At the time of its initial publication in 1796, The Monk was met with public outcry for its salacious content and scathing condemnation of the Catholic Church. Indeed, the novel is rife with blasphemy, graphic (for the time) depictions of human sexuality, and other taboo subjects, and while many of the story’s “evil” characters are punished for their sins (often quite brutally), many of its innocent characters suffer fates that contradict their virtuous actions. On the one hand, Ambrosio’s narrative arc is appropriately severe. After committing the sins of rape, murder, incest, and sorcery, Ambrosio sells his soul to the devil and, as a result, faces a much more brutal fate: Lucifer drops him from a great height onto jagged rocks, where he lies in agony for six days as insects suck his blood and eagles peck out his eyes. On the other hand, though, Antonia’s fate is just as terrible despite her virtue: she is assaulted and raped before dying a premature and decidedly undeserved death. Similarly, toward the end of the novel, an angry mob descends on the convent of St. Clare and kills nuns indiscriminately, even those who had no knowledge of the corrupt prioress’s schemes. In its failure to extend mercy to morally upright characters like Antonia, then, the novel challenges conventional understandings of right and wrong, subverting the expectation that good acts are rewarded while evil acts are punished. Instead, it shows that bad things can and often do happen to good people, regardless of their virtue.
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Morality Quotes in The Monk
‘[…] Artless yourself, you suspect not others of deceit; and viewing the world through the medium of your own truth and innocence, you fancy all who surround you to deserve your confidence and esteem. What pity, that these gay visions must soon be dissipated! What pity, that you must soon discover the baseness of mankind, and guard against your fellow-creatures as against your foes!’
‘I tremble for your sister,’ said she; ‘I have heard many traits of the domina of St Clare’s character from a friend who was educated in the same convent with her: she reported her to be haughty, inflexible, superstitious, and revengeful. […] Though naturally violent and severe, when her interests require it, she well knows how to assume an appearance of benignity. […]’
Ambrosio again raged with desire: the die was thrown: his vows were already broken: he had already committed the crime, and why should he refrain from enjoying its reward?
But what he wanted in purity of heart, he supplied by exterior sanctity. The better to cloak his transgression, he redoubled his pretensions to the semblance of virtue, and he never appeared more devoted to heaven than since he had broken through his engagements. Thus did he unconsciously add hypocrisy to perjury and incontinence: he had fallen into the latter errors from yielding to seduction almost irresistible: but he was now guilty of a voluntary fault, by endeavoring to conceal those into which another had betrayed him.
Still, however, their illicit commerce continued; but it was clear that he was led to her arms, not by love, but the cravings of brutal appetite.
Instead of universal benevolence, he adopted a selfish partiality for his own particular establishment: he was taught to consider compassion for the errors of others as a crime of the blackest dye: the noble frankness of his temper was exchanged for servile humility; and in order to break his natural spirit, the monks terrified his young mind, by placing before him all the horrors which superstition could furnish them: they painted to him the torments of the damned in colours the most dark, terrible and fantastic, and threatened him at the slightest fault with eternal perdition. No wonder that his imagination constantly dwelling upon these fearful objects should have rendered his character timid and apprehensive.
He reflected on the enormity of the crime, the consequences of a discovery, and the probability, after what had passed, of Elvira’s suspecting him to be her daughter’s ravisher. On the other hand it was suggested, that she could do more than suspect; that no proofs of his guilt could be produced; that it would seem impossible for the rape to have been committed without Antonia’s knowing when, where, or by whom; and finally, he believed that his fame was too firmly established to be shaken by the unsupported accusations of two unknown women. The latter argument was perfectly false. He knew not how uncertain is the air of popular appease, and that a moment suffices to make him to-day the detestation of the world, who yesterday was its idol. The result of the monk’s deliberations was, that he should proceed in his enterprise.
Ambrosio shuddered at himself when he reflected on his rapid advances in iniquity. The enormous crime which he had just committed, filled him with real horror. The murdered Elvira was continually before his eyes, and his guilt was already punished by the agonies of his conscience. Time, however, considerably weakened these impressions: one day passed away; another followed it, and still not the least suspicion was thrown upon him. Impunity reconciled him to his guilt. He began to resume his spirits; and as his fears of detection died away, he paid less attention to the reproaches of remorse.
His good sense had pointed out to him the artifices of the monks, the gross absurdity of their miracles, wonders, and suppositious reliques. He blushed to see his countrymen the dupes of deceptions so ridiculous, and only wished for an opportunity to free them from their monkish fetters. That opportunity, so long desired in vain, was at length presented to him. He resolved not to let it slip, but to set before the people, in glaring colours, how enormous were the abuses but too frequently practiced in monasteries, and how unjustly public esteem was bestowed indiscriminately upon all who wore a religious habit. He longed for the moment destined to unmask the hypocrites, and convince his countrymen, that a sanctified exterior does not always hide a virtuous heart.
‘What? That you may denounce me to the world? that you may proclaim me a hypocrite, a ravisher, a betrayer, a monster of cruelty, lust, and ingratitude? No, no, no! I know well the whole weight of my offences; well, that your complaints would be too just, and my crimes too notorious! You shall not from hence to tell Madrid that I am a villain; that my conscience is loaded with sins, which make me despair of Heaven’s pardon. Wretched girl, you must stay here with me! […]’
Should he release her, he could not depend upon her silence. His offence was too flagrant to permit his hoping for her forgiveness. Besides, her re-appearing would excite universal curiosity, and the violence of her affliction would prevent her from concealing its cause. He determined, therefore, that Antonia should remain a prisoner in the dungeon.
‘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!’
‘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!’
