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Title: Feudal tyrants, volume 4 (of 4): The counts of Carlsheim and Sargans
Author: Naubert, Benedikte
Language: English
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FEUDAL TYRANTS, Volume IV.
◆ ◆ ◆
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FEUDAL TYRANTS;
_The Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans_.
A ROMANCE.
_TAKEN FROM THE GERMAN._
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
◆ ◆ ◆
BY M. G. LEWIS,
AUTHOR OF
_The Bravo of Venice, Adelgitha, Rugantino, &c._
◆ ◆ ◆
VOL. IV.
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_SECOND EDITION_.
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The portals sound, and pacing forth
With stately steps and slow,
High potentates, and dames of regal birth,
And mitred fathers in long order go.
— GRAY.
══════════════════════════════════
London:
Printed by D. N. SHURY, Berwick-Street, Soho,
FOR J. F. HUGHES, WIGMORE STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE.
──
1807
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FEUDAL TYRANTS,
&c. &c. &c.
═════════════════════
_PART THE SEVENTH._
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CONTINUATION OF
“THE SISTERS WITHOUT A NAME.”
_Written by the Abbot of Cloister-Curwald._
Oh! noble Elizabeth! you to whom these leaves are more particularly
addrest, have you had resolution sufficient to read thus far? will you
possess sufficient presence of mind to enable you to continue the
perusal of this writing, now that I have placed before you the most
important and most cruel transactions, which have occurred throughout
your whole life, and by which your whole life has been embittered? and
will you, when at length you reach the conclusion of my painful
narrative, magnanimously sacrifice your long-cherished prejudices; and
daring to gaze steadily on the light of truth, will you learn to excuse
and to pity, to regret and to forgive?
Before I relate the transactions, which followed the fatal interview
between Ida and her lover on your bridal day, I must request your
patient attention, while I relate those incidents of Henry of Montfort’s
earlier days, which I believe to be still unknown to you. It is thus
only, that I can enable you to form a correct and unbiassed judgment of
the case.
Henry’s father stood already on the brink of the grave, when his son was
born: he died, while Henry was still an infant. His wife soon followed
him. The care of the little orphan now devolved upon an uncle, who would
have been much better pleased, if the deceased Count of Montfort had
died without progeny, and had left him the undivided inheritance of his
fertile and extensive domains.
By his brother’s will this uncle was appointed guardian to the young
orphan, and destined to be his representative, till Henry should attain
the age of twenty-one. This limitation of his power was by no means to
Count Egbert’s taste. He would willingly have disputed the legitimacy of
Henry’s birth; but the acknowledged virtue of the late Countess made it
impossible to fix any suspicions upon her character. However, by dint of
solicitations, of powerful protection at Vienna, and (above all) of
considerable sums of money distributed among the Emperor’s favourites,
he contrived to get his nephew’s claims set aside till after his own
decease; though the decree, which thus established Count Egbert’s
succession to the inheritance, positively excluded any children which he
might have, and regulated, that they should only succeed to the estates
of Montfort, in case of Henry’s dying without heirs.
Though Count Egbert was already advanced in years, and was still a
bachelor, nevertheless he was highly offended at the restriction thus
established against his lineal descendants, in case it should ever
please Heaven to bestow upon him such blessings. The sight of the child
became hateful to him; and in hopes of at once relieving himself from
its presence, and of removing an obstacle to his contracting a suitable
marriage, he gave his little nephew in charge to one of his servants,
whom he believed capable of executing any villainy; at the same time
telling him—“To do with the brat whatever he thought would be most
conducive to his master’s interests.”—Some little remains of conscience
prevented his declaring his wishes in more express terms; but what he
said, was quite sufficient to make his meaning very far from ambiguous.
Count Egbert’s servant was a native of Switzerland. He gave his lord to
understand, that he perfectly comprehended him, and made no difficulty
of taking a solemn oath, that he would punctually obey his injunctions
as exprest above. After an absence of some weeks he returned without the
child; his reward was ample; and he immediately employed it in securing
a kind protection for the orphan Henry, whom he had neither murdered,
nor abandoned to chance and the wide world, but had concealed him in a
shepherd’s-cottage near the Lake of the Four Cantons, in order the more
effectually to secure him against the malice of his unnatural uncle. The
shepherd died, and bequeathed the child, to the care of his master, the
venerable Melthal. Count Egbert’s servant (who occasionally visited
those parts in order to inquire after the safety of him, whom he had
rescued from destruction) was greatly rejoiced to find him under the
protection of old Melthal, who was universally esteemed to be one of the
wisest and best of mortals. He scrupled not to confide to him the secret
of Henry’s birth, and they arranged together the means of establishing
him in his rights at a future period. The servant paid the debt of
nature soon after this discovery, and the mystery of Henry’s rank and
claims remained in the sole possession of Melthal.
He spared no expence in rendering the boy’s education equal to his
future hopes; and aware, that in all probability resolution and valour
would be the only means of reinstating him fully in the possession of
his rights, at an early period of life he sent the orphan away from his
retired and peaceful vallies, and took measures for his being brought up
to a life of arms.
Melthal frequently forsook his cottage to visit the young Henry, who now
began to give tokens of a real inclination for his profession, and was
more distinguished in the Emperor’s army, than any other youth of the
same age: but he never invited Henry to return his visit among the
mountains of Switzerland. Now, however, that the old man was sinking
under the weight of years, and began to feel that distant journeys were
more than his debilitated frame could bear, he determined to send for
the son of his adoption, that he might declare to him his real origin,
and bestow a blessing on him, before they should part for ever. The
young man obeyed the call: his arrival was honoured by a rural festival;
and the young people of those happy vallies rejoiced in the acquisition
of such a youth, who (as they supposed) was returned home in order to
pass the remainder of his life among them, as their friend and fellow
citizen.
You are already acquainted with the mutual attachment, to which this
festival gave rise by the meeting of Ida and Henry under the assumed
names of Rosanna Tell and Erwin Melthal. This attachment soon became
public, and among others came to the knowledge of old Melthal. An union
with the daughter of an Helvetian peasant (even though that peasant was
William Tell, and though the maiden herself was the perfection of
loveliness and virtue) threatened the destruction of all those exalted
plans, which the old man had been so long meditating in favour of his
adopted son; and he thought, nothing more would be necessary to make
Henry break off this unsuitable connection, than to discover his noble
origin to the youth, and to exhibit before him his great expectations in
their full splendour. He soon found, that real love makes the heart
consider all obstacles as trifles, and believe every thing is possible
except abandoning the object, to whom its adoration is vowed.
Henry of Montfort continued to love that Rosanna, to whom Erwin Melthal
had sworn eternal fidelity: Ida, Countess of Werdenberg, (to whom her
real birth was discovered about the same period) preserved her
attachment to the humble peasant, to whom Rosanna Tell had pledged her
hand and her affections. Each had been sworn to secrecy; both concealed
the painful mystery in their respective bosoms; but neither suffered a
day to pass without repeating the assurance of fidelity beyond the
grave, though both were secretly conscious, how mighty were the
obstacles which opposed their keeping that assurance.
They were separated. The Emperor’s commands summoned Henry to the army;
and the old Melthal thought, that in the present position of things a
slight falsehood would be justified by the intention, with which it was
fabricated.—Accordingly, a report was soon circulated, that his grandson
Erwin had fallen at the siege of Bender. It obtained universal credit;
and Ida, (for whose sole use the artifice had been designed) doubted
not, that her lover had perished on the field of glory. _One_ person
however (and that to his great mortification) was assured of the
inaccuracy of the report. No sooner had Henry left Helvetia, than
Melthal set out for the Castle of Montfort; he made known to the
astonished Count, that his nephew was still in existence, and spared
neither persuasions nor threats to induce the old usurper to reinstate
the true heir in his rights and titles.
Threats and persuasions from the mouth of a man of sense and probity
came with a force, that few villains however hardened are able to resist
entirely. Count Egbert trembled in the presence of his venerable
monitor; and he presumed not to give him such a reply, as he would
willingly have done, had he followed his heart’s instigations. He
answered him with fair promises and professions, the trusting to which
cost the poor old man many a painful journey; till at length highly
exasperated at having been made so long the dupe of his soft words and
endless delays, he assumed a tone of such authority, as almost
frightened the trembling usurper out of his senses, and made him
solemnly swear to lose no time in acknowledging the claims of his
nephew. Unluckily, this scene agitated Melthal so violently, that the
consequence was an illness, which soon carried him to his grave. Count
Egbert did not let slip so good an opportunity of annihilating the hopes
of Henry; he easily persuaded the unconscious heirs of old Melthal to
give up to him the papers, which attested his nephew’s birth, and which,
(as they seemed to relate entirely to the Montfort family), they made no
doubt, were (as he asserted) his own peculiar property and no concern of
any other person’s.
Now then who was so happy as the crafty Egbert? in the full exultation
of triumph he was persuaded, that the papers which he lost no time in
committing to the flames, were the only proofs of his nephew’s
existence. But in this respect he was deceived. When Henry departed for
the army, Melthal charged him to seize the first favourable opportunity
of laying his case before the emperor; for which purpose he furnished
him with the authentic documents of his real birth, and those which fell
into Count Egbert’s hands were nothing more valuable than mere copies.
The favourable opportunity, of which Melthal had spoken, was not tardy
in arriving. At the siege of Bender Henry behaved with such
distinguished gallantry as to make it the general opinion, that if all
his companions had performed their duty as well, the victory would have
been wrested from the hands of the infidels.
The emperor was not the last to applaud his gallant demeanour. He
commanded him to name a reward; and Henry demanded to be re-instated in
those rights, to which he could establish his claim by proofs, that
would set all doubt at defiance.
—“I do not wish,” said he, “that my uncle’s conduct towards me should
undergo too nice an examination; nor during his lifetime do I insist,
that my inheritance should be restored to me. I only demand for the
present to be acknowledged as a descendant of the house of Montfort, and
for the future to be protected in obtaining those advantages, to which I
may be able to substantiate a lawful claim.—I am not desirous of
expelling the old Count from the station, which he has so long occupied;
I only demand, that when his death shall leave that station vacant, I
may succeed to that, which in justice is my birth right.”—
The Emperor Albert, who was already aware that under the administrations
of the debauched Venceslaus, and the careless Sigismund (his immediate
predecessors) much partiality had taken place in settling the affairs of
the Montfort family, and who besides wished most anxiously to serve his
favourite in every point that was not repugnant to justice, heard the
above declaration with pleasure, and praised the youthful warrior’s
generosity. Albert himself was generous, and it delighted him, when
others acted, as _he_ would have acted himself.
On the next day Henry was declared by the emperor to be a Count of
Montfort, and was allotted a command suitable to his high rank and
distinguished services. This change of name contributed to support the
erroneous belief, that Erwin Melthal had never been heard of since the
battle of Bender, and that in all probability he had fallen in the
field. Ida therefore was sorrowing for his loss at the very moment, that
he was hastening back to the beloved valley, crowned with laurels, and
determined to share with her his honours and his happiness.
Alas! that beloved valley was no longer to be recognised! dreadful
storms had laid it waste; the mountain-torrents had deluged the country;
and when he at length with difficulty had reached Tell’s habitation, he
found it silent and empty—the dreadful pestilence, which had more than
decimated the unfortunate inhabitants of those quarters, had raged with
peculiar fury in the house of Tell; but he was informed, that a remnant
of the family had taken refuge (so at least it was rumoured) in the
Convent of Engelberg. Thither Henry repaired without loss of time, but
he found no one capable of giving him either present comfort or future
hope. His apprehensions were converted into despair, when in reply to
his enquiries Tell’s humble grave was pointed out to him, and when he
beheld near it two smaller graves, which (he was assured) contained the
bodies of two of the old man’s grand-daughters. It is probable, that
this assurance was given not without foundation, for several of the
grand-children of Tell had followed him to Engelberg, and had there
fallen a prey to the inveteracy of the prevalent disease.
The wretched Henry was thoroughly convinced, that the bones of Ida and
Constantia rested within those smaller graves. He knelt beside them; he
watered them with his tears, and abandoned himself to the most violent
emotions of anguish, which love and despair ever excited in the heart of
man. It was long, before he attained any degree of composure; and he
employed the first hour, in which his heart was sensible of a melancholy
resignation, in hastening to the Convent, and requesting to know every
particular respecting the death of the lovely sisters. He wished also to
enquire, why they had interred in the open church-yard the bodies of
those angels, whose virtues should have obtained for their tomb the most
distinguished spot to be found within the Convent’s sanctuary.
The high-sounding title of “Count Henry of Montfort” obtained for him an
easy admission into the Convent-parlour; but he derived no benefit from
his visit to Engelberg. The old Abbess, who had superintended the
Convent during Constantia’s residence, had paid the debt of nature. The
present superior was totally ignorant of the history of the sisters; and
she could not help secretly suspecting, that the young-warrior’s
understanding was not quite as sound as it should have been, when with
considerable impetuosity he demanded as a matter of right, that the
grand-daughters of a common peasant, who had conferred on the
institution neither wealth nor honour, should be alloted a tomb in the
Chapel of St. Engeltruda!
Henry was at length made to understand, that Ida’s remains appeared to
be sacred relics in no eyes but those of her lover: the only comfort,
which he now felt himself capable of enjoying, was to honour _her_ in
death, whom in life he had adored so truly: accordingly the greatest
part of the wealth, which he had earned in the Turkish wars, was
expended in raising a stately monument to Ida’s memory in the Chapel of
Engelberg. He burned with impatience to see (united with those of the
fair sisters) his own name engraved on the monument’s white marble, as
being that of the person by whose directions it was raised; and he
declared, that his heart could never taste repose, till the work should
be completed, and till the bones of Mary and Rosanna Tell (for such he
still thought them) were removed to the honourable burial-place provided
for them by his affection. While the tomb was erecting, nothing could
persuade him to quit the holy place even for a day; and the whole
neighbourhood was lost in astonishment at the homage, which the Count of
Montfort thought it necessary to pay to the relics of Tell’s daughters.
Nothing was able to rouse him from that dangerous melancholy, to which
he abandoned himself without reserve, till the emperor’s commands
necessitated his attendance. He arrived at Grans, and found, that while
he had been giving up everything for the indulgence of unavailing
sorrow, his exalted protector had not been equally unmindful of his
favourite’s worldly interests. The old Count of Montfort had been
summoned to the imperial court; where he was made so fully aware of the
favourable posture of Henry’s affairs, and was so thoroughly convinced,
that to deny the authenticity of his claims would be fruitless, that his
nephew no sooner made his appearance, than he came towards him with open
arms, and embraced him as his relation and his presumptive heir. He was
then preparing to offer some excuse for past transactions, which in
their very nature were totally inexcuseable; but the young Count
interrupted his apologies, freely forgave him, and in presence of the
emperor assured his uncle, that he might depend upon his burying his
wrongs in silence and oblivion.
Still, when the arrangements respecting Henry’s succession to the
Lordship of Montfort came under consideration, Count Egbert earnestly
insisted, that two or three clauses should be introduced, in order that
the future heirs of his body might not be left entirely destitute. Henry
could not conceal a smile, while he acceded to this proposal, and the
rest of the company indulged themselves without scruple in a loud burst
of laughter; for the old man was still unprovided with either wife or
children, though there was scarcely to be found in all Germany a lady of
beauty, birth, and fortune, whom he had not honoured with the offer of
his hand and heart.
On the other hand, Henry, whose age would have suited much better with
such proposals, seemed not to bestow a thought upon the subject: amidst
the throng of lovely women who graced the court, his heart remained cold
as the marble, which covered the imagined ashes of his loved and
lamented Rosanna. But the emperor was not equally indifferent,
respecting his young friend’s contracting some honourable engagement.
—“Montfort,” said he, “I flatter myself, that I have omitted no means of
substantiating your claims, which lay in my imperial power: but fraud
and avarice will frequently suggest such ingenious expedients for
eluding the execution of justice, that (should I die before your uncle)
you might still find it no easy task to obtain possession of your
inheritance. While therefore I am still in existence and able to serve
you, unite yourself by marriage with some powerful family, whose
connection may support your claims, when death shall have deprived you
of my favour and protection.—Your enemies then will not dare to dispute
your rights. Tell me, Henry; is the indifference, with which you seem to
look on the beauties of my court, real or affected?—If your heart has
not as yet made its choice, suffer me to mention to you the bride of
_my_ selection.”—
Henry’s reply assured him with great truth, that there existed not a
woman, who possest any interest in his affections.
—“Well then!” resumed the emperor, “take my advice, and offer your hand
to the beautiful Elizabeth of March, the jewel of all our German
maidens: in her you will find united youth, charms, spirit, sense,
piety, and virtue; besides a thousand other excellent qualities, which
are seldom to be met with but in men. Her family too is sufficiently
powerful to secure you against the attacks of malignity and violence, to
which you will probably be exposed after my death; an event, which
increasing infirmities make me believe to be at no great distance.”—
Henry had frequently seen and admired the noble Elizabeth. In truth, it
was considered among the young courtiers almost as a total want of
taste, and as a proof of a cold insensible heart, to see Elizabeth and
feel nothing warmer than admiration. Henry (who could make no reasonable
objection to the match proposed, and who was unwilling to confess the
fruitless passion, which devoured his heart, for one who had long since
rested in the grave) could only assert the improbability of his
obtaining Elizabeth’s hand in preference to many suitors so much more
distinguished than himself; especially as it was reported, that her hand
was already destined to the youthful Richard of Ulmenhorst, her father’s
ward and near relation.
—“Tell not me,” interrupted the emperor, “of those reports, and of your
own consciousness of your demerits. Go to the Castle of March; become
acquainted with Elizabeth’s virtues, as well as with her charms. I am
certain, that you will love her; I flatter myself, that _she_ too will
love _you_; and what pleasure would it give me, dear Henry, could I see
your hands united, before I close my eyes in this world for ever!”—
An interest so warm, and expressions so condescending in the mouth of a
sovereign, could not but produce the desired effect. Montfort obeyed,
and visited the Castle of March. He beheld Elizabeth; he investigated
her character; she inspired him with esteem, with admiration ... but not
with love.—yet it was soon evident ... (will the Countess of Torrenburg
ever pardon my assertion?) that Elizabeth had not seen Henry with the
same indifference. He felt, that he was preferred; he could not but
confess, that the possession of such an angel must be an inestimable
treasure; and though the remembrance of Rosanna rendered his heart
incapable of any warmer sentiment than friendship, still since that
beloved one was lost to him for ever, he resolved not to let his folly
throw away the blessing, which offered itself to his acceptance. He
determined to fulfill the emperor’s injunctions, and to offer his hand
to the only woman, who was worthy to fill Ida’s place in his heart. But
he hesitated so long, and took so much time before he made his
declaration, that Elizabeth’s parents had already promised her in the
most solemn and positive manner to the rich and powerful Count of
Torrenburg. In consequence, Montfort was given to understand (though
with every possible mark of esteem) that his absence from the Castle of
March would be acceptable to its owner.
Grieved and vexed at his having so long delayed to explain himself,
Henry departed; the heart of Elizabeth accompanied him. Count Egbert had
never seemed very anxious for his nephew’s marriage, nor had given
himself any trouble, in order to forward his views upon Elizabeth: the
fact was, that in spite of the ill success of his former matrimonial
speculations, he was at that moment totally engrossed by a new scheme of
the same nature; and the person, to whom his views were now directed,
was no other than ... the Lady Ida of Werdenberg. He was not only
enchanted by her personal charms, but he also took it into his
consideration, that after the Count of Torrenburg’s death she would
possess very plausible claims upon the valuable domains of Carlsheim and
Sargans; claims, which (as the possibility of his own death was an idea,
which never by any accident was suffered to enter into his calculations)
this silly old man proposed to enforce in their fullest extent.
He had already given the Count of Torrenburg some hints of the honour,
which he had it in contemplation to confer upon his family. The Count in
return gave him to understand, that if his niece had no objection to the
match, he should not oppose it: and as the old dotard thought himself
irresistible in spite of former disappointments (which might have taught
him better) he was on the very point of surprizing Ida with the
agreeable intelligence, that she had made a conquest of his heart. It
was at this juncture, that the news reached him of his destined uncle’s
being on the brink of marriage with the Lady Elizabeth of March.
Nothing could be more contrary to his plans, than this intelligence;
Count Frederick of Torrenburg might have children, and then there would
be an end of all his claims in right of his bride, whom he loved not
merely as the beautiful Ida of Werdenberg, but as the future co-heiress
of Carlsheim and Sargans. Now then he had nothing more at heart, than to
break off this inconvenient marriage. To accomplish this, no better
means suggested itself, than to persuade his nephew to a renewal of his
addresses to the intended bride; and since her hand was no longer to be
obtained by the ordinary methods of solicitation, he resolved to have
recourse to a little innocent artifice, which (he doubted not) would
soon bring the young people to a proper understanding. Aware, that Henry
was not likely to enforce his suit with as much eagerness as the nature
of the case required, the uncle in his zeal for his nephew’s advantage,
or rather for the success of his own interested views, resolved to
examine himself into the state of Elizabeth’s inclinations, and to place
Henry’s attachment to her in the most favourable light. He found the
unhappy girl in tears; the day was already fixed, on which her hand was
to be united with that of the dreaded Count of Torrenburg. It was no
difficult task to make her confess her disinclination to her antient
bridegroom, and her preference for the blooming Montfort, on whom her
heart had long fixed its affections irrevocably. She also listened
without any _very_ marked signs of repugnance to the proposal of an
elopement. Her heart and her reason both assured her, that to avoid the
union which she so much detested, flight was the only resource left her:
her friend Ida had advised her adopting it without delay; and now the
same proposal was made to her from a quarter the most unexpected.
Elizabeth was at length persuaded by the pressing entreaties of Count
Egbert to summon to her aid the youth, who (as she was assured by his
uncle) burned for her with the most ardent affection, and to whom her
union with his rival would undoubtedly give a mortal wound.
She wrote to Henry, and declared herself ready to throw herself upon his
protection. This important step was taken by Elizabeth through anxiety
and affection, approved of by Ida out of friendship and ignorance of the
world, and advised by the old hypocrite Count Egbert for the sake of his
own private interest. As to Henry himself, he was perfectly ignorant of
all that was going forward, till he received Elizabeth’s letter: but
what man with the feelings of humanity alive in his bosom would have
disobeyed the voice of an angel like Elizabeth, pleading for aid, and
confessing her attachment? compassion, esteem, admiration, and
gratitude, all united to produce a sentiment in his heart which, if not
love, was at least very like it; a sentiment, which doubtless would soon
have been love itself, had not unfortunately.... Oh! lady, you for whom
I trace these lines, and for whose decision (when my task is done) I
shall wait with such anxiety, this is a chasm, which I leave to be
filled up by _you_!
Elizabeth disappeared—the lovers were overtaken—the Count of Torrenburg,
when the circumstances were all made known to him, resigned his
pretensions with a good grace. The entreaties of Elizabeth’s brother,
and some little apprehension lest her reputation should suffer injury by
this elopement, induced her parents to withdraw their opposition to her
union with young Montfort. The marriage-day arrived: Ida flew to
congratulate her friend; and instead of the enamoured bridegroom and the
happy bride, she beheld Erwin Melthal stretched pale and senseless at
the feet of the alarmed and astonished Elizabeth. As Elizabeth saw
Henry’s colour change, she sprang towards him, and clasped his hand.
Hastily he drew it back with a look of horror, sank on the ground, and
closed his eyes as if to eternal slumber.
She now turned to Ida, who (supported by her sister) appeared more dead
than living: she demanded the meaning of this extraordinary scene.
Terror and astonishment sealed up the lips of Ida; and Constantia also
was silent through doubt, whether an explanation just then would be
adviseable.
—“A strange instance of love at first sight!” whispered to her next
neighbour, a virgin aunt of Elizabeth’s aged forty-seven.
—“And mutual too, as it seems!” replied the plump dowager, to whom this
audible whisper had been addrest.
Ha! at those words how high swelled the proud bosom of Elizabeth! How
fiery was the glance like lightning, which she threw upon Ida, as she
turned away! How contemptuous was the look, with which she eyed young
Montfort, in whom the care of his servants had just produced some faint
signs of returning animation. Her impetuous spirit had always rendered
her too susceptible of sudden and violent passion, and (to confess the
truth) had already betrayed her into the commission of many a hasty and
ill-judged action. Without waiting for further explanation she rushed
out of the chapel, while her eyes flashed fire as she went. She was
followed by all those, who envied the sisters; and who were now resolved
to devote a day, long destined to happiness, to the nourishment of
suspicion and resentment; and who were prepared to use their utmost arts
to render the wounds lately given to love and friendship incurable.
I will not attempt to describe the state of Ida’s mind. Constantia (who,
though not more able to unravel the mystery of these unexpected
occurrences, was yet more collected than her sister) judged it prudent
for them to withdraw as soon as possible from the curious gaze of the
by-standers. Accordingly, she conducted the bewildered Ida to her
apartment, and then hastened to that of the bride, in order that, she
might at once offer explanations and receive them in return. She had not
yet sufficiently recovered from her first astonishment to conceive, how
strong an impression to her sister’s prejudice the scene, which had just
taken place, must have made upon Elizabeth: much less did she suppose it
possible, that her friend could act so unjustly as to show resentment
against herself for an action, which (even if wrong) had at any rate
been committed by another.
Her surprise therefore was great, when she was refused admittance to
Elizabeth, with every mark of harshness and indignation.—She returned
sorrowing from her fruitless embassy; and she had scarcely regained her
own apartment, before a Chamberlain made his appearance there to inform
the sisters in the name of the Lord of the Castle, that in consequence
of Elizabeth’s sudden indisposition, and of the late confusion (the
cause of which was too well known to them to make any explanation on
that head necessary) it would be adviseable for them immediately to quit
a house, in which certainly no bridal ceremony would be celebrated at
present.
In the mean while, Henry on opening his eyes cast his first glances
eagerly towards the spot, where he fancied, that the spirits of Tell’s
grand-daughters had appeared to him; they were no longer to be seen. He
was now confirmed in his visionary notions, and implicitly believed,
that he had really seen an apparition.—He inquired for Elizabeth: the
answer was, that she had quitted the chapel evidently in displeasure;
very little reflection was necessary to make him aware, that the
singular part which he had just been playing, made it necessary for him
to hasten to his bride without delay, and explain the cause of his
mysterious behaviour. While approaching her chamber, he considered with
himself, whether it would, or would not, be adviseable to inform her of
the vision, which had just appeared to him, and to lay open to her the
secret history of his early life! His deliberations, however, were quite
superfluous; for he was denied admittance to Elizabeth with no less
positiveness and contempt, than had been shown on Constantia’s
application.
He felt, that Elizabeth had some reason to think herself insulted; and
instead of repaying her scorn with scorn, he lost no time in justifying
himself in the eyes of his offended mistress.—A personal interview was
denied him; the explanation therefore could only be conveyed in writing;
but Henry was not sufficiently an adept in penmanship to permit his
finishing so long an apology with as much expedition, as the nature of
the case made desirable. He resolved therefore to employ a secretary;
and as upon inquiry no ready writer was to be found in the whole Castle
except the family Chaplain (whom I have already mentioned as the secret
ally of Father Hilarius, and as being entirely in the Count of
Torrenburg’s interests) he requested his assistance. He might have
chosen from among a thousand, and yet could not have confided his
affairs to a more improper instrument. However, Henry dictated, and the
Friar wrote as follows.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Henry to Elizabeth._
You are offended, my beloved!—Nay, even to myself it scarcely appears
credible, that when I stood with you before the altar, I should have
withdrawn my hand from yours; that I should have hesitated to pronounce
the words, which would have made you mine for ever; that when you looked
upon me with eyes of love, I could have looked on any other than on
_you_.—No; this never could have happened by natural means; the enemies
of our love must have employed infernal arts to delude my senses and
interrupt my happiness!—What past this evening in the Chapel must
certainly have been produced by magic; no otherwise can I account for
it!
Elizabeth, my heart was once another’s: my heart would _still_ have been
another’s, had not death torn her from me. But my Rosanna has long been
an angel in Heaven; the truth which I swore to her, and which (while she
had life) I never would have violated, could not surely extend beyond
the precincts of the grave. Surely that happy-one, to whom now all
things must be known, must also know, in what degree I once loved _her_,
and in what degree I now love Elizabeth: Surely, she cannot envy you, my
beloved, the hand of your poor Henry; surely, she would not forsake her
own mansions of peace and bliss, to forbid our union and destroy our
hopes of happiness?
And yet, Elizabeth...! Mark, my beloved, and conceive my astonishment,
my horror!—And yet, Elizabeth, I swear to you most solemnly, that this
evening as you stood at the altar, I saw the form of the long-deceased
Rosanna Tell approach, and place the myrtle wreath upon your forehead;
while by her side stood a second apparition in a religious habit, the
exact resemblance of Mary, Rosanna’s sister, who is buried with her in
the same tomb!
But strange as this circumstance appears, let it not disturb your
tranquillity, my Elizabeth, nor prevent an union, on which I depend for
all the happiness of my future life. If the spirit of Rosanna _really_
appeared, she came not to destroy the bliss of the man who adored her,
but to give her celestial sanction: but for my own part, I am persuaded,
that this appearance was some illusion, some contrivance of those who
envy us, some magical appearance produced by monastic arts in the night
and secrecy of the Cloister.—
Beloved Elizabeth, admit me to your presence, and every point shall be
explained most fully. At present I must break off, for the person (whose
pen I employ to trace these lines) has taken offence at an expression
which accidentally escaped me, and refuses any longer to render me his
services.
* * * * *
In truth, Henry’s ecclesiastical secretary was greatly displeased at the
words “monastic arts:” however, an apology and some pieces of gold not
only brought the avaricious Monk into good-humour again, but even
induced him to offer to be the bearer of his letter, in case the young
Lord of Montfort should still think proper to send it, after hearing
what he (the Monk) had to say upon the subject.
Henry gave him permission to speak, and promised to be attentive.
—“You believe then,” began Father Jacob, “that the form, whose
appearance so greatly surprized you in the Chapel belonged to a deceased
person?—Count of Montfort, it was the living Rosanna, Tell whom you
beheld; Rosanna who has now exchanged that name for the more lofty one
of Ida of Werdenberg—You start?—You believe what I tell you to be
impossible?—Nay, Count, with all my heart! Number _me_ (if you like it)
among those, who wish to impede you in the gratification of your new
amours: it would be ill-breeding in me to force upon you the conviction
of a truth, to which you are evidently so unwilling to give credit!”—
The crafty Friar rose, as if about to quit the apartment. It is
superfluous to say, that Henry (whose head was now assailed by
astonishment from a new quarter) did not suffer him to depart.—Father
Jacob possest the whole of Ida’s history, except in so far as related to
her adventure with Erwin Melthal: he refused to communicate any portion
of his knowledge, till this hitherto unsuspected circumstance had been
fully explained to him. This demand was complied with, every
circumstance was confided to him; and with astonishing quickness he
discerned in this narrative the means of attaining an object, which he
and his honest ally, the keeper of Count Frederick’s conscience, had
very nearly at heart, but which they had found themselves compelled to
abandon in despair.
Montfort had finished.—And now the Monk exerted all his eloquence to
convince his auditor of that, which Henry’s heart was already most
anxious to believe; namely, that his first oaths of love ought to be the
most binding; that it was no less necessary to keep his faith to Ida of
Werdenberg than to Rosanna Tell; and that his giving that hand to
Elizabeth, which he had sworn to give to another, would only serve to
form an union unjust, sinful, abominable, and accursed.
Henry was quite of the Monk’s opinion, long before his oration came to
an end. Of much more consequence did it now appear to him to renew his
vows to the long-lost late-found Ida, than to appease the indignation of
the offended Elizabeth. Joy and anxiety almost bereft him of
understanding. The Monk was commissioned to procure for him an immediate
interview with Ida; and when Father Jacob returned to him with the
information, that an hour had already elapsed, since the Damsels of
Werdenberg departed from the Castle, he forgot (in his impatience to
rejoin his mistress) so completely all ideas of propriety, of
consideration for the feelings of his bride, and of the misconstructions
to which he was making his conduct liable, that without farther
deliberation he sprang upon his courser, and pursued the way, which the
Monk pointed out to him as that, by which he might the most speedily
overtake the sisters. In the hurry of his enthusiastic affection, he
forgot every thing else; he left no apology for the Count of March; no
explanation for Elizabeth; he even neglected to remind the Monk to
deliver his letter, or to desire him to clear up the mystery of his
conduct.
In fact, Father Jacob had other business upon his hands, than to
extenuate Montfort’s offence in the eyes of Elizabeth. Immediately on
the youth’s departure, he lost no time in transmitting the following
letter to the family-priest of Torrenburg.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Father Jacob to Father Hilarius._
Before this letter can reach you, doubtless the occurrences of this
evening will be already known to you: but learn from me some
circumstances, which are as yet a secret to all but myself and the
principal actors in them.—Erwin Melthal, that peasant youth on whose
perfections and on whose attachment you have heard Ida dwell with such
enthusiasm, proves to be no other than Henry of Montfort.—Elizabeth is
still ignorant of this previous acquaintance, and must remain so: with
the sisters she is likely to have no immediate intercourse, and by my
management Henry has left the Castle of March in pursuit of Ida; though
to gain time, I thought it prudent to give him a false direction, and he
is now upon the road to the half-ruined Fortress, which the Count of
Torrenburg possesses in Thuringia.
Let your patron lose no time in hastening hither—I will take care, that
he shall find the family disposed to consider his renewed proposals as a
most honourable and fortunate event; and I doubt not, in the first
tumult of her passions, of disappointed love, violated friendship, and
raging jealousy, Elizabeth may be easily persuaded to an union, which
will make her mistress of that rival’s fate, to whose pernicious beauty
she ascribes the loss of her own promised happiness.
Be assured, it will be greatly both for your advantage and for mine,
that Elizabeth should become Count Frederick’s wife. He is advanced in
years; it is highly improbable, that he should have children; and a rich
bequest is already secured to our convent in the event of his dying
without legitimate descendants. On the other hand, should he remain
unmarried, there is every probability of his acknowledging the Damsels
of Werdenberg as his heiresses; a step, which would ruin all our hopes
for ever, but which (you may depend upon it) he will never be suffered
to take, if the jealous and incensed Elizabeth becomes Countess of
Torrenburg.
With regard to these hated girls, whose intrusion is so greatly adverse
to our interests, no means must be neglected for expelling them from
their guardian’s house and favour. As to Constantia, I look upon her as
little dangerous, being (to judge by every appearance) entirely devoted
to a religious life: it would therefore be unnecessary to molest her,
were not her fate so closely connected with her sister’s, that it is
impossible to separate the one from the other. But it is against Ida
that all your skill must be directed.—Doubtless, Elizabeth’s letters are
still in her possession—Seize them, either by art or violence, it
matters not which: they must necessarily contain matter sufficient to
convince Count Frederick, that it was by her advice, that her friend was
persuaded to elope from him with young Montfort: he will look upon her
as the traverser of his views upon Elizabeth, and that will be
sufficient to banish her from his favour—this will be greatly confirmed
by the appearance of the sisters at Elizabeth’s wedding, which he cannot
but consider as highly disrespectful to himself and his feelings; but
you must carefully conceal from him, that Ida confined in the solitude
of Torrenburg Castle, and Constantia buried in the silence of her
Convent, were both ignorant of the rejected lover’s name till after
their arrival at the Castle of March. The Count is noble-minded; but he
is proud, irascible, easily induced to believe the worst of those who
surround him, and obstinate in retaining prejudices once received—these
are the parts of his character, upon which it must be your care to work,
till you have kindled a flame against Ida in his bosom, which all her
tears will be unable to extinguish. On the other hand, you must assail
Ida with terrors of her uncle’s indignation, and with threats of an
immediate union with her superannuated admirer, Count Egbert: and when
you have terrified her sufficiently to prevent her conduct from being
regulated by her understanding, assure her, that there is no way of
avoiding Count Frederick’s wrath and old Montfort’s marriage-bed, except
flight from the Castle of Torrenburg.—That step once taken, Ida is
ruined; Constantia may easily be convicted of participation in her
sister’s actions; the ungrateful girls will be banished from their
uncle’s favour irrevocably, and then the game will be all our
own.—Farewell, and let me hear from you with all diligence.
* * * * *
The unconscious subject of these abominable artifices was in the mean
while journeying homewards with a heavy heart, doubly afflicted by the
injustice of her friend, and the supposed perfidy of her lover. She had
ascertained no more before her departure from the Castle of March, than
that the man, whom she had so long believed to be a peasant’s son, was
Count Henry of Montfort; but it still remained unexplained, how Henry
could have so totally forgotten his former vows, and have offered his
hand to another. The more that she reflected, the less reason did there
appear to doubt, that upon discovering his own noble origin he had
abandoned all thoughts of an union with the low-born daughter of William
Tell. In the opinion of love this fault was not to be excused; she in
some degree obtained a forced tranquillity by resolving, that his
conduct had rendered him totally unworthy of her; and that even should
the inconstant Henry return to her chains, it would be beneath Ida of
Werdenberg to accept that hand, which he had insolently withdrawn from
the humble Rosanna Tell.
Constantia accompanied her sister for some part of her journey, but was
at length unwillingly compelled to separate from her and return to her
convent, attended by the vassals whom the Abbess of Zurich had sent for
her protection. Ida reached her guardian’s Castle without meeting any
adventure; but a mistake of her attendants occasioned her to go
considerably out of her road, and this delay gave time for Father
Jacob’s letter to precede her at the Castle of Torrenburg. Father
Hilarius lost no time in searching for Elizabeth’s letters; he found
them, and found them also such, as he wished. Some, which would have
exculpated Ida, and made against Elizabeth, he committed to the flames,
and then lost no time in communicating the rest to his patron.
Count Frederick had returned home on Elizabeth’s bridal day, which he
intended to pass with his niece in silent melancholy. He had resolved to
inquire into her character with more attention, than he had done
hitherto; and as his late disappointment had made him give up all
thoughts of marriage for himself, it was his intention to declare that
the damsels of Werdenberg were his future heiresses, in case they should
prove to deserve so great a distinction.
On his arrival he inquired for Ida; he was informed, that she was gone
to the wedding of the young Countess of March.—He started in
astonishment, and father Hilarius shook his head with a smile. Frederick
enquired, how the girl could have ventured to take a step, which he
could not but look upon as a marked token of disrespect? or if she were
ignorant of his having payed his addresses to Elizabeth, why had not
father Hilarius prevented her from unconsciously offering him this
public affront? the worthy Chaplain shrugged his shoulders, and answered
that—“Good-lack! he was too old and too simple to look after a young
wanton girl with the devil (heaven bless us!) in her head.”—
—“She slipped away,” continued he, “without saying a word of her
intention to me, or to any one—and as to her _ignorance_ of your
adresses.... Blessed St. Barnabas! she knew much more about them, than I
did myself!—Why, my lord, I have just discovered, that she has long kept
up a secret correspondence with the Lady Elizabeth; and I can bring you
the most undeniable proofs, that you would at this moment have been
happy in the possession of your bride, had it not been for Ida, for the
self created heiress of Torrenburg; who instigated her innocent friend
to refuse your hand; who fooled her into an imaginary passion for young
Montfort; and when she had entangled the poor Elizabeth too closely in
this intrigue to admit of her retreating with honour, who finally
persuaded her to adopt the disgraceful measure of an elopement.—Yet to
say truth, there is some excuse for Ida’s conduct, since she could not
but heartily wish to prevent a marriage so extremely detrimental to her
own views and interests.”—
Frederick heard every word with increasing amazement. In a voice of fury
he demanded, that the proofs, of which the Monk had spoken, should be
instantly produced.—Father Hilarius then gave Elizabeth’s letters into
his hand, accompanying them with some reflections on the danger of
teaching women the art of writing; at the same time reminding the Count,
how strenuously and how frequently he had represented to him, that in
the hands of so forward a girl as Ida, there could not possibly be a
more dangerous instrument than a pen; and that to leave her to the full
as ignorant as he found her, was an object most desirable both for the
Count and for herself.—But his remonstrances had been disregarded; Ida
was taught to write; and now see the blessed effects of it!
Elizabeth’s hand was not to be mistaken; and while the Count gazed upon
the writing so well known to him, the malicious Priest inflamed his
resentment still further by relating various passages of Ida’s early
life, to which he well knew how to give that colouring, which suited
best with his designs; he related, how during the time that she was
believed to be Tell’s grand-daughter, Ida had greatly shocked her
companions by her free and dissolute manners; he proceeded to state,
that in consequence her guardians had been obliged to separate her from
Constantia, lest the one should be perverted by the bad example of the
other; that regret at finding all his efforts to reclaim her in vain,
had broken the heart of her adopted father, and sent him with sorrow to
his grave: that she had carried on an intrigue with a man of low birth,
to whom she was still attached; and that in all probability it was her
intention to enrich this peasant with the valuable inheritance, which
she expected to derive from Count Frederick’s bounty.
—“And then” continued Father Hilarius, casting a malicious side-glance
upon Ida’s claims; “and then how easy will it be for the young fellow to
vamp up some fine story of an unexpected discovery, and of a
relationship to some illustrious family long concealed, and thus qualify
himself for assuming openly the proud name of _Count of Torrenburg_, in
right of his wife, her generous uncle’s heiress!”—
The Count bit his lip: yet after a long silence he answered, that Ida’s
parentage and claims admitted of no doubt; and that he wished most
heartily, that she were any other person, in order that in pronouncing
his judgement upon her conduct, she might have been entitled to less
consideration and respect.
—“But in spite of all her faults,” said he, “I cannot deal harshly with
a person, who is the daughter of my deceased friend, and of the woman
whom I once adored. Yet on the other hand, such mean artifices, such
acts of interested baseness, of such flagrant ingratitude, ought not to
escape without due punishment.—Ida has destroyed the happiness, which I
promised myself in marriage; it will be no more than a just vengeance,
if I destroy hers in return.—Should she fail to exculpate herself, she
shall either be immured for life within the walls of a Cloister, or give
her hand without delay to the old Count of Montfort, from whom I this
morning received proposals for her hand.”—
When he pronounced this sentence, the Count was standing in an open
balcony: as the last words fell from his lips, he saw Ida with her
attendants riding slowly towards the Castle. He hastily drew back; and
feeling, that he was at that time too much incensed to give her cause an
impartial hearing, he ordered Father Hilarius to fill his place—the
Friar exulted at this command: he knew well the generosity of his
patron’s nature, and dreaded that irresistible conviction, which ever
accompanies the pleading of injured innocence: he therefore heard with
Great satisfaction, that the cause was not to be tried by a judge, the
goodness of whose own heart would naturally incline him to the side of
mercy, justice, and compassion.
Ida had scarcely divested herself of her bridal robes, when a procession
entered her chamber composed of the chief officers of the Count’s
household, and headed by the reverend Father Hilarius. The formal manner
of their entrance, and the gravity which reigned in every countenance,
were alone sufficient to communicate to her mind some degree of
confusion and alarm.—How greatly were these emotions increased, when the
Chaplain began his examination, which was preceded by a terrible
description of her guardian’s anger, and which consisted of questions so
artfully worded, that taken by surprize and bewildered as she was, she
found herself constrained either to return no answers at all, or such as
were apparently to her disadvantage.—Sensible of this at length, she
entreated, that time might be allowed her for recollection: the greatest
part of her auditors were well inclined to the poor suppliant, and felt
for her the most sincere compassion. The Monk therefore did not dare to
act towards her with all the harshness, to which his heart prompted him;
the further examination of this affair was postponed to three hours
after sunrise of the next day, and Ida was left alone.
It was midnight.—Ida sat weeping, while a variety of unpleasant images
crowded before her imagination, and retraced the many singular and
painful transactions, of which that day had been a witness.
Interesting as had been the events which took place at the Castle of
March, still her mind was most occupied by those more recent ones,
which surprized her at her return home.—“Her guardian Elizabeth’s
rejected bridegroom.”—“Herself accused of having broken off his
marriage.”—“_Some_ offences laid to her charge, which were totally
incomprehensible.”—“_Others_, of which she was conscious, that her
unguarded conduct had made her but too liable to be suspected.”—“The
Count’s violent resentment.”—“His threats.”—“Expulsion from the Castle
of Torrenburg.”—“The only choice, allowed her, the cloister for life,
or an union with the decrepit Count Egbert.”—Poor, poor Ida! how wilt
thou find a clue to guide thy bewildered steps aright through such a
labyrinth of dangers!
Buried in these melancholy reflections, she heard not the door unlocked,
by which her apartments communicated with the public gallery.—At length
a hand gently removed the handkerchief, with which she had covered her
face. She looked up, and beheld Father Hilarius.
—“Alas! my dear child,” said the Friar, “what avails your
weeping?—believe me, your affairs are not in so ill a state, as you may
imagine; though I cannot but confess, that appearances are greatly
against you. Your secret correspondence with Elizabeth has been
intercepted: I have tried in vain to convince your guardian, that you
were ignorant of his having any concern in the affair. Then he looks on
your presence at the marriage, as a personal and designed affront. It
appears indeed from one of her letters, that your friend herself was in
great doubt, whether you would accept her invitation. At the very time
of her giving it, she pointed out the inconveniences of your coming; she
warned you, that you would incur your uncle’s anger.... And yet in
defiance of this warning, you went!—As to the confusion, which your
presence produced at the wedding, of that we can make out nothing; you
either _will_ not, or _can_ not explain the mystery; one thing only I
can collect from your account, which is, that you have made a number of
enemies there, who will spare no pains to injure you, and to prevent
your innocence from being made clear to the Count.—For that you _are_
innocent, I have no manner of doubt; and I will venture to assert, that
in process of time.... But time indeed, Heaven help us! that is exactly
what is refused you—the punishment of your supposed offences will be
immediate! the old Count of Montfort arrived here not an hour ago; and
your guardian is determined, that to-morrow shall decide the destiny of
your future life. Of your guilt he is thoroughly persuaded, and you will
be compelled to-morrow to give your hand to Count Egbert, if he will
condescend to accept it; or if the old man thinks that your conduct has
now made you unworthy of such an honour, you will be immediately
confined for life in the Convent of the Grey Penitents near Count
Frederick’s Thuringian Castle.”—
—“And what then must be done?” cried Ida, wringing her hands in fear and
agony.—“How can I escape so dreadful a destiny?”—
—“Escape?” repeated the Monk.—“Ha! right! right! my dear child, it was
surely Heaven, that inspired you with the thought!—Yes! you must escape;
you must fly from the Castle of Torrenburg!”—
—“Escape? fly?”—repeated the bewildered Ida; “and whither must I go?”—
“To a retreat,” replied the Monk, “where you may wait in security, till
your uncle’s resentment is appeased, and your innocence can be made
clear to him.—But you shall know more, as we go along. I know a secret
passage, by which you may quit the Castle unobserved. Follow me, for you
have not a moment to lose!—Nay, come, come! away!”—
Thus saying, he caught the lamp from the table with one hand, and
grasping Ida’s arm with the other, he drew her from the
chamber.—Bewildered, terrified, she had not presence of mind sufficient
to form a resolution; and her exhausted frame was unable to resist the
force, with which he urged her forwards, as she followed him through the
long galleries, rather passively submitting, than wilfully consenting to
his design.
I formerly mentioned, that Count Frederick still resided on the spot,
which had once been the habitation of the antient Counts of Carlsheim
and Sargans. To this he had chiefly been induced by the beauty of the
situation: perhaps too his pride was secretly gratified by the
recollection, that his residence was the same with that, whence his
ancestors were accustomed to extend the sceptre of command over the
surrounding provinces, and to set at defiance the resentment of many a
sovereign prince, who possest much more lofty-sounding titles but much
less real power and strength.—Still the gloomy, half-ruined Castle of
Sargans was by no means a mansion suited to the taste of its modern
possessor. Accordingly he had levelled to the ground the remains of a
wing of this gigantic pile, which had formerly been destroyed by fire,
and had erected in its place a stately palace, at once noble in its
external form, and convenient in its interior accommodations. This was
called the Castle of Torrenburg; while the forsaken halls and towers of
Sargans were still distinguished by the name of the “Donat-Fortress,”
the two buildings were separated by courts of considerable extent; the
antient one was in a great measure suffered to go to ruin, except a few
apartments which were kept up for the accommodation of domestics, when
on solemn occasions the number of guests was too great to be received
within the walls of the Count’s own residence.
Superstition had not failed to extend her dominion over the
Donat-Fortress.—Traditions respecting the former Counts of Carlsheim and
Sargans, which had been handed down from father to son, and with which
you, Elizabeth, are already well acquainted, furnished subjects
sufficient for a thousand wonderful stories. In truth, the prejudice, in
favour of the opinion that the ruins were haunted, was so prevalent,
that not merely among the Count’s domestics, but even among the
inhabitants of the neighbouring villages numbers of ghost-seers were to
be found, who had beheld at sundry times (and with their own eyes) the
spirits of Ethelbert and Urania, of Donat, Helen, and other traditionary
personages, wandering among those abandoned halls and moss-grown towers;
and they augured either favourable or inauspicious events to the
reigning possessor, according as the vision represented a lady or a
Monk, an innocent wife or her haughty tyrant husband.
Ida’s character is naturally extremely timid, and she had not escaped
the contagion of superstitious terrors. It was therefore with no slight
emotion, that she found her conductor taking the way, which led to the
ruins.
—“Whither are you leading me?” said she frequently, as she followed him
with trembling steps.—“Whither are you leading me?” she again demanded
almost with a shriek; and as she snatched her hand from the Friar’s, her
blood froze in her veins at perceiving, that she had now past the last
of the separating courts, and stood before the massy walls and lofty
round towers of the Donat-Fortress, whose colossal portal seemed to
stretch wide its enormous jaws, as if for the purpose of devouring her.
Father Hilarius was now compelled to stop for a moment, and support his
fainting companion. She reclined her head against his shoulder; and when
she had in some degree recovered her spirits, she related to him, that
happening once to be standing in her balcony at midnight, she had seen
with her own eyes the apparitions of two Monks come out of the very
gate, before which they were at that moment standing; that they went up
to the old well in the corner, whose mouth is overgrown with moss and
weeds, and there they seemed to vanish; and that upon relating what she
had seen the next morning, the old portress had related to her a
terrible history of two Monks belonging to the Abbey of Curwald, who
were starved to death in a subterraneous dungeon by the order of one of
the tyrant-counts of Carlsheim; that their bones were buried in that
ruined well, in which Heaven’s retribution had ordained, that the
murderer himself should perish; and that ever since that time, the place
had been haunted by the ghosts of the two unfortunate Friars.
Father Hilarius, who frequently made use of the deserted fortress, when
he had any secret business to transact, could have easily removed the
miraculous part of the appearances, which Ida had seen; but it did not
suit his plans to quiet her anxiety by letting her into the truth. He
contented himself with painting in the strongest colours the dangers,
which awaited her on her return to the Count’s abode; and with reminding
her, that her only chance of avoiding those dangers was an instantaneous
flight by means, whose terrors were merely imaginary.
The priest, in spite of all his seeming simplicity, was by no means
deficient in eloquence. His descriptions were so lively, and his
arguments came so home to her feelings, that Ida was soon convinced,
that she could meet with no ghost more terrible or more hideous than the
old Count of Montfort. She therefore resolved to follow her guide
without further remonstrance, and only requested that she might shut her
eyes, and clasp one of his hands with both of hers in the form of a
cross, which holy sign (she doubted not) would scare all evil spirits
away. To this he consented, and promised to inform her when she should
be arrived in a place of safety, and might relieve herself from this
voluntary loss of sight.
As they proceeded, the Monk lighted several torches of yellow wax, which
were fastened at intervals against the sides of a long passage, opening
into a large hall; he took the same precaution, as he ascended a lofty
marble staircase; and as soon as he entered a spacious saloon, he lost
no time in illuminating twelve large chandeliers of brass, which were
suspended from the roof.—He now desired Ida to open her eyes, and look
round her.
He could not have pitched upon a better method for dissipating Ida’s
fears of ghosts and goblins. Darkness is the mother of causeless terror;
with the return of light, courage and confidence return to the trembling
heart. The lamp, with which the Friar was still busied in lighting the
last chandelier, assured her, that there was nothing supernatural in the
light, by which she found herself surrounded; and her heart expanded
with the agreeable impression, produced upon her by this sudden and
unexpected splendour.
She had always pictured to herself the Donat-Fortress, as the residence
of crows, bats, and screech-owls, a gloomy chaos of dirt, and dust, and
fragments of moth-eaten furniture. How greatly then was she surprized to
find, that though everything in truth was faded and antiquated, yet
nothing could be more magnificent than the saloon, which she was then
examining. It was hung with tapestry richly wrought and adorned with
pictures, on whose frames gold and carving had been lavished most
profusely: and through the open door she looked out upon the illuminated
marble staircase, and down the long gallery, whose vista of lights
presented an object at once noble and agreeable. Father Hilarius advised
her to repose herself for a few minutes, and conducted her to an
elevated seat under a canopy, which seemed like a throne.
—“It was here,” said he “that the antient lords of the ten jurisdictions
were accustomed to receive the homage of their vassals, while that
anti-chamber was thronged with their knights and retainers; and it was
from yonder side-chambers, that crouds of the noblest dames and damsels
of the country looked out, and admired the magnificence of the powerful
Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans.”—
Ida would not cast a single glance towards the side-chambers, where the
dames and damsels of former days used to assemble, for in these there
were no torches; and she could not help fearing, lest she should
discover in them some inhabitant of the other world made visible by the
light of his own burning brimstone. She therefore continued to look
towards the illuminated gallery, and listened with pleased attention to
Father Hilarius, while he dwelt upon the brighter parts of the family
traditions, and by descriptions of splendid feasts and stately
tournaments, contrived to beguile the trembling girl of her terrors.
—“But we forget ourselves,” said the Monk at length, suddenly breaking
off his narration, “we must not suffer day-light to surprise us in these
untenanted apartments, where we should undoubtedly be sought after, and
then if found what would be the consequence? you would be consigned to
the arms of the decrepit Egbert, while I should be sent back to my
Convent with indignation by your uncle. Come, lady, come! follow me,
where peace and security await your arrival.”—
—“Lead on, good father!” replied Ida; “be you but my guide, and I will
not hesitate to follow.”—
—“Good!” said Hilarius; and then extinguishing some of the lights, he
took them from the chandeliers.—“Then take special care of these tapers;
they will be necessary for us on the way, by which we must escape. Now
then hasten onwards, and be alarmed at nothing, which you may encounter.
Be assured, there is no real danger.”—
Thus saying, he gave her a small basket, which already appeared to
contain some provisions, and in which he now deposited the tapers. These
preparations for a long journey through gloomy ways were by no means
calculated to preserve in Ida’s mind that temporary tranquillity, which
it had so lately recovered. An involuntary shuddering seized her; and as
he lighted her forwards, he assured her so often of his acting honestly
by her, that she began to suspect, that it must be his intention to
deceive her.
They at length reached the most remote quarter of the Donat-Fortress,
which by no means corresponded with the magnificence of those
apartments, by which she had approached it. Here nothing was to be seen
but winding staircases, narrow passages, low roofs, and gloomy vaulted
dungeons, without end or number, whose labyrinth bewildered her memory,
and whose aspect appalled her imagination. Most of them bore the
strongest marks of the ravages of time: and now they entered an immense
chamber, which according to the Monk’s account had at one period been
the bedroom of the Countess Urania, and of many of the ladies, her
successors.—A large vacant alcove still decorated with the remnants of
silken curtains, appeared to have once been intended to contain a bed,
and confirmed the assertion of Father Hilarius; an assertion, which the
other ornaments of the room seemed calculated to contradict. Swords,
spears, and coats of mail were fastened against the walls, and gave the
apartment more the appearance of a well-furnished armoury, than of a
lady’s bed chamber. Ida was on the point of asking the meaning of such
unusual decorations, when her conductor removed a part of the worm-eaten
tapestry, and opened a concealed door, through which she descried a
staircase descending to a far greater depth, than her eye could reach.
—“Here is our way,” said Hilarius, “tremble not, my child, but follow me
without hesitation.—A few hours will place you in safety.”—
Ida shrunk back, and weeping through extreme terror, inquired, whether
this was the only means of escaping?—The Friar, who had already found
out the quickest method of removing her apprehensions, descended part of
the staircase, and as he past, kindled some tapers fixed on the
balustrade. This experiment succeeded, as it had done before—Ida
ventured down a few steps, and the Monk returned to assist her to
descend the remainder; when suddenly springing past her, he rushed up
the staircase, and passing through the door, closed it after him with a
loud noise.
How the blood ran cold in the poor girl’s veins, when she found herself
forsaken by her guide; how she hastened after him, in hopes of inducing
him by entreaties to release her from this unexpected captivity; how she
shuddered at being able to discover no traces of the concealed door; and
how she at length sank down upon the steps in agony and despair, when
she found no answer returned to her shrieks for relief and mercy, all
this I need not describe to Elizabeth: her own good and tender heart
will make her feel for the situation of a young creature, by nature the
most fearful of her sex, exposed to all the horrors of night, solitude,
and silence, at the entrance of a chain of gloomy caverns, whose
existence till that moment had been unknown to her, and with whose
outlet she was totally unacquainted.
Though she received no answer, she was certain, that her entreaties for
help were not unheard by the unpitying Friar. She could plainly
distinguish his footsteps, as he hastened away from the chamber; and the
noise of closing doors and of bolts shooting back into their fastenings
left her no room to doubt her being totally abandoned.
Ida was herself unconscious, how much time elapsed, before she could
summon strength of mind sufficient to reflect, how it would be most
adviseable for her to conduct herself in this perilous situation.
Undoubtedly, before she could recover from the shock, a considerable
period must have elapsed; for when she at length looked around her, she
perceived, that the torches were on the point of expiring. The dread of
being left in total darkness recalled her to herself: she sprang from
the ground, and lost no time in kindling one of the tapers, with which
the Monk (who was far from wishing her destruction) had providently
supplied her basket.
—“He does not then desire my death?” said she, as she saw the flame rise
bright and cheerful, and a kind of doubtful joy infused itself into her
almost frozen heart.
This persuasion was confirmed, when faintness compelled her to examine
the contents of her basket. Father Hilarius (who was no enemy to the
pleasures of the table) had furnished it, as if he had been catering for
himself: the provisions were the most delicate of their kind, and a
small flask of costly and cordial wine had not been forgotten. Now then
she began to think, what could have been his object in conducting her to
this gloomy abode? It was evident, that he had not left her there to
perish through hunger: was it possible, that he had meant honestly by
her, and that this was really the best path, which she could take to
quit the Castle? Suddenly, it struck her, that during their midnight
wandering the Monk had frequently mentioned a subterraneous passage,
which conducted to a small hamlet inhabited in former times by holy
Hermits, and now the abode of simple villagers scarcely less pure in
manners than their predecessors. He had described this passage to her
with such minuteness, that she could not but suppose his account to have
contained instructions for the direction of her progress; she had at the
time paid but little attention to his remarks, not conceiving that she
was at all interested in the subject; but she now carefully mustered up
every hint which he had let fall, and employed her whole strength of
mind in recalling the instructions, which he had given with such
apparent indifference.
Having at length traced the map of her road on her imagination
sufficiently to make her hope, that she should be able to find her way
through the gloomy labyrinth, she ventured to begin her journey. She
carefully avoided various low-vaulted, passages, which presented
themselves on either side of her, and which Father Hilarius had already
warned her not to enter; as he said, that they only led to small
dungeons, in which many victims of the tyrant Counts of Carlsheim and
Sargans had breathed their last, and which now formed the unwholesome
abode of toads, snakes, and other loathsome reptiles. Apprehensive that
her light might fail her, before she could reach the outlet of these
caverns, she fled onwards with all her speed, and hoped with every
moment, that the next would show her the magnificent tomb, raised by
Count Herman of Werdenberg in honour of his wife the lady Emmeline, who
had been long imprisoned in this subterraneous abode. The sight of this
monument would assure her, that she had not mistaken the way; and the
Monk had told her, that she would there find three paths branching out,
of which the middle one would conduct her without a turning to the
cavern’s mouth.
But still she hastened on, and still one taper after the other was
consumed, and still the tomb was not to be descried! Sleep, and fatigue
from the length of the way, began to operate upon her with force almost
irresistible; yet did she not dare to close her eyes, lest during her
slumber the taper should burn out, and leave her in absolute darkness to
wander through the long chain of dungeons and passages, till she
perished. In this painful situation her only advantage was, that her
imaginary fears gradually subsided. Custom and necessity are frequently
the parents of virtue; and Ida, the timid superstitious Ida, who so
lately could only traverse the chambers of the Donat-Fortress with eyes
closed, hands crost, and knees trembling, was now able to tread firmly,
as she hurried along, and feared not to gaze steadfastly on the
surrounding gloom, with which she was now become familiar.
The poor wanderer could only judge from the consumption of her tapers,
that she must have journeyed for a considerable time, and that the mouth
of the caverns could be at no great distance—this belief was confirmed,
when she perceived a faint pale light glimmering through the obscurity
of a narrow passage, which lay before her. The sight inspired her with
renewed vigour. She hastened towards the gleam: but how did her spirits
fail her, when after proceeding for some minutes down the passage she
found, that the light proceeded (not from the day, as she had fondly
hoped) but from a lamp, which served to illuminate with its blue rays a
place, the sight of which a few days sooner would have made her swoon
with horror, and upon which even now she had but too much reason to look
with apprehension and disgust.
It was a round vaulted room, whose sides were hollowed out into niches,
in each of which a coffin was placed; while here and there the eye
rested on a stately marble monument adorned with carved work and
statues.—Ida shrieked, and the taper fell from her hand.
—“Now then,” she exclaimed, “I am lost indeed! What said the Monk?—Above
all, avoid a narrow passage, which lies towards the left; it conducts
into the burying-place of a convent. Should you stray thither, and be
discovered by the Nuns, the object of your flight will be lost
irrecoverably, and you will only have exchanged one prison for another.
The Abbess is entirely devoted to your uncle’s interests, and will not
hesitate to restore you to his power.—Alas! alas!” she continued,
wringing her hands, “how plainly do I now remember every word of his
warning, though at the time I little thought of how much consequence it
was to my safety!—Now remembrance comes too late! I am fallen into the
toils: speedy flight indeed might perhaps yet save me; but sleep sits
too heavy on my eye-lids, and my wearied limbs are unable to bear me
further.—I must yield to the impulse, and repose for a few moments, for
I am fatigued almost unto death!—then should no one discover me during
my slumbers, when I awake, I can re-kindle my taper at yonder lamp, and
shall be able to pursue my pilgrimage with recruited strength and
courage.”—
She then lay down upon the floor near her extinguished taper, resting
her head against an adjacent tomb; nor was it long before she sank into
a profound sleep. Little till then did Ida believe it possible, that she
could sleep among graves and coffins! Still less was she aware, how near
she was at that moment to safety and protection! Oh! how would her
sorrowing heart have been lightened, had she known, that a few hours
must necessarily compel one of her best friends to enter her gloomy
resting-place; one, who at that moment was grieving at the relation of
her flight from the Castle of Torrenburg, which had reached him under
the most scandalous mis-representations, and who was in the most painful
uncertainty respecting her fate and the means of saving and supporting
her. Ida had unconsciously wandered into the cemetery belonging to the
Abbey of Curwald, which was under the direction of her friend and
guardian, Abbot Conrad!—Oh! how eagerly would he have hastened to
embrace and comfort the poor forlorn-one, could some kind angel have
whispered to him in a dream.—“Ida, the unfortunate much-injured Ida
slumbers among the mouldering bones of the Abbots of Cloister-Curwald!”—
Conrad had dispatched messengers on all sides in pursuit of Ida, as soon
as he received the news of her flight, which Count Frederick transmitted
to him without delay. It seems, that what Father Hilarius dreaded with
so much reason, had actually taken place at the Castle of Torrenburg. No
sooner was the first burst of passion over, than the Count’s justice
made him resolve to give his accused niece a personal hearing—the
morning had scarcely dawned, when he sought her apartments. Her
favourite attendant was ordered to apprize her mistress of his approach:
great was his astonishment, when the maid returned extremely agitated,
and informed him, that Ida was no where to be found. Father Hilarius was
immediately sent for; and his explanation of Ida’s motives for flight of
course was such, as served greatly to increase his patron’s indignation,
and throw a still deeper shade upon the character and conduct of the
fugitive. Elizabeth’s bridegroom had disappeared, immediately after
rejecting her hand at the altar; Ida was now become equally invisible:
it required no great ingenuity to connect these two events together.
Nothing could appear more probable, than that Ida had eloped with Henry,
and that she was gone to form an union built upon the ruined happiness
of her best friends, and to exult at having duped those, whose
good-natured simplicity had prevented them from suspecting her
designs.—Count Frederick’s generous heart was shocked beyond expression,
when he thus saw the offences of his niece presented before him in such
gigantic enormity.
—“Monstrous!” he exclaimed! “inconceivable! first she plunges a dagger
in the breast of her benefactor, by robbing him of the woman whom he
adored; next she stabs her dearest friend to the heart by seducing away
the bridegroom, into whose arms she had herself delivered her! now then
she believes, that her infernal work is complete; she knows well, that
all ideas of an union between me and Elizabeth are prevented for ever;
she doubts not, that vexation and disappointed love will soon conduct me
to the grave; and then she means to divide my rich inheritance with the
partner of her iniquities, the false capricious perjured Montfort!”—
Father Hilarius now stepped forward, and represented to him, that it
only depended upon himself to ruin the plans of those, who had so
grossly offended him; and that as to his union with Elizabeth, he for
his part saw no impossibility in the case. The Count eagerly desired him
to explain his meaning; and the obedient Monk proceeded to prove with
the whole force of his eloquence, that Elizabeth deserved pity rather
than blame for her share in these transactions; that she had been
seduced from her duty more by Ida’s arts than by her own inclinations;
and he declared his perfect conviction, that if the Count would now
condescend to make the first advance towards a reconciliation, he would
find her as full of penitence for her error, as grateful for his
proffered affection, and as eager to unite with him in a plan of mutual
revenge, as even the Count himself could desire.—Nor did he make this
last assertion rashly. Father Jacob had already apprized him, that every
thing at the Castle of March was favourable to their views; and he
advised Hilarius to send his patron thither without loss of time, in
order that Elizabeth’s resentment (upon which he chiefly grounded his
hopes of success) might not be allowed time to cool.
Count Frederick took the Friar’s advice, which was greatly strengthened
by a supposed vision of the Patron-Saint of Torrenburg, who had
condescended in a dream that very night to assure Father Hilarius, that
the consequence of a visit to the Castle of March would be an union with
the lovely Elizabeth. Accordingly the Count lost no time in setting out
to renew his once-rejected proposals, habited as a bridegroom, and
attended by a princely retinue. In the mean while the worthy
house-chaplain did not even allow himself time enough to say his
paternoster, before he dispatched letters to the Bishop of Coira and
Abbot Conrad, in which he related the flight of their ward, the Lady Ida
of Werdenberg, in all its circumstances; stating also the alledged
motives and supposed consequences of this step, and above all not
forgetting to place every circumstance in the light most unfavourable to
the Heroine of the Tale. As they perused these letters, the Abbot and
the good Bishop alternately felt indignation at Ida’s errors, pity for
her misfortunes, and anxiety for the dangers in which she had involved
herself. Willingly would they have believed her innocent; but
appearances were too strong against her, and the Abbot little imagined,
that the only person capable of removing the suspicions, which he was so
anxious to efface, at that very moment reposed so near him.
In the mean while Ida awoke greatly refreshed by a sound sleep of
several hours. She re-kindled her taper, and resumed her anxious
journey; yet she delayed it for a few moments, while she endeavoured to
read the inscriptions on the monuments, and ascertain to what order the
Abbess belonged, whom Hilarius had described to her in such odious and
terrific colours. These clearly exprest, that the tombs were raised in
honour of the former Abbots of Cloister-Curwald, in whose cemetery she
was standing at that moment: what blessed information for her agitated
heart!—the door was unguarded.—A marble staircase conducted to the
interior of the Abbey!—But alas! the inscriptions were composed in the
Latin language.—Ida vainly endeavoured to comprehend the meaning; and a
few moments sufficing to convince her, that her endeavours must be vain,
the poor wanderer turned away from the neighbourhood of her friend, and
hastened to meet her ruin.
With trembling limbs and an heart almost bursting with anxiety, she
pursued her gloomy path. She continued to proceed for a considerable
time; and her last taper was almost expiring, when its beams fell upon
the object, which she had wished to behold so long and so anxiously. She
was now certain of having followed the right path, for she saw at a
distance the monument of her progenitrix, the noble Emmeline of Sargans.
The polished and shining surface of the white marble reflected from afar
the gleam of Ida’s taper—the pilgrim hastened towards it with eager joy,
not untempered by religious awe and reverential terror. With
scarce-heard foot-fall, as if she dreaded to disturb the dead silence of
a place thus sanctified, did Ida ascend the steps leading to this
memorial, raised in honour of faithful love and long suffering. It was
some minutes, before she could resolve on venturing near enough to
examine the statues, with which it was adorned. On one side stood a
female angel (the counterpart of the lovely Emmeline) who trod under her
feet the symbols of cruelty and voluptuousness, and who extended to a
kneeling warrior her right hand, on whose wrist was still fastened part
of the chain, which _he_ had broken.—On the opposite side appeared the
same warrior, who with looks of gratitude held a ring towards Heaven,
probably in allusion to the prophetic dream, which had guided Herman of
Werdenberg to the deliverance of his mistress.
—“Spirits of my ancestors!” exclaimed Ida, as overpowered by her
sensations she sank on the loftiest step, and kist the hallowed marble;
“spirits of Herman and Emmeline, hear the prayer of your forsaken
persecuted daughter! _I_ suffer now, as _you_ once suffered;—_I_ am
innocent, as _you_ were then!—save me, ye blessed-ones! save the heiress
of your sorrows!”—
Ida prayed long and fervently.—When she arose, she found that her last
taper was exhausted, and had left her in total darkness; this however
gave her little concern. The religious duties, in which she had just
been engaged, had inspired her heart with enthusiastic courage: besides,
she knew well, that of the three ways branching out of the circular
vault in which she was at that moment, she had only to chuse the middle
one, which (as Father Hilarius had informed her) would conduct her
straight to the outlet of the subterraneous passages. She ascertained
easily by examining the walls, which of the three was the proper path to
take, and then hastened boldly forwards; for she was now persuaded, that
the invisible spirits of her ancestors hovered over her, and she dreaded
no danger, while protected by those celestial guardians.
The Monk had told her true—the way was straight and unembarrassed with
windings: it soon began to ascend, and the delighted wanderer could at
length discover the faint glimmering of day-light, through the distant
opening. But alas! however near may be the goal of our wishes, who shall
dare to count himself secure of reaching it!—Ida had for some minutes
heard a dead hollow noise behind her, and the ill-boding sounds had
already occasioned her sufficient anxiety to make her double her speed.
Still the noise became more audible: and now she could plainly
distinguish the steps of men, whose arms clattered, as they past along.
She looked back, and could perceive the glimmering of faint lights at a
distance. She rushed forwards with increased rapidity: the sounds, which
became every moment louder, convinced her, not only that she was
pursued, but that her pursuers gained upon her.—Fortunately, the opening
was now at hand; she summoned up all her strength and activity to reach
it, sprang through it, and found herself once more restored to air and
light.
—“Praised be Heaven, I am safe!” she exclaimed: when at that moment she
felt a cold hand seize her by the arm.—She shrieked, and fell on the
earth senseless.
It was long, before her recollection returned. When she again unclosed
her eyes, she found herself no longer in the open air. She was placed
upon a kind of couch, in what she supposed to be a tent; a group of men
of terrible and savage aspect surrounded her; and seated on a chest at
no great distance, she perceived a warrior in complete armour, whose
raised visor showed a countenance wild, ’tis true, but still noble and
commanding.
—“At length then we have found her!” said the warrior in a tone of
exultation—“the lovely pilgrim is in our power, whom we so long sought
in vain through yon gloomy vaults and subterraneous passages.—You are
welcome, fair lady: Father Hilarius gave us notice, that we might expect
your visit; and I rejoice to find, that the description which he gave us
of your charms, was far from exaggerated.”—
—“Have mercy on my distress, Sir Knight!” cried Ida, who now rose from
her seat with difficulty, and sank at his feet, while she extended her
fettered hands in supplication towards him.
—“Father Hilarius assured me,” she continued, “that I should find the
habitation of some holy Hermits near the cavern’s mouth: oh! if any such
habitation really exists, in pity guide me thither!”—
—“Compose yourself, lovely girl,” answered the stranger.—“Hilarius has
not deceived you, neither has he deceived _us_.—He promised us the
possession of a treasure, and he has kept his word, though we mean to
make a better use of it than that, for which he consigned it over to us.
He promised you, that you should find here the habitation of certain
Hermits; and he told you true, for you are actually in a Hermitage at
this moment: many years ago was this the retreat of some fugitive Monks,
who were obliged to seclude themselves from the intercourse of mankind;
and it still forms an abode for a band of daring and persecuted spirits,
whom tyranny and injustice have banished from the world. We too are
Hermits, though not quite such holy ones as those, whom you excepted to
meet. But what does that signify? saints, or sinners, I warrant, you
will fare better in our society, than you would with any company of
Monks, that ever concealed hypocrisy under sackcloth.—Take this as a
specimen of the whole canting-tribe. Father Hilarius has commissioned us
to remove you so far from this province, that your face may never be
seen here again: we have engaged to convey you to a place, where beauty
like yours is always a marketable commodity, and sure of fetching a
heavy price: but you are too fair, too good, too noble, to be sacrificed
to the embraces of an infidel: no, child! we mean to do better for you.
You shall remain with _us_, and your priestly enemy shall be foiled in
his treacherous designs.”—
—“First understand,” interrupted Ida, whose indignation in spite of
grief and terror burst forth upon hearing this insolent declaration of
the outlaw; “first understand, to _whom_ you speak! I am no ordinary
captive, no low-born girl the fit associate for a band of robbers!—you
see in me the niece of Count Frederick of Torrenburg!”—
—“Indeed?” replied the outlaw,—“are you then _really_ Count Frederick’s
niece?—why, to let you into the whole secret, we were told as much,
though we did not give the Monk full credit, and suspected _that_ part
of his story to be an invention for the purpose of obtaining a better
price.—But since you are in truth the person whom he mentioned, so much
the better; your rank and expectations make your possession doubly
valuable. I have no sort of objection to exchange my precarious mode of
life for security and opulence, nor by laying aside the title of captain
of a band of outlaws to claim that of Count of Torrenburg in right of my
wife, its lovely heiress. With the assistance of my companions I will
reinstate you in your rights; the previous possession of your hand and
person will entitle me to share your good fortune; and I shall be
indebted to you for my restoration to my proper rank in society, which
necessity has for some time past compelled me unwillingly to resign. Now
then you are apprized of my whole plan, which suggested itself as soon
as Hilarius informed us of your rank, and in which I am fully confirmed
by the powerful impression produced upon my heart by your beauty.”—
He paused: Ida only answered with her tears—after a few minutes past in
expectation of her reply, the robber thus resumed his discourse.
—“You are silent? you weep?—Ha! perhaps you are offended that your hands
are fettered?—be comforted; those white hands shall instantly be
restored to liberty!—instantly undo those bonds, barbarians that you
are! how could it come into your heads, that it was necessary to bind a
poor defenceless girl, whose escape is so impossible?—shame upon your
flinty hearts, how could you bear to treat so inhumanly such innocence
and such charms!”—
The other robbers now hurried to remove the fetters; but their captain
drove them away with curses, and declared, that from that moment no one
except himself should dare to approach his lovely captive on pain of
instantaneous death.—He then kissed the unbound hands of Ida, led her
respectfully into another tent, and there left her alone, after
entreating her to compose her agitated spirits, and assuring her, that
she might rely upon meeting from him with none but the most honourable
treatment.
Ida, equally overcome with mental and bodily fatigue, sank into a state
of unconsciousness and stupor, which the sentinels who were appointed to
guard the entrance of her tent (and who from time to time looked in upon
their charge) interpreted to be a tranquil sleep, and failed not to
bring this welcome intelligence to their captain.—He received it with
the highest satisfaction, hailed this refreshing slumber as the first
step towards the restoration of tranquillity, doubted not that he should
find Ida more composed and resigned to her fate on his evening visit,
and found her almost frantic through despair.
The peremptory manner in which Ida rejected his addresses, and the
little progress which he made in reconciling her to her present
situation, grieved the robber-chief to the very heart, but did not
excite his indignation. He continued to treat her with the utmost
respect and attention. Nothing was denied her except liberty; and
Randolf (for that was the name of the enamoured outlaw) carried his
politeness and deference so far, that he never even presumed to enter
her tent without having previously obtained her permission.
Ida, whose presence of mind gradually returned, and who became collected
enough to reflect on the best means of conducting herself in such
difficult circumstances, could not but feel, that such attention on the
part of Randolf required some return on hers. She was totally in his
power; it was unwise to exasperate him; and she therefore judged it
prudent to allow him permission to pay her a daily visit of an hour,
since she feared with reason, that without this voluntary concession he
might be induced to allow himself greater liberties without asking her
leave.
—“May I, lady,” said he one morning, after she had past some days in his
power; “may I request permission to present to you one of my friends,
who holds in this society the next place to myself?—he is a nobleman,
whom misfortunes have compelled like me to adopt a mode of life, which
we both look upon with abhorrence, and which with the first opportunity
we are determined to exchange for one more honourable.”—
Ida was sufficiently aware, that the _opportunity_ to which he alluded,
was the possession of her hand, by which he hoped to give himself a
claim to the Count of Torrenburg’s rich inheritance. He frequently in
conversation threw out hints of this nature, but which she judged it
most wise to let pass without observation. She now only answered that
part of his speech, which regarded the introduction of his friend, and
to which (as she feared to irritate her jailor by a refusal) she gave an
unwilling consent.
On his next visit he was accompanied by a man, whose countenance was
much more wild and his manners much less prepossessing, than those of
Randolf. The latter presented the new visitor by the name of Sir Gero of
Altheim.
The captive soon understood from the conversation, which past between
the associates, that the antipathy, which Gero’s first appearance had
excited in her bosom, had not been excited without good grounds. He
possest not the smallest share of that delicacy and respectful
attention, by which her lover was characterized. He permitted himself to
make the most licentious and offensive observations upon the
extraordinary charms of her person, and raised her original disgust to
abhorrence by blaming Randolf for having suffered his passion to remain
so long ungratified; assuring him at the same time, that he would have
dealt far differently with his own lovely mistress, had not her
religious habit terrified him from using force, and thereby drawing down
the vengeance of offended Heaven.—For it seems, this wretch, though he
trampled upon all laws human and divine, was still a slave to the
grossest superstition, and trembled at the very sight of a veil or a
rosary.
—“She has now been some days in your possession,” observed Randolf;
“have you made any progress with the fair Nun?”—
“Not I!” replied Gero; “she is a miracle of beauty, its true, but her
obstinacy equals her charms. Since the day that I captured her on the
road to Zurich, I have been able to obtain nothing from her but tears
and entreaties for her liberty: and as to proceeding to violence, I am
too much afraid of the resentment of holy mother church, or I should put
an end to her resistance before to-morrow morning.”—
During this conversation Ida remained silent, and abandoned herself to
the melancholy reflections excited by the increased consciousness of the
execrable society, of which she was so unfortunately become a member.
But now when she found that she had a companion in misfortune, and that
a person of her own sex (a virtuous and persecuted Nun) was so near her,
a sentiment of secret satisfaction and hope infused itself into her
bosom.
—“Oh! Sir Knight,” she exclaimed, addressing herself to Randolf, “how
happy would you make me, could you but procure for me the company of Sir
Gero’s captive! it is disgraceful, it is dreadful, for a young maiden to
be alone in a society entirely composed of men and strangers; and I
feel, that the presence of a person of my own sex would be to me a
source of the greatest consolation! it would conduce beyond all else to
make me endure my confinement with resignation! oh! good Sir Randolf,
plead for me with your friend, and persuade him to allow me this
unexpected pleasure!”—
The smile, with which she accompanied this request (’twas the first
which played upon her lips, since she became a captive) was
irresistible. As she pronounced the last word, she extended her hand
towards him, and he kissed it with rapture. A wish, exprest in a manner
so fascinating and so unlooked for, was a law to the enamoured robber;
and addressing himself immediately to his companion, he enforced her
request with so much energy, that Gero though with a sorry grace found
himself compelled to grant it.
—“Now then” said Randolf, as he left the tent with Gero, “now then you
can judge for yourself, which of our modes of treating our captives is
the most likely to succeed at the long run. When did your Nun ever speak
to you with such gentleness, or favour you with so sweet a smile? when
did she ever extend her hand towards you of her own accord, and suffer
you to press your lips upon it? credit me, Gero; send her to my
mistress, and I will bet my head upon it, that before long half her
obstinacy and aversion will have disappeared. You see, how complaisant I
have made the lady Ida; and it only requires a little kindness and
flattery well applied to make our religious ladies, just as tame and as
obliging as their sisters of the wicked world.”—
In the course of the day Randolf returned to inform Ida, that she must
not expect the visit of the captive Nun till after midnight.
—“My friend,” said he, “is obliged to keep it a profound secret from the
greatest part of our companions, that such a prisoner is in his
possession. That he has a mistress, indeed, they are aware; but it would
make a terrible uproar in our community, were it known that Gero had
carried off a Nun; and many among our associates, who would think
nothing of half a dozen murders, would expect the rocks to fall and
crush us the very next moment, for daring to lay sacrilegious hands upon
a damsel dedicated to Heaven. To be sure, we violated no sanctuary to
get at her, for we found her trotting along the high road, when she
ought to have been quiet within the walls of her Convent: but still the
very sight of a veil has such influence over the common rabble, that
Gero does not think it prudent to bring her to your tent except under
the protecting shadow of night. He also implores you by me to reward him
for this compliance with your wishes, by persuading her to lend a more
favourable ear to his passion: he is also desirous of learning her name,
which hitherto she has obstinately concealed; and above all he is
anxious, that she should lay aside her religious habit, which hourly
exposes him to danger from his superstitious associates. I know, what
you are going to observe: you believe, that it is nothing but respect
for this habit, which preserves her from Gero’s violence; but I swear to
you by everything that is most sacred and solemn, that neither she nor
yourself have anything to fear from the men who adore you. Our
intentions towards you are the most honourable: we have great designs in
hand, whose nature I am not as yet permitted to disclose to you; but be
assured, that should they succeed, the Countess of Werdenberg and the
fair Nun will have reason to bless the day when they fell into our
hands, and thus escaped the being immured for life within the gloomy
walls of a Convent; a fate, from which _she_ has been rescued, and to
which _you_ were doomed.”—
The prudent Ida, (who saw that favours, which had cost her so little,
were so well rewarded by her grateful admirer) took good care not to
contradict the robber. She answered him by a thousand thanks for his
intercession with Gero, and for his assurances of regard for her
welfare; and she then dismissed him with a smile so gracious and so
sweet, as riveted his chains for ever. When beauty, and sense are united
in the same woman, alas! what puppets in her hands are the mighty lords
of the creation!
Midnight arrived—the hearts of both the captives throbbed with
impatience for the moment of meeting, though they knew not, what made
them so impatient. Never seemed time to move so slowly with Ida, as
while she waited for the stranger’s arrival; and on her side the lovely
Nun quite trembled with joy, while she followed her conductors to the
tent, in which (so Gero had informed her,) she should find a companion
in captivity, whose heart was prepared to sympathize in her
misfortunes—the robbers conducted her to the door of the tent; but
thinking it would be most agreeable to the ladies, that their first
interview should pass without intruders, they suffered her to enter
alone.
It was well for both the captives, that this meeting took place without
witnesses.—Ida was sitting in a melancholy posture, when she heard an
approaching footstep.—She started up, and beheld by the pale gleams of
her lamp a tall light figure, whose face was covered with a thick veil,
advancing from the entrance of the tent. She hastened to meet her, but
uttering a loud cry, she started back again. The religious habit worn by
the stranger was but too well known to her.—It was the long grey garment
decorated with a golden cross upon the breast, in which she had so often
seen the Nuns gliding through the cloisters of Engelberg; and the white
veil, edged with black and falling to the very ground, was of that
particular form appropriated to the order of the Zurich Sisters. The
veil was now hastily thrown back; Ida gazed eagerly upon the Stranger’s
features, and astonishment, joy, and tenderness were carried to the
highest pitch.
—“Constantia!” exclaimed Ida.—“Oh! Heaven! it is my Constantia!”—
—“Ida! my Ida!” shrieked the Nun, and clasped her almost fainting sister
to her bosom.
And now the Sisters wept for joy to think, that they were once more
united; and now they wept for grief at reflecting, that this union had
only made each a partner in the other’s captivity. At length having
sufficiently collected their scattered thoughts, they made mutual
enquiries as to the events, which had produced a meeting so unexpected.
Ida related the long and fearful tale of adventures, which had so
rapidly crouded upon her since Elizabeth’s wedding: on the other hand,
Constantia briefly stated, that on her way back to her Convent at
Zurich, her party had been encountered by a band of robbers: the
Cloister-Vassals, whom the Abbess had sent to protect her, were soon put
to flight; and thus was she brought into the hands of Gero, whom she had
the misfortune to inspire with so violent a passion, that he purchased
her from his companions with his share of the booty arising from the
whole produce of their excursion.
The night past away in mutual congratulations on this meeting so
unexpected; and when morning broke, they recollected, that their plans
for the future were still unarranged. They had now only time to settle,
that as the knowledge of Ida’s rank had only served to make the robbers
consider her possession as of double value, it would be most prudent to
conceal Constantia’s real title; and accordingly she resolved to resume
her former appellation of Mary Tell, an appellation under which she had
past the only happy part of her existence.
When Randolf the next morning inquired of Ida, what she thought of the
fair Nun, she replied, that her society was extremely pleasing, and
would be much more so, were it not for a certain coldness and reserve,
which probably would wear off upon further acquaintance. In a few days
she informed Gero, that she had discovered the name of his mistress to
be Mary Tell; and thus did Constantia avoid the dangerous importance
attached to the title of a Countess of Werdenberg. By her sister’s
advice, she abated somewhat of the haughty coldness, with which she had
hitherto represt the addresses of her ferocious lover; though they both
judged it unwise for her to comply with his request, that she should lay
aside her religious habit. This had hitherto been the means of
protecting her against more violent means of enforcing his passion; and
they were of opinion, that too many restraints could not well be imposed
upon an affection so ill-regulated as the sentiment, which Gero
dignified with the name of love. However, gentle looks and expressions
of gratitude for his attentions were not occasionally refused by
Constantia: Gero had been so little accustomed to be thus mildly treated
by her, that even these trifling condescensions appeared to him of
inestimable value; and when in return for his assurances of future
respect, she one day deigned to extend towards him her alabaster hand,
the robber was so transported, that he took the first opportunity of
thanking Ida upon his knees for a change, which he attributed entirely
to her powerful influence, and which he implored her to exert still
further in his behalf.
—“Noble lady,” said he, “you have often heard Randolf hint, that we have
great plans in agitation, whose chief object is the promotion of your
interests; nor are they unconnected with the happiness of myself and my
adorable Nun. A dreadful oath forbids my saying more on this subject at
present; but rest assured, when the time for explanation arrives, that
explanation will be such, as must perforce content you. In the mean
while suffer me to make to you one request. It is necessary for the
success of our undertaking, that yourself and the lovely Mary (together
with our jewels, gold, and all things which we possess of value) should
be removed from this valley to a retreat at some distance. During the
journey, and your residence at this new abode, promise me, that you will
keep a watchful eye over your fair companion, on whose attachment I can
by no means rely with the same confidence, which Randolf places on
yours. In this respect, he is far more fortunate than his friend; since
the kind reception, which he never fails to meet from you, in spite of
the awe with which your modest air and dignified demeanour inspires him,
leaves but little doubt, that you are sensible of his worth, and will in
time be disposed to reward so steady an attachment. Besides this, I am
convinced, that you have too much solid understanding to think of
escaping from a place, whose very nature will convince you on your
arrival, that any such attempt must be unsuccessful: but no one can say,
what dangerous impossibilities a Nun may not be induced to undertake,
animated by religious enthusiasm, and confident in the supposed
protection of the Saint, to whom her service is dedicated. These
illusions may heat her brain, till she desperately braves every peril,
overlooks every difficulty, and will draw down inevitable ruin on her
own existence, while she leaves me to lament over my baffled hopes. Then
mark me, Lady!—watch over Mary’s steps with unceasing assiduity: when we
again meet, restore her to me safe and lovely, as I now leave her; or
never hope to see yourself re-instated in your claims by the valour of
my arms and those of my companions, nor restored to society by the
acknowledged title of Countess of Werdenberg, and heiress of the wide
domains of Torrenburg, Carlsheim, and Sargans.”—
This speech, which was begun in a kneeling posture and in the softest
tone, which a voice so naturally rough could adopt, assumed as it
proceeded an air of menace, and was terminated by Gero with a terrible
frown and a loud stroke upon the brazen pommel of his sword. Nearly the
same discourse was repeated to her in the evening, (though conveyed in
much milder language) by Randolf. She delivered such a reply, as
circumstances compelled her to give, and trembled, as she listened to
some obscure hints and disjointed observations, which fell from the
outlaw, but which no solicitations could induce him to explain. However,
she had heard enough to excite in her mind the most painful
apprehensions, though not enough to certify their being well-grounded.
The preparations for setting out were soon completed: the treasures were
packed up; and the Sisters were now informed, that the place of their
destination was a narrow valley situated in the heart of the Mountains
of Hapsburg. Gero and Randolf took a tender but respectful leave of the
fair travellers, who were escorted by a small band of soldiers, composed
of such members of this lawless society as were unfitted by advanced
years for taking part in that great undertaking, to assist in which, the
young and active were detained. The ladies set forward, but not till Ida
had made some observations, which rendered her doubly impatient to
commence her journey.
—“Oh! my sister,” she said, as soon as she found an opportunity of
conversing without being overheard, “did you not observe among Randolf’s
followers countenances, which you had seen before? In spite of their
change of dress, I am certain, that the two who rode next to Gero were
Friars, who often visited the Castle of Torrenburg.”—
—“Alas!” answered Constantia, “it is not now, that I learn for the first
time, that a perfect understanding subsists between these robbers and
the unworthy members of some religious community. During my confinement
in Gero’s tent I frequently observed monks among his visitors; of whose
principles you will judge, when I inform you, that they made no scruple
to counsel my encouraging the licentious addresses of my jailor, though
they were thoroughly persuaded, that I was a dedicated Nun: they offered
to release me from my vows, laughed at (what they termed) the absurdity
of my prejudices, promised me entire absolution, and advised me to pay
no more respect to my veil, than they did to their cowls and
scapularies. Conceive, dear Ida, my sufferings, while compelled to
listen to such profane suggestions, and to repress the indignation,
which they excited in my bosom.”—
—“And have you then no guess,” demanded Ida, “what is the object of an
union so singular?—Did they never let fall a syllable, whence you could
collect the nature of this mysterious enterprize, on which they are now
departed?”—
Constantia declared her perfect ignorance on the subject.
“Alas! alas!” resumed Ida, “dreadful apprehensions force themselves upon
my mind! Randolf frequently suffered hints to escape him, which the more
that I reflect on them, serve but to confirm my fears the more. The
robbers have a private understanding with the false Hilarius.—The Monks,
whom I discovered in Randolf’s train, are of the same order with that
betrayer!—It’s true, Count Frederick has treated me cruelly and
unjustly, and now little merits, that I should feel anxiety on his
account. Yet, oh! that I were but near him for one half hour, that I
might warn him of the dangers, which hang over him and his, and which I
would willingly avert, though the price were the last drop of my blood
and the last breath existence.”—
The Sisters had full leisure in the wild solitude to which they were
conveyed, to communicate to each other their mutual fears and melancholy
forebodings. Ida’s insinuating manners soon rendered her a favourite
with her grey-headed guards; and the persuasion of Constantia’s
religious vocation made them bow with superstitious reverence at her
approach, and hold it an honour to be suffered to kiss the hem of her
sanctified garment. In consequence of these prepossessions in their
favour, the Sisters had no other reason to complain of their treatment
in confinement, than the confinement itself.
The place, in which they now resided, was inaccessible to all, except
the robbers, and the rays of the sun. It was a flat spot surrounded by a
chain of snow-covered mountains; one narrow footpath hewn in the rock
was the only entrance, whose windings were known to none except the
ferocious inhabitants of this valley; and which the sudden descent of
weights of snow and of ice-splinters[1] from the over-hanging rocks
frequently rendered for some time impracticable even for them. The
Sisters shuddered, as they gazed upon the gigantic masses of rocks of
ice, which glittered coldly around them as far as the eye could reach;
and they could not conceal their terrors at reflecting, that a single
motion of those cloud-covered summits would be sufficient to convert the
valley into their inevitable grave. The chief of their guards, however,
upon hearing them make this remark assured them, that this never _would_
happen, because it never _had_ happened yet.
Footnote 1:
Avalanches.
—“You must know, fair ladies,” said he, “that I am one of the most
antient among the heroes, who have the honour to serve under the banners
of Sir Randolf of Mansfeld. While I was but a child, I fled hither with
my poor father, then the innocent victim of monkish persecution, and we
found a kind refuge in the bosom of these mountains. The man, who was
then at the head of this hospitable community, had been acquainted with
the first institutor of the band, and had learned from him many
remarkable particulars respecting this valley; some of them in good
truth enough to curdle the young blood in your veins with very terror:
but as to such an accident as that which you apprehend, never had such a
thing been known to happen. Therefore set your hearts at rest, ladies:
the valley lasted out _his_ time; you see, it has almost lasted out
_mine_, and I warrant you, it will last out yours also.”—
The Sisters had no better means of passing the tedious hours of
captivity than in listening to the old robber’s never-ending narratives:
besides, they thought it by no means impossible, that in the warmth of
discourse some particulars might escape him, which might tend to the
improvement of their own situation. They therefore often entreated him
to relate the adventures of his father, who had been so unjustly
persecuted; as also to tell them, what he had learnt, from his first
captain, respecting the original founder of this society of freebooters,
and to give them some account of the various singularities of the
mountains. They could not be better pleased to listen, than the old man
was to talk; and he answered these inquiries at much greater length,
than I shall repeat at present: with his persecuted father we have no
occasion for concerning ourselves; and as to the wonders of the
mountains, we are likely to obtain a more particular description of them
from another quarter: the only point then, which need be repeated for
the gratification of the curious, is the manner, in which the habitation
of holy Anchorets became converted into a retreat for banditti.
Whoever is acquainted with the antient history of Sargans, cannot but
remember, that these private recesses of the mountains were inhabited by
a society of fugitive Monks from Cloister Curwald. The institution of
this society took place in the time of Count Ethelbert of Carlsheim; and
it was continued by the occasional reception of new members, as often as
death reduced the number, to which it had been limited by its founder,
Abbot Christian. That number was six; but for want of novices it was
reduced to two, at the period, when Luprian, the licentious Abbot of
Cloister-Curwald, (flying from the vengeance of Count Herman of
Werdenberg, and from the punishment due to his inhuman treatment of the
Lady Emmeline) was conducted by chance to this secluded Hermitage.
The pious Anchorets received him with the most benevolent welcome: they
gave full credit to his tale of persecuted innocence, and looked upon
the virtuous sufferer as an angel conducted thither by the hand of
Heaven, that he might comfort and sustain them under the infirmities of
age, and might close their eyes, when death should draw nigh their stony
couches. This last piece of service Luprian lost no time in rendering
them. He imagined, that they possest concealed treasures of immense
value, which would enable him to lead once more a life of luxury in some
foreign country, could he but obtain the inheritance of his hosts. In
consequence of this persuasion, the old hermits slept in the grave
sooner, than nature had intended; and Luprian without an hour’s delay
ransacked every corner of the cave. His expectations were cruelly
disappointed. He found nothing more than the usual possessions of an
Anchoret; cowls, scapularies, crosses, and a few relics of saints and
martyrs. But of gold or jewels there appeared not the slightest vestige;
and Luprian had the mortification to find, that he had committed one of
the most horrible crimes ever perpetrated on earth, without deriving
from it even the most insignificant advantage.
Yet was it not its guilt, which made him lament the commission of this
action; no, ’twas its having been committed without reward. His
conscience was by no means of so delicate a texture, as to make him feel
uncomfortable, while inhabiting the scene of this atrocious murder. On
the contrary, he resolved on making this well-concealed retreat the
theatre of fresh offences, and immediately employed himself in
collecting a set of men, whose hearts were depraved, whose characters
were blasted, and whose prospects in the world were ruined like his own.
These he conducted to the mountain-valley, and became the founder of a
band of free-booters, which had now existed above a hundred years, and
which had brought inexpressible calamity on all the neighbouring
country. The rich and the poor, the nobleman and the peasant, alike
mourned over their ravaged fields, and plundered dwellings, their
murdered children and dishonoured wives; and yet did the authors of all
this mischief set punishment at defiance, protected by their secret
caverns and their snow-clad impracticable rocks.
Their numbers had gradually increased. Hither fled for refuge many a
ruined nobleman, no longer able by honest means to supply his pampered
appetites with those indulgencies, which habit had now made absolutely
necessary: many a fugitive Monk, who dreaded the chastisement so justly
due to his violated vows: many a blood-guilty culprit, to whom the world
offered no happier prospect than the gibbet or the rack: and alas! many
an innocent sufferer, driven by the persecution of the powerful or by
the bann of the church to this wild society, in whose polluted bosom he
for the first time became acquainted with guilt. The numbers of these
banditti now considerably exceeded a thousand, all of whom acknowledged
as their chiefs Randolf and Gero.
Besides the above information, the old robber communicated to his fair
questioner many particulars respecting the neighbouring mountains, every
succeeding one of which was more wonderful and terrific than its
predecessor. The Sisters believed no more of these extraordinary tales
than they thought proper: however, they obtained much more credit with
the one, than with the other. Ida’s solitary wanderings through the
subterraneous caverns of her uncle’s castle had given her a degree of
confidence in danger, which before was totally wanting in her character:
and the experience which she had thus acquired, in addition to her
natural high spirits and enthusiastic imagination, converted her from
being the most timid of created beings into a kind of demi-heroine,
ready for adventures, and disposed to set all perils at defiance.
—“All things well considered,” said she to her sister, as they sat one
star-light night before the door of their cavern, round which their
guards lay sleeping; “all things well considered, I am convinced, that
flight is absolutely necessary, and by no means unlikely to be attended
with success. Whether Randolf and Gero prosper in their plans, or fail,
their return will equally bring with it our certain ruin. Then before
that dreaded return takes place, let us summon up our resolution, and
seize the first favourable opportunity to explore the way through yonder
chain of mountains, which old Hugo has described to us in such terrible
colours. The way, by which I fled from the Castle of Sargans, was not
without its horrors: yet I soon grew accustomed to them; and how far
inferior were they to those, which I had heard attributed to the
caverns, and which I believed to be real, till experience convinced me
of my error! Oh, be assured, Constantia! we shall find, that a similar
deception has been used in the present case. Yonder mountains, I am
persuaded, are not entirely covered with ice and snow; between them may
be found, no doubt, many a green and sheltered valley, where we may rest
occasionally, and recover strength sufficient to endure and to conquer
the dangers and difficulties of the way, which still remains to be
traversed. Who knows, but their lofty heads conceal from us some happy
smiling regions, where we may pass the rest of our lives unknown and
unnoticed in innocence and peace, and may become once more as happy, as
we were in the morning of our youth on the banks of the Lake of Thun and
in the green vallies of Frutiger?—Dearest Constantia, be resolute, and
let us hazard the attempt! For the worse, our situation cannot change:
we can lose nothing, even should we fail; we may gain every thing, if we
succeed: even at the worst, the attempt however unprosperous must obtain
for us _one_ advantage, a release from captivity by death without
dishonour.”—
In answer to these representations, Constantia reminded her sister of
the fearful traditions, which Hugo had related to them, respecting the
mountains, and the fantastic beings supposed to inhabit them. She
pointed to the Halsberg Rock, whose steep and lofty head rose exactly
opposite to them, glittering through the gloom of night like an immense
star; and she inquired of Ida, to what cause she attributed this
extraordinary splendour? Was it by any means improbable (she asked) that
these inaccessible heights were appropriated to the residence of evil
spirits; who by night endured there the punishment due to their crimes
in sulphureous fires, of which that light was the reflection; and who by
day employed themselves in leading astray such unwary travellers, as
ventured too near the place of their mysterious torments, and in hurling
them down frightful precipices into depths and abysses, never to rise
again?
Ida replied, that it was by no means her intention to travel into the
clouds so far as the place, whose dazzling brightness had induced her
sister to people it with such terrific inhabitants: and she added, that
being determined on flight, she was better pleased to believe, that the
brightness itself, which seemed like a crown of diamonds encircling the
brows of the venerable Halsberg and his brethren, proceeded merely from
the reflection of the moon and stars on the ice-covered cliffs and
crags, than from brimstone and sulphur burning in a terrestrial Hell.
Constantia’s long abode in a convent and her visionary turn of mind,
made it difficult for Ida to get the better of these superstitious
terrors: yet at length she succeeded. They began to make the necessary
preparations for their attempt. They lost no opportunity of secreting
such provisions, as were not of a very perishable nature and were easy
of conveyance; they also endeavoured to accustom themselves to taking
but little sustenance in the course of the day; and they soon flattered
themselves, that whatever might otherwise be the dangers of their
expedition, they were at least secure against suffering from the attacks
of those two most cruel enemies of poor pilgrims, hunger and thirst. As
to pretences for absenting themselves from the valley, they were easily
to be found. The robbers were too thoroughly persuaded, that flight was
impossible, and too strongly imprest with the idea, that women were too
great cowards to hazard such an attempt, for them to keep any very
strict watch over their prisoners.
Constantia was particularly dexterous in laying springes for snipes,
woodcocks, and other birds, which frequented these rocks in great
numbers; and the light-footed Ida would often explore places in search
of their eggs, where the chamois himself would scarcely have ventured to
climb. Then when the Sisters were successful, they knew so well how to
prepare their booty for the table in a manner the best calculated to
please the palate, that even old Hugo did not think it beneath him to
accept a part of the savoury repast. Sometimes, the eagerness of this
pursuit prevented the girls from perceiving the flight of time; and
night was already closing in, before they regained the cavern. However,
as they seldom returned with empty hands, and as they always did return
at last, these long excursions were seldom found fault with.—One of the
robbers indeed thought proper in a moment of ill-humour to remonstrate
with Hugo on the too great liberty allowed the captives, and to
represent the possibility of their seizing the opportunity to escape;
but the old man was faithful also on this occasion to the opinion, which
he had formerly given respecting the fall of the ice-crags; and
continued to content himself with thinking,—“that which never had
happened, in all probability never would happen at all;” indeed this was
on all occasions a favourite maxim with him: and he frequently averred,
that his adhering to it through life had saved his head many an
unnecessary care, and his limbs many an unnecessary journey.
In the course of these excursions, the Sisters had examined the lower
part of most of the mountains towards the north. They agreed, that a
particular path, which seemed to lead straight over the Halsberg Rock,
appeared to offer the most convenient passage and the greatest prospect
of a successful end to their journey. By this path then they determined
to set forward, as soon as they could summon up resolution sufficient to
enter upon so dangerous an undertaking; but this was no easy matter, and
they still thought it better with every succeeding day to postpone their
journey to the next.
In the mean while, it appeared that Gero and Randolf had not found their
plans so easy of execution, as they had flattered themselves would have
been the case. This was evident from their thinking it necessary to send
for the greatest part of those of their associates, who had been
appointed to watch over the captives and treasures concealed in the
secret valley; and who, being chiefly men, whose strength was
considerably impaired by age or wounds, could only be required to give
assistance in some case of most urgent necessity. This unexpected demand
for their services produced much disturbance among the grey-headed
miscreants. The Sisters thought this a favourable opportunity for
putting their design in execution. Their preparations were already
completed: each took a basket well-filled with wine and provisions in
her left hand, and grasped with her right a strong and knotted staff to
support her tottering feet, as she traversed the slippery paths of the
mountains: and then with hearts beating anxiously, and with cheeks,
almost as pale as the snow-hills to which their steps were addrest, they
set forward to pursue a path till then never trodden by the foot of
mortal.
Each was persuaded, that she was thoroughly acquainted with the nature
of these mountains, because they had examined the two or three first
miles of them. They dreamed of green vales and silvery fountains,
because they had occasionally found such among the lower parts of the
Halsberg Rock. But how bitter were their sensations, when they
perceived, that with every moment the path became more rough and
difficult; when they found, that their endeavours to keep on the same
level were in vain, and that they were compelled to ascend into the more
bleak and lofty regions of the mountain! at length they stopped in
despair: they exchanged looks of terror, and murmured a few broken
words, respecting the hopelessness of their attempt and the necessity of
returning. They embraced each other with a sigh of anguish, and then
began to retrace their way to the robber’s valley; for even this now
appeared to them an object less terrible, than certain death in this
kingdom of frost and desolation. However, they had not proceeded far,
before they discovered, that (miserable as it was) even this last
resource was denied to them. It was evident, that they had missed their
way; to which ever side their course was directed, they still found
themselves compelled to ascend. It seemed, as if they were inclosed in
some magician’s circle, from whence there was no escaping; or as if
incensed at their invasion of his territories, the spirit of the
mountain had so fascinated their eyes, that they could only see the
paths which led upwards to his cloudy palace, but none which by
descending into the vale would enable them to escape from his vengeance.
As yet they had not felt themselves quite solitary in these realms of
terror. Sometimes a chamois bounded by them; sometimes their footsteps,
echoing from the frozen rock, scared from its nest a screaming eagle:
but still the further that they advanced, the more silent and awful
seemed all around them; and the greater that the number became of those
gigantic masses of ice, which they left behind, the greater number still
were seen towering before them in the distance. Here all animation
seemed to end: here the stillness of death appeared to have fixed its
everlasting dwelling. No solitary weed, no single blade of grass showed
itself from between the frozen rifts. Only here and there appeared some
scanty patches of moss, and of another plant without colour, taste, or
smell; thin, frail and white as the snow, from which it was produced.
Constantia paused for a moment: she prest her sister’s hand, and silent
tears streamed down her cheeks, while she pointed to a pair of
milk-white butterflies; the only living creatures to be seen in this
melancholy place, and perhaps the last, which _they_ should ever see. It
was clear, that not their own sport or inclination had brought the
insects thither, but that some unlucky gust of wind had forced them into
these inhospitable desarts. The poor little flutterers flew round each
other for a while in still contracting-circles, and then sank on the
ground, overpowered by the killing wind which blew from the Ice-hills.
The Sisters gazed upon them with looks of compassionate anguish; in the
fate of these two unfortunate wanderers they read their own. Their feet
were already seized by the frost; it would have been impossible for them
to have proceeded much further, had not a better path presented itself
before them. This, it is true, was free from ice and snow; but on the
other hand it was much more difficult and rough, on account of immense
masses of fallen rock, which occasionally barred up the path completely.
Over these they were obliged to climb, not without danger; neither did
they suffer themselves to be scared from proceeding by the precipices,
which frequently yawned on both sides of them, and threatened the poor
Pilgrims with death in their abysses. But oh! how amply were they repaid
for all which they had suffered in traversing this path, when they
perceived some narrow planks laid from one of those precipices to
another. Here then were certain proofs, that human beings had past this
way before them; had performed the journey with success; and had left
these memorials to assure any wanderers who might follow them, that it
was not impossible for patience and perseverance to overcome the
obstacles, which opposed their painful progress. Now then the Sisters
hastened onwards with fresh spirits and recruited hopes. Alas! it was
not long, before each separately perceived skulls, and other fragments
of human skeletons, which told them but too plainly, how vain was the
attempt of escaping from these rocks with life! each knew but too well
the object which shocked her; each felt but too plainly the truth, which
the sight of that object conveyed: but neither told what she had seen to
the other, lest she should make her sister’s bosom share the anguish of
her own.
Thus did the poor weary girls continue to wander onwards, till day-light
faded; the increasing gloom made the surrounding objects appear doubly
terrific. At length the moon rose. Ida and Constantia were passionate
admirers of the charms of nature: it is true, that their hearts were too
full of anxiety, and their limbs too much tortured by the severity of
the frost, to admit of their feeling in its whole strength of beauty the
admirable scene, which the moon-beams now exhibited to their view: yet
was not that beauty entirely disregarded by them. Each called her
sister’s attention to the dazzling and indescribable splendour, which
now unexpectedly surrounded them: each, in hopes of imparting a gleam of
momentary satisfaction to the other, exaggerated her admiration at the
pompous show, and forced an expression of pleasure into her countenance,
which was totally foreign to her heart. The moon rose still higher; her
image was reflected a thousand-fold from the enormous crystallizations,
which presented themselves on all sides, hanging from the broken crags,
and threatening every moment to fall into the profound gulphs beneath
them. The objects around seemed on a sudden like some region described
in romance, where diamond-rocks and palaces of precious stones are
raised in an instant in a wild desart by the wand of some arch-magician:
everything appeared enchanted, and the Sisters, as they now hastened
onwards, seemed wandering in a flood of silver light: but alas! that
light was cheerless and unwarming. It only enabled them to contemplate
the regions of frost around them, but gave them no relief from the pain,
which that frost inflicted! with a sentiment of sorrow not to be
exprest, they folded each other in a strict embrace.
—“All around us is so bright and fair!” said Ida; “alas! and _we_ are so
wretched!”—
Constantia only answered her with tears—yet after remaining for a few
moments in this attitude of tender sorrow, they were sensible, that a
kind of cheering warmth had communicated itself from each bosom to the
other. Yet Constantia now declared, that she found it impossible for her
to proceed onwards: but if any place could be found, not so totally
frozen as to threaten any one, who should rest there, with the sleep of
death, she trusted, that after a short repose she should be able to
resume her journey with recruited strength and spirits. They had fancied
for some time, that they could distinguish the distant murmur of a
stream of water; and they now naturally concluded, that a place, where
water was still unfettered enough to flow, could not be altogether
destitute of warmth.
Ida encouraged her fainting sister to drag herself a few paces further,
in hopes of discovering that place of rest, which she had just declared
so necessary.
They ventured to enter one of the enormous caverns, which the
penetrating moon-beams deprived of some part of its natural terrors. As
they proceeded, they were sensible of a different temperature of air
from that, which they breathed in the more exposed parts of the
mountain: by comparison they could almost call the sensation, which they
now experienced, by the pleasing name of warmth; and the feel of
something like soft moss under their feet encouraged them with the
conviction, that here at least all vegetation was not completely at an
end. The roar of the water-fall by this time was almost deafening; but
no persuasions could induce the timid Constantia to advance one step
further into the cavern, than where it was illuminated by the
moon-beams.
She sank almost insensible upon the mossy carpet; while the more active
Ida bethought herself of every possible means of alleviating the
sufferings of her fellow-Pilgrim. The contents of their baskets remained
untouched, for anxiety of heart had prevented them hitherto from being
sensible either of thirst, or hunger. Ida now bathed her sister’s pale
lips with some drops of wine; she then splintered the staves, which had
guided their tottering steps in this hazardous journey; and she hastened
to collect a few precious fragments of broken wood, which while entering
the cavern she had remarked in the moon-shine; probably they were the
remains of a plank, which had served some former traveller as a bridge
over the wide chasms between the rocks.
With a flint and the steel clasp of her girdle she contrived to strike
out a few sparks of fire. It was not long, before she had the
satisfaction to see the wood blazing; and she started in admiration and
astonishment at the magnificent show, which the strengthening fire-light
presented before her; the Sisters were at the entrance of an immense and
vaulted cavern, whose sides and roof appeared to be entirely formed of
ice: from the extreme end of it the rush of the water-fall proceeded and
was repeated by innumerable echoes: while the flames played sometimes on
large sheets of crystal, smooth, bright, and polished as Venetian
mirrors, and sometimes fell upon the broken crags of the rock, whence
they were reflected in a thousand ways, and which they tinged with a
thousand colours.
But this was not the time for amusing herself with unprofitable
observation, and Ida soon recovered herself from her momentary
enthusiasm. Constantia lay by the side of the little fire, still in
great need of comfort and assistance; and it was long, before her
sister’s efforts to revive her produced the desired effect. The first
favourable consequence of these endeavours was a gentle slumber, as she
lay reclined upon the moss, which by this time, had acquired a slight
degree of warmth; Ida seated herself close by the fire, occupied in
feeding and preserving it, and determined not to allow her eyes to
close, in order that she might devote herself to watching the slumbers
of her sister.
Yet the night appeared so long, that she would have found it impossible
to resist her inclination to sleep, if she had not sought some more
active employment. Accustomed by her adventures in the Donat-Fortress to
long wanderings in caves and darkness, she resolved to beguile the
tedious hours with exploring the more retired depths of the rock, and
tracing to its source the water, whose distinct roar assured her, that
it could be at no great distance. The kindly warmth of the fire had
recruited her spirits and restored her strength in a great measure; and
she found herself able to undertake the task of wandering through the
frozen cavern, without being in danger of yielding to the cold. Midnight
was past, when guiding her course by the light of a blazing fire-brand
she drew near the thunders of the cataract, and her limbs trembled less
with cold, than with expectation of the sight which she was now on the
point of witnessing. Who can penetrate without emotion into the earth’s
interior sanctuary? who can presume to pry into Nature’s secret abodes,
where the great Mother brings forth those children of her strength the
mighty Floods, without feeling awe-struck by the bold and desperate
undertaking?
The blazing fire-brand was here unnecessary. An opening in the cavern’s
roof gave free admittance to the moon-beams, and the whole extent was
brilliantly illuminated. Ida now beheld a spectacle, to which she
doubted whether the whole universe could produce a rival. From the
summit of a rock of ice, whose height the eye measured with difficulty,
and which was entirely formed of the river’s own frozen evaporations,
did the rapid torrent of the Aar precipitate the whole volume of its
waters headlong, till it reached an enormous mass of broken pieces of
rock, the probable accumulation of ages. Here it divided itself into
more than twenty lesser rivers, which sought their passage into the vale
below, in a variety of directions.—The scene was most splendid, but also
was most awful!—the moon-light made the foaming flood appear like a
torrent of liquid silver; which produced the most singular and fantastic
effects, as it rushed with rebellowing roar among the groupes of
colossal rocks around it, and interrupted with the glitter of its
streams, the deep gloom occasioned by their shadows, Ida looked up to
the awful height, whence the torrent descended, covering her with the
light sprinkling of its foam: she looked down into the fearful gulph, in
which its waters were buried: she looked upon the cavern’s glittering
walls, covered with incrustations of innumerable shapes and colours, and
upon the moving shadows, which fell from the surrounding gigantic rocks.
The sight was too much for her; she felt her head grow giddy; the
fire-brand dropt from her grasp, and she sank upon the ground almost
insensible.
She soon recovered herself, and hastened to quit a scene, whose awful
beauties were more than she could bear in the weak and agitated state of
her nerves. She could discern the glimmerings of the distant fire, and
hastened back to the outward cavern; where she found Constantia still
buried in repose. The flame was now getting low, and more fuel was not
to be procured: but it had already warmed the cave sufficiently to
remove any apprehension, lest the sleeper should be frozen. Since
therefore her watching ceased to be necessary, Ida no longer resisted
the drowsiness, against which for some time past she had found it so
difficult to contend. Besides, through the opening of their
resting-place she could already discern the first faint reddening of the
approaching morn; she therefore laid herself down by Constantia’s side
with the pleasing reflection, that the cave would soon be warmed and
gladdened by the power of the sun; and that when her still-slumbering
sister should open her eyes, she would not behold those gloomy
appearances, which during that long sad night had produced upon herself
such deep and melancholy impressions.
Ida had not long closed her weary eye-lids, before Constantia awoke
greatly refreshed. Unconscious of the manner in which her sister had
past the night, she lost no time in waking her, and advising the
prosecution of their journey. Ida was contented with her short repose,
and obeyed the summons. Yet before they quitted the hospitable cavern,
to whose shelter from the night-blast they undoubtedly were indebted for
life, Ida led her sister to the place, which had appeared to her so
awfully splendid when viewed at midnight; but which (she doubted not)
would produce a different impression than in those moments, when her
fortitude was completely subdued by anxiety of mind and lassitude of
body.
The beams of the morning-sun now stained the waters of the Aar with
crimson light: its streams, as they precipitated themselves into the
vales beneath, glowed with a thousand beautiful colours. A shower of
diamonds seemed to fall from the summit of the ice-rock, and the clifts,
which during the night had thrown such deep and solemn shadows around
them, now were gaily arrayed in verdant moss and covered with such hardy
plants, as can endure cold without inconvenience, and which generally
fasten their roots in the fissures of stones and among the broken crags
of mountains. The sight was at once majestic and enlivening! the two
pilgrims sank upon their knees opposite to the newly-risen sun, and
poured out the sentiments of pious enthusiasm, with which they felt
their hearts overflow. Not complaints, not murmurs, not sighs proceeded
from the lips of these poor forlorn-ones: no; they exprest their delight
at this wonderful creation and their admiration of its Creator, though
at that moment they were themselves struggling against calamities so
desperate, as scarcely to afford them the remote possibility of a
rescue. Never perhaps was a nobler sacrifice offered up by suffering
humanity to the power and magnificence of the Supreme!
Yet Ida’s sacrifice was the greatest, since Constantia possest a source
of satisfaction in her bosom, of which her sister was not yet aware.
—“To-day,” said she, while her countenance was brightened with smiles,
at the same time detaining Ida, who (having finished her orisons,) was
on the point of turning from the cave; “to-day it is my turn to be the
guide through our doubtful journey. Ida, I dreamt last night, that we
were still wandering along the paths, which we traversed yesterday:
methought, that you went foremost, and bewildered yourself in a narrow
nook, where precipices on all sides impeded your further progress. I was
lamenting over your distress; when lo! on a sudden St. Engeltruda stood
before me, such as she is represented on the altar-piece in her Chapel
at Engelberg. A ray of golden light detached itself from the aureol,
which blazed round her head, and guided me to a small opening in a rock,
exactly resembling _that_, which caught my eye in the first moment of my
entering this cavern. I past through it: a narrow winding-way descended
gradually into the valley. Suddenly, as if it had been by some magic
spell, we were transported into those happy plains, where we past the
years of infancy, and which I shall never cease to regret our ever
leaving: there we became once more Mary and Rosanna Tell, and forgot in
the humble tranquillity of Rutelis the sorrows and sufferings of our
lofty hateful station.”—
Ida gave way to the enthusiastic hopes of her sister, and followed her,
as with difficulty she forced her way through a narrow opening, which
she had discovered at no great distance from the torrent. After
springing boldly at the hazard of their lives over a few wide-yawning
chasms, they reached a kind of green plain, where it was possible for
them to proceed above a hundred yards without meeting any obstacle. A
circumstance so new in their painful journey inspired Constantia with
added confidence. She turned smiling to her sister, and pointed out two
small white butterflies, who were sporting in the sunshine, and which
(she was firmly persuaded) were the very same, whom she had seen sinking
exhausted to the ground on the day before.
—“Yesterday,” said she with exultation, “yesterday they were the emblems
of our distress; to-day they are the prophets of our speedy rescue. See,
see! a favourable western gale wafts them kindly to the lower vallies,
where they may flutter through fields of flowers, and forget how much
they suffered from the frost, while they bask in the bright and cheering
sunshine.”—
Her long undisturbed night’s rest, and her confidence in the protection
of her Patron-Saint had greatly improved Constantia’s spirits: Ida’s on
the contrary were much more deprest than at the beginning of their
journey. They soon reached the termination of their easy road; and as
fresh obstacles seemed again to impede their progress with every step,
Ida asserted, that the difficulties, which they found in their present
path were sufficient to prove, that they had judged ill in altering
their direction. It was in vain, that Constantia attempted to
demonstrate, that the course, which she so much regretted, would have
led them into the most remote recesses of the Grimsel-Mountain, which
towered above them on the _one_ side; or that she pointed out the
Tempest-horn, which rose on the other like some threatening giant, and
on whose ice-covered limbs no path was discernable, which could possibly
have been trodden by any mortal feet.
A narrow passage between two almost joining rocks guided them to the
mountain of Gemmi: and now they perceived with joy, that instead of
being one unvaried acclivity, their road every now and then suffered
them to descend. It’s true, this road seemed rather calculated for the
clambering of goats, than for the use of human beings: but though it was
frequently interrupted by extensive chasms, they frequently found
themselves assisted in passing them by broad planks, already laid over
them by some friendly hand. Where there were none, and the Sisters were
obliged to traverse the abyss with extreme hazard on some narrow shelf
by clinging to the broken crags, still Constantia never would proceed,
till she had discovered either an unemployed plank, which she brought
from some other place, or the shattered branch of some wild fig-tree; in
order that she might stretch it across the chasm, and enable any future
wanderer to cross it with less trouble and risque. She also (as they
proceeded onwards) began to relate a wonderful legend, which had been
told her by one of the nuns of Zurich, explaining, why of all these
mountains that of Gemmi alone was observed never to be whitened with
snow or ice. But Ida was too much out of heart, and too fearful of their
being engaged in a wrong direction, to permit herself to pay much
attention to the legend; and as _she_ did not think it worth notice,
there can be no sort of occasion for my repeating it here.
From a rock, whose height made their heads giddy, they had ventured at
mid-day to cast their eyes down into the regions beneath them, and which
the sinking heart of Ida now made her despair of ever reaching. They
could perceive from hence several dark spots, which Ida pronounced to be
abysses, in which their path would at length terminate: and this
decision she delivered with such positiveness, that Constantia would
undoubtedly have consented to return, or else have chosen a different
path, had either a return been now practicable, or another path been to
be found. But as the day advanced, and the road still continued to sink
itself lower and lower, with what rapture did they ascertain, that these
supposed abysses in fact were parts of a village; whose smoking chimnies
announced to them the neighbourhood of domestic comforts, and to whose
peaceable shelter the cattle were at that moment returning from pasture.
The quick-sighted Ida was the first to make this discovery. She sank
weeping upon the bosom of her sister, and entreated her to forgive the
wayward humour, with which she had embittered their journey. Constantia
folded the suppliant to her heart, and the Sisters united in offering up
a prayer of fervent gratitude to the Saint, who had guided their
wanderings so wonderfully and so well.
They resumed their journey, and now how easy did it seem to them! As
they descended, the path gradually enlarged itself; and before the
shutting in of night they found themselves safe under one of the
cottage-roofs, where they learned for the first time after a long, long
interval, what it was to rest without anxiety: in truth the short and
broken slumbers, which visited them in the robber-valley, were scarcely
worthy of being called by the sweet name of rest.
While the Damsels of Werdenberg were engaged in the above adventures;
while one of them was anxiously and vainly expected at the Convent of
Zurich, and while the other was most unjustly censured and despised for
her supposed elopement with the acknowledged bridegroom of her friend;
Count Henry of Montfort was eagerly pursuing the wrong track, into which
he had been enticed by the perfidious chaplain of Castle-March.
Persuaded that he should soon overtake Ida, he continued to rush
forwards without allowing himself to rest for a moment; till in a little
village belonging to the Canton of Glarus he was attacked by a severe
fever, produced by the violence of his mental agitation, and by the
inconsiderate speed, with which his journey had been performed. Nature
at length yielded, and Henry was compelled to stop, and make his option
either of recovering slowly, or of dying at once.
According to the established custom of all knight errants, he had
commenced his expedition, not merely without forming a plan or
consulting common sense, but without furnishing himself with a necessary
supply of cash. He had left all his attendants far behind him; and as
several days had elapsed since his separation from them, and as he had
not thought proper to inform them of the object of his journey, they
were totally unable to form even a guess as to the place, where it would
be most likely for them to rejoin their master. Luckily for Henry, in
the paroxysms of his fever he frequently pronounced the name of
Montfort. From this the good simple people of the village (who in truth
had rendered him all the assistance, which their sorry means could
allow) concluded, that the invalid must certainly belong to the old
Count of Montfort. A messenger was dispatched to verify the fact: and
Count Egbert lost no time in sending able physicians to his nephew’s
aid, by whose care the fever was at length vanquished. As soon as the
step could be taken without endangering his life, the Convalescent was
removed to his paternal mansion, where he saw nothing but frowning
countenances, and heard nothing from morning till night, except
reproaches for his extraordinary conduct on his bridal day with
Elizabeth. It seems, that Count Egbert now thought himself entitled to
assume a higher tone of authority with his nephew, since the news was
just arrived, that Henry’s firm friend and powerful patron, the Emperor,
was no more. He perished, in consequence of a malady which he contracted
during an expedition against the Turks, and was no longer able to
vindicate and enforce the claims of his favourite.
—“You cannot but acknowledge,” said the old Count one day to his pale
and still emaciated nephew, “that I have done every thing in my power to
establish your happiness on a firm basis. Elizabeth of March, young,
lovely, wise, powerful, and (above all!) enormously rich, would have
been your own at this moment, if you had not thought proper to abandon
her for the laudable purpose of scampering away after a
will-o’-the-wisp!—But now the business is over! No regrets can now put
matters to rights again! Elizabeth is Countess of Torrenburg, is lost to
you for ever, and what counsel to give you now, I protest, I know
not!—Truly, your affairs are in a wretched condition: your claims on my
succession cannot avail you till after my decease; and even then, they
stand a fair chance of being worth but little, since I am now seriously
thinking of contracting a matrimonial engagement: though you thought
proper to break off my former match by running away with my intended
bride, the light and wanton Ida!”—
Here Henry assured him for the twentieth time, that he had not beheld
Ida since the bridal day at the Castle of March; and his uncle for the
twentieth time replied, by assuring Henry, that in that case it was very
extraordinary, that nobody else should know any thing at all about her.
However, whether she had gone off with Henry or with any other person,
for his own part he was determined, that anxiety about her should never
turn one more hair of his head grey; but that he would marry the first
woman of a decent family, whom luck or accident should throw into his
way.
In the course of his reproaches the old Count had mentioned Elizabeth’s
marriage: this was a fact. Within a few days after Ida’s disappearance,
Elizabeth became Countess of Torrenburg. It has already been mentioned,
that Count Frederick set forward for the Castle of March, in all the
pomp of a bridegroom, to renew his addresses, fortified by an
encouraging vision of his patron-saint, and assisted by the prayers of
the worthy Father Hilarius. On the other hand, the house-priest of March
had managed to screw the indignation of Elizabeth and her relations to
the highest pitch against the fugitive Montfort and the Heiresses of
Sargans; and the lady’s parents were proportionably penitent for the
ill-judged rejection of Count Frederick’s addresses. Finding his
mistress and her friends in a temper of mind so favourable to his
wishes, the superannuated lover needed only to make his proposals, in
order to have them accepted. But little discussion was necessary; all
parties were soon of the same mind, and Elizabeth in a few days entered
the Castle of Torrenburg as its mistress. From that hour her every word,
her every action was such, as proved her to be worthy of the high
station, in which she was placed by the choice of this excellent
nobleman; against whom no possible objection could be suggested, except
that he was old enough to be the grand-father of his blooming wife. But
to Elizabeth’s disappointed heart his age was rather a recommendation
than an objection. After Montfort’s perfidy she felt it impossible for
her ever to love another man as her husband; but she loved Count
Frederick as her father; she esteemed and reverenced him, nor from her
conduct towards him would any one have supposed, that her happy husband
was not still in possession of all the advantages and charms of youth.
All affection for the ungrateful Henry seemed extinguished in her bosom,
and the good old Count enjoyed with her a much greater share of
happiness, than he had any reason to expect would have been the case.
Nor was her behaviour towards her husband alone praiseworthy: she
conducted herself on all occasions with so much discretion, and
displayed throughout such winning graces and enlarged benevolence, that
she became the object of universal respect, and was proposed as a model
to be admired and imitated by all the daughters of Helvetia.
In one point alone her prudence was in default. There was an individual
in the Castle of Torrenburg, whose influence with her husband was
omnipotent; but for whom she felt an aversion so insurmountable, that
scarcely could she endure him in her presence; and whom she was rash
enough to endeavour at removing, before she had examined whether her
strength was equal to the undertaking, and whether this offence offered
to the antient household gods, might not draw down some heavy punishment
upon her own unsuspecting head.
This detested and persecuted object of Elizabeth’s efforts was no other,
than the keeper of all the consciences in the Castle of Torrenburg, was
no other than the devout Father Hilarius! She was not aware, that it was
to him and his saints, that she was chiefly indebted for the illustrious
title which she bore, and the splendid station which she occupied.
Perhaps, even had she been conscious of her obligation, she would have
but little approved of the crooked paths, by which the Friar had
contrived to conduct her to her elevated situation.
In fulfilment of his vow, Count Frederick had recompensed the
patron-saints of his two clerical allies most liberally for the
possession of his adored Elizabeth. The chaplain of Castle-March (whose
only capital fault was avarice) was well contented with the reward of
his exertions: not so was Hilarius! He had formed far greater plans, and
indulged more glorious expectations. He had made no sort of doubt, that
he should gain no less a share of the wife’s confidence, than he already
possest of the husband’s. Instead of this, he obtained from her nothing
but aversion and contempt; and from the moment of his being convinced,
that such were her sentiments towards him, fury took entire possession
of his misanthropic heart, and he brooded day and night over plans of
swift-coming vengeance.
His disappointment in the present was greatly embittered by his
foreseeing the failure of all those hopes, which he had long grounded
upon the future. Much time had not elapsed since his marriage, when the
superannuated Frederick communicated to the chaplain in confidence
certain dispositions of his estates after his death, which could not
fail to be highly disagreeable to the avaricious Monk. Every day more
fascinated by the perfections of his beautiful wife, the Count tortured
himself to discover some means, by which he might express in the most
striking manner his gratitude to her, whose attentions shed a gleam of
such bright sunshine over the evening of his closing life. He secretly
bequeathed to her every thing, which it was possible for him to give,
without entirely laying aside all justice to the young Countesses of
Werdenberg: since much as he held himself insulted by their late
conduct, still he was too generous to deprive them of any thing, to
which the name which they bore could enable them to advance the claims
of justice.
His confessor was initiated into all these mysteries. Scarcely while he
listened to them, could Hilarius restrain his rage within the bounds of
decency. He saw all the fond hopes, which he had built upon Frederick’s
want of heirs and attachment to the church and its servants, destroyed
at one blow; and he gnashed his teeth for spite to think, that it was
out of his power to prevent the Count’s benevolent intentions towards
his wife from being carried into immediate and complete effect.
As for Elizabeth, she was entirely ignorant of those weighty proofs of
his affection, which Count Frederick designed for her after his decease.
She was equally ignorant of the spite and envy, which this large bequest
had excited against her in one of the most malignant of human hearts.
She continued to proceed in her straight-forward benevolent course
without turning to the right or to the left: she treated her decrepit
husband with unabated kindness and attention unwearied; and she denied
herself no opportunity of convincing Hilarius, that he was the object of
her fixed aversion, and that she was decidedly bent on procuring sooner
or later his expulsion from the Castle of Torrenburg.
Oh! that she had carried that design into execution before one of the
basest attempts, that ever was plotted by a villain’s brain, was ripe
enough for action! Yet perhaps the will of Heaven ordained, that this
plan should be suffered to ripen, in order that it might effect the
overthrow of its guilty author, and exhibit the merits of the noble lady
of the Castle in the fullest blaze of all their purity and lustre!
Oh! generous Elizabeth! you for whom I write, and for whom I trust, that
I have not written in vain! Is it permitted me to relate your own
glorious actions to yourself? Yet why do I hesitate?—She, who (I doubt
not) while perusing these leaves has not hesitated to bestow many a tear
of compassion on the undeserved sorrows, many a tribute of admiration on
the heroic patience, many an expression of delight and gratitude at the
fortunate escape, of those whom she calls—“_her enemies_,”—surely _she_
need not avert her eyes, while my faithful hand places her before the
glass, in which she may behold the reflection of her own excellence! She
knows well, that I am no flatterer. I have not concealed from her, that
she is proud, rash, not disinclined to resentment for injuries, and
obstinate in adhering to her determinations, however inconsiderately
those determinations may have been formed. But neither will I conceal,
that I know her to be generous, benevolent, courageous, resolute,
disinterested; an avowed enemy of vice, however fascinating be the shape
which it assumes; an enthusiastic adorer of virtue, however humble be
the station which it occupies, however lowly be the habit which it
wears. Such is the faint portrait of her, whom future historians will
paint in far more brilliant colours; such is the portrait of Elizabeth
of Torrenburg!
Hilarius had long been secretly connected with a society of
mountaineers, who (by means of the private entrance to the
Donat-Fortress) might be reckoned the Count’s nearest neighbours. The
precise nature of this union between the Monk and the Banditti belongs
to the secret history of these miscreants, in which we are not
sufficiently well instructed to authorize our giving any account of it
in these memoirs. Let it suffice, that the union was a very close one;
perhaps, it was a long-established custom for the robbers to connect
themselves with some ecclesiastic, in memory of the original founder of
their society, the celebrated Abbot Luprian. Alas! it is a very painful
task for me, myself an ecclesiastic, the successor of that Abbot
Luprian, the cotemporary of this Monk Hilarius, to point out the stains,
with which the vices of individuals have polluted the sacred habit!—Yet
it is essential, that the whole truth should be laid before Elizabeth’s
eyes, and I will not hesitate to perform my duty to the full.
The avarice of Hilarius was insatiable. The custody of that deserted
quarter of the Count’s residence, which was now only known by the name
of the Donat-Fortress, was intrusted to him; nothing could be more
convenient for the robbers than such a retreat, where they could either
take refuge, when the pursuit after them was too hot to admit of their
venturing back to their valley; or where they could remain concealed and
unsuspected of being in the neighbourhood, till the precise moment
should arrive for executing their plans of devastation with the most
complete success. Accordingly, no sum appeared to them to counterbalance
the value of such a refuge; and Hilarius annually received an immense
tribute for allowing them the use of the subterraneous passage, and also
of such of the apartments of the Donat-Fortress, as were best adapted to
their purposes and profession. Here they had a well-appointed armoury;
here they deposited their prey, till circumstances admitted of its
removal to the valley; and here (among many other precautions for their
safety) they had not neglected to lay in a large stock of provisions,
and above all several hogsheads of the best old Rhenish wine.
But though they did not neglect any occasion of increasing their wealth
by the plunder of passengers and of the country at large, still there
was one vast undertaking, which lay most at the hearts of _the Warriors
of the Mountains_; for that was the title, by which the free-booters
preferred being distinguished.—Of this undertaking Hilarius was the
original suggestor, and without his aid they were well aware, that it
never could be carried into execution. The object of it was nothing
less, than to put the Warriors of the Mountains in possession of the
whole domains of the Count of Torrenburg, with the exception of such
parts as his pious enthusiasm should have induced him to bequeath to the
Convent, of which Hilarius was a worthy member. The plans were so well
arranged, that nothing could seem more improbable than a failure:
nothing indeed prevented their having been already carried into
execution except the immoderate price, which Hilarius demanded in
recompense of his services.
Matters, however, were so nearly concluded between the contracting
parties, that Hilarius had occasionally introduced some of the principal
robbers into the Castle in various disguises, in order that they might
become thoroughly acquainted with the nature of the place, which they
were to attack; might spy out the weaker parts of its defences; and by
being aware of the obstacles to their designs, might be prepared to
overcome them. Confiding in the terrific tales respecting the ghosts,
which haunted it, he had even ventured frequently to give his allies
midnight entertainments in the deserted chambers of the Donat-Fortress.
The superstitious domestics shook with terror, as they saw gleams of
light streaming through the worm-eaten casements, and doubted not, that
the ghosts of the antient tyrants of Carlsheim and Sargans had invited
all the other infernal spirits to a feast in their former earthly
residence. In this manner had the Count’s enemies frequently been within
a few hundred yards of him unsuspected; while he (good man) was
dreaming, that his barred portals and lifted draw-bridge secured him
against any possible attack.
Yet his good fortune so ordained it, that the striking this important
blow, was still delayed from time to time: Hilarius too was of opinion,
that the fittest time for making the long-meditated attack would be
immediately after the Count’s decease, when the want of lineal heirs
must necessarily produce much confusion among the numerous claimants,
and when in all probability the Castle’s inhabitants would be found
entirely off their guard. The impatient robbers were by no means
satisfied with this opinion: they were for making the attempt
immediately; but unless they could convince Hilarius, their opposition
availed them nothing. He consented to their taking possession of the
Donat-Fortress; but he took care to keep it well locked and bolted, so
that the supposed spectres could not by any means invade the inhabited
part of the Castle, till it should be his own good will and pleasure to
admit them.
It was at this period, that the Countesses of Werdenberg were
acknowledged by Count Frederick, and were immediately considered by the
Monk as obstacles to his designs. Looking upon Constantia as destined to
the veil, his whole undivided hatred was monopolized by Ida; and he
never rested, till he had ruined her in her uncle’s good opinion, nay
(by means of her mysterious flight) in the good opinion of the world. I
have already related, in what manner he delivered her into the power of
the robbers; who gratified him doubly, first by relieving him from a
person whose absence he wished, and whose blood he was not quite villain
enough to shed with his own hands, and secondly by rewarding him for the
possession of so lovely a girl with a considerable sum of money.
As to what became afterwards of the unhappy Ida, that was a matter of
little interest to Father Hilarius: but it would have been a matter of
very _great_ interest, if he had guest Randolf’s intention of giving
himself a legal claim to the inheritance of Sargans by the possession of
her hand, and of reinstating the detested Ida hereafter in those rights,
of which the Monk had taken so much trouble to deprive her.
The daily presents, which Frederick’s generosity bestowed on his
spiritual guide, made the latter by no means anxious to see the moment
of his patron’s dissolution. He had forwarded to the utmost of his power
Elizabeth’s marriage, not only on account of the advantages promised
both to himself and his Convent by the superannuated lover, whenever
this union should be accomplished, but also from being persuaded, that
the affectionate care of such a wife would be giving the Count a new
lease for many years of existence.
But when the Monk perceived Elizabeth’s decided aversion to himself, and
that her remonstrances had already produced a degree of coolness in her
husband towards both his person and his counsels, he found it necessary
to hasten the execution of his plans. The venom of spite and vengeance,
which had so long been working in his heart, at length overflowed; the
glimmering sparks of treason broke into flames; his intercourse with the
Warriors of the Mountain grew more close than ever; and the peaceable
inhabitants of the Castle were almost terrified out of their senses at
the frequent feasts given by the ghosts of the antient Lords of Sargans.
The reports relative to the goblins of the Donat-Fortress at length
reached Elizabeth. She had the rashness on one of these terrific nights,
when all the other inmates of the Castle went about obstinately with
their eyes and ears shut, as obstinately to keep hers wide open.
Unattended, she ventured to approach the deserted chambers; and the
sounds which reached her, as she stood without, convinced her, that if
they really proceeded from spirits, those spirits must needs have
retained a considerable portion of their former earthly habits.
Not the most distant suspicion of what really was the occasion of this
uproar, was likely to suggest itself to her mind. She only concluded,
and very naturally, that the belief in apparitions served some of her
domestics as a cloak to hide their midnight and dissolute entertainments
from the knowledge of their superiors. This was a practice, to which as
mistress of the family she thought it absolutely necessary to put an
immediate stop. Accordingly, without loss of time she informed her
husband of what she had observed, and of what she supposed to be the
fact: the household was immediately summoned, and ordered to attend
their Lord and Lady to the haunted chambers, which they were determined
to examine without a moment’s delay.
But the uninvited guests were already aware of their approach. One of
Elizabeth’s women was in the confidence of the Monk, and hastened to
warn him by a signal previously agreed upon, that danger was at hand.
Hilarius immediately insisted, that the lights should be extinguished,
and that the Banditti should retire with all speed through the secret
passage, which (he asserted) would be the most spirit-like way of taking
their departure. But the robbers, who were heated with wine, declared,
that it was high time for them to lay aside the characters of spirits,
and that they never should find a more prosperous moment for making
their long-meditated attack, than the present. The continual
postponement of this attack had long made them suspect their ally of
playing them false, and they had prepared themselves for taking the
power out of his hands with the very first favourable opportunity—the
caverns below were filled with Banditti: those who were in the fortress
were no inconsiderable number; and confident of a fresh supply of troops
if necessary, they rushed forwards to meet the Lord of the Castle,
without deigning to summon to their assistance their friends in the
cavern. Indeed, they looked upon victory not only as certain, but easy,
when their only antagonists were terrified domestics, headed by no
better generals than an inexperienced female, and a gray-headed man just
escaped from the bed of sickness, and weighed down by the number of his
years. Accordingly, without listening to the Monk’s remonstrances, they
rushed towards the great portal; and Elizabeth with her followers no
sooner entered the court, in which the Donat-Fortress was situated, than
to their utter surprize they found themselves attacked on all sides.
How lively were the colours, in which the enraptured Frederick described
to me this the most glorious transaction of Elizabeth’s life!—with what
enthusiasm did _he_ relate, with what enthusiasm did _I_ hear, how in
this moment of consternation Elizabeth alone preserved her presence of
mind and the look of undaunted resolution; how, when her terrified
attendants recoiled at the approach of the supposed spectres, she showed
them the sword, which gleamed in the weak hands of their aged master,
urged them to defend a life so precious, and shamed them by reproaches
into following his example; how she wrested from the hand of a beardless
robber the weapon, which he already pointed against her husband’s heart,
and instantly buried it in the assassin’s own; how when the weak old
Frederick was at length struck to the earth, she threw herself before
him, and made her breast his shield; and how while occupied in this
generous office, and while thus devoting her own life in order to
preserve his, she received a wound upon her brow, whose scar now forms
the noblest ornament of the most lovely face in all Helvetia!
Frederick was wounded, and his attendants conveyed him away from the
scene of action; but Elizabeth still maintained her post, directing by
her advice, and invigorating by her presence the small but faithful body
of her retainers. The Banditti found by this time, that victory was not
to be so easily gained, as they had hitherto expected; and they thought
it prudent to summon to their assistance the lurkers in the
subterraneous caverns. Elizabeth perceived, that the numbers of the
assailants was suddenly and alarmingly increased. Every moment seemed to
add to their strength, and it was evident, that unless some means of
preventing the foe from profiting by this new accession of power could
be discovered, every thing was lost. Fortunately, in this critical
moment the eye of the Heroine rested upon the portcullis, which on
account both of its weight and workmanship was esteemed a master-piece
of art. She sprang forwards; she still grasped the sword, of which she
had deprived the robber, and with a single blow she severed the
sustaining cord. It fell with a heavy crash, and destroyed in its
descent several of the new-comers, who were over-hasty in flying to the
assistance of their hardly-pressed companions.
—“Courage, my friends!” exclaimed Elizabeth with a sudden burst of joy;
“resist your enemies but for a few minutes longer, and we are safe!
hark, how the alarm-bells make the air resound! and see! the
castle-portals are thrown open! rejoice! rejoice! our preservers are at
hand!”—
It had been one of the Countess’s first orders, that the alarm-bells
should be sounded without delay, and as soon as any signs were observed
of obedience to the signal for assistance, that the Warder should set
wide the gates for the reception of those, who might hasten to their
relief. She was obeyed; but no one expected, that these precautions
would bring them any more powerful succour than the presence of a few
bands of peasants, armed in haste, and unaccustomed to such midnight
attacks; or else perhaps the troops of some of the neighbouring
noblemen, but who were all at too great a distance to admit of their
reaching the Castle of Torrenburg, before the business should have been
finally decided.
But Elizabeth, when she gave these orders, was better aware of their
importance. The terrible event, which I have just been describing, took
place on the night preceding St. Martin’s festival. St. Martin’s day was
also the birth-day of the Count of Torrenburg; a day, which Elizabeth
now celebrated for the first time, since she became a wife, and which
she was determined to distinguish by a most splendid entertainment. For
many weeks had her messengers been employed in traversing the
neighbouring provinces, for the purpose of inviting the most
distinguished noblemen and their families to be present at a tournament,
to be held at the Castle of Torrenburg in honour of the nativity of its
Lord. Count Frederick, though he was now too much enfeebled by age to
admit of his taking a part in them himself, still delighted in
witnessing such martial sports: they recalled to him many a pleasing and
many a glorious occurrence of his honourable life; and Elizabeth had not
failed to select for his amusement on his birth-day that particular
species, which, her own observation and the experience of others had
given her reason to know, would be most acceptable to her husband.
It was on this very night, that the invited guests were expected at the
Castle, accompanied by their wives and daughters with a numerous
retinue. It had been settled, that they should not arrive till after
midnight, in order that their being in the Castle might continue unknown
to the Count till the next morning; when it was Elizabeth’s design to
conduct him (still ignorant of what was going to take place) to the
prepared lists, where he would unexpectedly find himself seated in the
circle of his best friends and well-wishers, in order to witness that
kind of entertainment, in which he most peculiarly delighted. All her
preparations had been made with the greatest secrecy; none but a few of
her most immediate friends and domestics were in her confidence; and
therefore few except herself were aware, that the alarm-bells were
sounded for the purpose of calling to her assistance those expected
guests, who (she was certain from the lateness of the hour) must needs
be at no great distance.
Her hopes were soon verified. The draw-bridge had scarcely fallen, when
it re-echoed under the hasty trampling of horses’-hoofs. The court-yard
was soon filled with soldiers, who without staying to demand what was
the matter, hastened with drawn swords to assist the Countess and her
faithful supporters. Elizabeth was a heroine in the moment of need; but
her heart was still that of a weak and tender female. She was anxious to
rejoin her bleeding husband; her wound was painful; and still more
painful to her feelings was the sight of the blood, which streamed
around her, and of the mangled corses with which the pavement was
strewed. Most joyful was she, when she found herself at liberty to
resign her dangerous and hateful post; her friend of youth, Richard of
Ulmenhorst, and Count Oswald of March (her brother) took the command of
her forces; and she now flew to the chamber of that husband, who but a
few minutes before had been indebted to her for his life. She found,
that his wound (it was but a slight one) was already drest; and that he
was earnestly insisting, that his attendants should lead him to rejoin
his glorious wife, and suffer him either to conquer by her side, or
perish with that dear one: they sank into each other’s arms, and melted
into tears of joy at finding themselves once more in safety. Seldom have
youthful lovers, even in their happiest moments, felt such unmixed
pleasure, as was now felt by Elizabeth, while she clasped the decrepit
Frederick to her heart.
Before day-break the victory was complete. The knights, who had been
invited to a mock-fight, and had found one so serious, did not leave
their work only half finished—the portcullis was raised again; every
corner of the Donat-Fortress was investigated: the entrance to the
subterraneous vaults was found open and unguarded, and these also
underwent an examination. Here a considerable number of the free-booters
were discovered, and after an obstinate resistance slaughtered; but a
few of them found means to effect their escape from the caverns, and
carried the news of this disaster to their associates in the valley of
Halsberg.
Gero was one of the first, who fell in the assault; Randolf was taken
prisoner: as to the author of all this mischief, the infamous Hilarius,
he was found to all appearance lifeless in one of the caverns, whither
he had retreated during the heat of the combat. He had suffered so
severely both in the conflict, and from the pressure of those, who (like
himself) crowded to take refuge in the secret vaults, that though life
was not quite extinct in him, he expired, before he had time to
acknowledge his numerous transgressions, and receive their absolution.
My knowledge of his private transactions and views was gleaned from the
writings, which were afterwards found in his chamber, and in his cell at
the Convent, of which he was so unworthy a member. These papers were
confided to me by the Bishop of Coira; and their contents were such as
rendered them highly improper to meet the eyes of the laity; who are
already but too apt to scoff, when a church-man slips, and from whom the
servants of Religion ought carefully to veil the errors of her unsteady
children.—But the love of truth, the interests of justice, and the
welfare of two poor persecuted creatures, made it necessary for me to
place everything in the clearest light before the eyes of her, who (I am
certain) needs only to be convinced, that they are _really_ persecuted,
in order to become their most strenuous defender.
So entirely had their evil star the ascendant, that even this overthrow
of their enemies only served to make the Sisters appear in the eyes of
the world in a still more odious point of view. Hilarius died without
having time to acknowledge the pains, which he had taken to effect Ida’s
ruin: it was not till lately, that I obtained the certainty of the
Monk’s perfidy, and of the innocence of my poor wards; facts appeared so
strong against her, that even I for a considerable time was compelled to
give up the fruitless office of defending her; and the proofs, which
spoke so loudly in her disfavour, seemed to increase in number with
every fresh occurrence. Several of the robbers had been made prisoners,
and underwent a close examination respecting the authors of their
enterprize and its object. Among other things, they confest, that a
damsel, understood to be a Countess of Werdenberg, had made a long abode
in their society; that she was evidently the object of their captain’s
affection; and that it was reported among the Banditti, that she had
consented to become his wife, on condition of his establishing her
claims to the domains of Sargans and Carlsheim by force of arms.
Randolf, being questioned respecting these assertions, in a great
measure confirmed them; he only denied, that Ida had ever given her
consent in express words to the enterprize; but he profest his firm
belief, that on those conditions he had every reason to believe her
disposed to unite her fate with his. He had dropped such plain hints of
his designs against the Count, that she could not possibly have
misunderstood him, though her discretion made her prefer the appearing
ignorant of a scheme, whose object was the ruin of her former
benefactor: but as she must have gathered his intention from various
circumstances, and as she continued to treat him, not merely with
unabated, but even with increased complaisance, he had certainly good
reason to suppose, that his meditated plan was by no means disagreeable
to her.—Alas! poor Ida! had she dared to abate that complaisance, and to
express the sentiments of abhorrence, with which the robber’s views
inspired her, what would have been her reward?—ill usage; death perhaps;
or what would have been still worse, life with the loss of honour!
But these reflections did not occur to Randolf or his hearers; they
believed his arguments to be well founded, and that Ida had approved of
the design, which had so nearly terminated her benefactor’s existence.
That she had been privy to it, is true: she had not misunderstood
Randolf’s hints, though she was not aware of the exact nature of his
intentions; but no sooner was she in safety, than her first object was
to provide for that of the Count of Torrenburg.
The village, which at length afforded them security and rest, was called
Edel-Bothen: here they were compelled to pass the night and the
succeeding morning, in order to recover from the fatigues of their late
painful journey; and it was from hence, that a messenger was dispatched
to the Castle of Torrenburg with a letter, written by Constantia in a
disguised hand and without a signature. Ida, who still trembled at the
thoughts of being either compelled to give her hand to the old Count of
Montfort, or to seclude herself for life within the dreary walls of a
cloister, was unwilling to let her incensed uncle know, where she might
be found; and Constantia, though she had herself no motive for
concealment, was afraid of being the means of discovering her sister.
With much difficulty, and after many unsuccessful attempts, the
following lines were at length completed, and a peasant was dispatched
with them to the Castle of Torrenburg.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Count of Torrenburg!_
Peruse these lines from an unknown but sincere friend, who trembles,
lest the warning should come too late. In your domestic priest, the
worthless Hilarius, you nourish a traitor, whose plans if successful
will terminate in your destruction. He has already driven many innocent
persons into the jaws of ruin: and now to finish his career with a
master stroke of villainy, he meditates the overthrow of his generous
benefactor. Secure him, and let him and his papers undergo a strict
examination. Above all, set a watch over the Donat-Fortress, and let the
private entrance be carefully closed up, which you will find on the left
hand of the window in the large chamber, which terminates the southern
wing of the ruins. That entrance communicates with a subterraneous
passage, well known to the robbers, who have so long been the terror of
Helvetia, and with whom Hilarius carries on the most intimate
correspondence. Hasten then to prevent their making any ill use of their
knowledge of this communication; and if this warning should be in time
to save you from danger, the writers of this letter will thank Heaven as
for a benefit conferred upon themselves.
* * * * *
This well-meant epistle did not reach the Castle of Torrenburg till
several days after St. Martin’s day. It was read aloud at the Count’s
table, when the hall was almost filled with knights and ladies, who were
assembled there on account of the festivities, with which Elizabeth
thought it right to celebrate her Lord’s escape from the perilous
Banditti. The letter, while reading, was frequently interrupted by loud
bursts of scornful laughter and expressions of derision from the whole
assembly; yet ’tis said, that Frederick and Elizabeth did not laugh, and
were quite silent. It was easily guest, from whom this unavailing
warning came; and Count Oswald of March, (whose family pride had been
stung to the quick by young Montfort’s conduct on the bridal day, and
whose affection for his sister made him the inveterate enemy of any one,
who offered her any injury or unkindness) insisted upon being allowed to
answer the letter.
According to her instructions, Ida’s messenger had no sooner delivered
the letter, than he hastened away from the Castle: but two horsemen were
dispatched after him in all haste, and the peasant was compelled to
return for an answer. That answer pained the Sisters to the very heart;
they preserved it carefully; they read it over and over again, and every
time with fresh pain; and they at length showed it to me, as a proof of
their total renunciation by their uncle. Count Oswald had written as
follows.
* * * * *
The fair Ida’s well-conceived letter arrived at the very time, which she
intended; that is, when it was too late to be of any use. First to
invent schemes of treachery, and then when they fail, to assume the part
of a warning friend against those very schemes, was certainly one of the
most dexterous artifices, that ever was produced by female ingenuity!
Unfortunately, there are some people, who are not deceived even by
artifices so dexterous. The Count of Torrenburg has been rescued from
the Banditti, not by the fair Ida’s warning _after_ the event had taken
place, but by the courage and affection of an angel, whose name was once
Elizabeth of March; whose name would have been Elizabeth of Montfort,
had it not been for the fair Ida’s coquetry; and whose name is now
Elizabeth of Torrenburg, in spite of all the pains, which the fair Ida
gave herself to prevent her ever bearing that illustrious title. Yes!
Elizabeth is Countess of Torrenburg: I protest, I cannot but pity the
poor damsel Ida for so severe a disappointment, as this union must give
to her views upon Count Frederick’s inheritance. Besides the loss of her
benefactor’s good opinion, she has also to regret that of her lover the
robber Randolf, who inhabits one of the Count’s dungeons; so that all
her hopes in that quarter are completely annihilated. It seems too, that
she has not even contrived to secure the light and worthless heart of
Henry of Montfort, who (probably grown already weary of her) has
returned to his uncle’s residence; as report says, a sincere penitent
for having suffered himself to lose such a treasure as the hand and
heart of Elizabeth through the artifices of a perfidious coquette.
Probably by this time the fair Ida has found out, that this maxim
contains more truth than she supposed; viz. “that crooked paths lead to
precipices.”
Randolf, the fair Ida’s lover, is a prisoner; Henry of Montfort, the
fair Ida’s dupe, has recovered his senses; Gero and Hilarius, the fair
Ida’s friends, are both dead; and Count Frederick, the fair Ida’s
intended victim, is aware, that Hilarius is not the only snake, whom he
has warmed in his bosom.
Count Frederick of Torrenburg sends the fair Ida his best wishes for her
speedy repentance, and ventures to suggest, that a convent will be in
future her fittest residence.—He begs however, that this may only be
considered as his _advice_; since looking upon her no longer as his
relation, he has no longer any right to give her a command. At all
events, he begs, that whether she takes that advice or not, she will not
think it necessary to inform him of her proceedings, since he has now
but one wish on earth respecting her; to hear of her no more!
* * * * *
Ida’s tears streamed plentifully, while she read these cutting lines.
She gave the letter in silence to Constantia, who felt the unmerited
reproaches no less acutely than her sister. A long pause ensued, which
at length was broken by Constantia.
—“There is no mention made of _me_!” said she,—“no more, than if I were
no longer in existence!—Well! well! it is better to be quite forgotten,
than to be so remembered!”—
—“How could they guess,” exclaimed Ida, “that _I_ was the writer of that
letter?—a letter, which He, who sees the heart, can witness for me, I
wrote out of pure good will to my unkind uncle.”—
—“And how strange,” rejoined Constantia, “that they should misunderstand
your character so completely, as to believe you capable of such perfidy!
And how cruel of them to insult your misfortunes by such an unfeeling
taunting letter!”—
With such inquiries did they torture themselves during a whole tedious
day; and they endeavoured in vain to discover, what part of Ida’s
conduct could have authorised a man, who had once shown her so much
benevolence, to view her on a sudden in a light so perfectly odious. It
appeared too from this letter, that Count Frederick’s ill opinion of her
was also the opinion of the world; and what had she done to deserve this
universal ill opinion?—The Sisters were not aware, that a prejudice once
conceived gains strength with every minute, and presses into its
services the most insignificant occurrences: till the supposed offence
from a molehill is swelled into a mountain, and shade added to shade
gradually makes the detested object appear in colours sufficiently
black, to _justify_ its being made the object of detestation.
No mention had been made of Constantia in Count Oswald’s letter, because
on the one hand her gentle inoffensive manners had prevented her having
any enemies; and on the other hand, her supposed participation in her
sister’s plans prevented the parties concerned from being her
friends.—It appeared, that after quitting the Castle of March on the
memorable day of Elizabeth’s intended wedding she had not thought proper
to return to her convent. She had been way-laid by those robbers, who
(as it was now believed) were at that very time in confederacy with her
sister. No one doubted, that the free-booters had acted under Ida’s
directions, and with Constantia’s concurrence; that the latter was
totally under the influence of the former; and that if the one sister
was not quite so deserving of censure as the other, she was at least
equally unworthy of protection. It was concluded, that she was at that
moment Ida’s companion; and it was agreed by all, that the most proper
mode of treating her, was not to bestow on her even the slightest
notice.
When the bitterness of the first shock was over, the Sisters found, that
they had no reason to consider their situation as at all altered for the
worse by the perusal of this insulting letter. It had not been in their
contemplation to effect a reconciliation with the Count of Torrenburg;
after so much as they had suffered, they no longer indulged a wish for
any thing except retirement and repose. Ida’s resentment against her
lover, for having offered his hand to Elizabeth, was not yet appeased:
and after the injurious suspicions, to which her conduct at the Castle
of March had (as she learned from Count Oswald’s letter) given rise, she
thought it highly incumbent on her to make no inquiries respecting him.
She accordingly resolved to verify the remainder of her sister’s
fortunate vision, and re-assume the name of Rosanna Tell.—Constantia for
a while refused to follow her example, and declared her determination of
hiding herself for ever from the world in the Convent of Engelberg: but
Ida besought her, with so much earnestness and with so many tears, “not
to deprive her of the society of the only person, who still loved her,
and whom she still dared to love,” that Constantia was compelled however
reluctantly to give way.
A ring of some value, which Ida wore on the day, which made her a
captive, and of which Randolf’s respect had prevented his depriving her,
purchased a small hut and garden, in which the Countesses of Werdenberg
were but too happy to obtain a shelter. Here then they remained in
tranquil obscurity, unknowing and unknown: till the decease of the Count
of Torrenburg and its consequences compelled them once more to take a
part in the world, and again become acquainted with its splendours, and
its cares.
By the will of Count Frederick, the whole of his domains descended to
his wife; the Damsels of Werdenberg were disinherited, nor was this
sufficient. A clause of the most disgraceful import declared the Count’s
reasons for renouncing them, and thus held them up to the world as
proper marks for the finger of contempt. It seems, that there still
existed a younger branch of the House of Werdenberg, but with whose
members the Sisters had never held any intercourse. The ignominious
clause in Count Frederick’s will greatly offended the pride of these
high-born noblemen. That any persons belonging to their family should
deserve to be mentioned upon record in such opprobrious terms, appeared
to them the most intolerable of all offences; and they vowed never to
rest, till they had compelled the delinquents to renounce their title to
a name, which (till they assumed it) had never been stained with
disgrace.—They agitated this business with so much effect, that at
length an act was obtained from the Emperor, enjoining two Damsels
calling themselves by the names of Ida and Constantia, Countesses of
Werdenberg, to lay aside those titles, as having forfeited them by their
disgraceful conduct, even supposing that they really possest by birth a
right to bear them; a fact, of which, the act professed to doubt the
veracity.—It also forbade the reception of the said Damsels into any
religious community, except such as were specified by name, and which
were those only, whose institution (as was universally known) permitted
the acceptance of persons of dissolute characters for the laudable
purpose of reformation.
The Lords of Werdenberg were so diligent in making this act public, that
it even reached the obscure valley, in which the Sisters had sheltered
themselves under borrowed names. Little as they valued the pride of
birth, and the empty boast of high-sounding title, the disgrace thrown
upon them by this so public act was too insulting to be endured even by
their humility. It was absolutely necessary, that some steps should be
taken to vindicate themselves from such undeserved aspersions.
Accordingly without loss of time they addrest letters to the Abbess of
Zurich and to their guardians, Abbot Conrad, and the good Bishop of
Coira. They disclosed the place of their concealment, asserted the gross
injustice of the Emperor’s act, and avowed their willingness to lay
every particular respecting themselves or their conduct before either of
their guardians, or the respected Abbess.
Till this period they had neglected to apply to these firm friends;
because they felt a total indifference to the station, which they had
lost; considered the pleasures of the great world as withdrawn from them
for ever; and only wished to pass the remainder of their lives in
tranquillity and oblivion. Their letters communicated the greatest joy
to those, to whom they were addrest; and Abbot Conrad lost not a moment
in hastening to comfort the poor afflicted ones, and to assure them of
his unabated regard and anxiety for their welfare.
It was no difficult task for the Sisters to convince this partial friend
of their innocence. He insisted upon the necessity of their returning to
the world, and Constantia consented to quit her solitude: but Ida was
resolute never again to resume her proper station, till her honour and
reputation were re-established in their full purity and with
undiminished lustre.
And how is this to be effected? Oh! Elizabeth, it is you alone, who can
answer that question. You have seen, how these unjustly persecuted Girls
have been deprived of every thing, of their inheritance, of their fair
fame, of the very name, to which their birth entitled them: you have
seen their innocence and your own error. Your generosity, your love of
justice will tell you, what you ought to do: to those noble sentiments,
to your own noble self, I dare trust my cause without a single terror.—
Henry of Montfort’s illness had been long and dangerous. He was scarcely
recovered, when two successive attacks of apoplexy convinced his uncle
of a truth, which he had long been unwilling to confess to himself. He
could no longer deny, that it would be more suitable at his time of life
to turn his thoughts towards the grave, than the bridal bed; but still
though he was himself no longer the hero of them, his marrying-plans
preserved their long-established dominion over his fancy. Henry was his
undoubted heir; his attention to Count Egbert during his illness had
made a deep and very favourable impression upon the old man’s mind; he
suddenly became a favourite, to secure whose happiness in life was now
Count Egbert’s chief and almost only object; and in the old man’s
opinion, happiness in life was to be obtained by no other possible
means, than by marriage. Henry was nearly of the same opinion with him.
Unluckily, the only point, on which they differed, was the only material
point in the whole affair. Both agreed, that a marriage ought to take
place; but each proposed a different person, and neither would give up
the object of his choice. Henry insisted upon his engagement to Ida, and
declared, that while she existed, honour as well as love forbade his
offering his hand to another: while Count Egbert protested with equal
vehemence, that he never would consent to the union of his heir with a
girl, whom the last will of her nearest relation had deprived of her
inheritance and devoted to disgrace. The bride of his selection
presented herself in a far more flattering light; ’twas Elizabeth, the
young and admired heiress of Torrenburg, whose hand would confer wealth
and power on her husband, and whose heart had formerly been warmly
disposed in Henry’s favour. As he listened to this eulogium upon
Elizabeth, an involuntary sigh escaped from the nephew’s bosom. Ah! he
felt but too sensibly the whole value of Elizabeth, and was fully
conscious, how dear she would have been to him, had not Ida possest
prior and more forcible claims on his affections. Now all thoughts of
Elizabeth were quite unavailing: his heart by right was another’s, and
was no longer worthy of Elizabeth’s acceptance. This he declared to his
uncle, and exprest his resolution of keeping his engagements to Ida in
terms so strong, that the old Count lost his patience completely. In the
heat of passion, he ordered Henry to quit the Castle that instant, nor
ever presume to come again into his presence.
He was obeyed; but the command was scarcely given, before it was
repented of. He reflected, that this very banishment would leave his
nephew at liberty to contract the union, which it was so much his wish
to prevent. The old man was little acquainted with Ida’s character and
turn of mind: he knew not, that delicate as were her notions on the
subject of honour, the warmest entreaties of her beloved Henry would by
no means be sufficient to persuade her to become Countess of Montfort.
Count Egbert’s guards followed Henry, overtook him, and brought him back
to his paternal Castle, where he was ordered into close confinement. How
little did the writer of these lines ever imagine, that he should live
to see menaces and chains employed, in order to compel a youth to give
his hand to Elizabeth of March!
Henry exclaimed loudly against such injustice! He demanded, that the
opinion of his proposed bride should be taken in this affair. He
declared himself convinced, that he could not possibly appeal to a more
just tribunal, and that after what had past, a proposal of marriage
would be rejected with no less firmness by Elizabeth, than by himself.
The old Count denied this last assertion most positively. He maintained
(and not without some show of plausibility) that in spite of his past
offences Elizabeth was still weak enough to cherish a secret attachment
to the man, by whom she had been so unworthily forsaken: nay, he even
went so far as to profess his firm belief, that the severity, with which
she had treated the Damsels of Werdenberg, had its origin in this
attachment; and that nothing but female spite and jealousy against a
successful rival, made her so obstinately shut her eyes and ears against
the justice of those claims, which in the opinion of many persons
(thoroughly capable to decide upon such matters) were held to be most
just, and founded on an unquestionable basis.
Such indeed was now the general opinion. Time, and the exertions of
their guardians had cleared up many suspicious circumstances respecting
the Sisters; and the popular cry was fast turning to the side of Count
Frederick’s lineal heirs. Their uncle’s testament underwent much
censure, and created a kind of prejudice and ill will against Her, who
had benefited by it so largely. Elizabeth herself was in some measure
the cause of this loss of public estimation, which in truth every day
diminished. She had accustomed the world for so long to see her act with
uniform generosity, and to consider her as a person totally exempt from
the ordinary imperfections of her sex, that as soon as her husband’s
will was made public, every one prepared themselves for some decided act
of heroic self-denial in favour of the disinherited Sisters; and which
perhaps they would not have expected from any other than Elizabeth,
because they would not have believed any other capable of such an act.
However, it is certain, that from Her they _did_ expect it; it is also
certain, that their expectations were disappointed; and unwilling to
allow, that they had themselves required too much, they were extremely
displeased with Her, whom they accused of not having done enough.
Besides this, Elizabeth evidently fell into a great error, in dealing
with her inherited possessions, as if they had been her own purchased
and personal property. Formed by nature to be no less rash than
generous, she gave away whole districts, castles, and towns with as
little concern, as if they had been of no more value than the roses,
which encircled her head or bloomed upon her bosom.
This inconsiderate liberality produced the greatest discontent among
those subjects, whom she bestowed away with so little ceremony. She is
already informed of the uproar and confusion, which ensued; but she is
by no means aware of the extreme danger, in which she was at one time
involved. The discontented vassals denied her right to make them over to
another, and declared themselves to be lawfully the vassals of the young
Countesses of Werdenberg: they entered into a secret correspondence with
the neighbouring Switzers: they dispatched messengers to the valley,
where the Sisters had taken refuge, and assured them of their firm
resolution to support their rights. Constantia was already departed;
they found Ida alone in her humble cottage, and made the purport of
their coming known to her. Tears of joy trickled down her cheeks as she
listened, and her first words were prayers of gratitude to Heaven.
—“My worthy friends,” said she at length, “your words have given me the
only comfort, which I now could look for on this side the grave! The
Ida, whom a whole good and honest people demands for their sovereign,
can never be that traitress, that unprincipled wanton, that ungrateful
snake, which I have been termed so publicly and so unjustly. Your
application has given me back my honour, has reconciled me with myself:
this is all I could wish for; now leave me, my friends, and bear with
you my warmest thanks. Be faithful to your liege-lady; Heaven and my
uncle’s will have destined her for your protectress, and you will find
her a noble one. I know well her merits, and admire them; I envy her not
her good fortune; but be assured, that even did my happiness depend on
my establishing those rights, which you state me to possess, the Ida
whom your deputation has thus signally honoured, at least deserves that
honour too well, to seek any benefit however great by clandestine, and
therefore by unworthy means.”—
The deputies listened to her with astonishment; they requested her to
reflect coolly upon their proposals, and left her with a promise to
return.
And they _did_ return, furnished with new and much more forcible
arguments;—and yet those arguments were employed in vain. They had
discovered Ida’s former affection for Henry: they applied to Count
Egbert, and laid their plans before him. As they appeared to reconcile
all differences between his nephew and himself, he readily promised his
assistance: and the deputies now delivered a letter to Ida, in which
Count Egbert assured her of Henry’s unabated attachment: he magnified
the fortitude, with which his nephew had resisted all attempts to shake
his fidelity; and he conjured her to accept the title of Countess of
Montfort, since without the possession of her hand there was no
happiness in life for Henry.
The poor Ida wept, as she read this letter: every line seemed an arrow
in her very heart. She was conscious, that in her present humble state
she could never become her lover’s bride, and that the old Count’s
consent was entirely grounded on the prospect of her succeeding to Count
Frederick’s inheritance.—Yet she still shuddered at the thoughts of
obtaining the accomplishment of her fondest wishes by means, which she
felt to be unworthy of her; she still positively rejected the proposals
of the embassy, and declared herself convinced, that Henry of Montfort
was as little disposed as herself to assist any plan, whose object was
to injure Elizabeth. The deputies still prest her to comply; they would
take no refusal; and at length to free herself from their importunity
she left the valley privately, and took refuge within a Convent, the
name of which she concealed from every one except her sister and the
Abbot of Cloister-Curwald.
Elizabeth’s knowledge of these transactions was confined to their mere
outward appearance. She knew, that she was calumniated by secret
enemies, and justified by unknown friends; but little did she suspect,
that these favourable judges of her conduct were those very persons,
against whom she had nourished in her heart the most inveterate
prejudice. Its true, that she was not without real friends, willing even
to risk her displeasure, rather than suffer her to labour under such
gross errors: the Abbot of Curwald often endeavoured to lay the history
of the unfortunate Sisters before her eyes, but in vain: No one
understood better than Elizabeth the secret of imposing silence on
those, whom she suspected of an intention to say that, which it was by
any means disagreeable to her to hear.
She suddenly thought fit to take up her abode in the Convent of Zurich,
and there indulge her grief for the loss of Count Frederick without
restraint. This was a step, which her differences with her discontented
vassals rendered both agreeable to herself, and proper in the eye of the
world: into the bargain, it possest the further advantage (though she
thought it as well to confine this motive for her seclusion to her own
bosom) of freeing her from the wearisome remonstrances of the Abbot, and
from the truths, which he was so obstinately bent upon placing before
her eyes. It’s true, she was still exposed to receiving letters from
him; but those it was in her power not to answer; or indeed not even to
read, if the first lines gave her reason to believe, that the remainder
would afford her but little satisfaction.
But Elizabeth was too good, too noble, to be entirely deserted by truth
and virtue, however sedulously she strove to shun them. They pursued her
to the Convent, and their imploring voices often spoke to her in the
stillness of her solitary cell. I know from good authority, that many a
seed of good has fallen upon her heart, which she has vainly endeavoured
to choak in brambles: and should I succeed in my attempt to seduce her
unconsciously into perusing the history of the Damsels of Werdenberg,
under the title of “The Sisters without a Name,” (a title, which
describes them but too well, since injustice and error have robbed them
of their proper one) I shall look upon the victory as already won.
And yet by such a victory, what will be gained? How is it in Elizabeth’s
power to benefit these persecuted girls? Constantia, who (unknown to her
former friend) now inhabits the same Convent with her, demands nothing
in this world except permission to take the veil: Ida is contented with
her humble habitation near the Lake of Thun; and far from requiring from
Elizabeth anything more than mutual forgiveness, she is willing to
compensate for the involuntary mortification, which she caused to her on
her bridal day, by the sacrifice of every thing; even of that, which she
holds dearest! Yes, Elizabeth; she is willing to sacrifice even the hand
and affections of her Henry!
The proposal made by the deputies of Elizabeth’s rebellious vassals was
laid before Henry by his uncle. The plan, whose object was the ruin of
the unsuspecting Countess of Torrenburg, was so well laid, and the
preparations were in such forwardness, that it seemed almost impossible
for the design to fail. Henry gave a feigned compliance to the old
Count’s proposals, and was rewarded with his liberty. The first use,
which he made of it, was to hasten to Richard of Ulmenhorst, to whom
Elizabeth had entrusted the government of her domains during her
seclusion in the Convent. To him did young Montfort discover the
conspiracy against the Heiress of Torrenburg, and they agreed upon
measures for defeating it. The noble Richard had loved Elizabeth in the
earliest spring of his life, and had no reason to despair, till the
blooming Henry appeared and won the prize, almost before he himself
desired it. Richard now first knew the real character of his so
long-hated rival: and to know it, and admire it, were but the same. The
conspiracy was defeated; the new friends separated; and Henry hastened
to the Lake of Thun.
—“Ida!” he exclaimed, “I am thine, and for ever! I have broken through
every obstacle, which divided us; I have severed every chain, which
detained me from your arms. I renounce the name of Montfort, which has
inflicted upon me nothing but misfortune: never shall the man, who so
unjustly lords it over my possessions, hear of his persecuted nephew
more. You, Ida, must renounce the title of Werdenberg, which has been
the cause to you of so much sorrow, and resume that beloved name, which
you bore, when we first met. This cottage, this garden, and this little
flock are enough to content all the wishes of two loving hearts; and
Erwin Melthal and Rosanna Tell will pass together such days, as even,
the happiest might look upon with envy.”—
Ida felt in her bosom a painful conflict between love and duty. She had
renounced wealth and splendour for herself without a pang; but ought she
to renounce them for Henry? Ought she to suffer him to quit for her a
station, on which he was calculated to confer such lustre? Such were her
doubts; yet undoubtedly love would at length have triumphed, had not a
report reached her, that Elizabeth’s situation was become more difficult
than ever. Her vassals had given up in despair all hopes of persuading
the Sisters to contest the Count of Torrenburg’s will. They found, that
Elizabeth was destined to remain their sovereign: yet they protested
(with such violence as gave reason to apprehend the most dangerous
consequences from a refusal) that on one condition only would they
return peaceably to their obedience. That condition was, that if
Elizabeth was to be still their liege-lady, Henry of Montfort should
become their liege-lord: and they swore, that she never should enter the
Castle of Torrenburg except as Henry’s wife, unless she chose to see her
way strewn with bleeding corses.
Letters from Richard of Ulmenhorst confirmed this report; and the
generous Ida’s resolution was taken without a moment’s delay.
—“Go, my beloved!” she exclaimed and embraced him for the last time.
“You were not born to waste your days in the obscurity of these shades.
Power and splendour form the proper sphere for you to move in, and those
it is not in the poor Ida’s power to bestow! Go then, Henry; protect
Elizabeth; content her people; make your wife, make your vassals, make
_yourself_ happy; your praises will reach me even in this secluded
valley.... Then _I_ shall be happy too!”—
Henry obeyed her: to refuse was in truth impossible! With every hour and
from every quarter fresh entreaties arrived, all assuring him, that if
he meant to rescue the Countess of Torrenburg from the fury of her
rebellious subjects, not a moment must be lost.—He determined to
sacrifice every other consideration, to that of Elizabeth’s welfare: he
is arrived at Zurich: he has renounced his claims to Ida’s affections;
Ida has renounced her rights to her uncle’s inheritance; and to-morrow
will see Henry of Montfort kneeling at the feet of Elizabeth, and will
hear him offer her his hand for the second time.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ELIZABETH OF TORRENBURG.
═════════════════════
_PART THE EIGHTH._
═════════════════════
_Elizabeth, Countess of Torrenburg, to Conrad, Abbot of
Cloister-Curwald._
Conrad! Conrad! how was it possible for me to mistake for a moment the
characters of _your_ pen, for those of any other? Of that pen, which
like its master’s persuasive tongue, knows how to blend truth, raillery,
and praise together so artfully, that the heart feels itself
irresistibly subdued, irresistibly compelled to follow, whither-soever
it is your pleasure to conduct it!
I was aware of your power: it was therefore that I fled from your
presence, that I shunned your conversation, that I declined your
correspondence. I knew well, that your eloquence could give a fair
appearance even to the worst cause; and at that time Ida’s cause was
believed by me to be one of the worst, otherwise I would not have fled
from its discussion.
But now how are my sentiments changed! Helen, sainted Helen! now then
the time is arrived for my imitating thy glorious example: Ida is a
second Amalberga: Elizabeth shall be a second Helen!
No: Helen’s curse shall not fall upon _my_ head: I will not hate those,
whom _she_ has blest; I will not rob her beloved ones of their
inheritance. Look down on me, fair saint! Behold; I sacrifice to Ida
that, which is most precious to me, the affection of my heart, the
happiness of my life, the hand of Henry: and can you doubt, whether I
will restore to her that which I prize so little, a few handfuls of
sordid earth?
Conrad, my whole soul is in a storm! I scarcely know, what I say ...
what I write ... what I think ... in the present moment, I can only
feel!—Yet ere I close my letter, learn thus much. Constantia is with me;
yesterday I clasped her to my heart. Alas! for the gentle, innocent,
suffering girl! Never did my bosom harbour against _her_ one spark of
ill-will: her intercourse would have been like balsam to the wounds of
my heart, even while I hated Ida as the inflictor of those wounds. It
was cruel in you, my good Abbot, to let me inhabit the same dwelling
with her for so long, and yet keep me in ignorance, that such a blessing
was so near me.
In truth, you have not dealt well with me throughout; neither yourself,
Conrad, nor your confidante the Abbess of Zurich. The most secret
recesses of my soul were known to you, while I believed them to be
closed against all the world; you knew much, of which I would have
purchased the knowledge with my whole wealth, and which you concealed
from me far too long. I thought, that I acted without being observed:
and you were busied in watching and numbering every step which I took. I
cannot feel quite satisfied with your proceedings towards me; my heart
involuntarily breaks out into reproaches and complaints. Yet neither
complaints nor reproaches can now avail. The die is cast; I cannot avoid
following the path, which is pointed out by duty—_cannot_, did I
say?—No; let me not wrong my feelings: I _would_ not, if I _could_!
Oh! that I could paint to you in colours sufficiently vivid the scenes,
which followed my perusal of your manuscript!—the Abbess is ill.... I
fear ill unto death!—I flew to her sick bed, and with the enthusiasm of
my sensations forced her back from contemplating the fields of
blessedness, to which she is already so near, that she needs but to
close her eyes in order to behold the reflection of their glories! She
smiled at what I said to her, and which must have appeared to her so
trifling, so unworthy of a thought, when compared with those images by
which her mind had just been occupied.—Her words inscribed themselves
upon my heart in characters of flame: you will soon be informed of their
effects.
Constantia was summoned—the Abbess joined our hands; we sank upon each
other’s bosom. No explanation was necessary; no one spoke a word; we
understood _her_ ... we understood ourselves.
—“Now then,” said the invalid in a soft faltering voice, which seemed a
middle tone between a mortal’s and a spirit’s: “now then nothing is
wanting ... but the presence of Ida!”—
—“Of Ida,” I repeated, “and of her Henry!”—
And Henry came; came the next morning, as you had assured me that he
would, and for that purpose which you mentioned. He has vindicated my
cause like an hero, and has fully established my authority and my
rights: he has knelt at my feet; he has offered me his hand. He has
named love as the reward of his services, and has obtained the boon: how
could I refuse the reward of love to the most pure, the most tender, the
most unfortunate of lovers?
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Constantia, Countess of Werdenberg, to Abbot Conrad._
Elizabeth’s letter must already have apprized you, my kind protector, of
the favourable change, which has taken place in the situation of your
wards. Count Henry has been here, and is again departed. He came by
Ida’s command to offer his hand to Elizabeth: he is returned at
Elizabeth’s desire to salute her rival as joint-heiress with myself of
the rich domains of Torrenburg.
—“I do no more than my duty,” said Elizabeth, when Henry endeavoured to
express his gratitude. “Your heart belongs to Ida, and never _ought_ to
be another’s, therefore never _can_ be mine. As to Count Frederick’s
inheritance, demand of this venerable man, whose claim to it is the most
just; that of Elizabeth, or of the Damsels of Werdenberg.”—
As she spoke, the door opened, and a silver-haired stranger entered the
apartment. It was the Sage of Zurich, the well-known Albert Reding, to
whom Elizabeth had referred her disputed claims, previous to your
unveiling the truth of our history, and removing her prejudices against
us. Yes, Conrad, yes! even had she still continued to abhor us, so sure
as I have life, Elizabeth would still have acted by us with justice!
The venerable Albert confirmed Elizabeth’s declaration; he even
consented to accompany the enraptured Montfort to Ida’s valley, and make
known to her this sudden change in her situation. They would fain have
persuaded me to join their party: but I could not endure the thoughts of
quitting my generous friend, at a moment, when she so greatly needs
support after this difficult self-victory, and under the deep affliction
which she feels at the approaching dissolution of our worthy
Abbess.—Farewell, dear father, and believe, that the memory of your
kindness shall live in my heart for ever!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Abbot Conrad to Sigisbert, Bishop of Coira._
Count Henry of Montfort and his bride are established in the Castle of
Torrenburg. Their arrival threw the populace into an ecstasy of joy, and
all inclination to uproar and revolt seems to be completely annihilated.
Neither is Elizabeth any longer an object of aversion to her former
subjects; you are already informed of the laudable manner, in which she
past the month immediately succeeding the death of the Abbess of Zurich,
and which she entirely dedicated to providing for the future benefit of
those, over whom she was so soon to renounce all jurisdiction, and who
(while under her command) had been so little sensible of the value of
such a mistress.
—“The few minutes,” said she, when she addrest them for the last time;
“the few minutes, during which I can still consider you as my subjects,
shall be employed in convincing you, that you mistook my character; and
that your welfare neither is now, nor ever was, indifferent to the heart
of Elizabeth. I am preparing to resign my authority into the hands of
the Damsels of Werdenberg; but that authority shall be the only one
worth having, authority over a _free people_.”—
What she promised, she has performed most amply. Everything in these
regions breathes freedom and happiness; she has established the
privileges of this people on grounds so firm, that even were the antient
Tyrants of Carlsheim and Sargans to resume their abused authority, they
would be compelled to leave their subjects in possession of their
unviolated freedom.
Henry and Ida would fain have exprest to her their gratitude in person;
but she has declined receiving them for the present, under colour of too
great affliction for the late loss of her friend, the Abbess. How say
you, my Lord Bishop?—I fear, the heart of our Elizabeth is by no means
healed, since she cannot prevail on herself to endure the sight of her
rival’s happiness, even although that happiness is a work of her own
creation.
Well! well!—time I hope, will do much; and (unless I flatter myself with
believing too ardently what I wish) the attentions of Richard of
Ulmenhorst will do more. This excellent young man is full of hope, that
he may yet be able to establish his former claims on the heart of
Elizabeth; Ida and Henry encourage him in his sanguine expectations; and
no efforts of mine, that can advance his wishes, shall be wanting, you
may be sure. However, nothing can be attempted, till St. Helena’s
Festival arrives; on that day Elizabeth has promised to receive all her
friends (Henry and Ida not excepted) and every one looks forward with
the utmost impatience to this appointed day.
Of course Constantia did not fail to be present at the wedding of her
beloved sister. Methinks, her passion for the Cloister is sensibly
diminished since her re-establishment in her legitimate claims. With my
whole heart shall I say—“Amen!”—to her resolution to lay aside the veil:
she is so well calculated to form the blessing of an earthly bridegroom,
that it would be a sin to bury her within the walls of a Convent. She
already numbers many powerful noblemen in the list of her admirers; but
no one hangs upon her smiles with more perfect adoration, than Count
Oswald, Elizabeth’s brother. He has confided his passion to me, and I am
best able to judge the nature of his sentiments. No contracted views of
interest (as many unjustly suppose, and as perhaps Constantia herself
suspects) induce him to kneel at the feet of the rich Heiress of
Sargans: no one can imagine such a motive, who is acquainted with the
real character of the proud but noble Oswald, the lustre of which is
bright and glorious as the light of the sun; though like that luminary
it is now and then obscured by a few dark spots, moveable and
insignificant. No; he seeks the hand of Constantia from no other cause
than the consciousness of her perfections; except that he repents of his
former injustice towards the Sisters, and is anxious to express his
present respect in the most marked and striking manner.
I know not, what hopes he is authorized to nourish. The quiet retired
Constantia gives encouragement to none of her admirers, and observes an
obstinate silence respecting her intentions even to me: however, Count
Oswald possesses a powerful interest in her opinion from his being the
brother of Elizabeth.—I expect that the festival of St. Helena will
decide much.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Conclusion—written by Abbot Conrad._
That the readers of the fore-going manuscripts may not be left with
their curiosity entirely ungratified, I will endeavour to fill up the
chasm, which otherwise would appear in the Memoirs of Elizabeth. Let me
obtain their pardon, if I relate as briefly as possible the
circumstances of a scene, which produced upon my heart an impression
very painful at the time, and never to be obliterated.
St. Helena’s festival arrived. All those, whom Elizabeth had invited,
failed not to attend at the appointed place and hour; among them were
the Heiresses of Torrenburg, Count Henry of Montfort, Count Oswald of
March (Elizabeth’s brother) Richard of Ulmenhorst, the Bishop of Coira,
and myself.
It is the pious and laudable custom of our days (a custom, which I hope
will be preserved even to the latest posterity) that all our most
distinguished festivities should commence by offering an homage of
adoration to the Supreme: it was therefore natural, that immediately on
our arrival we should be conducted to the church belonging to the
Convent of Zurich. Yet we could not help feeling some surprize, that
Elizabeth as our hostess did not welcome us at the church-door, and
place herself at the head of our procession, while it moved through the
cloisters towards the chapel; that being the established custom on such
occasions. However, we had scarcely time to make any reflections, before
we found ourselves within the chapel.
It was most gorgeously adorned, as if set out for some great solemnity.
The walls were decorated with wreaths of flowers; the reliques were
exposed, the pictures were uncovered: the whole wealth of the Convent
was displayed, and blazed on every side; innumerable tapers in
chandeliers of gold, intermingled with silver lamps, dispelled the gloom
of the long aisles; and clouds of incense rolled along the fretted roof,
which echoed back the melodious sounds of lutes and voices, as they
swelled in full chorus from the adjoining choir. At that moment our
knowledge of church-customs naturally made the Bishop and myself
conceive a suspicion of the purpose, for which we had been conducted
thither: perhaps too, the same thought suggested itself to Constantia,
for on a sudden her tears began to flow. The situation of Richard of
Ulmenhorst was most distressing: he ceased not to enquire, why Elizabeth
did not appear; and it was with difficulty, that Montfort, Ida, and
Count Oswald (who preserved their presence of mind better than the rest)
could persuade him to observe that silence, which was necessary in so
holy a place.
Unhappy Richard! for many weeks past had his friends conspired to buoy
him up with hopes, which this single moment was destined to destroy for
ever: for now the curtain, which concealed from us the chapel’s
sanctuary, was withdrawn, and all our worst fears were confirmed.
Elizabeth, adorned with all the pomp and splendour of wealth, and still
more with all the charms, which nature had bestowed upon her superior to
her whole sex, knelt before the altar, and offered up at the footstool
of the Almighty’s throne the greatest sacrifice, which a mortal can ever
make; the sacrifice of youth, love, beauty, liberty, and life!
What impression this unexpected, this unwished for scene made upon the
assembly at large, it is neither in _my_ power to describe, nor (I
believe) in the power of any one of those, who were personally
interested about Elizabeth. Each individual felt so much upon his own
account, that he was rendered incapable of attending to the sensations
produced upon others. It was not till the awful ceremony of pronouncing
the great and total renunciation was on the point of taking place, that
I turned my eyes upon the countenance of the unhappy Richard: it was
pale as that of a corse; and yet with every moment it seemed to grow
still paler, till his eyes closed, and he sank into my arms without
sentiment.
—“My soul,” said Elizabeth in a firm voice, “I bequeath to him, who
gave it! my body I bequeath to the grave; my wealth to the church; the
domains of Torrenburg to its legitimate possessors; the recollection
of Henry of Montfort to his beloved Ida; Richard of Ulmenhorst....
Richard, my friend of youth, and the truest of all lovers.... Richard,
whom I ought never to have quitted for the sake of any Montfort....
Ah! to what consoling Angel shall I consign the noble Richard, that
she may heal the wounds inflicted by my caprice on his honest
suffering heart?—Constantia! friend of my bosom, be thou that Angel!
thou art far more worthy of his love than the inconstant Elizabeth,
who in resigning _him_, resigns every prospect of earthly happiness;
who in sacrificing _him_, offers up to Heaven the greatest sacrifice,
of which her nature is capable.—Be he thine, dear injured Constantia;
accept from me his hand, his heart! my injustice to Ida I have
repaired by the resignation of Henry; but I still owed thee a mighty
sacrifice, to efface the memory of many a bitter hour occasioned by my
obstinacy, my persecution, my self-will.—Now then I have done with the
world for ever!—Beloved-ones! I bless you!—Pray for me, and
farewell!”—
The Bishop (though greatly affected by this whole unexpected scene)
thought it right to wait till the conclusion of the ceremony: But
anxiety for Richard, whose indisposition had occasioned the bye-standers
to remove him into the open air, furnished me with an excuse for leaving
the chapel, which I seized with eagerness. To say the truth, I was far
from satisfied with Elizabeth’s determination. I shall no doubt be
severely censured by my more devout successors; yet I needs must
confess, that in spite of my own vows (which I pronounced with the most
heart-felt joy, and never have felt the slightest wish to retract) yet
still I say, in spite of my own vows, I never have seen without a pang
society deprived of a valuable member, and those talents buried within
the solitude of the Cloister, which might have made its owner a blessing
to the world at large.
When the first shock was past, Richard recovered his resolution, and
endeavoured to conceal the agony of his feelings under the veil of
seriousness and silence. A splendid entertainment was spread before us,
at which none of the holy Sisters appeared; consequently, we were at
liberty to communicate our sentiments on what had just past without
restraint. ’Twas the most melancholy feast, at which I ever assisted; a
feast, which I shall never forget, as long as I possess existence; it
seemed to me Elizabeth’s funeral-feast! we soon rose from the table, on
which the viands remained untouched, and we prepared for our departure;
for we thought it vain to expect admission to the newly-profest Nun, and
indeed in our present temper of mind that admission was scarcely to be
wished—the Bishop, however, delivered it as his opinion, that propriety
required us at least to give Elizabeth the option of seeing us.
Accordingly, a message informed her of our approaching departure; her
answer was, that she must decline all visits, except those of Constantia
and of Richard of Ulmenhorst.
They obeyed her orders. Elizabeth received them with joy and tenderness.
She doubted not the success of her proposal, and addrest Constantia as
the heiress of Richard’s heart: but she was speedily undeceived. Richard
declared, in terms so express as left no doubt of his decision, that
since Elizabeth was lost to the world, no refuge was left for him but
the Cloister; while on the other hand, Constantia confest, that her
heart was no longer in her own power. After a long and unavailing
discussion, Elizabeth dismist them, whether satisfied or displeased by
the firmness of her two dearest friends, it may be difficult to say: but
unless I am totally ignorant of the female mind, she could not help
being flattered by Richard’s refusal to admit any rival to her in his
heart, but God; and probably she was secretly not much incensed against
Constantia for having bestowed her affections else-where.
Count Oswald, who had been by no means pleased by his sister’s
endeavours to unite Richard and Constantia, now felt his hopes revive:
he flattered himself, that _he_ was the unknown object of Constantia’s
choice; but in this belief he was mistaken. There was a young knight,
who had offered her his heart and hand at a time, when she had nothing
but a heart and hand to offer in return. Conradin, an ill-portioned
brother of the Landgrave of Thuringia, would have loved her, had she
been no other than Mary Tell; Conradin had been faithful to Constantia
of Werdenberg under all the scorn and obloquy, under which she at one
time laboured; and Conradin was now the man, for whom the wealthy
Heiress of Sargans rejected every other. _He_ deserved the inestimable
treasure of a wife like Constantia; and _she_ was well worthy to be the
mistress of a heart, whose tenderness and generosity could only be
excelled by her own.
It was long, before Elizabeth acquired sufficient firmness to receive
the personal thanks of Ida and Henry for that felicity, of which she was
herself the authoress; but on the day when she was consecrated as Domina
of Zurich, this long-delayed interview took place. The impression, which
it made upon her mind, will be best explained by the following letter.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Elizabeth to Constantia._
At length then this dreaded interview is over: I have seen Ida and her
happy husband.—Wrong me not, Constantia, by suspecting, that resentment
or pique has made me delay this meeting for so long; oh! no! it was the
consciousness of my own weak heart!—Even Helen of Homburg could not at
once resolve to witness the happiness of Eginhart and Amalberga; and
alas! I am no faultless Saint like Helen!—the Cloister is the palace of
enthusiasm, is the native land of visions; its inhabitants are only
happy in proportion, as those visions are sweet and soothing. I had
formed for myself a little circle of ideal companions, whom at my
pleasure I could summon to dispel my solitude. My venerable friend, by
the side of whose death-bed I formed the resolution of dedicating my
life to the service of Heaven, was among the dearest of those
apparitions. The hand of mortality had torn her from me; Enthusiasm
restored her to my arms. I saw her, as if she had been still alive.... I
spoke to her, and laid open the most secret folds of my heart.... I
almost fancied, that at times I heard her reply in words of comfort....
Alas! the fatal sight of Ida and her Henry has dispelled all these
visions, which were to me the source of so much happiness! it seemed
like a flash of lightning, which penetrates through our closed eye-lids,
and wakes us suddenly from some delightful dream.—Now nothing flits
before me in my solitude, but those scenes of my melancholy life, in
which Ida and Montfort bore so great a share.—Leave me, oh! leave me, ye
cruel thoughts, which force me back to a world of sorrow; and thou,
mild-spirit of my sainted friend, return, and by thy presence aid me to
prepare for that state of bliss, which _you_ already enjoy, and to which
I feel that _I_ am hastening.
The will of Heaven be done; but the moment of dissolution will be sweet
and welcome!
THE END.
------------------------------------
Printed by D. N. SHURY, Berwick-street, Soho.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ Errata listed in this volume have been applied to all volumes.
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
when a predominant form was found in this book.
○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ERRATA.
VOL. I.
Page 6, line 2—_for_ “to which,” _read_ “for which.”
— 172, line 19—_for_ “niputations,” _read_ “imputations.”
— 272, line 17—_for_ “were,” _read_ “was.”
— 273, line 3—_for_ “confidant,” _read_ “confident.”
VOL. II.
Page 29, line 11—_for_ “compelled to,” _read_ “compelled me to.”
— 153, line 11—_for_ “which,” _read_ “as.”
— 158, line 11—_omit_ “or.”
— 219, line 4—_for_ “that your sex are the most fortunate,” _read_ “that
you are the most fortunate of your sex.”
— 249, line 18—_for_ “derison,” _read_ “derision.”
— 281, line 3—_for_ “woful,” _read_ “awful.”
— 337, line 11—_for_ “hasten a person,” _read_ “hasten in person.”
VOL. III.
Page 29, line 12—_for_ “rung,” _read_ “wrung.”
— 108, line 14—_for_ “has,” _read_ “had.”
— 295, line last—_for_ “probibity,” _read_ “probity.”
— 308, line 12—_for_ “uperiority,” _read_ “superiority.”
— 349, line 6—_for_ “Zender,” _read_ “Bender.”
VOL. IV.
Page 31, line 1—_for_ “the would,” _read_ “she would.”
— 52, line 2—_efface the_ Comma _after_ “Rosanna.”
— 140, line 12—_instead of a_ semicolon _put a_ comma.
— 159, line 2—_for_ “except,” _read_ “than.”
— 283, line 17—_for_ “confe,” _read_ “confer.”
— 309, line 12—_for_ “dye,” _read_ “die.”
— 311, line 14—_after_ “mentioned,” _put_ a full stop.
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