The Mysteries of Udolpho
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; valleys 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 characterised 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 sunset; 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 moonlight. 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 moonlight. 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 a 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 moonlight.” 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