The Mysteries of Udolpho
ladies, with whose sweet manners Emily was particularly charmed. They
had an air of ease and kindness towards the strangers, as if they had
been their familiar friends for years; and their conversation was by
turns tender, sentimental and gay. Madame, though she had no taste for
such conversation, and whose coarseness and selfishness sometimes
exhibited a ludicrous contrast to their excessive refinement, could not
remain wholly insensible to the captivations of their manner.
In a pause of conversation, a lady who was called Signora Herminia took
up a lute, and began to play and sing, with as much easy gaiety, as if
she had been alone. Her voice was uncommonly rich in tone, and various
in expression; yet she appeared to be entirely unconscious of its
powers, and meant nothing less than to display them. She sung from the
gaiety of her heart, as she sat with her veil half thrown back, holding
gracefully the lute, under the spreading foliage and flowers of some
plants, that rose from baskets, and interlaced one of the lattices of
the saloon. Emily, retiring a little from the company, sketched her
figure, with the miniature scenery around her, and drew a very
interesting picture, which, though it would not, perhaps, have borne
criticism, had spirit and taste enough to awaken both the fancy and the
heart. When she had finished it, she presented it to the beautiful
original, who was delighted with the offering, as well as the sentiment
it conveyed, and assured Emily, with a smile of captivating sweetness,
that she should preserve it as a pledge of her friendship.
In the evening Cavigni joined the ladies, but Montoni had other
engagements; and they embarked in the gondola for St. Mark’s, where the
same gay company seemed to flutter as on the preceding night. The cool
breeze, the glassy sea, the gentle sound of its waves, and the sweeter
murmur of distant music; the lofty porticos and arcades, and the happy
groups that sauntered beneath them; these, with every feature and
circumstance of the scene, united to charm Emily, no longer teased by
the officious attentions of Count Morano. But, as she looked upon the
moonlight sea, undulating along the walls of St. Mark, and, lingering
for a moment over those walls, caught the sweet and melancholy song of
some gondolier as he sat in his boat below, waiting for his master, her
softened mind returned to the memory of her home, of her friends, and
of all that was dear in her native country.
After walking some time, they sat down at the door of a Casino, and,
while Cavigni was accommodating them with coffee and ice, were joined
by Count Morano. He sought Emily with a look of impatient delight, who,
remembering all the attention he had shown her on the preceding
evening, was compelled, as before, to shrink from his assiduities into
a timid reserve, except when she conversed with Signora Herminia and
the other ladies of her party.
It was near midnight before they withdrew to the opera, where Emily was
not so charmed but that, when she remembered the scene she had just
quitted, she felt how infinitely inferior all the splendour of art is
to the sublimity of nature. Her heart was not now affected, tears of
admiration did not start to her eyes, as when she viewed the vast
expanse of ocean, the grandeur of the heavens, and listened to the
rolling waters, and to the faint music that, at intervals, mingled with
their roar. Remembering these, the scene before her faded into
insignificance.
Of the evening, which passed on without any particular incident, she
wished the conclusion, that she might escape from the attentions of the
Count; and, as opposite qualities frequently attract each other in our
thoughts, thus Emily, when she looked on Count Morano, remembered
Valancourt, and a sigh sometimes followed the recollection.
Several weeks passed in the course of customary visits, during which
nothing remarkable occurred. Emily was amused by the manners and scenes
that surrounded her, so different from those of France, but where Count
Morano, too frequently for her comfort, contrived to introduce himself.
His manner, figure and accomplishments, which were generally admired,
Emily would, perhaps, have admired also, had her heart been disengaged
from Valancourt, and had the Count forborne to persecute her with
officious attentions, during which she observed some traits in his
character, that prejudiced her against whatever might otherwise be good
in it.
Soon after his arrival at Venice, Montoni received a packet from M.
Quesnel, in which the latter mentioned the death of his wife’s uncle,
at his villa on the Brenta; and that, in consequence of this event, he
should hasten to take possession of that estate and of other effects
bequeathed to him. This uncle was the brother of Madame Quesnel’s late
mother; Montoni was related to her by the father’s side, and though he
could have had neither claim nor expectation concerning these
possessions, he could scarcely conceal the envy which M. Quesnel’s
letter excited.
Emily had observed with concern, that, since they left France, Montoni
had not even affected kindness towards her aunt, and that, after
treating her, at first, with neglect, he now met her with uniform
ill-humour and reserve. She had never supposed, that her aunt’s foibles
could have escaped the discernment of Montoni, or that her mind or
figure were of a kind to deserve his attention. Her surprise,
therefore, at this match, had been extreme; but since he had made the
choice, she did not suspect that he would so openly have discovered his
contempt of it. But Montoni, who had been allured by the seeming wealth
of Madame Cheron, was now severely disappointed by her comparative
poverty, and highly exasperated by the deceit she had employed to
conceal it, till concealment was no longer necessary. He had been
deceived in an affair, wherein he meant to be the deceiver; out-witted
by the superior cunning of a woman, whose understanding he despised,
and to whom he had sacrificed his pride and his liberty, without saving
himself from the ruin, which had impended over his head. Madame Montoni
had contrived to have the greatest part of what she really did possess,
settled upon herself: what remained, though it was totally inadequate
both to her husband’s expectations, and to his necessities, he had
converted into money, and brought with him to Venice, that he might a
little longer delude society, and make a last effort to regain the
fortunes he had lost.
The hints which had been thrown out to Valancourt, concerning Montoni’s
character and condition, were too true; but it was now left to time and
occasion, to unfold the circumstances, both of what had, and of what
had not been hinted, and to time and occasion we commit them.
Madame Montoni was not of a nature to bear injuries with meekness, or
to resent them with dignity: her exasperated pride displayed itself in
all the violence and acrimony of a little, or at least of an
ill-regulated mind. She would not acknowledge, even to herself, that
she had in any degree provoked contempt by her duplicity, but weakly
persisted in believing, that she alone was to be pitied, and Montoni
alone to be censured; for, as her mind had naturally little perception
of moral obligation, she seldom understood its force but when it
happened to be violated towards herself: her vanity had already been
severely shocked by a discovery of Montoni’s contempt; it remained to
be farther reproved by a discovery of his circumstances. His mansion at
Venice, though its furniture discovered a part of the truth to
unprejudiced persons, told nothing to those who were blinded by a
resolution to believe whatever they wished. Madame Montoni still
thought herself little less than a princess, possessing a palace at
Venice, and a castle among the Apennines. To the castle di Udolpho,
indeed, Montoni sometimes talked of going for a few weeks to examine
into its condition, and to receive some rents; for it appeared that he
had not been there for two years, and that, during this period, it had
been inhabited only by an old servant, whom he called his steward.
Emily listened to the mention of this journey with pleasure, for she
not only expected from it new ideas, but a release from the persevering
assiduities of Count Morano. In the country, too, she would have
leisure to think of Valancourt, and to indulge the melancholy, which
his image, and a recollection of the scenes of La Vallée, always
blessed with the memory of her parents, awakened. The ideal scenes were
dearer, and more soothing to her heart, than all the splendour of gay
assemblies; they were a kind of talisman that expelled the poison of
temporary evils, and supported her hopes of happy days: they appeared
like a beautiful landscape, lighted up by a gleam of sunshine, and seen
through a perspective of dark and rugged rocks.
But Count Morano did not long confine himself to silent assiduities; he
declared his passion to Emily, and made proposals to Montoni, who
encouraged, though Emily rejected, him: with Montoni for his friend,
and an abundance of vanity to delude him, he did not despair of
success. Emily was astonished and highly disgusted at his perseverance,
after she had explained her sentiments with a frankness that would not
allow him to misunderstand them.
He now passed the greater part of his time at Montoni’s, dining there
almost daily, and attending Madame and Emily wherever they went; and
all this, notwithstanding the uniform reserve of Emily, whose aunt
seemed as anxious as Montoni to promote this marriage; and would never
dispense with her attendance at any assembly where the Count proposed
to be present.
Montoni now said nothing of his intended journey, of which Emily waited
impatiently to hear; and he was seldom at home but when the Count, or
Signor Orsino, was there, for between himself and Cavigni a coolness
seemed to subsist, though the latter remained in his house. With
Orsino, Montoni was frequently closeted for hours together, and,
whatever might be the business, upon which they consulted, it appeared
to be of consequence, since Montoni often sacrificed to it his
favourite passion for play, and remained at home the whole night. There
was somewhat of privacy, too, in the manner of Orsino’s visits, which
had never before occurred, and which excited not only surprise, but
some degree of alarm in Emily’s mind, who had unwillingly discovered
much of his character when he had most endeavoured to disguise it.
After these visits, Montoni was often more thoughtful than usual;
sometimes the deep workings of his mind entirely abstracted him from
surrounding objects, and threw a gloom over his visage that rendered it
terrible; at others, his eyes seemed almost to flash fire, and all the
energies of his soul appeared to be roused for some great enterprise.
Emily observed these written characters of his thoughts with deep
interest, and not without some degree of awe, when she considered that
she was entirely in his power; but forbore even to hint her fears, or
her observations, to Madame Montoni, who discerned nothing in her
husband, at these times, but his usual sternness.
A second letter from M. Quesnel announced the arrival of himself and
his lady at the Villa Miarenti; stated several circumstances of his
good fortune, respecting the affair that had brought him into Italy;
and concluded with an earnest request to see Montoni, his wife and
niece, at his new estate.
Emily received, about the same period, a much more interesting letter,
and which soothed for a while every anxiety of her heart. Valancourt,
hoping she might be still at Venice, had trusted a letter to the
ordinary post, that told her of his health, and of his unceasing and