The Mysteries of Udolpho
housekeeper, informing them of the sad event, that had taken place, and
of her own situation. From her aunt she received an answer, abounding
more in common-place condolement, than in traits of real sorrow, which
assured her, that a servant should be sent to conduct her to La Vallée,
for that her own time was so much occupied by company, that she had no
leisure to undertake so long a journey. However Emily might prefer La
Vallée to Thoulouse, she could not be insensible to the indecorous and
unkind conduct of her aunt, in suffering her to return thither, where
she had no longer a relation to console and protect her; a conduct,
which was the more culpable, since St. Aubert had appointed Madame
Cheron the guardian of his orphan daughter.
Madame Cheron’s servant made the attendance of the good La Voisin
unnecessary; and Emily, who felt sensibly her obligations to him, for
all his kind attention to her late father, as well as to herself, was
glad to spare him a long, and what, at his time of life, must have been
a troublesome journey.
During her stay at the convent, the peace and sanctity that reigned
within, the tranquil beauty of the scenery without, and the delicate
attentions of the abbess and the nuns, were circumstances so soothing
to her mind, that they almost tempted her to leave a world, where she
had lost her dearest friends, and devote herself to the cloister, in a
spot, rendered sacred to her by containing the tomb of St. Aubert. The
pensive enthusiasm, too, so natural to her temper, had spread a
beautiful illusion over the sanctified retirement of a nun, that almost
hid from her view the selfishness of its security. But the touches,
which a melancholy fancy, slightly tinctured with superstition, gave to
the monastic scene, began to fade, as her spirits revived, and brought
once more to her heart an image, which had only transiently been
banished thence. By this she was silently awakened to hope and comfort
and sweet affections; visions of happiness gleamed faintly at a
distance, and, though she knew them to be illusions, she could not
resolve to shut them out for ever. It was the remembrance of
Valancourt, of his taste, his genius, and of the countenance which
glowed with both, that, perhaps, alone determined her to return to the
world. The grandeur and sublimity of the scenes, amidst which they had
first met, had fascinated her fancy, and had imperceptibly contributed
to render Valancourt more interesting by seeming to communicate to him
somewhat of their own character. The esteem, too, which St. Aubert had
repeatedly expressed for him, sanctioned this kindness; but, though his
countenance and manner had continually expressed his admiration of her,
he had not otherwise declared it; and even the hope of seeing him again
was so distant, that she was scarcely conscious of it, still less that
it influenced her conduct on this occasion.
It was several days after the arrival of Madame Cheron’s servant before
Emily was sufficiently recovered to undertake the journey to La Vallée.
On the evening preceding her departure, she went to the cottage to take
leave of La Voisin and his family, and to make them a return for their
kindness. The old man she found sitting on a bench at his door, between
his daughter, and his son-in-law, who was just returned from his daily
labour, and who was playing upon a pipe, that, in tone, resembled an
oboe. A flask of wine stood beside the old man, and, before him, a
small table with fruit and bread, round which stood several of his
grandsons, fine rosy children, who were taking their supper, as their
mother distributed it. On the edge of the little green, that spread
before the cottage, were cattle and a few sheep reposing under the
trees. The landscape was touched with the mellow light of the evening
sun, whose long slanting beams played through a vista of the woods, and
lighted up the distant turrets of the château. She paused a moment,
before she emerged from the shade, to gaze upon the happy group before
her—on the complacency and ease of healthy age, depictured on the
countenance of La Voisin; the maternal tenderness of Agnes, as she
looked upon her children, and the innocency of infantine pleasures,
reflected in their smiles. Emily looked again at the venerable old man,
and at the cottage; the memory of her father rose with full force upon
her mind, and she hastily stepped forward, afraid to trust herself with
a longer pause. She took an affectionate and affecting leave of La
Voisin and his family; he seemed to love her as his daughter, and shed
tears; Emily shed many. She avoided going into the cottage, since she
knew it would revive emotions, such as she could not now endure.
One painful scene yet awaited her, for she determined to visit again
her father’s grave; and that she might not be interrupted, or observed
in the indulgence of her melancholy tenderness, she deferred her visit,
till every inhabitant of the convent, except the nun who promised to
bring her the key of the church, should be retired to rest. Emily
remained in her chamber, till she heard the convent bell strike twelve,
when the nun came, as she had appointed, with the key of a private
door, that opened into the church, and they descended together the
narrow winding staircase, that led thither. The nun offered to
accompany Emily to the grave, adding, “It is melancholy to go alone at
this hour;” but the former, thanking her for the consideration, could
not consent to have any witness of her sorrow; and the sister, having
unlocked the door, gave her the lamp. “You will remember, sister,” said
she, “that in the east aisle, which you must pass, is a newly opened
grave; hold the light to the ground, that you may not stumble over the
loose earth.” Emily, thanking her again, took the lamp, and, stepping
into the church, sister Mariette departed. But Emily paused a moment at
the door; a sudden fear came over her, and she returned to the foot of
the staircase, where, as she heard the steps of the nun ascending, and,
while she held up the lamp, saw her black veil waving over the spiral
balusters, she was tempted to call her back. While she hesitated, the
veil disappeared, and, in the next moment, ashamed of her fears, she
returned to the church. The cold air of the aisles chilled her, and
their deep silence and extent, feebly shone upon by the moonlight, that
streamed through a distant gothic window, would at any other time have
awed her into superstition; now, grief occupied all her attention. She
scarcely heard the whispering echoes of her own steps, or thought of
the open grave, till she found herself almost on its brink. A friar of
the convent had been buried there on the preceding evening, and, as she
had sat alone in her chamber at twilight, she heard, at distance, the
monks chanting the requiem for his soul. This brought freshly to her
memory the circumstances of her father’s death; and, as the voices,
mingling with a low querulous peal of the organ, swelled faintly,
gloomy and affecting visions had arisen upon her mind. Now she
remembered them, and, turning aside to avoid the broken ground, these
recollections made her pass on with quicker steps to the grave of St.
Aubert, when in the moonlight, that fell athwart a remote part of the
aisle, she thought she saw a shadow gliding between the pillars. She
stopped to listen, and, not hearing any footstep, believed that her
fancy had deceived her, and, no longer apprehensive of being observed,
proceeded. St. Aubert was buried beneath a plain marble, bearing little
more than his name and the date of his birth and death, near the foot
of the stately monument of the Villerois. Emily remained at his grave,
till a chime, that called the monks to early prayers, warned her to
retire; then, she wept over it a last farewell, and forced herself from
the spot. After this hour of melancholy indulgence, she was refreshed
by a deeper sleep, than she had experienced for a long time, and, on
awakening, her mind was more tranquil and resigned, than it had been
since St. Aubert’s death.
But, when the moment of her departure from the convent arrived, all her
grief returned; the memory of the dead, and the kindness of the living
attached her to the place; and for the sacred spot, where her father’s
remains were interred, she seemed to feel all those tender affections
which we conceive for home. The abbess repeated many kind assurances of
regard at their parting, and pressed her to return, if ever she should
find her condition elsewhere unpleasant; many of the nuns also
expressed unaffected regret at her departure, and Emily left the
convent with many tears, and followed by sincere wishes for her
happiness.
She had travelled several leagues, before the scenes of the country,
through which she passed, had power to rouse her for a moment from the
deep melancholy, into which she was sunk, and, when they did, it was
only to remind her, that, on her last view of them, St. Aubert was at
her side, and to call up to her remembrance the remarks he had
delivered on similar scenery. Thus, without any particular occurrence,
passed the day in languor and dejection. She slept that night in a town
on the skirts of Languedoc, and, on the following morning, entered
Gascony.
Towards the close of this day, Emily came within view of the plains in
the neighbourhood of La Vallée, and the well-known objects of former
times began to press upon her notice, and with them recollections, that
awakened all her tenderness and grief. Often, while she looked through
her tears upon the wild grandeur of the Pyrenees, now varied with the
rich lights and shadows of evening, she remembered, that, when last she
saw them, her father partook with her of the pleasure they inspired.
Suddenly some scene, which he had particularly pointed out to her,
would present itself, and the sick languor of despair would steal upon
her heart. “There!” she would exclaim, “there are the very cliffs,
there the wood of pines, which he looked at with such delight, as we
passed this road together for the last time. There, too, under the crag
of that mountain, is the cottage, peeping from among the cedars, which
he bade me remember, and copy with my pencil. O my father, shall I
never see you more!”
As she drew near the château, these melancholy memorials of past times
multiplied. At length, the château itself appeared, amid the glowing
beauty of St. Aubert’s favourite landscape. This was an object, which
called for fortitude, not for tears; Emily dried hers, and prepared to
meet with calmness the trying moment of her return to that home, where
there was no longer a parent to welcome her. “Yes,” said she, “let me
not forget the lessons he has taught me! How often he has pointed out
the necessity of resisting even virtuous sorrow; how often we have
admired together the greatness of a mind, that can at once suffer and
reason! O my father! if you are permitted to look down upon your child,
it will please you to see, that she remembers, and endeavours to
practise, the precepts you have given her.”
A turn on the road now allowed a nearer view of the château, the
chimneys, tipped with light, rising from behind St. Aubert’s favourite
oaks, whose foliage partly concealed the lower part of the building.
Emily could not suppress a heavy sigh. “This, too, was his favourite
hour,” said she, as she gazed upon the long evening shadows, stretched
athwart the landscape. “How deep the repose, how lovely the scene!
lovely and tranquil as in former days!”
Again she resisted the pressure of sorrow, till her ear caught the gay
melody of the dance, which she had so often listened to, as she walked
with St. Aubert, on the margin of the Garonne, when all her fortitude
forsook her, and she continued to weep, till the carriage stopped at