The Mysteries of Udolpho Page 3

  CHAPTER III

  O how canst thou renounce the boundless store Of charms which nature to her vot'ry yields! The warbling woodland, the resounding shore, The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields; All that the genial ray of morning gilds, And all that echoes to the song of even; All that the mountain's shelt'ring bosom shields, And all the dread magnificence of heaven; O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven!..... These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health, And love, and gentleness, and joy, impart. THE MINSTREL

  St. Aubert, instead of taking the more direct road, that ran along thefeet of the Pyrenees to Languedoc, chose one that, winding over theheights, afforded more extensive views and greater variety of romanticscenery. He turned a little out of his way to take leave of M. Barreaux,whom he found botanizing in the wood near his chateau, and who, whenhe was told the purpose of St. Aubert's visit, expressed a degree ofconcern, such as his friend had thought it was scarcely possible for himto feel on any similar occasion. They parted with mutual regret.

  'If any thing could have tempted me from my retirement,' said M.Barreaux, 'it would have been the pleasure of accompanying you on thislittle tour. I do not often offer compliments; you may, therefore,believe me, when I say, that I shall look for your return withimpatience.'

  The travellers proceeded on their journey. As they ascended the heights,St. Aubert often looked back upon the chateau, in the plain below;tender images crowded to his mind; his melancholy imagination suggestedthat he should return no more; and though he checked this wanderingthought, still he continued to look, till the haziness of distanceblended his home with the general landscape, and St. Aubert seemed to

  Drag at each remove a lengthening chain.

  He and Emily continued sunk in musing silence for some leagues, fromwhich melancholy reverie Emily first awoke, and her young fancy, struckwith the grandeur of the objects around, gradually yielded to delightfulimpressions. The road now descended into glens, confined by stupendouswalls of rock, grey and barren, except where shrubs fringed theirsummits, or patches of meagre vegetation tinted their recesses, in whichthe wild goat was frequently browsing. And now, the way led to thelofty cliffs, from whence the landscape was seen extending in all itsmagnificence.

  Emily could not restrain her transport as she looked over the pineforests of the mountains upon the vast plains, that, enriched withwoods, towns, blushing vines, and plantations of almonds, palms, andolives, stretched along, till their various colours melted in distanceinto one harmonious hue, that seemed to unite earth with heaven.Through the whole of this glorious scene the majestic Garonne wandered;descending from its source among the Pyrenees, and winding its bluewaves towards the Bay of Biscay.

  The ruggedness of the unfrequented road often obliged the wanderers toalight from their little carriage, but they thought themselves amplyrepaid for this inconvenience by the grandeur of the scenes; and,while the muleteer led his animals slowly over the broken ground, thetravellers had leisure to linger amid these solitudes, and to indulgethe sublime reflections, which soften, while they elevate, the heart,and fill it with the certainty of a present God! Still the enjoymentof St. Aubert was touched with that pensive melancholy, which givesto every object a mellower tint, and breathes a sacred charm over allaround.

  They had provided against part of the evil to be encountered from a wantof convenient inns, by carrying a stock of provisions in the carriage,so that they might take refreshment on any pleasant spot, in the openair, and pass the nights wherever they should happen to meet with acomfortable cottage. For the mind, also, they had provided, by a work onbotany, written by M. Barreaux, and by several of the Latin and Italianpoets; while Emily's pencil enabled her to preserve some of thosecombinations of forms, which charmed her at every step.

  The loneliness of the road, where, only now and then, a peasant was seendriving his mule, or some mountaineer-children at play among the rocks,heightened the effect of the scenery. St. Aubert was so much struck withit, that he determined, if he could hear of a road, to penetrate furtheramong the mountains, and, bending his way rather more to the south, toemerge into Rousillon, and coast the Mediterranean along part of thatcountry to Languedoc.

  Soon after mid-day, they reached the summit of one of those cliffs,which, bright with the verdure of palm-trees, adorn, like gems, thetremendous walls of the rocks, and which overlooked the greater part ofGascony, and part of Languedoc. Here was shade, and the fresh water ofa spring, that, gliding among the turf, under the trees, thenceprecipitated itself from rock to rock, till its dashing murmurs werelost in the abyss, though its white foam was long seen amid the darknessof the pines below.

  This was a spot well suited for rest, and the travellers alighted todine, while the mules were unharnessed to browse on the savoury herbsthat enriched this summit.

  It was some time before St. Aubert or Emily could withdraw theirattention from the surrounding objects, so as to partake of their littlerepast. Seated in the shade of the palms, St. Aubert pointed out to herobservation the course of the rivers, the situation of great towns, andthe boundaries of provinces, which science, rather than the eye, enabledhim to describe. Notwithstanding this occupation, when he had talkedawhile he suddenly became silent, thoughtful, and tears often swelled tohis eyes, which Emily observed, and the sympathy of her own heart toldher their cause. The scene before them bore some resemblance, though itwas on a much grander scale, to a favourite one of the late Madame St.Aubert, within view of the fishing-house. They both observed this, andthought how delighted she would have been with the present landscape,while they knew that her eyes must never, never more open upon thisworld. St. Aubert remembered the last time of his visiting that spot incompany with her, and also the mournfully presaging thoughts which hadthen arisen in his mind, and were now, even thus soon, realized! Therecollections subdued him, and he abruptly rose from his seat, andwalked away to where no eye could observe his grief.

  When he returned, his countenance had recovered its usual serenity; hetook Emily's hand, pressed it affectionately, without speaking, and soonafter called to the muleteer, who sat at a little distance, concerninga road among the mountains towards Rousillon. Michael said, there wereseveral that way, but he did not know how far they extended, or evenwhether they were passable; and St. Aubert, who did not intend to travelafter sun-set, asked what village they could reach about that time. Themuleteer calculated that they could easily reach Mateau, which was intheir present road; but that, if they took a road that sloped more tothe south, towards Rousillon, there was a hamlet, which he thought theycould gain before the evening shut in.

  St. Aubert, after some hesitation, determined to take the latter course,and Michael, having finished his meal, and harnessed his mules, againset forward, but soon stopped; and St. Aubert saw him doing homage to across, that stood on a rock impending over their way. Having concludedhis devotions, he smacked his whip in the air, and, in spite of therough road, and the pain of his poor mules, which he had been latelylamenting, rattled, in a full gallop, along the edge of a precipice,which it made the eye dizzy to look down. Emily was terrified almostto fainting; and St. Aubert, apprehending still greater danger fromsuddenly stopping the driver, was compelled to sit quietly, and trusthis fate to the strength and discretion of the mules, who seemed topossess a greater portion of the latter quality than their master; forthey carried the travellers safely into the valley, and there stoppedupon the brink of the rivulet that watered it.

  Leaving the splendour of extensive prospects, they now entered thisnarrow valley screened by

  Rocks on rocks piled, as if by magic spell, Here scorch'd by lightnings, there with ivy green.

  The scene of barrenness was here and there interrupted by the spreadingbranches of the larch and cedar, which threw their gloom over the cliff,or athwart the torrent that rolled in the vale. No living creatureappeared, except the izard, scrambling among the rocks, and oftenhanging upon points so dangerous, that fancy shrunk from the view ofthem. This was such a sce
ne as SALVATOR would have chosen, had he thenexisted, for his canvas; St. Aubert, impressed by the romantic characterof the place, almost expected to see banditti start from behind someprojecting rock, and he kept his hand upon the arms with which he alwaystravelled.

  As they advanced, the valley opened; its savage features graduallysoftened, and, towards evening, they were among heathy mountains,stretched in far perspective, along which the solitary sheep-bell washeard, and the voice of the shepherd calling his wandering flocks to thenightly fold. His cabin, partly shadowed by the cork-tree and the ilex,which St. Aubert observed to flourish in higher regions of the air thanany other trees, except the fir, was all the human habitation that yetappeared. Along the bottom of this valley the most vivid verdure wasspread; and, in the little hollow recesses of the mountains, under theshade of the oak and chestnut, herds of cattle were grazing. Groupsof them, too, were often seen reposing on the banks of the rivulet, orlaving their sides in the cool stream, and sipping its wave.

  The sun was now setting upon the valley; its last light gleamed upon thewater, and heightened the rich yellow and purple tints of the heath andbroom, that overspread the mountains. St. Aubert enquired of Michaelthe distance to the hamlet he had mentioned, but the man could not withcertainty tell; and Emily began to fear that he had mistaken the road.Here was no human being to assist, or direct them; they had left theshepherd and his cabin far behind, and the scene became so obscured intwilight, that the eye could not follow the distant perspective of thevalley in search of a cottage, or a hamlet. A glow of the horizon stillmarked the west, and this was of some little use to the travellers.Michael seemed endeavouring to keep up his courage by singing; hismusic, however, was not of a kind to disperse melancholy; he sung, in asort of chant, one of the most dismal ditties his present auditors hadever heard, and St. Aubert at length discovered it to be a vesper-hymnto his favourite saint.

  They travelled on, sunk in that thoughtful melancholy, with whichtwilight and solitude impress the mind. Michael had now ended his ditty,and nothing was heard but the drowsy murmur of the breeze among thewoods, and its light flutter, as it blew freshly into the carriage. Theywere at length roused by the sound of fire-arms. St. Aubert called tothe muleteer to stop, and they listened. The noise was not repeated; butpresently they heard a rustling among the brakes. St. Aubert drew fortha pistol, and ordered Michael to proceed as fast as possible; who hadnot long obeyed, before a horn sounded, that made the mountains ring. Helooked again from the window, and then saw a young man spring from thebushes into the road, followed by a couple of dogs. The stranger was ina hunter's dress. His gun was slung across his shoulders, the hunter'shorn hung from his belt, and in his hand was a small pike, which, ashe held it, added to the manly grace of his figure, and assisted theagility of his steps.

  After a moment's hesitation, St. Aubert again stopped the carriage, andwaited till he came up, that they might enquire concerning the hamletthey were in search of. The stranger informed him, that it was only halfa league distant, that he was going thither himself, and would readilyshew the way. St. Aubert thanked him for the offer, and, pleased withhis chevalier-like air and open countenance, asked him to take a seatin the carriage; which the stranger, with an acknowledgment, declined,adding that he would keep pace with the mules. 'But I fear you will bewretchedly accommodated,' said he: 'the inhabitants of these mountainsare a simple people, who are not only without the luxuries of life,but almost destitute of what in other places are held to be itsnecessaries.'

  'I perceive you are not one of its inhabitants, sir,' said St. Aubert.

  'No, sir, I am only a wanderer here.'

  The carriage drove on, and the increasing dusk made the travellers verythankful that they had a guide; the frequent glens, too, that now openedamong the mountains, would likewise have added to their perplexity.Emily, as she looked up one of these, saw something at a great distancelike a bright cloud in the air. 'What light is yonder, sir?' said she.

  St. Aubert looked, and perceived that it was the snowy summit of amountain, so much higher than any around it, that it still reflected thesun's rays, while those below lay in deep shade.

  At length, the village lights were seen to twinkle through the dusk,and, soon after, some cottages were discovered in the valley, or ratherwere seen by reflection in the stream, on whose margin they stood, andwhich still gleamed with the evening light.

  The stranger now came up, and St. Aubert, on further enquiry, found notonly that there was no inn in the place, but not any sort of house ofpublic reception. The stranger, however, offered to walk on, and enquirefor a cottage to accommodate them; for which further civility St. Aubertreturned his thanks, and said, that, as the village was so near, hewould alight, and walk with him. Emily followed slowly in the carriage.

  On the way, St. Aubert asked his companion what success he had hadin the chase. 'Not much, sir,' he replied, 'nor do I aim at it. I ampleased with the country, and mean to saunter away a few weeks amongits scenes. My dogs I take with me more for companionship than for game.This dress, too, gives me an ostensible business, and procures me thatrespect from the people, which would, perhaps, be refused to a lonelystranger, who had no visible motive for coming among them.'

  'I admire your taste,' said St. Aubert, 'and, if I was a younger man,should like to pass a few weeks in your way exceedingly. I, too, am awanderer, but neither my plan nor pursuits are exactly like yours--I goin search of health, as much as of amusement.' St. Aubert sighed, andpaused; and then, seeming to recollect himself, he resumed: 'If I canhear of a tolerable road, that shall afford decent accommodation, itis my intention to pass into Rousillon, and along the sea-shore toLanguedoc. You, sir, seem to be acquainted with the country, and can,perhaps, give me information on the subject.'

  The stranger said, that what information he could give was entirely athis service; and then mentioned a road rather more to the east, whichled to a town, whence it would be easy to proceed into Rousillon.

  They now arrived at the village, and commenced their search for acottage, that would afford a night's lodging. In several, which theyentered, ignorance, poverty, and mirth seemed equally to prevail; andthe owners eyed St. Aubert with a mixture of curiosity and timidity.Nothing like a bed could be found, and he had ceased to enquire forone, when Emily joined him, who observed the languor of her father'scountenance, and lamented, that he had taken a road so ill providedwith the comforts necessary for an invalid. Other cottages, which theyexamined, seemed somewhat less savage than the former, consisting oftwo rooms, if such they could be called; the first of these occupied bymules and pigs, the second by the family, which generally consisted ofsix or eight children, with their parents, who slept on beds of skinsand dried beech leaves, spread upon a mud floor. Here, light wasadmitted, and smoke discharged, through an aperture in the roof; andhere the scent of spirits (for the travelling smugglers, who haunted thePyrenees, had made this rude people familiar with the use of liquors)was generally perceptible enough. Emily turned from such scenes, andlooked at her father with anxious tenderness, which the young strangerseemed to observe; for, drawing St. Aubert aside, he made him an offerof his own bed. 'It is a decent one,' said he, 'when compared withwhat we have just seen, yet such as in other circumstances I should beashamed to offer you.' St. Aubert acknowledged how much he felt himselfobliged by this kindness, but refused to accept it, till the youngstranger would take no denial. 'Do not give me the pain of knowing,sir,' said he, 'that an invalid, like you, lies on hard skins, whileI sleep in a bed. Besides, sir, your refusal wounds my pride; I mustbelieve you think my offer unworthy your acceptance. Let me shew you theway. I have no doubt my landlady can accommodate this young lady also.'

  St. Aubert at length consented, that, if this could be done, he wouldaccept his kindness, though he felt rather surprised, that the strangerhad proved himself so deficient in gallantry, as to administer to therepose of an infirm man, rather than to that of a very lovely youngwoman, for he had not once offered the room for Emily. But sh
e thoughtnot of herself, and the animated smile she gave him, told how much shefelt herself obliged for the preference of her father.

  On their way, the stranger, whose name was Valancourt, stepped on firstto speak to his hostess, and she came out to welcome St. Aubert into acottage, much superior to any he had seen. This good woman seemed verywilling to accommodate the strangers, who were soon compelled to acceptthe only two beds in the place. Eggs and milk were the only food thecottage afforded; but against scarcity of provisions St. Aubert hadprovided, and he requested Valancourt to stay, and partake with him ofless homely fare; an invitation, which was readily accepted, and theypassed an hour in intelligent conversation. St. Aubert was much pleasedwith the manly frankness, simplicity, and keen susceptibility to thegrandeur of nature, which his new acquaintance discovered; and, indeed,he had often been heard to say, that, without a certain simplicity ofheart, this taste could not exist in any strong degree.

  The conversation was interrupted by a violent uproar without, in whichthe voice of the muleteer was heard above every other sound. Valancourtstarted from his seat, and went to enquire the occasion; but the disputecontinued so long afterwards, that St. Aubert went himself, and foundMichael quarrelling with the hostess, because she had refused to let hismules lie in a little room where he and three of her sons were to passthe night. The place was wretched enough, but there was no other forthese people to sleep in; and, with somewhat more of delicacy than wasusual among the inhabitants of this wild tract of country, she persistedin refusing to let the animals have the same BED-CHAMBER with herchildren. This was a tender point with the muleteer; his honour waswounded when his mules were treated with disrespect, and he would havereceived a blow, perhaps, with more meekness. He declared that hisbeasts were as honest beasts, and as good beasts, as any in the wholeprovince; and that they had a right to be well treated wherever theywent. 'They are as harmless as lambs,' said he, 'if people don't affrontthem. I never knew them behave themselves amiss above once or twice inmy life, and then they had good reason for doing so. Once, indeed, theykicked at a boy's leg that lay asleep in the stable, and broke it; butI told them they were out there, and by St. Anthony! I believe theyunderstood me, for they never did so again.'

  He concluded this eloquent harangue with protesting, that they shouldshare with him, go where he would.

  The dispute was at length settled by Valancourt, who drew the hostessaside, and desired she would let the muleteer and his beasts have theplace in question to themselves, while her sons should have the bed ofskins designed for him, for that he would wrap himself in his cloak, andsleep on the bench by the cottage door. But this she thought it herduty to oppose, and she felt it to be her inclination to disappoint themuleteer. Valancourt, however, was positive, and the tedious affair wasat length settled.

  It was late when St. Aubert and Emily retired to their rooms, andValancourt to his station at the door, which, at this mild season, hepreferred to a close cabin and a bed of skins. St. Aubert was somewhatsurprised to find in his room volumes of Homer, Horace, and Petrarch;but the name of Valancourt, written in them, told him to whom theybelonged.