The Monk: A Romance, M. G. Lewis [phonics reading books txt] 📗

You know not, what it is to exchange the scenes where you have passed your infancy, for unknown realms and barbarous climates! To be forgotten, utterly eternally forgotten, by the Companions of your Youth! To see your dearest Friends, the fondest objects of your affection, perishing with diseases incidental to Indian atmospheres, and find yourself unable to procure for them necessary assistance! I have felt all this! My Husband and two sweet Babes found their Graves in Cuba: Nothing would have saved my young Antonia but my sudden return to Spain. Ah! Don Lorenzo, could you conceive what I suffered during my absence! Could you know how sorely I regretted all that I left behind, and how dear to me was the very name of Spain! I envied the winds which blew towards it: And when the Spanish Sailor chaunted some well-known air as He past my window, tears filled my eyes while I thought upon my native land. Gonzalvo too ... My Husband ...”.

Elvira paused. Her voice faltered, and She concealed her face with her handkerchief. After a short silence She rose from the Sopha, and proceeded.

“Excuse my quitting you for a few moments: The remembrance of what I have suffered has much agitated me, and I need to be alone. Till I return peruse these lines. After my Husband’s death I found them among his papers; Had I known sooner that He entertained such sentiments, Grief would have killed me. He wrote these verses on his voyage to Cuba, when his mind was clouded by sorrow, and He forgot that He had a Wife and Children.

What we are losing, ever seems to us the most precious: Gonzalvo was quitting Spain for ever, and therefore was Spain dearer to his eyes than all else which the World contained. Read them, Don Lorenzo; They will give you some idea of the feelings of a banished Man!”

Elvira put a paper into Lorenzo’s hand, and retired from the chamber. The Youth examined the contents, and found them to be as follows.

THE EXILE

Farewell, Oh! native Spain! Farewell for ever!
    These banished eyes shall view thy coasts no more;
A mournful presage tells my heart, that never
    Gonzalvo’s steps again shall press thy shore.

Hushed are the winds; While soft the Vessel sailing
    With gentle motion plows the unruffled Main,
I feel my bosom’s boasted courage failing,
    And curse the waves which bear me far from Spain.

I see it yet! Beneath yon blue clear Heaven
    Still do the Spires, so well beloved, appear;
From yonder craggy point the gale of Even
    Still wafts my native accents to mine ear:

Propped on some moss-crowned Rock, and gaily singing,
    There in the Sun his nets the Fisher dries;
Oft have I heard the plaintive Ballad, bringing
    Scenes of past joys before my sorrowing eyes.

Ah! Happy Swain! He waits the accustomed hour,
    When twilight-gloom obscures the closing sky;
Then gladly seeks his loved paternal bower,
    And shares the feast his native fields supply:

Friendship and Love, his Cottage Guests, receive him
    With honest welcome and with smile sincere;
No threatening woes of present joys bereave him,
    No sigh his bosom owns, his cheek no tear.

Ah! Happy Swain! Such bliss to me denying,
    Fortune thy lot with envy bids me view;
Me, who from home and Spain an Exile flying,
    Bid all I value, all I love, adieu.

No more mine ear shall list the well-known ditty
    Sung by some Mountain-Girl, who tends her Goats,
Some Village-Swain imploring amorous pity,
    Or Shepherd chaunting wild his rustic notes:

No more my arms a Parent’s fond embraces,
    No more my heart domestic calm, must know;
Far from these joys, with sighs which Memory traces,
    To sultry skies, and distant climes I go.

Where Indian Suns engender new diseases,
    Where snakes and tigers breed, I bend my way
To brave the feverish thirst no art appeases,
    The yellow plague, and madding blaze of day:

But not to feel slow pangs consume my liver,
    To die by piece-meal in the bloom of age,
My boiling blood drank by insatiate fever,
    And brain delirious with the day-star’s rage,

Can make me know such grief, as thus to sever
    With many a bitter sigh, Dear Land, from Thee;
To feel this heart must doat on thee for ever,
    And feel, that all thy joys are torn from me!

Ah me! How oft will Fancy’s spells in slumber
    Recall my native Country to my mind!
How oft regret will bid me sadly number
    Each lost delight and dear Friend left behind!

Wild Murcia’s Vales, and loved romantic bowers,
    The River on whose banks a Child I played,
My Castle’s antient Halls, its frowning Towers,
    Each much-regretted wood, and well-known Glade,

Dreams of the land where all my wishes centre,
    Thy scenes, which I am doomed no more to know,
Full oft shall Memory trace, my soul’s Tormentor,
    And turn each pleasure past to present woe.

But Lo! The Sun beneath the waves retires;
    Night speeds apace her empire to restore:
Clouds from my sight obscure the village-spires,
    Now seen but faintly, and now seen no more.

Oh! breathe not, Winds! Still be the Water’s motion!
    Sleep, sleep, my Bark, in silence on the Main!
So when to-morrow’s light shall gild the Ocean,
    Once more mine eyes shall see the coast of Spain.

Vain is the wish! My last petition scorning,
    Fresh blows the Gale, and high the Billows swell:
Far shall we be before the break of Morning;
    Oh! then for ever, native Spain, farewell!

Lorenzo had scarcely time to read these lines, when Elvira returned to him: The giving a free course to her tears had relieved her, and her spirits had regained their usual composure.

“I have nothing more to say, my Lord,” said She; “You have heard my apprehensions, and my reasons for begging you not to repeat your visits. I have thrown myself in full confidence upon your honour: I am certain that you will not prove my opinion of you to have been too favourable.”

“But one question more, Segnora, and I leave you. Should the Duke of Medina approve my love, would my addresses be unacceptable to yourself and the fair Antonia?”

“I will be open with you, Don Lorenzo: There being little probability of such an union taking place, I fear that it is desired but too ardently by my Daughter. You have made an impression upon her young heart, which gives me the most serious alarm: To prevent that impression from growing stronger, I am obliged to decline your acquaintance. For me, you may be sure that I should rejoice at establishing my Child so advantageously. Conscious that my constitution, impaired by grief and illness, forbids me to expect a long continuance in this world, I tremble at the thought of leaving her under the protection of a perfect Stranger. The Marquis de las Cisternas is totally unknown to me:

He will marry; His Lady may look upon Antonia with an eye of displeasure, and deprive her of her only Friend. Should the Duke, your Uncle, give his consent, you need not doubt obtaining mine, and my Daughter’s: But without his, hope not for ours. At all events, what ever steps you may take, what ever may be the Duke’s decision, till you know it let me beg your forbearing to strengthen by your presence Antonia’s prepossession. If the sanction of your Relations authorises your addressing her as your Wife, my Doors fly open to you: If that sanction is refused, be satisfied to possess my esteem and gratitude, but remember, that we must meet no more.”

Lorenzo promised reluctantly to conform to this decree: But He added that He hoped soon to obtain that consent which would give him a claim to the renewal of their acquaintance. He then explained to her why the Marquis had not called in person, and made no scruple of confiding to her his Sister’s History. He concluded by saying that He hoped to set Agnes at liberty the next day; and that as soon as Don Raymond’s fears were quieted upon this subject, He would lose no time in assuring Donna Elvira of his friendship and protection.

The Lady shook her head.

“I tremble for your Sister,” said She; “I have heard many traits of the Domina of St. Clare’s character, from a Friend who was educated in the same Convent with her. She reported her to be haughty, inflexible, superstitious, and revengeful. I have since heard that She is infatuated with the idea of rendering her Convent the most regular in Madrid, and never forgave those whose imprudence threw upon it the slightest stain. Though naturally violent and severe, when her interests require it, She well knows how to assume an appearance of benignity. She leaves no means untried to persuade young Women of rank to become Members of her Community: She is implacable when once incensed, and has too much intrepidity to shrink at taking the most rigorous measures for punishing the Offender. Doubtless, She will consider your Sister’s quitting the Convent as a disgrace thrown upon it: She will use every artifice to avoid obeying the mandate of his Holiness, and I shudder to think that Donna Agnes is in the hands of this dangerous Woman.”

Lorenzo now rose to take leave. Elvira gave him her hand at parting, which He kissed respectfully; and telling her that He soon hoped for the permission to salute that of Antonia, He returned to his Hotel. The Lady was perfectly satisfied with the conversation which had past between them. She looked forward with satisfaction to the prospect of his becoming her Son-in-law; But Prudence bad her conceal from her Daughter’s knowledge the flattering hopes which Herself now ventured to entertain.

Scarcely was it day, and already Lorenzo was at the Convent of St. Clare, furnished with the necessary mandate. The Nuns were at Matins. He waited impatiently for the conclusion of the service, and at length the Prioress appeared at the Parlour Grate. Agnes was demanded. The old Lady replied, with a melancholy air, that the dear Child’s situation grew hourly more dangerous; That the Physicians despaired of her life; But that they had declared the only chance for her recovery to consist in keeping her quiet, and not to permit those to approach her whose presence was likely to agitate her. Not a word of all this was believed by Lorenzo, any more than He credited the expressions of grief and affection for Agnes, with which this account was interlarded. To end the business, He put the Pope’s Bull into the hands of the Domina, and insisted that, ill or in health, his Sister should be delivered to him without delay.

The Prioress received the paper with an air of humility: But no sooner had her eye glanced over the contents, than her resentment baffled all the efforts of Hypocrisy. A deep crimson spread itself over her face, and She darted upon Lorenzo looks of rage and menace.

“This order is positive,” said She in a voice of anger, which She in vain strove to disguise; “Willingly would I obey it; But unfortunately it is out of my power.”

Lorenzo interrupted her by an exclamation of surprize.

“I repeat it, Segnor; to obey this order is totally out of my power. From tenderness to a Brother’s feelings, I would have communicated the sad event to you by degrees, and have prepared you to hear it with fortitude. My measures are broken through: This order commands me to deliver up to you the Sister Agnes without delay; I am therefore obliged to inform you without circumlocution, that on Friday last, She expired.”

Lorenzo started back with horror, and turned pale. A moment’s recollection convinced him that this assertion must be false, and it restored him to himself.

“You deceive me!” said He passionately; “But five minutes past since you assured me that though ill She was still alive. Produce her this instant! See her I must and will, and every attempt to keep her from me will be unavailing.”

“You forget yourself, Segnor; You owe respect to my age as well as my profession. Your Sister is no more. If I at first concealed her death, it was from dreading lest an event so unexpected should produce on you too violent an effect. In truth, I am but ill repaid for my attention. And what interest, I pray you, should I have in detaining her? To know her wish of