THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO
PART 3
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
controul.
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 fire. He had arms with him, which, on an emergency, might
afford some protection, though certainly a very unequal one, against a band of
robbers, so desperate too as those usually were who haunted these wild regions.
While many reflections rose upon his mind, he heard a voice shouting from the
road behind, and ordering the muleteer to stop. St. Aubert bade him proceed as
fast as possible; but either Michael, or his mules were obstinate, for they did
not quit the old pace. Horses' feet were now heard; a man rode up to the
carriage, still ordering the driver to stop; and St. Aubert, who could no
longer doubt his purpose, was with difficulty able to prepare a pistol for his
defence, when his hand was upon the door of the chaise. The man staggered on
his horse, the report of the pistol was followed by a groan, and St. Aubert's horror
may be imagined, when in the next instant he thought he heard the faint voice
of Valancourt. He now himself bade the muleteer stop; and, pronouncing the name
of Valancourt, was answered in a voice, that no longer suffered him to doubt.
St. Aubert, who instantly alighted and went to his assistance, found him still
sitting on his horse, but bleeding profusely, and appearing to be in great
pain, though he endeavoured to soften the terror of St. Aubert by assurances
that he was not materially hurt, the wound being only in his arm. St. Aubert,
with the muleteer, assisted him to dismount, and he sat down on the bank of the
road, where St. Aubert tried to bind up his arm, but his hands trembled so
excessively that he could not accomplish it; and, Michael being now gone in
pursuit of the horse, which, on being disengaged from his rider, had galloped
off, he called Emily to his assistance. Receiving no answer, he went to the
carriage, and found her sunk on the seat in a fainting fit. Between the
distress of this circumstance and that of leaving Valancourt bleeding, he
scarcely knew what he did; he endeavoured, however, to raise her, and called to
Michael to fetch water from the rivulet that flowed by the road, but Michael
was gone beyond the reach of his voice. Valancourt, who heard these calls, and
also the repeated name of Emily, instantly understood the subject of his
distress; and, almost forgetting his own condition, he hastened to her relief.
She was reviving when he reached the carriage; and then, understanding that
anxiety for him had occasioned her indisposition, he assured her, in a voice
that trembled, but not from anguish, that his wound was of no consequence.
While he said this St. Aubert turned round, and perceiving that he was still
bleeding, the subject of his alarm changed again, and he hastily formed some
handkerchiefs into a bandage. This stopped the effusion of the blood; but St.
Aubert, dreading the consequence of the wound, enquired repeatedly how far they
were from Beaujeu; when, learning that it was at two leagues' distance, his
distress increased, since he knew not how Valancourt, in his present state,
would bear the motion of the carriage, and perceived that he was already faint
from loss of blood. When he mentioned the subject of his anxiety, Valancourt
entreated that he would not suffer himself to be thus alarmed on his account,
for that he had no doubt he should be able to support himself very well; and
then he talked of the accident as a slight one. The muleteer being now returned
with Valancourt's horse, assisted him into the chaise; and, as Emily was now
revived, they moved slowly on towards Beaujeu.
St.
Aubert, when he had recovered from the terror occasioned him by this accident,
expressed surprise on seeing Valancourt, who explained his unexpected
appearance by saying, 'You, sir, renewed my taste for society; when you had
left the hamlet, it did indeed appear a solitude. I determined, therefore,
since my object was merely amusement, to change the scene; and I took this
road, because I knew it led through a more romantic tract of mountains than the
spot I have left. Besides,' added he, hesitating for an instant, 'I will own,
and why should I not? that I had some hope of overtaking you.'
'And I
have made you a very unexpected return for the compliment,' said St. Aubert,
who lamented again the rashness which had produced the accident, and explained
the cause of his late alarm. But Valancourt seemed anxious only to remove from
the minds of his companions every unpleasant feeling relative to himself; and,
for that purpose, still struggled against a sense of pain, and tried to
converse with gaiety. Emily meanwhile was silent, except when Valancourt
particularly addressed her, and there was at those times a tremulous tone in
his voice that spoke much.
They were
now so near the fire, which had long flamed at a distance on the blackness of
night, that it gleamed upon the road, and they could distinguish figures moving
about the blaze. The way winding still nearer, they perceived in the valley one
of those numerous bands of gipsies, which at that period particularly haunted
the wilds of the Pyrenees, and lived partly by plundering the traveller. Emily
looked with some degree of terror on the savage countenances of these people,
shewn by the fire, which heightened the romantic effects of the scenery, as it
threw a red dusky gleam upon the rocks and on the foliage of the trees, leaving
heavy masses of shade and regions of obscurity, which the eye feared to
penetrate.
They were
preparing their supper; a large pot stood by the fire, over which several
figures were busy. The blaze discovered a rude kind of tent, round which many
children and dogs were playing, and the whole formed a picture highly
grotesque. The travellers saw plainly their danger. Valancourt was silent, but
laid his hand on one of St. Aubert's pistols; St. Aubert drew forth another,
and Michael was ordered to proceed as fast as possible. They passed the place,
however, without being attacked; the rovers being probably unprepared for the opportunity,
and too busy about their supper to feel much interest, at the moment, in any
thing besides.
After a
league and a half more, passed in darkness, the travellers arrived at Beaujeu,
and drove up to the only inn the place afforded; which, though superior to any
they had seen since they entered the mountains, was bad enough.
The
surgeon of the town was immediately sent for, if a surgeon he could be called,
who prescribed for horses as well as for men, and shaved faces at least as
dexterously as he set bones. After examining Valancourt's arm, and perceiving
that the bullet had passed through the flesh without touching the bone, he
dressed it, and left him with a solemn prescription of quiet, which his patient
was not inclined to obey. The delight of ease had now succeeded to pain; for
ease may be allowed to assume a positive quality when contrasted with anguish;
and, his spirits thus re-animated, he wished to partake of the conversation of
St. Aubert and Emily, who, released from so many apprehensions, were uncommonly
cheerful. Late as it was, however, St. Aubert was obliged to go out with the
landlord to buy meat for supper; and Emily, who, during this interval, had been
absent as long as she could, upon excuses of looking to their accommodation, which
she found rather better than she expected, was compelled to return, and
converse with Valancourt alone. They talked of the character of the scenes they
had passed, of the natural history of the country, of poetry, and of St.
Aubert; a subject on which Emily always spoke and listened to with peculiar
pleasure.
The
travellers passed an agreeable evening; but St. Aubert was fatigued with his
journey; and, as Valancourt seemed again sensible of pain, they separated soon
after supper.
In the
morning St. Aubert found that Valancourt had passed a restless night; that he
was feverish, and his wound very painful. The surgeon, when he dressed it,
advised him to remain quietly at Beaujeu; advice which was too reasonable to be
rejected. St. Aubert, however, had no favourable opinion of this practitioner,
and was anxious to commit Valancourt into more skilful hands; but learning,
upon enquiry, that there was no town within several leagues which seemed more
likely to afford better advice, he altered the plan of his journey, and
determined to await the recovery of Valancourt, who, with somewhat more
ceremony than sincerity, made many objections to this delay.
By order
of his surgeon, Valancourt did not go out of the house that day; but St. Aubert
and Emily surveyed with delight the environs of the town, situated at the feet
of the Pyrenean Alps, that rose, some in abrupt precipices, and others swelling
with woods of cedar, fir, and cypress, which stretched nearly to their highest
summits. The cheerful green of the beech and mountain-ash was sometimes seen,
like a gleam of light, amidst the dark verdure of the forest; and sometimes a
torrent poured its sparkling flood, high among the woods.
Valancourt's
indisposition detained the travellers at Beaujeu several days, during which
interval St. Aubert had observed his disposition and his talents with the
philosophic inquiry so natural to him. He saw a frank and generous nature, full
of ardour, highly susceptible of whatever is grand and beautiful, but
impetuous, wild, and somewhat romantic. Valancourt had known little of the
world. His perceptions were clear, and his feelings just; his indignation of an
unworthy, or his admiration of a generous action, were expressed in terms of
equal vehemence. St. Aubert sometimes smiled at his warmth, but seldom checked
it, and often repeated to himself, 'This young man has never been at Paris.' A
sigh sometimes followed this silent ejaculation. He determined not to leave
Valancourt till he should be perfectly recovered; and, as he was now well
enough to travel, though not able to manage his horse, St. Aubert invited him
to accompany him for a few days in the carriage. This he the more readily did,
since he had discovered that Valancourt was of a family of the same name in
Gascony, with whose respectability he was well acquainted. The latter accepted
the offer with great pleasure, and they again set forward among these romantic
wilds about Rousillon.
They
travelled leisurely; stopping wherever a scene uncommonly grand appeared;
frequently alighting to walk to an eminence, whither the mules could not go,
from which the prospect opened in greater magnificence; and often sauntering
over hillocks covered with lavender, wild thyme, juniper, and tamarisc; and
under the shades of woods, between those boles they caught the long
mountain-vista, sublime beyond any thing that Emily had ever imagined.
St.
Aubert sometimes amused himself with botanizing, while Valancourt and Emily
strolled on; he pointing out to her notice the objects that particularly charmed
him, and reciting beautiful passages from such of the Latin and Italian poets
as he had heard her admire. In the pauses of conversation, when he thought
himself not observed, he frequently fixed his eyes pensively on her
countenance, which expressed with so much animation the taste and energy of her
mind; and when he spoke again, there was a peculiar tenderness in the tone of
his voice, that defeated any attempt to conceal his sentiments. By degrees
these silent pauses became more frequent; till Emily, only, betrayed an anxiety
to interrupt them; and she; who had been hitherto reserved, would now talk
again, and again, of the woods and the vallies and the mountains, to avoid the
danger of sympathy and silence.
From
Beaujeu the road had constantly ascended, conducting the travellers into the
higher regions of the air, where immense glaciers exhibited their frozen
horrors, and eternal snow whitened the summits of the mountains. They often
paused to contemplate these stupendous scenes, and, seated on some wild cliff,
where only the ilex or the larch could flourish, looked over dark forests of
fir, and precipices where human foot had never wandered, into the glen—so deep,
that the thunder of the torrent, which was seen to foam along the bottom, was
scarcely heard to murmur. Over these crags rose others of stupendous height,
and fantastic shape; some shooting into cones; others impending far over their
base, in huge masses of granite, along whose broken ridges was often lodged a
weight of snow, that, trembling even to the vibration of a sound, threatened to
bear destruction in its course to the vale. Around, on every side, far as the
eye could penetrate, were seen only forms of grandeur—the long perspective of
mountain-tops, tinged with ethereal blue, or white with snow; vallies of ice,
and forests of gloomy fir. The serenity and clearness of the air in these high
regions were particularly delightful to the travellers; it seemed to inspire
them with a finer spirit, and diffused an indescribable complacency over their
minds. They had no words to express the sublime emotions they felt. A solemn
expression characterized the feelings of St. Aubert; tears often came to his
eyes, and he frequently walked away from his companions. Valancourt now and
then spoke, to point to Emily's notice some feature of the scene. The thinness
of the atmosphere, through which every object came so distinctly to the eye,
surprised and deluded her; who could scarcely believe that objects, which
appeared so near, were, in reality, so distant. The deep silence of these
solitudes was broken only at intervals by the scream of the vultures, seen
cowering round some cliff below, or by the cry of the eagle sailing high in the
air; except when the travellers listened to the hollow thunder that sometimes
muttered at their feet. While, above, the deep blue of the heavens was
unobscured by the lightest cloud, half way down the mountains, long billows of
vapour were frequently seen rolling, now wholly excluding the country below,
and now opening, and partially revealing its features. Emily delighted to
observe the grandeur of these clouds as they changed in shape and tints, and to
watch their various effect on the lower world, whose features, partly veiled,
were continually assuming new forms of sublimity.
After
traversing these regions for many leagues, they began to descend towards
Rousillon, and features of beauty then mingled with the scene. Yet the
travellers did not look back without some regret to the sublime objects they
had quitted; though the eye, fatigued with the extension of its powers, was
glad to repose on the verdure of woods and pastures, that now hung on the
margin of the river below; to view again the humble cottage shaded by cedars,
the playful group of mountaineer-children, and the flowery nooks that appeared
among the hills.
As they
descended, they saw at a distance, on the right, one of the grand passes of the
Pyrenees into Spain, gleaming with its battlements and towers to the splendour
of the setting rays, yellow tops of woods colouring the steeps below, while far
above aspired the snowy points of the mountains, still reflecting a rosy hue.
St.
Aubert began to look out for the little town he had been directed to by the
people of Beaujeu, and where he meant to pass the night; but no habitation yet
appeared. Of its distance Valancourt could not assist him to judge, for he had
never been so far along this chain of Alps before. There was, however, a road
to guide them; and there could be little doubt that it was the right one; for,
since they had left Beaujeu, there had been no variety of tracks to perplex or
mislead.
The sun
now gave his last light, and St. Aubert bade the muleteer proceed with all
possible dispatch. He found, indeed, the lassitude of illness return upon him,
after a day of uncommon fatigue, both of body and mind, and he longed for
repose. His anxiety was not soothed by observing a numerous train, consisting
of men, horses, and loaded mules, winding down the steeps of an opposite
mountain, appearing and disappearing at intervals among the woods, so that its
numbers could not be judged of. Something bright, like arms, glanced in the
setting ray, and the military dress was distinguishable upon the men who were
in the van, and on others scattered among the troop that followed. As these
wound into the vale, the rear of the party emerged from the woods, and
exhibited a band of soldiers. St. Aubert's apprehensions now subsided; he had
no doubt that the train before him consisted of smugglers, who, in conveying
prohibited goods over the Pyrenees, had been encountered, and conquered by a
party of troops.
The
travellers had lingered so long among the sublimer scenes of these mountains,
that they found themselves entirely mistaken in their calculation that they
could reach Montigny at sun-set; but, as they wound along the valley, the saw,
on a rude Alpine bridge, that united two lofty crags of the glen, a group of
mountaineer-children, amusing themselves with dropping pebbles into a torrent
below, and watching the stones plunge into the water, that threw up its white
spray high in the air as it received them, and returned a sullen sound, which
the echoes of the mountains prolonged. Under the bridge was seen a perspective
of the valley, with its cataract descending among the rocks, and a cottage on a
cliff, overshadowed with pines. It appeared, that they could not be far from
some small town. St. Aubert bade the muleteer stop, and then called to the
children to enquire if he was near Montigny; but the distance, and the roaring
of the waters, would not suffer his voice to be heard; and the crags, adjoining
the bridge, were of such tremendous height and steepness, that to have climbed
either would have been scarcely practicable to a person unacquainted with the
ascent. St. Aubert, therefore, did not waste more moments in delay. They
continued to travel long after twilight had obscured the road, which was so
broken, that, now thinking it safer to walk than to ride, they all alighted.
The moon was rising, but her light was yet too feeble to assist them. While
they stepped carefully on, they heard the vesper-bell of a convent. The
twilight would not permit them to distinguish anything like a building, but the
sounds seemed to come from some woods, that overhung an acclivity to the right.
Valancourt proposed to go in search of this convent. 'If they will not
accommodate us with a night's lodging,' said he, 'they may certainly inform us
how far we are from Montigny, and direct us towards it.' He was bounding
forward, without waiting St. Aubert's reply, when the latter stopped him. 'I am
very weary,' said St. Aubert, 'and wish for nothing so much as for immediate
rest. We will all go to the convent; your good looks would defeat our purpose;
but when they see mine and Emily's exhausted countenances, they will scarcely
deny us repose.'
As he
said this, he took Emily's arm within his, and, telling Michael to wait awhile
in the road with the carriage, they began to ascend towards the woods, guided
by the bell of the convent. His steps were feeble, and Valancourt offered him
his arm, which he accepted. The moon now threw a faint light over their path,
and, soon after, enabled them to distinguish some towers rising above the tops
of the woods. Still following the note of the bell, they entered the shade of
those woods, lighted only by the moonbeams, that glided down between the
leaves, and threw a tremulous uncertain gleam upon the steep track they were
winding. The gloom and the silence that prevailed, except when the bell
returned upon the air, together with the wildness of the surrounding scene,
struck Emily with a degree of fear, which, however, the voice and conversation
of Valancourt somewhat repressed. When they had been some time ascending, St.
Aubert complained of weariness, and they stopped to rest upon a little green
summit, where the trees opened, and admitted the moon-light. He sat down upon
the turf, between Emily and Valancourt. The bell had now ceased, and the deep
repose of the scene was undisturbed by any sound, for the low dull murmur of some
distant torrents might be said to sooth, rather than to interrupt, the silence.
Before
them, extended the valley they had quitted; its rocks, and woods to the left,
just silvered by the rays, formed a contrast to the deep shadow, that involved
the opposite cliffs, whose fringed summits only were tipped with light; while
the distant perspective of the valley was lost in the yellow mist of
moon-light. The travellers sat for some time wrapt in the complacency which
such scenes inspire.
'These
scenes,' said Valancourt, at length, 'soften the heart, like the notes of sweet
music, and inspire that delicious melancholy which no person, who had felt it
once, would resign for the gayest pleasures. They waken our best and purest
feelings, disposing us to benevolence, pity, and friendship. Those whom I
love—I always seem to love more in such an hour as this.' His voice trembled,
and he paused.
St.
Aubert was silent; Emily perceived a warm tear fall upon the hand he held; she
knew the object of his thoughts; hers too had, for some time, been occupied by
the remembrance of her mother. He seemed by an effort to rouse himself. 'Yes,'
said he, with an half-suppressed sigh, 'the memory of those we love—of times
for ever past! in such an hour as this steals upon the mind, like a strain of
distant music in the stillness of night;—all tender and harmonious as this
landscape, sleeping in the mellow moon-light.' After the pause of a moment, St.
Aubert added, 'I have always fancied, that I thought with more clearness, and
precision, at such an hour than at any other, and that heart must be insensible
in a great degree, that does not soften to its influence. But many such there
are.'
Valancourt
sighed.
'Are
there, indeed, many such?' said Emily.
'A few
years hence, my Emily,' replied St. Aubert, 'and you may smile at the
recollection of that question—if you do not weep to it. But come, I am somewhat
refreshed, let us proceed.'
Having
emerged from the woods, they saw, upon a turfy hillock above, the convent of
which they were in search. A high wall, that surrounded it, led them to an
ancient gate, at which they knocked; and the poor monk, who opened it,
conducted them into a small adjoining room, where he desired they would wait
while he informed the superior of their request. In this interval, several
friars came in separately to look at them; and at length the first monk
returned, and they followed him to a room, where the superior was sitting in an
arm-chair, with a large folio volume, printed in black letter, open on a desk before
him. He received them with courtesy, though he did not rise from his seat; and,
having asked them a few questions, granted their request. After a short
conversation, formal and solemn on the part of the superior, they withdrew to
the apartment where they were to sup, and Valancourt, whom one of the inferior
friars civilly desired to accompany, went to seek Michael and his mules. They
had not descended half way down the cliffs, before they heard the voice of the
muleteer echoing far and wide. Sometimes he called on St. Aubert, and sometimes
on Valancourt; who having, at length, convinced him that he had nothing to fear
either for himself, or his master; and having disposed of him, for the night,
in a cottage on the skirts of the woods, returned to sup with his friends, on
such sober fare as the monks thought it prudent to set before them. While St.
Aubert was too much indisposed to share it, Emily, in her anxiety for her
father, forgot herself; and Valancourt, silent and thoughtful, yet never
inattentive to them, appeared particularly solicitous to accommodate and
relieve St. Aubert, who often observed, while his daughter was pressing him to
eat, or adjusting the pillow she had placed in the back of his arm-chair, that
Valancourt fixed on her a look of pensive tenderness, which he was not
displeased to understand.
They
separated at an early hour, and retired to their respective apartments. Emily
was shown to hers by a nun of the convent, whom she was glad to dismiss, for
her heart was melancholy, and her attention so much abstracted, that
conversation with a stranger was painful. She thought her father daily
declining, and attributed his present fatigue more to the feeble state of his
frame, than to the difficulty of the journey. A train of gloomy ideas haunted
her mind, till she fell asleep.
In about
two hours after, she was awakened by the chiming of a bell, and then heard
quick steps pass along the gallery, into which her chamber opened. She was so
little accustomed to the manners of a convent, as to be alarmed by this
circumstance; her fears, ever alive for her father, suggested that he was very
ill, and she rose in haste to go to him. Having paused, however, to let the
persons in the gallery pass before she opened her door, her thoughts, in the
mean time, recovered from the confusion of sleep, and she understood that the
bell was the call of the monks to prayers. It had now ceased, and, all being
again still, she forbore to go to St. Aubert's room. Her mind was not disposed
for immediate sleep, and the moon-light, that shone into her chamber, invited
her to open the casement, and look out upon the country.
It was a
still and beautiful night, the sky was unobscured by any cloud, and scarce a
leaf of the woods beneath trembled in the air. As she listened, the mid-night
hymn of the monks rose softly from a chapel, that stood on one of the lower
cliffs, an holy strain, that seemed to ascend through the silence of night to
heaven, and her thoughts ascended with it. From the consideration of His works,
her mind arose to the adoration of the Deity, in His goodness and power;
wherever she turned her view, whether on the sleeping earth, or to the vast
regions of space, glowing with worlds beyond the reach of human thought, the
sublimity of God, and the majesty of His presence appeared. Her eyes were
filled with tears of awful love and admiration; and she felt that pure
devotion, superior to all the distinctions of human system, which lifts the
soul above this world, and seems to expand it into a nobler nature; such
devotion as can, perhaps, only be experienced, when the mind, rescued, for a
moment, from the humbleness of earthly considerations, aspires to contemplate
His power in the sublimity of His works, and His goodness in the infinity of
His blessings.
Is it not now the hour,
The holy hour, when to the cloudless height
Of yon starred concave climbs the full-orbed
moon,
And to this nether world in solemn stillness,
Gives sign, that, to the list'ning ear of
Heaven
Religion's voice should plead? The very babe
Knows this, and, chance awak'd, his little
hands
Lifts to the gods, and on his innocent couch
Calls down a blessing.*
*Caractacus
The
midnight chant of the monks soon after dropped into silence; but Emily remained
at the casement, watching the setting moon, and the valley sinking into deep
shade, and willing to prolong her present state of mind. At length she retired
to her mattress, and sunk into tranquil slumber.
CHAPTER V
While in the rosy vale
Love breath'd his infant sighs, from anguish
free.
Thomson
St.
Aubert, sufficiently restored by a night's repose to pursue his journey, set
out in the morning, with his family and Valancourt, for Rousillon, which he
hoped to reach before night-fall. The scenes, through which they now passed,
were as wild and romantic, as any they had yet observed, with this difference,
that beauty, every now and then, softened the landscape into smiles. Little
woody recesses appeared among the mountains, covered with bright verdure and
flowers; or a pastoral valley opened its grassy bosom in the shade of the
cliffs, with flocks and herds loitering along the banks of a rivulet, that
refreshed it with perpetual green. St. Aubert could not repent the having taken
this fatiguing road, though he was this day, also, frequently obliged to
alight, to walk along the rugged precipice, and to climb the steep and flinty
mountain. The wonderful sublimity and variety of the prospects repaid him for
all this, and the enthusiasm, with which they were viewed by his young
companions, heightened his own, and awakened a remembrance of all the
delightful emotions of his early days, when the sublime charms of nature were
first unveiled to him. He found great pleasure in conversing with Valancourt,
and in listening to his ingenuous remarks. The fire and simplicity of his
manners seemed to render him a characteristic figure in the scenes around them;
and St. Aubert discovered in his sentiments the justness and the dignity of an
elevated mind, unbiased by intercourse with the world. He perceived, that his
opinions were formed, rather than imbibed; were more the result of thought,
than of learning. Of the world he seemed to know nothing; for he believed well
of all mankind, and this opinion gave him the reflected image of his own heart.
St.
Aubert, as he sometimes lingered to examine the wild plants in his path, often
looked forward with pleasure to Emily and Valancourt, as they strolled on
together; he, with a countenance of animated delight, pointing to her attention
some grand feature of the scene; and she, listening and observing with a look
of tender seriousness, that spoke the elevation of her mind. They appeared like
two lovers who had never strayed beyond these their native mountains; whose
situation had secluded them from the frivolities of common life, whose ideas
were simple and grand, like the landscapes among which they moved, and who knew
no other happiness, than in the union of pure and affectionate hearts. St.
Aubert smiled, and sighed at the romantic picture of felicity his fancy drew;
and sighed again to think, that nature and simplicity were so little known to
the world, as that their pleasures were thought romantic.
'The
world,' said he, pursuing this train of thought, 'ridicules a passion which it
seldom feels; its scenes, and its interests, distract the mind, deprave the
taste, corrupt the heart, and love cannot exist in a heart that has lost the
meek dignity of innocence. Virtue and taste are nearly the same, for virtue is
little more than active taste, and the most delicate affections of each combine
in real love. How then are we to look for love in great cities, where
selfishness, dissipation, and insincerity supply the place of tenderness,
simplicity and truth?'
It was
near noon, when the travellers, having arrived at a piece of steep and
dangerous road, alighted to walk. The road wound up an ascent, that was clothed
with wood, and, instead of following the carriage, they entered the refreshing
shade. A dewy coolness was diffused upon the air, which, with the bright
verdure of turf, that grew under the trees, the mingled fragrance of flowers
and of balm, thyme, and lavender, that enriched it, and the grandeur of the
pines, beech, and chestnuts, that overshadowed them, rendered this a most
delicious retreat. Sometimes, the thick foliage excluded all view of the
country; at others, it admitted some partial catches of the distant scenery,
which gave hints to the imagination to picture landscapes more interesting,
more impressive, than any that had been presented to the eye. The wanderers
often lingered to indulge in these reveries of fancy.
The
pauses of silence, such as had formerly interrupted the conversations of
Valancourt and Emily, were more frequent today than ever. Valancourt often
dropped suddenly from the most animating vivacity into fits of deep musing, and
there was, sometimes, an unaffected melancholy in his smile, which Emily could
not avoid understanding, for her heart was interested in the sentiment it
spoke.
St.
Aubert was refreshed by the shades, and they continued to saunter under them,
following, as nearly as they could guess, the direction of the road, till they
perceived that they had totally lost it. They had continued near the brow of
the precipice, allured by the scenery it exhibited, while the road wound far
away over the cliff above. Valancourt called loudly to Michael, but heard no
voice, except his own, echoing among the rocks, and his various efforts to
regain the road were equally unsuccessful. While they were thus circumstanced,
they perceived a shepherd's cabin, between the boles of the trees at some
distance, and Valancourt bounded on first to ask assistance. When he reached
it, he saw only two little children, at play, on the turf before the door. He
looked into the hut, but no person was there, and the eldest of the boys told
him that their father was with his flocks, and their mother was gone down into
the vale, but would be back presently. As he stood, considering what was
further to be done, on a sudden he heard Michael's voice roaring forth most
manfully among the cliffs above, till he made their echoes ring. Valancourt
immediately answered the call, and endeavoured to make his way through the
thicket that clothed the steeps, following the direction of the sound. After
much struggle over brambles and precipices, he reached Michael, and at length
prevailed with him to be silent, and to listen to him. The road was at a
considerable distance from the spot where St. Aubert and Emily were; the
carriage could not easily return to the entrance of the wood, and, since it
would be very fatiguing for St. Aubert to climb the long and steep road to the
place where it now stood, Valancourt was anxious to find a more easy ascent, by
the way he had himself passed.
Meanwhile
St. Aubert and Emily approached the cottage, and rested themselves on a rustic
bench, fastened between two pines, which overshadowed it, till Valancourt,
whose steps they had observed, should return.
The
eldest of the children desisted from his play, and stood still to observe the
strangers, while the younger continued his little gambols, and teased his
brother to join in them. St. Aubert looked with pleasure upon this picture of
infantine simplicity, till it brought to his remembrance his own boys, whom he
had lost about the age of these, and their lamented mother; and he sunk into a
thoughtfulness, which Emily observing, she immediately began to sing one of
those simple and lively airs he was so fond of, and which she knew how to give
with the most captivating sweetness. St. Aubert smiled on her through his
tears, took her hand and pressed it affectionately, and then tried to dissipate
the melancholy reflections that lingered in his mind.
While she
sung, Valancourt approached, who was unwilling to interrupt her, and paused at
a little distance to listen. When she had concluded, he joined the party, and
told them, that he had found Michael, as well as a way, by which he thought
they could ascend the cliff to the carriage. He pointed to the woody steeps
above, which St. Aubert surveyed with an anxious eye. He was already wearied by
his walk, and this ascent was formidable to him. He thought, however, it would
be less toilsome than the long and broken road, and he determined to attempt
it; but Emily, ever watchful of his ease, proposing that he should rest, and
dine before they proceeded further, Valancourt went to the carriage for the
refreshments deposited there.
On his
return, he proposed removing a little higher up the mountain, to where the
woods opened upon a grand and extensive prospect; and thither they were preparing
to go, when they saw a young woman join the children, and caress and weep over
them.
The
travellers, interested by her distress, stopped to observe her. She took the
youngest of the children in her arms, and, perceiving the strangers, hastily
dried her tears, and proceeded to the cottage. St. Aubert, on enquiring the
occasion of her sorrow, learned that her husband, who was a shepherd, and lived
here in the summer months to watch over the flocks he led to feed upon these
mountains, had lost, on the preceding night, his little all. A gang of gipsies,
who had for some time infested the neighbourhood, had driven away several of
his master's sheep. 'Jacques,' added the shepherd's wife, 'had saved a little
money, and had bought a few sheep with it, and now they must go to his master
for those that are stolen; and what is worse than all, his master, when he
comes to know how it is, will trust him no longer with the care of his flocks,
for he is a hard man! and then what is to become of our children!'
The innocent
countenance of the woman, and the simplicity of her manner in relating her
grievance, inclined St. Aubert to believe her story; and Valancourt, convinced
that it was true, asked eagerly what was the value of the stolen sheep; on
hearing which he turned away with a look of disappointment. St. Aubert put some
money into her hand, Emily too gave something from her little purse, and they
walked towards the cliff; but Valancourt lingered behind, and spoke to the
shepherd's wife, who was now weeping with gratitude and surprise. He enquired
how much money was yet wanting to replace the stolen sheep, and found, that it
was a sum very little short of all he had about him. He was perplexed and
distressed. 'This sum then,' said he to himself, 'would make this poor family
completely happy—it is in my power to give it—to make them completely happy!
But what is to become of me?—how shall I contrive to reach home with the little
money that will remain?' For a moment he stood, unwilling to forego the luxury
of raising a family from ruin to happiness, yet considering the difficulties of
pursuing his journey with so small a sum as would be left.
While he
was in this state of perplexity, the shepherd himself appeared: his children
ran to meet him; he took one of them in his arms, and, with the other clinging
to his coat, came forward with a loitering step. His forlorn and melancholy
look determined Valancourt at once; he threw down all the money he had, except
a very few louis, and bounded away after St. Aubert and Emily, who were
proceeding slowly up the steep. Valancourt had seldom felt his heart so light
as at this moment; his gay spirits danced with pleasure; every object around
him appeared more interesting, or beautiful, than before. St. Aubert observed
the uncommon vivacity of his countenance: 'What has pleased you so much?' said
he. 'O what a lovely day,' replied Valancourt, 'how brightly the sun shines,
how pure is this air, what enchanting scenery!' 'It is indeed enchanting,' said
St. Aubert, whom early experience had taught to understand the nature of
Valancourt's present feelings. 'What pity that the wealthy, who can command
such sunshine, should ever pass their days in gloom—in the cold shade of
selfishness! For you, my young friend, may the sun always shine as brightly as
at this moment; may your own conduct always give you the sunshine of
benevolence and reason united!'
Valancourt,
highly flattered by this compliment, could make no reply but by a smile of
gratitude.
They
continued to wind under the woods, between the grassy knolls of the mountain,
and, as they reached the shady summit, which he had pointed out, the whole
party burst into an exclamation. Behind the spot where they stood, the rock
rose perpendicularly in a massy wall to a considerable height, and then
branched out into overhanging crags. Their grey tints were well contrasted by
the bright hues of the plants and wild flowers, that grew in their fractured
sides, and were deepened by the gloom of the pines and cedars, that waved
above. The steeps below, over which the eye passed abruptly to the valley, were
fringed with thickets of alpine shrubs; and, lower still, appeared the tufted
tops of the chesnut woods, that clothed their base, among which peeped forth
the shepherd's cottage, just left by the travellers, with its blueish smoke
curling high in the air. On every side appeared the majestic summits of the
Pyrenees, some exhibiting tremendous crags of marble, whose appearance was
changing every instant, as the varying lights fell upon their surface; others,
still higher, displaying only snowy points, while their lower steeps were
covered almost invariably with forests of pine, larch, and oak, that stretched
down to the vale. This was one of the narrow vallies, that open from the
Pyrenees into the country of Rousillon, and whose green pastures, and
cultivated beauty, form a decided and wonderful contrast to the romantic
grandeur that environs it. Through a vista of the mountains appeared the
lowlands of Rousillon, tinted with the blue haze of distance, as they united
with the waters of the Mediterranean; where, on a promontory, which marked the
boundary of the shore, stood a lonely beacon, over which were seen circling
flights of sea-fowl. Beyond, appeared, now and then, a stealing sail, white
with the sun-beam, and whose progress was perceivable by its approach to the
light-house. Sometimes, too, was seen a sail so distant, that it served only to
mark the line of separation between the sky and the waves.
On the
other side of the valley, immediately opposite to the spot where the travellers
rested, a rocky pass opened toward Gascony. Here no sign of cultivation
appeared. The rocks of granite, that screened the glen, rose abruptly from
their base, and stretched their barren points to the clouds, unvaried with
woods, and uncheered even by a hunter's cabin. Sometimes, indeed, a gigantic
larch threw its long shade over the precipice, and here and there a cliff
reared on its brow a monumental cross, to tell the traveller the fate of him
who had ventured thither before. This spot seemed the very haunt of banditti;
and Emily, as she looked down upon it, almost expected to see them stealing out
from some hollow cave to look for their prey. Soon after an object not less
terrific struck her,—a gibbet standing on a point of rock near the entrance of
the pass, and immediately over one of the crosses she had before observed.
These were hieroglyphics that told a plain and dreadful story. She forbore to
point it out to St. Aubert, but it threw a gloom over her spirits, and made her
anxious to hasten forward, that they might with certainty reach Rousillon
before night-fall. It was necessary, however, that St. Aubert should take some
refreshment, and, seating themselves on the short dry turf, they opened the
basket of provisions, while
by breezy murmurs cool'd,
Broad o'er THEIR heads the verdant cedars
wave,
And high palmetos lift their graceful shade.
——-THEY draw
Ethereal soul, there drink reviving gales
Profusely breathing from the piney groves,
And vales of fragrance; there at a distance
hear
The roaring floods, and cataracts.*
*Thomson
St.
Aubert was revived by rest, and by the serene air of this summit; and
Valancourt was so charmed with all around, and with the conversation of his
companions, that he seemed to have forgotten he had any further to go. Having
concluded their simple repast, they gave a long farewell look to the scene, and
again began to ascend. St. Aubert rejoiced when he reached the carriage, which
Emily entered with him; but Valancourt, willing to take a more extensive view
of the enchanting country, into which they were about to descend, than he could
do from a carriage, loosened his dogs, and once more bounded with them along
the banks of the road. He often quitted it for points that promised a wider
prospect, and the slow pace, at which the mules travelled, allowed him to
overtake them with ease. Whenever a scene of uncommon magnificence appeared, he
hastened to inform St. Aubert, who, though he was too much tired to walk
himself, sometimes made the chaise wait, while Emily went to the neighbouring
cliff.
It was
evening when they descended the lower alps, that bind Rousillon, and form a
majestic barrier round that charming country, leaving it open only on the east
to the Mediterranean. The gay tints of cultivation once more beautified the
landscape; for the lowlands were coloured with the richest hues, which a
luxuriant climate, and an industrious people can awaken into life. Groves of
orange and lemon perfumed the air, their ripe fruit glowing among the foliage;
while, sloping to the plains, extensive vineyards spread their treasures.
Beyond these, woods and pastures, and mingled towns and hamlets stretched
towards the sea, on whose bright surface gleamed many a distant sail; while,
over the whole scene, was diffused the purple glow of evening. This landscape
with the surrounding alps did, indeed, present a perfect picture of the lovely
and the sublime, of 'beauty sleeping in the lap of horror.'
The
travellers, having reached the plains, proceeded, between hedges of flowering
myrtle and pomegranate, to the town of Arles, where they proposed to rest for
the night. They met with simple, but neat accommodation, and would have passed
a happy evening, after the toils and the delights of this day, had not the
approaching separation thrown a gloom over their spirit. It was St. Aubert's
plan to proceed, on the morrow, to the borders of the Mediterranean, and travel
along its shores into Languedoc; and Valancourt, since he was now nearly
recovered, and had no longer a pretence for continuing with his new friends,
resolved to leave them here. St. Aubert, who was much pleased with him, invited
him to go further, but did not repeat the invitation, and Valancourt had
resolution enough to forego the temptation of accepting it, that he might prove
himself not unworthy of the favour. On the following morning, therefore, they
were to part, St. Aubert to pursue his way to Languedoc, and Valancourt to
explore new scenes among the mountains, on his return home. During this evening
he was often silent and thoughtful; St. Aubert's manner towards him was
affectionate, though grave, and Emily was serious, though she made frequent efforts
to appear cheerful. After one of the most melancholy evenings they had yet
passed together, they separated for the night.
To be
continued
*
The
Mysteries of Udolpho was a very popular example of the Gothic
novel, with its exotic locations, mysterious goings-on, and imperilled heroine. Its author (usually known at the time as Mrs
Radcliffe) had already had several successes and was commissioned to write this
four-volume novel (not the usual three) for £500, a considerable sum in 1794, the
year of its publication (the equivalent of approximately £65,000 today). For comparison, it has been calculated that
Jane Austen earned about £680 in total for all her four published novels. Jane
Austen parodies aspects of Mrs Radcliffe’s novel in Northanger Abbey.
