The Mysteries of Udolpho quotes

He has often said, while tears of pleasure trembled in his eyes, that these were moments infinitely more delightful than any passed amid the brilliant and tumultuous scenes that are courted by the world.

His heart was occupied; it had, what can be so rarely said, no wish for a happiness beyond what it experienced.

The consciousness of acting right diffused a serenity over his manners, which nothing else could impart to a man of moral perceptions like his, and which refined his sense of every surrounding blessing.

and it was St. Aubert’s principle, as well as his inclination, to promote every innocent means of happiness. “A well-informed mind,” he would say, “is the best security against the contagion of folly and of vice.

The vacant mind is ever on the watch for relief, and ready to plunge into error, to escape from the languor of idleness.

Store it with ideas, teach it the pleasure of thinking; and the temptations of the world without, will be counteracted by the gratifications derived from the world within. Thought, and cultivation, are necessary equally to the happiness of a country and a city life;

“A well-informed mind,” he would say, “is the best security against the contagion of folly and of vice. The vacant mind is ever on the watch for relief, and ready to plunge into error, to escape from the languor of idleness.

Store it with ideas, teach it the pleasure of thinking; and the temptations of the world without, will be counteracted by the gratifications derived from the world within.

Thought, and cultivation, are necessary equally to the happiness of a country and a city life; in the first they prevent the uneasy sensations of indolence, and afford a sublime pleasure in the taste they create for the beautiful, and the grand;

“I have sometimes wondered how you, who have lived in the capital, and have been accustomed to company, can exist elsewhere;—especially in so remote a country as this, where you can neither hear nor see anything, and can in short be scarcely conscious of life.”

“I live for my family and myself,” said St. Aubert; “I am now contented to know only happiness;⁠—formerly I knew life.”

“I mean to expend thirty or forty thousand livres on improvements,” said M. Quesnel, without seeming to notice the words of St. Aubert;

How often—but pardon me,” added St. Aubert, recollecting that he was speaking to a man who could neither comprehend, nor allow his feelings, “

I am talking of times and feelings as old-fashioned as the taste that would spare that venerable tree.

”

“Your sorrow is useless. Do not receive this as merely a commonplace remark, but let reason therefore restrain sorrow.

I would not annihilate your feelings, my child, I would only teach you to command them

; for whatever may be the evils resulting from a too susceptible heart, nothing can be hoped from an insensible one;

On entering the château she felt more depressed than ever, for she more than ever missed the presence of that dear parent, who, whenever she had been from home, used to welcome her return with smiles and fondness; now, all was silent and forsaken.

But what reason and effort may fail to do, time effects.

Week after week passed away, and each, as it passed, stole something from the harshness of her affliction, till it was mellowed to that tenderness which the feeling heart cherishes as sacred. St. Aubert, on the contrary, visibly declined in health;

But what reason and effort may fail to do, time effects.

Week after week passed away, and each, as it passed, stole something from the harshness of her affliction, till it was mellowed to that tenderness which the feeling heart cherishes as sacred.

St. Aubert, on the contrary, visibly declined in health; though Emily, who had been so constantly with him, was almost the last person who observed it.

and St. Aubert discovered in his sentiments the justness and the dignity of an elevated mind, unbiased by intercourse with the world. He perceived, that his opinions were formed, rather than imbibed; were more the result of thought, than of learning.

Of the world he seemed to know nothing; for he believed well of all mankind, and this opinion gave him the reflected image of his own heart.

St. Aubert, as he sometimes lingered to examine the wild plants in his path, often looked forward with pleasure to Emily and Valancourt, as they strolled on together; he, with a countenance of animated delight, pointing to her attention some grand feature of the scene;

“The world,” said he, pursuing this train of thought, “ridicules a passion which it seldom feels; its scenes, and its interests, distract the mind, deprave the taste, corrupt the heart, and love cannot exist in a heart that has lost the meek dignity of innocence.

Virtue and taste are nearly the same, for virtue is little more than active taste, and the most delicate affections of each combine in real love.

How then are we to look for love in great cities, where selfishness, dissipation, and insincerity supply the place of tenderness, simplicity and truth?”

said he. “O what a lovely day,” replied Valancourt, “how brightly the sun shines, how pure is this air, what enchanting scenery!” “It is indeed enchanting,” said St. Aubert, whom early experience had taught to understand the nature of Valancourt’s present feelings. “

What pity that the wealthy, who can command such sunshine, should ever pass their days in gloom⁠—in the cold shade of selfishness!

For you, my young friend, may the sun always shine as brightly as at this moment; may your own conduct always give you the sunshine of benevolence and reason united!”

Soon after an object not less terrific struck her—a gibbet standing on a point of rock near the entrance of the pass, and immediately over one of the crosses she had before observed.

These were hieroglyphics that told a plain and dreadful story.

She forbore to point it out to St. Aubert, but it threw a gloom over her spirits, and made her anxious to hasten forward, that they might with certainty reach Rousillon before nightfall. It was necessary, however, that St.

“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.

”

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.

”

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 consolations.

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.

”

for the scenes of nature—those sublime spectacles, so infinitely superior to all artificial luxuries! are open for the enjoyment 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 frivolous ones of art.

”

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 simplicity of his phrase, “and we will, therefore, return to the road, for I see no probability of meeting here with what we seek.”

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 enjoined to believe, that disembodied spirits watch over the friends they have loved, but we may innocently hope it.

… have observed persons, who delight so much in this sort of sensibility to sentiment, which excludes that to the calls of any practical virtue, that they turn from the distressed, and, because their sufferings are painful to be contemplated, do not endeavour to relieve them.

How despicable is that humanity, which can be contented to pity, where it might assuage!

”

Beware, my love, I conjure you, of that self-delusion, which has been fatal to the peace of so many persons; beware of priding yourself on the gracefulness of sensibility; if you yield to this vanity, your happiness is lost forever.

Always remember how much more valuable is the strength of fortitude, than the grace of sensibility.

Do not, however, confound fortitude with apathy; apathy cannot know the virtue. Remember, too, that one act of beneficence, one act of real usefulness, is worth all the abstract sentiment in the world.

if you yield to this vanity, your happiness is lost forever. Always remember how much more valuable is the strength of fortitude, than the grace of sensibility. Do not, however, confound fortitude with apathy; apathy cannot know the virtue.

Remember, too, that one act of beneficence, one act of real usefulness, is worth all the abstract sentiment in the world.

Sentiment is a disgrace, instead of an ornament, unless it lead us to good actions.

Do not, however, confound fortitude with apathy; apathy cannot know the virtue. Remember, too, that one act of beneficence, one act of real usefulness, is worth all the abstract sentiment in the world.

Sentiment is a disgrace, instead of an ornament, unless it lead us to good actions.

The miser, who thinks himself respectable, merely because he possesses wealth, and thus mistakes the means of doing good, for the actual accomplishment of it, is not more blameable than the man of sentiment, without active virtue.

He was always so much influenced by people’s countenances; now I, for my part, have no notion of this, it is all ridiculous enthusiasm.

What has a man’s face to do with his character? Can a man of good character help having a disagreeable face?

”—which last sentence Madame Cheron delivered with the decisive air of a person who congratulates herself on having made a grand discovery, and believes the question to be unanswerably settled.

Madame Cheron, more offended by the reproof which Emily’s words conveyed, than touched by the sorrow they expressed, said nothing, that might soften her grief; but, notwithstanding an apparent reluctance to receive her niece, she desired her company.

The love of sway was her ruling passion, and she knew it would be highly gratified by taking into her house a young orphan, who had no appeal from her decisions, and on whom she could exercise without control the capricious humour of the moment.

On entering the château, Madame Cheron expressed a desire, that she would put up what she thought necessary to take to Toulouse, as she meant to set off immediately.

and, soon after, she concluded the subject by saying, “

I never trust people’s assertions, I always judge of them by their actions

; but I am willing to try what will be your behaviour in future.”

A fortnight passed in a round of dissipation and company, and Emily, who attended Madame Cheron in all her visits, was sometimes entertained, but oftener wearied.

She was struck by the apparent talents and knowledge displayed in the various conversations she listened to, and it was long before she discovered, that the talents were for the most part those of imposture, and the knowledge nothing more than was necessary to assist them.

But what deceived her most, was the air of constant gaiety and good spirits, displayed by every visitor, and which she supposed to arise from content as constant, and from benevolence as ready.

“Alas, madam!” said Emily, “

I am anxious for my own respect; my father taught me the value of that; he said if I deserved my own esteem, that the world would follow of course.

”

At length, her anger rose to such a height, that Valancourt was compelled to leave the house abruptly, lest he should forfeit his own esteem by an intemperate reply.

He was then convinced, that from Madame Montoni he had nothing to hope, for what of either pity, or justice could be expected from a person, who could feel the pain of guilt, without the humility of repentance?

To Montoni he looked with equal despondency, since it was nearly evident, that this plan of separation originated with him, and it was not probable, that he would relinquish his own views to entreaties, or remonstrances, which he must have foreseen and have been prepared …

… had never reason to be much alarmed for their immediate safety, and they passed on to Milan with little interruption of any kind, where they stayed not to survey the grandeur of the city, or even to view its vast cathedral, which was then building.

Beyond Milan, the country wore the aspect of a ruder devastation; and though everything seemed now quiet, the repose was like that of death, spread over features, which retain the impression of the last convulsions.

It was not till they had passed the eastern limits of the Milanese, that the travellers saw any troops since they had left Milan, when, as the evening was drawing to a close, they descried what appeared to be an army winding onward along the …

He had, of course, many and bitter enemies; but the rancour of their hatred proved the degree of his power; and, as power was his chief aim, he gloried more in such hatred, than it was possible he could in being esteemed.

A feeling so tempered as that of esteem, he despised, and would have despised himself also had he thought himself capable of being flattered by it.

Among the few whom he distinguished, were the Signors Bertolini, Orsino, and Verezzi. The first was a man of gay temper, strong passions, dissipated, and of unbounded extravagance, but generous, brave, and unsuspicious. Orsino was reserved, and haughty; loving power more than ostentation;

He delighted in the energies of the passions; the difficulties and tempests of life, which wreck the happiness of others, roused and strengthened all the powers of his mind, and afforded him the highest enjoyments, of which his nature was capable.

Without some object of strong interest, life was to him little more than a sleep; and, when pursuits of real interest failed, he substituted artificial ones, till habit changed their nature, and they ceased to be unreal.

Of this kind was the habit of gaming, which he had adopted, first, for the purpose of relieving him from the languor of inaction, but had since pursued with the ardour of passion.

Aubert and to Valancourt, and tears stole to her eyes. The rays of the moon, strengthening as the shadows deepened, soon after threw a silvery gleam upon her countenance, which was partly shaded by a thin black veil, and touched it with inimitable softness.

Hers was the contour of a Madonna, 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.

… thoughts for the last month, and thus, though it has been deeply interesting to me, while I wrote it, and I dare hope will, for the same reason, be not indifferent to you, yet to other readers it would seem to abound only in frivolities.

Thus it is always, when we attempt to describe the finer movements of the heart, for they are too fine to be discerned, they can only be experienced, and are therefore passed over by the indifferent observer, while the interested one feels, that all description is imperfect and unnecessary, except as it may prove the sincerity of the writer, and sooth his own sufferings.

You will pardon all this egotism—for I am a lover.”

… fine to be discerned, they can only be experienced, and are therefore passed over by the indifferent observer, while the interested one feels, that all description is imperfect and unnecessary, except as it may prove the sincerity of the writer, and sooth his own sufferings.

You will pardon all this egotism⁠—for I am a lover.

”

He never disdained those, who were wretched by poverty and misfortune; he did sometimes despise persons, who, with many opportunities of happiness, rendered themselves miserable by vanity, ignorance and cruelty.

I shall think it my highest glory to emulate such pride.

”

That country, too, was inhabited by Valancourt, and she listened to the mention of it, with a faint hope, that he also would be named.

Madame Quesnel, who, when she was in France, had talked with rapture of Italy, now, that she was in Italy, talked with equal praise of France, and endeavoured to excite the wonder and the envy of her auditors by accounts of places, which they had not been happy enough to see.

In these descriptions she not only imposed upon them, but upon herself, for she never thought a present pleasure equal to one, that was passed;

But you are very much mistaken; I can assure you, niece, you will not meet with many such suitors as the Count: every other person would have turned upon his heel, and left you to repent at your leisure, long ago.”

“O that the Count had resembled every other person, then!”

said Emily, with a heavy sigh.

From those, too, the rays soon faded, and the whole edifice was invested with the solemn duskiness of evening.

Silent, lonely, and sublime, it seemed to stand the sovereign of the scene, and to frown defiance on all, who dared to invade its solitary reign.

As the twilight deepened, its features became more awful in obscurity, and Emily continued to gaze, till its clustering towers were alone seen, rising over the tops of the woods, beneath whose thick shade the carriages soon after began to ascend.

A heavy sigh escaped her: but, trying to conceal her tears, she walked away to one of the high windows, that opened upon the ramparts, below which, spread the woods she had passed in her approach to the castle.

But the nightshade sat deeply on the mountains beyond, and their indented outline alone could be faintly traced on the horizon, where a red streak yet glimmered in the west.

The valley between was sunk in darkness.

Daylight dispelled from Emily’s mind the glooms of superstition, but not those of apprehension.

The Count Morano was the first image that occurred to her waking thoughts, and then came a train of anticipated evils, which she could neither conquer, nor avoid.

“If you will not release yourself from the slavery of these fears,” said Montoni, sternly, “at least forbear to torment others by the mention of them. Conquer such whims, and endeavour to strengthen your mind.

No existence is more contemptible than that, which is embittered by fear.

” As he said this, his eye glanced upon Madame Montoni, who coloured highly, but was still silent. Emily, wounded and disappointed, thought her fears were, in this instance, too reasonable to deserve ridicule;

its connection with the late lady of the castle, and the conversation of Annette, together with the circumstance of the veil, throwing a mystery over the subject, that excited a faint degree of terror.

But a terror of this nature, as it occupies and expands the mind, and elevates it to high expectation, is purely sublime, and leads us, by a kind of fascination, to seek even the object, from which we appear to shrink.

Emily passed on with faltering steps, and having paused a moment at the door, before she attempted to open it, she then hastily entered the chamber, and went towards the picture, which appeared to be enclosed in a frame of uncommon size, that hung in …

… figures seemed so well suited to the wildness of the surrounding objects, that, as they stood surveying the castle, she sketched them for banditti, amid the mountain-view of her picture, when she had finished which, she was surprised to observe the spirit of her group.

But she had copied from nature.

Carlo, when he had placed refreshment before these men in the apartment assigned to them, returned, as he was ordered, to Montoni, who was anxious to discover by what servant the keys of the castle had been delivered to Morano, on the preceding night.

But these did not sooth Madame Montoni, whom impatience to talk made unwilling to listen.

She wanted to complain, not to be consoled

; and it was by exclamations of complaint only, that Emily learned the particular circumstances of her affliction.

and then, when the gentleman of the castle comes to desire him to walk about his business—to turn round, and draw his sword, and swear he’ll run him through the body!

To be sure it was very ungenteel behaviour, but then he was disguised in love, and so did not know what he was about.

”

“Reproof!” replied Madame Montoni: “I meant to praise your virtue.”

“Alas! here is no exertion of virtue,” rejoined Emily, “for here is no temptation to be overcome.”

“Yet Monsieur Valancourt—” said her aunt. “O, madam!” interrupted Emily, anticipating what she would have said, “do not let me glance on that subject: do not let my mind be stained with a wish so shockingly self-interested.”

She sat down, near one of the casements, and, as she gazed on the mountain-view beyond, the deep repose of its beauty struck her with all the force of contrast, and she could scarcely believe herself so near a scene of savage discord.

The contending elements seemed to have retired from their natural spheres, and to have collected themselves into the minds of men, for there alone the tempest now reigned.

Emily tried to tranquillize her spirits, but anxiety made her constantly listen for some sound, and often look out upon the ramparts, where all, however, was lonely and still.

but Emily, observing her going, called her by name, and then in the naturally soft and plaintive tone of her voice, begged, that she, too, would not forsake her.—

“For since my father died,” added she, sighing, “everybody forsakes me.”

“Your father, ma’amselle!” said Annette, “he was dead before you knew me.”

“This is the conduct of a boy,” said Montoni to Verezzi, “not of a man: be more moderate in your speech.”

“Moderation is the virtue of cowards,” retorted Verezzi; “they are moderate in everything⁠—but in fear.”

“I accept your words,” said Montoni, turning upon him with a fierce and haughty look, and drawing his sword out of the scabbard.

“You may find, perhaps, Signor,” said Emily, with mild dignity, “that the strength of my mind is equal to the justice of my cause; and that I can endure with fortitude, when it is in resistance of oppression.”

“You speak like a heroine,” said Montoni, contemptuously; “we shall see whether you can suffer like one.”

Emily was silent, and he left the room.

Where did the charm exist?—Was it in my mind, or in the imagination of the poet? It lived in each,” said she, pausing. “

But the fire of the poet is vain, if the mind of his reader is not tempered like his own, however it may be inferior to his in power.

”

… by the still murmur of the brook below and of the woods around, she lingered at her casement long after the sun had set, watching the valley sinking into obscurity, till only the grand outline of the surrounding mountains, shadowed upon the horizon, remained visible.

But a clear moonlight, that succeeded, gave to the landscape, what time gives to the scenes of past life, when it softens all their harsher features, and throws over the whole the mellowing shade of distant contemplation.

The scenes of La Vallée, in the early morn of her life, when she was protected and beloved by parents equally loved, appeared in Emily’s memory tenderly beautiful, like the prospect before her, and awakened mournful comparisons.

in the next moment, she perceived it to be the voice of Verezzi, who did not appear to know, that she was there, but to have spoken to himself. “The air is fresher here,” said he: “this should be the corridor.”

Perhaps, he was one of those heroes, whose courage can defy an enemy better than darkness, and he tried to rally his spirits with the sound of his own voice.

However this might be, he turned to the right, and proceeded, with the same stealing steps, towards Emily’s apartment, apparently forgetting, that, in darkness, she could easily elude his search, even in her chamber;

Never, till this evening, did I know what true devotion is; for, never before did I see the sun sink below the vast earth! Tomorrow, for the first time in my life, I will see it rise.

O, who would live in Paris, to look upon black walls and dirty streets, when, in the country, they might gaze on the blue heavens, and all the green earth!

”

“

Well, I am willing to achieve them, provided I am allowed to describe them.

”

“My dear Mademoiselle Bearn,” said Henri, as he met her at the door of the parlour, “no ghost of these days would be so savage as to impose silence on you.

Our ghosts are more civilized than to condemn a lady to a purgatory severer even, than their own, be it what it may.

”

“Who could first invent convents!” said she, “and who could first persuade people to go into them? and to make religion a pretence, too, where all that should inspire it, is so carefully shut out!

God is best pleased with the homage of a grateful heart, and, when we view his glories, we feel most grateful.

I never felt so much devotion, during the many dull years I was in the convent, as I have done in the few hours, that I have been here, where I need only look on all around me—to adore God in my inmost heart!”

“Alas! it is,” said the old woman: “we all loved her well, and I shall always grieve for her. Time runs round! it is now many years, since she died; but I remember everything, that happened then, as if it was but yesterday.

Many things, that have passed of late years, are gone quite from my memory, while those so long ago, I can see as if in a glass.

” She paused, but afterwards, as they walked up the gallery, added to Emily, “this young lady sometimes brings the late Marchioness to my mind; I can remember, when she looked just as blooming, and very like her, when she smiles. Poor lady!

“

Ah, dear young lady! is not death always terrible?

” replied Dorothée.

But, if she retained few of the ornamental virtues, she cherished other qualities, which she seemed to consider invaluable.

She had dismissed the grace of modesty, but then she knew perfectly well how to manage the stare of assurance;

her manners had little of the tempered sweetness, which is necessary to render the female character interesting, but she could occasionally throw into them an affectation of spirits, which seemed to triumph over every person, who approached her.

many other persons were here, too, who are now no more! There stood the orchestra; here we tripped in many a sprightly maze—the walls echoing to the dance! Now, they resound only one feeble voice—and even that will, ere long, be heard no more!

My son, remember, that I was once as young as yourself, and that you must pass away like those, who have preceded you

—like those, who, as they sung and danced in this once gay apartment, forgot, that years are made up of moments, and that every step they took carried them nearer to their graves.

“The guilty cannot claim that protection!” said sister Agnes, “let the Count look to his conduct, that he do not forfeit his claim!

Yet who is he, that shall dare to call himself innocent!⁠—all earthly innocence is but comparative.

Yet still how wide asunder are the extremes of guilt, and to what a horrible depth may we fall! Oh!—”

“

You are young⁠—you are innocent! I mean you are yet innocent of any great crime!⁠—But you have passions in your heart⁠—scorpions; they sleep now⁠—beware how you awaken them!⁠—they will sting you, even unto death!

”

“Surely,” said she, “there is some magic in wealth, which can thus make persons pay their court to it, when it does not even benefit themselves.

How strange it is, that a fool or a knave, with riches, should be treated with more respect by the world, than a good man, or a wise man in poverty!

”

From Indian isles thou com’st, with Summer’s car, Twilight thy love—thy guide her beaming star!

To a warm imagination, the dubious forms, that float, half veiled in darkness, afford a higher delight, than the most distinct scenery, that the sun can show.

While the fancy thus wanders over landscapes partly of its own creation, a sweet complacency steals upon the mind, and

“What! is my dear young master going out in all this rain!” said Theresa. “No, he shall not stir a step.

Dear! dear! to see how gentlefolks can afford to throw away their happiness!

Now, if you were poor people, there would be none of this.

… hand for Theresa to be silent, who, disregarding the signal, continued, “And how much you are alike in your tempers and ways, and, that, if you were married, you would be the happiest couple in the whole province—then what is there to prevent your marrying?

Dear dear! to see how some people fling away their happiness, and then cry and lament about it, just as if it was not their own doing, and as if there was more pleasure in wailing and weeping, than in being at peace.

Learning, to be sure, is a fine thing, but, if it teaches folks no better than that, why I had rather be without it;