THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO
A short introduction, by Polymathes
The Mysteriew of Odo)pho is an excellent example of the Gothic Novel genre, very popular in the late eighteenth century, in which a teenage+ girl finds herself having to live with distant relatives in the windiest, creakiest, most haunted castle in Europe. where, as all well-brought-up British girls know, all the men are highly suspicious, in addition to being a permanent threat to their virtue. Jane Austen took witty aim at the genre in her Northanger Abbey, and made several references to Odolpho and other ‘Horrid’ books, as she called them. Her heroine, Catherine Morland is a heroine in two senses., for, As Jane Austen says, ‘from fifteen to seventeen she was in training for a heroine; she read all such works as heroines must read to supply their memories with those quotations which are so serviceable and so soothing in the vicissitudes of their eventful lives/ Many people regard Catherine as Jane Austen’s most amusing creation.
PART 1
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO
A Romance
Interspersed With Some Pieces of Poetry
By Ann Radcliffe
Fate sits on these dark
battlements, and frowns,
And, as the portals open to
receive me,
Her voice, in sullen echoes
through the courts,
Tells of a nameless deed.
VOLUME 1
CHAPTER I
home is the resort
Of love, of joy, of peace and plenty, where,
Supporting and supported, polish'd friends
And dear relations mingle into bliss.*
*Thomson
On the
pleasant banks of the Garonne, in the province of Gascony, stood, in the year
1584, the chateau of Monsieur St. Aubert. From its windows were seen the
pastoral landscapes of Guienne and Gascony stretching along the river, gay with
luxuriant woods and vine, and plantations of olives. To the south, the view was
bounded by the majestic Pyrenees, whose summits, veiled in clouds, or
exhibiting awful forms, seen, and lost again, as the partial vapours rolled
along, were sometimes barren, and gleamed through the blue tinge of air, and
sometimes frowned with forests of gloomy pine, that swept downward to their
base. These tremendous precipices were contrasted by the soft green of the
pastures and woods that hung upon their skirts; among whose flocks, and herds,
and simple cottages, the eye, after having scaled the cliffs above, delighted
to repose. To the north, and to the east, the plains of Guienne and Languedoc
were lost in the mist of distance; on the west, Gascony was bounded by the
waters of Biscay.
M. St.
Aubert loved to wander, with his wife and daughter, on the margin of the
Garonne, and to listen to the music that floated on its waves. He had known
life in other forms than those of pastoral simplicity, having mingled in the
gay and in the busy scenes of the world; but the flattering portrait of
mankind, which his heart had delineated in early youth, his experience had too
sorrowfully corrected. Yet, amidst the changing visions of life, his principles
remained unshaken, his benevolence unchilled; and he retired from the multitude
'more in PITY than in anger,' to scenes of simple nature, to the pure delights
of literature, and to the exercise of domestic virtues.
He was a
descendant from the younger branch of an illustrious family, and it was
designed, that the deficiency of his patrimonial wealth should be supplied
either by a splendid alliance in marriage, or by success in the intrigues of
public affairs. But St. Aubert had too nice a sense of honour to fulfil the
latter hope, and too small a portion of ambition to sacrifice what he called
happiness, to the attainment of wealth. After the death of his father he
married a very amiable woman, his equal in birth, and not his superior in
fortune. The late Monsieur St. Aubert's liberality, or extravagance, had so
much involved his affairs, that his son found it necessary to dispose of a part
of the family domain, and, some years after his marriage, he sold it to
Monsieur Quesnel, the brother of his wife, and retired to a small estate in
Gascony, where conjugal felicity, and parental duties, divided his attention
with the treasures of knowledge and the illuminations of genius.
To this
spot he had been attached from his infancy. He had often made excursions to it
when a boy, and the impressions of delight given to his mind by the homely
kindness of the grey-headed peasant, to whom it was intrusted, and whose fruit
and cream never failed, had not been obliterated by succeeding circumstances.
The green pastures along which he had so often bounded in the exultation of
health, and youthful freedom—the woods, under whose refreshing shade he had
first indulged that pensive melancholy, which afterwards made a strong feature
of his character—the wild walks of the mountains, the river, on whose waves he
had floated, and the distant plains, which seemed boundless as his early
hopes—were never after remembered by St. Aubert but with enthusiasm and regret.
At length he disengaged himself from the world, and retired hither, to realize
the wishes of many years.
The
building, as it then stood, was merely a summer cottage, rendered interesting
to a stranger by its neat simplicity, or the beauty of the surrounding scene;
and considerable additions were necessary to make it a comfortable family
residence. St. Aubert felt a kind of affection for every part of the fabric,
which he remembered in his youth, and would not suffer a stone of it to be
removed, so that the new building, adapted to the style of the old one, formed
with it only a simple and elegant residence. The taste of Madame St. Aubert was
conspicuous in its internal finishing, where the same chaste simplicity was
observable in the furniture, and in the few ornaments of the apartments, that
characterized the manners of its inhabitants.
The
library occupied the west side of the chateau, and was enriched by a collection
of the best books in the ancient and modern languages. This room opened upon a
grove, which stood on the brow of a gentle declivity, that fell towards the
river, and the tall trees gave it a melancholy and pleasing shade; while from
the windows the eye caught, beneath the spreading branches, the gay and
luxuriant landscape stretching to the west, and overlooked on the left by the
bold precipices of the Pyrenees. Adjoining the library was a green-house,
stored with scarce and beautiful plants; for one of the amusements of St.
Aubert was the study of botany, and among the neighbouring mountains, which
afforded a luxurious feast to the mind of the naturalist, he often passed the
day in the pursuit of his favourite science. He was sometimes accompanied in
these little excursions by Madame St. Aubert, and frequently by his daughter;
when, with a small osier basket to receive plants, and another filled with cold
refreshments, such as the cabin of the shepherd did not afford, they wandered
away among the most romantic and magnificent scenes, nor suffered the charms of
Nature's lowly children to abstract them from the observance of her stupendous
works. When weary of sauntering among cliffs that seemed scarcely accessible
but to the steps of the enthusiast, and where no track appeared on the
vegetation, but what the foot of the izard had left; they would seek one of
those green recesses, which so beautifully adorn the bosom of these mountains,
where, under the shade of the lofty larch, or cedar, they enjoyed their simple
repast, made sweeter by the waters of the cool stream, that crept along the
turf, and by the breath of wild flowers and aromatic plants, that fringed the
rocks, and inlaid the grass.
Adjoining
the eastern side of the green-house, looking towards the plains of Languedoc,
was a room, which Emily called hers, and which contained her books, her
drawings, her musical instruments, with some favourite birds and plants. Here
she usually exercised herself in elegant arts, cultivated only because they
were congenial to her taste, and in which native genius, assisted by the instructions
of Monsieur and Madame St. Aubert, made her an early proficient. The windows of
this room were particularly pleasant; they descended to the floor, and, opening
upon the little lawn that surrounded the house, the eye was led between groves
of almond, palm-trees, flowering-ash, and myrtle, to the distant landscape,
where the Garonne wandered.
The
peasants of this gay climate were often seen on an evening, when the day's
labour was done, dancing in groups on the margin of the river. Their sprightly
melodies, debonnaire steps, the fanciful figure of their dances, with the
tasteful and capricious manner in which the girls adjusted their simple dress,
gave a character to the scene entirely French.
The front
of the chateau, which, having a southern aspect, opened upon the grandeur of
the mountains, was occupied on the ground floor by a rustic hall, and two
excellent sitting rooms. The first floor, for the cottage had no second story,
was laid out in bed-chambers, except one apartment that opened to a balcony,
and which was generally used for a breakfast-room.
In the
surrounding ground, St. Aubert had made very tasteful improvements; yet, such
was his attachment to objects he had remembered from his boyish days, that he
had in some instances sacrificed taste to sentiment. There were two old larches
that shaded the building, and interrupted the prospect; St. Aubert had
sometimes declared that he believed he should have been weak enough to have
wept at their fall. In addition to these larches he planted a little grove of
beech, pine, and mountain-ash. On a lofty terrace, formed by the swelling bank
of the river, rose a plantation of orange, lemon, and palm-trees, whose fruit,
in the coolness of evening, breathed delicious fragrance. With these were
mingled a few trees of other species. Here, under the ample shade of a
plane-tree, that spread its majestic canopy towards the river, St. Aubert loved
to sit in the fine evenings of summer, with his wife and children, watching,
beneath its foliage, the setting sun, the mild splendour of its light fading
from the distant landscape, till the shadows of twilight melted its various
features into one tint of sober grey. Here, too, he loved to read, and to
converse with Madame St. Aubert; or to play with his children, resigning
himself to the influence of those sweet affections, which are ever attendant on
simplicity and nature. He has often said, while tears of pleasure trembled in
his eyes, that these were moments infinitely more delightful than any passed
amid the brilliant and tumultuous scenes that are courted by the world. His
heart was occupied; it had, what can be so rarely said, no wish for a happiness
beyond what it experienced. The consciousness of acting right diffused a
serenity over his manners, which nothing else could impart to a man of moral
perceptions like his, and which refined his sense of every surrounding
blessing.
The
deepest shade of twilight did not send him from his favourite plane-tree. He
loved the soothing hour, when the last tints of light die away; when the stars,
one by one, tremble through aether, and are reflected on the dark mirror of the
waters; that hour, which, of all others, inspires the mind with pensive
tenderness, and often elevates it to sublime contemplation. When the moon shed her
soft rays among the foliage, he still lingered, and his pastoral supper of
cream and fruits was often spread beneath it. Then, on the stillness of night,
came the song of the nightingale, breathing sweetness, and awakening
melancholy.
The first
interruptions to the happiness he had known since his retirement, were
occasioned by the death of his two sons. He lost them at that age when
infantine simplicity is so fascinating; and though, in consideration of Madame
St. Aubert's distress, he restrained the expression of his own, and endeavoured
to bear it, as he meant, with philosophy, he had, in truth, no philosophy that
could render him calm to such losses. One daughter was now his only surviving
child; and, while he watched the unfolding of her infant character, with
anxious fondness, he endeavoured, with unremitting effort, to counteract those
traits in her disposition, which might hereafter lead her from happiness. She
had discovered in her early years uncommon delicacy of mind, warm affections,
and ready benevolence; but with these was observable a degree of susceptibility
too exquisite to admit of lasting peace. As she advanced in youth, this
sensibility gave a pensive tone to her spirits, and a softness to her manner,
which added grace to beauty, and rendered her a very interesting object to
persons of a congenial disposition. But St. Aubert had too much good sense to
prefer a charm to a virtue; and had penetration enough to see, that this charm
was too dangerous to its possessor to be allowed the character of a blessing.
He endeavoured, therefore, to strengthen her mind; to enure her to habits of
self-command; to teach her to reject the first impulse of her feelings, and to
look, with cool examination, upon the disappointments he sometimes threw in her
way. While he instructed her to resist first impressions, and to acquire that
steady dignity of mind, that can alone counterbalance the passions, and bear
us, as far as is compatible with our nature, above the reach of circumstances,
he taught himself a lesson of fortitude; for he was often obliged to witness,
with seeming indifference, the tears and struggles which his caution occasioned
her.
In
person, Emily resembled her mother; having the same elegant symmetry of form,
the same delicacy of features, and the same blue eyes, full of tender
sweetness. But, lovely as was her person, it was the varied expression of her
countenance, as conversation awakened the nicer emotions of her mind, that
threw such a captivating grace around her:
Those tend'rer tints, that shun the careless
eye,
And, in the world's contagious circle, die.
St.
Aubert cultivated her understanding with the most scrupulous care. He gave her
a general view of the sciences, and an exact acquaintance with every part of
elegant literature. He taught her Latin and English, chiefly that she might
understand the sublimity of their best poets. She discovered in her early years
a taste for works of genius; and it was St. Aubert's principle, as well as his
inclination, to promote every innocent means of happiness. 'A well-informed
mind,' he would say, 'is the best security against the contagion of folly and
of vice. The vacant mind is ever on the watch for relief, and ready to plunge
into error, to escape from the languor of idleness. Store it with ideas, teach
it the pleasure of thinking; and the temptations of the world without, will be
counteracted by the gratifications derived from the world within. Thought, and
cultivation, are necessary equally to the happiness of a country and a city
life; in the first they prevent the uneasy sensations of indolence, and afford
a sublime pleasure in the taste they create for the beautiful, and the grand;
in the latter, they make dissipation less an object of necessity, and
consequently of interest.'
It was
one of Emily's earliest pleasures to ramble among the scenes of nature; nor was
it in the soft and glowing landscape that she most delighted; she loved more
the wild wood-walks, that skirted the mountain; and still more the mountain's
stupendous recesses, where the silence and grandeur of solitude impressed a
sacred awe upon her heart, and lifted her thoughts to the GOD OF HEAVEN AND
EARTH. In scenes like these she would often linger along, wrapt in a melancholy
charm, till the last gleam of day faded from the west; till the lonely sound of
a sheep-bell, or the distant bark of a watch-dog, were all that broke on the
stillness of the evening. Then, the gloom of the woods; the trembling of their
leaves, at intervals, in the breeze; the bat, flitting on the twilight; the
cottage-lights, now seen, and now lost—were circumstances that awakened her
mind into effort, and led to enthusiasm and poetry.
Her
favourite walk was to a little fishing-house, belonging to St. Aubert, in a
woody glen, on the margin of a rivulet that descended from the Pyrenees, and,
after foaming among their rocks, wound its silent way beneath the shades it
reflected. Above the woods, that screened this glen, rose the lofty summits of
the Pyrenees, which often burst boldly on the eye through the glades below.
Sometimes the shattered face of a rock only was seen, crowned with wild shrubs;
or a shepherd's cabin seated on a cliff, overshadowed by dark cypress, or
waving ash. Emerging from the deep recesses of the woods, the glade opened to
the distant landscape, where the rich pastures and vine-covered slopes of
Gascony gradually declined to the plains; and there, on the winding shores of
the Garonne, groves, and hamlets, and villas—their outlines softened by
distance, melted from the eye into one rich harmonious tint.
This,
too, was the favourite retreat of St. Aubert, to which he frequently withdrew
from the fervour of noon, with his wife, his daughter, and his books; or came
at the sweet evening hour to welcome the silent dusk, or to listen for the
music of the nightingale. Sometimes, too, he brought music of his own, and
awakened every fairy echo with the tender accents of his oboe; and often have
the tones of Emily's voice drawn sweetness from the waves, over which they
trembled.
It was in
one of these excursions to this spot, that she observed the following lines
written with a pencil on a part of the wainscot:
SONNET
Go, pencil! faithful to thy master's sighs!
Go—tell the Goddess of the fairy scene,
When next her light steps wind these
wood-walks green,
Whence all his tears, his tender sorrows,
rise;
Ah! paint her form, her soul-illumin'd eyes,
The sweet expression of her pensive face,
The light'ning smile, the animated grace—
The portrait well the lover's voice supplies;
Speaks all his heart must feel, his tongue
would say:
Yet ah! not all his heart must sadly feel!
How oft the flow'ret's silken leaves conceal
The drug that steals the vital spark away!
And who that gazes on that angel-smile,
Would fear its charm, or think it could
beguile!
These
lines were not inscribed to any person; Emily therefore could not apply them to
herself, though she was undoubtedly the nymph of these shades. Having glanced
round the little circle of her acquaintance without being detained by a
suspicion as to whom they could be addressed, she was compelled to rest in
uncertainty; an uncertainty which would have been more painful to an idle mind
than it was to hers. She had no leisure to suffer this circumstance, trifling
at first, to swell into importance by frequent remembrance. The little vanity
it had excited (for the incertitude which forbade her to presume upon having
inspired the sonnet, forbade her also to disbelieve it) passed away, and the
incident was dismissed from her thoughts amid her books, her studies, and the
exercise of social charities.
Soon
after this period, her anxiety was awakened by the indisposition of her father,
who was attacked with a fever; which, though not thought to be of a dangerous
kind, gave a severe shock to his constitution. Madame St. Aubert and Emily
attended him with unremitting care; but his recovery was very slow, and, as he
advanced towards health, Madame seemed to decline.
The first
scene he visited, after he was well enough to take the air, was his favourite
fishing-house. A basket of provisions was sent thither, with books, and Emily's
lute; for fishing-tackle he had no use, for he never could find amusement in
torturing or destroying.
After
employing himself, for about an hour, in botanizing, dinner was served. It was
a repast, to which gratitude, for being again permitted to visit this spot,
gave sweetness; and family happiness once more smiled beneath these shades.
Monsieur St. Aubert conversed with unusual cheerfulness; every object delighted
his senses. The refreshing pleasure from the first view of nature, after the
pain of illness, and the confinement of a sick-chamber, is above the
conceptions, as well as the descriptions, of those in health. The green woods
and pastures; the flowery turf; the blue concave of the heavens; the balmy air;
the murmur of the limpid stream; and even the hum of every little insect of the
shade, seem to revivify the soul, and make mere existence bliss.
Madame
St. Aubert, reanimated by the cheerfulness and recovery of her husband, was no
longer sensible of the indisposition which had lately oppressed her; and, as
she sauntered along the wood-walks of this romantic glen, and conversed with
him, and with her daughter, she often looked at them alternately with a degree
of tenderness, that filled her eyes with tears. St. Aubert observed this more
than once, and gently reproved her for the emotion; but she could only smile,
clasp his hand, and that of Emily, and weep the more. He felt the tender
enthusiasm stealing upon himself in a degree that became almost painful; his
features assumed a serious air, and he could not forbear secretly
sighing—'Perhaps I shall some time look back to these moments, as to the summit
of my happiness, with hopeless regret. But let me not misuse them by useless
anticipation; let me hope I shall not live to mourn the loss of those who are
dearer to me than life.'
To
relieve, or perhaps to indulge, the pensive temper of his mind, he bade Emily
fetch the lute she knew how to touch with such sweet pathos. As she drew near
the fishing-house, she was surprised to hear the tones of the instrument, which
were awakened by the hand of taste, and uttered a plaintive air, whose
exquisite melody engaged all her attention. She listened in profound silence,
afraid to move from the spot, lest the sound of her steps should occasion her
to lose a note of the music, or should disturb the musician. Every thing
without the building was still, and no person appeared. She continued to
listen, till timidity succeeded to surprise and delight; a timidity, increased
by a remembrance of the pencilled lines she had formerly seen, and she hesitated
whether to proceed, or to return.
While she
paused, the music ceased; and, after a momentary hesitation, she re-collected
courage to advance to the fishing-house, which she entered with faltering
steps, and found unoccupied! Her lute lay on the table; every thing seemed
undisturbed, and she began to believe it was another instrument she had heard,
till she remembered, that, when she followed M. and Madame St. Aubert from this
spot, her lute was left on a window seat. She felt alarmed, yet knew not wherefore;
the melancholy gloom of evening, and the profound stillness of the place,
interrupted only by the light trembling of leaves, heightened her fanciful
apprehensions, and she was desirous of quitting the building, but perceived
herself grow faint, and sat down. As she tried to recover herself, the
pencilled lines on the wainscot met her eye; she started, as if she had seen a
stranger; but, endeavouring to conquer the tremor of her spirits, rose, and
went to the window. To the lines before noticed she now perceived that others
were added, in which her name appeared.
Though no
longer suffered to doubt that they were addressed to herself, she was as
ignorant, as before, by whom they could be written. While she mused, she
thought she heard the sound of a step without the building, and again alarmed,
she caught up her lute, and hurried away. Monsieur and Madame St. Aubert she
found in a little path that wound along the sides of the glen.
Having
reached a green summit, shadowed by palm-trees, and overlooking the vallies and
plains of Gascony, they seated themselves on the turf; and while their eyes
wandered over the glorious scene, and they inhaled the sweet breath of flowers
and herbs that enriched the grass, Emily played and sung several of their
favourite airs, with the delicacy of expression in which she so much excelled.
Music and
conversation detained them in this enchanting spot, till the sun's last light
slept upon the plains; till the white sails that glided beneath the mountains,
where the Garonne wandered, became dim, and the gloom of evening stole over the
landscape. It was a melancholy but not unpleasing gloom. St. Aubert and his
family rose, and left the place with regret; alas! Madame St. Aubert knew not
that she left it for ever.
When they
reached the fishing-house she missed her bracelet, and recollected that she had
taken it from her arm after dinner, and had left it on the table when she went
to walk. After a long search, in which Emily was very active, she was compelled
to resign herself to the loss of it. What made this bracelet valuable to her
was a miniature of her daughter to which it was attached, esteemed a striking
resemblance, and which had been painted only a few months before. When Emily
was convinced that the bracelet was really gone, she blushed, and became
thoughtful. That some stranger had been in the fishing-house, during her
absence, her lute, and the additional lines of a pencil, had already informed
her: from the purport of these lines it was not unreasonable to believe, that
the poet, the musician, and the thief were the same person. But though the
music she had heard, the written lines she had seen, and the disappearance of
the picture, formed a combination of circumstances very remarkable, she was
irresistibly restrained from mentioning them; secretly determining, however,
never again to visit the fishing-house without Monsieur or Madame St. Aubert.
They
returned pensively to the chateau, Emily musing on the incident which had just
occurred; St. Aubert reflecting, with placid gratitude, on the blessings he
possessed; and Madame St. Aubert somewhat disturbed, and perplexed, by the loss
of her daughter's picture. As they drew near the house, they observed an
unusual bustle about it; the sound of voices was distinctly heard, servants and
horses were seen passing between the trees, and, at length, the wheels of a
carriage rolled along. Having come within view of the front of the chateau, a
landau, with smoking horses, appeared on the little lawn before it. St. Aubert
perceived the liveries of his brother-in-law, and in the parlour he found
Monsieur and Madame Quesnel already entered. They had left Paris some days
before, and were on the way to their estate, only ten leagues distant from La
Vallee, and which Monsieur Quesnel had purchased several years before of St.
Aubert. This gentleman was the only brother of Madame St. Aubert; but the ties
of relationship having never been strengthened by congeniality of character,
the intercourse between them had not been frequent. M. Quesnel had lived
altogether in the world; his aim had been consequence; splendour was the object
of his taste; and his address and knowledge of character had carried him
forward to the attainment of almost all that he had courted. By a man of such a
disposition, it is not surprising that the virtues of St. Aubert should be
overlooked; or that his pure taste, simplicity, and moderated wishes, were
considered as marks of a weak intellect, and of confined views. The marriage of
his sister with St. Aubert had been mortifying to his ambition, for he had
designed that the matrimonial connection she formed should assist him to attain
the consequence which he so much desired; and some offers were made her by
persons whose rank and fortune flattered his warmest hope. But his sister, who
was then addressed also by St. Aubert, perceived, or thought she perceived,
that happiness and splendour were not the same, and she did not hesitate to
forego the last for the attainment of the former. Whether Monsieur Quesnel
thought them the same, or not, he would readily have sacrificed his sister's
peace to the gratification of his own ambition; and, on her marriage with St.
Aubert, expressed in private his contempt of her spiritless conduct, and of the
connection which it permitted. Madame St. Aubert, though she concealed this
insult from her husband, felt, perhaps, for the first time, resentment lighted
in her heart; and, though a regard for her own dignity, united with
considerations of prudence, restrained her expression of this resentment, there
was ever after a mild reserve in her manner towards M. Quesnel, which he both
understood and felt.
In his
own marriage he did not follow his sister's example. His lady was an Italian,
and an heiress by birth; and, by nature and education, was a vain and frivolous
woman.
They now
determined to pass the night with St. Aubert; and as the chateau was not large
enough to accommodate their servants, the latter were dismissed to the
neighbouring village. When the first compliments were over, and the arrangements
for the night made M. Quesnel began the display of his intelligence and his
connections; while St. Aubert, who had been long enough in retirement to find
these topics recommended by their novelty, listened, with a degree of patience
and attention, which his guest mistook for the humility of wonder. The latter,
indeed, described the few festivities which the turbulence of that period
permitted to the court of Henry the Third, with a minuteness, that somewhat
recompensed for his ostentation; but, when he came to speak of the character of
the Duke de Joyeuse, of a secret treaty, which he knew to be negotiating with
the Porte, and of the light in which Henry of Navarre was received, M. St.
Aubert recollected enough of his former experience to be assured, that his
guest could be only of an inferior class of politicians; and that, from the
importance of the subjects upon which he committed himself, he could not be of
the rank to which he pretended to belong. The opinions delivered by M. Quesnel,
were such as St. Aubert forebore to reply to, for he knew that his guest had
neither humanity to feel, nor discernment to perceive, what is just.
Madame
Quesnel, meanwhile, was expressing to Madame St. Aubert her astonishment, that
she could bear to pass her life in this remote corner of the world, as she
called it, and describing, from a wish, probably, of exciting envy, the
splendour of the balls, banquets, and processions which had just been given by
the court, in honour of the nuptials of the Duke de Joyeuse with Margaretta of
Lorrain, the sister of the Queen. She described with equal minuteness the
magnificence she had seen, and that from which she had been excluded; while
Emily's vivid fancy, as she listened with the ardent curiosity of youth,
heightened the scenes she heard of; and Madame St. Aubert, looking on her
family, felt, as a tear stole to her eye, that though splendour may grace
happiness, virtue only can bestow it.
'It is
now twelve years, St. Aubert,' said M. Quesnel, 'since I purchased your family
estate.'—'Somewhere thereabout,' replied St. Aubert, suppressing a sigh. 'It is
near five years since I have been there,' resumed Quesnel; 'for Paris and its
neighbourhood is the only place in the world to live in, and I am so immersed
in politics, and have so many affairs of moment on my hands, that I find it
difficult to steal away even for a month or two.' St. Aubert remaining silent,
M. Quesnel proceeded: 'I have sometimes wondered how you, who have lived in the
capital, and have been accustomed to company, can exist elsewhere;—especially
in so remote a country as this, where you can neither hear nor see any thing,
and can in short be scarcely conscious of life.'
'I live
for my family and myself,' said St. Aubert; 'I am now contented to know only
happiness;—formerly I knew life.'
'I mean
to expend thirty or forty thousand livres on improvements,' said M. Quesnel,
without seeming to notice the words of St. Aubert; 'for I design, next summer,
to bring here my friends, the Duke de Durefort and the Marquis Ramont, to pass
a month or two with me.' To St. Aubert's enquiry, as to these intended
improvements, he replied, that he should take down the whole east wing of the
chateau, and raise upon the site a set of stables. 'Then I shall build,' said
he, 'a SALLE A MANGER, a SALON, a SALLE AU COMMUNE, and a number of rooms for
servants; for at present there is not accommodation for a third part of my own
people.'
'It
accommodated our father's household,' said St. Aubert, grieved that the old
mansion was to be thus improved, 'and that was not a small one.'
'Our
notions are somewhat enlarged since those days,' said M. Quesnel;—'what was
then thought a decent style of living would not now be endured.' Even the calm
St. Aubert blushed at these words, but his anger soon yielded to contempt. 'The
ground about the chateau is encumbered with trees; I mean to cut some of them
down.'
'Cut down
the trees too!' said St. Aubert.
'Certainly.
Why should I not? they interrupt my prospects. There is a chesnut which spreads
its branches before the whole south side of the chateau, and which is so
ancient that they tell me the hollow of its trunk will hold a dozen men. Your
enthusiasm will scarcely contend that there can be either use, or beauty, in
such a sapless old tree as this.'
'Good
God!' exclaimed St. Aubert, 'you surely will not destroy that noble chesnut,
which has flourished for centuries, the glory of the estate! It was in its
maturity when the present mansion was built. How often, in my youth, have I
climbed among its broad branches, and sat embowered amidst a world of leaves,
while the heavy shower has pattered above, and not a rain drop reached me! How
often I have sat with a book in my hand, sometimes reading, and sometimes
looking out between the branches upon the wide landscape, and the setting sun,
till twilight came, and brought the birds home to their little nests among the
leaves! How often—but pardon me,' added St. Aubert, recollecting that he was
speaking to a man who could neither comprehend, nor allow his feelings, 'I am
talking of times and feelings as old-fashioned as the taste that would spare
that venerable tree.'
'It will
certainly come down,' said M. Quesnel; 'I believe I shall plant some Lombardy
poplars among the clumps of chesnut, that I shall leave of the avenue; Madame
Quesnel is partial to the poplar, and tells me how much it adorns a villa of
her uncle, not far from Venice.'
'On the
banks of the Brenta, indeed,' continued St. Aubert, 'where its spiry form is
intermingled with the pine, and the cypress, and where it plays over light and
elegant porticos and colonnades, it, unquestionably, adorns the scene; but
among the giants of the forest, and near a heavy gothic mansion—'
'Well, my
good sir,' said M. Quesnel, 'I will not dispute with you. You must return to
Paris before our ideas can at all agree. But A-PROPOS of Venice, I have some
thoughts of going thither, next summer; events may call me to take possession
of that same villa, too, which they tell me is the most charming that can be
imagined. In that case I shall leave the improvements I mention to another
year, and I may, perhaps, be tempted to stay some time in Italy.'
Emily was
somewhat surprised to hear him talk of being tempted to remain abroad, after he
had mentioned his presence to be so necessary at Paris, that it was with
difficulty he could steal away for a month or two; but St. Aubert understood
the self-importance of the man too well to wonder at this trait; and the
possibility, that these projected improvements might be deferred, gave him a
hope, that they might never take place.
Before
they separated for the night, M. Quesnel desired to speak with St. Aubert
alone, and they retired to another room, where they remained a considerable
time. The subject of this conversation was not known; but, whatever it might
be, St. Aubert, when he returned to the supper-room, seemed much disturbed, and
a shade of sorrow sometimes fell upon his features that alarmed Madame St.
Aubert. When they were alone she was tempted to enquire the occasion of it, but
the delicacy of mind, which had ever appeared in his conduct, restrained her:
she considered that, if St. Aubert wished her to be acquainted with the subject
of his concern, he would not wait on her enquiries.
On the
following day, before M. Quesnel departed, he had a second conference with St.
Aubert.
The
guests, after dining at the chateau, set out in the cool of the day for
Epourville, whither they gave him and Madame St. Aubert a pressing invitation,
prompted rather by the vanity of displaying their splendour, than by a wish to
make their friends happy.
Emily
returned, with delight, to the liberty which their presence had restrained, to
her books, her walks, and the rational conversation of M. and Madame St.
Aubert, who seemed to rejoice, no less, that they were delivered from the
shackles, which arrogance and frivolity had imposed.
Madame
St. Aubert excused herself from sharing their usual evening walk, complaining
that she was not quite well, and St. Aubert and Emily went out together.
They
chose a walk towards the mountains, intending to visit some old pensioners of
St. Aubert, which, from his very moderate income, he contrived to support,
though it is probable M. Quesnel, with his very large one, could not have
afforded this.
After
distributing to his pensioners their weekly stipends, listening patiently to
the complaints of some, redressing the grievances of others, and softening the
discontents of all, by the look of sympathy, and the smile of benevolence, St.
Aubert returned home through the woods,
where
At fall of eve the fairy-people throng,
In various games and revelry to pass
The summer night, as village stories tell.*
*Thomson
'The
evening gloom of woods was always delightful to me,' said St. Aubert, whose mind
now experienced the sweet calm, which results from the consciousness of having
done a beneficent action, and which disposes it to receive pleasure from every
surrounding object. 'I remember that in my youth this gloom used to call forth
to my fancy a thousand fairy visions, and romantic images; and, I own, I am not
yet wholly insensible of that high enthusiasm, which wakes the poet's dream: I
can linger, with solemn steps, under the deep shades, send forward a
transforming eye into the distant obscurity, and listen with thrilling delight
to the mystic murmuring of the woods.'
'O my
dear father,' said Emily, while a sudden tear started to her eye, 'how exactly
you describe what I have felt so often, and which I thought nobody had ever
felt but myself! But hark! here comes the sweeping sound over the
wood-tops;—now it dies away;—how solemn the stillness that succeeds! Now the
breeze swells again. It is like the voice of some supernatural being—the voice
of the spirit of the woods, that watches over them by night. Ah! what light is
yonder? But it is gone. And now it gleams again, near the root of that large
chestnut: look, sir!'
'Are you
such an admirer of nature,' said St. Aubert, 'and so little acquainted with her
appearances as not to know that for the glow-worm? But come,' added he gaily,
'step a little further, and we shall see fairies, perhaps; they are often
companions. The glow-worm lends his light, and they in return charm him with
music, and the dance. Do you see nothing tripping yonder?'
Emily laughed.
'Well, my dear sir,' said she, 'since you allow of this alliance, I may venture
to own I have anticipated you; and almost dare venture to repeat some verses I
made one evening in these very woods.'
'Nay,'
replied St. Aubert, 'dismiss the ALMOST, and venture quite; let us hear what
vagaries fancy has been playing in your mind. If she has given you one of her
spells, you need not envy those of the fairies.'
'If it is
strong enough to enchant your judgment, sir,' said Emily, 'while I disclose her
images, I need NOT envy them. The lines go in a sort of tripping measure, which
I thought might suit the subject well enough, but I fear they are too
irregular.'
THE GLOW-WORM
How pleasant is the green-wood's deep-matted
shade
On a mid-summer's eve, when the fresh rain is o'er;
When the yellow beams slope, and sparkle thro'
the glade,
And swiftly in the thin air the light swallows soar!
But sweeter, sweeter still, when the sun sinks
to rest,
And twilight comes on, with the fairies so gay
Tripping through the forest-walk, where
flow'rs, unprest,
Bow not their tall heads beneath their frolic play.
To music's softest sounds they dance away the
hour,
Till moon-light steals down among the trembling leaves,
And checquers all the ground, and guides them
to the bow'r,
The long haunted bow'r, where the nightingale grieves.
Then no more they dance, till her sad song is
done,
But, silent as the night, to her mourning attend;
And often as her dying notes their pity have
won,
They vow all her sacred haunts from mortals to defend.
When, down among the mountains, sinks the
ev'ning star,
And the changing moon forsakes this shadowy sphere,
How cheerless would they be, tho' they fairies
are,
If I, with my pale light, came not near!
Yet cheerless tho' they'd be, they're
ungrateful to my love!
For, often when the traveller's benighted on his way,
And I glimmer in his path, and would guide him
thro' the grove,
They bind me in their magic spells to lead him far astray;
And in the mire to leave him, till the stars
are all burnt out,
While, in strange-looking shapes, they frisk about the ground,
And, afar in the woods, they raise a dismal
shout,
Till I shrink into my cell again for terror of the sound!
But, see where all the tiny elves come dancing
in a ring,
With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the horn,
And the timbrel so clear, and the lute with
dulcet string;
Then round about the oak they go till peeping of the morn.
Down yonder glade two lovers steal, to shun
the fairy-queen,
Who frowns upon their plighted vows, and jealous is of me,
That yester-eve I lighted them, along the dewy
green,
To seek the purple flow'r, whose juice from all her spells can
free.
And now, to punish me, she keeps afar her
jocund band,
With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the lute;
If I creep near yonder oak she will wave her
fairy wand,
And to me the dance will cease, and the music all be mute.
O! had I but that purple flow'r whose leaves
her charms can foil,
And knew like fays to draw the juice, and throw it on the wind,
I'd be her slave no longer, nor the traveller
beguile,
And help all faithful lovers, nor fear the fairy kind!
But soon the VAPOUR OF THE WOODS will wander
afar,
And the fickle moon will fade, and the stars disappear,
Then, cheerless will they be, tho' they
fairies are,
If I, with my pale light, come not near!
Whatever
St. Aubert might think of the stanzas, he would not deny his daughter the
pleasure of believing that he approved them; and, having given his
commendation, he sunk into a reverie, and they walked on in silence.
A faint erroneous ray
Glanc'd from th' imperfect surfaces of things,
Flung half an image on the straining eye;
While waving woods, and villages, and streams,
And rocks, and mountain-tops, that long retain
The ascending gleam, are all one swimming
scene,
Uncertain if beheld.*
*Thomson.
St.
Aubert continued silent till he reached the chateau, where his wife had retired
to her chamber. The languor and dejection, that had lately oppressed her, and
which the exertion called forth by the arrival of her guests had suspended, now
returned with increased effect. On the following day, symptoms of fever
appeared, and St. Aubert, having sent for medical advice, learned, that her
disorder was a fever of the same nature as that, from which he had lately
recovered. She had, indeed, taken the infection, during her attendance upon
him, and, her constitution being too weak to throw out the disease immediately,
it had lurked in her veins, and occasioned the heavy languor of which she had
complained. St. Aubert, whose anxiety for his wife overcame every other
consideration, detained the physician in his house. He remembered the feelings
and the reflections that had called a momentary gloom upon his mind, on the day
when he had last visited the fishing-house, in company with Madame St. Aubert,
and he now admitted a presentiment, that this illness would be a fatal one. But
he effectually concealed this from her, and from his daughter, whom he
endeavoured to re-animate with hopes that her constant assiduities would not be
unavailing. The physician, when asked by St. Aubert for his opinion of the
disorder, replied, that the event of it depended upon circumstances which he
could not ascertain. Madame St. Aubert seemed to have formed a more decided
one; but her eyes only gave hints of this. She frequently fixed them upon her
anxious friends with an expression of pity, and of tenderness, as if she
anticipated the sorrow that awaited them, and that seemed to say, it was for
their sakes only, for their sufferings, that she regretted life. On the seventh
day, the disorder was at its crisis. The physician assumed a graver manner,
which she observed, and took occasion, when her family had once quitted the
chamber, to tell him, that she perceived her death was approaching. 'Do not
attempt to deceive me,' said she, 'I feel that I cannot long survive. I am
prepared for the event, I have long, I hope, been preparing for it. Since I
have not long to live, do not suffer a mistaken compassion to induce you to
flatter my family with false hopes. If you do, their affliction will only be
the heavier when it arrives: I will endeavour to teach them resignation by my
example.'
The
physician was affected; he promised to obey her, and told St. Aubert, somewhat
abruptly, that there was nothing to expect. The latter was not philosopher
enough to restrain his feelings when he received this information; but a
consideration of the increased affliction which the observance of his grief
would occasion his wife, enabled him, after some time, to command himself in
her presence. Emily was at first overwhelmed with the intelligence; then,
deluded by the strength of her wishes, a hope sprung up in her mind that her
mother would yet recover, and to this she pertinaciously adhered almost to the
last hour.
The
progress of this disorder was marked, on the side of Madame St. Aubert, by
patient suffering, and subjected wishes. The composure, with which she awaited
her death, could be derived only from the retrospect of a life governed, as far
as human frailty permits, by a consciousness of being always in the presence of
the Deity, and by the hope of a higher world. But her piety could not entirely
subdue the grief of parting from those whom she so dearly loved. During these
her last hours, she conversed much with St. Aubert and Emily, on the prospect
of futurity, and on other religious topics. The resignation she expressed, with
the firm hope of meeting in a future world the friends she left in this, and
the effort which sometimes appeared to conceal her sorrow at this temporary
separation, frequently affected St. Aubert so much as to oblige him to leave
the room. Having indulged his tears awhile, he would dry them and return to the
chamber with a countenance composed by an endeavour which did but increase his
grief.
Never had
Emily felt the importance of the lessons, which had taught her to restrain her
sensibility, so much as in these moments, and never had she practised them with
a triumph so complete. But when the last was over, she sunk at once under the
pressure of her sorrow, and then perceived that it was hope, as well as
fortitude, which had hitherto supported her. St. Aubert was for a time too
devoid of comfort himself to bestow any on his daughter.
