The Mysteries of Udolpho
The Mysteries of UdolphoVOLUME 1CHAPTER ICHAPTER IICHAPTER IIICHAPTER IVCHAPTER VCHAPTER VICHAPTER VIICHAPTER VIIICHAPTER IXCHAPTER XCHAPTER XICHAPTER XIICHAPTER XIIIVOLUME 2CHAPTER ICHAPTER IICHAPTER IIICHAPTER IVCHAPTER VCHAPTER VICHAPTER VIICHAPTER VIIICHAPTER IXCHAPTER XCHAPTER XICHAPTER XIIVOLUME 3CHAPTER ICHAPTER IICHAPTER IIICHAPTER IVCHAPTER VCHAPTER VICHAPTER VIICHAPTER VIIICHAPTER IVCHAPTER XCHAPTER XICHAPTER XIICHAPTER XIIIVOLUME 4CHAPTER ICHAPTER IICHAPTER IIICHAPTER IVCHAPTER VCHAPTER VICHAPTER VIICHAPTER VIIICHAPTER IVCHAPTER XCHAPTER XICHAPTER XIICHAPTER XIIICHAPTER XIVCHAPTER XVCHAPTER XVICHAPTER XVIICHAPTER XVIIICHAPTER XIXCopyright
The Mysteries of Udolpho
Ann Ward Radcliffe
VOLUME 1
CHAPTER I
home is the
resortOf love, of joy, of peace and plenty, where,Supporting and supported, polish'd friendsAnd dear relations mingle into bliss.* *ThomsonOn the pleasant banks of the Garonne, in the province of
Gascony, stood, in the year 1584, the chateau of Monsieur St.
Aubert. From its windows were seen the pastoral landscapes of
Guienne and Gascony stretching along the river, gay with luxuriant
woods and vine, and plantations of olives. To the south, the view
was bounded by the majestic Pyrenees, whose summits, veiled in
clouds, or exhibiting awful forms, seen, and lost again, as the
partial vapours rolled along, were sometimes barren, and gleamed
through the blue tinge of air, and sometimes frowned with forests
of gloomy pine, that swept downward to their base. These tremendous
precipices were contrasted by the soft green of the pastures and
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 of
Guienne 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 margin of the Garonne, and to listen to the music that floated
on its waves. He had known life in other forms than those of
pastoral simplicity, having mingled in the gay and in the busy
scenes of the world; but the flattering portrait of mankind, which
his heart had delineated in early youth, his experience had too
sorrowfully corrected. Yet, amidst the changing visions of life,
his principles remained unshaken, his benevolence unchilled; and he
retired from the multitude 'more in PITY than in anger,' to scenes
of simple nature, to the pure delights of literature, 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
wealth should be supplied either by a splendid alliance in
marriage, or by success in the intrigues of public affairs. But St.
Aubert had too nice a sense of honour to fulfil the latter hope,
and too small a portion of ambition to sacrifice what he called
happiness, to the attainment of wealth. After the death of his
father he married a very amiable woman, his equal in birth, and not
his superior in fortune. The late Monsieur St. Aubert's liberality,
or extravagance, had so much involved his affairs, that his son
found it necessary to dispose of a part of the family domain, and,
some years after his marriage, he sold it to Monsieur Quesnel, the
brother of his wife, and retired to a small estate in Gascony,
where conjugal felicity, and parental duties, divided his attention
with the treasures of knowledge and the illuminations of
genius.To this spot he had been attached from his infancy. He had
often made excursions to it when a boy, and the impressions of
delight given to his mind by the homely kindness of the grey-headed
peasant, to whom it was intrusted, and whose fruit and cream never
failed, had not been obliterated by succeeding circumstances. The
green pastures along which he had so often bounded in the
exultation of health, and youthful freedom—the woods, under whose
refreshing shade he had first indulged that pensive melancholy,
which afterwards made a strong feature of his character—the wild
walks of the mountains, the river, on whose waves he had floated,
and the distant plains, which seemed boundless as his early
hopes—were never after remembered by St. Aubert but with enthusiasm
and regret. At length he disengaged himself from the world, and
retired hither, to realize the wishes of many years.The building, as it then stood, was merely a summer cottage,
rendered interesting to a stranger by its neat simplicity, or the
beauty of the surrounding scene; and considerable additions were
necessary to make it a comfortable family residence. St. Aubert
felt a kind of affection for every part of the fabric, which he
remembered in his youth, and would not 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 and elegant residence. The taste
of Madame St. Aubert was conspicuous in its internal finishing,
where the same chaste simplicity was observable in the furniture,
and in the few ornaments of the apartments, that characterized the
manners of its inhabitants.The library occupied the west side of the chateau, and was
enriched by a collection of the best books in the ancient and
modern languages. This room 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 melancholy and pleasing shade; while from the
windows the eye caught, beneath the spreading branches, the gay and
luxuriant landscape stretching to the west, and overlooked on the
left by the bold precipices of the Pyrenees. Adjoining the library
was a green-house, stored with scarce and beautiful plants; for one
of the amusements of St. Aubert was the study of botany, and among
the neighbouring mountains, which afforded a luxurious feast to the
mind of the naturalist, he often passed the day in the pursuit of
his favourite science. He was sometimes accompanied in these little
excursions by Madame St. Aubert, and frequently by his daughter;
when, with a small osier basket to receive plants, and another
filled with cold refreshments, such as the cabin of the shepherd
did not afford, they wandered away among the most romantic and
magnificent scenes, nor suffered the charms of Nature's lowly
children to abstract them from the observance of her stupendous
works. When weary of sauntering among cliffs that seemed scarcely
accessible but to the steps of the enthusiast, and where no track
appeared on the vegetation, but what the foot of the izard had
left; they would seek one of those green recesses, which so
beautifully adorn the bosom of these mountains, where, under the
shade of the lofty larch, or cedar, they enjoyed their simple
repast, made sweeter by the waters of the cool stream, that crept
along 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 the plains of Languedoc, was a room, which Emily called
hers, and which contained her books, her drawings, her musical
instruments, with some favourite birds and plants. Here she usually
exercised herself in elegant arts, cultivated only because they
were congenial to her taste, and in which native genius, assisted
by the instructions of Monsieur and Madame St. Aubert, made her an
early proficient. The windows of this room were particularly
pleasant; they descended to the floor, and, opening upon the little
lawn that surrounded the house, the eye was led between groves of
almond, palm-trees, flowering-ash, and myrtle, to the distant
landscape, where the Garonne wandered.The peasants of this gay climate were often seen on an
evening, when the day's labour was done, dancing in groups on the
margin of the river. Their sprightly melodies, debonnaire steps,
the fanciful figure of their dances, with the tasteful and
capricious manner in which the girls adjusted their simple dress,
gave a character to the scene entirely French.The front of the chateau, which, having a southern aspect,
opened upon the grandeur of the mountains, was occupied on the
ground floor by a rustic hall, and two excellent sitting rooms. The
first floor, for the cottage had no second story, was laid out in
bed-chambers, except one apartment that opened to a balcony, and
which was generally used for a breakfast-room.In the surrounding ground, St. Aubert had made very tasteful
improvements; yet, such was his attachment to objects he had
remembered from his boyish days, that he had in some instances
sacrificed taste to sentiment. There were two old larches that
shaded the building, and interrupted the prospect; St. Aubert had
sometimes declared that he believed he should have been weak enough
to have wept at their fall. In addition to these larches he planted
a little grove of beech, pine, and mountain-ash. On a lofty
terrace, formed by the swelling bank of the river, rose a
plantation of orange, lemon, and palm-trees, whose fruit, in the
coolness of evening, breathed delicious fragrance. With these were
mingled a few trees of other species. Here, under the ample shade
of 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 and children, watching, beneath its foliage, the setting sun,
the mild splendour of its light fading from the distant landscape,
till the shadows of twilight melted its various features into one
tint of sober grey. Here, too, he loved to read, and to converse
with Madame St. Aubert; or to play with his children, resigning
himself to the influence of those sweet affections, which are ever
attendant on simplicity and nature. He has often said, while tears
of pleasure trembled in his eyes, that these were moments
infinitely more delightful than any passed amid the brilliant and
tumultuous scenes that are courted by the world. His heart was
occupied; it had, what can be so rarely said, no wish for a
happiness beyond what it experienced. The consciousness of acting
right diffused a serenity over his manners, which nothing else
could impart to a man of moral perceptions like his, and which
refined his sense of every surrounding blessing.The deepest shade of twilight did not send him from his
favourite plane-tree. He loved the soothing hour, when the last
tints of light die away; when the stars, one by one, tremble
through aether, and are reflected on the dark mirror of the waters;
that hour, which, of all others, inspires the mind with pensive
tenderness, and often elevates it to sublime contemplation. When
the moon shed her soft rays among the foliage, he still lingered,
and his pastoral supper of cream and fruits was often spread
beneath it. Then, on the stillness of night, came the song of the
nightingale, breathing sweetness, and awakening
melancholy.The first interruptions to the happiness he had known since
his retirement, were occasioned by the death of his two sons. He
lost them at that age when infantine simplicity is so fascinating;
and though, in consideration of Madame St. Aubert's distress, he
restrained the expression of his own, and endeavoured to bear it,
as he meant, with philosophy, he had, in truth, no philosophy that
could render him calm to such losses. One daughter was now his only
surviving child; and, while he watched the unfolding of her infant
character, with anxious fondness, he endeavoured, with unremitting
effort, to counteract those traits in her disposition, which might
hereafter lead her from happiness. She had discovered in her early
years uncommon delicacy of mind, warm affections, and ready
benevolence; but with these was observable a degree of
susceptibility too exquisite to admit of lasting peace. As she
advanced in youth, this sensibility gave a pensive tone to her
spirits, and a softness to her manner, which added grace to beauty,
and rendered her a very interesting object to persons of a
congenial disposition. But St. Aubert had too much good sense to
prefer a charm to a virtue; and had penetration enough to see, that
this charm was too dangerous to its possessor to be allowed the
character of a blessing. He endeavoured, therefore, to strengthen
her mind; to enure her to habits of self-command; to teach her to
reject the first impulse of her feelings, and to look, with cool
examination, upon the disappointments he sometimes threw in her
way. While he instructed her to resist first impressions, and to
acquire that steady dignity of mind, that can alone counterbalance
the passions, and bear us, as far as is compatible with our nature,
above the reach of circumstances, he taught himself a lesson of
fortitude; for he was often obliged to witness, with seeming
indifference, the tears and struggles which his caution occasioned
her.In person, Emily resembled her mother; having the same
elegant symmetry of form, the same delicacy of features, and the
same blue eyes, full of tender sweetness. But, lovely as was her
person, it was the varied expression of her countenance, as
conversation awakened the nicer emotions 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 acquaintance with every part of elegant literature. He taught
her Latin and English, chiefly that she might understand the
sublimity of their best poets. She discovered in her early years a
taste for works of genius; and it was St. Aubert's principle, as
well as his inclination, to promote every innocent means of
happiness. 'A well-informed mind,' he would say, 'is the best
security against the contagion of folly and of vice. The vacant
mind is ever on the watch for relief, and ready to plunge into
error, to escape from the languor of idleness. Store it with ideas,
teach it the pleasure of thinking; and the temptations of the world
without, will be counteracted by the gratifications derived from
the world within. Thought, and cultivation, are necessary equally
to the happiness of a country and a city life; in the first they
prevent the uneasy sensations of indolence, and afford a sublime
pleasure in the taste they create for the beautiful, and the grand;
in the latter, they make dissipation less an object of necessity,
and consequently of interest.'It was one of Emily's earliest pleasures to ramble among the
scenes of nature; nor was it in the soft and glowing landscape that
she most delighted; she loved more the wild wood-walks, that
skirted the mountain; and still more the mountain's stupendous
recesses, where the silence and grandeur of solitude impressed a
sacred awe upon her heart, and lifted her thoughts to the GOD OF
HEAVEN AND EARTH. In scenes like these she would often linger
along, wrapt in a melancholy charm, till the last gleam of day
faded from the west; till the lonely sound of a sheep-bell, or the
distant bark of a watch-dog, were all that broke on the stillness
of the evening. Then, the gloom of the woods; the trembling of
their leaves, at intervals, in the breeze; the bat, flitting on the
twilight; the cottage-lights, now seen, and now lost—were
circumstances that awakened her mind into effort, and led to
enthusiasm 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 from the Pyrenees, and, after foaming among their rocks,
wound its silent way beneath the shades it reflected. Above the
woods, that screened this glen, rose the lofty summits of the
Pyrenees, which often burst boldly on the eye through the glades
below. Sometimes the shattered face of a rock only was seen,
crowned with wild shrubs; or a shepherd's cabin seated on a cliff,
overshadowed by dark cypress, or waving ash. Emerging from the deep
recesses of the woods, the glade opened to the distant landscape,
where the rich pastures and vine-covered slopes of Gascony
gradually declined to the plains; and there, on the winding shores
of the Garonne, groves, and hamlets, and villas—their outlines
softened by distance, melted from the eye into one rich harmonious
tint.This, too, was the favourite retreat of St. Aubert, to which
he frequently withdrew from the fervour of noon, with his wife, his
daughter, and his books; or came at the sweet evening hour to
welcome the silent dusk, or to listen for the music of the
nightingale. Sometimes, too, he brought music of his own, and
awakened every fairy echo with the tender accents of his oboe; and
often have the tones of Emily's voice drawn sweetness from the
waves, over which they trembled.It was in one of these excursions to this spot, that she
observed the following lines written with a pencil on a part of the
wainscot:SONNETGo, 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 concealThe 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 not apply them to herself, though she was undoubtedly the
nymph of these shades. Having glanced round the little circle of
her acquaintance without being detained by a suspicion as to whom
they could be addressed, she was compelled to rest in uncertainty;
an uncertainty which 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, to swell into importance by
frequent remembrance. The little vanity it had excited (for the
incertitude which forbade her to presume upon having inspired the
sonnet, forbade her also to disbelieve it) passed away, and the
incident was dismissed from her thoughts amid her books, her
studies, and the exercise of social charities.Soon after this period, her anxiety was awakened by the
indisposition of her father, who was attacked with a fever; which,
though not thought to be of a dangerous kind, gave a severe shock
to his constitution. Madame St. Aubert and Emily attended him with
unremitting care; but his recovery was very slow, and, as he
advanced towards health, Madame seemed to decline.The first scene he visited, after he was well enough to take
the air, was his favourite fishing-house. A basket of provisions
was sent thither, 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 was served. It was a repast, to which gratitude, for being
again permitted to visit this spot, gave sweetness; and family
happiness once more smiled beneath these shades. Monsieur St.
Aubert conversed with unusual cheerfulness; every object delighted
his senses. The refreshing pleasure from the first view of nature,
after the pain of illness, and the confinement of a sick-chamber,
is above the conceptions, as well as the descriptions, of those in
health. The green woods and pastures; the flowery turf; the blue
concave of the heavens; the balmy air; the murmur of the limpid
stream; and even the hum of every little insect of the shade, seem
to revivify the soul, and make mere existence bliss.Madame St. Aubert, reanimated by the cheerfulness and
recovery of her husband, was no longer sensible of the
indisposition which had lately oppressed her; and, as she sauntered
along the wood-walks of this romantic glen, and conversed with him,
and with her daughter, she often looked at them alternately with a
degree of tenderness, that filled her eyes with tears. St. Aubert
observed this more than once, and gently reproved her for the
emotion; but she could only smile, clasp his hand, and that of
Emily, and weep the more. He felt the tender enthusiasm stealing
upon himself in a degree that became almost painful; his features
assumed a serious air, and he could not forbear secretly
sighing—'Perhaps I shall some time look back to these moments, as
to the summit of my happiness, with hopeless regret. But let me not
misuse them by useless anticipation; let me hope I shall not live
to mourn the loss of those who are dearer to me than
life.'To relieve, or perhaps to indulge, the pensive temper of his
mind, he bade 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 tones of the instrument, which were awakened by the
hand of taste, and uttered a plaintive air, whose exquisite melody
engaged all her attention. She listened in profound silence, afraid
to move from the spot, lest the sound of her steps should occasion
her to lose a note of the music, or should disturb the musician.
Every thing without the building was still, and no person appeared.
She continued to listen, till timidity succeeded to surprise and
delight; a timidity, increased by a remembrance of the pencilled
lines she had formerly seen, and she hesitated whether to proceed,
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 she entered with faltering steps, and found
unoccupied! Her lute lay on the table; every thing seemed
undisturbed, and she began to believe it was another instrument she
had heard, till she remembered, that, when she followed M. and
Madame St. Aubert from this spot, her lute was left on a window
seat. She felt alarmed, yet knew not wherefore; the melancholy
gloom of evening, and the profound stillness of the place,
interrupted only by the light trembling of leaves, heightened her
fanciful apprehensions, and she was desirous of quitting the
building, but perceived herself grow faint, and sat down. As she
tried to recover herself, the pencilled lines on the wainscot met
her eye; she started, as if she had seen a stranger; but,
endeavouring to conquer the tremor of her spirits, rose, and went
to the window. To the lines before noticed she now perceived that
others were added, in which her name appeared.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 she mused, she thought she heard the sound of a step
without the building, and again alarmed, she caught up her lute,
and hurried away. Monsieur and Madame St. Aubert she found in a
little path that wound along the sides of the glen.Having reached a green summit, shadowed by palm-trees, and
overlooking the vallies and plains of Gascony, they seated
themselves on the turf; and while their eyes wandered over the
glorious scene, and they inhaled the sweet breath of flowers and
herbs that enriched the grass, Emily played and sung several of
their favourite airs, with the delicacy of expression in which she
so much excelled.Music and conversation detained them in this enchanting spot,
till the sun's last light slept upon the plains; till the white
sails that glided beneath the mountains, where the Garonne
wandered, became dim, and the gloom of evening stole over the
landscape. It was a melancholy but not unpleasing gloom. St. Aubert
and his family rose, and left the place with regret; alas! Madame
St. Aubert knew not that she left it for ever.When they reached the fishing-house she missed her bracelet,
and recollected that she had taken it from her arm after dinner,
and had left it on the table when she went to walk. After a long
search, in which Emily was very active, she was compelled to resign
herself to the loss of it. What made this bracelet valuable to her
was a miniature of her daughter to which it was attached, esteemed
a striking resemblance, and which had been painted only a few
months before. When Emily was convinced that the bracelet was
really gone, she blushed, and became thoughtful. That some stranger
had been in the fishing-house, during her absence, her lute, and
the additional lines of a pencil, had already informed her: from
the purport of these lines it was not unreasonable to believe, that
the poet, the musician, and the thief were the same person. But
though the music she had heard, the written lines she had seen, and
the disappearance of the picture, formed a combination of
circumstances very remarkable, she was irresistibly restrained from
mentioning them; secretly determining, however, never again to
visit the fishing-house without Monsieur or Madame St.
Aubert.They returned pensively to the chateau, Emily musing on the
incident which 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 near the house, they observed an
unusual bustle about it; the sound of voices was distinctly heard,
servants and horses were seen passing between the trees, and, at
length, the wheels of a carriage rolled along. Having come within
view of the front of the chateau, a landau, with smoking horses,
appeared on the little lawn before it. St. Aubert perceived the
liveries of his brother-in-law, and in the parlour he found
Monsieur and Madame Quesnel already entered. They had left Paris
some days before, and were on the way to their estate, only ten
leagues distant from La Vallee, and which Monsieur Quesnel had
purchased several years before of St. Aubert. This gentleman was
the only brother of Madame St. Aubert; but the ties of relationship
having never been strengthened by congeniality of character, the
intercourse between them had not been frequent. M. Quesnel had
lived altogether in the world; his aim had been consequence;
splendour was the object of his taste; and his address and
knowledge of character had carried him forward to the attainment of
almost all that he had courted. By a man of such a disposition, it
is not surprising that the virtues of St. Aubert should be
overlooked; or that his pure taste, simplicity, and moderated
wishes, were considered as marks of a weak intellect, and of
confined views. The marriage of his sister with St. Aubert had been
mortifying to his ambition, for he had designed that the
matrimonial connection she formed should assist him to attain the
consequence which he so much desired; and some offers were made her
by persons whose rank and fortune flattered his warmest hope. But
his sister, who was then addressed also by St. Aubert, perceived,
or thought she perceived, that happiness and splendour were not the
same, and she did not hesitate to forego the last for the
attainment of the former. Whether Monsieur Quesnel thought them the
same, or not, he would readily have sacrificed his sister's peace
to the gratification of his own ambition; and, on her marriage with
St. Aubert, expressed in private his contempt of her spiritless
conduct, and of the connection which it permitted. Madame St.
Aubert, though she concealed this insult from her husband, felt,
perhaps, for the first time, resentment lighted in her heart; and,
though a regard for her own dignity, united with considerations of
prudence, restrained her expression of this resentment, 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 was an Italian, and an heiress by birth; and, by nature
and education, was a vain and frivolous woman.They now determined to pass the night with St. Aubert; and as
the chateau was not large enough to accommodate their servants, the
latter were dismissed to the neighbouring village. When the first
compliments were over, and the arrangements for the night made M.
Quesnel began the display of his intelligence and his connections;
while St. Aubert, who had been long enough in retirement to find
these topics recommended by their 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 period permitted to the court of Henry the
Third, with a minuteness, that somewhat recompensed for his
ostentation; but, when he came to speak of the character of the
Duke de Joyeuse, of a secret treaty, which he knew to be
negotiating with the Porte, and of the light in which Henry of
Navarre was received, M. St. Aubert recollected enough of his
former experience to be assured, that his guest could be only of an
inferior class of politicians; and that, from the importance of the
subjects upon which he committed himself, he could not be of the
rank to which he pretended to belong. The opinions delivered by M.
Quesnel, were such as St. Aubert forebore to reply to, for he knew
that his guest had neither humanity to feel, nor discernment to
perceive, what is just.Madame Quesnel, meanwhile, was expressing to Madame St.
Aubert her astonishment, that she could bear to pass her life in
this remote corner of the world, as she called it, and describing,
from a wish, probably, of exciting envy, the splendour of the
balls, banquets, and processions which had just been given by the
court, in honour of the nuptials of the Duke de Joyeuse with
Margaretta of Lorrain, the sister of the Queen. She described with
equal minuteness the magnificence she had seen, and that from which
she had been excluded; while Emily's vivid fancy, as she listened
with the ardent curiosity of youth, heightened the scenes she heard
of; and Madame St. Aubert, looking on her family, felt, as a tear
stole to her eye, that though splendour may grace happiness, virtue
only can bestow it.'It is now twelve years, St. Aubert,' said M. Quesnel, 'since
I purchased your family estate.'—'Somewhere thereabout,' replied
St. Aubert, suppressing a sigh. 'It is near five years since I have
been there,' resumed Quesnel; 'for Paris and its neighbourhood is
the only place in the world to live in, and I am so immersed in
politics, and have so many affairs of moment on my hands, that I
find it difficult to steal away even for a month or two.' St.
Aubert remaining silent, M. Quesnel proceeded: 'I have sometimes
wondered how you, who have lived in the capital, and have been
accustomed to company, can exist elsewhere;—especially in so remote
a country as this, where you can neither hear nor see any thing,
and can in short be scarcely conscious of life.''I live for my family and myself,' said St. Aubert; 'I am now
contented to know only happiness;—formerly I knew
life.''I mean to expend thirty or forty thousand livres on
improvements,' said M. Quesnel, without seeming to notice the words
of St. Aubert; 'for I design, next summer, to bring here my
friends, the Duke de Durefort and the Marquis Ramont, to pass a
month or two with me.' To St. Aubert's enquiry, as to these
intended improvements, he replied, that he should take down the
whole east wing of the chateau, and raise upon the site a set of
stables. 'Then I shall build,' said he, 'a SALLE A MANGER, a SALON,
a SALLE AU COMMUNE, and a number of rooms for servants; for at
present there is not accommodation for a third part of my own
people.''It accommodated our father's household,' said St. Aubert,
grieved that the 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
now be endured.' Even the calm St. Aubert blushed at these words,
but his anger soon yielded to contempt. 'The ground about the
chateau is encumbered 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 a chesnut which spreads its branches before the whole
south side of the chateau, and which is so ancient that they tell
me the hollow of its trunk will hold a dozen men. Your enthusiasm
will scarcely contend that there can be either use, or beauty, in
such a sapless old tree as this.''Good God!' exclaimed St. Aubert, 'you surely will not
destroy that noble chesnut, which has flourished for centuries, the
glory of the estate! It was in its maturity when the present
mansion was built. How often, in my youth, have I climbed among its
broad branches, and sat embowered amidst a world of leaves, while
the heavy shower has pattered above, and not a rain drop reached
me! How often I have sat with a book in my hand, sometimes reading,
and sometimes looking out between the branches upon the wide
landscape, and the setting sun, till twilight came, and brought the
birds home to their little nests among the leaves! How often—but
pardon me,' added St. Aubert, recollecting that he was speaking to
a man who could neither comprehend, nor allow his feelings, 'I am
talking of times and feelings as old-fashioned as the taste that
would spare that venerable tree.''It will certainly come down,' said M. Quesnel; 'I believe I
shall plant some Lombardy poplars among the clumps of chesnut, that
I shall leave of the avenue; Madame Quesnel is partial to the
poplar, and tells me how much it adorns a villa of her uncle, not
far from Venice.''On the banks of the Brenta, indeed,' continued St. Aubert,
'where its spiry form is intermingled with the pine, and the
cypress, and where it 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. You must return to Paris before our ideas can at all
agree. But A-PROPOS of Venice, I have some thoughts of going
thither, next summer; events may call me to take possession of that
same villa, too, which they tell me is the most charming that can
be imagined. In that case I shall leave the improvements I mention
to another year, and I may, perhaps, be tempted to stay some time
in Italy.'Emily was somewhat surprised to hear him talk of being
tempted to remain abroad, 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; but St. Aubert understood the
self-importance of the man too well to wonder at this trait; and
the possibility, that these projected improvements might be
deferred, gave him a hope, that they might never take
place.Before they separated for the night, M. Quesnel desired to
speak with St. Aubert alone, and they retired to another room,
where they remained a considerable time. The subject of this
conversation was not known; but, whatever it might be, St. Aubert,
when he returned to the supper-room, seemed much disturbed, and a
shade of sorrow sometimes fell upon his features that alarmed
Madame St. Aubert. When they were alone she was tempted to enquire
the occasion of it, but the delicacy of mind, which had ever
appeared in his conduct, restrained her: she considered that, if
St. Aubert wished her to be acquainted with the subject of his
concern, he would not wait on her enquiries.On the following day, before M. Quesnel departed, he had a
second conference with St. Aubert.The guests, after dining at the chateau, set out in the cool
of the day for Epourville, whither they gave him and Madame St.
Aubert a pressing invitation, 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 had restrained, to her books, her walks, and the rational
conversation of M. and Madame St. Aubert, who seemed to rejoice, no
less, that they were delivered 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 went out together.They chose a walk towards the mountains, intending to visit
some old pensioners of St. Aubert, which, from his very moderate
income, he contrived to support, though it is probable M. Quesnel,
with his very large one, could not have afforded this.After distributing to his pensioners their weekly stipends,
listening patiently to the complaints of some, redressing the
grievances of others, and softening the discontents of all, by the
look of sympathy, and the smile of benevolence, St. Aubert returned
home through the woods,whereAt fall of eve the fairy-people throng,In various games and revelry to passThe 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 from the consciousness of having done a beneficent action,
and which disposes it to receive pleasure from every surrounding
object. 'I remember that in my youth this gloom used to call forth
to my fancy a thousand fairy visions, and romantic images; and, I
own, I am not yet wholly insensible of that high enthusiasm, which
wakes the poet's dream: I can linger, with solemn steps, under the
deep shades, send forward a transforming eye into the distant
obscurity, and listen with thrilling delight to the mystic
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 thought nobody had ever felt but myself! But hark! here
comes the sweeping sound over the wood-tops;—now it dies away;—how
solemn the stillness that succeeds! Now the breeze swells again. It
is like the voice of some supernatural being—the voice of the
spirit of the woods, that watches over them by night. Ah! what
light is yonder? But it is gone. And now it gleams again, near the
root of that large chestnut: look, sir!''Are you such an admirer of nature,' said St. Aubert, 'and so
little acquainted with her appearances as not to know that for the
glow-worm? But come,' added he gaily, 'step a little further, and
we shall see fairies, perhaps; they are often companions. The
glow-worm lends his light, and they in return charm him with music,
and the dance. Do you see nothing tripping yonder?'Emily laughed. 'Well, my dear sir,' said she, 'since you
allow of this alliance, I may venture to own I have anticipated
you; and almost dare venture to repeat some verses I made one
evening in these very woods.''Nay,' replied St. Aubert, 'dismiss the ALMOST, and venture
quite; let us hear what vagaries fancy has been playing in your
mind. If she has given 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 a sort of tripping measure, which I thought might suit
the subject well enough, but I fear they are too
irregular.'THE GLOW-WORMHow 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
gayTripping 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 his daughter the pleasure of believing that he approved them;
and, having given his commendation, he sunk into a reverie, and
they walked on in silence.A faint erroneous rayGlanc'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 retainThe ascending gleam, are all one swimming scene,Uncertain if beheld.* *Thomson.St. Aubert continued silent till he reached the chateau,
where his wife had retired to her chamber. The languor and
dejection, that had lately oppressed her, and which the exertion
called forth by the arrival of her guests had suspended, now
returned with increased effect. On the following day, symptoms of
fever appeared, and St. Aubert, having sent for medical advice,
learned, that her disorder was a fever of the same nature as that,
from which he had lately recovered. She had, indeed, taken the
infection, during her attendance upon him, and, her constitution
being too weak to throw out the disease immediately, it had lurked
in her veins, and occasioned the heavy languor of which she had
complained. St. Aubert, whose anxiety for his wife overcame every
other consideration, detained the physician in his house. He
remembered the feelings and the reflections that had called a
momentary gloom upon his mind, on the day when he had last visited
the fishing-house, in company with Madame St. Aubert, and he now
admitted a presentiment, that this illness would be a fatal one.
But he effectually concealed this from her, and from his daughter,
whom he endeavoured to re-animate with hopes that 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 could not ascertain.
Madame St. Aubert seemed to have formed a more decided one; but her
eyes only gave hints of this. She frequently fixed them upon her
anxious friends with an expression of pity, and of tenderness, as
if she anticipated the sorrow that awaited them, and that seemed to
say, it was for their sakes only, for their sufferings, that she
regretted life. On the seventh day, the disorder was at its crisis.
The physician assumed a graver manner, which she observed, and took
occasion, when her family had once quitted the chamber, to tell
him, that she perceived her death was approaching. 'Do not attempt
to deceive me,' said she, 'I feel that I 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 a mistaken compassion
to induce you to flatter my family with false hopes. If you do,
their affliction will only be the heavier when it arrives: I will
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 latter was not philosopher enough to restrain his feelings when
he received this information; but a consideration of the increased
affliction which the observance of his grief would occasion his
wife, enabled him, after some time, to command himself in her
presence. Emily was at first overwhelmed with the intelligence;
then, deluded by the strength of her wishes, 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, with which she awaited her death, could be derived only
from the retrospect of a life governed, as far as human frailty
permits, by a consciousness of being always in the presence of the
Deity, and by the hope of a higher world. But her piety could not
entirely subdue the grief of parting from those whom she so dearly
loved. During these her last hours, she conversed much with St.
Aubert and Emily, on the prospect of futurity, and on other
religious topics. The resignation she expressed, with the firm hope
of meeting in a future world the friends she left in this, and the
effort which sometimes appeared to conceal her sorrow at this
temporary separation, frequently affected St. Aubert so much as to
oblige him to leave the room. Having indulged his tears awhile, he
would dry them and return to the chamber with a countenance
composed by an endeavour which did but increase his
grief.Never had Emily felt the importance of the lessons, which had
taught her to restrain her sensibility, so much as in these
moments, and never had she practised them with a triumph so
complete. But when the last was over, she sunk at once under the
pressure of her sorrow, and then perceived that it was hope, as
well as fortitude, which had hitherto supported her. St. Aubert was
for a time too devoid of comfort himself to bestow any on his
daughter.
CHAPTER II
I could a tale unfold, whose lightest wordWould harrow up thy soul. SHAKESPEARE
Madame St. Aubert was interred in the neighbouring village
church; her husband and daughter attended her to the grave,
followed by a long train of the peasantry, who were sincere
mourners of this excellent woman.
On his return from the funeral, St. Aubert shut himself in
his chamber. When he came forth, it was with a serene countenance,
though pale in sorrow. He gave orders that his family should attend
him. Emily only was absent; who, overcome with the scene she had
just witnessed, had retired to her closet to weep alone. St. Aubert
followed her thither: he took her hand in silence, while she
continued to weep; and it was some moments before he could so far
command his voice as to speak. It trembled while he said, 'My
Emily, I am going to prayers with my family; you will join us. We
must ask support from above. Where else ought we to seek it—where
else can we find it?'
Emily checked her tears, and followed her father to the
parlour, where, the servants being assembled, St. Aubert read, in a
low and solemn voice, the evening service, and added a prayer for
the soul of the departed. During this, his voice often faltered,
his tears fell upon the book, and at length he paused. But the
sublime emotions of pure devotion gradually elevated his views
above this world, and finally brought comfort to his heart.
When the service was ended, and the servants were withdrawn,
he tenderly kissed Emily, and said, 'I have endeavoured to teach
you, from your earliest youth, the duty of self-command; I have
pointed out to you the great importance of it through life, not
only as it preserves us in the various and dangerous temptations
that call us from rectitude and virtue, but as it limits the
indulgences which are termed virtuous, yet which, extended beyond a
certain boundary, are vicious, for their consequence is evil. All
excess is vicious; even that sorrow, which is amiable in its
origin, becomes a selfish and unjust passion, if indulged at the
expence of our duties—by our duties I mean what we owe to
ourselves, as well as to others. The indulgence of excessive grief
enervates the mind, and almost incapacitates it for again partaking
of those various innocent enjoyments which a benevolent God
designed to be the sun-shine of our lives. My dear Emily, recollect
and practise the precepts I have so often given you, and which your
own experience has so often shewn you to be wise.
'Your sorrow is useless. Do not receive this as merely a
commonplace remark, but let reason THEREFORE restrain sorrow. I
would not annihilate your feelings, my child, I would only teach
you to command them; for whatever may be the evils resulting from a
too susceptible heart, nothing can be hoped from an insensible one;
that, on the other hand, is all vice—vice, of which the deformity
is not softened, or the effect consoled for, by any semblance or
possibility of good. You know my sufferings, and are, therefore,
convinced that mine are not the light words which, on these
occasions, are so often repeated to destroy even the sources of
honest emotion, or which merely display the selfish ostentation of
a false philosophy. I will shew my Emily, that I can practise what
I advise. I have said thus much, because I cannot bear to see you
wasting in useless sorrow, for want of that resistance which is due
from mind; and I have not said it till now, because there is a
period when all reasoning must yield to nature; that is past: and
another, when excessive indulgence, having sunk into habit, weighs
down the elasticity of the spirits so as to render conquest nearly
impossible; this is to come. You, my Emily, will shew that you are
willing to avoid it.'
Emily smiled through her tears upon her father: 'Dear sir,'
said she, and her voice trembled; she would have added, 'I will
shew myself worthy of being your daughter;' but a mingled emotion
of gratitude, affection, and grief overcame her. St. Aubert
suffered her to weep without interruption, and then began to talk
on common topics.
The first person who came to condole with St. Aubert was a M.
Barreaux, an austere and seemingly unfeeling man. A taste for
botany had introduced them to each other, for they had frequently
met in their wanderings among the mountains. M. Barreaux had
retired from the world, and almost from society, to live in a
pleasant chateau, on the skirts of the woods, near La Vallee. He
also had been disappointed in his opinion of mankind; but he did
not, like St. Aubert, pity and mourn for them; he felt more
indignation at their vices, than compassion for their
weaknesses.
St. Aubert was somewhat surprised to see him; for, though he
had often pressed him to come to the chateau, he had never till now
accepted the invitation; and now he came without ceremony or
reserve, entering the parlour as an old friend. The claims of
misfortune appeared to have softened down all the ruggedness and
prejudices of his heart. St. Aubert unhappy, seemed to be the sole
idea that occupied his mind. It was in manners, more than in words,
that he appeared to sympathize with his friends: he spoke little on
the subject of their grief; but the minute attention he gave them,
and the modulated voice, and softened look that accompanied it,
came from his heart, and spoke to theirs.
At this melancholy period St. Aubert was likewise visited by
Madame Cheron, his only surviving sister, who had been some years a
widow, and now resided on her own estate near Tholouse. The
intercourse between them had not been very frequent. In her
condolements, words were not wanting; she understood not the magic
of the look that speaks at once to the soul, or the voice that
sinks like balm to the heart: but she assured St. Aubert that she
sincerely sympathized with him, praised the virtues of his late
wife, and then offered what she considered to be consolation. Emily
wept unceasingly while she spoke; St. Aubert was tranquil, listened
to what she said in silence, and then turned the discourse upon
another subject.
At parting she pressed him and her niece to make her an early
visit. 'Change of place will amuse you,' said she, 'and it is wrong
to give way to grief.' St. Aubert acknowledged the truth of these
words of course; but, at the same time, felt more reluctant than
ever to quit the spot which his past happiness had consecrated. The
presence of his wife had sanctified every surrounding scene, and,
each day, as it gradually softened the acuteness of his suffering,
assisted the tender enchantment that bound him to home.
But there were calls which must be complied with, and of this
kind was the visit he paid to his brother-in-law M. Quesnel. An
affair of an interesting nature made it necessary that he should
delay this visit no longer, and, wishing to rouse Emily from her
dejection, he took her with him to Epourville.
As the carriage entered upon the forest that adjoined his
paternal domain, his eyes once more caught, between the chesnut
avenue, the turreted corners of the chateau. He sighed to think of
what had passed since he was last there, and that it was now the
property of a man who neither revered nor valued it. At length he
entered the avenue, whose lofty trees had so often delighted him
when a boy, and whose melancholy shade was now so congenial with
the tone of his spirits. Every feature of the edifice,
distinguished by an air of heavy grandeur, appeared successively
between the branches of the trees—the broad turret, the arched
gate-way that led into the courts, the drawbridge, and the dry
fosse which surrounded the whole.
The sound of carriage wheels brought a troop of servants to
the great gate, where St. Aubert alighted, and from which he led
Emily into the gothic hall, now no longer hung with the arms and
ancient banners of the family. These were displaced, and the oak
wainscotting, and beams that crossed the roof, were painted white.
The large table, too, that used to stretch along the upper end of
the hall, where the master of the mansion loved to display his
hospitality, and whence the peal of laughter, and the song of
conviviality, had so often resounded, was now removed; even the
benches that had surrounded the hall were no longer there. The
heavy walls were hung with frivolous ornaments, and every thing
that appeared denoted the false taste and corrupted sentiments of
the present owner.
St. Aubert followed a gay Parisian servant to a parlour,
where sat Mons. and Madame Quesnel, who received him with a stately
politeness, and, after a few formal words of condolement, seemed to
have forgotten that they ever had a sister.
Emily felt tears swell into her eyes, and then resentment
checked them. St. Aubert, calm and deliberate, preserved his
dignity without assuming importance, and Quesnel was depressed by
his presence without exactly knowing wherefore.
After some general conversation, St. Aubert requested to
speak with him alone; and Emily, being left with Madame Quesnel,
soon learned that a large party was invited to dine at the chateau,
and was compelled to hear that nothing which was past and
irremediable ought to prevent the festivity of the present
hour.
St. Aubert, when he was told that company were expected, felt
a mixed emotion of disgust and indignation against the
insensibility of Quesnel, which prompted him to return home
immediately. But he was informed, that Madame Cheron had been asked
to meet him; and, when he looked at Emily, and considered that a
time might come when the enmity of her uncle would be prejudicial
to her, he determined not to incur it himself, by conduct which
would be resented as indecorous, by the very persons who now showed
so little sense of decorum.
Among the visitors assembled at dinner were two Italian
gentlemen, of whom one was named Montoni, a distant relation of
Madame Quesnel, a man about forty, of an uncommonly handsome
person, with features manly and expressive, but whose countenance
exhibited, upon the whole, more of the haughtiness of command, and
the quickness of discernment, than of any other character.
Signor Cavigni, his friend, appeared to be about
thirty—inferior in dignity, but equal to him in penetration of
countenance, and superior in insinuation of manner.
Emily was shocked by the salutation with which Madame Cheron
met her father—'Dear brother,' said she, 'I am concerned to see you
look so very ill; do, pray, have advice!' St. Aubert answered, with
a melancholy smile, that he felt himself much as usual; but Emily's
fears made her now fancy that her father looked worse than he
really did.
Emily would have been amused by the new characters she saw,
and the varied conversation that passed during dinner, which was
served in a style of splendour she had seldom seen before, had her
spirits been less oppressed. Of the guests, Signor Montoni was
lately come from Italy, and he spoke of the commotions which at
that period agitated the country; talked of party differences with
warmth, and then lamented the probable consequences of the tumults.
His friend spoke with equal ardour, of the politics of his country;
praised the government and prosperity of Venice, and boasted of its
decided superiority over all the other Italian states. He then
turned to the ladies, and talked with the same eloquence, of
Parisian fashions, the French opera, and French manners; and on the
latter subject he did not fail to mingle what is so particularly
agreeable to French taste. The flattery was not detected by those
to whom it was addressed, though its effect, in producing
submissive attention, did not escape his observation. When he could
disengage himself from the assiduities of the other ladies, he
sometimes addressed Emily: but she knew nothing of Parisian
fashions, or Parisian operas; and her modesty, simplicity, and
correct manners formed a decided contrast to those of her female
companions.
After dinner, St. Aubert stole from the room to view once
more the old chesnut which Quesnel talked of cutting down. As he
stood under its shade, and looked up among its branches, still
luxuriant, and saw here and there the blue sky trembling between
them; the pursuits and events of his early days crowded fast to his
mind, with the figures and characters of friends—long since gone
from the earth; and he now felt himself to be almost an insulated
being, with nobody but his Emily for his heart to turn to.
He stood lost amid the scenes of years which fancy called up,
till the succession closed with the picture of his dying wife, and
he started away, to forget it, if possible, at the social
board.
St. Aubert ordered his carriage at an early hour, and Emily
observed, that he was more than usually silent and dejected on the
way home; but she considered this to be the effect of his visit to
a place which spoke so eloquently of former times, nor suspected
that he had a cause of grief which he concealed from her.
On entering the chateau she felt more depressed than ever,
for she more than ever missed the presence of that dear parent,
who, whenever she had been from home, used to welcome her return
with smiles and fondness; now, all was silent and forsaken.
But what reason and effort may fail to do, time effects. Week
after week passed away, and each, as it passed, stole something
from the harshness of her affliction, till it was mellowed to that
tenderness which the feeling heart cherishes as sacred. St. Aubert,
on the contrary, visibly declined in health; though Emily, who had
been so constantly with him, was almost the last person who
observed it. His constitution had never recovered from the late
attack of the fever, and the succeeding shock it received from
Madame St. Aubert's death had produced its present infirmity. His
physician now ordered him to travel; for it was perceptible that
sorrow had seized upon his nerves, weakened as they had been by the
preceding illness; and variety of scene, it was probable, would, by
amusing his mind, restore them to their proper tone.
For some days Emily was occupied in preparations to attend
him; and he, by endeavours to diminish his expences at home during
the journey—a purpose which determined him at length to dismiss his
domestics. Emily seldom opposed her father's wishes by questions or
remonstrances, or she would now have asked why he did not take a
servant, and have represented that his infirm health made one
almost necessary. But when, on the eve of their departure, she
found that he had dismissed Jacques, Francis, and Mary, and
detained only Theresa the old housekeeper, she was extremely
surprised, and ventured to ask his reason for having done so. 'To
save expences, my dear,' he replied—'we are going on an expensive
excursion.'
The physician had prescribed the air of Languedoc and
Provence; and St. Aubert determined, therefore, to travel leisurely
along the shores of the Mediterranean, towards Provence.
They retired early to their chamber on the night before their
departure; but Emily had a few books and other things to collect,
and the clock had struck twelve before she had finished, or had
remembered that some of her drawing instruments, which she meant to
take with her, were in the parlour below. As she went to fetch
these, she passed her father's room, and, perceiving the door half
open, concluded that he was in his study—for, since the death of
Madame St. Aubert, it had been frequently his custom to rise from
his restless bed, and go thither to compose his mind. When she was
below stairs she looked into this room, but without finding him;
and as she returned to her chamber, she tapped at his door, and
receiving no answer, stepped softly in, to be certain whether he
was there.
