The Mysteries of Udolpho

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[Keyed and Proofed by Karalee Coleman

The Mysteries of Udolpho

by Ann Radcliffe

A Romance
Interspersed With Some Pieces of Poetry

Fate sits on these dark battlements, and frowns,
And, as the portals open to receive me,
Her voice, in sullen echoes through the courts,
Tells of a nameless deed.

VOLUME 1

CHAPTER I

home is the resort
Of love, of joy, of peace and plenty, where,
Supporting and supported, polish'd friends
And dear relations mingle into bliss.*
*Thomson

On the pleasant banks of the Garonne, in the province of Gascony,
stood, in the year 1584, the chateau of Monsieur St. Aubert. From
its windows were seen the pastoral landscapes of Guienne and Gascony
stretching along the river, gay with luxuriant woods and vine, and
plantations of olives. To the south, the view was bounded by the
majestic Pyrenees, whose summits, veiled in clouds, or exhibiting
awful forms, seen, and lost again, as the partial vapours rolled
along, were sometimes barren, and gleamed through the blue tinge of
air, and sometimes frowned with forests of gloomy pine, that swept
downward to their base. These tremendous precipices were contrasted
by the soft green of the pastures and woods that hung upon their
skirts; among whose flocks, and herds, and simple cottages, the eye,
after having scaled the cliffs above, delighted to repose. To the
north, and to the east, the plains of Guienne and Languedoc were lost
in the mist of distance; on the west, Gascony was bounded by the
waters of Biscay.

M. St. Aubert loved to wander, with his wife and daughter, on the
margin of the Garonne, and to listen to the music that floated on its
waves. He had known life in other forms than those of pastoral
simplicity, having mingled in the gay and in the busy scenes of the
world; but the flattering portrait of mankind, which his heart had
delineated in early youth, his experience had too sorrowfully
corrected. Yet, amidst the changing visions of life, his principles
remained unshaken, his benevolence unchilled; and he retired from the
multitude 'more in PITY than in anger,' to scenes of simple nature,
to the pure delights of literature, and to the exercise of domestic
virtues.

He was a descendant from the younger branch of an illustrious family,
and it was designed, that the deficiency of his patrimonial wealth
should be supplied either by a splendid alliance in marriage, or by
success in the intrigues of public affairs. But St. Aubert had too
nice a sense of honour to fulfil the latter hope, and too small a
portion of ambition to sacrifice what he called happiness, to the
attainment of wealth. After the death of his father he married a
very amiable woman, his equal in birth, and not his superior in
fortune. The late Monsieur St. Aubert's liberality, or extravagance,
had so much involved his affairs, that his son found it necessary to
dispose of a part of the family domain, and, some years after his
marriage, he sold it to Monsieur Quesnel, the brother of his wife,
and retired to a small estate in Gascony, where conjugal felicity,
and parental duties, divided his attention with the treasures of
knowledge and the illuminations of genius.

To this spot he had been attached from his infancy. He had often
made excursions to it when a boy, and the impressions of delight
given to his mind by the homely kindness of the grey-headed peasant,
to whom it was intrusted, and whose fruit and cream never failed, had
not been obliterated by succeeding circumstances. The green pastures
along which he had so often bounded in the exultation of health, and
youthful freedom--the woods, under whose refreshing shade he had
first indulged that pensive melancholy, which afterwards made a
strong feature of his character--the wild walks of the mountains, the
river, on whose waves he had floated, and the distant plains, which
seemed boundless as his early hopes--were never after remembered by
St. Aubert but with enthusiasm and regret. At length he disengaged
himself from the world, and retired hither, to realize the wishes of
many years.

The building, as it then stood, was merely a summer cottage, rendered
interesting to a stranger by its neat simplicity, or the beauty of
the surrounding scene; and considerable additions were necessary to
make it a comfortable family residence. St. Aubert felt a kind of
affection for every part of the fabric, which he remembered in his
youth, and would not suffer a stone of it to be removed, so that the
new building, adapted to the style of the old one, formed with it
only a simple and elegant residence. The taste of Madame St. Aubert
was conspicuous in its internal finishing, where the same chaste
simplicity was observable in the furniture, and in the few ornaments
of the apartments, that characterized the manners of its inhabitants.

The library occupied the west side of the chateau, and was enriched
by a collection of the best books in the ancient and modern
languages. This room opened upon a grove, which stood on the brow of
a gentle declivity, that fell towards the river, and the tall trees
gave it a melancholy and pleasing shade; while from the windows the
eye caught, beneath the spreading branches, the gay and luxuriant
landscape stretching to the west, and overlooked on the left by the
bold precipices of the Pyrenees. Adjoining the library was a green-
house, stored with scarce and beautiful plants; for one of the
amusements of St. Aubert was the study of botany, and among the
neighbouring mountains, which afforded a luxurious feast to the mind
of the naturalist, he often passed the day in the pursuit of his
favourite science. He was sometimes accompanied in these little
excursions by Madame St. Aubert, and frequently by his daughter;
when, with a small osier basket to receive plants, and another filled
with cold refreshments, such as the cabin of the shepherd did not
afford, they wandered away among the most romantic and magnificent
scenes, nor suffered the charms of Nature's lowly children to
abstract them from the observance of her stupendous works. When
weary of sauntering among cliffs that seemed scarcely accessible but
to the steps of the enthusiast, and where no track appeared on the
vegetation, but what the foot of the izard had left; they would seek
one of those green recesses, which so beautifully adorn the bosom of
these mountains, where, under the shade of the lofty larch, or cedar,
they enjoyed their simple repast, made sweeter by the waters of the
cool stream, that crept along the turf, and by the breath of wild
flowers and aromatic plants, that fringed the rocks, and inlaid the
grass.

Adjoining the eastern side of the green-house, looking towards the
plains of Languedoc, was a room, which Emily called hers, and which
contained her books, her drawings, her musical instruments, with some
favourite birds and plants. Here she usually exercised herself in
elegant arts, cultivated only because they were congenial to her
taste, and in which native genius, assisted by the instructions of
Monsieur and Madame St. Aubert, made her an early proficient. The
windows of this room were particularly pleasant; they descended to
the floor, and, opening upon the little lawn that surrounded the
house, the eye was led between groves of almond, palm-trees,
flowering-ash, and myrtle, to the distant landscape, where the
Garonne wandered.

The peasants of this gay climate were often seen on an evening, when
the day's labour was done, dancing in groups on the margin of the
river. Their sprightly melodies, debonnaire steps, the fanciful
figure of their dances, with the tasteful and capricious manner in
which the girls adjusted their simple dress, gave a character to the
scene entirely French.

The front of the chateau, which, having a southern aspect, opened
upon the grandeur of the mountains, was occupied on the ground floor
by a rustic hall, and two excellent sitting rooms. The first floor,
for the cottage had no second story, was laid out in bed-chambers,
except one apartment that opened to a balcony, and which was
generally used for a breakfast-room.

In the surrounding ground, St. Aubert had made very tasteful
improvements; yet, such was his attachment to objects he had
remembered from his boyish days, that he had in some instances
sacrificed taste to sentiment. There were two old larches that
shaded the building, and interrupted the prospect; St. Aubert had
sometimes declared that he believed he should have been weak enough
to have wept at their fall. In addition to these larches he planted
a little grove of beech, pine, and mountain-ash. On a lofty terrace,
formed by the swelling bank of the river, rose a plantation of
orange, lemon, and palm-trees, whose fruit, in the coolness of
evening, breathed delicious fragrance. With these were mingled a few
trees of other species. Here, under the ample shade of a plane-tree,
that spread its majestic canopy towards the river, St. Aubert loved
to sit in the fine evenings of summer, with his wife and children,
watching, beneath its foliage, the setting sun, the mild splendour of
its light fading from the distant landscape, till the shadows of
twilight melted its various features into one tint of sober grey.
Here, too, he loved to read, and to converse with Madame St. Aubert;
or to play with his children, resigning himself to the influence of
those sweet affections, which are ever attendant on simplicity and
nature. He has often said, while tears of pleasure trembled in his
eyes, that these were moments infinitely more delightful than any
passed amid the brilliant and tumultuous scenes that are courted by
the world. His heart was occupied; it had, what can be so rarely
said, no wish for a happiness beyond what it experienced. The
consciousness of acting right diffused a serenity over his manners,
which nothing else could impart to a man of moral perceptions like
his, and which refined his sense of every surrounding blessing.

The deepest shade of twilight did not send him from his favourite
plane-tree. He loved the soothing hour, when the last tints of light
die away; when the stars, one by one, tremble through aether, and are
reflected on the dark mirror of the waters; that hour, which, of all
others, inspires the mind with pensive tenderness, and often elevates
it to sublime contemplation. When the moon shed her soft rays among
the foliage, he still lingered, and his pastoral supper of cream and
fruits was often spread beneath it. Then, on the stillness of night,
came the song of the nightingale, breathing sweetness, and awakening
melancholy.

The first interruptions to the happiness he had known since his
retirement, were occasioned by the death of his two sons. He lost
them at that age when infantine simplicity is so fascinating; and
though, in consideration of Madame St. Aubert's distress, he
restrained the expression of his own, and endeavoured to bear it, as
he meant, with philosophy, he had, in truth, no philosophy that could
render him calm to such losses. One daughter was now his only
surviving child; and, while he watched the unfolding of her infant
character, with anxious fondness, he endeavoured, with unremitting
effort, to counteract those traits in her disposition, which might
hereafter lead her from happiness. She had discovered in her early
years uncommon delicacy of mind, warm affections, and ready
benevolence; but with these was observable a degree of susceptibility
too exquisite to admit of lasting peace. As she advanced in youth,
this sensibility gave a pensive tone to her spirits, and a softness
to her manner, which added grace to beauty, and rendered her a very
interesting object to persons of a congenial disposition. But St.
Aubert had too much good sense to prefer a charm to a virtue; and had
penetration enough to see, that this charm was too dangerous to its
possessor to be allowed the character of a blessing. He endeavoured,
therefore, to strengthen her mind; to enure her to habits of self-
command; to teach her to reject the first impulse of her feelings,
and to look, with cool examination, upon the disappointments he
sometimes threw in her way. While he instructed her to resist first
impressions, and to acquire that steady dignity of mind, that can
alone counterbalance the passions, and bear us, as far as is
compatible with our nature, above the reach of circumstances, he
taught himself a lesson of fortitude; for he was often obliged to
witness, with seeming indifference, the tears and struggles which his
caution occasioned her.

In person, Emily resembled her mother; having the same elegant
symmetry of form, the same delicacy of features, and the same blue
eyes, full of tender sweetness. But, lovely as was her person, it
was the varied expression of her countenance, as conversation
awakened the nicer emotions of her mind, that threw such a
captivating grace around her:

Those tend'rer tints, that shun the careless eye,
And, in the world's contagious circle, die.

St. Aubert cultivated her understanding with the most scrupulous
care. He gave her a general view of the sciences, and an exact
acquaintance with every part of elegant literature. He taught her
Latin and English, chiefly that she might understand the sublimity of
their best poets. She discovered in her early years a taste for
works of genius; and it was St. Aubert's principle, as well as his
inclination, to promote every innocent means of happiness. 'A well-
informed mind,' he would say, 'is the best security against the
contagion of folly and of vice. The vacant mind is ever on the watch
for relief, and ready to plunge into error, to escape from the
languor of idleness. Store it with ideas, teach it the pleasure of
thinking; and the temptations of the world without, will be
counteracted by the gratifications derived from the world within.
Thought, and cultivation, are necessary equally to the happiness of a
country and a city life; in the first they prevent the uneasy
sensations of indolence, and afford a sublime pleasure in the taste
they create for the beautiful, and the grand; in the latter, they
make dissipation less an object of necessity, and consequently of
interest.'

It was one of Emily's earliest pleasures to ramble among the scenes
of nature; nor was it in the soft and glowing landscape that she most
delighted; she loved more the wild wood-walks, that skirted the
mountain; and still more the mountain's stupendous recesses, where
the silence and grandeur of solitude impressed a sacred awe upon her
heart, and lifted her thoughts to the GOD OF HEAVEN AND EARTH. In
scenes like these she would often linger along, wrapt in a melancholy
charm, till the last gleam of day faded from the west; till the
lonely sound of a sheep-bell, or the distant bark of a watch-dog,
were all that broke on the stillness of the evening. Then, the gloom
of the woods; the trembling of their leaves, at intervals, in the
breeze; the bat, flitting on the twilight; the cottage-lights, now
seen, and now lost--were circumstances that awakened her mind into
effort, and led to enthusiasm and poetry.

Her favourite walk was to a little fishing-house, belonging to St.
Aubert, in a woody glen, on the margin of a rivulet that descended
from the Pyrenees, and, after foaming among their rocks, wound its
silent way beneath the shades it reflected. Above the woods, that
screened this glen, rose the lofty summits of the Pyrenees, which
often burst boldly on the eye through the glades below. Sometimes
the shattered face of a rock only was seen, crowned with wild shrubs;
or a shepherd's cabin seated on a cliff, overshadowed by dark
cypress, or waving ash. Emerging from the deep recesses of the
woods, the glade opened to the distant landscape, where the rich
pastures and vine-covered slopes of Gascony gradually declined to the
plains; and there, on the winding shores of the Garonne, groves, and
hamlets, and villas--their outlines softened by distance, melted from
the eye into one rich harmonious tint.

This, too, was the favourite retreat of St. Aubert, to which he
frequently withdrew from the fervour of noon, with his wife, his
daughter, and his books; or came at the sweet evening hour to welcome
the silent dusk, or to listen for the music of the nightingale.
Sometimes, too, he brought music of his own, and awakened every fairy
echo with the tender accents of his oboe; and often have the tones of
Emily's voice drawn sweetness from the waves, over which they
trembled.

It was in one of these excursions to this spot, that she observed the
following lines written with a pencil on a part of the wainscot:

SONNET

Go, pencil! faithful to thy master's sighs!
Go--tell the Goddess of the fairy scene,
When next her light steps wind these wood-walks green,
Whence all his tears, his tender sorrows, rise;
Ah! paint her form, her soul-illumin'd eyes,
The sweet expression of her pensive face,
The light'ning smile, the animated grace--
The portrait well the lover's voice supplies;
Speaks all his heart must feel, his tongue would say:
Yet ah! not all his heart must sadly feel!
How oft the flow'ret's silken leaves conceal
The drug that steals the vital spark away!
And who that gazes on that angel-smile,
Would fear its charm, or think it could beguile!

These lines were not inscribed to any person; Emily therefore could
not apply them to herself, though she was undoubtedly the nymph of
these shades. Having glanced round the little circle of her
acquaintance without being detained by a suspicion as to whom they
could be addressed, she was compelled to rest in uncertainty; an
uncertainty which would have been more painful to an idle mind than
it was to hers. She had no leisure to suffer this circumstance,
trifling at first, to swell into importance by frequent remembrance.
The little vanity it had excited (for the incertitude which forbade
her to presume upon having inspired the sonnet, forbade her also to
disbelieve it) passed away, and the incident was dismissed from her
thoughts amid her books, her studies, and the exercise of social
charities.

Soon after this period, her anxiety was awakened by the indisposition
of her father, who was attacked with a fever; which, though not
thought to be of a dangerous kind, gave a severe shock to his
constitution. Madame St. Aubert and Emily attended him with
unremitting care; but his recovery was very slow, and, as he advanced
towards health, Madame seemed to decline.

The first scene he visited, after he was well enough to take the air,
was his favourite fishing-house. A basket of provisions was sent
thither, with books, and Emily's lute; for fishing-tackle he had no
use, for he never could find amusement in torturing or destroying.

After employing himself, for about an hour, in botanizing, dinner was
served. It was a repast, to which gratitude, for being again
permitted to visit this spot, gave sweetness; and family happiness
once more smiled beneath these shades. Monsieur St. Aubert conversed
with unusual cheerfulness; every object delighted his senses. The
refreshing pleasure from the first view of nature, after the pain of
illness, and the confinement of a sick-chamber, is above the
conceptions, as well as the descriptions, of those in health. The
green woods and pastures; the flowery turf; the blue concave of the
heavens; the balmy air; the murmur of the limpid stream; and even the
hum of every little insect of the shade, seem to revivify the soul,
and make mere existence bliss.

Madame St. Aubert, reanimated by the cheerfulness and recovery of her
husband, was no longer sensible of the indisposition which had lately
oppressed her; and, as she sauntered along the wood-walks of this
romantic glen, and conversed with him, and with her daughter, she
often looked at them alternately with a degree of tenderness, that
filled her eyes with tears. St. Aubert observed this more than once,
and gently reproved her for the emotion; but she could only smile,
clasp his hand, and that of Emily, and weep the more. He felt the
tender enthusiasm stealing upon himself in a degree that became
almost painful; his features assumed a serious air, and he could not
forbear secretly sighing--'Perhaps I shall some time look back to
these moments, as to the summit of my happiness, with hopeless
regret. But let me not misuse them by useless anticipation; let me
hope I shall not live to mourn the loss of those who are dearer to me
than life.'

To relieve, or perhaps to indulge, the pensive temper of his mind, he
bade Emily fetch the lute she knew how to touch with such sweet
pathos. As she drew near the fishing-house, she was surprised to
hear the tones of the instrument, which were awakened by the hand of
taste, and uttered a plaintive air, whose exquisite melody engaged
all her attention. She listened in profound silence, afraid to move
from the spot, lest the sound of her steps should occasion her to
lose a note of the music, or should disturb the musician. Every
thing without the building was still, and no person appeared. She
continued to listen, till timidity succeeded to surprise and delight;
a timidity, increased by a remembrance of the pencilled lines she had
formerly seen, and she hesitated whether to proceed, or to return.

While she paused, the music ceased; and, after a momentary
hesitation, she re-collected courage to advance to the fishing-house,
which she entered with faltering steps, and found unoccupied! Her
lute lay on the table; every thing seemed undisturbed, and she began
to believe it was another instrument she had heard, till she
remembered, that, when she followed M. and Madame St. Aubert from
this spot, her lute was left on a window seat. She felt alarmed, yet
knew not wherefore; the melancholy gloom of evening, and the profound
stillness of the place, interrupted only by the light trembling of
leaves, heightened her fanciful apprehensions, and she was desirous
of quitting the building, but perceived herself grow faint, and sat
down. As she tried to recover herself, the pencilled lines on the
wainscot met her eye; she started, as if she had seen a stranger;
but, endeavouring to conquer the tremor of her spirits, rose, and
went to the window. To the lines before noticed she now perceived
that others were added, in which her name appeared.

Though no longer suffered to doubt that they were addressed to
herself, she was as ignorant, as before, by whom they could be
written. While she mused, she thought she heard the sound of a step
without the building, and again alarmed, she caught up her lute, and
hurried away. Monsieur and Madame St. Aubert she found in a little
path that wound along the sides of the glen.

Having reached a green summit, shadowed by palm-trees, and
overlooking the vallies and plains of Gascony, they seated themselves
on the turf; and while their eyes wandered over the glorious scene,
and they inhaled the sweet breath of flowers and herbs that enriched
the grass, Emily played and sung several of their favourite airs,
with the delicacy of expression in which she so much excelled.

Music and conversation detained them in this enchanting spot, till
the sun's last light slept upon the plains; till the white sails that
glided beneath the mountains, where the Garonne wandered, became dim,
and the gloom of evening stole over the landscape. It was a
melancholy but not unpleasing gloom. St. Aubert and his family rose,
and left the place with regret; alas! Madame St. Aubert knew not that
she left it for ever.

When they reached the fishing-house she missed her bracelet, and
recollected that she had taken it from her arm after dinner, and had
left it on the table when she went to walk. After a long search, in
which Emily was very active, she was compelled to resign herself to
the loss of it. What made this bracelet valuable to her was a
miniature of her daughter to which it was attached, esteemed a
striking resemblance, and which had been painted only a few months
before. When Emily was convinced that the bracelet was really gone,
she blushed, and became thoughtful. That some stranger had been in
the fishing-house, during her absence, her lute, and the additional
lines of a pencil, had already informed her: from the purport of
these lines it was not unreasonable to believe, that the poet, the
musician, and the thief were the same person. But though the music
she had heard, the written lines she had seen, and the disappearance
of the picture, formed a combination of circumstances very
remarkable, she was irresistibly restrained from mentioning them;
secretly determining, however, never again to visit the fishing-house
without Monsieur or Madame St. Aubert.