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Johann Wolfgang von Goethe - "Iphigenie auf Tauris"

Thornton W. Burgess - "The Burgess Animal Book for Children"

Algernon Charles Swinburne - "The Tale of Balen"

William Shakespeare - "Much Ado About Nothing"

The Monk

M >> Matthew Lewis >> The Monk




'Have ever been, and still are mine. But this is no fit place
for an explanation. Accompany me to my Hotel, and you shall know
every thing. Who is that with you?'

'One whom I believe you to have seen before,' replied Don
Christoval, 'though probably not at Church.'

'The Conde d'Ossorio?'

'Exactly so, Marquis.'

'I have no objection to entrusting you with my secret, for I am
sure that I may depend upon your silence.'

'Then your opinion of me is better than my own, and therefore I
must beg leave to decline your confidence. Do you go your own
way, and I shall go mine. Marquis, where are you to be found?'

'As usual, at the Hotel de las Cisternas; But remember, that I am
incognito, and that if you wish to see me, you must ask for
Alphonso d'Alvarada.'

'Good! Good! Farewell, Cavaliers!' said Don Christoval, and
instantly departed.

'You, Marquis,' said Lorenzo in the accent of surprise; 'You,
Alphonso d'Alvarada?'

'Even so, Lorenzo: But unless you have already heard my story
from your Sister, I have much to relate that will astonish you.
Follow me, therefore, to my Hotel without delay.'

At this moment the Porter of the Capuchins entered the Cathedral
to lock up the doors for the night. The two Noblemen instantly
withdrew, and hastened with all speed to the Palace de las
Cisternas.

'Well, Antonia!' said the Aunt, as soon as She had quitted the
Church; 'What think you of our Gallants? Don Lorenzo really
seems a very obliging good sort of young Man: He paid you some
attention, and nobody knows what may come of it. But as to Don
Christoval, I protest to you, He is the very Phoenix of
politeness. So gallant! so well-bred! So sensible, and so
pathetic! Well! If ever Man can prevail upon me to break my vow
never to marry, it will be that Don Christoval. You see, Niece,
that every thing turns out exactly as I told you: The very
moment that I produced myself in Madrid, I knew that I should be
surrounded by Admirers. When I took off my veil, did you see,
Antonia, what an effect the action had upon the Conde? And when
I presented him my hand, did you observe the air of passion with
which He kissed it? If ever I witnessed real love, I then saw it
impressed upon Don Christoval's countenance!'

Now Antonia had observed the air, with which Don Christoval had
kissed this same hand; But as She drew conclusions from it
somewhat different from her Aunt's, She was wise enough to hold
her tongue. As this is the only instance known of a Woman's ever
having done so, it was judged worthy to be recorded here.

The old Lady continued her discourse to Antonia in the same
strain, till they gained the Street in which was their Lodging.
Here a Crowd collected before their door permitted them not to
approach it; and placing themselves on the opposite side of the
Street, they endeavoured to make out what had drawn all these
people together. After some minutes the Crowd formed itself into
a Circle; And now Antonia perceived in the midst of it a Woman of
extraordinary height, who whirled herself repeatedly round and
round, using all sorts of extravagant gestures. Her dress was
composed of shreds of various-coloured silks and Linens
fantastically arranged, yet not entirely without taste. Her head
was covered with a kind of Turban, ornamented with vine leaves
and wild flowers. She seemed much sun-burnt, and her complexion
was of a deep olive: Her eyes looked fiery and strange; and in
her hand She bore a long black Rod, with which She at intervals
traced a variety of singular figures upon the ground, round about
which She danced in all the eccentric attitudes of folly and
delirium. Suddenly She broke off her dance, whirled herself
round thrice with rapidity, and after a moment's pause She sang
the following Ballad.

THE GYPSY'S SONG

Come, cross my hand! My art surpasses
All that did ever Mortal know;
Come, Maidens, come! My magic glasses
Your future Husband's form can show:

For 'tis to me the power is given
Unclosed the book of Fate to see;
To read the fixed resolves of heaven,
And dive into futurity.

I guide the pale Moon's silver waggon;
The winds in magic bonds I hold;
I charm to sleep the crimson Dragon,
Who loves to watch o'er buried gold:

Fenced round with spells, unhurt I venture
Their sabbath strange where Witches keep;
Fearless the Sorcerer's circle enter,
And woundless tread on snakes asleep.

Lo! Here are charms of mighty power!
This makes secure an Husband's truth
And this composed at midnight hour
Will force to love the coldest Youth:

If any Maid too much has granted,
Her loss this Philtre will repair;
This blooms a cheek where red is wanted,
And this will make a brown girl fair!

Then silent hear, while I discover
What I in Fortune's mirror view;
And each, when many a year is over,
Shall own the Gypsy's sayings true.

'Dear Aunt!' said Antonia when the Stranger had finished, 'Is She
not mad?'

'Mad? Not She, Child; She is only wicked. She is a Gypsy, a
sort of Vagabond, whose sole occupation is to run about the
country telling lyes, and pilfering from those who come by their
money honestly. Out upon such Vermin! If I were King of Spain,
every one of them should be burnt alive who was found in my
dominions after the next three weeks.'

These words were pronounced so audibly that they reached the
Gypsy's ears. She immediately pierced through the Crowd and
made towards the Ladies. She saluted them thrice in the Eastern
fashion, and then addressed herself to Antonia.

THE GYPSY

'Lady! gentle Lady! Know,
I your future fate can show;
Give your hand, and do not fear;
Lady! gentle Lady! hear!'

'Dearest Aunt!' said Antonia, 'Indulge me this once! Let me have
my fortune told me!'

'Nonsense, Child! She will tell you nothing but falsehoods.'

'No matter; Let me at least hear what She has to say. Do, my dear
Aunt! Oblige me, I beseech you!'

'Well, well! Antonia, since you are so bent upon the thing, . . .
Here, good Woman, you shall see the hands of both of us. There
is money for you, and now let me hear my fortune.'

As She said this, She drew off her glove, and presented her hand;
The Gypsy looked at it for a moment, and then made this reply.


THE GYPSY

'Your fortune? You are now so old,
Good Dame, that 'tis already told:
Yet for your money, in a trice
I will repay you in advice.
Astonished at your childish vanity,
Your Friends alltax you with insanity,
And grieve to see you use your art
To catch some youthful Lover's heart.
Believe me, Dame, when all is done,
Your age will still be fifty one;
And Men will rarely take an hint
Of love, from two grey eyes that squint.
Take then my counsels; Lay aside
Your paint and patches, lust and pride,
And on the Poor those sums bestow,
Which now are spent on useless show.
Think on your Maker, not a Suitor;
Think on your past faults, not on future;
And think Time's Scythe will quickly mow
The few red hairs, which deck your brow.

The audience rang with laughter during the Gypsy's address;
and--'fifty one,'--'squinting eyes,' 'red hair,' --'paint and
patches,' &c. were bandied from mouth to mouth. Leonella was
almost choaked with passion, and loaded her malicious Adviser
with the bitterest reproaches. The swarthy Prophetess for some
time listened to her with a contemptuous smile: at length She
made her a short answer, and then turned to Antonia.

THE GYPSY

'Peace, Lady! What I said was true;
And now, my lovely Maid, to you;
Give me your hand, and let me see
Your future doom, and heaven's decree.'

In imitation of Leonella, Antonia drew off her glove, and
presented her white hand to the Gypsy, who having gazed upon it
for some time with a mingled expression of pity and astonishment,
pronounced her Oracle in the following words.

THE GYPSY

'Jesus! what a palm is there!
Chaste, and gentle, young and fair,
Perfect mind and form possessing,
You would be some good Man's blessing:
But Alas! This line discovers,
That destruction o'er you hovers;
Lustful Man and crafty Devil
Will combine to work your evil;
And from earth by sorrows driven,
Soon your Soul must speed to heaven.
Yet your sufferings to delay,
Well remember what I say.
When you One more virtuous see
Than belongs to Man to be,
One, whose self no crimes assailing,
Pities not his Neighbour's Failing,
Call the Gypsy's words to mind:
Though He seem so good and kind,
Fair Exteriors oft will hide
Hearts, that swell with lust and pride!
Lovely Maid, with tears I leave you!
Let not my prediction grieve you;
Rather with submission bending
Calmly wait distress impending,
And expect eternal bliss
In a better world than this.

Having said this, the Gypsy again whirled herself round thrice,
and then hastened out of the Street with frantic gesture. The
Crowd followed her; and Elvira's door being now unembarrassed
Leonella entered the House out of honour with the Gypsy, with her
Niece, and with the People; In short with every body, but herself
and her charming Cavalier. The Gypsy's predictions had also
considerably affected Antonia; But the impression soon wore off,
and in a few hours She had forgotten the adventure as totally as
had it never taken place.


CHAPTER II

Forse se tu gustassi una sol volta
La millesima parte delle gioje,
Che gusta un cor amato riamando,
Diresti ripentita sospirando,
Perduto e tutto il tempo
Che in amar non si sponde.
Tasso.

Hadst Thou but tasted once the thousandth part
Of joys, which bless the loved and loving heart,
Your words repentant and your sighs would prove,
Lost is the time which is not past in love.

The monks having attended their Abbot to the door of his Cell, He
dismissed them with an air of conscious superiority in which
Humility's semblance combated with the reality of pride.

He was no sooner alone, than He gave free loose to the indulgence
of his vanity. When He remembered the Enthusiasm which his
discourse had excited, his heart swelled with rapture, and his
imagination presented him with splendid visions of
aggrandizement. He looked round him with exultation, and Pride
told him loudly that He was superior to the rest of his
fellow-Creatures.

'Who,' thought He; 'Who but myself has passed the ordeal of
Youth, yet sees no single stain upon his conscience? Who else
has subdued the violence of strong passions and an impetuous
temperament, and submitted even from the dawn of life to
voluntary retirement? I seek for such a Man in vain. I see no
one but myself possessed of such resolution. Religion cannot
boast Ambrosio's equal! How powerful an effect did my discourse
produce upon its Auditors! How they crowded round me! How they
loaded me with benedictions, and pronounced me the sole
uncorrupted Pillar of the Church! What then now is left for me
to do? Nothing, but to watch as carefully over the conduct of my
Brothers as I have hitherto watched over my own. Yet hold! May
I not be tempted from those paths which till now I have pursued
without one moment's wandering? Am I not a Man, whose nature is
frail, and prone to error? I must now abandon the solitude of my
retreat; The fairest and noblest Dames of Madrid continually
present themselves at the Abbey, and will use no other Confessor.

I must accustom my eyes to Objects of temptation, and expose
myself to the seduction of luxury and desire. Should I meet in
that world which I am constrained to enter some lovely Female,
lovely . . . as you, Madona. . . .!'

As He said this, He fixed his eyes upon a picture of the Virgin,
which was suspended opposite to him: This for two years had been
the Object of his increasing wonder and adoration. He paused,
and gazed upon it with delight.

'What Beauty in that countenance!' He continued after a silence
of some minutes; 'How graceful is the turn of that head! What
sweetness, yet what majesty in her divine eyes! How softly her
cheek reclines upon her hand! Can the Rose vie with the blush of
that cheek? Can the Lily rival the whiteness of that hand? Oh!
if such a Creature existed, and existed but for me! Were I
permitted to twine round my fingers those golden ringlets, and
press with my lips the treasures of that snowy bosom! Gracious
God, should I then resist the temptation? Should I not barter
for a single embrace the reward of my sufferings for thirty
years? Should I not abandon. . . . Fool that I am! Whither do
I suffer my admiration of this picture to hurry me? Away, impure
ideas! Let me remember that Woman is for ever lost to me.
Never was Mortal formed so perfect as this picture. But even did
such exist, the trial might be too mighty for a common virtue,
but Ambrosio's is proof against temptation. Temptation, did I
say? To me it would be none. What charms me, when ideal and
considered as a superior Being, would disgust me, become Woman
and tainted with all the failings of Mortality. It is not the
Woman's beauty that fills me with such enthusiasm; It is the
Painter's skill that I admire, it is the Divinity that I adore!
Are not the passions dead in my bosom? Have I not freed myself
from the frailty of Mankind? Fear not, Ambrosio! Take
confidence in the strength of your virtue. Enter boldly into a
world to whose failings you are superior; Reflect that you are
now exempted from Humanity's defects, and defy all the arts of
the Spirits of Darkness. They shall know you for what you are!'

Here his Reverie was interrupted by three soft knocks at the door
of his Cell. With difficulty did the Abbot awake from his
delirium. The knocking was repeated.

'Who is there?' said Ambrosio at length.

'It is only Rosario,' replied a gentle voice.

'Enter! Enter, my Son!'

The Door was immediately opened, and Rosario appeared with a
small basket in his hand.

Rosario was a young Novice belonging to the Monastery, who in
three Months intended to make his profession. A sort of mystery
enveloped this Youth which rendered him at once an object of
interest and curiosity. His hatred of society, his profound
melancholy, his rigid observation of the duties of his order, and
his voluntary seclusion from the world at his age so unusual,
attracted the notice of the whole fraternity. He seemed fearful
of being recognised, and no one had ever seen his face. His head
was continually muffled up in his Cowl; Yet such of his features
as accident discovered, appeared the most beautiful and noble.
Rosario was the only name by which He was known in the Monastery.

No one knew from whence He came, and when questioned in the
subject He preserved a profound silence. A Stranger, whose rich
habit and magnificent equipage declared him to be of
distinguished rank, had engaged the Monks to receive a Novice,
and had deposited the necessary sums. The next day He returned
with Rosario, and from that time no more had been heard of him.

The Youth had carefully avoided the company of the Monks: He
answered their civilities with sweetness, but reserve, and
evidently showed that his inclination led him to solitude. To
this general rule the Superior was the only exception. To him He
looked up with a respect approaching idolatry: He sought his
company with the most attentive assiduity, and eagerly seized
every means to ingratiate himself in his favour. In the Abbot's
society his Heart seemed to be at ease, and an air of gaiety
pervaded his whole manners and discourse. Ambrosio on his side
did not feel less attracted towards the Youth; With him alone did
He lay aside his habitual severity. When He spoke to him, He
insensibly assumed a tone milder than was usual to him; and no
voice sounded so sweet to him as did Rosario's. He repayed the
Youth's attentions by instructing him in various sciences; The
Novice received his lessons with docility; Ambrosio was every day
more charmed with the vivacity of his Genius, the simplicity of
his manners, and the rectitude of his heart: In short He loved
him with all the affection of a Father. He could not help
sometimes indulging a desire secretly to see the face of his
Pupil; But his rule of self-denial extended even to curiosity,
and prevented him from communicating his wishes to the Youth.

'Pardon my intrusion, Father,' said Rosario, while He placed his
basket upon the Table; 'I come to you a Suppliant. Hearing that
a dear Friend is dangerously ill, I entreat your prayers for his
recovery. If supplications can prevail upon heaven to spare him,
surely yours must be efficacious.'

'Whatever depends upon me, my Son, you know that you may command.

What is your Friend's name?'

'Vincentio della Ronda.'

' 'Tis sufficient. I will not forget him in my prayers, and may
our thrice-blessed St. Francis deign to listen to my
intercession!--What have you in your basket, Rosario?'

'A few of those flowers, reverend Father, which I have observed
to be most acceptable to you. Will you permit my arranging them
in your chamber?'

'Your attentions charm me, my Son.'

While Rosario dispersed the contents of his Basket in small
Vases placed for that purpose in various parts of the room, the
Abbot thus continued the conversation.

'I saw you not in the Church this evening, Rosario.'

'Yet I was present, Father. I am too grateful for your
protection to lose an opportunity of witnessing your Triumph.'

'Alas! Rosario, I have but little cause to triumph: The Saint
spoke by my mouth; To him belongs all the merit. It seems then
you were contented with my discourse?'

'Contented, say you? Oh! you surpassed yourself! Never did I
hear such eloquence . . . save once!'

Here the Novice heaved an involuntary sigh.

'When was that once?' demanded the Abbot.

'When you preached upon the sudden indisposition of our late
Superior.'

'I remember it: That is more than two years ago. And were you
present? I knew you not at that time, Rosario.'

' 'Tis true, Father; and would to God! I had expired, ere I
beheld that day! What sufferings, what sorrows should I have
escaped!'

'Sufferings at your age, Rosario?'

'Aye, Father; Sufferings, which if known to you, would equally
raise your anger and compassion! Sufferings, which form at once
the torment and pleasure of my existence! Yet in this retreat my
bosom would feel tranquil, were it not for the tortures of
apprehension. Oh God! Oh God! how cruel is a life of
fear!--Father! I have given up all; I have abandoned the world
and its delights for ever: Nothing now remains, Nothing now has
charms for me, but your friendship, but your affection. If I
lose that, Father! Oh! if I lose that, tremble at the effects of
my despair!'

'You apprehend the loss of my friendship? How has my conduct
justified this fear? Know me better, Rosario, and think me
worthy of your confidence. What are your sufferings? Reveal
them to me, and believe that if 'tis in my power to relieve them.
. . .'

'Ah! 'tis in no one's power but yours. Yet I must not let you
know them. You would hate me for my avowal! You would drive me
from your presence with scorn and ignominy!'

'My Son, I conjure you! I entreat you!'

'For pity's sake, enquire no further! I must not . . . I dare
not . . . Hark! The Bell rings for Vespers! Father, your
benediction, and I leave you!'

As He said this, He threw himself upon his knees and received
the blessing which He demanded. Then pressing the Abbot's hand
to his lips, He started from the ground and hastily quitted the
apartment. Soon after Ambrosio descended to Vespers (which were
celebrated in a small chapel belonging to the Abbey), filled with
surprise at the singularity of the Youth's behaviour.

Vespers being over, the Monks retired to their respective Cells.
The Abbot alone remained in the Chapel to receive the Nuns of St.
Clare. He had not been long seated in the confessional chair
before the Prioress made her appearance. Each of the Nuns was
heard in her turn, while the Others waited with the Domina in the
adjoining Vestry. Ambrosio listened to the confessions with
attention, made many exhortations, enjoined penance proportioned
to each offence, and for some time every thing went on as usual:
till at last one of the Nuns, conspicuous from the nobleness of
her air and elegance of her figure, carelessly permitted a letter
to fall from her bosom. She was retiring, unconscious of her
loss. Ambrosio supposed it to have been written by some one of
her Relations, and picked it up intending to restore it to her.

'Stay, Daughter,' said He; 'You have let fall. . . .'

At this moment, the paper being already open, his eye
involuntarily read the first words. He started back with
surprise! The Nun had turned round on hearing his voice: She
perceived her letter in his hand, and uttering a shriek of
terror, flew hastily to regain it.

'Hold!' said the Friar in a tone of severity; 'Daughter, I must
read this letter.'

'Then I am lost!' She exclaimed clasping her hands together
wildly.

All colour instantly faded from her face; she trembled with
agitation, and was obliged to fold her arms round a Pillar of the
Chapel to save herself from sinking upon the floor. In the
meanwhile the Abbot read the following lines.

'All is ready for your escape, my dearest Agnes. At twelve
tomorrow night I shall expect to find you at the Garden door: I
have obtained the Key, and a few hours will suffice to place you
in a secure asylum. Let no mistaken scruples induce you to
reject the certain means of preserving yourself and the innocent
Creature whom you nourish in your bosom. Remember that you had
promised to be mine, long ere you engaged yourself to the church;
that your situation will soon be evident to the prying eyes of
your Companions; and that flight is the only means of avoiding
the effects of their malevolent resentment. Farewell, my Agnes!
my dear and destined Wife! Fail not to be at the Garden door at
twelve!'

As soon as He had finished, Ambrosio bent an eye stern and angry
upon the imprudent Nun.

'This letter must to the Prioress!' said He, and passed her.

His words sounded like thunder to her ears: She awoke from her
torpidity only to be sensible of the dangers of her situation.
She followed him hastily, and detained him by his garment.

'Stay! Oh! stay!' She cried in the accents of despair, while She
threw herself at the Friar's feet, and bathed them with her
tears. 'Father, compassionate my youth! Look with indulgence on
a Woman's weakness, and deign to conceal my frailty! The
remainder of my life shall be employed in expiating this single
fault, and your lenity will bring back a soul to heaven!'

'Amazing confidence! What! Shall St. Clare's Convent become the
retreat of Prostitutes? Shall I suffer the Church of Christ to
cherish in its bosom debauchery and shame? Unworthy Wretch! such
lenity would make me your accomplice. Mercy would here be
criminal. You have abandoned yourself to a Seducer's lust; You
have defiled the sacred habit by your impurity; and still dare
you think yourself deserving my compassion? Hence, nor detain me
longer! Where is the Lady Prioress?' He added, raising his
voice.

'Hold! Father, Hold! Hear me but for one moment! Tax me not with
impurity, nor think that I have erred from the warmth of
temperament. Long before I took the veil, Raymond was Master of
my heart: He inspired me with the purest, the most
irreproachable passion, and was on the point of becoming my
lawful husband. An horrible adventure, and the treachery of a
Relation, separated us from each other: I believed him for ever
lost to me, and threw myself into a Convent from motives of
despair. Accident again united us; I could not refuse myself the
melancholy pleasure of mingling my tears with his: We met
nightly in the Gardens of St. Clare, and in an unguarded moment I
violated my vows of Chastity. I shall soon become a Mother:
Reverend Ambrosio, take compassion on me; take compassion on the
innocent Being whose existence is attached to mine. If you
discover my imprudence to the Domina, both of us are lost: The
punishment which the laws of St. Clare assign to Unfortunates
like myself is most severe and cruel. Worthy, worthy Father!
Let not your own untainted conscience render you unfeeling
towards those less able to withstand temptation! Let not mercy
be the only virtue of which your heart is unsusceptible! Pity
me, most reverend! Restore my letter, nor doom me to inevitable
destruction!'

'Your boldness confounds me! Shall I conceal your crime, I whom
you have deceived by your feigned confession? No, Daughter, no!
I will render you a more essential service. I will rescue you
from perdition in spite of yourself; Penance and mortification
shall expiate your offence, and Severity force you back to the
paths of holiness. What; Ho! Mother St. Agatha!'

'Father! By all that is sacred, by all that is most dear to you,
I supplicate, I entreat. . . .'

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