The Monk, Page 21

  Antonia kissed her hand, and promised implicit obedience. Elvira then continued——

  “To prevent your passion from growing stronger, it will be needful to prohibit Lorenzo’s visits. The service which he has rendered me permits not my forbidding them positively; but unless I judge too favourably of his character, he will discontinue them without taking offence, if I confess to him my reasons, and throw myself entirely on his generosity. The next time that I see him, I will honestly avow to him the embarrassment which his presence occasions. How say you, my child? Is not this measure necessary?”

  Antonia subscribed to every thing without hesitation, though not without regret. Her mother kissed her affectionately, and retired to bed. Antonia followed her example, and vowed so frequently never more to think of Lorenzo, that till sleep closed her eyes she thought of nothing else.

  While this was passing at Elvira’s, Lorenzo hastened to rejoin the marquis. Every thing was ready for the second elopement of Agnes; and at twelve the two friends with a coach and four were at the gardenwall of the convent. Don Raymond drew out his key, and unlocked the door. They entered, and waited for some time in expectation of being joined by Agnes. At length the marquis grew impatient: beginning to fear that his second attempt would succeed no better than the first, he proposed to reconnoitre the convent. The friends advanced towards it. Every thing was still and dark. The prioress was anxious to keep the story a secret, fearing lest the crime of one of its members should bring disgrace upon the whole community, or that the interposition of powerful relations should deprive her vengeance of its intended victim. She took care therefore to give the lover of Agnes no cause to suppose that his design was discovered, and his mistress on the point of suffering the punishment of her fault. The same reason made her reject the idea of arresting the unknown seducer in the garden: such a proceeding would have created much disturbance, and the disgrace of her convent would have been noised about Madrid. She contented herself with confining Agnes closely: as to the lover, she left him at liberty to pursue his designs. What she had expected was the result. The marquis and Lorenzo waited in vain till the break of day; they then retired without noise, alarmed at the failure of their plan, and ignorant of the cause of its ill success.

  The next morning Lorenzo went to the convent, and requested to see his sister. The prioress appeared at the grate with a melancholy countenance. She informed him that for several days Agnes had appeared much agitated; that she had been pressed by the nuns in vain to reveal the cause, and apply to their tenderness for advice and consolation; that she had obstinately persisted in concealing the cause of her distress; but that on Thursday evening it had produced so violent an effect upon her constitution, that she had fallen ill, and was actually confined to her bed. Lorenzo did not credit a syllable of this account: he insisted upon seeing his sister; if she was unable to come to the grate, he desired to be admitted to her cell. The prioress crossed herself! she was shocked at the very idea of a man’s profane eye pervading the interior of her holy mansion, and professed herself astonished that Lorenzo could think of such a thing. She told him that his request could not be granted; but that, if he returned the next day, she hoped that her beloved daughter would then be sufficiently recovered to join him at the parlour grate. With this answer Lorenzo was obliged to retire, unsatisfied, and trembling for his sister’s safety.

  He returned the next morning at an early hour. “Agnes was worse; the physician had pronounced her to be in imminent danger; she was ordered to remain quiet, and it was utterly impossible for her to receive her brother’s visit.” Lorenzo stormed at this answer, but there was no resource. He raved, he entreated, he threatened; no means were left untried to obtain a sight of Agnes. His endeavours were as fruitless as those of the day before, and he returned in despair to the marquis. On his side, the latter had spared no pains to discover what had occasioned his plot to fail. Don Christoval, to whom the affair was now entrusted, endeavoured to worm out the secret from the old porteress of St. Clare, with whom he had formed an acquaintance; but she was too much upon her guard, and he gained from her no intelligence. The marquis was almost distracted, and Lorenzo felt scarcely less inquietude. Both were convinced that the purposed elopement must have been discovered: they doubted not but the malady of Agnes was a pretence, but they knew not by what means to rescue her from the hands of the prioress.

  Regularly every day did Lorenzo visit the convent: as regularly was he informed that his sister rather grew worse than better. Certain that her indisposition was feigned, these accounts did not alarm him: but his ignorance of her fate, and of the motives which induced the prioress to keep her from him, excited the most serious uneasiness. He was still uncertain what steps he ought to take, when the marquis received a letter from the cardinal-duke of Lerma. It inclosed the pope’s expected bull, ordering that Agnes should be released from her vows, and restored to her relations. This essential paper decided at once the proceedings of her friends; they resolved that Lorenzo should carry it to the domina without delay, and demand that his sister should be instantly given up to him. Against this mandate illness could not be pleaded: it gave her brother the power of removing her instantly to the palace de Medina, and he determined to use that power on the following day.

  His mind relieved from inquietude respecting his sister, and his spirits raised by the hope of soon restoring her to freedom, he now had time to give a few moments to love and to Antonia. At the same hour as on his former visit, he repaired to Donna Elvira’s. She had given orders for his admission. As soon as he was announced, her daughter retired with Leonella; and when he entered the chamber, he found the lady of the house alone. She received him with less distance than before, and desired him to place himself near her upon the sopha. She then, without losing time, opened her business, as had been agreed between herself and Antonia.

  “You must not think me ungrateful, Don Lorenzo, or forgetful how essential are the services which you have rendered me with the marquis. I feel the weight of my obligations: nothing under the sun should induce my taking the step to which I am now compelled, but the interest of my child, of my beloved Antonia. My health is declining; God only knows how soon I may be summoned before his throne. My daughter will be left without parents, and, should she lose the protection of the Cisternas family, without friends. She is young and artless, uninstructed in the world’s perfidy, and with charms sufficient to render her an object of seduction. Judge then how I must tremble at the prospect before her! Judge, how anxious I must be to keep her from their society, who may excite the yet dormant passions of her bosom. You are amiable, Don Lorenzo; Antonia has a susceptible, a loving heart, and is grateful for the favours conferred upon us by your interference with the marquis. Your presence makes me tremble: I fear lest it should inspire her with sentiments which may embitter the remainder of her life, or encourage her to cherish hopes in her situation unjustifiable and futile. Pardon me, when I avow my terrors, and let my frankness plead in my excuse. I cannot forbid you my house, for gratitude restrains me; I can only throw myself upon your generosity, and entreat you to spare the feelings of an anxious, of a doting mother. Believe me, when I assure you, that I lament the necessity of rejecting your acquaintance; but there is no remedy, and Antonia’s interest obliges me to beg you to forbear your visits. By complying with my request, you will increase the esteem which I already feel for you, and of which every thing convinces me that you are truly deserving.”

  “Your frankness charms me,” replied Lorenzo: “You shall find, that in your favourable opinion of me you were not deceived; yet I hope that the reasons now in my power to allege, will persuade you to withdraw a request which I cannot obey without infinite reluctance. I love your daughter, love her most sincerely; I wish for no greater happiness than to inspire her with the same sentiments, and receive her hand at the altar as her husband. ’Tis true I am not rich myself, my father’s death has left me but little in my own possession; but my expectations justify my pretending
to the Condé de las Cisternas’ daughter.”

  He was proceeding, but Elvira interrupted him——

  “Ah! Don Lorenzo, you forget in that pompous title the meanness of my origin. You forget that I have now passed fourteen years in Spain, disavowed by my husband’s family, and existing upon a stipend barely sufficient for the support and education of my daughter. Nay, I have even been neglected by most of my own relations, who out of envy affect to doubt the reality of my marriage. My allowance being discontinued at my father-in-law’s death, I was reduced to the very brink of want. In this situation I was found by my sister, who, amongst all her foibles, possesses a warm, generous, and affectionate heart. She aided me with the little fortune which my father left her, persuaded me to visit Madrid, and has supported my child and myself since our quitting Murcia. Then, consider not Antonia as descended from the Condé de las Cisternas; consider her as a poor and unprotected orphan, as the grand-child of the tradesman Torribio Dalfa, as the needy pensioner of that tradesman’s daughter. Reflect upon the difference between such a situation and that of the nephew and heir of the potent duke of Medina. I believe your intentions to be honourable; but as there are no hopes that your uncle will approve of the union, I foresee that the consequences of your attachment must be fatal to my child’s repose.”

  “Pardon me, Segnora; you are misinformed if you suppose the duke of Medina to resemble the generality of men. His sentiments are liberal and disinterested; he loves me well, and I have no reason to dread his forbidding the marriage, when he perceives that my happiness depends upon Antonia. But supposing him to refuse his sanction, what have I still to fear? My parents are no more; my little fortune is in my own possession; it will be sufficient to support Antonia, and I shall exchange for her hand Medina’s dukedom without one sigh of regret.”

  “You are young and eager; it is natural for you to entertain such ideas. But experience has taught me to my cost, that curses accompany an unequal alliance. I married the Condé de las Cisternas in opposition to the will of his relations; many an heart-pang has punished me for the imprudent step. Wherever we bent our course, a father’s execration pursued Gonzalvo. Poverty overtook us, and no friend was near to relieve our wants. Still our mutual affection existed, but, alas! not without interruption. Accustomed to wealth and ease, ill could my husband support the transition to distress and indigence. He looked back with repining to the comforts which he once enjoyed. He regretted the situation which for my sake he had quitted; and, in moments when despair possessed his mind, has reproached me with having made him the companion of want and wretchedness. He has called me his bane! the source of his sorrows, the cause of his destruction! Ah! God! he little knew how much keener were my own heart’s reproaches! He was ignorant that I suffered trebly, for myself, for my children, and for him! ’Tis true that his anger seldom lasted long: his sincere affection for me soon revived in his heart, and then his repentance for the tears which he had made me shed, tortured me even more than his reproaches. He would throw himself on the ground, implore my forgiveness in the most frantic terms, and load himself with curses for being the murderer of my repose. Taught by experience, that an union contracted against the inclinations of families on either side must be unfortunate, I will save my daughter from those miseries which I have suffered. Without your uncle’s consent, while I live, she never shall be yours. Undoubtedly he will disapprove of the union; his power is immense, and Antonia shall not be exposed to his anger and persecution.”

  “His persecution? How easily may that be avoided! Let the worst happen, it is but quitting Spain. My wealth may easily be realised. The Indian islands will offer us a secure retreat. I have an estate, though not of value, in Hispaniola: thither will we fly, and I shall consider it to be my native country, if it gives me Antonia’s undisturbed possession.”

  “Ah! youth, this is a fond, romantic vision. Gonzalvo thought the same. He fancied that he could leave Spain without regret; but the moment of parting undeceived him. You know not yet what it is to quit your native land: to quit it, never to behold it more! You know not what it is to exchange the scenes where you have passed your infancy, for unknown realms and barbarous climates!—to be forgotten, utterly, eternally forgotten by the companions of your youth!—to see your dearest friends, the fondest objects of your affection, perishing with diseases incidental to Indian atmospheres, and find yourself unable to procure for them necessary assistance! I have felt all this! My husband and two sweet babes found their graves in Cuba: nothing would have saved my young Antonia, but my sudden return to Spain. Ah! Don Lorenzo, could you conceive what I suffered during my absence! Could you know how sorely I regretted all that I left behind, and how dear to me was the very name of Spain! I envied the winds which blew towards it: and when the Spanish sailor chaunted some well-known air as he passed my window, tears filled my eyes, while I thought upon my native land. Gonzalvo too——my husband——”

  Elvira paused. Her voice faltered, and she concealed her face with her handkerchief. After a short silence she rose from the sopha, and proceeded——

  “Excuse my quitting you for a few moments: the remembrance of what I have suffered has much agitated me, and I need to be alone. Till I return, peruse these lines. After my husband’s death I found them among his papers. Had I known sooner that he entertained such sentiments, grief would have killed me. He wrote these verses on his voyage to Cuba, when his mind was clouded by sorrow, and he forgot that he had a wife and children. What we are losing ever seems to us the most precious. Gonzalvo was quitting Spain for ever, and therefore was Spain dearer to his eyes than all else which the world contained. Read them, Don Lorenzo, they will give you some idea of the feelings of a banished man.”

  Elvira put a paper into Lorenzo’s hand, and retired from the chamber. The youth examined the contents, and found them to be as follows:

  THE EXILE.

  Farewell, oh native Spain! farewell for ever!

  These banished eyes shall view thy coasts no more:

  A mournful presage tells my heart, that never

  Gonzalvo’s steps again shall press thy shore.

  Hushed are the winds; while soft the vessel sailing

  With gentle motion plows the unruffled main,

  I feel my bosom’s boasted courage failing,

  And curse the waves which bear me far from Spain.

  I see it yet! Beneath yon blue clear heaven

  Still do the spires, so well-beloved, appear.

  From yonder craggy point the gale of even

  Still wafts my native accents to mine ear.

  Propped on some moss-crowned rock, and gaily singing,

  There in the sun his nets the fisher dries;

  Oft have I heard the plaintive ballad, bringing

  Scenes of past joys before my sorrowing eyes.

  Ah! happy swain! he waits the accustomed hour,

  When twilight-gloom obscures the closing sky;

  Then gladly seeks his loved paternal bower,

  And shares the feast his native fields supply.

  Friendship and Love, his cottage guests, receive him

  With honest welcome and with smile sincere:

  No threatening woes of present joys bereave him;

  No sigh his bosom owns, his cheek no tear.

  Ah! happy swain! such bliss to me denying,

  Fortune thy lot with envy bids me view;

  Me, who, from home and Spain an exile flying,

  Bid all I value, all I love, adieu.

  No more mine ear shall list the well-known ditty

  Sung by some mountain girl, who tends her goats,

  Some village-swain imploring amorous pity,

  Or shepherd chanting wild his rustic notes.

  No more my arms a parent’s fond embraces,

  No more my heart domestic calm must know;

  Far from these joys, with sighs which memory traces,

  To sultry skies and distant climes I go.

  Where Indian suns engend
er new diseases,

  Where snakes and tigers breed, I bend my way

  To brave the feverish thirst no art appeases,

  The yellow plague, and madding blaze of day.

  But not to feel slow pangs consume my liver,

  To die by piece-meal in the bloom of age,

  My boiling blood drunk by insatiate fever,

  And brain delirious with the day-star’s rage,

  Can make me know such grief, as thus to sever,

  With many a bitter sigh, dear land! from thee;

  To feel this heart must dote on thee for ever,

  And feel that all thy joys are torn from me!

  Ah me! how oft will fancy’s spells, in slumber,

  Recall my native country to my mind!

  How oft regret will bid me sadly number

  Each lost delight, and dear friend left behind!

  Wild Murcia’s vales and loved romantic bowers,

  The river on whose banks a child I played,

  My castle’s antient halls, its frowning towers,

  Each much-regretted wood, and well-known glade;

  Dreams of the land where all my wishes centre,

  Thy scenes, which I am doomed no more to know,

  Full oft shall memory trace, my soul’s tormentor,

  And turn each pleasure past to present woe.

  But, lo! the sun beneath the waves retires;

  Night speeds apace her empire to restore;

  Clouds from my sight obscure the village-spires,

  Now seen but faintly, and now seen no more.

  Oh! breathe not, winds! Still be the water’s motion!

  Sleep, sleep, my bark, in silence on the main!

  So, when to-morrow’s light shall gild the ocean,

  Once more mine eyes shall see the coast of Spain.