The Monk

  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 continued 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 meditated an elopement, obliged to make a full confession, and was amazed at the gentleness with which it was received: but what was her affliction, 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 connexion 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 yourself, 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 behaviour, 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 Ratisbon.

  So much was I altered, that scarcely could he recollect my features: the distress visible upon 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 some skill in music. He had also acquired some taste in poetry, and even ventured sometimes to write verses himself. He occasionally 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 sopha, plunged in reflections very far from agreeable: Theodore amused himself by observing from the window a battle between two postillions, who were quarrelling in the inn-yard.

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

  “Who?” 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 a 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—‘Youth,’ said he, in a solemn voice, ‘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 sopha. [The words which Theodore had repeated, seemed to imply the stranger’s knowledge of my secret] “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 impatiently. 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 was unpowdered, and a band of black velvet which encircled his forehead, spread over his features an additional gloom. His countenance wore the marks of profound melancholy, 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 carefully concealed from the knowledge of every one?”

  “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 the twenty-four, neither day nor 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 comprehending the misery of my lot! Fate obliges me to be constantly in movement; I am not permitted 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 back with abhorrence upon the shore: I rush into fire; the flames recoil at my approach: I oppose myself to the fury of banditti; their swor
ds 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 on me,” 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 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 conference 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 sunk upon his knees, gazed upon it mournfully, 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, sculls, thigh-bones, &c. I observed, that he disposed them all in the 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 stair-case: 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 unintelligible. 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!”

  “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 the 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 led me out of the circle. He replaced the bible, &c. in the chest, and then addressed himself to me, who stood near him speechless from astonishment.

  “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 darkness 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 your grandfather. In quality of your relation, her ashes demand respect from you, though the enormity of her crimes must excite your abhorrence. 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. She lived at his castle several months as his avowed concubine. All Bavaria was scandalized by her impudent and abandoned conduct. Her feasts vied in luxury with Cleopatra’s, and Lindenberg became the theatre of the most unbridled 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 inclinations long unknown: but she found in Otto von Lindenberg her 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. Otto, 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 m
ake 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 had 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 interview. 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.

  “Otto now succeeded to the barony of Lindenberg. 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 permitted 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 drunk 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 confusion 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 appearance. His alarm at length became so insupportable, 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.