The Mysteries of Udolpho
circumstances I should be ashamed to offer you.” St. Aubert
acknowledged how much he felt himself obliged by this kindness, but
refused to accept it, till the young stranger would take no denial. “Do
not give me the pain of knowing, sir,” said he, “that an invalid, like
you, lies on hard skins, while I sleep in a bed. Besides, sir, your
refusal wounds my pride; I must believe you think my offer unworthy
your acceptance. Let me show you the way. I have no doubt my landlady
can accommodate this young lady also.”
St. Aubert at length consented, that, if this could be done, he would
accept his kindness, though he felt rather surprised, that the stranger
had proved himself so deficient in gallantry, as to administer to the
repose of an infirm man, rather than to that of a very lovely young
woman, for he had not once offered the room for Emily. But she thought
not of herself, and the animated smile she gave him, told how much she
felt herself obliged for the preference of her father.
On their way, the stranger, whose name was Valancourt, stepped on first
to speak to his hostess, and she came out to welcome St. Aubert into a
cottage, much superior to any he had seen. This good woman seemed very
willing to accommodate the strangers, who were soon compelled to accept
the only two beds in the place. Eggs and milk were the only food the
cottage afforded; but against scarcity of provisions St. Aubert had
provided, and he requested Valancourt to stay, and partake with him of
less homely fare; an invitation, which was readily accepted, and they
passed an hour in intelligent conversation. St. Aubert was much pleased
with the manly frankness, simplicity, and keen susceptibility to the
grandeur of nature, which his new acquaintance discovered; and, indeed,
he had often been heard to say, that, without a certain simplicity of
heart, this taste could not exist in any strong degree.
The conversation was interrupted by a violent uproar without, in which
the voice of the muleteer was heard above every other sound. Valancourt
started from his seat, and went to enquire the occasion; but the
dispute continued so long afterwards, that St. Aubert went himself, and
found Michael quarrelling with the hostess, because she had refused to
let his mules lie in a little room where he and three of her sons were
to pass the night. The place was wretched enough, but there was no
other for these people to sleep in; and, with somewhat more of delicacy
than was usual among the inhabitants of this wild tract of country, she
persisted in refusing to let the animals have the same _bed-chamber_
with her children. This was a tender point with the muleteer; his
honour was wounded when his mules were treated with disrespect, and he
would have received a blow, perhaps, with more meekness. He declared
that his beasts were as honest beasts, and as good beasts, as any in
the whole province; and that they had a right to be well treated
wherever they went. “They are as harmless as lambs,” said he, “if
people don’t affront them. I never knew them behave themselves amiss
above once or twice in my life, and then they had good reason for doing
so. Once, indeed, they kicked at a boy’s leg that lay asleep in the
stable, and broke it; but I told them they were out there, and by St.
Anthony! I believe they understood me, for they never did so again.”
He concluded this eloquent harangue with protesting, that they should
share with him, go where he would.
The dispute was at length settled by Valancourt, who drew the hostess
aside, and desired she would let the muleteer and his beasts have the
place in question to themselves, while her sons should have the bed of
skins designed for him, for that he would wrap himself in his cloak,
and sleep on the bench by the cottage door. But this she thought it her
duty to oppose, and she felt it to be her inclination to disappoint the
muleteer. Valancourt, however, was positive, and the tedious affair was
at length settled.
It was late when St. Aubert and Emily retired to their rooms, and
Valancourt to his station at the door, which, at this mild season, he
preferred to a close cabin and a bed of skins. St. Aubert was somewhat
surprised to find in his room volumes of Homer, Horace, and Petrarch;
but the name of Valancourt, written in them, told him to whom they
belonged.
CHAPTER IV
In truth he was a strange and wayward wight,
Fond of each gentle, and each dreadful scene,
In darkness, and in storm he found delight;
Nor less than when on ocean-wave serene
The southern sun diffus’d his dazzling sheen.
Even sad vicissitude amus’d his soul;
And if a sigh would sometimes intervene,
And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,
A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish’d not to control.
THE MINSTREL
St. Aubert awoke at an early hour, refreshed by sleep, and desirous to
set forward. He invited the stranger to breakfast with him; and,
talking again of the road, Valancourt said, that, some months past, he
had travelled as far as Beaujeu, which was a town of some consequence
on the way to Rousillon. He recommended it to St. Aubert to take that
route, and the latter determined to do so.
“The road from this hamlet,” said Valancourt, “and that to Beaujeu,
part at the distance of about a league and a half from hence; if you
will give me leave, I will direct your muleteer so far. I must wander
somewhere, and your company would make this a pleasanter ramble than
any other I could take.”
St. Aubert thankfully accepted his offer, and they set out together,
the young stranger on foot, for he refused the invitation of St. Aubert
to take a seat in his little carriage.
The road wound along the feet of the mountains through a pastoral
valley, bright with verdure, and varied with groves of dwarf oak, beech
and sycamore, under whose branches herds of cattle reposed. The
mountain-ash too, and the weeping birch, often threw their pendant
foliage over the steeps above, where the scanty soil scarcely concealed
their roots, and where their light branches waved to every breeze that
fluttered from the mountains.
The travellers were frequently met at this early hour, for the sun had
not yet risen upon the valley, by shepherds driving immense flocks from
their folds to feed upon the hills. St. Aubert had set out thus early,
not only that he might enjoy the first appearance of sunrise, but that
he might inhale the first pure breath of morning, which above all
things is refreshing to the spirits of the invalid. In these regions it
was particularly so, where an abundance of wild flowers and aromatic
herbs breathed forth their essence on the air.
The dawn, which softened the scenery with its peculiar grey tint, now
dispersed, and Emily watched the progress of the day, first trembling
on the tops of the highest cliffs, then touching them with splendid
light, while their sides and the vale below were still wrapt in dewy
mist. Meanwhile, the sullen grey of the eastern clouds began to blush,
then to redden, and then to glow with a thousand colours, till the
golden light darted over all the air, touched the lower points of the
mountain’s brow, and glanced in long sloping beams upon the valley and
its stream. All nature seemed to have awakened from death into life;
the spirit of St. Aubert was renovated. His heart was full; he wept,
and his thoughts ascended to the Great Creator.
Emily wished to trip along the turf, so green and bright with dew, and
to taste the full delight of that liberty, which the izard seemed to
enjoy as he bounded along the brow of the cliffs; while Valancourt
often stopped to speak with the travellers, and with social feeling to
point out to them the peculiar objects of his admiration. St. Aubert
was pleased with him: “Here is the real ingenuousness and ardour of
youth,” said he to himself; “this young man has never been at Paris.”
He was sorry when they came to the spot where the roads parted, and his
heart took a more affectionate leave of him than is usual after so
short an acquaintance. Valancourt talked long by the side of the
carriage; seemed more than once to be going, but still lingered, and
appeared to search anxiously for topics of conversation to account for
his delay. At length he took leave. As he went, St. Aubert observed him
look with an earnest and pensive eye at Emily, who bowed to him with a
countenance full of timid sweetness, while the carriage drove on. St.
Aubert, for whatever reason, soon after looked from the window, and saw
Valancourt standing upon the bank of the road, resting on his pike with
folded arms, and following the carriage with his eyes. He waved his
hand, and Valancourt, seeming to awake from his reverie, returned the
salute, and started away.
The aspect of the country now began to change, and the travellers soon
found themselves among mountains covered from their base nearly to
their summits with forests of gloomy pine, except where a rock of
granite shot up from the vale, and lost its snowy top in the clouds.
The rivulet, which had hitherto accompanied them, now expanded into a
river; and, flowing deeply and silently along, reflected, as in a
mirror, the blackness of the impending shades. Sometimes a cliff was
seen lifting its bold head above the woods and the vapours, that
floated mid-way down the mountains; and sometimes a face of
perpendicular marble rose from the water’s edge, over which the larch
threw his gigantic arms, here scathed with lightning, and there
floating in luxuriant foliage.
They continued to travel over a rough and unfrequented road, seeing now
and then at a distance the solitary shepherd, with his dog, stalking
along the valley, and hearing only the dashing of torrents, which the
woods concealed from the eye, the long sullen murmur of the breeze, as
it swept over the pines, or the notes of the eagle and the vulture,
which were seen towering round the beetling cliff.
Often, as the carriage moved slowly over uneven ground, St. Aubert
alighted, and amused himself with examining the curious plants that
grew on the banks of the road, and with which these regions abound;
while Emily, wrapt in high enthusiasm, wandered away under the shades,
listening in deep silence to the lonely murmur of the woods.
Neither village nor hamlet was seen for many leagues; the goat-herd’s
or the hunter’s cabin, perched among the cliffs of the rocks, were the
only human habitations that appeared.
The travellers again took their dinner in the open air, on a pleasant
spot in the valley, under the spreading shade of cedars; and then set
forward towards Beaujeu.
The road now began to descend, and, leaving the pine forests behind,
wound among rocky precipices. The evening twilight again fell over the
scene, and the travellers were ignorant how far they might yet be from
Beaujeu. St. Aubert, however, conjectured that the distance could not
be very great, and comforted himself with the prospect of travelling on
a more frequented road after reaching that town, where he designed to
pass the night. Mingled woods, and rocks, and heathy mountains were now
seen obscurely through the dusk; but soon even these imperfect images
faded in darkness. Michael proceeded with caution, for he could
scarcely distinguish the road; his mules, however, seemed to have more
sagacity, and their steps were sure.
On turning the angle of a mountain, a light appeared at a distance,
that illumined the rocks, and the horizon to a great extent. It was
evidently a large fire, but whether accidental, or otherwise, there
were no means of knowing. St. Aubert thought it was probably kindled by
some of the numerous banditti, that infested the Pyrenees, and he
became watchful and anxious to know whether the road passed near this