The Mysteries of Udolpho
from a place so near to you, and should probably have lingered about
the château till morning dawned. O how heavily the moments have passed,
yet with what various emotion have they been marked, as I sometimes
thought I heard footsteps, and fancied you were approaching, and then
again—perceived only a dead and dreary silence! But, when you opened
the door of the pavilion, and the darkness prevented my distinguishing
with certainty, whether it was my love—my heart beat so strongly with
hopes and fears, that I could not speak. The instant I heard the
plaintive accents of your voice, my doubts vanished, but not my fears,
till you spoke of me; then, losing the apprehension of alarming you in
the excess of my emotion, I could no longer be silent. O Emily! these
are moments, in which joy and grief struggle so powerfully for
pre-eminence, that the heart can scarcely support the contest!”
Emily’s heart acknowledged the truth of this assertion, but the joy she
felt on thus meeting Valancourt, at the very moment when she was
lamenting, that they must probably meet no more, soon melted into
grief, as reflection stole over her thoughts, and imagination prompted
visions of the future. She struggled to recover the calm dignity of
mind, which was necessary to support her through this last interview,
and which Valancourt found it utterly impossible to attain, for the
transports of his joy changed abruptly into those of suffering, and he
expressed in the most impassioned language his horror of this
separation, and his despair of their ever meeting again. Emily wept
silently as she listened to him, and then, trying to command her own
distress, and to sooth his, she suggested every circumstance that could
lead to hope. But the energy of his fears led him instantly to detect
the friendly fallacies, which she endeavoured to impose on herself and
him, and also to conjure up illusions too powerful for his reason.
“You are going from me,” said he, “to a distant country, O how
distant!—to new society, new friends, new admirers, with people too,
who will try to make you forget me, and to promote new connections! How
can I know this, and not know, that you will never return for me—never
can be mine.” His voice was stifled by sighs.
“You believe, then,” said Emily, “that the pangs I suffer proceed from
a trivial and temporary interest; you believe—”
“Suffer!” interrupted Valancourt, “suffer for me! O Emily—how sweet—how
bitter are those words; what comfort, what anguish do they give! I
ought not to doubt the steadiness of your affection, yet such is the
inconsistency of real love, that it is always awake to suspicion,
however unreasonable; always requiring new assurances from the object
of its interest, and thus it is, that I always feel revived, as by a
new conviction, when your words tell me I am dear to you; and, wanting
these, I relapse into doubt, and too often into despondency.” Then
seeming to recollect himself, he exclaimed, “But what a wretch am I,
thus to torture you, and in these moments, too! I, who ought to support
and comfort you!”
This reflection overcame Valancourt with tenderness, but, relapsing
into despondency, he again felt only for himself, and lamented again
this cruel separation, in a voice and words so impassioned, that Emily
could no longer struggle to repress her own grief, or to sooth his.
Valancourt, between these emotions of love and pity, lost the power,
and almost the wish, of repressing his agitation; and, in the intervals
of convulsive sobs, he, at one moment, kissed away her tears, then told
her cruelly, that possibly she might never again weep for him, and then
tried to speak more calmly, but only exclaimed, “O Emily—my heart will
break!—I cannot—cannot leave you! Now—I gaze upon that countenance, now
I hold you in my arms! a little while, and all this will appear a
dream. I shall look, and cannot see you; shall try to recollect your
features—and the impression will be fled from my imagination;—to hear
the tones of your voice, and even memory will be silent!—I cannot,
cannot leave you! Why should we confide the happiness of our whole
lives to the will of people, who have no right to interrupt, and,
except in giving you to me, have no power to promote it? O Emily!
venture to trust your own heart, venture to be mine for ever!” His
voice trembled, and he was silent; Emily continued to weep, and was
silent also, when Valancourt proceeded to propose an immediate
marriage, and that at an early hour on the following morning, she
should quit Madame Montoni’s house, and be conducted by him to the
church of the Augustines, where a friar should await to unite them.
The silence, with which she listened to a proposal, dictated by love
and despair, and enforced at a moment, when it seemed scarcely possible
for her to oppose it;—when her heart was softened by the sorrows of a
separation, that might be eternal, and her reason obscured by the
illusions of love and terror, encouraged him to hope, that it would not
be rejected. “Speak, my Emily!” said Valancourt eagerly, “let me hear
your voice, let me hear you confirm my fate.” she spoke not; her cheek
was cold, and her senses seemed to fail her, but she did not faint. To
Valancourt’s terrified imagination she appeared to be dying; he called
upon her name, rose to go to the château for assistance, and then,
recollecting her situation, feared to go, or to leave her for a moment.
After a few minutes, she drew a deep sigh, and began to revive. The
conflict she had suffered, between love and the duty she at present
owed to her father’s sister; her repugnance to a clandestine marriage,
her fear of emerging on the world with embarrassments, such as might
ultimately involve the object of her affection in misery and
repentance;—all this various interest was too powerful for a mind,
already enervated by sorrow, and her reason had suffered a transient
suspension. But duty, and good sense, however hard the conflict, at
length, triumphed over affection and mournful presentiment; above all,
she dreaded to involve Valancourt in obscurity and vain regret, which
she saw, or thought she saw, must be the too certain consequence of a
marriage in their present circumstances; and she acted, perhaps, with
somewhat more than female fortitude, when she resolved to endure a
present, rather than provoke a distant misfortune.
With a candour, that proved how truly she esteemed and loved him, and
which endeared her to him, if possible, more than ever, she told
Valancourt all her reasons for rejecting his proposals. Those, which
influenced her concerning his future welfare, he instantly refuted, or
rather contradicted; but they awakened tender considerations for her,
which the frenzy of passion and despair had concealed before, and love,
which had but lately prompted him to propose a clandestine and
immediate marriage, now induced him to renounce it. The triumph was
almost too much for his heart; for Emily’s sake, he endeavoured to
stifle his grief, but the swelling anguish would not be restrained. “O
Emily!” said he, “I must leave you—I _must_ leave you, and I know it is
for ever!”
Convulsive sobs again interrupted his words, and they wept together in
silence, till Emily, recollecting the danger of being discovered, and
the impropriety of prolonging an interview, which might subject her to
censure, summoned all her fortitude to utter a last farewell.
“Stay!” said Valancourt, “I conjure you stay, for I have much to tell
you. The agitation of my mind has hitherto suffered me to speak only on
the subject that occupied it;—I have forborne to mention a doubt of
much importance, partly, lest it should appear as if I told it with an
ungenerous view of alarming you into a compliance with my late
proposal.”
Emily, much agitated, did not leave Valancourt, but she led him from
the pavilion, and, as they walked upon the terrace, he proceeded as
follows:
“This Montoni: I have heard some strange hints concerning him. Are you
certain he is of Madame Quesnel’s family, and that his fortune is what
it appears to be?”
“I have no reason to doubt either,” replied Emily, in a voice of alarm.
“Of the first, indeed, I cannot doubt, but I have no certain means of
judging of the latter, and I entreat you will tell me all you have
heard.”
“That I certainly will, but it is very imperfect, and unsatisfactory
information. I gathered it by accident from an Italian, who was
speaking to another person of this Montoni. They were talking of his
marriage; the Italian said, that if he was the person he meant, he was
not likely to make Madame Cheron happy. He proceeded to speak of him in
general terms of dislike, and then gave some particular hints,
concerning his character, that excited my curiosity, and I ventured to
ask him a few questions. He was reserved in his replies, but, after
hesitating for some time, he owned, that he had understood abroad, that
Montoni was a man of desperate fortune and character. He said something
of a castle of Montoni’s, situated among the Apennines, and of some
strange circumstances, that might be mentioned, as to his former mode
of life. I pressed him to inform me further, but I believe the strong
interest I felt was visible in my manner, and alarmed him; for no
entreaties could prevail with him to give any explanation of the
circumstances he had alluded to, or to mention anything further
concerning Montoni. I observed to him, that, if Montoni was possessed
of a castle in the Apennines, it appeared from such a circumstance,
that he was of some family, and also seemed to contradict the report,
that he was a man of entirely broken fortunes. He shook his head, and
looked as if he could have said a great deal, but made no reply.
“A hope of learning something more satisfactory, or more positive,
detained me in his company a considerable time, and I renewed the
subject repeatedly, but the Italian wrapped himself up in reserve,
said—that what he had mentioned he had caught only from a floating
report, and that reports frequently arose from personal malice, and
were very little to be depended upon. I forbore to press the subject
farther, since it was obvious that he was alarmed for the consequence
of what he had already said, and I was compelled to remain in
uncertainty on a point where suspense is almost intolerable. Think,
Emily, what I must suffer to see you depart for a foreign country,
committed to the power of a man of such doubtful character as is this
Montoni! But I will not alarm you unnecessarily;—it is possible, as the
Italian said, at first, that this is not the Montoni he alluded to.
Yet, Emily, consider well before you resolve to commit yourself to him.
O! I must not trust myself to speak—or I shall renounce all the
motives, which so lately influenced me to resign the hope of your
becoming mine immediately.”
Valancourt walked upon the terrace with hurried steps, while Emily
remained leaning on the balustrade in deep thought. The information she
had just received excited, perhaps, more alarm than it could justify,
and raised once more the conflict of contrasted interests. She had
never liked Montoni. The fire and keenness of his eye, its proud
exultation, its bold fierceness, its sullen watchfulness, as occasion,
and even slight occasion, had called forth the latent soul, she had
often observed with emotion; while from the usual expression of his
countenance she had always shrunk. From such observations she was the
more inclined to believe, that it was this Montoni, of whom the Italian
had uttered his suspicious hints. The thought of being solely in his
power, in a foreign land, was terrifying to her, but it was not by
terror alone that she was urged to an immediate marriage with
Valancourt. The tenderest love had already pleaded his cause, but had