The Monk: A Romance
executed. ’Tis true that Lorenzo’s situation just then ill-suited him
for a Bridegroom. His hopes disappointed at the moment when He expected
to realize them, and the dreadful and sudden death of his Mistress had
affected him very severely. The Duke found him upon the Bed of
sickness. His Attendants expressed serious apprehensions for his life;
But the Uncle entertained not the same fears. He was of opinion, and
not unwisely, that “Men have died, and worms have eat them; but not for
Love!” He therefore flattered himself that however deep might be the
impression made upon his Nephew’s heart, Time and Virginia would be
able to efface it. He now hastened to the afflicted Youth, and
endeavoured to console him: He sympathised in his distress, but
encouraged him to resist the encroachments of despair. He allowed that
He could not but feel shocked at an event so terrible, nor could He
blame his sensibility; But He besought him not to torment himself with
vain regrets, and rather to struggle with affliction, and preserve his
life, if not for his own sake, at least for the sake of those who were
fondly attached to him. While He laboured thus to make Lorenzo forget
Antonia’s loss, the Duke paid his court assiduously to Virginia, and
seized every opportunity to advance his Nephew’s interest in her heart.
It may easily be expected that Agnes was not long without enquiring
after Don Raymond. She was shocked to hear the wretched situation to
which grief had reduced him; Yet She could not help exulting secretly,
when She reflected, that his illness proved the sincerity of his love.
The Duke undertook the office himself, of announcing to the Invalid the
happiness which awaited him. Though He omitted no precaution to prepare
him for such an event, at this sudden change from despair to happiness
Raymond’s transports were so violent, as nearly to have proved fatal to
him. These once passed, the tranquillity of his mind, the assurance of
felicity, and above all the presence of Agnes, (Who was no sooner
reestablished by the care of Virginia and the Marchioness, than She
hastened to attend her Lover) soon enabled him to overcome the effects
of his late dreadful malady. The calm of his soul communicated itself
to his body, and He recovered with such rapidity as to create universal
surprize.
No so Lorenzo. Antonia’s death accompanied with such terrible
circumstances weighed upon his mind heavily. He was worn down to a
shadow. Nothing could give him pleasure. He was persuaded with
difficulty to swallow nourishment sufficient for the support of life,
and a consumption was apprehended. The society of Agnes formed his only
comfort. Though accident had never permitted their being much together,
He entertained for her a sincere friendship and attachment. Perceiving
how necessary She was to him, She seldom quitted his chamber. She
listened to his complaints with unwearied attention, and soothed him by
the gentleness of her manners, and by sympathising with his distress.
She still inhabited the Palace de Villa-Franca, the Possessors of which
treated her with marked affection. The Duke had intimated to the
Marquis his wishes respecting Virginia. The match was unexceptionable:
Lorenzo was Heir to his Uncle’s immense property, and was distinguished
in Madrid for his agreeable person, extensive knowledge, and propriety
of conduct: Add to this, that the Marchioness had discovered how strong
was her Daughter’s prepossession in his favour.
In consequence the Duke’s proposal was accepted without hesitation:
Every precaution was taken to induce Lorenzo’s seeing the Lady with
those sentiments which She so well merited to excite. In her visits to
her Brother Agnes was frequently accompanied by the Marchioness; and as
soon as He was able to move into his Antichamber, Virginia under her
mother’s protection was sometimes permitted to express her wishes for
his recovery. This She did with such delicacy, the manner in which She
mentioned Antonia was so tender and soothing, and when She lamented her
Rival’s melancholy fate, her bright eyes shone so beautiful through her
tears, that Lorenzo could not behold, or listen to her without emotion.
His Relations, as well as the Lady, perceived that with every day her
society seemed to give him fresh pleasure, and that He spoke of her in
terms of stronger admiration. However, they prudently kept their
observations to themselves. No word was dropped which might lead him to
suspect their designs. They continued their former conduct and
attention, and left Time to ripen into a warmer sentiment the
friendship which He already felt for Virginia.
In the mean while, her visits became more frequent; and latterly there
was scarce a day, of which She did not pass some part by the side of
Lorenzo’s Couch. He gradually regained his strength, but the progress
of his recovery was slow and doubtful. One evening He seemed to be in
better spirits than usual: Agnes and her Lover, the Duke, Virginia, and
her Parents were sitting round him. He now for the first time entreated
his Sister to inform him how She had escaped the effects of the poison
which St. Ursula had seen her swallow. Fearful of recalling those
scenes to his mind in which Antonia had perished, She had hitherto
concealed from him the history of her sufferings. As He now started the
subject himself, and thinking that perhaps the narrative of her sorrows
might draw him from the contemplation of those on which He dwelt too
constantly, She immediately complied with his request. The rest of the
company had already heard her story; But the interest which all present
felt for its Heroine made them anxious to hear it repeated. The whole
society seconding Lorenzo’s entreaties, Agnes obeyed. She first
recounted the discovery which had taken place in the Abbey Chapel, the
Domina’s resentment, and the midnight scene of which St. Ursula had
been a concealed witness. Though the Nun had already described this
latter event, Agnes now related it more circumstantially and at large:
After which She proceeded in her narrative as follows.
Conclusion of the History of Agnes de Medina
My supposed death was attended with the greatest agonies. Those moments
which I believed my last, were embittered by the Domina’s assurances
that I could not escape perdition; and as my eyes closed, I heard her
rage exhale itself in curses on my offence. The horror of this
situation, of a death-bed from which hope was banished, of a sleep from
which I was only to wake to find myself the prey of flames and Furies,
was more dreadful than I can describe. When animation revived in me, my
soul was still impressed with these terrible ideas: I looked round with
fear, expecting to behold the Ministers of divine vengeance. For the
first hour, my senses were so bewildered, and my brain so dizzy, that I
strove in vain to arrange the strange images which floated in wild
confusion before me. If I endeavoured to raise myself from the ground,
the wandering of my head deceived me. Every thing around me seemed to
rock, and I sank once more upon the earth. My weak and dazzled eyes
were unable to bear a nearer approach to a gleam of light which I saw
trembling above me. I was compelled to close them again, and remain
motionless in the same posture.
A full hour elapsed, before I was sufficiently myself to examine the
surrounding Objects. When I did examine them, what terror filled my
bosom I found myself extended upon a sort of wicker Couch: It had six
handles to it, which doubtless had served the Nuns to convey me to my
grave. I was covered with a linen cloth:
Several faded flowers were strown over me: On one side lay a small
wooden Crucifix; On the other, a Rosary of large Beads. Four low narrow
walls confined me. The top was also covered, and in it was practised a
small grated Door: Through this was admitted the little air which
circulated in this miserable place. A faint glimmering of light which
streamed through the Bars, permitted me to distinguish the surrounding
horrors. I was opprest by a noisome suffocating smell; and perceiving
that the grated door was unfastened, I thought that I might possibly
effect my escape. As I raised myself with this design, my hand rested
upon something soft: I grasped it, and advanced it towards the light.
Almighty God! What was my disgust, my consternation! In spite of its
putridity, and the worms which preyed upon it, I perceived a corrupted
human head, and recognised the features of a Nun who had died some
months before!
I threw it from me, and sank almost lifeless upon my Bier.
When my strength returned, this circumstance, and the consciousness of
being surrounded by the loathsome and mouldering Bodies of my
Companions, increased my desire to escape from my fearful prison. I
again moved towards the light. The grated door was within my reach: I
lifted it without difficulty; Probably it had been left unclosed to
facilitate my quitting the dungeon. Aiding myself by the irregularity
of the Walls some of whose stones projected beyond the rest, I
contrived to ascend them, and drag myself out of my prison. I now found
Myself in a Vault tolerably spacious. Several Tombs, similar in
appearance to that whence I had just escaped, were ranged along the
sides in order, and seemed to be considerably sunk within the earth. A
sepulchral Lamp was suspended from the roof by an iron chain, and shed
a gloomy light through the dungeon. Emblems of Death were seen on every
side: Skulls, shoulder-blades, thigh-bones, and other leavings of
Mortality were scattered upon the dewy ground. Each Tomb was ornamented
with a large Crucifix, and in one corner stood a wooden Statue of St.
Clare. To these objects I at first paid no attention: A Door, the only
outlet from the Vault, had attracted my eyes. I hastened towards it,
having wrapped my winding-sheet closely round me. I pushed against the
door, and to my inexpressible terror found that it was fastened on the
outside.
I guessed immediately that the Prioress, mistaking the nature of the
liquor which She had compelled me to drink, instead of poison had
administered a strong Opiate. From this I concluded that being to all
appearance dead I had received the rites of burial; and that deprived
of the power of making my existence known, it would be my fate to
expire of hunger. This idea penetrated me with horror, not merely for
my own sake, but that of the innocent Creature, who still lived within
my bosom. I again endeavoured to open the door, but it resisted all my
efforts. I stretched my voice to the extent of its compass, and
shrieked for aid: I was remote from the hearing of every one: No
friendly voice replied to mine. A profound and melancholy silence
prevailed through the Vault, and I despaired of liberty. My long
abstinence from food now began to torment me. The tortures which hunger
inflicted on me, were the most painful and insupportable: Yet they
seemed to increase with every hour which past over my head. Sometimes I
threw myself upon the ground, and rolled upon it wild and desperate:
Sometimes starting up, I returned to the door, again strove to force it
open, and repeated my fruitless cries for succour. Often was I on the
point of striking my temple against the sharp corner of some Monument,
dashing out my brains, and thus terminating my woes at once; But still
the remembrance of my Baby vanquished my resolution: I trembled at a
deed which equally endangered my Child’s existence and my own. Then
would I vent my anguish in loud exclamations and passionate complaints;
and then again my strength failing me, silent and hopeless I would sit
me down upon the base of St. Clare’s Statue, fold my arms, and abandon
myself to sullen despair. Thus passed several wretched hours. Death