The Mysteries of Udolpho
enriched the banks of a stream that, after descending from the
mountains, wound along the landscape, which it reflected, to a bay of
the sea. There, far in the west, the waters, fading into the sky,
assumed a tint of the faintest purple, and the line of separation
between them was, now and then, discernible only by the progress of a
sail, brightened with the sunbeam, along the horizon.
The cottage, which was shaded by the woods from the intenser rays of
the sun, and was open only to his evening light, was covered entirely
with vines, fig-trees and jessamine, whose flowers surpassed in size
and fragrance any that Emily had seen. These and ripening clusters of
grapes hung round her little casement. The turf, that grew under the
woods, was inlaid with a variety of wild flowers and perfumed herbs,
and, on the opposite margin of the stream, whose current diffused
freshness beneath the shades, rose a grove of lemon and orange trees.
This, though nearly opposite to Emily’s window, did not interrupt her
prospect, but rather heightened, by its dark verdure, the effect of the
perspective; and to her this spot was a bower of sweets, whose charms
communicated imperceptibly to her mind somewhat of their own serenity.
She was soon summoned to breakfast, by the peasant’s daughter, a girl
about seventeen, of a pleasant countenance, which, Emily was glad to
observe, seemed animated with the pure affections of nature, though the
others, that surrounded her, expressed, more or less, the worst
qualities—cruelty, ferocity, cunning and duplicity; of the latter style
of countenance, especially, were those of the peasant and his wife.
Maddelina spoke little, but what she said was in a soft voice, and with
an air of modesty and complacency, that interested Emily, who
breakfasted at a separate table with Dorina, while Ugo and Bertrand
were taking a repast of Tuscany bacon and wine with their host, near
the cottage door; when they had finished which, Ugo, rising hastily,
enquired for his mule, and Emily learned that he was to return to
Udolpho, while Bertrand remained at the cottage; a circumstance, which,
though it did not surprise, distressed her.
When Ugo was departed, Emily proposed to walk in the neighbouring
woods; but, on being told, that she must not quit the cottage, without
having Bertrand for her attendant, she withdrew to her own room. There,
as her eyes settled on the towering Apennines, she recollected the
terrific scenery they had exhibited and the horrors she had suffered,
on the preceding night, particularly at the moment when Bertrand had
betrayed himself to be an assassin; and these remembrances awakened a
train of images, which, since they abstracted her from a consideration
of her own situation, she pursued for some time, and then arranged in
the following lines; pleased to have discovered any innocent means, by
which she could beguile an hour of misfortune.
THE PILGRIM*
Slow o’er the Apennine, with bleeding feet,
A patient Pilgrim wound his lonely way,
To deck the Lady of Loretto’s seat
With all the little wealth his zeal could pay.
From mountain-tops cold died the evening ray,
And, stretch’d in twilight, slept the vale below;
And now the last, last purple streaks of day
Along the melancholy West fade slow.
High o’er his head, the restless pines complain,
As on their summit rolls the breeze of night;
Beneath, the hoarse stream chides the rocks in vain:
The Pilgrim pauses on the dizzy height.
Then to the vale his cautious step he press’d,
For there a hermit’s cross was dimly seen,
Cresting the rock, and there his limbs might rest,
Cheer’d in the good man’s cave, by faggot’s sheen,
On leafy beds, nor guile his sleep molest.
Unhappy Luke! he trusts a treacherous clue!
Behind the cliff the lurking robber stood;
No friendly moon his giant shadow threw
Athwart the road, to save the Pilgrim’s blood;
On as he went a vesper-hymn he sang,
The hymn, that nightly sooth’d him to repose.
Fierce on his harmless prey the ruffian sprang!
The Pilgrim bleeds to death, his eye-lids close.
Yet his meek spirit knew no vengeful care,
But, dying, for his murd’rer breath’d—a sainted pray’r!
(*Note: This poem and that entitled _The Traveller_ in vol. ii, have
already appeared in a periodical publication. [A. R.])
Preferring the solitude of her room to the company of the persons below
stairs, Emily dined above, and Maddelina was suffered to attend her,
from whose simple conversation she learned, that the peasant and his
wife were old inhabitants of this cottage, which had been purchased for
them by Montoni, in reward of some service, rendered him, many years
before, by Marco, to whom Carlo, the steward at the castle, was nearly
related. “So many years ago, Signora,” added Maddelina, “that I know
nothing about it; but my father did the Signor a great good, for my
mother has often said to him, this cottage was the least he ought to
have had.”
To the mention of this circumstance Emily listened with a painful
interest, since it appeared to give a frightful colour to the character
of Marco, whose service, thus rewarded by Montoni, she could scarcely
doubt have been criminal; and, if so, had too much reason to believe,
that she had been committed into his hands for some desperate purpose.
“Did you ever hear how many years it is,” said Emily, who was
considering of Signora Laurentini’s disappearance from Udolpho, “since
your father performed the services you spoke of?”
“It was a little before he came to live at the cottage, Signora,”
replied Maddelina, “and that is about eighteen years ago.”
This was near the period, when Signora Laurentini had been said to
disappear, and it occurred to Emily, that Marco had assisted in that
mysterious affair, and, perhaps, had been employed in a murder! This
horrible suggestion fixed her in such profound reverie, that Maddelina
quitted the room, unperceived by her, and she remained unconscious of
all around her, for a considerable time. Tears, at length, came to her
relief, after indulging which, her spirits becoming calmer, she ceased
to tremble at a view of evils, that might never arrive; and had
sufficient resolution to endeavour to withdraw her thoughts from the
contemplation of her own interests. Remembering the few books, which
even in the hurry of her departure from Udolpho she had put into her
little package, she sat down with one of them at her pleasant casement,
whence her eyes often wandered from the page to the landscape, whose
beauty gradually soothed her mind into gentle melancholy.
Here, she remained alone, till evening, and saw the sun descend the
western sky, throw all his pomp of light and shadow upon the mountains,
and gleam upon the distant ocean and the stealing sails, as he sunk
amidst the waves. Then, at the musing hour of twilight, her softened
thoughts returned to Valancourt; she again recollected every
circumstance, connected with the midnight music, and all that might
assist her conjecture, concerning his imprisonment at the castle, and,
becoming confirmed in the supposition, that it was his voice she had
heard there, she looked back to that gloomy abode with emotions of
grief and momentary regret.
Refreshed by the cool and fragrant air, and her spirits soothed to a
state of gentle melancholy by the still murmur of the brook below and
of the woods around, she lingered at her casement long after the sun
had set, watching the valley sinking into obscurity, till only the
grand outline of the surrounding mountains, shadowed upon the horizon,
remained visible. But a clear moonlight, that succeeded, gave to the
landscape, what time gives to the scenes of past life, when it softens
all their harsher features, and throws over the whole the mellowing
shade of distant contemplation. The scenes of La Vallée, in the early
morn of her life, when she was protected and beloved by parents equally
loved, appeared in Emily’s memory tenderly beautiful, like the prospect
before her, and awakened mournful comparisons. Unwilling to encounter
the coarse behaviour of the peasant’s wife, she remained supperless in
her room, while she wept again over her forlorn and perilous situation,
a review of which entirely overcame the small remains of her fortitude,
and, reducing her to temporary despondence, she wished to be released
from the heavy load of life, that had so long oppressed her, and prayed
to Heaven to take her, in its mercy, to her parents.
Wearied with weeping, she, at length, lay down on her mattress, and
sunk to sleep, but was soon awakened by a knocking at her chamber door,
and, starting up in terror, she heard a voice calling her. The image of
Bertrand, with a stilletto in his hand, appeared to her alarmed fancy,
and she neither opened the door nor answered, but listened in profound
silence, till, the voice repeating her name in the same low tone, she
demanded who called. “It is I, Signora,” replied the voice, which she
now distinguished to be Maddelina’s, “pray open the door. Don’t be
frightened, it is I.”
“And what brings you here so late, Maddelina?” said Emily, as she let
her in.
“Hush! signora, for heaven’s sake hush!—if we are overheard I shall
never be forgiven. My father and mother and Bertrand are all gone to
bed,” continued Maddelina, as she gently shut the door, and crept
forward, “and I have brought you some supper, for you had none, you
know, Signora, below stairs. Here are some grapes and figs and half a
cup of wine.” Emily thanked her, but expressed apprehension lest this
kindness should draw upon her the resentment of Dorina, when she
perceived the fruit was gone. “Take it back, therefore, Maddelina,”
added Emily, “I shall suffer much less from the want of it, than I
should do, if this act of good-nature was to subject you to your
mother’s displeasure.”
“O Signora! there is no danger of that,” replied Maddelina, “my mother
cannot miss the fruit, for I saved it from my own supper. You will make
me very unhappy, if you refuse to take it, Signora.” Emily was so much
affected by this instance of the good girl’s generosity, that she
remained for some time unable to reply, and Maddelina watched her in
silence, till, mistaking the cause of her emotion, she said, “Do not
weep so, Signora! My mother, to be sure, is a little cross, sometimes,
but then it is soon over,—so don’t take it so much to heart. She often
scolds me, too, but then I have learned to bear it, and, when she has
done, if I can but steal out into the woods, and play upon my sticcado,
I forget it all directly.”
Emily, smiling through her tears, told Maddelina, that she was a good
girl, and then accepted her offering. She wished anxiously to know,
whether Bertrand and Dorina had spoken of Montoni, or of his designs,
concerning herself, in the presence of Maddelina, but disdained to
tempt the innocent girl to a conduct so mean, as that of betraying the
private conversations of her parents. When she was departing, Emily
requested, that she would come to her room as often as she dared,
without offending her mother, and Maddelina, after promising that she
would do so, stole softly back again to her own chamber.
Thus several days passed, during which Emily remained in her own room,
Maddelina attending her only at her repast, whose gentle countenance
and manners soothed her more than any circumstance she had known for
many months. Of her pleasant embowered chamber she now became fond, and
began to experience in it those feelings of security, which we
naturally attach to home. In this interval also, her mind, having been
undisturbed by any new circumstance of disgust, or alarm, recovered its
tone sufficiently to permit her the enjoyment of her books, among which
she found some unfinished sketches of landscapes, several blank sheets