The Mysteries of Udolpho
Sinks in the depth of space; my only guide
His faint ray dawning on the farthest sky;
Save that sweet, lingering strain of gayer Hours,
Whose close my voice prolongs in dying notes,
While mortals on the green earth own its pow’rs,
As downward on the evening gale it floats.
When fades along the West the Sun’s last beam,
As, weary, to the nether world he goes,
And mountain-summits catch the purple gleam,
And slumbering ocean faint and fainter glows,
Silent upon the globe’s broad shade I steal,
And o’er its dry turf shed the cooling dews,
And ev’ry fever’d herb and flow’ret heal,
And all their fragrance on the air diffuse.
Where’er I move, a tranquil pleasure reigns;
O’er all the scene the dusky tints I send,
That forests wild and mountains, stretching plains
And peopled towns, in soft confusion blend.
Wide o’er the world I waft the fresh’ning wind,
Low breathing through the woods and twilight vale,
In whispers soft, that woo the pensive mind
Of him, who loves my lonely steps to hail.
His tender oaten reed I watch to hear,
Stealing its sweetness o’er some plaining rill,
Or soothing ocean’s wave, when storms are near,
Or swelling in the breeze from distant hill!
I wake the fairy elves, who shun the light;
When, from their blossom’d beds, they slily peep,
And spy my pale star, leading on the night,—
Forth to their games and revelry they leap;
Send all the prison’d sweets abroad in air,
That with them slumber’d in the flow’ret’s cell;
Then to the shores and moonlight brooks repair,
Till the high larks their matin-carol swell.
The wood-nymphs hail my airs and temper’d shade,
With ditties soft and lightly sportive dance,
On river margin of some bow’ry glade,
And strew their fresh buds as my steps advance:
But, swift I pass, and distant regions trace,
For moonbeams silver all the eastern cloud,
And Day’s last crimson vestige fades apace;
Down the steep west I fly from Midnight’s shroud.
The moon was now rising out of the sea. She watched its gradual
progress, the extending line of radiance it threw upon the waters, the
sparkling oars, the sail faintly silvered, and the wood-tops and the
battlements of the watch-tower, at whose foot she was sitting, just
tinted with the rays. Emily’s spirits were in harmony with this scene.
As she sat meditating, sounds stole by her on the air, which she
immediately knew to be the music and the voice she had formerly heard
at midnight, and the emotion of awe, which she felt, was not unmixed
with terror, when she considered her remote and lonely situation. The
sounds drew nearer. She would have risen to leave the place, but they
seemed to come from the way she must have taken towards the château,
and she awaited the event in trembling expectation. The sounds
continued to approach, for some time, and then ceased. Emily sat
listening, gazing and unable to move, when she saw a figure emerge from
the shade of the woods and pass along the bank, at some little distance
before her. It went swiftly, and her spirits were so overcome with awe,
that, though she saw, she did not much observe it.
Having left the spot, with a resolution never again to visit it alone,
at so late an hour, she began to approach the château, when she heard
voices calling her from the part of the wood, which was nearest to it.
They were the shouts of the Count’s servants, who were sent to search
for her; and when she entered the supper-room, where he sat with Henri
and Blanche, he gently reproached her with a look, which she blushed to
have deserved.
This little occurrence deeply impressed her mind, and, when she
withdrew to her own room, it recalled so forcibly the circumstances she
had witnessed, a few nights before, that she had scarcely courage to
remain alone. She watched to a late hour, when, no sound having renewed
her fears, she, at length, sunk to repose. But this was of short
continuance, for she was disturbed by a loud and unusual noise, that
seemed to come from the gallery, into which her chamber opened. Groans
were distinctly heard, and, immediately after, a dead weight fell
against the door, with a violence, that threatened to burst it open.
She called loudly to know who was there, but received no answer,
though, at intervals, she still thought she heard something like a low
moaning. Fear deprived her of the power to move. Soon after, she heard
footsteps in a remote part of the gallery, and, as they approached, she
called more loudly than before, till the steps paused at her door. She
then distinguished the voices of several of the servants, who seemed
too much engaged by some circumstance without, to attend to her calls;
but, Annette soon after entering the room for water, Emily understood,
that one of the maids had fainted, whom she immediately desired them to
bring into her room, where she assisted to restore her. When this girl
had recovered her speech, she affirmed, that, as she was passing up the
back staircase, in the way to her chamber, she had seen an apparition
on the second landing-place; she held the lamp low, she said, that she
might pick her way, several of the stairs being infirm and even
decayed, and it was upon raising her eyes, that she saw this
appearance. It stood for a moment in the corner of the landing-place,
which she was approaching, and then, gliding up the stairs, vanished at
the door of the apartment, that had been lately opened. She heard
afterwards a hollow sound.
“Then the devil has got a key to that apartment,” said Dorothée, “for
it could be nobody but he; I locked the door myself!”
The girl, springing down the stairs and passing up the great staircase,
had run, with a faint scream, till she reached the gallery, where she
fell, groaning, at Emily’s door.
Gently chiding her for the alarm she had occasioned, Emily tried to
make her ashamed of her fears; but the girl persisted in saying, that
she had seen an apparition, till she went to her own room, whither she
was accompanied by all the servants present, except Dorothée, who, at
Emily’s request, remained with her during the night. Emily was
perplexed, and Dorothée was terrified, and mentioned many occurrences
of former times, which had long since confirmed her superstitions;
among these, according to her belief, she had once witnessed an
appearance, like that just described, and on the very same spot, and it
was the remembrance of it, that had made her pause, when she was going
to ascend the stairs with Emily, and which had increased her reluctance
to open the north apartments. Whatever might be Emily’s opinions, she
did not disclose them, but listened attentively to all that Dorothée
communicated, which occasioned her much thought and perplexity.
From this night the terror of the servants increased to such an excess,
that several of them determined to leave the château, and requested
their discharge of the Count, who, if he had any faith in the subject
of their alarm, thought proper to dissemble it, and, anxious to avoid
the inconvenience that threatened him, employed ridicule and then
argument to convince them they had nothing to apprehend from
supernatural agency. But fear had rendered their minds inaccessible to
reason; and it was now, that Ludovico proved at once his courage and
his gratitude for the kindness he had received from the Count, by
offering to watch, during a night, in the suite of rooms, reputed to be
haunted. He feared, he said, no spirits, and, if anything of human form
appeared—he would prove that he dreaded that as little.
The Count paused upon the offer, while the servants, who heard it,
looked upon one another in doubt and amazement, and Annette, terrified
for the safety of Ludovico, employed tears and entreaties to dissuade
him from his purpose.
“You are a bold fellow,” said the Count, smiling, “Think well of what
you are going to encounter, before you finally determine upon it.
However, if you persevere in your resolution, I will accept your offer,
and your intrepidity shall not go unrewarded.”
“I desire no reward, your _Excellenza_,” replied Ludovico, “but your
approbation. Your _Excellenza_ has been sufficiently good to me
already; but I wish to have arms, that I may be equal to my enemy, if
he should appear.”
“Your sword cannot defend you against a ghost,” replied the Count,
throwing a glance of irony upon the other servants, “neither can bars,
nor bolts; for a spirit, you know, can glide through a keyhole as
easily as through a door.”
“Give me a sword, my lord Count,” said Ludovico, “and I will lay all
the spirits, that shall attack me, in the red sea.”
“Well,” said the Count, “you shall have a sword, and good cheer, too;
and your brave comrades here will, perhaps, have courage enough to
remain another night in the château, since your boldness will
certainly, for this night, at least, confine all the malice of the
spectre to yourself.”
Curiosity now struggled with fear in the minds of several of his fellow
servants, and, at length, they resolved to await the event of
Ludovico’s rashness.
Emily was surprised and concerned, when she heard of his intention, and
was frequently inclined to mention what she had witnessed in the north
apartments to the Count, for she could not entirely divest herself of
fears for Ludovico’s safety, though her reason represented these to be
absurd. The necessity, however, of concealing the secret, with which
Dorothée had entrusted her, and which must have been mentioned, with
the late occurrence, in excuse for her having so privately visited the
north apartments, kept her entirely silent on the subject of her
apprehension; and she tried only to sooth Annette, who held, that
Ludovico was certainly to be destroyed; and who was much less affected
by Emily’s consolatory efforts, than by the manner of old Dorothée, who
often, as she exclaimed Ludovico, sighed, and threw up her eyes to
heaven.
CHAPTER VI
Ye gods of quiet, and of sleep profound!
Whose soft dominion o’er this castle sways,
And all the widely-silent places round,
Forgive me, if my trembling pen displays
What never yet was sung in mortal lays.
THOMSON
The Count gave orders for the north apartments to be opened and
prepared for the reception of Ludovico; but Dorothée, remembering what
she had lately witnessed there, feared to obey, and, not one of the
other servants daring to venture thither, the rooms remained shut up
till the time when Ludovico was to retire thither for the night, an
hour, for which the whole household waited with impatience.
After supper, Ludovico, by the order of the Count, attended him in his
closet, where they remained alone for near half an hour, and, on
leaving which, his Lord delivered to him a sword.
“It has seen service in mortal quarrels,” said the Count, jocosely,
“you will use it honourably, no doubt, in a spiritual one. Tomorrow,
let me hear that there is not one ghost remaining in the château.”
Ludovico received it with a respectful bow. “You shall be obeyed, my
Lord,” said he; “I will engage, that no spectre shall disturb the peace
of the château after this night.”
They now returned to the supper-room, where the Count’s guests awaited
to accompany him and Ludovico to the door of the north apartments, and
Dorothée, being summoned for the keys, delivered them to Ludovico, who
then led the way, followed by most of the inhabitants of the château.
Having reached the back staircase, several of the servants shrunk back,
and refused to go further, but the rest followed him to the top of the
staircase, where a broad landing-place allowed them to flock round him,
while he applied the key to the door, during which they watched him
with as much eager curiosity as if he had been performing some magical
rite.