The Mysteries of Udolpho
Produced by Karalee Coleman
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO
A Romance
Interspersed With Some Pieces of Poetry
By Ann Radcliffe
Fate sits on these dark battlements, and frowns, And, as the portals open to receive me, Her voice, in sullen echoes through the courts, Tells of a nameless deed.
VOLUME 1
CHAPTER I
home is the resort Of love, of joy, of peace and plenty, where, Supporting and supported, polish'd friends And dear relations mingle into bliss.* *Thomson
On the pleasant banks of the Garonne, in the province of Gascony, stood,in the year 1584, the chateau of Monsieur St. Aubert. From its windowswere seen the pastoral landscapes of Guienne and Gascony stretchingalong the river, gay with luxuriant woods and vine, and plantations ofolives. To the south, the view was bounded by the majestic Pyrenees,whose summits, veiled in clouds, or exhibiting awful forms, seen, andlost again, as the partial vapours rolled along, were sometimes barren,and gleamed through the blue tinge of air, and sometimes frownedwith forests of gloomy pine, that swept downward to their base. Thesetremendous precipices were contrasted by the soft green of the pasturesand woods that hung upon their skirts; among whose flocks, and herds,and simple cottages, the eye, after having scaled the cliffs above,delighted to repose. To the north, and to the east, the plains ofGuienne and Languedoc were lost in the mist of distance; on the west,Gascony was bounded by the waters of Biscay.
M. St. Aubert loved to wander, with his wife and daughter, on the marginof the Garonne, and to listen to the music that floated on its waves. Hehad known life in other forms than those of pastoral simplicity,having mingled in the gay and in the busy scenes of the world; but theflattering portrait of mankind, which his heart had delineated in earlyyouth, his experience had too sorrowfully corrected. Yet, amidstthe changing visions of life, his principles remained unshaken, hisbenevolence unchilled; and he retired from the multitude 'more in PITYthan in anger,' to scenes of simple nature, to the pure delights ofliterature, and to the exercise of domestic virtues.
He was a descendant from the younger branch of an illustrious family,and it was designed, that the deficiency of his patrimonial wealthshould be supplied either by a splendid alliance in marriage, or bysuccess in the intrigues of public affairs. But St. Aubert had too nicea sense of honour to fulfil the latter hope, and too small a portionof ambition to sacrifice what he called happiness, to the attainment ofwealth. After the death of his father he married a very amiable woman,his equal in birth, and not his superior in fortune. The late MonsieurSt. Aubert's liberality, or extravagance, had so much involved hisaffairs, that his son found it necessary to dispose of a part ofthe family domain, and, some years after his marriage, he sold it toMonsieur Quesnel, the brother of his wife, and retired to a small estatein Gascony, where conjugal felicity, and parental duties, divided hisattention with the treasures of knowledge and the illuminations ofgenius.
To this spot he had been attached from his infancy. He had often madeexcursions to it when a boy, and the impressions of delight given to hismind by the homely kindness of the grey-headed peasant, to whom itwas intrusted, and whose fruit and cream never failed, had not beenobliterated by succeeding circumstances. The green pastures alongwhich he had so often bounded in the exultation of health, and youthfulfreedom--the woods, under whose refreshing shade he had first indulgedthat pensive melancholy, which afterwards made a strong feature of hischaracter--the wild walks of the mountains, the river, on whose waves hehad floated, and the distant plains, which seemed boundless as his earlyhopes--were never after remembered by St. Aubert but with enthusiasmand regret. At length he disengaged himself from the world, and retiredhither, to realize the wishes of many years.
The building, as it then stood, was merely a summer cottage, renderedinteresting to a stranger by its neat simplicity, or the beauty of thesurrounding scene; and considerable additions were necessary to make ita comfortable family residence. St. Aubert felt a kind of affection forevery part of the fabric, which he remembered in his youth, and wouldnot suffer a stone of it to be removed, so that the new building,adapted to the style of the old one, formed with it only a simple andelegant residence. The taste of Madame St. Aubert was conspicuous in itsinternal finishing, where the same chaste simplicity was observablein the furniture, and in the few ornaments of the apartments, thatcharacterized the manners of its inhabitants.
The library occupied the west side of the chateau, and was enriched bya collection of the best books in the ancient and modern languages. Thisroom opened upon a grove, which stood on the brow of a gentle declivity,that fell towards the river, and the tall trees gave it a melancholyand pleasing shade; while from the windows the eye caught, beneath thespreading branches, the gay and luxuriant landscape stretching to thewest, and overlooked on the left by the bold precipices of the Pyrenees.Adjoining the library was a green-house, stored with scarce andbeautiful plants; for one of the amusements of St. Aubert was thestudy of botany, and among the neighbouring mountains, which afforded aluxurious feast to the mind of the naturalist, he often passed the dayin the pursuit of his favourite science. He was sometimes accompaniedin these little excursions by Madame St. Aubert, and frequently by hisdaughter; when, with a small osier basket to receive plants, and anotherfilled with cold refreshments, such as the cabin of the shepherd didnot afford, they wandered away among the most romantic and magnificentscenes, nor suffered the charms of Nature's lowly children to abstractthem from the observance of her stupendous works. When weary ofsauntering among cliffs that seemed scarcely accessible but to the stepsof the enthusiast, and where no track appeared on the vegetation, butwhat the foot of the izard had left; they would seek one of those greenrecesses, which so beautifully adorn the bosom of these mountains,where, under the shade of the lofty larch, or cedar, they enjoyed theirsimple repast, made sweeter by the waters of the cool stream, that creptalong the turf, and by the breath of wild flowers and aromatic plants,that fringed the rocks, and inlaid the grass.
Adjoining the eastern side of the green-house, looking towards theplains of Languedoc, was a room, which Emily called hers, and whichcontained her books, her drawings, her musical instruments, with somefavourite birds and plants. Here she usually exercised herself inelegant arts, cultivated only because they were congenial to her taste,and in which native genius, assisted by the instructions of Monsieurand Madame St. Aubert, made her an early proficient. The windows ofthis room were particularly pleasant; they descended to the floor, and,opening upon the little lawn that surrounded the house, the eye was ledbetween groves of almond, palm-trees, flowering-ash, and myrtle, to thedistant landscape, where the Garonne wandered.
The peasants of this gay climate were often seen on an evening, whenthe day's labour was done, dancing in groups on the margin of the river.Their sprightly melodies, debonnaire steps, the fanciful figure oftheir dances, with the tasteful and capricious manner in which the girlsadjusted their simple dress, gave a character to the scene entirelyFrench.
The front of the chateau, which, having a southern aspect, opened uponthe grandeur of the mountains, was occupied on the ground floor by arustic hall, and two excellent sitting rooms. The first floor, for thecottage had no second story, was laid out in bed-chambers, except oneapartment that opened to a balcony, and which was generally used for abreakfast-room.
In the surrounding ground, St. Aubert had made very tastefulimprovements; yet, such was his attachment to objects he had rememberedfrom his boyish days, that he had in some instances sacrificed tasteto sentiment. There were two old larches that shaded the building, andinterrupted the prospect; St. Aubert had sometimes declared that hebelieved he should have been weak e
nough to have wept at their fall. Inaddition to these larches he planted a little grove of beech, pine, andmountain-ash. On a lofty terrace, formed by the swelling bank of theriver, rose a plantation of orange, lemon, and palm-trees, whose fruit,in the coolness of evening, breathed delicious fragrance. With thesewere mingled a few trees of other species. Here, under the ample shadeof a plane-tree, that spread its majestic canopy towards the river, St.Aubert loved to sit in the fine evenings of summer, with his wife andchildren, watching, beneath its foliage, the setting sun, the mildsplendour of its light fading from the distant landscape, till theshadows of twilight melted its various features into one tint of sobergrey. Here, too, he loved to read, and to converse with Madame St.Aubert; or to play with his children, resigning himself to the influenceof those sweet affections, which are ever attendant on simplicity andnature. He has often said, while tears of pleasure trembled in his eyes,that these were moments infinitely more delightful than any passed amidthe brilliant and tumultuous scenes that are courted by the world. Hisheart was occupied; it had, what can be so rarely said, no wish for ahappiness beyond what it experienced. The consciousness of acting rightdiffused a serenity over his manners, which nothing else could impartto a man of moral perceptions like his, and which refined his sense ofevery surrounding blessing.
The deepest shade of twilight did not send him from his favouriteplane-tree. He loved the soothing hour, when the last tints of lightdie away; when the stars, one by one, tremble through aether, and arereflected on the dark mirror of the waters; that hour, which, of allothers, inspires the mind with pensive tenderness, and often elevatesit to sublime contemplation. When the moon shed her soft rays among thefoliage, he still lingered, and his pastoral supper of cream and fruitswas often spread beneath it. Then, on the stillness of night, came thesong of the nightingale, breathing sweetness, and awakening melancholy.
The first interruptions to the happiness he had known since hisretirement, were occasioned by the death of his two sons. He lost themat that age when infantine simplicity is so fascinating; and though,in consideration of Madame St. Aubert's distress, he restrained theexpression of his own, and endeavoured to bear it, as he meant, withphilosophy, he had, in truth, no philosophy that could render him calmto such losses. One daughter was now his only surviving child; and,while he watched the unfolding of her infant character, with anxiousfondness, he endeavoured, with unremitting effort, to counteractthose traits in her disposition, which might hereafter lead her fromhappiness. She had discovered in her early years uncommon delicacyof mind, warm affections, and ready benevolence; but with these wasobservable a degree of susceptibility too exquisite to admit of lastingpeace. As she advanced in youth, this sensibility gave a pensive tone toher spirits, and a softness to her manner, which added grace to beauty,and rendered her a very interesting object to persons of a congenialdisposition. But St. Aubert had too much good sense to prefer a charmto a virtue; and had penetration enough to see, that this charm was toodangerous to its possessor to be allowed the character of a blessing. Heendeavoured, therefore, to strengthen her mind; to enure her to habitsof self-command; to teach her to reject the first impulse of herfeelings, and to look, with cool examination, upon the disappointmentshe sometimes threw in her way. While he instructed her to resist firstimpressions, and to acquire that steady dignity of mind, that can alonecounterbalance the passions, and bear us, as far as is compatible withour nature, above the reach of circumstances, he taught himself alesson of fortitude; for he was often obliged to witness, with seemingindifference, the tears and struggles which his caution occasioned her.
In person, Emily resembled her mother; having the same elegant symmetryof form, the same delicacy of features, and the same blue eyes, fullof tender sweetness. But, lovely as was her person, it was the variedexpression of her countenance, as conversation awakened the niceremotions of her mind, that threw such a captivating grace around her:
Those tend'rer tints, that shun the careless eye, And, in the world's contagious circle, die.
St. Aubert cultivated her understanding with the most scrupulous care.He gave her a general view of the sciences, and an exact acquaintancewith every part of elegant literature. He taught her Latin and English,chiefly that she might understand the sublimity of their best poets. Shediscovered in her early years a taste for works of genius; and it wasSt. Aubert's principle, as well as his inclination, to promote everyinnocent means of happiness. 'A well-informed mind,' he would say, 'isthe best security against the contagion of folly and of vice. The vacantmind is ever on the watch for relief, and ready to plunge into error, toescape from the languor of idleness. Store it with ideas, teach it thepleasure of thinking; and the temptations of the world without, willbe counteracted by the gratifications derived from the world within.Thought, and cultivation, are necessary equally to the happiness of acountry and a city life; in the first they prevent the uneasy sensationsof indolence, and afford a sublime pleasure in the taste they create forthe beautiful, and the grand; in the latter, they make dissipation lessan object of necessity, and consequently of interest.'
It was one of Emily's earliest pleasures to ramble among the scenesof nature; nor was it in the soft and glowing landscape that shemost delighted; she loved more the wild wood-walks, that skirted themountain; and still more the mountain's stupendous recesses, where thesilence and grandeur of solitude impressed a sacred awe upon her heart,and lifted her thoughts to the GOD OF HEAVEN AND EARTH. In scenes likethese she would often linger along, wrapt in a melancholy charm, tillthe last gleam of day faded from the west; till the lonely sound of asheep-bell, or the distant bark of a watch-dog, were all that brokeon the stillness of the evening. Then, the gloom of the woods; thetrembling of their leaves, at intervals, in the breeze; the bat,flitting on the twilight; the cottage-lights, now seen, and nowlost--were circumstances that awakened her mind into effort, and led toenthusiasm and poetry.
Her favourite walk was to a little fishing-house, belonging to St.Aubert, in a woody glen, on the margin of a rivulet that descended fromthe Pyrenees, and, after foaming among their rocks, wound its silentway beneath the shades it reflected. Above the woods, that screened thisglen, rose the lofty summits of the Pyrenees, which often burst boldlyon the eye through the glades below. Sometimes the shattered face ofa rock only was seen, crowned with wild shrubs; or a shepherd's cabinseated on a cliff, overshadowed by dark cypress, or waving ash. Emergingfrom the deep recesses of the woods, the glade opened to the distantlandscape, where the rich pastures and vine-covered slopes of Gasconygradually declined to the plains; and there, on the winding shores ofthe Garonne, groves, and hamlets, and villas--their outlines softened bydistance, melted from the eye into one rich harmonious tint.
This, too, was the favourite retreat of St. Aubert, to which hefrequently withdrew from the fervour of noon, with his wife, hisdaughter, and his books; or came at the sweet evening hour to welcomethe silent dusk, or to listen for the music of the nightingale.Sometimes, too, he brought music of his own, and awakened every fairyecho with the tender accents of his oboe; and often have the tones ofEmily's voice drawn sweetness from the waves, over which they trembled.
It was in one of these excursions to this spot, that she observed thefollowing lines written with a pencil on a part of the wainscot:
SONNET
Go, pencil! faithful to thy master's sighs! Go--tell the Goddess of the fairy scene, When next her light steps wind these wood-walks green, Whence all his tears, his tender sorrows, rise; Ah! paint her form, her soul-illumin'd eyes, The sweet expression of her pensive face, The light'ning smile, the animated grace-- The portrait well the lover's voice supplies; Speaks all his heart must feel, his tongue would say: Yet ah! not all his heart must sadly feel! How oft the flow'ret's silken leaves conceal The drug that steals the vital spark away! And who that gazes on that angel-smile, Would fear its charm, or think it could beguile!
These lines were not inscribed to any person; Emily therefore could notapply them to herself, though she was un
doubtedly the nymph of theseshades. Having glanced round the little circle of her acquaintancewithout being detained by a suspicion as to whom they could beaddressed, she was compelled to rest in uncertainty; an uncertaintywhich would have been more painful to an idle mind than it was to hers.She had no leisure to suffer this circumstance, trifling at first, toswell into importance by frequent remembrance. The little vanity it hadexcited (for the incertitude which forbade her to presume upon havinginspired the sonnet, forbade her also to disbelieve it) passed away,and the incident was dismissed from her thoughts amid her books, herstudies, and the exercise of social charities.
Soon after this period, her anxiety was awakened by the indisposition ofher father, who was attacked with a fever; which, though not thought tobe of a dangerous kind, gave a severe shock to his constitution.Madame St. Aubert and Emily attended him with unremitting care; buthis recovery was very slow, and, as he advanced towards health, Madameseemed to decline.
The first scene he visited, after he was well enough to take theair, was his favourite fishing-house. A basket of provisions was sentthither, with books, and Emily's lute; for fishing-tackle he had no use,for he never could find amusement in torturing or destroying.
After employing himself, for about an hour, in botanizing, dinner wasserved. It was a repast, to which gratitude, for being again permittedto visit this spot, gave sweetness; and family happiness once moresmiled beneath these shades. Monsieur St. Aubert conversed with unusualcheerfulness; every object delighted his senses. The refreshing pleasurefrom the first view of nature, after the pain of illness, and theconfinement of a sick-chamber, is above the conceptions, as well asthe descriptions, of those in health. The green woods and pastures; theflowery turf; the blue concave of the heavens; the balmy air; the murmurof the limpid stream; and even the hum of every little insect of theshade, seem to revivify the soul, and make mere existence bliss.
Madame St. Aubert, reanimated by the cheerfulness and recovery of herhusband, was no longer sensible of the indisposition which had latelyoppressed her; and, as she sauntered along the wood-walks of thisromantic glen, and conversed with him, and with her daughter, she oftenlooked at them alternately with a degree of tenderness, that filled hereyes with tears. St. Aubert observed this more than once, and gentlyreproved her for the emotion; but she could only smile, clasp his hand,and that of Emily, and weep the more. He felt the tender enthusiasmstealing upon himself in a degree that became almost painful; hisfeatures assumed a serious air, and he could not forbear secretlysighing--'Perhaps I shall some time look back to these moments, as tothe summit of my happiness, with hopeless regret. But let me not misusethem by useless anticipation; let me hope I shall not live to mourn theloss of those who are dearer to me than life.'
To relieve, or perhaps to indulge, the pensive temper of his mind, hebade Emily fetch the lute she knew how to touch with such sweet pathos.As she drew near the fishing-house, she was surprised to hear the tonesof the instrument, which were awakened by the hand of taste, and uttereda plaintive air, whose exquisite melody engaged all her attention. Shelistened in profound silence, afraid to move from the spot, lest thesound of her steps should occasion her to lose a note of the music, orshould disturb the musician. Every thing without the building was still,and no person appeared. She continued to listen, till timidity succeededto surprise and delight; a timidity, increased by a remembrance of thepencilled lines she had formerly seen, and she hesitated whether toproceed, or to return.
While she paused, the music ceased; and, after a momentary hesitation,she re-collected courage to advance to the fishing-house, which sheentered with faltering steps, and found unoccupied! Her lute lay on thetable; every thing seemed undisturbed, and she began to believe it wasanother instrument she had heard, till she remembered, that, when shefollowed M. and Madame St. Aubert from this spot, her lute was left ona window seat. She felt alarmed, yet knew not wherefore; the melancholygloom of evening, and the profound stillness of the place, interruptedonly by the light trembling of leaves, heightened her fancifulapprehensions, and she was desirous of quitting the building, butperceived herself grow faint, and sat down. As she tried to recoverherself, the pencilled lines on the wainscot met her eye; she started,as if she had seen a stranger; but, endeavouring to conquer the tremorof her spirits, rose, and went to the window. To the lines beforenoticed she now perceived that others were added, in which her nameappeared.
Though no longer suffered to doubt that they were addressed to herself,she was as ignorant, as before, by whom they could be written. While shemused, she thought she heard the sound of a step without the building,and again alarmed, she caught up her lute, and hurried away. Monsieurand Madame St. Aubert she found in a little path that wound along thesides of the glen.
Having reached a green summit, shadowed by palm-trees, and overlookingthe vallies and plains of Gascony, they seated themselves on the turf;and while their eyes wandered over the glorious scene, and they inhaledthe sweet breath of flowers and herbs that enriched the grass, Emilyplayed and sung several of their favourite airs, with the delicacy ofexpression in which she so much excelled.
Music and conversation detained them in this enchanting spot, till thesun's last light slept upon the plains; till the white sails that glidedbeneath the mountains, where the Garonne wandered, became dim, and thegloom of evening stole over the landscape. It was a melancholy but notunpleasing gloom. St. Aubert and his family rose, and left the placewith regret; alas! Madame St. Aubert knew not that she left it for ever.
When they reached the fishing-house she missed her bracelet, andrecollected that she had taken it from her arm after dinner, and hadleft it on the table when she went to walk. After a long search, inwhich Emily was very active, she was compelled to resign herself to theloss of it. What made this bracelet valuable to her was a miniature ofher daughter to which it was attached, esteemed a striking resemblance,and which had been painted only a few months before. When Emily wasconvinced that the bracelet was really gone, she blushed, and becamethoughtful. That some stranger had been in the fishing-house, duringher absence, her lute, and the additional lines of a pencil, had alreadyinformed her: from the purport of these lines it was not unreasonableto believe, that the poet, the musician, and the thief were the sameperson. But though the music she had heard, the written lines she hadseen, and the disappearance of the picture, formed a combination ofcircumstances very remarkable, she was irresistibly restrained frommentioning them; secretly determining, however, never again to visit thefishing-house without Monsieur or Madame St. Aubert.
They returned pensively to the chateau, Emily musing on the incidentwhich had just occurred; St. Aubert reflecting, with placid gratitude,on the blessings he possessed; and Madame St. Aubert somewhat disturbed,and perplexed, by the loss of her daughter's picture. As they drew nearthe house, they observed an unusual bustle about it; the sound of voiceswas distinctly heard, servants and horses were seen passing between thetrees, and, at length, the wheels of a carriage rolled along. Havingcome within view of the front of the chateau, a landau, with smokinghorses, appeared on the little lawn before it. St. Aubert perceived theliveries of his brother-in-law, and in the parlour he found Monsieur andMadame Quesnel already entered. They had left Paris some days before,and were on the way to their estate, only ten leagues distant from LaVallee, and which Monsieur Quesnel had purchased several years beforeof St. Aubert. This gentleman was the only brother of Madame St.Aubert; but the ties of relationship having never been strengthened bycongeniality of character, the intercourse between them had not beenfrequent. M. Quesnel had lived altogether in the world; his aim had beenconsequence; splendour was the object of his taste; and his addressand knowledge of character had carried him forward to the attainment ofalmost all that he had courted. By a man of such a disposition, it isnot surprising that the virtues of St. Aubert should be overlooked; orthat his pure taste, simplicity, and moderated wishes, were consideredas marks of a weak intellect, and of confined views. The marriage of hissister with St
. Aubert had been mortifying to his ambition, for he haddesigned that the matrimonial connection she formed should assist himto attain the consequence which he so much desired; and some offers weremade her by persons whose rank and fortune flattered his warmest hope.But his sister, who was then addressed also by St. Aubert, perceived, orthought she perceived, that happiness and splendour were not the same,and she did not hesitate to forego the last for the attainment of theformer. Whether Monsieur Quesnel thought them the same, or not, he wouldreadily have sacrificed his sister's peace to the gratification of hisown ambition; and, on her marriage with St. Aubert, expressed in privatehis contempt of her spiritless conduct, and of the connection which itpermitted. Madame St. Aubert, though she concealed this insult from herhusband, felt, perhaps, for the first time, resentment lighted inher heart; and, though a regard for her own dignity, united withconsiderations of prudence, restrained her expression of thisresentment, there was ever after a mild reserve in her manner towards M.Quesnel, which he both understood and felt.
In his own marriage he did not follow his sister's example. His lady wasan Italian, and an heiress by birth; and, by nature and education, was avain and frivolous woman.
They now determined to pass the night with St. Aubert; and as thechateau was not large enough to accommodate their servants, the latterwere dismissed to the neighbouring village. When the first complimentswere over, and the arrangements for the night made M. Quesnel began thedisplay of his intelligence and his connections; while St. Aubert, whohad been long enough in retirement to find these topics recommended bytheir novelty, listened, with a degree of patience and attention,which his guest mistook for the humility of wonder. The latter, indeed,described the few festivities which the turbulence of that periodpermitted to the court of Henry the Third, with a minuteness, thatsomewhat recompensed for his ostentation; but, when he came to speak ofthe character of the Duke de Joyeuse, of a secret treaty, which he knewto be negotiating with the Porte, and of the light in which Henry ofNavarre was received, M. St. Aubert recollected enough of his formerexperience to be assured, that his guest could be only of an inferiorclass of politicians; and that, from the importance of the subjectsupon which he committed himself, he could not be of the rank to which hepretended to belong. The opinions delivered by M. Quesnel, were such asSt. Aubert forebore to reply to, for he knew that his guest had neitherhumanity to feel, nor discernment to perceive, what is just.
Madame Quesnel, meanwhile, was expressing to Madame St. Aubert herastonishment, that she could bear to pass her life in this remote cornerof the world, as she called it, and describing, from a wish, probably,of exciting envy, the splendour of the balls, banquets, and processionswhich had just been given by the court, in honour of the nuptials of theDuke de Joyeuse with Margaretta of Lorrain, the sister of the Queen. Shedescribed with equal minuteness the magnificence she had seen, and thatfrom which she had been excluded; while Emily's vivid fancy, as shelistened with the ardent curiosity of youth, heightened the scenes sheheard of; and Madame St. Aubert, looking on her family, felt, as a tearstole to her eye, that though splendour may grace happiness, virtue onlycan bestow it.
'It is now twelve years, St. Aubert,' said M. Quesnel, 'since Ipurchased your family estate.'--'Somewhere thereabout,' replied St.Aubert, suppressing a sigh. 'It is near five years since I have beenthere,' resumed Quesnel; 'for Paris and its neighbourhood is the onlyplace in the world to live in, and I am so immersed in politics, andhave so many affairs of moment on my hands, that I find it difficultto steal away even for a month or two.' St. Aubert remaining silent, M.Quesnel proceeded: 'I have sometimes wondered how you, who have livedin the capital, and have been accustomed to company, can existelsewhere;--especially in so remote a country as this, where you canneither hear nor see any thing, and can in short be scarcely consciousof life.'
'I live for my family and myself,' said St. Aubert; 'I am now contentedto know only happiness;--formerly I knew life.'
'I mean to expend thirty or forty thousand livres on improvements,' saidM. Quesnel, without seeming to notice the words of St. Aubert; 'for Idesign, next summer, to bring here my friends, the Duke de Durefort andthe Marquis Ramont, to pass a month or two with me.' To St. Aubert'senquiry, as to these intended improvements, he replied, that he shouldtake down the whole east wing of the chateau, and raise upon the sitea set of stables. 'Then I shall build,' said he, 'a SALLE A MANGER, aSALON, a SALLE AU COMMUNE, and a number of rooms for servants; for atpresent there is not accommodation for a third part of my own people.'
'It accommodated our father's household,' said St. Aubert, grieved thatthe old mansion was to be thus improved, 'and that was not a small one.'
'Our notions are somewhat enlarged since those days,' said M.Quesnel;--'what was then thought a decent style of living would not nowbe endured.' Even the calm St. Aubert blushed at these words, buthis anger soon yielded to contempt. 'The ground about the chateau isencumbered with trees; I mean to cut some of them down.'
'Cut down the trees too!' said St. Aubert.
'Certainly. Why should I not? they interrupt my prospects. There is achesnut which spreads its branches before the whole south side of thechateau, and which is so ancient that they tell me the hollow of itstrunk will hold a dozen men. Your enthusiasm will scarcely contend thatthere can be either use, or beauty, in such a sapless old tree as this.'
'Good God!' exclaimed St. Aubert, 'you surely will not destroy thatnoble chesnut, which has flourished for centuries, the glory of theestate! It was in its maturity when the present mansion was built. Howoften, in my youth, have I climbed among its broad branches, and satembowered amidst a world of leaves, while the heavy shower has patteredabove, and not a rain drop reached me! How often I have sat with a bookin my hand, sometimes reading, and sometimes looking out between thebranches upon the wide landscape, and the setting sun, till twilightcame, and brought the birds home to their little nests among the leaves!How often--but pardon me,' added St. Aubert, recollecting that he wasspeaking to a man who could neither comprehend, nor allow his feelings,'I am talking of times and feelings as old-fashioned as the taste thatwould spare that venerable tree.'
'It will certainly come down,' said M. Quesnel; 'I believe I shall plantsome Lombardy poplars among the clumps of chesnut, that I shall leaveof the avenue; Madame Quesnel is partial to the poplar, and tells me howmuch it adorns a villa of her uncle, not far from Venice.'
'On the banks of the Brenta, indeed,' continued St. Aubert, 'where itsspiry form is intermingled with the pine, and the cypress, and whereit plays over light and elegant porticos and colonnades, it,unquestionably, adorns the scene; but among the giants of the forest,and near a heavy gothic mansion--'
'Well, my good sir,' said M. Quesnel, 'I will not dispute with you. Youmust return to Paris before our ideas can at all agree. But A-PROPOS ofVenice, I have some thoughts of going thither, next summer; events maycall me to take possession of that same villa, too, which they tell meis the most charming that can be imagined. In that case I shall leavethe improvements I mention to another year, and I may, perhaps, betempted to stay some time in Italy.'
Emily was somewhat surprised to hear him talk of being tempted to remainabroad, after he had mentioned his presence to be so necessary at Paris,that it was with difficulty he could steal away for a month or two; butSt. Aubert understood the self-importance of the man too well to wonderat this trait; and the possibility, that these projected improvementsmight be deferred, gave him a hope, that they might never take place.
Before they separated for the night, M. Quesnel desired to speak withSt. Aubert alone, and they retired to another room, where they remaineda considerable time. The subject of this conversation was not known;but, whatever it might be, St. Aubert, when he returned to thesupper-room, seemed much disturbed, and a shade of sorrow sometimes fellupon his features that alarmed Madame St. Aubert. When they were aloneshe was tempted to enquire the occasion of it, but the delicacy of mind,which had ever appeared in his conduct, restrained her: she cons
ideredthat, if St. Aubert wished her to be acquainted with the subject of hisconcern, he would not wait on her enquiries.
On the following day, before M. Quesnel departed, he had a secondconference with St. Aubert.
The guests, after dining at the chateau, set out in the cool of the dayfor Epourville, whither they gave him and Madame St. Aubert a pressinginvitation, prompted rather by the vanity of displaying their splendour,than by a wish to make their friends happy.
Emily returned, with delight, to the liberty which their presence hadrestrained, to her books, her walks, and the rational conversation ofM. and Madame St. Aubert, who seemed to rejoice, no less, that they weredelivered from the shackles, which arrogance and frivolity had imposed.
Madame St. Aubert excused herself from sharing their usual evening walk,complaining that she was not quite well, and St. Aubert and Emily wentout together.
They chose a walk towards the mountains, intending to visit some oldpensioners of St. Aubert, which, from his very moderate income, hecontrived to support, though it is probable M. Quesnel, with his verylarge one, could not have afforded this.
After distributing to his pensioners their weekly stipends, listeningpatiently to the complaints of some, redressing the grievances ofothers, and softening the discontents of all, by the look of sympathy,and the smile of benevolence, St. Aubert returned home through thewoods,
where At fall of eve the fairy-people throng, In various games and revelry to pass The summer night, as village stories tell.* *Thomson
'The evening gloom of woods was always delightful to me,' said St.Aubert, whose mind now experienced the sweet calm, which results fromthe consciousness of having done a beneficent action, and which disposesit to receive pleasure from every surrounding object. 'I remember thatin my youth this gloom used to call forth to my fancy a thousand fairyvisions, and romantic images; and, I own, I am not yet wholly insensibleof that high enthusiasm, which wakes the poet's dream: I can linger,with solemn steps, under the deep shades, send forward a transformingeye into the distant obscurity, and listen with thrilling delight to themystic murmuring of the woods.'
'O my dear father,' said Emily, while a sudden tear started to her eye,'how exactly you describe what I have felt so often, and which I thoughtnobody had ever felt but myself! But hark! here comes the sweeping soundover the wood-tops;--now it dies away;--how solemn the stillness thatsucceeds! Now the breeze swells again. It is like the voice of somesupernatural being--the voice of the spirit of the woods, that watchesover them by night. Ah! what light is yonder? But it is gone. And now itgleams again, near the root of that large chestnut: look, sir!'
'Are you such an admirer of nature,' said St. Aubert, 'and so littleacquainted with her appearances as not to know that for the glow-worm?But come,' added he gaily, 'step a little further, and we shall seefairies, perhaps; they are often companions. The glow-worm lends hislight, and they in return charm him with music, and the dance. Do yousee nothing tripping yonder?'
Emily laughed. 'Well, my dear sir,' said she, 'since you allow of thisalliance, I may venture to own I have anticipated you; and almost dareventure to repeat some verses I made one evening in these very woods.'
'Nay,' replied St. Aubert, 'dismiss the ALMOST, and venture quite; letus hear what vagaries fancy has been playing in your mind. If she hasgiven you one of her spells, you need not envy those of the fairies.'
'If it is strong enough to enchant your judgment, sir,' said Emily,'while I disclose her images, I need NOT envy them. The lines go in asort of tripping measure, which I thought might suit the subject wellenough, but I fear they are too irregular.'
THE GLOW-WORM
How pleasant is the green-wood's deep-matted shade On a mid-summer's eve, when the fresh rain is o'er; When the yellow beams slope, and sparkle thro' the glade, And swiftly in the thin air the light swallows soar!
But sweeter, sweeter still, when the sun sinks to rest, And twilight comes on, with the fairies so gay Tripping through the forest-walk, where flow'rs, unprest, Bow not their tall heads beneath their frolic play.
To music's softest sounds they dance away the hour, Till moon-light steals down among the trembling leaves, And checquers all the ground, and guides them to the bow'r, The long haunted bow'r, where the nightingale grieves.
Then no more they dance, till her sad song is done, But, silent as the night, to her mourning attend; And often as her dying notes their pity have won, They vow all her sacred haunts from mortals to defend.
When, down among the mountains, sinks the ev'ning star, And the changing moon forsakes this shadowy sphere, How cheerless would they be, tho' they fairies are, If I, with my pale light, came not near!
Yet cheerless tho' they'd be, they're ungrateful to my love! For, often when the traveller's benighted on his way, And I glimmer in his path, and would guide him thro' the grove, They bind me in their magic spells to lead him far astray;
And in the mire to leave him, till the stars are all burnt out, While, in strange-looking shapes, they frisk about the ground, And, afar in the woods, they raise a dismal shout, Till I shrink into my cell again for terror of the sound!
But, see where all the tiny elves come dancing in a ring, With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the horn, And the timbrel so clear, and the lute with dulcet string; Then round about the oak they go till peeping of the morn.
Down yonder glade two lovers steal, to shun the fairy-queen, Who frowns upon their plighted vows, and jealous is of me, That yester-eve I lighted them, along the dewy green, To seek the purple flow'r, whose juice from all her spells canfree.
And now, to punish me, she keeps afar her jocund band, With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the lute; If I creep near yonder oak she will wave her fairy wand, And to me the dance will cease, and the music all be mute.
O! had I but that purple flow'r whose leaves her charms can foil, And knew like fays to draw the juice, and throw it on the wind, I'd be her slave no longer, nor the traveller beguile, And help all faithful lovers, nor fear the fairy kind!
But soon the VAPOUR OF THE WOODS will wander afar, And the fickle moon will fade, and the stars disappear, Then, cheerless will they be, tho' they fairies are, If I, with my pale light, come not near!
Whatever St. Aubert might think of the stanzas, he would not deny hisdaughter the pleasure of believing that he approved them; and, havinggiven his commendation, he sunk into a reverie, and they walked on insilence.
A faint erroneous ray Glanc'd from th' imperfect surfaces of things, Flung half an image on the straining eye; While waving woods, and villages, and streams, And rocks, and mountain-tops, that long retain The ascending gleam, are all one swimming scene, Uncertain if beheld.* *Thomson.
St. Aubert continued silent till he reached the chateau, where his wifehad retired to her chamber. The languor and dejection, that had latelyoppressed her, and which the exertion called forth by the arrival ofher guests had suspended, now returned with increased effect. On thefollowing day, symptoms of fever appeared, and St. Aubert, having sentfor medical advice, learned, that her disorder was a fever of the samenature as that, from which he had lately recovered. She had, indeed,taken the infection, during her attendance upon him, and, herconstitution being too weak to throw out the disease immediately, it hadlurked in her veins, and occasioned the heavy languor of which she hadcomplained. St. Aubert, whose anxiety for his wife overcame every otherconsideration, detained the physician in his house. He remembered thefeelings and the reflections that had called a momentary gloom upon hismind, on the day when he had last visited the fishing-house, in companywith Madame St. Aubert, and he now admitted a presentiment, that thisillness would be a fatal one. But he effectually concealed this fromher, and from his daughter, whom he endeavoured to re-animate with hopesthat her constant assiduities would not be unavailing. The physician,when asked by St. Aubert for his opinion of the disorder, replied,that the event of it depended upon circumstances which he coul
d notascertain. Madame St. Aubert seemed to have formed a more decided one;but her eyes only gave hints of this. She frequently fixed them upon heranxious friends with an expression of pity, and of tenderness, as if sheanticipated the sorrow that awaited them, and that seemed to say, it wasfor their sakes only, for their sufferings, that she regretted life. Onthe seventh day, the disorder was at its crisis. The physician assumeda graver manner, which she observed, and took occasion, when her familyhad once quitted the chamber, to tell him, that she perceived her deathwas approaching. 'Do not attempt to deceive me,' said she, 'I feel thatI cannot long survive. I am prepared for the event, I have long, I hope,been preparing for it. Since I have not long to live, do not suffer amistaken compassion to induce you to flatter my family with false hopes.If you do, their affliction will only be the heavier when it arrives: Iwill endeavour to teach them resignation by my example.'
The physician was affected; he promised to obey her, and told St.Aubert, somewhat abruptly, that there was nothing to expect. The latterwas not philosopher enough to restrain his feelings when he receivedthis information; but a consideration of the increased affliction whichthe observance of his grief would occasion his wife, enabled him,after some time, to command himself in her presence. Emily was at firstoverwhelmed with the intelligence; then, deluded by the strength of herwishes, a hope sprung up in her mind that her mother would yet recover,and to this she pertinaciously adhered almost to the last hour.
The progress of this disorder was marked, on the side of Madame St.Aubert, by patient suffering, and subjected wishes. The composure, withwhich she awaited her death, could be derived only from the retrospectof a life governed, as far as human frailty permits, by a consciousnessof being always in the presence of the Deity, and by the hope of ahigher world. But her piety could not entirely subdue the grief ofparting from those whom she so dearly loved. During these her lasthours, she conversed much with St. Aubert and Emily, on the prospect offuturity, and on other religious topics. The resignation she expressed,with the firm hope of meeting in a future world the friends she left inthis, and the effort which sometimes appeared to conceal her sorrow atthis temporary separation, frequently affected St. Aubert so much as tooblige him to leave the room. Having indulged his tears awhile, he woulddry them and return to the chamber with a countenance composed by anendeavour which did but increase his grief.
Never had Emily felt the importance of the lessons, which had taught herto restrain her sensibility, so much as in these moments, and never hadshe practised them with a triumph so complete. But when the last wasover, she sunk at once under the pressure of her sorrow, and thenperceived that it was hope, as well as fortitude, which had hithertosupported her. St. Aubert was for a time too devoid of comfort himselfto bestow any on his daughter.