The Mysteries of Udolpho
lost in the abyss, though its white foam was long seen amid the
darkness of the pines below.
This was a spot well suited for rest, and the travellers alighted to
dine, while the mules were unharnessed to browse on the savoury herbs
that enriched this summit.
It was some time before St. Aubert or Emily could withdraw their
attention from the surrounding objects, so as to partake of their
little repast. Seated in the shade of the palms, St. Aubert pointed out
to her observation the course of the rivers, the situation of great
towns, and the boundaries of provinces, which science, rather than the
eye, enabled him to describe. Notwithstanding this occupation, when he
had talked awhile he suddenly became silent, thoughtful, and tears
often swelled to his eyes, which Emily observed, and the sympathy of
her own heart told her their cause. The scene before them bore some
resemblance, though it was on a much grander scale, to a favourite one
of the late Madame St. Aubert, within view of the fishing-house. They
both observed this, and thought how delighted she would have been with
the present landscape, while they knew that her eyes must never, never
more open upon this world. St. Aubert remembered the last time of his
visiting that spot in company with her, and also the mournfully
presaging thoughts which had then arisen in his mind, and were now,
even thus soon, realised! The recollections subdued him, and he
abruptly rose from his seat, and walked away to where no eye could
observe his grief.
When he returned, his countenance had recovered its usual serenity; he
took Emily’s hand, pressed it affectionately, without speaking, and
soon after called to the muleteer, who sat at a little distance,
concerning a road among the mountains towards Rousillon. Michael said,
there were several that way, but he did not know how far they extended,
or even whether they were passable; and St. Aubert, who did not intend
to travel after sunset, asked what village they could reach about that
time. The muleteer calculated that they could easily reach Mateau,
which was in their present road; but that, if they took a road that
sloped more to the south, towards Rousillon, there was a hamlet, which
he thought they could gain before the evening shut in.
St. Aubert, after some hesitation, determined to take the latter
course, and Michael, having finished his meal, and harnessed his mules,
again set forward, but soon stopped; and St. Aubert saw him doing
homage to a cross, that stood on a rock impending over their way.
Having concluded his devotions, he smacked his whip in the air, and, in
spite of the rough road, and the pain of his poor mules, which he had
been lately lamenting, rattled, in a full gallop, along the edge of a
precipice, which it made the eye dizzy to look down. Emily was
terrified almost to fainting; and St. Aubert, apprehending still
greater danger from suddenly stopping the driver, was compelled to sit
quietly, and trust his fate to the strength and discretion of the
mules, who seemed to possess a greater portion of the latter quality
than their master; for they carried the travellers safely into the
valley, and there stopped upon the brink of the rivulet that watered
it.
Leaving the splendour of extensive prospects, they now entered this
narrow valley screened by
Rocks on rocks piled, as if by magic spell,
Here scorch’d by lightnings, there with ivy green.
The scene of barrenness was here and there interrupted by the spreading
branches of the larch and cedar, which threw their gloom over the
cliff, or athwart the torrent that rolled in the vale. No living
creature appeared, except the lizard, scrambling among the rocks, and
often hanging upon points so dangerous, that fancy shrunk from the view
of them. This was such a scene as _Salvator_ would have chosen, had he
then existed, for his canvas; St. Aubert, impressed by the romantic
character of the place, almost expected to see banditti start from
behind some projecting rock, and he kept his hand upon the arms with
which he always travelled.
As they advanced, the valley opened; its savage features gradually
softened, and, towards evening, they were among heathy mountains,
stretched in far perspective, along which the solitary sheep-bell was
heard, and the voice of the shepherd calling his wandering flocks to
the nightly fold. His cabin, partly shadowed by the cork-tree and the
ilex, which St. Aubert observed to flourish in higher regions of the
air than any other trees, except the fir, was all the human habitation
that yet appeared. Along the bottom of this valley the most vivid
verdure was spread; and, in the little hollow recesses of the
mountains, under the shade of the oak and chestnut, herds of cattle
were grazing. Groups of them, too, were often seen reposing on the
banks of the rivulet, or laving their sides in the cool stream, and
sipping its wave.
The sun was now setting upon the valley; its last light gleamed upon
the water, and heightened the rich yellow and purple tints of the heath
and broom, that overspread the mountains. St. Aubert enquired of
Michael the distance to the hamlet he had mentioned, but the man could
not with certainty tell; and Emily began to fear that he had mistaken
the road. Here was no human being to assist, or direct them; they had
left the shepherd and his cabin far behind, and the scene became so
obscured in twilight, that the eye could not follow the distant
perspective of the valley in search of a cottage, or a hamlet. A glow
of the horizon still marked the west, and this was of some little use
to the travellers. Michael seemed endeavouring to keep up his courage
by singing; his music, however, was not of a kind to disperse
melancholy; he sung, in a sort of chant, one of the most dismal ditties
his present auditors had ever heard, and St. Aubert at length
discovered it to be a vesper-hymn to his favourite saint.
They travelled on, sunk in that thoughtful melancholy, with which
twilight and solitude impress the mind. Michael had now ended his
ditty, and nothing was heard but the drowsy murmur of the breeze among
the woods, and its light flutter, as it blew freshly into the carriage.
They were at length roused by the sound of fire-arms. St. Aubert called
to the muleteer to stop, and they listened. The noise was not repeated;
but presently they heard a rustling among the brakes. St. Aubert drew
forth a pistol, and ordered Michael to proceed as fast as possible; who
had not long obeyed, before a horn sounded, that made the mountains
ring. He looked again from the window, and then saw a young man spring
from the bushes into the road, followed by a couple of dogs. The
stranger was in a hunter’s dress. His gun was slung across his
shoulders, the hunter’s horn hung from his belt, and in his hand was a
small pike, which, as he held it, added to the manly grace of his
figure, and assisted the agility of his steps.
After a moment’s hesitation, St. Aubert again stopped the carriage, and
waited till he came up, that they might enquire concerning the hamlet
they were in search of. The stranger informed him, that it was only
half a league distant, that he was going thither himself, and would
readily show the way. St. Aubert thanked him for the offer, and,
pleased with his chevalier-like air and open countenance, asked him to
take a seat in the carriage; which the stranger, with an
acknowledgment, declined, adding that he would keep pace with the
mules. “But I fear you will be wretchedly accommodated,” said he: “the
inhabitants of these mountains are a simple people, who are not only
without the luxuries of life, but almost destitute of what in other
places are held to be its necessaries.”
“I perceive you are not one of its inhabitants, sir,” said St. Aubert.
“No, sir, I am only a wanderer here.”
The carriage drove on, and the increasing dusk made the travellers very
thankful that they had a guide; the frequent glens, too, that now
opened among the mountains, would likewise have added to their
perplexity. Emily, as she looked up one of these, saw something at a
great distance like a bright cloud in the air. “What light is yonder,
sir?” said she.
St. Aubert looked, and perceived that it was the snowy summit of a
mountain, so much higher than any around it, that it still reflected
the sun’s rays, while those below lay in deep shade.
At length, the village lights were seen to twinkle through the dusk,
and, soon after, some cottages were discovered in the valley, or rather
were seen by reflection in the stream, on whose margin they stood, and
which still gleamed with the evening light.
The stranger now came up, and St. Aubert, on further enquiry, found not
only that there was no inn in the place, but not any sort of house of
public reception. The stranger, however, offered to walk on, and
enquire for a cottage to accommodate them; for which further civility
St. Aubert returned his thanks, and said, that, as the village was so
near, he would alight, and walk with him. Emily followed slowly in the
carriage.
On the way, St. Aubert asked his companion what success he had had in
the chase. “Not much, sir,” he replied, “nor do I aim at it. I am
pleased with the country, and mean to saunter away a few weeks among
its scenes. My dogs I take with me more for companionship than for
game. This dress, too, gives me an ostensible business, and procures me
that respect from the people, which would, perhaps, be refused to a
lonely stranger, who had no visible motive for coming among them.”
“I admire your taste,” said St. Aubert, “and, if I was a younger man,
should like to pass a few weeks in your way exceedingly. I, too, am a
wanderer, but neither my plan nor pursuits are exactly like yours—I go
in search of health, as much as of amusement.” St. Aubert sighed, and
paused; and then, seeming to recollect himself, he resumed: “If I can
hear of a tolerable road, that shall afford decent accommodation, it is
my intention to pass into Rousillon, and along the sea-shore to
Languedoc. You, sir, seem to be acquainted with the country, and can,
perhaps, give me information on the subject.”
The stranger said, that what information he could give was entirely at
his service; and then mentioned a road rather more to the east, which
led to a town, whence it would be easy to proceed into Rousillon.
They now arrived at the village, and commenced their search for a
cottage, that would afford a night’s lodging. In several, which they
entered, ignorance, poverty, and mirth seemed equally to prevail; and
the owners eyed St. Aubert with a mixture of curiosity and timidity.
Nothing like a bed could be found, and he had ceased to enquire for
one, when Emily joined him, who observed the languor of her father’s
countenance, and lamented, that he had taken a road so ill provided
with the comforts necessary for an invalid. Other cottages, which they
examined, seemed somewhat less savage than the former, consisting of
two rooms, if such they could be called; the first of these occupied by
mules and pigs, the second by the family, which generally consisted of
six or eight children, with their parents, who slept on beds of skins
and dried beech leaves, spread upon a mud floor. Here, light was
admitted, and smoke discharged, through an aperture in the roof; and
here the scent of spirits (for the travelling smugglers, who haunted
the Pyrenees, had made this rude people familiar with the use of
liquors) was generally perceptible enough. Emily turned from such
scenes, and looked at her father with anxious tenderness, which the
young stranger seemed to observe; for, drawing St. Aubert aside, he
made him an offer of his own bed. “It is a decent one,” said he, “when
compared with what we have just seen, yet such as in other