ILLINOIS

UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN

PRODUCTION NOTE

University of Illinois at
Urbana-Champaign Library
Brittle Books Project, 2014.﻿COPYRIGHT NOTIFICATION

In Public Domain.
Published prior to 1923.

This digital copy was made from the printed version held
by the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign.
It was made in compliance with copyright law.

Prepared for the Brittle Books Project, Main Library,
University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign
by

Northern Micrographics
Brookhaven Bindery
La Crosse, Wisconsin

2014﻿﻿L r B RA R.Y
OF THE
UNIVERSITY
Of ILLINOIS

82.3

L58m
10OG
v.a.

** t﻿THE MONK ^

in three vols. ^

Vol. II. ^

etchings by ^
r. c. armour ^﻿﻿﻿﻿THE-MONK

A-ROMANCE
BY

M-G-LEW1S-

SOMN/ATERRORES MAG1C0$,M!RA CI/IA. S/ICAS
NOCTVRNOS LEMVKES PORTENTAQVE.

HORAT.

DREAMS.MAGIC TERRORS,5PELLS OF
MICHTY POWER

WITCHES AND GHOSTS WHO ROVE AT
MIDNIGHT HOVR.

CIBBINCSfCOMPANY
LONDON 1906

___I﻿﻿%?\2>
L5lrtr,

Wot

v. ;~

LIST OF ETCHINGS

1.	I BEAD THE WEARISOME ADVEN-

TURES......Frontispiece

2.	STEP NOT OUT OF THE CIRCLE . Facing p. 52

3.	THE DOOR WAS THROWN OPEN . „ 167﻿﻿THE MONK

-♦-

CHAPTER IV

Avaunt! and quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee !

Thy bones are marrowless ; thy blood is cold;

Thou hast no speculation in those eyes

Which thou dost glare with ! Hence, horrible shadow!

Unreal mockery, hence !

Macbcth.

My journey was uncommonly agreeable. I found
tlie baron a man of some sense, but little know-
ledge of tlie world. He had passed a great part
of his life without stirring beyond the precincts
of his own domains, and consequently his manners
were far from being the most polished ; but he
was hearty, good-humoured, and friendly. His
attention to me was all that I could wish, and I
had every reason to be satisfied with his behaviour.
His ruling passion was hunting, which he had
brought himself to consider as a serious occupation;
and, when talking over some remarkable chace,
ii.—i﻿2

THE MONK

he treated the subject with as much gravity as if
it had been a battle on which the fate of two
kingdoms was depending. I happened to be a
tolerable sportsman: soon after my arrival at
Lindenberg, I gave some proofs of my dexterity.
The baron immediately marked me down for a
man of genius, and vowed to me an eternal friend-
ship.

That friendship was become to me by no means
indifferent. At the castle of Lindenberg, I beheld
for the first time your sister, the lovely Agnes.
For me, whose heart was unoccupied, and who
grieved at the void, to see her and to love her were
the same. I found in Agnes all that was requisite
to secure my affection. She was then scarcely
sixteen ; her person, light and elegant, was already
formed; she possessed several talents in perfec-
tion, particularly those of music and drawing :
her character was gay, open, and good-humoured ;
and the graceful simplicity of her dress and
manners formed an advantageous contrast to the
art and studied coquetry of the Parisian dames,
whom I had just quitted. From the moment
that I beheld her, I felt the most lively interest
in her fate. I made many enquiries respecting
her of the baroness.

" She is my niece," replied that lady; " you
are still ignorant, Don Alphonso, that I am your
countrywoman. I am sister to the Duke of
Medina Celi. Agnes is the daughter of my second
brother, Don Gaston: she has been destined to
the convent from her cradle, and will soon make
her profession at Madrid."﻿THE MONK

3

[Here Lorenzo interrupted the marquis by an
exclamation of surprise.

4 4 Intended for the convent from her cradle ! "
said he : " By heaven, this is the first word that I
ever heard of such a design."

" I believe it, my dear Lorenzo," answered Don
Raymond; " but you must listen to me with
patience. You will not be less surprised, when I
relate some particulars of your family still unknown
to you, and which I have learnt from the mouth
of Agnes herself."

He then resumed his narrative as follows:]

You cannot but be aware, that your parents
were unfortunately slaves to the grossest supersti-
tion : when this foible was called into play, their
every other sentiment, their every other passion,
yielded to its irresistible strength. While she
was big with Agnes, your mother was seized by a
dangerous illness, and given over by her phy-
sicians. In this situation Donna Inesilla vowed
that, if she recovered from her malady, the child
then living in her bosom, if a girl, should be dedi-
cated to St. Clare; if a boy, to St. Benedict. Her
prayers were heard ; she got rid of her complaint;
Agnes entered the world alive, and was immedi-
ately destined to the service of St. Clare.

Don Gaston readily chimed in with his lady's
wishes : but knowing the sentiments of the duke,
his brother, respecting a monastic life, it was
determined that your sister's destination should
be carefully concealed from him. The better to
guard the secret, it was resolved that Agnes should
accompany her aunt, Donna Eodolpha, into﻿4

THE MONK

Germany, whither that lady was on the point of
following her new-married husband, Baron Linden-
berg. On her arrival at that estate, the young
Agnes was put into a convent, situated but a
few miles from the castle. The nuns, to whom
her education was confided, performed their
charge with exactitude : they made her a per-
fect mistress of many accomplishments, and
strove to infuse into her mind a taste for the
retirement and tranquil pleasures of a convent.
But a secret instinct made the young recluse
sensible that she was not born for solitude : in all
the freedom of youth and gaiety, she scrupled not
to treat as ridiculous many ceremonies which the
nuns regarded with awe ; and she was never more
happy than when her lively imagination inspired
her with some scheme to plague the stiff lady
abbess, or the ugly, ill-tempered old porteress.
She looked with disgust upon the prospect before
her: however, no alternative was offered to her,
and she submitted to the decree of her parents,
though not without secret repining.

That repugnance she had not art enough to
conceal long : Don Gaston was informed of it.
Alarmed, Lorenzo, lest your affection for her
should oppose itself to his projects, and lest you
should positively object to your sister's misery,
he resolved to keep the whole affair from your
knowledge as well as the duke's, till the sacrifice
should be consummated. The season of her
taking the veil was fixed for the time when you
should be upon your travels: in the meanwhile
no hint was dropped of Donna Inesilla's fatal vow.﻿THE MONK

5

Your sister was never permitted to know your
direction. All your letters were read before she
received them, and those parts effaced which were
likely to nourish her inclination for the world : her
answers were dictated either by her aunt, or by
Dame Cunegonda, her governess. These particulars
I learnt partly from the baroness herself.

I immediately determined upon rescuing this
lovely girl from a fate so contrary to her inclina-
tions, and ill suited to her merit. I endeavoured
to ingratiate myself into her favour : I boasted
of my friendship and intimacy with you. She
listened to me with avidity ; she seemed to devour
my words while I spoke in your praise, and her
eyes thanked me for my affection to her brother.
My constant and unremitted attention at length
gained me her heart, and with difficulty I obliged
her to confess that she loved me. When, however,
I proposed her quitting the castle of Lindenberg,
she rejected the idea in positive terms.

" Be generous, Alphonso," she said; " you
possess my heart, but use not the gift ignobly.
Employ not your ascendency over me in persuad-
ing me to take a step at which I should hereafter
have to blush. I am young and deserted : my
brother, my only friend, is separated from me,
and my other relations act with me as my enemies.
Take pity on my unprotected situation. Instead of
seducing me to an action which would cover me with
shame, strive rather to gain the affections of those
who govern me. The baron esteems you. My aunt,
to others ever harsh, proud, and contemptuous,
remembers that you rescued her from the hands﻿0

THE MONK

of murderers, and wears with you alone the appear-
ance of kindness and benignity. Try then your
influence over my guardians. If they consent to
our union, my hand is yours. From your account
of my brother, I cannot doubt your obtaining
his approbation : and when they find the impossi-
bility of executing their design, I trust that my
parents will excuse my disobedience, and expiate
by some other sacrifice my mother's fatal vow.u

From the first momenttt'that I beheld Agnes, I
had endeavoured to conciliate the favour of her
relations. Authorised by the confession of her
regard, I redoubled my exertions. My principal
battery was directed against the baroness : it was
easy to discover that her word was law in the
castle : her husband paid her the most absolute
submission, and considered her as a superior being.
She was about forty: in her youth she had been
a beauty; but her charms had been upon that
large scale which can but ill sustain the shock of
years : however, she still possessed some remains
of them. Her understanding was strong and
excellent when not obscured by prejudice, which
unluckily was but seldom the case. Her passions
were violent^: she spared no pains to gratify them,
and pursued with unremitting vengeance those
who opposed themselves to her wishes. The
warmest of friends, the most inveterate of enemies,
such was the Baroness Lindenberg.

I laboured incessantly to please her: unluckily
I succeeded but too well. She seemed gratified
by my attention, and treated me with a distinction
accorded by her to no one else. One of my daily﻿THE MONK

7

occupations was reading to her for several hours :
those hours I should much rather have passed
with Agnes; but as I was conscious that com-
plaisance for her aunt would advance our union,
I submitted with a good grace to the penance
imposed upon me. Donna Eodolpha's library
was principally composed of old Spanish ro-
mances : these were her favourite studies, and once
a day one of these unmerciful volumes was put
regularly into my hands. I read the wearisome
adventures of Perceforest, Tirante the White,
Palmerin of England, and The Knight of the
Sun, till the book was on the point of falling
from my hands through ennui. However, the
increasing pleasure which the baroness seemed
to take in my society, encouraged me to per-
severe ; and latterly she showed for me a par-
tiality so marked, that Agnes advised me to seize
the first opportunity of declaring our mutual
passion to your aunt.

One evening I was alone with Donna Bodolplia,
in her own apartment. As our readings generally
treated of love, Agnes was never permitted to
assist at them. I was just congratulating myself
on having finished The Loves of Tristan and the

Queen Iseult-

" Ah ! the unfortunates ! " cried the baroness :
46 How say you, Segnor ? Do you think it possible
for man to feel an attachment so disinterested
and sincere ? "

" I cannot doubt it," replied I; " my own heart
furnishes me with the certainty. Ah ! Donna
Rodolpha, might I but hope for your approbation﻿8

THE MONK

of my love! might I but confess the name of my
mistress, without incurring your resentment! "
She interrupted me.

" Suppose I were to spare you that confession ?
Suppose I were to acknowledge that the object of
your desires is not unknown to me ? Suppose I
were to say that she returns your affection, and
laments not less sincerely than yourself the un-
happy vows which separate her from you ? "

" Ah ! Donna Eodolpha ! " I exclaimed, throw-
ing myself upon my knees before her, and pressing
her hand to my lips, " you have discovered my
secret! What is your decision ? Must I despair,
or may I reckon upon your favour 1 "

She withdrew not the hand which I held ; but
she turned from me, and covered her face with the
other.

" How can I refuse it you ? " she replied: " Ah!
Don Alphonso, I have long perceived to whom
your attentions were directed, but till now I per-
ceived not the impression which they had made
upon my heart. At length I can no longer hide
my weakness either from myself or from you. I
yield to the violence of my passion, and own that
I adore you! For three long months I stifled
my desires; but growing stronger by resistance,
I submit to their impetuosity. Pride, fear, and
honour, respect for myself, and my engagements
to the baron, all are vanquished. I sacrifice them
to my love for you, and it still seems to me that
I pay too mean a price for your possession."

She paused for an answer.—Judge, my Lorenzo,
what must have been my confusion at this dis-﻿THE MONK

9

covery. I at once saw all the magnitude of this
obstacle, which I had myself raised to my happi-
ness. The baroness had placed those attentions
to her own account, which I had merely paid her
for the sake of Agnes : and the strength of her
expressions, the looks which accompanied them,
and my knowledge of her revengeful disposition,
made me tremble for myself and my beloved. I
was silent for some minutes. I knew not how
to reply to her declaration : I could only resolve
to clear up the mistake without delay, and for the
present to conceal from her knowledge the name
of my mistress. No sooner had she avowed her
passion, than the transports which before were
evident in my features gave place to consternation
and constraint. I dropped her hand, and rose
from my knees. The change in my countenance
did not escape her observation.

"What means this silence?" said she in a
trembling voice : 44 Where is that joy which you
led me to expect ? "

" Forgive me, Segnora," I answered, " if what
necessity forces from me should seem harsh and
ungrateful. To encourage you in an error, which,
however it may flatter myself, must prove to you
the source of disappointment, would make me
appear criminal in every eye. Honour obliges
me to inform you that you have mistaken for the
solicitude of love what was only the attention of
friendship. The latter sentiment is that which I
wished to excite in your bosom : to entertain a
warmer, respect for you forbids me, and gratitude
for the baron's generous treatment. Perhaps﻿10

THE MONK

these reasons would not be sufficient to shield me
from your attractions, were it not that my affec-
tions are already bestowed upon another. You
have charms, Segnora, which might captivate the
most insensible; no heart unoccupied could resist
them. Happy is it for me that mine is no longer
in my possession, or I should have to reproach myself
for ever with having violated the laws of hospi-
tality. Recollect yourself, noble lady! recollect
what is owed by you to honour, by me to the
baron, and replace by esteem and friendship those
sentiments which I never can return."

The baroness turned pale at this unexpected
and positive declaration : she doubted whether
she slept or woke. At length recovering from
her surprise, consternation gave place to rage,
and the blood rushed back into her cheeks with
violence.

" Villain ! " she cried ; " Monster of deceit!
Thus is the avowal of my love received! Is it
thus that . . . but, no, no ! it cannot, it shall not
be! Alphonso, behold me at your feet! Be
witness of my despair! Look with pity on a
woman who loves you with sincere affection!
She who possesses your heart, how has she merited
such a treasure % What sacrifice has she made
to you ? What raises her above Rodolpha ? "

I endeavoured to lift her from her knees.

" For God's sake, Segnora, restrain these trans-
ports ; they disgrace yourself and me. Your
exclamations may be heard, and your secret
divulged to your attendants. I see that my
presence only irritates you : permit me to retire."﻿THE MONK

11

I prepared to quit the apartment: the baroness
caught me suddenly by the arm.

" And who is this happy rival ? " said she in a
menacing tone ; " I will know her name, and when
I know it ...! She is some one in tny power ;
you entreated my favour, my protection ! Let
me but find her, let me but know who dares to rob
me of your heart, and she shall suffer every
torment which jealousy and disappointment can
inflict. Who is she ? Answer me this moment.
Hope not to conceal her from my vengeance !
Spies shall be set over you ; every step, every look
shall be watched ; your eyes will discover my
rival; I shall know her; and when she is found,
tremble, Alphonso, for her and for yourself."

As she uttered these last words, her fury
mounted to such a pitch as to stop her powers of
respiration. She panted, groaned, and at length
fainted away. As she was falling I caught her
in my arms, and placed her upon a sofa. Then
hastening to the door, I summoned her women
to her assistance ; I committed her to their care,
and seized the opportunity of escaping.

Agitated and confused beyond expression, I
bent my steps towards the garden. The benig-
nity with which the baroness listened to me at
first, had raised my hopes to the highest pitch :
I imagined her to have perceived my attachment
for her niece, and to approve of it. Extreme
was my disappointment at understanding the
true purport of her discourse. I knew not what
course to take : the superstition of the parents
of Agnes, aided by her aunt's unfortunate passion,﻿12

THE MONK

seemed to oppose such obstacles to our union as
were almost insurmountable.

As I passed by a low parlour, whose windows
looked into the garden, through the door which
stood half open I observed Agnes seated at a table.
She was occupied in drawing, and several un-
finished sketches were scattered round her. I
entered, still undetermined whether I should
acquaint her with the declaration of the baroness.

"Oh! is it only you?" said she, raising her head:
" You are no stranger, and I shall continue my
occupation without ceremony. Take a chair,
and seat yourself by me."

I obeyed, and placed myself near the table.
Unconscious what I was doing, and totally
occupied by the scene which had just passed, I
took up some of the drawings and cast my eyes
over them. One of the subjects struck me from
its singularity. It represented the great hall of
the castle of Lindenberg. A door conducting
to a narrow staircase stood half open. In the
foreground appeared a group of figures, placed
in the most grotesque attitudes; terror was
expressed upon every countenance. Here was
one upon his knees, with his eyes cast up to
heaven, and praying most devoutly; there,
another was creeping away upon all fours. Some
hid their faces in their cloaks, or the laps of their
companions; some had concealed themselves
beneath a table, on which the remnants of a feast
were visible ; while others, with gaping mouths
and eyes wide-stretched, pointed to a figure
supposed to have created this disturbance. It﻿THE MONK

13

represented a female of more than human stature,
clothed in the habit of some religious order. Her
face was veiled; on her arm hung a chaplet of
beads; her dress was in several places stained
with the blood which trickled from a wound upon
her bosom. In one hand she held a lamp, in the
other a large knife, and she seemed advancing
towards the iron gates of the hall.

" What does this mean, Agnes ? " said I: " Is
this some invention of your own ? "

She cast her eyes upon the drawing.
" Oh ! no," she replied : " 'tis the invention of
much wiser heads than mine. But can you
possibly have lived at Lindenberg for three, whole
months without hearing of the bleeding nun ? "

"You are the first who ever mentioned the
name to me. Pray, who may the lady be ? "

" That is more than I can pretend to tell you.
All my knowledge of her history comes from an
old tradition in this family, which has been handed
down from father to son, and is firmly credited
throughout the baron's domains. Nay, the
baron believes it himself; and as for my aunt,
who has a natural turn for the marvellous, she
would sooner doubt the veracity of the Bible
than of the bleeding nun. Shall I tell you this
history ? "

I answered, that she would oblige me much by
relating it: she resumed her drawing, and then
proceeded as follows in a tone of burlesqued
gravity:

"It is surprising that in all the chronicles of
past times this remarkable personage is never﻿14

THE MONK

once mentioned. Fain would I recount to you
her life ; but unluckily till after her death she was
never known to have existed. Then first did she
think it necessary to make some noise in the
world, and with that intention she made bold to
seize upon the castle of Lindenberg. Having a
good taste, she took up her abode in the best room
of the house; and once established there, she
began to amuse herself by knocking about the
tables and chairs in the middle of the night.
Perhaps she was a bad sleeper, but this I have
never been able to ascertain. According to the
tradition, this entertainment commenced about a
century ago. It was accompanied with shrieking,
howling, groaning, swearing, and many other
agreeable noises of the same kind. But though
one particular room was more especially honoured
with her visits, she did not entirely confine herself
to it. She occasionally ventured into the old
galleries, paced up and down the spacious halls ;
or, sometimes stopping at the doors of the
chambers, she wept and wailed there to the
universal terror of the inhabitants. In these
nocturnal excursions she was seen by different
people, who all describe her appearance as you
behold it here traced by the hand of her un-
worthy historian."

The singularity of this account insensibly en-
gaged my attention.

" Did she never speak to those who met her ? "
said I.

" Not she. The specimens indeed which she
gave nightly of her talents for conversation, were﻿THE MONK

15

by no means inviting. Sometimes the castle rang
with oaths and execrations : a moment after she
repeated her paternoster : now she howled out
the most horrible blasphemies, and then chaunted
De profundis as orderly as if still in the choir. In
short, she seemed a mighty capricious being : but
whether she prayed or cursed, whether she was
impious or devout, she always contrived to terrify
her auditors out of their senses. The castle
became scarcely habitable; and its lord was so
frightened by these midnight revels,V that one fine
morning he was found dead in his bed. This
success seemed to please the nun mightily, for now
she made more noise than ever, fiut the next
baron proved too cunning for her. He made his
appearance with a celebrated exorciser in his
hand, who feared not to shut himself up for a night
in the haunted chamber. There it seems that he
had a hard battle with the ghost, before she would
promise to be quiet. She was obstinate, but he
was more so; and at length she consented to let
the inhabitants of the castle take a good night's
rest. For some time after no news was heard of
her. But at the end of five years the exorciser
died, and then the nun ventured to peep abroad
again. However, she was now grown more
tractable and well-behaved. She walked about
in silence, and never made her appearance above
once in five years. This custom, if you will believe
the baron, still continues. He is fully persuaded,
that on the fifth of May of every fifth year, as
soon as the clock strikes one, the door of the
haunted chamber opens. [Observe, that this﻿16

THE MONK

room has been shut up for near a century.] Then
out walks the ghostly nun with her lamp and
dagger: she descends the staircase of the eastern
tower, and crosses the great hall. On that night
the porter always leaves the gates of the castle
open, out of respect to the apparition: not that
this is thought by any means necessary, since she
could easily whip through the key-hole if she
chose it: but merely out of politeness, and to
prevent her from making her exit in a way so
derogatory to the dignity of her ghostship."

44 And whither does she go on quitting the
castle ? "

44 To heaven, I hope ; but if she does, the place
certainly is not to her taste, for she always returns
after an hour's absence. The lady then retires
to her chamber, and is quiet for another five
years."

44 And you believe this, Agnes % "

44 How can you ask such a question 1 No, no,
Alphonso I I have too much reason to lament
superstition's influence to be its victim myself.
However, I must not avow my incredulity to the
baroness: she entertains not a doubt of this history.
As to Dame Cunegonda, my governess, she pro-
tests that fifteen years ago she saw the spectre
with her own eyes. She related to me one evening,
how she and several other domestics had been
terrified while at supper by the appearance of the
bleeding nun, as the ghost is called in the castle :
'tis from her account that I drew this sketch, and
you may be certain that Cunegonda was not
omitted. There she is ! I shall never forget what﻿THE MONK

17

a passion she was in, and how ugly she looked
while she scolded me for having made her picture
so like herself ! "

Here she pointed to a burlesque figure of an old
woman in an attitude of terror.

In spite of the melancholy which oppressed me,
I could not help smiling at the playful imagination
of Agnes: she had perfectly preserved Dame
Cunegonda's resemblance, but had so much
exaggerated every fault, and rendered every
feature so irresistibly laughable, that I could
easily conceive the duenna's anger.

4 4 The figure is admirable, my dear Agnes! I
knew not that you possessed such talents for the
ridiculous."

" Stay a moment," she replied ; " I will show
you a figure still more ridiculous than Dame
Cunegonda's. If it pleases you, you may dispose
of it as seems best to yourself."

She rose, and went to a cabinet at some little
distance : unlocking a drawer, she took out a
small case, which she opened, and presented to me.

46 Do you know the resemblance ? " said she,
smiling.

It was her own.

Transported at the gift, I pressed the portrait
to my lips with passion : I threw myself at her
feet, and declared my gratitude in the warmest
and most affectionate terms. She listened to me
with complaisance, and assured me that she shared
my sentiments; when suddenly she uttered a
loud shriek, disengaged the hand which I held,
and flew from the room by a door which opened

II.—2﻿18

THE MONK

to the garden. Amazed at this abrupt departure,
I rose hastily from my knees. I beheld with
confusion the baroness standing near me, glowing
with jealousy, and almost choked with rage. On
recovering from her swoon, she had tortured her
imagination to discover her concealed rival. No
one appeared to deserve her suspicions more than
Agnes. She immediately hastened to find her
niece, tax her with encouraging my addresses, and
assure herself whether her conjectures were well-
grounded. Unfortunately she had already seen
enough to need no other confirmation. She
arrived at the door of the room, at the precise
moment when Agnes gave me her portrait. She
heard me profess an everlasting attachment to her
rival, and saw me kneeling at her feet. She
advanced to separate us; we were too much
occupied by each other to perceive her approach,
and were not aware of it till Agnes beheld her
standing by my side.

Bage on the part of Donna Eodolpha, embarrass-
ment on mine, for some time kept us both silent.
The lady recovered herself first.

" My suspicions then were just," said she ; " the
coquetry of my niece has triumphed, and 'tis to
her that I am sacrificed. In one respect, however,
I am fortunate ; I shall not be the only one who
laments a disappointed passion. You, too, shall
know what it is to love without hope ! I daily
expect orders for restoring Agnes to her parents.
Immediately upon her arrival in Spain, she will
take the veil, and place an insuperable barrier to
your union. You may spare your supplications,"﻿THE MONK

19

she continued, perceiving me on the point of
speaking ; " my resolution is fixed and immovable.
Your mistress shall remain a close prisoner in her
chamber, till she exchanges this castle for the
cloister. Solitude will perhaps recall her to a
sense of her duty; but to prevent your opposing
that wished event, I must inform you, Don
Alphonso, that your presence here is no longer
agreeable either to the baron or myself. It was not
to talk nonsense to my niece that your relations
sent you to Germany : your business was to travel,
and I should be sorry to impede any longer so
excellent a design. Farewell, Segnor ; remember,
that to-morrow morning we meet for the last
time."

Having said this, she darted upon me a look
of pride, contempt, and malice, and quitted the
apartment. I also retired to mine, and consumed
the night in planning the means of rescuing Agnes
from the power of her tyrannical aunt.

After the positive declaration of its mistress, it
was impossible for me to make a longer stay at the
castle of Lindenberg. Accordingly, I the next
day announced my immediate departure. The
baron declared that it gave him sincere pain ; and
he expressed himself in my favour so warmly, that
I endeavoured to win him over to my interest.
Scarcely had I mentioned the name of Agnes,
when he stopped me short, and said, that it was
totally out of his power to interfere in the business.
I saw that it was in vain to argue; the baroness
governed her husband with despotic sway, and I
easily perceived that she had prejudiced him﻿20

THE MONK

against the match. Agnes did not appear. I
entreated permission to take leave of her, but my
prayer was rejected. I was obliged to depart
without seeing her.

At quitting him, the baron shook my hand
affectionately, and assured me that, as soon as his
niece was gone, I might consider his house as my
own.

" Farewell, Don Alphonso ! " said the baroness,
and stretched out her hand to me.

I took it, and offered to carry it to my lips. She
prevented me. Her husband was at the other end
of the room, and out of hearing.

" Take care of yourself," she continued ; " my
love is become hatred, and my wounded pride
shall not be unatoned. Go where you will, my
vengeance shall follow you ! "

She accompanied these words with a look
sufficient to make me tremble. I answered not,
but hastened to quit the castle.

As my chaise drove out of the court, I looked
up to the windows of your sister's chamber:
nobody was to be seen there. I threw myself back
despondent in my carriage. I was attended by
no other servants than a Frenchman, whom I had
hired at Strasbourg in Stephano's room, and my
little page, whom I before mentioned to you.
The fidelity, intelligence, and good temper of
Theodore had already made him dear to me; but
he now prepared to lay an obligation on me, which
made me look upon him as a guardian genius.
Scarcely had we proceeded half a mile from the
castle, when he rode up to the chaise door.﻿THE MONK

21

" Take courage, Segnor ! " said he in Spanish,
which he had already learnt to speak with fluency
and correctness: " While you were with the
baron, I watched the moment when Dame Cune-
gonda was below stairs, and mounted into the
chamber over that of Donna Agnes. I sang, as
loud as I could, a little German air, well known
to her, hoping that she would recollect my voice.
I was not disappointed, for I soon heard her
window open. I hastened to let down a string
with which I had provided myself. Upon hearing
the casement closed again, I drew up the string,
and, fastened to it, I found this scrap of paper."

He then presented me with a small note, ad-
dressed to me. I opened it with impatience. It
contained the following words, written in pencil:

64 Conceal yourself for the next fortnight in
some neighbouring village. My a ant will believe
you to have quitted Lindenberg, and I shall be
restored to liberty. I will be in the west pavilion
at twelve on the night of the thirtieth. Fail not
to be there, and we shall have an opportunity of
concerting our future plans. Adieu.—Agnes."

At perusing these lines my transports exceeded
all bounds ; neither did I set any to the expressions
of gratitude which I heaped upon Theodore. In
fact, his address and attention merited my
warmest praise. You will readily believe that I
had not entrusted him with my passion for Agnes ;
but the arch youth had too much discernment
not to discover my secret, and too much discretion
not to conceal his knowledge of it. He observed﻿22

THE MONK

in silence what was going on, nor strove to make
himself an agent in the business till my interests
required his interference. I equally admired his
judgment, his penetration, his address, and his
fidelity. This was not the first occasion in which
I had found him of infinite use, and I was every
day more convinced of his quickness and capacity.
During my short stay at Strasbourg, he had
applied himself diligently to learning the rudi-
ments of Spanish. He continued to study it,
and with so much success, that he spoke it with
the same facility as his native language. He
passed the greatest part of his time in reading.
He had acquired much information for his age ;
and united the advantages of a lively countenance
and prepossessing figure to an excellent under-
standing and the very best of hearts. He is now
fifteen. He is still in my service ; and, when you
see him, I am sure that he will please you. But
excuse this digression; I return to the subject
which I quitted.

I obeyed the instructions of Agnes. I pro-
ceeded to Munich : there I left my chaise under
the care of Lucas, my French servant, and then
returned on horseback to a small village about
four miles distant from the castle of Lindenberg.
Upon arriving there, a story was related to the
host at whose inn I alighted, which prevented his
wondering at my making so long a stay in his
house. The old man, fortunately, was credulous
and incurious: he believed all I said, and sought
to know no more than what I thought proper to
tell him. Nobody was with me but Theodore :﻿THE MONK

23

both were disguised : and as we kept ourselves
close, we were not suspected to be other than what
we seemed. In this manner the fortnight passed
away. During that time I had the pleasing con-
viction that Agnes was once more at liberty. She
passed through the village with Dame Cunegonda :
she seemed in good health and spirits, and talked
to her companion without any appearance of
constraint.

" Who are those ladies ? " said I to my host
as the carriage passed.

" Baron Lindenberg's niece, with her gover-
ness," he replied : " she goes regularly every Friday
to the convent of St. Catherine, in which she was
brought up, and which is situated about a mile
from hence."

You may be certain that I waited with im-
patience for the ensuing Friday. I again beheld
my lovely mistress. She cast her eyes upon me
as she passed the inn door. A blush which over-
spread her cheek told me, that in spite of my dis-
guise I had been recognised. I bowed profoundly.
She returned the compliment by a slight inclina-
tion of the head, as if made to one inferior, and
looked another way till the carriage was out of
sight.

The long-expected, long-wished-for night arrived.
It was calm, and the moon was at the full.
As soon as the clock struck eleven I hastened to
my appointment, determined not to be too late.
Theodore had provided a ladder; I ascended the
garden wall without difficulty. The page fol-
lowed me, and drew the ladder after us. I posted﻿24

THE MONK

myself in the west pavilion, and waited impatiently
for the approach of Agnes. Every breeze that
whispered, every leaf that fell, I believed to be
her footstep, and hastened to meet her. Thus
was I obliged to pass a full hour, every minute of
which appeared to me an age. The castle bell at
length tolled twelve, and scarcely could I believe
the night to be no farther advanced. Another
quarter of an hour elapsed, and I heard the light
foot of my mistress approaching the pavilion
with precaution. I flew to receive her, and con-
ducted her to a seat. I threw myself at her feet,
and was expressing my joy at seeing her, when
she thus interrupted me :

"We have no time to lose, Alphonso: the
moments are precious; for, though no more a
prisoner, Cunegonda watches my every step. An
express is arrived from my father; I must depart
immediately for Madrid, and 'tis with difficulty
that I have obtained a week's delay. The super-
stition of my parents, supported by the repre-
sentations of my cruel aunt, leaves me no hope of
softening them to compassion. In this dilemma,
I have resolved to commit myself to your honour.
God grant that you may never give me cause to
repent my resolution ! Flight is my only resource
from the horrors of a convent; and my imprudence
must be excused by the urgency of the danger.
Now listen to the plan by which I hope to effect
my escape.

" We are now at the thirtieth of April. On the
fifth day from this the visionary nun is expected
to appear. In my last visit to the convent I﻿THE MONK

25

provided myself with a dress proper for the
character. A friend whom I have left there, and
to whom I made no scruple to confide my secret,
readily consented to supply me with a religious
habit. Provide a carriage, and be with it at a
little distance from the great gate of the castle.
As soon as the clock strikes 6 one,' I shall quit
my chamber, dressed in the same apparel as the
ghost is supposed to wear. Whoever meets me
will be too much terrified to oppose my escape :
I shall easily reach the door, and throw myself
under your protection. Thus far success is certain:
but, oh ! Alphonso, should you deceive me ; should
you despise my imprudence, and reward it with
ingratitude, the world will not hold a being more
wretched than myself ! I feel all the dangers to
which I shall be exposed. I feel that I am giving
you a right to treat me with levity: but I rely
upon your love, upon your honour ! The step
which I am on the point of taking will incense my
relations against me. Should you desert me;
should you betray the trust reposed in you, I shall
have no friend to punish your insult, or support
my cause. On yourself alone rests all my hope ;
and if your own heart does not plead in my behalf,
I am undone for ever ! "

The tone in which she pronounced these words
was so touching that, in spite of my joy at receiv-
ing her promise to follow me, I could not help
being affected. I also repined in secret at not
having taken the precaution to provide a carriage
at the village ; in which case, I might have carried
off Agnes that very night. Such an attempt was﻿26

THE MONK

now impracticable; neither carriage nor horses
were to be procured nearer than Munich, which
was distant from Lindenberg two good days'
journey. I was therefore obliged to chime in
with her plan, which, in truth, seemed well
arranged. Her disguise would secure her from
being stopped in quitting the castle, and would
enable her to step into the carriage at the very
gate, without difficulty or losing time.

Agnes reclined her head mournfully upon my
shoulder, and, by the light of the moon, I saw tears
flowing down her cheek. I strove to dissipate her
melancholy, and encouraged her to look forward
to the prospect of happiness. I protested in the
most solemn terms that her virtue and innocence
would be safe in my keeping; and that, till the
church had made her my lawful wife, her honour
should be held by me as sacred as a sister's. I
told her, that my first care should be to find you
out, Lorenzo, and reconcile you to our union;
and I was continuing to speak in the same strain,
when a noise without alarmed me. Suddenly
the door of the pavilion was thrown open, and
Cunegonda stood before us. She had heard
Agnes steal out of her chamber, followed her into
the garden, and perceived her entering the
pavilion. Favoured by the trees which shaded
it, and unperceived by Theodore, who waited at
a little distance, she had approached in silence,
and overheard our whole conversation.

" Admirable!" cried Cunegonda, in a voice
shrill with passion, while Agnes uttered a loud
shriek. " By St. Barbara, young lady, you have﻿THE MONK

27

an excellent invention! You must personate
the bleeding nun, truly ? What impiety ! What
incredulity! Marry, I have a good mind to let you
pursue your plan. When the real ghost met you,
I warrant you would be in a pretty condition !
Don Alphonso, you ought to be ashamed of your-
self for seducing a young, ignorant creature to
leave her family and friends. However, for this
time, at least, I shall mar your wicked designs.
The noble lady shall be informed of the whole
affair, and Agnes must defer playing the spectre
till a better opportunity. Farewell, Segnor.—
Donna Agnes, let me have the honour of conduct-
ing your ghostship back to your apartment."

She approached the sofa on which her trembling
pupil was seated, took her by the hand, and pre-
pared to lead her from the pavilion.

I detained her, and strove by entreaties, sooth-
ing, promises, and flattery, to win her to my
party; but, finding all that I could say of no avail,
I abandoned the vain attempt.

" Your obstinacy must be its own punishment,"
said I; " but one resource remains to save Agnes
and myself, and I shall not hesitate to employ it."

Terrified at this menace, she again endeavoured
to quit the pavilion ; but I seized her by the wrist,
and detained her forcibly. At the same moment
Theodore, who had followed her into the room,
closed the door, and prevented her escape. I
took the veil of Agnes; I threw it round the
duenna's head, who uttered such piercing shrieks
that, in spite of our distance from the castle, I
dreaded their being heard. At length I succeeded﻿28

THE MONK

in gagging her so completely, that she could not
produce a single sound. Theodore and myself,
with some difficulty, next contrived to bind her
hands and feet with our handkerchiefs; and I
advised Agnes to regain her chamber with all
diligence. I promised that 110 harm should happen
to Cunegonda; bade her remember that, on the
fifth of May, I should be in waiting at the great
gate of the castle, and took of her an affectionate
farewell. Trembling and uneasy, she had scarce
power enough to signify her consent to my plans,
and fled back to her apartment in disorder and
confusion.

In the meanwhile Theodore assisted me in
carrying off my antiquated prize. She was
hoisted over the wall, placed before me upon my
horse, like a portmanteau, and I galloped away
with her from the castle of Lindenberg. The
unlucky duenna never had made a more disagree-
able journey in her life. She was jolted and
shaken till she was become little more than an
animated mummy; not to mention her fright
when we waded through a small river, through
which it was necessary to pass in order to regain
the village. Before we reached the inn, I had
already determined how to dispose of the trouble-
some Cunegonda. We entered the street in which
the inn stood; and while the page knocked, I
waited at a little distance. The landlord opened
the door with a lamp in his hand.

"Give me the light," said Theodore, "my
master is coming."

He snatched the lamp hastily, and purposely﻿THE MONK

29

let it fall to the ground. The landlord returned
to the kitchen to re-light the lamp, leaving the
door open. I profited by the obscurity, sprang
from my horse with Cunegonda in my arms, darted
upstairs, reached my chamber unperceived, and
unlocking the door of a spacious closet, stowed
her within it, and then turned the key. The
landlord and Theodore soon after appeared with
lights : the former expressed himself surprised at
my returning so late, but asked no impertinent
questions. He soon quitted the room, and left me
to exult in the success of my undertaking.

I immediately paid a visit to my prisoner. I
strove to persuade her submitting with patience
to her temporary confinement. My attempt was
unsuccessful. Unable to speak or move, she
expressed her fury by her looks ; and, except at
meals, I never dared to unbind her, or release her
from the gag. At such times I stood over her
with a drawn sword, and protested that, if she
uttered a single cry, I would plunge it in her
bosom. As soon as she had done eating, the gag
was replaced. I was conscious that this pro-
ceeding was cruel, and could only be justified by
the urgency of circumstances. As to Theodore,
he had no scruples upon the subject. Cune-
gonda's captivity entertained him beyond
measure. During his abode in the castle, a con-
tinual warfare had been carried on between him
and the duenna ; and, now that he found his enemy
so absolutely in his power, he triumphed without
mercy : he seemed to think of nothing but how
to find out new means of plaguing her. Some-﻿30	THE MONK

times he affected to pity her misfortune, then
laughed at, abused, and mimicked her: he played
her a thousand tricks, each more provoking than
the other; and amused himself by telling her,
that her elopement must have occasioned much
surprise at the baron's. This was in fact the case.
No one, except Agnes, could imagine what was
become of Dame Cunegonda. Every hole and
corner was searched for her, the ponds were
dragged, and the woods underwent a thorough
examination. Still no Dame Cunegonda made
her appearance. Agnes kept the secret, and I
kept the duenna: the baroness, therefore, re-
mained in total ignorance respecting the old
woman's fate, but suspected her to have perished
by suicide. Thus passed away five days, during
which I had prepared everything necessary for
my enterprise. On quitting Agnes, I had made
it my first business to despatch a peasant with a
letter to Lucas, at Munich, ordering him to take
care that a coach and four should arrive about
ten o'clock on the fifth of May at the village of
Kosenwald. He obeyed my instructions punctu-
ally ; the equipage arrived at the time appointed.
As the period of her lady's elopement drew nearer,
Cunegonda's rage increased. I verily believe,
that spite and passion would have killed her, had
I not luckily discovered her prepossession in favour
of cherry-brandy. With this favourite liquor she
was plentifully supplied, and, Theodore always
remaining to guard her, the gag was occasionally
removed. The liquor seemed to have a wonder-
ful effect in softening the acrimony of her nature ;﻿THE MONK

31

and her confinement not admitting of any other
amusement, she got drunk regularly once a day,
just by way of passing the time.

The fifth of May arrived, a period by me never
to be forgotten ! Before* the clock struck twelve,
I betook myself to the scene of action. Theodore
followed me on horseback. I concealed the carriage
in a spacious cavern of the hill on whose brow the
castle was situated. This cavern was of consider-
able depth, and, among the peasants, was known
by the name of Lindenberg Hole. The night was
calm and beautiful: the moonbeams fell upon
the ancient towers of the castle, and shed upon
their summits a silver light. All was still around
me : nothing was to be heard except the night-
breeze sighing among the leaves, the distant
barking of village dogs, or the owl who had estab-
lished herself in a nook of the deserted eastern
turret. I heard her melancholy shriek, and
looked upwards : she sat upon the ridge of a
window, which I recognised to be that of the
haunted room. This brought to my remembrance
the story of the bleeding nun, and I sighed while
I reflected on the influence of superstition, and
weakness of human reason. Suddenly I heard
a faint chorus steal upon the silence of the night.

" What can occasion that noise, Theodore ? "

" A stranger of distinction," replied he, " passed
through the village to-day in his way to the castle :
he is reported to be the father of Donna Agnes.
Doubtless the baron has given an entertainment
to celebrate his arrival."

The castle bell announced the hour of midnight.﻿32

THE MONK

This was the usual signal for the family to retire
to bed. Soon after I perceived lights in the castle,
moving backwards and forwards in different direc-
tions. I conjectured the company to be separating.
I could hear the heavy doors grate as they opened
with difficulty; and as they closed again, the
rotten casements rattled in their frames. The
chamber of Agnes was on the other side of the
castle. I trembled lest she should have failed in
obtaining the key of the haunted room. Through
this it was necessary for her to pass, in order to
reach the narrow staircase by which the ghost
was supposed to descend into the great hall.
Agitated by this apprehension, I kept my eyes
constantly fixed upon the window, where I hoped
to perceive the friendly glare of a lamp borne by
Agnes. I now heard the massy gates unbarred.
By the candle in his hand, I distinguished old
Conrad, the porter. He set the portal doors wide
open, and retired. The lights in the castle gradu-
ally disappeared, and at length the whole building
was wrapt in darkness.

While I sat upon a broken ridge of the hill, the
stillness of the scene inspired me with melancholy
ideas not altogether unpleasing. The castle,
which stood full in my sight, formed an object
equally awful and picturesque. Its ponderous
walls, tinged by the moon with solemn brightness;
its old and partly ruined towers, lifting themselves
into the clouds, and seeming to frown on the
plains around them; its lofty battlements, over-
grown with ivy, and folding gates, expanding
in honour of the visionary inhabitant, made me﻿THE MONK

33

sensible of a sad and reverential horror. Yet
did not these sensations occupy me so fully as to
prevent me from witnessing with impatience the
slow progress of time. I approached the castle
and ventured to walk round it. A few rays of
light still glimmered in the chamber of Agnes. I
observed them with joy. I was still gazing upon
them, when I perceived a figure draw near the
window, and the curtain was carefully closed to
conceal the lamp which burned there. Convinced
by this observation that Agnes had not abandoned
our plan, I returned with a light heart to my
former station.

The half-hour struck! The three-quarters
struck! My bosom beat high with hope and
expectation. At length, the wished-for sound
was heard. The bell tolled " one," and the
mansion echoed with the noise loud and solemn.
I looked up to the casement of the haunted
chamber. Scarcely had five minutes elapsed
when the expected light appeared. I was now
close to the tower. The window was not so far
from the ground, but that I fancied I perceived
a female figure with a lamp in her hand moving
slowly along the apartment. The light soon
faded away, and all was again dark and gloomy.

Occasional gleams of brightness darted from
the staircase windows as the lovely ghost passed
by them. I traced the light through the hall:
it reached the portal, and at length I beheld
Agnes pass through the folding gates. She was
habited exactly as she had described the spectre.
A chaplet of beads hung upon her arm ; her head

n.—3﻿34

THE MONK

was enveloped in a long white veil; her nun's
dress was stained with blood ; and she had taken
care to provide herself with a lamp and dagger.
She advanced towards the spot where I stood.
I flew to meet her, and clasped her in my arms.

"Agnes!" said I, while I pressed her to my
bosom.

" Agnes ! Agnes ! thou art mine !

" Agnes ! Agnes ! I am thine !

" In my veins while blood shall roll,

" Thou art mine !

" I am thine !

" Thine my body! thine my soul! "

Terrified and breathless, she was unable to speak.
She dropped her lamp and dagger, and sank upon
my bosom in silence. I raised her in my arms,
and conveyed her to the carriage. Theodore
remained behind in order to release Dame Cune-
gonda. I also charged him with a letter to the
baroness, explaining the whole affair, and en-
treating her good offices in reconciling Don Gaston
to my union with his daughter. I discovered to
her my real name. I proved to her that my birth
and expectations justified my pretending to her
niece; and assured her, though it was out of my
power to return her love, that I would strive
unceasingly to obtain her esteem and friendship.

I stepped into the carriage, where Agnes was
already seated. Theodore closed the door, and
the postillions drove away. At first I was delighted
with the rapidity of our progress; but as soon as
we were in no danger of pursuit, I called to the﻿THE MONK

35

drivers, and bade them moderate their pace.
They strove in vain to obey me; the horses
refused to answer the rein, and continued to rush
on with astonishing swiftness. The postillions
redoubled their efforts to stop them; but, by
kicking and plunging, the beasts soon released
themselves from this restraint. Uttering a loud
shriek, the drivers were hurled upon the ground.
Immediately thick clouds obscured the sky: the
winds howled round us, the lightning flashed, and
the thunder roared tremendously. Never did I
behold so frightful a tempest! Terrified by the
jar of contending elements, the horses seemed
every moment to increase their speed. Nothing
could interrupt their career; they dragged the
carriage through hedges and ditches, dashed
down the most dangerous precipices, and seemed
to vie in swiftness with the rapidity of the winds.

All this while my companion lay motionless in
my arms. Truly alarmed by the magnitude of
the danger, I was in vain attempting to recall her
to her senses, when a loud crash announced that
a stop was put to our progress in the most dis-
agreeable manner. The carriage was shattered
to pieces. In falling, I struck my temple against
a flint. The pain of the wound, the violence of
the shock, and apprehension for the safety of
Agnes, combined to overpower me so completely
that my senses forsook me, and I lay without
animation on the ground.

I probably remained for some time in this
situation, since, when I opened my eyes, it was
broad daylight. Several peasants were standing﻿36	THE MONK

round me, and seemed disputing whether my
recovery was possible. I spoke German tolerably
well. As soon as I could utter an articulate
sound, I enquired after Agnes. What was my
surprise and distress, when assured by the peasants
that nobody had been seen answering the de-
scription which I gave of her ! They told me,
that in going to their daily labour they had been
alarmed by observing the fragments of my carriage,
and by hearing the groans of a horse, the only
one of the four which remained alive: the other
three lay dead by my side.

Nobody was near me when they came up, and
much time had been lost before they succeeded
in recovering me. Uneasy beyond expression
respecting the fate of my companion, I besought
the peasants to disperse themselves in search of
her. I described her dress, and promised immense
rewards to whoever brought me any intelligence.
As for myself, it was impossible for me to join in
the pursuit: I had broken two of my ribs in the
fall; my arm, being dislocated, hung useless by
my side; and my left leg was shattered so
terribly that I never expected to recover its use.

The peasants complied with my request; all
left me except four, who made a litter of boughs,
and prepared to convey me to the neighbouring
town. I enquired its name; it proved to be
Ratisbon, and I could scarcely persuade myself
that I had travelled to such a distance in a single
night. I told the countrymen, that at one o'clock
that morning I had passed through the village of
Eosenwald. They shook their heads wistfully,﻿THE MONK

and made signs to each other that I must certainly
be delirious. I was conveyed to a decent inn,
and immediately put to bed. A physician was
sent for, who set my arm with success : he then
examined my other hurts, and told me that I
need be under no apprehension of the consequences
of any of them, but ordered me to keep myself
quiet, and be prepared for a tedious and painful
cure. I answered him, that if he hoped to keep
me quiet, he must first endeavour to procure me
some news of a lady who had quitted Rosenwald
in my company the night before, and had been
with me at the moment when the coach broke
down. He smiled, and only replied by advising
me to make myself easy, for that all proper
care should be taken of me. As he quitted
me, the hostess met him at the door of the
room.

" The gentleman is not quite in his right senses,"
I heard him say to her in a low voice ; " 'tis the
natural consequence of his fall, but that will soon
be over."

One after another the peasants returned to the
inn, and informed me that no traces had been
discovered of my unfortunate mistress. Uneasi-
ness now became despair. I entreated them to
renew their search in the most urgent terms,
doubling the promises which I had already made
them. My wild and frantic manner confirmed the
bystanders in the idea of my being delirious. No
signs of the lady having appeared, they believed her
to be a creature fabricated by my over-heated
brain and paid no attention to my entreaties.﻿38

THE MONK

However, the hostess assured me, that a fresh
enquiry should be made; but I found afterwards
that her promise was only given to quiet me. No
further steps were taken in the business.

Though my baggage was left at Munich under
the care of my French servant, having prepared
myself for a long journey, my purse was amply
furnished: besides, my equipage proved to be
of distinction, and in consequence all possible
attention was paid me at the inn. The day
passed away: still no news of Agnes. The
anxiety of fear now gave place to despondency.
I ceased to rave about her, and was plunged in
the depth of melancholy reflections. Perceiving
me to be silent and tranquil, my attendants believed
my delirium to have abated, and that my malady
had taken a favourable turn. According to the
physician's order, I swallowed a composing
medicine; and as soon as the night shut in, my
attendants withdrew, and left me to repose.

That repose I wooed in vain. The agitation of
my bosom chased away sleep. Restless in my
mind, in spite of the fatigue of my body, I con-
tinued to toss about from side to side, till the
clock in a neighbouring steeple struck " one." As
I listened to the mournful hollow sound, and
heard it die away in the wind, I felt a sudden
chilliness spread itself over my body. I shuddered
without knowing wherefore; cold dews poured
down my forehead, and my hair stood bristling
with alarm. Suddenly I heard slow and heavy
steps ascending the staircase. By an involuntary
movement I started up in my bed, and drew back﻿THE MONK

39

the curtain. A single rushlight, which glimmered
upon the hearth, shed a faint gleam through the
apartment, which was hung with tapestry. The
door was thrown open with violence. A figure
entered, and drew near my bed with solemn
measured steps. With trembling apprehension I
examined this midnight visitor. God Almighty!
it was the bleeding nun! It was my lost com-
panion ! Her face was still veiled, but she no
longer held her lamp and dagger. She lifted up
her veil slowly. What a sight presented itself to
my startled eyes ! I beheld before me an animated
corse. Her countenance was long and haggard;
her cheeks and lips were bloodless; the paleness
of death was spread over her features; and her
eye-balls, fixed stedfastly upon me, were lustreless
and hollow.

I gazed upon the spectre with horror too great
to be described. My blood was frozen in my
veins. I would have called for aid, but the sound
expired ere it could pass my lips. My nerves
were bound up in impotence, and I remained in
the same attitude inanimate as a statue.

The visionary nun looked upon me for some
minutes in silence : there was something petrifying
in her regard. At length, in a low sepulchral
voice, she pronounced the following words :

4 4 Raymond I Raymond ! thou art mine !

" Raymond ! Raymond ! I am thine !

" In thy veins while blood shall roll,
" I am thine !

" Thou art mine !

•	" Mine thy body! mine thy soul! "--﻿40

THE MONK

Breathless with fear, I listened while she repeated
my own expressions. The apparition seated
herself opposite to me at the foot of the bed, and
was silent. Her eyes were fixed earnestly upon
mine : they seemed endowed with the property
of the rattlesnake's, for I strove in vain to look ofi
her. My eyes were fascinated, and I had not the
power of withdrawing them from the spectre's.

In this attitude she remained for a whole long
hour without speaking or moving ; nor was I able
to do either. At length the clock struck two.
The apparition rose from her seat, and approached
the side of the bed. She grasped with her icy
fingers my hand, which hung lifeless upon the
coverture, and, pressing her cold lips to mine,
again repeated,

" Raymond ! Raymond ! thou art mine !

" Raymond ! Raymond ! I am thine ! " etc.-

She then dropped my hand, quitted the chamber
with slow steps, and the door closed after her.
Till that moment the faculties of my body had
been all suspended; those of my mind had alone
been waking. The charm now ceased to operate ;
the blood which had been frozen in my veins
rushed back to my heart with violence ; I uttered
a deep groan, and sank lifeless upon my pillow.

The adjoining room was only separated from
mine by a thin partition; it was occupied by the
host and his wife : the former was roused by my
groan, and immediately hastened to my chamber;
the hostess soon followed him. With some difficulty
they succeeded in restoring me to my senses, and﻿THE MONK

41

immediately sent for the physician, who arrived
in all diligence. He declared my fever to be very
much increased, and that, if I continued to suffer
such violent agitation, he would not take upon
him to insure my life. Some medicines which he
gave me, in some degree tranquillised my spirits.
I fell into a sort of slumber towards day-break,
but fearful dreams prevented me from deriving
any benefit from my repose. Agnes and the
bleeding nun presented themselves by turns to
my fancy, and combined to harass and torment; me.
I awoke fatigued and unrefreshed. My fever
seemed rather augmented than diminished; the
agitation of my mind impeded my fractured bones
from knitting : I had frequent fainting fits, and
during the whole day the physician judged it
expedient not to quit me for two hours together.

The singularity of my adventure made me
determine to conceal it from every one, since I
could not expect that a circumstance so strange
should gain credit. I was very uneasy about
Agnes. I knew not what she would think at not
finding me at the rendezvous, and dreaded her
entertaining suspicions of my fidelity. However,
I depended upon Theodore's discretion, and
trusted that my letter to the baroness would
convince her of the rectitude of my intentions.
These considerations somewhat lightened my
inquietude upon her account; but the impression
left upon my mind by my nocturnal visitor grew
stronger with every succeeding moment. The
night drew near • I dreaded its arrival; yet I
strove to persuade myself that the ghost would﻿42

THE MONK

appear no more, and at all events I desired that a
servant might sit up in my chamber.

The fatigue of my body, from not having slept
on the former night, co-operating with the strong
opiates administered to me in profusion, at length
procured me that repose of which I was so much
in need. I sank into a profound and tranquil
slumber, and had already slept for some hours,
when the neighbouring clock roused me by striking
" one." Its sound brought with it to my memory
all the horrors of the night before. The same cold
shivering seized me. I started up in my bed, and
perceived the servant fast asleep in an arm-chair
near me. I called him by his name : he made no
answer. I shook him forcibly by the arm, and
strove in vain to wake him : he was perfectly
insensible to my efforts. I now heard the heavy
steps ascending the staircase; the door was
thrown open, and again the bleeding nun stood
before me. Once more my limbs were chained in
second infancy: once more I heard those fatal
words repeated,

" Raymond ! Raymond ! thou art mine !

" Raymond ! Raymond ! I am thine ! " etc.-

The scene which had shocked me so sensibly
on the former night was again presented. The
spectre again pressed her lips to mine, again
touched me with her rotting fingers, and, as on
her first appearance, quitted the chamber as soon
as the clock tolled " two."

Every night was this repeated. Far from
growing accustomed to the ghost, every succeeding﻿THE MONK

43

visit inspired me with greater horror. Her idea
pursued me continually, and I became the prey
of habitual melancholy. The constant agitation
of my mind naturally retarded the re-establish-
ment of my health. Several months elapsed
before I was able to quit my bed ; and when, at
length, I was moved to a sofa, I was so faint,
spiritless, and emaciated, that I could not cross
the room without assistance. The looks of my
attendants sufficiently denoted the little hope
which they entertained of my recovery. The
profound sadness which oppressed me without
remission, made the physician consider me to be
an hypochondriac. The cause of my distress I
carefully concealed in my own bosom, for I knew
that no one could give me relief. The ghost was
not even visible to any eye but mine. I had
frequently caused attendants to sit up in my
room; but the moment that the clock struck

one," irresistible slumber seized them, nor left
them till the departure of the ghost.

You may be surprised that during this time I
made no enquiries after your sister. Theodore,
who with difficulty had discovered my abode,
had quieted my apprehensions for her safety;
at the same time he convinced me, that all attempts
to release her from captivity must be fruitless,
till I should be in a condition to return to Spain.
The particulars of her adventure, which I shall
now relate to you, were partly communicated to
me by Theodore, and partly by Agnes herself.

On the fatal night when her elopement was to
have taken place, accident had not permitted her﻿44

THE MONK

to quit her chamber at the appointed time. At
length she ventured into the haunted room,
descended the staircase leading into the hall,
found the gates open as she expected, and left
the castle unobserved. What was her surprise
at not finding me ready to receive her! She
examined the cavern, ranged through every alley
of the neighbouring wood, and passed two full
hours in this fruitless enquiry. She could dis-
cover no traces either of me or of the carriage.
Alarmed and disappointed, her only resource was
to return to the castle before the baroness missed
her; but here she found herself in a fresh em-
barrassment. The bell had already tolled " two,"
the ghostly hour was past, and the careful porter
had locked the folding gates. After much ir-
resolution she ventured to knock softly. Luckily
for her, Conrad was still awake: he heard the
noise, and rose, murmuring at being called up a
second time. No sooner had he opened one of
the doors, and beheld the supposed apparition
waiting there for admittance, than he uttered a
loud cry, and dropped upon his knees. Agnes
profited by his terror: she glided by him, flew to
ner own apartment, and, having thrown off her
spectre's trappings, retired to bed, endeavouring
in vain to account for my disappearing.

In the meanwhile, Theodore, having seen my
carriage drive off with the false Agnes, returned
joyfully to the village. The next morning he
released Cunegonda from her confinement, and
accompanied her to the castle. There he found
the baron, his lady, and Don Gaston, disputing﻿THE MONK

45

together upon the porter's relation. All of them
agreed in believing the existence of spectres^
but the latter contended, that for a ghost to knock
for admittance was a proceeding till then un-
witnessed, and totally incompatible with the
immaterial nature of a spirit. They were still
discussing the subject, when the page appeared
with Cunegonda, and cleared up the mystery. On
hearing his deposition, it was agreed unanimously,
that the Agnes whom Theodore had seen step into
my carriage must have been .the bleeding nun, and
that the ghost who had terrified Conrad was no
other than Don Gaston's daughter.

The first surprise which this discovery occasioned
being over, the baroness resolved to make it of use
in persuading her niece to take the veil. Fearing
lest so advantageous an establishment for his
daughter should induce Don Gaston to renounce
his resolution, she suppressed my letter, and con-
tinued to represent me as a needy unknown
adventurer. A childish vanity had led me to
conceal my real name even from my mistress ;
I wished to be loved for myself, not for being the
son and heir of the Marquis de las Cisternas.
The consequence was, that my rank was known
to no one in the castle except the baroness, and
she took good care to confine the knowledge to
her own breast. Don Gaston having approved
his sister's design, Agnes was summoned to appear
before them. She was taxed with having medi-
tated an elopement, obliged to make a full con-
fession, and was amazed at the gentleness with
which it was received : but what was her affliction,﻿46

THE MONK

when informed that the failure of her project
must be attributed to me! Cunegonda, tutored
by the baroness, told her that when I released her
I had desired her to inform her lady that our
connection was at an end, that the whole affair
was occasioned by a false report, and that it by
no means suited my circumstances to marry a
woman without fortune or expectations.

To this account my sudden disappearing gave
but too great an air of probability. Theodore,
who could have contradicted the story, by Donna
Rodolpha's order was kept out of her sight. What
proved a still greater confirmation of my being
an impostor, was the arrival of a letter from your-
self, declaring that you had no sort of acquaintance
with Alphonso d'Alvarada. These seeming proofs
of my perfidy, aided by the artful insinuations of
her aunt, by Cunegonda's flattery, and her father's
threats and anger, entirely conquered your sister's
repugnance to a convent. Incensed at my be-
haviour, and disgusted with the world in general,
she consented to receive the veil. She passed
another month at the castle of Lindenberg,
during which my non-appearance confirmed her
in her resolution, and then accompanied Don
Gaston into Spain. Theodore was now set at
liberty. He hastened to Munich, where I had
promised to let him hear from me ; but finding
from Lucas that I never arrived there, he pursued
his search with indefatigable perseverance, and
at length succeeded in rejoining me at Eatisbon.

So much was I altered, that scarcely could he
recollect my features: the distress visible upon﻿THE MONK

47

his sufficiently testified how lively was the interest
which he felt for me. The society of this amiable
boy, whom I had always considered rather as a
companion than a servant, was now my only
comfort. His conversation was gay, yet sensible,
and his observations shrewd and entertaining. He
had picked up much more knowledge than is usual
at his age ; but what rendered him most agreeable
to me, was his having a delightful voice, and no
mean skill in music. He had also acquired some
taste in poetry, and even ventured occasionally to
write verses himself. He frequently composed
little ballads in Spanish. His compositions were but
indifferent, I must confess, yet they were pleasing
to me from their novelty; and hearing him sing
them to his guitar was the only amusement which
I was capable of receiving. Theodore perceived
well enough that something preyed upon my
mind; but as I concealed the cause of my grief
even from him, respect would not permit him to
pry into my secrets.

One evening I was lying upon my sofa, plunged
in reflections very far from agreeable : Theodore
amused himself by observing from the window a
battle between two postillions, who were quarrel-
ling in the inn-yard.

" Ha ! ha ! " cried he suddenly, " yonder is the
Great Mogul."

" Who * 55 said I.

" Only a man who made me a strange speech
at Munich."

" What was the purport of it ? "

" Now you put me in mind of it, Segnor, it was a﻿48

THE MONK

kind of message to you, but truly it was not worth
delivering. I believe the fellow to be mad, for my
part. When I came to Munich in search of you,
I found him living at ' the King of the Romans,'
and the host gave me an odd account of him. By
his accent he is supposed to be a foreigner, but of
what country nobody can tell. He seemed to
have no acquaintance in the town, spoke very
seldom, and never was seen to smile. He had
neither servants nor baggage; but his purse
seemed well furnished, and he did much good in
the town. Some supposed him to be an Arabian
astrologer, others to be a travelling mountebank,
and many , declared that he was Doctor Faustus,
whom the devil had sent back to Germany. The
landlord, however, told me, that he had the best
reasons to believe him to be the Great Mogul
incognito."

" But the strange speech, Theodore——"

" True, I had almost forgotten the speech:
indeed, for that matter, it would not have been a
great loss if I had forgotten it altogether. You
are to know, Segnor, that while I was enquiring
about you of the landlord, this stranger passed by.
He stopped, and looked at me earnestly—6 Youth/
said he, in a solemn voice, 6 he whom you seek
has found that which he would fain lose. My
hand alone can dry up the blood. Bid your
master wish for me when the clock strikes
" one."' "

" How ? " cried I, starting from my sofa. [The
words which Theodore had repeated, seemed to
imply the stranger's knowledge of my secret.]﻿THE MONK

49

" Fly to him, my boy ! Entreat him to grant me
one moment's conversation."

Theodore was surprised at the vivacity of my
manner: however, he asked no questions, but
hastened to obey me. I waited his return im-
patiently. But a short space of time had elapsed,
when he again appeared, and ushered the expected
guest into my chamber. He was a man of majestic
presence ; his countenance was strongly marked,
and his eyes were large, black, and sparkling :
yet there was a something in his look, which, the
moment that I saw him, inspired me with a secret
awe, not to say horror. He was dressed plainly,
his hair hung wildly upon his brow, and a band of
black velvet, which encircled his forehead, spread
over his features an additional gloom. His
countenance wore the marks of profound melan-
choly, his step was slow, and his manner grave,
stately, and solemn.

He saluted me with politeness; and having
replied to the usual compliments of introduction,
he motioned to Theodore to quit the chamber.
The page instantly withdrew.

" I know your business," said he, without giving
me time to speak. "I have the power of releasing
you from your nightly visitor ; but this cannot be
done before Sunday. On the hour when the
sabbath morning breaks, spirits of darkness have
least influence over mortals. After Saturday the
nun shall visit you no more."

" May I not enquire," said I, " by what means
you are in possession of a secret, which I have care-
fully concealed from the knowledge of every one ? "

II.—4﻿50

THE MONK

" How can I be ignorant of your distresses, when
their cause at this moment stands beside you ? "
I started. The stranger continued.

"Though to you only visible for one hour in
twenty-four, neither day or night does she ever
quit you ; nor will she ever quit you till you have
granted her request."

" And what is that request ? "

" That she must herself explain : it lies not in
my knowledge. Wait with patience for the night
of Saturday : all shall be then cleared up."

I dared not press him further. He soon after
changed the conversation, and talked of various
matters. He named people who had ceased to
exist for many centuries, and yet with whom he
appeared to have been personally acquainted. I
could not mention a country, however distant,
which he had not visited, nor could I sufficiently
admire the extent and variety of his information.
I remarked to him, that having travelled, seen
and known so much, must have given him infinite
pleasure. He shook his head mournfully.

" No one," he replied, " is adequate to compre-
hending the misery of my lot! Fate obliges me to
be constantly in movement; I am not per-
mitted to pass more than a fortnight in the same
place. I have no friend in the world, and, from
the restlessness of my destiny, I never can acquire
one. Fain would I lay down my miserable life,
for I envy those who enjoy the quiet of the grave :
but death eludes me, and flies from my embrace.
In vain do I throw myself in the way of danger. I
plunge into the ocean ; the waves throw me back﻿THE MONK

51

with abhorrence upon the shore : I rush into fire ;
the flames recoil at my approach : I oppose myself
to the fury of banditti; their swords become
blunted, and break against my breast. The
hungry tiger shudders at my approach, and the
alligator flies from a monster more horrible than
itself. God has set his seal upon me, and all his
creatures respect this fatal mark."

He put his hand to the velvet, which was bound
round his forehead. There was in his eyes an
expression of fury, despair, and malevolence, that
struck horror to my very soul. An involuntary
convulsion made me shudder. The stranger
perceived it.

"Such is the curse imposed onme," he continued:
" I am doomed to inspire all who look on me with
terror and detestation. You already feel the
influence of the charm, and with every succeeding
moment will feel it more. I will not add to your
sufferings by my presence. Farewell till Saturday.
As soon as the clock strikes twelve, expect me at
your chamber-door."

Having said this he departed, leaving me in
astonishment at the mysterious turn of his manner
and conversation. His assurances that I should
soon be relieved from the apparition's visits,
produced a good effect upon my constitution.
Theodore, whom I rather treated as an adopted
child than as a domestic, was surprised at his
return to observe the amendment in my looks.
He congratulated me on this symptom of returning
health, and declared himself delighted at my
having received so much benefit from my con-

UBRARY

UNIVERSITY OF ILUN8&﻿52

THE MONK

ference with the Great Mogul. Upon enquiry I
found that the stranger had already passed eight
days in Ratisbon. According to his own account,
therefore, he was only to remain there six days
longer. Saturday was still at the distance of
three. Oh! with what impatience did I expect
its arrival! In the interim, the bleeding nun
continued her nocturnal visits; but hoping soon
to be released from them altogether, the effects
which they produced on me became less violent
than before.

The wished-for night arrived. To avoid creating
suspicion I retired to bed at my usual hour. But
as soon as my attendants had left me, I dressed
myself again, and prepared for the stranger's
reception. He entered my room upon the turn of
midnight. A small chest was in his hand, which
he placed near the stove. He saluted me without
speaking; I returned the compliment, observing
an equal silence. He then opened his chest. The
first thing which he produced was a small wooden
crucifix : he knelt down and gazed upon it mourn-
fully, and cast his eyes towards heaven. He
seemed to be praying devoutly. At length he
bowed his head respectfully, kissed the crucifix
thrice, and quitted his kneeling posture. He
next drew from the chest a covered goblet: with
the liquor which it contained, and which appeared
to be blood, he sprinkled the floor; and then
dipping in it one end of the crucifix, he described
a circle in the middle of the room. Round about
this he placed various reliques, skulls, thigh-bones,
etc. I observed, that he disposed them all in the﻿THE MONK

sa

forms of crosses. Lastly, he took out a large Bible,
and beckoned me to follow him into the circle. I
obeyed.

<(' Be cautious not to utter a syllable ! " whispered
the stranger : " step not out of the circle, and,
as you love yourself, dare not to look upon my
face ! "

Holding the crucifix in one hand, the Bible in
the other, he seemed to read with profound
attention. The clock struck one ! As usual I
heard the spectre's steps upon the staircase : but
I was not seized with the accustomed shivering.
I waited her approach with confidence. She
entered the room, drew near the circle, and stopped.
The stranger muttered some words, to me unin-
telligible. Then raising his head from the book,
and extending the crucifix towards the ghost, he
pronounced, in a voice distinct and solemn,
" Beatrice ! Beatrice ! Beatrice ! "

" What wouldst thou ? " replied the apparition
in a hollow faltering tone.

" What disturbs thy sleep ? Why dost thou
afflict and torture this youth ? How can rest be
restored to thy unquiet spirit % "

" I dare not tell! I must not tell! Fain
would I repose in my grave, but stern commands
force me to prolong my punishment! "

46 Knowest thou this blood % Knowest thou
in whose veins it flowed ? Beatrice ! Beatrice !
In his name, I charge thee to answer me."

" I dare not disobey my taskers."

" Darest thou disobey me ? "

He spoke in a commanding tone, and drew the﻿54

THE MONK

sable band from his forehead. In spite of his
injunctions to the contrary, curiosity would not
suffer me to keep my eyes off his face : I raised
them, and beheld a burning cross impressed upon
his brow. For the horror with which this object
inspired me I cannot account, but I never felt
its equal. My senses left me for some moments :
a mysterious dread overcame my courage ; and
had not the exorciser caught my hand, I should
have fallen out of the circle.

When I recovered myself, I perceived that the
burning cross had produced an effect no less
violent upon the spectre. Her countenance
expressed reverence and horror, and her visionary
limbs were shaken by fear.

" Yes ! " she said at length, " I tremble at that
mark ! I respect it! I obey you ! Know then,
that my bones lie still unburied: they rot in the
obscurity of Lindenberg Hole. None but this
youth has the right of consigning them to the
grave. His own lips have made over to me his
body and his soul: never will I give back his
promise, never shall he know a night devoid of
terror, unless he engages to collect my mouldering
bones, and deposit them in the family vault of
his Andalusian castle. Then let thirty masses be
said for the repose of my spirit, and I trouble
this world no more. Now let me depart. Those
flames are scorching ! "

He let the hand drop slowly which held the
crucifix, and which till then he had pointed
towards her. The apparition bowed her head,
and her form melted into air. The exorciser led﻿THE MONK

55

me out of the circle. He replaced tlie Bible,
etc. in the chest, and then addressed himself to
me, who stood near him speechless from astonish-
ment.

" Don Raymond, you have heard the conditions
on which repose is promised you. Be it your
business to fulfil them to the letter. For me,
nothing more remains than to clear up the dark-
ness still spread over the spectre's history, and
inform you, that when living Beatrice bore the
name of las Cisternas. She was the great-aunt of
youT grandfather. In quality of your relation,
her ashes demand respect from you, though the
enormity of her crimes must excite your abhor-
rence. The nature of those crimes no one is more
capable of explaining to you than myself. I was
personally acquainted with the holy man who
proscribed her nocturnal riots in the castle of
Lindenberg, and I hold this narrative from his
own lips.

" Beatrice de las Cisternas took the veil at an
early age, not by her own choice, but at the
express command of her parents. She was then
too young to regret the pleasures of which her
profession deprived her : but no sooner did her
warm and voluptuous character begin to be
developed, than she abandoned herself freely to
the impulse of her passions, and seized the first
opportunity to procure their gratification. This
opportunity was at length presented, after many
obstacles which only added new force to her
desires. She contrived to elope from the convent,
and fled to Germany with the Baron Lindenberg.﻿56

THE MONK

She lived at his castle several months as his
avowed concubine. All Bavaria was scan-
dalised by her impudent and abandoned conduct.
Her feasts vied in luxury with Cleopatra's, and
Lindenberg became the theatre of the most un-
bridled debauchery. Not satisfied with displaying
the incontinence of a prostitute, she professed
herself an atheist: she took every opportunity to
scoff at her monastic vows, and loaded with
ridicule the most sacred ceremonies of religion.

" Possessed of a character so depraved, she did
not long confine her affections to one object. Soon
after her arrival at the castle, the baron's younger
brother attracted her notice by his strong-marked
features, gigantic stature, and herculean limbs.
She was not of an humour to keep her inclination
long unknown ; but she found in Otto von Linden-
berg h/r equal in depravity. He returned her
passion just sufficiently to increase it; and when
he had worked it up to the desired pitch he fixed
the price of his love at his brother's murder. The
wretch consented to this horrible agreement. A
night was pitched upon for perpetrating the deed.
One, who resided on a small estate a few miles
distant from the castle, promised that, at one in
the morning, he would be waiting for her at
Lindenberg Hole; that he would bring with him
a party of chosen friends, by whose aid he doubted
not being able to make himself master of the
castle; and that his next step should be the
uniting her hand to his. It was this last promise
which over-ruled every scruple of Beatrice, since,
in spite of his affection for her, the baron had﻿THE MONK

57

declared positively, that he never would make
her his wife.

" The fatal night arrived. The baron slept in
the arms of his perfidious mistress, when the
castle bell struck ' one.' Immediately Beatrice
drew a dagger from underneath her pillow, and
plunged it in her paramour's heart. The baron
uttered a single dreadful groan, and expired.
The murderess quitted her bed hastily, took a
lamp in one hand, in the other the bloody dagger,
and bent her course towards the cavern. The
porter dared not to refuse opening the gates to
one more dreaded in the castle than its master.
Beatrice reached Lindenberg Hole unopposed,
where, according to promise, she found Otto
waiting for her. He received, and listened to her
narrative with transport: but ere she had time
to ask why he came unaccompanied, he convinced
her that he wished for no witnesses to their inter-
view. Anxious to conceal his share in the murder,
and to free himself from a woman whose violent
and atrocious character made him tremble with
reason for his own safety, he had resolved on the
destruction of his wretched agent. Rushing
upon her suddenly, he wrested the dagger from
her hand. He plunged it, still reeking with his
brother's blood, in her bosom, and put an end
to her existence by repeated blows.

44 Otto now succeeded to the barony of Linden-
berg. The murder was attributed solely to the
fugitive nun, and no one suspected him to have
persuaded her to the action. But though his
crime was unpunished by man, God's justice per-﻿58

THE MONK

mitted him not to enjoy in peace his blood-stained
honours. Her bones lying still unburied in the
cave, the restless soul of Beatrice continued to
inhabit the castle. Dressed in her religious habit,
in memory of her vows broken to heaven, furnished
with the dagger which had drank the blood of her
paramour, and holding the lamp which had
guided her flying steps, every night did she stand
before the bed of Otto. The most dreadful con-
fusion reigned through the castle. The vaulted
chambers resounded with shrieks and groans;
and the spectre, as she ranged along the antique
galleries, uttered an incoherent mixture of prayers
and blasphemies. Otto was unable to withstand
the shock which he felt at this fearful vision : its
horrors increased with every succeeding appear-
ance. His alarm at length became so insupport-
able, that his heart burst, and one morning he
was found in his bed totally deprived of warmth
and animation. His death did not put an end
to the nocturnal riots. The bones of Beatrice
continued to lie unburied, and her ghost continued
to haunt the castle.

" The domains of Lindenberg now fell to a
distant relation. But, terrified by the accounts
given him of the bleeding nun (so was the spectre
called by the multitude), the new baron called to
his assistance a celebrated exorciser. This holy
man succeeded in obliging her to temporary
repose : but though she discovered to him her
history, he was not permitted to reveal it to others,
or cause her skeleton to be removed to hallowed
ground. That office was reserved for you; and﻿THE MONK

59

till your coming her gliost was doomed to wander
about the castle, and lament the crime which she
had there committed. However, the exorciser
obliged her to silence during his life-time. So
long as he existed, the haunted chamber was shut
up, and the spectre was invisible. At his death,
which happened in five years after, she again
appeared, but only once on every fifth year, on
the same day and at the same hour when she
plunged her knife in the heart of her sleeping
lover : she then visited the cavern which held
her mouldering skeleton, returned to the castle
as soon as the clock struck two, and was seen no
more till the next five years had elapsed.

" She was doomed to suffer during the space
of a century. That period is past. Nothing
now remains but to consign to the grave the ashes
of Beatrice. I have been the means of releasing
you from your visionary tormentor; and amidst
all the sorrows which oppress me, to think that
I have been of use to you, is some consolation.
Youth, farewell! May the ghost of your relation
enjoy that rest in the tomb, which the Almighty's
vengeance has denied to me for ever."

Here the stranger prepared to quit the apart-
ment.

" Stay yet one moment! " said I; " you have
satisfied my curiosity with regard to the spectre,
but you leave me a prey to yet greater respecting
yourself. Deign to inform me to whom I am
under such real obligations. You mention cir-
cumstances long past, and people long dead : you
were personally acquainted with the exorciser,﻿60

THE MONK

who, by your own account, has been deceased
near a century. How am I to account for this ?
What means that burning cross upon your fore-
head, and why did the sight of it strike such
horror to my soul ? "

On these points he for some time refused to
satisfy me. At length, overcome by my entreaties,
he consented to clear up the whole, on condition
that I would defer his explanation till the next
day. With this request I was obliged to comply,
and he left me. In the morning my first care
was to enquire after the mysterious stranger.
Conceive my disappointment, when informed
that he had quitted Ratisbon. I despatched
messengers in pursuit of him, but in vain. No
traces of the fugitive were discovered. Since
that moment I never have heard any more of him,
and 'tis most probable that I never shall."

[Lorenzo here interrupted his friend's narrative :

" How ! " said he, " you have never discovered
who he was, or even formed a guess ? "

" Pardon me," replied the marquis; " when I
related this adventure to my uncle, the cardinal-
duke, he told me, that he had no doubt of this
singular man's being the celebrated character
known universally by the name of the wandering
Jew.1 His not being permitted to pass more than

11 imagined the tradition of the Wandering Jew to be
known universally ; but as so many people have expressed
to me their ignorance on the subject, it may be as well to
state that the Wandering Jew is said to have insulted
our Saviour, while leading to the cross, saying, 44 Go, go,
thou King of the Jews! " On which Christ, looking at him,﻿THE MONK

61

fourteen days on the same spot, the burning
cross impressed upon his forehead, the effect
which it produced upon the beholders, and many
other circumstances, gave this supposition the
colour of truth. The cardinal is fully persuaded
of it; and for my own part I am inclined to adopt
the only solution which offers itself to this riddle."
I return to the narrative from which I have
digressed.]

From this period I recovered my health so
rapidly as to astonish my physicians. The bleed-
ing nun appeared no more, and I was soon able
to set out for Lindenberg. The baron received
me with open arms. I confided to him the sequel
of my adventure ; and he was not a little pleased
to find that his mansion would be no longer
troubled with the phantom's quinquennial visits.
I was sorry to perceive, that absence had not
weakened Donna Rodolpha's imprudent passion.
In a private conversation which I had with her
during my short stay at the castle, she renewed
her attempts to persuade me to return her affection.
Regarding her as the primary cause of all my
sufferings, I entertained for her no other sentiment
than disgust. The skeleton of Beatrice was found
in the place which she had mentioned. This
being all that I sought at Lindenberg, I hastened
to quit the baron's domains, equally anxious to
perform the obsequies of the murdered nun, and
escape the importunity of a woman whom I de-
tested. I departed, followed by Donna Rodolpha's
answered—" Yea, I go ; but thou shalt tarry till I come
again ! " (Footnote in 2nd Edition.)﻿62

THE MONK

menaces, that my contempt should not be long
unpunished.

I now bent my course towards Spain with all
diligence. Lucas with my baggage had joined me
during my abode at Lindenberg. I arrived in my
native country without any accident, and im-
mediately proceeded to my father's castle in
Andalusia. The remains of Beatrice were deposited
in the family vault, all due ceremonies performed,
and the number of masses said which she had
required. Nothing now hindered me from em-
ploying all my endeavours to discover the retreat
of Agnes. The baroness had assured me that
her niece had already taken the veil: this intelli-
gence I suspected to have been forged by jealousy,
and hoped to find my mistress still at liberty to
accept my hand. I enquired after her family;
I found that before her daughter could reach
Madrid, Donna Inesilla was no more : you, my
dear Lorenzo, were said to be abroad, but where
I could not discover : your father was in a distant
province on a visit to the Duke de Medina; and
as to Agnes, no one could or would inform me
what was become of her. Theodore, according
to promise, had returned to Strasbourg, where
he found his grandfather dead, and Marguerite
in possession of his fortune. All her persuasions
to remain with her were fruitless: he quitted her
a second time, and followed me to Madrid. He
exerted himself to the utmost in forwarding my
search: but our united endeavours were un-
attended by success. The retreat which concealed
Agnes remained an impenetrable mystery, and﻿THE MONK

63

I began to abandon all hopes of recovering
her.

About eight months ago I was returning to my
hotel in a melancholy humour, having passed the
evening at the play-house. The night was dark,
and I was unaccompanied. Plunged in reflections,
which were far from being agreeable, I perceived
not that three men had followed me from the
theatre, till, on turning into an unfrequented
street, they all attacked me at the same time
with the utmost fury. I sprang back a few paces,
drew my sword, and threw my cloak over my left
arm. The obscurity of the night was in my favour.
For the most part the blows of the assassins,
being aimed at random, failed to touch me. I at
length was fortunate enough to lay one of my
adversaries at my feet: but before this I had
already received so many wounds, and was so
warmly pressed, that my destruction would have
been inevitable, had not the clashing of swords
called a cavalier to my assistance. He ran towards
me with his sword drawn: several domestics
followed him with torches. His arrival made the
combat equal: yet would not the bravoes abandon
their design, till the servants were on the point
of joining us. They then fled away, and we lost
them in the obscurity.

The stranger now addressed himself to me with
politeness, and enquired whether I was wounded.
Faint with the loss of blood, I could scarcely
thank him for his seasonable aid, and entreat him
to let some of his servants convey me to the hotel
de. las Cisternas. I no sooner mentioned the name﻿64

THE MONK

than he professed himself an acquaintance of my
father's, and declared that he would not permit
my being transported to such a distance before
my wounds had been examined. He added, that
his house was hard by, and begged me to accom-
pany him thither. His manner was so earnest,
that I could not reject his offer; and, leaning
upon his arm, a few minutes brought me to the.
porch of a magnificent hotel.

On entering the house, an old grey-headed
domestic came to welcome my conductor: he
enquired when the duke, his master, meant to quit
the country, and was answered, that he would
remain there yet some months. My deliverer
then desired the family surgeon to be summoned
without delay: his orders were obeyed. I was
seated Jtipon a sofa in a noble apartment; and
my wounds being examined, they were declared
to be very slight. The surgeon, however, advised
me not to expose myself to the night air; and
the stranger pressed me so earnestly to take a bed
in his house, that I consented to remain where I
was for the present.

Being now left alone with my deliverer, I took
the opportunity of thanking him in more express
terms than I had done hitherto; but he begged
me to be silent upon the subject.

" I esteem myself happy," said he, " in having
had it in my power to render you this little service ;
and I shall think myself eternally obliged to my
daughter for detaining me so late at the convent
of St. Clare. The high esteem in which I have
ever held the Marquis de las Cisternas, though﻿THE MONK

65

accident has not permitted our being so intimate
as I could wish, makes me rejoice in the opportunity
of making his son's acquaintance. I am certain
that my brother, in whose house you now are,
will lament his not being at Madrid to receive you
himself : but, in the duke's absence, I am master
of the family, and may assure you, in his name,
that everything in the hotel de Medina is perfectly
at your disposal."

Conceive my surprise, Lorenzo, at discovering,
in the person of my preserver, Don Gaston de
Medina. It was only to be equalled by my secret
satisfaction at the assurance that Agnes inhabited
the convent of St. Clare. This latter sensation
was not a little weakened, when, in answer to my
seemingly indifferent questions, he told me that
his daughter had really taken the veil. I suffered
not my grief at this circumstance to take root in
my mind : I flattered myself with the idea that
my uncle's credit at the court of Rome would
remove this obstacle, and that, without difficulty,
I should obtain for my mistress a dispensation
from her vows. Buoyed up with this hope, I
calmed the uneasiness of my bosom ; and I re-
doubled my endeavours to appear grateful for the
attention, and pleased with the society, of Don
Gaston.

A domestic now entered the room, and informed
me that the bravo whom I had wounded discovered
some signs of life. I desired that he might be
carried to my father's hotel, and said that, as soon
as he recovered his voice, I would examine him
respecting his reasons for attempting my life,
ii*—5﻿66

THE MONK

I was answered, that he was already able to speak,
though with difficulty. Don Gaston's curiosity
made him press me to interrogate the assassin
in his presence; but this curiosity I was by no
means inclined to gratify. One reason was that,
suspecting from whence the blow came, I was
unwilling to place before Don Gaston's eyes the
guilt of a sister. Another was, that I feared to be
recognised for Alphonso d'Alvarada, and pre-
cautions taken in consequence to keep me from
the sight of Agnes. To avow my passion for his
daughter, and endeavour to make him enter into
my schemes, what I knew of Don Gaston's char-
acter convinced me would be an imprudent step ;
and considering it to be essential that he should
know me for no other than the Conde de las
Cisternas, I was determined not to let him hear
the bravo's confession. I insinuated to him, that
as I suspected a lady to be concerned in the
business, whose name might accidentally escape
from the assassin, it was necessary for me to
examine the man in private. Don Gaston's
delicacy would not permit his urging the point
any longer, and, in consequence, the bravo was
conveyed to my hotel.

The next morning I took leave of my host, who
was to return to the duke on the same day. My
wounds had been so trifling, that, except being
obliged to wear my arm in a sling for a short time,
I felt no inconvenience from the night's adventure.
The surgeon who examined the bravo's wound
declared it to be mortal: he had just time to
confess, that he had been instigated to murder﻿THE MONK

67

me by the revengeful Donna Rodolpha, and ex-
pired in a few minutes after.

All my thoughts were now bent upon getting
to the speech of my lovely nun. Theodore set
himself to work, and for this time, with better
success. He attacked the gardener of St. Clare
so forcibly with bribes and promises, that the
old man was entirely gained over to my interests ;
and it was settled that I should be introduced
into the convent in the character of his assistant.
The plan was put into execution without delay.
Disguised in a common habit, and a black patch
covering one of my eyes, I was presented to the
lady prioress, who condescended to approve of
the gardener's choice. I immediately entered
upon my employment. Botany having been a
favourite study with me, I was by no means at
a loss in my new station. For some days I
continued to work in the convent-garden without
meeting the object of my disguise. On the fourth
morning I was more successful. I heard the
voice of Agnes, and was speeding towards the
sound, when the sight of the domina stopped me.
I drew back with caution, and concealed myself
behind a thick clump of trees.

The prioress advanced, and seated herself with
Agnes on a bench at no great distance. I heard
her, in an angry tone, blame her companion's
continual melancholy. She told her, that to
weep the loss of any lover, in her situation, was a
crime ; but that to weep the loss of a faithless one
was folly and absurdity in the extreme. Agnes
replied in so low a voice that I could not distinguish﻿68

THE MONK

her words, but I perceived that she used terms
of gentleness and submission. The conversation
was interrupted by the arrival of a young pen-
sioner, who informed the domina that she was
waited for in the parlour. The old lady rose,
kissed the cheek of Agnes, and retired. The
new-comer remained. Agnes spoke much to her
in praise of somebody whom I could not make
out; but her auditor seemed highly delighted,
and interested by the conversation. The nun
showed her several letters : the other perused them
with evident pleasure, obtained permission to
copy them, and withdrew for that purpose to my
great satisfaction.

No sooner was she out of sight, than I quitted
my concealment. Fearing to alarm my lovely
mistress, I drew near her gently, intending to
discover myself by degrees. But who for a
moment can deceive the eyes of love? She
raised her head at my approach and recognised
me, in spite of my disguise, at a single glance.
She rose hastily from her seat with an exclamation
of surprise, and attempted to retire: but I
followed her, detained her, and entreated to be
heard. Persuaded of my falsehood, she refused
to listen to me, and ordered me positively to quit
the garden. It was now my turn to refuse. I
protested that, however dangerous might be the
consequences, I would not leave her till she had
heard my justification. I assured her, that she
had been deceived by the artifices of her relations :
that I could convince her, beyond the power of
doubt, that my passion had been pure ancl dis-﻿THE MONK

69

interested; and I asked her what should induce
me to seek her in the convent, were I influenced
by the selfish motives which my enemies had
ascribed to me.

My prayers, my arguments, and vows not to
quit her till she had promised to listen to me,
united to her fears lest the nuns should see me
with her, to her natural curiosity, and to the
affection which she still felt for me, in spite of my
supposed desertion, at length prevailed. She
told me, that to grant my request at that
moment was impossible; but she engaged to
be in the same spot at eleven that night, and
to converse with me for the last time. Having
obtained this promise I released her hand, and
she fled back with rapidity towards the con-
vent.

I communicated my success to my ally, the old
gardener: he pointed out an hiding-place where
I might shelter myself till night without fear of a
discovery. Thither I betook myself at the hour
when I ought to have retired with my supposed
master, and waited impatiently for the appointed
time. The chillness of the night was in my favour,
since it kept the other nuns confined to their cells.
Agnes alone was insensible of the inclemency of
the air, and, before eleven, joined me at the
spot which had witnessed our former interview.
Secure from interruption I related to her the
true cause of my disappearing on the fatal fifth of
May. She was evidently much affected by my
narrative. When it was concluded she confessed
the injustice of her suspicions, and blamed﻿70

THE MONK

herself for having taken the veil through despair
at my ingratitude.

" But now it is too late to repine ! " she added ;
" the die is thrown : I have pronounced my vows,
and dedicated myself to the service of heaven. I
am sensible how ill I am calculated for a convent.
My disgust at a monastic life increases daily:
ennui and discontent are my constant companions ;
and I will not conceal from you that the passion
which I formerly felt for one so near being my
husband is not yet extinguished in my bosom :
but we must part! Insuperable barriers divide
us from each other, and on this side the grave we
must never meet again ! "

I now exerted myself to prove that our union
was not so impossible as she seemed to think it.
I vaunted to her the cardinal-duke of Lerma's
influence at the court of Rome. I assured her
that I should easily obtain a dispensation from
her vows; and I doubted not but Don Gaston
would coincide with my views, when informed of
my real name and long attachments Agnes replied
that since I encouraged such an hope I could
know but little of her father. Liberal and kind
in every other respect, superstition formed the
only stain upon his character. Upon this head
he was inflexible: he sacrificed his dearest
interests to his scruples, and would consider it an
insult to suppose him capable of authorising his
daughter to break her vows to heaven.

" But suppose," said I, interrupting her—" sup-
pose that he should disapprove of our union: let
him remain ignorant of my proceedings till I﻿THE MONK

71

have rescued you from the prison in which you
are now confined. Once my wife, you are free
from his authority ; I need from him no pecuniary
assistance, and when he sees his resentment to be
unavailing, he will doubtless restore you to his
favour. But, let the worst happen; should Don
Gaston be irreconcilable, my relations will vie
with each other in making you forget his loss;
and you will find in my father a substitute for
the parent of whom I shall deprive you."

" Don Raymond," replied Agnes, in a firm and
resolute voice, " I love my father : he has treated
me harshly in this one instance; but I have
received from him, in every other, so many proofs
of love, that his affection is become necessary to
my existence. Were I to quit the convent he
never would forgive me ; nor can I think that, on
his death-bed, he would leave me his curse, without
shuddering at the very idea. Besides, I am con-
scious myself that my vows are binding. Wilfully
did I contract my engagement with heaven: I
cannot break it without a crime. Then banish
from your mind the idea of our being ever united.
I am devoted to religion; and however I may
grieve at our separation, I would oppose
obstacles myself to what I feel would render me
guilty."

I strove to over-rule these ill-grounded scruples.
We were still disputing upon the subject when the
convent bell summoned the nuns to matins.
Agnes was obliged to attend them; but she left
me not till I had compelled her to promise that
on the following night she would be at the same﻿72

THE MONK

place at the same hour. These meetings con-
tinued for several weeks uninterrupted: and
'tis now, Lorenzo, that I must implore your in-
dulgence. Keflect upon our situation, our youth,
our long attachment. Weigh all the circum-
stances which attended our assignations, and you
will confess the temptation to have been irresistible:
you will even pardon me when I acknowledge that
in an unguarded moment the honour of Agnes was
sacrificed to my passion.

[Lorenzo's eyes sparkled with fury; a deep
crimson spread itself over his face : he started
from his seat, and attempted to draw his sword.
The marquis was aware of his movement, and
caught his hand : he pressed it affectionately :

" My friend ! my brother ! hear me to the con-
clusion ! Till then restrain your passion ; and be
at least convinced that if what I have related is
criminal, the blame must fall upon me, and not
upon your sister."

Lorenzo suffered himself to be prevailed upon
by Don Eaymond's entreaties: he resumed his
place, and listened to the rest of the narrative
with a gloomy and impatient countenance. The
marquis thus continued :]

Scarcely was the first burst of passion past, when
Agnes, recovering herself, started from my arms
with horror. She called me infamous seducer,
loaded me with the bitterest reproaches, and beat
her bosom in all the wildness of delirium. Ashamed
of my imprudence, I with difficulty found words
to excuse myself. I endeavoured to console her:
I threw myself at her feet, and entreated her﻿THE MONK

73

forgiveness. She forced her hand from me,
which I had taken and would have pressed to my
lips.

" Touch me not!" she cried, with a violence
which terrified me. " Monster of perfidy and
ingratitude, how have I been deceived in you ! I
looked upon you as my friend, my protector: I
trusted myself in your hands with confidence,
and, relying upon your honour, thought that
mine ran no risk : and 'tis by you, whom I adored,
that I am covered with infamy! 'Tis by you
that I have been seduced into breaking my vows
to God, that I am reduced to a level with the
basest of my sex ! Shame upon you, villain, you
shall never see me more ! "

She started from the bank on which she was
seated. I endeavoured to detain her; but she
disengaged herself from me with violence, and
took refuge in the convent.

I retired, filled with confusion and inquietude.
The next morning I failed not, as usual, to appear
in the garden; but Agnes was nowhere to be seen.
At night I waited for her at the place where
we generally met. I found no better success.
Several days and nights passed away in the same
manner. At length I saw my offended mistress
cross the walk, on whose borders I was working:
she was accompanied by the same young pensioner,
on whose arm she seemed, from weakness, obliged
to support herself. She looked upon me for a
moment, but instantly turned her head away.
I waited her return; but she passed on to the
convent without paying any attention to me, or﻿74

THE MONK

the penitent looks with which I implored her
forgiveness.

As soon as the nuns were retired, the old
gardener joined me with a sorrowful air.

" Segnor," said he, " it grieves me to say that I
can be no longer of use to you; the lady whom
you used to meet has just assured me, that if I
admitted you again into the garden, she would
discover the whole business to the lady prioress.
She bade me tell you also, that your presence
was an insult, and that, if you still possess the
least respect for her, you will never attempt to
see her more. Excuse me then for informing you,
that I can favour your disguise no longer. Should
the prioress be acquainted with my conduct, she
might not be contented with dismissing me her
service: out of revenge, she might accuse me
of having profaned the convent, and cause me to
be thrown into the prisons of the Inquisition."

Fruitless were my attempts to conquer his
resolution. He denied me all future entrance into
the garden; and Agnes persevered in neither
letting me see or hear from her. In about a
fortnight after, a violent illness which had seized
my father obliged me to set out for Andalusia. I
hastened thither, and, as I imagined, found the
marquis on the point of death. Though, on its
first appearance, his complaint was declared
mortal, he lingered out several months; during
which my attendance upon him in his malady,
and the occupation of settling his affairs after his
decease, permitted not my quitting Andalusia.
Within these four days I returned to Madrid, and﻿THE MONK

75

on arriving at my hotel, I there found this letter
waiting for me.

[Here the marquis unlocked a drawer of a
cabinet; he took out a folded paper, which he
presented to his auditor. Lorenzo opened it,
and recognised his sister's hand. The contents
were as follows :—

" Into what an abyss of misery have you
plunged me ! Raymond, you force me to become
as criminal as yourself. I had resolved never to
see you more; if possible, to forget you; if not,
only to remember you with hate. A being, for
whom I already feel a mother's tenderness,
solicits me to pardon my seducer, and apply to his
love for the means of preservation. Raymond,
your child lives in my bosom. I tremble at the
vengeance of the prioress. I tremble much for
myself, yet more for the innocent creature whose
existence depends upon mine. Both of us are lost,
should my situation be discovered. Advise me,
then, what steps to take, but seek not to see me.
The gardener, who undertakes to deliver this, is
dismissed, and we have nothing to hope from that
quarter. The man engaged in his place is of in-
corruptible fidelity. The best means of conveying
me your answer, is by concealing it under the
great statue of St. Francis, which stands in the
Capuchin cathedral; thither I go every Thursday
to confession, and shall early have an opportunity
of securing your letter. I hear that you are now
absent from Madrid. Need I entreat you write
the very moment of your return ? I will not﻿76	THE MONK

think of it. Ah! Raymond! mine is a cruel
situation! Deceived by my nearest relations,
compelled to embrace a profession, the duties of
which I am ill calculated to perform, conscious of
the sanctity of those duties, and seduced into
violating them by one whom I least suspected of
perfidy, I am now obliged, by circumstances, to
choose between death and perjury. Woman's
timidity, and maternal affection, permit me not
to balance in the choice. I feel all the guilt into
which I plunge myself when I yield to the plan
which you before proposed to me. My poor
father's death, which has taken place since we
met, has removed one obstacle. He sleeps in his
grave, and I no longer dread his anger. But from
the anger of God, oh! Raymond! who shall
shield me ? Who can protect me against my
conscience, against myself? I dare not dwell
upon these thoughts; they will drive me mad.
I have taken my resolution. Procure a dispensa-
tion from my vows. I am ready to fly with you.
Write to me, my husband ! Tell me that absence
has not abated your love ! Tell me that you
will rescue from death your unborn child, and its
unhappy mother. I live in all the agonies of
terror. Every eye which is fixed upon me, seems
to read my secret and my shame. And you are
the cause of those agonies ! Oh ! when my heart
first loved you, how little did it suspect you
of making it feel such pangs!

" Agnes."

Having perused the letter, Lorenzo restored it﻿THE MONK

77

in silence. The marquis replaced it in the
cabinet, and then proceeded:]

Excessive was my joy at reading this intelligence,
so earnestly desired, so little expected. My plan
was soon arranged. When Don Gaston discovered
to me his daughter's retreat, I entertained no
doubt of her readiness to quit the convent: I had,
therefore, entrusted the cardinal-duke of Lerma
with the whole affair, who immediately busied
himself in obtaining the necessary bull. Fortu-
nately, I had afterwards neglected to stop his
proceedings. Not long since I received a letter
from him, stating that he expected daily to receive
the order from the court of Rome. Upon this I
would willingly have relied; but the cardinal
wrote me word that I must find some means of
conveying Agnes out of the convent, unknown to
the prioress. He doubted not but this latter
would be much incensed by losing a person of such
high rank from her society, and consider the
renunciation of Agnes as an insult to her house.
He represented her as a woman of a violent and
revengeful character, capable of proceeding to the
greatest extremities. It was therefore to be
feared lest, by confining Agnes in the convent,
she should frustrate my hopes, and render the
pope's mandate unavailing. Influenced by this
consideration I resolved to carry off my mistress,
and conceal her till the arrival of the expected
bull in the cardinal-duke's estate. He approved
of my design, and professed himself ready to give
a shelter to the fugitive. I next caused the new
gardener of St. Clare to be seized privately, and.﻿78

THE MONK

confined in my hotel. By this means I became
master of the key to the garden-door, and I had
now nothing more to do than prepare Agnes for
the elopement. This was done by the letter
which you saw me deliver this evening. I told
her in it that I should be ready to receive her at
twelve to-morrow night; that I had secured the
key of the garden, and that she might depend
upon a speedy release.

You have now, Lorenzo, heard the whole of my
long narrative. I have nothing to say in my
excuse, save that my intentions towards your
sister have been ever the most honourable : that
it has always been, and still is, my design to make
her my wife ; and that I trust, when you consider
these circumstances, our youth, and our attach-
ment, you will not only forgive our momentary
lapse from virtue, but will aid me in repairing my
faults to Agnes, and securing a lawful title to her
person and her heart.1

1 There is certainly a very strong resemblance between
some parts of the story of " the Bleeding Nun," and that
of the apparition in Les Chevaliers du Cygne. I can
only account for it by supposing that Madame de Genlis had
heard, while in Germany, the same tradition which I have
made use of. It is at least certain that The Monk
was already in the Press when I read for the first time
Lea Chevaliers du Cygne. The story which was related
to me was merely that the Castle of Lauenstein was haunted
by a spectre habited as a Nun (but not as a bleeding one);
that a young officer by mistake ran away with her instead
of the heiress of Lauenstein; that she used to appear to
him every night; that on going to a foreign country,
neither he nor the phantom were ever after heard of; and﻿THE MONK

79

that the words she used to repeat to him were, in the
original—

" Frizchen ! Frizchen ! du bist mein !

" Frizchen ! Frizchen ! Ich bin dein !

" Ich dein !

" Du mein !

" Mit leib' und seel! "

(Footnote to 2nd Edition.)﻿﻿CHAPTER V

O you ! whom Vanity's light bark conveys
On Fame's mad voyage by the wind of Praise,

With what a shifting gale your course you ply,
For ever sunk too low, or borne too high!
Who pants for glory, finds but short repose:
A breath revives him, and a breath o'erthrows.

Pope.

Here the marquis concluded his adventures.
Lorenzo, before he could determine on his reply,
passed some moments in reflection. At length
he broke silence.

" Raymond," said he, taking his hand, " strict
honour would oblige me to wash off in your blood
the stain thrown upon my family; but the cir-
cumstances of your case forbid me to consider you
as an enemy. The temptation was too great to
be resisted. 'Tis the superstition of jny relations
which has occasioned these misfortunes, and they
are more the offenders than yourself and Agnes.
What has passed between you cannot be recalled,
but may yet be repaired by uniting you to my
sister. You have ever been, you still continue
to be> my dearest, and indeed my only friend.
I feel for Agnes the truest affection, and there is
no one on whom I would bestow her more willingly
ii.—5﻿82

THE MONK

than yourself. Pursue, then, your design. I
will accompany you to-morrow night, and conduct
her myself to the house of the cardinal. My
presence will be a sanction for her conduct, and
prevent her incurring blame by her flight from
the convent."

The marquis thanked him in terms by no means
deficient in gratitude. Lorenzo then informed
him, that he had nothing more to apprehend from
Donna Rodolpha's enmity. Five months had
already elapsed since, in an access of passion, she
broke a blood-vessel, and expired in the course of
a few hours. He then proceeded to mention the
interests of Antonia. The marquis was much
surprised at hearing of this new relation. His
father had carried his hatred of Elvira to the
grave, and had never given the least hint that he
knew what was become of his eldest son's widow.
Don Raymond assured his friend that* he was
not mistaken in supposing him ready to acknow-
ledge his sister-in-law, and her amiable daughter.
The preparations for the elopement would not
permit his visiting them the next day; but, in
the meanwhile, he desired Lorenzo to assure them
of his friendship, and to supply Elvira, upon his
account, with any sums which she might want.
This the youth promised to do, as soon as her
abode should be known to him. He then took
leave of his future brother, and returned to the
palace de Medina.

The day was already on the point of breaking
when the marquis retired to his chamber. Con-
scious that his narrative would take up some﻿THE MONK

83

hours, and wishing to secure himself from inter-
ruption, on returning to the hotel he ordered his
attendants not to sit up for him; consequently,
he was somewhat surprised on entering his anti-
room to find Theodore established there. The
page sat near a table, with a pen in his hand, and
was so totally occupied by his employment that
he perceived not his lord's approach. The marquis
stopped to observe him. Theodore wrote a few
lines, then paused, and scratched out a part of the
writing; then wrote again, smiled, and seemed
highly pleased with what he had been about. At
last he threw down his pen, sprang from his chair,
and clapped his hands together joyfully.

" There it is ! " cried he aloud : 6 4 now they are
charming ! "

His transports were interrupted by a laugh
from the marquis, who suspected the nature of
his employment.

" What is so charming, Theodore ? "

The youth started, and looked round: he blushed,
ran to the table, seized the paper on which he had
been writing, and concealed it in confusion.

" Oh! my lord, I knew not that you were so
near me. Can I be of use to you ? Lucas is
already gone to bed."

" I shall follow his example when I have given
my opinion of your verses."

" My verses, my lord ? "

" Nay, I am sure that you have been writing
some, for nothing else could have kept you awake
till this time of the morning. Where are they,
Theodore ? I shall like to see your composition."﻿84

THE MONK

Theodore's cheeks glowed with still deeper
crimson: he longed to show his poetry, but first
chose to be pressed for it.

" Indeed, my lord, they are not worthy your
attention."

"Not these verses which you just now declared
to be so charming ? Come, come, let me see
whether our opinions are the same. I promise
that you shall find in me an indulgent critic."

The boy produced his paper with seeming
reluctance ; but the satisfaction which sparkled
in his dark expressive eyes betrayed the vanity
of his youthful bosom. The marquis smiled
while he observed the emotions of an heart as yet
but little skilled in veiling its sentiments. He
seated himself upon a sofa. Theodore, while
hope and fear contended on his anxious counten-
ance, waited with inquietude for his master's
decision, while the marquis read the following
lines :

LOVE AND AGE.

The night was dark; the wind blew cold;

Anacreon, grown morose and old,

Sat by his fire, and fed the kindly flame :

Sudden the cottage door expands,

And, lo ! before him Cupid stands,

Casts round a friendly glance, and greets him by his
name.

" What! is it thou ? " the startled sire
In sullen tone exclaimed, while ire
With crimson flushed his pale and wrinkled cheek:
" Wouldst thou again with amorous rage
Inflame my bosom ? Steeled by age,

Vain boy, to pierce my breast thine arrows are too weak.﻿THE MONK

85

" What seek you in this desert drear ?

No smiles or sports inhabit here ;

Ne'er did these valleys witness dalliance sweet:

Eternal winter binds the plains ;

Age in my house despotic reigns ;

My garden boasts no flower, my bosom boasts no heat.

" Begone, and seek the blooming bower,

Where some ripe virgin courts thy power,

Or bid provoking dreams flit round her bed ;
On Damon's amorous breast repose ;

Wanton on Chloe's lip of rose,

Or make her blushing cheek a pillow for thy head.

" Be such thy haunts ! These regions cold
Avoid ! Nor think grown wise and old
This hoary head again thy yoke shall bear:
v Remembering that my fairest years
By thee were marked with sighs and tears,

I think thy friendship false, and shun the guileful snare.

" I have not yet forgot the pains
I felt, while bound in Julia's chains:

The ardent flames with which my bosom burned ;
The nights I passed deprived of rest;

The jealous pangs which racked my breast;
My disappointed hopes, and passion unreturned.

4 4 Then fly, and curse mine eyes no more !

Fly from my peaceful cottage door !

No day, no hour, no moment shalt thou stay.

I know thy falsehood, scorn thy arts,

Distrust thy smiles, and fear thy darts:

Traitor, begone, and seek some other to betray ! "—

" Does age, old man, your wits confound ? "

Replied the offended god, and frowned :

(His frown was sweet as is the virgin's smile!)﻿86

THE MONK

" Do you to me these words address ?

To me who do not love you less,

Though you my friendship scorn, and pleasures past
revile.

" If one proud fair you chanced to find,

An hundred other nymphs were kind,

Whose smiles might well for Julia's frowns atone :
But such is man! his partial hand
Unnumbered favours writes on sand,

But stamps one little fault on solid lasting stone.

" Ingrate ! Who led you to the wave,

At noon where Lesbia loved to lave ?

Who named the bower alone where Daphne lay ?
And who, when Celia shrieked for aid,

Bade you with kisses hush the maid ?

What other was't than Love, oh ! false Anacreon, say ?

" Then you could call me—4 Gentle boy !

4 My only bliss ! my source of joy !'

Then you could prize me dearer than your soul!

Could kiss, and dance me on your knees;

And swear, not wine itself would please,

Had not the lip of Love first touched the flowing bowl!

" Must those sweet days return no more ?

Must I for aye your loss deplore,

Banished your heart, and from your favour driven ?
Ah ! no ; my fears that smile denies ;

That heaving breast, those sparkling eyes
Declare me ever dear, and all my faults forgiven.

" Again beloved, esteemed, caressed,

Cupid shall in thine arms be pressed,

Sport on thy knees, or on thy bosom sleep:

My torch thine age-struck heart shall warm;

My hand pale winter's rage disarm,

And Youth and Spring shall here once more their revels
keep."—﻿THE MONK

87

A feather now of golden hue
He smiling from his pinions drew ;

This to the poet's hand the boy commits;

And straight before Anacreon's eyes
The fairest dreams of fancy rise,

And round his favoured head wild inspiration flits.

His bosom glows with amorous fire ;

Eager he grasps the magic lyre ;

Swift o'er the tuneful chords his fingers move :
The feather plucked from Cupid's wing
Sweeps the too-long neglected string,

While soft Anacreon sings the power and praise of love.

Soon as that name was heard, the woods
Shook off their snows; the melting floods
Broke their cold chains, and winter fled away.

Once more the earth was decked with flowers;

Mild zephyrs breathed through blooming bowers;

High towered the glorious sun, and poured the blaze of
day.

Attracted by the harmonious sound,

Sylvans and fauns the cot surround,

And curious crowd the minstrel to behold :
The wood-nymphs haste the spell to prove ;

Eager they run; they list, they love,

And, while they hear the strain, forget the man is old.

Cupid, to nothing constant long,

Perched on the harp attends the song^

Or stifles with a kiss the dulcet notes:

Now on the poet's breast reposes,

Now twines his hoary locks with roses,

Or borne on wings of gold in wanton circle floats.

Then thus Anacreon—" I no more
At other shrines my vows will pour,

Since Cupid deigns my numbers to inspire :	■﻿88

THE MONK

From Phoebus or the blue-eyed maid

Now shall my verse request no aid,

For love alone shall be the patron of my lyre.

" In lofty strain, of earlier days,

I spread the king's or hero's praise,

And struck the martial chords with epic fire :

But farewell, hero ! fatrewell, king !

Your deeds my lips no more shall sing,

For Love alone shall be the subject of my lyre." 1

The marquis returned the paper with a smile of
encouragement.

" Your little poem pleases me much," said he :
" however, you must not count my opinion for
anything. I am no judge of verses, and for my
own part never composed more than six lines in
my life: those six produced so unlucky an effect,
that I am fully resolved never to compose another.
But I wander from my subject. I was going to
say that you cannot employ your time worse
than in making verses. An author, whether
good or bad, or between both, is an animal whom
everybody is privileged to attack: for though
all are not able to write books, all conceive them-
selves able to judge them. A bad composition
carries with it its own punishment—contempt
and ridicule. A good one excites envy, and entails
upon its author a thousand mortifications : he
finds himself assailed by partial and ill-humoured
criticism: one man finds fault with the plan,
another with the style, a third with the precept

1 The last stanza is taken from the first Ode of Anacreon.
(Footnote in 2nd Edition.)﻿THE MONK

89

which it strives to inculcate; and they who
cannot succeed in finding fault with the book,
employ themselves in stigmatising its author.
They maliciously rake out from obscurity every
little circumstance which may throw ridicule
upon his private character or conduct, and aim at
wounding the man since they cannot hurt the
writer. In short, to enter the lists of literature
is wilfully to expose yourself to the arrows of
neglect, ridicule, envy, and disappointment.
Whether you write well or ill, be assured that you
will not escape from blame. Indeed this circum-
stance contains a young author's chief consolation :
he remembers that Lope de Yega and Calderona
had unjust and envious critics, and he modestly
conceives himself to be exactly in their predica-
ment. But I am conscious that all these sage
observations are thrown away upon you. Author-
ship is a mania, to conquer which no reasons are
sufficiently strong; and you might as easily
persuade me not to love, as I persuade you not to
write. However, if you cannot help being occa-
sionally seized with a poetical paroxysm, take at
least the precaution of communicating your
verses to none but those whose partiality for you
secures their approbation."

" Then, my lord, you do not think these lines
tolerable ? " said Theodore, with an humble and
dejected air.

"You mistake my meaning. As I said before,
they have pleased me much : but my regard for
you makes me partial, and others might judge
them less favourably. I must still remark, that﻿90

THE MONK

even my prejudice in your favour does not blind
me so much as to prevent my observing several
faults. For instance, you make a terrible con-
fusion of metaphors; you are too apt to make
the strength of your lines consist more in the
words than sense ; some of the verses seem
introduced only in order to rhyme with others;
and most of the best ideas are borrowed from
other poets, though possibly you are unconscious
of the theft yourself. These faults may occasion-
ally be excused in a work of length; but a short
poem must be correct and perfect."

"All this is true, Segnor; but you should
consider that I only write for pleasure."

" Your defects are the less excusable. Their
incorrectness may be forgiven, who work for
money, who are obliged to complete a given task
in a given time, and are paid according to the bulk,
not value, of their productions. But in those
whom no necessity forces to turn author, who
merely write for fame, and have full leisure to
polish their compositions, faults are unpardonable,
and merit the sharpest arrows of criticism."

The marquis rose from the sofa; the page
looked discouraged and melancholy; and this did
not escape his master's observation.

" However," added he, smiling, " I think that
these lines do you no discredit. Your versification
is tolerably easy, and your ear seems to be just.
The perusal of your little poem upon the whole
gave me much pleasure; and if it is not asking
too great a favour, I shall be highly obliged to you
for a copy."	.﻿THE MONK

91

The youth's countenance immediately cleared
up. He perceived not the smile, half approving,
half ironical, which accompanied the request, and
he promised the copy with great readiness. The
marquis withdrew to his chamber, much amused
by the instantaneous effect produced upon
Theodore's vanity by the conclusion of his criticism.
He threw himself upon his couch, sleep soon stole
over him, and his dreams presented him with the
most flattering pictures of happiness with Agnes.

On reaching the hotel de Medina, Lorenzo's
first care-was to enquire for letters. He found
several waiting for him ; but that which he sought
was not amongst them. Leonella had found it
impossible to write that evening. However, her
impatience to secure Don Christoval's heart, on
which she flattered herself with having made no
slight impression, permitted her not to pass
another day without informing him where she
was to be found. On her return from the Capuchin
church, she had related to her sister, with exulta-
tion, how attentive an handsome cavalier had
been to her; as also how his companion had
undertaken to plead Antonia's cause with the
Marquis de las Cisternas. Elvira received this
intelligence with sensations very different from
those with which it was communicated. She
blamed her sister's imprudence in confiding her
history to an absolute stranger, and expressed
her fears lest this inconsiderate step should
prejudice the marquis against her. The greatest
of her apprehensions she concealed in her own
breast. She had observed, with inquietude, that﻿02

THE MONK

at the mention of Lorenzo a deep blush spread
itself over her daughter's cheek. The timid
Antonia dared not to pronounce his name. With-
out knowing wherefore, she felt embarrassed
when he was made the subject of discourse, and
endeavoured to change the conversation to
Ambrosio. Elvira perceived the emotions of
this young bosom : in consequence, she insisted
upon Leonella's breaking her promise to the
cavaliers. A sigh, which on hearing this order
escaped from Antonia, confirmed the wary mother
in her resolution.

Through this resolution Leonella was determined
to break : she conceived it to be inspired by envy,
and that her sister dreaded her being elevated
above her. Without imparting her design to
any one, she took an opportunity of despatching
the following note to Lorenzo : it was delivered
to him as soon as he woke :

44 Doubtless, Segnor Don Lorenzo, you have
frequently accused me of ingratitude and forget-
fulness : but on the word of a virgin it was out of
my power, to perform my promise yesterday. I
know not in what words to inform you, how
strange a reception my sister gave your kind wish
to visit her. She is an odd woman, with many
good points about her; but her jealousy of me
frequently makes her conceive notions quite
unaccountable. On hearing that your friend
had paid some little attention to me, she im-
mediately took the alarm: she blamed my
conduct, and has absolutely forbidden me to let﻿THE MONK

93

you know our abode. My strong sense of gratitude

for your kind offers of service, and-shall I

confess it % my desire to behold once more the
too amiable Don Christoval, will not permit my
obeying her injunctions. I have therefore stolen
a moment to inform you, that we lodge in the
strada di San Iago, four doors from the palace
d'Albornos, and nearly opposite to the barber's
Miguel Coello. Enquire for Donna Elvira Dalsa,
since, in compliance with her father-in-law's
order, my sister continues to be called by her
maiden name. At eight this evening you will be
sure of finding us : but let not a word drop, which
may raise a suspicion of my having written this
letter. Should you see the Conde d'Ossorio, tell

him-1 blush while I declare it-tell him

that his presence will be but too acceptable to
the sympathetic—Leonella."

The latter sentences were written in red ink, to
express the blushes of her cheek while she com-
mitted an outrage upon her virgin modesty.

Lorenzo had no sooner perused this note, than
he set out in search of Don Christoval. Not being
able to find him in the course of the day, he pro-
ceeded to Donna Elvira's alone, to Leonella's
infinite disappointment. The domestic by whom
he sent up his name having already declared his
lady to be at home, she had no excuse for refusing
his visit: yet she consented to receive it with
much reluctance. That reluctance was increased
by the changes which his approach produced in
Antonia's countenance ; nor was it by any means﻿94

THE MONK

abated, when the youth himself appeared. The
symmetry of his person, animation of his features,
and natural elegance of his manners and address,
convinced Elvira that such a guest must be
dangerous for her daughter. She resolved to
treat him with distant politeness, to decline his
services with gratitude for the tender of them,
and to make him feel, without offence, that his
future visits would be far from acceptable.

On his entrance he found Elvira, who was
indisposed, reclining upon a sofa ; Antonia sat by
her embroidery frame ; and Leonella, in a pastoral
d?ess, held Monlemayor's Diana. In spite of her
being the mother of Antonia, Lorenzo could not
help expecting to find in Elvira Leonella's true
sister, and the daughter of " as honest a pains-
taking shoemaker as any in Cordova." A single
glance was sufficient to undeceive him. He
beheld a woman whose features, though impaired
by time and sorrow, still bore the marks of
distinguished beauty: a serious dignity reigned
upon her countenance, but was tempered by a
grace and sweetness which rendered her truly
enchanting. Lorenzo fancied that she must have
resembled her daughter in her youth, and readily
excused the imprudence of the late Conde de las
Cisternas. She desired him to be seated, and
immediately resumed her place upon the sofa.

Antonia received him with a simple reverence,
and continued her work : her cheeks were suffused
with crimson, and she strove to conceal her
emotion by leaning over her embroidery frame.
Her aunt also chose to play off her airs of modesty :﻿THE MONK

95

she aSected to blush and tremble, and waited with
her eyes cast down to receive, as she expected,
the compliments of Don Christoval. Finding,
after some time, that no sign of his approach was
given, she ventured to look round the room, and
perceived with vexation that Medina was un-
accompanied. Impatience would not permit her
waiting for an explanation : interrupting Lorenzo,
who was delivering Raymond's message, she
desired to know what was become of his friend.

He, who thought it necessary to maintain him-
self in her good graces, strove to console her
under her disappointment by committing a
little violence upon truth.

" Ah! Segnora," he replied in a melancholy
voice, " how grieved will he be at losing this
opportunity of paying you his respects! A
relation's illness has obliged him to quit Madrid in
haste : but on his return he will doubtless seize
the first moment with transport to throw himself
at your feet I"

As he said this, his eyes met those of Elvira :
she punished his falsehood sufficiently by darting
at him a look expressive of displeasure and re-
proach, Neither did the deceit answer his
intention. Vexed and disappointed, leonella
rose from her seat, and retired in dudgeon to her
own apartment.

Lorenzo hastened to repair the fault which had
injured him in Elvira's opinion. He related his
conversation with the marquis respecting her :
he assured her that Raymond was prepared to
acknowledge her for his brother's widow; and﻿96

THE MONK

that, till it was in his power to pay his compliments
to her in person, Lorenzo was commissioned to
supply his place. This intelligence relieved
Elvira from an heavy weight of uneasiness: she
had now found a protector for the fatherless
Antonia, for whose future fortunes she had
suffered the greatest apprehensions. She was
not sparing of her thanks to him, who had inter-
fered so generously in her behalf; but still she
gave him no invitation to repeat his visit. How-
ever, when upon rising to depart he requested
permission to enquire after her health occasionally,
the polite earnestness of his manner, gratitude
for his services, and respect for his friend the
marquis, would not admit of a refusal. She
consented reluctantly to receive him : he promised
not to abuse her goodness, and quitted the house.

Antonia was now left alone with her mother : a
temporary silence ensued. Both wished to speak
on the same subject, but neither knew how to
introduce it. The one felt a bashfulness which
sealed up her lips, and for which she could not
account; the other feared to find her appre-
hensions true, or to inspire her daughter with
notions to which she might be still a stranger.
At length Elvira began the conversation.

" That is a charming young man, Antonia; I
am much pleased with him. Was he long near
you yesterday in the cathedral ? "

" He quitted me not for a moment while I
stayed in the church : he gave me his seat, and
was very obliging and attentive."

"Indeed? Why then have you never men-﻿THE MONK

97

tioned his name to me ? Your aunt launched
out in praise of his friend, and you vaunted
Ambrosio's eloquence : but neither said a word
of Don Lorenzo's person and accomplishments.
Had not Leonella spoken of his readiness to under-
take our cause, I should not have known him to
be in existence."

She paused. Antonia coloured, but was silent.
44 Perhaps you judge him less favourably than
I do. In my opinion his figure is pleasing, his
conversation sensible, and manners engaging.
Still he may have struck you differently: you

may think him disagreeable, and-"

" Disagreeable ? Oh ! dear mother, how should
I possibly think him so ? I should be very un-
grateful were I not sensible of his kindness yester-
day, and very blind if his merits had escaped me.
His figure is so graceful, so noble ! His manners
so gentle, yet so manly! I never yet saw so
many accomplishments united in one person, and
I doubt whether Madrid can produce his equal."

4 4 Why then were you so silent in praise of this
phoenix of Madrid ? Why was it concealed from
me, that his society had afforded you pleasure ? "
44 In truth I know not: you ask me a question
which I cannot resolve myself. I was on the
point of mentioning him a thousand times; his
name was constantly on my lips; but when I
would have pronounced it, I wanted courage to
execute my design. However, if I did not speak
of him, it was not that I thought of him the
less."

44 That I believe. But shall I tell you why you
ii.—7﻿98

THE MONK

wanted courage ? It was because, accustomed
to confide in me your most serious thoughts, you
knew not how to conceal, yet feared to acknow-
ledge, that your heart nourished a sentiment
which you were conscious I should disapprove.
Come hither to me, my child."

Antonia quitted her embroidery frame, threw
herself upon her knees by the sofa, and hid her
face in her mother's lap.

" Fear not, my sweet girl! Consider me
equally as your friend and parent, and apprehend
no reproof from me. I have read the emotions of
your bosom; you are yet ill skilled in concealing
them, and they could not escape my attentive
eye. This Lorenzo is dangerous to your repose;
he has already made an impression upon your
heart. 'Tis true that I perceive easily that your
affection is returned : but what can be the con-
sequences of this attachment ? You are poor
and friendless, my Antonia; Lorenzo is the heir
of the Duke of Medina Celi. Even should himself
mean honourably, his uncle never will consent
to your union; nor, without that uncle's consent,
will I. By sad experience I know what sorrow
she must endure, who marries into a family un-
willing to receive her. Then struggle with your
affection: whatever pains it may cost you, strive
to conquer it. Your heart is tender and suscept-
ible : it has already received a strong impression;
but when once convinced that you should not
encourage such sentiments, I trust that you have
sufficient fortitude to drive- them from your
bosom."﻿THE MONK

99

Antonia kissed her hand, and promised implicit
obedience. Elvira then continued—

" To prevent your passion from growing
stronger, it will be needful to prohibit Lorenzo's
visits. The service which he has rendered me
permits not my forbidding them positively; but
unless I judge too favourably of his character,
he will discontinue them without taking offence,
if I confess to him my reasons, and throw myself
entirely on his generosity. The next time that
I see him, I will honestly avow to him the embar-
rassment which his presence occasions. How say
you, my child ? Is not this measure necessary ? "
Antonia subscribed to everything without
hesitation, though not without regret. Her
mother kissed her affectionately, and retired to
bed. Antonia followed her example, and vowed so
frequently never more to think of Lorenzo, that till
sleep closed her eyes she thought of nothing else.1
While this was passing at Elvira's, Lorenzo
hastened to rejoin the marquis. Everything
was ready for the second elopement of Agnes ;
and at twelve the two friends with a coach and
four were at the garden-wall of the convent. Don

1 Pour chasser de sa souvenance
L'objet qui plait,

On se donne bien de souffrance

Pour peu d'effet.

Le souvenir durant la vie

Toujours revient;

En pensant qu'il fatit qu'on l'oublie
On s'en souvient.

}	(Footnote in 2nd Edition.﻿100

THE MONK

Kaymond drew out his key, and unlocked the
door. They entered, and waited for some time
in expectation of being joined by Agnes. At
length the marquis grew impatient: beginning
to fear that his second attempt would succeed
no better than the first, he proposed to reconnoitre
the convent. The friends advanced towards it.
Everything was still and dark. The prioress was
anxious to keep the story a secret, fearing lest the
crime of one of its members should bring disgrace
upon the whole community, or that the inter-
position of powerful relations should deprive her
vengeance of its intended victim. She took care
therefore to give the lover of Agnes no cause to
suppose that his design was discovered, and his
mistress on the point of suffering the punishment
of her fault. The same reason made her reject
the idea of arresting the unknown seducer in the
garden : such a proceeding would have created
much disturbance, and the disgrace of her convent
would have been noised about Madrid. She
contented herself with confining Agnes closely:
as to the lover, she left him at liberty to pursue
his designs. What she had expected was the
result. The marquis and Lorenzo waited in
vain till the break of day; they then retired
without noise, alarmed at the failure of their plan,
and ignorant of the cause of its ill success.

The next morning Lorenzo went to the convent,
and requested to see his sister. The prioress
appeared at the grate with a melancholy count-
enance. She informed him that for several
days Agnes had appeared much agitated; that﻿THE MONK

101

she had been pressed by the nuns in vain to reveal
the cause, and apply to their tenderness for advice
and consolation; that she had obstinately per-
sisted in concealing the cause of her distress;
but that on Thursday evening it had produced
so violent an effect upon her constitution, that
she had fallen ill, and was actually confined to
her bed. Lorenzo did not credit a syllable of
this account: he insisted upon seeing his sister;
if she was unable to come to the grate, he desired
to be admitted to her cell. The prioress crossed
herself! she was shocked at the very idea of a
man's profane eye pervading the interior of her
holy mansion, and professed herself astonished
that Lorenzo could think of such a thing. She
told him that his request could not be granted;
but that, if he returned the next day, she hoped
that her beloved daughter would then be suffici-
ently recovered to join him at the parlour grate.
With this answer Lorenzo was obliged to retire,
unsatisfied and trembling for his sister's safety.

He returned the next morning at an early hour.
" Agnes was worse; the physician had pronounced
her to be in imminent danger; she was ordered
to remain quiet, and it was utterly impossible for
her to receive her brother's visit." Lorenzo
stormed at this answer, but there was no resource.
He raved, he entreated, he threatened; no means
were left untried to obtain a sight of Agnes. His
endeavours were as fruitless as those of the day
before, and he returned in despair to the marquis.
On his side, the latter had spared no pains to
discover what had occasioned his plot to fail.﻿102

THE MONK

Don Christoval, to whom the affair was now
entrusted, endeavoured to worm out the secret
from the old porteress of St. Clare, with whom
he had formed an acquaintance; but she was too
much upon her guard, and he gained from her
no intelligence. The marquis was almost dis-
tracted, and Lorenzo felt scarcely less inquietude.
Both were convinced that the purposed elope-
ment must have been discovered : they doubted
not but that the malady of Agnes was a pretence,
but they knew not by what means to rescue her
from the hands of the prioress.

Regularly every day did Lorenzo visit the
convent: as regularly was he informed that his
sister rather grew worse than better. Certain that
her indisposition was feigned, these accounts did
not alarm him : but his ignorance of her fate, knd
of the motives which induced the prioress to keep
her from him, excited the most serious uneasiness.
He was still uncertain what steps he ought to take,
when the marquis received a letter from the
cardinal-duke of Lerma. It inclosed the pope's
expected bull, ordering that Agnes should be re-
leased from her vows, and restored to her relations.
This essential paper decided at once the proceed-
ings of her friends ; they resolved that Lorenzo
should carry it to the domina without delay, and
demand that his sister should be instantly given up
to him. Against this mandate illness could not be
pleaded: it gave her brother the power of removing
her instantly to the palace de Medina, and he deter-
mined to use that power on the following day.

His mind relieved from inquietude respecting﻿THE MONK

103

his sister, and his spirits raised by the hope of soon
restoring her to freedom, he now had time to give
a few moments to love and to Antonia. At the
same hour as on his former visit, he repaired to
Donna Elvira's. She had given orders for his
admission. As soon as he was announced, her
daughter retired with Leonella; * and when he
entered the chamber, he found the lady of the
house alone. She received him with less distance
than before, and desired him to place himself near
her upon the sofar She then, without losing time,
opened her business, as had been agreed between
herself and Antonia.

" You must not think me ungrateful, Don
Lorenzo, or forgetful how essential are the services
which you have rendered me with the marquis.
I feel the weight of my obligations : nothing
under the sun should induce me taking the step
to which I am now compelled, but the interest of
my child, of my beloved Antonia. My health is
declining; God only knows how soon I may be
summoned before His throne. My daughter will
be left without parents, and, should she lose the
protection of the Gisternas family, without friends.
She is young and artless, uninstructed in the
world's perfidy, and with charms sufficient to
render her an object of seduction. Judge then
how I must tremble at the prospect before her!
Judge how anxious I must be to keep her from
their society who may excite the yet dormant
passions of her bosom. You are amiable, Don
Lorenzo; Antonia has a susceptible, a loving
heart, and is grateful for the favours conferred﻿104

THE MONK

upon us by your interference with the marquis.
Your presence makes me tremble : I fear lest it
should inspire her with sentiments which may
embitter the remainder of her life, or encourage
her to cherish hopes in her situation unjustifiable
and futile. Pardon me, when I avow my terrors,
and let my frankness plead my excuse. I cannot
forbid you my house, for gratitude restrains me ;
I can only throw myself upon your generosity,
and entreat you to spare the feelings of an anxious,
of a doting mother. Believe me when I assure
you, that I lament the necessity of rejecting your
acquaintance; but there is no remedy, and
Antonia's interest obliges me to beg you to forbear
your visits. By complying with my request, you
will increase the esteem which I already feel for
you, and of which everything convinces me that
you are truly deserving."

" Your frankness charms me," replied Lorenzo :
" You shall find, that in your favourable opinion
of me you were not deceived; yet I hope that
the reasons now in my power to allege, will persuade
you to withdraw a request which I cannot obey
without infinite reluctance. I love your daughter,
love her most sincerely; I wish for no greater
happiness than to inspire her with the same
sentiments, and receive her hand at the altar as
her husband. 'Tis true I am not rich myself, my
father's death has left me but little in my own
possession; but my expectations justify my pre-
tending to the Conde de las Cisternas' daughter."

He was proceeding, but Elvira interrupted
him—﻿THE MONK

105

" Ah ! Don Lorenzo, you forget in that pompous
title the meanness of my origin. You forget that
I have now passed fourteen years in Spain, dis-
avowed by my husband's family, and existing on
a stipend barely sufficient for the support and
education of my daughter. Nay, I have even
been neglected by most of my own relations, who
out of envy affect to doubt the reality of my
marriage. My allowance being discontinued at
my father-in-law's death, I was reduced to the
very brink of want. In this situation I was found
by my sister, who, amongst all her foibles, possesses
a warm, generous, and affectionate heart. She
aided me with the little fortune which my father
left her, persuaded me to visit Madrid, and has
supported my child and myself since our quitting
Murcia. Then, consider not Antonia as descended
from the Conde de las Cisternas; consider her as
a poor and unprotected orphan, as the grand-child
of the tradesman Torribio Dalsa, as the needy
pensioner of that tradesman's daughter. Reflect
upon the difference between such a situation and
that of the nephew and heir of the potent Duke of
Medina. I believe your intentions to be honour-
able ; but as there are no hopes that your uncle
will approve of the union, I foresee that the
consequences of your attachment must be fatal
to my child's repose."

" Pardon me, Segnora; you are misinformed
if you suppose the Duke of Medina to resemble
the generality of men. His sentiments are liberal
and disinterested; he loves me well, and I have
no reason to dread his forbidding the marriage,﻿106

THE MONK

when he perceives that my happiness depends on
Antonia. But supposing him to refuse his
sanction, what have I still to fear ? My parents
are no more; my little fortune is in my own
possession ; it will be sufficient to support Antonia,
and I shall exchange for her hand Medina's dukedom
without one sigh of regret.''

"You are young and eager; it is natural for
you to entertain such ideas. But experience has
taught me to my cost that curses accompany an
unequal alliance. I married the Conde de las
Cisternas in opposition to the will of his relations ;
many an heart-pang has punished me for the
imprudent step. Wherever we bent our course,
a father's execration pursued Gonzalvo. Poverty
overtook us, and no friend was near to relieve
our wants. Still our mutual affection existed,
but, alas! not without interruption. Accustomed
to wealth and ease, ill could my husband support
the transition to distress and indigence. He
looked back with repining to the comforts which
he once enjoyed. He regretted the situation
which for my sake he had quitted; and, in
moments when despair possessed his mind, has
reproached me with having made him the com-
panion of want and wretchedness. He has called
me his bane ! the source of his sorrows, the cause
of his destruction! Ah! God! he little knew
how much keener were my own heart's reproaches !
He was ignorant that I suffered trebly, for myself,
for my children, and for him ! 'Tis true that his
anger seldom lasted long: his sincere affection
for me soon revived in his heart, and then his﻿THE MONK

107

repentance for the tears which he had made me
shed, tortured me even more than his reproaches.
He would throw himself on the ground, implore
my forgiveness in the most frantic terms, and load
himself with curses for being the murderer of my
repose. Taught by experience, that an union
contracted against the inclinations of families on
either side must be unfortunate, I will save my
daughter from those miseries which I have suffered.
Without your uncle's consent, while I live, she
shall never be yours. Undoubtedly he will dis-
approve of the union; his power is immense, and
Antonia shall not be exposed to his anger and
persecution."

" His persecution ? How easily may that be
avoided ! Let the worst happen, it is but quitting
Spain. My wealth may easily be realised. The
Indian islands will offer us a secure retreat. I
have an estate, though not of value, in Hispaniola :
thither will we fly, and I shall consider it to be my
native country, if it gives me Antonia's undis-
turbed possession."

" Ah! youth, this is a fond, romantic vision.
Gonzalvo thought the same. He fancied that he
could leave Spain without regret; but the moment
of parting undeceived him. You know not yet
what it is to quit your native land : to quit it
never to behold it more ! You know not what it
is to exchange the scenes where you have passed
your infancy, for unknown realms and barbarous
climates!—to be forgotten, utterly, eternally
forgotten by the companions of your youth!—
to see your dearest friends, the fondest objects of﻿108

THE MONK

your affection, perishing with diseases incidental
to Indian atmospheres, and find yourself unable
to procure for them necessary assistance ! I have
felt all this! My husband and two sweet babes
found their graves in Cuba : nothing would have
saved my young Antonia, but my sudden return
to Spain. Ah! Don Lorenzo, could you conceive
what I suffered during my absence ! Could you
know how sorely I regretted all that I left behind,
and how dear to me was the very name of Spain !
I envied the winds which blew towards it: and
when the Spanish sailor chaunted some well-
known air as he passed my window, tears filled
my eyes, while I thought upon my native land.
Gonzalvo too-my husband——"

Elvira paused. Her voice faltered, and she
concealed her face with her handkerchief. After
a short silence she rose from the sofa, and pro-
ceeded—

" Excuse my quitting you for a few moments;
the remembrance of what I have suffered has
much agitated me, and I need to be alone. Till
I return, peruse these lines. After my husband's
death I found them among his papers. Had I
known sooner that he entertained such sentiments,
grief would have killed me. He wrote these
verses on his voyage to Cuba, when his mind was
clouded by sorrow, and he forgot that he had a
wife and children. What we are losing ever seems
to us the most precious. Gonzalvo was quitting
Spain for ever, and therefore was Spain dearer
to his eyes than all else which the world
contained. Read them, Don Lorenzo, they wilj﻿THE MONK

109

give you some idea of the feelings of a banished
man."

Elvira put a paper into Lorenzo's hand, and
retired from the chamber. The youth examined
the contents, and found them to be as follows :

THE EXILE.

Farewell, oh native Spain ! farewell for ever !

These banished eyes shall view thy coasts no more :

A mournful presage tells my heart, that never
Gonzalvo's steps again shall press thy shore.

Hushed are the winds ; while soft the vessel sailing
With gentle motion ploughs the unruffled main,

I feel my bosom's boasted courage failing,

And curse the waves which bear me far from Spain.

I see it yet! Beneath yon blue clear heaven
Still do the spires, so well-beloved, appear.

From yonder craggy point the gale of even
Still wafts my native accents to mine ear.

Propped on some moss-grown rock, and gaily singing,
There in the sun his nets the fisher dries;

Oft have I heard the plaintive ballad, bringing
Scenes of past joys before my sorrowing eyes.

Ah ! happy swain ! he waits the accustomed hour,
When twilight-gloom obscures the closing sky;

Then gladly seeks his loved paternal bower,

And shares the feast his native fields supply.

Friendship and Love, his cottage guests, receive him
With honest welcome and with smile sincere :

No threatening woes of present joys bereave him;
No sigh his bosom owns, his cheek no tear.﻿110

THE MONK

Ah ! happy swain ! such bliss to me denying,

Fortune thy lot with envy bids me view;

Me, who, from home and Spain an exile flying,

Bid all I value, all I love, adieu.

No more mine ear shall list the well-known ditty
Sung by some mountain-girl, who tends her goats,

Some village-swain imploring amorous pity,
Or shepherd chanting wild his rustic notes.

No more my arms a parent's fond embraces,

No more my heart domestic calm must kiiow;

Far from these joys, with sighs which memory traces,
To sultry skies and distant climes I go.

Where Indian suns engender new diseases,

Where snakes and tigers breed, I bend my way,

To brave the feverish thirst no art appeases,
The yellow plague, and madding blaze of day.

But not to feel slow pangs consume my liver,

To die by piece-meal in the bloom of age,

My boiling blood drank by insatiate fever,

And brain delirious with the day-star's rage,

Can make me know such grief, as thus to sever,

With many a bitter sigh, dear land ! from thee;

To find this heart must dote on thee for ever,

And feel that all thy joys are torn from me !

Ah me ! how oft will fancy's spells, in slumber,

Recall my native country to my mind!

How oft regret will bid me sadly number
Each lost delight, and dear friend left behind!

Wild Murcia's vales and loved romantic bowers,
The river on whose banks a child I played,

My castle's ancient halls, its frowning towers,

Each much-regretted wood, and well-known glade :﻿THE MONK

111

Dreams of the land where all my wishes centre,
Thy scenes, which I am doomed no more to know,

Full oft shall memory trace, my soul's tormentor,
And turn each pleasure past to present woe.

But, lo ! the sun beneath the waves retires;

Night speeds apace her empire to restore !

Clouds from my sight obscure the village spires,
Now seen but faintly, and now seen no more.

Oh! breathe not, winds ! Still be the water's motion !
Sleep, sleep, my bark, in silence on the main !

So, when to-morrow's light shall gild the ocean,

Once more mine eyes shall see the coast of Spain.

Vain is the wish ! My last petition scorning,

Fresh blows the gale, and high the billows swell :

Far shall we be before the break of morning:
Oh ! then, for ever, native Spain, farewell !

Lorenzo had scarcely time to read these lines,
when Elvira returned to him: the giving a free
course to her tears had relieved her, and her spirits
had regained their usual composure.

" I have nothing more to say, my lord," said
she ; " you have heard my apprehensions, and my
reasons for begging you not to repeat your
visits. I have thrown myself in full confidence
upon your honour. I am certain that you will
not prove my opinion of you to have been too
favourable."

" But one question more, Segnora, and I leave
you. Should the Duke of Medina approve my
love, would my addresses be unacceptable to
yourself and the fair Antonia ? "

641 will be open with you, Don Lorenzo : there﻿112

THE MONK

being little probability of such an union taking
place, I fear that it is desired but too ardently by
my daughter. You have made an impression
upon her young heart which gives me the most
serious alarm : to prevent that impression from
growing stronger, I am obliged to decline your
acquaintance. For me, you may be sure that I
should rejoice at establishing my child so advan-
tageously. Conscious that my constitution, im-
paired by grief and illness, forbids me to expect
a long continuance in this world, I tremble at the
thought of leaving her under the protection of a
perfect stranger. The Marquis de las Cisternas is
totally unknown to me. He will marry : his lady
may look upon Antonia with an eye of displeasure,
and deprive her of her only friend. Should the
duke, your uncle, give his consent, you need not
doubt obtaining mine and my daughter's; but,
without his, hope not for ours. At all events,
whatever steps you may take, whatever may be
the duke's decision, till you know it, let me beg
of your forbearing to strengthen by your presence,
Antonia's prepossession. If the sanction of your
relations authorises your addressing her as your
wife, my doors fly open to you. If that sanc-
tion is refused, be satisfied to possess my esteem
and gratitude, but remember we must meet no
more."

Lorenzo promised reluctantly to conform to
this decree : but, he added, that he hoped soon
to obtain that consent, which would give him a
claim to the renewal of their acquaintance. He
then explained to her why the marquis had not﻿THE MONK

113

called in person ; and made no scruple of confiding
to her his sister's history. He concluded by
saying, 4 4 that he hoped to set Agnes at liberty
the next day ; and that, as soon as Don Raymond's
fears were quieted upon this subject, he would
lose no time in assuring Donna Elvira of his
friendship and protection."

" I tremble for your sister," said she ; " I have
heard many traits of the domina of St. Clare's
character from a friend who was educated in the
same convent with her: she reported her to be
haughty, inflexible, superstitious, and revengeful.
I have since heard, that she is infatuated with the
idea of rendering her convent the most regular
in Madrid, and never forgave those whose im-
prudence threw upon it the slightest stain. Though
naturally violent and severe, when her interests
require it, she well knows how to assume an appear-
ance of benignity. She leaves no means untried
to persuade young women of rank to become
members of her community: she is implacable
when once incensed, and has too much intrepidity
to shrink at taking the most rigorous measures for
punishing the offender. Doubtless she will con-
sider your sister's quitting the convent as a
disgrace thrown upon it : she will use every
artifice to avoid obeying his holiness; and I
shudder to think that Donna Agnes is in the
hands of this dangerous woman."

Lorenzo now rose to take leave. Elvira gave
him her hand at parting, which he kissed respect-
fully; and, telling her that he soon hoped for the
permission to salute that of Antonia, he returned
ii.—8﻿114

THE MONK

to his hotel. The lady was perfectly satisfied
with the conversation which had passed between
them: she looked forward with satisfaction to
the prospect of his becoming her son-in-law;
but prudence bade her conceal from her daughter's
knowledge the flattering hopes which herself now
ventured to entertain.

Scarcely was it day, and already Lorenzo was
at the convent of St. Clare, furnished with the
necessary mandate. The nuns were at matins.
He waited impatiently for the conclusion of the
service ; and at length the prioress appeared at
the parlour-grate. Agnes was demanded. The
old lady replied with a melancholy air, that the
dear child's situation grew hourly more dangerous:
that the physicians despaired of her life; but that
they had declared the only chance for her recovery
to consist in keeping her quiet, and not to permit
those to approach her whose presence was likely
to agitate her. Not a word of all this was believed
by Lorenzo, any more than he credited the ex-
pressions of grief and affection for Agnes with
which this account was interlarded. To end the
business, he put the pope's bull into the hands of
the domina, and insisted that, ill or in health,
his sister should be delivered to him without
delay.

The prioress received the paper with an air of
humility; but no sooner had her eye glanced
ovetf the contents than her resentment baffled all
the efforts of hypocrisy. A deep crimson spread
itself over her face, and she darted upon Lorenzo
looks of rage and menace.﻿THE MONK

115

" This order is positive," said she, in a voice of
anger, which she in vain strove to disguise :
" willingly would I obey it, but, unfortunately,
it is out of my power."

Lorenzo interrupted her by an exclamation of
surprise.

" I repeat it, Segnor, to obey this order is
totally out of my power. From tenderness to a
brother's feelings, I would have communicated
the sad event to you by degrees, and have pre-
pared you to hear it with fortitude. My measures
are broken through : this order commands me
to deliver up to you the sister Agnes without
delay; I am, therefore, obliged to inform you,
without circumlocution, that on Friday last she
expired."

Lorenzo started back with horror, and turned
pale. A moment's recollection convinced him
that this assertion must be false, and it restored
him to himself.

"You deceive me! " said he, passionately:
" but five minutes past you assured me that, though
ill, she was still alive. Produce her this instant t
See her I must and will; and every attempt to
keep her from me will be unavailing."

" You forget yourself, Segnor : you owe respect
to my age as well as my profession. Your sister
is no more. If I at first concealed her death, it
was from dreading lest an event so unexpected
should produce on you too violent an effect. In
truth, I am but ill repaid for my attention. And
what interest, I pray you, should I have in detain-
ing her ? To know her wish of quitting our﻿110

THE MONK

society is a sufficient reason for me to wish her
absence, and think her a disgrace to the sisterhood
of St. Clare : but she has forfeited my affection in
a manner yet more culpable. Her crimes were
great; and when you know the cause of her death,
you will doubtless rejoice, Don Lorenzo, that
such a wretch is no longer in existence. She was
taken ill on Thursday last on returning from
confession in the Capuchin chapel: her malady
seemed attended with strange circumstances;
but she persisted in concealing its cause. Thanks
to the Virgin, we were too ignorant to suspect it!
Judge then what must have been our consterna-
tion, our horror, when she was delivered the next
day of a still-born child, whom she immediately
followed to the grave. How, Segnor ? Is it
possible that your countenance expresses no
surprise, no indignation ? Is it possible that
your sister's infamy was known to you, and that
still she possessed your affection ? In that case
you have no need of my compassion. I can say
nothing more, except repeat my inability of
obeying the orders of his holiness. Agnes is
no more; and, to convince you that what T
say is true, I swear by our blessed Saviour,
that three days have passed since she was
buried."

Here she kissed a small crucifix which hung at
her girdle : she then rose from her chair, and
quitted the parlour. As she withdrew she cast
upon Lorenzo a scornful smile.

"Farewell, Segnor," said she; "I know no
remedy for this accident. I fear that even a﻿THE MONK

117

second bull from the pope will not procure your
sister's resurrection."

Lorenzo also retired, penetrated with affliction :
but Don Raymond's, at the news of this event,
amounted to madness: he would not be con-
vinced that Agnes was really dead ; and continued
to insist that the walls of St. Clare still confined
her. No arguments could make him abandon
his hopes of regaining her. Every day some
fresh scheme was invented for procuring intel-
ligence of her, and all of them were attended
with the same success.

On his part, Medina gave up the idea of seeing
his sister more ; yet he believed that she had been
taken off by unfair means. Under this persuasion,
he encouraged Don Raymond's researches, deter-
mined, should he discover the least warrant for
his suspicions, to take a severe vengeance upon
the unfeeling prioress. The loss of his sister
affected him sincerely: nor was it the least cause
of his distress, that propriety obliged him for
some time to defer mentioning Antonia to the
duke. In the meanwhile, his emissaries con-
stantly surrounded Elvira's door. He had intelli-
gence of all the movements of his mistress. As
she never failed every Thursday to attend the
sermon in the Capuchin cathedral, he was secure
of seeing her once a week; though, in compliance
with his promise, he carefully shunned her observa-
tion. Thus two long months passed away.
Still no information was procured of Agnes. All
but the marquis credited her death: and now
Lorenzo determined to disclose his sentiments﻿118

THE MONK

to his uncle : lie had already dropped some hints
of his intention to marry: they had been as
favourably received as he could expect; and he
harboured no doubt of the success of his applica-
tion.﻿CHAPTER YI

While in each other's arms entranced they lay,

They blessed the night, and cursed the coming day.

Lee.

The burst of transport was passed: Ambrosio's
lust was satisfied. Pleasure fled, and Shame
usurped her seat in his bosom. Confused and
terrified at his weakness, he drew himself from
Matilda's arms: his perjury presented itself
before him: he reflected on the scene which, had
been acted, and trembled at the consequences of
a discovery: he looked forward with horror: his
heart was despondent, and became the abode of
satiety and disgust: he avoided the eyes of his
partner in frailty. A melancholy silence pre-
vailed, during which both seemed busied with
disagreeable reflections.

Matilda was the first to break it. She took his
hand gently, and pressed it to her burning lips.

" Ambrosio !" she murmured, in a soft and
trembling voice.

The -abbot started at the sound : he turned his
eyes upon Matilda's ; they were filled with tears ;
her cheeks were covered with blushes, and her
supplicating looks seemed to solicit his compassion.

119﻿120

THE MONK

" Dangerous woman ! " said lie ; " into what
an abyss of misery have you plunged me ! Should
your sex be discovered, my honour, nay, my life,
must pay for the pleasure of a few moments.
Fool that I was, to trust myself to your seductions !
What can now be done ? How can my offence
be expiated ? What atonement can purchase
the pardon of my crime ? Wretched Matilda,
you have destroyed my quiet for ever ! "

"To me these reproaches, Ambrosio ? to me,
who have sacrificed for you the world's pleasures,
the luxury of wealth, the delicacy of sex, my
friends, my fortune, and my fame ? What have
you lost which I preserved ? Have I not shared
in your guilt ? Have you not shared in my
pleasure ? Guilt did I say ? In what consists
ours, unless in the opinion of an ill-judging world ?
Let that world be ignorant of them, and our joys
become divine and blameless! Unnatural were
your vows of celibacy; man was not created for
such a state : and were love a crime, God would
never have made it so sweet, so irresistible ! Then
banish those clouds from your brow, my Ambrosio.
Indulge in those pleasures freely, without which
life is a worthless gift. Cease to reproach me with
having taught you what is bliss, and feel equal
transports with the woman who adores you, W"

As she spoke, her eyes filled with a delicious
langour : her bosom panted : she twined her arms
voluptuously round him, drew him towaf&s her,
and glued her lips to his. Ambrosio again raged
with desire : the die was thrown : his vows were
already broken : he had already committed the﻿THE MONK

121

crime, and why should he refrain from enjoying
its reward ? He clasped her to his breast with
redoubled ardour. No longer repressed by the
sense of shame, he gave a loose to his intemperate
appetites; while the fair wanton put every in-
vention of lust in practice, every refinement in
the art of pleasure, which might heighten the
bliss of her possession, and render her lover's
transports still more exquisite. Ambrosio rioted
in delights till then unknown to him. Swift fled
fhe night, and the morning blushed to behold
him still clasped in the embraces of Matilda.

Intoxicated with pleasure, the monk rose from
the syren's luxurious couch : he no longer reflected
with shame upon his incontinence, or dreaded
the vengeance of offended heaven : his only fear
was lest death should rob him of enjoyments, for
which his long fast had only given a keener edge
to his appetite. Matilda was still under the
influence of poison; and the voluptuous monk
trembled less for his preserver's life than his
concubine's. Deprived of her, he would not
easily find another mistress with whom he could
indulge his passions so fully, and so safely; he
therefore pressed her with earnestness to use the
means of preservation which she had declared
to h% in her possession.

" Yes ! " replied Matilda ; " since you have
made me feel that life is valuable, I will rescue
mine ft any rate. No dangers shall appal me :
I will look upon the consequences of my action
boldly, nor shudder at the horrors which they
present: I will think my sacrifice scarcely worthy﻿122

THE MONK

to purchase your possession; and remember,
that a moment passed in your arms in this world,
o'erpays an age of punishment in the next. But
before I take this step, Ambrosio, give me your
solemn oath never to enquire by what means I
shall preserve myself."

He did so, in a manner the most binding.

" I thank you, my beloved. This precaution
is necessary; for, though you know it not, you
are under the command of vulgar prejudices.
The business on which I must be employed this
night might startle you, from its singularity,
and lower me in your opinion. Tell me, do you
possess the key of the low door on the western side
of the garden ? "*

" The door which opens into the burying-ground
common to us and the sisterhood of St. Clare ?
I have not the key, but can easily procure it."

" You have only this to do. Admit me into
the burying-ground at midnight. Watch while
I descend into the vaults of St. Clare, lest some
prying eye should observe my actions. Leave
me there alone for an hour, and that life is safe
which I dedicate to your pleasures. To prevent
creating suspicion, do not visit me during the
day. Remember the key, and that I expect you
before twelve. Hark ! I hear steps approaching !
Leave me, I will pretend to sleep."

The friar obeyed, and left the cell. As he
opened the door, father Pablos made his appear-
ance.

"I come," said the latter, "to enquire after
the health of my young patient."﻿THE MONK

123

" Hush! " replied Ambrosio, laying his finger
upon his lip; " speak softly; I am just come
from him; he has fallen into a profound slumber,
which doubtless will be of service to him. Do
not disturb him at present, for he wishes to
repose."

Father Pablos obeyed, and, hearing the bell
ring, accompanied the abbot to matins. Ambrosio
felt embarrassed as he entered the chapel. Guilt
was new to him, and he fancied that every eye
could read the transactions of the night upon
his countenance. He strove to pray: his bosom
no longer glowed with devotion: his thoughts
insensibly wandered to Matilda's secret charms.
But what he wanted in purity of heart, he supplied
by exterior sanctity. The better to cloak his
transgression he redoubled his pretensions to the
semblance of virtue, and never appeared more
devoted to heaven than since he had broken
through his engagements. Thus did he uncon-
sciously add hypocrisy to perjury and incon-
tinence : he had fallen into the latter errors from
yielding to seduction almost irresistible: but he
was now guilty of a voluntary fault, by endeavour-
ing to conceal those into which another had
betrayed him.

The matins concluded, Ambrosio retired to his
celL The pleasures which he had just tasted for
the first time were still impressed upon his mind :
his brain was bewildered, and presented a confused
chaos of remorse, voluptuousness, inquietude, and
fear: he looked back with regret to that peace
of soul, that security of virtue, which till then had﻿124

THE MONK

been his portion: he had indulged in excesses
whose very idea, but four-and-twenty hours
before, he had recoiled at with horror: he shuddered
at reflecting that a trifling indiscretion on his part,
or on Matilda's, would overturn that fabric of
reputation which it had cost him thirty years to
erect, and render him the abhorrence of that
people of whom he was then the idol. Conscience
painted to him in glaring colours his perjury and
weakness; apprehension magnified to him the
horrors of punishment, and he already fancied
himself in the prisons of the Inquisition. To
these tormenting ideas succeeded Matilda's beauty,
and those delicious lessons, which once learnt can
never be forgotten. A single glance thrown
upon these reconciled him with himself: he con-
sidered the pleasures of the former night to have
been purchased at an easy price by the sacrifice
of innocence and honour. Their very remembrance
filled his soul with ecstasy: he cursed his foolish
vanity, which had induced him to waste in obscurity
the bloom of life, ignorant of the blessings of love
and woman: he determined, at all events, to
continue his commerce with Matilda, and called
every argument to his aid which might confirm
his resolution: he asked himself, provided his
irregularity was unknown, in what would his fault
consist, and what consequences he had to appre-
hend % By adhering strictly to every rule of his
order save chastity, he doubted not to retain the
esteem of men, and even the protection of heaven;
he trusted easily to be forgiven so slight and
natural a deviation from his vows ; but he forgot﻿THE MONK

125

that, having pronounced those vows, incontinence,
in laymen the most venial of errors, became in his
person the most heinous of crimes.

Once decided upon his future conduct, his mind
became more easy: he threw himself upon his
bed, and strove by sleeping to recruit his strength,
exhausted by his nocturnal excesses. He awoke
refreshed, and eager for a repetition of his pleasures.
Obedient to Matilda's order, he visited not her cell
during the day. Father Pablos mentioned in the
refectory that Rosario had at length been prevailed
upon to follow his prescription; but that the
medicine had not produced the slightest effect,
and that he believed no mortal skill could rescue
him from the grave. With this opinion the abbot
agreed, and affected to lament the untimely fate
of a youth whose talents had appeared so promising.

The night arrived. Ambrosio had taken care
to procure from the porter the key of the low door
opening into the cemetery. Furnished with this,
when all was silent in the monastery, he quitted
his cell, and hastened to Matilda's. She had left
her bed and was ready dressed before his arrival.

" I have been expecting you with impatience,"
said she ; " my life depends upon these moments.
Have!you the key 1 "

" ifhave."

" Away then to the garden. We have no time
to lose. Follow me I "

She took a small covered basket from the table.
Bearing this in one hand, and the lamp, which was
flaming upon the hearth, in the other, she hastened
from the cell. Ambrosio followed her. Both﻿126

THE MONK

maintained a profound silence. She moved on
with, quick but cautious steps, passed through
the cloisters, and reached the western side of the
garden : her eyes flashed with a fire and wildness
which impressed the monk at once with awe and
horror. A determined desperate courage reigned
upon her brow: she gave the lamp to Ambrosio;
then taking from him the key, she unlocked the
low door, and entered the cemetery. It was a
vast and spacious square, planted with yew trees ;
half of it belonged to the abbey, the other half
was the property of the sisterhood of St. Clare,
and was protected by a roof of stone : the division
was marked by an iron railing, the wicket of which
was generally left unlocked.

Thither Matilda bent her course; she opened
the wicket, and sought for the door leading to the
subterraneous vaults where reposed the mouldering
bodies of the votaries of St. Clare. The night was
perfectly dark; neither moon nor stars were
visible. Luckily there was not a breath of wind,
and the friar bore his lamp in full security: by
the assistance of its beams, the door of the sepulchre
was soon discovered. It was sunk within the
hollow of a wall, and almost concealed by thick
festoons of ivy hanging over it. Three fctepa of
rough-hewn stone conducted to it, and Matilda
was on the point of descending them, when she
suddenly started back.

" There are people in the vaults ! " she whispered
to the monk; " conceal yourself till they are
passed."

She took refuge behind a lofty and magnificent﻿THE MONK

127

tomb, erected in honour of the convent's foundress.
Ambrosio followed her example, carefully hiding
his lamp, lest its beams should betray them. But
a few moments had elapsed when the door was
pushed open leading to the subterraneous caverns.
Rays of light proceeded up the- staircase : they
enabled the concealed spectators to observe two
females dressed in religious habits, who seemed
engaged in earnest conversation. The abbot had
no difficulty to recognise the prioress of St. Clare
in the first, and one of the elder nuns in her
companion.

" Everything is prepared," said the prioress :
" her fate shall be decided to-morrow; all her
tears and sighs will be unavailing. No! In
five-and-twenty years that I have been superior
of this convent, never did I witness a transaction
more infamous ! "

" You must expect much opposition to your
will," the other replied in a milder voice : 64 Agnes
has many friends in the convent, and in particular
the mother St. Ursula will espouse her cause most
warmly. In truth, she merits to have friends;
and I wish I could prevail upon you to consider
her youth, and her peculiar situation. She seems
sensible of her fault; the excess of her grief proves
her penitence, and I am convinced that her tears
flow more from contrition than fear of punishment.
Reverend mother, would you be persuaded to
mitigate the severity of your sentence; would
you but deign to overlook this first transgression ;
I offer myself as the pledge of her future conduct."

" Overlook it, say you ? Mother Camilla, you﻿128

THE MONK

amaze me ! What ? after disgracing me in the
presence of Madrid's idol, of the very man on
whom I most wished to impress an idea of the
strictness of my discipline ? How despicable
must I have appeared to the reverend abbot!
No, mother, no! I never can forgive the insult.
I cannot better convince Ambrosio that I abhor
such crimes, than by punishing that of Agnes
with all the rigour of which our severe laws admit.
Cease then your supplications, they will all be
unavailing. My resolution is taken. To-morrow
Agnes shall be made a terrible example of my
justice and resentment."

The mother Camilla seemed not to give up the
point, but by this time the nuns were out of
hearing. The prioress unlocked the door which
communicated with St. Clare's Chapel, and,
having entered with her companion, closed it
again after them.

Matilda now asked, who was this Agnes with
whom the prioress was thus incensed, and what
connection she could have with Ambrosio. He
related her adventure; and he added, that since
that time his ideas having undergone a thorough
revolution, he now felt much compassion for the
unfortunate nun.

461 design," said he, " to request an audience of
the domina to-morrow, and use every means to
obtain a mitigation of her sentence."

" Beware of what you do," interrupted Matilda ;
" your sudden change of sentiment may naturally
create surprise, and may give birth to suspicions
which it is most our interest to avoid. Bather﻿THE MONK

129

redouble your outward austerity, and thunder
out menaces against the errors of others, the better
to conceal your own. Abandon the nun to her
fate. Your interfering might be dangerous, and
her imprudence merits to be punished : she is
unworthy to enjoy love's pleasures, who has not
wit enough to conceal them. But in discussing
this trivial subject I waste moments which are
precious. The night flies apace, and much must
be done before morning. The nuns are retired,
all is safe. Give me the lamp, Ambrosio, I must
descend alone into these caverns: wait here, and
if any one approaches warn me by your voice;
but as you value your existence, presume not to
follow me : your life would fall a victim to your
imprudent curiosity."

Thus saying, she advanced towards the sepulchre,
still holding her lamp in one hand, and her little
basket in the other. She touched the door : it
turned slowly upon its grating hinges, and a narrow
winding staircase of black marble presented itself
to her eyes. She descended it; Ambrosio re-
mained above, watching the faint beams of the
lamp, as they still receded down the stairs. They
disappeared, and he found himself in total darkness.
* Left to himself, he could not reflect without
surprise on the sudden change in Matilda's
character and sentiments. But a few days had
passed since she appeared the mildest and softest
of her sex, devoted to his will, and looking up to
him as a superior being. Now she assumed a
sort of courage and manliness in her manners
and discourse, but ill calculated to please him.
ii.~9﻿130

THE MONK

She spoke no longer to insinuate, but command :
he found himself unable to cope with her argu-
ment, and was unwillingly obliged to confess the
superiority of her judgment. Every moment
convinced him of the astonishing powers of her
mind ; but what she gained in the opinion of the
man, she lost with interest in the affection of
the lover. He regretted Rosario, the fond, the
gentle, and submissive ; he grieved that Matilda
preferred the virtues of his sex to those of her
own; and when he thought of her expressions
respecting the devoted nun, he could not help
blaming them as cruel and unfeminine. Pity
is a sentiment so natural, so appropriate to the
female character, that it is scarcely a merit for a
woman to possess it, but to be without it is a
grievous crime. Ambrosio could not easily for-
give his mistress for being deficient in this amiable
quality. However, though he blamed her insen-
sibility, he felt the truth of her observations;
and though he pitied sincerely the unfortunate
Agnes, he resolved to drop the idea of interposing
in her behalf.

Near an hour had elapsed since Matilda de-
scended into the caverns; stil! she returned not.
Ambrosio's curiosity was excited. He drew
near the staircase—he listened—all was silent,
except at intervals he caught the sound of
Matilda's voice, as it wound along the sub-
terraneous passages, and was re-echoed by the
sepulchre's vaulted roofs. She was at too great
a distance for him to distinguish her words, and
ere they reached him, they were deadened in a﻿THE MONK

131

low murmur. He longed to penetrate into this
mystery. He resolved to disobey her injunctions,
and follow her into the cavern. He advanced to
the staircase; he had already descended some
steps, when his courage failed him. He remem-
bered Matilda's menaces if he infringed her orders,
and his bosom was filled with a secret unaccount-
able awe. He returned up the stairs, resumed
his former station, and waited impatiently ior
the conclusion of this adventure.

Suddenly he was sensible of a violent shock.
An earthquake rocked the ground, the columns
which supported the roof under which he stood,
were so strongly shaken, that every moment
menaced him with its fall, and at the same
moment he heard a loud and tremendous burst
of thunder ; it ceased, and his eyes being fixed
upon the staircase, he saw a bright column of
light flash along the caverns beneath. It was seen
but for an instant. No sooner did it disappear,
than all was once more quiet and obscure. Pro-
found darkness again surrounded him, and the
silence of night was only broken by the whirring
bat as she flitted slowly by him.

With every instant Ambrosio's amazement
increased. Another hour elapsed, after which
the same light again appeared, and was lost again
as suddenly. It was accompanied by a strain
of sweet but solemn music, which, as it stole
through the vaults below, inspired the monk
with mingled delight and terror. It had not
long been hushed, when he heard Matilda's steps
upon the staircase. She ascended from the﻿132

THE MONK

cavern ; the most lively joy animated her beautiful
features.

44 Did you see anything ? " she asked.

" Twice I saw a column of light flash up the
staircase."

" Nothing else ? "

" Nothing."

" The morning is on the point of breaking : let
us retire to the abbey, lest daylight should
betray us."

With a light step she hastened from the burying-
ground. She regained her cell, and the curious
abbot still accompanied her. She closed the door,
and disembarrassed herself of her lamp and basket.

"I have succeeded!" she cried, throwing
herself upon his bosom; "succeeded beyond my
fondest hopes! I shall live, Ambrosio, shall live
for you ! The step which I shuddered at taking,
proves to me a source of joys inexpressible ! Oh I
that I dared communicate those joys to you!
Oh ! that I were permitted to share with you my
power, and raise you as high above the level of
your sex, as one bold deed has exalted me above
mine ! "

" And what prevents you, Matilda ? " inter-
rupted the friar. 6 4 Why is your business in the
cavern made a secret ? Do you think me unde-
serving of your confidence ? Matilda, I must
doubt the truth of your affection, while you have
joys in which I am forbidden to share."

"You reproach me with injustice; I grieve
sincerely that I am obliged to conceal from you
my happiness : but I am not to blame; the fault﻿THE MONK

133

lies not in me but in yourself, my Ambrosio.
You are still too much the monk, your mind is
enslaved by the prejudices of education; and super-
stition might make you shudder at the idea of
that which experience has taught me to prize
and value. At present you are unfit to be
trusted with a secret of such importance ; but the
strength of your judgment, and the curiosity
which I rejoice to see sparkling in your eyes, make
me hope that you will one day deserve my con-
fidence. Till that period arrives, restrain your
impatience. Remember that you have given
me your solemn oath never to enquire into this
night's adventures. I insist upon your keeping
this oath; for, though," she added, smiling, while
she sealed his lips with a wanton kiss, " though
I forgive your breaking your vows to heaven, I
expect you to keep your vows to me."

The friar returned the embrace, which had set
his blood on fire. The luxurious and unbounded
excesses of the former night were renewed, and
they separated not till the bell rang for matins.

The same pleasures were frequently repeated.
The monks rejoiced in the feigned Rosario's un-
expected recovery, and none of them suspected
his real sex. The abbot possessed his mistress in
tranquillity, and, perceiving his frailty unsus-
pected, abandoned himself to his passions in full
security. Shame and remorse no longer tor-
mented him. Frequent repetitions made him
familiar with sin, and his bosom became proof
against the stings of conscience. In these sen-
timents he was encouraged by Matilda; but she﻿134

THE MONK

soon was aware that she had satiated her lover
by the unbounded freedom of her caresses. Her
charms becoming accustomed to him, they ceased
to excite the same desires which at first they had
inspired. The delirium of passion being past,
he had ]eisure to observe every trifling defect;
where none were to be found, satiety made him
fancy them. The monk was glutted with the
fulness of pleasure. A week had scarcely elapsed
before he wearied of his paramour : his warm
constitution still made him seek in her arms the
gratification of his lust. But when the moment
of passion was over, he quitted her with disgust,
and his humour, naturally inconstant, made him
sigh impatiently for variety.

Possession, which cloys man, only increases the
affection of women. Matilda with every succeed-
ing day grew more attached to the friar. Since
he had obtained her favours, he was become
dearer to her than ever, and she felt grateful to
him for the pleasures in which they had equally
been sharers. Unfortunately, as her passion
grew ardent, Ambrosio's grew cold; the very
marks of her fondness excited his disgust, and its
excess served to extinguish the flame which
already burned but feebly in his bosom. Matilda
could not but remark that her society seemed to
him daily less agreeable ; he was inattentive while
she spoke; her musical talents, which she pos-
sessed in perfection, had lost the power of amusing
him; or, if he deigned to praise them, his com-
pliments were evidently forced and cold. He
no longer gazed upon her with affection, or﻿THE MONK

135

applauded her sentiments with a lover's partiality.
This Matilda well perceived, and redoubled her
efforts to revive those sentiments which he had
once felt. She could not but fail, since he con-
sidered as importunities the pains which she
took to please him, and was disgusted by the very
means which she used to recall the wanderer. Still,
however, their illicit commerce continued; but
it was clear that he was led to her arms, not by
love, but the cravings of brutal appetite. His
constitution made a woman necessary to him,
and Matilda was the only one with whom he
could indulge his passions safely. In spite of
her beauty, he gazed upon every other female
with more desire ; but fearing that his hypocrisy
should be made public, he confined his inclinations
to his own breast.

It was by no means his nature to be timid :
but his education had impressed his mind with
fear so strongly, that apprehension was become
part of his character. Had his youth been
passed in the world, he would have shown himself
possessed of many brilliant and manly qualities.
He was naturally enterprising, firm, and fearless :
he had a warrior's heart, and he might have shone
with splendour at the head of an army. There
was no want of generosity in his nature : the
wretched never failed to find him a compassionate
auditor: his abilities were quick and shining,
and his judgment vast, solid, and decisive. With
such qualifications he would have been an orna-
ment to his country: that he possessed them he
had given proofs in his earliest infancy, and his﻿136

THE MONK

parents had beheld his dawning virtues with the
fondest delight and admiration. Unfortunately,
while yet a child, he was deprived of those parents.
He fell into the power of a relation, whose only
wish about him was never to hear of him more :
for that purpose he gave him in charge to his
friend, the former superior of the Capuchins. The
abbot, a very monk, used all his endeavours to
persuade the boy that happiness existed not
without the walls of a convent. He succeeded
fully. To deserve admittance into the order of
St. Francis was Ambrosio's highest ambition.
His instructors carefully repressed those virtues
whose grandeur and disinterestedness were ill
suited to the cloister. Instead of universal bene-
volence, he adopted a selfish partiality for his own
particular establishment; he was taught to con-
sider compassion for the errors of others as a
crime of the blackest dye : the noble frankness
of his temper was exchanged for servile humility ;
and in order to break his natural spirit, the
monks terrified his young mind, by placing before
him all the horrors with which superstition could
furnish them : they painted to him the torments
of the damned in colours the most dark, terrible
and fantastic, and threatened him at the slightest
fault with eternal perdition. No wonder that
his imagination constantly dwelling upon these
fearful objects should have rendered his character
timid and apprehensive. Add to this, that his long
absence from the great world, and total unacquaint-
ance with the common dangers of life, made him
form of them an idea far more dismal than the﻿THE MONK

137

reality. While the monks were busied in rooting
out his virtues, and narrowing his sentiments,
they allowed every vice which had fallen to his
share to arrive at full perfection. He was suffered
to be proud, vain, ambitious, and disdainful: he
was jealous of his equals, and despised all merit
but his own: he was implacable when offended,
and cruel in his revenge. Still, in spite of the
pains taken to pervert them, his natural good
qualities would occasionally break through the
gloom cast over them so carefully. At such
times the contest for superiority between his real
and acquired character was striking and un-
accountable to those unacquainted with his
original disposition. He pronounced the most
severe sentences upon offenders, which the
moment after compassion induced him to mitigate;
he undertook the most daring enterprises, which
the fear of their consequences soon obliged him
to abandon; his inborn genius darted a brilliant
light upon subjects the most obscure ; and almost
instantaneously his superstition replunged them
in darkness more profound than that from which
they had just been rescued. His brother monks,
regarding him as a superior being, remarked not
this contradiction in their idol's conduct. They
were persuaded that what he did must be right,
and supposed him to have good reasons for chang-
ing his resolutions. The fact was, that the different
sentiments with which education and nature had
inspired him, were combating in his bosom : it
remained for his passions, which as yet no oppor-
tunity had called into play, to decide the victory.﻿138

THE MONK

Unfortunately his passions were the worst judges
to whom he could possibly have applied. His
monastic seclusion had till now been in his favour,
since it gave him no room for discovering his bad
qualities. The superiority of his talents raised
him too far above his companions to permit his
being jealous of them : his exemplary piety, per-
suasive eloquence, and pleasing manners had
secured him universal esteem, and consequently
he had no injuries to revenge ; his ambition was
justified by his acknowledged merit, and his pride
considered as no more than proper confidence.
He never saw, much less conversed with the other
sex; he was ignorant of the pleasures in woman's
power to bestow; and if he read in the course of
his studies

" That men were fond, he smiled, and wondered how."

For a time spare diet, frequent watching, and
severe penance cooled and repressed the natural
warmth of his constitution : but no sooner did
opportunity present itself, no sooner did he catch
a glimpse of joys to which he was still a stranger,
than religion's barriers were too feeble to resist
the overwhelming torrent of his desires. All
impediments yielded before the force of his
temperament, warm, sanguine, and voluptuous
in the excess. As yet his other passions lay dor-
mant ; but they only needed to be once awakened
to display themselves with violence as great and
irresistible.

He continued to be the admiration of Madrid.
The enthusiasm created by his eloquence seemed﻿THE MONK

139

rather to increase than diminish. Every Thursday,
which was the only day when he appeared in public,
the Capuchin cathedral was crowded with auditors,
and his discourse was always received with the
same approbation. He was named confessor to
all the chief families in Madrid; and no one was
counted fashionable who was injoined penance by
any other than Ambrosio. In his resolution of
never stirring out of his convent he still persisted.
This circumstance created a still greater opinion
of his sanctity and self-denial. Above all, the
women sang forth his praises loudly, less influenced
by devotion than by his noble countenance,
majestic air, and well-turned graceful figure.
The abbey door was thronged with carriages
from morning to night; the noblest and fairest
dames of Madrid confessed to the abbot their
secret peccadilloes. The eyes of the luxurious
friar devoured their charms. Had his penitents
consulted these interpreters, he would have needed
no other means of expressing his desires. For
his misfortune, they were so strongly persuaded
of his continence, that the possibility of his harbour-
ing indecent thoughts never once entered their
imaginations. The climate's heat, 'tis well known,
operates with no small influence upon the con-
stitutions of the Spanish ladies: but the most
abandoned would have thought it an easier task
to inspire with passion the marble statue of
St. Francis than the cold and rigid heart of the
immaculate Ambrosio.

On his part, the friar was little acquainted with
the depravity of the world : he suspected not that﻿140

THE MONK

but few of his penitents would have rejected his
addresses. Yet had he been better instructed
on this head, the danger attending such an attempt
would have sealed up his lips in silence. He knew
that it would be difficult for a woman to keep a
secret so strange and so important as his frailty;
and he even trembled lest Matilda should betray
him. Anxious to preserve a reputation which
was infinitely dear to him, he saw all the risk of
committing it to the power of some vain giddy
female ; and as the beauties of Madrid affected
only his senses without touching his heart, he
forgot them as soon as they were out of his sight.
The danger of discovery, the fear of being repulsed,
the loss of reputation; all these considerations
counselled him to stifle his desires; and though
he now felt for it the most perfect indifference, he
was necessitated to confine himself to Matilda's
person.

One morning, the confluence of penitents was
greater than usual. He was detained in the con-
fessional chair till a late hour. At length the
crowd was despatched, and he prepared to quit
the chapel, when two females entered, and drew
near him with humility. They threw up their
veils, and the youngest entreated him to listen
to her for a few moments. The melody of her
voice, of that voice to which no man ever listened
without interest, immediately caught Ambrosio's
attention. He stopped. The petitioner seemed
bowed down with affliction : her cheeks were pale,
her eyes dimmed with te^rs, and her hair fell in
disorder over her face and bosom. Still her﻿THE MONK

141

countenance was so sweet, so innocent, so heavenly,
as might have charmed an heart less susceptible
than that which panted in the abbot's breast.
With more than usual softness of manner he
desired her to proceed, and heard her speak as
follows, with an emotion which increased every
moment:

"Reverend father, you see an unfortunate
threatened with the loss of her dearest, of almost
her only friend! My mother, my excellent mother,
lies upon the bed of sickness. A sudden and
dreadful malady seized her last night, and so
rapid has been its progress that the physicians
despair of her life. Human aid fails me ; nothing
remains for me but to implore the mercy of heaven.
Father, all Madrid rings with the report of your
piety and virtue. Deign to remember my mother
in your prayers : perhaps they may prevail on
the Almighty to spare her; and should that be
the case, I engage myself every Thursday in the
next three months to illuminate the shrine of
St. Francis in his honour."

" So ! " thought the monk; " here we have a
second Vincentio della Ronda. Rosario's adven-
ture began thus; " and he wished secretly that
this might have the same conclusion.

He acceded to the request. The petitioner
returned him thanks with every mark of gratitude,
and then continued :

" I have yet another favour to ask. We are
strangers in Madrid : my mother needs a con-
fessor, and knows not to whom she should apply.
We understand that you never quit the abbey,﻿142

THE MONK

and, alas ! my poor mother is unable to come
hither ! If you would have the goodness, reverend
father, to name a proper person, whose wise and
pious consolations may soften the agonies of my
parent's death-bed, you will confer an everlasting
favour upon hearts not ungrateful."

With this petition also the monk complied.
Indeed, what petition would he have refused, if
urged in such enchanting accents ? The suppliant
was so interesting! Her voice was so sweet, so
harmonious ! Her very tears became her, and
her affliction seemed to add new lustre to her
charms. He promised to send to her a confessor
that same evening, and begged her to leave her
address. The companion presented him with a
card on which it was written, and then withdrew
with the fair petitioner, who pronounced before
her departure a thousand benedictions on the
abbot's goodness. His eyes followed her out of
the chapel. It was not till she was out of sight
that he examined the card, on which he read the
following words :

<e Donna Elvira Dalsa, strada di San Iago, four
doors from the palace d'Albornos."

The suppliant was no other than Antonia, and
Leonella was her companion. The latter had not
consented without difficulty to accompany her
niece to the abbey: Ambrosio had inspired her
with such awe, that she trembled at the very
sight of him. Her fears had conquered even her
natural loquacity, and while in his presence she
uttered not a single syllable.

The monk retired to his cell, whither he was﻿THE MONK

143

pursued by Antonia's image. He felt a thousand
new emotions springing in his bosom, and lie
trembled to examine into the cause which gave
them birth. They were totally different from
those inspired by Matilda, when she first declared
her sex and her affection. He felt not the pro-
vocation of lust; no voluptuous desires rioted
in his bosom: nor did a burning imagination
picture to him the charms which modesty had
veiled from his eyes. On the contrary, what he
now felt was a mingled sentiment of tenderness,
admiration, and respect. A soft and delicious
melancholy infused itself into his soul, and he
would not have exchanged it for the most lively
transports of joy. Society now disgusted him :
he delighted in solitude, which permitted his
indulging the visions of fancy : his thoughts were
all gentle, sad, and soothing; and the whole wide
world presented him with no other object than
Antonia.

66 Happy man ! " he exclaimed in his romantic
enthusiasm, " happy man, who is destined to
possess the heart of that lovely girl! what delicacy
in her features ! what elegance in her form ! how
enchanting was the timid innocence of her eyes !
and how different from the wanton expression,
the wild luxurious fire, which sparkles in Matilda's !
Oh ! sweeter must one kiss be, snatched from the
rosy lips of the one, than all the full and lustful
favours bestowed so freely by the other. Matilda
gluts me with enjoyment even to loathing, forces
me to her arms, apes the harlot, and glories in her
prostitution. Disgusting! Did she know the﻿144

THE MONK

inexpressible charm of modesty, how irresistibly
it enthrals the heart of man, how firmly it chains
him to the throne of beauty, she never would have
thrown it off. What would be too dear a price
for this lovely girl's affections ? What would I
refuse to sacrifice, could I be released from my
.vows, and permitted to declare my love in the
sight of earth and heaven ? While I strove to
inspire her with tenderness, with friendship and
esteem, how tranquil and undisturbed would the
hours roll away ! Gracious God ! to see her blue
downcast eyes beam upon mine with timid fond-
ness ! to sit for days, for years, listening to that
gentle voice ! to acquire the right of obliging her,
and hear the artless expressions of her gratitude !
to watch the emotions of that spotless heart! to
encourage each dawning virtue ! to share in her
joy when happy, to kiss away her tears when
distressed, and to see her fly to my arms for
comfort and support! Yes; if there is perfect
bliss on earth, 'tis his lot alone who becomes that
angel's husband."

While his fancy coined these ideas, he paced
his cell with a disordered air. His eyes were
fixed upon vacancy: his head reclined upon his
shoulder: a tear rolled down his cheek, while he
reflected that the vision of happiness for him
could never be realised.

" She is lost to me," he continued; " by
marriage she cannot be mine : and to seduce such
innocence, to use the confidence reposed in me
to work her ruin—Oh! it would be a crime,
blacker than yet the world ever witnessed ! Fear﻿THE MONK

145

not, lovely girl! your virtue runs no risk from
me. Not for Indies would I make that gentle
bosom know the tortures of remorse."

Again he paced his chamber hastily. Then
stopping, his eye fell upon the picture of his once-
admired Madonna. He tore it with indignation
from the wall: he threw it on the ground, and
spurned it from him with his foot.

" The prostitute."

Unfortunate Matilda! her paramour forgot
that for his sake alone she had forfeited her claim
to virtue; and his only reason for despising her
was that she had loved him much too well.

He threw himself into a chair, which stood
near the table. He saw the card with Elvira's
address. He took it up, and it brought to his
recollection his promise respecting a confessor.
He passed a few minutes in doubt; but Antonia's
empire over him was already too much decided
to permit his making a long resistance to the idea
which struck him. He resolved to be the con-
fessor himself. He could leave the abbey unob-
served without difficulty: by wrapping up his
head in his cowl he hoped to pass through the
streets without being recognised : by taking these
precautions and by recommending secrecy to
Elvira's family, he doubted not to keep Madrid
in ignorance that he had broken his vow never to
see the outside of the abbey walls. Matilda was
the only person whose vigilance he dreaded : but
by informing her at the refectory, that during
the whole of that day business would confine him
to his cell, he thought himself secure from her

II.—10﻿146

THE MONK

wakeful jealousy. Accordingly, at the hours
when the Spaniards are generally taking their
siesta, he ventured to quit the abbey by a private
door, the key of which was in his possession. The
cowl of his habit was thrown over his face : from
the heat of the weather the streets were almost
totally deserted: the monk met with few people,
found the strada di San Iago, and arrived without
accident at Donna Elvira's door. He rang, was
admitted, and immediately ushered into an upper
apartment.

It was here that he ran the greatest risk of a
discovery. Had Leonella been at home, she
would have recognised him directly. Her com-
municative disposition would never have per-
mitted her to rest, till all Madrid was informed
that Ambrosio had ventured out of the abbey,
and visited her sister. Fortune here stood the
monk's friend. On Leonella's return home, she
found a letter instructing her, that a cousin was
just dead, who had left what little he possessed
between herself and Elvira. To secure this
bequest she was obliged to set out for Cordova
without losing a moment. Amidst all her foibles,
her heart was truly warm and afiectionate, and
she was unwilling to quit her sister in so dangerous
a state. But Elvira insisted upon her taking the
journey, conscious that, in her daughter's forlorn
situation, no increase of fortune, however trifling,
ought to be neglected. Accordingly Leonella left
Madrid, sincerely grieved at her sister's illness,
and giving some few sighs to the memory of the
amiable but inconstant Don Christoval. She﻿THE MONK

147

was fully persuaded, that at first she had made a
terrible breach in his heart; but hearing nothing
more of him, she supposed that he had quitted
the pursuit, disgusted by the lowness of her
origin, and knowing upon other terms than
marriage he had nothing to hope from such a
dragon of virtue as she professed herself; or else,
that being naturally capricious and changeable,
the remembrance of her charms had been effaced
from the conde's heart by those of some newer
beauty. Whatever was the cause of her losing
him, she lamented it sorely. She strove in vain,
as she assured everybody who was kind enough
to listen to her, to tear his image from her too
susceptible heart. She affected the airs of a love-
sick virgin, and carried them all to the most
ridiculous excess. She heaved lamentable sighs,
walked with her arms folded, uttered long solilo-
quies, and her discourse generally turned upon
some forsaken maid, who expired of a broken
heart! Her fiery locks were always ornamented
with a garland of willow. Every evening she was
seen straying upon the banks of a rivulet by
moonlight; and she declared herself a violent
admirer of murmuring streams and nightingales—

" Of lonely haunts, and twilight groves,

Places which pale passion loves ! "

Such was the state of Leonella's mind when
obliged to quit Madrid. Elvira was out of
patience at these follies, and endeavoured at per-
suading her to act like a reasonable woman. Her
advice was thrown away: Leonella assured her﻿148

THE MONK

at parting that nothing could make her forget
the perfidious Don Christoval. In this point she
was fortunately mistaken. An honest youth of
Cordova, journeyman to an apothecary, found
that her fortune would be sufficient to set him
up in a genteel shop of his own. In consequence
of this reflection he avowed himself her admirer.
Leonella was not inflexible ; the ardour of his
sighs melted her heart, and she soon consented
to make him the happiest of mankind. She
wrote to inform her sister of her marriage ; but,
for reasons which will be explained hereafter,
Elvira never answered her letter.

Ambrosio was conducted into the anti-chamber
to that where Elvira was reposing. The female
domestic who had admitted him, left him alone,
while she announced his arrival to her mistress.
Antonia, who had been by her mother's bed-side,
immediately came to him.

" Pardon me, father," said she, advancing
towards him; when recognising his features, she
stopped suddenly, and uttered a cry of joy. " Is
it possible % " she continued, " do not my eyes
deceive me ? Has the worthy Ambrosio broken
through his resolution, that he may soften the
agonies of the best of women \ What pleasure
will this visit give my mother ! Let me not delay
for a moment the comfort which your piety and
wisdom will afford her."

Thus saying, she opened the chamber door,
presented to her mother her distinguished visitor,
and having placed an arm-chair by the side of the
bed, withdrew into another apartment.﻿THE MONK

149

Elvira was highly gratified by this visit: her
expectations had been raised high by general
report, but she found them far exceeded. Am-
brosio, endowed by nature with powers of pleasing,
exerted them to the utmost, while conversing
with Antonia's mother. With persuasive elo-
quence he calmed every fear, and dissipated every
scruple. He bade her reflect on the infinite
mercy of her judge, despoiled death of his darts
and terrors, and taught her to view without
shrinking the abyss of eternity, on whose brink
she then stood. Elvira was absorbed in attention
and delight; while she listened to his exhortations,
confidence and comfort stole insensibly into her
mind. She unbosomed to him without hesitation
her cares and apprehensions. The latter respect-
ing a future life he had already quieted, and he
now removed the former, which she felt for the
concerns of this. She trembled for Antonia;
she had none to whose care she could recommend
her, save to the Marquis de las Cisternas, and her
sister Leonella. The protection of the one was
very uncertain; and as to the other, though fond
of her niece, Leonella was so thoughtless and vain,
as to make her an improper person to have the
sole direction of a girl so young and ignorant of
the world. The friar no sooner learned the cause
of her alarms, than he begged her to make herself
easy upon that head. He doubted not being able
to secure for Antonia a safe refuge in the house
of one of his penitents, the Marchioness of Yilla-
Franca : this was a lady of acknowledged virtue,
remarkable for strict principle and extensive﻿150

THE MONK

charity. Should accident deprive her of this
resource, he engaged to procure Antonia a recep-
tion in some respectable convent, that is to say,
in quality of boarder; for Elvira had declared
herself no friend to a monastic life, and the monk
was either candid or complaisant enough to
allow that her disapprobation was not unfounded.

These proofs of the interest which he felt for
her, completely won Elvira's heart. In thank'
ing him, she exhausted every expression which
gratitude could furnish, and protested, that now
she should resign herself with tranquillity to the
grave. Ambrosio rose to take leave ; he promised
to return the next day at the same hour, but
requested that his visits might be kept secret.

" I am unwilling," said he, " that my breaking
through a rule imposed by necessity, should be
generally known. Had I not resolved never to
quit my convent, except upon circumstances as
urgent as that which has conducted me to your
door, I should be frequently summoned upon
insignificant occasions; that time would be
engrossed by the curious, the unoccupied, and
the fanciful, which I now pass at the bed-side of
the sick, in comforting the expiring penitent, and
clearing the passage to eternity from thorns."

Elvira commended equally his prudence and
compassion, promising to conceal carefully the
honour of his visits. The monk then gave her
his benediction and retired from the chamber.

In the anti-room he found Antonia ; he could
not refuse himself the pleasure of passing a few
moments in her society. He bade her take com-﻿THE MONK

151

fort, for that her mother seemed composed and
tranquil, and he hoped that she might yet do well.
He enquired who attended her, and engaged to
send the physician of his convent to see her, one
of the most skilful in Madrid. He then launched
out in Elvira's commendation, praised her purity
and fortitude of mind, and declared that she had
inspired him with the highest esteem and reverence.
Antonia's innocent heart swelled with gratitude,
joy danced in her eyes, where a tear still sparkled.
The hopes which he gave her of her mother's
recovery, the lively interest which he seemed to
feel for her, and the flattering way in which she
was mentioned by him, added to the report of his
judgment and virtue, and to the impression made
upon her by his eloquence, confirmed the favour-
able opinion with which his first appearance had
inspired Antonia. She replied with diffidence,
but without restraint: she feared not to relate to
him all her little sorrows, all her little fears and
anxieties; and she thanked him for his goodness
with all the genuine warmth which favours kindle
in a young and innocent heart. Such a one alone
knows how to estimate benefits at their full value.
They who are conscious of mankind's perfidy and
selfishness, ever receive an obligation with appre-
hension and disgust; they suspect that some
secret motive must lurk behind it; they express
their thanks with restraint and caution, and fear
to praise a kind action to its full extent, aware
that on some future day a return may be required.
Not so Antonia—she thought the world was com-
posed only of those who resembled her; and that﻿152

THE MONK

vice existed, was to her still a secret. The monk
had been of service to her ; he said that he wished
her well; she was grateful for his kindness, and
thought that no terms were strong enough to be
the vehicle of her thanks. With what delight
did Ambrosio listen to the declaration of her art-
less gratitude ! The natural grace of her manners,
the unequalled sweetness of her voice, her modest
vivacity, her unstudied elegance, her expressive
countenance and intelligent eyes united to inspire
him with pleasure and admiration; while the
solidity and correctness of her remarks received
additional beauty from the unaffected simplicity
of the language in which they were conveyed.

Ambrosio was at length obliged to tear himself
from this conversation, which possessed for him
but too many charms. He repeated to Antonia
his wishes, that his visits should not be made
known; which desire she promised to observe.
He then quitted the house, while his enchantress
hastened to her mother, ignorant of the mischief
which her beauty had caused. She was eager to
know Elvira's opinion of the man whom she had
praised in such enthusiastic terms, and was de-
lighted to find it equally favourable, if not even
more so than her own.

" Even before he spoke." said Elvira, " I was
prejudiced in his favour ; the fervour of his exhort-
ations, dignity of his manner, and closeness of
his reasoning, were very far from inducing me to
alter my opinion. His fine and full-toned voice
struck me particularly; but surely, Antonia, I have
heard it before. It seemed perfectly familiar to﻿THE MONK

153

my ear: either I must have known the abbot in
former times, or his voice bears a wonderful
resemblance to that of some other to whom I
have often listened. There were certain tones
which touched my very heart, and made me feel
sensations so singular, that I strive in vain to
account for them."

"My dearest mother, it produced the same
effect upon me; yet certainly neither of us ever
heard his voice till we came to Madrid. I suspect
that what we attribute to his voice, really pro-
ceeds from his pleasant manners, which forbid
our considering him as a stranger. I know not
why, but I feel more at my ease while conversing
with him, than I usually do with people who are
unknown to me. I feared not to repeat to him
all my childish thoughts ; and somehow I felt
confident that he would hear my folly with
indulgence. Oh! I was not deceived in him;
he listened to me with such an air of kindness and
attention; he answered me with such gentleness,
such condescension; he did not call me an infant,
and treat me with contempt, as our cross old
confessor at the Castle used to do. I verily
believe, that if I had lived in Murcia a thousand
years, I never should have liked that fat old
father Dominic ! "

461 confess, that father Dominic had not the
most pleasing manners in the world ; but he was
honest, friendly, and well-meaning."

" Ah ! my dear mother, those qualities are so
common——"

" God grant, my child, that experience may﻿154

THE MONK

not teach you to think them rare and precious!
I have found them but too much so. But tell me,
Antonia, why is it impossible for me to have seen
the abbot before ? "

4 4 Because, since the moment when he entered
the abbey he has never been on the outside of its
walls. He told me just now, that from his ignorance
of the streets he had some difficulty to find the
strada di San Iago, though so near the abbey."

" All this is possible, and still I may have seen
him before he entered the abbey : in order to come
out, it was necessary that he should first go in."

" Holy virgin ! as you say, that is very true.—
Oh ! But might he not have been born in the
abbey ? "

Elvira smiled.

44 Why, not very easily."

44 Stay, stay ! Now I recollect how it was. He
was put into the abbey quite a child; the common
people say that he fell from heaven, and was
sent as a present to the Capuchins by the Virgin."

4 4 That was very kind of her. And so he fell
from heaven, Antonia ? He mukt have had a
terrible tumble."

44 Many do not credit this ; and I fancy, my dear
mother, that I must number you among the un-
believers. Indeed, as our landlady told my aunt,
the general idea is, that his parents, being poor,
and unable to maintain him, left him just born
at the abbey door; the late superior, from pure
charity, had him educated in the convent; and
he proved to be a model of virtue, and piety, and
learning, and I know not what else besides. In﻿THE MONK

155

consequence, he was first received as a brother of
the order, and not long ago was chosen abbot.
However, whether this account or the other is the
true one—at least all agree, that when the monks
took him under their care, he could not speak;
therefore you could not have heard his voice
before he entered the monastery, because at that
time he had no voice at all."

4 4 Upon my word, Antonia, you argue very
closely; your conclusions are infallible. I did
not suspect you of being so able a logician."

" Ah! you are mocking me; but so much the
better. It delights me to see you in spirits;
besides, you seem tranquil and easy, and I hope
that you will have no more convulsions. Oh I
I was sure the abbot's visit would do you good."

"It has indeed done me good, my child. He
has quieted my mind upon some points which
agitated me, and I already feel the effects of his
attention. My eyes grow heavy, and I think I
can sleep a little. Draw the curtains, my Antonia :
but if I should not wake before midnight, do not
sit up with me, I charge you."

Antonia promised to obey her; and, having
received her blessing, drew the curtains of the
bed. She then seated herself in silence at her
embroidery frame, and beguiled the hours with
building castles in the air. Her spirits were
enlivened by the evident change for the better
in Elvira, and her fancy presented her with visions
bright and pleasing. In these dreams Ambrosio
made no despicable figure. She thought of him
with joy and gratitude : but for every idea which﻿156

THE MONK

fell to the friar's share, at least two were uncon-
sciously bestowed upon Lorenzo. Thus passed
the time, till the bell in the neighbouring steeple
of the Capuchin cathedral announced the hour
of midnight. Antonia remembered her mother's
injunctions, and obeyed them, though with
reluctance. She undrew the curtains with caution.
Elvira was enjoying a profound and quiet slumber ;
her cheek glowed with health's returning colours :
a smile declared that her dreams were pleasant,
and as Antonia bent over her she fancied that
she heard her name pronounced. She kissed her
mother's forehead softly, and retired to her
chamber; there she knelt before a statue of St.
Rosolia, her patroness; she recommended herself
to the protection of heaven, and, as had been her
custom from infancy, concluded her devotions
by chaunting the following stanzas :—

MIDNIGHT HYMN.1

Now all is hush'd ; the solemn chime,	v •

No longer swells the nightly gale:

Thy awful presence, how sublime,

With spotless heart once more I hail.

'Tis now the moment still and dread,

When sorcerers use their baleful power;

When graves give up their buried dead
To profit by the sanctioned hour.

1 Probably these stanzas were suggested by Imogen's
prayer in Cymbeline—

" From fairies and from tempters of the night
Guard me, good angels."

(Footnote in 2nd Edition.)﻿THE MONK

From guilt and guilty thoughts secure,
To duty and devotion true,

With bosom light and conscience pure,
Repose, thy gentle aid I woo.

Good angels ! take my thanks, that still
The snares of vice I view with scorn;
Thanks, that to-night as free from ill
I sleep, as when I woke at morn.

Yet may not my unconscious breast
Harbour some guilt to me unknown ?
Some wish impure, which unreprest
You blush to see, and I to own ?

If such there be, in gentle dream
Instruct my feet to shun the snare;
Bid truth upon my errors beam,
And deign to make me still your care.

Chase from my peaceful bed away,
The witching spell, a foe to rest,
The nightly goblin, wanton fay,
The ghost in pain, and fiend unblest.

Let not the tempter in mine ear
Pour lessons of unhallowed joy;

Let not the night-mare wandering near
My couch, the calm of sleep destroy.

Let not some horrid dream affright
With strange fantastic forms mine eyes;
But rather bid some vision bright
Display the bliss of yonder skies.

Show me the crystal domes of heaven,
The worlds of light where angels lie;
Show me the lot to mortals given,
Who guiltless live, who guiltless die.﻿158

THE MONK

Then show~ me how a seat to gain
Amidst those blissful realms of air;

Teach me to shun each guilty stain,

And guide me to the good and fair.

So every morn and night my voice
To heaven the grateful strain shall raise,

If you as guardian powers rejoice,

Good angels ! and exalt your praise.

So will I strive, with zealous fire,

Each vice to shun, each fault correct:

Will love the lessons you inspire,

And prize the virtues you protect.

Then when at length, by high command,
My body seeks the grave's repose,

When death draws nigh with friendly hand,
My failing pilgrim eyes to close :

Pleased that my soul escapes the wreck,
Sightless will I my life resign,

And yield to God my spirit back,

As pure as when it first was mine.

Having finished her usual devotions, Antonia
retired to bed. Sleep soon stole over her senses;
and for several hours she enjoyed that calm
repose which innocence alone can know, and for
which many a monarch with pleasure would
exchange his crown.﻿CHAPTER, VII

--Ah ! how dark

These long-extended realms and rueful wastes :

Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark night,
Bark as was chaos ere the infant sun
Was rolled together, or had tried its beams
Athwart the gloom profound ! The sickly taper,
By glimmering through thy low-browed misty vaults
Furred round with mouldy damps and ropy slime,

Lets fall a supernumerary horror,

And only serves to make thy night more irksome !

Blair.

Retubned undiscovered to the abbey, Ambrosio's
mind was filled with the most pleasing images.
He was wilfully blind to the danger of exposing
himself to Antonia's charms : he only remembered
the pleasure which her society had afforded him,
and rejoiced in the prospect of that pleasure
being repeated. He failed not to profit by
Elvira's indisposition to obtain a sight of her
daughter every day. At first he bounded his
wishes to inspire Antonia with friendship : but
no sooner was he convinced that she felt that
sentiment in its fullest extent, than his aim became
more decided, and his attentions assumed a warmer
colour. The innocent familiarity with which

159﻿160

THE MONK

she treated him, encouraged his desires. Grown
used to her modesty, it no longer commanded
the same respect and awe : he still admired it,
but it only made him more anxious to deprive
her of that quality which formed her principal
charm. Warmth of passion, and natural pene-
tration, of which latter, unfortunately both for
himself and Antonia, he possessed an ample share,
supplied a knowledge of the arts of seduction.
He easily distinguished the emotions which were
favourable to his designs, and seized every means
with avidity of infusing corruption into Antonia's
bosom. This he found no easy matter. Extreme
simplicity prevented her from perceiving the aim
to which the monk's insinuations tended; but
the excellent morals which she owed to Elvira's
care, the solidity and correctness of her under-
standing, and a strong sense of what was right,
implanted in her heart by nature, made her feel
that his precepts must be faulty. By a few
simple words she frequently overthrew the whole
bulk of his sophistical arguments, and made
him conscious how weak they were when opposed
to virtue and truth. On such occasions he took
refuge in his eloquence; he overpowered her
with a torrent of philosophical paradoxes, to
which, not understanding them, it was impossible
for her to reply; and thus, though he did not
convince her that his reasoning was just, he at
least prevented her from discovering it to be false.
He perceived that her respect for his judgment
augmented daily, and doubted not with time to
bring her to the point desired.﻿THE MONK

161

He was not unconscious that his attempts were
highly criminal. He saw clearly the baseness of
seducing the innocent girl; but his passion was
too violent to permit his abandoning his design.
He resolved to pursue it, let the consequences be
what they might. He depended upon finding
Antonia in some unguarded moment; and seeing
no other man admitted into her society, nor hearing
any mentioned either by her or by Elvira, he
imagined that her young heart was still unoccupied.
While he waited for the opportunity of satisfying
his unwarrantable lust, every day increased his
coldness for Matilda. Not a little was this occa-
sioned by the consciousness of his faults to her.
To hide them from her, he was not sufficiently
master of himself: yet he dreaded lest, in a
transport of jealous rage, she should betray the
secret on which his character and even his life
depended. Matilda could not but remark his
indifference : he was conscious that she remarked
it, and, fearing her reproaches, shunned her
studiously. Yet, when he could not avoid her,
her mildness might have convinced him that he
had nothing to dread from her resentment. She
had resumed the character of the gentle inter-
esting Eosario : she taxed him not with ingrati-
tude ; but her eyes filled with involuntary tears,
and the soft melancholy of her countenance and
voice uttered complaints far more touching than
words could have conveyed. Ambrosio was not
unmoved by her sorrow; but unable to remove
its cause, he forbore to show that it affected him.
As her conduct convinced him that he needed not
ii.—II﻿162

THE MONK

fear her vengeance, lie continued to neglect her,
and avoided her company with care. Matilda
saw that she in vain attempted to regain his
affections ; yet she stifled the impulse of resent-
ment, and continued to treat her inconstant lover
with her former fondness and affection.

By degrees Elvira's constitution recovered
itself. She was no longer troubled with convul-
sions, and Antonia ceased to tremble for her
mother. Ambrosio beheld this re-establishment
with displeasure. He saw that Elvira's know-
ledge of the world would not be the dupe of his
sanctified demeanour, and that she would easily
perceive his views upon her daughter. He re-
solved, therefore, before she quitted her chamber
to try the extent of his influence over the innocent
Antonia.

One evening, when he had found Elvira almost
perfectly restored to health, he quitted her earlier
than was his usual custom. Not finding Antonia
in the anti-chamber, he ventured to follow her
to her own. It was only separated from her
mother's by a closet, in which Flora, the waiting-
woman, generally slept. Antonia sat upon a sofa
with her back towards the door, and read atten-
tively. She heard not his approach, till he had
seated himself by her. She started, and welcomed
him with a look of pleasure : then rising, she would
have conducted him to the sitting-room; but
Ambrosio, taking her hand, obliged her by gentle
violence to resume her place. She complied
without difficulty: she knew not that there was
more impropriety in conversing with him in one﻿THE MONK

163

room than another. She thought herself equally
secure of his principles and her own; and having
replaced herself upon the sofa, she began to prattle
to him with her usual ease and vivacity.

He examined the book which she had been
Ireading, and had now placed upon the table.
It was the Bible.

44 How ! " said the friar to himself, " Antonia
reads the Bible, and is still so ignorant ? "

But, upon further inspection, he found that
Elvira had made exactly the same remark. That
prudent mother, while she admired the beauties
of the sacred writings, was convinced that, un-
restricted, no reading more improper could be
permitted to a young woman. Many of the
narratives can only tend to excite ideas the worst
calculated for a female breast; everything is called
plainly and roundly by its name ; and the annals
of a brothel would scarcely furnish a greater choice
of indecent expressions. Yet this is the book
which young women are recommended to study,
which is put into the hands of children, able to
comprehend little more than those passages of
which they had better remain ignorant, and which
but too frequently inculcates the first rudiments
of vice, and gives the first alarm to the still sleep-
ing passions. Of this was Elvira so fully con-
vinced, that she would have preferred putting
into her daughter's hands Amadis de Gaul, or
The Valiant Champion, Tirante the White ; and
would sooner have authorised her studying the
lewd exploits of Don Galaor, or the lascivious
jokes of Damsel Plazer di mi vida. She had in﻿164

THE MONK

consequence made two resolutions respecting the
Bible. The first was, that Antonia should not
read it till she was of an age to feel its beauties,
and profit by its morality. The second that it
should be copied out with her own hand, and all
improper passages either altered or omitted. She
had adhered to this determination, and such was
the Bible which Antonia was reading ; it had been
lately delivered to her, and she perused it with
avidity, with a delight that was inexpressible.
Ambrosio perceived his mistake, and replaced the
book upon the table.

Antonia spoke of her mother's health with all
the enthusiastic joy of a youthful heart.

" I admire your filial affection," said the abbot;
44 it proves the excellence and sensibility of your
character; it promises a treasure to him whom
heaven has destined to possess your affections.
The breast so capable of fondness for a parent,
what will it feel for a lover ? Nay, perhaps, what
feels it for one even now ? Tell me, my lovely
daughter, have you known what it is to love ?
Answer me with sincerity : forget my habit, and
consider me only as a friend."

" What it is to love ? " said she, repeating his
question. " Oh ! yes, undoubtedly; I have loved
many, many people."

" That is not what I mean. The love of which I
speak can be felt only for one. Have you never seen
the man whom you wished to be your husband ? "

" Oh ! no, indeed ! "

This was an untruth, but she was unconscious
of its falsehood : she knew not the nature of her﻿THE MONK

165

sentiments for Lorenzo; and never having seen
him since his first visit to Elvira, with every day
his image grew less forcibly impressed upon her
bosom : besides she thought of an husband with
all a virgin's terror, and negatived the friar's
demand without a moment's hesitation.

" And do you not long to see that man, An-
tonia ? Do you feel no void in your heart, which
you fain would have filled up ? Do you heave
no sighs for the absence of some one dear to you,
but who that some one is you know not ? Per-
ceive you not that what formerly could please,
has charms for you no longer ? that a thousand
new wishes, new ideas, new sensations, have
sprung in your bosom, only to be felt, never to
be described ? Or, while you fill every other
heart with passion; is it possible that your own
remains insensible and cold ? It cannot be!
That melting eye, that blushing cheek, that en-
chanting voluptuous melancholy which at times
overspreads your features—all these marks belie
your words : you love, Antonia, and in vain would
hide it from me."

" Father, you amaze me ! What is this love of
which you speak ? I neither know its nature, nor,
if I felt it, why I should conceal the sentiment."

" Have you seen no man, Antonia, whom,
though never seen before, you seemed long to have
sought ? whose form, though a stranger's, was
familiar to your eyes ? the sound of whose voice
soothed you, pleased you, penetrated to your
very soul ? in whose presence you rejoiced, for
whose absence you lamented ? with whom your﻿166

THE MONK

heart seemed to expand, and in whose bosom,
with confidence unbounded, you reposed the
cares of your own ? Have you not felt this,
Antonia ? "

" Certainly I have: the first time that I saw
you, I felt it."

Ambrosio started. Scarcely dared he credit
his hearing.

" Me, Antonia ? " he cried, his eyes sparkling
with delight and impatience, while he seized her
hand, and pressed it rapturously to his lips. " Me,
Antonia ? You felt these sentiments for me ? "

" Even with more strength than you have
described. The very moment that I beheld you,
I felt so pleased, so interested! I waited so
eagerly to catch the sound of your voice ; and,
when I heard it, it seemed so sweet! it spoke to
me a language till then so unknown ! Methought
it told me a thousand things which I wished to
hear ! It seemed as if I had long known you;
as if I had a right to your friendship, your advice,
and your protection. I wept when you departed,
and longed for the time which should restore you
to my sight."

" Antonia ! my charming Antonia ! " exclaimed
the monk, and caught her to his bosom : " Can I
believe my senses ? Repeat it to me, my sweet
girl! Tell me again that you love me, that you
love me truly and tenderly ! "

" Indeed, I do : let my mother be excepted,
and the world holds no one more dear to me."

At this frank avowal Ambrosio no longer pos-
sessed himself : wild with desire, he clasped the﻿﻿R-'Cc#'.

﻿THE MONK

367

blushing trembler in his arms. He fastened his
lips greedily upon hers, sucked in her pure de-
licious breath, violated with his bold hand th6
treasures of her bosom, and wound around him
her soft and yielding limbs. Startled, alarmed, and
confused at his action, surprise at first deprived
her of the power of resistance. At length recover-
ing herself, she strove to escape from his embrace.

" Father !—Ambrosio ! " she cried, " release
me, for God's sake ! "

But the licentious monk heeded not her prayers :
he persisted in his design, and proceeded to take
still greater liberties. Antonia prayed, wept,
and struggled : terrified to the extreme, though
at what she knew not. she exerted all her strength
to repulse the friar, and was on the point of
shrieking for assistance when the chamber door
was suddenly thrown open. Ambrosio had just
sufficient presence of mind to be sensible of his
danger. Reluctantly he quitted his prey, and
started hastily from the couch. Antonia uttered
an exclamation of joy, flew towards the door, and
found herself clasped in the arms of her mother.

Alarmed at some of the abbot's speeches, which
Antonia had innocently repeated, Elvira resolved
to ascertain the truth of her suspicions. She had
known enough of mankind not to be imposed
upon by the monk's reputed virtue. She reflected
on several circumstances, which, though trifling,
on being put together seemed to authorise her
fears. His frequent visits, which, as far as she
could see, were confined to her family ; his evident
emotion, whenever she spoke of Antonia; his﻿168

THE MONK

being in the full prime and heat of manhood ; and
above all, his pernicious philosophy communicated
to her by Antonia, and which accorded but ill
with his conversation in her presence ; all these
circumstances inspired her with doubts respecting
the purity of Ambrosio's friendship. In conse-
quence she resolved, when he should next be
alone with Antonia, to endeavour at surprising
him. Her plan had succeeded. 'Tis true, that
when she entered the room, he had already aban-
doned his prey ; but the disorder of her daughter's
dress, and the shame and confusion stamped
upon the friar's countenance, sufficed to prove
that her suspicions were but too well founded.
However, she was too prudent to make those
suspicions known. She judged that to unmask
the impostor would be no easy matter, the public
being so much prejudiced in his favour : and having
but few friends, she thought it dangerous to make
herself so powerful an enemy. She affected
therefore not to remark his agitation, seated
herself tranquilly upon the sofa, assigned some
trifling reason for having quitted her room un-
expectedly, and conversed on various subjects
with seeming confidence and ease.

Reassured by her behaviour, the monk began
to recover himself. He strove to answer Elvira
without appearing embarrassed : but he was still
too great a novice in dissimulation, and he felt
that he must look confused and awkward. He
soon broke off the conversation, and rose to
depart. What was his vexation when, on taking
leave, Elvira told him, in polite terms, that being﻿THE MONK

169

now perfectly re-established, she thought it an
injustice to deprive others of his company who
might be more in need of it! She assured him of
her eternal gratitude for the benefit which during
her illness she had derived from his society and
exhortations : and she lamented that her domestic
affairs, as well as the multitude of business which
his situation must of necessity impose upon him,
would in future deprive her of the pleasure of his
visits. Though delivered in the mildest language,
this hint was too plain to be mistaken. Still he
was preparing to put in a remonstrance, when an
expressive look from Elvira stopped him short.
He dared not press her to receive him, for her
manner convinced him that he was discovered :
he submitted without reply, took an hasty leave,
and retired to the abbey, his heart filled with rage
and shame, with bitterness and disappointment.

Antonia's mind felt relieved by his departure ;
yet she could not help lamenting that she was
never to see him more. Elvira also felt a secret
sorrow : she had received too much pleasure from
thinking him her friend, not to regret the necessity
of changing her opinion; but her mind was too
much accustomed to the fallacy of worldly friend-
ships to permit her present disappointment to
weigh upon it long. She now endeavoured to
make her daughter aware of the risk which she
had run : but she was obliged to treat the subject
with caution, lest, in removing the bandage of
ignorance, the veil of innocence should be rent
away. She therefore contented herself with
warning Antonia to be on her guard, and ordering﻿170

THE MONK

her, should the abbot persist in his visits, never
to receive them but in company. With these
injunctions Antonia promised to comply.

Ambrosio hastened to his cell. He closed the
door after him, and threw himself upon the bed
in despair. The impulse of desire, the stings of
disappointment, the shame of detection, and the
fear of being publicly unmasked, rendered his
bosom the scene of the most horrible confusion.
He knew not what course to pursue. Debarred
the presence of Antonia, he had no hopes of
satisfying that passion which was now become
a part of his existence. He recollected that his
secret was in a woman's power : he trembled with
apprehension when he beheld the precipice before
him, and with rage when he thought that, had it
not been for Elvira, he should now have possessed
the object of his desires. With the direst im-
precations he vowed vengeance against her : he
swore that, cost what it would, he still would
possess Antonia. Starting from the bed, he paced
the chamber with disordered steps, howled with
impotent fury, dashed himself violently against
the walls, and indulged all the transports of rage
and madness.

He was still under the influence of this storm
of passions, when he heard a gentle knock at the
door of his cell. Conscious that his voice must
have been heard, he dared not refuse admittance
to the importuner. He strove to compose him-
self, and hide his agitation. Having in some
degree succeeded, he drew back the bolt: the
door opened, and Matilda appeared.﻿THE MONK

171

At this precise moment there was no one with
whose presence he could better have dispensed.
He had not sufficient command over himself to
conceal his vexation. He started back and
frowned.

" I am busy," said he in a stern and hasty tone ;
" leave me."

Matilda heeded him not: she again fastened
the door, and then advanced towards him with
an air gentle and supplicating.

" Forgive me, Ambrosio," said she ; " for your
own sake I must not obey you. Fear np com-
plaints from me; I come not to reproach you
with ingratitude. I pardon you from my heart;
and since your love can no longer be mine, I
request the next best gift, your confidence and
friendship. We cannot force our inclinations :
the little beauty you once saw in me has perished
with its novelty; and if it can no longer excite
desire, mine is the fault, not yours. But why
persist in shunning me ? why such anxiety to
fly my presence ? You have sorrows, but will
not permit me to share them; you have wishes,
but forbid my aiding your pursuits. 'Tis of this
that I complain, not of your indifference to my
person. I have given up the claims of the mis-
tress, but nothing shall prevail on me to give
up those of the friend."

" Generous Matilda I " he replied, taking her
hand, " how far do you rise superior to the foibles
of your sex! Yes, I accept your offer. I have
need of an adviser, of a confidant, and in you I
find every needful quality united. But to aid﻿172

THE MONK

my pursuits--Ah! Matilda, it lies not in

your power! "

" It lies in no one's power but mine. Am-
brosio, your secret is none to me : your every
step, your every action has been observed by my
attentive eye. You love."

" Matilda ! "

" Why conceal it from me ? Fear not the little
jealousy which taints the generality of women :
my soul disdains so despicable a passion. You
love, Ambrosio; Antonia Dalsa is the object of
your flame. I know every circumstance respect-
ing your passion. Every conversation has been
repeated to me. I have been informed of your
attempt to enjoy Antonia's person, your dis-
appointment, and dismission from Elvira's house.
You now despair of possessing your mistress;
but I come to revive your hopes, and point out
the road to success."

44 To success ? Oh ! impossible."

" To those who dare, nothing is impossible.
Rely upon me, and you may yet be happy. The
time is come, Ambrosio, when regard for your
comfort and tranquillity compels me to reveal a
part of my history with which you are still
unacquainted. Listen, and do not interrupt me.
Should my confession disgust you, remember
that in making it my sole aim is to satisfy your
wishes, and restore that peace to your heart which
at present has abandoned it. I formerly men-
tioned, that my guardian was a man of uncommon
knowledge. He took pains to instil that know-
ledge into my infant mind. Among the various﻿THE MONK

173

sciences which curiosity had induced him to
explore, he neglected not that which by most is
esteemed impious, and by many chimerical: I
speak of those arts which relate to the world of
spirits. His deep researches into causes and
effects, his unwearied application to the study
of natural philosophy, his profound and unlimited
knowledge of the properties and virtues of every
gem which enriches the deep, of every herb which
the earth produces, at length procured him the
distinction which he had sought so long, so
earnestly. His curiosity was fully slaked, his
ambition amply gratified. He gave laws to the
elements : he could reverse the order of nature :
his eye read the mandates of futurity, and the
infernal spirits were submissive to his commands.
Why shrink you from me ? I understand that
enquiring look. Your suspicions are right, though
your terrors are unfounded. My guardian con-
cealed not from me his most precious acquisition.
Yet, had I never seen you I should never have
exerted my power. Like you, I shuddered at the
thoughts of magic. Like you, I had formed a
terrible idea of the consequences of raising a
demon. To preserve that life which your love
had taught me to prize, I had recourse to means
which I trembled at employing. You remember
that night which I passed in St. Clare's sepulchre ?
Then was it that, surrounded by mouldering
bodies, I dared to perform those mystic rites,
which summoned to my aid a fallen angel. Judge
what must have been my joy at discovering that
my terrors were imaginary. I saw the demon﻿174

THE MONK

obedient to my orders : I saw him trembling at
my frown ; and found that, instead of selling my
soul to a master, my courage had purchased for
myself a slave."

" Rash Matilda ! What have you done ? You
have doomed yourself to endless perdition ; you
have bartered for momentary power eternal
happiness. If on witchcraft depends the
fruition of my desires, I renounce your aid
most absolutely. The consequences are too
horrible. I dote upon Antonia, but am not so
blinded by lust, as to sacrifice for her enjoy-
ment my existence both ii\ this world and in the
next."

" Ridiculous prejudices ! Oh! blush, Ambrosio,
blush at being subjected to their dominion.
Where is the risk of accepting my offers ? What
should induce my persuading you to this step,
except the wish of restoring you to happiness
and quiet ? If there is danger, it must fall upon
me. It is I who invoke the ministry of the spirits :
mine therefore will be the crime, and yours the
profit; but danger there is none. The enemy
of mankind is my slave, not my sovereign. Is
there no difference between giving and receiving
laws, between serving and commanding ? Awake
from your idle dreams, Ambrosio : throw from
you these terrors so ill suited to a soul like yours ;
leave them for common men, and dare to be
happy ! Accompany me this night to St. Clare's
sepulchre; there witness my incantations, and
Antonia is your own."

" To obtain her by such means, I neither can﻿THE MONK

175

nor will. Cease then to persuade me, for I dare
not employ hell's agency."

"You dare not ? How have you deceived me!
That mind which I esteemed so great and valiant,
proves to be feeble, puerile, and grovelling, a slave
to vulgar errors, and weaker than a woman's."

" What! Though conscious of the danger,
wilfully shall I expose myself to the seducer's
arts ? Shall I renounce for ever my title to
salvation? Shall my eyes seek a sight which I
know will blast them ? No, no, Matilda, I will
not ally myself with God's enemy."

" Are you then God's friend at present ? Have
you not broken your engagements with Him,
renounced His services, and abandoned yourself
to the impulse of your passions % Are you not
planning the destruction of innocence, the ruin
of a creature whom He formed in the mould of
angels ? If not of demons, whose aid would you
invoke to forward this laudable design ? Will the
seraphim protect it, conduct Antonia to your
arms, and sanction with their ministry your illicit
pleasures ? Absurd! But I am not deceived,
Ambrosio ! It is not virtue which makes you
reject my offer ; you would accept it, but you dare
not. 'Tis not the crime which holds your hand,
but the punishment; 'tis not respect for God
which restrains you, but the terror of His venge-
ance ! Fain would you offend Him in secret, but
you tremble to profess yourself His foe. Now
shame on the coward soul, which wants the courage
either to be a firm friend, or an open enemy ! "

46 To look upon guilt with horror, Matilda, is in﻿176

THE MONK

itself a merit: in this respect I glory to confess
myself a coward. Though my passions have
made me deviate from her laws, I still feel in my
heart an innate love of virtue. But it ill becomes
you to tax me with perjury ; you who first seduced
me to violate my vows ; you who first roused my
sleeping vices, made me feel the weight of religion's
chains, and bade me be convinced that guilt had
pleasures. Yet though my principles have yielded
to the force of temperament, I still have sufficient
grace to shudder at sorcery, and avoid a crime
so monstrous, so unpardonable ! "

" Unpardonable, say you ? Where then is your
constant boast of the Almighty's infinite mercy ?
Has He of late set bounds to it ? Receives He no
longer a sinner with joy 1 You injure Him,
Ambrosio ; you will always have time to repent,
and He have goodness to forgive. Afford Him
a glorious opportunity to exert that goodness :
the greater your crime, the greater His merit in
pardoning. Away then with these childish scruples ;
be persuaded to your good, and follow me to the
sepulchre."

" Oh ! cease, Matilda ! That scoffing tone, that
bold and impious language is horrible in every
mouth, but most so in a woman's. Let us drop
a conversation which excites no other sentiments
than horror and disgust. I will not follow you
to the sepulchre, or accept the services of your
infernal agents. Antonia shall be mine, but by
human means."

" Then yours she will never be ! You are
banished her presence ; her mother has opened﻿THE MONK

177

her eyes to your designs, and she is now upon
her guard against them. Nay, more, she loves
another ; a youth of distinguished merit possesses
her heart; and unless you interfere, a few days
will make her his bride. This intelligence was
brought me by my invisible servants, to whom
I had recourse on first perceiving your indifference.
They watched your every action, related to me
all that passed at Elvira's, and inspired me with
the idea of favouring your designs. Their reports
have been my only comfort. Though you have
shunned my presence, all your proceedings were
known to me; nay, I was constantly with you
in some degree, thanks to this most precious gift! "
With these words she drew from beneath her
habit a mirror of polished steel, the borders of
which were marked with various strange and
unknown characters.

" Amidst all my sorrows, amidst all my regrets
for your coldness, I was sustained from despair
by the virtues of this talisman. On pronouncing
certain words, the person appears in it on whom
the observer's thoughts are bent: thus, though
I was exiled from your sight, you, Ambrosio, were
ever present to mine."

The friar's curiosity was strongly excited.
" What you relate is incredible ! Matilda, are
you not amusing yourself with my credulity ? "
44 Be your own eyes the judge."

She put the mirror into his hand. Curiosity
induced him to take it, and love, to wish that
Antonia might appear. Matilda pronounced the
magic words. Immediately a thick smoke rose

II.—12﻿178

THE MONK

from the characters traced upon the borders, and
spread itself over the surface. It dispersed again
gradually; a confused mixture of colours and
images presented themselves to the friar's eyes,
which at length arranging themselves in their
proper places, he beheld in miniature Antonia's
lovely form.

The scene was a small closet belonging to her
apartment. She was undressing to bathe herself.
The long tresses of her hair were already bound up.
The amorous monk had full opportunity to
observe the voluptuous contours and admirable
symmetry of her person. She threw off her last
garment, and, advancing to the bath prepared
for her, put her foot into the water. It struck
cold, and she drew it back again. Though uncon-
scious of being observed, an in-bred sense of
modesty induced her to veil her charms ; and
she stood hesitating upon the brink, in the attitude
of the Venus de Medicis. At this moment a tame
linnet flew towards her, nestled its head between
her breasts, and nibbled them in wanton play.
The smiling Antonia strove in vain to shake off
the bird, and at length raised her hands to drive
it from its delightful harbour. Ambrosio could
bear no more. His desires were worked up to
frenzy.

" I yield !" he cried, dashing the mirror upon
the ground : " Matilda, I follow you ! Do with
me what you will! "

She waited not to hear his consent repeated.
It was already midnight. She flew to her cell,
and soon returned with her little basket and the﻿THE MONK

179

key of the cemetery, winch had remained in her
possession since her first visit to the vaults. She
gave the monk no time for reflection.

"Come ! " she said, and took his hand; "follow
me, and witness the effects of your resolve."

This said, she drew him hastily along. They
passed into the burying-ground unobserved,
opened the door of the sepulchre, and found
themselves at the head of the subterraneous
staircase. As yet the beams of the full moon
had guided their steps, but that resource now
failed them. Matilda had neglected to provide
herself with a lamp. Still holding Ambrosio's
hand she descended the marble steps; but the
profound obscurity with which they were over-
spread, obliged them to walk slow and cautiously.

"You tremble ! " said Matilda to her com-
panion ; 44 fear not, the destined spot is near."

They reached the foot of the staircase, and con-
tinued to proceed, feeling their way along the
walls. On turning a corner, suddenly they
descried faint gleams of light, which seemed
burning at a distance. Thither they bent their
steps. The rays proceeded from a small sepul-
chral lamp which flamed unceasingly before the
statue of St. Clare. It tinged with dim and
cheerless beams the massy columns which sup-
ported the roof, but was too feeble to dissipate
the thick gloom in which the vaults above were
buried.

Matilda took the lamp.

" Wait for me ! " said she to the friar; " in a
few moments I am here again."﻿180

THE MONK

With these words she hastened into one of the
passages which branched in various directions
from this spot, and formed a sort of labyrinth.
Ambrosio was now left alone. Darkness the
most profound surrounded him, and encouraged
the doubts which began to revive in his bosom.
He had been hurried away by the delirium of the
moment. The shame of betraying his terrors,
while in Matilda's presence, had induced him to
repress them; but, now that he was abandoned
to himself, they resumed their former ascendency.
He trembled at the scene which he was soon to
witness. He knew not how far the delusions of
magic might operate upon his mind: they possibly
might force him to some deed whose commission
would make the breach between himself and
heaven irreparable. In this fearful dilemma,
he would have implored God's assistance, but
was conscious that he had forfeited all claim to
such protection. Gladly would he have returned
to the abbey; but as he had passed through
innumerable caverns and winding passages, the
attempt of regaining the stairs was hopeless. His
fate was determined; no possibility of escape
presented itself. He therefore combated his
apprehensions, and called every argument to
his succour, which might enable him to support
the trying scene with fortitude. He reflected,
that Antonia would be the reward of his daring.
He inflamed his imagination by enumerating
her charms. He persuaded himself, that (as
Matilda had observed) he always should have
time sufficient for repentance ; and that, as he﻿THE MONK

181

employed her assistance, not that of demons,
the crime of sorcery could not be laid to his charge.
He had read much respecting witchcraft; he under-
stood that, unless a formal act was signed renounc-
ing his claim to salvation, Satan would have no
power over him. He was fully determined not
to execute any such act, whatever threats might
be used or advantages held out to him.

Such were his meditations while waiting for
Matilda. They were interrupted by a low
murmur, which seemed at no great distance
from him. He was startled—he listened. Some
minutes passed in silence, after which the murmur
was repeated. It appeared to be the groaning
of one in pain. In any other situation, this cir-
cumstance would only have excited his attention
and curiosity. In the present, his predominant
sensation was that of terror. His imagination
totally engrossed by the ideas of sorcery and
spirits, he fancied that some unquiet ghost was
wandering near him; or else that Matilda had
fallen a victim to her presumption, and was
perishing under the cruel fangs of the demons.
The noise seemed not to approach, but continued
to be heard at intervals. Sometimes it became
more audible—doubtless, as the sufferings of the
person who uttered the groans became more acute
and insupportable. Ambrosio now and then
thought that he could distinguish accents, and
once in particular he was almost convinced that
he heard a faint voice exclaim,

" God! Oh! God! No hope ! No succour! "
Yet deeper groans followed these words : they﻿182

THE MONK

died away gradually, and universal silence again
prevailed.

" What can this mean ? " thought the bewil-
dered monk.

At that moment an idea which flashed into his
mind, almost petrified him with horror. He
started, and shuddered at himself.

" Should it be possible ! " he groaned involun-
tarily ; " should it be possible ! Oh! what a
monster am I! "

He wished to resolve his doubts, and to repair
his fault, if it were not too late already. But
these generous and compassionate sentiments
were soon put to flight by the return of Matilda.
He forgot the groaning sufferer, and remembered
nothing but the danger and embarrassment of his
own situation. The light of the returning lamp
gilded the walls, and in a few moments after
Matilda stood beside him. She had quitted her
religious habit: she was now clothed in a long
sable robe, on which was traced in gold embroidery
a variety of unknown characters : it was fastened
by a girdle of precious stones, in which was fixed
a poniard. Her neck and arms were uncovered ;
in her hand she bore a golden wand ; her hair was
loose, and flowed wildly upon her shoulders ; her
eyes sparkled with terrific expression; and her
whole demeanour was calculated to inspire the
beholder with awe and admiration.

" Follow me! " she said to the monk in a low
and solemn voice ; "all is ready ! "

His limbs trembled while he obeyed her. She
led him through various narrow passages; and﻿THE MONK

183

on every side as they passed along, the beams of
the lamp displayed none but the most revolting
objects; skulls, bones, graves, and images whose
eyes seemed to glare on them with horror and
surprise. At length they reached a spacious
cavern, whose lofty roof the eye sought in vain
to discover. A profound obscurity hovered
through the void ; damp vapours struck cold to
the friar's heart, and he listened sadly to the blast
while it howled along the lonely vaults. Here
Matilda stopped. She turned to Ambrosio. His
cheeks and lips were pale with apprehension.
By a glance of mingled scorn and anger she re-
proved his pusillanimity, but she spoke not. She
placed the lamp upon the ground near the basket.
She motioned that Ambrosio should be silent,
and began the mysterious rites. She drew a
circle round him, another round herself; and
then, taking a small phial from her basket, poured
a few drops upon the ground before her. She
bent over the place, muttered some indistinct
sentences, and immediately a pale sulphurous
flame arose from the ground. It increased by
degrees, and at length spread its waves over the
whole surface, the circles alone excepted in which
stood Matilda and the monk. It then ascended
the huge columns of unhewn stone, glided along
the roof, and formed the cavern into an immense
chamber totally .covered with blue trembling fire.
It emitted no heat: on the contrary, the extreme
chillness of the place seemed to augment with
every moment. Matilda continued her incanta-
tions ; at intervals she took various articles from﻿184

THE MONK

the basket, the nature and name of most of which
were unknown to the friar : but among the few
which he distinguished, he particularly observed
three human fingers, and an agnus dei which she
broke in pieces. She threw them all into the
flames which burned before her, and they were
instantly consumed.

The monk beheld her with anxious curiosity.
Suddenly she uttered a loud and piercing shriek.
She appeared to be seized with an access of
delirium ; she tore her hair, beat her bosom, used
the most frantic gestures, and, drawing the poniard
from her girdle, plunged it into her left arm. The
blood gushed out plentifully; and, as she stood
on the brink of the circle, she took care that it
should fall on the outside. The flames retired
from the spot on which the blood was pouring.
A volume of dark clouds rose slowly from the
ensanguined earth, and ascended gradually till
it reached the vault of the cavern. At the same
time a clap of thunder was heard, the echo
pealed fearfully along the subterraneous passages,
and the ground shook beneath the feet of the
enchantress.

It was now that Ambrosio repented of his
rashness. The solemn singularity of the charm
had prepared him for something strange and
horrible. He waited with fear for the spirit's
appearance, whose coming was announced by
thunder and earthquakes. He looked wildly
around him, expecting that some dreadful appari-
tion would meet his eyes, the sight of which would
drive him mad. A cold shivering seized his body,﻿THE MONK

185

and lie sank upon one knee, unable to support
himself.

" He comes ! " exclaimed Matilda in a joyful
accent.

Ambrosio started, and expected the demon with
terror. What was his surprise when, the thunder
ceasing to roll, a full strain of melodious music
sounded in the air ! At the same time the cloud
disappeared, and he beheld a figure more beautiful
than fancy's pencil ever drew. It was a youth
seemingly scarce eighteen, the perfection of whose
form and face was unrivalled. He was perfectly
naked : a bright star sparkled upon his forehead,
two crimson wings extended themselves from his
shoulders, and his silken locks were confined by
a band of many-coloured fires, which played
round his head, formed themselves into a variety
of figures, and shone with a brilliancy far sur-
passing that of precious stones. Circlets of
diamonds were fastened round his arms and ankles,
and in his right hand he bore a silver branch
imitating myrtle. His form shone with dazzling
glory: he was surrounded by clouds of rose-
coloured light, and at the moment that he appeared,
a refreshing air breathed perfumes through the
cavern. Enchanted at a vision so contrary to
his expectations, Ambrosio gazed upon the spirit
with delight and wonder : yet, however beautiful
the figure, he could not but remark a wildness in
the demon's eyes, and a mysterious melancholy
impressed upon his features, betraying the fallen
angel, and inspiring the spectators with secret
awe.﻿186

THE MONK

The music ceased. Matilda addressed herself
to the spirit: she spoke in a language unintelligible
to the monk, and was answered in the same. She
seemed to insist upon something which the demon
was unwilling to grant. He frequently darted
upon Ambrosio angry glances, and at such times
the friar's heart sank within him. Matilda
appeared to grow incensed; she spoke in a loud
and commanding tone, and her gesture declared
that she was threatening him with her vengeance.
Her menaces had the desired effect. The spirit
sank upon his knee, and with a submissive air
presented to her the branch of myrtle. No sooner
had she received it, than the music was again
heard ; a thick cloud spread itself over the appari-
tion ; the blue flames disappeared, and total
obscurity reigned through the cave. The abbot
moved not from his place : his faculties were all
bound up in pleasure, anxiety, and surprise. At
length the darkness dispersing, he perceived
Matilda standing near him in her religious habit,
with the myrtle in her hand. No traces remained
of the incantation, and the vaults were only
illuminated by the faint rays of the sepulchral
lamp.

"I have succeeded," said Matilda, "though
with more difficulty than I expected. Lucifer,
whom I summoned to my assistance, was at first
unwilling to obey my commands; to enforce his
compliance, I was constrained to have recourse
to my strongest charms. They have produced
the desired effect, but I have engaged never more
to invoke his agency in your favour. Beware﻿THE MONK

187

then how you employ an opportunity which never
will return. My magic arts will now be of no use
to you : in future you can only hope for super-
natural aid, by invoking the demons yourself,
and accepting the conditions of their service.
This you will never do. You want strength of
mind to force them to obedience ; and unless you
pay their established price, they will not be your
voluntary servants. In this one instance they
consent to obey you; I offer you the means of
enjoying your mistress, and be careful not to
lose the opportunity. Receive this constellated
myrtle : while you bear this in your hand, every
door will fly open to you. It will procure you
access to-morrow night to Antonia's chamber :
then breathe upon it thrice, pronounce her name,
and place it upon her pillow. A death-like slumber
will immediately seize upon her, and deprive her
of the power of resisting your attempts. Sleep
will hold her till break of morning. In this state
you may satisfy your desires without danger of
being discovered; since, when daylight shall
dispel the effects of the enchantment, Antonia
will perceive her dishonour, but be ignorant of
the ravisher. Be happy then, my Ambrosio, and
let this service convince you that my friendship
is disinterested and pure. The night must be
near expiring: let us return to the abbey, lest
our absence should create surprise."

The abbot received the talisman with silent
gratitude. His ideas were too much bewildered
by the adventures of the night, to permit his
expressing his thanks audibly, or indeed as yet﻿188

THE MONK

to feel the whole value of her present. Matilda
took up her lamp and basket, and guided her
companion from the mysterious cavern. She
restored the lamp to its former place, and con-
tinued her route in darkness till she reached the
foot of the staircase. The first beams of the
rising sun darting down it facilitated the ascent.
Matilda and the abbot hastened out of the
sepulchre, closed the door after them, and soon
regained the abbey's western cloister. No one
met them, and they retired unobserved to their
respective cells.

The confusion of Ambrosio's mind now began
to appease. He rejoiced in the fortunate issue
of his adventure, and, reflecting upon the virtues
of the myrtle, looked upon Antonia as already
in his power. Imagination retraced to him those
secret charms betrayed to him by the enchanted
mirror, and he waited with impatience for the
approach of midnight.

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.﻿NOTES TO VOL. II

COLLATION OF AUTHOR'S ALTERATIONS

P. 19 I. 10. For " talk nonsense " read " make love."

r P. 34 1. 5. For " clasped her in my arms," etc., read
" clasping her in my arms I exclaimed,

" Agnes ! Agnes ! thou art mine !

Agnes ! Agnes ! I am thine.

Fairest! dearest! thou art mine.

Leave thee will I never!

Thou art mine!	{

I am thine!

Body and soul for ever."

P. 39 1. 30. Delete " In my veins," etc., and read
" Leave thee will I never !

I am thine !

Thou art mine !

Body and soul for ever ! "

P. 56 1. 2. For " avowed concubine " read " acknow-
ledged mistress."

P. 68 1. 21. Delete " in spite of my disguise."
P. 119. Delete motto at beginning of chapter and the
first eight paragraphs, i.e. down to " declared to be in
her possession," and read

CHAPTER VI

" What is't ye do ?

. . . A deed without a name."—Macbeth.
" We must now revisit the monastery of the Capuchins.
There we shall find bosoms agitated by very different
189﻿190

NOTES

emotions from those which were felt by the innocent
inhabitants of Elvira's dwelling.

" With every step that Ambrosio made in the path of
vice, he first looked with regret to the station which he
had quitted. But, alas ! with every step the regret
became weaker. Matilda's eloquence and beauty, the
power of habit, and the frailty of human nature, gradually
diminished the sensation, and at length it scarce could
be said to be felt by the monk's bosom at all. He no
longer reflected with shame upon his conduct, or dreaded
the vengeance of offended heaven. One fear alone
possessed him. He trembled to lose Matilda, who still
laboured under the influence of poison. He therefore
pressed her with earnestness to use the means of preserva-
tion which she had before declared to be in her possession."

P. 123 1. 21. For "incontinence" read " weakness."

P. 123 1. 28. Delete " The pleasures which he" to
" his mind."

P. 123 1. 31. Delete " voluptuousness."

P. 124 1. 1. Delete from " indulged in excesses " to
" recoiled at," and read " committed an error from which
but a few hours before he would have recoiled."

P. 124 1. 13. Delete from " beauty, and" to "be
forgotten," and read " charm and tenderness."

P. 1241. 17. For " the pleasures of the former night"
read " her possession."

P. 125 1. 1. For " incontinence " read " that which is."

P. 125 1. 5. Delete from " he threw himself" to " his
pleasures."

P. 133 1. 19. Delete from " The friar returned " to
" rang for matins."

P. 133 1. 23. For " The same pleasures were frequently
repeated " read " This the friar hesitated not to promise,
or Matilda to believe."

P. 134 1. 4. For " desires " read 44 emotions."﻿NOTES

191

P. 134 1. 8. Delete " The monk was glutted with the
fulness of pleasure."

P. 134 1. 10. For " paramour " read " conquest."

P. 134 1. 10. Delete from " his warm constitution"
to " with disgust."

P. 134 1. 19. For " he had obtained her favours " read
" she had become his."

P. 134 1. 20. Delete from "and she felt" to "been
sharers."

P. 134 1. 22. For " Unfortunately" read " but un-
fortunately."

P. 135 1. 7. Delete from " Still, however," to " passions
safely."

P. 138 1. 14. Delete from "he was ignorant " to " to
bestow."

P. 139 1. 18. For " The eyes of the luxurious friar,"
read " The friar's eyes."

P. 13 91. 21. Delete from "For his misfortune" to
" their imaginations."

P. 140 1. 19. For " himself to Matilda's person," read
" his address to Matilda."

P. 143 1. 6. Delete from " He felt not" to " from his
eyes," and read "No voluptuous desires rioted in his
bosom."

P. 1431. 29. For " lustful" read " glutting."

P. 143 1. 31. Delete " gluts me with enjoyment even
to loathing."

P. 143 1. 32. For " her prostitution. Disgusting ! "
read " what should be her shame."

P. 144 1. 6. For " refuse to " read " not."

P. 160 1. 1. For " encouraged his desires " read " gave
Jam encouragement."

P. 160 1. 5. Delete " quality."

P. 160 1. 6. For " Warmth of passion " read " His."﻿192

NOTES

P. 160 1. 7. Delete " latter."

P. 161 1. 11. Delete from " While he " to " lust," and
read " In the meanwhile."

P. 163 1. 2. Delete " of his principles and her own."

P. 163 1. 5. Delete the three paragraphs from "He
examined " to " upon the table."

{This is the passage to which, at the period of the first
publication, the gravest objection was taken.)

P. 1651. 17. For " passion " read " love."

P. 1661. 33. Delete " wild with desire."

P. 167 1. 3. Delete from " violated with " to " yielding
limbs."

P. 1671. 11. Delete "licentious."

P. 167 1. 12. Delete from " he persisted " to " greater
liberties."

P. 167 1. 10. For " Reluctantly he quitted his prey and
started hastily from the couch " read " he released."

P. 167 1. 33. For " his being in the," etc., read " his
youth."

P. 168 1. 11. Delete " the disorder of."

P. 168 1. 12. For " dress " read " alarm."

P. 1681. 14. Delete " but too."

P. 171 1. 25. Delete "not of your indifference to my
person," and read, " 'Tis.of this that I complain, for though
I have given up the claims of the mistress, nothing shall,"
etc.

P. 1721. 14. Delete "your attempt to enjoy Antonia's
person."

P. 174 1. 12. For " lust " read " desire."

P. 174 1. 12. For " enjoyment " read " possession."

P. 178 1. 8. Delete paragraph " The scene was," and
read " Ambrosio gazed upon it for a few minutes; those
few were sufficient to fix his irresolution."

P. 187 1. 11. For " enjoying" read " possessing."﻿﻿﻿NOTES

193

P. 187 1. 18. Delete " deprive her of the power of resist-
ing your attempts. Sleep will."

P. 1881. 15. Delete all after "adventure," and read as
follows: " Reflection upon the virtues of the myrtle, he
looked upon Antonia as already in his power, and waited
with impatience for the approach of midnight."

II.—13﻿Printed by
Morrison & Gibb Limited,
Edinburgh.﻿This book is a preservation facsimile produced for
the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign.
It is made in compliance with copyright law
and produced on acid-free archival

60# book weight paper
which meets the requirements of
ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (permanence of paper).

Preservation facsimile printing and binding
by

Northern Micrographics
Brookhaven Bindery
La Crosse, Wisconsin
2014﻿