The Monk (39 page)
As he quitted the house, Jacintha met him, and begged that some masses might be sung for the repose of Elvira’s soul, which she doubted not was suffering in purgatory.
He promised not to forget her request; but he perfectly gained the old woman’s heart, by engaging to watch during the whole of the approaching night in the haunted chamber. Jacintha could find no terms sufficiently strong to express her gratitude, and the monk departed loaded with her benedictions.
It was broad day when he returned to the abbey. His first care was to communicate what had passed to his confidante. He felt too sincere a passion for Antonia, to have heard unmoved the prediction of her speedy death, and he shuddered at the idea of losing an object so dear to him. Upon this head Matilda re-assured him. She confirmed the arguments which himself had already used: she declared Antonia to have been deceived by the wandering of her brain, by the spleen which oppressed her at the moment, and by the natural turn of her mind to superstition and the marvellous. As to Jacintha’s account, the absurdity refuted itself. The abbot hesitated not to believe that she had fabricated the whole story, either confused by terror, or hoping to make him comply more readily with her request. Having over-ruled the monk’s apprehensions, Matilda continued thus:
“The prediction and the ghost are equally false: but it must be your care, Ambrosio, to verify the first. Antonia within three days must indeed be dead to the world: but she must live for you. Her present illness, and this fancy which she has taken into her head, will colour a plan which I have long meditated, but which was impracticable without your procuring access to Antonia. She shall be yours, not for a single night, but for ever. All the vigilance of her duenna shall not avail her. You shall riot unrestrained in the charms of your mistress. This very day must the scheme be put in execution, for you have no time to lose. The nephew of the duke of Medina Celi prepares to demand Antonia for his bride: in a few days she will be removed to the palace of her relation, the marquis de las Cisternas, and there she will be secure from your attempts. Thus during your absence have I been informed by my spies, who are ever employed in bringing me intelligence for your service. Now then listen to me. There is a juice extracted from certain herbs known but to few, which brings on the person who drinks it the exact image of death. Let this be administered to Antonia: you may easily find means to pour a few drops into her medicine. The effect will be throwing her into strong convulsions for an hour: after which her blood will gradually cease to flow, and heart to beat: a mortal paleness will spread itself over her features, and she will appear a corse to every eye. She has no friends about her: you may charge yourself unsuspected with the superintendence of her funeral, and cause her to be buried in the vaults of St. Clare. Their solitude and easy access render these caverns favourable to your designs. Give Antonia the soporific draught this evening: eight-and-forty hours after she has drank it, life will revive in her bosom. She will then be absolutely in your power: she will find all resistance unavailing, and necessity will compel her to receive you in her arms.”
“Antonia will be in my power!” exclaimed the monk; “Matilda, you transport me! At length then happiness will be mine, and that happiness will be Matilda’s gift, will be the gift of friendship! I shall clasp Antonia in my arms, far from every prying eye, from every tormenting intruder! I shall sigh out my soul upon her bosom; shall teach her young heart the first rudiments of pleasure, and revel uncontrouled in the endless variety of her charms! And shall this delight indeed be mine? Shall I give the reins to my desires, and gratify every wild tumultuous wish? Oh! Matilda, how can I express to you my gratitude?”
“By profiting by my counsels. Ambrosio, I live but to serve you; your interest and happiness are equally mine. Be your person Antonia’s, but to your friendship and your heart I still assert my claim. Contributing to yours, forms now my only pleasure. Should my exertions procure the gratification of your wishes, I shall consider my trouble to be amply repaid. But let us lose no time. The liquor of which I spoke, is only to be found in St. Clare’s laboratory. Hasten then to the prioress, request of her admission to the laboratory, and it will not be denied. There is a closet at the lower end of the great room, filled with liquids of different colours and qualities; the bottle in question stands by itself, upon the third shelf on the left. It contains a greenish liquor: fill a small phial with it when you are unobserved, and Antonia is your own.”
The monk hesitated not to adopt this infamous plan. His desires, but too violent before, had acquired fresh vigour from the sight of Antonia. As he sat by her bed-side, accident had discovered to him some of those charms which till then had been concealed from him: he found them even more perfect than his ardent imagination had pictured them. Sometimes her white and polished arm was displayed in arranging the pillow: sometimes a sudden movement discovered part of her swelling bosom: but wherever the new-found charm presented itself, there rested the friar’s gloating eyes. Scarcely could he master himself sufficiently to conceal his desires from Antonia and her vigilant duenna. Inflamed by the remembrance of these beauties, he entered into Matilda’s scheme without hesitation.
No sooner were matins over, than he bent his course towards the convent of St. Clare; his arrival threw the whole sisterhood into the utmost amazement. The prioress was sensible of the honour done her convent by his paying it his first visit, and strove to express her gratitude by every possible attention. He was paraded through the garden, shewn all the reliques of saints and martyrs, and treated with as much respect and distinction as had he been the Pope himself. On his part, Ambrosio received the domina’s civilities very graciously, and strove to remove her surprise at his having broken through his resolution. He stated that among his penitents, illness prevented many from quitting their houses. These were exactly the people who most needed his advice and the comforts of religion. Many representations had been made to him upon this account, and, though highly repugnant to his own wishes, he had found it absolutely necessary, for the service of Heaven, to change his determination, and quit his beloved retirement. The prioress applauded his zeal in his profession, and his charity towards mankind. She declared that Madrid was happy in possessing a man so perfect and irreproachable. In such discourse the friar at length reached the laboratory: he found the closet; the bottle stood in the place which Matilda had described, and the monk seized an opportunity to fill his phial unobserved with the soporific liquor. Then, having partaken of a collation in the refectory, he retired from the convent, pleased with the success of his visit, and leaving the nuns delighted by the honour conferred upon them.
He waited till evening before he took the road to Antonia’s dwelling. Jacintha welcomed him with transport, and besought him not to forget his promise to pass the night in the haunted chamber. That promise he now repeated. He found Antonia tolerably well, but still harping upon the ghost’s prediction. Flora moved not from her lady’s bed, and, by symptoms yet stronger than on the former night, testified her dislike to the abbot’s presence. Still Ambrosio affected not to observe them. The physician arrived while he was conversing with Antonia. It was dark already; lights were called for, and Flora was compelled to descend for them herself. However, as she left a third person in the room, and expected to be absent but a few minutes, she believed that she risqued nothing in quitting her post. No sooner had she left the room, than Ambrosio moved towards the table, on which stood Antonia’s medicine. It was placed in a recess of the window. The physician, seated in an arm chair, and employed in questioning his patient, paid no attention to the proceedings of the monk. Ambrosio seized the opportunity; he drew out the fatal phial, and let a few drops fall into the medicine: he then hastily left the table, and returned to the seat which he had quitted. When Flora made her appearance with lights, everything seemed to be exactly as she had left it.
The physician declared that Antonia might quit her chamber the next day with perfect safety. He recommended her following the same prescription which on the night before had procured her a refreshing sleep. Flora replied, that the draught stood ready upon the table: he advised the patient to take it without delay, and then retired. Flora poured the medicine into a cup, and presented it to her mistress. At that moment Ambrosio’s courage failed him. Might not Matilda have deceived him? Might not jealousy have persuaded her to destroy her rival, and substitute poison in the room of an opiate? This idea appeared so reasonable, that he was on the point of preventing her from swallowing the medicine. His resolution was adopted too late. The cup was already emptied, and Antonia restored it into Flora’s hands. No remedy was now to be found; Ambrosio could only expect the moment impatiently destined to decide upon Antonia’s life or death, upon his own happiness or despair.
Dreading to create suspicion by his stay, or betray himself by his mind’s agitation, he took leave of his victim, and withdrew from the room. Antonia parted from him with less cordiality than on the former night. Flora had represented to her mistress, that to admit his visits was to disobey her mother’s orders. She described to her his emotion on entering the room, and the fire which sparkled in his eyes while he gazed upon her. This had escaped Antonia’s observation, but not her attendant’s, who, explaining the monk’s designs, and their probable consequences, in terms much clearer than Elvira’s, though not quite so delicate, had succeeded in alarming her young lady, and persuading her to treat him more distantly than she had done hitherto. The idea of obeying her mother’s will at once determined Antonia. Though she grieved at losing his society, she conquered herself sufficiently to receive the monk with some degree of reserve and coldness. She thanked him with respect and gratitude for his former visits, but did not invite his repeating them in future. It now was not the friar’s interest to solicit admission to her presence, and he took leave of her as if not designing to return. Fully persuaded that the acquaintance which she dreaded was now at an end, Flora was so much worked upon by his easy compliance, that she began to doubt the justice of her suspicions. As she lighted him down stairs, she thanked him for having endeavoured to root out from Antonia’s mind her superstitious terrors of the spectre’s prediction: she added, that as he seemed interested in Donna Antonia’s welfare, should any change take place in her situation, she would be careful to let him know it. The monk, in replying, took pains to raise his voice, hoping that Jacintha would hear it. In this he succeeded. As he reached the foot of the stairs with his conductress, the landlady failed not to make her appearance.
“Why surely you are not going away, reverend father?” cried she: “Did you not promise to pass the night in the haunted chamber? Christ Jesus! I shall be left alone with the ghost, and a fine pickle I shall be in by morning! Do all I could, say all I could, that obstinate old brute, Simon Gonzalez, refused to marry me to-day; and before to-morrow comes, I suppose I shall be torn to pieces by the ghosts and goblins, and devils, and what not! For God’s sake, your holiness, do not leave me in such a woful condition! On my bended knees I beseech you to keep your promise: watch this night in the haunted chamber; lay the apparition in the red sea, and Jacintha remembers you in her prayers to the last day of her existence!”
This request Ambrosio expected and desired; yet he affected to raise objections, and to seem unwilling to keep his word. He told Jacintha that the ghost existed no where but in her own brain, and that her insisting upon his staying all night in the house was ridiculous and useless. Jacintha was obstinate; she was not to be convinced, and pressed him so urgently not to leave her a prey to the devil, that at length he granted her request. All this show of resistance imposed not upon Flora, who was naturally of a suspicious temper. She suspected the monk to be acting a part very contrary to his own inclinations, and that he wished for no better than to remain where he was. She even went so far as to believe that Jacintha was in his interest; and the poor old woman was immediately set down as no better than a procuress. While she applauded herself for having penetrated into this plot against her lady’s honour, she resolved in secret to render it fruitless.
“So then,” said she to the abbot with a look half satirical and half indignant—“so then you mean to stay here to-night? Do so, in God’s name! Nobody will prevent you. Sit up to watch for the ghost’s arrival: I shall sit up too, and the Lord grant that I may see nothing worse than a ghost! I quit not Donna Antonia’s bed-side during this blessed night. Let me see any one dare to enter the room, and be he mortal or immortal, be he ghost, devil, or man, I warrant his repenting that ever he crossed the threshold!”
This hint was sufficiently strong, and Ambrosio understood its meaning. But instead of shewing that he perceived her suspicions, he replied mildly, that he approved the duenna’s precautions, and advised her to persevere in her intention. This she assured him faithfully that he might depend upon her doing. Jacintha then conducted him into the chamber where the ghost had appeared, and Flora returned to her lady’s.
Jacintha opened the door of the haunted room with a trembling hand; she ventured to peep in, but the wealth of India would not have tempted her to cross the threshold. She gave the taper to the monk, wished him well through the adventure, and hastened to be gone. Ambrosio entered. He bolted the door, placed the light upon the table, and seated himself in the chair which on the former night had sustained Antonia. In spite of Matilda’s assurances, that the spectre was a mere creation of fancy, his mind was impressed with a certain mysterious horror. He in vain endeavoured to shake it off. The silence of the night, the story of the apparition, the chamber wainscotted with dark oak pannels, the recollection which it brought with it of the murdered Elvira, and his incertitude respecting the nature of the drops given by him to Antonia, made him feel uneasy at his present situation. But he thought much less of the spectre than of the poison. Should he have destroyed the only object which rendered life dear to him; should the ghost’s prediction prove true; should Antonia in three days be no more, and he the wretched cause of her death.…. The supposition was too horrible to dwell upon. He drove away these dreadful images, and as often they presented themselves again before him. Matilda had assured him that the effects of the opiate would be speedy. He listened with fear, yet with eagerness, expecting to hear some disturbance in the adjoining chamber. All was still silent. He concluded that the drops had not begun to operate. Great was the stake for which he now played: a moment would suffice to decide upon his misery or happiness. Matilda had taught him the means of ascertaining, that life was not extinct for ever: upon this assay depended all his hopes. With every instant his impatience redoubled; his terrors grew more lively, his anxiety more awake. Unable to bear this state of incertitude, he endeavoured to divert it by substituting the thoughts of others to his own. The books, as was before mentioned, were ranged upon shelves near the table: this stood exactly opposite to the bed, which was placed in an alcove near the closet-door. Ambrosio took down a volume, and seated himself by the table: but his attention wandered from the pages before him. Antonia’s image, and that of the murdered Elvira, persisted to force themselves before his imagination. Still he continued to read, though his eyes ran over the characters without his mind being conscious of their import.
