You cannot rob me of free nature’s grace;
You cannot shut the windows of the sky,
Through which Aurora1 shews her brightening face;
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace
The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve:
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace2,
And I their toys to the great children leave:
Of fancy, reason, virtue3, nought4 can me bereave5.
THOMSON
In the morning, Valancourt breakfasted with St. Aubert and Emily, neither of whom seemed much refreshed by sleep. The languor6 of illness still hung over St. Aubert, and to Emily’s fears his disorder7 appeared to be increasing fast upon him. She watched his looks with anxious affection, and their expression was always faithfully reflected in her own.
At the commencement of their acquaintance, Valancourt had made known his name and family. St. Aubert was not a stranger to either, for the family estates, which were now in the possession of an elder brother of Valancourt, were little more than twenty miles distant from La Vallee, and he had sometimes met the elder Valancourt on visits in the neighbourhood. This knowledge had made him more willingly receive his present companion; for, though his countenance9 and manners would have won him the acquaintance of St. Aubert, who was very apt to trust to the intelligence of his own eyes, with respect to countenances10, he would not have accepted these, as sufficient introductions to that of his daughter.
The breakfast was almost as silent as the supper of the preceding night; but their musing11 was at length interrupted by the sound of the carriage wheels, which were to bear away St. Aubert and Emily. Valancourt started from his chair, and went to the window; it was indeed the carriage, and he returned to his seat without speaking. The moment was now come when they must part. St. Aubert told Valancourt, that he hoped he would never pass La Vallee without favouring him with a visit; and Valancourt, eagerly thanking him, assured him that he never would; as he said which he looked timidly at Emily, who tried to smile away the seriousness of her spirits. They passed a few minutes in interesting conversation, and St. Aubert then led the way to the carriage, Emily and Valancourt following in silence. The latter lingered at the door several minutes after they were seated, and none of the party seemed to have courage enough to say — Farewell. At length, St. Aubert pronounced the melancholy12 word, which Emily passed to Valancourt, who returned it, with a dejected smile, and the carriage drove on.
The travellers remained, for some time, in a state of tranquil13 pensiveness14, which is not unpleasing. St. Aubert interrupted it by observing, ‘This is a very promising15 young man; it is many years since I have been so much pleased with any person, on so short an acquaintance. He brings back to my memory the days of my youth, when every scene was new and delightful16!’ St. Aubert sighed, and sunk again into a reverie; and, as Emily looked back upon the road they had passed, Valancourt was seen, at the door of the little inn, following them with his eyes. Her perceived her, and waved his hand; and she returned the adieu, till the winding17 road shut her from his sight.
‘I remember when I was about his age,’ resumed St. Aubert, ‘and I thought, and felt exactly as he does. The world was opening upon me then, now — it is closing.’
‘My dear sir, do not think so gloomily,’ said Emily in a trembling voice, ‘I hope you have many, many years to live — for your own sake — for MY sake.’
‘Ah, my Emily!’ replied St. Aubert, ‘for thy sake! Well — I hope it is so.’ He wiped away a tear, that was stealing down his cheek, threw a smile upon his countenance, and said in a cheering voice, ‘there is something in the ardour and ingenuousness18 of youth, which is particularly pleasing to the contemplation of an old man, if his feelings have not been entirely19 corroded20 by the world. It is cheering and reviving, like the view of spring to a sick person; his mind catches somewhat of the spirit of the season, and his eyes are lighted up with a transient sunshine. Valancourt is this spring to me.’
Emily, who pressed her father’s hand affectionately, had never before listened with so much pleasure to the praises he bestowed21; no, not even when he had bestowed them on herself.
They travelled on, among vineyards, woods, and pastures, delighted with the romantic beauty of the landscape, which was bounded, on one side, by the grandeur22 of the Pyrenees, and, on the other, by the ocean; and, soon after noon, they reached the town of Colioure, situated23 on the Mediterranean24. Here they dined, and rested till towards the cool of day, when they pursued their way along the shores — those enchanting25 shores!— which extend to Languedoc. Emily gazed with enthusiasm on the vastness of the sea, its surface varying, as the lights and shadows fell, and on its woody banks, mellowed26 with autumnal tints27.
St. Aubert was impatient to reach Perpignan, where he expected letters from M. Quesnel; and it was the expectation of these letters, that had induced him to leave Colioure, for his feeble frame had required immediate28 rest. After travelling a few miles, he fell asleep; and Emily, who had put two or three books into the carriage, on leaving La Vallee, had now the leisure for looking into them. She sought for one, in which Valancourt had been reading the day before, and hoped for the pleasure of re-tracing a page, over which the eyes of a beloved friend had lately passed, of dwelling29 on the passages, which he had admired, and of permitting them to speak to her in the language of his own mind, and to bring himself to her presence. On searching for the book, she could find it no where, but in its stead perceived a volume of Petrarch’s poems, that had belonged to Valancourt, whose name was written in it, and from which he had frequently read passages to her, with all the pathetic expression, that characterized the feelings of the author. She hesitated in believing, what would have been sufficiently30 apparent to almost any other person, that he had purposely left this book, instead of the one she had lost, and that love had prompted the exchange; but, having opened it with impatient pleasure, and observed the lines of his pencil drawn31 along the various passages he had read aloud, and under others more descriptive of delicate tenderness than he had dared to trust his voice with, the conviction came, at length, to her mind. For some moments she was conscious only of being beloved; then, a recollection of all the variations of tone and countenance, with which he had recited these sonnets33, and of the soul, which spoke34 in their expression, pressed to her memory, and she wept over the memorial of his affection.
They arrived at Perpignan soon after sunset, where St. Aubert found, as he had expected, letters from M. Quesnel, the contents of which so evidently and grievously affected35 him, that Emily was alarmed, and pressed him, as far as her delicacy36 would permit, to disclose the occasion of his concern; but he answered her only by tears, and immediately began to talk on other topics. Emily, though she forbore to press the one most interesting to her, was greatly affected by her father’s manner, and passed a night of sleepless37 solicitude38.
In the morning they pursued their journey along the coast towards Leucate, another town on the Mediterranean, situated on the borders of Languedoc and Rousillon. On the way, Emily renewed the subject of the preceding night, and appeared so deeply affected by St. Aubert’s silence and dejection, that he relaxed from his reserve. ‘I was unwilling39, my dear Emily,’ said he, ‘to throw a cloud over the pleasure you receive from these scenes, and meant, therefore, to conceal40, for the present, some circumstances, with which, however, you must at length have been made acquainted. But your anxiety has defeated my purpose; you suffer as much from this, perhaps, as you will do from a knowledge of the facts I have to relate. M. Quesnel’s visit proved an unhappy one to me; he came to tell me part of the news he has now confirmed. You may have heard me mention a M. Motteville, of Paris, but you did not know that the chief of my personal property was invested in his hands. I had great confidence in him, and I am yet willing to believe, that he is not wholly unworthy of my esteem41. A variety of circumstances have concurred42 to ruin him, and — I am ruined with him.’
St. Aubert paused to conceal his emotion.
‘The letters I have just received from M. Quesnel,’ resumed he, struggling to speak with firmness, ‘enclosed others from Motteville, which confirmed all I dreaded44.’
‘Must we then quit La Vallee?’ said Emily, after a long pause of silence. ‘That is yet uncertain,’ replied St. Aubert, ‘it will depend upon the compromise Motteville is able to make with his creditors45. My income, you know, was never large, and now it will be reduced to little indeed! It is for you, Emily, for you, my child, that I am most afflicted46.’ His last words faltered47; Emily smiled tenderly upon him through her tears, and then, endeavouring to overcome her emotion, ‘My dear father,’ said she, ‘do not grieve for me, or for yourself; we may yet be happy;— if La Vallee remains48 for us, we must be happy. We will retain only one servant, and you shall scarcely perceive the change in your income. Be comforted, my dear sir; we shall not feel the want of those luxuries, which others value so highly, since we never had a taste for them; and poverty cannot deprive us of many consolations49. It cannot rob us of the affection we have for each other, or degrade us in our own opinion, or in that of any person, whose opinion we ought to value.’
St. Aubert concealed50 his face with his handkerchief, and was unable to speak; but Emily continued to urge to her father the truths, which himself had impressed upon her mind.
‘Besides, my dear sir, poverty cannot deprive us of intellectual delights. It cannot deprive you of the comfort of affording me examples of fortitude51 and benevolence52; nor me of the delight of consoling a beloved parent. It cannot deaden our taste for the grand, and the beautiful, or deny us the means of indulging it; for the scenes of nature — those sublime53 spectacles, so infinitely54 superior to all artificial luxuries! are open for the enjoyment55 of the poor, as well as of the rich. Of what, then, have we to complain, so long as we are not in want of necessaries? Pleasures, such as wealth cannot buy, will still be ours. We retain, then, the sublime luxuries of nature, and lose only the frivolous56 ones of art.’
St. Aubert could not reply: he caught Emily to his bosom57, their tears flowed together, but — they were not tears of sorrow. After this language of the heart, all other would have been feeble, and they remained silent for some time. Then, St. Aubert conversed58 as before; for, if his mind had not recovered its natural tranquillity60, it at least assumed the appearance of it.
They reached the romantic town of Leucate early in the day, but St. Aubert was weary, and they determined61 to pass the night there. In the evening, he exerted himself so far as to walk with his daughter to view the environs that overlook the lake of Leucate, the Mediterranean, part of Rousillon, with the Pyrenees, and a wide extent of the luxuriant province of Languedoc, now blushing with the ripened62 vintage, which the peasants were beginning to gather. St. Aubert and Emily saw the busy groups, caught the joyous63 song, that was wafted64 on the breeze, and anticipated, with apparent pleasure, their next day’s journey over this gay region. He designed, however, still to wind along the sea-shore. To return home immediately was partly his wish, but from this he was withheld65 by a desire to lengthen66 the pleasure, which the journey gave his daughter, and to try the effect of the sea air on his own disorder.
On the following day, therefore, they recommenced their journey through Languedoc, winding the shores of the Mediterranean; the Pyrenees still forming the magnificent back-ground of their prospects67, while on their right was the ocean, and, on their left, wide extended plains melting into the blue horizon. St. Aubert was pleased, and conversed much with Emily, yet his cheerfulness was sometimes artificial, and sometimes a shade of melancholy would steal upon his countenance, and betray him. This was soon chased away by Emily’s smile; who smiled, however, with an aching heart, for she saw that his misfortunes preyed69 upon his mind, and upon his enfeebled frame.
It was evening when they reached a small village of Upper Languedoc, where they meant to pass the night, but the place could not afford them beds; for here, too, it was the time of the vintage, and they were obliged to proceed to the next post. The languor of illness and of fatigue70, which returned upon St. Aubert, required immediate repose71, and the evening was now far advanced; but from necessity there was no appeal, and he ordered Michael to proceed.
The rich plains of Languedoc, which exhibited all the glories of the vintage, with the gaieties of a French festival, no longer awakened72 St. Aubert to pleasure, whose condition formed a mournful contrast to the hilarity73 and youthful beauty which surrounded him. As his languid eyes moved over the scene, he considered, that they would soon, perhaps, be closed for ever on this world. ‘Those distant and sublime mountains,’ said he secretly, as he gazed on a chain of the Pyrenees that stretched towards the west, ‘these luxuriant plains, this blue vault74, the cheerful light of day, will be shut from my eyes! The song of the peasant, the cheering voice of man — will no longer sound for me!’
The intelligent eyes of Emily seemed to read what passed in the mind of her father, and she fixed75 them on his face, with an expression of such tender pity, as recalled his thoughts from every desultory76 object of regret, and he remembered only, that he must leave his daughter without protection. This reflection changed regret to agony; he sighed deeply, and remained silent, while she seemed to understand that sigh, for she pressed his hand affectionately, and then turned to the window to conceal her tears. The sun now threw a last yellow gleam on the waves of the Mediterranean, and the gloom of twilight77 spread fast over the scene, till only a melancholy ray appeared on the western horizon, marking the point where the sun had set amid the vapours of an autumnal evening. A cool breeze now came from the shore, and Emily let down the glass; but the air, which was refreshing78 to health, was as chilling to sickness, and St. Aubert desired, that the window might be drawn up. Increasing illness made him now more anxious than ever to finish the day’s journey, and he stopped the muleteer to enquire79 how far they had yet to go to the next post. He replied, ‘Nine miles.’ ‘I feel I am unable to proceed much further,’ said St. Aubert; ‘enquire, as you go, if there is any house on the road that would accommodate us for the night.’ He sunk back in the carriage, and Michael, cracking his whip in the air, set off, and continued on the full gallop80, till St. Aubert, almost fainting, called to him to stop. Emily looked anxiously from the window, and saw a peasant walking at some little distance on the road, for whom they waited, till he came up, when he was asked, if there was any house in the neighbourhood that accommodated travellers. He replied, that he knew of none. ‘There is a chateau81, indeed, among those woods on the right,’ added he, ‘but I believe it receives nobody, and I cannot show you the way, for I am almost a stranger here.’ St. Aubert was going to ask him some further question concerning the chateau, but the man abruptly82 passed on. After some consideration, he ordered Michael to proceed slowly to the woods. Every moment now deepened the twilight, and increased the difficulty of finding the road. Another peasant soon after passed. ‘Which is the way to the chateau in the woods?’ cried Michael.
‘The chateau in the woods!’ exclaimed the peasant —‘Do you mean that with the turret83, yonder?’
‘I don’t know as for the turret, as you call it,’ said Michael, ‘I mean that white piece of a building, that we see at a distance there, among the trees.’
‘Yes, that is the turret; why, who are you, that you are going thither84?’ said the man with surprise.
St. Aubert, on hearing this odd question, and observing the peculiar85 tone in which it was delivered, looked out from the carriage. ‘We are travellers,’ said he, ‘who are in search of a house of accommodation for the night; is there any hereabout?’
‘None, Monsieur, unless you have a mind to try your luck yonder,’ replied the peasant, pointing to the woods, ‘but I would not advise you to go there.’
‘To whom does the chateau belong?’
‘I scarcely know myself, Monsieur.’
‘It is uninhabited, then?’ ‘No, not uninhabited; the steward86 and housekeeper87 are there, I believe.’
On hearing this, St. Aubert determined to proceed to the chateau, and risque the refusal of being accommodated for the night; he therefore desired the countryman would shew Michael the way, and bade him expect reward for his trouble. The man was for a moment silent, and then said, that he was going on other business, but that the road could not be missed, if they went up an avenue to the right, to which he pointed88. St. Aubert was going to speak, but the peasant wished him good night, and walked on.
The carriage now moved towards the avenue, which was guarded by a gate, and Michael having dismounted to open it, they entered between rows of ancient oak and chesnut, whose intermingled branches formed a lofty arch above. There was something so gloomy and desolate90 in the appearance of this avenue, and its lonely silence, that Emily almost shuddered91 as she passed along; and, recollecting92 the manner in which the peasant had mentioned the chateau, she gave a mysterious meaning to his words, such as she had not suspected when he uttered them. These apprehensions93, however, she tried to check, considering that they were probably the effect of a melancholy imagination, which her father’s situation, and a consideration of her own circumstances, had made sensible to every impression.
They passed slowly on, for they were now almost in darkness, which, together with the unevenness94 of the ground, and the frequent roots of old trees, that shot up above the soil, made it necessary to proceed with caution. On a sudden Michael stopped the carriage; and, as St. Aubert looked from the window to enquire the cause, he perceived a figure at some distance moving up the avenue. The dusk would not permit him to distinguish what it was, but he bade Michael go on.
‘This seems a wild place,’ said Michael; ‘there is no house hereabout, don’t your honour think we had better turn back?’
‘Go a little farther, and if we see no house then, we will return to the road,’ replied St. Aubert.
Michael proceeded with reluctance95, and the extreme slowness of his pace made St. Aubert look again from the window to hasten him, when again he saw the same figure. He was somewhat startled: probably the gloominess of the spot made him more liable to alarm than usual; however this might be, he now stopped Michael, and bade him call to the person in the avenue.
‘Please your honour, he may be a robber,’ said Michael. ‘It does not please me,’ replied St. Aubert, who could not forbear smiling at the simplicity96 of his phrase, ‘and we will, therefore, return to the road, for I see no probability of meeting here with what we seek.’
Michael turned about immediately, and was retracing97 his way with alacrity98, when a voice was heard from among the trees on the left. It was not the voice of command, or distress99, but a deep hollow tone, which seemed to be scarcely human. The man whipped his mules100 till they went as fast as possible, regardless of the darkness, the broken ground, and the necks of the whole party, nor once stopped till he reached the gate, which opened from the avenue into the high-road, where he went into a more moderate pace.
‘I am very ill,’ said St. Aubert, taking his daughter’s hand. ‘You are worse, then, sir!’ said Emily, extremely alarmed by his manner, ‘you are worse, and here is no assistance. Good God! what is to be done!’ He leaned his head on her shoulder, while she endeavoured to support him with her arm, and Michael was again ordered to stop. When the rattling101 of the wheels had ceased, music was heard on their air; it was to Emily the voice of Hope. ‘Oh! we are near some human habitation!’ said she, ‘help may soon be had.’
She listened anxiously; the sounds were distant, and seemed to come from a remote part of the woods that bordered the road; and, as she looked towards the spot whence they issued, she perceived in the faint moon-light something like a chateau. It was difficult, however, to reach this; St. Aubert was now too ill to bear the motion of the carriage; Michael could not quit his mules; and Emily, who still supported her father, feared to leave him, and also feared to venture alone to such a distance, she knew not whither, or to whom. Something, however, it was necessary to determine upon immediately; St. Aubert, therefore, told Michael to proceed slowly; but they had not gone far, when he fainted, and the carriage was again stopped. He lay quite senseless.—‘My dear, dear father!’ cried Emily in great agony, who began to fear that he was dying, ‘speak, if it is only one word to let me hear the sound of your voice!’ But no voice spoke in reply. In the agony of terror she bade Michael bring water from the rivulet102, that flowed along the road; and, having received some in the man’s hat, with trembling hands she sprinkled it over her father’s face, which, as the moon’s rays now fell upon it, seemed to bear the impression of death. Every emotion of selfish fear now gave way to a stronger influence, and, committing St. Aubert to the care of Michael, who refused to go far from his mules, she stepped from the carriage in search of the chateau she had seen at a distance. It was a still moon-light night, and the music, which yet sounded on the air, directed her steps from the high road, up a shadowy lane, that led to the woods. Her mind was for some time so entirely occupied by anxiety and terror for her father, that she felt none for herself, till the deepening gloom of the overhanging foliage103, which now wholly excluded the moon-light, and the wildness of the place, recalled her to a sense of her adventurous104 situation. The music had ceased, and she had no guide but chance. For a moment she paused in terrified perplexity, till a sense of her father’s condition again overcoming every consideration for herself, she proceeded. The lane terminated in the woods, but she looked round in vain for a house, or a human being, and as vainly listened for a sound to guide her. She hurried on, however, not knowing whither, avoiding the recesses105 of the woods, and endeavouring to keep along their margin106, till a rude kind of avenue, which opened upon a moon-light spot, arrested her attention. The wildness of this avenue brought to her recollection the one leading to the turreted107 chateau, and she was inclined to believe, that this was a part of the same domain108, and probably led to the same point. While she hesitated, whether to follow it or not, a sound of many voices in loud merriment burst upon her ear. It seemed not the laugh of cheerfulness, but of riot, and she stood appalled109. While she paused, she heard a distant voice, calling from the way she had come, and not doubting but it was that of Michael, her first impulse was to hasten back; but a second thought changed her purpose; she believed that nothing less than the last extremity110 could have prevailed with Michael to quit his mules, and fearing that her father was now dying, she rushed forward, with a feeble hope of obtaining assistance from the people in the woods. Her heart beat with fearful expectation, as she drew near the spot whence the voices issued, and she often startled when her steps disturbed the fallen leaves. The sounds led her towards the moon-light glade111 she had before noticed; at a little distance from which she stopped, and saw, between the boles of the trees, a small circular level of green turf, surrounded by the woods, on which appeared a group of figures. On drawing nearer, she distinguished112 these, by their dress, to be peasants, and perceived several cottages scattered113 round the edge of the woods, which waved loftily over this spot. While she gazed, and endeavoured to overcome the apprehensions that withheld her steps, several peasant girls came out of a cottage; music instantly struck up, and the dance began. It was the joyous music of the vintage! the same she had before heard upon the air. Her heart, occupied with terror for her father, could not feel the contrast, which this gay scene offered to her own distress; she stepped hastily forward towards a group of elder peasants, who were seated at the door of a cottage, and, having explained her situation, entreated114 their assistance. Several of them rose with alacrity, and, offering any service in their power, followed Emily, who seemed to move on the wind, as fast as they could towards the road.
When she reached the carriage she found St. Aubert restored to animation115. On the recovery of his senses, having heard from Michael whither his daughter was gone, anxiety for her overcame every regard for himself, and he had sent him in search of her. He was, however, still languid, and, perceiving himself unable to travel much farther, he renewed his enquiries for an inn, and concerning the chateau in the woods. ‘The chateau cannot accommodate you, sir,’ said a venerable peasant who had followed Emily from the woods, ‘it is scarcely inhabited; but, if you will do me the honour to visit my cottage, you shall be welcome to the best bed it affords.’
St. Aubert was himself a Frenchman; he therefore was not surprised at French courtesy; but, ill as he was, he felt the value of the offer enhanced by the manner which accompanied it. He had too much delicacy to apologize, or to appear to hesitate about availing himself of the peasant’s hospitality, but immediately accepted it with the same frankness with which it was offered.
The carriage again moved slowly on; Michael following the peasants up the lane, which Emily had just quitted, till they came to the moon- light glade. St. Aubert’s spirits were so far restored by the courtesy of his host, and the near prospect68 of repose, that he looked with a sweet complacency upon the moon-light scene, surrounded by the shadowy woods, through which, here and there, an opening admitted the streaming splendour, discovering a cottage, or a sparkling rivulet. He listened, with no painful emotion, to the merry notes of the guitar and tamborine; and, though tears came to his eyes, when he saw the debonnaire dance of the peasants, they were not merely tears of mournful regret. With Emily it was otherwise; immediate terror for her father had now subsided116 into a gentle melancholy, which every note of joy, by awakening117 comparison, served to heighten.
The dance ceased on the approach of the carriage, which was a phenomenon in these sequestered118 woods, and the peasantry flocked round it with eager curiosity. On learning that it brought a sick stranger, several girls ran across the turf, and returned with wine and baskets of grapes, which they presented to the travellers, each with kind contention119 pressing for a preference. At length, the carriage stopped at a neat cottage, and his venerable conductor, having assisted St. Aubert to alight, led him and Emily to a small inner room, illuminated120 only by moon-beams, which the open casement121 admitted. St. Aubert, rejoicing in rest, seated himself in an arm- chair, and his senses were refreshed by the cool and balmy air, that lightly waved the embowering honeysuckles, and wafted their sweet breath into the apartment. His host, who was called La Voisin, quitted the room, but soon returned with fruits, cream, and all the pastoral luxury his cottage afforded; having set down which, with a smile of unfeigned welcome, he retired122 behind the chair of his guest. St. Aubert insisted on his taking a seat at the table, and, when the fruit had allayed123 the fever of his palate, and he found himself somewhat revived, he began to converse59 with his host, who communicated several particulars concerning himself and his family, which were interesting, because they were spoken from the heart, and delineated a picture of the sweet courtesies of family kindness. Emily sat by her father, holding his hand, and, while she listened to the old man, her heart swelled124 with the affectionate sympathy he described, and her tears fell to the mournful consideration, that death would probably soon deprive her of the dearest blessing125 she then possessed126. The soft moon-light of an autumnal evening, and the distant music, which now sounded a plaintive127 strain, aided the melancholy of her mind. The old man continued to talk of his family, and St. Aubert remained silent. ‘I have only one daughter living,’ said La Voisin, ‘but she is happily married, and is every thing to me. When I lost my wife,’ he added with a sigh, ‘I came to live with Agnes, and her family; she has several children, who are all dancing on the green yonder, as merry as grasshoppers128 — and long may they be so! I hope to die among them, monsieur. I am old now, and cannot expect to live long, but there is some comfort in dying surrounded by one’s children.’
‘My good friend,’ said St. Aubert, while his voice trembled, ‘I hope you will long live surrounded by them.’
‘Ah, sir! at my age I must not expect that!’ replied the old man, and he paused: ‘I can scarcely wish it,’ he resumed, ‘for I trust that whenever I die I shall go to heaven, where my poor wife is gone before me. I can sometimes almost fancy I see her of a still moon- light night, walking among these shades she loved so well. Do you believe, monsieur, that we shall be permitted to revisit the earth, after we have quitted the body?’
Emily could no longer stifle129 the anguish130 of her heart; her tears fell fast upon her father’s hand, which she yet held. He made an effort to speak, and at length said in a low voice, ‘I hope we shall be permitted to look down on those we have left on the earth, but I can only hope it. Futurity is much veiled from our eyes, and faith and hope are our only guides concerning it. We are not enjoined131 to believe, that disembodied spirits watch over the friends they have loved, but we may innocently hope it. It is a hope which I will never resign,’ continued he, while he wiped the tears from his daughter’s eyes, ‘it will sweeten the bitter moments of death!’ Tears fell slowly on his cheeks; La Voisin wept too, and there was a pause of silence. Then, La Voisin, renewing the subject, said, ‘But you believe, sir, that we shall meet in another world the relations we have loved in this; I must believe this.’ ‘Then do believe it,’ replied St. Aubert, ‘severe, indeed, would be the pangs132 of separation, if we believed it to be eternal. Look up, my dear Emily, we shall meet again!’ He lifted his eyes towards heaven, and a gleam of moon-light, which fell upon his countenance, discovered peace and resignation, stealing on the lines of sorrow.
La Voisin felt that he had pursued the subject too far, and he dropped it, saying, ‘We are in darkness, I forgot to bring a light.’
‘No,’ said St. Aubert, ‘this is a light I love. Sit down, my good friend. Emily, my love, I find myself better than I have been all day; this air refreshes me. I can enjoy this tranquil hour, and that music, which floats so sweetly at a distance. Let me see you smile. Who touches that guitar so tastefully? are there two instruments, or is it an echo I hear?’
‘It is an echo, monsieur, I fancy. That guitar is often heard at night, when all is still, but nobody knows who touches it, and it is sometimes accompanied by a voice so sweet, and so sad, one would almost think the woods were haunted.’ ‘They certainly are haunted,’ said St. Aubert with a smile, ‘but I believe it is by mortals.’ ‘I have sometimes heard it at midnight, when I could not sleep,’ rejoined La Voisin, not seeming to notice this remark, ‘almost under my window, and I never heard any music like it. It has often made me think of my poor wife till I cried. I have sometimes got up to the window to look if I could see anybody, but as soon as I opened the casement all was hushed, and nobody to be seen; and I have listened, and listened till I have been so timorous133, that even the trembling of the leaves in the breeze has made me start. They say it often comes to warn people of their death, but I have heard it these many years, and outlived the warning.’
Emily, though she smiled at the mention of this ridiculous superstition134, could not, in the present tone of her spirits, wholly resist its contagion135.
‘Well, but, my good friend,’ said St. Aubert, ‘has nobody had courage to follow the sounds? If they had, they would probably have discovered who is the musician.’ ‘Yes, sir, they have followed them some way into the woods, but the music has still retreated, and seemed as distant as ever, and the people have at last been afraid of being led into harm, and would go no further. It is very seldom that I have heard these sounds so early in the evening. They usually come about midnight, when that bright planet, which is rising above the turret yonder, sets below the woods on the left.’
‘What turret?’ asked St. Aubert with quickness, ‘I see none.’
‘Your pardon, monsieur, you do see one indeed, for the moon shines full upon it;— up the avenue yonder, a long way off; the chateau it belongs to is hid among the trees.’
‘Yes, my dear sir,’ said Emily, pointing, ‘don’t you see something glitter above the dark woods? It is a fane, I fancy, which the rays fall upon.’
‘O yes, I see what you mean; and who does the chateau belong to?’
‘The Marquis de Villeroi was its owner,’ replied La Voisin, emphatically.
‘Ah!’ said St. Aubert, with a deep sigh, ‘are we then so near Le- Blanc!’ He appeared much agitated136.
‘It used to be the Marquis’s favourite residence,’ resumed La Voisin, ‘but he took a dislike to the place, and has not been there for many years. We have heard lately that he is dead, and that it is fallen into other hands.’ St. Aubert, who had sat in deep musing, was roused by the last words. ‘Dead!’ he exclaimed, ‘Good God! when did he die?’
‘He is reported to have died about five weeks since,’ replied La Voisin. ‘Did you know the Marquis, sir?’
‘This is very extraordinary!’ said St. Aubert without attending to the question. ‘Why is it so, my dear sir?’ said Emily, in a voice of timid curiosity. He made no reply, but sunk again into a reverie; and in a few moments, when he seemed to have recovered himself, asked who had succeeded to the estates. ‘I have forgot his title, monsieur,’ said La Voisin; ‘but my lord resides at Paris chiefly; I hear no talk of his coming hither.’
‘The chateau is shut up then, still?’
‘Why, little better, sir; the old housekeeper, and her husband the steward, have the care of it, but they live generally in a cottage hard by.’
‘The chateau is spacious137, I suppose,’ said Emily, ‘and must be desolate for the residence of only two persons.’
‘Desolate enough, mademoiselle,’ replied La Voisin, ‘I would not pass one night in the chateau, for the value of the whole domain.’
‘What is that?’ said St. Aubert, roused again from thoughtfulness. As his host repeated his last sentence, a groan138 escaped from St. Aubert, and then, as if anxious to prevent it from being noticed, he hastily asked La Voisin how long he had lived in this neighbourhood. ‘Almost from my childhood, sir,’ replied his host.
‘You remember the late marchioness, then?’ said St. Aubert in an altered voice.
‘Ah, monsieur!— that I do well. There are many besides me who remember her.’
‘Yes —’ said St. Aubert, ‘and I am one of those.’
‘Alas, sir! you remember, then, a most beautiful and excellent lady. She deserved a better fate.’
Tears stood in St. Aubert’s eyes; ‘Enough,’ said he, in a voice almost stifled139 by the violence of his emotions,—‘it is enough, my friend.’
Emily, though extremely surprised by her father’s manner, forbore to express her feelings by any question. La Voisin began to apologize, but St. Aubert interrupted him; ‘Apology is quite unnecessary,’ said he, ‘let us change the topic. You was speaking of the music we just now heard.’
‘I was, monsieur — but hark!— it comes again; listen to that voice!’ They were all silent;
At last a soft and solemn-breathing sound
Rose, like a stream of rich distilled140 perfumes,
And stole upon the air, that even Silence
Was took ere she was ‘ware, and wished she might
Deny her nature, and be never more
Still, to be so displaced.*
* Milton.
In a few moments the voice died into air, and the instrument, which had been heard before, sounded in low symphony. St. Aubert now observed, that it produced a tone much more full and melodious141 than that of a guitar, and still more melancholy and soft than the lute142. They continued to listen, but the sounds returned no more. ‘This is strange!’ said St. Aubert, at length interrupting the silence. ‘Very strange!’ said Emily. ‘It is so,’ rejoined La Voisin, and they were again silent.
After a long pause, ‘It is now about eighteen years since I first heard that music,’ said La Voisin; ‘I remember it was on a fine summer’s night, much like this, but later, that I was walking in the woods, and alone. I remember, too, that my spirits were very low, for one of my boys was ill, and we feared we should lose him. I had been watching at his bed-side all the evening while his mother slept; for she had sat up with him the night before. I had been watching, and went out for a little fresh air, the day had been very sultry. As I walked under the shades and mused143, I heard music at a distance, and thought it was Claude playing upon his flute144, as he often did of a fine evening, at the cottage door. But, when I came to a place where the trees opened, (I shall never forget it!) and stood looking up at the north-lights, which shot up the heaven to a great height, I heard all of a sudden such sounds!— they came so as I cannot describe. It was like the music of angels, and I looked up again almost expecting to see them in the sky. When I came home, I told what I had heard, but they laughed at me, and said it must be some of the shepherds playing on their pipes, and I could not persuade them to the contrary. A few nights after, however, my wife herself heard the same sounds, and was as much surprised as I was, and Father Denis frightened her sadly by saying, that it was music come to warn her of her child’s death, and that music often came to houses where there was a dying person.’
Emily, on hearing this, shrunk with a superstitious145 dread43 entirely new to her, and could scarcely conceal her agitation146 from St. Aubert.
‘But the boy lived, monsieur, in spite of Father Denis.’
‘Father Denis!’ said St. Aubert, who had listened to ‘narrative147 old age’ with patient attention, ‘are we near a convent, then?’
‘Yes, sir; the convent of St. Clair stands at no great distance, on the sea shore yonder.’
‘Ah!’ said St. Aubert, as if struck with some sudden remembrance, ‘the convent of St. Clair!’ Emily observed the clouds of grief, mingled89 with a faint expression of horror, gathering148 on his brow; his countenance became fixed, and, touched as it now was by the silver whiteness of the moon-light, he resembled one of those marble statues of a monument, which seem to bend, in hopeless sorrow, over the ashes of the dead, shewn
by the blunted light
That the dim moon through painted casements149 lends.*
* The Emigrants150.
‘But, my dear sir,’ said Emily, anxious to dissipate his thoughts, ‘you forget that repose is necessary to you. If our kind host will give me leave, I will prepare your bed, for I know how you like it to be made.’ St. Aubert, recollecting himself, and smiling affectionately, desired she would not add to her fatigue by that attention; and La Voisin, whose consideration for his guest had been suspended by the interests which his own narrative had recalled, now started from his seat, and, apologizing for not having called Agnes from the green, hurried out of the room.
In a few moments he returned with his daughter, a young woman of pleasing countenance, and Emily learned from her, what she had not before suspected, that, for their accommodation, it was necessary part of La Voisin’s family should leave their beds; she lamented151 this circumstance, but Agnes, by her reply, fully8 proved that she inherited, at least, a share of her father’s courteous152 hospitality. It was settled, that some of her children and Michael should sleep in the neighbouring cottage.
‘If I am better, to-morrow, my dear,’ said St. Aubert when Emily returned to him, ‘I mean to set out at an early hour, that we may rest, during the heat of the day, and will travel towards home. In the present state of my health and spirits I cannot look on a longer journey with pleasure, and I am also very anxious to reach La Vallee.’ Emily, though she also desired to return, was grieved at her father’s sudden wish to do so, which she thought indicated a greater degree of indisposition than he would acknowledge. St. Aubert now retired to rest, and Emily to her little chamber153, but not to immediate repose. Her thoughts returned to the late conversation, concerning the state of departed spirits; a subject, at this time, particularly affecting to her, when she had every reason to believe that her dear father would ere long be numbered with them. She leaned pensively154 on the little open casement, and in deep thought fixed her eyes on the heaven, whose blue unclouded concave was studded thick with stars, the worlds, perhaps, of spirits, unsphered of mortal mould. As her eyes wandered along the boundless155 aether, her thoughts rose, as before, towards the sublimity156 of the Deity157, and to the contemplation of futurity. No busy note of this world interrupted the course of her mind; the merry dance had ceased, and every cottager had retired to his home. The still air seemed scarcely to breathe upon the woods, and, now and then, the distant sound of a solitary158 sheep-bell, or of a closing casement, was all that broke on silence. At length, even this hint of human being was heard no more. Elevated and enwrapt, while her eyes were often wet with tears of sublime devotion and solemn awe159, she continued at the casement, till the gloom of mid-night hung over the earth, and the planet, which La Voisin had pointed out, sunk below the woods. She then recollected160 what he had said concerning this planet, and the mysterious music; and, as she lingered at the window, half hoping and half fearing that it would return, her mind was led to the remembrance of the extreme emotion her father had shewn on mention of the Marquis La Villeroi’s death, and of the fate of the Marchioness, and she felt strongly interested concerning the remote cause of this emotion. Her surprise and curiosity were indeed the greater, because she did not recollect32 ever to have heard him mention the name of Villeroi.
No music, however, stole on the silence of the night, and Emily, perceiving the lateness of the hour, returned to a scene of fatigue, remembered that she was to rise early in the morning, and withdrew from the window to repose.
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1
aurora
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| n.极光 | |
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brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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4
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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bereave
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| v.使痛失(亲人等)，剥夺，使丧失 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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7
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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8
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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9
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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10
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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11
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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12
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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13
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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14
pensiveness
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| n.pensive（沉思的）的变形 | |
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15
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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16
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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17
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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18
ingenuousness
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| n.率直；正直；老实 | |
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19
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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20
corroded
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| 已被腐蚀的 | |
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21
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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23
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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24
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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25
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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26
mellowed
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| （使）成熟( mellow的过去式和过去分词 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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27
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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28
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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29
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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30
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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31
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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32
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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33
sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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34
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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35
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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36
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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37
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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38
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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39
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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40
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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41
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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42
concurred
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| 同意（concur的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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43
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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44
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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45
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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46
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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48
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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49
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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50
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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51
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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52
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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53
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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54
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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55
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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56
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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57
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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58
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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59
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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60
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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61
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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62
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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64
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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66
lengthen
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| vt.使伸长，延长 | |
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67
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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68
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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69
preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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70
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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71
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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72
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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73
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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74
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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75
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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76
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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77
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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78
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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79
enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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80
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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81
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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82
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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83
turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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84
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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85
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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86
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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87
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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88
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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89
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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90
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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91
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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92
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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93
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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94
unevenness
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| n. 不平坦，不平衡，不匀性 | |
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95
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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96
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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97
retracing
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| v.折回( retrace的现在分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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98
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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99
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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100
mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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101
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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102
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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103
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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104
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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105
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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106
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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107
turreted
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| a.(像炮塔般)旋转式的 | |
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108
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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109
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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110
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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111
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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112
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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113
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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114
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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116
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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117
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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118
sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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119
contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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120
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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121
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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122
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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123
allayed
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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125
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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127
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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128
grasshoppers
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| n.蚱蜢( grasshopper的名词复数 )；蝗虫；蚂蚱；（孩子）矮小的 | |
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129
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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130
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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131
enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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133
timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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134
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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135
contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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136
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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137
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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138
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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139
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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140
distilled
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| adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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141
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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142
lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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143
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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144
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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145
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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146
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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147
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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148
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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149
casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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150
emigrants
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| n.（从本国移往他国的）移民( emigrant的名词复数 ) | |
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151
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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152
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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153
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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154
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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155
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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156
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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157
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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158
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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159
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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160
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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