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 any thing. Such men as he be never at heart's ease, While they behold a greater than themselves. JULIUS CAESAR
Montoni and his companion did not return home, till many hours after thedawn had blushed upon the Adriatic. The airy groups, which had dancedall night along the colonnade of St. Mark, dispersed before the morning,like so many spirits. Montoni had been otherwise engaged; his soul waslittle susceptible of light pleasures. He delighted in the energies ofthe passions; the difficulties and tempests of life, which wreck thehappiness of others, roused and strengthened all the powers of hismind, and afforded him the highest enjoyments, of which his nature wascapable. Without some object of strong interest, life was to him littlemore than a sleep; and, when pursuits of real interest failed, hesubstituted artificial ones, till habit changed their nature, and theyceased to be unreal. Of this kind was the habit of gaming, which he hadadopted, first, for the purpose of relieving him from the languor ofinaction, but had since pursued with the ardour of passion. In thisoccupation he had passed the night with Cavigni and a party of youngmen, who had more money than rank, and more vice than either. Montonidespised the greater part of these for the inferiority of their talents,rather than for their vicious inclinations, and associated with themonly to make them the instruments of his purposes. Among these, however,were some of superior abilities, and a few whom Montoni admitted tohis intimacy, but even towards these he still preserved a decisive andhaughty air, which, while it imposed submission on weak and timid minds,roused the fierce hatred of strong ones. He had, of course, many andbitter enemies; but the rancour of their hatred proved the degree of hispower; 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 temperedas that of esteem, he despised, and would have despised himself also hadhe 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, andunsuspicious. Orsino was reserved, and haughty; loving power more thanostentation; 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 aperfect command of feature and of his passions, of which he had scarcelyany, but pride, revenge and avarice; and, in the gratification of these,few considerations had power to restrain him, few obstacles to withstandthe depth of his stratagems. This man was the chief favourite ofMontoni. Verezzi was a man of some talent, of fiery imagination, and theslave of alternate passions. He was gay, voluptuous, and daring; yet hadneither perseverance or true courage, and was meanly selfish in all hisaims. Quick to form schemes, and sanguine in his hope of success, hewas the first to undertake, and to abandon, not only his own plans,but those adopted from other persons. Proud and impetuous, he revoltedagainst all subordination; yet those who were acquainted with hischaracter, and watched the turn of his passions, could lead him like achild.
Such were the friends whom Montoni introduced to his family and histable, on the day after his arrival at Venice. There were also of theparty a Venetian nobleman, Count Morano, and a Signora Livona, whomMontoni had introduced to his wife, as a lady of distinguished merit,and who, having called in the morning to welcome her to Venice, had beenrequested to be of the dinner party.
Madame Montoni received with a very ill grace, the compliments ofthe Signors. She disliked them, because they were the friends of herhusband; hated them, because she believed they had contributed to detainhim abroad till so late an hour of the preceding morning; and enviedthem, since, conscious of her own want of influence, she was convinced,that he preferred their society to her own. The rank of Count Moranoprocured him that distinction which she refused to the rest of thecompany. The haughty sullenness of her countenance and manner, and theostentatious extravagance of her dress, for she had not yet adoptedthe Venetian habit, were strikingly contrasted by the beauty, modesty,sweetness and simplicity of Emily, who observed, with more attentionthan pleasure, the party around her. The beauty and fascinating mannersof Signora Livona, however, won her involuntary regard; while thesweetness of her accents and her air of gentle kindness awakened withEmily those pleasing affections, which so long had slumbered.
In the cool of the evening the party embarked in Montoni's gondola, androwed out upon the sea. The red glow of sun-set still touched the waves,and lingered in the west, where the melancholy gleam seemed slowlyexpiring, while the dark blue of the upper aether began to twinkle withstars. Emily sat, given up to pensive and sweet emotions. The smoothnessof the water, over which she glided, its reflected images--a new heavenand trembling stars below the waves, with shadowy outlines of towers andporticos, conspired with the stillness of the hour, interrupted only bythe passing wave, or the notes of distant music, to raise those emotionsto enthusiasm. As she listened to the measured sound of the oars, and tothe remote warblings that came in the breeze, her softened mind returnedto the memory of St. Aubert and to Valancourt, and tears stole to hereyes. The rays of the moon, strengthening as the shadows deepened,soon after threw a silvery gleam upon her countenance, which was partlyshaded 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 wasfar 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 herfor some time in silence, snatched up a lute, and struck the chordswith 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 repetitionof the first; the fine modulation in which his voice stole upon thefirst 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 ofaffectation, immediately began to play. She sung a melancholy littleair, one of the popular songs of her native province, with a simplicityand pathos that made it enchanting. But its well-known melody broughtso forcibly to her fancy the scenes and the persons, among which she hadoften heard it, that her spirits were overcome, her voice trembled andceased--and the strings of the lute were struck with a disordered hand;till, ashamed of the emotion she had betrayed, she suddenly passed onto a song so gay and airy, that the steps of the dance seemed almostto echo to the notes. BRAVISSIMO! burst instantly from the lips of herdelighted auditors, and she was compelled to repeat the air. Amongthe compliments that
followed, those of the Count were not the leastaudible, and they had not concluded, when Emily gave the instrument toSignora Livona, whose voice accompanied it with true Italian taste.
Afterwards, the Count, Emily, Cavigni, and the Signora, sungcanzonettes, accompanied by a couple of lutes and a few otherinstruments. Sometimes the instruments suddenly ceased, and the voicesdropped from the full swell of harmony into a low chant; then, after adeep pause, they rose by degrees, the instruments one by one strikingup, till the loud and full chorus soared again to heaven!
Meanwhile, Montoni, who was weary of this harmony, was considering howhe might disengage himself from his party, or withdraw with such of itas would be willing to play, to a Casino. In a pause of the music, heproposed 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 longerattendance 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 longerabout 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 sheconsidered his presence a protection, though she knew not what sheshould fear. He landed at St. Mark's, and, hurrying to a Casino, wassoon lost amidst a crowd of gamesters.
Meanwhile, the Count having secretly dispatched a servant in Montoni'sboat, for his own gondola and musicians, Emily heard, without knowinghis project, the gay song of gondolieri approaching, as they sat on thestern of the boat, and saw the tremulous gleam of the moon-lightwave, which their oars disturbed. Presently she heard the sound ofinstruments, and then a full symphony swelled on the air, and, the boatsmeeting, the gondolieri hailed each other. The count then explaininghimself, the party removed into his gondola, which was embellished withall 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 andenchanting strains, and the Count, who had again seated himself byEmily, paid her unremitted attention, and sometimes, in a lowbut impassioned voice, uttered compliments which she could notmisunderstand. To avoid them she conversed with Signora Livona, and hermanner to the Count assumed a mild reserve, which, though dignified, wastoo gentle to repress his assiduities: he could see, hear, speak to noperson, but Emily while Cavigni observed him now and then, with a lookof displeasure, and Emily, with one of uneasiness. She now wished fornothing so much as to return to Venice, but it was near mid-night beforethe gondolas approached St. Mark's Place, where the voice of gaietyand song was loud. The busy hum of mingling sounds was heard at aconsiderable distance on the water, and, had not a bright moon-lightdiscovered the city, with its terraces and towers, a stranger wouldalmost have credited the fabled wonders of Neptune's court, andbelieved, that the tumult arose from beneath the waves.
They landed at St. Mark's, where the gaiety of the colonnades and thebeauty of the night, made Madame Montoni willingly submit to the Count'ssolicitations to join the promenade, and afterwards to take a supperwith the rest of the party, at his Casino. If any thing could havedissipated 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 infinitetaste, and where a splendid banquet was prepared; but here Emily'sreserve made the Count perceive, that it was necessary for his interestto win the favour of Madame Montoni, which, from the condescension shehad already shewn to him, appeared to be an achievement of no greatdifficulty. He transferred, therefore, part of his attention from Emilyto her aunt, who felt too much flattered by the distinction even todisguise her emotion; and before the party broke up, he had entirelyengaged the esteem of Madame Montoni. Whenever he addressed her, herungracious countenance relaxed into smiles, and to whatever he proposedshe assented. He invited her, with the rest of the party, to takecoffee, in his box at the opera, on the following evening, and Emilyheard the invitation accepted, with strong anxiety, concerning the meansof excusing herself from attending Madame Montoni thither.
It was very late before their gondola was ordered, and Emily's surprisewas extreme, when, on quitting the Casino, she beheld the broad sunrising out of the Adriatic, while St. Mark's Place was yet crowded withcompany. Sleep had long weighed heavily on her eyes, but now the freshsea-breeze revived her, and she would have quitted the scene withregret, had not the Count been present, performing the duty, which hehad imposed upon himself, of escorting them home. There they heard thatMontoni was not yet returned; and his wife, retiring in displeasureto her apartment, at length released Emily from the fatigue of furtherattendance.
Montoni came home late in the morning, in a very ill humour, having lostconsiderably at play, and, before he withdrew to rest, had a privateconference with Cavigni, whose manner, on the following day, seemed totell, that the subject of it had not been pleasing to him.
In the evening, Madame Montoni, who, during the day, had observed asullen silence towards her husband, received visits from some Venetianladies, with whose sweet manners Emily was particularly charmed. Theyhad an air of ease and kindness towards the strangers, as if they hadbeen their familiar friends for years; and their conversation was byturns tender, sentimental and gay. Madame, though she had no tastefor such conversation, and whose coarseness and selfishness sometimesexhibited a ludicrous contrast to their excessive refinement, could notremain wholly insensible to the captivations of their manner.
In a pause of conversation, a lady who was called Signora Herminia tookup a lute, and began to play and sing, with as much easy gaiety, as ifshe had been alone. Her voice was uncommonly rich in tone, and variousin expression; yet she appeared to be entirely unconscious of itspowers, and meant nothing less than to display them. She sung from thegaiety of her heart, as she sat with her veil half thrown back, holdinggracefully the lute, under the spreading foliage and flowers of someplants, that rose from baskets, and interlaced one of the lattices ofthe saloon. Emily, retiring a little from the company, sketchedher figure, with the miniature scenery around her, and drew a veryinteresting picture, which, though it would not, perhaps, have bornecriticism, had spirit and taste enough to awaken both the fancy andthe heart. When she had finished it, she presented it to the beautifuloriginal, who was delighted with the offering, as well as the sentimentit 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 otherengagements; and they embarked in the gondola for St. Mark's, where thesame gay company seemed to flutter as on the preceding night. The coolbreeze, the glassy sea, the gentle sound of its waves, and the sweetermurmur of distant music; the lofty porticos and arcades, and the happygroups that sauntered beneath them; these, with every feature andcircumstance of the scene, united to charm Emily, no longer teased bythe officious attentions of Count Morano. But, as she looked upon themoon-light sea, undulating along the walls of St. Mark, and, lingeringfor a moment over those walls, caught the sweet and melancholy song ofsome gondolier as he sat in his boat below, waiting for his master, hersoftened mind returned to the memory of her home, of her friends, and ofall 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 joinedby Count Morano. He sought Emily with a look of impatient delight, who,remembering all the attention he had shewn her on the preceding evening,was compelled, as before, to shrink from his assiduities into a timidreserve, except when she conversed with Signora Herminia and the otherladies of her party.
It was near midnight before they withdrew to the opera, where Emilywas not so charmed but that, when she remembered the scene she had j
ustquitted, she felt how infinitely inferior all the splendour of art isto the sublimity of nature. Her heart was not now affected, tearsof admiration did not start to her eyes, as when she viewed the vastexpanse of ocean, the grandeur of the heavens, and listened to therolling waters, and to the faint music that, at intervals, mingledwith their roar. Remembering these, the scene before her faded intoinsignificance.
Of the evening, which passed on without any particular incident, shewished the conclusion, that she might escape from the attentions of theCount; and, as opposite qualities frequently attract each other inour thoughts, thus Emily, when she looked on Count Morano, rememberedValancourt, and a sigh sometimes followed the recollection.
Several weeks passed in the course of customary visits, during whichnothing remarkable occurred. Emily was amused by the manners and scenesthat surrounded her, so different from those of France, but where CountMorano, 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 disengagedfrom Valancourt, and had the Count forborne to persecute her withofficious attentions, during which she observed some traits in hischaracter, that prejudiced her against whatever might otherwise be goodin 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, heshould hasten to take possession of that estate and of other effectsbequeathed to him. This uncle was the brother of Madame Quesnel's latemother; Montoni was related to her by the father's side, and thoughhe could have had neither claim nor expectation concerning thesepossessions, he could scarcely conceal the envy which M. Quesnel'sletter excited.
Emily had observed with concern, that, since they left France, Montonihad not even affected kindness towards her aunt, and that, aftertreating her, at first, with neglect, he now met her with uniformill-humour and reserve. She had never supposed, that her aunt's foiblescould have escaped the discernment of Montoni, or that her mind orfigure were of a kind to deserve his attention. Her surprise, therefore,at this match, had been extreme; but since he had made the choice, shedid not suspect that he would so openly have discovered his contempt ofit. But Montoni, who had been allured by the seeming wealth of MadameCheron, was now severely disappointed by her comparative poverty, andhighly exasperated by the deceit she had employed to conceal it, tillconcealment was no longer necessary. He had been deceived in an affair,wherein he meant to be the deceiver; out-witted by the superiorcunning of a woman, whose understanding he despised, and to whom he hadsacrificed his pride and his liberty, without saving himself from theruin, which had impended over his head. Madame Montoni had contrivedto have the greatest part of what she really did possess, settled uponherself: what remained, though it was totally inadequate both to herhusband's expectations, and to his necessities, he had converted intomoney, and brought with him to Venice, that he might a little longerdelude society, and make a last effort to regain the fortunes he hadlost.
The hints which had been thrown out to Valancourt, concerning Montoni'scharacter and condition, were too true; but it was now left to time andoccasion, to unfold the circumstances, both of what had, and of what hadnot been hinted, and to time and occasion we commit them.
Madame Montoni was not of a nature to bear injuries with meekness, or toresent them with dignity: her exasperated pride displayed itself in allthe violence and acrimony of a little, or at least of an ill-regulatedmind. She would not acknowledge, even to herself, that she had in anydegree provoked contempt by her duplicity, but weakly persisted inbelieving, that she alone was to be pitied, and Montoni alone to becensured; for, as her mind had naturally little perception of moralobligation, she seldom understood its force but when it happened to beviolated towards herself: her vanity had already been severely shockedby a discovery of Montoni's contempt; it remained to be farther reprovedby a discovery of his circumstances. His mansion at Venice, though itsfurniture discovered a part of the truth to unprejudiced persons, toldnothing to those who were blinded by a resolution to believe whateverthey wished. Madame Montoni still thought herself little less thana princess, possessing a palace at Venice, and a castle among theApennines. To the castle di Udolpho, indeed, Montoni sometimes talked ofgoing for a few weeks to examine into its condition, and to receive somerents; for it appeared that he had not been there for two years, andthat, 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 shenot only expected from it new ideas, but a release from the perseveringassiduities of Count Morano. In the country, too, she would have leisureto think of Valancourt, and to indulge the melancholy, which his image,and a recollection of the scenes of La Vallee, always blessed with thememory of her parents, awakened. The ideal scenes were dearer, and moresoothing to her heart, than all the splendour of gay assemblies; theywere a kind of talisman that expelled the poison of temporary evils,and supported her hopes of happy days: they appeared like a beautifullandscape, lighted up by a gleam of sun-shine, and seen through aperspective 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, whoencouraged, 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 shehad explained her sentiments with a frankness that would not allow himto misunderstand them.
He now passed the greater part of his time at Montoni's, dining therealmost daily, and attending Madame and Emily wherever they went; and allthis, notwithstanding the uniform reserve of Emily, whose aunt seemedas anxious as Montoni to promote this marriage; and would never dispensewith her attendance at any assembly where the Count proposed to bepresent.
Montoni now said nothing of his intended journey, of which Emily waitedimpatiently to hear; and he was seldom at home but when the Count, orSignor Orsino, was there, for between himself and Cavigni a coolnessseemed to subsist, though the latter remained in his house. With Orsino,Montoni was frequently closeted for hours together, and, whatevermight be the business, upon which they consulted, it appeared to be ofconsequence, since Montoni often sacrificed to it his favourite passionfor play, and remained at home the whole night. There was somewhat ofprivacy, too, in the manner of Orsino's visits, which had never beforeoccurred, and which excited not only surprise, but some degree of alarmin Emily's mind, who had unwillingly discovered much of his characterwhen he had most endeavoured to disguise it. After these visits, Montoniwas often more thoughtful than usual; sometimes the deep workings of hismind entirely abstracted him from surrounding objects, and threw a gloomover his visage that rendered it terrible; at others, his eyes seemedalmost to flash fire, and all the energies of his soul appeared tobe roused for some great enterprise. Emily observed these writtencharacters of his thoughts with deep interest, and not without somedegree of awe, when she considered that she was entirely in his power;but forbore even to hint her fears, or her observations, to MadameMontoni, who discerned nothing in her husband, at these times, but hisusual sternness.
A second letter from M. Quesnel announced the arrival of himself andhis lady at the Villa Miarenti; stated several circumstances of hisgood fortune, respecting the affair that had brought him into Italy; andconcluded with an earnest request to see Montoni, his wife and niece, athis 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 theordinary post, that told her of his health, and of his unceasing andanxious affection. He had lingered at Tholouse for some time after herdeparture, that he might indulge the melancholy pleasure of wanderingthrough the scenes where he had been accustomed to behold her,
and hadthence gone to his brother's chateau, which was in the neighbourhood ofLa Vallee. Having mentioned this, he added, 'If the duty of attendingmy regiment did not require my departure, I know not when I should haveresolution enough to quit the neighbourhood of a place which is endearedby the remembrance of you. The vicinity to La Vallee has alone detainedme thus long at Estuviere: I frequently ride thither early in themorning, that I may wander, at leisure, through the day, among scenes,which were once your home, where I have been accustomed to see you, andto hear you converse. I have renewed my acquaintance with the good oldTheresa, who rejoiced to see me, that she might talk of you: I neednot say how much this circumstance attached me to her, or how eagerlyI listened to her upon her favourite subject. You will guess the motivethat first induced me to make myself known to Theresa: it was, indeed,no other than that of gaining admittance into the chateau and gardens,which my Emily had so lately inhabited: here, then, I wander, and meetyour image under every shade: but chiefly I love to sit beneath thespreading branches of your favourite plane, where once, Emily, we sattogether; where I first ventured to tell you, that I loved. O Emily!the remembrance of those moments overcomes me--I sit lost in reverie--Iendeavour to see you dimly through my tears, in all the heaven ofpeace and innocence, such as you then appeared to me; to hear again theaccents of that voice, which then thrilled my heart with tenderness andhope. I lean on the wall of the terrace, where we together watched therapid current of the Garonne below, while I described the wild sceneryabout its source, but thought only of you. O Emily! are these momentspassed for ever--will they never more return?'
In another part of his letter he wrote thus. 'You see my letter is datedon many different days, and, if you look back to the first, you willperceive, that I began to write soon after your departure from France.To write was, indeed, the only employment that withdrew me from my ownmelancholy, and rendered your absence supportable, or rather, it seemedto destroy absence; for, when I was conversing with you on paper,and telling you every sentiment and affection of my heart, you almostappeared to be present. This employment has been from time to time mychief consolation, and I have deferred sending off my packet, merelyfor the comfort of prolonging it, though it was certain, that what Ihad written, was written to no purpose till you received it. Whenever mymind has been more than usually depressed I have come to pour forth itssorrows to you, and have always found consolation; and, when any littleoccurrence has interested my heart, and given a gleam of joy to myspirits, I have hastened to communicate it to you, and have receivedreflected satisfaction. Thus, my letter is a kind of picture of my lifeand of my thoughts for the last month, and thus, though it has beendeeply interesting to me, while I wrote it, and I dare hope will, forthe same reason, be not indifferent to you, yet to other readers itwould seem to abound only in frivolities. Thus it is always, when weattempt to describe the finer movements of the heart, for they are toofine to be discerned, they can only be experienced, and are thereforepassed over by the indifferent observer, while the interested one feels,that all description is imperfect and unnecessary, except as it mayprove the sincerity of the writer, and sooth his own sufferings. Youwill pardon all this egotism--for I am a lover.'
'I have just heard of a circumstance, which entirely destroys all myfairy paradise of ideal delight, and which will reconcile me to thenecessity of returning to my regiment, for I must no longer wanderbeneath the beloved shades, where I have been accustomed to meet youin thought.--La Vallee is let! I have reason to believe this is withoutyour knowledge, from what Theresa told me this morning, and, therefore,I mention the circumstance. She shed tears, while she related, that shewas going to leave the service of her dear mistress, and the chateauwhere she had lived so many happy years; and all this, added she,without even a letter from Mademoiselle to soften the news; but it isall Mons. Quesnel's doings, and I dare say she does not even know whatis going forward.'
'Theresa added, That she had received a letter from him, informingher the chateau was let, and that, as her services would no longer berequired, she must quit the place, on that day week, when the new tenantwould arrive.'
'Theresa had been surprised by a visit from M. Quesnel, some time beforethe receipt of this letter, who was accompanied by a stranger thatviewed the premises with much curiosity.'
Towards the conclusion of his letter, which is dated a week after thissentence, Valancourt adds, 'I have received a summons from my regiment,and I join it without regret, since I am shut out from the scenes thatare so interesting to my heart. I rode to La Vallee this morning, andheard that the new tenant was arrived, and that Theresa was gone. Ishould not treat the subject thus familiarly if I did not believe youto be uninformed of this disposal of your house; for your satisfaction Ihave endeavoured to learn something of the character and fortune of yourtenant, but without success. He is a gentleman, they say, and this isall I can hear. The place, as I wandered round the boundaries, appearedmore melancholy to my imagination, than I had ever seen it. I wishedearnestly to have got admittance, that I might have taken another leaveof your favourite plane-tree, and thought of you once more beneathits shade: but I forbore to tempt the curiosity of strangers: thefishing-house in the woods, however, was still open to me; thither Iwent, and passed an hour, which I cannot even look back upon withoutemotion. O Emily! surely we are not separated for ever--surely we shalllive for each other!'
This letter brought many tears to Emily's eyes; tears of tenderness andsatisfaction on learning that Valancourt was well, and that time andabsence had in no degree effaced her image from his heart. There werepassages in this letter which particularly affected her, such as thosedescribing his visits to La Vallee, and the sentiments of delicateaffection that its scenes had awakened. It was a considerable timebefore her mind was sufficiently abstracted from Valancourt to feelthe force of his intelligence concerning La Vallee. That Mons. Quesnelshould let it, without even consulting her on the measure, bothsurprised and shocked her, particularly as it proved the absoluteauthority he thought himself entitled to exercise in her affairs. It istrue, he had proposed, before she left France, that the chateau shouldbe let, during her absence, and to the oeconomical prudence of this shehad nothing to object; but the committing what had been her father'svilla to the power and caprice of strangers, and the depriving herselfof a sure home, should any unhappy circumstances make her look back toher home as an asylum, were considerations that made her, even then,strongly oppose the measure. Her father, too, in his last hour, hadreceived from her a solemn promise never to dispose of La Vallee; andthis she considered as in some degree violated if she suffered the placeto be let. But it was now evident with how little respect M. Quesnelhad regarded these objections, and how insignificant he considered everyobstacle to pecuniary advantage. It appeared, also, that he had not evencondescended to inform Montoni of the step he had taken, since no motivewas evident for Montoni's concealing the circumstance from her, if ithad been made known to him: this both displeased and surprised her; butthe chief subjects of her uneasiness were--the temporary disposal ofLa Vallee, and the dismission of her father's old and faithfulservant.--'Poor Theresa,' said Emily, 'thou hadst not saved much in thyservitude, for thou wast always tender towards the poor, and believd'stthou 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 thybread!'
Emily wept bitterly as these thoughts passed over her mind, and shedetermined to consider what could be done for Theresa, and to talk veryexplicitly to M. Quesnel on the subject; but she much feared that hiscold heart could feel only for itself. She determined also to enquirewhether he had made any mention of her affairs, in his letter toMontoni, who soon gave her the opportunity she sought, by desiringthat she would attend him in his study. She had little doubt, that theinterview was intended for the purpose of communicating to her a partof M. Quesnel's letter concerning the transactions at La Vallee, and sheobeyed him immediately. Montoni was alone.
'I have just been writing to Mons. Qu
esnel,' said he when Emilyappeared, '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,' rejoinedMontoni, 'and I think you must see it in the light that I do; indeedit will not bear any other. I trust you will agree with me, that anyobjection founded on sentiment, as they call it, ought to yield tocircumstances of solid advantage.'
'Granting this, sir,' replied Emily, modestly, 'those of humanity oughtsurely to be attended to. But I fear it is now too late to deliberateupon this plan, and I must regret, that it is no longer in my power toreject it.'
'It is too late,' said Montoni; 'but since it is so, I am pleased toobserve, that you submit to reason and necessity without indulginguseless complaint. I applaud this conduct exceedingly, the more,perhaps, since it discovers a strength of mind seldom observable in yoursex. When you are older you will look back with gratitude to the friendswho assisted in rescuing you from the romantic illusions of sentiment,and will perceive, that they are only the snares of childhood, andshould be vanquished the moment you escape from the nursery. I have notclosed my letter, and you may add a few lines to inform your uncle ofyour acquiescence. You will soon see him, for it is my intention to takeyou, with Madame Montoni, in a few days to Miarenti, and you can thentalk 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 circumstancesof which Signor Montoni informs me that he has written. I couldhave wished, at least, that the affair had been concluded withless precipitation, that I might have taught myself to subdue someprejudices, as the Signor calls them, which still linger in my heart. Asit 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 thesubject, when I shall have the honour of seeing you. In the meantime Ientreat 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 objectto it, and she withdrew to her own apartment, where she sat down tobegin a letter to Valancourt, in which she related the particularsof her journey, and her arrival at Venice, described some of the moststriking scenes in the passage over the Alps; her emotions on her firstview of Italy; the manners and characters of the people around her, andsome few circumstances of Montoni's conduct. But she avoided even namingCount Morano, much more the declaration he had made, since she well knewhow tremblingly alive to fear is real love, how jealously watchful ofevery circumstance that may affect its interest; and she scrupulouslyavoided to give Valancourt even the slightest reason for believing hehad a rival.
On the following day Count Morano dined again at Montoni's. He was inan uncommon flow of spirits, and Emily thought there was somewhat ofexultation in his manner of addressing her, which she had never observedbefore. She endeavoured to repress this by more than her usual reserve,but the cold civility of her air now seemed rather to encourage than todepress him. He appeared watchful of an opportunity of speaking with heralone, and more than once solicited this; but Emily always replied, thatshe could hear nothing from him which he would be unwilling to repeatbefore the whole company.
In the evening, Madame Montoni and her party went out upon the sea, andas the Count led Emily to his zendaletto, he carried her hand to hislips, and thanked her for the condescension she had shown him. Emily,in extreme surprise and displeasure, hastily withdrew her hand, andconcluded that he had spoken ironically; but, on reaching the stepsof the terrace, and observing by the livery, that it was the Count'szendaletto which waited below, while the rest of the party, havingarranged themselves in the gondolas, were moving on, she determinednot 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 thezendaletto. Emily was not silent; she entreated Montoni, in a low voice,to consider the impropriety of these circumstances, and that he wouldspare her the mortification of submitting to them; he, however, wasinflexible.
'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. Thathe should, with undaunted assurance, thus pursue her, notwithstandingall she had expressed on the subject of his addresses, and think, as itwas evident he did, that her opinion of him was of no consequence, solong as his pretensions were sanctioned by Montoni, added indignation tothe disgust which she had felt towards him. She was somewhat relieved byobserving that Montoni was to be of the party, who seated himself on oneside of her, while Morano placed himself on the other. There was apause for some moments as the gondolieri prepared their oars, and Emilytrembled from apprehension of the discourse that might follow thissilence. At length she collected courage to break it herself, in thehope of preventing fine speeches from Morano, and reproof from Montoni.To some trivial remark which she made, the latter returned a shortand disobliging reply; but Morano immediately followed with a generalobservation, which he contrived to end with a particular compliment,and, though Emily passed it without even the notice of a smile, he wasnot discouraged.
'I have been impatient,' said he, addressing Emily, 'to express mygratitude; to thank you for your goodness; but I must also thank SignorMontoni, who has allowed me this opportunity of doing so.'
Emily regarded the Count with a look of mingled astonishment anddispleasure.
'Why,' continued he, 'should you wish to diminish the delight of thismoment by that air of cruel reserve?--Why seek to throw me again intothe perplexities of doubt, by teaching your eyes to contradict thekindness of your late declaration? You cannot doubt the sincerity,the ardour of my passion; it is therefore unnecessary, charmingEmily! surely unnecessary, any longer to attempt a disguise of yoursentiments.'
'If I ever had disguised them, sir,' said Emily, with recollectedspirit, 'it would certainly be unnecessary any longer to do so. I hadhoped, sir, that you would have spared me any farther necessity ofalluding to them; but, since you do not grant this, hear me declare, andfor the last time, that your perseverance has deprived you even of theesteem, 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! Butyou will observe, Mademoiselle Emily, that I am no lover, though CountMorano is, and that I will not be made the amusement of your capriciousmoments. Here is the offer of an alliance, which would do honour to anyfamily; yours, you will recollect, is not noble; you long resisted myremonstrances, but my honour is now engaged, and it shall not be trifledwith.--You shall adhere to the declaration, which you have made me anagent to convey to the Count.'
'I must certainly mistake you, sir,' said Emily; 'my answers on thesubject have been uniform; it is unworthy of you to accuse me ofcaprice. If you have condescended to be my agent, it is an honour Idid not solicit. I myself have constantly assured Count Morano, and youalso, sir, that I never can accept the honour he offers me, and I nowrepeat the declaration.'
The Count looked with an air of surprise and enquiry at Montoni, whosecountenance also was marked with surprise, but it was surprise mingledwith indignation.
'Here is confidence, as well as caprice!' said the latter. 'Will youdeny 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 increasingvehemence. 'Will you deny your own words; will you deny, that youacknowledged, only a few hours ago, that it was too late to recede fromyour 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 younow to say?' continued Montoni, observing the silence and confusion ofEmily.
'I now perceive, sir, that you are under a very great error, and that Ihave 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, forI have had nothing to conceal.'
'How is this, Signor?' cried Morano, with trembling emotion.
'Suspend your judgment, Count,' replied Montoni, 'the wiles of a femaleheart are unsearchable. Now, Madame, your EXPLANATION.'
'Excuse me, sir, if I withhold my explanation till you appear willingto give me your confidence; assertion as present can only subject me toinsult.'
'Your explanation, I entreat you!' said Morano.
'Well, well,' rejoined Montoni, 'I give you my confidence; let us hearthis 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 didwell 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 doyou the justice to own, that you are very ingenious at this same art ofmisunderstanding.'
Emily tried to restrain the tears that came to her eyes, and to answerwith becoming firmness. 'Allow me, sir, to explain myself fully, or tobe wholly silent.'
'The explanation may now be dispensed with; it is anticipated. If CountMorano still thinks one necessary, I will give him an honest one--Youhave changed your intention since our last conversation; and, if hecan have patience and humility enough to wait till to-morrow, he willprobably find it changed again: but as I have neither the patience orthe humility, which you expect from a lover, I warn you of the effect ofmy displeasure!'
'Montoni, you are too precipitate,' said the Count, who had listenedto this conversation in extreme agitation and impatience;--'Signora, Ientreat your own explanation of this affair!'
'Signor Montoni has said justly,' replied Emily, 'that all explanationmay now be dispensed with; after what has passed I cannot suffer myselfto give one. It is sufficient for me, and for you, sir, that I repeat mylate declaration; let me hope this is the last time it will be necessaryfor me to repeat it--I never can accept the honour of your alliance.'
'Charming Emily!' exclaimed the Count in an impassioned tone, 'letnot resentment make you unjust; let me not suffer for the offence ofMontoni!--Revoke--'
'Offence!' interrupted Montoni--'Count, this language is ridiculous,this submission is childish!--speak as becomes a man, not as the slaveof a pretty tyrant.'
'You distract me, Signor; suffer me to plead my own cause; you havealready proved insufficient to it.'
'All conversation on this subject, sir,' said Emily, 'is worse thanuseless, since it can bring only pain to each of us: if you would obligeme, pursue it no farther.'
'It is impossible, Madam, that I can thus easily resign the object ofa passion, which is the delight and torment of my life.--I must stilllove--still pursue you with unremitting ardour;--when you shall beconvinced of the strength and constancy of my passion, your heart mustsoften into pity and repentance.'
'Is this generous, sir? is this manly? can it either deserve or obtainthe esteem you solicit, thus to continue a persecution from which I haveno present means of escaping?'
A gleam of moonlight that fell upon Morano's countenance, revealed thestrong emotions of his soul; and, glancing on Montoni discovered thedark resentment, which contrasted his features.
'By heaven this is too much!' suddenly exclaimed the Count; 'SignorMontoni, you treat me ill; it is from you that I shall look forexplanation.'
'From me, sir! you shall have it;' muttered Montoni, 'if yourdiscernment is indeed so far obscured by passion, as to make explanationnecessary. And for you, Madam, you should learn, that a man of honour isnot to be trifled with, though you may, perhaps, with impunity, treat aBOY like a puppet.'
This sarcasm roused the pride of Morano, and the resentment which hehad felt at the indifference of Emily, being lost in indignation of theinsolence 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 strongerenemy than a woman to contend with: I will protect Signora St. Aubertfrom your threatened resentment. You have misled me, and would revengeyour disappointed views upon the innocent.'
'Misled you!' retorted Montoni with quickness, 'is my conduct--myword'--then pausing, while he seemed endeavouring to restrain theresentment, that flashed in his eyes, in the next moment he added, in asubdued voice, 'Count Morano, this is a language, a sort of conduct towhich I am not accustomed: it is the conduct of a passionate boy--assuch, I pass it over in contempt.'
'In contempt, Signor?'
'The respect I owe myself,' rejoined Montoni, 'requires, that I shouldconverse more largely with you upon some points of the subject indispute. Return with me to Venice, and I will condescend to convince youof your error.'
'Condescend, sir! but I will not condescend to be so conversed with.'
Montoni smiled contemptuously; and Emily, now terrified for theconsequences of what she saw and heard, could no longer be silent. Sheexplained the whole subject upon which she had mistaken Montoni in themorning, declaring, that she understood him to have consulted her solelyconcerning the disposal of La Vallee, 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; andCount Morano was still entangled in perplexity. While she was speaking,however, the attention of her auditors had been diverted from theimmediate occasion of their resentment, and their passion consequentlybecame less. Montoni desired the Count would order his servants to rowback to Venice, that he might have some private conversation with him;and Morano, somewhat soothed by his softened voice and manner, and eagerto examine into the full extent of his difficulties, complied.
Emily, comforted by this prospect of release, employed the presentmoments in endeavouring, with conciliating care, to prevent any fatalmischief between the persons who so lately had persecuted and insultedher.
Her spirits revived, when she heard once more the voice of song andlaughter, resounding from the grand canal, and at length enteredagain between its stately piazzas. The zendaletto stopped at Montoni'smansion, and the Count hastily led her into the hall, where Montoni tookhis arm, and said something in a low voice, on which Morano kissedthe hand he held, notwithstanding Emily's effort to disengage it,and, wishing her a good evening, with an accent and look she could notmisunderstand, returned to his zendaletto with Montoni.
Emily, in her own apartment, considered with intense anxiety all theunjust and tyrannical conduct of Montoni, the dauntless perseveranceof Morano, and her own desolate situation, removed from her friends andcountry. She looked in vain to Valancourt, confined by his professionto 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 sympathizein her afflictions, and whose wishes would fly eagerly to release her.Yet she determined not to give him unavailing pain by relating thereasons she had to regret the having rejected his better judgmentconcerning Montoni; reasons, however, which could not induce her tolame
nt the delicacy and disinterested affection that had made her rejecthis proposal for a clandestine marriage. The approaching interview withher uncle she regarded with some degree of hope, for she determined torepresent to him the distresses of her situation, and to entreat that hewould allow her to return to France with him and Madame Quesnel. Then,suddenly remembering that her beloved La Vallee, her only home, was nolonger at her command, her tears flowed anew, and she feared that shehad little pity to expect from a man who, like M. Quesnel, could disposeof it without deigning to consult with her, and could dismiss an agedand faithful servant, destitute of either support or asylum. But, thoughit was certain, that she had herself no longer a home in France, andfew, very few friends there, she determined to return, if possible,that she might be released from the power of Montoni, whose particularlyoppressive conduct towards herself, and general character as to others,were justly terrible to her imagination. She had no wish to reside withher uncle, M. Quesnel, since his behaviour to her late father and toherself, had been uniformly such as to convince her, that in flying tohim she could only obtain an exchange of oppressors; neither had she theslightest intention of consenting to the proposal of Valancourt for animmediate marriage, though this would give her a lawful and a generousprotector, for the chief reasons, which had formerly influenced herconduct, still existed against it, while others, which seemed to justifythe step, would not be done away; and his interest, his fame were at alltimes too dear to her, to suffer her to consent to a union, which, atthis 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 formerlyexperienced so much kindness, and which had an affecting and solemnclaim upon her heart, since it contained the remains of her late father.Here she could remain in safety and tranquillity, till the term, forwhich La Vallee might be let, should expire; or, till the arrangementof M. Motteville's affairs enabled her so far to estimate the remains ofher fortune, as to judge whether it would be prudent for her to residethere.
Concerning Montoni's conduct with respect to his letters to M. Quesnel,she had many doubts; however he might be at first mistaken on thesubject, she much suspected that he wilfully persevered in his error, asa means of intimidating her into a compliance with his wishes of unitingher to Count Morano. Whether this was or was not the fact, she wasextremely anxious to explain the affair to M. Quesnel, and lookedforward with a mixture of impatience, hope and fear, to her approachingvisit.
On the following day, Madame Montoni, being alone with Emily, introducedthe mention of Count Morano, by expressing her surprise, that she hadnot joined the party on the water the preceding evening, and ather abrupt departure to Venice. Emily then related what had passed,expressed her concern for the mutual mistake that had occurred betweenMontoni and herself, and solicited her aunt's kind offices in urging himto give a decisive denial to the count's further addresses; but shesoon perceived, that Madame Montoni had not been ignorant of the lateconversation, when she introduced the present.
'You have no encouragement to expect from me,' said her aunt, 'in thesenotions. I have already given my opinion on the subject, and thinkSignor Montoni right in enforcing, by any means, your consent. If youngpersons will be blind to their interest, and obstinately oppose it, why,the greatest blessings they can have are friends, who will oppose theirfolly. Pray what pretensions of any kind do you think you have to such amatch 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 poorbrother, 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 malevolentallusion to her father excited, and by the difficulty of rendering heranswer as temperate as it should be reprehensive, hesitated for somemoments, in a confusion, which highly gratified her aunt. At length shesaid, 'My father's pride, Madam, had a noble object--the happiness whichhe knew could be derived only from goodness, knowledge and charity.As it never consisted in his superiority, in point of fortune, to somepersons, it was not humbled by his inferiority, in that respect, toothers. He never disdained those, who were wretched by povertyand misfortune; he did sometimes despise persons, who, with manyopportunities of happiness, rendered themselves miserable by vanity,ignorance and cruelty. I shall think it my highest glory to emulate suchpride.'
'I do not pretend to understand any thing of these high-flownsentiments, niece; you have all that glory to yourself: I would teachyou a little plain sense, and not have you so wise as to despisehappiness.'
'That would indeed not be wisdom, but folly,' said Emily, 'for wisdomcan boast no higher attainment than happiness; but you will allow,Madam, that our ideas of happiness may differ. I cannot doubt, that youwish me to be happy, but I must fear you are mistaken in the means ofmaking me so.'
'I cannot boast of a learned education, niece, such as your fatherthought proper to give you, and, therefore, do not pretend to understandall these fine speeches about happiness. I must be contented tounderstand only common sense, and happy would it have been for you andyour 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, andretired to her own, where the little spirit she had lately exertedyielded to grief and vexation, and left her only to her tears. Fromevery review of her situation she could derive, indeed, only new sorrow.To the discovery, which had just been forced upon her, of Montoni'sunworthiness, she had now to add, that of the cruel vanity, for thegratification of which her aunt was about to sacrifice her; of theeffrontery and cunning, with which, at the time that she meditated thesacrifice, she boasted of her tenderness, or insulted her victim; and ofthe venomous envy, which, as it did not scruple to attack her father'scharacter, could scarcely be expected to withhold from her own.
During the few days that intervened between this conversation and thedeparture for Miarenti, Montoni did not once address himself to Emily.His looks sufficiently declared his resentment; but that he shouldforbear to renew a mention of the subject of it, exceedingly surprisedher, who was no less astonished, that, during three days, Count Moranoneither visited Montoni, or was named by him. Several conjectures arosein her mind. Sometimes she feared that the dispute between them had beenrevived, and had ended fatally to the Count. Sometimes she was inclinedto hope, that weariness, or disgust at her firm rejection of his suithad induced him to relinquish it; and, at others, she suspected thathe had now recourse to stratagem, and forbore his visits, and prevailedwith Montoni to forbear the repetition of his name, in the expectationthat gratitude and generosity would prevail with her to give him theconsent, 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 ofMiarenti, which, like the preceding ones, neither brought the Count, orthe 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 sun-set, with his family, in a barge, forthe Brenta. Emily sat alone near the stern of the vessel, and, as itfloated slowly on, watched the gay and lofty city lessening from herview, till its palaces seemed to sink in the distant waves, while itsloftier towers and domes, illumined by the declining sun, appeared onthe horizon, like those far-seen clouds which, in more northern climes,often linger on the western verge, and catch the last light of asummer's evening. Soon after, even these grew dim, and faded in distancefrom her sight; but she still sat gazing on the vast scene ofcloudless sky, and mighty waters, and listening in pleasing awe tothe deep-sounding waves, while, as her eyes glanced over the Adriatic,towards the opposite shores, which we
re, however, far beyond the reachof sight, she thought of Greece, and, a thousand classical remembrancesstealing to her mind, she experienced that pensive luxury which is felton viewing the scenes of ancient story, and on comparing their presentstate of silence and solitude with that of their former grandeur andanimation. The scenes of the Illiad illapsed in glowing colours to herfancy--scenes, once the haunt of heroes--now lonely, and in ruins;but which still shone, in the poet's strain, in all their youthfulsplendour.
As her imagination painted with melancholy touches, the deserted plainsof Troy, such as they appeared in this after-day, she reanimated thelandscape 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 therich features and varied colouring of the landscape--the purple hills,groves of orange pine and cypress, shading magnificent villas, and townsrising among vineyards and plantations. The noble Brenta, pouring itsbroad waves into the sea, now appeared, and, when she reached its mouth,the barge stopped, that the horses might be fastened which were now totow 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 slopesof the river. The grandeur of the Palladian villas, that adorn theseshores, was considerably heightened by the setting rays, which threwstrong contrasts of light and shade upon the porticos and long arcades,and beamed a mellow lustre upon the orangeries and the tall groves ofpine and cypress, that overhung the buildings. The scent of oranges, offlowering myrtles, and other odoriferous plants was diffused upon theair, and often, from these embowered retreats, a strain of music stoleon 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 featuresgradually vanishing into obscurity. She remembered her many happyevenings, when with St. Aubert she had observed the shades of twilightsteal over a scene as beautiful as this, from the gardens of La Vallee,and a tear fell to the memory of her father. Her spirits were softenedinto melancholy by the influence of the hour, by the low murmur ofthe wave passing under the vessel, and the stillness of the air, thattrembled only at intervals with distant music:--why else should she, atthese moments, have looked on her attachment to Valancourt with presagesso very afflicting, since she had but lately received letters from him,that had soothed for a while all her anxieties? It now seemed to heroppressed mind, that she had taken leave of him for ever, and that thecountries, which separated them, would never more be re-traced by her.She looked upon Count Morano with horror, as in some degree the causeof 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 sheknew, that neither Morano's solicitations, nor Montoni's commandshad lawful power to enforce her obedience, she regarded both with asuperstitious dread, that they would finally prevail.
Lost in this melancholy reverie, and shedding frequent tears, Emily wasat length roused by Montoni, and she followed him to the cabin, whererefreshments were spread, and her aunt was seated alone. The countenanceof Madame Montoni was inflamed with resentment, that appeared to bethe consequence of some conversation she had held with her husband, whoregarded her with a kind of sullen disdain, and both preserved, for sometime, a haughty silence. Montoni then spoke to Emily of Mons. Quesnel:'You will not, I hope, persist in disclaiming your knowledge of thesubject of my letter to him?'
'I had hoped, sir, that it was no longer necessary for me to disclaimit,' said Emily, 'I had hoped, from your silence, that you was convincedof your error.'
'You have hoped impossibilities then,' replied Montoni; 'I might asreasonably have expected to find sincerity and uniformity of conduct inone of your sex, as you to convict me of error in this affair.'
Emily blushed, and was silent; she now perceived too clearly, that shehad hoped an impossibility, for, where no mistake had been committed noconviction could follow; and it was evident, that Montoni's conduct hadnot been the consequence of mistake, but of design.
Anxious to escape from conversation, which was both afflicting andhumiliating to her, she soon returned to the deck, and resumed herstation near the stern, without apprehension of cold, for no vapour rosefrom the water, and the air was dry and tranquil; here, at least, thebenevolence of nature allowed her the quiet which Montoni had denied herelsewhere. It was now past midnight. The stars shed a kind of twilight,that served to shew the dark outline of the shores on either hand, andthe grey surface of the river; till the moon rose from behind a highpalm grove, and shed her mellow lustre over the scene. The vessel glidedsmoothly on: amid the stillness of the hour E
mily heard, now and then,the solitary voice of the barge-men on the bank, as they spoke to theirhorses; 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 Vallee; and then, towith-hold her mind from more anxious topics, tried to amuse herself bydiscriminating the faint-drawn features of the landscape, reposing inthe moon-light. While her fancy thus wandered, she saw, at a distance,a building peeping between the moon-light trees, and, as the bargeapproached, heard voices speaking, and soon distinguished the loftyportico of a villa, overshadowed by groves of pine and sycamore, whichshe recollected to be the same, that had formerly been pointed out toher, as belonging to Madame Quesnel's relative.
The barge stopped at a flight of marble steps, which led up the bank toa lawn. Lights appeared between some pillars beyond the portico. Montonisent forward his servant, and then disembarked with his family. Theyfound Mons. and Madame Quesnel, with a few friends, seated on sofas inthe portico, enjoying the cool breeze of the night, and eating fruitsand ices, while some of their servants at a little distance, onthe river's bank, were performing a simple serenade. Emily was nowaccustomed to the way of living in this warm country, and was notsurprised to find Mons. and Madame Quesnel in their portico, two hoursafter midnight.
The usual salutations being over, the company seated themselves in theportico, and refreshments were brought them from the adjoining hall,where a banquet was spread, and servants attended. When the bustleof this meeting had subsided, and Emily had recovered from the littleflutter into which it had thrown her spirits, she was struck with thesingular beauty of the hall, so perfectly accommodated to the luxuriesof the season. It was of white marble, and the roof, rising into anopen cupola, was supported by columns of the same material. Two oppositesides of the apartment, terminating in open porticos, admitted to thehall a full view of the gardens, and of the river scenery; in the centrea fountain continually refreshed the air, and seemed to heighten thefragrance, that breathed from the surrounding orangeries, while itsdashing waters gave an agreeable and soothing sound. Etruscan lamps,suspended from the pillars, diffused a brilliant light over the interiorpart of the hall, leaving the remoter porticos to the softer lustre ofthe moon.
Mons. Quesnel talked apart to Montoni of his own affairs, in his usualstrain of self-importance; boasted of his new acquisitions, andthen affected to pity some disappointments, which Montoni had latelysustained. Meanwhile, the latter, whose pride at least enabled him todespise such vanity as this, and whose discernment at once detectedunder this assumed pity, the frivolous malignity of Quesnel's mind,listened to him in contemptuous silence, till he named his niece, andthen 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 foundsome pleasure in looking at a person, who had lately been in it. Thatcountry, too, was inhabited by Valancourt, and she listened to themention of it, with a faint hope, that he also would be named. MadameQuesnel, who, when she was in France, had talked with rapture of Italy,now, that she was in Italy, talked with equal praise of France, andendeavoured to excite the wonder and the envy of her auditors byaccounts of places, which they had not been happy enough to see. Inthese descriptions she not only imposed upon them, but upon herself, forshe never thought a present pleasure equal to one, that was passed;and thus the delicious climate, the fragrant orangeries and all theluxuries, which surrounded her, slept unnoticed, while her fancywandered over the distant scenes of a northern country.
Emily listened in vain for the name of Valancourt. Madame Montoni spokein her turn of the delights of Venice, and of the pleasure she expectedfrom visiting the fine castle of Montoni, on the Apennine; which lattermention, 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 toconverse, and, as far as civility would permit, to torture each otherby mutual boasts, while they reclined on sofas in the portico, and wereenvironed with delights both from nature and art, by which any honestminds would have been tempered to benevolence, and happy imaginationswould have been soothed into enchantment.
The dawn, soon after, trembled in the eastern horizon, and the lighttints of morning, gradually expanding, shewed the beautifully decliningforms of the Italian mountains and the gleaming landscapes, stretchedat their feet. Then the sun-beams, shooting up from behind the hills,spread over the scene that fine saffron tinge, which seems to impartrepose to all it touches. The landscape no longer gleamed; all itsglowing colours were revealed, except that its remoter features werestill softened and united in the mist of distance, whose sweet effectwas 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 amoving picture on the Brenta. Most of these had little painted awnings,to shelter their owners from the sun-beams, which, together withthe piles of fruit and flowers, displayed beneath, and the tastefulsimplicity of the peasant girls, who watched the rural treasures,rendered them gay and striking objects. The swift movement of the boatsdown the current, the quick glance of oars in the water, and now andthen the passing chorus of peasants, who reclined under the sail oftheir little bark, or the tones of some rustic instrument, played bya girl, as she sat near her sylvan cargo, heightened the animation andfestivity of the scene.
When Montoni and M. Quesnel had joined the ladies, the party leftthe portico for the gardens, where the charming scenery soon withdrewEmily's thoughts from painful subjects. The majestic forms and richverdure of cypresses she had never seen so perfect before: groves ofcedar, lemon, and orange, the spiry clusters of the pine and poplar, theluxuriant chesnut and oriental plane, threw all their pomp of shade overthese gardens; while bowers of flowering myrtle and other spicy shrubsmingled their fragrance with that of flowers, whose vivid and variouscolouring glowed with increased effect beneath the contrasted umbrage ofthe groves. The air also was continually refreshed by rivulets, which,with more taste than fashion, had been suffered to wander among thegreen recesses.
Emily often lingered behind the party, to contemplate the distantlandscape, that closed a vista, or that gleamed beneath the dark foliageof the foreground;--the spiral summits of the mountains, touched witha purple tint, broken and steep above, but shelving gradually to theirbase; the open valley, marked by no formal lines of art; and the tallgroves of cypress, pine and poplar, sometimes embellished by a ruinedvilla, 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 entirelychanged, and the fine solitary beauty of the landscape shifted for thecrowded features and varied colouring of inhabitation.
The sun was now gaining fast upon the sky, and the party quitted thegardens, and retired to repose.