The Mysteries of Udolpho
happened that Montoni and his companions were assembled in the room,
and Montoni began to relate the extraordinary history of the lady, his
predecessor, in the castle. He did, indeed, mention some very
surprising circumstances, and whether they were strictly true, his
conscience must decide; I fear it will determine against him. But you,
madam, have doubtless heard the report, which he designs should
circulate, on the subject of that lady’s mysterious fate.”
“I have, sir,” replied Emily, “and I perceive, that you doubt it.”
“I doubted it before the period I am speaking of,” rejoined Du
Pont;—“but some circumstances, mentioned by Montoni, greatly
contributed to my suspicions. The account I then heard, almost
convinced me, that he was a murderer. I trembled for you;—the more so
that I had heard the guests mention your name in a manner, that
threatened your repose; and, knowing, that the most impious men are
often the most superstitious, I determined to try whether I could not
awaken their consciences, and awe them from the commission of the crime
I dreaded. I listened closely to Montoni, and, in the most striking
passages of his story, I joined my voice, and repeated his last words,
in a disguised and hollow tone.”
“But were you not afraid of being discovered?” said Emily.
“I was not,” replied Du Pont; “for I knew, that, if Montoni had been
acquainted with the secret of this passage, he would not have confined
me in the apartment, to which it led. I knew also, from better
authority, that he was ignorant of it. The party, for some time,
appeared inattentive to my voice; but, at length, were so much alarmed,
that they quitted the apartment; and, having heard Montoni order his
servants to search it, I returned to my prison, which was very distant
from this part of the passage.” “I remember perfectly to have heard of
the conversation you mention,” said Emily; “it spread a general alarm
among Montoni’s people, and I will own I was weak enough to partake of
it.”
Monsieur Du Pont and Emily thus continued to converse of Montoni, and
then of France, and of the plan of their voyage; when Emily told him,
that it was her intention to retire to a convent in Languedoc, where
she had been formerly treated with much kindness, and from thence to
write to her relation Monsieur Quesnel, and inform him of her conduct.
There, she designed to wait, till La Vallée should again be her own,
whither she hoped her income would some time permit her to return; for
Du Pont now taught her to expect, that the estate, of which Montoni had
attempted to defraud her, was not irrecoverably lost, and he again
congratulated her on her escape from Montoni, who, he had not a doubt,
meant to have detained her for life. The possibility of recovering her
aunt’s estates for Valancourt and herself lighted up a joy in Emily’s
heart, such as she had not known for many months; but she endeavoured
to conceal this from Monsieur Du Pont, lest it should lead him to a
painful remembrance of his rival.
They continued to converse, till the sun was declining in the west,
when Du Pont awoke Ludovico, and they set forward on their journey.
Gradually descending the lower slopes of the valley, they reached the
Arno, and wound along its pastoral margin, for many miles, delighted
with the scenery around them, and with the remembrances, which its
classic waves revived. At a distance, they heard the gay song of the
peasants among the vineyards, and observed the setting sun tint the
waves with yellow lustre, and twilight draw a dusky purple over the
mountains, which, at length, deepened into night. Then the _lucciola_,
the fire-fly of Tuscany, was seen to flash its sudden sparks among the
foliage, while the _cicala_, with its shrill note, became more
clamorous than even during the noon-day heat, loving best the hour when
the English beetle, with less offensive sound,
winds
His small but sullen horn,
As oft he rises ’midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum.
COLLINS
The travellers crossed the Arno by moonlight, at a ferry, and, learning
that Pisa was distant only a few miles down the river, they wished to
have proceeded thither in a boat, but, as none could be procured, they
set out on their wearied horses for that city. As they approached it,
the vale expanded into a plain, variegated with vineyards, corn, olives
and mulberry groves; but it was late, before they reached its gates,
where Emily was surprised to hear the busy sound of footsteps and the
tones of musical instruments, as well as to see the lively groups, that
filled the streets, and she almost fancied herself again at Venice; but
here was no moonlight sea—no gay gondolas, dashing the waves,—no
_Palladian_ palaces, to throw enchantment over the fancy and lead it
into the wilds of fairy story. The Arno rolled through the town, but no
music trembled from balconies over its waters; it gave only the busy
voices of sailors on board vessels just arrived from the Mediterranean;
the melancholy heaving of the anchor, and the shrill boatswain’s
whistle;—sounds, which, since that period, have there sunk almost into
silence. They then served to remind Du Pont, that it was probable he
might hear of a vessel, sailing soon to France from this port, and thus
be spared the trouble of going to Leghorn. As soon as Emily had reached
the inn, he went therefore to the quay, to make his enquiries; but,
after all the endeavours of himself and Ludovico, they could hear of no
bark, destined immediately for France, and the travellers returned to
their resting-place. Here also, Du Pont endeavoured to learn where his
regiment then lay, but could acquire no information concerning it. The
travellers retired early to rest, after the fatigues of this day; and,
on the following, rose early, and, without pausing to view the
celebrated antiquities of the place, or the wonders of its hanging
tower, pursued their journey in the cooler hours, through a charming
country, rich with wine, and corn and oil. The Apennines, no longer
awful, or even grand, here softened into the beauty of sylvan and
pastoral landscape; and Emily, as she descended them, looked down
delighted on Leghorn, and its spacious bay, filled with vessels, and
crowned with these beautiful hills.
She was no less surprised and amused, on entering this town, to find it
crowded with persons in the dresses of all nations; a scene, which
reminded her of a Venetian masquerade, such as she had witnessed at the
time of the Carnival; but here was bustle without gaiety, and noise
instead of music, while elegance was to be looked for only in the
waving outlines of the surrounding hills.
Monsieur Du Pont, immediately on their arrival, went down to the quay,
where he heard of several French vessels, and of one, that was to sail,
in a few days, for Marseilles, from whence another vessel could be
procured, without difficulty, to take them across the gulf of Lyons
towards Narbonne, on the coast not many leagues from which city he
understood the convent was seated, to which Emily wished to retire. He,
therefore, immediately engaged with the captain to take them to
Marseilles, and Emily was delighted to hear, that her passage to France
was secured. Her mind was now relieved from the terror of pursuit, and
the pleasing hope of soon seeing her native country—that country which
held Valancourt, restored to her spirits a degree of cheerfulness, such
as she had scarcely known, since the death of her father. At Leghorn
also, Du Pont heard of his regiment, and that it had embarked for
France; a circumstance, which gave him great satisfaction, for he could
now accompany Emily thither, without reproach to his conscience, or
apprehension of displeasure from his commander. During these days, he
scrupulously forbore to distress her by a mention of his passion, and
she was compelled to esteem and pity, though she could not love him. He
endeavoured to amuse her by showing the environs of the town, and they
often walked together on the sea-shore, and on the busy quays, where
Emily was frequently interested by the arrival and departure of
vessels, participating in the joy of meeting friends, and, sometimes,
shedding a sympathetic tear to the sorrow of those, that were
separating. It was after having witnessed a scene of the latter kind,
that she arranged the following stanzas:
THE MARINER
Soft came the breath of spring; smooth flow’d the tide;
And blue the heaven in its mirror smil’d;
The white sail trembled, swell’d, expanded wide,
The busy sailors at the anchor toil’d.
With anxious friends, that shed the parting tear,
The deck was throng’d—how swift the moments fly!
The vessel heaves, the farewell signs appear;
Mute is each tongue, and eloquent each eye!
The last dread moment comes!—The sailor youth
Hides the big drop, then smiles amid his pain,
Sooths his sad bride, and vows eternal truth,
“Farewell, my love—we shall—shall meet again!”
Long on the stern, with waving hand, he stood;
The crowded shore sinks, lessening, from his view,
As gradual glides the bark along the flood;
His bride is seen no more—“Adieu!—adieu!”
The breeze of Eve moans low, her smile is o’er,
Dim steals her twilight down the crimson’d west,
He climbs the top-most mast, to seek once more
The far-seen coast, where all his wishes rest.
He views its dark line on the distant sky,
And Fancy leads him to his little home,
He sees his weeping love, he hears her sigh,
He sooths her griefs, and tells of joys to come.
Eve yields to night, the breeze to wintry gales,
In one vast shade the seas and shores repose;
He turns his aching eyes,—his spirit fails,
The chill tear falls;—sad to the deck he goes!
The storm of midnight swells, the sails are furl’d,
Deep sounds the lead, but finds no friendly shore,
Fast o’er the waves the wretched bark is hurl’d,
“O Ellen, Ellen! we must meet no more!”
Lightnings, that show the vast and foamy deep,
The rending thunders, as they onward roll,
The loud, loud winds, that o’er the billows sweep—
Shake the firm nerve, appall the bravest soul!
Ah! what avails the seamen’s toiling care!
The straining cordage bursts, the mast is riv’n;
The sounds of terror groan along the air,
Then sink afar;—the bark on rocks is driv’n!
Fierce o’er the wreck the whelming waters pass’d,
The helpless crew sunk in the roaring main!
Henry’s faint accents trembled in the blast—
“Farewell, my love!—we ne’er shall meet again!”
Oft, at the calm and silent evening hour,
When summer-breezes linger on the wave,
A melancholy voice is heard to pour
Its lonely sweetness o’er poor Henry’s grave!
And oft, at midnight, airy strains are heard
Around the grove, where Ellen’s form is laid;
Nor is the dirge by village-maidens fear’d,
For lovers’ spirits guard the holy shade!
CHAPTER X
Oh! the joy
Of young ideas painted on the mind
In the warm glowing colours fancy spreads
On objects not yet known, when all is new,
And all is lovely!
SACRED DRAMAS
We now return to Languedoc and to the mention of Count De Villefort,
the nobleman, who succeeded to an estate of the Marquis De Villeroi
situated near the monastery of St. Claire. It may be recollected, that
this château was uninhabited, when St. Aubert and his daughter were in
the neighbourhood, and that the former was much affected on discovering
himself to be so near Château-le-Blanc, a place, concerning which the
good old La Voisin afterwards dropped some hints, that had alarmed
Emily’s curiosity.
It was in the year 1584, the beginning of that, in which St. Aubert
died, that Francis Beauveau, Count De Villefort, came into possession
of the mansion and extensive domain called Château-le-Blanc, situated