The Mysteries of Udolpho
had scarcely any, but pride, revenge and avarice; and, in the
gratification of these, few considerations had power to restrain him,
few obstacles to withstand the depth of his stratagems. This man was
the chief favourite of Montoni. Verezzi was a man of some talent, of
fiery imagination, and the slave of alternate passions. He was gay,
voluptuous, and daring; yet had neither perseverance nor true courage,
and was meanly selfish in all his aims. Quick to form schemes, and
sanguine in his hope of success, he was the first to undertake, and to
abandon, not only his own plans, but those adopted from other persons.
Proud and impetuous, he revolted against all subordination; yet those
who were acquainted with his character, and watched the turn of his
passions, could lead him like a child.
Such were the friends whom Montoni introduced to his family and his
table, on the day after his arrival at Venice. There were also of the
party a Venetian nobleman, Count Morano, and a Signora Livona, whom
Montoni had introduced to his wife, as a lady of distinguished merit,
and who, having called in the morning to welcome her to Venice, had
been requested to be of the dinner party.
Madame Montoni received with a very ill grace, the compliments of the
Signors. She disliked them, because they were the friends of her
husband; hated them, because she believed they had contributed to
detain him abroad till so late an hour of the preceding morning; and
envied them, since, conscious of her own want of influence, she was
convinced, that he preferred their society to her own. The rank of
Count Morano procured him that distinction which she refused to the
rest of the company. The haughty sullenness of her countenance and
manner, and the ostentatious extravagance of her dress, for she had not
yet adopted the Venetian habit, were strikingly contrasted by the
beauty, modesty, sweetness and simplicity of Emily, who observed, with
more attention than pleasure, the party around her. The beauty and
fascinating manners of Signora Livona, however, won her involuntary
regard; while the sweetness of her accents and her air of gentle
kindness awakened with Emily those pleasing affections, which so long
had slumbered.
In the cool of the evening the party embarked in Montoni’s gondola, and
rowed out upon the sea. The red glow of sunset still touched the waves,
and lingered in the west, where the melancholy gleam seemed slowly
expiring, while the dark blue of the upper æther began to twinkle with
stars. Emily sat, given up to pensive and sweet emotions. The
smoothness of the water, over which she glided, its reflected images—a
new heaven and trembling stars below the waves, with shadowy outlines
of towers and porticos, conspired with the stillness of the hour,
interrupted only by the passing wave, or the notes of distant music, to
raise those emotions to enthusiasm. As she listened to the measured
sound of the oars, and to the remote warblings that came in the breeze,
her softened mind returned to the memory of St. Aubert and to
Valancourt, and tears stole to her eyes. The rays of the moon,
strengthening as the shadows deepened, soon after threw a silvery gleam
upon her countenance, which was partly shaded by a thin black veil, and
touched it with inimitable softness. Hers was the _contour_ of a
Madona, with the sensibility of a Magdalen; and the pensive uplifted
eye, with the tear that glittered on her cheek, confirmed the
expression of the character.
The last strain of distant music now died in air, for the gondola was
far upon the waves, and the party determined to have music of their
own. The Count Morano, who sat next to Emily, and who had been
observing her for some time in silence, snatched up a lute, and struck
the chords with the finger of harmony herself, while his voice, a fine
tenor, accompanied them in a rondeau full of tender sadness. To him,
indeed, might have been applied that beautiful exhortation of an
English poet, had it then existed:
Strike up, my master,
But touch the strings with a religious softness!
Teach sounds to languish through the night’s dull ear
Till Melancholy starts from off her couch,
And Carelessness grows concert to attention!
With such powers of expression the Count sung the following
RONDEAU
Soft as yon silver ray, that sleeps
Upon the ocean’s trembling tide;
Soft as the air, that lightly sweeps
Yon sad, that swells in stately pride:
Soft as the surge’s stealing note,
That dies along the distant shores,
Or warbled strain, that sinks remote—
So soft the sigh my bosom pours!
True as the wave to Cynthia’s ray,
True as the vessel to the breeze,
True as the soul to music’s sway,
Or music to Venetian seas:
Soft as yon silver beams, that sleep
Upon the ocean’s trembling breast;
So soft, so true, fond Love shall weep,
So soft, so true, with _thee_ shall rest.
The cadence with which he returned from the last stanza to a repetition
of the first; the fine modulation in which his voice stole upon the
first line, and the pathetic energy with which it pronounced the last,
were such as only exquisite taste could give. When he had concluded, he
gave the lute with a sigh to Emily, who, to avoid any appearance of
affectation, immediately began to play. She sung a melancholy little
air, one of the popular songs of her native province, with a simplicity
and pathos that made it enchanting. But its well-known melody brought
so forcibly to her fancy the scenes and the persons, among which she
had often heard it, that her spirits were overcome, her voice trembled
and ceased—and the strings of the lute were struck with a disordered
hand; till, ashamed of the emotion she had betrayed, she suddenly
passed on to a song so gay and airy, that the steps of the dance seemed
almost to echo to the notes. _Bravissimo!_ burst instantly from the
lips of her delighted auditors, and she was compelled to repeat the
air. Among the compliments that followed, those of the Count were not
the least audible, and they had not concluded, when Emily gave the
instrument to Signora Livona, whose voice accompanied it with true
Italian taste.
Afterwards, the Count, Emily, Cavigni, and the Signora, sung
_canzonettes_, accompanied by a couple of lutes and a few other
instruments. Sometimes the instruments suddenly ceased, and the voices
dropped from the full swell of harmony into a low chant; then, after a
deep pause, they rose by degrees, the instruments one by one striking
up, till the loud and full chorus soared again to heaven!
Meanwhile, Montoni, who was weary of this harmony, was considering how
he might disengage himself from his party, or withdraw with such of it
as would be willing to play, to a Casino. In a pause of the music, he
proposed returning to shore, a proposal which Orsino eagerly seconded,
but which the Count and the other gentlemen as warmly opposed.
Montoni still meditated how he might excuse himself from longer
attendance upon the Count, for to him only he thought excuse necessary,
and how he might get to land, till the gondolieri of an empty boat,
returning to Venice, hailed his people. Without troubling himself
longer about an excuse, he seized this opportunity of going thither,
and, committing the ladies to the care of his friends, departed with
Orsino, while Emily, for the first time, saw him go with regret; for
she considered his presence a protection, though she knew not what she
should fear. He landed at St. Mark’s, and, hurrying to a Casino, was
soon lost amidst a crowd of gamesters.
Meanwhile, the Count having secretly dispatched a servant in Montoni’s
boat, for his own gondola and musicians, Emily heard, without knowing
his project, the gay song of gondolieri approaching, as they sat on the
stern of the boat, and saw the tremulous gleam of the moonlight wave,
which their oars disturbed. Presently she heard the sound of
instruments, and then a full symphony swelled on the air, and, the
boats meeting, the gondolieri hailed each other. The Count then
explaining himself, the party removed into his gondola, which was
embellished with all that taste could bestow.
While they partook of a collation of fruits and ice, the whole band,
following at a distance in the other boat, played the most sweet and
enchanting strains, and the Count, who had again seated himself by
Emily, paid her unremitted attention, and sometimes, in a low but
impassioned voice, uttered compliments which she could not
misunderstand. To avoid them she conversed with Signora Livona, and her
manner to the Count assumed a mild reserve, which, though dignified,
was too gentle to repress his assiduities: he could see, hear, speak to
no person, but Emily while Cavigni observed him now and then, with a
look of displeasure, and Emily, with one of uneasiness. She now wished
for nothing so much as to return to Venice, but it was near midnight
before the gondolas approached St. Mark’s Place, where the voice of
gaiety and song was loud. The busy hum of mingling sounds was heard at
a considerable distance on the water, and, had not a bright moonlight
discovered the city, with its terraces and towers, a stranger would
almost have credited the fabled wonders of Neptune’s court, and
believed, that the tumult arose from beneath the waves.
They landed at St. Mark’s, where the gaiety of the colonnades and the
beauty of the night, made Madame Montoni willingly submit to the
Count’s solicitations to join the promenade, and afterwards to take a
supper with the rest of the party, at his Casino. If anything could
have dissipated Emily’s uneasiness, it would have been the grandeur,
gaiety, and novelty of the surrounding scene, adorned with Palladio’s
palaces, and busy with parties of masqueraders.
At length they withdrew to the Casino, which was fitted up with
infinite taste, and where a splendid banquet was prepared; but here
Emily’s reserve made the Count perceive, that it was necessary for his
interest to win the favour of Madame Montoni, which, from the
condescension she had already shown to him, appeared to be an
achievement of no great difficulty. He transferred, therefore, part of
his attention from Emily to her aunt, who felt too much flattered by
the distinction even to disguise her emotion; and before the party
broke up, he had entirely engaged the esteem of Madame Montoni.
Whenever he addressed her, her ungracious countenance relaxed into
smiles, and to whatever he proposed she assented. He invited her, with
the rest of the party, to take coffee, in his box at the opera, on the
following evening, and Emily heard the invitation accepted, with strong
anxiety, concerning the means of excusing herself from attending Madame
Montoni thither.
It was very late before their gondola was ordered, and Emily’s surprise
was extreme, when, on quitting the Casino, she beheld the broad sun
rising out of the Adriatic, while St. Mark’s Place was yet crowded with
company. Sleep had long weighed heavily on her eyes, but now the fresh
sea-breeze revived her, and she would have quitted the scene with
regret, had not the Count been present, performing the duty, which he
had imposed upon himself, of escorting them home. There they heard that
Montoni was not yet returned; and his wife, retiring in displeasure to
her apartment, at length released Emily from the fatigue of further
attendance.
Montoni came home late in the morning, in a very ill humour, having
lost considerably at play, and, before he withdrew to rest, had a
private conference with Cavigni, whose manner, on the following day,
seemed to tell, that the subject of it had not been pleasing to him.
In the evening, Madame Montoni, who, during the day, had observed a
sullen silence towards her husband, received visits from some Venetian