Free The Monk by Matthew Lewis Page A

air—“You! you! Would to God that lightning had blasted them before you ever met my eyes! Would to God that I were never to see you more, and could forget that I had ever seen you!”
    With these words he flew hastily from the grotto. Ambrosio remained in his former attitude, reflecting on the youth’s unaccountable behaviour. He was inclined to suspect the derangement of his senses: yet the general tenor of his conduct, the connexion of his ideas, and calmness of his demeanour till the moment of his quitting the grotto, seemed to discountenance this conjecture. After a few minutes Rosario returned. He again seated himself upon the bank: he reclined his cheek upon one hand, and with the other wiped away the tears which trickled from his eyes at intervals.
    The monk looked upon him with compassion, and forbore to interrupt his meditations. Both observed for some time a profound silence. The nightingale had now taken her station upon an orange-tree fronting the hermitage, and poured forth a strain the most melancholy and melodious. Rosario raised his head, and listened to her with attention.
    “It was thus,” said he, with a deep-drawn sigh, “it was thus that, during the last month of her unhappy life, my sister used to sit listening to the nightingale. Poor Matilda! she sleeps in the grave, and her broken heart throbs no more with passion.”
    “You had a sister?”
    “You say right, that I had . Alas! I have one no longer. She sunk beneath the weight of her sorrows in the very spring of life.”
    “What were those sorrows?”
    “They will not excite your pity. You know not the power of those irresistible, those fatal sentiments to which her heart was a prey. Father, she loved unfortunately. A passion for one endowed with every virtue, for a man—oh! rather let me say for a divinity—proved the bane of her existence. His noble form, his spotless character, his various talents, his wisdom solid, wonderful, and glorious, might have warmed the bosom of the most insensible. My sister saw him, and dared to love, though she never dared to hope.”
    “If her love was so well bestowed, what forbad her to hope the obtaining of its object?”
    “Father, before he knew her, Julian had already plighted his vows to a bride most fair, most heavenly! Yet still my sister loved, and for the husband’s sake she doted upon the wife. One morning she found means to escape from our father’s house: arrayed in humble weeds she offered herself as a domestic to the consort of her beloved, and was accepted. She was now continually in his presence: she strove to ingratiate herself into his favour: she succeeded. Her attentions attracted Julian’s notice: the virtuous are ever grateful, and he distinguished Matilda above the rest of her companions.”
    “And did not your parents seek for her? Did they submit tamely to their loss, nor attempt to recover their wandering daughter?”
    “Ere they could find her, she discovered herself. Her love grew too violent for concealment; yet she wished not for Julian’s person, she ambitioned but a share of his heart. In an unguarded moment she confessed her affection. What was the return? Doting upon his wife, and believing that a look of pity bestowed upon another was a theft from what he owed to her, he drove Matilda from his presence: he forbad her ever again appearing before him. His severity broke her heart: she returned to her father’s, and in a few months after was carried to her grave.”
    “Unhappy girl! Surely her fate was too severe, and Julian was too cruel.”
    “Do you think so, father?” cried the novice with vivacity: “Do you think that he was cruel?”
    “Doubtless I do, and pity her most sincerely.”
    “You pity her? you pity her? Oh! father! father! then pity me—”
    The friar started; when, after a moment’s pause, Rosario added with a faltering voice, “for my sufferings are still greater. My sister had a friend, a real friend, who pitied the acuteness of her