The Mysteries of Udolpho
would dry them and return to the chamber with a countenance composed by
an endeavour which did but increase his grief.
Never had Emily felt the importance of the lessons, which had taught
her to restrain her sensibility, so much as in these moments, and never
had she practised them with a triumph so complete. But when the last
was over, she sunk at once under the pressure of her sorrow, and then
perceived that it was hope, as well as fortitude, which had hitherto
supported her. St. Aubert was for a time too devoid of comfort himself
to bestow any on his daughter.
CHAPTER II
I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul.
SHAKESPEARE
Madame St. Aubert was interred in the neighbouring village church; her
husband and daughter attended her to the grave, followed by a long
train of the peasantry, who were sincere mourners of this excellent
woman.
On his return from the funeral, St. Aubert shut himself in his chamber.
When he came forth, it was with a serene countenance, though pale in
sorrow. He gave orders that his family should attend him. Emily only
was absent; who, overcome with the scene she had just witnessed, had
retired to her closet to weep alone. St. Aubert followed her thither:
he took her hand in silence, while she continued to weep; and it was
some moments before he could so far command his voice as to speak. It
trembled while he said, “My Emily, I am going to prayers with my
family; you will join us. We must ask support from above. Where else
ought we to seek it—where else can we find it?”
Emily checked her tears, and followed her father to the parlour, where,
the servants being assembled, St. Aubert read, in a low and solemn
voice, the evening service, and added a prayer for the soul of the
departed. During this, his voice often faltered, his tears fell upon
the book, and at length he paused. But the sublime emotions of pure
devotion gradually elevated his views above this world, and finally
brought comfort to his heart.
When the service was ended, and the servants were withdrawn, he
tenderly kissed Emily, and said, “I have endeavoured to teach you, from
your earliest youth, the duty of self-command; I have pointed out to
you the great importance of it through life, not only as it preserves
us in the various and dangerous temptations that call us from rectitude
and virtue, but as it limits the indulgences which are termed virtuous,
yet which, extended beyond a certain boundary, are vicious, for their
consequence is evil. All excess is vicious; even that sorrow, which is
amiable in its origin, becomes a selfish and unjust passion, if
indulged at the expence of our duties—by our duties I mean what we owe
to ourselves, as well as to others. The indulgence of excessive grief
enervates the mind, and almost incapacitates it for again partaking of
those various innocent enjoyments which a benevolent God designed to be
the sunshine of our lives. My dear Emily, recollect and practise the
precepts I have so often given you, and which your own experience has
so often shown you to be wise.
“Your sorrow is useless. Do not receive this as merely a commonplace
remark, but let reason _therefore_ restrain sorrow. I would not
annihilate your feelings, my child, I would only teach you to command
them; for whatever may be the evils resulting from a too susceptible
heart, nothing can be hoped from an insensible one; that, on the other
hand, is all vice—vice, of which the deformity is not softened, or the
effect consoled for, by any semblance or possibility of good. You know
my sufferings, and are, therefore, convinced that mine are not the
light words which, on these occasions, are so often repeated to destroy
even the sources of honest emotion, or which merely display the selfish
ostentation of a false philosophy. I will show my Emily, that I can
practise what I advise. I have said thus much, because I cannot bear to
see you wasting in useless sorrow, for want of that resistance which is
due from mind; and I have not said it till now, because there is a
period when all reasoning must yield to nature; that is past: and
another, when excessive indulgence, having sunk into habit, weighs down
the elasticity of the spirits so as to render conquest nearly
impossible; this is to come. You, my Emily, will show that you are
willing to avoid it.”
Emily smiled through her tears upon her father: “Dear sir,” said she,
and her voice trembled; she would have added, “I will show myself
worthy of being your daughter;” but a mingled emotion of gratitude,
affection, and grief overcame her. St. Aubert suffered her to weep
without interruption, and then began to talk on common topics.
The first person who came to condole with St. Aubert was a M. Barreaux,
an austere and seemingly unfeeling man. A taste for botany had
introduced them to each other, for they had frequently met in their
wanderings among the mountains. M. Barreaux had retired from the world,
and almost from society, to live in a pleasant château, on the skirts
of the woods, near La Vallée. He also had been disappointed in his
opinion of mankind; but he did not, like St. Aubert, pity and mourn for
them; he felt more indignation at their vices, than compassion for
their weaknesses.
St. Aubert was somewhat surprised to see him; for, though he had often
pressed him to come to the château, he had never till now accepted the
invitation; and now he came without ceremony or reserve, entering the
parlour as an old friend. The claims of misfortune appeared to have
softened down all the ruggedness and prejudices of his heart. St.
Aubert unhappy, seemed to be the sole idea that occupied his mind. It
was in manners, more than in words, that he appeared to sympathise with
his friends: he spoke little on the subject of their grief; but the
minute attention he gave them, and the modulated voice, and softened
look that accompanied it, came from his heart, and spoke to theirs.
At this melancholy period St. Aubert was likewise visited by Madame
Cheron, his only surviving sister, who had been some years a widow, and
now resided on her own estate near Thoulouse. The intercourse between
them had not been very frequent. In her condolements, words were not
wanting; she understood not the magic of the look that speaks at once
to the soul, or the voice that sinks like balm to the heart: but she
assured St. Aubert that she sincerely sympathised with him, praised the
virtues of his late wife, and then offered what she considered to be
consolation. Emily wept unceasingly while she spoke; St. Aubert was
tranquil, listened to what she said in silence, and then turned the
discourse upon another subject.
At parting she pressed him and her niece to make her an early visit.
“Change of place will amuse you,” said she, “and it is wrong to give
way to grief.” St. Aubert acknowledged the truth of these words of
course; but, at the same time, felt more reluctant than ever to quit
the spot which his past happiness had consecrated. The presence of his
wife had sanctified every surrounding scene, and, each day, as it
gradually softened the acuteness of his suffering, assisted the tender
enchantment that bound him to home.
But there were calls which must be complied with, and of this kind was
the visit he paid to his brother-in-law M. Quesnel. An affair of an
interesting nature made it necessary that he should delay this visit no
longer, and, wishing to rouse Emily from her dejection, he took her
with him to Epourville.
As the carriage entered upon the forest that adjoined his paternal
domain, his eyes once more caught, between the chesnut avenue, the
turreted corners of the château. He sighed to think of what had passed
since he was last there, and that it was now the property of a man who
neither revered nor valued it. At length he entered the avenue, whose
lofty trees had so often delighted him when a boy, and whose melancholy
shade was now so congenial with the tone of his spirits. Every feature
of the edifice, distinguished by an air of heavy grandeur, appeared
successively between the branches of the trees—the broad turret, the
arched gateway that led into the courts, the drawbridge, and the dry
fossé which surrounded the whole.
The sound of carriage wheels brought a troop of servants to the great
gate, where St. Aubert alighted, and from which he led Emily into the
gothic hall, now no longer hung with the arms and ancient banners of
the family. These were displaced, and the oak wainscotting, and beams
that crossed the roof, were painted white. The large table, too, that
used to stretch along the upper end of the hall, where the master of
the mansion loved to display his hospitality, and whence the peal of
laughter, and the song of conviviality had so often resounded, was now
removed; even the benches that had surrounded the hall were no longer
there. The heavy walls were hung with frivolous ornaments, and
everything that appeared denoted the false taste and corrupted
sentiments of the present owner.
St. Aubert followed a gay Parisian servant to a parlour, where sat
Mons. and Madame Quesnel, who received him with a stately politeness,
and, after a few formal words of condolement, seemed to have forgotten
that they ever had a sister.
Emily felt tears swell into her eyes, and then resentment checked them.
St. Aubert, calm and deliberate, preserved his dignity without assuming
importance, and Quesnel was depressed by his presence without exactly
knowing wherefore.
After some general conversation, St. Aubert requested to speak with him
alone; and Emily, being left with Madame Quesnel, soon learned that a
large party was invited to dine at the château, and was compelled to
hear that nothing which was past and irremediable ought to prevent the
festivity of the present hour.
St. Aubert, when he was told that company were expected, felt a mixed
emotion of disgust and indignation against the insensibility of
Quesnel, which prompted him to return home immediately. But he was
informed, that Madame Cheron had been asked to meet him; and, when he
looked at Emily, and considered that a time might come when the enmity
of her uncle would be prejudicial to her, he determined not to incur it
himself, by conduct which would be resented as indecorous, by the very
persons who now showed so little sense of decorum.
Among the visitors assembled at dinner were two Italian gentlemen, of
whom one was named Montoni, a distant relation of Madame Quesnel, a man
about forty, of an uncommonly handsome person, with features manly and
expressive, but whose countenance exhibited, upon the whole, more of
the haughtiness of command, and the quickness of discernment, than of
any other character.
Signor Cavigni, his friend, appeared to be about thirty—inferior in
dignity, but equal to him in penetration of countenance, and superior
in insinuation of manner.
Emily was shocked by the salutation with which Madame Cheron met her
father—“Dear brother,” said she, “I am concerned to see you look so
very ill; do, pray, have advice!” St. Aubert answered, with a
melancholy smile, that he felt himself much as usual; but Emily’s fears
made her now fancy that her father looked worse than he really did.
Emily would have been amused by the new characters she saw, and the
varied conversation that passed during dinner, which was served in a
style of splendour she had seldom seen before, had her spirits been
less oppressed. Of the guests, Signor Montoni was lately come from
Italy, and he spoke of the commotions which at that period agitated the
country; talked of party differences with warmth, and then lamented the
probable consequences of the tumults. His friend spoke with equal
ardour, of the politics of his country; praised the government and