The Monk (24 page)

“Then, my lord, you do not think these lines tolerable?” said Theodore, with an humble and dejected air.

“You mistake my meaning. As I said before, they have pleased me much: but my regard for you makes me partial, and others might judge them less favourably. I must still remark, that even my prejudice in your favour does not blind me so much as to prevent my observing several faults. For instance, you make a terrible confusion of metaphors; you are too apt to make the strength of your lines consist more in the words than sense; some of the verses only seem introduced in order to rhyme with others; and most of the best ideas are borrowed from other poets, though possibly you are unconscious of the theft yourself. These faults may occasionally be excused in a work of length; but a short poem must be correct and perfect.”

“All this is true, segnor; but you should consider that I only write for pleasure.”

“Your defects are the less excusable. Their incorrectness may be forgiven, who work for money, who are obliged to complete a given task in a given time, and are paid according to the bulk, not value of their productions. But in those whom no necessity forces to turn author, who merely write for fame, and have full leisure to polish their compositions, faults are unpardonable, and merit the sharpest arrows of criticism.”

The marquis rose from the sopha; the page looked discouraged and melancholy; and this did not escape his master’s observation.

“However,” added he, smiling, “I think that these lines do you no discredit. Your versification is tolerably easy, and your ear seems to be just. The perusal of your little poem upon the whole gave me much pleasure; and if it is not asking too great a favour, I shall be highly obliged to you for a copy.”

The youth’s countenance immediately cleared up. He perceived not the smile, half approving, half ironical, which accompanied the request, and he promised the copy with great readiness. The marquis withdrew to his chamber, much amused by the instantaneous effect produced upon Theodore’s vanity by the conclusion of his criticism. He threw himself upon his couch, sleep soon stole over him, and his dreams presented him with the most flattering pictures of happiness with Agnes.

On reaching the hotel de Medina, Lorenzo’s first care was to enquire for letters. He found several waiting for him; but that which he sought was not amongst them. Leonella had found it impossible to write that evening. However, her impatience to secure Don Christoval’s heart, on which she flattered herself with having made no slight impression, permitted her not to pass another day without informing him where she was to be found. On her return from the Capuchin-church, she had related to her sister, with exultation, how attentive an handsome cavalier had been to her; as also how his companion had undertaken to plead Antonia’s cause with the marquis de las Cisternas. Elvira received this intelligence with sensations very different from those with which it was communicated. She blamed her sister’s imprudence in confiding her history to an absolute stranger, and expressed her fears lest this inconsiderate step should prejudice the marquis against her. The greatest of her apprehensions she concealed in her own breast. She had observed, with inquietude, that at the mention of Lorenzo a deep blush spread itself over her daughter’s cheek. The timid Antonia dared not to pronounce his name. Without knowing wherefore, she felt embarrassed when he was made the subject of discourse, and endeavoured to change the conversation to Ambrosio. Elvira perceived the emotions of this young bosom: in consequence, she insisted upon Leonella’s breaking her promise to the cavaliers. A sigh, which on hearing this order escaped from Antonia, confirmed the wary mother in her resolution.

Through this resolution Leonella was determined to break: she conceived it to be inspired by envy, and that her sister dreaded her being elevated above her. Without imparting her design to any one, she took an opportunity of dispatching the following note to Lorenzo: it was delivered to him as soon as he woke:

“Doubtless, Segnor Don Lorenzo, you have frequently accused me of ingratitude and forgetfulness: but on the word of a virgin it was out of my power to perform my promise yesterday. I know not in what words to inform you, how strange a reception my sister gave your kind wish to visit her. She is an odd woman, with many good points about her; but her jealousy of me frequently makes her conceive notions quite unaccountable. On hearing that your friend had paid some little attention to me, she immediately took the alarm: she blamed my conduct, and has absolutely forbidden me to let you know our abode. My strong sense of gratitude for your kind offers of service, and———shall I confess it? my desire to behold once more the too amiable Don Christoval, will not permit my obeying her injunctions. I have therefore stolen a moment to inform you, that we lodge in the strada di San Jago, four doors from the palace d’Albornos, and nearly opposite to the barber’s Miguel Coello. Enquire for Donna Elvira Dalfa, since, in compliance with her father-in-law’s order, my sister continues to be called by her maiden name. At eight this evening you will be sure of finding us: but let not a word drop, which may raise a suspicion of my having written this letter. Should you see the Condé d’Ossorio, tell him——I blush while I declare it——tell him that his presence will be but too acceptable to the sympathetic

L
EONELLA.”

The latter sentences were written in red ink, to express the blushes of her cheek while she committed an outrage upon her virgin modesty.

Lorenzo had no sooner perused this note, than he set out in search of Don Christoval. Not being able to find him in the course of the day, he proceeded to Donna Elvira’s alone, to Leonella’s infinite disappointment. The domestic by whom he sent up his name having already declared his lady to be at home, she had no excuse for refusing his visit: yet she consented to receive it with much reluctance. That reluctance was increased by the changes which his approach produced in Antonia’s countenance; nor was it by any means abated, when the youth himself appeared. The symmetry of his person, animation of his features, and natural elegance of his manners and address, convinced Elvira that such a guest must be dangerous for her daughter. She resolved to treat him with distant politeness, to decline his services with gratitude for the tender of them, and to make him feel, without offence, that his future visits would be far from acceptable.

On his entrance he found Elvira, who was indisposed, reclining upon a sopha; Antonia sat by her embroidery frame; and Leonella, in a pastoral dress, held
“Montemayor’s Diana.”
In spite of her being the mother of Antonia, Lorenzo could not help expecting to find in Elvira Leonella’s true sister, and the daughter of “as honest a pains-taking shoemaker as any in Cordova.” A single glance was sufficient to undeceive him. He beheld a woman whose features, though impaired by time and sorrow, still bore the marks of distinguished beauty: a serious dignity reigned upon her countenance, but was tempered by a grace and sweetness which rendered her truly enchanting. Lorenzo fancied that she must have resembled her daughter in her youth, and readily excused the imprudence of the late Condé de las Cisternas. She desired him to be seated, and immediately resumed her place upon the sopha.

Antonia received him with a simple reverence, and continued her work: her cheeks were suffused with crimson, and she strove to conceal her emotion by leaning over her embroidery frame. Her aunt also chose to play off her airs of modesty: she affected to blush and tremble, and waited with her eyes cast down to receive, as she expected, the compliments of Don Christoval. Finding, after some time, that no sign of his approach was given, she ventured to look round the room, and perceived with vexation that Medina was unaccompanied. Impatience would not permit her waiting for an explanation: interrupting Lorenzo, who was delivering Raymond’s message, she desired to know what was become of his friend.

He, who thought it necessary to maintain himself in her good graces, strove to console her under her disappointment by committing a little violence upon truth.

“Ah! segnora,” he replied in a melancholy voice, “how grieved will he be at losing this opportunity of paying you his respects! A relation’s illness has obliged him to quit Madrid in haste: but on his return he will doubtless seize the first moment with transport to throw himself at your feet!”

As he said this, his eyes met those of Elvira: she punished his falsehood sufficiently by darting at him a look expressive of displeasure and reproach. Neither did the deceit answer his intention. Vexed and disappointed, Leonella rose from her seat, and retired in dudgeon to her own apartment.

Lorenzo hastened to repair the fault which had injured him in Elvira’s opinion. He related his conversation with the marquis respecting her: he assured her that Raymond was prepared to acknowledge her for his brother’s widow; and that, till it was in his power to pay his compliments to her in person, Lorenzo was commissioned to supply his place. This intelligence relieved Elvira from an heavy weight of uneasiness: she had now found a protector for the fatherless Antonia, for whose future fortunes she had suffered the greatest apprehensions. She was not sparing of her thanks to him, who had interfered so generously in her behalf; but still she gave him no invitation to repeat his visit. However, when upon rising to depart he requested permission to enquire after her health occasionally, the polite earnestness of his manner, gratitude for his services, and respect for his friend the marquis, would not admit of a refusal. She consented reluctantly to receive him: he promised not to abuse her goodness, and quitted the house.

Antonia was now left alone with her mother: a temporary silence ensued. Both wished to speak upon the same subject, but neither knew how to introduce it. The one felt a bashfulness which sealed up her lips, and for which she could not account; the other feared to find her apprehensions true, or to inspire her daughter with notions to which she might be still a stranger. At length Elvira began the conversation.

“That is a charming young man, Antonia; I am much pleased with him. Was he long near you yesterday in the cathedral?”

“He quitted me not for a moment while I staid in the church: he gave me his seat, and was very obliging and attentive.”

“Indeed? Why then have you never mentioned his name to me? Your aunt launched out in praise of his friend, and you vaunted Ambrosio’s eloquence: but neither said a word of Don Lorenzo’s person and accomplishments. Had not Leonella spoken of his readiness to undertake our cause, I should not have known him to be in existence.”

She paused. Antonia coloured, but was silent.

“Perhaps you judge him less favourably than I do. In my opinion his figure is pleasing, his conversation sensible, and manners engaging. Still he may have struck you differently: you may think him disagreeable, and——”

“Disagreeable? Oh! dear mother, how should I possibly think him so? I should be very ungrateful were I not sensible of his kindness yesterday, and very blind if his merits had escaped me. His figure is so graceful, so noble! His manners so gentle, yet so manly! I never yet saw so many accomplishments united in one person, and I doubt whether Madrid can produce his equal.”

“Why then were you so silent in praise of this phœnix of Madrid? Why was it concealed from me, that his society had afforded you pleasure?”

“In truth, I know not: you ask me a question which I cannot resolve myself. I was on the point of mentioning him a thousand times; his name was constantly on my lips; but when I would have pronounced it, I wanted courage to execute my design. However, if I did not speak of him, it was not that I thought of him the less.”

“That I believe. But shall I tell you why you wanted courage? It was because, accustomed to confide to me your most secret thoughts, you knew not how to conceal, yet feared to acknowledge, that your heart nourished a sentiment which you were conscious I should disapprove. Come hither to me, my child.”

Antonia quitted her embroidery frame, threw herself upon her knees by the sopha, and hid her face in her mother’s lap.

“Fear not, my sweet girl! Consider me equally as your friend and parent, and apprehend no reproof from me. I have read the emotions of your bosom; you are yet ill skilled in concealing them, and they could not escape my attentive eye. This Lorenzo is dangerous to your repose; he has already made an impression upon your heart. ’Tis true that I perceive easily that your affection is returned: but what can be the consequences of this attachment? You are poor and friendless, my Antonia; Lorenzo is the heir of the duke of Medina Celi. Even should himself mean honourably, his uncle never will consent to your union; nor, without that uncle’s consent, will I. By sad experience I know what sorrow she must endure, who marries into a family unwilling to receive her. Then struggle with your affection: whatever pains it may cost you, strive to conquer it. Your heart is tender and susceptible: it has already received a strong impression; but when once convinced that you should not encourage such sentiments, I trust that you have sufficient fortitude to drive them from your bosom.”

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

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

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