John Galsworthy - "To Let"

Anthony Trollope - "The Eustace Diamonds"

John Greenleaf Whittier - "Poems in Wartime"

Friedrich Kerst and Henry Edward Krehbiel - "Mozart: The Man and the Artist, as Revealed in his own Words"

The Mysteries of Udolpho

A >> Ann Radcliffe >> The Mysteries of Udolpho




The sun was now setting upon the valley; its last light gleamed upon
the water, and heightened the rich yellow and purple tints of the
heath and broom, that overspread the mountains. St. Aubert enquired
of Michael the distance to the hamlet he had mentioned, but the man
could not with certainty tell; and Emily began to fear that he had
mistaken the road. Here was no human being to assist, or direct
them; they had left the shepherd and his cabin far behind, and the
scene became so obscured in twilight, that the eye could not follow
the distant perspective of the valley in search of a cottage, or a
hamlet. A glow of the horizon still marked the west, and this was of
some little use to the travellers. Michael seemed endeavouring to
keep up his courage by singing; his music, however, was not of a kind
to disperse melancholy; he sung, in a sort of chant, one of the most
dismal ditties his present auditors had ever heard, and St. Aubert at
length discovered it to be a vesper-hymn to his favourite saint.

They travelled on, sunk in that thoughtful melancholy, with which
twilight and solitude impress the mind. Michael had now ended his
ditty, and nothing was heard but the drowsy murmur of the breeze
among the woods, and its light flutter, as it blew freshly into the
carriage. They were at length roused by the sound of fire-arms. St.
Aubert called to the muleteer to stop, and they listened. The noise
was not repeated; but presently they heard a rustling among the
brakes. St. Aubert drew forth a pistol, and ordered Michael to
proceed as fast as possible; who had not long obeyed, before a horn
sounded, that made the mountains ring. He looked again from the
window, and then saw a young man spring from the bushes into the
road, followed by a couple of dogs. The stranger was in a hunter's
dress. His gun was slung across his shoulders, the hunter's horn
hung from his belt, and in his hand was a small pike, which, as he
held it, added to the manly grace of his figure, and assisted the
agility of his steps.

After a moment's hesitation, St. Aubert again stopped the carriage,
and waited till he came up, that they might enquire concerning the
hamlet they were in search of. The stranger informed him, that it
was only half a league distant, that he was going thither himself,
and would readily shew the way. St. Aubert thanked him for the
offer, and, pleased with his chevalier-like air and open countenance,
asked him to take a seat in the carriage; which the stranger, with an
acknowledgment, declined, adding that he would keep pace with the
mules. 'But I fear you will be wretchedly accommodated,' said he:
'the inhabitants of these mountains are a simple people, who are not
only without the luxuries of life, but almost destitute of what in
other places are held to be its necessaries.'

'I perceive you are not one of its inhabitants, sir,' said St.
Aubert.

'No, sir, I am only a wanderer here.'

The carriage drove on, and the increasing dusk made the travellers
very thankful that they had a guide; the frequent glens, too, that
now opened among the mountains, would likewise have added to their
perplexity. Emily, as she looked up one of these, saw something at a
great distance like a bright cloud in the air. 'What light is
yonder, sir?' said she.

St. Aubert looked, and perceived that it was the snowy summit of a
mountain, so much higher than any around it, that it still reflected
the sun's rays, while those below lay in deep shade.

At length, the village lights were seen to twinkle through the dusk,
and, soon after, some cottages were discovered in the valley, or
rather were seen by reflection in the stream, on whose margin they
stood, and which still gleamed with the evening light.

The stranger now came up, and St. Aubert, on further enquiry, found
not only that there was no inn in the place, but not any sort of
house of public reception. The stranger, however, offered to walk
on, and enquire for a cottage to accommodate them; for which further
civility St. Aubert returned his thanks, and said, that, as the
village was so near, he would alight, and walk with him. Emily
followed slowly in the carriage.

On the way, St. Aubert asked his companion what success he had had in
the chase. 'Not much, sir,' he replied, 'nor do I aim at it. I am
pleased with the country, and mean to saunter away a few weeks among
its scenes. My dogs I take with me more for companionship than for
game. This dress, too, gives me an ostensible business, and procures
me that respect from the people, which would, perhaps, be refused to
a lonely stranger, who had no visible motive for coming among them.'

'I admire your taste,' said St. Aubert, 'and, if I was a younger man,
should like to pass a few weeks in your way exceedingly. I, too, am
a wanderer, but neither my plan nor pursuits are exactly like yours--
I go in search of health, as much as of amusement.' St. Aubert
sighed, and paused; and then, seeming to recollect himself, he
resumed: 'If I can hear of a tolerable road, that shall afford
decent accommodation, it is my intention to pass into Rousillon, and
along the sea-shore to Languedoc. You, sir, seem to be acquainted
with the country, and can, perhaps, give me information on the
subject.'

The stranger said, that what information he could give was entirely
at his service; and then mentioned a road rather more to the east,
which led to a town, whence it would be easy to proceed into
Rousillon.

They now arrived at the village, and commenced their search for a
cottage, that would afford a night's lodging. In several, which they
entered, ignorance, poverty, and mirth seemed equally to prevail; and
the owners eyed St. Aubert with a mixture of curiosity and timidity.
Nothing like a bed could be found, and he had ceased to enquire for
one, when Emily joined him, who observed the languor of her father's
countenance, and lamented, that he had taken a road so ill provided
with the comforts necessary for an invalid. Other cottages, which
they examined, seemed somewhat less savage than the former,
consisting of two rooms, if such they could be called; the first of
these occupied by mules and pigs, the second by the family, which
generally consisted of six or eight children, with their parents, who
slept on beds of skins and dried beech leaves, spread upon a mud
floor. Here, light was admitted, and smoke discharged, through an
aperture in the roof; and here the scent of spirits (for the
travelling smugglers, who haunted the Pyrenees, had made this rude
people familiar with the use of liquors) was generally perceptible
enough. Emily turned from such scenes, and looked at her father with
anxious tenderness, which the young stranger seemed to observe; for,
drawing St. Aubert aside, he made him an offer of his own bed. 'It
is a decent one,' said he, 'when compared with what we have just
seen, yet such as in other circumstances I should be ashamed to offer
you.' St. Aubert acknowledged how much he felt himself obliged by
this kindness, but refused to accept it, till the young stranger
would take no denial. 'Do not give me the pain of knowing, sir,'
said he, 'that an invalid, like you, lies on hard skins, while I
sleep in a bed. Besides, sir, your refusal wounds my pride; I must
believe you think my offer unworthy your acceptance. Let me shew you
the way. I have no doubt my landlady can accommodate this young lady
also.'

St. Aubert at length consented, that, if this could be done, he would
accept his kindness, though he felt rather surprised, that the
stranger had proved himself so deficient in gallantry, as to
administer to the repose of an infirm man, rather than to that of a
very lovely young woman, for he had not once offered the room for
Emily. But she thought not of herself, and the animated smile she
gave him, told how much she felt herself obliged for the preference
of her father.

On their way, the stranger, whose name was Valancourt, stepped on
first to speak to his hostess, and she came out to welcome St. Aubert
into a cottage, much superior to any he had seen. This good woman
seemed very willing to accommodate the strangers, who were soon
compelled to accept the only two beds in the place. Eggs and milk
were the only food the cottage afforded; but against scarcity of
provisions St. Aubert had provided, and he requested Valancourt to
stay, and partake with him of less homely fare; an invitation, which
was readily accepted, and they passed an hour in intelligent
conversation. St. Aubert was much pleased with the manly frankness,
simplicity, and keen susceptibility to the grandeur of nature, which
his new acquaintance discovered; and, indeed, he had often been heard
to say, that, without a certain simplicity of heart, this taste could
not exist in any strong degree.

The conversation was interrupted by a violent uproar without, in
which the voice of the muleteer was heard above every other sound.
Valancourt started from his seat, and went to enquire the occasion;
but the dispute continued so long afterwards, that St. Aubert went
himself, and found Michael quarrelling with the hostess, because she
had refused to let his mules lie in a little room where he and three
of her sons were to pass the night. The place was wretched enough,
but there was no other for these people to sleep in; and, with
somewhat more of delicacy than was usual among the inhabitants of
this wild tract of country, she persisted in refusing to let the
animals have the same BED-CHAMBER with her children. This was a
tender point with the muleteer; his honour was wounded when his mules
were treated with disrespect, and he would have received a blow,
perhaps, with more meekness. He declared that his beasts were as
honest beasts, and as good beasts, as any in the whole province; and
that they had a right to be well treated wherever they went. 'They
are as harmless as lambs,' said he, 'if people don't affront them. I
never knew them behave themselves amiss above once or twice in my
life, and then they had good reason for doing so. Once, indeed, they
kicked at a boy's leg that lay asleep in the stable, and broke it;
but I told them they were out there, and by St. Anthony! I believe
they understood me, for they never did so again.'

He concluded this eloquent harangue with protesting, that they should
share with him, go where he would.

The dispute was at length settled by Valancourt, who drew the hostess
aside, and desired she would let the muleteer and his beasts have the
place in question to themselves, while her sons should have the bed
of skins designed for him, for that he would wrap himself in his
cloak, and sleep on the bench by the cottage door. But this she
thought it her duty to oppose, and she felt it to be her inclination
to disappoint the muleteer. Valancourt, however, was positive, and
the tedious affair was at length settled.

It was late when St. Aubert and Emily retired to their rooms, and
Valancourt to his station at the door, which, at this mild season, he
preferred to a close cabin and a bed of skins. St. Aubert was
somewhat surprised to find in his room volumes of Homer, Horace, and
Petrarch; but the name of Valancourt, written in them, told him to
whom they belonged.



CHAPTER IV


In truth he was a strange and wayward wight,
Fond of each gentle, and each dreadful scene,
In darkness, and in storm he found delight;
Nor less than when on ocean-wave serene
The southern sun diffus'd his dazzling sheen.
Even sad vicissitude amus'd his soul;
And if a sigh would sometimes intervene,
And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,
A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish'd not to controul.
THE MINSTREL

St. Aubert awoke at an early hour, refreshed by sleep, and desirous
to set forward. He invited the stranger to breakfast with him; and,
talking again of the road, Valancourt said, that, some months past,
he had travelled as far as Beaujeu, which was a town of some
consequence on the way to Rousillon. He recommended it to St. Aubert
to take that route, and the latter determined to do so.

'The road from this hamlet,' said Valancourt, 'and that to Beaujeu,
part at the distance of about a league and a half from hence; if you
will give me leave, I will direct your muleteer so far. I must
wander somewhere, and your company would make this a pleasanter
ramble than any other I could take.'

St. Aubert thankfully accepted his offer, and they set out together,
the young stranger on foot, for he refused the invitation of St.
Aubert to take a seat in his little carriage.

The road wound along the feet of the mountains through a pastoral
valley, bright with verdure, and varied with groves of dwarf oak,
beech and sycamore, under whose branches herds of cattle reposed.
The mountain-ash too, and the weeping birch, often threw their
pendant foliage over the steeps above, where the scanty soil scarcely
concealed their roots, and where their light branches waved to every
breeze that fluttered from the mountains.

The travellers were frequently met at this early hour, for the sun
had not yet risen upon the valley, by shepherds driving immense
flocks from their folds to feed upon the hills. St. Aubert had set
out thus early, not only that he might enjoy the first appearance of
sunrise, but that he might inhale the first pure breath of morning,
which above all things is refreshing to the spirits of the invalid.
In these regions it was particularly so, where an abundance of wild
flowers and aromatic herbs breathed forth their essence on the air.

The dawn, which softened the scenery with its peculiar grey tint, now
dispersed, and Emily watched the progress of the day, first trembling
on the tops of the highest cliffs, then touching them with splendid
light, while their sides and the vale below were still wrapt in dewy
mist. Meanwhile, the sullen grey of the eastern clouds began to
blush, then to redden, and then to glow with a thousand colours, till
the golden light darted over all the air, touched the lower points of
the mountain's brow, and glanced in long sloping beams upon the
valley and its stream. All nature seemed to have awakened from death
into life; the spirit of St. Aubert was renovated. His heart was
full; he wept, and his thoughts ascended to the Great Creator.

Emily wished to trip along the turf, so green and bright with dew,
and to taste the full delight of that liberty, which the izard seemed
to enjoy as he bounded along the brow of the cliffs; while Valancourt
often stopped to speak with the travellers, and with social feeling
to point out to them the peculiar objects of his admiration. St.
Aubert was pleased with him: 'Here is the real ingenuousness and
ardour of youth,' said he to himself; 'this young man has never been
at Paris.'

He was sorry when they came to the spot where the roads parted, and
his heart took a more affectionate leave of him than is usual after
so short an acquaintance. Valancourt talked long by the side of the
carriage; seemed more than once to be going, but still lingered, and
appeared to search anxiously for topics of conversation to account
for his delay. At length he took leave. As he went, St. Aubert
observed him look with an earnest and pensive eye at Emily, who bowed
to him with a countenance full of timid sweetness, while the carriage
drove on. St. Aubert, for whatever reason, soon after looked from
the window, and saw Valancourt standing upon the bank of the road,
resting on his pike with folded arms, and following the carriage with
his eyes. He waved his hand, and Valancourt, seeming to awake from
his reverie, returned the salute, and started away.

The aspect of the country now began to change, and the travellers
soon found themselves among mountains covered from their base nearly
to their summits with forests of gloomy pine, except where a rock of
granite shot up from the vale, and lost its snowy top in the clouds.
The rivulet, which had hitherto accompanied them, now expanded into a
river; and, flowing deeply and silently along, reflected, as in a
mirror, the blackness of the impending shades. Sometimes a cliff was
seen lifting its bold head above the woods and the vapours, that
floated mid-way down the mountains; and sometimes a face of
perpendicular marble rose from the water's edge, over which the larch
threw his gigantic arms, here scathed with lightning, and there
floating in luxuriant foliage.

They continued to travel over a rough and unfrequented road, seeing
now and then at a distance the solitary shepherd, with his dog,
stalking along the valley, and hearing only the dashing of torrents,
which the woods concealed from the eye, the long sullen murmur of the
breeze, as it swept over the pines, or the notes of the eagle and the
vulture, which were seen towering round the beetling cliff.

Often, as the carriage moved slowly over uneven ground, St. Aubert
alighted, and amused himself with examining the curious plants that
grew on the banks of the road, and with which these regions abound;
while Emily, wrapt in high enthusiasm, wandered away under the
shades, listening in deep silence to the lonely murmur of the woods.

Neither village nor hamlet was seen for many leagues; the goat-herd's
or the hunter's cabin, perched among the cliffs of the rocks, were
the only human habitations that appeared.

The travellers again took their dinner in the open air, on a pleasant
spot in the valley, under the spreading shade of cedars; and then set
forward towards Beaujeu.

The road now began to descend, and, leaving the pine forests behind,
wound among rocky precipices. The evening twilight again fell over
the scene, and the travellers were ignorant how far they might yet be
from Beaujeu. St. Aubert, however, conjectured that the distance
could not be very great, and comforted himself with the prospect of
travelling on a more frequented road after reaching that town, where
he designed to pass the night. Mingled woods, and rocks, and heathy
mountains were now seen obscurely through the dusk; but soon even
these imperfect images faded in darkness. Michael proceeded with
caution, for he could scarcely distinguish the road; his mules,
however, seemed to have more sagacity, and their steps were sure.

On turning the angle of a mountain, a light appeared at a distance,
that illumined the rocks, and the horizon to a great extent. It was
evidently a large fire, but whether accidental, or otherwise, there
were no means of knowing. St. Aubert thought it was probably kindled
by some of the numerous banditti, that infested the Pyrenees, and he
became watchful and anxious to know whether the road passed near this
fire. He had arms with him, which, on an emergency, might afford
some protection, though certainly a very unequal one, against a band
of robbers, so desperate too as those usually were who haunted these
wild regions. While many reflections rose upon his mind, he heard a
voice shouting from the road behind, and ordering the muleteer to
stop. St. Aubert bade him proceed as fast as possible; but either
Michael, or his mules were obstinate, for they did not quit the old
pace. Horses' feet were now heard; a man rode up to the carriage,
still ordering the driver to stop; and St. Aubert, who could no
longer doubt his purpose, was with difficulty able to prepare a
pistol for his defence, when his hand was upon the door of the
chaise. The man staggered on his horse, the report of the pistol was
followed by a groan, and St. Aubert's horror may be imagined, when in
the next instant he thought he heard the faint voice of Valancourt.
He now himself bade the muleteer stop; and, pronouncing the name of
Valancourt, was answered in a voice, that no longer suffered him to
doubt. St. Aubert, who instantly alighted and went to his
assistance, found him still sitting on his horse, but bleeding
profusely, and appearing to be in great pain, though he endeavoured
to soften the terror of St. Aubert by assurances that he was not
materially hurt, the wound being only in his arm. St. Aubert, with
the muleteer, assisted him to dismount, and he sat down on the bank
of the road, where St. Aubert tried to bind up his arm, but his hands
trembled so excessively that he could not accomplish it; and, Michael
being now gone in pursuit of the horse, which, on being disengaged
from his rider, had galloped off, he called Emily to his assistance.
Receiving no answer, he went to the carriage, and found her sunk on
the seat in a fainting fit. Between the distress of this
circumstance and that of leaving Valancourt bleeding, he scarcely
knew what he did; he endeavoured, however, to raise her, and called
to Michael to fetch water from the rivulet that flowed by the road,
but Michael was gone beyond the reach of his voice. Valancourt, who
heard these calls, and also the repeated name of Emily, instantly
understood the subject of his distress; and, almost forgetting his
own condition, he hastened to her relief. She was reviving when he
reached the carriage; and then, understanding that anxiety for him
had occasioned her indisposition, he assured her, in a voice that
trembled, but not from anguish, that his wound was of no consequence.
While he said this St. Aubert turned round, and perceiving that he
was still bleeding, the subject of his alarm changed again, and he
hastily formed some handkerchiefs into a bandage. This stopped the
effusion of the blood; but St. Aubert, dreading the consequence of
the wound, enquired repeatedly how far they were from Beaujeu; when,
learning that it was at two leagues' distance, his distress
increased, since he knew not how Valancourt, in his present state,
would bear the motion of the carriage, and perceived that he was
already faint from loss of blood. When he mentioned the subject of
his anxiety, Valancourt entreated that he would not suffer himself to
be thus alarmed on his account, for that he had no doubt he should be
able to support himself very well; and then he talked of the accident
as a slight one. The muleteer being now returned with Valancourt's
horse, assisted him into the chaise; and, as Emily was now revived,
they moved slowly on towards Beaujeu.

St. Aubert, when he had recovered from the terror occasioned him by
this accident, expressed surprise on seeing Valancourt, who explained
his unexpected appearance by saying, 'You, sir, renewed my taste for
society; when you had left the hamlet, it did indeed appear a
solitude. I determined, therefore, since my object was merely
amusement, to change the scene; and I took this road, because I knew
it led through a more romantic tract of mountains than the spot I
have left. Besides,' added he, hesitating for an instant, 'I will
own, and why should I not? that I had some hope of overtaking you.'

'And I have made you a very unexpected return for the compliment,'
said St. Aubert, who lamented again the rashness which had produced
the accident, and explained the cause of his late alarm. But
Valancourt seemed anxious only to remove from the minds of his
companions every unpleasant feeling relative to himself; and, for
that purpose, still struggled against a sense of pain, and tried to
converse with gaiety. Emily meanwhile was silent, except when
Valancourt particularly addressed her, and there was at those times a
tremulous tone in his voice that spoke much.

They were now so near the fire, which had long flamed at a distance
on the blackness of night, that it gleamed upon the road, and they
could distinguish figures moving about the blaze. The way winding
still nearer, they perceived in the valley one of those numerous
bands of gipsies, which at that period particularly haunted the wilds
of the Pyrenees, and lived partly by plundering the traveller. Emily
looked with some degree of terror on the savage countenances of these
people, shewn by the fire, which heightened the romantic effects of
the scenery, as it threw a red dusky gleam upon the rocks and on the
foliage of the trees, leaving heavy masses of shade and regions of
obscurity, which the eye feared to penetrate.

They were preparing their supper; a large pot stood by the fire, over
which several figures were busy. The blaze discovered a rude kind of
tent, round which many children and dogs were playing, and the whole
formed a picture highly grotesque. The travellers saw plainly their
danger. Valancourt was silent, but laid his hand on one of St.
Aubert's pistols; St. Aubert drew forth another, and Michael was
ordered to proceed as fast as possible. They passed the place,
however, without being attacked; the rovers being probably unprepared
for the opportunity, and too busy about their supper to feel much
interest, at the moment, in any thing besides.

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