CHAPTER IV

—-Ah! how dark
These long-extended realms and rueful wastes;
Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark night,
Dark as was Chaos ere the Infant Sun
Was rolled together, or had tried its beams
Athwart the gloom profound!
The sickly Taper
By glimmering through thy low-browed misty vaults,
Furred round with mouldy damps, and ropy slime,
Lets fall a supernumerary horror,
And only serves to make
Thy night more irksome!
-Blair.

Returned undiscovered to the Abbey, Ambrosio’s mind was filled with the
most pleasing images.  He was wilfully blind to the danger of exposing
himself to Antonia’s charms:  He only remembered the pleasure which her
society had afforded him, and rejoiced in the prospect of that pleasure
being repeated.  He failed not to profit by Elvira’s indisposition to
obtain a sight of her Daughter every day.  At first He bounded his
wishes to inspire Antonia with friendship:  But no sooner was He
convinced that She felt that sentiment in its fullest extent, than his
aim became more decided, and his attentions assumed a warmer colour.
The innocent familiarity with which She treated him, encouraged his
desires:  Grown used to her modesty, it no longer commanded the same
respect and awe:  He still admired it, but it only made him more
anxious to deprive her of that quality which formed her principal
charm.  Warmth of passion, and natural penetration, of which latter
unfortunately both for himself and Antonia He possessed an ample share,
supplied a knowledge of the arts of seduction.  He easily distinguished
the emotions which were favourable to his designs, and seized every
means with avidity of infusing corruption into Antonia’s bosom.  This
He found no easy matter.  Extreme simplicity prevented her from
perceiving the aim to which the Monk’s insinuations tended; But the
excellent morals which She owed to Elvira’s care, the solidity and
correctness of her understanding, and a strong sense of what was right
implanted in her heart by Nature, made her feel that his precepts must
be faulty. By a few simple words She frequently overthrew the whole
bulk of his sophistical arguments, and made him conscious how weak they
were when opposed to Virtue and Truth.  On such occasion He took refuge
in his eloquence; He overpowered her with a torrent of Philosophical
paradoxes, to which, not understanding them, it was impossible for her
to reply; And thus though He did not convince her that his reasoning
was just, He at least prevented her from discovering it to be false.
He perceived that her respect for his judgment augmented daily, and
doubted not with time to bring her to the point desired.

He was not unconscious that his attempts were highly criminal: He saw
clearly the baseness of seducing the innocent Girl:  But his passion
was too violent to permit his abandoning his design. He resolved to
pursue it, let the consequences be what they might.  He depended upon
finding Antonia in some unguarded moment; And seeing no other Man
admitted into her society, nor hearing any mentioned either by her or
by Elvira, He imagined that her young heart was still unoccupied. While
He waited for the opportunity of satisfying his unwarrantable lust,
every day increased his coldness for Matilda.  Not a little was this
occasioned by the consciousness of his faults to her.  To hide them
from her He was not sufficiently master of himself:  Yet He dreaded
lest, in a transport of jealous rage, She should betray the secret on
which his character and even his life depended. Matilda could not but
remark his indifference:  He was conscious that She remarked it, and
fearing her reproaches, shunned her studiously.  Yet when He could not
avoid her, her mildness might have convinced him that He had nothing to
dread from her resentment.  She had resumed the character of the gentle
interesting Rosario: She taxed him not with ingratitude; But her eyes
filled with involuntary tears, and the soft melancholy of her
countenance and voice uttered complaints far more touching than words
could have conveyed.  Ambrosio was not unmoved by her sorrow; But
unable to remove its cause, He forbore to show that it affected him.
As her conduct convinced him that He needed not fear her vengeance, He
continued to neglect her, and avoided her company with care.  Matilda
saw that She in vain attempted to regain his affections:  Yet She
stifled the impulse of resentment, and continued to treat her
inconstant Lover with her former fondness and attention.

By degrees Elvira’s constitution recovered itself.  She was no longer
troubled with convulsions, and Antonia ceased to tremble for her
Mother.  Ambrosio beheld this reestablishment with displeasure.  He saw
that Elvira’s knowledge of the world would not be the Dupe of his
sanctified demeanour, and that She would easily perceive his views upon
her Daughter.  He resolved therefore, before She quitted her chamber,
to try the extent of his influence over the innocent Antonia.

One evening, when He had found Elvira almost perfectly restored to
health, He quitted her earlier than was his usual custom.  Not finding
Antonia in the Antichamber, He ventured to follow her to her own.  It
was only separated from her Mother’s by a Closet, in which Flora, the
Waiting-Woman, generally slept.  Antonia sat upon a Sopha with her back
towards the door, and read attentively.  She heard not his approach,
till He had seated himself by her.  She started, and welcomed him with
a look of pleasure:  Then rising, She would have conducted him to the
sitting-room; But Ambrosio taking her hand, obliged her by gentle
violence to resume her place.  She complied without difficulty: She
knew not that there was more impropriety in conversing with him in one
room than another.  She thought herself equally secure of his
principles and her own, and having replaced herself upon the Sopha, She
began to prattle to him with her usual ease and vivacity.

He examined the Book which She had been reading, and had now placed
upon the Table.  It was the Bible.

‘How!’ said the Friar to himself; ‘Antonia reads the Bible, and is
still so ignorant?’

But, upon a further inspection, He found that Elvira had made exactly
the same remark.  That prudent Mother, while She admired the beauties
of the sacred writings, was convinced that, unrestricted, no reading
more improper could be permitted a young Woman.  Many of the narratives
can only tend to excite ideas the worst calculated for a female breast:
Every thing is called plainly and roundly by its name; and the annals
of a Brothel would scarcely furnish a greater choice of indecent
expressions. Yet this is the Book which young Women are recommended to
study; which is put into the hands of Children, able to comprehend
little more than those passages of which they had better remain
ignorant; and which but too frequently inculcates the first rudiments
of vice, and gives the first alarm to the still sleeping passions.  Of
this was Elvira so fully convinced, that She would have preferred
putting into her Daughter’s hands ‘Amadis de Gaul,’ or ‘The Valiant
Champion, Tirante the White;’ and would sooner have authorised her
studying the lewd exploits of ‘Don Galaor,’ or the lascivious jokes of
the ‘Damsel Plazer di mi vida.’  She had in consequence made two
resolutions respecting the Bible.  The first was that Antonia should
not read it till She was of an age to feel its beauties, and profit by
its morality:  The second, that it should be copied out with her own
hand, and all improper passages either altered or omitted.  She had
adhered to this determination, and such was the Bible which Antonia was
reading:  It had been lately delivered to her, and She perused it with
an avidity, with a delight that was inexpressible.  Ambrosio perceived
his mistake, and replaced the Book upon the Table.

Antonia spoke of her Mother’s health with all the enthusiastic joy of a
youthful heart.

‘I admire your filial affection,’ said the Abbot; ‘It proves the
excellence and sensibility of your character; It promises a treasure to
him whom Heaven has destined to possess your affections.  The Breast,
so capable of fondness for a Parent, what will it feel for a Lover?
Nay, perhaps, what feels it for one even now?  Tell me, my lovely
Daughter; Have you known what it is to love?  Answer me with sincerity:
Forget my habit, and consider me only as a Friend.’

‘What it is to love?’ said She, repeating his question; ‘Oh! yes,
undoubtedly; I have loved many, many People.’

‘That is not what I mean.  The love of which I speak can be felt only
for one.  Have you never seen the Man whom you wished to be your
Husband?’

‘Oh! No, indeed!’

This was an untruth, but She was unconscious of its falsehood: She knew
not the nature of her sentiments for Lorenzo; and never having seen him
since his first visit to Elvira, with every day his Image grew less
feebly impressed upon her bosom.  Besides, She thought of an Husband
with all a Virgin’s terror, and negatived the Friar’s demand without a
moment’s hesitation.

‘And do you not long to see that Man, Antonia?  Do you feel no void in
your heart which you fain would have filled up?  Do you heave no sighs
for the absence of some one dear to you, but who that some one is, you
know not?  Perceive you not that what formerly could please, has charms
for you no longer?  That a thousand new wishes, new ideas, new
sensations, have sprang in your bosom, only to be felt, never to be
described?  Or while you fill every other heart with passion, is it
possible that your own remains insensible and cold?  It cannot be!
That melting eye, that blushing cheek, that enchanting voluptuous
melancholy which at times overspreads your features, all these marks
belye your words.  You love, Antonia, and in vain would hide it from
me.’

‘Father, you amaze me!  What is this love of which you speak?  I
neither know its nature, nor if I felt it, why I should conceal the
sentiment.’

‘Have you seen no Man, Antonia, whom though never seen before, you
seemed long to have sought?  Whose form, though a Stranger’s, was
familiar to your eyes?  The sound of whose voice soothed you, pleased
you, penetrated to your very soul?  In whose presence you rejoiced, for
whose absence you lamented?  With whom your heart seemed to expand, and
in whose bosom with confidence unbounded you reposed the cares of your
own?  Have you not felt all this, Antonia?’

‘Certainly I have:  The first time that I saw you, I felt it.’

Ambrosio started.  Scarcely dared He credit his hearing.

‘Me, Antonia?’ He cried, his eyes sparkling with delight and
impatience, while He seized her hand, and pressed it rapturously to his
lips.  ‘Me, Antonia?  You felt these sentiments for me?’

‘Even with more strength than you have described.  The very moment that
I beheld you, I felt so pleased, so interested!  I waited so eagerly to
catch the sound of your voice, and when I heard it, it seemed so sweet!
It spoke to me a language till then so unknown!  Methought, it told me
a thousand things which I wished to hear!  It seemed as if I had long
known you; as if I had a right to your friendship, your advice, and
your protection.

I wept when you departed, and longed for the time which should restore
you to my sight.’

‘Antonia!  my charming Antonia!’ exclaimed the Monk, and caught her to
his bosom; ‘Can I believe my senses?  Repeat it to me, my sweet Girl!
Tell me again that you love me, that you love me truly and tenderly!’

‘Indeed, I do:  Let my Mother be excepted, and the world holds no one
more dear to me!’

At this frank avowal Ambrosio no longer possessed himself; Wild with
desire, He clasped the blushing Trembler in his arms.  He fastened his
lips greedily upon hers, sucked in her pure delicious breath, violated
with his bold hand the treasures of her bosom, and wound around him her
soft and yielding limbs. Startled, alarmed, and confused at his action,
surprize at first deprived her of the power of resistance.  At length
recovering herself, She strove to escape from his embrace.

‘Father!  ….  Ambrosio!’ She cried; ‘Release me, for God’s sake!’

But the licentious Monk heeded not her prayers:  He persisted in his
design, and proceeded to take still greater liberties. Antonia prayed,
wept, and struggled:  Terrified to the extreme, though at what She knew
not, She exerted all her strength to repulse the Friar, and was on the
point of shrieking for assistance when the chamber door was suddenly
thrown open. Ambrosio had just sufficient presence of mind to be
sensible of his danger.  Reluctantly He quitted his prey, and started
hastily from the Couch.  Antonia uttered an exclamation of joy, flew
towards the door, and found herself clasped in the arms of her Mother.

Alarmed at some of the Abbot’s speeches, which Antonia had innocently
repeated, Elvira resolved to ascertain the truth of her suspicions.
She had known enough of Mankind not to be imposed upon by the Monk’s
reputed virtue.  She reflected on several circumstances, which though
trifling, on being put together seemed to authorize her fears.  His
frequent visits, which as far as She could see, were confined to her
family; His evident emotion, whenever She spoke of Antonia; His being
in the full prime and heat of Manhood; and above all, his pernicious
philosophy communicated to her by Antonia, and which accorded but ill
with his conversation in her presence, all these circumstances inspired
her with doubts respecting the purity of Ambrosio’s friendship.  In
consequence, She resolved, when He should next be alone with Antonia,
to endeavour at surprizing him.  Her plan had succeeded.  ‘Tis true,
that when She entered the room, He had already abandoned his prey; But
the disorder of her Daughter’s dress, and the shame and confusion
stamped upon the Friar’s countenance, sufficed to prove that her
suspicions were but too well-founded.  However, She was too prudent to
make those suspicions known.  She judged that to unmask the Imposter
would be no easy matter, the public being so much prejudiced in his
favour: and having but few Friends, She thought it dangerous to make
herself so powerful an Enemy.  She affected therefore not to remark his
agitation, seated herself tranquilly upon the Sopha, assigned some
trifling reason for having quitted her room unexpectedly, and conversed
on various subjects with seeming confidence and ease.

Reassured by her behaviour, the Monk began to recover himself. He
strove to answer Elvira without appearing embarrassed:  But He was
still too great a novice in dissimulation, and He felt that He must
look confused and awkward.  He soon broke off the conversation, and
rose to depart.  What was his vexation, when on taking leave, Elvira
told him in polite terms, that being now perfectly reestablished, She
thought it an injustice to deprive Others of his company, who might be
more in need of it!  She assured him of her eternal gratitude, for the
benefit which during her illness She had derived from his society and
exhortations:  And She lamented that her domestic affairs, as well as
the multitude of business which his situation must of necessity impose
upon him, would in future deprive her of the pleasure of his visits.
Though delivered in the mildest language this hint was too plain to be
mistaken.  Still, He was preparing to put in a remonstrance when an
expressive look from Elvira stopped him short.  He dared not press her
to receive him, for her manner convinced him that He was discovered:
He submitted without reply, took an hasty leave, and retired to the
Abbey, his heart filled with rage and shame, with bitterness and
disappointment.

Antonia’s mind felt relieved by his departure; Yet She could not help
lamenting that She was never to see him more.  Elvira also felt a
secret sorrow; She had received too much pleasure from thinking him her
Friend, not to regret the necessity of changing her opinion:  But her
mind was too much accustomed to the fallacy of worldly friendships to
permit her present disappointment to weigh upon it long.  She now
endeavoured to make her Daughter aware of the risque which She had ran:
But She was obliged to treat the subject with caution, lest in removing
the bandage of ignorance, the veil of innocence should be rent away.
She therefore contented herself with warning Antonia to be upon her
guard, and ordering her, should the Abbot persist in his visits, never
to receive them but in company.  With this injunction Antonia promised
to comply.

Ambrosio hastened to his Cell.  He closed the door after him, and threw
himself upon the bed in despair. The impulse of desire, the stings of
disappointment, the shame of detection, and the fear of being publicly
unmasked, rendered his bosom a scene of the most horrible confusion.
He knew not what course to pursue.  Debarred the presence of Antonia,
He had no hopes of satisfying that passion which was now become a part
of his existence.  He reflected that his secret was in a Woman’s power:
He trembled with apprehension when He beheld the precipice before him,
and with rage, when He thought that had it not been for Elvira, He
should now have possessed the object of his desires.  With the direct
imprecations He vowed vengeance against her; He swore that, cost what
it would, He still would possess Antonia. Starting from the Bed, He
paced the chamber with disordered steps, howled with impotent fury,
dashed himself violently against the walls, and indulged all the
transports of rage and madness.

He was still under the influence of this storm of passions when He
heard a gentle knock at the door of his Cell.  Conscious that his voice
must have been heard, He dared not refuse admittance to the Importuner:
He strove to compose himself, and to hide his agitation.  Having in
some degree succeeded, He drew back the bolt:  The door opened, and
Matilda appeared.

At this precise moment there was no one with whose presence He could
better have dispensed.  He had not sufficient command over himself to
conceal his vexation. He started back, and frowned.

‘I am busy,’ said He in a stern and hasty tone; ‘Leave me!’

Matilda heeded him not:  She again fastened the door, and then advanced
towards him with an air gentle and supplicating.

‘Forgive me, Ambrosio,’ said She; ‘For your own sake I must not obey
you.  Fear no complaints from me; I come not to reproach you with your
ingratitude.  I pardon you from my heart, and since your love can no
longer be mine, I request the next best gift, your confidence and
friendship.  We cannot force our inclinations; The little beauty which
you once saw in me has perished with its novelty, and if it can no
longer excite desire, mine is the fault, not yours.  But why persist in
shunning me? Why such anxiety to fly my presence?  You have sorrows,
but will not permit me to share them; You have disappointments, but
will not accept my comfort; You have wishes, but forbid my aiding your
pursuits.  ‘Tis of this which I complain, not of your indifference to
my person.  I have given up the claims of the Mistress, but nothing
shall prevail on me to give up those of the Friend.’

Her mildness had an instantaneous effect upon Ambrosio’s feelings.

‘Generous Matilda!’ He replied, taking her hand, ‘How far do you rise
superior to the foibles of your sex!  Yes, I accept your offer.  I have
need of an adviser, and a Confident:  In you I find every needful
quality united.  But to aid my pursuits …. Ah! Matilda, it lies
not in your power!’

‘It lies in no one’s power but mine.  Ambrosio, your secret is none to
me; Your every step, your every action has been observed by my
attentive eye.  You love.’

‘Matilda!’

‘Why conceal it from me?  Fear not the little jealousy which taints the
generality of Women:  My soul disdains so despicable a passion.  You
love, Ambrosio; Antonia Dalfa is the object of your flame.  I know
every circumstance respecting your passion:  Every conversation has
been repeated to me.  I have been informed of your attempt to enjoy
Antonia’s person, your disappointment, and dismission from Elvira’s
House.  You now despair of possessing your Mistress; But I come to
revive your hopes, and point out the road to success.’

‘To success?  Oh! impossible!’

‘To them who dare nothing is impossible.  Rely upon me, and you may yet
be happy.  The time is come, Ambrosio, when regard for your comfort and
tranquillity compels me to reveal a part of my History, with which you
are still unacquainted.  Listen, and do not interrupt me:  Should my
confession disgust you, remember that in making it my sole aim is to
satisfy your wishes, and restore that peace to your heart which at
present has abandoned it.  I formerly mentioned that my Guardian was a
Man of uncommon knowledge:  He took pains to instil that knowledge into
my infant mind.  Among the various sciences which curiosity had induced
him to explore, He neglected not that which by most is esteemed
impious, and by many chimerical.  I speak of those arts which relate to
the world of Spirits.  His deep researches into causes and effects, his
unwearied application to the study of natural philosophy, his profound
and unlimited knowledge of the properties and virtues of every gem
which enriches the deep, of every herb which the earth produces, at
length procured him the distinction which He had sought so long, so
earnestly.  His curiosity was fully slaked, his ambition amply
gratified.  He gave laws to the elements; He could reverse the order of
nature; His eye read the mandates of futurity, and the infernal Spirits
were submissive to his commands.  Why shrink you from me?  I understand
that enquiring look.  Your suspicions are right, though your terrors
are unfounded.  My Guardian concealed not from me his most precious
acquisition.  Yet had I never seen YOU, I should never have exerted my
power.  Like you I shuddered at the thoughts of Magic:  Like you I had
formed a terrible idea of the consequences of raising a daemon.  To
preserve that life which your love had taught me to prize, I had
recourse to means which I trembled at employing.  You remember that
night which I past in St. Clare’s Sepulchre?  Then was it that,
surrounded by mouldering bodies, I dared to perform those mystic rites
which summoned to my aid a fallen Angel.  Judge what must have been my
joy at discovering that my terrors were imaginary:  I saw the Daemon
obedient to my orders, I saw him trembling at my frown, and found that,
instead of selling my soul to a Master, my courage had purchased for
myself a Slave.’

‘Rash Matilda!  What have you done?  You have doomed yourself to
endless perdition; You have bartered for momentary power eternal
happiness!  If on witchcraft depends the fruition of my desires, I
renounce your aid most absolutely.  The consequences are too horrible:
I doat upon Antonia, but am not so blinded by lust as to sacrifice for
her enjoyment my existence both in this world and the next.’

‘Ridiculous prejudices!  Oh! blush, Ambrosio, blush at being subjected
to their dominion.  Where is the risque of accepting my offers?  What
should induce my persuading you to this step, except the wish of
restoring you to happiness and quiet.  If there is danger, it must fall
upon me:  It is I who invoke the ministry of the Spirits; Mine
therefore will be the crime, and yours the profit.  But danger there is
none:  The Enemy of Mankind is my Slave, not my Sovereign.  Is there no
difference between giving and receiving laws, between serving and
commanding?  Awake from your idle dreams, Ambrosio! Throw from you
these terrors so ill-suited to a soul like yours; Leave them for common
Men, and dare to be happy!  Accompany me this night to St. Clare’s
Sepulchre, witness my incantations, and Antonia is your own.’

‘To obtain her by such means I neither can, or will.  Cease then to
persuade me, for I dare not employ Hell’s agency.

‘You DARE not?  How have you deceived me!  That mind which I esteemed
so great and valiant, proves to be feeble, puerile, and grovelling, a
slave to vulgar errors, and weaker than a Woman’s.’

‘What?  Though conscious of the danger, wilfully shall I expose myself
to the Seducer’s arts?  Shall I renounce for ever my title to
salvation?  Shall my eyes seek a sight which I know will blast them?
No, no, Matilda; I will not ally myself with God’s Enemy.’

‘Are you then God’s Friend at present?  Have you not broken your
engagements with him, renounced his service, and abandoned yourself to
the impulse of your passions?  Are you not planning the destruction of
innocence, the ruin of a Creature whom He formed in the mould of
Angels?  If not of Daemons, whose aid would you invoke to forward this
laudable design?  Will the Seraphims protect it, conduct Antonia to
your arms, and sanction with their ministry your illicit pleasures?
Absurd!  But I am not deceived, Ambrosio!  It is not virtue which makes
you reject my offer:  You WOULD accept it, but you dare not.  ‘Tis not
the crime which holds your hand, but the punishment; ‘Tis not respect
for God which restrains you, but the terror of his vengeance! Fain
would you offend him in secret, but you tremble to profess yourself his
Foe.  Now shame on the coward soul, which wants the courage either to
be a firm Friend or open Enemy!’

‘To look upon guilt with horror, Matilda, is in itself a merit: In this
respect I glory to confess myself a Coward.  Though my passions have
made me deviate from her laws, I still feel in my heart an innate love
of virtue.  But it ill becomes you to tax me with my perjury:  You, who
first seduced me to violate my vows; You, who first rouzed my sleeping
vices, made me feel the weight of Religion’s chains, and bad me be
convinced that guilt had pleasures.  Yet though my principles have
yielded to the force of temperament, I still have sufficient grace to
shudder at Sorcery, and avoid a crime so monstrous, so unpardonable!’

‘Unpardonable, say you?  Where then is your constant boast of the
Almighty’s infinite mercy?  Has He of late set bounds to it? Receives
He no longer a Sinner with joy?  You injure him, Ambrosio; You will
always have time to repent, and He have goodness to forgive.  Afford
him a glorious opportunity to exert that goodness:  The greater your
crime, the greater his merit in pardoning.  Away then with these
childish scruples:  Be persuaded to your good, and follow me to the
Sepulchre.’

‘Oh! cease, Matilda!  That scoffing tone, that bold and impious
language, is horrible in every mouth, but most so in a Woman’s. Let us
drop a conversation which excites no other sentiments than horror and
disgust.  I will not follow you to the Sepulchre, or accept the
services of your infernal Agents.  Antonia shall be mine, but mine by
human means.’

‘Then yours She will never be!  You are banished her presence; Her
Mother has opened her eyes to your designs, and She is now upon her
guard against them.  Nay more, She loves another.  A Youth of
distinguished merit possesses her heart, and unless you interfere, a
few days will make her his Bride.  This intelligence was brought me by
my invisible Servants, to whom I had recourse on first perceiving your
indifference.  They watched your every action, related to me all that
past at Elvira’s, and inspired me with the idea of favouring your
designs.  Their reports have been my only comfort.  Though you shunned
my presence, all your proceedings were known to me:  Nay, I was
constantly with you in some degree, thanks to this precious gift!’

With these words She drew from beneath her habit a mirror of polished
steel, the borders of which were marked with various strange and
unknown characters.

‘Amidst all my sorrows, amidst all my regrets for your coldness, I was
sustained from despair by the virtues of this Talisman.  On pronouncing
certain words, the Person appears in it on whom the Observer’s thoughts
are bent: thus though _I_ was exiled from YOUR sight, you, Ambrosio,
were ever present to mine.’

The Friar’s curiosity was excited strongly.

‘What you relate is incredible!  Matilda, are you not amusing yourself
with my credulity?’

‘Be your own eyes the Judge.’

She put the Mirror into his hand.  Curiosity induced him to take it,
and Love, to wish that Antonia might appear.  Matilda pronounced the
magic words.  Immediately, a thick smoke rose from the characters
traced upon the borders, and spread itself over the surface.  It
dispersed again gradually; A confused mixture of colours and images
presented themselves to the Friar’s eyes, which at length arranging
themselves in their proper places, He beheld in miniature Antonia’s
lovely form.

The scene was a small closet belonging to her apartment.  She was
undressing to bathe herself.  The long tresses of her hair were already
bound up.  The amorous Monk had full opportunity to observe the
voluptuous contours and admirable symmetry of her person.  She threw
off her last garment, and advancing to the Bath prepared for her, She
put her foot into the water.  It struck cold, and She drew it back
again.  Though unconscious of being observed, an inbred sense of
modesty induced her to veil her charms; and She stood hesitating upon
the brink, in the attitude of the Venus de Medicis. At this moment a
tame Linnet flew towards her, nestled its head between her breasts, and
nibbled them in wanton play.  The smiling Antonia strove in vain to
shake off the Bird, and at length raised her hands to drive it from its
delightful harbour.  Ambrosio could bear no more:  His desires were
worked up to phrenzy.

‘I yield!’ He cried, dashing the mirror upon the ground: ‘Matilda, I
follow you!  Do with me what you will!’

She waited not to hear his consent repeated.  It was already midnight.
She flew to her Cell, and soon returned with her little basket and the
Key of the Cemetery, which had remained in her possession since her
first visit to the Vaults.  She gave the Monk no time for reflection.

‘Come!’ She said, and took his hand; ‘Follow me, and witness the
effects of your resolve!’

This said, She drew him hastily along.  They passed into the
Burying-ground unobserved, opened the door of the Sepulchre, and found
themselves at the head of the subterraneous Staircase.  As yet the
beams of the full Moon had guided their steps, but that resource now
failed them.  Matilda had neglected to provide herself with a Lamp.
Still holding Ambrosio’s hand She descended the marble steps; But the
profound obscurity with which they were overspread obliged them to walk
slow and cautiously.

‘You tremble!’ said Matilda to her Companion; ‘Fear not; The destined
spot is near.’

They reached the foot of the Staircase, and continued to proceed,
feeling their way along the Walls.  On turning a corner suddenly, they
descried faint gleams of light which seemed burning at a distance.
Thither they bent their steps:  The rays proceeded from a small
sepulchral Lamp which flamed unceasingly before the Statue of St.
Clare.  It tinged with dim and cheerless beams the massy Columns which
supported the Roof, but was too feeble to dissipate the thick gloom in
which the Vaults above were buried.

Matilda took the Lamp.

‘Wait for me!’ said She to the Friar; ‘In a few moments I am here
again.’

With these words She hastened into one of the passages which branched
in various directions from this spot, and formed a sort of Labyrinth.
Ambrosio was now left alone: Darkness the most profound surrounded him,
and encouraged the doubts which began to revive in his bosom.  He had
been hurried away by the delirium of the moment:  The shame of
betraying his terrors, while in Matilda’s presence, had induced him to
repress them; But now that he was abandoned to himself, they resumed
their former ascendancy.  He trembled at the scene which He was soon to
witness.  He knew not how far the delusions of Magic might operate upon
his mind, and possibly might force him to some deed whose commission
would make the breach between himself and Heaven irreparable.  In this
fearful dilemma, He would have implored God’s assistance, but was
conscious that He had forfeited all claim to such protection.  Gladly
would He have returned to the Abbey; But as He had past through
innumerable Caverns and winding passages, the attempt of regaining the
Stairs was hopeless.  His fate was determined:  No possibility of
escape presented itself: He therefore combated his apprehensions, and
called every argument to his succour, which might enable him to support
the trying scene with fortitude. He reflected that Antonia would be the
reward of his daring:  He inflamed his imagination by enumerating her
charms.  He persuaded himself that (as Matilda had observed), He always
should have time sufficient for repentance, and that as He employed HER
assistance, not that of the Daemons, the crime of Sorcery could not be
laid to his charge.  He had read much respecting witchcraft: He
understood that unless a formal Act was signed renouncing his claim to
salvation, Satan would have no power over him.  He was fully determined
not to execute any such act, whatever threats might be used, or
advantages held out to him.

Such were his meditations while waiting for Matilda. They were
interrupted by a low murmur which seemed at no great distance from him.
He was startled.  He listened.  Some minutes past in silence, after
which the murmur was repeated.  It appeared to be the groaning of one
in pain.  In any other situation, this circumstance would only have
excited his attention and curiosity:

In the present, his predominant sensation was that of terror. His
imagination totally engrossed by the ideas of sorcery and Spirits, He
fancied that some unquiet Ghost was wandering near him; or else that
Matilda had fallen a Victim to her presumption, and was perishing under
the cruel fangs of the Daemons.  The noise seemed not to approach, but
continued to be heard at intervals.  Sometimes it became more audible,
doubtless as the sufferings of the person who uttered the groans became
more acute and insupportable.  Ambrosio now and then thought that He
could distinguish accents; and once in particular He was almost
convinced that He heard a faint voice exclaim,

‘God!  Oh!  God!  No hope!  No succour!’

Yet deeper groans followed these words.  They died away gradually, and
universal silence again prevailed.

‘What can this mean?’ thought the bewildered Monk.

At that moment an idea which flashed into his mind, almost petrified
him with horror.  He started, and shuddered at himself.

‘Should it be possible!’ He groaned involuntarily; ‘Should it but be
possible, Oh! what a Monster am I!’

He wished to resolve his doubts, and to repair his fault, if it were
not too late already:  But these generous and compassionate sentiments
were soon put to flight by the return of Matilda.  He forgot the
groaning Sufferer, and remembered nothing but the danger and
embarrassment of his own situation.  The light of the returning Lamp
gilded the walls, and in a few moments after Matilda stood beside him.
She had quitted her religious habit: She was now cloathed in a long
sable Robe, on which was traced in gold embroidery a variety of unknown
characters:  It was fastened by a girdle of precious stones, in which
was fixed a poignard. Her neck and arms were uncovered.  In her hand
She bore a golden wand.  Her hair was loose and flowed wildly upon her
shoulders; Her eyes sparkled with terrific expression; and her whole
Demeanour was calculated to inspire the beholder with awe and
admiration.

‘Follow me!’ She said to the Monk in a low and solemn voice; ‘All is
ready!’

His limbs trembled, while He obeyed her.  She led him through various
narrow passages; and on every side as they past along, the beams of the
Lamp displayed none but the most revolting objects; Skulls, Bones,
Graves, and Images whose eyes seemed to glare on them with horror and
surprize.  At length they reached a spacious Cavern, whose lofty roof
the eye sought in vain to discover.  A profound obscurity hovered
through the void.  Damp vapours struck cold to the Friar’s heart; and
He listened sadly to the blast while it howled along the lonely Vaults.
Here Matilda stopped.  She turned to Ambrosio.  His cheeks and lips
were pale with apprehension.  By a glance of mingled scorn and anger
She reproved his pusillanimity, but She spoke not.  She placed the Lamp
upon the ground, near the Basket.  She motioned that Ambrosio should be
silent, and began the mysterious rites. She drew a circle round him,
another round herself, and then taking a small Phial from the Basket,
poured a few drops upon the ground before her.  She bent over the
place, muttered some indistinct sentences, and immediately a pale
sulphurous flame arose from the ground.  It increased by degrees, and
at length spread its waves over the whole surface, the circles alone
excepted in which stood Matilda and the Monk.  It then ascended the
huge Columns of unhewn stone, glided along the roof, and formed the
Cavern into an immense chamber totally covered with blue trembling
fire.  It emitted no heat:  On the contrary, the extreme chillness of
the place seemed to augment with every moment.  Matilda continued her
incantations:  At intervals She took various articles from the Basket,
the nature and name of most of which were unknown to the Friar:  But
among the few which He distinguished, He particularly observed three
human fingers, and an Agnus Dei which She broke in pieces.  She threw
them all into the flames which burned before her, and they were
instantly consumed.

The Monk beheld her with anxious curiosity.  Suddenly She uttered a
loud and piercing shriek.  She appeared to be seized with an access of
delirium; She tore her hair, beat her bosom, used the most frantic
gestures, and drawing the poignard from her girdle plunged it into her
left arm.  The blood gushed out plentifully, and as She stood on the
brink of the circle, She took care that it should fall on the outside.
The flames retired from the spot on which the blood was pouring.  A
volume of dark clouds rose slowly from the ensanguined earth, and
ascended gradually, till it reached the vault of the Cavern.  At the
same time a clap of thunder was heard: The echo pealed fearfully along
the subterraneous passages, and the ground shook beneath the feet of
the Enchantress.

It was now that Ambrosio repented of his rashness.  The solemn
singularity of the charm had prepared him for something strange and
horrible.  He waited with fear for the Spirit’s appearance, whose
coming was announced by thunder and earthquakes.  He looked wildly
round him, expecting that some dreadful Apparition would meet his eyes,
the sight of which would drive him mad.  A cold shivering seized his
body, and He sank upon one knee, unable to support himself.

‘He comes!’ exclaimed Matilda in a joyful accent.

Ambrosio started, and expected the Daemon with terror.  What was his
surprize, when the Thunder ceasing to roll, a full strain of melodious
Music sounded in the air.  At the same time the cloud dispersed, and He
beheld a Figure more beautiful than Fancy’s pencil ever drew.  It was a
Youth seemingly scarce eighteen, the perfection of whose form and face
was unrivalled.  He was perfectly naked:  A bright Star sparkled upon
his forehead; Two crimson wings extended themselves from his shoulders;
and his silken locks were confined by a band of many-coloured fires,
which played round his head, formed themselves into a variety of
figures, and shone with a brilliance far surpassing that of precious
Stones.  Circlets of Diamonds were fastened round his arms and ankles,
and in his right hand He bore a silver branch, imitating Myrtle.  His
form shone with dazzling glory:  He was surrounded by clouds of
rose-coloured light, and at the moment that He appeared, a refreshing
air breathed perfumes through the Cavern.  Enchanted at a vision so
contrary to his expectations, Ambrosio gazed upon the Spirit with
delight and wonder:  Yet however beautiful the Figure, He could not but
remark a wildness in the Daemon’s eyes, and a mysterious melancholy
impressed upon his features, betraying the Fallen Angel, and inspiring
the Spectators with secret awe.

The Music ceased.  Matilda addressed herself to the Spirit:  She spoke
in a language unintelligible to the Monk, and was answered in the same.
She seemed to insist upon something which the Daemon was unwilling to
grant.  He frequently darted upon Ambrosio angry glances, and at such
times the Friar’s heart sank within him.  Matilda appeared to grow
incensed.  She spoke in a loud and commanding tone, and her gestures
declared that She was threatening him with her vengeance.  Her menaces
had the desired effect:  The Spirit sank upon his knee, and with a
submissive air presented to her the branch of Myrtle.  No sooner had
She received it, than the Music was again heard; A thick cloud spread
itself over the Apparition; The blue flames disappeared, and total
obscurity reigned through the Cave.  The Abbot moved not from his
place:  His faculties were all bound up in pleasure, anxiety, and
surprize.  At length the darkness dispersing, He perceived Matilda
standing near him in her religious habit, with the Myrtle in her hand.
No traces of the incantation, and the Vaults were only illuminated by
the faint rays of the sepulchral Lamp.

‘I have succeeded,’ said Matilda, ‘though with more difficulty than I
expected.  Lucifer, whom I summoned to my assistance, was at first
unwilling to obey my commands: To enforce his compliance I was
constrained to have recourse to my strongest charms.  They have
produced the desired effect, but I have engaged never more to invoke
his agency in your favour.  Beware then, how you employ an opportunity
which never will return.  My magic arts will now be of no use to you:
In future you can only hope for supernatural aid by invoking the
Daemons yourself, and accepting the conditions of their service.  This
you will never do:  You want strength of mind to force them to
obedience, and unless you pay their established price, they will not be
your voluntary Servants.  In this one instance they consent to obey
you: I offer you the means of enjoying your Mistress, and be careful
not to lose the opportunity.  Receive this constellated Myrtle:  While
you bear this in your hand, every door will fly open to you.  It will
procure you access tomorrow night to Antonia’s chamber: Then breathe
upon it thrice, pronounce her name, and place it upon her pillow.  A
death-like slumber will immediately seize upon her, and deprive her of
the power of resisting your attempts.  Sleep will hold her till break
of Morning.  In this state you may satisfy your desires without danger
of being discovered; since when daylight shall dispel the effects of
the enchantment, Antonia will perceive her dishonour, but be ignorant
of the Ravisher.  Be happy then, my Ambrosio, and let this service
convince you that my friendship is disinterested and pure.  The night
must be near expiring:  Let us return to the Abbey, lest our absence
should create surprize.’

The Abbot received the talisman with silent gratitude.  His ideas were
too much bewildered by the adventures of the night to permit his
expressing his thanks audibly, or indeed as yet to feel the whole value
of her present.  Matilda took up her Lamp and Basket, and guided her
Companion from the mysterious Cavern. She restored the Lamp to its
former place, and continued her route in darkness, till She reached the
foot of the Staircase. The first beams of the rising Sun darting down
it facilitated the ascent.  Matilda and the Abbot hastened out of the
Sepulchre, closed the door after them, and soon regained the Abbey’s
western Cloister.  No one met them, and they retired unobserved to
their respective Cells.

The confusion of Ambrosio’s mind now began to appease.  He rejoiced in
the fortunate issue of his adventure, and reflecting upon the virtues
of the Myrtle, looked upon Antonia as already in his power.
Imagination retraced to him those secret charms betrayed to him by the
Enchanted Mirror, and He waited with impatience for the approach of
midnight.