THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO
PART 5
CHAPTER VII
Let those deplore their doom,
Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn.
But lofty souls can look beyond the tomb,
Can smile at fate, and wonder how they mourn.
Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more
return?
Is yonder wave the sun's eternal bed?—
Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn,
And Spring shall soon her vital influence
shed,
Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead!
BEATTIE
Emily,
called, as she had requested, at an early hour, awoke, little refreshed by
sleep, for uneasy dreams had pursued her, and marred the kindest blessing of
the unhappy. But, when she opened her casement, looked out upon the woods,
bright with the morning sun, and inspired the pure air, her mind was soothed.
The scene was filled with that cheering freshness, which seems to breathe the
very spirit of health, and she heard only sweet and PICTURESQUE sounds, if such
an expression may be allowed—the matin-bell of a distant convent, the faint
murmur of the sea-waves, the song of birds, and the far-off low of cattle,
which she saw coming slowly on between the trunks of trees. Struck with the
circumstances of imagery around her, she indulged the pensive tranquillity
which they inspired; and while she leaned on her window, waiting till St.
Aubert should descend to breakfast, her ideas arranged themselves in the
following lines:
THE FIRST
HOUR OF MORNING
How sweet to wind the forest's tangled shade,
When early twilight, from the eastern bound,
Dawns on the sleeping landscape in the glade,
And fades as morning spreads her blush around!
When ev'ry infant flower, that wept in night,
Lifts its chill head soft glowing with a tear,
Expands its tender blossom to the light,
And gives its incense to the genial air.
How fresh the breeze that wafts the rich
perfume,
And swells the melody of waking birds;
The hum of bees, beneath the verdant gloom,
And woodman's song, and low of distant herds!
Then, doubtful gleams the mountain's hoary
head,
Seen through the parting foliage from afar;
And, farther still, the ocean's misty bed,
With flitting sails, that partial sun-beams share.
But, vain the sylvan shade—the breath of May,
The voice of music floating on the gale,
And forms, that beam through morning's dewy
veil,
If health no longer bid the heart be gay!
O balmy hour! 'tis thine her wealth to give,
Here spread her blush, and bid the parent
live!
Emily now
heard persons moving below in the cottage, and presently the voice of Michael, who
was talking to his mules, as he led them forth from a hut adjoining. As she
left her room, St. Aubert, who was now risen, met her at the door, apparently
as little restored by sleep as herself. She led him down stairs to the little
parlour, in which they had supped on the preceding night, where they found a
neat breakfast set out, while the host and his daughter waited to bid them
good-morrow.
'I envy
you this cottage, my good friends,' said St. Aubert, as he met them, 'it is so
pleasant, so quiet, and so neat; and this air, that one breathes—if any thing
could restore lost health, it would surely be this air.'
La Voisin
bowed gratefully, and replied, with the gallantry of a Frenchman, 'Our cottage
may be envied, sir, since you and Mademoiselle have honoured it with your
presence.' St. Aubert gave him a friendly smile for his compliment, and sat
down to a table, spread with cream, fruit, new cheese, butter, and coffee.
Emily, who had observed her father with attention and thought he looked very
ill, endeavoured to persuade him to defer travelling till the afternoon; but he
seemed very anxious to be at home, and his anxiety he expressed repeatedly, and
with an earnestness that was unusual with him. He now said, he found himself as
well as he had been of late, and that he could bear travelling better in the
cool hour of the morning, than at any other time. But, while he was talking
with his venerable host, and thanking him for his kind attentions, Emily
observed his countenance change, and, before she could reach him, he fell back
in his chair. In a few moments he recovered from the sudden faintness that had
come over him, but felt so ill, that he perceived himself unable to set out,
and, having remained a little while, struggling against the pressure of indisposition,
he begged he might be helped up stairs to bed. This request renewed all the
terror which Emily had suffered on the preceding evening; but, though scarcely
able to support herself, under the sudden shock it gave her, she tried to
conceal her apprehensions from St. Aubert, and gave her trembling arm to assist
him to the door of his chamber.
When he
was once more in bed, he desired that Emily, who was then weeping in her own
room, might be called; and, as she came, he waved his hand for every other
person to quit the apartment. When they were alone, he held out his hand to
her, and fixed his eyes upon her countenance, with an expression so full of
tenderness and grief, that all her fortitude forsook her, and she burst into an
agony of tears. St. Aubert seemed struggling to acquire firmness, but was still
unable to speak; he could only press her hand, and check the tears that stood
trembling in his eyes. At length he commanded his voice, 'My dear child,' said
he, trying to smile through his anguish, 'my dear Emily!'—and paused again. He
raised his eyes to heaven, as if in prayer, and then, in a firmer tone, and
with a look, in which the tenderness of the father was dignified by the pious
solemnity of the saint, he said, 'My dear child, I would soften the painful
truth I have to tell you, but I find myself quite unequal to the art. Alas! I
would, at this moment, conceal it from you, but that it would be most cruel to
deceive you. It cannot be long before we must part; let us talk of it, that our
thoughts and our prayers may prepare us to bear it.' His voice faltered, while
Emily, still weeping, pressed his hand close to her heart, which swelled with a
convulsive sigh, but she could not look up.
'Let me
not waste these moments,' said St. Aubert, recovering himself, 'I have much to
say. There is a circumstance of solemn consequence, which I have to mention,
and a solemn promise to obtain from you; when this is done I shall be easier.
You have observed, my dear, how anxious I am to reach home, but know not all my
reasons for this. Listen to what I am going to say.—Yet stay—before I say more
give me this promise, a promise made to your dying father!'—St. Aubert was
interrupted; Emily, struck by his last words, as if for the first time, with a
conviction of his immediate danger, raised her head; her tears stopped, and,
gazing at him for a moment with an expression of unutterable anguish, a slight
convulsion seized her, and she sunk senseless in her chair. St. Aubert's cries
brought La Voisin and his daughter to the room, and they administered every
means in their power to restore her, but, for a considerable time, without
effect. When she recovered, St. Aubert was so exhausted by the scene he had
witnessed, that it was many minutes before he had strength to speak; he was,
however, somewhat revived by a cordial, which Emily gave him; and, being again
alone with her, he exerted himself to tranquilize her spirits, and to offer her
all the comfort of which her situation admitted. She threw herself into his
arms, wept on his neck, and grief made her so insensible to all he said, that
he ceased to offer the alleviations, which he himself could not, at this
moment, feel, and mingled his silent tears with hers. Recalled, at length, to a
sense of duty, she tried to spare her father from a farther view of her
suffering; and, quitting his embrace, dried her tears, and said something,
which she meant for consolation. 'My dear Emily,' replied St. Aubert, 'my dear
child, we must look up with humble confidence to that Being, who has protected
and comforted us in every danger, and in every affliction we have known; to
whose eye every moment of our lives has been exposed; he will not, he does not,
forsake us now; I feel his consolations in my heart. I shall leave you, my
child, still in his care; and, though I depart from this world, I shall be
still in his presence. Nay, weep not again, my Emily. In death there is nothing
new, or surprising, since we all know, that we are born to die; and nothing
terrible to those, who can confide in an all-powerful God. Had my life been
spared now, after a very few years, in the course of nature, I must have
resigned it; old age, with all its train of infirmity, its privations and its
sorrows, would have been mine; and then, at last, death would have come, and
called forth the tears you now shed. Rather, my child, rejoice, that I am saved
from such suffering, and that I am permitted to die with a mind unimpaired, and
sensible of the comforts of faith and resignation.' St. Aubert paused, fatigued
with speaking. Emily again endeavoured to assume an air of composure; and, in
replying to what he had said, tried to sooth him with a belief, that he had not
spoken in vain.
When he
had reposed a while, he resumed the conversation. 'Let me return,' said he, 'to
a subject, which is very near my heart. I said I had a solemn promise to
receive from you; let me receive it now, before I explain the chief
circumstance which it concerns; there are others, of which your peace requires
that you should rest in ignorance. Promise, then, that you will perform exactly
what I shall enjoin.'
Emily,
awed by the earnest solemnity of his manner, dried her tears, that had begun
again to flow, in spite of her efforts to suppress them; and, looking eloquently
at St. Aubert, bound herself to do whatever he should require by a vow, at
which she shuddered, yet knew not why.
He
proceeded: 'I know you too well, my Emily, to believe, that you would break any
promise, much less one thus solemnly given; your assurance gives me peace, and
the observance of it is of the utmost importance to your tranquillity. Hear,
then, what I am going to tell you. The closet, which adjoins my chamber at La
Vallee, has a sliding board in the floor. You will know it by a remarkable knot
in the wood, and by its being the next board, except one, to the wainscot,
which fronts the door. At the distance of about a yard from that end, nearer
the window, you will perceive a line across it, as if the plank had been
joined;—the way to open it is this:—Press your foot upon the line; the end of
the board will then sink, and you may slide it with ease beneath the other.
Below, you will see a hollow place.' St. Aubert paused for breath, and Emily
sat fixed in deep attention. 'Do you understand these directions, my dear?'
said he. Emily, though scarcely able to speak, assured him that she did.
'When you
return home, then,' he added with a deep sigh—
At the
mention of her return home, all the melancholy circumstances, that must attend
this return, rushed upon her fancy; she burst into convulsive grief, and St.
Aubert himself, affected beyond the resistance of the fortitude which he had,
at first, summoned, wept with her. After some moments, he composed himself. 'My
dear child,' said he, 'be comforted. When I am gone, you will not be forsaken—I
leave you only in the more immediate care of that Providence, which has never
yet forsaken me. Do not afflict me with this excess of grief; rather teach me
by your example to bear my own.' He stopped again, and Emily, the more she
endeavoured to restrain her emotion, found it the less possible to do so.
St.
Aubert, who now spoke with pain, resumed the subject. 'That closet, my
dear,—when you return home, go to it; and, beneath the board I have described,
you will find a packet of written papers. Attend to me now, for the promise you
have given particularly relates to what I shall direct. These papers you must
burn—and, solemnly I command you, WITHOUT EXAMINING THEM.'
Emily's
surprise, for a moment, overcame her grief, and she ventured to ask, why this
must be? St. Aubert replied, that, if it had been right for him to explain his
reasons, her late promise would have been unnecessarily exacted. 'It is
sufficient for you, my love, to have a deep sense of the importance of
observing me in this instance.' St. Aubert proceeded. 'Under that board you
will also find about two hundred louis d'ors, wrapped in a silk purse; indeed,
it was to secure whatever money might be in the chateau, that this secret place
was contrived, at a time when the province was over-run by troops of men, who
took advantage of the tumults, and became plunderers.
'But I
have yet another promise to receive from you, which is—that you will never,
whatever may be your future circumstances, SELL the chateau.' St. Aubert even
enjoined her, whenever she might marry, to make it an article in the contract,
that the chateau should always be hers. He then gave her a more minute account
of his present circumstances than he had yet done, adding, 'The two hundred
louis, with what money you will now find in my purse, is all the ready money I
have to leave you. I have told you how I am circumstanced with M. Motteville,
at Paris. Ah, my child! I leave you poor—but not destitute,' he added, after a
long pause. Emily could make no reply to any thing he now said, but knelt at
the bed-side, with her face upon the quilt, weeping over the hand she held
there.
After
this conversation, the mind of St. Aubert appeared to be much more at ease;
but, exhausted by the effort of speaking, he sunk into a kind of doze, and
Emily continued to watch and weep beside him, till a gentle tap at the
chamber-door roused her. It was La Voisin, come to say, that a confessor from
the neighbouring convent was below, ready to attend St. Aubert. Emily would not
suffer her father to be disturbed, but desired, that the priest might not leave
the cottage. When St. Aubert awoke from this doze, his senses were confused,
and it was some moments before he recovered them sufficiently to know, that it
was Emily who sat beside him. He then moved his lips, and stretched forth his
hand to her; as she received which, she sunk back in her chair, overcome by the
impression of death on his countenance. In a few minutes he recovered his
voice, and Emily then asked, if he wished to see the confessor; he replied,
that he did; and, when the holy father appeared, she withdrew. They remained
alone together above half an hour; when Emily was called in, she found St.
Aubert more agitated than when she had left him, and she gazed, with a slight
degree of resentment, at the friar, as the cause of this; who, however, looked
mildly and mournfully at her, and turned away. St. Aubert, in a tremulous
voice, said, he wished her to join in prayer with him, and asked if La Voisin would
do so too. The old man and his daughter came; they both wept, and knelt with
Emily round the bed, while the holy father read in a solemn voice the service
for the dying. St. Aubert lay with a serene countenance, and seemed to join
fervently in the devotion, while tears often stole from beneath his closed
eyelids, and Emily's sobs more than once interrupted the service.
When it
was concluded, and extreme unction had been administered, the friar withdrew.
St. Aubert then made a sign for La Voisin to come nearer. He gave him his hand,
and was, for a moment, silent. At length, he said, in a trembling voice, 'My
good friend, our acquaintance has been short, but long enough to give you an
opportunity of shewing me much kind attention. I cannot doubt, that you will
extend this kindness to my daughter, when I am gone; she will have need of it.
I entrust her to your care during the few days she will remain here. I need say
no more—you know the feelings of a father, for you have children; mine would
be, indeed, severe if I had less confidence in you.' He paused. La Voisin
assured him, and his tears bore testimony to his sincerity, that he would do
all he could to soften her affliction, and that, if St. Aubert wished it, he
would even attend her into Gascony; an offer so pleasing to St. Aubert, that he
had scarcely words to acknowledge his sense of the old man's kindness, or to
tell him, that he accepted it. The scene, that followed between St. Aubert and
Emily, affected La Voisin so much, that he quitted the chamber, and she was
again left alone with her father, whose spirits seemed fainting fast, but
neither his senses, or his voice, yet failed him; and, at intervals, he
employed much of these last awful moments in advising his daughter, as to her
future conduct. Perhaps, he never had thought more justly, or expressed himself
more clearly, than he did now.
'Above
all, my dear Emily,' said he, 'do not indulge in the pride of fine feeling, the
romantic error of amiable minds. Those, who really possess sensibility, ought
early to be taught, that it is a dangerous quality, which is continually
extracting the excess of misery, or delight, from every surrounding
circumstance. And, since, in our passage through this world, painful
circumstances occur more frequently than pleasing ones, and since our sense of
evil is, I fear, more acute than our sense of good, we become the victims of
our feelings, unless we can in some degree command them. I know you will say,
(for you are young, my Emily) I know you will say, that you are contented
sometimes to suffer, rather than to give up your refined sense of happiness, at
others; but, when your mind has been long harassed by vicissitude, you will be
content to rest, and you will then recover from your delusion. You will
perceive, that the phantom of happiness is exchanged for the substance; for
happiness arises in a state of peace, not of tumult. It is of a temperate and
uniform nature, and can no more exist in a heart, that is continually alive to
minute circumstances, than in one that is dead to feeling. You see, my dear,
that, though I would guard you against the dangers of sensibility, I am not an
advocate for apathy. At your age I should have said THAT is a vice more hateful
than all the errors of sensibility, and I say so still. I call it a VICE,
because it leads to positive evil; in this, however, it does no more than an
ill-governed sensibility, which, by such a rule, might also be called a vice;
but the evil of the former is of more general consequence. I have exhausted
myself,' said St. Aubert, feebly, 'and have wearied you, my Emily; but, on a
subject so important to your future comfort, I am anxious to be perfectly
understood.'
Emily
assured him, that his advice was most precious to her, and that she would never
forget it, or cease from endeavouring to profit by it. St. Aubert smiled
affectionately and sorrowfully upon her. 'I repeat it,' said he, 'I would not
teach you to become insensible, if I could; I would only warn you of the evils
of susceptibility, and point out how you may avoid them. Beware, my love, I
conjure you, of that self-delusion, which has been fatal to the peace of so
many persons; beware of priding yourself on the gracefulness of sensibility; if
you yield to this vanity, your happiness is lost for ever. Always remember how
much more valuable is the strength of fortitude, than the grace of sensibility.
Do not, however, confound fortitude with apathy; apathy cannot know the virtue.
Remember, too, that one act of beneficence, one act of real usefulness, is worth
all the abstract sentiment in the world. Sentiment is a disgrace, instead of an
ornament, unless it lead us to good actions. The miser, who thinks himself
respectable, merely because he possesses wealth, and thus mistakes the means of
doing good, for the actual accomplishment of it, is not more blameable than the
man of sentiment, without active virtue. You may have observed persons, who
delight so much in this sort of sensibility to sentiment, which excludes that
to the calls of any practical virtue, that they turn from the distressed, and,
because their sufferings are painful to be contemplated, do not endeavour to
relieve them. How despicable is that humanity, which can be contented to pity,
where it might assuage!'
St.
Aubert, some time after, spoke of Madame Cheron, his sister. 'Let me inform you
of a circumstance, that nearly affects your welfare,' he added. 'We have, you
know, had little intercourse for some years, but, as she is now your only
female relation, I have thought it proper to consign you to her care, as you
will see in my will, till you are of age, and to recommend you to her
protection afterwards. She is not exactly the person, to whom I would have
committed my Emily, but I had no alternative, and I believe her to be upon the
whole—a good kind of woman. I need not recommend it to your prudence, my love,
to endeavour to conciliate her kindness; you will do this for his sake, who has
often wished to do so for yours.'
Emily
assured him, that, whatever he requested she would religiously perform to the
utmost of her ability. 'Alas!' added she, in a voice interrupted by sighs,
'that will soon be all which remains for me; it will be almost my only
consolation to fulfil your wishes.'
St.
Aubert looked up silently in her face, as if would have spoken, but his spirit
sunk a while, and his eyes became heavy and dull. She felt that look at her
heart. 'My dear father!' she exclaimed; and then, checking herself, pressed his
hand closer, and hid her face with her handkerchief. Her tears were concealed,
but St. Aubert heard her convulsive sobs. His spirits returned. 'O my child!'
said he, faintly, 'let my consolations be yours. I die in peace; for I know,
that I am about to return to the bosom of my Father, who will still be your
Father, when I am gone. Always trust in him, my love, and he will support you
in these moments, as he supports me.'
Emily
could only listen, and weep; but the extreme composure of his manner, and the
faith and hope he expressed, somewhat soothed her anguish. Yet, whenever she
looked upon his emaciated countenance, and saw the lines of death beginning to
prevail over it—saw his sunk eyes, still bent on her, and their heavy lids
pressing to a close, there was a pang in her heart, such as defied expression,
though it required filial virtue, like hers, to forbear the attempt.
He
desired once more to bless her; 'Where are you, my dear?' said he, as he
stretched forth his hands. Emily had turned to the window, that he might not
perceive her anguish; she now understood, that his sight had failed him. When
he had given her his blessing, and it seemed to be the last effort of expiring
life, he sunk back on his pillow. She kissed his forehead; the damps of death
had settled there, and, forgetting her fortitude for a moment, her tears mingled
with them. St. Aubert lifted up his eyes; the spirit of a father returned to
them, but it quickly vanished, and he spoke no more.
St.
Aubert lingered till about three o'clock in the afternoon, and, thus gradually
sinking into death, he expired without a struggle, or a sigh.
Emily was
led from the chamber by La Voisin and his daughter, who did what they could to
comfort her. The old man sat and wept with her. Agnes was more erroneously
officious.
