[As the story opens, the narratress, Clara Wieland, is entering
upon the happy realization of her love for Henry Pleyel, closest
friend of her brother “Wieland.”
Their woodland home, Mettingen, on the banks of the then remote
Schuylkill, is the abode of music, letters and thorough culture.
The peace of high thinking and simple outdoor life hovers over
all.]
One sunny afternoon I was standing in the door of my house, when I
marked a person passing close to the edge of the bank that was in
front. His pace was a careless and lingering one, and had none of
that gracefulness and ease which distinguish a person with certain
advantages of education from a clown. His gait was rustic and
awkward. His form was ungainly and disproportioned. Shoulders
broad and square, breast sunken, his head drooping, his body of
uniform breadth, supported by long and lank legs, were the
ingredients of his frame. His garb was not ill adapted to such a
figure. A slouched hat, tarnished by the weather, a coat of thick
gray cloth, cut and wrought, as it seemed, by a country tailor,
blue worsted stockings, and shoes fastened by thongs and deeply
discolored by dust, which brush had never disturbed, constituted
his dress.
There was nothing remarkable in these appearances: they were
frequently to be met with on the road and in the harvest-field. I
cannot tell why I gazed upon them, on this occasion, with more than
ordinary attention, unless it were that such figures were seldom
seen by me except on the road or field. This lawn was only
traversed by men whose views were directed to the pleasures of the
walk or the grandeur of the scenery.
He passed slowly along, frequently pausing, as if to examine the
prospect more deliberately, but never turning his eye toward the
house, so as to allow me a view of his countenance. Presently he
entered a copse at a small distance, and disappeared. My eye
followed him while he remained in sight. If his image remained for
any duration in my fancy after his departure, it was because no
other object occurred sufficient to expel it.
I continued in the same spot for half an hour, vaguely, and by
fits, contemplating the image of this wanderer, and drawing from
outward appearances those inferences, with respect to the
intellectual history of this person, which experience affords us.
I reflected on the alliance which commonly subsists between
ignorance and the practice of agriculture, and indulged myself in
airy speculations as to the influence of progressive knowledge in
dissolving this alliance and embodying the dreams of the poets. I
asked why the plow and the hoe might not become the trade of every
human being, and how this trade might be made conducive to, or at
least consistent with, the acquisition of wisdom and eloquence.
Weary with these reflections, I returned to the kitchen to perform
some household office. I had usually but one servant, and she was
a girl about my own age. I was busy near the chimney, and she was
employed near the door of the apartment, when some one knocked.
The door was opened by her, and she was immediately addressed with,
“Prythee, good girl, canst thou supply a thirsty man with a glass
of buttermilk?” She answered that there was none in the house.
“Aye, but there is some in the dairy yonder. Thou knowest as well
as I, though Hermes never taught thee, that, though every dairy be
a house, every house is not a dairy.” To this speech, though she
understood only a part of it, she replied by repeating her
assurances that she had none to give. “Well, then,” rejoined the
stranger, “for charity’s sweet sake, hand me forth a cup of cold
water.” The girl said she would go to the spring and fetch it.
“Nay, give me the cup, and suffer me to help myself. Neither
manacled nor lame, I should merit burial in the maw of carrion
crows if I laid this task upon thee.” She gave him the cup, and he
turned to go to the spring.
I listened to this dialogue in silence. The words uttered by the
person without affected me as somewhat singular; but what chiefly
rendered them remarkable was the tone that accompanied them. It
was wholly new. My brother’s voice and Pleyel’s were musical and
energetic. I had fondly imagined that, in this respect, they were
surpassed by none. Now my mistake was detected. I cannot pretend
to communicate the impression that was made upon me by these
accents, or to depict the degree in which force and sweetness were
blended in them. They were articulated with a distinctness that
was unexampled in my experience. But this was not all. The voice
was not only mellifluent and clear, but the emphasis was so just,
and the modulation so impassioned, that it seemed as if a heart of
stone could not fail of being moved by it. It imparted to me an
emotion altogether involuntary and uncontrollable. When he uttered
the words, “for charity’s sweet sake,” I dropped the cloth that I
held in my hand; my heart overflowed with sympathy and my eyes with
unbidden tears.
This description will appear to you trifling or incredible. The
importance of these circumstances will be manifested in the sequel.
The manner in which I was affected on this occasion was, to my own
apprehension, a subject of astonishment. The tones were indeed
such as I never heard before; but that they should in an instant,
as it were, dissolve me in tears, will not easily be believed by
others, and can scarcely be comprehended by myself.
It will be readily supposed that I was somewhat inquisitive as to
the person and demeanor of our visitant. After a moment’s pause, I
stepped to the door and looked after him. Judge my surprise when I
beheld the selfsame figure that had appeared a half-hour before
upon the bank. My fancy had conjured up a very different image. A
form and attitude and garb were instantly created worthy to
accompany such elocution; but this person was, in all visible
respects, the reverse of this phantom. Strange as it may seem, I
could not speedily reconcile myself to this disappointment.
Instead of returning to my employment, I threw myself in a chair
that was placed opposite the door, and sunk into a fit of musing.
My attention was in a few minutes recalled by the stranger, who
returned with the empty cup in his hand. I had not thought of the
circumstance, or should certainly have chosen a different seat. He
no sooner showed himself, than a confused sense of impropriety,
added to the suddenness of the interview, for which, not having
foreseen it, I had made no preparation, threw me into a state of
the most painful embarrassment. He brought with him a placid brow;
but no sooner had he cast his eyes upon me than his face was as
glowingly suffused as my own. He placed the cup upon the bench,
stammered out thanks, and retired.
It was some time before I could recover my wonted composure. I had
snatched a view of the stranger’s countenance. The impression that
it made was vivid and indelible. His cheeks were pallid and lank,
his eyes sunken, his forehead overshadowed by coarse straggling
hairs, his teeth large and irregular, though sound and brilliantly
white, and his chin discolored by a tetter. His skin was of coarse
grain and sallow hue. Every feature was wide of beauty, and the
outline of his face reminded you of an inverted cone.
And yet his forehead, so far as shaggy locks would allow it to be
seen, his eyes lustrously black, and possessing, in the midst of
haggardness, a radiance inexpressibly serene and potent, and
something in the rest of his features which it would be in vain to
describe, but which served to betoken a mind of the highest order,
were essential ingredients in the portrait. This, in the effects
which immediately flowed from it, I count among the most
extraordinary incidents of my life. This face, seen for a moment,
continued for hours to occupy my fancy, to the exclusion of almost
every other image. I had proposed to spend the evening with my
brother; but I could not resist the inclination of forming a sketch
upon paper of this memorable visage. Whether my hand was aided by
any peculiar inspiration, or I was deceived by my own fond
conceptions, this portrait, though hastily executed, appeared
unexceptionable to my own taste.
I placed it at all distances and in all lights; my eyes were
riveted upon it. Half the night passed away in wakefulness and in
contemplation of this picture. So flexible, and yet so stubborn,
is the human mind! So obedient to impulses the most transient and
brief, and yet so unalterably observant of the direction which is
given to it! How little did I then foresee the termination of that
chain of which this may be regarded as the first link!
Next day arose in darkness and storm. Torrents of rain fell during
the whole day, attended with incessant thunder, which reverberated
in stunning echoes from the opposite declivity. The inclemency of
the air would not allow me to walk out. I had, indeed, no
inclination to leave my apartment. I betook myself to the
contemplation of this portrait, whose attractions time had rather
enhanced than diminished. I laid aside my usual occupations, and,
seating myself at a window, consumed the day in alternately looking
out upon the storm and gazing at the picture which lay upon a table
before me. You will perhaps deem this conduct somewhat singular,
and ascribe it to certain peculiarities of temper. I am not aware
of any such peculiarities. I can account for my devotion to this
image no otherwise than by supposing that its properties were rare
and prodigious. Perhaps you will suspect that such were the first
inroads of a passion incident to every female heart, and which
frequently gains a footing by means even more slight and more
improbable than these. I shall not controvert the reasonableness
of the suspicion, but leave you at liberty to draw from my
narrative what conclusions you please.
Night at length returned, and the storm ceased. The air was once
more clear and calm, and bore an affecting contrast to that uproar
of the elements by which it had been preceded. I spent the
darksome hours, as I spent the day, contemplative and seated at the
window. Why was my mind absorbed in thoughts ominous and dreary?
Why did my bosom heave with sighs and my eyes overflow with tears?
Was the tempest that had just passed a signal of the ruin which
impended over me? My soul fondly dwelt upon the images of my
brother and his children; yet they only increased the mournfulness
of my contemplations. The smiles of the charming babes were as
bland as formerly. The same dignity sat on the brow of their
father, and yet I thought of them with anguish. Something
whispered that the happiness we at present enjoyed was set on
mutable foundations. Death must happen to all. Whether our
felicity was to be subverted by it to-morrow, or whether it was
ordained that we should lay down our heads full of years and of
honor, was a question that no human being could solve. At other
times these ideas seldom intruded. I either forbore to reflect
upon the destiny that is reserved for all men, or the reflection
was mixed up with images that disrobed it of terror; but now the
uncertainty of life occurred to me without any of its usual and
alleviating accompaniments. I said to myself, We must die. Sooner
or later, we must disappear forever from the face of the earth.
Whatever be the links that hold us to life, they must be broken.
This scene of existence is, in all its parts, calamitous. The
greater number is oppressed with immediate evils, and those the
tide of whose fortunes is full, how small is their portion of
enjoyment, since they know that it will terminate!
For some time I indulged myself, without reluctance, in these
gloomy thoughts; but at length the delection which they produced
became insupportably painful. I endeavored to dissipate it with
music. I had all my grandfather’s melody as well as poetry by
rote. I now lighted by chance on a ballad which commemorated the
fate of a German cavalier who fell at the siege of Nice under
Godfrey of Bouillon. My choice was unfortunate; for the scenes of
violence and carnage which were here wildly but forcibly portrayed
only suggested to my thoughts a new topic in the horrors of war.
I sought refuge, but ineffectually, in sleep. My mind was thronged
by vivid but confused images, and no effort that I made was
sufficient to drive them away. In this situation I heard the
clock, which hung in the room, give the signal for twelve. It was
the same instrument which formerly hung in my father’s chamber, and
which, on account of its being his workmanship, was regarded by
everyone of our family with veneration. It had fallen to me in the
division of his property, and was placed in this asylum. The sound
awakened a series of reflections respecting his death. I was not
allowed to pursue them; for scarcely had the vibrations ceased,
when my attention was attracted by a whisper, which, at first,
appeared to proceed from lips that were laid close to my ear.
No wonder that a circumstance like this startled me. In the first
impulse of my terror, I uttered a slight scream and shrunk to the
opposite side of the bed. In a moment, however, I recovered from
my trepidation. I was habitually indifferent to all the causes of
fear by which the majority are afflicted. I entertained no
apprehension of either ghosts or robbers. Our security had never
been molested by either, and I made use of no means to prevent or
counterwork their machinations. My tranquillity on this occasion
was quickly retrieved. The whisper evidently proceeded from one
who was posted at my bedside. The first idea that suggested itself
was that it was uttered by the girl who lived with me as a servant.
Perhaps somewhat had alarmed her, or she was sick, and had come to
request my assistance. By whispering in my ear she intended to
rouse without alarming me.
Full of this persuasion, I called, “Judith, is it you? What do you
want? Is there anything the matter with you?” No answer was
returned. I repeated my inquiry, but equally in vain. Cloudy as
was the atmosphere, and curtained as my bed was, nothing was
visible. I withdrew the curtain, and, leaning my head on my elbow,
I listened with the deepest attention to catch some new sound.
Meanwhile, I ran over in my thoughts every circumstance that could
assist my conjectures.
My habitation was a wooden edifice, consisting of two stories. In
each story were two rooms, separated by an entry, or middle
passage, with which they communicated by opposite doors. The
passage on the lower story had doors at the two ends, and a
staircase. Windows answered to the doors on the upper story.
Annexed to this, on the eastern side, were wings, divided in like
manner into an upper and lower room; one of them comprised a
kitchen, and chamber above it for the servant, and communicated on
both stories with the parlor adjoining it below and the chamber
adjoining it above. The opposite wing is of smaller dimensions,
the rooms not being above eight feet square. The lower of these
was used as a depository of household implements; the upper was a
closet in which I deposited my books and papers. They had but one
inlet, which was from the room adjoining. There was no window in
the lower one, and in the upper a small aperture which communicated
light and air, but would scarcely admit the body. The door which
led into this was close to my bed head, and was always locked but
when I myself was within. The avenues below were accustomed to be
closed and bolted at nights.
The maid was my only companion; and she could not reach my chamber
without previously passing through the opposite chamber and the
middle passage, of which, however, the doors were usually
unfastened. If she had occasioned this noise, she would have
answered my repeated calls. No other conclusion, therefore, was
left me, but that I had mistaken the sounds, and that my
imagination had transformed some casual noise into the voice of a
human creature. Satisfied with this solution, I was preparing to
relinquish my listening attitude, when my ear was again saluted
with a new and yet louder whispering. It appeared, as before, to
issue from lips that touched my pillow. A second effort of
attention, however, clearly showed me that the sounds issued from
within the closet, the door of which was not more than eight inches
from my pillow.
This second interruption occasioned a shock less vehement than the
former. I started, but gave no audible token of alarm. I was so
much mistress of my feelings as to continue listening to what
should be said. The whisper was distinct, hoarse, and uttered so
as to show that the speaker was desirous of being heard by some one
near, but, at the same time, studious to avoid being overheard by
any other:—
“Stop! stop, I say, madman as you are! there are better means than
that. Curse upon your rashness! There is no need to shoot.”
Such were the words uttered, in a tone of eagerness and anger,
within so small a distance of my pillow. What construction could I
put upon them? My heart began to palpitate with dread of some
unknown danger. Presently, another voice, but equally near me, was
heard whispering in answer, “Why not? I will draw a trigger in
this business; but perdition be my lot if I do more!” To this the
first voice returned, in a tone which rage had heightened in a
small degree above a whisper, “Coward! stand aside, and see me do
it. I will grasp her throat; I will do her business in an instant;
she shall not have time so much as to groan.” What wonder that I
was petrified by sounds so dreadful! Murderers lurked in my
closet. They were planning the means of my destruction. One
resolved to shoot, and the other menaced suffocation. Their means
being chosen, they would forthwith break the door. Flight
instantly suggested itself as most eligible in circumstances so
perilous. I deliberated not a moment; but, fear adding wings to my
speed, I leaped out of bed, and, scantily robed as I was, rushed
out of the chamber, downstairs, and into the open air. I can
hardly recollect the process of turning keys and withdrawing bolts.
My terrors urged me forward with almost a mechanical impulse. I
stopped not till I reached my brother’s door. I had not gained the
threshold, when, exhausted by the violence of my emotions and by my
speed, I sunk down in a fit.
How long I remained in this situation I know not. When I
recovered, I found myself stretched on a bed, surrounded by my
sister and her female servants. I was astonished at the scene
before me, but gradually recovered the recollection of what had
happened. I answered their importunate inquiries as well as I was
able. My brother and Pleyel, whom the storm of the preceding day
chanced to detain here, informing themselves of every particular,
proceeded with lights and weapons to my deserted habitation. They
entered my chamber and my closet, and found everything in its
proper place and customary order. The door of the closet was
locked, and appeared not to have been opened in my absence. They
went to Judith’s apartment. They found her asleep and in safety.
Pleyel’s caution induced him to forbear alarming the girl; and,
finding her wholly ignorant of what had passed, they directed her
to return to her chamber. They then fastened the doors and
returned.
My friends were disposed to regard this transaction as a dream.
That persons should be actually immured in this closet, to which,
in the circumstances of the time, access from without or within was
apparently impossible, they could not seriously believe. That any
human beings had intended murder, unless it were to cover a scheme
of pillage, was incredible; but that no such design had been formed
was evident from the security in which the furniture of the house
and the closet remained.
I revolved every incident and expression that had occurred. My
senses assured me of the truth of them; and yet their abruptness
and improbability made me, in my turn, somewhat incredulous. The
adventure had made a deep impression on my fancy; and it was not
till after a week’s abode at my brother’s that I resolved to resume
the possession of my own dwelling.
There was another circumstance that enhanced the mysteriousness of
this event. After my recovery, it was obvious to inquire by what
means the attention of the family had been drawn to my situation.
I had fallen before I had reached the threshold or was able to give
any signal. My brother related that, while this was transacting in
my chamber, he himself was awake, in consequence of some slight
indisposition, and lay, according to his custom, musing on some
favorite topic. Suddenly the silence, which was remarkably
profound, was broken by a voice of most piercing shrillness, that
seemed to be uttered by one in the hall below his chamber. “Awake!
arise!” it exclaimed; “hasten to succor one that is dying at your
door!”
This summons was effectual. There was no one in the house who was
not roused by it. Pleyel was the first to obey, and my brother
overtook him before he reached the hall. What was the general
astonishment when your friend was discovered stretched upon the
grass before the door, pale, ghastly, and with every mark of death!
But how was I to regard this midnight conversation? Hoarse and
manlike voices conferring on the means of death, so near my bed,
and at such an hour! How had my ancient security vanished! That
dwelling which had hitherto been an inviolate asylum was now beset
with danger to my life. That solitude formerly so dear to me could
no longer be endured. Pleyel, who had consented to reside with us
during the months of spring, lodged in the vacant chamber, in order
to quiet my alarms. He treated my fears with ridicule, and in a
short time very slight traces of them remained; but, as it was
wholly indifferent to him whether his nights were passed at my
house or at my brother’s, this arrangement gave general
satisfaction.