The Monk: A Romance
“I must!—Fate urges me! I accept your conditions.”
“Sign the Parchment!” replied the Dæmon in an exulting tone.
The Contract and the bloody Pen still lay upon the Table. Ambrosio drew
near it. He prepared to sign his name. A moment’s reflection made him
hesitate.
“Hark!” cried the Tempter; “They come! Be quick! Sign the Parchment,
and I bear you from hence this moment.”
In effect, the Archers were heard approaching, appointed to lead
Ambrosio to the Stake. The sound encouraged the Monk in his resolution.
“What is the import of this writing?” said He.
“It makes your soul over to me for ever, and without reserve.”
“What am I to receive in exchange?”
“My protection, and release from this dungeon. Sign it, and this
instant I bear you away.”
Ambrosio took up the Pen; He set it to the Parchment. Again his courage
failed him: He felt a pang of terror at his heart, and once more threw
the Pen upon the Table.
“Weak and Puerile!” cried the exasperated Fiend: “Away with this folly!
Sign the writing this instant, or I sacrifice you to my rage!”
At this moment the bolt of the outward Door was drawn back. The
Prisoner heard the rattling of Chains; The heavy Bar fell; The Archers
were on the point of entering. Worked up to phrenzy by the urgent
danger, shrinking from the approach of death, terrified by the Dæmon’s
threats, and seeing no other means to escape destruction, the wretched
Monk complied. He signed the fatal contract, and gave it hastily into
the evil Spirit’s hands, whose eyes, as He received the gift, glared
with malicious rapture.
“Take it!” said the God-abandoned; “Now then save me! Snatch me from
hence!”
“Hold! Do you freely and absolutely renounce your Creator and his Son?”
“I do! I do!”
“Do you make over your soul to me for ever?”
“For ever!”
“Without reserve or subterfuge? Without future appeal to the divine
mercy?”
The last Chain fell from the door of the prison: The key was heard
turning in the Lock: Already the iron door grated heavily upon its
rusty hinges.
“I am yours for ever and irrevocably!” cried the Monk wild with terror:
“I abandon all claim to salvation! I own no power but yours! Hark!
Hark! They come! Oh! save me! Bear me away!”
“I have triumphed! You are mine past reprieve, and I fulfil my
promise.”
While He spoke, the Door unclosed. Instantly the Dæmon grasped one of
Ambrosio’s arms, spread his broad pinions, and sprang with him into the
air. The roof opened as they soared upwards, and closed again when they
had quitted the Dungeon.
In the meanwhile, the Gaoler was thrown into the utmost surprize by the
disappearance of his Prisoner. Though neither He nor the Archers were
in time to witness the Monk’s escape, a sulphurous smell prevailing
through the prison sufficiently informed them by whose aid He had been
liberated. They hastened to make their report to the Grand Inquisitor.
The story, how a Sorcerer had been carried away by the Devil, was soon
noised about Madrid; and for some days the whole City was employed in
discussing the subject. Gradually it ceased to be the topic of
conversation: Other adventures arose whose novelty engaged universal
attention; and Ambrosio was soon forgotten as totally, as if He never
had existed. While this was passing, the Monk supported by his infernal
guide, traversed the air with the rapidity of an arrow, and a few
moments placed him upon a Precipice’s brink, the steepest in Sierra
Morena.
Though rescued from the Inquisition, Ambrosio as yet was insensible of
the blessings of liberty. The damning contract weighed heavy upon his
mind; and the scenes in which He had been a principal actor had left
behind them such impressions as rendered his heart the seat of anarchy
and confusion. The Objects now before his eyes, and which the full Moon
sailing through clouds permitted him to examine, were ill-calculated to
inspire that calm, of which He stood so much in need. The disorder of
his imagination was increased by the wildness of the surrounding
scenery; By the gloomy Caverns and steep rocks, rising above each
other, and dividing the passing clouds; solitary clusters of Trees
scattered here and there, among whose thick-twined branches the wind of
night sighed hoarsely and mournfully; the shrill cry of mountain
Eagles, who had built their nests among these lonely Desarts; the
stunning roar of torrents, as swelled by late rains they rushed
violently down tremendous precipices; and the dark waters of a silent
sluggish stream which faintly reflected the moonbeams, and bathed the
Rock’s base on which Ambrosio stood. The Abbot cast round him a look of
terror. His infernal Conductor was still by his side, and eyed him with
a look of mingled malice, exultation, and contempt.
“Whither have you brought me?” said the Monk at length in an hollow
trembling voice: “Why am I placed in this melancholy scene? Bear me
from it quickly! Carry me to Matilda!”
The Fiend replied not, but continued to gaze upon him in silence.
Ambrosio could not sustain his glance; He turned away his eyes, while
thus spoke the Dæmon:
“I have him then in my power! This model of piety! This being without
reproach! This Mortal who placed his puny virtues on a level with those
of Angels. He is mine! Irrevocably, eternally mine! Companions of my
sufferings! Denizens of hell! How grateful will be my present!”
He paused; then addressed himself to the Monk——
“Carry you to Matilda?” He continued, repeating Ambrosio’s words:
“Wretch! you shall soon be with her! You well deserve a place near her,
for hell boasts no miscreant more guilty than yourself.
Hark, Ambrosio, while I unveil your crimes! You have shed the blood of
two innocents; Antonia and Elvira perished by your hand. That Antonia
whom you violated, was your Sister! That Elvira whom you murdered, gave
you birth! Tremble, abandoned Hypocrite! Inhuman Parricide! Incestuous
Ravisher! Tremble at the extent of your offences! And you it was who
thought yourself proof against temptation, absolved from human
frailties, and free from error and vice! Is pride then a virtue? Is
inhumanity no fault? Know, vain Man! That I long have marked you for my
prey: I watched the movements of your heart; I saw that you were
virtuous from vanity, not principle, and I seized the fit moment of
seduction. I observed your blind idolatry of the Madona’s picture. I
bad a subordinate but crafty spirit assume a similar form, and you
eagerly yielded to the blandishments of Matilda. Your pride was
gratified by her flattery; Your lust only needed an opportunity to
break forth; You ran into the snare blindly, and scrupled not to commit
a crime which you blamed in another with unfeeling severity. It was I
who threw Matilda in your way; It was I who gave you entrance to
Antonia’s chamber; It was I who caused the dagger to be given you which
pierced your Sister’s bosom; and it was I who warned Elvira in dreams
of your designs upon her Daughter, and thus, by preventing your
profiting by her sleep, compelled you to add rape as well as incest to
the catalogue of your crimes. Hear, hear, Ambrosio! Had you resisted me
one minute longer, you had saved your body and soul. The guards whom
you heard at your prison door came to signify your pardon. But I had
already triumphed: My plots had already succeeded. Scarcely could I
propose crimes so quick as you performed them. You are mine, and Heaven
itself cannot rescue you from my power. Hope not that your penitence
will make void our contract. Here is your bond signed with your blood;
You have given up your claim to mercy, and nothing can restore to you
the rights which you have foolishly resigned. Believe you that your
secret thoughts escaped me? No, no, I read them all! You trusted that
you should still have time for repentance. I saw your artifice, knew
its falsity, and rejoiced in deceiving the deceiver! You are mine
beyond reprieve: I burn to possess my right, and alive you quit not
these mountains.”
During the Dæmon’s speech, Ambrosio had been stupefied by terror and
surprize. This last declaration rouzed him.
“Not quit these mountains alive?” He exclaimed: “Perfidious, what mean
you? Have you forgotten our contract?”
The Fiend answered by a malicious laugh:
“Our contract? Have I not performed my part? What more did I promise
than to save you from your prison? Have I not done so? Are you not safe
from the Inquisition—safe from all but from me? Fool that you were to
confide yourself to a Devil! Why did you not stipulate for life, and
power, and pleasure? Then all would have been granted: Now, your
reflections come too late. Miscreant, prepare for death; You have not
many hours to live!”
On hearing this sentence, dreadful were the feelings of the devoted
Wretch! He sank upon his knees, and raised his hands towards heaven.
The Fiend read his intention and prevented it—
“What?” He cried, darting at him a look of fury: “Dare you still
implore the Eternal’s mercy? Would you feign penitence, and again act
an Hypocrite’s part? Villain, resign your hopes of pardon. Thus I
secure my prey!”
As he said this, darting his talons into the monk’s shaven crown, he
sprang with him from the rock. The caves and mountains rang with
Ambrosio’s shrieks. The dæmon continued to soar aloft, till reaching a
dreadful height, He released the sufferer. Headlong fell the Monk
through the airy waste; The sharp point of a rock received him; and He
rolled from precipice to precipice, till bruised and mangled He rested
on the river’s banks. Life still existed in his miserable frame: He
attempted in vain to raise himself; His broken and dislocated limbs
refused to perform their office, nor was He able to quit the spot where
He had first fallen. The Sun now rose above the horizon; Its scorching
beams darted full upon the head of the expiring Sinner. Myriads of
insects were called forth by the warmth; They drank the blood which
trickled from Ambrosio’s wounds; He had no power to drive them from
him, and they fastened upon his sores, darted their stings into his
body, covered him with their multitudes, and inflicted on him tortures
the most exquisite and insupportable. The Eagles of the rock tore his
flesh piecemeal, and dug out his eyeballs with their crooked beaks. A
burning thirst tormented him; He heard the river’s murmur as it rolled
beside him, but strove in vain to drag himself towards the sound.
Blind, maimed, helpless, and despairing, venting his rage in blasphemy
and curses, execrating his existence, yet dreading the arrival of death
destined to yield him up to greater torments, six miserable days did
the Villain languish. On the Seventh a violent storm arose: The winds
in fury rent up rocks and forests: The sky was now black with clouds,
now sheeted with fire: The rain fell in torrents; It swelled the
stream; The waves overflowed their banks; They reached the spot where
Ambrosio lay, and when they abated carried with them into the river the
corse of the despairing monk.
Haughty Lady, why shrunk you back when yon poor frail-one drew near?
Was the air infected by her errors? Was your purity soiled by her
passing breath? Ah! Lady, smooth that insulting brow: stifle the
reproach just bursting from your scornful lip: wound not a soul, that
bleeds already! She has suffered, suffers still. Her air is gay, but
her heart is broken; her dress sparkles, but her bosom groans.
Lady, to look with mercy on the conduct of others, is a virtue no less
than to look with severity on your own.
FINIS.