The Monk: A Romance
read the first words. He started back with surprise! The Nun had turned
round on hearing his voice: She perceived her letter in his hand, and
uttering a shriek of terror, flew hastily to regain it.
“Hold!” said the Friar in a tone of severity; “Daughter, I must read
this letter.”
“Then I am lost!” She exclaimed clasping her hands together wildly.
All colour instantly faded from her face; she trembled with agitation,
and was obliged to fold her arms round a Pillar of the Chapel to save
herself from sinking upon the floor. In the meanwhile the Abbot read
the following lines:
“All is ready for your escape, my dearest Agnes. At twelve tomorrow
night I shall expect to find you at the Garden door: I have obtained
the Key, and a few hours will suffice to place you in a secure asylum.
Let no mistaken scruples induce you to reject the certain means of
preserving yourself and the innocent Creature whom you nourish in your
bosom. Remember that you had promised to be mine, long ere you engaged
yourself to the church; that your situation will soon be evident to the
prying eyes of your Companions; and that flight is the only means of
avoiding the effects of their malevolent resentment. Farewell, my
Agnes! my dear and destined Wife! Fail not to be at the Garden door at
twelve!”
As soon as He had finished, Ambrosio bent an eye stern and angry upon
the imprudent Nun.
“This letter must to the Prioress!” said He, and passed her.
His words sounded like thunder to her ears: She awoke from her
torpidity only to be sensible of the dangers of her situation. She
followed him hastily, and detained him by his garment.
“Stay! Oh! stay!” She cried in the accents of despair, while She threw
herself at the Friar’s feet, and bathed them with her tears. “Father,
compassionate my youth! Look with indulgence on a Woman’s weakness, and
deign to conceal my frailty! The remainder of my life shall be employed
in expiating this single fault, and your lenity will bring back a soul
to heaven!”
“Amazing confidence! What! Shall St. Clare’s Convent become the retreat
of Prostitutes? Shall I suffer the Church of Christ to cherish in its
bosom debauchery and shame? Unworthy Wretch! such lenity would make me
your accomplice. Mercy would here be criminal. You have abandoned
yourself to a Seducer’s lust; You have defiled the sacred habit by your
impurity; and still dare you think yourself deserving my compassion?
Hence, nor detain me longer! Where is the Lady Prioress?” He added,
raising his voice.
“Hold! Father, Hold! Hear me but for one moment! Tax me not with
impurity, nor think that I have erred from the warmth of temperament.
Long before I took the veil, Raymond was Master of my heart: He
inspired me with the purest, the most irreproachable passion, and was
on the point of becoming my lawful husband. An horrible adventure, and
the treachery of a Relation, separated us from each other: I believed
him for ever lost to me, and threw myself into a Convent from motives
of despair. Accident again united us; I could not refuse myself the
melancholy pleasure of mingling my tears with his: We met nightly in
the Gardens of St. Clare, and in an unguarded moment I violated my vows
of Chastity. I shall soon become a Mother: Reverend Ambrosio, take
compassion on me; take compassion on the innocent Being whose existence
is attached to mine. If you discover my imprudence to the Domina, both
of us are lost: The punishment which the laws of St. Clare assign to
Unfortunates like myself is most severe and cruel. Worthy, worthy
Father! Let not your own untainted conscience render you unfeeling
towards those less able to withstand temptation! Let not mercy be the
only virtue of which your heart is unsusceptible! Pity me, most
reverend! Restore my letter, nor doom me to inevitable destruction!”
“Your boldness confounds me! Shall _I_ conceal your crime, _I_ whom you
have deceived by your feigned confession? No, Daughter, no! I will
render you a more essential service. I will rescue you from perdition
in spite of yourself; Penance and mortification shall expiate your
offence, and Severity force you back to the paths of holiness. What;
Ho! Mother St. Agatha!”
“Father! By all that is sacred, by all that is most dear to you, I
supplicate, I entreat....”
“Release me! I will not hear you. Where is the Domina? Mother St.
Agatha, where are you?”
The door of the Vestry opened, and the Prioress entered the Chapel,
followed by her Nuns.
“Cruel! Cruel!” exclaimed Agnes, relinquishing her hold.
Wild and desperate, She threw herself upon the ground, beating her
bosom and rending her veil in all the delirium of despair. The Nuns
gazed with astonishment upon the scene before them. The Friar now
presented the fatal paper to the Prioress, informed her of the manner
in which he had found it, and added, that it was her business to
decide, what penance the delinquent merited.
While She perused the letter, the Domina’s countenance grew inflamed
with passion. What! Such a crime committed in her Convent, and made
known to Ambrosio, to the Idol of Madrid, to the Man whom She was most
anxious to impress with the opinion of the strictness and regularity of
her House! Words were inadequate to express her fury. She was silent,
and darted upon the prostrate Nun looks of menace and malignity.
“Away with her to the Convent!” said She at length to some of her
Attendants.
Two of the oldest Nuns now approaching Agnes, raised her forcibly from
the ground, and prepared to conduct her from the Chapel.
“What!” She exclaimed suddenly shaking off their hold with distracted
gestures; “Is all hope then lost? Already do you drag me to punishment?
Where are you, Raymond? Oh! save me! save me!”
Then casting upon the Abbot a frantic look, “Hear me!” She continued;
“Man of an hard heart! Hear me, Proud, Stern, and Cruel! You could have
saved me; you could have restored me to happiness and virtue, but would
not! You are the destroyer of my Soul; You are my Murderer, and on you
fall the curse of my death and my unborn Infant’s! Insolent in your
yet-unshaken virtue, you disdained the prayers of a Penitent; But God
will show mercy, though you show none. And where is the merit of your
boasted virtue? What temptations have you vanquished? Coward! you have
fled from it, not opposed seduction. But the day of Trial will arrive!
Oh! then when you yield to impetuous passions! when you feel that Man
is weak, and born to err; When shuddering you look back upon your
crimes, and solicit with terror the mercy of your God, Oh! in that
fearful moment think upon me! Think upon your Cruelty! Think upon
Agnes, and despair of pardon!”
As She uttered these last words, her strength was exhausted, and She
sank inanimate upon the bosom of a Nun who stood near her. She was
immediately conveyed from the Chapel, and her Companions followed her.
Ambrosio had not listened to her reproaches without emotion. A secret
pang at his heart made him feel, that He had treated this Unfortunate
with too great severity. He therefore detained the Prioress and
ventured to pronounce some words in favour of the Delinquent.
“The violence of her despair,” said He, “proves, that at least Vice is
not become familiar to her. Perhaps by treating her with somewhat less
rigour than is generally practised, and mitigating in some degree the
accustomed penance....”
“Mitigate it, Father?” interrupted the Lady Prioress; “Not I, believe
me. The laws of our order are strict and severe; they have fallen into
disuse of late, But the crime of Agnes shows me the necessity of their
revival. I go to signify my intention to the Convent, and Agnes shall
be the first to feel the rigour of those laws, which shall be obeyed to
the very letter. Father, Farewell.”
Thus saying, She hastened out of the Chapel.
“I have done my duty,” said Ambrosio to himself.
Still did He not feel perfectly satisfied by this reflection. To
dissipate the unpleasant ideas which this scene had excited in him,
upon quitting the Chapel He descended into the Abbey Garden.
In all Madrid there was no spot more beautiful or better regulated. It
was laid out with the most exquisite taste. The choicest flowers
adorned it in the height of luxuriance, and though artfully arranged,
seemed only planted by the hand of Nature: Fountains, springing from
basons of white Marble, cooled the air with perpetual showers; and the
Walls were entirely covered by Jessamine, vines, and Honeysuckles. The
hour now added to the beauty of the scene. The full Moon, ranging
through a blue and cloudless sky, shed upon the trees a trembling
lustre, and the waters of the fountains sparkled in the silver beam: A
gentle breeze breathed the fragrance of Orange-blossoms along the
Alleys; and the Nightingale poured forth her melodious murmur from the
shelter of an artificial wilderness. Thither the Abbot bent his steps.
In the bosom of this little Grove stood a rustic Grotto, formed in
imitation of an Hermitage. The walls were constructed of roots of
trees, and the interstices filled up with Moss and Ivy. Seats of Turf
were placed on either side, and a natural Cascade fell from the Rock
above. Buried in himself the Monk approached the spot. The universal
calm had communicated itself to his bosom, and a voluptuous
tranquillity spread languor through his soul.
He reached the Hermitage, and was entering to repose himself, when He
stopped on perceiving it to be already occupied. Extended upon one of
the Banks lay a man in a melancholy posture.
His head was supported upon his arm, and He seemed lost in mediation.
The Monk drew nearer, and recognised Rosario: He watched him in
silence, and entered not the Hermitage. After some minutes the Youth
raised his eyes, and fixed them mournfully upon the opposite Wall.
“Yes!” said He with a deep and plaintive sigh; “I feel all the
happiness of thy situation, all the misery of my own! Happy were I,
could I think like Thee! Could I look like Thee with disgust upon
Mankind, could bury myself for ever in some impenetrable solitude, and
forget that the world holds Beings deserving to be loved! Oh God! What
a blessing would Misanthropy be to me!”
“That is a singular thought, Rosario,” said the Abbot, entering the
Grotto.
“You here, reverend Father?” cried the Novice.
At the same time starting from his place in confusion, He drew his Cowl
hastily over his face. Ambrosio seated himself upon the Bank, and
obliged the Youth to place himself by him.
“You must not indulge this disposition to melancholy,” said He; “What
can possibly have made you view in so desirable a light, Misanthropy,
of all sentiments the most hateful?”
“The perusal of these Verses, Father, which till now had escaped my
observation. The Brightness of the Moonbeams permitted my reading them;
and Oh! how I envy the feelings of the Writer!”
As He said this, He pointed to a marble Tablet fixed against the
opposite Wall: On it were engraved the following lines.
INSCRIPTION IN AN HERMITAGE
Whoe’er Thou art these lines now reading,
Think not, though from the world receding
I joy my lonely days to lead in
This Desart drear,
That with remorse a conscience bleeding
Hath led me here.
No thought of guilt my bosom sowrs:
Free-willed I fled from courtly bowers;
For well I saw in Halls and Towers
That Lust and Pride,
The Arch-Fiend’s dearest darkest Powers,
In state preside.
I saw Mankind with vice incrusted;
I saw that Honour’s sword was rusted;
That few for aught but folly lusted;
That He was still deceiv’d, who trusted
In Love or Friend;
And hither came with Men disgusted
My life to end.
In this lone Cave, in garments lowly,
Alike a Foe to noisy folly,
And brow-bent gloomy melancholy
I wear away