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

Virgil - "Vergil's Bucolics in English"

Rafael Sabatini - "The Tavern Knight"

Paul and Mabel Thorne - "The Sheridan Road Mystery"

The Mysteries of Udolpho

A >> Ann Radcliffe >> The Mysteries of Udolpho




With these resolutions she met him at the appointed time, and waited
to hear his intention before she renewed her request. With him were
Orsino and another officer, and both were standing near a table,
covered with papers, which he appeared to be examining.

'I sent for you, Emily,' said Montoni, raising his head, 'that you
might be a witness in some business, which I am transacting with my
friend Orsino. All that is required of you will be to sign your name
to this paper:' he then took one up, hurried unintelligibly over some
lines, and, laying it before her on the table, offered her a pen.
She took it, and was going to write--when the design of Montoni came
upon her mind like a flash of lightning; she trembled, let the pen
fall, and refused to sign what she had not read. Montoni affected to
laugh at her scruples, and, taking up the paper, again pretended to
read; but Emily, who still trembled on perceiving her danger, and was
astonished, that her own credulity had so nearly betrayed her,
positively refused to sign any paper whatever. Montoni, for some
time, persevered in affecting to ridicule this refusal; but, when he
perceived by her steady perseverance, that she understood his design,
he changed his manner, and bade her follow him to another room.
There he told her, that he had been willing to spare himself and her
the trouble of useless contest, in an affair, where his will was
justice, and where she should find it law; and had, therefore,
endeavoured to persuade, rather than to compel, her to the practice
of her duty.

'I, as the husband of the late Signora Montoni,' he added, 'am the
heir of all she possessed; the estates, therefore, which she refused
to me in her life-time, can no longer be withheld, and, for your own
sake, I would undeceive you, respecting a foolish assertion she once
made to you in my hearing--that these estates would be yours, if she
died without resigning them to me. She knew at that moment, she had
no power to withhold them from me, after her decease; and I think you
have more sense, than to provoke my resentment by advancing an unjust
claim. I am not in the habit of flattering, and you will, therefore,
receive, as sincere, the praise I bestow, when I say, that you
possess an understanding superior to that of your sex; and that you
have none of those contemptible foibles, that frequently mark the
female character--such as avarice and the love of power, which latter
makes women delight to contradict and to tease, when they cannot
conquer. If I understand your disposition and your mind, you hold in
sovereign contempt these common failings of your sex.'

Montoni paused; and Emily remained silent and expecting; for she knew
him too well, to believe he would condescend to such flattery, unless
he thought it would promote his own interest; and, though he had
forborne to name vanity among the foibles of women, it was evident,
that he considered it to be a predominant one, since he designed to
sacrifice to hers the character and understanding of her whole sex.

'Judging as I do,' resumed Montoni, 'I cannot believe you will
oppose, where you know you cannot conquer, or, indeed, that you would
wish to conquer, or be avaricious of any property, when you have not
justice on your side. I think it proper, however, to acquaint you
with the alternative. If you have a just opinion of the subject in
question, you shall be allowed a safe conveyance to France, within a
short period; but, if you are so unhappy as to be misled by the late
assertion of the Signora, you shall remain my prisoner, till you are
convinced of your error.'

Emily calmly said,

'I am not so ignorant, Signor, of the laws on this subject, as to be
misled by the assertion of any person. The law, in the present
instance, gives me the estates in question, and my own hand shall
never betray my right.'

'I have been mistaken in my opinion of you, it appears,' rejoined
Montoni, sternly. 'You speak boldly, and presumptuously, upon a
subject, which you do not understand. For once, I am willing to
pardon the conceit of ignorance; the weakness of your sex, too, from
which, it seems, you are not exempt, claims some allowance; but, if
you persist in this strain--you have every thing to fear from my
justice.'

'From your justice, Signor,' rejoined Emily, 'I have nothing to fear-
-I have only to hope.'

Montoni looked at her with vexation, and seemed considering what to
say. 'I find that you are weak enough,' he resumed, 'to credit the
idle assertion I alluded to! For your own sake I lament this; as to
me, it is of little consequence. Your credulity can punish only
yourself; and I must pity the weakness of mind, which leads you to so
much suffering as you are compelling me to prepare for you.'

'You may find, perhaps, Signor,' said Emily, with mild dignity, 'that
the strength of my mind is equal to the justice of my cause; and that
I can endure with fortitude, when it is in resistance of oppression.'

'You speak like a heroine,' said Montoni, contemptuously; 'we shall
see whether you can suffer like one.'

Emily was silent, and he left the room.

Recollecting, that it was for Valancourt's sake she had thus
resisted, she now smiled complacently upon the threatened sufferings,
and retired to the spot, which her aunt had pointed out as the
repository of the papers, relative to the estates, where she found
them as described; and, since she knew of no better place of
concealment, than this, returned them, without examining their
contents, being fearful of discovery, while she should attempt a
perusal.

To her own solitary chamber she once more returned, and there thought
again of the late conversation with Montoni, and of the evil she
might expect from opposition to his will. But his power did not
appear so terrible to her imagination, as it was wont to do: a
sacred pride was in her heart, that taught it to swell against the
pressure of injustice, and almost to glory in the quiet sufferance of
ills, in a cause, which had also the interest of Valancourt for its
object. For the first time, she felt the full extent of her own
superiority to Montoni, and despised the authority, which, till now,
she had only feared.

As she sat musing, a peal of laughter rose from the terrace, and, on
going to the casement, she saw, with inexpressible surprise, three
ladies, dressed in the gala habit of Venice, walking with several
gentlemen below. She gazed in an astonishment that made her remain
at the window, regardless of being observed, till the group passed
under it; and, one of the strangers looking up, she perceived the
features of Signora Livona, with whose manners she had been so much
charmed, the day after her arrival at Venice, and who had been there
introduced at the table of Montoni. This discovery occasioned her an
emotion of doubtful joy; for it was matter of joy and comfort to
know, that a person, of a mind so gentle, as that of Signora Livona
seemed to be, was near her; yet there was something so extraordinary
in her being at this castle, circumstanced as it now was, and
evidently, by the gaiety of her air, with her own consent, that a
very painful surmise arose, concerning her character. But the
thought was so shocking to Emily, whose affection the fascinating
manners of the Signora had won, and appeared so improbable, when she
remembered these manners, that she dismissed it almost instantly.

On Annette's appearance, however, she enquired, concerning these
strangers; and the former was as eager to tell, as Emily was to
learn.

'They are just come, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'with two Signors
from Venice, and I was glad to see such Christian faces once again.--
But what can they mean by coming here? They must surely be stark mad
to come freely to such a place as this! Yet they do come freely, for
they seem merry enough, I am sure.'

'They were taken prisoners, perhaps?' said Emily.

'Taken prisoners!' exclaimed Annette; 'no, indeed, ma'amselle, not
they. I remember one of them very well at Venice: she came two or
three times, to the Signor's you know, ma'amselle, and it was said,
but I did not believe a word of it--it was said, that the Signor
liked her better than he should do. Then why, says I, bring her to
my lady? Very true, said Ludovico; but he looked as if he knew more,
too.'

Emily desired Annette would endeavour to learn who these ladies were,
as well as all she could concerning them; and she then changed the
subject, and spoke of distant France.

'Ah, ma'amselle! we shall never see it more!' said Annette, almost
weeping.--'I must come on my travels, forsooth!'

Emily tried to sooth and to cheer her, with a hope, in which she
scarcely herself indulged.

'How--how, ma'amselle, could you leave France, and leave Mons.
Valancourt, too?' said Annette, sobbing. 'I--I--am sure, if Ludovico
had been in France, I would never have left it.'

'Why do you lament quitting France, then?' said Emily, trying to
smile, 'since, if you had remained there, you would not have found
Ludovico.'

'Ah, ma'amselle! I only wish I was out of this frightful castle,
serving you in France, and I would care about nothing else!'

'Thank you, my good Annette, for your affectionate regard; the time
will come, I hope, when you may remember the expression of that wish
with pleasure.'

Annette departed on her business, and Emily sought to lose the sense
of her own cares, in the visionary scenes of the poet; but she had
again to lament the irresistible force of circumstances over the
taste and powers of the mind; and that it requires a spirit at ease
to be sensible even to the abstract pleasures of pure intellect. The
enthusiasm of genius, with all its pictured scenes, now appeared
cold, and dim. As she mused upon the book before her, she
involuntarily exclaimed, 'Are these, indeed, the passages, that have
so often given me exquisite delight? Where did the charm exist?--Was
it in my mind, or in the imagination of the poet? It lived in each,'
said she, pausing. 'But the fire of the poet is vain, if the mind of
his reader is not tempered like his own, however it may be inferior
to his in power.'

Emily would have pursued this train of thinking, because it relieved
her from more painful reflection, but she found again, that thought
cannot always be controlled by will; and hers returned to the
consideration of her own situation.

In the evening, not choosing to venture down to the ramparts, where
she would be exposed to the rude gaze of Montoni's associates, she
walked for air in the gallery, adjoining her chamber; on reaching the
further end of which she heard distant sounds of merriment and
laughter. It was the wild uproar of riot, not the cheering gaiety of
tempered mirth; and seemed to come from that part of the castle,
where Montoni usually was. Such sounds, at this time, when her aunt
had been so few days dead, particularly shocked her, consistent as
they were with the late conduct of Montoni.

As she listened, she thought she distinguished female voices mingling
with the laughter, and this confirmed her worst surmise, concerning
the character of Signora Livona and her companions. It was evident,
that they had not been brought hither by compulsion; and she beheld
herself in the remote wilds of the Apennine, surrounded by men, whom
she considered to be little less than ruffians, and their worst
associates, amid scenes of vice, from which her soul recoiled in
horror. It was at this moment, when the scenes of the present and
the future opened to her imagination, that the image of Valancourt
failed in its influence, and her resolution shook with dread. She
thought she understood all the horrors, which Montoni was preparing
for her, and shrunk from an encounter with such remorseless
vengeance, as he could inflict. The disputed estates she now almost
determined to yield at once, whenever he should again call upon her,
that she might regain safety and freedom; but then, the remembrance
of Valancourt would steal to her heart, and plunge her into the
distractions of doubt.

She continued walking in the gallery, till evening threw its
melancholy twilight through the painted casements, and deepened the
gloom of the oak wainscoting around her; while the distant
perspective of the corridor was so much obscured, as to be
discernible only by the glimmering window, that terminated it.

Along the vaulted halls and passages below, peals of laughter echoed
faintly, at intervals, to this remote part of the castle, and seemed
to render the succeeding stillness more dreary. Emily, however,
unwilling to return to her more forlorn chamber, whither Annette was
not yet come, still paced the gallery. As she passed the door of the
apartment, where she had once dared to lift the veil, which
discovered to her a spectacle so horrible, that she had never after
remembered it, but with emotions of indescribable awe, this
remembrance suddenly recurred. It now brought with it reflections
more terrible, than it had yet done, which the late conduct of
Montoni occasioned; and, hastening to quit the gallery, while she had
power to do so, she heard a sudden step behind her.--It might be that
of Annette; but, turning fearfully to look, she saw, through the
gloom, a tall figure following her, and all the horrors of that
chamber rushed upon her mind. In the next moment, she found herself
clasped in the arms of some person, and heard a deep voice murmur in
her ear.

When she had power to speak, or to distinguish articulated sounds,
she demanded who detained her.

'It is I,' replied the voice--'Why are you thus alarmed?'

She looked on the face of the person who spoke, but the feeble light,
that gleamed through the high casement at the end of the gallery, did
not permit her to distinguish the features.

'Whoever you are,' said Emily, in a trembling voice, 'for heaven's
sake let me go!'

'My charming Emily,' said the man, 'why will you shut yourself up in
this obscure place, when there is so much gaiety below? Return with
me to the cedar parlour, where you will be the fairest ornament of
the party;--you shall not repent the exchange.'

Emily disdained to reply, and still endeavoured to liberate herself.

'Promise, that you will come,' he continued, 'and I will release you
immediately; but first give me a reward for so doing.'

'Who are you?' demanded Emily, in a tone of mingled terror and
indignation, while she still struggled for liberty--'who are you,
that have the cruelty thus to insult me?'

'Why call me cruel?' said the man, 'I would remove you from this
dreary solitude to a merry party below. Do you not know me?'

Emily now faintly remembered, that he was one of the officers who
were with Montoni when she attended him in the morning. 'I thank you
for the kindness of your intention,' she replied, without appearing
to understand him, 'but I wish for nothing so much as that you would
leave me.'

'Charming Emily!' said he, 'give up this foolish whim for solitude,
and come with me to the company, and eclipse the beauties who make
part of it; you, only, are worthy of my love.' He attempted to kiss
her hand, but the strong impulse of her indignation gave her power to
liberate herself, and she fled towards the chamber. She closed the
door, before he reached it, having secured which, she sunk in a
chair, overcome by terror and by the exertion she had made, while she
heard his voice, and his attempts to open the door, without having
the power to raise herself. At length, she perceived him depart, and
had remained, listening, for a considerable time, and was somewhat
revived by not hearing any sound, when suddenly she remembered the
door of the private stair-case, and that he might enter that way,
since it was fastened only on the other side. She then employed
herself in endeavouring to secure it, in the manner she had formerly
done. It appeared to her, that Montoni had already commenced his
scheme of vengeance, by withdrawing from her his protection, and she
repented of the rashness, that had made her brave the power of such a
man. To retain the estates seemed to be now utterly impossible, and
to preserve her life, perhaps her honour, she resolved, if she should
escape the horrors of this night, to give up all claims to the
estates, on the morrow, provided Montoni would suffer her to depart
from Udolpho.

When she had come to this decision, her mind became more composed,
though she still anxiously listened, and often started at ideal
sounds, that appeared to issue from the stair-case.

Having sat in darkness for some hours, during all which time Annette
did not appear, she began to have serious apprehensions for her; but,
not daring to venture down into the castle, was compelled to remain
in uncertainty, as to the cause of this unusual absence.

Emily often stole to the stair-case door, to listen if any step
approached, but still no sound alarmed her: determining, however, to
watch, during the night, she once more rested on her dark and
desolate couch, and bathed the pillow with innocent tears. She
thought of her deceased parents and then of the absent Valancourt,
and frequently called upon their names; for the profound stillness,
that now reigned, was propitious to the musing sorrow of her mind.

While she thus remained, her ear suddenly caught the notes of distant
music, to which she listened attentively, and, soon perceiving this
to be the instrument she had formerly heard at midnight, she rose,
and stepped softly to the casement, to which the sounds appeared to
come from a lower room.

In a few moments, their soft melody was accompanied by a voice so
full of pathos, that it evidently sang not of imaginary sorrows. Its
sweet and peculiar tones she thought she had somewhere heard before;
yet, if this was not fancy, it was, at most, a very faint
recollection. It stole over her mind, amidst the anguish of her
present suffering, like a celestial strain, soothing, and re-assuring
her;--'Pleasant as the gale of spring, that sighs on the hunter's
ear, when he awakens from dreams of joy, and has heard the music of
the spirits of the hill.'*

(*Ossian. [A. R.])


But her emotion can scarcely be imagined, when she heard sung, with
the taste and simplicity of true feeling, one of the popular airs of
her native province, to which she had so often listened with delight,
when a child, and which she had so often heard her father repeat! To
this well-known song, never, till now, heard but in her native
country, her heart melted, while the memory of past times returned.
The pleasant, peaceful scenes of Gascony, the tenderness and goodness
of her parents, the taste and simplicity of her former life--all rose
to her fancy, and formed a picture, so sweet and glowing, so
strikingly contrasted with the scenes, the characters and the
dangers, which now surrounded her--that her mind could not bear to
pause upon the retrospect, and shrunk at the acuteness of its own
sufferings.

Her sighs were deep and convulsed; she could no longer listen to the
strain, that had so often charmed her to tranquillity, and she
withdrew from the casement to a remote part of the chamber. But she
was not yet beyond the reach of the music; she heard the measure
change, and the succeeding air called her again to the window, for
she immediately recollected it to be the same she had formerly heard
in the fishing-house in Gascony. Assisted, perhaps, by the mystery,
which had then accompanied this strain, it had made so deep an
impression on her memory, that she had never since entirely forgotten
it; and the manner, in which it was now sung, convinced her, however
unaccountable the circumstances appeared, that this was the same
voice she had then heard. Surprise soon yielded to other emotions; a
thought darted, like lightning, upon her mind, which discovered a
train of hopes, that revived all her spirits. Yet these hopes were
so new, so unexpected, so astonishing, that she did not dare to
trust, though she could not resolve to discourage them. She sat down
by the casement, breathless, and overcome with the alternate emotions
of hope and fear; then rose again, leaned from the window, that she
might catch a nearer sound, listened, now doubting and then
believing, softly exclaimed the name of Valancourt, and then sunk
again into the chair. Yes, it was possible, that Valancourt was near
her, and she recollected circumstances, which induced her to believe
it was his voice she had just heard. She remembered he had more than
once said that the fishing-house, where she had formerly listened to
this voice and air, and where she had seen pencilled sonnets,
addressed to herself, had been his favourite haunt, before he had
been made known to her; there, too, she had herself unexpectedly met
him. It appeared, from these circumstances, more than probable, that
he was the musician, who had formerly charmed her attention, and the
author of the lines, which had expressed such tender admiration;--who
else, indeed, could it be? She was unable, at that time, to form a
conjecture, as to the writer, but, since her acquaintance with
Valancourt, whenever he had mentioned the fishing-house to have been
known to him, she had not scrupled to believe that he was the author
of the sonnets.

As these considerations passed over her mind, joy, fear and
tenderness contended at her heart; she leaned again from the casement
to catch the sounds, which might confirm, or destroy her hope, though
she did not recollect to have ever heard him sing; but the voice, and
the instrument, now ceased.

She considered for a moment whether she should venture to speak:
then, not choosing, lest it should be he, to mention his name, and
yet too much interested to neglect the opportunity of enquiring, she
called from the casement, 'Is that song from Gascony?' Her anxious
attention was not cheered by any reply; every thing remained silent.
Her impatience increasing with her fears, she repeated the question;
but still no sound was heard, except the sighings of the wind among
the battlements above; and she endeavoured to console herself with a
belief, that the stranger, whoever he was, had retired, before she
had spoken, beyond the reach of her voice, which, it appeared
certain, had Valancourt heard and recognized, he would instantly have
replied to. Presently, however, she considered, that a motive of
prudence, and not an accidental removal, might occasion his silence;
but the surmise, that led to this reflection, suddenly changed her
hope and joy to terror and grief; for, if Valancourt were in the
castle, it was too probable, that he was here a prisoner, taken with
some of his countrymen, many of whom were at that time engaged in the
wars of Italy, or intercepted in some attempt to reach her. Had he
even recollected Emily's voice, he would have feared, in these
circumstances, to reply to it, in the presence of the men, who
guarded his prison.

What so lately she had eagerly hoped she now believed she dreaded;--
dreaded to know, that Valancourt was near her; and, while she was
anxious to be relieved from her apprehension for his safety, she
still was unconscious, that a hope of soon seeing him, struggled with
the fear.

She remained listening at the casement, till the air began to
freshen, and one high mountain in the east to glimmer with the
morning; when, wearied with anxiety, she retired to her couch, where
she found it utterly impossible to sleep, for joy, tenderness, doubt
and apprehension, distracted her during the whole night. Now she
rose from the couch, and opened the casement to listen; then she
would pace the room with impatient steps, and, at length, return with
despondence to her pillow. Never did hours appear to move so
heavily, as those of this anxious night; after which she hoped that
Annette might appear, and conclude her present state of torturing
suspense.



CHAPTER VI


might we but hear
The folded flocks penn'd in their watled cotes,
Or sound of pastoral reed with oaten stops,
Or whistle from the lodge, or village cock
Count the night watches to his feathery dames,
'Twould be some solace yet, some little cheering
In this close dungeon of innumerous boughs.
MILTON

In the morning, Emily was relieved from her fears for Annette, who
came at an early hour.

'Here were fine doings in the castle, last night, ma'amselle,' said
she, as soon as she entered the room,--'fine doings, indeed! Was you
not frightened, ma'amselle, at not seeing me?'

'I was alarmed both on your account and on my own,' replied Emily--
'What detained you?'

'Aye, I said so, I told him so; but it would not do. It was not my
fault, indeed, ma'amselle, for I could not get out. That rogue
Ludovico locked me up again.'

Copyright (c) 2007. topbookz.net. All rights reserved.