THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO
PART 11
[Emily ponders the prospect of
never seeing Valancurt again]
Her mind
was, at length, so much agitated by the consideration of her state, and the
belief, that she had seen Valancourt for the last time, that she suddenly
became very faint, and, looking round the chamber for something, that might
revive her, she observed the casements, and had just strength to throw one
open, near which she seated herself. The air recalled her spirits, and the
still moon-light, that fell upon the elms of a long avenue, fronting the
window, somewhat soothed them, and determined her to try whether exercise and
the open air would not relieve the intense pain that bound her temples. In the
chateau all was still; and, passing down the great stair-case into the hall,
from whence a passage led immediately to the garden, she softly and unheard, as
she thought, unlocked the door, and entered the avenue. Emily passed on with
steps now hurried, and now faltering, as, deceived by the shadows among the
trees, she fancied she saw some person move in the distant perspective, and
feared, that it was a spy of Madame Montoni. Her desire, however, to re-visit
the pavilion, where she had passed so many happy hours with Valancourt, and had
admired with him the extensive prospect over Languedoc and her native Gascony,
overcame her apprehension of being observed, and she moved on towards the
terrace, which, running along the upper garden, commanded the whole of the
lower one, and communicated with it by a flight of marble steps, that
terminated the avenue.
Having
reached these steps, she paused a moment to look round, for her distance from
the chateau now increased the fear, which the stillness and obscurity of the
hour had awakened. But, perceiving nothing that could justify it, she ascended
to the terrace, where the moon-light shewed the long broad walk, with the
pavilion at its extremity, while the rays silvered the foliage of the high
trees and shrubs, that bordered it on the right, and the tufted summits of
those, that rose to a level with the balustrade on the left, from the garden
below. Her distance from the chateau again alarming her, she paused to listen;
the night was so calm, that no sound could have escaped her, but she heard only
the plaintive sweetness of the nightingale, with the light shiver of the
leaves, and she pursued her way towards the pavilion, having reached which, its
obscurity did not prevent the emotion, that a fuller view of its well-known
scene would have excited. The lattices were thrown back, and shewed beyond
their embowered arch the moon-light landscape, shadowy and soft; its groves,
and plains extending gradually and indistinctly to the eye, its distant
mountains catching a stronger gleam, and the nearer river reflecting the moon,
and trembling to her rays.
Emily, as
she approached the lattice, was sensible of the features of this scene only as
they served to bring Valancourt more immediately to her fancy. 'Ah!' said she,
with a heavy sigh, as she threw herself into a chair by the window, 'how often
have we sat together in this spot—often have looked upon that landscape! Never,
never more shall we view it together—never—never more, perhaps, shall we look
upon each other!'
Her tears
were suddenly stopped by terror—a voice spoke near her in the pavilion; she
shrieked—it spoke again, and she distinguished the well-known tones of
Valancourt. It was indeed Valancourt who supported her in his arms! For some
moments their emotion would not suffer either to speak. 'Emily,' said
Valancourt at length, as he pressed her hand in his. 'Emily!' and he was again
silent, but the accent, in which he had pronounced her name, expressed all his
tenderness and sorrow.
'O my
Emily!' he resumed, after a long pause, 'I do then see you once again, and hear
again the sound of that voice! I have haunted this place—these gardens, for
many—many nights, with a faint, very faint hope of seeing you. This was the
only chance that remained to me, and thank heaven! it has at length succeeded—I
am not condemned to absolute despair!'
Emily
said something, she scarcely knew what, expressive of her unalterable
affection, and endeavoured to calm the agitation of his mind; but Valancourt
could for some time only utter incoherent expressions of his emotions; and,
when he was somewhat more composed, he said, 'I came hither, soon after
sun-set, and have been watching in the gardens, and in this pavilion ever
since; for, though I had now given up all hope of seeing you, I could not
resolve to tear myself from a place so near to you, and should probably have
lingered about the chateau till morning dawned. O how heavily the moments have
passed, yet with what various emotion have they been marked, as I sometimes
thought I heard footsteps, and fancied you were approaching, and then
again—perceived only a dead and dreary silence! But, when you opened the door
of the pavilion, and the darkness prevented my distinguishing with certainty,
whether it was my love—my heart beat so strongly with hopes and fears, that I
could not speak. The instant I heard the plaintive accents of your voice, my
doubts vanished, but not my fears, till you spoke of me; then, losing the
apprehension of alarming you in the excess of my emotion, I could no longer be
silent. O Emily! these are moments, in which joy and grief struggle so
powerfully for pre-eminence, that the heart can scarcely support the contest!'
Emily's
heart acknowledged the truth of this assertion, but the joy she felt on thus
meeting Valancourt, at the very moment when she was lamenting, that they must
probably meet no more, soon melted into grief, as reflection stole over her
thoughts, and imagination prompted visions of the future. She struggled to
recover the calm dignity of mind, which was necessary to support her through
this last interview, and which Valancourt found it utterly impossible to
attain, for the transports of his joy changed abruptly into those of suffering,
and he expressed in the most impassioned language his horror of this
separation, and his despair of their ever meeting again. Emily wept silently as
she listened to him, and then, trying to command her own distress, and to sooth
his, she suggested every circumstance that could lead to hope. But the energy
of his fears led him instantly to detect the friendly fallacies, which she
endeavoured to impose on herself and him, and also to conjure up illusions too
powerful for his reason.
'You are
going from me,' said he, 'to a distant country, O how distant!—to new society,
new friends, new admirers, with people too, who will try to make you forget me,
and to promote new connections! How can I know this, and not know, that you
will never return for me—never can be mine.' His voice was stifled by sighs.
'You
believe, then,' said Emily, 'that the pangs I suffer proceed from a trivial and
temporary interest; you believe—'
'Suffer!'
interrupted Valancourt, 'suffer for me! O Emily—how sweet—how bitter are those
words; what comfort, what anguish do they give! I ought not to doubt the
steadiness of your affection, yet such is the inconsistency of real love, that
it is always awake to suspicion, however unreasonable; always requiring new
assurances from the object of its interest, and thus it is, that I always feel
revived, as by a new conviction, when your words tell me I am dear to you; and,
wanting these, I relapse into doubt, and too often into despondency.' Then
seeming to recollect himself, he exclaimed, 'But what a wretch am I, thus to
torture you, and in these moments, too! I, who ought to support and comfort
you!'
This
reflection overcame Valancourt with tenderness, but, relapsing into
despondency, he again felt only for himself, and lamented again this cruel
separation, in a voice and words so impassioned, that Emily could no longer
struggle to repress her own grief, or to sooth his. Valancourt, between these
emotions of love and pity, lost the power, and almost the wish, of repressing
his agitation; and, in the intervals of convulsive sobs, he, at one moment,
kissed away her tears, then told her cruelly, that possibly she might never
again weep for him, and then tried to speak more calmly, but only exclaimed, 'O
Emily—my heart will break!—I cannot—cannot leave you! Now—I gaze upon that
countenance, now I hold you in my arms! a little while, and all this will
appear a dream. I shall look, and cannot see you; shall try to recollect your
features—and the impression will be fled from my imagination;—to hear the tones
of your voice, and even memory will be silent!—I cannot, cannot leave you! why
should we confide the happiness of our whole lives to the will of people, who
have no right to interrupt, and, except in giving you to me, have no power to
promote it? O Emily! venture to trust your own heart, venture to be mine for
ever!' His voice trembled, and he was silent; Emily continued to weep, and was
silent also, when Valancourt proceeded to propose an immediate marriage, and
that at an early hour on the following morning, she should quit Madame
Montoni's house, and be conducted by him to the church of the Augustines, where
a friar should await to unite them.
The
silence, with which she listened to a proposal, dictated by love and despair,
and enforced at a moment, when it seemed scarcely possible for her to oppose
it;—when her heart was softened by the sorrows of a separation, that might be
eternal, and her reason obscured by the illusions of love and terror,
encouraged him to hope, that it would not be rejected. 'Speak, my Emily!' said
Valancourt eagerly, 'let me hear your voice, let me hear you confirm my fate.'
she spoke not; her cheek was cold, and her senses seemed to fail her, but she
did not faint. To Valancourt's terrified imagination she appeared to be dying;
he called upon her name, rose to go to the chateau for assistance, and then,
recollecting her situation, feared to go, or to leave her for a moment.
After a
few minutes, she drew a deep sigh, and began to revive. The conflict she had
suffered, between love and the duty she at present owed to her father's sister;
her repugnance to a clandestine marriage, her fear of emerging on the world
with embarrassments, such as might ultimately involve the object of her
affection in misery and repentance;—all this various interest was too powerful
for a mind, already enervated by sorrow, and her reason had suffered a
transient suspension. But duty, and good sense, however hard the conflict, at
length, triumphed over affection and mournful presentiment; above all, she
dreaded to involve Valancourt in obscurity and vain regret, which she saw, or
thought she saw, must be the too certain consequence of a marriage in their
present circumstances; and she acted, perhaps, with somewhat more than female
fortitude, when she resolved to endure a present, rather than provoke a distant
misfortune.
With a
candour, that proved how truly she esteemed and loved him, and which endeared
her to him, if possible, more than ever, she told Valancourt all her reasons
for rejecting his proposals. Those, which influenced her concerning his future
welfare, he instantly refuted, or rather contradicted; but they awakened tender
considerations for her, which the frenzy of passion and despair had concealed
before, and love, which had but lately prompted him to propose a clandestine
and immediate marriage, now induced him to renounce it. The triumph was almost
too much for his heart; for Emily's sake, he endeavoured to stifle his grief,
but the swelling anguish would not be restrained. 'O Emily!' said he, 'I must
leave you—I MUST leave you, and I know it is for ever!'
Convulsive
sobs again interrupted his words, and they wept together in silence, till
Emily, recollecting the danger of being discovered, and the impropriety of
prolonging an interview, which might subject her to censure, summoned all her
fortitude to utter a last farewell.
'Stay!'
said Valancourt, 'I conjure you stay, for I have much to tell you. The
agitation of my mind has hitherto suffered me to speak only on the subject that
occupied it;—I have forborne to mention a doubt of much importance, partly,
lest it should appear as if I told it with an ungenerous view of alarming you
into a compliance with my late proposal.'
Emily,
much agitated, did not leave Valancourt, but she led him from the pavilion,
and, as they walked upon the terrace, he proceeded as follows:
'This
Montoni: I have heard some strange hints concerning him. Are you certain he is
of Madame Quesnel's family, and that his fortune is what it appears to be?'
'I have
no reason to doubt either,' replied Emily, in a voice of alarm. 'Of the first,
indeed, I cannot doubt, but I have no certain means of judging of the latter,
and I entreat you will tell me all you have heard.'
'That I
certainly will, but it is very imperfect, and unsatisfactory information. I
gathered it by accident from an Italian, who was speaking to another person of
this Montoni. They were talking of his marriage; the Italian said, that if he
was the person he meant, he was not likely to make Madame Cheron happy. He
proceeded to speak of him in general terms of dislike, and then gave some
particular hints, concerning his character, that excited my curiosity, and I
ventured to ask him a few questions. He was reserved in his replies, but, after
hesitating for some time, he owned, that he had understood abroad, that Montoni
was a man of desperate fortune and character. He said something of a castle of
Montoni's, situated among the Apennines, and of some strange circumstances,
that might be mentioned, as to his former mode of life. I pressed him to inform
me further, but I believe the strong interest I felt was visible in my manner,
and alarmed him; for no entreaties could prevail with him to give any
explanation of the circumstances he had alluded to, or to mention any thing
further concerning Montoni. I observed to him, that, if Montoni was possessed
of a castle in the Apennines, it appeared from such a circumstance, that he was
of some family, and also seemed to contradict the report, that he was a man of
entirely broken fortunes. He shook his head, and looked as if he could have
said a great deal, but made no reply.
'A hope
of learning something more satisfactory, or more positive, detained me in his
company a considerable time, and I renewed the subject repeatedly, but the
Italian wrapped himself up in reserve, said—that what he had mentioned he had
caught only from a floating report, and that reports frequently arose from
personal malice, and were very little to be depended upon. I forbore to press
the subject farther, since it was obvious that he was alarmed for the
consequence of what he had already said, and I was compelled to remain in
uncertainty on a point where suspense is almost intolerable. Think, Emily, what
I must suffer to see you depart for a foreign country, committed to the power
of a man of such doubtful character as is this Montoni! But I will not alarm
you unnecessarily;—it is possible, as the Italian said, at first, that this is
not the Montoni he alluded to. Yet, Emily, consider well before you resolve to
commit yourself to him. O! I must not trust myself to speak—or I shall renounce
all the motives, which so lately influenced me to resign the hope of your
becoming mine immediately.'
Valancourt
walked upon the terrace with hurried steps, while Emily remained leaning on the
balustrade in deep thought. The information she had just received excited,
perhaps, more alarm than it could justify, and raised once more the conflict of
contrasted interests. She had never liked Montoni. The fire and keenness of his
eye, its proud exultation, its bold fierceness, its sullen watchfulness, as
occasion, and even slight occasion, had called forth the latent soul, she had
often observed with emotion; while from the usual expression of his countenance
she had always shrunk. From such observations she was the more inclined to
believe, that it was this Montoni, of whom the Italian had uttered his
suspicious hints. The thought of being solely in his power, in a foreign land,
was terrifying to her, but it was not by terror alone that she was urged to an
immediate marriage with Valancourt. The tenderest love had already pleaded his
cause, but had been unable to overcome her opinion, as to her duty, her
disinterested considerations for Valancourt, and the delicacy, which made her
revolt from a clandestine union. It was not to be expected, that a vague terror
would be more powerful, than the united influence of love and grief. But it
recalled all their energy, and rendered a second conquest necessary.
With
Valancourt, whose imagination was now awake to the suggestion of every passion;
whose apprehensions for Emily had acquired strength by the mere mention of
them, and became every instant more powerful, as his mind brooded over
them—with Valancourt no second conquest was attainable. He thought he saw in
the clearest light, and love assisted the fear, that this journey to Italy
would involve Emily in misery; he determined, therefore, to persevere in
opposing it, and in conjuring her to bestow upon him the title of her lawful
protector.
'Emily!'
said he, with solemn earnestness, 'this is no time for scrupulous distinctions,
for weighing the dubious and comparatively trifling circumstances, that may
affect our future comfort. I now see, much more clearly than before, the train
of serious dangers you are going to encounter with a man of Montoni's
character. Those dark hints of the Italian spoke much, but not more than the
idea I have of Montoni's disposition, as exhibited even in his countenance. I
think I see at this moment all that could have been hinted, written there. He
is the Italian, whom I fear, and I conjure you for your own sake, as well as
for mine, to prevent the evils I shudder to foresee. O Emily! let my
tenderness, my arms withhold you from them—give me the right to defend you!'
Emily
only sighed, while Valancourt proceeded to remonstrate and to entreat with all
the energy that love and apprehension could inspire. But, as his imagination
magnified to her the possible evils she was going to meet, the mists of her own
fancy began to dissipate, and allowed her to distinguish the exaggerated
images, which imposed on his reason. She considered, that there was no proof of
Montoni being the person, whom the stranger had meant; that, even if he was so,
the Italian had noticed his character and broken fortunes merely from report;
and that, though the countenance of Montoni seemed to give probability to a
part of the rumour, it was not by such circumstances that an implicit belief of
it could be justified. These considerations would probably not have arisen so
distinctly to her mind, at this time, had not the terrors of Valancourt
presented to her such obvious exaggerations of her danger, as incited her to
distrust the fallacies of passion. But, while she endeavoured in the gentlest
manner to convince him of his error, she plunged him into a new one. His voice
and countenance changed to an expression of dark despair. 'Emily!' said he,
'this, this moment is the bitterest that is yet come to me. You do not—cannot
love me!—It would be impossible for you to reason thus coolly, thus
deliberately, if you did. I, I am torn with anguish at the prospect of
our separation, and of the evils that may await you in consequence of it; I
would encounter any hazards to prevent it—to save you. No! Emily, no!—you
cannot love me.'
'We have
now little time to waste in exclamation, or assertion,' said Emily,
endeavouring to conceal her emotion: 'if you are yet to learn how dear you are,
and ever must be, to my heart, no assurances of mine can give you conviction.'
The last
words faltered on her lips, and her tears flowed fast. These words and tears
brought, once more, and with instantaneous force, conviction of her love to
Valancourt. He could only exclaim, 'Emily! Emily!' and weep over the hand he
pressed to his lips; but she, after some moments, again roused herself from the
indulgence of sorrow, and said, 'I must leave you; it is late, and my absence
from the chateau may be discovered. Think of me—love me—when I am far away; the
belief of this will be my comfort!'
'Think of
you!—love you!' exclaimed Valancourt.
'Try to
moderate these transports,' said Emily, 'for my sake, try.'
'For your
sake!'
'Yes, for
my sake,' replied Emily, in a tremulous voice, 'I cannot leave you thus!'
'Then do
not leave me!' said Valancourt, with quickness. 'Why should we part, or part
for longer than till to-morrow?'
'I am,
indeed I am, unequal to these moments,' replied Emily, 'you tear my heart, but
I never can consent to this hasty, imprudent proposal!'
'If we
could command our time, my Emily, it should not be thus hasty; we must submit
to circumstances.'
'We must
indeed! I have already told you all my heart—my spirits are gone. You allowed
the force of my objections, till your tenderness called up vague terrors, which
have given us both unnecessary anguish. Spare me! do not oblige me to repeat
the reasons I have already urged.'
'Spare
you!' cried Valancourt, 'I am a wretch—a very wretch, that have felt only for
myself!—I! who ought to have shewn the fortitude of a man, who ought to have
supported you, I! have increased your sufferings by the conduct of a child!
Forgive me, Emily! think of the distraction of my mind now that I am about to
part with all that is dear to me—and forgive me! When you are gone, I shall
recollect with bitter remorse what I have made you suffer, and shall wish in
vain that I could see you, if only for a moment, that I might sooth your
grief.'
Tears
again interrupted his voice, and Emily wept with him. 'I will shew myself more
worthy of your love,' said Valancourt, at length; 'I will not prolong these
moments. My Emily—my own Emily! never forget me! God knows when we shall meet
again! I resign you to his care.—O God!—O God!—protect and bless her!'
He
pressed her hand to his heart. Emily sunk almost lifeless on his bosom, and
neither wept, nor spoke. Valancourt, now commanding his own distress, tried to
comfort and re-assure her, but she appeared totally unaffected by what he said,
and a sigh, which she uttered, now and then, was all that proved she had not
fainted.
He
supported her slowly towards the chateau, weeping and speaking to her; but she
answered only in sighs, till, having reached the gate, that terminated the
avenue, she seemed to have recovered her consciousness, and, looking round,
perceived how near they were to the chateau. 'We must part here,' said she,
stopping, 'Why prolong these moments? Teach me the fortitude I have forgot.'
Valancourt
struggled to assume a composed air. 'Farewell, my love!' said he, in a voice of
solemn tenderness—'trust me we shall meet again—meet for each other—meet to
part no more!' His voice faltered, but, recovering it, he proceeded in a firmer
tone. 'You know not what I shall suffer, till I hear from you; I shall omit no
opportunity of conveying to you my letters, yet I tremble to think how few may
occur. And trust me, love, for your dear sake, I will try to bear this absence
with fortitude. O how little I have shewn to-night!'
'Farewell!'
said Emily faintly. 'When you are gone, I shall think of many things I would
have said to you.' 'And I of many—many!' said Valancourt; 'I never left you
yet, that I did not immediately remember some question, or some entreaty, or
some circumstance, concerning my love, that I earnestly wished to mention, and
feel wretched because I could not. O Emily! this countenance, on which I now
gaze—will, in a moment, be gone from my eyes, and not all the efforts of fancy
will be able to recall it with exactness. O! what an infinite difference
between this moment and the next! NOW, I am in your presence, can behold you!
THEN, all will be a dreary blank—and I shall be a wanderer, exiled from my only
home!'
Valancourt
again pressed her to his heart, and held her there in silence, weeping. Tears
once again calmed her oppressed mind. They again bade each other farewell,
lingered a moment, and then parted. Valancourt seemed to force himself from the
spot; he passed hastily up the avenue, and Emily, as she moved slowly towards
the chateau, heard his distant steps. She listened to the sounds, as they sunk
fainter and fainter, till the melancholy stillness of night alone remained; and
then hurried to her chamber, to seek repose, which, alas! was fled from her
wretchedness.
