There was a time--of no great duration--when Lewis' "Monk" was
the most popular book in England. At the end of the eighteenth
century the vogue of the "Gothic" romance of ghosts and
mysteries was at its height; and this work, written in ten
weeks by a young man of nineteen, caught the public fancy
tremendously, and Matthew Gregory Lewis was straightway
accepted as an adept at making the flesh creep. Taste changes
in horrors, as in other things, and "Ambrosio, or The Monk,"
would give nightmares to few modern readers. Its author, who
was born in London on July 9, 1775, and published "The Monk"
in 1795, wrote many supernatural tales and poems, and also
several plays--one of which, "The Castle Spectre," caused the
hair of Drury Lane audiences to stand on end for sixty
successive nights, a long run in those days. Lewis, who was a
wealthy man, sat for some years in Parliament; he had many
distinguished friends among men of letters--Scott and Southey
contributed largely to the first volume of his "Tales of
Wonder." He died on May 13, 1818.
_I.--The Recluse_
The Church of the Capuchins in Madrid had never witnessed a more
numerous assembly than that which gathered to hear the sermon of
Ambrosio, the abbot. All Madrid rang with his praises. Brought
mysteriously to the abbey door while yet an infant, he had remained for
all the thirty years of his life within its precincts. All his days had
been spent in seclusion, study, and mortification of the flesh; his
knowledge was profound, his eloquence most persuasive; his only fault
was an excess of severity in judging the human feelings from which he
himself was exempted.
Among the crowd that pressed into the church were two women--one
elderly, the other young--who had seats offered them by two richly
habited cavaliers. The younger cavalier, Don Lorenzo, discovered such
exquisite beauty and sweetness in the maiden to whom he had given his
seat--her name was Antonia--that when she left the church he was
desperately in love with her.
He had promised to see his sister Agnes, a nun in the Convent of St.
Clare; so he remained in the church, whither the nuns were presently to
come to confess to the Abbot Ambrosio. As he waited he observed a man
wrapped up in a cloak hurriedly place a letter beneath a statue of St.
Francis, and then retire.
The nuns entered, and removed their veils out of respect to the saint to
whom the building was dedicated. One of the nuns dropped her rosary
beside the statue, and, as she stooped to pick it up, she dexterously
removed the letter and placed it in her bosom. As she did so, the light
flashed full in her face.
"Agnes, by Heaven!" cried Lorenzo.
He hastened after the cloaked stranger, and overtook him with drawn
sword. Suddenly the cloaked man turned and exclaimed, "Is it possible?
Lorenzo, have you forgotten Raymond de las Cisternas?"
"You here, marquis?" said the astonished Lorenzo. "You engaged in a
clandestine correspondence with my sister?"
"Her affections have ever been mine, and not the Church's. She entered
the convent tricked into a belief that I had been false to her; but I
have proved to her that it is otherwise. She had agreed to fly with me,
and my uncle, the cardinal, is securing for her a dispensation from her
vows."
Raymond told at length the story of his love, and at the end Lorenzo
said, "Raymond, there is no one on whom I would bestow Agnes more
willingly than on yourself. Pursue your design, and I will accompany
you."
Meanwhile, Agnes tremblingly advanced toward the abbot, and in her
nervousness let fall the precious letter. She turned to pick it up. The
abbot claimed and read it; it was the proposal of Agnes's escape with
her lover that very night.
"This letter must to the prioress!" said he sternly.
"Hold father, hold!" cried Agnes, flinging herself at his feet. "Be
merciful! Do not doom me to destruction!"
"Hence, unworthy wretch! Where is the prioress?"
The prioress, when she came, gazed upon Agnes with fury. "Away with her
to the convent!" she exclaimed.
"Oh, Raymond, save me, save me!" shrieked the distracted Agnes. Then,
casting upon the abbot a frantic look, "Hear me," she continued, "man of
a hard heart! Insolent in your yet unshaken virtue, your day of trial
will arrive. Think then upon your cruelty; and despair of pardon!"
_II.--The Abbot's Infatuation_
Leaving the church, Ambrosio bent his steps towards a grotto in the
abbey garden, formed in imitation of a hermitage. On reaching the
grotto, he found it already occupied. Extended upon one of the seats,
lay a man in a melancholy posture, lost in meditation. Ambrosio
recognised him; it was Rosario, his favourite novice, a youth of whose
origin none knew anything, save that his bearing, and such of his
features as accident had discovered--for he seemed fearful of being
recognised, and was continually muffled up in his cowl--proved him to be
of noble birth.
"You must not indulge this disposition to melancholy, Rosario," said
Ambrosio tenderly.
The youth flung himself at Ambrosio's feet.
"Oh, pity me!" he cried. "How willingly would I unveil to you my heart!
But I fear------"
"How shall I reassure you? Reveal to me what afflicts you, and I swear
that your secret shall be safe in my keeping."
"Father," said Rosario, in faltering accents, "I am a woman!"
The abbot stood still for a moment in astonishment, then turned hastily
to go. But the suppliant clasped his knees.
"Do not fly me!" she cried. "You are my beloved; but far is it from
Matilda's wish to draw you from the paths of virtue. All I ask is to see
you, to converse with you, to adore you!"
Confusion and resentment mingled in Ambrosio's mind with secret pleasure
that a young and lovely woman had thus for his sake abandoned the world.
But he recognised the need for austerity.
"Matilda," he said, "you must leave the abbey to-morrow."
"Cruel, cruel!" she exclaimed, wringing her hands in agony. "Farewell,
my friend! And yet, methinks, I would fain bear with me some token of
your regard."
"What shall I give you?"
"Anything--one of those flowers will be sufficient."
Ambrosio approached a bush, and stooped to pick one of the flowers. He
uttered a piercing cry, and Matilda rushed towards him.
"A serpent," he said in a faint voice, "concealed among the roses."
With loud shrieks the distressed Matilda summoned assistance. Ambrosio
was carried to the abbey, his wound was examined, and the surgeon
pronounced that there was no hope. He had been stung by a centipedoro,
and would not live three days.
Mournfully the monks left the bedside, and Ambrosio was entrusted to the
care of the despairing Matilda. Next morning the surgeon was astonished
to find that the inflammation had subsided, and when he probed the wound
no traces of the venom were perceptible.
"A miracle! A miracle!" cried the monks. Joyfully they proclaimed that
St. Francis had saved the life of their sainted abbot.
But Ambrosio was still weak and languid, and again the monks left him in
Matilda's care. As he listened to an old ballad sung by her sweet voice,
he found renewed pleasure in her society, and was conscious of the
influence upon him of her beauty. For three days she nursed him, while
he watched her with increasing fondness. But on the next day she came
not. A lay-brother entered instead.
"Hasten, reverend father," said he. "Young Rosario lies at the point of
death, and he earnestly requests to see you."
In deep agitation he followed the lay-brother to Matilda's apartment.
Her face glowed at the sight of him. "Leave me, my brethren," she said
to the monks; much have I to tell this holy man in private."
"Father, I am poisoned," she said, when they had gone, "but the poison
once circulated in your veins."
"Matilda!"
"I loosened the bandage from your arm; I drew out the poison with my
lips. I feel death at my heart."
"And you have sacrificed yourself for me! Is there, indeed, no hope?"
"There is but one means of life in my power--a dangerous and dreadful
means; life would be purchased at too dear a rate--unless it were
permitted me to live for you."
"Then live for me," cried the infatuated monk, clasping her in his arms.
"Live for me!"
"Then," she cried joyfully, "no dangers shall appall me. Swear that you
will never inquire by what means I shall preserve myself, and procure
for me the key of the burying-ground common to us and the sisterhood of
St. Clare."
When Ambrosio had obtained the key, Matilda left him. She returned
radiant with joy.
"I have succeeded!" she cried. "I shall live, Ambrosio--shall live for
you!"
_III.--Unavailing Remorse_
Raymond and Lorenzo had gone to the rendezvous appointed in the letter,
and had waited to be joined by Agnes and to enable her to escape from
the convent.
But Agnes had not come, and the two friends withdrew in deep
mortification. Presently arrived a message from Raymond's uncle, the
cardinal, enclosing the Pope's bull ordering that Agnes should be
released from her vows, and restored to her relatives. Lorenzo at once
conveyed the bull to the prioress.
"It is out of my power to obey this order," said she, in a voice of
anger which she strove in vain to disguise. "Agnes is dead!"
Lorenzo hastened with the fatal news to Raymond, whose terrible
affliction led to a dangerous illness.
One morning, as Ambrosio was leaving the chapel after listening to many
penitents--he was the favourite confessor in Madrid--Antonia stepped
timidly up to him and begged him to visit her mother, who was stretched
on a bed of sickness. Charmed with her beauty and innocence, he
consented.
The monk retired to his cell, whither he was pursued by Antonia's image.
"What would be too dear a price," he meditated, "for this lovely girl's
affections?"
Not once but often did Ambrosio visit Antonia and her mother; and each
time he saw the innocent girl his love increased. Matilda, who had first
opened his heart to love, saw the change, and penetrated his secret.
"Since your love can no longer be mine," she said to him sadly, "I
request the next best gift--your confidence and friendship. You love
Antonia, but you love her despairingly. I come to point out the road to
success."
"Oh, impossible!"
"To those who dare, nothing is impossible. Listen! My guardian was a man
of uncommon knowledge, and from him I had training in the arts of magic.
One terrible power he gave me--the power of raising a demon. I shuddered
at the thought of employing it, until it became my only means of saving
my life--a life that you prized. For your sake I performed the mystic
rites in the sepulchre of St. Clare. For your sake I will perform them
again."
"No, no, Matilda!" cried the monk, "I will not ally myself with God's
enemy."
"Look!" Matilda held before him a mirror of polished steel, its borders
marked with various strange characters. A mist spread over the surface;
it cleared, and Ambrosio gazed upon the countenance of Antonia in all
its beauty.
"I yield!" he cried passionately. "Matilda, I follow you!"
They passed into the churchyard; they reached the entry to the vaults;
Ambrosio tremblingly followed Matilda down the staircase. They went
through narrow passages strewn with skulls and bones, and reached a
spacious cavern. Matilda drew a circle around herself, and another
around him; bending low, she muttered a few indistinct sentences, and a
thin, blue, sulphurous flame arose from the ground.
Suddenly she uttered a piercing shriek, and plunged a poniard into her
left arm; the blood poured down, a dark cloud arose, and a clap of
thunder was heard. Then a full strain of melodious music sounded and the
demon stood before them.
He was a youth of perfect face and form. Crimson wings extended from his
shoulders; many-coloured fires played about his locks; but there was a
wildness in his eyes, a mysterious melancholy in his features, that
betrayed the fallen angel.
Matilda conversed with him in unintelligible language; he bowed
submissively, and gave to her a silver branch, imitating myrtle, that he
bore in his right hand. The music was heard again, and ceased; the cloud
spread itself afresh; the demon vanished.
"With this branch," said Matilda, "every door will open before you. You
may gain access to Antonia; a touch of the branch will send her into a
deep sleep, and you may carry her away whither you will."
Ashamed and fearful, yet borne away by his love, the monk set forth. The
bolts of Antonia's house flew back, and the doors opened before the
silver myrtle.
But as he passed stealthily through the house a woman confronted him. It
was Antonia's mother, roused by a fearful dream.
"Monster of hypocrisy!" she cried in fury. "I had already suspected you,
but I kept silence. Now I will unmask you, villain!"
"Forgive me, lady!" begged the terrified monk. "I swear by all that is
holy------"
"No! All Madrid shall shudder at your perfidy."
He turned to fly. She seized him and screamed for help. He grasped
her by the throat with all his strength, strangled her, and flung her to
the ground, where she lay motionless. After a minute of horror-struck
shuddering, the murderer fled. He entered the abbey unobserved, and
having shut himself into his cell, he abandoned his soul to the tortures
of unavailing remorse.
_IV.--A Living Death_
"Do not despair," counselled Matilda, when the monk revealed his
failure. "Your crime is unsuspected. Antonia may still be yours. The
prioress of St. Clare has a mysterious liquor, the effect of which is to
give those who drink it the appearance of death for three days. Procure
some of this liquor, visit Antonia, and cause her to drink it; have her
body conveyed to a sepulchre in the vaults of St. Clare."
Ambrosio hastened to secure a phial of the mysterious potion. He went to
comfort Antonia in her distress, and contrived to pour a few drops from
the phial into a draught that she was taking. In a few hours he heard
that she was dead, and her body was conveyed to the vaults.
Meanwhile, Lorenzo had learned, not indeed that his sister was alive,
but that she had been the victim of terrible cruelty. A nun, who had
been Agnes's friend, hinted at atrocious vengeance taken by the prioress
for Agnes's attempt to escape. She suggested that Lorenzo should bring
the officers of the Inquisition with him and arrest the prioress during
a public procession of the nuns in honour of St Clare.
Accordingly, as the prioress passed along the street among her nuns with
a devout and sanctified air, the officers advanced and arrested her.
"Ah!" she cried frantically, "I am betrayed!"
"Betrayed!" replied the nun who had revealed the secret to Lorenzo. "I
charge the prioress with murder!"
She told how Agnes had been secretly poisoned by the prioress. The mob,
mad with indignation, rushed to the convent determined to destroy it.
Lorenzo and the officers hastened to endeavour to do what they could to
save the convent and the terrified nuns who had taken refuge there.
Antonia's heart throbbed, her eyes opened; she raised herself and cast a
wild look around her. Her clothing was a shroud; she lay in a coffin
among other coffins in a damp and hideous vault. Confronting her with a
lantern in his hand, and eyeing her greedily, stood Ambrosio.
"Where am I?" she said abruptly. "How came I here? Let me go!"
"Why these terrors, Antonia?" replied the abbot. "What fear you from
me--from one who adores you? You are imagined dead; society is for ever
lost to you. You are absolutely in my power!"
She screamed, and strove to escape; he clutched at her and struggled to
detain her. Suddenly Matilda entered in haste.
"The mob has set fire to the convent," she said to Ambrosio, "and the
abbey is in danger. Don Lorenzo and the officers are searching the
vaults. You cannot escape; you must remain here. They may not, perhaps,
enter this vault."
Antonia heard that rescue was at hand.
"Help! help!" she screamed, and ran out of the vault. The abbot pursued
her in desperation; he caught her; he could not stifle her cries.
Frantic in his desire to escape, he grasped Matilda's dagger, plunged it
twice in the bosom of Antonia, and fled back to the vault. It was too
late he had been seen, the glare of torches filled the vault, and
Ambrosio and Matilda were seized and bound by the officers of the
Inquisition.
Meanwhile, Lorenzo, running to and fro, had flashed his lantern upon a
creature so wretched, so emaciated, that he doubted to think her woman.
He stopped petrified with horror.
"Two days, and yet no food!" she moaned. "No hope, no comfort!" Suddenly
she looked up and addressed him.
"Do you bring me food, or do you bring me death?"
"I come," he replied, "to relieve your sorrows."
"God, is it possible? Oh, yes! Yes, it is!"--she fainted. Lorenzo
carried her in his arms to the nuns above.
Loud shrieks summoned him below again. Hastening after the officers, he
saw a woman bleeding on the ground. He went to her; it was his beloved
Antonia. She was dying; with a few sweet words of farewell, her spirit
passed away.
Broken-hearted, he returned. He had lost Antonia, but he was to learn
that Agnes was restored to him. The woman he had rescued was indeed his
sister, saved from a living death and brought back to life and love.
_V.--Lucifer_
Ambrosio was tortured into confession, and condemned to be burned at the
stake. Matilda, terrified at the sight of her fellow-criminal's
torments, confessed without torture, and was sentenced to be burned at
his side.
They were to perish at midnight, and as the monk, in panic-stricken
despair, awaited the awful hour, suddenly Matilda stood before him,
beautifully attired, with a look of wild pleasure in her eyes.
"Matilda!" he cried, "how have you gained entrance?"
"Ambrosio," she replied, "I am free. For life and liberty I have sold my
soul to Lucifer. Dare you do the same?"
The monk shuddered.
"I cannot renounce my God," he said.
"Fool! What hope have you of God's mercy?" She handed him a book. "If
you repent of your folly, read the first four lines in the seventh page
backwards." She vanished.
A fearful struggle raged in the monk's spirit. What hope had he in any
case of escaping eternal torment? And yet--was not the Almighty's mercy
infinite? Then the thought of the stake and the flames entered his mind
and appalled him.
At last the fatal hour came. The steps of his gaolers were heard in the
passage. In uttermost terror he opened the book and ran over the lines,
and straightway the fiend appeared--not seraph-like as when he appeared
formerly, but dark, hideous, and gigantic, with hissing snakes coiling
around his brows.
He placed a parchment before Ambrosio.
"Bear me hence!" cried the monk.
"Will you be mine, body and soul?" said the demon. "Resolve while there
is time!"
"I must!"
"Sign, then!" Lucifer thrust a pen into the flesh of Ambrosio's arm, and
the monk signed. A moment later he was carried through the roof of the
dungeon into mid-air.
The demon bore him with arrow-like speed to the brink of a precipice in
the Sierra Morena.
"Carry me to Matilda!" gasped the monk.
"Wretch!" answered Lucifer. "For what did you stipulate but rescue from
the Inquisition? Learn that when you signed, the steps in the corridor
were the steps of those who were bringing you a pardon. But now you are
mine beyond reprieve, to all eternity, and alive you quit not these
mountains."
Darting his talons into the monk's shaven crown, he sprang with him from
the rock. From a dreadful height he flung him headlong, and the torrent
bore away with it the shattered corpse of Ambrosio.
* * * * *