CHAPTER VI.

While in each other’s arms entranced They lay,

They blessed the night, and curst the coming day.

LEE.

The burst of transport was past: Ambrosio’s lust was satisfied;

Pleasure fled, and Shame usurped her seat in his bosom. Confused and

terrified at his weakness, He drew himself from Matilda’s arms. His

perjury presented itself before him: He reflected on the scene which

had just been acted, and trembled at the consequences of a discovery.

He looked forward with horror; His heart was despondent, and became the

abode of satiety and disgust. He avoided the eyes of his Partner in

frailty; A melancholy silence prevailed, during which Both seemed

busied with disagreeable reflections.

Matilda was the first to break it. She took his hand gently, and

pressed it to her burning lips.

“Ambrosio!” She murmured in a soft and trembling voice.

The Abbot started at the sound. He turned his eyes upon Matilda’s: They

were filled with tears; Her cheeks were covered with blushes, and her

supplicating looks seemed to solicit his compassion.

“Dangerous Woman!” said He; “Into what an abyss of misery have you

plunged me! Should your sex be discovered, my honour, nay my life, must

pay for the pleasure of a few moments. Fool that I was, to trust myself

to your seductions! What can now be done? How can my offence be

expiated? What atonement can purchase the pardon of my crime? Wretched

Matilda, you have destroyed my quiet for ever!”

“To me these reproaches, Ambrosio? To me, who have sacrificed for you

the world’s pleasures, the luxury of wealth, the delicacy of sex, my

Friends, my fortune, and my fame? What have you lost, which I

preserved? Have _I_ not shared in _your_ guilt? Have _you_ not shared

in _my_ pleasure? Guilt, did I say? In what consists ours, unless in

the opinion of an ill-judging World? Let that World be ignorant of

them, and our joys become divine and blameless! Unnatural were your

vows of Celibacy; Man was not created for such a state; And were Love a

crime, God never would have made it so sweet, so irresistible! Then

banish those clouds from your brow, my Ambrosio! Indulge in those

pleasures freely, without which life is a worthless gift: Cease to

reproach me with having taught you what is bliss, and feel equal

transports with the Woman who adores you!”

As She spoke, her eyes were filled with a delicious languor. Her bosom

panted: She twined her arms voluptuously round him, drew him towards

her, and glewed her lips to his. Ambrosio again raged with desire: The

die was thrown: His vows were already broken; He had already committed

the crime, and why should He refrain from enjoying its reward? He

clasped her to his breast with redoubled ardour. No longer repressed by

the sense of shame, He gave a loose to his intemperate appetites. While

the fair Wanton put every invention of lust in practice, every

refinement in the art of pleasure which might heighten the bliss of her

possession, and render her Lover’s transports still more exquisite,

Ambrosio rioted in delights till then unknown to him: Swift fled the

night, and the Morning blushed to behold him still clasped in the

embraces of Matilda.

Intoxicated with pleasure, the Monk rose from the Syren’s luxurious

Couch. He no longer reflected with shame upon his incontinence, or

dreaded the vengeance of offended heaven. His only fear was lest Death

should rob him of enjoyments, for which his long Fast had only given a

keener edge to his appetite. Matilda was still under the influence of

poison, and the voluptuous Monk trembled less for his Preserver’s life

than his Concubine’s. Deprived of her, He would not easily find another

Mistress with whom He could indulge his passions so fully, and so

safely. He therefore pressed her with earnestness to use the means of

preservation which She had declared to be in her possession.

“Yes!” replied Matilda; “Since you have made me feel that Life is

valuable, I will rescue mine at any rate. No dangers shall appall me: I

will look upon the consequences of my action boldly, nor shudder at the

horrors which they present. I will think my sacrifice scarcely worthy

to purchase your possession, and remember that a moment past in your

arms in this world o’er-pays an age of punishment in the next. But

before I take this step, Ambrosio, give me your solemn oath never to

enquire by what means I shall preserve myself.”

He did so in a manner the most binding.

“I thank you, my Beloved. This precaution is necessary, for though you

know it not, you are under the command of vulgar prejudices: The

Business on which I must be employed this night, might startle you from

its singularity, and lower me in your opinion. Tell me; Are you

possessed of the Key of the low door on the western side of the

Garden?”

“The Door which opens into the burying-ground common to us and the

Sisterhood of St. Clare? I have not the Key, but can easily procure

it.”

“You have only this to do. Admit me into the burying-ground at

midnight; Watch while I descend into the vaults of St. Clare, lest some

prying eye should observe my actions; Leave me there alone for an hour,

and that life is safe which I dedicate to your pleasures. To prevent

creating suspicion, do not visit me during the day. Remember the Key,

and that I expect you before twelve. Hark! I hear steps approaching!

Leave me; I will pretend to sleep.”

The Friar obeyed, and left the Cell. As He opened the door, Father

Pablos made his appearance.

“I come,” said the Latter, “to enquire after the health of my young

Patient.”

“Hush!” replied Ambrosio, laying his finger upon his lip; “Speak

softly; I am just come from him. He has fallen into a profound slumber,

which doubtless will be of service to him. Do not disturb him at

present, for He wishes to repose.”

Father Pablos obeyed, and hearing the Bell ring, accompanied the Abbot

to Matins. Ambrosio felt embarrassed as He entered the Chapel. Guilt

was new to him, and He fancied that every eye could read the

transactions of the night upon his countenance. He strove to pray; His

bosom no longer glowed with devotion; His thoughts insensibly wandered

to Matilda’s secret charms. But what He wanted in purity of heart, He

supplied by exterior sanctity. The better to cloak his transgression,

He redoubled his pretensions to the semblance of virtue, and never

appeared more devoted to Heaven as since He had broken through his

engagements. Thus did He unconsciously add Hypocrisy to perjury and

incontinence; He had fallen into the latter errors from yielding to

seduction almost irresistible; But he was now guilty of a voluntary

fault by endeavouring to conceal those into which Another had betrayed

him.

The Matins concluded, Ambrosio retired to his Cell. The pleasures which

He had just tasted for the first time were still impressed upon his

mind. His brain was bewildered, and presented a confused Chaos of

remorse, voluptuousness, inquietude, and fear. He looked back with

regret to that peace of soul, that security of virtue, which till then

had been his portion. He had indulged in excesses whose very idea but

four and twenty hours before He had recoiled at with horror. He

shuddered at reflecting that a trifling indiscretion on his part, or on

Matilda’s, would overturn that fabric of reputation which it had cost

him thirty years to erect, and render him the abhorrence of that People

of whom He was then the Idol. Conscience painted to him in glaring

colours his perjury and weakness; Apprehension magnified to him the

horrors of punishment, and He already fancied himself in the prisons of

the Inquisition. To these tormenting ideas succeeded Matilda’s beauty,

and those delicious lessons which, once learnt, can never be forgotten.

A single glance thrown upon these reconciled him with himself. He

considered the pleasures of the former night to have been purchased at

an easy price by the sacrifice of innocence and honour. Their very

remembrance filled his soul with ecstacy; He cursed his foolish vanity,

which had induced him to waste in obscurity the bloom of life, ignorant

of the blessings of Love and Woman. He determined at all events to

continue his commerce with Matilda, and called every argument to his

aid which might confirm his resolution. He asked himself, provided his

irregularity was unknown, in what would his fault consist, and what

consequences He had to apprehend? By adhering strictly to every rule of

his order save Chastity, He doubted not to retain the esteem of Men,

and even the protection of heaven. He trusted easily to be forgiven so

slight and natural a deviation from his vows: But He forgot that having

pronounced those vows, Incontinence, in Laymen the most venial of

errors, became in his person the most heinous of crimes.

Once decided upon his future conduct, his mind became more easy. He

threw himself upon his bed, and strove by sleeping to recruit his

strength exhausted by his nocturnal excesses. He awoke refreshed, and

eager for a repetition of his pleasures. Obedient to Matilda’s order,

He visited not her Cell during the day. Father Pablos mentioned in the

Refectory that Rosario had at length been prevailed upon to follow his

prescription; But that the medicine had not produced the slightest

effect, and that He believed no mortal skill could rescue him from the

Grave. With this opinion the Abbot agreed, and affected to lament the

untimely fate of a Youth, whose talents had appeared so promising.

The night arrived. Ambrosio had taken care to procure from the Porter

the Key of the low door opening into the Cemetery. Furnished with this,

when all was silent in the Monastery, He quitted his Cell, and hastened

to Matilda’s. She had left her bed, and was drest before his arrival.

“I have been expecting you with impatience,” said She; “My life depends

upon these moments. Have you the Key?”

“I have.”

“Away then to the garden. We have no time to lose. Follow me!”

She took a small covered Basket from the Table. Bearing this in one

hand, and the Lamp, which was flaming upon the Hearth, in the other,

She hastened from the Cell. Ambrosio followed her. Both maintained a

profound silence. She moved on with quick but cautious steps, passed

through the Cloisters, and reached the Western side of the Garden. Her

eyes flashed with a fire and wildness which impressed the Monk at once

with awe and horror. A determined desperate courage reigned upon her

brow. She gave the Lamp to Ambrosio; Then taking from him the Key, She

unlocked the low Door, and entered the Cemetery. It was a vast and

spacious Square planted with yew trees: Half of it belonged to the

Abbey; The other half was the property of the Sisterhood of St. Clare,

and was protected by a roof of Stone. The Division was marked by an

iron railing, the wicket of which was generally left unlocked.

Thither Matilda bent her course. She opened the wicket and sought for

the door leading to the subterraneous Vaults, where reposed the

mouldering Bodies of the Votaries of St. Clare. The night was perfectly

dark; Neither Moon or Stars were visible. Luckily there was not a

breath of Wind, and the Friar bore his Lamp in full security: By the

assistance of its beams, the door of the Sepulchre was soon discovered.

It was sunk within the hollow of a wall, and almost concealed by thick

festoons of ivy hanging over it. Three steps of rough-hewn Stone

conducted to it, and Matilda was on the point of descending them when

She suddenly started back.

“There are People in the Vaults!” She whispered to the Monk; “Conceal

yourself till they are past.

She took refuge behind a lofty and magnificent Tomb, erected in honour

of the Convent’s Foundress. Ambrosio followed her example, carefully

hiding his Lamp lest its beams should betray them. But a few moments

had elapsed when the Door was pushed open leading to the subterraneous

Caverns. Rays of light proceeded up the Staircase: They enabled the

concealed Spectators to observe two Females drest in religious habits,

who seemed engaged in earnest conversation. The Abbot had no difficulty

to recognize the Prioress of St. Clare in the first, and one of the

elder Nuns in her Companion.

“Every thing is prepared,” said the Prioress; “Her fate shall be

decided tomorrow. All her tears and sighs will be unavailing. No! In

five and twenty years that I have been Superior of this Convent, never

did I witness a transaction more infamous!”

“You must expect much opposition to your will;” the Other replied in a

milder voice; “Agnes has many Friends in the Convent, and in particular

the Mother St. Ursula will espouse her cause most warmly. In truth, She

merits to have Friends; and I wish I could prevail upon you to consider

her youth, and her peculiar situation. She seems sensible of her fault;

The excess of her grief proves her penitence, and I am convinced that

her tears flow more from contrition than fear of punishment. Reverend

Mother, would you be persuaded to mitigate the severity of your

sentence, would you but deign to overlook this first transgression, I

offer myself as the pledge of her future conduct.”

“Overlook it, say you? Mother Camilla, you amaze me! What? After

disgracing me in the presence of Madrid’s Idol, of the very Man on whom

I most wished to impress an idea of the strictness of my discipline?

How despicable must I have appeared to the reverend Abbot! No, Mother,

No! I never can forgive the insult. I cannot better convince Ambrosio

that I abhor such crimes, than by punishing that of Agnes with all the

rigour of which our severe laws admit. Cease then your supplications;

They will all be unavailing. My resolution is taken: Tomorrow Agnes

shall be made a terrible example of my justice and resentment.”

The Mother Camilla seemed not to give up the point, but by this time

the Nuns were out of hearing. The Prioress unlocked the door which

communicated with St. Clare’s Chapel, and having entered with her

Companion, closed it again after them.

Matilda now asked, who was this Agnes with whom the Prioress was thus

incensed, and what connexion She could have with Ambrosio. He related

her adventure; and He added, that since that time his ideas having

undergone a thorough revolution, He now felt much compassion for the

unfortunate Nun.

“I design,” said He, “to request an audience of the Domina tomorrow,

and use every means of obtaining a mitigation of her sentence.”

“Beware of what you do!” interrupted Matilda; “Your sudden change of

sentiment may naturally create surprize, and may give birth to

suspicions which it is most our interest to avoid. Rather, redouble

your outward austerity, and thunder out menaces against the errors of

others, the better to conceal your own. Abandon the Nun to her fate.

Your interfering might be dangerous, and her imprudence merits to be

punished: She is unworthy to enjoy Love’s pleasures, who has not wit

enough to conceal them. But in discussing this trifling subject I waste

moments which are precious. The night flies apace, and much must be

done before morning. The Nuns are retired; All is safe. Give me the

Lamp, Ambrosio. I must descend alone into these Caverns: Wait here, and

if any one approaches, warn me by your voice; But as you value your

existence, presume not to follow me. Your life would fall a victim to

your imprudent curiosity.”

Thus saying She advanced towards the Sepulchre, still holding her Lamp

in one hand, and her little Basket in the other. She touched the door:

It turned slowly upon its grating hinges, and a narrow winding

staircase of black marble presented itself to her eyes. She descended

it. Ambrosio remained above, watching the faint beams of the Lamp as

they still proceeded up the stairs. They disappeared, and He found

himself in total darkness.

Left to himself He could not reflect without surprize on the sudden

change in Matilda’s character and sentiments. But a few days had past

since She appeared the mildest and softest of her sex, devoted to his

will, and looking up to him as to a superior Being. Now She assumed a

sort of courage and manliness in her manners and discourse but

ill-calculated to please him. She spoke no longer to insinuate, but

command: He found himself unable to cope with her in argument, and was

unwillingly obliged to confess the superiority of her judgment. Every

moment convinced him of the astonishing powers of her mind: But what

She gained in the opinion of the Man, She lost with interest in the

affection of the Lover. He regretted Rosario, the fond, the gentle, and

submissive: He grieved that Matilda preferred the virtues of his sex to

those of her own; and when He thought of her expressions respecting the

devoted Nun, He could not help blaming them as cruel and unfeminine.

Pity is a sentiment so natural, so appropriate to the female character,

that it is scarcely a merit for a Woman to possess it, but to be

without it is a grievous crime. Ambrosio could not easily forgive his

Mistress for being deficient in this amiable quality. However, though

he blamed her insensibility, He felt the truth of her observations; and

though He pitied sincerely the unfortunate Agnes, He resolved to drop

the idea of interposing in her behalf.

Near an hour had elapsed, since Matilda descended into the Caverns;

Still She returned not. Ambrosio’s curiosity was excited. He drew near

the Staircase. He listened. All was silent, except that at intervals He

caught the sound of Matilda’s voice, as it wound along the

subterraneous passages, and was re-echoed by the Sepulchre’s vaulted

roofs. She was at too great a distance for him to distinguish her

words, and ere they reached him they were deadened into a low murmur.

He longed to penetrate into this mystery. He resolved to disobey her

injunctions and follow her into the Cavern. He advanced to the

Staircase; He had already descended some steps when his courage failed

him. He remembered Matilda’s menaces if He infringed her orders, and

his bosom was filled with a secret unaccountable awe. He returned up

the stairs, resumed his former station, and waited impatiently for the

conclusion of this adventure.

Suddenly He was sensible of a violent shock: An earthquake rocked the

ground. The Columns which supported the roof under which He stood were

so strongly shaken, that every moment menaced him with its fall, and at

the same moment He heard a loud and tremendous burst of thunder. It

ceased, and his eyes being fixed upon the Staircase, He saw a bright

column of light flash along the Caverns beneath. It was seen but for an

instant. No sooner did it disappear, than all was once more quiet and

obscure. Profound Darkness again surrounded him, and the silence of

night was only broken by the whirring Bat, as She flitted slowly by

him.

With every instant Ambrosio’s amazement increased. Another hour

elapsed, after which the same light again appeared and was lost again

as suddenly. It was accompanied by a strain of sweet but solemn Music,

which as it stole through the Vaults below, inspired the Monk with

mingled delight and terror. It had not long been hushed, when He heard

Matilda’s steps upon the Staircase. She ascended from the Cavern; The

most lively joy animated her beautiful features.

“Did you see any thing?” She asked.

“Twice I saw a column of light flash up the Staircase.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nothing.”

“The Morning is on the point of breaking. Let us retire to the Abbey,

lest daylight should betray us.”

With a light step She hastened from the burying-ground. She regained

her Cell, and the curious Abbot still accompanied her. She closed the

door, and disembarrassed herself of her Lamp and Basket.

“I have succeeded!” She cried, throwing herself upon his bosom:

“Succeeded beyond my fondest hopes! I shall live, Ambrosio, shall live

for you! The step which I shuddered at taking proves to me a source of

joys inexpressible! Oh! that I dared communicate those joys to you! Oh!

that I were permitted to share with you my power, and raise you as high

above the level of your sex, as one bold deed has exalted me above

mine!”

“And what prevents you, Matilda?” interrupted the Friar; “Why is your

business in the Cavern made a secret? Do you think me undeserving of

your confidence? Matilda, I must doubt the truth of your affection,

while you have joys in which I am forbidden to share.”

“You reproach me with injustice. I grieve sincerely that I am obliged

to conceal from you my happiness. But I am not to blame: The fault lies

not in me, but in yourself, my Ambrosio! You are still too much the

Monk. Your mind is enslaved by the prejudices of Education; And

Superstition might make you shudder at the idea of that which

experience has taught me to prize and value. At present you are unfit

to be trusted with a secret of such importance: But the strength of

your judgment; and the curiosity which I rejoice to see sparkling in

your eyes, makes me hope that you will one day deserve my confidence.

Till that period arrives, restrain your impatience. Remember that you

have given me your solemn oath never to enquire into this night’s

adventures. I insist upon your keeping this oath: For though” She added

smiling, while She sealed his lips with a wanton kiss; “Though I

forgive your breaking your vows to heaven, I expect you to keep your

vows to me.”

The Friar returned the embrace which had set his blood on fire. The

luxurious and unbounded excesses of the former night were renewed, and

they separated not till the Bell rang for Matins.

The same pleasures were frequently repeated. The Monks rejoiced in the

feigned Rosario’s unexpected recovery, and none of them suspected his

real sex. The Abbot possessed his Mistress in tranquillity, and

perceiving his frailty unsuspected, abandoned himself to his passions

in full security. Shame and remorse no longer tormented him. Frequent

repetitions made him familiar with sin, and his bosom became proof

against the stings of Conscience. In these sentiments He was encouraged

by Matilda; But She soon was aware that She had satiated her Lover by

the unbounded freedom of her caresses. Her charms becoming accustomed

to him, they ceased to excite the same desires which at first they had

inspired. The delirium of passion being past, He had leisure to observe

every trifling defect: Where none were to be found, Satiety made him

fancy them. The Monk was glutted with the fullness of pleasure: A Week

had scarcely elapsed before He was wearied of his Paramour: His warm

constitution still made him seek in her arms the gratification of his

lust: But when the moment of passion was over, He quitted her with

disgust, and his humour, naturally inconstant, made him sigh

impatiently for variety.

Possession, which cloys Man, only increases the affection of Woman.

Matilda with every succeeding day grew more attached to the Friar.

Since He had obtained her favours, He was become dearer to her than

ever, and She felt grateful to him for the pleasures in which they had

equally been Sharers. Unfortunately as her passion grew ardent,

Ambrosio’s grew cold; The very marks of her fondness excited his

disgust, and its excess served to extinguish the flame which already

burned but feebly in his bosom. Matilda could not but remark that her

society seemed to him daily less agreeable: He was inattentive while

She spoke: her musical talents, which She possessed in perfection, had

lost the power of amusing him; Or if He deigned to praise them, his

compliments were evidently forced and cold. He no longer gazed upon her

with affection, or applauded her sentiments with a Lover’s partiality.

This Matilda well perceived, and redoubled her efforts to revive those

sentiments which He once had felt. She could not but fail, since He

considered as importunities the pains which She took to please him, and

was disgusted by the very means which She used to recall the Wanderer.

Still, however, their illicit Commerce continued: But it was clear that

He was led to her arms, not by love, but the cravings of brutal

appetite. His constitution made a Woman necessary to him, and Matilda

was the only one with whom He could indulge his passions safely: In

spite of her beauty, He gazed upon every other Female with more desire;

But fearing that his Hypocrisy should be made public, He confined his

inclinations to his own breast.

It was by no means his nature to be timid: But his education had

impressed his mind with fear so strongly, that apprehension was now

become part of his character. Had his Youth been passed in the world,

He would have shown himself possessed of many brilliant and manly

qualities. He was naturally enterprizing, firm, and fearless: He had a

Warrior’s heart, and He might have shone with splendour at the head of

an Army. There was no want of generosity in his nature: The Wretched

never failed to find in him a compassionate Auditor: His abilities were

quick and shining, and his judgment, vast, solid, and decisive. With

such qualifications He would have been an ornament to his Country: That

He possessed them, He had given proofs in his earliest infancy, and his

Parents had beheld his dawning virtues with the fondest delight and

admiration. Unfortunately, while yet a Child He was deprived of those

Parents. He fell into the power of a Relation whose only wish about him

was never to hear of him more; For that purpose He gave him in charge

to his Friend, the former Superior of the Capuchins. The Abbot, a very

Monk, used all his endeavours to persuade the Boy that happiness

existed not without the walls of a Convent. He succeeded fully. To

deserve admittance into the order of St. Francis was Ambrosio’s highest

ambition. His Instructors carefully repressed those virtues whose

grandeur and disinterestedness were ill-suited to the Cloister. Instead

of universal benevolence, He adopted a selfish partiality for his own

particular establishment: He was taught to consider compassion for the

errors of Others as a crime of the blackest dye: The noble frankness of

his temper was exchanged for servile humility; and in order to break

his natural spirit, the Monks terrified his young mind by placing

before him all the horrors with which Superstition could furnish them:

They painted to him the torments of the Damned in colours the most

dark, terrible, and fantastic, and threatened him at the slightest

fault with eternal perdition. No wonder that his imagination constantly

dwelling upon these fearful objects should have rendered his character

timid and apprehensive. Add to this, that his long absence from the

great world, and total unacquaintance with the common dangers of life,

made him form of them an idea far more dismal than the reality. While

the Monks were busied in rooting out his virtues and narrowing his

sentiments, they allowed every vice which had fallen to his share to

arrive at full perfection. He was suffered to be proud, vain,

ambitious, and disdainful: He was jealous of his Equals, and despised

all merit but his own: He was implacable when offended, and cruel in

his revenge. Still in spite of the pains taken to pervert them, his

natural good qualities would occasionally break through the gloom cast

over them so carefully:

At such times the contest for superiority between his real and acquired

character was striking and unaccountable to those unacquainted with his

original disposition. He pronounced the most severe sentences upon

Offenders, which, the moment after, Compassion induced him to mitigate:

He undertook the most daring enterprizes, which the fear of their

consequences soon obliged him to abandon: His inborn genius darted a

brilliant light upon subjects the most obscure; and almost

instantaneously his Superstition replunged them in darkness more

profound than that from which they had just been rescued. His Brother

Monks, regarding him as a Superior Being, remarked not this

contradiction in their Idol’s conduct. They were persuaded that what He

did must be right, and supposed him to have good reasons for changing

his resolutions. The fact was, that the different sentiments with which

Education and Nature had inspired him were combating in his bosom: It

remained for his passions, which as yet no opportunity had called into

play, to decide the victory. Unfortunately his passions were the very

worst Judges, to whom He could possibly have applied. His monastic

seclusion had till now been in his favour, since it gave him no room

for discovering his bad qualities. The superiority of his talents

raised him too far above his Companions to permit his being jealous of

them: His exemplary piety, persuasive eloquence, and pleasing manners

had secured him universal Esteem, and consequently He had no injuries

to revenge: His Ambition was justified by his acknowledged merit, and

his pride considered as no more than proper confidence. He never saw,

much less conversed with, the other sex: He was ignorant of the

pleasures in Woman’s power to bestow, and if He read in the course of

his studies

“That men were fond, he smiled, and wondered how!”

For a time, spare diet, frequent watching, and severe penance cooled

and represt the natural warmth of his constitution: But no sooner did

opportunity present itself, no sooner did He catch a glimpse of joys to

which He was still a Stranger, than Religion’s barriers were too feeble

to resist the overwhelming torrent of his desires. All impediments

yielded before the force of his temperament, warm, sanguine, and

voluptuous in the excess.

As yet his other passions lay dormant; But they only needed to be once

awakened, to display themselves with violence as great and

irresistible.

He continued to be the admiration of Madrid. The Enthusiasm created by

his eloquence seemed rather to increase than diminish.

Every Thursday, which was the only day when He appeared in public, the

Capuchin Cathedral was crowded with Auditors, and his discourse was

always received with the same approbation. He was named Confessor to

all the chief families in Madrid; and no one was counted fashionable

who was injoined penance by any other than Ambrosio. In his resolution

of never stirring out of his Convent, He still persisted. This

circumstance created a still greater opinion of his sanctity and

self-denial. Above all, the Women sang forth his praises loudly, less

influenced by devotion than by his noble countenance, majestic air, and

well-turned, graceful figure. The Abbey door was thronged with

Carriages from morning to night; and the noblest and fairest Dames of

Madrid confessed to the Abbot their secret peccadilloes.

The eyes of the luxurious Friar devoured their charms: Had his

Penitents consulted those Interpreters, He would have needed no other

means of expressing his desires. For his misfortune, they were so

strongly persuaded of his continence, that the possibility of his

harbouring indecent thoughts never once entered their imaginations. The

climate’s heat, ’tis well known, operates with no small influence upon

the constitutions of the Spanish Ladies: But the most abandoned would

have thought it an easier task to inspire with passion the marble

Statue of St. Francis than the cold and rigid heart of the immaculate

Ambrosio.

On his part, the Friar was little acquainted with the depravity of the

world; He suspected not that but few of his Penitents would have

rejected his addresses. Yet had He been better instructed on this head,

the danger attending such an attempt would have sealed up his lips in

silence. He knew that it would be difficult for a Woman to keep a

secret so strange and so important as his frailty; and He even trembled

lest Matilda should betray him. Anxious to preserve a reputation which

was infinitely dear to him, He saw all the risque of committing it to

the power of some vain giddy Female; and as the Beauties of Madrid

affected only his senses without touching his heart, He forgot them as

soon as they were out of his sight. The danger of discovery, the fear

of being repulsed, the loss of reputation, all these considerations

counselled him to stifle his desires: And though He now felt for it the

most perfect indifference, He was necessitated to confine himself to

Matilda’s person.

One morning, the confluence of Penitents was greater than usual. He was

detained in the Confessional Chair till a late hour. At length the

crowd was dispatched, and He prepared to quit the Chapel, when two

Females entered and drew near him with humility. They threw up their

veils, and the youngest entreated him to listen to her for a few

moments. The melody of her voice, of that voice to which no Man ever

listened without interest, immediately caught Ambrosio’s attention. He

stopped. The Petitioner seemed bowed down with affliction: Her cheeks

were pale, her eyes dimmed with tears, and her hair fell in disorder

over her face and bosom. Still her countenance was so sweet, so

innocent, so heavenly, as might have charmed an heart less susceptible,

than that which panted in the Abbot’s breast. With more than usual

softness of manner He desired her to proceed, and heard her speak as

follows with an emotion which increased every moment.

“Reverend Father, you see an Unfortunate, threatened with the loss of

her dearest, of almost her only Friend! My Mother, my excellent Mother

lies upon the bed of sickness. A sudden and dreadful malady seized her

last night; and so rapid has been its progress, that the Physicians

despair of her life. Human aid fails me; Nothing remains for me but to

implore the mercy of Heaven. Father, all Madrid rings with the report

of your piety and virtue. Deign to remember my Mother in your prayers:

Perhaps they may prevail on the Almighty to spare her; and should that

be the case, I engage myself every Thursday in the next three Months to

illuminate the Shrine of St. Francis in his honour.”

“So!” thought the Monk; “Here we have a second Vincentio della Ronda.

Rosario’s adventure began thus,” and He wished secretly that this might

have the same conclusion.

He acceded to the request. The Petitioner returned him thanks with

every mark of gratitude, and then continued.

“I have yet another favour to ask. We are Strangers in Madrid; My

Mother needs a Confessor, and knows not to whom She should apply. We

understand that you never quit the Abbey, and Alas! my poor Mother is

unable to come hither! If you would have the goodness, reverend Father,

to name a proper person, whose wise and pious consolations may soften

the agonies of my Parent’s deathbed, you will confer an everlasting

favour upon hearts not ungrateful.”

With this petition also the Monk complied. Indeed, what petition would

He have refused, if urged in such enchanting accents? The suppliant was

so interesting! Her voice was so sweet, so harmonious! Her very tears

became her, and her affliction seemed to add new lustre to her charms.

He promised to send to her a Confessor that same Evening, and begged

her to leave her address. The Companion presented him with a Card on

which it was written, and then withdrew with the fair Petitioner, who

pronounced before her departure a thousand benedictions on the Abbot’s

goodness. His eyes followed her out of the Chapel. It was not till She

was out of sight that He examined the Card, on which He read the

following words.

“Donna Elvira Dalfa, Strada di San Iago, four doors from the Palace

d’Albornos.”

The Suppliant was no other than Antonia, and Leonella was her

Companion. The Latter had not consented without difficulty to accompany

her Niece to the Abbey: Ambrosio had inspired her with such awe that

She trembled at the very sight of him. Her fears had conquered even her

natural loquacity, and while in his presence She uttered not a single

syllable.

The Monk retired to his Cell, whither He was pursued by Antonia’s

image. He felt a thousand new emotions springing in his bosom, and He

trembled to examine into the cause which gave them birth. They were

totally different from those inspired by Matilda, when She first

declared her sex and her affection. He felt not the provocation of

lust; No voluptuous desires rioted in his bosom; Nor did a burning

imagination picture to him the charms which Modesty had veiled from his

eyes. On the contrary, what He now felt was a mingled sentiment of

tenderness, admiration, and respect. A soft and delicious melancholy

infused itself into his soul, and He would not have exchanged it for

the most lively transports of joy. Society now disgusted him: He

delighted in solitude, which permitted his indulging the visions of

Fancy: His thoughts were all gentle, sad, and soothing, and the whole

wide world presented him with no other object than Antonia.

“Happy Man!” He exclaimed in his romantic enthusiasm; “Happy Man, who

is destined to possess the heart of that lovely Girl! What delicacy in

her features! What elegance in her form! How enchanting was the timid

innocence of her eyes, and how different from the wanton expression,

the wild luxurious fire which sparkles in Matilda’s! Oh! sweeter must

one kiss be snatched from the rosy lips of the First, than all the full

and lustful favours bestowed so freely by the Second. Matilda gluts me

with enjoyment even to loathing, forces me to her arms, apes the

Harlot, and glories in her prostitution. Disgusting! Did She know the

inexpressible charm of Modesty, how irresistibly it enthralls the heart

of Man, how firmly it chains him to the Throne of Beauty, She never

would have thrown it off. What would be too dear a price for this

lovely Girl’s affections? What would I refuse to sacrifice, could I be

released from my vows, and permitted to declare my love in the sight of

earth and heaven? While I strove to inspire her with tenderness, with

friendship and esteem, how tranquil and undisturbed would the hours

roll away! Gracious God! To see her blue downcast eyes beam upon mine

with timid fondness! To sit for days, for years listening to that

gentle voice! To acquire the right of obliging her, and hear the

artless expressions of her gratitude! To watch the emotions of her

spotless heart! To encourage each dawning virtue! To share in her joy

when happy, to kiss away her tears when distrest, and to see her fly to

my arms for comfort and support! Yes; If there is perfect bliss on

earth, ’tis his lot alone, who becomes that Angel’s Husband.”

While his fancy coined these ideas, He paced his Cell with a disordered

air. His eyes were fixed upon vacancy: His head reclined upon his

shoulder; A tear rolled down his cheek, while He reflected that the

vision of happiness for him could never be realized.

“She is lost to me!” He continued; “By marriage She cannot be mine: And

to seduce such innocence, to use the confidence reposed in me to work

her ruin.... Oh! it would be a crime, blacker than yet the world ever

witnessed! Fear not, lovely Girl! Your virtue runs no risque from me.

Not for Indies would I make that gentle bosom know the tortures of

remorse.”

Again He paced his chamber hastily. Then stopping, his eye fell upon

the picture of his once-admired Madona. He tore it with indignation

from the wall: He threw it on the ground, and spurned it from him with

his foot.

“The Prostitute!”

Unfortunate Matilda! Her Paramour forgot that for his sake alone She

had forfeited her claim to virtue; and his only reason for despising

her was that She had loved him much too well.

He threw himself into a Chair which stood near the Table. He saw the

card with Elvira’s address. He took it up, and it brought to his

recollection his promise respecting a Confessor. He passed a few

minutes in doubt: But Antonia’s Empire over him was already too much

decided to permit his making a long resistance to the idea which struck

him. He resolved to be the Confessor himself. He could leave the Abbey

unobserved without difficulty: By wrapping up his head in his Cowl He

hoped to pass through the Streets without being recognised: By taking

these precautions, and by recommending secrecy to Elvira’s family, He

doubted not to keep Madrid in ignorance that He had broken his vow

never to see the outside of the Abbey walls. Matilda was the only

person whose vigilance He dreaded: But by informing her at the

Refectory that during the whole of that day, Business would confine him

to his Cell, He thought himself secure from her wakeful jealousy.

Accordingly, at the hours when the Spaniards are generally taking their

Siesta, He ventured to quit the Abbey by a private door, the Key of

which was in his possession. The Cowl of his habit was thrown over his

face: From the heat of the weather the Streets were almost totally

deserted: The Monk met with few people, found the Strada di San Iago,

and arrived without accident at Donna Elvira’s door. He rang, was

admitted, and immediately ushered into an upper apartment.

It was here that He ran the greatest risque of a discovery. Had

Leonella been at home, She would have recognized him directly: Her

communicative disposition would never have permitted her to rest till

all Madrid was informed that Ambrosio had ventured out of the Abbey,

and visited her Sister. Fortune here stood the Monk’s Friend. On

Leonella’s return home, She found a letter instructing her that a

Cousin was just dead, who had left what little He possessed between

Herself and Elvira. To secure this bequest She was obliged to set out

for Cordova without losing a moment. Amidst all her foibles her heart

was truly warm and affectionate, and She was unwilling to quit her

Sister in so dangerous a state. But Elvira insisted upon her taking the

journey, conscious that in her Daughter’s forlorn situation no increase

of fortune, however trifling, ought to be neglected. Accordingly,

Leonella left Madrid, sincerely grieved at her Sister’s illness, and

giving some few sighs to the memory of the amiable but inconstant Don

Christoval. She was fully persuaded that at first She had made a

terrible breach in his heart: But hearing nothing more of him, She

supposed that He had quitted the pursuit, disgusted by the lowness of

her origin, and knowing upon other terms than marriage He had nothing

to hope from such a Dragon of Virtue as She professed herself; Or else,

that being naturally capricious and changeable, the remembrance of her

charms had been effaced from the Condé’s heart by those of some newer

Beauty. Whatever was the cause of her losing him, She lamented it

sorely. She strove in vain, as She assured every body who was kind

enough to listen to her, to tear his image from her too susceptible

heart. She affected the airs of a lovesick Virgin, and carried them all

to the most ridiculous excess. She heaved lamentable sighs, walked with

her arms folded, uttered long soliloquies, and her discourse generally

turned upon some forsaken Maid who expired of a broken heart! Her fiery

locks were always ornamented with a garland of willow; Every evening

She was seen straying upon the Banks of a rivulet by Moonlight; and She

declared herself a violent Admirer of murmuring Streams and

Nightingales;

“Of lonely haunts, and twilight Groves,

“Places which pale Passion loves!”

Such was the state of Leonella’s mind, when obliged to quit Madrid.

Elvira was out of patience at all these follies, and endeavoured at

persuading her to act like a reasonable Woman. Her advice was thrown

away: Leonella assured her at parting that nothing could make her

forget the perfidious Don Christoval. In this point She was fortunately

mistaken. An honest Youth of Cordova, Journeyman to an Apothecary,

found that her fortune would be sufficient to set him up in a genteel

Shop of his own: In consequence of this reflection He avowed himself

her Admirer. Leonella was not inflexible. The ardour of his sighs

melted her heart, and She soon consented to make him the happiest of

Mankind. She wrote to inform her Sister of her marriage; But, for

reasons which will be explained hereafter, Elvira never answered her

letter.

Ambrosio was conducted into the Antichamber to that where Elvira was

reposing. The Female Domestic who had admitted him left him alone while

She announced his arrival to her Mistress. Antonia, who had been by her

Mother’s Bedside, immediately came to him.

“Pardon me, Father,” said She, advancing towards him; when recognizing

his features, She stopped suddenly, and uttered a cry of joy. “Is it

possible!” She continued;

“Do not my eyes deceive me? Has the worthy Ambrosio broken through his

resolution, that He may soften the agonies of the best of Women? What

pleasure will this visit give my Mother! Let me not delay for a moment

the comfort which your piety and wisdom will afford her.”

Thus saying, She opened the chamber door, presented to her Mother her

distinguished Visitor, and having placed an armed-chair by the side of

the Bed, withdrew into another department.

Elvira was highly gratified by this visit: Her expectations had been

raised high by general report, but She found them far exceeded.

Ambrosio, endowed by nature with powers of pleasing, exerted them to

the utmost while conversing with Antonia’s Mother. With persuasive

eloquence He calmed every fear, and dissipated every scruple: He bad

her reflect on the infinite mercy of her Judge, despoiled Death of his

darts and terrors, and taught her to view without shrinking the abyss

of eternity, on whose brink She then stood. Elvira was absorbed in

attention and delight: While She listened to his exhortations,

confidence and comfort stole insensibly into her mind. She unbosomed to

him without hesitation her cares and apprehensions. The latter

respecting a future life He had already quieted: And He now removed the

former, which She felt for the concerns of this. She trembled for

Antonia. She had none to whose care She could recommend her, save to

the Marquis de las Cisternas and her Sister Leonella. The protection of

the One was very uncertain; and as to the Other, though fond of her

Niece, Leonella was so thoughtless and vain as to make her an improper

person to have the sole direction of a Girl so young and ignorant of

the World. The Friar no sooner learnt the cause of her alarms than He

begged her to make herself easy upon that head. He doubted not being

able to secure for Antonia a safe refuge in the House of one of his

Penitents, the Marchioness of Villa-Franca: This was a Lady of

acknowledged virtue, remarkable for strict principles and extensive

charity. Should accident deprive her of this resource, He engaged to

procure Antonia a reception in some respectable Convent: That is to

say, in quality of boarder; for Elvira had declared herself no Friend

to a monastic life, and the Monk was either candid or complaisant

enough to allow that her disapprobation was not unfounded.

These proofs of the interest which He felt for her completely won

Elvira’s heart. In thanking him She exhausted every expression which

Gratitude could furnish, and protested that now She should resign

herself with tranquillity to the Grave. Ambrosio rose to take leave: He

promised to return the next day at the same hour, but requested that

his visits might be kept secret.

“I am unwilling” said He, “that my breaking through a rule imposed by

necessity should be generally known. Had I not resolved never to quit

my Convent, except upon circumstances as urgent as that which has

conducted me to your door, I should be frequently summoned upon

insignificant occasions: That time would be engrossed by the Curious,

the Unoccupied, and the fanciful, which I now pass at the Bedside of

the Sick, in comforting the expiring Penitent, and clearing the passage

to Eternity from Thorns.”

Elvira commended equally his prudence and compassion, promising to

conceal carefully the honour of his visits. The Monk then gave her his

benediction, and retired from the chamber.

In the Antiroom He found Antonia: He could not refuse himself the

pleasure of passing a few moments in her society. He bad her take

comfort, for that her Mother seemed composed and tranquil, and He hoped

that She might yet do well. He enquired who attended her, and engaged

to send the Physician of his Convent to see her, one of the most

skilful in Madrid. He then launched out in Elvira’s commendation,

praised her purity and fortitude of mind, and declared that She had

inspired him with the highest esteem and reverence. Antonia’s innocent

heart swelled with gratitude: Joy danced in her eyes, where a tear

still sparkled. The hopes which He gave her of her Mother’s recovery,

the lively interest which He seemed to feel for her, and the flattering

way in which She was mentioned by him, added to the report of his

judgment and virtue, and to the impression made upon her by his

eloquence, confirmed the favourable opinion with which his first

appearance had inspired Antonia. She replied with diffidence, but

without restraint: She feared not to relate to him all her little

sorrows, all her little fears and anxieties; and She thanked him for

his goodness with all the genuine warmth which favours kindle in a

young and innocent heart. Such alone know how to estimate benefits at

their full value. They who are conscious of Mankind’s perfidy and

selfishness, ever receive an obligation with apprehension and distrust:

They suspect that some secret motive must lurk behind it: They express

their thanks with restraint and caution, and fear to praise a kind

action to its full extent, aware that some future day a return may be

required. Not so Antonia; She thought the world was composed only of

those who resembled her, and that vice existed, was to her still a

secret. The Monk had been of service to her; He said that He wished her

well; She was grateful for his kindness, and thought that no terms were

strong enough to be the vehicle of her thanks. With what delight did

Ambrosio listen to the declaration of her artless gratitude! The

natural grace of her manners, the unequalled sweetness of her voice,

her modest vivacity, her unstudied elegance, her expressive

countenance, and intelligent eyes united to inspire him with pleasure

and admiration, While the solidity and correctness of her remarks

received additional beauty from the unaffected simplicity of the

language in which they were conveyed.

Ambrosio was at length obliged to tear himself from this conversation

which possessed for him but too many charms. He repeated to Antonia his

wishes that his visits should not be made known, which desire She

promised to observe. He then quitted the House, while his Enchantress

hastened to her Mother, ignorant of the mischief which her Beauty had

caused. She was eager to know Elvira’s opinion of the Man whom She had

praised in such enthusiastic terms, and was delighted to find it

equally favourable, if not even more so, than her own.

“Even before He spoke,” said Elvira, “I was prejudiced in his favour:

The fervour of his exhortations, dignity of his manner, and closeness

of his reasoning, were very far from inducing me to alter my opinion.

His fine and full-toned voice struck me particularly; But surely,

Antonia, I have heard it before. It seemed perfectly familiar to my

ear. Either I must have known the Abbot in former times, or his voice

bears a wonderful resemblance to that of some other, to whom I have

often listened.

There were certain tones which touched my very heart, and made me feel

sensations so singular, that I strive in vain to account for them.”

“My dearest Mother, it produced the same effect upon me: Yet certainly

neither of us ever heard his voice till we came to Madrid. I suspect

that what we attribute to his voice, really proceeds from his pleasant

manners, which forbid our considering him as a Stranger. I know not

why, but I feel more at my ease while conversing with him than I

usually do with people who are unknown to me. I feared not to repeat to

him all my childish thoughts; and somehow I felt confident that He

would hear my folly with indulgence. Oh! I was not deceived in him! He

listened to me with such an air of kindness and attention! He answered

me with such gentleness, such condescension! He did not call me an

Infant, and treat me with contempt, as our cross old Confessor at the

Castle used to do. I verily believe that if I had lived in Murcia a

thousand years, I never should have liked that fat old Father Dominic!”

“I confess that Father Dominic had not the most pleasing manners in the

world; But He was honest, friendly, and well-meaning.”

“Ah! my dear Mother, those qualities are so common!”

“God grant, my Child, that Experience may not teach you to think them

rare and precious: I have found them but too much so! But tell me,

Antonia; Why is it impossible for me to have seen the Abbot before?”

“Because since the moment when He entered the Abbey, He has never been

on the outside of its walls. He told me just now, that from his

ignorance of the Streets, He had some difficulty to find the Strada di

San Iago, though so near the Abbey.”

“All this is possible, and still I may have seen him BEFORE He entered

the Abbey: In order to come out, it was rather necessary that He should

first go in.”

“Holy Virgin! As you say, that is very true.—Oh! But might He not have

been born in the Abbey?”

Elvira smiled.

“Why, not very easily.”

“Stay, Stay! Now I recollect how it was. He was put into the Abbey

quite a Child; The common People say that He fell from heaven, and was

sent as a present to the Capuchins by the Virgin.”

“That was very kind of her. And so He fell from heaven, Antonia?

He must have had a terrible tumble.”

“Many do not credit this, and I fancy, my dear Mother, that I must

number you among the Unbelievers. Indeed, as our Landlady told my Aunt,

the general idea is that his Parents, being poor and unable to maintain

him, left him just born at the Abbey door. The late Superior from pure

charity had him educated in the Convent, and He proved to be a model of

virtue, and piety, and learning, and I know not what else besides: In

consequence, He was first received as a Brother of the order, and not

long ago was chosen Abbot. However, whether this account or the other

is the true one, at least all agree that when the Monks took him under

their care, He could not speak: Therefore, you could not have heard his

voice before He entered the Monastery, because at that time He had no

voice at all.”

“Upon my word, Antonia, you argue very closely! Your conclusions are

infallible! I did not suspect you of being so able a Logician.”

“Ah! You are mocking me! But so much the better. It delights me to see

you in spirits: Besides you seem tranquil and easy, and I hope that you

will have no more convulsions. Oh! I was sure the Abbot’s visit would

do you good!”

“It has indeed done me good, my Child. He has quieted my mind upon some

points which agitated me, and I already feel the effects of his

attention. My eyes grow heavy, and I think I can sleep a little. Draw

the curtains, my Antonia: But if I should not wake before midnight, do

not sit up with me, I charge you.”

Antonia promised to obey her, and having received her blessing drew the

curtains of the Bed. She then seated herself in silence at her

embroidery frame, and beguiled the hours with building Castles in the

air. Her spirits were enlivened by the evident change for the better in

Elvira, and her fancy presented her with visions bright and pleasing.

In these dreams Ambrosio made no despicable figure. She thought of him

with joy and gratitude; But for every idea which fell to the Friar’s

share, at least two were unconsciously bestowed upon Lorenzo. Thus

passed the time, till the Bell in the neighbouring Steeple of the

Capuchin Cathedral announced the hour of midnight: Antonia remembered

her Mother’s injunctions, and obeyed them, though with reluctance. She

undrew the curtains with caution. Elvira was enjoying a profound and

quiet slumber; Her cheek glowed with health’s returning colours: A

smile declared that her dreams were pleasant, and as Antonia bent over

her, She fancied that She heard her name pronounced. She kissed her

Mother’s forehead softly, and retired to her chamber. There She knelt

before a Statue of St. Rosolia, her Patroness; She recommended herself

to the protection of heaven, and as had been her custom from infancy,

concluded her devotions by chaunting the following Stanzas.

MIDNIGHT HYMN

Now all is hushed; The solemn chime

No longer swells the nightly gale:

Thy awful presence, Hour sublime,

With spotless heart once more I hail.

’Tis now the moment still and dread,

When Sorcerers use their baleful power;

When Graves give up their buried dead

To profit by the sanctioned hour:

From guilt and guilty thoughts secure,

To duty and devotion true,

With bosom light and conscience pure,

Repose, thy gentle aid I woo.

Good Angels, take my thanks, that still

The snares of vice I view with scorn;

Thanks, that to-night as free from ill

I sleep, as when I woke at morn.

Yet may not my unconscious breast

Harbour some guilt to me unknown?

Some wish impure, which unreprest

You blush to see, and I to own?

If such there be, in gentle dream

Instruct my feet to shun the snare;

Bid truth upon my errors beam,

And deign to make me still your care.

Chase from my peaceful bed away

The witching Spell, a foe to rest,

The nightly Goblin, wanton Fay,

The Ghost in pain, and Fiend unblest:

Let not the Tempter in mine ear

Pour lessons of unhallowed joy;

Let not the Night-mare, wandering near

My Couch, the calm of sleep destroy;

Let not some horrid dream affright

With strange fantastic forms mine eyes;

But rather bid some vision bright

Display the bliss of yonder skies.

Show me the crystal Domes of Heaven,

The worlds of light where Angels lie;

Shew me the lot to Mortals given,

Who guiltless live, who guiltless die.

Then show me how a seat to gain

Amidst those blissful realms of

Air; Teach me to shun each guilty stain,

And guide me to the good and fair.

So every morn and night, my Voice

To heaven the grateful strain shall raise;

In You as Guardian Powers rejoice,

Good Angels, and exalt your praise:

So will I strive with zealous fire

Each vice to shun, each fault correct;

Will love the lessons you inspire,

And Prize the virtues you protect.

Then when at length by high command

My body seeks the Grave’s repose,

When Death draws nigh with friendly hand

My failing Pilgrim eyes to close;

Pleased that my soul has ’scaped the wreck,

Sighless will I my life resign,

And yield to God my Spirit back,

As pure as when it first was mine.

Having finished her usual devotions, Antonia retired to bed. Sleep soon

stole over her senses; and for several hours She enjoyed that calm

repose which innocence alone can know, and for which many a Monarch

with pleasure would exchange his Crown.