The Mysteries of Udolpho
On his return, he proposed removing a little higher up the mountain, to
where the woods opened upon a grand and extensive prospect; and thither
they were preparing to go, when they saw a young woman join the
children, and caress and weep over them.
The travellers, interested by her distress, stopped to observe her. She
took the youngest of the children in her arms, and, perceiving the
strangers, hastily dried her tears, and proceeded to the cottage. St.
Aubert, on enquiring the occasion of her sorrow, learned that her
husband, who was a shepherd, and lived here in the summer months to
watch over the flocks he led to feed upon these mountains, had lost, on
the preceding night, his little all. A gang of gipsies, who had for
some time infested the neighbourhood, had driven away several of his
master’s sheep. “Jacques,” added the shepherd’s wife, “had saved a
little money, and had bought a few sheep with it, and now they must go
to his master for those that are stolen; and what is worse than all,
his master, when he comes to know how it is, will trust him no longer
with the care of his flocks, for he is a hard man! and then what is to
become of our children!”
The innocent countenance of the woman, and the simplicity of her manner
in relating her grievance, inclined St. Aubert to believe her story;
and Valancourt, convinced that it was true, asked eagerly what was the
value of the stolen sheep; on hearing which he turned away with a look
of disappointment. St. Aubert put some money into her hand, Emily too
gave something from her little purse, and they walked towards the
cliff; but Valancourt lingered behind, and spoke to the shepherd’s
wife, who was now weeping with gratitude and surprise. He enquired how
much money was yet wanting to replace the stolen sheep, and found, that
it was a sum very little short of all he had about him. He was
perplexed and distressed. “This sum then,” said he to himself, “would
make this poor family completely happy—it is in my power to give it—to
make them completely happy! But what is to become of me?—how shall I
contrive to reach home with the little money that will remain?” For a
moment he stood, unwilling to forego the luxury of raising a family
from ruin to happiness, yet considering the difficulties of pursuing
his journey with so small a sum as would be left.
While he was in this state of perplexity, the shepherd himself
appeared: his children ran to meet him; he took one of them in his
arms, and, with the other clinging to his coat, came forward with a
loitering step. His forlorn and melancholy look determined Valancourt
at once; he threw down all the money he had, except a very few louis,
and bounded away after St. Aubert and Emily, who were proceeding slowly
up the steep. Valancourt had seldom felt his heart so light as at this
moment; his gay spirits danced with pleasure; every object around him
appeared more interesting, or beautiful, than before. St. Aubert
observed the uncommon vivacity of his countenance: “What has pleased
you so much?” said he. “O what a lovely day,” replied Valancourt, “how
brightly the sun shines, how pure is this air, what enchanting
scenery!” “It is indeed enchanting,” said St. Aubert, whom early
experience had taught to understand the nature of Valancourt’s present
feelings. “What pity that the wealthy, who can command such sunshine,
should ever pass their days in gloom—in the cold shade of selfishness!
For you, my young friend, may the sun always shine as brightly as at
this moment; may your own conduct always give you the sunshine of
benevolence and reason united!”
Valancourt, highly flattered by this compliment, could make no reply
but by a smile of gratitude.
They continued to wind under the woods, between the grassy knolls of
the mountain, and, as they reached the shady summit, which he had
pointed out, the whole party burst into an exclamation. Behind the spot
where they stood, the rock rose perpendicularly in a massy wall to a
considerable height, and then branched out into overhanging crags.
Their grey tints were well contrasted by the bright hues of the plants
and wild flowers, that grew in their fractured sides, and were deepened
by the gloom of the pines and cedars, that waved above. The steeps
below, over which the eye passed abruptly to the valley, were fringed
with thickets of alpine shrubs; and, lower still, appeared the tufted
tops of the chesnut woods, that clothed their base, among which peeped
forth the shepherd’s cottage, just left by the travellers, with its
bluish smoke curling high in the air. On every side appeared the
majestic summits of the Pyrenees, some exhibiting tremendous crags of
marble, whose appearance was changing every instant, as the varying
lights fell upon their surface; others, still higher, displaying only
snowy points, while their lower steeps were covered almost invariably
with forests of pine, larch, and oak, that stretched down to the vale.
This was one of the narrow valleys, that open from the Pyrenees into
the country of Rousillon, and whose green pastures, and cultivated
beauty, form a decided and wonderful contrast to the romantic grandeur
that environs it. Through a vista of the mountains appeared the
lowlands of Rousillon, tinted with the blue haze of distance, as they
united with the waters of the Mediterranean; where, on a promontory,
which marked the boundary of the shore, stood a lonely beacon, over
which were seen circling flights of sea-fowl. Beyond, appeared, now and
then, a stealing sail, white with the sunbeam, and whose progress was
perceivable by its approach to the light-house. Sometimes, too, was
seen a sail so distant, that it served only to mark the line of
separation between the sky and the waves.
On the other side of the valley, immediately opposite to the spot where
the travellers rested, a rocky pass opened toward Gascony. Here no sign
of cultivation appeared. The rocks of granite, that screened the glen,
rose abruptly from their base, and stretched their barren points to the
clouds, unvaried with woods, and uncheered even by a hunter’s cabin.
Sometimes, indeed, a gigantic larch threw its long shade over the
precipice, and here and there a cliff reared on its brow a monumental
cross, to tell the traveller the fate of him who had ventured thither
before. This spot seemed the very haunt of banditti; and Emily, as she
looked down upon it, almost expected to see them stealing out from some
hollow cave to look for their prey. Soon after an object not less
terrific struck her,—a gibbet standing on a point of rock near the
entrance of the pass, and immediately over one of the crosses she had
before observed. These were hieroglyphics that told a plain and
dreadful story. She forbore to point it out to St. Aubert, but it threw
a gloom over her spirits, and made her anxious to hasten forward, that
they might with certainty reach Rousillon before night-fall. It was
necessary, however, that St. Aubert should take some refreshment, and,
seating themselves on the short dry turf, they opened the basket of
provisions, while
by breezy murmurs cool’d,
Broad o’er _their_ heads the verdant cedars wave,
And high palmetos lift their graceful shade.
———_they_ draw
Ethereal soul, there drink reviving gales
Profusely breathing from the piney groves,
And vales of fragrance; there at a distance hear
The roaring floods, and cataracts.
THOMSON
St. Aubert was revived by rest, and by the serene air of this summit;
and Valancourt was so charmed with all around, and with the
conversation of his companions, that he seemed to have forgotten he had
any further to go. Having concluded their simple repast, they gave a
long farewell look to the scene, and again began to ascend. St. Aubert
rejoiced when he reached the carriage, which Emily entered with him;
but Valancourt, willing to take a more extensive view of the enchanting
country, into which they were about to descend, than he could do from a
carriage, loosened his dogs, and once more bounded with them along the
banks of the road. He often quitted it for points that promised a wider
prospect, and the slow pace, at which the mules travelled, allowed him
to overtake them with ease. Whenever a scene of uncommon magnificence
appeared, he hastened to inform St. Aubert, who, though he was too much
tired to walk himself, sometimes made the chaise wait, while Emily went
to the neighbouring cliff.
It was evening when they descended the lower alps, that bind Rousillon,
and form a majestic barrier round that charming country, leaving it
open only on the east to the Mediterranean. The gay tints of
cultivation once more beautified the landscape; for the lowlands were
coloured with the richest hues, which a luxuriant climate, and an
industrious people can awaken into life. Groves of orange and lemon
perfumed the air, their ripe fruit glowing among the foliage; while,
sloping to the plains, extensive vineyards spread their treasures.
Beyond these, woods and pastures, and mingled towns and hamlets
stretched towards the sea, on whose bright surface gleamed many a
distant sail; while, over the whole scene, was diffused the purple glow
of evening. This landscape with the surrounding alps did, indeed,
present a perfect picture of the lovely and the sublime, of “beauty
sleeping in the lap of horror.”
The travellers, having reached the plains, proceeded, between hedges of
flowering myrtle and pomegranate, to the town of Arles, where they
proposed to rest for the night. They met with simple, but neat
accommodation, and would have passed a happy evening, after the toils
and the delights of this day, had not the approaching separation thrown
a gloom over their spirit. It was St. Aubert’s plan to proceed, on the
morrow, to the borders of the Mediterranean, and travel along its
shores into Languedoc; and Valancourt, since he was now nearly
recovered, and had no longer a pretence for continuing with his new
friends, resolved to leave them here. St. Aubert, who was much pleased
with him, invited him to go further, but did not repeat the invitation,
and Valancourt had resolution enough to forego the temptation of
accepting it, that he might prove himself not unworthy of the favour.
On the following morning, therefore, they were to part, St. Aubert to
pursue his way to Languedoc, and Valancourt to explore new scenes among
the mountains, on his return home. During this evening he was often
silent and thoughtful; St. Aubert’s manner towards him was
affectionate, though grave, and Emily was serious, though she made
frequent efforts to appear cheerful. After one of the most melancholy
evenings they had yet passed together, they separated for the night.
CHAPTER VI
I care not, Fortune! what you me deny;
You cannot rob me of free nature’s grace;
You cannot shut the windows of the sky,
Through which Aurora shows her brightening face;
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace
The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve:
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace,
And I their toys to the great children leave:
Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.
THOMSON
In the morning, Valancourt breakfasted with St. Aubert and Emily,
neither of whom seemed much refreshed by sleep. The languor of illness
still hung over St. Aubert, and to Emily’s fears his disorder appeared
to be increasing fast upon him. She watched his looks with anxious
affection, and their expression was always faithfully reflected in her
own.
At the commencement of their acquaintance, Valancourt had made known
his name and family. St. Aubert was not a stranger to either, for the
family estates, which were now in the possession of an elder brother of
Valancourt, were little more than twenty miles distant from La Vallée,