The Monk

Scarcely had the abbey bell tolled for five minutes, and already was the church of the Capuchins thronged with auditors. Do not encourage the idea that the crowd was assembled either from motives of piety or thirst of information. But very few were influenced by those reasons; and in a city where superstition reigns with such despotic sway as in Madrid, to seek for true devotion would be a fruitless attempt. The audience now assembled in the Capuchin church was collected by various causes, but all of them were foreign to the ostensible motive. The women came to show themselves, the men to see the women: some were attracted by curiosity to hear an orator so celebrated; some came because they had no better means of employing their time till the play began; some, from being assured that it would be impossible to find places in the church; and one half of Madrid was brought thither by expecting to meet the other half. The only persons truly anxious to hear the preacher were a few antiquated devotees, and half a dozen rival orators, determined to find fault with and ridicule the discourse. As to the remainder of the audience, the sermon might have been omitted altogether, certainly without their being disappointed, and very probably without their perceiving the omission.

In imitation of Leonella, Antonia drew off her glove, and presented her white hand to the gypsy, who having gazed upon it for some time with a mingled expression of pity and astonishment, pronounced her oracle in the following words.

The Gypsy

“Jesus! what a palm is there! Chaste, and gentle, young and fair, Perfect mind and form possessing, You would be some good man’s blessing: But alas! This line discovers, That destruction o’er you hovers; Lustful man and crafty devil Will combine to work your evil; And from earth by sorrows driven, Soon your soul must speed to heaven. Yet your sufferings to delay, Well remember what I say. When you one more virtuous see Than belongs to man to be, One, whose self no crimes assailing, Pities not his neighbour’s failing, Call the gypsy’s words to mind: Though he seem so good and kind, Fair exteriors oft will hide Hearts, that swell with lust and pride! Lovely maid, with tears I leave you! Let not my prediction grieve you; Rather with submission bending Calmly wait distress impending, And expect eternal bliss In a better world than this.”

Having said this, the gypsy again whirled herself round thrice, and then hastened out of the street with frantic gesture.

“Who,” thought he, “who but myself has passed the ordeal of youth, yet sees no single stain upon his conscience? Who else has subdued the violence of strong passions and an impetuous temperament, and submitted even from the dawn of life to voluntary retirement? I seek for such a man in vain. I see no one but myself possessed of such resolution. Religion cannot boast Ambrosio’s equal! How powerful an effect did my discourse produce upon its auditors! How they crowded round me! How they loaded me with benedictions, and pronounced me the sole uncorrupted pillar of the church! What then now is left for me to do? Nothing, but to watch as carefully over the conduct of my brothers as I have hitherto watched over my own. Yet hold! May I not be tempted from those paths which till now I have pursued without one moment’s wandering? Am I not a man, whose nature is frail, and prone to error? I must now abandon the solitude of my retreat; the fairest and noblest dames of Madrid continually present themselves at the abbey, and will use no other confessor. I must accustom my eyes to objects of temptation, and expose myself to the seduction of luxury and desire. Should I meet in that world which I am constrained to enter some lovely female, lovely⁠ ⁠… as yon Madonna.⁠ ⁠… !”

As he said this, he fixed his eyes upon a picture of the Virgin, which was suspended opposite to him: this for two years had been the object of his increasing wonder and adoration. He paused, and gazed upon it with delight.

“Leave me! Your entreaties are in vain! You must from hence tomorrow!”

“Go then, barbarian! But this resource is still left me.”

As she said this, she suddenly drew a poniard: she rent open her garment, and placed the weapon’s point against her bosom.

“Father, I will never quit these walls alive!”

“Hold! Hold, Matilda! What would you do?”

“You are determined, so am I: the moment that you leave me, I plunge this steel in my heart.”

“Holy St. Francis! Matilda, have you your senses? Do you know the consequences of your action? That suicide is the greatest of crimes? That you destroy your soul? That you lose your claim to salvation? That you prepare for yourself everlasting torments?”

“I care not! I care not!” she replied passionately; “Either your hand guides me to paradise, or my own dooms me to perdition! Speak to me, Ambrosio! Tell me that you will conceal my story, that I shall remain your friend and your companion, or this poniard drinks my blood!”

As she uttered these last words, she lifted her arm, and made a motion as if to stab herself. The friar’s eyes followed with dread the course of the dagger. She had torn open her habit, and her bosom was half exposed. The weapon’s point rested upon her left breast: and oh! that was such a breast! The moonbeams darting full upon it enabled the monk to observe its dazzling whiteness. His eye dwelt with insatiable avidity upon the beauteous orb. A sensation till then unknown filled his heart with a mixture of anxiety and delight: a raging fire shot through every limb; the blood boiled in his veins, and a thousand wild wishes bewildered his imagination.

That repose I wooed in vain. The agitation of my bosom chased away sleep. Restless in my mind, in spite of the fatigue of my body, I continued to toss about from side to side, till the clock in a neighbouring steeple struck one. As I listened to the mournful hollow sound, and heard it die away in the wind, I felt a sudden chillness spread itself over my body. I shuddered without knowing wherefore; cold dews poured down my forehead, and my hair stood bristling with alarm. Suddenly I heard slow and heavy steps ascending the staircase. By an involuntary movement I started up in my bed, and drew back the curtain. A single rushlight which glimmered upon the hearth shed a faint gleam through the apartment, which was hung with tapestry. The door was thrown open with violence. A figure entered, and drew near my bed with solemn measured steps. With trembling apprehension I examined this midnight visitor. God almighty! It was the Bleeding Nun! It was my lost companion! Her face was still veiled, but she no longer held her lamp and dagger. She lifted up her veil slowly. What a sight presented itself to my startled eyes! I beheld before me an animated corse. Her countenance was long and haggard; her cheeks and lips were bloodless; the paleness of death was spread over her features, and her eyeballs fixed steadfastly upon me were lustreless and hollow.