Franklin P. Adams - "Tobogganing On Parnassus"

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Alfred Noyes - "Watchers of the Sky"

The Mysteries of Udolpho

A >> Ann Radcliffe >> The Mysteries of Udolpho




The pauses of silence, such as had formerly interrupted the
conversations of Valancourt and Emily, were more frequent today than
ever. Valancourt often dropped suddenly from the most animating
vivacity into fits of deep musing, and there was, sometimes, an
unaffected melancholy in his smile, which Emily could not avoid
understanding, for her heart was interested in the sentiment it
spoke.

St. Aubert was refreshed by the shades, and they continued to saunter
under them, following, as nearly as they could guess, the direction
of the road, till they perceived that they had totally lost it. They
had continued near the brow of the precipice, allured by the scenery
it exhibited, while the road wound far away over the cliff above.
Valancourt called loudly to Michael, but heard no voice, except his
own, echoing among the rocks, and his various efforts to regain the
road were equally unsuccessful. While they were thus circumstanced,
they perceived a shepherd's cabin, between the boles of the trees at
some distance, and Valancourt bounded on first to ask assistance.
When he reached it, he saw only two little children, at play, on the
turf before the door. He looked into the hut, but no person was
there, and the eldest of the boys told him that their father was with
his flocks, and their mother was gone down into the vale, but would
be back presently. As he stood, considering what was further to be
done, on a sudden he heard Michael's voice roaring forth most
manfully among the cliffs above, till he made their echoes ring.
Valancourt immediately answered the call, and endeavoured to make his
way through the thicket that clothed the steeps, following the
direction of the sound. After much struggle over brambles and
precipices, he reached Michael, and at length prevailed with him to
be silent, and to listen to him. The road was at a considerable
distance from the spot where St. Aubert and Emily were; the carriage
could not easily return to the entrance of the wood, and, since it
would be very fatiguing for St. Aubert to climb the long and steep
road to the place where it now stood, Valancourt was anxious to find
a more easy ascent, by the way he had himself passed.

Meanwhile St. Aubert and Emily approached the cottage, and rested
themselves on a rustic bench, fastened between two pines, which
overshadowed it, till Valancourt, whose steps they had observed,
should return.

The eldest of the children desisted from his play, and stood still to
observe the strangers, while the younger continued his little
gambols, and teased his brother to join in them. St. Aubert looked
with pleasure upon this picture of infantine simplicity, till it
brought to his remembrance his own boys, whom he had lost about the
age of these, and their lamented mother; and he sunk into a
thoughtfulness, which Emily observing, she immediately began to sing
one of those simple and lively airs he was so fond of, and which she
knew how to give with the most captivating sweetness. St. Aubert
smiled on her through his tears, took her hand and pressed it
affectionately, and then tried to dissipate the melancholy
reflections that lingered in his mind.

While she sung, Valancourt approached, who was unwilling to interrupt
her, and paused at a little distance to listen. When she had
concluded, he joined the party, and told them, that he had found
Michael, as well as a way, by which he thought they could ascend the
cliff to the carriage. He pointed to the woody steeps above, which
St. Aubert surveyed with an anxious eye. He was already wearied by
his walk, and this ascent was formidable to him. He thought,
however, it would be less toilsome than the long and broken road, and
he determined to attempt it; but Emily, ever watchful of his ease,
proposing that he should rest, and dine before they proceeded
further, Valancourt went to the carriage for the refreshments
deposited there.

On his return, he proposed removing a little higher up the mountain,
to where the woods opened upon a grand and extensive prospect; and
thither they were preparing to go, when they saw a young woman join
the children, and caress and weep over them.

The travellers, interested by her distress, stopped to observe her.
She took the youngest of the children in her arms, and, perceiving
the strangers, hastily dried her tears, and proceeded to the cottage.
St. Aubert, on enquiring the occasion of her sorrow, learned that her
husband, who was a shepherd, and lived here in the summer months to
watch over the flocks he led to feed upon these mountains, had lost,
on the preceding night, his little all. A gang of gipsies, who had
for some time infested the neighbourhood, had driven away several of
his master's sheep. 'Jacques,' added the shepherd's wife, 'had saved
a little money, and had bought a few sheep with it, and now they must
go to his master for those that are stolen; and what is worse than
all, his master, when he comes to know how it is, will trust him no
longer with the care of his flocks, for he is a hard man! and then
what is to become of our children!'

The innocent countenance of the woman, and the simplicity of her
manner in relating her grievance, inclined St. Aubert to believe her
story; and Valancourt, convinced that it was true, asked eagerly what
was the value of the stolen sheep; on hearing which he turned away
with a look of disappointment. St. Aubert put some money into her
hand, Emily too gave something from her little purse, and they walked
towards the cliff; but Valancourt lingered behind, and spoke to the
shepherd's wife, who was now weeping with gratitude and surprise. He
enquired how much money was yet wanting to replace the stolen sheep,
and found, that it was a sum very little short of all he had about
him. He was perplexed and distressed. 'This sum then,' said he to
himself, 'would make this poor family completely happy--it is in my
power to give it--to make them completely happy! But what is to
become of me?--how shall I contrive to reach home with the little
money that will remain?' For a moment he stood, unwilling to forego
the luxury of raising a family from ruin to happiness, yet
considering the difficulties of pursuing his journey with so small a
sum as would be left.

While he was in this state of perplexity, the shepherd himself
appeared: his children ran to meet him; he took one of them in his
arms, and, with the other clinging to his coat, came forward with a
loitering step. His forlorn and melancholy look determined
Valancourt at once; he threw down all the money he had, except a very
few louis, and bounded away after St. Aubert and Emily, who were
proceeding slowly up the steep. Valancourt had seldom felt his heart
so light as at this moment; his gay spirits danced with pleasure;
every object around him appeared more interesting, or beautiful, than
before. St. Aubert observed the uncommon vivacity of his
countenance: 'What has pleased you so much?' said he. 'O what a
lovely day,' replied Valancourt, 'how brightly the sun shines, how
pure is this air, what enchanting scenery!' 'It is indeed
enchanting,' said St. Aubert, whom early experience had taught to
understand the nature of Valancourt's present feelings. 'What pity
that the wealthy, who can command such sunshine, should ever pass
their days in gloom--in the cold shade of selfishness! For you, my
young friend, may the sun always shine as brightly as at this moment;
may your own conduct always give you the sunshine of benevolence and
reason united!'

Valancourt, highly flattered by this compliment, could make no reply
but by a smile of gratitude.

They continued to wind under the woods, between the grassy knolls of
the mountain, and, as they reached the shady summit, which he had
pointed out, the whole party burst into an exclamation. Behind the
spot where they stood, the rock rose perpendicularly in a massy wall
to a considerable height, and then branched out into overhanging
crags. Their grey tints were well contrasted by the bright hues of
the plants and wild flowers, that grew in their fractured sides, and
were deepened by the gloom of the pines and cedars, that waved above.
The steeps below, over which the eye passed abruptly to the valley,
were fringed with thickets of alpine shrubs; and, lower still,
appeared the tufted tops of the chesnut woods, that clothed their
base, among which peeped forth the shepherd's cottage, just left by
the travellers, with its blueish smoke curling high in the air. On
every side appeared the majestic summits of the Pyrenees, some
exhibiting tremendous crags of marble, whose appearance was changing
every instant, as the varying lights fell upon their surface; others,
still higher, displaying only snowy points, while their lower steeps
were covered almost invariably with forests of pine, larch, and oak,
that stretched down to the vale. This was one of the narrow vallies,
that open from the Pyrenees into the country of Rousillon, and whose
green pastures, and cultivated beauty, form a decided and wonderful
contrast to the romantic grandeur that environs it. Through a vista
of the mountains appeared the lowlands of Rousillon, tinted with the
blue haze of distance, as they united with the waters of the
Mediterranean; where, on a promontory, which marked the boundary of
the shore, stood a lonely beacon, over which were seen circling
flights of sea-fowl. Beyond, appeared, now and then, a stealing
sail, white with the sun-beam, and whose progress was perceivable by
its approach to the light-house. Sometimes, too, was seen a sail so
distant, that it served only to mark the line of separation between
the sky and the waves.

On the other side of the valley, immediately opposite to the spot
where the travellers rested, a rocky pass opened toward Gascony.
Here no sign of cultivation appeared. The rocks of granite, that
screened the glen, rose abruptly from their base, and stretched their
barren points to the clouds, unvaried with woods, and uncheered even
by a hunter's cabin. Sometimes, indeed, a gigantic larch threw its
long shade over the precipice, and here and there a cliff reared on
its brow a monumental cross, to tell the traveller the fate of him
who had ventured thither before. This spot seemed the very haunt of
banditti; and Emily, as she looked down upon it, almost expected to
see them stealing out from some hollow cave to look for their prey.
Soon after an object not less terrific struck her,--a gibbet standing
on a point of rock near the entrance of the pass, and immediately
over one of the crosses she had before observed. These were
hieroglyphics that told a plain and dreadful story. She forbore to
point it out to St. Aubert, but it threw a gloom over her spirits,
and made her anxious to hasten forward, that they might with
certainty reach Rousillon before night-fall. It was necessary,
however, that St. Aubert should take some refreshment, and, seating
themselves on the short dry turf, they opened the basket of
provisions, while

by breezy murmurs cool'd,
Broad o'er THEIR heads the verdant cedars wave,
And high palmetos lift their graceful shade.
-----THEY draw
Ethereal soul, there drink reviving gales
Profusely breathing from the piney groves,
And vales of fragrance; there at a distance hear
The roaring floods, and cataracts.*
*Thomson


St. Aubert was revived by rest, and by the serene air of this summit;
and Valancourt was so charmed with all around, and with the
conversation of his companions, that he seemed to have forgotten he
had any further to go. Having concluded their simple repast, they
gave a long farewell look to the scene, and again began to ascend.
St. Aubert rejoiced when he reached the carriage, which Emily entered
with him; but Valancourt, willing to take a more extensive view of
the enchanting country, into which they were about to descend, than
he could do from a carriage, loosened his dogs, and once more bounded
with them along the banks of the road. He often quitted it for
points that promised a wider prospect, and the slow pace, at which
the mules travelled, allowed him to overtake them with ease.
Whenever a scene of uncommon magnificence appeared, he hastened to
inform St. Aubert, who, though he was too much tired to walk himself,
sometimes made the chaise wait, while Emily went to the neighbouring
cliff.

It was evening when they descended the lower alps, that bind
Rousillon, and form a majestic barrier round that charming country,
leaving it open only on the east to the Mediterranean. The gay tints
of cultivation once more beautified the landscape; for the lowlands
were coloured with the richest hues, which a luxuriant climate, and
an industrious people can awaken into life. Groves of orange and
lemon perfumed the air, their ripe fruit glowing among the foliage;
while, sloping to the plains, extensive vineyards spread their
treasures. Beyond these, woods and pastures, and mingled towns and
hamlets stretched towards the sea, on whose bright surface gleamed
many a distant sail; while, over the whole scene, was diffused the
purple glow of evening. This landscape with the surrounding alps
did, indeed, present a perfect picture of the lovely and the sublime,
of 'beauty sleeping in the lap of horror.'

The travellers, having reached the plains, proceeded, between hedges
of flowering myrtle and pomegranate, to the town of Arles, where they
proposed to rest for the night. They met with simple, but neat
accommodation, and would have passed a happy evening, after the toils
and the delights of this day, had not the approaching separation
thrown a gloom over their spirit. It was St. Aubert's plan to
proceed, on the morrow, to the borders of the Mediterranean, and
travel along its shores into Languedoc; and Valancourt, since he was
now nearly recovered, and had no longer a pretence for continuing
with his new friends, resolved to leave them here. St. Aubert, who
was much pleased with him, invited him to go further, but did not
repeat the invitation, and Valancourt had resolution enough to forego
the temptation of accepting it, that he might prove himself not
unworthy of the favour. On the following morning, therefore, they
were to part, St. Aubert to pursue his way to Languedoc, and
Valancourt to explore new scenes among the mountains, on his return
home. During this evening he was often silent and thoughtful; St.
Aubert's manner towards him was affectionate, though grave, and Emily
was serious, though she made frequent efforts to appear cheerful.
After one of the most melancholy evenings they had yet passed
together, they separated for the night.



CHAPTER VI


I care not, Fortune! what you me deny;
You cannot rob me of free nature's grace;
You cannot shut the windows of the sky,
Through which Aurora shews her brightening face;
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace
The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve:
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace,
And I their toys to the great children leave:
Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.
THOMSON

In the morning, Valancourt breakfasted with St. Aubert and Emily,
neither of whom seemed much refreshed by sleep. The languor of
illness still hung over St. Aubert, and to Emily's fears his disorder
appeared to be increasing fast upon him. She watched his looks with
anxious affection, and their expression was always faithfully
reflected in her own.

At the commencement of their acquaintance, Valancourt had made known
his name and family. St. Aubert was not a stranger to either, for
the family estates, which were now in the possession of an elder
brother of Valancourt, were little more than twenty miles distant
from La Vallee, and he had sometimes met the elder Valancourt on
visits in the neighbourhood. This knowledge had made him more
willingly receive his present companion; for, though his countenance
and manners would have won him the acquaintance of St. Aubert, who
was very apt to trust to the intelligence of his own eyes, with
respect to countenances, he would not have accepted these, as
sufficient introductions to that of his daughter.

The breakfast was almost as silent as the supper of the preceding
night; but their musing was at length interrupted by the sound of the
carriage wheels, which were to bear away St. Aubert and Emily.
Valancourt started from his chair, and went to the window; it was
indeed the carriage, and he returned to his seat without speaking.
The moment was now come when they must part. St. Aubert told
Valancourt, that he hoped he would never pass La Vallee without
favouring him with a visit; and Valancourt, eagerly thanking him,
assured him that he never would; as he said which he looked timidly
at Emily, who tried to smile away the seriousness of her spirits.
They passed a few minutes in interesting conversation, and St. Aubert
then led the way to the carriage, Emily and Valancourt following in
silence. The latter lingered at the door several minutes after they
were seated, and none of the party seemed to have courage enough to
say--Farewell. At length, St. Aubert pronounced the melancholy word,
which Emily passed to Valancourt, who returned it, with a dejected
smile, and the carriage drove on.

The travellers remained, for some time, in a state of tranquil
pensiveness, which is not unpleasing. St. Aubert interrupted it by
observing, 'This is a very promising young man; it is many years
since I have been so much pleased with any person, on so short an
acquaintance. He brings back to my memory the days of my youth, when
every scene was new and delightful!' St. Aubert sighed, and sunk
again into a reverie; and, as Emily looked back upon the road they
had passed, Valancourt was seen, at the door of the little inn,
following them with his eyes. Her perceived her, and waved his hand;
and she returned the adieu, till the winding road shut her from his
sight.

'I remember when I was about his age,' resumed St. Aubert, 'and I
thought, and felt exactly as he does. The world was opening upon me
then, now--it is closing.'

'My dear sir, do not think so gloomily,' said Emily in a trembling
voice, 'I hope you have many, many years to live--for your own sake--
for MY sake.'

'Ah, my Emily!' replied St. Aubert, 'for thy sake! Well- I hope it
is so.' He wiped away a tear, that was stealing down his cheek,
threw a smile upon his countenance, and said in a cheering voice,
'there is something in the ardour and ingenuousness of youth, which
is particularly pleasing to the contemplation of an old man, if his
feelings have not been entirely corroded by the world. It is
cheering and reviving, like the view of spring to a sick person; his
mind catches somewhat of the spirit of the season, and his eyes are
lighted up with a transient sunshine. Valancourt is this spring to
me.'

Emily, who pressed her father's hand affectionately, had never before
listened with so much pleasure to the praises he bestowed; no, not
even when he had bestowed them on herself.

They travelled on, among vineyards, woods, and pastures, delighted
with the romantic beauty of the landscape, which was bounded, on one
side, by the grandeur of the Pyrenees, and, on the other, by the
ocean; and, soon after noon, they reached the town of Colioure,
situated on the Mediterranean. Here they dined, and rested till
towards the cool of day, when they pursued their way along the
shores--those enchanting shores!--which extend to Languedoc. Emily
gazed with enthusiasm on the vastness of the sea, its surface
varying, as the lights and shadows fell, and on its woody banks,
mellowed with autumnal tints.

St. Aubert was impatient to reach Perpignan, where he expected
letters from M. Quesnel; and it was the expectation of these letters,
that had induced him to leave Colioure, for his feeble frame had
required immediate rest. After travelling a few miles, he fell
asleep; and Emily, who had put two or three books into the carriage,
on leaving La Vallee, had now the leisure for looking into them. She
sought for one, in which Valancourt had been reading the day before,
and hoped for the pleasure of re-tracing a page, over which the eyes
of a beloved friend had lately passed, of dwelling on the passages,
which he had admired, and of permitting them to speak to her in the
language of his own mind, and to bring himself to her presence. On
searching for the book, she could find it no where, but in its stead
perceived a volume of Petrarch's poems, that had belonged to
Valancourt, whose name was written in it, and from which he had
frequently read passages to her, with all the pathetic expression,
that characterized the feelings of the author. She hesitated in
believing, what would have been sufficiently apparent to almost any
other person, that he had purposely left this book, instead of the
one she had lost, and that love had prompted the exchange; but,
having opened it with impatient pleasure, and observed the lines of
his pencil drawn along the various passages he had read aloud, and
under others more descriptive of delicate tenderness than he had
dared to trust his voice with, the conviction came, at length, to her
mind. For some moments she was conscious only of being beloved;
then, a recollection of all the variations of tone and countenance,
with which he had recited these sonnets, and of the soul, which spoke
in their expression, pressed to her memory, and she wept over the
memorial of his affection.

They arrived at Perpignan soon after sunset, where St. Aubert found,
as he had expected, letters from M. Quesnel, the contents of which so
evidently and grievously affected him, that Emily was alarmed, and
pressed him, as far as her delicacy would permit, to disclose the
occasion of his concern; but he answered her only by tears, and
immediately began to talk on other topics. Emily, though she forbore
to press the one most interesting to her, was greatly affected by her
father's manner, and passed a night of sleepless solicitude.

In the morning they pursued their journey along the coast towards
Leucate, another town on the Mediterranean, situated on the borders
of Languedoc and Rousillon. On the way, Emily renewed the subject of
the preceding night, and appeared so deeply affected by St. Aubert's
silence and dejection, that he relaxed from his reserve. 'I was
unwilling, my dear Emily,' said he, 'to throw a cloud over the
pleasure you receive from these scenes, and meant, therefore, to
conceal, for the present, some circumstances, with which, however,
you must at length have been made acquainted. But your anxiety has
defeated my purpose; you suffer as much from this, perhaps, as you
will do from a knowledge of the facts I have to relate. M. Quesnel's
visit proved an unhappy one to me; he came to tell me part of the
news he has now confirmed. You may have heard me mention a M.
Motteville, of Paris, but you did not know that the chief of my
personal property was invested in his hands. I had great confidence
in him, and I am yet willing to believe, that he is not wholly
unworthy of my esteem. A variety of circumstances have concurred to
ruin him, and--I am ruined with him.'

St. Aubert paused to conceal his emotion.

'The letters I have just received from M. Quesnel,' resumed he,
struggling to speak with firmness, 'enclosed others from Motteville,
which confirmed all I dreaded.'

'Must we then quit La Vallee?' said Emily, after a long pause of
silence. 'That is yet uncertain,' replied St. Aubert, 'it will
depend upon the compromise Motteville is able to make with his
creditors. My income, you know, was never large, and now it will be
reduced to little indeed! It is for you, Emily, for you, my child,
that I am most afflicted.' His last words faltered; Emily smiled
tenderly upon him through her tears, and then, endeavouring to
overcome her emotion, 'My dear father,' said she, 'do not grieve for
me, or for yourself; we may yet be happy;--if La Vallee remains for
us, we must be happy. We will retain only one servant, and you shall
scarcely perceive the change in your income. Be comforted, my dear
sir; we shall not feel the want of those luxuries, which others value
so highly, since we never had a taste for them; and poverty cannot
deprive us of many consolations. It cannot rob us of the affection
we have for each other, or degrade us in our own opinion, or in that
of any person, whose opinion we ought to value.'

St. Aubert concealed his face with his handkerchief, and was unable
to speak; but Emily continued to urge to her father the truths, which
himself had impressed upon her mind.

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