THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO
PART 2
CHAPTER II
I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul.
SHAKESPEARE
Madame
St. Aubert was interred in the neighbouring village church; her husband and
daughter attended her to the grave, followed by a long train of the peasantry,
who were sincere mourners of this excellent woman.
On his
return from the funeral, St. Aubert shut himself in his chamber. When he came
forth, it was with a serene countenance, though pale in sorrow. He gave orders
that his family should attend him. Emily only was absent; who, overcome with
the scene she had just witnessed, had retired to her closet to weep alone. St.
Aubert followed her thither: he took her hand in silence, while she continued
to weep; and it was some moments before he could so far command his voice as to
speak. It trembled while he said, 'My Emily, I am going to prayers with my
family; you will join us. We must ask support from above. Where else ought we
to seek it—where else can we find it?'
Emily
checked her tears, and followed her father to the parlour, where, the servants
being assembled, St. Aubert read, in a low and solemn voice, the evening
service, and added a prayer for the soul of the departed. During this, his
voice often faltered, his tears fell upon the book, and at length he paused.
But the sublime emotions of pure devotion gradually elevated his views above
this world, and finally brought comfort to his heart.
When the
service was ended, and the servants were withdrawn, he tenderly kissed Emily,
and said, 'I have endeavoured to teach you, from your earliest youth, the duty
of self-command; I have pointed out to you the great importance of it through
life, not only as it preserves us in the various and dangerous temptations that
call us from rectitude and virtue, but as it limits the indulgences which are
termed virtuous, yet which, extended beyond a certain boundary, are vicious, for
their consequence is evil. All excess is vicious; even that sorrow, which is
amiable in its origin, becomes a selfish and unjust passion, if indulged at the
expence of our duties—by our duties I mean what we owe to ourselves, as well as
to others. The indulgence of excessive grief enervates the mind, and almost
incapacitates it for again partaking of those various innocent enjoyments which
a benevolent God designed to be the sun-shine of our lives. My dear Emily,
recollect and practise the precepts I have so often given you, and which your
own experience has so often shewn you to be wise.
'Your
sorrow is useless. Do not receive this as merely a commonplace remark, but let
reason THEREFORE restrain sorrow. I would not annihilate your feelings, my
child, I would only teach you to command them; for whatever may be the evils
resulting from a too susceptible heart, nothing can be hoped from an insensible
one; that, on the other hand, is all vice—vice, of which the deformity is not
softened, or the effect consoled for, by any semblance or possibility of good.
You know my sufferings, and are, therefore, convinced that mine are not the
light words which, on these occasions, are so often repeated to destroy even
the sources of honest emotion, or which merely display the selfish ostentation
of a false philosophy. I will shew my Emily, that I can practise what I advise.
I have said thus much, because I cannot bear to see you wasting in useless
sorrow, for want of that resistance which is due from mind; and I have not said
it till now, because there is a period when all reasoning must yield to nature;
that is past: and another, when excessive indulgence, having sunk into habit,
weighs down the elasticity of the spirits so as to render conquest nearly
impossible; this is to come. You, my Emily, will shew that you are willing to
avoid it.'
Emily
smiled through her tears upon her father: 'Dear sir,' said she, and her voice
trembled; she would have added, 'I will shew myself worthy of being your
daughter;' but a mingled emotion of gratitude, affection, and grief overcame
her. St. Aubert suffered her to weep without interruption, and then began to
talk on common topics.
The first
person who came to condole with St. Aubert was a M. Barreaux, an austere and
seemingly unfeeling man. A taste for botany had introduced them to each other,
for they had frequently met in their wanderings among the mountains. M.
Barreaux had retired from the world, and almost from society, to live in a
pleasant chateau, on the skirts of the woods, near La Vallee. He also had been
disappointed in his opinion of mankind; but he did not, like St. Aubert, pity
and mourn for them; he felt more indignation at their vices, than compassion
for their weaknesses.
St.
Aubert was somewhat surprised to see him; for, though he had often pressed him
to come to the chateau, he had never till now accepted the invitation; and now
he came without ceremony or reserve, entering the parlour as an old friend. The
claims of misfortune appeared to have softened down all the ruggedness and
prejudices of his heart. St. Aubert unhappy, seemed to be the sole idea that
occupied his mind. It was in manners, more than in words, that he appeared to
sympathize with his friends: he spoke little on the subject of their grief; but
the minute attention he gave them, and the modulated voice, and softened look
that accompanied it, came from his heart, and spoke to theirs.
At this
melancholy period St. Aubert was likewise visited by Madame Cheron, his only
surviving sister, who had been some years a widow, and now resided on her own
estate near Tholouse. The intercourse between them had not been very frequent.
In her condolements, words were not wanting; she understood not the magic of
the look that speaks at once to the soul, or the voice that sinks like balm to
the heart: but she assured St. Aubert that she sincerely sympathized with him,
praised the virtues of his late wife, and then offered what she considered to
be consolation. Emily wept unceasingly while she spoke; St. Aubert was tranquil,
listened to what she said in silence, and then turned the discourse upon
another subject.
At
parting she pressed him and her niece to make her an early visit. 'Change of
place will amuse you,' said she, 'and it is wrong to give way to grief.' St.
Aubert acknowledged the truth of these words of course; but, at the same time,
felt more reluctant than ever to quit the spot which his past happiness had
consecrated. The presence of his wife had sanctified every surrounding scene,
and, each day, as it gradually softened the acuteness of his suffering,
assisted the tender enchantment that bound him to home.
But there
were calls which must be complied with, and of this kind was the visit he paid
to his brother-in-law M. Quesnel. An affair of an interesting nature made it
necessary that he should delay this visit no longer, and, wishing to rouse
Emily from her dejection, he took her with him to Epourville.
As the
carriage entered upon the forest that adjoined his paternal domain, his eyes
once more caught, between the chesnut avenue, the turreted corners of the
chateau. He sighed to think of what had passed since he was last there, and
that it was now the property of a man who neither revered nor valued it. At
length he entered the avenue, whose lofty trees had so often delighted him when
a boy, and whose melancholy shade was now so congenial with the tone of his
spirits. Every feature of the edifice, distinguished by an air of heavy
grandeur, appeared successively between the branches of the trees—the broad
turret, the arched gate-way that led into the courts, the drawbridge, and the
dry fosse which surrounded the whole.
The sound
of carriage wheels brought a troop of servants to the great gate, where St.
Aubert alighted, and from which he led Emily into the gothic hall, now no
longer hung with the arms and ancient banners of the family. These were
displaced, and the oak wainscotting, and beams that crossed the roof, were
painted white. The large table, too, that used to stretch along the upper end
of the hall, where the master of the mansion loved to display his hospitality,
and whence the peal of laughter, and the song of conviviality, had so often
resounded, was now removed; even the benches that had surrounded the hall were
no longer there. The heavy walls were hung with frivolous ornaments, and every
thing that appeared denoted the false taste and corrupted sentiments of the
present owner.
St.
Aubert followed a gay Parisian servant to a parlour, where sat Mons. and Madame
Quesnel, who received him with a stately politeness, and, after a few formal
words of condolement, seemed to have forgotten that they ever had a sister.
Emily
felt tears swell into her eyes, and then resentment checked them. St. Aubert,
calm and deliberate, preserved his dignity without assuming importance, and
Quesnel was depressed by his presence without exactly knowing wherefore.
After
some general conversation, St. Aubert requested to speak with him alone; and
Emily, being left with Madame Quesnel, soon learned that a large party was
invited to dine at the chateau, and was compelled to hear that nothing which
was past and irremediable ought to prevent the festivity of the present hour.
St.
Aubert, when he was told that company were expected, felt a mixed emotion of
disgust and indignation against the insensibility of Quesnel, which prompted
him to return home immediately. But he was informed, that Madame Cheron had
been asked to meet him; and, when he looked at Emily, and considered that a
time might come when the enmity of her uncle would be prejudicial to her, he
determined not to incur it himself, by conduct which would be resented as
indecorous, by the very persons who now showed so little sense of decorum.
Among the
visitors assembled at dinner were two Italian gentlemen, of whom one was named
Montoni, a distant relation of Madame Quesnel, a man about forty, of an
uncommonly handsome person, with features manly and expressive, but whose
countenance exhibited, upon the whole, more of the haughtiness of command, and
the quickness of discernment, than of any other character.
Signor
Cavigni, his friend, appeared to be about thirty—inferior in dignity, but equal
to him in penetration of countenance, and superior in insinuation of manner.
Emily was
shocked by the salutation with which Madame Cheron met her father—'Dear
brother,' said she, 'I am concerned to see you look so very ill; do, pray, have
advice!' St. Aubert answered, with a melancholy smile, that he felt himself
much as usual; but Emily's fears made her now fancy that her father looked
worse than he really did.
Emily
would have been amused by the new characters she saw, and the varied
conversation that passed during dinner, which was served in a style of
splendour she had seldom seen before, had her spirits been less oppressed. Of
the guests, Signor Montoni was lately come from Italy, and he spoke of the
commotions which at that period agitated the country; talked of party
differences with warmth, and then lamented the probable consequences of the
tumults. His friend spoke with equal ardour, of the politics of his country;
praised the government and prosperity of Venice, and boasted of its decided
superiority over all the other Italian states. He then turned to the ladies,
and talked with the same eloquence, of Parisian fashions, the French opera, and
French manners; and on the latter subject he did not fail to mingle what is so
particularly agreeable to French taste. The flattery was not detected by those to
whom it was addressed, though its effect, in producing submissive attention,
did not escape his observation. When he could disengage himself from the
assiduities of the other ladies, he sometimes addressed Emily: but she knew
nothing of Parisian fashions, or Parisian operas; and her modesty, simplicity,
and correct manners formed a decided contrast to those of her female
companions.
After
dinner, St. Aubert stole from the room to view once more the old chesnut which
Quesnel talked of cutting down. As he stood under its shade, and looked up
among its branches, still luxuriant, and saw here and there the blue sky
trembling between them; the pursuits and events of his early days crowded fast
to his mind, with the figures and characters of friends—long since gone from
the earth; and he now felt himself to be almost an insulated being, with nobody
but his Emily for his heart to turn to.
He stood
lost amid the scenes of years which fancy called up, till the succession closed
with the picture of his dying wife, and he started away, to forget it, if
possible, at the social board.
St.
Aubert ordered his carriage at an early hour, and Emily observed, that he was
more than usually silent and dejected on the way home; but she considered this
to be the effect of his visit to a place which spoke so eloquently of former
times, nor suspected that he had a cause of grief which he concealed from her.
On
entering the chateau she felt more depressed than ever, for she more than ever
missed the presence of that dear parent, who, whenever she had been from home,
used to welcome her return with smiles and fondness; now, all was silent and
forsaken.
But what
reason and effort may fail to do, time effects. Week after week passed away,
and each, as it passed, stole something from the harshness of her affliction,
till it was mellowed to that tenderness which the feeling heart cherishes as
sacred. St. Aubert, on the contrary, visibly declined in health; though Emily,
who had been so constantly with him, was almost the last person who observed
it. His constitution had never recovered from the late attack of the fever, and
the succeeding shock it received from Madame St. Aubert's death had produced
its present infirmity. His physician now ordered him to travel; for it was
perceptible that sorrow had seized upon his nerves, weakened as they had been
by the preceding illness; and variety of scene, it was probable, would, by
amusing his mind, restore them to their proper tone.
For some
days Emily was occupied in preparations to attend him; and he, by endeavours to
diminish his expences at home during the journey—a purpose which determined him
at length to dismiss his domestics. Emily seldom opposed her father's wishes by
questions or remonstrances, or she would now have asked why he did not take a
servant, and have represented that his infirm health made one almost necessary.
But when, on the eve of their departure, she found that he had dismissed
Jacques, Francis, and Mary, and detained only Theresa the old housekeeper, she
was extremely surprised, and ventured to ask his reason for having done so. 'To
save expences, my dear,' he replied—'we are going on an expensive excursion.'
The
physician had prescribed the air of Languedoc and Provence; and St. Aubert determined,
therefore, to travel leisurely along the shores of the Mediterranean, towards
Provence.
They
retired early to their chamber on the night before their departure; but Emily
had a few books and other things to collect, and the clock had struck twelve
before she had finished, or had remembered that some of her drawing
instruments, which she meant to take with her, were in the parlour below. As
she went to fetch these, she passed her father's room, and, perceiving the door
half open, concluded that he was in his study—for, since the death of Madame
St. Aubert, it had been frequently his custom to rise from his restless bed,
and go thither to compose his mind. When she was below stairs she looked into
this room, but without finding him; and as she returned to her chamber, she
tapped at his door, and receiving no answer, stepped softly in, to be certain
whether he was there.
The room
was dark, but a light glimmered through some panes of glass that were placed in
the upper part of a closet-door. Emily believed her father to be in the closet,
and, surprised that he was up at so late an hour, apprehended he was unwell,
and was going to enquire; but, considering that her sudden appearance at this
hour might alarm him, she removed her light to the stair-case, and then stepped
softly to the closet. On looking through the panes of glass, she saw him seated
at a small table, with papers before him, some of which he was reading with
deep attention and interest, during which he often wept and sobbed aloud.
Emily, who had come to the door to learn whether her father was ill, was now
detained there by a mixture of curiosity and tenderness. She could not witness
his sorrow, without being anxious to know the subject of; and she therefore
continued to observe him in silence, concluding that those papers were letters
of her late mother. Presently he knelt down, and with a look so solemn as she
had seldom seen him assume, and which was mingled with a certain wild
expression, that partook more of horror than of any other character, he prayed
silently for a considerable time.
When he
rose, a ghastly paleness was on his countenance. Emily was hastily retiring;
but she saw him turn again to the papers, and she stopped. He took from among
them a small case, and from thence a miniature picture. The rays of light fell
strongly upon it, and she perceived it to be that of a lady, but not of her
mother.
St.
Aubert gazed earnestly and tenderly upon his portrait, put it to his lips, and
then to his heart, and sighed with a convulsive force. Emily could scarcely
believe what she saw to be real. She never knew till now that he had a picture
of any other lady than her mother, much less that he had one which he evidently
valued so highly; but having looked repeatedly, to be certain that it was not
the resemblance of Madame St. Aubert, she became entirely convinced that it was
designed for that of some other person.
At length
St. Aubert returned the picture to its case; and Emily, recollecting that she
was intruding upon his private sorrows, softly withdrew from the chamber.
CHAPTER III
O how canst thou renounce the boundless store
Of charms which nature to her vot'ry yields!
The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,
The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields;
All that the genial ray of morning gilds,
And all that echoes to the song of even;
All that the mountain's shelt'ring bosom
shields,
And all the dread magnificence of heaven;
O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be
forgiven!
..... These charms shall work thy
soul's eternal health,
And love, and gentleness, and joy, impart.
THE MINSTREL
St.
Aubert, instead of taking the more direct road, that ran along the feet of the
Pyrenees to Languedoc, chose one that, winding over the heights, afforded more
extensive views and greater variety of romantic scenery. He turned a little out
of his way to take leave of M. Barreaux, whom he found botanizing in the wood
near his chateau, and who, when he was told the purpose of St. Aubert's visit,
expressed a degree of concern, such as his friend had thought it was scarcely
possible for him to feel on any similar occasion. They parted with mutual
regret.
'If any
thing could have tempted me from my retirement,' said M. Barreaux, 'it would
have been the pleasure of accompanying you on this little tour. I do not often
offer compliments; you may, therefore, believe me, when I say, that I shall
look for your return with impatience.'
The
travellers proceeded on their journey. As they ascended the heights, St. Aubert
often looked back upon the chateau, in the plain below; tender images crowded
to his mind; his melancholy imagination suggested that he should return no
more; and though he checked this wandering thought, still he continued to look,
till the haziness of distance blended his home with the general landscape, and
St. Aubert seemed to
Drag at each remove a lengthening chain.
He and
Emily continued sunk in musing silence for some leagues, from which melancholy
reverie Emily first awoke, and her young fancy, struck with the grandeur of the
objects around, gradually yielded to delightful impressions. The road now
descended into glens, confined by stupendous walls of rock, grey and barren,
except where shrubs fringed their summits, or patches of meagre vegetation tinted
their recesses, in which the wild goat was frequently browsing. And now, the
way led to the lofty cliffs, from whence the landscape was seen extending in
all its magnificence.
Emily
could not restrain her transport as she looked over the pine forests of the
mountains upon the vast plains, that, enriched with woods, towns, blushing
vines, and plantations of almonds, palms, and olives, stretched along, till
their various colours melted in distance into one harmonious hue, that seemed
to unite earth with heaven. Through the whole of this glorious scene the
majestic Garonne wandered; descending from its source among the Pyrenees, and
winding its blue waves towards the Bay of Biscay.
The
ruggedness of the unfrequented road often obliged the wanderers to alight from
their little carriage, but they thought themselves amply repaid for this
inconvenience by the grandeur of the scenes; and, while the muleteer led his
animals slowly over the broken ground, the travellers had leisure to linger
amid these solitudes, and to indulge the sublime reflections, which soften,
while they elevate, the heart, and fill it with the certainty of a present God!
Still the enjoyment of St. Aubert was touched with that pensive melancholy,
which gives to every object a mellower tint, and breathes a sacred charm over
all around.
They had
provided against part of the evil to be encountered from a want of convenient
inns, by carrying a stock of provisions in the carriage, so that they might
take refreshment on any pleasant spot, in the open air, and pass the nights
wherever they should happen to meet with a comfortable cottage. For the mind,
also, they had provided, by a work on botany, written by M. Barreaux, and by
several of the Latin and Italian poets; while Emily's pencil enabled her to
preserve some of those combinations of forms, which charmed her at every step.
The
loneliness of the road, where, only now and then, a peasant was seen driving
his mule, or some mountaineer-children at play among the rocks, heightened the
effect of the scenery. St. Aubert was so much struck with it, that he
determined, if he could hear of a road, to penetrate further among the
mountains, and, bending his way rather more to the south, to emerge into
Rousillon, and coast the Mediterranean along part of that country to Languedoc.
Soon
after mid-day, they reached the summit of one of those cliffs, which, bright
with the verdure of palm-trees, adorn, like gems, the tremendous walls of the
rocks, and which overlooked the greater part of Gascony, and part of Languedoc.
Here was shade, and the fresh water of a spring, that, gliding among the turf,
under the trees, thence precipitated itself from rock to rock, till its dashing
murmurs were lost in the abyss, though its white foam was long seen amid the
darkness of the pines below.
This was
a spot well suited for rest, and the travellers alighted to dine, while the
mules were unharnessed to browse on the savoury herbs that enriched this
summit.
It was
some time before St. Aubert or Emily could withdraw their attention from the
surrounding objects, so as to partake of their little repast. Seated in the
shade of the palms, St. Aubert pointed out to her observation the course of the
rivers, the situation of great towns, and the boundaries of provinces, which
science, rather than the eye, enabled him to describe. Notwithstanding this
occupation, when he had talked awhile he suddenly became silent, thoughtful,
and tears often swelled to his eyes, which Emily observed, and the sympathy of
her own heart told her their cause. The scene before them bore some
resemblance, though it was on a much grander scale, to a favourite one of the
late Madame St. Aubert, within view of the fishing-house. They both observed
this, and thought how delighted she would have been with the present landscape,
while they knew that her eyes must never, never more open upon this world. St.
Aubert remembered the last time of his visiting that spot in company with her,
and also the mournfully presaging thoughts which had then arisen in his mind,
and were now, even thus soon, realized! The recollections subdued him, and he
abruptly rose from his seat, and walked away to where no eye could observe his
grief.
When he
returned, his countenance had recovered its usual serenity; he took Emily's
hand, pressed it affectionately, without speaking, and soon after called to the
muleteer, who sat at a little distance, concerning a road among the mountains
towards Rousillon. Michael said, there were several that way, but he did not
know how far they extended, or even whether they were passable; and St. Aubert,
who did not intend to travel after sun-set, asked what village they could reach
about that time. The muleteer calculated that they could easily reach Mateau,
which was in their present road; but that, if they took a road that sloped more
to the south, towards Rousillon, there was a hamlet, which he thought they
could gain before the evening shut in.
St.
Aubert, after some hesitation, determined to take the latter course, and
Michael, having finished his meal, and harnessed his mules, again set forward,
but soon stopped; and St. Aubert saw him doing homage to a cross, that stood on
a rock impending over their way. Having concluded his devotions, he smacked his
whip in the air, and, in spite of the rough road, and the pain of his poor
mules, which he had been lately lamenting, rattled, in a full gallop, along the
edge of a precipice, which it made the eye dizzy to look down. Emily was
terrified almost to fainting; and St. Aubert, apprehending still greater danger
from suddenly stopping the driver, was compelled to sit quietly, and trust his
fate to the strength and discretion of the mules, who seemed to possess a
greater portion of the latter quality than their master; for they carried the
travellers safely into the valley, and there stopped upon the brink of the
rivulet that watered it.
Leaving
the splendour of extensive prospects, they now entered this narrow valley
screened by
Rocks on rocks piled, as if by magic spell,
Here scorch'd by lightnings, there with ivy
green.
The scene
of barrenness was here and there interrupted by the spreading branches of the
larch and cedar, which threw their gloom over the cliff, or athwart the torrent
that rolled in the vale. No living creature appeared, except the izard, scrambling
among the rocks, and often hanging upon points so dangerous, that fancy shrunk
from the view of them. This was such a scene as SALVATOR would have chosen, had
he then existed, for his canvas; St. Aubert, impressed by the romantic
character of the place, almost expected to see banditti start from behind some
projecting rock, and he kept his hand upon the arms with which he always
travelled.
As they
advanced, the valley opened; its savage features gradually softened, and,
towards evening, they were among heathy mountains, stretched in far
perspective, along which the solitary sheep-bell was heard, and the voice of
the shepherd calling his wandering flocks to the nightly fold. His cabin,
partly shadowed by the cork-tree and the ilex, which St. Aubert observed to
flourish in higher regions of the air than any other trees, except the fir, was
all the human habitation that yet appeared. Along the bottom of this valley the
most vivid verdure was spread; and, in the little hollow recesses of the
mountains, under the shade of the oak and chestnut, herds of cattle were
grazing. Groups of them, too, were often seen reposing on the banks of the
rivulet, or laving their sides in the cool stream, and sipping its wave.
The sun
was now setting upon the valley; its last light gleamed upon the water, and
heightened the rich yellow and purple tints of the heath and broom, that
overspread the mountains. St. Aubert enquired of Michael the distance to the
hamlet he had mentioned, but the man could not with certainty tell; and Emily
began to fear that he had mistaken the road. Here was no human being to assist,
or direct them; they had left the shepherd and his cabin far behind, and the
scene became so obscured in twilight, that the eye could not follow the distant
perspective of the valley in search of a cottage, or a hamlet. A glow of the
horizon still marked the west, and this was of some little use to the
travellers. Michael seemed endeavouring to keep up his courage by singing; his
music, however, was not of a kind to disperse melancholy; he sung, in a sort of
chant, one of the most dismal ditties his present auditors had ever heard, and
St. Aubert at length discovered it to be a vesper-hymn to his favourite saint.
They
travelled on, sunk in that thoughtful melancholy, with which twilight and
solitude impress the mind. Michael had now ended his ditty, and nothing was
heard but the drowsy murmur of the breeze among the woods, and its light
flutter, as it blew freshly into the carriage. They were at length roused by
the sound of fire-arms. St. Aubert called to the muleteer to stop, and they
listened. The noise was not repeated; but presently they heard a rustling among
the brakes. St. Aubert drew forth a pistol, and ordered Michael to proceed as
fast as possible; who had not long obeyed, before a horn sounded, that made the
mountains ring. He looked again from the window, and then saw a young man
spring from the bushes into the road, followed by a couple of dogs. The
stranger was in a hunter's dress. His gun was slung across his shoulders, the
hunter's horn hung from his belt, and in his hand was a small pike, which, as
he held it, added to the manly grace of his figure, and assisted the agility of
his steps.
After a
moment's hesitation, St. Aubert again stopped the carriage, and waited till he
came up, that they might enquire concerning the hamlet they were in search of.
The stranger informed him, that it was only half a league distant, that he was
going thither himself, and would readily shew the way. St. Aubert thanked him for
the offer, and, pleased with his chevalier-like air and open countenance, asked
him to take a seat in the carriage; which the stranger, with an acknowledgment,
declined, adding that he would keep pace with the mules. 'But I fear you will
be wretchedly accommodated,' said he: 'the inhabitants of these mountains are a
simple people, who are not only without the luxuries of life, but almost
destitute of what in other places are held to be its necessaries.'
'I
perceive you are not one of its inhabitants, sir,' said St. Aubert.
'No, sir,
I am only a wanderer here.'
The
carriage drove on, and the increasing dusk made the travellers very thankful
that they had a guide; the frequent glens, too, that now opened among the
mountains, would likewise have added to their perplexity. Emily, as she looked
up one of these, saw something at a great distance like a bright cloud in the
air. 'What light is yonder, sir?' said she.
St.
Aubert looked, and perceived that it was the snowy summit of a mountain, so
much higher than any around it, that it still reflected the sun's rays, while
those below lay in deep shade.
At
length, the village lights were seen to twinkle through the dusk, and, soon
after, some cottages were discovered in the valley, or rather were seen by
reflection in the stream, on whose margin they stood, and which still gleamed
with the evening light.
The
stranger now came up, and St. Aubert, on further enquiry, found not only that
there was no inn in the place, but not any sort of house of public reception. The
stranger, however, offered to walk on, and enquire for a cottage to accommodate
them; for which further civility St. Aubert returned his thanks, and said,
that, as the village was so near, he would alight, and walk with him. Emily
followed slowly in the carriage.
On the
way, St. Aubert asked his companion what success he had had in the chase. 'Not
much, sir,' he replied, 'nor do I aim at it. I am pleased with the country, and
mean to saunter away a few weeks among its scenes. My dogs I take with me more
for companionship than for game. This dress, too, gives me an ostensible
business, and procures me that respect from the people, which would, perhaps,
be refused to a lonely stranger, who had no visible motive for coming among
them.'
'I admire
your taste,' said St. Aubert, 'and, if I was a younger man, should like to pass
a few weeks in your way exceedingly. I, too, am a wanderer, but neither my plan
nor pursuits are exactly like yours—I go in search of health, as much as of
amusement.' St. Aubert sighed, and paused; and then, seeming to recollect
himself, he resumed: 'If I can hear of a tolerable road, that shall afford
decent accommodation, it is my intention to pass into Rousillon, and along the
sea-shore to Languedoc. You, sir, seem to be acquainted with the country, and
can, perhaps, give me information on the subject.'
The
stranger said, that what information he could give was entirely at his service;
and then mentioned a road rather more to the east, which led to a town, whence
it would be easy to proceed into Rousillon.
They now
arrived at the village, and commenced their search for a cottage, that would
afford a night's lodging. In several, which they entered, ignorance, poverty,
and mirth seemed equally to prevail; and the owners eyed St. Aubert with a
mixture of curiosity and timidity. Nothing like a bed could be found, and he
had ceased to enquire for one, when Emily joined him, who observed the languor
of her father's countenance, and lamented, that he had taken a road so ill
provided with the comforts necessary for an invalid. Other cottages, which they
examined, seemed somewhat less savage than the former, consisting of two rooms,
if such they could be called; the first of these occupied by mules and pigs,
the second by the family, which generally consisted of six or eight children,
with their parents, who slept on beds of skins and dried beech leaves, spread
upon a mud floor. Here, light was admitted, and smoke discharged, through an
aperture in the roof; and here the scent of spirits (for the travelling
smugglers, who haunted the Pyrenees, had made this rude people familiar with the
use of liquors) was generally perceptible enough. Emily turned from such
scenes, and looked at her father with anxious tenderness, which the young
stranger seemed to observe; for, drawing St. Aubert aside, he made him an offer
of his own bed. 'It is a decent one,' said he, 'when compared with what we have
just seen, yet such as in other circumstances I should be ashamed to offer
you.' St. Aubert acknowledged how much he felt himself obliged by this
kindness, but refused to accept it, till the young stranger would take no
denial. 'Do not give me the pain of knowing, sir,' said he, 'that an invalid,
like you, lies on hard skins, while I sleep in a bed. Besides, sir, your
refusal wounds my pride; I must believe you think my offer unworthy your
acceptance. Let me shew you the way. I have no doubt my landlady can
accommodate this young lady also.'
St.
Aubert at length consented, that, if this could be done, he would accept his
kindness, though he felt rather surprised, that the stranger had proved himself
so deficient in gallantry, as to administer to the repose of an infirm man,
rather than to that of a very lovely young woman, for he had not once offered
the room for Emily. But she thought not of herself, and the animated smile she
gave him, told how much she felt herself obliged for the preference of her
father.
On their
way, the stranger, whose name was Valancourt, stepped on first to speak to his
hostess, and she came out to welcome St. Aubert into a cottage, much superior
to any he had seen. This good woman seemed very willing to accommodate the
strangers, who were soon compelled to accept the only two beds in the place.
Eggs and milk were the only food the cottage afforded; but against scarcity of
provisions St. Aubert had provided, and he requested Valancourt to stay, and
partake with him of less homely fare; an invitation, which was readily
accepted, and they passed an hour in intelligent conversation. St. Aubert was
much pleased with the manly frankness, simplicity, and keen susceptibility to
the grandeur of nature, which his new acquaintance discovered; and, indeed, he
had often been heard to say, that, without a certain simplicity of heart, this
taste could not exist in any strong degree.
The
conversation was interrupted by a violent uproar without, in which the voice of
the muleteer was heard above every other sound. Valancourt started from his
seat, and went to enquire the occasion; but the dispute continued so long
afterwards, that St. Aubert went himself, and found Michael quarrelling with
the hostess, because she had refused to let his mules lie in a little room
where he and three of her sons were to pass the night. The place was wretched
enough, but there was no other for these people to sleep in; and, with somewhat
more of delicacy than was usual among the inhabitants of this wild tract of
country, she persisted in refusing to let the animals have the same BED-CHAMBER
with her children. This was a tender point with the muleteer; his honour was
wounded when his mules were treated with disrespect, and he would have received
a blow, perhaps, with more meekness. He declared that his beasts were as honest
beasts, and as good beasts, as any in the whole province; and that they had a
right to be well treated wherever they went. 'They are as harmless as lambs,'
said he, 'if people don't affront them. I never knew them behave themselves
amiss above once or twice in my life, and then they had good reason for doing
so. Once, indeed, they kicked at a boy's leg that lay asleep in the stable, and
broke it; but I told them they were out there, and by St. Anthony! I believe
they understood me, for they never did so again.'
He
concluded this eloquent harangue with protesting, that they should share with
him, go where he would.
The
dispute was at length settled by Valancourt, who drew the hostess aside, and
desired she would let the muleteer and his beasts have the place in question to
themselves, while her sons should have the bed of skins designed for him, for
that he would wrap himself in his cloak, and sleep on the bench by the cottage
door. But this she thought it her duty to oppose, and she felt it to be her
inclination to disappoint the muleteer. Valancourt, however, was positive, and
the tedious affair was at length settled.
It was
late when St. Aubert and Emily retired to their rooms, and Valancourt to his
station at the door, which, at this mild season, he preferred to a close cabin
and a bed of skins. St. Aubert was somewhat surprised to find in his room
volumes of Homer, Horace, and Petrarch; but the name of Valancourt, written in
them, told him to whom they belonged.
