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The Mysteries of Udolpho

A >> Ann Radcliffe >> The Mysteries of Udolpho




'Above all, my dear Emily,' said he, 'do not indulge in the pride of
fine feeling, the romantic error of amiable minds. Those, who really
possess sensibility, ought early to be taught, that it is a dangerous
quality, which is continually extracting the excess of misery, or
delight, from every surrounding circumstance. And, since, in our
passage through this world, painful circumstances occur more
frequently than pleasing ones, and since our sense of evil is, I
fear, more acute than our sense of good, we become the victims of our
feelings, unless we can in some degree command them. I know you will
say, (for you are young, my Emily) I know you will say, that you are
contented sometimes to suffer, rather than to give up your refined
sense of happiness, at others; but, when your mind has been long
harassed by vicissitude, you will be content to rest, and you will
then recover from your delusion. You will perceive, that the phantom
of happiness is exchanged for the substance; for happiness arises in
a state of peace, not of tumult. It is of a temperate and uniform
nature, and can no more exist in a heart, that is continually alive
to minute circumstances, than in one that is dead to feeling. You
see, my dear, that, though I would guard you against the dangers of
sensibility, I am not an advocate for apathy. At your age I should
have said THAT is a vice more hateful than all the errors of
sensibility, and I say so still. I call it a VICE, because it leads
to positive evil; in this, however, it does no more than an ill-
governed sensibility, which, by such a rule, might also be called a
vice; but the evil of the former is of more general consequence. I
have exhausted myself,' said St. Aubert, feebly, 'and have wearied
you, my Emily; but, on a subject so important to your future comfort,
I am anxious to be perfectly understood.'

Emily assured him, that his advice was most precious to her, and that
she would never forget it, or cease from endeavouring to profit by
it. St. Aubert smiled affectionately and sorrowfully upon her. 'I
repeat it,' said he, 'I would not teach you to become insensible, if
I could; I would only warn you of the evils of susceptibility, and
point out how you may avoid them. Beware, my love, I conjure you, of
that self-delusion, which has been fatal to the peace of so many
persons; beware of priding yourself on the gracefulness of
sensibility; if you yield to this vanity, your happiness is lost for
ever. Always remember how much more valuable is the strength of
fortitude, than the grace of sensibility. Do not, however, confound
fortitude with apathy; apathy cannot know the virtue. Remember, too,
that one act of beneficence, one act of real usefulness, is worth all
the abstract sentiment in the world. Sentiment is a disgrace,
instead of an ornament, unless it lead us to good actions. The
miser, who thinks himself respectable, merely because he possesses
wealth, and thus mistakes the means of doing good, for the actual
accomplishment of it, is not more blameable than the man of
sentiment, without active virtue. You may have observed persons, who
delight so much in this sort of sensibility to sentiment, which
excludes that to the calls of any practical virtue, that they turn
from the distressed, and, because their sufferings are painful to be
contemplated, do not endeavour to relieve them. How despicable is
that humanity, which can be contented to pity, where it might
assuage!'

St. Aubert, some time after, spoke of Madame Cheron, his sister.
'Let me inform you of a circumstance, that nearly affects your
welfare,' he added. 'We have, you know, had little intercourse for
some years, but, as she is now your only female relation, I have
thought it proper to consign you to her care, as you will see in my
will, till you are of age, and to recommend you to her protection
afterwards. She is not exactly the person, to whom I would have
committed my Emily, but I had no alternative, and I believe her to be
upon the whole--a good kind of woman. I need not recommend it to
your prudence, my love, to endeavour to conciliate her kindness; you
will do this for his sake, who has often wished to do so for yours.'

Emily assured him, that, whatever he requested she would religiously
perform to the utmost of her ability. 'Alas!' added she, in a voice
interrupted by sighs, 'that will soon be all which remains for me; it
will be almost my only consolation to fulfil your wishes.'

St. Aubert looked up silently in her face, as if would have spoken,
but his spirit sunk a while, and his eyes became heavy and dull. She
felt that look at her heart. 'My dear father!' she exclaimed; and
then, checking herself, pressed his hand closer, and hid her face
with her handkerchief. Her tears were concealed, but St. Aubert
heard her convulsive sobs. His spirits returned. 'O my child!' said
he, faintly, 'let my consolations be yours. I die in peace; for I
know, that I am about to return to the bosom of my Father, who will
still be your Father, when I am gone. Always trust in him, my love,
and he will support you in these moments, as he supports me.'

Emily could only listen, and weep; but the extreme composure of his
manner, and the faith and hope he expressed, somewhat soothed her
anguish. Yet, whenever she looked upon his emaciated countenance,
and saw the lines of death beginning to prevail over it--saw his sunk
eyes, still bent on her, and their heavy lids pressing to a close,
there was a pang in her heart, such as defied expression, though it
required filial virtue, like hers, to forbear the attempt.

He desired once more to bless her; 'Where are you, my dear?' said he,
as he stretched forth his hands. Emily had turned to the window,
that he might not perceive her anguish; she now understood, that his
sight had failed him. When he had given her his blessing, and it
seemed to be the last effort of expiring life, he sunk back on his
pillow. She kissed his forehead; the damps of death had settled
there, and, forgetting her fortitude for a moment, her tears mingled
with them. St. Aubert lifted up his eyes; the spirit of a father
returned to them, but it quickly vanished, and he spoke no more.

St. Aubert lingered till about three o'clock in the afternoon, and,
thus gradually sinking into death, he expired without a struggle, or
a sigh.

Emily was led from the chamber by La Voisin and his daughter, who did
what they could to comfort her. The old man sat and wept with her.
Agnes was more erroneously officious.



CHAPTER VIII


O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,
Aerial forms shall sit at eve,
and bend the pensive head.
COLLINS

The monk, who had before appeared, returned in the evening to offer
consolation to Emily, and brought a kind message from the lady
abbess, inviting her to the convent. Emily, though she did not
accept the offer, returned an answer expressive of her gratitude.
The holy conversation of the friar, whose mild benevolence of manners
bore some resemblance to those of St. Aubert, soothed the violence of
her grief, and lifted her heart to the Being, who, extending through
all place and all eternity, looks on the events of this little world
as on the shadows of a moment, and beholds equally, and in the same
instant, the soul that has passed the gates of death, and that, which
still lingers in the body. 'In the sight of God,' said Emily, 'my
dear father now exists, as truly as he yesterday existed to me; it is
to me only that he is dead; to God and to himself he yet lives!'

The good monk left her more tranquil than she had been since St.
Aubert died; and, before she retired to her little cabin for the
night, she trusted herself so far as to visit the corpse. Silent,
and without weeping, she stood by its side. The features, placid and
serene, told the nature of the last sensations, that had lingered in
the now deserted frame. For a moment she turned away, in horror of
the stillness in which death had fixed that countenance, never till
now seen otherwise than animated; then gazed on it with a mixture of
doubt and awful astonishment. Her reason could scarcely overcome an
involuntary and unaccountable expectation of seeing that beloved
countenance still susceptible. She continued to gaze wildly; took up
the cold hand; spoke; still gazed, and then burst into a transport of
grief. La Voisin, hearing her sobs, came into the room to lead her
away, but she heard nothing, and only begged that he would leave her.

Again alone, she indulged her tears, and, when the gloom of evening
obscured the chamber, and almost veiled from her eyes the object of
her distress, she still hung over the body; till her spirits, at
length, were exhausted, and she became tranquil. La Voisin again
knocked at the door, and entreated that she would come to the common
apartment. Before she went, she kissed the lips of St. Aubert, as
she was wont to do when she bade him good night. Again she kissed
them; her heart felt as if it would break, a few tears of agony
started to her eyes, she looked up to heaven, then at St. Aubert, and
left the room.

Retired to her lonely cabin, her melancholy thoughts still hovered
round the body of her deceased parent; and, when she sunk into a kind
of slumber, the images of her waking mind still haunted her fancy.
She thought she saw her father approaching her with a benign
countenance; then, smiling mournfully and pointing upwards, his lips
moved, but, instead of words, she heard sweet music borne on the
distant air, and presently saw his features glow with the mild
rapture of a superior being. The strain seemed to swell louder, and
she awoke. The vision was gone, but music yet came to her ear in
strains such as angels might breathe. She doubted, listened, raised
herself in the bed, and again listened. It was music, and not an
illusion of her imagination. After a solemn steady harmony, it
paused; then rose again, in mournful sweetness, and then died, in a
cadence, that seemed to bear away the listening soul to heaven. She
instantly remembered the music of the preceding night, with the
strange circumstances, related by La Voisin, and the affecting
conversation it had led to, concerning the state of departed spirits.
All that St. Aubert had said, on that subject, now pressed upon her
heart, and overwhelmed it. What a change in a few hours! He, who
then could only conjecture, was now made acquainted with truth; was
himself become one of the departed! As she listened, she was chilled
with superstitious awe, her tears stopped; and she rose, and went to
the window. All without was obscured in shade; but Emily, turning
her eyes from the massy darkness of the woods, whose waving outline
appeared on the horizon, saw, on the left, that effulgent planet,
which the old man had pointed out, setting over the woods. She
remembered what he had said concerning it, and, the music now coming
at intervals on the air, she unclosed the casement to listen to the
strains, that soon gradually sunk to a greater distance, and tried to
discover whence they came. The obscurity prevented her from
distinguishing any object on the green platform below; and the sounds
became fainter and fainter, till they softened into silence. She
listened, but they returned no more. Soon after, she observed the
planet trembling between the fringed tops of the woods, and, in the
next moment, sink behind them. Chilled with a melancholy awe, she
retired once more to her bed, and, at length, forgot for a while her
sorrows in sleep.

On the following morning, she was visited by a sister of the convent,
who came, with kind offices and a second invitation from the lady
abbess; and Emily, though she could not forsake the cottage, while
the remains of her father were in it, consented, however painful such
a visit must be, in the present state of her spirits, to pay her
respects to the abbess, in the evening.

About an hour before sun-set, La Voisin shewed her the way through
the woods to the convent, which stood in a small bay of the
Mediterranean, crowned by a woody amphitheatre; and Emily, had she
been less unhappy, would have admired the extensive sea view, that
appeared from the green slope, in front of the edifice, and the rich
shores, hung with woods and pastures, that extended on either hand.
But her thoughts were now occupied by one sad idea, and the features
of nature were to her colourless and without form. The bell for
vespers struck, as she passed the ancient gate of the convent, and
seemed the funereal note for St. Aubert. Little incidents affect a
mind, enervated by sorrow; Emily struggled against the sickening
faintness, that came over her, and was led into the presence of the
abbess, who received her with an air of maternal tenderness; an air
of such gentle solicitude and consideration, as touched her with an
instantaneous gratitude; her eyes were filled with tears, and the
words she would have spoken faltered on her lips. The abbess led her
to a seat, and sat down beside her, still holding her hand and
regarding her in silence, as Emily dried her tears and attempted to
speak. 'Be composed, my daughter,' said the abbess in a soothing
voice, 'do not speak yet; I know all you would say. Your spirits
must be soothed. We are going to prayers;--will you attend our
evening service? It is comfortable, my child, to look up in our
afflictions to a father, who sees and pities us, and who chastens in
his mercy.'

Emily's tears flowed again, but a thousand sweet emotions mingled
with them. The abbess suffered her to weep without interruption, and
watched over her with a look of benignity, that might have
characterized the countenance of a guardian angel. Emily, when she
became tranquil, was encouraged to speak without reserve, and to
mention the motive, that made her unwilling to quit the cottage,
which the abbess did not oppose even by a hint; but praised the
filial piety of her conduct, and added a hope, that she would pass a
few days at the convent, before she returned to La Vallee. 'You must
allow yourself a little time to recover from your first shock, my
daughter, before you encounter a second; I will not affect to conceal
from you how much I know your heart must suffer, on returning to the
scene of your former happiness. Here, you will have all, that quiet
and sympathy and religion can give, to restore your spirits. But
come,' added she, observing the tears swell in Emily's eyes, 'we will
go to the chapel.'

Emily followed to the parlour, where the nuns were assembled, to whom
the abbess committed her, saying, 'This is a daughter, for whom I
have much esteem; be sisters to her.'

They passed on in a train to the chapel, where the solemn devotion,
with which the service was performed, elevated her mind, and brought
to it the comforts of faith and resignation.

Twilight came on, before the abbess's kindness would suffer Emily to
depart, when she left the convent, with a heart much lighter than she
had entered it, and was reconducted by La Voisin through the woods,
the pensive gloom of which was in unison with the temper of her mind;
and she pursued the little wild path, in musing silence, till her
guide suddenly stopped, looked round, and then struck out of the path
into the high grass, saying he had mistaken the road. He now walked
on quickly, and Emily, proceeding with difficulty over the obscured
and uneven ground, was left at some distance, till her voice arrested
him, who seemed unwilling to stop, and still hurried on. 'If you are
in doubt about the way,' said Emily, 'had we not better enquire it at
the chateau yonder, between the trees?'

'No,' replied La Voisin, 'there is no occasion. When we reach that
brook, ma'amselle, (you see the light upon the water there, beyond
the woods) when we reach that brook, we shall be at home presently.
I don't know how I happened to mistake the path; I seldom come this
way after sun-set.'

'It is solitary enough,' said Emily, 'but you have no banditti here.'
'No, ma'amselle--no banditti.'

'what are you afraid of then, my good friend? you are not
superstitious?' 'No, not superstitious; but, to tell you the truth,
lady, nobody likes to go near that chateau, after dusk.' 'By whom is
it inhabited,' said Emily, 'that it is so formidable?' 'Why,
ma'amselle, it is scarcely inhabited, for our lord the Marquis, and
the lord of all these find woods, too, is dead. He had not once been
in it, for these many years, and his people, who have the care of it,
live in a cottage close by.' Emily now understood this to be the
chateau, which La Voisin had formerly pointed out, as having belonged
to the Marquis Villeroi, on the mention of which her father had
appeared so much affected.

'Ah! it is a desolate place now,' continued La Voisin, 'and such a
grand, fine place, as I remember it!' Emily enquired what had
occasioned this lamentable change; but the old man was silent, and
Emily, whose interest was awakened by the fear he had expressed, and
above all by a recollection of her father's agitation, repeated the
question, and added, 'If you are neither afraid of the inhabitants,
my good friend, nor are superstitious, how happens it, that you dread
to pass near that chateau in the dark?'

'Perhaps, then, I am a little superstitious, ma'amselle; and, if you
knew what I do, you might be so too. Strange things have happened
there. Monsieur, your good father, appeared to have known the late
Marchioness.' 'Pray inform me what did happen?' said Emily, with much
emotion.

'Alas! ma'amselle,' answered La Voisin, 'enquire no further; it is
not for me to lay open the domestic secrets of my lord.'--Emily,
surprised by the old man's words, and his manner of delivering them,
forbore to repeat her question; a nearer interest, the remembrance of
St. Aubert, occupied her thoughts, and she was led to recollect the
music she heard on the preceding night, which she mentioned to La
Voisin. 'You was not alone, ma'amselle, in this,' he replied, 'I
heard it too; but I have so often heard it, at the same hour, that I
was scarcely surprised.'

'You doubtless believe this music to have some connection with the
chateau,' said Emily suddenly, 'and are, therefore, superstitious.'
'It may be so, ma'amselle, but there are other circumstances,
belonging to that chateau, which I remember, and sadly too.' A heavy
sigh followed: but Emily's delicacy restrained the curiosity these
words revived, and she enquired no further.

On reaching the cottage, all the violence of her grief returned; it
seemed as if she had escaped its heavy pressure only while she was
removed from the object of it. She passed immediately to the
chamber, where the remains of her father were laid, and yielded to
all the anguish of hopeless grief. La Voisin, at length, persuaded
her to leave the room, and she returned to her own, where, exhausted
by the sufferings of the day, she soon fell into deep sleep, and
awoke considerably refreshed.

When the dreadful hour arrived, in which the remains of St. Aubert
were to be taken from her for ever, she went alone to the chamber to
look upon his countenance yet once again, and La Voisin, who had
waited patiently below stairs, till her despair should subside, with
the respect due to grief, forbore to interrupt the indulgence of it,
till surprise, at the length of her stay, and then apprehension
overcame his delicacy, and he went to lead her from the chamber.
Having tapped gently at the door, without receiving an answer, he
listened attentively, but all was still; no sigh, no sob of anguish
was heard. Yet more alarmed by this silence, he opened the door, and
found Emily lying senseless across the foot of the bed, near which
stood the coffin. His calls procured assistance, and she was carried
to her room, where proper applications, at length, restored her.

During her state of insensibility, La Voisin had given directions for
the coffin to be closed, and he succeeded in persuading Emily to
forbear revisiting the chamber. She, indeed, felt herself unequal to
this, and also perceived the necessity of sparing her spirits, and
recollecting fortitude sufficient to bear her through the approaching
scene. St. Aubert had given a particular injunction, that his
remains should be interred in the church of the convent of St. Clair,
and, in mentioning the north chancel, near the ancient tomb of the
Villerois, had pointed out the exact spot, where he wished to be
laid. The superior had granted this place for the interment, and
thither, therefore, the sad procession now moved, which was met, at
the gates, by the venerable priest, followed by a train of friars.
Every person, who heard the solemn chant of the anthem, and the peal
of the organ, that struck up, when the body entered the church, and
saw also the feeble steps, and the assumed tranquillity of Emily,
gave her involuntary tears. She shed none, but walked, her face
partly shaded by a thin black veil, between two persons, who
supported her, preceded by the abbess, and followed by nuns, whose
plaintive voices mellowed the swelling harmony of the dirge. When
the procession came to the grave the music ceased. Emily drew the
veil entirely over her face, and, in a momentary pause, between the
anthem and the rest of the service, her sobs were distinctly audible.
The holy father began the service, and Emily again commanded her
feelings, till the coffin was let down, and she heard the earth
rattle on its lid. Then, as she shuddered, a groan burst from her
heart, and she leaned for support on the person who stood next to
her. In a few moments she recovered; and, when she heard those
affecting and sublime words: 'His body is buried in peace, and his
soul returns to Him that gave it,' her anguish softened into tears.

The abbess led her from the church into her own parlour, and there
administered all the consolations, that religion and gentle sympathy
can give. Emily struggled against the pressure of grief; but the
abbess, observing her attentively, ordered a bed to be prepared, and
recommended her to retire to repose. She also kindly claimed her
promise to remain a few days at the convent; and Emily, who had no
wish to return to the cottage, the scene of all her sufferings, had
leisure, now that no immediate care pressed upon her attention, to
feel the indisposition, which disabled her from immediately
travelling.

Meanwhile, the maternal kindness of the abbess, and the gentle
attentions of the nuns did all, that was possible, towards soothing
her spirits and restoring her health. But the latter was too deeply
wounded, through the medium of her mind, to be quickly revived. She
lingered for some weeks at the convent, under the influence of a slow
fever, wishing to return home, yet unable to go thither; often even
reluctant to leave the spot where her father's relics were deposited,
and sometimes soothing herself with the consideration, that, if she
died here, her remains would repose beside those of St. Aubert. In
the meanwhile, she sent letters to Madame Cheron and to the old
housekeeper, informing them of the sad event, that had taken place,
and of her own situation. From her aunt she received an answer,
abounding more in common-place condolement, than in traits of real
sorrow, which assured her, that a servant should be sent to conduct
her to La Vallee, for that her own time was so much occupied by
company, that she had no leisure to undertake so long a journey.
However Emily might prefer La Vallee to Tholouse, she could not be
insensible to the indecorous and unkind conduct of her aunt, in
suffering her to return thither, where she had no longer a relation
to console and protect her; a conduct, which was the more culpable,
since St. Aubert had appointed Madame Cheron the guardian of his
orphan daughter.

Madame Cheron's servant made the attendance of the good La Voisin
unnecessary; and Emily, who felt sensibly her obligations to him, for
all his kind attention to her late father, as well as to herself, was
glad to spare him a long, and what, at his time of life, must have
been a troublesome journey.

During her stay at the convent, the peace and sanctity that reigned
within, the tranquil beauty of the scenery without, and the delicate
attentions of the abbess and the nuns, were circumstances so soothing
to her mind, that they almost tempted her to leave a world, where she
had lost her dearest friends, and devote herself to the cloister, in
a spot, rendered sacred to her by containing the tomb of St. Aubert.
The pensive enthusiasm, too, so natural to her temper, had spread a
beautiful illusion over the sanctified retirement of a nun, that
almost hid from her view the selfishness of its security. But the
touches, which a melancholy fancy, slightly tinctured with
superstition, gave to the monastic scene, began to fade, as her
spirits revived, and brought once more to her heart an image, which
had only transiently been banished thence. By this she was silently
awakened to hope and comfort and sweet affections; visions of
happiness gleamed faintly at a distance, and, though she knew them to
be illusions, she could not resolve to shut them out for ever. It
was the remembrance of Valancourt, of his taste, his genius, and of
the countenance which glowed with both, that, perhaps, alone
determined her to return to the world. The grandeur and sublimity of
the scenes, amidst which they had first met, had fascinated her
fancy, and had imperceptibly contributed to render Valancourt more
interesting by seeming to communicate to him somewhat of their own
character. The esteem, too, which St. Aubert had repeatedly
expressed for him, sanctioned this kindness; but, though his
countenance and manner had continually expressed his admiration of
her, he had not otherwise declared it; and even the hope of seeing
him again was so distant, that she was scarcely conscious of it,
still less that it influenced her conduct on this occasion.

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