FEUDAL TYRANTS, Volume I.
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FEUDAL TYRANTS;
OR,
_The Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans_.
A ROMANCE.
_TAKEN FROM THE GERMAN._
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
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BY M. G. LEWIS,
AUTHOR OF
_The Bravo of Venice, Adelgitha, Rugantino, &c._
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VOL. I.
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_SECOND EDITION_.
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The portals sound, and pacing forth
With stately steps and slow,
High potentates, and dames of regal birth,
And mitred fathers in long order go.
— GRAY.
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London:
Printed by D. N. SHURY, Berwick-Street, Soho,
FOR J. F. HUGHES, WIGMORE STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE.
──
1807
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FEUDAL TYRANTS,
&c. &c. &c.
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PART THE FIRST.
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ELIZABETH OF TORRENBURG
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LETTERS.
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_Conrad, Abbot of Cloister-Curwald, to Elizabeth, the Widowed Countess
of Torrenburg[1]._
Footnote 1:
The real name is _Toggenburg_; but as this would have sounded harsh
in English ears, I have taken the liberty of softening it a little;
and in several parts of this work I have changed the names of
places and personages entirely.
Your resolution, noble Elizabeth, to remain in cloistered solitude,
passing your hours in tears for your husband’s loss, and in prayers for
the repose of his spirit, is dignified and worthy of the illustrious
race to which you have the glory to belong. Model of female constancy!
though years have elapsed since Frederick died, your tears flow as
freely as on the first day of your widowhood! Unequalled lady! does
there exist a virtue, whose seeds we ought not to depend on finding in a
heart like yours? Is there a sacrifice so great that a soul like
Elizabeth’s is incapable of making it?—In the bloom of life to tear
yourself from the pleasures of the world and the eyes of a thousand
admirers, that you may watch away the lonely nights by the sepulchral
urn of an husband far advanced in years; to fly from the charms of sway
and grandeur that you may humble yourself before the altar, kneeling in
the dust, and praying for the repose of the deceased-one, oh! what an
act of self-denial! an act, which reaches the summit of magnanimity, by
not being established on the foundation of love; for in truth, how could
love for the decrepit Frederick find a place in the heart of the young
and blooming Elizabeth, whose warmest sentiment must have been filial
respect towards a benefactor?
Oh! Elizabeth, is indeed your state of widowhood your only motive for
taking refuge in a convent?
_Elizabeth to Conrad._
An expression used in the conclusion of your letter fully explains the
sentiment which I felt, and still feel for the Count of Torrenburg.
Yes, Conrad; Frederick was my _benefactor_ in the strongest sense of the
word—and therefore is it, that though years have elapsed since his
decease, my tears for his loss still flow as freely as they did on the
first day. But whether sorrow for my widowed state was my only motive
for burying myself in a cloister.... Oh! Conrad, it was unnecessary for
you to use flattery in order to obtain a knowledge of the truth. Without
calling me “the model of female constancy,” or declaring me to be
without an equal, I might have been Induced to confess, that Frederick’s
death was _not_ the only reason which at first induced me to take refuge
in a convent, and which perhaps will induce me never to leave it more.
Oh! much, very much lies heavy upon this heart of mine! I suffer under
the pressure of misfortunes, of which but a small part is known to you;
yet even that little must be sufficient to make you comprehend, why I
feel compelled to abandon the world, and fly to solitude for relief and
comfort. Conrad! Conrad! would to Heaven it were _true_, that there is
no sacrifice so great, that I am incapable of making it! Alas! I feel
but too strongly, that great sacrifices are in my power, for which I
must prepare myself by supplication to Heaven, and the solitude and calm
of a cloister.
_Conrad to Elizabeth._
I know not to what sacrifices you allude in saying, there exist some
which are too great for you to make. Worldly possessions, I am certain,
are without value in your eyes: should then hereafter generosity or a
sense of justice require of you some trifling renunciation in this
respect, could it possibly cost you much pain, or would you long
deliberate what course you should adopt? In order to be rich and
powerful, Elizabeth needed not to become the heiress of Torrenburg.
Independent of her husband’s attachment, fortune had already rendered
her mistress of sufficient wealth to make it easy for her to afford
posterity an admirable example of self-denial. She who can dispose of
castles and villages[2] without receiving on the one hand any return but
ingratitude, and on the other but hatred and rebellion, may surely bring
herself in the course of time to restore those possessions (to which the
prepossession of her fascinated husband could in _fact_ give her no
right) to the forsaken innocent orphans, whose claims have so
undeservedly been set aside. How glorious a recompense _hereafter_ would
she earn by such an act! What gratitude, what tranquillity of soul would
she obtain at _present_! what rapturous admiration would she be viewed
with even by the latest posterity! How shining and how distinguished
would be the place allotted to her among the illustrious ladies, who
derive their blood from the Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans.
Footnote 2:
Elizabeth of March (who inherited from her husband the valuable county
of Torrenburg and other extensive possessions to the exclusion of his
natural heirs) bestowed considerable districts of her territory on the
people of Zurich, which excited great discontent among her vassals.
_Elizabeth to Conrad._
Conrad, what am I to think of you?—you almost adopted in your first
letters to me the tone of adoration; I was a “model of female
constancy;” I was “an unequalled woman.” In your last, the secret seems
to have escaped you, “that nothing but the prepossession of a fascinated
husband could have made me what I am.”
I guess your views: you hope to draw from me some decision favorable to
the claims of the Damsels of Werdenberg; but in truth I am not arrived
at such high excellence in the science of self-denial. It is easy, my
good Abbot, to give away half our property out of pure _generosity_,
even though we meet in return with nothing but ingratitude; but it is
hard, very hard to bestow that same half on those who think they have a
_title_ to it, even though all the universe should admire and praise us
for ... having done our _duty_.
My brother Oswald, who has arrived here within these few days, salutes
you, and recommends himself to your prayers.
_Conrad to Elizabeth._
I was certain, before I read the conclusion of your letter, that Count
Oswald was not far from you: uninfluenced, never could Elizabeth have
suffered her hand to trace such words! Go then, ye innocent victims of
slander, even from the generous Elizabeth have ye nothing to hope! she
terms you “the Damsels of Werdenberg,” without recollecting that
_another_ name would have belonged to you, had not fortune robbed you of
it in order to confer it upon _her_. Go then, go, thou gentle
Constantia; go too, afflicted and much belied Ida; increase the number
of the unfortunate ladies of Sargans, and live upon the bounty of the
vassals of your forefathers: the heiress of Torrenburg has nothing to
bestow upon you, not even unavailing pity; of justice I will not speak.
Under what climate of Heaven you now exist, Elizabeth knows not, asks
not, cares not!
_Elizabeth to Conrad._
I have long remarked one fault in you, my good Abbot; you generally
press your point too eagerly, and thus ruin the cause which you support,
with those whose natural inclinations would have disposed them otherwise
to do what you require. Not that this is the case with _me_; to convince
you of which, I now entreat you for the present, and _only_ for the
present, to be silent on a subject which (from causes as yet unknown to
you) pains my heart most cruelly. I am not ignorant of Constantia’s
abode; as to Ida ... yet why should I concern myself about the Damsels
of Werdenberg? If (as you assert) I have robbed them of a name which but
for me would have belonged to them, _they_ perhaps have deprived me of
_another_, which was more precious to me than my life; a name, which was
the long-wished-for goal of all my fondest hopes; a name, for which I
would have exchanged the high-sounding title of “heiress of Torrenburg,”
God knows how willingly!
Suffer me to chuse another subject—you seem to be well acquainted with
the annals of the family with which I am become connected by marriage;
it is certain at least, that neither in your conversations or letters
have I ever heard you mention the knights and ladies of the houses of
Carlsheim and Sargans, without applying to them some striking epithet.
Even in your very last epistles, “the unfortunate ladies,”—“the
illustrious ladies of Sargans,”—were mentioned. Who were these
remarkable personages, and what were their misfortunes? If it lies in
your power to give me any account of them, you will oblige me by making
them the subject of your future letters. Otherwise I am necessitated to
request a temporary interruption of our correspondence, as I am not
desirous of reading more upon the subject which of late has employed
your pen.
_Conrad to Elizabeth._
The annals of the ladies of Sargans are in the possession of the Abbess
of Zurich, whose convent you at present inhabit. I can myself do no more
than furnish you with a short supplement to this family history, and
which I will readily transmit to you, whenever you think proper to renew
a correspondence, which ceases for the present with this letter.
_Elizabeth to Count Oswald of March._
I have offended our good old Conrad: the correspondence which I have
kept up for so many years with the faithful instructor of my childhood
is at length laid aside; and many a vacant hour as this instructive
intercourse has beguiled, I yet must confess, I am not sorry that it has
ceased for the present. Conrad latterly began to press me too hard upon
a subject, on which (in compliance, dear brother, with your advice) I am
determined not to come to any hasty determination. Ah! the point would
have been determined long ago, had I not been compelled to hesitate by
your friendly representations and the weakness of my own heart!
And yet, dear Oswald, to confess the truth, the latter had more
influence with me than the former. Paint to me in as brilliant colours
as you chuse the advantage of being sovereign lady of such an extensive
territory; ah! can the empty pride of governing a turbulent ungrateful
people restore to me the ruined tranquillity of my heart? My wealth and
power were even beyond my wishes, unaided by the liberal bequest of my
dear, my partial husband; and long ago should Constantia have enjoyed
those rights to which (so at least they say) her claim is undoubted,
were it not that Ida must necessarily have shared in the good-fortune of
her sister; Ida, who stole from me the heart of Montfort! Ida, who
trampled on the fondest wishes of my soul! No! that thought is not to be
endured! The wanton arts of that perfidious girl forced me from the
bosom of my Henry into the aged arms of the Count of Torrenburg: now
then let her enjoy the fruits of her good deed! Gratitude taught me to
love Frederick, and to forget Henry; but to reward these traitors for
having so successfully betrayed me; to enrich them with all that has
been bestowed on me by the last will of the excellent possessor ... this
is a pitch of heroic virtue, of which I can be capable but in a very few
moments of romantic enthusiasm. In one of those moments, _you_, dear
Oswald, came to my assistance, rouzed me from my dream of heroism,
dissipated the vapours which bewildered my senses, and now you may rest
secure that I shall make no rash resolutions.
I confess, the Abbot helped to give your advice effect, by preaching to
me such endless sermons about _justice_. What then, my good Conrad? the
conferring happiness on those perfidious hypocrites by whom my
confidence has been so cruelly abused, this sacrifice which but to think
upon makes all my long-inflicted wounds bleed afresh, all this would be
nothing more than an every-day performance of a positive duty? Is this
the way to estimate one of the most difficult tasks of self-victory that
ever was prescribed to the heart of a woman?
Agitated as are my present feelings, I dare not trust myself to be much
alone. I seek every where for subjects of amusement, but find every
where ennui. You, my kind friend, are at a distance, and my epistolary
communication with Conrad, to which I have been so long accustomed, has
for the present ceased entirely. Yet the good Abbot, to whom I am
already under such obligations, is also in _this_ instance the cause of
my looking forward to some future means of rescuing myself from this
state of tedious indolence.
In hopes of leading him away from a topic, which I am at present
unwilling to discuss, I reminded him of the antient histories of the
Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans; and I requested him to make them the
subject of his future correspondence—you know, the old man is generally
delighted to find an opportunity of talking over such matters; but just
now he is too much offended with me, and too much occupied with a
different business, to permit himself to be lured away from his point by
this little artifice. He has coldly referred me for information to the
Abbess of Zurich; and the want of other amusement has actually induced
me to apply to her on this subject, which, when I first took it up, was
merely a pretence for relieving myself from the pressure of Conrad’s too
urgent solicitations.
The Abbess as yet has only given me distant hopes that my curiosity
shall be indulged; but by dint of repeated petitions, I trust I shall
persuade her to communicate to me these “important and remarkable
writings,” as the Abbess calls them. Should I succeed, I shall not fail,
oh! most learned of all knights of the present day! to lay whatever
seems worthy of attention before your philosophical eyes.
_Sigisbert, Bishop of Coira, to the Abbot Conrad._
Without attempting further to influence her conduct, let Elizabeth be
permitted to act according to her own pleasure: I know her motives; I
know that in the end we shall have reason to be satisfied with her. I am
informed also, that she has already taken some such steps towards
settling this important business as will bear but one interpretation.
Letters have been received from her by our friend the Seneschal, a man
whose superior for probity is not to be found in Zurich; in these
letters Elizabeth explains the whole transaction, requests him to act as
an impartial judge, and engages to obey his decision blindly. You know
well the venerable Albert Reding, to whose justice the whole country
refers every dispute of consequence; think you, he will decide to the
disadvantage of innocence? Not that I have obtained my knowledge of
these secret particulars from Albert himself, the delicacy of whose
opinions on this species of confidence is extreme. In truth, he carries
that delicacy so far, that he anxiously avoids mentioning the disputes
between the Countess and her vassals, and endeavours, when others speak
of them, to listen with a cold indifferent air: but I read plainly on
his serious brow that he meditates deeply on the subject; he weighs the
bequest of Count Frederick, and the situation of the unfortunate
sisters, and I can prophecy to which side the balance will incline. He,
who never yet gave an unfair judgment; he, who has never deserved to
have an appeal made from his decision, cannot surely pronounce
erroneously upon a business like this.
Your intention of laying before Elizabeth’s eyes the whole history of
the rejected heiresses of Torrenburg is well imagined, and may produce a
good effect: but what shall I say to you respecting your imprudence, in
advising her to inspect the private annals of the house of Sargans? My
good but inconsiderate friend, are you then ignorant of the part which
your Abbey plays in these memorials of the days of yore? Is it
adviseable, think you, to lay before the laity the transgressions of the
church? Let us rejoice, that we walk ourselves in the paths of virtue,
without endeavouring to make our own merits appear more shining, by
contrasting them with the crimes of our predecessors.
Yet I know well, that so mean a design was far from the thoughts of my
good Conrad; he has only erred through want of consideration. I shall
immediately endeavour, if possible, to repair your fault; already must
letters from me have reached the Abbess of Zurich, and I hope that
Elizabeth will not be suffered to peruse a single line of the papers.
It is but a short time since these curious Memoirs were in my
possession; and I can assure you (if, as I take for granted, you are not
already conscious of it) they contain many circumstances, which for the
honour of the Abbey of Curwald, and (with grief I write it) for that of
some of my own ancestors, had better remain for ever unknown.
_Elizabeth to Count Oswald_
In vain do I strive to turn my thoughts from Montfort; the reflection
“what is to become of him” occupies my mind incessantly. Alas! there was
a time, when I loved him with such passion! when there was nothing which
I would not have given to purchase for him one moment’s happiness! and
_now_, oh! what a change! _she_, who once was ready to sacrifice for
this Montfort every thing, even the affection of a warning brother, who
saw deeper into the deceiver’s heart than herself; _she_ now hesitates,
by giving up a few superfluous miles of territory and some high-sounding
empty titles, to rescue him from the very abyss of misery and ruin!—and
all this change in her heart is produced by the sole reflection, that
Montfort’s prosperity would now be shared no longer with herself. Oh!
Elizabeth! Elizabeth! thou hast a groveling soul! thy passion for Henry,
so falsely called heroic, was nothing better than mere self-love!
Chide me not, dear brother, for this want of resolution; I am conscious
the expression of such feelings must be little expected by you after the
temper of mind, in which you saw me when we parted: but you know not the
dreadful contest between affection and duty, which has but lately been
excited in my bosom—what! Henry imprisoned by his uncle, as a punishment
for having bestowed his heart on the portionless Ida? Henry, commanded
by the incensed Count de Montfort to purchase liberty by offering me his
hand? What then, do I live to see my nuptial bed made the alternative of
a dungeon? Oswald! Oswald! oh! what a humiliation for the proud
Elizabeth, let what is required of him be refused or accepted by
Henry!—as for myself, my resolution is fixed; but yet, through respect
for you and your counsels, it has not been fixed till after mature
deliberation. I will not have the appearance of acting either from an
impulse of extravagant generosity, or from that spirit of refined
vengeance, which induces us to crush our enemies under the load of
obligations: no; I will do nothing but my _duty_. I have submitted the
whole affair to the decision of an impartial judge: I will ascertain how
much I _ought_ to do for the Damsels of Werdenberg, and exactly that
much will I do, without desiring to be thanked by any one. What would be
my feelings, Oswald.... Heaven and Earth! what would be my feelings,
were I to hear Montfort thank me for having _kindly_ facilitated his
union with his beloved Ida!
_Elizabeth to Oswald._
My brother, we will in future chuse other subjects for discussion:
Montfort and Ida ought now to hold a place no longer in my private
thoughts, nor shall their names be ever again traced by my pen. To
banish these spectres which haunt my mind so fearfully, and bury them
for ever in oblivion, or at least only to remember them with contempt,
surely I need but to recall that memorable day, when my dear exasperated
brother forgave the lovesick-girl’s elopement, her elopement with this
deceitful Montfort; when he promised still to acknowledge her as his
sister, and condescended to make known to the traitor with his own lips,
that Count Oswald would not disdain to honour and esteem him as his
sister’s husband—and then let me remember, how Henry led the proud
Elizabeth in triumph to the altar; and how at the very moment that he
prepared to swear to her eternal constancy, the irrevocable word refused
to pass his lips, because ... because among her attendants he discovered
a face, whose features seemed to him more lovely than his bride’s.
Oh! when I recollect these circumstances, my brother! the Damsels of
Werdenberg, the chosen friends of my bosom, were invited to place the
nuptial garland on my brow, and the false-ones tore it in pieces, and
trampled it under their feet. With what a look of horror and aversion
did Henry throw away my hand! He affected to be suddenly indisposed too!
oh! ’twas a mere pretence! his midnight flight from the Castle, and his
consternation at hearing, that those perfidious girls were gone, ought
to have left me no doubt upon the subject; yet I suspected nothing till
the cruel news arrived, that Ida’s fate was as closely connected with
Henry’s, as I once had flattered myself to have seen my own.
Again I repeat it, I will discuss this subject no longer. My prayers had
once the power of soothing Oswald’s vengeance and saving the offender’s
life; shall my lamentations excite afresh that sleeping vengeance?—No! I
will be silent!—I thank you, dear Oswald, for all your kindness; still
love Elizabeth, but strive not to avenge her.
_Elizabeth to Oswald._
I doubt whether I act wisely in writing to you so often? a less
interesting occupation would conduce more to the tranquillity of my
bosom, and such an occupation am I earnestly endeavouring to procure. A
visit to the Abbess, for the purpose of renewing my entreaties
respecting the annals of Sargans, has exalted my curiosity to the very
highest pitch. I am sensible, that anxiety to learn the sufferings of
those who have been as unfortunate as myself, alleviates the weight of
my own afflictions.
The Abbess appeared to be undecided whether she should indulge me with a
sight of these writings, which she had already been drawn into an half
promise to communicate.
—“My dear lady,” said she smiling, “had you not rather obtain a personal
knowledge of those ladies, who are treated of in these moth-eaten
ill-written leaves, and whose adventures, or at least as much of them as
deserves your attention, I can myself relate to you concisely?—Look!”
she continued, at the same time removing a silken curtain which extended
itself over the whole western side of her closet; “look! here are the
portraits of the most remarkable among those celebrated ladies,
respecting whose lives some idle person has contrived to make you so
inquisitive. I confess, I _do_ possess the writings in question; but
believe me, daughter, they are buried under such a heap of uninteresting
papers relating to different matters, that to explore them would be too
tedious a task for the leisure of an anchoret or the patience of a
saint.”
I stood silent, and listened, and looked; but in truth the speaking
portraits of these females, the most lovely and excellent of their day,
and the interesting fragments of their annals which escaped from the
Abbess of Zurich as she pointed them out to me by name, were by no means
likely to cure me of my inclination to know more of their adventures.
You are not the only one of the family, Oswald, who possesses the talent
of persuasion; your sister too inherits some little portion of that for
which her brother is so remarkable. I conquered; and before evening
arrived, I had the satisfaction to see brought into my chamber a large
iron chest, which contained materials of sufficient interest to steal me
from my own sorrows, and transport me into a different world from that
in which I am existing—oh! how delightful is it for a wounded heart thus
to steal itself away from the theatre of its afflictions!
_Elizabeth to Oswald._
The morning broke, and found me still occupied in examining the
moth-eaten parchments; selecting those which appeared to be the most
interesting, and separating them from the rest, which I purposed to
reserve for a future opportunity. It was fortunate, that I did not delay
this examination till the next day. Scarcely were the nuns returned from
matins, when my treasure was redemanded of me. _The_ Abbess came to make
excuses in person. She talked of secrets regarding the Convent, and the
commands of the Bishop of Coira, though, as far as I can make out, the
_great lady_ (for such is the appellation which the nuns give the Domina
of Zurich) is totally independent of him. She might as well have spared
her apologies; I was angry, and scarcely could prevail on myself to
answer her with common politeness. She had broken her word with me; and
therefore I feel but little compunction for having over-reached her, and
kept back several of the writings, which I had previously laid aside.
They happen to be exactly those (at least I hope so) which the sight of
those portraits in the Domina’s closet had made me most anxious to
examine.
One parcel consists of the Memoirs of Urania Venosta; she is pale, and a
black veil half conceals her features, yet the grief which is exprest in
her countenance (the picture represents her in the decline of life) has
still left her charms sufficient to make us guess, how perfect must have
been her beauty while yet in the full bloom of youth.
Another packet contains some account of the unfortunate Adelaide, lady
of the Beacon-Tower; she was a daughter of the house of Carlsheim, and
had resolution enough to attend upon her unfortunate husband till his
last breath, which he was doomed to breathe out upon the scaffold!
Adelaide only left the place of execution to lay herself down, and die.
I possess also the adventures of two Damsels of Sargans, who
particularly arrested my attention yesterday in the closet of the
Domina.—The picture represented them as two solitary pilgrims, both
imprest with beauty and innocence in every feature—features, which
seemed to be not totally unknown to me, and which even recalled those to
my memory, which my partial friendship once viewed with such fond
admiration, while gazing on Constantia and her perfidious sister!—They
were represented, as wandering on a barren mountain covered with snow,
and endeavouring with inexpressible anxiety in different quarters to
discover an out-let from this desolate pass, where they must inevitably
perish, unless some higher power should graciously interpose in their
behalf. In truth, I fancied that I could discover in the back-ground of
the picture a faint shadow, which seemed to beckon one the poor
wanderers to advance: probably it meant to convey the idea of a guardian
angel, or a saint, who had descended from Heaven to guide the distressed
pilgrims out of this fearful labyrinth.
Besides these, I have kept back several other fragments of less
interest, which I shall not examine, till all those which I have
mentioned have been gone through, and their contents communicated to
you, dear Oswald. Into the bargain, the Domina (in hopes, I suppose, of
softening my resentment) sent me by the hands of a lay-sister the life
of one of her predecessors, who had also belonged to the family of
Sargans, and respecting whom she thought, that what she had told me
respecting her wisdom and piety, must needs have powerfully excited my
curiosity. I took the ponderous roll of parchment with many thanks; I
have already ran through it, and returned it, for it contained nothing
except that this worthy Abbess was not only a saint, but was also a
woman of great learning; that she had sacrificed to the Muses at the
same time with Walter of Vogelfeld, the Counts of Hapsburg and
Welsh-Neuburg, the Abbot of Einsiedel, and the Bishop of Constance, and
had carried off the prize from those distinguished Authors; and finally,
that she had instituted a weekly meeting of literati at the house of
Rudiger Manstein, the burgo-master of Zurich.
These particulars possest very few charms for me; and the moment that I
was left to myself, I had recourse to my precious stolen treasure, of
which I shall immediately communicate to you as much, as I have as yet
had leisure to peruse. Oh! my kind Oswald, will you not blame me, when I
confess, that even this interesting occupation was insufficient to
banish Montfort from my mind? Yet to waste another thought on this
paragon of human perfidy is too great a weakness—I will return to my
parchments, in hopes to collecting from the sorrows of others resolution
enough to endure my own with patience.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PART THE SECOND.
MEMOIRS
OF
URANIA VENOSTA.
It affords the mind a melancholy pleasure to look back in the evening of
life, and contemplate the path which conducted us to that place of
shelter, where tranquillity awaits us, and which at length appears in
sight. Yet in such a moment we obtain but an imperfect view of the
scenes through which we past; and the sensations which we at the time
experienced, have already lost much of their poignancy. The chillness of
approaching night makes us almost forget our sufferings, while toiling
under the heat of the mid-day sun; and our eye glides easily along the
deep vallies in which we feared to lose our way, and over the lofty
mountains which it cost us so much labour to ascend—The whole now seems
blended together, and we perceive scarcely any thing but a level
surface; for the distance of those objects which we have left behind,
and the darkness growing deeper with every moment, delude our eyes, and
hide from us almost every thing, which once inspired us with such
well-founded terror.
Alas! the _pleasures_ of our pilgrimage are lost to us, as well as its
difficulties and its dangers! we no longer see the flowers of the vale,
in which we loitered; we hear no more the murmur of the brook, whose
clear streams refreshed us when fainting with fatigue and thirst! we
retain of the whole but one sensation; that the whole is _past_!—and we
wonder not a little, when the transient recollection of former events
occasionally flits before us, how such trifles could have possest the
power of affecting us with violence so extreme.
Such are our feelings in the decline of life; feelings which you too,
beloved-ones, for whom I trace these lines, which you, my Amalberga, and
you, my gentle Emmeline, will experience at the appointed hour. Alas!
before that hour arrives, you must wander through a long and painful
way, counting many a step of toil, and many a tear of sorrow: I feel it
to be my duty once more to examine the road by which I have past myself;
and by explaining to you the obstacles which impeded me in _my_
progress, I hope to enable you to overcome those, which may present
themselves before you in your own.
The spring of my life was bright and lovely. I was educated with the
most illustrious young women of the age, and numbered the children of
sovereigns among my play-mates. The daughters of the Count of Hapsburg
lived with me like sisters; and even when Rudolf was elected Emperor,
and their father’s elevation authorized them to expect to share the
thrones of the first Sovereigns of Europe, still did our friendship
continue in full force. What have innocence and inexperienced youth to
do with dignity and grandeur? Things of this nature only furnished us
with a subject for mirth; we past in review the Princes, both young and
old, who solicited the good graces of the Emperor’s daughters; we
discussed freely their merits and defects, portioned them out among our
society, and amused ourselves with jesting at the unfortunate maiden, to
whom the worst lot fell. The number of these illustrious suitors was
seven; and as the Princesses with myself made exactly the same number, I
necessarily came in for my share in this allotment.
Unfortunately, what at first was mere jesting at length became serious.
The Duke of Saxony, who at his first arrival seemed to limit all his
wishes to the possession of the Princess Matilda, (Rudolf’s eldest
daughter,) began to imagine, that her companion Urania was the superior
beauty of the two. As it was generally believed (both on account of the
uniformity which prevailed in our society, and of our never being
separated) that I was the sister of my friends, the Duke thought it a
matter of very little consequence, to which of the Emperor’s daughters
he paid his addresses; and he showed his election in my favour so
plainly and so publicly, that Rudolf ordered me to quit his court. My
removal was so sudden, that no step could be taken by the Duke in this
important business: my father had fallen in the late popular commotions
at Basle; I had never known my mother; I was consigned to the
guardianship of an uncle, who had purchased considerable possessions in
the neighbourhood of the Rhætian Alps, where he resided far from the
tumult of the court in freedom and tranquillity.
Count Leopold Venosta received me with open arms. Painful as had been my
separation from the friends of my childhood, still I was not insensible
to the charm of being released from the chains of court etiquette, even
though the chains which I had borne had been so light and easy. The air
of liberty fanned my cheeks at every step I took; the peasants of Rhætia
(who had now almost universally shaken off the fetters of their lordly
masters) celebrated on all sides the feast of freedom, and invited the
neighbouring inhabitants of the Valteline to participate in their
happiness. Oh! what delightful scenes were these for a young and feeling
heart!—and yet I had not sufficient experience to perceive their whole
beauty and singularity.—Too often is liberty purchased dearly by the
effusion of blood; and joy at obtaining the so long wished-for blessing
is sullied by melancholy recollections of the means, by which that
blessing was obtained. In _this_ instance, it was the reward of
temperance and industry, which had at length succeeded in their efforts
to burst the chains of luxury and oppression. Knights and Monks, the
former owners of these possessions, had long indulged without reflection
or restraint every caprice of their voluptuous fancies, till they became
the debtors of their own vassals; who in the mean while had been
advancing silently towards their grand object through diligence in
labour and propriety in morals, and now were able to set at defiance
those, whose slaves and victims they had been so long. The impoverished
libertines found themselves without resource; they were obliged to rest
contented with bestowing angry looks on their enfranchised vassals, as
often as accident brought them in their way, and with indulging their
spleen in intemperate railing at (what _they_ termed) the caprice of
fortune.
But Count Leopold belonged not to the number of these reduced Lords. His
opulence grew with every day; his possessions were increased by the
purchase of those, which the debts of his neighbours compelled them to
dispose of. Neither had the country reason to lament, that so much power
was concentrated in his hands.
He allowed his vassals sufficient independence to prevent their sighing
after a greater share of freedom; he parcelled out some of his estates
into small farms, and bestowed them on the most industrious among his
people; he even induced several of the inhabitants of the Valteline to
settle upon his possessions, by allotting to them a portion of valuable
but hitherto uncultivated land, which liberally replaced to them what
little they abandoned in their own distracted country.
Oh! believe me, my children, the occupation renders us almost equal to
the angels, when we employ our power in bidding some desart teem with
harvest, and making it the habitation of happy creatures! I have
witnessed many of these transformations, which the Princes of the earth
could produce so often and so easily, had they but the inclination. It
is in their power to copy the benevolence and might of the Creator; but
they chuse rather to imitate his chastising justice, to convert the
dwellings of men into heaps of stones, and to pour a deluge of blood
over the smiling fruitful vallies.
Among the Lords of that part of Switzerland, whose chief possessions now
belonged to my uncle, the Counts of Carlsheim held the most
distinguished place. Ethelbert (the only remaining descendant of this
family, at least as far as we knew) scarcely inherited from his father
the tenth part of that property, which once belonged to his forefathers.
Grief and vexation had bowed the young man to the ground; he sought to
improve his fortune by entering into the service of foreign princes,
failed in the attempt, and returned sorrowing to repair the ruined
castles which still were his own, and to collect the fragments of his
fallen greatness. He had no reason to reproach _himself_ as the author
of his distress; yet the consciousness of his situation and the feelings
of wounded pride kept him in a constant state of humiliation, which
became particularly painful at the sight of those, who had established
their prosperity on the ruins of that of the house of Carlsheim.
Influenced by these sentiments, did Ethelbert most studiously avoid all
intercourse with my uncle. On none of those occasions, which usually
bring knights and noblemen together, did he ever appear, if there was
the slightest probability of Count Leopold’s being present; and in spite
of all my uncle’s endeavours to form an acquaintance with this young
warrior, (for whom more reasons than one induced him to feel a lively
interest,) still would his efforts in all likelihood have failed of
success, had not a circumstance occurred, which absolutely enjoined
their meeting, and which was the first link of a connexion which ...
dare I say it?... which should never have been formed. Yet the
ordinations of eternal Wisdom ought not to be censured: I press my
finger on my lip, and am silent.
In the bosom of a tranquil valley situated near the Rhine rose the walls
of a monastery, which in point of wealth was only inferior to the monks
of Saint Basil in Solothurn, and to the valuable endowments and
extensive possessions of the Great Lady of Zurich. Since time immemorial
had this district belonged to the Lords of Carlsheim; and they were so
conscious of its worth, that when they sold the rest of their estates
beyond the power of redemption, they had only parted with this as a
pledge. My uncle had already entered without success into various
negociations with Count Werner (Ethelbert’s father) on this subject; and
after the old man’s death, he had found his son equally determined never
to relinquish entirely his right to “the jewel of the land,” for such
was the popular name of the Cloister in the Wood. Various means were
proposed to my uncle (several by the monks themselves) for subduing the
obstinacy of the original possessor: but Leopold’s tender conscience
thought some unjust, and some unfeeling, and every thing remained as it
was.
—“Let us not,” he always answered, when prest upon this subject, “let us
not rob this young man of the flattering hope, that by means of his
claims on this delightful territory he may one day be enabled to get a
firm footing in the land of his once opulent inheritance! I will not be
the man who deprives him of it; far more willingly would I lend him my
aid towards realizing his expectations, were I assured that he is really
the character for which I take him. In the mean while, let him continue
to feast his imagination with the hope of one day enjoying the treasures
said to be buried in the Abbey of Curwald, and with the rest of those
chimæras which have been painted to me in such brilliant colours for the
purpose of seducing me to seize _that_ by force of arms, to which
without Ethelbert’s voluntary agreement I can never possess a
satisfactory right.”—
It is but too certain, that no means were left untried, which might
exasperate my uncle against Ethelbert of Carlsheim; who on _his_ side
suffered many an interested adviser to assail his ear with similar
representations. Things were carried to such a length, that feudal war
would certainly have been declared, and the dwellings of tranquillity
must have been deluged with an ocean of blood, had not Count Venosta’s
generosity induced him to give way on all possible occasions.
To talk over calmly these and similar circumstances with Ethelbert in
person, such was my uncle’s object in endeavouring to throw himself in
his way; and the obstinate care, with which the latter avoided every
explanation, might as well be ascribed to a sentiment of false pride
which made him feel humiliated by Count Venosta’s superior wealth, or to
the insinuations of ill-disposed advisers, as to envy, or malignity, or
any other bad feature in his character. Count Leopold and myself had
always made it a rule to consider Ethelbert’s actions in the most
favourable light. It is true, we had both been long the inhabitants of a
court, the proper atmosphere of suspicion and mistrust; but on our first
arrival among the frank and honest children of Helvetia, we dismissed
those enemies of rural peace for ever, and determined to be open-hearted
with those whose hearts were so open to us.
The circumstance which at length brought my uncle and Count Ethelbert
together, was a dispute between the monks of Curwald and their Abbot;
and which at last was carried to such a pitch, that it became necessary
to refer it to the cloister’s liege-lord. But who was this same
liege-lord? was it Leopold, who was in actual possession of the revenue,
or Ethelbert, in whom the legal right still vested? The monks appealed
from one to the other over and over again, and at length it became
absolutely necessary that a meeting should take place between them, in
order that the business might be finally adjusted.
My uncle had never forbidden my interference in matters, which did not
exactly fall within the province of women; nor indeed would it have been
in my power to remain inactive on this occasion, in which the honour and
welfare of those persons who (after my uncle) were most dear to me, were
very deeply implicated.
Christian, the persecuted Abbot of Curwald, was my father-confessor; the
Prior Matthias, who shared with him the unmerited hatred of the monks,
had been my instructor in botany, one of my most favourite studies, and
which the Rhætian mountains afforded me every means of cultivating with
success. I knew the excellence of both these men, and exerted all the
powers of female persuasion, which consist in tears and entreaties, to
keep my uncle steady in the interests of my venerable friends. I was too
anxious about the issue of this affair to suffer Count Venosta to go
alone to the place, which had been appointed for the interview between
him and his rival. Report had informed me, that Ethelbert appeared
disposed to protect the persecutors of innocence; I resolved, that he
should be made thoroughly aware of the real state of the case; nor could
I suppose, that any thing more could be requisite in order to obtain the
decision, which I so ardently desired to hear pronounced. I was still to
learn, that it is possible to act in opposition to a principle, of whose
justice we are thoroughly convinced.
They say, that Female Innocence, forgetful of herself while she is
occupied with the interests of others, was never known to supplicate
without success. My uncle had exerted all his powers of argument without
producing conviction in the bosom of the Count of Carlsheim. He was
silent, and I was now permitted to advance a few representations on the
subject. I spoke not much; but I spoke with force and feeling, and I
flattered myself, that I could read in Ethelbert’s radiant eyes, that
what I said had not totally failed of its effect. He answered not; but
he cast on me a look so full of expression, that I felt my cheeks
covered with blushes, hastily let fall my veil, and retreated towards my
uncle:
—“Count Venosta,” said Ethelbert at length, “here is my hand! decide the
business according to your own pleasure. So fair and virtuous a Damsel
would never support the cause of guilt! the discontented monks shall
keep their superior—and if the Abbot wishes to secure their obedience
for ever, let him only request his powerful advocate to exert upon
_them_ the same powers of persuasion, which she has just now employed
upon _me_, and he cannot fail to obtain his object. Methinks the Man
might make himself Lord of the whole universe, would he but use this
means, and though loaded with crimes might steal himself into Paradise,
covered by the protecting mantle of such a saint.—”
These compliments seemed to me not less free than flattering. A look too
of my uncle’s informed me, that they were by no means to his taste, and
I quitted the room embarrassed and uneasy.
I had the satisfaction to see my friends justified and reinstated in
their dignities, in defiance of their numerous foes; but I had also the
mortification to experience some consequences of my well-intended
interference, which were by no means agreeable. The first was a very
severe remonstrance from Count Venosta respecting the ardour, or the
importunity as he termed it, with which I had prest my suit upon
Ethelbert.
—“Had Urania been a simple Alpine shepherdess,” said my uncle, “who,
concealed, among her native mountains, had never heard of the insolent
expectations, which men ground upon the slightest demonstration of
female good-will towards them, I might, perhaps, find some excuse for
the free tone with which she spoke to a stranger, and the tender
expression which she infused into her supplicating looks; but Urania,
educated in a Court, should have been more upon her guard. Handsome as
are his features, the Count of Carlsheim’s bold and ardent gaze was such
as by no means gave me a favourable opinion of his delicacy; and still
less was I pleased by the liberty which he took of addressing you in a
strain of flattery so undisguised. Hitherto I have been disposed to
entertain a favourable opinion of the young man; but I confess, what I
have seen of him to-day has shaken my goodwill not a little.”—
I only answered Count Leopold’s warning speech by a respectful silence;
and I afterwards reproached myself for the manner in which I had acted,
though I was unconscious what I had done, for which I deserved to be
reproached. My heart was innocent; my intention was pure; the
consequences of the step which I had taken, however, soon convinced me
that I had really committed an error.