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Earl Derr Biggers - "The Agony Column"

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The Monk

M >> Matthew Lewis >> The Monk




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 Antichamber, 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 Sopha with her back towards the door, and read
attentively. 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 one room than another. She thought herself equally secure
of his principles and her own, and having replaced herself upon
the Sopha, She began to prattle to him with her usual ease and
vivacity.

He examined the Book which She had been reading, and had now
placed upon the Table. It was the Bible.

'How!' said the Friar to himself; 'Antonia reads the Bible, and
is still so ignorant?'

But, upon a 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,
unrestricted, no reading more improper could be permitted a young
Woman. Many of the narratives can only tend to excite ideas the
worst calculated for a female breast: Every thing 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
sleeping passions. Of this was Elvira so fully convinced, 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 the
'Damsel Plazer di mi vida.' She had in 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 an 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; '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 her sentiments for Lorenzo; and never
having seen him since his first visit to Elvira, with every day
his Image grew less feebly 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, Antonia? 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? Perceive you not that what
formerly could please, has charms for you no longer? That a
thousand new wishes, new ideas, new sensations, have sprang 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 enchanting voluptuous melancholy which
at times overspreads your features, all these marks belye 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 your heart
seemed to expand, and in whose bosom with confidence unbounded
you reposed the cares of your own? Have you not felt all 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 possessed himself; Wild
with desire, He clasped the blushing Trembler in his arms. He
fastened his lips greedily upon hers, sucked in her pure
delicious breath, violated with his bold hand the treasures of
her bosom, and wound around him her soft and yielding limbs.
Startled, alarmed, and confused at his action, surprize at first
deprived her of the power of resistance. At length recovering
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 authorize 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; His 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 consequence, She resolved, when He
should next be alone with Antonia, to endeavour at surprizing
him. Her plan had succeeded. 'Tis true, that when She entered
the room, He had already abandoned 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 Imposter
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
Sopha, assigned some trifling reason for having quitted her room
unexpectedly, 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 being now
perfectly reestablished, 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 friendships to permit her present disappointment to
weigh upon it long. She now endeavoured to make her Daughter
aware of the risque which She had ran: 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 upon her
guard, and ordering her, should the Abbot persist in his visits,
never to receive them but in company. With this injunction
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 a 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
reflected 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
direct imprecations 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 himself, and to hide his
agitation. Having in some degree succeeded, He drew back the
bolt: The door opened, and Matilda appeared.

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 no complaints from me; I come not to reproach you
with your 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 which 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 disappointments, but will
not accept my comfort; You have wishes, but forbid my aiding your
pursuits. 'Tis of this which I complain, not of your
indifference to my person. I have given up the claims of the
Mistress, but nothing shall prevail on me to give up those of the
Friend.'

Her mildness had an instantaneous effect upon Ambrosio's
feelings.

'Generous Matilda!' 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, and a Confident: In you I
find every needful quality united. But to aid my pursuits . . .
. Ah! Matilda, it lies not in your power!'

'It lies in no one's power but mine. Ambrosio, 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 Dalfa is the object of your
flame. I know every circumstance respecting your passion: Every
conversation has been repeated to me. I have been informed of
your attempt to enjoy Antonia's person, your disappointment, 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.'

'To success? Oh! impossible!'

'To them 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 mentioned that my Guardian was a Man of uncommon
knowledge: He took pains to instil that knowledge into my infant
mind. Among the various 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 concealed 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 daemon. 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
past 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
Daemon 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 doat upon Antonia, but am not so blinded by lust as
to sacrifice for her enjoyment my existence both in this world
and the next.'

'Ridiculous prejudices! Oh! blush, Ambrosio, blush at being
subjected to their dominion. Where is the risque 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, witness my incantations, and Antonia is
your own.'

'To obtain her by such means I neither can, or 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 service, 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 Daemons, whose aid
would you invoke to forward this laudable design? Will the
Seraphims 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 vengeance!
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 open Enemy!'

'To look upon guilt with horror, Matilda, is in 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 my perjury: You, who first seduced me to violate my vows;
You, who first rouzed my sleeping vices, made me feel the weight
of Religion's chains, and bad 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? 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 mine by human means.'

'Then yours She will never be! You are banished her presence;
Her Mother has opened 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 past at Elvira's, and inspired me
with the idea of favouring your designs. Their reports have been
my only comfort. Though you shunned my presence, all your
proceedings were known to me: Nay, I was constantly with you in
some degree, thanks to this 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 excited strongly.

'What you relate is incredible! Matilda, are you not amusing
yourself with my credulity?'

'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 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, She put her foot into the water. It
struck cold, and She drew it back again. Though unconscious of
being observed, an inbred 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 phrenzy.

'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 the Key of the Cemetery, which 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!'

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