The Monk: A Romance
My life, and in my office holy
Consume the day.
Content and comfort bless me more in
This Grot, than e’er I felt before in
A Palace, and with thoughts still soaring
To God on high,
Each night and morn with voice imploring
This wish I sigh.
“Let me, Oh! Lord! from life retire,
Unknown each guilty worldly fire,
Remorseful throb, or loose desire;
And when I die,
Let me in this belief expire,
‘To God I fly’!”
Stranger, if full of youth and riot
As yet no grief has marred thy quiet,
Thou haply throw’st a scornful eye at
The Hermit’s prayer:
But if Thou hast a cause to sigh at
Thy fault, or care;
If Thou hast known false Love’s vexation,
Or hast been exil’d from thy Nation,
Or guilt affrights thy contemplation,
And makes thee pine,
Oh! how must Thou lament thy station,
And envy mine!
“Were it possible” said the Friar, “for Man to be so totally wrapped up
in himself as to live in absolute seclusion from human nature, and
could yet feel the contented tranquillity which these lines express, I
allow that the situation would be more desirable, than to live in a
world so pregnant with every vice and every folly. But this never can
be the case. This inscription was merely placed here for the ornament
of the Grotto, and the sentiments and the Hermit are equally imaginary.
Man was born for society. However little He may be attached to the
World, He never can wholly forget it, or bear to be wholly forgotten by
it. Disgusted at the guilt or absurdity of Mankind, the Misanthrope
flies from it: He resolves to become an Hermit, and buries himself in
the Cavern of some gloomy Rock. While Hate inflames his bosom, possibly
He may feel contented with his situation: But when his passions begin
to cool; when Time has mellowed his sorrows, and healed those wounds
which He bore with him to his solitude, think you that Content becomes
his Companion? Ah! no, Rosario. No longer sustained by the violence of
his passions, He feels all the monotony of his way of living, and his
heart becomes the prey of Ennui and weariness. He looks round, and
finds himself alone in the Universe: The love of society revives in his
bosom, and He pants to return to that world which He has abandoned.
Nature loses all her charms in his eyes: No one is near him to point
out her beauties, or share in his admiration of her excellence and
variety. Propped upon the fragment of some Rock, He gazes upon the
tumbling waterfall with a vacant eye, He views without emotion the
glory of the setting Sun. Slowly He returns to his Cell at Evening, for
no one there is anxious for his arrival; He has no comfort in his
solitary unsavoury meal: He throws himself upon his couch of Moss
despondent and dissatisfied, and wakes only to pass a day as joyless,
as monotonous as the former.”
“You amaze me, Father! Suppose that circumstances condemned you to
solitude; Would not the duties of Religion and the consciousness of a
life well spent communicate to your heart that calm which....”
“I should deceive myself, did I fancy that they could. I am convinced
of the contrary, and that all my fortitude would not prevent me from
yielding to melancholy and disgust. After consuming the day in study,
if you knew my pleasure at meeting my Brethren in the Evening! After
passing many a long hour in solitude, if I could express to you the joy
which I feel at once more beholding a fellow-Creature! ’Tis in this
particular that I place the principal merit of a Monastic Institution.
It secludes Man from the temptations of Vice; It procures that leisure
necessary for the proper service of the Supreme; It spares him the
mortification of witnessing the crimes of the worldly, and yet permits
him to enjoy the blessings of society. And do you, Rosario, do _you_
envy an Hermit’s life? Can you be thus blind to the happiness of your
situation? Reflect upon it for a moment. This Abbey is become your
Asylum: Your regularity, your gentleness, your talents have rendered
you the object of universal esteem: You are secluded from the world
which you profess to hate; yet you remain in possession of the benefits
of society, and that a society composed of the most estimable of
Mankind.”
“Father! Father! ’tis that which causes my Torment! Happy had it been
for me, had my life been passed among the vicious and abandoned! Had I
never heard pronounced the name of Virtue! ’Tis my unbounded adoration
of religion; ’Tis my soul’s exquisite sensibility of the beauty of fair
and good, that loads me with shame! that hurries me to perdition! Oh!
that I had never seen these Abbey walls!”
“How, Rosario? When we last conversed, you spoke in a different tone.
Is my friendship then become of such little consequence? Had you never
seen these Abbey walls, you never had seen me: Can that really be your
wish?”
“Had never seen you?” repeated the Novice, starting from the Bank, and
grasping the Friar’s hand with a frantic air; “You? You? Would to God,
that lightning had blasted them, before you ever met my eyes! Would to
God! that I were never to see you more, and could forget that I had
ever seen you!”
With these words He flew hastily from the Grotto. Ambrosio remained in
his former attitude, reflecting on the Youth’s unaccountable behaviour.
He was inclined to suspect the derangement of his senses: yet the
general tenor of his conduct, the connexion of his ideas, and calmness
of his demeanour till the moment of his quitting the Grotto, seemed to
discountenance this conjecture. After a few minutes Rosario returned.
He again seated himself upon the Bank: He reclined his cheek upon one
hand, and with the other wiped away the tears which trickled from his
eyes at intervals.
The Monk looked upon him with compassion, and forbore to interrupt his
meditations. Both observed for some time a profound silence. The
Nightingale had now taken her station upon an Orange Tree fronting the
Hermitage, and poured forth a strain the most melancholy and melodious.
Rosario raised his head, and listened to her with attention.
“It was thus,” said He, with a deep-drawn sigh; “It was thus, that
during the last month of her unhappy life, my Sister used to sit
listening to the Nightingale. Poor Matilda! She sleeps in the Grave,
and her broken heart throbs no more with passion.”
“You had a Sister?”
“You say right, that I HAD; Alas! I have one no longer. She sunk
beneath the weight of her sorrows in the very spring of life.”
“What were those sorrows?”
“They will not excite _your_ pity: _you_ know not the power of those
irresistible, those fatal sentiments, to which her Heart was a prey.
Father, She loved unfortunately. A passion for One endowed with every
virtue, for a Man, Oh! rather let me say, for a divinity, proved the
bane of her existence. His noble form, his spotless character, his
various talents, his wisdom solid, wonderful, and glorious, might have
warmed the bosom of the most insensible. My Sister saw him, and dared
to love though She never dared to hope.”
“If her love was so well bestowed, what forbad her to hope the
obtaining of its object?”
“Father, before He knew her, Julian had already plighted his vows to a
Bride most fair, most heavenly! Yet still my Sister loved, and for the
Husband’s sake She doted upon the Wife. One morning She found means to
escape from our Father’s House: Arrayed in humble weeds She offered
herself as a Domestic to the Consort of her Beloved, and was accepted.
She was now continually in his presence: She strove to ingratiate
herself into his favour: She succeeded. Her attentions attracted
Julian’s notice; The virtuous are ever grateful, and He distinguished
Matilda above the rest of her Companions.”
“And did not your Parents seek for her? Did they submit tamely to their
loss, nor attempt to recover their wandering Daughter?”
“Ere they could find her, She discovered herself. Her love grew too
violent for concealment; Yet She wished not for Julian’s person, She
ambitioned but a share of his heart. In an unguarded moment She
confessed her affection. What was the return? Doating upon his Wife,
and believing that a look of pity bestowed upon another was a theft
from what He owed to her, He drove Matilda from his presence. He forbad
her ever again appearing before him. His severity broke her heart: She
returned to her Father’s, and in a few Months after was carried to her
Grave.”
“Unhappy Girl! Surely her fate was too severe, and Julian was too
cruel.”
“Do you think so, Father?” cried the Novice with vivacity; “Do you
think that He was cruel?”
“Doubtless I do, and pity her most sincerely.”
“You pity her? You pity her? Oh! Father! Father! Then pity me!”
The Friar started; when after a moment’s pause Rosario added with a
faltering voice,—“for my sufferings are still greater. My Sister had a
Friend, a real Friend, who pitied the acuteness of her feelings, nor
reproached her with her inability to repress them. I ...! I have no
Friend! The whole wide world cannot furnish an heart that is willing to
participate in the sorrows of mine!”
As He uttered these words, He sobbed audibly. The Friar was affected.
He took Rosario’s hand, and pressed it with tenderness.
“You have no Friend, say you? What then am I? Why will you not confide
in me, and what can you fear? My severity? Have I ever used it with
you? The dignity of my habit? Rosario, I lay aside the Monk, and bid
you consider me as no other than your Friend, your Father. Well may I
assume that title, for never did Parent watch over a Child more fondly
than I have watched over you. From the moment in which I first beheld
you, I perceived sensations in my bosom till then unknown to me; I
found a delight in your society which no one’s else could afford; and
when I witnessed the extent of your genius and information, I rejoiced
as does a Father in the perfections of his Son. Then lay aside your
fears; Speak to me with openness: Speak to me, Rosario, and say that
you will confide in me. If my aid or my pity can alleviate your
distress....”
“Yours can! Yours only can! Ah! Father, how willingly would I unveil to
you my heart! How willingly would I declare the secret which bows me
down with its weight! But Oh! I fear! I fear!”
“What, my Son?”
“That you should abhor me for my weakness; That the reward of my
confidence should be the loss of your esteem.”
“How shall I reassure you? Reflect upon the whole of my past conduct,
upon the paternal tenderness which I have ever shown you. Abhor you,
Rosario? It is no longer in my power. To give up your society would be
to deprive myself of the greatest pleasure of my life. Then reveal to
me what afflicts you, and believe me while I solemnly swear....”
“Hold!” interrupted the Novice; “Swear, that whatever be my secret, you
will not oblige me to quit the Monastery till my Noviciate shall
expire.”
“I promise it faithfully, and as I keep my vows to you, may Christ keep
his to Mankind. Now then explain this mystery, and rely upon my
indulgence.”
“I obey you. Know then.... Oh! how I tremble to name the word! Listen
to me with pity, revered Ambrosio! Call up every latent spark of human
weakness that may teach you compassion for mine! Father!” continued He
throwing himself at the Friar’s feet, and pressing his hand to his lips
with eagerness, while agitation for a moment choaked his voice;
“Father!” continued He in faltering accents, “I am a Woman!”
The Abbot started at this unexpected avowal. Prostrate on the ground
lay the feigned Rosario, as if waiting in silence the decision of his
Judge. Astonishment on the one part, apprehension on the other, for
some minutes chained them in the same attitudes, as had they been
touched by the Rod of some Magician. At length recovering from his