Ben Jonson - "Volpone; Or, The Fox"

J.M. Stone - "Studies from Court and Cloister"

Unknown - "The World English Bible (WEB): Ezra"

Edgar Rice Burroughs - "Tarzan of the Apes"

The Mysteries of Udolpho

A >> Ann Radcliffe >> The Mysteries of Udolpho




They returned pensively to the chateau, Emily musing on the incident
which had just occurred; St. Aubert reflecting, with placid
gratitude, on the blessings he possessed; and Madame St. Aubert
somewhat disturbed, and perplexed, by the loss of her daughter's
picture. As they drew near the house, they observed an unusual
bustle about it; the sound of voices was distinctly heard, servants
and horses were seen passing between the trees, and, at length, the
wheels of a carriage rolled along. Having come within view of the
front of the chateau, a landau, with smoking horses, appeared on the
little lawn before it. St. Aubert perceived the liveries of his
brother-in-law, and in the parlour he found Monsieur and Madame
Quesnel already entered. They had left Paris some days before, and
were on the way to their estate, only ten leagues distant from La
Vallee, and which Monsieur Quesnel had purchased several years before
of St. Aubert. This gentleman was the only brother of Madame St.
Aubert; but the ties of relationship having never been strengthened
by congeniality of character, the intercourse between them had not
been frequent. M. Quesnel had lived altogether in the world; his aim
had been consequence; splendour was the object of his taste; and his
address and knowledge of character had carried him forward to the
attainment of almost all that he had courted. By a man of such a
disposition, it is not surprising that the virtues of St. Aubert
should be overlooked; or that his pure taste, simplicity, and
moderated wishes, were considered as marks of a weak intellect, and
of confined views. The marriage of his sister with St. Aubert had
been mortifying to his ambition, for he had designed that the
matrimonial connection she formed should assist him to attain the
consequence which he so much desired; and some offers were made her
by persons whose rank and fortune flattered his warmest hope. But
his sister, who was then addressed also by St. Aubert, perceived, or
thought she perceived, that happiness and splendour were not the
same, and she did not hesitate to forego the last for the attainment
of the former. Whether Monsieur Quesnel thought them the same, or
not, he would readily have sacrificed his sister's peace to the
gratification of his own ambition; and, on her marriage with St.
Aubert, expressed in private his contempt of her spiritless conduct,
and of the connection which it permitted. Madame St. Aubert, though
she concealed this insult from her husband, felt, perhaps, for the
first time, resentment lighted in her heart; and, though a regard for
her own dignity, united with considerations of prudence, restrained
her expression of this resentment, there was ever after a mild
reserve in her manner towards M. Quesnel, which he both understood
and felt.

In his own marriage he did not follow his sister's example. His lady
was an Italian, and an heiress by birth; and, by nature and
education, was a vain and frivolous woman.

They now determined to pass the night with St. Aubert; and as the
chateau was not large enough to accommodate their servants, the
latter were dismissed to the neighbouring village. When the first
compliments were over, and the arrangements for the night made M.
Quesnel began the display of his intelligence and his connections;
while St. Aubert, who had been long enough in retirement to find
these topics recommended by their novelty, listened, with a degree of
patience and attention, which his guest mistook for the humility of
wonder. The latter, indeed, described the few festivities which the
turbulence of that period permitted to the court of Henry the Third,
with a minuteness, that somewhat recompensed for his ostentation;
but, when he came to speak of the character of the Duke de Joyeuse,
of a secret treaty, which he knew to be negotiating with the Porte,
and of the light in which Henry of Navarre was received, M. St.
Aubert recollected enough of his former experience to be assured,
that his guest could be only of an inferior class of politicians; and
that, from the importance of the subjects upon which he committed
himself, he could not be of the rank to which he pretended to belong.
The opinions delivered by M. Quesnel, were such as St. Aubert
forebore to reply to, for he knew that his guest had neither humanity
to feel, nor discernment to perceive, what is just.

Madame Quesnel, meanwhile, was expressing to Madame St. Aubert her
astonishment, that she could bear to pass her life in this remote
corner of the world, as she called it, and describing, from a wish,
probably, of exciting envy, the splendour of the balls, banquets, and
processions which had just been given by the court, in honour of the
nuptials of the Duke de Joyeuse with Margaretta of Lorrain, the
sister of the Queen. She described with equal minuteness the
magnificence she had seen, and that from which she had been excluded;
while Emily's vivid fancy, as she listened with the ardent curiosity
of youth, heightened the scenes she heard of; and Madame St. Aubert,
looking on her family, felt, as a tear stole to her eye, that though
splendour may grace happiness, virtue only can bestow it.

'It is now twelve years, St. Aubert,' said M. Quesnel, 'since I
purchased your family estate.'--'Somewhere thereabout,' replied St.
Aubert, suppressing a sigh. 'It is near five years since I have been
there,' resumed Quesnel; 'for Paris and its neighbourhood is the only
place in the world to live in, and I am so immersed in politics, and
have so many affairs of moment on my hands, that I find it difficult
to steal away even for a month or two.' St. Aubert remaining silent,
M. Quesnel proceeded: 'I have sometimes wondered how you, who have
lived in the capital, and have been accustomed to company, can exist
elsewhere;--especially in so remote a country as this, where you can
neither hear nor see any thing, and can in short be scarcely
conscious of life.'

'I live for my family and myself,' said St. Aubert; 'I am now
contented to know only happiness;--formerly I knew life.'

'I mean to expend thirty or forty thousand livres on improvements,'
said M. Quesnel, without seeming to notice the words of St. Aubert;
'for I design, next summer, to bring here my friends, the Duke de
Durefort and the Marquis Ramont, to pass a month or two with me.' To
St. Aubert's enquiry, as to these intended improvements, he replied,
that he should take down the whole east wing of the chateau, and
raise upon the site a set of stables. 'Then I shall build,' said he,
'a SALLE A MANGER, a SALON, a SALLE AU COMMUNE, and a number of rooms
for servants; for at present there is not accommodation for a third
part of my own people.'

'It accommodated our father's household,' said St. Aubert, grieved
that the old mansion was to be thus improved, 'and that was not a
small one.'

'Our notions are somewhat enlarged since those days,' said M.
Quesnel;--'what was then thought a decent style of living would not
now be endured.' Even the calm St. Aubert blushed at these words,
but his anger soon yielded to contempt. 'The ground about the
chateau is encumbered with trees; I mean to cut some of them down.'

'Cut down the trees too!' said St. Aubert.

'Certainly. Why should I not? they interrupt my prospects. There is
a chesnut which spreads its branches before the whole south side of
the chateau, and which is so ancient that they tell me the hollow of
its trunk will hold a dozen men. Your enthusiasm will scarcely
contend that there can be either use, or beauty, in such a sapless
old tree as this.'

'Good God!' exclaimed St. Aubert, 'you surely will not destroy that
noble chesnut, which has flourished for centuries, the glory of the
estate! It was in its maturity when the present mansion was built.
How often, in my youth, have I climbed among its broad branches, and
sat embowered amidst a world of leaves, while the heavy shower has
pattered above, and not a rain drop reached me! How often I have sat
with a book in my hand, sometimes reading, and sometimes looking out
between the branches upon the wide landscape, and the setting sun,
till twilight came, and brought the birds home to their little nests
among the leaves! How often--but pardon me,' added St. Aubert,
recollecting that he was speaking to a man who could neither
comprehend, nor allow his feelings, 'I am talking of times and
feelings as old-fashioned as the taste that would spare that
venerable tree.'

'It will certainly come down,' said M. Quesnel; 'I believe I shall
plant some Lombardy poplars among the clumps of chesnut, that I shall
leave of the avenue; Madame Quesnel is partial to the poplar, and
tells me how much it adorns a villa of her uncle, not far from
Venice.'

'On the banks of the Brenta, indeed,' continued St. Aubert, 'where
its spiry form is intermingled with the pine, and the cypress, and
where it plays over light and elegant porticos and colonnades, it,
unquestionably, adorns the scene; but among the giants of the forest,
and near a heavy gothic mansion--'

'Well, my good sir,' said M. Quesnel, 'I will not dispute with you.
You must return to Paris before our ideas can at all agree. But A-
PROPOS of Venice, I have some thoughts of going thither, next summer;
events may call me to take possession of that same villa, too, which
they tell me is the most charming that can be imagined. In that case
I shall leave the improvements I mention to another year, and I may,
perhaps, be tempted to stay some time in Italy.'

Emily was somewhat surprised to hear him talk of being tempted to
remain abroad, after he had mentioned his presence to be so necessary
at Paris, that it was with difficulty he could steal away for a month
or two; but St. Aubert understood the self-importance of the man too
well to wonder at this trait; and the possibility, that these
projected improvements might be deferred, gave him a hope, that they
might never take place.

Before they separated for the night, M. Quesnel desired to speak with
St. Aubert alone, and they retired to another room, where they
remained a considerable time. The subject of this conversation was
not known; but, whatever it might be, St. Aubert, when he returned to
the supper-room, seemed much disturbed, and a shade of sorrow
sometimes fell upon his features that alarmed Madame St. Aubert.
When they were alone she was tempted to enquire the occasion of it,
but the delicacy of mind, which had ever appeared in his conduct,
restrained her: she considered that, if St. Aubert wished her to be
acquainted with the subject of his concern, he would not wait on her
enquiries.

On the following day, before M. Quesnel departed, he had a second
conference with St. Aubert.

The guests, after dining at the chateau, set out in the cool of the
day for Epourville, whither they gave him and Madame St. Aubert a
pressing invitation, prompted rather by the vanity of displaying
their splendour, than by a wish to make their friends happy.

Emily returned, with delight, to the liberty which their presence had
restrained, to her books, her walks, and the rational conversation of
M. and Madame St. Aubert, who seemed to rejoice, no less, that they
were delivered from the shackles, which arrogance and frivolity had
imposed.

Madame St. Aubert excused herself from sharing their usual evening
walk, complaining that she was not quite well, and St. Aubert and
Emily went out together.

They chose a walk towards the mountains, intending to visit some old
pensioners of St. Aubert, which, from his very moderate income, he
contrived to support, though it is probable M. Quesnel, with his very
large one, could not have afforded this.

After distributing to his pensioners their weekly stipends, listening
patiently to the complaints of some, redressing the grievances of
others, and softening the discontents of all, by the look of
sympathy, and the smile of benevolence, St. Aubert returned home
through the woods,

where
At fall of eve the fairy-people throng,
In various games and revelry to pass
The summer night, as village stories tell.*
*Thomson


'The evening gloom of woods was always delightful to me,' said St.
Aubert, whose mind now experienced the sweet calm, which results from
the consciousness of having done a beneficent action, and which
disposes it to receive pleasure from every surrounding object. 'I
remember that in my youth this gloom used to call forth to my fancy a
thousand fairy visions, and romantic images; and, I own, I am not yet
wholly insensible of that high enthusiasm, which wakes the poet's
dream: I can linger, with solemn steps, under the deep shades, send
forward a transforming eye into the distant obscurity, and listen
with thrilling delight to the mystic murmuring of the woods.'

'O my dear father,' said Emily, while a sudden tear started to her
eye, 'how exactly you describe what I have felt so often, and which I
thought nobody had ever felt but myself! But hark! here comes the
sweeping sound over the wood-tops;--now it dies away;--how solemn the
stillness that succeeds! Now the breeze swells again. It is like
the voice of some supernatural being--the voice of the spirit of the
woods, that watches over them by night. Ah! what light is yonder?
But it is gone. And now it gleams again, near the root of that large
chestnut: look, sir!'

'Are you such an admirer of nature,' said St. Aubert, 'and so little
acquainted with her appearances as not to know that for the glow-
worm? But come,' added he gaily, 'step a little further, and we
shall see fairies, perhaps; they are often companions. The glow-worm
lends his light, and they in return charm him with music, and the
dance. Do you see nothing tripping yonder?'

Emily laughed. 'Well, my dear sir,' said she, 'since you allow of
this alliance, I may venture to own I have anticipated you; and
almost dare venture to repeat some verses I made one evening in these
very woods.'

'Nay,' replied St. Aubert, 'dismiss the ALMOST, and venture quite;
let us hear what vagaries fancy has been playing in your mind. If
she has given you one of her spells, you need not envy those of the
fairies.'

'If it is strong enough to enchant your judgment, sir,' said Emily,
'while I disclose her images, I need NOT envy them. The lines go in
a sort of tripping measure, which I thought might suit the subject
well enough, but I fear they are too irregular.'

THE GLOW-WORM

How pleasant is the green-wood's deep-matted shade
On a mid-summer's eve, when the fresh rain is o'er;
When the yellow beams slope, and sparkle thro' the glade,
And swiftly in the thin air the light swallows soar!

But sweeter, sweeter still, when the sun sinks to rest,
And twilight comes on, with the fairies so gay
Tripping through the forest-walk, where flow'rs, unprest,
Bow not their tall heads beneath their frolic play.

To music's softest sounds they dance away the hour,
Till moon-light steals down among the trembling leaves,
And checquers all the ground, and guides them to the bow'r,
The long haunted bow'r, where the nightingale grieves.

Then no more they dance, till her sad song is done,
But, silent as the night, to her mourning attend;
And often as her dying notes their pity have won,
They vow all her sacred haunts from mortals to defend.

When, down among the mountains, sinks the ev'ning star,
And the changing moon forsakes this shadowy sphere,
How cheerless would they be, tho' they fairies are,
If I, with my pale light, came not near!

Yet cheerless tho' they'd be, they're ungrateful to my love!
For, often when the traveller's benighted on his way,
And I glimmer in his path, and would guide him thro' the grove,
They bind me in their magic spells to lead him far astray;

And in the mire to leave him, till the stars are all burnt out,
While, in strange-looking shapes, they frisk about the ground,
And, afar in the woods, they raise a dismal shout,
Till I shrink into my cell again for terror of the sound!

But, see where all the tiny elves come dancing in a ring,
With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the horn,
And the timbrel so clear, and the lute with dulcet string;
Then round about the oak they go till peeping of the morn.

Down yonder glade two lovers steal, to shun the fairy-queen,
Who frowns upon their plighted vows, and jealous is of me,
That yester-eve I lighted them, along the dewy green,
To seek the purple flow'r, whose juice from all her spells can
free.

And now, to punish me, she keeps afar her jocund band,
With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the lute;
If I creep near yonder oak she will wave her fairy wand,
And to me the dance will cease, and the music all be mute.

O! had I but that purple flow'r whose leaves her charms can foil,
And knew like fays to draw the juice, and throw it on the wind,
I'd be her slave no longer, nor the traveller beguile,
And help all faithful lovers, nor fear the fairy kind!

But soon the VAPOUR OF THE WOODS will wander afar,
And the fickle moon will fade, and the stars disappear,
Then, cheerless will they be, tho' they fairies are,
If I, with my pale light, come not near!

Whatever St. Aubert might think of the stanzas, he would not deny his
daughter the pleasure of believing that he approved them; and, having
given his commendation, he sunk into a reverie, and they walked on in
silence.

A faint erroneous ray
Glanc'd from th' imperfect surfaces of things,
Flung half an image on the straining eye;
While waving woods, and villages, and streams,
And rocks, and mountain-tops, that long retain
The ascending gleam, are all one swimming scene,
Uncertain if beheld.*
*Thomson.


St. Aubert continued silent till he reached the chateau, where his
wife had retired to her chamber. The languor and dejection, that had
lately oppressed her, and which the exertion called forth by the
arrival of her guests had suspended, now returned with increased
effect. On the following day, symptoms of fever appeared, and St.
Aubert, having sent for medical advice, learned, that her disorder
was a fever of the same nature as that, from which he had lately
recovered. She had, indeed, taken the infection, during her
attendance upon him, and, her constitution being too weak to throw
out the disease immediately, it had lurked in her veins, and
occasioned the heavy languor of which she had complained. St.
Aubert, whose anxiety for his wife overcame every other
consideration, detained the physician in his house. He remembered
the feelings and the reflections that had called a momentary gloom
upon his mind, on the day when he had last visited the fishing-house,
in company with Madame St. Aubert, and he now admitted a
presentiment, that this illness would be a fatal one. But he
effectually concealed this from her, and from his daughter, whom he
endeavoured to re-animate with hopes that her constant assiduities
would not be unavailing. The physician, when asked by St. Aubert for
his opinion of the disorder, replied, that the event of it depended
upon circumstances which he could not ascertain. Madame St. Aubert
seemed to have formed a more decided one; but her eyes only gave
hints of this. She frequently fixed them upon her anxious friends
with an expression of pity, and of tenderness, as if she anticipated
the sorrow that awaited them, and that seemed to say, it was for
their sakes only, for their sufferings, that she regretted life. On
the seventh day, the disorder was at its crisis. The physician
assumed a graver manner, which she observed, and took occasion, when
her family had once quitted the chamber, to tell him, that she
perceived her death was approaching. 'Do not attempt to deceive me,'
said she, 'I feel that I cannot long survive. I am prepared for the
event, I have long, I hope, been preparing for it. Since I have not
long to live, do not suffer a mistaken compassion to induce you to
flatter my family with false hopes. If you do, their affliction will
only be the heavier when it arrives: I will endeavour to teach them
resignation by my example.'

The physician was affected; he promised to obey her, and told St.
Aubert, somewhat abruptly, that there was nothing to expect. The
latter was not philosopher enough to restrain his feelings when he
received this information; but a consideration of the increased
affliction which the observance of his grief would occasion his wife,
enabled him, after some time, to command himself in her presence.
Emily was at first overwhelmed with the intelligence; then, deluded
by the strength of her wishes, a hope sprung up in her mind that her
mother would yet recover, and to this she pertinaciously adhered
almost to the last hour.

The progress of this disorder was marked, on the side of Madame St.
Aubert, by patient suffering, and subjected wishes. The composure,
with which she awaited her death, could be derived only from the
retrospect of a life governed, as far as human frailty permits, by a
consciousness of being always in the presence of the Deity, and by
the hope of a higher world. But her piety could not entirely subdue
the grief of parting from those whom she so dearly loved. During
these her last hours, she conversed much with St. Aubert and Emily,
on the prospect of futurity, and on other religious topics. The
resignation she expressed, with the firm hope of meeting in a future
world the friends she left in this, and the effort which sometimes
appeared to conceal her sorrow at this temporary separation,
frequently affected St. Aubert so much as to oblige him to leave the
room. Having indulged his tears awhile, he would dry them and return
to the chamber with a countenance composed by an endeavour which did
but increase his grief.

Never had Emily felt the importance of the lessons, which had taught
her to restrain her sensibility, so much as in these moments, and
never had she practised them with a triumph so complete. But when
the last was over, she sunk at once under the pressure of her sorrow,
and then perceived that it was hope, as well as fortitude, which had
hitherto supported her. St. Aubert was for a time too devoid of
comfort himself to bestow any on his daughter.



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.

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