The Monk: A Romance
ventured to peep in; But the wealth of India would not have tempted her
to cross the threshold. She gave the Taper to the Monk, wished him well
through the adventure, and hastened to be gone. Ambrosio entered. He
bolted the door, placed the light upon the Table, and seated himself in
the Chair which on the former night had sustained Antonia. In spite of
Matilda’s assurances that the Spectre was a mere creation of fancy, his
mind was impressed with a certain mysterious horror. He in vain
endeavoured to shake it off. The silence of the night, the story of the
Apparition, the chamber wainscotted with dark oak pannells, the
recollection which it brought with it of the murdered Elvira, and his
incertitude respecting the nature of the drops given by him to Antonia,
made him feel uneasy at his present situation. But He thought much less
of the Spectre, than of the poison. Should He have destroyed the only
object which rendered life dear to him; Should the Ghost’s prediction
prove true; Should Antonia in three days be no more, and He the
wretched cause of her death ...... The supposition was too horrible to
dwell upon. He drove away these dreadful images, and as often they
presented themselves again before him. Matilda had assured him that the
effects of the Opiate would be speedy. He listened with fear, yet with
eagerness, expecting to hear some disturbance in the adjoining chamber.
All was still silent. He concluded that the drops had not begun to
operate. Great was the stake, for which He now played: A moment would
suffice to decide upon his misery or happiness. Matilda had taught him
the means of ascertaining that life was not extinct for ever: Upon this
assay depended all his hopes. With every instant his impatience
redoubled; His terrors grew more lively, his anxiety more awake. Unable
to bear this state of incertitude, He endeavoured to divert it by
substituting the thoughts of Others to his own. The Books, as was
before mentioned, were ranged upon shelves near the Table: This stood
exactly opposite to the Bed, which was placed in an Alcove near the
Closet door. Ambrosio took down a Volume, and seated himself by the
Table: But his attention wandered from the Pages before him. Antonia’s
image and that of the murdered Elvira persisted to force themselves
before his imagination. Still He continued to read, though his eyes ran
over the characters without his mind being conscious of their import.
Such was his occupation, when He fancied that He heard a footstep. He
turned his head, but nobody was to be seen.
He resumed his Book; But in a few minutes after the same sound was
repeated, and followed by a rustling noise close behind him. He now
started from his seat, and looking round him, perceived the Closet door
standing half-unclosed. On his first entering the room He had tried to
open it, but found it bolted on the inside.
“How is this?” said He to himself; “How comes this door unfastened?”
He advanced towards it: He pushed it open, and looked into the closet:
No one was there. While He stood irresolute, He thought that He
distinguished a groaning in the adjacent chamber: It was Antonia’s, and
He supposed that the drops began to take effect: But upon listening
more attentively, He found the noise to be caused by Jacintha, who had
fallen asleep by the Lady’s Bedside, and was snoring most lustily.
Ambrosio drew back, and returned to the other room, musing upon the
sudden opening of the Closet door, for which He strove in vain to
account.
He paced the chamber up and down in silence. At length He stopped, and
the Bed attracted his attention. The curtain of the Recess was but
half-drawn. He sighed involuntarily.
“That Bed,” said He in a low voice, “That Bed was Elvira’s! There has
She past many a quiet night, for She was good and innocent. How sound
must have been her sleep! And yet now She sleeps sounder! Does She
indeed sleep? Oh! God grant that She may! What if She rose from her
Grave at this sad and silent hour? What if She broke the bonds of the
Tomb, and glided angrily before my blasted eyes? Oh! I never could
support the sight! Again to see her form distorted by dying agonies,
her blood-swollen veins, her livid countenance, her eyes bursting from
their sockets with pain! To hear her speak of future punishment, menace
me with Heaven’s vengeance, tax me with the crimes I have committed,
with those I am going to commit ..... Great God! What is that?”
As He uttered these words, his eyes which were fixed upon the Bed, saw
the curtain shaken gently backwards and forwards. The Apparition was
recalled to his mind, and He almost fancied that He beheld Elvira’s
visionary form reclining upon the Bed. A few moments consideration
sufficed to reassure him.
“It was only the wind,” said He, recovering himself.
Again He paced the chamber; But an involuntary movement of awe and
inquietude constantly led his eye towards the Alcove. He drew near it
with irresolution. He paused before He ascended the few steps which led
to it. He put out his hand thrice to remove the curtain, and as often
drew it back.
“Absurd terrors!” He cried at length, ashamed of his own weakness——
Hastily he mounted the steps; When a Figure drest in white started from
the Alcove, and gliding by him, made with precipitation towards the
Closet. Madness and despair now supplied the Monk with that courage, of
which He had till then been destitute. He flew down the steps, pursued
the Apparition, and attempted to grasp it.
“Ghost, or Devil, I hold you!” He exclaimed, and seized the Spectre by
the arm.
“Oh! Christ Jesus!” cried a shrill voice; “Holy Father, how you gripe
me! I protest that I meant no harm!”
This address, as well as the arm which He held, convinced the Abbot
that the supposed Ghost was substantial flesh and blood. He drew the
Intruder towards the Table, and holding up the light, discovered the
features of ...... Madona Flora!
Incensed at having been betrayed by this trifling cause into fears so
ridiculous, He asked her sternly, what business had brought her to that
chamber. Flora, ashamed at being found out, and terrified at the
severity of Ambrosio’s looks, fell upon her knees, and promised to make
a full confession.
“I protest, reverend Father,” said She, “that I am quite grieved at
having disturbed you: Nothing was further from my intention. I meant to
get out of the room as quietly as I got in; and had you been ignorant
that I watched you, you know, it would have been the same thing as if I
had not watched you at all. To be sure, I did very wrong in being a Spy
upon you, that I cannot deny; But Lord! your Reverence, how can a poor
weak Woman resist curiosity? Mine was so strong to know what you were
doing, that I could not but try to get a little peep, without any body
knowing any thing about it. So with that I left old Dame Jacintha
sitting by my Lady’s Bed, and I ventured to steal into the Closet.
Being unwilling to interrupt you, I contented myself at first with
putting my eye to the Keyhole; But as I could see nothing by this
means, I undrew the bolt, and while your back was turned to the Alcove,
I whipt me in softly and silently. Here I lay snug behind the curtain,
till your Reverence found me out, and seized me ere I had time to
regain the Closet door. This is the whole truth, I assure you, Holy
Father, and I beg your pardon a thousand times for my impertinence.”
During this speech the Abbot had time to recollect himself: He was
satisfied with reading the penitent Spy a lecture upon the dangers of
curiosity, and the meanness of the action in which She had been just
discovered. Flora declared herself fully persuaded that She had done
wrong; She promised never to be guilty of the same fault again, and was
retiring very humble and contrite to Antonia’s chamber, when the Closet
door was suddenly thrown open, and in rushed Jacintha pale and out of
breath.
“Oh! Father! Father!” She cried in a voice almost choaked with terror;
“What shall I do! What shall I do! Here is a fine piece of work!
Nothing but misfortunes! Nothing but dead people, and dying people! Oh!
I shall go distracted! I shall go distracted!”
“Speak! Speak!” cried Flora and the Monk at the same time; “What has
happened? What is the matter?”
“Oh! I shall have another Corse in my House! Some Witch has certainly
cast a spell upon it, upon me, and upon all about me! Poor Donna
Antonia! There She lies in just such convulsions, as killed her Mother!
The Ghost told her true! I am sure, the Ghost has told her true!”
Flora ran, or rather flew to her Lady’s chamber: Ambrosio followed her,
his bosom trembling with hope and apprehension. They found Antonia as
Jacintha had described, torn by racking convulsions from which they in
vain endeavoured to relieve her. The Monk dispatched Jacintha to the
Abbey in all haste, and commissioned her to bring Father Pablos back
with her, without losing a moment.
“I will go for him,” replied Jacintha, “and tell him to come hither;
But as to bringing him myself, I shall do no such thing. I am sure that
the House is bewitched, and burn me if ever I set foot in it again.”
With this resolution She set out for the Monastery, and delivered to
Father Pablos the Abbot’s orders. She then betook herself to the House
of old Simon Gonzalez, whom She resolved never to quit, till She had
made him her Husband, and his dwelling her own.
Father Pablos had no sooner beheld Antonia, than He pronounced her
incurable. The convulsions continued for an hour: During that time her
agonies were much milder than those which her groans created in the
Abbot’s heart. Her every pang seemed a dagger in his bosom, and He
cursed himself a thousand times for having adopted so barbarous a
project. The hour being expired, by degrees the Fits became less
frequent, and Antonia less agitated. She felt that her dissolution was
approaching, and that nothing could save her.
“Worthy Ambrosio,” She said in a feeble voice, while She pressed his
hand to her lips; “I am now at liberty to express, how grateful is my
heart for your attention and kindness. I am upon the bed of death; Yet
an hour, and I shall be no more. I may therefore acknowledge without
restraint, that to relinquish your society was very painful to me: But
such was the will of a Parent, and I dared not disobey. I die without
repugnance: There are few, who will lament my leaving them; There are
few, whom I lament to leave. Among those few, I lament for none more
than for yourself; But we shall meet again, Ambrosio! We shall one day
meet in heaven: There shall our friendship be renewed, and my Mother
shall view it with pleasure!”
She paused. The Abbot shuddered when She mentioned Elvira: Antonia
imputed his emotion to pity and concern for her.
“You are grieved for me, Father,” She continued; “Ah! sigh not for my
loss. I have no crimes to repent, at least none of which I am
conscious, and I restore my soul without fear to him from whom I
received it. I have but few requests to make: Yet let me hope that what
few I have shall be granted. Let a solemn Mass be said for my soul’s
repose, and another for that of my beloved Mother. Not that I doubt her
resting in her Grave: I am now convinced that my reason wandered, and
the falsehood of the Ghost’s prediction is sufficient to prove my
error. But every one has some failing: My Mother may have had hers,
though I knew them not: I therefore wish a Mass to be celebrated for
her repose, and the expence may be defrayed by the little wealth of
which I am possessed. Whatever may then remain, I bequeath to my Aunt
Leonella. When I am dead, let the Marquis de las Cisternas know that
his Brother’s unhappy family can no longer importune him. But
disappointment makes me unjust: They tell me that He is ill, and