The Mysteries of Udolpho
marvellous, and had heard of a circumstance, connected with the castle,
that highly gratified this taste. Having been enjoined not to mention
it, her inclination to tell it was so strong, that she was every
instant on the point of speaking what she had heard. Such a strange
circumstance, too, and to be obliged to conceal it, was a severe
punishment; but she knew, that Montoni might impose one much severer,
and she feared to incur it by offending him.
Caterina now brought the wood, and its bright blaze dispelled, for a
while, the gloom of the chamber. She told Annette, that her lady had
enquired for her, and Emily was once again left to her own sad
reflections. Her heart was not yet hardened against the stern manners
of Montoni, and she was nearly as much shocked now, as she had been
when she first witnessed them. The tenderness and affection, to which
she had been accustomed, till she lost her parents, had made her
particularly sensible to any degree of unkindness, and such a reverse
as this no apprehension had prepared her to support.
To call off her attention from subjects, that pressed heavily on her
spirits, she rose and again examined her room and its furniture. As she
walked round it, she passed a door, that was not quite shut, and,
perceiving, that it was not the one, through which she entered, she
brought the light forward to discover whither it led. She opened it,
and, going forward, had nearly fallen down a steep, narrow staircase
that wound from it, between two stone walls. She wished to know to what
it led, and was the more anxious, since it communicated so immediately
with her apartment; but, in the present state of her spirits, she
wanted courage to venture into the darkness alone. Closing the door,
therefore, she endeavoured to fasten it, but, upon further examination,
perceived, that it had no bolts on the chamber side, though it had two
on the other. By placing a heavy chair against it, she in some measure
remedied the defect; yet she was still alarmed at the thought of
sleeping in this remote room alone, with a door opening she knew not
whither, and which could not be perfectly fastened on the inside.
Sometimes she wished to entreat of Madame Montoni, that Annette might
have leave to remain with her all night, but was deterred by an
apprehension of betraying what would be thought childish fears, and by
an unwillingness to increase the apt terrors of Annette.
Her gloomy reflections were, soon after, interrupted by a footstep in
the corridor, and she was glad to see Annette enter with some supper,
sent by Madame Montoni. Having a table near the fire, she made the good
girl sit down and sup with her; and, when their little repast was over,
Annette, encouraged by her kindness and stirring the wood into a blaze,
drew her chair upon the hearth, nearer to Emily, and said—“Did you ever
hear, ma’amselle, of the strange accident, that made the Signor lord of
this castle?”
“What wonderful story have you now to tell?” said Emily, concealing the
curiosity, occasioned by the mysterious hints she had formerly heard on
that subject.
“I have heard all about it, ma’amselle,” said Annette, looking round
the chamber and drawing closer to Emily; “Benedetto told it me as we
travelled together: says he, ‘Annette, you don’t know about this castle
here, that we are going to?’ ‘No,’ says I, ‘Mr. Benedetto, pray what do
you know?’ But, ma’amselle, you can keep a secret, or I would not tell
it you for the world; for I promised never to tell, and they say, that
the Signor does not like to have it talked of.”
“If you promised to keep this secret,” said Emily, “you do right not to
mention it.”
Annette paused a moment, and then said, “O, but to you, ma’amselle, to
you I may tell it safely, I know.”
Emily smiled, “I certainly shall keep it as faithful as yourself,
Annette.”
Annette replied very gravely, that would do, and proceeded—“This
castle, you must know, ma’amselle, is very old, and very strong, and
has stood out many sieges as they say. Now it was not Signor Montoni’s
always, nor his father’s; no; but, by some law or other, it was to come
to the Signor, if the lady died unmarried.”
“What lady?” said Emily.
“I am not come to that yet,” replied Annette, “it is the lady I am
going to tell you about, ma’amselle: but, as I was saying, this lady
lived in the castle, and had everything very grand about her, as you
may suppose, ma’amselle. The Signor used often to come to see her, and
was in love with her, and offered to marry her; for, though he was
somehow related, that did not signify. But she was in love with
somebody else, and would not have him, which made him very angry, as
they say, and you know, ma’amselle, what an ill-looking gentleman he
is, when he is angry. Perhaps she saw him in a passion, and therefore
would not have him. But, as I was saying, she was very melancholy and
unhappy, and all that, for a long while, and—Holy Virgin! what noise is
that? did not you hear a sound, ma’amselle?”
“It was only the wind,” said Emily, “but do come to the end of your
story.”
“As I was saying—O, where was I?—as I was saying—she was very
melancholy and unhappy a long while, and used to walk about upon the
terrace, there, under the windows, by herself, and cry so! it would
have done your heart good to hear her. That is—I don’t mean good, but
it would have made you cry too, as they tell me.”
“Well, but, Annette, do tell me the substance of your tale.”
“All in good time, ma’am; all this I heard before at Venice, but what
is to come I never heard till today. This happened a great many years
ago, when Signor Montoni was quite a young man. The lady—they called
her Signora Laurentini, was very handsome, but she used to be in great
passions, too, sometimes, as well as the Signor. Finding he could not
make her listen to him—what does he do, but leave the castle, and never
comes near it for a long time! but it was all one to her; she was just
as unhappy whether he was here or not, till one evening, Holy St.
Peter! ma’amselle,” cried Annette, “look at that lamp, see how blue it
burns!” She looked fearfully round the chamber. “Ridiculous girl!” said
Emily, “why will you indulge those fancies? Pray let me hear the end of
your story, I am weary.”
Annette still kept her eyes on the lamp, and proceeded in a lower
voice. “It was one evening, they say, at the latter end of the year, it
might be about the middle of September, I suppose, or the beginning of
October; nay, for that matter, it might be November, for that, too, is
the latter end of the year, but that I cannot say for certain, because
they did not tell me for certain themselves. However, it was at the
latter end of the year, this grand lady walked out of the castle into
the woods below, as she had often done before, all alone, only her maid
was with her. The wind blew cold, and strewed the leaves about, and
whistled dismally among those great old chesnut trees, that we passed,
ma’amselle, as we came to the castle—for Benedetto showed me the trees
as he was talking—the wind blew cold, and her woman would have
persuaded her to return: but all would not do, for she was fond of
walking in the woods, at evening time, and, if the leaves were falling
about her, so much the better.
“Well, they saw her go down among the woods, but night came, and she
did not return: ten o’clock, eleven o’clock, twelve o’clock came, and
no lady! Well, the servants thought to be sure, some accident had
befallen her, and they went out to seek her. They searched all night
long, but could not find her, or any trace of her; and, from that day
to this, ma’amselle, she has never been heard of.”
“Is this true, Annette?” said Emily, in much surprise.
“True, ma’am!” said Annette, with a look of horror, “yes, it is true,
indeed. But they do say,” she added, lowering her voice, “they do say,
that the Signora has been seen, several times since, walking in the
woods and about the castle in the night: several of the old servants,
who remained here some time after, declare they saw her; and, since
then, she has been seen by some of the vassals, who have happened to be
in the castle, at night. Carlo, the old steward, could tell such
things, they say, if he would.”
“How contradictory is this, Annette!” said Emily, “you say nothing has
been since known of her, and yet she has been seen!”
“But all this was told me for a great secret,” rejoined Annette,
without noticing the remark, “and I am sure, ma’am, you would not hurt
either me or Benedetto, so much as to go and tell it again.” Emily
remained silent, and Annette repeated her last sentence.
“You have nothing to fear from my indiscretion,” replied Emily, “and
let me advise you, my good Annette, be discreet yourself, and never
mention what you have just told me to any other person. Signor Montoni,
as you say, may be angry if he hears of it. But what inquiries were
made concerning the lady?”
“O! a great deal, indeed, ma’amselle, for the Signor laid claim to the
castle directly, as being the next heir, and they said, that is, the
judges, or the senators, or somebody of that sort, said, he could not
take possession of it till so many years were gone by, and then, if,
after all, the lady could not be found, why she would be as good as
dead, and the castle would be his own; and so it is his own. But the
story went round, and many strange reports were spread, so very
strange, ma’amselle, that I shall not tell them.”
“That is stranger still, Annette,” said Emily, smiling, and rousing
herself from her reverie. “But, when Signora Laurentini was afterwards
seen in the castle, did nobody speak to her?”
“Speak—speak to her!” cried Annette, with a look of terror; “no, to be
sure.”
“And why not?” rejoined Emily, willing to hear further.
“Holy Mother! speak to a spirit!”
“But what reason had they to conclude it was a spirit, unless they had
approached, and spoken to it?”
“O ma’amselle, I cannot tell. How can you ask such shocking questions?
But nobody ever saw it come in, or go out of the castle; and it was in
one place now, and then the next minute in quite another part of the
castle; and then it never spoke, and, if it was alive, what should it
do in the castle if it never spoke? Several parts of the castle have
never been gone into since, they say, for that very reason.”
“What, because it never spoke?” said Emily, trying to laugh away the
fears that began to steal upon her.
“No, ma’amselle, no;” replied Annette, rather angrily “but because
something has been seen there. They say, too, there is an old chapel
adjoining the west side of the castle, where, any time at midnight, you
may hear such groans!—it makes one shudder to think of them!—and
strange sights have been seen there—”
“Pr’ythee, Annette, no more of these silly tales,” said Emily.
“Silly tales, ma’amselle! O, but I will tell you one story about this,
if you please, that Caterina told me. It was one cold winter’s night
that Caterina (she often came to the castle then, she says, to keep old
Carlo and his wife company, and so he recommended her afterwards to the
Signor, and she has lived here ever since) Caterina was sitting with
them in the little hall, says Carlo, ‘I wish we had some of those figs
to roast, that lie in the store-closet, but it is a long way off, and I
am loath to fetch them; do, Caterina,’ says he, ‘for you are young and
nimble, do bring us some, the fire is in nice trim for roasting them;
they lie,’ says he, ‘in such a corner of the store-room, at the end of
the north-gallery; here, take the lamp,’ says he, ‘and mind, as you go
up the great staircase, that the wind, through the roof, does not blow
it out.’ So, with that, Caterina took the lamp—Hush! ma’amselle, I
surely heard a noise!”