The Mysteries of Udolpho
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 moonlight, 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 midnight hymn of the monks rose softly from a chapel,
that stood on one of the lower cliffs, a 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, unbiased 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.