The Mysteries of Udolpho
stifled by the violence of his emotions,—“it is enough, my friend.”
Emily, though extremely surprised by her father’s manner, forbore to
express her feelings by any question. La Voisin began to apologise, but
St. Aubert interrupted him; “Apology is quite unnecessary,” said he,
“let us change the topic. You were speaking of the music we just now
heard.”
“I was, monsieur—but hark!—it comes again; listen to that voice!” They
were all silent;
At last a soft and solemn-breathing sound
Rose, like a stream of rich distilled perfumes,
And stole upon the air, that even Silence
Was took ere she was ’ware, and wished she might
Deny her nature, and be never more
Still, to be so displaced.
MILTON.
In a few moments the voice died into air, and the instrument, which had
been heard before, sounded in low symphony. St. Aubert now observed,
that it produced a tone much more full and melodious than that of a
guitar, and still more melancholy and soft than the lute. They
continued to listen, but the sounds returned no more. “This is
strange!” said St. Aubert, at length interrupting the silence. “Very
strange!” said Emily. “It is so,” rejoined La Voisin, and they were
again silent.
After a long pause, “It is now about eighteen years since I first heard
that music,” said La Voisin; “I remember it was on a fine summer’s
night, much like this, but later, that I was walking in the woods, and
alone. I remember, too, that my spirits were very low, for one of my
boys was ill, and we feared we should lose him. I had been watching at
his bedside all the evening while his mother slept; for she had sat up
with him the night before. I had been watching, and went out for a
little fresh air, the day had been very sultry. As I walked under the
shades and mused, I heard music at a distance, and thought it was
Claude playing upon his flute, as he often did of a fine evening, at
the cottage door. But, when I came to a place where the trees opened,
(I shall never forget it!) and stood looking up at the north-lights,
which shot up the heaven to a great height, I heard all of a sudden
such sounds!—they came so as I cannot describe. It was like the music
of angels, and I looked up again almost expecting to see them in the
sky. When I came home, I told what I had heard, but they laughed at me,
and said it must be some of the shepherds playing on their pipes, and I
could not persuade them to the contrary. A few nights after, however,
my wife herself heard the same sounds, and was as much surprised as I
was, and Father Denis frightened her sadly by saying, that it was music
come to warn her of her child’s death, and that music often came to
houses where there was a dying person.”
Emily, on hearing this, shrunk with a superstitious dread entirely new
to her, and could scarcely conceal her agitation from St. Aubert.
“But the boy lived, monsieur, in spite of Father Denis.”
“Father Denis!” said St. Aubert, who had listened to ‘narrative old
age’ with patient attention, “are we near a convent, then?”
“Yes, sir; the convent of St. Clair stands at no great distance, on the
sea shore yonder.”
“Ah!” said St. Aubert, as if struck with some sudden remembrance, “the
convent of St. Clair!” Emily observed the clouds of grief, mingled with
a faint expression of horror, gathering on his brow; his countenance
became fixed, and, touched as it now was by the silver whiteness of the
moonlight, he resembled one of those marble statues of a monument,
which seem to bend, in hopeless sorrow, over the ashes of the dead,
shown
by the blunted light
That the dim moon through painted casements lends.
THE EMIGRANTS.
“But, my dear sir,” said Emily, anxious to dissipate his thoughts, “you
forget that repose is necessary to you. If our kind host will give me
leave, I will prepare your bed, for I know how you like it to be made.”
St. Aubert, recollecting himself, and smiling affectionately, desired
she would not add to her fatigue by that attention; and La Voisin,
whose consideration for his guest had been suspended by the interests
which his own narrative had recalled, now started from his seat, and,
apologising for not having called Agnes from the green, hurried out of
the room.
In a few moments he returned with his daughter, a young woman of
pleasing countenance, and Emily learned from her, what she had not
before suspected, that, for their accommodation, it was necessary part
of La Voisin’s family should leave their beds; she lamented this
circumstance, but Agnes, by her reply, fully proved that she inherited,
at least, a share of her father’s courteous hospitality. It was
settled, that some of her children and Michael should sleep in the
neighbouring cottage.
“If I am better, tomorrow, my dear,” said St. Aubert when Emily
returned to him, “I mean to set out at an early hour, that we may rest,
during the heat of the day, and will travel towards home. In the
present state of my health and spirits I cannot look on a longer
journey with pleasure, and I am also very anxious to reach La Vallée.”
Emily, though she also desired to return, was grieved at her father’s
sudden wish to do so, which she thought indicated a greater degree of
indisposition than he would acknowledge. St. Aubert now retired to
rest, and Emily to her little chamber, but not to immediate repose. Her
thoughts returned to the late conversation, concerning the state of
departed spirits; a subject, at this time, particularly affecting to
her, when she had every reason to believe that her dear father would
ere long be numbered with them. She leaned pensively on the little open
casement, and in deep thought fixed her eyes on the heaven, whose blue
unclouded concave was studded thick with stars, the worlds, perhaps, of
spirits, unsphered of mortal mould. As her eyes wandered along the
boundless æther, her thoughts rose, as before, towards the sublimity of
the Deity, and to the contemplation of futurity. No busy note of this
world interrupted the course of her mind; the merry dance had ceased,
and every cottager had retired to his home. The still air seemed
scarcely to breathe upon the woods, and, now and then, the distant
sound of a solitary sheep-bell, or of a closing casement, was all that
broke on silence. At length, even this hint of human being was heard no
more. Elevated and enwrapt, while her eyes were often wet with tears of
sublime devotion and solemn awe, she continued at the casement, till
the gloom of midnight hung over the earth, and the planet, which La
Voisin had pointed out, sunk below the woods. She then recollected what
he had said concerning this planet, and the mysterious music; and, as
she lingered at the window, half hoping and half fearing that it would
return, her mind was led to the remembrance of the extreme emotion her
father had shown on mention of the Marquis La Villeroi’s death, and of
the fate of the Marchioness, and she felt strongly interested
concerning the remote cause of this emotion. Her surprise and curiosity
were indeed the greater, because she did not recollect ever to have
heard him mention the name of Villeroi.
No music, however, stole on the silence of the night, and Emily,
perceiving the lateness of the hour, returned to a scene of fatigue,
remembered that she was to rise early in the morning, and withdrew from
the window to repose.
CHAPTER VII
Let those deplore their doom,
Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn.
But lofty souls can look beyond the tomb,
Can smile at fate, and wonder how they mourn.
Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more return?
Is yonder wave the sun’s eternal bed?—
Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn,
And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed,
Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead!
BEATTIE
Emily, called, as she had requested, at an early hour, awoke, little
refreshed by sleep, for uneasy dreams had pursued her, and marred the
kindest blessing of the unhappy. But, when she opened her casement,
looked out upon the woods, bright with the morning sun, and inspired
the pure air, her mind was soothed. The scene was filled with that
cheering freshness, which seems to breathe the very spirit of health,
and she heard only sweet and _picturesque_ sounds, if such an
expression may be allowed—the matin-bell of a distant convent, the
faint murmur of the sea-waves, the song of birds, and the far-off low
of cattle, which she saw coming slowly on between the trunks of trees.
Struck with the circumstances of imagery around her, she indulged the
pensive tranquillity which they inspired; and while she leaned on her
window, waiting till St. Aubert should descend to breakfast, her ideas
arranged themselves in the following lines:
THE FIRST HOUR OF MORNING
How sweet to wind the forest’s tangled shade,
When early twilight, from the eastern bound,
Dawns on the sleeping landscape in the glade,
And fades as morning spreads her blush around!
When ev’ry infant flower, that wept in night,
Lifts its chill head soft glowing with a tear,
Expands its tender blossom to the light,
And gives its incense to the genial air.
How fresh the breeze that wafts the rich perfume,
And swells the melody of waking birds;
The hum of bees, beneath the verdant gloom,
And woodman’s song, and low of distant herds!
Then, doubtful gleams the mountain’s hoary head,
Seen through the parting foliage from afar;
And, farther still, the ocean’s misty bed,
With flitting sails, that partial sunbeams share.
But, vain the sylvan shade—the breath of May,
The voice of music floating on the gale,
And forms, that beam through morning’s dewy veil,
If health no longer bid the heart be gay!
O balmy hour! ’tis thine her wealth to give,
Here spread her blush, and bid the parent live!
Emily now heard persons moving below in the cottage, and presently the
voice of Michael, who was talking to his mules, as he led them forth
from a hut adjoining. As she left her room, St. Aubert, who was now
risen, met her at the door, apparently as little restored by sleep as
herself. She led him down stairs to the little parlour, in which they
had supped on the preceding night, where they found a neat breakfast
set out, while the host and his daughter waited to bid them
good-morrow.
“I envy you this cottage, my good friends,” said St. Aubert, as he met
them, “it is so pleasant, so quiet, and so neat; and this air, that one
breathes—if anything could restore lost health, it would surely be this
air.”
La Voisin bowed gratefully, and replied, with the gallantry of a
Frenchman, “Our cottage may be envied, sir, since you and Mademoiselle
have honoured it with your presence.” St. Aubert gave him a friendly
smile for his compliment, and sat down to a table, spread with cream,
fruit, new cheese, butter, and coffee. Emily, who had observed her
father with attention and thought he looked very ill, endeavoured to
persuade him to defer travelling till the afternoon; but he seemed very
anxious to be at home, and his anxiety he expressed repeatedly, and
with an earnestness that was unusual with him. He now said, he found
himself as well as he had been of late, and that he could bear
travelling better in the cool hour of the morning, than at any other
time. But, while he was talking with his venerable host, and thanking
him for his kind attentions, Emily observed his countenance change,
and, before she could reach him, he fell back in his chair. In a few
moments he recovered from the sudden faintness that had come over him,
but felt so ill, that he perceived himself unable to set out, and,
having remained a little while, struggling against the pressure of
indisposition, he begged he might be helped up stairs to bed. This