The Mysteries of Udolpho
now to attend. Carlo hesitated, and then with slow steps went to seek
him.
Barnardine, the porter, denied the accusation with a countenance so
steady and undaunted, that Montoni could scarcely believe him guilty,
though he knew not how to think him innocent. At length, the man was
dismissed from his presence, and, though the real offender, escaped
detection.
Montoni then went to his wife’s apartment, whither Emily followed soon
after, but, finding them in high dispute, was instantly leaving the
room, when her aunt called her back, and desired her to stay.—“You
shall be a witness,” said she, “of my opposition. Now, sir, repeat the
command, I have so often refused to obey.”
Montoni turned, with a stern countenance, to Emily, and bade her quit
the apartment, while his wife persisted in desiring, that she would
stay. Emily was eager to escape from this scene of contention, and
anxious, also, to serve her aunt; but she despaired of conciliating
Montoni, in whose eyes the rising tempest of his soul flashed terribly.
“Leave the room,” said he, in a voice of thunder. Emily obeyed, and,
walking down to the rampart, which the strangers had now left,
continued to meditate on the unhappy marriage of her father’s sister,
and on her own desolate situation, occasioned by the ridiculous
imprudence of her, whom she had always wished to respect and love.
Madame Montoni’s conduct had, indeed, rendered it impossible for Emily
to do either; but her gentle heart was touched by her distress, and, in
the pity thus awakened, she forgot the injurious treatment she had
received from her.
As she sauntered on the rampart, Annette appeared at the hall door,
looked cautiously round, and then advanced to meet her.
“Dear ma’amselle, I have been looking for you all over the castle,”
said she. “If you will step this way, I will show you a picture.”
“A picture!” exclaimed Emily, and shuddered.
“Yes, ma’am, a picture of the late lady of this place. Old Carlo just
now told me it was her, and I thought you would be curious to see it.
As to my lady, you know, ma’amselle, one cannot talk about such things
to her.”
“And so,” said Emily smilingly, “as you must talk of them to somebody—”
“Why, yes, ma’amselle; what can one do in such a place as this, if one
must not talk? If I was in a dungeon, if they would let me talk—it
would be some comfort; nay, I would talk, if it was only to the walls.
But come, ma’amselle, we lose time—let me show you the picture.”
“Is it veiled?” said Emily, pausing.
“Dear ma’amselle!” said Annette, fixing her eyes on Emily’s face, “what
makes you look so pale?—are you ill?”
“No, Annette, I am well enough, but I have no desire to see this
picture; return into the hall.”
“What! ma’am, not to see the lady of this castle?” said the girl; “the
lady, who disappeared to strangely? Well! now, I would have run to the
furthest mountain we can see, yonder, to have got a sight of such a
picture; and, to speak my mind, that strange story is all, that makes
me care about this old castle, though it makes me thrill all over, as
it were, whenever I think of it.”
“Yes, Annette, you love the wonderful; but do you know, that, unless
you guard against this inclination, it will lead you into all the
misery of superstition?”
Annette might have smiled in her turn, at this sage observation of
Emily, who could tremble with ideal terrors, as much as herself, and
listen almost as eagerly to the recital of a mysterious story. Annette
urged her request.
“Are you sure it is a picture?” said Emily, “Have you seen it?—Is it
veiled?”
“Holy Maria! ma’amselle, yes, no, yes. I am sure it is a picture—I have
seen it, and it is not veiled!”
The tone and look of surprise, with which this was uttered, recalled
Emily’s prudence; who concealed her emotion under a smile, and bade
Annette lead her to the picture. It was in an obscure chamber,
adjoining that part of the castle, allotted to the servants. Several
other portraits hung on the walls, covered, like this, with dust and
cobweb.
“That is it, ma’amselle,” said Annette, in a low voice, and pointing.
Emily advanced, and surveyed the picture. It represented a lady in the
flower of youth and beauty; her features were handsome and noble, full
of strong expression, but had little of the captivating sweetness, that
Emily had looked for, and still less of the pensive mildness she loved.
It was a countenance, which spoke the language of passion, rather than
that of sentiment; a haughty impatience of misfortune—not the placid
melancholy of a spirit injured, yet resigned.
“How many years have passed, since this lady disappeared, Annette?”
said Emily.
“Twenty years, ma’amselle, or thereabout, as they tell me; I know it is
a long while ago.” Emily continued to gaze upon the portrait.
“I think,” resumed Annette, “the Signor would do well to hang it in a
better place, than this old chamber. Now, in my mind, he ought to place
the picture of a lady, who gave him all these riches, in the handsomest
room in the castle. But he may have good reasons for what he does: and
some people do say that he has lost his riches, as well as his
gratitude. But hush, ma’am, not a word!” added Annette, laying her
finger on her lips. Emily was too much absorbed in thought, to hear
what she said.
“’Tis a handsome lady, I am sure,” continued Annette: “the Signor need
not be ashamed to put her in the great apartment, where the veiled
picture hangs.” Emily turned round. “But for that matter, she would be
as little seen there, as here, for the door is always locked, I find.”
“Let us leave this chamber,” said Emily: “and let me caution you again,
Annette; be guarded in your conversation, and never tell, that you know
anything of that picture.”
“Holy Mother!” exclaimed Annette, “it is no secret; why all the
servants have seen it already!”
Emily started. “How is this?” said she—“Have seen it! When?—how?”
“Dear, ma’amselle, there is nothing surprising in that; we had all a
little more _curiousness_ than you had.”
“I thought you told me, the door was kept locked?” said Emily.
“If that was the case, ma’amselle,” replied Annette, looking about her,
“how could we get here?”
“Oh, you mean _this_ picture,” said Emily, with returning calmness.
“Well, Annette, here is nothing more to engage my attention; we will
go.”
Emily, as she passed to her own apartment, saw Montoni go down to the
hall, and she turned into her aunt’s dressing-room, whom she found
weeping and alone, grief and resentment struggling on her countenance.
Pride had hitherto restrained complaint. Judging of Emily’s disposition
from her own, and from a consciousness of what her treatment of her
deserved, she had believed, that her griefs would be cause of triumph
to her niece, rather than of sympathy; that she would despise, not pity
her. But she knew not the tenderness and benevolence of Emily’s heart,
that had always taught her to forget her own injuries in the
misfortunes of her enemy. The sufferings of others, whoever they might
be, called forth her ready compassion, which dissipated at once every
obscuring cloud to goodness, that passion or prejudice might have
raised in her mind.
Madame Montoni’s sufferings, at length, rose above her pride, and, when
Emily had before entered the room, she would have told them all, had
not her husband prevented her; now that she was no longer restrained by
his presence, she poured forth all her complaints to her niece.
“O Emily!” she exclaimed, “I am the most wretched of women—I am indeed
cruelly treated! Who, with my prospects of happiness, could have
foreseen such a wretched fate as this?—who could have thought, when I
married such a man as the Signor, I should ever have to bewail my lot?
But there is no judging what is for the best—there is no knowing what
is for our good! The most flattering prospects often change—the best
judgments may be deceived—who could have foreseen, when I married the
Signor, that I should ever repent my _generosity?_”
Emily thought she might have foreseen it, but this was not a thought of
triumph. She placed herself in a chair near her aunt, took her hand,
and, with one of those looks of soft compassion, which might
characterise the countenance of a guardian angel, spoke to her in the
tenderest accents. But these did not sooth Madame Montoni, whom
impatience to talk made unwilling to listen. She wanted to complain,
not to be consoled; and it was by exclamations of complaint only, that
Emily learned the particular circumstances of her affliction.
“Ungrateful man!” said Madame Montoni, “he has deceived me in every
respect; and now he has taken me from my country and friends, to shut
me up in this old castle; and, here he thinks he can compel me to do
whatever he designs! But he shall find himself mistaken, he shall find
that no threats can alter—But who would have believed! who would have
supposed, that a man of his family and apparent wealth had absolutely
no fortune?—no, scarcely a sequin of his own! I did all for the best; I
thought he was a man of consequence, of great property, or I am sure I
would never have married him,—ungrateful, artful man!” She paused to
take breath.
“Dear Madam, be composed,” said Emily: “the Signor may not be so rich
as you had reason to expect, but surely he cannot be very poor, since
this castle and the mansion at Venice are his. May I ask what are the
circumstances, that particularly affect you?”
“What are the circumstances!” exclaimed Madame Montoni with resentment:
“why is it not sufficient, that he had long ago ruined his own fortune
by play, and that he has since lost what I brought him—and that now he
would compel me to sign away my settlement (it was well I had the chief
of my property settled on myself!) that he may lose this also, or throw
it away in wild schemes, which nobody can understand but himself? And,
and—is not all this sufficient?”
“It is, indeed,” said Emily, “but you must recollect, dear madam, that
I knew nothing of all this.”
“Well, and is it not sufficient,” rejoined her aunt, “that he is also
absolutely ruined, that he is sunk deeply in debt, and that neither
this castle, nor the mansion at Venice, is his own, if all his debts,
honourable and dishonourable, were paid!”
“I am shocked by what you tell me, madam,” said Emily.
“And is it not enough,” interrupted Madame Montoni, “that he has
treated me with neglect, with cruelty, because I refused to relinquish
my settlements, and, instead of being frightened by his menaces,
resolutely defied him, and upbraided him with his shameful conduct? But
I bore all meekly,—you know, niece, I never uttered a word of
complaint, till now; no! That such a disposition as mine should be so
imposed upon! That I, whose only faults are too much kindness, too much
generosity, should be chained for life to such a vile, deceitful, cruel
monster!”
Want of breath compelled Madame Montoni to stop. If anything could have
made Emily smile in these moments, it would have been this speech of
her aunt, delivered in a voice very little below a scream, and with a
vehemence of gesticulation and of countenance, that turned the whole
into burlesque. Emily saw, that her misfortunes did not admit of real
consolation, and, contemning the commonplace terms of superficial
comfort, she was silent; while Madame Montoni, jealous of her own
consequence, mistook this for the silence of indifference, or of
contempt, and reproached her with want of duty and feeling.
“O! I suspected what all this boasted sensibility would prove to be!”
rejoined she; “I thought it would not teach you to feel either duty, or
affection, for your relations, who have treated you like their own
daughter!”
“Pardon me, madam,” said Emily, mildly, “it is not natural to me to