In Ann Radcliffe’s The Mysteries of Udolpho, both the heroic and the villainous characters spend much of their time thinking about marriage. For the protagonist Emily, marriage is about love and companionship. She gets these ideas about marriage from her father, St. Aubert, who declined opportunities to make a strategic marriage to increase his wealth, instead marrying Madame St. Aubert due to her friendliness and love for him. When Emily meets the dashing Valancourt and sees that he gives money to those in need and respects her father, she believes he would make the ideal husband. In this sense, she judges him based on his character, without knowing whether or not he stands to inherit anything.
But Emily’s idea of marriage clashes sharply with how some of the more materialistic characters in the book view the institution. After her father’s death, Emily enters the care of her widowed aunt, Madame Cheron, who immediately tries to break up Emily and Valancourt in order to get Emily to marry a man with a larger inheritance. Madame Cheron puts her own philosophy to the test when she marries Montoni, believing him to be an Italian gentleman in possession of great wealth. Ironically, however, it is in fact Montoni who marries Madame Cheron for her wealth, since he lost all his money gambling and now lives like a bandit. Madame Cheron’s greed ultimately becomes her undoing, as she learns that trying to exploit other people for their money cannot protect her from being treated exploitatively in return. The Mysteries of Udolpho acknowledges the financial realities of marriage, showing how inheritance and money inevitably play a role in the institution. But it also extols the value of marriages based on love, showing how these can lead to lasting companionship and happiness.
Related Themes from Other Texts
Marriage, Love, and Inheritance ThemeTracker
Marriage, Love, and Inheritance Quotes in The Mysteries of Udolpho
On the pleasant banks of the Garonne, in the province of Gascony, stood, in the year 1584, the chateau of Monsieur St. Aubert. From its windows were seen the pastoral landscapes of Guienne and Gascony stretching along the river, gay with luxuriant woods and vine, and plantations of olives. To the south, the view was bounded by the majestic Pyrenees, whose summits, veiled in clouds, or exhibiting awful forms, seen, and lost again, as the partial vapours rolled along, were sometimes barren, and gleamed through the blue tinge of air, and sometimes frowned with forests of gloomy pine, that swept downward to their base.
St. Aubert gazed earnestly and tenderly upon his portrait, put it to his lips, and then to his heart, and sighed with a convulsive force. Emily could scarcely believe what she saw to be real. She never knew till now that he had a picture of any other lady than her mother, much less that he had one which he evidently valued so highly; but having looked repeatedly, to be certain that it was not the resemblance of Madame St. Aubert, she became entirely convinced that it was designed for that of some other person.
At length St. Aubert returned the picture to its case; and Emily, recollecting that she was intruding upon his private sorrows, softly withdrew from the chamber.
“Do not give me the pain of knowing, sir,” said he, “that an invalid, like you, lies on hard skins, while I sleep in a bed. Besides, sir, your refusal wounds my pride; I must believe you think my offer unworthy your acceptance. Let me show you the way. I have no doubt my landlady can accommodate this young lady also.”
On searching for the book, she could find it nowhere, 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 characterised the feelings of the author. She hesitated in believing, what would have been sufficiently 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 drawn 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.
“Who is that young man?” said her aunt, in an accent which equally implied inquisitiveness and censure. “Some idle admirer of yours I suppose; but I believed niece you had a greater sense of propriety, than to have received the visits of any young man in your present unfriended situation. Let me tell you the world will observe those things, and it will talk, aye and very freely too.”
Madame Cheron’s avarice at length yielded to her vanity. Some very splendid entertainments, which Madame Clairval had given, and the general adulation, which was paid her, made the former more anxious than before to secure an alliance, that would so much exalt her in her own opinion and in that of the world.
“It is now useless, sir, for me to remonstrate upon the circumstances of which Signor Montoni informs me that he has written. I could have wished, at least, that the affair had been concluded with less precipitation, that I might have taught myself to subdue some prejudices, as the Signor calls them, which still linger in my heart. As it is, I submit. In point of prudence nothing certainly can be objected; but, though I submit, I have yet much to say on some other points of the subject, when I shall have the honour of seeing you. In the meantime I entreat you will take care of Theresa, for the sake of,
Sir,
Your affectionate niece,
EMILY ST. AUBERT.”
“You know not what you advise,” said her aunt. “Do you understand, that these estates will descend to you at my death, if I persist in a refusal?”
“How—how, ma’amselle, could you leave France, and leave Mons. Valancourt, too?” said Annette, sobbing. “I—I—am sure, if Ludovico had been in France, I would never have left it.”
“Why do you lament quitting France, then?” said Emily, trying to smile, “since, if you had remained there, you would not have found Ludovico.”
“Ah, ma’amselle! I only wish I was out of this frightful castle, serving you in France, and I would care about nothing else!”
“Alas!” observed the Count, “it is difficult to believe that, which will make us wretched. But I will not sooth you by flattering and false hopes. We all know how fascinating the vice of gaming is, and how difficult it is, also, to conquer habits; the Chevalier might, perhaps, reform for a while, but he would soon relapse into dissipation—for I fear, not only the bonds of habit would be powerful, but that his morals are corrupted. And—why should I conceal from you, that play is not his only vice? he appears to have a taste for every vicious pleasure.”
“Let me save you from this error,” said Emily, not less agitated—“it is my determination, and, if you reflect a moment on your late conduct, you will perceive, that my future peace requires it.”
“Your future peace requires, that we should part—part for ever!” said Valancourt, “How little did I ever expect to hear you say so!”
“What do I hear? No, mademoiselle, my love was well bestowed, for it was the Chevalier Valancourt, who gave me this cottage, and has supported me in my old age, ever since M. Quesnel turned me from my master’s house.”
And, if the weak hand, that has recorded this tale, has, by its scenes, beguiled the mourner of one hour of sorrow, or, by its moral, taught him to sustain it—the effort, however humble, has not been vain, nor is the writer unrewarded.
