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The Mysteries of Udolpho

A >> Ann Radcliffe >> The Mysteries of Udolpho




Blanche, though she wished to see these chambers, forbore, on
observing that Dorothee's eyes were filled with tears, to ask her to
unlock them, and, soon after, went to dress for dinner, at which the
whole party met in good spirits and good humour, except the Countess,
whose vacant mind, overcome by the languor of idleness, would neither
suffer her to be happy herself, or to contribute to the happiness of
others. Mademoiselle Bearn, attempting to be witty, directed her
badinage against Henri, who answered, because he could not well avoid
it, rather than from any inclination to notice her, whose liveliness
sometimes amused, but whose conceit and insensibility often disgusted
him.

The cheerfulness, with which Blanche rejoined the party, vanished, on
her reaching the margin of the sea; she gazed with apprehension upon
the immense expanse of waters, which, at a distance, she had beheld
only with delight and astonishment, and it was by a strong effort,
that she so far overcame her fears as to follow her father into the
boat.

As she silently surveyed the vast horizon, bending round the distant
verge of the ocean, an emotion of sublimest rapture struggled to
overcome a sense of personal danger. A light breeze played on the
water, and on the silk awning of the boat, and waved the foliage of
the receding woods, that crowned the cliffs, for many miles, and
which the Count surveyed with the pride of conscious property, as
well as with the eye of taste.

At some distance, among these woods, stood a pavilion, which had once
been the scene of social gaiety, and which its situation still made
one of romantic beauty. Thither, the Count had ordered coffee and
other refreshment to be carried, and thither the sailors now steered
their course, following the windings of the shore round many a woody
promontory and circling bay; while the pensive tones of horns and
other wind instruments, played by the attendants in a distant boat,
echoed among the rocks, and died along the waves. Blanche had now
subdued her fears; a delightful tranquillity stole over her mind, and
held her in silence; and she was too happy even to remember the
convent, or her former sorrows, as subjects of comparison with her
present felicity.

The Countess felt less unhappy than she had done, since the moment of
her leaving Paris; for her mind was now under some degree of
restraint; she feared to indulge its wayward humours, and even wished
to recover the Count's good opinion. On his family, and on the
surrounding scene, he looked with tempered pleasure and benevolent
satisfaction, while his son exhibited the gay spirits of youth,
anticipating new delights, and regretless of those, that were passed.

After near an hour's rowing, the party landed, and ascended a little
path, overgrown with vegetation. At a little distance from the point
of the eminence, within the shadowy recess of the woods, appeared the
pavilion, which Blanche perceived, as she caught a glimpse of its
portico between the trees, to be built of variegated marble. As she
followed the Countess, she often turned her eyes with rapture towards
the ocean, seen beneath the dark foliage, far below, and from thence
upon the deep woods, whose silence and impenetrable gloom awakened
emotions more solemn, but scarcely less delightful.

The pavilion had been prepared, as far as was possible, on a very
short notice, for the reception of its visitors; but the faded
colours of its painted walls and ceiling, and the decayed drapery of
its once magnificent furniture, declared how long it had been
neglected, and abandoned to the empire of the changing seasons.
While the party partook of a collation of fruit and coffee, the
horns, placed in a distant part of the woods, where an echo sweetened
and prolonged their melancholy tones, broke softly on the stillness
of the scene. This spot seemed to attract even the admiration of the
Countess, or, perhaps, it was merely the pleasure of planning
furniture and decorations, that made her dwell so long on the
necessity of repairing and adorning it; while the Count, never
happier than when he saw her mind engaged by natural and simple
objects, acquiesced in all her designs, concerning the pavilion. The
paintings on the walls and coved ceiling were to be renewed, the
canopies and sofas were to be of light green damask; marble statues
of wood-nymphs, bearing on their heads baskets of living flowers,
were to adorn the recesses between the windows, which, descending to
the ground, were to admit to every part of the room, and it was of
octagonal form, the various landscape. One window opened upon a
romantic glade, where the eye roved among the woody recesses, and the
scene was bounded only by a lengthened pomp of groves; from another,
the woods receding disclosed the distant summits of the Pyrenees; a
third fronted an avenue, beyond which the grey towers of Chateau-le-
Blanc, and a picturesque part of its ruin were seen partially among
the foliage; while a fourth gave, between the trees, a glimpse of the
green pastures and villages, that diversify the banks of the Aude.
The Mediterranean, with the bold cliffs, that overlooked its shores,
were the grand objects of a fifth window, and the others gave, in
different points of view, the wild scenery of the woods.

After wandering, for some time, in these, the party returned to the
shore and embarked; and, the beauty of the evening tempting them to
extend their excursion, they proceeded further up the bay. A dead
calm had succeeded the light breeze, that wafted them hither, and the
men took to their oars. Around, the waters were spread into one vast
expanse of polished mirror, reflecting the grey cliffs and feathery
woods, that over-hung its surface, the glow of the western horizon
and the dark clouds, that came slowly from the east. Blanche loved
to see the dipping oars imprint the water, and to watch the spreading
circles they left, which gave a tremulous motion to the reflected
landscape, without destroying the harmony of its features.

Above the darkness of the woods, her eye now caught a cluster of high
towers, touched with the splendour of the setting rays; and, soon
after, the horns being then silent, she heard the faint swell of
choral voices from a distance.

'What voices are those, upon the air?' said the Count, looking round,
and listening; but the strain had ceased. 'It seemed to be a vesper-
hymn, which I have often heard in my convent,' said Blanche.

'We are near the monastery, then,' observed the Count; and, the boat
soon after doubling a lofty head-land, the monastery of St. Claire
appeared, seated near the margin of the sea, where the cliffs,
suddenly sinking, formed a low shore within a small bay, almost
encircled with woods, among which partial features of the edifice
were seen;--the great gate and gothic window of the hall, the
cloisters and the side of a chapel more remote; while a venerable
arch, which had once led to a part of the fabric, now demolished,
stood a majestic ruin detached from the main building, beyond which
appeared a grand perspective of the woods. On the grey walls, the
moss had fastened, and, round the pointed windows of the chapel, the
ivy and the briony hung in many a fantastic wreath.

All without was silent and forsaken; but, while Blanche gazed with
admiration on this venerable pile, whose effect was heightened by the
strong lights and shadows thrown athwart it by a cloudy sun-set, a
sound of many voices, slowly chanting, arose from within. The Count
bade his men rest on their oars. The monks were singing the hymn of
vespers, and some female voices mingled with the strain, which rose
by soft degrees, till the high organ and the choral sounds swelled
into full and solemn harmony. The strain, soon after, dropped into
sudden silence, and was renewed in a low and still more solemn key,
till, at length, the holy chorus died away, and was heard no more.--
Blanche sighed, tears trembled in her eyes, and her thoughts seemed
wafted with the sounds to heaven. While a rapt stillness prevailed
in the boat, a train of friars, and then of nuns, veiled in white,
issued from the cloisters, and passed, under the shade of the woods,
to the main body of the edifice.

The Countess was the first of her party to awaken from this pause of
silence.

'These dismal hymns and friars make one quite melancholy,' said she;
'twilight is coming on; pray let us return, or it will be dark before
we get home.'

The count, looking up, now perceived, that the twilight of evening
was anticipated by an approaching storm. In the east a tempest was
collecting; a heavy gloom came on, opposing and contrasting the
glowing splendour of the setting sun. The clamorous sea-fowl skimmed
in fleet circles upon the surface of the sea, dipping their light
pinions in the wave, as they fled away in search of shelter. The
boatmen pulled hard at their oars; but the thunder, that now muttered
at a distance, and the heavy drops, that began to dimple the water,
made the Count determine to put back to the monastery for shelter,
and the course of the boat was immediately changed. As the clouds
approached the west, their lurid darkness changed to a deep ruddy
glow, which, by reflection, seemed to fire the tops of the woods and
the shattered towers of the monastery.

The appearance of the heavens alarmed the Countess and Mademoiselle
Bearn, whose expressions of apprehension distressed the Count, and
perplexed his men; while Blanche continued silent, now agitated with
fear, and now with admiration, as she viewed the grandeur of the
clouds, and their effect on the scenery, and listened to the long,
long peals of thunder, that rolled through the air.

The boat having reached the lawn before the monastery, the Count sent
a servant to announce his arrival, and to entreat shelter of the
Superior, who, soon after, appeared at the great gate, attended by
several monks, while the servant returned with a message, expressive
at once of hospitality and pride, but of pride disguised in
submission. The party immediately disembarked, and, having hastily
crossed the lawn--for the shower was now heavy--were received at the
gate by the Superior, who, as they entered, stretched forth his hands
and gave his blessing; and they passed into the great hall, where the
lady abbess waited, attended by several nuns, clothed, like herself,
in black, and veiled in white. The veil of the abbess was, however,
thrown half back, and discovered a countenance, whose chaste dignity
was sweetened by the smile of welcome, with which she addressed the
Countess, whom she led, with Blanche and Mademoiselle Bearn, into the
convent parlour, while the Count and Henri were conducted by the
Superior to the refectory.

The Countess, fatigued and discontented, received the politeness of
the abbess with careless haughtiness, and had followed her, with
indolent steps, to the parlour, over which the painted casements and
wainscot of larch-wood threw, at all times, a melancholy shade, and
where the gloom of evening now loured almost to darkness.

While the lady abbess ordered refreshment, and conversed with the
Countess, Blanche withdrew to a window, the lower panes of which,
being without painting, allowed her to observe the progress of the
storm over the Mediterranean, whose dark waves, that had so lately
slept, now came boldly swelling, in long succession, to the shore,
where they burst in white foam, and threw up a high spray over the
rocks. A red sulphureous tint overspread the long line of clouds,
that hung above the western horizon, beneath whose dark skirts the
sun looking out, illumined the distant shores of Languedoc, as well
as the tufted summits of the nearer woods, and shed a partial gleam
on the western waves. The rest of the scene was in deep gloom,
except where a sun-beam, darting between the clouds, glanced on the
white wings of the sea-fowl, that circled high among them, or touched
the swelling sail of a vessel, which was seen labouring in the storm.
Blanche, for some time, anxiously watched the progress of the bark,
as it threw the waves in foam around it, and, as the lightnings
flashed, looked to the opening heavens, with many a sigh for the fate
of the poor mariners.

The sun, at length, set, and the heavy clouds, which had long
impended, dropped over the splendour of his course; the vessel,
however, was yet dimly seen, and Blanche continued to observe it,
till the quick succession of flashes, lighting up the gloom of the
whole horizon, warned her to retire from the window, and she joined
the Abbess, who, having exhausted all her topics of conversation with
the Countess, had now leisure to notice her.

But their discourse was interrupted by tremendous peals of thunder;
and the bell of the monastery soon after ringing out, summoned the
inhabitants to prayer. As Blanche passed the window, she gave
another look to the ocean, where, by the momentary flash, that
illumined the vast body of the waters, she distinguished the vessel
she had observed before, amidst a sea of foam, breaking the billows,
the mast now bowing to the waves, and then rising high in air.

She sighed fervently as she gazed, and then followed the Lady Abbess
and the Countess to the chapel. Meanwhile, some of the Count's
servants, having gone by land to the chateau for carriages, returned
soon after vespers had concluded, when, the storm being somewhat
abated, the Count and his family returned home. Blanche was
surprised to discover how much the windings of the shore had deceived
her, concerning the distance of the chateau from the monastery, whose
vesper bell she had heard, on the preceding evening, from the windows
of the west saloon, and whose towers she would also have seen from
thence, had not twilight veiled them.

On their arrival at the chateau, the Countess, affecting more
fatigue, than she really felt, withdrew to her apartment, and the
Count, with his daughter and Henri, went to the supper-room, where
they had not been long, when they heard, in a pause of the gust, a
firing of guns, which the Count understanding to be signals of
distress from some vessel in the storm, went to a window, that opened
towards the Mediterranean, to observe further; but the sea was now
involved in utter darkness, and the loud howlings of the tempest had
again overcome every other sound. Blanche, remembering the bark,
which she had before seen, now joined her father, with trembling
anxiety. In a few moments, the report of guns was again borne along
the wind, and as suddenly wafted away; a tremendous burst of thunder
followed, and, in the flash, that had preceded it, and which seemed
to quiver over the whole surface of the waters, a vessel was
discovered, tossing amidst the white foam of the waves at some
distance from the shore. Impenetrable darkness again involved the
scene, but soon a second flash shewed the bark, with one sail
unfurled, driving towards the coast. Blanche hung upon her father's
arm, with looks full of the agony of united terror and pity, which
were unnecessary to awaken the heart of the Count, who gazed upon the
sea with a piteous expression, and, perceiving, that no boat could
live in the storm, forbore to send one; but he gave orders to his
people to carry torches out upon the cliffs, hoping they might prove
a kind of beacon to the vessel, or, at least, warn the crew of the
rocks they were approaching. While Henri went out to direct on what
part of the cliffs the lights should appear, Blanche remained with
her father, at the window, catching, every now and then, as the
lightnings flashed, a glimpse of the vessel; and she soon saw, with
reviving hope, the torches flaming on the blackness of night, and, as
they waved over the cliffs, casting a red gleam on the gasping
billows. When the firing of guns was repeated, the torches were
tossed high in the air, as if answering the signal, and the firing
was then redoubled; but, though the wind bore the sound away, she
fancied, as the lightnings glanced, that the vessel was much nearer
the shore.

The Count's servants were now seen, running to and fro, on the rocks;
some venturing almost to the point of the crags, and bending over,
held out their torches fastened to long poles; while others, whose
steps could be traced only by the course of the lights, descended the
steep and dangerous path, that wound to the margin of the sea, and,
with loud halloos, hailed the mariners, whose shrill whistle, and
then feeble voices, were heard, at intervals, mingling with the
storm. Sudden shouts from the people on the rocks increased the
anxiety of Blanche to an almost intolerable degree: but her
suspense, concerning the fate of the mariners, was soon over, when
Henri, running breathless into the room, told that the vessel was
anchored in the bay below, but in so shattered a condition, that it
was feared she would part before the crew could disembark. The Count
immediately gave orders for his own boats to assist in bringing them
to shore, and that such of these unfortunate strangers as could not
be accommodated in the adjacent hamlet should be entertained at the
chateau. Among the latter, were Emily St. Aubert, Monsieur Du Pont,
Ludovico and Annette, who, having embarked at Leghorn and reached
Marseilles, were from thence crossing the Gulf of Lyons, when this
storm overtook them. They were received by the Count with his usual
benignity, who, though Emily wished to have proceeded immediately to
the monastery of St. Claire, would not allow her to leave the
chateau, that night; and, indeed, the terror and fatigue she had
suffered would scarcely have permitted her to go farther.

In Monsieur Du Pont the Count discovered an old acquaintance, and
much joy and congratulation passed between them, after which Emily
was introduced by name to the Count's family, whose hospitable
benevolence dissipated the little embarrassment, which her situation
had occasioned her, and the party were soon seated at the supper-
table. The unaffected kindness of Blanche and the lively joy she
expressed on the escape of the strangers, for whom her pity had been
so much interested, gradually revived Emily's languid spirits; and Du
Pont, relieved from his terrors for her and for himself, felt the
full contrast, between his late situation on a dark and tremendous
ocean, and his present one, in a cheerful mansion, where he was
surrounded with plenty, elegance and smiles of welcome.

Annette, meanwhile, in the servants' hall, was telling of all the
dangers she had encountered, and congratulating herself so heartily
upon her own and Ludovico's escape, and on her present comforts, that
she often made all that part of the chateau ring with merriment and
laughter. Ludovico's spirits were as gay as her own, but he had
discretion enough to restrain them, and tried to check hers, though
in vain, till her laughter, at length, ascended to MY LADY'S chamber,
who sent to enquire what occasioned so much uproar in the chateau,
and to command silence.

Emily withdrew early to seek the repose she so much required, but her
pillow was long a sleepless one. On this her return to her native
country, many interesting remembrances were awakened; all the events
and sufferings she had experienced, since she quitted it, came in
long succession to her fancy, and were chased only by the image of
Valancourt, with whom to believe herself once more in the same land,
after they had been so long, and so distantly separated, gave her
emotions of indescribable joy, but which afterwards yielded to
anxiety and apprehension, when she considered the long period, that
had elapsed, since any letter had passed between them, and how much
might have happened in this interval to affect her future peace. But
the thought, that Valancourt might be now no more, or, if living,
might have forgotten her, was so very terrible to her heart, that she
would scarcely suffer herself to pause upon the possibility. She
determined to inform him, on the following day, of her arrival in
France, which it was scarcely possible he could know but by a letter
from herself, and, after soothing her spirits with the hope of soon
hearing, that he was well, and unchanged in his affections, she, at
length, sunk to repose.



CHAPTER XII


Oft woo'd the gleam of Cynthia, silver-bright,
In cloisters dim, far from the haunts of folly,
With freedom by my side, and soft-ey'd melancholy.
GRAY

The Lady Blanche was so much interested for Emily, that, upon hearing
she was going to reside in the neighbouring convent, she requested
the Count would invite her to lengthen her stay at the chateau. 'And
you know, my dear sir,' added Blanche, 'how delighted I shall be with
such a companion; for, at present, I have no friend to walk, or to
read with, since Mademoiselle Bearn is my mamma's friend only.'

The Count smiled at the youthful simplicity, with which his daughter
yielded to first impressions; and, though he chose to warn her of
their danger, he silently applauded the benevolence, that could thus
readily expand in confidence to a stranger. He had observed Emily,
with attention, on the preceding evening, and was as much pleased
with her, as it was possible he could be with any person, on so short
an acquaintance. The mention, made of her by Mons. Du Pont, had also
given him a favourable impression of Emily; but, extremely cautious
as to those, whom he introduced to the intimacy of his daughter, he
determined, on hearing that the former was no stranger at the convent
of St. Claire, to visit the abbess, and, if her account corresponded
with his wish, to invite Emily to pass some time at the chateau. On
this subject, he was influenced by a consideration of the Lady
Blanche's welfare, still more than by either a wish to oblige her, or
to befriend the orphan Emily, for whom, however, he felt considerably
interested.

On the following morning, Emily was too much fatigued to appear; but
Mons. Du Pont was at the breakfast-table, when the Count entered the
room, who pressed him, as his former acquaintance, and the son of a
very old friend, to prolong his stay at the chateau; an invitation,
which Du Pont willingly accepted, since it would allow him to be near
Emily; and, though he was not conscious of encouraging a hope, that
she would ever return his affection, he had not fortitude enough to
attempt, at present, to overcome it.

Emily, when she was somewhat recovered, wandered with her new friend
over the grounds belonging to the chateau, as much delighted with the
surrounding views, as Blanche, in the benevolence of her heart, had
wished; from thence she perceived, beyond the woods, the towers of
the monastery, and remarked, that it was to this convent she designed
to go.

'Ah!' said Blanche with surprise, 'I am but just released from a
convent, and would you go into one? If you could know what pleasure
I feel in wandering here, at liberty,--and in seeing the sky and the
fields, and the woods all round me, I think you would not.' Emily,
smiling at the warmth, with which the Lady Blanche spoke, observed,
that she did not mean to confine herself to a convent for life.

'No, you may not intend it now,' said Blanche; 'but you do not know
to what the nuns may persuade you to consent: I know how kind they
will appear, and how happy, for I have seen too much of their art.'

When they returned to the chateau, Lady Blanche conducted Emily to
her favourite turret, and from thence they rambled through the
ancient chambers, which Blanche had visited before. Emily was amused
by observing the structure of these apartments, and the fashion of
their old but still magnificent furniture, and by comparing them with
those of the castle of Udolpho, which were yet more antique and
grotesque. She was also interested by Dorothee the house-keeper, who
attended them, whose appearance was almost as antique as the objects
around her, and who seemed no less interested by Emily, on whom she
frequently gazed with so much deep attention, as scarcely to hear
what was said to her.

While Emily looked from one of the casements, she perceived, with
surprise, some objects, that were familiar to her memory;--the fields
and woods, with the gleaming brook, which she had passed with La
Voisin, one evening, soon after the death of Monsieur St. Aubert, in
her way from the monastery to her cottage; and she now knew this to
be the chateau, which he had then avoided, and concerning which he
had dropped some remarkable hints.

Shocked by this discovery, yet scarcely knowing why, she mused for
some time in silence, and remembered the emotion, which her father
had betrayed on finding himself so near this mansion, and some other
circumstances of his conduct, that now greatly interested her. The
music, too, which she had formerly heard, and, respecting which La
Voisin had given such an odd account, occurred to her, and, desirous
of knowing more concerning it, she asked Dorothee whether it returned
at midnight, as usual, and whether the musician had yet been
discovered.

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