The Monk (11 page)

She stopped, and was lost in her reflections.

“It was but yesterday,” she continued; “but a few short hours have passed since I was dear to him; he esteemed me, and my heart was satisfied: now, oh! now, how cruelly is my situation changed! He looks on me with suspicion; he bids me leave him, leave him for ever. Oh! you, my saint, my idol! You! holding the next place to God in my breast, yet two days, and my heart will be unveiled to you. Could you know my feelings, when I beheld your agony! Could you know how much your sufferings have endeared you to me! But the time will come, when you will be convinced that my passion is pure and disinterested. Then you will pity me, and feel the whole weight of these sorrows.”

As she said this, her voice was choaked by weeping. While she bent over Ambrosio, a tear fell upon his cheek.

“Ah! I have disturbed him,” cried Matilda, and retreated hastily.

Her alarm was ungrounded. None sleep so profoundly as those who are determined not to wake. The friar was in this predicament: he still seemed buried in a repose, which every succeeding minute rendered him less capable of enjoying. The burning tear had communicated its warmth to his heart.

“What affection! what purity!” said he internally. “Ah! since my bosom is thus sensible of pity, what would it be if agitated by love?”

Matilda again quitted her seat, and retired to some distance from the bed. Ambrosio ventured to open his eyes, and to cast them upon her fearfully. Her face was turned from him. She rested her head in a melancholy posture upon her harp, and gazed on the picture which hung opposite to the bed.

“Happy, happy image!” Thus did she address the beautiful Madona; “ ’Tis to you that he offers his prayers; ’Tis on you that he gazes with admiration. I thought you would have lightened my sorrows; you have only served to increase their weight; you have made me feel, that, had I known him ere his vows were pronounced, Ambrosio and happiness might have been mine. With what pleasure he views this picture! With what fervour he addresses his prayers to the insensible image! Ah! may not his sentiments be inspired by some kind and secret genius, friend to my affection? May it not be man’s natural instinct which informs him——? Be silent! idle hopes! let me not encourage an idea, which takes from the brilliance of Ambrosio’s virtue. ’Tis religion, not beauty, which attracts his admiration; ’Tis not to the woman, but the divinity that he kneels. Would he but address to me the least tender expression which he pours forth to this Madona! Would he but say, that were he not already affianced to the church, he would not have despised Matilda! Oh! let me nourish that fond idea. Perhaps he may yet acknowledge that he feels for me more than pity, and that affection like mine might well have deserved a return. Perhaps he may own thus much when I lie on my death-bed. He then need not fear to infringe his vows, and the confession of his regard will soften the pangs of dying. Would I were sure of this! Oh! how earnestly should I sigh for the moment of dissolution!”

Of this discourse the abbot lost not a syllable; and the tone in which she pronounced these last words pierced to his heart. Involuntarily he raised himself from his pillow.

“Matilda!” he said in a troubled voice; “Oh! my Matilda!”

She started at the sound, and turned towards him hastily. The suddenness of her movement made her cowl fall back from her head; her features became visible to the monk’s enquiring eye. What was his amazement at beholding the exact resemblance of his admired Madona! The same exquisite proportion of features, the same profusion of golden hair, the same rosy lips, heavenly eyes, and majesty of countenance adorned Matilda! Uttering an exclamation of surprise, Ambrosio sunk back upon his pillow, and doubted whether the object before him was mortal or divine.

Matilda seemed penetrated with confusion. She remained motionless in her place, and supported herself upon her instrument. Her eyes were bent upon the earth, and her fair cheeks overspread with blushes. On recovering herself, her first action was to conceal her features. She then, in an unsteady and troubled voice, ventured to address these words to the friar:

“Accident has made you master of a secret, which I never would have revealed but on the bed of death: yes, Ambrosio, in Matilda de Villanegas you see the original of your beloved Madona. Soon after I conceived my unfortunate passion, I formed the project of conveying to you my picture. Crowds of admirers had persuaded me that I possessed some beauty, and I was anxious to know what effect it would produce upon you. I caused my portrait to be drawn by Martin Galuppi, a celebrated Venetian at that time resident in Madrid. The resemblance was striking: I sent it to the Capuchin-abbey as if for sale; and the Jew from whom you bought it was one of my emissaries. You purchased it. Judge of my rapture, when informed that you had gazed upon it with delight, or rather with adoration; that you had suspended it in your cell, and that you addressed your supplications to no other saint! Will this discovery make me still more regarded as an object of suspicion? Rather should it convince you how pure is my affection, and engage you to suffer me in your society and esteem. I heard you daily extol the praises of my portrait. I was an eye witness of the transports which its beauty excited in you: yet I forbore to use against your virtue those arms with which yourself had furnished me. I concealed those features from your sight, which you loved unconsciously. I strove not to excite desire by displaying my charms, or to make myself mistress of your heart through the medium of your senses. To attract your notice by studiously attending to religious duties, to endear myself to you by convincing you that my mind was virtuous and my attachment sincere, such was my only aim. I succeeded; I became your companion and your friend. I concealed my sex from your knowledge; and had you not pressed me to reveal my secret, had I not been tormented by the fear of a discovery, never had you known me for any other than Rosario. And still are you resolved to drive me from you? The few hours of life which yet remain for me, may I not pass them in your presence? Oh! speak, Ambrosio, and tell me that I may stay.”

This speech gave the abbot an opportunity of recollecting himself. He was conscious that, in the present disposition of his mind, avoiding her society was his only refuge from the power of this enchanting woman.

“Your declaration has so much astonished me,” said he, “that I am at present incapable of answering you. Do not insist upon a reply, Matilda; leave me to myself, I have need to be alone.”

“I obey you; but, before I go, promise not to insist upon my quitting the abbey immediately.”

“Matilda, reflect upon your situation: reflect upon the consequences of your stay: our separation is indispensable, and we must part.”

“But not to-day, father! Oh! in pity, not to-day!”

“You press me too hard; but I cannot resist that tone of supplication. Since you insist upon it, I yield to your prayer; I consent to your remaining here a sufficient time to prepare, in some measure, the brethren for your departure: stay yet two days; but on the third”—(He sighed involuntarily)—“remember, that on the third we must part for ever!”

She caught his hand eagerly, and pressed it to her lips.

“On the third!” she exclaimed with an air of wild solemnity: “You are right, father, you are right! On the third we must part for ever!”

There was a dreadful expression in her eye as she uttered these words, which penetrated the friar’s soul with horror. Again she kissed his hand, and then fled with rapidity from the chamber.

Anxious to authorise the presence of his dangerous guest, yet conscious that her stay was infringing the laws of his order, Ambrosio’s bosom became the theatre of a thousand contending passions. At length his attachment to the feigned Rosario, aided by the natural warmth of his temperament, seemed likely to obtain the victory: the success was assured, when that presumption which formed the ground-work of his character came to Matilda’s assistance. The monk reflected, that to vanquish temptation was an infinitely greater merit than to avoid it; he thought that he ought rather to rejoice in the opportunity given him of proving the firmness of his virtue. St. Anthony had withstood all seductions to lust, then why should not he? Besides, St. Anthony was tempted by the devil, who put every art into practice to excite his passions; whereas Ambrosio’s danger proceeded from a mere mortal woman, fearful and modest, whose apprehensions of his yielding were not less violent than his own.

“Yes,” said he, “the unfortunate shall stay; I have nothing to fear from her presence: even should my own prove too weak to resist the temptation, I am secured from danger by the innocence of Matilda.”

Ambrosio was yet to learn, that to an heart unacquainted with her, vice is ever most dangerous when lurking behind the mask of virtue.

He found himself so perfectly recovered, that, when father Pablos visited him again at night, he entreated permission to quit his chamber on the day following. His request was granted. Matilda appeared no more that evening, except in company with the monks when they came in a body to enquire after the abbot’s health. She seemed fearful of conversing with him in private, and stayed but a few minutes in his room. The friar slept well; but the dreams of the former night were repeated, and his sensations of voluptuousness were yet more keen and exquisite; the same lust-exciting visions floated before his eyes; Matilda, in all the pomp of beauty, warm, tender and luxurious, clasped him to her bosom, and lavished upon him the most ardent caresses. He returned them as eagerly; and already was on the point of satisfying his desires, when the faithless form disappeared, and left him to all the horrors of shame and disappointment.

The morning dawned. Fatigued, harassed, and exhausted by his provoking dreams, he was not disposed to quit his bed: he excused himself from appearing at matins: it was the first morning in his life that he had ever missed them. He rose late: during the whole of the day he had no opportunity of speaking to Matilda without witnesses; his cell was thronged by the monks, anxious to express their concern at his illness; and he was still occupied in receiving their compliments on his recovery, when the bell summoned them to the refectory.

After dinner the monks separated, and dispersed themselves in various parts of the garden, where the shade of trees, or retirement of some grotto, presented the most agreeable means of enjoying the siesta. The abbot bent his steps towards the hermitage; a glance of his eye invited Matilda to accompany him: she obeyed, and followed him thither in silence: they entered the grotto, and seated themselves: both seemed unwilling to begin the conversation, and to labour under the influence of mutual embarrassment. At length the abbot spoke: he conversed only on indifferent topics, and Matilda answered him in the same tone; she seemed anxious to make him forget that the person who sat by him was any other than Rosario. Neither of them dared, or indeed wished, to make an allusion to the subject which was most at the hearts of both.

Matilda’s efforts to appear gay were evidently forced; her spirits were oppressed by the weight of anxiety; and when she spoke, her voice was low and feeble: she seemed desirous of finishing a conversation which embarrassed her; and, complaining that she was unwell, she requested Ambrosio’s permission to return to the abbey. He accompanied her to the door of her cell; and, when arrived there, he stopped her to declare his consent to her continuing the partner of his solitude, so long as should be agreeable to herself.

She discovered no marks of pleasure at receiving this intelligence, though on the preceding day she had been so anxious to obtain the permission.

“Alas, father,” she said, waving her head mournfully, “your kindness comes too late; my doom is fixed; we must separate for ever; yet believe that I am grateful for your generosity; for your compassion of an unfortunate who is but too little deserving of it.”

She put her handkerchief to her eyes; her cowl was only half drawn over her face. Ambrosio observed that she was pale, and her eyes sunk and heavy.

“Good God!” he cried, “you are very ill, Matilda; I shall send father Pablos to you instantly.”

“No, do not; I am ill, ’Tis true, but he cannot cure my malady. Farewell, father! Remember me in your prayers to-morrow, while I shall remember you in heaven.”

She entered her cell, and closed the door.

The abbot dispatched to her the physician without losing a moment, and waited his report impatiently; but father Pablos soon returned, and declared that his errand had been fruitless. Rosario refused to admit him, and had positively rejected his offers of assistance. The uneasiness which this account gave Ambrosio was not trifling; yet he determined that Matilda should have her own way for that night; but that, if her situation did not mend by the morning, he would insist upon her taking the advice of father Pablos.

He did not find himself inclined to sleep; he opened his casement, and gazed upon the moon-beams as they played upon the small stream whose waters bathed the walls of the monastery. The coolness of the night breeze, and tranquillity of the hour, inspired the friar’s mind with sadness; he thought upon Matilda’s beauty and affection; upon the pleasures which he might have shared with her, had he not been restrained by monastic fetters. He reflected that, unsustained by hope, her love for him could not long exist; that doubtless she would succeed in extinguishing her passion, and seek for happiness in the arms of one more fortunate. He shuddered at the void which her absence would leave in his bosom; he looked with disgust on the monotony of a convent, and breathed a sigh towards that world from which he was for ever separated. Such were the reflections which a loud knocking at his door interrupted. The bell of the church had already struck two. The abbot hastened to enquire the cause of this disturbance. He opened the door of his cell, and a lay-brother entered, whose looks declared his hurry and confusion.

“Hasten, reverend father!” said he, “hasten to the young Rosario: he earnestly requests to see you; he lies at the point of death.”

“Gracious God! where is father Pablos? Why is he not with him? Oh! I fear, I fear——”