The Mysteries of Udolpho
prosperity of Venice, and boasted of its decided superiority over all
the other Italian states. He then turned to the ladies, and talked with
the same eloquence, of Parisian fashions, the French opera, and French
manners; and on the latter subject he did not fail to mingle what is so
particularly agreeable to French taste. The flattery was not detected
by those to whom it was addressed, though its effect, in producing
submissive attention, did not escape his observation. When he could
disengage himself from the assiduities of the other ladies, he
sometimes addressed Emily: but she knew nothing of Parisian fashions,
or Parisian operas; and her modesty, simplicity, and correct manners
formed a decided contrast to those of her female companions.
After dinner, St. Aubert stole from the room to view once more the old
chesnut which Quesnel talked of cutting down. As he stood under its
shade, and looked up among its branches, still luxuriant, and saw here
and there the blue sky trembling between them; the pursuits and events
of his early days crowded fast to his mind, with the figures and
characters of friends—long since gone from the earth; and he now felt
himself to be almost an insulated being, with nobody but his Emily for
his heart to turn to.
He stood lost amid the scenes of years which fancy called up, till the
succession closed with the picture of his dying wife, and he started
away, to forget it, if possible, at the social board.
St. Aubert ordered his carriage at an early hour, and Emily observed,
that he was more than usually silent and dejected on the way home; but
she considered this to be the effect of his visit to a place which
spoke so eloquently of former times, nor suspected that he had a cause
of grief which he concealed from her.
On entering the château she felt more depressed than ever, for she more
than ever missed the presence of that dear parent, who, whenever she
had been from home, used to welcome her return with smiles and
fondness; now, all was silent and forsaken.
But what reason and effort may fail to do, time effects. Week after
week passed away, and each, as it passed, stole something from the
harshness of her affliction, till it was mellowed to that tenderness
which the feeling heart cherishes as sacred. St. Aubert, on the
contrary, visibly declined in health; though Emily, who had been so
constantly with him, was almost the last person who observed it. His
constitution had never recovered from the late attack of the fever, and
the succeeding shock it received from Madame St. Aubert’s death had
produced its present infirmity. His physician now ordered him to
travel; for it was perceptible that sorrow had seized upon his nerves,
weakened as they had been by the preceding illness; and variety of
scene, it was probable, would, by amusing his mind, restore them to
their proper tone.
For some days Emily was occupied in preparations to attend him; and he,
by endeavours to diminish his expences at home during the journey—a
purpose which determined him at length to dismiss his domestics. Emily
seldom opposed her father’s wishes by questions or remonstrances, or
she would now have asked why he did not take a servant, and have
represented that his infirm health made one almost necessary. But when,
on the eve of their departure, she found that he had dismissed Jacques,
Francis, and Mary, and detained only Theresa the old housekeeper, she
was extremely surprised, and ventured to ask his reason for having done
so. “To save expences, my dear,” he replied—“we are going on an
expensive excursion.”
The physician had prescribed the air of Languedoc and Provence; and St.
Aubert determined, therefore, to travel leisurely along the shores of
the Mediterranean, towards Provence.
They retired early to their chamber on the night before their
departure; but Emily had a few books and other things to collect, and
the clock had struck twelve before she had finished, or had remembered
that some of her drawing instruments, which she meant to take with her,
were in the parlour below. As she went to fetch these, she passed her
father’s room, and, perceiving the door half open, concluded that he
was in his study—for, since the death of Madame St. Aubert, it had been
frequently his custom to rise from his restless bed, and go thither to
compose his mind. When she was below stairs she looked into this room,
but without finding him; and as she returned to her chamber, she tapped
at his door, and receiving no answer, stepped softly in, to be certain
whether he was there.
The room was dark, but a light glimmered through some panes of glass
that were placed in the upper part of a closet-door. Emily believed her
father to be in the closet, and, surprised that he was up at so late an
hour, apprehended he was unwell, and was going to enquire; but,
considering that her sudden appearance at this hour might alarm him,
she removed her light to the staircase, and then stepped softly to the
closet. On looking through the panes of glass, she saw him seated at a
small table, with papers before him, some of which he was reading with
deep attention and interest, during which he often wept and sobbed
aloud. Emily, who had come to the door to learn whether her father was
ill, was now detained there by a mixture of curiosity and tenderness.
She could not witness his sorrow, without being anxious to know the
subject of; and she therefore continued to observe him in silence,
concluding that those papers were letters of her late mother. Presently
he knelt down, and with a look so solemn as she had seldom seen him
assume, and which was mingled with a certain wild expression, that
partook more of horror than of any other character, he prayed silently
for a considerable time.
When he rose, a ghastly paleness was on his countenance. Emily was
hastily retiring; but she saw him turn again to the papers, and she
stopped. He took from among them a small case, and from thence a
miniature picture. The rays of light fell strongly upon it, and she
perceived it to be that of a lady, but not of her mother.
St. Aubert gazed earnestly and tenderly upon his portrait, put it to
his lips, and then to his heart, and sighed with a convulsive force.
Emily could scarcely believe what she saw to be real. She never knew
till now that he had a picture of any other lady than her mother, much
less that he had one which he evidently valued so highly; but having
looked repeatedly, to be certain that it was not the resemblance of
Madame St. Aubert, she became entirely convinced that it was designed
for that of some other person.
At length St. Aubert returned the picture to its case; and Emily,
recollecting that she was intruding upon his private sorrows, softly
withdrew from the chamber.
CHAPTER III
O how canst thou renounce the boundless store
Of charms which nature to her vot’ry yields!
The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,
The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields;
All that the genial ray of morning gilds,
And all that echoes to the song of even;
All that the mountain’s shelt’ring bosom shields,
And all the dread magnificence of heaven;
O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven!
.....
These charms shall work thy soul’s eternal health,
And love, and gentleness, and joy, impart.
THE MINSTREL
St. Aubert, instead of taking the more direct road, that ran along the
feet of the Pyrenees to Languedoc, chose one that, winding over the
heights, afforded more extensive views and greater variety of romantic
scenery. He turned a little out of his way to take leave of M.
Barreaux, whom he found botanizing in the wood near his château, and
who, when he was told the purpose of St. Aubert’s visit, expressed a
degree of concern, such as his friend had thought it was scarcely
possible for him to feel on any similar occasion. They parted with
mutual regret.
“If anything could have tempted me from my retirement,” said M.
Barreaux, “it would have been the pleasure of accompanying you on this
little tour. I do not often offer compliments; you may, therefore,
believe me, when I say, that I shall look for your return with
impatience.”
The travellers proceeded on their journey. As they ascended the
heights, St. Aubert often looked back upon the château, in the plain
below; tender images crowded to his mind; his melancholy imagination
suggested that he should return no more; and though he checked this
wandering thought, still he continued to look, till the haziness of
distance blended his home with the general landscape, and St. Aubert
seemed to
Drag at each remove a lengthening chain.
He and Emily continued sunk in musing silence for some leagues, from
which melancholy reverie Emily first awoke, and her young fancy, struck
with the grandeur of the objects around, gradually yielded to
delightful impressions. The road now descended into glens, confined by
stupendous walls of rock, grey and barren, except where shrubs fringed
their summits, or patches of meagre vegetation tinted their recesses,
in which the wild goat was frequently browsing. And now, the way led to
the lofty cliffs, from whence the landscape was seen extending in all
its magnificence.
Emily could not restrain her transport as she looked over the pine
forests of the mountains upon the vast plains, that, enriched with
woods, towns, blushing vines, and plantations of almonds, palms, and
olives, stretched along, till their various colours melted in distance
into one harmonious hue, that seemed to unite earth with heaven.
Through the whole of this glorious scene the majestic Garonne wandered;
descending from its source among the Pyrenees, and winding its blue
waves towards the Bay of Biscay.
The ruggedness of the unfrequented road often obliged the wanderers to
alight from their little carriage, but they thought themselves amply
repaid for this inconvenience by the grandeur of the scenes; and, while
the muleteer led his animals slowly over the broken ground, the
travellers had leisure to linger amid these solitudes, and to indulge
the sublime reflections, which soften, while they elevate, the heart,
and fill it with the certainty of a present God! Still the enjoyment of
St. Aubert was touched with that pensive melancholy, which gives to
every object a mellower tint, and breathes a sacred charm over all
around.
They had provided against part of the evil to be encountered from a
want of convenient inns, by carrying a stock of provisions in the
carriage, so that they might take refreshment on any pleasant spot, in
the open air, and pass the nights wherever they should happen to meet
with a comfortable cottage. For the mind, also, they had provided, by a
work on botany, written by M. Barreaux, and by several of the Latin and
Italian poets; while Emily’s pencil enabled her to preserve some of
those combinations of forms, which charmed her at every step.
The loneliness of the road, where, only now and then, a peasant was
seen driving his mule, or some mountaineer-children at play among the
rocks, heightened the effect of the scenery. St. Aubert was so much
struck with it, that he determined, if he could hear of a road, to
penetrate further among the mountains, and, bending his way rather more
to the south, to emerge into Rousillon, and coast the Mediterranean
along part of that country to Languedoc.
Soon after mid-day, they reached the summit of one of those cliffs,
which, bright with the verdure of palm-trees, adorn, like gems, the
tremendous walls of the rocks, and which overlooked the greater part of
Gascony, and part of Languedoc. Here was shade, and the fresh water of
a spring, that, gliding among the turf, under the trees, thence
precipitated itself from rock to rock, till its dashing murmurs were