intended; that is, when it was too late to be of any use. First to
invent schemes of treachery, and then when they fail, to assume the part
of a warning friend against those very schemes, was certainly one of the
most dexterous artifices, that ever was produced by female ingenuity!
Unfortunately, there are some people, who are not deceived even by
artifices so dexterous. The Count of Torrenburg has been rescued from
the Banditti, not by the fair Ida’s warning _after_ the event had taken
place, but by the courage and affection of an angel, whose name was once
Elizabeth of March; whose name would have been Elizabeth of Montfort,
had it not been for the fair Ida’s coquetry; and whose name is now
Elizabeth of Torrenburg, in spite of all the pains, which the fair Ida
gave herself to prevent her ever bearing that illustrious title. Yes!
Elizabeth is Countess of Torrenburg: I protest, I cannot but pity the
poor damsel Ida for so severe a disappointment, as this union must give
to her views upon Count Frederick’s inheritance. Besides the loss of her
benefactor’s good opinion, she has also to regret that of her lover the
robber Randolf, who inhabits one of the Count’s dungeons; so that all
her hopes in that quarter are completely annihilated. It seems too, that
she has not even contrived to secure the light and worthless heart of
Henry of Montfort, who (probably grown already weary of her) has
returned to his uncle’s residence; as report says, a sincere penitent
for having suffered himself to lose such a treasure as the hand and
heart of Elizabeth through the artifices of a perfidious coquette.
Probably by this time the fair Ida has found out, that this maxim
contains more truth than she supposed; viz. “that crooked paths lead to
precipices.”
Randolf, the fair Ida’s lover, is a prisoner; Henry of Montfort, the
fair Ida’s dupe, has recovered his senses; Gero and Hilarius, the fair
Ida’s friends, are both dead; and Count Frederick, the fair Ida’s
intended victim, is aware, that Hilarius is not the only snake, whom he
has warmed in his bosom.
Count Frederick of Torrenburg sends the fair Ida his best wishes for her
speedy repentance, and ventures to suggest, that a convent will be in
future her fittest residence.—He begs however, that this may only be
considered as his _advice_; since looking upon her no longer as his
relation, he has no longer any right to give her a command. At all
events, he begs, that whether she takes that advice or not, she will not
think it necessary to inform him of her proceedings, since he has now
but one wish on earth respecting her; to hear of her no more!
* * * * *
Ida’s tears streamed plentifully, while she read these cutting lines.
She gave the letter in silence to Constantia, who felt the unmerited
reproaches no less acutely than her sister. A long pause ensued, which
at length was broken by Constantia.
—“There is no mention made of _me_!” said she,—“no more, than if I were
no longer in existence!—Well! well! it is better to be quite forgotten,
than to be so remembered!”—
—“How could they guess,” exclaimed Ida, “that _I_ was the writer of that
letter?—a letter, which He, who sees the heart, can witness for me, I
wrote out of pure good will to my unkind uncle.”—
—“And how strange,” rejoined Constantia, “that they should misunderstand
your character so completely, as to believe you capable of such perfidy!
And how cruel of them to insult your misfortunes by such an unfeeling
taunting letter!”—
With such inquiries did they torture themselves during a whole tedious
day; and they endeavoured in vain to discover, what part of Ida’s
conduct could have authorised a man, who had once shown her so much
benevolence, to view her on a sudden in a light so perfectly odious. It
appeared too from this letter, that Count Frederick’s ill opinion of her
was also the opinion of the world; and what had she done to deserve this
universal ill opinion?—The Sisters were not aware, that a prejudice once
conceived gains strength with every minute, and presses into its
services the most insignificant occurrences: till the supposed offence
from a molehill is swelled into a mountain, and shade added to shade
gradually makes the detested object appear in colours sufficiently
black, to _justify_ its being made the object of detestation.
No mention had been made of Constantia in Count Oswald’s letter, because
on the one hand her gentle inoffensive manners had prevented her having
any enemies; and on the other hand, her supposed participation in her
sister’s plans prevented the parties concerned from being her
friends.—It appeared, that after quitting the Castle of March on the
memorable day of Elizabeth’s intended wedding she had not thought proper
to return to her convent. She had been way-laid by those robbers, who
(as it was now believed) were at that very time in confederacy with her
sister. No one doubted, that the free-booters had acted under Ida’s
directions, and with Constantia’s concurrence; that the latter was
totally under the influence of the former; and that if the one sister
was not quite so deserving of censure as the other, she was at least
equally unworthy of protection. It was concluded, that she was at that
moment Ida’s companion; and it was agreed by all, that the most proper
mode of treating her, was not to bestow on her even the slightest
notice.
When the bitterness of the first shock was over, the Sisters found, that
they had no reason to consider their situation as at all altered for the
worse by the perusal of this insulting letter. It had not been in their
contemplation to effect a reconciliation with the Count of Torrenburg;
after so much as they had suffered, they no longer indulged a wish for
any thing except retirement and repose. Ida’s resentment against her
lover, for having offered his hand to Elizabeth, was not yet appeased:
and after the injurious suspicions, to which her conduct at the Castle
of March had (as she learned from Count Oswald’s letter) given rise, she
thought it highly incumbent on her to make no inquiries respecting him.
She accordingly resolved to verify the remainder of her sister’s
fortunate vision, and re-assume the name of Rosanna Tell.—Constantia for
a while refused to follow her example, and declared her determination of
hiding herself for ever from the world in the Convent of Engelberg: but
Ida besought her, with so much earnestness and with so many tears, “not
to deprive her of the society of the only person, who still loved her,
and whom she still dared to love,” that Constantia was compelled however
reluctantly to give way.
A ring of some value, which Ida wore on the day, which made her a
captive, and of which Randolf’s respect had prevented his depriving her,
purchased a small hut and garden, in which the Countesses of Werdenberg
were but too happy to obtain a shelter. Here then they remained in
tranquil obscurity, unknowing and unknown: till the decease of the Count
of Torrenburg and its consequences compelled them once more to take a
part in the world, and again become acquainted with its splendours, and
its cares.
By the will of Count Frederick, the whole of his domains descended to
his wife; the Damsels of Werdenberg were disinherited, nor was this
sufficient. A clause of the most disgraceful import declared the Count’s
reasons for renouncing them, and thus held them up to the world as
proper marks for the finger of contempt. It seems, that there still
existed a younger branch of the House of Werdenberg, but with whose
members the Sisters had never held any intercourse. The ignominious
clause in Count Frederick’s will greatly offended the pride of these
high-born noblemen. That any persons belonging to their family should
deserve to be mentioned upon record in such opprobrious terms, appeared
to them the most intolerable of all offences; and they vowed never to
rest, till they had compelled the delinquents to renounce their title to
a name, which (till they assumed it) had never been stained with
disgrace.—They agitated this business with so much effect, that at
length an act was obtained from the Emperor, enjoining two Damsels
calling themselves by the names of Ida and Constantia, Countesses of
Werdenberg, to lay aside those titles, as having forfeited them by their
disgraceful conduct, even supposing that they really possest by birth a
right to bear them; a fact, of which, the act professed to doubt the
veracity.—It also forbade the reception of the said Damsels into any
religious community, except such as were specified by name, and which
were those only, whose institution (as was universally known) permitted
the acceptance of persons of dissolute characters for the laudable
purpose of reformation.
The Lords of Werdenberg were so diligent in making this act public, that
it even reached the obscure valley, in which the Sisters had sheltered
themselves under borrowed names. Little as they valued the pride of
birth, and the empty boast of high-sounding title, the disgrace thrown
upon them by this so public act was too insulting to be endured even by
their humility. It was absolutely necessary, that some steps should be
taken to vindicate themselves from such undeserved aspersions.
Accordingly without loss of time they addrest letters to the Abbess of
Zurich and to their guardians, Abbot Conrad, and the good Bishop of
Coira. They disclosed the place of their concealment, asserted the gross
injustice of the Emperor’s act, and avowed their willingness to lay
every particular respecting themselves or their conduct before either of
their guardians, or the respected Abbess.
Till this period they had neglected to apply to these firm friends;
because they felt a total indifference to the station, which they had
lost; considered the pleasures of the great world as withdrawn from them
for ever; and only wished to pass the remainder of their lives in
tranquillity and oblivion. Their letters communicated the greatest joy
to those, to whom they were addrest; and Abbot Conrad lost not a moment
in hastening to comfort the poor afflicted ones, and to assure them of
his unabated regard and anxiety for their welfare.
It was no difficult task for the Sisters to convince this partial friend
of their innocence. He insisted upon the necessity of their returning to
the world, and Constantia consented to quit her solitude: but Ida was
resolute never again to resume her proper station, till her honour and
reputation were re-established in their full purity and with
undiminished lustre.
And how is this to be effected? Oh! Elizabeth, it is you alone, who can
answer that question. You have seen, how these unjustly persecuted Girls
have been deprived of every thing, of their inheritance, of their fair
fame, of the very name, to which their birth entitled them: you have
seen their innocence and your own error. Your generosity, your love of
justice will tell you, what you ought to do: to those noble sentiments,
to your own noble self, I dare trust my cause without a single terror.—
Henry of Montfort’s illness had been long and dangerous. He was scarcely
recovered, when two successive attacks of apoplexy convinced his uncle
of a truth, which he had long been unwilling to confess to himself. He
could no longer deny, that it would be more suitable at his time of life
to turn his thoughts towards the grave, than the bridal bed; but still
though he was himself no longer the hero of them, his marrying-plans
preserved their long-established dominion over his fancy. Henry was his
undoubted heir; his attention to Count Egbert during his illness had
made a deep and very favourable impression upon the old man’s mind; he
suddenly became a favourite, to secure whose happiness in life was now
Count Egbert’s chief and almost only object; and in the old man’s
opinion, happiness in life was to be obtained by no other possible
means, than by marriage. Henry was nearly of the same opinion with him.
Unluckily, the only point, on which they differed, was the only material
point in the whole affair. Both agreed, that a marriage ought to take
place; but each proposed a different person, and neither would give up
the object of his choice. Henry insisted upon his engagement to Ida, and
declared, that while she existed, honour as well as love forbade his
offering his hand to another: while Count Egbert protested with equal
vehemence, that he never would consent to the union of his heir with a
girl, whom the last will of her nearest relation had deprived of her
inheritance and devoted to disgrace. The bride of his selection
presented herself in a far more flattering light; ’twas Elizabeth, the
young and admired heiress of Torrenburg, whose hand would confer wealth
and power on her husband, and whose heart had formerly been warmly
disposed in Henry’s favour. As he listened to this eulogium upon
Elizabeth, an involuntary sigh escaped from the nephew’s bosom. Ah! he
felt but too sensibly the whole value of Elizabeth, and was fully
conscious, how dear she would have been to him, had not Ida possest
prior and more forcible claims on his affections. Now all thoughts of
Elizabeth were quite unavailing: his heart by right was another’s, and
was no longer worthy of Elizabeth’s acceptance. This he declared to his
uncle, and exprest his resolution of keeping his engagements to Ida in
terms so strong, that the old Count lost his patience completely. In the
heat of passion, he ordered Henry to quit the Castle that instant, nor
ever presume to come again into his presence.
He was obeyed; but the command was scarcely given, before it was
repented of. He reflected, that this very banishment would leave his
nephew at liberty to contract the union, which it was so much his wish
to prevent. The old man was little acquainted with Ida’s character and
turn of mind: he knew not, that delicate as were her notions on the
subject of honour, the warmest entreaties of her beloved Henry would by
no means be sufficient to persuade her to become Countess of Montfort.
Count Egbert’s guards followed Henry, overtook him, and brought him back
to his paternal Castle, where he was ordered into close confinement. How
little did the writer of these lines ever imagine, that he should live
to see menaces and chains employed, in order to compel a youth to give
his hand to Elizabeth of March!
Henry exclaimed loudly against such injustice! He demanded, that the
opinion of his proposed bride should be taken in this affair. He
declared himself convinced, that he could not possibly appeal to a more
just tribunal, and that after what had past, a proposal of marriage
would be rejected with no less firmness by Elizabeth, than by himself.
The old Count denied this last assertion most positively. He maintained
(and not without some show of plausibility) that in spite of his past
offences Elizabeth was still weak enough to cherish a secret attachment
to the man, by whom she had been so unworthily forsaken: nay, he even
went so far as to profess his firm belief, that the severity, with which
she had treated the Damsels of Werdenberg, had its origin in this
attachment; and that nothing but female spite and jealousy against a
successful rival, made her so obstinately shut her eyes and ears against
the justice of those claims, which in the opinion of many persons
(thoroughly capable to decide upon such matters) were held to be most
just, and founded on an unquestionable basis.
Such indeed was now the general opinion. Time, and the exertions of
their guardians had cleared up many suspicious circumstances respecting
the Sisters; and the popular cry was fast turning to the side of Count
Frederick’s lineal heirs. Their uncle’s testament underwent much
censure, and created a kind of prejudice and ill will against Her, who
had benefited by it so largely. Elizabeth herself was in some measure
the cause of this loss of public estimation, which in truth every day
diminished. She had accustomed the world for so long to see her act with
uniform generosity, and to consider her as a person totally exempt from
the ordinary imperfections of her sex, that as soon as her husband’s
will was made public, every one prepared themselves for some decided act
of heroic self-denial in favour of the disinherited Sisters; and which
perhaps they would not have expected from any other than Elizabeth,
because they would not have believed any other capable of such an act.
However, it is certain, that from Her they _did_ expect it; it is also
certain, that their expectations were disappointed; and unwilling to
allow, that they had themselves required too much, they were extremely
displeased with Her, whom they accused of not having done enough.
Besides this, Elizabeth evidently fell into a great error, in dealing
with her inherited possessions, as if they had been her own purchased
and personal property. Formed by nature to be no less rash than
generous, she gave away whole districts, castles, and towns with as
little concern, as if they had been of no more value than the roses,
which encircled her head or bloomed upon her bosom.
This inconsiderate liberality produced the greatest discontent among
those subjects, whom she bestowed away with so little ceremony. She is
already informed of the uproar and confusion, which ensued; but she is
by no means aware of the extreme danger, in which she was at one time
involved. The discontented vassals denied her right to make them over to
another, and declared themselves to be lawfully the vassals of the young
Countesses of Werdenberg: they entered into a secret correspondence with
the neighbouring Switzers: they dispatched messengers to the valley,
where the Sisters had taken refuge, and assured them of their firm
resolution to support their rights. Constantia was already departed;
they found Ida alone in her humble cottage, and made the purport of
their coming known to her. Tears of joy trickled down her cheeks as she
listened, and her first words were prayers of gratitude to Heaven.
—“My worthy friends,” said she at length, “your words have given me the
only comfort, which I now could look for on this side the grave! The
Ida, whom a whole good and honest people demands for their sovereign,
can never be that traitress, that unprincipled wanton, that ungrateful
snake, which I have been termed so publicly and so unjustly. Your
application has given me back my honour, has reconciled me with myself:
this is all I could wish for; now leave me, my friends, and bear with
you my warmest thanks. Be faithful to your liege-lady; Heaven and my
uncle’s will have destined her for your protectress, and you will find
her a noble one. I know well her merits, and admire them; I envy her not
her good fortune; but be assured, that even did my happiness depend on
my establishing those rights, which you state me to possess, the Ida
whom your deputation has thus signally honoured, at least deserves that
honour too well, to seek any benefit however great by clandestine, and
therefore by unworthy means.”—
The deputies listened to her with astonishment; they requested her to
reflect coolly upon their proposals, and left her with a promise to
return.
And they _did_ return, furnished with new and much more forcible
arguments;—and yet those arguments were employed in vain. They had
discovered Ida’s former affection for Henry: they applied to Count
Egbert, and laid their plans before him. As they appeared to reconcile
all differences between his nephew and himself, he readily promised his
assistance: and the deputies now delivered a letter to Ida, in which
Count Egbert assured her of Henry’s unabated attachment: he magnified
the fortitude, with which his nephew had resisted all attempts to shake
his fidelity; and he conjured her to accept the title of Countess of
Montfort, since without the possession of her hand there was no
happiness in life for Henry.
The poor Ida wept, as she read this letter: every line seemed an arrow
in her very heart. She was conscious, that in her present humble state
she could never become her lover’s bride, and that the old Count’s
consent was entirely grounded on the prospect of her succeeding to Count
Frederick’s inheritance.—Yet she still shuddered at the thoughts of
obtaining the accomplishment of her fondest wishes by means, which she
felt to be unworthy of her; she still positively rejected the proposals
of the embassy, and declared herself convinced, that Henry of Montfort
was as little disposed as herself to assist any plan, whose object was
to injure Elizabeth. The deputies still prest her to comply; they would
take no refusal; and at length to free herself from their importunity
she left the valley privately, and took refuge within a Convent, the
name of which she concealed from every one except her sister and the
Abbot of Cloister-Curwald.
Elizabeth’s knowledge of these transactions was confined to their mere
outward appearance. She knew, that she was calumniated by secret
enemies, and justified by unknown friends; but little did she suspect,
that these favourable judges of her conduct were those very persons,
against whom she had nourished in her heart the most inveterate
prejudice. Its true, that she was not without real friends, willing even
to risk her displeasure, rather than suffer her to labour under such
gross errors: the Abbot of Curwald often endeavoured to lay the history
of the unfortunate Sisters before her eyes, but in vain: No one
understood better than Elizabeth the secret of imposing silence on
those, whom she suspected of an intention to say that, which it was by
any means disagreeable to her to hear.
She suddenly thought fit to take up her abode in the Convent of Zurich,
and there indulge her grief for the loss of Count Frederick without
restraint. This was a step, which her differences with her discontented
vassals rendered both agreeable to herself, and proper in the eye of the
world: into the bargain, it possest the further advantage (though she
thought it as well to confine this motive for her seclusion to her own
bosom) of freeing her from the wearisome remonstrances of the Abbot, and
from the truths, which he was so obstinately bent upon placing before
her eyes. It’s true, she was still exposed to receiving letters from
him; but those it was in her power not to answer; or indeed not even to
read, if the first lines gave her reason to believe, that the remainder
would afford her but little satisfaction.
But Elizabeth was too good, too noble, to be entirely deserted by truth
and virtue, however sedulously she strove to shun them. They pursued her
to the Convent, and their imploring voices often spoke to her in the
stillness of her solitary cell. I know from good authority, that many a
seed of good has fallen upon her heart, which she has vainly endeavoured
to choak in brambles: and should I succeed in my attempt to seduce her
unconsciously into perusing the history of the Damsels of Werdenberg,
under the title of “The Sisters without a Name,” (a title, which
describes them but too well, since injustice and error have robbed them
of their proper one) I shall look upon the victory as already won.
And yet by such a victory, what will be gained? How is it in Elizabeth’s
power to benefit these persecuted girls? Constantia, who (unknown to her
former friend) now inhabits the same Convent with her, demands nothing
in this world except permission to take the veil: Ida is contented with
her humble habitation near the Lake of Thun; and far from requiring from
Elizabeth anything more than mutual forgiveness, she is willing to
compensate for the involuntary mortification, which she caused to her on
her bridal day, by the sacrifice of every thing; even of that, which she
holds dearest! Yes, Elizabeth; she is willing to sacrifice even the hand
and affections of her Henry!
The proposal made by the deputies of Elizabeth’s rebellious vassals was
laid before Henry by his uncle. The plan, whose object was the ruin of
the unsuspecting Countess of Torrenburg, was so well laid, and the
preparations were in such forwardness, that it seemed almost impossible
for the design to fail. Henry gave a feigned compliance to the old
Count’s proposals, and was rewarded with his liberty. The first use,
which he made of it, was to hasten to Richard of Ulmenhorst, to whom
Elizabeth had entrusted the government of her domains during her
seclusion in the Convent. To him did young Montfort discover the
conspiracy against the Heiress of Torrenburg, and they agreed upon
measures for defeating it. The noble Richard had loved Elizabeth in the
earliest spring of his life, and had no reason to despair, till the
blooming Henry appeared and won the prize, almost before he himself
desired it. Richard now first knew the real character of his so
long-hated rival: and to know it, and admire it, were but the same. The
conspiracy was defeated; the new friends separated; and Henry hastened
to the Lake of Thun.
—“Ida!” he exclaimed, “I am thine, and for ever! I have broken through
every obstacle, which divided us; I have severed every chain, which
detained me from your arms. I renounce the name of Montfort, which has
inflicted upon me nothing but misfortune: never shall the man, who so
unjustly lords it over my possessions, hear of his persecuted nephew
more. You, Ida, must renounce the title of Werdenberg, which has been
the cause to you of so much sorrow, and resume that beloved name, which
you bore, when we first met. This cottage, this garden, and this little
flock are enough to content all the wishes of two loving hearts; and
Erwin Melthal and Rosanna Tell will pass together such days, as even,
the happiest might look upon with envy.”—