The Monk, Page 4

  The calm of the hour and solitude of the place contributed to nourish Lorenzo’s disposition to melancholy. He threw himself upon a seat which stood near him, and abandoned himself to the delusions of his fancy. He thought of his union with Antonia; he thought of the obstacles which might oppose his wishes; and a thousand changing visions floated before his fancy, sad ’Tis true, but not unpleasing. Sleep insensibly stole over him, and the tranquil solemnity of his mind when awake, for a while continued to influence his slumbers.

  He still fancied himself to be in the church of the Capuchins; but it was no longer dark and solitary. Multitudes of silver lamps shed splendour from the vaulted roofs; accompanied by the captivating chaunt of distant choristers, the organ’s melody swelled through the church; the altar seemed decorated as for some distinguished feast; it was surrounded by a brilliant company; and near it stood Antonia arrayed in bridal white, and blushing with all the charms of virgin modesty.

  Half hoping, half fearing, Lorenzo gazed upon the scene before him. Sudden the door leading to the abbey unclosed; and he saw, attended by a long train of monks, the preacher advance to whom he had just listened with so much admiration. He drew near Antonia.

  “And where is the bridegroom?” said the imaginary friar.

  Antonia seemed to look round the church with anxiety. Involuntarily the youth advanced a few steps from his concealment. She saw him; the blush of pleasure glowed upon her cheek; with a graceful motion of her hand she beckoned to him to advance. He disobeyed not the command; he flew towards her, and threw himself at her feet.

  She retreated for a moment; then gazing upon him with unutterable delight, “Yes,” she exclaimed, “my bridegroom! my destined bridegroom!”

  She said, and hastened to throw herself into his arms; but before he had time to receive her, an unknown rushed between them: his form was gigantic; his complexion was swarthy, his eyes fierce and terrible; his mouth breathed out volumes of fire, and on his forehead was written in legible characters—“Pride! Lust! Inhumanity!”

  Antonia shrieked. The monster clasped her in his arms, and, springing with her upon the altar, tortured her with his odious caresses. She endeavoured in vain to escape from his embrace. Lorenzo flew to her succour; but, ere he had time to reach her, a loud burst of thunder was heard. Instantly the cathedral seemed crumbling into pieces; the monks betook themselves to flight, shrieking fearfully; the lamps were extinguished, the altar sunk down, and in its place appeared an abyss vomiting forth clouds of flame. Uttering a loud and terrible cry the monster plunged into the gulph, and in his fall attempted to drag Antonia with him. He strove in vain. Animated by supernatural powers, she disengaged herself from his embrace; but her white robe was left in his possession. Instantly a wing of brilliant splendour spread itself from either of Antonia’s arms. She darted upwards, and while ascending cried to Lorenzo, “Friend! we shall meet above!”

  At the same moment the roof of the cathedral opened; harmonious voices pealed along the vaults; and the glory into which Antonia was received, was composed of rays of such dazzling brightness, that Lorenzo was unable to sustain the gaze. His sight failed, and he sunk upon the ground.

  When he awoke he found himself extended upon the pavement of the church: it was illuminated, and the chaunt of hymns sounded from a distance. For a while Lorenzo could not persuade himself that what he had just witnessed had been a dream, so strong an impression had it made upon his fancy. A little recollection convinced him of its fallacy: the lamps had been lighted during his sleep, and the music which he heard was occasioned by the monks, who were celebrating their vespers in the abbey-chapel.

  Lorenzo rose, and prepared to bend his steps towards his sister’s convent; his mind fully occupied by the singularity of his dream. He already drew near the porch, when his attention was attracted by perceiving a shadow moving upon the opposite wall. He looked curiously round, and soon descried a man wrapped up in his cloak, who seemed carefully examining whether his actions were observed. Very few people are exempt from the influence of curiosity. The unknown seemed anxious to conceal his business in the cathedral; and it was this very circumstance which made Lorenzo wish to discover what he was about.

  Our hero was conscious that he had no right to pry into the secrets of this unknown cavalier.

  “I will go,” said Lorenzo. And Lorenzo stayed where he was.

  The shadow thrown by the column effectually concealed him from the stranger, who continued to advance with caution. At length he drew a letter from beneath his cloak, and hastily placed it beneath a colossal statue of St. Francis. Then retiring with precipitation, he concealed himself in a part of the church at a considerable distance from that in which the image stood.

  “So!” said Lorenzo to himself; “this is only some foolish love affair. I believe, I may as well be gone, for I can do no good in it.”

  In truth, till that moment it never came into his head that he could do any good in it; but he thought it necessary to make some little excuse to himself for having indulged his curiosity. He now made a second attempt to retire from the church. For this time he gained the porch without meeting with any impediment; but it was destined that he should pay it another visit that night. As he descended the steps leading into the street, a cavalier rushed against him with such violence, that both were nearly overturned by the concussion. Lorenzo put his hand to his sword.

  “How now, Segnor?” said he; “what mean you by this rudeness?”

  “Ha! is it you, Medina?” replied the new comer, whom Lorenzo by his voice now recognized for Don Christoval. “You are the luckiest fellow in the universe, not to have left the church before my return. In, in! my dear lad! they will be here immediately!”

  “Who will be here?”

  “The old hen and all her pretty little chickens. In, I say; and then you shall know the whole history.”

  Lorenzo followed him into the cathedral, and they concealed themselves behind the statue of St. Francis.

  “And now,” said our hero, “may I take the liberty of asking what is the meaning of all this haste and rapture?”

  “Oh! Lorenzo, we shall see such a glorious sight! The prioress of St. Clare and her whole train of nuns are coming hither. You are to know, that the pious father Ambrosio [the Lord reward him for it!] will upon no account move out of his own precincts. It being absolutely necessary for every fashionable convent to have him for its confessor, the nuns are in consequence obliged to visit him at the abbey; since, when the mountain will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet must needs go to the mountain. Now the prioress of St. Clare, the better to escape the gaze of such impure eyes as belong to yourself and your humble servant, thinks proper to bring her holy flock to confession in the dusk: she is to be admitted into the abbey-chapel by yon private door. The porteress of St. Clare, who is a worthy old soul and a particular friend of mine, has just assured me of their being here in a few moments. There is news for you, you rogue! We shall see some of the prettiest faces in Madrid!”

  “In truth, Christoval, we shall do no such thing. The nuns are always veiled.”

  “No! no! I know better. On entering a place of worship, they ever take off their veils, from respect to the saint to whom ’Tis dedicated. But hark, they are coming! Silence! silence! Observe, and be convinced.”

  “Good!” said Lorenzo to himself; “I may possibly discover to whom the vows are addressed of this mysterious stranger.”

  Scarcely had Don Christoval ceased to speak, when the domina of St. Clare appeared, followed by a long procession of nuns. Each upon entering the church took off her veil. The prioress crossed her hands upon her bosom, and made a profound reverence as she passed the statue of St. Francis, the patron of this cathedral. The nuns followed her example, and several moved onwards without having satisfied Lorenzo’s curiosity. He almost began to despair of seeing the mystery cleared up, when, in paying her respects to St. Francis, one of the nuns happened to drop her rosary. As she stooped to pick it up the light flashed full
in her face. At the same moment she dexterously removed the letter from beneath the image, placed it in her bosom, and hastened to resume her rank in the procession.

  “Ha!” said Christoval in a low voice, “here we have some little intrigue; no doubt.”

  “Agnes, by heaven!” cried Lorenzo.

  “What, your sister? Diavolo! Then somebody, I suppose, will have to pay for our peeping.”

  “And shall pay for it without delay,” replied the incensed brother.

  The pious procession had now entered the abbey; the door was already closed upon it. The unknown immediately quitted his concealment, and hastened to leave the church: ere he could effect his intention, he descried Medina stationed in his passage. The stranger hastily retreated, and drew his hat over his eyes.

  “Attempt not to fly me!” exclaimed Lorenzo; “I will know who you are, and what were the contents of that letter.”

  “Of that letter?” repeated the unknown. “And by what title do you ask the question?”

  “By a title of which I am now ashamed; but it becomes not you to question me. Either reply circumstantially to my demands, or answer me with your sword.”

  “The latter method will be the shortest,” rejoined the other, drawing his rapier; “come on, Segnor Bravo! I am ready.”

  Burning with rage, Lorenzo hastened to the attack: the antagonists had already exchanged several passes, before Christoval, who at that moment had more sense than either of them, could throw himself between their weapons.

  “Hold! hold! Medina!” he exclaimed; “remember the consequences of shedding blood on consecrated ground!”

  The stranger immediately dropped his sword.

  “Medina?” he cried. “Great God, is it possible! Lorenzo, have you quite forgotten Raymond de las Cisternas?”

  Lorenzo’s astonishment increased with every succeeding moment. Raymond advanced towards him; but with a look of suspicion he drew back his hand, which the other was preparing to take.

  “You here, Marquis? What is the meaning of all this? You engaged in a clandestine correspondence with my sister, whose affections———”

  “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 condé 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 phœnix 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 condé? 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 sung the following ballad:

  THE GIPSY’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 Gipsy’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 gipsy, 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 gipsy’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 GIPSY.

  “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 gipsy looked at it for a moment, and then made this reply:

  THE GIPSY.

  “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 all tax 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,