The Monk - Matthew Gregory Lewis [23]
Thus saying, she hastened out of the chapel.
“I have done my duty,” said Ambrosio to himself.
Still did he not feel perfectly satisfied by this reflection. To dissipate the unpleasant ideas which this scene had excited in him, upon quitting the chapel he descended into the abbey-garden. In all Madrid there was no spot more beautiful, or better regulated. It was laid out with the most exquisite taste; the choicest flowers adorned it in the height of luxuriance, and, though artfully arranged, seemed only planted by the hand of Nature. Fountains, springing from basons of white marble, cooled the air with perpetual showers; and the walls were entirely covered by jessamine, vines, and honey-suckles. The hour now added to the beauty of the scene. The full moon, ranging through a blue and cloudless sky, shed upon the trees a trembling lustre, and the waters of the fountains sparkled in the silver beam; a gentle breeze breathed the fragrance of orange-blossoms along the alleys, and the nightingale poured forth her melodious murmur from the shelter of an artificial wilderness. Thither the abbot bent his steps.
In the bosom of this little grove stood a rustic grotto, formed in imitation of an hermitage. The walls were constructed of roots of trees, and the interstices filled up with moss and ivy. Seats of turf were placed on either side, and a natural cascade fell from the rock above. Buried in himself, the monk approached the spot. The universal calm had communicated itself to his bosom, and a voluptuous tranquillity spread languor through his soul.
He reached the hermitage, and was entering to repose himself, when he stopped on perceiving it to be already occupied. Extended upon one of the banks lay a man in a melancholy posture. His head was supported upon his arm, and he seemed lost in meditation. The monk drew nearer, and recognised Rosario: he watched him in silence, and entered not the hermitage. After some minutes the youth raised his eyes, and fixed them mournfully upon the opposite wall.
“Yes,” said he, with a deep and plaintive sigh, “I feel all the happiness of thy situation, all the misery of my own. Happy were I, could I think like thee! Could I look like thee with disgust upon mankind, could bury myself for ever in some impenetrable solitude, and forget that the world holds beings deserving to be loved! O God! what a blessing would misanthropy be to me!”
“That is a singular thought, Rosario,” said the abbot, entering the grotto.
“You here, reverend father?” cried the novice.
At the same time starting from his place in confusion, he drew his cowl hastily over his face. Ambrosio seated himself upon the bank, and obliged the youth to place himself by him.
“You must not indulge this disposition to melancholy,” said he: “What can possibly have made you view in so desirable a light, misanthropy, of all sentiments the most hateful?”
“The perusal of these verses, father, which till now had escaped my observation. The brightness of the moon-beams permitted my reading them; and, oh! how I envy the feelings of the writer!”
As he said this, he pointed to a marble tablet fixed against the opposite wall: on it were engraved the following lines:
INSCRIPTION IN AN HERMITAGE.
Whoe’er thou art these lines now reading,
Think not, though from the world receding,
I joy my lonely days to lead in
This desert drear,
That with remorse a conscience bleeding
Hath led me here.
No thought of guilt my bosom sours:
Free-willed I fled from courtly bowers;
For well I saw in halls and towers,
That Lust and Pride,
The Arch-fiend’s dearest darkest powers,
In state preside.
I saw mankind with vice incrusted;
I saw that Honour’s sword was rusted;
That few for aught but folly lusted;
That he was still deceiv’d, who trusted
In love or friend;
And hither came, with men disgusted,
My life to end.
In this lone cave, in garments lowly,
Alike a foe to noisy folly
And brow-bent gloomy melancholy,
I wear away
My life, and in my office holy
Consume the day.
Content