The Monk: A Romance
Determined to make him confess not only the crimes which He had
committed, but those also of which He was innocent, the Inquisitors
began their examination. Though dreading the tortures, as He dreaded
death still more which would consign him to eternal torments, the Abbot
asserted his purity in a voice bold and resolute. Matilda followed his
example, but spoke with fear and trembling. Having in vain exhorted him
to confess, the Inquisitors ordered the Monk to be put to the question.
The Decree was immediately executed. Ambrosio suffered the most
excruciating pangs that ever were invented by human cruelty: Yet so
dreadful is Death when guilt accompanies it, that He had sufficient
fortitude to persist in his disavowal. His agonies were redoubled in
consequence: Nor was He released till fainting from excess of pain,
insensibility rescued him from the hands of his Tormentors.
Matilda was next ordered to the torture: But terrified by the sight of
the Friar’s sufferings, her courage totally deserted her. She sank upon
her knees, acknowledged her corresponding with infernal Spirits, and
that She had witnessed the Monk’s assassination of Antonia: But as to
the crime of Sorcery, She declared herself the sole criminal, and
Ambrosio perfectly innocent. The latter assertion met with no credit.
The Abbot had recovered his senses in time to hear the confession of
his Accomplice: But He was too much enfeebled by what He had already
undergone to be capable at that time of sustaining new torments.
He was commanded back to his Cell, but first informed that as soon as
He had gained strength sufficient, He must prepare himself for a second
examination. The Inquisitors hoped that He would then be less hardened
and obstinate. To Matilda it was announced that She must expiate her
crime in fire on the approaching Auto da Fe. All her tears and
entreaties could procure no mitigation of her doom, and She was dragged
by force from the Hall of Trial.
Returned to his dungeon, the sufferings of Ambrosio’s body were far
more supportable than those of his mind. His dislocated limbs, the
nails torn from his hands and feet, and his fingers mashed and broken
by the pressure of screws, were far surpassed in anguish by the
agitation of his soul and vehemence of his terrors. He saw that, guilty
or innocent, his Judges were bent upon condemning him: The remembrance
of what his denial had already cost him terrified him at the idea of
being again applied to the question, and almost engaged him to confess
his crimes. Then again the consequences of his confession flashed
before him, and rendered him once more irresolute. His death would be
inevitable, and that a death the most dreadful: He had listened to
Matilda’s doom, and doubted not that a similar was reserved for him. He
shuddered at the approaching Auto da Fe, at the idea of perishing in
flames, and only escaping from indurable torments to pass into others
more subtile and ever-lasting! With affright did He bend his mind’s eye
on the space beyond the grave; nor could hide from himself how justly
he ought to dread Heaven’s vengeance. In this Labyrinth of terrors,
fain would He have taken his refuge in the gloom of Atheism: Fain would
He have denied the soul’s immortality; have persuaded himself that when
his eyes once closed, they would never more open, and that the same
moment would annihilate his soul and body. Even this resource was
refused to him. To permit his being blind to the fallacy of this
belief, his knowledge was too extensive, his understanding too solid
and just. He could not help feeling the existence of a God. Those
truths, once his comfort, now presented themselves before him in the
clearest light; But they only served to drive him to distraction. They
destroyed his ill-grounded hopes of escaping punishment; and dispelled
by the irresistible brightness of Truth and convinction, Philosophy’s
deceitful vapours faded away like a dream.
In anguish almost too great for mortal frame to bear, He expected the
time when He was again to be examined. He busied himself in planning
ineffectual schemes for escaping both present and future punishment. Of
the first there was no possibility; Of the second Despair made him
neglect the only means. While Reason forced him to acknowledge a God’s
existence, Conscience made him doubt the infinity of his goodness. He
disbelieved that a Sinner like him could find mercy. He had not been
deceived into error: Ignorance could furnish him with no excuse. He had
seen vice in her true colours; Before He committed his crimes, He had
computed every scruple of their weight; and yet he had committed them.
“Pardon?” He would cry in an access of phrenzy “Oh! there can be none
for me!”
Persuaded of this, instead of humbling himself in penitence, of
deploring his guilt, and employing his few remaining hours in
deprecating Heaven’s wrath, He abandoned himself to the transports of
desperate rage; He sorrowed for the punishment of his crimes, not their
commission; and exhaled his bosom’s anguish in idle sighs, in vain
lamentations, in blasphemy and despair. As the few beams of day which
pierced through the bars of his prison window gradually disappeared,
and their place was supplied by the pale and glimmering Lamp, He felt
his terrors redouble, and his ideas become more gloomy, more solemn,
more despondent. He dreaded the approach of sleep: No sooner did his
eyes close, wearied with tears and watching, than the dreadful visions
seemed to be realised on which his mind had dwelt during the day. He
found himself in sulphurous realms and burning Caverns, surrounded by
Fiends appointed his Tormentors, and who drove him through a variety of
tortures, each of which was more dreadful than the former. Amidst these
dismal scenes wandered the Ghosts of Elvira and her Daughter. They
reproached him with their deaths, recounted his crimes to the Dæmons,
and urged them to inflict torments of cruelty yet more refined. Such
were the pictures which floated before his eyes in sleep: They vanished
not till his repose was disturbed by excess of agony. Then would He
start from the ground on which He had stretched himself, his brows
running down with cold sweat, his eyes wild and phrenzied; and He only
exchanged the terrible certainty for surmizes scarcely more
supportable. He paced his dungeon with disordered steps; He gazed with
terror upon the surrounding darkness, and often did He cry,
“Oh! fearful is night to the Guilty!”
The day of his second examination was at hand. He had been compelled to
swallow cordials, whose virtues were calculated to restore his bodily
strength, and enable him to support the question longer. On the night
preceding this dreaded day, his fears for the morrow permitted him not
to sleep. His terrors were so violent, as nearly to annihilate his
mental powers. He sat like one stupefied near the Table on which his
Lamp was burning dimly. Despair chained up his faculties in Idiotism,
and He remained for some hours, unable to speak or move, or indeed to
think.
“Look up, Ambrosio!” said a Voice in accents well-known to him—
The Monk started, and raised his melancholy eyes. Matilda stood before
him. She had quitted her religious habit. She now wore a female dress,
at once elegant and splendid: A profusion of diamonds blazed upon her
robes, and her hair was confined by a coronet of Roses. In her right
hand She held a small Book: A lively expression of pleasure beamed upon
her countenance; But still it was mingled with a wild imperious majesty
which inspired the Monk with awe, and represt in some measure his
transports at seeing her.
“You here, Matilda?” He at length exclaimed; “How have you gained
entrance? Where are your Chains? What means this magnificence, and the
joy which sparkles in your eyes? Have our Judges relented? Is there a
chance of my escaping? Answer me for pity, and tell me, what I have to
hope, or fear.”
“Ambrosio!” She replied with an air of commanding dignity; “I have
baffled the Inquisition’s fury. I am free: A few moments will place
kingdoms between these dungeons and me. Yet I purchase my liberty at a
dear, at a dreadful price! Dare you pay the same, Ambrosio? Dare you
spring without fear over the bounds which separate Men from Angels?—You
are silent.—You look upon me with eyes of suspicion and alarm—I read
your thoughts and confess their justice. Yes, Ambrosio; I have
sacrificed all for life and liberty. I am no longer a candidate for
heaven! I have renounced God’s service, and am enlisted beneath the
banners of his Foes. The deed is past recall: Yet were it in my power
to go back, I would not. Oh! my Friend, to expire in such torments! To
die amidst curses and execrations! To bear the insults of an
exasperated Mob! To be exposed to all the mortifications of shame and
infamy! Who can reflect without horror on such a doom? Let me then
exult in my exchange. I have sold distant and uncertain happiness for
present and secure: I have preserved a life which otherwise I had lost
in torture; and I have obtained the power of procuring every bliss
which can make that life delicious! The Infernal Spirits obey me as
their Sovereign: By their aid shall my days be past in every refinement
of luxury and voluptuousness. I will enjoy unrestrained the
gratification of my senses: Every passion shall be indulged, even to
satiety; Then will I bid my Servants invent new pleasures, to revive
and stimulate my glutted appetites! I go impatient to exercise my
newly-gained dominion. I pant to be at liberty. Nothing should hold me
one moment longer in this abhorred abode, but the hope of persuading
you to follow my example. Ambrosio, I still love you: Our mutual guilt
and danger have rendered you dearer to me than ever, and I would fain
save you from impending destruction. Summon then your resolution to
your aid; and renounce for immediate and certain benefits the hopes of
a salvation, difficult to obtain, and perhaps altogether erroneous.
Shake off the prejudice of vulgar souls; Abandon a God who has
abandoned you, and raise yourself to the level of superior Beings!”
She paused for the Monk’s reply: He shuddered, while He gave it.
“Matilda!” He said after a long silence in a low and unsteady voice;
“What price gave you for liberty?”
She answered him firm and dauntless.
“Ambrosio, it was my Soul!”
“Wretched Woman, what have you done? Pass but a few years, and how
dreadful will be your sufferings!”
“Weak Man, pass but this night, and how dreadful will be your own! Do
you remember what you have already endured? Tomorrow you must bear
torments doubly exquisite. Do you remember the horrors of a fiery
punishment? In two days you must be led a Victim to the Stake! What
then will become of you? Still dare you hope for pardon? Still are you
beguiled with visions of salvation? Think upon your crimes! Think upon
your lust, your perjury, inhumanity, and hypocrisy! Think upon the
innocent blood which cries to the Throne of God for vengeance, and then
hope for mercy! Then dream of heaven, and sigh for worlds of light, and
realms of peace and pleasure! Absurd! Open your eyes, Ambrosio, and be
prudent. Hell is your lot; You are doomed to eternal perdition; Nought
lies beyond your grave but a gulph of devouring flames. And will you
then speed towards that Hell? Will you clasp that perdition in your
arms, ere ’tis needful? Will you plunge into those flames while you
still have the power to shun them? ’Tis a Madman’s action. No, no,
Ambrosio: Let us for awhile fly from divine vengeance. Be advised by
me; Purchase by one moment’s courage the bliss of years; Enjoy the
present, and forget that a future lags behind.”
“Matilda, your counsels are dangerous: I dare not, I will not follow
them. I must not give up my claim to salvation. Monstrous are my