CHAPTER III

He is a great observer, and he looks

Quite through the deeds of men: he loves no plays,

....................he hears no music;

Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort,

As if he mock’d himself, and scorn’d his spirit

that could be mov’d to smile at anything.

Such men as he be never at heart’s ease,

While they behold a greater than themselves.

JULIUS CÆSAR

Montoni and his companion did not return home, till many hours after

the dawn had blushed upon the Adriatic. The airy groups, which had

danced all night along the colonnade of St. Mark, dispersed before the

morning, like so many spirits. Montoni had been otherwise engaged; his

soul was little susceptible of light pleasures. He delighted in the

energies of the passions; the difficulties and tempests of life, which

wreck the happiness of others, roused and strengthened all the powers

of his mind, and afforded him the highest enjoyments, of which his

nature was capable. Without some object of strong interest, life was to

him little more than a sleep; and, when pursuits of real interest

failed, he substituted artificial ones, till habit changed their

nature, and they ceased to be unreal. Of this kind was the habit of

gaming, which he had adopted, first, for the purpose of relieving him

from the languor of inaction, but had since pursued with the ardour of

passion. In this occupation he had passed the night with Cavigni and a

party of young men, who had more money than rank, and more vice than

either. Montoni despised the greater part of these for the inferiority

of their talents, rather than for their vicious inclinations, and

associated with them only to make them the instruments of his purposes.

Among these, however, were some of superior abilities, and a few whom

Montoni admitted to his intimacy, but even towards these he still

preserved a decisive and haughty air, which, while it imposed

submission on weak and timid minds, roused the fierce hatred of strong

ones. He had, of course, many and bitter enemies; but the rancour of

their hatred proved the degree of his power; and, as power was his

chief aim, he gloried more in such hatred, than it was possible he

could in being esteemed. A feeling so tempered as that of esteem, he

despised, and would have despised himself also had he thought himself

capable of being flattered by it.

Among the few whom he distinguished, were the Signors Bertolini,

Orsino, and Verezzi. The first was a man of gay temper, strong

passions, dissipated, and of unbounded extravagance, but generous,

brave, and unsuspicious. Orsino was reserved, and haughty; loving power

more than ostentation; of a cruel and suspicious temper; quick to feel

an injury, and relentless in avenging it; cunning and unsearchable in

contrivance, patient and indefatigable in the execution of his schemes.

He had a perfect command of feature and of his passions, of which he

had scarcely any, but pride, revenge and avarice; and, in the

gratification of these, few considerations had power to restrain him,

few obstacles to withstand the depth of his stratagems. This man was

the chief favourite of Montoni. Verezzi was a man of some talent, of

fiery imagination, and the slave of alternate passions. He was gay,

voluptuous, and daring; yet had neither perseverance nor true courage,

and was meanly selfish in all his aims. Quick to form schemes, and

sanguine in his hope of success, he was the first to undertake, and to

abandon, not only his own plans, but those adopted from other persons.

Proud and impetuous, he revolted against all subordination; yet those

who were acquainted with his character, and watched the turn of his

passions, could lead him like a child.

Such were the friends whom Montoni introduced to his family and his

table, on the day after his arrival at Venice. There were also of the

party a Venetian nobleman, Count Morano, and a Signora Livona, whom

Montoni had introduced to his wife, as a lady of distinguished merit,

and who, having called in the morning to welcome her to Venice, had

been requested to be of the dinner party.

Madame Montoni received with a very ill grace, the compliments of the

Signors. She disliked them, because they were the friends of her

husband; hated them, because she believed they had contributed to

detain him abroad till so late an hour of the preceding morning; and

envied them, since, conscious of her own want of influence, she was

convinced, that he preferred their society to her own. The rank of

Count Morano procured him that distinction which she refused to the

rest of the company. The haughty sullenness of her countenance and

manner, and the ostentatious extravagance of her dress, for she had not

yet adopted the Venetian habit, were strikingly contrasted by the

beauty, modesty, sweetness and simplicity of Emily, who observed, with

more attention than pleasure, the party around her. The beauty and

fascinating manners of Signora Livona, however, won her involuntary

regard; while the sweetness of her accents and her air of gentle

kindness awakened with Emily those pleasing affections, which so long

had slumbered.

In the cool of the evening the party embarked in Montoni’s gondola, and

rowed out upon the sea. The red glow of sunset still touched the waves,

and lingered in the west, where the melancholy gleam seemed slowly

expiring, while the dark blue of the upper æther began to twinkle with

stars. Emily sat, given up to pensive and sweet emotions. The

smoothness of the water, over which she glided, its reflected images—a

new heaven and trembling stars below the waves, with shadowy outlines

of towers and porticos, conspired with the stillness of the hour,

interrupted only by the passing wave, or the notes of distant music, to

raise those emotions to enthusiasm. As she listened to the measured

sound of the oars, and to the remote warblings that came in the breeze,

her softened mind returned to the memory of St. Aubert and to

Valancourt, and tears stole to her eyes. The rays of the moon,

strengthening as the shadows deepened, soon after threw a silvery gleam

upon her countenance, which was partly shaded by a thin black veil, and

touched it with inimitable softness. Hers was the _contour_ of a

Madona, with the sensibility of a Magdalen; and the pensive uplifted

eye, with the tear that glittered on her cheek, confirmed the

expression of the character.

The last strain of distant music now died in air, for the gondola was

far upon the waves, and the party determined to have music of their

own. The Count Morano, who sat next to Emily, and who had been

observing her for some time in silence, snatched up a lute, and struck

the chords with the finger of harmony herself, while his voice, a fine

tenor, accompanied them in a rondeau full of tender sadness. To him,

indeed, might have been applied that beautiful exhortation of an

English poet, had it then existed:

Strike up, my master,

But touch the strings with a religious softness!

Teach sounds to languish through the night’s dull ear

Till Melancholy starts from off her couch,

And Carelessness grows concert to attention!

With such powers of expression the Count sung the following

RONDEAU

Soft as yon silver ray, that sleeps

Upon the ocean’s trembling tide;

Soft as the air, that lightly sweeps

Yon sad, that swells in stately pride:

Soft as the surge’s stealing note,

That dies along the distant shores,

Or warbled strain, that sinks remote—

So soft the sigh my bosom pours!

True as the wave to Cynthia’s ray,

True as the vessel to the breeze,

True as the soul to music’s sway,

Or music to Venetian seas:

Soft as yon silver beams, that sleep

Upon the ocean’s trembling breast;

So soft, so true, fond Love shall weep,

So soft, so true, with _thee_ shall rest.

The cadence with which he returned from the last stanza to a repetition

of the first; the fine modulation in which his voice stole upon the

first line, and the pathetic energy with which it pronounced the last,

were such as only exquisite taste could give. When he had concluded, he

gave the lute with a sigh to Emily, who, to avoid any appearance of

affectation, immediately began to play. She sung a melancholy little

air, one of the popular songs of her native province, with a simplicity

and pathos that made it enchanting. But its well-known melody brought

so forcibly to her fancy the scenes and the persons, among which she

had often heard it, that her spirits were overcome, her voice trembled

and ceased—and the strings of the lute were struck with a disordered

hand; till, ashamed of the emotion she had betrayed, she suddenly

passed on to a song so gay and airy, that the steps of the dance seemed

almost to echo to the notes. _Bravissimo!_ burst instantly from the

lips of her delighted auditors, and she was compelled to repeat the

air. Among the compliments that followed, those of the Count were not

the least audible, and they had not concluded, when Emily gave the

instrument to Signora Livona, whose voice accompanied it with true

Italian taste.

Afterwards, the Count, Emily, Cavigni, and the Signora, sung

_canzonettes_, accompanied by a couple of lutes and a few other

instruments. Sometimes the instruments suddenly ceased, and the voices

dropped from the full swell of harmony into a low chant; then, after a

deep pause, they rose by degrees, the instruments one by one striking

up, till the loud and full chorus soared again to heaven!

Meanwhile, Montoni, who was weary of this harmony, was considering how

he might disengage himself from his party, or withdraw with such of it

as would be willing to play, to a Casino. In a pause of the music, he

proposed returning to shore, a proposal which Orsino eagerly seconded,

but which the Count and the other gentlemen as warmly opposed.

Montoni still meditated how he might excuse himself from longer

attendance upon the Count, for to him only he thought excuse necessary,

and how he might get to land, till the gondolieri of an empty boat,

returning to Venice, hailed his people. Without troubling himself

longer about an excuse, he seized this opportunity of going thither,

and, committing the ladies to the care of his friends, departed with

Orsino, while Emily, for the first time, saw him go with regret; for

she considered his presence a protection, though she knew not what she

should fear. He landed at St. Mark’s, and, hurrying to a Casino, was

soon lost amidst a crowd of gamesters.

Meanwhile, the Count having secretly dispatched a servant in Montoni’s

boat, for his own gondola and musicians, Emily heard, without knowing

his project, the gay song of gondolieri approaching, as they sat on the

stern of the boat, and saw the tremulous gleam of the moonlight wave,

which their oars disturbed. Presently she heard the sound of

instruments, and then a full symphony swelled on the air, and, the

boats meeting, the gondolieri hailed each other. The Count then

explaining himself, the party removed into his gondola, which was

embellished with all that taste could bestow.

While they partook of a collation of fruits and ice, the whole band,

following at a distance in the other boat, played the most sweet and

enchanting strains, and the Count, who had again seated himself by

Emily, paid her unremitted attention, and sometimes, in a low but

impassioned voice, uttered compliments which she could not

misunderstand. To avoid them she conversed with Signora Livona, and her

manner to the Count assumed a mild reserve, which, though dignified,

was too gentle to repress his assiduities: he could see, hear, speak to

no person, but Emily while Cavigni observed him now and then, with a

look of displeasure, and Emily, with one of uneasiness. She now wished

for nothing so much as to return to Venice, but it was near midnight

before the gondolas approached St. Mark’s Place, where the voice of

gaiety and song was loud. The busy hum of mingling sounds was heard at

a considerable distance on the water, and, had not a bright moonlight

discovered the city, with its terraces and towers, a stranger would

almost have credited the fabled wonders of Neptune’s court, and

believed, that the tumult arose from beneath the waves.

They landed at St. Mark’s, where the gaiety of the colonnades and the

beauty of the night, made Madame Montoni willingly submit to the

Count’s solicitations to join the promenade, and afterwards to take a

supper with the rest of the party, at his Casino. If anything could

have dissipated Emily’s uneasiness, it would have been the grandeur,

gaiety, and novelty of the surrounding scene, adorned with Palladio’s

palaces, and busy with parties of masqueraders.

At length they withdrew to the Casino, which was fitted up with

infinite taste, and where a splendid banquet was prepared; but here

Emily’s reserve made the Count perceive, that it was necessary for his

interest to win the favour of Madame Montoni, which, from the

condescension she had already shown to him, appeared to be an

achievement of no great difficulty. He transferred, therefore, part of

his attention from Emily to her aunt, who felt too much flattered by

the distinction even to disguise her emotion; and before the party

broke up, he had entirely engaged the esteem of Madame Montoni.

Whenever he addressed her, her ungracious countenance relaxed into

smiles, and to whatever he proposed she assented. He invited her, with

the rest of the party, to take coffee, in his box at the opera, on the

following evening, and Emily heard the invitation accepted, with strong

anxiety, concerning the means of excusing herself from attending Madame

Montoni thither.

It was very late before their gondola was ordered, and Emily’s surprise

was extreme, when, on quitting the Casino, she beheld the broad sun

rising out of the Adriatic, while St. Mark’s Place was yet crowded with

company. Sleep had long weighed heavily on her eyes, but now the fresh

sea-breeze revived her, and she would have quitted the scene with

regret, had not the Count been present, performing the duty, which he

had imposed upon himself, of escorting them home. There they heard that

Montoni was not yet returned; and his wife, retiring in displeasure to

her apartment, at length released Emily from the fatigue of further

attendance.

Montoni came home late in the morning, in a very ill humour, having

lost considerably at play, and, before he withdrew to rest, had a

private conference with Cavigni, whose manner, on the following day,

seemed to tell, that the subject of it had not been pleasing to him.

In the evening, Madame Montoni, who, during the day, had observed a

sullen silence towards her husband, received visits from some Venetian

ladies, with whose sweet manners Emily was particularly charmed. They

had an air of ease and kindness towards the strangers, as if they had

been their familiar friends for years; and their conversation was by

turns tender, sentimental and gay. Madame, though she had no taste for

such conversation, and whose coarseness and selfishness sometimes

exhibited a ludicrous contrast to their excessive refinement, could not

remain wholly insensible to the captivations of their manner.

In a pause of conversation, a lady who was called Signora Herminia took

up a lute, and began to play and sing, with as much easy gaiety, as if

she had been alone. Her voice was uncommonly rich in tone, and various

in expression; yet she appeared to be entirely unconscious of its

powers, and meant nothing less than to display them. She sung from the

gaiety of her heart, as she sat with her veil half thrown back, holding

gracefully the lute, under the spreading foliage and flowers of some

plants, that rose from baskets, and interlaced one of the lattices of

the saloon. Emily, retiring a little from the company, sketched her

figure, with the miniature scenery around her, and drew a very

interesting picture, which, though it would not, perhaps, have borne

criticism, had spirit and taste enough to awaken both the fancy and the

heart. When she had finished it, she presented it to the beautiful

original, who was delighted with the offering, as well as the sentiment

it conveyed, and assured Emily, with a smile of captivating sweetness,

that she should preserve it as a pledge of her friendship.

In the evening Cavigni joined the ladies, but Montoni had other

engagements; and they embarked in the gondola for St. Mark’s, where the

same gay company seemed to flutter as on the preceding night. The cool

breeze, the glassy sea, the gentle sound of its waves, and the sweeter

murmur of distant music; the lofty porticos and arcades, and the happy

groups that sauntered beneath them; these, with every feature and

circumstance of the scene, united to charm Emily, no longer teased by

the officious attentions of Count Morano. But, as she looked upon the

moonlight sea, undulating along the walls of St. Mark, and, lingering

for a moment over those walls, caught the sweet and melancholy song of

some gondolier as he sat in his boat below, waiting for his master, her

softened mind returned to the memory of her home, of her friends, and

of all that was dear in her native country.

After walking some time, they sat down at the door of a Casino, and,

while Cavigni was accommodating them with coffee and ice, were joined

by Count Morano. He sought Emily with a look of impatient delight, who,

remembering all the attention he had shown her on the preceding

evening, was compelled, as before, to shrink from his assiduities into

a timid reserve, except when she conversed with Signora Herminia and

the other ladies of her party.

It was near midnight before they withdrew to the opera, where Emily was

not so charmed but that, when she remembered the scene she had just

quitted, she felt how infinitely inferior all the splendour of art is

to the sublimity of nature. Her heart was not now affected, tears of

admiration did not start to her eyes, as when she viewed the vast

expanse of ocean, the grandeur of the heavens, and listened to the

rolling waters, and to the faint music that, at intervals, mingled with

their roar. Remembering these, the scene before her faded into

insignificance.

Of the evening, which passed on without any particular incident, she

wished the conclusion, that she might escape from the attentions of the

Count; and, as opposite qualities frequently attract each other in our

thoughts, thus Emily, when she looked on Count Morano, remembered

Valancourt, and a sigh sometimes followed the recollection.

Several weeks passed in the course of customary visits, during which

nothing remarkable occurred. Emily was amused by the manners and scenes

that surrounded her, so different from those of France, but where Count

Morano, too frequently for her comfort, contrived to introduce himself.

His manner, figure and accomplishments, which were generally admired,

Emily would, perhaps, have admired also, had her heart been disengaged

from Valancourt, and had the Count forborne to persecute her with

officious attentions, during which she observed some traits in his

character, that prejudiced her against whatever might otherwise be good

in it.

Soon after his arrival at Venice, Montoni received a packet from M.

Quesnel, in which the latter mentioned the death of his wife’s uncle,

at his villa on the Brenta; and that, in consequence of this event, he

should hasten to take possession of that estate and of other effects

bequeathed to him. This uncle was the brother of Madame Quesnel’s late

mother; Montoni was related to her by the father’s side, and though he

could have had neither claim nor expectation concerning these

possessions, he could scarcely conceal the envy which M. Quesnel’s

letter excited.

Emily had observed with concern, that, since they left France, Montoni

had not even affected kindness towards her aunt, and that, after

treating her, at first, with neglect, he now met her with uniform

ill-humour and reserve. She had never supposed, that her aunt’s foibles

could have escaped the discernment of Montoni, or that her mind or

figure were of a kind to deserve his attention. Her surprise,

therefore, at this match, had been extreme; but since he had made the

choice, she did not suspect that he would so openly have discovered his

contempt of it. But Montoni, who had been allured by the seeming wealth

of Madame Cheron, was now severely disappointed by her comparative

poverty, and highly exasperated by the deceit she had employed to

conceal it, till concealment was no longer necessary. He had been

deceived in an affair, wherein he meant to be the deceiver; out-witted

by the superior cunning of a woman, whose understanding he despised,

and to whom he had sacrificed his pride and his liberty, without saving

himself from the ruin, which had impended over his head. Madame Montoni

had contrived to have the greatest part of what she really did possess,

settled upon herself: what remained, though it was totally inadequate

both to her husband’s expectations, and to his necessities, he had

converted into money, and brought with him to Venice, that he might a

little longer delude society, and make a last effort to regain the

fortunes he had lost.

The hints which had been thrown out to Valancourt, concerning Montoni’s

character and condition, were too true; but it was now left to time and

occasion, to unfold the circumstances, both of what had, and of what

had not been hinted, and to time and occasion we commit them.

Madame Montoni was not of a nature to bear injuries with meekness, or

to resent them with dignity: her exasperated pride displayed itself in

all the violence and acrimony of a little, or at least of an

ill-regulated mind. She would not acknowledge, even to herself, that

she had in any degree provoked contempt by her duplicity, but weakly

persisted in believing, that she alone was to be pitied, and Montoni

alone to be censured; for, as her mind had naturally little perception

of moral obligation, she seldom understood its force but when it

happened to be violated towards herself: her vanity had already been

severely shocked by a discovery of Montoni’s contempt; it remained to

be farther reproved by a discovery of his circumstances. His mansion at

Venice, though its furniture discovered a part of the truth to

unprejudiced persons, told nothing to those who were blinded by a

resolution to believe whatever they wished. Madame Montoni still

thought herself little less than a princess, possessing a palace at

Venice, and a castle among the Apennines. To the castle di Udolpho,

indeed, Montoni sometimes talked of going for a few weeks to examine

into its condition, and to receive some rents; for it appeared that he

had not been there for two years, and that, during this period, it had

been inhabited only by an old servant, whom he called his steward.

Emily listened to the mention of this journey with pleasure, for she

not only expected from it new ideas, but a release from the persevering

assiduities of Count Morano. In the country, too, she would have

leisure to think of Valancourt, and to indulge the melancholy, which

his image, and a recollection of the scenes of La Vallée, always

blessed with the memory of her parents, awakened. The ideal scenes were

dearer, and more soothing to her heart, than all the splendour of gay

assemblies; they were a kind of talisman that expelled the poison of

temporary evils, and supported her hopes of happy days: they appeared

like a beautiful landscape, lighted up by a gleam of sunshine, and seen

through a perspective of dark and rugged rocks.

But Count Morano did not long confine himself to silent assiduities; he

declared his passion to Emily, and made proposals to Montoni, who

encouraged, though Emily rejected, him: with Montoni for his friend,

and an abundance of vanity to delude him, he did not despair of

success. Emily was astonished and highly disgusted at his perseverance,

after she had explained her sentiments with a frankness that would not

allow him to misunderstand them.

He now passed the greater part of his time at Montoni’s, dining there

almost daily, and attending Madame and Emily wherever they went; and

all this, notwithstanding the uniform reserve of Emily, whose aunt

seemed as anxious as Montoni to promote this marriage; and would never

dispense with her attendance at any assembly where the Count proposed

to be present.

Montoni now said nothing of his intended journey, of which Emily waited

impatiently to hear; and he was seldom at home but when the Count, or

Signor Orsino, was there, for between himself and Cavigni a coolness

seemed to subsist, though the latter remained in his house. With

Orsino, Montoni was frequently closeted for hours together, and,

whatever might be the business, upon which they consulted, it appeared

to be of consequence, since Montoni often sacrificed to it his

favourite passion for play, and remained at home the whole night. There

was somewhat of privacy, too, in the manner of Orsino’s visits, which

had never before occurred, and which excited not only surprise, but

some degree of alarm in Emily’s mind, who had unwillingly discovered

much of his character when he had most endeavoured to disguise it.

After these visits, Montoni was often more thoughtful than usual;

sometimes the deep workings of his mind entirely abstracted him from

surrounding objects, and threw a gloom over his visage that rendered it

terrible; at others, his eyes seemed almost to flash fire, and all the

energies of his soul appeared to be roused for some great enterprise.

Emily observed these written characters of his thoughts with deep

interest, and not without some degree of awe, when she considered that

she was entirely in his power; but forbore even to hint her fears, or

her observations, to Madame Montoni, who discerned nothing in her

husband, at these times, but his usual sternness.

A second letter from M. Quesnel announced the arrival of himself and

his lady at the Villa Miarenti; stated several circumstances of his

good fortune, respecting the affair that had brought him into Italy;

and concluded with an earnest request to see Montoni, his wife and

niece, at his new estate.

Emily received, about the same period, a much more interesting letter,

and which soothed for a while every anxiety of her heart. Valancourt,

hoping she might be still at Venice, had trusted a letter to the

ordinary post, that told her of his health, and of his unceasing and

anxious affection. He had lingered at Thoulouse for some time after her

departure, that he might indulge the melancholy pleasure of wandering

through the scenes where he had been accustomed to behold her, and had

thence gone to his brother’s château, which was in the neighbourhood of

La Vallée. Having mentioned this, he added, “If the duty of attending

my regiment did not require my departure, I know not when I should have

resolution enough to quit the neighbourhood of a place which is

endeared by the remembrance of you. The vicinity to La Vallée has alone

detained me thus long at Estuvière: I frequently ride thither early in

the morning, that I may wander, at leisure, through the day, among

scenes, which were once your home, where I have been accustomed to see

you, and to hear you converse. I have renewed my acquaintance with the

good old Theresa, who rejoiced to see me, that she might talk of you: I

need not say how much this circumstance attached me to her, or how

eagerly I listened to her upon her favourite subject. You will guess

the motive that first induced me to make myself known to Theresa: it

was, indeed, no other than that of gaining admittance into the château

and gardens, which my Emily had so lately inhabited: here, then, I

wander, and meet your image under every shade: but chiefly I love to

sit beneath the spreading branches of your favourite plane, where once,

Emily, we sat together; where I first ventured to tell you, that I

loved. O Emily! the remembrance of those moments overcomes me—I sit

lost in reverie—I endeavour to see you dimly through my tears, in all

the heaven of peace and innocence, such as you then appeared to me; to

hear again the accents of that voice, which then thrilled my heart with

tenderness and hope. I lean on the wall of the terrace, where we

together watched the rapid current of the Garonne below, while I

described the wild scenery about its source, but thought only of you. O

Emily! are these moments passed for ever—will they never more return?”

In another part of his letter he wrote thus. “You see my letter is

dated on many different days, and, if you look back to the first, you

will perceive, that I began to write soon after your departure from

France. To write was, indeed, the only employment that withdrew me from

my own melancholy, and rendered your absence supportable, or rather, it

seemed to destroy absence; for, when I was conversing with you on

paper, and telling you every sentiment and affection of my heart, you

almost appeared to be present. This employment has been from time to

time my chief consolation, and I have deferred sending off my packet,

merely for the comfort of prolonging it, though it was certain, that

what I had written, was written to no purpose till you received it.

Whenever my mind has been more than usually depressed I have come to

pour forth its sorrows to you, and have always found consolation; and,

when any little occurrence has interested my heart, and given a gleam

of joy to my spirits, I have hastened to communicate it to you, and

have received reflected satisfaction. Thus, my letter is a kind of

picture of my life and of my thoughts for the last month, and thus,

though it has been deeply interesting to me, while I wrote it, and I

dare hope will, for the same reason, be not indifferent to you, yet to

other readers it would seem to abound only in frivolities. Thus it is

always, when we attempt to describe the finer movements of the heart,

for they are too fine to be discerned, they can only be experienced,

and are therefore passed over by the indifferent observer, while the

interested one feels, that all description is imperfect and

unnecessary, except as it may prove the sincerity of the writer, and

sooth his own sufferings. You will pardon all this egotism—for I am a

lover.”

“I have just heard of a circumstance, which entirely destroys all my

fairy paradise of ideal delight, and which will reconcile me to the

necessity of returning to my regiment, for I must no longer wander

beneath the beloved shades, where I have been accustomed to meet you in

thought.—La Vallée is let! I have reason to believe this is without

your knowledge, from what Theresa told me this morning, and, therefore,

I mention the circumstance. She shed tears, while she related, that she

was going to leave the service of her dear mistress, and the château

where she had lived so many happy years; and all this, added she,

without even a letter from Mademoiselle to soften the news; but it is

all Mons. Quesnel’s doings, and I dare say she does not even know what

is going forward.”

“Theresa added, That she had received a letter from him, informing her

the château was let, and that, as her services would no longer be

required, she must quit the place, on that day week, when the new

tenant would arrive.”

“Theresa had been surprised by a visit from M. Quesnel, some time

before the receipt of this letter, who was accompanied by a stranger

that viewed the premises with much curiosity.”

Towards the conclusion of his letter, which is dated a week after this

sentence, Valancourt adds, “I have received a summons from my regiment,

and I join it without regret, since I am shut out from the scenes that

are so interesting to my heart. I rode to La Vallée this morning, and

heard that the new tenant was arrived, and that Theresa was gone. I

should not treat the subject thus familiarly if I did not believe you

to be uninformed of this disposal of your house; for your satisfaction

I have endeavoured to learn something of the character and fortune of

your tenant, but without success. He is a gentleman, they say, and this

is all I can hear. The place, as I wandered round the boundaries,

appeared more melancholy to my imagination, than I had ever seen it. I

wished earnestly to have got admittance, that I might have taken

another leave of your favourite plane-tree, and thought of you once

more beneath its shade: but I forbore to tempt the curiosity of

strangers: the fishing-house in the woods, however, was still open to

me; thither I went, and passed an hour, which I cannot even look back

upon without emotion. O Emily! surely we are not separated for

ever—surely we shall live for each other!”

This letter brought many tears to Emily’s eyes; tears of tenderness and

satisfaction on learning that Valancourt was well, and that time and

absence had in no degree effaced her image from his heart. There were

passages in this letter which particularly affected her, such as those

describing his visits to La Vallée, and the sentiments of delicate

affection that its scenes had awakened. It was a considerable time

before her mind was sufficiently abstracted from Valancourt to feel the

force of his intelligence concerning La Vallée. That Mons. Quesnel

should let it, without even consulting her on the measure, both

surprised and shocked her, particularly as it proved the absolute

authority he thought himself entitled to exercise in her affairs. It is

true, he had proposed, before she left France, that the château should

be let, during her absence, and to the economical prudence of this she

had nothing to object; but the committing what had been her father’s

villa to the power and caprice of strangers, and the depriving herself

of a sure home, should any unhappy circumstances make her look back to

her home as an asylum, were considerations that made her, even then,

strongly oppose the measure. Her father, too, in his last hour, had

received from her a solemn promise never to dispose of La Vallée; and

this she considered as in some degree violated if she suffered the

place to be let. But it was now evident with how little respect M.

Quesnel had regarded these objections, and how insignificant he

considered every obstacle to pecuniary advantage. It appeared, also,

that he had not even condescended to inform Montoni of the step he had

taken, since no motive was evident for Montoni’s concealing the

circumstance from her, if it had been made known to him: this both

displeased and surprised her; but the chief subjects of her uneasiness

were—the temporary disposal of La Vallée, and the dismission of her

father’s old and faithful servant.—“Poor Theresa,” said Emily, “thou

hadst not saved much in thy servitude, for thou wast always tender

towards the poor, and believd’st thou shouldst die in the family, where

thy best years had been spent. Poor Theresa!—now thou art turned out in

thy old age to seek thy bread!”

Emily wept bitterly as these thoughts passed over her mind, and she

determined to consider what could be done for Theresa, and to talk very

explicitly to M. Quesnel on the subject; but she much feared that his

cold heart could feel only for itself. She determined also to enquire

whether he had made any mention of her affairs, in his letter to

Montoni, who soon gave her the opportunity she sought, by desiring that

she would attend him in his study. She had little doubt, that the

interview was intended for the purpose of communicating to her a part

of M. Quesnel’s letter concerning the transactions at La Vallée, and

she obeyed him immediately. Montoni was alone.

“I have just been writing to Mons. Quesnel,” said he when Emily

appeared, “in reply to the letter I received from him a few days ago,

and I wished to talk to you upon a subject that occupied part of it.”

“I also wished to speak with you on this topic, sir,” said Emily.

“It is a subject of some interest to you, undoubtedly,” rejoined

Montoni, “and I think you must see it in the light that I do; indeed it

will not bear any other. I trust you will agree with me, that any

objection founded on sentiment, as they call it, ought to yield to

circumstances of solid advantage.”

“Granting this, sir,” replied Emily, modestly, “those of humanity ought

surely to be attended to. But I fear it is now too late to deliberate

upon this plan, and I must regret, that it is no longer in my power to

reject it.”

“It is too late,” said Montoni; “but since it is so, I am pleased to

observe, that you submit to reason and necessity without indulging

useless complaint. I applaud this conduct exceedingly, the more,

perhaps, since it discovers a strength of mind seldom observable in

your sex. When you are older you will look back with gratitude to the

friends who assisted in rescuing you from the romantic illusions of

sentiment, and will perceive, that they are only the snares of

childhood, and should be vanquished the moment you escape from the

nursery. I have not closed my letter, and you may add a few lines to

inform your uncle of your acquiescence. You will soon see him, for it

is my intention to take you, with Madame Montoni, in a few days to

Miarenti, and you can then talk over the affair.”

Emily wrote on the opposite page of the paper as follows:

“It is now useless, sir, for me to remonstrate upon the circumstances

of which Signor Montoni informs me that he has written. I could have

wished, at least, that the affair had been concluded with less

precipitation, that I might have taught myself to subdue some

prejudices, as the Signor calls them, which still linger in my heart.

As it is, I submit. In point of prudence nothing certainly can be

objected; but, though I submit, I have yet much to say on some other

points of the subject, when I shall have the honour of seeing you. In

the meantime I entreat you will take care of Theresa, for the sake of,

“Sir,

“Your affectionate niece,

“EMILY ST. AUBERT.”

Montoni smiled satirically at what Emily had written, but did not

object to it, and she withdrew to her own apartment, where she sat down

to begin a letter to Valancourt, in which she related the particulars

of her journey, and her arrival at Venice, described some of the most

striking scenes in the passage over the Alps; her emotions on her first

view of Italy; the manners and characters of the people around her, and

some few circumstances of Montoni’s conduct. But she avoided even

naming Count Morano, much more the declaration he had made, since she

well knew how tremblingly alive to fear is real love, how jealously

watchful of every circumstance that may affect its interest; and she

scrupulously avoided to give Valancourt even the slightest reason for

believing he had a rival.

On the following day Count Morano dined again at Montoni’s. He was in

an uncommon flow of spirits, and Emily thought there was somewhat of

exultation in his manner of addressing her, which she had never

observed before. She endeavoured to repress this by more than her usual

reserve, but the cold civility of her air now seemed rather to

encourage than to depress him. He appeared watchful of an opportunity

of speaking with her alone, and more than once solicited this; but

Emily always replied, that she could hear nothing from him which he

would be unwilling to repeat before the whole company.

In the evening, Madame Montoni and her party went out upon the sea, and

as the Count led Emily to his _zendaletto_, he carried her hand to his

lips, and thanked her for the condescension she had shown him. Emily,

in extreme surprise and displeasure, hastily withdrew her hand, and

concluded that he had spoken ironically; but, on reaching the steps of

the terrace, and observing by the livery, that it was the Count’s

_zendaletto_ which waited below, while the rest of the party, having

arranged themselves in the gondolas, were moving on, she determined not

to permit a separate conversation, and, wishing him a good evening,

returned to the portico. The Count followed to expostulate and entreat,

and Montoni, who then came out, rendered solicitation unnecessary, for,

without condescending to speak, he took her hand, and led her to the

_zendaletto_. Emily was not silent; she entreated Montoni, in a low

voice, to consider the impropriety of these circumstances, and that he

would spare her the mortification of submitting to them; he, however,

was inflexible.

“This caprice is intolerable,” said he, “and shall not be indulged:

there is no impropriety in the case.”

At this moment, Emily’s dislike of Count Morano rose to abhorrence.

That he should, with undaunted assurance, thus pursue her,

notwithstanding all she had expressed on the subject of his addresses,

and think, as it was evident he did, that her opinion of him was of no

consequence, so long as his pretensions were sanctioned by Montoni,

added indignation to the disgust which she had felt towards him. She

was somewhat relieved by observing that Montoni was to be of the party,

who seated himself on one side of her, while Morano placed himself on

the other. There was a pause for some moments as the gondolieri

prepared their oars, and Emily trembled from apprehension of the

discourse that might follow this silence. At length she collected

courage to break it herself, in the hope of preventing fine speeches

from Morano, and reproof from Montoni. To some trivial remark which she

made, the latter returned a short and disobliging reply; but Morano

immediately followed with a general observation, which he contrived to

end with a particular compliment, and, though Emily passed it without

even the notice of a smile, he was not discouraged.

“I have been impatient,” said he, addressing Emily, “to express my

gratitude; to thank you for your goodness; but I must also thank Signor

Montoni, who has allowed me this opportunity of doing so.”

Emily regarded the Count with a look of mingled astonishment and

displeasure.

“Why,” continued he, “should you wish to diminish the delight of this

moment by that air of cruel reserve?—Why seek to throw me again into

the perplexities of doubt, by teaching your eyes to contradict the

kindness of your late declaration? You cannot doubt the sincerity, the

ardour of my passion; it is therefore unnecessary, charming Emily!

surely unnecessary, any longer to attempt a disguise of your

sentiments.”

“If I ever had disguised them, sir,” said Emily, with recollected

spirit, “it would certainly be unnecessary any longer to do so. I had

hoped, sir, that you would have spared me any farther necessity of

alluding to them; but, since you do not grant this, hear me declare,

and for the last time, that your perseverance has deprived you even of

the esteem, which I was inclined to believe you merited.”

“Astonishing!” exclaimed Montoni: “this is beyond even my expectation,

though I have hitherto done justice to the caprice of the sex! But you

will observe, Mademoiselle Emily, that I am no lover, though Count

Morano is, and that I will not be made the amusement of your capricious

moments. Here is the offer of an alliance, which would do honour to any

family; yours, you will recollect, is not noble; you long resisted my

remonstrances, but my honour is now engaged, and it shall not be

trifled with.—You shall adhere to the declaration, which you have made

me an agent to convey to the Count.”

“I must certainly mistake you, sir,” said Emily; “my answers on the

subject have been uniform; it is unworthy of you to accuse me of

caprice. If you have condescended to be my agent, it is an honour I did

not solicit. I myself have constantly assured Count Morano, and you

also, sir, that I never can accept the honour he offers me, and I now

repeat the declaration.”

The Count looked with an air of surprise and enquiry at Montoni, whose

countenance also was marked with surprise, but it was surprise mingled

with indignation.

“Here is confidence, as well as caprice!” said the latter. “Will you

deny your own words, Madam?”

“Such a question is unworthy of an answer, sir;” said Emily blushing;

“you will recollect yourself, and be sorry that you have asked it.”

“Speak to the point,” rejoined Montoni, in a voice of increasing

vehemence. “Will you deny your own words; will you deny, that you

acknowledged, only a few hours ago, that it was too late to recede from

your engagements, and that you accepted the Count’s hand?”

“I will deny all this, for no words of mine ever imported it.”

“Astonishing! Will you deny what you wrote to Mons. Quesnel, your

uncle? If you do, your own hand will bear testimony against you. What

have you now to say?” continued Montoni, observing the silence and

confusion of Emily.

“I now perceive, sir, that you are under a very great error, and that I

have been equally mistaken.”

“No more duplicity, I entreat; be open and candid, if it be possible.”

“I have always been so, sir; and can claim no merit in such conduct,

for I have had nothing to conceal.”

“How is this, Signor?” cried Morano, with trembling emotion.

“Suspend your judgment, Count,” replied Montoni, “the wiles of a female

heart are unsearchable. Now, Madame, your _explanation_.”

“Excuse me, sir, if I withhold my explanation till you appear willing

to give me your confidence; assertion as present can only subject me to

insult.”

“Your explanation, I entreat you!” said Morano.

“Well, well,” rejoined Montoni, “I give you my confidence; let us hear

this explanation.”

“Let me lead to it then, by asking a question.”

“As many as you please,” said Montoni, contemptuously.

“What, then, was the subject of your letter to Mons. Quesnel?”

“The same that was the subject of your note to him, certainly. You did

well to stipulate for my confidence before you demanded that question.”

“I must beg you will be more explicit, sir; what was that subject?”

“What could it be, but the noble offer of Count Morano,” said Montoni.

“Then, sir, we entirely misunderstood each other,” replied Emily.

“We entirely misunderstood each other too, I suppose,” rejoined

Montoni, “in the conversation which preceded the writing of that note?

I must do you the justice to own, that you are very ingenious at this

same art of misunderstanding.”

Emily tried to restrain the tears that came to her eyes, and to answer

with becoming firmness. “Allow me, sir, to explain myself fully, or to

be wholly silent.”

“The explanation may now be dispensed with; it is anticipated. If Count

Morano still thinks one necessary, I will give him an honest one: you

have changed your intention since our last conversation; and, if he can

have patience and humility enough to wait till tomorrow, he will

probably find it changed again: but as I have neither the patience nor

the humility, which you expect from a lover, I warn you of the effect

of my displeasure!”

“Montoni, you are too precipitate,” said the Count, who had listened to

this conversation in extreme agitation and impatience;—“Signora, I

entreat your own explanation of this affair!”

“Signor Montoni has said justly,” replied Emily, “that all explanation

may now be dispensed with; after what has passed I cannot suffer myself

to give one. It is sufficient for me, and for you, sir, that I repeat

my late declaration; let me hope this is the last time it will be

necessary for me to repeat it—I never can accept the honour of your

alliance.”

“Charming Emily!” exclaimed the Count in an impassioned tone, “let not

resentment make you unjust; let me not suffer for the offence of

Montoni!—Revoke—”

“Offence!” interrupted Montoni—“Count, this language is ridiculous,

this submission is childish!—speak as becomes a man, not as the slave

of a pretty tyrant.”

“You distract me, Signor; suffer me to plead my own cause; you have

already proved insufficient to it.”

“All conversation on this subject, sir,” said Emily, “is worse than

useless, since it can bring only pain to each of us: if you would

oblige me, pursue it no farther.”

“It is impossible, Madam, that I can thus easily resign the object of a

passion, which is the delight and torment of my life.—I must still

love—still pursue you with unremitting ardour;—when you shall be

convinced of the strength and constancy of my passion, your heart must

soften into pity and repentance.”

“Is this generous, sir? is this manly? Can it either deserve or obtain

the esteem you solicit, thus to continue a persecution from which I

have no present means of escaping?”

A gleam of moonlight that fell upon Morano’s countenance, revealed the

strong emotions of his soul; and, glancing on Montoni discovered the

dark resentment, which contrasted his features.

“By Heaven this is too much!” suddenly exclaimed the Count; “Signor

Montoni, you treat me ill; it is from you that I shall look for

explanation.”

“From me, sir! you shall have it;” muttered Montoni, “if your

discernment is indeed so far obscured by passion, as to make

explanation necessary. And for you, madam, you should learn, that a man

of honour is not to be trifled with, though you may, perhaps, with

impunity, treat a _boy_ like a puppet.”

This sarcasm roused the pride of Morano, and the resentment which he

had felt at the indifference of Emily, being lost in indignation of the

insolence of Montoni, he determined to mortify him, by defending her.

“This also,” said he, replying to Montoni’s last words, “this also,

shall not pass unnoticed. I bid you learn, sir, that you have a

stronger enemy than a woman to contend with: I will protect Signora St.

Aubert from your threatened resentment. You have misled me, and would

revenge your disappointed views upon the innocent.”

“Misled you!” retorted Montoni with quickness, “is my conduct—my

word”—then pausing, while he seemed endeavouring to restrain the

resentment, that flashed in his eyes, in the next moment he added, in a

subdued voice, “Count Morano, this is a language, a sort of conduct to

which I am not accustomed: it is the conduct of a passionate boy—as

such, I pass it over in contempt.”

“In contempt, Signor?”

“The respect I owe myself,” rejoined Montoni, “requires, that I should

converse more largely with you upon some points of the subject in

dispute. Return with me to Venice, and I will condescend to convince

you of your error.”

“Condescend, sir! but I will not condescend to be so conversed with.”

Montoni smiled contemptuously; and Emily, now terrified for the

consequences of what she saw and heard, could no longer be silent. She

explained the whole subject upon which she had mistaken Montoni in the

morning, declaring, that she understood him to have consulted her

solely concerning the disposal of La Vallée, and concluding with

entreating, that he would write immediately to M. Quesnel, and rectify

the mistake.

But Montoni either was, or affected to be, still incredulous; and Count

Morano was still entangled in perplexity. While she was speaking,

however, the attention of her auditors had been diverted from the

immediate occasion of their resentment, and their passion consequently

became less. Montoni desired the Count would order his servants to row

back to Venice, that he might have some private conversation with him;

and Morano, somewhat soothed by his softened voice and manner, and

eager to examine into the full extent of his difficulties, complied.

Emily, comforted by this prospect of release, employed the present

moments in endeavouring, with conciliating care, to prevent any fatal

mischief between the persons who so lately had persecuted and insulted

her.

Her spirits revived, when she heard once more the voice of song and

laughter, resounding from the grand canal, and at length entered again

between its stately piazzas. The _zendaletto_ stopped at Montoni’s

mansion, and the Count hastily led her into the hall, where Montoni

took his arm, and said something in a low voice, on which Morano kissed

the hand he held, notwithstanding Emily’s effort to disengage it, and,

wishing her a good evening, with an accent and look she could not

misunderstand, returned to his _zendaletto_ with Montoni.

Emily, in her own apartment, considered with intense anxiety all the

unjust and tyrannical conduct of Montoni, the dauntless perseverance of

Morano, and her own desolate situation, removed from her friends and

country. She looked in vain to Valancourt, confined by his profession

to a distant kingdom, as her protector; but it gave her comfort to

know, that there was, at least, one person in the world, who would

sympathise in her afflictions, and whose wishes would fly eagerly to

release her. Yet she determined not to give him unavailing pain by

relating the reasons she had to regret the having rejected his better

judgment concerning Montoni; reasons, however, which could not induce

her to lament the delicacy and disinterested affection that had made

her reject his proposal for a clandestine marriage. The approaching

interview with her uncle she regarded with some degree of hope, for she

determined to represent to him the distresses of her situation, and to

entreat that he would allow her to return to France with him and Madame

Quesnel. Then, suddenly remembering that her beloved La Vallée, her

only home, was no longer at her command, her tears flowed anew, and she

feared that she had little pity to expect from a man who, like M.

Quesnel, could dispose of it without deigning to consult with her, and

could dismiss an aged and faithful servant, destitute of either support

or asylum. But, though it was certain, that she had herself no longer a

home in France, and few, very few friends there, she determined to

return, if possible, that she might be released from the power of

Montoni, whose particularly oppressive conduct towards herself, and

general character as to others, were justly terrible to her

imagination. She had no wish to reside with her uncle, M. Quesnel,

since his behaviour to her late father and to herself, had been

uniformly such as to convince her, that in flying to him she could only

obtain an exchange of oppressors; neither had she the slightest

intention of consenting to the proposal of Valancourt for an immediate

marriage, though this would give her a lawful and a generous protector,

for the chief reasons, which had formerly influenced her conduct, still

existed against it, while others, which seemed to justify the step,

would not be done away; and his interest, his fame were at all times

too dear to her, to suffer her to consent to a union, which, at this

early period of their lives, would probably defeat both. One sure, and

proper asylum, however, would still be open to her in France. She knew

that she could board in the convent, where she had formerly experienced

so much kindness, and which had an affecting and solemn claim upon her

heart, since it contained the remains of her late father. Here she

could remain in safety and tranquillity, till the term, for which La

Vallée might be let, should expire; or, till the arrangement of M.

Motteville’s affairs enabled her so far to estimate the remains of her

fortune, as to judge whether it would be prudent for her to reside

there.

Concerning Montoni’s conduct with respect to his letters to M. Quesnel,

she had many doubts; however he might be at first mistaken on the

subject, she much suspected that he wilfully persevered in his error,

as a means of intimidating her into a compliance with his wishes of

uniting her to Count Morano. Whether this was or was not the fact, she

was extremely anxious to explain the affair to M. Quesnel, and looked

forward with a mixture of impatience, hope and fear, to her approaching

visit.

On the following day, Madame Montoni, being alone with Emily,

introduced the mention of Count Morano, by expressing her surprise,

that she had not joined the party on the water the preceding evening,

and at her abrupt departure to Venice. Emily then related what had

passed, expressed her concern for the mutual mistake that had occurred

between Montoni and herself, and solicited her aunt’s kind offices in

urging him to give a decisive denial to the count’s further addresses;

but she soon perceived, that Madame Montoni had not been ignorant of

the late conversation, when she introduced the present.

“You have no encouragement to expect from me,” said her aunt, “in these

notions. I have already given my opinion on the subject, and think

Signor Montoni right in enforcing, by any means, your consent. If young

persons will be blind to their interest, and obstinately oppose it,

why, the greatest blessings they can have are friends, who will oppose

their folly. Pray what pretensions of any kind do you think you have to

such a match as is now offered you?”

“Not any whatever, Madam,” replied Emily, “and, therefore, at least,

suffer me to be happy in my humility.”

“Nay, niece, it cannot be denied, that you have pride enough; my poor

brother, your father, had his share of pride too; though, let me add,

his fortune did not justify it.”

Emily, somewhat embarrassed by the indignation, which this malevolent

allusion to her father excited, and by the difficulty of rendering her

answer as temperate as it should be reprehensive, hesitated for some

moments, in a confusion, which highly gratified her aunt. At length she

said, “My father’s pride, Madam, had a noble object—the happiness which

he knew could be derived only from goodness, knowledge and charity. As

it never consisted in his superiority, in point of fortune, to some

persons, it was not humbled by his inferiority, in that respect, to

others. He never disdained those, who were wretched by poverty and

misfortune; he did sometimes despise persons, who, with many

opportunities of happiness, rendered themselves miserable by vanity,

ignorance and cruelty. I shall think it my highest glory to emulate

such pride.”

“I do not pretend to understand anything of these high-flown

sentiments, niece; you have all that glory to yourself: I would teach

you a little plain sense, and not have you so wise as to despise

happiness.”

“That would indeed not be wisdom, but folly,” said Emily, “for wisdom

can boast no higher attainment than happiness; but you will allow,

Madam, that our ideas of happiness may differ. I cannot doubt, that you

wish me to be happy, but I must fear you are mistaken in the means of

making me so.”

“I cannot boast of a learned education, niece, such as your father

thought proper to give you, and, therefore, do not pretend to

understand all these fine speeches about happiness. I must be contented

to understand only common sense, and happy would it have been for you

and your father, if that had been included in his education.”

Emily was too much shocked by these reflections on her father’s memory,

to despise this speech as it deserved.

Madame Montoni was about to speak, but Emily quitted the room, and

retired to her own, where the little spirit she had lately exerted

yielded to grief and vexation, and left her only to her tears. From

every review of her situation she could derive, indeed, only new

sorrow. To the discovery, which had just been forced upon her, of

Montoni’s unworthiness, she had now to add, that of the cruel vanity,

for the gratification of which her aunt was about to sacrifice her; of

the effrontery and cunning, with which, at the time that she meditated

the sacrifice, she boasted of her tenderness, or insulted her victim;

and of the venomous envy, which, as it did not scruple to attack her

father’s character, could scarcely be expected to withhold from her

own.

During the few days that intervened between this conversation and the

departure for Miarenti, Montoni did not once address himself to Emily.

His looks sufficiently declared his resentment; but that he should

forbear to renew a mention of the subject of it, exceedingly surprised

her, who was no less astonished, that, during three days, Count Morano

neither visited Montoni, nor was named by him. Several conjectures

arose in her mind. Sometimes she feared that the dispute between them

had been revived, and had ended fatally to the Count. Sometimes she was

inclined to hope, that weariness, or disgust at her firm rejection of

his suit had induced him to relinquish it; and, at others, she

suspected that he had now recourse to stratagem, and forbore his

visits, and prevailed with Montoni to forbear the repetition of his

name, in the expectation that gratitude and generosity would prevail

with her to give him the consent, which he could not hope from love.

Thus passed the time in vain conjecture, and alternate hopes and fears,

till the day arrived when Montoni was to set out for the villa of

Miarenti, which, like the preceding ones, neither brought the Count,

nor the mention of him.

Montoni having determined not to leave Venice, till towards evening,

that he might avoid the heats, and catch the cool breezes of night,

embarked about an hour before sunset, with his family, in a barge, for

the Brenta. Emily sat alone near the stern of the vessel, and, as it

floated slowly on, watched the gay and lofty city lessening from her

view, till its palaces seemed to sink in the distant waves, while its

loftier towers and domes, illumined by the declining sun, appeared on

the horizon, like those far-seen clouds which, in more northern climes,

often linger on the western verge, and catch the last light of a

summer’s evening. Soon after, even these grew dim, and faded in

distance from her sight; but she still sat gazing on the vast scene of

cloudless sky, and mighty waters, and listening in pleasing awe to the

deep-sounding waves, while, as her eyes glanced over the Adriatic,

towards the opposite shores, which were, however, far beyond the reach

of sight, she thought of Greece, and, a thousand classical remembrances

stealing to her mind, she experienced that pensive luxury which is felt

on viewing the scenes of ancient story, and on comparing their present

state of silence and solitude with that of their former grandeur and

animation. The scenes of the Illiad illapsed in glowing colours to her

fancy—scenes, once the haunt of heroes—now lonely, and in ruins; but

which still shone, in the poet’s strain, in all their youthful

splendour.

As her imagination painted with melancholy touches, the deserted plains

of Troy, such as they appeared in this after-day, she reanimated the

landscape with the following little story.

STANZAS

O’er Ilion’s plains, where once the warrior bled,

And once the poet rais’d his deathless strain,

O’er Ilion’s plains a weary driver led

His stately camels: For the ruin’d fane

Wide round the lonely scene his glance he threw,

For now the red cloud faded in the west,

And twilight o’er the silent landscape drew

Her deep’ning veil; eastward his course he prest:

There, on the grey horizon’s glimm’ring bound,

Rose the proud columns of deserted Troy,

And wandering shepherds now a shelter found

Within those walls, where princes wont to joy.

Beneath a lofty porch the driver pass’d,

Then, from his camels heav’d the heavy load;

Partook with them the simple, cool repast,

And in short vesper gave himself to God.

From distant lands with merchandise he came,

His all of wealth his patient servants bore;

Oft deep-drawn sighs his anxious wish proclaim

To reach, again, his happy cottage door;

For there, his wife, his little children, dwell;

Their smiles shall pay the toil of many an hour:

Ev’n now warm tears to expectation swell,

As fancy o’er his mind extends her pow’r.

A death-like stillness reign’d, where once the song,

The song of heroes, wak’d the midnight air,

Save, when a solemn murmur roll’d along,

That seem’d to say—“for future worlds prepare.”

For Time’s imperious voice was frequent heard

Shaking the marble temple to its fall,

(By hands he long had conquer’d, vainly rear’d),

And distant ruins answer’d to his call.

While Hamet slept, his camels round him lay,

Beneath him, all his store of wealth was piled;

And here, his cruse and empty wallet lay,

And there, the flute that chear’d him in the wild.

The robber Tartar on his slumber stole,

For o’er the waste, at eve, he watch’d his train;

Ah! who his thirst of plunder shall control?

Who calls on him for mercy—calls in vain!

A poison’d poignard in his belt he wore,

A crescent sword depended at his side,

The deathful quiver at his back he bore,

And infants—at his very look had died!

The moon’s cold beam athwart the temple fell,

And to his sleeping prey the Tartar led;

But soft!—a startled camel shook his bell,

Then stretch’d his limbs, and rear’d his drowsy head.

Hamet awoke! the poignard glitter’d high!

Swift from his couch he sprung, and ’scap’d the blow;

When from an unknown hand the arrows fly,

That lay the ruffian, in his vengeance, low.

He groan’d, he died! from forth a column’d gate

A fearful shepherd, pale and silent, crept,

Who, as he watch’d his folded flock star-late,

Had mark’d the robber steal where Hamet slept.

He fear’d his own, and sav’d a stranger’s life!

Poor Hamet clasp’d him to his grateful heart;

Then, rous’d his camels for the dusty strife,

And, with the shepherd, hasten’d to depart.

And now, aurora breathes her fresh’ning gale,

And faintly trembles on the eastern cloud;

And now, the sun, from under twilight’s veil,

Looks gaily forth, and melts her airy shroud.

Wide o’er the level plains, his slanting beams

Dart their long lines on Ilion’s tower’d site;

The distant Hellespont with morning gleams,

And old Scamander winds his waves in light.

All merry sound the camel bells, so gay,

And merry beats fond Hamet’s heart, for he,

E’er the dim evening steals upon the day,

His children, wife and happy home shall see.

As Emily approached the shores of Italy she began to discriminate the

rich features and varied colouring of the landscape—the purple hills,

groves of orange pine and cypress, shading magnificent villas, and

towns rising among vineyards and plantations. The noble Brenta, pouring

its broad waves into the sea, now appeared, and, when she reached its

mouth, the barge stopped, that the horses might be fastened which were

now to tow it up the stream. This done, Emily gave a last look to the

Adriatic, and to the dim sail,

that from the sky-mix’d wave

Dawns on the sight,

and the barge slowly glided between the green and luxuriant slopes of

the river. The grandeur of the Palladian villas, that adorn these

shores, was considerably heightened by the setting rays, which threw

strong contrasts of light and shade upon the porticos and long arcades,

and beamed a mellow lustre upon the orangeries and the tall groves of

pine and cypress, that overhung the buildings. The scent of oranges, of

flowering myrtles, and other odoriferous plants was diffused upon the

air, and often, from these embowered retreats, a strain of music stole

on the calm, and “softened into silence.”

The sun now sunk below the horizon, twilight fell over the landscape,

and Emily, wrapt in musing silence, continued to watch its features

gradually vanishing into obscurity. She remembered her many happy

evenings, when with St. Aubert she had observed the shades of twilight

steal over a scene as beautiful as this, from the gardens of La Vallée,

and a tear fell to the memory of her father. Her spirits were softened

into melancholy by the influence of the hour, by the low murmur of the

wave passing under the vessel, and the stillness of the air, that

trembled only at intervals with distant music:—why else should she, at

these moments, have looked on her attachment to Valancourt with

presages so very afflicting, since she had but lately received letters

from him, that had soothed for a while all her anxieties? It now seemed

to her oppressed mind, that she had taken leave of him for ever, and

that the countries, which separated them, would never more be retraced

by her. She looked upon Count Morano with horror, as in some degree the

cause of this; but apart from him, a conviction, if such that may be

called, which arises from no proof, and which she knew not how to

account for, seized her mind—that she should never see Valancourt

again. Though she knew, that neither Morano’s solicitations, nor

Montoni’s commands had lawful power to enforce her obedience, she

regarded both with a superstitious dread, that they would finally

prevail.

Lost in this melancholy reverie, and shedding frequent tears, Emily was

at length roused by Montoni, and she followed him to the cabin, where

refreshments were spread, and her aunt was seated alone. The

countenance of Madame Montoni was inflamed with resentment, that

appeared to be the consequence of some conversation she had held with

her husband, who regarded her with a kind of sullen disdain, and both

preserved, for some time, a haughty silence. Montoni then spoke to

Emily of Mons. Quesnel: “You will not, I hope, persist in disclaiming

your knowledge of the subject of my letter to him?”

“I had hoped, sir, that it was no longer necessary for me to disclaim

it,” said Emily, “I had hoped, from your silence, that you were

convinced of your error.”

“You have hoped impossibilities then,” replied Montoni; “I might as

reasonably have expected to find sincerity and uniformity of conduct in

one of your sex, as you to convict me of error in this affair.”

Emily blushed, and was silent; she now perceived too clearly, that she

had hoped an impossibility, for, where no mistake had been committed no

conviction could follow; and it was evident, that Montoni’s conduct had

not been the consequence of mistake, but of design.

Anxious to escape from conversation, which was both afflicting and

humiliating to her, she soon returned to the deck, and resumed her

station near the stern, without apprehension of cold, for no vapour

rose from the water, and the air was dry and tranquil; here, at least,

the benevolence of nature allowed her the quiet which Montoni had

denied her elsewhere. It was now past midnight. The stars shed a kind

of twilight, that served to show the dark outline of the shores on

either hand, and the grey surface of the river; till the moon rose from

behind a high palm grove, and shed her mellow lustre over the scene.

The vessel glided smoothly on: amid the stillness of the hour Emily

heard, now and then, the solitary voice of the barge-men on the bank,

as they spoke to their horses; while, from a remote part of the vessel,

with melancholy song,

The sailor sooth’d,

Beneath the trembling moon, the midnight wave.

Emily, meanwhile, anticipated her reception by Mons, and Madame

Quesnel; considered what she should say on the subject of La Vallée;

and then, to withhold her mind from more anxious topics, tried to amuse

herself by discriminating the faint-drawn features of the landscape,

reposing in the moonlight. While her fancy thus wandered, she saw, at a

distance, a building peeping between the moonlight trees, and, as the

barge approached, heard voices speaking, and soon distinguished the

lofty portico of a villa, overshadowed by groves of pine and sycamore,

which she recollected to be the same, that had formerly been pointed

out to her, as belonging to Madame Quesnel’s relative.

The barge stopped at a flight of marble steps, which led up the bank to

a lawn. Lights appeared between some pillars beyond the portico.

Montoni sent forward his servant, and then disembarked with his family.

They found Mons. and Madame Quesnel, with a few friends, seated on

sofas in the portico, enjoying the cool breeze of the night, and eating

fruits and ices, while some of their servants at a little distance, on

the river’s bank, were performing a simple serenade. Emily was now

accustomed to the way of living in this warm country, and was not

surprised to find Mons. and Madame Quesnel in their portico, two hours

after midnight.

The usual salutations being over, the company seated themselves in the

portico, and refreshments were brought them from the adjoining hall,

where a banquet was spread, and servants attended. When the bustle of

this meeting had subsided, and Emily had recovered from the little

flutter into which it had thrown her spirits, she was struck with the

singular beauty of the hall, so perfectly accommodated to the luxuries

of the season. It was of white marble, and the roof, rising into an

open cupola, was supported by columns of the same material. Two

opposite sides of the apartment, terminating in open porticos, admitted

to the hall a full view of the gardens, and of the river scenery; in

the centre a fountain continually refreshed the air, and seemed to

heighten the fragrance, that breathed from the surrounding orangeries,

while its dashing waters gave an agreeable and soothing sound. Etruscan

lamps, suspended from the pillars, diffused a brilliant light over the

interior part of the hall, leaving the remoter porticos to the softer

lustre of the moon.

Mons. Quesnel talked apart to Montoni of his own affairs, in his usual

strain of self-importance; boasted of his new acquisitions, and then

affected to pity some disappointments, which Montoni had lately

sustained. Meanwhile, the latter, whose pride at least enabled him to

despise such vanity as this, and whose discernment at once detected

under this assumed pity, the frivolous malignity of Quesnel’s mind,

listened to him in contemptuous silence, till he named his niece, and

then they left the portico, and walked away into the gardens.

Emily, however, still attended to Madame Quesnel, who spoke of France

(for even the name of her native country was dear to her) and she found

some pleasure in looking at a person, who had lately been in it. That

country, too, was inhabited by Valancourt, and she listened to the

mention of it, with a faint hope, that he also would be named. Madame

Quesnel, who, when she was in France, had talked with rapture of Italy,

now, that she was in Italy, talked with equal praise of France, and

endeavoured to excite the wonder and the envy of her auditors by

accounts of places, which they had not been happy enough to see. In

these descriptions she not only imposed upon them, but upon herself,

for she never thought a present pleasure equal to one, that was passed;

and thus the delicious climate, the fragrant orangeries and all the

luxuries, which surrounded her, slept unnoticed, while her fancy

wandered over the distant scenes of a northern country.

Emily listened in vain for the name of Valancourt. Madame Montoni spoke

in her turn of the delights of Venice, and of the pleasure she expected

from visiting the fine castle of Montoni, on the Apennine; which latter

mention, at least, was merely a retaliating boast, for Emily well knew,

that her aunt had no taste for solitary grandeur, and, particularly,

for such as the castle of Udolpho promised. Thus the party continued to

converse, and, as far as civility would permit, to torture each other

by mutual boasts, while they reclined on sofas in the portico, and were

environed with delights both from nature and art, by which any honest

minds would have been tempered to benevolence, and happy imaginations

would have been soothed into enchantment.

The dawn, soon after, trembled in the eastern horizon, and the light

tints of morning, gradually expanding, showed the beautifully declining

forms of the Italian mountains and the gleaming landscapes, stretched

at their feet. Then the sunbeams, shooting up from behind the hills,

spread over the scene that fine saffron tinge, which seems to impart

repose to all it touches. The landscape no longer gleamed; all its

glowing colours were revealed, except that its remoter features were

still softened and united in the mist of distance, whose sweet effect

was heightened to Emily by the dark verdure of the pines and cypresses,

that over-arched the foreground of the river.

The market people, passing with their boats to Venice, now formed a

moving picture on the Brenta. Most of these had little painted awnings,

to shelter their owners from the sunbeams, which, together with the

piles of fruit and flowers, displayed beneath, and the tasteful

simplicity of the peasant girls, who watched the rural treasures,

rendered them gay and striking objects. The swift movement of the boats

down the current, the quick glance of oars in the water, and now and

then the passing chorus of peasants, who reclined under the sail of

their little bark, or the tones of some rustic instrument, played by a

girl, as she sat near her sylvan cargo, heightened the animation and

festivity of the scene.

When Montoni and M. Quesnel had joined the ladies, the party left the

portico for the gardens, where the charming scenery soon withdrew

Emily’s thoughts from painful subjects. The majestic forms and rich

verdure of cypresses she had never seen so perfect before: groves of

cedar, lemon, and orange, the spiry clusters of the pine and poplar,

the luxuriant chesnut and oriental plane, threw all their pomp of shade

over these gardens; while bowers of flowering myrtle and other spicy

shrubs mingled their fragrance with that of flowers, whose vivid and

various colouring glowed with increased effect beneath the contrasted

umbrage of the groves. The air also was continually refreshed by

rivulets, which, with more taste than fashion, had been suffered to

wander among the green recesses.

Emily often lingered behind the party, to contemplate the distant

landscape, that closed a vista, or that gleamed beneath the dark

foliage of the foreground;—the spiral summits of the mountains, touched

with a purple tint, broken and steep above, but shelving gradually to

their base; the open valley, marked by no formal lines of art; and the

tall groves of cypress, pine and poplar, sometimes embellished by a

ruined villa, whose broken columns appeared between the branches of a

pine, that seemed to droop over their fall.

From other parts of the gardens, the character of the view was entirely

changed, and the fine solitary beauty of the landscape shifted for the

crowded features and varied colouring of inhabitation.

The sun was now gaining fast upon the sky, and the party quitted the

gardens, and retired to repose.