The Monk, Page 30

  “Attempt not to fly!” said she: “you quit not this room without witnesses of your guilt.”

  Ambrosio struggled in vain to disengage himself. Elvira quitted not her hold, but redoubled her cries for succour. The friar’s danger grew more urgent. He expected every moment to hear people assembling at her voice; and, worked up to madness by the approach of ruin, he adopted a resolution equally desperate and savage. Turning round suddenly, with one hand he grasped Elvira’s throat so as to prevent her continuing her clamour, and with the other, dashing her violently upon the ground, he dragged her towards the bed. Confused by this unexpected attack, she scarcely had power to strive at forcing herself from his grasp: while the monk, snatching the pillow from beneath her daughter’s head, covering with it Elvira’s face, and pressing his knee upon her stomach with all his strength, endeavoured to put an end to her existence. He succeeded but too well. Her natural strength increased by the excess of anguish, long did the sufferer struggle to disengage herself, but in vain. The monk continued to kneel upon her breast, witnessed without mercy the convulsive trembling of her limbs beneath him, and sustained with inhuman firmness the spectacle of her agonies, when soul and body were on the point of separating. Those agonies at length were over. She ceased to struggle for life. The monk took off the pillow, and gazed upon her. Her face was covered with a frightful blackness: her limbs moved no more: the blood was chilled in her veins: her heart had forgotten to beat; and her hands were stiff and frozen. Ambrosio beheld before him that once noble and majestic form, now become a corse, cold, senseless, and disgusting.

  This horrible act was no sooner perpetrated, than the friar beheld the enormity of his crime. A cold dew flowed over his limbs: his eyes closed: he staggered to a chair, and sank into it almost as lifeless as the unfortunate who lay extended at his feet. From this state he was roused by the necessity of flight, and the danger of being found in Antonia’s apartment. He had no desire to profit by the execution of his crime. Antonia now appeared to him an object of disgust. A deadly cold had usurped the place of that warmth which glowed in his bosom. No ideas offered themselves to his mind but those of death and guilt, of present shame and future punishment. Agitated by remorse and fear, he prepared for flight: yet his terrors did not so completely master his recollection, as to prevent his taking the precautions necessary for his safety. He replaced the pillow upon the bed, gathered up his garments, and, with the fatal talisman in his hand, bent his unsteady steps towards the door. Bewildered by fear, he fancied that his flight was opposed by legions of phantoms. Wherever he turned, the disfigured corse seemed to lie in his passage, and it was long before he succeeded in reaching the door. The enchanted myrtle produced its former effect. The door opened, and he hastened down the stair-case. He entered the abbey unobserved; and having shut himself into his cell, he abandoned his soul to the tortures of unavailing remorse, and terrors of impending detection.

  CHAP. IX.

  Tell us, ye dead, will none of you in pity

  To those you left behind disclose the secret?

  O! that some courteous ghost would blab it out,

  What ’Tis you are, and we must shortly be.

  I’ve heard, that souls departed have sometimes

  Fore-warned men of their deaths: ’twas kindly done,

  To knock, and give the alarum.

  BLAIR.

  Ambrosio shuddered at himself when he reflected on his rapid advances in iniquity. The enormous crime which he had just committed, filled him with real horror. The murdered Elvira was continually before his eyes, and his guilt was already punished by the agonies of his conscience. Time, however, considerably weakened these impressions: one day passed away; another followed it, and still not the least suspicion was thrown upon him. Impunity reconciled him to his guilt. He began to resume his spirits; and as his fears of detection died away, he paid less attention to the reproaches of remorse. Matilda exerted herself to quiet his alarms. At the first intelligence of Elvira’s death, she seemed greatly affected, and joined the monk in deploring the unhappy catastrophe of his adventure: but when she found his agitation to be somewhat calmed, and himself better disposed to listen to her arguments, she proceeded to mention his offence in milder terms, and convince him that he was not so highly culpable as he appeared to consider himself. She represented, that he had only availed himself of the rights which nature allows to every one, those of self-preservation: that either Elvira or himself must have perished; and that her inflexibility and resolution to ruin him had deservedly marked her out for the victim. She next stated, that as he had before rendered himself suspected to Elvira, it was a fortunate event for him that her lips were closed by death; since, without this last adventure, her suspicions, if made public, might have produced very disagreeable consequences. He had therefore freed himself from an enemy, to whom the errors of his conduct were sufficiently known to make her dangerous, and who was the greatest obstacle to his designs upon Antonia. Those designs she encouraged him not to abandon. She assured him that, no longer protected by her mother’s watchful eye, the daughter would fall an easy conquest; and by praising and enumerating Antonia’s charms, she strove to rekindle the desires of the monk. In this endeavour she succeeded but too well.

  As if the crimes into which his passion had seduced him, had only increased its violence, he longed more eagerly than ever to enjoy Antonia. The same success in concealing his present guilt, he trusted, would attend his future. He was deaf to the murmurs of conscience, and resolved to satisfy his desires at any price. He waited only for an opportunity of repeating his former enterprise; but to procure that opportunity by the same means was now impracticable. In the first transports of despair he had dashed the enchanted myrtle into a thousand pieces. Matilda told him plainly, that he must expect no further assistance from the infernal powers, unless he was willing to subscribe to their established conditions. This Ambrosio was determined not to do. He persuaded himself that, however great may be his iniquity, so long as he preserved his claim to salvation, he need not despair of pardon. He therefore resolutely refused to enter into any bond or compact with the fiends; and Matilda, finding him obstinate upon this point, forbore to press him further. She exerted her invention to discover some means of putting Antonia into the abbot’s power: nor was it long before that means presented itself.

  While her ruin was thus meditating, the unhappy girl herself suffered severely from the loss of her mother. Every morning on waking, it was her first care to hasten to Elvira’s chamber. On that which followed Ambrosio’s fatal visit, she woke later than was her usual custom: of this she was convinced by the abbey chimes. She started from her bed, threw on a few loose garments hastily, and was speeding to enquire how her mother had passed the night, when her foot struck against something which lay in her passage. She looked down. What was her horror at recognizing Elvira’s livid corse! She uttered a loud shriek, and threw herself upon the floor. She clasped the inanimate form to her bosom, felt that it was dead cold, and, with a movement of disgust, of which she was not the mistress, let it fall again from her arms. The cry had alarmed Flora, who hastened to her assistance. The sight which she beheld penetrated her with horror; but her alarm was more audible than Antonia’s. She made the house ring with her lamentations, while her mistress, almost suffocated with grief, could only mark her distress by sobs and groans. Flora’s shrieks soon reached the ears of the hostess, whose terror and surprise were excessive on learning the cause of this disturbance. A physician was immediately sent for; but, on the first moment of beholding the corse, he declared that Elvira’s recovery was beyond the power of art. He proceeded therefore to give his assistance to Antonia, who by this time was truly in need of it. She was conveyed to bed, while the land-lady busied herself in giving orders for Elvira’s burial. Dame Jacintha was a plain good kind of woman, charitable, generous, and devout; but her intellects were weak, and she was a miserable slave to fear and superstition. She shuddered at the idea of passing the night in the s
ame house with a dead body. She was persuaded that Elvira’s ghost would appear to her, and no less certain that such a visit would kill her with fright. From this persuasion, she resolved to pass the night at a neighbour’s, and insisted that the funeral should take place the next day. St. Clare’s cemetery being the nearest, it was determined that Elvira should be buried there. Dame Jacintha engaged to defray every expence attending the burial. She knew not in what circumstances Antonia was left; but, from the sparing manner in which the family had lived, she concluded them to be indifferent: consequently she entertained very little hope of ever being recompensed. But this consideration prevented her not from taking care that the interment was performed with decency, and from shewing the unfortunate Antonia all possible respect.

  Nobody dies of mere grief; of this Antonia was an instance. Aided by her youth and healthy constitution, she shook off the malady which her mother’s death had occasioned; but it was not so easy to remove the disease of her mind. Her eyes were constantly filled with tears; every trifle affected her, and she evidently nourished in her bosom a profound and rooted melancholy. The slightest mention of Elvira, the most trivial circumstance recalling that beloved parent to her memory, was sufficient to throw her into serious agitation. How much would her grief have been increased, had she known the agonies which terminated her mother’s existence! But of this no one entertained the least suspicion. Elvira was subject to strong convulsions: it was supposed that, aware of their approach, she had dragged herself to her daughter’s chamber in hopes of assistance; that a sudden access of her fits had seized her, too violent to be resisted by her already enfeebled state of health; and that she had expired ere she had time to reach the medicine which generally relieved her, and which stood upon a shelf in Antonia’s room. This idea was firmly credited by the few people who interested themselves about Elvira. Her death was esteemed a natural event, and soon forgotten by all, save by her, who had but too much reason to deplore her loss.

  In truth Antonia’s situation was sufficiently embarrassing and unpleasant. She was alone, in the midst of a dissipated and expensive city; she was ill provided with money, and worse with friends. Her aunt Leonella was still at Cordova, and she knew not her direction. Of the marquis de las Cisternas she heard no news. As to Lorenzo, she had long given up the idea of possessing any interest in his bosom. She knew not to whom she could address herself in her present dilemma. She wished to consult Ambrosio, but she remembered her mother’s injunctions to shun him as much as possible; and the last conversation which Elvira had held with her upon the subject, had given her sufficient lights respecting his designs, to put her upon her guard against him in future. Still all her mother’s warnings could not make her change her good opinion of the friar. She continued to feel that his friendship and society were requisite to her happiness: she looked upon his failings with a partial eye, and could not persuade herself that he really had intended her ruin. However, Elvira had positively commanded her to drop his acquaintance, and she had too much respect for her orders to disobey them.

  At length she resolved to address herself for advice and protection to the marquis de las Cisternas, as being her nearest relation. She wrote to him, briefly stating her desolate situation; she besought him to compassionate his brother’s child, to continue to her Elvira’s pension, and to authorise her retiring to his old castle in Murcia, which till now had been her retreat. Having sealed her letter, she gave it to the trusty Flora, who immediately set out to execute her commission. But Antonia was born under an unlucky star. Had she made her application to the marquis but one day sooner, received as his niece, and placed at the head of his family, she would have escaped all the misfortunes with which she was now threatened. Raymond had always intended to execute this plan: but first, his hopes of making the proposal to Elvira through the lips of Agnes, and afterwards his disappointment at losing his intended bride, as well as the severe illness which for some time had confined him to his bed, made him defer from day to day the giving an asylum in his house to his brother’s widow. He had commissioned Lorenzo to supply her liberally with money. But Elvira, unwilling to receive obligations from that nobleman, had assured him that she needed no immediate pecuniary assistance. Consequently the marquis did not imagine that a trifling delay on his part would create any embarrassment; and the distress and agitation of his mind might well excuse his negligence.

  Had he been informed that Elvira’s death had left her daughter friendless and unprotected, he would doubtless have taken such measures as would have ensured her from every danger. But Antonia was not destined to be so fortunate. The day on which she sent her letter to the palace de las Cisternas, was that following Lorenzo’s departure from Madrid. The marquis was in the first paroxysms of despair at the conviction that Agnes was indeed no more: he was delirious; and, his life being in danger, no one was suffered to approach him. Flora was informed that he was incapable of attending to letters, and that probably a few hours would decide his fate. With this unsatisfactory answer she was obliged to return to her mistress, who now found herself plunged into greater difficulties than ever.

  Flora and Dame Jacintha exerted themselves to console her. The latter begged her to make herself easy, for that as long as she chose to stay with her she would treat her like her own child. Antonia, finding that the good woman had taken a real affection for her, was somewhat comforted by thinking that she had at least one friend in the world. A letter was now brought to her, directed to Elvira. She recognized Leonella’s writing, and, opening it with joy, found a detailed account of her aunt’s adventures at Cordova. She informed her sister that she had recovered her legacy, had lost her heart, and had received in exchange that of the most amiable of apothecaries, past, present, and to come. She added, that she should be at Madrid on the Tuesday night, and meant to have the pleasure of presenting her caro sposo in form. Though her nuptials were far from pleasing Antonia, Leonella’s speedy return gave her niece much delight. She rejoiced in thinking that she should once more be under a relation’s care. She could not but judge it to be highly improper for a young woman to be living among absolute strangers, with no one to regulate her conduct, or protect her from the insults to which in her defenceless situation she was exposed. She therefore looked forward with impatience to the Tuesday night.

  It arrived. Antonia listened anxiously to the carriages as they rolled along the street. None of them stopped, and it grew late without Leonella’s appearing. Still Antonia resolved to sit up till her aunt’s arrival; and, in spite of all her remonstrances, Dame Jacintha and Flora insisted upon doing the same. The hours passed on slow and tediously. Lorenzo’s departure from Madrid had put a stop to the nightly serenades: she hoped in vain to hear the usual sound of guitars beneath her window. She took up her own, and struck a few chords; but music that evening had lost its charms for her, and she soon replaced the instrument in its case. She seated herself at her embroidery frame, but nothing went right: the silks were missing, the thread snapped every moment, and the needles were so expert at falling that they seemed to be animated. At length a flake of wax fell from the taper which stood near her upon a favourite wreath of violets: this completely discomposed her; she threw down her needle, and quitted the frame. It was decreed that for that night nothing should have the power of amusing her. She was the prey of ennui, and employed herself in making fruitless wishes for the arrival of her aunt.

  As she walked with a listless air up and down the chamber, the door caught her eye conducting to that which had been her mother’s. She remembered that Elvira’s little library was arranged there, and thought that she might possibly find in it some book to amuse her till Leonella should arrive. Accordingly she took her taper from the table, passed through the little closet, and entered the adjoining apartment. As she looked around her, the sight of this room brought to her recollection a thousand painful ideas. It was the first time of her entering it since her mother’s death. The total silence prevailing through the chamber, the bed despo
iled of its furniture, the cheerless hearth where stood an extinguished lamp, and a few dying plants in the window, which since Elvira’s loss had been neglected, inspired Antonia with a melancholy awe. The gloom of night gave strength to this sensation. She placed her light upon the table, and sunk into a large chair, in which she had seen her mother seated a thousand and a thousand times. She was never to see her seated there again! Tears unbidden streamed down her cheek, and she abandoned herself to the sadness which grew deeper with every moment.

  Ashamed of her weakness, she at length rose from her seat; she proceeded to seek for what had brought her to this melancholy scene. The small collection of books was arranged upon several shelves in order. Antonia examined them without finding any thing likely to interest her, till she put her hand upon a volume of old Spanish ballads. She read a few stanzas of one of them. They excited her curiosity. She took down the book, and seated herself to peruse it with ease. She trimmed the taper, which now drew towards its end, and then read the following ballad:

  ALONZO THE BRAVE AND FAIR IMOGINE.

  A warrior so bold, and a virgin so bright

  Conversed, as they sat on the green;

  They gazed on each other with tender delight;

  Alonzo the Brave was the name of the knight,

  The maid’s was the Fair Imogine.

  “And, oh!” said the youth, “since to-morrow I go

  To fight in a far distant land,

  Your tears for my absence soon leaving to flow,

  Some other will court you, and you will bestow