The Monk: A Romance
covering with it Elvira’s face, and pressing his knee upon her stomach
with all his strength, endeavoured to put an end to her existence. He
succeeded but too well. Her natural strength increased by the excess of
anguish, long did the Sufferer struggle to disengage herself, but in
vain. The Monk continued to kneel upon her breast, witnessed without
mercy the convulsive trembling of her limbs beneath him, and sustained
with inhuman firmness the spectacle of her agonies, when soul and body
were on the point of separating. Those agonies at length were over. She
ceased to struggle for life. The Monk took off the pillow, and gazed
upon her. Her face was covered with a frightful blackness:
Her limbs moved no more; The blood was chilled in her veins; Her heart
had forgotten to beat, and her hands were stiff and frozen.
Ambrosio beheld before him that once noble and majestic form, now
become a Corse, cold, senseless and disgusting.
This horrible act was no sooner perpetrated, than the Friar beheld the
enormity of his crime. A cold dew flowed over his limbs; his eyes
closed; He staggered to a chair, and sank into it almost as lifeless as
the Unfortunate who lay extended at his feet. From this state He was
rouzed by the necessity of flight, and the danger of being found in
Antonia’s apartment. He had no desire to profit by the execution of his
crime. Antonia now appeared to him an object of disgust. A deadly cold
had usurped the place of that warmth which glowed in his bosom: No
ideas offered themselves to his mind but those of death and guilt, of
present shame and future punishment. Agitated by remorse and fear He
prepared for flight: Yet his terrors did not so compleatly master his
recollection, as to prevent his taking the precautions necessary for
his safety. He replaced the pillow upon the bed, gathered up his
garments, and with the fatal Talisman in his hand, bent his unsteady
steps towards the door. Bewildered by fear, He fancied that his flight
was opposed by Legions of Phantoms; Whereever He turned, the disfigured
Corse seemed to lie in his passage, and it was long before He succeeded
in reaching the door. The enchanted Myrtle produced its former effect.
The door opened, and He hastened down the staircase. He entered the
Abbey unobserved, and having shut himself into his Cell, He abandoned
his soul to the tortures of unavailing remorse, and terrors of
impending detection.
CHAPTER IX.
Tell us, ye Dead, will none of you in pity
To those you left behind disclose the secret?
O! That some courteous Ghost would blab it out,
What ’tis you are, and we must shortly be.
I’ve heard that Souls departed have sometimes
Fore-warned Men of their deaths:
’Twas kindly done
To knock, and give the alarum.
BLAIR.
Ambrosio shuddered at himself, when He reflected on his rapid advances
in iniquity. The enormous crime which He had just committed filled him
with real horror. The murdered Elvira was continually before his eyes,
and his guilt was already punished by the agonies of his conscience.
Time, however, considerably weakened these impressions: One day passed
away, another followed it, and still not the least suspicion was thrown
upon him. Impunity reconciled him to his guilt: He began to resume his
spirits; and as his fears of detection died away, He paid less
attention to the reproaches of remorse. Matilda exerted herself to
quiet his alarms. At the first intelligence of Elvira’s death, She
seemed greatly affected, and joined the Monk in deploring the unhappy
catastrophe of his adventure: But when She found his agitation to be
somewhat calmed, and himself better disposed to listen to her
arguments, She proceeded to mention his offence in milder terms, and
convince him that He was not so highly culpable as He appeared to
consider himself. She represented that He had only availed himself of
the rights which Nature allows to every one, those of
self-preservation: That either Elvira or himself must have perished,
and that her inflexibility and resolution to ruin him had deservedly
marked her out for the Victim. She next stated, that as He had before
rendered himself suspected to Elvira, it was a fortunate event for him
that her lips were closed by death; since without this last adventure,
her suspicions if made public might have produced very disagreeable
consequences. He had therefore freed himself from an Enemy, to whom the
errors of his conduct were sufficiently known to make her dangerous,
and who was the greatest obstacle to his designs upon Antonia. Those
designs She encouraged him not to abandon. She assured him that, no
longer protected by her Mother’s watchful eye, the Daughter would fall
an easy conquest; and by praising and enumerating Antonia’s charms, She
strove to rekindle the desires of the Monk. In this endeavour She
succeeded but too well.
As if the crimes into which his passion had seduced him had only
increased its violence, He longed more eagerly than ever to enjoy
Antonia. The same success in concealing his present guilt, He trusted
would attend his future. He was deaf to the murmurs of conscience, and
resolved to satisfy his desires at any price. He waited only for an
opportunity of repeating his former enterprize; But to procure that
opportunity by the same means was now impracticable. In the first
transports of despair He had dashed the enchanted Myrtle into a
thousand pieces: Matilda told him plainly that He must expect no
further assistance from the infernal Powers unless He was willing to
subscribe to their established conditions. This Ambrosio was determined
not to do: He persuaded himself that however great might be his
iniquity, so long as he preserved his claim to salvation, He need not
despair of pardon. He therefore resolutely refused to enter into any
bond or compact with the Fiends; and Matilda finding him obstinate upon
this point, forbore to press him further. She exerted her invention to
discover some means of putting Antonia into the Abbot’s power: Nor was
it long before that means presented itself.
While her ruin was thus meditating, the unhappy Girl herself suffered
severely from the loss of her Mother. Every morning on waking, it was
her first care to hasten to Elvira’s chamber. On that which followed
Ambrosio’s fatal visit, She woke later than was her usual custom: Of
this She was convinced by the Abbey Chimes. She started from her bed,
threw on a few loose garments hastily, and was speeding to enquire how
her Mother had passed the night, when her foot struck against something
which lay in her passage. She looked down. What was her horror at
recognizing Elvira’s livid Corse! She uttered a loud shriek, and threw
herself upon the floor. She clasped the inanimate form to her bosom,
felt that it was dead-cold, and with a movement of disgust, of which
She was not the Mistress, let it fall again from her arms. The cry had
alarmed Flora, who hastened to her assistance. The sight which She
beheld penetrated her with horror; but her alarm was more audible than
Antonia’s. She made the House ring with her lamentations, while her
Mistress, almost suffocated with grief, could only mark her distress by
sobs and groans. Flora’s shrieks soon reached the ears of the Hostess,
whose terror and surprize were excessive on learning the cause of this
disturbance. A Physician was immediately sent for: But on the first
moment of beholding the Corse, He declared that Elvira’s recovery was
beyond the power of art. He proceeded therefore to give his assistance
to Antonia, who by this time was truly in need of it. She was conveyed
to bed, while the Landlady busied herself in giving orders for Elvira’s
Burial. Dame Jacintha was a plain good kind of Woman, charitable,
generous, and devout: But her intellects were weak, and She was a
Miserable Slave to fear and superstition. She shuddered at the idea of
passing the night in the same House with a dead Body: She was persuaded
that Elvira’s Ghost would appear to her, and no less certain that such
a visit would kill her with fright. From this persuasion, She resolved
to pass the night at a Neighbour’s, and insisted that the Funeral
should take place the next day. St. Clare’s Cemetery being the nearest,
it was determined that Elvira should be buried there. Dame Jacintha
engaged to defray every expence attending the burial. She knew not in
what circumstances Antonia was left, but from the sparing manner in
which the Family had lived, She concluded them to be indifferent.
Consequently, She entertained very little hope of ever being
recompensed; But this consideration prevented her not from taking care
that the Interment was performed with decency, and from showing the
unfortunate Antonia all possible respect.
Nobody dies of mere grief; Of this Antonia was an instance. Aided by
her youth and healthy constitution, She shook off the malady which her
Mother’s death had occasioned; But it was not so easy to remove the
disease of her mind. Her eyes were constantly filled with tears: Every
trifle affected her, and She evidently nourished in her bosom a
profound and rooted melancholy. The slightest mention of Elvira, the
most trivial circumstance recalling that beloved Parent to her memory,
was sufficient to throw her into serious agitation. How much would her
grief have been increased, had She known the agonies which terminated
her Mother’s existence! But of this no one entertained the least
suspicion. Elvira was subject to strong convulsions: It was supposed
that, aware of their approach, She had dragged herself to her
Daughter’s chamber in hopes of assistance; that a sudden access of her
fits had seized her, too violent to be resisted by her already
enfeebled state of health; and that She had expired ere She had time to
reach the medicine which generally relieved her, and which stood upon a
shelf in Antonia’s room. This idea was firmly credited by the few
people, who interested themselves about Elvira: Her Death was esteemed
a natural event, and soon forgotten by all save by her, who had but too
much reason to deplore her loss.
In truth Antonia’s situation was sufficiently embarrassing and
unpleasant. She was alone in the midst of a dissipated and expensive
City; She was ill provided with money, and worse with Friends. Her aunt
Leonella was still at Cordova, and She knew not her direction. Of the
Marquis de las Cisternas She heard no news: As to Lorenzo, She had long
given up the idea of possessing any interest in his bosom. She knew not
to whom She could address herself in her present dilemma. She wished to
consult Ambrosio; But She remembered her Mother’s injunctions to shun
him as much as possible, and the last conversation which Elvira had
held with her upon the subject had given her sufficient lights
respecting his designs to put her upon her guard against him in future.
Still all her Mother’s warnings could not make her change her good
opinion of the Friar. She continued to feel that his friendship and
society were requisite to her happiness: She looked upon his failings
with a partial eye, and could not persuade herself that He really had
intended her ruin. However, Elvira had positively commanded her to drop
his acquaintance, and She had too much respect for her orders to
disobey them.
At length She resolved to address herself for advice and protection to
the Marquis de las Cisternas, as being her nearest Relation. She wrote
to him, briefly stating her desolate situation; She besought him to
compassionate his Brother’s Child, to continue to her Elvira’s pension,
and to authorise her retiring to his old Castle in Murcia, which till
now had been her retreat. Having sealed her letter, She gave it to the
trusty Flora, who immediately set out to execute her commission. But