The Monk - Matthew Gregory Lewis [114]
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 a 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 sprung 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,