The Monk (23 page)

“But suppose,” said I, interrupting her—“suppose that he should disapprove of our union: let him remain ignorant of my proceedings till I have rescued you from the prison in which you are now confined. Once my wife, you are free from his authority. I need from him no pecuniary assistance; and when he sees his resentment to be unavailing, he will doubtless restore you to his favour. But, let the worst happen; should Don Gaston be irreconcileable, my relations will vie with each other in making you forget his loss; and you will find in my father a substitute for the parent of whom I shall deprive you.”

“Don Raymond,” replied Agnes, in a firm and resolute voice, “I love my father: he has treated me harshly in this one instance; but I have received from him, in every other, so many proofs of love, that his affection is become necessary to my existence. Were I to quit the convent, he never would forgive me; nor can I think that, on his death-bed, he would leave me his curse, without shuddering at the very idea. Besides, I am conscious myself, that my vows are binding. Wilfully did I contract my engagement with heaven: I cannot break it without a crime. Then banish from your mind the idea of our being ever united. I am devoted to religion; and however I may grieve at our separation, I would oppose obstacles myself, to what I feel would render me guilty.”

I strove to over-rule these ill-grounded scruples. We were still disputing upon the subject, when the convent-bell summoned the nuns to matins. Agnes was obliged to attend them; but she left me not till I had compelled her to promise, that on the following night she would be at the same place at the same hour. These meetings continued for several weeks uninterrupted: and ’Tis now, Lorenzo, that I must implore your indulgence. Reflect upon our situation, our youth, our long attachment. Weigh all the circumstances which attended our assignations, and you will confess the temptation to have been irresistible: you will even pardon me when I acknowledge that, in an unguarded moment, the honour of Agnes was sacrificed to my passion.

[Lorenzo’s eyes sparkled with fury; a deep crimson spread itself over his face: he started from his seat, and attempted to draw his sword. The marquis was aware of his movement, and caught his hand: he pressed it affectionately:

“My friend! my brother! hear me to the conclusion! Till then restrain your passion; and be at least convinced, that if what I have related is criminal, the blame must fall upon me, and not upon your sister.”

Lorenzo suffered himself to be prevailed upon by Don Raymond’s entreaties: he resumed his place, and listened to the rest of the narrative with a gloomy and impatient countenance. The marquis thus continued:]

Scarcely was the first burst of passion past, when Agnes, recovering herself, started from my arms with horror. She called me infamous seducer, loaded me with the bitterest reproaches, and beat her bosom in all the wildness of delirium. Ashamed of my imprudence, I with difficulty found words to excuse myself. I endeavoured to console her: I threw myself at her feet, and entreated her forgiveness. She forced her hand from me, which I had taken and would have pressed to my lips.

“Touch me not!” she cried, with a violence which terrified me. “Monster of perfidy and ingratitude, how have I been deceived in you! I looked upon you as my friend, my protector: I trusted myself in your hands with confidence, and, relying upon your honour, thought that mine ran no risk: and ’Tis by you, whom I adored, that I am covered with infamy! ’Tis by you that I have been seduced into breaking my vows to God, that I am reduced to a level with the basest of my sex! Shame upon you, villain, you shall never see me more!”

She started from the bank on which she was seated. I endeavoured to detain her; but she disengaged herself from me with violence, and took refuge in the convent.

I retired, filled with confusion and inquietude. The next morning I failed not, as usual, to appear in the garden; but Agnes was no where to be seen. At night I waited for her at the place where we generally met. I found no better success. Several days and nights passed away in the same manner. At length I saw my offended mistress cross the walk, on whose borders I was working: she was accompanied by the same young pensioner, on whose arm she seemed, from weakness, obliged to support herself. She looked upon me for a moment, but instantly turned her head away. I waited her return; but she passed on to the convent without paying any attention to me, or the penitent looks with which I implored her forgiveness.

As soon as the nuns were retired, the old gardener joined me with a sorrowful air.

“Segnor,” said he, “it grieves me to say, that I can be no longer of use to you; the lady whom you used to meet has just assured me, that if I admitted you again into the garden, she would discover the whole business to the lady prioress. She bade me tell you also, that your presence was an insult, and that, if you still possess the least respect for her, you will never attempt to see her more. Excuse me then for informing you, that I can favour your disguise no longer. Should the prioress be acquainted with my conduct, she might not be contented with dismissing me her service: out of revenge, she might accuse me of having profaned the convent, and cause me to be thrown into the prisons of the Inquisition.”

Fruitless were my attempts to conquer his resolution. He denied me all future entrance into the garden; and Agnes persevered in neither letting me see or hear from her. In about a fortnight after, a violent illness which had seized my father obliged me to set out for Andalusia. I hastened thither, and, as I imagined, found the marquis at the point of death. Though, on its first appearance, his complaint was declared mortal, he lingered out several months; during which, my attendance upon him in his malady, and the occupation of settling his affairs after his decease, permitted not my quitting Andalusia. Within these four days I returned to Madrid, and, on arriving at my hotel, I there found this letter waiting for me.

[Here the marquis unlocked a drawer of a cabinet; he took out a folded paper, which he presented to his auditor. Lorenzo opened it, and recognised his sister’s hand. The contents were as follows:

“Into what an abyss of misery have you plunged me! Raymond, you force me to become as criminal as yourself. I had resolved never to see you more; if possible, to forget you; if not, only to remember you with hate. A being, for whom I already feel a mother’s tenderness, solicits me to pardon my seducer, and apply to his love for the means of preservation. Raymond, your child lives in my bosom. I tremble at the vengeance of the prioress. I tremble much for myself, yet more for the innocent creature whose existence depends upon mine. Both of us are lost, should my situation be discovered. Advise me, then, what steps to take, but seek not to see me. The gardener, who undertakes to deliver this, is dismissed, and we have nothing to hope from that quarter. The man engaged in his place is of incorruptible fidelity. The best means of conveying to me your answer, is by concealing it under the great statue of St. Francis, which stands in the Capuchin cathedral; thither I go every Thursday to confession, and shall easily have an opportunity of securing your letter. I hear that you are now absent from Madrid. Need I entreat you to write the very moment of your return? I will not think it. Ah! Raymond! mine is a cruel situation! Deceived by my nearest relations, compelled to embrace a profession the duties of which I am ill calculated to perform, conscious of the sanctity of those duties, and seduced into violating them by one whom I least suspected of perfidy, I am now obliged, by circumstances, to choose between death and perjury. Woman’s timidity, and maternal affection, permit me not to balance in the choice. I feel all the guilt into which I plunge myself when I yield to the plan which you before proposed to me. My poor father’s death, which has taken place since we met, has removed one obstacle. He sleeps in his grave, and I no longer dread his anger. But from the anger of God, oh! Raymond! who shall shield me? Who can protect me against my conscience, against myself? I dare not dwell upon these thoughts; they will drive me mad. I have taken my resolution. Procure a dispensation from my vows. I am ready to fly with you. Write to me, my husband! Tell me that absence has not abated your love! Tell me that you will rescue from death your unborn child, and its unhappy mother. I live in all the agonies of terror. Every eye which is fixed upon me, seems to read my secret and my shame. And you are the cause of those agonies! Oh! when my heart first loved you, how little did it suspect you of making it feel such pangs!

A
GNES.”

Having perused the letter, Lorenzo restored it in silence. The marquis replaced it in the cabinet, and then proceeded:]

Excessive was my joy at reading this intelligence, so earnestly desired, so little expected. My plan was soon arranged. When Don Gaston discovered to me his daughter’s retreat, I entertained no doubt of her readiness to quit the convent: I had, therefore, entrusted the cardinal-duke of Lerma with the whole affair, who immediately busied himself in obtaining the necessary bull. Fortunately, I had afterwards neglected to stop his proceedings. Not long since I received a letter from him, stating that he expected daily to receive the order from the court of Rome. Upon this I would willingly have relied; but the cardinal wrote me word, that I must find some means of conveying Agnes out of the convent, unknown to the prioress. He doubted not but this latter would be much incensed by losing a person of such high rank from her society, and consider the renunciation of Agnes as an insult to her house. He represented her as a woman of a violent and revengeful character, capable of proceeding to the greatest extremities. It was therefore to be feared lest, by confining Agnes in the convent, she should frustrate my hopes, and render the pope’s mandate unavailing. Influenced by this consideration, I resolved to carry off my mistress, and conceal her till the arrival of the expected bull in the cardinal-duke’s estate. He approved of my design, and professed himself ready to give a shelter to the fugitive. I next caused the new gardener of St. Clare to be seized privately, and confined in my hotel. By this means I became master of the key to the garden-door, and I had now nothing more to do than prepare Agnes for the elopement. This was done by the letter which you saw me deliver this evening. I told her in it, that I should be ready to receive her at twelve to-morrow night; that I had secured the key of the garden, and that she might depend upon a speedy release.

You have now, Lorenzo, heard the whole of my long narrative. I have nothing to say in my excuse, save that my intentions towards your sister have been ever the most honourable: that it has always been, and still is, my design to make her my wife; and that I trust, when you consider these circumstances, our youth, and our attachment, you will not only forgive our momentary lapse from virtue, but will aid me in repairing my faults to Agnes, and securing a lawful title to her person and her heart.

C
HAP
. V.

O you! whom Vanity’s light bark conveys
On Fame’s mad voyage by the wind of Praise
,
With what a shifting gale your course you ply
,
For ever sunk too low, or borne too high!
Who pants for glory finds but short repose:
A breath revives him, and a breath o’erthrows
.

P
OPE
.

Here the marquis concluded his adventures. Lorenzo, before he could determine on his reply, passed some moments in reflection. At length he broke silence.

“Raymond,” said he, taking his hand, “strict honour would oblige me to wash off in your blood the stain thrown upon my family; but the circumstances of your case forbid me to consider you as an enemy. The temptation was too great to be resisted. ’Tis the superstition of my relations which has occasioned these misfortunes, and they are more the offenders than yourself and Agnes. What has passed between you cannot be recalled, but may yet be repaired by uniting you to my sister. You have ever been, you still continue to be, my dearest, and indeed my only friend. I feel for Agnes the truest affection, and there is no one on whom I would bestow her more willingly than on yourself. Pursue, then, your design. I will accompany you to-morrow night, and conduct her myself to the house of the cardinal. My presence will be a sanction for her conduct, and prevent her incurring blame by her flight from the convent.”

The marquis thanked him in terms by no means deficient in gratitude. Lorenzo then informed him, that he had nothing more to apprehend from Donna Rodolpha’s enmity. Five months had already elapsed since, in an excess of passion, she broke a blood-vessel, and expired in the course of a few hours. He then proceeded to mention the interests of Antonia. The marquis was much surprised at hearing of this new relation. His father had carried his hatred of Elvira to the grave, and had never given the least hint that he knew what was become of his eldest son’s widow. Don Raymond assured his friend, that he was not mistaken in supposing him ready to acknowledge his sister-in-law, and her amiable daughter. The preparations for the elopement would not permit his visiting them the next day; but, in the mean while, he desired Lorenzo to assure them of his friendship, and to supply Elvira, upon his account, with any sums which she might want. This the youth promised to do, as soon as her abode should be known to him. He then took leave of his future brother, and returned to the palace de Medina.

The day was already on the point of breaking when the marquis retired to his chamber. Conscious that his narrative would take up some hours, and wishing to secure himself from interruption, on returning to the hotel he ordered his attendants not to sit up for him; consequently, he was somewhat surprised, on entering his anti-room, to find Theodore established there. The page sat near a table with a pen in his hand, and was so totally occupied by his employment, that he perceived not his lord’s approach. The marquis stopped to observe him. Theodore wrote a few lines, then paused, and scratched out a part of the writing; then wrote again, smiled, and seemed highly pleased with what he had been about. At last he threw down his pen, sprang from his chair, and clapped his hands together joyfully.

“There it is!” cried he aloud: “now they are charming!”

His transports were interrupted by a laugh from the marquis, who suspected the nature of his employment.

“What is so charming, Theodore?”

The youth started, and looked round: he blushed, ran to the table, seized the paper on which he had been writing, and concealed it in confusion.

“Oh! my lord, I knew not that you were so near me. Can I be of use to you? Lucas is already gone to bed.”

“I shall follow his example when I have given my opinion of your verses.”

“My verses, my lord?”

“Nay, I am sure that you have been writing some, for nothing else could have kept you awake till this time of the morning. Where are they, Theodore? I shall like to see your composition.”

Theodore’s cheeks glowed with still deeper crimson: he longed to shew his poetry, but first chose to be pressed for it.

“Indeed, my lord, they are not worthy your attention.”

“Not these verses, which you just now declared to be so charming? Come, come, let me see whether our opinions are the same. I promise that you shall find in me an indulgent critic.”

The boy produced his paper with seeming reluctance; but the satisfaction which sparkled in his dark expressive eyes betrayed the vanity of his little bosom. The marquis smiled while he observed the emotions of an heart as yet but little skilled in veiling its sentiments. He seated himself upon a sopha. Theodore, while hope and fear contended on his anxious countenance, waited with inquietude for his master’s decision, while the marquis read the following lines:

L
OVE AND
A
GE
.

  The night was dark; the wind blew cold;
  Anacreon, grown morose and old,
Sat by his fire, and fed the cheerful flame:
  Sudden the cottage-door expands,
  And, lo! before him Cupid stands,
Casts round a friendly glance, and greets him by his name.

  “What! is it thou?” the startled sire
  In sullen tone exclaimed, while ire
With crimson flushed his pale and wrinkled cheek:
  “Wouldst thou again with amorous rage
  Inflame my bosom? Steeled by age,
Vain boy, to pierce my breast thine arrows are too weak.

  “What seek you in this desert drear?
  No smiles or sports inhabit here;
Ne’er did these vallies witness dalliance sweet:
  Eternal winter binds the plains;
  Age in my house despotic reigns;
My garden boasts no flower, my bosom boasts no heat.

  “Begone, and seek the blooming bower,
  Where some ripe virgin courts thy power,
Or bid provoking dreams flit round her bed;
  On Damon’s amorous breast repose;
  Wanton on Chloe’s lip of rose,
Or make her blushing cheek a pillow for thy head.

  “Be such thy haunts! These regions cold
  Avoid! Nor think grown wise and old
This hoary head again thy yoke shall bear:
  Remembering that my fairest years
  By thee were marked with sighs and tears,
I think thy friendship false, and shun the guileful snare.

  “I have not yet forgot the pains
  I felt, while bound in Julia’s chains:
The ardent flames with which my bosom burned;
  The nights I passed deprived of rest;
  The jealous pangs which racked my breast;
My disappointed hopes, and passion unreturned.

  “Then fly, and curse mine eyes no more!
  Fly from my peaceful cottage-door!
No day, no hour, no moment shalt thou stay.
  I know thy falsehood, scorn thy arts,
  Distrust thy smiles, and fear thy darts:
Traitor, begone, and seek some other to betray!”—

  “Does age, old man, your wits confound?”
  Replied the offended god, and frowned:
[His frown was sweet as is the virgin’s smile!]
  “Do you to me these words address?
  To me, who do not love you less,
Though you my friendship scorn, and pleasures past revile!

  “If one proud fair you chanced to find,
  An hundred other nymphs were kind,
Whose smiles might well for Julia’s frowns atone:
But, such is man! his partial hand
  Unnumbered favours writes on sand,
But stamps one little fault on solid lasting stone.

  “Ingrate! Who led thee to the wave,
  At noon where Lesbia loved to lave?
Who named the bower alone where Daphne lay?
  And who, when Celia shrieked for aid,
  Bade you with kisses hush the maid?
What other was’t than Love, oh! false Anacreon, say!

  “Then you could call me—‘Gentle boy!
  ‘My only bliss! my source of joy!’
Then you could prize me dearer than your soul!
  Could kiss, and dance me on your knees;
  And swear, not wine itself would please,
Had not the lip of Love first touched the flowing bowl!

  “Must those sweet days return no more?
  Must I for aye your loss deplore,
Banished your heart, and from your favour driven?
  Ah! no; my fears that smile denies;
  That heaving breast, those sparkling eyes
Declare me ever dear, and all my faults forgiven.

  “Again beloved, esteemed, caressed,
  Cupid shall in thine arms be pressed,
Sport on thy knees, or on thy bosom sleep:
  My torch thine age-struck heart shall warm;
  My hand pale winter’s rage disarm,
And Youth and Spring shall here once more their revels keep.”—

  A feather now of golden hue
  He smiling from his pinion drew;
This to the poet’s hand the boy commits;
  And straight before Anacreon’s eyes
  The fairest dreams of fancy rise,
And round his favoured head wild inspiration flits.

  His bosom glows with amorous fire;
  Eager he grasps the magic lyre;
Swift o’er the tuneful chords his fingers move:
  The feather plucked from Cupid’s wing
  Sweeps the too-long neglected string,
While soft Anacreon sings the power and praise of love.

  Soon as that name was heard, the woods
  Shook off their snows; the melting floods
Broke their cold chains, and winter fled away.
  Once more the earth was decked with flowers;
  Mild zephyrs breathed through blooming bowers;
High towered the glorious sun, and poured the blaze of day.

  Attracted by the harmonious sound,
  Sylvans and fauns the cot surround,
And curious crowd the minstrel to behold:
  The wood-nymphs haste the spell to prove;
  Eager they run; they list, they love,
And, while they hear the strain, forget the man is old.

  Cupid, to nothing constant long,
  Perched on the harp attends the song,
Or stifles with a kiss the dulcet notes:
  Now on the poet’s breast reposes,
  Now twines his hoary locks with roses,
Or borne on wings of gold in wanton circle floats.

  Then thus Anacreon—“I no more
  At other shrines my vows will pour,
Since Cupid deigns my numbers to inspire:
  From Phœbus or the blue-eyed maid
  Now shall my verse request no aid,
For Love alone shall be the patron of my lyre.

  “In lofty strain, of earlier days,
  I spread the king’s or hero’s praise,
And struck the martial chords with epic fire:
  But farewell, hero! farewell, king!
  Your deeds my lips no more shall sing,
For Love alone shall be the subject of my lyre.”

The marquis returned the paper with a smile of encouragement.

“Your little poem pleases me much,” said he: “however, you must not count my opinion for any thing. I am no judge of verses, and for my own part never composed more than six lines in my life: those six produced so unlucky an effect, that I am fully resolved never to compose another. But I wander from my subject. I was going to say that you cannot employ your time worse than in making verses. An author, whether good or bad, or between both, is an animal whom every body is privileged to attack: for though all are not able to write books, all conceive themselves able to judge them. A bad composition carries with it its own punishment—contempt and ridicule. A good one excites envy, and entails upon its author a thousand mortifications: he finds himself assailed by partial and ill-humoured criticism: one man finds fault with the plan, another with the style, a third with the precept which it strives to inculcate; and they who cannot succeed in finding fault with the book, employ themselves in stigmatizing its author. They maliciously rake out from obscurity every little circumstance which may throw ridicule upon his private character or conduct, and aim at wounding the man since they cannot hurt the writer. In short, to enter the lists of literature is wilfully to expose yourself to the arrows of neglect, ridicule, envy, and disappointment. Whether you write well or ill, be assured that you will not escape from blame. Indeed this circumstance contains a young author’s chief consolation: he remembers that Lope de Vega and Calderona had unjust and envious critics, and he modestly conceives himself to be exactly in their predicament. But I am conscious that all these sage observations are thrown away upon you. Authorship is a mania, to conquer which no reasons are sufficiently strong; and you might as easily persuade me not to love, as I persuade you not to write. However, if you cannot help being occasionally seized with a poetical paroxysm, take at least the precaution of communicating your verses to none but those whose partiality for you secures their approbation.”