THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO
PART 38
CHAPTER XII
Light thickens, and the crow
Makes wing to the rooky wood:
Good things of day begin to droop, and drowze;
While night's black agents to their preys do
rouze.
MACBETH
Meanwhile
Count De Villefort and Lady Blanche had passed a pleasant fortnight at the
chateau de St. Foix, with the Baron and Baroness, during which they made
frequent excursions among the mountains, and were delighted with the romantic
wildness of Pyrenean scenery. It was with regret, that the Count bade adieu to
his old friends, although with the hope of being soon united with them in one
family; for it was settled that M. St. Foix, who now attended them into
Gascony, should receive the hand of the Lady Blanche, upon their arrival at
Chateau-le-Blanc. As the road, from the Baron's residence to La Vallee, was
over some of the wildest tract of the Pyrenees, and where a carriage-wheel had
never passed, the Count hired mules for himself and his family, as well as a
couple of stout guides, who were well armed, informed of all the passes of the
mountains, and who boasted, too, that they were acquainted with every brake and
dingle in the way, could tell the names of all the highest points of this chain
of Alps, knew every forest, that spread along their narrow vallies, the
shallowest part of every torrent they must cross, and the exact distance of
every goat-herd's and hunter's cabin they should have occasion to pass,—which
last article of learning required no very capacious memory, for even such
simple inhabitants were but thinly scattered over these wilds.
The Count
left the chateau de St. Foix, early in the morning, with an intention of
passing the night at a little inn upon the mountains, about half way to La
Vallee, of which his guides had informed him; and, though this was frequented
chiefly by Spanish muleteers, on their route into France, and, of course, would
afford only sorry accommodation, the Count had no alternative, for it was the
only place like an inn, on the road.
After a
day of admiration and fatigue, the travellers found themselves, about sun-set,
in a woody valley, overlooked, on every side, by abrupt heights. They had
proceeded for many leagues, without seeing a human habitation, and had only
heard, now and then, at a distance, the melancholy tinkling of a sheep-bell;
but now they caught the notes of merry music, and presently saw, within a
little green recess among the rocks, a group of mountaineers, tripping through
a dance. The Count, who could not look upon the happiness, any more than on the
misery of others, with indifference, halted to enjoy this scene of simple
pleasure. The group before him consisted of French and Spanish peasants, the
inhabitants of a neighbouring hamlet, some of whom were performing a sprightly
dance, the women with castanets in their hands, to the sounds of a lute and a
tamborine, till, from the brisk melody of France, the music softened into a
slow movement, to which two female peasants danced a Spanish Pavan.
The
Count, comparing this with the scenes of such gaiety as he had witnessed at
Paris, where false taste painted the features, and, while it vainly tried to
supply the glow of nature, concealed the charms of animation—where affectation
so often distorted the air, and vice perverted the manners—sighed to think,
that natural graces and innocent pleasures flourished in the wilds of solitude,
while they drooped amidst the concourse of polished society. But the
lengthening shadows reminded the travellers, that they had no time to lose;
and, leaving this joyous group, they pursued their way towards the little inn,
which was to shelter them from the night.
The rays
of the setting sun now threw a yellow gleam upon the forests of pine and
chesnut, that swept down the lower region of the mountains, and gave
resplendent tints to the snowy points above. But soon, even this light faded
fast, and the scenery assumed a more tremendous appearance, invested with the
obscurity of twilight. Where the torrent had been seen, it was now only heard;
where the wild cliffs had displayed every variety of form and attitude, a dark
mass of mountains now alone appeared; and the vale, which far, far below had
opened its dreadful chasm, the eye could no longer fathom. A melancholy gleam
still lingered on the summits of the highest Alps, overlooking the deep repose
of evening, and seeming to make the stillness of the hour more awful.
Blanche
viewed the scene in silence, and listened with enthusiasm to the murmur of the
pines, that extended in dark lines along the mountains, and to the faint voice
of the izard, among the rocks, that came at intervals on the air. But her
enthusiasm sunk into apprehension, when, as the shadows deepened, she looked
upon the doubtful precipice, that bordered the road, as well as on the various
fantastic forms of danger, that glimmered through the obscurity beyond it; and
she asked her father, how far they were from the inn, and whether he did not
consider the road to be dangerous at this late hour. The Count repeated the
first question to the guides, who returned a doubtful answer, adding, that,
when it was darker, it would be safest to rest, till the moon rose. 'It is
scarcely safe to proceed now,' said the Count; but the guides, assuring him
that there was no danger, went on. Blanche, revived by this assurance, again
indulged a pensive pleasure, as she watched the progress of twilight gradually
spreading its tints over the woods and mountains, and stealing from the eye
every minuter feature of the scene, till the grand outlines of nature alone remained.
Then fell the silent dews, and every wild flower, and aromatic plant, that
bloomed among the cliffs, breathed forth its sweetness; then, too, when the
mountain-bee had crept into its blossomed bed, and the hum of every little
insect, that had floated gaily in the sun-beam, was hushed, the sound of many
streams, not heard till now, murmured at a distance.—The bats alone, of all the
animals inhabiting this region, seemed awake; and, while they flitted across
the silent path, which Blanche was pursuing, she remembered the following
lines, which Emily had given her:
TO THE BAT
From haunt of man, from day's obtrusive glare,
Thou shroud'st thee in the ruin's ivy'd tow'r.
Or in some shadowy glen's romantic bow'r,
Where wizard forms their mystic charms prepare,
Where Horror lurks, and ever-boding Care!
But, at the sweet and silent ev'ning hour,
When clos'd in sleep is ev'ry languid flow'r,
Thou lov'st to sport upon the twilight air,
Mocking the eye, that would thy course pursue,
In many a wanton-round, elastic, gay,
Thou flit'st athwart the pensive wand'rer's
way,
As his lone footsteps print the mountain-dew.
From Indian isles thou com'st, with Summer's
car,
Twilight thy love—thy guide her beaming star!
To a warm
imagination, the dubious forms, that float, half veiled in darkness, afford a
higher delight, than the most distinct scenery, that the sun can shew. While
the fancy thus wanders over landscapes partly of its own creation, a sweet
complacency steals upon the mind, and
Refines it all to subtlest feeling,
Bids the tear of rapture roll.
The
distant note of a torrent, the weak trembling of the breeze among the woods, or
the far-off sound of a human voice, now lost and heard again, are
circumstances, which wonderfully heighten the enthusiastic tone of the mind.
The young St. Foix, who saw the presentations of a fervid fancy, and felt
whatever enthusiasm could suggest, sometimes interrupted the silence, which the
rest of the party seemed by mutual consent to preserve, remarking and pointing
out to Blanche the most striking effect of the hour upon the scenery; while
Blanche, whose apprehensions were beguiled by the conversation of her lover,
yielded to the taste so congenial to his, and they conversed in a low
restrained voice, the effect of the pensive tranquillity, which twilight and
the scene inspired, rather than of any fear, that they should be heard. But,
while the heart was thus soothed to tenderness, St. Foix gradually mingled,
with his admiration of the country, a mention of his affection; and he
continued to speak, and Blanche to listen, till the mountains, the woods, and
the magical illusions of twilight, were remembered no more.
The
shadows of evening soon shifted to the gloom of night, which was somewhat
anticipated by the vapours, that, gathering fast round the mountains, rolled in
dark wreaths along their sides; and the guides proposed to rest, till the moon
should rise, adding, that they thought a storm was coming on. As they looked
round for a spot, that might afford some kind of shelter, an object was
perceived obscurely through the dusk, on a point of rock, a little way down the
mountain, which they imagined to be a hunter's or a shepherd's cabin, and the
party, with cautious steps, proceeded towards it. Their labour, however, was
not rewarded, or their apprehensions soothed; for, on reaching the object of
their search, they discovered a monumental cross, which marked the spot to have
been polluted by murder.
The
darkness would not permit them to read the inscription; but the guides knew
this to be a cross, raised to the memory of a Count de Beliard, who had been
murdered here by a horde of banditti, that had infested this part of the
Pyrenees, a few years before; and the uncommon size of the monument seemed to
justify the supposition, that it was erected for a person of some distinction.
Blanche shuddered, as she listened to some horrid particulars of the Count's
fate, which one of the guides related in a low, restrained tone, as if the sound
of his own voice frightened him; but, while they lingered at the cross,
attending to his narrative, a flash of lightning glanced upon the rocks,
thunder muttered at a distance, and the travellers, now alarmed, quitted this
scene of solitary horror, in search of shelter.
Having
regained their former track, the guides, as they passed on, endeavoured to
interest the Count by various stories of robbery, and even of murder, which had
been perpetrated in the very places they must unavoidably pass, with accounts
of their own dauntless courage and wonderful escapes. The chief guide, or
rather he, who was the most completely armed, drawing forth one of the four
pistols, that were tucked into his belt, swore, that it had shot three robbers
within the year. He then brandished a clasp-knife of enormous length, and was
going to recount the wonderful execution it had done, when St. Foix,
perceiving, that Blanche was terrified, interrupted him. The Count, meanwhile,
secretly laughing at the terrible histories and extravagant boastings of the
man, resolved to humour him, and, telling Blanche in a whisper, his design,
began to recount some exploits of his own, which infinitely exceeded any
related by the guide.
To these
surprising circumstances he so artfully gave the colouring of truth, that the
courage of the guides was visibly affected by them, who continued silent, long
after the Count had ceased to speak. The loquacity of the chief hero thus laid
asleep, the vigilance of his eyes and ears seemed more thoroughly awakened, for
he listened, with much appearance of anxiety, to the deep thunder, which
murmured at intervals, and often paused, as the breeze, that was now rising,
rushed among the pines. But, when he made a sudden halt before a tuft of cork
trees, that projected over the road, and drew forth a pistol, before he would
venture to brave the banditti which might lurk behind it, the Count could no
longer refrain from laughter.
Having
now, however, arrived at a level spot, somewhat sheltered from the air, by
overhanging cliffs and by a wood of larch, that rose over the precipice on the
left, and the guides being yet ignorant how far they were from the inn, the
travellers determined to rest, till the moon should rise, or the storm
disperse. Blanche, recalled to a sense of the present moment, looked on the
surrounding gloom, with terror; but giving her hand to St. Foix, she alighted,
and the whole party entered a kind of cave, if such it could be called, which
was only a shallow cavity, formed by the curve of impending rocks. A light
being struck, a fire was kindled, whose blaze afforded some degree of
cheerfulness, and no small comfort, for, though the day had been hot, the night
air of this mountainous region was chilling; a fire was partly necessary also
to keep off the wolves, with which those wilds were infested.
Provisions
being spread upon a projection of the rock, the Count and his family partook of
a supper, which, in a scene less rude, would certainly have been thought less
excellent. When the repast was finished, St. Foix, impatient for the moon,
sauntered along the precipice, to a point, that fronted the east; but all was
yet wrapt in gloom, and the silence of night was broken only by the murmuring
of woods, that waved far below, or by distant thunder, and, now and then, by
the faint voices of the party he had quitted. He viewed, with emotions of awful
sublimity, the long volumes of sulphureous clouds, that floated along the upper
and middle regions of the air, and the lightnings that flashed from them, sometimes
silently, and, at others, followed by sullen peals of thunder, which the
mountains feebly prolonged, while the whole horizon, and the abyss, on which he
stood, were discovered in the momentary light. Upon the succeeding darkness,
the fire, which had been kindled in the cave, threw a partial gleam, illumining
some points of the opposite rocks, and the summits of pine-woods, that hung
beetling on the cliffs below, while their recesses seemed to frown in deeper
shade.
St. Foix
stopped to observe the picture, which the party in the cave presented, where
the elegant form of Blanche was finely contrasted by the majestic figure of the
Count, who was seated by her on a rude stone, and each was rendered more
impressive by the grotesque habits and strong features of the guides and other
attendants, who were in the back ground of the piece. The effect of the light,
too, was interesting; on the surrounding figures it threw a strong, though pale
gleam, and glittered on their bright arms; while upon the foliage of a gigantic
larch, that impended its shade over the cliff above, appeared a red, dusky
tint, deepening almost imperceptibly into the blackness of night.
While St.
Foix contemplated the scene, the moon, broad and yellow, rose over the eastern
summits, from among embattled clouds, and shewed dimly the grandeur of the
heavens, the mass of vapours, that rolled half way down the precipice beneath,
and the doubtful mountains.
What dreadful pleasure! there to stand
sublime,
Like shipwreck'd mariner on desert coast,
And view th'enormous waste of vapour, tost
In billows length'ning to th'horizon round!
THE MINSTREL
From this
romantic reverie he was awakened by the voices of the guides, repeating his
name, which was reverbed from cliff to cliff, till an hundred tongues seemed to
call him; when he soon quieted the fears of the Count and the Lady Blanche, by
returning to the cave. As the storm, however, seemed approaching, they did not
quit their place of shelter; and the Count, seated between his daughter and St.
Foix, endeavoured to divert the fears of the former, and conversed on subjects,
relating to the natural history of the scene, among which they wandered. He
spoke of the mineral and fossile substances, found in the depths of these
mountains,—the veins of marble and granite, with which they abounded, the
strata of shells, discovered near their summits, many thousand fathom above the
level of the sea, and at a vast distance from its present shore;—of the
tremendous chasms and caverns of the rocks, the grotesque form of the
mountains, and the various phaenomena, that seem to stamp upon the world the
history of the deluge. From the natural history he descended to the mention of
events and circumstances, connected with the civil story of the Pyrenees; named
some of the most remarkable fortresses, which France and Spain had erected in
the passes of these mountains; and gave a brief account of some celebrated
sieges and encounters in early times, when Ambition first frightened Solitude
from these her deep recesses, made her mountains, which before had echoed only
to the torrent's roar, tremble with the clang of arms, and, when man's first
footsteps in her sacred haunts had left the print of blood!
As
Blanche sat, attentive to the narrative, that rendered the scenes doubly
interesting, and resigned to solemn emotion, while she considered, that she was
on the very ground, once polluted by these events, her reverie was suddenly
interrupted by a sound, that came in the wind.—It was the distant bark of a
watch-dog. The travellers listened with eager hope, and, as the wind blew
stronger, fancied, that the sound came from no great distance; and, the guides
having little doubt, that it proceeded from the inn they were in search of, the
Count determined to pursue his way. The moon now afforded a stronger, though
still an uncertain light, as she moved among broken clouds; and the travellers,
led by the sound, recommenced their journey along the brow of the precipice,
preceded by a single torch, that now contended with the moon-light; for the
guides, believing they should reach the inn soon after sun-set, had neglected
to provide more. In silent caution they followed the sound, which was heard but
at intervals, and which, after some time entirely ceased. The guides
endeavoured, however, to point their course to the quarter, whence it had
issued, but the deep roaring of a torrent soon seized their attention, and
presently they came to a tremendous chasm of the mountain, which seemed to
forbid all further progress. Blanche alighted from her mule, as did the Count
and St. Foix, while the guides traversed the edge in search of a bridge, which,
however rude, might convey them to the opposite side, and they, at length,
confessed, what the Count had begun to suspect, that they had been, for some
time, doubtful of their way, and were now certain only, that they had lost it.
At a
little distance, was discovered a rude and dangerous passage, formed by an
enormous pine, which, thrown across the chasm, united the opposite precipices,
and which had been felled probably by the hunter, to facilitate his chace of
the izard, or the wolf. The whole party, the guides excepted, shuddered at the
prospect of crossing this alpine bridge, whose sides afforded no kind of
defence, and from which to fall was to die. The guides, however, prepared to
lead over the mules, while Blanche stood trembling on the brink, and listening
to the roar of the waters, which were seen descending from rocks above,
overhung with lofty pines, and thence precipitating themselves into the deep
abyss, where their white surges gleamed faintly in the moon-light. The poor
animals proceeded over this perilous bridge with instinctive caution, neither
frightened by the noise of the cataract, or deceived by the gloom, which the
impending foliage threw athwart their way. It was now, that the solitary torch,
which had been hitherto of little service, was found to be an inestimable
treasure; and Blanche, terrified, shrinking, but endeavouring to re-collect all
her firmness and presence of mind, preceded by her lover and supported by her
father, followed the red gleam of the torch, in safety, to the opposite cliff.
As they
went on, the heights contracted, and formed a narrow pass, at the bottom of
which, the torrent they had just crossed, was heard to thunder. But they were
again cheered by the bark of a dog, keeping watch, perhaps, over the flocks of
the mountains, to protect them from the nightly descent of the wolves. The
sound was much nearer than before, and, while they rejoiced in the hope of soon
reaching a place of repose, a light was seen to glimmer at a distance. It
appeared at a height considerably above the level of their path, and was lost
and seen again, as if the waving branches of trees sometimes excluded and then
admitted its rays. The guides hallooed with all their strength, but the sound
of no human voice was heard in return, and, at length, as a more effectual
means of making themselves known, they fired a pistol. But, while they listened
in anxious expectation, the noise of the explosion was alone heard, echoing
among the rocks, and it gradually sunk into silence, which no friendly hint of
man disturbed. The light, however, that had been seen before, now became
plainer, and, soon after, voices were heard indistinctly on the wind; but, upon
the guides repeating the call, the voices suddenly ceased, and the light
disappeared.
The Lady
Blanche was now almost sinking beneath the pressure of anxiety, fatigue and
apprehension, and the united efforts of the Count and St. Foix could scarcely
support her spirits. As they continued to advance, an object was perceived on a
point of rock above, which, the strong rays of the moon then falling on it,
appeared to be a watch-tower. The Count, from its situation and some other
circumstances, had little doubt, that it was such, and believing, that the
light had proceeded from thence, he endeavoured to re-animate his daughter's
spirits by the near prospect of shelter and repose, which, however rude the
accommodation, a ruined watch-tower might afford.
'Numerous
watch-towers have been erected among the Pyrenees,' said the Count, anxious
only to call Blanche's attention from the subject of her fears; 'and the
method, by which they give intelligence of the approach of the enemy, is, you
know, by fires, kindled on the summits of these edifices. Signals have thus,
sometimes, been communicated from post to post, along a frontier line of
several hundred miles in length. Then, as occasion may require, the lurking
armies emerge from their fortresses and the forests, and march forth, to
defend, perhaps, the entrance of some grand pass, where, planting themselves on
the heights, they assail their astonished enemies, who wind along the glen
below, with fragments of the shattered cliff, and pour death and defeat upon
them. The ancient forts, and watch-towers, overlooking the grand passes of the
Pyrenees, are carefully preserved; but some of those in inferior stations have
been suffered to fall into decay, and are now frequently converted into the
more peaceful habitation of the hunter, or the shepherd, who, after a day of
toil, retires hither, and, with his faithful dogs, forgets, near a cheerful
blaze, the labour of the chace, or the anxiety of collecting his wandering
flocks, while he is sheltered from the nightly storm.'
'But are
they always thus peacefully inhabited?' said the Lady Blanche.
'No,'
replied the Count, 'they are sometimes the asylum of French and Spanish
smugglers, who cross the mountains with contraband goods from their respective
countries, and the latter are particularly numerous, against whom strong
parties of the king's troops are sometimes sent. But the desperate resolution
of these adventurers, who, knowing, that, if they are taken, they must expiate
the breach of the law by the most cruel death, travel in large parties, well
armed, often daunts the courage of the soldiers. The smugglers, who seek only
safety, never engage, when they can possibly avoid it; the military, also, who
know, that in these encounters, danger is certain, and glory almost
unattainable, are equally reluctant to fight; an engagement, therefore, very
seldom happens, but, when it does, it never concludes till after the most
desperate and bloody conflict. You are inattentive, Blanche,' added the Count:
'I have wearied you with a dull subject; but see, yonder, in the moon-light, is
the edifice we have been in search of, and we are fortunate to be so near it,
before the storm bursts.'
Blanche,
looking up, perceived, that they were at the foot of the cliff, on whose summit
the building stood, but no light now issued from it; the barking of the dog too
had, for some time, ceased, and the guides began to doubt, whether this was
really the object of their search. From the distance, at which they surveyed
it, shewn imperfectly by a cloudy moon, it appeared to be of more extent than a
single watch-tower; but the difficulty was how to ascend the height, whose
abrupt declivities seemed to afford no kind of pathway.
While the
guides carried forward the torch to examine the cliff, the Count, remaining
with Blanche and St. Foix at its foot, under the shadow of the woods,
endeavoured again to beguile the time by conversation, but again anxiety
abstracted the mind of Blanche; and he then consulted, apart with St. Foix,
whether it would be advisable, should a path be found, to venture to an
edifice, which might possibly harbour banditti. They considered, that their own
party was not small, and that several of them were well armed; and, after
enumerating the dangers, to be incurred by passing the night in the open wild,
exposed, perhaps, to the effects of a thunder-storm, there remained not a
doubt, that they ought to endeavour to obtain admittance to the edifice above,
at any hazard respecting the inhabitants it might harbour; but the darkness, and
the dead silence, that surrounded it, appeared to contradict the probability of
its being inhabited at all.
A shout
from the guides aroused their attention, after which, in a few minutes, one of
the Count's servants returned with intelligence, that a path was found, and
they immediately hastened to join the guides, when they all ascended a little
winding way cut in the rock among thickets of dwarf wood, and, after much toil
and some danger, reached the summit, where several ruined towers, surrounded by
a massy wall, rose to their view, partially illumined by the moon-light. The
space around the building was silent, and apparently forsaken, but the Count
was cautious; 'Step softly,' said he, in a low voice, 'while we reconnoitre the
edifice.'
To be continued
