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Title: Feudal tyrants, volume 3 (of 4): The counts of Carlsheim and Sargans
Author: Naubert, Benedikte
Language: English
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Feudal Tyrants; or The Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans. Vol. III
◆ ◆ ◆
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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. III.
═══════════════════
_SECOND EDITION_.
═══════════════════
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
------------------------------------------------------------------------
FEUDAL TYRANTS,
&c. &c. &c.
═════════════════════
PART THE FIFTH.
═════════════════════
COUNT DONAT’s DAUGHTERS.
PART II.
◆ ◆ ◆
MEMOIRS
Found in the Cell of a Nun, after her Decease, in the Convent of Zurich.
Since Amabel Bloomberg traced the letters which will be found with this,
how many years have elapsed! how many changes have taken place! How many
persons are now insensible dust, who are described as agitated with such
anxious fears and ardent hopes, by the pens of Amabel and the Damsels of
Sargans! Accident has also made me mistress of the letters of those
unfortunate sisters. Accident, did I say? Surely, it was something more
than mere chance, which brought them into the hands of her, who is most
able to supply that chasm, which otherwise would have been left in these
adventures.
To undertake this task I have both leisure and information sufficient.
My fate was too closely united with that of the sisters, to permit the
slightest particular concerning them to be concealed from me; and
jointly with theirs will my name be handed down to posterity.
Yet is it not an idle vanity, a love of worldly fame, which makes me
desire this species of immortality?—Well then, I will repress the wish.
Long practised in self-denial, I will make even this last sacrifice to
my celestial spouse, and will write, as if I treated of strangers and of
interests quite foreign to myself. No one shall know my name except
Heaven, to whom alone is thoroughly known, how much I have suffered!
When I entered the world, the course of innocence and beauty lay among a
thousand snares and pit-falls, which were the more dangerous from being
most artfully concealed. This is a truth which I learnt to my cost,
before I sought, and found, tranquillity in a convent.
Amabel was blind to those snares; though they were spread carelessly
enough for her to have seen them, had not her own guileless nature
thrown a veil over her eyes, and had not female obstinacy made her
reject the prudent warnings of her best friends.
The visit to Engelberg, which she had agreed upon in concert with her
brother’s wife, was made the next day; and the latter, as young,
imprudent, and unsuspicious as Amabel, undertook to excuse her
sister-in-law’s absence to the jealous Arnold, and the sick old man, who
suffered no quarter of an hour to pass without enquiring for his
daughter. However, Juttila engaged to invent some means for satisfying
him till Amabel’s return, which was delayed much longer than either of
them intended.
How indeed could she return so speedily, since adventures encountered
her on the road, on which she little reckoned, and whose nature was of
sufficient consequence to have a fearful influence over herself, and
over all those who were most dear to her? Alas! the cottage which she
left with such a thoughtless heart, she was destined to revisit no more
with such content: the fate of the two sisters, which she was so eager
to learn, was now enveloped by such impenetrable darkness, that she in
vain.... But I am running away from the proper order of events, which in
truth it is natural for one of my profession and time of life to do. Be
it known to you, my youthful readers that it is not easy for an old
doating Nun to transcribe even a verse out of her Psalter, without
tacking to it at least a dozen of her own childish observations.
At Engelberg Amabel found the Nun to whom Wolfenrad had directed her to
apply, and who was his confidante and the secret instrument for
effecting the carrying away of Amalberga. She assured Amabel, that her
friend had by no means been forced away; but that on account of the
assiduities of the Lord of Landenberg, and the popular disturbances
which increased with every day, Amalberga had voluntarily chosen to
withdraw herself from Engelberg.
—“Your partiality for the governor,” said the artful hypocrite, “and
your incessant pleading in behalf of a man whom she could not love, made
the Lady unwilling to let you know her design. I was her sole confidante
on this occasion, and I think I have done well in enabling the dear soul
to escape from the temptations of the wicked world! She has taken refuge
in the Convent of Zurich, under the protection of an old Lady called
Urania, who is either her friend or some near relation, for I
understand, never was there joy known equal to that of their meeting.”—
In this account Amabel could not discover the least vestige of deception
or improbability: still she blamed the Nun greatly for concealing the
real cause of Amalberga’s disappearance, by which means the spirit of
discontent was encouraged among the people against Landenberg, who bore
the odium of having violated the sanctuary, and forcibly carried away an
inmate of those holy walls.
The Nun made but an indifferent defence against this charge, and Amabel
left her by no means satisfied with her conduct. However, she soon
forgot what little had displeased her in the Nun’s conversation, and
gave herself up entirely to the joy of being assured, that one of her
friends at least was safe in the arms of friendship and of maternal
love.
—“Oh! that I could but have the same assurance respecting my beloved
Emmeline!” thus said Amabel to herself, as she hastened back to her
brother’s cottage; “Oh! that as I pass homewards, chance would but throw
Wolfenrad in my way, that I might learn from him what he knows about the
dear-one! He might just tell me in half a dozen words, and then hurry
away, in order that I might not blush too deep a crimson, when the
severe Censurer of my actions looks me in the face, and says with his
magisterial air,—‘Now, Amabel! whence do you come, and with whom have
you spoken?’—How ridiculous, that Arnold should take it into his head,
that an old man like Wolfenrad has designs upon a young creature like
me, not yet twenty! Yet ridiculous as it is, his anxiety proceeds from
the warmth of his affection for me, and I ought to forgive my good
Arnold for the faults of his head, when I recollect the kindness of his
heart.”—
Such were the thoughts which occupied Amabel, as she hastily retraced
the long way between her home and the Convent; and as she past along,
she threw many an anxious look on every side in hopes of seeing the man,
who alone could confirm to her the fortunate escape of her friend.
Wolfenrad had frequently business that carried him to Engelberg, and it
was by no means improbable, that she should encounter him on her way.
In fact, the tempter had long been at no great distance from the fair
pilgrim, though without her seeing him; since he stole along concealed
by a thick hawthorn plantation, which bordered more than half the road
between the village and the Convent of Engelberg.
It is easy for the wicked to guess what steps will be taken by
unsuspecting innocence, whose proceedings are the natural result of
existing circumstances and feelings. Wolfenrad knew how warmly Amabel’s
heart was interested about her friends; he had given her hopes of
obtaining intelligence respecting them; he had pointed out the place,
where a part of those hopes might be realized; and he was therefore
certain of finding her on the road to that place, before many days were
elapsed. He had accidentally missed seeing her on her way to Engelberg;
but when on her return she was descending the Convent-hill, he espied
her from behind the watch-tower which stands at the farthest extremity
of the mount, and then hastened to shelter himself behind the hawthorn
hedge, in order that he might unseen watch her motions, and discover
what temper she was in, before he accosted her.
And thus did he for some time steal along, examining every change of her
expressive countenance, and drawing but too just conclusions of the
subject, which employed her thoughts. Her look, now gay, now sorrowful,
and the impatient glances which she frequently threw around her, would
have been sufficient to betray her, even though a few broken sentences,
which escaped from her in the anxiety of her mind, had not left him
without a doubt of his presence being perfectly welcome.
Wolfenrad’s plans for the innocent girl’s ruin had been so long
arranged, that they were ready to be carried into effect at a moment’s
warning; nor could he have wished for a more favourable opportunity than
the present. The fiercest passion for Amabel reigned in his bosom, and
deceived _him_ who was so well skilled in deceiving others. He fancied,
that in her impatient looks, in the tone which she used in pronouncing
his name occasionally, there was something more than mere friendship for
Emmeline, and that love was the motive that made her so anxious to meet
him! Immortal powers! Love! love from a girl, pure as innocence itself,
for such an earthly dæmon, a dæmon both in person and in mind!
—“Yet however she may be disposed,” ’twas thus he argued with himself,
“too abrupt an appearance, too hasty a discovery of my views, might do
me a prejudice, and put her too much upon her guard. When her impatience
is worked up to the highest pitch, I shall be the more secure of her.”—
And therefore he still remained invisible, and hastened onwards, keeping
still a little way before her; so that when the fair pilgrim reached the
end of the plantation, and emerged into the open plain, she descried him
crossing the path at some distance, as if totally unaware of her
approach.
Amabel gave a cry of joy, called him by his name, and flew to join him.
—“Is it you, my fair dame?” answered Wolfenrad. “What would you with
me?”—and he stopped, as waiting for her to come up to him.
—“Oh! tell me! tell me! give me some tidings of the damsel of Sargans!”—
—“You have been to Engelberg, and surely must have heard more there,
than I am able to tell you.”—
“Oh! no, no, no! Emmeline! speak of Emmeline!”—
—“Why, the Lady Emmeline.... Concealment being absolutely necessary....
But we are close to your jealous brother’s house, and he may take
offence at our conference—Farewell! I must find an opportunity of
communicating what I know unobserved, when I return from Uri.”—
“From Uri? Heavens! and when do you go thither, and how long shall you
remain away?”—
—“I set out to-morrow; as to my stay, I fear the disturbances there will
make my return very distant.”—
Amabel’s impatience to know something decisive respecting her friend now
grew beyond all bounds. She entreated him at least to put it out of
doubt that Emmeline had been saved from the flames, and hesitated not to
follow him into a bye-path, which conducted to the Castle. As they
passed along, the deceiver began a long and wonderful narrative of
Emmeline’s adventures, which occupied his auditor’s whole attention; but
as it contained not one syllable of truth, it would be superfluous to
relate it here.
—“But one question more!” said Amabel at length, and stopped. “See!
night is approaching; we are already at the foot of the Castle-hill, and
I have still a weary way to traverse, ere I can regain my brother’s
cottage, where, I fear, I must be already missed. You assure me that
Emmeline is safe, and is concealed in the neighbourhood: Oh! tell me
then _where_ she is concealed, for my bosom pants to embrace her!”—
—“That were easily done. You see the Castle is close at hand: thither
have I brought her, and I mean to convey her with me to Uri to-morrow,
since the disturbances which prevail in these parts render them an
unsafe abode.”—
—“To Uri? To-morrow? Cruel, cruel Wolfenrad! Would you then have removed
her, without suffering me to see her for one moment?”—
—“How could I have contrived an interview without betraying the secret?
Had not accident thrown you in my way, I should not have had an
opportunity of even telling you, that she is in your neighbourhood.
However, as soon as she was out of the reach of discovery, you would
have received a letter explaining every thing. I left her occupied in
writing it, and when finished it was to be delivered to your husband’s
care, who is now with her at the Castle, and who has been the chief
means of bringing her hither in safety.”—
—“What say you? My husband? Is Edmund then with Emmeline? Oh! lead me to
him, dear Wolfenrad, I _must_ accompany you to the Castle; permit me to
pass this last evening with the dear lady; or at least suffer me to
embrace her once more, and assure her of my unchanged affection, and
then my husband can conduct me back to my brother.”—
Wolfenrad heard this proposal with a malicious smile, and answered that
for _his_ part he had no objection; but he suggested his fears, lest her
taking such a step should displease the suspicious Arnold, who surpassed
her husband in jealousy a thousand fold.
—“Oh! heed not that!” exclaimed Amabel; “while I am with _you_, I can
set all suspicions at defiance!”—
She said this thoughtlessly, for she alluded to his age and ugliness.
The miscreant however interpreted it to his own taste, and saw in it the
confirmation of his insolent hopes. He was on the point of rewarding the
avowal by a tender pressure of her hand, which perhaps might have opened
her eyes, ere it was too late: but she prevented him by making a
thousand fond enquiries respecting her beloved Edmund, which put him
again upon his guard, and which were not ended till they arrived at the
Castle. The gates were closed: Wolfenrad sounded his horn; the
draw-bridge descended. He entered the Castle; Amabel followed him, and
the moment that she had passed the threshold, heard with terror the
noise of a port-cullis falling behind her.
How strange is it, that we should frequently remain thoroughly blind
till we reach a certain point, and then be rouzed at once from our
delusions by some unimportant circumstance! Amabel has frequently told
me since, that the sound of that port-cullis (though nothing unusual in
the Castle) gave her the first indistinct idea of her imprudence and the
danger of her situation.
Her voice faltered, as she pronounced the names of Edmund and Emmeline,
while she hastily withdrew her hand, which Wolfenrad had now seized with
an air of impetuous passion. She looked him anxiously in the face, and
her eyes read with horror in his an expression, which explained to her
the whole fearful secret.
Yet she was still unwilling to believe that man so great a villain, whom
she had long believed so much her friend. It was not till she was
convinced, that neither Edmund nor Emmeline were in the Castle; that she
found herself totally alone with the wretch, whom she had despised as
being too insignificant to be dangerous; and that an old woman, whom (in
order to calm the first violence of her feelings) he had produced to her
as his wife, was nothing more than a domestic; it was not till then,
that she saw the whole business clearly, and the sight was one of such
danger, that perhaps had she been a woman of a common mind, it would
have thrown her into such a state of bodily insensibility, or of mental
dejection, as might effectually have prevented all endeavours to effect
an escape. But Amabel was a daughter of Helvetia! that is, she was a
woman, whose powers both of body and mind existed in their fullest
vigour; neither the first was weakened by luxurious indulgence, nor the
second liable to be subdued by imaginary terrors. In spite of all that
credulity and imprudence which had betrayed her into her present danger,
her imagination was still both clear and acute enough to suggest a means
for effecting her rescue, or at least for gaining time.
She appeared reserved and shy, and sat down in silence to the voluptuous
entertainment, which was now served up by Wolfenrad’s confidante; the
only person, whom he suffered to penetrate into that part of the Castle.
Yet did Amabel contrive to give her silence the appearance of being
preserved much against her will; she refused not at Wolfenrad’s request
to lay aside the large hat, which overshadowed her face, and which (as
he complained) concealed from him numberless beauties; nor did she draw
away very hastily or with a look of extreme displeasure her soft white
hand, when he prest it passionately between his own.
—“May I flatter myself,” said the deceived deceiver, “that Amabel does
not absolutely hate me?”—
—“My religion forbids my hating any one.”—
—“And you are not very much offended at my having employed a little
artifice to procure myself the happiness of this evening?”—
“—Artifice?—Nay; the effect of accident, and ... and, I am afraid, my
own inclination was so much on your side, that....”—
—“My charming Amabel! then I may hope, that Wolfenrad is not entirely
indifferent to you!”—
—“Indifferent? Oh! that you are not _indeed_!—And as to hoping ... why,
nobody can prevent your doing that, you know.”—
And with this kind of doubtful and flattering discourse did she long
entertain the betrayer, and forgot not to fill the silver bowls from
time to time; though the effects of his frequent draughts prevented him
from observing, that while she poured wine into his goblet, nothing but
water entered into her own.
At the expence of a few disgusting kisses, which were forced from her
occasionally, she at length had the pleasure to see Wolfenrad fall
senseless from his chair. It was midnight; the old woman had long since
betaken herself to rest, and Amabel found herself at liberty to wander
through the vacant chambers in search of some means of escape.
Alas! the locks and bars were immoveable, and no keys were to be
found.—She at length discovered an unfastened door opening into a
balcony; it overhung the middle court; the height was fearful; yet would
she have gladly ran the hazard of springing below, if she had not
dreaded the meeting there with a greater danger, than that from which
she was flying. The Castle-Garrison occupied this quarter. She heard
from above the conversation, which passed between the sentinels; and its
nature was such as to leave her no hope of finding from them protection
or even pity. It also informed her, that Wolfenrad’s bounty, and his
winking at their committing the most heinous offences, had united them
too closely to his interests, to admit even a chance of their acting in
opposition to his will.
She wept in agony! She wrung her hands! At length despair took
possession of her whole soul. She eyed for a while the torch, which
flamed in her hand, and in a moment of desperate resolution she
determined to set the Castle on fire; in hopes of either being able to
effect her escape during the conflagration, or at least of saving
herself by death from existing for one instant with dishonour.
Thus resolved, she was on the point of quitting the balcony when a
well-known name struck her ear. She stopt, and listened. Two sentinels
stood beneath the balcony, and she heard one tell the other, that it
would be necessary to wake Wolfenrad; for that he (the sentinel) was
just returned from the outer wall, and had seen a company of soldiers
crossing over the plain; that he had hailed one of them, and found them
to be part of those who had accompanied Bloomberg to Sargans, and that
their leader with the rest of his troops would follow them before
mid-day.
—“Bloomberg their leader?” said his companion. “And since when has the
gentle peace-loving Bloomberg turned soldier, and what has Wolfenrad to
fear from a fellow, who but yesterday followed the plough?”—
“Faith,” rejoined the first, “this is a time, when every countryman
exchanges his sickle and ploughshare for a sword and spear; and I know
enough of Edmund Bloomberg to be convinced, that the carrying off his
pretty wife will make him rage like a mad bull.”—
—“Carrying off, d’ye call it?” said the other; “I think, she seemed to
follow Wolfenrad of her own accord; and if Bloomberg draws his sword
upon her account, the more fool Bloomberg!”—
A burst of insulting laughter terminated this conversation, every
syllable of which pierced Amabel to the heart; and the soldiers
separated, having agreed that it was unnecessary to disturb Wolfenrad
that night, and that the news of Bloomberg’s return might safely be
delayed till the next morning.
Amabel burst into tears; but she soon recollected, that she had better
occupation than weeping. A thousand ideas floated before her mind,
inspired by the distant hope which she derived from the assurance, that
in a few hours her husband would pass within sight of her prison. The
great object therefore was to gain time to wait for his arrival with
safety, and find means to inform him of her confinement in the Castle.
Accident furnished her with both. She returned trembling into the
apartment, where the vile Wolfenrad still lay sleeping, the most odious
picture of intoxication that the eye ever witnessed. Despair made her
snatch a knife from the table, and she rushed to plunge it into his
heart; but here the softness of woman’s nature got the better of her
resolution and her vengeance. She threw down the knife, and hastened
into the balcony, that in the free air and under the sky thick sown with
stars, she might implore the Creator of that sky to look down upon and
assist her in this hour of fear and danger. She rose from prayer much
comforted: she turned towards the East, and looked eagerly for the
arrival of the dawn, whose approach was already announced. She soon
perceived, that the balcony in which she stood, though much too high
from the ground to admit of her throwing herself from it without being
dashed to pieces, at least commanded an extensive view over the
surrounding country, and was admirably calculated for summoning any
passing travellers to her assistance.
Oh! now, would but the sleeping Libertine doze away the morning, all
might be well! Often did she steal softly into the chamber to see,
whether he gave any signs of waking; again the knife attracted her gaze.
She seized it, and concealed it in her bosom, as her last resource
should all others fail.
It was now broad-day. Wolfenrad stretched himself, yawned, and opened
his red eye-lids. Amabel fled to a distant corner, but his voice soon
compelled her to return.
—“My charming angel,” said he, “come near me. You filled my goblet last
night too generously, and this morning I feel myself still under the
influence of the too potent liquor. Beshrew me, but I am marvellously
indisposed.”—
—“Let not that trouble you, my dear friend,” answered Amabel, while she
advanced a few paces, trembling with apprehension; “while I resided in
the Castle of Sargans, Count Donat frequently found himself unwell from
a similar indulgence in convivial pleasures; but he soon got the better
of his indisposition by using a warm bath, which never failed to restore
him to perfect health within an hour. In the next chamber there is a
large brazen cistern; the water shall be heated for you without delay,
and as soon as your bath is ready, I will call some of your attendants
to convey you thither.”—
Without waiting for his answer, she hastened to her new occupation; she
soon returned with one pitcher of water, then went back again for
another, and thus contrived to get rid of near an hour, never failing as
she passed the balcony to cast from it a glance of enquiry, whether
there were yet no signs of her deliverer.
It was in vain, that Wolfenrad desired her to call some of the servants
to spare her this unnecessary labour. Amabel remonstrated against the
impropriety of suffering herself to be seen by strangers in his
apartment, and at the same time protested, that she felt the greatest
pleasure in taking this trouble, since it was for _him_ that she took
it. Wolfenrad knew not how to find terms sufficiently strong to express
his gratitude for her attention, and protested, that he had not
flattered himself with the idea of possessing so warm an interest in her
heart.
He was still expatiating on the satisfaction which this agreeable
discovery gave him, when the sound of trampling at a distance struck her
hearing. She looked towards the window, and descried a cloud of dust.
Down fell the pitcher from her hand.
—“Your bath is ready!” she said in a voice scarcely audible from
agitation; and while Wolfenrad staggered into the adjoining chamber, she
hastened into the balcony. The horsemen came nearer; she recognized many
countenances well known to her; she recognized among them that of Edmund
Bloomberg.
His name pronounced in her loudest tone, the cry of “Help for the
Virgin’s sake!” and her handkerchief waved in the air towards the
horsemen, soon attracted their attention. With equal surprise and terror
Bloomberg recognized his wife at a balcony of the Castle, heard her
implore assistance, and flew with his brave companions to afford it.
What followed, I shall relate briefly: the narrative of this adventure
may appear already too circumstantial, since its connexion with the
Sisters of Sargans is not at present evident; but it had too material an
influence upon the fate of all Helvetia to admit of my passing it over
with a slight mention.
Before the Castle-Garrison had time to communicate to their Superior
that intelligence, which they ought to have conveyed to him the
preceding night, and while all hands were busily employed in guarding
against an attack on the main-quarter, Bloomberg and his friends had
already forced their way into the Castle at that neglected side, whence
Amabel had called to them for assistance.
The bath, in which the still half-intoxicated Wolfenrad hoped to get rid
of the effects of his night’s excess, was crimsoned with his blood.
Amabel again found herself safe in the hands of her husband, in whose
bosom delight contended with indignation. The opposition of the garrison
to the complete conquest of the Castle was but trifling; and this
fortress would certainly have remained in the hands of the Helvetians (a
circumstance to them of the greatest advantage) had their numbers been
strong enough to resist the troops, who were shortly after sent against
them by the Abbot of St. Gall and other allies of the governor.
Bloomberg’s friends were inadequate to maintaining the possession of
their conquest, and in a few days afterwards he was compelled to
evacuate the Castle.
Hitherto, the resentment of the multitude had been restrained within
some bounds: but Amabel’s adventure and the death of Wolfenrad were the
signal for open rebellion. The whole country was floated with blood:
would that I could say, that the blood which flowed was entirely that of
the foes of freedom! But alas! the number of the oppressors was too
mighty. The Helvetians were over-powered; and after displaying the
sentiments and performing the actions of heroes, Edmund Bloomberg,
Arnold Melthal, and his venerable father Henric (to whom patriotism and
his daughter’s injuries had restored some of his youthful strength) were
constrained to fly from those beloved unhappy vallies, which once had
been the favourite abodes of freedom and tranquillity.
The name of “flight” was of itself offensive to Helvetian candour and
courage; the place to which they were compelled to address their flight,
made it no less painful than disgraceful. Altdorf, which was in the
jurisdiction of Gessler, whose tyranny had already been the cause of
such bitter sufferings to Henric and Arnold, was the only refuge which
remained to them. By remaining here quiet and concealed, till time
allowed them to find fresh means of resisting their enemies, they hoped
to escape Gessler’s notice; and accordingly they hastened to take
shelter at Altdorf, with the brave William Tell, Bloomberg’s
half-brother: here also they were sure of a powerful protector in the
person of Walter Forest, a man whose situation and native greatness of
mind struck awe into the bosom even of the insolent Gessler.
Here then the fugitives remained concealed, and nourished hopes of
better times, which perhaps would have made even the present chearful,
had not domestic discord obtruded itself into their little circle. The
imprudence with which Amabel had thrown herself into the seducer’s
snare, in spite of all his warnings and remonstrances, had not passed
uncensured by her brother. His bitter reproaches sometimes excited
Edmund’s anger, and sometimes his jealousy; and the poor girl would have
been absolutely wretched, had not her father sustained her cause, and
had not her innocence found a most strenuous advocate in William Tell.
It is true, the language of veracity, in which she related her unadorned
story, was not to be mistaken; but still it required Tell’s cool
unprejudiced nature, and his noble guileless heart, to see every
circumstance in its real colours.
He at length succeeded in restoring perfect harmony in Bloomberg’s
family, and Amabel blessed him for the second time as the author of all
her earthly happiness. Perhaps, her entire reconciliation with her
husband was a little forwarded by Arnold’s absence. This impetuous young
man had been the ring-leader of those, who at the Easter feast had
insulted the Abbot of St. Gall by singing the ballad of “Bishop Ulric;”
the Abbot had not forgotten it; and the unfortunate Arnold at length
fell into one of the many snares, which had been spread for him by his
priestly foe. Doubtless, he would have fallen a victim to the Abbot’s
vengeance, had not Werner Bernsdorf, by means which it is unnecessary to
relate circumstantially, contrived to release him from his dungeon, and
sheltered him in his own house.
Though Amabel had received her husband’s full pardon, still the
reconciliation had taken place too freshly to allow her as yet to feel
quite at her ease: and now when the news arrived that her brother (whom
she loved most dearly in spite of his violence) was a prisoner, she
would have had sufficient reason to be unhappy, even had she not been
tormented by the most cruel anxiety respecting the fate of the Damsels
of Sargans. She ceased not to make enquiries concerning them; and at
length she received the confirmation of her bitterest apprehensions.
Amalberga was beyond a doubt totally in Landenberg’s power, who (in
spite of all Wolfenrad’s assertions to the contrary) kept her confined
in the Castle of Rassburg; nor was it less certain, that the Lady
Emmeline had perished in the flames of St. Roswitha’s Sanctuary. Report
spread far and wide many strange anecdotes respecting that
conflagration, which I shall relate in another place; in truth, there is
no one better able to give an account of that dreadful incident than
myself.
The tears, which Amabel shed for herself and for her beloved friends,
were soon required by a still more painful cause: misfortunes now
awaited her, which were worthy to be mourned with tears of blood.
The furious Gessler’s insolence increased with every succeeding day. His
most earnest care was to discover those who disapproved of him, that he
might revenge himself by their torments. At length his pride and folly
grew to such a height, that he fixed the plumed bonnet (which he usually
wore) upon a lance in the market-place of Altdorf, and ordered, that all
who passed should bow before it. The sneering populace obeyed, and
contented themselves with whispering to each other, that they had much
rather pay their respect to the empty hat, than the wicked head which it
was accustomed to decorate: but William Tell and some few others of the
principal inhabitants passed by the bonnet proudly and with unbending
necks. From that moment did Gessler mark them down as the future victims
of his revenge and rancour.
Had the tyrant dared to lay violent hands on Tell, or had he contrived
means of stamping the mark of infamy on his reputation; had he sold the
wife of his bosom for a slave, or murdered his infants before his eyes;
still would all these atrocities have been excelled by that, which now
entered his infernal brain. A prize was to be contended for by archers.
The sport was interrupted by the arrival of Gessler. What was the horror
of all who heard him, when he commanded his guards to seize Tell’s son,
a lovely child but four years old, and bind him to the tree which had
been selected as a mark for the arrows. He then declared aloud with the
most impious execrations, that the heads of six of Tell’s relations
(whom he had confined upon some slight pretences) should fall before
night, unless the father would engage at a considerable distance to fix
a dart into an apple, which should be placed on the head of the child.
How did the father burn with secret indignation, when Gessler dared to
lay before him this unnatural proposal! No earthly force could have
compelled him to arm his hand for the performance of an action so
uncertain and so fearful; yet in fact the bow and arrow could be
scarcely called an uncertain weapon in the hands of the most dexterous
archer in Helvetia: and after a few moments past in thought he
confidently accepted a proposal, whose atrocity (he was certain) was
thoroughly felt by all present; and whose consequence he trusted would
be the kindling the fire of liberty in every bosom till it should at
length break into open flames, and the emancipating his country for ever
from its present state of ignominious bondage.
A glance, more expressing contempt than wrath, was darted by Tell’s dark
eyes upon the Governor, as he rocked himself backwards and forwards upon
his elevated chair of state, and looked down upon the circle of noble
Helvetians, whom the sports had attracted to Altdorf, as if they had
been creatures of an inferior kind.
Gessler was too void of sensibility to understand the meaning of the
glance, which was darted on him by Tell’s piercing eye. He only smiled
contemptuously at having compelled the pride of this great mind to stoop
itself to his orders, when he saw him press the lovely laughing child,
his latest-born, to his heart with passion, and then bear him in his
arms to the tree, where he was destined to take his stand. The apple,
which was the nominal mark for that arrow, whose point Gessler hoped to
see crimsoned with human blood, was fixed on the child’s head by the
hands of the unhappy father.
Gessler’s attendants prepared to bind the innocent creature to the tree;
but a spark of paternal spirit already burned in the soul of the son.
—“I am an Helvetian!” cried he with boyish eagerness; “I am not afraid
of death, but of bonds: why, if my father _really_ wanted to kill me, do
you think I would run away?”—
All withdrew from the place, where Death’s intended victim stood calm
and sweetly-smiling, like a second Isaac. The multitude, agonized with
terror, could scarcely be heard to breathe: Tell had already taken his
station. All were still, all dreading, lest the father’s hand, rendered
trembling and uncertain by anxiety for his darling, should for the first
time miss the mark; when the arrow whistled through the air, and fixed
itself in the apple just above the crown of the child’s head, who saw it
coming towards him, and smiled as he marked its flight.
Now then all rushed, eagerly to learn the event of this awful scene.
Some exclaimed—“He is fallen! he is fallen!”—But the boy had only
stooped to pick up the apple which the force of the blow had struck from
his head; and he now presented it to his father, who had flown to
embrace his rescued darling with speed scarce inferior to that of his
arrow.
—“I was certain, father,” cried the child, as he hung round the neck of
the breathless Tell, “I was certain, that you were not _really_ going to
kill your own William!”—
—“Kill _thee_?” exclaimed the father; “sooner would I have driven the
arrow into my own heart! But eternal curses and sudden death to him, who
would have made a man the murderer of his own child! Look!” he
continued, while he clasped the boy to his breast with one hand, and
with the other drew from his bosom a dart, which he held towards
Gessler, “Look, monster! had the first arrow pierced my son’s breast,
_this_ should have been buried to the very beard in _thine_.—For this
time thou art safe; but yet rest thou assured, that at the last thou
shalt not escape unpunished! Though _I_ may spare thee, Heaven will
_not_.”—
—“Vengeance! vengeance! death and curses to the tyrant! Eternal
destruction to the infernal Gessler and all the miscreants who assist
him!” thus exclaimed the multitude with one voice; while they closed
round Tell in order to conduct him home in safety, and protect him from
the Governor’s guards, to whom a signal had been given to fall upon him
without delay.
But the friends of liberty were too weak in numbers to resist their
powerful oppressors. Before the gallant Tell had retraced half the way
to his cottage, his companions were dispersed, and himself delivered
into the hands of his enemy. Gessler commanded, that he should be bound,
thrown into a vessel which was ready for sailing, and conveyed to the
dungeons of Kussnach, as a violator of the respect due to imperial
dignity.
No one was suffered to accompany Tell; but his little son clung to the
bonds which were cutting the flesh of his father, and cried, that he
would throw himself into the flood, if they tore him from him. Gessler’s
soldiers had no objection to taking two victims instead of one, and
yielded to the child’s request, whom Amabel followed into the vessel
without being questioned. The boy was her darling, and it was she who
had conducted him to the fatal archery, where it was his destiny to play
so principal a part. The cry that he was safe had rouzed her from the
swoon into which the sight of his danger had thrown her; and she now
found it impossible to part so soon from the cherub, whom she had
expected never more to clasp to her bosom but as a corse. She had also
no slight grounds for apprehending new dangers for the rescued victim,
should she leave him in the hands of his enemies with no other protector
than his captive father. Gessler’s servile ministers could not have well
pitched upon a more skilful or certain means of inflicting pain on Tell,
than by murdering his son before his face.
Amabel was aware of this; and dreading lest this horrible plan of
vengeance should occur to the soldiers, she took the first opportunity
of enticing the child away from his father, and concealing him in a dark
corner of the vessel. Here she charged the little William to remain
quiet, and pointing to Tell, bade him observe how quiet his father was
lying on the floor, his fettered hands clasped together and raised
towards Heaven, whither his eyes directed devout and imploring glances,
which reached the Preserver of innocence above the clouds.
—“What is my father doing?” enquired the child at length in a whisper.
—“He is praying for himself and for us,” answered Amabel.
—“Oh! then God will hear him, and help him; and then you know, we can
creep out, and take away those ugly cords from his poor bleeding
hands.”—
Amabel replied in the manner, which she thought most likely to satisfy
the child; and a conversation was carried on in whispers between her and
her little companion which gradually became interesting enough to
prevent their observing that a dreadful storm was rising, that thick
clouds had changed the day into night, and that the light vessel was
forced far out of its intended course. The rolling of the thunder, the
frequent flashes of lightning, and the heavy torrents of rain at length
made both attentive and silent; till William proposed that he should
steal to his father under covert of the thick darkness, and spread his
little coat over him, for Tell lay entirely exposed to the tempest.
Amabel burst into tears as she listened to the kind-hearted boy, then
gave him her own cloak, and bade him hasten to alleviate the prisoner’s
sufferings.
But Tell showed by no sign, that he was conscious of this affecting
testimony of his child’s care: he remained with his hands clasped, and
his eyes still fixed upon the heavens. Perhaps, the transactions of that
day had blunted all his feelings; perhaps, he was revolving plans of
escape, which never fail to occupy the thoughts of the captive hero, and
whose future execution frequently prevent his being sensible of the
weight of present calamities.
The tempest continued to rage: with every moment the danger of the
slight vessel became more imminent. Tell, Amabel, and the child were now
left by themselves. The other persons were employed in various quarters,
endeavouring if possible to save the ship, which was already deprived of
sail and mast. The prisoners were now the happiest of the party: they at
least rejoiced in the hope of perishing together. The child too, who had
no clear idea of the danger, and fancied that everything went wrong only
because his father was in bonds, ceased not to exert all his little
powers in endeavouring to untye the cords; but even with Amabel’s
assistance he found the task too difficult for his strength.
While they were still employed in this unavailing labour, they heard the
cry of distress increase with tenfold violence: presently some one on
the upper deck exclaimed—“Now then all is lost! What winds and waves
have failed in doing, will be done by the hidden rocks which abound upon
this coast, and with which not a soul of us is acquainted. Oh! what
would I now give to be as good a pilot as Tell, and to possess his
knowledge of these shores!”—
Amabel started up, and listened with more attention. She heard the name
of Tell frequently mentioned; and after a few minutes past in
contention, some of the sailors approached the place, where she stood by
the side of her unfortunate friend.
—“Tell,” said the Captain, “you know, that your life is forfeit to the
law; but if you will engage to conduct the vessel safe to land, as a
favour we will unbind you, and promise to do our utmost to obtain a
milder sentence for you from the Emperor’s mercy.”—
—“I have saved many a vessel,” answered Tell, “in a more desperate
situation than the present; and that which has succeeded with me ten
times before, I trust, will not fail with me now.—As to what you say
about favours, bestow them on those who ask them; I expect mercy from no
one, save from Him under whose hand we all now tremble!”—
Tell was unbound, and the rudder committed to his care. William and
Amabel still remained close by his side, while the rest of the ship’s
company dispersed to their several stations.
Tell’s rudder seemed to command the tempest: he steered confidently
through the foaming waves, and already the companions of his danger
shouted with joy at the certainty of their escape.
—“And what will be the reward of our preserver?” asked one of the most
compassionate among Gessler’s soldiers.
—“What _should_ it be?” answered their leader angrily. “The most he can
lay claim to is a speedy death without being previously tortured; or
perhaps his sentence may be softened into that of eternal
imprisonment.”—
Tell was silent, and cast a despairing look through the dark clouds of
the storm towards the Only-one, from whom he had hopes of assistance!
—“Oh! that I had no one here to tremble for, except myself!” said Tell
to the afflicted Amabel, who knelt beside him after a silence of some
minutes—“how quickly should I be safe from the malice of my enemies!”—
—“And what then would you do?”—
—“The rocks are not lofty! One bold and lucky spring, and I were in
safety!”—
—“Throw me into the waves, father!” cried the boy, “throw me into the
waves, for _I_ am a hindrance to you!”—
At that moment a tremendous flash of lightning illuminated the whole
scene. Tell descried an immense tree at a slight distance growing out of
a rock which they were approaching, and extending its arms far over the
foaming flood—
“Amabel!” cried Tell, “dare you seize a bough of that tree as we pass
under it, suffer the bark to be carried away from you, and cling fast to
the branch, till I have time to come to your assistance?”—
—“I dare! I dare!” cried Amabel in the tone of desperation—“But the
child! Oh! God! the child!”—
—“Be that my care!—Be prepared!—Now then!” he cried, and was obeyed. He
saw that she had fast hold of the bough, and in the same moment he
seized the boy with his left arm, with his right turned the rudder
to-wards the rock, then sprang boldly from the deck, and left the vessel
with its unthankful freight a prey to the raging flood. The tempest
seized it; the rudder was broken in the shock, and dreadful was the
shriek of the crew, as the fury of the winds and waves drove it far away
over the roaring billows. Tell sprang upon the rock unhurt; he hastily
climbed up the upper part of the coast, and having placed the boy on the
ground, he flew to give Amabel his assistance. But she, who was
deficient neither in strength of body or presence of mind, had already
found means to gain the rock in which the tree was rooted, had forced
her way through all impediments, and had nearly reached the loftiest of
the broken cliffs, before he could arrive. He assisted her to attain the
summit, when she instantly sank on her knees, and returned thanks to God
with all the joy of one just rescued from destruction.
But I forget, that Tell and Amabel are in fact foreign to my story, and
I have already suffered myself to dwell on their adventures too long, to
the prejudice of my real heroines. I will therefore pass over in silence
the circumstances which followed their escape from the vessel, and those
which again threw them into Gessler’s power. Suffice it to say, that the
dart which the Avenger of human nature seemed to have reserved for that
express purpose, the dart which Tell had shown Gessler, in the first
burst of his indignation, that very dart pierced the tyrant’s bosom; and
thus was Helvetia freed from a monster, who had laid waste her tranquil
vallies with circumstances of much greater cruelty, than were ever
attributed to fabled dragons in the Legends of Romance.
After performing this dangerous act of justice, Tell betook himself to
Stein, where he intended to take refuge with Werner Bernsdorf. Here he
found new cause to rejoice at having rid the world of Gessler.
Bernsdorf’s new-raised edifice, the admiration of the whole country, lay
an heap of ashes! Gessler had thought it too good for a private man, and
had threatened to pull it down. Werner laughed at his threats, for it
seemed to be no trifle to destroy the property of a man of his
consequence, while living in the midst of a neighbourhood, where every
arm and every heart were devoted to his service: but he did not reflect,
that villany can find a hundred secret means for effecting its purposes.
In the depth of the night a fire broke out, which, from its bursting all
at once from the four corners of the building, and at a time when all
were buried in sleep, gained ground too rapidly to admit of its being
got under. Werner and Gertrude saved nothing from the flames, except
their lives. Every one exclaimed against secret incendiaries, and no one
doubted by whose orders this shameful action had been committed: in
fact, there were proofs sufficient to make it morally certain, that the
author of this mischief could be no other than Gessler.
The sight of his friend’s distress (for this fire had reduced Werner to
beggary) raised Tell’s indignation to the highest pitch. He left Amabel
and his son to the care of Gertrude, and hastened with Bernsdorf in
disguise back to Altdorf, to consult with Walter Forest and Henric
Melthal on the best and speediest means of rescuing Helvetia from her
disgraceful yoke. Arnold Melthal also, who had but lately escaped from
the dungeons of the Abbot of St. Gall, increased their band; and the
union of five men so remarkable for courage and for prudence produced
such fortunate and such glorious consequences, as will immortalize their
names to the latest posterity[1].
Footnote 1:
Bernsdorf’s real name was Staufacher.
Bloomberg hastened to Stein, to rejoice with his wife at her escape, and
to efface in her embraces the injurious impressions, to which his too
easy heart had given way during their separation. Spite and Envy had not
neglected the opportunity of calumniating one of Amabel’s noblest
actions. Her frank and guileless nature had prevented her from making it
a secret, that the admirable William Tell had been the first love of her
innocent heart; and her voluntary forsaking her family, in order that
she might share the fate of that gallant prisoner (a circumstance of
which all Altdorf had been an eye-witness) had found that
misinterpretation, which Calumny is always so eager to bestow on those
heroic actions, of which she feels herself incapable.
Fortunately the heart of Edmund Bloomberg was not more prone to jealous
doubts, than open to conviction. Nothing more than the sight of his
excellent brother, and the relation of the true circumstances of the
case, was necessary to make him feel the folly of suspecting the
integrity of such a man. He requested his lovely wife to forgive his
unjust suspicions; and the temporary separation of their hearts seemed
to have renewed his former love with such violence, that he could not
resolve to tear himself away from her, in spite of his earnest desire to
participate with his friends in the glorious attempt to rescue Helvetia
from her chains.
Yet was not Edmund entirely idle. His wife’s anxiety respecting the
Damsels of Sargans had formerly induced him to make enquiries respecting
their fate; but Wolfenrad (whose sole view was to remove the husband, in
order that the unprotected wife might fall a prey during his absence)
had taken care to direct his search, where he well knew that it must be
fruitless. Edmund at length discovered the trick, and incensed at having
been sent on such a wild-goose-chase, he hastened back accompanied by a
band of well-armed companions, determined to revenge the insult. His
vengeance was complete, and now at Amabel’s request he again resumed his
search after the Damsels of Sargans: nor was it long before he
ascertained, that report had said no more than the truth, when she
asserted that Amalberga was a captive in the dungeons of Rassburg, and
that Emmeline had really perished among the flames. To rescue the one
and to revenge the other now formed the only subject of the
conversations, which passed between Gertrude, Amabel, and her husband.
The more they discussed the circumstances, the more dreadful did the
fate of the two sisters appear, and the more difficult of execution did
they find their plans respecting them. They were conscious, that without
some powerful supporter, their strength was insufficient for the
undertaking; and Amabel’s thoughts immediately suggested to her the
names of two young knights, to whom at a former period the Damsels of
Sargans had been by no means indifferent, and who (she doubted not)
would still feel so much interest about them, as to forward her wish to
avenge the death of the one and procure the deliverance of the other.
On enquiry, it appeared, that but few hopes could be grounded upon the
aid of Count Herman of Werdenberg. Suspicions, injurious to Emmeline’s
character, had made him resolve to conquer his passion for her: but to
eradicate her from his heart had not been found a task so easy, as he
imagined; and at length he had quitted Germany, tormented by his
unsatisfied love, and by anger at himself for not having succeeded in
overcoming it. He was at this time in England, whence his relations had
solicited his return most earnestly, but in vain.
But little as was to be expected from Count Herman, so much the more was
to be hoped from the noble Eginhart of Torrenburg, and it was resolved
that Edmund should hasten to him without delay: it was not long before
he returned accompanied by the youthful hero.
There are reasons, which it is unnecessary to disclose, which make it
particularly painful to me to trace the name of Torrenburg, and to
recollect how closely his fate is interwoven with that of Amalberga of
Sargans: but it must be done, and I will not complain. Yes, there ought
to be now no sacrifice too difficult for my heart to make: there _shall_
be none!
Eginhart of Torrenburg, who had formerly been as closely bound to Helen
of Homburg through motives of policy, as he was now attached by
affection and his own choice to the lovely Amalberga, was at length free
from his engagements to the former, and at liberty to bestow his hand
according to the dictates of his heart.
Helen (alas for that poor Helen!) had been carried off on her bridal-day
by that fierce terrific tyrant, Donat, Count of Carlsheim and Sargans:
force had compelled her to become his wife! Angels of innocence, where
were you then lingering, that you gave the unfortunate no warning-sign
of the danger, into which she was on the brink of falling? Yet scarcely
can I decide, which would have been the harder fate; to become the
victim of Count Donat, or with a heart glowing with love to be delivered
into the arms of a husband, whose soul was in secret devoted to another,
and whose hand was only given to the wretched Helen from motives of
honour and respect for his plighted word.
Instead of the expected bride, the news of her being carried off reached
the Castle of Torrenburg, where the wedding was to have been celebrated.
Though love had no share in his concern on this occasion, compassion for
the unfortunate girl, and the insult thus offered to himself, made the
young Count immediately place himself at the head of his vassals, and
hasten to rescue the intended victim from Donat’s clutches.
Helen, who had been compelled to assent to this unhallowed union at the
Castle of Upper Halbstein, was now ordered to follow her unamiable Lord
to another of his fortresses situated southwards among the Rhœtian Alps.
She received the command with joy, for at the Castle of Sargans she
hoped at least to receive the consolations of friendship. Her
step-daughters had been the play-fellows of Helen’s childhood during
several weeks; and since their separation occasional letters and
messages conveyed by third persons had frequently assured her, that she
still lived in the remembrances of her early friends. In their embraces
she hoped to find some alleviation of her sufferings: she flattered
herself also, that the station which she was now to fill in their house,
would give her frequent opportunities of making the situation of the
poor girls more happy than it had been hitherto; and this reflexion
prevented her from feeling herself quite miserable.
Cruel fate decreed, that her journey, which was made in company with her
husband and under the protection of a numerous retinue, should be
interrupted by the arrival of the Count of Torrenburg and his forces. It
was now, that for the first time she saw the bridegroom, whom fortune
had destined never to be hers; for whose character she had ever been
taught to entertain the highest admiration; and whose sight (for oh!
there never yet was man more formed to captivate the soul of woman) was
sufficient to make her feel, how near her happiness had been, and how
completely it was now lost to her for ever.
Torrenburg’s valour forced Count Donat to seek his safety in flight, and
the trembling Helen was brought before the conqueror. Helen (who
believed herself to be no less dear to her destined bridegroom, than He
was dear to Her) for a few moments forgot her duty; but melancholy
reflexion soon made her tear herself away from the embraces of the
beloved warrior, and she commanded him to leave her.
—“My rescue comes too late!” she exclaimed, wringing her hands in agony;
“I am Count Donat’s wife, and must remain so, though it should break my
heart! Oh! Eginhart, restore me to my husband, and forget the
unfortunate, whom fate has separated from you for ever.”—
Tears stood glittering in the warrior’s eyes. He advanced, as if he
would have detained her, but she peremptorily forbade his nearer
approach. She hastened to her palfrey, and giving the reins to the
animal, she soon reached the valley, whither Donat and his vassals had
directed their flight.
Helen’s conduct on this occasion, which might well have been termed a
difficult effort, if virtue and duty did not make every effort easy, was
rewarded by her stern husband with coldness, with sarcasms, with
reproaches. She arrived at Sargans; and here was Helen destined to find
the disappointment of her last poor promised pleasure, the society of
her two friends.
Count Donat held out to her as a mark of his complaisance and of his
consideration for her happiness, that he had ordered the only one of his
daughters who remained to him (for the other had unaccountably
disappeared) to quit the Castle. In vain did Helen implore him to recall
Emmeline of Sargans from the Sanctuary of St. Roswitha: he was deaf to
her entreaties, and she was left a prey to solitude and despair.
Nor had the husband, who had gained her hand by such unworthy means,
reason to be entirely satisfied with his situation. The Counts of
Torrenburg, Mayenfield, and Homburg, mortally offended at the carrying
off of Helen, like a deluge over-ran with their forces the territories
of Count Donat. His fortresses were forced and plundered one after
another, and they now advanced to attack the Castle of Sargans. But
Helen, whose only remaining consolation was derived from the most
punctilious discharge of her duties, came forth to throw herself at the
feet of her relations; and she implored for peace so fervently and so
earnestly, and she asserted with so much solemnity her belief, that
being once become the Count of Carlsheim’s wife, it was her duty to live
and die with him, (a duty, which she was resolved to fulfill, whatever
might be the consequences,) that her intercession was found
irresistible. Dearly was Helen beloved by her parents; earnestly did
they desire her happiness, which they well knew she never could find in
the arms of Donat: but it was by themselves, that she had been taught
the merit of sacrificing all other considerations to that of fulfilling
her duties; how then could they advise her now to break through the
rules, which they had themselves laid down for her?—Peace was granted,
and granted solely to Helen’s intercession. The ravisher was left in
possession of his unwilling bride; and her relations quitted his
territories, having first exacted from him the most solemn and dreadful
oath to recompense her for the happy station, of which he had deprived
her, by unchanging love and never-ceasing anxiety for her welfare.
Donat took the oath: how he kept it, is a secret to all save the
Almighty and Helen: but she has sworn in the presence of God to be
silent on this subject, and she will carry that dreadful secret with her
to the grave unpublished.
She was very—oh! _very_ miserable! On those days only, when her stern
husband was from home, had she any gleams of sunshine. On one of these
days an unknown messenger arrived, and desired to speak with the Lady
Emmeline of Sargans. He was informed, that she was not at the Castle,
and he was conducted to Helen. He brought letters from the Lake of Thun,
which he at length confided to her, though unwillingly, and only (as he
said) induced by the frank expression of her countenance.
—“But,” said he, “will you deliver them to the Lady Emmeline with your
own hands?”—
Helen, who lived at Sargans almost in a state of captivity, knew too
well that she was not authorised to give such a promise, and only
answered by a melancholy shake of the head. Her look, the suspicious
countenances of the attendants, and the well-known character of her
husband, alarmed the messenger, and made him suspect that his life was
in danger: he stole unperceived to the gate, and hastened away. The
packet was thus left in Helen’s possession. She knew, that it would be
impossible to deliver it into the hands of her, for whom it was
intended; she long sought for opportunities of doing so in vain; and at
length ennui, and her anxiety to obtain some further information
respecting the Sisters, which might possibly furnish her with the means
of alleviating their cruel destiny, induced her to open the letters.
They were from Amabel Melthal and the lost Amalberga. Heavens! what
unexpected discoveries did Helen make while perusing them; discoveries,
which had no slight connexion with her own situation! God be thanked,
that among other things they made it known to her, that nothing but duty
to his parents, and consideration for his plighted word, had induced
Eginhart of Torrenburg to offer her his hand, while every fond sentiment
of his heart had long been Amalberga’s. This discovery at first wounded
her to the very soul; but after a time she drew from it reasons for
being better satisfied with her fate, and she resolutely banished the
beloved youth from her memory, in which till then he had too frequently
occupied a place.
Determined to abstract herself entirely from every thing which regarded
herself, Helen now determined to consider the happiness of her two
friends as her only object in life. She endeavoured to make herself
mistress of every circumstance belonging to them. Mention was made in
one of Amabel’s letters of an old maid-servant at Sargans, called
Bertha, who had been Emmeline’s confidante during the latter days of her
abode at her father’s mansion; and in hopes of gaining some further
information Helen desired, that Bertha might be brought before her. She
was answered, that the old woman had been sick for several weeks, and
was now drawing near her end. To the great astonishment of the domestics
Helen immediately hastened to Bertha’s chamber, saying, that she would
go and comfort her in her last moments.
Helen had but little time allowed her to perform this charitable office:
yet that little she employed to the best advantage, and in return
Bertha’s gratitude rewarded her more amply, than she had hoped. Bertha,
who had fallen ill soon after Emmeline’s departure, had only had time to
forward the letter for Amabel; another packet, intended for the Countess
Urania Venosta, was still in her possession. She gave it to Helen, and
implored her to take care, that it reached its destination. That was not
in Helen’s power; she kept it for some time, in constant terror lest her
tyrant husband should discover it, and lest it should be the means of
drawing down on herself and Emmeline fresh anger and increased
sufferings. At length, she resolved at least to put the contents out of
Count Donat’s power to bury in oblivion: she broke the seal, and what
she read exalted her impatience to rescue the unfortunate writer to a
degree, that was almost too strong to admit of concealment.
What Helen suffered at this period is not to be expressed; perhaps her
own misfortunes had made her still more compassionate towards those of
others, than it was her nature otherwise to be. Three objects were now
never out of her thoughts for a moment. The first was, since the Count
of Torrenburg was now lost to her for ever, to make known to him the
present residence of Amalberga; but how to convey to him that
intelligence, she in vain sought to discover. The second was, if
possible, to rescue Emmeline from the detested Convent of St. Roswitha;
but alas! she had but little hopes of delivering others, while she was
herself a captive in the Castle of Sargans. The last was, to obtain
possession of the key to that chamber, in which was the secret entrance
to the subterraneous passages leading to the dwellings of the Anchorets.
The last seemed to afford her the most probable means of gratifying her
two former wishes; perhaps too, she was unconsciously desirous of
securing a means of escaping from the Castle, should she ever find such
a step necessary. It is at least certain, that in her eagerness to carry
her point, she took many steps, which prudence would not justify.
Frequently did she repair to that chamber; she found the door guarded by
seven locks. Frequently in the dead of the night, when all slept, or
seemed to sleep, did she try the house-keys, which were in her charge;
and when at length two of the locks shot back from their fastenings, she
sank on her knees, and thanked Heaven with a flood of tears. She doubted
not, that the rest of the locks would yield to her perseverance; but a
sudden noise at no great distance prevented her from pushing the attempt
farther that night, and she hastened back to her chamber with a heart
filled with delight and expectation.
Joy, at being so near the accomplishment of her wishes, prevented her
from sleeping during the remainder of the night, and she employed the
vacant hours in revolving her future plans.
—“If,” said she to herself, after giving the matter her most serious
consideration; “if I should be so fortunate as to obtain an entrance
into the mysterious chamber to-morrow night, I will hasten to the
subterraneous passage without losing a moment. A torch, and the clear
description of the way given in Amalberga’s letter will guide me to the
Hermitage to a certainty, and I need only use more than ordinary
diligence, in order to be back at the Castle before day-break; for
precious as liberty appears to me, I will not obtain it by improper
means. I am Donat’s wife, and privately to withdraw myself from his
protection were to commit an act of infidelity and treason against my
husband. I will content myself therefore with relating what I know to
the good hermits, and entreating them to take the best and speediest
means of rescuing Emmeline from her dangerous abode, and for placing the
fortunate Amalberga in the arms of Torrenburg!”—
On second thoughts, she reflected, that merely to give this intelligence
to the hermits would not be to do enough; it would also be necessary to
give some explanation to the Countess Urania respecting the letters
which she had opened, and by advising Torrenburg to make Amalberga his
wife, to render it clear to him, that she had herself forgotten the tyes
which once existed between them. Perhaps too, a threatening letter to
the Abbot of Curwald (should all other means fail) might have some
weight in inducing him to surrender Emmeline. In order that nothing
might delay her on the ensuing night, she rose instantly from her bed,
and began to write. But before her letters were concluded, it was
morning, and her attendants, or rather her jailors, entered the
apartment to wake her. They exprest no little surprise at finding her
already out of bed.
—“I presume, noble Lady,” said the eldest of them, “either some joyous
foreboding, or some prophetic dream has roused you from your couch so
early. Our Lord will return to-day; in truth, we knew this yesterday,
but we kept it to make our morning-greeting the more welcome, and also
through apprehension lest your joy at this intelligence should spoil
your night’s rest.”—
Helen only answered the speaker by one of those expressive glances, with
which the open-hearted repay words, which belie the secret mind. She was
well aware, that her women who had been so often the witnesses of her
sufferings, could not but know the nature of those feelings, which
Donat’s return was likely to excite in her bosom. Nor did she alone
tremble in the presence of the fierce Count of Carlsheim; every creature
that existed in the Castle listened to his name with terror, and nothing
but irony had dictated this speech of the insolent Jutta. Yet dared not
Helen find the least fault with any one of her female attendants, who
were chiefly composed of her husband’s former favourites, and the
meanest of whom had more influence with him still, than was allowed to
his unhappy wife.
The news of Donat’s return was soon confirmed: it was scarcely mid-day,
when she heard the drawbridge resounding beneath the hasty trampling of
his black steed. She hastened to receive him at the gate with that smile
of submissive duty, which she had accustomed herself always to wear in
his presence. He repulsed her offered hand with a furious look, and shut
himself up in his own chamber with such of his dependents, as were most
in his confidence. An hour elapsed; his chamber-door was thrown open,
and Donat rushed out again, to all appearance more incensed, if
possible, than before.
—“Arm! arm!” cried he with a voice of thunder, which resounded through
the whole fortress, and which soon collected all his soldiers around
him, who, wearied with the journey from which they were just returned,
were better fitted for repose than for a second expedition; “to horse,
and away this instant; business of importance summons us, and which
admits of no delay. Talk not of weariness, or exhausted strength! the
deed, which now demands your faulchions, could be executed, if your arms
were half useless; for I lead you not against stout warriors, but
cowardly monks, on whom I swear to be revenged before sun-set!”—
They were too well accustomed to obey Count Donat at the first motion of
his finger, to make any remonstrances. In a few minutes all were
mounted, and their horses galloped over the echoing draw-bridge into the
valley below, whence they disappeared from the eyes of those, who gazed
after them, with the rapidity of lightning.
The Castle-inhabitants looked on each other in silent astonishment. The
similarity of their present feelings produced a kind of confidence
between the Countess and her women; and one of them confessed to her,
her being almost certain, that she knew the cause of all this uproar.
She would however only impart thus much of her knowledge: on his return
homewards the Count had received a letter from one who was in the habit
of sending him intelligence, and this letter most probably contained the
spark, which had kindled such flames in the bosom of Count Donat; for as
soon as he had read it to his confidents, he tore it in a thousand
pieces, and trampled it under his feet. Besides this, in the midst of a
torrent of execrations he had been heard to mention the Abbot of Curwald
and his daughter Emmeline.
—“Emmeline and the Abbot?” exclaimed Helen delighted. “Is it possible,
that some benevolent Being should have opened his eyes to the miseries
of his daughter? Is it to rescue her, that he departed in such haste?
Ah! then why have I so long delayed to take the nearest and surest way
for effecting her deliverance? Had I but confest her danger to Count
Donat.... Surely the worst of men could not endure, that his child
should be overwhelmed in shame and ruin! The depravity of the Nuns of
St. Roswitha must have been concealed from Count Donat, or he never
would have made his daughter a member of their society!”—
These reflections, which were only half pronounced by Helen, were
totally unintelligible to her attendants, who continued to discuss what
had past, and to conjecture what was to follow; this occupied them so
entirely, that they did not perceive, that their mistress had left them.
She had hastened to her husband’s chamber, where she hoped to obtain
some insight into the circumstance, which at once both rejoiced and
alarmed her.
The fragments of the important letter still lay upon the floor; she
eagerly seized them, and having secured herself against interruption,
put them again together carefully. She learned from them the truth of
what she had just been told; the writer warned Count Donat to beware of
the Abbot’s artifices; discovered to him, that St. Roswitha’s Sanctuary
was little better than the harem of the Monks of Curwald; and that by
enclosing the Lady Emmeline within these sacrilegious walls, he had
delivered up his daughter to the passion of her licentious lover.
No wonder, that information like this should have given a deadly wound
to Count Donat’s pride: nor (in spite of his own excesses) was he so
totally lost to shame as to endure patiently, that his daughter should
become the prey of a libertine. He was almost frantic with rage, and for
the first time in his life he drew his sword to punish the insulters of
virtue.
Helen sank on her knees, and thanked God for this unexpected
accomplishment of her wishes. She sent a thousand prayers after her
husband for the good success of his expedition: she even went so far, as
to begin to make preparations for receiving the rescued Emmeline, whom
in fancy she already prest to her heart; and when this agreeable
occupation was finished, she turned her thoughts towards guessing at the
benevolent writer of the letter, which had induced the father to hasten
to preserve his child.
Poor simple Helen! it entered not into her thoughts (and it was not till
long after, that she made the discovery) that villainy often performs a
seemingly virtuous action, in order to forward its own unholy designs.
She knew not, that the author of that letter was Wolfenrad. It seems,
that those oppressors of Rhœtian and Helvetian liberty, the lord
governors and their assistants, carried on a very close though secret
understanding with some of the most potent noblemen, whose object it was
equally to bring the inhabitants of these unfortunate countries still
more beneath the yoke, and to build upon their subjection the fabric of
their own power and grandeur. Among the secret allies of Gessler and
Landenberg, Count Donat and the Abbot of Curwald were the most
distinguished; and Wolfenrad on account of his well-known skill in
penmanship was frequently employed by both the governors to carry on
their correspondence both with Curwald and Sargans.
Still the fact was, that neither of these parties meant honestly to each
other. Donat and the Abbot were determined only to go hand in hand with
the vice-regents so long, as it suited their own views; and _these_ on
the other side intended, as soon as they had derived as much benefit as
they could from the assistance of the Count and his ecclesiastical ally,
to excite a quarrel between them, and then join with the one in
plundering the other.
We have already seen, how imprudently Amabel had laid her secrets open
to Wolfenrad. Her letters to Emmeline passed through his hands, and he
missed not this opportunity to increase his knowledge of the affairs of
the Count of Carlsheim; and though Emmeline’s letters to Amabel were not
_confided_ to him, by one artifice or another he had not failed to
obtain a sight of them. Bloomberg’s simple wife observed indeed, that
the seal of Emmeline’s packet had been forced; but she little guest by
whom.
The contents of this letter immediately furnished him with the most
certain means for producing an irreconcileable hatred between Count
Donat and the potent Abbot of Curwald. The power of the latter was
beginning to appear dangerous to the Lord Governors; but they could
expect nothing but an accession of strength to themselves, while the
Count of Carlsheim and the Abbot were mutually weakening themselves in
feudal skirmishes. Such was Wolfenrad’s object in writing this
warning-letter, whose author was loaded with blessings by the
unsuspicious Helen, while waiting with a throbbing heart for the return
of her Lord.
The night arrived. She now thought no longer of attempting to open the
door of the mysterious chamber, which she had meant to attempt at this
hour, since a principal object of her wish to visit the Hermitage was
already accomplished. Besides, the design could not then have been
possibly executed, since every one in the Castle was still awake, and
waiting with impatience for Count Donat’s return.
It was almost morning, when some of her attendants rushed with looks of
terror into Helen’s apartment, and entreated her to ascend the upper
platform, whence she would discern towards the west indubitable marks of
some dreadful conflagration.
—“God preserve us from some mishap!” exclaimed Helen, while she followed
her women to the battlements; the whole quarter of the heavens towards
Curwald seemed one blaze of red!—“Oh! Donat, Donat, what hast thou done?
Were there no gentler means?—Emmeline, my poor Emmeline, where art thou
at this moment?”—
Helen’s fears were but too well-founded. Donat, in doing what he thought
it right to do, had done it in his usual manner. Wolfenrad’s letter had
given him some hints of the midnight revels, which were frequently
carried on between the inhabitants of the adjacent Convents of Curwald
and St. Roswitha. He made enquiries of the neighbouring peasants, who
were no friends of these ecclesiastical libertines; their report
confirmed the truth of Wolfenrad’s assertions; and an old man (who
declared himself particularly well informed respecting these disgraceful
secrets) added—“that on that very night there was to be a superb
entertainment given to celebrate the conversion of a Nun, who was the
last admitted.”—
—“You may easily guess, valiant knight,” continued the old man, “what
they mean by her _conversion_. I suppose the lady (I saw her brought
into the Convent myself, and she seemed to be an angel of innocence and
beauty) was a little violent at first; and so they have at last
succeeded in taming her stern morality, as many another has been tamed
in the same way before her.”—
—“Good heavens!” exclaimed one of the least depraved among Count Donat’s
knights; “are such things spoken of in these parts so openly, and yet is
Justice silent, and does the Bishop of Coira take no notice of such
abominations?”—
—“Oh! the Lord have mercy on me, Sir Knight,” answered the old man,
“such things are not talked of _openly_, or so many fathers would not
plunge their children into yonder abyss of infamy! I warrant you, the
parents of this converted damsel little thought, when they sent her to
St. Roswitha, that they were placing the sweet creature in Satan’s own
claws. But when one is speaking to gallant warriors like yourselves, who
are able, and perhaps willing to help us, one must be open-hearted. I
see that you are all well-armed, and yonder tall gentleman with his
eye-brows bent so sternly and his hands clenched seems to feel for what
we poor country-folks must suffer under the dominion of these voluptuous
Monks, who make us contribute the chief part of our hard-earned gains to
the support of their luxury. As to the Bishop of Coira.... I am afraid,
you are in the right about him! The notice which _he_ takes.... Aye;
were old Hugo of Werdenberg still bishop indeed.... But the present
Bishop.... Well! well! he and his boon-companion, the Abbot of St. Gall,
make a pair of worthies indeed!”—
While his knights were carrying on this discourse with the peasants,
their Lord, whom fury had almost deprived of his senses, was considering
what was to be done: the resolution which he took was worthy of his
character, was worthy of no one but himself. Entrance into either of the
two convents was demanded in vain; every other proposal which his
attendants suggested, was rejected as incompetent to effect his object;
at length his commands were obeyed, and by midnight St. Roswitha’s
Sanctuary was enveloped in flames. It’s true, that a spark of paternal
love still glimmered in his heart for the unfortunate Emmeline; but the
idea, that in all probability _she_ also had been _converted_ after the
fashion of the sisterhood, soon extinguished it, and he resolved to hide
her and his shame together in the ashes of St. Roswitha. Impressed with
this idea—“Drive them back into the flames!” roared the inhuman Donat,
whenever either Friar or Nun tried to rescue themselves from the
conflagration, without deigning to examine whether Emmeline might not be
one of those unfortunates. The number of monks, whom the flames
compelled to attempt their escape from St. Roswitha at this undue time
of night, confirmed the reports of the mode of life practised in the
convents; and the dresses of the Nuns, who had been arrayed for the
feast, proclaimed how little their hearts were estranged from worldly
vanities. The fire continued to spread; it now caught the adjacent Abbey
of Curwald, and before day-break there remained of both the Sanctuaries
and their infamous inhabitants nothing but heaps of smoaking ruins[2].
Footnote 2:
Some historians date the burning of Cloister-Curwald several years
later than the period adopted in this narrative.
Such was the cause of those flames, whose reflexion on the sky excited
so much consternation at Sargans: Helen’s heart had not throbbed with
sad forebodings without necessity. In the course of the morning Donat
returned home, and returned without Emmeline!
Helen flew to meet him, and eagerly enquired, where was his daughter?
His answer was a short and cold narrative of the dreadful transaction,
which had just taken place, and the consequence was, that overpowered
with horror Helen fell senseless at the monster’s feet. When she
recovered, her first words were to ask, where he had placed Emmeline,
(for she doubted not, that previous to firing the Convent he had
provided for his daughter’s safety,) and unfortunately her question was
so worded, that it betrayed her more intimate knowledge of the business,
than was by any means suspected by Donat. This discovery converted his
unfeeling coldness into a degree of fury, that nearly approached
delirium. He seized her roughly by the arm, and demanded, in a voice of
thunder, how she came to be so well acquainted with his affairs? The
unfortunate knew no other way of extricating herself from this dilemma,
than repeating what she had heard mentioned by one of her attendants
respecting Wolfenrad’s letter, which (she confest) had so strongly
excited her anxiety about Emmeline, that she had not scrupled to piece
the fragments again together. The storm of rage was now diverted from
Helen to the woman, who had given her mistress this intelligence, and
who had it in her power to disclose much more important secrets, if she
had thought proper.
Incensed at Count Donat’s ill-treatment of her, for which she considered
herself as indebted to Helen, Jutta resolved to disclose in her turn all
that she thought most likely to injure her mistress. Accordingly she
began an accusation, which among a thousand falsehoods contained some
truths, calculated to make Helen shudder as she listened to them.
The Countess (Jutta said) had some time before received a packet from an
unknown messenger, who afterwards quitted the Castle with all speed, and
whose arrival she ordered to be concealed from her husband. She had also
received several letters from the hands of the dying Bertha; after
reading which she had been frequently seen loitering about the door of
that chamber, which (on account of the strange noises frequently heard
within) was supposed to be haunted. Nay, on the night before last she
had actually tried to force back the locks, but had been scared away, by
hearing Jutta’s rosary fall on the ground, while she was watching her
Lady’s proceedings concealed behind St. Martin’s statue. She had
afterwards seen through the key-hole the Countess busily employed in
writing, and during the confusion which followed Count Donat’s arrival,
had found means to get the letters into her possession; which to confirm
her story Jutta was now ready to lay before him.
These heavy charges against Helen failed not to produce the effect
intended. Donat ordered the letters to be brought immediately: He was no
scholar; yet was he not so totally deficient in the knowledge of
writing, but that he could clearly decypher the addresses, which were
written in large characters. His eyes flashed fire, while he spelt the
names of “Eginhart of Torrenburg,” “the Abbot of Curwald,” and “Urania
Venosta, the widowed Countess of Carlsheim and Sargans.” These
directions would have been sufficient to condemn the poor Helen, even
had she been tried by a more impartial judge. It was certain, that these
three persons were her husband’s bitterest enemies; with what propriety
then could she be engaged in a secret correspondence with them? In
particular, what motive could she have for writing to the Count of
Torrenburg, who was her former lover, and had been so long her destined
bridegroom? Alas! poor Helen! appearances were sorely against thee! Nor
would Donat’s fury give him time to enquire further into the business.
In a paroxysm of rage he tore the letters into a thousand fragments, and
pronounced Helen to be in a secret correspondence with his implacable
foe, the Countess Urania for the purpose of betraying him to his
enemies; he asserted also, that she had been privy to the Abbot’s
designs upon his daughter, and had encouraged them in order to be
revenged on the father; and that she was still in love with the Count of
Torrenburg and meant to have fled to him from Sargans, an intention
which was sufficiently proved by her midnight efforts to obtain entrance
into that chamber, which concealed a private outlet from the Castle.
It’s true, that finding Emmeline had quitted that chamber of her own
accord, and thinking the knowledge of the secret passage might be of use
to himself on some future occasion, the Abbot had not mentioned to Count
Donat his suspicions, that such a passage existed; and the room had been
merely shut up from the report of its being haunted. But Wolfenrad had
learned this secret from the perusal of Amalberga’s letter to Emmeline,
and had communicated it to the Count, hoping thereby to increase the
merit of his services. Now then Donat had no doubt, that the noises,
which had been heard in that chamber, proceeded from no ghosts, but from
persons who were waiting to assist his wife in her projected flight.
Under the influence of these impressions, Helen was held convicted of
the most infamous designs, and condemned to suffer the most exemplary
chastisement. She was instantly confined in one of the strongest
dungeons, probably in that where Urania had shed so many tears; in the
mean while her tyrant with his confidents and those women of the Castle
who were most her enemies, sat in council to decide, what punishment
would be sufficiently severe to suit her crime.
I am in doubt as to Donat’s reasons for not immediately proceeding to
the last extremities with his wife: that sentiment towards her, which he
had chosen to dignify with the name of love, had long ago disappeared;
and his late atrocious act, which had proved the destruction of the
whole Orders of Curwald and St. Roswitha, had left him no scruples to
overcome. One murder more or less, what did that signify to a man, who
had arrived at so dreadful a height of guilt?—The most probable cause
for Donat’s moderation was, _fear_: Helen was the Count of Homburg’s
daughter; was niece to the Count of Mayenfield; and had been affianced
to the Count of Torrenburg, who it was well known, would not suffer her
to be injured with impunity. These considerations made Donat hesitate,
as to the course which he was now to pursue.
Donat past two days in resolving, whether it would not be possible to
bring Helen to confess herself guilty. This would justify him in the
eyes of her relations for any severity, which he might think proper to
inflict upon her; but when he considered his wife’s character, he saw
little prospect of persuading her to declare herself infamous. In the
mean while Helen was suffered to remain tranquil in her dungeon; and her
husband was still meditating how to avoid the vengeance of her friends,
when the Castle was unexpectedly attacked by enemies incensed upon a
different account. He might indeed have foreseen, that the Bishop of
Coira would not pass over the destruction of Cloister-Curwald in
silence; occupied however by his anger against Helen, Donat had bestowed
no thought upon the Bishop; and the avengers of the Monks of Curwald
were at the gates of Sargans, before any one had even bestowed a thought
on the possibility of such an attack.
Helen heard from her prison the noise of the assault, the shouts of the
victors, and the expiring groans of those who fell beneath their swords;
but her spirit was too much broken to enable her to guess at what was
passing, or to offer up prayers or wishes for the success of either
party. She lay almost in a state of insensibility, when the door of her
dungeon was thrown open. The Count of Carlsheim entered, snatched her
rudely from the earth, and more by gestures than speech, commanded her
attendance. She followed her conductor in silence, like a lamb to the
slaughter; he saw, that she was scarcely able to move through weakness,
and either out of compassion or cruelty compelled her to swallow a
cordial. She gradually recovered herself sufficiently to remark, that
her husband was habited like a pilgrim on the point of setting out on
some long journey, and that he guided her towards a part of the Castle
remote from the clamour of the combat. Here they found a domestic
waiting with a torch, who in a low voice and with few words assured his
Lord, that the passage was still safe. A door, artfully concealed in the
wall, was now unlocked, and Helen was commanded to ascend the
stair-case, which presented itself before her.
She was too wreak, too hopeless, to think it worth while to make any
reflections on Donat’s unaccountable conduct in regaining the upper
apartments of the fortress, (which, she was convinced, was already in
the enemy’s possession,) instead of employing these precious moments to
effect his escape. They now arrived at the door of that chamber, which
concealed the entrance to the subterraneous passages: the touch of a
single key was sufficient to make all the seven locks fly back. Donat
entered, and compelled his unhappy wife to follow him; he then took the
torch from the domestic, and commanded him to execute his orders without
delay, and then to provide for his own safety. The servant bowed, and
retired.
Now then Helen was at length in that very spot, which she had so
anxiously wished to visit, but not with such a companion. Donat paused
for a moment; and she could hear distinctly, that the domestic fastened
the door through which she had entered, not omitting a single lock. Her
tyrant left her no time for reflecting on the purpose for which she had
been conducted hither; he hastened to unclose the secret door which led
to Urania’s baths, dragged her through it, and then commanded her to
proceed, having first taken care to fasten the door after him.
Helen obeyed, and as she moved slowly forwards, through the
subterraneous passages, she observed that her husband occasionally
examined the side-walls with his hand or foot. At length he stopped
before a small door half sunk in the ground; he forced it open with a
violence which shook the whole cavern, and held his torch within, in
order to examine it.
—“Yes, yes!” said he, “this is it! Found in good time!—Helen, return! or
canst thou find the way through these vaults without assistance?”—
She dragged her feeble steps towards him: he grasped her arm, and dashed
her with violence down a few steps terminating in a small cave. She sank
on the ground with a shriek of pain, which her tyrant answered by a
burst of diabolical laughter.
—“Here, traitress!” he exclaimed; “here is the place of your punishment
and your perdition; and here is the last nourishment, which you shall
ever receive on this side the grave. I give it not out of compassion,
but that you may not perish in your present state of stupor, and thus
escape the sense of what I have doomed you to suffer.—Eat! revive to the
full consciousness of your misery; then die in agony, as others have
died here before you!”—
Thus saying, he placed by her side a loaf of bread and a small flask of
water, which he had brought with him in his pilgrim’s scrip. She was not
in a condition to make him any answer, and listened in morbid silence,
while he quitted the cave, flinging the door after him with violence,
and carefully barricading it on the outside to prevent her escape.
Nothing now animated the frame of Helen but mere animal life; and even
that was half extinguished by the shock which she had sustained the day
before and by long abstinence from all nourishment. She was scarcely
conscious of what had past, and it afterwards cost her no little
difficulty to recall the recollection of it. Instinct made her seize
eagerly the food, of which she had so long been deprived; and the
relief, which this afforded her, was the first thing, which brought her
to herself, and gave her spirits to ask the question—“What has happened
to me? Whither have I been conveyed?”—She thought, that she must be the
sport of some fantastic vision, and with the sensation of being totally
exhausted she closed her eyes, and endeavoured to end her dream.
A violent shock, which made the hollow ground tremble beneath her,
forced her to start up in terror; and she now had strength and
recollection sufficient to rush forward a few paces, which brought her
to the steps, down which Count Donat had so lately dashed her. An
instant after she was sensible of a second shock like that of an
earthquake, and which was accompanied by a noise so loud, that for a few
moments she was completely stunned. On recovering herself, she was
sensible of a strong current of air blowing into the cave: her heart
beat violently with hope and fear, while she thought it possible, that
the late earthquake might have forced the dungeon open. She hastened up
the steps, and with rapture ascertained by the touch that the door had
been driven from its fastenings, and that nothing prevented her from
quitting her prison. With as much speed, as her extreme weakness and the
total obscurity would permit, she hastened to profit by this
interposition of Providence. She crept along slowly and cautiously, when
on turning a corner she perceived a distant gleam of light. With
increased hopes she made the best of her way towards it, and found, that
it proceeded from Count Donat’s torch, as it lay half extinguished in
the rubbish, among which it had fallen.
Without giving herself time to guess, what motive could have induced her
husband to throw away his only guide through the gloom, or how he could
have found his way out of these intricate passages without its aid, she
caught it eagerly from the ground, cleared the wick from the dust with
which it was clogged, and made the flame burn brightly; while she
frequently cast a look of anxiety round her, lest some one should be
advancing to rob her of this invaluable prize. This apprehension made
her proceed with still greater exertion of speed; but she had not gone
far, before her way was barred by large heaps of stones and earth: she
fancied too, that she heard a faint murmur at no great distance, like
some one groaning. She stopped; she listened;—it struck her, that from
beneath a pile of stones, which seemed to have lately fallen down, there
came a voice, whose accents were familiar to her; but before she could
recover herself from the horror, which this idea occasioned her
sufficiently to ascertain the truth of her suspicions, a third shock,
similar to the two first, but if possible more violent and terrible,
overpowered her faculties so completely, that she sank upon the earth,
unable to move for several minutes. Fortunately her torch was not
extinguished by her fall. She rose; the way, so lately open before her,
was now completely blocked up by the earth, which had fallen in; and it
seemed to her in the first moments of terror, that she saw the roof
tottering above, and felt the ground giving way beneath her. Fear gave
her strength, and she fled hastily down a side passage, which accident
presented to her, nor rested, till she thought, that the place, which
she had reached, was not totally unknown to her. She stopped, and
looking down discovered lying on the earth, torn from its hinges, and
considerably shattered the low door of that dungeon, which Donat had
destined for her grave.
She now exerted her whole strength to pass onwards, without falling into
an enormous chasm, which had been formed by the late convulsion, and
which occupied almost the whole breadth of the passage. She shuddered,
as she remarked, that the earth had fallen into the dungeon, and would
infallibly have smothered her, had she remained there but a few minutes
longer.
She reached the opposite side of the chasm with much difficulty, but
unhurt. She was now certain, that the Castle was at no great distance:
but she dreaded either to miss the proper road, or to find it rendered
impassable by earth and rubbish. Should either happen, she had no
alternative left but perishing of hunger in these frightful dungeons:
nor had she much time left her for deliberation, since her torch already
began to draw towards its end. Observing this, she rushed forwards with
desperate resolution, and committed herself to the guidance of chance.
Accident, or rather a benevolent Providence directed her footsteps; and
she reached the staircase and Urania’s chamber, before her strength
entirely failed her. Here then she rested at length; but that rest was
insensibility.
After some time her recollection returned. She raised herself, and saw
with surprise, that the chamber, which Donat to favour his escape had
caused to be fastened so carefully, was filled with people. She felt,
that they conveyed her to a couch, and rendered her every possible
assistance; and she heard them make a thousand kind enquiries respecting
her health and her wishes: but her strength both of mind and body was so
completely exhausted, that she found it impossible to pronounce a word,
or even make a sign, that she was sensible of their attentions.
It was pain, which enabled her to give the first token of sensation. Her
arms and bosom were much bruised, and the blood streamed copiously from
a wound on her head. She has never been able to recollect, whether she
received these injuries, when Donat threw her down the dungeon steps, or
from her being struck by the falling stones while making her escape. The
persons, who surrounded her couch, lost no time in binding up her
wounds, and the pain of this operation forced from her a feeble cry.
Finding that she was now sensible, they repeated their enquiries as to
what had happened to her, and how she had been brought into so terrible
a condition. She stammered out the word “earthquake!” Where was Count
Donat, was the next demand, which she answered by pointing to the
private door conducting to the vaults.
She was soon removed to a more quiet chamber, and the care which was
taken of her convinced her, that she had not fallen into the hands of
enemies.
On the fourth day she was already declared to be convalescent; and it
was announced to her, that the Commander of the Bishop of Coira’s
forces, which had, conquered the Castle, requested an audience of her.
She consented to receive him, and shortly after a young man of
prepossessing appearance entered the room.
—“Noble Lady,” said he, “though you are the wife of the cruel owner of
this fortress, we are well aware, that you are not a partner in his
crimes. His people are some of them slain; others have betaken
themselves to flight; and it is in vain, that we have endeavoured to
find the place of his concealment. Your pointing out the door into the
vaults has not been sufficient; he cannot have made his escape through
that passage, since the falling-in of the roof has rendered it
impracticable; and had he in his flight been overtaken by the vengeance
of Heaven, how could _you_ have avoided the sharing his fate? Be frank
with us, noble Lady; I conjure you in the name of humanity, tell us,
where he is concealed, and depend on our dealing better with him, than
he has been accustomed to deal with others.”—
Helen mustered up all her strength, and endeavoured to relate the
circumstances of her escape: but anxiety to be as brief as possible, and
her endeavours to conceal Donat’s ill-usage of her, (which she thought,
duty to her husband forbade her revealing,) rendered every thing she
said obscure and improbable. She mentioned the earthquake, and to prove
it showed the bruises and wounds, which it had occasioned her. The
stranger, however, assured her, that she must have received them in some
other manner, for that no one in the Castle had perceived the slightest
symptoms of an earthquake.
Helen, however, endeavoured to establish her assertion; and while
recalling the various circumstances which had passed in the caverns, she
suddenly recollected the groans, which had struck her hearing. She
earnestly entreated, that the heap of rubbish might be examined; she was
obeyed; the stones were removed, and beneath them was discovered the
shattered and lifeless form of the Count of Carlsheim.
It was now the general opinion, that the violence which Donat had used
in forcing open the dungeon-door, had shattered the rotten cavern, had
made the supports crack, and had brought down the roof, whose fall had
involved in it his own destruction.
Helen’s horror at this discovery, her urgent entreaties that the corse
might have christian burial, and the many hours which she past in
prayers for the repose of Donat’s spirit, startled the present masters
of the Castle not a little. They began to suspect, that she was not by
any means so innocent a creature, and so unfortunate a victim of
conjugal tyranny, as she had been represented, and as in truth she was.
They therefore ceased to trouble her with questions, considering her as
the confidante and accomplice of Count Donat’s crimes; but as they had
no other fault to lay to her charge, and as the power of her relations
compelled them to treat her with respect, as soon as she was
sufficiently recovered, she was removed to the Convent of Zurich, and
left there with a hint by no means equivocal,—“that all things
considered, she would do well to pass the remainder of her days within
that sanctuary.”—
Helen’s joy at understanding, that she had been conveyed to Zurich, was
indescribable: she immediately requested to see the venerable Countess
Urania, and discovered to the patroness of her mother both herself and
all that had happened. It was now, that her fate seemed disposed to
abate its severity. In an unrestrained intercourse with this excellent
woman, who received her with open arms, and to whom she unveiled her
whole heart, she looked forward to a life of tranquil happiness.
Urania’s conversation poured balsam into her wounded soul, and explained
to her many things, which had hitherto appeared to her unaccountable.
Donat’s resolution to make her his wife was produced by a former
passion, which he had entertained for her mother, and by a desire to be
revenged on her father, the Count of Homburg; and that unknown cavern to
which he had conducted her, was doubtless the same, in which (as it was
reported) the worthy father of such a son had starved to death two of
the fugitive monks of Curwald. Oh! Towers of Sargans, what crimes have
been committed within your gloomy bounds! And will then the vengeance of
the Eternal Judge sleep for ever? Will neither the heavens rain down
fire to consume you, nor the earth unclose to swallow you in its womb,
and thus prevent you from reminding posterity of those horrible acts, to
which you have been so long a witness?—Yet the blood of your barbarous
master has purified you, and you are now the abode of innocence and
virtue. Peace, long peace be with you, and be with your lawful
possessors; and may the curse of retribution only fall on those, who
shall dare to deprive those possessors of their right!
Solitude and experience sometimes endow the soul, which has withdrawn
itself from earth to devote itself to Heaven, with a prophetic power.
Even now I see into futurity! I see, that the family of Carlsheim and
Sargans, which has already suffered so much, has still much more to
suffer; but again I say it—“Alas for those, by whom the descendants of
Amalberga and Emmeline shall be robbed of their lawful inheritance, and
compelled to experience the calamities of their predecessors.”—
I have deviated from my narrative, to which I now return.—Helen lived
tranquil by Urania’s side, equally unconscious of the evil reports,
which were circulated respecting her late misfortunes by her enemies,
and of the benevolent intentions of her powerful friends. Her parents
soon visited her at Zurich, and now that she was a widow, requested her
to accept the hand of her former bridegroom, the Count of Torrenburg:
but Helen knew but too well, that no Count of Torrenburg existed for
_her_. She had courageously torn his image from her heart; and she
avowed to her friends her knowledge of his passion for Amalberga, and
declared, that to see them happy in the possession of each other was now
the only wish of her heart.
Helen’s relations listened to this declaration with no trifling regret:
they would willingly have rewarded her for her past sufferings by the
certainty, that the remainder of her life would be past in happiness
with one of the noblest of Helvetian youths. But they had brought with
them (for the purpose of persuading Helen to the proposed marriage) some
of Torrenburg’s relations, to whom his passion for Amalberga was by no
means so unpleasant a subject. She was now a rich heiress; as Count
Donat’s only surviving daughter, she was entitled to the extensive
domains of Carlsheim and Sargans, and consequently she was a much more
advantageous match than Helen. This gave rise to some disputes between
the friends of the different parties: but the solemn declaration of
Count Donat’s widow, that she never would lay aside that name, at length
silenced every opposition; and she obtained from them all a promise,
that they would mutually exert themselves to accomplish the only wish,
which she indulged on this side of the grave; namely, the union of
Eginhart of Torrenburg with Amalberga of Sargans. They were informed by
her, that according to Amabel’s letter the lady was concealed in the
Convent of Engelberg, and thither they hastened to apprize her of the
happiness, which awaited her.
I need not say, that they sought her there in vain; the Count of
Torrenburg’s endeavours to discover her were also unsuccessful, till the
arrival of Bloomberg, who assured him, that she must be in Landenberg’s
power, and that the most likely place to look for her was the Fortress
of Rassburg. The consequence of this information was a bond of union
between Torrenburg and the Friends of Freedom against Landenberg and his
brother in iniquity, the insolent Gessler; and the Count immediately
accompanied Bloomberg to Stein, that he might consult with his new
allies the best means for effecting Landenberg’s overthrow and
Amalberga’s deliverance.
In the mean while William Tell’s plan, for throwing off the Governor’s
yoke, and asserting the liberty of his beloved country, had been
gradually ripening. The impression, which he and his friends, Walter
Forest, Bernsdorf, and the two Melthals, had made upon the general mind
was great, and their adherents were numerous; but the success of their
enterprise still depended entirely upon its being kept a profound
secret. Those men, whose plans were soon to burst out into flames
terrible as the explosion of a volcano, and to give posterity an example
of heroic devotion to the cause of Freedom, were as yet compelled to
work in darkness, and arrange their vast designs in corners and by
stealth.
It was not till the 28th of December (being the Festival of St.
Alexander) that they ventured to muster their numbers in a large meadow
near the Lake of the Four Cantons; this was to be their last conference,
and even this they took the precaution of holding under covert of the
night. The Count of Torrenburg and Edmund Bloomberg were also present;
but the former by his impatience had nearly ruined the whole design.
Conscious of his exalted station, and of the valour of his new allies,
he could not endure the degrading idea of skulking about in darkness and
concealment, as if he were plotting the execution of some crime. He
insisted upon an instant declaration of hostility against Landenberg,
and that an attempt to rescue his beloved should be made without delay:
it was not without difficulty that William Tell convinced him, how
impossible it would be to rescue Amalberga any other way than by
artifice, without exposing her to the most imminent danger; and that he
persuaded him to wait patiently till St. Sylvester’s Eve, when (it was
determined) the tyrant should have an open and forcible attack made upon
him; though in making that attack, there would still be an absolute
necessity for conducting it with the utmost caution.
Amalberga’s friends had obtained some intelligence respecting her
present situation. One of Arnold Melthal’s sons, a spirited lad, equally
well adapted to daring enterprise and the winding paths of artifice,
found means to enter the Fortress of Rassburg in disguise, and examine
whether any thing could be attempted towards the rescue of the lady.
During her abode on the banks of the Lake of Thun, her sweetness and
humility of manners; her majestic air accompanied by the condescension
of an angel; the little difference which she seemed to make between
herself and the girls of the village, whom she honoured with the name of
her companions; all these together had made her an universal favourite;
and had not every appearance of a chain been hateful in the eyes of the
sons of Freedom, it would have been easy for Amalberga to have
established herself as the queen of one of the best people that the
earth holds, and to have mounted Helvetia’s throne by general
acclamation.
To an eager desire for rescuing this adored lady from the power of
Landenberg, was now united the wish to gain possession of the strong
Castle of Rassburg; which would secure to Helvetia the success of all
those mighty plans, whose accomplishment still lay concealed within the
bosom of futurity.
Alwyn, Arnold Melthal’s son, when he ventured to approach the fortress
in disguise, was not aware, that his was one of those countenances,
which cannot pass unobserved. Fortunately, the eyes, whose notice he
attracted, were those of one, by whom features like his were seldom
viewed with displeasure. Landenberg happened to be absent, and had left
his fair prisoner to the charge of a female attendant, who had formerly
stood high in his estimation for the sake of her own beauty, and who now
preserved her influence with him by condescending to watch over those,
who were in present possession of that heart, to which she was herself
become indifferent. Well skilled in manly beauty, she no sooner saw
Alwyn pass along with a bucket on his head (for he had obtained entrance
into Rassburg under the disguise of a common water-carrier) than she was
convinced of his being something better, than his dress denoted. She
accosted, and questioned him. His affected simplicity could not deceive
her; and he saw himself compelled either to adopt some artifice, or to
be reduced to that suspicious silence, which in such a situation would
have been scarcely better than a confession of the truth.
—“And so you continue to deny,” continued the girl, “that there is any
secret reason for a man like you being here, habited in a manner to
which, I am certain, you have never been accustomed? Young man, be frank
with me! I should be sorry to give you over to some other questioner,
who might use rough means to obtain an answer, or to order that you
should be kept in custody, till the Governor returns. Then tell me
honestly at once, who you are, and what motive has brought you hither?”—
Alwyn during this speech had examined the countenance of his new
acquaintance, and fancied, that he could read in it marks of a
partiality for him by no means doubtful. His resolution was taken in a
moment, and he threw himself at her feet.
—“What brought me hither?” he exclaimed; “’twas Love, most beautiful of
all earthly creatures! But who I am.... Ah! shall I dare to avow myself
one of the lowliest among the inhabitants of yonder valley, and thus
make it certain, that my suit will be rejected, and myself driven with
scorn from the presence of her whom I adore?”—
—“And who is it that you adore?” demanded Ursula.
“You, lovely angel! you!” he exclaimed passionately, while he seized her
hand, and prest upon it a thousand kisses; “my heart is devoted to you
alone, and your cruelty will kill me!”—
The astonished and delighted Ursula forced herself from his embrace, and
fled; but it was not long before she returned, anxious to convince
herself, that her half-faded charms had really made so valuable a
conquest. To make a woman’s vanity believe any thing flattering, Heaven
knows, is no difficult task; and half an hour was sufficient to leave
her no doubt of her triumph. She soon grew weary of playing the prude,
and she gave him to understand, that he would not find her heart
absolutely marble; and thus did the handsome Alwyn find himself involved
in an amour, at whose termination he could not guess, and of which,
while it lasted, he thought, that he had but little reason to be vain.
At present he reaped no great advantages from his artifice. It was
impossible to get a sight of Amalberga, or convey to her a hint, that
her friends in the valley were making preparations for her rescue. He
was also soon compelled to retire by the return of the Governor, who was
now frequently absent for days together from Rassburg on account of the
popular disturbances, and who could only bestow a few isolated hours on
the prosecution of his suit to the heiress of Sargans. As soon as the
warder’s horn announced the Governor’s return, Ursula (who trembled,
lest her supposed lover should be discovered by others, as he had been
by her) requested him to be gone; yet still there was a secret means
left for him to gain entrance into the fortress of the rock, which
(disagreeable as it was) for Amalberga’s sake and the general advantage,
he did not refuse to employ. At midnight his doating inamorata used to
let a bucket down through a chasm in the wall; the rock was steep and
flat; the unwilling Lover was then drawn up to the top, where he was
obliged to purchase every little scrap of intelligence, which it was
requisite for him to know, by a thousand lies and flattering speeches;
every one of which, to an heart filled with Helvetian honesty, was
scarcely less painful than the stab of a dagger.
He was rewarded, however, for this sacrifice by obtaining the important
information, that hitherto Landenberg’s behaviour towards the Lady of
Sargans had been restrained within the limits of the most respectful
adoration: but that he had assured her with the most dreadful
imprecations, that a period was fixed, beyond which he would no longer
submit to be the patient victim of her severity. The first day of the
ensuing year, he was determined, should make the cruel beauty completely
his by fair means or by force. This intelligence induced Alwyn to be
more frequent in his midnight visits; he repeated them, till every part
of the fortress was become perfectly familiar, and till every little
circumstance had been carefully gleaned by him, which might assist his
friends in their design of storming the fort and rescuing the lovely
captive.
By the Festival of St. Sylvester every necessary preparation was
completed; and all the machines were ready to be worked at once in
various parts of the country, which might secure the success of an
enterprise, of whose views the release of an imprisoned damsel made but
a very trifling part—those views were of the most extensive nature; yet
if the plan had failed, in spite of the justice of Tell’s cause
posterity would no doubt have branded him with the name of rebel, and
confounded him with the common herd of unsuccessful adventurers, who
have dared to attempt objects beyond their power to attain. But as his
plan was arranged with the utmost foresight, and its execution was
followed with the most prosperous issue, after-ages have viewed his deed
with admiration, have reckoned it as the proudest triumph of the rights
of nature over cruelty and oppression, and have bestowed on its author
the title of a Hero: so certain is it, that actions are almost always
weighed according to their result, and the most impartial judge (without
being aware of it) is frequently induced to decide unfairly of events,
dazzled by the lustre of the success with which they were attended.
Had nothing but the Count of Torrenburg’s inclination been consulted,
the attempt, which was to decide upon his future happiness or despair,
would not have been deferred till the latest day possible; neither when
it _was_ made, would so small a number of men have been employed to
carry it into effect. Perhaps in this respect something would have been
sacrificed in consideration of the impatience natural to a lover; but
Helvetia’s deliverers were not without a certain portion of that
obstinacy, which so often accompanies valour and resolution.
Torrenburg’s opinion would doubtless have had more influence with them,
had he not been a nobleman and one who was able to bring so powerful a
force either to their aid or against them. They considered the most
distant trace of authority over them with abhorrence, and were
determined, that every step, which they made in the service of liberty,
should be taken of their own free will. It was certain, that the
fortress was but ill garrisoned, and that its security consisted solely
in its inaccessible situation: in spite therefore of Torrenburg’s
entreaties and anger, they resolved, that no more than one hundred men
should be allotted for this service; and among these the jealous
Helvetians, who could not endure that any hands but their own should
break their fetters, would not suffer one of Torrenburg’s warriors to be
introduced. It was not without some difficulty, that the Count obtained
permission to accompany the party himself, and to be the next to Alwyn
Melthal, who should penetrate into the Castle of Rassburg.
Never did any summer’s day seem so long to the Count as St. Sylvester’s,
while he waited with impatience for the departure of light. No sooner
was it dark, than the allies began to assemble by twos and threes from
different quarters. It was one of the most gloomy winter nights, that
ever favoured a secret enterprise; and the glimmering taper, which was
the usual signal for Alwyn to ascend the wall, was not yet discernible.
Midnight was already past; still there was no token of Ursula’s
approach; when suddenly the trampling of horses was heard, and the gleam
of approaching torches showed them a body of soldiers coming from the
Castle by a path, which was well guarded by sentinels and provided with
several draw-bridges. Landenberg was at the head of the troop. Unmoved
by her tears and fainting, he had just informed Amalberga, that he
should return the next day to hear her final decision; and he was now
bending his course to Sarno, in order to exact the usual new-year’s gift
from the inhabitants of the Valley, and hear them renew the oath of
submission to their Leige-Lord, the Emperor. It was an established
custom of the vice-gerents to receive from the hands of the vassals on
the first day of the new year, what little had escaped their extortion
during the old one; in return for which they never failed to promise
greater indulgence for the future, nor in spite of that promise to
conduct themselves with increased oppression.
As he journeyed onwards, Landenberg recapitulated to himself the
advantages, which this year had produced to him; the quantity of wealth
which he had collected in gold, jewels, and other valuables; the
possession of the lovely Amalberga, whom he already looked upon as his
own; and above all, the power of throwing off the wearisome mask of
hypocrisy, which he had at first been compelled to assume.
—“As to Gessler’s death,” said he to himself, “that has rather improved
my situation, than done me any harm. It has relieved me from the rival
of my greatness, and authorises me to exercise that severity, which is
necessary for my own views, under the fair-sounding name of just
revenge. These late unavailing efforts to oppose my will have convinced
me, that I have to do with a weak, powerless people, who may be incensed
indeed so far as to make some show of resistance at first, but whom
firmness and chastisement will soon reduce within the limits of abject
submission. There are not many Tells among them, God be thanked! He was
the only man whom I feared, and luckily he is either dead, or a
voluntary exile in some distant country; report says the former; but let
him be where he will, so he be not here to spirit up my slaves against
me with his poisonous influence. _My_ slaves? Right; they are mine, no
other’s. The ensuing year will, I trust, make clear to the world, for
_whom_ I am labouring, and whose advantage and peril are most implicated
in the business! Then when I have attained the height at which I aim,
doubtless my new dignity being shared with their adored Amalberga will
have no slight influence in reconciling these people to my authority;
and her popularity will induce them to protect her husband against the
wrath of the deceived Emperor. The precious prize once secure, I shall
then have no need of this assumed severity; the affection of my subjects
will suffice to preserve them in obedience; I shall be at liberty to
follow the bent of my inclinations by ruling with a gentle sway; and all
of us will at once be made happy, Amalberga, myself, and the country
which we govern.”—
Such was the subject of Landenberg’s reflections, many of which he
occasionally imparted to some of his confidential attendants, as he rode
along, totally unconscious of the foes so near him, and of the danger
which threatened the speedy overthrow of all his ambitious hopes and
projects. Here and there a sentence or two spoken in a louder voice than
ordinary reached the hearing of the Helvetians, who were concealed among
the various caverns Of the Castle-rock: and then was many a sword half
drawn from the scabbard to impose eternal silence upon the insolent
boaster. The vigilance of the prudent chiefs, however, and consideration
for the public welfare compelled them to repress their unseasonable
zeal. An over-hasty attack would have been sufficient to ruin every
thing. Landenberg, it’s true, would probably have perished, but only to
make room for a successor perhaps even worse than himself. The object
here was not to make away with a single tyrant; no, it was to throw off
a disgraceful yoke for ever, and to bequeath the precious treasure
Liberty to their children, and to the children of their children even
down to the latest posterity. Landenberg therefore was suffered to
proceed with his attendants unmolested; nothing gave them warning of the
danger, which lurked so near, except now and then a low whispering noise
among the brambles, which made their hair stand an end, for it was now
the ghostly hour; and as they dreaded its being something supernatural,
the sound only served to make those who heard it pursue their course
with the greater speed.
Scarcely had the last horseman disappeared in the farther part of the
Valley, or rather scarcely had darkness dropt her thick curtain between
the enemies; scarcely had the mountain-echoes ceased to reverberate the
last sound of the hoofs of their steeds, when Alwyn’s guiding-star made
its appearance: Ursula’s lamp was seen glimmering on the battlements
above. A few hasty words were spoken among the confederates respecting
the conduct of the enterprise; the last directions were given; and then
young Melthal sprang into the bucket destined to convey him to her who
expected him so impatiently, and whom he now met for the last time with
expressions of pretended love. It was no trifling sacrifice, which poor
Alwyn made on this occasion to the general welfare. To conceal the
feelings of his honest guileless heart; to dissemble love for one who
was totally indifferent to him; in many a rude tempestuous night to
encounter dangers, such as nothing but the most sincere and ardent
passion would have induced any other man to risk; and then at last to
throw aside the mask, and to hear himself called a betrayer and a
hypocrite, and called so with justice; this task was a most painful one,
and keenly did Alwyn feel that his situation was disgraceful. Yet he
thought, that even _this_ sacrifice was not too much to make for his
native land; and duty and patriotism made him submit to do that, which
was of all things the most cruel to his feelings, and repugnant to his
nature; they made him submit to play the hypocrite.
Silently lamenting the ignominious character which he was obliged to
sustain, Alwyn followed his supposed mistress to a retired chamber,
where (she told him) they should be secure from disturbance till
morning; for hitherto the fear of discovery had only suffered their
interviews to last for a few minutes. But at the moment when she
expected to receive the kiss of ardent love, and when she turned to her
lover after having carefully closed the door, to her utter astonishment
a gag was forced into her half-opened mouth; and then seizing her arms,
her supposed admirer fastened them with strong cords to the bed-posts.
It is true, that the general safety had been declared to require the
death of this wretched creature; but the noble heart of Alwyn revolted
at the idea. Even the precautions, which circumstances now made it
absolutely necessary for him to take, caused his cheeks to burn with
indignation against himself; he took care to confine Ursula’s hands in
such a way, that the pressure of the bonds could give her no pain; nor
could he resolve to leave even a creature, whom in his heart he
despised, a prey to absolute despair.
—“Fear nothing, Ursula,” said he in a gentle voice, while quitting the
room; “every thing shall be explained shortly, and on my soul no harm
shall happen to you”—a promise, which was religiously fulfilled.
Alwyn now hastened back to the battlements, and drew up the Count of
Torrenburg in the same manner, by which he had ascended himself; and
anxious as Eginhart was to fly to Amalberga’s assistance, still did he
not quit his station, till two more of the confederates were safely
landed on the platform of the Castle. These in their turn rendered the
same service to their companions, and a sufficient number were soon
mustered within the wails to authorize their proceeding to more
hazardous attempts. Half of them seized the sleeping sentinels, while
the rest without noise made the best of their way to the great gate.
They opened it, and the approach through the rock was soon made
practicable for the remainder of their friends, whom time had not
permitted to ascend in the bucket.
No slight expectations had been entertained by the Helvetians, that this
midnight attack would have made them masters of Rassburg, without its
costing them a single drop of blood; but they had miscounted the
strength of the garrison. Sufficient opposition was made to compel the
besiegers to purchase their conquest dearly. Many a brave Helvetian bit
the dust, and shared the grave of the enemy, who had just expired at his
feet. The dawn of morning discovered the walls of the Castle of the Rock
dyed with the blood both of friends and foes. By the time that the sun
was fully risen, the work was completed; Helvetia’s sons had achieved
their object, and the sheaths once more received their bloody swords.
The chiefs now employed themselves in giving orders and making
dispositions to preserve their conquest, while Torrenburg flew to
deliver his Amalberga. He found her in a stately chamber; she was on her
knees praying for _him_. The noise of the combat had roused her from
sleep; yet convinced that her situation could not alter for the worse,
she experienced no alarm for herself, till as the clash of arms
occasionally drew nearer to her chamber door, she heard the name of
Torrenburg shouted, and concluded, that he was among the combatants:
then _indeed_ she trembled, and sought refuge from her terrors in
supplication to her Patron-Saint. The heart of the pious girl was full
of confidence in the Divine justice: she doubted not, that the Ruler of
all things had decreed every thing for the best; she knew, that neither
herself nor Torrenburg had _merited_ to suffer, and she trusted, that
Heaven would act towards her with gentleness. In her supplications
therefore she rather spoke of the goodness of Providence, than implored
its help: or if she prayed for any thing, it was that a speedy stop
might be put to the shedding of blood, of whose flowing she was but too
well convinced by the clashing of arms, and the dying groans of some,
who were slaughtered at no great distance from her chamber.
A long and fearful silence now succeeded. Suddenly her door was thrown
open, and a knight in complete armour entered the room. He hastened
towards her, raised his visor, and well did she recollect the noble
countenance of him, whose portrait was engraved on her heart in
characters indelible: but she recollected also his engagements to Helen;
she was conscious of her danger and the weakness of her heart, and
attempted to force away the hand, which he had seized, and prest to his
lips with passion. It was long, before she recovered from her surprise
and confusion sufficiently to comprehend the whole extent of those
delightful views, which were now presented before her by indulgent
Fortune.
A Nun is but a sorry describer of love-scenes; and she, who traces this
narrative, though she may not perhaps have always been a stranger to
tender sentiments, still is unwilling to dwell longer than is necessary
upon those, which filled the heart of the happy Amalberga, when she sank
into her lover’s arms, and murmured—“Torrenburg, I am thine!”—I have
since been assured, that in these first moments of rapture the name of
Helen was not forgotten. In truth some trifling recollection, some
little portion of gratitude at least was due to the unfortunate, who to
procure the happiness of Amalberga and Torrenburg had not hesitated to
immolate her own. The sacrifice was indeed a most difficult and painful
one; but never did Helen once regret, that she had made it.
While the lovers forgot every thing in the contemplation of those
flattering prospects, which futurity showed them on all sides; and while
the Helvetians were employed in taking every possible precaution, that
might preserve to them the Fortress, of which they had so valiantly
obtained possession; the other Patriots (as had been previously
arranged) were carrying their glorious designs into execution in
different parts of the country.
Peregrine of Landenberg had reached Castle-Sarno before day-break. He
slept for a few hours, and then rose to welcome the day, which, he was
determined, should see him the husband of the Heiress of Sargans. He had
commanded, that towards evening a strong guard should conduct her
thither from Rassburg, when a Friar, belonging to the Abbot of St. Gall,
and who was entirely devoted to the Governor, had engaged to perform the
marriage ceremony between them: whether with her consent, or without it,
the good father cared but little.
Anxious to give as creditable an appearance as possible to this most
important transaction of his life, Landenberg thought it best for the
general edification to open the day’s business by walking in solemn
procession to the neighbouring church. For this purpose he was already
descending the great staircase accompanied by a numerous train of
courtiers, when he was informed, that the inhabitants of the adjacent
districts had assembled in the valley below, each bringing the
accustomed New-year’s offering.
Landenberg had great confidence in omens; he looked upon it as a pledge
of future good fortune, that before he had set his foot without the
Castle-walls, his course was impeded by presents. The procession to the
church was deferred for awhile: part of his attendants were sent to take
charge of the gifts, which had been brought to him; of the fatted oxen,
the corn, the fruit, the cloth woven by the skilful hands of the
industrious Helvetian housewives; the casks of wine; and here and there
a few bags of coin, which were not the least welcome part of the
offerings. In the mean while the Governor himself remained in the
front-court, attended by a few of his most confidential attendants, and
prepared for the reception of “the slaves of his servants,” as it was
usual for him to term the brave Helvetians.
The deputation arrived. It consisted of fifty persons, with Henric
Melthal at their head, Henric, on whose locks eighty winters had now
shed their snows.
—“Lord Governor,” said the venerable man, approaching Landenberg, “the
old year expired yesterday; the new one begins to-day. How you have
sustained the character of Imperial Majesty among the opprest children
of a free-born nation, that is _your_ affair. How we begin the new, is
_our’s_! Be God the judge between you and us, Peregrine of Landenberg;
God, who has already judged Gessler, as he will judge you! But as for
you, my sons, do as ye see me do, nor hesitate to lay down your lives in
the cause of liberty and justice.”—
It is inconceivable to me, how the daring old man was suffered to
proceed so far in his speech. The Almighty must have struck a panic into
the tyrant and his base dependents; but now recovering themselves, they
hastily drew their side-weapons, which (from being rather intended for
ornament than use, and able to do but little injury) were generally
called “holy-swords.” Some, who were unprovided with even these weak
instruments, hastened into the Castle in search of arms; in the mean
while old Melthal and his trusty companions had drawn concealed
pike-heads from under their cloaks, which they fixed dexterously and
with promptitude on the tops of their long white staves; and now was the
signal given for beginning a massacre, which once commenced was not
concluded hastily. Among the first who fell was the Governor. The feeble
arm of Henric Melthal, strengthened by Heaven and the justice of his
cause, gave the decisive blow; and Edmund Bloomberg hastened to
extricate his father-in-law from the crowd of those, who (now that they
were recovered from their first consternation) prest on him to destroy
the slayer of their chief. Landenberg cursed his fate, that he should
fall so disgracefully by the arm of a dotard, and poured out his last
breath in execrations. The combat became general. The Friends of Liberty
were attacked by the Governor’s remaining attendants, who were now
better armed; but this opposition was not of much avail, since at a
given signal a second party of Helvetians, who were in waiting on the
outside of the Castle, hastened to support their confederates.
The superiority of numbers being now on their side, the conquerors
proclaimed quarter in the name of Henric Melthal. The loss of their
chief had deprived the scanty band of his adherents of all their
courage: they were glad to sheathe their weapons, and the conquering
Helvetians took them under their protection, and conducted them
uninjured to the boundaries. The gallant men were unwilling to stain
their native soil with blood shed unnecessarily, and doubted not, that
such a barbarous measure would have induced the Almighty to withdraw his
blessing from their enterprise. They lost no time in taking measures for
maintaining themselves in the possession of Castle-Sarno. Towards
evening intelligence arrived, that Rassburg also had been attacked with
success, and during the three or four succeeding days similar tidings
were received from other parts of the country: Schwannau, Kussnach,
Zinguri (which was not yet finished) and many other places of
importance, had been wrested from the hands of Helvetia’s tyrants. Such
universal success testified, that the arm of the Protector of innocence
had fought in their cause; and they thought, the best means of showing
their gratitude for such powerful aid to him, who detests unnecessary
bloodshed, was to use their victory with mildness and moderation. They
had expelled their enemies, and reinstated themselves in their natural
rights: more they sought not, more they desired not; and it was this
laudable moderation, which, by preventing them from aiming to obtain
further advantages, enabled them to secure, what they had won already.
Peace after so long an absence returned once more to these happy
vallies; and a firm fraternal union for offence and defence was
established, which I pray, that God may grant to last, as long as the
world exists.
Has not the ignorant Nun suffered herself to be enticed out of her
proper sphere, while she described scenes of war and the efforts of
Liberty? She, a weak defenceless woman, a slave bound in lasting
fetters? Yet Heaven be thanked for it, those fetters are light: pious
submission enables me to bear them, and they will ere long be loosened
by the hand of Death.
Count Donat’s widow lived in tranquil seclusion at Zurich in the society
of the Countess Urania; and their prayers were frequently offered up for
the success of the honest Helvetians. They rejoiced to hear of their
victories, of Amalberga’s rescue, and of her union with the Count of
Torrenburg. But Helen did not wish to be herself a spectatress of their
felicity; nor (when shortly after their marriage the happy pair visited
her to express their mutual gratitude) could she be prevailed upon to
pass more than one hour in their society; and many, many of the
succeeding days were for her days of anguish. Poor Helen was but a weak
mortal, no saint, no angel: and alas! to _forget_ is a task not so easy,
as some may think!
Yet in recompence for her past sorrows Heaven had still reserved one
pleasure for her future life. Oh! Blessed Virgin, what a pleasure was
that! what a surprise! what an unexpected re-union!—But let me proceed
regularly.
The good Domina of Zurich was dead; the Princess Euphemia had already
been appointed Abbess of Tull, and therefore could not accept the vacant
dignity. No persuasion could induce Urania, at her advanced age, to fill
so laborious a situation, and the lot now fell upon Count Donat’s widow.
She obeyed the general voice, and was well-pleased to have a means for
exerting benevolence in a more extended circle. She became (what I say
of her ought not to be counted to her as a merit, since she did but her
duty) she became the mother of the opprest; and the man, who intrusted
to her a daughter, a sister, or a mistress, knew, that she could be no
where safer than in her arms. This was universally known; and many a
knight, before he set out on some distant expedition, secured under her
protection those treasures, which he valued dearer than all others,
which the world contained.
One day a knight requested an audience of her: as soon as she saw him,
it struck her, that his features were not altogether unknown to her.
—“Sir Knight,” said she, “it appears to me, that we have met before.”—
—“You say truly, holy mother,” answered he; “it was I, who by the Bishop
of Coira’s command took the Castle of Sargans by storm, and afterwards
conducted you to this Convent. Methinks, you placed but little
confidence in me on that occasion, though perhaps it would have been for
your advantage, had you shown more: but its true, you knew not my name;
knew not, that never had any one reason to repent the trust, which he
reposed in Herman of Werdenberg. I will not follow your example; I am
now preparing to reveal to you my dearest secrets, and solicit you to
become the guardian of my most precious treasure. Grief of heart some
time ago drove me from my native land: my uncle’s death necessitated my
return; and being once more in Germany, I suffered myself to be
persuaded to remain there: nay, under a borrowed name I consented to act
as the knight-protector of the new Bishop’s subjects, and to become the
assertor of his rights and privileges.
“It was in this capacity, that I became acquainted with you, Lady, in
the Castle of Sargans: report, and mysterious circumstances respecting
your conduct, I confess, had not prejudiced me in your favour; and
perhaps I did not treat you with so much respect and attention, as (I am
now well convinced) was justly due to your merits. After escorting you
hither, I returned to Sargans, being commissioned to defend the Castle
against Landenberg and his associates, in the name of Count Donat’s
daughters; whom the Bishop had adopted as his wards, and whom he
publicly declared his intention of reinstating in their rights, as soon
as the place of their concealment could be ascertained. It seems, the
rebellious Landenberg thought, that this was the fit time for making
himself master of all Rhœtia, while the Ten Jurisdictions were torn to
pieces by the tumults and confusion, to which his artifices had given
rise; but report must have already informed you, how soon those vain
hopes were crushed by the noble efforts of the assertors of Liberty.
“In order that I might not be quite idle during my undisturbed residence
at Sargans, the Bishop (who has no antipathy to gold) commissioned me to
enquire into the truth of an old tradition very current among the
people, that immense treasures lie buried in the foundation of that
antient fortress. Upon asking some questions, I was conducted to an old
and ruined well in a remote court, and assured that it contained wealth
inexhaustible. The Bishop on this report desired me to cause the well to
be cleared out; but its contents furnished nothing but venomous
reptiles, filth, and some human bones, the melancholy memorials of
former cruelties, whose commission Heaven no doubt had long since
punished.
“Other places were afterwards pointed out to me as the repository of
this buried wealth; but no better success attended their examination. At
length I resolved to set my workmen to clear out that subterraneous
passage, the falling-in of whose roof had so nearly proved your
destruction. It seemed to me much more probable, that I should find here
that of which I was in search, than in those places which I had already
examined; but it was my full determination, in case of discovering the
supposed treasures, not to give them up to the Bishop, but to reserve
them for the heiress of Carlsheim and Sargans, who had lately been
rescued from Landenberg’s power, and was now Countess of Torrenburg. It
was however less my object to find wealth which I despised, than to
furnish my followers with a harmless occupation, and by restoring the
concealed passage (which in our turbulent times is absolutely necessary
in every fortress) to render a trifling service to posterity. The work
was difficult and tedious; however, I was just rejoicing in the
reflection, that a few days would suffice to finish it, when the Bishop
of Coira found it impossible to delay any longer with common decency the
restoring of Sargans to the Countess Amalberga and her husband. One
branch of the passage alone remained in ruins, and I would gladly have
completed my task; but Count Eginhart was already at the gates of
Sargans. I hastened to deliver up every thing, which had been committed
to my custody, and we renewed our former friendship; a friendship, which
in the earlier part of our lives had been most intimate.
“It was my intention to request his permission to finish the repairs of
the subterraneous caverns: unluckily, as we sat conversing together, and
recalling the events of former days over our flowing goblets, he
mentioned the sister of his bride, who had once made upon my heart a
very forcible impression; but my passion was not strong enough to make
me consent to commit my honour to the keeping of a daughter of Count
Donat. The Count painted in glowing colours the happiness, which he
enjoyed with Amalberga; and he finally accused me of having treated the
Lady Emmeline unworthily, and of having driven her into the jaws of
perdition by my rigour and contempt. As her relations have always wrapt
in mystery the latter scenes of Emmeline’s life, I am even at this
moment ignorant, as to what is become of Her, who was once so dear to
me; nor could I understand, to what the Count alluded in the conclusion
of his speech. I could not, however, allow, that I had acted by her with
injustice, and asserted, with that warmth which is natural to me, that
no man of prudence and honour would have acted otherwise. Our
conversation grew bitter; and at length we parted in such anger, that it
was impossible for me to submit to asking of him as a favour, that I
might prosecute my subterraneous labours.
“Perhaps you will be surprised at my being so anxious about such a
trifle, as the repairs of these vaults; I must therefore confess to you,
that the real motive of my wish to examine this passage thoroughly, was
nothing more than a dream; but that dream was in truth a very remarkable
one.
“The first time that I broke a lance at a public tournament, it was my
fortune to obtain the prize, a ring apparently of considerable value. I
was pleased both with the jewel, and with the manner in which I obtained
it, and never failed to wear it on all solemn festivals; till a person
well skilled in precious stones convinced me, that the diamond was false
and the ring itself scarcely worth three golden shields[3]. Incensed at
having been so grossly imposed upon, I snatched it from my finger, and
threw it over the battlements: the circumstance of its having been the
reward of my address soon made me wish to recover it; but though my
squire was immediately dispatched, he returned without having been able
to find it. I had quite forgotten this ring and all its circumstances;
but on both the two nights preceding Torrenburg’s entry into the Castle
of Sargans, I dreamt, that in traversing the subterraneous passage I
found my lost ring, and that the false stone was changed into a diamond,
which illuminated the whole cavern with its radiance.
Footnote 3:
A coin so called, from its bearing a shield imprest upon it.
“I cannot account for the strong impression, which this dream made upon
my fancy; yet (Heaven knows!) I set but little store upon the treasures
of this world, and were I possest of all the diamonds which the earth
contains, I should only employ them to adorn our Redeemer’s cross; that
cross, which it is my firm resolution to wear in future against the
Saracens, and other enemies of our holy religion. Yet in spite of this
contempt of wealth, and of the little faith which I put in omens, the
repetition of this dream struck my imagination so forcibly, that I could
not rest without ascertaining, whether the vaults did really contain the
ring, which I had so long lost.
“My disagreement with Torrenburg had made it impossible for me to
satisfy my doubts by means of the Castle-entrance: but I thought it by
no means unlikely, that there might be some communication between the
passage and the ruined Abbey of Curwald, which was situated at no great
distance, and was just beginning to be rebuilt.
“I was well acquainted with Father John; a worthy man, who had lately
been appointed the Superior of those few Monks, who had escaped from
Count Donat’s barbarity. He readily acceded to my request, and I
immediately began my work.
“For several days the ruins were examined without success: yet the
assurance of one of the elder Monks, that he remembered having heard
(but merely as a tradition) that a private communication had formerly
existed between the Convent and Sargans, made me unwilling to give up
the pursuit. It was frequently my custom after dismissing my labourers
(wearied with their fruitless endeavours to discover that, which they
were firmly persuaded had no existence) to wander by myself, and mark
the melancholy contrast made by the slowly-rising walls of the new
building, with the ruins of the old one which had not yet been removed.
The vaults beneath the Convent being generally the scene of our
enquiries, as affording us the best chance for finding the so much
wished-for passage, I frequently loitered here alone, after my workmen
had left me for the evening, A fixed melancholy had taken possession of
my soul: in truth, it could not well be otherwise, surrounded as I was
on all sides by memorials of mortality, and the marks of celestial
judgments!
—“Where,” said I often to myself, “where are now the voluptuous
pleasures of the Monks of Curwald? where the pride and power of the
tyrants of Carlsheim and Sargans? The grave has swallowed them all;
nothing remains of them, but the memory of their crimes and the
detestation of posterity!—Herman, still preserve in your heart unshaken
the love of virtue, and not less the hatred of vice: be at once the
terror of the profligate and the friend of the innocent and the
helpless. Bring equally before the world’s eye the rights of the opprest
and the crimes of the oppressor, and unite in one person the protecting
and the avenging angel.”—
“These ideas prest themselves upon my mind with more than ordinary
force, as I sat one evening in one of the Convent-vaults upon a heap of
stones. It was in the vault nearest to those of Sargans; and despairing
of finding the old secret communication, I had at length resolved to
employ my workmen in digging out a new one. They had already commenced
their labours, and were retired after making no inconsiderable progress.
The hour was late; darkness had closed round me, but an iron lamp was
fixed against the wall and guided my steps, as I slowly traversed to and
fro this abode of religious melancholy. The scene was congenial to the
state of my feelings; I consecrated it to secret sorrow; and here it was
that I offered up my prayers for the future, here it was that I poured
forth my tears, while dwelling upon the past. Yes, holy Mother, my
_tears_! The stern and haughty Herman of Werdenberg has wept frequently;
has wept, when if any eye had witnessed the drops, his cheek would have
blushed with shame at the unworthy cause of his sorrow; to _you_ alone,
to the ear of indulgent pity, he scruples not to disclose the secret of
his weakness.
“Lady, my tears streamed for having formed an early attachment for one,
who deserved not my affection. I once adored Emmeline of Sargans; but I
tore her from my heart, convinced that it was impossible for _her_ to be
virtuous, who had been educated in the very lap of vice. Yet Amalberga,
Emmeline’s sister, and who had been educated with her, was modest, pure,
and irreproachable; then why not Emmeline? What had since happened to
that unfortunate was unknown to me; and my disagreement with her
brother-in-law prevented my obtaining that information from him, which I
was now most anxious to obtain; for one of his expressions had cut me to
the very soul, and I strove in vain to banish it from my memory. He told
me, “that my rigour had driven Emmeline into the jaws of perdition;” and
while his words lay heavy upon my heart, I could not but own, that it
was possible for his accusation to be well-founded. An union with an
honest man, such as Herman of Werdenberg boasts himself to be, would
have been the best and most certain means of rescuing her from the power
of her licentious father and the contagion of his example. Yet what
could I do? Say, that I was mistaken in my judgment of Emmeline; still
was it incumbent on me to run so great a risque to preserve her, as to
entrust the care of my honour to one, who I feared would prove a wanton?
“But at all events, these considerations came too late. Nothing was now
left for me but to banish recollections which, (Heaven only knows, why)
intruded themselves upon me so forcibly, and which certainly were the
most absurd and fruitless, with which I could have employed my mind. Yet
still they _did_ employ it in spite of all my efforts, as I sat with my
eyes sometimes fixed on the dark vaults which frowned above me,
sometimes on the glimmerings of the distant lamp, without being
conscious what it was, at which I was gazing. At length incensed at my
own folly I started from my seat, and was quitting the vault abruptly,
when a faint murmur struck my hearing.
“I stopped. It was not the first time, that I had heard something like a
groan, while traversing these vaults; but I had always supposed the
noise to be occasioned by the wind, or else to be the echo of my own
heart-drawn sighs. But now it was not only more loud and more distinct,
but I almost fancied, that it was followed by sounds resembling words
spoken by one in agony.
“I hastened back to the place, which I had just quitted. I shouted, to
observe whether an echo would answer me, but all was silent.—I removed
to a distance; I came back again; I placed my head against the wall of
the cavern; I knelt, and laid my ear to the ground; I heard the noise
again. I endeavoured to trace it; still it continued, sometimes louder,
sometimes weaker; till at length it conducted me to a small iron grating
inserted in the ground, and from whence the wind, which blew upon me,
seemed to be more heavy and chilling, than that which I breathed in the
vaults above.
“And through this opening did a voice now reach me, whose melancholy
tones seemed those of a female! It sounded so audibly, that all my
doubts vanished at once, and all my sensations resolved themselves into
the single eager enquiry—‘By what means I could assist the sufferer?’—
—“Are you then come at last?” answered the voice; “but speak louder, for
I cannot understand what you say!—My senses are so confused ... and my
brain seems to whirl round and round so rapidly!”—
“I repeated my enquiries, but with no better effect.”
—“I hear the sound of your voice, but not your words,” answered the
captive; “and weakness prevents my dragging myself nearer to the
grate—Do you bring me food?—Alas! it is so long since you last visited
me!—I was afraid, that you had died suddenly—Afraid, did I say?—Oh!
Heaven, who would have suspected, that I should ever have dreaded
Luprian’s death!”—
“These words were pronounced slowly, and in broken sentences. I now
stretched my voice to its utmost extent, and dwelt with peculiar
emphasis on the words “Help” and “Liberty.”
—“Liberty?” she repeated; “no, Luprian; at your price it would be too
dearly purchased. Urge me no more to be the partner of your flight:
could I have ever stooped to disgrace, I need not have languished so
long in this dreary dungeon. If I have no choice left but death or
infamy, I prefer the former; leave me, and let me die!—And yet.... Oh!
God in Heaven! To part with even the most miserable existence is so
bitter.... Oh! it is still so bitter!”
“I saw, that it would be vain for me to labour any more at making myself
understood; and the faint tone, in which these last words were uttered,
alarmed me. Yet I spoke once again, but no answer was returned; I
doubted not, that the unfortunate had fainted.
“How I might effect her delivery with the utmost celerity, I knew not;
yet in my anguish and uncertainty I accidentally struck upon that, which
was most prudent: I hastened to the small temporary building inhabited
by Abbot John and his Monks; I related in a few words what had happened,
and requested their advice.
“The Fraternity one and all hastened with me to the vault, every one
bearing a mattock, a pick-axe, or some such instrument. They were holy
benevolent men, resembling the original founders of their Order, and had
escaped as it were by a miracle from the flames, in which their guilty
brethren had perished. They were eager to redeem by their own conduct
the slur, which the crimes of others had brought upon their Convent, and
were as greedy of good actions, as most other Monks are of rich legacies
and well-stored cellars.
“We were now near the vault, and already the beams of the distant lamp
struck our eyes; but on our entrance, those among us who were
best-sighted were aware, that the vault was not so totally unoccupied,
as I had left it. By the glimmerings of a small lanthorn a tall dark
figure was descried, kneeling on the before-mentioned grating. I sprang
forward. The stranger heard my steps, started from the ground, and
rushed by me so suddenly, that I attempted to stop him in vain. I called
to the approaching Monks not to let him pass; but before they could
reach him, his foot stumbled, and he fell prostrate on the ground.
“Totally engrossed by their impatience to rescue the prisoner, my
companions were hastening forwards without paying any attention to the
stranger; but a thought, which passed through my mind like a flash of
light, made me conceive, how important it was to examine him. I
flattered myself, that I should discover in him that same Luprian, whom
the unfortunate had mentioned, and who in all probability was her
gaoler. Should my conjecture prove correct, I considered this meeting as
a great step towards her deliverance: I therefore grasped him firmly by
the arm, and dragged him towards the lamp, in order that I might examine
my prize.
“I beheld a miserable creature, enveloped in the ragged habit of a monk,
and whose bloodless cheeks, sunk eyes, and emaciated limbs would have
excited my deepest compassion, had I not had good cause to harbour
suspicions, that compassion was a sentiment, of which he was but little
deserving.
—“Art thou Luprian?” said I in a thundering voice.
“He sank at my feet, and stammered out an avowal.
—“Wretch!” I continued; “what motive could induce thee to confine an
unfortunate woman in yonder subterraneous dungeon?”—
“He was silent for a few moments; then suddenly starting from the
ground—“You know that she _is_ confined there,” said he with a furious
look, “and knowing that, you know enough to destroy me! Ask me no more
questions; I will answer none!”—
“He threw himself sullenly upon the heap of ruins, and maintained an
obstinate silence. Unwilling to own that I knew no more than his name, I
first endeavoured to terrify him into a disclosure of this mystery; and
finding my threats produce no effect, I had recourse to persuasion,
painting in as strong colours as possible the cruelty of suffering the
unfortunate to remain longer in her prison, and exhorting him to atone
in some degree for his faults towards his captive, by being himself the
instrument to effect her release. In the mean while my companions had
fallen to work with their spades and mattocks; but large pieces of stone
frequently fell into the dungeon below; and the cries of the sufferer,
who dreaded being crushed beneath their weight, convinced them, how
dangerous was this mode of procuring her deliverance, and finally
compelled them to desist from the attempt.
“What was now to be done? While we agitated this question, Luprian stood
with his arms folded, silent and thoughtful, as if He too had been
resolving some difficult point; at length he threw himself on his knees
before us; and on condition that his life and liberty should be secured
to him, he made a proposal, which he swore to fulfil conscientiously.
—“No one but myself,” said he, “can enable you to set that captive free,
and it is in my power to show you such means as are most sure and
speedy. You see how rotten is this vault, and you may judge from the
faint murmur of her complaints, how deep her dungeon is sunk into the
ground. It will at any rate be long, ere you can force your way to her;
and from her extreme weakness it is unlikely, that she should live till
your arrival, even should she escape the imminent danger of having her
brains dashed out by some fragment of the crumbling roof. But only speak
one word to assure me of life and forgiveness, and I will immediately
furnish you with explanations, which (should you refuse my offer) this
dagger shall enable me to take with me to the grave.”—
“The naked steel, which Luprian now pointed towards his bosom, inspired
us with no alarm. It would have been easy to wrest the weapon from his
grasp; but our impatience to assist the unfortunate captive compelled us
to give the required promise. Her complaints had now again ceased to be
audible; and we felt, that not a moment was to be lost, if we meant to
find her still in existence.
“As soon as we had solemnly engaged not to attempt either his life or
freedom, Luprian resigned his dagger to one of the Monks, and informed
us, that in order to accomplish our object it would be necessary to quit
the vault, and seek a different entrance to the lady’s dungeon, which
was well known to him. Accordingly we followed him for some time, till
we arrived at a remote part of the Convent ruins.
—“Here,” said he, stopping before a ruined wall, from which he removed a
few loose stones, and showed us a narrow flight of stairs; “here you
must descend, and these steps will conduct you to the place, of which
you are in search. Now then I have performed my promise, and require the
performance of yours: permit me to retire.”—
“I hastily seized a torch from one of the Monks, and was hastening down
the staircase, without giving myself a moment’s reflection: but the more
prudent Abbot detained me, gave the torch to Luprian, and commanded him
to finish the work which he had begun, before he claimed the reward of
his services.
“Nothing was left for him but to obey. He guided us down about fifty
steps, and after reaching the foot of the stairs we had a subterraneous
passage to traverse of the same length with that, which had led us from
the grating to the ruined wall. It was terminated by an iron door
strongly fastened on the outside, and which had we not detained Luprian,
we should have found no little difficulty, and lost no little time, in
opening. As I made this observation, I cast upon him an accusing glance;
but the door unclosing left me no time to express in words my
indignation at this proof of his intended treachery. We rushed eagerly
into the dungeon, and found it to be a large vaulted cell, of which
darkness had taken such complete possession, that the beams of our
torches were insufficient to dissipate the gloom, and could only shed a
faint glimmering around us. Its only recommendations were its loftiness
and space. By holding our lights on high, we could discern (but with
difficulty) the iron grating inserted in the roof, through which the
complaints of the prisoner had so seasonably reached me. Exactly beneath
it stood a loaf and a flask of wine, which Luprian had just let down
into the dungeon; and in a corner of it stretched on a miserable pallet
the object of our search lay fainting, as indeed we had suspected from
her silence. With the assistance of one of the younger Monks I raised
her from the ground, and bore her to the upper air, which we considered
as the most likely means of bringing her to herself.
“This hope however proved vain. Animation was lost too completely to be
so easily recalled. Above an hour had elapsed since our conveying her to
the Abbot’s dwelling (where no means were neglected that could restore
animation) before we had the least reason to flatter ourselves with
hopes of her recovery. At length with inexpressible delight we saw her
half unclose her eyes; but she instantly shut them again on account of
the pain caused in them by the light, to which they were now quite
unaccustomed.
“We gave her every possible assistance, and after some time she gained
strength and recollection enough to enable her to comprehend the
favourable change, which had taken place in her situation. Tears of joy,
and her clasped hands raised in gratitude to Heaven, were her only
answer. She strove to thank us for the service which we had rendered
her; but emotion choaked her utterance, and to express her sense of our
kindness by looks was not in her power, since the beams of the sun (who
was now risen) were so painful to her eyes, that she had been obliged to
cover her face with a thick veil to save herself from relapsing into
insensibility.
“We therefore carefully excluded day-light from her chamber, and left
her to repose. While she slept, we resolved to take the opportunity of
making Luprian explain a business, which we conceived to be of some
importance, and respecting which our curiosity was raised to the highest
pitch by hearing some of the Monks assert their persuasion, that
Luprian’s features were not unknown to them. The last Abbot of Curwald,
who was supposed to have perished in the conflagration, had borne that
name, and in spite of his pale countenance and meagre form they verily
believed my prisoner to be no other. We were now all impatience to
ascertain this point; but we found, that in order to effect our object
we ought to have been more upon our guard. Occupied by the melancholy
situation of the lady, which excited universal interest and compassion,
not one of us had paid the least attention to her gaoler: now that we
recollected him, he was not to be found. It appeared probable, that he
had forsaken us immediately upon our entrance into the subterraneous
dungeon, since no one remembered to have seen him since that time, nor
indeed to have bestowed a thought upon him. We had now nothing left for
it but to rail at our inattention, and to lay the blame upon each other.
However, we did not think our loss of any material consequence, since we
doubted not the lady’s ability to clear up the mystery; and at all
events the captive was at liberty, and we had effected a good deed.
“She awoke, greatly strengthened by her refreshing slumber: her first
request was to be removed from the society of men, and committed to the
charge of persons of her own sex. We had already agreed with a
respectable widow in one of the neighbouring villages, that the invalid
should be taken to her house, as soon as she was able to bear the
removal. The good woman soon made her appearance, and the stranger’s
impatience to quit the Monastery was so extreme, that we judged her
likely to suffer less detriment from the journey than from delay. The
distance was not great; she was placed in an easy litter; and her nurse
took such good care of her both during her removal and afterwards, that
she was quickly pronounced out of all danger. Her eyes again became
accustomed to day-light; her hearing was no longer hurt by the loudness
of human voices, and she could speak without difficulty: yet has she
never thought proper to disclose her name either to myself, or to the
Abbot who visited her daily.—But let it still remain concealed; there is
at least _one_ title, which after hearing the brief relation of her
sufferings I know well to be her proper right; the title of the purest
and most heroic of virtuous martyrs, a name which deserves to be
engraved on marble, and employed to add sanctity to altars!
“You are surprised, holy Lady, to hear the cold and serious Herman speak
with such enthusiasm; but let it not injure me in your opinion. The
rescued prisoner perhaps was once beautiful, but now she is so no
longer. Sorrow and confinement have robbed her person of every charm,
which could inspire the voluptuary’s heart with passion: yet were I ever
to love again, my soul should be devoted to the perfection of female
virtue, not of female loveliness. Emmeline, the enchanting Emmeline,
with all her train of charms and graces, perhaps, I may in time cease to
remember; but never, oh! never shall I forget the form of my pale
emaciated captive, sinking into the grave the victim of her principles;
never while he has breath, shall that interesting countenance fade from
the recollection of Herman of Werdenberg!
“But I have wandered widely from the object of this long discourse; I
came hither to make a request, to which all that I have said is but an
introduction: the health of this noble persecuted creature, of my
friend, my sister, my preserved one, is now almost re-established. She
begins to consider, what it will hereafter be most expedient for her to
do; and as she says, that she has no relation in the world to whom she
dares confide her interests, she has condescended to ask my advice
respecting her future proceedings. We both agreed, that a convent is the
most proper retreat for her in her present circumstances; and on my
mentioning to her that, which is under your direction, holy Mother, she
received the proposal with rapture.
—“Oh! surely,” she exclaimed, “my mind cannot yet be quite itself again,
or I could not have hesitated a moment respecting my choice.—Helen of
Homburg!—the Convent of Zurich!—Heavenly powers, how could I have
forgotten those dear dear names so long?”—
“She then enquired eagerly, whether Urania Venosta still lived within
these walls; and when I answered in the affirmative, she discovered such
strong emotion, as her gentle despondent manners had little led me to
expect her being capable of feeling. She clasped her hands in ecstacy; a
shower of tears rolled down her pale cheeks, while she sank on her
knees, and returned thanks to Heaven; she then entreated me to leave her
without delay, and prepare a reception for her in your Convent. I would
willingly have first ascertained, whether she was already known to you;
but her impatience would not admit of my postponing my journey for an
instant, and I was compelled to depart unsatisfied.
“Now then may I hope, that my request will not be rejected? Shall I be
authorised to assure my friend of a welcome reception within these
walls? Speak but one gracious word, and a few hours will be sufficient
to bring her to your feet. Conducted by the good Abbot she has followed
my steps hither, and I need only your permission to deliver her up to
your protection,”—
It is superfluous to say, that Herman’s request was granted with
readiness; but how great was the emotion, which his narrative had
excited in his auditress, how ardent her impatience for the arrival of
the unhappy lady! She was unable to restrain her tears, and a thousand
joyful exclamations escaped her lips, whose import was unintelligible to
Herman.
—“Am I right,” said he, “in supposing, that my friend is not unknown to
you?”—
—“Heaven grant, that it may prove so,” answered the Abbess, while she
hastily wiped away her tears. “But as yet you have allowed me so little
insight into her history, that I scarcely dare give credit to my hopes.
Oh! furnish me with more light; tell me every thing that you know about
her; and prevent my nourishing the sweet but deceitful dreams, which now
occupy my fancy. Alas! alas! it is impossible that they should be
verified; in pity then destroy them at once, before these fond hopes
have time to take such root in my heart, that to tear them out again
would almost break it.”—
—“All that I know respecting this stranger,” answered Herman, “is, that
she was immured by her friends in the Convent of St. Roswitha several
months before the fatal conflagration. It was not long, before she
became acquainted with the manners, which prevailed in this polluted
Sanctuary. Luprian, the unworthy Abbot of Curwald, who even under the
protecting roof of her father had insulted her by a declaration of his
passion, renewed his persecution with increased ardour in a place, which
was completely under his dominion. Much time was not suffered to elapse,
before her resistance was punished by confinement in the cell, whence I
released her: yet she was occasionally compelled to return to the
Convent, in order that her virtue might be assailed by art, flattery,
and every power of the most refined seduction, as well as by severity
and persecution.
“The day preceding the dreadful night, in which these dwellings of sin
were purified by fire, had witnessed such a scene of temptation, as
Luprian thought could not possibly fail of success. But it was defeated
in a manner so disgraceful for the enemies of innocence, that spite and
fury took the place of seduction and love. The heroine was compelled to
endure a variety of the most cruel insults and injuries, and then was
dragged back to her dungeon so exhausted with her sufferings, that she
could scarcely be called alive.
“To her return to this prison was she indebted for existence. It was
sunk so deep within the earth and so remote from the inhabited parts of
the Convent, that she only had a slight suspicion from different
circumstances, that something unusual was passing above her head. She
was confirmed in this idea by several days elapsing without any
nourishment being brought to her. She was reduced to the greatest
extremity; and hunger would soon have put a period to her sufferings,
when the prison-door was unlocked, and the Abbot entered. A cordial of
great power, which he gave her, restored her strength sufficiently to
enable her at length to comprehend the object of his visit. He first
informed her of the events which had lately taken place, and then
proceeded to propose to her the terms, on which she might obtain her
liberty.
—“It is universally believed,” said he, “that I, as well as the rest of
my Order, have fallen a prey to the flames; I encourage this opinion,
since it enables me with security to quit a profession, for which I am
ill calculated, and which I have always held in detestation. I
acknowledge it, my passion for you has hitherto been such, as you ought
not to have complied with; but I now come to declare sentiments so pure,
that you may safely listen to them without doing the least injury to
your honour. I have rescued the Abbey-treasure from the ruins; I have
also secured such considerable funds in other countries, as will enable
me to support the establishment of a temporal prince in any place which
you may prefer, provided it be one where my person is not known. Nothing
is wanting to complete my happiness, except the possession of your hand,
and I trust, you will not be so blind to your own advantage, as to
reject my honourable suit. But one choice is allowed you; either you
must perish in this dungeon, whose existence is now a secret to every
human being except myself; or else you must take a solemn oath upon the
cross to share my flight from Germany, and become my wife, as soon as we
are safe in some foreign climate. There is no time for deliberation; the
success of my plans depends upon their speedy execution, and you must
instantly and at once pronounce the sentence, which decides both _your_
fate and my own.—I wait your answer.”—
“That answer was such, as might have been expected from one, by whom the
licentious Luprian was held in as much abhorrence, as virtue was held
dear and idolized. She asserted the indissoluble nature of his vows to
religion, and repaid his tender speeches with such scorn, that he left
her with a threat never to repeat his offer, but to suffer her to perish
of hunger without compassion or remorse. But the captive was too dear to
him to permit his keeping that resolution. He tormented her with
frequent visits, and desisted not from his fruitless endeavours to
reconcile her to his plans; though to her great satisfaction he was
latterly compelled to abstain from entering her dungeon. A suspicion
existed, that considerable treasures were buried among the ruins of the
Monastery; it was therefore judged prudent to place sentinels about
them, and thus was the execrable Monk debarred all intercourse with his
prisoner, except such as could be carried on by favour of the iron
grating.
“Luprian now found it absolutely necessary for him to visit Italy, where
he had deposited the chief part of his wealth. He entrusted the care of
the lady to his sole Confident. As his absence was protracted longer
than he had himself expected, she enjoyed some respite from his infamous
addresses, and was not without hopes, that her entreaties and sufferings
would at last induce his representative to take some steps towards
effecting her deliverance. Those hopes however were continually
disappointed. His heart was not more flexible than his associate’s; he
remained immutably faithful to the trust reposed in him; and in answer
to her enquiries respecting the transactions of the regions above her,
he gave her such accounts of the successes of her enemies and of the
destruction of all those who were dear to her, as almost extinguished
her anxiety to escape from her dungeon. She saw, that nothing but sorrow
would welcome her return to liberty, and the natural love of life
struggled but faintly against the certainty of present sufferings, and
the apprehension of those, which were still to come.
“Day after day crept away, during which the dreadful uniformity of her
unhappy situation was uninterrupted, except by moments of utter despair,
whose power frequently was on the point of subduing the poor prisoner;
or else by those gleams of ungrounded hope, with which Providence
strengthens and comforts those whom he means finally to preserve, in
order that they may not quite sink beneath the burthen of their
calamities. Luprian still returned not: the lady’s complaints seemed
gradually to make their impression on the mind of his deputy. He
occasionally suffered hints to escape him, that it would not be
impossible to obtain his consent to her liberty: and at length at her
earnest request he was induced to declare, that he was ready that
instant to put an end to her sufferings, provided she would consent to
share with him as his wife the enjoyment of that wealth, which the Abbot
had placed in his custody.
“Here then her hopes again were disappointed. Vexation added bitterness
to the manner, in which she indignantly rejected his infamous proposal:
and the wretch, exasperated by her cutting expressions, swore, that he
would put his plan in execution without her that very day, and would
leave her to her fate. He kept his oath; and the captive must have
perished, had not the Abbot fortunately returned at this identical
moment. His expedition had been attended with nothing but
disappointment. The wealth, which he had vested in foreign hands, had
disappeared from a variety of causes, some through mischance, more
through treachery; and he now only returned to find his associate fled,
his treasure plundered, and his mistress as inflexible as ever.
Vexation, poverty, and fatigue threw him on the bed of sickness. Many
days frequently past, during which the captive was totally neglected;
when at length her gaoler appeared, it was only to throw to her a loaf
of that bread, of which he now could with difficulty procure a
sufficiency for his own sustenance, and with every time to assure her,
that this nourishment was the last, which she would ever receive from
his hands. He spoke no longer of flight, or indeed of his passion for
her; in truth, the former now seemed to be almost impracticable, for the
rebuilding of the Monastery was begun; people were constantly employed
in the neighbourhood of the dungeon’s entrance; and the outlets from the
ruins were watched with more vigilance than ever. The sufferer
frequently entreated him to promise, that he would at least reveal to
some one the place of her confinement before his death; since in order
to increase her terrors he never mist an opportunity of assuring her,
that he had not many days to exist. But in vain did she represent to
him, that when he should be in another world, her sufferings in this
could by no means be to him of any advantage: he was deaf to her
supplications. Bitter and contemptuous irony was his only answer; and it
seemed as if he solely enabled her to support life, in order that he
might still have a human being in his power to torment.
“It was about this time, that the vaults above her prison became an
object of examination: they were completely clogged up with rubbish,
except one narrow passage conducting to the grate. She had often
determined on ending her sufferings by a voluntary death, and for
several days persisted in refusing sustenance; but now that she
frequently heard a noise above her head, and even once or twice caught
the gleam of distant torches through the iron opening, her fearful
resolutions were laid aside, and their place occupied by the hope, that
accident perhaps might effect her deliverance.
“These hopes she concealed most sedulously from her tyrant; and so often
had her sweetest dreams disappointed her, that despair still was able at
times to regain his former influence over her mind. Yet she was now so
accustomed to mark by some piteous sound, that there was a suffering
creature buried in these caverns who implored assistance, that she
continued her groans and cries, even when she had long given up the
expectation of their reaching the ear of compassion. In truth, the
workmen, during the intervals of their labours, had caught the faint
murmurs of her complaints; but they put no other interpretations upon
the sound, than such as were suggested by terror and superstition.
Fortunately our enterprise necessarily brought us every day nearer the
place of her seclusion; till at length some good Angel made me attentive
to the cry of sorrow, and guided me to the performance of an action,
which I shall never cease to consider as the most blessed and fortunate
event of my whole life.”—
Herman of Werdenberg here ended his long narrative; the emotions which
it had produced in Helen were so violent, that every similitude would
fall short of expressing their strength.
—“Emmeline!” said she in that internal voice, which is only audible to
the soul, “thou liv’st then, and I shall once more clasp to my bosom the
poor forlorn orphan, the persecuted dove, the pious martyr of chastity
and religion!—And Herman is your deliverer! that very Herman of
Werdenberg, who once was unjust to your merits, and who now (if I may
judge by every possible evidence) adores you with the warmest, purest
affection, ever kindled in the bosom of a mortal! Oh! Helen, Helen, what
unexpected joy! You will see two of the best of human beings made happy
after long and cruel sufferings, and will yourself assist in forwarding
their happiness! My own plans of worldly bliss have all been ruined; in
reward for my not murmuring at their destruction, grant me, ye powers of
mercy, that wisdom and that foresight, which may enable me to establish
the felicity of my friend on the firmest foundations and with the least
delay.”—
Herman was at a loss to comprehend the long silence of the Abbess, and
the deep meditation, into which his narrative seemed to have plunged
her. At length she recollected herself, and at her request he retired in
search of the stranger, Helen having previously stipulated that he
should not be present at their meeting. She was not certain, that in the
first moments of emotion she should be sufficiently mistress of herself
to conceal Emmeline’s name; and from what he had said, she collected,
that it was not her friend’s intention at present to discover herself to
her deliverer.
A few hours elapsed, before Emmeline appeared leaning on the good Abbot:
Helen now was no longer surprised, that in her present situation she had
not been recognized by her former lover. She was sadly, sadly changed.
It was necessary to have been quite as lovely as Emmeline, in order not
to have lost every charm of person during the long and cruel period of
her captivity; it was necessary to have possest as wonderful a strength
of mind as hers, in order to escape with her senses unimpaired from the
fearful shipwreck of all that was then most dear to her. Ah! Herman,
Herman! that youthful vivacity, which appeared to you so high a crime,
and for which you so unjustly blamed the innocent girl, was now fled for
ever; its place was supplied by a mild and serious look of resignation,
whose melancholy it’s true was sometimes illumined by a benevolent
smile; but the smile was but momentary, and its lustre soon faded away.
Yet thus it was, that you wished her to be; and thus must Emmeline needs
appear to you a thousand times more pleasing, than while she yet shone
with all the brilliant powers of unfaded youth, vivacity, and beauty.
Beautiful in truth was Emmeline no more; but Emmeline was still
interesting beyond expression. A slight frail nymph-like form, so light
that it seemed as if air could have sustained her; a face, robbed of its
roseate colour, but so dazzling fair, that she resembled a marble
statue; a countenance, from which a painter might have formed a portrait
of Christian Humility, and to which the consciousness of heroic
self-denial and of long abstraction from all earthly hopes and
pleasures, had given a saint-like expression that was almost
supernatural; such now was the once brilliant Emmeline of Sargans!
But Helen did not make these observations during the first moments of
their meeting; she could attend to nothing but the joy of once more
embracing her persecuted friend, whom she prest to her bosom with
pleasure too great for utterance. Emmeline was more composed; it was
long since she had seen Helen, who had never been to her more than a
beloved play-fellow, whom she sometimes remembered with a wish to meet
again, and sometimes quite forgot in contemplation of nearer interests
and impending dangers: but much more was she to Helen. The sufferings of
amiable persons, with whom we have ever had even the slightest
acquaintance, give them an extraordinary value in our eyes; and they
inspire us with an affection for them which rises to the highest pitch,
if we feel that it is at all in our power to show them kindness, and to
repair in some degree the past injustice of their fate.
What happened at this interview between the re-united friends; with what
rapture Emmeline was received by the infirm Urania, whose life was now
drawing towards its close; the recapitulation of what had past during
their separation, and the plans which they arranged for the future; all
this I shall pass over in silence, and shall only relate so much of the
latter, as may be absolutely necessary. Time and grief had made
alterations in Herman’s appearance scarcely less surprising than in
Emmeline’s. His assumed name; his gentle manners softened by melancholy
recollections and by compassion for the invalid, so different from the
sternness and contempt with which he had ever treated her at the
Bishop’s court; the dimness of her still-enfeebled sight; the darkened
chamber, whose half-light only afforded her an indistinct view of her
deliverer, when he visited her; these circumstances had contributed to
conceal Herman from her knowledge, and she only entertained a suspicion,
that the sound of his voice was not totally unknown to her. But she
remarked his growing affection; and being unwilling to encourage it, she
abstained from making those enquiries, which might perhaps have
satisfied her curiosity, but which also might have led him to believe,
that she was interested respecting him.
She was perfectly ignorant of all, that had passed during her captivity.
She had given her gaoler’s assertions implicit credit, and firmly
believed, that the few persons whom she loved were numbered among the
dead.—With what joy did she hear from Helen’s lips the assurance, that
Amalberga was alive and happy, and that she herself was indebted for her
release to no other than Herman of Werdenberg!—In truth, she had
hitherto been resolved to discourage the attachment of this unknown
warrior; but this resolution only lasted, till she discovered his real
name. Present gratitude and former affection now gave him a double
interest in her heart: yet did it not so totally overpower all other
feelings, as to determine her to forget entirely the injustice of his
former conduct. She was resolved to put him to a severe trial; she was
besides not quite certain, that his ancient prejudices might not still
have some influence over him; but a few conversations with the Knight
were sufficient to efface every suspicion on this subject. He frequently
visited his unknown mistress at the Convent-grate, where (the better to
elude a discovery) she never appeared without a veil: with every visit
his attachment evidently increased in strength; yet even in her presence
he frequently bestowed a sigh upon the rejected Emmeline, whom he never
mentioned but in terms of interest and compassion. This conduct was not
without its advantage, and when he was soon after compelled to fulfill
his vow of assisting in the crusade against the infidel Albigese, he did
not depart without hopes of being welcome at his return.
During his absence the meeting took place between Emmeline and her
beloved sister. Helen had at length gained such perfect mastery over her
feelings, as to endure without agony the presence of Torrenburg and the
happy Amalberga; and she and Urania were the delighted witnesses of a
scene, which appeared rather calculated for the regions of light beyond
the grave, than for the habitation of wretched mortality. Amalberga,
clasped in the arms of that sister, whom she had so long numbered with
the dead; Torrenburg, Urania, and Helen, the spectators of and the
partners in their joy; and then the relation of Emmeline’s cruel
sufferings; and then the description of Amalberga’s unclouded happiness;
and then the brilliant prospects for the future which displayed
themselves to both, and which for _this_ time were no illusions.... No,
I will not trust my feeble pen with the description!
The report soon circulated through the country, that the lost daughter
of Count Donat was still in existence. The sisters shared the
inheritance amicably, like two lovers dividing some scarce and delicious
fruit, each anxious that the other should receive a full proportion.
From every quarter of the free and happy Helvetia thronged the ancient
friends of the family of Sargans to congratulate the co-heiresses. At
length came also Herman of Werdenberg in quest of his unknown mistress,
whom he understood to be resident at Sargans; he returned from his
expedition, crowned with glory, and rewarded by the Pope with absolution
from his sins; a favour, of which the pious warrior stood but little in
need. Count Torrenburg proffered him the hand of his sister, of the rich
heiress of Sargans, of her whose beauty had formerly fascinated his
eyes; but his heart was now possest by the poor and friendless stranger,
and the hand of the rich heiress was respectfully declined. Indignation
at this refusal was the reason assigned by Amalberga for the
non-appearance of her sister; the stranger however was not equally
invisible, though her veil was not yet laid aside; and her consent to
become his bride soon repaid him for his constancy. It was not till the
espousals had taken place, that she revealed to him her real name, which
Herman now grown wiser heard without repugnance; for his early
prejudices had at length lost their influence in his bosom, and
Emmeline’s past sufferings left him no doubt respecting the purity of
her future conduct. He believed, that he had plighted his faith to a
needy friendless orphan; and the orphan in giving him her hand made him
the powerful Lord of Upper-Carlsheim, of Ortenstein, and of many other
fruitful territories. Happy were their days; happy was she through him,
and he through her! He had found once more the long-lost jewel, of whose
value he was so long unconscious; he had found the attachments of his
early youth and of his maturer manhood, the choice both of his heart and
of his head, and had found them all united in the person of his adored
Emmeline!
And Helen was the spectatress of their felicity, nay is so still at the
moment that I trace these lines! Dear as they were to her, so dear to
her are still the sisters and their worthy husbands!—Lo! how in this
world every thing passes away; God be thanked for it, even our passions
pass away, as well as the rest. Tranquil age succeeds the impetuosity
and hurry of youth; the summer, whose every day was disturbed by
tempests, is replaced by the mild and mellow autumn.—Much as it had
suffered, bitter as had been its disappointments, cruel as had been its
sacrifices, even the heart of Helen at length was at rest.
All my friends still flourish; all who are dear to me still live, even
the venerable Urania. My native land smiles all around in blessed peace;
not one of those, who are near to my heart, has as yet been obliged to
pay with his blood the price of precious Freedom! Guilt begins to be a
stranger among our citizens; the dwellings of luxury and indolence are
converted into sanctuaries of virtue and religion. The Monastery of
Curwald has risen from its ashes with increased lustre; no Luprian, no
Guiderius now rules there over proud voluptuous Monks; no sisters of
Love[4] now inhabit the cells of the neighbouring Convent. The good
Abbot John has admitted into his fraternity none but such men, as look
on vice with no less detestation than himself; and their holy conduct
has completely removed the stigma, which the remembrance of their
abandoned predecessors had fixed upon the whole brotherhood of
Cloister-Curwald.
Footnote 4:
Sorores Agapetæ.
In the subterraneous vaults of Sargans has Herman lately raised a
splendid monument sacred to the sufferings of his wife. Thirty silver
lamps blaze before it; an easy and unguarded entrance admits every one,
who chooses to approach it; and there does many a pilgrim often loiter
to hear with pious admiration the history of a still living saint.
Amalberga was desirous of opening the communication between the vaulted
caverns and the south-western mountains, where the fugitive Monks
established their hermitage: but hitherto all attempts to discover the
outlet have been unsuccessful. The old Gertrude is no more; the Countess
Urania’s age and infirmity forbids her visiting the Castle; and the
directions, which her memory could furnish, are rendered of no avail,
the vaults being completely altered in appearance by the falling-in of
the roof. Researches made on the outside of the mountain have been
equally fruitless, nor has even the Hermitage itself been discovered.
Probably the holy Society has been dissolved by death: Fame will not
hand down their good works to the admiration of after-ages, but that is
of but little consequence; they stand inscribed in letters of flame in
the book of the Everlasting!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ELIZABETH OF TORRENBURG
[CONTINUED.]
_Elizabeth, Countess of Torrenburg, to Count Oswald of March._
By this, my dear brother, you must be as well informed of the history of
the Ladies of Sargans, as myself; I am impatient to know your opinion of
these papers, and whether the effect which they have produced upon
_your_ mind is as strong, as that which during their perusal I
experienced upon my own.—Yet that is impossible; my peculiar situation
makes these annals inexpressibly interesting to me; and did not the
parchments, from which I have copied them, bear unequivocal marks of
their antiquity, I should suspect their having been written for the
purpose of being laid before me. While I read, I was half tempted to
believe, that the good old Abbot, who recommended them to my notice, had
inserted all those passages, which apply so well to my own situation, in
order to lead me unconsciously to the point, where he has been labouring
to place me; and if this were the fact, how would he triumph in the
success of his design! But the circumstances of these memoirs are alas!
but too authentic; as to their antiquity I have such proofs of it, that
I would boldly match them against the title-deeds of my domains, and
other old documents of that period, at which these annals are stated to
have been composed.
Nevertheless, feeling it to be of no slight importance to me to know,
whether what I had read was authentic or a mere fabrication, I spared no
pains to ascertain the fact. You are aware, that I became possest of
these writings by little better than a piece of theft; and in truth
there may be good reasons for not communicating to one of the laity
these papers, which contain such frightful memorials of ecclesiastical
guilt.—I could not therefore attack the Abbess on the subject directly;
but as in hopes of pacifying me for my disappointment she had proposed
to relate such particulars respecting the Ladies of Sargans, as were
most worthy of my attention, (an offer, which I at first rejected out of
obstinacy, and through vexation at the denial of my request) I now
summoned her to perform her promise, for the purpose of comparing what I
should hear from her with the particulars contained in the stolen
parchments.
The Abbess bestowed upon me a few hours every day in that closet, where
the portraits of the Ladies of Sargans had first attracted my attention
to those models of virtue and patient suffering: her account of them did
not greatly vary from that, which I had already obtained. I confess,
that where-ever a clerical person would have appeared in rather an
odious light, whether it was a Monk or a Nun, a Bishop or an Abbess, the
good lady never failed to soften matters and wrap the transgressors up
carefully in the veil of mystery; but those examples of misfortune and
heroic self-command, which appeared so peculiarly applicable to myself,
she confirmed most fully, and exactly as I had read them: nor can I
decide, whether they made most impression on me while reading them alone
and for the first time by the glimmerings of a midnight lamp, or when
they were pronounced by the lips of this holy woman, this earthly saint,
whose head within a few short years (too soon alas! for those who like
me know her worth) will be crowned with wreaths of celestial glory.
Though scarcely in the autumn of her life, the excellent Abbess already
stands upon the brink of her grave. A slow consumption insensibly
destroys her noble powers, and the repetition of these adventures was a
real sacrifice which she made to friendship. Her present state adds
weight to her testimony. Think you, Oswald, that so near the transit
from time to eternity, she would waste away her hours in relating tales,
which she knew to be mere fabrications?—Impossible!
No! oh, no! What I have read, is true! The venerable Urania, on whose
image my eye rests with such soft melancholy, and thou too, poor
Adelaide, whose bitter fate beguiled me so often of my tears! you both
once lived and suffered, you both once thought and acted, exactly as I
have read and believed; and these examples of heroic patience, under
afflictions far heavier than mine, shall serve _me_ as guides in the
conduct, which it now becomes me to pursue.
But for thee, generous Helen! for thee whose fortune so thoroughly
resembles my own, from this moment thou shalt be the model, after which
I will form my whole heart and character; and when my resolution
staggers under the weight of human weakness, to thy portrait will I turn
my eyes for comfort and support.
My brother, I am convinced beyond the power of doubting, that Helen
herself, and no other, was the authoress of the concluding manuscript.
Every page of it betrays marks of an interest, which none but an actor
in the tale could be capable of feeling; and oh! how much has this
persuasion increased in my eyes the value of the writing!
At my request the Abbess pointed out to me Helen’s picture; and such was
my enthusiastic partiality, that I was weak enough to fancy a striking
likeness between her features, and those which my mirror shows me. I
made the observation to my venerable friend; she assented to it with a
smile, and added, “that it was not in person alone, that I resembled
Helen of Homburg.”—I started, and requested an explanation as to the
parts of Helen’s history, which were so like my own. Again the idea of
an imposition flitted across my mind; I believed, what had passed
between myself and Ida to be a total secret in the Convent; and if the
Abbess was acquainted with my story, it was still possible, that all
which I had heard from her had been dictated by Abbot Conrad. Her
answer, however, soon removed this suspicion.
—“Helen,” said she, “was not only fair, illustrious, benevolent, and
pious, like Elizabeth, but she was also learned like Her. I understand,
that the exercise of your pen is your favourite amusement; and there
still exist writings of Helen, which are well-deserving your attention,
and which I would willingly communicate to you, my dear Lady, had I not
been positively enjoined to the contrary by superior orders.”—
The recollection of my treachery forced the colour into my cheeks. To
prevent my confusion being remarked, I hastened to enquire—“why I was
prohibited this pleasure, and who was my secret enemy?”—The Abbess shook
her head, and confest, that the writings of ecclesiastical persons
frequently contained circumstances improper to be made known to the
laity, for fear of giving a shock to their orthodox opinions.
—“But only resolve,” she added smiling, “to become one of our
Sisterhood, and when I die, I will bequeath you my station, and full
permission to peruse all the manuscripts deposited in the spacious
archives of this Convent.”—
Ah! my dear brother, were Montfort a Torrenburg and Ida an Amalberga,
how easy would it be for me to take such a step! But the ill opinion
which I entertain both of Henry and his mistress, and my still lively
sense of the perfidy and injustice with which they repaid my affection,
will perhaps make me yet longer hesitate to act, as would best become
me, and to follow the glorious example of self-denial, set forth in
Helen’s conduct.—Farewell, dear Oswald; my heart is sad, but loves you
tenderly.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Elizabeth of Torrenburg to Count Oswald._
I have confided my secret history to the Abbess. In whom can I more
properly confide, than in her who will soon stand before the Almighty’s
throne, and before whose eyes all concealed things will soon be made
manifest? To whom can I better apply for advice, than to a soul so near
the boundaries of earthly being, that a ray of celestial light already
illumines it, and enables her mental vision to see the things of this
world in their proper likeness?
She is now informed of every thing; and I must acknowledge, I was
frequently embarrassed by some questions, with which she every now and
then interrupted my narrative.
—“Then you are certain, _quite_ certain of having been the first object
of Montfort’s affection?”—
—“I am to understand then, that the attachment between you was equally
strong, and that his whole soul was as much devoted to you, as yours was
to him?”—
“What? and could he really be so base as to desert you at the very foot
of the altar, merely because at that moment he happened to be struck by
the charms of one of your bridemaids? This seems to me very strange, my
daughter; and me-thinks, it does not well harmonize with the
acknowledged probity of Montfort’s former conduct.—If he had not loved
you, to be sure he would not have persuaded you to fly with him from
your brother’s Castle—and yet, if I recollect right, you mentioned, that
his carrying you off prevented your being compelled to espouse the aged
Count of Torrenburg, who was then as much the object of your aversion,
as (when his virtues became, known to you) he was afterwards the object
of your esteem?—You were young, amiable, in distress, partial to
Montfort ... it is very possible, that love induced him to advise your
flight; but then again it is also possible, that mere sympathy and
compassion _might_ have led him to give the very same counsel, and to
take the very same step.”—
Such was the vexatious mode of arguing and of seeing things adopted by
the Abbess. I recapitulated the strong reasons which I had to believe,
that in offering me his hand Montfort was prompted by affection.——The
Abbess acknowledged their force; but she added—“that it was very easy
for that, which was at _first_ nothing more than compassionate interest
for the beautiful Elizabeth, to be in time _converted_ into love.”—
This compliment so ill-timed put me more out of patience, than her
humiliating questions and remarks. It was with difficulty, that I
concealed my ill-humour, and hastily endeavoured to change the subject
of our discourse.
Alas! my dear brother, everyone seems to be in Montfort’s interests, and
averse to mine. The decision of my venerable counsellor Albert Reding
has just been communicated to me, and I find.... But I will not repeat
to you, what he says: what do wealth and power, what do vassals and
domains concern me now?—My peace is fled, my heart is broken!—
The Abbess was not easily persuaded to quit the subject: and at length
she put some enquiries, which cut me to the very heart.—They regarded
the friend and companion of my earliest youth, the worthy Richard of
Ulmenhorst, whose love I had rejected, solely influenced by my
partiality for Montfort. I was thrown into such confusion by this
unexpected home-attack, that ... I set all politeness fairly at
defiance, and without replying, abruptly spoke upon another subject.
We were sitting in the Abbess’s private closet; and I now compelled
those portraits, which had at first excited my curiosity respecting the
secrets of this Convent, to furnish me with an excuse (good or bad) for
eluding questions, which I felt but little inclination to answer.
—“Holy Mother,” said I, “among all the histories respecting the Ladies
of Sargans which you have related, there is one still unknown to me. You
have always past over the picture, which represents two female pilgrims,
bewildered among the barren wilds of a snow-covered mountain; a picture,
which when I first entered this room, drew more of my attention, than
any of its companions. I at first believed them to represent the
unfortunate sisters, Emmeline and Amalberga; but I do not recollect to
have heard (I had nearly said “to have _read_”) any circumstances in
their history according with the scene before me. How anxiously they
seem to be looking for the right path!—Good Mother, inform me, whether
they found it, and what untoward accident brought them into their
present distress? You really must make me better acquainted with their
adventures, for my whole heart already speaks in their favour.”—
—“Does it in truth?” said the Abbess, smiling at my eagerness. “Oh! that
good heart!—But look at the picture nearer; see whether you can find in
the countenances nothing to justify your partiality, except the
expression of distress?”—
I drew near, and examined the picture carefully; but I soon turned away
again, and felt, that my cheeks were burning; in truth something till
then unobserved struck me in the features, but the effect produced was
by no means pleasing.
—“Well!” enquired the Abbess; “have you discovered any thing?”—
—“That general family-likeness,” I replied carelessly, “which is
peculiar to the House of Sargans. But I entreat you, Mother, inform me,
who do those figures represent?”—
—“Two innocent and unfortunate sisters,” was the Abbess’s answer,
“driven from their proper station, and compelled even to conceal their
very names by a succession of untoward circumstances, not by any fault
of their own committing. I could tell you much respecting them, that
perhaps would not appear to you uninteresting; but I am too weak to
undertake the task at present. However, not to leave your curiosity
quite unsatisfied, such an account of them as exists in our archives
shall be looked out, and delivered to you in the course of this evening.
Probably, you will find this narrative more instructive, and in every
respect better worth your inspection, than those which I am compelled to
withhold from you, since the latter were written by Females but little
skilled in literature; while the history, of which I speak, was
transmitted to posterity by the learned pen of an Abbot of
Cloister-Curwald.”—
—“Of Curwald?” I repeated, with a smile of contempt and incredulity.
—“Nay, nay, good Countess,” said the Abbess with some warmth; “no
prejudices, I implore you! The author of that manuscript, a copy of
which I propose entrusting to you, was no Guiderius, no Luprian, believe
me! No, daughter, he was one of the wisest and holiest men of the age,
in which he lived; a man in short, whose virtues conferred honour on the
rank of a prelate, and who was in fact, as well as in name, a true
dignitary of the church.”—
I am now waiting in momentary expectation of receiving the promised
manuscript. The situation, in which I exist at present, is such, as
makes it necessary for me to seize every means of diverting the natural
current of my thoughts into a different channel: it is to this
necessity, that a great portion must be ascribed of the impatience, with
which I look forward to the arrival of this narrative.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Elizabeth of Torrenburg to Count Oswald._
I have received the manuscript; I have read it, and have read it more
than once.—I send it to _you_, my brother; read it, as _I_ have done;
feel, what _I_ have felt; then will nothing surprise you which you may
hear, respecting the actions of your sister
ELIZABETH.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_PART THE SIXTH._
THE SISTERS WITHOUT A NAME.
_Written by the Abbot of Cloister-Curwald._
Above a century has passed away, since the last heroines of that family,
to whose annals I am preparing to add, quitted the scene of human
action. I say, the _last_, because no accounts exist of their
successors; but during that long and vacant period, who knows, but that
many excellent persons may have acted in a manner which did credit to
their ancestors, though no written or traditional memorial remains to
communicate to posterity their virtues and their woes, their trials and
their victories? My heart delights in the tale, which records examples
of heroic excellence; and I have frequently censured the indolence of
cotemporary writers, for suffering this period to remain a blank. Lest I
should deserve that censure myself, which I have not scrupled to inflict
upon others, I now take up my pen, and proceed to execute a task, which
(should I live to finish it) will, I trust, rescue from oblivion some
circumstances well-deserving to be remembered. What I shall set down
will be truth, pure unadorned truth. A just cause demands not the aid of
ornament; and should these leaves ever meet the eye of persons, who may
think themselves more nearly interested in their contents than others,
let them not for an instant suspect, that one syllable is either
inserted or retrenched upon _their_ account, or with a view to produce
any other sentiment in their bosoms, than a conviction of the truth. It
is not before _their_ tribunal, that I plead the cause of two
unfortunates, but before that of the whole world: I write not for them,
whose prejudices may perhaps make them refuse to peruse more than a few
pages of this narrative, and who may close their eyes obstinately
against the light, which shews them that, which they are unwilling to
see. No; I write for impartial judges, and will state my case with as
pure and rigid fidelity, as were I stating it to the ear of Heaven.
In the tranquil vales, which border the lakes of Thun and of the Four
Cantons, those lakes where Helvetian Liberty first threw her fetters
away, still do the families exist of those best friends of their native
country, the Melthals, the Forests, the Bernsdorfs, and the Tells. Their
different branches have spread themselves on all sides, and almost form
a little nation of their own; whose sons and daughters, even in a land
where honour, bravery, and truth are so universal, still distinguish
themselves from their compatriots by the superiority of their virtues.
It were an easy task for me to point out many Williams, Walters, and
Henrics, many Gertrudes and Amabels in this amiable community, so
perfectly have the good qualities of their fore-fathers been inherited
by their children: but at present I shall only mention the inhabitants
of one particular house, which sheltered the infancy of the heroines of
my tale.
’Twas the peaceful cottage of a younger William and a younger Amabel,
the descendants of that Tell, who offered up the tyrant Gessler as a
sacrifice to the insulted liberties of Helvetia: here among a crowd of
blooming sons and daughters two lovely girls were remarked, whose
appearance made it evident, that their origin was not the same with that
of their play-mates. It is true, that they called themselves their
sisters, and were persuaded, that in fact they were so; but yet the
truth was quite otherwise. The real children of the family were healthy
and strong like the generality of their kindred; but these two girls
were fair and delicate, and rather resembled beautiful exotic plants
surrounded by meadow flowers, to which they condescended to allow the
honour of a common origin: and however they might themselves esteem the
merits of these simple children of nature, to all other eyes it was
plain, that their own perfections were far superior.
I have entitled this narrative “the Sisters without a Name,” for it was
long before they knew the family, from which they sprung; and when it
was at length revealed to them, they found, that their rights were in
the possession of strangers. Nay, at the moment that I am writing, they
are still denied the privilege of calling themselves by the name of an
illustrious House, whose dignity would be disgraced by the inferior
station, in which they are at present compelled to exist.
In the early and happiest period of their lives, the Sisters were
totally unconscious of the magnitude of their claims, and their minds
encouraged no wish to be greater than they were. Happy in the humble
sphere for which they believed themselves ordained, happy in the shades
of their mountains, in the tranquillity of their flowery vallies and
glassy lakes, they considered the scenes which surrounded them, and
which appeared to them so enchanting, as a beautiful specimen of the
whole world; nor did they ever trouble their heads with a thought,
whether beyond those mountains, and on the outside of those vallies,
there existed objects which were deserving of a wish to be acquainted
with. This fortunate unconsciousness was assiduously preserved in their
minds by those, to whose care they were confided; and on
winter-evenings, when William Tell had collected all his children around
him (among whom the Sisters were still reckoned) the stories, with which
he entertained them, always respected some hero or heroine of ancient
Helvetia; so that nothing was made known to them except the country
which gave them birth, and they were led to consider nothing as of
importance but what related to that country, because of that country
alone had they ever been told any thing important. In the same manner
were they instructed respecting the concerns of human life: every
illustration was selected from the lower or middling classes of society
and the manners and customs of the great would have been totally unknown
to them, had it not been for an old man, over whose head near a century
had past, and who was a member of the happy family, in which the Sisters
resided. This good father would often take the two girls apart from
their playmates, and recount to them particulars of the ancient Houses
of Carlsheim, Torrenburg, and Homburg. Mary and Rosanna (so were the
Sisters called, while under Tell’s roof) listened to him with the
greatest interest, and each selected a heroine from among the Helens,
Emmelines, and Uranias, as the object of her peculiar admiration.
But such ladies of those illustrious families, as had finished their
lives in a cloister, were sure of obtaining the favour of the gentle
serious Mary. She was not fourteen, when she made a pilgrimage to the
Convent of Engelberg for the purpose of kissing the stone, on which
Amalberga was kneeling, when surprised by Landenberg’s emissaries; and
she frequently expressed a wish, that she might one day be permitted to
take the veil in that Convent, which had so long given shelter to the
heiress of Sargans.
The laughing Rosanna often added to this wish an assertion, that her
sister hoped like Amalberga to exchange in due time the cloister for a
bridal garland; but Mary’s conduct sufficiently proved, that her
religious vocation was at that time no affectation. She was just
sixteen, when William Tell was obliged to comply with her entreaties,
and suffer her to reside at Engelberg. He seemed to consent to this step
unwillingly: but he comforted himself with the reflection, that the
rules of this House permitted no one to pronounce the irrevocable vow,
who had not completed her twenty-fifth year; a period, before whose
arrival a thousand accidents must necessarily have taken place, capable
of shaking the most determined resolutions and the most ardent zeal.
Rosanna accompanied her sister to the Convent, and for a few days forced
herself to be pleased and satisfied with the religious tranquillity of
her new abode. But at length she could no longer conceal from herself,
that nothing save Mary’s society could have made the manners of a
convent endurable; and that in fact she was much better calculated for
singing and dancing with her young companions on the village green, than
for attending the Abbess and her Nuns to the midnight mass. She
therefore endeavoured to give her occupations some variety by taking an
active part in the internal arrangements of the Convent.
Rosanna was beautiful, but as yet no one had told her so. None of the
neighbouring youths pleased her enough to make any impression upon
_her_, and the consequence was, that her charms made but little
impression upon _them_. With all her vivacity, there was a certain
something in Rosanna’s manner, which kept the multitude in awe. Every
one admired her, wished her well, was pleased to see her join in their
amusements, but she produced no warmer sentiment. A kind of dignity, of
which she was herself unconscious, prevented the young men from being as
much at their ease with her, as with her companions, and kept even the
least abashed of them at a distance: at length the society was increased
by the arrival of a person, who only required to be seen, in order to
inspire her with a wish to obtain from him something more than
indifference, or mere dispassionate approbation.
The ancient friendship established between the families of William Tell
and Henric Melthal was kept up by their descendants in all its original
vigour. A son of that Alwyn Melthal, who played the chief part at the
capture of Rassburg, was still alive, and nearly of the same age with
that old relation of William Tell, whom I formerly mentioned. Both these
venerable men were still fresh and hearty in spite of their advanced
time of life; such is indeed the natural effect of breathing the pure
mountain air, and living far from the vices and excesses of cities. The
two families often met together, and their days of festivity were always
observed in common.
Old Melthal had several children; but now it was rumoured, that one of
them called Erwin (whom no one recollected to have ever heard of before)
was just returned from foreign parts, and that a great feast was shortly
to be given in honour of his safe arrival. Accordingly, the venerable
chief of the Melthals made a tour through the neighbouring districts,
for the purpose of inviting his relations and intimates to assemble on
the green lawn before his house on an appointed day; thence to accompany
his newly-arrived son to the old church on the banks of the Lake, and
return thanks to Heaven for his prosperous return; and finally, to pass
the remainder of the day and a good portion of the following night at
his expence in various festivities and amusements.
Tell’s family was one of the first invited: the expectation of the
approaching entertainment gave a look of joy to every countenance. In
the great world, no one looks forward to a day marked out for some
amusement with half this enthusiasm: the hurry of tiresome and expensive
preparations; recollections, how often on similar occasions we have
expected more amusement, than we received; the frequent recurrence of
such pleasures, which robs them of the charm of novelty; the suggestions
of mortified vanity or dissatisfied pride; all these combine to embitter
the festivals of the great. But here in the land of innocence and
gaiety, here where no one looks for any pleasure, but that which he is
sure of finding; where pride and vanity have nothing to do; where every
recollection is delightful, and the whole expence and preparation
consist in a wreath of fresh-gathered flowers; here it is, that an
invitation to a party of pleasure is really welcome, and seldom fails of
justifying its name.
The sun was not yet risen, and the youths and damsels of Tell’s family
were already on their road to Melthal’s cottage. Lots were cast among
the girls to decide, who should have the honour to conduct the
procession; the chance fell upon Rosanna. In consequence, she added to
that which confined her locks, a second wreath of flowers which she hung
round her arm, ready (as was the custom on such occasions) to crown the
hero of the entertainment. It was a special privilege enjoyed by that
company of young people, which arrived first at the place of rendezvous,
that a similar garland to that, with which themselves were adorned,
should ornament the head of the principal personage, whereas the
garlands of the others could only be worn by relations of that
particular family; and this privilege was one, which they valued highly.
Tell’s children, therefore, entreated their sister Rosanna to hasten
forwards, in order that no one might arrive before them; and obliging as
she ever was, she quickened her steps, though solely from the desire to
comply with their wishes: for she little guessed the sort of youth, for
whom her garland had been woven. She expected to see a person, who would
be as indifferent to her as all those were, whom she had already seen;
and it was a matter of little concern to her, whether she ornamented
with her garland the locks of the young Melthal, or of one of her own
relations.
But how were her sentiments changed, when at the head of her company she
arrived on the brow of a little hill, and looked down upon Melthal’s
cottage! There sat the old man on a stone bench before the door; and
near him stood a youth, whose countenance was illumined by the rosy
light of the rising sun, and whose figure excelled in manly beauty every
thing that she had ever seen, nay that she had ever thought or dreamt
of.—She started back.
—“What!” said she to herself; “can this be a son of the old Henric
Melthal? No, no! ’tis certainly some angel, or some saint or martyr at
the least. In truth, I never saw one of the beings, to whom those names
are applied; but I have been told much respecting such supernatural
Existences, and surely if they ever deign to visit the earth in human
form, they must needs resemble yonder youth.”—
Erwin Melthal appeared to be in earnest conversation with his father:
but no sooner was he aware of the approaching guests, than he hastened
towards them, and delivered a welcome with such unaffected grace and
easy dignity, that Rosanna’s delight and astonishment were raised to the
very highest pitch.
Tell’s family was in fact the first arrived, and Rosanna’s garland was
without a competitor for the honour of adorning Erwin’s head; an honour,
which she now no longer looked upon as a matter of indifference, and
which she could not have consented to make over to one of her companions
without some little movements of jealousy and dissatisfaction.
She approached the stranger, while her cheeks were suffused with
blushes, and her hand trembled, as she drew the garland from her arm. He
stood before her like some well grown cedar, and bowed down his head a
little to be crowned by the lovely stranger. She hesitated, retired a
few steps, and looked anxiously round to her female companions, as if
she would willingly have given up her office to one of them: while
Erwin, either out of respect and admiration at the heavenly vision which
now stood manifest before him, or from the more earthly consideration of
the difference between her stature and his own, sank upon one knee
before her, and in this attitude was crowned by her trembling hands.
It was an established custom, that the conductress of the first company
that arrived, on these occasions should be the partner of the king of
the festival during the whole of the day. Rosanna, who loved to enjoy
the earliest breath of morning and the glories of the rising sun, had
already frequently obtained this privilege without its causing her much
emotion; but now when she reflected, that for a whole day she should be
by the side of Erwin Melthal; that she should kneel on the same step
with him at church; should join at the same time and almost in the same
breath with him in the most solemn offices of devotion; should blend her
voice with his in prayers and anthems; and that at table, in the dance,
at every kind of festivity, she should still have no associate but
Erwin, all this was too much for her to conceive at once, and her
feelings scarcely permitted her to breathe.
Still she only dared to express those feelings by looks and blushes: but
Erwin, who felt the same, was not confined like her by the restraints of
decorum. He made use of the privilege of his sex, and not only spoke,
but spoke so plainly, that little as Rosanna was skilled in the language
of love, which she then first heard from his lips, she still understood
his meaning; and little as she ventured to answer, still before the
entertainment concluded, she had left no doubt upon his mind, that their
affection was mutual. The embarrassment, which took place at their first
meeting; the gift of her garland; the religious ceremonies in which they
had been engaged together, and in which each had stolen a little from
that which was destined for Heaven, for the purpose of bestowing it on
the other; all these circumstances and a thousand other trifles, which
occurred in the course of the entertainment, assured them, that an
exchange of hearts had taken place, that their sentiments were
sanctioned by the approbation of Heaven, and that every thing would turn
out as they wished and expected.
From this day forwards Erwin’s leisure was totally engrossed by Rosanna.
The habitations of Tell and Melthal were not so very distant, but that
by setting out at the same time the lovers were certain to meet halfway,
time enough to pass some hours together undisturbed: besides the
intimate connection, which subsisted between the two families, furnished
too many opportunities of intercourse, to admit of their often
complaining of long absence from each other. The passion, which grew
stronger in their bosoms with every hour, was carefully concealed from
every one; not that they had any reason to apprehend censure from their
superiors; but because secrecy seemed to give an additional charm to the
correspondence of their hearts, and because the goal of their desires
seemed to be still at a considerable distance.
The venerable Melthal, the youth’s great-grandfather, had caused him to
be educated in a foreign country, and intended him for the profession of
arms. Erwin had been long suffered to remain ignorant, both to what
family he belonged, and to what country he owed his origin: but the good
antient (whom the number of his years rather than any sensible infirmity
made conscious, that the close of his existence could not be far
removed) now thought proper to summon his grandson to a private
conference, in which he disclosed to him many particulars of great
importance.
—“One more campaign,” said Erwin to his mistress, the first time that he
saw her after holding this conversation with old Melthal, “one more
campaign under the Emperor’s banners, in whose service I am at present
engaged; and then will I hasten back to lay my laurels at the feet of my
Rosanna, confess my love for her, and fix my habitation with her in that
quarter of the globe, which her fancy shall prefer. If she thinks proper
still to reside in the shades of her native vallies, there too will I
take up my abode: if she rather desires to see the world (which in truth
has its charms and can show some scenes, with which even these
enchanting solitudes must not come in competition) perhaps her happy
Erwin may succeed in procuring for her there a situation better suited
to her merits, than that which she must fill in the obscurity of these
retired mountains.”—
—“Dear Erwin,” interrupted Rosanna, “speak no more of this; speak not of
my merits, or of removing me to the great world! Ah! why must you needs
yourself go thither? Is it not enough to make me hate that world, that
it soon must rob me of your society? and alas! who knows, whether you
will return from that wild tumult, which I only know by description,
with sentiments as kind and as honest and true an heart, as you will
bear away with you!”—
Poor Rosanna was bathed in tears, while she made these representations.
She had had dreams, and omens, and forebodings, which promised nothing
good, and which her lover soon banished by means, which every lover (the
false as well as the true) equally practises on similar occasions. But
Erwin was true as the truest; and his oaths were heard and registered in
the Book of Eternity by the Angel, who suffers no perjury to escape
unpunished.
There was one person in the world, with whom Rosanna had been too long
accustomed to share all her joys and all her sorrows, all her hopes and
all her fears, not to make her feel uneasy under the profound secrecy,
which she had hitherto imposed on herself respecting her attachment:
that person was Mary. In fact, she had already suffered some distant
hints to escape her, that she had a secret to communicate; and at length
she summoned up all her resolution, and (with Erwin’s approbation) set
forward one morning for the Convent of Engelberg, determined to lay her
whole heart open to her sister’s inspection.
Though Mary found her own felicity within the bounds of cloistered
retirement, her notions were too liberal to make her consider it as
improper, that Rosanna should seek for happiness in the arms of an
affectionate husband. With folded hands and a countenance bright with
tranquil joy, she piously invoked a blessing on her sister’s union with
the honest-hearted Erwin; though she could not help lamenting with a
sigh, that he should have adopted the profession of Blood! Before they
separated, it was settled between the Sisters, that on an appointed day
Rosanna should conduct her lover to the Convent, in order that Mary
might become personally acquainted with her future brother.
This interview was not difficult to be procured; Mary had not yet
pronounced her vows, and was left at perfect liberty to employ her time,
as she thought proper. Yet partly from a wish to make the business no
more public than could be avoided, and partly from a movement of
religious enthusiasm which forcibly operated upon her imagination, Mary
desired, that the meeting should not take place, till the evening was on
the point of closing.
It was in autumn, and the weather proved gloomy. Mary had provided
herself with a key of the Chapel, and it was in this awful place, that
she received the lovers. A small porch, faintly lighted by the
glimmerings of a distant lamp, witnessed their first meeting. Mary (who
in spite of her extreme youth had already adopted the dignity and grave
character appropriate to her destined station) spoke long and seriously
to the warrior, respecting the sincerity of his attachment and the
sacred nature of his engagement to Rosanna. His answers were such as she
most desired to hear; and she now conducted them into the Chapel, where
she had already placed two burning tapers before an altar consecrated to
Saint Engeltruda.
—“Kneel,” said she, “kneel upon the stone, on which Amalberga was
kneeling when seized by the sacrilegious Landenberg; kneel, and swear in
the presence of God and of this chapel’s Patron-Saint, never even in
thought to swerve from the strictest rules of eternal truth and
unsullied virtue: so shall this place be cleansed from the pollution,
which it contracted from the impure steps of the virgin’s ravisher!—May
Landenberg’s fate be thine, Erwin, shouldst thou ever for one instant
prove faithless to Rosanna!—Never may’st thou, Rosanna, find in the time
of need such a preserver as Amalberga found in Eginhart, shouldst thou
ever forget the man, to whom I now solemnly betroth thee in the face of
listening Heaven.—Let nothing part you, but the grave!—And should
hereafter either of you from inconstancy or caprice rend asunder the
sacred bonds, with which I now unite your fates for ever, that instant
shall my form (be I living, or be I dead) stand before you threatening
and awful, and warn you to return to the paths of propriety and
duty!—But peace, everlasting peace be with the bosoms of faith, and may
the wings of angels overspread them and preserve them!”—
Erwin and Rosanna, as they gazed on the lovely form, which stood before
them illuminated by the pale light of the consecrated tapers, fancied
themselves in the presence of some celestial being. They thought, that
in her words they heard the voice of her Patron-Saint; they swore
fidelity while life should last, and Mary kissed and blessed them.
She then accompanied them to the Chapel-porch; and the betrothed or
rather the espoused lovers (for as such they now considered themselves)
bent their course homewards beneath a sky heavy with the dews of an
autumnal evening. Not one syllable did they exchange, as they past
along; a gentle pressure of the hand occasionally was the only manner,
in which they gave token of their feelings. Yet was their joy not quite
unclouded; a secret heaviness weighed down their hearts: melancholy
forebodings forbade their abandoning themselves entirely to the
delightful thought—“We are united for ever!”—
The three actors in this solemn and singular scene had not enveloped
their secret in so impenetrable a veil, as they imagined; and this
transaction was the means of their meeting with many severe reproofs
from those, to whom they were in subjection. The youthful devotee had
been watched by an inquisitive Nun; and the respectable office, which
she had thought proper to perform on this occasion, was made known to
the Abbess the next morning. Severe were the censures past by that
good lady on Mary’s boldness, in assuming a character so ill adapted
to her time of life. On the other hand, each of the lovers was
closeted by the chief of their respective families; and many
representations were laid before them in these private conferences,
which seemed to make great impression on the minds of both, though
they had not the smallest effect in diminishing their mutual
attachment. At their next meeting Erwin revealed not to Rosanna one
word of the conversation, which he had held with his grandfather
Melthal; neither on _her_ side was Rosanna more communicative of the
information, which she had gained from the old William Tell. They only
confest to each other, that the main-topic of both these secret
conferences had been reasons for their renouncing their so lately
contracted union; and the question was exchanged—“Whether what each
had heard, but which neither revealed, was of such force, as to
authorize their breaking vows, which had been pronounced with such
solemnity”—“No!”—uttered in a tone so positive, as to convey in it a
renewal of all their former oaths, was the reply on both sides: yet
they agreed to commit their cause to Heaven and Time, and to suffer,
to hope, and to believe, what (in secret each was compelled to own)
appeared then to be impossible.
That Erwin and Rosanna were mutually attached to each other, had been
long suspected; but the fact was now made known throughout the Province,
and the prejudice ran universally in favour of the lovers. The youths
and damsels exclaimed loudly against the severity of the two fathers;
and even the old people shook their heads, and let a few words escape
them now and then about inexplicable obstinacy. They declared, that
Melthal’s son and Tell’s daughter seemed to be formed for one another,
that they ought to be united, and that united they would be some day or
other, happen what might. Whenever they encountered the dejected lovers,
they never failed to whisper some kind exhortations to be faithful, and
to hope for better times; while on the other hand their young companions
were anxious to furnish them with opportunities of meeting, and
frequently in their village festivals the lovers suddenly found
themselves encircled by the same chain of flowers, and heard every voice
unite in singing the praise of their tender attachment and their wishes
for its happy issue. A thousand ballads were made upon them, some
plaintive, some gay, and they circulated from mouth to mouth with
rapidity; for the love of Erwin and Rosanna was an affair, in which the
whole Province felt itself interested.
This universal good-will, however, advanced their cause but little. When
they were alone, each spoke of eternal fidelity and insurmountable
difficulties; each made it evident, that a secret sorrow weighed heavy
upon the heart; each found fault with the father of the other, and
declared him to be extremely in the wrong; while the father of the
speaker was asserted to be perfectly in the right, at the same time that
to obey him was acknowledged to be impossible. As to the two old men,
they took no steps towards an explanation. It was rather observed, that
from this time forward they shunned each other’s society, and seemed by
the mutual distance thus suddenly created between them, to give their
children a hint of the conduct, which they expected them also to adopt.
Sooner than they were aware, chance relieved them from the troublesome
employment of watching over the lovers. Erwin was unexpectedly summoned
to join the Emperor’s army, and the orders were so pressing, as not even
to permit his taking leave of his mistress. Yet as he past by it on his
road, he said a short but fervent prayer in the Chapel of Engelberg; he
commended himself and his fortunes to the protection of that Saint, who
had heard his vows pronounced; and Mary being fortunately among the
Nuns, and within reach of his eye, he implored her by signs to bear his
melancholy greeting to her sister. Mary perfectly understood the meaning
of those signs; though it was long, before an opportunity presented
itself for complying with his wish. Ever since her culpable interference
in unhallowed love-affairs, the virtuous Lady Abbess had caused a strict
watch to be kept over Mary; and though Rosanna’s heart was full and
greatly needed the consolations of a sister’s tenderness, she still
hesitated to visit Engelberg. The secret, which the old Tell had
revealed to her, was a dead weight upon her heart; she knew well, that
it was her duty to make it immediately known to Mary, who was no less
interested in it than herself; and she trembled to hear the decision,
which (she doubted not) would be pronounced even by her truest friend
and the partial favourer of her love, as soon as she should be made
acquainted with the real nature of the case.
The useful art of penmanship, which a century before had been familiar
in these parts, and practised by persons totally unconnected with
learned pursuits, even by women, (as the annals of the Ladies of Sargans
testify,) at the present period was fallen into neglect. With the
exception of some few characters of distinguished merit, it was confined
to the clergy, and alas! in this respect Erwin and Rosanna were
completely laical: neither was it safe or prudent to confide their
tender secrets to the discretion of chance messengers; and it
necessarily followed, that the lovers were but seldom informed of the
proceedings of each other. Common fame however occasionally brought the
maid tidings of her warrior not less strange than satisfactory; and the
girls of the Valley frequently were able to comfort their sorrowing
companion with reports, which asserted Erwin’s heroism to be only
equalled by his good fortune. Rosanna’s heart readily gave credit to
assertions so flattering; and she was too well disposed to believe them,
to require much proof of their veracity; nay, she sometimes was so
completely fascinated by the illusions of Fancy, that she could not
refrain from communicating her hopes to the venerable Tell.
—“Surely, my good father,” would she say to him, “should Erwin return to
me crowned with honour and renown; should he be really what Fame
asserts, the favourite of his Emperor, what is more probable, than that
the lowness of his origin should be sunk in the splendour of some
new-acquired title, and his merits be rewarded by his elevation to some
station of importance? and in that case, where would be the impropriety
of my giving him my hand? and what obstacle would my mother’s
injunctions oppose any longer to our union?”—
The old man on hearing such observations never failed to exclaim against
the credulity of young minds, and to warn the exulting girl against the
painful effect, which evil tidings would produce upon her mind with as
much facility and with still greater violence. They say, that Age often
possesses the gift of second-sight; it is at least certain, that what
Tell foreboded, happened but too soon. On a sudden, Rosanna’s Companions
greeted her arrival no more with chearful songs of encouragement and
hope; the name of the heroic Erwin now was never suffered to pass their
lips; when she enquired, whether no tidings of him had reached the
Valley, her question was evaded. At length the deep mourning, in which
the Melthal family appeared, made public the dreadful intelligence,
which her friends had so long concealed from her, and the relation of
which struck her senseless to the earth, as if it had been a flash of
lightning. Erwin had accompanied his sovereign to relieve the Fortress
of Bender, which was besieged by Sultan Amurath, and in an unsuccessful
attack upon the enemy’s camp had fallen as became a warrior. The whole
Valley was afflicted at his loss; the old Melthal was inconsolable.
Shortly afterwards he left his home to visit the Castle of a nobleman,
who had been long his patron and his friend, and he returned no more.
Death surprised him on his journey; and his children brought nothing
back but his bones, which they buried in his native land, that land
which through life he had ever loved so dearly!
It seemed, as if at this period every kind of misfortune had conspired
to ruin this once so happy Province. It was visited by continual storms,
such as had never before taken place within the memory of man: the
mountain-torrents deluged the country with unusual fury; nor was it
possible for the cultivators, industrious as they were, to bring their
ruined fields into order again, till a considerable time had elapsed.
The crops failed; prices rose; at length the distress became universal,
and it was soon followed by the twin-sisters of Death, Famine and
Disease.
Rosanna saw so many of the venerable fathers of the Valley sink into the
grave, and wept over the tombs of so many of her youthful friends, that
she could not but expect the lot soon to fall upon herself and her good
old grandfather. The first was as earnestly desired by Her, who
languished to embrace her Erwin in the land of shadows, as the latter
was looked forward to with terror. She anxiously wished to lengthen the
days of one, who was now almost her only friend, and she implored him to
retire for a while from a spot become so dangerous. It was not far from
Tell’s habitation to the Convent of Engelberg, and there the plague had
not as yet commenced its ravages. Mary obtained permission from the
Abbess to take possession of an uninhabited monastery, which made part
of the domains of Engelberg; and she now hastened like some benevolent
Angel to guide her sickening relations to the place of refuge, which she
had found for them, and where she proposed to be their nurse herself. As
many as were still capable of moving, blest her, and followed her to the
Monastery; Rosanna and Tell made part of the melancholy caravan, which
Death had taken care to prevent from being numerous. In defiance of the
extreme danger, Mary resided with them, and administered to their
necessities with her own hands. Her exertions were crowned with their
deserved success; she had the happiness of rescuing all her patients
from the grave, except the grey-headed Tell. Yet even He did not fall a
martyr to the plague; Mary’s unceasing efforts had relieved him from
that poisonous enemy; but the weight of near an hundred years prest him
down, and forbade his ever rising again from that bed, from whose side,
during the time of his most imminent danger, he had vainly entreated
Mary and her sister to retire and attend to their own preservation.
—“My children,” said he at length, when no doubt remained that the hour
of his death was at hand, “I feel, that we must part: and long as my
worldly course has lasted, still at its close does nothing press heavy
on my heart except the reflection, that I leave your fate and fortunes
undecided. Rosanna, have you communicated to your sister those
circumstances, which I thought fit to lay before you, in order that you
might be convinced, that an union with Erwin Melthal would be ill-sorted
and improper in every point of view?”—
Rosanna replied in the negative; she had of late found but few
opportunities, she said, of seeing her sister; and even when they were
together, the Lady Abbess (whose notions of decorum had been greatly
shocked at the share, which Mary had taken in the Chapel-scene) had
watched them with such vigilance, as effectually prevented any
confidential communications. She concluded her apology for having so
long neglected to obey his injunctions, by entreating him to suffer Mary
to retain the pleasing illusion that she had a right to his affection;
an illusion, with which she herself had parted so unwillingly.
—“It must not be,” answered the expiring Tell; “it is necessary, that
both of you should be aware, that you are no grandchildren of mine. The
story of your birth is long; Rosanna is informed of all the
circumstances, and will relate them to you, my gentle Mary, at some hour
of leisure: at present learn from me such points, as are most essential.
“You and your sister are the sole remaining descendants of the younger
branch of the ancient and illustrious families of Carlsheim and Sargans.
That you have past so large a portion of your lives in obscurity, and
that your great expectations are still in so questionable a state, you
must accuse the superstitious obstinacy of the Countess, your deceased
mother. She was a daughter of the Count of Mayenfield, and her
extraordinary beauty made her the object of universal admiration. Among
her suitors were numbered the heads of the two families of Torrenburg
and Werdenberg, both equally descended from the united House of
Carlsheim and Sargans. The latter was accepted; the former was not only
rejected, but even held by your mother in the most absolute detestation.
On the contrary, the Count of Torrenburg (who is still alive, and whose
excellent heart never harboured resentment against any human being,) not
only forgave the slight, but continued on the most friendly terms with
his successful rival. He succeeded in expelling from his bosom his
unfortunate passion, bestowed his heart on another lady more capable of
estimating its worth, and his marriage was blest with two sons, as was
that of the Count of Werdenberg with two daughters. On this fortunate
occurrence taking place, the fathers entered into the most solemn
engagements to unite their children in marriage, and by this means blend
inseparably their mutual claims upon the inheritance of each other.
“My lovely girls, you were these daughters thus betrothed while in the
cradle: I cannot express to you the repugnance, with which your mother
entertained the idea, that she should one day hear you call the sons of
the Count of Torrenburg by the name of husband. The antipathy, which she
bore that family, was increased a thousandfold by the death of her
husband; on which event the great domains of your father (according to
the long-established customs of the Houses, to which you owe your
origin) fell to the only remaining male heirs of the Counts of Carlsheim
and Sargans, the Count of Torrenburg and his sons. The prospect of
recovering the whole of this inheritance by your union with those sons,
and the generous offers made by their father for her accommodation, had
no effect in softening her animosity: she felt, that it was less
disagreeable to lose every thing and sacrifice both herself and you,
than to depart in any degree from her obstinate resolution.
“Accordingly she quitted the Castle of Werdenberg in the greatest
privacy, and concealed herself in my humble habitation. I had been long
known to her, and in general had been honoured with her confidence; but
she carefully hid from me the real situation of her affairs and the true
motives of her conduct. She did not long survive the loss of her
husband; grief for his death and vexation at the good fortune of
Torrenburg rapidly destroyed her health. On her death-bed she demanded
from me a solemn oath, that I would adopt her orphan-daughters for my
own, and would bring them up according to the instructions, which after
her decease I should find conveyed in writing.
“That your prudent mother should prefer your being educated in the lap
of rural innocence and tranquillity, rather than in the tumult of the
great world, did not surprise me in the least, and I readily gave the
oath demanded. But when after her death I learned from her papers the
whole extent of my promise, and found myself enjoined to spread the
report of your death, and never to disclose your real names, unless
circumstances should give you a just claim to the inheritance of your
ancestors, my surprise was extreme; and gladly would I have called back
the oath, which your mother had carried with her into the grave, and
which therefore was irrevocable.
“As the case stood, no choice was left me, and I was compelled to obey
your mother’s injunctions respecting your education. It greatly
comforted me to find, that the secret of your real station was not
confined to myself. The deceased Countess mentioned in her will, that
the Bishop of Coira and the Abbot of Cloister-Curwald (both of them
related to her though but distantly) were aware of her design, and had
sanctioned it with their consent; and I concluded, that since her
determination had found favour in the eyes of such learned and
respectable persons, it must needs have claims to approbation, which my
own understanding was too short-sighted to discover.
—“It is possible,” it was thus that the Countess exprest herself in her
last will; “it is possible, however trifling the probability seems at
present, that the family of Torrenburg may become extinct; or that it
may please Heaven to deprive it of male heirs, as it has been pleased to
deprive the family of Werdenberg. In that case, let the claims of my
daughters be advanced, and the documents produced, which are deposited
in the hands of the Bishop of Coira, and in the archives of
Cloister-Curwald: for the rights of these consolidated families are so
ordained, that the daughters can only lay claim to the inheritance of
their ancestors, in case no male heir should exist; a regulation, on
whose justice I am too little learned to give an opinion, and whose
effect I possess too little power to counteract.
“But as it is possible, that my orphan daughters may one day become the
heiresses of Sargans, care must be taken to prevent their adopting any
measure, which may make them blush at recollecting the obscurity, in
which they are to pass their early years. I desire therefore, that you
William Tell (whom I appoint their guardian) should not only bring them
up innocently and virtuously, but should make them mistresses of as many
elegant accomplishments, as circumstances will admit. Above all I
command you on no account to suffer them to contract a marriage
unsuitable to their illustrious birth. Unless a mother’s fondness
deceives me, they will be singularly beautiful. Providence ever watches
over the orphan’s destiny; and perhaps even in their humble station
their charms may attract the observant glance of some young nobleman.
Should such be the case, William Tell is at liberty to remove all
obstacles to such an union, by revealing to the lover the real name of
the parents of my daughters; and I also absolve him from his oath in so
far, as to authorize him to disclose to themselves the secret of their
illustrious origin, whenever they are sufficiently arrived at years of
discretion, to make such a disclosure necessary or useful.”—
—“Here is this important paper,” resumed Tell after a short pause, for
this long discourse had greatly exhausted him; “you will read it over
together at your leisure: but one thing more I must observe to you. The
Countess was no less averse to the seclusion of a convent than to
ill-assorted marriages.—In one place (which I have pointed out for
Mary’s observation by three crosses) she writes thus—“Be the veil the
last refuge of my children, and on no account must either of them be
suffered to assume it before her six-and-twentieth year. Then, if no
more inviting prospect presents itself, their real rank may be revealed
to the Superior, and the sums (which I leave for that purpose in the
hands of William Tell) appropriated to the endowment of the Convent, in
which they think proper to pronounce their vows.”—
—“I trust,” continued the old man, “that I have not abused the
confidence with which your noble mother honoured me. Anxiety to leave no
part of her commands unexecuted made me lose no time in hastening to the
Bishop of Coira and the Abbot of Cloister-Curwald, and requesting their
advice respecting your future education. I found them already fully
acquainted with the intentions of the deceased Countess; I also gathered
from some words which escaped them, that all the singular injunctions of
that lady’s will related to an old prophecy, by which the daughters of
Werdenberg were threatened with the most severe mortifications and
persecutions through the means of the family of Torrenburg. For my own
part, I cannot say, that I lay any great stress upon these old
traditions, and even look upon belief in them as little better than rank
superstition: nay, I am almost persuaded, that the very means taken to
avoid the dangers with which such prophecies menace us, frequently
produce their accomplishment, of which (unless I am much deceived) your
own history will furnish an additional proof. The two reverend
gentlemen, however, were quite of a different opinion from me on this
point; in truth, they received so ill a hint of this nature which
escaped me, that if I had not held my tongue in good time, I verily
believe, they would have excommunicated me as an arch-heretic. Luckily,
the business was not to decide, whether your mother’s opinions were
right, but whether her will should be obeyed; and on this head all three
were of the same way of thinking.
“Annually I made them a visit to lay before them my proceedings, and
receive instructions respecting your future conduct. At length they
died, both nearly at the same time, and were succeeded by Bishop
Sigisbert, and Abbot Conrad the Fourth, who also succeeded to the
knowledge of your secret. The latter of those prelates (as you probably
remember) once visited our cottage, as it seemed, by accident. He saw
you, and felt himself greatly interested in your welfare. I have
informed him of my illness, and also of the melancholy occurrences which
have lately taken place, and which render these vallies no longer a safe
retreat. In his answer, the good Abbot promises you his protection,
proposes to remove you to those scenes where your noble ancestors once
ruled, and engages (when the proper time shall be arrived) to support
your claims to the utmost of his power.
“The sons of the Count of Torrenburg are dead; the Count himself is a
widower, but is not quite so far advanced in years as to make his
contracting a second marriage highly improbable. Still you have much to
expect from his known generosity of mind, and I cannot but flatter
myself, that you may look forwards to more fortunate times! Oh! with
what content could I lay my head down in my grave, were I but certain
that this hope will soon be realized! But alas! every thing shows itself
to me, as if still at a fearful distance! Every thing seems covered with
a gloomy veil of clouds. Many and many a bitter sigh must you heave,
many and many a painful step must you tread, ere you regain that
station, whence you have been degraded by maternal obstinacy and
superstitious prejudice.—Yet take courage, my children; an invisible
hand still guides the steps of the innocent, and you will find a
powerful friend and safe adviser in the Abbot of Cloister-Curwald.”—
Here the old man concluded; his adopted daughters were silent, and
wept.—All that they had heard, all the glorious prospects, which were
just presented before them, were unable to overpower the melancholy
conviction, that the hour was arrived, when they must close the eyes of
that venerable man, who had for so many years cherished them with all
the fondness of a father. In losing him, they foresaw too the loss of
those simple pleasures, which had made their childhood glide away so
gaily, and for which they feared to find the advantages of their new
situation but a sorry and incomplete exchange.
Tell visibly became weaker, that is, his body became so; but his mind
preserved its strength unimpaired, and to the last moment of sensibility
possest its gaiety and freedom. He had indeed got the better of that
illness, which at first confined him to a sick couch, but he sank under
the burthen of his years. His heart at length felt the arrow of death;
though in truth that metaphor is here inapplicable, for he felt no
wound, he endured no pain. His existence ended in a gradual peaceful
slumber; the lamp of his life was extinguished gently and imperceptibly.
Abbot Conrad arrived before the decease of Tell, for the purpose of
removing the Sisters: but they implored a short respite. Gladly would
they have remained Tell’s daughters all their lives; it was no light
blow, that could sever the bonds, by which they were connected with the
good old man; even Death was unable to effect this completely, and their
affection still followed him even beyond the grave. Neither was Conrad
anxious to remove them from the dying man: it was a blessed sight for
him to witness the gentle departure of a just spirit, and for once to
behold the so-dreaded form of Death arrayed in the peaceful appearance
of a beneficent Angel. Neither was it an uninteresting sight, to see two
girls in the bloom of youth and beauty turning away from the brilliant
prospects of the world, to dwell with their whole souls on one of the
most sorrowful and painful scenes, which can meet the eye of human
nature; to see two highly-born princesses weep at resigning for such
sounding titles the dearer-ones of daughters and sisters in the abode of
rustic innocence; and to hear them at the grave of their common ancestor
vow to their former play-mates, that they should ever hold their
relationship as the most close and precious, though the whole universe
should unite in endeavouring to efface the recollection of it from their
minds.
Tell’s children could not understand rightly, what their supposed
sisters meant by such assurances; and the Abbot thought it unnecessary
to explain to them a mystery, which their approaching separation from
the young Countesses of Werdenberg would soon make sufficiently clear.
The Abbot was obliged to be more communicative with the Domina of
Engelberg. He found no great difficulty in obtaining her permission,
that Mary (or Constantia, as she was now called, while Rosanna resumed
her baptismal name of Ida.... Yes, Elizabeth! Ida and Constantia were
their _real_ names!) that Mary should for a time make trial of a worldly
life, and should postpone her adoption of the veil till after the
unravelling of her destiny. Three conditions however were annexed to the
permission; first, that in case her call to a religious profession
should be confirmed, that she should pronounce her vows in no other
Convent than Engelberg; secondly, that in remembrance of her
cloister-duties she should always wear the habit of the Order; lastly,
that in case of the worst (by which the pious lady meant an union with
an earthly bridegroom) she should not assume a worldly dress till her
wedding-day, and should purchase the permission of renouncing the veil
by a handsome benefaction to the Convent of Engelberg. The abbot
understood the manners of the cloister, and agreed to these conditions
on behalf of his wards; who in the mean while heaved many a sigh, while
preparing for a journey, from which their hearts boded no good.
In the sphere in which they now moved, every thing appeared strange to
them, and consequently disagreeable, from their not being accustomed to
such manners and appearances. The splendour of Bishop Sigisbert’s court
(at which they now resided) was too dazzling to be pleasant to eyes,
which were only used to admire the simple charms of Nature; and when
compared with those scenes, in which their childhood had past so
happily, everything which now offered itself to their notice seemed
ridiculous and frequently disgusting.
The Bishop, who felt the greater interest in the welfare of his young
wards on account of their simplicity and want of relish for the
dissipations of the world, was soon obliged to consent to their retiring
from his court, and taking refuge in the tranquillity of a Convent at
Zurich. Here Constantia was perfectly at ease; but Ida, who had been
always accustomed to liberty, was but half satisfied with the restraints
of her abode. Nay, she would have found them insupportable, had not the
recollection of Erwin Melthal followed her to the Convent, and made
solitude and silence agreeable, by suffering her to indulge unrestrained
the melancholy of her heart. In truth, Ida had so little of that lofty
spirit, which should have been united with her lofty station, that the
remembrance of the son of an humble peasant, who had perished as an
undistinguished warrior, still was sacred to her affection; and often
did she assure Constantia, that were he still in existence, she would
rather have renounced her birth-right than the hope of being one day
called his wife.
—“I concealed my rank from Erwin,” said she, “that his love might not
take the alarm at hearing the proud title of the Countess of Werdenberg:
but I will not conceal the affection which I felt, and still feel for
this Erwin, this humble peasant’s son, this undistinguished warrior,
from any one, should any one hereafter think proper to demand my hand.
No! I will avow my passion openly and firmly; and doubtless this
confession will be enough to make my noble suitors abandon a girl, whose
folly sets so little value on illustrious birth and titles handed down
by a long line of ancestors.”—
Constantia was a little embarrassed in answering these declarations. Not
being in love, she could not easily reconcile the union of two such
names as Erwin Melthal, and Ida, Countess of Werdenberg: yet still she
could not efface from her memory the solemn vows, which had passed
between them; and in particular she could not but lay great stress upon
their having been affianced before the altar of St. Engeltruda; a
transaction, in which she had herself borne so principal a part. However
the sum of her reflections was (though the goodness of her heart made
her sigh, as she confest it) that it was fortunate, that Erwin’s death
had solved all the difficulties, which would otherwise have arisen; and
she could not but fancy, that in this event she saw the hand of
Providence, which had preserved from degradation the honour of the
illustrious House of Werdenberg.
In the mean while the Bishop and Abbot Conrad were consulting, how they
might best advance the interests of their young favourites. As they were
not influenced by the prejudices, which made the late Countess of
Werdenberg refuse all intercourse with the family of Torrenburg, and as
they laid no stress upon the before-mentioned prophecy, they soon agreed
to take the straight road (which indeed is always the best) and make the
generous Frederick of Torrenburg immediately acquainted with the
existence and adventures of his long-forgotten relations. The Count was
old, and without children; and it was not unlikely, that he would adopt
these orphans, and bring them up as the future heiresses of his domains.
Under this impression they set forward for his Castle, well provided
with letters and other documents to establish the veracity of their
assertions.
The Abbot has been heard to say, that when the Count was first informed
of the nature of their embassy, he started and turned pale; as the
Bishop proceeded and made the fact certain beyond the possibility of
dispute, this paleness gave place to a burning crimson, and when the
tale was finished, the Count sat for a few moments lost in silent
meditation; circumstances, from which the friends of the two Sisters
augured nothing good to their cause. The event however proved that they
were mistaken in imagining, that the generous Frederick would wilfully
close his eyes against a truth, because it was unpleasant to him; though
what made it so unpleasant to him, they were then at a loss to conceive.
He bestowed a noble heart-drawn sigh upon the memory of the Countess of
Werdenberg. He blamed her for having suffered her prejudices to
interfere so much with the welfare of her daughters, and engaged to
repair the injury, which she had done them. Accompanied by the two
Prelates he hastened to the Convent of Zurich, and entreated his
new-found relations to make his abode their own. Deep was the emotion
exprest in his honest countenance, when he first saw the Sisters. In
them he beheld renewed in their most brilliant colours the charms of
their mother, whom he had loved so long and so dearly without success;
and he clasped them to his bosom with tears, which he vainly struggled
to conceal. The girls too felt their hearts attracted towards the
excellent man, and found no difficulty in considering him in every
respect as their father.
They followed him to his Castle with willingness, were grateful for the
kindness which he showed them, nor did it ever enter their thoughts,
that it was in his power to show them more: but the Bishop was extremely
surprised, that although the Count had acknowledged the validity of the
documents which testified their birth, and had adopted them as his
nieces, he made no mention of their being entitled to any part of his
inheritance, nor seemed to have it in his contemplation to bestow them
on proper bridegrooms.
—“The little eagerness,” said the Abbot, “which the Count shows for the
wedding of his nieces confirms the report, that he is thinking of one
for himself. I have already heard it whispered, that he is attached to a
young person, with whom we are both well acquainted. She is lovely and
virtuous; nobody can blame Count Frederick’s choice, though perhaps some
people may blame him for making at his time of life any choice at all.”—
—“I am sorry to hear this,” replied the Bishop; “should children spring
from this union, the claims of our wards will be completely
annihilated.”—
—“In which case will they be made unhappy?” said the Abbot (who thought
liberally on the subject, and to whom the lady, on whom the Count’s
choice was supposed to have fallen, was even more dear than Constantia
and her sister).—“Their rank is acknowledged; the sums left by their
mother in our charge are sufficient to secure them against absolute
want; their desires are moderate; neither will Frederick’s generosity
fail to provide for them in a manner suitable to their station. But to
expect that he should sacrifice the point, on which he grounds the
happiness of his whole future life, in order that his inheritance may
descend unimpaired to these unexpected newcomers, is really more than I
can possibly justify to myself.”—
This conversation was communicated to the Sisters: they heard it with
indifference. They were too little acquainted with the world to think
much about events, which might affect their future interests, and were
too grateful to their benefactor to wish for more favours from him, than
such as he could grant without injury to his own feelings. But had they
known on _whom_ their uncle’s choice had fallen, they would have offered
up their most fervent prayers for the success of his suit; and would
have looked forward to the wedding-day with as much heart-felt pleasure,
as to any which they had ever witnessed, while they were still the
daughters of old Tell and Inhabitants of the happy Vale of Rutelis.
In the circle of young women, with whom their near relationship to the
Count of Torrenburg necessarily brought them acquainted, none attracted
their affection so strongly, as the beautiful Elizabeth of March. The
interest, which Ida felt for this charming stranger was shortly
reciprocal: yet it is probable, that Constantia would in the end have
obtained the largest share of Elizabeth’s friendship and confidence, on
account of that winning softness of manner and gentleness of temper,
which made her a much more universal favourite than her gay and
thoughtless sister, had she not thought proper to retire for a while
from the world not long after the commencement of her acquaintance with
Elizabeth. In spite of Ida’s remonstrances, Constantia entreated her
uncle to suffer her to pass some time in the Convent of Zurich, and
easily obtained her request.
It seems, that lovely as were the Ladies of Werdenberg, and general as
was the admiration which they excited, still there was not so violent a
contest for the possession of their hands, as the good Bishop had
expected. It was known, that they were dowerless orphans; and as their
uncle’s marriage (though not publicly spoken of) was much circulated in
whispers, this event, which was likely to annihilate at once all the
lofty claims of the Sisters, made their admirers think it to the full as
prudent to confine their admiration for the present to their own
breasts. The gentle Constantia alone found in the young Count of
Thuringia one, who would have chosen her as his bride, had she been
still the daughter of the peasant Tell. Constantia on her side felt, how
generous was the youth’s conduct, and could not doubt the sincerity of
his love: her heart inclined her to listen to him: but she could not
consent to break her religious determinations so quickly and so lightly;
and she retired into the Convent, that she might at least weigh the
matter maturely, and try her suitor’s patience and perseverance a little
by the test of time.
After her departure, the friendship of Elizabeth and Ida acquired
strength daily; though their intercourse was much restricted by Count
Frederick’s evident dissatisfaction at it, which the unsuspecting Ida
attributed to some unaccountable antipathy conceived by her uncle
against her lovely friend. The fact was, that with all his excellent
qualities the Count was not without his weaknesses; among the chief of
which maybe reckoned suspicion, bigotry, and a fondness for mystery even
in the most innocent things. The last induced him carefully to conceal
the proposals which (under the seal of secrecy) he had laid before
Elizabeth’s father: the first, made him fancy, that Ida had fathomed his
purpose, and from interested motives had endeavoured to set her friend
against him; and his superstitious enthusiasm led him to believe that
the best means of obtaining Elizabeth’s heart and hand was to tell his
rosary more frequently than ever, and bestow enormous donations on the
Church. He gave much; he promised more; and those promises were not
breathed in inattentive ears. The Count’s domestic Priest and the
chaplain of the March family found, that their own advantage was
concerned in the accomplishment of Count Frederick’s wishes; and they
held many a secret and serious conference on the means of bringing about
this union. Besides the grand inducement of avarice, Father Hilarius (so
was the priest of Torrenburg named) had additional motives for action.
He looked on the Damsels of Werdenberg with all that aversion, which old
family-servants ever bear to new-comers; whom they generally consider as
intruders, and whom they fear, lest by _their_ influence their own
should be diminished. But with most invincible antipathy did the Monk
regard the gay and thoughtless Ida, who had sometimes indulged her mirth
at his expence, and whom he was determined to expel from her uncle’s
heart, whatever trouble it might cost him.
Elizabeth by this time had no secrets for Ida. She informed her, that
her parents had promised her hand to a powerful nobleman, and had
ordered her in the most peremptory manner to prepare for the reception
of her future husband, without even condescending to inform her of his
name or situation. However, she was in truth little curious respecting
him, for her heart was already bestowed upon another.
—“Yes!” said she to Ida, “I love Count Henry of Montfort, and have every
reason to believe, that I am beloved in return most sincerely. Be this
unknown bridegroom whom he may, he will find himself only an object of
aversion in the eyes of Elizabeth of March.”—
Ida, judging by her own attachment to the deceased Erwin, agreed, that
to banish from the heart the image of an adored lover was quite
impossible: and Elizabeth was so well-pleased with her friend’s mode of
reasoning, that she embraced her with redoubled affection. Ida advised
her by no means to give up Count Henry; and Elizabeth on the other hand
promised solemnly to follow that advice, which was so perfectly in
unison with her own inclinations.
—“I am grieved to think,” said Elizabeth, “that probably in future we
shall be suffered to meet but seldom! I have already received some
hints, that my parents suspect you of not giving me such counsels, as
they could wish; and yet in the present situation of my affairs it is so
necessary for me to possess some feeling heart, to whom I can apply for
sympathy and advice!—However, we shall still be able to correspond
privately; and those communications may be made in writing, which the
enemies of our friendship forbid us to impart in conversation.”—
Ida unluckily knew nothing of the art of writing on her first arrival at
the Castle of Torrenburg; and since that time she had made but little
progress under the tuition of Father Hilarius. She blushed, while she
confest this ignorance; however, on examination Elizabeth was of
opinion, that her friend was already sufficiently advanced to answer all
necessary purposes.
—“I shall require no circumstantial answers from you,” said she; “a
single expressive word will be enough to convey to me your opinion of my
situation, and guide me in my difficulties: a “yes” or “no” will in
general be sufficient to decide my conduct. On my side, I will take care
to write so large a hand that it can be easily read, and to express
myself in a manner that shall be intelligible only to yourself. Then if
you are _quite_ at a loss respecting any part of my letters, you may
show the isolated passage to your chaplain Father Hilarius. He is a
simple good kind of man, whose understanding is not keen enough to
pierce through our mystery, and who may easily be deceived by two young
girls with all their wits about them.”—
This “simple good kind of man,” as Elizabeth called him, the pious
Father Hilarius, was perfectly astonished at the diligence, with which
Ida now prosecuted her studies under his direction. Hitherto he had
found her a very inattentive pupil, and as long as his lessons lasted,
Ida was accustomed to yawn without intermission: on a sudden she was
seized with the greatest fondness for that, which hitherto had inspired
her with nothing but disgust: she even requested, that an additional
hour’s instruction might be allowed her every day; and as Father
Hilarius was not _quite_ so simple as the girls had imagined, he
concluded, that there must be some secret cause for this unexpected love
of literature. An epistolary intercourse, arising from some love-affair,
naturally suggested itself to his mind; and he determined to watch with
the eyes of an Argus, whether he could not make some discovery to the
prejudice of his detested pupil.
Ida soon received a pressing invitation to visit Elizabeth; the Count’s
permission was requested; but as he was now on the point of declaring
himself, and conceived that the presence of his lineal heiress could by
no means be advantageous to his suit, that permission was refused.
Elizabeth therefore had recourse to her pen, and Ida soon received the
following letter.
—“I told you, that I had every reason to think that he loved me: alas! I
fear, that I deceived myself. He knows my situation; knows, how I am
persecuted; and yet he offers no friendly advice for my relief, nay even
seems to decline every opportunity of visiting the Castle. He is at
present with his uncle, who is too closely connected with my parents to
favour an attachment, which would disappoint their views. Perhaps, he
even insists upon Henry’s giving up every thought of me!—The bridegroom
of my father’s choice has not yet revealed himself: I am still ignorant
of all, except that he is rich, powerful, and _old_; but I am threatened
with his speedy arrival, and have been assured, that the day in which I
am presented to him, shall be that of my nuptials.—Write to me, dear
Ida, and say, what course I should follow: the danger is urgent.”—
The messenger, who brought this letter, waited for an answer: it was
with infinite difficulty, that Ida contrived to scrawl the following
words.
—“Write to your Henry: if he loves you, he will hasten to your relief.”—
Several letters followed the foregoing; though Ida was frequently unable
to decypher whole sentences of Elizabeth’s, and Elizabeth was sometimes
completely at a loss to guess the meaning of Ida’s pot-hooks. But the
next letter of any consequence ran as follows—
—“Though he is the friend of my parents, my lover’s uncle is not my
enemy. He read the letter which I addrest to Henry, and permitted him to
obey it. Henry has done so: Henry is here, and says that he is come to
save me: but how?—Many a bold resolution presents itself to my thoughts,
but all are too desperate to be adopted without advice. Decide for me,
my friend; I will follow your judgment implicitly.”—
To this, Ida answered—“Fly with your Henry, and take refuge in his
uncle’s Castle. In _your_ situation, _I_ would not have hesitated to
follow Erwin through the world!”—
This reply was not received, till the Count of Torrenburg had been
presented to Elizabeth as the man, to whom her hand was destined. The
repugnance, with which she listened to his declaration, was too visible
to escape his notice; but as her parents gave him the most solemn
assurances, that her heart (though not yet disposed in his favour) was
still free from any other attachment, he persisted in his addresses. He
persuaded himself, that his assiduities must in the end make him master
of her affections, if once her hand became his property; and he looked
forward with impatience to the nuptial-day, which was already fixed, and
at no great distance.
Ida’s reply arriving at this critical moment, produced a rejoinder from
her friend, which put her in no slight embarrassment; for the greatest
part of it was totally unintelligible to her. Of Elizabeth’s former
letters she had frequently failed in decyphering the _words_; but in the
present epistle, even where she had overcome that difficulty, the
_sense_ frequently appeared to her as obscure as ever.
—“Ah! my sweet friend! how precious should I esteem your last advice,
could I but be certain, that in giving it you were prompted by no motive
but affection for Me. You cannot be ignorant, that all mystery is now
laid aside; the dreaded bridegroom is arrived; and doubtless _you_ must
have been made aware of his intentions, long before my parents thought
proper to communicate them to myself. When therefore you counsel me to
shun this marriage by flight, can I avoid apprehending lest
_interest_.... Ah! forgive me these suspicions, dear Ida! I will not
doubt the sincerity of your friendship.—Yet flight is difficult,
dangerous, disgraceful; Henry himself is unwilling to resort to this
clandestine means of rescue! On the other hand, this hated
Bridegroom.... Why do they tell me of his wealth and power? What are
they to _me_? What are the domains of Carlsheim, Torrenburg, and
Sargans, when balanced against Henry’s heart?—I know not what to
do!—Once more, dear Ida! but _once_ more advise me! Lay aside every
interested motive, which might prompt your counselling me to flight;
assure me, that friendship alone dictates your decision; and then if you
still bid me trust my fate to Henry, I will throw myself into his arms,
and bid adieu to the Castle of March.... alas! perhaps for ever!”—
Again and again did Ida read this letter, and still found herself as far
as ever from understanding it. She would gladly have submitted it to
some more learned head than her own; but her sister was absent, and
prudence forbade her communicating it to the chaplain. Above all, the
line which contained the three difficult words “_Torrenburg_,”
“_Carlsheim_,” and “_Sargans_” set all her skill at defiance; and she
could not but fancy, that were she once mistress of the meaning of that
one line, it would make the rest of the letter quite intelligible.—And
then what harm could there be in showing a stranger that single passage?
The reader would certainly be able to gain but little information from
it; and arguing thus, she cut the passage out of the letter, and
hastened to request Father Hilarius to give her the interpretation.
Father Hilarius (whose activity was quite indefatigable, when exerted to
find out what could injure his enemies, among whom he numbered the
innocent Ida) already suspected the secret correspondence between his
pupil and Elizabeth. The subject of it, however, was still unknown to
him; but now the whole was as clear as day-light. He read what was shown
to him, guest the remainder, and malicious pleasure sparkled in his
eyes. To put the matter beyond a doubt, he pretended, that it was
impossible to understand the meaning of a passage so detached, and
demanded a sight of the whole epistle. This, however, was refused him:
upon which he declared it to be his opinion, that “the difficult words
in question must be Greek; for _his_ part, he could make neither head
nor tail of them.”—
Ida went away out of all patience! However, as she could not discover,
that her friend’s situation had undergone any material alteration since
her last letter, she at length determined at all events to send her the
same answer: accordingly the messenger was despatched with a note
containing only——“Flight! instant flight.”—
Ida’s belief, that the bands of love once formed could never be broken
(together with other romantic notions, which she had imbibed among the
Helvetian mountains, respecting justice and injustice, liberty of the
heart, and suitability in marriage) must plead her excuse for the rash
advice, which in the simplicity of her nature she gave her friend;
advice, which afterwards operated to her prejudice so strongly, that it
nearly ruined her reputation and her whole happiness in life. She
counselled Elizabeth to take that step which (had she been herself the
heroine of the adventure) she would herself undoubtedly have taken: this
was the utmost extent of her error; this, and no more!
The advice was given; the advice was followed. A few days elapsed, and
she heard, that the whole country was in an uproar. The beautiful
Elizabeth of March had eloped with Henry of Montfort; and her brother
Oswald, assisted by the forces of the Count of Torrenburg, had set
forward in pursuit of the fugitives.
Ida was delighted to find, that her advice had been carried into
execution with so much success: she only feared, lest the lovers should
be overtaken by their pursuers, among whom she grieved to hear her uncle
numbered; she was still ignorant, how deeply he was interested in this
affair, and concluded that he was actuated to take a part in it by the
friendship, which had so long subsisted between himself and the old
Count of March.
Her prayers and wishes were half accomplished, half rejected. The lovers
were overtaken: but Count Oswald of March was fondly attached to his
sister; some well-disposed persons kindly interfered; Count Frederick
voluntarily resigned his pretensions; and it was finally resolved, that
the errors of love should be pardoned, and the fugitives united in a
public and customary manner. In truth, no one could deny, that Henry was
a much more suitable partner for the blooming Elizabeth, than her
destined bridegroom, the age-stricken Count of Torrenburg.
Ida was not long without hearing from her friend: this letter, (the last
which she ever received from Elizabeth,) induced her to take a step,
which filled up the measure of her mischances, and not only deprived her
of the favour of her deceived uncle, but totally ruined her in the
general opinion.
—“Ida! dear Ida! authoress of all my present happiness! How wise was
your advice! How perfectly has it succeeded! Yet a few days, and I shall
become the wife of Henry. Still I shall feel my pleasure incomplete,
unless I can thank you for it with an embrace on my bridal-day. Come
then, my friend! come to place the garland on my brow[5], and rejoice in
the work of your prudence! You will find your sister with me: it was
easy for her to obtain a dispensation from her Abbess. I rejoice, that
your uncle is now in a distant part of the country, as in the present
moment you would certainly have been refused permission to come to me.
As it is, resolve to brave the hazard of a few frowns at his return; he
will soon forget his displeasure at your witnessing my nuptials, being
totally ignorant of every thing which might seriously make him offended
with you, and which (you may be assured) shall never come to his
knowledge.—But though concealed from all others, the friendly part which
you have acted in this business, shall never be forgotten by the
grateful heart of your Elizabeth.
Footnote 5:
This alludes to a custom still preserved in many parts of Germany: the
bride wears a myrtle-wreath during the nuptial-ceremony, and it is
usual for her on the day after her marriage to present this wreath to
that female friend, to whom she is most attached.
“Then haste to me, my friend! I burn with impatience to make my Henry
known to you: he too is impatient to see the friend of his Betrothed,
the kind adviser, to whom the Happy-ones owe their happiness. I have
resolved, that this wished-for introduction shall take place at the
altar, before which I am to pronounce the nuptial vow. I confess, this
decision is in some degree dictated by selfish motives: were Henry to
see the lovely Ida of Werdenberg, before it is too late for him to
retract with honour, who knows but her charms might make him faithless
to the less fair Elizabeth?—Ah! dearest Ida, you are conscious, that I
do but jest; I know well the heart of my friend, and the honour of my
lover! Forgive then the fantastic humours of a girl already half wild
with her happiness, and refuse not to make by your presence that
happiness still greater.”—
A great part of this letter was as little understood by Ida as the
former one; however, she took good care not to employ the Chaplain to
explain the meaning. She doubted not his opposing her departure for the
Castle of March, since her uncle (though for what reason she could not
imagine) would disapprove of her visit; and in the Count’s absence she
was totally under the direction of Father Hilarius. Ida therefore
contented herself with understanding from the letter, that she was
invited to a wedding, at which the successful counsels which she had
given (together with other friendly services which she had rendered the
happy pair) would make _her_ an important personage; at which she should
meet her sister Constantia, and doubtless many other of her youthful
friends; and where she should exhibit her beauty to the best advantage,
and should dress, dance, sing, and laugh, as she had frequently done on
similar occasions on the blooming lawn of Rutelis. This was enough for
her to know, and to determine her proceedings. On the appointed day
Elizabeth sent a small body of attendants to wait for her friend in a
wood at no great distance from the Castle of Torrenburg. Ida failed not
to join them there; and without bidding adieu to Father Hilarius, she
very quietly set forward for the Castle of March.
She reached it in safety, and soon found herself clasped in the arms of
her delighted friend. There too she had the happiness of once more
embracing Constantia. The two Sisters past the intervening time between
their arrival and the wedding-day with Elizabeth in her apartment; where
(according to the custom of our times) on such occasions no man was
permitted to show himself, not even the bridegroom.
The important day arrived. Followed by her lovely companions, herself
the most lovely, Elizabeth with trembling steps and a fluttering heart
approached the altar, where Henry of Montfort waited her arrival. Ida
now stepped forward; she threw back her veil, and prepared to fasten the
wreath of Innocence among the golden ringlets of her friend: a similar
garland hung on her arm, with which she was afterwards to present the
bridegroom. Occupied entirely with the task of decorating Elizabeth, she
had not yet cast her eyes on young Montfort; she had not observed, that
he started on beholding her; she had not heard the name of “_Rosanna_,”
which escaped from his trembling lips. She now turned to him for the
purpose of offering him the other wreath; she already extended her hand;
when fixing her eyes on his countenance, she uttered a cry expressive at
once of the utmost surprise and terror, attempted but in vain to
pronounce the name of Erwin Melthal, and would have sank upon the
ground, had not Constantia rushed forward and received her in her
supporting arms.
Constantia still wore the habit of a Nun; the altar was adorned exactly
in the same manner, and the blazing lamps shed the same mysterious light
along the fretted roots and gloomy arches, as on that day when Erwin and
Rosanna knelt at the shrine of St. Engeltruda, poured forth the most
solemn vows of eternal fidelity, and heard Constantia devote the breaker
of those vows to unceasing shame and sorrow.—Erwin Melthal (or rather
Henry of Montfort, for alas! they formed but one) had long believed the
lovely Sisters to be no more the inhabitants of earth: Constantia on the
other hand was in the same error respecting Erwin. The sudden appearance
of one, whom she had long since numbered with the dead, imprest upon her
countenance something of that serious, that strangely awful expression,
which struck him so forcibly, when she united his hand with Rosanna’s in
the Chapel of Engelberg. He recollected her words—“Should either of you
rend asunder the bonds, with which I now unite your fates for ever, that
instant shall my form (be I living, or be I dead) stand before you
threatening and awful, to reproach you with your crimes.”—These
recollections, and the unexpected appearance of the Sisters, at the very
moment when he was on the point of giving his hand to another, made him
consider the whole scene as a supernatural vision! He believed, that the
forms which stood before him, were creatures of another world; his brain
was unable to support the shock; the surrounding objects floated before
his eyes, his senses forsook him, and he sank without animation at the
feet of his astonished bride.
END OF THE THIRD VOLUME.
PRINTED BY D. N. SHURY, BERWICK-STREET, SOHO.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ Errata listed in volume IV have been applied to this volume.
○ 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_).
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