The Mysteries of Udolpho / Radcliffe, Ann Ward, 1764-1823
Author: Radcliffe, Ann Ward, 1764-1823
Title: The Mysteries of Udolpho
Publisher: Project Gutenberg
Tag(s): emily; montoni; valancourt; aubert; annette; madame montoni; madame; count morano
Contributor(s): Clark, Walter, 1846-1924 [Translator]
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Title: The Mysteries of Udolpho
Author: Ann Radcliffe
Release Date: June, 2002 [Etext #3268]
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[Keyed and Proofed by Karalee Coleman <kcoleman@cadvision.com>
The Mysteries of Udolpho
by Ann Radcliffe
A Romance
Interspersed With Some Pieces of Poetry
Fate sits on these dark battlements, and frowns,
And, as the portals open to receive me,
Her voice, in sullen echoes through the courts,
Tells of a nameless deed.
VOLUME 1
CHAPTER I
home is the resort
Of love, of joy, of peace and plenty, where,
Supporting and supported, polish'd friends
And dear relations mingle into bliss.*
*Thomson
On the pleasant banks of the Garonne, in the province of Gascony,
stood, in the year 1584, the chateau of Monsieur St. Aubert. From
its windows were seen the pastoral landscapes of Guienne and Gascony
stretching along the river, gay with luxuriant woods and vine, and
plantations of olives. To the south, the view was bounded by the
majestic Pyrenees, whose summits, veiled in clouds, or exhibiting
awful forms, seen, and lost again, as the partial vapours rolled
along, were sometimes barren, and gleamed through the blue tinge of
air, and sometimes frowned with forests of gloomy pine, that swept
downward to their base. These tremendous precipices were contrasted
by the soft green of the pastures and woods that hung upon their
skirts; among whose flocks, and herds, and simple cottages, the eye,
after having scaled the cliffs above, delighted to repose. To the
north, and to the east, the plains of Guienne and Languedoc were lost
in the mist of distance; on the west, Gascony was bounded by the
waters of Biscay.
M. St. Aubert loved to wander, with his wife and daughter, on the
margin of the Garonne, and to listen to the music that floated on its
waves. He had known life in other forms than those of pastoral
simplicity, having mingled in the gay and in the busy scenes of the
world; but the flattering portrait of mankind, which his heart had
delineated in early youth, his experience had too sorrowfully
corrected. Yet, amidst the changing visions of life, his principles
remained unshaken, his benevolence unchilled; and he retired from the
multitude 'more in PITY than in anger,' to scenes of simple nature,
to the pure delights of literature, and to the exercise of domestic
virtues.
He was a descendant from the younger branch of an illustrious family,
and it was designed, that the deficiency of his patrimonial wealth
should be supplied either by a splendid alliance in marriage, or by
success in the intrigues of public affairs. But St. Aubert had too
nice a sense of honour to fulfil the latter hope, and too small a
portion of ambition to sacrifice what he called happiness, to the
attainment of wealth. After the death of his father he married a
very amiable woman, his equal in birth, and not his superior in
fortune. The late Monsieur St. Aubert's liberality, or extravagance,
had so much involved his affairs, that his son found it necessary to
dispose of a part of the family domain, and, some years after his
marriage, he sold it to Monsieur Quesnel, the brother of his wife,
and retired to a small estate in Gascony, where conjugal felicity,
and parental duties, divided his attention with the treasures of
knowledge and the illuminations of genius.
To this spot he had been attached from his infancy. He had often
made excursions to it when a boy, and the impressions of delight
given to his mind by the homely kindness of the grey-headed peasant,
to whom it was intrusted, and whose fruit and cream never failed, had
not been obliterated by succeeding circumstances. The green pastures
along which he had so often bounded in the exultation of health, and
youthful freedom--the woods, under whose refreshing shade he had
first indulged that pensive melancholy, which afterwards made a
strong feature of his character--the wild walks of the mountains, the
river, on whose waves he had floated, and the distant plains, which
seemed boundless as his early hopes--were never after remembered by
St. Aubert but with enthusiasm and regret. At length he disengaged
himself from the world, and retired hither, to realize the wishes of
many years.
The building, as it then stood, was merely a summer cottage, rendered
interesting to a stranger by its neat simplicity, or the beauty of
the surrounding scene; and considerable additions were necessary to
make it a comfortable family residence. St. Aubert felt a kind of
affection for every part of the fabric, which he remembered in his
youth, and would not suffer a stone of it to be removed, so that the
new building, adapted to the style of the old one, formed with it
only a simple and elegant residence. The taste of Madame St. Aubert
was conspicuous in its internal finishing, where the same chaste
simplicity was observable in the furniture, and in the few ornaments
of the apartments, that characterized the manners of its inhabitants.
The library occupied the west side of the chateau, and was enriched
by a collection of the best books in the ancient and modern
languages. This room opened upon a grove, which stood on the brow of
a gentle declivity, that fell towards the river, and the tall trees
gave it a melancholy and pleasing shade; while from the windows the
eye caught, beneath the spreading branches, the gay and luxuriant
landscape stretching to the west, and overlooked on the left by the
bold precipices of the Pyrenees. Adjoining the library was a green-
house, stored with scarce and beautiful plants; for one of the
amusements of St. Aubert was the study of botany, and among the
neighbouring mountains, which afforded a luxurious feast to the mind
of the naturalist, he often passed the day in the pursuit of his
favourite science. He was sometimes accompanied in these little
excursions by Madame St. Aubert, and frequently by his daughter;
when, with a small osier basket to receive plants, and another filled
with cold refreshments, such as the cabin of the shepherd did not
afford, they wandered away among the most romantic and magnificent
scenes, nor suffered the charms of Nature's lowly children to
abstract them from the observance of her stupendous works. When
weary of sauntering among cliffs that seemed scarcely accessible but
to the steps of the enthusiast, and where no track appeared on the
vegetation, but what the foot of the izard had left; they would seek
one of those green recesses, which so beautifully adorn the bosom of
these mountains, where, under the shade of the lofty larch, or cedar,
they enjoyed their simple repast, made sweeter by the waters of the
cool stream, that crept along the turf, and by the breath of wild
flowers and aromatic plants, that fringed the rocks, and inlaid the
grass.
Adjoining the eastern side of the green-house, looking towards the
plains of Languedoc, was a room, which Emily called hers, and which
contained her books, her drawings, her musical instruments, with some
favourite birds and plants. Here she usually exercised herself in
elegant arts, cultivated only because they were congenial to her
taste, and in which native genius, assisted by the instructions of
Monsieur and Madame St. Aubert, made her an early proficient. The
windows of this room were particularly pleasant; they descended to
the floor, and, opening upon the little lawn that surrounded the
house, the eye was led between groves of almond, palm-trees,
flowering-ash, and myrtle, to the distant landscape, where the
Garonne wandered.
The peasants of this gay climate were often seen on an evening, when
the day's labour was done, dancing in groups on the margin of the
river. Their sprightly melodies, debonnaire steps, the fanciful
figure of their dances, with the tasteful and capricious manner in
which the girls adjusted their simple dress, gave a character to the
scene entirely French.
The front of the chateau, which, having a southern aspect, opened
upon the grandeur of the mountains, was occupied on the ground floor
by a rustic hall, and two excellent sitting rooms. The first floor,
for the cottage had no second story, was laid out in bed-chambers,
except one apartment that opened to a balcony, and which was
generally used for a breakfast-room.
In the surrounding ground, St. Aubert had made very tasteful
improvements; yet, such was his attachment to objects he had
remembered from his boyish days, that he had in some instances
sacrificed taste to sentiment. There were two old larches that
shaded the building, and interrupted the prospect; St. Aubert had
sometimes declared that he believed he should have been weak enough
to have wept at their fall. In addition to these larches he planted
a little grove of beech, pine, and mountain-ash. On a lofty terrace,
formed by the swelling bank of the river, rose a plantation of
orange, lemon, and palm-trees, whose fruit, in the coolness of
evening, breathed delicious fragrance. With these were mingled a few
trees of other species. Here, under the ample shade of a plane-tree,
that spread its majestic canopy towards the river, St. Aubert loved
to sit in the fine evenings of summer, with his wife and children,
watching, beneath its foliage, the setting sun, the mild splendour of
its light fading from the distant landscape, till the shadows of
twilight melted its various features into one tint of sober grey.
Here, too, he loved to read, and to converse with Madame St. Aubert;
or to play with his children, resigning himself to the influence of
those sweet affections, which are ever attendant on simplicity and
nature. He has often said, while tears of pleasure trembled in his
eyes, that these were moments infinitely more delightful than any
passed amid the brilliant and tumultuous scenes that are courted by
the world. His heart was occupied; it had, what can be so rarely
said, no wish for a happiness beyond what it experienced. The
consciousness of acting right diffused a serenity over his manners,
which nothing else could impart to a man of moral perceptions like
his, and which refined his sense of every surrounding blessing.
The deepest shade of twilight did not send him from his favourite
plane-tree. He loved the soothing hour, when the last tints of light
die away; when the stars, one by one, tremble through aether, and are
reflected on the dark mirror of the waters; that hour, which, of all
others, inspires the mind with pensive tenderness, and often elevates
it to sublime contemplation. When the moon shed her soft rays among
the foliage, he still lingered, and his pastoral supper of cream and
fruits was often spread beneath it. Then, on the stillness of night,
came the song of the nightingale, breathing sweetness, and awakening
melancholy.
The first interruptions to the happiness he had known since his
retirement, were occasioned by the death of his two sons. He lost
them at that age when infantine simplicity is so fascinating; and
though, in consideration of Madame St. Aubert's distress, he
restrained the expression of his own, and endeavoured to bear it, as
he meant, with philosophy, he had, in truth, no philosophy that could
render him calm to such losses. One daughter was now his only
surviving child; and, while he watched the unfolding of her infant
character, with anxious fondness, he endeavoured, with unremitting
effort, to counteract those traits in her disposition, which might
hereafter lead her from happiness. She had discovered in her early
years uncommon delicacy of mind, warm affections, and ready
benevolence; but with these was observable a degree of susceptibility
too exquisite to admit of lasting peace. As she advanced in youth,
this sensibility gave a pensive tone to her spirits, and a softness
to her manner, which added grace to beauty, and rendered her a very
interesting object to persons of a congenial disposition. But St.
Aubert had too much good sense to prefer a charm to a virtue; and had
penetration enough to see, that this charm was too dangerous to its
possessor to be allowed the character of a blessing. He endeavoured,
therefore, to strengthen her mind; to enure her to habits of self-
command; to teach her to reject the first impulse of her feelings,
and to look, with cool examination, upon the disappointments he
sometimes threw in her way. While he instructed her to resist first
impressions, and to acquire that steady dignity of mind, that can
alone counterbalance the passions, and bear us, as far as is
compatible with our nature, above the reach of circumstances, he
taught himself a lesson of fortitude; for he was often obliged to
witness, with seeming indifference, the tears and struggles which his
caution occasioned her.
In person, Emily resembled her mother; having the same elegant
symmetry of form, the same delicacy of features, and the same blue
eyes, full of tender sweetness. But, lovely as was her person, it
was the varied expression of her countenance, as conversation
awakened the nicer emotions of her mind, that threw such a
captivating grace around her:
Those tend'rer tints, that shun the careless eye,
And, in the world's contagious circle, die.
St. Aubert cultivated her understanding with the most scrupulous
care. He gave her a general view of the sciences, and an exact
acquaintance with every part of elegant literature. He taught her
Latin and English, chiefly that she might understand the sublimity of
their best poets. She discovered in her early years a taste for
works of genius; and it was St. Aubert's principle, as well as his
inclination, to promote every innocent means of happiness. 'A well-
informed mind,' he would say, 'is the best security against the
contagion of folly and of vice. The vacant mind is ever on the watch
for relief, and ready to plunge into error, to escape from the
languor of idleness. Store it with ideas, teach it the pleasure of
thinking; and the temptations of the world without, will be
counteracted by the gratifications derived from the world within.
Thought, and cultivation, are necessary equally to the happiness of a
country and a city life; in the first they prevent the uneasy
sensations of indolence, and afford a sublime pleasure in the taste
they create for the beautiful, and the grand; in the latter, they
make dissipation less an object of necessity, and consequently of
interest.'
It was one of Emily's earliest pleasures to ramble among the scenes
of nature; nor was it in the soft and glowing landscape that she most
delighted; she loved more the wild wood-walks, that skirted the
mountain; and still more the mountain's stupendous recesses, where
the silence and grandeur of solitude impressed a sacred awe upon her
heart, and lifted her thoughts to the GOD OF HEAVEN AND EARTH. In
scenes like these she would often linger along, wrapt in a melancholy
charm, till the last gleam of day faded from the west; till the
lonely sound of a sheep-bell, or the distant bark of a watch-dog,
were all that broke on the stillness of the evening. Then, the gloom
of the woods; the trembling of their leaves, at intervals, in the
breeze; the bat, flitting on the twilight; the cottage-lights, now
seen, and now lost--were circumstances that awakened her mind into
effort, and led to enthusiasm and poetry.
Her favourite walk was to a little fishing-house, belonging to St.
Aubert, in a woody glen, on the margin of a rivulet that descended
from the Pyrenees, and, after foaming among their rocks, wound its
silent way beneath the shades it reflected. Above the woods, that
screened this glen, rose the lofty summits of the Pyrenees, which
often burst boldly on the eye through the glades below. Sometimes
the shattered face of a rock only was seen, crowned with wild shrubs;
or a shepherd's cabin seated on a cliff, overshadowed by dark
cypress, or waving ash. Emerging from the deep recesses of the
woods, the glade opened to the distant landscape, where the rich
pastures and vine-covered slopes of Gascony gradually declined to the
plains; and there, on the winding shores of the Garonne, groves, and
hamlets, and villas--their outlines softened by distance, melted from
the eye into one rich harmonious tint.
This, too, was the favourite retreat of St. Aubert, to which he
frequently withdrew from the fervour of noon, with his wife, his
daughter, and his books; or came at the sweet evening hour to welcome
the silent dusk, or to listen for the music of the nightingale.
Sometimes, too, he brought music of his own, and awakened every fairy
echo with the tender accents of his oboe; and often have the tones of
Emily's voice drawn sweetness from the waves, over which they
trembled.
It was in one of these excursions to this spot, that she observed the
following lines written with a pencil on a part of the wainscot:
SONNET
Go, pencil! faithful to thy master's sighs!
Go--tell the Goddess of the fairy scene,
When next her light steps wind these wood-walks green,
Whence all his tears, his tender sorrows, rise;
Ah! paint her form, her soul-illumin'd eyes,
The sweet expression of her pensive face,
The light'ning smile, the animated grace--
The portrait well the lover's voice supplies;
Speaks all his heart must feel, his tongue would say:
Yet ah! not all his heart must sadly feel!
How oft the flow'ret's silken leaves conceal
The drug that steals the vital spark away!
And who that gazes on that angel-smile,
Would fear its charm, or think it could beguile!
These lines were not inscribed to any person; Emily therefore could
not apply them to herself, though she was undoubtedly the nymph of
these shades. Having glanced round the little circle of her
acquaintance without being detained by a suspicion as to whom they
could be addressed, she was compelled to rest in uncertainty; an
uncertainty which would have been more painful to an idle mind than
it was to hers. She had no leisure to suffer this circumstance,
trifling at first, to swell into importance by frequent remembrance.
The little vanity it had excited (for the incertitude which forbade
her to presume upon having inspired the sonnet, forbade her also to
disbelieve it) passed away, and the incident was dismissed from her
thoughts amid her books, her studies, and the exercise of social
charities.
Soon after this period, her anxiety was awakened by the indisposition
of her father, who was attacked with a fever; which, though not
thought to be of a dangerous kind, gave a severe shock to his
constitution. Madame St. Aubert and Emily attended him with
unremitting care; but his recovery was very slow, and, as he advanced
towards health, Madame seemed to decline.
The first scene he visited, after he was well enough to take the air,
was his favourite fishing-house. A basket of provisions was sent
thither, with books, and Emily's lute; for fishing-tackle he had no
use, for he never could find amusement in torturing or destroying.
After employing himself, for about an hour, in botanizing, dinner was
served. It was a repast, to which gratitude, for being again
permitted to visit this spot, gave sweetness; and family happiness
once more smiled beneath these shades. Monsieur St. Aubert conversed
with unusual cheerfulness; every object delighted his senses. The
refreshing pleasure from the first view of nature, after the pain of
illness, and the confinement of a sick-chamber, is above the
conceptions, as well as the descriptions, of those in health. The
green woods and pastures; the flowery turf; the blue concave of the
heavens; the balmy air; the murmur of the limpid stream; and even the
hum of every little insect of the shade, seem to revivify the soul,
and make mere existence bliss.
Madame St. Aubert, reanimated by the cheerfulness and recovery of her
husband, was no longer sensible of the indisposition which had lately
oppressed her; and, as she sauntered along the wood-walks of this
romantic glen, and conversed with him, and with her daughter, she
often looked at them alternately with a degree of tenderness, that
filled her eyes with tears. St. Aubert observed this more than once,
and gently reproved her for the emotion; but she could only smile,
clasp his hand, and that of Emily, and weep the more. He felt the
tender enthusiasm stealing upon himself in a degree that became
almost painful; his features assumed a serious air, and he could not
forbear secretly sighing--'Perhaps I shall some time look back to
these moments, as to the summit of my happiness, with hopeless
regret. But let me not misuse them by useless anticipation; let me
hope I shall not live to mourn the loss of those who are dearer to me
than life.'
To relieve, or perhaps to indulge, the pensive temper of his mind, he
bade Emily fetch the lute she knew how to touch with such sweet
pathos. As she drew near the fishing-house, she was surprised to
hear the tones of the instrument, which were awakened by the hand of
taste, and uttered a plaintive air, whose exquisite melody engaged
all her attention. She listened in profound silence, afraid to move
from the spot, lest the sound of her steps should occasion her to
lose a note of the music, or should disturb the musician. Every
thing without the building was still, and no person appeared. She
continued to listen, till timidity succeeded to surprise and delight;
a timidity, increased by a remembrance of the pencilled lines she had
formerly seen, and she hesitated whether to proceed, or to return.
While she paused, the music ceased; and, after a momentary
hesitation, she re-collected courage to advance to the fishing-house,
which she entered with faltering steps, and found unoccupied! Her
lute lay on the table; every thing seemed undisturbed, and she began
to believe it was another instrument she had heard, till she
remembered, that, when she followed M. and Madame St. Aubert from
this spot, her lute was left on a window seat. She felt alarmed, yet
knew not wherefore; the melancholy gloom of evening, and the profound
stillness of the place, interrupted only by the light trembling of
leaves, heightened her fanciful apprehensions, and she was desirous
of quitting the building, but perceived herself grow faint, and sat
down. As she tried to recover herself, the pencilled lines on the
wainscot met her eye; she started, as if she had seen a stranger;
but, endeavouring to conquer the tremor of her spirits, rose, and
went to the window. To the lines before noticed she now perceived
that others were added, in which her name appeared.
Though no longer suffered to doubt that they were addressed to
herself, she was as ignorant, as before, by whom they could be
written. While she mused, she thought she heard the sound of a step
without the building, and again alarmed, she caught up her lute, and
hurried away. Monsieur and Madame St. Aubert she found in a little
path that wound along the sides of the glen.
Having reached a green summit, shadowed by palm-trees, and
overlooking the vallies and plains of Gascony, they seated themselves
on the turf; and while their eyes wandered over the glorious scene,
and they inhaled the sweet breath of flowers and herbs that enriched
the grass, Emily played and sung several of their favourite airs,
with the delicacy of expression in which she so much excelled.
Music and conversation detained them in this enchanting spot, till
the sun's last light slept upon the plains; till the white sails that
glided beneath the mountains, where the Garonne wandered, became dim,
and the gloom of evening stole over the landscape. It was a
melancholy but not unpleasing gloom. St. Aubert and his family rose,
and left the place with regret; alas! Madame St. Aubert knew not that
she left it for ever.
When they reached the fishing-house she missed her bracelet, and
recollected that she had taken it from her arm after dinner, and had
left it on the table when she went to walk. After a long search, in
which Emily was very active, she was compelled to resign herself to
the loss of it. What made this bracelet valuable to her was a
miniature of her daughter to which it was attached, esteemed a
striking resemblance, and which had been painted only a few months
before. When Emily was convinced that the bracelet was really gone,
she blushed, and became thoughtful. That some stranger had been in
the fishing-house, during her absence, her lute, and the additional
lines of a pencil, had already informed her: from the purport of
these lines it was not unreasonable to believe, that the poet, the
musician, and the thief were the same person. But though the music
she had heard, the written lines she had seen, and the disappearance
of the picture, formed a combination of circumstances very
remarkable, she was irresistibly restrained from mentioning them;
secretly determining, however, never again to visit the fishing-house
without Monsieur or Madame St. Aubert.
They returned pensively to the chateau, Emily musing on the incident
which had just occurred; St. Aubert reflecting, with placid
gratitude, on the blessings he possessed; and Madame St. Aubert
somewhat disturbed, and perplexed, by the loss of her daughter's
picture. As they drew near the house, they observed an unusual
bustle about it; the sound of voices was distinctly heard, servants
and horses were seen passing between the trees, and, at length, the
wheels of a carriage rolled along. Having come within view of the
front of the chateau, a landau, with smoking horses, appeared on the
little lawn before it. St. Aubert perceived the liveries of his
brother-in-law, and in the parlour he found Monsieur and Madame
Quesnel already entered. They had left Paris some days before, and
were on the way to their estate, only ten leagues distant from La
Vallee, and which Monsieur Quesnel had purchased several years before
of St. Aubert. This gentleman was the only brother of Madame St.
Aubert; but the ties of relationship having never been strengthened
by congeniality of character, the intercourse between them had not
been frequent. M. Quesnel had lived altogether in the world; his aim
had been consequence; splendour was the object of his taste; and his
address and knowledge of character had carried him forward to the
attainment of almost all that he had courted. By a man of such a
disposition, it is not surprising that the virtues of St. Aubert
should be overlooked; or that his pure taste, simplicity, and
moderated wishes, were considered as marks of a weak intellect, and
of confined views. The marriage of his sister with St. Aubert had
been mortifying to his ambition, for he had designed that the
matrimonial connection she formed should assist him to attain the
consequence which he so much desired; and some offers were made her
by persons whose rank and fortune flattered his warmest hope. But
his sister, who was then addressed also by St. Aubert, perceived, or
thought she perceived, that happiness and splendour were not the
same, and she did not hesitate to forego the last for the attainment
of the former. Whether Monsieur Quesnel thought them the same, or
not, he would readily have sacrificed his sister's peace to the
gratification of his own ambition; and, on her marriage with St.
Aubert, expressed in private his contempt of her spiritless conduct,
and of the connection which it permitted. Madame St. Aubert, though
she concealed this insult from her husband, felt, perhaps, for the
first time, resentment lighted in her heart; and, though a regard for
her own dignity, united with considerations of prudence, restrained
her expression of this resentment, there was ever after a mild
reserve in her manner towards M. Quesnel, which he both understood
and felt.
In his own marriage he did not follow his sister's example. His lady
was an Italian, and an heiress by birth; and, by nature and
education, was a vain and frivolous woman.
They now determined to pass the night with St. Aubert; and as the
chateau was not large enough to accommodate their servants, the
latter were dismissed to the neighbouring village. When the first
compliments were over, and the arrangements for the night made M.
Quesnel began the display of his intelligence and his connections;
while St. Aubert, who had been long enough in retirement to find
these topics recommended by their novelty, listened, with a degree of
patience and attention, which his guest mistook for the humility of
wonder. The latter, indeed, described the few festivities which the
turbulence of that period permitted to the court of Henry the Third,
with a minuteness, that somewhat recompensed for his ostentation;
but, when he came to speak of the character of the Duke de Joyeuse,
of a secret treaty, which he knew to be negotiating with the Porte,
and of the light in which Henry of Navarre was received, M. St.
Aubert recollected enough of his former experience to be assured,
that his guest could be only of an inferior class of politicians; and
that, from the importance of the subjects upon which he committed
himself, he could not be of the rank to which he pretended to belong.
The opinions delivered by M. Quesnel, were such as St. Aubert
forebore to reply to, for he knew that his guest had neither humanity
to feel, nor discernment to perceive, what is just.
Madame Quesnel, meanwhile, was expressing to Madame St. Aubert her
astonishment, that she could bear to pass her life in this remote
corner of the world, as she called it, and describing, from a wish,
probably, of exciting envy, the splendour of the balls, banquets, and
processions which had just been given by the court, in honour of the
nuptials of the Duke de Joyeuse with Margaretta of Lorrain, the
sister of the Queen. She described with equal minuteness the
magnificence she had seen, and that from which she had been excluded;
while Emily's vivid fancy, as she listened with the ardent curiosity
of youth, heightened the scenes she heard of; and Madame St. Aubert,
looking on her family, felt, as a tear stole to her eye, that though
splendour may grace happiness, virtue only can bestow it.
'It is now twelve years, St. Aubert,' said M. Quesnel, 'since I
purchased your family estate.'--'Somewhere thereabout,' replied St.
Aubert, suppressing a sigh. 'It is near five years since I have been
there,' resumed Quesnel; 'for Paris and its neighbourhood is the only
place in the world to live in, and I am so immersed in politics, and
have so many affairs of moment on my hands, that I find it difficult
to steal away even for a month or two.' St. Aubert remaining silent,
M. Quesnel proceeded: 'I have sometimes wondered how you, who have
lived in the capital, and have been accustomed to company, can exist
elsewhere;--especially in so remote a country as this, where you can
neither hear nor see any thing, and can in short be scarcely
conscious of life.'
'I live for my family and myself,' said St. Aubert; 'I am now
contented to know only happiness;--formerly I knew life.'
'I mean to expend thirty or forty thousand livres on improvements,'
said M. Quesnel, without seeming to notice the words of St. Aubert;
'for I design, next summer, to bring here my friends, the Duke de
Durefort and the Marquis Ramont, to pass a month or two with me.' To
St. Aubert's enquiry, as to these intended improvements, he replied,
that he should take down the whole east wing of the chateau, and
raise upon the site a set of stables. 'Then I shall build,' said he,
'a SALLE A MANGER, a SALON, a SALLE AU COMMUNE, and a number of rooms
for servants; for at present there is not accommodation for a third
part of my own people.'
'It accommodated our father's household,' said St. Aubert, grieved
that the old mansion was to be thus improved, 'and that was not a
small one.'
'Our notions are somewhat enlarged since those days,' said M.
Quesnel;--'what was then thought a decent style of living would not
now be endured.' Even the calm St. Aubert blushed at these words,
but his anger soon yielded to contempt. 'The ground about the
chateau is encumbered with trees; I mean to cut some of them down.'
'Cut down the trees too!' said St. Aubert.
'Certainly. Why should I not? they interrupt my prospects. There is
a chesnut which spreads its branches before the whole south side of
the chateau, and which is so ancient that they tell me the hollow of
its trunk will hold a dozen men. Your enthusiasm will scarcely
contend that there can be either use, or beauty, in such a sapless
old tree as this.'
'Good God!' exclaimed St. Aubert, 'you surely will not destroy that
noble chesnut, which has flourished for centuries, the glory of the
estate! It was in its maturity when the present mansion was built.
How often, in my youth, have I climbed among its broad branches, and
sat embowered amidst a world of leaves, while the heavy shower has
pattered above, and not a rain drop reached me! How often I have sat
with a book in my hand, sometimes reading, and sometimes looking out
between the branches upon the wide landscape, and the setting sun,
till twilight came, and brought the birds home to their little nests
among the leaves! How often--but pardon me,' added St. Aubert,
recollecting that he was speaking to a man who could neither
comprehend, nor allow his feelings, 'I am talking of times and
feelings as old-fashioned as the taste that would spare that
venerable tree.'
'It will certainly come down,' said M. Quesnel; 'I believe I shall
plant some Lombardy poplars among the clumps of chesnut, that I shall
leave of the avenue; Madame Quesnel is partial to the poplar, and
tells me how much it adorns a villa of her uncle, not far from
Venice.'
'On the banks of the Brenta, indeed,' continued St. Aubert, 'where
its spiry form is intermingled with the pine, and the cypress, and
where it plays over light and elegant porticos and colonnades, it,
unquestionably, adorns the scene; but among the giants of the forest,
and near a heavy gothic mansion--'
'Well, my good sir,' said M. Quesnel, 'I will not dispute with you.
You must return to Paris before our ideas can at all agree. But A-
PROPOS of Venice, I have some thoughts of going thither, next summer;
events may call me to take possession of that same villa, too, which
they tell me is the most charming that can be imagined. In that case
I shall leave the improvements I mention to another year, and I may,
perhaps, be tempted to stay some time in Italy.'
Emily was somewhat surprised to hear him talk of being tempted to
remain abroad, after he had mentioned his presence to be so necessary
at Paris, that it was with difficulty he could steal away for a month
or two; but St. Aubert understood the self-importance of the man too
well to wonder at this trait; and the possibility, that these
projected improvements might be deferred, gave him a hope, that they
might never take place.
Before they separated for the night, M. Quesnel desired to speak with
St. Aubert alone, and they retired to another room, where they
remained a considerable time. The subject of this conversation was
not known; but, whatever it might be, St. Aubert, when he returned to
the supper-room, seemed much disturbed, and a shade of sorrow
sometimes fell upon his features that alarmed Madame St. Aubert.
When they were alone she was tempted to enquire the occasion of it,
but the delicacy of mind, which had ever appeared in his conduct,
restrained her: she considered that, if St. Aubert wished her to be
acquainted with the subject of his concern, he would not wait on her
enquiries.
On the following day, before M. Quesnel departed, he had a second
conference with St. Aubert.
The guests, after dining at the chateau, set out in the cool of the
day for Epourville, whither they gave him and Madame St. Aubert a
pressing invitation, prompted rather by the vanity of displaying
their splendour, than by a wish to make their friends happy.
Emily returned, with delight, to the liberty which their presence had
restrained, to her books, her walks, and the rational conversation of
M. and Madame St. Aubert, who seemed to rejoice, no less, that they
were delivered from the shackles, which arrogance and frivolity had
imposed.
Madame St. Aubert excused herself from sharing their usual evening
walk, complaining that she was not quite well, and St. Aubert and
Emily went out together.
They chose a walk towards the mountains, intending to visit some old
pensioners of St. Aubert, which, from his very moderate income, he
contrived to support, though it is probable M. Quesnel, with his very
large one, could not have afforded this.
After distributing to his pensioners their weekly stipends, listening
patiently to the complaints of some, redressing the grievances of
others, and softening the discontents of all, by the look of
sympathy, and the smile of benevolence, St. Aubert returned home
through the woods,
where
At fall of eve the fairy-people throng,
In various games and revelry to pass
The summer night, as village stories tell.*
*Thomson
'The evening gloom of woods was always delightful to me,' said St.
Aubert, whose mind now experienced the sweet calm, which results from
the consciousness of having done a beneficent action, and which
disposes it to receive pleasure from every surrounding object. 'I
remember that in my youth this gloom used to call forth to my fancy a
thousand fairy visions, and romantic images; and, I own, I am not yet
wholly insensible of that high enthusiasm, which wakes the poet's
dream: I can linger, with solemn steps, under the deep shades, send
forward a transforming eye into the distant obscurity, and listen
with thrilling delight to the mystic murmuring of the woods.'
'O my dear father,' said Emily, while a sudden tear started to her
eye, 'how exactly you describe what I have felt so often, and which I
thought nobody had ever felt but myself! But hark! here comes the
sweeping sound over the wood-tops;--now it dies away;--how solemn the
stillness that succeeds! Now the breeze swells again. It is like
the voice of some supernatural being--the voice of the spirit of the
woods, that watches over them by night. Ah! what light is yonder?
But it is gone. And now it gleams again, near the root of that large
chestnut: look, sir!'
'Are you such an admirer of nature,' said St. Aubert, 'and so little
acquainted with her appearances as not to know that for the glow-
worm? But come,' added he gaily, 'step a little further, and we
shall see fairies, perhaps; they are often companions. The glow-worm
lends his light, and they in return charm him with music, and the
dance. Do you see nothing tripping yonder?'
Emily laughed. 'Well, my dear sir,' said she, 'since you allow of
this alliance, I may venture to own I have anticipated you; and
almost dare venture to repeat some verses I made one evening in these
very woods.'
'Nay,' replied St. Aubert, 'dismiss the ALMOST, and venture quite;
let us hear what vagaries fancy has been playing in your mind. If
she has given you one of her spells, you need not envy those of the
fairies.'
'If it is strong enough to enchant your judgment, sir,' said Emily,
'while I disclose her images, I need NOT envy them. The lines go in
a sort of tripping measure, which I thought might suit the subject
well enough, but I fear they are too irregular.'
THE GLOW-WORM
How pleasant is the green-wood's deep-matted shade
On a mid-summer's eve, when the fresh rain is o'er;
When the yellow beams slope, and sparkle thro' the glade,
And swiftly in the thin air the light swallows soar!
But sweeter, sweeter still, when the sun sinks to rest,
And twilight comes on, with the fairies so gay
Tripping through the forest-walk, where flow'rs, unprest,
Bow not their tall heads beneath their frolic play.
To music's softest sounds they dance away the hour,
Till moon-light steals down among the trembling leaves,
And checquers all the ground, and guides them to the bow'r,
The long haunted bow'r, where the nightingale grieves.
Then no more they dance, till her sad song is done,
But, silent as the night, to her mourning attend;
And often as her dying notes their pity have won,
They vow all her sacred haunts from mortals to defend.
When, down among the mountains, sinks the ev'ning star,
And the changing moon forsakes this shadowy sphere,
How cheerless would they be, tho' they fairies are,
If I, with my pale light, came not near!
Yet cheerless tho' they'd be, they're ungrateful to my love!
For, often when the traveller's benighted on his way,
And I glimmer in his path, and would guide him thro' the grove,
They bind me in their magic spells to lead him far astray;
And in the mire to leave him, till the stars are all burnt out,
While, in strange-looking shapes, they frisk about the ground,
And, afar in the woods, they raise a dismal shout,
Till I shrink into my cell again for terror of the sound!
But, see where all the tiny elves come dancing in a ring,
With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the horn,
And the timbrel so clear, and the lute with dulcet string;
Then round about the oak they go till peeping of the morn.
Down yonder glade two lovers steal, to shun the fairy-queen,
Who frowns upon their plighted vows, and jealous is of me,
That yester-eve I lighted them, along the dewy green,
To seek the purple flow'r, whose juice from all her spells can
free.
And now, to punish me, she keeps afar her jocund band,
With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the lute;
If I creep near yonder oak she will wave her fairy wand,
And to me the dance will cease, and the music all be mute.
O! had I but that purple flow'r whose leaves her charms can foil,
And knew like fays to draw the juice, and throw it on the wind,
I'd be her slave no longer, nor the traveller beguile,
And help all faithful lovers, nor fear the fairy kind!
But soon the VAPOUR OF THE WOODS will wander afar,
And the fickle moon will fade, and the stars disappear,
Then, cheerless will they be, tho' they fairies are,
If I, with my pale light, come not near!
Whatever St. Aubert might think of the stanzas, he would not deny his
daughter the pleasure of believing that he approved them; and, having
given his commendation, he sunk into a reverie, and they walked on in
silence.
A faint erroneous ray
Glanc'd from th' imperfect surfaces of things,
Flung half an image on the straining eye;
While waving woods, and villages, and streams,
And rocks, and mountain-tops, that long retain
The ascending gleam, are all one swimming scene,
Uncertain if beheld.*
*Thomson.
St. Aubert continued silent till he reached the chateau, where his
wife had retired to her chamber. The languor and dejection, that had
lately oppressed her, and which the exertion called forth by the
arrival of her guests had suspended, now returned with increased
effect. On the following day, symptoms of fever appeared, and St.
Aubert, having sent for medical advice, learned, that her disorder
was a fever of the same nature as that, from which he had lately
recovered. She had, indeed, taken the infection, during her
attendance upon him, and, her constitution being too weak to throw
out the disease immediately, it had lurked in her veins, and
occasioned the heavy languor of which she had complained. St.
Aubert, whose anxiety for his wife overcame every other
consideration, detained the physician in his house. He remembered
the feelings and the reflections that had called a momentary gloom
upon his mind, on the day when he had last visited the fishing-house,
in company with Madame St. Aubert, and he now admitted a
presentiment, that this illness would be a fatal one. But he
effectually concealed this from her, and from his daughter, whom he
endeavoured to re-animate with hopes that her constant assiduities
would not be unavailing. The physician, when asked by St. Aubert for
his opinion of the disorder, replied, that the event of it depended
upon circumstances which he could not ascertain. Madame St. Aubert
seemed to have formed a more decided one; but her eyes only gave
hints of this. She frequently fixed them upon her anxious friends
with an expression of pity, and of tenderness, as if she anticipated
the sorrow that awaited them, and that seemed to say, it was for
their sakes only, for their sufferings, that she regretted life. On
the seventh day, the disorder was at its crisis. The physician
assumed a graver manner, which she observed, and took occasion, when
her family had once quitted the chamber, to tell him, that she
perceived her death was approaching. 'Do not attempt to deceive me,'
said she, 'I feel that I cannot long survive. I am prepared for the
event, I have long, I hope, been preparing for it. Since I have not
long to live, do not suffer a mistaken compassion to induce you to
flatter my family with false hopes. If you do, their affliction will
only be the heavier when it arrives: I will endeavour to teach them
resignation by my example.'
The physician was affected; he promised to obey her, and told St.
Aubert, somewhat abruptly, that there was nothing to expect. The
latter was not philosopher enough to restrain his feelings when he
received this information; but a consideration of the increased
affliction which the observance of his grief would occasion his wife,
enabled him, after some time, to command himself in her presence.
Emily was at first overwhelmed with the intelligence; then, deluded
by the strength of her wishes, a hope sprung up in her mind that her
mother would yet recover, and to this she pertinaciously adhered
almost to the last hour.
The progress of this disorder was marked, on the side of Madame St.
Aubert, by patient suffering, and subjected wishes. The composure,
with which she awaited her death, could be derived only from the
retrospect of a life governed, as far as human frailty permits, by a
consciousness of being always in the presence of the Deity, and by
the hope of a higher world. But her piety could not entirely subdue
the grief of parting from those whom she so dearly loved. During
these her last hours, she conversed much with St. Aubert and Emily,
on the prospect of futurity, and on other religious topics. The
resignation she expressed, with the firm hope of meeting in a future
world the friends she left in this, and the effort which sometimes
appeared to conceal her sorrow at this temporary separation,
frequently affected St. Aubert so much as to oblige him to leave the
room. Having indulged his tears awhile, he would dry them and return
to the chamber with a countenance composed by an endeavour which did
but increase his grief.
Never had Emily felt the importance of the lessons, which had taught
her to restrain her sensibility, so much as in these moments, and
never had she practised them with a triumph so complete. But when
the last was over, she sunk at once under the pressure of her sorrow,
and then perceived that it was hope, as well as fortitude, which had
hitherto supported her. St. Aubert was for a time too devoid of
comfort himself to bestow any on his daughter.
CHAPTER II
I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul.
SHAKESPEARE
Madame St. Aubert was interred in the neighbouring village church;
her husband and daughter attended her to the grave, followed by a
long train of the peasantry, who were sincere mourners of this
excellent woman.
On his return from the funeral, St. Aubert shut himself in his
chamber. When he came forth, it was with a serene countenance,
though pale in sorrow. He gave orders that his family should attend
him. Emily only was absent; who, overcome with the scene she had
just witnessed, had retired to her closet to weep alone. St. Aubert
followed her thither: he took her hand in silence, while she
continued to weep; and it was some moments before he could so far
command his voice as to speak. It trembled while he said, 'My Emily,
I am going to prayers with my family; you will join us. We must ask
support from above. Where else ought we to seek it--where else can
we find it?'
Emily checked her tears, and followed her father to the parlour,
where, the servants being assembled, St. Aubert read, in a low and
solemn voice, the evening service, and added a prayer for the soul of
the departed. During this, his voice often faltered, his tears fell
upon the book, and at length he paused. But the sublime emotions of
pure devotion gradually elevated his views above this world, and
finally brought comfort to his heart.
When the service was ended, and the servants were withdrawn, he
tenderly kissed Emily, and said, 'I have endeavoured to teach you,
from your earliest youth, the duty of self-command; I have pointed
out to you the great importance of it through life, not only as it
preserves us in the various and dangerous temptations that call us
from rectitude and virtue, but as it limits the indulgences which are
termed virtuous, yet which, extended beyond a certain boundary, are
vicious, for their consequence is evil. All excess is vicious; even
that sorrow, which is amiable in its origin, becomes a selfish and
unjust passion, if indulged at the expence of our duties--by our
duties I mean what we owe to ourselves, as well as to others. The
indulgence of excessive grief enervates the mind, and almost
incapacitates it for again partaking of those various innocent
enjoyments which a benevolent God designed to be the sun-shine of our
lives. My dear Emily, recollect and practise the precepts I have so
often given you, and which your own experience has so often shewn you
to be wise.
'Your sorrow is useless. Do not receive this as merely a commonplace
remark, but let reason THEREFORE restrain sorrow. I would not
annihilate your feelings, my child, I would only teach you to command
them; for whatever may be the evils resulting from a too susceptible
heart, nothing can be hoped from an insensible one; that, on the
other hand, is all vice--vice, of which the deformity is not
softened, or the effect consoled for, by any semblance or possibility
of good. You know my sufferings, and are, therefore, convinced that
mine are not the light words which, on these occasions, are so often
repeated to destroy even the sources of honest emotion, or which
merely display the selfish ostentation of a false philosophy. I will
shew my Emily, that I can practise what I advise. I have said thus
much, because I cannot bear to see you wasting in useless sorrow, for
want of that resistance which is due from mind; and I have not said
it till now, because there is a period when all reasoning must yield
to nature; that is past: and another, when excessive indulgence,
having sunk into habit, weighs down the elasticity of the spirits so
as to render conquest nearly impossible; this is to come. You, my
Emily, will shew that you are willing to avoid it.'
Emily smiled through her tears upon her father: 'Dear sir,' said
she, and her voice trembled; she would have added, 'I will shew
myself worthy of being your daughter;' but a mingled emotion of
gratitude, affection, and grief overcame her. St. Aubert suffered
her to weep without interruption, and then began to talk on common
topics.
The first person who came to condole with St. Aubert was a M.
Barreaux, an austere and seemingly unfeeling man. A taste for botany
had introduced them to each other, for they had frequently met in
their wanderings among the mountains. M. Barreaux had retired from
the world, and almost from society, to live in a pleasant chateau, on
the skirts of the woods, near La Vallee. He also had been
disappointed in his opinion of mankind; but he did not, like St.
Aubert, pity and mourn for them; he felt more indignation at their
vices, than compassion for their weaknesses.
St. Aubert was somewhat surprised to see him; for, though he had
often pressed him to come to the chateau, he had never till now
accepted the invitation; and now he came without ceremony or reserve,
entering the parlour as an old friend. The claims of misfortune
appeared to have softened down all the ruggedness and prejudices of
his heart. St. Aubert unhappy, seemed to be the sole idea that
occupied his mind. It was in manners, more than in words, that he
appeared to sympathize with his friends: he spoke little on the
subject of their grief; but the minute attention he gave them, and
the modulated voice, and softened look that accompanied it, came from
his heart, and spoke to theirs.
At this melancholy period St. Aubert was likewise visited by Madame
Cheron, his only surviving sister, who had been some years a widow,
and now resided on her own estate near Tholouse. The intercourse
between them had not been very frequent. In her condolements, words
were not wanting; she understood not the magic of the look that
speaks at once to the soul, or the voice that sinks like balm to the
heart: but she assured St. Aubert that she sincerely sympathized
with him, praised the virtues of his late wife, and then offered what
she considered to be consolation. Emily wept unceasingly while she
spoke; St. Aubert was tranquil, listened to what she said in silence,
and then turned the discourse upon another subject.
At parting she pressed him and her niece to make her an early visit.
'Change of place will amuse you,' said she, 'and it is wrong to give
way to grief.' St. Aubert acknowledged the truth of these words of
course; but, at the same time, felt more reluctant than ever to quit
the spot which his past happiness had consecrated. The presence of
his wife had sanctified every surrounding scene, and, each day, as it
gradually softened the acuteness of his suffering, assisted the
tender enchantment that bound him to home.
But there were calls which must be complied with, and of this kind
was the visit he paid to his brother-in-law M. Quesnel. An affair of
an interesting nature made it necessary that he should delay this
visit no longer, and, wishing to rouse Emily from her dejection, he
took her with him to Epourville.
As the carriage entered upon the forest that adjoined his paternal
domain, his eyes once more caught, between the chesnut avenue, the
turreted corners of the chateau. He sighed to think of what had
passed since he was last there, and that it was now the property of a
man who neither revered nor valued it. At length he entered the
avenue, whose lofty trees had so often delighted him when a boy, and
whose melancholy shade was now so congenial with the tone of his
spirits. Every feature of the edifice, distinguished by an air of
heavy grandeur, appeared successively between the branches of the
trees--the broad turret, the arched gate-way that led into the
courts, the drawbridge, and the dry fosse which surrounded the whole.
The sound of carriage wheels brought a troop of servants to the great
gate, where St. Aubert alighted, and from which he led Emily into the
gothic hall, now no longer hung with the arms and ancient banners of
the family. These were displaced, and the oak wainscotting, and
beams that crossed the roof, were painted white. The large table,
too, that used to stretch along the upper end of the hall, where the
master of the mansion loved to display his hospitality, and whence
the peal of laughter, and the song of conviviality, had so often
resounded, was now removed; even the benches that had surrounded the
hall were no longer there. The heavy walls were hung with frivolous
ornaments, and every thing that appeared denoted the false taste and
corrupted sentiments of the present owner.
St. Aubert followed a gay Parisian servant to a parlour, where sat
Mons. and Madame Quesnel, who received him with a stately politeness,
and, after a few formal words of condolement, seemed to have
forgotten that they ever had a sister.
Emily felt tears swell into her eyes, and then resentment checked
them. St. Aubert, calm and deliberate, preserved his dignity without
assuming importance, and Quesnel was depressed by his presence
without exactly knowing wherefore.
After some general conversation, St. Aubert requested to speak with
him alone; and Emily, being left with Madame Quesnel, soon learned
that a large party was invited to dine at the chateau, and was
compelled to hear that nothing which was past and irremediable ought
to prevent the festivity of the present hour.
St. Aubert, when he was told that company were expected, felt a mixed
emotion of disgust and indignation against the insensibility of
Quesnel, which prompted him to return home immediately. But he was
informed, that Madame Cheron had been asked to meet him; and, when he
looked at Emily, and considered that a time might come when the
enmity of her uncle would be prejudicial to her, he determined not to
incur it himself, by conduct which would be resented as indecorous,
by the very persons who now showed so little sense of decorum.
Among the visitors assembled at dinner were two Italian gentlemen, of
whom one was named Montoni, a distant relation of Madame Quesnel, a
man about forty, of an uncommonly handsome person, with features
manly and expressive, but whose countenance exhibited, upon the
whole, more of the haughtiness of command, and the quickness of
discernment, than of any other character.
Signor Cavigni, his friend, appeared to be about thirty--inferior in
dignity, but equal to him in penetration of countenance, and superior
in insinuation of manner.
Emily was shocked by the salutation with which Madame Cheron met her
father--'Dear brother,' said she, 'I am concerned to see you look so
very ill; do, pray, have advice!' St. Aubert answered, with a
melancholy smile, that he felt himself much as usual; but Emily's
fears made her now fancy that her father looked worse than he really
did.
Emily would have been amused by the new characters she saw, and the
varied conversation that passed during dinner, which was served in a
style of splendour she had seldom seen before, had her spirits been
less oppressed. Of the guests, Signor Montoni was lately come from
Italy, and he spoke of the commotions which at that period agitated
the country; talked of party differences with warmth, and then
lamented the probable consequences of the tumults. His friend spoke
with equal ardour, of the politics of his country; praised the
government and prosperity of Venice, and boasted of its decided
superiority over all the other Italian states. He then turned to the
ladies, and talked with the same eloquence, of Parisian fashions, the
French opera, and French manners; and on the latter subject he did
not fail to mingle what is so particularly agreeable to French taste.
The flattery was not detected by those to whom it was addressed,
though its effect, in producing submissive attention, did not escape
his observation. When he could disengage himself from the
assiduities of the other ladies, he sometimes addressed Emily: but
she knew nothing of Parisian fashions, or Parisian operas; and her
modesty, simplicity, and correct manners formed a decided contrast to
those of her female companions.
After dinner, St. Aubert stole from the room to view once more the
old chesnut which Quesnel talked of cutting down. As he stood under
its shade, and looked up among its branches, still luxuriant, and saw
here and there the blue sky trembling between them; the pursuits and
events of his early days crowded fast to his mind, with the figures
and characters of friends--long since gone from the earth; and he now
felt himself to be almost an insulated being, with nobody but his
Emily for his heart to turn to.
He stood lost amid the scenes of years which fancy called up, till
the succession closed with the picture of his dying wife, and he
started away, to forget it, if possible, at the social board.
St. Aubert ordered his carriage at an early hour, and Emily observed,
that he was more than usually silent and dejected on the way home;
but she considered this to be the effect of his visit to a place
which spoke so eloquently of former times, nor suspected that he had
a cause of grief which he concealed from her.
On entering the chateau she felt more depressed than ever, for she
more than ever missed the presence of that dear parent, who, whenever
she had been from home, used to welcome her return with smiles and
fondness; now, all was silent and forsaken.
But what reason and effort may fail to do, time effects. Week after
week passed away, and each, as it passed, stole something from the
harshness of her affliction, till it was mellowed to that tenderness
which the feeling heart cherishes as sacred. St. Aubert, on the
contrary, visibly declined in health; though Emily, who had been so
constantly with him, was almost the last person who observed it. His
constitution had never recovered from the late attack of the fever,
and the succeeding shock it received from Madame St. Aubert's death
had produced its present infirmity. His physician now ordered him to
travel; for it was perceptible that sorrow had seized upon his
nerves, weakened as they had been by the preceding illness; and
variety of scene, it was probable, would, by amusing his mind,
restore them to their proper tone.
For some days Emily was occupied in preparations to attend him; and
he, by endeavours to diminish his expences at home during the
journey--a purpose which determined him at length to dismiss his
domestics. Emily seldom opposed her father's wishes by questions or
remonstrances, or she would now have asked why he did not take a
servant, and have represented that his infirm health made one almost
necessary. But when, on the eve of their departure, she found that
he had dismissed Jacques, Francis, and Mary, and detained only
Theresa the old housekeeper, she was extremely surprised, and
ventured to ask his reason for having done so. 'To save expences, my
dear,' he replied--'we are going on an expensive excursion.'
The physician had prescribed the air of Languedoc and Provence; and
St. Aubert determined, therefore, to travel leisurely along the
shores of the Mediterranean, towards Provence.
They retired early to their chamber on the night before their
departure; but Emily had a few books and other things to collect, and
the clock had struck twelve before she had finished, or had
remembered that some of her drawing instruments, which she meant to
take with her, were in the parlour below. As she went to fetch
these, she passed her father's room, and, perceiving the door half
open, concluded that he was in his study--for, since the death of
Madame St. Aubert, it had been frequently his custom to rise from his
restless bed, and go thither to compose his mind. When she was below
stairs she looked into this room, but without finding him; and as she
returned to her chamber, she tapped at his door, and receiving no
answer, stepped softly in, to be certain whether he was there.
The room was dark, but a light glimmered through some panes of glass
that were placed in the upper part of a closet-door. Emily believed
her father to be in the closet, and, surprised that he was up at so
late an hour, apprehended he was unwell, and was going to enquire;
but, considering that her sudden appearance at this hour might alarm
him, she removed her light to the stair-case, and then stepped softly
to the closet. On looking through the panes of glass, she saw him
seated at a small table, with papers before him, some of which he was
reading with deep attention and interest, during which he often wept
and sobbed aloud. Emily, who had come to the door to learn whether
her father was ill, was now detained there by a mixture of curiosity
and tenderness. She could not witness his sorrow, without being
anxious to know the subject of; and she therefore continued to
observe him in silence, concluding that those papers were letters of
her late mother. Presently he knelt down, and with a look so solemn
as she had seldom seen him assume, and which was mingled with a
certain wild expression, that partook more of horror than of any
other character, he prayed silently for a considerable time.
When he rose, a ghastly paleness was on his countenance. Emily was
hastily retiring; but she saw him turn again to the papers, and she
stopped. He took from among them a small case, and from thence a
miniature picture. The rays of light fell strongly upon it, and she
perceived it to be that of a lady, but not of her mother.
St. Aubert gazed earnestly and tenderly upon his portrait, put it to
his lips, and then to his heart, and sighed with a convulsive force.
Emily could scarcely believe what she saw to be real. She never knew
till now that he had a picture of any other lady than her mother,
much less that he had one which he evidently valued so highly; but
having looked repeatedly, to be certain that it was not the
resemblance of Madame St. Aubert, she became entirely convinced that
it was designed for that of some other person.
At length St. Aubert returned the picture to its case; and Emily,
recollecting that she was intruding upon his private sorrows, softly
withdrew from the chamber.
CHAPTER III
O how canst thou renounce the boundless store
Of charms which nature to her vot'ry yields!
The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,
The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields;
All that the genial ray of morning gilds,
And all that echoes to the song of even;
All that the mountain's shelt'ring bosom shields,
And all the dread magnificence of heaven;
O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven!
. . . . .
These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health,
And love, and gentleness, and joy, impart.
THE MINSTREL
St. Aubert, instead of taking the more direct road, that ran along
the feet of the Pyrenees to Languedoc, chose one that, winding over
the heights, afforded more extensive views and greater variety of
romantic scenery. He turned a little out of his way to take leave of
M. Barreaux, whom he found botanizing in the wood near his chateau,
and who, when he was told the purpose of St. Aubert's visit,
expressed a degree of concern, such as his friend had thought it was
scarcely possible for him to feel on any similar occasion. They
parted with mutual regret.
'If any thing could have tempted me from my retirement,' said M.
Barreaux, 'it would have been the pleasure of accompanying you on
this little tour. I do not often offer compliments; you may,
therefore, believe me, when I say, that I shall look for your return
with impatience.'
The travellers proceeded on their journey. As they ascended the
heights, St. Aubert often looked back upon the chateau, in the plain
below; tender images crowded to his mind; his melancholy imagination
suggested that he should return no more; and though he checked this
wandering thought, still he continued to look, till the haziness of
distance blended his home with the general landscape, and St. Aubert
seemed to
Drag at each remove a lengthening chain.
He and Emily continued sunk in musing silence for some leagues, from
which melancholy reverie Emily first awoke, and her young fancy,
struck with the grandeur of the objects around, gradually yielded to
delightful impressions. The road now descended into glens, confined
by stupendous walls of rock, grey and barren, except where shrubs
fringed their summits, or patches of meagre vegetation tinted their
recesses, in which the wild goat was frequently browsing. And now,
the way led to the lofty cliffs, from whence the landscape was seen
extending in all its magnificence.
Emily could not restrain her transport as she looked over the pine
forests of the mountains upon the vast plains, that, enriched with
woods, towns, blushing vines, and plantations of almonds, palms, and
olives, stretched along, till their various colours melted in
distance into one harmonious hue, that seemed to unite earth with
heaven. Through the whole of this glorious scene the majestic
Garonne wandered; descending from its source among the Pyrenees, and
winding its blue waves towards the Bay of Biscay.
The ruggedness of the unfrequented road often obliged the wanderers
to alight from their little carriage, but they thought themselves
amply repaid for this inconvenience by the grandeur of the scenes;
and, while the muleteer led his animals slowly over the broken
ground, the travellers had leisure to linger amid these solitudes,
and to indulge the sublime reflections, which soften, while they
elevate, the heart, and fill it with the certainty of a present God!
Still the enjoyment of St. Aubert was touched with that pensive
melancholy, which gives to every object a mellower tint, and breathes
a sacred charm over all around.
They had provided against part of the evil to be encountered from a
want of convenient inns, by carrying a stock of provisions in the
carriage, so that they might take refreshment on any pleasant spot,
in the open air, and pass the nights wherever they should happen to
meet with a comfortable cottage. For the mind, also, they had
provided, by a work on botany, written by M. Barreaux, and by several
of the Latin and Italian poets; while Emily's pencil enabled her to
preserve some of those combinations of forms, which charmed her at
every step.
The loneliness of the road, where, only now and then, a peasant was
seen driving his mule, or some mountaineer-children at play among the
rocks, heightened the effect of the scenery. St. Aubert was so much
struck with it, that he determined, if he could hear of a road, to
penetrate further among the mountains, and, bending his way rather
more to the south, to emerge into Rousillon, and coast the
Mediterranean along part of that country to Languedoc.
Soon after mid-day, they reached the summit of one of those cliffs,
which, bright with the verdure of palm-trees, adorn, like gems, the
tremendous walls of the rocks, and which overlooked the greater part
of Gascony, and part of Languedoc. Here was shade, and the fresh
water of a spring, that, gliding among the turf, under the trees,
thence precipitated itself from rock to rock, till its dashing
murmurs were lost in the abyss, though its white foam was long seen
amid the darkness of the pines below.
This was a spot well suited for rest, and the travellers alighted to
dine, while the mules were unharnessed to browse on the savoury herbs
that enriched this summit.
It was some time before St. Aubert or Emily could withdraw their
attention from the surrounding objects, so as to partake of their
little repast. Seated in the shade of the palms, St. Aubert pointed
out to her observation the course of the rivers, the situation of
great towns, and the boundaries of provinces, which science, rather
than the eye, enabled him to describe. Notwithstanding this
occupation, when he had talked awhile he suddenly became silent,
thoughtful, and tears often swelled to his eyes, which Emily
observed, and the sympathy of her own heart told her their cause.
The scene before them bore some resemblance, though it was on a much
grander scale, to a favourite one of the late Madame St. Aubert,
within view of the fishing-house. They both observed this, and
thought how delighted she would have been with the present landscape,
while they knew that her eyes must never, never more open upon this
world. St. Aubert remembered the last time of his visiting that spot
in company with her, and also the mournfully presaging thoughts which
had then arisen in his mind, and were now, even thus soon, realized!
The recollections subdued him, and he abruptly rose from his seat,
and walked away to where no eye could observe his grief.
When he returned, his countenance had recovered its usual serenity;
he took Emily's hand, pressed it affectionately, without speaking,
and soon after called to the muleteer, who sat at a little distance,
concerning a road among the mountains towards Rousillon. Michael
said, there were several that way, but he did not know how far they
extended, or even whether they were passable; and St. Aubert, who did
not intend to travel after sun-set, asked what village they could
reach about that time. The muleteer calculated that they could
easily reach Mateau, which was in their present road; but that, if
they took a road that sloped more to the south, towards Rousillon,
there was a hamlet, which he thought they could gain before the
evening shut in.
St. Aubert, after some hesitation, determined to take the latter
course, and Michael, having finished his meal, and harnessed his
mules, again set forward, but soon stopped; and St. Aubert saw him
doing homage to a cross, that stood on a rock impending over their
way. Having concluded his devotions, he smacked his whip in the air,
and, in spite of the rough road, and the pain of his poor mules,
which he had been lately lamenting, rattled, in a full gallop, along
the edge of a precipice, which it made the eye dizzy to look down.
Emily was terrified almost to fainting; and St. Aubert, apprehending
still greater danger from suddenly stopping the driver, was compelled
to sit quietly, and trust his fate to the strength and discretion of
the mules, who seemed to possess a greater portion of the latter
quality than their master; for they carried the travellers safely
into the valley, and there stopped upon the brink of the rivulet that
watered it.
Leaving the splendour of extensive prospects, they now entered this
narrow valley screened by
Rocks on rocks piled, as if by magic spell,
Here scorch'd by lightnings, there with ivy green.
The scene of barrenness was here and there interrupted by the
spreading branches of the larch and cedar, which threw their gloom
over the cliff, or athwart the torrent that rolled in the vale. No
living creature appeared, except the izard, scrambling among the
rocks, and often hanging upon points so dangerous, that fancy shrunk
from the view of them. This was such a scene as SALVATOR would have
chosen, had he then existed, for his canvas; St. Aubert, impressed by
the romantic character of the place, almost expected to see banditti
start from behind some projecting rock, and he kept his hand upon the
arms with which he always travelled.
As they advanced, the valley opened; its savage features gradually
softened, and, towards evening, they were among heathy mountains,
stretched in far perspective, along which the solitary sheep-bell was
heard, and the voice of the shepherd calling his wandering flocks to
the nightly fold. His cabin, partly shadowed by the cork-tree and
the ilex, which St. Aubert observed to flourish in higher regions of
the air than any other trees, except the fir, was all the human
habitation that yet appeared. Along the bottom of this valley the
most vivid verdure was spread; and, in the little hollow recesses of
the mountains, under the shade of the oak and chestnut, herds of
cattle were grazing. Groups of them, too, were often seen reposing
on the banks of the rivulet, or laving their sides in the cool
stream, and sipping its wave.
The sun was now setting upon the valley; its last light gleamed upon
the water, and heightened the rich yellow and purple tints of the
heath and broom, that overspread the mountains. St. Aubert enquired
of Michael the distance to the hamlet he had mentioned, but the man
could not with certainty tell; and Emily began to fear that he had
mistaken the road. Here was no human being to assist, or direct
them; they had left the shepherd and his cabin far behind, and the
scene became so obscured in twilight, that the eye could not follow
the distant perspective of the valley in search of a cottage, or a
hamlet. A glow of the horizon still marked the west, and this was of
some little use to the travellers. Michael seemed endeavouring to
keep up his courage by singing; his music, however, was not of a kind
to disperse melancholy; he sung, in a sort of chant, one of the most
dismal ditties his present auditors had ever heard, and St. Aubert at
length discovered it to be a vesper-hymn to his favourite saint.
They travelled on, sunk in that thoughtful melancholy, with which
twilight and solitude impress the mind. Michael had now ended his
ditty, and nothing was heard but the drowsy murmur of the breeze
among the woods, and its light flutter, as it blew freshly into the
carriage. They were at length roused by the sound of fire-arms. St.
Aubert called to the muleteer to stop, and they listened. The noise
was not repeated; but presently they heard a rustling among the
brakes. St. Aubert drew forth a pistol, and ordered Michael to
proceed as fast as possible; who had not long obeyed, before a horn
sounded, that made the mountains ring. He looked again from the
window, and then saw a young man spring from the bushes into the
road, followed by a couple of dogs. The stranger was in a hunter's
dress. His gun was slung across his shoulders, the hunter's horn
hung from his belt, and in his hand was a small pike, which, as he
held it, added to the manly grace of his figure, and assisted the
agility of his steps.
After a moment's hesitation, St. Aubert again stopped the carriage,
and waited till he came up, that they might enquire concerning the
hamlet they were in search of. The stranger informed him, that it
was only half a league distant, that he was going thither himself,
and would readily shew the way. St. Aubert thanked him for the
offer, and, pleased with his chevalier-like air and open countenance,
asked him to take a seat in the carriage; which the stranger, with an
acknowledgment, declined, adding that he would keep pace with the
mules. 'But I fear you will be wretchedly accommodated,' said he:
'the inhabitants of these mountains are a simple people, who are not
only without the luxuries of life, but almost destitute of what in
other places are held to be its necessaries.'
'I perceive you are not one of its inhabitants, sir,' said St.
Aubert.
'No, sir, I am only a wanderer here.'
The carriage drove on, and the increasing dusk made the travellers
very thankful that they had a guide; the frequent glens, too, that
now opened among the mountains, would likewise have added to their
perplexity. Emily, as she looked up one of these, saw something at a
great distance like a bright cloud in the air. 'What light is
yonder, sir?' said she.
St. Aubert looked, and perceived that it was the snowy summit of a
mountain, so much higher than any around it, that it still reflected
the sun's rays, while those below lay in deep shade.
At length, the village lights were seen to twinkle through the dusk,
and, soon after, some cottages were discovered in the valley, or
rather were seen by reflection in the stream, on whose margin they
stood, and which still gleamed with the evening light.
The stranger now came up, and St. Aubert, on further enquiry, found
not only that there was no inn in the place, but not any sort of
house of public reception. The stranger, however, offered to walk
on, and enquire for a cottage to accommodate them; for which further
civility St. Aubert returned his thanks, and said, that, as the
village was so near, he would alight, and walk with him. Emily
followed slowly in the carriage.
On the way, St. Aubert asked his companion what success he had had in
the chase. 'Not much, sir,' he replied, 'nor do I aim at it. I am
pleased with the country, and mean to saunter away a few weeks among
its scenes. My dogs I take with me more for companionship than for
game. This dress, too, gives me an ostensible business, and procures
me that respect from the people, which would, perhaps, be refused to
a lonely stranger, who had no visible motive for coming among them.'
'I admire your taste,' said St. Aubert, 'and, if I was a younger man,
should like to pass a few weeks in your way exceedingly. I, too, am
a wanderer, but neither my plan nor pursuits are exactly like yours--
I go in search of health, as much as of amusement.' St. Aubert
sighed, and paused; and then, seeming to recollect himself, he
resumed: 'If I can hear of a tolerable road, that shall afford
decent accommodation, it is my intention to pass into Rousillon, and
along the sea-shore to Languedoc. You, sir, seem to be acquainted
with the country, and can, perhaps, give me information on the
subject.'
The stranger said, that what information he could give was entirely
at his service; and then mentioned a road rather more to the east,
which led to a town, whence it would be easy to proceed into
Rousillon.
They now arrived at the village, and commenced their search for a
cottage, that would afford a night's lodging. In several, which they
entered, ignorance, poverty, and mirth seemed equally to prevail; and
the owners eyed St. Aubert with a mixture of curiosity and timidity.
Nothing like a bed could be found, and he had ceased to enquire for
one, when Emily joined him, who observed the languor of her father's
countenance, and lamented, that he had taken a road so ill provided
with the comforts necessary for an invalid. Other cottages, which
they examined, seemed somewhat less savage than the former,
consisting of two rooms, if such they could be called; the first of
these occupied by mules and pigs, the second by the family, which
generally consisted of six or eight children, with their parents, who
slept on beds of skins and dried beech leaves, spread upon a mud
floor. Here, light was admitted, and smoke discharged, through an
aperture in the roof; and here the scent of spirits (for the
travelling smugglers, who haunted the Pyrenees, had made this rude
people familiar with the use of liquors) was generally perceptible
enough. Emily turned from such scenes, and looked at her father with
anxious tenderness, which the young stranger seemed to observe; for,
drawing St. Aubert aside, he made him an offer of his own bed. 'It
is a decent one,' said he, 'when compared with what we have just
seen, yet such as in other circumstances I should be ashamed to offer
you.' St. Aubert acknowledged how much he felt himself obliged by
this kindness, but refused to accept it, till the young stranger
would take no denial. 'Do not give me the pain of knowing, sir,'
said he, 'that an invalid, like you, lies on hard skins, while I
sleep in a bed. Besides, sir, your refusal wounds my pride; I must
believe you think my offer unworthy your acceptance. Let me shew you
the way. I have no doubt my landlady can accommodate this young lady
also.'
St. Aubert at length consented, that, if this could be done, he would
accept his kindness, though he felt rather surprised, that the
stranger had proved himself so deficient in gallantry, as to
administer to the repose of an infirm man, rather than to that of a
very lovely young woman, for he had not once offered the room for
Emily. But she thought not of herself, and the animated smile she
gave him, told how much she felt herself obliged for the preference
of her father.
On their way, the stranger, whose name was Valancourt, stepped on
first to speak to his hostess, and she came out to welcome St. Aubert
into a cottage, much superior to any he had seen. This good woman
seemed very willing to accommodate the strangers, who were soon
compelled to accept the only two beds in the place. Eggs and milk
were the only food the cottage afforded; but against scarcity of
provisions St. Aubert had provided, and he requested Valancourt to
stay, and partake with him of less homely fare; an invitation, which
was readily accepted, and they passed an hour in intelligent
conversation. St. Aubert was much pleased with the manly frankness,
simplicity, and keen susceptibility to the grandeur of nature, which
his new acquaintance discovered; and, indeed, he had often been heard
to say, that, without a certain simplicity of heart, this taste could
not exist in any strong degree.
The conversation was interrupted by a violent uproar without, in
which the voice of the muleteer was heard above every other sound.
Valancourt started from his seat, and went to enquire the occasion;
but the dispute continued so long afterwards, that St. Aubert went
himself, and found Michael quarrelling with the hostess, because she
had refused to let his mules lie in a little room where he and three
of her sons were to pass the night. The place was wretched enough,
but there was no other for these people to sleep in; and, with
somewhat more of delicacy than was usual among the inhabitants of
this wild tract of country, she persisted in refusing to let the
animals have the same BED-CHAMBER with her children. This was a
tender point with the muleteer; his honour was wounded when his mules
were treated with disrespect, and he would have received a blow,
perhaps, with more meekness. He declared that his beasts were as
honest beasts, and as good beasts, as any in the whole province; and
that they had a right to be well treated wherever they went. 'They
are as harmless as lambs,' said he, 'if people don't affront them. I
never knew them behave themselves amiss above once or twice in my
life, and then they had good reason for doing so. Once, indeed, they
kicked at a boy's leg that lay asleep in the stable, and broke it;
but I told them they were out there, and by St. Anthony! I believe
they understood me, for they never did so again.'
He concluded this eloquent harangue with protesting, that they should
share with him, go where he would.
The dispute was at length settled by Valancourt, who drew the hostess
aside, and desired she would let the muleteer and his beasts have the
place in question to themselves, while her sons should have the bed
of skins designed for him, for that he would wrap himself in his
cloak, and sleep on the bench by the cottage door. But this she
thought it her duty to oppose, and she felt it to be her inclination
to disappoint the muleteer. Valancourt, however, was positive, and
the tedious affair was at length settled.
It was late when St. Aubert and Emily retired to their rooms, and
Valancourt to his station at the door, which, at this mild season, he
preferred to a close cabin and a bed of skins. St. Aubert was
somewhat surprised to find in his room volumes of Homer, Horace, and
Petrarch; but the name of Valancourt, written in them, told him to
whom they belonged.
CHAPTER IV
In truth he was a strange and wayward wight,
Fond of each gentle, and each dreadful scene,
In darkness, and in storm he found delight;
Nor less than when on ocean-wave serene
The southern sun diffus'd his dazzling sheen.
Even sad vicissitude amus'd his soul;
And if a sigh would sometimes intervene,
And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,
A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish'd not to controul.
THE MINSTREL
St. Aubert awoke at an early hour, refreshed by sleep, and desirous
to set forward. He invited the stranger to breakfast with him; and,
talking again of the road, Valancourt said, that, some months past,
he had travelled as far as Beaujeu, which was a town of some
consequence on the way to Rousillon. He recommended it to St. Aubert
to take that route, and the latter determined to do so.
'The road from this hamlet,' said Valancourt, 'and that to Beaujeu,
part at the distance of about a league and a half from hence; if you
will give me leave, I will direct your muleteer so far. I must
wander somewhere, and your company would make this a pleasanter
ramble than any other I could take.'
St. Aubert thankfully accepted his offer, and they set out together,
the young stranger on foot, for he refused the invitation of St.
Aubert to take a seat in his little carriage.
The road wound along the feet of the mountains through a pastoral
valley, bright with verdure, and varied with groves of dwarf oak,
beech and sycamore, under whose branches herds of cattle reposed.
The mountain-ash too, and the weeping birch, often threw their
pendant foliage over the steeps above, where the scanty soil scarcely
concealed their roots, and where their light branches waved to every
breeze that fluttered from the mountains.
The travellers were frequently met at this early hour, for the sun
had not yet risen upon the valley, by shepherds driving immense
flocks from their folds to feed upon the hills. St. Aubert had set
out thus early, not only that he might enjoy the first appearance of
sunrise, but that he might inhale the first pure breath of morning,
which above all things is refreshing to the spirits of the invalid.
In these regions it was particularly so, where an abundance of wild
flowers and aromatic herbs breathed forth their essence on the air.
The dawn, which softened the scenery with its peculiar grey tint, now
dispersed, and Emily watched the progress of the day, first trembling
on the tops of the highest cliffs, then touching them with splendid
light, while their sides and the vale below were still wrapt in dewy
mist. Meanwhile, the sullen grey of the eastern clouds began to
blush, then to redden, and then to glow with a thousand colours, till
the golden light darted over all the air, touched the lower points of
the mountain's brow, and glanced in long sloping beams upon the
valley and its stream. All nature seemed to have awakened from death
into life; the spirit of St. Aubert was renovated. His heart was
full; he wept, and his thoughts ascended to the Great Creator.
Emily wished to trip along the turf, so green and bright with dew,
and to taste the full delight of that liberty, which the izard seemed
to enjoy as he bounded along the brow of the cliffs; while Valancourt
often stopped to speak with the travellers, and with social feeling
to point out to them the peculiar objects of his admiration. St.
Aubert was pleased with him: 'Here is the real ingenuousness and
ardour of youth,' said he to himself; 'this young man has never been
at Paris.'
He was sorry when they came to the spot where the roads parted, and
his heart took a more affectionate leave of him than is usual after
so short an acquaintance. Valancourt talked long by the side of the
carriage; seemed more than once to be going, but still lingered, and
appeared to search anxiously for topics of conversation to account
for his delay. At length he took leave. As he went, St. Aubert
observed him look with an earnest and pensive eye at Emily, who bowed
to him with a countenance full of timid sweetness, while the carriage
drove on. St. Aubert, for whatever reason, soon after looked from
the window, and saw Valancourt standing upon the bank of the road,
resting on his pike with folded arms, and following the carriage with
his eyes. He waved his hand, and Valancourt, seeming to awake from
his reverie, returned the salute, and started away.
The aspect of the country now began to change, and the travellers
soon found themselves among mountains covered from their base nearly
to their summits with forests of gloomy pine, except where a rock of
granite shot up from the vale, and lost its snowy top in the clouds.
The rivulet, which had hitherto accompanied them, now expanded into a
river; and, flowing deeply and silently along, reflected, as in a
mirror, the blackness of the impending shades. Sometimes a cliff was
seen lifting its bold head above the woods and the vapours, that
floated mid-way down the mountains; and sometimes a face of
perpendicular marble rose from the water's edge, over which the larch
threw his gigantic arms, here scathed with lightning, and there
floating in luxuriant foliage.
They continued to travel over a rough and unfrequented road, seeing
now and then at a distance the solitary shepherd, with his dog,
stalking along the valley, and hearing only the dashing of torrents,
which the woods concealed from the eye, the long sullen murmur of the
breeze, as it swept over the pines, or the notes of the eagle and the
vulture, which were seen towering round the beetling cliff.
Often, as the carriage moved slowly over uneven ground, St. Aubert
alighted, and amused himself with examining the curious plants that
grew on the banks of the road, and with which these regions abound;
while Emily, wrapt in high enthusiasm, wandered away under the
shades, listening in deep silence to the lonely murmur of the woods.
Neither village nor hamlet was seen for many leagues; the goat-herd's
or the hunter's cabin, perched among the cliffs of the rocks, were
the only human habitations that appeared.
The travellers again took their dinner in the open air, on a pleasant
spot in the valley, under the spreading shade of cedars; and then set
forward towards Beaujeu.
The road now began to descend, and, leaving the pine forests behind,
wound among rocky precipices. The evening twilight again fell over
the scene, and the travellers were ignorant how far they might yet be
from Beaujeu. St. Aubert, however, conjectured that the distance
could not be very great, and comforted himself with the prospect of
travelling on a more frequented road after reaching that town, where
he designed to pass the night. Mingled woods, and rocks, and heathy
mountains were now seen obscurely through the dusk; but soon even
these imperfect images faded in darkness. Michael proceeded with
caution, for he could scarcely distinguish the road; his mules,
however, seemed to have more sagacity, and their steps were sure.
On turning the angle of a mountain, a light appeared at a distance,
that illumined the rocks, and the horizon to a great extent. It was
evidently a large fire, but whether accidental, or otherwise, there
were no means of knowing. St. Aubert thought it was probably kindled
by some of the numerous banditti, that infested the Pyrenees, and he
became watchful and anxious to know whether the road passed near this
fire. He had arms with him, which, on an emergency, might afford
some protection, though certainly a very unequal one, against a band
of robbers, so desperate too as those usually were who haunted these
wild regions. While many reflections rose upon his mind, he heard a
voice shouting from the road behind, and ordering the muleteer to
stop. St. Aubert bade him proceed as fast as possible; but either
Michael, or his mules were obstinate, for they did not quit the old
pace. Horses' feet were now heard; a man rode up to the carriage,
still ordering the driver to stop; and St. Aubert, who could no
longer doubt his purpose, was with difficulty able to prepare a
pistol for his defence, when his hand was upon the door of the
chaise. The man staggered on his horse, the report of the pistol was
followed by a groan, and St. Aubert's horror may be imagined, when in
the next instant he thought he heard the faint voice of Valancourt.
He now himself bade the muleteer stop; and, pronouncing the name of
Valancourt, was answered in a voice, that no longer suffered him to
doubt. St. Aubert, who instantly alighted and went to his
assistance, found him still sitting on his horse, but bleeding
profusely, and appearing to be in great pain, though he endeavoured
to soften the terror of St. Aubert by assurances that he was not
materially hurt, the wound being only in his arm. St. Aubert, with
the muleteer, assisted him to dismount, and he sat down on the bank
of the road, where St. Aubert tried to bind up his arm, but his hands
trembled so excessively that he could not accomplish it; and, Michael
being now gone in pursuit of the horse, which, on being disengaged
from his rider, had galloped off, he called Emily to his assistance.
Receiving no answer, he went to the carriage, and found her sunk on
the seat in a fainting fit. Between the distress of this
circumstance and that of leaving Valancourt bleeding, he scarcely
knew what he did; he endeavoured, however, to raise her, and called
to Michael to fetch water from the rivulet that flowed by the road,
but Michael was gone beyond the reach of his voice. Valancourt, who
heard these calls, and also the repeated name of Emily, instantly
understood the subject of his distress; and, almost forgetting his
own condition, he hastened to her relief. She was reviving when he
reached the carriage; and then, understanding that anxiety for him
had occasioned her indisposition, he assured her, in a voice that
trembled, but not from anguish, that his wound was of no consequence.
While he said this St. Aubert turned round, and perceiving that he
was still bleeding, the subject of his alarm changed again, and he
hastily formed some handkerchiefs into a bandage. This stopped the
effusion of the blood; but St. Aubert, dreading the consequence of
the wound, enquired repeatedly how far they were from Beaujeu; when,
learning that it was at two leagues' distance, his distress
increased, since he knew not how Valancourt, in his present state,
would bear the motion of the carriage, and perceived that he was
already faint from loss of blood. When he mentioned the subject of
his anxiety, Valancourt entreated that he would not suffer himself to
be thus alarmed on his account, for that he had no doubt he should be
able to support himself very well; and then he talked of the accident
as a slight one. The muleteer being now returned with Valancourt's
horse, assisted him into the chaise; and, as Emily was now revived,
they moved slowly on towards Beaujeu.
St. Aubert, when he had recovered from the terror occasioned him by
this accident, expressed surprise on seeing Valancourt, who explained
his unexpected appearance by saying, 'You, sir, renewed my taste for
society; when you had left the hamlet, it did indeed appear a
solitude. I determined, therefore, since my object was merely
amusement, to change the scene; and I took this road, because I knew
it led through a more romantic tract of mountains than the spot I
have left. Besides,' added he, hesitating for an instant, 'I will
own, and why should I not? that I had some hope of overtaking you.'
'And I have made you a very unexpected return for the compliment,'
said St. Aubert, who lamented again the rashness which had produced
the accident, and explained the cause of his late alarm. But
Valancourt seemed anxious only to remove from the minds of his
companions every unpleasant feeling relative to himself; and, for
that purpose, still struggled against a sense of pain, and tried to
converse with gaiety. Emily meanwhile was silent, except when
Valancourt particularly addressed her, and there was at those times a
tremulous tone in his voice that spoke much.
They were now so near the fire, which had long flamed at a distance
on the blackness of night, that it gleamed upon the road, and they
could distinguish figures moving about the blaze. The way winding
still nearer, they perceived in the valley one of those numerous
bands of gipsies, which at that period particularly haunted the wilds
of the Pyrenees, and lived partly by plundering the traveller. Emily
looked with some degree of terror on the savage countenances of these
people, shewn by the fire, which heightened the romantic effects of
the scenery, as it threw a red dusky gleam upon the rocks and on the
foliage of the trees, leaving heavy masses of shade and regions of
obscurity, which the eye feared to penetrate.
They were preparing their supper; a large pot stood by the fire, over
which several figures were busy. The blaze discovered a rude kind of
tent, round which many children and dogs were playing, and the whole
formed a picture highly grotesque. The travellers saw plainly their
danger. Valancourt was silent, but laid his hand on one of St.
Aubert's pistols; St. Aubert drew forth another, and Michael was
ordered to proceed as fast as possible. They passed the place,
however, without being attacked; the rovers being probably unprepared
for the opportunity, and too busy about their supper to feel much
interest, at the moment, in any thing besides.
After a league and a half more, passed in darkness, the travellers
arrived at Beaujeu, and drove up to the only inn the place afforded;
which, though superior to any they had seen since they entered the
mountains, was bad enough.
The surgeon of the town was immediately sent for, if a surgeon he
could be called, who prescribed for horses as well as for men, and
shaved faces at least as dexterously as he set bones. After
examining Valancourt's arm, and perceiving that the bullet had passed
through the flesh without touching the bone, he dressed it, and left
him with a solemn prescription of quiet, which his patient was not
inclined to obey. The delight of ease had now succeeded to pain; for
ease may be allowed to assume a positive quality when contrasted with
anguish; and, his spirits thus re-animated, he wished to partake of
the conversation of St. Aubert and Emily, who, released from so many
apprehensions, were uncommonly cheerful. Late as it was, however,
St. Aubert was obliged to go out with the landlord to buy meat for
supper; and Emily, who, during this interval, had been absent as long
as she could, upon excuses of looking to their accommodation, which
she found rather better than she expected, was compelled to return,
and converse with Valancourt alone. They talked of the character of
the scenes they had passed, of the natural history of the country, of
poetry, and of St. Aubert; a subject on which Emily always spoke and
listened to with peculiar pleasure.
The travellers passed an agreeable evening; but St. Aubert was
fatigued with his journey; and, as Valancourt seemed again sensible
of pain, they separated soon after supper.
In the morning St. Aubert found that Valancourt had passed a restless
night; that he was feverish, and his wound very painful. The
surgeon, when he dressed it, advised him to remain quietly at
Beaujeu; advice which was too reasonable to be rejected. St. Aubert,
however, had no favourable opinion of this practitioner, and was
anxious to commit Valancourt into more skilful hands; but learning,
upon enquiry, that there was no town within several leagues which
seemed more likely to afford better advice, he altered the plan of
his journey, and determined to await the recovery of Valancourt, who,
with somewhat more ceremony than sincerity, made many objections to
this delay.
By order of his surgeon, Valancourt did not go out of the house that
day; but St. Aubert and Emily surveyed with delight the environs of
the town, situated at the feet of the Pyrenean Alps, that rose, some
in abrupt precipices, and others swelling with woods of cedar, fir,
and cypress, which stretched nearly to their highest summits. The
cheerful green of the beech and mountain-ash was sometimes seen, like
a gleam of light, amidst the dark verdure of the forest; and
sometimes a torrent poured its sparkling flood, high among the woods.
Valancourt's indisposition detained the travellers at Beaujeu several
days, during which interval St. Aubert had observed his disposition
and his talents with the philosophic inquiry so natural to him. He
saw a frank and generous nature, full of ardour, highly susceptible
of whatever is grand and beautiful, but impetuous, wild, and somewhat
romantic. Valancourt had known little of the world. His perceptions
were clear, and his feelings just; his indignation of an unworthy, or
his admiration of a generous action, were expressed in terms of equal
vehemence. St. Aubert sometimes smiled at his warmth, but seldom
checked it, and often repeated to himself, 'This young man has never
been at Paris.' A sigh sometimes followed this silent ejaculation.
He determined not to leave Valancourt till he should be perfectly
recovered; and, as he was now well enough to travel, though not able
to manage his horse, St. Aubert invited him to accompany him for a
few days in the carriage. This he the more readily did, since he had
discovered that Valancourt was of a family of the same name in
Gascony, with whose respectability he was well acquainted. The
latter accepted the offer with great pleasure, and they again set
forward among these romantic wilds about Rousillon.
They travelled leisurely; stopping wherever a scene uncommonly grand
appeared; frequently alighting to walk to an eminence, whither the
mules could not go, from which the prospect opened in greater
magnificence; and often sauntering over hillocks covered with
lavender, wild thyme, juniper, and tamarisc; and under the shades of
woods, between those boles they caught the long mountain-vista,
sublime beyond any thing that Emily had ever imagined.
St. Aubert sometimes amused himself with botanizing, while Valancourt
and Emily strolled on; he pointing out to her notice the objects that
particularly charmed him, and reciting beautiful passages from such
of the Latin and Italian poets as he had heard her admire. In the
pauses of conversation, when he thought himself not observed, he
frequently fixed his eyes pensively on her countenance, which
expressed with so much animation the taste and energy of her mind;
and when he spoke again, there was a peculiar tenderness in the tone
of his voice, that defeated any attempt to conceal his sentiments.
By degrees these silent pauses became more frequent; till Emily,
only, betrayed an anxiety to interrupt them; and she; who had been
hitherto reserved, would now talk again, and again, of the woods and
the vallies and the mountains, to avoid the danger of sympathy and
silence.
From Beaujeu the road had constantly ascended, conducting the
travellers into the higher regions of the air, where immense glaciers
exhibited their frozen horrors, and eternal snow whitened the summits
of the mountains. They often paused to contemplate these stupendous
scenes, and, seated on some wild cliff, where only the ilex or the
larch could flourish, looked over dark forests of fir, and precipices
where human foot had never wandered, into the glen--so deep, that the
thunder of the torrent, which was seen to foam along the bottom, was
scarcely heard to murmur. Over these crags rose others of stupendous
height, and fantastic shape; some shooting into cones; others
impending far over their base, in huge masses of granite, along whose
broken ridges was often lodged a weight of snow, that, trembling even
to the vibration of a sound, threatened to bear destruction in its
course to the vale. Around, on every side, far as the eye could
penetrate, were seen only forms of grandeur--the long perspective of
mountain-tops, tinged with ethereal blue, or white with snow; vallies
of ice, and forests of gloomy fir. The serenity and clearness of the
air in these high regions were particularly delightful to the
travellers; it seemed to inspire them with a finer spirit, and
diffused an indescribable complacency over their minds. They had no
words to express the sublime emotions they felt. A solemn expression
characterized the feelings of St. Aubert; tears often came to his
eyes, and he frequently walked away from his companions. Valancourt
now and then spoke, to point to Emily's notice some feature of the
scene. The thinness of the atmosphere, through which every object
came so distinctly to the eye, surprised and deluded her; who could
scarcely believe that objects, which appeared so near, were, in
reality, so distant. The deep silence of these solitudes was broken
only at intervals by the scream of the vultures, seen cowering round
some cliff below, or by the cry of the eagle sailing high in the air;
except when the travellers listened to the hollow thunder that
sometimes muttered at their feet. While, above, the deep blue of the
heavens was unobscured by the lightest cloud, half way down the
mountains, long billows of vapour were frequently seen rolling, now
wholly excluding the country below, and now opening, and partially
revealing its features. Emily delighted to observe the grandeur of
these clouds as they changed in shape and tints, and to watch their
various effect on the lower world, whose features, partly veiled,
were continually assuming new forms of sublimity.
After traversing these regions for many leagues, they began to
descend towards Rousillon, and features of beauty then mingled with
the scene. Yet the travellers did not look back without some regret
to the sublime objects they had quitted; though the eye, fatigued
with the extension of its powers, was glad to repose on the verdure
of woods and pastures, that now hung on the margin of the river
below; to view again the humble cottage shaded by cedars, the playful
group of mountaineer-children, and the flowery nooks that appeared
among the hills.
As they descended, they saw at a distance, on the right, one of the
grand passes of the Pyrenees into Spain, gleaming with its
battlements and towers to the splendour of the setting rays, yellow
tops of woods colouring the steeps below, while far above aspired the
snowy points of the mountains, still reflecting a rosy hue.
St. Aubert began to look out for the little town he had been directed
to by the people of Beaujeu, and where he meant to pass the night;
but no habitation yet appeared. Of its distance Valancourt could not
assist him to judge, for he had never been so far along this chain of
Alps before. There was, however, a road to guide them; and there
could be little doubt that it was the right one; for, since they had
left Beaujeu, there had been no variety of tracks to perplex or
mislead.
The sun now gave his last light, and St. Aubert bade the muleteer
proceed with all possible dispatch. He found, indeed, the lassitude
of illness return upon him, after a day of uncommon fatigue, both of
body and mind, and he longed for repose. His anxiety was not soothed
by observing a numerous train, consisting of men, horses, and loaded
mules, winding down the steeps of an opposite mountain, appearing and
disappearing at intervals among the woods, so that its numbers could
not be judged of. Something bright, like arms, glanced in the
setting ray, and the military dress was distinguishable upon the men
who were in the van, and on others scattered among the troop that
followed. As these wound into the vale, the rear of the party
emerged from the woods, and exhibited a band of soldiers. St.
Aubert's apprehensions now subsided; he had no doubt that the train
before him consisted of smugglers, who, in conveying prohibited goods
over the Pyrenees, had been encountered, and conquered by a party of
troops.
The travellers had lingered so long among the sublimer scenes of
these mountains, that they found themselves entirely mistaken in
their calculation that they could reach Montigny at sun-set; but, as
they wound along the valley, the saw, on a rude Alpine bridge, that
united two lofty crags of the glen, a group of mountaineer-children,
amusing themselves with dropping pebbles into a torrent below, and
watching the stones plunge into the water, that threw up its white
spray high in the air as it received them, and returned a sullen
sound, which the echoes of the mountains prolonged. Under the bridge
was seen a perspective of the valley, with its cataract descending
among the rocks, and a cottage on a cliff, overshadowed with pines.
It appeared, that they could not be far from some small town. St.
Aubert bade the muleteer stop, and then called to the children to
enquire if he was near Montigny; but the distance, and the roaring of
the waters, would not suffer his voice to be heard; and the crags,
adjoining the bridge, were of such tremendous height and steepness,
that to have climbed either would have been scarcely practicable to a
person unacquainted with the ascent. St. Aubert, therefore, did not
waste more moments in delay. They continued to travel long after
twilight had obscured the road, which was so broken, that, now
thinking it safer to walk than to ride, they all alighted. The moon
was rising, but her light was yet too feeble to assist them. While
they stepped carefully on, they heard the vesper-bell of a convent.
The twilight would not permit them to distinguish anything like a
building, but the sounds seemed to come from some woods, that
overhung an acclivity to the right. Valancourt proposed to go in
search of this convent. 'If they will not accommodate us with a
night's lodging,' said he, 'they may certainly inform us how far we
are from Montigny, and direct us towards it.' He was bounding
forward, without waiting St. Aubert's reply, when the latter stopped
him. 'I am very weary,' said St. Aubert, 'and wish for nothing so
much as for immediate rest. We will all go to the convent; your good
looks would defeat our purpose; but when they see mine and Emily's
exhausted countenances, they will scarcely deny us repose.'
As he said this, he took Emily's arm within his, and, telling Michael
to wait awhile in the road with the carriage, they began to ascend
towards the woods, guided by the bell of the convent. His steps were
feeble, and Valancourt offered him his arm, which he accepted. The
moon now threw a faint light over their path, and, soon after,
enabled them to distinguish some towers rising above the tops of the
woods. Still following the note of the bell, they entered the shade
of those woods, lighted only by the moonbeams, that glided down
between the leaves, and threw a tremulous uncertain gleam upon the
steep track they were winding. The gloom and the silence that
prevailed, except when the bell returned upon the air, together with
the wildness of the surrounding scene, struck Emily with a degree of
fear, which, however, the voice and conversation of Valancourt
somewhat repressed. When they had been some time ascending, St.
Aubert complained of weariness, and they stopped to rest upon a
little green summit, where the trees opened, and admitted the moon-
light. He sat down upon the turf, between Emily and Valancourt. The
bell had now ceased, and the deep repose of the scene was undisturbed
by any sound, for the low dull murmur of some distant torrents might
be said to sooth, rather than to interrupt, the silence.
Before them, extended the valley they had quitted; its rocks, and
woods to the left, just silvered by the rays, formed a contrast to
the deep shadow, that involved the opposite cliffs, whose fringed
summits only were tipped with light; while the distant perspective of
the valley was lost in the yellow mist of moon-light. The travellers
sat for some time wrapt in the complacency which such scenes inspire.
'These scenes,' said Valancourt, at length, 'soften the heart, like
the notes of sweet music, and inspire that delicious melancholy which
no person, who had felt it once, would resign for the gayest
pleasures. They waken our best and purest feelings, disposing us to
benevolence, pity, and friendship. Those whom I love--I always seem
to love more in such an hour as this.' His voice trembled, and he
paused.
St. Aubert was silent; Emily perceived a warm tear fall upon the hand
he held; she knew the object of his thoughts; hers too had, for some
time, been occupied by the remembrance of her mother. He seemed by
an effort to rouse himself. 'Yes,' said he, with an half-suppressed
sigh, 'the memory of those we love--of times for ever past! in such
an hour as this steals upon the mind, like a strain of distant music
in the stillness of night;--all tender and harmonious as this
landscape, sleeping in the mellow moon-light.' After the pause of a
moment, St. Aubert added, 'I have always fancied, that I thought with
more clearness, and precision, at such an hour than at any other, and
that heart must be insensible in a great degree, that does not soften
to its influence. But many such there are.'
Valancourt sighed.
'Are there, indeed, many such?' said Emily.
'a few years hence, my Emily,' replied St. Aubert, 'and you may smile
at the recollection of that question--if you do not weep to it. But
come, I am somewhat refreshed, let us proceed.'
Having emerged from the woods, they saw, upon a turfy hillock above,
the convent of which they were in search. A high wall, that
surrounded it, led them to an ancient gate, at which they knocked;
and the poor monk, who opened it, conducted them into a small
adjoining room, where he desired they would wait while he informed
the superior of their request. In this interval, several friars came
in separately to look at them; and at length the first monk returned,
and they followed him to a room, where the superior was sitting in an
arm-chair, with a large folio volume, printed in black letter, open
on a desk before him. He received them with courtesy, though he did
not rise from his seat; and, having asked them a few questions,
granted their request. After a short conversation, formal and solemn
on the part of the superior, they withdrew to the apartment where
they were to sup, and Valancourt, whom one of the inferior friars
civilly desired to accompany, went to seek Michael and his mules.
They had not descended half way down the cliffs, before they heard
the voice of the muleteer echoing far and wide. Sometimes he called
on St. Aubert, and sometimes on Valancourt; who having, at length,
convinced him that he had nothing to fear either for himself, or his
master; and having disposed of him, for the night, in a cottage on
the skirts of the woods, returned to sup with his friends, on such
sober fare as the monks thought it prudent to set before them. While
St. Aubert was too much indisposed to share it, Emily, in her anxiety
for her father, forgot herself; and Valancourt, silent and
thoughtful, yet never inattentive to them, appeared particularly
solicitous to accommodate and relieve St. Aubert, who often observed,
while his daughter was pressing him to eat, or adjusting the pillow
she had placed in the back of his arm-chair, that Valancourt fixed on
her a look of pensive tenderness, which he was not displeased to
understand.
They separated at an early hour, and retired to their respective
apartments. Emily was shown to hers by a nun of the convent, whom
she was glad to dismiss, for her heart was melancholy, and her
attention so much abstracted, that conversation with a stranger was
painful. She thought her father daily declining, and attributed his
present fatigue more to the feeble state of his frame, than to the
difficulty of the journey. A train of gloomy ideas haunted her mind,
till she fell asleep.
In about two hours after, she was awakened by the chiming of a bell,
and then heard quick steps pass along the gallery, into which her
chamber opened. She was so little accustomed to the manners of a
convent, as to be alarmed by this circumstance; her fears, ever alive
for her father, suggested that he was very ill, and she rose in haste
to go to him. Having paused, however, to let the persons in the
gallery pass before she opened her door, her thoughts, in the mean
time, recovered from the confusion of sleep, and she understood that
the bell was the call of the monks to prayers. It had now ceased,
and, all being again still, she forbore to go to St. Aubert's room.
Her mind was not disposed for immediate sleep, and the moon-light,
that shone into her chamber, invited her to open the casement, and
look out upon the country.
It was a still and beautiful night, the sky was unobscured by any
cloud, and scarce a leaf of the woods beneath trembled in the air.
As she listened, the mid-night hymn of the monks rose softly from a
chapel, that stood on one of the lower cliffs, an holy strain, that
seemed to ascend through the silence of night to heaven, and her
thoughts ascended with it. From the consideration of His works, her
mind arose to the adoration of the Deity, in His goodness and power;
wherever she turned her view, whether on the sleeping earth, or to
the vast regions of space, glowing with worlds beyond the reach of
human thought, the sublimity of God, and the majesty of His presence
appeared. Her eyes were filled with tears of awful love and
admiration; and she felt that pure devotion, superior to all the
distinctions of human system, which lifts the soul above this world,
and seems to expand it into a nobler nature; such devotion as can,
perhaps, only be experienced, when the mind, rescued, for a moment,
from the humbleness of earthly considerations, aspires to contemplate
His power in the sublimity of His works, and His goodness in the
infinity of His blessings.
Is it not now the hour,
The holy hour, when to the cloudless height
Of yon starred concave climbs the full-orbed moon,
And to this nether world in solemn stillness,
Gives sign, that, to the list'ning ear of Heaven
Religion's voice should plead? The very babe
Knows this, and, chance awak'd, his little hands
Lifts to the gods, and on his innocent couch
Calls down a blessing.*
*Caractacus
The midnight chant of the monks soon after dropped into silence; but
Emily remained at the casement, watching the setting moon, and the
valley sinking into deep shade, and willing to prolong her present
state of mind. At length she retired to her mattress, and sunk into
tranquil slumber.
CHAPTER V
While in the rosy vale
Love breath'd his infant sighs, from anguish free.
Thomson
St. Aubert, sufficiently restored by a night's repose to pursue his
journey, set out in the morning, with his family and Valancourt, for
Rousillon, which he hoped to reach before night-fall. The scenes,
through which they now passed, were as wild and romantic, as any they
had yet observed, with this difference, that beauty, every now and
then, softened the landscape into smiles. Little woody recesses
appeared among the mountains, covered with bright verdure and
flowers; or a pastoral valley opened its grassy bosom in the shade of
the cliffs, with flocks and herds loitering along the banks of a
rivulet, that refreshed it with perpetual green. St. Aubert could
not repent the having taken this fatiguing road, though he was this
day, also, frequently obliged to alight, to walk along the rugged
precipice, and to climb the steep and flinty mountain. The wonderful
sublimity and variety of the prospects repaid him for all this, and
the enthusiasm, with which they were viewed by his young companions,
heightened his own, and awakened a remembrance of all the delightful
emotions of his early days, when the sublime charms of nature were
first unveiled to him. He found great pleasure in conversing with
Valancourt, and in listening to his ingenuous remarks. The fire and
simplicity of his manners seemed to render him a characteristic
figure in the scenes around them; and St. Aubert discovered in his
sentiments the justness and the dignity of an elevated mind,
unbiassed by intercourse with the world. He perceived, that his
opinions were formed, rather than imbibed; were more the result of
thought, than of learning. Of the world he seemed to know nothing;
for he believed well of all mankind, and this opinion gave him the
reflected image of his own heart.
St. Aubert, as he sometimes lingered to examine the wild plants in
his path, often looked forward with pleasure to Emily and Valancourt,
as they strolled on together; he, with a countenance of animated
delight, pointing to her attention some grand feature of the scene;
and she, listening and observing with a look of tender seriousness,
that spoke the elevation of her mind. They appeared like two lovers
who had never strayed beyond these their native mountains; whose
situation had secluded them from the frivolities of common life,
whose ideas were simple and grand, like the landscapes among which
they moved, and who knew no other happiness, than in the union of
pure and affectionate hearts. St. Aubert smiled, and sighed at the
romantic picture of felicity his fancy drew; and sighed again to
think, that nature and simplicity were so little known to the world,
as that their pleasures were thought romantic.
'The world,' said he, pursuing this train of thought, 'ridicules a
passion which it seldom feels; its scenes, and its interests,
distract the mind, deprave the taste, corrupt the heart, and love
cannot exist in a heart that has lost the meek dignity of innocence.
Virtue and taste are nearly the same, for virtue is little more than
active taste, and the most delicate affections of each combine in
real love. How then are we to look for love in great cities, where
selfishness, dissipation, and insincerity supply the place of
tenderness, simplicity and truth?'
It was near noon, when the travellers, having arrived at a piece of
steep and dangerous road, alighted to walk. The road wound up an
ascent, that was clothed with wood, and, instead of following the
carriage, they entered the refreshing shade. A dewy coolness was
diffused upon the air, which, with the bright verdure of turf, that
grew under the trees, the mingled fragrance of flowers and of balm,
thyme, and lavender, that enriched it, and the grandeur of the pines,
beech, and chestnuts, that overshadowed them, rendered this a most
delicious retreat. Sometimes, the thick foliage excluded all view of
the country; at others, it admitted some partial catches of the
distant scenery, which gave hints to the imagination to picture
landscapes more interesting, more impressive, than any that had been
presented to the eye. The wanderers often lingered to indulge in
these reveries of fancy.
The pauses of silence, such as had formerly interrupted the
conversations of Valancourt and Emily, were more frequent today than
ever. Valancourt often dropped suddenly from the most animating
vivacity into fits of deep musing, and there was, sometimes, an
unaffected melancholy in his smile, which Emily could not avoid
understanding, for her heart was interested in the sentiment it
spoke.
St. Aubert was refreshed by the shades, and they continued to saunter
under them, following, as nearly as they could guess, the direction
of the road, till they perceived that they had totally lost it. They
had continued near the brow of the precipice, allured by the scenery
it exhibited, while the road wound far away over the cliff above.
Valancourt called loudly to Michael, but heard no voice, except his
own, echoing among the rocks, and his various efforts to regain the
road were equally unsuccessful. While they were thus circumstanced,
they perceived a shepherd's cabin, between the boles of the trees at
some distance, and Valancourt bounded on first to ask assistance.
When he reached it, he saw only two little children, at play, on the
turf before the door. He looked into the hut, but no person was
there, and the eldest of the boys told him that their father was with
his flocks, and their mother was gone down into the vale, but would
be back presently. As he stood, considering what was further to be
done, on a sudden he heard Michael's voice roaring forth most
manfully among the cliffs above, till he made their echoes ring.
Valancourt immediately answered the call, and endeavoured to make his
way through the thicket that clothed the steeps, following the
direction of the sound. After much struggle over brambles and
precipices, he reached Michael, and at length prevailed with him to
be silent, and to listen to him. The road was at a considerable
distance from the spot where St. Aubert and Emily were; the carriage
could not easily return to the entrance of the wood, and, since it
would be very fatiguing for St. Aubert to climb the long and steep
road to the place where it now stood, Valancourt was anxious to find
a more easy ascent, by the way he had himself passed.
Meanwhile St. Aubert and Emily approached the cottage, and rested
themselves on a rustic bench, fastened between two pines, which
overshadowed it, till Valancourt, whose steps they had observed,
should return.
The eldest of the children desisted from his play, and stood still to
observe the strangers, while the younger continued his little
gambols, and teased his brother to join in them. St. Aubert looked
with pleasure upon this picture of infantine simplicity, till it
brought to his remembrance his own boys, whom he had lost about the
age of these, and their lamented mother; and he sunk into a
thoughtfulness, which Emily observing, she immediately began to sing
one of those simple and lively airs he was so fond of, and which she
knew how to give with the most captivating sweetness. St. Aubert
smiled on her through his tears, took her hand and pressed it
affectionately, and then tried to dissipate the melancholy
reflections that lingered in his mind.
While she sung, Valancourt approached, who was unwilling to interrupt
her, and paused at a little distance to listen. When she had
concluded, he joined the party, and told them, that he had found
Michael, as well as a way, by which he thought they could ascend the
cliff to the carriage. He pointed to the woody steeps above, which
St. Aubert surveyed with an anxious eye. He was already wearied by
his walk, and this ascent was formidable to him. He thought,
however, it would be less toilsome than the long and broken road, and
he determined to attempt it; but Emily, ever watchful of his ease,
proposing that he should rest, and dine before they proceeded
further, Valancourt went to the carriage for the refreshments
deposited there.
On his return, he proposed removing a little higher up the mountain,
to where the woods opened upon a grand and extensive prospect; and
thither they were preparing to go, when they saw a young woman join
the children, and caress and weep over them.
The travellers, interested by her distress, stopped to observe her.
She took the youngest of the children in her arms, and, perceiving
the strangers, hastily dried her tears, and proceeded to the cottage.
St. Aubert, on enquiring the occasion of her sorrow, learned that her
husband, who was a shepherd, and lived here in the summer months to
watch over the flocks he led to feed upon these mountains, had lost,
on the preceding night, his little all. A gang of gipsies, who had
for some time infested the neighbourhood, had driven away several of
his master's sheep. 'Jacques,' added the shepherd's wife, 'had saved
a little money, and had bought a few sheep with it, and now they must
go to his master for those that are stolen; and what is worse than
all, his master, when he comes to know how it is, will trust him no
longer with the care of his flocks, for he is a hard man! and then
what is to become of our children!'
The innocent countenance of the woman, and the simplicity of her
manner in relating her grievance, inclined St. Aubert to believe her
story; and Valancourt, convinced that it was true, asked eagerly what
was the value of the stolen sheep; on hearing which he turned away
with a look of disappointment. St. Aubert put some money into her
hand, Emily too gave something from her little purse, and they walked
towards the cliff; but Valancourt lingered behind, and spoke to the
shepherd's wife, who was now weeping with gratitude and surprise. He
enquired how much money was yet wanting to replace the stolen sheep,
and found, that it was a sum very little short of all he had about
him. He was perplexed and distressed. 'This sum then,' said he to
himself, 'would make this poor family completely happy--it is in my
power to give it--to make them completely happy! But what is to
become of me?--how shall I contrive to reach home with the little
money that will remain?' For a moment he stood, unwilling to forego
the luxury of raising a family from ruin to happiness, yet
considering the difficulties of pursuing his journey with so small a
sum as would be left.
While he was in this state of perplexity, the shepherd himself
appeared: his children ran to meet him; he took one of them in his
arms, and, with the other clinging to his coat, came forward with a
loitering step. His forlorn and melancholy look determined
Valancourt at once; he threw down all the money he had, except a very
few louis, and bounded away after St. Aubert and Emily, who were
proceeding slowly up the steep. Valancourt had seldom felt his heart
so light as at this moment; his gay spirits danced with pleasure;
every object around him appeared more interesting, or beautiful, than
before. St. Aubert observed the uncommon vivacity of his
countenance: 'What has pleased you so much?' said he. 'O what a
lovely day,' replied Valancourt, 'how brightly the sun shines, how
pure is this air, what enchanting scenery!' 'It is indeed
enchanting,' said St. Aubert, whom early experience had taught to
understand the nature of Valancourt's present feelings. 'What pity
that the wealthy, who can command such sunshine, should ever pass
their days in gloom--in the cold shade of selfishness! For you, my
young friend, may the sun always shine as brightly as at this moment;
may your own conduct always give you the sunshine of benevolence and
reason united!'
Valancourt, highly flattered by this compliment, could make no reply
but by a smile of gratitude.
They continued to wind under the woods, between the grassy knolls of
the mountain, and, as they reached the shady summit, which he had
pointed out, the whole party burst into an exclamation. Behind the
spot where they stood, the rock rose perpendicularly in a massy wall
to a considerable height, and then branched out into overhanging
crags. Their grey tints were well contrasted by the bright hues of
the plants and wild flowers, that grew in their fractured sides, and
were deepened by the gloom of the pines and cedars, that waved above.
The steeps below, over which the eye passed abruptly to the valley,
were fringed with thickets of alpine shrubs; and, lower still,
appeared the tufted tops of the chesnut woods, that clothed their
base, among which peeped forth the shepherd's cottage, just left by
the travellers, with its blueish smoke curling high in the air. On
every side appeared the majestic summits of the Pyrenees, some
exhibiting tremendous crags of marble, whose appearance was changing
every instant, as the varying lights fell upon their surface; others,
still higher, displaying only snowy points, while their lower steeps
were covered almost invariably with forests of pine, larch, and oak,
that stretched down to the vale. This was one of the narrow vallies,
that open from the Pyrenees into the country of Rousillon, and whose
green pastures, and cultivated beauty, form a decided and wonderful
contrast to the romantic grandeur that environs it. Through a vista
of the mountains appeared the lowlands of Rousillon, tinted with the
blue haze of distance, as they united with the waters of the
Mediterranean; where, on a promontory, which marked the boundary of
the shore, stood a lonely beacon, over which were seen circling
flights of sea-fowl. Beyond, appeared, now and then, a stealing
sail, white with the sun-beam, and whose progress was perceivable by
its approach to the light-house. Sometimes, too, was seen a sail so
distant, that it served only to mark the line of separation between
the sky and the waves.
On the other side of the valley, immediately opposite to the spot
where the travellers rested, a rocky pass opened toward Gascony.
Here no sign of cultivation appeared. The rocks of granite, that
screened the glen, rose abruptly from their base, and stretched their
barren points to the clouds, unvaried with woods, and uncheered even
by a hunter's cabin. Sometimes, indeed, a gigantic larch threw its
long shade over the precipice, and here and there a cliff reared on
its brow a monumental cross, to tell the traveller the fate of him
who had ventured thither before. This spot seemed the very haunt of
banditti; and Emily, as she looked down upon it, almost expected to
see them stealing out from some hollow cave to look for their prey.
Soon after an object not less terrific struck her,--a gibbet standing
on a point of rock near the entrance of the pass, and immediately
over one of the crosses she had before observed. These were
hieroglyphics that told a plain and dreadful story. She forbore to
point it out to St. Aubert, but it threw a gloom over her spirits,
and made her anxious to hasten forward, that they might with
certainty reach Rousillon before night-fall. It was necessary,
however, that St. Aubert should take some refreshment, and, seating
themselves on the short dry turf, they opened the basket of
provisions, while
by breezy murmurs cool'd,
Broad o'er THEIR heads the verdant cedars wave,
And high palmetos lift their graceful shade.
-----THEY draw
Ethereal soul, there drink reviving gales
Profusely breathing from the piney groves,
And vales of fragrance; there at a distance hear
The roaring floods, and cataracts.*
*Thomson
St. Aubert was revived by rest, and by the serene air of this summit;
and Valancourt was so charmed with all around, and with the
conversation of his companions, that he seemed to have forgotten he
had any further to go. Having concluded their simple repast, they
gave a long farewell look to the scene, and again began to ascend.
St. Aubert rejoiced when he reached the carriage, which Emily entered
with him; but Valancourt, willing to take a more extensive view of
the enchanting country, into which they were about to descend, than
he could do from a carriage, loosened his dogs, and once more bounded
with them along the banks of the road. He often quitted it for
points that promised a wider prospect, and the slow pace, at which
the mules travelled, allowed him to overtake them with ease.
Whenever a scene of uncommon magnificence appeared, he hastened to
inform St. Aubert, who, though he was too much tired to walk himself,
sometimes made the chaise wait, while Emily went to the neighbouring
cliff.
It was evening when they descended the lower alps, that bind
Rousillon, and form a majestic barrier round that charming country,
leaving it open only on the east to the Mediterranean. The gay tints
of cultivation once more beautified the landscape; for the lowlands
were coloured with the richest hues, which a luxuriant climate, and
an industrious people can awaken into life. Groves of orange and
lemon perfumed the air, their ripe fruit glowing among the foliage;
while, sloping to the plains, extensive vineyards spread their
treasures. Beyond these, woods and pastures, and mingled towns and
hamlets stretched towards the sea, on whose bright surface gleamed
many a distant sail; while, over the whole scene, was diffused the
purple glow of evening. This landscape with the surrounding alps
did, indeed, present a perfect picture of the lovely and the sublime,
of 'beauty sleeping in the lap of horror.'
The travellers, having reached the plains, proceeded, between hedges
of flowering myrtle and pomegranate, to the town of Arles, where they
proposed to rest for the night. They met with simple, but neat
accommodation, and would have passed a happy evening, after the toils
and the delights of this day, had not the approaching separation
thrown a gloom over their spirit. It was St. Aubert's plan to
proceed, on the morrow, to the borders of the Mediterranean, and
travel along its shores into Languedoc; and Valancourt, since he was
now nearly recovered, and had no longer a pretence for continuing
with his new friends, resolved to leave them here. St. Aubert, who
was much pleased with him, invited him to go further, but did not
repeat the invitation, and Valancourt had resolution enough to forego
the temptation of accepting it, that he might prove himself not
unworthy of the favour. On the following morning, therefore, they
were to part, St. Aubert to pursue his way to Languedoc, and
Valancourt to explore new scenes among the mountains, on his return
home. During this evening he was often silent and thoughtful; St.
Aubert's manner towards him was affectionate, though grave, and Emily
was serious, though she made frequent efforts to appear cheerful.
After one of the most melancholy evenings they had yet passed
together, they separated for the night.
CHAPTER VI
I care not, Fortune! what you me deny;
You cannot rob me of free nature's grace;
You cannot shut the windows of the sky,
Through which Aurora shews her brightening face;
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace
The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve:
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace,
And I their toys to the great children leave:
Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.
THOMSON
In the morning, Valancourt breakfasted with St. Aubert and Emily,
neither of whom seemed much refreshed by sleep. The languor of
illness still hung over St. Aubert, and to Emily's fears his disorder
appeared to be increasing fast upon him. She watched his looks with
anxious affection, and their expression was always faithfully
reflected in her own.
At the commencement of their acquaintance, Valancourt had made known
his name and family. St. Aubert was not a stranger to either, for
the family estates, which were now in the possession of an elder
brother of Valancourt, were little more than twenty miles distant
from La Vallee, and he had sometimes met the elder Valancourt on
visits in the neighbourhood. This knowledge had made him more
willingly receive his present companion; for, though his countenance
and manners would have won him the acquaintance of St. Aubert, who
was very apt to trust to the intelligence of his own eyes, with
respect to countenances, he would not have accepted these, as
sufficient introductions to that of his daughter.
The breakfast was almost as silent as the supper of the preceding
night; but their musing was at length interrupted by the sound of the
carriage wheels, which were to bear away St. Aubert and Emily.
Valancourt started from his chair, and went to the window; it was
indeed the carriage, and he returned to his seat without speaking.
The moment was now come when they must part. St. Aubert told
Valancourt, that he hoped he would never pass La Vallee without
favouring him with a visit; and Valancourt, eagerly thanking him,
assured him that he never would; as he said which he looked timidly
at Emily, who tried to smile away the seriousness of her spirits.
They passed a few minutes in interesting conversation, and St. Aubert
then led the way to the carriage, Emily and Valancourt following in
silence. The latter lingered at the door several minutes after they
were seated, and none of the party seemed to have courage enough to
say--Farewell. At length, St. Aubert pronounced the melancholy word,
which Emily passed to Valancourt, who returned it, with a dejected
smile, and the carriage drove on.
The travellers remained, for some time, in a state of tranquil
pensiveness, which is not unpleasing. St. Aubert interrupted it by
observing, 'This is a very promising young man; it is many years
since I have been so much pleased with any person, on so short an
acquaintance. He brings back to my memory the days of my youth, when
every scene was new and delightful!' St. Aubert sighed, and sunk
again into a reverie; and, as Emily looked back upon the road they
had passed, Valancourt was seen, at the door of the little inn,
following them with his eyes. Her perceived her, and waved his hand;
and she returned the adieu, till the winding road shut her from his
sight.
'I remember when I was about his age,' resumed St. Aubert, 'and I
thought, and felt exactly as he does. The world was opening upon me
then, now--it is closing.'
'My dear sir, do not think so gloomily,' said Emily in a trembling
voice, 'I hope you have many, many years to live--for your own sake--
for MY sake.'
'Ah, my Emily!' replied St. Aubert, 'for thy sake! Well- I hope it
is so.' He wiped away a tear, that was stealing down his cheek,
threw a smile upon his countenance, and said in a cheering voice,
'there is something in the ardour and ingenuousness of youth, which
is particularly pleasing to the contemplation of an old man, if his
feelings have not been entirely corroded by the world. It is
cheering and reviving, like the view of spring to a sick person; his
mind catches somewhat of the spirit of the season, and his eyes are
lighted up with a transient sunshine. Valancourt is this spring to
me.'
Emily, who pressed her father's hand affectionately, had never before
listened with so much pleasure to the praises he bestowed; no, not
even when he had bestowed them on herself.
They travelled on, among vineyards, woods, and pastures, delighted
with the romantic beauty of the landscape, which was bounded, on one
side, by the grandeur of the Pyrenees, and, on the other, by the
ocean; and, soon after noon, they reached the town of Colioure,
situated on the Mediterranean. Here they dined, and rested till
towards the cool of day, when they pursued their way along the
shores--those enchanting shores!--which extend to Languedoc. Emily
gazed with enthusiasm on the vastness of the sea, its surface
varying, as the lights and shadows fell, and on its woody banks,
mellowed with autumnal tints.
St. Aubert was impatient to reach Perpignan, where he expected
letters from M. Quesnel; and it was the expectation of these letters,
that had induced him to leave Colioure, for his feeble frame had
required immediate rest. After travelling a few miles, he fell
asleep; and Emily, who had put two or three books into the carriage,
on leaving La Vallee, had now the leisure for looking into them. She
sought for one, in which Valancourt had been reading the day before,
and hoped for the pleasure of re-tracing a page, over which the eyes
of a beloved friend had lately passed, of dwelling on the passages,
which he had admired, and of permitting them to speak to her in the
language of his own mind, and to bring himself to her presence. On
searching for the book, she could find it no where, but in its stead
perceived a volume of Petrarch's poems, that had belonged to
Valancourt, whose name was written in it, and from which he had
frequently read passages to her, with all the pathetic expression,
that characterized the feelings of the author. She hesitated in
believing, what would have been sufficiently apparent to almost any
other person, that he had purposely left this book, instead of the
one she had lost, and that love had prompted the exchange; but,
having opened it with impatient pleasure, and observed the lines of
his pencil drawn along the various passages he had read aloud, and
under others more descriptive of delicate tenderness than he had
dared to trust his voice with, the conviction came, at length, to her
mind. For some moments she was conscious only of being beloved;
then, a recollection of all the variations of tone and countenance,
with which he had recited these sonnets, and of the soul, which spoke
in their expression, pressed to her memory, and she wept over the
memorial of his affection.
They arrived at Perpignan soon after sunset, where St. Aubert found,
as he had expected, letters from M. Quesnel, the contents of which so
evidently and grievously affected him, that Emily was alarmed, and
pressed him, as far as her delicacy would permit, to disclose the
occasion of his concern; but he answered her only by tears, and
immediately began to talk on other topics. Emily, though she forbore
to press the one most interesting to her, was greatly affected by her
father's manner, and passed a night of sleepless solicitude.
In the morning they pursued their journey along the coast towards
Leucate, another town on the Mediterranean, situated on the borders
of Languedoc and Rousillon. On the way, Emily renewed the subject of
the preceding night, and appeared so deeply affected by St. Aubert's
silence and dejection, that he relaxed from his reserve. 'I was
unwilling, my dear Emily,' said he, 'to throw a cloud over the
pleasure you receive from these scenes, and meant, therefore, to
conceal, for the present, some circumstances, with which, however,
you must at length have been made acquainted. But your anxiety has
defeated my purpose; you suffer as much from this, perhaps, as you
will do from a knowledge of the facts I have to relate. M. Quesnel's
visit proved an unhappy one to me; he came to tell me part of the
news he has now confirmed. You may have heard me mention a M.
Motteville, of Paris, but you did not know that the chief of my
personal property was invested in his hands. I had great confidence
in him, and I am yet willing to believe, that he is not wholly
unworthy of my esteem. A variety of circumstances have concurred to
ruin him, and--I am ruined with him.'
St. Aubert paused to conceal his emotion.
'The letters I have just received from M. Quesnel,' resumed he,
struggling to speak with firmness, 'enclosed others from Motteville,
which confirmed all I dreaded.'
'Must we then quit La Vallee?' said Emily, after a long pause of
silence. 'That is yet uncertain,' replied St. Aubert, 'it will
depend upon the compromise Motteville is able to make with his
creditors. My income, you know, was never large, and now it will be
reduced to little indeed! It is for you, Emily, for you, my child,
that I am most afflicted.' His last words faltered; Emily smiled
tenderly upon him through her tears, and then, endeavouring to
overcome her emotion, 'My dear father,' said she, 'do not grieve for
me, or for yourself; we may yet be happy;--if La Vallee remains for
us, we must be happy. We will retain only one servant, and you shall
scarcely perceive the change in your income. Be comforted, my dear
sir; we shall not feel the want of those luxuries, which others value
so highly, since we never had a taste for them; and poverty cannot
deprive us of many consolations. It cannot rob us of the affection
we have for each other, or degrade us in our own opinion, or in that
of any person, whose opinion we ought to value.'
St. Aubert concealed his face with his handkerchief, and was unable
to speak; but Emily continued to urge to her father the truths, which
himself had impressed upon her mind.
'Besides, my dear sir, poverty cannot deprive us of intellectual
delights. It cannot deprive you of the comfort of affording me
examples of fortitude and benevolence; nor me of the delight of
consoling a beloved parent. It cannot deaden our taste for the
grand, and the beautiful, or deny us the means of indulging it; for
the scenes of nature--those sublime spectacles, so infinitely
superior to all artificial luxuries! are open for the enjoyment of
the poor, as well as of the rich. Of what, then, have we to
complain, so long as we are not in want of necessaries? Pleasures,
such as wealth cannot buy, will still be ours. We retain, then, the
sublime luxuries of nature, and lose only the frivolous ones of art.'
St. Aubert could not reply: he caught Emily to his bosom, their
tears flowed together, but--they were not tears of sorrow. After
this language of the heart, all other would have been feeble, and
they remained silent for some time. Then, St. Aubert conversed as
before; for, if his mind had not recovered its natural tranquillity,
it at least assumed the appearance of it.
They reached the romantic town of Leucate early in the day, but St.
Aubert was weary, and they determined to pass the night there. In
the evening, he exerted himself so far as to walk with his daughter
to view the environs that overlook the lake of Leucate, the
Mediterranean, part of Rousillon, with the Pyrenees, and a wide
extent of the luxuriant province of Languedoc, now blushing with the
ripened vintage, which the peasants were beginning to gather. St.
Aubert and Emily saw the busy groups, caught the joyous song, that
was wafted on the breeze, and anticipated, with apparent pleasure,
their next day's journey over this gay region. He designed, however,
still to wind along the sea-shore. To return home immediately was
partly his wish, but from this he was withheld by a desire to
lengthen the pleasure, which the journey gave his daughter, and to
try the effect of the sea air on his own disorder.
On the following day, therefore, they recommenced their journey
through Languedoc, winding the shores of the Mediterranean; the
Pyrenees still forming the magnificent back-ground of their
prospects, while on their right was the ocean, and, on their left,
wide extended plains melting into the blue horizon. St. Aubert was
pleased, and conversed much with Emily, yet his cheerfulness was
sometimes artificial, and sometimes a shade of melancholy would steal
upon his countenance, and betray him. This was soon chased away by
Emily's smile; who smiled, however, with an aching heart, for she saw
that his misfortunes preyed upon his mind, and upon his enfeebled
frame.
It was evening when they reached a small village of Upper Languedoc,
where they meant to pass the night, but the place could not afford
them beds; for here, too, it was the time of the vintage, and they
were obliged to proceed to the next post. The languor of illness and
of fatigue, which returned upon St. Aubert, required immediate
repose, and the evening was now far advanced; but from necessity
there was no appeal, and he ordered Michael to proceed.
The rich plains of Languedoc, which exhibited all the glories of the
vintage, with the gaieties of a French festival, no longer awakened
St. Aubert to pleasure, whose condition formed a mournful contrast to
the hilarity and youthful beauty which surrounded him. As his
languid eyes moved over the scene, he considered, that they would
soon, perhaps, be closed for ever on this world. 'Those distant and
sublime mountains,' said he secretly, as he gazed on a chain of the
Pyrenees that stretched towards the west, 'these luxuriant plains,
this blue vault, the cheerful light of day, will be shut from my
eyes! The song of the peasant, the cheering voice of man--will no
longer sound for me!'
The intelligent eyes of Emily seemed to read what passed in the mind
of her father, and she fixed them on his face, with an expression of
such tender pity, as recalled his thoughts from every desultory
object of regret, and he remembered only, that he must leave his
daughter without protection. This reflection changed regret to
agony; he sighed deeply, and remained silent, while she seemed to
understand that sigh, for she pressed his hand affectionately, and
then turned to the window to conceal her tears. The sun now threw a
last yellow gleam on the waves of the Mediterranean, and the gloom of
twilight spread fast over the scene, till only a melancholy ray
appeared on the western horizon, marking the point where the sun had
set amid the vapours of an autumnal evening. A cool breeze now came
from the shore, and Emily let down the glass; but the air, which was
refreshing to health, was as chilling to sickness, and St. Aubert
desired, that the window might be drawn up. Increasing illness made
him now more anxious than ever to finish the day's journey, and he
stopped the muleteer to enquire how far they had yet to go to the
next post. He replied, 'Nine miles.' 'I feel I am unable to proceed
much further,' said St. Aubert; 'enquire, as you go, if there is any
house on the road that would accommodate us for the night.' He sunk
back in the carriage, and Michael, cracking his whip in the air, set
off, and continued on the full gallop, till St. Aubert, almost
fainting, called to him to stop. Emily looked anxiously from the
window, and saw a peasant walking at some little distance on the
road, for whom they waited, till he came up, when he was asked, if
there was any house in the neighbourhood that accommodated
travellers. He replied, that he knew of none. 'There is a chateau,
indeed, among those woods on the right,' added he, 'but I believe it
receives nobody, and I cannot show you the way, for I am almost a
stranger here.' St. Aubert was going to ask him some further
question concerning the chateau, but the man abruptly passed on.
After some consideration, he ordered Michael to proceed slowly to the
woods. Every moment now deepened the twilight, and increased the
difficulty of finding the road. Another peasant soon after passed.
'Which is the way to the chateau in the woods?' cried Michael.
'The chateau in the woods!' exclaimed the peasant--'Do you mean that
with the turret, yonder?'
'I don't know as for the turret, as you call it,' said Michael, 'I
mean that white piece of a building, that we see at a distance there,
among the trees.'
'Yes, that is the turret; why, who are you, that you are going
thither?' said the man with surprise.
St. Aubert, on hearing this odd question, and observing the peculiar
tone in which it was delivered, looked out from the carriage. 'We
are travellers,' said he, 'who are in search of a house of
accommodation for the night; is there any hereabout?'
'None, Monsieur, unless you have a mind to try your luck yonder,'
replied the peasant, pointing to the woods, 'but I would not advise
you to go there.'
'To whom does the chateau belong?'
'I scarcely know myself, Monsieur.'
'It is uninhabited, then?' 'No, not uninhabited; the steward and
housekeeper are there, I believe.'
On hearing this, St. Aubert determined to proceed to the chateau, and
risque the refusal of being accommodated for the night; he therefore
desired the countryman would shew Michael the way, and bade him
expect reward for his trouble. The man was for a moment silent, and
then said, that he was going on other business, but that the road
could not be missed, if they went up an avenue to the right, to which
he pointed. St. Aubert was going to speak, but the peasant wished
him good night, and walked on.
The carriage now moved towards the avenue, which was guarded by a
gate, and Michael having dismounted to open it, they entered between
rows of ancient oak and chesnut, whose intermingled branches formed a
lofty arch above. There was something so gloomy and desolate in the
appearance of this avenue, and its lonely silence, that Emily almost
shuddered as she passed along; and, recollecting the manner in which
the peasant had mentioned the chateau, she gave a mysterious meaning
to his words, such as she had not suspected when he uttered them.
These apprehensions, however, she tried to check, considering that
they were probably the effect of a melancholy imagination, which her
father's situation, and a consideration of her own circumstances, had
made sensible to every impression.
They passed slowly on, for they were now almost in darkness, which,
together with the unevenness of the ground, and the frequent roots of
old trees, that shot up above the soil, made it necessary to proceed
with caution. On a sudden Michael stopped the carriage; and, as St.
Aubert looked from the window to enquire the cause, he perceived a
figure at some distance moving up the avenue. The dusk would not
permit him to distinguish what it was, but he bade Michael go on.
'This seems a wild place,' said Michael; 'there is no house
hereabout, don't your honour think we had better turn back?'
'Go a little farther, and if we see no house then, we will return to
the road,' replied St. Aubert.
Michael proceeded with reluctance, and the extreme slowness of his
pace made St. Aubert look again from the window to hasten him, when
again he saw the same figure. He was somewhat startled: probably
the gloominess of the spot made him more liable to alarm than usual;
however this might be, he now stopped Michael, and bade him call to
the person in the avenue.
'Please your honour, he may be a robber,' said Michael. 'It does not
please me,' replied St. Aubert, who could not forbear smiling at the
simplicity of his phrase, 'and we will, therefore, return to the
road, for I see no probability of meeting here with what we seek.'
Michael turned about immediately, and was retracing his way with
alacrity, when a voice was heard from among the trees on the left.
It was not the voice of command, or distress, but a deep hollow tone,
which seemed to be scarcely human. The man whipped his mules till
they went as fast as possible, regardless of the darkness, the broken
ground, and the necks of the whole party, nor once stopped till he
reached the gate, which opened from the avenue into the high-road,
where he went into a more moderate pace.
'I am very ill,' said St. Aubert, taking his daughter's hand. 'You
are worse, then, sir!' said Emily, extremely alarmed by his manner,
'you are worse, and here is no assistance. Good God! what is to be
done!' He leaned his head on her shoulder, while she endeavoured to
support him with her arm, and Michael was again ordered to stop.
When the rattling of the wheels had ceased, music was heard on their
air; it was to Emily the voice of Hope. 'Oh! we are near some human
habitation!' said she, 'help may soon be had.'
She listened anxiously; the sounds were distant, and seemed to come
from a remote part of the woods that bordered the road; and, as she
looked towards the spot whence they issued, she perceived in the
faint moon-light something like a chateau. It was difficult,
however, to reach this; St. Aubert was now too ill to bear the motion
of the carriage; Michael could not quit his mules; and Emily, who
still supported her father, feared to leave him, and also feared to
venture alone to such a distance, she knew not whither, or to whom.
Something, however, it was necessary to determine upon immediately;
St. Aubert, therefore, told Michael to proceed slowly; but they had
not gone far, when he fainted, and the carriage was again stopped.
He lay quite senseless.--'My dear, dear father!' cried Emily in great
agony, who began to fear that he was dying, 'speak, if it is only one
word to let me hear the sound of your voice!' But no voice spoke in
reply. In the agony of terror she bade Michael bring water from the
rivulet, that flowed along the road; and, having received some in the
man's hat, with trembling hands she sprinkled it over her father's
face, which, as the moon's rays now fell upon it, seemed to bear the
impression of death. Every emotion of selfish fear now gave way to a
stronger influence, and, committing St. Aubert to the care of
Michael, who refused to go far from his mules, she stepped from the
carriage in search of the chateau she had seen at a distance. It was
a still moon-light night, and the music, which yet sounded on the
air, directed her steps from the high road, up a shadowy lane, that
led to the woods. Her mind was for some time so entirely occupied by
anxiety and terror for her father, that she felt none for herself,
till the deepening gloom of the overhanging foliage, which now wholly
excluded the moon-light, and the wildness of the place, recalled her
to a sense of her adventurous situation. The music had ceased, and
she had no guide but chance. For a moment she paused in terrified
perplexity, till a sense of her father's condition again overcoming
every consideration for herself, she proceeded. The lane terminated
in the woods, but she looked round in vain for a house, or a human
being, and as vainly listened for a sound to guide her. She hurried
on, however, not knowing whither, avoiding the recesses of the woods,
and endeavouring to keep along their margin, till a rude kind of
avenue, which opened upon a moon-light spot, arrested her attention.
The wildness of this avenue brought to her recollection the one
leading to the turreted chateau, and she was inclined to believe,
that this was a part of the same domain, and probably led to the same
point. While she hesitated, whether to follow it or not, a sound of
many voices in loud merriment burst upon her ear. It seemed not the
laugh of cheerfulness, but of riot, and she stood appalled. While
she paused, she heard a distant voice, calling from the way she had
come, and not doubting but it was that of Michael, her first impulse
was to hasten back; but a second thought changed her purpose; she
believed that nothing less than the last extremity could have
prevailed with Michael to quit his mules, and fearing that her father
was now dying, she rushed forward, with a feeble hope of obtaining
assistance from the people in the woods. Her heart beat with fearful
expectation, as she drew near the spot whence the voices issued, and
she often startled when her steps disturbed the fallen leaves. The
sounds led her towards the moon-light glade she had before noticed;
at a little distance from which she stopped, and saw, between the
boles of the trees, a small circular level of green turf, surrounded
by the woods, on which appeared a group of figures. On drawing
nearer, she distinguished these, by their dress, to be peasants, and
perceived several cottages scattered round the edge of the woods,
which waved loftily over this spot. While she gazed, and endeavoured
to overcome the apprehensions that withheld her steps, several
peasant girls came out of a cottage; music instantly struck up, and
the dance began. It was the joyous music of the vintage! the same
she had before heard upon the air. Her heart, occupied with terror
for her father, could not feel the contrast, which this gay scene
offered to her own distress; she stepped hastily forward towards a
group of elder peasants, who were seated at the door of a cottage,
and, having explained her situation, entreated their assistance.
Several of them rose with alacrity, and, offering any service in
their power, followed Emily, who seemed to move on the wind, as fast
as they could towards the road.
When she reached the carriage she found St. Aubert restored to
animation. On the recovery of his senses, having heard from Michael
whither his daughter was gone, anxiety for her overcame every regard
for himself, and he had sent him in search of her. He was, however,
still languid, and, perceiving himself unable to travel much farther,
he renewed his enquiries for an inn, and concerning the chateau in
the woods. 'The chateau cannot accommodate you, sir,' said a
venerable peasant who had followed Emily from the woods, 'it is
scarcely inhabited; but, if you will do me the honour to visit my
cottage, you shall be welcome to the best bed it affords.'
St. Aubert was himself a Frenchman; he therefore was not surprised at
French courtesy; but, ill as he was, he felt the value of the offer
enhanced by the manner which accompanied it. He had too much
delicacy to apologize, or to appear to hesitate about availing
himself of the peasant's hospitality, but immediately accepted it
with the same frankness with which it was offered.
The carriage again moved slowly on; Michael following the peasants up
the lane, which Emily had just quitted, till they came to the moon-
light glade. St. Aubert's spirits were so far restored by the
courtesy of his host, and the near prospect of repose, that he looked
with a sweet complacency upon the moon-light scene, surrounded by the
shadowy woods, through which, here and there, an opening admitted the
streaming splendour, discovering a cottage, or a sparkling rivulet.
He listened, with no painful emotion, to the merry notes of the
guitar and tamborine; and, though tears came to his eyes, when he saw
the debonnaire dance of the peasants, they were not merely tears of
mournful regret. With Emily it was otherwise; immediate terror for
her father had now subsided into a gentle melancholy, which every
note of joy, by awakening comparison, served to heighten.
The dance ceased on the approach of the carriage, which was a
phenomenon in these sequestered woods, and the peasantry flocked
round it with eager curiosity. On learning that it brought a sick
stranger, several girls ran across the turf, and returned with wine
and baskets of grapes, which they presented to the travellers, each
with kind contention pressing for a preference. At length, the
carriage stopped at a neat cottage, and his venerable conductor,
having assisted St. Aubert to alight, led him and Emily to a small
inner room, illuminated only by moon-beams, which the open casement
admitted. St. Aubert, rejoicing in rest, seated himself in an arm-
chair, and his senses were refreshed by the cool and balmy air, that
lightly waved the embowering honeysuckles, and wafted their sweet
breath into the apartment. His host, who was called La Voisin,
quitted the room, but soon returned with fruits, cream, and all the
pastoral luxury his cottage afforded; having set down which, with a
smile of unfeigned welcome, he retired behind the chair of his guest.
St. Aubert insisted on his taking a seat at the table, and, when the
fruit had allayed the fever of his palate, and he found himself
somewhat revived, he began to converse with his host, who
communicated several particulars concerning himself and his family,
which were interesting, because they were spoken from the heart, and
delineated a picture of the sweet courtesies of family kindness.
Emily sat by her father, holding his hand, and, while she listened to
the old man, her heart swelled with the affectionate sympathy he
described, and her tears fell to the mournful consideration, that
death would probably soon deprive her of the dearest blessing she
then possessed. The soft moon-light of an autumnal evening, and the
distant music, which now sounded a plaintive strain, aided the
melancholy of her mind. The old man continued to talk of his family,
and St. Aubert remained silent. 'I have only one daughter living,'
said La Voisin, 'but she is happily married, and is every thing to
me. When I lost my wife,' he added with a sigh, 'I came to live with
Agnes, and her family; she has several children, who are all dancing
on the green yonder, as merry as grasshoppers--and long may they be
so! I hope to die among them, monsieur. I am old now, and cannot
expect to live long, but there is some comfort in dying surrounded by
one's children.'
'My good friend,' said St. Aubert, while his voice trembled, 'I hope
you will long live surrounded by them.'
'Ah, sir! at my age I must not expect that!' replied the old man, and
he paused: 'I can scarcely wish it,' he resumed, 'for I trust that
whenever I die I shall go to heaven, where my poor wife is gone
before me. I can sometimes almost fancy I see her of a still moon-
light night, walking among these shades she loved so well. Do you
believe, monsieur, that we shall be permitted to revisit the earth,
after we have quitted the body?'
Emily could no longer stifle the anguish of her heart; her tears fell
fast upon her father's hand, which she yet held. He made an effort
to speak, and at length said in a low voice, 'I hope we shall be
permitted to look down on those we have left on the earth, but I can
only hope it. Futurity is much veiled from our eyes, and faith and
hope are our only guides concerning it. We are not enjoined to
believe, that disembodied spirits watch over the friends they have
loved, but we may innocently hope it. It is a hope which I will
never resign,' continued he, while he wiped the tears from his
daughter's eyes, 'it will sweeten the bitter moments of death!'
Tears fell slowly on his cheeks; La Voisin wept too, and there was a
pause of silence. Then, La Voisin, renewing the subject, said, 'But
you believe, sir, that we shall meet in another world the relations
we have loved in this; I must believe this.' 'Then do believe it,'
replied St. Aubert, 'severe, indeed, would be the pangs of
separation, if we believed it to be eternal. Look up, my dear Emily,
we shall meet again!' He lifted his eyes towards heaven, and a gleam
of moon-light, which fell upon his countenance, discovered peace and
resignation, stealing on the lines of sorrow.
La Voisin felt that he had pursued the subject too far, and he
dropped it, saying, 'We are in darkness, I forgot to bring a light.'
'No,' said St. Aubert, 'this is a light I love. Sit down, my good
friend. Emily, my love, I find myself better than I have been all
day; this air refreshes me. I can enjoy this tranquil hour, and that
music, which floats so sweetly at a distance. Let me see you smile.
Who touches that guitar so tastefully? are there two instruments, or
is it an echo I hear?'
'It is an echo, monsieur, I fancy. That guitar is often heard at
night, when all is still, but nobody knows who touches it, and it is
sometimes accompanied by a voice so sweet, and so sad, one would
almost think the woods were haunted.' 'They certainly are haunted,'
said St. Aubert with a smile, 'but I believe it is by mortals.' 'I
have sometimes heard it at midnight, when I could not sleep,'
rejoined La Voisin, not seeming to notice this remark, 'almost under
my window, and I never heard any music like it. It has often made me
think of my poor wife till I cried. I have sometimes got up to the
window to look if I could see anybody, but as soon as I opened the
casement all was hushed, and nobody to be seen; and I have listened,
and listened till I have been so timorous, that even the trembling of
the leaves in the breeze has made me start. They say it often comes
to warn people of their death, but I have heard it these many years,
and outlived the warning.'
Emily, though she smiled at the mention of this ridiculous
superstition, could not, in the present tone of her spirits, wholly
resist its contagion.
'Well, but, my good friend,' said St. Aubert, 'has nobody had courage
to follow the sounds? If they had, they would probably have
discovered who is the musician.' 'Yes, sir, they have followed them
some way into the woods, but the music has still retreated, and
seemed as distant as ever, and the people have at last been afraid of
being led into harm, and would go no further. It is very seldom that
I have heard these sounds so early in the evening. They usually come
about midnight, when that bright planet, which is rising above the
turret yonder, sets below the woods on the left.'
'What turret?' asked St. Aubert with quickness, 'I see none.'
'Your pardon, monsieur, you do see one indeed, for the moon shines
full upon it;--up the avenue yonder, a long way off; the chateau it
belongs to is hid among the trees.'
'Yes, my dear sir,' said Emily, pointing, 'don't you see something
glitter above the dark woods? It is a fane, I fancy, which the rays
fall upon.'
'O yes, I see what you mean; and who does the chateau belong to?'
'The Marquis de Villeroi was its owner,' replied La Voisin,
emphatically.
'Ah!' said St. Aubert, with a deep sigh, 'are we then so near Le-
Blanc!' He appeared much agitated.
'It used to be the Marquis's favourite residence,' resumed La Voisin,
'but he took a dislike to the place, and has not been there for many
years. We have heard lately that he is dead, and that it is fallen
into other hands.' St. Aubert, who had sat in deep musing, was
roused by the last words. 'Dead!' he exclaimed, 'Good God! when did
he die?'
'He is reported to have died about five weeks since,' replied La
Voisin. 'Did you know the Marquis, sir?'
'This is very extraordinary!' said St. Aubert without attending to
the question. 'Why is it so, my dear sir?' said Emily, in a voice of
timid curiosity. He made no reply, but sunk again into a reverie;
and in a few moments, when he seemed to have recovered himself, asked
who had succeeded to the estates. 'I have forgot his title,
monsieur,' said La Voisin; 'but my lord resides at Paris chiefly; I
hear no talk of his coming hither.'
'The chateau is shut up then, still?'
'Why, little better, sir; the old housekeeper, and her husband the
steward, have the care of it, but they live generally in a cottage
hard by.'
'The chateau is spacious, I suppose,' said Emily, 'and must be
desolate for the residence of only two persons.'
'Desolate enough, mademoiselle,' replied La Voisin, 'I would not pass
one night in the chateau, for the value of the whole domain.'
'What is that?' said St. Aubert, roused again from thoughtfulness.
As his host repeated his last sentence, a groan escaped from St.
Aubert, and then, as if anxious to prevent it from being noticed, he
hastily asked La Voisin how long he had lived in this neighbourhood.
'Almost from my childhood, sir,' replied his host.
'You remember the late marchioness, then?' said St. Aubert in an
altered voice.
'Ah, monsieur!--that I do well. There are many besides me who
remember her.'
'Yes--' said St. Aubert, 'and I am one of those.'
'Alas, sir! you remember, then, a most beautiful and excellent lady.
She deserved a better fate.'
Tears stood in St. Aubert's eyes; 'Enough,' said he, in a voice
almost stifled by the violence of his emotions,--'it is enough, my
friend.'
Emily, though extremely surprised by her father's manner, forbore to
express her feelings by any question. La Voisin began to apologize,
but St. Aubert interrupted him; 'Apology is quite unnecessary,' said
he, 'let us change the topic. You was speaking of the music we just
now heard.'
'I was, monsieur--but hark!--it comes again; listen to that voice!'
They were all silent;
At last a soft and solemn-breathing sound
Rose, like a stream of rich distilled perfumes,
And stole upon the air, that even Silence
Was took ere she was 'ware, and wished she might
Deny her nature, and be never more
Still, to be so displaced.*
*Milton.
In a few moments the voice died into air, and the instrument, which
had been heard before, sounded in low symphony. St. Aubert now
observed, that it produced a tone much more full and melodious than
that of a guitar, and still more melancholy and soft than the lute.
They continued to listen, but the sounds returned no more. 'This is
strange!' said St. Aubert, at length interrupting the silence. 'Very
strange!' said Emily. 'It is so,' rejoined La Voisin, and they were
again silent.
After a long pause, 'It is now about eighteen years since I first
heard that music,' said La Voisin; 'I remember it was on a fine
summer's night, much like this, but later, that I was walking in the
woods, and alone. I remember, too, that my spirits were very low,
for one of my boys was ill, and we feared we should lose him. I had
been watching at his bed-side all the evening while his mother slept;
for she had sat up with him the night before. I had been watching,
and went out for a little fresh air, the day had been very sultry.
As I walked under the shades and mused, I heard music at a distance,
and thought it was Claude playing upon his flute, as he often did of
a fine evening, at the cottage door. But, when I came to a place
where the trees opened, (I shall never forget it!) and stood looking
up at the north-lights, which shot up the heaven to a great height, I
heard all of a sudden such sounds!--they came so as I cannot
describe. It was like the music of angels, and I looked up again
almost expecting to see them in the sky. When I came home, I told
what I had heard, but they laughed at me, and said it must be some of
the shepherds playing on their pipes, and I could not persuade them
to the contrary. A few nights after, however, my wife herself heard
the same sounds, and was as much surprised as I was, and Father Denis
frightened her sadly by saying, that it was music come to warn her of
her child's death, and that music often came to houses where there
was a dying person.'
Emily, on hearing this, shrunk with a superstitious dread entirely
new to her, and could scarcely conceal her agitation from St. Aubert.
'But the boy lived, monsieur, in spite of Father Denis.'
'Father Denis!' said St. Aubert, who had listened to 'narrative old
age' with patient attention, 'are we near a convent, then?'
'Yes, sir; the convent of St. Clair stands at no great distance, on
the sea shore yonder.'
'Ah!' said St. Aubert, as if struck with some sudden remembrance,
'the convent of St. Clair!' Emily observed the clouds of grief,
mingled with a faint expression of horror, gathering on his brow; his
countenance became fixed, and, touched as it now was by the silver
whiteness of the moon-light, he resembled one of those marble statues
of a monument, which seem to bend, in hopeless sorrow, over the ashes
of the dead, shewn
by the blunted light
That the dim moon through painted casements lends.*
* The Emigrants.
'But, my dear sir,' said Emily, anxious to dissipate his thoughts,
'you forget that repose is necessary to you. If our kind host will
give me leave, I will prepare your bed, for I know how you like it to
be made.' St. Aubert, recollecting himself, and smiling
affectionately, desired she would not add to her fatigue by that
attention; and La Voisin, whose consideration for his guest had been
suspended by the interests which his own narrative had recalled, now
started from his seat, and, apologizing for not having called Agnes
from the green, hurried out of the room.
In a few moments he returned with his daughter, a young woman of
pleasing countenance, and Emily learned from her, what she had not
before suspected, that, for their accommodation, it was necessary
part of La Voisin's family should leave their beds; she lamented this
circumstance, but Agnes, by her reply, fully proved that she
inherited, at least, a share of her father's courteous hospitality.
It was settled, that some of her children and Michael should sleep in
the neighbouring cottage.
'If I am better, to-morrow, my dear,' said St. Aubert when Emily
returned to him, 'I mean to set out at an early hour, that we may
rest, during the heat of the day, and will travel towards home. In
the present state of my health and spirits I cannot look on a longer
journey with pleasure, and I am also very anxious to reach La
Vallee.' Emily, though she also desired to return, was grieved at
her father's sudden wish to do so, which she thought indicated a
greater degree of indisposition than he would acknowledge. St.
Aubert now retired to rest, and Emily to her little chamber, but not
to immediate repose. Her thoughts returned to the late conversation,
concerning the state of departed spirits; a subject, at this time,
particularly affecting to her, when she had every reason to believe
that her dear father would ere long be numbered with them. She
leaned pensively on the little open casement, and in deep thought
fixed her eyes on the heaven, whose blue unclouded concave was
studded thick with stars, the worlds, perhaps, of spirits, unsphered
of mortal mould. As her eyes wandered along the boundless aether,
her thoughts rose, as before, towards the sublimity of the Deity, and
to the contemplation of futurity. No busy note of this world
interrupted the course of her mind; the merry dance had ceased, and
every cottager had retired to his home. The still air seemed
scarcely to breathe upon the woods, and, now and then, the distant
sound of a solitary sheep-bell, or of a closing casement, was all
that broke on silence. At length, even this hint of human being was
heard no more. Elevated and enwrapt, while her eyes were often wet
with tears of sublime devotion and solemn awe, she continued at the
casement, till the gloom of mid-night hung over the earth, and the
planet, which La Voisin had pointed out, sunk below the woods. She
then recollected what he had said concerning this planet, and the
mysterious music; and, as she lingered at the window, half hoping and
half fearing that it would return, her mind was led to the
remembrance of the extreme emotion her father had shewn on mention of
the Marquis La Villeroi's death, and of the fate of the Marchioness,
and she felt strongly interested concerning the remote cause of this
emotion. Her surprise and curiosity were indeed the greater, because
she did not recollect ever to have heard him mention the name of
Villeroi.
No music, however, stole on the silence of the night, and Emily,
perceiving the lateness of the hour, returned to a scene of fatigue,
remembered that she was to rise early in the morning, and withdrew
from the window to repose.
CHAPTER VII
Let those deplore their doom,
Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn.
But lofty souls can look beyond the tomb,
Can smile at fate, and wonder how they mourn.
Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more return?
Is yonder wave the sun's eternal bed?--
Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn,
And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed,
Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead!
BEATTIE
Emily, called, as she had requested, at an early hour, awoke, little
refreshed by sleep, for uneasy dreams had pursued her, and marred the
kindest blessing of the unhappy. But, when she opened her casement,
looked out upon the woods, bright with the morning sun, and inspired
the pure air, her mind was soothed. The scene was filled with that
cheering freshness, which seems to breathe the very spirit of health,
and she heard only sweet and PICTURESQUE sounds, if such an
expression may be allowed--the matin-bell of a distant convent, the
faint murmur of the sea-waves, the song of birds, and the far-off low
of cattle, which she saw coming slowly on between the trunks of
trees. Struck with the circumstances of imagery around her, she
indulged the pensive tranquillity which they inspired; and while she
leaned on her window, waiting till St. Aubert should descend to
breakfast, her ideas arranged themselves in the following lines:
THE FIRST HOUR OF MORNING
How sweet to wind the forest's tangled shade,
When early twilight, from the eastern bound,
Dawns on the sleeping landscape in the glade,
And fades as morning spreads her blush around!
When ev'ry infant flower, that wept in night,
Lifts its chill head soft glowing with a tear,
Expands its tender blossom to the light,
And gives its incense to the genial air.
How fresh the breeze that wafts the rich perfume,
And swells the melody of waking birds;
The hum of bees, beneath the verdant gloom,
And woodman's song, and low of distant herds!
Then, doubtful gleams the mountain's hoary head,
Seen through the parting foliage from afar;
And, farther still, the ocean's misty bed,
With flitting sails, that partial sun-beams share.
But, vain the sylvan shade--the breath of May,
The voice of music floating on the gale,
And forms, that beam through morning's dewy veil,
If health no longer bid the heart be gay!
O balmy hour! 'tis thine her wealth to give,
Here spread her blush, and bid the parent live!
Emily now heard persons moving below in the cottage, and presently
the voice of Michael, who was talking to his mules, as he led them
forth from a hut adjoining. As she left her room, St. Aubert, who
was now risen, met her at the door, apparently as little restored by
sleep as herself. She led him down stairs to the little parlour, in
which they had supped on the preceding night, where they found a neat
breakfast set out, while the host and his daughter waited to bid them
good-morrow.
'I envy you this cottage, my good friends,' said St. Aubert, as he
met them, 'it is so pleasant, so quiet, and so neat; and this air,
that one breathes--if any thing could restore lost health, it would
surely be this air.'
La Voisin bowed gratefully, and replied, with the gallantry of a
Frenchman, 'Our cottage may be envied, sir, since you and
Mademoiselle have honoured it with your presence.' St. Aubert gave
him a friendly smile for his compliment, and sat down to a table,
spread with cream, fruit, new cheese, butter, and coffee. Emily, who
had observed her father with attention and thought he looked very
ill, endeavoured to persuade him to defer travelling till the
afternoon; but he seemed very anxious to be at home, and his anxiety
he expressed repeatedly, and with an earnestness that was unusual
with him. He now said, he found himself as well as he had been of
late, and that he could bear travelling better in the cool hour of
the morning, than at any other time. But, while he was talking with
his venerable host, and thanking him for his kind attentions, Emily
observed his countenance change, and, before she could reach him, he
fell back in his chair. In a few moments he recovered from the
sudden faintness that had come over him, but felt so ill, that he
perceived himself unable to set out, and, having remained a little
while, struggling against the pressure of indisposition, he begged he
might be helped up stairs to bed. This request renewed all the
terror which Emily had suffered on the preceding evening; but, though
scarcely able to support herself, under the sudden shock it gave her,
she tried to conceal her apprehensions from St. Aubert, and gave her
trembling arm to assist him to the door of his chamber.
When he was once more in bed, he desired that Emily, who was then
weeping in her own room, might be called; and, as she came, he waved
his hand for every other person to quit the apartment. When they
were alone, he held out his hand to her, and fixed his eyes upon her
countenance, with an expression so full of tenderness and grief, that
all her fortitude forsook her, and she burst into an agony of tears.
St. Aubert seemed struggling to acquire firmness, but was still
unable to speak; he could only press her hand, and check the tears
that stood trembling in his eyes. At length he commanded his voice,
'My dear child,' said he, trying to smile through his anguish, 'my
dear Emily!'--and paused again. He raised his eyes to heaven, as if
in prayer, and then, in a firmer tone, and with a look, in which the
tenderness of the father was dignified by the pious solemnity of the
saint, he said, "My dear child, I would soften the painful truth I
have to tell you, but I find myself quite unequal to the art. Alas!
I would, at this moment, conceal it from you, but that it would be
most cruel to deceive you. It cannot be long before we must part;
let us talk of it, that our thoughts and our prayers may prepare us
to bear it.' His voice faltered, while Emily, still weeping, pressed
his hand close to her heart, which swelled with a convulsive sigh,
but she could not look up.
'Let me not waste these moments,' said St. Aubert, recovering
himself, 'I have much to say. There is a circumstance of solemn
consequence, which I have to mention, and a solemn promise to obtain
from you; when this is done I shall be easier. You have observed, my
dear, how anxious I am to reach home, but know not all my reasons for
this. Listen to what I am going to say.--Yet stay--before I say more
give me this promise, a promise made to your dying father!'--St.
Aubert was interrupted; Emily, struck by his last words, as if for
the first time, with a conviction of his immediate danger, raised her
head; her tears stopped, and, gazing at him for a moment with an
expression of unutterable anguish, a slight convulsion seized her,
and she sunk senseless in her chair. St. Aubert's cries brought La
Voisin and his daughter to the room, and they administered every
means in their power to restore her, but, for a considerable time,
without effect. When she recovered, St. Aubert was so exhausted by
the scene he had witnessed, that it was many minutes before he had
strength to speak; he was, however, somewhat revived by a cordial,
which Emily gave him; and, being again alone with her, he exerted
himself to tranquilize her spirits, and to offer her all the comfort
of which her situation admitted. She threw herself into his arms,
wept on his neck, and grief made her so insensible to all he said,
that he ceased to offer the alleviations, which he himself could not,
at this moment, feel, and mingled his silent tears with hers.
Recalled, at length, to a sense of duty, she tried to spare her
father from a farther view of her suffering; and, quitting his
embrace, dried her tears, and said something, which she meant for
consolation. 'My dear Emily,' replied St. Aubert, 'my dear child, we
must look up with humble confidence to that Being, who has protected
and comforted us in every danger, and in every affliction we have
known; to whose eye every moment of our lives has been exposed; he
will not, he does not, forsake us now; I feel his consolations in my
heart. I shall leave you, my child, still in his care; and, though I
depart from this world, I shall be still in his presence. Nay, weep
not again, my Emily. In death there is nothing new, or surprising,
since we all know, that we are born to die; and nothing terrible to
those, who can confide in an all-powerful God. Had my life been
spared now, after a very few years, in the course of nature, I must
have resigned it; old age, with all its train of infirmity, its
privations and its sorrows, would have been mine; and then, at last,
death would have come, and called forth the tears you now shed.
Rather, my child, rejoice, that I am saved from such suffering, and
that I am permitted to die with a mind unimpaired, and sensible of
the comforts of faith and resignation.' St. Aubert paused, fatigued
with speaking. Emily again endeavoured to assume an air of
composure; and, in replying to what he had said, tried to sooth him
with a belief, that he had not spoken in vain.
When he had reposed a while, he resumed the conversation. 'Let me
return,' said he, 'to a subject, which is very near my heart. I said
I had a solemn promise to receive from you; let me receive it now,
before I explain the chief circumstance which it concerns; there are
others, of which your peace requires that you should rest in
ignorance. Promise, then, that you will perform exactly what I shall
enjoin.'
Emily, awed by the earnest solemnity of his manner, dried her tears,
that had begun again to flow, in spite of her efforts to suppress
them; and, looking eloquently at St. Aubert, bound herself to do
whatever he should require by a vow, at which she shuddered, yet knew
not why.
He proceeded: 'I know you too well, my Emily, to believe, that you
would break any promise, much less one thus solemnly given; your
assurance gives me peace, and the observance of it is of the utmost
importance to your tranquillity. Hear, then, what I am going to tell
you. The closet, which adjoins my chamber at La Vallee, has a
sliding board in the floor. You will know it by a remarkable knot in
the wood, and by its being the next board, except one, to the
wainscot, which fronts the door. At the distance of about a yard
from that end, nearer the window, you will perceive a line across it,
as if the plank had been joined;--the way to open it is this:--Press
your foot upon the line; the end of the board will then sink, and you
may slide it with ease beneath the other. Below, you will see a
hollow place.' St. Aubert paused for breath, and Emily sat fixed in
deep attention. 'Do you understand these directions, my dear?' said
he. Emily, though scarcely able to speak, assured him that she did.
'When you return home, then,' he added with a deep sigh--
At the mention of her return home, all the melancholy circumstances,
that must attend this return, rushed upon her fancy; she burst into
convulsive grief, and St. Aubert himself, affected beyond the
resistance of the fortitude which he had, at first, summoned, wept
with her. After some moments, he composed himself. 'My dear child,'
said he, 'be comforted. When I am gone, you will not be forsaken--I
leave you only in the more immediate care of that Providence, which
has never yet forsaken me. Do not afflict me with this excess of
grief; rather teach me by your example to bear my own.' He stopped
again, and Emily, the more she endeavoured to restrain her emotion,
found it the less possible to do so.
St. Aubert, who now spoke with pain, resumed the subject. 'That
closet, my dear,--when you return home, go to it; and, beneath the
board I have described, you will find a packet of written papers.
Attend to me now, for the promise you have given particularly relates
to what I shall direct. These papers you must burn--and, solemnly I
command you, WITHOUT EXAMINING THEM.'
Emily's surprise, for a moment, overcame her grief, and she ventured
to ask, why this must be? St. Aubert replied, that, if it had been
right for him to explain his reasons, her late promise would have
been unnecessarily exacted. 'It is sufficient for you, my love, to
have a deep sense of the importance of observing me in this
instance.' St. Aubert proceeded. 'Under that board you will also
find about two hundred louis d'ors, wrapped in a silk purse; indeed,
it was to secure whatever money might be in the chateau, that this
secret place was contrived, at a time when the province was over-run
by troops of men, who took advantage of the tumults, and became
plunderers.
'But I have yet another promise to receive from you, which is--that
you will never, whatever may be your future circumstances, SELL the
chateau.' St. Aubert even enjoined her, whenever she might marry, to
make it an article in the contract, that the chateau should always be
hers. He then gave her a more minute account of his present
circumstances than he had yet done, adding, 'The two hundred louis,
with what money you will now find in my purse, is all the ready money
I have to leave you. I have told you how I am circumstanced with M.
Motteville, at Paris. Ah, my child! I leave you poor--but not
destitute,' he added, after a long pause. Emily could make no reply
to any thing he now said, but knelt at the bed-side, with her face
upon the quilt, weeping over the hand she held there.
After this conversation, the mind of St. Aubert appeared to be much
more at ease; but, exhausted by the effort of speaking, he sunk into
a kind of doze, and Emily continued to watch and weep beside him,
till a gentle tap at the chamber-door roused her. It was La Voisin,
come to say, that a confessor from the neighbouring convent was
below, ready to attend St. Aubert. Emily would not suffer her father
to be disturbed, but desired, that the priest might not leave the
cottage. When St. Aubert awoke from this doze, his senses were
confused, and it was some moments before he recovered them
sufficiently to know, that it was Emily who sat beside him. He then
moved his lips, and stretched forth his hand to her; as she received
which, she sunk back in her chair, overcome by the impression of
death on his countenance. In a few minutes he recovered his voice,
and Emily then asked, if he wished to see the confessor; he replied,
that he did; and, when the holy father appeared, she withdrew. They
remained alone together above half an hour; when Emily was called in,
she found St. Aubert more agitated than when she had left him, and
she gazed, with a slight degree of resentment, at the friar, as the
cause of this; who, however, looked mildly and mournfully at her, and
turned away. St. Aubert, in a tremulous voice, said, he wished her
to join in prayer with him, and asked if La Voisin would do so too.
The old man and his daughter came; they both wept, and knelt with
Emily round the bed, while the holy father read in a solemn voice the
service for the dying. St. Aubert lay with a serene countenance, and
seemed to join fervently in the devotion, while tears often stole
from beneath his closed eyelids, and Emily's sobs more than once
interrupted the service.
When it was concluded, and extreme unction had been administered, the
friar withdrew. St. Aubert then made a sign for La Voisin to come
nearer. He gave him his hand, and was, for a moment, silent. At
length, he said, in a trembling voice, 'My good friend, our
acquaintance has been short, but long enough to give you an
opportunity of shewing me much kind attention. I cannot doubt, that
you will extend this kindness to my daughter, when I am gone; she
will have need of it. I entrust her to your care during the few days
she will remain here. I need say no more--you know the feelings of a
father, for you have children; mine would be, indeed, severe if I had
less confidence in you.' He paused. La Voisin assured him, and his
tears bore testimony to his sincerity, that he would do all he could
to soften her affliction, and that, if St. Aubert wished it, he would
even attend her into Gascony; an offer so pleasing to St. Aubert,
that he had scarcely words to acknowledge his sense of the old man's
kindness, or to tell him, that he accepted it. The scene, that
followed between St. Aubert and Emily, affected La Voisin so much,
that he quitted the chamber, and she was again left alone with her
father, whose spirits seemed fainting fast, but neither his senses,
or his voice, yet failed him; and, at intervals, he employed much of
these last awful moments in advising his daughter, as to her future
conduct. Perhaps, he never had thought more justly, or expressed
himself more clearly, than he did now.
'Above all, my dear Emily,' said he, 'do not indulge in the pride of
fine feeling, the romantic error of amiable minds. Those, who really
possess sensibility, ought early to be taught, that it is a dangerous
quality, which is continually extracting the excess of misery, or
delight, from every surrounding circumstance. And, since, in our
passage through this world, painful circumstances occur more
frequently than pleasing ones, and since our sense of evil is, I
fear, more acute than our sense of good, we become the victims of our
feelings, unless we can in some degree command them. I know you will
say, (for you are young, my Emily) I know you will say, that you are
contented sometimes to suffer, rather than to give up your refined
sense of happiness, at others; but, when your mind has been long
harassed by vicissitude, you will be content to rest, and you will
then recover from your delusion. You will perceive, that the phantom
of happiness is exchanged for the substance; for happiness arises in
a state of peace, not of tumult. It is of a temperate and uniform
nature, and can no more exist in a heart, that is continually alive
to minute circumstances, than in one that is dead to feeling. You
see, my dear, that, though I would guard you against the dangers of
sensibility, I am not an advocate for apathy. At your age I should
have said THAT is a vice more hateful than all the errors of
sensibility, and I say so still. I call it a VICE, because it leads
to positive evil; in this, however, it does no more than an ill-
governed sensibility, which, by such a rule, might also be called a
vice; but the evil of the former is of more general consequence. I
have exhausted myself,' said St. Aubert, feebly, 'and have wearied
you, my Emily; but, on a subject so important to your future comfort,
I am anxious to be perfectly understood.'
Emily assured him, that his advice was most precious to her, and that
she would never forget it, or cease from endeavouring to profit by
it. St. Aubert smiled affectionately and sorrowfully upon her. 'I
repeat it,' said he, 'I would not teach you to become insensible, if
I could; I would only warn you of the evils of susceptibility, and
point out how you may avoid them. Beware, my love, I conjure you, of
that self-delusion, which has been fatal to the peace of so many
persons; beware of priding yourself on the gracefulness of
sensibility; if you yield to this vanity, your happiness is lost for
ever. Always remember how much more valuable is the strength of
fortitude, than the grace of sensibility. Do not, however, confound
fortitude with apathy; apathy cannot know the virtue. Remember, too,
that one act of beneficence, one act of real usefulness, is worth all
the abstract sentiment in the world. Sentiment is a disgrace,
instead of an ornament, unless it lead us to good actions. The
miser, who thinks himself respectable, merely because he possesses
wealth, and thus mistakes the means of doing good, for the actual
accomplishment of it, is not more blameable than the man of
sentiment, without active virtue. You may have observed persons, who
delight so much in this sort of sensibility to sentiment, which
excludes that to the calls of any practical virtue, that they turn
from the distressed, and, because their sufferings are painful to be
contemplated, do not endeavour to relieve them. How despicable is
that humanity, which can be contented to pity, where it might
assuage!'
St. Aubert, some time after, spoke of Madame Cheron, his sister.
'Let me inform you of a circumstance, that nearly affects your
welfare,' he added. 'We have, you know, had little intercourse for
some years, but, as she is now your only female relation, I have
thought it proper to consign you to her care, as you will see in my
will, till you are of age, and to recommend you to her protection
afterwards. She is not exactly the person, to whom I would have
committed my Emily, but I had no alternative, and I believe her to be
upon the whole--a good kind of woman. I need not recommend it to
your prudence, my love, to endeavour to conciliate her kindness; you
will do this for his sake, who has often wished to do so for yours.'
Emily assured him, that, whatever he requested she would religiously
perform to the utmost of her ability. 'Alas!' added she, in a voice
interrupted by sighs, 'that will soon be all which remains for me; it
will be almost my only consolation to fulfil your wishes.'
St. Aubert looked up silently in her face, as if would have spoken,
but his spirit sunk a while, and his eyes became heavy and dull. She
felt that look at her heart. 'My dear father!' she exclaimed; and
then, checking herself, pressed his hand closer, and hid her face
with her handkerchief. Her tears were concealed, but St. Aubert
heard her convulsive sobs. His spirits returned. 'O my child!' said
he, faintly, 'let my consolations be yours. I die in peace; for I
know, that I am about to return to the bosom of my Father, who will
still be your Father, when I am gone. Always trust in him, my love,
and he will support you in these moments, as he supports me.'
Emily could only listen, and weep; but the extreme composure of his
manner, and the faith and hope he expressed, somewhat soothed her
anguish. Yet, whenever she looked upon his emaciated countenance,
and saw the lines of death beginning to prevail over it--saw his sunk
eyes, still bent on her, and their heavy lids pressing to a close,
there was a pang in her heart, such as defied expression, though it
required filial virtue, like hers, to forbear the attempt.
He desired once more to bless her; 'Where are you, my dear?' said he,
as he stretched forth his hands. Emily had turned to the window,
that he might not perceive her anguish; she now understood, that his
sight had failed him. When he had given her his blessing, and it
seemed to be the last effort of expiring life, he sunk back on his
pillow. She kissed his forehead; the damps of death had settled
there, and, forgetting her fortitude for a moment, her tears mingled
with them. St. Aubert lifted up his eyes; the spirit of a father
returned to them, but it quickly vanished, and he spoke no more.
St. Aubert lingered till about three o'clock in the afternoon, and,
thus gradually sinking into death, he expired without a struggle, or
a sigh.
Emily was led from the chamber by La Voisin and his daughter, who did
what they could to comfort her. The old man sat and wept with her.
Agnes was more erroneously officious.
CHAPTER VIII
O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,
Aerial forms shall sit at eve,
and bend the pensive head.
COLLINS
The monk, who had before appeared, returned in the evening to offer
consolation to Emily, and brought a kind message from the lady
abbess, inviting her to the convent. Emily, though she did not
accept the offer, returned an answer expressive of her gratitude.
The holy conversation of the friar, whose mild benevolence of manners
bore some resemblance to those of St. Aubert, soothed the violence of
her grief, and lifted her heart to the Being, who, extending through
all place and all eternity, looks on the events of this little world
as on the shadows of a moment, and beholds equally, and in the same
instant, the soul that has passed the gates of death, and that, which
still lingers in the body. 'In the sight of God,' said Emily, 'my
dear father now exists, as truly as he yesterday existed to me; it is
to me only that he is dead; to God and to himself he yet lives!'
The good monk left her more tranquil than she had been since St.
Aubert died; and, before she retired to her little cabin for the
night, she trusted herself so far as to visit the corpse. Silent,
and without weeping, she stood by its side. The features, placid and
serene, told the nature of the last sensations, that had lingered in
the now deserted frame. For a moment she turned away, in horror of
the stillness in which death had fixed that countenance, never till
now seen otherwise than animated; then gazed on it with a mixture of
doubt and awful astonishment. Her reason could scarcely overcome an
involuntary and unaccountable expectation of seeing that beloved
countenance still susceptible. She continued to gaze wildly; took up
the cold hand; spoke; still gazed, and then burst into a transport of
grief. La Voisin, hearing her sobs, came into the room to lead her
away, but she heard nothing, and only begged that he would leave her.
Again alone, she indulged her tears, and, when the gloom of evening
obscured the chamber, and almost veiled from her eyes the object of
her distress, she still hung over the body; till her spirits, at
length, were exhausted, and she became tranquil. La Voisin again
knocked at the door, and entreated that she would come to the common
apartment. Before she went, she kissed the lips of St. Aubert, as
she was wont to do when she bade him good night. Again she kissed
them; her heart felt as if it would break, a few tears of agony
started to her eyes, she looked up to heaven, then at St. Aubert, and
left the room.
Retired to her lonely cabin, her melancholy thoughts still hovered
round the body of her deceased parent; and, when she sunk into a kind
of slumber, the images of her waking mind still haunted her fancy.
She thought she saw her father approaching her with a benign
countenance; then, smiling mournfully and pointing upwards, his lips
moved, but, instead of words, she heard sweet music borne on the
distant air, and presently saw his features glow with the mild
rapture of a superior being. The strain seemed to swell louder, and
she awoke. The vision was gone, but music yet came to her ear in
strains such as angels might breathe. She doubted, listened, raised
herself in the bed, and again listened. It was music, and not an
illusion of her imagination. After a solemn steady harmony, it
paused; then rose again, in mournful sweetness, and then died, in a
cadence, that seemed to bear away the listening soul to heaven. She
instantly remembered the music of the preceding night, with the
strange circumstances, related by La Voisin, and the affecting
conversation it had led to, concerning the state of departed spirits.
All that St. Aubert had said, on that subject, now pressed upon her
heart, and overwhelmed it. What a change in a few hours! He, who
then could only conjecture, was now made acquainted with truth; was
himself become one of the departed! As she listened, she was chilled
with superstitious awe, her tears stopped; and she rose, and went to
the window. All without was obscured in shade; but Emily, turning
her eyes from the massy darkness of the woods, whose waving outline
appeared on the horizon, saw, on the left, that effulgent planet,
which the old man had pointed out, setting over the woods. She
remembered what he had said concerning it, and, the music now coming
at intervals on the air, she unclosed the casement to listen to the
strains, that soon gradually sunk to a greater distance, and tried to
discover whence they came. The obscurity prevented her from
distinguishing any object on the green platform below; and the sounds
became fainter and fainter, till they softened into silence. She
listened, but they returned no more. Soon after, she observed the
planet trembling between the fringed tops of the woods, and, in the
next moment, sink behind them. Chilled with a melancholy awe, she
retired once more to her bed, and, at length, forgot for a while her
sorrows in sleep.
On the following morning, she was visited by a sister of the convent,
who came, with kind offices and a second invitation from the lady
abbess; and Emily, though she could not forsake the cottage, while
the remains of her father were in it, consented, however painful such
a visit must be, in the present state of her spirits, to pay her
respects to the abbess, in the evening.
About an hour before sun-set, La Voisin shewed her the way through
the woods to the convent, which stood in a small bay of the
Mediterranean, crowned by a woody amphitheatre; and Emily, had she
been less unhappy, would have admired the extensive sea view, that
appeared from the green slope, in front of the edifice, and the rich
shores, hung with woods and pastures, that extended on either hand.
But her thoughts were now occupied by one sad idea, and the features
of nature were to her colourless and without form. The bell for
vespers struck, as she passed the ancient gate of the convent, and
seemed the funereal note for St. Aubert. Little incidents affect a
mind, enervated by sorrow; Emily struggled against the sickening
faintness, that came over her, and was led into the presence of the
abbess, who received her with an air of maternal tenderness; an air
of such gentle solicitude and consideration, as touched her with an
instantaneous gratitude; her eyes were filled with tears, and the
words she would have spoken faltered on her lips. The abbess led her
to a seat, and sat down beside her, still holding her hand and
regarding her in silence, as Emily dried her tears and attempted to
speak. 'Be composed, my daughter,' said the abbess in a soothing
voice, 'do not speak yet; I know all you would say. Your spirits
must be soothed. We are going to prayers;--will you attend our
evening service? It is comfortable, my child, to look up in our
afflictions to a father, who sees and pities us, and who chastens in
his mercy.'
Emily's tears flowed again, but a thousand sweet emotions mingled
with them. The abbess suffered her to weep without interruption, and
watched over her with a look of benignity, that might have
characterized the countenance of a guardian angel. Emily, when she
became tranquil, was encouraged to speak without reserve, and to
mention the motive, that made her unwilling to quit the cottage,
which the abbess did not oppose even by a hint; but praised the
filial piety of her conduct, and added a hope, that she would pass a
few days at the convent, before she returned to La Vallee. 'You must
allow yourself a little time to recover from your first shock, my
daughter, before you encounter a second; I will not affect to conceal
from you how much I know your heart must suffer, on returning to the
scene of your former happiness. Here, you will have all, that quiet
and sympathy and religion can give, to restore your spirits. But
come,' added she, observing the tears swell in Emily's eyes, 'we will
go to the chapel.'
Emily followed to the parlour, where the nuns were assembled, to whom
the abbess committed her, saying, 'This is a daughter, for whom I
have much esteem; be sisters to her.'
They passed on in a train to the chapel, where the solemn devotion,
with which the service was performed, elevated her mind, and brought
to it the comforts of faith and resignation.
Twilight came on, before the abbess's kindness would suffer Emily to
depart, when she left the convent, with a heart much lighter than she
had entered it, and was reconducted by La Voisin through the woods,
the pensive gloom of which was in unison with the temper of her mind;
and she pursued the little wild path, in musing silence, till her
guide suddenly stopped, looked round, and then struck out of the path
into the high grass, saying he had mistaken the road. He now walked
on quickly, and Emily, proceeding with difficulty over the obscured
and uneven ground, was left at some distance, till her voice arrested
him, who seemed unwilling to stop, and still hurried on. 'If you are
in doubt about the way,' said Emily, 'had we not better enquire it at
the chateau yonder, between the trees?'
'No,' replied La Voisin, 'there is no occasion. When we reach that
brook, ma'amselle, (you see the light upon the water there, beyond
the woods) when we reach that brook, we shall be at home presently.
I don't know how I happened to mistake the path; I seldom come this
way after sun-set.'
'It is solitary enough,' said Emily, 'but you have no banditti here.'
'No, ma'amselle--no banditti.'
'what are you afraid of then, my good friend? you are not
superstitious?' 'No, not superstitious; but, to tell you the truth,
lady, nobody likes to go near that chateau, after dusk.' 'By whom is
it inhabited,' said Emily, 'that it is so formidable?' 'Why,
ma'amselle, it is scarcely inhabited, for our lord the Marquis, and
the lord of all these find woods, too, is dead. He had not once been
in it, for these many years, and his people, who have the care of it,
live in a cottage close by.' Emily now understood this to be the
chateau, which La Voisin had formerly pointed out, as having belonged
to the Marquis Villeroi, on the mention of which her father had
appeared so much affected.
'Ah! it is a desolate place now,' continued La Voisin, 'and such a
grand, fine place, as I remember it!' Emily enquired what had
occasioned this lamentable change; but the old man was silent, and
Emily, whose interest was awakened by the fear he had expressed, and
above all by a recollection of her father's agitation, repeated the
question, and added, 'If you are neither afraid of the inhabitants,
my good friend, nor are superstitious, how happens it, that you dread
to pass near that chateau in the dark?'
'Perhaps, then, I am a little superstitious, ma'amselle; and, if you
knew what I do, you might be so too. Strange things have happened
there. Monsieur, your good father, appeared to have known the late
Marchioness.' 'Pray inform me what did happen?' said Emily, with much
emotion.
'Alas! ma'amselle,' answered La Voisin, 'enquire no further; it is
not for me to lay open the domestic secrets of my lord.'--Emily,
surprised by the old man's words, and his manner of delivering them,
forbore to repeat her question; a nearer interest, the remembrance of
St. Aubert, occupied her thoughts, and she was led to recollect the
music she heard on the preceding night, which she mentioned to La
Voisin. 'You was not alone, ma'amselle, in this,' he replied, 'I
heard it too; but I have so often heard it, at the same hour, that I
was scarcely surprised.'
'You doubtless believe this music to have some connection with the
chateau,' said Emily suddenly, 'and are, therefore, superstitious.'
'It may be so, ma'amselle, but there are other circumstances,
belonging to that chateau, which I remember, and sadly too.' A heavy
sigh followed: but Emily's delicacy restrained the curiosity these
words revived, and she enquired no further.
On reaching the cottage, all the violence of her grief returned; it
seemed as if she had escaped its heavy pressure only while she was
removed from the object of it. She passed immediately to the
chamber, where the remains of her father were laid, and yielded to
all the anguish of hopeless grief. La Voisin, at length, persuaded
her to leave the room, and she returned to her own, where, exhausted
by the sufferings of the day, she soon fell into deep sleep, and
awoke considerably refreshed.
When the dreadful hour arrived, in which the remains of St. Aubert
were to be taken from her for ever, she went alone to the chamber to
look upon his countenance yet once again, and La Voisin, who had
waited patiently below stairs, till her despair should subside, with
the respect due to grief, forbore to interrupt the indulgence of it,
till surprise, at the length of her stay, and then apprehension
overcame his delicacy, and he went to lead her from the chamber.
Having tapped gently at the door, without receiving an answer, he
listened attentively, but all was still; no sigh, no sob of anguish
was heard. Yet more alarmed by this silence, he opened the door, and
found Emily lying senseless across the foot of the bed, near which
stood the coffin. His calls procured assistance, and she was carried
to her room, where proper applications, at length, restored her.
During her state of insensibility, La Voisin had given directions for
the coffin to be closed, and he succeeded in persuading Emily to
forbear revisiting the chamber. She, indeed, felt herself unequal to
this, and also perceived the necessity of sparing her spirits, and
recollecting fortitude sufficient to bear her through the approaching
scene. St. Aubert had given a particular injunction, that his
remains should be interred in the church of the convent of St. Clair,
and, in mentioning the north chancel, near the ancient tomb of the
Villerois, had pointed out the exact spot, where he wished to be
laid. The superior had granted this place for the interment, and
thither, therefore, the sad procession now moved, which was met, at
the gates, by the venerable priest, followed by a train of friars.
Every person, who heard the solemn chant of the anthem, and the peal
of the organ, that struck up, when the body entered the church, and
saw also the feeble steps, and the assumed tranquillity of Emily,
gave her involuntary tears. She shed none, but walked, her face
partly shaded by a thin black veil, between two persons, who
supported her, preceded by the abbess, and followed by nuns, whose
plaintive voices mellowed the swelling harmony of the dirge. When
the procession came to the grave the music ceased. Emily drew the
veil entirely over her face, and, in a momentary pause, between the
anthem and the rest of the service, her sobs were distinctly audible.
The holy father began the service, and Emily again commanded her
feelings, till the coffin was let down, and she heard the earth
rattle on its lid. Then, as she shuddered, a groan burst from her
heart, and she leaned for support on the person who stood next to
her. In a few moments she recovered; and, when she heard those
affecting and sublime words: 'His body is buried in peace, and his
soul returns to Him that gave it,' her anguish softened into tears.
The abbess led her from the church into her own parlour, and there
administered all the consolations, that religion and gentle sympathy
can give. Emily struggled against the pressure of grief; but the
abbess, observing her attentively, ordered a bed to be prepared, and
recommended her to retire to repose. She also kindly claimed her
promise to remain a few days at the convent; and Emily, who had no
wish to return to the cottage, the scene of all her sufferings, had
leisure, now that no immediate care pressed upon her attention, to
feel the indisposition, which disabled her from immediately
travelling.
Meanwhile, the maternal kindness of the abbess, and the gentle
attentions of the nuns did all, that was possible, towards soothing
her spirits and restoring her health. But the latter was too deeply
wounded, through the medium of her mind, to be quickly revived. She
lingered for some weeks at the convent, under the influence of a slow
fever, wishing to return home, yet unable to go thither; often even
reluctant to leave the spot where her father's relics were deposited,
and sometimes soothing herself with the consideration, that, if she
died here, her remains would repose beside those of St. Aubert. In
the meanwhile, she sent letters to Madame Cheron and to the old
housekeeper, informing them of the sad event, that had taken place,
and of her own situation. From her aunt she received an answer,
abounding more in common-place condolement, than in traits of real
sorrow, which assured her, that a servant should be sent to conduct
her to La Vallee, for that her own time was so much occupied by
company, that she had no leisure to undertake so long a journey.
However Emily might prefer La Vallee to Tholouse, she could not be
insensible to the indecorous and unkind conduct of her aunt, in
suffering her to return thither, where she had no longer a relation
to console and protect her; a conduct, which was the more culpable,
since St. Aubert had appointed Madame Cheron the guardian of his
orphan daughter.
Madame Cheron's servant made the attendance of the good La Voisin
unnecessary; and Emily, who felt sensibly her obligations to him, for
all his kind attention to her late father, as well as to herself, was
glad to spare him a long, and what, at his time of life, must have
been a troublesome journey.
During her stay at the convent, the peace and sanctity that reigned
within, the tranquil beauty of the scenery without, and the delicate
attentions of the abbess and the nuns, were circumstances so soothing
to her mind, that they almost tempted her to leave a world, where she
had lost her dearest friends, and devote herself to the cloister, in
a spot, rendered sacred to her by containing the tomb of St. Aubert.
The pensive enthusiasm, too, so natural to her temper, had spread a
beautiful illusion over the sanctified retirement of a nun, that
almost hid from her view the selfishness of its security. But the
touches, which a melancholy fancy, slightly tinctured with
superstition, gave to the monastic scene, began to fade, as her
spirits revived, and brought once more to her heart an image, which
had only transiently been banished thence. By this she was silently
awakened to hope and comfort and sweet affections; visions of
happiness gleamed faintly at a distance, and, though she knew them to
be illusions, she could not resolve to shut them out for ever. It
was the remembrance of Valancourt, of his taste, his genius, and of
the countenance which glowed with both, that, perhaps, alone
determined her to return to the world. The grandeur and sublimity of
the scenes, amidst which they had first met, had fascinated her
fancy, and had imperceptibly contributed to render Valancourt more
interesting by seeming to communicate to him somewhat of their own
character. The esteem, too, which St. Aubert had repeatedly
expressed for him, sanctioned this kindness; but, though his
countenance and manner had continually expressed his admiration of
her, he had not otherwise declared it; and even the hope of seeing
him again was so distant, that she was scarcely conscious of it,
still less that it influenced her conduct on this occasion.
It was several days after the arrival of Madame Cheron's servant
before Emily was sufficiently recovered to undertake the journey to
La Vallee. On the evening preceding her departure, she went to the
cottage to take leave of La Voisin and his family, and to make them a
return for their kindness. The old man she found sitting on a bench
at his door, between his daughter, and his son-in-law, who was just
returned from his daily labour, and who was playing upon a pipe,
that, in tone, resembled an oboe. A flask of wine stood beside the
old man, and, before him, a small table with fruit and bread, round
which stood several of his grandsons, fine rosy children, who were
taking their supper, as their mother distributed it. On the edge of
the little green, that spread before the cottage, were cattle and a
few sheep reposing under the trees. The landscape was touched with
the mellow light of the evening sun, whose long slanting beams played
through a vista of the woods, and lighted up the distant turrets of
the chateau. She paused a moment, before she emerged from the shade,
to gaze upon the happy group before her--on the complacency and ease
of healthy age, depictured on the countenance of La Voisin; the
maternal tenderness of Agnes, as she looked upon her children, and
the innocency of infantine pleasures, reflected in their smiles.
Emily looked again at the venerable old man, and at the cottage; the
memory of her father rose with full force upon her mind, and she
hastily stepped forward, afraid to trust herself with a longer pause.
She took an affectionate and affecting leave of La Voisin and his
family; he seemed to love her as his daughter, and shed tears; Emily
shed many. She avoided going into the cottage, since she knew it
would revive emotions, such as she could not now endure.
One painful scene yet awaited her, for she determined to visit again
her father's grave; and that she might not be interrupted, or
observed in the indulgence of her melancholy tenderness, she deferred
her visit, till every inhabitant of the convent, except the nun who
promised to bring her the key of the church, should be retired to
rest. Emily remained in her chamber, till she heard the convent bell
strike twelve, when the nun came, as she had appointed, with the key
of a private door, that opened into the church, and they descended
together the narrow winding stair-case, that led thither. The nun
offered to accompany Emily to the grave, adding, 'It is melancholy to
go alone at this hour;' but the former, thanking her for the
consideration, could not consent to have any witness of her sorrow;
and the sister, having unlocked the door, gave her the lamp. 'You
will remember, sister,' said she, 'that in the east aisle, which you
must pass, is a newly opened grave; hold the light to the ground,
that you may not stumble over the loose earth.' Emily, thanking her
again, took the lamp, and, stepping into the church, sister Mariette
departed. But Emily paused a moment at the door; a sudden fear came
over her, and she returned to the foot of the stair-case, where, as
she heard the steps of the nun ascending, and, while she held up the
lamp, saw her black veil waving over the spiral balusters, she was
tempted to call her back. While she hesitated, the veil disappeared,
and, in the next moment, ashamed of her fears, she returned to the
church. The cold air of the aisles chilled her, and their deep
silence and extent, feebly shone upon by the moon-light, that
streamed through a distant gothic window, would at any other time
have awed her into superstition; now, grief occupied all her
attention. She scarcely heard the whispering echoes of her own
steps, or thought of the open grave, till she found herself almost on
its brink. A friar of the convent had been buried there on the
preceding evening, and, as she had sat alone in her chamber at
twilight, she heard, at distance, the monks chanting the requiem for
his soul. This brought freshly to her memory the circumstances of
her father's death; and, as the voices, mingling with a low querulous
peal of the organ, swelled faintly, gloomy and affecting visions had
arisen upon her mind. Now she remembered them, and, turning aside to
avoid the broken ground, these recollections made her pass on with
quicker steps to the grave of St. Aubert, when in the moon-light,
that fell athwart a remote part of the aisle, she thought she saw a
shadow gliding between the pillars. She stopped to listen, and, not
hearing any footstep, believed that her fancy had deceived her, and,
no longer apprehensive of being observed, proceeded. St. Aubert was
buried beneath a plain marble, bearing little more than his name and
the date of his birth and death, near the foot of the stately
monument of the Villerois. Emily remained at his grave, till a
chime, that called the monks to early prayers, warned her to retire;
then, she wept over it a last farewel, and forced herself from the
spot. After this hour of melancholy indulgence, she was refreshed by
a deeper sleep, than she had experienced for a long time, and, on
awakening, her mind was more tranquil and resigned, than it had been
since St. Aubert's death.
But, when the moment of her departure from the convent arrived, all
her grief returned; the memory of the dead, and the kindness of the
living attached her to the place; and for the sacred spot, where her
father's remains were interred, she seemed to feel all those tender
affections which we conceive for home. The abbess repeated many kind
assurances of regard at their parting, and pressed her to return, if
ever she should find her condition elsewhere unpleasant; many of the
nuns also expressed unaffected regret at her departure, and Emily
left the convent with many tears, and followed by sincere wishes for
her happiness.
She had travelled several leagues, before the scenes of the country,
through which she passed, had power to rouse her for a moment from
the deep melancholy, into which she was sunk, and, when they did, it
was only to remind her, that, on her last view of them, St. Aubert
was at her side, and to call up to her remembrance the remarks he had
delivered on similar scenery. Thus, without any particular
occurrence, passed the day in languor and dejection. She slept that
night in a town on the skirts of Languedoc, and, on the following
morning, entered Gascony.
Towards the close of this day, Emily came within view of the plains
in the neighbourhood of La Vallee, and the well-known objects of
former times began to press upon her notice, and with them
recollections, that awakened all her tenderness and grief. Often,
while she looked through her tears upon the wild grandeur of the
Pyrenees, now varied with the rich lights and shadows of evening, she
remembered, that, when last she saw them, her father partook with her
of the pleasure they inspired. Suddenly some scene, which he had
particularly pointed out to her, would present itself, and the sick
languor of despair would steal upon her heart. 'There!' she would
exclaim, 'there are the very cliffs, there the wood of pines, which
he looked at with such delight, as we passed this road together for
the last time. There, too, under the crag of that mountain, is the
cottage, peeping from among the cedars, which he bade me remember,
and copy with my pencil. O my father, shall I never see you more!'
As she drew near the chateau, these melancholy memorials of past
times multiplied. At length, the chateau itself appeared, amid the
glowing beauty of St. Aubert's favourite landscape. This was an
object, which called for fortitude, not for tears; Emily dried hers,
and prepared to meet with calmness the trying moment of her return to
that home, where there was no longer a parent to welcome her. 'Yes,'
said she, 'let me not forget the lessons he has taught me! How often
he has pointed out the necessity of resisting even virtuous sorrow;
how often we have admired together the greatness of a mind, that can
at once suffer and reason! O my father! if you are permitted to look
down upon your child, it will please you to see, that she remembers,
and endeavours to practise, the precepts you have given her.'
A turn on the road now allowed a nearer view of the chateau, the
chimneys, tipped with light, rising from behind St. Aubert's
favourite oaks, whose foliage partly concealed the lower part of the
building. Emily could not suppress a heavy sigh. 'This, too, was
his favourite hour,' said she, as she gazed upon the long evening
shadows, stretched athwart the landscape. 'How deep the repose, how
lovely the scene! lovely and tranquil as in former days!'
Again she resisted the pressure of sorrow, till her ear caught the
gay melody of the dance, which she had so often listened to, as she
walked with St. Aubert, on the margin of the Garonne, when all her
fortitude forsook her, and she continued to weep, till the carriage
stopped at the little gate, that opened upon what was now her own
territory. She raised her eyes on the sudden stopping of the
carriage, and saw her father's old housekeeper coming to open the
gate. Manchon also came running, and barking before her; and when
his young mistress alighted, fawned, and played round her, gasping
with joy.
'Dear ma'amselle!' said Theresa, and paused, and looked as if she
would have offered something of condolement to Emily, whose tears now
prevented reply. The dog still fawned and ran round her, and then
flew towards the carriage, with a short quick bark. 'Ah,
ma'amselle!--my poor master!' said Theresa, whose feelings were more
awakened than her delicacy, 'Manchon's gone to look for him.' Emily
sobbed aloud; and, on looking towards the carriage, which still stood
with the door open, saw the animal spring into it, and instantly leap
out, and then with his nose on the ground run round the horses.
'Don't cry so, ma'amselle,' said Theresa, 'it breaks my heart to see
you.' The dog now came running to Emily, then returned to the
carriage, and then back again to her, whining and discontented.
'Poor rogue!' said Theresa, 'thou hast lost thy master, thou mayst
well cry! But come, my dear young lady, be comforted. What shall I
get to refresh you?' Emily gave her hand to the old servant, and
tried to restrain her grief, while she made some kind enquiries
concerning her health. But she still lingered in the walk which led
to the chateau, for within was no person to meet her with the kiss of
affection; her own heart no longer palpitated with impatient joy to
meet again the well-known smile, and she dreaded to see objects,
which would recall the full remembrance of her former happiness. She
moved slowly towards the door, paused, went on, and paused again.
How silent, how forsaken, how forlorn did the chateau appear!
Trembling to enter it, yet blaming herself for delaying what she
could not avoid, she, at length, passed into the hall; crossed it
with a hurried step, as if afraid to look round, and opened the door
of that room, which she was wont to call her own. The gloom of
evening gave solemnity to its silent and deserted air. The chairs,
the tables, every article of furniture, so familiar to her in happier
times, spoke eloquently to her heart. She seated herself, without
immediately observing it, in a window, which opened upon the garden,
and where St. Aubert had often sat with her, watching the sun retire
from the rich and extensive prospect, that appeared beyond the
groves.
Having indulged her tears for some time, she became more composed;
and, when Theresa, after seeing the baggage deposited in her lady's
room, again appeared, she had so far recovered her spirits, as to be
able to converse with her.
'I have made up the green bed for you, ma'amselle,' said Theresa, as
she set the coffee upon the table. 'I thought you would like it
better than your own now; but I little thought this day month, that
you would come back alone. A-well-a-day! the news almost broke my
heart, when it did come. Who would have believed, that my poor
master, when he went from home, would never return again!' Emily hid
her face with her handkerchief, and waved her hand.
'Do taste the coffee,' said Theresa. 'My dear young lady, be
comforted--we must all die. My dear master is a saint above.' Emily
took the handkerchief from her face, and raised her eyes full of
tears towards heaven; soon after she dried them, and, in a calm, but
tremulous voice, began to enquire concerning some of her late
father's pensioners.
'Alas-a-day!' said Theresa, as she poured out the coffee, and handed
it to her mistress, 'all that could come, have been here every day to
enquire after you and my master.' She then proceeded to tell, that
some were dead whom they had left well; and others, who were ill, had
recovered. 'And see, ma'amselle,' added Theresa, 'there is old Mary
coming up the garden now; she has looked every day these three years
as if she would die, yet she is alive still. She has seen the chaise
at the door, and knows you are come home.'
The sight of this poor old woman would have been too much for Emily,
and she begged Theresa would go and tell her, that she was too ill to
see any person that night. 'To-morrow I shall be better, perhaps;
but give her this token of my remembrance.'
Emily sat for some time, given up to sorrow. Not an object, on which
her eye glanced, but awakened some remembrance, that led immediately
to the subject of her grief. Her favourite plants, which St. Aubert
had taught her to nurse; the little drawings, that adorned the room,
which his taste had instructed her to execute; the books, that he had
selected for her use, and which they had read together; her musical
instruments, whose sounds he loved so well, and which he sometimes
awakened himself--every object gave new force to sorrow. At length,
she roused herself from this melancholy indulgence, and, summoning
all her resolution, stepped forward to go into those forlorn rooms,
which, though she dreaded to enter, she knew would yet more
powerfully affect her, if she delayed to visit them.
Having passed through the green-house, her courage for a moment
forsook her, when she opened the door of the library; and, perhaps,
the shade, which evening and the foliage of the trees near the
windows threw across the room, heightened the solemnity of her
feelings on entering that apartment, where every thing spoke of her
father. There was an arm chair, in which he used to sit; she shrunk
when she observed it, for she had so often seen him seated there, and
the idea of him rose so distinctly to her mind, that she almost
fancied she saw him before her. But she checked the illusions of a
distempered imagination, though she could not subdue a certain degree
of awe, which now mingled with her emotions. She walked slowly to
the chair, and seated herself in it; there was a reading-desk before
it, on which lay a book open, as it had been left by her father. It
was some moments before she recovered courage enough to examine it;
and, when she looked at the open page, she immediately recollected,
that St. Aubert, on the evening before his departure from the
chateau, had read to her some passages from this his favourite
author. The circumstance now affected her extremely; she looked at
the page, wept, and looked again. To her the book appeared sacred
and invaluable, and she would not have moved it, or closed the page,
which he had left open, for the treasures of the Indies. Still she
sat before the desk, and could not resolve to quit it, though the
increasing gloom, and the profound silence of the apartment, revived
a degree of painful awe. Her thoughts dwelt on the probable state of
departed spirits, and she remembered the affecting conversation,
which had passed between St. Aubert and La Voisin, on the night
preceding his death.
As she mused she saw the door slowly open, and a rustling sound in a
remote part of the room startled her. Through the dusk she thought
she perceived something move. The subject she had been considering,
and the present tone of her spirits, which made her imagination
respond to every impression of her senses, gave her a sudden terror
of something supernatural. She sat for a moment motionless, and
then, her dissipated reason returning, 'What should I fear?' said
she. 'If the spirits of those we love ever return to us, it is in
kindness.'
The silence, which again reigned, made her ashamed of her late fears,
and she believed, that her imagination had deluded her, or that she
had heard one of those unaccountable noises, which sometimes occur in
old houses. The same sound, however, returned; and, distinguishing
something moving towards her, and in the next instant press beside
her into the chair, she shrieked; but her fleeting senses were
instantly recalled, on perceiving that it was Manchon who sat by her,
and who now licked her hands affectionately.
Perceiving her spirits unequal to the task she had assigned herself
of visiting the deserted rooms of the chateau this night, when she
left the library, she walked into the garden, and down to the
terrace, that overhung the river. The sun was now set; but, under
the dark branches of the almond trees, was seen the saffron glow of
the west, spreading beyond the twilight of middle air. The bat
flitted silently by; and, now and then, the mourning note of the
nightingale was heard. The circumstances of the hour brought to her
recollection some lines, which she had once heard St. Aubert recite
on this very spot, and she had now a melancholy pleasure in repeating
them.
SONNET
Now the bat circles on the breeze of eve,
That creeps, in shudd'ring fits, along the wave,
And trembles 'mid the woods, and through the cave
Whose lonely sighs the wanderer deceive;
For oft, when melancholy charms his mind,
He thinks the Spirit of the rock he hears,
Nor listens, but with sweetly-thrilling fears,
To the low, mystic murmurs of the wind!
Now the bat circles, and the twilight-dew
Falls silent round, and, o'er the mountain-cliff,
The gleaming wave, and far-discover'd skiff,
Spreads the gray veil of soft, harmonious hue.
So falls o'er Grief the dew of pity's tear
Dimming her lonely visions of despair.
Emily, wandering on, came to St. Aubert's favourite plane-tree, where
so often, at this hour, they had sat beneath the shade together, and
with her dear mother so often had conversed on the subject of a
future state. How often, too, had her father expressed the comfort
he derived from believing, that they should meet in another world!
Emily, overcome by these recollections, left the plane-tree, and, as
she leaned pensively on the wall of the terrace, she observed a group
of peasants dancing gaily on the banks of the Garonne, which spread
in broad expanse below, and reflected the evening light. What a
contrast they formed to the desolate, unhappy Emily! They were gay
and debonnaire, as they were wont to be when she, too, was gay--when
St. Aubert used to listen to their merry music, with a countenance
beaming pleasure and benevolence. Emily, having looked for a moment
on this sprightly band, turned away, unable to bear the remembrances
it excited; but where, alas! could she turn, and not meet new objects
to give acuteness to grief?
As she walked slowly towards the house, she was met by Theresa.
'Dear ma'amselle,' said she, 'I have been seeking you up and down
this half hour, and was afraid some accident had happened to you.
How can you like to wander about so in this night air! Do come into
the house. Think what my poor master would have said, if he could
see you. I am sure, when my dear lady died, no gentleman could take
it more to heart than he did, yet you know he seldom shed a tear.'
'Pray, Theresa, cease,' said Emily, wishing to interrupt this ill-
judged, but well-meaning harangue; Theresa's loquacity, however, was
not to be silenced so easily. 'And when you used to grieve so,' she
added, 'he often told you how wrong it was--for that my mistress was
happy. And, if she was happy, I am sure he is so too; for the
prayers of the poor, they say, reach heaven.' During this speech,
Emily had walked silently into the chateau, and Theresa lighted her
across the hall into the common sitting parlour, where she had laid
the cloth, with one solitary knife and fork, for supper. Emily was
in the room before she perceived that it was not her own apartment,
but she checked the emotion which inclined her to leave it, and
seated herself quietly by the little supper table. Her father's hat
hung upon the opposite wall; while she gazed at it, a faintness came
over her. Theresa looked at her, and then at the object, on which
her eyes were settled, and went to remove it; but Emily waved her
hand--'No,' said she, 'let it remain. I am going to my chamber.'
'Nay, ma'amselle, supper is ready.' 'I cannot take it,' replied
Emily, 'I will go to my room, and try to sleep. Tomorrow I shall be
better.'
'This is poor doings!' said Theresa. 'Dear lady! do take some food!
I have dressed a pheasant, and a fine one it is. Old Monsieur
Barreaux sent it this morning, for I saw him yesterday, and told him
you were coming. And I know nobody that seemed more concerned, when
he heard the sad news, then he.'
'Did he?' said Emily, in a tender voice, while she felt her poor
heart warmed for a moment by a ray of sympathy.
At length, her spirits were entirely overcome, and she retired to her
room.
CHAPTER IX
Can Music's voice, can Beauty's eye,
Can Painting's glowing hand supply
A charm so suited to my mind,
As blows this hollow gust of wind?
As drops this little weeping rill,
Soft tinkling down the moss-grown hill;
While, through the west, where sinks the crimson day,
Meek Twilight slowly sails, and waves her banners gray?
MASON
Emily, some time after her return to La Vallee, received letters from
her aunt, Madame Cheron, in which, after some common-place
condolement and advice, she invited her to Tholouse, and added, that,
as her late brother had entrusted Emily's EDUCATION to her, she
should consider herself bound to overlook her conduct. Emily, at
this time, wished only to remain at La Vallee, in the scenes of her
early happiness, now rendered infinitely dear to her, as the late
residence of those, whom she had lost for ever, where she could weep
unobserved, retrace their steps, and remember each minute particular
of their manners. But she was equally anxious to avoid the
displeasure of Madame Cheron.
Though her affection would not suffer her to question, even a moment,
the propriety of St. Aubert's conduct in appointing Madame Cheron for
her guardian, she was sensible, that this step had made her happiness
depend, in a great degree, on the humour of her aunt. In her reply,
she begged permission to remain, at present, at La Vallee, mentioning
the extreme dejection of her spirits, and the necessity she felt for
quiet and retirement to restore them. These she knew were not to be
found at Madame Cheron's, whose inclinations led her into a life of
dissipation, which her ample fortune encouraged; and, having given
her answer, she felt somewhat more at ease.
In the first days of her affliction, she was visited by Monsieur
Barreaux, a sincere mourner for St. Aubert. 'I may well lament my
friend,' said he, 'for I shall never meet with his resemblance. If I
could have found such a man in what is called society, I should not
have left it.'
M. Barreaux's admiration of her father endeared him extremely to
Emily, whose heart found almost its first relief in conversing of her
parents, with a man, whom she so much revered, and who, though with
such an ungracious appearance, possessed to much goodness of heart
and delicacy of mind.
Several weeks passed away in quiet retirement, and Emily's affliction
began to soften into melancholy. She could bear to read the books
she had before read with her father; to sit in his chair in the
library--to watch the flowers his hand had planted--to awaken the
tones of that instrument his fingers had pressed, and sometimes even
to play his favourite air.
When her mind had recovered from the first shock of affliction,
perceiving the danger of yielding to indolence, and that activity
alone could restore its tone, she scrupulously endeavoured to pass
all her hours in employment. And it was now that she understood the
full value of the education she had received from St. Aubert, for in
cultivating her understanding he had secured her an asylum from
indolence, without recourse to dissipation, and rich and varied
amusement and information, independent of the society, from which her
situation secluded her. Nor were the good effects of this education
confined to selfish advantages, since, St. Aubert having nourished
every amiable qualify of her heart, it now expanded in benevolence to
all around her, and taught her, when she could not remove the
misfortunes of others, at least to soften them by sympathy and
tenderness;--a benevolence that taught her to feel for all, that
could suffer.
Madame Cheron returned no answer to Emily's letter, who began to
hope, that she should be permitted to remain some time longer in her
retirement, and her mind had now so far recovered its strength, that
she ventured to view the scenes, which most powerfully recalled the
images of past times. Among these was the fishing-house; and, to
indulge still more the affectionate melancholy of the visit, she took
thither her lute, that she might again hear there the tones, to which
St. Aubert and her mother had so often delighted to listen. She went
alone, and at that still hour of the evening which is so soothing to
fancy and to grief. The last time she had been here she was in
company with Monsieur and Madame St. Aubert, a few days preceding
that, on which the latter was seized with a fatal illness. Now, when
Emily again entered the woods, that surrounded the building, they
awakened so forcibly the memory of former times, that her resolution
yielded for a moment to excess of grief. She stopped, leaned for
support against a tree, and wept for some minutes, before she had
recovered herself sufficiently to proceed. The little path, that led
to the building, was overgrown with grass and the flowers which St.
Aubert had scattered carelessly along the border were almost choked
with weeds--the tall thistle--the fox-glove, and the nettle. She
often paused to look on the desolate spot, now so silent and
forsaken, and when, with a trembling hand, she opened the door of the
fishing-house, 'Ah!' said she, 'every thing--every thing remains as
when I left it last--left it with those who never must return!' She
went to a window, that overhung the rivulet, and, leaning over it,
with her eyes fixed on the current, was soon lost in melancholy
reverie. The lute she had brought lay forgotten beside her; the
mournful sighing of the breeze, as it waved the high pines above, and
its softer whispers among the osiers, that bowed upon the banks
below, was a kind of music more in unison with her feelings. It did
not vibrate on the chords of unhappy memory, but was soothing to the
heart as the voice of Pity. She continued to muse, unconscious of
the gloom of evening, and that the sun's last light trembled on the
heights above, and would probably have remained so much longer, if a
sudden footstep, without the building, had not alarmed her attention,
and first made her recollect that she was unprotected. In the next
moment, a door opened, and a stranger appeared, who stopped on
perceiving Emily, and then began to apologize for his intrusion. But
Emily, at the sound of his voice, lost her fear in a stronger
emotion: its tones were familiar to her ear, and, though she could
not readily distinguish through the dusk the features of the person
who spoke, she felt a remembrance too strong to be distrusted.
He repeated his apology, and Emily then said something in reply, when
the stranger eagerly advancing, exclaimed, 'Good God! can it be--
surely I am not mistaken--ma'amselle St. Aubert?--is it not?'
'It is indeed,' said Emily, who was confirmed in her first
conjecture, for she now distinguished the countenance of Valancourt,
lighted up with still more than its usual animation. A thousand
painful recollections crowded to her mind, and the effort, which she
made to support herself, only served to increase her agitation.
Valancourt, meanwhile, having enquired anxiously after her health,
and expressed his hopes, that M. St. Aubert had found benefit from
travelling, learned from the flood of tears, which she could no
longer repress, the fatal truth. He led her to a seat, and sat down
by her, while Emily continued to weep, and Valancourt to hold the
hand, which she was unconscious he had taken, till it was wet with
the tears, which grief for St. Aubert and sympathy for herself had
called forth.
'I feel,' said he at length, 'I feel how insufficient all attempt at
consolation must be on this subject. I can only mourn with you, for
I cannot doubt the source of your tears. Would to God I were
mistaken!'
Emily could still answer only by tears, till she rose, and begged
they might leave the melancholy spot, when Valancourt, though he saw
her feebleness, could not offer to detain her, but took her arm
within his, and led her from the fishing-house. They walked silently
through the woods, Valancourt anxious to know, yet fearing to ask any
particulars concerning St. Aubert; and Emily too much distressed to
converse. After some time, however, she acquired fortitude enough to
speak of her father, and to give a brief account of the manner of his
death; during which recital Valancourt's countenance betrayed strong
emotion, and, when he heard that St. Aubert had died on the road, and
that Emily had been left among strangers, he pressed her hand between
his, and involuntarily exclaimed, 'Why was I not there!' but in the
next moment recollected himself, for he immediately returned to the
mention of her father; till, perceiving that her spirits were
exhausted, he gradually changed the subject, and spoke of himself.
Emily thus learned that, after they had parted, he had wandered, for
some time, along the shores of the Mediterranean, and had then
returned through Languedoc into Gascony, which was his native
province, and where he usually resided.
When he had concluded his little narrative, he sunk into a silence,
which Emily was not disposed to interrupt, and it continued, till
they reached the gate of the chateau, when he stopped, as if he had
known this to be the limit of his walk. Here, saying, that it was
his intention to return to Estuviere on the following day, he asked
her if she would permit him to take leave of her in the morning; and
Emily, perceiving that she could not reject an ordinary civility,
without expressing by her refusal an expectation of something more,
was compelled to answer, that she should be at home.
She passed a melancholy evening, during which the retrospect of all
that had happened, since she had seen Valancourt, would rise to her
imagination; and the scene of her father's death appeared in tints as
fresh, as if it had passed on the preceding day. She remembered
particularly the earnest and solemn manner, in which he had required
her to destroy the manuscript papers, and, awakening from the
lethargy, in which sorrow had held her, she was shocked to think she
had not yet obeyed him, and determined, that another day should not
reproach her with the neglect.
CHAPTER X
Can such things be,
And overcome us like a summer's cloud,
Without our special wonder?
MACBETH
On the next morning, Emily ordered a fire to be lighted in the stove
of the chamber, where St. Aubert used to sleep; and, as soon as she
had breakfasted, went thither to burn the papers. Having fastened
the door to prevent interruption, she opened the closet where they
were concealed, as she entered which, she felt an emotion of unusual
awe, and stood for some moments surveying it, trembling, and almost
afraid to remove the board. There was a great chair in one corner of
the closet, and, opposite to it, stood the table, at which she had
seen her father sit, on the evening that preceded his departure,
looking over, with so much emotion, what she believed to be these
very papers.
The solitary life, which Emily had led of late, and the melancholy
subjects, on which she had suffered her thoughts to dwell, had
rendered her at times sensible to the 'thick-coming fancies' of a
mind greatly enervated. It was lamentable, that her excellent
understanding should have yielded, even for a moment, to the reveries
of superstition, or rather to those starts of imagination, which
deceive the senses into what can be called nothing less than
momentary madness. Instances of this temporary failure of mind had
more than once occurred since her return home; particularly when,
wandering through this lonely mansion in the evening twilight, she
had been alarmed by appearances, which would have been unseen in her
more cheerful days. To this infirm state of her nerves may be
attributed what she imagined, when, her eyes glancing a second time
on the arm-chair, which stood in an obscure part of the closet, the
countenance of her dead father appeared there. Emily stood fixed for
a moment to the floor, after which she left the closet. Her spirits,
however, soon returned; she reproached herself with the weakness of
thus suffering interruption in an act of serious importance, and
again opened the door. By the directions which St. Aubert had given
her, she readily found the board he had described in an opposite
corner of the closet, near the window; she distinguished also the
line he had mentioned, and, pressing it as he had bade her, it slid
down, and disclosed the bundle of papers, together with some
scattered ones, and the purse of louis. With a trembling hand she
removed them, replaced the board, paused a moment, and was rising
from the floor, when, on looking up, there appeared to her alarmed
fancy the same countenance in the chair. The illusion, another
instance of the unhappy effect which solitude and grief had gradually
produced upon her mind, subdued her spirits; she rushed forward into
the chamber, and sunk almost senseless into a chair. Returning
reason soon overcame the dreadful, but pitiable attack of
imagination, and she turned to the papers, though still with so
little recollection, that her eyes involuntarily settled on the
writing of some loose sheets, which lay open; and she was
unconscious, that she was transgressing her father's strict
injunction, till a sentence of dreadful import awakened her attention
and her memory together. She hastily put the papers from her; but
the words, which had roused equally her curiosity and terror, she
could not dismiss from her thoughts. So powerfully had they affected
her, that she even could not resolve to destroy the papers
immediately; and the more she dwelt on the circumstance, the more it
inflamed her imagination. Urged by the most forcible, and apparently
the most necessary, curiosity to enquire farther, concerning the
terrible and mysterious subject, to which she had seen an allusion,
she began to lament her promise to destroy the papers. For a moment,
she even doubted, whether it could justly be obeyed, in contradiction
to such reasons as there appeared to be for further information. But
the delusion was momentary.
'I have given a solemn promise,' said she, 'to observe a solemn
injunction, and it is not my business to argue, but to obey. Let me
hasten to remove the temptation, that would destroy my innocence, and
embitter my life with the consciousness of irremediable guilt, while
I have strength to reject it.'
Thus re-animated with a sense of her duty, she completed the triumph
of her integrity over temptation, more forcible than any she had ever
known, and consigned the papers to the flames. Her eyes watched them
as they slowly consumed, she shuddered at the recollection of the
sentence she had just seen, and at the certainty, that the only
opportunity of explaining it was then passing away for ever.
It was long after this, that she recollected the purse; and as she
was depositing it, unopened, in a cabinet, perceiving that it
contained something of a size larger than coin, she examined it.
'His hand deposited them here,' said she, as she kissed some pieces
of the coin, and wetted them with her tears, 'his hand--which is now
dust!' At the bottom of the purse was a small packet, having taken
out which, and unfolded paper after paper, she found to be an ivory
case, containing the miniature of a--lady! She started--'The same,'
said she, 'my father wept over!' On examining the countenance she
could recollect no person that it resembled. It was of uncommon
beauty, and was characterized by an expression of sweetness, shaded
with sorrow, and tempered by resignation.
St. Aubert had given no directions concerning this picture, nor had
even named it; she, therefore, thought herself justified in
preserving it. More than once remembering his manner, when he had
spoken of the Marchioness of Villeroi, she felt inclined to believe
that this was her resemblance; yet there appeared no reason why he
should have preserved a picture of that lady, or, having preserved
it, why he should lament over it in a manner so striking and
affecting as she had witnessed on the night preceding his departure.
Emily still gazed on the countenance, examining its features, but she
knew not where to detect the charm that captivated her attention, and
inspired sentiments of such love and pity. Dark brown hair played
carelessly along the open forehead; the nose was rather inclined to
aquiline; the lips spoke in a smile, but it was a melancholy one; the
eyes were blue, and were directed upwards with an expression of
peculiar meekness, while the soft cloud of the brow spoke of the fine
sensibility of the temper.
Emily was roused from the musing mood into which the picture had
thrown her, by the closing of the garden gate; and, on turning her
eyes to the window, she saw Valancourt coming towards the chateau.
Her spirits agitated by the subjects that had lately occupied her
mind, she felt unprepared to see him, and remained a few moments in
the chamber to recover herself.
When she met him in the parlour, she was struck with the change that
appeared in his air and countenance since they had parted in
Rousillon, which twilight and the distress she suffered on the
preceding evening had prevented her from observing. But dejection
and languor disappeared, for a moment, in the smile that now
enlightened his countenance, on perceiving her. 'You see,' said he,
'I have availed myself of the permission with which you honoured me--
of bidding YOU farewell, whom I had the happiness of meeting only
yesterday.'
Emily smiled faintly, and, anxious to say something, asked if he had
been long in Gascony. 'A few days only,' replied Valancourt, while a
blush passed over his cheek. 'I engaged in a long ramble after I had
the misfortune of parting with the friends who had made my wanderings
among the Pyrenees so delightful.'
A tear came to Emily's eye, as Valancourt said this, which he
observed; and, anxious to draw off her attention from the remembrance
that had occasioned it, as well as shocked at his own
thoughtlessness, he began to speak on other subjects, expressing his
admiration of the chateau, and its prospects. Emily, who felt
somewhat embarrassed how to support a conversation, was glad of such
an opportunity to continue it on indifferent topics. They walked
down to the terrace, where Valancourt was charmed with the river
scenery, and the views over the opposite shores of Guienne.
As he leaned on the wall of the terrace, watching the rapid current
of the Garonne, 'I was a few weeks ago,' said he, 'at the source of
this noble river; I had not then the happiness of knowing you, or I
should have regretted your absence--it was a scene so exactly suited
to your taste. It rises in a part of the Pyrenees, still wilder and
more sublime, I think, than any we passed in the way to Rousillon.'
He then described its fall among the precipices of the mountains,
where its waters, augmented by the streams that descend from the
snowy summits around, rush into the Vallee d'Aran, between whose
romantic heights it foams along, pursuing its way to the north west
till it emerges upon the plains of Languedoc. Then, washing the
walls of Tholouse, and turning again to the north west, it assumes a
milder character, as it fertilizes the pastures of Gascony and
Guienne, in its progress to the Bay of Biscay.
Emily and Valancourt talked of the scenes they had passed among the
Pyrenean Alps; as he spoke of which there was often a tremulous
tenderness in his voice, and sometimes he expatiated on them with all
the fire of genius, sometimes would appear scarcely conscious of the
topic, though he continued to speak. This subject recalled forcibly
to Emily the idea of her father, whose image appeared in every
landscape, which Valancourt particularized, whose remarks dwelt upon
her memory, and whose enthusiasm still glowed in her heart. Her
silence, at length, reminded Valancourt how nearly his conversation
approached to the occasion of her grief, and he changed the subject,
though for one scarcely less affecting to Emily. When he admired the
grandeur of the plane-tree, that spread its wide branches over the
terrace, and under whose shade they now sat, she remembered how often
she had sat thus with St. Aubert, and heard him express the same
admiration.
'This was a favourite tree with my dear father,' said she; 'he used
to love to sit under its foliage with his family about him, in the
fine evenings of summer.'
Valancourt understood her feelings, and was silent; had she raised
her eyes from the ground she would have seen tears in his. He rose,
and leaned on the wall of the terrace, from which, in a few moments,
he returned to his seat, then rose again, and appeared to be greatly
agitated; while Emily found her spirits so much depressed, that
several of her attempts to renew the conversation were ineffectual.
Valancourt again sat down, but was still silent, and trembled. At
length he said, with a hesitating voice, 'This lovely scene!--I am
going to leave--to leave you--perhaps for ever! These moments may
never return; I cannot resolve to neglect, though I scarcely dare to
avail myself of them. Let me, however, without offending the
delicacy of your sorrow, venture to declare the admiration I must
always feel of your goodness--O! that at some future period I might
be permitted to call it love!'
Emily's emotion would not suffer her to reply; and Valancourt, who
now ventured to look up, observing her countenance change, expected
to see her faint, and made an involuntary effort to support her,
which recalled Emily to a sense of her situation, and to an exertion
of her spirits. Valancourt did not appear to notice her
indisposition, but, when he spoke again, his voice told the tenderest
love. 'I will not presume,' he added, 'to intrude this subject
longer upon your attention at this time, but I may, perhaps, be
permitted to mention, that these parting moments would lose much of
their bitterness if I might be allowed to hope the declaration I have
made would not exclude me from your presence in future.'
Emily made another effort to overcome the confusion of her thoughts,
and to speak. She feared to trust the preference her heart
acknowledged towards Valancourt, and to give him any encouragement
for hope, on so short an acquaintance. For though in this narrow
period she had observed much that was admirable in his taste and
disposition, and though these observations had been sanctioned by the
opinion of her father, they were not sufficient testimonies of his
general worth to determine her upon a subject so infinitely important
to her future happiness as that, which now solicited her attention.
Yet, though the thought of dismissing Valancourt was so very painful
to her, that she could scarcely endure to pause upon it, the
consciousness of this made her fear the partiality of her judgment,
and hesitate still more to encourage that suit, for which her own
heart too tenderly pleaded. The family of Valancourt, if not his
circumstances, had been known to her father, and known to be
unexceptionable. Of his circumstances, Valancourt himself hinted as
far as delicacy would permit, when he said he had at present little
else to offer but an heart, that adored her. He had solicited only
for a distant hope, and she could not resolve to forbid, though she
scarcely dared to permit it; at length, she acquired courage to say,
that she must think herself honoured by the good opinion of any
person, whom her father had esteemed.
'And was I, then, thought worthy of his esteem?' said Valancourt, in
a voice trembling with anxiety; then checking himself, he added, 'But
pardon the question; I scarcely know what I say. If I might dare to
hope, that you think me not unworthy such honour, and might be
permitted sometimes to enquire after your health, I should now leave
you with comparative tranquillity.'
Emily, after a moment's silence, said, 'I will be ingenuous with you,
for I know you will understand, and allow for my situation; you will
consider it as a proof of my--my esteem that I am so. Though I live
here in what was my father's house, I live here alone. I have, alas!
no longer a parent--a parent, whose presence might sanction your
visits. It is unnecessary for me to point out the impropriety of my
receiving them.'
'Nor will I affect to be insensible of this,' replied Valancourt,
adding mournfully--'but what is to console me for my candour? I
distress you, and would now leave the subject, if I might carry with
me a hope of being some time permitted to renew it, of being allowed
to make myself known to your family.'
Emily was again confused, and again hesitated what to reply; she felt
most acutely the difficulty--the forlornness of her situation, which
did not allow her a single relative, or friend, to whom she could
turn for even a look, that might support and guide her in the present
embarrassing circumstances. Madame Cheron, who was her only
relative, and ought to have been this friend, was either occupied by
her own amusements, or so resentful of the reluctance her niece had
shewn to quit La Vallee, that she seemed totally to have abandoned
her.
'Ah! I see,' said Valancourt, after a long pause, during which Emily
had begun, and left unfinished two or three sentences, 'I see that I
have nothing to hope; my fears were too just, you think me unworthy
of your esteem. That fatal journey! which I considered as the
happiest period of my life--those delightful days were to embitter
all my future ones. How often I have looked back to them with hope
and fear--yet never till this moment could I prevail with myself to
regret their enchanting influence.'
His voice faltered, and he abruptly quitted his seat and walked on
the terrace. There was an expression of despair on his countenance,
that affected Emily. The pleadings of her heart overcame, in some
degree, her extreme timidity, and, when he resumed his seat, she
said, in an accent that betrayed her tenderness, 'You do both
yourself and me injustice when you say I think you unworthy of my
esteem; I will acknowledge that you have long possessed it, and--and-
-'
Valancourt waited impatiently for the conclusion of the sentence, but
the words died on her lips. Her eyes, however, reflected all the
emotions of her heart. Valancourt passed, in an instant, from the
impatience of despair, to that of joy and tenderness. 'O Emily!' he
exclaimed, 'my own Emily--teach me to sustain this moment! Let me
seal it as the most sacred of my life!'
He pressed her hand to his lips, it was cold and trembling; and,
raising her eyes, he saw the paleness of her countenance. Tears came
to her relief, and Valancourt watched in anxious silence over her.
In a few moments, she recovered herself, and smiling faintly through
her tears, said, 'Can you excuse this weakness? My spirits have not
yet, I believe, recovered from the shock they lately received.'
'I cannot excuse myself,' said Valancourt, 'but I will forbear to
renew the subject, which may have contributed to agitate them, now
that I can leave you with the sweet certainty of possessing your
esteem.'
Then, forgetting his resolution, he again spoke of himself. 'You
know not,' said he, 'the many anxious hours I have passed near you
lately, when you believed me, if indeed you honoured me with a
thought, far away. I have wandered, near the chateau, in the still
hours of the night, when no eye could observe me. It was delightful
to know I was so near you, and there was something particularly
soothing in the thought, that I watched round your habitation, while
you slept. These grounds are not entirely new to me. Once I
ventured within the fence, and spent one of the happiest, and yet
most melancholy hours of my life in walking under what I believed to
be your window.'
Emily enquired how long Valancourt had been in the neighbourhood.
'Several days,' he replied. 'It was my design to avail myself of the
permission M. St. Aubert had given me. I scarcely know how to
account for it; but, though I anxiously wished to do this, my
resolution always failed, when the moment approached, and I
constantly deferred my visit. I lodged in a village at some
distance, and wandered with my dogs, among the scenes of this
charming country, wishing continually to meet you, yet not daring to
visit you.'
Having thus continued to converse, without perceiving the flight of
time, Valancourt, at length, seemed to recollect himself. 'I must
go,' said he mournfully, 'but it is with the hope of seeing you
again, of being permitted to pay my respects to your family; let me
hear this hope confirmed by your voice.' 'My family will be happy to
see any friend of my dear father,' said Emily. Valancourt kissed her
hand, and still lingered, unable to depart, while Emily sat silently,
with her eyes bent on the ground; and Valancourt, as he gazed on her,
considered that it would soon be impossible for him to recall, even
to his memory, the exact resemblance of the beautiful countenance he
then beheld; at this moment an hasty footstep approached from behind
the plane-tree, and, turning her eyes, Emily saw Madame Cheron. She
felt a blush steal upon her cheek, and her frame trembled with the
emotion of her mind; but she instantly rose to meet her visitor.
'So, niece!' said Madame Cheron, casting a look of surprise and
enquiry on Valancourt, 'so niece, how do you do? But I need not ask,
your looks tell me you have already recovered your loss.'
'My looks do me injustice then, Madame, my loss I know can never be
recovered.'
'Well--well! I will not argue with you; I see you have exactly your
father's disposition; and let me tell you it would have been much
happier for him, poor man! if it had been a different one.'
A look of dignified displeasure, with which Emily regarded Madame
Cheron, while she spoke, would have touched almost any other heart;
she made no other reply, but introduced Valancourt, who could
scarcely stifle the resentment he felt, and whose bow Madame Cheron
returned with a slight curtsy, and a look of supercilious
examination. After a few moments he took leave of Emily, in a
manner, that hastily expressed his pain both at his own departure,
and at leaving her to the society of Madame Cheron.
'Who is that young man?' said her aunt, in an accent which equally
implied inquisitiveness and censure. 'Some idle admirer of yours I
suppose; but I believed niece you had a greater sense of propriety,
than to have received the visits of any young man in your present
unfriended situation. Let me tell you the world will observe those
things, and it will talk, aye and very freely too.'
Emily, extremely shocked at this coarse speech, attempted to
interrupt it; but Madame Cheron would proceed, with all the self-
importance of a person, to whom power is new.
'It is very necessary you should be under the eye of some person more
able to guide you than yourself. I, indeed, have not much leisure
for such a task; however, since your poor father made it his last
request, that I should overlook your conduct--I must even take you
under my care. But this let me tell you niece, that, unless you will
determine to be very conformable to my direction, I shall not trouble
myself longer about you.'
Emily made no attempt to interrupt Madame Cheron a second time, grief
and the pride of conscious innocence kept her silent, till her aunt
said, 'I am now come to take you with me to Tholouse; I am sorry to
find, that your poor father died, after all, in such indifferent
circumstances; however, I shall take you home with me. Ah! poor man,
he was always more generous than provident, or he would not have left
his daughter dependent on his relations.'
'Nor has he done so, I hope, madam,' said Emily calmly, 'nor did his
pecuniary misfortunes arise from that noble generosity, which always
distinguished him. The affairs of M. de Motteville may, I trust, yet
be settled without deeply injuring his creditors, and in the meantime
I should be very happy to remain at La Vallee.'
'No doubt you would,' replied Madame Cheron, with a smile of irony,
'and I shall no doubt consent to this, since I see how necessary
tranquillity and retirement are to restore your spirits. I did not
think you capable of so much duplicity, niece; when you pleaded this
excuse for remaining here, I foolishly believed it to be a just one,
nor expected to have found with you so agreeable a companion as this
M. La Val--, I forget his name.'
Emily could no longer endure these cruel indignities. 'It was a just
one, madam,' said she; 'and now, indeed, I feel more than ever the
value of the retirement I then solicited; and, if the purport of your
visit is only to add insult to the sorrows of your brother's child,
she could well have spared it.'
'I see that I have undertaken a very troublesome task,' said Madame
Cheron, colouring highly. 'I am sure, madam,' said Emily mildly, and
endeavouring to restrain her tears, 'I am sure my father did not mean
it should be such. I have the happiness to reflect, that my conduct
under his eye was such as he often delighted to approve. It would be
very painful to me to disobey the sister of such a parent, and, if
you believe the task will really be so troublesome, I must lament,
that it is yours.'
'Well! niece, fine speaking signifies little. I am willing, in
consideration of my poor brother, to overlook the impropriety of your
late conduct, and to try what your future will be.'
Emily interrupted her, to beg she would explain what was the
impropriety she alluded to.
'What impropriety! why that of receiving the visits of a lover
unknown to your family,' replied Madame Cheron, not considering the
impropriety of which she had herself been guilty, in exposing her
niece to the possibility of conduct so erroneous.
A faint blush passed over Emily's countenance; pride and anxiety
struggled in her breast; and, till she recollected, that appearances
did, in some degree, justify her aunt's suspicions, she could not
resolve to humble herself so far as to enter into the defence of a
conduct, which had been so innocent and undesigning on her part. She
mentioned the manner of Valancourt's introduction to her father; the
circumstances of his receiving the pistol-shot, and of their
afterwards travelling together; with the accidental way, in which she
had met him, on the preceding evening. She owned he had declared a
partiality for her, and that he had asked permission to address her
family.
'And who is this young adventurer, pray?' said Madame Cheron, 'and
what are his pretensions?' 'These he must himself explain, madam,'
replied Emily. 'Of his family my father was not ignorant, and I
believe it is unexceptionable.' She then proceeded to mention what
she knew concerning it.
'Oh, then, this it seems is a younger brother,' exclaimed her aunt,
'and of course a beggar. A very fine tale indeed! And so my brother
took a fancy to this young man after only a few days acquaintance!--
but that was so like him! In his youth he was always taking these
likes and dislikes, when no other person saw any reason for them at
all; nay, indeed, I have often thought the people he disapproved were
much more agreeable than those he admired;--but there is no
accounting for tastes. He was always so much influenced by people's
countenances; now I, for my part, have no notion of this, it is all
ridiculous enthusiasm. What has a man's face to do with his
character? Can a man of good character help having a disagreeable
face?'--which last sentence Madame Cheron delivered with the decisive
air of a person who congratulates herself on having made a grand
discovery, and believes the question to be unanswerably settled.
Emily, desirous of concluding the conversation, enquired if her aunt
would accept some refreshment, and Madame Cheron accompanied her to
the chateau, but without desisting from a topic, which she discussed
with so much complacency to herself, and severity to her niece.
'I am sorry to perceive, niece,' said she, in allusion to somewhat
that Emily had said, concerning physiognomy, 'that you have a great
many of your father's prejudices, and among them those sudden
predilections for people from their looks. I can perceive, that you
imagine yourself to be violently in love with this young adventurer,
after an acquaintance of only a few days. There was something, too,
so charmingly romantic in the manner of your meeting!'
Emily checked the tears, that trembled in her eyes, while she said,
'When my conduct shall deserve this severity, madam, you will do well
to exercise it; till then justice, if not tenderness, should surely
restrain it. I have never willingly offended you; now I have lost my
parents, you are the only person to whom I can look for kindness.
Let me not lament more than ever the loss of such parents.' The last
words were almost stifled by her emotions, and she burst into tears.
Remembering the delicacy and the tenderness of St. Aubert, the happy,
happy days she had passed in these scenes, and contrasting them with
the coarse and unfeeling behaviour of Madame Cheron, and from the
future hours of mortification she must submit to in her presence--a
degree of grief seized her, that almost reached despair. Madame
Cheron, more offended by the reproof which Emily's words conveyed,
than touched by the sorrow they expressed, said nothing, that might
soften her grief; but, notwithstanding an apparent reluctance to
receive her niece, she desired her company. The love of sway was her
ruling passion, and she knew it would be highly gratified by taking
into her house a young orphan, who had no appeal from her decisions,
and on whom she could exercise without controul the capricious humour
of the moment.
On entering the chateau, Madame Cheron expressed a desire, that she
would put up what she thought necessary to take to Tholouse, as she
meant to set off immediately. Emily now tried to persuade her to
defer the journey, at least till the next day, and, at length, with
much difficulty, prevailed.
The day passed in the exercise of petty tyranny on the part of Madame
Cheron, and in mournful regret and melancholy anticipation on that of
Emily, who, when her aunt retired to her apartment for the night,
went to take leave of every other room in this her dear native home,
which she was now quitting for she knew not how long, and for a
world, to which she was wholly a stranger. She could not conquer a
presentiment, which frequently occurred to her, this night--that she
should never more return to La Vallee. Having passed a considerable
time in what had been her father's study, having selected some of his
favourite authors, to put up with her clothes, and shed many tears,
as she wiped the dust from their covers, she seated herself in his
chair before the reading desk, and sat lost in melancholy reflection,
till Theresa opened the door to examine, as was her custom before she
went to bed, if was all safe. She started, on observing her young
lady, who bade her come in, and then gave her some directions for
keeping the chateau in readiness for her reception at all times.
'Alas-a-day! that you should leave it!' said Theresa, 'I think you
would be happier here than where you are going, if one may judge.'
Emily made no reply to this remark; the sorrow Theresa proceeded to
express at her departure affected her, but she found some comfort in
the simple affection of this poor old servant, to whom she gave such
directions as might best conduce to her comfort during her own
absence.
Having dismissed Theresa to bed, Emily wandered through every lonely
apartment of the chateau, lingering long in what had been her
father's bed-room, indulging melancholy, yet not unpleasing,
emotions, and, having often returned within the door to take another
look at it, she withdrew to her own chamber. From her window she
gazed upon the garden below, shewn faintly by the moon, rising over
the tops of the palm-trees, and, at length, the calm beauty of the
night increased a desire of indulging the mournful sweetness of
bidding farewel to the beloved shades of her childhood, till she was
tempted to descend. Throwing over her the light veil, in which she
usually walked, she silently passed into the garden, and, hastening
towards the distant groves, was glad to breathe once more the air of
liberty, and to sigh unobserved. The deep repose of the scene, the
rich scents, that floated on the breeze, the grandeur of the wide
horizon and of the clear blue arch, soothed and gradually elevated
her mind to that sublime complacency, which renders the vexations of
this world so insignificant and mean in our eyes, that we wonder they
have had power for a moment to disturb us. Emily forgot Madame
Cheron and all the circumstances of her conduct, while her thoughts
ascended to the contemplation of those unnumbered worlds, that lie
scattered in the depths of aether, thousands of them hid from human
eyes, and almost beyond the flight of human fancy. As her
imagination soared through the regions of space, and aspired to that
Great First Cause, which pervades and governs all being, the idea of
her father scarcely ever left her; but it was a pleasing idea, since
she resigned him to God in the full confidence of a pure and holy
faith. She pursued her way through the groves to the terrace, often
pausing as memory awakened the pang of affection, and as reason
anticipated the exile, into which she was going.
And now the moon was high over the woods, touching their summits with
yellow light, and darting between the foliage long level beams; while
on the rapid Garonne below the trembling radiance was faintly
obscured by the lightest vapour. Emily long watched the playing
lustre, listened to the soothing murmur of the current, and the yet
lighter sounds of the air, as it stirred, at intervals, the lofty
palm-trees. 'How delightful is the sweet breath of these groves,'
said she. 'This lovely scene!--how often shall I remember and regret
it, when I am far away. Alas! what events may occur before I see it
again! O, peaceful, happy shades!--scenes of my infant delights, of
parental tenderness now lost for ever!--why must I leave ye!--In your
retreats I should still find safety and repose. Sweet hours of my
childhood--I am now to leave even your last memorials! No objects,
that would revive your impressions, will remain for me!'
Then drying her tears and looking up, her thoughts rose again to the
sublime subject she had contemplated; the same divine complacency
stole over her heart, and, hushing its throbs, inspired hope and
confidence and resignation to the will of the Deity, whose works
filled her mind with adoration.
Emily gazed long on the plane-tree, and then seated herself, for the
last time, on the bench under its shade, where she had so often sat
with her parents, and where, only a few hours before, she had
conversed with Valancourt, at the remembrance of whom, thus revived,
a mingled sensation of esteem, tenderness and anxiety rose in her
breast. With this remembrance occurred a recollection of his late
confession--that he had often wandered near her habitation in the
night, having even passed the boundary of the garden, and it
immediately occurred to her, that he might be at this moment in the
grounds. The fear of meeting him, particularly after the declaration
he had made, and of incurring a censure, which her aunt might so
reasonably bestow, if it was known, that she was met by her lover, at
this hour, made her instantly leave her beloved plane-tree, and walk
towards the chateau. She cast an anxious eye around, and often
stopped for a moment to examine the shadowy scene before she ventured
to proceed, but she passed on without perceiving any person, till,
having reached a clump of almond trees, not far from the house, she
rested to take a retrospect of the garden, and to sigh forth another
adieu. As her eyes wandered over the landscape she thought she
perceived a person emerge from the groves, and pass slowly along a
moon-light alley that led between them; but the distance, and the
imperfect light would not suffer her to judge with any degree of
certainty whether this was fancy or reality. She continued to gaze
for some time on the spot, till on the dead stillness of the air she
heard a sudden sound, and in the next instant fancied she
distinguished footsteps near her. Wasting not another moment in
conjecture, she hurried to the chateau, and, having reached it,
retired to her chamber, where, as she closed her window she looked
upon the garden, and then again thought she distinguished a figure,
gliding between the almond trees she had just left. She immediately
withdrew from the casement, and, though much agitated, sought in
sleep the refreshment of a short oblivion.
CHAPTER XI
I leave that flowery path for eye
Of childhood, where I sported many a day,
Warbling and sauntering carelessly along;
Where every face was innocent and gay,
Each vale romantic, tuneful every tongue,
Sweet, wild, and artless all.
THE MINSTREL
At an early hour, the carriage, which was to take Emily and Madame
Cheron to Tholouse, appeared at the door of the chateau, and Madame
was already in the breakfast-room, when her niece entered it. The
repast was silent and melancholy on the part of Emily; and Madame
Cheron, whose vanity was piqued on observing her dejection, reproved
her in a manner that did not contribute to remove it. It was with
much reluctance, that Emily's request to take with her the dog, which
had been a favourite of her father, was granted. Her aunt, impatient
to be gone, ordered the carriage to draw up; and, while she passed to
the hall door, Emily gave another look into the library, and another
farewell glance over the garden, and then followed. Old Theresa
stood at the door to take leave of her young lady. 'God for ever
keep you, ma'amselle!' said she, while Emily gave her hand in
silence, and could answer only with a pressure of her hand, and a
forced smile.
At the gate, which led out of the grounds, several of her father's
pensioners were assembled to bid her farewell, to whom she would have
spoken, if her aunt would have suffered the driver to stop; and,
having distributed to them almost all the money she had about her,
she sunk back in the carriage, yielding to the melancholy of her
heart. Soon after, she caught, between the steep banks of the road,
another view of the chateau, peeping from among the high trees, and
surrounded by green slopes and tufted groves, the Garonne winding its
way beneath their shades, sometimes lost among the vineyards, and
then rising in greater majesty in the distant pastures. The towering
precipices of the Pyrenees, that rose to the south, gave Emily a
thousand interesting recollections of her late journey; and these
objects of her former enthusiastic admiration, now excited only
sorrow and regret. Having gazed on the chateau and its lovely
scenery, till the banks again closed upon them, her mind became too
much occupied by mournful reflections, to permit her to attend to the
conversation, which Madame Cheron had begun on some trivial topic, so
that they soon travelled in profound silence.
Valancourt, mean while, was returned to Estuviere, his heart occupied
with the image of Emily; sometimes indulging in reveries of future
happiness, but more frequently shrinking with dread of the opposition
he might encounter from her family. He was the younger son of an
ancient family of Gascony; and, having lost his parents at an early
period of his life, the care of his education and of his small
portion had devolved to his brother, the Count de Duvarney, his
senior by nearly twenty years. Valancourt had been educated in all
the accomplishments of his age, and had an ardour of spirit, and a
certain grandeur of mind, that gave him particular excellence in the
exercises then thought heroic. His little fortune had been
diminished by the necessary expences of his education; but M. La
Valancourt, the elder, seemed to think that his genius and
accomplishments would amply supply the deficiency of his inheritance.
They offered flattering hopes of promotion in the military
profession, in those times almost the only one in which a gentleman
could engage without incurring a stain on his name; and La Valancourt
was of course enrolled in the army. The general genius of his mind
was but little understood by his brother. That ardour for whatever
is great and good in the moral world, as well as in the natural one,
displayed itself in his infant years; and the strong indignation,
which he felt and expressed at a criminal, or a mean action,
sometimes drew upon him the displeasure of his tutor; who reprobated
it under the general term of violence of temper; and who, when
haranguing on the virtues of mildness and moderation, seemed to
forget the gentleness and compassion, which always appeared in his
pupil towards objects of misfortune.
He had now obtained leave of absence from his regiment when he made
the excursion into the Pyrenees, which was the means of introducing
him to St. Aubert; and, as this permission was nearly expired, he was
the more anxious to declare himself to Emily's family, from whom he
reasonably apprehended opposition, since his fortune, though, with a
moderate addition from hers, it would be sufficient to support them,
would not satisfy the views, either of vanity, or ambition.
Valancourt was not without the latter, but he saw golden visions of
promotion in the army; and believed, that with Emily he could, in the
mean time, be delighted to live within the limits of his humble
income. His thoughts were now occupied in considering the means of
making himself known to her family, to whom, however, he had yet no
address, for he was entirely ignorant of Emily's precipitate
departure from La Vallee, of whom he hoped to obtain it.
Meanwhile, the travellers pursued their journey; Emily making
frequent efforts to appear cheerful, and too often relapsing into
silence and dejection. Madame Cheron, attributing her melancholy
solely to the circumstance of her being removed to a distance from
her lover, and believing, that the sorrow, which her niece still
expressed for the loss of St. Aubert, proceeded partly from an
affectation of sensibility, endeavoured to make it appear ridiculous
to her, that such deep regret should continue to be felt so long
after the period usually allowed for grief.
At length, these unpleasant lectures were interrupted by the arrival
of the travellers at Tholouse; and Emily, who had not been there for
many years, and had only a very faint recollection of it, was
surprised at the ostentatious style exhibited in her aunt's house and
furniture; the more so, perhaps, because it was so totally different
from the modest elegance, to which she had been accustomed. She
followed Madame Cheron through a large hall, where several servants
in rich liveries appeared, to a kind of saloon, fitted up with more
shew than taste; and her aunt, complaining of fatigue, ordered supper
immediately. 'I am glad to find myself in my own house again,' said
she, throwing herself on a large settee, 'and to have my own people
about me. I detest travelling; though, indeed, I ought to like it,
for what I see abroad always makes me delighted to return to my own
chateau. what makes you so silent, child?--What is it that disturbs
you now?'
Emily suppressed a starting tear, and tried to smile away the
expression of an oppressed heart; she was thinking of HER home, and
felt too sensibly the arrogance and ostentatious vanity of Madame
Cheron's conversation. 'Can this be my father's sister!' said she to
herself; and then the conviction that she was so, warming her heart
with something like kindness towards her, she felt anxious to soften
the harsh impression her mind had received of her aunt's character,
and to shew a willingness to oblige her. The effort did not entirely
fail; she listened with apparent chearfulness, while Madame Cheron
expatiated on the splendour of her house, told of the numerous
parties she entertained, and what she should expect of Emily, whose
diffidence assumed the air of a reserve, which her aunt, believing it
to be that of pride and ignorance united, now took occasion to
reprehend. She knew nothing of the conduct of a mind, that fears to
trust its own powers; which, possessing a nice judgment, and
inclining to believe, that every other person perceives still more
critically, fears to commit itself to censure, and seeks shelter in
the obscurity of silence. Emily had frequently blushed at the
fearless manners, which she had seen admired, and the brilliant
nothings, which she had heard applauded; yet this applause, so far
from encouraging her to imitate the conduct that had won it, rather
made her shrink into the reserve, that would protect her from such
absurdity.
Madame Cheron looked on her niece's diffidence with a feeling very
near to contempt, and endeavoured to overcome it by reproof, rather
than to encourage it by gentleness.
The entrance of supper somewhat interrupted the complacent discourse
of Madame Cheron and the painful considerations, which it had forced
upon Emily. When the repast, which was rendered ostentatious by the
attendance of a great number of servants, and by a profusion of
plate, was over, Madame Cheron retired to her chamber, and a female
servant came to shew Emily to hers. Having passed up a large stair-
case, and through several galleries, they came to a flight of back
stairs, which led into a short passage in a remote part of the
chateau, and there the servant opened the door of a small chamber,
which she said was Ma'amselle Emily's, who, once more alone, indulged
the tears she had long tried to restrain.
Those, who know, from experience, how much the heart becomes attached
even to inanimate objects, to which it has been long accustomed, how
unwillingly it resigns them; how with the sensations of an old friend
it meets them, after temporary absence, will understand the
forlornness of Emily's feelings, of Emily shut out from the only home
she had known from her infancy, and thrown upon a scene, and among
persons, disagreeable for more qualities than their novelty. Her
father's favourite dog, now in the chamber, thus seemed to acquire
the character and importance of a friend; and, as the animal fawned
over her when she wept, and licked her hands, 'Ah, poor Manchon!'
said she, 'I have nobody now to love me--but you!' and she wept the
more. After some time, her thoughts returning to her father's
injunctions, she remembered how often he had blamed her for indulging
useless sorrow; how often he had pointed out to her the necessity of
fortitude and patience, assuring her, that the faculties of the mind
strengthen by exertion, till they finally unnerve affliction, and
triumph over it. These recollections dried her tears, gradually
soothed her spirits, and inspired her with the sweet emulation of
practising precepts, which her father had so frequently inculcated.
CHAPTER XII
Some pow'r impart the spear and shield,
At which the wizard passions fly,
By which the giant follies die.
COLLINS
Madame Cheron's house stood at a little distance from the city of
Tholouse, and was surrounded by extensive gardens, in which Emily,
who had risen early, amused herself with wandering before breakfast.
From a terrace, that extended along the highest part of them, was a
wide view over Languedoc. On the distant horizon to the south, she
discovered the wild summits of the Pyrenees, and her fancy
immediately painted the green pastures of Gascony at their feet. Her
heart pointed to her peaceful home--to the neighbourhood where
Valancourt was--where St. Aubert had been; and her imagination,
piercing the veil of distance, brought that home to her eyes in all
its interesting and romantic beauty. She experienced an
inexpressible pleasure in believing, that she beheld the country
around it, though no feature could be distinguished, except the
retiring chain of the Pyrenees; and, inattentive to the scene
immediately before her, and to the flight of time, she continued to
lean on the window of a pavilion, that terminated the terrace, with
her eyes fixed on Gascony, and her mind occupied with the interesting
ideas which the view of it awakened, till a servant came to tell her
breakfast was ready. Her thoughts thus recalled to the surrounding
objects, the straight walks, square parterres, and artificial
fountains of the garden, could not fail, as she passed through it, to
appear the worse, opposed to the negligent graces, and natural
beauties of the grounds of La Vallee, upon which her recollection had
been so intensely employed.
'Whither have you been rambling so early?' said Madame Cheron, as her
niece entered the breakfast-room. 'I don't approve of these solitary
walks;' and Emily was surprised, when, having informed her aunt, that
she had been no further than the gardens, she understood these to be
included in the reproof. 'I desire you will not walk there again at
so early an hour unattended,' said Madame Cheron; 'my gardens are
very extensive; and a young woman, who can make assignations by moon-
light, at La Vallee, is not to be trusted to her own inclinations
elsewhere.'
Emily, extremely surprised and shocked, had scarcely power to beg an
explanation of these words, and, when she did, her aunt absolutely
refused to give it, though, by her severe looks, and half sentences,
she appeared anxious to impress Emily with a belief, that she was
well informed of some degrading circumstances of her conduct.
Conscious innocence could not prevent a blush from stealing over
Emily's cheek; she trembled, and looked confusedly under the bold eye
of Madame Cheron, who blushed also; but hers was the blush of
triumph, such as sometimes stains the countenance of a person,
congratulating himself on the penetration which had taught him to
suspect another, and who loses both pity for the supposed criminal,
and indignation of his guilt, in the gratification of his own vanity.
Emily, not doubting that her aunt's mistake arose from the having
observed her ramble in the garden on the night preceding her
departure from La Vallee, now mentioned the motive of it, at which
Madame Cheron smiled contemptuously, refusing either to accept this
explanation, or to give her reasons for refusing it; and, soon after,
she concluded the subject by saying, 'I never trust people's
assertions, I always judge of them by their actions; but I am willing
to try what will be your behaviour in future.'
Emily, less surprised by her aunt's moderation and mysterious
silence, than by the accusation she had received, deeply considered
the latter, and scarcely doubted, that it was Valancourt whom she had
seen at night in the gardens of La Vallee, and that he had been
observed there by Madame Cheron; who now passing from one painful
topic only to revive another almost equally so, spoke of the
situation of her niece's property, in the hands of M. Motteville.
While she thus talked with ostentatious pity of Emily's misfortunes,
she failed not to inculcate the duties of humility and gratitude, or
to render Emily fully sensible of every cruel mortification, who soon
perceived, that she was to be considered as a dependant, not only by
her aunt, but by her aunt's servants.
She was now informed, that a large party were expected to dinner, on
which account Madame Cheron repeated the lesson of the preceding
night, concerning her conduct in company, and Emily wished, that she
might have courage enough to practise it. Her aunt then proceeded to
examine the simplicity of her dress, adding, that she expected to see
her attired with gaiety and taste; after which she condescended to
shew Emily the splendour of her chateau, and to point out the
particular beauty, or elegance, which she thought distinguished each
of her numerous suites of apartments. she then withdrew to her
toilet, the throne of her homage, and Emily to her chamber, to unpack
her books, and to try to charm her mind by reading, till the hour of
dressing.
When the company arrived, Emily entered the saloon with an air of
timidity, which all her efforts could not overcome, and which was
increased by the consciousness of Madame Cheron's severe observation.
Her mourning dress, the mild dejection of her beautiful countenance,
and the retiring diffidence of her manner, rendered her a very
interesting object to many of the company; among whom she
distinguished Signor Montoni, and his friend Cavigni, the late
visitors at M. Quesnel's, who now seemed to converse with Madame
Cheron with the familiarity of old acquaintance, and she to attend to
them with particular pleasure.
This Signor Montoni had an air of conscious superiority, animated by
spirit, and strengthened by talents, to which every person seemed
involuntarily to yield. The quickness of his perceptions was
strikingly expressed on his countenance, yet that countenance could
submit implicitly to occasion; and, more than once in this day, the
triumph of art over nature might have been discerned in it. His
visage was long, and rather narrow, yet he was called handsome; and
it was, perhaps, the spirit and vigour of his soul, sparkling through
his features, that triumphed for him. Emily felt admiration, but not
the admiration that leads to esteem; for it was mixed with a degree
of fear she knew not exactly wherefore.
Cavigni was gay and insinuating as formerly; and, though he paid
almost incessant attention to Madame Cheron, he found some
opportunities of conversing with Emily, to whom he directed, at
first, the sallies of his wit, but now and then assumed an air of
tenderness, which she observed, and shrunk from. Though she replied
but little, the gentleness and sweetness of her manners encouraged
him to talk, and she felt relieved when a young lady of the party,
who spoke incessantly, obtruded herself on his notice. This lady,
who possessed all the sprightliness of a Frenchwoman, with all her
coquetry, affected to understand every subject, or rather there was
no affectation in the case; for, never looking beyond the limits of
her own ignorance, she believed she had nothing to learn. She
attracted notice from all; amused some, disgusted others for a
moment, and was then forgotten.
This day passed without any material occurrence; and Emily, though
amused by the characters she had seen, was glad when she could retire
to the recollections, which had acquired with her the character of
duties.
A fortnight passed in a round of dissipation and company, and Emily,
who attended Madame Cheron in all her visits, was sometimes
entertained, but oftener wearied. She was struck by the apparent
talents and knowledge displayed in the various conversations she
listened to, and it was long before she discovered, that the talents
were for the most part those of imposture, and the knowledge nothing
more than was necessary to assist them. But what deceived her most,
was the air of constant gaiety and good spirits, displayed by every
visitor, and which she supposed to arise from content as constant,
and from benevolence as ready. At length, from the over-acting of
some, less accomplished than the others, she could perceive, that,
though contentment and benevolence are the only sure sources of
cheerfulness, the immoderate and feverish animation, usually
exhibited in large parties, results partly from an insensibility to
the cares, which benevolence must sometimes derive from the
sufferings of others, and partly from a desire to display the
appearance of that prosperity, which they know will command
submission and attention to themselves.
Emily's pleasantest hours were passed in the pavilion of the terrace,
to which she retired, when she could steal from observation, with a
book to overcome, or a lute to indulge, her melancholy. There, as
she sat with her eyes fixed on the far-distant Pyrenees, and her
thoughts on Valancourt and the beloved scenes of Gascony, she would
play the sweet and melancholy songs of her native province--the
popular songs she had listened to from her childhood.
One evening, having excused herself from accompanying her aunt
abroad, she thus withdrew to the pavilion, with books and her lute.
It was the mild and beautiful evening of a sultry day, and the
windows, which fronted the west, opened upon all the glory of a
setting sun. Its rays illuminated, with strong splendour, the cliffs
of the Pyrenees, and touched their snowy tops with a roseate hue,
that remained, long after the sun had sunk below the horizon, and the
shades of twilight had stolen over the landscape. Emily touched her
lute with that fine melancholy expression, which came from her heart.
The pensive hour and the scene, the evening light on the Garonne,
that flowed at no great distance, and whose waves, as they passed
towards La Vallee, she often viewed with a sigh,--these united
circumstances disposed her mind to tenderness, and her thoughts were
with Valancourt, of whom she had heard nothing since her arrival at
Tholouse, and now that she was removed from him, and in uncertainty,
she perceived all the interest he held in her heart. Before she saw
Valancourt she had never met a mind and taste so accordant with her
own, and, though Madame Cheron told her much of the arts of
dissimulation, and that the elegance and propriety of thought, which
she so much admired in her lover, were assumed for the purpose of
pleasing her, she could scarcely doubt their truth. This
possibility, however, faint as it was, was sufficient to harass her
mind with anxiety, and she found, that few conditions are more
painful than that of uncertainty, as to the merit of a beloved
object; an uncertainty, which she would not have suffered, had her
confidence in her own opinions been greater.
She was awakened from her musing by the sound of horses' feet along a
road, that wound under the windows of the pavilion, and a gentleman
passed on horseback, whose resemblance to Valancourt, in air and
figure, for the twilight did not permit a view of his features,
immediately struck her. She retired hastily from the lattice,
fearing to be seen, yet wishing to observe further, while the
stranger passed on without looking up, and, when she returned to the
lattice, she saw him faintly through the twilight, winding under the
high trees, that led to Tholouse. This little incident so much
disturbed her spirits, that the temple and its scenery were no longer
interesting to her, and, after walking awhile on the terrace, she
returned to the chateau.
Madame Cheron, whether she had seen a rival admired, had lost at
play, or had witnessed an entertainment more splendid than her own,
was returned from her visit with a temper more than usually
discomposed; and Emily was glad, when the hour arrived, in which she
could retire to the solitude of her own apartment.
On the following morning, she was summoned to Madame Cheron, whose
countenance was inflamed with resentment, and, as Emily advanced, she
held out a letter to her.
'Do you know this hand?' said she, in a severe tone, and with a look
that was intended to search her heart, while Emily examined the
letter attentively, and assured her, that she did not.
'Do not provoke me,' said her aunt; 'you do know it, confess the
truth immediately. I insist upon your confessing the truth
instantly.'
Emily was silent, and turned to leave the room, but Madame called her
back. 'O you are guilty, then,' said she, 'you do know the hand.'
'If you was before in doubt of this, madam,' replied Emily calmly,
'why did you accuse me of having told a falsehood.' Madame Cheron
did not blush; but her niece did, a moment after, when she heard the
name of Valancourt. It was not, however, with the consciousness of
deserving reproof, for, if she ever had seen his hand-writing, the
present characters did not bring it to her recollection.
'It is useless to deny it,' said Madame Cheron, 'I see in your
countenance, that you are no stranger to this letter; and, I dare
say, you have received many such from this impertinent young man,
without my knowledge, in my own house.'
Emily, shocked at the indelicacy of this accusation, still more than
by the vulgarity of the former, instantly forgot the pride, that had
imposed silence, and endeavoured to vindicate herself from the
aspersion, but Madame Cheron was not to be convinced.
'I cannot suppose,' she resumed, 'that this young man would have
taken the liberty of writing to me, if you had not encouraged him to
do so, and I must now'--'You will allow me to remind you, madam,'
said Emily timidly, 'of some particulars of a conversation we had at
La Vallee. I then told you truly, that I had only not forbade
Monsieur Valancourt from addressing my family.'
'I will not be interrupted,' said Madame Cheron, interrupting her
niece, 'I was going to say--I--I-have forgot what I was going to say.
But how happened it that you did not forbid him?' Emily was silent.
'How happened it that you encouraged him to trouble me with this
letter?--A young man that nobody knows;--an utter stranger in the
place,--a young adventurer, no doubt, who is looking out for a good
fortune. However, on that point he has mistaken his aim.'
'His family was known to my father,' said Emily modestly, and without
appearing to be sensible of the last sentence.
'O! that is no recommendation at all,' replied her aunt, with her
usual readiness upon this topic; 'he took such strange fancies to
people! He was always judging persons by their countenances, and was
continually deceived.' 'Yet it was but now, madam, that you judged
me guilty by my countenance,' said Emily, with a design of reproving
Madame Cheron, to which she was induced by this disrespectful mention
of her father.
'I called you here,' resumed her aunt, colouring, 'to tell you, that
I will not be disturbed in my own house by any letters, or visits
from young men, who may take a fancy to flatter you. This M. de
Valantine--I think you call him, has the impertinence to beg I will
permit him to pay his respects to me! I shall send him a proper
answer. And for you, Emily, I repeat it once for all--if you are not
contented to conform to my directions, and to my way of live, I shall
give up the task of overlooking your conduct--I shall no longer
trouble myself with your education, but shall send you to board in a
convent.'
'Dear madam,' said Emily, bursting into tears, and overcome by the
rude suspicions her aunt had expressed, 'how have I deserved these
reproofs?' She could say no more; and so very fearful was she of
acting with any degree of impropriety in the affair itself, that, at
the present moment, Madame Cheron might perhaps have prevailed with
her to bind herself by a promise to renounce Valancourt for ever.
Her mind, weakened by her terrors, would no longer suffer her to view
him as she had formerly done; she feared the error of her own
judgment, not that of Madame Cheron, and feared also, that, in her
former conversation with him, at La Vallee, she had not conducted
herself with sufficient reserve. She knew, that she did not deserve
the coarse suspicions, which her aunt had thrown out, but a thousand
scruples rose to torment her, such as would never have disturbed the
peace of Madame Cheron. Thus rendered anxious to avoid every
opportunity of erring, and willing to submit to any restrictions,
that her aunt should think proper, she expressed an obedience, to
which Madame Cheron did not give much confidence, and which she
seemed to consider as the consequence of either fear, or artifice.
'Well, then,' said she, 'promise me that you will neither see this
young man, nor write to him without my consent.' 'Dear madam,'
replied Emily, 'can you suppose I would do either, unknown to you!'
'I don't know what to suppose; there is no knowing how young women
will act. It is difficult to place any confidence in them, for they
have seldom sense enough to wish for the respect of the world.'
'Alas, madam!' said Emily, 'I am anxious for my own respect; my
father taught me the value of that; he said if I deserved my own
esteem, that the world would follow of course.'
'My brother was a good kind of a man,' replied Madame Cheron, 'but he
did not know the world. I am sure I have always felt a proper
respect for myself, yet--' she stopped, but she might have added,
that the world had not always shewn respect to her, and this without
impeaching its judgment.
'Well!' resumed Madame Cheron, 'you have not give me the promise,
though, that I demand.' Emily readily gave it, and, being then
suffered to withdraw, she walked in the garden; tried to compose her
spirits, and, at length, arrived at her favourite pavilion at the end
of the terrace, where, seating herself at one of the embowered
windows, that opened upon a balcony, the stillness and seclusion of
the scene allowed her to recollect her thoughts, and to arrange them
so as to form a clearer judgment of her former conduct. She
endeavoured to review with exactness all the particulars of her
conversation with Valancourt at La Vallee, had the satisfaction to
observe nothing, that could alarm her delicate pride, and thus to be
confirmed in the self-esteem, which was so necessary to her peace.
Her mind then became tranquil, and she saw Valancourt amiable and
intelligent, as he had formerly appeared, and Madame Cheron neither
the one, or the other. The remembrance of her lover, however,
brought with it many very painful emotions, for it by no means
reconciled her to the thought of resigning him; and, Madame Cheron
having already shewn how highly she disapproved of the attachment,
she foresaw much suffering from the opposition of interests; yet with
all this was mingled a degree of delight, which, in spite of reason,
partook of hope. She determined, however, that no consideration
should induce her to permit a clandestine correspondence, and to
observe in her conversation with Valancourt, should they ever meet
again, the same nicety of reserve, which had hitherto marked her
conduct. As she repeated the words--'should we ever meet again!' she
shrunk as if this was a circumstance, which had never before occurred
to her, and tears came to her eyes, which she hastily dried, for she
heard footsteps approaching, and then the door of the pavilion open,
and, on turning, she saw--Valancourt. An emotion of mingled
pleasure, surprise and apprehension pressed so suddenly upon her
heart as almost to overcome her spirits; the colour left her cheeks,
then returned brighter than before, and she was for a moment unable
to speak, or to rise from her chair. His countenance was the mirror,
in which she saw her own emotions reflected, and it roused her to
self-command. The joy, which had animated his features, when he
entered the pavilion, was suddenly repressed, as, approaching, he
perceived her agitation, and, in a tremulous voice, enquired after
her health. Recovered from her first surprise, she answered him with
a tempered smile; but a variety of opposite emotions still assailed
her heart, and struggled to subdue the mild dignity of her manner.
It was difficult to tell which predominated--the joy of seeing
Valancourt, or the terror of her aunt's displeasure, when she should
hear of this meeting. After some short and embarrassed conversation,
she led him into the gardens, and enquired if he had seen Madame
Cheron. 'No,' said he, 'I have not yet seen her, for they told me
she was engaged, and as soon as I learned that you were in the
gardens, I came hither.' He paused a moment, in great agitation, and
then added, 'May I venture to tell you the purport of my visit,
without incurring your displeasure, and to hope, that you will not
accuse me of precipitation in now availing myself of the permission
you once gave me of addressing your family?' Emily, who knew not
what to reply, was spared from further perplexity, and was sensible
only of fear, when on raising her eyes, she saw Madame Cheron turn
into the avenue. As the consciousness of innocence returned, this
fear was so far dissipated as to permit her to appear tranquil, and,
instead of avoiding her aunt, she advanced with Valancourt to meet
her. The look of haughty and impatient displeasure, with which
Madame Cheron regarded them, made Emily shrink, who understood from a
single glance, that this meeting was believed to have been more than
accidental: having mentioned Valancourt's name, she became again too
much agitated to remain with them, and returned into the chateau;
where she awaited long, in a state of trembling anxiety, the
conclusion of the conference. She knew not how to account for
Valancourt's visit to her aunt, before he had received the permission
he solicited, since she was ignorant of a circumstance, which would
have rendered the request useless, even if Madame Cheron had been
inclined to grant it. Valancourt, in the agitation of his spirits,
had forgotten to date his letter, so that it was impossible for
Madame Cheron to return an answer; and, when he recollected this
circumstance, he was, perhaps, not so sorry for the omission as glad
of the excuse it allowed him for waiting on her before she could send
a refusal.
Madame Cheron had a long conversation with Valancourt, and, when she
returned to the chateau, her countenance expressed ill-humour, but
not the degree of severity, which Emily had apprehended. 'I have
dismissed this young man, at last,' said she, 'and I hope my house
will never again be disturbed with similar visits. He assures me,
that your interview was not preconcerted.'
'Dear madam!' said Emily in extreme emotion, 'you surely did not ask
him the question!' 'Most certainly I did; you could not suppose I
should be so imprudent as to neglect it.'
'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, 'what an opinion must he form of me,
since you, Madam, could express a suspicion of such ill conduct!'
'It is of very little consequence what opinion he may form of you,'
replied her aunt, 'for I have put an end to the affair; but I believe
he will not form a worse opinion of me for my prudent conduct. I let
him see, that I was not to be trifled with, and that I had more
delicacy, than to permit any clandestine correspondence to be carried
on in my house.'
Emily had frequently heard Madame Cheron use the word delicacy, but
she was now more than usually perplexed to understand how she meant
to apply it in this instance, in which her whole conduct appeared to
merit the very reverse of the term.
'It was very inconsiderate of my brother,' resumed Madame Cheron, 'to
leave the trouble of overlooking your conduct to me; I wish you was
well settled in life. But if I find, that I am to be further
troubled with such visitors as this M. Valancourt, I shall place you
in a convent at once;--so remember the alternative. This young man
has the impertinence to own to me,--he owns it! that his fortune is
very small, and that he is chiefly dependent on an elder brother and
on the profession he has chosen! He should have concealed these
circumstances, at least, if he expected to succeed with me. Had he
the presumption to suppose I would marry my niece to a person such as
he describes himself!'
Emily dried her tears when she heard of the candid confession of
Valancourt; and, though the circumstances it discovered were
afflicting to her hopes, his artless conduct gave her a degree of
pleasure, that overcame every other emotion. But she was compelled,
even thus early in life, to observe, that good sense and noble
integrity are not always sufficient to cope with folly and narrow
cunning; and her heart was pure enough to allow her, even at this
trying moment, to look with more pride on the defeat of the former,
than with mortification on the conquests of the latter.
Madame Cheron pursued her triumph. 'He has also thought proper to
tell me, that he will receive his dismission from no person but
yourself; this favour, however, I have absolutely refused him. He
shall learn, that it is quite sufficient, that I disapprove him. And
I take this opportunity of repeating,--that if you concert any means
of interview unknown to me, you shall leave my house immediately.'
'How little do you know me, madam, that you should think such an
injunction necessary!' said Emily, trying to suppress her emotion,
'how little of the dear parents, who educated me!'
Madame Cheron now went to dress for an engagement, which she had made
for the evening; and Emily, who would gladly have been excused from
attending her aunt, did not ask to remain at home lest her request
should be attributed to an improper motive. When she retired to her
own room, the little fortitude, which had supported her in the
presence of her relation, forsook her; she remembered only that
Valancourt, whose character appeared more amiable from every
circumstance, that unfolded it, was banished from her presence,
perhaps, for ever, and she passed the time in weeping, which,
according to her aunt's direction, she ought to have employed in
dressing. This important duty was, however, quickly dispatched;
though, when she joined Madame Cheron at table, her eyes betrayed,
that she had been in tears, and drew upon her a severe reproof.
Her efforts to appear cheerful did not entirely fail when she joined
the company at the house of Madame Clairval, an elderly widow lady,
who had lately come to reside at Tholouse, on an estate of her late
husband. She had lived many years at Paris in a splendid style; had
naturally a gay temper, and, since her residence at Tholouse, had
given some of the most magnificent entertainments, that had been seen
in that neighbourhood.
These excited not only the envy, but the trifling ambition of Madame
Cheron, who, since she could not rival the splendour of her
festivities, was desirous of being ranked in the number of her most
intimate friends. For this purpose she paid her the most obsequious
attention, and made a point of being disengaged, whenever she
received an invitation from Madame Clairval, of whom she talked,
wherever she went, and derived much self-consequence from impressing
a belief on her general acquaintance, that they were on the most
familiar footing.
The entertainments of this evening consisted of a ball and supper; it
was a fancy ball, and the company danced in groups in the gardens,
which were very extensive. The high and luxuriant trees, under which
the groups assembled, were illuminated with a profusion of lamps,
disposed with taste and fancy. The gay and various dresses of the
company, some of whom were seated on the turf, conversing at their
ease, observing the cotillons, taking refreshments, and sometimes
touching sportively a guitar; the gallant manners of the gentlemen,
the exquisitely capricious air of the ladies; the light fantastic
steps of their dances; the musicians, with the lute, the hautboy, and
the tabor, seated at the foot of an elm, and the sylvan scenery of
woods around were circumstances, that unitedly formed a
characteristic and striking picture of French festivity. Emily
surveyed the gaiety of the scene with a melancholy kind of pleasure,
and her emotion may be imagined when, as she stood with her aunt,
looking at one of the groups, she perceived Valancourt; saw him
dancing with a young and beautiful lady, saw him conversing with her
with a mixture of attention and familiarity, such as she had seldom
observed in his manner. She turned hastily from the scene, and
attempted to draw away Madame Cheron, who was conversing with Signor
Cavigni, and neither perceived Valancourt, or was willing to be
interrupted. A faintness suddenly came over Emily, and, unable to
support herself, she sat down on a turf bank beneath the trees, where
several other persons were seated. One of these, observing the
extreme paleness of her countenance, enquired if she was ill, and
begged she would allow him to fetch her a glass of water, for which
politeness she thanked him, but did not accept it. Her apprehension
lest Valancourt should observe her emotion made her anxious to
overcome it, and she succeeded so far as to re-compose her
countenance. Madame Cheron was still conversing with Cavigni; and
the Count Bauvillers, who had addressed Emily, made some observations
upon the scene, to which she answered almost unconsciously, for her
mind was still occupied with the idea of Valancourt, to whom it was
with extreme uneasiness that she remained so near. Some remarks,
however, which the Count made upon the dance obliged her to turn her
eyes towards it, and, at that moment, Valancourt's met hers. Her
colour faded again, she felt, that she was relapsing into faintness,
and instantly averted her looks, but not before she had observed the
altered countenance of Valancourt, on perceiving her. She would have
left the spot immediately, had she not been conscious, that this
conduct would have shewn him more obviously the interest he held in
her heart; and, having tried to attend to the Count's conversation,
and to join in it, she, at length, recovered her spirits. But, when
he made some observation on Valancourt's partner, the fear of shewing
that she was interested in the remark, would have betrayed it to him,
had not the Count, while he spoke, looked towards the person of whom
he was speaking. 'The lady,' said he, 'dancing with that young
Chevalier, who appears to be accomplished in every thing, but in
dancing, is ranked among the beauties of Tholouse. She is handsome,
and her fortune will be very large. I hope she will make a better
choice in a partner for life than she has done in a partner for the
dance, for I observe he has just put the set into great confusion; he
does nothing but commit blunders. I am surprised, that, with his air
and figure, he has not taken more care to accomplish himself in
dancing.'
Emily, whose heart trembled at every word, that was now uttered,
endeavoured to turn the conversation from Valancourt, by enquiring
the name of the lady, with whom he danced; but, before the Count
could reply, the dance concluded, and Emily, perceiving that
Valancourt was coming towards her, rose and joined Madame Cheron.
'Here is the Chevalier Valancourt, madam,' said she in a whisper,
'pray let us go.' Her aunt immediately moved on, but not before
Valancourt had reached them, who bowed lowly to Madame Cheron, and
with an earnest and dejected look to Emily, with whom,
notwithstanding all her effort, an air of more than common reserve
prevailed. The presence of Madame Cheron prevented Valancourt from
remaining, and he passed on with a countenance, whose melancholy
reproached her for having increased it. Emily was called from the
musing fit, into which she had fallen, by the Count Bauvillers, who
was known to her aunt.
'I have your pardon to beg, ma'amselle,' said he, 'for a rudeness,
which you will readily believe was quite unintentional. I did not
know, that the Chevalier was your acquaintance, when I so freely
criticised his dancing.' Emily blushed and smiled, and Madame Cheron
spared her the difficulty of replying. 'If you mean the person, who
has just passed us,' said she, 'I can assure you he is no
acquaintance of either mine, or ma'amselle St. Aubert's: I know
nothing of him.'
'O! that is the Chevalier Valancourt,' said Cavigni carelessly, and
looking back. 'You know him then?' said Madame Cheron. 'I am not
acquainted with him,' replied Cavigni. 'You don't know, then, the
reason I have to call him impertinent;--he has had the presumption to
admire my niece!'
'If every man deserves the title of impertinent, who admires
ma'amselle St. Aubert,' replied Cavigni, 'I fear there are a great
many impertinents, and I am willing to acknowledge myself one of the
number.'
'O Signor!' said Madame Cheron, with an affected smile, 'I perceive
you have learnt the art of complimenting, since you came into France.
But it is cruel to compliment children, since they mistake flattery
for truth.'
Cavigni turned away his face for a moment, and then said with a
studied air, 'Whom then are we to compliment, madam? for it would be
absurd to compliment a woman of refined understanding; SHE is above
all praise.' As he finished the sentence he gave Emily a sly look,
and the smile, that had lurked in his eye, stole forth. She
perfectly understood it, and blushed for Madame Cheron, who replied,
'You are perfectly right, signor, no woman of understanding can
endure compliment.'
'I have heard Signor Montoni say,' rejoined Cavigni, 'that he never
knew but one woman who deserved it.'
'Well!' exclaimed Madame Cheron, with a short laugh, and a smile of
unutterable complacency, 'and who could she be?'
'O!' replied Cavigni, 'it is impossible to mistake her, for certainly
there is not more than one woman in the world, who has both the merit
to deserve compliment and the wit to refuse it. Most women reverse
the case entirely.' He looked again at Emily, who blushed deeper
than before for her aunt, and turned from him with displeasure.
'Well, signor!' said Madame Cheron, 'I protest you are a Frenchman; I
never heard a foreigner say any thing half so gallant as that!'
'True, madam,' said the Count, who had been some time silent, and
with a low bow, 'but the gallantry of the compliment had been utterly
lost, but for the ingenuity that discovered the application.'
Madame Cheron did not perceive the meaning of this too satirical
sentence, and she, therefore, escaped the pain, which Emily felt on
her account. 'O! here comes Signor Montoni himself,' said her aunt,
'I protest I will tell him all the fine things you have been saying
to me.' The Signor, however, passed at this moment into another
walk. 'Pray, who is it, that has so much engaged your friend this
evening?' asked Madame Cheron, with an air of chagrin, 'I have not
seen him once.'
'He had a very particular engagement with the Marquis La Riviere,'
replied Cavigni, 'which has detained him, I perceive, till this
moment, or he would have done himself the honour of paying his
respects to you, madam, sooner, as he commissioned me to say. But, I
know not how it is--your conversation is so fascinating--that it can
charm even memory, I think, or I should certainly have delivered my
friend's apology before.'
'The apology, sir, would have been more satisfactory from himself,'
said Madame Cheron, whose vanity was more mortified by Montoni's
neglect, than flattered by Cavigni's compliment. Her manner, at this
moment, and Cavigni's late conversation, now awakened a suspicion in
Emily's mind, which, notwithstanding that some recollections served
to confirm it, appeared preposterous. She thought she perceived,
that Montoni was paying serious addresses to her aunt, and that she
not only accepted them, but was jealously watchful of any appearance
of neglect on his part.--That Madame Cheron at her years should elect
a second husband was ridiculous, though her vanity made it not
impossible; but that Montoni, with his discernment, his figure, and
pretensions, should make a choice of Madame Cheron--appeared most
wonderful. Her thoughts, however, did not dwell long on the subject;
nearer interests pressed upon them; Valancourt, rejected of her aunt,
and Valancourt dancing with a gay and beautiful partner, alternately
tormented her mind. As she passed along the gardens she looked
timidly forward, half fearing and half hoping that he might appear in
the crowd; and the disappointment she felt on not seeing him, told
her, that she had hoped more than she had feared.
Montoni soon after joined the party. He muttered over some short
speech about regret for having been so long detained elsewhere, when
he knew he should have the pleasure of seeing Madame Cheron here; and
she, receiving the apology with the air of a pettish girl, addressed
herself entirely to Cavigni, who looked archly at Montoni, as if he
would have said, 'I will not triumph over you too much; I will have
the goodness to bear my honours meekly; but look sharp, Signor, or I
shall certainly run away with your prize.'
The supper was served in different pavilions in the gardens, as well
as in one large saloon of the chateau, and with more of taste, than
either of splendour, or even of plenty. Madame Cheron and her party
supped with Madame Clairval in the saloon, and Emily, with
difficulty, disguised her emotion, when she saw Valancourt placed at
the same table with herself. There, Madame Cheron having surveyed
him with high displeasure, said to some person who sat next to her,
'Pray, who IS that young man?' 'It is the Chevalier Valancourt,' was
the answer. 'Yes, I am not ignorant of his name, but who is this
Chevalier Valancourt that thus intrudes himself at this table?' The
attention of the person, who whom she spoke, was called off before
she received a second reply. The table, at which they sat, was very
long, and, Valancourt being seated, with his partner, near the
bottom, and Emily near the top, the distance between them may account
for his not immediately perceiving her. She avoided looking to that
end of the table, but whenever her eyes happened to glance towards
it, she observed him conversing with his beautiful companion, and the
observation did not contribute to restore her peace, any more than
the accounts she heard of the fortune and accomplishments of this
same lady.
Madame Cheron, to whom these remarks were sometimes addressed,
because they supported topics for trivial conversation, seemed
indefatigable in her attempts to depreciate Valancourt, towards whom
she felt all the petty resentment of a narrow pride. 'I admire the
lady,' said she, 'but I must condemn her choice of a partner.' 'Oh,
the Chevalier Valancourt is one of the most accomplished young men we
have,' replied the lady, to whom this remark was addressed: 'it is
whispered, that Mademoiselle D'Emery, and her large fortune, are to
be his.'
'Impossible!' exclaimed Madame Cheron, reddening with vexation, 'it
is impossible that she can be so destitute of taste; he has so little
the air of a person of condition, that, if I did not see him at the
table of Madame Clairval, I should never have suspected him to be
one. I have besides particular reasons for believing the report to
be erroneous.'
'I cannot doubt the truth of it,' replied the lady gravely, disgusted
by the abrupt contradiction she had received, concerning her opinion
of Valancourt's merit. 'You will, perhaps, doubt it,' said Madame
Cheron, 'when I assure you, that it was only this morning that I
rejected his suit.' This was said without any intention of imposing
the meaning it conveyed, but simply from a habit of considering
herself to be the most important person in every affair that
concerned her niece, and because literally she had rejected
Valancourt. 'Your reasons are indeed such as cannot be doubted,'
replied the lady, with an ironical smile. 'Any more than the
discernment of the Chevalier Valancourt,' added Cavigni, who stood by
the chair of Madame Cheron, and had heard her arrogate to herself, as
he thought, a distinction which had been paid to her niece. 'His
discernment MAY be justly questioned, Signor,' said Madame Cheron,
who was not flattered by what she understood to be an encomium on
Emily.
'Alas!' exclaimed Cavigni, surveying Madame Cheron with affected
ecstasy, 'how vain is that assertion, while that face--that shape--
that air--combine to refute it! Unhappy Valancourt! his discernment
has been his destruction.'
Emily looked surprised and embarrassed; the lady, who had lately
spoke, astonished, and Madame Cheron, who, though she did not
perfectly understand this speech, was very ready to believe herself
complimented by it, said smilingly, 'O Signor! you are very gallant;
but those, who hear you vindicate the Chevalier's discernment, will
suppose that I am the object of it.'
'They cannot doubt it,' replied Cavigni, bowing low.
'And would not that be very mortifying, Signor?'
'Unquestionably it would,' said Cavigni.
'I cannot endure the thought,' said Madame Cheron.
'It is not to be endured,' replied Cavigni.
'What can be done to prevent so humiliating a mistake?' rejoined
Madame Cheron.
'Alas! I cannot assist you,' replied Cavigni, with a deliberating
air. 'Your only chance of refuting the calumny, and of making people
understand what you wish them to believe, is to persist in your first
assertion; for, when they are told of the Chevalier's want of
discernment, it is possible they may suppose he never presumed to
distress you with his admiration.--But then again--that diffidence,
which renders you so insensible to your own perfections--they will
consider this, and Valancourt's taste will not be doubted, though you
arraign it. In short, they will, in spite of your endeavours,
continue to believe, what might very naturally have occurred to them
without any hint of mine--that the Chevalier has taste enough to
admire a beautiful woman.'
'All this is very distressing!' said Madame Cheron, with a profound
sigh.
'May I be allowed to ask what is so distressing?' said Madame
Clairval, who was struck with the rueful countenance and doleful
accent, with which this was delivered.
'It is a delicate subject,' replied Madame Cheron, 'a very mortifying
one to me.' 'I am concerned to hear it,' said Madame Clairval, 'I
hope nothing has occurred, this evening, particularly to distress
you?' 'Alas, yes! within this half hour; and I know not where the
report may end;--my pride was never so shocked before, but I assure
you the report is totally void of foundation.' 'Good God!' exclaimed
Madame Clairval,' what can be done? Can you point out any way, by
which I can assist, or console you?'
'The only way, by which you can do either,' replied Madame Cheron,
'is to contradict the report wherever you go.'
'Well! but pray inform me what I am to contradict.'
'It is so very humiliating, that I know not how to mention it,'
continued Madame Cheron, 'but you shall judge. Do you observe that
young man seated near the bottom of the table, who is conversing with
Mademoiselle D'Emery?' 'Yes, I perceive whom you mean.' 'You
observe how little he has the air of a person of condition; I was
saying just now, that I should not have thought him a gentleman, if I
had not seen him at this table.' 'Well! but the report,' said Madame
Clairval, 'let me understand the subject of your distress.' 'Ah! the
subject of my distress,' replied Madame Cheron; 'this person, whom
nobody knows--(I beg pardon, madam, I did not consider what I said)--
this impertinent young man, having had the presumption to address my
niece, has, I fear, given rise to a report, that he had declared
himself my admirer. Now only consider how very mortifying such a
report must be! You, I know, will feel for my situation. A woman of
my condition!--think how degrading even the rumour of such an
alliance must be.'
'Degrading indeed, my poor friend!' said Madame Clairval. 'You may
rely upon it I will contradict the report wherever I go;' as she said
which, she turned her attention upon another part of the company; and
Cavigni, who had hitherto appeared a grave spectator of the scene,
now fearing he should be unable to smother the laugh, that convulsed
him, walked abruptly away.
'I perceive you do not know,' said the lady who sat near Madame
Cheron, 'that the gentleman you have been speaking of is Madame
Clairval's nephew!' 'Impossible!' exclaimed Madame Cheron, who now
began to perceive, that she had been totally mistaken in her judgment
of Valancourt, and to praise him aloud with as much servility, as she
had before censured him with frivolous malignity.
Emily, who, during the greater part of this conversation, had been so
absorbed in thought as to be spared the pain of hearing it, was now
extremely surprised by her aunt's praise of Valancourt, with whose
relationship to Madame Clairval she was unacquainted; but she was not
sorry when Madame Cheron, who, though she now tried to appear
unconcerned, was really much embarrassed, prepared to withdraw
immediately after supper. Montoni then came to hand Madame Cheron to
her carriage, and Cavigni, with an arch solemnity of countenance,
followed with Emily, who, as she wished them good night, and drew up
the glass, saw Valancourt among the crowd at the gates. Before the
carriage drove off, he disappeared. Madame Cheron forbore to mention
him to Emily, and, as soon as they reached the chateau, they
separated for the night.
On the following morning, as Emily sat at breakfast with her aunt, a
letter was brought to her, of which she knew the handwriting upon the
cover; and, as she received it with a trembling hand, Madame Cheron
hastily enquired from whom it came. Emily, with her leave, broke the
seal, and, observing the signature of Valancourt, gave it unread to
her aunt, who received it with impatience; and, as she looked it
over, Emily endeavoured to read on her countenance its contents.
Having returned the letter to her niece, whose eyes asked if she
might examine it, 'Yes, read it, child,' said Madame Cheron, in a
manner less severe than she had expected, and Emily had, perhaps,
never before so willingly obeyed her aunt. In this letter Valancourt
said little of the interview of the preceding day, but concluded with
declaring, that he would accept his dismission from Emily only, and
with entreating, that she would allow him to wait upon her, on the
approaching evening. When she read this, she was astonished at the
moderation of Madame Cheron, and looked at her with timid
expectation, as she said sorrowfully--'What am I to say, madam?'
'Why--we must see the young man, I believe,' replied her aunt, 'and
hear what he has further to say for himself. You may tell him he may
come.' Emily dared scarcely credit what she heard. 'Yet, stay,'
added Madame Cheron, 'I will tell him so myself.' She called for pen
and ink; Emily still not daring to trust the emotions she felt, and
almost sinking beneath them. Her surprise would have been less had
she overheard, on the preceding evening, what Madame Cheron had not
forgotten--that Valancourt was the nephew of Madame Clairval.
What were the particulars of her aunt's note Emily did not learn, but
the result was a visit from Valancourt in the evening, whom Madame
Cheron received alone, and they had a long conversation before Emily
was called down. When she entered the room, her aunt was conversing
with complacency, and she saw the eyes of Valancourt, as he
impatiently rose, animated with hope.
'We have been talking over this affair,' said Madame Cheron, 'the
chevalier has been telling me, that the late Monsieur Clairval was
the brother of the Countess de Duvarney, his mother. I only wish he
had mentioned his relationship to Madame Clairval before; I certainly
should have considered that circumstance as a sufficient introduction
to my house.' Valancourt bowed, and was going to address Emily, but
her aunt prevented him. 'I have, therefore, consented that you shall
receive his visits; and, though I will not bind myself by any
promise, or say, that I shall consider him as my nephew, yet I shall
permit the intercourse, and shall look forward to any further
connection as an event, which may possibly take place in a course of
years, provided the chevalier rises in his profession, or any
circumstance occurs, which may make it prudent for him to take a
wife. But Mons. Valancourt will observe, and you too, Emily, that,
till that happens, I positively forbid any thoughts of marrying.'
Emily's countenance, during this coarse speech, varied every instant,
and, towards its conclusion, her distress had so much increased, that
she was on the point of leaving the room. Valancourt, meanwhile,
scarcely less embarrassed, did not dare to look at her, for whom he
was thus distressed; but, when Madame Cheron was silent, he said,
'Flattering, madam, as your approbation is to me--highly as I am
honoured by it--I have yet so much to fear, that I scarcely dare to
hope.' 'Pray, sir, explain yourself,' said Madame Cheron; an
unexpected requisition, which embarrassed Valancourt again, and
almost overcame him with confusion, at circumstances, on which, had
he been only a spectator of the scene, he would have smiled.
'Till I receive Mademoiselle St. Aubert's permission to accept your
indulgence,' said he, falteringly--'till she allows me to hope--'
'O! is that all?' interrupted Madame Cheron. 'Well, I will take upon
me to answer for her. But at the same time, sir, give me leave to
observe to you, that I am her guardian, and that I expect, in every
instance, that my will is hers.'
As she said this, she rose and quitted the room, leaving Emily and
Valancourt in a state of mutual embarrassment; and, when Valancourt's
hopes enabled him to overcome his fears, and to address her with the
zeal and sincerity so natural to him, it was a considerable time
before she was sufficiently recovered to hear with distinctness his
solicitations and inquiries.
The conduct of Madame Cheron in this affair had been entirely
governed by selfish vanity. Valancourt, in his first interview, had
with great candour laid open to her the true state of his present
circumstances, and his future expectancies, and she, with more
prudence than humanity, had absolutely and abruptly rejected his
suit. She wished her niece to marry ambitiously, not because she
desired to see her in possession of the happiness, which rank and
wealth are usually believed to bestow, but because she desired to
partake the importance, which such an alliance would give. When,
therefore, she discovered that Valancourt was the nephew of a person
of so much consequence as Madame Clairval, she became anxious for the
connection, since the prospect it afforded of future fortune and
distinction for Emily, promised the exaltation she coveted for
herself. Her calculations concerning fortune in this alliance were
guided rather by her wishes, than by any hint of Valancourt, or
strong appearance of probability; and, when she rested her
expectation on the wealth of Madame Clairval, she seemed totally to
have forgotten, that the latter had a daughter. Valancourt, however,
had not forgotten this circumstance, and the consideration of it had
made him so modest in his expectations from Madame Clairval, that he
had not even named the relationship in his first conversation with
Madame Cheron. But, whatever might be the future fortune of Emily,
the present distinction, which the connection would afford for
herself, was certain, since the splendour of Madame Clairval's
establishment was such as to excite the general envy and partial
imitation of the neighbourhood. Thus had she consented to involve
her niece in an engagement, to which she saw only a distant and
uncertain conclusion, with as little consideration of her happiness,
as when she had so precipitately forbade it: for though she herself
possessed the means of rendering this union not only certain, but
prudent, yet to do so was no part of her present intention.
From this period Valancourt made frequent visits to Madame Cheron,
and Emily passed in his society the happiest hours she had known
since the death of her father. They were both too much engaged by
the present moments to give serious consideration to the future.
They loved and were beloved, and saw not, that the very attachment,
which formed the delight of their present days, might possibly
occasion the sufferings of years. Meanwhile, Madame Cheron's
intercourse with Madame Clairval became more frequent than before,
and her vanity was already gratified by the opportunity of
proclaiming, wherever she went, the attachment that subsisted between
their nephew and niece.
Montoni was now also become a daily guest at the chateau, and Emily
was compelled to observe, that he really was a suitor, and a favoured
suitor, to her aunt.
Thus passed the winter months, not only in peace, but in happiness,
to Valancourt and Emily; the station of his regiment being so near
Tholouse, as to allow this frequent intercourse. The pavilion on the
terrace was the favourite scene of their interviews, and there Emily,
with Madame Cheron, would work, while Valancourt read aloud works of
genius and taste, listened to her enthusiasm, expressed his own, and
caught new opportunities of observing, that their minds were formed
to constitute the happiness of each other, the same taste, the same
noble and benevolent sentiments animating each.
CHAPTER XIII
As when a shepherd of the Hebrid-Isles,
Placed far amid the melancholy main,
(Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles,
Or that aerial beings sometimes deign
To stand embodied to our senses plain)
Sees on the naked hill, or valley low,
The whilst in ocean Phoebus dips his wain,
A vast assembly moving to and fro,
Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show.
CASTLE OF INDOLENCE
Madame Cheron's avarice at length yielded to her vanity. Some very
splendid entertainments, which Madame Clairval had given, and the
general adulation, which was paid her, made the former more anxious
than before to secure an alliance, that would so much exalt her in
her own opinion and in that of the world. She proposed terms for the
immediate marriage of her niece, and offered to give Emily a dower,
provided Madame Clairval observed equal terms, on the part of her
nephew. Madame Clairval listened to the proposal, and, considering
that Emily was the apparent heiress of her aunt's wealth, accepted
it. Meanwhile, Emily knew nothing of the transaction, till Madame
Cheron informed her, that she must make preparation for the nuptials,
which would be celebrated without further delay; then, astonished and
wholly unable to account for this sudden conclusion, which Valancourt
had not solicited (for he was ignorant of what had passed between the
elder ladies, and had not dared to hope such good fortune), she
decisively objected to it. Madame Cheron, however, quite as jealous
of contradiction now, as she had been formerly, contended for a
speedy marriage with as much vehemence as she had formerly opposed
whatever had the most remote possibility of leading to it; and
Emily's scruples disappeared, when she again saw Valancourt, who was
now informed of the happiness, designed for him, and came to claim a
promise of it from herself.
While preparations were making for these nuptials, Montoni became the
acknowledged lover of Madame Cheron; and, though Madame Clairval was
much displeased, when she heard of the approaching connection, and
was willing to prevent that of Valancourt with Emily, her conscience
told her, that she had no right thus to trifle with their peace, and
Madame Clairval, though a woman of fashion, was far less advanced
than her friend in the art of deriving satisfaction from distinction
and admiration, rather than from conscience.
Emily observed with concern the ascendancy, which Montoni had
acquired over Madame Cheron, as well as the increasing frequency of
his visits; and her own opinion of this Italian was confirmed by that
of Valancourt, who had always expressed a dislike of him. As she
was, one morning, sitting at work in the pavilion, enjoying the
pleasant freshness of spring, whose colours were now spread upon the
landscape, and listening to Valancourt, who was reading, but who
often laid aside the book to converse, she received a summons to
attend Madame Cheron immediately, and had scarcely entered the
dressing-room, when she observed with surprise the dejection of her
aunt's countenance, and the contrasted gaiety of her dress. 'So,
niece!'--said Madame, and she stopped under some degree of
embarrassment.--'I sent for you--I--I wished to see you; I have news
to tell you. From this hour you must consider the Signor Montoni as
your uncle--we were married this morning.'
Astonished--not so much at the marriage, as at the secrecy with which
it had been concluded, and the agitation with which it was announced,
Emily, at length, attributed the privacy to the wish of Montoni,
rather than of her aunt. His wife, however, intended, that the
contrary should be believed, and therefore added, 'you see I wished
to avoid a bustle; but now the ceremony is over I shall do so no
longer; and I wish to announce to my servants that they must receive
the Signor Montoni for their master.' Emily made a feeble attempt to
congratulate her on these apparently imprudent nuptials. 'I shall
now celebrate my marriage with some splendour,' continued Madame
Montoni, 'and to save time I shall avail myself of the preparation
that has been made for yours, which will, of course, be delayed a
little while. Such of your wedding clothes as are ready I shall
expect you will appear in, to do honour to this festival. I also
wish you to inform Monsieur Valancourt, that I have changed my name,
and he will acquaint Madame Clairval. In a few days I shall give a
grand entertainment, at which I shall request their presence.'
Emily was so lost in surprise and various thought, that she made
Madame Montoni scarcely any reply, but, at her desire, she returned
to inform Valancourt of what had passed. Surprise was not his
predominant emotion on hearing of these hasty nuptials; and, when he
learned, that they were to be the means of delaying his own, and that
the very ornaments of the chateau, which had been prepared to grace
the nuptial day of his Emily, were to be degraded to the celebration
of Madame Montoni's, grief and indignation agitated him alternately.
He could conceal neither from the observation of Emily, whose efforts
to abstract him from these serious emotions, and to laugh at the
apprehensive considerations, that assailed him, were ineffectual;
and, when, at length, he took leave, there was an earnest tenderness
in his manner, that extremely affected her; she even shed tears, when
he disappeared at the end of the terrace, yet knew not exactly why
she should do so.
Montoni now took possession of the chateau, and the command of its
inhabitants, with the ease of a man, who had long considered it to be
his own. His friend Cavigni, who had been extremely serviceable, in
having paid Madame Cheron the attention and flattery, which she
required, but from which Montoni too often revolted, had apartments
assigned to him, and received from the domestics an equal degree of
obedience with the master of the mansion.
Within a few days, Madame Montoni, as she had promised, gave a
magnificent entertainment to a very numerous company, among whom was
Valancourt; but at which Madame Clairval excused herself from
attending. There was a concert, ball and supper. Valancourt was, of
course, Emily's partner, and though, when he gave a look to the
decorations of the apartments, he could not but remember, that they
were designed for other festivities, than those they now contributed
to celebrate, he endeavoured to check his concern by considering,
that a little while only would elapse before they would be given to
their original destination. During this evening, Madame Montoni
danced, laughed and talked incessantly; while Montoni, silent,
reserved and somewhat haughty, seemed weary of the parade, and of the
frivolous company it had drawn together.
This was the first and the last entertainment, given in celebration
of their nuptials. Montoni, though the severity of his temper and
the gloominess of his pride prevented him from enjoying such
festivities, was extremely willing to promote them. It was seldom,
that he could meet in any company a man of more address, and still
seldomer one of more understanding, than himself; the balance of
advantage in such parties, or in the connections, which might arise
from them, must, therefore, be on his side; and, knowing, as he did,
the selfish purposes, for which they are generally frequented, he had
no objection to measure his talents of dissimulation with those of
any other competitor for distinction and plunder. But his wife, who,
when her own interest was immediately concerned, had sometimes more
discernment than vanity, acquired a consciousness of her inferiority
to other women, in personal attractions, which, uniting with the
jealousy natural to the discovery, counteracted his readiness for
mingling with all the parties Tholouse could afford. Till she had,
as she supposed, the affections of an husband to lose, she had no
motive for discovering the unwelcome truth, and it had never obtruded
itself upon her; but, now that it influenced her policy, she opposed
her husband's inclination for company, with the more eagerness,
because she believed him to be really as well received in the female
society of the place, as, during his addresses to her, he had
affected to be.
A few weeks only had elapsed, since the marriage, when Madame Montoni
informed Emily, that the Signor intended to return to Italy, as soon
as the necessary preparation could be made for so long a journey.
'We shall go to Venice,' said she, 'where the Signor has a fine
mansion, and from thence to his estate in Tuscany. Why do you look
so grave, child?--You, who are so fond of a romantic country and fine
views, will doubtless be delighted with this journey.'
'Am I then to be of the party, madam?' said Emily, with extreme
surprise and emotion. 'Most certainly,' replied her aunt, 'how could
you imagine we should leave you behind? But I see you are thinking
of the Chevalier; he is not yet, I believe, informed of the journey,
but he very soon will be so. Signor Montoni is gone to acquaint
Madame Clairval of our journey, and to say, that the proposed
connection between the families must from this time be thought of no
more.'
The unfeeling manner, in which Madame Montoni thus informed her
niece, that she must be separated, perhaps for ever, from the man,
with whom she was on the point of being united for life, added to the
dismay, which she must otherwise have suffered at such intelligence.
When she could speak, she asked the cause of the sudden change in
Madame's sentiments towards Valancourt, but the only reply she could
obtain was, that the Signor had forbade the connection, considering
it to be greatly inferior to what Emily might reasonably expect.
'I now leave the affair entirely to the Signor,' added Madame
Montoni, 'but I must say, that M. Valancourt never was a favourite
with me, and I was overpersuaded, or I should not have given my
consent to the connection. I was weak enough--I am so foolish
sometimes!--to suffer other people's uneasiness to affect me, and so
my better judgment yielded to your affliction. But the Signor has
very properly pointed out the folly of this, and he shall not have to
reprove me a second time. I am determined, that you shall submit to
those, who know how to guide you better than yourself--I am
determined, that you shall be conformable.'
Emily would have been astonished at the assertions of this eloquent
speech, had not her mind been so overwhelmed by the sudden shock it
had received, that she scarcely heard a word of what was latterly
addressed to her. Whatever were the weaknesses of Madame Montoni,
she might have avoided to accuse herself with those of compassion and
tenderness to the feelings of others, and especially to those of
Emily. It was the same ambition, that lately prevailed upon her to
solicit an alliance with Madame Clairval's family, which induced her
to withdraw from it, now that her marriage with Montoni had exalted
her self-consequence, and, with it, her views for her niece.
Emily was, at this time, too much affected to employ either
remonstrance, or entreaty on this topic; and when, at length, she
attempted the latter, her emotion overcame her speech, and she
retired to her apartment, to think, if in the present state of her
mind to think was possible, upon this sudden and overwhelming
subject. It was very long, before her spirits were sufficiently
composed to permit the reflection, which, when it came, was dark and
even terrible. She saw, that Montoni sought to aggrandise himself in
his disposal of her, and it occurred, that his friend Cavigni was the
person, for whom he was interested. The prospect of going to Italy
was still rendered darker, when she considered the tumultuous
situation of that country, then torn by civil commotion, where every
petty state was at war with its neighbour, and even every castle
liable to the attack of an invader. She considered the person, to
whose immediate guidance she would be committed, and the vast
distance, that was to separate her from Valancourt, and, at the
recollection of him, every other image vanished from her mind, and
every thought was again obscured by grief.
In this perturbed state she passed some hours, and, when she was
summoned to dinner, she entreated permission to remain in her own
apartment; but Madame Montoni was alone, and the request was refused.
Emily and her aunt said little during the repast; the one occupied by
her griefs, the other engrossed by the disappointment, which the
unexpected absence of Montoni occasioned; for not only was her vanity
piqued by the neglect, but her jealousy alarmed by what she
considered as a mysterious engagement. When the cloth was drawn and
they were alone, Emily renewed the mention of Valancourt; but her
aunt, neither softened to pity, or awakened to remorse, became
enraged, that her will should be opposed, and the authority of
Montoni questioned, though this was done by Emily with her usual
gentleness, who, after a long, and torturing conversation, retired in
tears.
As she crossed the hall, a person entered it by the great door, whom,
as her eyes hastily glanced that way, she imagined to be Montoni, and
she was passing on with quicker steps, when she heard the well-known
voice of Valancourt.
'Emily, O! my Emily!' cried he in a tone faltering with impatience,
while she turned, and, as he advanced, was alarmed at the expression
of his countenance and the eager desperation of his air. 'In tears,
Emily! I would speak with you,' said he, 'I have much to say;
conduct me to where we may converse. But you tremble--you are ill!
Let me lead you to a seat.'
He observed the open door of an apartment, and hastily took her hand
to lead her thither; but she attempted to withdraw it, and said, with
a languid smile, 'I am better already; if you wish to see my aunt she
is in the dining-parlour.' 'I must speak with YOU, my Emily,'
replied Valancourt, 'Good God! is it already come to this? Are you
indeed so willing to resign me?' But this is an improper place--I am
overheard. Let me entreat your attention, if only for a few
minutes.'--'When you have seen my aunt,' said Emily. 'I was wretched
enough when I came hither,' exclaimed Valancourt, 'do not increase my
misery by this coldness--this cruel refusal.'
The despondency, with which he spoke this, affected her almost to
tears, but she persisted in refusing to hear him, till he had
conversed with Madame Montoni. 'Where is her husband, where, then,
is Montoni?' said Valancourt, in an altered tone: 'it is he, to whom
I must speak.'
Emily, terrified for the consequence of the indignation, that flashed
in his eyes, tremblingly assured him, that Montoni was not at home,
and entreated he would endeavour to moderate his resentment. At the
tremulous accents of her voice, his eyes softened instantly from
wildness into tenderness. 'You are ill, Emily,' said he, 'they will
destroy us both! Forgive me, that I dared to doubt your affection.'
Emily no longer opposed him, as he led her into an adjoining parlour;
the manner, in which he had named Montoni, had so much alarmed her
for his own safety, that she was now only anxious to prevent the
consequences of his just resentment. He listened to her entreaties,
with attention, but replied to them only with looks of despondency
and tenderness, concealing, as much as possible, the sentiments he
felt towards Montoni, that he might soothe the apprehensions, which
distressed her. But she saw the veil he had spread over his
resentment, and, his assumed tranquillity only alarming her more, she
urged, at length, the impolicy of forcing an interview with Montoni,
and of taking any measure, which might render their separation
irremediable. Valancourt yielded to these remonstrances, and her
affecting entreaties drew from him a promise, that, however Montoni
might persist in his design of disuniting them, he would not seek to
redress his wrongs by violence. 'For my sake,' said Emily, 'let the
consideration of what I should suffer deter you from such a mode of
revenge!' 'For your sake, Emily,' replied Valancourt, his eyes
filling with tears of tenderness and grief, while he gazed upon her.
'Yes--yes--I shall subdue myself. But, though I have given you my
solemn promise to do this, do not expect, that I can tamely submit to
the authority of Montoni; if I could, I should be unworthy of you.
Yet, O Emily! how long may he condemn me to live without you,--how
long may it be before you return to France!'
Emily endeavoured to sooth him with assurances of her unalterable
affection, and by representing, that, in little more than a year, she
should be her own mistress, as far as related to her aunt, from whose
guardianship her age would then release her; assurances, which gave
little consolation to Valancourt, who considered, that she would then
be in Italy and in the power of those, whose dominion over her would
not cease with their rights; but he affected to be consoled by them.
Emily, comforted by the promise she had obtained, and by his apparent
composure, was about to leave him, when her aunt entered the room.
She threw a glance of sharp reproof upon her niece, who immediately
withdrew, and of haughty displeasure upon Valancourt.
'This is not the conduct I should have expected from you, sir;' said
she, 'I did not expect to see you in my house, after you had been
informed, that your visits were no longer agreeable, much less, that
you would seek a clandestine interview with my niece, and that she
would grant one.'
Valancourt, perceiving it necessary to vindicate Emily from such a
design, explained, that the purpose of his own visit had been to
request an interview with Montoni, and he then entered upon the
subject of it, with the tempered spirit which the sex, rather than
the respectability, of Madame Montoni, demanded.
His expostulations were answered with severe rebuke; she lamented
again, that her prudence had ever yielded to what she termed
compassion, and added, that she was so sensible of the folly of her
former consent, that, to prevent the possibility of a repetition, she
had committed the affair entirely to the conduct of Signor Montoni.
The feeling eloquence of Valancourt, however, at length, made her
sensible in some measure of her unworthy conduct, and she became
susceptible to shame, but not remorse: she hated Valancourt, who
awakened her to this painful sensation, and, in proportion as she
grew dissatisfied with herself, her abhorrence of him increased.
This was also the more inveterate, because his tempered words and
manner were such as, without accusing her, compelled her to accuse
herself, and neither left her a hope, that the odious portrait was
the caricature of his prejudice, or afforded her an excuse for
expressing the violent resentment, with which she contemplated it.
At length, her anger rose to such an height, that Valancourt was
compelled to leave the house abruptly, lest he should forfeit his own
esteem by an intemperate reply. He was then convinced, that from
Madame Montoni he had nothing to hope, for what of either pity, or
justice could be expected from a person, who could feel the pain of
guilt, without the humility of repentance?
To Montoni he looked with equal despondency, since it was nearly
evident, that this plan of separation originated with him, and it was
not probable, that he would relinquish his own views to entreaties,
or remonstrances, which he must have foreseen and have been prepared
to resist. Yet, remembering his promise to Emily, and more
solicitous, concerning his love, than jealous of his consequence,
Valancourt was careful to do nothing that might unnecessarily
irritate Montoni, he wrote to him, therefore, not to demand an
interview, but to solicit one, and, having done this, he endeavoured
to wait with calmness his reply.
Madame Clairval was passive in the affair. When she gave her
approbation to Valancourt's marriage, it was in the belief, that
Emily would be the heiress of Madame Montoni's fortune; and, though,
upon the nuptials of the latter, when she perceived the fallacy of
this expectation, her conscience had withheld her from adopting any
measure to prevent the union, her benevolence was not sufficiently
active to impel her towards any step, that might now promote it. She
was, on the contrary, secretly pleased, that Valancourt was released
from an engagement, which she considered to be as inferior, in point
of fortune, to his merit, as his alliance was thought by Montoni to
be humiliating to the beauty of Emily; and, though her pride was
wounded by this rejection of a member of her family, she disdained to
shew resentment otherwise, than by silence.
Montoni, in his reply to Valancourt, said, that as an interview could
neither remove the objections of the one, or overcome the wishes of
the other, it would serve only to produce useless altercation between
them. He, therefore, thought proper to refuse it.
In consideration of the policy, suggested by Emily, and of his
promise to her, Valancourt restrained the impulse, that urged him to
the house of Montoni, to demand what had been denied to his
entreaties. He only repeated his solicitations to see him; seconding
them with all the arguments his situation could suggest. Thus
several days passed, in remonstrance, on one side, and inflexible
denial, on the other; for, whether it was fear, or shame, or the
hatred, which results from both, that made Montoni shun the man he
had injured, he was peremptory in his refusal, and was neither
softened to pity by the agony, which Valancourt's letters pourtrayed,
or awakened to a repentance of his own injustice by the strong
remonstrances he employed. At length, Valancourt's letters were
returned unopened, and then, in the first moments of passionate
despair, he forgot every promise to Emily, except the solemn one,
which bound him to avoid violence, and hastened to Montoni's chateau,
determined to see him by whatever other means might be necessary.
Montoni was denied, and Valancourt, when he afterwards enquired for
Madame, and Ma'amselle St. Aubert, was absolutely refused admittance
by the servants. Not choosing to submit himself to a contest with
these, he, at length, departed, and, returning home in a state of
mind approaching to frenzy, wrote to Emily of what had passed,
expressed without restraint all the agony of his heart, and
entreated, that, since he must not otherwise hope to see her
immediately, she would allow him an interview unknown to Montoni.
Soon after he had dispatched this, his passions becoming more
temperate, he was sensible of the error he had committed in having
given Emily a new subject of distress in the strong mention of his
own suffering, and would have given half the world, had it been his,
to recover the letter. Emily, however, was spared the pain she must
have received from it by the suspicious policy of Madame Montoni, who
had ordered, that all letters, addressed to her niece, should be
delivered to herself, and who, after having perused this and indulged
the expressions of resentment, which Valancourt's mention of Montoni
provoked, had consigned it to the flames.
Montoni, meanwhile, every day more impatient to leave France, gave
repeated orders for dispatch to the servants employed in preparations
for the journey, and to the persons, with whom he was transacting
some particular business. He preserved a steady silence to the
letters in which Valancourt, despairing of greater good, and having
subdued the passion, that had transgressed against his policy,
solicited only the indulgence of being allowed to bid Emily farewell.
But, when the latter [Valancourt] learned, that she was really to set
out in a very few days, and that it was designed he should see her no
more, forgetting every consideration of prudence, he dared, in a
second letter to Emily, to propose a clandestine marriage. This also
was transmitted to Madame Montoni, and the last day of Emily's stay
at Tholouse arrived, without affording Valancourt even a line to
sooth his sufferings, or a hope, that he should be allowed a parting
interview.
During this period of torturing suspense to Valancourt, Emily was
sunk into that kind of stupor, with which sudden and irremediable
misfortune sometimes overwhelms the mind. Loving him with the
tenderest affection, and having long been accustomed to consider him
as the friend and companion of all her future days, she had no ideas
of happiness, that were not connected with him. What, then, must
have been her suffering, when thus suddenly they were to be
separated, perhaps, for ever, certainly to be thrown into distant
parts of the world, where they could scarcely hear of each other's
existence; and all this in obedience to the will of a stranger, for
such as Montoni, and of a person, who had but lately been anxious to
hasten their nuptials! It was in vain, that she endeavoured to
subdue her grief, and resign herself to an event, which she could not
avoid. The silence of Valancourt afflicted more than it surprised
her, since she attributed it to its just occasion; but, when the day,
preceding that, on which she was to quit Tholouse, arrived, and she
had heard no mention of his being permitted to take leave of her,
grief overcame every consideration, that had made her reluctant to
speak of him, and she enquired of Madame Montoni, whether this
consolation had been refused. Her aunt informed her that it had,
adding, that, after the provocation she had herself received from
Valancourt, in their last interview, and the persecution, which the
Signor had suffered from his letters, no entreaties should avail to
procure it.
'If the Chevalier expected this favour from us,' said she, 'he should
have conducted himself in a very different manner; he should have
waited patiently, till he knew whether we were disposed to grant it,
and not have come and reproved me, because I did not think proper to
bestow my niece upon him,--and then have persisted in troubling the
Signor, because he did not think proper to enter into any dispute
about so childish an affair. His behaviour throughout has been
extremely presumptuous and impertinent, and I desire, that I may
never hear his name repeated, and that you will get the better of
those foolish sorrows and whims, and look like other people, and not
appear with that dismal countenance, as if you were ready to cry.
For, though you say nothing, you cannot conceal your grief from my
penetration. I can see you are ready to cry at this moment, though I
am reproving you for it; aye, even now, in spite of my commands.'
Emily, having turned away to hide her tears, quitted the room to
indulge them, and the day was passed in an intensity of anguish, such
as she had, perhaps, never known before. When she withdrew to her
chamber for the night, she remained in the chair where she had placed
herself, on entering the room, absorbed in her grief, till long after
every member of the family, except herself, was retired to rest. She
could not divest herself of a belief, that she had parted with
Valancourt to meet no more; a belief, which did not arise merely from
foreseen circumstances, for, though the length of the journey she was
about to commence, the uncertainty as to the period of her return,
together with the prohibitions she had received, seemed to justify
it, she yielded also to an impression, which she mistook for a pre-
sentiment, that she was going from Valancourt for ever. How dreadful
to her imagination, too, was the distance that would separate them--
the Alps, those tremendous barriers! would rise, and whole countries
extend between the regions where each must exist! To live in
adjoining provinces, to live even in the same country, though without
seeing him, was comparative happiness to the conviction of this
dreadful length of distance.
Her mind was, at length, so much agitated by the consideration of her
state, and the belief, that she had seen Valancourt for the last
time, that she suddenly became very faint, and, looking round the
chamber for something, that might revive her, she observed the
casements, and had just strength to throw one open, near which she
seated herself. The air recalled her spirits, and the still moon-
light, that fell upon the elms of a long avenue, fronting the window,
somewhat soothed them, and determined her to try whether exercise and
the open air would not relieve the intense pain that bound her
temples. In the chateau all was still; and, passing down the great
stair-case into the hall, from whence a passage led immediately to
the garden, she softly and unheard, as she thought, unlocked the
door, and entered the avenue. Emily passed on with steps now
hurried, and now faltering, as, deceived by the shadows among the
trees, she fancied she saw some person move in the distant
perspective, and feared, that it was a spy of Madame Montoni. Her
desire, however, to re-visit the pavilion, where she had passed so
many happy hours with Valancourt, and had admired with him the
extensive prospect over Languedoc and her native Gascony, overcame
her apprehension of being observed, and she moved on towards the
terrace, which, running along the upper garden, commanded the whole
of the lower one, and communicated with it by a flight of marble
steps, that terminated the avenue.
Having reached these steps, she paused a moment to look round, for
her distance from the chateau now increased the fear, which the
stillness and obscurity of the hour had awakened. But, perceiving
nothing that could justify it, she ascended to the terrace, where the
moon-light shewed the long broad walk, with the pavilion at its
extremity, while the rays silvered the foliage of the high trees and
shrubs, that bordered it on the right, and the tufted summits of
those, that rose to a level with the balustrade on the left, from the
garden below. Her distance from the chateau again alarming her, she
paused to listen; the night was so calm, that no sound could have
escaped her, but she heard only the plaintive sweetness of the
nightingale, with the light shiver of the leaves, and she pursued her
way towards the pavilion, having reached which, its obscurity did not
prevent the emotion, that a fuller view of its well-known scene would
have excited. The lattices were thrown back, and shewed beyond their
embowered arch the moon-light landscape, shadowy and soft; its
groves, and plains extending gradually and indistinctly to the eye,
its distant mountains catching a stronger gleam, and the nearer river
reflecting the moon, and trembling to her rays.
Emily, as she approached the lattice, was sensible of the features of
this scene only as they served to bring Valancourt more immediately
to her fancy. 'Ah!' said she, with a heavy sigh, as she threw
herself into a chair by the window, 'how often have we sat together
in this spot--often have looked upon that landscape! Never, never
more shall we view it together--never--never more, perhaps, shall we
look upon each other!'
Her tears were suddenly stopped by terror--a voice spoke near her in
the pavilion; she shrieked--it spoke again, and she distinguished the
well-known tones of Valancourt. It was indeed Valancourt who
supported her in his arms! For some moments their emotion would not
suffer either to speak. 'Emily,' said Valancourt at length, as he
pressed her hand in his. 'Emily!' and he was again silent, but the
accent, in which he had pronounced her name, expressed all his
tenderness and sorrow.
'O my Emily!' he resumed, after a long pause, 'I do then see you once
again, and hear again the sound of that voice! I have haunted this
place--these gardens, for many--many nights, with a faint, very faint
hope of seeing you. This was the only chance that remained to me,
and thank heaven! it has at length succeeded--I am not condemned to
absolute despair!'
Emily said something, she scarcely knew what, expressive of her
unalterable affection, and endeavoured to calm the agitation of his
mind; but Valancourt could for some time only utter incoherent
expressions of his emotions; and, when he was somewhat more composed,
he said, 'I came hither, soon after sun-set, and have been watching
in the gardens, and in this pavilion ever since; for, though I had
now given up all hope of seeing you, I could not resolve to tear
myself from a place so near to you, and should probably have lingered
about the chateau till morning dawned. O how heavily the moments
have passed, yet with what various emotion have they been marked, as
I sometimes thought I heard footsteps, and fancied you were
approaching, and then again--perceived only a dead and dreary
silence! But, when you opened the door of the pavilion, and the
darkness prevented my distinguishing with certainty, whether it was
my love--my heart beat so strongly with hopes and fears, that I could
not speak. The instant I heard the plaintive accents of your voice,
my doubts vanished, but not my fears, till you spoke of me; then,
losing the apprehension of alarming you in the excess of my emotion,
I could no longer be silent. O Emily! these are moments, in which
joy and grief struggle so powerfully for pre-eminence, that the heart
can scarcely support the contest!'
Emily's heart acknowledged the truth of this assertion, but the joy
she felt on thus meeting Valancourt, at the very moment when she was
lamenting, that they must probably meet no more, soon melted into
grief, as reflection stole over her thoughts, and imagination
prompted visions of the future. She struggled to recover the calm
dignity of mind, which was necessary to support her through this last
interview, and which Valancourt found it utterly impossible to
attain, for the transports of his joy changed abruptly into those of
suffering, and he expressed in the most impassioned language his
horror of this separation, and his despair of their ever meeting
again. Emily wept silently as she listened to him, and then, trying
to command her own distress, and to sooth his, she suggested every
circumstance that could lead to hope. But the energy of his fears
led him instantly to detect the friendly fallacies, which she
endeavoured to impose on herself and him, and also to conjure up
illusions too powerful for his reason.
'You are going from me,' said he, 'to a distant country, O how
distant!--to new society, new friends, new admirers, with people too,
who will try to make you forget me, and to promote new connections!
How can I know this, and not know, that you will never return for me-
-never can be mine.' His voice was stifled by sighs.
'You believe, then,' said Emily, 'that the pangs I suffer proceed
from a trivial and temporary interest; you believe--'
'Suffer!' interrupted Valancourt, 'suffer for me! O Emily--how
sweet--how bitter are those words; what comfort, what anguish do they
give! I ought not to doubt the steadiness of your affection, yet
such is the inconsistency of real love, that it is always awake to
suspicion, however unreasonable; always requiring new assurances from
the object of its interest, and thus it is, that I always feel
revived, as by a new conviction, when your words tell me I am dear to
you; and, wanting these, I relapse into doubt, and too often into
despondency.' Then seeming to recollect himself, he exclaimed, 'But
what a wretch am I, thus to torture you, and in these moments, too!
I, who ought to support and comfort you!'
This reflection overcame Valancourt with tenderness, but, relapsing
into despondency, he again felt only for himself, and lamented again
this cruel separation, in a voice and words so impassioned, that
Emily could no longer struggle to repress her own grief, or to sooth
his. Valancourt, between these emotions of love and pity, lost the
power, and almost the wish, of repressing his agitation; and, in the
intervals of convulsive sobs, he, at one moment, kissed away her
tears, then told her cruelly, that possibly she might never again
weep for him, and then tried to speak more calmly, but only
exclaimed, 'O Emily--my heart will break!--I cannot--cannot leave
you! Now--I gaze upon that countenance, now I hold you in my arms! a
little while, and all this will appear a dream. I shall look, and
cannot see you; shall try to recollect your features--and the
impression will be fled from my imagination;--to hear the tones of
your voice, and even memory will be silent!--I cannot, cannot leave
you! why should we confide the happiness of our whole lives to the
will of people, who have no right to interrupt, and, except in giving
you to me, have no power to promote it? O Emily! venture to trust
your own heart, venture to be mine for ever!' His voice trembled,
and he was silent; Emily continued to weep, and was silent also, when
Valancourt proceeded to propose an immediate marriage, and that at an
early hour on the following morning, she should quit Madame Montoni's
house, and be conducted by him to the church of the Augustines, where
a friar should await to unite them.
The silence, with which she listened to a proposal, dictated by love
and despair, and enforced at a moment, when it seemed scarcely
possible for her to oppose it;--when her heart was softened by the
sorrows of a separation, that might be eternal, and her reason
obscured by the illusions of love and terror, encouraged him to hope,
that it would not be rejected. 'Speak, my Emily!' said Valancourt
eagerly, 'let me hear your voice, let me hear you confirm my fate.'
she spoke not; her cheek was cold, and her senses seemed to fail her,
but she did not faint. To Valancourt's terrified imagination she
appeared to be dying; he called upon her name, rose to go to the
chateau for assistance, and then, recollecting her situation, feared
to go, or to leave her for a moment.
After a few minutes, she drew a deep sigh, and began to revive. The
conflict she had suffered, between love and the duty she at present
owed to her father's sister; her repugnance to a clandestine
marriage, her fear of emerging on the world with embarrassments, such
as might ultimately involve the object of her affection in misery and
repentance;--all this various interest was too powerful for a mind,
already enervated by sorrow, and her reason had suffered a transient
suspension. But duty, and good sense, however hard the conflict, at
length, triumphed over affection and mournful presentiment; above
all, she dreaded to involve Valancourt in obscurity and vain regret,
which she saw, or thought she saw, must be the too certain
consequence of a marriage in their present circumstances; and she
acted, perhaps, with somewhat more than female fortitude, when she
resolved to endure a present, rather than provoke a distant
misfortune.
With a candour, that proved how truly she esteemed and loved him, and
which endeared her to him, if possible, more than ever, she told
Valancourt all her reasons for rejecting his proposals. Those, which
influenced her concerning his future welfare, he instantly refuted,
or rather contradicted; but they awakened tender considerations for
her, which the frenzy of passion and despair had concealed before,
and love, which had but lately prompted him to propose a clandestine
and immediate marriage, now induced him to renounce it. The triumph
was almost too much for his heart; for Emily's sake, he endeavoured
to stifle his grief, but the swelling anguish would not be
restrained. 'O Emily!' said he, 'I must leave you--I MUST leave you,
and I know it is for ever!'
Convulsive sobs again interrupted his words, and they wept together
in silence, till Emily, recollecting the danger of being discovered,
and the impropriety of prolonging an interview, which might subject
her to censure, summoned all her fortitude to utter a last farewell.
'Stay!' said Valancourt, 'I conjure you stay, for I have much to tell
you. The agitation of my mind has hitherto suffered me to speak only
on the subject that occupied it;--I have forborne to mention a doubt
of much importance, partly, lest it should appear as if I told it
with an ungenerous view of alarming you into a compliance with my
late proposal.'
Emily, much agitated, did not leave Valancourt, but she led him from
the pavilion, and, as they walked upon the terrace, he proceeded as
follows:
'This Montoni: I have heard some strange hints concerning him. Are
you certain he is of Madame Quesnel's family, and that his fortune is
what it appears to be?'
'I have no reason to doubt either,' replied Emily, in a voice of
alarm. 'Of the first, indeed, I cannot doubt, but I have no certain
means of judging of the latter, and I entreat you will tell me all
you have heard.'
'That I certainly will, but it is very imperfect, and unsatisfactory
information. I gathered it by accident from an Italian, who was
speaking to another person of this Montoni. They were talking of his
marriage; the Italian said, that if he was the person he meant, he
was not likely to make Madame Cheron happy. He proceeded to speak of
him in general terms of dislike, and then gave some particular hints,
concerning his character, that excited my curiosity, and I ventured
to ask him a few questions. He was reserved in his replies, but,
after hesitating for some time, he owned, that he had understood
abroad, that Montoni was a man of desperate fortune and character.
He said something of a castle of Montoni's, situated among the
Apennines, and of some strange circumstances, that might be
mentioned, as to his former mode of life. I pressed him to inform me
further, but I believe the strong interest I felt was visible in my
manner, and alarmed him; for no entreaties could prevail with him to
give any explanation of the circumstances he had alluded to, or to
mention any thing further concerning Montoni. I observed to him,
that, if Montoni was possessed of a castle in the Apennines, it
appeared from such a circumstance, that he was of some family, and
also seemed to contradict the report, that he was a man of entirely
broken fortunes. He shook his head, and looked as if he could have
said a great deal, but made no reply.
'A hope of learning something more satisfactory, or more positive,
detained me in his company a considerable time, and I renewed the
subject repeatedly, but the Italian wrapped himself up in reserve,
said--that what he had mentioned he had caught only from a floating
report, and that reports frequently arose from personal malice, and
were very little to be depended upon. I forbore to press the subject
farther, since it was obvious that he was alarmed for the consequence
of what he had already said, and I was compelled to remain in
uncertainty on a point where suspense is almost intolerable. Think,
Emily, what I must suffer to see you depart for a foreign country,
committed to the power of a man of such doubtful character as is this
Montoni! But I will not alarm you unnecessarily;--it is possible, as
the Italian said, at first, that this is not the Montoni he alluded
to. Yet, Emily, consider well before you resolve to commit yourself
to him. O! I must not trust myself to speak--or I shall renounce all
the motives, which so lately influenced me to resign the hope of your
becoming mine immediately.'
Valancourt walked upon the terrace with hurried steps, while Emily
remained leaning on the balustrade in deep thought. The information
she had just received excited, perhaps, more alarm than it could
justify, and raised once more the conflict of contrasted interests.
She had never liked Montoni. The fire and keenness of his eye, its
proud exultation, its bold fierceness, its sullen watchfulness, as
occasion, and even slight occasion, had called forth the latent soul,
she had often observed with emotion; while from the usual expression
of his countenance she had always shrunk. From such observations she
was the more inclined to believe, that it was this Montoni, of whom
the Italian had uttered his suspicious hints. The thought of being
solely in his power, in a foreign land, was terrifying to her, but it
was not by terror alone that she was urged to an immediate marriage
with Valancourt. The tenderest love had already pleaded his cause,
but had been unable to overcome her opinion, as to her duty, her
disinterested considerations for Valancourt, and the delicacy, which
made her revolt from a clandestine union. It was not to be expected,
that a vague terror would be more powerful, than the united influence
of love and grief. But it recalled all their energy, and rendered a
second conquest necessary.
With Valancourt, whose imagination was now awake to the suggestion of
every passion; whose apprehensions for Emily had acquired strength by
the mere mention of them, and became every instant more powerful, as
his mind brooded over them--with Valancourt no second conquest was
attainable. He thought he saw in the clearest light, and love
assisted the fear, that this journey to Italy would involve Emily in
misery; he determined, therefore, to persevere in opposing it, and in
conjuring her to bestow upon him the title of her lawful protector.
'Emily!' said he, with solemn earnestness, 'this is no time for
scrupulous distinctions, for weighing the dubious and comparatively
trifling circumstances, that may affect our future comfort. I now
see, much more clearly than before, the train of serious dangers you
are going to encounter with a man of Montoni's character. Those dark
hints of the Italian spoke much, but not more than the idea I have of
Montoni's disposition, as exhibited even in his countenance. I think
I see at this moment all that could have been hinted, written there.
He is the Italian, whom I fear, and I conjure you for your own sake,
as well as for mine, to prevent the evils I shudder to foresee. O
Emily! let my tenderness, my arms withhold you from them--give me the
right to defend you!'
Emily only sighed, while Valancourt proceeded to remonstrate and to
entreat with all the energy that love and apprehension could inspire.
But, as his imagination magnified to her the possible evils she was
going to meet, the mists of her own fancy began to dissipate, and
allowed her to distinguish the exaggerated images, which imposed on
his reason. She considered, that there was no proof of Montoni being
the person, whom the stranger had meant; that, even if he was so, the
Italian had noticed his character and broken fortunes merely from
report; and that, though the countenance of Montoni seemed to give
probability to a part of the rumour, it was not by such circumstances
that an implicit belief of it could be justified. These
considerations would probably not have arisen so distinctly to her
mind, at this time, had not the terrors of Valancourt presented to
her such obvious exaggerations of her danger, as incited her to
distrust the fallacies of passion. But, while she endeavoured in the
gentlest manner to convince him of his error, she plunged him into a
new one. His voice and countenance changed to an expression of dark
despair. 'Emily!' said he, 'this, this moment is the bitterest that
is yet come to me. You do not--cannot love me!--It would be
impossible for you to reason thus coolly, thus deliberately, if you
did. I, _I_ am torn with anguish at the prospect of our separation,
and of the evils that may await you in consequence of it; I would
encounter any hazards to prevent it--to save you. No! Emily, no!--
you cannot love me.'
'We have now little time to waste in exclamation, or assertion,' said
Emily, endeavouring to conceal her emotion: 'if you are yet to learn
how dear you are, and ever must be, to my heart, no assurances of
mine can give you conviction.'
The last words faltered on her lips, and her tears flowed fast.
These words and tears brought, once more, and with instantaneous
force, conviction of her love to Valancourt. He could only exclaim,
'Emily! Emily!' and weep over the hand he pressed to his lips; but
she, after some moments, again roused herself from the indulgence of
sorrow, and said, 'I must leave you; it is late, and my absence from
the chateau may be discovered. Think of me--love me--when I am far
away; the belief of this will be my comfort!'
'Think of you!--love you!' exclaimed Valancourt.
'Try to moderate these transports,' said Emily, 'for my sake, try.'
'For your sake!'
'Yes, for my sake,' replied Emily, in a tremulous voice, 'I cannot
leave you thus!'
'Then do not leave me!' said Valancourt, with quickness. 'Why should
we part, or part for longer than till to-morrow?'
'I am, indeed I am, unequal to these moments,' replied Emily, 'you
tear my heart, but I never can consent to this hasty, imprudent
proposal!'
'If we could command our time, my Emily, it should not be thus hasty;
we must submit to circumstances.'
'We must indeed! I have already told you all my heart--my spirits
are gone. You allowed the force of my objections, till your
tenderness called up vague terrors, which have given us both
unnecessary anguish. Spare me! do not oblige me to repeat the
reasons I have already urged.'
'Spare you!' cried Valancourt, 'I am a wretch--a very wretch, that
have felt only for myself!--I! who ought to have shewn the fortitude
of a man, who ought to have supported you, I! have increased your
sufferings by the conduct of a child! Forgive me, Emily! think of
the distraction of my mind now that I am about to part with all that
is dear to me--and forgive me! When you are gone, I shall recollect
with bitter remorse what I have made you suffer, and shall wish in
vain that I could see you, if only for a moment, that I might sooth
your grief.'
Tears again interrupted his voice, and Emily wept with him. 'I will
shew myself more worthy of your love,' said Valancourt, at length; 'I
will not prolong these moments. My Emily--my own Emily! never forget
me! God knows when we shall meet again! I resign you to his care.--
O God!--O God!--protect and bless her!'
He pressed her hand to his heart. Emily sunk almost lifeless on his
bosom, and neither wept, nor spoke. Valancourt, now commanding his
own distress, tried to comfort and re-assure her, but she appeared
totally unaffected by what he said, and a sigh, which she uttered,
now and then, was all that proved she had not fainted.
He supported her slowly towards the chateau, weeping and speaking to
her; but she answered only in sighs, till, having reached the gate,
that terminated the avenue, she seemed to have recovered her
consciousness, and, looking round, perceived how near they were to
the chateau. 'We must part here,' said she, stopping, 'Why prolong
these moments? Teach me the fortitude I have forgot.'
Valancourt struggled to assume a composed air. 'Farewell, my love!'
said he, in a voice of solemn tenderness--'trust me we shall meet
again--meet for each other--meet to part no more!' His voice
faltered, but, recovering it, he proceeded in a firmer tone. 'You
know not what I shall suffer, till I hear from you; I shall omit no
opportunity of conveying to you my letters, yet I tremble to think
how few may occur. And trust me, love, for your dear sake, I will
try to bear this absence with fortitude. O how little I have shewn
to-night!'
'Farewell!' said Emily faintly. 'When you are gone, I shall think of
many things I would have said to you.' 'And I of many--many!' said
Valancourt; 'I never left you yet, that I did not immediately
remember some question, or some entreaty, or some circumstance,
concerning my love, that I earnestly wished to mention, and feel
wretched because I could not. O Emily! this countenance, on which I
now gaze--will, in a moment, be gone from my eyes, and not all the
efforts of fancy will be able to recall it with exactness. O! what
an infinite difference between this moment and the next! NOW, I am
in your presence, can behold you! THEN, all will be a dreary blank--
and I shall be a wanderer, exiled from my only home!'
Valancourt again pressed her to his heart, and held her there in
silence, weeping. Tears once again calmed her oppressed mind. They
again bade each other farewell, lingered a moment, and then parted.
Valancourt seemed to force himself from the spot; he passed hastily
up the avenue, and Emily, as she moved slowly towards the chateau,
heard his distant steps. she listened to the sounds, as they sunk
fainter and fainter, till the melancholy stillness of night alone
remained; and then hurried to her chamber, to seek repose, which,
alas! was fled from her wretchedness.
VOLUME 2
CHAPTER I
Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see,
My heart untravell'd still shall turn to thee.
GOLDSMITH
The carriages were at the gates at an early hour; the bustle of the
domestics, passing to and fro in the galleries, awakened Emily from
harassing slumbers: her unquiet mind had, during the night,
presented her with terrific images and obscure circumstances,
concerning her affection and her future life. She now endeavoured to
chase away the impressions they had left on her fancy; but from
imaginary evils she awoke to the consciousness of real ones.
Recollecting that she had parted with Valancourt, perhaps for ever,
her heart sickened as memory revived. But she tried to dismiss the
dismal forebodings that crowded on her mind, and to restrain the
sorrow which she could not subdue; efforts which diffused over the
settled melancholy of her countenance an expression of tempered
resignation, as a thin veil, thrown over the features of beauty,
renders them more interesting by a partial concealment. But Madame
Montoni observed nothing in this countenance except its usual
paleness, which attracted her censure. She told her niece, that she
had been indulging in fanciful sorrows, and begged she would have
more regard for decorum, than to let the world see that she could not
renounce an improper attachment; at which Emily's pale cheek became
flushed with crimson, but it was the blush of pride, and she made no
answer. Soon after, Montoni entered the breakfast room, spoke
little, and seemed impatient to be gone.
The windows of this room opened upon the garden. As Emily passed
them, she saw the spot where she had parted with Valancourt on the
preceding night: the remembrance pressed heavily on her heart, and
she turned hastily away from the object that had awakened it.
The baggage being at length adjusted, the travellers entered their
carriages, and Emily would have left the chateau without one sigh of
regret, had it not been situated in the neighbourhood of Valancourt's
residence.
From a little eminence she looked back upon Tholouse, and the far-
seen plains of Gascony, beyond which the broken summits of the
Pyrenees appeared on the distant horizon, lighted up by a morning
sun. 'Dear pleasant mountains!' said she to herself, 'how long may
it be ere I see ye again, and how much may happen to make me
miserable in the interval! Oh, could I now be certain, that I should
ever return to ye, and find that Valancourt still lived for me, I
should go in peace! He will still gaze on ye, gaze when I am far
away!'
The trees, that impended over the high banks of the road and formed a
line of perspective with the distant country, now threatened to
exclude the view of them; but the blueish mountains still appeared
beyond the dark foliage, and Emily continued to lean from the coach
window, till at length the closing branches shut them from her sight.
Another object soon caught her attention. She had scarcely looked at
a person who walked along the bank, with his hat, in which was the
military feather, drawn over his eyes, before, at the sound of
wheels, he suddenly turned, and she perceived that it was Valancourt
himself, who waved his hand, sprung into the road, and through the
window of the carriage put a letter into her hand. He endeavoured to
smile through the despair that overspread his countenance as she
passed on. The remembrance of that smile seemed impressed on Emily's
mind for ever. She leaned from the window, and saw him on a knoll of
the broken bank, leaning against the high trees that waved over him,
and pursuing the carriage with his eyes. He waved his hand, and she
continued to gaze till distance confused his figure, and at length
another turn of the road entirely separated him from her sight.
Having stopped to take up Signor Cavigni at a chateau on the road,
the travellers, of whom Emily was disrespectfully seated with Madame
Montoni's woman in a second carriage, pursued their way over the
plains of Languedoc. The presence of this servant restrained Emily
from reading Valancourt's letter, for she did not choose to expose
the emotions it might occasion to the observation of any person. Yet
such was her wish to read this his last communication, that her
trembling hand was every moment on the point of breaking the seal.
At length they reached the village, where they staid only to change
horses, without alighting, and it was not till they stopped to dine,
that Emily had an opportunity of reading the letter. Though she had
never doubted the sincerity of Valancourt's affection, the fresh
assurances she now received of it revived her spirits; she wept over
his letter in tenderness, laid it by to be referred to when they
should be particularly depressed, and then thought of him with much
less anguish than she had done since they parted. Among some other
requests, which were interesting to her, because expressive of his
tenderness, and because a compliance with them seemed to annihilate
for a while the pain of absence, he entreated she would always think
of him at sunset. 'You will then meet me in thought,' said he; 'I
shall constantly watch the sun-set, and I shall be happy in the
belief, that your eyes are fixed upon the same object with mine, and
that our minds are conversing. You know not, Emily, the comfort I
promise myself from these moments; but I trust you will experience
it.'
It is unnecessary to say with what emotion Emily, on this evening,
watched the declining sun, over a long extent of plains, on which she
saw it set without interruption, and sink towards the province which
Valancourt inhabited. After this hour her mind became far more
tranquil and resigned, than it had been since the marriage of Montoni
and her aunt.
During several days the travellers journeyed over the plains of
Languedoc; and then entering Dauphiny, and winding for some time
among the mountains of that romantic province, they quitted their
carriages and began to ascend the Alps. And here such scenes of
sublimity opened upon them as no colours of language must dare to
paint! Emily's mind was even so much engaged with new and wonderful
images, that they sometimes banished the idea of Valancourt, though
they more frequently revived it. These brought to her recollection
the prospects among the Pyrenees, which they had admired together,
and had believed nothing could excel in grandeur. How often did she
wish to express to him the new emotions which this astonishing
scenery awakened, and that he could partake of them! Sometimes too
she endeavoured to anticipate his remarks, and almost imagined him
present. she seemed to have arisen into another world, and to have
left every trifling thought, every trifling sentiment, in that below;
those only of grandeur and sublimity now dilated her mind, and
elevated the affections of her heart.
With what emotions of sublimity, softened by tenderness, did she meet
Valancourt in thought, at the customary hour of sun-set, when,
wandering among the Alps, she watched the glorious orb sink amid
their summits, his last tints die away on their snowy points, and a
solemn obscurity steal over the scene! And when the last gleam had
faded, she turned her eyes from the west with somewhat of the
melancholy regret that is experienced after the departure of a
beloved friend; while these lonely feelings were heightened by the
spreading gloom, and by the low sounds, heard only when darkness
confines attention, which make the general stillness more impressive-
-leaves shook by the air, the last sigh of the breeze that lingers
after sun-set, or the murmur of distant streams.
During the first days of this journey among the Alps, the scenery
exhibited a wonderful mixture of solitude and inhabitation, of
cultivation and barrenness. On the edge of tremendous precipices,
and within the hollow of the cliffs, below which the clouds often
floated, were seen villages, spires, and convent towers; while green
pastures and vineyards spread their hues at the feet of perpendicular
rocks of marble, or of granite, whose points, tufted with alpine
shrubs, or exhibiting only massy crags, rose above each other, till
they terminated in the snow-topt mountain, whence the torrent fell,
that thundered along the valley.
The snow was not yet melted on the summit of Mount Cenis, over which
the travellers passed; but Emily, as she looked upon its clear lake
and extended plain, surrounded by broken cliffs, saw, in imagination,
the verdant beauty it would exhibit when the snows should be gone,
and the shepherds, leading up the midsummer flocks from Piedmont, to
pasture on its flowery summit, should add Arcadian figures to
Arcadian landscape.
As she descended on the Italian side, the precipices became still
more tremendous, and the prospects still more wild and majestic, over
which the shifting lights threw all the pomp of colouring. Emily
delighted to observe the snowy tops of the mountains under the
passing influence of the day, blushing with morning, glowing with the
brightness of noon, or just tinted with the purple evening. The
haunt of man could now only be discovered by the simple hut of the
shepherd and the hunter, or by the rough pine bridge thrown across
the torrent, to assist the latter in his chase of the chamois over
crags where, but for this vestige of man, it would have been believed
only the chamois or the wolf dared to venture. As Emily gazed upon
one of these perilous bridges, with the cataract foaming beneath it,
some images came to her mind, which she afterwards combined in the
following
STORIED SONNET
The weary traveller, who, all night long,
Has climb'd among the Alps' tremendous steeps,
Skirting the pathless precipice, where throng
Wild forms of danger; as he onward creeps
If, chance, his anxious eye at distance sees
The mountain-shepherd's solitary home,
Peeping from forth the moon-illumin'd trees,
What sudden transports to his bosom come!
But, if between some hideous chasm yawn,
Where the cleft pine a doubtful bridge displays,
In dreadful silence, on the brink, forlorn
He stands, and views in the faint rays
Far, far below, the torrent's rising surge,
And listens to the wild impetuous roar;
Still eyes the depth, still shudders on the verge,
Fears to return, nor dares to venture o'er.
Desperate, at length the tottering plank he tries,
His weak steps slide, he shrieks, he sinks--he dies!
Emily, often as she travelled among the clouds, watched in silent awe
their billowy surges rolling below; sometimes, wholly closing upon
the scene, they appeared like a world of chaos, and, at others,
spreading thinly, they opened and admitted partial catches of the
landscape--the torrent, whose astounding roar had never failed,
tumbling down the rocky chasm, huge cliffs white with snow, or the
dark summits of the pine forests, that stretched mid-way down the
mountains. But who may describe her rapture, when, having passed
through a sea of vapour, she caught a first view of Italy; when, from
the ridge of one of those tremendous precipices that hang upon Mount
Cenis and guard the entrance of that enchanting country, she looked
down through the lower clouds, and, as they floated away, saw the
grassy vales of Piedmont at her feet, and, beyond, the plains of
Lombardy extending to the farthest distance, at which appeared, on
the faint horizon, the doubtful towers of Turin?
The solitary grandeur of the objects that immediately surrounded her,
the mountain-region towering above, the deep precipices that fell
beneath, the waving blackness of the forests of pine and oak, which
skirted their feet, or hung within their recesses, the headlong
torrents that, dashing among their cliffs, sometimes appeared like a
cloud of mist, at others like a sheet of ice--these were features
which received a higher character of sublimity from the reposing
beauty of the Italian landscape below, stretching to the wide
horizon, where the same melting blue tint seemed to unite earth and
sky.
Madame Montoni only shuddered as she looked down precipices near
whose edge the chairmen trotted lightly and swiftly, almost, as the
chamois bounded, and from which Emily too recoiled; but with her
fears were mingled such various emotions of delight, such admiration,
astonishment, and awe, as she had never experienced before.
Meanwhile the carriers, having come to a landing-place, stopped to
rest, and the travellers being seated on the point of a cliff,
Montoni and Cavigni renewed a dispute concerning Hannibal's passage
over the Alps, Montoni contending that he entered Italy by way of
Mount Cenis, and Cavigni, that he passed over Mount St. Bernard. The
subject brought to Emily's imagination the disasters he had suffered
in this bold and perilous adventure. She saw his vast armies winding
among the defiles, and over the tremendous cliffs of the mountains,
which at night were lighted up by his fires, or by the torches which
he caused to be carried when he pursued his indefatigable march. In
the eye of fancy, she perceived the gleam of arms through the
duskiness of night, the glitter of spears and helmets, and the
banners floating dimly on the twilight; while now and then the blast
of a distant trumpet echoed along the defile, and the signal was
answered by a momentary clash of arms. She looked with horror upon
the mountaineers, perched on the higher cliffs, assailing the troops
below with broken fragments of the mountain; on soldiers and
elephants tumbling headlong down the lower precipices; and, as she
listened to the rebounding rocks, that followed their fall, the
terrors of fancy yielded to those of reality, and she shuddered to
behold herself on the dizzy height, whence she had pictured the
descent of others.
Madame Montoni, meantime, as she looked upon Italy, was contemplating
in imagination the splendour of palaces and the grandeur of castles,
such as she believed she was going to be mistress of at Venice and in
the Apennine, and she became, in idea, little less than a princess.
Being no longer under the alarms which had deterred her from giving
entertainments to the beauties of Tholouse, whom Montoni had
mentioned with more eclat to his own vanity than credit to their
discretion, or regard to truth, she determined to give concerts,
though she had neither ear nor taste for music; conversazioni, though
she had no talents for conversation; and to outvie, if possible, in
the gaieties of her parties and the magnificence of her liveries, all
the noblesse of Venice. This blissful reverie was somewhat obscured,
when she recollected the Signor, her husband, who, though he was not
averse to the profit which sometimes results from such parties, had
always shewn a contempt of the frivolous parade that sometimes
attends them; till she considered that his pride might be gratified
by displaying, among his own friends, in his native city, the wealth
which he had neglected in France; and she courted again the splendid
illusions that had charmed her before.
The travellers, as they descended, gradually, exchanged the region of
winter for the genial warmth and beauty of spring. The sky began to
assume that serene and beautiful tint peculiar to the climate of
Italy; patches of young verdure, fragrant shrubs and flowers looked
gaily among the rocks, often fringing their rugged brows, or hanging
in tufts from their broken sides; and the buds of the oak and
mountain ash were expanding into foliage. Descending lower, the
orange and the myrtle, every now and then, appeared in some sunny
nook, with their yellow blossoms peeping from among the dark green of
their leaves, and mingling with the scarlet flowers of the
pomegranate and the paler ones of the arbutus, that ran mantling to
the crags above; while, lower still, spread the pastures of Piedmont,
where early flocks were cropping the luxuriant herbage of spring.
The river Doria, which, rising on the summit of Mount Cenis, had
dashed for many leagues over the precipices that bordered the road,
now began to assume a less impetuous, though scarcely less romantic
character, as it approached the green vallies of Piedmont, into which
the travellers descended with the evening sun; and Emily found
herself once more amid the tranquil beauty of pastoral scenery; among
flocks and herds, and slopes tufted with woods of lively verdure and
with beautiful shrubs, such as she had often seen waving luxuriantly
over the alps above. The verdure of the pasturage, now varied with
the hues of early flowers, among which were yellow ranunculuses and
pansey violets of delicious fragrance, she had never seen excelled.--
Emily almost wished to become a peasant of Piedmont, to inhabit one
of the pleasant embowered cottages which she saw peeping beneath the
cliffs, and to pass her careless hours among these romantic
landscapes. To the hours, the months, she was to pass under the
dominion of Montoni, she looked with apprehension; while those which
were departed she remembered with regret and sorrow.
In the present scenes her fancy often gave her the figure of
Valancourt, whom she saw on a point of the cliffs, gazing with awe
and admiration on the imagery around him; or wandering pensively
along the vale below, frequently pausing to look back upon the
scenery, and then, his countenance glowing with the poet's fire,
pursuing his way to some overhanging heights. When she again
considered the time and the distance that were to separate them, that
every step she now took lengthened this distance, her heart sunk, and
the surrounding landscape charmed her no more.
The travellers, passing Novalesa, reached, after the evening had
closed, the small and antient town of Susa, which had formerly
guarded this pass of the Alps into Piedmont. The heights which
command it had, since the invention of artillery, rendered its
fortifications useless; but these romantic heights, seen by moon-
light, with the town below, surrounded by its walls and watchtowers,
and partially illumined, exhibited an interesting picture to Emily.
Here they rested for the night at an inn, which had little
accommodation to boast of; but the travellers brought with them the
hunger that gives delicious flavour to the coarsest viands, and the
weariness that ensures repose; and here Emily first caught a strain
of Italian music, on Italian ground. As she sat after supper at a
little window, that opened upon the country, observing an effect of
the moon-light on the broken surface of the mountains, and
remembering that on such a night as this she once had sat with her
father and Valancourt, resting upon a cliff of the Pyrenees, she
heard from below the long-drawn notes of a violin, of such tone and
delicacy of expression, as harmonized exactly with the tender
emotions she was indulging, and both charmed and surprised her.
Cavigni, who approached the window, smiled at her surprise. 'This is
nothing extraordinary,' said he, 'you will hear the same, perhaps, at
every inn on our way. It is one of our landlord's family who plays,
I doubt not,' Emily, as she listened, thought he could be scarcely
less than a professor of music whom she heard; and the sweet and
plaintive strains soon lulled her into a reverie, from which she was
very unwillingly roused by the raillery of Cavigni, and by the voice
of Montoni, who gave orders to a servant to have the carriages ready
at an early hour on the following morning; and added, that he meant
to dine at Turin.
Madame Montoni was exceedingly rejoiced to be once more on level
ground; and, after giving a long detail of the various terrors she
had suffered, which she forgot that she was describing to the
companions of her dangers, she added a hope, that she should soon be
beyond the view of these horrid mountains, 'which all the world,'
said she, 'should not tempt me to cross again.' Complaining of
fatigue she soon retired to rest, and Emily withdrew to her own room,
when she understood from Annette, her aunt's woman, that Cavigni was
nearly right in his conjecture concerning the musician, who had
awakened the violin with so much taste, for that he was the son of a
peasant inhabiting the neighbouring valley. 'He is going to the
Carnival at Venice,' added Annette, 'for they say he has a fine hand
at playing, and will get a world of money; and the Carnival is just
going to begin: but for my part, I should like to live among these
pleasant woods and hills, better than in a town; and they say
Ma'moiselle, we shall see no woods, or hills, or fields, at Venice,
for that it is built in the very middle of the sea.'
Emily agreed with the talkative Annette, that this young man was
making a change for the worse, and could not forbear silently
lamenting, that he should be drawn from the innocence and beauty of
these scenes, to the corrupt ones of that voluptuous city.
When she was alone, unable to sleep, the landscapes of her native
home, with Valancourt, and the circumstances of her departure,
haunted her fancy; she drew pictures of social happiness amidst the
grand simplicity of nature, such as she feared she had bade farewel
to for ever; and then, the idea of this young Piedmontese, thus
ignorantly sporting with his happiness, returned to her thoughts,
and, glad to escape awhile from the pressure of nearer interests, she
indulged her fancy in composing the following lines.
THE PIEDMONTESE
Ah, merry swain, who laugh'd along the vales,
And with your gay pipe made the mountains ring,
Why leave your cot, your woods, and thymy gales,
And friends belov'd, for aught that wealth can bring?
He goes to wake o'er moon-light seas the string,
Venetian gold his untaught fancy hails!
Yet oft of home his simple carols sing,
And his steps pause, as the last Alp he scales.
Once more he turns to view his native scene--
Far, far below, as roll the clouds away,
He spies his cabin 'mid the pine-tops green,
The well-known woods, clear brook, and pastures gay;
And thinks of friends and parents left behind,
Of sylvan revels, dance, and festive song;
And hears the faint reed swelling in the wind;
And his sad sighs the distant notes prolong!
Thus went the swain, till mountain-shadows fell,
And dimm'd the landscape to his aching sight;
And must he leave the vales he loves so well!
Can foreign wealth, and shows, his heart delight?
No, happy vales! your wild rocks still shall hear
His pipe, light sounding on the morning breeze;
Still shall he lead the flocks to streamlet clear,
And watch at eve beneath the western trees.
Away, Venetian gold--your charm is o'er!
And now his swift step seeks the lowland bow'rs,
Where, through the leaves, his cottage light ONCE MORE
Guides him to happy friends, and jocund hours.
Ah, merry swain! that laugh along the vales,
And with your gay pipe make the mountains ring,
Your cot, your woods, your thymy-scented gales--
And friends belov'd--more joy than wealth can bring!
CHAPTER II
TITANIA. If you will patiently dance in our round,
And see our moon-light revels, go with us.
MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM
Early on the following morning, the travellers set out for Turin.
The luxuriant plain, that extends from the feet of the Alps to that
magnificent city, was not then, as now, shaded by an avenue of trees
nine miles in length; but plantations of olives, mulberry and palms,
festooned with vines, mingled with the pastoral scenery, through with
the rapid Po, after its descent from the mountains, wandered to meet
the humble Doria at Turin. As they advanced towards this city, the
Alps, seen at some distance, began to appear in all their awful
sublimity; chain rising over chain in long succession, their higher
points darkened by the hovering clouds, sometimes hid, and at others
seen shooting up far above them; while their lower steeps, broken
into fantastic forms, were touched with blue and purplish tints,
which, as they changed in light and shade, seemed to open new scenes
to the eye. To the east stretched the plains of Lombardy, with the
towers of Turin rising at a distance; and beyond, the Apennines,
bounding the horizon.
The general magnificence of that city, with its vistas of churches
and palaces, branching from the grand square, each opening to a
landscape of the distant Alps or Apennines, was not only such as
Emily had never seen in France, but such as she had never imagined.
Montoni, who had been often at Turin, and cared little about views of
any kind, did not comply with his wife's request, that they might
survey some of the palaces; but staying only till the necessary
refreshments could be obtained, they set forward for Venice with all
possible rapidity. Montoni's manner, during this journey, was grave,
and even haughty; and towards Madame Montoni he was more especially
reserved; but it was not the reserve of respect so much as of pride
and discontent. Of Emily he took little notice. With Cavigni his
conversations were commonly on political or military topics, such as
the convulsed state of their country rendered at this time
particularly interesting, Emily observed, that, at the mention of any
daring exploit, Montoni's eyes lost their sullenness, and seemed
instantaneously to gleam with fire; yet they still retained somewhat
of a lurking cunning, and she sometimes thought that their fire
partook more of the glare of malice than the brightness of valour,
though the latter would well have harmonized with the high chivalric
air of his figure, in which Cavigni, with all his gay and gallant
manners, was his inferior.
On entering the Milanese, the gentlemen exchanged their French hats
for the Italian cap of scarlet cloth, embroidered; and Emily was
somewhat surprised to observe, that Montoni added to his the military
plume, while Cavigni retained only the feather: which was usually
worn with such caps: but she at length concluded, that Montoni
assumed this ensign of a soldier for convenience, as a means of
passing with more safety through a country over-run with parties of
the military.
Over the beautiful plains of this country the devastations of war
were frequently visible. Where the lands had not been suffered to
lie uncultivated, they were often tracked with the steps of the
spoiler; the vines were torn down from the branches that had
supported them, the olives trampled upon the ground, and even the
groves of mulberry trees had been hewn by the enemy to light fires
that destroyed the hamlets and villages of their owners. Emily
turned her eyes with a sigh from these painful vestiges of
contention, to the Alps of the Grison, that overlooked them to the
north, whose awful solitudes seemed to offer to persecuted man a
secure asylum.
The travellers frequently distinguished troops of soldiers moving at
a distance; and they experienced, at the little inns on the road, the
scarcity of provision and other inconveniences, which are a part of
the consequence of intestine war; but they had never reason to be
much alarmed for their immediate safety, and they passed on to Milan
with little interruption of any kind, where they staid not to survey
the grandeur of the city, or even to view its vast cathedral, which
was then building.
Beyond Milan, the country wore the aspect of a ruder devastation; and
though every thing seemed now quiet, the repose was like that of
death, spread over features, which retain the impression of the last
convulsions.
It was not till they had passed the eastern limits of the Milanese,
that the travellers saw any troops since they had left Milan, when,
as the evening was drawing to a close, they descried what appeared to
be an army winding onward along the distant plains, whose spears and
other arms caught the last rays of the sun. As the column advanced
through a part of the road, contracted between two hillocks, some of
the commanders, on horseback, were distinguished on a small eminence,
pointing and making signals for the march; while several of the
officers were riding along the line directing its progress, according
to the signs communicated by those above; and others, separating from
the vanguard, which had emerged from the pass, were riding carelessly
along the plains at some distance to the right of the army.
As they drew nearer, Montoni, distinguishing the feathers that waved
in their caps, and the banners and liveries of the bands that
followed them, thought he knew this to be the small army commanded by
the famous captain Utaldo, with whom, as well as with some of the
other chiefs, he was personally acquainted. He, therefore, gave
orders that the carriages should draw up by the side of the road, to
await their arrival, and give them the pass. A faint strain of
martial music now stole by, and, gradually strengthening as the
troops approached, Emily distinguished the drums and trumpets, with
the clash of cymbals and of arms, that were struck by a small party,
in time to the march.
Montoni being now certain that these were the bands of the victorious
Utaldo, leaned from the carriage window, and hailed their general by
waving his cap in the air; which compliment the chief returned by
raising his spear, and then letting it down again suddenly, while
some of his officers, who were riding at a distance from the troops,
came up to the carriage, and saluted Montoni as an old acquaintance.
The captain himself soon after arriving, his bands halted while he
conversed with Montoni, whom he appeared much rejoiced to see; and
from what he said, Emily understood that this was a victorious army,
returning into their own principality; while the numerous waggons,
that accompanied them, contained the rich spoils of the enemy, their
own wounded soldiers, and the prisoners they had taken in battle, who
were to be ransomed when the peace, then negociating between the
neighbouring states, should be ratified. The chiefs on the following
day were to separate, and each, taking his share of the spoil, was to
return with his own band to his castle. This was therefore to be an
evening of uncommon and general festivity, in commemoration of the
victory they had accomplished together, and of the farewell which the
commanders were about to take of each other.
Emily, as these officers conversed with Montoni, observed with
admiration, tinctured with awe, their high martial air, mingled with
the haughtiness of the nobless of those days, and heightened by the
gallantry of their dress, by the plumes towering on their caps, the
armorial coat, Persian sash, and ancient Spanish cloak. Utaldo,
telling Montoni that his army were going to encamp for the night near
a village at only a few miles distance, invited him to turn back and
partake of their festivity, assuring the ladies also, that they
should be pleasantly accommodated; but Montoni excused himself,
adding, that it was his design to reach Verona that evening; and,
after some conversation concerning the state of the country towards
that city, they parted.
The travellers proceeded without any interruption; but it was some
hours after sun-set before they arrived at Verona, whose beautiful
environs were therefore not seen by Emily till the following morning;
when, leaving that pleasant town at an early hour, they set off for
Padua, where they embarked on the Brenta for Venice. Here the scene
was entirely changed; no vestiges of war, such as had deformed the
plains of the Milanese, appeared; on the contrary, all was peace and
elegance. The verdant banks of the Brenta exhibited a continued
landscape of beauty, gaiety, and splendour. Emily gazed with
admiration on the villas of the Venetian noblesse, with their cool
porticos and colonnades, overhung with poplars and cypresses of
majestic height and lively verdure; on their rich orangeries, whose
blossoms perfumed the air, and on the luxuriant willows, that dipped
their light leaves in the wave, and sheltered from the sun the gay
parties whose music came at intervals on the breeze. The Carnival
did, indeed, appear to extend from Venice along the whole line of
these enchanting shores; the river was gay with boats passing to that
city, exhibiting the fantastic diversity of a masquerade in the
dresses of the people within them; and, towards evening, groups of
dancers frequently were seen beneath the trees.
Cavigni, meanwhile, informed her of the names of the noblemen to whom
the several villas they passed belonged, adding light sketches of
their characters, such as served to amuse rather than to inform,
exhibiting his own wit instead of the delineation of truth. Emily
was sometimes diverted by his conversation; but his gaiety did not
entertain Madame Montoni, as it had formerly done; she was frequently
grave, and Montoni retained his usual reserve.
Nothing could exceed Emily's admiration on her first view of Venice,
with its islets, palaces, and towers rising out of the sea, whose
clear surface reflected the tremulous picture in all its colours.
The sun, sinking in the west, tinted the waves and the lofty
mountains of Friuli, which skirt the northern shores of the Adriatic,
with a saffron glow, while on the marble porticos and colonnades of
St. Mark were thrown the rich lights and shades of evening. As they
glided on, the grander features of this city appeared more
distinctly: its terraces, crowned with airy yet majestic fabrics,
touched, as they now were, with the splendour of the setting sun,
appeared as if they had been called up from the ocean by the wand of
an enchanter, rather than reared by mortal hands.
The sun, soon after, sinking to the lower world, the shadow of the
earth stole gradually over the waves, and then up the towering sides
of the mountains of Friuli, till it extinguished even the last upward
beams that had lingered on their summits, and the melancholy purple
of evening drew over them, like a thin veil. How deep, how beautiful
was the tranquillity that wrapped the scene! All nature seemed to
repose; the finest emotions of the soul were alone awake. Emily's
eyes filled with tears of admiration and sublime devotion, as she
raised them over the sleeping world to the vast heavens, and heard
the notes of solemn music, that stole over the waters from a
distance. She listened in still rapture, and no person of the party
broke the charm by an enquiry. The sounds seemed to grow on the air;
for so smoothly did the barge glide along, that its motion was not
perceivable, and the fairy city appeared approaching to welcome the
strangers. They now distinguished a female voice, accompanied by a
few instruments, singing a soft and mournful air; and its fine
expression, as sometimes it seemed pleading with the impassioned
tenderness of love, and then languishing into the cadence of hopeless
grief, declared, that it flowed from no feigned sensibility. Ah!
thought Emily, as she sighed and remembered Valancourt, those strains
come from the heart!
She looked round, with anxious enquiry; the deep twilight, that had
fallen over the scene, admitted only imperfect images to the eye,
but, at some distance on the sea, she thought she perceived a
gondola: a chorus of voices and instruments now swelled on the air--
so sweet, so solemn! it seemed like the hymn of angels descending
through the silence of night! Now it died away, and fancy almost
beheld the holy choir reascending towards heaven; then again it
swelled with the breeze, trembled awhile, and again died into
silence. It brought to Emily's recollection some lines of her late
father, and she repeated in a low voice,
Oft I hear,
Upon the silence of the midnight air,
Celestial voices swell in holy chorus
That bears the soul to heaven!
The deep stillness, that succeeded, was as expressive as the strain
that had just ceased. It was uninterrupted for several minutes, till
a general sigh seemed to release the company from their enchantment.
Emily, however, long indulged the pleasing sadness, that had stolen
upon her spirits; but the gay and busy scene that appeared, as the
barge approached St. Mark's Place, at length roused her attention.
The rising moon, which threw a shadowy light upon the terraces, and
illumined the porticos and magnificent arcades that crowned them,
discovered the various company, whose light steps, soft guitars, and
softer voices, echoed through the colonnades.
The music they heard before now passed Montoni's barge, in one of the
gondolas, of which several were seen skimming along the moon-light
sea, full of gay parties, catching the cool breeze. Most of these
had music, made sweeter by the waves over which it floated, and by
the measured sound of oars, as they dashed the sparkling tide. Emily
gazed, and listened, and thought herself in a fairy scene; even
Madame Montoni was pleased; Montoni congratulated himself on his
return to Venice, which he called the first city in the world, and
Cavigni was more gay and animated than ever.
The barge passed on to the grand canal, where Montoni's mansion was
situated. And here, other forms of beauty and of grandeur, such as
her imagination had never painted, were unfolded to Emily in the
palaces of Sansovino and Palladio, as she glided along the waves.
The air bore no sounds, but those of sweetness, echoing along each
margin of the canal, and from gondolas on its surface, while groups
of masks were seen dancing on the moon-light terraces, and seemed
almost to realize the romance of fairyland.
The barge stopped before the portico of a large house, from whence a
servant of Montoni crossed the terrace, and immediately the party
disembarked. From the portico they passed a noble hall to a stair-
case of marble, which led to a saloon, fitted up in a style of
magnificence that surprised Emily. The walls and ceilings were
adorned with historical and allegorical paintings, in fresco; silver
tripods, depending from chains of the same metal, illumined the
apartment, the floor of which was covered with Indian mats painted in
a variety of colours and devices; the couches and drapery of the
lattices were of pale green silk, embroidered and fringed with green
and gold. Balcony lattices opened upon the grand canal, whence rose
a confusion of voices and of musical instruments, and the breeze that
gave freshness to the apartment. Emily, considering the gloomy
temper of Montoni, looked upon the splendid furniture of this house
with surprise, and remembered the report of his being a man of broken
fortune, with astonishment. 'Ah!' said she to herself, 'if
Valancourt could but see this mansion, what peace would it give him!
He would then be convinced that the report was groundless.'
Madame Montoni seemed to assume the air of a princess; but Montoni
was restless and discontented, and did not even observe the civility
of bidding her welcome to her home.
Soon after his arrival, he ordered his gondola, and, with Cavigni,
went out to mingle in the scenes of the evening. Madame then became
serious and thoughtful. Emily, who was charmed with every thing she
saw, endeavoured to enliven her; but reflection had not, with Madame
Montoni, subdued caprice and ill-humour, and her answers discovered
so much of both, that Emily gave up the attempt of diverting her, and
withdrew to a lattice, to amuse herself with the scene without, so
new and so enchanting.
The first object that attracted her notice was a group of dancers on
the terrace below, led by a guitar and some other instruments. The
girl, who struck the guitar, and another, who flourished a
tambourine, passed on in a dancing step, and with a light grace and
gaiety of heart, that would have subdued the goddess of spleen in her
worst humour. After these came a group of fantastic figures, some
dressed as gondolieri, others as minstrels, while others seemed to
defy all description. They sung in parts, their voices accompanied
by a few soft instruments. At a little distance from the portico
they stopped, and Emily distinguished the verses of Ariosto. They
sung of the wars of the Moors against Charlemagne, and then of the
woes of Orlando: afterwards the measure changed, and the melancholy
sweetness of Petrarch succeeded. The magic of his grief was assisted
by all that Italian music and Italian expression, heightened by the
enchantments of Venetian moonlight, could give.
Emily, as she listened, caught the pensive enthusiasm; her tears
flowed silently, while her fancy bore her far away to France and to
Valancourt. Each succeeding sonnet, more full of charming sadness
than the last, seemed to bind the spell of melancholy: with extreme
regret she saw the musicians move on, and her attention followed the
strain till the last faint warble died in air. She then remained
sunk in that pensive tranquillity which soft music leaves on the
mind--a state like that produced by the view of a beautiful landscape
by moon-light, or by the recollection of scenes marked with the
tenderness of friends lost for ever, and with sorrows, which time has
mellowed into mild regret. Such scenes are indeed, to the mind, like
'those faint traces which the memory bears of music that is past'.
Other sounds soon awakened her attention: it was the solemn harmony
of horns, that swelled from a distance; and, observing the gondolas
arrange themselves along the margin of the terraces, she threw on her
veil, and, stepping into the balcony, discerned, in the distant
perspective of the canal, something like a procession, floating on
the light surface of the water: as it approached, the horns and
other instruments mingled sweetly, and soon after the fabled deities
of the city seemed to have arisen from the ocean; for Neptune, with
Venice personified as his queen, came on the undulating waves,
surrounded by tritons and sea-nymphs. The fantastic splendour of
this spectacle, together with the grandeur of the surrounding
palaces, appeared like the vision of a poet suddenly embodied, and
the fanciful images, which it awakened in Emily's mind, lingered
there long after the procession had passed away. She indulged
herself in imagining what might be the manners and delights of a sea-
nymph, till she almost wished to throw off the habit of mortality,
and plunge into the green wave to participate them.
'How delightful,' said she, 'to live amidst the coral bowers and
crystal caverns of the ocean, with my sister nymphs, and listen to
the sounding waters above, and to the soft shells of the tritons! and
then, after sun-set, to skim on the surface of the waves round wild
rocks and along sequestered shores, where, perhaps, some pensive
wanderer comes to weep! Then would I soothe his sorrows with my
sweet music, and offer him from a shell some of the delicious fruit
that hangs round Neptune's palace.'
She was recalled from her reverie to a mere mortal supper, and could
not forbear smiling at the fancies she had been indulging, and at her
conviction of the serious displeasure, which Madame Montoni would
have expressed, could she have been made acquainted with them.
After supper, her aunt sat late, but Montoni did not return, and she
at length retired to rest. If Emily had admired the magnificence of
the saloon, she was not less surprised, on observing the half-
furnished and forlorn appearance of the apartments she passed in the
way to her chamber, whither she went through long suites of noble
rooms, that seemed, from their desolate aspect, to have been
unoccupied for many years. On the walls of some were the faded
remains of tapestry; from others, painted in fresco, the damps had
almost withdrawn both colours and design. At length she reached her
own chamber, spacious, desolate, and lofty, like the rest, with high
lattices that opened towards the Adriatic. It brought gloomy images
to her mind, but the view of the Adriatic soon gave her others more
airy, among which was that of the sea-nymph, whose delights she had
before amused herself with picturing; and, anxious to escape from
serious reflections, she now endeavoured to throw her fanciful ideas
into a train, and concluded the hour with composing the following
lines:
THE SEA-NYMPH
Down, down a thousand fathom deep,
Among the sounding seas I go;
Play round the foot of ev'ry steep
Whose cliffs above the ocean grow.
There, within their secret cares,
I hear the mighty rivers roar;
And guide their streams through Neptune's waves
To bless the green earth's inmost shore:
And bid the freshen'd waters glide,
For fern-crown'd nymphs of lake, or brook,
Through winding woods and pastures wide,
And many a wild, romantic nook.
For this the nymphs, at fall of eave,
Oft dance upon the flow'ry banks,
And sing my name, and garlands weave
To bear beneath the wave their thanks.
In coral bow'rs I love to lie,
And hear the surges roll above,
And through the waters view on high
The proud ships sail, and gay clouds move.
And oft at midnight's stillest hour,
When summer seas the vessel lave,
I love to prove my charmful pow'r
While floating on the moon-light wave.
And when deep sleep the crew has bound,
And the sad lover musing leans
O'er the ship's side, I breathe around
Such strains as speak no mortal means!
O'er the dim waves his searching eye
Sees but the vessel's lengthen'd shade;
Above--the moon and azure sky;
Entranc'd he hears, and half afraid!
Sometimes, a single note I swell,
That, softly sweet, at distance dies;
Then wake the magic of my shell,
And choral voices round me rise!
The trembling youth, charm'd by my strain,
Calls up the crew, who, silent, bend
O'er the high deck, but list in vain;
My song is hush'd, my wonders end!
Within the mountain's woody bay,
Where the tall bark at anchor rides,
At twilight hour, with tritons gay,
I dance upon the lapsing tides:
And with my sister-nymphs I sport,
Till the broad sun looks o'er the floods;
Then, swift we seek our crystal court,
Deep in the wave, 'mid Neptune's woods.
In cool arcades and glassy halls
We pass the sultry hours of noon,
Beyond wherever sun-beam falls,
Weaving sea-flowers in gay festoon.
The while we chant our ditties sweet
To some soft shell that warbles near;
Join'd by the murmuring currents, fleet,
That glide along our halls so clear.
There, the pale pearl and sapphire blue,
And ruby red, and em'rald green,
Dart from the domes a changing hue,
And sparry columns deck the scene.
When the dark storm scowls o'er the deep,
And long, long peals of thunder sound,
On some high cliff my watch I keep
O'er all the restless seas around:
Till on the ridgy wave afar
Comes the lone vessel, labouring slow,
Spreading the white foam in the air,
With sail and top-mast bending low.
Then, plunge I 'mid the ocean's roar,
My way by quiv'ring lightnings shewn,
To guide the bark to peaceful shore,
And hush the sailor's fearful groan.
And if too late I reach its side
To save it from the 'whelming surge,
I call my dolphins o'er the tide,
To bear the crew where isles emerge.
Their mournful spirits soon I cheer,
While round the desert coast I go,
With warbled songs they faintly hear,
Oft as the stormy gust sinks low.
My music leads to lofty groves,
That wild upon the sea-bank wave;
Where sweet fruits bloom, and fresh spring roves,
And closing boughs the tempest brave.
Then, from the air spirits obey
My potent voice they love so well,
And, on the clouds, paint visions gay,
While strains more sweet at distance swell.
And thus the lonely hours I cheat,
Soothing the ship-wreck'd sailor's heart,
Till from the waves the storms retreat,
And o'er the east the day-beams dart.
Neptune for this oft binds me fast
To rocks below, with coral chain,
Till all the tempest's over-past,
And drowning seamen cry in vain.
Whoe'er ye are that love my lay,
Come, when red sun-set tints the wave,
To the still sands, where fairies play;
There, in cool seas, I love to lave.
CHAPTER III
He is a great observer, and he looks
Quite through the deeds of men: he loves no plays,
he hears no music;
Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort,
As if he mock'd himself, and scorn'd his spirit
that could be mov'd to smile at any thing.
Such men as he be never at heart's ease,
While they behold a greater than themselves.
JULIUS CAESAR
Montoni and his companion did not return home, till many hours after
the dawn had blushed upon the Adriatic. The airy groups, which had
danced all night along the colonnade of St. Mark, dispersed before
the morning, like so many spirits. Montoni had been otherwise
engaged; his soul was little susceptible of light pleasures. He
delighted in the energies of the passions; the difficulties and
tempests of life, which wreck the happiness of others, roused and
strengthened all the powers of his mind, and afforded him the highest
enjoyments, of which his nature was capable. Without some object of
strong interest, life was to him little more than a sleep; and, when
pursuits of real interest failed, he substituted artificial ones,
till habit changed their nature, and they ceased to be unreal. Of
this kind was the habit of gaming, which he had adopted, first, for
the purpose of relieving him from the languor of inaction, but had
since pursued with the ardour of passion. In this occupation he had
passed the night with Cavigni and a party of young men, who had more
money than rank, and more vice than either. Montoni despised the
greater part of these for the inferiority of their talents, rather
than for their vicious inclinations, and associated with them only to
make them the instruments of his purposes. Among these, however,
were some of superior abilities, and a few whom Montoni admitted to
his intimacy, but even towards these he still preserved a decisive
and haughty air, which, while it imposed submission on weak and timid
minds, roused the fierce hatred of strong ones. He had, of course,
many and bitter enemies; but the rancour of their hatred proved the
degree of his power; and, as power was his chief aim, he gloried more
in such hatred, than it was possible he could in being esteemed. A
feeling so tempered as that of esteem, he despised, and would have
despised himself also had he thought himself capable of being
flattered by it.
Among the few whom he distinguished, were the Signors Bertolini,
Orsino, and Verezzi. The first was a man of gay temper, strong
passions, dissipated, and of unbounded extravagance, but generous,
brave, and unsuspicious. Orsino was reserved, and haughty; loving
power more than ostentation; of a cruel and suspicious temper; quick
to feel an injury, and relentless in avenging it; cunning and
unsearchable in contrivance, patient and indefatigable in the
execution of his schemes. He had a perfect command of feature and of
his passions, of which he had scarcely any, but pride, revenge and
avarice; and, in the gratification of these, few considerations had
power to restrain him, few obstacles to withstand the depth of his
stratagems. This man was the chief favourite of Montoni. Verezzi
was a man of some talent, of fiery imagination, and the slave of
alternate passions. He was gay, voluptuous, and daring; yet had
neither perseverance or true courage, and was meanly selfish in all
his aims. Quick to form schemes, and sanguine in his hope of
success, he was the first to undertake, and to abandon, not only his
own plans, but those adopted from other persons. Proud and
impetuous, he revolted against all subordination; yet those who were
acquainted with his character, and watched the turn of his passions,
could lead him like a child.
Such were the friends whom Montoni introduced to his family and his
table, on the day after his arrival at Venice. There were also of
the party a Venetian nobleman, Count Morano, and a Signora Livona,
whom Montoni had introduced to his wife, as a lady of distinguished
merit, and who, having called in the morning to welcome her to
Venice, had been requested to be of the dinner party.
Madame Montoni received with a very ill grace, the compliments of the
Signors. She disliked them, because they were the friends of her
husband; hated them, because she believed they had contributed to
detain him abroad till so late an hour of the preceding morning; and
envied them, since, conscious of her own want of influence, she was
convinced, that he preferred their society to her own. The rank of
Count Morano procured him that distinction which she refused to the
rest of the company. The haughty sullenness of her countenance and
manner, and the ostentatious extravagance of her dress, for she had
not yet adopted the Venetian habit, were strikingly contrasted by the
beauty, modesty, sweetness and simplicity of Emily, who observed,
with more attention than pleasure, the party around her. The beauty
and fascinating manners of Signora Livona, however, won her
involuntary regard; while the sweetness of her accents and her air of
gentle kindness awakened with Emily those pleasing affections, which
so long had slumbered.
In the cool of the evening the party embarked in Montoni's gondola,
and rowed out upon the sea. The red glow of sun-set still touched
the waves, and lingered in the west, where the melancholy gleam
seemed slowly expiring, while the dark blue of the upper aether began
to twinkle with stars. Emily sat, given up to pensive and sweet
emotions. The smoothness of the water, over which she glided, its
reflected images--a new heaven and trembling stars below the waves,
with shadowy outlines of towers and porticos, conspired with the
stillness of the hour, interrupted only by the passing wave, or the
notes of distant music, to raise those emotions to enthusiasm. As
she listened to the measured sound of the oars, and to the remote
warblings that came in the breeze, her softened mind returned to the
memory of St. Aubert and to Valancourt, and tears stole to her eyes.
The rays of the moon, strengthening as the shadows deepened, soon
after threw a silvery gleam upon her countenance, which was partly
shaded by a thin black veil, and touched it with inimitable softness.
Hers was the CONTOUR of a Madona, with the sensibility of a Magdalen;
and the pensive uplifted eye, with the tear that glittered on her
cheek, confirmed the expression of the character.
The last strain of distant music now died in air, for the gondola was
far upon the waves, and the party determined to have music of their
own. The Count Morano, who sat next to Emily, and who had been
observing her for some time in silence, snatched up a lute, and
struck the chords with the finger of harmony herself, while his
voice, a fine tenor, accompanied them in a rondeau full of tender
sadness. To him, indeed, might have been applied that beautiful
exhortation of an English poet, had it then existed:
Strike up, my master,
But touch the strings with a religious softness!
Teach sounds to languish through the night's dull ear
Till Melancholy starts from off her couch,
And Carelessness grows concert to attention!
With such powers of expression the Count sung the following
RONDEAU
Soft as yon silver ray, that sleeps
Upon the ocean's trembling tide;
Soft as the air, that lightly sweeps
Yon said, that swells in stately pride:
Soft as the surge's stealing note,
That dies along the distant shores,
Or warbled strain, that sinks remote--
So soft the sigh my bosom pours!
True as the wave to Cynthia's ray,
True as the vessel to the breeze,
True as the soul to music's sway,
Or music to Venetian seas:
Soft as yon silver beams, that sleep
Upon the ocean's trembling breast;
So soft, so true, fond Love shall weep,
So soft, so true, with THEE shall rest.
The cadence with which he returned from the last stanza to a
repetition of the first; the fine modulation in which his voice stole
upon the first line, and the pathetic energy with which it pronounced
the last, were such as only exquisite taste could give. When he had
concluded, he gave the lute with a sigh to Emily, who, to avoid any
appearance of affectation, immediately began to play. She sung a
melancholy little air, one of the popular songs of her native
province, with a simplicity and pathos that made it enchanting. But
its well-known melody brought so forcibly to her fancy the scenes and
the persons, among which she had often heard it, that her spirits
were overcome, her voice trembled and ceased--and the strings of the
lute were struck with a disordered hand; till, ashamed of the emotion
she had betrayed, she suddenly passed on to a song so gay and airy,
that the steps of the dance seemed almost to echo to the notes.
BRAVISSIMO! burst instantly from the lips of her delighted auditors,
and she was compelled to repeat the air. Among the compliments that
followed, those of the Count were not the least audible, and they had
not concluded, when Emily gave the instrument to Signora Livona,
whose voice accompanied it with true Italian taste.
Afterwards, the Count, Emily, Cavigni, and the Signora, sung
canzonettes, accompanied by a couple of lutes and a few other
instruments. Sometimes the instruments suddenly ceased, and the
voices dropped from the full swell of harmony into a low chant; then,
after a deep pause, they rose by degrees, the instruments one by one
striking up, till the loud and full chorus soared again to heaven!
Meanwhile, Montoni, who was weary of this harmony, was considering
how he might disengage himself from his party, or withdraw with such
of it as would be willing to play, to a Casino. In a pause of the
music, he proposed returning to shore, a proposal which Orsino
eagerly seconded, but which the Count and the other gentlemen as
warmly opposed.
Montoni still meditated how he might excuse himself from longer
attendance upon the Count, for to him only he thought excuse
necessary, and how he might get to land, till the gondolieri of an
empty boat, returning to Venice, hailed his people. Without
troubling himself longer about an excuse, he seized this opportunity
of going thither, and, committing the ladies to the care of his
friends, departed with Orsino, while Emily, for the first time, saw
him go with regret; for she considered his presence a protection,
though she knew not what she should fear. He landed at St. Mark's,
and, hurrying to a Casino, was soon lost amidst a crowd of gamesters.
Meanwhile, the Count having secretly dispatched a servant in
Montoni's boat, for his own gondola and musicians, Emily heard,
without knowing his project, the gay song of gondolieri approaching,
as they sat on the stern of the boat, and saw the tremulous gleam of
the moon-light wave, which their oars disturbed. Presently she heard
the sound of instruments, and then a full symphony swelled on the
air, and, the boats meeting, the gondolieri hailed each other. The
count then explaining himself, the party removed into his gondola,
which was embellished with all that taste could bestow.
While they partook of a collation of fruits and ice, the whole band,
following at a distance in the other boat, played the most sweet and
enchanting strains, and the Count, who had again seated himself by
Emily, paid her unremitted attention, and sometimes, in a low but
impassioned voice, uttered compliments which she could not
misunderstand. To avoid them she conversed with Signora Livona, and
her manner to the Count assumed a mild reserve, which, though
dignified, was too gentle to repress his assiduities: he could see,
hear, speak to no person, but Emily while Cavigni observed him now
and then, with a look of displeasure, and Emily, with one of
uneasiness. she now wished for nothing so much as to return to
Venice, but it was near mid-night before the gondolas approached St.
Mark's Place, where the voice of gaiety and song was loud. The busy
hum of mingling sounds was heard at a considerable distance on the
water, and, had not a bright moon-light discovered the city, with its
terraces and towers, a stranger would almost have credited the fabled
wonders of Neptune's court, and believed, that the tumult arose from
beneath the waves.
They landed at St. Mark's, where the gaiety of the colonnades and the
beauty of the night, made Madame Montoni willingly submit to the
Count's solicitations to join the promenade, and afterwards to take a
supper with the rest of the party, at his Casino. If any thing could
have dissipated Emily's uneasiness, it would have been the grandeur,
gaiety, and novelty of the surrounding scene, adorned with Palladio's
palaces, and busy with parties of masqueraders.
At length they withdrew to the Casino, which was fitted up with
infinite taste, and where a splendid banquet was prepared; but here
Emily's reserve made the Count perceive, that it was necessary for
his interest to win the favour of Madame Montoni, which, from the
condescension she had already shewn to him, appeared to be an
achievement of no great difficulty. He transferred, therefore, part
of his attention from Emily to her aunt, who felt too much flattered
by the distinction even to disguise her emotion; and before the party
broke up, he had entirely engaged the esteem of Madame Montoni.
whenever he addressed her, her ungracious countenance relaxed into
smiles, and to whatever he proposed she assented. He invited her,
with the rest of the party, to take coffee, in his box at the opera,
on the following evening, and Emily heard the invitation accepted,
with strong anxiety, concerning the means of excusing herself from
attending Madame Montoni thither.
It was very late before their gondola was ordered, and Emily's
surprise was extreme, when, on quitting the Casino, she beheld the
broad sun rising out of the Adriatic, while St. Mark's Place was yet
crowded with company. Sleep had long weighed heavily on her eyes,
but now the fresh sea-breeze revived her, and she would have quitted
the scene with regret, had not the Count been present, performing the
duty, which he had imposed upon himself, of escorting them home.
There they heard that Montoni was not yet returned; and his wife,
retiring in displeasure to her apartment, at length released Emily
from the fatigue of further attendance.
Montoni came home late in the morning, in a very ill humour, having
lost considerably at play, and, before he withdrew to rest, had a
private conference with Cavigni, whose manner, on the following day,
seemed to tell, that the subject of it had not been pleasing to him.
In the evening, Madame Montoni, who, during the day, had observed a
sullen silence towards her husband, received visits from some
Venetian ladies, with whose sweet manners Emily was particularly
charmed. They had an air of ease and kindness towards the strangers,
as if they had been their familiar friends for years; and their
conversation was by turns tender, sentimental and gay. Madame,
though she had no taste for such conversation, and whose coarseness
and selfishness sometimes exhibited a ludicrous contrast to their
excessive refinement, could not remain wholly insensible to the
captivations of their manner.
In a pause of conversation, a lady who was called Signora Herminia
took up a lute, and began to play and sing, with as much easy gaiety,
as if she had been alone. Her voice was uncommonly rich in tone, and
various in expression; yet she appeared to be entirely unconscious of
its powers, and meant nothing less than to display them. She sung
from the gaiety of her heart, as she sat with her veil half thrown
back, holding gracefully the lute, under the spreading foliage and
flowers of some plants, that rose from baskets, and interlaced one of
the lattices of the saloon. Emily, retiring a little from the
company, sketched her figure, with the miniature scenery around her,
and drew a very interesting picture, which, though it would not,
perhaps, have borne criticism, had spirit and taste enough to awaken
both the fancy and the heart. When she had finished it, she
presented it to the beautiful original, who was delighted with the
offering, as well as the sentiment it conveyed, and assured Emily,
with a smile of captivating sweetness, that she should preserve it as
a pledge of her friendship.
In the evening Cavigni joined the ladies, but Montoni had other
engagements; and they embarked in the gondola for St. Mark's, where
the same gay company seemed to flutter as on the preceding night.
The cool breeze, the glassy sea, the gentle sound of its waves, and
the sweeter murmur of distant music; the lofty porticos and arcades,
and the happy groups that sauntered beneath them; these, with every
feature and circumstance of the scene, united to charm Emily, no
longer teased by the officious attentions of Count Morano. But, as
she looked upon the moon-light sea, undulating along the walls of St.
Mark, and, lingering for a moment over those walls, caught the sweet
and melancholy song of some gondolier as he sat in his boat below,
waiting for his master, her softened mind returned to the memory of
her home, of her friends, and of all that was dear in her native
country.
After walking some time, they sat down at the door of a Casino, and,
while Cavigni was accommodating them with coffee and ice, were joined
by Count Morano. He sought Emily with a look of impatient delight,
who, remembering all the attention he had shewn her on the preceding
evening, was compelled, as before, to shrink from his assiduities
into a timid reserve, except when she conversed with Signora Herminia
and the other ladies of her party.
It was near midnight before they withdrew to the opera, where Emily
was not so charmed but that, when she remembered the scene she had
just quitted, she felt how infinitely inferior all the splendour of
art is to the sublimity of nature. Her heart was not now affected,
tears of admiration did not start to her eyes, as when she viewed the
vast expanse of ocean, the grandeur of the heavens, and listened to
the rolling waters, and to the faint music that, at intervals,
mingled with their roar. Remembering these, the scene before her
faded into insignificance.
Of the evening, which passed on without any particular incident, she
wished the conclusion, that she might escape from the attentions of
the Count; and, as opposite qualities frequently attract each other
in our thoughts, thus Emily, when she looked on Count Morano,
remembered Valancourt, and a sigh sometimes followed the
recollection.
Several weeks passed in the course of customary visits, during which
nothing remarkable occurred. Emily was amused by the manners and
scenes that surrounded her, so different from those of France, but
where Count Morano, too frequently for her comfort, contrived to
introduce himself. His manner, figure and accomplishments, which
were generally admired, Emily would, perhaps, have admired also, had
her heart been disengaged from Valancourt, and had the Count forborne
to persecute her with officious attentions, during which she observed
some traits in his character, that prejudiced her against whatever
might otherwise be good in it.
Soon after his arrival at Venice, Montoni received a packet from M.
Quesnel, in which the latter mentioned the death of his wife's uncle,
at his villa on the Brenta; and that, in consequence of this event,
he should hasten to take possession of that estate and of other
effects bequeathed to him. This uncle was the brother of Madame
Quesnel's late mother; Montoni was related to her by the father's
side, and though he could have had neither claim nor expectation
concerning these possessions, he could scarcely conceal the envy
which M. Quesnel's letter excited.
Emily had observed with concern, that, since they left France,
Montoni had not even affected kindness towards her aunt, and that,
after treating her, at first, with neglect, he now met her with
uniform ill-humour and reserve. She had never supposed, that her
aunt's foibles could have escaped the discernment of Montoni, or that
her mind or figure were of a kind to deserve his attention. Her
surprise, therefore, at this match, had been extreme; but since he
had made the choice, she did not suspect that he would so openly have
discovered his contempt of it. But Montoni, who had been allured by
the seeming wealth of Madame Cheron, was now severely disappointed by
her comparative poverty, and highly exasperated by the deceit she had
employed to conceal it, till concealment was no longer necessary. He
had been deceived in an affair, wherein he meant to be the deceiver;
out-witted by the superior cunning of a woman, whose understanding he
despised, and to whom he had sacrificed his pride and his liberty,
without saving himself from the ruin, which had impended over his
head. Madame Montoni had contrived to have the greatest part of what
she really did possess, settled upon herself: what remained, though
it was totally inadequate both to her husband's expectations, and to
his necessities, he had converted into money, and brought with him to
Venice, that he might a little longer delude society, and make a last
effort to regain the fortunes he had lost.
The hints which had been thrown out to Valancourt, concerning
Montoni's character and condition, were too true; but it was now left
to time and occasion, to unfold the circumstances, both of what had,
and of what had not been hinted, and to time and occasion we commit
them.
Madame Montoni was not of a nature to bear injuries with meekness, or
to resent them with dignity: her exasperated pride displayed itself
in all the violence and acrimony of a little, or at least of an ill-
regulated mind. She would not acknowledge, even to herself, that she
had in any degree provoked contempt by her duplicity, but weakly
persisted in believing, that she alone was to be pitied, and Montoni
alone to be censured; for, as her mind had naturally little
perception of moral obligation, she seldom understood its force but
when it happened to be violated towards herself: her vanity had
already been severely shocked by a discovery of Montoni's contempt;
it remained to be farther reproved by a discovery of his
circumstances. His mansion at Venice, though its furniture
discovered a part of the truth to unprejudiced persons, told nothing
to those who were blinded by a resolution to believe whatever they
wished. Madame Montoni still thought herself little less than a
princess, possessing a palace at Venice, and a castle among the
Apennines. To the castle di Udolpho, indeed, Montoni sometimes
talked of going for a few weeks to examine into its condition, and to
receive some rents; for it appeared that he had not been there for
two years, and that, during this period, it had been inhabited only
by an old servant, whom he called his steward.
Emily listened to the mention of this journey with pleasure, for she
not only expected from it new ideas, but a release from the
persevering assiduities of Count Morano. In the country, too, she
would have leisure to think of Valancourt, and to indulge the
melancholy, which his image, and a recollection of the scenes of La
Vallee, always blessed with the memory of her parents, awakened. The
ideal scenes were dearer, and more soothing to her heart, than all
the splendour of gay assemblies; they were a kind of talisman that
expelled the poison of temporary evils, and supported her hopes of
happy days: they appeared like a beautiful landscape, lighted up by
a gleam of sun-shine, and seen through a perspective of dark and
rugged rocks.
But Count Morano did not long confine himself to silent assiduities;
he declared his passion to Emily, and made proposals to Montoni, who
encouraged, though Emily rejected, him: with Montoni for his friend,
and an abundance of vanity to delude him, he did not despair of
success. Emily was astonished and highly disgusted at his
perseverance, after she had explained her sentiments with a frankness
that would not allow him to misunderstand them.
He now passed the greater part of his time at Montoni's, dining there
almost daily, and attending Madame and Emily wherever they went; and
all this, notwithstanding the uniform reserve of Emily, whose aunt
seemed as anxious as Montoni to promote this marriage; and would
never dispense with her attendance at any assembly where the Count
proposed to be present.
Montoni now said nothing of his intended journey, of which Emily
waited impatiently to hear; and he was seldom at home but when the
Count, or Signor Orsino, was there, for between himself and Cavigni a
coolness seemed to subsist, though the latter remained in his house.
With Orsino, Montoni was frequently closeted for hours together, and,
whatever might be the business, upon which they consulted, it
appeared to be of consequence, since Montoni often sacrificed to it
his favourite passion for play, and remained at home the whole night.
There was somewhat of privacy, too, in the manner of Orsino's visits,
which had never before occurred, and which excited not only surprise,
but some degree of alarm in Emily's mind, who had unwillingly
discovered much of his character when he had most endeavoured to
disguise it. After these visits, Montoni was often more thoughtful
than usual; sometimes the deep workings of his mind entirely
abstracted him from surrounding objects, and threw a gloom over his
visage that rendered it terrible; at others, his eyes seemed almost
to flash fire, and all the energies of his soul appeared to be roused
for some great enterprise. Emily observed these written characters
of his thoughts with deep interest, and not without some degree of
awe, when she considered that she was entirely in his power; but
forbore even to hint her fears, or her observations, to Madame
Montoni, who discerned nothing in her husband, at these times, but
his usual sternness.
A second letter from M. Quesnel announced the arrival of himself and
his lady at the Villa Miarenti; stated several circumstances of his
good fortune, respecting the affair that had brought him into Italy;
and concluded with an earnest request to see Montoni, his wife and
niece, at his new estate.
Emily received, about the same period, a much more interesting
letter, and which soothed for a while every anxiety of her heart.
Valancourt, hoping she might be still at Venice, had trusted a letter
to the ordinary post, that told her of his health, and of his
unceasing and anxious affection. He had lingered at Tholouse for
some time after her departure, that he might indulge the melancholy
pleasure of wandering through the scenes where he had been accustomed
to behold her, and had thence gone to his brother's chateau, which
was in the neighbourhood of La Vallee. Having mentioned this, he
added, 'If the duty of attending my regiment did not require my
departure, I know not when I should have resolution enough to quit
the neighbourhood of a place which is endeared by the remembrance of
you. The vicinity to La Vallee has alone detained me thus long at
Estuviere: I frequently ride thither early in the morning, that I
may wander, at leisure, through the day, among scenes, which were
once your home, where I have been accustomed to see you, and to hear
you converse. I have renewed my acquaintance with the good old
Theresa, who rejoiced to see me, that she might talk of you: I need
not say how much this circumstance attached me to her, or how eagerly
I listened to her upon her favourite subject. You will guess the
motive that first induced me to make myself known to Theresa: it
was, indeed, no other than that of gaining admittance into the
chateau and gardens, which my Emily had so lately inhabited: here,
then, I wander, and meet your image under every shade: but chiefly I
love to sit beneath the spreading branches of your favourite plane,
where once, Emily, we sat together; where I first ventured to tell
you, that I loved. O Emily! the remembrance of those moments
overcomes me--I sit lost in reverie--I endeavour to see you dimly
through my tears, in all the heaven of peace and innocence, such as
you then appeared to me; to hear again the accents of that voice,
which then thrilled my heart with tenderness and hope. I lean on the
wall of the terrace, where we together watched the rapid current of
the Garonne below, while I described the wild scenery about its
source, but thought only of you. O Emily! are these moments passed
for ever--will they never more return?'
In another part of his letter he wrote thus. 'You see my letter is
dated on many different days, and, if you look back to the first, you
will perceive, that I began to write soon after your departure from
France. To write was, indeed, the only employment that withdrew me
from my own melancholy, and rendered your absence supportable, or
rather, it seemed to destroy absence; for, when I was conversing with
you on paper, and telling you every sentiment and affection of my
heart, you almost appeared to be present. This employment has been
from time to time my chief consolation, and I have deferred sending
off my packet, merely for the comfort of prolonging it, though it was
certain, that what I had written, was written to no purpose till you
received it. Whenever my mind has been more than usually depressed I
have come to pour forth its sorrows to you, and have always found
consolation; and, when any little occurrence has interested my heart,
and given a gleam of joy to my spirits, I have hastened to
communicate it to you, and have received reflected satisfaction.
Thus, my letter is a kind of picture of my life and of my thoughts
for the last month, and thus, though it has been deeply interesting
to me, while I wrote it, and I dare hope will, for the same reason,
be not indifferent to you, yet to other readers it would seem to
abound only in frivolities. Thus it is always, when we attempt to
describe the finer movements of the heart, for they are too fine to
be discerned, they can only be experienced, and are therefore passed
over by the indifferent observer, while the interested one feels,
that all description is imperfect and unnecessary, except as it may
prove the sincerity of the writer, and sooth his own sufferings. You
will pardon all this egotism--for I am a lover.'
'I have just heard of a circumstance, which entirely destroys all my
fairy paradise of ideal delight, and which will reconcile me to the
necessity of returning to my regiment, for I must no longer wander
beneath the beloved shades, where I have been accustomed to meet you
in thought.--La Vallee is let! I have reason to believe this is
without your knowledge, from what Theresa told me this morning, and,
therefore, I mention the circumstance. She shed tears, while she
related, that she was going to leave the service of her dear
mistress, and the chateau where she had lived so many happy years;
and all this, added she, without even a letter from Mademoiselle to
soften the news; but it is all Mons. Quesnel's doings, and I dare say
she does not even know what is going forward.'
'Theresa added, That she had received a letter from him, informing
her the chateau was let, and that, as her services would no longer be
required, she must quit the place, on that day week, when the new
tenant would arrive.'
'Theresa had been surprised by a visit from M. Quesnel, some time
before the receipt of this letter, who was accompanied by a stranger
that viewed the premises with much curiosity.'
Towards the conclusion of his letter, which is dated a week after
this sentence, Valancourt adds, 'I have received a summons from my
regiment, and I join it without regret, since I am shut out from the
scenes that are so interesting to my heart. I rode to La Vallee this
morning, and heard that the new tenant was arrived, and that Theresa
was gone. I should not treat the subject thus familiarly if I did
not believe you to be uninformed of this disposal of your house; for
your satisfaction I have endeavoured to learn something of the
character and fortune of your tenant, but without success. He is a
gentleman, they say, and this is all I can hear. The place, as I
wandered round the boundaries, appeared more melancholy to my
imagination, than I had ever seen it. I wished earnestly to have got
admittance, that I might have taken another leave of your favourite
plane-tree, and thought of you once more beneath its shade: but I
forbore to tempt the curiosity of strangers: the fishing-house in
the woods, however, was still open to me; thither I went, and passed
an hour, which I cannot even look back upon without emotion. O
Emily! surely we are not separated for ever--surely we shall live for
each other!'
This letter brought many tears to Emily's eyes; tears of tenderness
and satisfaction on learning that Valancourt was well, and that time
and absence had in no degree effaced her image from his heart. There
were passages in this letter which particularly affected her, such as
those describing his visits to La Vallee, and the sentiments of
delicate affection that its scenes had awakened. It was a
considerable time before her mind was sufficiently abstracted from
Valancourt to feel the force of his intelligence concerning La
Vallee. That Mons. Quesnel should let it, without even consulting
her on the measure, both surprised and shocked her, particularly as
it proved the absolute authority he thought himself entitled to
exercise in her affairs. It is true, he had proposed, before she
left France, that the chateau should be let, during her absence, and
to the oeconomical prudence of this she had nothing to object; but
the committing what had been her father's villa to the power and
caprice of strangers, and the depriving herself of a sure home,
should any unhappy circumstances make her look back to her home as an
asylum, were considerations that made her, even then, strongly oppose
the measure. Her father, too, in his last hour, had received from
her a solemn promise never to dispose of La Vallee; and this she
considered as in some degree violated if she suffered the place to be
let. But it was now evident with how little respect M. Quesnel had
regarded these objections, and how insignificant he considered every
obstacle to pecuniary advantage. It appeared, also, that he had not
even condescended to inform Montoni of the step he had taken, since
no motive was evident for Montoni's concealing the circumstance from
her, if it had been made known to him: this both displeased and
surprised her; but the chief subjects of her uneasiness were--the
temporary disposal of La Vallee, and the dismission of her father's
old and faithful servant.--'Poor Theresa,' said Emily, 'thou hadst
not saved much in thy servitude, for thou wast always tender towards
the poor, and believd'st thou shouldst die in the family, where thy
best years had been spent. Poor Theresa!--now thou art turned out in
thy old age to seek thy bread!'
Emily wept bitterly as these thoughts passed over her mind, and she
determined to consider what could be done for Theresa, and to talk
very explicitly to M. Quesnel on the subject; but she much feared
that his cold heart could feel only for itself. She determined also
to enquire whether he had made any mention of her affairs, in his
letter to Montoni, who soon gave her the opportunity she sought, by
desiring that she would attend him in his study. She had little
doubt, that the interview was intended for the purpose of
communicating to her a part of M. Quesnel's letter concerning the
transactions at La Vallee, and she obeyed him immediately. Montoni
was alone.
'I have just been writing to Mons. Quesnel,' said he when Emily
appeared, 'in reply to the letter I received from him a few days ago,
and I wished to talk to you upon a subject that occupied part of it.'
'I also wished to speak with you on this topic, sir,' said Emily.
'It is a subject of some interest to you, undoubtedly,' rejoined
Montoni, 'and I think you must see it in the light that I do; indeed
it will not bear any other. I trust you will agree with me, that any
objection founded on sentiment, as they call it, ought to yield to
circumstances of solid advantage.'
'Granting this, sir,' replied Emily, modestly, 'those of humanity
ought surely to be attended to. But I fear it is now too late to
deliberate upon this plan, and I must regret, that it is no longer in
my power to reject it.'
'It is too late,' said Montoni; 'but since it is so, I am pleased to
observe, that you submit to reason and necessity without indulging
useless complaint. I applaud this conduct exceedingly, the more,
perhaps, since it discovers a strength of mind seldom observable in
your sex. When you are older you will look back with gratitude to
the friends who assisted in rescuing you from the romantic illusions
of sentiment, and will perceive, that they are only the snares of
childhood, and should be vanquished the moment you escape from the
nursery. I have not closed my letter, and you may add a few lines to
inform your uncle of your acquiescence. You will soon see him, for
it is my intention to take you, with Madame Montoni, in a few days to
Miarenti, and you can then talk over the affair.'
Emily wrote on the opposite page of the paper as follows:
'It is now useless, sir, for me to remonstrate upon the circumstances
of which Signor Montoni informs me that he has written. I could have
wished, at least, that the affair had been concluded with less
precipitation, that I might have taught myself to subdue some
prejudices, as the Signor calls them, which still linger in my heart.
As it is, I submit. In point of prudence nothing certainly can be
objected; but, though I submit, I have yet much to say on some other
points of the subject, when I shall have the honour of seeing you.
In the meantime I entreat you will take care of Theresa, for the sake
of,
Sir,
Your affectionate niece,
EMILY ST. AUBERT.'
Montoni smiled satirically at what Emily had written, but did not
object to it, and she withdrew to her own apartment, where she sat
down to begin a letter to Valancourt, in which she related the
particulars of her journey, and her arrival at Venice, described some
of the most striking scenes in the passage over the Alps; her
emotions on her first view of Italy; the manners and characters of
the people around her, and some few circumstances of Montoni's
conduct. But she avoided even naming Count Morano, much more the
declaration he had made, since she well knew how tremblingly alive to
fear is real love, how jealously watchful of every circumstance that
may affect its interest; and she scrupulously avoided to give
Valancourt even the slightest reason for believing he had a rival.
On the following day Count Morano dined again at Montoni's. He was
in an uncommon flow of spirits, and Emily thought there was somewhat
of exultation in his manner of addressing her, which she had never
observed before. She endeavoured to repress this by more than her
usual reserve, but the cold civility of her air now seemed rather to
encourage than to depress him. He appeared watchful of an
opportunity of speaking with her alone, and more than once solicited
this; but Emily always replied, that she could hear nothing from him
which he would be unwilling to repeat before the whole company.
In the evening, Madame Montoni and her party went out upon the sea,
and as the Count led Emily to his zendaletto, he carried her hand to
his lips, and thanked her for the condescension she had shown him.
Emily, in extreme surprise and displeasure, hastily withdrew her
hand, and concluded that he had spoken ironically; but, on reaching
the steps of the terrace, and observing by the livery, that it was
the Count's zendaletto which waited below, while the rest of the
party, having arranged themselves in the gondolas, were moving on,
she determined not to permit a separate conversation, and, wishing
him a good evening, returned to the portico. The Count followed to
expostulate and entreat, and Montoni, who then came out, rendered
solicitation unnecessary, for, without condescending to speak, he
took her hand, and led her to the zendaletto. Emily was not silent;
she entreated Montoni, in a low voice, to consider the impropriety of
these circumstances, and that he would spare her the mortification of
submitting to them; he, however, was inflexible.
'This caprice is intolerable,' said he, 'and shall not be indulged:
there is no impropriety in the case.'
At this moment, Emily's dislike of Count Morano rose to abhorrence.
That he should, with undaunted assurance, thus pursue her,
notwithstanding all she had expressed on the subject of his
addresses, and think, as it was evident he did, that her opinion of
him was of no consequence, so long as his pretensions were sanctioned
by Montoni, added indignation to the disgust which she had felt
towards him. She was somewhat relieved by observing that Montoni was
to be of the party, who seated himself on one side of her, while
Morano placed himself on the other. There was a pause for some
moments as the gondolieri prepared their oars, and Emily trembled
from apprehension of the discourse that might follow this silence.
At length she collected courage to break it herself, in the hope of
preventing fine speeches from Morano, and reproof from Montoni. To
some trivial remark which she made, the latter returned a short and
disobliging reply; but Morano immediately followed with a general
observation, which he contrived to end with a particular compliment,
and, though Emily passed it without even the notice of a smile, he
was not discouraged.
'I have been impatient,' said he, addressing Emily, 'to express my
gratitude; to thank you for your goodness; but I must also thank
Signor Montoni, who has allowed me this opportunity of doing so.'
Emily regarded the Count with a look of mingled astonishment and
displeasure.
'Why,' continued he, 'should you wish to diminish the delight of this
moment by that air of cruel reserve?--Why seek to throw me again into
the perplexities of doubt, by teaching your eyes to contradict the
kindness of your late declaration? You cannot doubt the sincerity,
the ardour of my passion; it is therefore unnecessary, charming
Emily! surely unnecessary, any longer to attempt a disguise of your
sentiments.'
'If I ever had disguised them, sir,' said Emily, with recollected
spirit, 'it would certainly be unnecessary any longer to do so. I
had hoped, sir, that you would have spared me any farther necessity
of alluding to them; but, since you do not grant this, hear me
declare, and for the last time, that your perseverance has deprived
you even of the esteem, which I was inclined to believe you merited.'
'Astonishing!' exclaimed Montoni: 'this is beyond even my
expectation, though I have hitherto done justice to the caprice of
the sex! But you will observe, Mademoiselle Emily, that I am no
lover, though Count Morano is, and that I will not be made the
amusement of your capricious moments. Here is the offer of an
alliance, which would do honour to any family; yours, you will
recollect, is not noble; you long resisted my remonstrances, but my
honour is now engaged, and it shall not be trifled with.--You shall
adhere to the declaration, which you have made me an agent to convey
to the Count.'
'I must certainly mistake you, sir,' said Emily; 'my answers on the
subject have been uniform; it is unworthy of you to accuse me of
caprice. If you have condescended to be my agent, it is an honour I
did not solicit. I myself have constantly assured Count Morano, and
you also, sir, that I never can accept the honour he offers me, and I
now repeat the declaration.'
The Count looked with an air of surprise and enquiry at Montoni,
whose countenance also was marked with surprise, but it was surprise
mingled with indignation.
'Here is confidence, as well as caprice!' said the latter. 'Will you
deny your own words, Madam?'
'Such a question is unworthy of an answer, sir;' said Emily blushing;
'you will recollect yourself, and be sorry that you have asked it.'
'Speak to the point,' rejoined Montoni, in a voice of increasing
vehemence. 'Will you deny your own words; will you deny, that you
acknowledged, only a few hours ago, that it was too late to recede
from your engagements, and that you accepted the Count's hand?'
'I will deny all this, for no words of mine ever imported it.'
'Astonishing! Will you deny what you wrote to Mons. Quesnel, your
uncle? if you do, your own hand will bear testimony against you.
What have you now to say?' continued Montoni, observing the silence
and confusion of Emily.
'I now perceive, sir, that you are under a very great error, and that
I have been equally mistaken.'
'No more duplicity, I entreat; be open and candid, if it be
possible.'
'I have always been so, sir; and can claim no merit in such conduct,
for I have had nothing to conceal.'
'How is this, Signor?' cried Morano, with trembling emotion.
'Suspend your judgment, Count,' replied Montoni, 'the wiles of a
female heart are unsearchable. Now, Madame, your EXPLANATION.'
'Excuse me, sir, if I withhold my explanation till you appear willing
to give me your confidence; assertion as present can only subject me
to insult.'
'Your explanation, I entreat you!' said Morano.
'Well, well,' rejoined Montoni, 'I give you my confidence; let us
hear this explanation.'
'Let me lead to it then, by asking a question.'
'As many as you please,' said Montoni, contemptuously.
'What, then, was the subject of your letter to Mons. Quesnel?'
'The same that was the subject of your note to him, certainly. You
did well to stipulate for my confidence before you demanded that
question.'
'I must beg you will be more explicit, sir; what was that subject?'
'What could it be, but the noble offer of Count Morano,' said
Montoni.
'Then, sir, we entirely misunderstood each other,' replied Emily.
'We entirely misunderstood each other too, I suppose,' rejoined
Montoni, 'in the conversation which preceded the writing of that
note? I must do you the justice to own, that you are very ingenious
at this same art of misunderstanding.'
Emily tried to restrain the tears that came to her eyes, and to
answer with becoming firmness. 'Allow me, sir, to explain myself
fully, or to be wholly silent.'
'The explanation may now be dispensed with; it is anticipated. If
Count Morano still thinks one necessary, I will give him an honest
one--You have changed your intention since our last conversation;
and, if he can have patience and humility enough to wait till to-
morrow, he will probably find it changed again: but as I have
neither the patience or the humility, which you expect from a lover,
I warn you of the effect of my displeasure!'
'Montoni, you are too precipitate,' said the Count, who had listened
to this conversation in extreme agitation and impatience;--'Signora,
I entreat your own explanation of this affair!'
'Signor Montoni has said justly,' replied Emily, 'that all
explanation may now be dispensed with; after what has passed I cannot
suffer myself to give one. It is sufficient for me, and for you,
sir, that I repeat my late declaration; let me hope this is the last
time it will be necessary for me to repeat it--I never can accept the
honour of your alliance.'
'Charming Emily!' exclaimed the Count in an impassioned tone, 'let
not resentment make you unjust; let me not suffer for the offence of
Montoni!--Revoke--'
'Offence!' interrupted Montoni--'Count, this language is ridiculous,
this submission is childish!--speak as becomes a man, not as the
slave of a pretty tyrant.'
'You distract me, Signor; suffer me to plead my own cause; you have
already proved insufficient to it.'
'All conversation on this subject, sir,' said Emily, 'is worse than
useless, since it can bring only pain to each of us: if you would
oblige me, pursue it no farther.'
'It is impossible, Madam, that I can thus easily resign the object of
a passion, which is the delight and torment of my life.--I must still
love--still pursue you with unremitting ardour;--when you shall be
convinced of the strength and constancy of my passion, your heart
must soften into pity and repentance.'
'Is this generous, sir? is this manly? can it either deserve or
obtain the esteem you solicit, thus to continue a persecution from
which I have no present means of escaping?'
A gleam of moonlight that fell upon Morano's countenance, revealed
the strong emotions of his soul; and, glancing on Montoni discovered
the dark resentment, which contrasted his features.
'By heaven this is too much!' suddenly exclaimed the Count; 'Signor
Montoni, you treat me ill; it is from you that I shall look for
explanation.'
'From me, sir! you shall have it;' muttered Montoni, 'if your
discernment is indeed so far obscured by passion, as to make
explanation necessary. And for you, Madam, you should learn, that a
man of honour is not to be trifled with, though you may, perhaps,
with impunity, treat a BOY like a puppet.'
This sarcasm roused the pride of Morano, and the resentment which he
had felt at the indifference of Emily, being lost in indignation of
the insolence of Montoni, he determined to mortify him, by defending
her.
'This also,' said he, replying to Montoni's last words, 'this also,
shall not pass unnoticed. I bid you learn, sir, that you have a
stronger enemy than a woman to contend with: I will protect Signora
St. Aubert from your threatened resentment. You have misled me, and
would revenge your disappointed views upon the innocent.'
'Misled you!' retorted Montoni with quickness, 'is my conduct--my
word'--then pausing, while he seemed endeavouring to restrain the
resentment, that flashed in his eyes, in the next moment he added, in
a subdued voice, 'Count Morano, this is a language, a sort of conduct
to which I am not accustomed: it is the conduct of a passionate boy-
-as such, I pass it over in contempt.'
'In contempt, Signor?'
'The respect I owe myself,' rejoined Montoni, 'requires, that I
should converse more largely with you upon some points of the subject
in dispute. Return with me to Venice, and I will condescend to
convince you of your error.'
'Condescend, sir! but I will not condescend to be so conversed with.'
Montoni smiled contemptuously; and Emily, now terrified for the
consequences of what she saw and heard, could no longer be silent.
She explained the whole subject upon which she had mistaken Montoni
in the morning, declaring, that she understood him to have consulted
her solely concerning the disposal of La Vallee, and concluding with
entreating, that he would write immediately to M. Quesnel, and
rectify the mistake.
But Montoni either was, or affected to be, still incredulous; and
Count Morano was still entangled in perplexity. While she was
speaking, however, the attention of her auditors had been diverted
from the immediate occasion of their resentment, and their passion
consequently became less. Montoni desired the Count would order his
servants to row back to Venice, that he might have some private
conversation with him; and Morano, somewhat soothed by his softened
voice and manner, and eager to examine into the full extent of his
difficulties, complied.
Emily, comforted by this prospect of release, employed the present
moments in endeavouring, with conciliating care, to prevent any fatal
mischief between the persons who so lately had persecuted and
insulted her.
Her spirits revived, when she heard once more the voice of song and
laughter, resounding from the grand canal, and at length entered
again between its stately piazzas. The zendaletto stopped at
Montoni's mansion, and the Count hastily led her into the hall, where
Montoni took his arm, and said something in a low voice, on which
Morano kissed the hand he held, notwithstanding Emily's effort to
disengage it, and, wishing her a good evening, with an accent and
look she could not misunderstand, returned to his zendaletto with
Montoni.
Emily, in her own apartment, considered with intense anxiety all the
unjust and tyrannical conduct of Montoni, the dauntless perseverance
of Morano, and her own desolate situation, removed from her friends
and country. She looked in vain to Valancourt, confined by his
profession to a distant kingdom, as her protector; but it gave her
comfort to know, that there was, at least, one person in the world,
who would sympathize in her afflictions, and whose wishes would fly
eagerly to release her. Yet she determined not to give him
unavailing pain by relating the reasons she had to regret the having
rejected his better judgment concerning Montoni; reasons, however,
which could not induce her to lament the delicacy and disinterested
affection that had made her reject his proposal for a clandestine
marriage. The approaching interview with her uncle she regarded with
some degree of hope, for she determined to represent to him the
distresses of her situation, and to entreat that he would allow her
to return to France with him and Madame Quesnel. Then, suddenly
remembering that her beloved La Vallee, her only home, was no longer
at her command, her tears flowed anew, and she feared that she had
little pity to expect from a man who, like M. Quesnel, could dispose
of it without deigning to consult with her, and could dismiss an aged
and faithful servant, destitute of either support or asylum. But,
though it was certain, that she had herself no longer a home in
France, and few, very few friends there, she determined to return, if
possible, that she might be released from the power of Montoni, whose
particularly oppressive conduct towards herself, and general
character as to others, were justly terrible to her imagination. She
had no wish to reside with her uncle, M. Quesnel, since his behaviour
to her late father and to herself, had been uniformly such as to
convince her, that in flying to him she could only obtain an exchange
of oppressors; neither had she the slightest intention of consenting
to the proposal of Valancourt for an immediate marriage, though this
would give her a lawful and a generous protector, for the chief
reasons, which had formerly influenced her conduct, still existed
against it, while others, which seemed to justify the step, would not
be done away; and his interest, his fame were at all times too dear
to her, to suffer her to consent to a union, which, at this early
period of their lives, would probably defeat both. One sure, and
proper asylum, however, would still be open to her in France. She
knew that she could board in the convent, where she had formerly
experienced so much kindness, and which had an affecting and solemn
claim upon her heart, since it contained the remains of her late
father. Here she could remain in safety and tranquillity, till the
term, for which La Vallee might be let, should expire; or, till the
arrangement of M. Motteville's affairs enabled her so far to estimate
the remains of her fortune, as to judge whether it would be prudent
for her to reside there.
Concerning Montoni's conduct with respect to his letters to M.
Quesnel, she had many doubts; however he might be at first mistaken
on the subject, she much suspected that he wilfully persevered in his
error, as a means of intimidating her into a compliance with his
wishes of uniting her to Count Morano. Whether this was or was not
the fact, she was extremely anxious to explain the affair to M.
Quesnel, and looked forward with a mixture of impatience, hope and
fear, to her approaching visit.
On the following day, Madame Montoni, being alone with Emily,
introduced the mention of Count Morano, by expressing her surprise,
that she had not joined the party on the water the preceding evening,
and at her abrupt departure to Venice. Emily then related what had
passed, expressed her concern for the mutual mistake that had
occurred between Montoni and herself, and solicited her aunt's kind
offices in urging him to give a decisive denial to the count's
further addresses; but she soon perceived, that Madame Montoni had
not been ignorant of the late conversation, when she introduced the
present.
'You have no encouragement to expect from me,' said her aunt, 'in
these notions. I have already given my opinion on the subject, and
think Signor Montoni right in enforcing, by any means, your consent.
If young persons will be blind to their interest, and obstinately
oppose it, why, the greatest blessings they can have are friends, who
will oppose their folly. Pray what pretensions of any kind do you
think you have to such a match as is now offered you?'
'Not any whatever, Madam,' replied Emily, 'and, therefore, at least,
suffer me to be happy in my humility.'
'Nay, niece, it cannot be denied, that you have pride enough; my poor
brother, your father, had his share of pride too; though, let me add,
his fortune did not justify it.'
Emily, somewhat embarrassed by the indignation, which this malevolent
allusion to her father excited, and by the difficulty of rendering
her answer as temperate as it should be reprehensive, hesitated for
some moments, in a confusion, which highly gratified her aunt. At
length she said, 'My father's pride, Madam, had a noble object--the
happiness which he knew could be derived only from goodness,
knowledge and charity. As it never consisted in his superiority, in
point of fortune, to some persons, it was not humbled by his
inferiority, in that respect, to others. He never disdained those,
who were wretched by poverty and misfortune; he did sometimes despise
persons, who, with many opportunities of happiness, rendered
themselves miserable by vanity, ignorance and cruelty. I shall think
it my highest glory to emulate such pride.'
'I do not pretend to understand any thing of these high-flown
sentiments, niece; you have all that glory to yourself: I would
teach you a little plain sense, and not have you so wise as to
despise happiness.'
'That would indeed not be wisdom, but folly,' said Emily, 'for wisdom
can boast no higher attainment than happiness; but you will allow,
Madam, that our ideas of happiness may differ. I cannot doubt, that
you wish me to be happy, but I must fear you are mistaken in the
means of making me so.'
'I cannot boast of a learned education, niece, such as your father
thought proper to give you, and, therefore, do not pretend to
understand all these fine speeches about happiness. I must be
contented to understand only common sense, and happy would it have
been for you and your father, if that had been included in his
education.'
Emily was too much shocked by these reflections on her father's
memory, to despise this speech as it deserved.
Madame Montoni was about to speak, but Emily quitted the room, and
retired to her own, where the little spirit she had lately exerted
yielded to grief and vexation, and left her only to her tears. From
every review of her situation she could derive, indeed, only new
sorrow. To the discovery, which had just been forced upon her, of
Montoni's unworthiness, she had now to add, that of the cruel vanity,
for the gratification of which her aunt was about to sacrifice her;
of the effrontery and cunning, with which, at the time that she
meditated the sacrifice, she boasted of her tenderness, or insulted
her victim; and of the venomous envy, which, as it did not scruple to
attack her father's character, could scarcely be expected to withhold
from her own.
During the few days that intervened between this conversation and the
departure for Miarenti, Montoni did not once address himself to
Emily. His looks sufficiently declared his resentment; but that he
should forbear to renew a mention of the subject of it, exceedingly
surprised her, who was no less astonished, that, during three days,
Count Morano neither visited Montoni, or was named by him. Several
conjectures arose in her mind. Sometimes she feared that the dispute
between them had been revived, and had ended fatally to the Count.
Sometimes she was inclined to hope, that weariness, or disgust at her
firm rejection of his suit had induced him to relinquish it; and, at
others, she suspected that he had now recourse to stratagem, and
forbore his visits, and prevailed with Montoni to forbear the
repetition of his name, in the expectation that gratitude and
generosity would prevail with her to give him the consent, which he
could not hope from love.
Thus passed the time in vain conjecture, and alternate hopes and
fears, till the day arrived when Montoni was to set out for the villa
of Miarenti, which, like the preceding ones, neither brought the
Count, or the mention of him.
Montoni having determined not to leave Venice, till towards evening,
that he might avoid the heats, and catch the cool breezes of night,
embarked about an hour before sun-set, with his family, in a barge,
for the Brenta. Emily sat alone near the stern of the vessel, and,
as it floated slowly on, watched the gay and lofty city lessening
from her view, till its palaces seemed to sink in the distant waves,
while its loftier towers and domes, illumined by the declining sun,
appeared on the horizon, like those far-seen clouds which, in more
northern climes, often linger on the western verge, and catch the
last light of a summer's evening. Soon after, even these grew dim,
and faded in distance from her sight; but she still sat gazing on the
vast scene of cloudless sky, and mighty waters, and listening in
pleasing awe to the deep-sounding waves, while, as her eyes glanced
over the Adriatic, towards the opposite shores, which were, however,
far beyond the reach of sight, she thought of Greece, and, a thousand
classical remembrances stealing to her mind, she experienced that
pensive luxury which is felt on viewing the scenes of ancient story,
and on comparing their present state of silence and solitude with
that of their former grandeur and animation. The scenes of the
Illiad illapsed in glowing colours to her fancy--scenes, once the
haunt of heroes--now lonely, and in ruins; but which still shone, in
the poet's strain, in all their youthful splendour.
As her imagination painted with melancholy touches, the deserted
plains of Troy, such as they appeared in this after-day, she
reanimated the landscape with the following little story.
STANZAS
O'er Ilion's plains, where once the warrior bled,
And once the poet rais'd his deathless strain,
O'er Ilion's plains a weary driver led
His stately camels: For the ruin'd fane
Wide round the lonely scene his glance he threw,
For now the red cloud faded in the west,
And twilight o'er the silent landscape drew
Her deep'ning veil; eastward his course he prest:
There, on the grey horizon's glimm'ring bound,
Rose the proud columns of deserted Troy,
And wandering shepherds now a shelter found
Within those walls, where princes wont to joy.
Beneath a lofty porch the driver pass'd,
Then, from his camels heav'd the heavy load;
Partook with them the simple, cool repast,
And in short vesper gave himself to God.
From distant lands with merchandise he came,
His all of wealth his patient servants bore;
Oft deep-drawn sighs his anxious wish proclaim
To reach, again, his happy cottage door;
For there, his wife, his little children, dwell;
Their smiles shall pay the toil of many an hour:
Ev'n now warm tears to expectation swell,
As fancy o'er his mind extends her pow'r.
A death-like stillness reign'd, where once the song,
The song of heroes, wak'd the midnight air,
Save, when a solemn murmur roll'd along,
That seem'd to say--'for future worlds prepare.'
For Time's imperious voice was frequent heard
Shaking the marble temple to its fall,
(By hands he long had conquer'd, vainly rear'd),
And distant ruins answer'd to his call.
While Hamet slept, his camels round him lay,
Beneath him, all his store of wealth was piled;
And here, his cruse and empty wallet lay,
And there, the flute that chear'd him in the wild.
The robber Tartar on his slumber stole,
For o'er the waste, at eve, he watch'd his train;
Ah! who his thirst of plunder shall control?
Who calls on him for mercy--calls in vain!
A poison'd poignard in his belt he wore,
A crescent sword depended at his side,
The deathful quiver at his back he bore,
And infants--at his very look had died!
The moon's cold beam athwart the temple fell,
And to his sleeping prey the Tartar led;
But soft!--a startled camel shook his bell,
Then stretch'd his limbs, and rear'd his drowsy head.
Hamet awoke! the poignard glitter'd high!
Swift from his couch he sprung, and 'scap'd the blow;
When from an unknown hand the arrows fly,
That lay the ruffian, in his vengeance, low.
He groan'd, he died! from forth a column'd gate
A fearful shepherd, pale and silent, crept,
Who, as he watch'd his folded flock star-late,
Had mark'd the robber steal where Hamet slept.
He fear'd his own, and sav'd a stranger's life!
Poor Hamet clasp'd him to his grateful heart;
Then, rous'd his camels for the dusty strife,
And, with the shepherd, hasten'd to depart.
And now, aurora breathes her fresh'ning gale,
And faintly trembles on the eastern cloud;
And now, the sun, from under twilight's veil,
Looks gaily forth, and melts her airy shroud.
Wide o'er the level plains, his slanting beams
Dart their long lines on Ilion's tower'd site;
The distant Hellespont with morning gleams,
And old Scamander winds his waves in light.
All merry sound the camel bells, so gay,
And merry beats fond Hamet's heart, for he,
E'er the dim evening steals upon the day,
His children, wife and happy home shall see.
As Emily approached the shores of Italy she began to discriminate the
rich features and varied colouring of the landscape--the purple
hills, groves of orange pine and cypress, shading magnificent villas,
and towns rising among vineyards and plantations. The noble Brenta,
pouring its broad waves into the sea, now appeared, and, when she
reached its mouth, the barge stopped, that the horses might be
fastened which were now to tow it up the stream. This done, Emily
gave a last look to the Adriatic, and to the dim sail,
that from the sky-mix'd wave
Dawns on the sight,
and the barge slowly glided between the green and luxuriant slopes of
the river. The grandeur of the Palladian villas, that adorn these
shores, was considerably heightened by the setting rays, which threw
strong contrasts of light and shade upon the porticos and long
arcades, and beamed a mellow lustre upon the orangeries and the tall
groves of pine and cypress, that overhung the buildings. The scent
of oranges, of flowering myrtles, and other odoriferous plants was
diffused upon the air, and often, from these embowered retreats, a
strain of music stole on the calm, and 'softened into silence.'
The sun now sunk below the horizon, twilight fell over the landscape,
and Emily, wrapt in musing silence, continued to watch its features
gradually vanishing into obscurity. she remembered her many happy
evenings, when with St. Aubert she had observed the shades of
twilight steal over a scene as beautiful as this, from the gardens of
La Vallee, and a tear fell to the memory of her father. Her spirits
were softened into melancholy by the influence of the hour, by the
low murmur of the wave passing under the vessel, and the stillness of
the air, that trembled only at intervals with distant music:--why
else should she, at these moments, have looked on her attachment to
Valancourt with presages so very afflicting, since she had but lately
received letters from him, that had soothed for a while all her
anxieties? It now seemed to her oppressed mind, that she had taken
leave of him for ever, and that the countries, which separated them,
would never more be re-traced by her. She looked upon Count Morano
with horror, as in some degree the cause of this; but apart from him,
a conviction, if such that may be called, which arises from no proof,
and which she knew not how to account for, seized her mind--that she
should never see Valancourt again. Though she knew, that neither
Morano's solicitations, nor Montoni's commands had lawful power to
enforce her obedience, she regarded both with a superstitious dread,
that they would finally prevail.
Lost in this melancholy reverie, and shedding frequent tears, Emily
was at length roused by Montoni, and she followed him to the cabin,
where refreshments were spread, and her aunt was seated alone. The
countenance of Madame Montoni was inflamed with resentment, that
appeared to be the consequence of some conversation she had held with
her husband, who regarded her with a kind of sullen disdain, and both
preserved, for some time, a haughty silence. Montoni then spoke to
Emily of Mons. Quesnel: 'You will not, I hope, persist in
disclaiming your knowledge of the subject of my letter to him?'
'I had hoped, sir, that it was no longer necessary for me to disclaim
it,' said Emily, 'I had hoped, from your silence, that you was
convinced of your error.'
'You have hoped impossibilities then,' replied Montoni; 'I might as
reasonably have expected to find sincerity and uniformity of conduct
in one of your sex, as you to convict me of error in this affair.'
Emily blushed, and was silent; she now perceived too clearly, that
she had hoped an impossibility, for, where no mistake had been
committed no conviction could follow; and it was evident, that
Montoni's conduct had not been the consequence of mistake, but of
design.
Anxious to escape from conversation, which was both afflicting and
humiliating to her, she soon returned to the deck, and resumed her
station near the stern, without apprehension of cold, for no vapour
rose from the water, and the air was dry and tranquil; here, at
least, the benevolence of nature allowed her the quiet which Montoni
had denied her elsewhere. It was now past midnight. The stars shed
a kind of twilight, that served to shew the dark outline of the
shores on either hand, and the grey surface of the river; till the
moon rose from behind a high palm grove, and shed her mellow lustre
over the scene. The vessel glided smoothly on: amid the stillness
of the hour Emily heard, now and then, the solitary voice of the
barge-men on the bank, as they spoke to their horses; while, from a
remote part of the vessel, with melancholy song,
The sailor sooth'd,
Beneath the trembling moon, the midnight wave.
Emily, meanwhile, anticipated her reception by Mons, and Madame
Quesnel; considered what she should say on the subject of La Vallee;
and then, to with-hold her mind from more anxious topics, tried to
amuse herself by discriminating the faint-drawn features of the
landscape, reposing in the moon-light. While her fancy thus
wandered, she saw, at a distance, a building peeping between the
moon-light trees, and, as the barge approached, heard voices
speaking, and soon distinguished the lofty portico of a villa,
overshadowed by groves of pine and sycamore, which she recollected to
be the same, that had formerly been pointed out to her, as belonging
to Madame Quesnel's relative.
The barge stopped at a flight of marble steps, which led up the bank
to a lawn. Lights appeared between some pillars beyond the portico.
Montoni sent forward his servant, and then disembarked with his
family. They found Mons. and Madame Quesnel, with a few friends,
seated on sofas in the portico, enjoying the cool breeze of the
night, and eating fruits and ices, while some of their servants at a
little distance, on the river's bank, were performing a simple
serenade. Emily was now accustomed to the way of living in this warm
country, and was not surprised to find Mons. and Madame Quesnel in
their portico, two hours after midnight.
The usual salutations being over, the company seated themselves in
the portico, and refreshments were brought them from the adjoining
hall, where a banquet was spread, and servants attended. When the
bustle of this meeting had subsided, and Emily had recovered from the
little flutter into which it had thrown her spirits, she was struck
with the singular beauty of the hall, so perfectly accommodated to
the luxuries of the season. It was of white marble, and the roof,
rising into an open cupola, was supported by columns of the same
material. Two opposite sides of the apartment, terminating in open
porticos, admitted to the hall a full view of the gardens, and of the
river scenery; in the centre a fountain continually refreshed the
air, and seemed to heighten the fragrance, that breathed from the
surrounding orangeries, while its dashing waters gave an agreeable
and soothing sound. Etruscan lamps, suspended from the pillars,
diffused a brilliant light over the interior part of the hall,
leaving the remoter porticos to the softer lustre of the moon.
Mons. Quesnel talked apart to Montoni of his own affairs, in his
usual strain of self-importance; boasted of his new acquisitions, and
then affected to pity some disappointments, which Montoni had lately
sustained. Meanwhile, the latter, whose pride at least enabled him
to despise such vanity as this, and whose discernment at once
detected under this assumed pity, the frivolous malignity of
Quesnel's mind, listened to him in contemptuous silence, till he
named his niece, and then they left the portico, and walked away into
the gardens.
Emily, however, still attended to Madame Quesnel, who spoke of France
(for even the name of her native country was dear to her) and she
found some pleasure in looking at a person, who had lately been in
it. That country, too, was inhabited by Valancourt, and she listened
to the mention of it, with a faint hope, that he also would be named.
Madame Quesnel, who, when she was in France, had talked with rapture
of Italy, now, that she was in Italy, talked with equal praise of
France, and endeavoured to excite the wonder and the envy of her
auditors by accounts of places, which they had not been happy enough
to see. In these descriptions she not only imposed upon them, but
upon herself, for she never thought a present pleasure equal to one,
that was passed; and thus the delicious climate, the fragrant
orangeries and all the luxuries, which surrounded her, slept
unnoticed, while her fancy wandered over the distant scenes of a
northern country.
Emily listened in vain for the name of Valancourt. Madame Montoni
spoke in her turn of the delights of Venice, and of the pleasure she
expected from visiting the fine castle of Montoni, on the Apennine;
which latter mention, at least, was merely a retaliating boast, for
Emily well knew, that her aunt had no taste for solitary grandeur,
and, particularly, for such as the castle of Udolpho promised. Thus
the party continued to converse, and, as far as civility would
permit, to torture each other by mutual boasts, while they reclined
on sofas in the portico, and were environed with delights both from
nature and art, by which any honest minds would have been tempered to
benevolence, and happy imaginations would have been soothed into
enchantment.
The dawn, soon after, trembled in the eastern horizon, and the light
tints of morning, gradually expanding, shewed the beautifully
declining forms of the Italian mountains and the gleaming landscapes,
stretched at their feet. Then the sun-beams, shooting up from behind
the hills, spread over the scene that fine saffron tinge, which seems
to impart repose to all it touches. The landscape no longer gleamed;
all its glowing colours were revealed, except that its remoter
features were still softened and united in the mist of distance,
whose sweet effect was heightened to Emily by the dark verdure of the
pines and cypresses, that over-arched the foreground of the river.
The market people, passing with their boats to Venice, now formed a
moving picture on the Brenta. Most of these had little painted
awnings, to shelter their owners from the sun-beams, which, together
with the piles of fruit and flowers, displayed beneath, and the
tasteful simplicity of the peasant girls, who watched the rural
treasures, rendered them gay and striking objects. The swift
movement of the boats down the current, the quick glance of oars in
the water, and now and then the passing chorus of peasants, who
reclined under the sail of their little bark, or the tones of some
rustic instrument, played by a girl, as she sat near her sylvan
cargo, heightened the animation and festivity of the scene.
When Montoni and M. Quesnel had joined the ladies, the party left the
portico for the gardens, where the charming scenery soon withdrew
Emily's thoughts from painful subjects. The majestic forms and rich
verdure of cypresses she had never seen so perfect before: groves of
cedar, lemon, and orange, the spiry clusters of the pine and poplar,
the luxuriant chesnut and oriental plane, threw all their pomp of
shade over these gardens; while bowers of flowering myrtle and other
spicy shrubs mingled their fragrance with that of flowers, whose
vivid and various colouring glowed with increased effect beneath the
contrasted umbrage of the groves. The air also was continually
refreshed by rivulets, which, with more taste than fashion, had been
suffered to wander among the green recesses.
Emily often lingered behind the party, to contemplate the distant
landscape, that closed a vista, or that gleamed beneath the dark
foliage of the foreground;--the spiral summits of the mountains,
touched with a purple tint, broken and steep above, but shelving
gradually to their base; the open valley, marked by no formal lines
of art; and the tall groves of cypress, pine and poplar, sometimes
embellished by a ruined villa, whose broken columns appeared between
the branches of a pine, that seemed to droop over their fall.
From other parts of the gardens, the character of the view was
entirely changed, and the fine solitary beauty of the landscape
shifted for the crowded features and varied colouring of
inhabitation.
The sun was now gaining fast upon the sky, and the party quitted the
gardens, and retired to repose.
CHAPTER IV
And poor Misfortune feels the lash of Vice.
THOMSON
Emily seized the first opportunity of conversing alone with Mons.
Quesnel, concerning La Vallee. His answers to her enquiries were
concise, and delivered with the air of a man, who is conscious of
possessing absolute power and impatient of hearing it questioned. He
declared, that the disposal of the place was a necessary measure; and
that she might consider herself indebted to his prudence for even the
small income that remained for her. 'But, however,' added he, 'when
this Venetian Count (I have forgot his name) marries you, your
present disagreeable state of dependence will cease. As a relation
to you I rejoice in the circumstance, which is so fortunate for you,
and, I may add, so unexpected by your friends.' For some moments
Emily was chilled into silence by this speech; and, when she
attempted to undeceive him, concerning the purport of the note she
had inclosed in Montoni's letter, he appeared to have some private
reason for disbelieving her assertion, and, for a considerable time,
persevered in accusing her of capricious conduct. Being, at length,
however, convinced that she really disliked Morano and had positively
rejected his suit, his resentment was extravagant, and he expressed
it in terms equally pointed and inhuman; for, secretly flattered by
the prospect of a connection with a nobleman, whose title he had
affected to forget, he was incapable of feeling pity for whatever
sufferings of his niece might stand in the way of his ambition.
Emily saw at once in his manner all the difficulties, that awaited
her, and, though no oppression could have power to make her renounce
Valancourt for Morano, her fortitude now trembled at an encounter
with the violent passions of her uncle.
She opposed his turbulence and indignation only by the mild dignity
of a superior mind; but the gentle firmness of her conduct served to
exasperate still more his resentment, since it compelled him to feel
his own inferiority, and, when he left her, he declared, that, if she
persisted in her folly, both himself and Montoni would abandon her to
the contempt of the world.
The calmness she had assumed in his presence failed Emily, when
alone, and she wept bitterly, and called frequently upon the name of
her departed father, whose advice to her from his death-bed she then
remembered. 'Alas!' said she, 'I do indeed perceive how much more
valuable is the strength of fortitude than the grace of sensibility,
and I will also endeavour to fulfil the promise I then made; I will
not indulge in unavailing lamentation, but will try to endure, with
firmness, the oppression I cannot elude.'
Somewhat soothed by the consciousness of performing a part of St.
Aubert's last request, and of endeavouring to pursue the conduct
which he would have approved, she overcame her tears, and, when the
company met at dinner, had recovered her usual serenity of
countenance.
In the cool of the evening, the ladies took the FRESCO along the bank
of the Brenta in Madame Quesnel's carriage. The state of Emily's
mind was in melancholy contrast with the gay groups assembled beneath
the shades that overhung this enchanting stream. Some were dancing
under the trees, and others reclining on the grass, taking ices and
coffee and calmly enjoying the effect of a beautiful evening, on a
luxuriant landscape. Emily, when she looked at the snow-capt
Apennines, ascending in the distance, thought of Montoni's castle,
and suffered some terror, lest he should convey her thither, for the
purpose of enforcing her obedience; but the thought vanished, when
she considered, that she was as much in his power at Venice as she
could be elsewhere.
It was moonlight before the party returned to the villa, where supper
was spread in the airy hall, which had so much enchanted Emily's
fancy, on the preceding night. The ladies seated themselves in the
portico, till Mons. Quesnel, Montoni, and other gentlemen should join
them at table, and Emily endeavoured to resign herself to the
tranquillity of the hour. Presently, a barge stopped at the steps
that led into the gardens, and, soon after, she distinguished the
voices of Montoni and Quesnel, and then that of Morano, who, in the
next moment, appeared. His compliments she received in silence, and
her cold air seemed at first to discompose him; but he soon recovered
his usual gaiety of manner, though the officious kindness of M. and
Madame Quesnel Emily perceived disgusted him. Such a degree of
attention she had scarcely believed could be shewn by M. Quesnel, for
she had never before seen him otherwise than in the presence of his
inferiors or equals.
When she could retire to her own apartment, her mind almost
involuntarily dwelt on the most probable means of prevailing with the
Count to withdraw his suit, and to her liberal mind none appeared
more probable, than that of acknowledging to him a prior attachment
and throwing herself upon his generosity for a release. When,
however, on the following day, he renewed his addresses, she shrunk
from the adoption of the plan she had formed. There was something so
repugnant to her just pride, in laying open the secret of her heart
to such a man as Morano, and in suing to him for compassion, that she
impatiently rejected this design and wondered, that she could have
paused upon it for a moment. The rejection of his suit she repeated
in the most decisive terms she could select, mingling with it a
severe censure of his conduct; but, though the Count appeared
mortified by this, he persevered in the most ardent professions of
admiration, till he was interrupted and Emily released by the
presence of Madame Quesnel.
During her stay at this pleasant villa, Emily was thus rendered
miserable by the assiduities of Morano, together with the cruelly
exerted authority of M. Quesnel and Montoni, who, with her aunt,
seemed now more resolutely determined upon this marriage than they
had even appeared to be at Venice. M. Quesnel, finding, that both
argument and menace were ineffectual in enforcing an immediate
conclusion to it, at length relinquished his endeavours, and trusted
to the power of Montoni and to the course of events at Venice.
Emily, indeed, looked to Venice with hope, for there she would be
relieved in some measure from the persecution of Morano, who would no
longer be an inhabitant of the same house with herself, and from that
of Montoni, whose engagements would not permit him to be continually
at home. But amidst the pressure of her own misfortunes, she did not
forget those of poor Theresa, for whom she pleaded with courageous
tenderness to Quesnel, who promised, in slight and general terms,
that she should not be forgotten.
Montoni, in a long conversation with M. Quesnel, arranged the plan to
be pursued respecting Emily, and M. Quesnel proposed to be at Venice,
as soon as he should be informed, that the nuptials were concluded.
It was new to Emily to part with any person, with whom she was
connected, without feeling of regret; the moment, however, in which
she took leave of M. and Madame Quesnel, was, perhaps, the only
satisfactory one she had known in their presence.
Morano returned in Montoni's barge, and Emily, as she watched her
gradual approach to that magic city, saw at her side the only person,
who occasioned her to view it with less than perfect delight. They
arrived there about midnight, when Emily was released from the
presence of the Count, who, with Montoni, went to a Casino, and she
was suffered to retire to her own apartment.
On the following day, Montoni, in a short conversation, which he held
with Emily, informed her, that he would no longer be TRIFLED with,
and that, since her marriage with the Count would be so highly
advantageous to her, that folly only could object to it, and folly of
such extent as was incapable of conviction, it should be celebrated
without further delay, and, if that was necessary, without her
consent.
Emily, who had hitherto tried remonstrance, had now recourse to
supplication, for distress prevented her from foreseeing, that, with
a man of Montoni's disposition, supplication would be equally
useless. She afterwards enquired by what right he exerted this
unlimited authority over her? a question, which her better judgment
would have with-held her, in a calmer moment, from making, since it
could avail her nothing, and would afford Montoni another opportunity
of triumphing over her defenceless condition.
'By what right!' cried Montoni, with a malicious smile, 'by the right
of my will; if you can elude that, I will not inquire by what right
you do so. I now remind you, for the last time, that you are a
stranger, in a foreign country, and that it is your interest to make
me your friend; you know the means; if you compel me to become your
enemy--I will venture to tell you, that the punishment shall exceed
your expectation. You may know _I_ am not to be trifled with.'
Emily continued, for some time after Montoni had left her, in a state
of despair, or rather stupefaction; a consciousness of misery was all
that remained in her mind. In this situation Madame Montoni found
her, at the sound of whose voice Emily looked up, and her aunt,
somewhat softened by the expression of despair, that fixed her
countenance, spoke in a manner more kind than she had ever yet done.
Emily's heart was touched; she shed tears, and, after weeping for
some time, recovered sufficient composure to speak on the subject of
her distress, and to endeavour to interest Madame Montoni in her
behalf. But, though the compassion of her aunt had been surprised,
her ambition was not to be overcome, and her present object was to be
the aunt of a Countess. Emily's efforts, therefore, were as
unsuccessful as they had been with Montoni, and she withdrew to her
apartment to think and weep alone. How often did she remember the
parting scene with Valancourt, and wish, that the Italian had
mentioned Montoni's character with less reserve! When her mind,
however, had recovered from the first shock of this behaviour, she
considered, that it would be impossible for him to compel her
alliance with Morano, if she persisted in refusing to repeat any part
of the marriage ceremony; and she persevered in her resolution to
await Montoni's threatened vengeance rather than give herself for
life to a man, whom she must have despised for his present conduct,
had she never even loved Valancourt; yet she trembled at the revenge
she thus resolved to brave.
An affair, however, soon after occurred, which somewhat called off
Montoni's attention from Emily. The mysterious visits of Orsino were
renewed with more frequency since the return of the former to Venice.
There were others, also, besides Orsino, admitted to these midnight
councils, and among them Cavigni and Verezzi. Montoni became more
reserved and austere in his manner than ever; and Emily, if her own
interests had not made her regardless of his, might have perceived,
that something extraordinary was working in his mind.
One night, on which a council was not held, Orsino came in great
agitation of spirits, and dispatched his confidential servant to
Montoni, who was at a Casino, desiring that he would return home
immediately; but charging the servant not to mention his name.
Montoni obeyed the summons, and, on meeting Orsino, was informed of
the circumstances, that occasioned his visit and his visible alarm,
with a part of which he was already acquainted.
A Venetian nobleman, who had, on some late occasion, provoked the
hatred of Orsino, had been way-laid and poniarded by hired assassins:
and, as the murdered person was of the first connections, the Senate
had taken up the affair. One of the assassins was now apprehended,
who had confessed, that Orsino was his employer in the atrocious
deed; and the latter, informed of his danger, had now come to Montoni
to consult on the measures necessary to favour his escape. He knew,
that, at this time, the officers of the police were upon the watch
for him, all over the city; to leave it, at present, therefore, was
impracticable, and Montoni consented to secrete him for a few days
till the vigilance of justice should relax, and then to assist him in
quitting Venice. He knew the danger he himself incurred by
permitting Orsino to remain in his house, but such was the nature of
his obligations to this man, that he did not think it prudent to
refuse him an asylum.
Such was the person whom Montoni had admitted to his confidence, and
for whom he felt as much friendship as was compatible with his
character.
While Orsino remained concealed in his house, Montoni was unwilling
to attract public observation by the nuptials of Count Morano; but
this obstacle was, in a few days, overcome by the departure of his
criminal visitor, and he then informed Emily, that her marriage was
to be celebrated on the following morning. To her repeated
assurances, that it should not take place, he replied only by a
malignant smile; and, telling her that the Count and a priest would
be at his house, early in the morning, he advised her no further to
dare his resentment, by opposition to his will and to her own
interest. 'I am now going out for the evening,' said he, 'remember,
that I shall give your hand to Count Morano in the morning.' Emily,
having, ever since his late threats, expected, that her trials would
at length arrive to this crisis, was less shocked by the declaration,
that she otherwise would have been, and she endeavoured to support
herself by the belief, that the marriage could not be valid, so long
as she refused before the priest to repeat any part of the ceremony.
Yet, as the moment of trial approached, her long-harassed spirits
shrunk almost equally from the encounter of his vengeance, and from
the hand of Count Morano. She was not even perfectly certain of the
consequence of her steady refusal at the altar, and she trembled,
more than ever, at the power of Montoni, which seemed unlimited as
his will, for she saw, that he would not scruple to transgress any
law, if, by so doing, he could accomplish his project.
While her mind was thus suffering and in a state little short of
distraction, she was informed that Morano asked permission to see
her, and the servant had scarcely departed with an excuse, before she
repented that she had sent one. In the next moment, reverting to her
former design, and determining to try, whether expostulation and
entreaty would not succeed, where a refusal and a just disdain had
failed, she recalled the servant, and, sending a different message,
prepared to go down to the Count.
The dignity and assumed composure with which she met him, and the
kind of pensive resignation, that softened her countenance, were
circumstances not likely to induce him to relinquish her, serving, as
they did, to heighten a passion, which had already intoxicated his
judgment. He listened to all she said with an appearance of
complacency and of a wish to oblige her; but his resolution remained
invariably the same, and he endeavoured to win her admiration by
every insinuating art he so well knew how to practise. Being, at
length, assured, that she had nothing to hope from his justice, she
repeated, in a solemn and impressive manner, her absolute rejection
of his suit, and quitted him with an assurance, that her refusal
would be effectually maintained against every circumstance, that
could be imagined for subduing it. A just pride had restrained her
tears in his presence, but now they flowed from the fulness of her
heart. She often called upon the name of her late father, and often
dwelt with unutterable anguish on the idea of Valancourt.
She did not go down to supper, but remained alone in her apartment,
sometimes yielding to the influence of grief and terror, and, at
others, endeavouring to fortify her mind against them, and to prepare
herself to meet, with composed courage, the scene of the following
morning, when all the stratagem of Morano and the violence of Montoni
would be united against her.
The evening was far advanced, when Madame Montoni came to her chamber
with some bridal ornaments, which the Count had sent to Emily. She
had, this day, purposely avoided her niece; perhaps, because her
usual insensibility failed her, and she feared to trust herself with
a view of Emily's distress; or possibly, though her conscience was
seldom audible, it now reproached her with her conduct to her
brother's orphan child, whose happiness had been entrusted to her
care by a dying father.
Emily could not look at these presents, and made a last, though
almost hopeless, effort to interest the compassion of Madame Montoni,
who, if she did feel any degree of pity, or remorse, successfully
concealed it, and reproached her niece with folly in being miserable,
concerning a marriage, which ought only to make her happy. 'I am
sure,' said she, 'if I was unmarried, and the Count had proposed to
me, I should have been flattered by the distinction: and if I should
have been so, I am sure, niece, you, who have no fortune, ought to
feel yourself highly honoured, and shew a proper gratitude and
humility towards the Count, for his condescension. I am often
surprised, I must own, to observe how humbly he deports himself to
you, notwithstanding the haughty airs you give yourself; I wonder he
has patience to humour you so: if I was he, I know, I should often
be ready to reprehend you, and make you know yourself a little
better. I would not have flattered you, I can tell you, for it is
this absurd flattery that makes you fancy yourself of so much
consequence, that you think nobody can deserve you, and I often tell
the Count so, for I have no patience to hear him pay you such
extravagant compliments, which you believe every word of!'
'Your patience, madam, cannot suffer more cruelly on such occasions,
than my own,' said Emily.
'O! that is all mere affectation,' rejoined her aunt. 'I know that
his flattery delights you, and makes you so vain, that you think you
may have the whole world at your feet. But you are very much
mistaken; I can assure you, niece, you will not meet with many such
suitors as the Count: every other person would have turned upon his
heel, and left you to repent at your leisure, long ago.'
'O that the Count had resembled every other person, then!' said
Emily, with a heavy sigh.
'It is happy for you, that he does not,' rejoined Madame Montoni;
'and what I am now saying is from pure kindness. I am endeavouring
to convince you of your good fortune, and to persuade you to submit
to necessity with a good grace. It is nothing to me, you know,
whether you like this marriage or not, for it must be; what I say,
therefore, is from pure kindness. I wish to see you happy, and it is
your own fault if you are not so. I would ask you, now, seriously
and calmly, what kind of a match you can expect, since a Count cannot
content your ambition?'
'I have no ambition whatever, madam,' replied Emily, 'my only wish is
to remain in my present station.'
'O! that is speaking quite from the purpose,' said her aunt, 'I see
you are still thinking of Mons. Valancourt. Pray get rid of all
those fantastic notions about love, and this ridiculous pride, and be
something like a reasonable creature. But, however, this is nothing
to the purpose--for your marriage with the Count takes place
tomorrow, you know, whether you approve it or not. The Count will be
trifled with no longer.'
Emily made no attempt to reply to this curious speech; she felt it
would be mean, and she knew it would be useless. Madame Montoni laid
the Count's presents upon the table, on which Emily was leaning, and
then, desiring she would be ready early in the morning, bade her
good-night. 'Good-night, madam,' said Emily, with a deep sigh, as
the door closed upon her aunt, and she was left once more to her own
sad reflections. For some time she sat so lost in thought, as to be
wholly unconscious where she was; at length, raising her head, and
looking round the room, its gloom and profound stillness awed her.
She fixed her eyes on the door, through which her aunt had
disappeared, and listened anxiously for some sound, that might
relieve the deep dejection of her spirits; but it was past midnight,
and all the family except the servant, who sat up for Montoni, had
retired to bed. Her mind, long harassed by distress, now yielded to
imaginary terrors; she trembled to look into the obscurity of her
spacious chamber, and feared she knew not what; a state of mind,
which continued so long, that she would have called up Annette, her
aunt's woman, had her fears permitted her to rise from her chair, and
to cross the apartment.
These melancholy illusions at length began to disperse, and she
retired to her bed, not to sleep, for that was scarcely possible, but
to try, at least, to quiet her disturbed fancy, and to collect
strength of spirits sufficient to bear her through the scene of the
approaching morning.
CHAPTER V
Dark power! with shudd'ring, meek submitted thought
Be mine to read the visions old
Which thy awak'ning bards have told,
And, lest they meet my blasted view,
Hold each strange tale devoutly true.
COLLINS' ODE TO FEAR
Emily was recalled from a kind of slumber, into which she had, at
length, sunk, by a quick knocking at her chamber door. She started
up in terror, for Montoni and Count Morano instantly came to her
mind; but, having listened in silence for some time, and recognizing
the voice of Annette, she rose and opened the door. 'What brings you
hither so early?' said Emily, trembling excessively. She was unable
to support herself, and sat down on the bed.
'Dear ma'amselle!' said Annette, 'do not look so pale. I am quite
frightened to see you. Here is a fine bustle below stairs, all the
servants running to and fro, and none of them fast enough! Here is a
bustle, indeed, all of a sudden, and nobody knows for what!'
'Who is below besides them?' said Emily, 'Annette, do not trifle with
me!'
'Not for the world, ma'amselle, I would not trifle for the world; but
one cannot help making one's remarks, and there is the Signor in such
a bustle, as I never saw him before; and he has sent me to tell you,
ma'am, to get ready immediately.'
'Good God support me!' cried Emily, almost fainting, 'Count Morano is
below, then!'
'No, ma'amselle, he is not below that I know of,' replied Annette,
'only his excellenza sent me to desire you would get ready directly
to leave Venice, for that the gondolas would be at the steps of the
canal in a few minutes: but I must hurry back to my lady, who is
just at her wits end, and knows not which way to turn for haste.'
'Explain, Annette, explain the meaning of all this before you go,'
said Emily, so overcome with surprise and timid hope, that she had
scarcely breath to speak.
'Nay, ma'amselle, that is more than I can do. I only know that the
Signor is just come home in a very ill humour, that he has had us all
called out of our beds, and tells us we are all to leave Venice
immediately.'
'Is Count Morano to go with the signor?' said Emily, 'and whither are
we going?'
'I know neither, ma'am, for certain; but I heard Ludovico say
something about going, after we get to terra-firma, to the signor's
castle among some mountains, that he talked of.'
'The Apennines!' said Emily, eagerly, 'O! then I have little to
hope!'
'That is the very place, ma'am. But cheer up, and do not take it so
much to heart, and think what a little time you have to get ready in,
and how impatient the Signor is. Holy St. Mark! I hear the oars on
the canal; and now they come nearer, and now they are dashing at the
steps below; it is the gondola, sure enough.'
Annette hastened from the room; and Emily prepared for this
unexpected flight, as fast as her trembling hands would permit, not
perceiving, that any change in her situation could possibly be for
the worse. She had scarcely thrown her books and clothes into her
travelling trunk, when, receiving a second summons, she went down to
her aunt's dressing-room, where she found Montoni impatiently
reproving his wife for delay. He went out, soon after, to give some
further orders to his people, and Emily then enquired the occasion of
this hasty journey; but her aunt appeared to be as ignorant as
herself, and to undertake the journey with more reluctance.
The family at length embarked, but neither Count Morano, nor Cavigni,
was of the party. Somewhat revived by observing this, Emily, when
the gondolieri dashed their oars in the water, and put off from the
steps of the portico, felt like a criminal, who receives a short
reprieve. Her heart beat yet lighter, when they emerged from the
canal into the ocean, and lighter still, when they skimmed past the
walls of St. Mark, without having stopped to take up Count Morano.
The dawn now began to tint the horizon, and to break upon the shores
of the Adriatic. Emily did not venture to ask any questions of
Montoni, who sat, for some time, in gloomy silence, and then rolled
himself up in his cloak, as if to sleep, while Madame Montoni did the
same; but Emily, who could not sleep, undrew one of the little
curtains of the gondola, and looked out upon the sea. The rising
dawn now enlightened the mountain-tops of Friuli, but their lower
sides, and the distant waves, that rolled at their feet, were still
in deep shadow. Emily, sunk in tranquil melancholy, watched the
strengthening light spreading upon the ocean, shewing successively
Venice and her islets, and the shores of Italy, along which boats,
with their pointed latin sails, began to move.
The gondolieri were frequently hailed, at this early hour, by the
market-people, as they glided by towards Venice, and the lagune soon
displayed a gay scene of innumerable little barks, passing from
terra-firma with provisions. Emily gave a last look to that splendid
city, but her mind was then occupied by considering the probable
events, that awaited her, in the scenes, to which she was removing,
and with conjectures, concerning the motive of this sudden journey.
It appeared, upon calmer consideration, that Montoni was removing her
to his secluded castle, because he could there, with more probability
of success, attempt to terrify her into obedience; or, that, should
its gloomy and sequestered scenes fail of this effect, her forced
marriage with the Count could there be solemnized with the secrecy,
which was necessary to the honour of Montoni. The little spirit,
which this reprieve had recalled, now began to fail, and, when Emily
reached the shore, her mind had sunk into all its former depression.
Montoni did not embark on the Brenta, but pursued his way in
carriages across the country, towards the Apennine; during which
journey, his manner to Emily was so particularly severe, that this
alone would have confirmed her late conjecture, had any such
confirmation been necessary. Her senses were now dead to the
beautiful country, through which she travelled. Sometimes she was
compelled to smile at the naivete of Annette, in her remarks on what
she saw, and sometimes to sigh, as a scene of peculiar beauty
recalled Valancourt to her thoughts, who was indeed seldom absent
from them, and of whom she could never hope to hear in the solitude,
to which she was hastening.
At length, the travellers began to ascend among the Apennines. The
immense pine-forests, which, at that period, overhung these
mountains, and between which the road wound, excluded all view but of
the cliffs aspiring above, except, that, now and then, an opening
through the dark woods allowed the eye a momentary glimpse of the
country below. The gloom of these shades, their solitary silence,
except when the breeze swept over their summits, the tremendous
precipices of the mountains, that came partially to the eye, each
assisted to raise the solemnity of Emily's feelings into awe; she saw
only images of gloomy grandeur, or of dreadful sublimity, around her;
other images, equally gloomy and equally terrible, gleamed on her
imagination. She was going she scarcely knew whither, under the
dominion of a person, from whose arbitrary disposition she had
already suffered so much, to marry, perhaps, a man who possessed
neither her affection, or esteem; or to endure, beyond the hope of
succour, whatever punishment revenge, and that Italian revenge, might
dictate.--The more she considered what might be the motive of the
journey, the more she became convinced, that it was for the purpose
of concluding her nuptials with Count Morano, with that secrecy,
which her resolute resistance had made necessary to the honour, if
not to the safety, of Montoni. From the deep solitudes, into which
she was immerging, and from the gloomy castle, of which she had heard
some mysterious hints, her sick heart recoiled in despair, and she
experienced, that, though her mind was already occupied by peculiar
distress, it was still alive to the influence of new and local
circumstance; why else did she shudder at the idea of this desolate
castle?
As the travellers still ascended among the pine forests, steep rose
over steep, the mountains seemed to multiply, as they went, and what
was the summit of one eminence proved to be only the base of another.
At length, they reached a little plain, where the drivers stopped to
rest the mules, whence a scene of such extent and magnificence opened
below, as drew even from Madame Montoni a note of admiration. Emily
lost, for a moment, her sorrows, in the immensity of nature. Beyond
the amphitheatre of mountains, that stretched below, whose tops
appeared as numerous almost, as the waves of the sea, and whose feet
were concealed by the forests--extended the campagna of Italy, where
cities and rivers, and woods and all the glow of cultivation were
mingled in gay confusion. The Adriatic bounded the horizon, into
which the Po and the Brenta, after winding through the whole extent
of the landscape, poured their fruitful waves. Emily gazed long on
the splendours of the world she was quitting, of which the whole
magnificence seemed thus given to her sight only to increase her
regret on leaving it; for her, Valancourt alone was in that world; to
him alone her heart turned, and for him alone fell her bitter tears.
From this sublime scene the travellers continued to ascend among the
pines, till they entered a narrow pass of the mountains, which shut
out every feature of the distant country, and, in its stead,
exhibited only tremendous crags, impending over the road, where no
vestige of humanity, or even of vegetation, appeared, except here and
there the trunk and scathed branches of an oak, that hung nearly
headlong from the rock, into which its strong roots had fastened.
This pass, which led into the heart of the Apennine, at length opened
to day, and a scene of mountains stretched in long perspective, as
wild as any the travellers had yet passed. Still vast pine-forests
hung upon their base, and crowned the ridgy precipice, that rose
perpendicularly from the vale, while, above, the rolling mists caught
the sun-beams, and touched their cliffs with all the magical
colouring of light and shade. The scene seemed perpetually changing,
and its features to assume new forms, as the winding road brought
them to the eye in different attitudes; while the shifting vapours,
now partially concealing their minuter beauties and now illuminating
them with splendid tints, assisted the illusions of the sight.
Though the deep vallies between these mountains were, for the most
part, clothed with pines, sometimes an abrupt opening presented a
perspective of only barren rocks, with a cataract flashing from their
summit among broken cliffs, till its waters, reaching the bottom,
foamed along with unceasing fury; and sometimes pastoral scenes
exhibited their 'green delights' in the narrow vales, smiling amid
surrounding horror. There herds and flocks of goats and sheep,
browsing under the shade of hanging woods, and the shepherd's little
cabin, reared on the margin of a clear stream, presented a sweet
picture of repose.
Wild and romantic as were these scenes, their character had far less
of the sublime, that had those of the Alps, which guard the entrance
of Italy. Emily was often elevated, but seldom felt those emotions
of indescribable awe which she had so continually experienced, in her
passage over the Alps.
Towards the close of day, the road wound into a deep valley.
Mountains, whose shaggy steeps appeared to be inaccessible, almost
surrounded it. To the east, a vista opened, that exhibited the
Apennines in their darkest horrors; and the long perspective of
retiring summits, rising over each other, their ridges clothed with
pines, exhibited a stronger image of grandeur, than any that Emily
had yet seen. The sun had just sunk below the top of the mountains
she was descending, whose long shadow stretched athwart the valley,
but his sloping rays, shooting through an opening of the cliffs,
touched with a yellow gleam the summits of the forest, that hung upon
the opposite steeps, and streamed in full splendour upon the towers
and battlements of a castle, that spread its extensive ramparts along
the brow of a precipice above. The splendour of these illumined
objects was heightened by the contrasted shade, which involved the
valley below.
'There,' said Montoni, speaking for the first time in several hours,
'is Udolpho.'
Emily gazed with melancholy awe upon the castle, which she understood
to be Montoni's; for, though it was now lighted up by the setting
sun, the gothic greatness of its features, and its mouldering walls
of dark grey stone, rendered it a gloomy and sublime object. As she
gazed, the light died away on its walls, leaving a melancholy purple
tint, which spread deeper and deeper, as the thin vapour crept up the
mountain, while the battlements above were still tipped with
splendour. From those, too, the rays soon faded, and the whole
edifice was invested with the solemn duskiness of evening. Silent,
lonely, and sublime, it seemed to stand the sovereign of the scene,
and to frown defiance on all, who dared to invade its solitary reign.
As the twilight deepened, its features became more awful in
obscurity, and Emily continued to gaze, till its clustering towers
were alone seen, rising over the tops of the woods, beneath whose
thick shade the carriages soon after began to ascend.
The extent and darkness of these tall woods awakened terrific images
in her mind, and she almost expected to see banditti start up from
under the trees. At length, the carriages emerged upon a heathy
rock, and, soon after, reached the castle gates, where the deep tone
of the portal bell, which was struck upon to give notice of their
arrival, increased the fearful emotions, that had assailed Emily.
While they waited till the servant within should come to open the
gates, she anxiously surveyed the edifice: but the gloom, that
overspread it, allowed her to distinguish little more than a part of
its outline, with the massy walls of the ramparts, and to know, that
it was vast, ancient and dreary. From the parts she saw, she judged
of the heavy strength and extent of the whole. The gateway before
her, leading into the courts, was of gigantic size, and was defended
by two round towers, crowned by overhanging turrets, embattled,
where, instead of banners, now waved long grass and wild plants, that
had taken root among the mouldering stones, and which seemed to sigh,
as the breeze rolled past, over the desolation around them. The
towers were united by a curtain, pierced and embattled also, below
which appeared the pointed arch of a huge portcullis, surmounting the
gates: from these, the walls of the ramparts extended to other
towers, overlooking the precipice, whose shattered outline, appearing
on a gleam, that lingered in the west, told of the ravages of war.--
Beyond these all was lost in the obscurity of evening.
While Emily gazed with awe upon the scene, footsteps were heard
within the gates, and the undrawing of bolts; after which an ancient
servant of the castle appeared, forcing back the huge folds of the
portal, to admit his lord. As the carriage-wheels rolled heavily
under the portcullis, Emily's heart sunk, and she seemed, as if she
was going into her prison; the gloomy court, into which she passed,
served to confirm the idea, and her imagination, ever awake to
circumstance, suggested even more terrors, than her reason could
justify.
Another gate delivered them into the second court, grass-grown, and
more wild than the first, where, as she surveyed through the twilight
its desolation--its lofty walls, overtopt with briony, moss and
nightshade, and the embattled towers that rose above,--long-suffering
and murder came to her thoughts. One of those instantaneous and
unaccountable convictions, which sometimes conquer even strong minds,
impressed her with its horror. The sentiment was not diminished,
when she entered an extensive gothic hall, obscured by the gloom of
evening, which a light, glimmering at a distance through a long
perspective of arches, only rendered more striking. As a servant
brought the lamp nearer partial gleams fell upon the pillars and the
pointed arches, forming a strong contrast with their shadows, that
stretched along the pavement and the walls.
The sudden journey of Montoni had prevented his people from making
any other preparations for his reception, than could be had in the
short interval, since the arrival of the servant, who had been sent
forward from Venice; and this, in some measure, may account for the
air of extreme desolation, that everywhere appeared.
The servant, who came to light Montoni, bowed in silence, and the
muscles of his countenance relaxed with no symptom of joy.--Montoni
noticed the salutation by a slight motion of his hand, and passed on,
while his lady, following, and looking round with a degree of
surprise and discontent, which she seemed fearful of expressing, and
Emily, surveying the extent and grandeur of the hall in timid wonder,
approached a marble stair-case. The arches here opened to a lofty
vault, from the centre of which hung a tripod lamp, which a servant
was hastily lighting; and the rich fret-work of the roof, a corridor,
leading into several upper apartments, and a painted window,
stretching nearly from the pavement to the ceiling of the hall,
became gradually visible.
Having crossed the foot of the stair-case, and passed through an
ante-room, they entered a spacious apartment, whose walls, wainscoted
with black larch-wood, the growth of the neighbouring mountains, were
scarcely distinguishable from darkness itself. 'Bring more light,'
said Montoni, as he entered. The servant, setting down his lamp, was
withdrawing to obey him, when Madame Montoni observing, that the
evening air of this mountainous region was cold, and that she should
like a fire, Montoni ordered that wood might be brought.
While he paced the room with thoughtful steps, and Madame Montoni sat
silently on a couch, at the upper end of it, waiting till the servant
returned, Emily was observing the singular solemnity and desolation
of the apartment, viewed, as it now was, by the glimmer of the single
lamp, placed near a large Venetian mirror, that duskily reflected the
scene, with the tall figure of Montoni passing slowly along, his arms
folded, and his countenance shaded by the plume, that waved in his
hat.
From the contemplation of this scene, Emily's mind proceeded to the
apprehension of what she might suffer in it, till the remembrance of
Valancourt, far, far distant! came to her heart, and softened it into
sorrow. A heavy sigh escaped her: but, trying to conceal her tears,
she walked away to one of the high windows, that opened upon the
ramparts, below which, spread the woods she had passed in her
approach to the castle. But the night-shade sat deeply on the
mountains beyond, and their indented outline alone could be faintly
traced on the horizon, where a red streak yet glimmered in the west.
The valley between was sunk in darkness.
The scene within, upon which Emily turned on the opening of the door,
was scarcely less gloomy. The old servant, who had received them at
the gates, now entered, bending under a load of pine-branches, while
two of Montoni's Venetian servants followed with lights.
'Your excellenza is welcome to the castle,' said the old man, as he
raised himself from the hearth, where he had laid the wood: 'it has
been a lonely place a long while; but you will excuse it, Signor,
knowing we had but short notice. It is near two years, come next
feast of St. Mark, since your excellenza was within these walls.'
'You have a good memory, old Carlo,' said Montoni: 'it is there-
about; and how hast thou contrived to live so long?'
'A-well-a-day, sir, with much ado; the cold winds, that blow through
the castle in winter, are almost too much for me; and I thought
sometimes of asking your excellenza to let me leave the mountains,
and go down into the lowlands. But I don't know how it is--I am loth
to quit these old walls I have lived in so long.'
'Well, how have you gone on in the castle, since I left it?' said
Montoni.
'Why much as usual, Signor, only it wants a good deal of repairing.
There is the north tower--some of the battlements have tumbled down,
and had liked one day to have knocked my poor wife (God rest her
soul!) on the head. Your excellenza must know'--
'Well, but the repairs,' interrupted Montoni.
'Aye, the repairs,' said Carlo: 'a part of the roof of the great
hall has fallen in, and all the winds from the mountains rushed
through it last winter, and whistled through the whole castle so,
that there was no keeping one's self warm, be where one would.
There, my wife and I used to sit shivering over a great fire in one
corner of the little hall, ready to die with cold, and'--
'But there are no more repairs wanted,' said Montoni, impatiently.
'O Lord! Your excellenza, yes--the wall of the rampart has tumbled
down in three places; then, the stairs, that lead to the west
gallery, have been a long time so bad, that it is dangerous to go up
them; and the passage leading to the great oak chamber, that
overhangs the north rampart--one night last winter I ventured to go
there by myself, and your excellenza'--
'Well, well, enough of this,' said Montoni, with quickness: 'I will
talk more with thee to-morrow.'
The fire was now lighted; Carlo swept the hearth, placed chairs,
wiped the dust from a large marble table that stood near it, and then
left the room.
Montoni and his family drew round the fire. Madame Montoni made
several attempts at conversation, but his sullen answers repulsed
her, while Emily sat endeavouring to acquire courage enough to speak
to him. At length, in a tremulous voice, she said, 'May I ask, sir,
the motive of this sudden journey?'--After a long pause, she
recovered sufficient courage to repeat the question.
'It does not suit me to answer enquiries,' said Montoni, 'nor does it
become you to make them; time may unfold them all: but I desire I
may be no further harassed, and I recommend it to you to retire to
your chamber, and to endeavour to adopt a more rational conduct, than
that of yielding to fancies, and to a sensibility, which, to call it
by the gentlest name, is only a weakness.'
Emily rose to withdraw. 'Good night, madam,' said she to her aunt,
with an assumed composure, that could not disguise her emotion.
'Good night, my dear,' said Madame Montoni, in a tone of kindness,
which her niece had never before heard from her; and the unexpected
endearment brought tears to Emily's eyes. She curtsied to Montoni,
and was retiring; 'But you do not know the way to your chamber,' said
her aunt. Montoni called the servant, who waited in the ante-room,
and bade him send Madame Montoni's woman, with whom, in a few
minutes, Emily withdrew.
'Do you know which is my room?' said she to Annette, as they crossed
the hall.
'Yes, I believe I do, ma'amselle; but this is such a strange rambling
place! I have been lost in it already: they call it the double
chamber, over the south rampart, and I went up this great stair-case
to it. My lady's room is at the other end of the castle.'
Emily ascended the marble staircase, and came to the corridor, as
they passed through which, Annette resumed her chat--'What a wild
lonely place this is, ma'am! I shall be quite frightened to live in
it. How often, and often have I wished myself in France again! I
little thought, when I came with my lady to see the world, that I
should ever be shut up in such a place as this, or I would never have
left my own country! This way, ma'amselle, down this turning. I can
almost believe in giants again, and such like, for this is just like
one of their castles; and, some night or other, I suppose I shall see
fairies too, hopping about in that great old hall, that looks more
like a church, with its huge pillars, than any thing else.'
'Yes,' said Emily, smiling, and glad to escape from more serious
thought, 'if we come to the corridor, about midnight, and look down
into the hall, we shall certainly see it illuminated with a thousand
lamps, and the fairies tripping in gay circles to the sound of
delicious music; for it is in such places as this, you know, that
they come to hold their revels. But I am afraid, Annette, you will
not be able to pay the necessary penance for such a sight: and, if
once they hear your voice, the whole scene will vanish in an
instant.'
'O! if you will bear me company, ma'amselle, I will come to the
corridor, this very night, and I promise you I will hold my tongue;
it shall not be my fault if the show vanishes.--But do you think they
will come?'
'I cannot promise that with certainty, but I will venture to say, it
will not be your fault if the enchantment should vanish.'
'Well, ma'amselle, that is saying more than I expected of you: but I
am not so much afraid of fairies, as of ghosts, and they say there
are a plentiful many of them about the castle: now I should be
frightened to death, if I should chance to see any of them. But
hush! ma'amselle, walk softly! I have thought, several times,
something passed by me.'
'Ridiculous!' said Emily, 'you must not indulge such fancies.'
'O ma'am! they are not fancies, for aught I know; Benedetto says
these dismal galleries and halls are fit for nothing but ghosts to
live in; and I verily believe, if I LIVE long in them I shall turn to
one myself!'
'I hope,' said Emily, 'you will not suffer Signor Montoni to hear of
these weak fears; they would highly displease him.'
'What, you know then, ma'amselle, all about it!' rejoined Annette.
'No, no, I do know better than to do so; though, if the Signor can
sleep sound, nobody else in the castle has any right to lie awake, I
am sure.' Emily did not appear to notice this remark.
'Down this passage, ma'amselle; this leads to a back stair-case. O!
if I see any thing, I shall be frightened out of my wits!'
'That will scarcely be possible,' said Emily smiling, as she followed
the winding of the passage, which opened into another gallery: and
then Annette, perceiving that she had missed her way, while she had
been so eloquently haranguing on ghosts and fairies, wandered about
through other passages and galleries, till, at length, frightened by
their intricacies and desolation, she called aloud for assistance:
but they were beyond the hearing of the servants, who were on the
other side of the castle, and Emily now opened the door of a chamber
on the left.
'O! do not go in there, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'you will only
lose yourself further.'
'Bring the light forward,' said Emily, 'we may possibly find our way
through these rooms.'
Annette stood at the door, in an attitude of hesitation, with the
light held up to shew the chamber, but the feeble rays spread through
not half of it. 'Why do you hesitate?' said Emily, 'let me see
whither this room leads.'
Annette advanced reluctantly. It opened into a suite of spacious and
ancient apartments, some of which were hung with tapestry, and others
wainscoted with cedar and black larch-wood. What furniture there
was, seemed to be almost as old as the rooms, and retained an
appearance of grandeur, though covered with dust, and dropping to
pieces with the damps, and with age.
'How cold these rooms are, ma'amselle!' said Annette: 'nobody has
lived in them for many, many years, they say. Do let us go.'
'They may open upon the great stair-case, perhaps,' said Emily,
passing on till she came to a chamber, hung with pictures, and took
the light to examine that of a soldier on horseback in a field of
battle.--He was darting his spear upon a man, who lay under the feet
of the horse, and who held up one hand in a supplicating attitude.
The soldier, whose beaver was up, regarded him with a look of
vengeance, and the countenance, with that expression, struck Emily as
resembling Montoni. She shuddered, and turned from it. Passing the
light hastily over several other pictures, she came to one concealed
by a veil of black silk. The singularity of the circumstance struck
her, and she stopped before it, wishing to remove the veil, and
examine what could thus carefully be concealed, but somewhat wanting
courage. 'Holy Virgin! what can this mean?' exclaimed Annette.
'This is surely the picture they told me of at Venice.'
'What picture?' said Emily. 'Why a picture--a picture,' replied
Annette, hesitatingly--'but I never could make out exactly what it
was about, either.'
'Remove the veil, Annette.'
'What! I, ma'amselle!--I! not for the world!' Emily, turning round,
saw Annette's countenance grow pale. 'And pray, what have you heard
of this picture, to terrify you so, my good girl?' said she.
'Nothing, ma'amselle: I have heard nothing, only let us find our way
out.'
'Certainly: but I wish first to examine the picture; take the light,
Annette, while I lift the veil.' Annette took the light, and
immediately walked away with it, disregarding Emily's call to stay,
who, not choosing to be left alone in the dark chamber, at length
followed her. 'What is the reason of this, Annette?' said Emily,
when she overtook her, 'what have you heard concerning that picture,
which makes you so unwilling to stay when I bid you?'
'I don't know what is the reason, ma'amselle, replied Annette, 'nor
any thing about the picture, only I have heard there is something
very dreadful belonging to it--and that it has been covered up in
black EVER SINCE--and that nobody has looked at it for a great many
years--and it somehow has to do with the owner of this castle before
Signor Montoni came to the possession of it--and'---
'Well, Annette,' said Emily, smiling, 'I perceive it is as you say--
that you know nothing about the picture.'
'No, nothing, indeed, ma'amselle, for they made me promise never to
tell:--but'--
'Well,' rejoined Emily, who observed that she was struggling between
her inclination to reveal a secret, and her apprehension for the
consequence, 'I will enquire no further'---
'No, pray, ma'am, do not.'
'Lest you should tell all,' interrupted Emily.
Annette blushed, and Emily smiled, and they passed on to the
extremity of this suite of apartments, and found themselves, after
some further perplexity, once more at the top of the marble stair-
case, where Annette left Emily, while she went to call one of the
servants of the castle to shew them to the chamber, for which they
had been seeking.
While she was absent, Emily's thoughts returned to the picture; an
unwillingness to tamper with the integrity of a servant, had checked
her enquiries on this subject, as well as concerning some alarming
hints, which Annette had dropped respecting Montoni; though her
curiosity was entirely awakened, and she had perceived, that her
questions might easily be answered. She was now, however, inclined
to go back to the apartment and examine the picture; but the
loneliness of the hour and of the place, with the melancholy silence
that reigned around her, conspired with a certain degree of awe,
excited by the mystery attending this picture, to prevent her. She
determined, however, when day-light should have re-animated her
spirits, to go thither and remove the veil. As she leaned from the
corridor, over the stair-case, and her eyes wandered round, she again
observed, with wonder, the vast strength of the walls, now somewhat
decayed, and the pillars of solid marble, that rose from the hall,
and supported the roof.
A servant now appeared with Annette, and conducted Emily to her
chamber, which was in a remote part of the castle, and at the very
end of the corridor, from whence the suite of apartments opened,
through which they had been wandering. The lonely aspect of her room
made Emily unwilling that Annette should leave her immediately, and
the dampness of it chilled her with more than fear. She begged
Caterina, the servant of the castle, to bring some wood and light a
fire.
'Aye, lady, it's many a year since a fire was lighted here,' said
Caterina.
'You need not tell us that, good woman,' said Annette; 'every room in
the castle feels like a well. I wonder how you contrive to live
here; for my part, I wish myself at Venice again.' Emily waved her
hand for Caterina to fetch the wood.
'I wonder, ma'am, why they call this the double chamber?' said
Annette, while Emily surveyed it in silence and saw that it was lofty
and spacious, like the others she had seen, and, like many of them,
too, had its walls lined with dark larch-wood. The bed and other
furniture was very ancient, and had an air of gloomy grandeur, like
all that she had seen in the castle. One of the high casements,
which she opened, overlooked a rampart, but the view beyond was hid
in darkness.
In the presence of Annette, Emily tried to support her spirits, and
to restrain the tears, which, every now and then, came to her eyes.
She wished much to enquire when Count Morano was expected at the
castle, but an unwillingness to ask unnecessary questions, and to
mention family concerns to a servant, withheld her. Meanwhile,
Annette's thoughts were engaged upon another subject: she dearly
loved the marvellous, and had heard of a circumstance, connected with
the castle, that highly gratified this taste. Having been enjoined
not to mention it, her inclination to tell it was so strong, that she
was every instant on the point of speaking what she had heard. Such
a strange circumstance, too, and to be obliged to conceal it, was a
severe punishment; but she knew, that Montoni might impose one much
severer, and she feared to incur it by offending him.
Caterina now brought the wood, and its bright blaze dispelled, for a
while, the gloom of the chamber. She told Annette, that her lady had
enquired for her, and Emily was once again left to her own sad
reflections. Her heart was not yet hardened against the stern
manners of Montoni, and she was nearly as much shocked now, as she
had been when she first witnessed them. The tenderness and
affection, to which she had been accustomed, till she lost her
parents, had made her particularly sensible to any degree of
unkindness, and such a reverse as this no apprehension had prepared
her to support.
To call off her attention from subjects, that pressed heavily on her
spirits, she rose and again examined her room and its furniture. As
she walked round it, she passed a door, that was not quite shut, and,
perceiving, that it was not the one, through which she entered, she
brought the light forward to discover whither it led. She opened it,
and, going forward, had nearly fallen down a steep, narrow stair-case
that wound from it, between two stone walls. She wished to know to
what it led, and was the more anxious, since it communicated so
immediately with her apartment; but, in the present state of her
spirits, she wanted courage to venture into the darkness alone.
Closing the door, therefore, she endeavoured to fasten it, but, upon
further examination, perceived, that it had no bolts on the chamber
side, though it had two on the other. By placing a heavy chair
against it, she in some measure remedied the defect; yet she was
still alarmed at the thought of sleeping in this remote room alone,
with a door opening she knew not whither, and which could not be
perfectly fastened on the inside. Sometimes she wished to entreat of
Madame Montoni, that Annette might have leave to remain with her all
night, but was deterred by an apprehension of betraying what would be
thought childish fears, and by an unwillingness to increase the apt
terrors of Annette.
Her gloomy reflections were, soon after, interrupted by a footstep in
the corridor, and she was glad to see Annette enter with some supper,
sent by Madame Montoni. Having a table near the fire, she made the
good girl sit down and sup with her; and, when their little repast
was over, Annette, encouraged by her kindness and stirring the wood
into a blaze, drew her chair upon the hearth, nearer to Emily, and
said--'Did you ever hear, ma'amselle, of the strange accident, that
made the Signor lord of this castle?'
'What wonderful story have you now to tell?' said Emily, concealing
the curiosity, occasioned by the mysterious hints she had formerly
heard on that subject.
'I have heard all about it, ma'amselle,' said Annette, looking round
the chamber and drawing closer to Emily; 'Benedetto told it me as we
travelled together: says he, "Annette, you don't know about this
castle here, that we are going to?" No, says I, Mr. Benedetto, pray
what do you know? But, ma'amselle, you can keep a secret, or I would
not tell it you for the world; for I promised never to tell, and they
say, that the Signor does not like to have it talked of.'
'If you promised to keep this secret,' said Emily, 'you do right not
to mention it.'
Annette paused a moment, and then said, 'O, but to you, ma'amselle,
to you I may tell it safely, I know.'
Emily smiled, 'I certainly shall keep it as faithful as yourself,
Annette.'
Annette replied very gravely, that would do, and proceeded--'This
castle, you must know, ma'amselle, is very old, and very strong, and
has stood out many sieges as they say. Now it was not Signor
Montoni's always, nor his father's; no; but, by some law or other, it
was to come to the Signor, if the lady died unmarried.'
'What lady?' said Emily.
'I am not come to that yet,' replied Annette, 'it is the lady I am
going to tell you about, ma'amselle: but, as I was saying, this lady
lived in the castle, and had everything very grand about her, as you
may suppose, ma'amselle. The Signor used often to come to see her,
and was in love with her, and offered to marry her; for, though he
was somehow related, that did not signify. But she was in love with
somebody else, and would not have him, which made him very angry, as
they say, and you know, ma'amselle, what an ill-looking gentleman he
is, when he is angry. Perhaps she saw him in a passion, and
therefore would not have him. But, as I was saying, she was very
melancholy and unhappy, and all that, for a long while, and--Holy
Virgin! what noise is that? did not you hear a sound, ma'amselle?'
'It was only the wind,' said Emily, 'but do come to the end of your
story.'
'As I was saying--O, where was I?--as I was saying--she was very
melancholy and unhappy a long while, and used to walk about upon the
terrace, there, under the windows, by herself, and cry so! it would
have done your heart good to hear her. That is--I don't mean good,
but it would have made you cry too, as they tell me.'
'Well, but, Annette, do tell me the substance of your tale.'
'All in good time, ma'am; all this I heard before at Venice, but what
is to come I never heard till to-day. This happened a great many
years ago, when Signor Montoni was quite a young man. The lady--they
called her Signora Laurentini, was very handsome, but she used to be
in great passions, too, sometimes, as well as the Signor. Finding he
could not make her listen to him--what does he do, but leave the
castle, and never comes near it for a long time! but it was all one
to her; she was just as unhappy whether he was here or not, till one
evening, Holy St. Peter! ma'amselle,' cried Annette, 'look at that
lamp, see how blue it burns!' She looked fearfully round the
chamber. 'Ridiculous girl!' said Emily, 'why will you indulge those
fancies? Pray let me hear the end of your story, I am weary.'
Annette still kept her eyes on the lamp, and proceeded in a lower
voice. 'It was one evening, they say, at the latter end of the year,
it might be about the middle of September, I suppose, or the
beginning of October; nay, for that matter, it might be November, for
that, too, is the latter end of the year, but that I cannot say for
certain, because they did not tell me for certain themselves.
However, it was at the latter end of the year, this grand lady walked
out of the castle into the woods below, as she had often done before,
all alone, only her maid was with her. The wind blew cold, and
strewed the leaves about, and whistled dismally among those great old
chesnut trees, that we passed, ma'amselle, as we came to the castle--
for Benedetto shewed me the trees as he was talking--the wind blew
cold, and her woman would have persuaded her to return: but all
would not do, for she was fond of walking in the woods, at evening
time, and, if the leaves were falling about her, so much the better.
'Well, they saw her go down among the woods, but night came, and she
did not return: ten o'clock, eleven o'clock, twelve o'clock came,
and no lady! Well, the servants thought to be sure, some accident
had befallen her, and they went out to seek her. They searched all
night long, but could not find her, or any trace of her; and, from
that day to this, ma'amselle, she has never been heard of.'
'Is this true, Annette?' said Emily, in much surprise.
'True, ma'am!' said Annette, with a look of horror, 'yes, it is true,
indeed. But they do say,' she added, lowering her voice, 'they do
say, that the Signora has been seen, several times since, walking in
the woods and about the castle in the night: several of the old
servants, who remained here some time after, declare they saw her;
and, since then, she has been seen by some of the vassals, who have
happened to be in the castle, at night. Carlo, the old steward,
could tell such things, they say, if he would.'
'How contradictory is this, Annette!' said Emily, 'you say nothing
has been since known of her, and yet she has been seen!'
'But all this was told me for a great secret,' rejoined Annette,
without noticing the remark, 'and I am sure, ma'am, you would not
hurt either me or Benedetto, so much as to go and tell it again.'
Emily remained silent, and Annette repeated her last sentence.
'You have nothing to fear from my indiscretion,' replied Emily, 'and
let me advise you, my good Annette, be discreet yourself, and never
mention what you have just told me to any other person. Signor
Montoni, as you say, may be angry if he hears of it. But what
inquiries were made concerning the lady?'
'O! a great deal, indeed, ma'amselle, for the Signor laid claim to
the castle directly, as being the next heir, and they said, that is,
the judges, or the senators, or somebody of that sort, said, he could
not take possession of it till so many years were gone by, and then,
if, after all, the lady could not be found, why she would be as good
as dead, and the castle would be his own; and so it is his own. But
the story went round, and many strange reports were spread, so very
strange, ma'amselle, that I shall not tell them.'
'That is stranger still, Annette,' said Emily, smiling, and rousing
herself from her reverie. 'But, when Signora Laurentini was
afterwards seen in the castle, did nobody speak to her?'
'Speak--speak to her!' cried Annette, with a look of terror; 'no, to
be sure.'
'And why not?' rejoined Emily, willing to hear further.
'Holy Mother! speak to a spirit!'
'But what reason had they to conclude it was a spirit, unless they
had approached, and spoken to it?' 'O ma'amselle, I cannot tell.
How can you ask such shocking questions? But nobody ever saw it come
in, or go out of the castle; and it was in one place now, and then
the next minute in quite another part of the castle; and then it
never spoke, and, if it was alive, what should it do in the castle if
it never spoke? Several parts of the castle have never been gone
into since, they say, for that very reason.'
'What, because it never spoke?' said Emily, trying to laugh away the
fears that began to steal upon her.--'No, ma'amselle, no;' replied
Annette, rather angrily 'but because something has been seen there.
They say, too, there is an old chapel adjoining the west side of the
castle, where, any time at midnight, you may hear such groans!--it
makes one shudder to think of them!--and strange sights have been
seen there--'
'Pr'ythee, Annette, no more of these silly tales,' said Emily.
'Silly tales, ma'amselle! O, but I will tell you one story about
this, if you please, that Caterina told me. It was one cold winter's
night that Caterina (she often came to the castle then, she says, to
keep old Carlo and his wife company, and so he recommended her
afterwards to the Signor, and she has lived here ever since) Caterina
was sitting with them in the little hall, says Carlo, "I wish we had
some of those figs to roast, that lie in the store-closet, but it is
a long way off, and I am loath to fetch them; do, Caterina," says he,
"for you are young and nimble, do bring us some, the fire is in nice
trim for roasting them; they lie," says he, "in such a corner of the
store-room, at the end of the north-gallery; here, take the lamp,"
says he, "and mind, as you go up the great stair-case, that the wind,
through the roof, does not blow it out." So, with that, Caterina
took the lamp--Hush! ma'amselle, I surely heard a noise!'
Emily, whom Annette had now infected with her own terrors, listened
attentively; but every thing was still, and Annette proceeded:
'Caterina went to the north-gallery, that is the wide gallery we
passed, ma'am, before we came to the corridor, here. As she went
with the lamp in her hand, thinking of nothing at all--There, again!'
cried Annette suddenly--'I heard it again!--it was not fancy,
ma'amselle!'
'Hush!' said Emily, trembling. They listened, and, continuing to sit
quite still, Emily heard a low knocking against the wall. It came
repeatedly. Annette then screamed loudly, and the chamber door
slowly opened.--It was Caterina, come to tell Annette, that her lady
wanted her. Emily, though she now perceived who it was, could not
immediately overcome her terror; while Annette, half laughing, half
crying, scolded Caterina heartily for thus alarming them; and was
also terrified lest what she had told had been overheard.--Emily,
whose mind was deeply impressed by the chief circumstance of
Annette's relation, was unwilling to be left alone, in the present
state of her spirits; but, to avoid offending Madame Montoni, and
betraying her own weakness, she struggled to overcome the illusions
of fear, and dismissed Annette for the night.
When she was alone, her thoughts recurred to the strange history of
Signora Laurentini and then to her own strange situation, in the wild
and solitary mountains of a foreign country, in the castle, and the
power of a man, to whom, only a few preceding months, she was an
entire stranger; who had already exercised an usurped authority over
her, and whose character she now regarded, with a degree of terror,
apparently justified by the fears of others. She knew, that he had
invention equal to the conception and talents to the execution of any
project, and she greatly feared he had a heart too void of feeling to
oppose the perpetration of whatever his interest might suggest. She
had long observed the unhappiness of Madame Montoni, and had often
been witness to the stern and contemptuous behaviour she received
from her husband. To these circumstances, which conspired to give
her just cause for alarm, were now added those thousand nameless
terrors, which exist only in active imaginations, and which set
reason and examination equally at defiance.
Emily remembered all that Valancourt had told her, on the eve of her
departure from Languedoc, respecting Montoni, and all that he had
said to dissuade her from venturing on the journey. His fears had
often since appeared to her prophetic--now they seemed confirmed.
Her heart, as it gave her back the image of Valancourt, mourned in
vain regret, but reason soon came with a consolation which, though
feeble at first, acquired vigour from reflection. She considered,
that, whatever might be her sufferings, she had withheld from
involving him in misfortune, and that, whatever her future sorrows
could be, she was, at least, free from self-reproach.
Her melancholy was assisted by the hollow sighings of the wind along
the corridor and round the castle. The cheerful blaze of the wood
had long been extinguished, and she sat with her eyes fixed on the
dying embers, till a loud gust, that swept through the corridor, and
shook the doors and casements, alarmed her, for its violence had
moved the chair she had placed as a fastening, and the door, leading
to the private stair-case stood half open. Her curiosity and her
fears were again awakened. She took the lamp to the top of the
steps, and stood hesitating whether to go down; but again the
profound stillness and the gloom of the place awed her, and,
determining to enquire further, when day-light might assist the
search, she closed the door, and placed against it a stronger guard.
She now retired to her bed, leaving the lamp burning on the table;
but its gloomy light, instead of dispelling her fear, assisted it;
for, by its uncertain rays, she almost fancied she saw shapes flit
past her curtains and glide into the remote obscurity of her
chamber.--The castle clock struck one before she closed her eyes to
sleep.
CHAPTER VI
I think it is the weakness of mine eyes,
That shapes this monstrous apparition.
It comes upon me!
JULIUS CAESAR
Daylight dispelled from Emily's mind the glooms of superstition, but
not those of apprehension. The Count Morano was the first image,
that occurred to her waking thoughts, and then came a train of
anticipated evils, which she could neither conquer, nor avoid. She
rose, and, to relieve her mind from the busy ideas, that tormented
it, compelled herself to notice external objects. From her casement
she looked out upon the wild grandeur of the scene, closed nearly on
all sides by alpine steeps, whose tops, peeping over each other,
faded from the eye in misty hues, while the promontories below were
dark with woods, that swept down to their base, and stretched along
the narrow vallies. The rich pomp of these woods was particularly
delightful to Emily; and she viewed with astonishment the
fortifications of the castle spreading along a vast extent of rock,
and now partly in decay, the grandeur of the ramparts below, and the
towers and battlements and various features of the fabric above.
From these her sight wandered over the cliffs and woods into the
valley, along which foamed a broad and rapid stream, seen falling
among the crags of an opposite mountain, now flashing in the sun-
beams, and now shadowed by over-arching pines, till it was entirely
concealed by their thick foliage. Again it burst from beneath this
darkness in one broad sheet of foam, and fell thundering into the
vale. Nearer, towards the west, opened the mountain-vista, which
Emily had viewed with such sublime emotion, on her approach to the
castle: a thin dusky vapour, that rose from the valley, overspread
its features with a sweet obscurity. As this ascended and caught the
sun-beams, it kindled into a crimson tint, and touched with exquisite
beauty the woods and cliffs, over which it passed to the summit of
the mountains; then, as the veil drew up, it was delightful to watch
the gleaming objects, that progressively disclosed themselves in the
valley--the green turf--dark woods--little rocky recesses--a few
peasants' huts--the foaming stream--a herd of cattle, and various
images of pastoral beauty. Then, the pine-forests brightened, and
then the broad breast of the mountains, till, at length, the mist
settled round their summit, touching them with a ruddy glow. The
features of the vista now appeared distinctly, and the broad deep
shadows, that fell from the lower cliffs, gave strong effect to the
streaming splendour above; while the mountains, gradually sinking in
the perspective, appeared to shelve into the Adriatic sea, for such
Emily imagined to be the gleam of blueish light, that terminated the
view.
Thus she endeavoured to amuse her fancy, and was not unsuccessful.
The breezy freshness of the morning, too, revived her. She raised
her thoughts in prayer, which she felt always most disposed to do,
when viewing the sublimity of nature, and her mind recovered its
strength.
When she turned from the casement, her eyes glanced upon the door she
had so carefully guarded, on the preceding night, and she now
determined to examine whither it led; but, on advancing to remove the
chairs, she perceived, that they were already moved a little way.
Her surprise cannot be easily imagined, when, in the next minute, she
perceived that the door was fastened.--She felt, as if she had seen
an apparition. The door of the corridor was locked as she had left
it, but this door, which could be secured only on the outside, must
have been bolted, during the night. She became seriously uneasy at
the thought of sleeping again in a chamber, thus liable to intrusion,
so remote, too, as it was from the family, and she determined to
mention the circumstance to Madame Montoni, and to request a change.
After some perplexity she found her way into the great hall, and to
the room, which she had left, on the preceding night, where breakfast
was spread, and her aunt was alone, for Montoni had been walking over
the environs of the castle, examining the condition of its
fortifications, and talking for some time with Carlo. Emily observed
that her aunt had been weeping, and her heart softened towards her,
with an affection, that shewed itself in her manner, rather than in
words, while she carefully avoided the appearance of having noticed,
that she was unhappy. She seized the opportunity of Montoni's
absence to mention the circumstance of the door, to request that she
might be allowed another apartment, and to enquire again, concerning
the occasion of their sudden journey. On the first subject her aunt
referred her to Montoni, positively refusing to interfere in the
affair; on the last, she professed utter ignorance.
Emily, then, with a wish of making her aunt more reconciled to her
situation, praised the grandeur of the castle and the surrounding
scenery, and endeavoured to soften every unpleasing circumstance
attending it. But, though misfortune had somewhat conquered the
asperities of Madame Montoni's temper, and, by increasing her cares
for herself, had taught her to feel in some degree for others, the
capricious love of rule, which nature had planted and habit had
nourished in her heart, was not subdued. She could not now deny
herself the gratification of tyrannizing over the innocent and
helpless Emily, by attempting to ridicule the taste she could not
feel.
Her satirical discourse was, however, interrupted by the entrance of
Montoni, and her countenance immediately assumed a mingled expression
of fear and resentment, while he seated himself at the breakfast-
table, as if unconscious of there being any person but himself in the
room.
Emily, as she observed him in silence, saw, that his countenance was
darker and sterner than usual. 'O could I know,' said she to
herself, 'what passes in that mind; could I know the thoughts, that
are known there, I should no longer be condemned to this torturing
suspense!' Their breakfast passed in silence, till Emily ventured to
request, that another apartment might be allotted to her, and related
the circumstance which made her wish it.
'I have no time to attend to these idle whims,' said Montoni, 'that
chamber was prepared for you, and you must rest contented with it.
It is not probable, that any person would take the trouble of going
to that remote stair-case, for the purpose of fastening a door. If
it was not fastened, when you entered the chamber, the wind, perhaps,
shook the door and made the bolts slide. But I know not why I should
undertake to account for so trifling an occurrence.'
This explanation was by no means satisfactory to Emily, who had
observed, that the bolts were rusted, and consequently could not be
thus easily moved; but she forbore to say so, and repeated her
request.
'If you will not release yourself from the slavery of these fears,'
said Montoni, sternly, 'at least forbear to torment others by the
mention of them. Conquer such whims, and endeavour to strengthen
your mind. No existence is more contemptible than that, which is
embittered by fear.' As he said this, his eye glanced upon Madame
Montoni, who coloured highly, but was still silent. Emily, wounded
and disappointed, thought her fears were, in this instance, too
reasonable to deserve ridicule; but, perceiving, that, however they
might oppress her, she must endure them, she tried to withdraw her
attention from the subject.
Carlo soon after entered with some fruit:
'Your excellenza is tired after your long ramble,' said he, as he set
the fruit upon the table; 'but you have more to see after breakfast.
There is a place in the vaulted passage leading to--'
Montoni frowned upon him, and waved his hand for him to leave the
room. Carlo stopped, looked down, and then added, as he advanced to
the breakfast-table, and took up the basket of fruit, 'I made bold,
your excellenza, to bring some cherries, here, for my honoured lady
and my young mistress. Will your ladyship taste them, madam?' said
Carlo, presenting the basket, 'they are very fine ones, though I
gathered them myself, and from an old tree, that catches all the
south sun; they are as big as plums, your ladyship.'
'Very well, old Carlo,' said Madame Montoni; 'I am obliged to you.'
'And the young Signora, too, she may like some of them,' rejoined
Carlo, turning with the basket to Emily, 'it will do me good to see
her eat some.'
'Thank you, Carlo,' said Emily, taking some cherries, and smiling
kindly.
'Come, come,' said Montoni, impatiently, 'enough of this. Leave the
room, but be in waiting. I shall want you presently.'
Carlo obeyed, and Montoni, soon after, went out to examine further
into the state of the castle; while Emily remained with her aunt,
patiently enduring her ill humour, and endeavouring, with much
sweetness, to soothe her affliction, instead of resenting its effect.
When Madame Montoni retired to her dressing-room, Emily endeavoured
to amuse herself by a view of the castle. Through a folding door she
passed from the great hall to the ramparts, which extended along the
brow of the precipice, round three sides of the edifice; the fourth
was guarded by the high walls of the courts, and by the gateway,
through which she had passed, on the preceding evening. The grandeur
of the broad ramparts, and the changing scenery they overlooked,
excited her high admiration; for the extent of the terraces allowed
the features of the country to be seen in such various points of
view, that they appeared to form new landscapes. She often paused to
examine the gothic magnificence of Udolpho, its proud irregularity,
its lofty towers and battlements, its high-arched casements, and its
slender watch-towers, perched upon the corners of turrets. Then she
would lean on the wall of the terrace, and, shuddering, measure with
her eye the precipice below, till the dark summits of the woods
arrested it. Wherever she turned, appeared mountain-tops, forests of
pine and narrow glens, opening among the Apennines and retiring from
the sight into inaccessible regions.
While she thus leaned, Montoni, followed by two men, appeared,
ascending a winding path, cut in the rock below. He stopped upon a
cliff, and, pointing to the ramparts, turned to his followers, and
talked with much eagerness of gesticulation.--Emily perceived, that
one of these men was Carlo; the other was in the dress of a peasant,
and he alone seemed to be receiving the directions of Montoni.
She withdrew from the walls, and pursued her walk, till she heard at
a distance the sound of carriage wheels, and then the loud bell of
the portal, when it instantly occurred to her, that Count Morano was
arrived. As she hastily passed the folding doors from the terrace,
towards her own apartment, several persons entered the hall by an
opposite door. She saw them at the extremities of the arcades, and
immediately retreated; but the agitation of her spirits, and the
extent and duskiness of the hall, had prevented her from
distinguishing the persons of the strangers. Her fears, however, had
but one object, and they had called up that object to her fancy:--she
believed that she had seen Count Morano.
When she thought that they had passed the hall, she ventured again to
the door, and proceeded, unobserved, to her room, where she remained,
agitated with apprehensions, and listening to every distant sound.
At length, hearing voices on the rampart, she hastened to her window,
and observed Montoni, with Signor Cavigni, walking below, conversing
earnestly, and often stopping and turning towards each other, at
which time their discourse seemed to be uncommonly interesting.
Of the several persons who had appeared in the hall, here was Cavigni
alone: but Emily's alarm was soon after heightened by the steps of
some one in the corridor, who, she apprehended, brought a message
from the Count. In the next moment, Annette appeared.
'Ah! ma'amselle,' said she, 'here is the Signor Cavigni arrived! I
am sure I rejoiced to see a christian person in this place; and then
he is so good natured too, he always takes so much notice of me!--And
here is also Signor Verezzi, and who do you think besides,
ma'amselle?'
'I cannot guess, Annette; tell me quickly.'
'Nay, ma'am, do guess once.'
'Well, then,' said Emily, with assumed composure, 'it is--Count
Morano, I suppose.'
'Holy Virgin!' cried Annette, 'are you ill, ma'amselle? you are going
to faint! let me get some water.'
Emily sunk into a chair. 'Stay, Annette,' said she, feebly, 'do not
leave me--I shall soon be better; open the casement.--The Count, you
say--he is come, then?'
'Who, I!--the Count! No, ma'amselle, I did not say so.' 'He is NOT
come then?' said Emily eagerly. 'No, ma'amselle.'
'You are sure of it?'
'Lord bless me!' said Annette, 'you recover very suddenly, ma'am!
why, I thought you was dying, just now.'
'But the Count--you are sure, is not come?'
'O yes, quite sure of that, ma'amselle. Why, I was looking out
through the grate in the north turret, when the carriages drove into
the court-yard, and I never expected to see such a goodly sight in
this dismal old castle! but here are masters and servants, too,
enough to make the place ring again. O! I was ready to leap through
the rusty old bars for joy!--O! who would ever have thought of seeing
a christian face in this huge dreary house? I could have kissed the
very horses that brought them.'
'Well, Annette, well, I am better now.'
'Yes, ma'amselle, I see you are. O! all the servants will lead merry
lives here, now; we shall have singing and dancing in the little
hall, for the Signor cannot hear us there--and droll stories--
Ludovico's come, ma'am; yes, there is Ludovico come with them! You
remember Ludovico, ma'am--a tall, handsome young man--Signor
Cavigni's lacquey--who always wears his cloak with such a grace,
thrown round his left arm, and his hat set on so smartly, all on one
side, and--'
'No,' said Emily, who was wearied by her loquacity.
'What, ma'amselle, don't you remember Ludovico--who rowed the
Cavaliero's gondola, at the last regatta, and won the prize? And who
used to sing such sweet verses about Orlandos and about the Black-a-
moors, too; and Charly--Charly--magne, yes, that was the name, all
under my lattice, in the west portico, on the moon-light nights at
Venice? O! I have listened to him!'---
'I fear, to thy peril, my good Annette,' said Emily; 'for it seems
his verses have stolen thy heart. But let me advise you; if it is
so, keep the secret; never let him know it.'
'Ah--ma'amselle!--how can one keep such a secret as that?'
'Well, Annette, I am now so much better, that you may leave me.'
'O, but, ma'amselle, I forgot to ask--how did you sleep in this
dreary old chamber last night?'--'As well as usual.'--'Did you hear
no noises?'--'None.'--'Nor see anything?'--'Nothing.'--'Well, that is
surprising!'--'Not in the least: and now tell me, why you ask these
questions.'
'O, ma'amselle! I would not tell you for the world, nor all I have
heard about this chamber, either; it would frighten you so.'
'If that is all, you have frightened me already, and may therefore
tell me what you know, without hurting your conscience.'
'O Lord! they say the room is haunted, and has been so these many
years.'
'It is by a ghost, then, who can draw bolts,' said Emily,
endeavouring to laugh away her apprehensions; 'for I left the door
open, last night, and found it fastened this morning.'
Annette turned pale, and said not a word.
'Do you know whether any of the servants fastened this door in the
morning, before I rose?'
'No, ma'am, that I will be bound they did not; but I don't know:
shall I go and ask, ma'amselle?' said Annette, moving hastily towards
the corridor.
'Stay, Annette, I have another question to ask; tell me what you have
heard concerning this room, and whither that stair-case leads.'
'I will go and ask it all directly, ma'am; besides, I am sure my lady
wants me. I cannot stay now, indeed, ma'am.'
She hurried from the room, without waiting Emily's reply, whose
heart, lightened by the certainty, that Morano was not arrived,
allowed her to smile at the superstitious terror, which had seized on
Annette; for, though she sometimes felt its influence herself, she
could smile at it, when apparent in other persons.
Montoni having refused Emily another chamber, she determined to bear
with patience the evil she could not remove, and, in order to make
the room as comfortable as possible, unpacked her books, her sweet
delight in happier days, and her soothing resource in the hours of
moderate sorrow: but there were hours when even these failed of
their effect; when the genius, the taste, the enthusiasm of the
sublimest writers were felt no longer.
Her little library being arranged on a high chest, part of the
furniture of the room, she took out her drawing utensils, and was
tranquil enough to be pleased with the thought of sketching the
sublime scenes, beheld from her windows; but she suddenly checked
this pleasure, remembering how often she had soothed herself by the
intention of obtaining amusement of this kind, and had been prevented
by some new circumstance of misfortune.
'How can I suffer myself to be deluded by hope,' said she, 'and,
because Count Morano is not yet arrived, feel a momentary happiness?
Alas! what is it to me, whether he is here to-day, or to-morrow, if
he comes at all?--and that he will come--it were weakness to doubt.'
To withdraw her thoughts, however, from the subject of her
misfortunes, she attempted to read, but her attention wandered from
the page, and, at length, she threw aside the book, and determined to
explore the adjoining chambers of the castle. Her imagination was
pleased with the view of ancient grandeur, and an emotion of
melancholy awe awakened all its powers, as she walked through rooms,
obscure and desolate, where no footsteps had passed probably for many
years, and remembered the strange history of the former possessor of
the edifice. This brought to her recollection the veiled picture,
which had attracted her curiosity, on the preceding night, and she
resolved to examine it. As she passed through the chambers, that led
to this, she found herself somewhat agitated; its connection with the
late lady of the castle, and the conversation of Annette, together
with the circumstance of the veil, throwing a mystery over the
subject, that excited a faint degree of terror. But a terror of this
nature, as it occupies and expands the mind, and elevates it to high
expectation, is purely sublime, and leads us, by a kind of
fascination, to seek even the object, from which we appear to shrink.
Emily passed on with faltering steps, and having paused a moment at
the door, before she attempted to open it, she then hastily entered
the chamber, and went towards the picture, which appeared to be
enclosed in a frame of uncommon size, that hung in a dark part of the
room. She paused again, and then, with a timid hand, lifted the
veil; but instantly let it fall--perceiving that what it had
concealed was no picture, and, before she could leave the chamber,
she dropped senseless on the floor.
When she recovered her recollection, the remembrance of what she had
seen had nearly deprived her of it a second time. She had scarcely
strength to remove from the room, and regain her own; and, when
arrived there, wanted courage to remain alone. Horror occupied her
mind, and excluded, for a time, all sense of past, and dread of
future misfortune: she seated herself near the casement, because
from thence she heard voices, though distant, on the terrace, and
might see people pass, and these, trifling as they were, were
reviving circumstances. When her spirits had recovered their tone,
she considered, whether she should mention what she had seen to
Madame Montoni, and various and important motives urged her to do so,
among which the least was the hope of the relief, which an
overburdened mind finds in speaking of the subject of its interest.
But she was aware of the terrible consequences, which such a
communication might lead to; and, dreading the indiscretion of her
aunt, at length, endeavoured to arm herself with resolution to
observe a profound silence, on the subject. Montoni and Verezzi soon
after passed under the casement, speaking cheerfully, and their
voices revived her. Presently the Signors Bertolini and Cavigni
joined the party on the terrace, and Emily, supposing that Madame
Montoni was then alone, went to seek her; for the solitude of her
chamber, and its proximity to that where she had received so severe a
shock, again affected her spirit.
She found her aunt in her dressing-room, preparing for dinner.
Emily's pale and affrighted countenance alarmed even Madame Montoni;
but she had sufficient strength of mind to be silent on the subject,
that still made her shudder, and which was ready to burst from her
lips. In her aunt's apartment she remained, till they both descended
to dinner. There she met the gentlemen lately arrived, who had a
kind of busy seriousness in their looks, which was somewhat unusual
with them, while their thoughts seemed too much occupied by some deep
interest, to suffer them to bestow much attention either on Emily, or
Madame Montoni. They spoke little, and Montoni less. Emily, as she
now looked on him, shuddered. The horror of the chamber rushed on
her mind. Several times the colour faded from her cheeks, and she
feared, that illness would betray her emotions, and compel her to
leave the room; but the strength of her resolution remedied the
weakness of her frame; she obliged herself to converse, and even
tried to look cheerful.
Montoni evidently laboured under some vexation, such as would
probably have agitated a weaker mind, or a more susceptible heart,
but which appeared, from the sternness of his countenance, only to
bend up his faculties to energy and fortitude.
It was a comfortless and silent meal. The gloom of the castle seemed
to have spread its contagion even over the gay countenance of
Cavigni, and with this gloom was mingled a fierceness, such as she
had seldom seen him indicate. Count Morano was not named, and what
conversation there was, turned chiefly upon the wars, which at that
time agitated the Italian states, the strength of the Venetian
armies, and the characters of their generals.
After dinner, when the servants had withdrawn, Emily learned, that
the cavalier, who had drawn upon himself the vengeance of Orsino, had
since died of his wounds, and that strict search was still making for
his murderer. The intelligence seemed to disturb Montoni, who mused,
and then enquired, where Orsino had concealed himself. His guests,
who all, except Cavigni, were ignorant, that Montoni had himself
assisted him to escape from Venice, replied, that he had fled in the
night with such precipitation and secrecy, that his most intimate
companions knew not whither. Montoni blamed himself for having asked
the question, for a second thought convinced him, that a man of
Orsino's suspicious temper was not likely to trust any of the persons
present with the knowledge of his asylum. He considered himself,
however, as entitled to his utmost confidence, and did not doubt,
that he should soon hear of him.
Emily retired with Madame Montoni, soon after the cloth was
withdrawn, and left the cavaliers to their secret councils, but not
before the significant frowns of Montoni had warned his wife to
depart, who passed from the hall to the ramparts, and walked, for
some time, in silence, which Emily did not interrupt, for her mind
was also occupied by interests of its own. It required all her
resolution, to forbear communicating to Madame Montoni the terrible
subject, which still thrilled her every nerve with horror; and
sometimes she was on the point of doing so, merely to obtain the
relief of a moment; but she knew how wholly she was in the power of
Montoni, and, considering, that the indiscretion of her aunt might
prove fatal to them both, she compelled herself to endure a present
and an inferior evil, rather than to tempt a future and a heavier
one. A strange kind of presentiment frequently, on this day,
occurred to her;--it seemed as if her fate rested here, and was by
some invisible means connected with this castle.
'Let me not accelerate it,' said she to herself: 'for whatever I may
be reserved, let me, at least, avoid self-reproach.'
As she looked on the massy walls of the edifice, her melancholy
spirits represented it to be her prison; and she started as at a new
suggestion, when she considered how far distant she was from her
native country, from her little peaceful home, and from her only
friend--how remote was her hope of happiness, how feeble the
expectation of again seeing him! Yet the idea of Valancourt, and her
confidence in his faithful love, had hitherto been her only solace,
and she struggled hard to retain them. A few tears of agony started
to her eyes, which she turned aside to conceal.
While she afterwards leaned on the wall of the rampart, some
peasants, at a little distance, were seen examining a breach, before
which lay a heap of stones, as if to repair it, and a rusty old
cannon, that appeared to have fallen from its station above. Madame
Montoni stopped to speak to the men, and enquired what they were
going to do. 'To repair the fortifications, your ladyship,' said one
of them; a labour which she was somewhat surprised, that Montoni
should think necessary, particularly since he had never spoken of the
castle, as of a place, at which he meant to reside for any
considerable time; but she passed on towards a lofty arch, that led
from the south to the east rampart, and which adjoined the castle, on
one side, while, on the other, it supported a small watch-tower, that
entirely commanded the deep valley below. As she approached this
arch, she saw, beyond it, winding along the woody descent of a
distant mountain, a long troop of horse and foot, whom she knew to be
soldiers, only by the glitter of their pikes and other arms, for the
distance did not allow her to discover the colour of their liveries.
As she gazed, the vanguard issued from the woods into the valley, but
the train still continued to pour over the remote summit of the
mountain, in endless succession; while, in the front, the military
uniform became distinguishable, and the commanders, riding first, and
seeming, by their gestures, to direct the march of those that
followed, at length, approached very near to the castle.
Such a spectacle, in these solitary regions, both surprised and
alarmed Madame Montoni, and she hastened towards some peasants, who
were employed in raising bastions before the south rampart, where the
rock was less abrupt than elsewhere. These men could give no
satisfactory answers to her enquiries, but, being roused by them,
gazed in stupid astonishment upon the long cavalcade. Madame
Montoni, then thinking it necessary to communicate further the object
of her alarm, sent Emily to say, that she wished to speak to Montoni;
an errand her niece did not approve, for she dreaded his frowns,
which she knew this message would provoke; but she obeyed in silence.
As she drew near the apartment, in which he sat with his guests, she
heard them in earnest and loud dispute, and she paused a moment,
trembling at the displeasure, which her sudden interruption would
occasion. In the next, their voices sunk all together; she then
ventured to open the door, and, while Montoni turned hastily and
looked at her, without speaking, she delivered her message.
'Tell Madam Montoni I am engaged,' said he.
Emily then thought it proper to mention the subject of her alarm.
Montoni and his companions rose instantly and went to the windows,
but, these not affording them a view of the troops, they at length
proceeded to the ramparts, where Cavigni conjectured it to be a
legion of condottieri, on their march towards Modena.
One part of the cavalcade now extended along the valley, and another
wound among the mountains towards the north, while some troops still
lingered on the woody precipices, where the first had appeared, so
that the great length of the procession seemed to include an whole
army. While Montoni and his family watched its progress, they heard
the sound of trumpets and the clash of cymbals in the vale, and then
others, answering from the heights. Emily listened with emotion to
the shrill blast, that woke the echoes of the mountains, and Montoni
explained the signals, with which he appeared to be well acquainted,
and which meant nothing hostile. The uniforms of the troops, and the
kind of arms they bore, confirmed to him the conjecture of Cavigni,
and he had the satisfaction to see them pass by, without even
stopping to gaze upon his castle. He did not, however, leave the
rampart, till the bases of the mountains had shut them from his view,
and the last murmur of the trumpet floated away on the wind. Cavigni
and Verezzi were inspirited by this spectacle, which seemed to have
roused all the fire of their temper; Montoni turned into the castle
in thoughtful silence.
Emily's mind had not yet sufficiently recovered from its late shock,
to endure the loneliness of her chamber, and she remained upon the
ramparts; for Madame Montoni had not invited her to her dressing-
room, whither she had gone evidently in low spirits, and Emily, from
her late experience, had lost all wish to explore the gloomy and
mysterious recesses of the castle. The ramparts, therefore, were
almost her only retreat, and here she lingered, till the gray haze of
evening was again spread over the scene.
The cavaliers supped by themselves, and Madame Montoni remained in
her apartment, whither Emily went, before she retired to her own.
She found her aunt weeping, and in much agitation. The tenderness of
Emily was naturally so soothing, that it seldom failed to give
comfort to the drooping heart: but Madame Montoni's was torn, and
the softest accents of Emily's voice were lost upon it. With her
usual delicacy, she did not appear to observe her aunt's distress,
but it gave an involuntary gentleness to her manners, and an air of
solicitude to her countenance, which Madame Montoni was vexed to
perceive, who seemed to feel the pity of her niece to be an insult to
her pride, and dismissed her as soon as she properly could. Emily
did not venture to mention again the reluctance she felt to her
gloomy chamber, but she requested that Annette might be permitted to
remain with her till she retired to rest; and the request was
somewhat reluctantly granted. Annette, however, was now with the
servants, and Emily withdrew alone.
With light and hasty steps she passed through the long galleries,
while the feeble glimmer of the lamp she carried only shewed the
gloom around her, and the passing air threatened to extinguish it.
The lonely silence, that reigned in this part of the castle, awed
her; now and then, indeed, she heard a faint peal of laughter rise
from a remote part of the edifice, where the servants were assembled,
but it was soon lost, and a kind of breathless stillness remained.
As she passed the suite of rooms which she had visited in the
morning, her eyes glanced fearfully on the door, and she almost
fancied she heard murmuring sounds within, but she paused not a
moment to enquire.
Having reached her own apartment, where no blazing wood on the hearth
dissipated the gloom, she sat down with a book, to enliven her
attention, till Annette should come, and a fire could be kindled.
She continued to read till her light was nearly expired, but Annette
did not appear, and the solitude and obscurity of her chamber again
affected her spirits, the more, because of its nearness to the scene
of horror, that she had witnessed in the morning. Gloomy and
fantastic images came to her mind. She looked fearfully towards the
door of the stair-case, and then, examining whether it was still
fastened, found that it was so. Unable to conquer the uneasiness she
felt at the prospect of sleeping again in this remote and insecure
apartment, which some person seemed to have entered during the
preceding night, her impatience to see Annette, whom she had bidden
to enquire concerning this circumstance, became extremely painful.
She wished also to question her, as to the object, which had excited
so much horror in her own mind, and which Annette on the preceding
evening had appeared to be in part acquainted with, though her words
were very remote from the truth, and it appeared plainly to Emily,
that the girl had been purposely misled by a false report: above all
she was surprised, that the door of the chamber, which contained it,
should be left unguarded. Such an instance of negligence almost
surpassed belief. But her light was now expiring; the faint flashes
it threw upon the walls called up all the terrors of fancy, and she
rose to find her way to the habitable part of the castle, before it
was quite extinguished. As she opened the chamber door, she heard
remote voices, and, soon after, saw a light issue upon the further
end of the corridor, which Annette and another servant approached.
'I am glad you are come,' said Emily: 'what has detained you so
long? Pray light me a fire immediately.'
'My lady wanted me, ma'amselle,' replied Annette in some confusion;
'I will go and get the wood.'
'No,' said Caterina, 'that is my business,' and left the room
instantly, while Annette would have followed; but, being called back,
she began to talk very loud, and laugh, and seemed afraid to trust a
pause of silence.
Caterina soon returned with the wood, and then, when the cheerful
blaze once more animated the room, and this servant had withdrawn,
Emily asked Annette, whether she had made the enquiry she bade her.
'Yes, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'but not a soul knows any thing
about the matter: and old Carlo--I watched him well, for they say he
knows strange things--old Carlo looked so as I don't know how to
tell, and he asked me again and again, if I was sure the door was
ever unfastened. Lord, says I--am I sure I am alive? And as for me,
ma'am, I am all astounded, as one may say, and would no more sleep in
this chamber, than I would on the great cannon at the end of the east
rampart.'
'And what objection have you to that cannon, more than to any of the
rest?' said Emily smiling: 'the best would be rather a hard bed.'
'Yes, ma'amselle, any of them would be hard enough for that matter;
but they do say, that something has been seen in the dead of night,
standing beside the great cannon, as if to guard it.'
'Well! my good Annette, the people who tell such stories, are happy
in having you for an auditor, for I perceive you believe them all.'
'Dear ma'amselle! I will shew you the very cannon; you can see it
from these windows!'
'Well,' said Emily, 'but that does not prove, that an apparition
guards it.'
'What! not if I shew you the very cannon! Dear ma'am, you will
believe nothing.'
'Nothing probably upon this subject, but what I see,' said Emily.--
'Well, ma'am, but you shall see it, if you will only step this way to
the casement.'--Emily could not forbear laughing, and Annette looked
surprised. Perceiving her extreme aptitude to credit the marvellous,
Emily forbore to mention the subject she had intended, lest it should
overcome her with idle terrors, and she began to speak on a lively
topic--the regattas of Venice.
'Aye, ma'amselle, those rowing matches,' said Annette, 'and the fine
moon-light nights, are all, that are worth seeing in Venice. To be
sure the moon is brighter than any I ever saw; and then to hear such
sweet music, too, as Ludovico has often and often sung under the
lattice by the west portico! Ma'amselle, it was Ludovico, that told
me about that picture, which you wanted so to look at last night,
and---'
'What picture?' said Emily, wishing Annette to explain herself.
'O! that terrible picture with the black veil over it.'
'You never saw it, then?' said Emily.
'Who, I!--No, ma'amselle, I never did. But this morning,' continued
Annette, lowering her voice, and looking round the room, 'this
morning, as it was broad daylight, do you know, ma'am, I took a
strange fancy to see it, as I had heard such odd hints about it, and
I got as far as the door, and should have opened it, if it had not
been locked!'
Emily, endeavouring to conceal the emotion this circumstance
occasioned, enquired at what hour she went to the chamber, and found,
that it was soon after herself had been there. She also asked
further questions, and the answers convinced her, that Annette, and
probably her informer, were ignorant of the terrible truth, though in
Annette's account something very like the truth, now and then,
mingled with the falsehood. Emily now began to fear, that her visit
to the chamber had been observed, since the door had been closed, so
immediately after her departure; and dreaded lest this should draw
upon her the vengeance of Montoni. Her anxiety, also, was excited to
know whence, and for what purpose, the delusive report, which had
been imposed upon Annette, had originated, since Montoni could only
have wished for silence and secrecy; but she felt, that the subject
was too terrible for this lonely hour, and she compelled herself to
leave it, to converse with Annette, whose chat, simple as it was, she
preferred to the stillness of total solitude.
Thus they sat, till near midnight, but not without many hints from
Annette, that she wished to go. The embers were now nearly burnt
out; and Emily heard, at a distance, the thundering sound of the hall
doors, as they were shut for the night. She, therefore, prepared for
rest, but was still unwilling that Annette should leave her. At this
instant, the great bell of the portal sounded. They listened in
fearful expectation, when, after a long pause of silence, it sounded
again. Soon after, they heard the noise of carriage wheels in the
court-yard. Emily sunk almost lifeless in her chair; 'It is the
Count,' said she.
'What, at this time of night, ma'am!' said Annette: 'no, my dear
lady. But, for that matter, it is a strange time of night for any
body to come!'
'Nay, pr'ythee, good Annette, stay not talking,' said Emily in a
voice of agony--'Go, pr'ythee, go, and see who it is.'
Annette left the room, and carried with her the light, leaving Emily
in darkness, which a few moments before would have terrified her in
this room, but was now scarcely observed by her. She listened and
waited, in breathless expectation, and heard distant noises, but
Annette did not return. Her patience, at length, exhausted, she
tried to find her way to the corridor, but it was long before she
could touch the door of the chamber, and, when she had opened it, the
total darkness without made her fear to proceed. Voices were now
heard, and Emily even thought she distinguished those of Count
Morano, and Montoni. Soon after, she heard steps approaching, and
then a ray of light streamed through the darkness, and Annette
appeared, whom Emily went to meet.
'Yes, ma'amselle,' said she, 'you was right, it is the Count sure
enough.'
'It is he!' exclaimed Emily, lifting her eyes towards heaven and
supporting herself by Annette's arm.
'Good Lord! my dear lady, don't be in such a FLUSTER, and look so
pale, we shall soon hear more.'
'We shall, indeed!' said Emily, moving as fast as she was able
towards her apartment. 'I am not well; give me air.' Annette opened
a casement, and brought water. The faintness soon left Emily, but
she desired Annette would not go till she heard from Montoni.
'Dear ma'amselle! he surely will not disturb you at this time of
night; why he must think you are asleep.'
'Stay with me till I am so, then,' said Emily, who felt temporary
relief from this suggestion, which appeared probable enough, though
her fears had prevented its occurring to her. Annette, with secret
reluctance, consented to stay, and Emily was now composed enough to
ask her some questions; among others, whether she had seen the Count.
'Yes, ma'am, I saw him alight, for I went from hence to the grate in
the north turret, that overlooks the inner court-yard, you know.
There I saw the Count's carriage, and the Count in it, waiting at the
great door,--for the porter was just gone to bed--with several men on
horseback all by the light of the torches they carried.' Emily was
compelled to smile. 'When the door was opened, the Count said
something, that I could not make out, and then got out, and another
gentleman with him. I thought, to be sure, the Signor was gone to
bed, and I hastened away to my lady's dressing-room, to see what I
could hear. But in the way I met Ludovico, and he told me that the
Signor was up, counselling with his master and the other Signors, in
the room at the end of the north gallery; and Ludovico held up his
finger, and laid it on his lips, as much as to say--There is more
going on, than you think of, Annette, but you must hold your tongue.
And so I did hold my tongue, ma'amselle, and came away to tell you
directly.'
Emily enquired who the cavalier was, that accompanied the Count, and
how Montoni received them; but Annette could not inform her.
'Ludovico,' she added, 'had just been to call Signor Montoni's valet,
that he might tell him they were arrived, when I met him.'
Emily sat musing, for some time, and then her anxiety was so much
increased, that she desired Annette would go to the servants' hall,
where it was possible she might hear something of the Count's
intention, respecting his stay at the castle.
'Yes, ma'am,' said Annette with readiness; 'but how am I to find the
way, if I leave the lamp with you?'
Emily said she would light her, and they immediately quitted the
chamber. When they had reached the top of the great stair-case,
Emily recollected, that she might be seen by the Count, and, to avoid
the great hall, Annette conducted her through some private passages
to a back stair-case, which led directly to that of the servants.
As she returned towards her chamber, Emily began to fear, that she
might again lose herself in the intricacies of the castle, and again
be shocked by some mysterious spectacle; and, though she was already
perplexed by the numerous turnings, she feared to open one of the
many doors that offered. While she stepped thoughtfully along, she
fancied, that she heard a low moaning at no great distance, and,
having paused a moment, she heard it again and distinctly. Several
doors appeared on the right hand of the passage. She advanced, and
listened. When she came to the second, she heard a voice, apparently
in complaint, within, to which she continued to listen, afraid to
open the door, and unwilling to leave it. Convulsive sobs followed,
and then the piercing accents of an agonizing spirit burst forth.
Emily stood appalled, and looked through the gloom, that surrounded
her, in fearful expectation. The lamentations continued. Pity now
began to subdue terror; it was possible she might administer comfort
to the sufferer, at least, by expressing sympathy, and she laid her
hand on the door. While she hesitated she thought she knew this
voice, disguised as it was by tones of grief. Having, therefore, set
down the lamp in the passage, she gently opened the door, within
which all was dark, except that from an inner apartment a partial
light appeared; and she stepped softly on. Before she reached it,
the appearance of Madame Montoni, leaning on her dressing-table,
weeping, and with a handkerchief held to her eyes, struck her, and
she paused.
Some person was seated in a chair by the fire, but who it was she
could not distinguish. He spoke, now and then, in a low voice, that
did not allow Emily to hear what was uttered, but she thought, that
Madame Montoni, at those times, wept the more, who was too much
occupied by her own distress, to observe Emily, while the latter,
though anxious to know what occasioned this, and who was the person
admitted at so late an hour to her aunt's dressing-room, forbore to
add to her sufferings by surprising her, or to take advantage of her
situation, by listening to a private discourse. She, therefore,
stepped softly back, and, after some further difficulty, found the
way to her own chamber, where nearer interests, at length, excluded
the surprise and concern she had felt, respecting Madame Montoni.
Annette, however, returned without satisfactory intelligence, for the
servants, among whom she had been, were either entirely ignorant, or
affected to be so, concerning the Count's intended stay at the
castle. They could talk only of the steep and broken road they had
just passed, and of the numerous dangers they had escaped and express
wonder how their lord could choose to encounter all these, in the
darkness of night; for they scarcely allowed, that the torches had
served for any other purpose but that of shewing the dreariness of
the mountains. Annette, finding she could gain no information, left
them, making noisy petitions, for more wood on the fire and more
supper on the table.
'And now, ma'amselle,' added she, 'I am so sleepy!--I am sure, if you
was so sleepy, you would not desire me to sit up with you.'
Emily, indeed, began to think it was cruel to wish it; she had also
waited so long, without receiving a summons from Montoni, that it
appeared he did not mean to disturb her, at this late hour, and she
determined to dismiss Annette. But, when she again looked round her
gloomy chamber, and recollected certain circumstances, fear seized
her spirits, and she hesitated.
'And yet it were cruel of me to ask you to stay, till I am asleep,
Annette,' said she, 'for I fear it will be very long before I forget
myself in sleep.'
'I dare say it will be very long, ma'amselle,' said Annette.
'But, before you go,' rejoined Emily, 'let me ask you--Had Signor
Montoni left Count Morano, when you quitted the hall?'
'O no, ma'am, they were alone together.'
'Have you been in my aunt's dressing-room, since you left me?'
'No, ma'amselle, I called at the door as I passed, but it was
fastened; so I thought my lady was gone to bed.'
'Who, then, was with your lady just now?' said Emily, forgetting, in
surprise, her usual prudence.
'Nobody, I believe, ma'am,' replied Annette, 'nobody has been with
her, I believe, since I left you.'
Emily took no further notice of the subject, and, after some struggle
with imaginary fears, her good nature prevailed over them so far,
that she dismissed Annette for the night. She then sat, musing upon
her own circumstances and those of Madame Montoni, till her eye
rested on the miniature picture, which she had found, after her
father's death, among the papers he had enjoined her to destroy. It
was open upon the table, before her, among some loose drawings,
having, with them, been taken out of a little box by Emily, some
hours before. The sight of it called up many interesting
reflections, but the melancholy sweetness of the countenance soothed
the emotions, which these had occasioned. It was the same style of
countenance as that of her late father, and, while she gazed on it
with fondness on this account, she even fancied a resemblance in the
features. But this tranquillity was suddenly interrupted, when she
recollected the words in the manuscript, that had been found with
this picture, and which had formerly occasioned her so much doubt and
horror. At length, she roused herself from the deep reverie, into
which this remembrance had thrown her; but, when she rose to undress,
the silence and solitude, to which she was left, at this midnight
hour, for not even a distant sound was now heard, conspired with the
impression the subject she had been considering had given to her
mind, to appall her. Annette's hints, too, concerning this chamber,
simple as they were, had not failed to affect her, since they
followed a circumstance of peculiar horror, which she herself had
witnessed, and since the scene of this was a chamber nearly adjoining
her own.
The door of the stair-case was, perhaps, a subject of more reasonable
alarm, and she now began to apprehend, such was the aptitude of her
fears, that this stair-case had some private communication with the
apartment, which she shuddered even to remember. Determined not to
undress, she lay down to sleep in her clothes, with her late father's
dog, the faithful MANCHON, at the foot of the bed, whom she
considered as a kind of guard.
Thus circumstanced, she tried to banish reflection, but her busy
fancy would still hover over the subjects of her interest, and she
heard the clock of the castle strike two, before she closed her eyes.
From the disturbed slumber, into which she then sunk, she was soon
awakened by a noise, which seemed to arise within her chamber; but
the silence, that prevailed, as she fearfully listened, inclined her
to believe, that she had been alarmed by such sounds as sometimes
occur in dreams, and she laid her head again upon the pillow.
A return of the noise again disturbed her; it seemed to come from
that part of the room, which communicated with the private stair-
case, and she instantly remembered the odd circumstance of the door
having been fastened, during the preceding night, by some unknown
hand. Her late alarming suspicion, concerning its communication,
also occurred to her. Her heart became faint with terror. Half
raising herself from the bed, and gently drawing aside the curtain,
she looked towards the door of the stair-case, but the lamp, that
burnt on the hearth, spread so feeble a light through the apartment,
that the remote parts of it were lost in shadow. The noise, however,
which, she was convinced, came from the door, continued. It seemed
like that made by the undrawing of rusty bolts, and often ceased, and
was then renewed more gently, as if the hand, that occasioned it, was
restrained by a fear of discovery.
While Emily kept her eyes fixed on the spot, she saw the door move,
and then slowly open, and perceived something enter the room, but the
extreme duskiness prevented her distinguishing what it was. Almost
fainting with terror, she had yet sufficient command over herself, to
check the shriek, that was escaping from her lips, and, letting the
curtain drop from her hand, continued to observe in silence the
motions of the mysterious form she saw. It seemed to glide along the
remote obscurity of the apartment, then paused, and, as it approached
the hearth, she perceived, in the stronger light, what appeared to be
a human figure. Certain remembrances now struck upon her heart, and
almost subdued the feeble remains of her spirits; she continued,
however, to watch the figure, which remained for some time
motionless, but then, advancing slowly towards the bed, stood
silently at the feet, where the curtains, being a little open,
allowed her still to see it; terror, however, had now deprived her of
the power of discrimination, as well as of that of utterance.
Having continued there a moment, the form retreated towards the
hearth, when it took the lamp, held it up, surveyed the chamber, for
a few moments, and then again advanced towards the bed. The light at
that instant awakening the dog, that had slept at Emily's feet, he
barked loudly, and, jumping to the floor, flew at the stranger, who
struck the animal smartly with a sheathed sword, and, springing
towards the bed, Emily discovered--Count Morano!
She gazed at him for a moment in speechless affright, while he,
throwing himself on his knee at the bed-side, besought her to fear
nothing, and, having thrown down his sword, would have taken her
hand, when the faculties, that terror had suspended, suddenly
returned, and she sprung from the bed, in the dress, which surely a
kind of prophetic apprehension had prevented her, on this night, from
throwing aside.
Morano rose, followed her to the door, through which he had entered,
and caught her hand, as she reached the top of the stair-case, but
not before she had discovered, by the gleam of a lamp, another man
half-way down the steps. She now screamed in despair, and, believing
herself given up by Montoni, saw, indeed, no possibility of escape.
The Count, who still held her hand, led her back into the chamber.
'Why all this terror?' said he, in a tremulous voice. 'Hear me,
Emily: I come not to alarm you; no, by Heaven! I love you too well-
-too well for my own peace.'
Emily looked at him for a moment, in fearful doubt.
'Then leave me, sir,' said she, 'leave me instantly.'
'Hear me, Emily,' resumed Morano, 'hear me! I love, and am in
despair--yes--in despair. How can I gaze upon you, and know, that it
is, perhaps, for the last time, without suffering all the phrensy of
despair? But it shall not be so; you shall be mine, in spite of
Montoni and all his villany.'
'In spite of Montoni!' cried Emily eagerly: 'what is it I hear?'
'You hear, that Montoni is a villain,' exclaimed Morano with
vehemence,--'a villain who would have sold you to my love!--Who---'
'And is he less, who would have bought me?' said Emily, fixing on the
Count an eye of calm contempt. 'Leave the room, sir, instantly,' she
continued in a voice, trembling between joy and fear, 'or I will
alarm the family, and you may receive that from Signor Montoni's
vengeance, which I have vainly supplicated from his pity.' But Emily
knew, that she was beyond the hearing of those, who might protect
her.
'You can never hope any thing from his pity,' said Morano, 'he has
used me infamously, and my vengeance shall pursue him. And for you,
Emily, for you, he has new plans more profitable than the last, no
doubt.' The gleam of hope, which the Count's former speech had
revived, was now nearly extinguished by the latter; and, while
Emily's countenance betrayed the emotions of her mind, he endeavoured
to take advantage of the discovery.
'I lose time,' said he: 'I came not to exclaim against Montoni; I
came to solicit, to plead--to Emily; to tell her all I suffer, to
entreat her to save me from despair, and herself from destruction.
Emily! the schemes of Montoni are insearchable, but, I warn you, they
are terrible; he has no principle, when interest, or ambition leads.
Can I love you, and abandon you to his power? Fly, then, fly from
this gloomy prison, with a lover, who adores you! I have bribed a
servant of the castle to open the gates, and, before tomorrow's dawn,
you shall be far on the way to Venice.'
Emily, overcome by the sudden shock she had received, at the moment,
too, when she had begun to hope for better days, now thought she saw
destruction surround her on every side. Unable to reply, and almost
to think, she threw herself into a chair, pale and breathless. That
Montoni had formerly sold her to Morano, was very probable; that he
had now withdrawn his consent to the marriage, was evident from the
Count's present conduct; and it was nearly certain, that a scheme of
stronger interest only could have induced the selfish Montoni to
forego a plan, which he had hitherto so strenuously pursued. These
reflections made her tremble at the hints, which Morano had just
given, which she no longer hesitated to believe; and, while she
shrunk from the new scenes of misery and oppression, that might await
her in the castle of Udolpho, she was compelled to observe, that
almost her only means of escaping them was by submitting herself to
the protection of this man, with whom evils more certain and not less
terrible appeared,--evils, upon which she could not endure to pause
for an instant.
Her silence, though it was that of agony, encouraged the hopes of
Morano, who watched her countenance with impatience, took again the
resisting hand she had withdrawn, and, as he pressed it to his heart,
again conjured her to determine immediately. 'Every moment we lose,
will make our departure more dangerous,' said he: 'these few moments
lost may enable Montoni to overtake us.'
'I beseech you, sir, be silent,' said Emily faintly: 'I am indeed
very wretched, and wretched I must remain. Leave me--I command you,
leave me to my fate.'
'Never!' cried the Count vehemently: 'let me perish first! But
forgive my violence! the thought of losing you is madness. You
cannot be ignorant of Montoni's character, you may be ignorant of his
schemes--nay, you must be so, or you would not hesitate between my
love and his power.'
'Nor do I hesitate,' said Emily.
'Let us go, then,' said Morano, eagerly kissing her hand, and rising,
'my carriage waits, below the castle walls.'
'You mistake me, sir,' said Emily. 'Allow me to thank you for the
interest you express in my welfare, and to decide by my own choice.
I shall remain under the protection of Signor Montoni.'
'Under his protection!' exclaimed Morano, proudly, 'his PROTECTION!
Emily, why will you suffer yourself to be thus deluded? I have
already told you what you have to expect from his PROTECTION.'
'And pardon me, sir, if, in this instance, I doubt mere assertion,
and, to be convinced, require something approaching to proof.'
'I have now neither the time, or the means of adducing proof,'
replied the Count.
'Nor have I, sir, the inclination to listen to it, if you had.'
'But you trifle with my patience and my distress,' continued Morano.
'Is a marriage with a man, who adores you, so very terrible in your
eyes, that you would prefer to it all the misery, to which Montoni
may condemn you in this remote prison? Some wretch must have stolen
those affections, which ought to be mine, or you would not thus
obstinately persist in refusing an offer, that would place you beyond
the reach of oppression.' Morano walked about the room, with quick
steps, and a disturbed air.
'This discourse, Count Morano, sufficiently proves, that my
affections ought not to be yours,' said Emily, mildly, 'and this
conduct, that I should not be placed beyond the reach of oppression,
so long as I remained in your power. If you wish me to believe
otherwise, cease to oppress me any longer by your presence. If you
refuse this, you will compel me to expose you to the resentment of
Signor Montoni.'
'Yes, let him come,' cried Morano furiously, 'and brave MY
resentment! Let him dare to face once more the man he has so
courageously injured; danger shall teach him morality, and vengeance
justice--let him come, and receive my sword in his heart!'
The vehemence, with which this was uttered, gave Emily new cause of
alarm, who arose from her chair, but her trembling frame refused to
support her, and she resumed her seat;--the words died on her lips,
and, when she looked wistfully towards the door of the corridor,
which was locked, she considered it was impossible for her to leave
the apartment, before Morano would be apprised of, and able to
counteract, her intention.
Without observing her agitation, he continued to pace the room in the
utmost perturbation of spirits. His darkened countenance expressed
all the rage of jealousy and revenge; and a person, who had seen his
features under the smile of ineffable tenderness, which he so lately
assumed, would now scarcely have believed them to be the same.
'Count Morano,' said Emily, at length recovering her voice, 'calm, I
entreat you, these transports, and listen to reason, if you will not
to pity. You have equally misplaced your love, and your hatred.--I
never could have returned the affection, with which you honour me,
and certainly have never encouraged it; neither has Signor Montoni
injured you, for you must have known, that he had no right to dispose
of my hand, had he even possessed the power to do so. Leave, then,
leave the castle, while you may with safety. Spare yourself the
dreadful consequences of an unjust revenge, and the remorse of having
prolonged to me these moments of suffering.'
'Is it for mine, or for Montoni's safety, that you are thus alarmed?'
said Morano, coldly, and turning towards her with a look of acrimony.
'For both,' replied Emily, in a trembling voice.
'Unjust revenge!' cried the Count, resuming the abrupt tones of
passion. 'Who, that looks upon that face, can imagine a punishment
adequate to the injury he would have done me? Yes, I will leave the
castle; but it shall not be alone. I have trifled too long. Since
my prayers and my sufferings cannot prevail, force shall. I have
people in waiting, who shall convey you to my carriage. Your voice
will bring no succour; it cannot be heard from this remote part of
the castle; submit, therefore, in silence, to go with me.'
This was an unnecessary injunction, at present; for Emily was too
certain, that her call would avail her nothing; and terror had so
entirely disordered her thoughts, that she knew not how to plead to
Morano, but sat, mute and trembling, in her chair, till he advanced
to lift her from it, when she suddenly raised herself, and, with a
repulsive gesture, and a countenance of forced serenity, said, 'Count
Morano! I am now in your power; but you will observe, that this is
not the conduct which can win the esteem you appear so solicitous to
obtain, and that you are preparing for yourself a load of remorse, in
the miseries of a friendless orphan, which can never leave you. Do
you believe your heart to be, indeed, so hardened, that you can look
without emotion on the suffering, to which you would condemn me?'---
Emily was interrupted by the growling of the dog, who now came again
from the bed, and Morano looked towards the door of the stair-case,
where no person appearing, he called aloud, 'Cesario!'
'Emily,' said the Count, 'why will you reduce me to adopt this
conduct? How much more willingly would I persuade, than compel you
to become my wife! but, by Heaven! I will not leave you to be sold by
Montoni. Yet a thought glances across my mind, that brings madness
with it. I know not how to name it. It is preposterous--it cannot
be.--Yet you tremble--you grow pale! It is! it is so;--you--you--
love Montoni!' cried Morano, grasping Emily's wrist, and stamping his
foot on the floor.
An involuntary air of surprise appeared on her countenance. 'If you
have indeed believed so,' said she, 'believe so still.'
'That look, those words confirm it,' exclaimed Morano, furiously.
'No, no, no, Montoni had a richer prize in view, than gold. But he
shall not live to triumph over me!--This very instant---'
He was interrupted by the loud barking of the dog.
'Stay, Count Morano,' said Emily, terrified by his words, and by the
fury expressed in his eyes, 'I will save you from this error.--Of all
men, Signor Montoni is not your rival; though, if I find all other
means of saving myself vain, I will try whether my voice may not
arouse his servants to my succour.'
'Assertion,' replied Morano, 'at such a moment, is not to be depended
upon. How could I suffer myself to doubt, even for an instant, that
he could see you, and not love?--But my first care shall be to convey
you from the castle. Cesario! ho,--Cesario!'
A man now appeared at the door of the stair-case, and other steps
were heard ascending. Emily uttered a loud shriek, as Morano hurried
her across the chamber, and, at the same moment, she heard a noise at
the door, that opened upon the corridor. The Count paused an
instant, as if his mind was suspended between love and the desire of
vengeance; and, in that instant, the door gave way, and Montoni,
followed by the old steward and several other persons, burst into the
room.
'Draw!' cried Montoni to the Count, who did not pause for a second
bidding, but, giving Emily into the hands of the people, that
appeared from the stair-case, turned fiercely round. 'This in thine
heart, villain!' said he, as he made a thrust at Montoni with his
sword, who parried the blow, and aimed another, while some of the
persons, who had followed him into the room, endeavoured to part the
combatants, and others rescued Emily from the hands of Morano's
servants.
'Was it for this, Count Morano,' said Montoni, in a cool sarcastic
tone of voice, 'that I received you under my roof, and permitted you,
though my declared enemy, to remain under it for the night? Was it,
that you might repay my hospitality with the treachery of a fiend,
and rob me of my niece?'
'Who talks of treachery?' said Morano, in a tone of unrestrained
vehemence. 'Let him that does, shew an unblushing face of innocence.
Montoni, you are a villain! If there is treachery in this affair,
look to yourself as the author of it. IF--do I say? I--whom you
have wronged with unexampled baseness, whom you have injured almost
beyond redress! But why do I use words?--Come on, coward, and
receive justice at my hands!'
'Coward!' cried Montoni, bursting from the people who held him, and
rushing on the Count, when they both retreated into the corridor,
where the fight continued so desperately, that none of the spectators
dared approach them, Montoni swearing, that the first who interfered,
should fall by his sword.
Jealousy and revenge lent all their fury to Morano, while the
superior skill and the temperance of Montoni enabled him to wound his
adversary, whom his servants now attempted to seize, but he would not
be restrained, and, regardless of his wound, continued to fight. He
seemed to be insensible both of pain and loss of blood, and alive
only to the energy of his passions. Montoni, on the contrary,
persevered in the combat, with a fierce, yet wary, valour; he
received the point of Morano's sword on his arm, but, almost in the
same instant, severely wounded and disarmed him. The Count then fell
back into the arms of his servant, while Montoni held his sword over
him, and bade him ask his life. Morano, sinking under the anguish of
his wound, had scarcely replied by a gesture, and by a few words,
feebly articulated, that he would not--when he fainted; and Montoni
was then going to have plunged the sword into his breast, as he lay
senseless, but his arm was arrested by Cavigni. To the interruption
he yielded without much difficulty, but his complexion changed almost
to blackness, as he looked upon his fallen adversary, and ordered,
that he should be carried instantly from the castle.
In the mean time, Emily, who had been with-held from leaving the
chamber during the affray, now came forward into the corridor, and
pleaded a cause of common humanity, with the feelings of the warmest
benevolence, when she entreated Montoni to allow Morano the
assistance in the castle, which his situation required. But Montoni,
who had seldom listened to pity, now seemed rapacious of vengeance,
and, with a monster's cruelty, again ordered his defeated enemy to be
taken from the castle, in his present state, though there were only
the woods, or a solitary neighbouring cottage, to shelter him from
the night.
The Count's servants having declared, that they would not move him
till he revived, Montoni's stood inactive, Cavigni remonstrating, and
Emily, superior to Montoni's menaces, giving water to Morano, and
directing the attendants to bind up his wound. At length, Montoni
had leisure to feel pain from his own hurt, and he withdrew to
examine it.
The Count, meanwhile, having slowly recovered, the first object he
saw, on raising his eyes, was Emily, bending over him with a
countenance strongly expressive of solicitude. He surveyed her with
a look of anguish.
'I have deserved this,' said he, 'but not from Montoni. It is from
you, Emily, that I have deserved punishment, yet I receive only
pity!' He paused, for he had spoken with difficulty. After a
moment, he proceeded. 'I must resign you, but not to Montoni.
Forgive me the sufferings I have already occasioned you! But for
THAT villain--his infamy shall not go unpunished. Carry me from this
place,' said he to his servants. 'I am in no condition to travel:
you must, therefore, take me to the nearest cottage, for I will not
pass the night under his roof, although I may expire on the way from
it.'
Cesario proposed to go out, and enquire for a cottage, that might
receive his master, before he attempted to remove him: but Morano
was impatient to be gone; the anguish of his mind seemed to be even
greater than that of his wound, and he rejected, with disdain, the
offer of Cavigni to entreat Montoni, that he might be suffered to
pass the night in the castle. Cesario was now going to call up the
carriage to the great gate, but the Count forbade him. 'I cannot
bear the motion of a carriage,' said he: 'call some others of my
people, that they may assist in bearing me in their arms.'
At length, however, Morano submitted to reason, and consented, that
Cesario should first prepare some cottage to receive him. Emily, now
that he had recovered his senses, was about to withdraw from the
corridor, when a message from Montoni commanded her to do so, and
also that the Count, if he was not already gone, should quit the
castle immediately. Indignation flashed from Morano's eyes, and
flushed his cheeks.
'Tell Montoni,' said he, 'that I shall go when it suits my own
convenience; that I quit the castle, he dares to call his, as I would
the nest of a serpent, and that this is not the last he shall hear
from me. Tell him, I will not leave ANOTHER murder on his
conscience, if I can help it.'
'Count Morano! do you know what you say?' said Cavigni.
'Yes, Signor, I know well what I say, and he will understand well
what I mean. His conscience will assist his understanding, on this
occasion.'
'Count Morano,' said Verezzi, who had hitherto silently observed him,
'dare again to insult my friend, and I will plunge this sword in your
body.'
'It would be an action worthy the friend of a villain!' said Morano,
as the strong impulse of his indignation enabled him to raise himself
from the arms of his servants; but the energy was momentary, and he
sunk back, exhausted by the effort. Montoni's people, meanwhile,
held Verezzi, who seemed inclined, even in this instant, to execute
his threat; and Cavigni, who was not so depraved as to abet the
cowardly malignity of Verezzi, endeavoured to withdraw him from the
corridor; and Emily, whom a compassionate interest had thus long
detained, was now quitting it in new terror, when the supplicating
voice of Morano arrested her, and, by a feeble gesture, he beckoned
her to draw nearer. She advanced with timid steps, but the fainting
languor of his countenance again awakened her pity, and overcame her
terror.
'I am going from hence for ever,' said he: 'perhaps, I shall never
see you again. I would carry with me your forgiveness, Emily; nay
more--I would also carry your good wishes.'
'You have my forgiveness, then,' said Emily, 'and my sincere wishes
for your recovery.'
'And only for my recovery?' said Morano, with a sigh. 'For your
general welfare,' added Emily.
'Perhaps I ought to be contented with this,' he resumed; 'I certainly
have not deserved more; but I would ask you, Emily, sometimes to
think of me, and, forgetting my offence, to remember only the passion
which occasioned it. I would ask, alas! impossibilities: I would
ask you to love me! At this moment, when I am about to part with
you, and that, perhaps, for ever, I am scarcely myself. Emily--may
you never know the torture of a passion like mine! What do I say?
O, that, for me, you might be sensible of such a passion!'
Emily looked impatient to be gone. 'I entreat you, Count, to consult
your own safety,' said she, 'and linger here no longer. I tremble
for the consequences of Signor Verezzi's passion, and of Montoni's
resentment, should he learn that you are still here.'
Morano's face was overspread with a momentary crimson, his eyes
sparkled, but he seemed endeavouring to conquer his emotion, and
replied in a calm voice, 'Since you are interested for my safety, I
will regard it, and be gone. But, before I go, let me again hear you
say, that you wish me well,' said he, fixing on her an earnest and
mournful look.
Emily repeated her assurances. He took her hand, which she scarcely
attempted to withdraw, and put it to his lips. 'Farewell, Count
Morano!' said Emily; and she turned to go, when a second message
arrived from Montoni, and she again conjured Morano, as he valued his
life, to quit the castle immediately. He regarded her in silence,
with a look of fixed despair. But she had no time to enforce her
compassionate entreaties, and, not daring to disobey the second
command of Montoni, she left the corridor, to attend him.
He was in the cedar parlour, that adjoined the great hall, laid upon
a couch, and suffering a degree of anguish from his wound, which few
persons could have disguised, as he did. His countenance, which was
stern, but calm, expressed the dark passion of revenge, but no
symptom of pain; bodily pain, indeed, he had always despised, and had
yielded only to the strong and terrible energies of the soul. He was
attended by old Carlo and by Signor Bertolini, but Madame Montoni was
not with him.
Emily trembled, as she approached and received his severe rebuke, for
not having obeyed his first summons; and perceived, also, that he
attributed her stay in the corridor to a motive, that had not even
occurred to her artless mind.
'This is an instance of female caprice,' said he, 'which I ought to
have foreseen. Count Morano, whose suit you obstinately rejected, so
long as it was countenanced by me, you favour, it seems, since you
find I have dismissed him.'
Emily looked astonished. 'I do not comprehend you, sir,' said she:
'You certainly do not mean to imply, that the design of the Count to
visit the double-chamber, was founded upon any approbation of mine.'
'To that I reply nothing,' said Montoni; 'but it must certainly be a
more than common interest, that made you plead so warmly in his
cause, and that could detain you thus long in his presence, contrary
to my express order--in the presence of a man, whom you have
hitherto, on all occasions, most scrupulously shunned!'
'I fear, sir, it was a more than common interest, that detained me,'
said Emily calmly; 'for of late I have been inclined to think, that
of compassion is an uncommon one. But how could I, could YOU, sir,
witness Count Morano's deplorable condition, and not wish to relieve
it?'
'You add hypocrisy to caprice,' said Montoni, frowning, 'and an
attempt at satire, to both; but, before you undertake to regulate the
morals of other persons, you should learn and practise the virtues,
which are indispensable to a woman--sincerity, uniformity of conduct
and obedience.'
Emily, who had always endeavoured to regulate her conduct by the
nicest laws, and whose mind was finely sensible, not only of what is
just in morals, but of whatever is beautiful in the female character,
was shocked by these words; yet, in the next moment, her heart
swelled with the consciousness of having deserved praise, instead of
censure, and she was proudly silent. Montoni, acquainted with the
delicacy of her mind, knew how keenly she would feel his rebuke; but
he was a stranger to the luxury of conscious worth, and, therefore,
did not foresee the energy of that sentiment, which now repelled his
satire. Turning to a servant who had lately entered the room, he
asked whether Morano had quitted the castle. The man answered, that
his servants were then removing him, on a couch, to a neighbouring
cottage. Montoni seemed somewhat appeased, on hearing this; and,
when Ludovico appeared, a few moments after, and said, that Morano
was gone, he told Emily she might retire to her apartment.
She withdrew willingly from his presence; but the thought of passing
the remainder of the night in a chamber, which the door from the
stair-case made liable to the intrusion of any person, now alarmed
her more than ever, and she determined to call at Madame Montoni's
room, and request, that Annette might be permitted to be with her.
On reaching the great gallery, she heard voices seemingly in dispute,
and, her spirits now apt to take alarm, she paused, but soon
distinguished some words of Cavigni and Verezzi, and went towards
them, in the hope of conciliating their difference. They were alone.
Verezzi's face was still flushed with rage; and, as the first object
of it was now removed from him, he appeared willing to transfer his
resentment to Cavigni, who seemed to be expostulating, rather than
disputing, with him.
Verezzi was protesting, that he would instantly inform Montoni of the
insult, which Morano had thrown out against him, and above all, that,
wherein he had accused him of murder.
'There is no answering,' said Cavigni, 'for the words of a man in a
passion; little serious regard ought to be paid to them. If you
persist in your resolution, the consequences may be fatal to both.
We have now more serious interests to pursue, than those of a petty
revenge.'
Emily joined her entreaties to Cavigni's arguments, and they, at
length, prevailed so far, as that Verezzi consented to retire,
without seeing Montoni.
On calling at her aunt's apartment, she found it fastened. In a few
minutes, however, it was opened by Madame Montoni herself.
It may be remembered, that it was by a door leading into the bedroom
from a back passage, that Emily had secretly entered a few hours
preceding. She now conjectured, by the calmness of Madame Montoni's
air, that she was not apprised of the accident, which had befallen
her husband, and was beginning to inform her of it, in the tenderest
manner she could, when her aunt interrupted her, by saying, she was
acquainted with the whole affair.
Emily knew indeed, that she had little reason to love Montoni, but
could scarcely have believed her capable of such perfect apathy, as
she now discovered towards him; having obtained permission, however,
for Annette to sleep in her chamber, she went thither immediately.
A track of blood appeared along the corridor, leading to it; and on
the spot, where the Count and Montoni had fought, the whole floor was
stained. Emily shuddered, and leaned on Annette, as she passed.
When she reached her apartment, she instantly determined, since the
door of the stair-case had been left open, and that Annette was now
with her, to explore whither it led,--a circumstance now materially
connected with her own safety. Annette accordingly, half curious and
half afraid, proposed to descend the stairs; but, on approaching the
door, they perceived, that it was already fastened without, and their
care was then directed to the securing it on the inside also, by
placing against it as much of the heavy furniture of the room, as
they could lift. Emily then retired to bed, and Annette continued on
a chair by the hearth, where some feeble embers remained.
CHAPTER VII
Of aery tongues, that syllable men's names
On sands and shores and desert wildernesses.
MILTON
It is now necessary to mention some circumstances, which could not be
related amidst the events of Emily's hasty departure from Venice, or
together with those, which so rapidly succeeded to her arrival in the
castle.
On the morning of her journey, Count Morano had gone at the appointed
hour to the mansion of Montoni, to demand his bride. When he reached
it, he was somewhat surprised by the silence and solitary air of the
portico, where Montoni's lacqueys usually loitered; but surprise was
soon changed to astonishment, and astonishment to the rage of
disappointment, when the door was opened by an old woman, who told
his servants, that her master and his family had left Venice, early
in the morning, for terra-firma. Scarcely believing what his
servants told, he left his gondola, and rushed into the hall to
enquire further. The old woman, who was the only person left in care
of the mansion, persisted in her story, which the silent and deserted
apartments soon convinced him was no fiction. He then seized her
with a menacing air, as if he meant to wreak all his vengeance upon
her, at the same time asking her twenty questions in a breath, and
all these with a gesticulation so furious, that she was deprived of
the power of answering them; then suddenly letting her go, he stamped
about the hall, like a madman, cursing Montoni and his own folly.
When the good woman was at liberty, and had somewhat recovered from
her fright, she told him all she knew of the affair, which was,
indeed, very little, but enough to enable Morano to discover, that
Montoni was gone to his castle on the Apennine. Thither he followed,
as soon as his servants could complete the necessary preparation for
the journey, accompanied by a friend, and attended by a number of his
people, determined to obtain Emily, or a full revenge on Montoni.
When his mind had recovered from the first effervescence of rage, and
his thoughts became less obscured, his conscience hinted to him
certain circumstances, which, in some measure, explained the conduct
of Montoni: but how the latter could have been led to suspect an
intention, which, he had believed, was known only to himself, he
could not even guess. On this occasion, however, he had been partly
betrayed by that sympathetic intelligence, which may be said to exist
between bad minds, and which teaches one man to judge what another
will do in the same circumstances. Thus it was with Montoni, who had
now received indisputable proof of a truth, which he had some time
suspected--that Morano's circumstances, instead of being affluent, as
he had been bidden to believe, were greatly involved. Montoni had
been interested in his suit, by motives entirely selfish, those of
avarice and pride; the last of which would have been gratified by an
alliance with a Venetian nobleman, the former by Emily's estate in
Gascony, which he had stipulated, as the price of his favour, should
be delivered up to him from the day of her marriage. In the
meantime, he had been led to suspect the consequence of the Count's
boundless extravagance; but it was not till the evening, preceding
the intended nuptials, that he obtained certain information of his
distressed circumstances. He did not hesitate then to infer, that
Morano designed to defraud him of Emily's estate; and in this
supposition he was confirmed, and with apparent reason, by the
subsequent conduct of the Count, who, after having appointed to meet
him on that night, for the purpose of signing the instrument, which
was to secure to him his reward, failed in his engagement. Such a
circumstance, indeed, in a man of Morano's gay and thoughtless
character, and at a time when his mind was engaged by the bustle of
preparation for his nuptials, might have been attributed to a cause
less decisive, than design; but Montoni did not hesitate an instant
to interpret it his own way, and, after vainly waiting the Count's
arrival, for several hours, he gave orders for his people to be in
readiness to set off at a moment's notice. By hastening to Udolpho
he intended to remove Emily from the reach of Morano, as well as to
break off the affair, without submitting himself to useless
altercation: and, if the Count meant what he called honourably, he
would doubtless follow Emily, and sign the writings in question. If
this was done, so little consideration had Montoni for her welfare,
that he would not have scrupled to sacrifice her to a man of ruined
fortune, since by that means he could enrich himself; and he forbore
to mention to her the motive of his sudden journey, lest the hope it
might revive should render her more intractable, when submission
would be required.
With these considerations, he had left Venice; and, with others
totally different, Morano had, soon after, pursued his steps across
the rugged Apennines. When his arrival was announced at the castle,
Montoni did not believe, that he would have presumed to shew himself,
unless he had meant to fulfil his engagement, and he, therefore,
readily admitted him; but the enraged countenance and expressions of
Morano, as he entered the apartment, instantly undeceived him; and,
when Montoni had explained, in part, the motives of his abrupt
departure from Venice, the Count still persisted in demanding Emily,
and reproaching Montoni, without even naming the former stipulation.
Montoni, at length, weary of the dispute, deferred the settling of it
till the morrow, and Morano retired with some hope, suggested by
Montoni's apparent indecision. When, however, in the silence of his
own apartment, he began to consider the past conversation, the
character of Montoni, and some former instances of his duplicity, the
hope, which he had admitted, vanished, and he determined not to
neglect the present possibility of obtaining Emily by other means.
To his confidential valet he told his design of carrying away Emily,
and sent him back to Montoni's servants to find out one among them,
who might enable him to execute it. The choice of this person he
entrusted to the fellow's own discernment, and not imprudently; for
he discovered a man, whom Montoni had, on some former occasion,
treated harshly, and who was now ready to betray him. This man
conducted Cesario round the castle, through a private passage, to the
stair-case, that led to Emily's chamber; then shewed him a short way
out of the building, and afterwards procured him the keys, that would
secure his retreat. The man was well rewarded for his trouble; how
the Count was rewarded for his treachery, had already appeared.
Meanwhile, old Carlo had overheard two of Morano's servants, who had
been ordered to be in waiting with the carriage, beyond the castle
walls, expressing their surprise at their master's sudden, and secret
departure, for the valet had entrusted them with no more of Morano's
designs, than it was necessary for them to execute. They, however,
indulged themselves in surmises, and in expressing them to each
other; and from these Carlo had drawn a just conclusion. But, before
he ventured to disclose his apprehensions to Montoni, he endeavoured
to obtain further confirmation of them, and, for this purpose, placed
himself, with one of his fellow-servants, at the door of Emily's
apartment, that opened upon the corridor. He did not watch long in
vain, though the growling of the dog had once nearly betrayed him.
When he was convinced, that Morano was in the room, and had listened
long enough to his conversation, to understand his scheme, he
immediately alarmed Montoni, and thus rescued Emily from the designs
of the Count.
Montoni, on the following morning, appeared as usual, except that he
wore his wounded arm in a sling; he went out upon the ramparts;
overlooked the men employed in repairing them; gave orders for
additional workmen, and then came into the castle to give audience to
several persons, who were just arrived, and who were shewn into a
private apartment, where he communicated with them, for near an hour.
Carlo was then summoned, and ordered to conduct the strangers to a
part of the castle, which, in former times, had been occupied by the
upper servants of the family, and to provide them with every
necessary refreshment.--When he had done this, he was bidden to
return to his master.
Meanwhile, the Count remained in a cottage in the skirts of the woods
below, suffering under bodily and mental pain, and meditating deep
revenge against Montoni. His servant, whom he had dispatched for a
surgeon to the nearest town, which was, however, at a considerable
distance, did not return till the following day, when, his wounds
being examined and dressed, the practitioner refused to deliver any
positive opinion, concerning the degree of danger attending them; but
giving his patient a composing draught and ordering him to be quiet,
remained at the cottage to watch the event.
Emily, for the remainder of the late eventful night, had been
suffered to sleep, undisturbed; and, when her mind recovered from the
confusion of slumber, and she remembered, that she was now released
from the addresses of Count Morano, her spirits were suddenly
relieved from a part of the terrible anxiety, that had long oppressed
them; that which remained, arose chiefly from a recollection of
Morano's assertions, concerning the schemes of Montoni. He had said,
that plans of the latter, concerning Emily, were insearchable, yet
that he knew them to be terrible. At the time he uttered this, she
almost believed it to be designed for the purpose of prevailing with
her to throw herself into his protection, and she still thought it
might be chiefly so accounted for; but his assertions had left an
impression on her mind, which a consideration of the character and
former conduct of Montoni did not contribute to efface. She,
however, checked her propensity to anticipate evil; and, determined
to enjoy this respite from actual misfortune, tried to dismiss
thought, took her instruments for drawing, and placed herself at a
window, to select into a landscape some features of the scenery
without.
As she was thus employed, she saw, walking on the rampart below, the
men, who had so lately arrived at the castle. The sight of strangers
surprised her, but still more, of strangers such as these. There was
a singularity in their dress, and a certain fierceness in their air,
that fixed all her attention. She withdrew from the casement, while
they passed, but soon returned to observe them further. Their
figures seemed so well suited to the wildness of the surrounding
objects, that, as they stood surveying the castle, she sketched them
for banditti, amid the mountain-view of her picture, when she had
finished which, she was surprised to observe the spirit of her group.
But she had copied from nature.
Carlo, when he had placed refreshment before these men in the
apartment assigned to them, returned, as he was ordered, to Montoni,
who was anxious to discover by what servant the keys of the castle
had been delivered to Morano, on the preceding night. But this man,
though he was too faithful to his master quietly to see him injured,
would not betray a fellow-servant even to justice; he, therefore,
pretended to be ignorant who it was, that had conspired with Count
Morano, and related, as before, that he had only overheard some of
the strangers describing the plot.
Montoni's suspicions naturally fell upon the porter, whom he ordered
now to attend. Carlo hesitated, and then with slow steps went to
seek him.
Barnardine, the porter, denied the accusation with a countenance so
steady and undaunted, that Montoni could scarcely believe him guilty,
though he knew not how to think him innocent. At length, the man was
dismissed from his presence, and, though the real offender, escaped
detection.
Montoni then went to his wife's apartment, whither Emily followed
soon after, but, finding them in high dispute, was instantly leaving
the room, when her aunt called her back, and desired her to stay.--
'You shall be a witness,' said she, 'of my opposition. Now, sir,
repeat the command, I have so often refused to obey.'
Montoni turned, with a stern countenance, to Emily, and bade her quit
the apartment, while his wife persisted in desiring, that she would
stay. Emily was eager to escape from this scene of contention, and
anxious, also, to serve her aunt; but she despaired of conciliating
Montoni, in whose eyes the rising tempest of his soul flashed
terribly.
'Leave the room,' said he, in a voice of thunder. Emily obeyed, and,
walking down to the rampart, which the strangers had now left,
continued to meditate on the unhappy marriage of her father's sister,
and on her own desolate situation, occasioned by the ridiculous
imprudence of her, whom she had always wished to respect and love.
Madame Montoni's conduct had, indeed, rendered it impossible for
Emily to do either; but her gentle heart was touched by her distress,
and, in the pity thus awakened, she forgot the injurious treatment
she had received from her.
As she sauntered on the rampart, Annette appeared at the hall door,
looked cautiously round, and then advanced to meet her.
'Dear ma'amselle, I have been looking for you all over the castle,'
said she. 'If you will step this way, I will shew you a picture.'
'A picture!' exclaimed Emily, and shuddered.
'Yes, ma'am, a picture of the late lady of this place. Old Carlo
just now told me it was her, and I thought you would be curious to
see it. As to my lady, you know, ma'amselle, one cannot talk about
such things to her.'--
'And so,' said Emily smilingly, 'as you must talk of them to
somebody--'
'Why, yes, ma'amselle; what can one do in such a place as this, if
one must not talk? If I was in a dungeon, if they would let me talk-
-it would be some comfort; nay, I would talk, if it was only to the
walls. But come, ma'amselle, we lose time--let me shew you to the
picture.'
'Is it veiled?' said Emily, pausing.
'Dear ma'amselle!' said Annette, fixing her eyes on Emily's face,
'what makes you look so pale?--are you ill?'
'No, Annette, I am well enough, but I have no desire to see this
picture; return into the hall.'
'What! ma'am, not to see the lady of this castle?' said the girl--
'the lady, who disappeared to strangely? Well! now, I would have run
to the furthest mountain we can see, yonder, to have got a sight of
such a picture; and, to speak my mind, that strange story is all,
that makes me care about this old castle, though it makes me thrill
all over, as it were, whenever I think of it.'
'Yes, Annette, you love the wonderful; but do you know, that, unless
you guard against this inclination, it will lead you into all the
misery of superstition?'
Annette might have smiled in her turn, at this sage observation of
Emily, who could tremble with ideal terrors, as much as herself, and
listen almost as eagerly to the recital of a mysterious story.
Annette urged her request.
'Are you sure it is a picture?' said Emily, 'Have you seen it?--Is it
veiled?'
'Holy Maria! ma'amselle, yes, no, yes. I am sure it is a picture--I
have seen it, and it is not veiled!'
The tone and look of surprise, with which this was uttered, recalled
Emily's prudence; who concealed her emotion under a smile, and bade
Annette lead her to the picture. It was in an obscure chamber,
adjoining that part of the castle, allotted to the servants. Several
other portraits hung on the walls, covered, like this, with dust and
cobweb.
'That is it, ma'amselle,' said Annette, in a low voice, and pointing.
Emily advanced, and surveyed the picture. It represented a lady in
the flower of youth and beauty; her features were handsome and noble,
full of strong expression, but had little of the captivating
sweetness, that Emily had looked for, and still less of the pensive
mildness she loved. It was a countenance, which spoke the language
of passion, rather than that of sentiment; a haughty impatience of
misfortune--not the placid melancholy of a spirit injured, yet
resigned.
'How many years have passed, since this lady disappeared, Annette?'
said Emily.
'Twenty years, ma'amselle, or thereabout, as they tell me; I know it
is a long while ago.' Emily continued to gaze upon the portrait.
'I think,' resumed Annette, 'the Signor would do well to hang it in a
better place, than this old chamber. Now, in my mind, he ought to
place the picture of a lady, who gave him all these riches, in the
handsomest room in the castle. But he may have good reasons for what
he does: and some people do say that he has lost his riches, as well
as his gratitude. But hush, ma'am, not a word!' added Annette,
laying her finger on her lips. Emily was too much absorbed in
thought, to hear what she said.
''Tis a handsome lady, I am sure,' continued Annette: 'the Signor
need not be ashamed to put her in the great apartment, where the
veiled picture hangs.' Emily turned round. 'But for that matter,
she would be as little seen there, as here, for the door is always
locked, I find.'
'Let us leave this chamber,' said Emily: 'and let me caution you
again, Annette; be guarded in your conversation, and never tell, that
you know any thing of that picture.'
'Holy Mother!' exclaimed Annette, 'it is no secret; why all the
servants have seen it already!'
Emily started. 'How is this?' said she--'Have seen it! When?--how?'
'Dear, ma'amselle, there is nothing surprising in that; we had all a
little more CURIOUSNESS than you had.'
'I thought you told me, the door was kept locked?' said Emily.
'If that was the case, ma'amselle,' replied Annette, looking about
her, 'how could we get here?'
'Oh, you mean THIS picture,' said Emily, with returning calmness.
'Well, Annette, here is nothing more to engage my attention; we will
go.'
Emily, as she passed to her own apartment, saw Montoni go down to the
hall, and she turned into her aunt's dressing-room, whom she found
weeping and alone, grief and resentment struggling on her
countenance. Pride had hitherto restrained complaint. Judging of
Emily's disposition from her own, and from a consciousness of what
her treatment of her deserved, she had believed, that her griefs
would be cause of triumph to her niece, rather than of sympathy; that
she would despise, not pity her. But she knew not the tenderness and
benevolence of Emily's heart, that had always taught her to forget
her own injuries in the misfortunes of her enemy. The sufferings of
others, whoever they might be, called forth her ready compassion,
which dissipated at once every obscuring cloud to goodness, that
passion or prejudice might have raised in her mind.
Madame Montoni's sufferings, at length, rose above her pride, and,
when Emily had before entered the room, she would have told them all,
had not her husband prevented her; now that she was no longer
restrained by his presence, she poured forth all her complaints to
her niece.
'O Emily!' she exclaimed, 'I am the most wretched of women--I am
indeed cruelly treated! Who, with my prospects of happiness, could
have foreseen such a wretched fate as this?--who could have thought,
when I married such a man as the Signor, I should ever have to bewail
my lot? But there is no judging what is for the best--there is no
knowing what is for our good! The most flattering prospects often
change--the best judgments may be deceived--who could have foreseen,
when I married the Signor, that I should ever repent my GENEROSITY?'
Emily thought she might have foreseen it, but this was not a thought
of triumph. She placed herself in a chair near her aunt, took her
hand, and, with one of those looks of soft compassion, which might
characterize the countenance of a guardian angel, spoke to her in the
tenderest accents. But these did not sooth Madame Montoni, whom
impatience to talk made unwilling to listen. She wanted to complain,
not to be consoled; and it was by exclamations of complaint only,
that Emily learned the particular circumstances of her affliction.
'Ungrateful man!' said Madame Montoni, 'he has deceived me in every
respect; and now he has taken me from my country and friends, to shut
me up in this old castle; and, here he thinks he can compel me to do
whatever he designs! But he shall find himself mistaken, he shall
find that no threats can alter--But who would have believed! who
would have supposed, that a man of his family and apparent wealth had
absolutely no fortune?--no, scarcely a sequin of his own! I did all
for the best; I thought he was a man of consequence, of great
property, or I am sure I would never have married him,--ungrateful,
artful man!' She paused to take breath.
'Dear Madam, be composed,' said Emily: 'the Signor may not be so
rich as you had reason to expect, but surely he cannot be very poor,
since this castle and the mansion at Venice are his. May I ask what
are the circumstances, that particularly affect you?'
'What are the circumstances!' exclaimed Madame Montoni with
resentment: 'why is it not sufficient, that he had long ago ruined
his own fortune by play, and that he has since lost what I brought
him--and that now he would compel me to sign away my settlement (it
was well I had the chief of my property settled on myself!) that he
may lose this also, or throw it away in wild schemes, which nobody
can understand but himself? And, and--is not all this sufficient?'
'It is, indeed,' said Emily, 'but you must recollect, dear madam,
that I knew nothing of all this.'
'Well, and is it not sufficient,' rejoined her aunt, 'that he is also
absolutely ruined, that he is sunk deeply in debt, and that neither
this castle, or the mansion at Venice, is his own, if all his debts,
honourable and dishonourable, were paid!'
'I am shocked by what you tell me, madam,' said Emily.
'And is it not enough,' interrupted Madame Montoni, 'that he has
treated me with neglect, with cruelty, because I refused to
relinquish my settlements, and, instead of being frightened by his
menaces, resolutely defied him, and upbraided him with his shameful
conduct? But I bore all meekly,--you know, niece, I never uttered a
word of complaint, till now; no! That such a disposition as mine
should be so imposed upon! That I, whose only faults are too much
kindness, too much generosity, should be chained for life to such a
vile, deceitful, cruel monster!'
Want of breath compelled Madame Montoni to stop. If any thing could
have made Emily smile in these moments, it would have been this
speech of her aunt, delivered in a voice very little below a scream,
and with a vehemence of gesticulation and of countenance, that turned
the whole into burlesque. Emily saw, that her misfortunes did not
admit of real consolation, and, contemning the commonplace terms of
superficial comfort, she was silent; while Madame Montoni, jealous of
her own consequence, mistook this for the silence of indifference, or
of contempt, and reproached her with want of duty and feeling.
'O! I suspected what all this boasted sensibility would prove to be!'
rejoined she; 'I thought it would not teach you to feel either duty,
or affection, for your relations, who have treated you like their own
daughter!'
'Pardon me, madam,' said Emily, mildly, 'it is not natural to me to
boast, and if it was, I am sure I would not boast of sensibility--a
quality, perhaps, more to be feared, than desired.'
'Well, well, niece, I will not dispute with you. But, as I said,
Montoni threatens me with violence, if I any longer refuse to sign
away my settlements, and this was the subject of our contest, when
you came into the room before. Now, I am determined no power on
earth shall make me do this. Neither will I bear all this tamely.
He shall hear his true character from me; I will tell him all he
deserves, in spite of his threats and cruel treatment.'
Emily seized a pause of Madame Montoni's voice, to speak. 'Dear
madam,' said she, 'but will not this serve to irritate the Signor
unnecessarily? will it not provoke the harsh treatment you dread?'
'I do not care,' replied Madame Montoni, 'it does not signify: I
will not submit to such usage. You would have me give up my
settlements, too, I suppose!'
'No, madam, I do not exactly mean that.'
'What is it you do mean then?'
'You spoke of reproaching the Signor,'--said Emily, with hesitation.
'Why, does he not deserve reproaches?' said her aunt.
'Certainly he does; but will it be prudent in you, madam, to make
them?'
'Prudent!' exclaimed Madame Montoni. 'Is this a time to talk of
prudence, when one is threatened with all sorts of violence?'
'It is to avoid that violence, that prudence is necessary.' said
Emily.
'Of prudence!' continued Madame Montoni, without attending to her,
'of prudence towards a man, who does not scruple to break all the
common ties of humanity in his conduct to me! And is it for me to
consider prudence in my behaviour towards him! I am not so mean.'
'It is for your own sake, not for the Signor's, madam,' said Emily
modestly, 'that you should consult prudence. Your reproaches,
however just, cannot punish him, but they may provoke him to further
violence against you.'
'What! would you have me submit, then, to whatever he commands--would
you have me kneel down at his feet, and thank him for his cruelties?
Would you have me give up my settlements?'
'How much you mistake me, madam!' said Emily, 'I am unequal to advise
you on a point so important as the last: but you will pardon me for
saying, that, if you consult your own peace, you will try to
conciliate Signor Montoni, rather than to irritate him by
reproaches.'
'Conciliate indeed! I tell you, niece, it is utterly impossible; I
disdain to attempt it.'
Emily was shocked to observe the perverted understanding and
obstinate temper of Madame Montoni; but, not less grieved for her
sufferings, she looked round for some alleviating circumstance to
offer her. 'Your situation is, perhaps, not so desperate, dear
madam,' said Emily, 'as you may imagine. The Signor may represent
his affairs to be worse than they are, for the purpose of pleading a
stronger necessity for his possession of your settlement. Besides,
so long as you keep this, you may look forward to it as a resource,
at least, that will afford you a competence, should the Signor's
future conduct compel you to sue for separation.'
Madame Montoni impatiently interrupted her. 'Unfeeling, cruel girl!'
said she, 'and so you would persuade me, that I have no reason to
complain; that the Signor is in very flourishing circumstances, that
my future prospects promise nothing but comfort, and that my griefs
are as fanciful and romantic as your own! Is it the way to console
me, to endeavour to persuade me out of my senses and my feelings,
because you happen to have no feelings yourself? I thought I was
opening my heart to a person, who could sympathize in my distress,
but I find, that your people of sensibility can feel for nobody but
themselves! You may retire to your chamber.'
Emily, without replying, immediately left the room, with a mingled
emotion of pity and contempt, and hastened to her own, where she
yielded to the mournful reflections, which a knowledge of her aunt's
situation had occasioned. The conversation of the Italian with
Valancourt, in France, again occurred to her. His hints, respecting
the broken fortunes of Montoni, were now completely justified; those,
also, concerning his character, appeared not less so, though the
particular circumstances, connected with his fame, to which the
stranger had alluded, yet remained to be explained. Notwithstanding,
that her own observations and the words of Count Morano had convinced
her, that Montoni's situation was not what it formerly appeared to
be, the intelligence she had just received from her aunt on this
point, struck her with all the force of astonishment, which was not
weakened, when she considered the present style of Montoni's living,
the number of servants he maintained, and the new expences he was
incurring, by repairing and fortifying his castle. Her anxiety for
her aunt and for herself increased with reflection. Several
assertions of Morano, which, on the preceding night, she had believed
were prompted either by interest, or by resentment, now returned to
her mind with the strength of truth. She could not doubt, that
Montoni had formerly agreed to give her to the Count, for a pecuniary
reward;--his character, and his distressed circumstances justified
the belief; these, also, seemed to confirm Morano's assertion, that
he now designed to dispose of her, more advantageously for himself,
to a richer suitor.
Amidst the reproaches, which Morano had thrown out against Montoni,
he had said--he would not quit the castle HE DARED TO CALL HIS, nor
willingly leave ANOTHER murder on his conscience--hints, which might
have no other origin than the passion of the moment: but Emily was
now inclined to account for them more seriously, and she shuddered to
think, that she was in the hands of a man, to whom it was even
possible they could apply. At length, considering, that reflection
could neither release her from her melancholy situation, or enable
her to bear it with greater fortitude, she tried to divert her
anxiety, and took down from her little library a volume of her
favourite Ariosto; but his wild imagery and rich invention could not
long enchant her attention; his spells did not reach her heart, and
over her sleeping fancy they played, without awakening it.
She now put aside the book, and took her lute, for it was seldom that
her sufferings refused to yield to the magic of sweet sounds; when
they did so, she was oppressed by sorrow, that came from excess of
tenderness and regret; and there were times, when music had increased
such sorrow to a degree, that was scarcely endurable; when, if it had
not suddenly ceased, she might have lost her reason. Such was the
time, when she mourned for her father, and heard the midnight
strains, that floated by her window near the convent in Languedoc, on
the night that followed his death.
She continued to play, till Annette brought dinner into her chamber,
at which Emily was surprised, and enquired whose order she obeyed.
'My lady's, ma'amselle,' replied Annette: 'the Signor ordered her
dinner to be carried to her own apartment, and so she has sent you
yours. There have been sad doings between them, worse than ever, I
think.'
Emily, not appearing to notice what she said, sat down to the little
table, that was spread for her. But Annette was not to be silenced
thus easily. While she waited, she told of the arrival of the men,
whom Emily had observed on the ramparts, and expressed much surprise
at their strange appearance, as well as at the manner, in which they
had been attended by Montoni's order. 'Do they dine with the Signor,
then?' said Emily.
'No, ma'amselle, they dined long ago, in an apartment at the north
end of the castle, but I know not when they are to go, for the Signor
told old Carlo to see them provided with every thing necessary. They
have been walking all about the castle, and asking questions of the
workmen on the ramparts. I never saw such strange-looking men in my
life; I am frightened whenever I see them.'
Emily enquired, if she had heard of Count Morano, and whether he was
likely to recover: but Annette only knew, that he was lodged in a
cottage in the wood below, and that every body said he must die.
Emily's countenance discovered her emotion.
'Dear ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'to see how young ladies will
disguise themselves, when they are in love! I thought you hated the
Count, or I am sure I would not have told you; and I am sure you have
cause enough to hate him.'
'I hope I hate nobody,' replied Emily, trying to smile; 'but
certainly I do not love Count Morano. I should be shocked to hear of
any person dying by violent means.'
'Yes, ma'amselle, but it is his own fault.'
Emily looked displeased; and Annette, mistaking the cause of her
displeasure, immediately began to excuse the Count, in her way. 'To
be sure, it was very ungenteel behaviour,' said she, 'to break into a
lady's room, and then, when he found his discoursing was not
agreeable to her, to refuse to go; and then, when the gentleman of
the castle comes to desire him to walk about his business--to turn
round, and draw his sword, and swear he'll run him through the body!-
-To be sure it was very ungenteel behaviour, but then he was
disguised in love, and so did not know what he was about.'
'Enough of this,' said Emily, who now smiled without an effort; and
Annette returned to a mention of the disagreement between Montoni,
and her lady. 'It is nothing new,' said she: 'we saw and heard
enough of this at Venice, though I never told you of it, ma'amselle.'
'Well, Annette, it was very prudent of you not to mention it then:
be as prudent now; the subject is an unpleasant one.'
'Ah dear, ma'amselle!--to see now how considerate you can be about
some folks, who care so little about you! I cannot bear to see you
so deceived, and I must tell you. But it is all for your own good,
and not to spite my lady, though, to speak truth, I have little
reason to love her; but--'
'You are not speaking thus of my aunt, I hope, Annette?' said Emily,
gravely.
'Yes, ma'amselle, but I am, though; and if you knew as much as I do,
you would not look so angry. I have often, and often, heard the
Signor and her talking over your marriage with the Count, and she
always advised him never to give up to your foolish whims, as she was
pleased to call them, but to be resolute, and compel you to be
obedient, whether you would, or no. And I am sure, my heart has
ached a thousand times, and I have thought, when she was so unhappy
herself, she might have felt a little for other people, and--'
'I thank you for your pity, Annette,' said Emily, interrupting her:
'but my aunt was unhappy then, and that disturbed her temper perhaps,
or I think--I am sure--You may take away, Annette, I have done.'
'Dear ma'amselle, you have eat nothing at all! Do try, and take a
little bit more. Disturbed her temper truly! why, her temper is
always disturbed, I think. And at Tholouse too I have heard my lady
talking of you and Mons. Valancourt to Madame Merveille and Madame
Vaison, often and often, in a very ill-natured way, as I thought,
telling them what a deal of trouble she had to keep you in order, and
what a fatigue and distress it was to her, and that she believed you
would run away with Mons. Valancourt, if she was not to watch you
closely; and that you connived at his coming about the house at
night, and--'
'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, blushing deeply, 'it is surely
impossible my aunt could thus have represented me!'
'Indeed, ma'am, I say nothing more than the truth, and not all of
that. But I thought, myself, she might have found something better
to discourse about, than the faults of her own niece, even if you had
been in fault, ma'amselle; but I did not believe a word of what she
said. But my lady does not care what she says against any body, for
that matter.'
'However that may be, Annette,' interrupted Emily, recovering her
composure, 'it does not become you to speak of the faults of my aunt
to me. I know you have meant well, but--say no more.--I have quite
dined.'
Annette blushed, looked down, and then began slowly to clear the
table.
'Is this, then, the reward of my ingenuousness?' said Emily, when she
was alone; 'the treatment I am to receive from a relation--an aunt--
who ought to have been the guardian, not the slanderer of my
reputation,--who, as a woman, ought to have respected the delicacy of
female honour, and, as a relation, should have protected mine! But,
to utter falsehoods on so nice a subject--to repay the openness, and,
I may say with honest pride, the propriety of my conduct, with
slanders--required a depravity of heart, such as I could scarcely
have believed existed, such as I weep to find in a relation. O! what
a contrast does her character present to that of my beloved father;
while envy and low cunning form the chief traits of hers, his was
distinguished by benevolence and philosophic wisdom! But now, let me
only remember, if possible, that she is unfortunate.'
Emily threw her veil over her, and went down to walk upon the
ramparts, the only walk, indeed, which was open to her, though she
often wished, that she might be permitted to ramble among the woods
below, and still more, that she might sometimes explore the sublime
scenes of the surrounding country. But, as Montoni would not suffer
her to pass the gates of the castle, she tried to be contented with
the romantic views she beheld from the walls. The peasants, who had
been employed on the fortifications, had left their work, and the
ramparts were silent and solitary. Their lonely appearance, together
with the gloom of a lowering sky, assisted the musings of her mind,
and threw over it a kind of melancholy tranquillity, such as she
often loved to indulge. She turned to observe a fine effect of the
sun, as his rays, suddenly streaming from behind a heavy cloud,
lighted up the west towers of the castle, while the rest of the
edifice was in deep shade, except, that, through a lofty gothic arch,
adjoining the tower, which led to another terrace, the beams darted
in full splendour, and shewed the three strangers she had observed in
the morning. Perceiving them, she started, and a momentary fear came
over her, as she looked up the long rampart, and saw no other
persons. While she hesitated, they approached. The gate at the end
of the terrace, whither they were advancing, she knew, was always
locked, and she could not depart by the opposite extremity, without
meeting them; but, before she passed them, she hastily drew a thin
veil over her face, which did, indeed, but ill conceal her beauty.
They looked earnestly at her, and spoke to each other in bad Italian,
of which she caught only a few words; but the fierceness of their
countenances, now that she was near enough to discriminate them,
struck her yet more than the wild singularity of their air and dress
had formerly done. It was the countenance and figure of him, who
walked between the other two, that chiefly seized her attention,
which expressed a sullen haughtiness and a kind of dark watchful
villany, that gave a thrill of horror to her heart. All this was so
legibly written on his features, as to be seen by a single glance,
for she passed the group swiftly, and her timid eyes scarcely rested
on them a moment. Having reached the terrace, she stopped, and
perceived the strangers standing in the shadow of one of the turrets,
gazing after her, and seemingly, by their action, in earnest
conversation. She immediately left the rampart, and retired to her
apartment.
In the evening, Montoni sat late, carousing with his guests in the
cedar chamber. His recent triumph over Count Morano, or, perhaps,
some other circumstance, contributed to elevate his spirits to an
unusual height. He filled the goblet often, and gave a loose to
merriment and talk. The gaiety of Cavigni, on the contrary, was
somewhat clouded by anxiety. He kept a watchful eye upon Verezzi,
whom, with the utmost difficulty, he had hitherto restrained from
exasperating Montoni further against Morano, by a mention of his late
taunting words.
One of the company exultingly recurred to the event of the preceding
evening. Verezzi's eyes sparkled. The mention of Morano led to that
of Emily, of whom they were all profuse in the praise, except
Montoni, who sat silent, and then interrupted the subject.
When the servants had withdrawn, Montoni and his friends entered into
close conversation, which was sometimes checked by the irascible
temper of Verezzi, but in which Montoni displayed his conscious
superiority, by that decisive look and manner, which always
accompanied the vigour of his thought, and to which most of his
companions submitted, as to a power, that they had no right to
question, though of each other's self-importance they were jealously
scrupulous. Amidst this conversation, one of them imprudently
introduced again the name of Morano; and Verezzi, now more heated by
wine, disregarded the expressive looks of Cavigni, and gave some dark
hints of what had passed on the preceding night. These, however,
Montoni did not appear to understand, for he continued silent in his
chair, without discovering any emotion, while, the choler of Verezzi
increasing with the apparent insensibility of Montoni, he at length
told the suggestion of Morano, that this castle did not lawfully
belong to him, and that he would not willingly leave another murder
on his conscience.
'Am I to be insulted at my own table, and by my own friends?' said
Montoni, with a countenance pale in anger. 'Why are the words of
that madman repeated to me?' Verezzi, who had expected to hear
Montoni's indignation poured forth against Morano, and answered by
thanks to himself, looked with astonishment at Cavigni, who enjoyed
his confusion. 'Can you be weak enough to credit the assertions of a
madman?' rejoined Montoni, 'or, what is the same thing, a man
possessed by the spirit of vengeance? But he has succeeded too well;
you believe what he said.'
'Signor,' said Verezzi, 'we believe only what we know.'--'How!'
interrupted Montoni, sternly: 'produce your proof.'
'We believe only what we know,' repeated Verezzi, 'and we know
nothing of what Morano asserts.' Montoni seemed to recover himself.
'I am hasty, my friends,' said he, 'with respect to my honour; no man
shall question it with impunity--you did not mean to question it.
These foolish words are not worth your remembrance, or my resentment.
Verezzi, here is to your first exploit.'
'Success to your first exploit,' re-echoed the whole company.
'Noble Signor,' replied Verezzi, glad to find he had escaped
Montoni's resentment, 'with my good will, you shall build your
ramparts of gold.'
'Pass the goblet,' cried Montoni. 'We will drink to Signora St.
Aubert,' said Cavigni. 'By your leave we will first drink to the
lady of the castle.' said Bertolini.--Montoni was silent. 'To the
lady of the castle,' said his guests. He bowed his head.
'It much surprises me, Signor,' said Bertolini, 'that you have so
long neglected this castle; it is a noble edifice.'
'It suits our purpose,' replied Montoni, 'and IS a noble edifice.
You know not, it seems, by what mischance it came to me.'
'It was a lucky mischance, be it what it may, Signor,' replied
Bertolini, smiling. 'I would, that one so lucky had befallen me.'
Montoni looked gravely at him. 'If you will attend to what I say,'
he resumed, 'you shall hear the story.'
The countenances of Bertolini and Verezzi expressed something more
than curiosity; Cavigni, who seemed to feel none, had probably heard
the relation before.
'It is now near twenty years,' said Montoni, 'since this castle came
into my possession. I inherit it by the female line. The lady, my
predecessor, was only distantly related to me; I am the last of her
family. She was beautiful and rich; I wooed her; but her heart was
fixed upon another, and she rejected me. It is probable, however,
that she was herself rejected of the person, whoever he might be, on
whom she bestowed her favour, for a deep and settled melancholy took
possession of her; and I have reason to believe she put a period to
her own life. I was not at the castle at the time; but, as there are
some singular and mysterious circumstances attending that event, I
shall repeat them.'
'Repeat them!' said a voice.
Montoni was silent; the guests looked at each other, to know who
spoke; but they perceived, that each was making the same enquiry.
Montoni, at length, recovered himself. 'We are overheard,' said he:
'we will finish this subject another time. Pass the goblet.'
The cavaliers looked round the wide chamber.
'Here is no person, but ourselves,' said Verezzi: 'pray, Signor,
proceed.'
'Did you hear any thing?' said Montoni.
'We did,' said Bertolini.
'It could be only fancy,' said Verezzi, looking round again. 'We see
no person besides ourselves; and the sound I thought I heard seemed
within the room. Pray, Signor, go on.'
Montoni paused a moment, and then proceeded in a lowered voice, while
the cavaliers drew nearer to attend.
'Ye are to know, Signors, that the Lady Laurentini had for some
months shewn symptoms of a dejected mind, nay, of a disturbed
imagination. Her mood was very unequal; sometimes she was sunk in
calm melancholy, and, at others, as I have been told, she betrayed
all the symptoms of frantic madness. It was one night in the month
of October, after she had recovered from one of those fits of excess,
and had sunk again into her usual melancholy, that she retired alone
to her chamber, and forbade all interruption. It was the chamber at
the end of the corridor, Signors, where we had the affray, last
night. From that hour, she was seen no more.'
'How! seen no more!' said Bertolini, 'was not her body found in the
chamber?'
'Were her remains never found?' cried the rest of the company all
together.
'Never!' replied Montoni.
'What reasons were there to suppose she destroyed herself, then?'
said Bertolini.--'Aye, what reasons?' said Verezzi.--'How happened
it, that her remains were never found? Although she killed herself,
she could not bury herself.' Montoni looked indignantly at Verezzi,
who began to apologize. 'Your pardon, Signor,' said he: 'I did not
consider, that the lady was your relative, when I spoke of her so
lightly.'
Montoni accepted the apology.
'But the Signor will oblige us with the reasons, which urged him to
believe, that the lady committed suicide.'
'Those I will explain hereafter,' said Montoni: 'at present let me
relate a most extraordinary circumstance. This conversation goes no
further, Signors. Listen, then, to what I am going to say.'
'Listen!' said a voice.
They were all again silent, and the countenance of Montoni changed.
'This is no illusion of the fancy,' said Cavigni, at length breaking
the profound silence.--'No,' said Bertolini; 'I heard it myself, now.
Yet here is no person in the room but ourselves!'
'This is very extraordinary,' said Montoni, suddenly rising. 'This
is not to be borne; here is some deception, some trick. I will know
what it means.'
All the company rose from their chairs in confusion.
'It is very odd!' said Bertolini. 'Here is really no stranger in the
room. If it is a trick, Signor, you will do well to punish the
author of it severely.'
'A trick! what else can it be?' said Cavigni, affecting a laugh.
The servants were now summoned, and the chamber was searched, but no
person was found. The surprise and consternation of the company
increased. Montoni was discomposed. 'We will leave this room,' said
he, 'and the subject of our conversation also; it is too solemn.'
His guests were equally ready to quit the apartment; but the subject
had roused their curiosity, and they entreated Montoni to withdraw to
another chamber, and finish it; no entreaties could, however, prevail
with him. Notwithstanding his efforts to appear at ease, he was
visibly and greatly disordered.
'Why, Signor, you are not superstitious,' cried Verezzi, jeeringly;
'you, who have so often laughed at the credulity of others!'
'I am not superstitious,' replied Montoni, regarding him with stern
displeasure, 'though I know how to despise the common-place
sentences, which are frequently uttered against superstition. I will
enquire further into this affair.' He then left the room; and his
guests, separating for the night, retired to their respective
apartments.
CHAPTER VIII
He wears the rose of youth upon his cheek.
SHAKESPEARE
We now return to Valancourt, who, it may be remembered, remained at
Tholouse, some time after the departure of Emily, restless and
miserable. Each morrow that approached, he designed should carry him
from thence; yet to-morrow and to-morrow came, and still saw him
lingering in the scene of his former happiness. He could not
immediately tear himself from the spot, where he had been accustomed
to converse with Emily, or from the objects they had viewed together,
which appeared to him memorials of her affection, as well as a kind
of surety for its faithfulness; and, next to the pain of bidding her
adieu, was that of leaving the scenes which so powerfully awakened
her image. Sometimes he had bribed a servant, who had been left in
the care of Madame Montoni's chateau, to permit him to visit the
gardens, and there he would wander, for hours together, rapt in a
melancholy, not unpleasing. The terrace, and the pavilion at the end
of it, where he had taken leave of Emily, on the eve of her departure
from Tholouse, were his most favourite haunts. There, as he walked,
or leaned from the window of the building, he would endeavour to
recollect all she had said, on that night; to catch the tones of her
voice, as they faintly vibrated on his memory, and to remember the
exact expression of her countenance, which sometimes came suddenly to
his fancy, like a vision; that beautiful countenance, which awakened,
as by instantaneous magic, all the tenderness of his heart, and
seemed to tell with irresistible eloquence--that he had lost her
forever! At these moments, his hurried steps would have discovered
to a spectator the despair of his heart. The character of Montoni,
such as he had received from hints, and such as his fears represented
it, would rise to his view, together with all the dangers it seemed
to threaten to Emily and to his love. He blamed himself, that he had
not urged these more forcibly to her, while it might have been in his
power to detain her, and that he had suffered an absurd and criminal
delicacy, as he termed it, to conquer so soon the reasonable
arguments he had opposed to this journey. Any evil, that might have
attended their marriage, seemed so inferior to those, which now
threatened their love, or even to the sufferings, that absence
occasioned, that he wondered how he could have ceased to urge his
suit, till he had convinced her of its propriety; and he would
certainly now have followed her to Italy, if he could have been
spared from his regiment for so long a journey. His regiment,
indeed, soon reminded him, that he had other duties to attend, than
those of love.
A short time after his arrival at his brother's house, he was
summoned to join his brother officers, and he accompanied a battalion
to Paris; where a scene of novelty and gaiety opened upon him, such
as, till then, he had only a faint idea of. But gaiety disgusted,
and company fatigued, his sick mind; and he became an object of
unceasing raillery to his companions, from whom, whenever he could
steal an opportunity, he escaped, to think of Emily. The scenes
around him, however, and the company with whom he was obliged to
mingle, engaged his attention, though they failed to amuse his fancy,
and thus gradually weakened the habit of yielding to lamentation,
till it appeared less a duty to his love to indulge it. Among his
brother-officers were many, who added to the ordinary character of a
French soldier's gaiety some of those fascinating qualities, which
too frequently throw a veil over folly, and sometimes even soften the
features of vice into smiles. To these men the reserved and
thoughtful manners of Valancourt were a kind of tacit censure on
their own, for which they rallied him when present, and plotted
against him when absent; they gloried in the thought of reducing him
to their own level, and, considering it to be a spirited frolic,
determined to accomplish it.
Valancourt was a stranger to the gradual progress of scheme and
intrigue, against which he could not be on his guard. He had not
been accustomed to receive ridicule, and he could ill endure its
sting; he resented it, and this only drew upon him a louder laugh.
To escape from such scenes, he fled into solitude, and there the
image of Emily met him, and revived the pangs of love and despair.
He then sought to renew those tasteful studies, which had been the
delight of his early years; but his mind had lost the tranquillity,
which is necessary for their enjoyment. To forget himself and the
grief and anxiety, which the idea of her recalled, he would quit his
solitude, and again mingle in the crowd--glad of a temporary relief,
and rejoicing to snatch amusement for the moment.
Thus passed weeks after weeks, time gradually softening his sorrow,
and habit strengthening his desire of amusement, till the scenes
around him seemed to awaken into a new character, and Valancourt, to
have fallen among them from the clouds.
His figure and address made him a welcome visitor, wherever he had
been introduced, and he soon frequented the most gay and fashionable
circles of Paris. Among these, was the assembly of the Countess
Lacleur, a woman of eminent beauty and captivating manners. She had
passed the spring of youth, but her wit prolonged the triumph of its
reign, and they mutually assisted the fame of each other; for those,
who were charmed by her loveliness, spoke with enthusiasm of her
talents; and others, who admired her playful imagination, declared,
that her personal graces were unrivalled. But her imagination was
merely playful, and her wit, if such it could be called, was
brilliant, rather than just; it dazzled, and its fallacy escaped the
detection of the moment; for the accents, in which she pronounced it,
and the smile, that accompanied them, were a spell upon the judgment
of the auditors. Her petits soupers were the most tasteful of any in
Paris, and were frequented by many of the second class of literati.
She was fond of music, was herself a scientific performer, and had
frequently concerts at her house. Valancourt, who passionately loved
music, and who sometimes assisted at these concerts, admired her
execution, but remembered with a sigh the eloquent simplicity of
Emily's songs and the natural expression of her manner, which waited
not to be approved by the judgment, but found their way at once to
the heart.
Madame La Comtesse had often deep play at her house, which she
affected to restrain, but secretly encouraged; and it was well known
among her friends, that the splendour of her establishment was
chiefly supplied from the profits of her tables. But her petits
soupers were the most charming imaginable! Here were all the
delicacies of the four quarters of the world, all the wit and the
lighter efforts of genius, all the graces of conversation--the smiles
of beauty, and the charm of music; and Valancourt passed his
pleasantest, as well as most dangerous hours in these parties.
His brother, who remained with his family in Gascony, had contented
himself with giving him letters of introduction to such of his
relations, residing at Paris, as the latter was not already known to.
All these were persons of some distinction; and, as neither the
person, mind, or manners of Valancourt the younger threatened to
disgrace their alliance, they received him with as much kindness as
their nature, hardened by uninterrupted prosperity, would admit of;
but their attentions did not extend to acts of real friendship; for
they were too much occupied by their own pursuits, to feel any
interest in his; and thus he was set down in the midst of Paris, in
the pride of youth, with an open, unsuspicious temper and ardent
affections, without one friend, to warn him of the dangers, to which
he was exposed. Emily, who, had she been present, would have saved
him from these evils by awakening his heart, and engaging him in
worthy pursuits, now only increased his danger;--it was to lose the
grief, which the remembrance of her occasioned, that he first sought
amusement; and for this end he pursued it, till habit made it an
object of abstract interest.
There was also a Marchioness Champfort, a young widow, at whose
assemblies he passed much of his time. She was handsome, still more
artful, gay and fond of intrigue. The society, which she drew round
her, was less elegant and more vicious, than that of the Countess
Lacleur: but, as she had address enough to throw a veil, though but
a slight one, over the worst part of her character, she was still
visited by many persons of what is called distinction. Valancourt
was introduced to her parties by two of his brother officers, whose
late ridicule he had now forgiven so far, that he could sometimes
join in the laugh, which a mention of his former manners would renew.
The gaiety of the most splendid court in Europe, the magnificence of
the palaces, entertainments, and equipages, that surrounded him--all
conspired to dazzle his imagination, and re-animate his spirits, and
the example and maxims of his military associates to delude his mind.
Emily's image, indeed, still lived there; but it was no longer the
friend, the monitor, that saved him from himself, and to which he
retired to weep the sweet, yet melancholy, tears of tenderness. When
he had recourse to it, it assumed a countenance of mild reproach,
that wrung his soul, and called forth tears of unmixed misery; his
only escape from which was to forget the object of it, and he
endeavoured, therefore, to think of Emily as seldom as he could.
Thus dangerously circumstanced was Valancourt, at the time, when
Emily was suffering at Venice, from the persecuting addresses of
Count Morano, and the unjust authority of Montoni; at which period we
leave him.
CHAPTER IX
The image of a wicked, heinous fault
Lives in his eye; that close aspect of his
Does shew the mood of a much-troubled breast.
KING JOHN
Leaving the gay scenes of Paris, we return to those of the gloomy
Apennine, where Emily's thoughts were still faithful to Valancourt.
Looking to him as to her only hope, she recollected, with jealous
exactness, every assurance and every proof she had witnessed of his
affection; read again and again the letters she had received from
him; weighed, with intense anxiety, the force of every word, that
spoke of his attachment; and dried her tears, as she trusted in his
truth.
Montoni, meanwhile, had made strict enquiry concerning the strange
circumstance of his alarm, without obtaining information; and was, at
length, obliged to account for it by the reasonable supposition, that
it was a mischievous trick played off by one of his domestics. His
disagreements with Madame Montoni, on the subject of her settlements,
were now more frequent than ever; he even confined her entirely to
her own apartment, and did not scruple to threaten her with much
greater severity, should she persevere in a refusal.
Reason, had she consulted it, would now have perplexed her in the
choice of a conduct to be adopted. It would have pointed out the
danger of irritating by further opposition a man, such as Montoni had
proved himself to be, and to whose power she had so entirely
committed herself; and it would also have told her, of what extreme
importance to her future comfort it was, to reserve for herself those
possessions, which would enable her to live independently of Montoni,
should she ever escape from his immediate controul. But she was
directed by a more decisive guide than reason--the spirit of revenge,
which urged her to oppose violence to violence, and obstinacy to
obstinacy.
Wholly confined to the solitude of her apartment, she was now reduced
to solicit the society she had lately rejected; for Emily was the
only person, except Annette, with whom she was permitted to converse.
Generously anxious for her peace, Emily, therefore, tried to
persuade, when she could not convince, and sought by every gentle
means to induce her to forbear that asperity of reply, which so
greatly irritated Montoni. The pride of her aunt did sometimes
soften to the soothing voice of Emily, and there even were moments,
when she regarded her affectionate attentions with goodwill.
The scenes of terrible contention, to which Emily was frequently
compelled to be witness, exhausted her spirits more than any
circumstances, that had occurred since her departure from Tholouse.
The gentleness and goodness of her parents, together with the scenes
of her early happiness, often stole on her mind, like the visions of
a higher world; while the characters and circumstances, now passing
beneath her eye, excited both terror and surprise. She could
scarcely have imagined, that passions so fierce and so various, as
those which Montoni exhibited, could have been concentrated in one
individual; yet what more surprised her, was, that, on great
occasions, he could bend these passions, wild as they were, to the
cause of his interest, and generally could disguise in his
countenance their operation on his mind; but she had seen him too
often, when he had thought it unnecessary to conceal his nature, to
be deceived on such occasions.
Her present life appeared like the dream of a distempered
imagination, or like one of those frightful fictions, in which the
wild genius of the poets sometimes delighted. Reflection brought
only regret, and anticipation terror. How often did she wish to
'steal the lark's wing, and mount the swiftest gale,' that Languedoc
and repose might once more be hers!
Of Count Morano's health she made frequent enquiry; but Annette heard
only vague reports of his danger, and that his surgeon had said he
would never leave the cottage alive; while Emily could not but be
shocked to think, that she, however innocently, might be the means of
his death; and Annette, who did not fail to observe her emotion,
interpreted it in her own way.
But a circumstance soon occurred, which entirely withdrew Annette's
attention from this subject, and awakened the surprise and curiosity
so natural to her. Coming one day to Emily's apartment, with a
countenance full of importance, 'What can all this mean, ma'amselle?'
said she. 'Would I was once safe in Languedoc again, they should
never catch me going on my travels any more! I must think it a fine
thing, truly, to come abroad, and see foreign parts! I little
thought I was coming to be catched up in a old castle, among such
dreary mountains, with the chance of being murdered, or, what is as
good, having my throat cut!'
'What can all this mean, indeed, Annette?' said Emily, in
astonishment.
'Aye, ma'amselle, you may look surprised; but you won't believe it,
perhaps, till they have murdered you, too. You would not believe
about the ghost I told you of, though I shewed you the very place,
where it used to appear!--You will believe nothing, ma'amselle.'
'Not till you speak more reasonably, Annette; for Heaven's sake,
explain your meaning. You spoke of murder!'
'Aye, ma'amselle, they are coming to murder us all, perhaps; but what
signifies explaining?--you will not believe.'
Emily again desired her to relate what she had seen, or heard.
'O, I have seen enough, ma'am, and heard too much, as Ludovico can
prove. Poor soul! they will murder him, too! I little thought, when
he sung those sweet verses under my lattice, at Venice!'--Emily
looked impatient and displeased. 'Well, ma'amselle, as I was saying,
these preparations about the castle, and these strange-looking
people, that are calling here every day, and the Signor's cruel usage
of my lady, and his odd goings-on--all these, as I told Ludovico, can
bode no good. And he bid me hold my tongue. So, says I, the
Signor's strangely altered, Ludovico, in this gloomy castle, to what
he was in France; there, all so gay! Nobody so gallant to my lady,
then; and he could smile, too, upon a poor servant, sometimes, and
jeer her, too, good-naturedly enough. I remember once, when he said
to me, as I was going out of my lady's dressing-room--Annette, says
he--'
'Never mind what the Signor said,' interrupted Emily; 'but tell me,
at once, the circumstance, which has thus alarmed you.'
'Aye, ma'amselle,' rejoined Annette, 'that is just what Ludovico
said: says he, Never mind what the Signor says to you. So I told
him what I thought about the Signor. He is so strangely altered,
said I: for now he is so haughty, and so commanding, and so sharp
with my lady; and, if he meets one, he'll scarcely look at one,
unless it be to frown. So much the better, says Ludovico, so much
the better. And to tell you the truth, ma'amselle, I thought this
was a very ill-natured speech of Ludovico: but I went on. And then,
says I, he is always knitting his brows; and if one speaks to him, he
does not hear; and then he sits up counselling so, of a night, with
the other Signors--there they are, till long past midnight,
discoursing together! Aye, but says Ludovico, you don't know what
they are counselling about. No, said I, but I can guess--it is about
my young lady. Upon that, Ludovico burst out a-laughing, quite loud;
so he put me in a huff, for I did not like that either I or you,
ma'amselle, should be laughed at; and I turned away quick, but he
stopped me. "Don't be affronted, Annette," said he, "but I cannot
help laughing;" and with that he laughed again. "What!" says he, "do
you think the Signors sit up, night after night, only to counsel
about thy young lady! No, no, there is something more in the wind
than that. And these repairs about the castle, and these
preparations about the ramparts--they are not making about young
ladies." Why, surely, said I, the Signor, my master, is not going to
make war? "Make war!" said Ludovico, "what, upon the mountains and
the woods? for here is no living soul to make war upon that I see."
'What are these preparations for, then? said I; why surely nobody is
coming to take away my master's castle! "Then there are so many ill-
looking fellows coming to the castle every day," says Ludovico,
without answering my question, "and the Signor sees them all, and
talks with them all, and they all stay in the neighbourhood! By holy
St. Marco! some of them are the most cut-throat-looking dogs I ever
set my eyes upon."
'I asked Ludovico again, if he thought they were coming to take away
my master's castle; and he said, No, he did not think they were, but
he did not know for certain. "Then yesterday," said he, but you must
not tell this, ma'amselle, "yesterday, a party of these men came, and
left all their horses in the castle stables, where, it seems, they
are to stay, for the Signor ordered them all to be entertained with
the best provender in the manger; but the men are, most of them, in
the neighbouring cottages."
'So, ma'amselle, I came to tell you all this, for I never heard any
thing so strange in my life. But what can these ill-looking men be
come about, if it is not to murder us? And the Signor knows this, or
why should he be so civil to them? And why should he fortify the
castle, and counsel so much with the other Signors, and be so
thoughtful?'
'Is this all you have to tell, Annette?' said Emily. 'Have you heard
nothing else, that alarms you?'
'Nothing else, ma'amselle!' said Annette; 'why, is not this enough?'
'Quite enough for my patience, Annette, but not quite enough to
convince me we are all to be murdered, though I acknowledge here is
sufficient food for curiosity.' She forbore to speak her
apprehensions, because she would not encourage Annette's wild
terrors; but the present circumstances of the castle both surprised,
and alarmed her. Annette, having told her tale, left the chamber, on
the wing for new wonders.
In the evening, Emily had passed some melancholy hours with Madame
Montoni, and was retiring to rest, when she was alarmed by a strange
and loud knocking at her chamber door, and then a heavy weight fell
against it, that almost burst it open. She called to know who was
there, and receiving no answer, repeated the call; but a chilling
silence followed. It occurred to her--for, at this moment, she could
not reason on the probability of circumstances--that some one of the
strangers, lately arrived at the castle, had discovered her
apartment, and was come with such intent, as their looks rendered too
possible--to rob, perhaps to murder, her. The moment she admitted
this possibility, terror supplied the place of conviction, and a kind
of instinctive remembrance of her remote situation from the family
heightened it to a degree, that almost overcame her senses. She
looked at the door, which led to the staircase, expecting to see it
open, and listening, in fearful silence, for a return of the noise,
till she began to think it had proceeded from this door, and a wish
of escaping through the opposite one rushed upon her mind. She went
to the gallery door, and then, fearing to open it, lest some person
might be silently lurking for her without, she stopped, but with her
eyes fixed in expectation upon the opposite door of the stair-case.
As thus she stood, she heard a faint breathing near her, and became
convinced, that some person was on the other side of the door, which
was already locked. She sought for other fastening, but there was
none.
While she yet listened, the breathing was distinctly heard, and her
terror was not soothed, when, looking round her wide and lonely
chamber, she again considered her remote situation. As she stood
hesitating whether to call for assistance, the continuance of the
stillness surprised her; and her spirits would have revived, had she
not continued to hear the faint breathing, that convinced her, the
person, whoever it was, had not quitted the door.
At length, worn out with anxiety, she determined to call loudly for
assistance from her casement, and was advancing to it, when, whether
the terror of her mind gave her ideal sounds, or that real ones did
come, she thought footsteps were ascending the private stair-case;
and, expecting to see its door unclose, she forgot all other cause of
alarm, and retreated towards the corridor. Here she endeavoured to
make her escape, but, on opening the door, was very near falling over
a person, who lay on the floor without. She screamed, and would have
passed, but her trembling frame refused to support her; and the
moment, in which she leaned against the wall of the gallery, allowed
her leisure to observe the figure before her, and to recognise the
features of Annette. Fear instantly yielded to surprise. She spoke
in vain to the poor girl, who remained senseless on the floor, and
then, losing all consciousness of her own weakness, hurried to her
assistance.
When Annette recovered, she was helped by Emily into the chamber, but
was still unable to speak, and looked round her, as if her eyes
followed some person in the room. Emily tried to sooth her disturbed
spirits, and forbore, at present, to ask her any questions; but the
faculty of speech was never long with-held from Annette, and she
explained, in broken sentences, and in her tedious way, the occasion
of her disorder. She affirmed, and with a solemnity of conviction,
that almost staggered the incredulity of Emily, that she had seen an
apparition, as she was passing to her bedroom, through the corridor.
'I had heard strange stories of that chamber before,' said Annette:
'but as it was so near yours, ma'amselle, I would not tell them to
you, because they would frighten you. The servants had told me,
often and often, that it was haunted, and that was the reason why it
was shut up: nay, for that matter, why the whole string of these
rooms, here, are shut up. I quaked whenever I went by, and I must
say, I did sometimes think I heard odd noises within it. But, as I
said, as I was passing along the corridor, and not thinking a word
about the matter, or even of the strange voice that the Signors heard
the other night, all of a sudden comes a great light, and, looking
behind me, there was a tall figure, (I saw it as plainly, ma'amselle,
as I see you at this moment), a tall figure gliding along (Oh! I
cannot describe how!) into the room, that is always shut up, and
nobody has the key of it but the Signor, and the door shut directly.'
'Then it doubtless was the Signor,' said Emily.
'O no, ma'amselle, it could not be him, for I left him busy a-
quarrelling in my lady's dressing-room!'
'You bring me strange tales, Annette,' said Emily: 'it was but this
morning, that you would have terrified me with the apprehension of
murder; and now you would persuade me, you have seen a ghost! These
wonderful stories come too quickly.'
'Nay, ma'amselle, I will say no more, only, if I had not been
frightened, I should not have fainted dead away, so. I ran as fast
as I could, to get to your door; but, what was worst of all, I could
not call out; then I thought something must be strangely the matter
with me, and directly I dropt down.'
'Was it the chamber where the black veil hangs?' said Emily. 'O! no,
ma'amselle, it was one nearer to this. What shall I do, to get to my
room? I would not go out into the corridor again, for the whole
world!' Emily, whose spirits had been severely shocked, and who,
therefore, did not like the thought of passing the night alone, told
her she might sleep where she was. 'O, no, ma'amselle,' replied
Annette, 'I would not sleep in the room, now, for a thousand
sequins!'
Wearied and disappointed, Emily first ridiculed, though she shared,
her fears, and then tried to sooth them; but neither attempt
succeeded, and the girl persisted in believing and affirming, that
what she had seen was nothing human. It was not till some time after
Emily had recovered her composure, that she recollected the steps she
had heard on the stair-case--a remembrance, however, which made her
insist that Annette should pass the night with her, and, with much
difficulty, she, at length, prevailed, assisted by that part of the
girl's fear, which concerned the corridor.
Early on the following morning, as Emily crossed the hall to the
ramparts, she heard a noisy bustle in the court-yard, and the clatter
of horses' hoofs. Such unusual sounds excited her curiosity; and,
instead of going to the ramparts, she went to an upper casement, from
whence she saw, in the court below, a large party of horsemen,
dressed in a singular, but uniform, habit, and completely, though
variously, armed. They wore a kind of short jacket, composed of
black and scarlet, and several of them had a cloak, of plain black,
which, covering the person entirely, hung down to the stirrups. As
one of these cloaks glanced aside, she saw, beneath, daggers,
apparently of different sizes, tucked into the horseman's belt. She
further observed, that these were carried, in the same manner, by
many of the horsemen without cloaks, most of whom bore also pikes, or
javelins. On their heads, were the small Italian caps, some of which
were distinguished by black feathers. Whether these caps gave a
fierce air to the countenance, or that the countenances they
surmounted had naturally such an appearance, Emily thought she had
never, till then, seen an assemblage of faces so savage and terrific.
While she gazed, she almost fancied herself surrounded by banditti;
and a vague thought glanced athwart her fancy--that Montoni was the
captain of the group before her, and that this castle was to be the
place of rendezvous. The strange and horrible supposition was but
momentary, though her reason could supply none more probable, and
though she discovered, among the band, the strangers she had formerly
noticed with so much alarm, who were now distinguished by the black
plume.
While she continued gazing, Cavigni, Verezzi, and Bertolini came
forth from the hall, habited like the rest, except that they wore
hats, with a mixed plume of black and scarlet, and that their arms
differed from those of the rest of the party. As they mounted their
horses, Emily was struck with the exulting joy, expressed on the
visage of Verezzi, while Cavigni was gay, yet with a shade of thought
on his countenance; and, as he managed his horse with dexterity, his
graceful and commanding figure, which exhibited the majesty of a
hero, had never appeared to more advantage. Emily, as she observed
him, thought he somewhat resembled Valancourt, in the spirit and
dignity of his person; but she looked in vain for the noble,
benevolent countenance--the soul's intelligence, which overspread the
features of the latter.
As she was hoping, she scarcely knew why, that Montoni would
accompany the party, he appeared at the hall door, but un-accoutred.
Having carefully observed the horsemen, conversed awhile with the
cavaliers, and bidden them farewel, the band wheeled round the court,
and, led by Verezzi, issued forth under the portcullis; Montoni
following to the portal, and gazing after them for some time. Emily
then retired from the casement, and, now certain of being unmolested,
went to walk on the ramparts, from whence she soon after saw the
party winding among the mountains to the west, appearing and
disappearing between the woods, till distance confused their figures,
consolidated their numbers, and only a dingy mass appeared moving
along the heights.
Emily observed, that no workmen were on the ramparts, and that the
repairs of the fortifications seemed to be completed. While she
sauntered thoughtfully on, she heard distant footsteps, and, raising
her eyes, saw several men lurking under the castle walls, who were
evidently not workmen, but looked as if they would have accorded well
with the party, which was gone. Wondering where Annette had hid
herself so long, who might have explained some of the late
circumstances, and then considering that Madame Montoni was probably
risen, she went to her dressing-room, where she mentioned what had
occurred; but Madame Montoni either would not, or could not, give any
explanation of the event. The Signor's reserve to his wife, on this
subject, was probably nothing more than usual; yet, to Emily, it gave
an air of mystery to the whole affair, that seemed to hint, there was
danger, if not villany, in his schemes.
Annette presently came, and, as usual, was full of alarm; to her
lady's eager enquiries of what she had heard among the servants, she
replied:
'Ah, madam! nobody knows what it is all about, but old Carlo; he
knows well enough, I dare say, but he is as close as his master.
Some say the Signor is going out to frighten the enemy, as they call
it: but where is the enemy? Then others say, he is going to take
away some body's castle: but I am sure he has room enough in his
own, without taking other people's; and I am sure I should like it a
great deal better, if there were more people to fill it.'
'Ah! you will soon have your wish, I fear,' replied Madame Montoni.
'No, madam, but such ill-looking fellows are not worth having. I
mean such gallant, smart, merry fellows as Ludovico, who is always
telling droll stories, to make one laugh. It was but yesterday, he
told me such a HUMOURSOME tale! I can't help laughing at it now.--
Says he--'
'Well, we can dispense with the story,' said her lady. 'Ah!'
continued Annette, 'he sees a great way further than other people!
Now he sees into all the Signor's meaning, without knowing a word
about the matter!'
'How is that?' said Madame Montoni.
'Why he says--but he made me promise not to tell, and I would not
disoblige him for the world.'
'What is it he made you promise not to tell?' said her lady, sternly.
'I insist upon knowing immediately--what is it he made you promise?'
'O madam,' cried Annette, 'I would not tell for the universe!' 'I
insist upon your telling this instant,' said Madame Montoni. 'O dear
madam! I would not tell for a hundred sequins! You would not have
me forswear myself madam!' exclaimed Annette.
'I will not wait another moment,' said Madame Montoni. Annette was
silent.
'The Signor shall be informed of this directly,' rejoined her
mistress: 'he will make you discover all.'
'It is Ludovico, who has discovered,' said Annette: 'but for mercy's
sake, madam, don't tell the Signor, and you shall know all directly.'
Madame Montoni said, that she would not.
'Well then, madam, Ludovico says, that the Signor, my master, is--is-
-that is, he only thinks so, and any body, you know, madam, is free
to think--that the Signor, my master, is--is--'
'Is what?' said her lady, impatiently.
'That the Signor, my master, is going to be--a great robber--that is-
-he is going to rob on his own account;--to be, (but I am sure I
don't understand what he means) to be a--captain of--robbers.'
'Art thou in thy senses, Annette?' said Madame Montoni; 'or is this a
trick to deceive me? Tell me, this instant, what Ludovico DID say to
thee;--no equivocation;--this instant.'
'Nay, madam,' cried Annette, 'if this is all I am to get for having
told the secret'--Her mistress thus continued to insist, and Annette
to protest, till Montoni, himself, appeared, who bade the latter
leave the room, and she withdrew, trembling for the fate of her
story. Emily also was retiring, but her aunt desired she would stay;
and Montoni had so often made her a witness of their contention, that
he no longer had scruples on that account.
'I insist upon knowing this instant, Signor, what all this means:'
said his wife--'what are all these armed men, whom they tell me of,
gone out about?' Montoni answered her only with a look of scorn; and
Emily whispered something to her. 'It does not signify,' said her
aunt: 'I will know; and I will know, too, what the castle has been
fortified for.'
'Come, come,' said Montoni, 'other business brought me here. I must
be trifled with no longer. I have immediate occasion for what I
demand--those estates must be given up, without further contention;
or I may find a way--'
'They never shall be given up,' interrupted Madame Montoni: 'they
never shall enable you to carry on your wild schemes;--but what are
these? I will know. Do you expect the castle to be attacked? Do
you expect enemies? Am I to be shut up here, to be killed in a
siege?'
'Sign the writings,' said Montoni, 'and you shall know more.'
'What enemy can be coming?' continued his wife. 'Have you entered
into the service of the state? Am I to be blocked up here to die?'
'That may possibly happen,' said Montoni, 'unless you yield to my
demand: for, come what may, you shall not quit the castle till
then.' Madame Montoni burst into loud lamentation, which she as
suddenly checked, considering, that her husband's assertions might be
only artifices, employed to extort her consent. She hinted this
suspicion, and, in the next moment, told him also, that his designs
were not so honourable as to serve the state, and that she believed
he had only commenced a captain of banditti, to join the enemies of
Venice, in plundering and laying waste the surrounding country.
Montoni looked at her for a moment with a steady and stern
countenance; while Emily trembled, and his wife, for once, thought
she had said too much. 'You shall be removed, this night,' said he,
'to the east turret: there, perhaps, you may understand the danger
of offending a man, who has an unlimited power over you.'
Emily now fell at his feet, and, with tears of terror, supplicated
for her aunt, who sat, trembling with fear, and indignation; now
ready to pour forth execrations, and now to join the intercessions of
Emily. Montoni, however, soon interrupted these entreaties with an
horrible oath; and, as he burst from Emily, leaving his cloak, in her
hand, she fell to the floor, with a force, that occasioned her a
severe blow on the forehead. But he quitted the room, without
attempting to raise her, whose attention was called from herself, by
a deep groan from Madame Montoni, who continued otherwise unmoved in
her chair, and had not fainted. Emily, hastening to her assistance,
saw her eyes rolling, and her features convulsed.
Having spoken to her, without receiving an answer, she brought water,
and supported her head, while she held it to her lips; but the
increasing convulsions soon compelled Emily to call for assistance.
On her way through the hall, in search of Annette, she met Montoni,
whom she told what had happened, and conjured to return and comfort
her aunt; but he turned silently away, with a look of indifference,
and went out upon the ramparts. At length she found old Carlo and
Annette, and they hastened to the dressing-room, where Madame Montoni
had fallen on the floor, and was lying in strong convulsions. Having
lifted her into the adjoining room, and laid her on the bed, the
force of her disorder still made all their strength necessary to hold
her, while Annette trembled and sobbed, and old Carlo looked silently
and piteously on, as his feeble hands grasped those of his mistress,
till, turning his eyes upon Emily, he exclaimed, 'Good God! Signora,
what is the matter?'
Emily looked calmly at him, and saw his enquiring eyes fixed on her:
and Annette, looking up, screamed loudly; for Emily's face was
stained with blood, which continued to fall slowly from her forehead:
but her attention had been so entirely occupied by the scene before
her, that she had felt no pain from the wound. She now held an
handkerchief to her face, and, notwithstanding her faintness,
continued to watch Madame Montoni, the violence of whose convulsions
was abating, till at length they ceased, and left her in a kind of
stupor.
'My aunt must remain quiet,' said Emily. 'Go, good Carlo; if we
should want your assistance, I will send for you. In the mean time,
if you have an opportunity, speak kindly of your mistress to your
master.'
'Alas!' said Carlo, 'I have seen too much! I have little influence
with the Signor. But do, dear young lady, take some care of
yourself; that is an ugly wound, and you look sadly.'
'Thank you, my friend, for your consideration,' said Emily, smiling
kindly: 'the wound is trifling, it came by a fall.'
Carlo shook his head, and left the room; and Emily, with Annette,
continued to watch by her aunt. 'Did my lady tell the Signor what
Ludovico said, ma'amselle?' asked Annette in a whisper; but Emily
quieted her fears on the subject.
'I thought what this quarrelling would come to,' continued Annette:
'I suppose the Signor has been beating my lady.'
'No, no, Annette, you are totally mistaken, nothing extra-ordinary
has happened.'
'Why, extraordinary things happen here so often, ma'amselle, that
there is nothing in them. Here is another legion of those ill-
looking fellows, come to the castle, this morning.'
'Hush! Annette, you will disturb my aunt; we will talk of that by
and bye.'
They continued watching silently, till Madame Montoni uttered a low
sigh, when Emily took her hand, and spoke soothingly to her; but the
former gazed with unconscious eyes, and it was long before she knew
her niece. Her first words then enquired for Montoni; to which Emily
replied by an entreaty, that she would compose her spirits, and
consent to be kept quiet, adding, that, if she wished any message to
be conveyed to him, she would herself deliver it. 'No,' said her
aunt faintly, 'no--I have nothing new to tell him. Does he persist
in saying I shall be removed from my chamber?'
Emily replied, that he had not spoken, on the subject, since Madame
Montoni heard him; and then she tried to divert her attention to some
other topic; but her aunt seemed to be inattentive to what she said,
and lost in secret thoughts. Emily, having brought her some
refreshment, now left her to the care of Annette, and went in search
of Montoni, whom she found on a remote part of the rampart,
conversing among a group of the men described by Annette. They stood
round him with fierce, yet subjugated, looks, while he, speaking
earnestly, and pointing to the walls, did not perceive Emily, who
remained at some distance, waiting till he should be at leisure, and
observing involuntarily the appearance of one man, more savage than
his fellows, who stood resting on his pike, and looking, over the
shoulders of a comrade, at Montoni, to whom he listened with uncommon
earnestness. This man was apparently of low condition; yet his looks
appeared not to acknowledge the superiority of Montoni, as did those
of his companions; and sometimes they even assumed an air of
authority, which the decisive manner of the Signor could not repress.
Some few words of Montoni then passed in the wind; and, as the men
were separating, she heard him say, 'This evening, then, begin the
watch at sun-set.'
'At sun-set, Signor,' replied one or two of them, and walked away;
while Emily approached Montoni, who appeared desirous of avoiding
her: but, though she observed this, she had courage to proceed. She
endeavoured to intercede once more for her aunt, represented to him
her sufferings, and urged the danger of exposing her to a cold
apartment in her present state. 'She suffers by her own folly,' said
Montoni, 'and is not to be pitied;--she knows how she may avoid these
sufferings in future--if she is removed to the turret, it will be her
own fault. Let her be obedient, and sign the writings you heard of,
and I will think no more of it.'
When Emily ventured still to plead, he sternly silenced and rebuked
her for interfering in his domestic affairs, but, at length,
dismissed her with this concession--That he would not remove Madame
Montoni, on the ensuing night, but allow her till the next to
consider, whether she would resign her settlements, or be imprisoned
in the east turret of the castle, 'where she shall find,' he added,
'a punishment she may not expect.'
Emily then hastened to inform her aunt of this short respite and of
the alternative, that awaited her, to which the latter made no reply,
but appeared thoughtful, while Emily, in consideration of her extreme
languor, wished to sooth her mind by leading it to less interesting
topics: and, though these efforts were unsuccessful, and Madame
Montoni became peevish, her resolution, on the contended point,
seemed somewhat to relax, and Emily recommended, as her only means of
safety, that she should submit to Montoni's demand. 'You know not
what you advise,' said her aunt. 'Do you understand, that these
estates will descend to you at my death, if I persist in a refusal?'
'I was ignorant of that circumstance, madam,' replied Emily, 'but the
knowledge of it cannot with-hold me from advising you to adopt the
conduct, which not only your peace, but, I fear, your safety
requires, and I entreat, that you will not suffer a consideration
comparatively so trifling, to make you hesitate a moment in resigning
them.'
'Are you sincere, niece?' 'Is it possible you can doubt it, madam?'
Her aunt appeared to be affected. 'You are not unworthy of these
estates, niece,' said she: 'I would wish to keep them for your sake-
-you shew a virtue I did not expect.'
'How have I deserved this reproof, madam?' said Emily sorrowfully.
'Reproof!' replied Madame Montoni: 'I meant to praise your virtue.'
'Alas! here is no exertion of virtue,' rejoined Emily, 'for here is
no temptation to be overcome.'
'Yet Monsieur Valancourt'--said her aunt. 'O, madam!' interrupted
Emily, anticipating what she would have said, 'do not let me glance
on that subject: do not let my mind be stained with a wish so
shockingly self-interested.' She immediately changed the topic, and
continued with Madame Montoni, till she withdrew to her apartment for
the night.
At that hour, the castle was perfectly still, and every inhabitant of
it, except herself, seemed to have retired to rest. As she passed
along the wide and lonely galleries, dusky and silent, she felt
forlorn and apprehensive of--she scarcely knew what; but when,
entering the corridor, she recollected the incident of the preceding
night, a dread seized her, lest a subject of alarm, similar to that,
which had befallen Annette, should occur to her, and which, whether
real, or ideal, would, she felt, have an almost equal effect upon her
weakened spirits. The chamber, to which Annette had alluded, she did
not exactly know, but understood it to be one of those she must pass
in the way to her own; and, sending a fearful look forward into the
gloom, she stepped lightly and cautiously along, till, coming to a
door, from whence issued a low sound, she hesitated and paused; and,
during the delay of that moment, her fears so much increased, that
she had no power to move from the spot. Believing, that she heard a
human voice within, she was somewhat revived; but, in the next
moment, the door was opened, and a person, whom she conceived to be
Montoni, appeared, who instantly started back, and closed it, though
not before she had seen, by the light that burned in the chamber,
another person, sitting in a melancholy attitude by the fire. Her
terror vanished, but her astonishment only began, which was now
roused by the mysterious secrecy of Montoni's manner, and by the
discovery of a person, whom he thus visited at midnight, in an
apartment, which had long been shut up, and of which such
extraordinary reports were circulated.
While she thus continued hesitating, strongly prompted to watch
Montoni's motions, yet fearing to irritate him by appearing to notice
them, the door was again opened cautiously, and as instantly closed
as before. She then stepped softly to her chamber, which was the
next but one to this, but, having put down her lamp, returned to an
obscure corner of the corridor, to observe the proceedings of this
half-seen person, and to ascertain, whether it was indeed Montoni.
Having waited in silent expectation for a few minutes, with her eyes
fixed on the door, it was again opened, and the same person appeared,
whom she now knew to be Montoni. He looked cautiously round, without
perceiving her, then, stepping forward, closed the door, and left the
corridor. Soon after, Emily heard the door fastened on the inside,
and she withdrew to her chamber, wondering at what she had witnessed.
It was now twelve o'clock. As she closed her casement, she heard
footsteps on the terrace below, and saw imperfectly, through the
gloom, several persons advancing, who passed under the casement. She
then heard the clink of arms, and, in the next moment, the watch-
word; when, recollecting the command she had overheard from Montoni,
and the hour of the night, she understood, that these men were, for
the first time, relieving guard in the castle. Having listened till
all was again still, she retired to sleep.
CHAPTER X
And shall no lay of death
With pleasing murmur sooth
Her parted soul?
Shall no tear wet her grave?
SAYERS
On the following morning, Emily went early to the apartment of Madame
Montoni, who had slept well, and was much recovered. Her spirits had
also returned with her health, and her resolution to oppose Montoni's
demands revived, though it yet struggled with her fears, which Emily,
who trembled for the consequence of further opposition, endeavoured
to confirm.
Her aunt, as has been already shewn, had a disposition, which
delighted in contradiction, and which taught her, when unpleasant
circumstances were offered to her understanding, not to enquire into
their truth, but to seek for arguments, by which she might make them
appear false. Long habit had so entirely confirmed this natural
propensity, that she was not conscious of possessing it. Emily's
remonstrances and representations, therefore, roused her pride,
instead of alarming, or convincing her judgment, and she still relied
upon the discovery of some means, by which she might yet avoid
submitting to the demand of her husband. Considering, that, if she
could once escape from his castle, she might defy his power, and,
obtaining a decisive separation, live in comfort on the estates, that
yet remained for her, she mentioned this to her niece, who accorded
with her in the wish, but differed from her, as to the probability of
its completion. She represented the impossibility of passing the
gates, secured and guarded as they were, and the extreme danger of
committing her design to the discretion of a servant, who might
either purposely betray, or accidentally disclose it.--Montoni's
vengeance would also disdain restraint, if her intention was
detected: and, though Emily wished, as fervently as she could do, to
regain her freedom, and return to France, she consulted only Madame
Montoni's safety, and persevered in advising her to relinquish her
settlement, without braving further outrage.
The struggle of contrary emotions, however, continued to rage in her
aunt's bosom, and she still brooded over the chance of effecting an
escape. While she thus sat, Montoni entered the room, and, without
noticing his wife's indisposition, said, that he came to remind her
of the impolicy of trifling with him, and that he gave her only till
the evening to determine, whether she would consent to his demand, or
compel him, by a refusal, to remove her to the east turret. He
added, that a party of cavaliers would dine with him, that day, and
that he expected that she would sit at the head of the table, where
Emily, also, must be present. Madame Montoni was now on the point of
uttering an absolute refusal, but, suddenly considering, that her
liberty, during this entertainment, though circumscribed, might
favour her further plans, she acquiesced, with seeming reluctance,
and Montoni, soon after, left the apartment. His command struck
Emily with surprise and apprehension, who shrank from the thought of
being exposed to the gaze of strangers, such as her fancy represented
these to be, and the words of Count Morano, now again recollected,
did not sooth her fears.
When she withdrew to prepare for dinner, she dressed herself with
even more simplicity than usual, that she might escape observation--a
policy, which did not avail her, for, as she re-passed to her aunt's
apartment, she was met by Montoni, who censured what he called her
prudish appearance, and insisted, that she should wear the most
splendid dress she had, even that, which had been prepared for her
intended nuptials with Count Morano, and which, it now appeared, her
aunt had carefully brought with her from Venice. This was made, not
in the Venetian, but, in the Neapolitan fashion, so as to set off the
shape and figure, to the utmost advantage. In it, her beautiful
chestnut tresses were negligently bound up in pearls, and suffered to
fall back again on her neck. The simplicity of a better taste, than
Madame Montoni's, was conspicuous in this dress, splendid as it was,
and Emily's unaffected beauty never had appeared more captivatingly.
She had now only to hope, that Montoni's order was prompted, not by
any extraordinary design, but by an ostentation of displaying his
family, richly attired, to the eyes of strangers; yet nothing less
than his absolute command could have prevailed with her to wear a
dress, that had been designed for such an offensive purpose, much
less to have worn it on this occasion. As she descended to dinner,
the emotion of her mind threw a faint blush over her countenance, and
heightened its interesting expression; for timidity had made her
linger in her apartment, till the utmost moment, and, when she
entered the hall, in which a kind of state dinner was spread, Montoni
and his guests were already seated at the table. She was then going
to place herself by her aunt; but Montoni waved his hand, and two of
the cavaliers rose, and seated her between them.
The eldest of these was a tall man, with strong Italian features, an
aquiline nose, and dark penetrating eyes, that flashed with fire,
when his mind was agitated, and, even in its state of rest, retained
somewhat of the wildness of the passions. His visage was long and
narrow, and his complexion of a sickly yellow.
The other, who appeared to be about forty, had features of a
different cast, yet Italian, and his look was slow, subtle and
penetrating; his eyes, of a dark grey, were small, and hollow; his
complexion was a sun-burnt brown, and the contour of his face, though
inclined to oval, was irregular and ill-formed.
Eight other guests sat round the table, who were all dressed in an
uniform, and had all an expression, more or less, of wild fierceness,
of subtle design, or of licentious passions. As Emily timidly
surveyed them, she remembered the scene of the preceding morning, and
again almost fancied herself surrounded by banditti; then, looking
back to the tranquillity of her early life, she felt scarcely less
astonishment, than grief, at her present situation. The scene, in
which they sat, assisted the illusion; it was an antient hall, gloomy
from the style of its architecture, from its great extent, and
because almost the only light it received was from one large gothic
window, and from a pair of folding doors, which, being open, admitted
likewise a view of the west rampart, with the wild mountains of the
Apennine beyond.
The middle compartment of this hall rose into a vaulted roof,
enriched with fretwork, and supported, on three sides, by pillars of
marble; beyond these, long colonades retired in gloomy grandeur, till
their extent was lost in twilight. The lightest footsteps of the
servants, as they advanced through these, were returned in whispering
echoes, and their figures, seen at a distance imperfectly through the
dusk, frequently awakened Emily's imagination. She looked
alternately at Montoni, at his guests and on the surrounding scene;
and then, remembering her dear native province, her pleasant home and
the simplicity and goodness of the friends, whom she had lost, grief
and surprise again occupied her mind.
When her thoughts could return from these considerations, she fancied
she observed an air of authority towards his guests, such as she had
never before seen him assume, though he had always been distinguished
by an haughty carriage; there was something also in the manners of
the strangers, that seemed perfectly, though not servilely, to
acknowledge his superiority.
During dinner, the conversation was chiefly on war and politics.
They talked with energy of the state of Venice, its dangers, the
character of the reigning Doge and of the chief senators; and then
spoke of the state of Rome. When the repast was over, they rose,
and, each filling his goblet with wine from the gilded ewer, that
stood beside him, drank 'Success to our exploits!' Montoni was
lifting his goblet to his lips to drink this toast, when suddenly the
wine hissed, rose to the brim, and, as he held the glass from him, it
burst into a thousand pieces.
To him, who constantly used that sort of Venice glass, which had the
quality of breaking, upon receiving poisoned liquor, a suspicion,
that some of his guests had endeavoured to betray him, instantly
occurred, and he ordered all the gates to be closed, drew his sword,
and, looking round on them, who stood in silent amazement, exclaimed,
'Here is a traitor among us; let those, that are innocent, assist in
discovering the guilty.'
Indignation flashed from the eyes of the cavaliers, who all drew
their swords; and Madame Montoni, terrified at what might ensue, was
hastening from the hall, when her husband commanded her to stay; but
his further words could not now be distinguished, for the voice of
every person rose together. His order, that all the servants should
appear, was at length obeyed, and they declared their ignorance of
any deceit--a protestation which could not be believed; for it was
evident, that, as Montoni's liquor, and his only, had been poisoned,
a deliberate design had been formed against his life, which could not
have been carried so far towards its accomplishment, without the
connivance of the servant, who had the care of the wine ewers.
This man, with another, whose face betrayed either the consciousness
of guilt, or the fear of punishment, Montoni ordered to be chained
instantly, and confined in a strong room, which had formerly been
used as a prison. Thither, likewise, he would have sent all his
guests, had he not foreseen the consequence of so bold and
unjustifiable a proceeding. As to those, therefore, he contented
himself with swearing, that no man should pass the gates, till this
extraordinary affair had been investigated, and then sternly bade his
wife retire to her apartment, whither he suffered Emily to attend
her.
In about half an hour, he followed to the dressing-room; and Emily
observed, with horror, his dark countenance and quivering lip, and
heard him denounce vengeance on her aunt.
'It will avail you nothing,' said he to his wife, 'to deny the fact;
I have proof of your guilt. Your only chance of mercy rests on a
full confession;--there is nothing to hope from sullenness, or
falsehood; your accomplice has confessed all.'
Emily's fainting spirits were roused by astonishment, as she heard
her aunt accused of a crime so atrocious, and she could not, for a
moment, admit the possibility of her guilt. Meanwhile Madame
Montoni's agitation did not permit her to reply; alternately her
complexion varied from livid paleness to a crimson flush; and she
trembled,--but, whether with fear, or with indignation, it were
difficult to decide.
'Spare your words,' said Montoni, seeing her about to speak, 'your
countenance makes full confession of your crime.--You shall be
instantly removed to the east turret.'
'This accusation,' said Madame Montoni, speaking with difficulty, 'is
used only as an excuse for your cruelty; I disdain to reply to it.
You do not believe me guilty.'
'Signor!' said Emily solemnly, 'this dreadful charge, I would answer
with my life, is false. Nay, Signor,' she added, observing the
severity of his countenance, 'this is no moment for restraint, on my
part; I do not scruple to tell you, that you are deceived--most
wickedly deceived, by the suggestion of some person, who aims at the
ruin of my aunt:--it is impossible, that you could yourself have
imagined a crime so hideous.'
Montoni, his lips trembling more than before, replied only, 'If you
value your own safety,' addressing Emily, 'you will be silent. I
shall know how to interpret your remonstrances, should you persevere
in them.'
Emily raised her eyes calmly to heaven. 'Here is, indeed, then,
nothing to hope!' said she.
'Peace!' cried Montoni, 'or you shall find there is something to
fear.'
He turned to his wife, who had now recovered her spirits, and who
vehemently and wildly remonstrated upon this mysterious suspicion:
but Montoni's rage heightened with her indignation, and Emily,
dreading the event of it, threw herself between them, and clasped his
knees in silence, looking up in his face with an expression, that
might have softened the heart of a fiend. Whether his was hardened
by a conviction of Madame Montoni's guilt, or that a bare suspicion
of it made him eager to exercise vengeance, he was totally and alike
insensible to the distress of his wife, and to the pleading looks of
Emily, whom he made no attempt to raise, but was vehemently menacing
both, when he was called out of the room by some person at the door.
As he shut the door, Emily heard him turn the lock and take out the
key; so that Madame Montoni and herself were now prisoners; and she
saw that his designs became more and more terrible. Her endeavours
to explain his motives for this circumstance were almost as
ineffectual as those to sooth the distress of her aunt, whose
innocence she could not doubt; but she, at length, accounted for
Montoni's readiness to suspect his wife by his own consciousness of
cruelty towards her, and for the sudden violence of his present
conduct against both, before even his suspicions could be completely
formed, by his general eagerness to effect suddenly whatever he was
led to desire and his carelessness of justice, or humanity, in
accomplishing it.
Madame Montoni, after some time, again looked round, in search of a
possibility of escape from the castle, and conversed with Emily on
the subject, who was now willing to encounter any hazard, though she
forbore to encourage a hope in her aunt, which she herself did not
admit. How strongly the edifice was secured, and how vigilantly
guarded, she knew too well; and trembled to commit their safety to
the caprice of the servant, whose assistance they must solicit. Old
Carlo was compassionate, but he seemed to be too much in his master's
interest to be trusted by them; Annette could of herself do little,
and Emily knew Ludovico only from her report. At present, however,
these considerations were useless, Madame Montoni and her niece being
shut up from all intercourse, even with the persons, whom there might
be these reasons to reject.
In the hall, confusion and tumult still reigned. Emily, as she
listened anxiously to the murmur, that sounded along the gallery,
sometimes fancied she heard the clashing of swords, and, when she
considered the nature of the provocation, given by Montoni, and his
impetuosity, it appeared probable, that nothing less than arms would
terminate the contention. Madame Montoni, having exhausted all her
expressions of indignation, and Emily, hers of comfort, they remained
silent, in that kind of breathless stillness, which, in nature, often
succeeds to the uproar of conflicting elements; a stillness, like the
morning, that dawns upon the ruins of an earthquake.
An uncertain kind of terror pervaded Emily's mind; the circumstances
of the past hour still came dimly and confusedly to her memory; and
her thoughts were various and rapid, though without tumult.
From this state of waking visions she was recalled by a knocking at
the chamber-door, and, enquiring who was there, heard the whispering
voice of Annette.
'Dear madam, let me come in, I have a great deal to say,' said the
poor girl.
'The door is locked,' answered the lady.
'Yes, ma'am, but do pray open it.'
'The Signor has the key,' said Madame Montoni.
'O blessed Virgin! what will become of us?' exclaimed Annette.
'Assist us to escape,' said her mistress. 'Where is Ludovico?'
'Below in the hall, ma'am, amongst them all, fighting with the best
of them!'
'Fighting! Who are fighting?' cried Madame Montoni.
'Why the Signor, ma'am, and all the Signors, and a great many more.'
'Is any person much hurt?' said Emily, in a tremulous voice. 'Hurt!
Yes, ma'amselle,--there they lie bleeding, and the swords are
clashing, and--O holy saints! Do let me in, ma'am, they are coming
this way--I shall be murdered!'
'Fly!' cried Emily, 'fly! we cannot open the door.'
Annette repeated, that they were coming, and in the same moment fled.
'Be calm, madam,' said Emily, turning to her aunt, 'I entreat you to
be calm, I am not frightened--not frightened in the least, do not you
be alarmed.'
'You can scarcely support yourself,' replied her aunt; 'Merciful God!
what is it they mean to do with us?'
'They come, perhaps, to liberate us,' said Emily, 'Signor Montoni
perhaps is--is conquered.'
The belief of his death gave her spirits a sudden shock, and she grew
faint as she saw him in imagination, expiring at her feet.
'They are coming!' cried Madame Montoni--'I hear their steps--they
are at the door!'
Emily turned her languid eyes to the door, but terror deprived her of
utterance. The key sounded in the lock; the door opened, and Montoni
appeared, followed by three ruffian-like men. 'Execute your orders,'
said he, turning to them, and pointing to his wife, who shrieked, but
was immediately carried from the room; while Emily sunk, senseless,
on a couch, by which she had endeavoured to support herself. When
she recovered, she was alone, and recollected only, that Madame
Montoni had been there, together with some unconnected particulars of
the preceding transaction, which were, however, sufficient to renew
all her terror. She looked wildly round the apartment, as if in
search of some means of intelligence, concerning her aunt, while
neither her own danger, or an idea of escaping from the room,
immediately occurred.
When her recollection was more complete, she raised herself and went,
but with only a faint hope, to examine whether the door was
unfastened. It was so, and she then stepped timidly out into the
gallery, but paused there, uncertain which way she should proceed.
Her first wish was to gather some information, as to her aunt, and
she, at length, turned her steps to go to the lesser hall, where
Annette and the other servants usually waited.
Every where, as she passed, she heard, from a distance, the uproar of
contention, and the figures and faces, which she met, hurrying along
the passages, struck her mind with dismay. Emily might now have
appeared, like an angel of light, encompassed by fiends. At length,
she reached the lesser hall, which was silent and deserted, but,
panting for breath, she sat down to recover herself. The total
stillness of this place was as awful as the tumult, from which she
had escaped: but she had now time to recall her scattered thoughts,
to remember her personal danger, and to consider of some means of
safety. She perceived, that it was useless to seek Madame Montoni,
through the wide extent and intricacies of the castle, now, too, when
every avenue seemed to be beset by ruffians; in this hall she could
not resolve to stay, for she knew not how soon it might become their
place of rendezvous; and, though she wished to go to her chamber, she
dreaded again to encounter them on the way.
Thus she sat, trembling and hesitating, when a distant murmur broke
on the silence, and grew louder and louder, till she distinguished
voices and steps approaching. She then rose to go, but the sounds
came along the only passage, by which she could depart, and she was
compelled to await in the hall, the arrival of the persons, whose
steps she heard. As these advanced, she distinguished groans, and
then saw a man borne slowly along by four others. Her spirits
faltered at the sight, and she leaned against the wall for support.
The bearers, meanwhile, entered the hall, and, being too busily
occupied to detain, or even notice Emily, she attempted to leave it,
but her strength failed, and she again sat down on the bench. A damp
chillness came over her; her sight became confused; she knew not what
had passed, or where she was, yet the groans of the wounded person
still vibrated on her heart. In a few moments, the tide of life
seemed again to flow; she began to breathe more freely, and her
senses revived. She had not fainted, nor had ever totally lost her
consciousness, but had contrived to support herself on the bench;
still without courage to turn her eyes upon the unfortunate object,
which remained near her, and about whom the men were yet too much
engaged to attend to her.
When her strength returned, she rose, and was suffered to leave the
hall, though her anxiety, having produced some vain enquiries,
concerning Madame Montoni, had thus made a discovery of herself.
Towards her chamber she now hastened, as fast as her steps would bear
her, for she still perceived, upon her passage, the sounds of
confusion at a distance, and she endeavoured, by taking her way
through some obscure rooms, to avoid encountering the persons, whose
looks had terrified her before, as well as those parts of the castle,
where the tumult might still rage.
At length, she reached her chamber, and, having secured the door of
the corridor, felt herself, for a moment, in safety. A profound
stillness reigned in this remote apartment, which not even the faint
murmur of the most distant sounds now reached. She sat down, near
one of the casements, and, as she gazed on the mountain-view beyond,
the deep repose of its beauty struck her with all the force of
contrast, and she could scarcely believe herself so near a scene of
savage discord. The contending elements seemed to have retired from
their natural spheres, and to have collected themselves into the
minds of men, for there alone the tempest now reigned.
Emily tried to tranquillize her spirits, but anxiety made her
constantly listen for some sound, and often look out upon the
ramparts, where all, however, was lonely and still. As a sense of
her own immediate danger had decreased, her apprehension concerning
Madame Montoni heightened, who, she remembered, had been fiercely
threatened with confinement in the east turret, and it was possible,
that her husband had satisfied his present vengeance with this
punishment. She, therefore, determined, when night should return,
and the inhabitants of the castle should be asleep, to explore the
way to the turret, which, as the direction it stood in was mentioned,
appeared not very difficult to be done. She knew, indeed, that
although her aunt might be there, she could afford her no effectual
assistance, but it might give her some comfort even to know, that she
was discovered, and to hear the sound of her niece's voice; for
herself, any certainty, concerning Madame Montoni's fate, appeared
more tolerable, than this exhausting suspense.
Meanwhile, Annette did not appear, and Emily was surprised, and
somewhat alarmed for her, whom, in the confusion of the late scene,
various accidents might have befallen, and it was improbable, that
she would have failed to come to her apartment, unless something
unfortunate had happened.
Thus the hours passed in solitude, in silence, and in anxious
conjecturing. Being not once disturbed by a message, or a sound, it
appeared, that Montoni had wholly forgotten her, and it gave her some
comfort to find, that she could be so unnoticed. She endeavoured to
withdraw her thoughts from the anxiety, that preyed upon them, but
they refused controul; she could neither read, or draw, and the tones
of her lute were so utterly discordant with the present state of her
feelings, that she could not endure them for a moment.
The sun, at length, set behind the western mountains; his fiery beams
faded from the clouds, and then a dun melancholy purple drew over
them, and gradually involved the features of the country below. Soon
after, the sentinels passed on the rampart to commence the watch.
Twilight had now spread its gloom over every object; the dismal
obscurity of her chamber recalled fearful thoughts, but she
remembered, that to procure a light she must pass through a great
extent of the castle, and, above all, through the halls, where she
had already experienced so much horror. Darkness, indeed, in the
present state of her spirits, made silence and solitude terrible to
her; it would also prevent the possibility of her finding her way to
the turret, and condemn her to remain in suspense, concerning the
fate of her aunt; yet she dared not to venture forth for a lamp.
Continuing at the casement, that she might catch the last lingering
gleam of evening, a thousand vague images of fear floated on her
fancy. 'What if some of these ruffians,' said she, 'should find out
the private stair-case, and in the darkness of night steal into my
chamber!' Then, recollecting the mysterious inhabitant of the
neighbouring apartment, her terror changed its object. 'He is not a
prisoner,' said she, 'though he remains in one chamber, for Montoni
did not fasten the door, when he left it; the unknown person himself
did this; it is certain, therefore, he can come out when he pleases.'
She paused, for, notwithstanding the terrors of darkness, she
considered it to be very improbable, whoever he was, that he could
have any interest in intruding upon her retirement; and again the
subject of her emotion changed, when, remembering her nearness to the
chamber, where the veil had formerly disclosed a dreadful spectacle,
she doubted whether some passage might not communicate between it and
the insecure door of the stair-case.
It was now entirely dark, and she left the casement. As she sat with
her eyes fixed on the hearth, she thought she perceived there a spark
of light; it twinkled and disappeared, and then again was visible.
At length, with much care, she fanned the embers of a wood fire, that
had been lighted in the morning, into flame, and, having communicated
it to a lamp, which always stood in her room, felt a satisfaction not
to be conceived, without a review of her situation. Her first care
was to guard the door of the stair-case, for which purpose she placed
against it all the furniture she could move, and she was thus
employed, for some time, at the end of which she had another instance
how much more oppressive misfortune is to the idle, than to the busy;
for, having then leisure to think over all the circumstances of her
present afflictions, she imagined a thousand evils for futurity, and
these real and ideal subjects of distress alike wounded her mind.
Thus heavily moved the hours till midnight, when she counted the
sullen notes of the great clock, as they rolled along the rampart,
unmingled with any sound, except the distant foot-fall of a sentinel,
who came to relieve guard. She now thought she might venture towards
the turret, and, having gently opened the chamber door to examine the
corridor, and to listen if any person was stirring in the castle,
found all around in perfect stillness. Yet no sooner had she left
the room, than she perceived a light flash on the walls of the
corridor, and, without waiting to see by whom it was carried, she
shrunk back, and closed her door. No one approaching, she
conjectured, that it was Montoni going to pay his mid-night visit to
her unknown neighbour, and she determined to wait, till he should
have retired to his own apartment.
When the chimes had tolled another half hour, she once more opened
the door, and, perceiving that no person was in the corridor, hastily
crossed into a passage, that led along the south side of the castle
towards the stair-case, whence she believed she could easily find her
way to the turret. Often pausing on her way, listening
apprehensively to the murmurs of the wind, and looking fearfully
onward into the gloom of the long passages, she, at length, reached
the stair-case; but there her perplexity began. Two passages
appeared, of which she knew not how to prefer one, and was compelled,
at last, to decide by chance, rather than by circumstances. That she
entered, opened first into a wide gallery, along which she passed
lightly and swiftly; for the lonely aspect of the place awed her, and
she started at the echo of her own steps.
On a sudden, she thought she heard a voice, and, not distinguishing
from whence it came, feared equally to proceed, or to return. For
some moments, she stood in an attitude of listening expectation,
shrinking almost from herself and scarcely daring to look round her.
The voice came again, but, though it was now near her, terror did not
allow her to judge exactly whence it proceeded. She thought,
however, that it was the voice of complaint, and her belief was soon
confirmed by a low moaning sound, that seemed to proceed from one of
the chambers, opening into the gallery. It instantly occurred to
her, that Madame Montoni might be there confined, and she advanced to
the door to speak, but was checked by considering, that she was,
perhaps, going to commit herself to a stranger, who might discover
her to Montoni; for, though this person, whoever it was, seemed to be
in affliction, it did not follow, that he was a prisoner.
While these thoughts passed over her mind, and left her still in
hesitation, the voice spoke again, and, calling 'Ludovico,' she then
perceived it to be that of Annette; on which, no longer hesitating,
she went in joy to answer her.
'Ludovico!' cried Annette, sobbing--'Ludovico!'
'It is not Ludovico, it is I--Mademoiselle Emily.'
Annette ceased sobbing, and was silent.
'If you can open the door, let me in,' said Emily, 'here is no person
to hurt you.'
'Ludovico!--O, Ludovico!' cried Annette.
Emily now lost her patience, and her fear of being overheard
increasing, she was even nearly about to leave the door, when she
considered, that Annette might, possibly, know something of the
situation of Madame Montoni, or direct her to the turret. At length,
she obtained a reply, though little satisfactory, to her questions,
for Annette knew nothing of Madame Montoni, and only conjured Emily
to tell her what was become of Ludovico. Of him she had no
information to give, and she again asked who had shut Annette up.
'Ludovico,' said the poor girl, 'Ludovico shut me up. When I ran
away from the dressing-room door to-day, I went I scarcely knew
where, for safety; and, in this gallery, here, I met Ludovico, who
hurried me into this chamber, and locked me up to keep me out of
harm, as he said. But he was in such a hurry himself, he hardly
spoke ten words, but he told me he would come, and let me out, when
all was quiet, and he took away the key with him. Now all these
hours are passed, and I have neither seen, or heard a word of him;
they have murdered him--I know they have!'
Emily suddenly remembered the wounded person, whom she had seen borne
into the servants' hall, and she scarcely doubted, that he was
Ludovico, but she concealed the circumstance from Annette, and
endeavoured to comfort her. Then, impatient to learn something of
her aunt, she again enquired the way to the turret.
'O! you are not going, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'for Heaven's sake,
do not go, and leave me here by myself.'
'Nay, Annette, you do not think I can wait in the gallery all night,'
replied Emily. 'Direct me to the turret; in the morning I will
endeavour to release you.'
'O holy Mary!' exclaimed Annette, 'am I to stay here by myself all
night! I shall be frightened out of my senses, and I shall die of
hunger; I have had nothing to eat since dinner!'
Emily could scarcely forbear smiling at the heterogeneous distresses
of Annette, though she sincerely pitied them, and said what she could
to sooth her. At length, she obtained something like a direction to
the east turret, and quitted the door, from whence, after many
intricacies and perplexities, she reached the steep and winding
stairs of the turret, at the foot of which she stopped to rest, and
to re-animate her courage with a sense of her duty. As she surveyed
this dismal place, she perceived a door on the opposite side of the
stair-case, and, anxious to know whether it would lead her to Madame
Montoni, she tried to undraw the bolts, which fastened it. A fresher
air came to her face, as she unclosed the door, which opened upon the
east rampart, and the sudden current had nearly extinguished her
light, which she now removed to a distance; and again, looking out
upon the obscure terrace, she perceived only the faint outline of the
walls and of some towers, while, above, heavy clouds, borne along the
wind, seemed to mingle with the stars, and wrap the night in thicker
darkness. As she gazed, now willing to defer the moment of
certainty, from which she expected only confirmation of evil, a
distant footstep reminded her, that she might be observed by the men
on watch, and, hastily closing the door, she took her lamp, and
passed up the stair-case. Trembling came upon her, as she ascended
through the gloom. To her melancholy fancy this seemed to be a place
of death, and the chilling silence, that reigned, confirmed its
character. Her spirits faltered. 'Perhaps,' said she, 'I am come
hither only to learn a dreadful truth, or to witness some horrible
spectacle; I feel that my senses would not survive such an addition
of horror.'
The image of her aunt murdered--murdered, perhaps, by the hand of
Montoni, rose to her mind; she trembled, gasped for breath--repented
that she had dared to venture hither, and checked her steps. But,
after she had paused a few minutes, the consciousness of her duty
returned, and she went on. Still all was silent. At length a track
of blood, upon a stair, caught her eye; and instantly she perceived,
that the wall and several other steps were stained. She paused,
again struggled to support herself, and the lamp almost fell from her
trembling hand. Still no sound was heard, no living being seemed to
inhabit the turret; a thousand times she wished herself again in her
chamber; dreaded to enquire farther--dreaded to encounter some
horrible spectacle, and yet could not resolve, now that she was so
near the termination of her efforts, to desist from them. Having
again collected courage to proceed, after ascending about half way up
the turret, she came to another door, but here again she stopped in
hesitation; listened for sounds within, and then, summoning all her
resolution, unclosed it, and entered a chamber, which, as her lamp
shot its feeble rays through the darkness, seemed to exhibit only
dew-stained and deserted walls. As she stood examining it, in
fearful expectation of discovering the remains of her unfortunate
aunt, she perceived something lying in an obscure corner of the room,
and, struck with an horrible conviction, she became, for an instant,
motionless and nearly insensible. Then, with a kind of desperate
resolution, she hurried towards the object that excited her terror,
when, perceiving the clothes of some person, on the floor, she caught
hold of them, and found in her grasp the old uniform of a soldier,
beneath which appeared a heap of pikes and other arms. Scarcely
daring to trust her sight, she continued, for some moments, to gaze
on the object of her late alarm, and then left the chamber, so much
comforted and occupied by the conviction, that her aunt was not
there, that she was going to descend the turret, without enquiring
farther; when, on turning to do so, she observed upon some steps on
the second flight an appearance of blood, and remembering, that there
was yet another chamber to be explored, she again followed the
windings of the ascent. Still, as she ascended, the track of blood
glared upon the stairs.
It led her to the door of a landing-place, that terminated them, but
she was unable to follow it farther. Now that she was so near the
sought-for certainty, she dreaded to know it, even more than before,
and had not fortitude sufficient to speak, or to attempt opening the
door.
Having listened, in vain, for some sound, that might confirm, or
destroy her fears, she, at length, laid her hand on the lock, and,
finding it fastened, called on Madame Montoni; but only a chilling
silence ensued.
'She is dead!' she cried,--'murdered!--her blood is on the stairs!'
Emily grew very faint; could support herself no longer, and had
scarcely presence of mind to set down the lamp, and place herself on
a step.
When her recollection returned, she spoke again at the door, and
again attempted to open it, and, having lingered for some time,
without receiving any answer, or hearing a sound, she descended the
turret, and, with all the swiftness her feebleness would permit,
sought her own apartment.
As she turned into the corridor, the door of a chamber opened, from
whence Montoni came forth; but Emily, more terrified than ever to
behold him, shrunk back into the passage soon enough to escape being
noticed, and heard him close the door, which she had perceived was
the same she formerly observed. Having here listened to his
departing steps, till their faint sound was lost in distance, she
ventured to her apartment, and, securing it once again, retired to
her bed, leaving the lamp burning on the hearth. But sleep was fled
from her harassed mind, to which images of horror alone occurred.
She endeavoured to think it possible, that Madame Montoni had not
been taken to the turret; but, when she recollected the former
menaces of her husband and the terrible spirit of vengeance, which he
had displayed on a late occasion; when she remembered his general
character, the looks of the men, who had forced Madame Montoni from
her apartment, and the written traces on the stairs of the turret--
she could not doubt, that her aunt had been carried thither, and
could scarcely hope, that she had not been carried to be murdered.
The grey of morning had long dawned through her casements, before
Emily closed her eyes in sleep; when wearied nature, at length,
yielded her a respite from suffering.
CHAPTER XI
Who rears the bloody hand?
SAYERS
Emily remained in her chamber, on the following morning, without
receiving any notice from Montoni, or seeing a human being, except
the armed men, who sometimes passed on the terrace below. Having
tasted no food since the dinner of the preceding day, extreme
faintness made her feel the necessity of quitting the asylum of her
apartment to obtain refreshment, and she was also very anxious to
procure liberty for Annette. Willing, however, to defer venturing
forth, as long as possible, and considering, whether she should apply
to Montoni, or to the compassion of some other person, her excessive
anxiety concerning her aunt, at length, overcame her abhorrence of
his presence, and she determined to go to him, and to entreat, that
he would suffer her to see Madame Montoni.
Meanwhile, it was too certain, from the absence of Annette, that some
accident had befallen Ludovico, and that she was still in
confinement; Emily, therefore, resolved also to visit the chamber,
where she had spoken to her, on the preceding night, and, if the poor
girl was yet there, to inform Montoni of her situation.
It was near noon, before she ventured from her apartment, and went
first to the south gallery, whither she passed without meeting a
single person, or hearing a sound, except, now and then, the echo of
a distant footstep.
It was unnecessary to call Annette, whose lamentations were audible
upon the first approach to the gallery, and who, bewailing her own
and Ludovico's fate, told Emily, that she should certainly be starved
to death, if she was not let out immediately. Emily replied, that
she was going to beg her release of Montoni; but the terrors of
hunger now yielded to those of the Signor, and, when Emily left her,
she was loudly entreating, that her place of refuge might be
concealed from him.
As Emily drew near the great hall, the sounds she heard and the
people she met in the passages renewed her alarm. The latter,
however, were peaceable, and did not interrupt her, though they
looked earnestly at her, as she passed, and sometimes spoke. On
crossing the hall towards the cedar room, where Montoni usually sat,
she perceived, on the pavement, fragments of swords, some tattered
garments stained with blood, and almost expected to have seen among
them a dead body; but from such a spectacle she was, at present,
spared. As she approached the room, the sound of several voices
issued from within, and a dread of appearing before many strangers,
as well as of irritating Montoni by such an intrusion, made her pause
and falter from her purpose. She looked up through the long arcades
of the hall, in search of a servant, who might bear a message, but no
one appeared, and the urgency of what she had to request made her
still linger near the door. The voices within were not in
contention, though she distinguished those of several of the guests
of the preceding day; but still her resolution failed, whenever she
would have tapped at the door, and she had determined to walk in the
hall, till some person should appear, who might call Montoni from the
room, when, as she turned from the door, it was suddenly opened by
himself. Emily trembled, and was confused, while he almost started
with surprise, and all the terrors of his countenance unfolded
themselves. She forgot all she would have said, and neither enquired
for her aunt, or entreated for Annette, but stood silent and
embarrassed.
After closing the door he reproved her for a meanness, of which she
had not been guilty, and sternly questioned her what she had
overheard; an accusation, which revived her recollection so far, that
she assured him she had not come thither with an intention to listen
to his conversation, but to entreat his compassion for her aunt, and
for Annette. Montoni seemed to doubt this assertion, for he regarded
her with a scrutinizing look; and the doubt evidently arose from no
trifling interest. Emily then further explained herself, and
concluded with entreating him to inform her, where her aunt was
placed, and to permit, that she might visit her; but he looked upon
her only with a malignant smile, which instantaneously confirmed her
worst fears for her aunt, and, at that moment, she had not courage to
renew her entreaties.
'For Annette,' said he,--'if you go to Carlo, he will release the
girl; the foolish fellow, who shut her up, died yesterday.' Emily
shuddered.--'But my aunt, Signor'--said she, 'O tell me of my aunt!'
'She is taken care of,' replied Montoni hastily, 'I have no time to
answer idle questions.'
He would have passed on, but Emily, in a voice of agony, that could
not be wholly resisted, conjured him to tell her, where Madame
Montoni was; while he paused, and she anxiously watched his
countenance, a trumpet sounded, and, in the next moment, she heard
the heavy gates of the portal open, and then the clattering of
horses' hoofs in the court, with the confusion of many voices. She
stood for a moment hesitating whether she should follow Montoni, who,
at the sound of the trumpet, had passed through the hall, and,
turning her eyes whence it came, she saw through the door, that
opened beyond a long perspective of arches into the courts, a party
of horsemen, whom she judged, as well as the distance and her
embarrassment would allow, to be the same she had seen depart, a few
days before. But she staid not to scrutinize, for, when the trumpet
sounded again, the chevaliers rushed out of the cedar room, and men
came running into the hall from every quarter of the castle. Emily
once more hurried for shelter to her own apartment. Thither she was
still pursued by images of horror. She re-considered Montoni's
manner and words, when he had spoken of his wife, and they served
only to confirm her most terrible suspicions. Tears refused any
longer to relieve her distress, and she had sat for a considerable
time absorbed in thought, when a knocking at the chamber door aroused
her, on opening which she found old Carlo.
'Dear young lady,' said he, 'I have been so flurried, I never once
thought of you till just now. I have brought you some fruit and
wine, and I am sure you must stand in need of them by this time.'
'Thank you, Carlo,' said Emily, 'this is very good of you Did the
Signor remind you of me?'
'No, Signora,' replied Carlo, 'his excellenza has business enough on
his hands.' Emily then renewed her enquiries, concerning Madame
Montoni, but Carlo had been employed at the other end of the castle,
during the time, that she was removed, and he had heard nothing
since, concerning her.
While he spoke, Emily looked steadily at him, for she scarcely knew
whether he was really ignorant, or concealed his knowledge of the
truth from a fear of offending his master. To several questions,
concerning the contentions of yesterday, he gave very limited
answers; but told, that the disputes were now amicably settled, and
that the Signor believed himself to have been mistaken in his
suspicions of his guests. 'The fighting was about that, Signora,'
said Carlo; 'but I trust I shall never see such another day in this
castle, though strange things are about to be done.'
On her enquiring his meaning, 'Ah, Signora!' added he, 'it is not for
me to betray secrets, or tell all I think, but time will tell.'
She then desired him to release Annette, and, having described the
chamber in which the poor girl was confined, he promised to obey her
immediately, and was departing, when she remembered to ask who were
the persons just arrived. Her late conjecture was right; it was
Verezzi, with his party.
Her spirits were somewhat soothed by this short conversation with
Carlo; for, in her present circumstances, it afforded some comfort to
hear the accents of compassion, and to meet the look of sympathy.
An hour passed before Annette appeared, who then came weeping and
sobbing. 'O Ludovico--Ludovico!' cried she.
'My poor Annette!' said Emily, and made her sit down.
'Who could have foreseen this, ma'amselle? O miserable, wretched,
day--that ever I should live to see it!' and she continued to moan
and lament, till Emily thought it necessary to check her excess of
grief. 'We are continually losing dear friends by death,' said she,
with a sigh, that came from her heart. 'We must submit to the will
of Heaven--our tears, alas! cannot recall the dead!'
Annette took the handkerchief from her face.
'You will meet Ludovico in a better world, I hope,' added Emily.
'Yes--yes,--ma'amselle,' sobbed Annette, 'but I hope I shall meet him
again in this--though he is so wounded!'
'Wounded!' exclaimed Emily, 'does he live?'
'Yes, ma'am, but--but he has a terrible wound, and could not come to
let me out. They thought him dead, at first, and he has not been
rightly himself, till within this hour.'
'Well, Annette, I rejoice to hear he lives.'
'Lives! Holy Saints! why he will not die, surely!'
Emily said she hoped not, but this expression of hope Annette thought
implied fear, and her own increased in proportion, as Emily
endeavoured to encourage her. To enquiries, concerning Madame
Montoni, she could give no satisfactory answers.
'I quite forgot to ask among the servants, ma'amselle,' said she,
'for I could think of nobody but poor Ludovico.'
Annette's grief was now somewhat assuaged, and Emily sent her to make
enquiries, concerning her lady, of whom, however, she could obtain no
intelligence, some of the people she spoke with being really ignorant
of her fate, and others having probably received orders to conceal
it.
This day passed with Emily in continued grief and anxiety for her
aunt; but she was unmolested by any notice from Montoni; and, now
that Annette was liberated, she obtained food, without exposing
herself to danger, or impertinence.
Two following days passed in the same manner, unmarked by any
occurrence, during which she obtained no information of Madame
Montoni. On the evening of the second, having dismissed Annette, and
retired to bed, her mind became haunted by the most dismal images,
such as her long anxiety, concerning her aunt, suggested; and, unable
to forget herself, for a moment, or to vanquish the phantoms, that
tormented her, she rose from her bed, and went to one of the
casements of her chamber, to breathe a freer air.
All without was silent and dark, unless that could be called light,
which was only the faint glimmer of the stars, shewing imperfectly
the outline of the mountains, the western towers of the castle and
the ramparts below, where a solitary sentinel was pacing. What an
image of repose did this scene present! The fierce and terrible
passions, too, which so often agitated the inhabitants of this
edifice, seemed now hushed in sleep;--those mysterious workings, that
rouse the elements of man's nature into tempest--were calm. Emily's
heart was not so; but her sufferings, though deep, partook of the
gentle character of her mind. Hers was a silent anguish, weeping,
yet enduring; not the wild energy of passion, inflaming imagination,
bearing down the barriers of reason and living in a world of its own.
The air refreshed her, and she continued at the casement, looking on
the shadowy scene, over which the planets burned with a clear light,
amid the deep blue aether, as they silently moved in their destined
course. She remembered how often she had gazed on them with her dear
father, how often he had pointed out their way in the heavens, and
explained their laws; and these reflections led to others, which, in
an almost equal degree, awakened her grief and astonishment.
They brought a retrospect of all the strange and mournful events,
which had occurred since she lived in peace with her parents. And to
Emily, who had been so tenderly educated, so tenderly loved, who once
knew only goodness and happiness--to her, the late events and her
present situation--in a foreign land--in a remote castle--surrounded
by vice and violence--seemed more like the visions of a distempered
imagination, than the circumstances of truth. She wept to think of
what her parents would have suffered, could they have foreseen the
events of her future life.
While she raised her streaming eyes to heaven, she observed the same
planet, which she had seen in Languedoc, on the night, preceding her
father's death, rise above the eastern towers of the castle, while
she remembered the conversation, which has passed, concerning the
probable state of departed souls; remembered, also, the solemn music
she had heard, and to which the tenderness of her spirits had, in
spite of her reason, given a superstitious meaning. At these
recollections she wept again, and continued musing, when suddenly the
notes of sweet music passed on the air. A superstitious dread stole
over her; she stood listening, for some moments, in trembling
expectation, and then endeavoured to re-collect her thoughts, and to
reason herself into composure; but human reason cannot establish her
laws on subjects, lost in the obscurity of imagination, any more than
the eye can ascertain the form of objects, that only glimmer through
the dimness of night.
Her surprise, on hearing such soothing and delicious sounds, was, at
least, justifiable; for it was long--very long, since she had
listened to any thing like melody. The fierce trumpet and the shrill
fife were the only instruments she had heard, since her arrival at
Udolpho.
When her mind was somewhat more composed, she tried to ascertain from
what quarter the sounds proceeded, and thought they came from below;
but whether from a room of the castle, or from the terrace, she could
not with certainty judge. Fear and surprise now yielded to the
enchantment of a strain, that floated on the silent night, with the
most soft and melancholy sweetness. Suddenly, it seemed removed to a
distance, trembled faintly, and then entirely ceased.
She continued to listen, sunk in that pleasing repose, which soft
music leaves on the mind--but it came no more. Upon this strange
circumstance her thoughts were long engaged, for strange it certainly
was to hear music at midnight, when every inhabitant of the castle
had long since retired to rest, and in a place, where nothing like
harmony had been heard before, probably, for many years. Long-
suffering had made her spirits peculiarly sensible to terror, and
liable to be affected by the illusions of superstition.--It now
seemed to her, as if her dead father had spoken to her in that
strain, to inspire her with comfort and confidence, on the subject,
which had then occupied her mind. Yet reason told her, that this was
a wild conjecture, and she was inclined to dismiss it; but, with the
inconsistency so natural, when imagination guides the thoughts, she
then wavered towards a belief as wild. She remembered the singular
event, connected with the castle, which had given it into the
possession of its present owner; and, when she considered the
mysterious manner, in which its late possessor had disappeared, and
that she had never since been heard of, her mind was impressed with
an high degree of solemn awe; so that, though there appeared no clue
to connect that event with the late music, she was inclined
fancifully to think they had some relation to each other. At this
conjecture, a sudden chillness ran through her frame; she looked
fearfully upon the duskiness of her chamber, and the dead silence,
that prevailed there, heightened to her fancy its gloomy aspect.
At length, she left the casement, but her steps faltered, as she
approached the bed, and she stopped and looked round. The single
lamp, that burned in her spacious chamber, was expiring; for a
moment, she shrunk from the darkness beyond; and then, ashamed of the
weakness, which, however, she could not wholly conquer, went forward
to the bed, where her mind did not soon know the soothings of sleep.
She still mused on the late occurrence, and looked with anxiety to
the next night, when, at the same hour, she determined to watch
whether the music returned. 'If those sounds were human,' said she,
'I shall probably hear them again.'
CHAPTER XII
Then, oh, you blessed ministers above,
Keep me in patience; and, in ripen'd time,
Unfold the evil which is here wrapt up
In countenance.
SHAKESPEARE
Annette came almost breathless to Emily's apartment in the morning.
'O ma'amselle!' said she, in broken sentences, 'what news I have to
tell! I have found out who the prisoner is--but he was no prisoner,
neither;--he that was shut up in the chamber I told you of. I must
think him a ghost, forsooth!'
'Who was the prisoner?' enquired Emily, while her thoughts glanced
back to the circumstance of the preceding night.
'You mistake, ma'am,' said Annette; 'he was not a prisoner, after
all.'
'Who is the person, then?'
'Holy Saints!' rejoined Annette; 'How I was surprised! I met him
just now, on the rampart below, there. I never was so surprised in
my life! Ah! ma'amselle! this is a strange place! I should never
have done wondering, if I was to live here an hundred years. But, as
I was saying, I met him just now on the rampart, and I was thinking
of nobody less than of him.'
'This trifling is insupportable,' said Emily; 'prythee, Annette, do
not torture my patience any longer.'
'Nay, ma'amselle, guess--guess who it was; it was somebody you know
very well.'
'I cannot guess,' said Emily impatiently.
'Nay, ma'amselle, I'll tell you something to guess by--A tall Signor,
with a longish face, who walks so stately, and used to wear such a
high feather in his hat; and used often to look down upon the ground,
when people spoke to him; and to look at people from under his
eyebrows, as it were, all so dark and frowning. You have seen him,
often and often, at Venice, ma'am. Then he was so intimate with the
Signor, too. And, now I think of it, I wonder what he could be
afraid of in this lonely old castle, that he should shut himself up
for. But he is come abroad now, for I met him on the rampart just
this minute. I trembled when I saw him, for I always was afraid of
him, somehow; but I determined I would not let him see it; so I went
up to him, and made him a low curtesy, "You are welcome to the
castle, Signor Orsino," said I.'
'O, it was Signor Orsino, then!' said Emily.
'Yes, ma'amselle, Signor Orsino, himself, who caused that Venetian
gentleman to be killed, and has been popping about from place to
place, ever since, as I hear.'
'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, recovering from the shock of this
intelligence; 'and is HE come to Udolpho! He does well to endeavour
to conceal himself.'
'Yes, ma'amselle, but if that was all, this desolate place would
conceal him, without his shutting himself up in one room. Who would
think of coming to look for him here? I am sure I should as soon
think of going to look for any body in the other world.'
'There is some truth in that,' said Emily, who would now have
concluded it was Orsino's music, which she had heard, on the
preceding night, had she not known, that he had neither taste, or
skill in the art. But, though she was unwilling to add to the number
of Annette's surprises, by mentioning the subject of her own, she
enquired, whether any person in the castle played on a musical
instrument?
'O yes, ma'amselle! there is Benedetto plays the great drum to
admiration; and then, there is Launcelot the trumpeter; nay, for that
matter, Ludovico himself can play on the trumpet;--but he is ill now.
I remember once'--
Emily interrupted her; 'Have you heard no other music since you came
to the castle--none last night?'
'Why, did YOU hear any last night, ma'amselle?'
Emily evaded this question, by repeating her own.
'Why, no, ma'am,' replied Annette; 'I never heard any music here, I
must say, but the drums and the trumpet; and, as for last night, I
did nothing but dream I saw my late lady's ghost.'
'Your LATE lady's,' said Emily in a tremulous voice; 'you have heard
more, then. Tell me--tell me all, Annette, I entreat; tell me the
worst at once.'
'Nay, ma'amselle, you know the worst already.'
'I know nothing,' said Emily.
'Yes, you do, ma'amselle; you know, that nobody knows any thing about
her; and it is plain, therefore, she is gone, the way of the first
lady of the castle--nobody ever knew any thing about her.'
Emily leaned her head upon her hand, and was, for some time, silent;
then, telling Annette she wished to be alone, the latter left the
room.
The remark of Annette had revived Emily's terrible suspicion,
concerning the fate of Madame Montoni; and she resolved to make
another effort to obtain certainty on this subject, by applying to
Montoni once more.
When Annette returned, a few hours after, she told Emily, that the
porter of the castle wished very much to speak with her, for that he
had something of importance to say; her spirits had, however, of late
been so subject to alarm, that any new circumstance excited it; and
this message from the porter, when her first surprise was over, made
her look round for some lurking danger, the more suspiciously,
perhaps, because she had frequently remarked the unpleasant air and
countenance of this man. She now hesitated, whether to speak with
him, doubting even, that this request was only a pretext to draw her
into some danger; but a little reflection shewed her the
improbability of this, and she blushed at her weak fears.
'I will speak to him, Annette,' said she; 'desire him to come to the
corridor immediately.'
Annette departed, and soon after returned.
'Barnardine, ma'amselle,' said she, 'dare not come to the corridor,
lest he should be discovered, it is so far from his post; and he dare
not even leave the gates for a moment now; but, if you will come to
him at the portal, through some roundabout passages he told me of,
without crossing the courts, he has that to tell, which will surprise
you. But you must not come through the courts, lest the Signor
should see you.'
Emily, neither approving these 'roundabout passage,' nor the other
part of the request, now positively refused to go. 'Tell him,' said
she, 'if he has any thing of consequence to impart, I will hear him
in the corridor, whenever he has an opportunity of coming thither.'
Annette went to deliver this message, and was absent a considerable
time. When she returned, 'It won't do, ma'amselle,' said she.
'Barnardine has been considering all this time what can be done, for
it is as much as his place is worth to leave his post now. But, if
you will come to the east rampart in the dusk of the evening, he can,
perhaps, steal away, and tell you all he has to say.'
Emily was surprised and alarmed, at the secrecy which this man seemed
to think so necessary, and hesitated whether to meet him, till,
considering, that he might mean to warn her of some serious danger,
she resolved to go.
'Soon after sun-set,' said she, 'I will be at the end of the east
rampart. But then the watch will be set,' she added, recollecting
herself, 'and how can Barnardine pass unobserved?'
'That is just what I said to him, ma'am, and he answered me, that he
had the key of the gate, at the end of the rampart, that leads
towards the courts, and could let himself through that way; and as
for the sentinels, there were none at this end of the terrace,
because the place is guarded enough by the high walls of the castle,
and the east turret; and he said those at the other end were too far
off to see him, if it was pretty duskyish.'
'Well,' said Emily, 'I must hear what he has to tell; and, therefore,
desire you will go with me to the terrace, this evening.'
'He desired it might be pretty duskyish, ma'amselle,' repeated
Annette, 'because of the watch.'
Emily paused, and then said she would be on the terrace, an hour
after sun-set;--'and tell Barnardine,' she added, 'to be punctual to
the time; for that I, also, may be observed by Signor Montoni. Where
is the Signor? I would speak with him.'
'He is in the cedar chamber, ma'am, counselling with the other
Signors. He is going to give them a sort of treat to-day, to make up
for what passed at the last, I suppose; the people are all very busy
in the kitchen.'
Emily now enquired, if Montoni expected any new guests? and Annette
believed that he did not. 'Poor Ludovico!' added she, 'he would be
as merry as the best of them, if he was well; but he may recover yet.
Count Morano was wounded as bad, as he, and he is got well again, and
is gone back to Venice.'
'Is he so?' said Emily, 'when did you hear this?'
'I heard it, last night, ma'amselle, but I forgot to tell it.'
Emily asked some further questions, and then, desiring Annette would
observe and inform her, when Montoni was alone, the girl went to
deliver her message to Barnardine.
Montoni was, however, so much engaged, during the whole day, that
Emily had no opportunity of seeking a release from her terrible
suspense, concerning her aunt. Annette was employed in watching his
steps, and in attending upon Ludovico, whom she, assisted by
Caterina, nursed with the utmost care; and Emily was, of course, left
much alone. Her thoughts dwelt often on the message of the porter,
and were employed in conjecturing the subject, that occasioned it,
which she sometimes imagined concerned the fate of Madame Montoni; at
others, that it related to some personal danger, which threatened
herself. The cautious secrecy which Barnardine observed in his
conduct, inclined her to believe the latter.
As the hour of appointment drew near, her impatience increased. At
length, the sun set; she heard the passing steps of the sentinels
going to their posts; and waited only for Annette to accompany her to
the terrace, who, soon after, came, and they descended together.
When Emily expressed apprehensions of meeting Montoni, or some of his
guests, 'O, there is no fear of that, ma'amselle,' said Annette,
'they are all set in to feasting yet, and that Barnardine knows.'
They reached the first terrace, where the sentinels demanded who
passed; and Emily, having answered, walked on to the east rampart, at
the entrance of which they were again stopped; and, having again
replied, were permitted to proceed. But Emily did not like to expose
herself to the discretion of these men, at such an hour; and,
impatient to withdraw from the situation, she stepped hastily on in
search of Barnardine. He was not yet come. She leaned pensively on
the wall of the rampart, and waited for him. The gloom of twilight
sat deep on the surrounding objects, blending in soft confusion the
valley, the mountains, and the woods, whose tall heads, stirred by
the evening breeze, gave the only sounds, that stole on silence,
except a faint, faint chorus of distant voices, that arose from
within the castle.
'What voices are those?' said Emily, as she fearfully listened.
'It is only the Signor and his guests, carousing,' replied Annette.
'Good God!' thought Emily, 'can this man's heart be so gay, when he
has made another being so wretched; if, indeed, my aunt is yet
suffered to feel her wretchedness? O! whatever are my own
sufferings, may my heart never, never be hardened against those of
others!'
She looked up, with a sensation of horror, to the east turret, near
which she then stood; a light glimmered through the grates of the
lower chamber, but those of the upper one were dark. Presently, she
perceived a person moving with a lamp across the lower room; but this
circumstance revived no hope, concerning Madame Montoni, whom she had
vainly sought in that apartment, which had appeared to contain only
soldiers' accoutrements. Emily, however, determined to attempt the
outer door of the turret, as soon as Barnardine should withdraw; and,
if it was unfastened, to make another effort to discover her aunt.
The moments passed, but still Barnardine did not appear; and Emily,
becoming uneasy, hesitated whether to wait any longer. She would
have sent Annette to the portal to hasten him, but feared to be left
alone, for it was now almost dark, and a melancholy streak of red,
that still lingered in the west, was the only vestige of departed
day. The strong interest, however, which Barnardine's message had
awakened, overcame other apprehensions, and still detained her.
While she was conjecturing with Annette what could thus occasion his
absence, they heard a key turn in the lock of the gate near them, and
presently saw a man advancing. It was Barnardine, of whom Emily
hastily enquired what he had to communicate, and desired, that he
would tell her quickly, 'for I am chilled with this evening air,'
said she.
'You must dismiss your maid, lady,' said the man in a voice, the deep
tone of which shocked her, 'what I have to tell is to you only.'
Emily, after some hesitation, desired Annette to withdraw to a little
distance. 'Now, my friend, what would you say?'
He was silent a moment, as if considering, and then said,--
'That which would cost me my place, at least, if it came to the
Signor's ears. You must promise, lady, that nothing shall ever make
you tell a syllable of the matter; I have been trusted in this
affair, and, if it was known, that I betrayed my trust, my life,
perhaps, might answer it. But I was concerned for you, lady, and I
resolved to tell you.' He paused.--
Emily thanked him, assured him that he might repose on her
discretion, and entreated him to dispatch.
'Annette told us in the hall how unhappy you was about Signora
Montoni, and how much you wished to know what was become of her.'
'Most true,' said Emily eagerly, 'and you can inform me. I conjure
you tell me the worst, without hesitation.' She rested her trembling
arm upon the wall.
'I can tell you,' said Barnardine, and paused.--
Emily had no power to enforce her entreaties.
'I CAN tell you,' resumed Barnardine,--'but'--
'But what?' exclaimed Emily, recovering her resolution.
'Here I am, ma'amselle,' said Annette, who, having heard the eager
tone, in which Emily pronounced these words, came running towards
her.
'Retire!' said Barnardine, sternly; 'you are not wanted;' and, as
Emily said nothing, Annette obeyed.
'I CAN tell you,' repeated the porter,--'but I know not how--you was
afflicted before.'--
'I am prepared for the worst, my friend,' said Emily, in a firm and
solemn voice. 'I can support any certainty better than this
suspense.'
'Well, Signora, if that is the case, you shall hear.--You know, I
suppose, that the Signor and his lady used sometimes to disagree. It
is none of my concerns to enquire what it was about, but I believe
you know it was so.'
'Well,' said Emily, 'proceed.'
'The Signor, it seems, had lately been very wrath against her. I saw
all, and heard all,--a great deal more than people thought for; but
it was none of my business, so I said nothing. A few days ago, the
Signor sent for me. "Barnardine," says he, "you are--an honest man,
I think I can trust you." I assured his excellenza that he could.
"Then," says he, as near as I can remember, "I have an affair in
hand, which I want you to assist me in."--Then he told me what I was
to do; but that I shall say nothing about--it concerned only the
Signora.'
'O Heavens!' exclaimed Emily--'what have you done?'
Barnardine hesitated, and was silent.
'What fiend could tempt him, or you, to such an act!' cried Emily,
chilled with horror, and scarcely able to support her fainting
spirits.
'It was a fiend,' said Barnardine in a gloomy tone of voice. They
were now both silent;--Emily had not courage to enquire further, and
Barnardine seemed to shrink from telling more. At length he said,
'It is of no use to think of the past; the Signor was cruel enough,
but he would be obeyed. What signified my refusing? He would have
found others, who had no scruples.'
'You have murdered her, then!' said Emily, in a hollow and inward
voice--'I am talking with a murderer!' Barnardine stood silent;
while Emily turned from him, and attempted to leave the place.
'Stay, lady!' said he, 'You deserve to think so still--since you can
believe me capable of such a deed.'
'If you are innocent, tell me quickly,' said Emily, in faint accents,
'for I feel I shall not be able to hear you long.'
'I will tell you no more,' said he, and walked away. Emily had just
strength enough to bid him stay, and then to call Annette, on whose
arm she leaned, and they walked slowly up the rampart, till they
heard steps behind them. It was Barnardine again.
'Send away the girl,' said he, 'and I will tell you more.'
'She must not go,' said Emily; 'what you have to say, she may hear.'
'May she so, lady?' said he. 'You shall know no more, then;' and he
was going, though slowly, when Emily's anxiety, overcoming the
resentment and fear, which the man's behaviour had roused, she
desired him to stay, and bade Annette retire.
'The Signora is alive,' said he, 'for me. She is my prisoner,
though; his excellenza has shut her up in the chamber over the great
gates of the court, and I have the charge of her. I was going to
have told you, you might see her--but now--'
Emily, relieved from an unutterable load of anguish by this speech,
had now only to ask Barnardine's forgiveness, and to conjure, that he
would let her visit her aunt.
He complied with less reluctance, than she expected, and told her,
that, if she would repair, on the following night, when the Signor
was retired to rest, to the postern-gate of the castle, she should,
perhaps, see Madame Montoni.
Amid all the thankfulness, which Emily felt for this concession, she
thought she observed a malicious triumph in his manner, when he
pronounced the last words; but, in the next moment, she dismissed the
thought, and, having again thanked him, commended her aunt to his
pity, and assured him, that she would herself reward him, and would
be punctual to her appointment, she bade him good night, and retired,
unobserved, to her chamber. It was a considerable time, before the
tumult of joy, which Barnardine's unexpected intelligence had
occasioned, allowed Emily to think with clearness, or to be conscious
of the real dangers, that still surrounded Madame Montoni and
herself. When this agitation subsided, she perceived, that her aunt
was yet the prisoner of a man, to whose vengeance, or avarice, she
might fall a sacrifice; and, when she further considered the savage
aspect of the person, who was appointed to guard Madame Montoni, her
doom appeared to be already sealed, for the countenance of Barnardine
seemed to bear the stamp of a murderer; and, when she had looked upon
it, she felt inclined to believe, that there was no deed, however
black, which he might not be prevailed upon to execute. These
reflections brought to her remembrance the tone of voice, in which he
had promised to grant her request to see his prisoner; and she mused
upon it long in uneasiness and doubt. Sometimes, she even hesitated,
whether to trust herself with him at the lonely hour he had
appointed; and once, and only once, it struck her, that Madame
Montoni might be already murdered, and that this ruffian was
appointed to decoy herself to some secret place, where her life also
was to be sacrificed to the avarice of Montoni, who then would claim
securely the contested estates in Languedoc. The consideration of
the enormity of such guilt did, at length, relieve her from the
belief of its probability, but not from all the doubts and fears,
which a recollection of Barnardine's manner had occasioned. From
these subjects, her thoughts, at length, passed to others; and, as
the evening advanced, she remembered, with somewhat more than
surprise, the music she had heard, on the preceding night, and now
awaited its return, with more than curiosity.
She distinguished, till a late hour, the distant carousals of Montoni
and his companions--the loud contest, the dissolute laugh and the
choral song, that made the halls re-echo. At length, she heard the
heavy gates of the castle shut for the night, and those sounds
instantly sunk into a silence, which was disturbed only by the
whispering steps of persons, passing through the galleries to their
remote rooms. Emily now judging it to be about the time, when she
had heard the music, on the preceding night, dismissed Annette, and
gently opened the casement to watch for its return. The planet she
had so particularly noticed, at the recurrence of the music, was not
yet risen; but, with superstitious weakness, she kept her eyes fixed
on that part of the hemisphere, where it would rise, almost
expecting, that, when it appeared, the sounds would return. At
length, it came, serenely bright, over the eastern towers of the
castle. Her heart trembled, when she perceived it, and she had
scarcely courage to remain at the casement, lest the returning music
should confirm her terror, and subdue the little strength she yet
retained. The clock soon after struck one, and, knowing this to be
about the time, when the sounds had occurred, she sat down in a
chair, near the casement, and endeavoured to compose her spirits; but
the anxiety of expectation yet disturbed them. Every thing, however,
remained still; she heard only the solitary step of a sentinel, and
the lulling murmur of the woods below, and she again leaned from the
casement, and again looked, as if for intelligence, to the planet,
which was now risen high above the towers.
Emily continued to listen, but no music came. 'Those were surely no
mortal sounds!' said she, recollecting their entrancing melody. 'No
inhabitant of this castle could utter such; and, where is the
feeling, that could modulate such exquisite expression? We all know,
that it has been affirmed celestial sounds have sometimes been heard
on earth. Father Pierre and Father Antoine declared, that they had
sometimes heard them in the stillness of night, when they alone were
waking to offer their orisons to heaven. Nay, my dear father
himself, once said, that, soon after my mother's death, as he lay
watchful in grief, sounds of uncommon sweetness called him from his
bed; and, on opening his window, he heard lofty music pass along the
midnight air. It soothed him, he said; he looked up with confidence
to heaven, and resigned her to his God.'
Emily paused to weep at this recollection. 'Perhaps,' resumed she,
'perhaps, those strains I heard were sent to comfort,--to encourage
me! Never shall I forget those I heard, at this hour, in Languedoc!
Perhaps, my father watches over me, at this moment!' She wept again
in tenderness. Thus passed the hour in watchfulness and solemn
thought; but no sounds returned; and, after remaining at the
casement, till the light tint of dawn began to edge the mountain-tops
and steal upon the night-shade, she concluded, that they would not
return, and retired reluctantly to repose.
VOLUME 3
CHAPTER I
I will advise you where to plant yourselves;
Acquaint you with the perfect spy o' the time,
The moment on 't; for 't must be done to-night.
MACBETH
Emily was somewhat surprised, on the following day, to find that
Annette had heard of Madame Montoni's confinement in the chamber over
the portal, as well as of her purposed visit there, on the
approaching night. That the circumstance, which Barnardine had so
solemnly enjoined her to conceal, he had himself told to so
indiscreet an hearer as Annette, appeared very improbable, though he
had now charged her with a message, concerning the intended
interview. He requested, that Emily would meet him, unattended, on
the terrace, at a little after midnight, when he himself would lead
her to the place he had promised; a proposal, from which she
immediately shrunk, for a thousand vague fears darted athwart her
mind, such as had tormented her on the preceding night, and which she
neither knew how to trust, or to dismiss. It frequently occurred to
her, that Barnardine might have deceived her, concerning Madame
Montoni, whose murderer, perhaps, he really was; and that he had
deceived her by order of Montoni, the more easily to draw her into
some of the desperate designs of the latter. The terrible suspicion,
that Madame Montoni no longer lived, thus came, accompanied by one
not less dreadful for herself. Unless the crime, by which the aunt
had suffered, was instigated merely by resentment, unconnected with
profit, a motive, upon which Montoni did not appear very likely to
act, its object must be unattained, till the niece was also dead, to
whom Montoni knew that his wife's estates must descend. Emily
remembered the words, which had informed her, that the contested
estates in France would devolve to her, if Madame Montoni died,
without consigning them to her husband, and the former obstinate
perseverance of her aunt made it too probable, that she had, to the
last, withheld them. At this instant, recollecting Barnardine's
manner, on the preceding night, she now believed, what she had then
fancied, that it expressed malignant triumph. She shuddered at the
recollection, which confirmed her fears, and determined not to meet
him on the terrace. Soon after, she was inclined to consider these
suspicions as the extravagant exaggerations of a timid and harassed
mind, and could not believe Montoni liable to such preposterous
depravity as that of destroying, from one motive, his wife and her
niece. She blamed herself for suffering her romantic imagination to
carry her so far beyond the bounds of probability, and determined to
endeavour to check its rapid flights, lest they should sometimes
extend into madness. Still, however, she shrunk from the thought of
meeting Barnardine, on the terrace, at midnight; and still the wish
to be relieved from this terrible suspense, concerning her aunt, to
see her, and to sooth her sufferings, made her hesitate what to do.
'Yet how is it possible, Annette, I can pass to the terrace at that
hour?' said she, recollecting herself, 'the sentinels will stop me,
and Signor Montoni will hear of the affair.'
'O ma'amselle! that is well thought of,' replied Annette. 'That is
what Barnardine told me about. He gave me this key, and bade me say
it unlocks the door at the end of the vaulted gallery, that opens
near the end of the east rampart, so that you need not pass any of
the men on watch. He bade me say, too, that his reason for
requesting you to come to the terrace was, because he could take you
to the place you want to go to, without opening the great doors of
the hall, which grate so heavily.'
Emily's spirits were somewhat calmed by this explanation, which
seemed to be honestly given to Annette. 'But why did he desire I
would come alone, Annette?' said she.
'Why that was what I asked him myself, ma'amselle. Says I, Why is my
young lady to come alone?--Surely I may come with her!--What harm can
I do? But he said "No--no--I tell you not," in his gruff way. Nay,
says I, I have been trusted in as great affairs as this, I warrant,
and it's a hard matter if _I_ can't keep a secret now. Still he
would say nothing but--"No--no--no." Well, says I, if you will only
trust me, I will tell you a great secret, that was told me a month
ago, and I have never opened my lips about it yet--so you need not be
afraid of telling me. But all would not do. Then, ma'amselle, I
went so far as to offer him a beautiful new sequin, that Ludovico
gave me for a keep sake, and I would not have parted with it for all
St. Marco's Place; but even that would not do! Now what can be the
reason of this? But I know, you know, ma'am, who you are going to
see.'
'Pray did Barnardine tell you this?'
'He! No, ma'amselle, that he did not.'
Emily enquired who did, but Annette shewed, that she COULD keep a
secret.
During the remainder of the day, Emily's mind was agitated with
doubts and fears and contrary determinations, on the subject of
meeting this Barnardine on the rampart, and submitting herself to his
guidance, she scarcely knew whither. Pity for her aunt and anxiety
for herself alternately swayed her determination, and night came,
before she had decided upon her conduct. She heard the castle clock
strike eleven--twelve--and yet her mind wavered. The time, however,
was now come, when she could hesitate no longer: and then the
interest she felt for her aunt overcame other considerations, and,
bidding Annette follow her to the outer door of the vaulted gallery,
and there await her return, she descended from her chamber. The
castle was perfectly still, and the great hall, where so lately she
had witnessed a scene of dreadful contention, now returned only the
whispering footsteps of the two solitary figures gliding fearfully
between the pillars, and gleamed only to the feeble lamp they
carried. Emily, deceived by the long shadows of the pillars and by
the catching lights between, often stopped, imagining she saw some
person, moving in the distant obscurity of the perspective; and, as
she passed these pillars, she feared to turn her eyes toward them,
almost expecting to see a figure start out from behind their broad
shaft. She reached, however, the vaulted gallery, without
interruption, but unclosed its outer door with a trembling hand, and,
charging Annette not to quit it and to keep it a little open, that
she might be heard if she called, she delivered to her the lamp,
which she did not dare to take herself because of the men on watch,
and, alone, stepped out upon the dark terrace. Every thing was so
still, that she feared, lest her own light steps should be heard by
the distant sentinels, and she walked cautiously towards the spot,
where she had before met Barnardine, listening for a sound, and
looking onward through the gloom in search of him. At length, she
was startled by a deep voice, that spoke near her, and she paused,
uncertain whether it was his, till it spoke again, and she then
recognized the hollow tones of Barnardine, who had been punctual to
the moment, and was at the appointed place, resting on the rampart
wall. After chiding her for not coming sooner, and saying, that he
had been waiting nearly half an hour, he desired Emily, who made no
reply, to follow him to the door, through which he had entered the
terrace.
While he unlocked it, she looked back to that she had left, and,
observing the rays of the lamp stream through a small opening, was
certain, that Annette was still there. But her remote situation
could little befriend Emily, after she had quitted the terrace; and,
when Barnardine unclosed the gate, the dismal aspect of the passage
beyond, shewn by a torch burning on the pavement, made her shrink
from following him alone, and she refused to go, unless Annette might
accompany her. This, however, Barnardine absolutely refused to
permit, mingling at the same time with his refusal such artful
circumstances to heighten the pity and curiosity of Emily towards her
aunt, that she, at length, consented to follow him alone to the
portal.
He then took up the torch, and led her along the passage, at the
extremity of which he unlocked another door, whence they descended, a
few steps, into a chapel, which, as Barnardine held up the torch to
light her, Emily observed to be in ruins, and she immediately
recollected a former conversation of Annette, concerning it, with
very unpleasant emotions. She looked fearfully on the almost
roofless walls, green with damps, and on the gothic points of the
windows, where the ivy and the briony had long supplied the place of
glass, and ran mantling among the broken capitals of some columns,
that had once supported the roof. Barnardine stumbled over the
broken pavement, and his voice, as he uttered a sudden oath, was
returned in hollow echoes, that made it more terrific. Emily's heart
sunk; but she still followed him, and he turned out of what had been
the principal aisle of the chapel. 'Down these steps, lady,' said
Barnardine, as he descended a flight, which appeared to lead into the
vaults; but Emily paused on the top, and demanded, in a tremulous
tone, whither he was conducting her.
'To the portal,' said Barnardine.
'Cannot we go through the chapel to the portal?' said Emily.
'No, Signora, that leads to the inner court, which I don't choose to
unlock. This way, and we shall reach the outer court presently.'
Emily still hesitated; fearing not only to go on, but, since she had
gone thus far, to irritate Barnardine by refusing to go further.
'Come, lady,' said the man, who had nearly reached the bottom of the
flight, 'make a little haste; I cannot wait here all night.'
'Whither do these steps lead?' said Emily, yet pausing.
'To the portal,' repeated Barnardine, in an angry tone, 'I will wait
no longer.' As he said this, he moved on with the light, and Emily,
fearing to provoke him by further delay, reluctantly followed. From
the steps, they proceeded through a passage, adjoining the vaults,
the walls of which were dropping with unwholesome dews, and the
vapours, that crept along the ground, made the torch burn so dimly,
that Emily expected every moment to see it extinguished, and
Barnardine could scarcely find his way. As they advanced, these
vapours thickened, and Barnardine, believing the torch was expiring,
stopped for a moment to trim it. As he then rested against a pair of
iron gates, that opened from the passage, Emily saw, by uncertain
flashes of light, the vaults beyond, and, near her, heaps of earth,
that seemed to surround an open grave. Such an object, in such a
scene, would, at any time, have disturbed her; but now she was
shocked by an instantaneous presentiment, that this was the grave of
her unfortunate aunt, and that the treacherous Barnardine was leading
herself to destruction. The obscure and terrible place, to which he
had conducted her, seemed to justify the thought; it was a place
suited for murder, a receptacle for the dead, where a deed of horror
might be committed, and no vestige appear to proclaim it. Emily was
so overwhelmed with terror, that, for a moment, she was unable to
determine what conduct to pursue. She then considered, that it would
be vain to attempt an escape from Barnardine, by flight, since the
length and the intricacy of the way she had passed would soon enable
him to overtake her, who was unacquainted with the turnings, and
whose feebleness would not suffer her to run long with swiftness.
She feared equally to irritate him by a disclosure of her suspicions,
which a refusal to accompany him further certainly would do; and,
since she was already as much in his power as it was possible she
could be, if she proceeded, she, at length, determined to suppress,
as far as she could, the appearance of apprehension, and to follow
silently whither he designed to lead her. Pale with horror and
anxiety, she now waited till Barnardine had trimmed the torch, and,
as her sight glanced again upon the grave, she could not forbear
enquiring, for whom it was prepared. He took his eyes from the
torch, and fixed them upon her face without speaking. She faintly
repeated the question, but the man, shaking the torch, passed on; and
she followed, trembling, to a second flight of steps, having ascended
which, a door delivered them into the first court of the castle. As
they crossed it, the light shewed the high black walls around them,
fringed with long grass and dank weeds, that found a scanty soil
among the mouldering stones; the heavy buttresses, with, here and
there, between them, a narrow grate, that admitted a freer
circulation of air to the court, the massy iron gates, that led to
the castle, whose clustering turrets appeared above, and, opposite,
the huge towers and arch of the portal itself. In this scene the
large, uncouth person of Barnardine, bearing the torch, formed a
characteristic figure. This Barnardine was wrapt in a long dark
cloak, which scarcely allowed the kind of half-boots, or sandals,
that were laced upon his legs, to appear, and shewed only the point
of a broad sword, which he usually wore, slung in a belt across his
shoulders. On his head was a heavy flat velvet cap, somewhat
resembling a turban, in which was a short feather; the visage beneath
it shewed strong features, and a countenance furrowed with the lines
of cunning and darkened by habitual discontent.
The view of the court, however, reanimated Emily, who, as she crossed
silently towards the portal, began to hope, that her own fears, and
not the treachery of Barnardine, had deceived her. She looked
anxiously up at the first casement, that appeared above the lofty
arch of the portcullis; but it was dark, and she enquired, whether it
belonged to the chamber, where Madame Montoni was confined. Emily
spoke low, and Barnardine, perhaps, did not hear her question, for he
returned no answer; and they, soon after, entered the postern door of
the gate-way, which brought them to the foot of a narrow stair-case,
that wound up one of the towers.
'Up this stair-case the Signora lies,' said Barnardine.
'Lies!' repeated Emily faintly, as she began to ascend.
'She lies in the upper chamber,' said Barnardine.
As they passed up, the wind, which poured through the narrow cavities
in the wall, made the torch flare, and it threw a stronger gleam upon
the grim and sallow countenance of Barnardine, and discovered more
fully the desolation of the place--the rough stone walls, the spiral
stairs, black with age, and a suit of antient armour, with an iron
visor, that hung upon the walls, and appeared a trophy of some former
victory.
Having reached a landing-place, 'You may wait here, lady,' said he,
applying a key to the door of a chamber, 'while I go up, and tell the
Signora you are coming.'
'That ceremony is unnecessary,' replied Emily, 'my aunt will rejoice
to see me.'
'I am not so sure of that,' said Barnardine, pointing to the room he
had opened: 'Come in here, lady, while I step up.'
Emily, surprised and somewhat shocked, did not dare to oppose him
further, but, as he was turning away with the torch, desired he would
not leave her in darkness. He looked around, and, observing a tripod
lamp, that stood on the stairs, lighted and gave it to Emily, who
stepped forward into a large old chamber, and he closed the door. As
she listened anxiously to his departing steps, she thought he
descended, instead of ascending, the stairs; but the gusts of wind,
that whistled round the portal, would not allow her to hear
distinctly any other sound. Still, however, she listened, and,
perceiving no step in the room above, where he had affirmed Madame
Montoni to be, her anxiety increased, though she considered, that the
thickness of the floor in this strong building might prevent any
sound reaching her from the upper chamber. The next moment, in a
pause of the wind, she distinguished Barnardine's step descending to
the court, and then thought she heard his voice; but, the rising gust
again overcoming other sounds, Emily, to be certain on this point,
moved softly to the door, which, on attempting to open it, she
discovered was fastened. All the horrid apprehensions, that had
lately assailed her, returned at this instant with redoubled force,
and no longer appeared like the exaggerations of a timid spirit, but
seemed to have been sent to warn her of her fate. She now did not
doubt, that Madame Montoni had been murdered, perhaps in this very
chamber; or that she herself was brought hither for the same purpose.
The countenance, the manners and the recollected words of Barnardine,
when he had spoken of her aunt, confirmed her worst fears. For some
moments, she was incapable of considering of any means, by which she
might attempt an escape. Still she listened, but heard footsteps
neither on the stairs, or in the room above; she thought, however,
that she again distinguished Barnardine's voice below, and went to a
grated window, that opened upon the court, to enquire further. Here,
she plainly heard his hoarse accents, mingling with the blast, that
swept by, but they were lost again so quickly, that their meaning
could not be interpreted; and then the light of a torch, which seemed
to issue from the portal below, flashed across the court, and the
long shadow of a man, who was under the arch-way, appeared upon the
pavement. Emily, from the hugeness of this sudden portrait,
concluded it to be that of Barnardine; but other deep tones, which
passed in the wind, soon convinced her he was not alone, and that his
companion was not a person very liable to pity.
When her spirits had overcome the first shock of her situation, she
held up the lamp to examine, if the chamber afforded a possibility of
an escape. It was a spacious room, whose walls, wainscoted with
rough oak, shewed no casement but the grated one, which Emily had
left, and no other door than that, by which she had entered. The
feeble rays of the lamp, however, did not allow her to see at once
its full extent; she perceived no furniture, except, indeed, an iron
chair, fastened in the centre of the chamber, immediately over which,
depending on a chain from the ceiling, hung an iron ring. Having
gazed upon these, for some time, with wonder and horror, she next
observed iron bars below, made for the purpose of confining the feet,
and on the arms of the chair were rings of the same metal. As she
continued to survey them, she concluded, that they were instruments
of torture, and it struck her, that some poor wretch had once been
fastened in this chair, and had there been starved to death. She was
chilled by the thought; but, what was her agony, when, in the next
moment, it occurred to her, that her aunt might have been one of
these victims, and that she herself might be the next! An acute pain
seized her head, she was scarcely able to hold the lamp, and, looking
round for support, was seating herself, unconsciously, in the iron
chair itself; but suddenly perceiving where she was, she started from
it in horror, and sprung towards a remote end of the room. Here
again she looked round for a seat to sustain her, and perceived only
a dark curtain, which, descending from the ceiling to the floor, was
drawn along the whole side of the chamber. Ill as she was, the
appearance of this curtain struck her, and she paused to gaze upon
it, in wonder and apprehension.
It seemed to conceal a recess of the chamber; she wished, yet
dreaded, to lift it, and to discover what it veiled: twice she was
withheld by a recollection of the terrible spectacle her daring hand
had formerly unveiled in an apartment of the castle, till, suddenly
conjecturing, that it concealed the body of her murdered aunt, she
seized it, in a fit of desperation, and drew it aside. Beyond,
appeared a corpse, stretched on a kind of low couch, which was
crimsoned with human blood, as was the floor beneath. The features,
deformed by death, were ghastly and horrible, and more than one livid
wound appeared in the face. Emily, bending over the body, gazed, for
a moment, with an eager, frenzied eye; but, in the next, the lamp
dropped from her hand, and she fell senseless at the foot of the
couch.
When her senses returned, she found herself surrounded by men, among
whom was Barnardine, who were lifting her from the floor, and then
bore her along the chamber. She was sensible of what passed, but the
extreme languor of her spirits did not permit her to speak, or move,
or even to feel any distinct fear. They carried her down the stair-
case, by which she had ascended; when, having reached the arch-way,
they stopped, and one of the men, taking the torch from Barnardine,
opened a small door, that was cut in the great gate, and, as he
stepped out upon the road, the light he bore shewed several men on
horseback, in waiting. Whether it was the freshness of the air, that
revived Emily, or that the objects she now saw roused the spirit of
alarm, she suddenly spoke, and made an ineffectual effort to
disengage herself from the grasp of the ruffians, who held her.
Barnardine, meanwhile, called loudly for the torch, while distant
voices answered, and several persons approached, and, in the same
instant, a light flashed upon the court of the castle. Again he
vociferated for the torch, and the men hurried Emily through the
gate. At a short distance, under the shelter of the castle walls,
she perceived the fellow, who had taken the light from the porter,
holding it to a man, busily employed in altering the saddle of a
horse, round which were several horsemen, looking on, whose harsh
features received the full glare of the torch; while the broken
ground beneath them, the opposite walls, with the tufted shrubs, that
overhung their summits, and an embattled watch-tower above, were
reddened with the gleam, which, fading gradually away, left the
remoter ramparts and the woods below to the obscurity of night.
'What do you waste time for, there?' said Barnardine with an oath, as
he approached the horsemen. 'Dispatch--dispatch!'
'The saddle will be ready in a minute,' replied the man who was
buckling it, at whom Barnardine now swore again, for his negligence,
and Emily, calling feebly for help, was hurried towards the horses,
while the ruffians disputed on which to place her, the one designed
for her not being ready. At this moment a cluster of lights issued
from the great gates, and she immediately heard the shrill voice of
Annette above those of several other persons, who advanced. In the
same moment, she distinguished Montoni and Cavigni, followed by a
number of ruffian-faced fellows, to whom she no longer looked with
terror, but with hope, for, at this instant, she did not tremble at
the thought of any dangers, that might await her within the castle,
whence so lately, and so anxiously she had wished to escape. Those,
which threatened her from without, had engrossed all her
apprehensions.
A short contest ensued between the parties, in which that of Montoni,
however, were presently victors, and the horsemen, perceiving that
numbers were against them, and being, perhaps, not very warmly
interested in the affair they had undertaken, galloped off, while
Barnardine had run far enough to be lost in the darkness, and Emily
was led back into the castle. As she re-passed the courts, the
remembrance of what she had seen in the portal-chamber came, with all
its horror, to her mind; and when, soon after, she heard the gate
close, that shut her once more within the castle walls, she shuddered
for herself, and, almost forgetting the danger she had escaped, could
scarcely think, that any thing less precious than liberty and peace
was to be found beyond them.
Montoni ordered Emily to await him in the cedar parlour, whither he
soon followed, and then sternly questioned her on this mysterious
affair. Though she now viewed him with horror, as the murderer of
her aunt, and scarcely knew what she said in reply to his impatient
enquiries, her answers and her manner convinced him, that she had not
taken a voluntary part in the late scheme, and he dismissed her upon
the appearance of his servants, whom he had ordered to attend, that
he might enquire further into the affair, and discover those, who had
been accomplices in it.
Emily had been some time in her apartment, before the tumult of her
mind allowed her to remember several of the past circumstances.
Then, again, the dead form, which the curtain in the portal-chamber
had disclosed, came to her fancy, and she uttered a groan, which
terrified Annette the more, as Emily forbore to satisfy her
curiosity, on the subject of it, for she feared to trust her with so
fatal a secret, lest her indiscretion should call down the immediate
vengeance of Montoni on herself.
Thus compelled to bear within her own mind the whole horror of the
secret, that oppressed it, her reason seemed to totter under the
intolerable weight. She often fixed a wild and vacant look on
Annette, and, when she spoke, either did not hear her, or answered
from the purpose. Long fits of abstraction succeeded; Annette spoke
repeatedly, but her voice seemed not to make any impression on the
sense of the long agitated Emily, who sat fixed and silent, except
that, now and then, she heaved a heavy sigh, but without tears.
Terrified at her condition, Annette, at length, left the room, to
inform Montoni of it, who had just dismissed his servants, without
having made any discoveries on the subject of his enquiry. The wild
description, which this girl now gave of Emily, induced him to follow
her immediately to the chamber.
At the sound of his voice, Emily turned her eyes, and a gleam of
recollection seemed to shoot athwart her mind, for she immediately
rose from her seat, and moved slowly to a remote part of the room.
He spoke to her in accents somewhat softened from their usual
harshness, but she regarded him with a kind of half curious, half
terrified look, and answered only 'yes,' to whatever he said. Her
mind still seemed to retain no other impression, than that of fear.
Of this disorder Annette could give no explanation, and Montoni,
having attempted, for some time, to persuade Emily to talk, retired,
after ordering Annette to remain with her, during the night, and to
inform him, in the morning, of her condition.
When he was gone, Emily again came forward, and asked who it was,
that had been there to disturb her. Annette said it was the Signor-
Signor Montoni. Emily repeated the name after her, several times, as
if she did not recollect it, and then suddenly groaned, and relapsed
into abstraction.
With some difficulty, Annette led her to the bed, which Emily
examined with an eager, frenzied eye, before she lay down, and then,
pointing, turned with shuddering emotion, to Annette, who, now more
terrified, went towards the door, that she might bring one of the
female servants to pass the night with them; but Emily, observing her
going, called her by name, and then in the naturally soft and
plaintive tone of her voice, begged, that she, too, would not forsake
her.- -'For since my father died,' added she, sighing, 'every body
forsakes me.'
'Your father, ma'amselle!' said Annette, 'he was dead before you knew
me.'
'He was, indeed!' rejoined Emily, and her tears began to flow. She
now wept silently and long, after which, becoming quite calm, she at
length sunk to sleep, Annette having had discretion enough not to
interrupt her tears. This girl, as affectionate as she was simple,
lost in these moments all her former fears of remaining in the
chamber, and watched alone by Emily, during the whole night.
CHAPTER II
unfold
What worlds, or what vast regions, hold
Th' immortal mind, that hath forsook
Her mansion in this fleshly nook!
IL PENSEROSO
Emily's mind was refreshed by sleep. On waking in the morning, she
looked with surprise on Annette, who sat sleeping in a chair beside
the bed, and then endeavoured to recollect herself; but the
circumstances of the preceding night were swept from her memory,
which seemed to retain no trace of what had passed, and she was still
gazing with surprise on Annette, when the latter awoke.
'O dear ma'amselle! do you know me?' cried she.
'Know you! Certainly,' replied Emily, 'you are Annette; but why are
you sitting by me thus?'
'O you have been very ill, ma'amselle,--very ill indeed! and I am
sure I thought--'
'This is very strange!' said Emily, still trying to recollect the
past.--'But I think I do remember, that my fancy has been haunted by
frightful dreams. Good God!' she added, suddenly starting--'surely
it was nothing more than a dream!'
She fixed a terrified look upon Annette, who, intending to quiet her,
said 'Yes, ma'amselle, it was more than a dream, but it is all over
now.'
'She IS murdered, then!' said Emily in an inward voice, and
shuddering instantaneously. Annette screamed; for, being ignorant of
the circumstance to which Emily referred, she attributed her manner
to a disordered fancy; but, when she had explained to what her own
speech alluded, Emily, recollecting the attempt that had been made to
carry her off, asked if the contriver of it had been discovered.
Annette replied, that he had not, though he might easily be guessed
at; and then told Emily she might thank her for her deliverance, who,
endeavouring to command the emotion, which the remembrance of her
aunt had occasioned, appeared calmly to listen to Annette, though, in
truth, she heard scarcely a word that was said.
'And so, ma'amselle,' continued the latter, 'I was determined to be
even with Barnardine for refusing to tell me the secret, by finding
it out myself; so I watched you, on the terrace, and, as soon as he
had opened the door at the end, I stole out from the castle, to try
to follow you; for, says I, I am sure no good can be planned, or why
all this secrecy? So, sure enough, he had not bolted the door after
him, and, when I opened it, I saw, by the glimmer of the torch, at
the other end of the passage, which way you were going. I followed
the light, at a distance, till you came to the vaults of the chapel,
and there I was afraid to go further, for I had heard strange things
about these vaults. But then, again, I was afraid to go back, all in
darkness, by myself; so by the time Barnardine had trimmed the light,
I had resolved to follow you, and I did so, till you came to the
great court, and there I was afraid he would see me; so I stopped at
the door again, and watched you across to the gates, and, when you
was gone up the stairs, I whipt after. There, as I stood under the
gate-way, I heard horses' feet without, and several men talking; and
I heard them swearing at Barnardine for not bringing you out, and
just then, he had like to have caught me, for he came down the stairs
again, and I had hardly time to get out of his way. But I had heard
enough of his secret now, and I determined to be even with him, and
to save you, too, ma'amselle, for I guessed it to be some new scheme
of Count Morano, though he was gone away. I ran into the castle, but
I had hard work to find my way through the passage under the chapel,
and what is very strange, I quite forgot to look for the ghosts they
had told me about, though I would not go into that place again by
myself for all the world! Luckily the Signor and Signor Cavigni were
up, so we had soon a train at our heels, sufficient to frighten that
Barnardine and his rogues, all together.'
Annette ceased to speak, but Emily still appeared to listen. At
length she said, suddenly, 'I think I will go to him myself;--where
is he?'
Annette asked who was meant.
'Signor Montoni,' replied Emily. 'I would speak with him;' and
Annette, now remembering the order he had given, on the preceding
night, respecting her young lady, rose, and said she would seek him
herself.
This honest girl's suspicions of Count Morano were perfectly just;
Emily, too, when she thought on the scheme, had attributed it to him;
and Montoni, who had not a doubt on this subject, also, began to
believe, that it was by the direction of Morano, that poison had
formerly been mingled with his wine.
The professions of repentance, which Morano had made to Emily, under
the anguish of his wound, was sincere at the moment he offered them;
but he had mistaken the subject of his sorrow, for, while he thought
he was condemning the cruelty of his late design, he was lamenting
only the state of suffering, to which it had reduced him. As these
sufferings abated, his former views revived, till, his health being
re-established, he again found himself ready for enterprise and
difficulty. The porter of the castle, who had served him, on a
former occasion, willingly accepted a second bribe; and, having
concerted the means of drawing Emily to the gates, Morano publicly
left the hamlet, whither he had been carried after the affray, and
withdrew with his people to another at several miles distance. From
thence, on a night agreed upon by Barnardine, who had discovered from
the thoughtless prattle of Annette, the most probable means of
decoying Emily, the Count sent back his servants to the castle, while
he awaited her arrival at the hamlet, with an intention of carrying
her immediately to Venice. How this, his second scheme, was
frustrated, has already appeared; but the violent, and various
passions with which this Italian lover was now agitated, on his
return to that city, can only be imagined.
Annette having made her report to Montoni of Emily's health and of
her request to see him, he replied, that she might attend him in the
cedar room, in about an hour. It was on the subject, that pressed so
heavily on her mind, that Emily wished to speak to him, yet she did
not distinctly know what good purpose this could answer, and
sometimes she even recoiled in horror from the expectation of his
presence. She wished, also, to petition, though she scarcely dared
to believe the request would be granted, that he would permit her,
since her aunt was no more, to return to her native country.
As the moment of interview approached, her agitation increased so
much, that she almost resolved to excuse herself under what could
scarcely be called a pretence of illness; and, when she considered
what could be said, either concerning herself, or the fate of her
aunt, she was equally hopeless as to the event of her entreaty, and
terrified as to its effect upon the vengeful spirit of Montoni. Yet,
to pretend ignorance of her death, appeared, in some degree, to be
sharing its criminality, and, indeed, this event was the only ground,
on which Emily could rest her petition for leaving Udolpho.
While her thoughts thus wavered, a message was brought, importing,
that Montoni could not see her, till the next day; and her spirits
were then relieved, for a moment, from an almost intolerable weight
of apprehension. Annette said, she fancied the Chevaliers were going
out to the wars again, for the court-yard was filled with horses, and
she heard, that the rest of the party, who went out before, were
expected at the castle. 'And I heard one of the soldiers, too,'
added she, 'say to his comrade, that he would warrant they'd bring
home a rare deal of booty.--So, thinks I, if the Signor can, with a
safe conscience, send his people out a-robbing--why it is no business
of mine. I only wish I was once safe out of this castle; and, if it
had not been for poor Ludovico's sake, I would have let Count
Morano's people run away with us both, for it would have been serving
you a good turn, ma'amselle, as well as myself.'
Annette might have continued thus talking for hours for any
interruption she would have received from Emily, who was silent,
inattentive, absorbed in thought, and passed the whole of this day in
a kind of solemn tranquillity, such as is often the result of
faculties overstrained by suffering.
When night returned, Emily recollected the mysterious strains of
music, that she had lately heard, in which she still felt some degree
of interest, and of which she hoped to hear again the soothing
sweetness. The influence of superstition now gained on the weakness
of her long-harassed mind; she looked, with enthusiastic expectation,
to the guardian spirit of her father, and, having dismissed Annette
for the night, determined to watch alone for their return. It was
not yet, however, near the time when she had heard the music on a
former night, and anxious to call off her thoughts from distressing
subjects, she sat down with one of the few books, that she had
brought from France; but her mind, refusing controul, became restless
and agitated, and she went often to the casement to listen for a
sound. Once, she thought she heard a voice, but then, every thing
without the casement remaining still, she concluded, that her fancy
had deceived her.
Thus passed the time, till twelve o'clock, soon after which the
distant sounds, that murmured through the castle, ceased, and sleep
seemed to reign over all. Emily then seated herself at the casement,
where she was soon recalled from the reverie, into which she sunk, by
very unusual sounds, not of music, but like the low mourning of some
person in distress. As she listened, her heart faltered in terror,
and she became convinced, that the former sound was more than
imaginary. Still, at intervals, she heard a kind of feeble
lamentation, and sought to discover whence it came. There were
several rooms underneath, adjoining the rampart, which had been long
shut up, and, as the sound probably rose from one of these, she
leaned from the casement to observe, whether any light was visible
there. The chambers, as far as she could perceive, were quite dark,
but, at a little distance, on the rampart below, she thought she saw
something moving.
The faint twilight, which the stars shed, did not enable her to
distinguish what it was; but she judged it to be a sentinel, on
watch, and she removed her light to a remote part of the chamber,
that she might escape notice, during her further observation.
The same object still appeared. Presently, it advanced along the
rampart, towards her window, and she then distinguished something
like a human form, but the silence, with which it moved, convinced
her it was no sentinel. As it drew near, she hesitated whether to
retire; a thrilling curiosity inclined her to stay, but a dread of
she scarcely knew what warned her to withdraw.
While she paused, the figure came opposite to her casement, and was
stationary. Every thing remained quiet; she had not heard even a
foot-fall; and the solemnity of this silence, with the mysterious
form she saw, subdued her spirits, so that she was moving from the
casement, when, on a sudden, she observed the figure start away, and
glide down the rampart, after which it was soon lost in the obscurity
of night. Emily continued to gaze, for some time, on the way it had
passed, and then retired within her chamber, musing on this strange
circumstance, and scarcely doubting, that she had witnessed a
supernatural appearance.
When her spirits recovered composure, she looked round for some other
explanation. Remembering what she had heard of the daring
enterprises of Montoni, it occurred to her, that she had just seen
some unhappy person, who, having been plundered by his banditti, was
brought hither a captive; and that the music she had formerly heard,
came from him. Yet, if they had plundered him, it still appeared
improbable, that they should have brought him to the castle, and it
was also more consistent with the manners of banditti to murder those
they rob, than to make them prisoners. But what, more than any other
circumstance, contradicted the supposition, that it was a prisoner,
was that it wandered on the terrace, without a guard: a
consideration, which made her dismiss immediately her first surmise.
Afterwards, she was inclined to believe, that Count Morano had
obtained admittance into the castle; but she soon recollected the
difficulties and dangers, that must have opposed such an enterprise,
and that, if he had so far succeeded, to come alone and in silence to
her casement at midnight was not the conduct he would have adopted,
particularly since the private stair-case, communicating with her
apartment, was known to him; neither would he have uttered the dismal
sounds she had heard.
Another suggestion represented, that this might be some person, who
had designs upon the castle; but the mournful sounds destroyed, also,
that probability. Thus, enquiry only perplexed her. Who, or what,
it could be that haunted this lonely hour, complaining in such
doleful accents and in such sweet music (for she was still inclined
to believe, that the former strains and the late appearance were
connected,) she had no means of ascertaining; and imagination again
assumed her empire, and roused the mysteries of superstition.
She determined, however, to watch on the following night, when her
doubts might, perhaps, be cleared up; and she almost resolved to
address the figure, if it should appear again.
CHAPTER III
Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp,
Oft seen in charnel-vaults and sepulchres,
Lingering, and sitting, by a new-made grave.
MILTON
On the following day, Montoni sent a second excuse to Emily, who was
surprised at the circumstance. 'This is very strange!' said she to
herself. 'His conscience tells him the purport of my visit, and he
defers it, to avoid an explanation.' She now almost resolved to
throw herself in his way, but terror checked the intention, and this
day passed, as the preceding one, with Emily, except that a degree of
awful expectation, concerning the approaching night, now somewhat
disturbed the dreadful calmness that had pervaded her mind.
Towards evening, the second part of the band, which had made the
first excursion among the mountains, returned to the castle, where,
as they entered the courts, Emily, in her remote chamber, heard their
loud shouts and strains of exultation, like the orgies of furies over
some horrid sacrifice. She even feared they were about to commit
some barbarous deed; a conjecture from which, however, Annette soon
relieved her, by telling, that the people were only exulting over the
plunder they had brought with them. This circumstance still further
confirmed her in the belief, that Montoni had really commenced to be
a captain of banditti, and meant to retrieve his broken fortunes by
the plunder of travellers! Indeed, when she considered all the
circumstances of his situation--in an armed, and almost inaccessible
castle, retired far among the recesses of wild and solitary
mountains, along whose distant skirts were scattered towns, and
cities, whither wealthy travellers were continually passing--this
appeared to be the situation of all others most suited for the
success of schemes of rapine, and she yielded to the strange thought,
that Montoni was become a captain of robbers. His character also,
unprincipled, dauntless, cruel and enterprising, seemed to fit him
for the situation. Delighting in the tumult and in the struggles of
life, he was equally a stranger to pity and to fear; his very courage
was a sort of animal ferocity; not the noble impulse of a principle,
such as inspirits the mind against the oppressor, in the cause of the
oppressed; but a constitutional hardiness of nerve, that cannot feel,
and that, therefore, cannot fear.
Emily's supposition, however natural, was in part erroneous, for she
was a stranger to the state of this country and to the circumstances,
under which its frequent wars were partly conducted. The revenues of
the many states of Italy being, at that time, insufficient to the
support of standing armies, even during the short periods, which the
turbulent habits both of the governments and the people permitted to
pass in peace, an order of men arose not known in our age, and but
faintly described in the history of their own. Of the soldiers,
disbanded at the end of every war, few returned to the safe, but
unprofitable occupations, then usual in peace. Sometimes they passed
into other countries, and mingled with armies, which still kept the
field. Sometimes they formed themselves into bands of robbers, and
occupied remote fortresses, where their desperate character, the
weakness of the governments which they offended, and the certainty,
that they could be recalled to the armies, when their presence should
be again wanted, prevented them from being much pursued by the civil
power; and, sometimes, they attached themselves to the fortunes of a
popular chief, by whom they were led into the service of any state,
which could settle with him the price of their valour. From this
latter practice arose their name--CONDOTTIERI; a term formidable all
over Italy, for a period, which concluded in the earlier part of the
seventeenth century, but of which it is not so easy to ascertain the
commencement.
Contests between the smaller states were then, for the most part,
affairs of enterprize alone, and the probabilities of success were
estimated, not from the skill, but from the personal courage of the
general, and the soldiers. The ability, which was necessary to the
conduct of tedious operations, was little valued. It was enough to
know how a party might be led towards their enemies, with the
greatest secrecy, or conducted from them in the compactest order.
The officer was to precipitate himself into a situation, where, but
for his example, the soldiers might not have ventured; and, as the
opposed parties knew little of each other's strength, the event of
the day was frequently determined by the boldness of the first
movements. In such services the condottieri were eminent, and in
these, where plunder always followed success, their characters
acquired a mixture of intrepidity and profligacy, which awed even
those whom they served.
When they were not thus engaged, their chief had usually his own
fortress, in which, or in its neighbourhood, they enjoyed an irksome
rest; and, though their wants were, at one time, partly supplied from
the property of the inhabitants, the lavish distribution of their
plunder at others, prevented them from being obnoxious; and the
peasants of such districts gradually shared the character of their
warlike visitors. The neighbouring governments sometimes professed,
but seldom endeavoured, to suppress these military communities; both
because it was difficult to do so, and because a disguised protection
of them ensured, for the service of their wars, a body of men, who
could not otherwise be so cheaply maintained, or so perfectly
qualified. The commanders sometimes even relied so far upon this
policy of the several powers, as to frequent their capitals; and
Montoni, having met them in the gaming parties of Venice and Padua,
conceived a desire to emulate their characters, before his ruined
fortunes tempted him to adopt their practices. It was for the
arrangement of his present plan of life, that the midnight councils
were held at his mansion in Venice, and at which Orsino and some
other members of the present community then assisted with
suggestions, which they had since executed with the wreck of their
fortunes.
On the return of night, Emily resumed her station at the casement.
There was now a moon; and, as it rose over the tufted woods, its
yellow light served to shew the lonely terrace and the surrounding
objects, more distinctly, than the twilight of the stars had done,
and promised Emily to assist her observations, should the mysterious
form return. On this subject, she again wavered in conjecture, and
hesitated whether to speak to the figure, to which a strong and
almost irresistible interest urged her; but terror, at intervals,
made her reluctant to do so.
'If this is a person who has designs upon the castle,' said she, 'my
curiosity may prove fatal to me; yet the mysterious music, and the
lamentations I heard, must surely have proceeded from him: if so, he
cannot be an enemy.'
She then thought of her unfortunate aunt, and, shuddering with grief
and horror, the suggestions of imagination seized her mind with all
the force of truth, and she believed, that the form she had seen was
supernatural. She trembled, breathed with difficulty, an icy
coldness touched her cheeks, and her fears for a while overcame her
judgment. Her resolution now forsook her, and she determined, if the
figure should appear, not to speak to it.
Thus the time passed, as she sat at her casement, awed by
expectation, and by the gloom and stillness of midnight; for she saw
obscurely in the moon-light only the mountains and woods, a cluster
of towers, that formed the west angle of the castle, and the terrace
below; and heard no sound, except, now and then, the lonely watch-
word, passed by the centinels on duty, and afterwards the steps of
the men who came to relieve guard, and whom she knew at a distance on
the rampart by their pikes, that glittered in the moonbeam, and then,
by the few short words, in which they hailed their fellows of the
night. Emily retired within her chamber, while they passed the
casement. When she returned to it, all was again quiet. It was now
very late, she was wearied with watching, and began to doubt the
reality of what she had seen on the preceding night; but she still
lingered at the window, for her mind was too perturbed to admit of
sleep. The moon shone with a clear lustre, that afforded her a
complete view of the terrace; but she saw only a solitary centinel,
pacing at one end of it; and, at length, tired with expectation, she
withdrew to seek rest.
Such, however, was the impression, left on her mind by the music, and
the complaining she had formerly heard, as well as by the figure,
which she fancied she had seen, that she determined to repeat the
watch, on the following night.
Montoni, on the next day, took no notice of Emily's appointed visit,
but she, more anxious than before to see him, sent Annette to
enquire, at what hour he would admit her. He mentioned eleven
o'clock, and Emily was punctual to the moment; at which she called up
all her fortitude to support the shock of his presence and the
dreadful recollections it enforced. He was with several of his
officers, in the cedar room; on observing whom she paused; and her
agitation increased, while he continued to converse with them,
apparently not observing her, till some of his officers, turning
round, saw Emily, and uttered an exclamation. She was hastily
retiring, when Montoni's voice arrested her, and, in a faultering
accent, she said,--'I would speak with you, Signor Montoni, if you
are at leisure.'
'These are my friends,' he replied, 'whatever you would say, they may
hear.'
Emily, without replying, turned from the rude gaze of the chevaliers,
and Montoni then followed her to the hall, whence he led her to a
small room, of which he shut the door with violence. As she looked
on his dark countenance, she again thought she saw the murderer of
her aunt; and her mind was so convulsed with horror, that she had not
power to recal thought enough to explain the purport of her visit;
and to trust herself with the mention of Madame Montoni was more than
she dared.
Montoni at length impatiently enquired what she had to say? 'I have
no time for trifling,' he added, 'my moments are important.'
Emily then told him, that she wished to return to France, and came to
beg, that he would permit her to do so.--But when he looked
surprised, and enquired for the motive of the request, she hesitated,
became paler than before, trembled, and had nearly sunk at his feet.
He observed her emotion, with apparent indifference, and interrupted
the silence by telling her, he must be gone. Emily, however,
recalled her spirits sufficiently to enable her to repeat her
request. And, when Montoni absolutely refused it, her slumbering
mind was roused.
'I can no longer remain here with propriety, sir,' said she, 'and I
may be allowed to ask, by what right you detain me.'
'It is my will that you remain here,' said Montoni, laying his hand
on the door to go; 'let that suffice you.'
Emily, considering that she had no appeal from this will, forbore to
dispute his right, and made a feeble effort to persuade him to be
just. 'While my aunt lived, sir,' said she, in a tremulous voice,
'my residence here was not improper; but now, that she is no more, I
may surely be permitted to depart. My stay cannot benefit you, sir,
and will only distress me.'
'Who told you, that Madame Montoni was dead?' said Montoni, with an
inquisitive eye. Emily hesitated, for nobody had told her so, and
she did not dare to avow the having seen that spectacle in the
portal-chamber, which had compelled her to the belief.
'Who told you so?' he repeated, more sternly.
'Alas! I know it too well,' replied Emily: 'spare me on this
terrible subject!'
She sat down on a bench to support herself.
'If you wish to see her,' said Montoni, 'you may; she lies in the
east turret.'
He now left the room, without awaiting her reply, and returned to the
cedar chamber, where such of the chevaliers as had not before seen
Emily, began to rally him, on the discovery they had made; but
Montoni did not appear disposed to bear this mirth, and they changed
the subject.
Having talked with the subtle Orsino, on the plan of an excursion,
which he meditated for a future day, his friend advised, that they
should lie in wait for the enemy, which Verezzi impetuously opposed,
reproached Orsino with want of spirit, and swore, that, if Montoni
would let him lead on fifty men, he would conquer all that should
oppose him.
Orsino smiled contemptuously; Montoni smiled too, but he also
listened. Verezzi then proceeded with vehement declamation and
assertion, till he was stopped by an argument of Orsino, which he
knew not how to answer better than by invective. His fierce spirit
detested the cunning caution of Orsino, whom he constantly opposed,
and whose inveterate, though silent, hatred he had long ago incurred.
And Montoni was a calm observer of both, whose different
qualifications he knew, and how to bend their opposite character to
the perfection of his own designs. But Verezzi, in the heat of
opposition, now did not scruple to accuse Orsino of cowardice, at
which the countenance of the latter, while he made no reply, was
overspread with a livid paleness; and Montoni, who watched his
lurking eye, saw him put his hand hastily into his bosom. But
Verezzi, whose face, glowing with crimson, formed a striking contrast
to the complexion of Orsino, remarked not the action, and continued
boldly declaiming against cowards to Cavigni, who was slily laughing
at his vehemence, and at the silent mortification of Orsino, when the
latter, retiring a few steps behind, drew forth a stilletto to stab
his adversary in the back. Montoni arrested his half-extended arm,
and, with a significant look, made him return the poinard into his
bosom, unseen by all except himself; for most of the party were
disputing at a distant window, on the situation of a dell where they
meant to form an ambuscade.
When Verezzi had turned round, the deadly hatred, expressed on the
features of his opponent, raising, for the first time, a suspicion of
his intention, he laid his hand on his sword, and then, seeming to
recollect himself, strode up to Montoni.
'Signor,' said he, with a significant look at Orsino, 'we are not a
band of assassins; if you have business for brave men employ me on
this expedition: you shall have the last drop of my blood; if you
have only work for cowards--keep him,' pointing to Orsino, 'and let
me quit Udolpho.'
Orsino, still more incensed, again drew forth his stilletto, and
rushed towards Verezzi, who, at the same instant, advanced with his
sword, when Montoni and the rest of the party interfered and
separated them.
'This is the conduct of a boy,' said Montoni to Verezzi, 'not of a
man: be more moderate in your speech.'
'Moderation is the virtue of cowards,' retorted Verezzi; 'they are
moderate in every thing--but in fear.'
'I accept your words,' said Montoni, turning upon him with a fierce
and haughty look, and drawing his sword out of the scabbard.
'With all my heart,' cried Verezzi, 'though I did not mean them for
you.'
He directed a pass at Montoni; and, while they fought, the villain
Orsino made another attempt to stab Verezzi, and was again prevented.
The combatants were, at length, separated; and, after a very long and
violent dispute, reconciled. Montoni then left the room with Orsino,
whom he detained in private consultation for a considerable time.
Emily, meanwhile, stunned by the last words of Montoni, forgot, for
the moment, his declaration, that she should continue in the castle,
while she thought of her unfortunate aunt, who, he had said, was laid
in the east turret. In suffering the remains of his wife to lie thus
long unburied, there appeared a degree of brutality more shocking
than she had suspected even Montoni could practise.
After a long struggle, she determined to accept his permission to
visit the turret, and to take a last look of her ill-fated aunt:
with which design she returned to her chamber, and, while she waited
for Annette to accompany her, endeavoured to acquire fortitude
sufficient to support her through the approaching scene; for, though
she trembled to encounter it, she knew that to remember the
performance of this last act of duty would hereafter afford her
consoling satisfaction.
Annette came, and Emily mentioned her purpose, from which the former
endeavoured to dissuade her, though without effect, and Annette was,
with much difficulty, prevailed upon to accompany her to the turret;
but no consideration could make her promise to enter the chamber of
death.
They now left the corridor, and, having reached the foot of the
stair-case, which Emily had formerly ascended, Annette declared she
would go no further, and Emily proceeded alone. When she saw the
track of blood, which she had before observed, her spirits fainted,
and, being compelled to rest on the stairs, she almost determined to
proceed no further. The pause of a few moments restored her
resolution, and she went on.
As she drew near the landing-place, upon which the upper chamber
opened, she remembered, that the door was formerly fastened, and
apprehended, that it might still be so. In this expectation,
however, she was mistaken; for the door opened at once, into a dusky
and silent chamber, round which she fearfully looked, and then slowly
advanced, when a hollow voice spoke. Emily, who was unable to speak,
or to move from the spot, uttered no sound of terror. The voice
spoke again; and, then, thinking that it resembled that of Madame
Montoni, Emily's spirits were instantly roused; she rushed towards a
bed, that stood in a remote part of the room, and drew aside the
curtains. Within, appeared a pale and emaciated face. She started
back, then again advanced, shuddered as she took up the skeleton
hand, that lay stretched upon the quilt; then let it drop, and then
viewed the face with a long, unsettled gaze. It was that of Madame
Montoni, though so changed by illness, that the resemblance of what
it had been, could scarcely be traced in what it now appeared. she
was still alive, and, raising her heavy eyes, she turned them on her
niece.
'Where have you been so long?' said she, in the same hollow tone, 'I
thought you had forsaken me.'
'Do you indeed live,' said Emily, at length, 'or is this but a
terrible apparition?' she received no answer, and again she snatched
up the hand. 'This is substance,' she exclaimed, 'but it is cold--
cold as marble!' She let it fall. 'O, if you really live, speak!'
said Emily, in a voice of desperation, 'that I may not lose my
senses--say you know me!'
'I do live,' replied Madame Montoni, 'but--I feel that I am about to
die.'
Emily clasped the hand she held, more eagerly, and groaned. They
were both silent for some moments. Then Emily endeavoured to soothe
her, and enquired what had reduced her to this present deplorable
state.
Montoni, when he removed her to the turret under the improbable
suspicion of having attempted his life, had ordered the men employed
on the occasion, to observe a strict secrecy concerning her. To this
he was influenced by a double motive. He meant to debar her from the
comfort of Emily's visits, and to secure an opportunity of privately
dispatching her, should any new circumstances occur to confirm the
present suggestions of his suspecting mind. His consciousness of the
hatred he deserved it was natural enough should at first led him to
attribute to her the attempt that had been made upon his life; and,
though there was no other reason to believe that she was concerned in
that atrocious design, his suspicions remained; he continued to
confine her in the turret, under a strict guard; and, without pity or
remorse, had suffered her to lie, forlorn and neglected, under a
raging fever, till it had reduced her to the present state.
The track of blood, which Emily had seen on the stairs, had flowed
from the unbound wound of one of the men employed to carry Madame
Montoni, and which he had received in the late affray. At night
these men, having contented themselves with securing the door of
their prisoner's room, had retired from guard; and then it was, that
Emily, at the time of her first enquiry, had found the turret so
silent and deserted.
When she had attempted to open the door of the chamber, her aunt was
sleeping, and this occasioned the silence, which had contributed to
delude her into a belief, that she was no more; yet had her terror
permitted her to persevere longer in the call, she would probably
have awakened Madame Montoni, and have been spared much suffering.
The spectacle in the portal-chamber, which afterwards confirmed
Emily's horrible suspicion, was the corpse of a man, who had fallen
in the affray, and the same which had been borne into the servants'
hall, where she took refuge from the tumult. This man had lingered
under his wounds for some days; and, soon after his death, his body
had been removed on the couch, on which he died, for interment in the
vault beneath the chapel, through which Emily and Barnardine had
passed to the chamber.
Emily, after asking Madame Montoni a thousand questions concerning
herself, left her, and sought Montoni; for the more solemn interest
she felt for her aunt, made her now regardless of the resentment her
remonstrances might draw upon herself, and of the improbability of
his granting what she meant to entreat.
'Madame Montoni is now dying, sir,' said Emily, as soon as she saw
him--'Your resentment, surely will not pursue her to the last moment!
Suffer her to be removed from that forlorn room to her own apartment,
and to have necessary comforts administered.'
'Of what service will that be, if she is dying?' said Montoni, with
apparent indifference.
'The service, at leave, of saving you, sir, from a few of those pangs
of conscience you must suffer, when you shall be in the same
situation,' said Emily, with imprudent indignation, of which Montoni
soon made her sensible, by commanding her to quit his presence.
Then, forgetting her resentment, and impressed only by compassion for
the piteous state of her aunt, dying without succour, she submitted
to humble herself to Montoni, and to adopt every persuasive means,
that might induce him to relent towards his wife.
For a considerable time he was proof against all she said, and all
she looked; but at length the divinity of pity, beaming in Emily's
eyes, seemed to touch his heart. He turned away, ashamed of his
better feelings, half sullen and half relenting; but finally
consented, that his wife should be removed to her own apartment, and
that Emily should attend her. Dreading equally, that this relief
might arrive too late, and that Montoni might retract his concession,
Emily scarcely staid to thank him for it, but, assisted by Annette,
she quickly prepared Madame Montoni's bed, and they carried her a
cordial, that might enable her feeble frame to sustain the fatigue of
a removal.
Madame was scarcely arrived in her own apartment, when an order was
given by her husband, that she should remain in the turret; but
Emily, thankful that she had made such dispatch, hastened to inform
him of it, as well as that a second removal would instantly prove
fatal, and he suffered his wife to continue where she was.
During this day, Emily never left Madame Montoni, except to prepare
such little nourishing things as she judged necessary to sustain her,
and which Madame Montoni received with quiet acquiescence, though she
seemed sensible that they could not save her from approaching
dissolution, and scarcely appeared to wish for life. Emily meanwhile
watched over her with the most tender solicitude, no longer seeing
her imperious aunt in the poor object before her, but the sister of
her late beloved father, in a situation that called for all her
compassion and kindness. When night came, she determined to sit up
with her aunt, but this the latter positively forbade, commanding her
to retire to rest, and Annette alone to remain in her chamber. Rest
was, indeed, necessary to Emily, whose spirits and frame were equally
wearied by the occurrences and exertions of the day; but she would
not leave Madame Montoni, till after the turn of midnight, a period
then thought so critical by the physicians.
Soon after twelve, having enjoined Annette to be wakeful, and to call
her, should any change appear for the worse, Emily sorrowfully bade
Madame Montoni good night, and withdrew to her chamber. Her spirits
were more than usually depressed by the piteous condition of her
aunt, whose recovery she scarcely dared to expect. To her own
misfortunes she saw no period, inclosed as she was, in a remote
castle, beyond the reach of any friends, had she possessed such, and
beyond the pity even of strangers; while she knew herself to be in
the power of a man capable of any action, which his interest, or his
ambition, might suggest.
Occupied by melancholy reflections and by anticipations as sad, she
did not retire immediately to rest, but leaned thoughtfully on her
open casement. The scene before her of woods and mountains, reposing
in the moon-light, formed a regretted contrast with the state of her
mind; but the lonely murmur of these woods, and the view of this
sleeping landscape, gradually soothed her emotions and softened her
to tears.
She continued to weep, for some time, lost to every thing, but to a
gentle sense of her misfortunes. When she, at length, took the
handkerchief from her eyes, she perceived, before her, on the terrace
below, the figure she had formerly observed, which stood fixed and
silent, immediately opposite to her casement. On perceiving it, she
started back, and terror for some time overcame curiosity;--at
length, she returned to the casement, and still the figure was before
it, which she now compelled herself to observe, but was utterly
unable to speak, as she had formerly intended. The moon shone with a
clear light, and it was, perhaps, the agitation of her mind, that
prevented her distinguishing, with any degree of accuracy, the form
before her. It was still stationary, and she began to doubt, whether
it was really animated.
Her scattered thoughts were now so far returned as to remind her,
that her light exposed her to dangerous observation, and she was
stepping back to remove it, when she perceived the figure move, and
then wave what seemed to be its arm, as if to beckon her; and, while
she gazed, fixed in fear, it repeated the action. She now attempted
to speak, but the words died on her lips, and she went from the
casement to remove her light; as she was doing which, she heard, from
without, a faint groan. Listening, but not daring to return, she
presently heard it repeated.
'Good God!--what can this mean!' said she.
Again she listened, but the sound came no more; and, after a long
interval of silence, she recovered courage enough to go to the
casement, when she again saw the same appearance! It beckoned again,
and again uttered a low sound.
'That groan was surely human!' said she. 'I WILL speak.' 'Who is
it,' cried Emily in a faint voice, 'that wanders at this late hour?'
The figure raised its head but suddenly started away, and glided down
the terrace. She watched it, for a long while, passing swiftly in
the moon-light, but heard no footstep, till a sentinel from the other
extremity of the rampart walked slowly along. The man stopped under
her window, and, looking up, called her by name. She was retiring
precipitately, but, a second summons inducing her to reply, the
soldier then respectfully asked if she had seen any thing pass. On
her answering, that she had; he said no more, but walked away down
the terrace, Emily following him with her eyes, till he was lost in
the distance. But, as he was on guard, she knew he could not go
beyond the rampart, and, therefore, resolved to await his return.
Soon after, his voice was heard, at a distance, calling loudly; and
then a voice still more distant answered, and, in the next moment,
the watch-word was given, and passed along the terrace. As the
soldiers moved hastily under the casement, she called to enquire what
had happened, but they passed without regarding her.
Emily's thoughts returning to the figure she had seen, 'It cannot be
a person, who has designs upon the castle,' said she; 'such an one
would conduct himself very differently. He would not venture where
sentinels were on watch, nor fix himself opposite to a window, where
he perceived he must be observed; much less would he beckon, or utter
a sound of complaint. Yet it cannot be a prisoner, for how could he
obtain the opportunity to wander thus?'
If she had been subject to vanity, she might have supposed this
figure to be some inhabitant of the castle, who wandered under her
casement in the hope of seeing her, and of being allowed to declare
his admiration; but this opinion never occurred to Emily, and, if it
had, she would have dismissed it as improbable, on considering, that,
when the opportunity of speaking had occurred, it had been suffered
to pass in silence; and that, even at the moment in which she had
spoken, the form had abruptly quitted the place.
While she mused, two sentinels walked up the rampart in earnest
conversation, of which she caught a few words, and learned from
these, that one of their comrades had fallen down senseless. Soon
after, three other soldiers appeared slowly advancing from the bottom
of the terrace, but she heard only a low voice, that came at
intervals. As they drew near, she perceived this to be the voice of
him, who walked in the middle, apparently supported by his comrades;
and she again called to them, enquiring what had happened. At the
sound of her voice, they stopped, and looked up, while she repeated
her question, and was told, that Roberto, their fellow of the watch,
had been seized with a fit, and that his cry, as he fell, had caused
a false alarm.
'Is he subject to fits?' said Emily.
'Yes, Signora,' replied Roberto; 'but if I had not, what I saw was
enough to have frightened the Pope himself.'
'What was it?' enquired Emily, trembling.
'I cannot tell what it was, lady, or what I saw, or how it vanished,'
replied the soldier, who seemed to shudder at the recollection.
'Was it the person, whom you followed down the rampart, that has
occasioned you this alarm?' said Emily, endeavouring to conceal her
own.
'Person!' exclaimed the man,--'it was the devil, and this is not the
first time I have seen him!'
'Nor will it be the last,' observed one of his comrades, laughing.
'No, no, I warrant not,' said another.
'Well,' rejoined Roberto, 'you may be as merry now, as you please;
you was none so jocose the other night, Sebastian, when you was on
watch with Launcelot.'
"Launcelot need not talk of that,' replied Sebastian, 'let him
remember how he stood trembling, and unable to give the WORD, till
the man was gone, If the man had not come so silently upon us, I
would have seized him, and soon made him tell who he was.'
'What man?' enquired Emily.
'It was no man, lady,' said Launcelot, who stood by, 'but the devil
himself, as my comrade says. What man, who does not live in the
castle, could get within the walls at midnight? Why, I might just as
well pretend to march to Venice, and get among all the Senators, when
they are counselling; and I warrant I should have more chance of
getting out again alive, than any fellow, that we should catch within
the gates after dark. So I think I have proved plainly enough, that
this can be nobody that lives out of the castle; and now I will
prove, that it can be nobody that lives in the castle--for, if he
did--why should he be afraid to be seen? So after this, I hope
nobody will pretend to tell me it was anybody. No, I say again, by
holy Pope! it was the devil, and Sebastian, there, knows this is not
the first time we have seen him.'
'When did you see the figure, then, before?' said Emily half smiling,
who, though she thought the conversation somewhat too much, felt an
interest, which would not permit her to conclude it.
'About a week ago, lady,' said Sebastian, taking up the story.
'And where?'
'On the rampart, lady, higher up.'
'Did you pursue it, that it fled?'
'No, Signora. Launcelot and I were on watch together, and every
thing was so still, you might have heard a mouse stir, when,
suddenly, Launcelot says--Sebastian! do you see nothing? I turned my
head a little to the left, as it might be--thus. No, says I. Hush!
said Launcelot,--look yonder--just by the last cannon on the rampart!
I looked, and then thought I did see something move; but there being
no light, but what the stars gave, I could not be certain. We stood
quite silent, to watch it, and presently saw something pass along the
castle wall just opposite to us!'
'Why did you not seize it, then?' cried a soldier, who had scarcely
spoken till now.
'Aye, why did you not seize it?' said Roberto.
'You should have been there to have done that,' replied Sebastian.
'You would have been bold enough to have taken it by the throat,
though it had been the devil himself; we could not take such a
liberty, perhaps, because we are not so well acquainted with him, as
you are. But, as I was saying, it stole by us so quickly, that we
had not time to get rid of our surprise, before it was gone. Then,
we knew it was in vain to follow. We kept constant watch all that
night, but we saw it no more. Next morning, we told some of our
comrades, who were on duty on other parts of the ramparts, what we
had seen; but they had seen nothing, and laughed at us, and it was
not till to-night, that the same figure walked again.'
'Where did you lose it, friend?' said Emily to Roberto.
'When I left you, lady,' replied the man, 'you might see me go down
the rampart, but it was not till I reached the east terrace, that I
saw any thing. Then, the moon shining bright, I saw something like a
shadow flitting before me, as it were, at some distance. I stopped,
when I turned the corner of the east tower, where I had seen this
figure not a moment before,--but it was gone! As I stood, looking
through the old arch, which leads to the east rampart, and where I am
sure it had passed, I heard, all of a sudden, such a sound!--it was
not like a groan, or a cry, or a shout, or any thing I ever heard in
my life. I heard it only once, and that was enough for me; for I
know nothing that happened after, till I found my comrades, here,
about me.'
'Come,' said Sebastian, 'let us go to our posts--the moon is setting.
Good night, lady!'
'Aye, let us go,' rejoined Roberto. 'Good night, lady.'
'Good night; the holy mother guard you!' said Emily, as she closed
her casement and retired to reflect upon the strange circumstance
that had just occurred, connecting which with what had happened on
former nights, she endeavoured to derive from the whole something
more positive, than conjecture. But her imagination was inflamed,
while her judgment was not enlightened, and the terrors of
superstition again pervaded her mind.
CHAPTER IV
There is one within,
Besides the things, that we have heard and seen,
Recounts most horrid sights, seen by the watch.
JULIUS CAESAR
In the morning, Emily found Madame Montoni nearly in the same
condition, as on the preceding night; she had slept little, and that
little had not refreshed her; she smiled on her niece, and seemed
cheered by her presence, but spoke only a few words, and never named
Montoni, who, however, soon after, entered the room. His wife, when
she understood that he was there, appeared much agitated, but was
entirely silent, till Emily rose from a chair at the bed-side, when
she begged, in a feeble voice, that she would not leave her.
The visit of Montoni was not to sooth his wife, whom he knew to be
dying, or to console, or to ask her forgiveness, but to make a last
effort to procure that signature, which would transfer her estates in
Languedoc, after her death, to him rather than to Emily. This was a
scene, that exhibited, on his part, his usual inhumanity, and, on
that of Madame Montoni, a persevering spirit, contending with a
feeble frame; while Emily repeatedly declared to him her willingness
to resign all claim to those estates, rather than that the last hours
of her aunt should be disturbed by contention. Montoni, however, did
not leave the room, till his wife, exhausted by the obstinate
dispute, had fainted, and she lay so long insensible, that Emily
began to fear that the spark of life was extinguished. At length,
she revived, and, looking feebly up at her niece, whose tears were
falling over her, made an effort to speak, but her words were
unintelligible, and Emily again apprehended she was dying.
Afterwards, however, she recovered her speech, and, being somewhat
restored by a cordial, conversed for a considerable time, on the
subject of her estates in France, with clearness and precision. She
directed her niece where to find some papers relative to them, which
she had hitherto concealed from the search of Montoni, and earnestly
charged her never to suffer these papers to escape her.
Soon after this conversation, Madame Montoni sunk into a dose, and
continued slumbering, till evening, when she seemed better than she
had been since her removal from the turret. Emily never left her,
for a moment, till long after midnight, and even then would not have
quitted the room, had not her aunt entreated, that she would retire
to rest. She then obeyed, the more willingly, because her patient
appeared somewhat recruited by sleep; and, giving Annette the same
injunction, as on the preceding night, she withdrew to her own
apartment. But her spirits were wakeful and agitated, and, finding
it impossible to sleep, she determined to watch, once more, for the
mysterious appearance, that had so much interested and alarmed her.
It was now the second watch of the night, and about the time when the
figure had before appeared. Emily heard the passing steps of the
sentinels, on the rampart, as they changed guard; and, when all was
again silent, she took her station at the casement, leaving her lamp
in a remote part of the chamber, that she might escape notice from
without. The moon gave a faint and uncertain light, for heavy
vapours surrounded it, and, often rolling over the disk, left the
scene below in total darkness. It was in one of these moments of
obscurity, that she observed a small and lambent flame, moving at
some distance on the terrace. While she gazed, it disappeared, and,
the moon again emerging from the lurid and heavy thunder clouds, she
turned her attention to the heavens, where the vivid lightnings
darted from cloud to cloud, and flashed silently on the woods below.
She loved to catch, in the momentary gleam, the gloomy landscape.
Sometimes, a cloud opened its light upon a distant mountain, and,
while the sudden splendour illumined all its recesses of rock and
wood, the rest of the scene remained in deep shadow; at others,
partial features of the castle were revealed by the glimpse--the
antient arch leading to the east rampart, the turret above, or the
fortifications beyond; and then, perhaps, the whole edifice with all
its towers, its dark massy walls and pointed casements would appear,
and vanish in an instant.
Emily, looking again upon the rampart, perceived the flame she had
seen before; it moved onward; and, soon after, she thought she heard
a footstep. The light appeared and disappeared frequently, while, as
she watched, it glided under her casements, and, at the same instant,
she was certain, that a footstep passed, but the darkness did not
permit her to distinguish any object except the flame. It moved
away, and then, by a gleam of lightning, she perceived some person on
the terrace. All the anxieties of the preceding night returned.
This person advanced, and the playing flame alternately appeared and
vanished. Emily wished to speak, to end her doubts, whether this
figure were human or supernatural; but her courage failed as often as
she attempted utterance, till the light moved again under the
casement, and she faintly demanded, who passed.
'A friend,' replied a voice.
'What friend?' said Emily, somewhat encouraged 'who are you, and what
is that light you carry?'
'I am Anthonio, one of the Signor's soldiers,' replied the voice.
'And what is that tapering light you bear?' said Emily, 'see how it
darts upwards,--and now it vanishes!'
'This light, lady,' said the soldier, 'has appeared to-night as you
see it, on the point of my lance, ever since I have been on watch;
but what it means I cannot tell.'
'This is very strange!' said Emily.
'My fellow-guard,' continued the man, 'has the same flame on his
arms; he says he has sometimes seen it before. I never did; I am but
lately come to the castle, for I have not been long a soldier.'
'How does your comrade account for it?' said Emily.
'He says it is an omen, lady, and bodes no good.'
'And what harm can it bode?' rejoined Emily.
'He knows not so much as that, lady.'
Whether Emily was alarmed by this omen, or not, she certainly was
relieved from much terror by discovering this man to be only a
soldier on duty, and it immediately occurred to her, that it might be
he, who had occasioned so much alarm on the preceding night. There
were, however, some circumstances, that still required explanation.
As far as she could judge by the faint moon-light, that had assisted
her observation, the figure she had seen did not resemble this man
either in shape or size; besides, she was certain it had carried no
arms. The silence of its steps, if steps it had, the moaning sounds,
too, which it had uttered, and its strange disappearance, were
circumstances of mysterious import, that did not apply, with
probability, to a soldier engaged in the duty of his guard.
She now enquired of the sentinel, whether he had seen any person
besides his fellow watch, walking on the terrace, about midnight; and
then briefly related what she had herself observed.
'I was not on guard that night, lady,' replied the man, 'but I heard
of what happened. There are amongst us, who believe strange things.
Strange stories, too, have long been told of this castle, but it is
no business of mine to repeat them; and, for my part, I have no
reason to complain; our Chief does nobly by us.'
'I commend your prudence,' said Emily. 'Good night, and accept this
from me,' she added, throwing him a small piece of coin, and then
closing the casement to put an end to the discourse.
When he was gone, she opened it again, listened with a gloomy
pleasure to the distant thunder, that began to murmur among the
mountains, and watched the arrowy lightnings, which broke over the
remoter scene. The pealing thunder rolled onward, and then, reverbed
by the mountains, other thunder seemed to answer from the opposite
horizon; while the accumulating clouds, entirely concealing the moon,
assumed a red sulphureous tinge, that foretold a violent storm.
Emily remained at her casement, till the vivid lightning, that now,
every instant, revealed the wide horizon and the landscape below,
made it no longer safe to do so, and she went to her couch; but,
unable to compose her mind to sleep, still listened in silent awe to
the tremendous sounds, that seemed to shake the castle to its
foundation.
She had continued thus for a considerable time, when, amidst the
uproar of the storm, she thought she heard a voice, and, raising
herself to listen, saw the chamber door open, and Annette enter with
a countenance of wild affright.
'She is dying, ma'amselle, my lady is dying!' said she.
Emily started up, and ran to Madame Montoni's room. When she
entered, her aunt appeared to have fainted, for she was quite still,
and insensible; and Emily with a strength of mind, that refused to
yield to grief, while any duty required her activity, applied every
means that seemed likely to restore her. But the last struggle was
over--she was gone for ever.
When Emily perceived, that all her efforts were ineffectual, she
interrogated the terrified Annette, and learned, that Madame Montoni
had fallen into a doze soon after Emily's departure, in which she had
continued, until a few minutes before her death.
'I wondered, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'what was the reason my lady
did not seem frightened at the thunder, when I was so terrified, and
I went often to the bed to speak to her, but she appeared to be
asleep; till presently I heard a strange noise, and, on going to her,
saw she was dying.'
Emily, at this recital, shed tears. She had no doubt but that the
violent change in the air, which the tempest produced, had effected
this fatal one, on the exhausted frame of Madame Montoni.
After some deliberation, she determined that Montoni should not be
informed of this event till the morning, for she considered, that he
might, perhaps, utter some inhuman expressions, such as in the
present temper of her spirits she could not bear. With Annette
alone, therefore, whom she encouraged by her own example, she
performed some of the last solemn offices for the dead, and compelled
herself to watch during the night, by the body of her deceased aunt.
During this solemn period, rendered more awful by the tremendous
storm that shook the air, she frequently addressed herself to Heaven
for support and protection, and her pious prayers, we may believe,
were accepted of the God, that giveth comfort.
CHAPTER V
The midnight clock has toll'd; and hark, the bell
Of Death beats slow! heard ye the note profound?
It pauses now; and now, with rising knell,
Flings to the hollow gale its sullen sound.
MASON
When Montoni was informed of the death of his wife, and considered
that she had died without giving him the signature so necessary to
the accomplishment of his wishes, no sense of decency restrained the
expression of his resentment. Emily anxiously avoided his presence,
and watched, during two days and two nights, with little
intermission, by the corpse of her late aunt. Her mind deeply
impressed with the unhappy fate of this object, she forgot all her
faults, her unjust and imperious conduct to herself; and, remembering
only her sufferings, thought of her only with tender compassion.
Sometimes, however, she could not avoid musing upon the strange
infatuation that had proved so fatal to her aunt, and had involved
herself in a labyrinth of misfortune, from which she saw no means of
escaping,--the marriage with Montoni. But, when she considered this
circumstance, it was 'more in sorrow than in anger,'--more for the
purpose of indulging lamentation, than reproach.
In her pious cares she was not disturbed by Montoni, who not only
avoided the chamber, where the remains of his wife were laid, but
that part of the castle adjoining to it, as if he had apprehended a
contagion in death. He seemed to have given no orders respecting the
funeral, and Emily began to fear he meant to offer a new insult to
the memory of Madame Montoni; but from this apprehension she was
relieved, when, on the evening of the second day, Annette informed
her, that the interment was to take place that night. She knew, that
Montoni would not attend; and it was so very grievous to her to think
that the remains of her unfortunate aunt would pass to the grave
without one relative, or friend to pay them the last decent rites,
that she determined to be deterred by no considerations for herself,
from observing this duty. She would otherwise have shrunk from the
circumstance of following them to the cold vault, to which they were
to be carried by men, whose air and countenances seemed to stamp them
for murderers, at the midnight hour of silence and privacy, which
Montoni had chosen for committing, if possible, to oblivion the
reliques of a woman, whom his harsh conduct had, at least,
contributed to destroy.
Emily, shuddering with emotions of horror and grief, assisted by
Annette, prepared the corpse for interment; and, having wrapt it in
cerements, and covered it with a winding-sheet, they watched beside
it, till past midnight, when they heard the approaching footsteps of
the men, who were to lay it in its earthy bed. It was with
difficulty, that Emily overcame her emotion, when, the door of the
chamber being thrown open, their gloomy countenances were seen by the
glare of the torch they carried, and two of them, without speaking,
lifted the body on their shoulders, while the third preceding them
with the light, descended through the castle towards the grave, which
was in the lower vault of the chapel within the castle walls.
They had to cross two courts, towards the east wing of the castle,
which, adjoining the chapel, was, like it, in ruins: but the silence
and gloom of these courts had now little power over Emily's mind,
occupied as it was, with more mournful ideas; and she scarcely heard
the low and dismal hooting of the night-birds, that roosted among the
ivyed battlements of the ruin, or perceived the still flittings of
the bat, which frequently crossed her way. But, when, having entered
the chapel, and passed between the mouldering pillars of the aisles,
the bearers stopped at a flight of steps, that led down to a low
arched door, and, their comrade having descended to unlock it, she
saw imperfectly the gloomy abyss beyond;--saw the corpse of her aunt
carried down these steps, and the ruffian-like figure, that stood
with a torch at the bottom to receive it--all her fortitude was lost
in emotions of inexpressible grief and terror. She turned to lean
upon Annette, who was cold and trembling like herself, and she
lingered so long on the summit of the flight, that the gleam of the
torch began to die away on the pillars of the chapel, and the men
were almost beyond her view. Then, the gloom around her awakening
other fears, and a sense of what she considered to be her duty
overcoming her reluctance, she descended to the vaults, following the
echo of footsteps and the faint ray, that pierced the darkness, till
the harsh grating of a distant door, that was opened to receive the
corpse, again appalled her.
After the pause of a moment, she went on, and, as she entered the
vaults, saw between the arches, at some distance, the men lay down
the body near the edge of an open grave, where stood another of
Montoni's men and a priest, whom she did not observe, till he began
the burial service; then, lifting her eyes from the ground, she saw
the venerable figure of the friar, and heard him in a low voice,
equally solemn and affecting, perform the service for the dead. At
the moment, in which they let down the body into the earth, the scene
was such as only the dark pencil of a Domenichino, perhaps, could
have done justice to. The fierce features and wild dress of the
condottieri, bending with their torches over the grave, into which
the corpse was descending, were contrasted by the venerable figure of
the monk, wrapt in long black garments, his cowl thrown back from his
pale face, on which the light gleaming strongly shewed the lines of
affliction softened by piety, and the few grey locks, which time had
spared on his temples: while, beside him, stood the softer form of
Emily, who leaned for support upon Annette; her face half averted,
and shaded by a thin veil, that fell over her figure; and her mild
and beautiful countenance fixed in grief so solemn as admitted not of
tears, while she thus saw committed untimely to the earth her last
relative and friend. The gleams, thrown between the arches of the
vaults, where, here and there, the broken ground marked the spots in
which other bodies had been recently interred, and the general
obscurity beyond were circumstances, that alone would have led on the
imagination of a spectator to scenes more horrible, than even that,
which was pictured at the grave of the misguided and unfortunate
Madame Montoni.
When the service was over, the friar regarded Emily with attention
and surprise, and looked as if he wished to speak to her, but was
restrained by the presence of the condottieri, who, as they now led
the way to the courts, amused themselves with jokes upon his holy
order, which he endured in silence, demanding only to be conducted
safely to his convent, and to which Emily listened with concern and
even horror. When they reached the court, the monk gave her his
blessing, and, after a lingering look of pity, turned away to the
portal, whither one of the men carried a torch; while Annette,
lighting another, preceded Emily to her apartment. The appearance of
the friar and the expression of tender compassion, with which he had
regarded her, had interested Emily, who, though it was at her earnest
supplication, that Montoni had consented to allow a priest to perform
the last rites for his deceased wife, knew nothing concerning this
person, till Annette now informed her, that he belonged to a
monastery, situated among the mountains at a few miles distance. The
Superior, who regarded Montoni and his associates, not only with
aversion, but with terror, had probably feared to offend him by
refusing his request, and had, therefore, ordered a monk to officiate
at the funeral, who, with the meek spirit of a christian, had
overcome his reluctance to enter the walls of such a castle, by the
wish of performing what he considered to be his duty, and, as the
chapel was built on consecrated ground, had not objected to commit to
it the remains of the late unhappy Madame Montoni.
Several days passed with Emily in total seclusion, and in a state of
mind partaking both of terror for herself, and grief for the
departed. She, at length, determined to make other efforts to
persuade Montoni to permit her return to France. Why he should wish
to detain her, she could scarcely dare to conjecture; but it was too
certain that he did so, and the absolute refusal he had formerly
given to her departure allowed her little hope, that he would now
consent to it. But the horror, which his presence inspired, made her
defer, from day to day, the mention of this subject; and at last she
was awakened from her inactivity only by a message from him, desiring
her attendance at a certain hour. She began to hope he meant to
resign, now that her aunt was no more, the authority he had usurped
over her; till she recollected, that the estates, which had
occasioned so much contention, were now hers, and she then feared
Montoni was about to employ some stratagem for obtaining them, and
that he would detain her his prisoner, till he succeeded. This
thought, instead of overcoming her with despondency, roused all the
latent powers of her fortitude into action; and the property, which
she would willingly have resigned to secure the peace of her aunt,
she resolved, that no common sufferings of her own should ever compel
her to give to Montoni. For Valancourt's sake also she determined to
preserve these estates, since they would afford that competency, by
which she hoped to secure the comfort of their future lives. As she
thought of this, she indulged the tenderness of tears, and
anticipated the delight of that moment, when, with affectionate
generosity, she might tell him they were his own. She saw the smile,
that lighted up his features--the affectionate regard, which spoke at
once his joy and thanks; and, at this instant, she believed she could
brave any suffering, which the evil spirit of Montoni might be
preparing for her. Remembering then, for the first time since her
aunt's death, the papers relative to the estates in question, she
determined to search for them, as soon as her interview with Montoni
was over.
With these resolutions she met him at the appointed time, and waited
to hear his intention before she renewed her request. With him were
Orsino and another officer, and both were standing near a table,
covered with papers, which he appeared to be examining.
'I sent for you, Emily,' said Montoni, raising his head, 'that you
might be a witness in some business, which I am transacting with my
friend Orsino. All that is required of you will be to sign your name
to this paper:' he then took one up, hurried unintelligibly over some
lines, and, laying it before her on the table, offered her a pen.
She took it, and was going to write--when the design of Montoni came
upon her mind like a flash of lightning; she trembled, let the pen
fall, and refused to sign what she had not read. Montoni affected to
laugh at her scruples, and, taking up the paper, again pretended to
read; but Emily, who still trembled on perceiving her danger, and was
astonished, that her own credulity had so nearly betrayed her,
positively refused to sign any paper whatever. Montoni, for some
time, persevered in affecting to ridicule this refusal; but, when he
perceived by her steady perseverance, that she understood his design,
he changed his manner, and bade her follow him to another room.
There he told her, that he had been willing to spare himself and her
the trouble of useless contest, in an affair, where his will was
justice, and where she should find it law; and had, therefore,
endeavoured to persuade, rather than to compel, her to the practice
of her duty.
'I, as the husband of the late Signora Montoni,' he added, 'am the
heir of all she possessed; the estates, therefore, which she refused
to me in her life-time, can no longer be withheld, and, for your own
sake, I would undeceive you, respecting a foolish assertion she once
made to you in my hearing--that these estates would be yours, if she
died without resigning them to me. She knew at that moment, she had
no power to withhold them from me, after her decease; and I think you
have more sense, than to provoke my resentment by advancing an unjust
claim. I am not in the habit of flattering, and you will, therefore,
receive, as sincere, the praise I bestow, when I say, that you
possess an understanding superior to that of your sex; and that you
have none of those contemptible foibles, that frequently mark the
female character--such as avarice and the love of power, which latter
makes women delight to contradict and to tease, when they cannot
conquer. If I understand your disposition and your mind, you hold in
sovereign contempt these common failings of your sex.'
Montoni paused; and Emily remained silent and expecting; for she knew
him too well, to believe he would condescend to such flattery, unless
he thought it would promote his own interest; and, though he had
forborne to name vanity among the foibles of women, it was evident,
that he considered it to be a predominant one, since he designed to
sacrifice to hers the character and understanding of her whole sex.
'Judging as I do,' resumed Montoni, 'I cannot believe you will
oppose, where you know you cannot conquer, or, indeed, that you would
wish to conquer, or be avaricious of any property, when you have not
justice on your side. I think it proper, however, to acquaint you
with the alternative. If you have a just opinion of the subject in
question, you shall be allowed a safe conveyance to France, within a
short period; but, if you are so unhappy as to be misled by the late
assertion of the Signora, you shall remain my prisoner, till you are
convinced of your error.'
Emily calmly said,
'I am not so ignorant, Signor, of the laws on this subject, as to be
misled by the assertion of any person. The law, in the present
instance, gives me the estates in question, and my own hand shall
never betray my right.'
'I have been mistaken in my opinion of you, it appears,' rejoined
Montoni, sternly. 'You speak boldly, and presumptuously, upon a
subject, which you do not understand. For once, I am willing to
pardon the conceit of ignorance; the weakness of your sex, too, from
which, it seems, you are not exempt, claims some allowance; but, if
you persist in this strain--you have every thing to fear from my
justice.'
'From your justice, Signor,' rejoined Emily, 'I have nothing to fear-
-I have only to hope.'
Montoni looked at her with vexation, and seemed considering what to
say. 'I find that you are weak enough,' he resumed, 'to credit the
idle assertion I alluded to! For your own sake I lament this; as to
me, it is of little consequence. Your credulity can punish only
yourself; and I must pity the weakness of mind, which leads you to so
much suffering as you are compelling me to prepare for you.'
'You may find, perhaps, Signor,' said Emily, with mild dignity, 'that
the strength of my mind is equal to the justice of my cause; and that
I can endure with fortitude, when it is in resistance of oppression.'
'You speak like a heroine,' said Montoni, contemptuously; 'we shall
see whether you can suffer like one.'
Emily was silent, and he left the room.
Recollecting, that it was for Valancourt's sake she had thus
resisted, she now smiled complacently upon the threatened sufferings,
and retired to the spot, which her aunt had pointed out as the
repository of the papers, relative to the estates, where she found
them as described; and, since she knew of no better place of
concealment, than this, returned them, without examining their
contents, being fearful of discovery, while she should attempt a
perusal.
To her own solitary chamber she once more returned, and there thought
again of the late conversation with Montoni, and of the evil she
might expect from opposition to his will. But his power did not
appear so terrible to her imagination, as it was wont to do: a
sacred pride was in her heart, that taught it to swell against the
pressure of injustice, and almost to glory in the quiet sufferance of
ills, in a cause, which had also the interest of Valancourt for its
object. For the first time, she felt the full extent of her own
superiority to Montoni, and despised the authority, which, till now,
she had only feared.
As she sat musing, a peal of laughter rose from the terrace, and, on
going to the casement, she saw, with inexpressible surprise, three
ladies, dressed in the gala habit of Venice, walking with several
gentlemen below. She gazed in an astonishment that made her remain
at the window, regardless of being observed, till the group passed
under it; and, one of the strangers looking up, she perceived the
features of Signora Livona, with whose manners she had been so much
charmed, the day after her arrival at Venice, and who had been there
introduced at the table of Montoni. This discovery occasioned her an
emotion of doubtful joy; for it was matter of joy and comfort to
know, that a person, of a mind so gentle, as that of Signora Livona
seemed to be, was near her; yet there was something so extraordinary
in her being at this castle, circumstanced as it now was, and
evidently, by the gaiety of her air, with her own consent, that a
very painful surmise arose, concerning her character. But the
thought was so shocking to Emily, whose affection the fascinating
manners of the Signora had won, and appeared so improbable, when she
remembered these manners, that she dismissed it almost instantly.
On Annette's appearance, however, she enquired, concerning these
strangers; and the former was as eager to tell, as Emily was to
learn.
'They are just come, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'with two Signors
from Venice, and I was glad to see such Christian faces once again.--
But what can they mean by coming here? They must surely be stark mad
to come freely to such a place as this! Yet they do come freely, for
they seem merry enough, I am sure.'
'They were taken prisoners, perhaps?' said Emily.
'Taken prisoners!' exclaimed Annette; 'no, indeed, ma'amselle, not
they. I remember one of them very well at Venice: she came two or
three times, to the Signor's you know, ma'amselle, and it was said,
but I did not believe a word of it--it was said, that the Signor
liked her better than he should do. Then why, says I, bring her to
my lady? Very true, said Ludovico; but he looked as if he knew more,
too.'
Emily desired Annette would endeavour to learn who these ladies were,
as well as all she could concerning them; and she then changed the
subject, and spoke of distant France.
'Ah, ma'amselle! we shall never see it more!' said Annette, almost
weeping.--'I must come on my travels, forsooth!'
Emily tried to sooth and to cheer her, with a hope, in which she
scarcely herself indulged.
'How--how, ma'amselle, could you leave France, and leave Mons.
Valancourt, too?' said Annette, sobbing. 'I--I--am sure, if Ludovico
had been in France, I would never have left it.'
'Why do you lament quitting France, then?' said Emily, trying to
smile, 'since, if you had remained there, you would not have found
Ludovico.'
'Ah, ma'amselle! I only wish I was out of this frightful castle,
serving you in France, and I would care about nothing else!'
'Thank you, my good Annette, for your affectionate regard; the time
will come, I hope, when you may remember the expression of that wish
with pleasure.'
Annette departed on her business, and Emily sought to lose the sense
of her own cares, in the visionary scenes of the poet; but she had
again to lament the irresistible force of circumstances over the
taste and powers of the mind; and that it requires a spirit at ease
to be sensible even to the abstract pleasures of pure intellect. The
enthusiasm of genius, with all its pictured scenes, now appeared
cold, and dim. As she mused upon the book before her, she
involuntarily exclaimed, 'Are these, indeed, the passages, that have
so often given me exquisite delight? Where did the charm exist?--Was
it in my mind, or in the imagination of the poet? It lived in each,'
said she, pausing. 'But the fire of the poet is vain, if the mind of
his reader is not tempered like his own, however it may be inferior
to his in power.'
Emily would have pursued this train of thinking, because it relieved
her from more painful reflection, but she found again, that thought
cannot always be controlled by will; and hers returned to the
consideration of her own situation.
In the evening, not choosing to venture down to the ramparts, where
she would be exposed to the rude gaze of Montoni's associates, she
walked for air in the gallery, adjoining her chamber; on reaching the
further end of which she heard distant sounds of merriment and
laughter. It was the wild uproar of riot, not the cheering gaiety of
tempered mirth; and seemed to come from that part of the castle,
where Montoni usually was. Such sounds, at this time, when her aunt
had been so few days dead, particularly shocked her, consistent as
they were with the late conduct of Montoni.
As she listened, she thought she distinguished female voices mingling
with the laughter, and this confirmed her worst surmise, concerning
the character of Signora Livona and her companions. It was evident,
that they had not been brought hither by compulsion; and she beheld
herself in the remote wilds of the Apennine, surrounded by men, whom
she considered to be little less than ruffians, and their worst
associates, amid scenes of vice, from which her soul recoiled in
horror. It was at this moment, when the scenes of the present and
the future opened to her imagination, that the image of Valancourt
failed in its influence, and her resolution shook with dread. She
thought she understood all the horrors, which Montoni was preparing
for her, and shrunk from an encounter with such remorseless
vengeance, as he could inflict. The disputed estates she now almost
determined to yield at once, whenever he should again call upon her,
that she might regain safety and freedom; but then, the remembrance
of Valancourt would steal to her heart, and plunge her into the
distractions of doubt.
She continued walking in the gallery, till evening threw its
melancholy twilight through the painted casements, and deepened the
gloom of the oak wainscoting around her; while the distant
perspective of the corridor was so much obscured, as to be
discernible only by the glimmering window, that terminated it.
Along the vaulted halls and passages below, peals of laughter echoed
faintly, at intervals, to this remote part of the castle, and seemed
to render the succeeding stillness more dreary. Emily, however,
unwilling to return to her more forlorn chamber, whither Annette was
not yet come, still paced the gallery. As she passed the door of the
apartment, where she had once dared to lift the veil, which
discovered to her a spectacle so horrible, that she had never after
remembered it, but with emotions of indescribable awe, this
remembrance suddenly recurred. It now brought with it reflections
more terrible, than it had yet done, which the late conduct of
Montoni occasioned; and, hastening to quit the gallery, while she had
power to do so, she heard a sudden step behind her.--It might be that
of Annette; but, turning fearfully to look, she saw, through the
gloom, a tall figure following her, and all the horrors of that
chamber rushed upon her mind. In the next moment, she found herself
clasped in the arms of some person, and heard a deep voice murmur in
her ear.
When she had power to speak, or to distinguish articulated sounds,
she demanded who detained her.
'It is I,' replied the voice--'Why are you thus alarmed?'
She looked on the face of the person who spoke, but the feeble light,
that gleamed through the high casement at the end of the gallery, did
not permit her to distinguish the features.
'Whoever you are,' said Emily, in a trembling voice, 'for heaven's
sake let me go!'
'My charming Emily,' said the man, 'why will you shut yourself up in
this obscure place, when there is so much gaiety below? Return with
me to the cedar parlour, where you will be the fairest ornament of
the party;--you shall not repent the exchange.'
Emily disdained to reply, and still endeavoured to liberate herself.
'Promise, that you will come,' he continued, 'and I will release you
immediately; but first give me a reward for so doing.'
'Who are you?' demanded Emily, in a tone of mingled terror and
indignation, while she still struggled for liberty--'who are you,
that have the cruelty thus to insult me?'
'Why call me cruel?' said the man, 'I would remove you from this
dreary solitude to a merry party below. Do you not know me?'
Emily now faintly remembered, that he was one of the officers who
were with Montoni when she attended him in the morning. 'I thank you
for the kindness of your intention,' she replied, without appearing
to understand him, 'but I wish for nothing so much as that you would
leave me.'
'Charming Emily!' said he, 'give up this foolish whim for solitude,
and come with me to the company, and eclipse the beauties who make
part of it; you, only, are worthy of my love.' He attempted to kiss
her hand, but the strong impulse of her indignation gave her power to
liberate herself, and she fled towards the chamber. She closed the
door, before he reached it, having secured which, she sunk in a
chair, overcome by terror and by the exertion she had made, while she
heard his voice, and his attempts to open the door, without having
the power to raise herself. At length, she perceived him depart, and
had remained, listening, for a considerable time, and was somewhat
revived by not hearing any sound, when suddenly she remembered the
door of the private stair-case, and that he might enter that way,
since it was fastened only on the other side. She then employed
herself in endeavouring to secure it, in the manner she had formerly
done. It appeared to her, that Montoni had already commenced his
scheme of vengeance, by withdrawing from her his protection, and she
repented of the rashness, that had made her brave the power of such a
man. To retain the estates seemed to be now utterly impossible, and
to preserve her life, perhaps her honour, she resolved, if she should
escape the horrors of this night, to give up all claims to the
estates, on the morrow, provided Montoni would suffer her to depart
from Udolpho.
When she had come to this decision, her mind became more composed,
though she still anxiously listened, and often started at ideal
sounds, that appeared to issue from the stair-case.
Having sat in darkness for some hours, during all which time Annette
did not appear, she began to have serious apprehensions for her; but,
not daring to venture down into the castle, was compelled to remain
in uncertainty, as to the cause of this unusual absence.
Emily often stole to the stair-case door, to listen if any step
approached, but still no sound alarmed her: determining, however, to
watch, during the night, she once more rested on her dark and
desolate couch, and bathed the pillow with innocent tears. She
thought of her deceased parents and then of the absent Valancourt,
and frequently called upon their names; for the profound stillness,
that now reigned, was propitious to the musing sorrow of her mind.
While she thus remained, her ear suddenly caught the notes of distant
music, to which she listened attentively, and, soon perceiving this
to be the instrument she had formerly heard at midnight, she rose,
and stepped softly to the casement, to which the sounds appeared to
come from a lower room.
In a few moments, their soft melody was accompanied by a voice so
full of pathos, that it evidently sang not of imaginary sorrows. Its
sweet and peculiar tones she thought she had somewhere heard before;
yet, if this was not fancy, it was, at most, a very faint
recollection. It stole over her mind, amidst the anguish of her
present suffering, like a celestial strain, soothing, and re-assuring
her;--'Pleasant as the gale of spring, that sighs on the hunter's
ear, when he awakens from dreams of joy, and has heard the music of
the spirits of the hill.'*
(*Ossian. [A. R.])
But her emotion can scarcely be imagined, when she heard sung, with
the taste and simplicity of true feeling, one of the popular airs of
her native province, to which she had so often listened with delight,
when a child, and which she had so often heard her father repeat! To
this well-known song, never, till now, heard but in her native
country, her heart melted, while the memory of past times returned.
The pleasant, peaceful scenes of Gascony, the tenderness and goodness
of her parents, the taste and simplicity of her former life--all rose
to her fancy, and formed a picture, so sweet and glowing, so
strikingly contrasted with the scenes, the characters and the
dangers, which now surrounded her--that her mind could not bear to
pause upon the retrospect, and shrunk at the acuteness of its own
sufferings.
Her sighs were deep and convulsed; she could no longer listen to the
strain, that had so often charmed her to tranquillity, and she
withdrew from the casement to a remote part of the chamber. But she
was not yet beyond the reach of the music; she heard the measure
change, and the succeeding air called her again to the window, for
she immediately recollected it to be the same she had formerly heard
in the fishing-house in Gascony. Assisted, perhaps, by the mystery,
which had then accompanied this strain, it had made so deep an
impression on her memory, that she had never since entirely forgotten
it; and the manner, in which it was now sung, convinced her, however
unaccountable the circumstances appeared, that this was the same
voice she had then heard. Surprise soon yielded to other emotions; a
thought darted, like lightning, upon her mind, which discovered a
train of hopes, that revived all her spirits. Yet these hopes were
so new, so unexpected, so astonishing, that she did not dare to
trust, though she could not resolve to discourage them. She sat down
by the casement, breathless, and overcome with the alternate emotions
of hope and fear; then rose again, leaned from the window, that she
might catch a nearer sound, listened, now doubting and then
believing, softly exclaimed the name of Valancourt, and then sunk
again into the chair. Yes, it was possible, that Valancourt was near
her, and she recollected circumstances, which induced her to believe
it was his voice she had just heard. She remembered he had more than
once said that the fishing-house, where she had formerly listened to
this voice and air, and where she had seen pencilled sonnets,
addressed to herself, had been his favourite haunt, before he had
been made known to her; there, too, she had herself unexpectedly met
him. It appeared, from these circumstances, more than probable, that
he was the musician, who had formerly charmed her attention, and the
author of the lines, which had expressed such tender admiration;--who
else, indeed, could it be? She was unable, at that time, to form a
conjecture, as to the writer, but, since her acquaintance with
Valancourt, whenever he had mentioned the fishing-house to have been
known to him, she had not scrupled to believe that he was the author
of the sonnets.
As these considerations passed over her mind, joy, fear and
tenderness contended at her heart; she leaned again from the casement
to catch the sounds, which might confirm, or destroy her hope, though
she did not recollect to have ever heard him sing; but the voice, and
the instrument, now ceased.
She considered for a moment whether she should venture to speak:
then, not choosing, lest it should be he, to mention his name, and
yet too much interested to neglect the opportunity of enquiring, she
called from the casement, 'Is that song from Gascony?' Her anxious
attention was not cheered by any reply; every thing remained silent.
Her impatience increasing with her fears, she repeated the question;
but still no sound was heard, except the sighings of the wind among
the battlements above; and she endeavoured to console herself with a
belief, that the stranger, whoever he was, had retired, before she
had spoken, beyond the reach of her voice, which, it appeared
certain, had Valancourt heard and recognized, he would instantly have
replied to. Presently, however, she considered, that a motive of
prudence, and not an accidental removal, might occasion his silence;
but the surmise, that led to this reflection, suddenly changed her
hope and joy to terror and grief; for, if Valancourt were in the
castle, it was too probable, that he was here a prisoner, taken with
some of his countrymen, many of whom were at that time engaged in the
wars of Italy, or intercepted in some attempt to reach her. Had he
even recollected Emily's voice, he would have feared, in these
circumstances, to reply to it, in the presence of the men, who
guarded his prison.
What so lately she had eagerly hoped she now believed she dreaded;--
dreaded to know, that Valancourt was near her; and, while she was
anxious to be relieved from her apprehension for his safety, she
still was unconscious, that a hope of soon seeing him, struggled with
the fear.
She remained listening at the casement, till the air began to
freshen, and one high mountain in the east to glimmer with the
morning; when, wearied with anxiety, she retired to her couch, where
she found it utterly impossible to sleep, for joy, tenderness, doubt
and apprehension, distracted her during the whole night. Now she
rose from the couch, and opened the casement to listen; then she
would pace the room with impatient steps, and, at length, return with
despondence to her pillow. Never did hours appear to move so
heavily, as those of this anxious night; after which she hoped that
Annette might appear, and conclude her present state of torturing
suspense.
CHAPTER VI
might we but hear
The folded flocks penn'd in their watled cotes,
Or sound of pastoral reed with oaten stops,
Or whistle from the lodge, or village cock
Count the night watches to his feathery dames,
'Twould be some solace yet, some little cheering
In this close dungeon of innumerous boughs.
MILTON
In the morning, Emily was relieved from her fears for Annette, who
came at an early hour.
'Here were fine doings in the castle, last night, ma'amselle,' said
she, as soon as she entered the room,--'fine doings, indeed! Was you
not frightened, ma'amselle, at not seeing me?'
'I was alarmed both on your account and on my own,' replied Emily--
'What detained you?'
'Aye, I said so, I told him so; but it would not do. It was not my
fault, indeed, ma'amselle, for I could not get out. That rogue
Ludovico locked me up again.'
'Locked you up!' said Emily, with displeasure, 'Why do you permit
Ludovico to lock you up?'
'Holy Saints!' exclaimed Annette, 'how can I help it! If he will
lock the door, ma'amselle, and take away the key, how am I to get
out, unless I jump through the window? But that I should not mind so
much, if the casements here were not all so high; one can hardly
scramble up to them on the inside, and one should break one's neck, I
suppose, going down on the outside. But you know, I dare say, ma'am,
what a hurly-burly the castle was in, last night; you must have heard
some of the uproar.'
'What, were they disputing, then?' said Emily.
'No, ma'amselle, nor fighting, but almost as good, for I believe
there was not one of the Signors sober; and what is more, not one of
those fine ladies sober, either. I thought, when I saw them first,
that all those fine silks and fine veils,--why, ma'amselle, their
veils were worked with silver! and fine trimmings--boded no good--I
guessed what they were!'
'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, 'what will become of me!'
'Aye, ma'am, Ludovico said much the same thing of me. Good God! said
he, Annette, what is to become of you, if you are to go running about
the castle among all these drunken Signors?'
'O! says I, for that matter, I only want to go to my young lady's
chamber, and I have only to go, you know, along the vaulted passage
and across the great hall and up the marble stair-case and along the
north gallery and through the west wing of the castle and I am in the
corridor in a minute.' 'Are you so? says he, and what is to become
of you, if you meet any of those noble cavaliers in the way?' 'Well,
says I, if you think there is danger, then, go with me, and guard me;
I am never afraid when you are by.' 'What! says he, when I am
scarcely recovered of one wound, shall I put myself in the way of
getting another? for if any of the cavaliers meet you, they will fall
a-fighting with me directly. No, no, says he, I will cut the way
shorter, than through the vaulted passage and up the marble stair-
case, and along the north gallery and through the west wing of the
castle, for you shall stay here, Annette; you shall not go out of
this room, to-night.' 'So, with that I says'--
'Well, well,' said Emily, impatiently, and anxious to enquire on
another subject,--'so he locked you up?'
'Yes, he did indeed, ma'amselle, notwithstanding all I could say to
the contrary; and Caterina and I and he staid there all night. And
in a few minutes after I was not so vexed, for there came Signor
Verezzi roaring along the passage, like a mad bull, and he mistook
Ludovico's hall, for old Carlo's; so he tried to burst open the door,
and called out for more wine, for that he had drunk all the flasks
dry, and was dying of thirst. So we were all as still as night, that
he might suppose there was nobody in the room; but the Signor was as
cunning as the best of us, and kept calling out at the door, "Come
forth, my antient hero!" said he, "here is no enemy at the gate, that
you need hide yourself: come forth, my valorous Signor Steward!"
Just then old Carlo opened his door, and he came with a flask in his
hand; for, as soon as the Signor saw him, he was as tame as could be,
and followed him away as naturally as a dog does a butcher with a
piece of meat in his basket. All this I saw through the key-hole.
Well, Annette, said Ludovico, jeeringly, shall I let you out now? O
no, says I, I would not'--
'I have some questions to ask you on another subject,' interrupted
Emily, quite wearied by this story. 'Do you know whether there are
any prisoners in the castle, and whether they are confined at this
end of the edifice?'
'I was not in the way, ma'amselle,' replied Annette, 'when the first
party came in from the mountains, and the last party is not come back
yet, so I don't know, whether there are any prisoners; but it is
expected back to-night, or to-morrow, and I shall know then,
perhaps.'
Emily enquired if she had ever heard the servants talk of prisoners.
'Ah ma'amselle!' said Annette archly, 'now I dare say you are
thinking of Monsieur Valancourt, and that he may have come among the
armies, which, they say, are come from our country, to fight against
this state, and that he has met with some of OUR people, and is taken
captive. O Lord! how glad I should be, if it was so!'
'Would you, indeed, be glad?' said Emily, in a tone of mournful
reproach.
'To be sure I should, ma'am,' replied Annette, 'and would not you be
glad too, to see Signor Valancourt? I don't know any chevalier I
like better, I have a very great regard for the Signor, truly.'
'Your regard for him cannot be doubted,' said Emily, 'since you wish
to see him a prisoner.'
'Why no, ma'amselle, not a prisoner either; but one must be glad to
see him, you know. And it was only the other night I dreamt--I
dreamt I saw him drive into the castle-yard all in a coach and six,
and dressed out, with a laced coat and a sword, like a lord as he
is.'
Emily could not forbear smiling at Annette's ideas of Valancourt, and
repeated her enquiry, whether she had heard the servants talk of
prisoners.
'No, ma'amselle,' replied she, 'never; and lately they have done
nothing but talk of the apparition, that has been walking about of a
night on the ramparts, and that frightened the sentinels into fits.
It came among them like a flash of fire, they say, and they all fell
down in a row, till they came to themselves again; and then it was
gone, and nothing to be seen but the old castle walls; so they helped
one another up again as fast as they could. You would not believe,
ma'amselle, though I shewed you the very cannon, where it used to
appear.'
'And are you, indeed, so simple, Annette,' said Emily, smiling at
this curious exaggeration of the circumstances she had witnessed, 'as
to credit these stories?'
'Credit them, ma'amselle! why all the world could not persuade me out
of them. Roberto and Sebastian and half a dozen more of them went
into fits! To be sure, there was no occasion for that; I said,
myself, there was no need of that, for, says I, when the enemy comes,
what a pretty figure they will cut, if they are to fall down in fits,
all of a row! The enemy won't be so civil, perhaps, as to walk off,
like the ghost, and leave them to help one another up, but will fall
to, cutting and slashing, till he makes them all rise up dead men.
No, no, says I, there is reason in all things: though I might have
fallen down in a fit that was no rule for them, being, because it is
no business of mine to look gruff, and fight battles.'
Emily endeavoured to correct the superstitious weakness of Annette,
though she could not entirely subdue her own; to which the latter
only replied, 'Nay, ma'amselle, you will believe nothing; you are
almost as bad as the Signor himself, who was in a great passion when
they told of what had happened, and swore that the first man, who
repeated such nonsense, should be thrown into the dungeon under the
east turret. This was a hard punishment too, for only talking
nonsense, as he called it, but I dare say he had other reasons for
calling it so, than you have, ma'am.'
Emily looked displeased, and made no reply. As she mused upon the
recollected appearance, which had lately so much alarmed her, and
considered the circumstances of the figure having stationed itself
opposite to her casement, she was for a moment inclined to believe it
was Valancourt, whom she had seen. Yet, if it was he, why did he not
speak to her, when he had the opportunity of doing so--and, if he was
a prisoner in the castle, and he could be here in no other character,
how could he obtain the means of walking abroad on the rampart? Thus
she was utterly unable to decide, whether the musician and the form
she had observed, were the same, or, if they were, whether this was
Valancourt. She, however, desired that Annette would endeavour to
learn whether any prisoners were in the castle, and also their names.
'O dear, ma'amselle!' said Annette, 'I forget to tell you what you
bade me ask about, the ladies, as they call themselves, who are
lately come to Udolpho. Why that Signora Livona, that the Signor
brought to see my late lady at Venice, is his mistress now, and was
little better then, I dare say. And Ludovico says (but pray be
secret, ma'am) that his excellenza introduced her only to impose upon
the world, that had begun to make free with her character. So when
people saw my lady notice her, they thought what they had heard must
be scandal. The other two are the mistresses of Signor Verezzi and
Signor Bertolini; and Signor Montoni invited them all to the castle;
and so, yesterday, he gave a great entertainment; and there they
were, all drinking Tuscany wine and all sorts, and laughing and
singing, till they made the castle ring again. But I thought they
were dismal sounds, so soon after my poor lady's death too; and they
brought to my mind what she would have thought, if she had heard
them--but she cannot hear them now, poor soul! said I.'
Emily turned away to conceal her emotion, and then desired Annette to
go, and make enquiry, concerning the prisoners, that might be in the
castle, but conjured her to do it with caution, and on no account to
mention her name, or that of Monsieur Valancourt.
'Now I think of it, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'I do believe there
are prisoners, for I overheard one of the Signor's men, yesterday, in
the servants hall, talking something about ransoms, and saying what a
fine thing it was for his excellenza to catch up men, and they were
as good booty as any other, because of the ransoms. And the other
man was grumbling, and saying it was fine enough for the Signor, but
none so fine for his soldiers, because, said he, we don't go shares
there.'
This information heightened Emily's impatience to know more, and
Annette immediately departed on her enquiry.
The late resolution of Emily to resign her estates to Montoni, now
gave way to new considerations; the possibility, that Valancourt was
near her, revived her fortitude, and she determined to brave the
threatened vengeance, at least, till she could be assured whether he
was really in the castle. She was in this temper of mind, when she
received a message from Montoni, requiring her attendance in the
cedar parlour, which she obeyed with trembling, and, on her way
thither, endeavoured to animate her fortitude with the idea of
Valancourt.
Montoni was alone. 'I sent for you,' said he, 'to give you another
opportunity of retracting your late mistaken assertions concerning
the Languedoc estates. I will condescend to advise, where I may
command.--If you are really deluded by an opinion, that you have any
right to these estates, at least, do not persist in the error--an
error, which you may perceive, too late, has been fatal to you. Dare
my resentment no further, but sign the papers.'
'If I have no right in these estates, sir,' said Emily, 'of what
service can it be to you, that I should sign any papers, concerning
them? If the lands are yours by law, you certainly may possess them,
without my interference, or my consent.'
'I will have no more argument,' said Montoni, with a look that made
her tremble. 'What had I but trouble to expect, when I condescended
to reason with a baby! But I will be trifled with no longer: let
the recollection of your aunt's sufferings, in consequence of her
folly and obstinacy, teach you a lesson.--Sign the papers.'
Emily's resolution was for a moment awed:--she shrunk at the
recollections he revived, and from the vengeance he threatened; but
then, the image of Valancourt, who so long had loved her, and who was
now, perhaps, so near her, came to her heart, and, together with the
strong feelings of indignation, with which she had always, from her
infancy, regarded an act of injustice, inspired her with a noble,
though imprudent, courage.
'Sign the papers,' said Montoni, more impatiently than before.
'Never, sir,' replied Emily; 'that request would have proved to me
the injustice of your claim, had I even been ignorant of my right.'
Montoni turned pale with anger, while his quivering lip and lurking
eye made her almost repent the boldness of her speech.
'Then all my vengeance falls upon you,' he exclaimed, with an
horrible oath. 'and think not it shall be delayed. Neither the
estates in Languedoc, or Gascony, shall be yours; you have dared to
question my right,--now dare to question my power. I have a
punishment which you think not of; it is terrible! This night--this
very night'--
'This night!' repeated another voice.
Montoni paused, and turned half round, but, seeming to recollect
himself, he proceeded in a lower tone.
'You have lately seen one terrible example of obstinacy and folly;
yet this, it appears, has not been sufficient to deter you.--I could
tell you of others--I could make you tremble at the bare recital.'
He was interrupted by a groan, which seemed to rise from underneath
the chamber they were in; and, as he threw a glance round it,
impatience and rage flashed from his eyes, yet something like a shade
of fear passed over his countenance. Emily sat down in a chair, near
the door, for the various emotions she had suffered, now almost
overcame her; but Montoni paused scarcely an instant, and, commanding
his features, resumed his discourse in a lower, yet sterner voice.
'I say, I could give you other instances of my power and of my
character, which it seems you do not understand, or you would not
defy me.--I could tell you, that, when once my resolution is taken--
but I am talking to a baby. Let me, however, repeat, that terrible
as are the examples I could recite, the recital could not now benefit
you; for, though your repentance would put an immediate end to
opposition, it would not now appease my indignation.--I will have
vengeance as well as justice.'
Another groan filled the pause which Montoni made.
'Leave the room instantly!' said he, seeming not to notice this
strange occurrence. Without power to implore his pity, she rose to
go, but found that she could not support herself; awe and terror
overcame her, and she sunk again into the chair.
'Quit my presence!' cried Montoni. 'This affectation of fear ill
becomes the heroine who has just dared to brave my indignation.'
'Did you hear nothing, Signor?' said Emily, trembling, and still
unable to leave the room.
'I heard my own voice,' rejoined Montoni, sternly.
'And nothing else?' said Emily, speaking with difficulty.--'There
again! Do you hear nothing now?'
'Obey my order,' repeated Montoni. 'And for these fool's tricks--I
will soon discover by whom they are practised.'
Emily again rose, and exerted herself to the utmost to leave the
room, while Montoni followed her; but, instead of calling aloud to
his servants to search the chamber, as he had formerly done on a
similar occurrence, passed to the ramparts.
As, in her way to the corridor, she rested for a moment at an open
casement, Emily saw a party of Montoni's troops winding down a
distant mountain, whom she noticed no further, than as they brought
to her mind the wretched prisoners they were, perhaps, bringing to
the castle. At length, having reached her apartment, she threw
herself upon the couch, overcome with the new horrors of her
situation. Her thoughts lost in tumult and perplexity, she could
neither repent of, or approve, her late conduct; she could only
remember, that she was in the power of a man, who had no principle of
action--but his will; and the astonishment and terrors of
superstition, which had, for a moment, so strongly assailed her, now
yielded to those of reason.
She was, at length, roused from the reverie, which engaged her, by a
confusion of distant voices, and a clattering of hoofs, that seemed
to come, on the wind, from the courts. A sudden hope, that some good
was approaching, seized her mind, till she remembered the troops she
had observed from the casement, and concluded this to be the party,
which Annette had said were expected at Udolpho.
Soon after, she heard voices faintly from the halls, and the noise of
horses' feet sunk away in the wind; silence ensued. Emily listened
anxiously for Annette's step in the corridor, but a pause of total
stillness continued, till again the castle seemed to be all tumult
and confusion. She heard the echoes of many footsteps, passing to
and fro in the halls and avenues below, and then busy tongues were
loud on the rampart. Having hurried to her casement, she perceived
Montoni, with some of his officers, leaning on the walls, and
pointing from them; while several soldiers were employed at the
further end of the rampart about some cannon; and she continued to
observe them, careless of the passing time.
Annette at length appeared, but brought no intelligence of
Valancourt, 'For, ma'amselle,' said she, 'all the people pretend to
know nothing about any prisoners. But here is a fine piece of
business! The rest of the party are just arrived, ma'am; they came
scampering in, as if they would have broken their necks; one scarcely
knew whether the man, or his horse would get within the gates first.
And they have brought word--and such news! they have brought word,
that a party of the enemy, as they call them, are coming towards the
castle; so we shall have all the officers of justice, I suppose,
besieging it! all those terrible-looking fellows one used to see at
Venice.'
'Thank God!' exclaimed Emily, fervently, 'there is yet a hope left
for me, then!'
'What mean you, ma'amselle? Do you wish to fall into the hands of
those sad-looking men! Why I used to shudder as I passed them, and
should have guessed what they were, if Ludovico had not told me.'
'We cannot be in worse hands than at present,' replied Emily,
unguardedly; 'but what reason have you to suppose these are officers
of justice?'
'Why OUR people, ma'am, are all in such a fright, and a fuss; and I
don't know any thing but the fear of justice, that could make them
so. I used to think nothing on earth could fluster them, unless,
indeed, it was a ghost, or so; but now, some of them are for hiding
down in the vaults under the castle; but you must not tell the Signor
this, ma'amselle, and I overheard two of them talking--Holy Mother!
what makes you look so sad, ma'amselle? You don't hear what I say!'
'Yes, I do, Annette; pray proceed.'
'Well, ma'amselle, all the castle is in such hurly-burly. Some of
the men are loading the cannon, and some are examining the great
gates, and the walls all round, and are hammering and patching up,
just as if all those repairs had never been made, that were so long
about. But what is to become of me and you, ma'amselle, and
Ludovico? O! when I hear the sound of the cannon, I shall die with
fright. If I could but catch the great gate open for one minute, I
would be even with it for shutting me within these walls so long!--it
should never see me again.'
Emily caught the latter words of Annette. 'O! if you could find it
open, but for one moment!' she exclaimed, 'my peace might yet be
saved!' The heavy groan she uttered, and the wildness of her look,
terrified Annette, still more than her words; who entreated Emily to
explain the meaning of them, to whom it suddenly occurred, that
Ludovico might be of some service, if there should be a possibility
of escape, and who repeated the substance of what had passed between
Montoni and herself, but conjured her to mention this to no person
except to Ludovico. 'It may, perhaps, be in his power,' she added,
'to effect our escape. Go to him, Annette, tell him what I have to
apprehend, and what I have already suffered; but entreat him to be
secret, and to lose no time in attempting to release us. If he is
willing to undertake this he shall be amply rewarded. I cannot speak
with him myself, for we might be observed, and then effectual care
would be taken to prevent our flight. But be quick, Annette, and,
above all, be discreet--I will await your return in this apartment.'
The girl, whose honest heart had been much affected by the recital,
was now as eager to obey, as Emily was to employ her, and she
immediately quitted the room.
Emily's surprise increased, as she reflected upon Annette's
intelligence. 'Alas!' said she, 'what can the officers of justice do
against an armed castle? these cannot be such.' Upon further
consideration, however, she concluded, that, Montoni's bands having
plundered the country round, the inhabitants had taken arms, and were
coming with the officers of police and a party of soldiers, to force
their way into the castle. 'But they know not,' thought she, 'its
strength, or the armed numbers within it. Alas! except from flight,
I have nothing to hope!'
Montoni, though not precisely what Emily apprehended him to be--a
captain of banditti--had employed his troops in enterprises not less
daring, or less atrocious, than such a character would have
undertaken. They had not only pillaged, whenever opportunity
offered, the helpless traveller, but had attacked, and plundered the
villas of several persons, which, being situated among the solitary
recesses of the mountains, were totally unprepared for resistance.
In these expeditions the commanders of the party did not appear, and
the men, partly disguised, had sometimes been mistaken for common
robbers, and, at others, for bands of the foreign enemy, who, at that
period, invaded the country. But, though they had already pillaged
several mansions, and brought home considerable treasures, they had
ventured to approach only one castle, in the attack of which they
were assisted by other troops of their own order; from this, however,
they were vigorously repulsed, and pursued by some of the foreign
enemy, who were in league with the besieged. Montoni's troops fled
precipitately towards Udolpho, but were so closely tracked over the
mountains, that, when they reached one of the heights in the
neighbourhood of the castle, and looked back upon the road, they
perceived the enemy winding among the cliffs below, and at not more
than a league distant. Upon this discovery, they hastened forward
with increased speed, to prepare Montoni for the enemy; and it was
their arrival, which had thrown the castle into such confusion and
tumult.
As Emily awaited anxiously some information from below, she now saw
from her casements a body of troops pour over the neighbouring
heights; and, though Annette had been gone a very short time, and had
a difficult and dangerous business to accomplish, her impatience for
intelligence became painful: she listened; opened her door; and
often went out upon the corridor to meet her.
At length, she heard a footstep approach her chamber; and, on opening
the door, saw, not Annette, but old Carlo! New fears rushed upon her
mind. He said he came from the Signor, who had ordered him to inform
her, that she must be ready to depart from Udolpho immediately, for
that the castle was about to be besieged; and that mules were
preparing to convey her, with her guides, to a place of safety.
'Of safety!' exclaimed Emily, thoughtlessly; 'has, then, the Signor
so much consideration for me?'
Carlo looked upon the ground, and made no reply. A thousand opposite
emotions agitated Emily, successively, as she listened to old Carlo;
those of joy, grief, distrust and apprehension, appeared, and
vanished from her mind, with the quickness of lightning. One moment,
it seemed impossible, that Montoni could take this measure merely for
her preservation; and so very strange was his sending her from the
castle at all, that she could attribute it only to the design of
carrying into execution the new scheme of vengeance, with which he
had menaced her. In the next instant, it appeared so desirable to
quit the castle, under any circumstances, that she could not but
rejoice in the prospect, believing that change must be for the
better, till she remembered the probability of Valancourt being
detained in it, when sorrow and regret usurped her mind, and she
wished, much more fervently than she had yet done, that it might not
be his voice which she had heard.
Carlo having reminded her, that she had no time to lose, for that the
enemy were within sight of the castle, Emily entreated him to inform
her whither she was to go; and, after some hesitation, he said he had
received no orders to tell; but, on her repeating the question,
replied, that he believed she was to be carried into Tuscany.'
'To Tuscany!' exclaimed Emily--'and why thither?'
Carlo answered, that he knew nothing further, than that she was to be
lodged in a cottage on the borders of Tuscany, at the feet of the
Apennines--'Not a day's journey distant,' said he.
Emily now dismissed him; and, with trembling hands, prepared the
small package, that she meant to take with her; while she was
employed about which Annette returned.
'O ma'amselle!' said she, 'nothing can be done! Ludovico says the
new porter is more watchful even than Barnardine was, and we might as
well throw ourselves in the way of a dragon, as in his. Ludovico is
almost as broken-hearted as you are, ma'am, on my account, he says,
and I am sure I shall never live to hear the cannon fire twice!'
She now began to weep, but revived upon hearing of what had just
occurred, and entreated Emily to take her with her.
'That I will do most willingly,' replied Emily, 'if Signor Montoni
permits it;' to which Annette made no reply, but ran out of the room,
and immediately sought Montoni, who was on the terrace, surrounded by
his officers, where she began her petition. He sharply bade her go
into the castle, and absolutely refused her request. Annette,
however, not only pleaded for herself, but for Ludovico; and Montoni
had ordered some of his men to take her from his presence, before she
would retire.
In an agony of disappointment, she returned to Emily, who foreboded
little good towards herself, from this refusal to Annette, and who,
soon after, received a summons to repair to the great court, where
the mules, with her guides, were in waiting. Emily here tried in
vain to sooth the weeping Annette, who persisted in saying, that she
should never see her dear young lady again; a fear, which her
mistress secretly thought too well justified, but which she
endeavoured to restrain, while, with apparent composure, she bade
this affectionate servant farewell. Annette, however, followed to
the courts, which were now thronged with people, busy in preparation
for the enemy; and, having seen her mount her mule and depart, with
her attendants, through the portal, turned into the castle and wept
again.
Emily, meanwhile, as she looked back upon the gloomy courts of the
castle, no longer silent as when she had first entered them, but
resounding with the noise of preparation for their defence, as well
as crowded with soldiers and workmen, hurrying to and fro; and, when
she passed once more under the huge portcullis, which had formerly
struck her with terror and dismay, and, looking round, saw no walls
to confine her steps--felt, in spite of anticipation, the sudden joy
of a prisoner, who unexpectedly finds himself at liberty. This
emotion would not suffer her now to look impartially on the dangers
that awaited her without; on mountains infested by hostile parties,
who seized every opportunity for plunder; and on a journey commended
under the guidance of men, whose countenances certainly did not speak
favourably of their dispositions. In the present moments, she could
only rejoice, that she was liberated from those walls, which she had
entered with such dismal forebodings; and, remembering the
superstitious presentiment, which had then seized her, she could now
smile at the impression it had made upon her mind.
As she gazed, with these emotions, upon the turrets of the castle,
rising high over the woods, among which she wound, the stranger, whom
she believed to be confined there, returned to her remembrance, and
anxiety and apprehension, lest he should be Valancourt, again passed
like a cloud upon her joy. She recollected every circumstance,
concerning this unknown person, since the night, when she had first
heard him play the song of her native province;--circumstances, which
she had so often recollected, and compared before, without extracting
from them any thing like conviction, and which still only prompted
her to believe, that Valancourt was a prisoner at Udolpho. It was
possible, however, that the men, who were her conductors, might
afford her information, on this subject; but, fearing to question
them immediately, lest they should be unwilling to discover any
circumstance to her in the presence of each other, she watched for an
opportunity of speaking with them separately.
Soon after, a trumpet echoed faintly from a distance; the guides
stopped, and looked toward the quarter whence it came, but the thick
woods, which surrounded them, excluding all view of the country
beyond, one of the men rode on to the point of an eminence, that
afforded a more extensive prospect, to observe how near the enemy,
whose trumpet he guessed this to be, were advanced; the other,
meanwhile, remained with Emily, and to him she put some questions,
concerning the stranger at Udolpho. Ugo, for this was his name,
said, that there were several prisoners in the castle, but he neither
recollected their persons, or the precise time of their arrival, and
could therefore give her no information. There was a surliness in
his manner, as he spoke, that made it probable he would not have
satisfied her enquiries, even if he could have done so.
Having asked him what prisoners had been taken, about the time, as
nearly as she could remember, when she had first heard the music,
'All that week,' said Ugo, 'I was out with a party, upon the
mountains, and knew nothing of what was doing at the castle. We had
enough upon our hands, we had warm work of it.'
Bertrand, the other man, being now returned, Emily enquired no
further, and, when he had related to his companion what he had seen,
they travelled on in deep silence; while Emily often caught, between
the opening woods, partial glimpses of the castle above--the west
towers, whose battlements were now crowded with archers, and the
ramparts below, where soldiers were seen hurrying along, or busy upon
the walls, preparing the cannon.
Having emerged from the woods, they wound along the valley in an
opposite direction to that, from whence the enemy were approaching.
Emily now had a full view of Udolpho, with its gray walls, towers and
terraces, high over-topping the precipices and the dark woods, and
glittering partially with the arms of the condottieri, as the sun's
rays, streaming through an autumnal cloud, glanced upon a part of the
edifice, whose remaining features stood in darkened majesty. She
continued to gaze, through her tears, upon walls that, perhaps,
confined Valancourt, and which now, as the cloud floated away, were
lighted up with sudden splendour, and then, as suddenly were shrouded
in gloom; while the passing gleam fell on the wood-tops below, and
heightened the first tints of autumn, that had begun to steal upon
the foliage. The winding mountains, at length, shut Udolpho from her
view, and she turned, with mournful reluctance, to other objects.
The melancholy sighing of the wind among the pines, that waved high
over the steeps, and the distant thunder of a torrent assisted her
musings, and conspired with the wild scenery around, to diffuse over
her mind emotions solemn, yet not unpleasing, but which were soon
interrupted by the distant roar of cannon, echoing among the
mountains. The sounds rolled along the wind, and were repeated in
faint and fainter reverberation, till they sunk in sullen murmurs.
This was a signal, that the enemy had reached the castle, and fear
for Valancourt again tormented Emily. She turned her anxious eyes
towards that part of the country, where the edifice stood, but the
intervening heights concealed it from her view; still, however, she
saw the tall head of a mountain, which immediately fronted her late
chamber, and on this she fixed her gaze, as if it could have told her
of all that was passing in the scene it overlooked. The guides twice
reminded her, that she was losing time and that they had far to go,
before she could turn from this interesting object, and, even when
she again moved onward, she often sent a look back, till only its
blue point, brightening in a gleam of sunshine, appeared peeping over
other mountains.
The sound of the cannon affected Ugo, as the blast of the trumpet
does the war-horse; it called forth all the fire of his nature; he
was impatient to be in the midst of the fight, and uttered frequent
execrations against Montoni for having sent him to a distance. The
feelings of his comrade seemed to be very opposite, and adapted
rather to the cruelties, than to the dangers of war.
Emily asked frequent questions, concerning the place of her
destination, but could only learn, that she was going to a cottage in
Tuscany; and, whenever she mentioned the subject, she fancied she
perceived, in the countenances of these men, an expression of malice
and cunning, that alarmed her.
It was afternoon, when they had left the castle. During several
hours, they travelled through regions of profound solitude, where no
bleat of sheep, or bark of watch-dog, broke on silence, and they were
now too far off to hear even the faint thunder of the cannon.
Towards evening, they wound down precipices, black with forests of
cypress, pine and cedar, into a glen so savage and secluded, that, if
Solitude ever had local habitation, this might have been 'her place
of dearest residence.' To Emily it appeared a spot exactly suited
for the retreat of banditti, and, in her imagination, she already saw
them lurking under the brow of some projecting rock, whence their
shadows, lengthened by the setting sun, stretched across the road,
and warned the traveller of his danger. She shuddered at the idea,
and, looking at her conductors, to observe whether they were armed,
thought she saw in them the banditti she dreaded!
It was in this glen, that they proposed to alight, 'For,' said Ugo,
'night will come on presently, and then the wolves will make it
dangerous to stop.' This was a new subject of alarm to Emily, but
inferior to what she suffered from the thought of being left in these
wilds, at midnight, with two such men as her present conductors.
Dark and dreadful hints of what might be Montoni's purpose in sending
her hither, came to her mind. She endeavoured to dissuade the men
from stopping, and enquired, with anxiety, how far they had yet to
go.
'Many leagues yet,' replied Bertrand. 'As for you, Signora, you may
do as you please about eating, but for us, we will make a hearty
supper, while we can. We shall have need of it, I warrant, before we
finish our journey. The sun's going down apace; let us alight under
that rock, yonder.'
His comrade assented, and, turning the mules out of the road, they
advanced towards a cliff, overhung with cedars, Emily following in
trembling silence. They lifted her from her mule, and, having seated
themselves on the grass, at the foot of the rocks, drew some homely
fare from a wallet, of which Emily tried to eat a little, the better
to disguise her apprehensions.
The sun was now sunk behind the high mountains in the west, upon
which a purple haze began to spread, and the gloom of twilight to
draw over the surrounding objects. To the low and sullen murmur of
the breeze, passing among the woods, she no longer listened with any
degree of pleasure, for it conspired with the wildness of the scene
and the evening hour, to depress her spirits.
Suspense had so much increased her anxiety, as to the prisoner at
Udolpho, that, finding it impracticable to speak alone with Bertrand,
on that subject, she renewed her questions in the presence of Ugo;
but he either was, or pretended to be entirely ignorant, concerning
the stranger. When he had dismissed the question, he talked with Ugo
on some subject, which led to the mention of Signor Orsino and of the
affair that had banished him from Venice; respecting which Emily had
ventured to ask a few questions. Ugo appeared to be well acquainted
with the circumstances of that tragical event, and related some
minute particulars, that both shocked and surprised her; for it
appeared very extraordinary how such particulars could be known to
any, but to persons, present when the assassination was committed.
'He was of rank,' said Bertrand, 'or the State would not have
troubled itself to enquire after his assassins. The Signor has been
lucky hitherto; this is not the first affair of the kind he has had
upon his hands; and to be sure, when a gentleman has no other way of
getting redress--why he must take this.'
'Aye,' said Ugo, 'and why is not this as good as another? This is
the way to have justice done at once, without more ado. If you go to
law, you must stay till the judges please, and may lose your cause,
at last, Why the best way, then, is to make sure of your right,
while you can, and execute justice yourself.'
'Yes, yes,' rejoined Bertrand, 'if you wait till justice is done you-
-you may stay long enough. Why if I want a friend of mine properly
served, how am I to get my revenge? Ten to one they will tell me he
is in the right, and I am in the wrong. Or, if a fellow has got
possession of property, which I think ought to be mine, why I may
wait, till I starve, perhaps, before the law will give it me, and
then, after all, the judge may say--the estate is his. What is to be
done then?--Why the case is plain enough, I must take it at last.'
Emily's horror at this conversation was heightened by a suspicion,
that the latter part of it was pointed against herself, and that
these men had been commissioned by Montoni to execute a similar kind
of JUSTICE, in his cause.
'But I was speaking of Signor Orsino,' resumed Bertrand, 'he is one
of those, who love to do justice at once. I remember, about ten
years ago, the Signor had a quarrel with a cavaliero of Milan. The
story was told me then, and it is still fresh in my head. They
quarrelled about a lady, that the Signor liked, and she was perverse
enough to prefer the gentleman of Milan, and even carried her whim so
far as to marry him. This provoked the Signor, as well it might, for
he had tried to talk reason to her a long while, and used to send
people to serenade her, under her windows, of a night; and used to
make verses about her, and would swear she was the handsomest lady in
Milan--But all would not do--nothing would bring her to reason; and,
as I said, she went so far at last, as to marry this other cavaliero.
This made the Signor wrath, with a vengeance; he resolved to be even
with her though, and he watched his opportunity, and did not wait
long, for, soon after the marriage, they set out for Padua, nothing
doubting, I warrant, of what was preparing for them. The cavaliero
thought, to be sure, he was to be called to no account, but was to go
off triumphant; but he was soon made to know another sort of story.'
'What then, the lady had promised to have Signor Orsino?' said Ugo.
'Promised! No,' replied Bertrand, 'she had not wit enough even to
tell him she liked him, as I heard, but the contrary, for she used to
say, from the first, she never meant to have him. And this was what
provoked the Signor, so, and with good reason, for, who likes to be
told that he is disagreeable? and this was saying as good. It was
enough to tell him this; she need not have gone, and married
another.'
'What, she married, then, on purpose to plague the Signor?' said Ugo.
'I don't know as for that,' replied Bertrand, 'they said, indeed,
that she had had a regard for the other gentleman a great while; but
that is nothing to the purpose, she should not have married him, and
then the Signor would not have been so much provoked. She might have
expected what was to follow; it was not to be supposed he would bear
her ill usage tamely, and she might thank herself for what happened.
But, as I said, they set out for Padua, she and her