He bent over her; he joined his
lips to hers, and drew in the fragrance of her breath with rapture.
This momentary pleasure increased his longing for still greater. His
desires were raised to that frantic height by which Brutes are
agitated. He resolved not to delay for one instant longer the
accomplishment of his wishes, and hastily proceeded to tear off those
garments which impeded the gratification of his lust.
“Gracious God!” exclaimed a voice behind him; “Am I not deceived?
Is not this an illusion?”
Terror, confusion, and disappointment accompanied these words, as they
struck Ambrosio’s hearing. He started, and turned towards it. Elvira
stood at the door of the chamber, and regarded the Monk with looks of
surprize and detestation.
A frightful dream had represented to her Antonia on the verge of a
precipice. She saw her trembling on the brink: Every moment seemed to
threaten her fall, and She heard her exclaim with shrieks, “Save me,
Mother! Save me!—Yet a moment, and it will be too late!” Elvira woke in
terror. The vision had made too strong an impression upon her mind, to
permit her resting till assured of her Daughter’s safety. She hastily
started from her Bed, threw on a loose night-gown, and passing through
the Closet in which slept the Waiting-woman, She reached Antonia’s
chamber just in time to rescue her from the grasp of the Ravisher.
His shame and her amazement seemed to have petrified into Statues both
Elvira and the Monk: They remained gazing upon each other in silence.
The Lady was the first to recover herself.
“It is no dream!” She cried; “It is really Ambrosio, who stands before
me! It is the Man whom Madrid esteems a Saint, that I find at this late
hour near the Couch of my unhappy Child! Monster of Hypocrisy! I
already suspected your designs, but forbore your accusation in pity to
human frailty. Silence would now be criminal: The whole City shall be
informed of your incontinence. I will unmask you, Villain, and convince
the Church what a Viper She cherishes in her bosom.”
Pale and confused the baffled Culprit stood trembling before her.
He would fain have extenuated his offence, but could find no apology
for his conduct: He could produce nothing but broken sentences, and
excuses which contradicted each other. Elvira was too justly incensed
to grant the pardon which He requested. She protested that She would
raise the neighbourhood, and make him an example to all future
Hypocrites. Then hastening to the Bed, She called to Antonia to wake;
and finding that her voice had no effect, She took her arm, and raised
her forcibly from the pillow. The charm operated too powerfully.
Antonia remained insensible, and on being released by her Mother, sank
back upon the pillow.
“This slumber cannot be natural!” cried the amazed Elvira, whose
indignation increased with every moment. “Some mystery is concealed in
it; But tremble, Hypocrite; all your villainy shall soon be unravelled!
Help! Help!” She exclaimed aloud; “Within there! Flora! Flora!”
“Hear me for one moment, Lady!” cried the Monk, restored to himself by
the urgency of the danger; “By all that is sacred and holy, I swear
that your Daughter’s honour is still unviolated. Forgive my
transgression! Spare me the shame of a discovery, and permit me to
regain the Abbey undisturbed. Grant me this request in mercy! I promise
not only that Antonia shall be secure from me in future, but that the
rest of my life shall prove .....”
Elvira interrupted him abruptly.
“Antonia secure from you? _I_ will secure her! You shall betray no
longer the confidence of Parents! Your iniquity shall be unveiled to
the public eye: All Madrid shall shudder at your perfidy, your
hypocrisy and incontinence. What Ho! there! Flora! Flora, I say!”
While She spoke thus, the remembrance of Agnes struck upon his mind.
Thus had She sued to him for mercy, and thus had He refused her prayer!
It was now his turn to suffer, and He could not but acknowledge that
his punishment was just. In the meanwhile Elvira continued to call
Flora to her assistance; but her voice was so choaked with passion that
the Servant, who was buried in profound slumber, was insensible to all
her cries: Elvira dared not go towards the Closet in which Flora slept,
lest the Monk should take that opportunity to escape. Such indeed was
his intention: He trusted that could He reach the Abbey unobserved by
any other than Elvira, her single testimony would not suffice to ruin a
reputation so well established as his was in Madrid. With this idea He
gathered up such garments as He had already thrown off, and hastened
towards the Door. Elvira was aware of his design; She followed him, and
ere He could draw back the bolt, seized him by the arm, and detained
him.
“Attempt not to fly!” said She; “You quit not this room without
Witnesses of your guilt.”
Ambrosio struggled in vain to disengage himself. Elvira quitted not her
hold, but redoubled her cries for succour. The Friar’s danger grew more
urgent. He expected every moment to hear people assembling at her
voice; And worked up to madness by the approach of ruin, He adopted a
resolution equally desperate and savage. Turning round suddenly, with
one hand He grasped Elvira’s throat so as to prevent her continuing her
clamour, and with the other, dashing her violently upon the ground, He
dragged her towards the Bed. Confused by this unexpected attack, She
scarcely had power to strive at forcing herself from his grasp: While
the Monk, snatching the pillow from beneath her Daughter’s head,