The Mysteries of Udolpho
The fire was now lighted; Carlo swept the hearth, placed chairs, wiped
the dust from a large marble table that stood near it, and then left
the room.
Montoni and his family drew round the fire. Madame Montoni made several
attempts at conversation, but his sullen answers repulsed her, while
Emily sat endeavouring to acquire courage enough to speak to him. At
length, in a tremulous voice, she said, “May I ask, sir, the motive of
this sudden journey?”—After a long pause, she recovered sufficient
courage to repeat the question.
“It does not suit me to answer enquiries,” said Montoni, “nor does it
become you to make them; time may unfold them all: but I desire I may
be no further harassed, and I recommend it to you to retire to your
chamber, and to endeavour to adopt a more rational conduct, than that
of yielding to fancies, and to a sensibility, which, to call it by the
gentlest name, is only a weakness.”
Emily rose to withdraw. “Good night, madam,” said she to her aunt, with
an assumed composure, that could not disguise her emotion.
“Good night, my dear,” said Madame Montoni, in a tone of kindness,
which her niece had never before heard from her; and the unexpected
endearment brought tears to Emily’s eyes. She curtsied to Montoni, and
was retiring; “But you do not know the way to your chamber,” said her
aunt. Montoni called the servant, who waited in the ante-room, and bade
him send Madame Montoni’s woman, with whom, in a few minutes, Emily
withdrew.
“Do you know which is my room?” said she to Annette, as they crossed
the hall.
“Yes, I believe I do, ma’amselle; but this is such a strange rambling
place! I have been lost in it already: they call it the double chamber,
over the south rampart, and I went up this great staircase to it. My
lady’s room is at the other end of the castle.”
Emily ascended the marble staircase, and came to the corridor, as they
passed through which, Annette resumed her chat—“What a wild lonely
place this is, ma’am! I shall be quite frightened to live in it. How
often, and often have I wished myself in France again! I little
thought, when I came with my lady to see the world, that I should ever
be shut up in such a place as this, or I would never have left my own
country! This way, ma’amselle, down this turning. I can almost believe
in giants again, and such like, for this is just like one of their
castles; and, some night or other, I suppose I shall see fairies too,
hopping about in that great old hall, that looks more like a church,
with its huge pillars, than anything else.”
“Yes,” said Emily, smiling, and glad to escape from more serious
thought, “if we come to the corridor, about midnight, and look down
into the hall, we shall certainly see it illuminated with a thousand
lamps, and the fairies tripping in gay circles to the sound of
delicious music; for it is in such places as this, you know, that they
come to hold their revels. But I am afraid, Annette, you will not be
able to pay the necessary penance for such a sight: and, if once they
hear your voice, the whole scene will vanish in an instant.”
“O! if you will bear me company, ma’amselle, I will come to the
corridor, this very night, and I promise you I will hold my tongue; it
shall not be my fault if the show vanishes.—But do you think they will
come?”
“I cannot promise that with certainty, but I will venture to say, it
will not be your fault if the enchantment should vanish.”
“Well, ma’amselle, that is saying more than I expected of you: but I am
not so much afraid of fairies, as of ghosts, and they say there are a
plentiful many of them about the castle: now I should be frightened to
death, if I should chance to see any of them. But hush! ma’amselle,
walk softly! I have thought, several times, something passed by me.”
“Ridiculous!” said Emily, “you must not indulge such fancies.”
“O ma’am! they are not fancies, for aught I know; Benedetto says these
dismal galleries and halls are fit for nothing but ghosts to live in;
and I verily believe, if I _live_ long in them I shall turn to one
myself!”
“I hope,” said Emily, “you will not suffer Signor Montoni to hear of
these weak fears; they would highly displease him.”
“What, you know then, ma’amselle, all about it!” rejoined Annette. “No,
no, I do know better than to do so; though, if the Signor can sleep
sound, nobody else in the castle has any right to lie awake, I am
sure.” Emily did not appear to notice this remark.
“Down this passage, ma’amselle; this leads to a back staircase. O! if I
see anything, I shall be frightened out of my wits!”
“That will scarcely be possible,” said Emily smiling, as she followed
the winding of the passage, which opened into another gallery: and then
Annette, perceiving that she had missed her way, while she had been so
eloquently haranguing on ghosts and fairies, wandered about through
other passages and galleries, till, at length, frightened by their
intricacies and desolation, she called aloud for assistance: but they
were beyond the hearing of the servants, who were on the other side of
the castle, and Emily now opened the door of a chamber on the left.
“O! do not go in there, ma’amselle,” said Annette, “you will only lose
yourself further.”
“Bring the light forward,” said Emily, “we may possibly find our way
through these rooms.”
Annette stood at the door, in an attitude of hesitation, with the light
held up to show the chamber, but the feeble rays spread through not
half of it. “Why do you hesitate?” said Emily, “let me see whither this
room leads.”
Annette advanced reluctantly. It opened into a suite of spacious and
ancient apartments, some of which were hung with tapestry, and others
wainscoted with cedar and black larch-wood. What furniture there was,
seemed to be almost as old as the rooms, and retained an appearance of
grandeur, though covered with dust, and dropping to pieces with the
damps, and with age.
“How cold these rooms are, ma’amselle!” said Annette: “nobody has lived
in them for many, many years, they say. Do let us go.”
“They may open upon the great staircase, perhaps,” said Emily, passing
on till she came to a chamber, hung with pictures, and took the light
to examine that of a soldier on horseback in a field of battle.—He was
darting his spear upon a man, who lay under the feet of the horse, and
who held up one hand in a supplicating attitude. The soldier, whose
beaver was up, regarded him with a look of vengeance, and the
countenance, with that expression, struck Emily as resembling Montoni.
She shuddered, and turned from it. Passing the light hastily over
several other pictures, she came to one concealed by a veil of black
silk. The singularity of the circumstance struck her, and she stopped
before it, wishing to remove the veil, and examine what could thus
carefully be concealed, but somewhat wanting courage. “Holy Virgin!
what can this mean?” exclaimed Annette. “This is surely the picture
they told me of at Venice.”
“What picture?” said Emily. “Why a picture—a picture,” replied Annette,
hesitatingly—“but I never could make out exactly what it was about,
either.”
“Remove the veil, Annette.”
“What! I, ma’amselle!—I! not for the world!” Emily, turning round, saw
Annette’s countenance grow pale. “And pray, what have you heard of this
picture, to terrify you so, my good girl?” said she. “Nothing,
ma’amselle: I have heard nothing, only let us find our way out.”
“Certainly: but I wish first to examine the picture; take the light,
Annette, while I lift the veil.” Annette took the light, and
immediately walked away with it, disregarding Emily’s call to stay,
who, not choosing to be left alone in the dark chamber, at length
followed her. “What is the reason of this, Annette?” said Emily, when
she overtook her, “what have you heard concerning that picture, which
makes you so unwilling to stay when I bid you?”
“I don’t know what is the reason, ma’amselle,” replied Annette, “nor
anything about the picture, only I have heard there is something very
dreadful belonging to it—and that it has been covered up in black _ever
since_—and that nobody has looked at it for a great many years—and it
somehow has to do with the owner of this castle before Signor Montoni
came to the possession of it—and—”
“Well, Annette,” said Emily, smiling, “I perceive it is as you say—that
you know nothing about the picture.”
“No, nothing, indeed, ma’amselle, for they made me promise never to
tell:—but—”
“Well,” rejoined Emily, who observed that she was struggling between
her inclination to reveal a secret, and her apprehension for the
consequence, “I will enquire no further—”
“No, pray, ma’am, do not.”
“Lest you should tell all,” interrupted Emily.
Annette blushed, and Emily smiled, and they passed on to the extremity
of this suite of apartments, and found themselves, after some further
perplexity, once more at the top of the marble staircase, where Annette
left Emily, while she went to call one of the servants of the castle to
show them to the chamber, for which they had been seeking.
While she was absent, Emily’s thoughts returned to the picture; an
unwillingness to tamper with the integrity of a servant, had checked
her enquiries on this subject, as well as concerning some alarming
hints, which Annette had dropped respecting Montoni; though her
curiosity was entirely awakened, and she had perceived, that her
questions might easily be answered. She was now, however, inclined to
go back to the apartment and examine the picture; but the loneliness of
the hour and of the place, with the melancholy silence that reigned
around her, conspired with a certain degree of awe, excited by the
mystery attending this picture, to prevent her. She determined,
however, when daylight should have reanimated her spirits, to go
thither and remove the veil. As she leaned from the corridor, over the
staircase, and her eyes wandered round, she again observed, with
wonder, the vast strength of the walls, now somewhat decayed, and the
pillars of solid marble, that rose from the hall, and supported the
roof.
A servant now appeared with Annette, and conducted Emily to her
chamber, which was in a remote part of the castle, and at the very end
of the corridor, from whence the suite of apartments opened, through
which they had been wandering. The lonely aspect of her room made Emily
unwilling that Annette should leave her immediately, and the dampness
of it chilled her with more than fear. She begged Caterina, the servant
of the castle, to bring some wood and light a fire.
“Aye, lady, it’s many a year since a fire was lighted here,” said
Caterina.
“You need not tell us that, good woman,” said Annette; “every room in
the castle feels like a well. I wonder how you contrive to live here;
for my part, I wish myself at Venice again.” Emily waved her hand for
Caterina to fetch the wood.
“I wonder, ma’am, why they call this the double chamber?” said Annette,
while Emily surveyed it in silence and saw that it was lofty and
spacious, like the others she had seen, and, like many of them, too,
had its walls lined with dark larch-wood. The bed and other furniture
was very ancient, and had an air of gloomy grandeur, like all that she
had seen in the castle. One of the high casements, which she opened,
overlooked a rampart, but the view beyond was hid in darkness.
In the presence of Annette, Emily tried to support her spirits, and to
restrain the tears, which, every now and then, came to her eyes. She
wished much to enquire when Count Morano was expected at the castle,
but an unwillingness to ask unnecessary questions, and to mention
family concerns to a servant, withheld her. Meanwhile, Annette’s
thoughts were engaged upon another subject: she dearly loved the