The Mysteries of Udolpho
pleasanter scenes may not heighten, at least, the natural dreariness of
these.”
“I shall be governed by circumstances, madam,” said the Count, “this
barbarous spot was inhabited by my ancestors.”
The carriage now stopped at the château, where, at the door of the
great hall, appeared the old steward and the Parisian servants, who had
been sent to prepare the château, waiting to receive their lord. Lady
Blanche now perceived, that the edifice was not built entirely in the
gothic style, but that it had additions of a more modern date; the
large and gloomy hall, however, into which she now entered, was
entirely gothic, and sumptuous tapestry, which it was now too dark to
distinguish, hung upon the walls, and depictured scenes from some of
the ancient Provençal romances. A vast gothic window, embroidered with
_clematis_ and eglantine, that ascended to the south, led the eye, now
that the casements were thrown open, through this verdant shade, over a
sloping lawn, to the tops of dark woods, that hung upon the brow of the
promontory. Beyond, appeared the waters of the Mediterranean,
stretching far to the south, and to the east, where they were lost in
the horizon; while, to the north-east, they were bounded by the
luxuriant shores of Languedoc and Provence, enriched with wood, and gay
with vines and sloping pastures; and, to the south-west, by the
majestic Pyrenees, now fading from the eye, beneath the gradual gloom.
Blanche, as she crossed the hall, stopped a moment to observe this
lovely prospect, which the evening twilight obscured, yet did not
conceal. But she was quickly awakened from the complacent delight,
which this scene had diffused upon her mind, by the Countess, who,
discontented with every object around, and impatient for refreshment
and repose, hastened forward to a large parlour, whose cedar wainscot,
narrow, pointed casements, and dark ceiling of carved cypress wood,
gave it an aspect of peculiar gloom, which the dingy green velvet of
the chairs and couches, fringed with tarnished gold, had once been
designed to enliven.
While the Countess enquired for refreshment, the Count, attended by his
son, went to look over some part of the château, and Lady Blanche
reluctantly remained to witness the discontent and ill-humour of her
step-mother.
“How long have you lived in this desolate place?” said her ladyship, to
the old housekeeper, who came to pay her duty.
“Above twenty years, your ladyship, on the next feast of St. Jerome.”
“How happened it, that you have lived here so long, and almost alone,
too? I understood, that the château had been shut up for some years?”
“Yes, madam, it was for many years after my late lord, the Count, went
to the wars; but it is above twenty years, since I and my husband came
into his service. The place is so large, and has of late been so
lonely, that we were lost in it, and, after some time, we went to live
in a cottage at the end of the woods, near some of the tenants, and
came to look after the château, every now and then. When my lord
returned to France from the wars, he took a dislike to the place, and
never came to live here again, and so he was satisfied with our
remaining at the cottage. Alas—alas! how the château is changed from
what it once was! What delight my late lady used to take in it! I well
remember when she came here a bride, and how fine it was. Now, it has
been neglected so long, and is gone into such decay! I shall never see
those days again!”
The Countess appearing to be somewhat offended by the thoughtless
simplicity, with which the old woman regretted former times, Dorothée
added—“But the château will now be inhabited, and cheerful again; not
all the world could tempt me to live in it alone.”
“Well, the experiment will not be made, I believe,” said the Countess,
displeased that her own silence had been unable to awe the loquacity of
this rustic old housekeeper, now spared from further attendance by the
entrance of the Count, who said he had been viewing part of the
château, and found, that it would require considerable repairs and some
alterations, before it would be perfectly comfortable, as a place of
residence. “I am sorry to hear it, my lord,” replied the Countess. “And
why sorry, madam?” “Because the place will ill repay your trouble; and
were it even a paradise, it would be insufferable at such a distance
from Paris.”
The Count made no reply, but walked abruptly to a window. “There are
windows, my lord, but they neither admit entertainment, nor light; they
show only a scene of savage nature.”
“I am at a loss, madam,” said the Count, “to conjecture what you mean
by savage nature. Do those plains, or those woods, or that fine expanse
of water, deserve the name?”
“Those mountains certainly do, my lord,” rejoined the Countess,
pointing to the Pyrenees, “and this château, though not a work of rude
nature, is, to my taste, at least, one of savage art.” The Count
coloured highly. “This place, madam, was the work of my ancestors,”
said he, “and you must allow me to say, that your present conversation
discovers neither good taste, nor good manners.” Blanche, now shocked
at an altercation, which appeared to be increasing to a serious
disagreement, rose to leave the room, when her mother’s woman entered
it; and the Countess, immediately desiring to be shown to her own
apartment, withdrew, attended by Mademoiselle Bearn.
Lady Blanche, it being not yet dark, took this opportunity of exploring
new scenes, and, leaving the parlour, she passed from the hall into a
wide gallery, whose walls were decorated by marble pilasters, which
supported an arched roof, composed of a rich mosaic work. Through a
distant window, that seemed to terminate the gallery, were seen the
purple clouds of evening and a landscape, whose features, thinly veiled
in twilight, no longer appeared distinctly, but, blended into one grand
mass, stretched to the horizon, coloured only with a tint of solemn
grey.
The gallery terminated in a saloon, to which the window she had seen
through an open door, belonged; but the increasing dusk permitted her
only an imperfect view of this apartment, which seemed to be
magnificent and of modern architecture; though it had been either
suffered to fall into decay, or had never been properly finished. The
windows, which were numerous and large, descended low, and afforded a
very extensive, and what Blanche’s fancy represented to be, a very
lovely prospect; and she stood for some time, surveying the grey
obscurity and depicturing imaginary woods and mountains, valleys and
rivers, on this scene of night; her solemn sensations rather assisted,
than interrupted, by the distant bark of a watch-dog, and by the
breeze, as it trembled upon the light foliage of the shrubs. Now and
then, appeared for a moment, among the woods, a cottage light; and, at
length, was heard, afar off, the evening bell of a convent, dying on
the air. When she withdrew her thoughts from these subjects of fanciful
delight, the gloom and silence of the saloon somewhat awed her; and,
having sought the door of the gallery, and pursued, for a considerable
time, a dark passage, she came to a hall, but one totally different
from that she had formerly seen. By the twilight, admitted through an
open portico, she could just distinguish this apartment to be of very
light and airy architecture, and that it was paved with white marble,
pillars of which supported the roof, that rose into arches built in the
Moorish style. While Blanche stood on the steps of this portico, the
moon rose over the sea, and gradually disclosed, in partial light, the
beauties of the eminence, on which she stood, whence a lawn, now rude
and overgrown with high grass, sloped to the woods, that, almost
surrounding the château, extended in a grand sweep down the southern
sides of the promontory to the very margin of the ocean. Beyond the
woods, on the north-side, appeared a long tract of the plains of
Languedoc; and, to the east, the landscape she had before dimly seen,
with the towers of a monastery, illumined by the moon, rising over dark
groves.
The soft and shadowy tint, that overspread the scene, the waves,
undulating in the moonlight, and their low and measured murmurs on the
beach, were circumstances, that united to elevate the unaccustomed mind
of Blanche to enthusiasm.
“And have I lived in this glorious world so long,” said she, “and never
till now beheld such a prospect—never experienced these delights! Every
peasant girl, on my father’s domain, has viewed from her infancy the
face of nature; has ranged, at liberty, her romantic wilds, while I
have been shut in a cloister from the view of these beautiful
appearances, which were designed to enchant all eyes, and awaken all
hearts. How can the poor nuns and friars feel the full fervour of
devotion, if they never see the sun rise, or set? Never, till this
evening, did I know what true devotion is; for, never before did I see
the sun sink below the vast earth! Tomorrow, for the first time in my
life, I will see it rise. O, who would live in Paris, to look upon
black walls and dirty streets, when, in the country, they might gaze on
the blue heavens, and all the green earth!”
This enthusiastic soliloquy was interrupted by a rustling noise in the
hall; and, while the loneliness of the place made her sensible to fear,
she thought she perceived something moving between the pillars. For a
moment, she continued silently observing it, till, ashamed of her
ridiculous apprehensions, she recollected courage enough to demand who
was there. “O my young lady, is it you?” said the old housekeeper, who
was come to shut the windows, “I am glad it is you.” The manner, in
which she spoke this, with a faint breath, rather surprised Blanche,
who said, “You seemed frightened, Dorothée, what is the matter?”
“No, not frightened, ma’amselle,” replied Dorothée, hesitating and
trying to appear composed, “but I am old, and—a little matter startles
me.” The Lady Blanche smiled at the distinction. “I am glad, that my
lord the Count is come to live at the château, ma’amselle,” continued
Dorothée, “for it has been many a year deserted, and dreary enough;
now, the place will look a little as it used to do, when my poor lady
was alive.” Blanche enquired how long it was, since the Marchioness
died? “Alas! my lady,” replied Dorothée, “so long—that I have ceased to
count the years! The place, to my mind, has mourned ever since, and I
am sure my lord’s vassals have! But you have lost yourself,
ma’amselle,—shall I show you to the other side of the château?”
Blanche enquired how long this part of the edifice had been built.
“Soon after my lord’s marriage, ma’am,” replied Dorothée. “The place
was large enough without this addition, for many rooms of the old
building were even then never made use of, and my lord had a princely
household too; but he thought the ancient mansion gloomy, and gloomy
enough it is!” Lady Blanche now desired to be shown to the inhabited
part of the château; and, as the passages were entirely dark, Dorothée
conducted her along the edge of the lawn to the opposite side of the
edifice, where, a door opening into the great hall, she was met by
Mademoiselle Bearn. “Where have you been so long?” said she, “I had
begun to think some wonderful adventure had befallen you, and that the
giant of this enchanted castle, or the ghost, which, no doubt, haunts
it, had conveyed you through a trap-door into some subterranean vault,
whence you were never to return.”
“No,” replied Blanche, laughingly, “you seem to love adventures so
well, that I leave them for you to achieve.”
“Well, I am willing to achieve them, provided I am allowed to describe
them.”
“My dear Mademoiselle Bearn,” said Henri, as he met her at the door of