The Mysteries of Udolpho

by Ann Radcliffe

  ‘It was some time, before I had another opportunity of walking, for I could only leave my prison, when it happened to be the turn of one man to guard me; meanwhile I became convinced from some circumstances related by him, that your apartment was over mine, and, when again I ventured forth, I returned to your casement, where again I saw you, but without daring to speak. I waved my hand, and you suddenly disappeared; then it was, that I forgot my prudence, and yielded to lamentation; again you appeared – you spoke – I heard the well-known accent of your voice! and, at that moment, my discretion would have forsaken me again, had I not heard also the approaching steps of a soldier, when I instantly quitted the place, though not before the man had seen me. He followed down the terrace and gained so fast upon me, that I was compelled to make use of a stratagem, ridiculous enough, to save myself. I had heard of the superstition of many of these men, and I uttered a strange noise, with a hope, that my pursuer would mistake it for something supernatural, and desist from pursuit. Luckily for myself I succeeded; the man, it seems, was subject to fits, and the terror he suffered threw him into one, by which accident I secured my retreat. A sense of the danger I had escaped, and the increased watchfulness, which my appearance had occasioned among the sentinels, deterred me ever after from walking on the terrace; but, in the stillness of night, I frequently beguiled myself with an old lute, procured for me by a soldier, which I sometimes accompanied with my voice, and sometimes, I will acknowledge, with a hope of making myself heard by you; but it was only a few evenings ago, that this hope was answered. I then thought I heard a voice in the wind, calling me; yet, even then I feared to reply, lest the sentinel at the prison door should hear me. Was I right, madam, in this conjecture – was it you who spoke?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Emily, with an involuntary sigh, ‘you was right indeed.’

  Du Pont, observing the painful emotions, which this question revived, now changed the subject. ‘In one of my excursions through the passage, which I have mentioned, I overheard a singular conversation,’ said he.

  ‘In the passage!’ said Emily, with surprise.

  ‘I heard it in the passage,’ said Du Pont, ‘but it proceeded from an apartment, adjoining the wall, within which the passage wound, and the shell of the wall was there so thin, and was also somewhat decayed, that I could distinctly hear every word, spoken on the other side. It 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 was 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,9 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.’*

  The travellers crossed the Arno by moon-light, 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 moon-light 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 soften
ed 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 Lyons11 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 shewing 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 farewel signs appear;

  Mute is each tongue, and eloquent each eye!

  The last dread moment comes! – The sailor-youth

  Hides the big drop, and smiles amid his pain,

  Sooths his sad bride, and vows eternal truth,

  ‘Farewel, 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 shew 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 –

  ‘Farewel, 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!’

  [More] Sacred Dramas 1

  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 Clair. It may be recollected, that this chateau 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 Chateau-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 Chateau-le-Blanc, situated in the province of Languedoc, on the shore of the Mediterranean. This estate, which, during some centuries, had belonged to his family, now descended to him, on the decease of his relative, the Marquis de Villeroi, who had been latterly a man of reserved manners and austere character; circumstances, which, together with the duties of his profession, that often called him into the field, had prevented any degree of intimacy with his cousin, the Count de Villefort. For many years, they had known little of each other, and the Count received the first intelligence of his death, which happened in a distant part of France, together with the instruments, that gave him possession of the domain Chateaule-Blanc; but it was not till the following year, that he determined to visit that estate, when he designed to pass the autumn there. The scenes of Chateau-le-Blanc often came to his remembrance, heightened by the touches, which a warm imagination gives to the recollection of early pleasures; for, many years before, in the life-time of the Marchioness, and at that age when the mind is particularly sensible to impressions of gaiety and delight, he had once visited this spot, and, though he had passed a long intervening period amidst the vexations and tumults of public affairs, which too frequently corrode the heart, and vitiate the taste, the shades of Languedoc and the grandeur of its distant scenery had never been remembered by him with indifference.

  During many years, the chateau had been abandoned by the late Marquis, and, being inhabited only by an old steward and his wife, had been suffered to fall much into decay. To superintend the repairs, that would be requisite to make it a comfortable residence, had been a principal motive with the Count for passing the autumnal months in Languedoc; and neither the remonstrances, or the tears of the Countess, for, on urgent occasions, she could weep, were powerful enough to overcome his determination. She prepared, therefore, to obey the command, which she could not conquer, and
to resign the gay assemblies of Paris, – where her beauty was generally unrivalled and won the applause, to which her wit had but feeble claim – for the twilight canopy of woods, the lonely grandeur of mountains and the solemnity of gothic halls and of long, long galleries, which echoed only the solitary step of a domestic, or the measured clink, that ascended from the great clock – the ancient monitor of the hall below. From these melancholy expectations she endeavoured to relieve her spirits by recollecting all that she had ever heard, concerning the joyous vintage of the plains of Languedoc; but there, alas! no airy forms would bound to the gay melody of Parisian dances, and a view of the rustic festivities of peasants could afford little pleasure to a heart, in which even the feelings of ordinary benevolence had long since decayed under the corruptions of luxury.

  The Count had a son and a daughter, the children of a former marriage, who, he designed, should accompany him to the south of France; Henri, who was in his twentieth year, was in the French service; and Blanche, who was not yet eighteen, had been hitherto confined to the convent, where she had been placed immediately on her father’s second marriage. The present Countess, who had neither sufficient ability, or inclination, to superintend the education of her daughter-in-law,2 had advised this step, and the dread of superior beauty had since urged her to employ every art, that might prevail on the Count to prolong the period of Blanche’s seclusion; it was, therefore, with extreme mortification, that she now understood he would no longer submit on this subject, yet it afforded her some consolation to consider, that, though the Lady Blanche would emerge from her convent, the shades of the country would, for some time, veil her beauty from the public eye.