renounced wealth and splendour for herself without a pang; but ought she
to renounce them for Henry? Ought she to suffer him to quit for her a
station, on which he was calculated to confer such lustre? Such were her
doubts; yet undoubtedly love would at length have triumphed, had not a
report reached her, that Elizabeth’s situation was become more difficult
than ever. Her vassals had given up in despair all hopes of persuading
the Sisters to contest the Count of Torrenburg’s will. They found, that
Elizabeth was destined to remain their sovereign: yet they protested
(with such violence as gave reason to apprehend the most dangerous
consequences from a refusal) that on one condition only would they
return peaceably to their obedience. That condition was, that if
Elizabeth was to be still their liege-lady, Henry of Montfort should
become their liege-lord: and they swore, that she never should enter the
Castle of Torrenburg except as Henry’s wife, unless she chose to see her
way strewn with bleeding corses.
Letters from Richard of Ulmenhorst confirmed this report; and the
generous Ida’s resolution was taken without a moment’s delay.
—“Go, my beloved!” she exclaimed and embraced him for the last time.
“You were not born to waste your days in the obscurity of these shades.
Power and splendour form the proper sphere for you to move in, and those
it is not in the poor Ida’s power to bestow! Go then, Henry; protect
Elizabeth; content her people; make your wife, make your vassals, make
_yourself_ happy; your praises will reach me even in this secluded
valley.... Then _I_ shall be happy too!”—
Henry obeyed her: to refuse was in truth impossible! With every hour and
from every quarter fresh entreaties arrived, all assuring him, that if
he meant to rescue the Countess of Torrenburg from the fury of her
rebellious subjects, not a moment must be lost.—He determined to
sacrifice every other consideration, to that of Elizabeth’s welfare: he
is arrived at Zurich: he has renounced his claims to Ida’s affections;
Ida has renounced her rights to her uncle’s inheritance; and to-morrow
will see Henry of Montfort kneeling at the feet of Elizabeth, and will
hear him offer her his hand for the second time.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ELIZABETH OF TORRENBURG.
═════════════════════
_PART THE EIGHTH._
═════════════════════
_Elizabeth, Countess of Torrenburg, to Conrad, Abbot of
Cloister-Curwald._
Conrad! Conrad! how was it possible for me to mistake for a moment the
characters of _your_ pen, for those of any other? Of that pen, which
like its master’s persuasive tongue, knows how to blend truth, raillery,
and praise together so artfully, that the heart feels itself
irresistibly subdued, irresistibly compelled to follow, whither-soever
it is your pleasure to conduct it!
I was aware of your power: it was therefore that I fled from your
presence, that I shunned your conversation, that I declined your
correspondence. I knew well, that your eloquence could give a fair
appearance even to the worst cause; and at that time Ida’s cause was
believed by me to be one of the worst, otherwise I would not have fled
from its discussion.
But now how are my sentiments changed! Helen, sainted Helen! now then
the time is arrived for my imitating thy glorious example: Ida is a
second Amalberga: Elizabeth shall be a second Helen!
No: Helen’s curse shall not fall upon _my_ head: I will not hate those,
whom _she_ has blest; I will not rob her beloved ones of their
inheritance. Look down on me, fair saint! Behold; I sacrifice to Ida
that, which is most precious to me, the affection of my heart, the
happiness of my life, the hand of Henry: and can you doubt, whether I
will restore to her that which I prize so little, a few handfuls of
sordid earth?
Conrad, my whole soul is in a storm! I scarcely know, what I say ...
what I write ... what I think ... in the present moment, I can only
feel!—Yet ere I close my letter, learn thus much. Constantia is with me;
yesterday I clasped her to my heart. Alas! for the gentle, innocent,
suffering girl! Never did my bosom harbour against _her_ one spark of
ill-will: her intercourse would have been like balsam to the wounds of
my heart, even while I hated Ida as the inflictor of those wounds. It
was cruel in you, my good Abbot, to let me inhabit the same dwelling
with her for so long, and yet keep me in ignorance, that such a blessing
was so near me.
In truth, you have not dealt well with me throughout; neither yourself,
Conrad, nor your confidante the Abbess of Zurich. The most secret
recesses of my soul were known to you, while I believed them to be
closed against all the world; you knew much, of which I would have
purchased the knowledge with my whole wealth, and which you concealed
from me far too long. I thought, that I acted without being observed:
and you were busied in watching and numbering every step which I took. I
cannot feel quite satisfied with your proceedings towards me; my heart
involuntarily breaks out into reproaches and complaints. Yet neither
complaints nor reproaches can now avail. The die is cast; I cannot avoid
following the path, which is pointed out by duty—_cannot_, did I
say?—No; let me not wrong my feelings: I _would_ not, if I _could_!
Oh! that I could paint to you in colours sufficiently vivid the scenes,
which followed my perusal of your manuscript!—the Abbess is ill.... I
fear ill unto death!—I flew to her sick bed, and with the enthusiasm of
my sensations forced her back from contemplating the fields of
blessedness, to which she is already so near, that she needs but to
close her eyes in order to behold the reflection of their glories! She
smiled at what I said to her, and which must have appeared to her so
trifling, so unworthy of a thought, when compared with those images by
which her mind had just been occupied.—Her words inscribed themselves
upon my heart in characters of flame: you will soon be informed of their
effects.
Constantia was summoned—the Abbess joined our hands; we sank upon each
other’s bosom. No explanation was necessary; no one spoke a word; we
understood _her_ ... we understood ourselves.
—“Now then,” said the invalid in a soft faltering voice, which seemed a
middle tone between a mortal’s and a spirit’s: “now then nothing is
wanting ... but the presence of Ida!”—
—“Of Ida,” I repeated, “and of her Henry!”—
And Henry came; came the next morning, as you had assured me that he
would, and for that purpose which you mentioned. He has vindicated my
cause like an hero, and has fully established my authority and my
rights: he has knelt at my feet; he has offered me his hand. He has
named love as the reward of his services, and has obtained the boon: how
could I refuse the reward of love to the most pure, the most tender, the
most unfortunate of lovers?
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Constantia, Countess of Werdenberg, to Abbot Conrad._
Elizabeth’s letter must already have apprized you, my kind protector, of
the favourable change, which has taken place in the situation of your
wards. Count Henry has been here, and is again departed. He came by
Ida’s command to offer his hand to Elizabeth: he is returned at
Elizabeth’s desire to salute her rival as joint-heiress with myself of
the rich domains of Torrenburg.
—“I do no more than my duty,” said Elizabeth, when Henry endeavoured to
express his gratitude. “Your heart belongs to Ida, and never _ought_ to
be another’s, therefore never _can_ be mine. As to Count Frederick’s
inheritance, demand of this venerable man, whose claim to it is the most
just; that of Elizabeth, or of the Damsels of Werdenberg.”—
As she spoke, the door opened, and a silver-haired stranger entered the
apartment. It was the Sage of Zurich, the well-known Albert Reding, to
whom Elizabeth had referred her disputed claims, previous to your
unveiling the truth of our history, and removing her prejudices against
us. Yes, Conrad, yes! even had she still continued to abhor us, so sure
as I have life, Elizabeth would still have acted by us with justice!
The venerable Albert confirmed Elizabeth’s declaration; he even
consented to accompany the enraptured Montfort to Ida’s valley, and make
known to her this sudden change in her situation. They would fain have
persuaded me to join their party: but I could not endure the thoughts of
quitting my generous friend, at a moment, when she so greatly needs
support after this difficult self-victory, and under the deep affliction
which she feels at the approaching dissolution of our worthy
Abbess.—Farewell, dear father, and believe, that the memory of your
kindness shall live in my heart for ever!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Abbot Conrad to Sigisbert, Bishop of Coira._
Count Henry of Montfort and his bride are established in the Castle of
Torrenburg. Their arrival threw the populace into an ecstasy of joy, and
all inclination to uproar and revolt seems to be completely annihilated.
Neither is Elizabeth any longer an object of aversion to her former
subjects; you are already informed of the laudable manner, in which she
past the month immediately succeeding the death of the Abbess of Zurich,
and which she entirely dedicated to providing for the future benefit of
those, over whom she was so soon to renounce all jurisdiction, and who
(while under her command) had been so little sensible of the value of
such a mistress.
—“The few minutes,” said she, when she addrest them for the last time;
“the few minutes, during which I can still consider you as my subjects,
shall be employed in convincing you, that you mistook my character; and
that your welfare neither is now, nor ever was, indifferent to the heart
of Elizabeth. I am preparing to resign my authority into the hands of
the Damsels of Werdenberg; but that authority shall be the only one
worth having, authority over a _free people_.”—
What she promised, she has performed most amply. Everything in these
regions breathes freedom and happiness; she has established the
privileges of this people on grounds so firm, that even were the antient
Tyrants of Carlsheim and Sargans to resume their abused authority, they
would be compelled to leave their subjects in possession of their
unviolated freedom.
Henry and Ida would fain have exprest to her their gratitude in person;
but she has declined receiving them for the present, under colour of too
great affliction for the late loss of her friend, the Abbess. How say
you, my Lord Bishop?—I fear, the heart of our Elizabeth is by no means
healed, since she cannot prevail on herself to endure the sight of her
rival’s happiness, even although that happiness is a work of her own
creation.
Well! well!—time I hope, will do much; and (unless I flatter myself with
believing too ardently what I wish) the attentions of Richard of
Ulmenhorst will do more. This excellent young man is full of hope, that
he may yet be able to establish his former claims on the heart of
Elizabeth; Ida and Henry encourage him in his sanguine expectations; and
no efforts of mine, that can advance his wishes, shall be wanting, you
may be sure. However, nothing can be attempted, till St. Helena’s
Festival arrives; on that day Elizabeth has promised to receive all her
friends (Henry and Ida not excepted) and every one looks forward with
the utmost impatience to this appointed day.
Of course Constantia did not fail to be present at the wedding of her
beloved sister. Methinks, her passion for the Cloister is sensibly
diminished since her re-establishment in her legitimate claims. With my
whole heart shall I say—“Amen!”—to her resolution to lay aside the veil:
she is so well calculated to form the blessing of an earthly bridegroom,
that it would be a sin to bury her within the walls of a Convent. She
already numbers many powerful noblemen in the list of her admirers; but
no one hangs upon her smiles with more perfect adoration, than Count
Oswald, Elizabeth’s brother. He has confided his passion to me, and I am
best able to judge the nature of his sentiments. No contracted views of
interest (as many unjustly suppose, and as perhaps Constantia herself
suspects) induce him to kneel at the feet of the rich Heiress of
Sargans: no one can imagine such a motive, who is acquainted with the
real character of the proud but noble Oswald, the lustre of which is
bright and glorious as the light of the sun; though like that luminary
it is now and then obscured by a few dark spots, moveable and
insignificant. No; he seeks the hand of Constantia from no other cause
than the consciousness of her perfections; except that he repents of his
former injustice towards the Sisters, and is anxious to express his
present respect in the most marked and striking manner.
I know not, what hopes he is authorized to nourish. The quiet retired
Constantia gives encouragement to none of her admirers, and observes an
obstinate silence respecting her intentions even to me: however, Count
Oswald possesses a powerful interest in her opinion from his being the
brother of Elizabeth.—I expect that the festival of St. Helena will
decide much.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Conclusion—written by Abbot Conrad._
That the readers of the fore-going manuscripts may not be left with
their curiosity entirely ungratified, I will endeavour to fill up the
chasm, which otherwise would appear in the Memoirs of Elizabeth. Let me
obtain their pardon, if I relate as briefly as possible the
circumstances of a scene, which produced upon my heart an impression
very painful at the time, and never to be obliterated.
St. Helena’s festival arrived. All those, whom Elizabeth had invited,
failed not to attend at the appointed place and hour; among them were
the Heiresses of Torrenburg, Count Henry of Montfort, Count Oswald of
March (Elizabeth’s brother) Richard of Ulmenhorst, the Bishop of Coira,
and myself.
It is the pious and laudable custom of our days (a custom, which I hope
will be preserved even to the latest posterity) that all our most
distinguished festivities should commence by offering an homage of
adoration to the Supreme: it was therefore natural, that immediately on
our arrival we should be conducted to the church belonging to the
Convent of Zurich. Yet we could not help feeling some surprize, that
Elizabeth as our hostess did not welcome us at the church-door, and
place herself at the head of our procession, while it moved through the
cloisters towards the chapel; that being the established custom on such
occasions. However, we had scarcely time to make any reflections, before
we found ourselves within the chapel.
It was most gorgeously adorned, as if set out for some great solemnity.
The walls were decorated with wreaths of flowers; the reliques were
exposed, the pictures were uncovered: the whole wealth of the Convent
was displayed, and blazed on every side; innumerable tapers in
chandeliers of gold, intermingled with silver lamps, dispelled the gloom
of the long aisles; and clouds of incense rolled along the fretted roof,
which echoed back the melodious sounds of lutes and voices, as they
swelled in full chorus from the adjoining choir. At that moment our
knowledge of church-customs naturally made the Bishop and myself
conceive a suspicion of the purpose, for which we had been conducted
thither: perhaps too, the same thought suggested itself to Constantia,
for on a sudden her tears began to flow. The situation of Richard of
Ulmenhorst was most distressing: he ceased not to enquire, why Elizabeth
did not appear; and it was with difficulty, that Montfort, Ida, and
Count Oswald (who preserved their presence of mind better than the rest)
could persuade him to observe that silence, which was necessary in so
holy a place.
Unhappy Richard! for many weeks past had his friends conspired to buoy
him up with hopes, which this single moment was destined to destroy for
ever: for now the curtain, which concealed from us the chapel’s
sanctuary, was withdrawn, and all our worst fears were confirmed.
Elizabeth, adorned with all the pomp and splendour of wealth, and still
more with all the charms, which nature had bestowed upon her superior to
her whole sex, knelt before the altar, and offered up at the footstool
of the Almighty’s throne the greatest sacrifice, which a mortal can ever
make; the sacrifice of youth, love, beauty, liberty, and life!
What impression this unexpected, this unwished for scene made upon the
assembly at large, it is neither in _my_ power to describe, nor (I
believe) in the power of any one of those, who were personally
interested about Elizabeth. Each individual felt so much upon his own
account, that he was rendered incapable of attending to the sensations
produced upon others. It was not till the awful ceremony of pronouncing
the great and total renunciation was on the point of taking place, that
I turned my eyes upon the countenance of the unhappy Richard: it was
pale as that of a corse; and yet with every moment it seemed to grow
still paler, till his eyes closed, and he sank into my arms without
sentiment.
—“My soul,” said Elizabeth in a firm voice, “I bequeath to him, who
gave it! my body I bequeath to the grave; my wealth to the church; the
domains of Torrenburg to its legitimate possessors; the recollection
of Henry of Montfort to his beloved Ida; Richard of Ulmenhorst....
Richard, my friend of youth, and the truest of all lovers.... Richard,
whom I ought never to have quitted for the sake of any Montfort....
Ah! to what consoling Angel shall I consign the noble Richard, that
she may heal the wounds inflicted by my caprice on his honest
suffering heart?—Constantia! friend of my bosom, be thou that Angel!
thou art far more worthy of his love than the inconstant Elizabeth,
who in resigning _him_, resigns every prospect of earthly happiness;
who in sacrificing _him_, offers up to Heaven the greatest sacrifice,
of which her nature is capable.—Be he thine, dear injured Constantia;
accept from me his hand, his heart! my injustice to Ida I have
repaired by the resignation of Henry; but I still owed thee a mighty
sacrifice, to efface the memory of many a bitter hour occasioned by my
obstinacy, my persecution, my self-will.—Now then I have done with the
world for ever!—Beloved-ones! I bless you!—Pray for me, and
farewell!”—
The Bishop (though greatly affected by this whole unexpected scene)
thought it right to wait till the conclusion of the ceremony: But
anxiety for Richard, whose indisposition had occasioned the bye-standers
to remove him into the open air, furnished me with an excuse for leaving
the chapel, which I seized with eagerness. To say the truth, I was far
from satisfied with Elizabeth’s determination. I shall no doubt be
severely censured by my more devout successors; yet I needs must
confess, that in spite of my own vows (which I pronounced with the most
heart-felt joy, and never have felt the slightest wish to retract) yet
still I say, in spite of my own vows, I never have seen without a pang
society deprived of a valuable member, and those talents buried within
the solitude of the Cloister, which might have made its owner a blessing
to the world at large.
When the first shock was past, Richard recovered his resolution, and
endeavoured to conceal the agony of his feelings under the veil of
seriousness and silence. A splendid entertainment was spread before us,
at which none of the holy Sisters appeared; consequently, we were at
liberty to communicate our sentiments on what had just past without
restraint. ’Twas the most melancholy feast, at which I ever assisted; a
feast, which I shall never forget, as long as I possess existence; it
seemed to me Elizabeth’s funeral-feast! we soon rose from the table, on
which the viands remained untouched, and we prepared for our departure;
for we thought it vain to expect admission to the newly-profest Nun, and
indeed in our present temper of mind that admission was scarcely to be
wished—the Bishop, however, delivered it as his opinion, that propriety
required us at least to give Elizabeth the option of seeing us.
Accordingly, a message informed her of our approaching departure; her
answer was, that she must decline all visits, except those of Constantia
and of Richard of Ulmenhorst.
They obeyed her orders. Elizabeth received them with joy and tenderness.
She doubted not the success of her proposal, and addrest Constantia as
the heiress of Richard’s heart: but she was speedily undeceived. Richard
declared, in terms so express as left no doubt of his decision, that
since Elizabeth was lost to the world, no refuge was left for him but
the Cloister; while on the other hand, Constantia confest, that her
heart was no longer in her own power. After a long and unavailing
discussion, Elizabeth dismist them, whether satisfied or displeased by
the firmness of her two dearest friends, it may be difficult to say: but
unless I am totally ignorant of the female mind, she could not help
being flattered by Richard’s refusal to admit any rival to her in his
heart, but God; and probably she was secretly not much incensed against
Constantia for having bestowed her affections else-where.
Count Oswald, who had been by no means pleased by his sister’s
endeavours to unite Richard and Constantia, now felt his hopes revive:
he flattered himself, that _he_ was the unknown object of Constantia’s
choice; but in this belief he was mistaken. There was a young knight,
who had offered her his heart and hand at a time, when she had nothing
but a heart and hand to offer in return. Conradin, an ill-portioned
brother of the Landgrave of Thuringia, would have loved her, had she
been no other than Mary Tell; Conradin had been faithful to Constantia
of Werdenberg under all the scorn and obloquy, under which she at one
time laboured; and Conradin was now the man, for whom the wealthy
Heiress of Sargans rejected every other. _He_ deserved the inestimable
treasure of a wife like Constantia; and _she_ was well worthy to be the
mistress of a heart, whose tenderness and generosity could only be
excelled by her own.
It was long, before Elizabeth acquired sufficient firmness to receive
the personal thanks of Ida and Henry for that felicity, of which she was
herself the authoress; but on the day when she was consecrated as Domina
of Zurich, this long-delayed interview took place. The impression, which
it made upon her mind, will be best explained by the following letter.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Elizabeth to Constantia._