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The Mysteries of Udolpho

A >> Ann Radcliffe >> The Mysteries of Udolpho




'Dear madam, how melancholy this place looks now,' said Annette, 'to
what it used to do! It is dismal coming home, when there is nobody
to welcome one!'

This was not the moment, in which Emily could bear the remark; her
tears fell again, and, as soon as she had taken the coffee, she
retired to her apartment, where she endeavoured to repose her
fatigued spirits. But busy memory would still supply her with the
visions of former times: she saw Valancourt interesting and
benevolent, as he had been wont to appear in the days of their early
love, and, amidst the scenes, where she had believed that they should
sometimes pass their years together!--but, at length, sleep closed
these afflicting scenes from her view.

On the following morning, serious occupation recovered her from such
melancholy reflections; for, being desirous of quitting Tholouse, and
of hastening on to La Vallee, she made some enquiries into the
condition of the estate, and immediately dispatched a part of the
necessary business concerning it, according to the directions of
Mons. Quesnel. It required a strong effort to abstract her thoughts
from other interests sufficiently to attend to this, but she was
rewarded for her exertions by again experiencing, that employment is
the surest antidote to sorrow.

This day was devoted entirely to business; and, among other concerns,
she employed means to learn the situation of all her poor tenants,
that she might relieve their wants, or confirm their comforts.

In the evening, her spirits were so much strengthened, that she
thought she could bear to visit the gardens, where she had so often
walked with Valancourt; and, knowing, that, if she delayed to do so,
their scenes would only affect her the more, whenever they should be
viewed, she took advantage of the present state of her mind, and
entered them.

Passing hastily the gate leading from the court into the gardens, she
hurried up the great avenue, scarcely permitting her memory to dwell
for a moment on the circumstance of her having here parted with
Valancourt, and soon quitted this for other walks less interesting to
her heart. These brought her, at length, to the flight of steps,
that led from the lower garden to the terrace, on seeing which, she
became agitated, and hesitated whether to ascend, but, her resolution
returning, she proceeded.

'Ah!' said Emily, as she ascended, 'these are the same high trees,
that used to wave over the terrace, and these the same flowery
thickets--the liburnum, the wild rose, and the cerinthe--which were
wont to grow beneath them! Ah! and there, too, on that bank, are the
very plants, which Valancourt so carefully reared!--O, when last I
saw them!'--she checked the thought, but could not restrain her
tears, and, after walking slowly on for a few moments, her agitation,
upon the view of this well-known scene, increased so much, that she
was obliged to stop, and lean upon the wall of the terrace. It was a
mild, and beautiful evening. The sun was setting over the extensive
landscape, to which his beams, sloping from beneath a dark cloud,
that overhung the west, gave rich and partial colouring, and touched
the tufted summits of the groves, that rose from the garden below,
with a yellow gleam. Emily and Valancourt had often admired together
this scene, at the same hour; and it was exactly on this spot, that,
on the night preceding her departure for Italy, she had listened to
his remonstrances against the journey, and to the pleadings of
passionate affection. Some observations, which she made on the
landscape, brought this to her remembrance, and with it all the
minute particulars of that conversation;--the alarming doubts he had
expressed concerning Montoni, doubts, which had since been fatally
confirmed; the reasons and entreaties he had employed to prevail with
her to consent to an immediate marriage; the tenderness of his love,
the paroxysms of this grief, and the conviction that he had
repeatedly expressed, that they should never meet again in happiness!
All these circumstances rose afresh to her mind, and awakened the
various emotions she had then suffered. Her tenderness for
Valancourt became as powerful as in the moments, when she thought,
that she was parting with him and happiness together, and when the
strength of her mind had enabled her to triumph over present
suffering, rather than to deserve the reproach of her conscience by
engaging in a clandestine marriage.--'Alas!' said Emily, as these
recollections came to her mind, 'and what have I gained by the
fortitude I then practised?--am I happy now?--He said, we should meet
no more in happiness; but, O! he little thought his own misconduct
would separate us, and lead to the very evil he then dreaded!'

Her reflections increased her anguish, while she was compelled to
acknowledge, that the fortitude she had formerly exerted, if it had
not conducted her to happiness, had saved her from irretrievable
misfortune--from Valancourt himself! But in these moments she could
not congratulate herself on the prudence, that had saved her; she
could only lament, with bitterest anguish, the circumstances, which
had conspired to betray Valancourt into a course of life so different
from that, which the virtues, the tastes, and the pursuits of his
early years had promised; but she still loved him too well to
believe, that his heart was even now depraved, though his conduct had
been criminal. An observation, which had fallen from M. St. Aubert
more than once, now occurred to her. 'This young man,' said he,
speaking of Valancourt, 'has never been at Paris;' a remark, that had
surprised her at the time it was uttered, but which she now
understood, and she exclaimed sorrowfully, 'O Valancourt! if such a
friend as my father had been with you at Paris--your noble, ingenuous
nature would not have fallen!'

The sun was now set, and, recalling her thoughts from their
melancholy subject, she continued her walk; for the pensive shade of
twilight was pleasing to her, and the nightingales from the
surrounding groves began to answer each other in the long-drawn,
plaintive note, which always touched her heart; while all the
fragrance of the flowery thickets, that bounded the terrace, was
awakened by the cool evening air, which floated so lightly among
their leaves, that they scarcely trembled as it passed.

Emily came, at length, to the steps of the pavilion, that terminated
the terrace, and where her last interview with Valancourt, before her
departure from Tholouse, had so unexpectedly taken place. The door
was now shut, and she trembled, while she hesitated whether to open
it; but her wish to see again a place, which had been the chief scene
of her former happiness, at length overcoming her reluctance to
encounter the painful regret it would renew, she entered. The room
was obscured by a melancholy shade; but through the open lattices,
darkened by the hanging foliage of the vines, appeared the dusky
landscape, the Garonne reflecting the evening light, and the west
still glowing. A chair was placed near one of the balconies, as if
some person had been sitting there, but the other furniture of the
pavilion remained exactly as usual, and Emily thought it looked as if
it had not once been moved since she set out for Italy. The silent
and deserted air of the place added solemnity to her emotions, for
she heard only the low whisper of the breeze, as it shook the leaves
of the vines, and the very faint murmur of the Garonne.

She seated herself in a chair, near the lattice, and yielded to the
sadness of her heart, while she recollected the circumstances of her
parting interview with Valancourt, on this spot. It was here too,
that she had passed some of the happiest hours of her life with him,
when her aunt favoured the connection, for here she had often sat and
worked, while he conversed, or read; and she now well remembered with
what discriminating judgment, with what tempered energy, he used to
repeat some of the sublimest passages of their favourite authors; how
often he would pause to admire with her their excellence, and with
what tender delight he would listen to her remarks, and correct her
taste.

'And is it possible,' said Emily, as these recollections returned--
'is it possible, that a mind, so susceptible of whatever is grand and
beautiful, could stoop to low pursuits, and be subdued by frivolous
temptations?'

She remembered how often she had seen the sudden tear start in his
eye, and had heard his voice tremble with emotion, while he related
any great or benevolent action, or repeated a sentiment of the same
character. 'And such a mind,' said she, 'such a heart, were to be
sacrificed to the habits of a great city!'

These recollections becoming too painful to be endured, she abruptly
left the pavilion, and, anxious to escape from the memorials of her
departed happiness, returned towards the chateau. As she passed
along the terrace, she perceived a person, walking, with a slow step,
and a dejected air, under the trees, at some distance. The twilight,
which was now deep, would not allow her to distinguish who it was,
and she imagined it to be one of the servants, till, the sound of her
steps seeming to reach him, he turned half round, and she thought she
saw Valancourt!

Whoever it was, he instantly struck among the thickets on the left,
and disappeared, while Emily, her eyes fixed on the place, whence he
had vanished, and her frame trembling so excessively, that she could
scarcely support herself, remained, for some moments, unable to quit
the spot, and scarcely conscious of existence. With her
recollection, her strength returned, and she hurried toward the
house, where she did not venture to enquire who had been in the
gardens, lest she should betray her emotion; and she sat down alone,
endeavouring to recollect the figure, air and features of the person
she had just seen. Her view of him, however, had been so transient,
and the gloom had rendered it so imperfect, that she could remember
nothing with exactness; yet the general appearance of his figure, and
his abrupt departure, made her still believe, that this person was
Valancourt. Sometimes, indeed, she thought, that her fancy, which
had been occupied by the idea of him, had suggested his image to her
uncertain sight: but this conjecture was fleeting. If it was
himself whom she had seen, she wondered much, that he should be at
Tholouse, and more, how he had gained admittance into the garden; but
as often as her impatience prompted her to enquire whether any
stranger had been admitted, she was restrained by an unwillingness to
betray her doubts; and the evening was passed in anxious conjecture,
and in efforts to dismiss the subject from her thoughts. But, these
endeavours were ineffectual, and a thousand inconsistent emotions
assailed her, whenever she fancied that Valancourt might be near her;
now, she dreaded it to be true, and now she feared it to be false;
and, while she constantly tried to persuade herself, that she wished
the person, whom she had seen, might not be Valancourt, her heart as
constantly contradicted her reason.

The following day was occupied by the visits of several neighbouring
families, formerly intimate with Madame Montoni, who came to condole
with Emily on her death, to congratulate her upon the acquisition of
these estates, and to enquire about Montoni, and concerning the
strange reports they had heard of her own situation; all which was
done with the utmost decorum, and the visitors departed with as much
composure as they had arrived.

Emily was wearied by these formalities, and disgusted by the
subservient manners of many persons, who had thought her scarcely
worthy of common attention, while she was believed to be a dependant
on Madame Montoni.

'Surely,' said she, 'there is some magic in wealth, which can thus
make persons pay their court to it, when it does not even benefit
themselves. How strange it is, that a fool or a knave, with riches,
should be treated with more respect by the world, than a good man, or
a wise man in poverty!'

It was evening, before she was left alone, and she then wished to
have refreshed her spirits in the free air of her garden; but she
feared to go thither, lest she should meet again the person, whom she
had seen on the preceding night, and he should prove to be
Valancourt. The suspense and anxiety she suffered, on this subject,
she found all her efforts unable to controul, and her secret wish to
see Valancourt once more, though unseen by him, powerfully prompted
her to go, but prudence and a delicate pride restrained her, and she
determined to avoid the possibility of throwing herself in his way,
by forbearing to visit the gardens, for several days.

When, after near a week, she again ventured thither, she made Annette
her companion, and confined her walk to the lower grounds, but often
started as the leaves rustled in the breeze, imagining, that some
person was among the thickets; and, at the turn of every alley, she
looked forward with apprehensive expectation. She pursued her walk
thoughtfully and silently, for her agitation would not suffer her to
converse with Annette, to whom, however, thought and silence were so
intolerable, that she did not scruple at length to talk to her
mistress.

'Dear madam,' said she, 'why do you start so? one would think you
knew what has happened.'

'What has happened?' said Emily, in a faltering voice, and trying to
command her emotion.

'The night before last, you know, madam'--

'I know nothing, Annette,' replied her lady in a more hurried voice.

'The night before last, madam, there was a robber in the garden.'

'A robber!' said Emily, in an eager, yet doubting tone.

'I suppose he was a robber, madam. What else could he be?'

'Where did you see him, Annette?' rejoined Emily, looking round her,
and turning back towards the chateau.

'It was not I that saw him, madam, it was Jean the gardener. It was
twelve o'clock at night, and, as he was coming across the court to go
the back way into the house, what should he see--but somebody walking
in the avenue, that fronts the garden gate! So, with that, Jean
guessed how it was, and he went into the house for his gun.'

'His gun!' exclaimed Emily.

'Yes, madam, his gun; and then he came out into the court to watch
him. Presently, he sees him come slowly down the avenue, and lean
over the garden gate, and look up at the house for a long time; and I
warrant he examined it well, and settled what window he should break
in at.'

'But the gun,' said Emily--'the gun!'

'Yes, madam, all in good time. Presently, Jean says, the robber
opened the gate, and was coming into the court, and then he thought
proper to ask him his business: so he called out again, and bade him
say who he was, and what he wanted. But the man would do neither;
but turned upon his heel, and passed into the garden again. Jean
knew then well enough how it was, and so he fired after him.'

'Fired!' exclaimed Emily.

'Yes, madam, fired off his gun; but, Holy Virgin! what makes you look
so pale, madam? The man was not killed,--I dare say; but if he was,
his comrades carried him off: for, when Jean went in the morning, to
look for the body, it was gone, and nothing to be seen but a track of
blood on the ground. Jean followed it, that he might find out where
the man got into the garden, but it was lost in the grass, and'--

Annette was interrupted: for Emily's spirits died away, and she
would have fallen to the ground, if the girl had not caught her, and
supported her to a bench, close to them.

When, after a long absence, her senses returned, Emily desired to be
led to her apartment; and, though she trembled with anxiety to
enquire further on the subject of her alarm, she found herself too
ill at present, to dare the intelligence which it was possible she
might receive of Valancourt. Having dismissed Annette, that she
might weep and think at liberty, she endeavoured to recollect the
exact air of the person, whom she had seen on the terrace, and still
her fancy gave her the figure of Valancourt. She had, indeed,
scarcely a doubt, that it was he whom she had seen, and at whom the
gardener had fired: for the manner of the latter person, as
described by Annette, was not that of a robber; nor did it appear
probable, that a robber would have come alone, to break into a house
so spacious as this.

When Emily thought herself sufficiently recovered, to listen to what
Jean might have to relate, she sent for him; but he could inform her
of no circumstance, that might lead to a knowledge of the person, who
had been shot, or of the consequence of the wound; and, after
severely reprimanding him, for having fired with bullets, and
ordering diligent enquiry to be made in the neighbourhood for the
discovery of the wounded person, she dismissed him, and herself
remained in the same state of terrible suspense. All the tenderness
she had ever felt for Valancourt, was recalled by the sense of his
danger; and the more she considered the subject, the more her
conviction strengthened, that it was he, who had visited the gardens,
for the purpose of soothing the misery of disappointed affection,
amidst the scenes of his former happiness.

'Dear madam,' said Annette, when she returned, 'I never saw you so
affected before! I dare say the man is not killed.'

Emily shuddered, and lamented bitterly the rashness of the gardener
in having fired.

'I knew you would be angry enough about that, madam, or I should have
told you before; and he knew so too; for, says he, "Annette, say
nothing about this to my lady. She lies on the other side of the
house, so did not hear the gun, perhaps; but she would be angry with
me, if she knew, seeing there is blood. But then," says he, "how is
one to keep the garden clear, if one is afraid to fire at a robber,
when one sees him?"'

'No more of this,' said Emily, 'pray leave me.'

Annette obeyed, and Emily returned to the agonizing considerations,
that had assailed her before, but which she, at length, endeavoured
to sooth by a new remark. If the stranger was Valancourt, it was
certain he had come alone, and it appeared, therefore, that he had
been able to quit the gardens, without assistance; a circumstance
which did not seem probable, had his wound been dangerous. With this
consideration, she endeavoured to support herself, during the
enquiries, that were making by her servants in the neighbourhood; but
day after day came, and still closed in uncertainty, concerning this
affair: and Emily, suffering in silence, at length, drooped, and
sunk under the pressure of her anxiety. She was attacked by a slow
fever, and when she yielded to the persuasion of Annette to send for
medical advice, the physicians prescribed little beside air, gentle
exercise and amusement: but how was this last to be obtained? She,
however, endeavoured to abstract her thoughts from the subject of her
anxiety, by employing them in promoting that happiness in others,
which she had lost herself; and, when the evening was fine, she
usually took an airing, including in her ride the cottages of some of
her tenants, on whose condition she made such observations, as often
enabled her, unasked, to fulfil their wishes.

Her indisposition and the business she engaged in, relative to this
estate, had already protracted her stay at Tholouse, beyond the
period she had formerly fixed for her departure to La Vallee; and now
she was unwilling to leave the only place, where it seemed possible,
that certainty could be obtained on the subject of her distress. But
the time was come, when her presence was necessary at La Vallee, a
letter from the Lady Blanche now informing her, that the Count and
herself, being then at the chateau of the Baron St. Foix, purposed to
visit her at La Vallee, on their way home, as soon as they should be
informed of her arrival there. Blanche added, that they made this
visit, with the hope of inducing her to return with them to Chateau-
le-Blanc.

Emily, having replied to the letter of her friend, and said that she
should be at La Vallee in a few days, made hasty preparations for the
journey; and, in thus leaving Tholouse, endeavoured to support
herself with a belief, that, if any fatal accident had happened to
Valancourt, she must in this interval have heard of it.

On the evening before her departure, she went to take leave of the
terrace and the pavilion. The day had been sultry, but a light
shower, that fell just before sun-set, had cooled the air, and given
that soft verdure to the woods and pastures, which is so refreshing
to the eye; while the rain drops, still trembling on the shrubs,
glittered in the last yellow gleam, that lighted up the scene, and
the air was filled with fragrance, exhaled by the late shower, from
herbs and flowers and from the earth itself. But the lovely
prospect, which Emily beheld from the terrace, was no longer viewed
by her with delight; she sighed deeply as her eye wandered over it,
and her spirits were in a state of such dejection, that she could not
think of her approaching return to La Vallee, without tears, and
seemed to mourn again the death of her father, as if it had been an
event of yesterday. Having reached the pavilion, she seated herself
at the open lattice, and, while her eyes settled on the distant
mountains, that overlooked Gascony, still gleaming on the horizon,
though the sun had now left the plains below, 'Alas!' said she, 'I
return to your long-lost scenes, but shall meet no more the parents,
that were wont to render them delightful!--no more shall see the
smile of welcome, or hear the well-known voice of fondness:--all will
now be cold and silent in what was once my happy home.'

Tears stole down her cheek, as the remembrance of what that home had
been, returned to her; but, after indulging her sorrow for some time,
she checked it, accusing herself of ingratitude in forgetting the
friends, that she possessed, while she lamented those that were
departed; and she, at length, left the pavilion and the terrace,
without having observed a shadow of Valancourt or of any other
person.



CHAPTER XI


Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade!
Ah fields belov'd in vain!
Where once my careless childhood stray'd,
A stranger yet to pain!
I feel the gales, that from ye blow,
A momentary bliss bestow,
As waving fresh their gladsome wing,
My weary soul they seem to sooth.
GRAY

On the following morning, Emily left Tholouse at an early hour, and
reached La Vallee about sun-set. With the melancholy she experienced
on the review of a place which had been the residence of her parents,
and the scene of her earliest delight, was mingled, after the first
shock had subsided, a tender and undescribable pleasure. For time
had so far blunted the acuteness of her grief, that she now courted
every scene, that awakened the memory of her friends; in every room,
where she had been accustomed to see them, they almost seemed to live
again; and she felt that La Vallee was still her happiest home. One
of the first apartments she visited, was that, which had been her
father's library, and here she seated herself in his arm-chair, and,
while she contemplated, with tempered resignation, the picture of
past times, which her memory gave, the tears she shed could scarcely
be called those of grief.

Soon after her arrival, she was surprised by a visit from the
venerable M. Barreaux, who came impatiently to welcome the daughter
of his late respected neighbour, to her long-deserted home. Emily
was comforted by the presence of an old friend, and they passed an
interesting hour in conversing of former times, and in relating some
of the circumstances, that had occurred to each, since they parted.

The evening was so far advanced, when M. Barreaux left Emily, that
she could not visit the garden that night; but, on the following
morning, she traced its long-regretted scenes with fond impatience;
and, as she walked beneath the groves, which her father had planted,
and where she had so often sauntered in affectionate conversation
with him, his countenance, his smile, even the accents of his voice,
returned with exactness to her fancy, and her heart melted to the
tender recollections.

This, too, was his favourite season of the year, at which they had
often together admired the rich and variegated tints of these woods
and the magical effect of autumnal lights upon the mountains; and
now, the view of these circumstances made memory eloquent. As she
wandered pensively on, she fancied the following address

TO AUTUMN

Sweet Autumn! how thy melancholy grace
Steals on my heart, as through these shades I wind!
Sooth'd by thy breathing sigh, I fondly trace
Each lonely image of the pensive mind!
Lov'd scenes, lov'd friends--long lost! around me rise,
And wake the melting thought, the tender tear!
That tear, that thought, which more than mirth I prize--
Sweet as the gradual tint, that paints thy year!
Thy farewel smile, with fond regret, I view,
Thy beaming lights, soft gliding o'er the woods;
Thy distant landscape, touch'd with yellow hue
While falls the lengthen'd gleam; thy winding floods,
Now veil'd in shade, save where the skiff's white sails
Swell to the breeze, and catch thy streaming ray.
But now, e'en now!--the partial vision fails,
And the wave smiles, as sweeps the cloud away!
Emblem of life!--Thus checquer'd is its plan,
Thus joy succeeds to grief--thus smiles the varied man!

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