THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO
PART 15
CHAPTER IV
And poor Misfortune feels the lash of Vice.
THOMSON
Emily
seized the first opportunity of conversing alone with Mons. Quesnel, concerning
La Vallee. His answers to her enquiries were concise, and delivered with the
air of a man, who is conscious of possessing absolute power and impatient of
hearing it questioned. He declared, that the disposal of the place was a
necessary measure; and that she might consider herself indebted to his prudence
for even the small income that remained for her. 'But, however,' added he,
'when this Venetian Count (I have forgot his name) marries you, your present
disagreeable state of dependence will cease. As a relation to you I rejoice in
the circumstance, which is so fortunate for you, and, I may add, so unexpected
by your friends.' For some moments Emily was chilled into silence by this
speech; and, when she attempted to undeceive him, concerning the purport of the
note she had inclosed in Montoni's letter, he appeared to have some private
reason for disbelieving her assertion, and, for a considerable time, persevered
in accusing her of capricious conduct. Being, at length, however, convinced
that she really disliked Morano and had positively rejected his suit, his
resentment was extravagant, and he expressed it in terms equally pointed and
inhuman; for, secretly flattered by the prospect of a connection with a
nobleman, whose title he had affected to forget, he was incapable of feeling
pity for whatever sufferings of his niece might stand in the way of his
ambition.
Emily saw
at once in his manner all the difficulties, that awaited her, and, though no
oppression could have power to make her renounce Valancourt for Morano, her
fortitude now trembled at an encounter with the violent passions of her uncle.
She
opposed his turbulence and indignation only by the mild dignity of a superior
mind; but the gentle firmness of her conduct served to exasperate still more
his resentment, since it compelled him to feel his own inferiority, and, when
he left her, he declared, that, if she persisted in her folly, both himself and
Montoni would abandon her to the contempt of the world.
The
calmness she had assumed in his presence failed Emily, when alone, and she wept
bitterly, and called frequently upon the name of her departed father, whose
advice to her from his death-bed she then remembered. 'Alas!' said she, 'I do
indeed perceive how much more valuable is the strength of fortitude than the
grace of sensibility, and I will also endeavour to fulfil the promise I then
made; I will not indulge in unavailing lamentation, but will try to endure,
with firmness, the oppression I cannot elude.'
Somewhat
soothed by the consciousness of performing a part of St. Aubert's last request,
and of endeavouring to pursue the conduct which he would have approved, she
overcame her tears, and, when the company met at dinner, had recovered her
usual serenity of countenance.
In the
cool of the evening, the ladies took the FRESCO along the bank of the Brenta in
Madame Quesnel's carriage. The state of Emily's mind was in melancholy contrast
with the gay groups assembled beneath the shades that overhung this enchanting
stream. Some were dancing under the trees, and others reclining on the grass,
taking ices and coffee and calmly enjoying the effect of a beautiful evening,
on a luxuriant landscape. Emily, when she looked at the snow-capt Apennines,
ascending in the distance, thought of Montoni's castle, and suffered some
terror, lest he should convey her thither, for the purpose of enforcing her
obedience; but the thought vanished, when she considered, that she was as much
in his power at Venice as she could be elsewhere.
It was
moonlight before the party returned to the villa, where supper was spread in
the airy hall, which had so much enchanted Emily's fancy, on the preceding
night. The ladies seated themselves in the portico, till Mons. Quesnel,
Montoni, and other gentlemen should join them at table, and Emily endeavoured
to resign herself to the tranquillity of the hour. Presently, a barge stopped
at the steps that led into the gardens, and, soon after, she distinguished the
voices of Montoni and Quesnel, and then that of Morano, who, in the next
moment, appeared. His compliments she received in silence, and her cold air
seemed at first to discompose him; but he soon recovered his usual gaiety of
manner, though the officious kindness of M. and Madame Quesnel Emily perceived
disgusted him. Such a degree of attention she had scarcely believed could be
shewn by M. Quesnel, for she had never before seen him otherwise than in the
presence of his inferiors or equals.
When she
could retire to her own apartment, her mind almost involuntarily dwelt on the
most probable means of prevailing with the Count to withdraw his suit, and to
her liberal mind none appeared more probable, than that of acknowledging to him
a prior attachment and throwing herself upon his generosity for a release.
When, however, on the following day, he renewed his addresses, she shrunk from
the adoption of the plan she had formed. There was something so repugnant to
her just pride, in laying open the secret of her heart to such a man as Morano,
and in suing to him for compassion, that she impatiently rejected this design
and wondered, that she could have paused upon it for a moment. The rejection of
his suit she repeated in the most decisive terms she could select, mingling
with it a severe censure of his conduct; but, though the Count appeared
mortified by this, he persevered in the most ardent professions of admiration,
till he was interrupted and Emily released by the presence of Madame Quesnel.
During
her stay at this pleasant villa, Emily was thus rendered miserable by the
assiduities of Morano, together with the cruelly exerted authority of M.
Quesnel and Montoni, who, with her aunt, seemed now more resolutely determined
upon this marriage than they had even appeared to be at Venice. M. Quesnel,
finding, that both argument and menace were ineffectual in enforcing an
immediate conclusion to it, at length relinquished his endeavours, and trusted
to the power of Montoni and to the course of events at Venice. Emily, indeed,
looked to Venice with hope, for there she would be relieved in some measure
from the persecution of Morano, who would no longer be an inhabitant of the
same house with herself, and from that of Montoni, whose engagements would not
permit him to be continually at home. But amidst the pressure of her own
misfortunes, she did not forget those of poor Theresa, for whom she pleaded
with courageous tenderness to Quesnel, who promised, in slight and general
terms, that she should not be forgotten.
Montoni,
in a long conversation with M. Quesnel, arranged the plan to be pursued
respecting Emily, and M. Quesnel proposed to be at Venice, as soon as he should
be informed, that the nuptials were concluded.
It was
new to Emily to part with any person, with whom she was connected, without
feeling of regret; the moment, however, in which she took leave of M. and
Madame Quesnel, was, perhaps, the only satisfactory one she had known in their
presence.
Morano
returned in Montoni's barge, and Emily, as she watched her gradual approach to
that magic city, saw at her side the only person, who occasioned her to view it
with less than perfect delight. They arrived there about midnight, when Emily
was released from the presence of the Count, who, with Montoni, went to a
Casino, and she was suffered to retire to her own apartment.
On the
following day, Montoni, in a short conversation, which he held with Emily,
informed her, that he would no longer be TRIFLED with, and that, since her
marriage with the Count would be so highly advantageous to her, that folly only
could object to it, and folly of such extent as was incapable of conviction, it
should be celebrated without further delay, and, if that was necessary, without
her consent.
Emily,
who had hitherto tried remonstrance, had now recourse to supplication, for
distress prevented her from foreseeing, that, with a man of Montoni's
disposition, supplication would be equally useless. She afterwards enquired by
what right he exerted this unlimited authority over her? a question, which her
better judgment would have with-held her, in a calmer moment, from making, since
it could avail her nothing, and would afford Montoni another opportunity of
triumphing over her defenceless condition.
'By what
right!' cried Montoni, with a malicious smile, 'by the right of my will; if you
can elude that, I will not inquire by what right you do so. I now remind you,
for the last time, that you are a stranger, in a foreign country, and that it
is your interest to make me your friend; you know the means; if you compel me
to become your enemy—I will venture to tell you, that the punishment shall
exceed your expectation. You may know I am not to be trifled with.'
Emily
continued, for some time after Montoni had left her, in a state of despair, or
rather stupefaction; a consciousness of misery was all that remained in her
mind. In this situation Madame Montoni found her, at the sound of whose voice
Emily looked up, and her aunt, somewhat softened by the expression of despair,
that fixed her countenance, spoke in a manner more kind than she had ever yet
done. Emily's heart was touched; she shed tears, and, after weeping for some
time, recovered sufficient composure to speak on the subject of her distress,
and to endeavour to interest Madame Montoni in her behalf. But, though the
compassion of her aunt had been surprised, her ambition was not to be overcome,
and her present object was to be the aunt of a Countess. Emily's efforts,
therefore, were as unsuccessful as they had been with Montoni, and she withdrew
to her apartment to think and weep alone. How often did she remember the
parting scene with Valancourt, and wish, that the Italian had mentioned
Montoni's character with less reserve! When her mind, however, had recovered
from the first shock of this behaviour, she considered, that it would be
impossible for him to compel her alliance with Morano, if she persisted in
refusing to repeat any part of the marriage ceremony; and she persevered in her
resolution to await Montoni's threatened vengeance rather than give herself for
life to a man, whom she must have despised for his present conduct, had she
never even loved Valancourt; yet she trembled at the revenge she thus resolved
to brave.
An
affair, however, soon after occurred, which somewhat called off Montoni's
attention from Emily. The mysterious visits of Orsino were renewed with more
frequency since the return of the former to Venice. There were others, also,
besides Orsino, admitted to these midnight councils, and among them Cavigni and
Verezzi. Montoni became more reserved and austere in his manner than ever; and
Emily, if her own interests had not made her regardless of his, might have
perceived, that something extraordinary was working in his mind.
One
night, on which a council was not held, Orsino came in great agitation of
spirits, and dispatched his confidential servant to Montoni, who was at a
Casino, desiring that he would return home immediately; but charging the
servant not to mention his name. Montoni obeyed the summons, and, on meeting
Orsino, was informed of the circumstances, that occasioned his visit and his
visible alarm, with a part of which he was already acquainted.
A
Venetian nobleman, who had, on some late occasion, provoked the hatred of
Orsino, had been way-laid and poniarded by hired assassins: and, as the
murdered person was of the first connections, the Senate had taken up the
affair. One of the assassins was now apprehended, who had confessed, that
Orsino was his employer in the atrocious deed; and the latter, informed of his
danger, had now come to Montoni to consult on the measures necessary to favour
his escape. He knew, that, at this time, the officers of the police were upon
the watch for him, all over the city; to leave it, at present, therefore, was
impracticable, and Montoni consented to secrete him for a few days till the
vigilance of justice should relax, and then to assist him in quitting Venice.
He knew the danger he himself incurred by permitting Orsino to remain in his
house, but such was the nature of his obligations to this man, that he did not
think it prudent to refuse him an asylum.
Such was
the person whom Montoni had admitted to his confidence, and for whom he felt as
much friendship as was compatible with his character.
While
Orsino remained concealed in his house, Montoni was unwilling to attract public
observation by the nuptials of Count Morano; but this obstacle was, in a few
days, overcome by the departure of his criminal visitor, and he then informed
Emily, that her marriage was to be celebrated on the following morning. To her
repeated assurances, that it should not take place, he replied only by a
malignant smile; and, telling her that the Count and a priest would be at his
house, early in the morning, he advised her no further to dare his resentment,
by opposition to his will and to her own interest. 'I am now going out for the
evening,' said he, 'remember, that I shall give your hand to Count Morano in
the morning.' Emily, having, ever since his late threats, expected, that her
trials would at length arrive to this crisis, was less shocked by the
declaration, that she otherwise would have been, and she endeavoured to support
herself by the belief, that the marriage could not be valid, so long as she
refused before the priest to repeat any part of the ceremony. Yet, as the
moment of trial approached, her long-harassed spirits shrunk almost equally
from the encounter of his vengeance, and from the hand of Count Morano. She was
not even perfectly certain of the consequence of her steady refusal at the
altar, and she trembled, more than ever, at the power of Montoni, which seemed
unlimited as his will, for she saw, that he would not scruple to transgress any
law, if, by so doing, he could accomplish his project.
While her
mind was thus suffering and in a state little short of distraction, she was
informed that Morano asked permission to see her, and the servant had scarcely
departed with an excuse, before she repented that she had sent one. In the next
moment, reverting to her former design, and determining to try, whether
expostulation and entreaty would not succeed, where a refusal and a just
disdain had failed, she recalled the servant, and, sending a different message,
prepared to go down to the Count.
The
dignity and assumed composure with which she met him, and the kind of pensive
resignation, that softened her countenance, were circumstances not likely to
induce him to relinquish her, serving, as they did, to heighten a passion,
which had already intoxicated his judgment. He listened to all she said with an
appearance of complacency and of a wish to oblige her; but his resolution
remained invariably the same, and he endeavoured to win her admiration by every
insinuating art he so well knew how to practise. Being, at length, assured,
that she had nothing to hope from his justice, she repeated, in a solemn and
impressive manner, her absolute rejection of his suit, and quitted him with an
assurance, that her refusal would be effectually maintained against every
circumstance, that could be imagined for subduing it. A just pride had
restrained her tears in his presence, but now they flowed from the fulness of
her heart. She often called upon the name of her late father, and often dwelt
with unutterable anguish on the idea of Valancourt.
She did
not go down to supper, but remained alone in her apartment, sometimes yielding
to the influence of grief and terror, and, at others, endeavouring to fortify
her mind against them, and to prepare herself to meet, with composed courage,
the scene of the following morning, when all the stratagem of Morano and the
violence of Montoni would be united against her.
The
evening was far advanced, when Madame Montoni came to her chamber with some
bridal ornaments, which the Count had sent to Emily. She had, this day, purposely
avoided her niece; perhaps, because her usual insensibility failed her, and she
feared to trust herself with a view of Emily's distress; or possibly, though
her conscience was seldom audible, it now reproached her with her conduct to
her brother's orphan child, whose happiness had been entrusted to her care by a
dying father.
Emily
could not look at these presents, and made a last, though almost hopeless,
effort to interest the compassion of Madame Montoni, who, if she did feel any
degree of pity, or remorse, successfully concealed it, and reproached her niece
with folly in being miserable, concerning a marriage, which ought only to make
her happy. 'I am sure,' said she, 'if I was unmarried, and the Count had
proposed to me, I should have been flattered by the distinction: and if I
should have been so, I am sure, niece, you, who have no fortune, ought to feel
yourself highly honoured, and shew a proper gratitude and humility towards the
Count, for his condescension. I am often surprised, I must own, to observe how
humbly he deports himself to you, notwithstanding the haughty airs you give
yourself; I wonder he has patience to humour you so: if I was he, I know, I
should often be ready to reprehend you, and make you know yourself a little
better. I would not have flattered you, I can tell you, for it is this absurd
flattery that makes you fancy yourself of so much consequence, that you think
nobody can deserve you, and I often tell the Count so, for I have no patience
to hear him pay you such extravagant compliments, which you believe every word
of!'
'Your
patience, madam, cannot suffer more cruelly on such occasions, than my own,'
said Emily.
'O! that
is all mere affectation,' rejoined her aunt. 'I know that his flattery delights
you, and makes you so vain, that you think you may have the whole world at your
feet. But you are very much mistaken; I can assure you, niece, you will not
meet with many such suitors as the Count: every other person would have turned
upon his heel, and left you to repent at your leisure, long ago.'
'O that
the Count had resembled every other person, then!' said Emily, with a heavy
sigh.
'It is
happy for you, that he does not,' rejoined Madame Montoni; 'and what I am now
saying is from pure kindness. I am endeavouring to convince you of your good
fortune, and to persuade you to submit to necessity with a good grace. It is
nothing to me, you know, whether you like this marriage or not, for it must be;
what I say, therefore, is from pure kindness. I wish to see you happy, and it is
your own fault if you are not so. I would ask you, now, seriously and calmly,
what kind of a match you can expect, since a Count cannot content your
ambition?'
'I have
no ambition whatever, madam,' replied Emily, 'my only wish is to remain in my
present station.'
'O! that
is speaking quite from the purpose,' said her aunt, 'I see you are still
thinking of Mons. Valancourt. Pray get rid of all those fantastic notions about
love, and this ridiculous pride, and be something like a reasonable creature.
But, however, this is nothing to the purpose—for your marriage with the Count
takes place tomorrow, you know, whether you approve it or not. The Count will
be trifled with no longer.'
Emily
made no attempt to reply to this curious speech; she felt it would be mean, and
she knew it would be useless. Madame Montoni laid the Count's presents upon the
table, on which Emily was leaning, and then, desiring she would be ready early
in the morning, bade her good-night. 'Good-night, madam,' said Emily, with a
deep sigh, as the door closed upon her aunt, and she was left once more to her
own sad reflections. For some time she sat so lost in thought, as to be wholly
unconscious where she was; at length, raising her head, and looking round the
room, its gloom and profound stillness awed her. She fixed her eyes on the
door, through which her aunt had disappeared, and listened anxiously for some
sound, that might relieve the deep dejection of her spirits; but it was past
midnight, and all the family except the servant, who sat up for Montoni, had
retired to bed. Her mind, long harassed by distress, now yielded to imaginary
terrors; she trembled to look into the obscurity of her spacious chamber, and
feared she knew not what; a state of mind, which continued so long, that she would
have called up Annette, her aunt's woman, had her fears permitted her to rise
from her chair, and to cross the apartment.
These
melancholy illusions at length began to disperse, and she retired to her bed,
not to sleep, for that was scarcely possible, but to try, at least, to quiet
her disturbed fancy, and to collect strength of spirits sufficient to bear her
through the scene of the approaching morning.
Dark power! with shudd'ring, meek submitted
thought
Be mine to read the visions old
Which thy awak'ning bards have told,
And, lest they meet my blasted view,
Hold each strange tale devoutly true.
COLLINS' ODE TO FEAR
Emily was
recalled from a kind of slumber, into which she had, at length, sunk, by a
quick knocking at her chamber door. She started up in terror, for Montoni and
Count Morano instantly came to her mind; but, having listened in silence for
some time, and recognizing the voice of Annette, she rose and opened the door.
'What brings you hither so early?' said Emily, trembling excessively. She was
unable to support herself, and sat down on the bed.
'Dear
ma'amselle!' said Annette, 'do not look so pale. I am quite frightened to see
you. Here is a fine bustle below stairs, all the servants running to and fro,
and none of them fast enough! Here is a bustle, indeed, all of a sudden, and
nobody knows for what!'
'Who is
below besides them?' said Emily, 'Annette, do not trifle with me!'
'Not for
the world, ma'amselle, I would not trifle for the world; but one cannot help
making one's remarks, and there is the Signor in such a bustle, as I never saw
him before; and he has sent me to tell you, ma'am, to get ready immediately.'
'Good God
support me!' cried Emily, almost fainting, 'Count Morano is below, then!'
'No,
ma'amselle, he is not below that I know of,' replied Annette, 'only his
excellenza sent me to desire you would get ready directly to leave Venice, for
that the gondolas would be at the steps of the canal in a few minutes: but I
must hurry back to my lady, who is just at her wits end, and knows not which
way to turn for haste.'
'Explain,
Annette, explain the meaning of all this before you go,' said Emily, so overcome
with surprise and timid hope, that she had scarcely breath to speak.
'Nay,
ma'amselle, that is more than I can do. I only know that the Signor is just
come home in a very ill humour, that he has had us all called out of our beds,
and tells us we are all to leave Venice immediately.'
'Is Count
Morano to go with the signor?' said Emily, 'and whither are we going?'
'I know
neither, ma'am, for certain; but I heard Ludovico say something about going,
after we get to terra-firma, to the signor's castle among some mountains, that
he talked of.'
'The
Apennines!' said Emily, eagerly, 'O! then I have little to hope!'
'That is
the very place, ma'am. But cheer up, and do not take it so much to heart, and
think what a little time you have to get ready in, and how impatient the Signor
is. Holy St. Mark! I hear the oars on the canal; and now they come nearer, and
now they are dashing at the steps below; it is the gondola, sure enough.'
Annette
hastened from the room; and Emily prepared for this unexpected flight, as fast
as her trembling hands would permit, not perceiving, that any change in her
situation could possibly be for the worse. She had scarcely thrown her books
and clothes into her travelling trunk, when, receiving a second summons, she
went down to her aunt's dressing-room, where she found Montoni impatiently
reproving his wife for delay. He went out, soon after, to give some further
orders to his people, and Emily then enquired the occasion of this hasty
journey; but her aunt appeared to be as ignorant as herself, and to undertake
the journey with more reluctance.
The
family at length embarked, but neither Count Morano, nor Cavigni, was of the
party. Somewhat revived by observing this, Emily, when the gondolieri dashed
their oars in the water, and put off from the steps of the portico, felt like a
criminal, who receives a short reprieve. Her heart beat yet lighter, when they
emerged from the canal into the ocean, and lighter still, when they skimmed
past the walls of St. Mark, without having stopped to take up Count Morano.
The dawn
now began to tint the horizon, and to break upon the shores of the Adriatic.
Emily did not venture to ask any questions of Montoni, who sat, for some time,
in gloomy silence, and then rolled himself up in his cloak, as if to sleep,
while Madame Montoni did the same; but Emily, who could not sleep, undrew one
of the little curtains of the gondola, and looked out upon the sea. The rising
dawn now enlightened the mountain-tops of Friuli, but their lower sides, and
the distant waves, that rolled at their feet, were still in deep shadow. Emily,
sunk in tranquil melancholy, watched the strengthening light spreading upon the
ocean, shewing successively Venice and her islets, and the shores of Italy,
along which boats, with their pointed latin sails, began to move.
The
gondolieri were frequently hailed, at this early hour, by the market-people, as
they glided by towards Venice, and the lagune soon displayed a gay scene of
innumerable little barks, passing from terra-firma with provisions. Emily gave
a last look to that splendid city, but her mind was then occupied by
considering the probable events, that awaited her, in the scenes, to which she
was removing, and with conjectures, concerning the motive of this sudden
journey. It appeared, upon calmer consideration, that Montoni was removing her
to his secluded castle, because he could there, with more probability of
success, attempt to terrify her into obedience; or, that, should its gloomy and
sequestered scenes fail of this effect, her forced marriage with the Count
could there be solemnized with the secrecy, which was necessary to the honour
of Montoni. The little spirit, which this reprieve had recalled, now began to
fail, and, when Emily reached the shore, her mind had sunk into all its former
depression.
Montoni
did not embark on the Brenta, but pursued his way in carriages across the
country, towards the Apennine; during which journey, his manner to Emily was so
particularly severe, that this alone would have confirmed her late conjecture,
had any such confirmation been necessary. Her senses were now dead to the
beautiful country, through which she travelled. Sometimes she was compelled to
smile at the naivete of Annette, in her remarks on what she saw, and sometimes
to sigh, as a scene of peculiar beauty recalled Valancourt to her thoughts, who
was indeed seldom absent from them, and of whom she could never hope to hear in
the solitude, to which she was hastening.
At
length, the travellers began to ascend among the Apennines. The immense
pine-forests, which, at that period, overhung these mountains, and between
which the road wound, excluded all view but of the cliffs aspiring above,
except, that, now and then, an opening through the dark woods allowed the eye a
momentary glimpse of the country below. The gloom of these shades, their
solitary silence, except when the breeze swept over their summits, the
tremendous precipices of the mountains, that came partially to the eye, each
assisted to raise the solemnity of Emily's feelings into awe; she saw only
images of gloomy grandeur, or of dreadful sublimity, around her; other images,
equally gloomy and equally terrible, gleamed on her imagination. She was going
she scarcely knew whither, under the dominion of a person, from whose arbitrary
disposition she had already suffered so much, to marry, perhaps, a man who
possessed neither her affection, or esteem; or to endure, beyond the hope of
succour, whatever punishment revenge, and that Italian revenge, might
dictate.—The more she considered what might be the motive of the journey, the
more she became convinced, that it was for the purpose of concluding her
nuptials with Count Morano, with that secrecy, which her resolute resistance
had made necessary to the honour, if not to the safety, of Montoni. From the
deep solitudes, into which she was immerging, and from the gloomy castle, of
which she had heard some mysterious hints, her sick heart recoiled in despair,
and she experienced, that, though her mind was already occupied by peculiar distress,
it was still alive to the influence of new and local circumstance; why else did
she shudder at the idea of this desolate castle?
As the
travellers still ascended among the pine forests, steep rose over steep, the
mountains seemed to multiply, as they went, and what was the summit of one
eminence proved to be only the base of another. At length, they reached a
little plain, where the drivers stopped to rest the mules, whence a scene of
such extent and magnificence opened below, as drew even from Madame Montoni a
note of admiration. Emily lost, for a moment, her sorrows, in the immensity of
nature. Beyond the amphitheatre of mountains, that stretched below, whose tops
appeared as numerous almost, as the waves of the sea, and whose feet were
concealed by the forests—extended the campagna of Italy, where cities and
rivers, and woods and all the glow of cultivation were mingled in gay
confusion. The Adriatic bounded the horizon, into which the Po and the Brenta,
after winding through the whole extent of the landscape, poured their fruitful
waves. Emily gazed long on the splendours of the world she was quitting, of
which the whole magnificence seemed thus given to her sight only to increase
her regret on leaving it; for her, Valancourt alone was in that world; to him
alone her heart turned, and for him alone fell her bitter tears.
From this
sublime scene the travellers continued to ascend among the pines, till they
entered a narrow pass of the mountains, which shut out every feature of the
distant country, and, in its stead, exhibited only tremendous crags, impending
over the road, where no vestige of humanity, or even of vegetation, appeared,
except here and there the trunk and scathed branches of an oak, that hung
nearly headlong from the rock, into which its strong roots had fastened. This
pass, which led into the heart of the Apennine, at length opened to day, and a
scene of mountains stretched in long perspective, as wild as any the travellers
had yet passed. Still vast pine-forests hung upon their base, and crowned the
ridgy precipice, that rose perpendicularly from the vale, while, above, the
rolling mists caught the sun-beams, and touched their cliffs with all the
magical colouring of light and shade. The scene seemed perpetually changing,
and its features to assume new forms, as the winding road brought them to the
eye in different attitudes; while the shifting vapours, now partially
concealing their minuter beauties and now illuminating them with splendid
tints, assisted the illusions of the sight.
Though
the deep vallies between these mountains were, for the most part, clothed with
pines, sometimes an abrupt opening presented a perspective of only barren
rocks, with a cataract flashing from their summit among broken cliffs, till its
waters, reaching the bottom, foamed along with unceasing fury; and sometimes
pastoral scenes exhibited their 'green delights' in the narrow vales, smiling
amid surrounding horror. There herds and flocks of goats and sheep, browsing
under the shade of hanging woods, and the shepherd's little cabin, reared on
the margin of a clear stream, presented a sweet picture of repose.
Wild and
romantic as were these scenes, their character had far less of the sublime,
that had those of the Alps, which guard the entrance of Italy. Emily was often
elevated, but seldom felt those emotions of indescribable awe which she had so
continually experienced, in her passage over the Alps.
Towards
the close of day, the road wound into a deep valley. Mountains, whose shaggy
steeps appeared to be inaccessible, almost surrounded it. To the east, a vista
opened, that exhibited the Apennines in their darkest horrors; and the long
perspective of retiring summits, rising over each other, their ridges clothed
with pines, exhibited a stronger image of grandeur, than any that Emily had yet
seen. The sun had just sunk below the top of the mountains she was descending,
whose long shadow stretched athwart the valley, but his sloping rays, shooting
through an opening of the cliffs, touched with a yellow gleam the summits of
the forest, that hung upon the opposite steeps, and streamed in full splendour
upon the towers and battlements of a castle, that spread its extensive ramparts
along the brow of a precipice above. The splendour of these illumined objects
was heightened by the contrasted shade, which involved the valley below.
'There,'
said Montoni, speaking for the first time in several hours, 'is Udolpho.'
To be continued
