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The Mysteries of Udolpho

A >> Ann Radcliffe >> The Mysteries of Udolpho




''Tis a handsome lady, I am sure,' continued Annette: 'the Signor
need not be ashamed to put her in the great apartment, where the
veiled picture hangs.' Emily turned round. 'But for that matter,
she would be as little seen there, as here, for the door is always
locked, I find.'

'Let us leave this chamber,' said Emily: 'and let me caution you
again, Annette; be guarded in your conversation, and never tell, that
you know any thing of that picture.'

'Holy Mother!' exclaimed Annette, 'it is no secret; why all the
servants have seen it already!'

Emily started. 'How is this?' said she--'Have seen it! When?--how?'

'Dear, ma'amselle, there is nothing surprising in that; we had all a
little more CURIOUSNESS than you had.'

'I thought you told me, the door was kept locked?' said Emily.

'If that was the case, ma'amselle,' replied Annette, looking about
her, 'how could we get here?'

'Oh, you mean THIS picture,' said Emily, with returning calmness.
'Well, Annette, here is nothing more to engage my attention; we will
go.'

Emily, as she passed to her own apartment, saw Montoni go down to the
hall, and she turned into her aunt's dressing-room, whom she found
weeping and alone, grief and resentment struggling on her
countenance. Pride had hitherto restrained complaint. Judging of
Emily's disposition from her own, and from a consciousness of what
her treatment of her deserved, she had believed, that her griefs
would be cause of triumph to her niece, rather than of sympathy; that
she would despise, not pity her. But she knew not the tenderness and
benevolence of Emily's heart, that had always taught her to forget
her own injuries in the misfortunes of her enemy. The sufferings of
others, whoever they might be, called forth her ready compassion,
which dissipated at once every obscuring cloud to goodness, that
passion or prejudice might have raised in her mind.

Madame Montoni's sufferings, at length, rose above her pride, and,
when Emily had before entered the room, she would have told them all,
had not her husband prevented her; now that she was no longer
restrained by his presence, she poured forth all her complaints to
her niece.

'O Emily!' she exclaimed, 'I am the most wretched of women--I am
indeed cruelly treated! Who, with my prospects of happiness, could
have foreseen such a wretched fate as this?--who could have thought,
when I married such a man as the Signor, I should ever have to bewail
my lot? But there is no judging what is for the best--there is no
knowing what is for our good! The most flattering prospects often
change--the best judgments may be deceived--who could have foreseen,
when I married the Signor, that I should ever repent my GENEROSITY?'

Emily thought she might have foreseen it, but this was not a thought
of triumph. She placed herself in a chair near her aunt, took her
hand, and, with one of those looks of soft compassion, which might
characterize the countenance of a guardian angel, spoke to her in the
tenderest accents. But these did not sooth Madame Montoni, whom
impatience to talk made unwilling to listen. She wanted to complain,
not to be consoled; and it was by exclamations of complaint only,
that Emily learned the particular circumstances of her affliction.

'Ungrateful man!' said Madame Montoni, 'he has deceived me in every
respect; and now he has taken me from my country and friends, to shut
me up in this old castle; and, here he thinks he can compel me to do
whatever he designs! But he shall find himself mistaken, he shall
find that no threats can alter--But who would have believed! who
would have supposed, that a man of his family and apparent wealth had
absolutely no fortune?--no, scarcely a sequin of his own! I did all
for the best; I thought he was a man of consequence, of great
property, or I am sure I would never have married him,--ungrateful,
artful man!' She paused to take breath.

'Dear Madam, be composed,' said Emily: 'the Signor may not be so
rich as you had reason to expect, but surely he cannot be very poor,
since this castle and the mansion at Venice are his. May I ask what
are the circumstances, that particularly affect you?'

'What are the circumstances!' exclaimed Madame Montoni with
resentment: 'why is it not sufficient, that he had long ago ruined
his own fortune by play, and that he has since lost what I brought
him--and that now he would compel me to sign away my settlement (it
was well I had the chief of my property settled on myself!) that he
may lose this also, or throw it away in wild schemes, which nobody
can understand but himself? And, and--is not all this sufficient?'

'It is, indeed,' said Emily, 'but you must recollect, dear madam,
that I knew nothing of all this.'

'Well, and is it not sufficient,' rejoined her aunt, 'that he is also
absolutely ruined, that he is sunk deeply in debt, and that neither
this castle, or the mansion at Venice, is his own, if all his debts,
honourable and dishonourable, were paid!'

'I am shocked by what you tell me, madam,' said Emily.

'And is it not enough,' interrupted Madame Montoni, 'that he has
treated me with neglect, with cruelty, because I refused to
relinquish my settlements, and, instead of being frightened by his
menaces, resolutely defied him, and upbraided him with his shameful
conduct? But I bore all meekly,--you know, niece, I never uttered a
word of complaint, till now; no! That such a disposition as mine
should be so imposed upon! That I, whose only faults are too much
kindness, too much generosity, should be chained for life to such a
vile, deceitful, cruel monster!'

Want of breath compelled Madame Montoni to stop. If any thing could
have made Emily smile in these moments, it would have been this
speech of her aunt, delivered in a voice very little below a scream,
and with a vehemence of gesticulation and of countenance, that turned
the whole into burlesque. Emily saw, that her misfortunes did not
admit of real consolation, and, contemning the commonplace terms of
superficial comfort, she was silent; while Madame Montoni, jealous of
her own consequence, mistook this for the silence of indifference, or
of contempt, and reproached her with want of duty and feeling.

'O! I suspected what all this boasted sensibility would prove to be!'
rejoined she; 'I thought it would not teach you to feel either duty,
or affection, for your relations, who have treated you like their own
daughter!'

'Pardon me, madam,' said Emily, mildly, 'it is not natural to me to
boast, and if it was, I am sure I would not boast of sensibility--a
quality, perhaps, more to be feared, than desired.'

'Well, well, niece, I will not dispute with you. But, as I said,
Montoni threatens me with violence, if I any longer refuse to sign
away my settlements, and this was the subject of our contest, when
you came into the room before. Now, I am determined no power on
earth shall make me do this. Neither will I bear all this tamely.
He shall hear his true character from me; I will tell him all he
deserves, in spite of his threats and cruel treatment.'

Emily seized a pause of Madame Montoni's voice, to speak. 'Dear
madam,' said she, 'but will not this serve to irritate the Signor
unnecessarily? will it not provoke the harsh treatment you dread?'

'I do not care,' replied Madame Montoni, 'it does not signify: I
will not submit to such usage. You would have me give up my
settlements, too, I suppose!'

'No, madam, I do not exactly mean that.'

'What is it you do mean then?'

'You spoke of reproaching the Signor,'--said Emily, with hesitation.
'Why, does he not deserve reproaches?' said her aunt.

'Certainly he does; but will it be prudent in you, madam, to make
them?'

'Prudent!' exclaimed Madame Montoni. 'Is this a time to talk of
prudence, when one is threatened with all sorts of violence?'

'It is to avoid that violence, that prudence is necessary.' said
Emily.

'Of prudence!' continued Madame Montoni, without attending to her,
'of prudence towards a man, who does not scruple to break all the
common ties of humanity in his conduct to me! And is it for me to
consider prudence in my behaviour towards him! I am not so mean.'

'It is for your own sake, not for the Signor's, madam,' said Emily
modestly, 'that you should consult prudence. Your reproaches,
however just, cannot punish him, but they may provoke him to further
violence against you.'

'What! would you have me submit, then, to whatever he commands--would
you have me kneel down at his feet, and thank him for his cruelties?
Would you have me give up my settlements?'

'How much you mistake me, madam!' said Emily, 'I am unequal to advise
you on a point so important as the last: but you will pardon me for
saying, that, if you consult your own peace, you will try to
conciliate Signor Montoni, rather than to irritate him by
reproaches.'

'Conciliate indeed! I tell you, niece, it is utterly impossible; I
disdain to attempt it.'

Emily was shocked to observe the perverted understanding and
obstinate temper of Madame Montoni; but, not less grieved for her
sufferings, she looked round for some alleviating circumstance to
offer her. 'Your situation is, perhaps, not so desperate, dear
madam,' said Emily, 'as you may imagine. The Signor may represent
his affairs to be worse than they are, for the purpose of pleading a
stronger necessity for his possession of your settlement. Besides,
so long as you keep this, you may look forward to it as a resource,
at least, that will afford you a competence, should the Signor's
future conduct compel you to sue for separation.'

Madame Montoni impatiently interrupted her. 'Unfeeling, cruel girl!'
said she, 'and so you would persuade me, that I have no reason to
complain; that the Signor is in very flourishing circumstances, that
my future prospects promise nothing but comfort, and that my griefs
are as fanciful and romantic as your own! Is it the way to console
me, to endeavour to persuade me out of my senses and my feelings,
because you happen to have no feelings yourself? I thought I was
opening my heart to a person, who could sympathize in my distress,
but I find, that your people of sensibility can feel for nobody but
themselves! You may retire to your chamber.'

Emily, without replying, immediately left the room, with a mingled
emotion of pity and contempt, and hastened to her own, where she
yielded to the mournful reflections, which a knowledge of her aunt's
situation had occasioned. The conversation of the Italian with
Valancourt, in France, again occurred to her. His hints, respecting
the broken fortunes of Montoni, were now completely justified; those,
also, concerning his character, appeared not less so, though the
particular circumstances, connected with his fame, to which the
stranger had alluded, yet remained to be explained. Notwithstanding,
that her own observations and the words of Count Morano had convinced
her, that Montoni's situation was not what it formerly appeared to
be, the intelligence she had just received from her aunt on this
point, struck her with all the force of astonishment, which was not
weakened, when she considered the present style of Montoni's living,
the number of servants he maintained, and the new expences he was
incurring, by repairing and fortifying his castle. Her anxiety for
her aunt and for herself increased with reflection. Several
assertions of Morano, which, on the preceding night, she had believed
were prompted either by interest, or by resentment, now returned to
her mind with the strength of truth. She could not doubt, that
Montoni had formerly agreed to give her to the Count, for a pecuniary
reward;--his character, and his distressed circumstances justified
the belief; these, also, seemed to confirm Morano's assertion, that
he now designed to dispose of her, more advantageously for himself,
to a richer suitor.

Amidst the reproaches, which Morano had thrown out against Montoni,
he had said--he would not quit the castle HE DARED TO CALL HIS, nor
willingly leave ANOTHER murder on his conscience--hints, which might
have no other origin than the passion of the moment: but Emily was
now inclined to account for them more seriously, and she shuddered to
think, that she was in the hands of a man, to whom it was even
possible they could apply. At length, considering, that reflection
could neither release her from her melancholy situation, or enable
her to bear it with greater fortitude, she tried to divert her
anxiety, and took down from her little library a volume of her
favourite Ariosto; but his wild imagery and rich invention could not
long enchant her attention; his spells did not reach her heart, and
over her sleeping fancy they played, without awakening it.

She now put aside the book, and took her lute, for it was seldom that
her sufferings refused to yield to the magic of sweet sounds; when
they did so, she was oppressed by sorrow, that came from excess of
tenderness and regret; and there were times, when music had increased
such sorrow to a degree, that was scarcely endurable; when, if it had
not suddenly ceased, she might have lost her reason. Such was the
time, when she mourned for her father, and heard the midnight
strains, that floated by her window near the convent in Languedoc, on
the night that followed his death.

She continued to play, till Annette brought dinner into her chamber,
at which Emily was surprised, and enquired whose order she obeyed.
'My lady's, ma'amselle,' replied Annette: 'the Signor ordered her
dinner to be carried to her own apartment, and so she has sent you
yours. There have been sad doings between them, worse than ever, I
think.'

Emily, not appearing to notice what she said, sat down to the little
table, that was spread for her. But Annette was not to be silenced
thus easily. While she waited, she told of the arrival of the men,
whom Emily had observed on the ramparts, and expressed much surprise
at their strange appearance, as well as at the manner, in which they
had been attended by Montoni's order. 'Do they dine with the Signor,
then?' said Emily.

'No, ma'amselle, they dined long ago, in an apartment at the north
end of the castle, but I know not when they are to go, for the Signor
told old Carlo to see them provided with every thing necessary. They
have been walking all about the castle, and asking questions of the
workmen on the ramparts. I never saw such strange-looking men in my
life; I am frightened whenever I see them.'

Emily enquired, if she had heard of Count Morano, and whether he was
likely to recover: but Annette only knew, that he was lodged in a
cottage in the wood below, and that every body said he must die.
Emily's countenance discovered her emotion.

'Dear ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'to see how young ladies will
disguise themselves, when they are in love! I thought you hated the
Count, or I am sure I would not have told you; and I am sure you have
cause enough to hate him.'

'I hope I hate nobody,' replied Emily, trying to smile; 'but
certainly I do not love Count Morano. I should be shocked to hear of
any person dying by violent means.'

'Yes, ma'amselle, but it is his own fault.'

Emily looked displeased; and Annette, mistaking the cause of her
displeasure, immediately began to excuse the Count, in her way. 'To
be sure, it was very ungenteel behaviour,' said she, 'to break into a
lady's room, and then, when he found his discoursing was not
agreeable to her, to refuse to go; and then, when the gentleman of
the castle comes to desire him to walk about his business--to turn
round, and draw his sword, and swear he'll run him through the body!-
-To be sure it was very ungenteel behaviour, but then he was
disguised in love, and so did not know what he was about.'

'Enough of this,' said Emily, who now smiled without an effort; and
Annette returned to a mention of the disagreement between Montoni,
and her lady. 'It is nothing new,' said she: 'we saw and heard
enough of this at Venice, though I never told you of it, ma'amselle.'

'Well, Annette, it was very prudent of you not to mention it then:
be as prudent now; the subject is an unpleasant one.'

'Ah dear, ma'amselle!--to see now how considerate you can be about
some folks, who care so little about you! I cannot bear to see you
so deceived, and I must tell you. But it is all for your own good,
and not to spite my lady, though, to speak truth, I have little
reason to love her; but--'

'You are not speaking thus of my aunt, I hope, Annette?' said Emily,
gravely.

'Yes, ma'amselle, but I am, though; and if you knew as much as I do,
you would not look so angry. I have often, and often, heard the
Signor and her talking over your marriage with the Count, and she
always advised him never to give up to your foolish whims, as she was
pleased to call them, but to be resolute, and compel you to be
obedient, whether you would, or no. And I am sure, my heart has
ached a thousand times, and I have thought, when she was so unhappy
herself, she might have felt a little for other people, and--'

'I thank you for your pity, Annette,' said Emily, interrupting her:
'but my aunt was unhappy then, and that disturbed her temper perhaps,
or I think--I am sure--You may take away, Annette, I have done.'

'Dear ma'amselle, you have eat nothing at all! Do try, and take a
little bit more. Disturbed her temper truly! why, her temper is
always disturbed, I think. And at Tholouse too I have heard my lady
talking of you and Mons. Valancourt to Madame Merveille and Madame
Vaison, often and often, in a very ill-natured way, as I thought,
telling them what a deal of trouble she had to keep you in order, and
what a fatigue and distress it was to her, and that she believed you
would run away with Mons. Valancourt, if she was not to watch you
closely; and that you connived at his coming about the house at
night, and--'

'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, blushing deeply, 'it is surely
impossible my aunt could thus have represented me!'

'Indeed, ma'am, I say nothing more than the truth, and not all of
that. But I thought, myself, she might have found something better
to discourse about, than the faults of her own niece, even if you had
been in fault, ma'amselle; but I did not believe a word of what she
said. But my lady does not care what she says against any body, for
that matter.'

'However that may be, Annette,' interrupted Emily, recovering her
composure, 'it does not become you to speak of the faults of my aunt
to me. I know you have meant well, but--say no more.--I have quite
dined.'

Annette blushed, looked down, and then began slowly to clear the
table.

'Is this, then, the reward of my ingenuousness?' said Emily, when she
was alone; 'the treatment I am to receive from a relation--an aunt--
who ought to have been the guardian, not the slanderer of my
reputation,--who, as a woman, ought to have respected the delicacy of
female honour, and, as a relation, should have protected mine! But,
to utter falsehoods on so nice a subject--to repay the openness, and,
I may say with honest pride, the propriety of my conduct, with
slanders--required a depravity of heart, such as I could scarcely
have believed existed, such as I weep to find in a relation. O! what
a contrast does her character present to that of my beloved father;
while envy and low cunning form the chief traits of hers, his was
distinguished by benevolence and philosophic wisdom! But now, let me
only remember, if possible, that she is unfortunate.'

Emily threw her veil over her, and went down to walk upon the
ramparts, the only walk, indeed, which was open to her, though she
often wished, that she might be permitted to ramble among the woods
below, and still more, that she might sometimes explore the sublime
scenes of the surrounding country. But, as Montoni would not suffer
her to pass the gates of the castle, she tried to be contented with
the romantic views she beheld from the walls. The peasants, who had
been employed on the fortifications, had left their work, and the
ramparts were silent and solitary. Their lonely appearance, together
with the gloom of a lowering sky, assisted the musings of her mind,
and threw over it a kind of melancholy tranquillity, such as she
often loved to indulge. She turned to observe a fine effect of the
sun, as his rays, suddenly streaming from behind a heavy cloud,
lighted up the west towers of the castle, while the rest of the
edifice was in deep shade, except, that, through a lofty gothic arch,
adjoining the tower, which led to another terrace, the beams darted
in full splendour, and shewed the three strangers she had observed in
the morning. Perceiving them, she started, and a momentary fear came
over her, as she looked up the long rampart, and saw no other
persons. While she hesitated, they approached. The gate at the end
of the terrace, whither they were advancing, she knew, was always
locked, and she could not depart by the opposite extremity, without
meeting them; but, before she passed them, she hastily drew a thin
veil over her face, which did, indeed, but ill conceal her beauty.
They looked earnestly at her, and spoke to each other in bad Italian,
of which she caught only a few words; but the fierceness of their
countenances, now that she was near enough to discriminate them,
struck her yet more than the wild singularity of their air and dress
had formerly done. It was the countenance and figure of him, who
walked between the other two, that chiefly seized her attention,
which expressed a sullen haughtiness and a kind of dark watchful
villany, that gave a thrill of horror to her heart. All this was so
legibly written on his features, as to be seen by a single glance,
for she passed the group swiftly, and her timid eyes scarcely rested
on them a moment. Having reached the terrace, she stopped, and
perceived the strangers standing in the shadow of one of the turrets,
gazing after her, and seemingly, by their action, in earnest
conversation. She immediately left the rampart, and retired to her
apartment.

In the evening, Montoni sat late, carousing with his guests in the
cedar chamber. His recent triumph over Count Morano, or, perhaps,
some other circumstance, contributed to elevate his spirits to an
unusual height. He filled the goblet often, and gave a loose to
merriment and talk. The gaiety of Cavigni, on the contrary, was
somewhat clouded by anxiety. He kept a watchful eye upon Verezzi,
whom, with the utmost difficulty, he had hitherto restrained from
exasperating Montoni further against Morano, by a mention of his late
taunting words.

One of the company exultingly recurred to the event of the preceding
evening. Verezzi's eyes sparkled. The mention of Morano led to that
of Emily, of whom they were all profuse in the praise, except
Montoni, who sat silent, and then interrupted the subject.

When the servants had withdrawn, Montoni and his friends entered into
close conversation, which was sometimes checked by the irascible
temper of Verezzi, but in which Montoni displayed his conscious
superiority, by that decisive look and manner, which always
accompanied the vigour of his thought, and to which most of his
companions submitted, as to a power, that they had no right to
question, though of each other's self-importance they were jealously
scrupulous. Amidst this conversation, one of them imprudently
introduced again the name of Morano; and Verezzi, now more heated by
wine, disregarded the expressive looks of Cavigni, and gave some dark
hints of what had passed on the preceding night. These, however,
Montoni did not appear to understand, for he continued silent in his
chair, without discovering any emotion, while, the choler of Verezzi
increasing with the apparent insensibility of Montoni, he at length
told the suggestion of Morano, that this castle did not lawfully
belong to him, and that he would not willingly leave another murder
on his conscience.

'Am I to be insulted at my own table, and by my own friends?' said
Montoni, with a countenance pale in anger. 'Why are the words of
that madman repeated to me?' Verezzi, who had expected to hear
Montoni's indignation poured forth against Morano, and answered by
thanks to himself, looked with astonishment at Cavigni, who enjoyed
his confusion. 'Can you be weak enough to credit the assertions of a
madman?' rejoined Montoni, 'or, what is the same thing, a man
possessed by the spirit of vengeance? But he has succeeded too well;
you believe what he said.'

'Signor,' said Verezzi, 'we believe only what we know.'--'How!'
interrupted Montoni, sternly: 'produce your proof.'

'We believe only what we know,' repeated Verezzi, 'and we know
nothing of what Morano asserts.' Montoni seemed to recover himself.
'I am hasty, my friends,' said he, 'with respect to my honour; no man
shall question it with impunity--you did not mean to question it.
These foolish words are not worth your remembrance, or my resentment.
Verezzi, here is to your first exploit.'

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