THE MONK

Matthew Gregory Lewis

from Bk. 3, Chapter Five

Ambrosio rather dead than alive was left alone in his dungeon.
The moment in which this terrible decree was pronounced had
nearly proved that of his dissolution. He looked forward to the
morrow with despair, and his terrors increased with the
approach of midnight. Sometimes He was buried in gloomy
silence: At others He raved with delirious passion, wrung his
hands, and cursed the hour when He first beheld the light. In
one of these moments his eye rested upon Matilda’s mysteri-
ous gift. His transports of rage were instantly suspended. He
looked earnestly at the Book; He took it up, but immediately
threw it from him with horror. He walked rapidly up and down
his dungeon: Then stopped, and again fixed his eyes on the
spot where the Book had fallen. He reflected that here at least
was a resource from the fate which He dreaded. He stooped,
and took it up a second time.
He remained for some time trembling and irresolute: He
longed to try the charm, yet feared its consequences. The
recollection of his sentence at length fixed his indecision. He
opened the Volume; but his agitation was so great that He at

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first sought in vain for the page mentioned by Matilda.
Ashamed of himself, He called all his courage to his aid. He
turned to the seventh leaf. He began to read it aloud; But his
eyes frequently wandered from the Book, while He anxiously
cast them round in search of the Spirit, whom He wished, yet
dreaded to behold. Still He persisted in his design; and with a
voice unassured and frequent interruptions, He contrived to
finish the four first lines of the page.
They were in a language, whose import was totally un-
known to him.
Scarce had He pronounced the last word when the effects
of the charm were evident. A loud burst of Thunder was
heard; The prison shook to its very foundations; A blaze of
lightning flashed through the Cell; and in the next moment,
borne upon sulphurous whirl-winds, Lucifer stood before him a
second time. But He came not as when at Matilda’s summons
He borrowed the Seraph’s form to deceive Ambrosio. He
appeared in all that ugliness which since his fall from heaven
had been his portion: His blasted limbs still bore marks of the
Almighty’s thunder: A swarthy darkness spread itself over his
gigantic form: His hands and feet were armed with long
Talons: Fury glared in his eyes, which might have struck the
bravest heart with terror: Over his huge shoulders waved two
enormous sable wings; and his hair was supplied by living
snakes, which twined themselves round his brows with frightful
hissings. In one hand He held a roll of parchment, and in the
other an iron pen. Still the lightning flashed around him, and
the Thunder with repeated bursts, seemed to announce the
dissolution of Nature.
Terrified at an Apparition so different from what He had
expected, Ambrosio remained gazing upon the Fiend, de-

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prived of the power of utterance. The Thunder had ceased to
roll: Universal silence reigned through the dungeon.
‘For what am I summoned hither?’ said the Daemon, in a
voice which sulphurous fogs had damped to hoarseness—
At the sound Nature seemed to tremble: A violent earth-
quake rocked the ground, accompanied by a fresh burst of
Thunder, louder and more appalling than the first.
Ambrosio was long unable to answer the Daemon’s de-
mand.
‘I am condemned to die;’ He said with a faint voice, his
blood running cold, while He gazed upon his dreadful Visitor.
‘Save me! Bear me from hence!’
‘Shall the reward of my services be paid me? Dare you
embrace my cause? Will you be mine, body and soul? Are you
prepared to renounce him who made you, and him who died
for you? Answer but ‘’Yes’’ and Lucifer is your Slave.’
‘Will no less price content you? Can nothing satisfy you but
my eternal ruin? Spirit, you ask too much. Yet convey me from
this dungeon: Be my Servant for one hour, and I will be yours
for a thousand years. Will not this offer suffice?’
‘It will not. I must have your soul; must have it mine, and
mine for ever.’
‘Insatiate Daemon, I will not doom myself to endless
torments. I will not give up my hopes of being one day par-
doned.’
‘You will not? On what Chimaera rest then your hopes?
Short-sighted Mortal! Miserable Wretch! Are you not guilty?
Are you not infamous in the eyes of Men and Angels. Can
such enormous sins be forgiven? Hope you to escape my
power? Your fate is already pronounced. The Eternal has
abandoned you; Mine you are marked in the book of destiny,

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and mine you must and shall be!’
‘Fiend, ‘tis false! Infinite is the Almighty’s mercy, and the
Penitent shall meet his forgiveness. My crimes are monstrous,
but I will not despair of pardon: Haply, when they have re-
ceived due chastisement . . . .’
‘Chastisement? Was Purgatory meant for guilt like yours?
Hope you that your offences shall be bought off by prayers of
superstitious dotards and droning Monks? Ambrosio, be wise!
Mine you must be: You are doomed to flames, but may shun
them for the present. Sign this parchment: I will bear you from
hence, and you may pass your remaining years in bliss and
liberty. Enjoy your existence: Indulge in every pleasure to
which appetite may lead you: But from the moment that it quits
your body, remember that your soul belongs to me, and that I
will not be defrauded of my right.’
The Monk was silent; But his looks declared that the
Tempter’s words were not thrown away. He reflected on the
conditions proposed with horror: On the other hand, He
believed himself doomed to perdition and that, by refusing the
Daemon’s succour, He only hastened tortures which He never
could escape. The Fiend saw that his resolution was shaken:
He renewed his instances, and endeavoured to fix the Abbot’s
indecision. He described the agonies of death in the most
terrific colours; and He worked so powerfully upon Ambrosio’s
despair and fears that He prevailed upon him to receive the
Parchment. He then struck the iron Pen which He held into a
vein of the Monk’s left hand. It pierced deep, and was instantly
filled with blood; Yet Ambrosio felt no pain from the wound.
The Pen was put into his hand: It trembled. The Wretch placed
the Parchment on the Table before him, and prepared to sign
it. Suddenly He held his hand: He started away hastily, and

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threw the Pen upon the table.
‘What am I doing?’ He cried—Then turning to the Fiend
with a desperate air, ‘Leave me! Begone! I will not sign the
Parchment.’
‘Fool!’ exclaimed the disappointed Daemon, darting looks
so furious as penetrated the Friar’s soul with horror; ‘Thus am
I trifled with? Go then! Rave in agony, expire in tortures, and
then learn the extent of the Eternal’s mercy! But beware how
you make me again your mock! Call me no more till resolved
to accept my offers! Summon me a second time to dismiss me
thus idly, and these Talons shall rend you into a thousand
pieces! Speak yet again; Will you sign the Parchment?’
‘I will not! Leave me! Away!’
Instantly the Thunder was heard to roll horribly: Once more
the earth trembled with violence: The Dungeon resounded
with loud shrieks, and the Daemon fled with blasphemy and
curses.
At first, the Monk rejoiced at having resisted the Seducer’s
arts, and obtained a triumph over Mankind’s Enemy: But as
the hour of punishment drew near, his former terrors revived
in his heart. Their momentary repose seemed to have given
them fresh vigour. The nearer that the time approached, the
more did He dread appearing before the Throne of God. He
shuddered to think how soon He must be plunged into eterni-
ty; How soon meet the eyes of his Creator, whom He had so
grievously offended. The Bell announced midnight: It was the
signal for being led to the Stake! As He listened to the first
stroke, the blood ceased to circulate in the Abbot’s veins: He
heard death and torture murmured in each succeeding sound.
He expected to see the Archers entering his prison; and as the
Bell forbore to toll, he seized the magic volume in a fit of

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despair. He opened it, turned hastily to the seventh page, and
as if fearing to allow himself a moment’s thought ran over the
fatal lines with rapidity. Accompanied by his former terrors,
Lucifer again stood before the Trembler.
‘You have summoned me,’ said the Fiend; ‘Are you deter-
mined to be wise? Will you accept my conditions? You know
them already. Renounce your claim to salvation, make over to
me your soul, and I bear you from this dungeon instantly. Yet
is it time. Resolve, or it will be too late. Will you sign the
Parchment?’
‘I must!—Fate urges me! I accept your conditions.’
‘Sign the Parchment!’ replied the Daemon in an exulting
tone.
The Contract and the bloody Pen still lay upon the Table.
Ambrosio drew near it. He prepared to sign his name. A
moment’s reflection made him hesitate.
‘Hark!’ cried the Tempter; ‘They come! Be quick! Sign the
Parchment, and I bear you from hence this moment.’
In effect, the Archers were heard approaching, appointed to
lead Ambrosio to the Stake. The sound encouraged the Monk
in his resolution.
‘What is the import of this writing?’ said He.
‘It makes your soul over to me for ever, and without re-
serve.’
‘What am I to receive in exchange?’
‘My protection, and release from this dungeon. Sign it, and
this instant I bear you away.’
Ambrosio took up the Pen; He set it to the Parchment.
Again his courage failed him: He felt a pang of terror at his
heart, and once more threw the Pen upon the Table.
‘Weak and Puerile!’ cried the exasperated Fiend: ‘Away with

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this folly! Sign the writing this instant, or I sacrifice you to my
rage!’
At this moment the bolt of the outward Door was drawn
back. The Prisoner heard the rattling of Chains; The heavy
Bar fell; The Archers were on the point of entering. Worked up
to phrenzy by the urgent danger, shrinking from the approach
of death, terrified by the Daemon’s threats, and seeing no
other means to escape destruction, the wretched Monk
complied. He signed the fatal contract, and gave it hastily into
the evil Spirit’s hands, whose eyes, as He received the gift,
glared with malicious rapture.
‘Take it!’ said the God-abandoned; ‘Now then save me!
Snatch me from hence!’
‘Hold! Do you freely and absolutely renounce your Creator
and his Son?’
‘I do! I do!’
‘Do you make over your soul to me for ever?’
‘For ever!’
‘Without reserve or subterfuge? Without future appeal to
the divine mercy?’
The last Chain fell from the door of the prison: The key was
heard turning in the Lock: Already the iron door grated heavily
upon its rusty hinges.
‘I am yours for ever and irrevocably!’ cried the Monk wild
with terror: ‘I abandon all claim to salvation! I own no power
but yours! Hark! Hark! They come! Oh! save me! Bear me
away!’
‘I have triumphed! You are mine past reprieve, and I fulfil
my promise.’
While He spoke, the Door unclosed. Instantly the Daemon
grasped one of Ambrosio’s arms, spread his broad pinions,

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and sprang with him into the air. The roof opened as they
soared upwards, and closed again when they had quitted the
Dungeon.
In the meanwhile, the Gaoler was thrown into the utmost
surprize by the disappearance of his Prisoner. Though neither
He nor the Archers were in time to witness the Monk’s escape,
a sulphurous smell prevailing through the prison sufficiently
informed them by whose aid He had been liberated. They
hastened to make their report to the Grand Inquisitor. The
story, how a Sorcerer had been carried away by the Devil, was
soon noised about Madrid; and for some days the whole City
was employed in discussing the subject. Gradually it ceased to
be the topic of conversation: Other adventures arose whose
novelty engaged universal attention; and Ambrosio was soon
forgotten as totally, as if He never had existed. While this was
passing, the Monk supported by his infernal guide, traversed
the air with the rapidity of an arrow, and a few moments
placed him upon a Precipice’s brink, the steepest in Sierra
Morena.
Though rescued from the Inquisition, Ambrosio as yet was
insensible of the blessings of liberty. The damning contract
weighed heavy upon his mind; and the scenes in which He
had been a principal actor had left behind them such impres-
sions as rendered his heart the seat of anarchy and confusion.
The Objects now before his eyes, and which the full Moon
sailing through clouds permitted him to examine, were ill-
calculated to inspire that calm, of which He stood so much in
need. The disorder of his imagination was increased by the
wildness of the surrounding scenery; By the gloomy Caverns
and steep rocks, rising above each other, and dividing the
passing clouds; solitary clusters of Trees scattered here and

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there, among whose thick-twined branches the wind of night
sighed hoarsely and mournfully; the shrill cry of mountain
Eagles, who had built their nests among these lonely Desarts;
the stunning roar of torrents, as swelled by late rains they
rushed violently down tremendous precipices; and the dark
waters of a silent sluggish stream which faintly reflected the
moonbeams, and bathed the Rock’s base on which Ambrosio
stood. The Abbot cast round him a look of terror. His infernal
Conductor was still by his side, and eyed him with a look of
mingled malice, exultation, and contempt.
‘Whither have you brought me?’ said the Monk at length in
an hollow trembling voice: ‘Why am I placed in this melancholy
scene? Bear me from it quickly! Carry me to Matilda!’
The Fiend replied not, but continued to gaze upon him in
silence.
Ambrosio could not sustain his glance; He turned away his
eyes, while thus spoke the Daemon:
‘I have him then in my power! This model of piety! This
being without reproach! This Mortal who placed his puny
virtues on a level with those of Angels. He is mine! Irrevocably,
eternally mine! Companions of my sufferings! Denizens of hell!
How grateful will be my present!’
He paused; then addressed himself to the Monk—
‘Carry you to Matilda?’ He continued, repeating Ambrosio’s
words:
‘Wretch! you shall soon be with her! You well deserve a
place near her, for hell boasts no miscreant more guilty than
yourself.
‘Hark, Ambrosio, while I unveil your crimes! You have shed
the blood of two innocents; Antonia and Elvira perished by
your hand. That Antonia whom you violated, was your Sister!

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That Elvira whom you murdered, gave you birth! Tremble,
abandoned Hypocrite! Inhuman Parricide! Incestuous Ravish-
er! Tremble at the extent of your offences! And you it was who
thought yourself proof against temptation, absolved from
human frailties, and free from error and vice! Is pride then a
virtue? Is inhumanity no fault? Know, vain Man! That I long
have marked you for my prey: I watched the movements of
your heart; I saw that you were virtuous from vanity, not
principle, and I seized the fit moment of seduction. I observed
your blind idolatry of the Madona’s picture. I bad a subordinate
but crafty spirit assume a similar form, and you eagerly yielded
to the blandishments of Matilda. Your pride was gratified by
her flattery; Your lust only needed an opportunity to break
forth; You ran into the snare blindly, and scrupled not to
commit a crime which you blamed in another with unfeeling
severity. It was I who threw Matilda in your way; It was I who
gave you entrance to Antonia’s chamber; It was I who caused
the dagger to be given you which pierced your Sister’s bosom;
and it was I who warned Elvira in dreams of your designs upon
her Daughter, and thus, by preventing your profiting by her
sleep, compelled you to add rape as well as incest to the
catalogue of your crimes. Hear, hear, Ambrosio! Had you
resisted me one minute longer, you had saved your body and
soul. The guards whom you heard at your prison door came to
signify your pardon. But I had already triumphed: My plots had
already succeeded. Scarcely could I propose crimes so quick
as you performed them. You are mine, and Heaven itself
cannot rescue you from my power. Hope not that your peni-
tence will make void our contract. Here is your bond signed
with your blood; You have given up your claim to mercy, and
nothing can restore to you the rights which you have foolishly

10
resigned. Believe you that your secret thoughts escaped me?
No, no, I read them all! You trusted that you should still have
time for repentance. I saw your artifice, knew its falsity, and
rejoiced in deceiving the deceiver! You are mine beyond
reprieve: I burn to possess my right, and alive you quit not
these mountains.’
During the Daemon’s speech, Ambrosio had been stupefied
by terror and surprize. This last declaration rouzed him.
‘Not quit these mountains alive?’ He exclaimed: ‘Perfidious,
what mean you? Have you forgotten our contract?’
The Fiend answered by a malicious laugh:
‘Our contract? Have I not performed my part? What more
did I promise than to save you from your prison? Have I not
done so? Are you not safe from the Inquisition—safe from all
but from me? Fool that you were to confide yourself to a Devil!
Why did you not stipulate for life, and power, and pleasure?
Then all would have been granted: Now, your reflections come
too late. Miscreant, prepare for death; You have not many
hours to live!’
On hearing this sentence, dreadful were the feelings of the
devoted Wretch! He sank upon his knees, and raised his
hands towards heaven. The Fiend read his intention and
prevented it—
‘What?’ He cried, darting at him a look of fury: ‘Dare you still
implore the Eternal’s mercy? Would you feign penitence, and
again act an Hypocrite’s part? Villain, resign your hopes of
pardon. Thus I secure my prey!’
As He said this, darting his talons into the Monk’s shaven
crown, He sprang with him from the rock. The Caves and
mountains rang with Ambrosio’s shrieks. The Daemon contin-
ued to soar aloft, till reaching a dreadful height, He released

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the sufferer. Headlong fell the Monk through the airy waste;
The sharp point of a rock received him; and He rolled from
precipice to precipice, till bruised and mangled He rested on
the river’s banks. Life still existed in his miserable frame: He
attempted in vain to raise himself; His broken and dislocated
limbs refused to perform their office, nor was He able to quit
the spot where He had first fallen. The Sun now rose above
the horizon; Its scorching beams darted full upon the head of
the expiring Sinner. Myriads of insects were called forth by the
warmth; They drank the blood which trickled from Ambrosio’s
wounds; He had no power to drive them from him, and they
fastened upon his sores, darted their stings into his body,
covered him with their multitudes, and inflicted on him tortures
the most exquisite and insupportable. The Eagles of the rock
tore his flesh piecemeal, and dug out his eyeballs with their
crooked beaks. A burning thirst tormented him; He heard the
river’s murmur as it rolled beside him, but strove in vain to
drag himself towards the sound. Blind, maimed, helpless, and
despairing, venting his rage in blasphemy and curses, exe-
crating his existence, yet dreading the arrival of death des-
tined to yield him up to greater torments, six miserable days
did the Villain languish. On the Seventh a violent storm arose:
The winds in fury rent up rocks and forests: The sky was now
black with clouds, now sheeted with fire: The rain fell in
torrents; It swelled the stream; The waves overflowed their
banks; They reached the spot where Ambrosio lay, and when
they abated carried with them into the river the Corse of the
despairing Monk.

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