CHAPTER VII

Was nought around but images of rest,

Sleep-soothing groves and quiet lawns between,

And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kept,

From poppies breath’d, and banks of pleasant green,

Where never yet was creeping creature seen.

Meantime unnumbered glittering streamlets play’d,

And hurled everywhere their water’s sheen,

That, as they bicker’d through the sunny glade,

Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.

THOMSON

When Emily, in the morning, opened her casement, she was surprised to

observe the beauties, that surrounded it. The cottage was nearly

embowered in the woods, which were chiefly of chesnut intermixed with

some cypress, larch and sycamore. Beneath the dark and spreading

branches appeared to the north and to the east the woody Apennines,

rising in majestic amphitheatre, not black with pines, as she had been

accustomed to see them, but their loftiest summits crowned with ancient

forests of chesnut, oak, and oriental plane, now animated with the rich

tints of autumn, and which swept downward to the valley

uninterruptedly, except where some bold rocky promontory looked out

from among the foliage, and caught the passing gleam. Vineyards

stretched along the feet of the mountains, where the elegant villas of

the Tuscan nobility frequently adorned the scene, and overlooked slopes

clothed with groves of olive, mulberry, orange and lemon. The plain, to

which these declined, was coloured with the riches of cultivation,

whose mingled hues were mellowed into harmony by an Italian sun. Vines,

their purple clusters blushing between the russet foliage, hung in

luxuriant festoons from the branches of standard fig and cherry trees,

while pastures of verdure, such as Emily had seldom seen in Italy,

enriched the banks of a stream that, after descending from the

mountains, wound along the landscape, which it reflected, to a bay of

the sea. There, far in the west, the waters, fading into the sky,

assumed a tint of the faintest purple, and the line of separation

between them was, now and then, discernible only by the progress of a

sail, brightened with the sunbeam, along the horizon.

The cottage, which was shaded by the woods from the intenser rays of

the sun, and was open only to his evening light, was covered entirely

with vines, fig-trees and jessamine, whose flowers surpassed in size

and fragrance any that Emily had seen. These and ripening clusters of

grapes hung round her little casement. The turf, that grew under the

woods, was inlaid with a variety of wild flowers and perfumed herbs,

and, on the opposite margin of the stream, whose current diffused

freshness beneath the shades, rose a grove of lemon and orange trees.

This, though nearly opposite to Emily’s window, did not interrupt her

prospect, but rather heightened, by its dark verdure, the effect of the

perspective; and to her this spot was a bower of sweets, whose charms

communicated imperceptibly to her mind somewhat of their own serenity.

She was soon summoned to breakfast, by the peasant’s daughter, a girl

about seventeen, of a pleasant countenance, which, Emily was glad to

observe, seemed animated with the pure affections of nature, though the

others, that surrounded her, expressed, more or less, the worst

qualities—cruelty, ferocity, cunning and duplicity; of the latter style

of countenance, especially, were those of the peasant and his wife.

Maddelina spoke little, but what she said was in a soft voice, and with

an air of modesty and complacency, that interested Emily, who

breakfasted at a separate table with Dorina, while Ugo and Bertrand

were taking a repast of Tuscany bacon and wine with their host, near

the cottage door; when they had finished which, Ugo, rising hastily,

enquired for his mule, and Emily learned that he was to return to

Udolpho, while Bertrand remained at the cottage; a circumstance, which,

though it did not surprise, distressed her.

When Ugo was departed, Emily proposed to walk in the neighbouring

woods; but, on being told, that she must not quit the cottage, without

having Bertrand for her attendant, she withdrew to her own room. There,

as her eyes settled on the towering Apennines, she recollected the

terrific scenery they had exhibited and the horrors she had suffered,

on the preceding night, particularly at the moment when Bertrand had

betrayed himself to be an assassin; and these remembrances awakened a

train of images, which, since they abstracted her from a consideration

of her own situation, she pursued for some time, and then arranged in

the following lines; pleased to have discovered any innocent means, by

which she could beguile an hour of misfortune.

THE PILGRIM*

Slow o’er the Apennine, with bleeding feet,

A patient Pilgrim wound his lonely way,

To deck the Lady of Loretto’s seat

With all the little wealth his zeal could pay.

From mountain-tops cold died the evening ray,

And, stretch’d in twilight, slept the vale below;

And now the last, last purple streaks of day

Along the melancholy West fade slow.

High o’er his head, the restless pines complain,

As on their summit rolls the breeze of night;

Beneath, the hoarse stream chides the rocks in vain:

The Pilgrim pauses on the dizzy height.

Then to the vale his cautious step he press’d,

For there a hermit’s cross was dimly seen,

Cresting the rock, and there his limbs might rest,

Cheer’d in the good man’s cave, by faggot’s sheen,

On leafy beds, nor guile his sleep molest.

Unhappy Luke! he trusts a treacherous clue!

Behind the cliff the lurking robber stood;

No friendly moon his giant shadow threw

Athwart the road, to save the Pilgrim’s blood;

On as he went a vesper-hymn he sang,

The hymn, that nightly sooth’d him to repose.

Fierce on his harmless prey the ruffian sprang!

The Pilgrim bleeds to death, his eye-lids close.

Yet his meek spirit knew no vengeful care,

But, dying, for his murd’rer breath’d—a sainted pray’r!

(*Note: This poem and that entitled _The Traveller_ in vol. ii, have

already appeared in a periodical publication. [A. R.])

Preferring the solitude of her room to the company of the persons below

stairs, Emily dined above, and Maddelina was suffered to attend her,

from whose simple conversation she learned, that the peasant and his

wife were old inhabitants of this cottage, which had been purchased for

them by Montoni, in reward of some service, rendered him, many years

before, by Marco, to whom Carlo, the steward at the castle, was nearly

related. “So many years ago, Signora,” added Maddelina, “that I know

nothing about it; but my father did the Signor a great good, for my

mother has often said to him, this cottage was the least he ought to

have had.”

To the mention of this circumstance Emily listened with a painful

interest, since it appeared to give a frightful colour to the character

of Marco, whose service, thus rewarded by Montoni, she could scarcely

doubt have been criminal; and, if so, had too much reason to believe,

that she had been committed into his hands for some desperate purpose.

“Did you ever hear how many years it is,” said Emily, who was

considering of Signora Laurentini’s disappearance from Udolpho, “since

your father performed the services you spoke of?”

“It was a little before he came to live at the cottage, Signora,”

replied Maddelina, “and that is about eighteen years ago.”

This was near the period, when Signora Laurentini had been said to

disappear, and it occurred to Emily, that Marco had assisted in that

mysterious affair, and, perhaps, had been employed in a murder! This

horrible suggestion fixed her in such profound reverie, that Maddelina

quitted the room, unperceived by her, and she remained unconscious of

all around her, for a considerable time. Tears, at length, came to her

relief, after indulging which, her spirits becoming calmer, she ceased

to tremble at a view of evils, that might never arrive; and had

sufficient resolution to endeavour to withdraw her thoughts from the

contemplation of her own interests. Remembering the few books, which

even in the hurry of her departure from Udolpho she had put into her

little package, she sat down with one of them at her pleasant casement,

whence her eyes often wandered from the page to the landscape, whose

beauty gradually soothed her mind into gentle melancholy.

Here, she remained alone, till evening, and saw the sun descend the

western sky, throw all his pomp of light and shadow upon the mountains,

and gleam upon the distant ocean and the stealing sails, as he sunk

amidst the waves. Then, at the musing hour of twilight, her softened

thoughts returned to Valancourt; she again recollected every

circumstance, connected with the midnight music, and all that might

assist her conjecture, concerning his imprisonment at the castle, and,

becoming confirmed in the supposition, that it was his voice she had

heard there, she looked back to that gloomy abode with emotions of

grief and momentary regret.

Refreshed by the cool and fragrant air, and her spirits soothed to a

state of gentle melancholy by the still murmur of the brook below and

of the woods around, she lingered at her casement long after the sun

had set, watching the valley sinking into obscurity, till only the

grand outline of the surrounding mountains, shadowed upon the horizon,

remained visible. But a clear moonlight, that succeeded, gave to the

landscape, what time gives to the scenes of past life, when it softens

all their harsher features, and throws over the whole the mellowing

shade of distant contemplation. The scenes of La Vallée, in the early

morn of her life, when she was protected and beloved by parents equally

loved, appeared in Emily’s memory tenderly beautiful, like the prospect

before her, and awakened mournful comparisons. Unwilling to encounter

the coarse behaviour of the peasant’s wife, she remained supperless in

her room, while she wept again over her forlorn and perilous situation,

a review of which entirely overcame the small remains of her fortitude,

and, reducing her to temporary despondence, she wished to be released

from the heavy load of life, that had so long oppressed her, and prayed

to Heaven to take her, in its mercy, to her parents.

Wearied with weeping, she, at length, lay down on her mattress, and

sunk to sleep, but was soon awakened by a knocking at her chamber door,

and, starting up in terror, she heard a voice calling her. The image of

Bertrand, with a stilletto in his hand, appeared to her alarmed fancy,

and she neither opened the door nor answered, but listened in profound

silence, till, the voice repeating her name in the same low tone, she

demanded who called. “It is I, Signora,” replied the voice, which she

now distinguished to be Maddelina’s, “pray open the door. Don’t be

frightened, it is I.”

“And what brings you here so late, Maddelina?” said Emily, as she let

her in.

“Hush! signora, for heaven’s sake hush!—if we are overheard I shall

never be forgiven. My father and mother and Bertrand are all gone to

bed,” continued Maddelina, as she gently shut the door, and crept

forward, “and I have brought you some supper, for you had none, you

know, Signora, below stairs. Here are some grapes and figs and half a

cup of wine.” Emily thanked her, but expressed apprehension lest this

kindness should draw upon her the resentment of Dorina, when she

perceived the fruit was gone. “Take it back, therefore, Maddelina,”

added Emily, “I shall suffer much less from the want of it, than I

should do, if this act of good-nature was to subject you to your

mother’s displeasure.”

“O Signora! there is no danger of that,” replied Maddelina, “my mother

cannot miss the fruit, for I saved it from my own supper. You will make

me very unhappy, if you refuse to take it, Signora.” Emily was so much

affected by this instance of the good girl’s generosity, that she

remained for some time unable to reply, and Maddelina watched her in

silence, till, mistaking the cause of her emotion, she said, “Do not

weep so, Signora! My mother, to be sure, is a little cross, sometimes,

but then it is soon over,—so don’t take it so much to heart. She often

scolds me, too, but then I have learned to bear it, and, when she has

done, if I can but steal out into the woods, and play upon my sticcado,

I forget it all directly.”

Emily, smiling through her tears, told Maddelina, that she was a good

girl, and then accepted her offering. She wished anxiously to know,

whether Bertrand and Dorina had spoken of Montoni, or of his designs,

concerning herself, in the presence of Maddelina, but disdained to

tempt the innocent girl to a conduct so mean, as that of betraying the

private conversations of her parents. When she was departing, Emily

requested, that she would come to her room as often as she dared,

without offending her mother, and Maddelina, after promising that she

would do so, stole softly back again to her own chamber.

Thus several days passed, during which Emily remained in her own room,

Maddelina attending her only at her repast, whose gentle countenance

and manners soothed her more than any circumstance she had known for

many months. Of her pleasant embowered chamber she now became fond, and

began to experience in it those feelings of security, which we

naturally attach to home. In this interval also, her mind, having been

undisturbed by any new circumstance of disgust, or alarm, recovered its

tone sufficiently to permit her the enjoyment of her books, among which

she found some unfinished sketches of landscapes, several blank sheets

of paper, with her drawing instruments, and she was thus enabled to

amuse herself with selecting some of the lovely features of the

prospect, that her window commanded, and combining them in scenes, to

which her tasteful fancy gave a last grace. In these little sketches

she generally placed interesting groups, characteristic of the scenery

they animated, and often contrived to tell, with perspicuity, some

simple and affecting story, when, as a tear fell over the pictured

griefs, which her imagination drew, she would forget, for a moment, her

real sufferings. Thus innocently she beguiled the heavy hours of

misfortune, and, with meek patience, awaited the events of futurity.

A beautiful evening, that had succeeded to a sultry day, at length

induced Emily to walk, though she knew that Bertrand must attend her,

and, with Maddelina for her companion, she left the cottage, followed

by Bertrand, who allowed her to choose her own way. The hour was cool

and silent, and she could not look upon the country around her without

delight. How lovely, too, appeared the brilliant blue that coloured all

the upper region of the air, and, thence fading downward, was lost in

the saffron glow of the horizon! Nor less so were the varied shades and

warm colouring of the Apennines, as the evening sun threw his slanting

rays athwart their broken surface. Emily followed the course of the

stream, under the shades, that overhung its grassy margin. On the

opposite banks, the pastures were animated with herds of cattle of a

beautiful cream-colour; and, beyond, were groves of lemon and orange,

with fruit glowing on the branches, frequent almost as the leaves,

which partly concealed it. She pursued her way towards the sea, which

reflected the warm glow of sunset, while the cliffs, that rose over its

edge, were tinted with the last rays. The valley was terminated on the

right by a lofty promontory, whose summit, impending over the waves,

was crowned with a ruined tower, now serving for the purpose of a

beacon, whose shattered battlements and the extended wings of some

sea-fowl, that circled near it, were still illumined by the upward

beams of the sun, though his disk was now sunk beneath the horizon;

while the lower part of the ruin, the cliff on which it stood and the

waves at its foot, were shaded with the first tints of twilight.

Having reached this headland, Emily gazed with solemn pleasure on the

cliffs, that extended on either hand along the sequestered shores, some

crowned with groves of pine, and others exhibiting only barren

precipices of greyish marble, except where the crags were tufted with

myrtle and other aromatic shrubs. The sea slept in a perfect calm; its

waves, dying in murmurs on the shores, flowed with the gentlest

undulation, while its clear surface reflected in softened beauty the

vermeil tints of the west. Emily, as she looked upon the ocean, thought

of France and of past times, and she wished, Oh! how ardently, and

vainly—wished! that its waves would bear her to her distant native

home!

“Ah! that vessel,” said she, “that vessel, which glides along so

stately, with its tall sails reflected in the water is, perhaps, bound

for France! Happy—happy bark!” She continued to gaze upon it, with warm

emotion, till the grey of twilight obscured the distance, and veiled it

from her view. The melancholy sound of the waves at her feet assisted

the tenderness, that occasioned her tears, and this was the only sound,

that broke upon the hour, till, having followed the windings of the

beach, for some time, a chorus of voices passed her on the air. She

paused a moment, wishing to hear more, yet fearing to be seen, and, for

the first time, looked back to Bertrand, as her protector, who was

following, at a short distance, in company with some other person.

Reassured by this circumstance, she advanced towards the sounds, which

seemed to arise from behind a high promontory, that projected athwart

the beach. There was now a sudden pause in the music, and then one

female voice was heard to sing in a kind of chant. Emily quickened her

steps, and, winding round the rock, saw, within the sweeping bay,

beyond, which was hung with woods from the borders of the beach to the

very summit of the cliffs, two groups of peasants, one seated beneath

the shades, and the other standing on the edge of the sea, round the

girl, who was singing, and who held in her hand a chaplet of flowers,

which she seemed about to drop into the waves.

Emily, listening with surprise and attention, distinguished the

following invocation delivered in the pure and elegant tongue of

Tuscany, and accompanied by a few pastoral instruments.

TO A SEA-NYMPH

O nymph! who loves to float on the green wave,

When Neptune sleeps beneath the moonlight hour,

Lull’d by the music’s melancholy pow’r,

O nymph, arise from out thy pearly cave!

For Hesper beams amid the twilight shade,

And soon shall Cynthia tremble o’er the tide,

Gleam on these cliffs, that bound the ocean’s pride,

And lonely silence all the air pervade.

Then, let thy tender voice at distance swell,

And steal along this solitary shore,

Sink on the breeze, till dying—heard no more—

Thou wak’st the sudden magic of thy shell.

While the long coast in echo sweet replies,

Thy soothing strains the pensive heart beguile,

And bid the visions of the future smile,

O nymph! from out thy pearly cave—arise!

(Chorus)—_Arise!_

(Semi-chorus)—_Arise!_

The last words being repeated by the surrounding group, the garland of

flowers was thrown into the waves, and the chorus, sinking gradually

into a chant, died away in silence.

“What can this mean, Maddelina?” said Emily, awakening from the

pleasing trance, into which the music had lulled her. “This is the eve

of a festival, Signora,” replied Maddelina; “and the peasants then

amuse themselves with all kinds of sports.”

“But they talked of a sea-nymph,” said Emily: “how came these good

people to think of a sea-nymph?”

“O, Signora,” rejoined Maddelina, mistaking the reason of Emily’s

surprise, “nobody _believes_ in such things, but our old songs tell of

them, and, when we are at our sports, we sometimes sing to them, and

throw garlands into the sea.”

Emily had been early taught to venerate Florence as the seat of

literature and of the fine arts; but, that its taste for classic story

should descend to the peasants of the country, occasioned her both

surprise and admiration. The Arcadian air of the girls next attracted

her attention. Their dress was a very short full petticoat of light

green, with a boddice of white silk; the sleeves loose, and tied up at

the shoulders with ribbons and bunches of flowers. Their hair, falling

in ringlets on their necks, was also ornamented with flowers, and with

a small straw hat, which, set rather backward and on one side of the

head, gave an expression of gaiety and smartness to the whole figure.

When the song had concluded, several of these girls approached Emily,

and, inviting her to sit down among them, offered her, and Maddelina,

whom they knew, grapes and figs.

Emily accepted their courtesy, much pleased with the gentleness and

grace of their manners, which appeared to be perfectly natural to them;

and when Bertrand, soon after, approached, and was hastily drawing her

away, a peasant, holding up a flask, invited him to drink; a

temptation, which Bertrand was seldom very valiant in resisting.

“Let the young lady join in the dance, my friend,” said the peasant,

“while we empty this flask. They are going to begin directly. Strike

up! my lads, strike up your tambourines and merry flutes!”

They sounded gaily; and the younger peasants formed themselves into a

circle, which Emily would readily have joined, had her spirits been in

unison with their mirth. Maddelina, however, tripped it lightly, and

Emily, as she looked on the happy group, lost the sense of her

misfortunes in that of a benevolent pleasure. But the pensive

melancholy of her mind returned, as she sat rather apart from the

company, listening to the mellow music, which the breeze softened as it

bore it away, and watching the moon, stealing its tremulous light over

the waves and on the woody summits of the cliffs, that wound along

these Tuscan shores.

Meanwhile, Bertrand was so well pleased with his first flask, that he

very willingly commenced the attack on a second, and it was late before

Emily, not without some apprehension, returned to the cottage.

After this evening, she frequently walked with Maddelina, but was never

unattended by Bertrand; and her mind became by degrees as tranquil as

the circumstances of her situation would permit. The quiet, in which

she was suffered to live, encouraged her to hope, that she was not sent

hither with an evil design; and, had it not appeared probable, that

Valancourt was at this time an inhabitant of Udolpho, she would have

wished to remain at the cottage, till an opportunity should offer of

returning to her native country. But, concerning Montoni’s motive for

sending her into Tuscany, she was more than ever perplexed, nor could

she believe that any consideration for her safety had influenced him on

this occasion.

She had been some time at the cottage, before she recollected, that, in

the hurry of leaving Udolpho, she had forgotten the papers committed to

her by her late aunt, relative to the Languedoc estates; but, though

this remembrance occasioned her much uneasiness, she had some hope,

that, in the obscure place, where they were deposited, they would

escape the detection of Montoni.