The Mysteries of Udolpho
anxious affection. He had lingered at Thoulouse for some time after her
departure, that he might indulge the melancholy pleasure of wandering
through the scenes where he had been accustomed to behold her, and had
thence gone to his brother’s château, which was in the neighbourhood of
La Vallée. Having mentioned this, he added, “If the duty of attending
my regiment did not require my departure, I know not when I should have
resolution enough to quit the neighbourhood of a place which is
endeared by the remembrance of you. The vicinity to La Vallée has alone
detained me thus long at Estuvière: I frequently ride thither early in
the morning, that I may wander, at leisure, through the day, among
scenes, which were once your home, where I have been accustomed to see
you, and to hear you converse. I have renewed my acquaintance with the
good old Theresa, who rejoiced to see me, that she might talk of you: I
need not say how much this circumstance attached me to her, or how
eagerly I listened to her upon her favourite subject. You will guess
the motive that first induced me to make myself known to Theresa: it
was, indeed, no other than that of gaining admittance into the château
and gardens, which my Emily had so lately inhabited: here, then, I
wander, and meet your image under every shade: but chiefly I love to
sit beneath the spreading branches of your favourite plane, where once,
Emily, we sat together; where I first ventured to tell you, that I
loved. O Emily! the remembrance of those moments overcomes me—I sit
lost in reverie—I endeavour to see you dimly through my tears, in all
the heaven of peace and innocence, such as you then appeared to me; to
hear again the accents of that voice, which then thrilled my heart with
tenderness and hope. I lean on the wall of the terrace, where we
together watched the rapid current of the Garonne below, while I
described the wild scenery about its source, but thought only of you. O
Emily! are these moments passed for ever—will they never more return?”
In another part of his letter he wrote thus. “You see my letter is
dated on many different days, and, if you look back to the first, you
will perceive, that I began to write soon after your departure from
France. To write was, indeed, the only employment that withdrew me from
my own melancholy, and rendered your absence supportable, or rather, it
seemed to destroy absence; for, when I was conversing with you on
paper, and telling you every sentiment and affection of my heart, you
almost appeared to be present. This employment has been from time to
time my chief consolation, and I have deferred sending off my packet,
merely for the comfort of prolonging it, though it was certain, that
what I had written, was written to no purpose till you received it.
Whenever my mind has been more than usually depressed I have come to
pour forth its sorrows to you, and have always found consolation; and,
when any little occurrence has interested my heart, and given a gleam
of joy to my spirits, I have hastened to communicate it to you, and
have received reflected satisfaction. Thus, my letter is a kind of
picture of my life and of my thoughts for the last month, and thus,
though it has been deeply interesting to me, while I wrote it, and I
dare hope will, for the same reason, be not indifferent to you, yet to
other readers it would seem to abound only in frivolities. Thus it is
always, when we attempt to describe the finer movements of the heart,
for they are too fine to be discerned, they can only be experienced,
and are therefore passed over by the indifferent observer, while the
interested one feels, that all description is imperfect and
unnecessary, except as it may prove the sincerity of the writer, and
sooth his own sufferings. You will pardon all this egotism—for I am a
lover.”
“I have just heard of a circumstance, which entirely destroys all my
fairy paradise of ideal delight, and which will reconcile me to the
necessity of returning to my regiment, for I must no longer wander
beneath the beloved shades, where I have been accustomed to meet you in
thought.—La Vallée is let! I have reason to believe this is without
your knowledge, from what Theresa told me this morning, and, therefore,
I mention the circumstance. She shed tears, while she related, that she
was going to leave the service of her dear mistress, and the château
where she had lived so many happy years; and all this, added she,
without even a letter from Mademoiselle to soften the news; but it is
all Mons. Quesnel’s doings, and I dare say she does not even know what
is going forward.”
“Theresa added, That she had received a letter from him, informing her
the château was let, and that, as her services would no longer be
required, she must quit the place, on that day week, when the new
tenant would arrive.”
“Theresa had been surprised by a visit from M. Quesnel, some time
before the receipt of this letter, who was accompanied by a stranger
that viewed the premises with much curiosity.”
Towards the conclusion of his letter, which is dated a week after this
sentence, Valancourt adds, “I have received a summons from my regiment,
and I join it without regret, since I am shut out from the scenes that
are so interesting to my heart. I rode to La Vallée this morning, and
heard that the new tenant was arrived, and that Theresa was gone. I
should not treat the subject thus familiarly if I did not believe you
to be uninformed of this disposal of your house; for your satisfaction
I have endeavoured to learn something of the character and fortune of
your tenant, but without success. He is a gentleman, they say, and this
is all I can hear. The place, as I wandered round the boundaries,
appeared more melancholy to my imagination, than I had ever seen it. I
wished earnestly to have got admittance, that I might have taken
another leave of your favourite plane-tree, and thought of you once
more beneath its shade: but I forbore to tempt the curiosity of
strangers: the fishing-house in the woods, however, was still open to
me; thither I went, and passed an hour, which I cannot even look back
upon without emotion. O Emily! surely we are not separated for
ever—surely we shall live for each other!”
This letter brought many tears to Emily’s eyes; tears of tenderness and
satisfaction on learning that Valancourt was well, and that time and
absence had in no degree effaced her image from his heart. There were
passages in this letter which particularly affected her, such as those
describing his visits to La Vallée, and the sentiments of delicate
affection that its scenes had awakened. It was a considerable time
before her mind was sufficiently abstracted from Valancourt to feel the
force of his intelligence concerning La Vallée. That Mons. Quesnel
should let it, without even consulting her on the measure, both
surprised and shocked her, particularly as it proved the absolute
authority he thought himself entitled to exercise in her affairs. It is
true, he had proposed, before she left France, that the château should
be let, during her absence, and to the economical prudence of this she
had nothing to object; but the committing what had been her father’s
villa to the power and caprice of strangers, and the depriving herself
of a sure home, should any unhappy circumstances make her look back to
her home as an asylum, were considerations that made her, even then,
strongly oppose the measure. Her father, too, in his last hour, had
received from her a solemn promise never to dispose of La Vallée; and
this she considered as in some degree violated if she suffered the
place to be let. But it was now evident with how little respect M.
Quesnel had regarded these objections, and how insignificant he
considered every obstacle to pecuniary advantage. It appeared, also,
that he had not even condescended to inform Montoni of the step he had
taken, since no motive was evident for Montoni’s concealing the
circumstance from her, if it had been made known to him: this both
displeased and surprised her; but the chief subjects of her uneasiness
were—the temporary disposal of La Vallée, and the dismission of her
father’s old and faithful servant.—“Poor Theresa,” said Emily, “thou
hadst not saved much in thy servitude, for thou wast always tender
towards the poor, and believd’st thou shouldst die in the family, where
thy best years had been spent. Poor Theresa!—now thou art turned out in
thy old age to seek thy bread!”
Emily wept bitterly as these thoughts passed over her mind, and she
determined to consider what could be done for Theresa, and to talk very
explicitly to M. Quesnel on the subject; but she much feared that his
cold heart could feel only for itself. She determined also to enquire
whether he had made any mention of her affairs, in his letter to
Montoni, who soon gave her the opportunity she sought, by desiring that
she would attend him in his study. She had little doubt, that the
interview was intended for the purpose of communicating to her a part
of M. Quesnel’s letter concerning the transactions at La Vallée, and
she obeyed him immediately. Montoni was alone.
“I have just been writing to Mons. Quesnel,” said he when Emily
appeared, “in reply to the letter I received from him a few days ago,
and I wished to talk to you upon a subject that occupied part of it.”
“I also wished to speak with you on this topic, sir,” said Emily.
“It is a subject of some interest to you, undoubtedly,” rejoined
Montoni, “and I think you must see it in the light that I do; indeed it
will not bear any other. I trust you will agree with me, that any
objection founded on sentiment, as they call it, ought to yield to
circumstances of solid advantage.”
“Granting this, sir,” replied Emily, modestly, “those of humanity ought
surely to be attended to. But I fear it is now too late to deliberate
upon this plan, and I must regret, that it is no longer in my power to
reject it.”
“It is too late,” said Montoni; “but since it is so, I am pleased to
observe, that you submit to reason and necessity without indulging
useless complaint. I applaud this conduct exceedingly, the more,
perhaps, since it discovers a strength of mind seldom observable in
your sex. When you are older you will look back with gratitude to the
friends who assisted in rescuing you from the romantic illusions of
sentiment, and will perceive, that they are only the snares of
childhood, and should be vanquished the moment you escape from the
nursery. I have not closed my letter, and you may add a few lines to
inform your uncle of your acquiescence. You will soon see him, for it
is my intention to take you, with Madame Montoni, in a few days to
Miarenti, and you can then talk over the affair.”
Emily wrote on the opposite page of the paper as follows:
“It is now useless, sir, for me to remonstrate upon the circumstances
of which Signor Montoni informs me that he has written. I could have
wished, at least, that the affair had been concluded with less
precipitation, that I might have taught myself to subdue some
prejudices, as the Signor calls them, which still linger in my heart.
As it is, I submit. In point of prudence nothing certainly can be
objected; but, though I submit, I have yet much to say on some other
points of the subject, when I shall have the honour of seeing you. In
the meantime I entreat you will take care of Theresa, for the sake of,
“Sir,
“Your affectionate niece,
“EMILY ST. AUBERT.”
Montoni smiled satirically at what Emily had written, but did not
object to it, and she withdrew to her own apartment, where she sat down
to begin a letter to Valancourt, in which she related the particulars
of her journey, and her arrival at Venice, described some of the most