The Mysteries of Udolpho
Emily very readily consented, but, though she could now give little
assistance, she was unwilling to quit the chamber, while any might be
necessary.
When Agnes recovered her senses, she again fixed her eyes on Emily, but
their wild expression was gone, and a gloomy melancholy had succeeded.
It was some moments before she recovered sufficient spirits to speak;
she then said feebly—“The likeness is wonderful!—surely it must be
something more than fancy. Tell me, I conjure you,” she added,
addressing Emily, “though your name is St. Aubert, are you not the
daughter of the Marchioness?”
“What Marchioness?” said Emily, in extreme surprise; for she had
imagined, from the calmness of Agnes’s manner, that her intellects were
restored. The abbess gave her a significant glance, but she repeated
the question.
“What Marchioness?” exclaimed Agnes, “I know but of one—the Marchioness
de Villeroi.”
Emily, remembering the emotion of her late father, upon the unexpected
mention of this lady, and his request to be laid near to the tomb of
the Villerois, now felt greatly interested, and she entreated Agnes to
explain the reason of her question. The abbess would now have withdrawn
Emily from the room, who being, however, detained by a strong interest,
repeated her entreaties.
“Bring me that casket, sister,” said Agnes; “I will show her to you;
yet you need only look in that mirror, and you will behold her; you
surely are her daughter: such striking resemblance is never found but
among near relations.”
The nun brought the casket, and Agnes, having directed her how to
unlock it, she took thence a miniature, in which Emily perceived the
exact resemblance of the picture, which she had found among her late
father’s papers. Agnes held out her hand to receive it; gazed upon it
earnestly for some moments in silence; and then, with a countenance of
deep despair, threw up her eyes to Heaven, and prayed inwardly. When
she had finished, she returned the miniature to Emily. “Keep it,” said
she, “I bequeath it to you, for I must believe it is your right. I have
frequently observed the resemblance between you; but never, till this
day, did it strike upon my conscience so powerfully! Stay, sister, do
not remove the casket—there is another picture I would show.”
Emily trembled with expectation, and the abbess again would have
withdrawn her. “Agnes is still disordered,” said she, “you observe how
she wanders. In these moods she says anything, and does not scruple, as
you have witnessed, to accuse herself of the most horrible crimes.”
Emily, however, thought she perceived something more than madness in
the inconsistencies of Agnes, whose mention of the Marchioness, and
production of her picture, had interested her so much, that she
determined to obtain further information, if possible, respecting the
subject of it.
The nun returned with the casket, and, Agnes pointing out to her a
secret drawer, she took from it another miniature. “Here,” said Agnes,
as she offered it to Emily, “learn a lesson for your vanity, at least;
look well at this picture, and see if you can discover any resemblance
between what I was, and what I am.”
Emily impatiently received the miniature, which her eyes had scarcely
glanced upon, before her trembling hands had nearly suffered it to
fall—it was the resemblance of the portrait of Signora Laurentini,
which she had formerly seen in the castle of Udolpho—the lady, who had
disappeared in so mysterious a manner, and whom Montoni had been
suspected of having caused to be murdered.
In silent astonishment, Emily continued to gaze alternately upon the
picture and the dying nun, endeavouring to trace a resemblance between
them, which no longer existed.
“Why do you look so sternly on me?” said Agnes, mistaking the nature of
Emily’s emotion.
“I have seen this face before,” said Emily, at length; “was it really
your resemblance?”
“You may well ask that question,” replied the nun,—“but it was once
esteemed a striking likeness of me. Look at me well, and see what guilt
has made me. I then was innocent; the evil passions of my nature slept.
Sister!” added she solemnly, and stretching forth her cold, damp hand
to Emily, who shuddered at its touch—“Sister! beware of the first
indulgence of the passions; beware of the first! Their course, if not
checked then, is rapid—their force is uncontrollable—they lead us we
know not whither—they lead us perhaps to the commission of crimes, for
which whole years of prayer and penitence cannot atone!—Such may be the
force of even a single passion, that it overcomes every other, and
sears up every other approach to the heart. Possessing us like a fiend,
it leads us on to the acts of a fiend, making us insensible to pity and
to conscience. And, when its purpose is accomplished, like a fiend, it
leaves us to the torture of those feelings, which its power had
suspended—not annihilated,—to the tortures of compassion, remorse, and
conscience. Then, we awaken as from a dream, and perceive a new world
around us—we gaze in astonishment, and horror—but the deed is
committed; not all the powers of heaven and earth united can undo
it—and the spectres of conscience will not fly! What are
riches—grandeur—health itself, to the luxury of a pure conscience, the
health of the soul;—and what the sufferings of poverty, disappointment,
despair—to the anguish of an afflicted one! O! how long is it since I
knew that luxury! I believed, that I had suffered the most agonizing
pangs of human nature, in love, jealousy, and despair—but these pangs
were ease, compared with the stings of conscience, which I have since
endured. I tasted too what was called the sweet of revenge—but it was
transient, it expired even with the object, that provoked it. Remember,
sister, that the passions are the seeds of vices as well as of virtues,
from which either may spring, accordingly as they are nurtured. Unhappy
they who have never been taught the art to govern them!”
“Alas! unhappy!” said the abbess, “and ill-informed of our holy
religion!” Emily listened to Agnes, in silent awe, while she still
examined the miniature, and became confirmed in her opinion of its
strong resemblance to the portrait at Udolpho. “This face is familiar
to me,” said she, wishing to lead the nun to an explanation, yet
fearing to discover too abruptly her knowledge of Udolpho.
“You are mistaken,” replied Agnes, “you certainly never saw that
picture before.”
“No,” replied Emily, “but I have seen one extremely like it.”
“Impossible,” said Agnes, who may now be called the Lady Laurentini.
“It was in the castle of Udolpho,” continued Emily, looking steadfastly
at her.
“Of Udolpho!” exclaimed Laurentini, “of Udolpho in Italy!” “The same,”
replied Emily.
“You know me then,” said Laurentini, “and you are the daughter of the
Marchioness.” Emily was somewhat surprised at this abrupt assertion. “I
am the daughter of the late Mons. St. Aubert,” said she; “and the lady
you name is an utter stranger to me.”
“At least you believe so,” rejoined Laurentini.
Emily asked what reasons there could be to believe otherwise.
“The family likeness, that you bear her,” said the nun. “The
Marchioness, it is known, was attached to a gentleman of Gascony, at
the time when she accepted the hand of the Marquis, by the command of
her father. Ill-fated, unhappy woman!”
Emily, remembering the extreme emotion which St. Aubert had betrayed on
the mention of the Marchioness, would now have suffered something more
than surprise, had her confidence in his integrity been less; as it
was, she could not, for a moment, believe what the words of Laurentini
insinuated; yet she still felt strongly interested, concerning them,
and begged, that she would explain them further.
“Do not urge me on that subject,” said the nun, “it is to me a terrible
one! Would that I could blot it from my memory!” She sighed deeply,
and, after the pause of a moment, asked Emily, by what means she had
discovered her name?
“By your portrait in the castle of Udolpho, to which this miniature
bears a striking resemblance,” replied Emily.
“You have been at Udolpho then!” said the nun, with great emotion.
“Alas! what scenes does the mention of it revive in my fancy—scenes of
happiness—of suffering—and of horror!”
At this moment, the terrible spectacle, which Emily had witnessed in a
chamber of that castle, occurred to her, and she shuddered, while she
looked upon the nun—and recollected her late words—that “years of
prayer and penitence could not wash out the foulness of murder.” She
was now compelled to attribute these to another cause, than that of
delirium. With a degree of horror, that almost deprived her of sense,
she now believed she looked upon a murderer; all the recollected
behaviour of Laurentini seemed to confirm the supposition, yet Emily
was still lost in a labyrinth of perplexities, and, not knowing how to
ask the questions, which might lead to truth, she could only hint them
in broken sentences.
“Your sudden departure from Udolpho”—said she.
Laurentini groaned.
“The reports that followed it,” continued Emily—“The west chamber—the
mournful veil—the object it conceals!—when murders are committed—”
The nun shrieked. “What! there again!” said she, endeavouring to raise
herself, while her starting eyes seemed to follow some object round the
room—“Come from the grave! What! Blood—blood too!—There was no
blood—thou canst not say it!—Nay, do not smile,—do not smile so
piteously!”
Laurentini fell into convulsions, as she uttered the last words; and
Emily, unable any longer to endure the horror of the scene, hurried
from the room, and sent some nuns to the assistance of the abbess.
The Lady Blanche, and the boarders, who were in the parlour, now
assembled round Emily, and, alarmed by her manner and affrighted
countenance, asked a hundred questions, which she avoided answering
further, than by saying, that she believed sister Agnes was dying. They
received this as a sufficient explanation of her terror, and had then
leisure to offer restoratives, which, at length, somewhat revived
Emily, whose mind was, however, so much shocked with the terrible
surmises, and perplexed with doubts by some words from the nun, that
she was unable to converse, and would have left the convent
immediately, had she not wished to know whether Laurentini would
survive the late attack. After waiting some time, she was informed,
that, the convulsions having ceased, Laurentini seemed to be reviving,
and Emily and Blanche were departing, when the abbess appeared, who,
drawing the former aside, said she had something of consequence to say
to her, but, as it was late, she would not detain her then, and
requested to see her on the following day.
Emily promised to visit her, and, having taken leave, returned with the
Lady Blanche towards the château, on the way to which the deep gloom of
the woods made Blanche lament, that the evening was so far advanced;
for the surrounding stillness and obscurity rendered her sensible of
fear, though there was a servant to protect her; while Emily was too
much engaged by the horrors of the scene she had just witnessed, to be
affected by the solemnity of the shades, otherwise than as they served
to promote her gloomy reverie, from which, however, she was at length
recalled by the Lady Blanche, who pointed out, at some distance, in the
dusky path they were winding, two persons slowly advancing. It was
impossible to avoid them without striking into a still more secluded
part of the wood, whither the strangers might easily follow; but all
apprehension vanished, when Emily distinguished the voice of Mons. Du
Pont, and perceived, that his companion was the gentleman, whom she had
seen at the monastery, and who was now conversing with so much