The Monk (37 page)

Ashamed of her weakness, she at length rose from her seat; she proceeded to seek for what had brought her to this melancholy scene. The small collection of books was arranged upon several shelves in order. Antonia examined them without finding any thing likely to interest her, till she put her hand upon a volume of old Spanish ballads. She read a few stanzas of one of them. They excited her curiosity. She took down the book, and seated herself to peruse it with ease. She trimmed the taper, which now drew towards its end, and then read the following ballad:

A
LONZO THE
B
RAVE AND
F
AIR
I
MOGINE
.

A warrior so bold, and a virgin so bright
      Conversed, as they sat on the green;
They gazed on each other with tender delight;
Alonzo the Brave was the name of the knight,
      The maid’s was the Fair Imogine.

“And, oh!” said the youth, “since to-morrow I go
      To fight in a far distant land,
Your tears for my absence soon leaving to flow,
Some other will court you, and you will bestow
      On a wealthier suitor your hand.”

“Oh! hush these suspicions,” Fair Imogine said,
      “Offensive to love and to me!
For, if you be living, or if you be dead,
I swear by the Virgin, that none in your stead
      Shall husband of Imogine be.

“If e’er I, by lust or by wealth led aside,
      Forget my Alonzo the Brave,
God grant, that to punish my falsehood and pride
Your ghost at the marriage may sit by my side,
May tax me with perjury, claim me as bride,
      And bear me away to the grave!”

To Palestine hastened the hero so bold;
      His love, she lamented him sore:
But scarce had a twelvemonth elapsed, when behold,
A Baron all covered with jewels and gold
      Arrived at Fair Imogine’s door.

His treasure, his presents, his spacious domain
      Soon made her untrue to her vows:
He dazzled her eyes; he bewildered her brain;
He caught her affections so light and so vain,
      And carried her home as his spouse.

And now had the marriage been blest by the priest;
      The revelry now was begun:
The tables they groaned with the weight of the feast;
Nor yet had the laughter and merriment ceased,
      When the bell at the castle told—“one!”

Then first with amazement Fair Imogine found
      That a stranger was placed by her side:
His air was terrific; he uttered no sound;
He spoke not, he moved not, he looked not around,
      But earnestly gazed on the bride.

His vizor was closed, and gigantic his height;
      His armour was sable to view:
All pleasure and laughter were hushed at his sight;
The dogs as they eyed him drew back in affright;
      The lights in the chamber burned blue!

His presence all bosoms appeared to dismay;
      The guests sat in silence and fear.
At length spoke the bride, while she trembled; “I pray,
Sir Knight, that your helmet aside you would lay,
      And deign to partake of our chear.”

The lady is silent: the stranger complies.
      His vizor he slowly unclosed:
Oh! God! what a sight met Fair Imogine’s eyes!
What words can express her dismay and surprise,
      When a skeleton’s head was exposed!

All present then uttered a terrified shout;
      All turned with disgust from the scene.
The worms they crept in, and the worms they crept out,
And sported his eyes and his temples about,
      While the spectre addressed Imogine.

“Behold me, thou false one! behold me!” he cried;
      “Remember Alonzo the Brave!
God grants, that to punish thy falsehood and pride
My ghost at thy marriage should sit by thy side,
Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as bride,
      And bear thee away to the grave!”

Thus saying, his arms round the lady he wound,
      While loudly she shrieked in dismay;
Then sank with his prey through the wide-yawning ground:
Nor ever again was Fair Imogine found,
      Or the spectre who bore her away.

Not long lived the Baron; and none since that time
      To inhabit the castle presume;
For chronicles tell that, by order sublime,
There Imogine suffers the pain of her crime,
      And mourns her deplorable doom.

At midnight four times in each year does her spright,
      When mortals in slumber are bound,
Arrayed in her bridal apparel of white,
Appear in the hall with the Skeleton-Knight,
      And shriek as he whirls her around.

While they drink out of skulls newly torn from the grave,
      Dancing round them the spectres are seen:
Their liquor is blood, and this horrible stave
They howl:—“To the health of Alonzo the Brave,
      And his consort, the False Imogine!”

The perusal of this story was ill calculated to dispel Antonia’s melancholy. She had naturally a strong inclination to the marvellous; and her nurse, who believed firmly in apparitions, had related to her, when an infant, so many horrible adventures of this kind, that all Elvira’s attempts had failed to eradicate their impressions from her daughter’s mind. Antonia still nourished a superstitious prejudice in her bosom: she was often susceptible of terrors, which, when she discovered their natural and insignificant cause, made her blush at her own weakness. With such a turn of mind, the adventure which she had just been reading sufficed to give her apprehensions the alarm. The hour and the scene combined to authorise them. It was the dead of night; she was alone, and in the chamber once occupied by her deceased mother. The weather was comfortless and stormy; the wind howled around the house, the doors rattled in their frames, and the heavy rain pattered against the windows. No other sound was heard. The taper, now burnt down to the socket, sometimes flaring upwards, shot a gleam of light through the room, then sinking again seemed upon the point of expiring. Antonia’s heart throbbed with agitation; her eyes wandered fearfully over the objects around her, as the trembling flame illuminated them at intervals. She attempted to rise from her seat, but her limbs trembled so violently that she was unable to proceed. She then called Flora, who was in a room at no great distance; but agitation choked her voice, and her cries died away in hollow murmurs.

She passed some minutes in this situation, after which her terrors began to diminish. She strove to recover herself, and acquire strength enough to quit the room. Suddenly she fancied that she heard a low sigh drawn near her. This idea brought back her former weakness. She had already raised herself from her seat, and was on the point of taking the lamp from the table. The imaginary noise stopped her; she drew back her hand, and supported herself upon the back of a chair. She listened anxiously, but nothing more was heard.

“Gracious God!” she said to herself, “what could be that sound? Was I deceived, or did I really hear it?”

Her reflections were interrupted by a voice at the door scarcely audible; it seemed as if somebody was whispering. Antonia’s alarm increased; yet the bolt she knew to be fastened, and this idea in some degree re-assured her. Presently the latch was lifted up softly, and the door moved with caution backwards and forwards. Excess of terror now supplied Antonia with that strength, of which she had till then been deprived. She started from her place, and made towards the closet door, whence she might soon have reached the chamber where she expected to find Flora and Dame Jacintha. Scarcely had she reached the middle of the room, when the latch was lifted up a second time. An involuntary movement obliged her to turn her head. Slowly and gradually the door turned upon its hinges, and standing upon the threshold she beheld a tall thin figure, wrapped in a white shroud which covered it from head to foot.

This vision arrested her feet; she remained as if petrified in the middle of the apartment. The stranger with measured and solemn steps drew near the table. The dying taper darted a blue and melancholy flame as the figure advanced towards it. Over the table was fixed a small clock; the hand of it was upon the stroke of three. The figure stopped opposite to the clock: it raised its right arm, and pointed to the hour, at the same time looking earnestly upon Antonia, who waited for the conclusion of this scene, motionless and silent.

The figure remained in this posture for some moments. The clock struck. When the sound had ceased, the stranger advanced yet a few steps nearer Antonia.

“Yet three days,” said a voice faint, hollow, and sepulchral; “yet three days, and we meet again!”

Antonia shuddered at the words.

“We meet again?” she pronounced at length with difficulty: “Where shall we meet? Whom shall I meet?”

The figure pointed to the ground with one hand, and with the other raised the linen which covered its face.

“Almighty God! My mother?”

Antonia shrieked, and fell lifeless upon the floor.

Dame Jacintha, who was at work in a neighbouring chamber, was alarmed by the cry: Flora was just gone down stairs to fetch fresh oil for the lamp by which they had been sitting. Jacintha therefore hastened alone to Antonia’s assistance, and great was her amazement to find her extended upon the floor. She raised her in her arms, conveyed her to her apartment, and placed her upon the bed, still senseless. She then proceeded to bathe her temples, chafe her hands, and use all possible means of bringing her to herself. With some difficulty she succeeded. Antonia opened her eyes, and looked round her wildly.

“Where is she?” she cried in a trembling voice: “Is she gone? Am I safe? Speak to me! Comfort me! Oh! speak to me, for God’s sake!”

“Safe from whom, my child?” replied the astonished Jacintha: “What alarms you? Of whom are you afraid?”

“In three days! She told me that we should meet in three days! I heard her say it! I saw her, Jacintha, I saw her but this moment!”

She threw herself upon Jacintha’s bosom.

“You saw her?—Saw whom?

“My mother’s ghost!”

“Christ Jesus!” cried Jacintha; and, starting from the bed, let fall Antonia upon the pillow, and fled in consternation out of the room.

As she hastened down stairs, she met Flora ascending them.

“Go to your mistress, Flora,” said she; “here are rare doings! Oh! I am the most unfortunate woman alive! My house is filled with ghosts and dead bodies, and the Lord knows what besides; yet I am sure nobody likes such company less than I do. But go your way to Donna Antonia, Flora, and let me go mine.”

Thus saying, she continued her course to the street-door, which she opened; and, without allowing herself time to throw on her oil, she made the best of her way to the Capuchin-abbey. In the mean while, Flora hastened to her lady’s chamber, equally surprised and alarmed at Jacintha’s consternation. She found Antonia lying upon the bed, insensible. She used the same means for her recovery that Jacintha had already employed; but finding that her mistress only recovered from one fit to fall into another, she sent in all haste for a physician. While expecting his arrival, she undressed Antonia, and conveyed her to bed.

Heedless of the storm, terrified almost out of her senses, Jacintha ran through the streets, and stopped not till she reached the gate of the abbey. She rang loudly at the bell; and as soon as the porter appeared, she desired permission to speak to the superior. Ambrosio was then conferring with Matilda upon the means of procuring access to Antonia. The cause of Elvira’s death remaining unknown, he was convinced that crimes were not so swiftly followed by punishment as his instructors the monks had taught him, and as till then he had himself believed. This persuasion made him resolve upon Antonia’s ruin, for the enjoyment of whose person dangers and difficulties only seemed to have increased his passion. The monk had already made one attempt to gain admission to her presence; but Flora had refused him in such a manner as to convince him that all future endeavours must be vain. Elvira had confided her suspicions to that trusty servant: she had desired her never to leave Ambrosio alone with her daughter, and, if possible, to prevent their meeting altogether. Flora promised to obey her, and had executed her orders to the very letter. Ambrosio’s visit had been rejected that morning, though Antonia was ignorant of it. He saw that to obtain a sight of his mistress by open means was out of the question; and both himself and Matilda had consumed the night in endeavouring to invent some plan, whose event might be more successful. Such was their employment when a lay-brother entered the abbot’s cell, and informed him that a woman calling herself Jacintha Zuniga requested audience for a few minutes.