The Mysteries of Udolpho
the rock, into which its strong roots had fastened. This pass, which
led into the heart of the Apennine, at length opened to day, and a
scene of mountains stretched in long perspective, as wild as any the
travellers had yet passed. Still vast pine-forests hung upon their
base, and crowned the ridgy precipice, that rose perpendicularly from
the vale, while, above, the rolling mists caught the sunbeams, and
touched their cliffs with all the magical colouring of light and shade.
The scene seemed perpetually changing, and its features to assume new
forms, as the winding road brought them to the eye in different
attitudes; while the shifting vapours, now partially concealing their
minuter beauties and now illuminating them with splendid tints,
assisted the illusions of the sight.
Though the deep valleys between these mountains were, for the most
part, clothed with pines, sometimes an abrupt opening presented a
perspective of only barren rocks, with a cataract flashing from their
summit among broken cliffs, till its waters, reaching the bottom,
foamed along with unceasing fury; and sometimes pastoral scenes
exhibited their “green delights” in the narrow vales, smiling amid
surrounding horror. There herds and flocks of goats and sheep, browsing
under the shade of hanging woods, and the shepherd’s little cabin,
reared on the margin of a clear stream, presented a sweet picture of
repose.
Wild and romantic as were these scenes, their character had far less of
the sublime, that had those of the Alps, which guard the entrance of
Italy. Emily was often elevated, but seldom felt those emotions of
indescribable awe which she had so continually experienced, in her
passage over the Alps.
Towards the close of day, the road wound into a deep valley. Mountains,
whose shaggy steeps appeared to be inaccessible, almost surrounded it.
To the east, a vista opened, that exhibited the Apennines in their
darkest horrors; and the long perspective of retiring summits, rising
over each other, their ridges clothed with pines, exhibited a stronger
image of grandeur, than any that Emily had yet seen. The sun had just
sunk below the top of the mountains she was descending, whose long
shadow stretched athwart the valley, but his sloping rays, shooting
through an opening of the cliffs, touched with a yellow gleam the
summits of the forest, that hung upon the opposite steeps, and streamed
in full splendour upon the towers and battlements of a castle, that
spread its extensive ramparts along the brow of a precipice above. The
splendour of these illumined objects was heightened by the contrasted
shade, which involved the valley below.
“There,” said Montoni, speaking for the first time in several hours,
“is Udolpho.”
Emily gazed with melancholy awe upon the castle, which she understood
to be Montoni’s; for, though it was now lighted up by the setting sun,
the gothic greatness of its features, and its mouldering walls of dark
grey stone, rendered it a gloomy and sublime object. As she gazed, the
light died away on its walls, leaving a melancholy purple tint, which
spread deeper and deeper, as the thin vapour crept up the mountain,
while the battlements above were still tipped with splendour. From
those, too, the rays soon faded, and the whole edifice was invested
with the solemn duskiness of evening. Silent, lonely, and sublime, it
seemed to stand the sovereign of the scene, and to frown defiance on
all, who dared to invade its solitary reign. As the twilight deepened,
its features became more awful in obscurity, and Emily continued to
gaze, till its clustering towers were alone seen, rising over the tops
of the woods, beneath whose thick shade the carriages soon after began
to ascend.
The extent and darkness of these tall woods awakened terrific images in
her mind, and she almost expected to see banditti start up from under
the trees. At length, the carriages emerged upon a heathy rock, and,
soon after, reached the castle gates, where the deep tone of the portal
bell, which was struck upon to give notice of their arrival, increased
the fearful emotions, that had assailed Emily. While they waited till
the servant within should come to open the gates, she anxiously
surveyed the edifice: but the gloom, that overspread it, allowed her to
distinguish little more than a part of its outline, with the massy
walls of the ramparts, and to know, that it was vast, ancient and
dreary. From the parts she saw, she judged of the heavy strength and
extent of the whole. The gateway before her, leading into the courts,
was of gigantic size, and was defended by two round towers, crowned by
overhanging turrets, embattled, where, instead of banners, now waved
long grass and wild plants, that had taken root among the mouldering
stones, and which seemed to sigh, as the breeze rolled past, over the
desolation around them. The towers were united by a curtain, pierced
and embattled also, below which appeared the pointed arch of a huge
portcullis, surmounting the gates: from these, the walls of the
ramparts extended to other towers, overlooking the precipice, whose
shattered outline, appearing on a gleam, that lingered in the west,
told of the ravages of war.—Beyond these all was lost in the obscurity
of evening.
While Emily gazed with awe upon the scene, footsteps were heard within
the gates, and the undrawing of bolts; after which an ancient servant
of the castle appeared, forcing back the huge folds of the portal, to
admit his lord. As the carriage-wheels rolled heavily under the
portcullis, Emily’s heart sunk, and she seemed, as if she was going
into her prison; the gloomy court, into which she passed, served to
confirm the idea, and her imagination, ever awake to circumstance,
suggested even more terrors, than her reason could justify.
Another gate delivered them into the second court, grass-grown, and
more wild than the first, where, as she surveyed through the twilight
its desolation—its lofty walls, overtopped with briony, moss and
nightshade, and the embattled towers that rose above,—long-suffering
and murder came to her thoughts. One of those instantaneous and
unaccountable convictions, which sometimes conquer even strong minds,
impressed her with its horror. The sentiment was not diminished, when
she entered an extensive gothic hall, obscured by the gloom of evening,
which a light, glimmering at a distance through a long perspective of
arches, only rendered more striking. As a servant brought the lamp
nearer partial gleams fell upon the pillars and the pointed arches,
forming a strong contrast with their shadows, that stretched along the
pavement and the walls.
The sudden journey of Montoni had prevented his people from making any
other preparations for his reception, than could be had in the short
interval, since the arrival of the servant, who had been sent forward
from Venice; and this, in some measure, may account for the air of
extreme desolation, that everywhere appeared.
The servant, who came to light Montoni, bowed in silence, and the
muscles of his countenance relaxed with no symptom of joy.—Montoni
noticed the salutation by a slight motion of his hand, and passed on,
while his lady, following, and looking round with a degree of surprise
and discontent, which she seemed fearful of expressing, and Emily,
surveying the extent and grandeur of the hall in timid wonder,
approached a marble staircase. The arches here opened to a lofty vault,
from the centre of which hung a tripod lamp, which a servant was
hastily lighting; and the rich fret-work of the roof, a corridor,
leading into several upper apartments, and a painted window, stretching
nearly from the pavement to the ceiling of the hall, became gradually
visible.
Having crossed the foot of the staircase, and passed through an
ante-room, they entered a spacious apartment, whose walls, wainscoted
with black larch-wood, the growth of the neighbouring mountains, were
scarcely distinguishable from darkness itself. “Bring more light,” said
Montoni, as he entered. The servant, setting down his lamp, was
withdrawing to obey him, when Madame Montoni observing, that the
evening air of this mountainous region was cold, and that she should
like a fire, Montoni ordered that wood might be brought.
While he paced the room with thoughtful steps, and Madame Montoni sat
silently on a couch, at the upper end of it, waiting till the servant
returned, Emily was observing the singular solemnity and desolation of
the apartment, viewed, as it now was, by the glimmer of the single
lamp, placed near a large Venetian mirror, that duskily reflected the
scene, with the tall figure of Montoni passing slowly along, his arms
folded, and his countenance shaded by the plume, that waved in his hat.
From the contemplation of this scene, Emily’s mind proceeded to the
apprehension of what she might suffer in it, till the remembrance of
Valancourt, far, far distant! came to her heart, and softened it into
sorrow. A heavy sigh escaped her: but, trying to conceal her tears, she
walked away to one of the high windows, that opened upon the ramparts,
below which, spread the woods she had passed in her approach to the
castle. But the night-shade sat deeply on the mountains beyond, and
their indented outline alone could be faintly traced on the horizon,
where a red streak yet glimmered in the west. The valley between was
sunk in darkness.
The scene within, upon which Emily turned on the opening of the door,
was scarcely less gloomy. The old servant, who had received them at the
gates, now entered, bending under a load of pine-branches, while two of
Montoni’s Venetian servants followed with lights.
“Your _Excellenza_ is welcome to the castle,” said the old man, as he
raised himself from the hearth, where he had laid the wood: “it has
been a lonely place a long while; but you will excuse it, Signor,
knowing we had but short notice. It is near two years, come next feast
of St. Mark, since your _Excellenza_ was within these walls.”
“You have a good memory, old Carlo,” said Montoni: “it is thereabout;
and how hast thou contrived to live so long?”
“A-well-a-day, sir, with much ado; the cold winds, that blow through
the castle in winter, are almost too much for me; and I thought
sometimes of asking your _Excellenza_ to let me leave the mountains,
and go down into the lowlands. But I don’t know how it is—I am loth to
quit these old walls I have lived in so long.”
“Well, how have you gone on in the castle, since I left it?” said
Montoni.
“Why much as usual, Signor, only it wants a good deal of repairing.
There is the north tower—some of the battlements have tumbled down, and
had liked one day to have knocked my poor wife (God rest her soul!) on
the head. Your _Excellenza_ must know—”
“Well, but the repairs,” interrupted Montoni.
“Aye, the repairs,” said Carlo: “a part of the roof of the great hall
has fallen in, and all the winds from the mountains rushed through it
last winter, and whistled through the whole castle so, that there was
no keeping one’s self warm, be where one would. There, my wife and I
used to sit shivering over a great fire in one corner of the little
hall, ready to die with cold, and—”
“But there are no more repairs wanted,” said Montoni, impatiently.
“O Lord! Your _Excellenza_, yes—the wall of the rampart has tumbled
down in three places; then, the stairs, that lead to the west gallery,
have been a long time so bad, that it is dangerous to go up them; and
the passage leading to the great oak chamber, that overhangs the north
rampart—one night last winter I ventured to go there by myself, and
your _Excellenza_—”
“Well, well, enough of this,” said Montoni, with quickness: “I will
talk more with thee tomorrow.”