The Mysteries of Udolpho
in the province of Languedoc, on the shore of the Mediterranean. This
estate, which, during some centuries, had belonged to his family, now
descended to him, on the decease of his relative, the Marquis De
Villeroi, who had been latterly a man of reserved manners and austere
character; circumstances, which, together with the duties of his
profession, that often called him into the field, had prevented any
degree of intimacy with his cousin, the Count De Villefort. For many
years, they had known little of each other, and the Count received the
first intelligence of his death, which happened in a distant part of
France, together with the instruments, that gave him possession of the
domain Château-le-Blanc; but it was not till the following year, that
he determined to visit that estate, when he designed to pass the autumn
there. The scenes of Château-le-Blanc often came to his remembrance,
heightened by the touches, which a warm imagination gives to the
recollection of early pleasures; for, many years before, in the
life-time of the Marchioness, and at that age when the mind is
particularly sensible to impressions of gaiety and delight, he had once
visited this spot, and, though he had passed a long intervening period
amidst the vexations and tumults of public affairs, which too
frequently corrode the heart, and vitiate the taste, the shades of
Languedoc and the grandeur of its distant scenery had never been
remembered by him with indifference.
During many years, the château had been abandoned by the late Marquis,
and, being inhabited only by an old steward and his wife, had been
suffered to fall much into decay. To superintend the repairs, that
would be requisite to make it a comfortable residence, had been a
principal motive with the Count for passing the autumnal months in
Languedoc; and neither the remonstrances, nor the tears of the
Countess, for, on urgent occasions, she could weep, were powerful
enough to overcome his determination. She prepared, therefore, to obey
the command, which she could not conquer, and to resign the gay
assemblies of Paris,—where her beauty was generally unrivalled and won
the applause, to which her wit had but feeble claim—for the twilight
canopy of woods, the lonely grandeur of mountains and the solemnity of
gothic halls and of long, long galleries, which echoed only the
solitary step of a domestic, or the measured clink, that ascended from
the great clock—the ancient monitor of the hall below. From these
melancholy expectations she endeavoured to relieve her spirits by
recollecting all that she had ever heard, concerning the joyous vintage
of the plains of Languedoc; but there, alas! no airy forms would bound
to the gay melody of Parisian dances, and a view of the rustic
festivities of peasants could afford little pleasure to a heart, in
which even the feelings of ordinary benevolence had long since decayed
under the corruptions of luxury.
The Count had a son and a daughter, the children of a former marriage,
who, he designed, should accompany him to the south of France; Henri,
who was in his twentieth year, was in the French service; and Blanche,
who was not yet eighteen, had been hitherto confined to the convent,
where she had been placed immediately on her father’s second marriage.
The present Countess, who had neither sufficient ability, nor
inclination, to superintend the education of her daughter-in-law, had
advised this step, and the dread of superior beauty had since urged her
to employ every art, that might prevail on the Count to prolong the
period of Blanche’s seclusion; it was, therefore, with extreme
mortification, that she now understood he would no longer submit on
this subject, yet it afforded her some consolation to consider, that,
though the Lady Blanche would emerge from her convent, the shades of
the country would, for some time, veil her beauty from the public eye.
On the morning, which commenced the journey, the postillions stopped at
the convent, by the Count’s order, to take up Blanche, whose heart beat
with delight, at the prospect of novelty and freedom now before her. As
the time of her departure drew nigh, her impatience had increased, and
the last night, during which she counted every note of every hour, had
appeared the most tedious of any she had ever known. The morning light,
at length, dawned; the matin-bell rang; she heard the nuns descending
from their chambers, and she started from a sleepless pillow to welcome
the day, which was to emancipate her from the severities of a cloister,
and introduce her to a world, where pleasure was ever smiling, and
goodness ever blessed—where, in short, nothing but pleasure and
goodness reigned! When the bell of the great gate rang, and the sound
was followed by that of carriage wheels, she ran, with a palpitating
heart, to her lattice, and, perceiving her father’s carriage in the
court below, danced, with airy steps, along the gallery, where she was
met by a nun with a summons from the abbess. In the next moment, she
was in the parlour, and in the presence of the Countess who now
appeared to her as an angel, that was to lead her into happiness. But
the emotions of the Countess, on beholding her, were not in unison with
those of Blanche, who had never appeared so lovely as at this moment,
when her countenance, animated by the lightning smile of joy, glowed
with the beauty of happy innocence.
After conversing for a few minutes with the abbess, the Countess rose
to go. This was the moment, which Blanche had anticipated with such
eager expectation, the summit from which she looked down upon the
fairy-land of happiness, and surveyed all its enchantment; was it a
moment, then, for tears of regret? Yet it was so. She turned, with an
altered and dejected countenance, to her young companions, who were
come to bid her farewell, and wept! Even my lady abbess, so stately and
so solemn, she saluted with a degree of sorrow, which, an hour before,
she would have believed it impossible to feel, and which may be
accounted for by considering how reluctantly we all part, even with
unpleasing objects, when the separation is consciously for ever. Again,
she kissed the poor nuns and then followed the Countess from that spot
with tears, which she expected to leave only with smiles.
But the presence of her father and the variety of objects, on the road,
soon engaged her attention, and dissipated the shade, which tender
regret had thrown upon her spirits. Inattentive to a conversation,
which was passing between the Countess and a Mademoiselle Bearn, her
friend, Blanche sat, lost in pleasing reverie, as she watched the
clouds floating silently along the blue expanse, now veiling the sun
and stretching their shadows along the distant scene, and then
disclosing all his brightness. The journey continued to give Blanche
inexpressible delight, for new scenes of nature were every instant
opening to her view, and her fancy became stored with gay and beautiful
imagery.
It was on the evening of the seventh day, that the travellers came
within view of Château-le-Blanc, the romantic beauty of whose situation
strongly impressed the imagination of Blanche, who observed, with
sublime astonishment, the Pyrenean mountains, which had been seen only
at a distance during the day, now rising within a few leagues, with
their wild cliffs and immense precipices, which the evening clouds,
floating round them, now disclosed, and again veiled. The setting rays,
that tinged their snowy summits with a roseate hue, touched their lower
points with various colouring, while the bluish tint, that pervaded
their shadowy recesses, gave the strength of contrast to the splendour
of light. The plains of Languedoc, blushing with the purple vine and
diversified with groves of mulberry, almond and olives, spread far to
the north and the east; to the south, appeared the Mediterranean, clear
as crystal, and blue as the heavens it reflected, bearing on its bosom
vessels, whose white sails caught the sunbeams, and gave animation to
the scene. On a high promontory, washed by the waters of the
Mediterranean, stood her father’s mansion, almost secluded from the eye
by woods of intermingled pine, oak and chesnut, which crowned the
eminence, and sloped towards the plains, on one side; while, on the
other, they extended to a considerable distance along the sea-shores.
As Blanche drew nearer, the gothic features of this ancient mansion
successively appeared—first an embattled turret, rising above the
trees—then the broken arch of an immense gateway, retiring beyond them;
and she almost fancied herself approaching a castle, such as is often
celebrated in early story, where the knights look out from the
battlements on some champion below, who, clothed in black armour,
comes, with his companions, to rescue the fair lady of his love from
the oppression of his rival; a sort of legends, to which she had once
or twice obtained access in the library of her convent, that, like many
others, belonging to the monks, was stored with these reliques of
romantic fiction.
The carriages stopped at a gate, which led into the domain of the
château, but which was now fastened; and the great bell, that had
formerly served to announce the arrival of strangers, having long since
fallen from its station, a servant climbed over a ruined part of the
adjoining wall, to give notice to those within of the arrival of their
lord.
As Blanche leaned from the coach window, she resigned herself to the
sweet and gentle emotions, which the hour and the scenery awakened. The
sun had now left the earth, and twilight began to darken the mountains;
while the distant waters, reflecting the blush that still glowed in the
west, appeared like a line of light, skirting the horizon. The low
murmur of waves, breaking on the shore, came in the breeze, and, now
and then, the melancholy dashing of oars was feebly heard from a
distance. She was suffered to indulge her pensive mood, for the
thoughts of the rest of the party were silently engaged upon the
subjects of their several interests. Meanwhile, the Countess,
reflecting, with regret, upon the gay parties she had left at Paris,
surveyed, with disgust, what she thought the gloomy woods and solitary
wildness of the scene; and, shrinking from the prospect of being shut
up in an old castle, was prepared to meet every object with
displeasure. The feelings of Henri were somewhat similar to those of
the Countess; he gave a mournful sigh to the delights of the capital,
and to the remembrance of a lady, who, he believed, had engaged his
affections, and who had certainly fascinated his imagination; but the
surrounding country, and the mode of life, on which he was entering,
had, for him, at least, the charm of novelty, and his regret was
softened by the gay expectations of youth. The gates being at length
unbarred, the carriage moved slowly on, under spreading chesnuts, that
almost excluded the remains of day, following what had been formerly a
road, but which now, overgrown with luxuriant vegetation, could be
traced only by the boundary, formed by trees, on either side, and which
wound for near half a mile among the woods, before it reached the
château. This was the very avenue that St. Aubert and Emily had
formerly entered, on their first arrival in the neighbourhood, with the
hope of finding a house, that would receive them, for the night, and
had so abruptly quitted, on perceiving the wildness of the place, and a
figure, which the postillion had fancied was a robber.
“What a dismal place is this!” exclaimed the Countess, as the carriage
penetrated the deeper recesses of the woods. “Surely, my lord, you do
not mean to pass all the autumn in this barbarous spot! One ought to
bring hither a cup of the waters of Lethe, that the remembrance of