The Mysteries of Udolpho
searched for a flint, to strike fire, she watched the pale lightning
gleam over the woods they were about to enter, and illumine the harsh
countenances of her companions. Ugo could not find a flint, and
Bertrand became impatient, for the thunder sounded hollowly at a
distance, and the lightning was more frequent. Sometimes, it revealed
the nearer recesses of the woods, or, displaying some opening in their
summits, illumined the ground beneath with partial splendour, the thick
foliage of the trees preserving the surrounding scene in deep shadow.
At length, Ugo found a flint, and the torch was lighted. The men then
dismounted, and, having assisted Emily, led the mules towards the
woods, that skirted the glen, on the left, over broken ground,
frequently interrupted with brush-wood and wild plants, which she was
often obliged to make a circuit to avoid.
She could not approach these woods, without experiencing keener sense
of her danger. Their deep silence, except when the wind swept among
their branches, and impenetrable glooms shown partially by the sudden
flash, and then, by the red glare of the torch, which served only to
make “darkness visible,” were circumstances, that contributed to renew
all her most terrible apprehensions; she thought, too, that, at this
moment, the countenances of her conductors displayed more than their
usual fierceness, mingled with a kind of lurking exultation, which they
seemed endeavouring to disguise. To her affrighted fancy it occurred,
that they were leading her into these woods to complete the will of
Montoni by her murder. The horrid suggestion called a groan from her
heart, which surprised her companions, who turned round quickly towards
her, and she demanded why they led her thither, beseeching them to
continue their way along the open glen, which she represented to be
less dangerous than the woods, in a thunder-storm.
“No, no,” said Bertrand, “we know best where the danger lies. See how
the clouds open over our heads. Besides, we can glide under cover of
the woods with less hazard of being seen, should any of the enemy be
wandering this way. By holy St. Peter and all the rest of them, I’ve as
stout a heart as the best, as many a poor devil could tell, if he were
alive again—but what can we do against numbers?”
“What are you whining about?” said Ugo, contemptuously, “who fears
numbers! Let them come, though they were as many as the Signor’s castle
could hold; I would show the knaves what fighting is. For you—I would
lay you quietly in a dry ditch, where you might peep out, and see me
put the rogues to flight.—Who talks of fear!”
Bertrand replied, with a horrible oath, that he did not like such
jesting, and a violent altercation ensued, which was, at length,
silenced by the thunder, whose deep volley was heard afar, rolling
onward till it burst over their heads in sounds, that seemed to shake
the earth to its centre. The ruffians paused, and looked upon each
other. Between the boles of the trees, the blue lightning flashed and
quivered along the ground, while, as Emily looked under the boughs, the
mountains beyond, frequently appeared to be clothed in livid flame. At
this moment, perhaps, she felt less fear of the storm, than did either
of her companions, for other terrors occupied her mind.
The men now rested under an enormous chesnut-tree, and fixed their
pikes in the ground, at some distance, on the iron points of which
Emily repeatedly observed the lightning play, and then glide down them
into the earth.
“I would we were well in the Signor’s castle!” said Bertrand, “I know
not why he should send us on this business. Hark! how it rattles above,
there! I could almost find in my heart to turn priest, and pray. Ugo,
hast got a rosary?”
“No,” replied Ugo, “I leave it to cowards like thee, to carry
rosaries—I carry a sword.”
“And much good may it do thee in fighting against the storm!” said
Bertrand.
Another peal, which was reverberated in tremendous echoes among the
mountains, silenced them for a moment. As it rolled away, Ugo proposed
going on. “We are only losing time here,” said he, “for the thick
boughs of the woods will shelter us as well as this chesnut-tree.”
They again led the mules forward, between the boles of the trees, and
over pathless grass, that concealed their high knotted roots. The
rising wind was now heard contending with the thunder, as it rushed
furiously among the branches above, and brightened the red flame of the
torch, which threw a stronger light forward among the woods, and showed
their gloomy recesses to be suitable resorts for the wolves, of which
Ugo had formerly spoken.
At length, the strength of the wind seemed to drive the storm before
it, for the thunder rolled away into distance, and was only faintly
heard. After travelling through the woods for nearly an hour, during
which the elements seemed to have returned to repose, the travellers,
gradually ascending from the glen, found themselves upon the open brow
of a mountain, with a wide valley, extending in misty moonlight, at
their feet, and above, the blue sky, trembling through the few thin
clouds, that lingered after the storm, and were sinking slowly to the
verge of the horizon.
Emily’s spirits, now that she had quitted the woods, began to revive;
for she considered, that, if these men had received an order to destroy
her, they would probably have executed their barbarous purpose in the
solitary wild, from whence they had just emerged, where the deed would
have been shrouded from every human eye. Reassured by this reflection,
and by the quiet demeanour of her guides, Emily, as they proceeded
silently, in a kind of sheep track, that wound along the skirts of the
woods, which ascended on the right, could not survey the sleeping
beauty of the vale, to which they were declining, without a momentary
sensation of pleasure. It seemed varied with woods, pastures, and
sloping grounds, and was screened to the north and the east by an
amphitheatre of the Apennines, whose outline on the horizon was here
broken into varied and elegant forms; to the west and the south, the
landscape extended indistinctly into the lowlands of Tuscany.
“There is the sea yonder,” said Bertrand, as if he had known that Emily
was examining the twilight view, “yonder in the west, though we cannot
see it.”
Emily already perceived a change in the climate, from that of the wild
and mountainous tract she had left; and, as she continued descending,
the air became perfumed by the breath of a thousand nameless flowers
among the grass, called forth by the late rain. So soothingly beautiful
was the scene around her, and so strikingly contrasted to the gloomy
grandeur of those, to which she had long been confined, and to the
manners of the people, who moved among them, that she could almost have
fancied herself again at La Vallée, and, wondering why Montoni had sent
her hither, could scarcely believe, that he had selected so enchanting
a spot for any cruel design. It was, however, probably not the spot,
but the persons, who happened to inhabit it, and to whose care he could
safely commit the execution of his plans, whatever they might be, that
had determined his choice.
She now ventured again to enquire, whether they were near the place of
their destination, and was answered by Ugo, that they had not far to
go. “Only to the wood of chesnuts in the valley yonder,” said he,
“there, by the brook, that sparkles with the moon; I wish I was once at
rest there, with a flask of good wine, and a slice of Tuscany bacon.”
Emily’s spirits revived, when she heard, that the journey was so nearly
concluded, and saw the wood of chesnuts in an open part of the vale, on
the margin of the stream.
In a short time they reached the entrance of the wood, and perceived,
between the twinkling leaves, a light, streaming from a distant cottage
window. They proceeded along the edge of the brook to where the trees,
crowding over it, excluded the moonbeams, but a long line of light,
from the cottage above, was seen on its dark tremulous surface.
Bertrand now stepped on first, and Emily heard him knock, and call
loudly at the door. As she reached it, the small upper casement, where
the light appeared, was unclosed by a man, who, having enquired what
they wanted, immediately descended, let them into a neat rustic cot,
and called up his wife to set refreshments before the travellers. As
this man conversed, rather apart, with Bertrand, Emily anxiously
surveyed him. He was a tall, but not robust, peasant, of a sallow
complexion, and had a shrewd and cunning eye; his countenance was not
of a character to win the ready confidence of youth, and there was
nothing in his manner, that might conciliate a stranger.
Ugo called impatiently for supper, and in a tone as if he knew his
authority here to be unquestionable. “I expected you an hour ago,” said
the peasant, “for I have had Signor Montoni’s letter these three hours,
and I and my wife had given you up, and gone to bed. How did you fare
in the storm?”
“Ill enough,” replied Ugo, “ill enough and we are like to fare ill
enough here, too, unless you will make more haste. Get us more wine,
and let us see what you have to eat.”
The peasant placed before them all that his cottage afforded—ham, wine,
figs, and grapes of such size and flavour, as Emily had seldom tasted.
After taking refreshment, she was shown by the peasant’s wife to her
little bed-chamber, where she asked some questions concerning Montoni,
to which the woman, whose name was Dorina, gave reserved answers,
pretending ignorance of his _Excellenza_’s intention in sending Emily
hither, but acknowledging that her husband had been apprized of the
circumstance. Perceiving that she could obtain no intelligence
concerning her destination, Emily dismissed Dorina, and retired to
repose; but all the busy scenes of her past and the anticipated ones of
the future came to her anxious mind, and conspired with the sense of
her new situation to banish sleep.
CHAPTER VII
Was nought around but images of rest,
Sleep-soothing groves and quiet lawns between,
And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kept,
From poppies breath’d, and banks of pleasant green,
Where never yet was creeping creature seen.
Meantime unnumbered glittering streamlets play’d,
And hurled everywhere their water’s sheen,
That, as they bicker’d through the sunny glade,
Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.
THOMSON
When Emily, in the morning, opened her casement, she was surprised to
observe the beauties, that surrounded it. The cottage was nearly
embowered in the woods, which were chiefly of chesnut intermixed with
some cypress, larch and sycamore. Beneath the dark and spreading
branches appeared to the north and to the east the woody Apennines,
rising in majestic amphitheatre, not black with pines, as she had been
accustomed to see them, but their loftiest summits crowned with ancient
forests of chesnut, oak, and oriental plane, now animated with the rich
tints of autumn, and which swept downward to the valley
uninterruptedly, except where some bold rocky promontory looked out
from among the foliage, and caught the passing gleam. Vineyards
stretched along the feet of the mountains, where the elegant villas of
the Tuscan nobility frequently adorned the scene, and overlooked slopes
clothed with groves of olive, mulberry, orange and lemon. The plain, to
which these declined, was coloured with the riches of cultivation,
whose mingled hues were mellowed into harmony by an Italian sun. Vines,
their purple clusters blushing between the russet foliage, hung in
luxuriant festoons from the branches of standard fig and cherry trees,
while pastures of verdure, such as Emily had seldom seen in Italy,