The Monk, Page 8

  “Be calm, my friend! my Rosario! still let me call you by that name so dear to me: our separation is unavoidable; I blush to own how sensibly it affects me.—But yet it must be so; I feel myself incapable of treating you with indifference; and that very conviction obliges me to insist upon your departure. Matilda, you must stay here no longer.”

  “Oh! where shall I now seek for probity? Disgusted with a perfidious world, in what happy region does Truth conceal herself? Father, I hoped that she resided here; I thought that your bosom had been her favourite shrine. And you too prove false? Oh God! and you too can betray me?”

  “Matilda?”

  “Yes, father, yes; ’Tis with justice that I reproach you. Oh! where are your promises? My noviciate is not expired, and yet will you compel me to quit the monastery? Can you have the heart to drive me from you? and have I not received your solemn oath to the contrary?”

  “I will not compel you to quit the monastery; you have received my solemn oath to the contrary: but yet, when I throw myself upon your generosity; when I declare to you the embarrassments in which your presence involves me, will you not release me from that oath? Reflect upon the danger of a discovery; upon the opprobrium in which such an event would plunge me: reflect, that my honour and reputation are at stake; and that my peace of mind depends on your compliance. As yet, my heart is free; I shall separate from you with regret, but not with despair. Stay here, and a few weeks will sacrifice my happiness on the altar of your charms; you are but too interesting, too amiable! I should love you, I should doat on you! my bosom would become the prey of desires, which honour and my profession forbid me to gratify. If I resisted them, the impetuosity of my wishes unsatisfied would drive me to madness: if I yielded to the temptation, I should sacrifice to one moment of guilty pleasure, my reputation in this world, my salvation in the next. To you, then, I fly for defence against myself. Preserve me from losing the reward of thirty years of sufferings! preserve me from becoming the victim of remorse! Your heart has already felt the anguish of hopeless love: oh! then, if you really value me, spare mine that anguish! give me back my promise; fly from these walls. Go, and you bear with you my warmest prayers for your happiness, my friendship, my esteem, and admiration: stay, and you become to me the source of danger, of sufferings, of despair. Answer me, Matilda, what is your resolve?” She was silent.—“Will you not speak, Matilda? Will you not name your choice?”

  “Cruel! cruel!” she exclaimed, wringing her hands in agony; “you know too well that you offer me no choice: you know too well that I can have no will but yours!”

  “I was not then deceived. Matilda’s generosity equals my expectations.”

  “Yes; I will prove the truth of my affection by submitting to a decree which cuts me to the very heart. Take back your promise. I will quit the monastery this very day. I have a relation, abbess of a convent in Estramadura: to her will I bend my steps, and shut myself from the world for ever. Yet tell me, father, shall I bear your good wishes with me to my solitude? Will you sometimes abstract your attention from heavenly objects to bestow a thought upon me?”

  “Ah! Matilda, I fear that I shall think on you but too often for my repose!”

  “Then I have nothing more to wish for, save that we may meet in heaven. Farewell, my friend! my Ambrosio! And yet, methinks, I would fain bear with me some token of your regard.”

  “What shall I give you?”

  “Something—any thing—one of those flowers will be sufficient.” [Here she pointed to a bush of roses, planted at the door of the grotto.] “I will hide it in my bosom, and, when I am dead, the nuns shall find it withered upon my heart.”

  The friar was unable to reply: with slow steps, and a soul heavy with affliction, he quitted the hermitage. He approached the bush, and stooped to pluck one of the roses. Suddenly he uttered a piercing cry, started back hastily, and let the flower, which he already held, fall from his hand. Matilda heard the shriek, and flew anxiously towards him.

  “What is the matter?” she cried. “Answer me, for God’s sake! What has happened?”

  “I have received my death,” he replied in a faint voice: “concealed among the roses—a serpent—”

  Here the pain of his wound became so exquisite, that nature was unable to bear it: his senses abandoned him, and he sunk inanimate into Matilda’s arms.

  Her distress was beyond the power of description. She rent her hair, beat her bosom, and, not daring to quit Ambrosio, endeavoured by loud cries to summon the monks to her assistance. She at length succeeded. Alarmed by her shrieks, several of the brothers hastened to the spot, and the superior was conveyed back to the abbey. He was immediately put to bed, and the monk, who officiated as surgeon to the fraternity, prepared to examine the wound. By this time Ambrosio’s hand had swelled to an extraordinary size: the remedies which had been administered to him, ’Tis true, restored him to life, but not to his senses: he raved in all the horrors of delirium, foamed at the mouth, and four of the strongest monks were scarcely able to hold him in his bed.

  Father Pablos (such was the surgeon’s name) hastened to examine the wounded hand. The monks surrounded the bed, anxiously waiting for the decision: among these the feigned Rosario appeared not the most insensible to the friar’s calamity: he gazed upon the sufferer with inexpressible anguish; and his groans, which every moment escaped from his bosom, sufficiently betrayed the violence of his affliction.

  Father Pablos probed the wound. As he drew out his lancet, its point was tinged with a greenish hue. He shook his head mournfully, and quitted the bed side.

  “ ’Tis as I feared,” said he; “there is no hope.”

  “No hope!” exclaimed the monks with one voice; “say you, no hope?”

  “From the sudden effects, I suspected that the abbot was stung by a cientipedoro* : the venom which you see upon my lancet confirms my idea. He cannot live three days.”

  “And can no possible remedy be found?” enquired Rosario.

  “Without extracting the poison, he cannot recover; and how to extract it is to me still a secret. All that I can do is to apply such herbs to the wound as will relieve the anguish: the patient will be restored to his senses; but the venom will corrupt the whole mass of his blood, and in three days he will exist no longer.”

  Excessive was the universal grief at hearing this decision. Pablos, as he had promised, dressed the wound, and then retired, followed by his companions. Rosario alone remained in the cell, the abbot, at his urgent entreaty, having been committed to his care. Ambrosio’s strength worn out by the violence of his exertions, he had by this time fallen into a profound sleep. So totally was he overcome by weariness, that he scarcely gave any signs of life. He was still in this situation, when the monks returned to enquire whether any change had taken place. Pablos loosened the bandage which concealed the wound, more from a principle of curiosity, than from indulging the hope of discovering any favourable symptoms. What was his astonishment at finding that the inflammation had totally subsided! He probed the hand; his lancet came out pure and unsullied; no traces of the venom were perceptible; and had not the orifice still been visible, Pablos might have doubted that there had ever been a wound.

  He communicated this intelligence to his brethren: their delight was only equalled by their surprise. From the latter sentiment, however, they were soon released, by explaining the circumstance according to their own ideas. They were perfectly convinced that their superior was a saint, and thought that nothing could be more natural than for St. Francis to have operated a miracle in his favour. This opinion was adopted unanimously. They declared it so loudly, and vociferated “A miracle! a miracle!” with such fervour, that they soon interrupted Ambrosio’s slumbers.

  The monks immediately crowded round his bed, and expressed their satisfaction at his wonderful recovery. He was perfectly in his senses, and free from every complaint, except feeling weak and languid. Pablos gave him a strengthening medicine, and advised his keeping his bed for the two succeeding da
ys: he then retired, having desired his patient not to exhaust himself by conversation, but rather to endeavour at taking some repose. The other monks followed his example, and the abbot and Rosario were left without observers.

  For some minutes Ambrosio regarded his attendant with a look of mingled pleasure and apprehension. She was seated upon the side of the bed, her head bending down, and, as usual, enveloped in the cowl of her habit.

  “And you are still here, Matilda?” said the friar at length; “are you not satisfied with having so nearly effected my destruction, that nothing but a miracle could have saved me from the grave? Ah! surely heaven sent that serpent to punish——”

  Matilda interrupted him by putting her hand before his lips with an air of gaiety.

  “Hush! father, hush! you must not talk.”

  “He who imposed that order, knew not how interesting are the subjects on which I wish to speak.”

  “But I know it, and yet issue the same positive command. I am appointed your nurse, and you must not disobey my orders.”

  “You are in spirits, Matilda!”

  “Well may I be so; I have just received a pleasure unexampled through my whole life.”

  “What was that pleasure?”

  “What I must conceal from all, but most from you.”

  “But most from me? Nay then, I entreat you, Matilda——”

  “Hush! father, hush! you must not talk. But as you do not seem inclined to sleep, shall I endeavour to amuse you with my harp?”

  “How! I knew not that you understood music.”

  “Oh! I am a sorry performer! Yet as silence is prescribed you for eight-and-forty hours, I may possibly entertain you, when wearied of your own reflections. I go to fetch my harp.”

  She soon returned with it.

  “Now, father, what shall I sing? Will you hear the ballad which treats of the gallant Durandarte, who died in the famous battle of Roncevalles?”

  “What you please, Matilda.”

  “Oh! call me not Matilda! Call me Rosario, call me your friend. Those are the names which I love to hear from your lips. Now listen.”

  She then tuned her harp, and afterwards preluded for some moments with such exquisite taste as to prove her a perfect mistress of the instrument. The air which she played was soft and plaintive. Ambrosio, while he listened, felt his uneasiness subside, and a pleasing melancholy spread itself into his bosom. Suddenly Matilda changed the strain: with an hand bold and rapid, she struck a few loud martial chords, and then chanted the following ballad to an air at once simple and melodious:

  DURANDARTE AND BELERMA.

  Sad and fearful is the story

  Of the Roncevalles fight;

  On those fatal plains of glory

  Perished many a gallant knight.

  There fell Durandarte: never

  Verse a nobler chieftain named:

  He, before his lips for ever

  Clos’d in silence, thus exclaimed:

  “Oh! Belerma! Oh! my dear one,

  For my pain and pleasure born,

  Seven long years I serv’d thee, fair one,

  Seven long years my fee was scorn.

  “And when now thy heart, replying

  To my wishes, burns like mine,

  Cruel fate, my bliss denying,

  Bids me every hope resign.

  “Ah! though young I fall, believe me,

  Death would never claim a sigh;

  ’Tis to lose thee, ’Tis to leave thee,

  Makes me think it hard to die!

  “Oh! my cousin Montesinos,

  By that friendship firm and dear,

  Which from youth has lived between us,

  Now my last petition hear:

  “When my soul, these limbs forsaking,

  Eager seeks a purer air,

  From my breast the cold heart taking,

  Give it to Belerma’s care.

  “Say, I of my lands possessor

  Named her with my dying breath:

  Say, my lips I op’d to bless her,

  Ere they clos’d for aye in death:

  “Twice a week, too, how sincerely

  I ador’d her, cousin, say:

  Twice a week, for one who dearly

  Lov’d her, cousin, bid her pray.

  “Montesinos, now the hour

  Mark’d by fate is near at hand:

  Lo! my arm has lost its power!

  Lo! I drop my trusty brand.

  “Eyes, which forth beheld me going,

  Homewards ne’er shall see me hie:

  Cousin, stop those tears o’erflowing,

  Let me on thy bosom die.

  “Thy kind hand my eye-lids closing,

  Yet one favour I implore:

  Pray thou for my soul’s reposing,

  When my heart shall throb no more.

  “So shall Jesus, still attending,

  Gracious to a Christian’s vow,

  Pleas’d accept my ghost ascending,

  And a feat in heaven allow.”

  Thus spoke gallant Durandarte;

  Soon his brave heart broke in twain.

  Greatly joy’d the Moorish party,

  That the gallant knight was slain.

  Bitter weeping, Montesinos

  Took from him his helm and glaive;

  Bitter weeping, Montesinos

  Dug his gallant cousin’s grave.

  To perform his promise made, he

  Cut the heart from out the breast,

  That Belerma, wretched lady!

  Might receive the last bequest.

  Sad was Montesinos’ heart, he

  Felt distress his bosom rend.

  “Oh! my cousin Durandarte,

  Woe is me to view thy end!

  “Sweet in manners, fair in favour,

  Mild in temper, fierce in fight,

  Warrior nobler, gentler, braver,

  Never shall behold the light.

  “Cousin, lo! my tears bedew thee;

  How shall I thy loss survive?

  Durandarte, he who slew thee,

  Wherefore left he me alive?”

  While she sung, Ambrosio listened with delight: never had he heard a voice more harmonious; and he wondered how such heavenly sounds could be produced by any but angels. But though he indulged the sense of hearing, a single look convinced him, that he must not trust to that of sight. The songstress sat at a little distance from his bed. The attitude in which she bent over her harp was easy and graceful: her cowl had fallen backwarder than usual: two coral lips were visible, ripe, fresh, and melting, and a chin, in whose dimples seemed to lurk a thousand Cupids. Her habit’s long sleeve would have swept along the chords of the instrument: to prevent this inconvenience she had drawn it above her elbow; and by this means an arm was discovered, formed in the most perfect symmetry, the delicacy of whose skin might have contended with snow in whiteness. Ambrosio dared to look on her but once: that glance sufficed to convince him, how dangerous was the presence of this seducing object. He closed his eyes, but strove in vain to banish her from his thoughts. There she still moved before him, adorned with all those charms which his heated imagination could supply. Every beauty which he had seen appeared embellished; and those still concealed fancy represented to him in glowing colours. Still, however, his vows, and the necessity of keeping to them, were present to his memory. He struggled with desire, and shuddered when he beheld how deep was the precipice before him.

  Matilda ceased to sing. Dreading the influence of her charms, Ambrosio remained with his eyes closed, and offered up his prayers to St. Francis to assist him in this dangerous trial! Matilda believed that he was sleeping: she rose from her seat, approached the bed softly, and for some minutes gazed upon him attentively.

  “He sleeps!” said she at length in a low voice, but whose accents the abbot distinguished perfectly: “now then I may gaze upon him without offence; I may mix my breath with his; I may doat upon his features, and he cannot suspect me of impurity and deceit. He fears my
seducing him to the violation of his vows. Oh! the unjust! Were it my wish to excite desire, should I conceal my features from him so carefully?—those features, of which I daily hear him—”

  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!”