The Mysteries of Udolpho
Montoni frowned upon him, and waved his hand for him to leave the room.
Carlo stopped, looked down, and then added, as he advanced to the
breakfast-table, and took up the basket of fruit, “I made bold, your
_Excellenza_, to bring some cherries, here, for my honoured lady and my
young mistress. Will your ladyship taste them, madam?” said Carlo,
presenting the basket, “they are very fine ones, though I gathered them
myself, and from an old tree, that catches all the south sun; they are
as big as plums, your ladyship.”
“Very well, old Carlo,” said Madame Montoni; “I am obliged to you.”
“And the young Signora, too, she may like some of them,” rejoined
Carlo, turning with the basket to Emily, “it will do me good to see her
eat some.”
“Thank you, Carlo,” said Emily, taking some cherries, and smiling
kindly.
“Come, come,” said Montoni, impatiently, “enough of this. Leave the
room, but be in waiting. I shall want you presently.”
Carlo obeyed, and Montoni, soon after, went out to examine further into
the state of the castle; while Emily remained with her aunt, patiently
enduring her ill humour, and endeavouring, with much sweetness, to
soothe her affliction, instead of resenting its effect.
When Madame Montoni retired to her dressing-room, Emily endeavoured to
amuse herself by a view of the castle. Through a folding door she
passed from the great hall to the ramparts, which extended along the
brow of the precipice, round three sides of the edifice; the fourth was
guarded by the high walls of the courts, and by the gateway, through
which she had passed, on the preceding evening. The grandeur of the
broad ramparts, and the changing scenery they overlooked, excited her
high admiration; for the extent of the terraces allowed the features of
the country to be seen in such various points of view, that they
appeared to form new landscapes. She often paused to examine the gothic
magnificence of Udolpho, its proud irregularity, its lofty towers and
battlements, its high-arched casements, and its slender watch-towers,
perched upon the corners of turrets. Then she would lean on the wall of
the terrace, and, shuddering, measure with her eye the precipice below,
till the dark summits of the woods arrested it. Wherever she turned,
appeared mountain-tops, forests of pine and narrow glens, opening among
the Apennines and retiring from the sight into inaccessible regions.
While she thus leaned, Montoni, followed by two men, appeared,
ascending a winding path, cut in the rock below. He stopped upon a
cliff, and, pointing to the ramparts, turned to his followers, and
talked with much eagerness of gesticulation.—Emily perceived, that one
of these men was Carlo; the other was in the dress of a peasant, and he
alone seemed to be receiving the directions of Montoni.
She withdrew from the walls, and pursued her walk, till she heard at a
distance the sound of carriage wheels, and then the loud bell of the
portal, when it instantly occurred to her, that Count Morano was
arrived. As she hastily passed the folding doors from the terrace,
towards her own apartment, several persons entered the hall by an
opposite door. She saw them at the extremities of the arcades, and
immediately retreated; but the agitation of her spirits, and the extent
and duskiness of the hall, had prevented her from distinguishing the
persons of the strangers. Her fears, however, had but one object, and
they had called up that object to her fancy:—she believed that she had
seen Count Morano.
When she thought that they had passed the hall, she ventured again to
the door, and proceeded, unobserved, to her room, where she remained,
agitated with apprehensions, and listening to every distant sound. At
length, hearing voices on the rampart, she hastened to her window, and
observed Montoni, with Signor Cavigni, walking below, conversing
earnestly, and often stopping and turning towards each other, at which
time their discourse seemed to be uncommonly interesting.
Of the several persons who had appeared in the hall, here was Cavigni
alone: but Emily’s alarm was soon after heightened by the steps of some
one in the corridor, who, she apprehended, brought a message from the
Count. In the next moment, Annette appeared.
“Ah! ma’amselle,” said she, “here is the Signor Cavigni arrived! I am
sure I rejoiced to see a christian person in this place; and then he is
so good natured too, he always takes so much notice of me!—And here is
also Signor Verezzi, and who do you think besides, ma’amselle?”
“I cannot guess, Annette; tell me quickly.”
“Nay, ma’am, do guess once.”
“Well, then,” said Emily, with assumed composure, “it is—Count Morano,
I suppose.”
“Holy Virgin!” cried Annette, “are you ill, ma’amselle? you are going
to faint! let me get some water.”
Emily sunk into a chair. “Stay, Annette,” said she, feebly, “do not
leave me—I shall soon be better; open the casement.—The Count, you
say—he is come, then?”
“Who, I!—the Count! No, ma’amselle, I did not say so.”
“He is _not_ come then?” said Emily eagerly.
“No, ma’amselle.”
“You are sure of it?”
“Lord bless me!” said Annette, “you recover very suddenly, ma’am! why,
I thought you were dying, just now.”
“But the Count—you are sure, is not come?”
“O yes, quite sure of that, ma’amselle. Why, I was looking out through
the grate in the north turret, when the carriages drove into the
courtyard, and I never expected to see such a goodly sight in this
dismal old castle! but here are masters and servants, too, enough to
make the place ring again. O! I was ready to leap through the rusty old
bars for joy!—O! who would ever have thought of seeing a christian face
in this huge dreary house? I could have kissed the very horses that
brought them.”
“Well, Annette, well, I am better now.”
“Yes, ma’amselle, I see you are. O! all the servants will lead merry
lives here, now; we shall have singing and dancing in the little hall,
for the Signor cannot hear us there—and droll stories—Ludovico’s come,
ma’am; yes, there is Ludovico come with them! You remember Ludovico,
ma’am—a tall, handsome young man—Signor Cavigni’s lacquey—who always
wears his cloak with such a grace, thrown round his left arm, and his
hat set on so smartly, all on one side, and—”
“No,” said Emily, who was wearied by her loquacity.
“What, ma’amselle, don’t you remember Ludovico—who rowed the
Cavaliero’s gondola, at the last regatta, and won the prize? And who
used to sing such sweet verses about Orlandos and about the
Black-a-moors, too; and Charly—Charly—magne, yes, that was the name,
all under my lattice, in the west portico, on the moonlight nights at
Venice? O! I have listened to him!—”
“I fear, to thy peril, my good Annette,” said Emily; “for it seems his
verses have stolen thy heart. But let me advise you; if it is so, keep
the secret; never let him know it.”
“Ah—ma’amselle!—how can one keep such a secret as that?”
“Well, Annette, I am now so much better, that you may leave me.”
“O, but, ma’amselle, I forgot to ask—how did you sleep in this dreary
old chamber last night?”—“As well as usual.”—“Did you hear no
noises?”—“None.”—“Nor see anything?”—“Nothing.”—“Well, that is
surprising!”—“Not in the least: and now tell me, why you ask these
questions.”
“O, ma’amselle! I would not tell you for the world, nor all I have
heard about this chamber, either; it would frighten you so.”
“If that is all, you have frightened me already, and may therefore tell
me what you know, without hurting your conscience.”
“O Lord! they say the room is haunted, and has been so these many
years.”
“It is by a ghost, then, who can draw bolts,” said Emily, endeavouring
to laugh away her apprehensions; “for I left the door open, last night,
and found it fastened this morning.”
Annette turned pale, and said not a word.
“Do you know whether any of the servants fastened this door in the
morning, before I rose?”
“No, ma’am, that I will be bound they did not; but I don’t know: shall
I go and ask, ma’amselle?” said Annette, moving hastily towards the
corridor.
“Stay, Annette, I have another question to ask; tell me what you have
heard concerning this room, and whither that staircase leads.”
“I will go and ask it all directly, ma’am; besides, I am sure my lady
wants me. I cannot stay now, indeed, ma’am.”
She hurried from the room, without waiting Emily’s reply, whose heart,
lightened by the certainty, that Morano was not arrived, allowed her to
smile at the superstitious terror, which had seized on Annette; for,
though she sometimes felt its influence herself, she could smile at it,
when apparent in other persons.
Montoni having refused Emily another chamber, she determined to bear
with patience the evil she could not remove, and, in order to make the
room as comfortable as possible, unpacked her books, her sweet delight
in happier days, and her soothing resource in the hours of moderate
sorrow: but there were hours when even these failed of their effect;
when the genius, the taste, the enthusiasm of the sublimest writers
were felt no longer.
Her little library being arranged on a high chest, part of the
furniture of the room, she took out her drawing utensils, and was
tranquil enough to be pleased with the thought of sketching the sublime
scenes, beheld from her windows; but she suddenly checked this
pleasure, remembering how often she had soothed herself by the
intention of obtaining amusement of this kind, and had been prevented
by some new circumstance of misfortune.
“How can I suffer myself to be deluded by hope,” said she, “and,
because Count Morano is not yet arrived, feel a momentary happiness?
Alas! what is it to me, whether he is here today, or tomorrow, if he
comes at all?—and that he will come—it were weakness to doubt.”
To withdraw her thoughts, however, from the subject of her misfortunes,
she attempted to read, but her attention wandered from the page, and,
at length, she threw aside the book, and determined to explore the
adjoining chambers of the castle. Her imagination was pleased with the
view of ancient grandeur, and an emotion of melancholy awe awakened all
its powers, as she walked through rooms, obscure and desolate, where no
footsteps had passed probably for many years, and remembered the
strange history of the former possessor of the edifice. This brought to
her recollection the veiled picture, which had attracted her curiosity,
on the preceding night, and she resolved to examine it. As she passed
through the chambers, that led to this, she found herself somewhat
agitated; its connection with the late lady of the castle, and the
conversation of Annette, together with the circumstance of the veil,
throwing a mystery over the subject, that excited a faint degree of
terror. But a terror of this nature, as it occupies and expands the
mind, and elevates it to high expectation, is purely sublime, and leads
us, by a kind of fascination, to seek even the object, from which we
appear to shrink.
Emily passed on with faltering steps, and having paused a moment at the
door, before she attempted to open it, she then hastily entered the
chamber, and went towards the picture, which appeared to be enclosed in
a frame of uncommon size, that hung in a dark part of the room. She
paused again, and then, with a timid hand, lifted the veil; but
instantly let it fall—perceiving that what it had concealed was no
picture, and, before she could leave the chamber, she dropped senseless
on the floor.
When she recovered her recollection, the remembrance of what she had
seen had nearly deprived her of it a second time. She had scarcely
strength to remove from the room, and regain her own; and, when arrived
there, wanted courage to remain alone. Horror occupied her mind, and