produced a change in him, which struck me with astonishment; he was no
longer, as in former times, either an object of love, or of terror: his
appearance was capable of exciting, even in the bosoms of those whom he
had injured, no sentiment but compassion. It seemed, as if the natural
consequences of his dissolute life had made a much more wretched
creature of himself, than he had been able to make of the victims of his
tyranny. Edith and myself had lost that pale and emaciated appearance,
which we brought with us from Ravenstein, and were fast resuming our
natural bloom and health; while on the contrary our persecutor seemed to
have but just escaped from the dungeons of that gloomy Castle. Nor was
it only his body’s strength which had suffered; his excessive
libertinism, the stings of conscience, and his terror of impending
punishment had broken down the fortitude of his mind completely.
No sooner did he enter the room in which I waited for him, than he threw
himself at my feet, and entreated me in the most abject manner to pardon
what was past. He also bathed Edith’s feet with his tears, and stammered
out a long confession of the injuries which he had done her, and of
which she was already but too well informed.
This excessive and unmanly degradation of himself was neither what we
expected, nor wished from him. My sensations were equally composed of
contempt and pity, and I could not decide, which of the two was the more
powerful. The latter at length prevailed, and I suffered myself to be
drawn by Ethelbert’s entreaties into making a promise, which I found in
the end most painful to perform!
I am not certain, what were my uncle’s feelings on this occasion:
methought I could read in his eyes a strong expression of pity for the
poor victim, who was thus sacrificed to the common safety, and of anger
against himself for having consented to the renewal of a connexion,
whose consequences must needs prove to be the most bitter sufferings,
that could have been inflicted on his unfortunate niece. Terror of his
two powerful enemies had compelled him to free himself from one of them
by this sacrifice; but alas! he had soon to find his regret at having
made this sacrifice increased by the knowledge, that it had been made
without advantage. It was only at a distance, that Count Ethelbert
appeared dreadful. Our scanty troops, under the command of the martial
Leopold (who in spite of his increasing age was still an hero) were of
much more effective consequence, than all the thousands who were ranged
under the banners of the powerful Count of Carlsheim and Sargans; for
their chief was a wretch, infirm both in body and mind, made fearful of
encountering the wrath of man by his consciousness of deserving the
vengeance of Heaven, and who (as we had soon but too much reason to
suspect) was not always in his proper senses.
This last was a circumstance, which had been carefully concealed from
all our family: but I had not resumed the title of Countess of Carlsheim
and Sargans more than a few days, when I made some observations
respecting my husband’s conduct, which opened before me the most
terrific prospects for the future. I never could ascertain, whether
Ethelbert’s incurable disorder owed its origin to his imagination having
been struck by any one particular circumstance, for it was seldom
prudent, or indeed possible to speak to him on this subject; but why
should we seek for a cause, knowing the life which he had led? Seldom
does the hand of licentiousness fail at length to guide her votaries to
the brink of an abyss, the very sight of which makes the brain turn
giddy, and scares away reason, never to resume her seat again!
Ethelbert’s profound and fearful melancholy afflicted him at periodical
intervals. There were times, when he shut himself up from every one, but
more particularly from me, in order to indulge himself in solitary
sufferings. In one of these hours of voluntary seclusion I was induced
(not by curiosity, but by my earnest wish to afford him some relief) to
intrude upon his privacy. All that I gained by this well-intended
interference was, (besides beholding a sight the most heart-rending that
ever was presented to the eye of woman) that I drew down on me in the
present moment the whole storm of my distracted husband’s fury, and in
future was compelled to witness those sufferings, which out of a sort of
delicacy for my feelings he had hitherto been careful to hide from my
observation. His secret being now discovered, he constrained himself no
longer. Till this unfortunate day I had never seen the wretched man
except in those gloomy and capricious humours, which occupied the
greater part of his time. I was now forced to witness his delirious
follies, which sometimes rose to such a pitch of extravagance, that
Edith and myself had good reason to tremble for our lives. Often have we
been pursued by the frantic Ethelbert through every chamber of the
Castle, without being able to find a place secure from his fury, except
on the borders of that ruined well, in which I had caused my vassals to
inter the dead bodies of those, who had fallen by the swords of Edith’s
ravishers.
Never did Ethelbert dare to enter the Court, in which this well was
situated. The moment that he attempted to cross the threshold, he
shrieked out that he saw bleeding spectres rising out of the abyss; that
Lucretia was among the number; and that he could hear her threaten to
drag him down with her to the grave.
Tortures of a guilty conscience, who can paint you in colours
sufficiently strong! Who can endure you without sinking at last beneath
your weight! The phantoms, which in his disordered moments terrified the
mind of Ethelbert, presented themselves in a thousand different forms.
Many of them were totally unintelligible to me, as I was not fully
instructed in the history of his past errors; nor was I at all inclined
to inquire further into events, whose consequences sufficiently assured
me, that their knowledge would afford me no sources of consolation.
Count Venosta was at this period compelled to be often absent from the
Castle of Sargans. His renewed connection with Ethelbert made it
incumbent on him to become the General of those troops, whom their
master’s infirmity would otherwise have left without a leader. Such
preparations therefore, as were necessary for our safety, were made by
the sore orders of my uncle; and alas! every succeeding day made us feel
with an added certainty, that no precautions could be superfluous.
Our dreaded enemy, the fierce and incensed Donat, was now daily expected
to appear. I knew well his animosity against myself; and it is not to be
wondered at, that in spite of the consciousness of my innocence, I
shuddered when I heard of his approach. But my anxiety was not to be
compared with the horror, which shook Count Ethelbert’s frame, whenever
he heard Donat mentioned. He no longer recollected, that he was his own
son; he only saw in him Lucretia’s offspring and avenger; and often when
his bewildered brain pictured him present, did he fly for shelter to my
arms, and entreat me to save him from Donat’s imaginary dagger.
What I endured at this period, is not to be believed! My friend Edith
had often advised me to quit my frantic husband; and so excruciating
were my sufferings, that I probably should have taken her counsel, had
not compassion in the first moments of my re-union with the wretched man
forced from me the inconsiderate promise, “that I never would abandon
him through life, but that whatever fate was allotted to him should be
shared by me;” a promise, which I had confirmed by too solemn an oath,
and on which Ethelbert relied with too much confidence, to admit of my
departing from it without his consent.
Previous to Donat’s approaching so near the Castle, I had been offered
many opportunities of exchanging my melancholy situation for a secure
retreat in the arms of friendship; but I was too strictly bound by my
fatal oath to profit by the kind offices of my friends. Count Lodowick
of Homburg, the declared admirer of the young Damsel of Mayenfield, had
been compelled to leave us for a time, that he might support the claims
of the family of his mistress against the usurping Abbot of St. Gall.
Fortunately, the sudden death of this tyrant greatly facilitated the
completion of his views. He now returned to Sargans, for the purpose of
conducting the young Count Ludolf to Mayenfield, and seeing him
re-instated in his natural rights.
It was thought necessary, that Ludolf should be accompanied by his
mother; but she protested, that she could not consent to leave me
exposed to such dangers, and insisted on my accompanying her to a place,
where I should be in security. Oh! how gladly would my heart have
embraced her offer! Nor in truth did Count Ethelbert positively forbid
my leaving him: in his calmer moments he acknowledged in a tone of
humility, that after his treatment of me he had no right to detain me
contrary to my inclination; he left it entirely to myself to decide,
whether I would go or stay; and declared, that he would not oppose my
abandoning him, if after what I had sworn, I could _reconcile it to my
own conscience_.
You may be certain, my dear children, that having witnessed in my
husband the tortures of an accusing conscience, I had not courage to run
the risque of imposing the slightest burthen upon my own. I had sworn,
and was compelled to keep my oath: I even renewed it, engaged once more
never to forsake my husband, and only entreated my friend, that she
would yield to her daughter’s entreaties not to be separated from me at
a time, when I was so much in want of consolation. Habit had attached me
so tenderly to the charming girl, that to have parted with her would
have seemed to me like the stroke of death; and even Ethelbert felt such
reverence for the angelic innocence which beamed in her every feature,
that in his unhappy moments I had frequently found a safe retreat from
his violence in Minna’s arms. Minna too was resolutely determined to
share my dangers: nor was it affection for _me_, which alone made her
unwilling to depart from Sargans. Count Lodowick was soon to rejoin us
for the purpose of defending our boundaries against the still
encroaching enemy, and I extorted a confession from Minna, that she was
anxious to continue near him.
We separated; I lost my Edith! Minna remained with me, and with beating
hearts did we look forward to futurity, whose gloom appeared to increase
with every moment. Will not my hand fail me, when I attempt to describe
the most cruel blow, which ever fell upon my heart? Edith was dear to
me; so was her daughter, the gentle affectionate Minna; but dearer than
either, oh! dearer a thousand times, was my uncle, my second father, the
venerable Count Venosta!
Count Lodowick’s appearance at the Castle of Sargans made my uncle’s
return necessary. The young warrior was desirous of discussing in person
with an hero of such experience in military affairs, what mode of
proceeding would be most likely to produce advantage to the cause of
those, whose interests were equally dear to both. Till this business was
settled, the Count of Homburg did not think it prudent to quit the
Castle, and leave Minna and myself exposed to the enterprizes of the
enemy, under no better protection than Ethelbert’s. The venerable
Leopold therefore set forward for the purpose of acquainting his ally
with every thing relating to the present situation of our affairs, and
at the same time to inspire our drooping spirits by his presence with
hope and consolation.
Yet once more (alas! but once!) did I clasp my benefactor to my bosom; I
bedewed his furrowed cheeks with tears of gratitude, and imparted to him
my anxiety for a life so precious! The next tears, which I shed on his
account, were destined to fall on his grave. He accompanied Count
Lodowick to review his forces; here he parted with his youthful friend,
and the path which he traversed on his return to Sargans conducted him
to death. In the deepest part of the wood assassins were lurking; his
attendants were few, and their resistance was soon overpowered. Count
Venosta fell by the hands of villains, as many a brave man had fallen
before him; and the dreadful news was brought to the Castle of Sargans
by two or three of his followers, the swiftness of whose steeds had
enabled them to escape from the massacre.
What name shall I give to my feelings, at receiving this most cruel blow
of fate? Shall I say, that I sorrowed? that my senses forsook me? that
despair took possession of both my head and heart?—No! no! all this
would but ill describe what I suffered. The excess of agony can never be
justly exprest; grief like mine can only be pictured in a veil.
I felt only how dear he was to me, how much I had lost in him. These
recollections made me incapable of all others; and I reflected not, that
his death was the certain pledge to me of approaching danger, and future
sufferings. Count Donat was no longer more than two leagues distant from
the Castle. No one doubted, that the hand which murdered my uncle, was
armed by Donat: how indeed could he sooner gain possession of his
destined victims, than by depriving them of their most able
protector?—It is true, Count Lodowick of Homburg ... but his youth, his
inexperience, even his consternation and sorrow for the loss of his
heroic guide in the paths of glory, all tended to prevent his being to
us of as much assistance, as he would gladly have been, and as we too
fondly expected that he would be.
I will pass over in silence the days of anxiety, which followed my
uncle’s death, nor will torture your tender hearts, my children, by
relating how cruelly I suffered from terror while looking forward to
events, which (dreadful as my imagination painted them) you will find,
were far exceeded by the reality!
Count Lodowick fought bravely, but unsuccessfully. His troops were cut
to pieces; their chief was compelled however reluctantly to find safety
in flight. The most faithful of our vassals under the command of Henric
Melthal still defended for a while the approaches to the Castle of
Sargans; but they too at length were compelled to give way.—And now
there was nothing to prevent the dreadful victor from seizing the
unfortunates, who trembled at his approach.
Among the many unpleasant circumstances, which had followed my re-union
with the wretched Ethelbert, it was not the least of my griefs, that I
was compelled almost constantly to endure the presence of a man, whom I
had but too just grounds for abhorring.—This person, whom I half
despised and half dreaded, was at that time Abbot of Cloister-Curwald,
and by name Guiderius. Had there been no other reason for my disliking
him, it would have been sufficient, that it was he, whom the rebellious
monks of that monastery had elected their Superior after the expulsion
of my friends Christian and Matthias; and that he had taken a
conspicuous part against his predecessor, whose dignity he coveted, and
whose blameless life made his own appear the more disgusting. Never did
I see him approaching the Castle, in all the state and splendour of a
petty prince, without comparing his ostentation with the dignified
simplicity of my venerable friend; of whose fate no intelligence had
ever reached me, after I had procured his escape by the private passage
conducting to the mountains.
But the repugnance towards him, which these reflections inspired, was
not my only reasons for disliking the society of Guiderius. He had
formerly been Ethelbert’s companion in his profligate enjoyments; he was
now his confessor and the only confidant of his secret sins, and in this
quality he assumed a much greater share of authority in the Castle, than
was left to its weak master and his powerless wife. At first I
occasionally forced myself to throw aside that timidity, which I had
acquired from so many years of suffering, and endeavoured to dispossess
the hypocrite of my husband’s favour and of such immoderate influence:
but the attempt was always attended with so little success, that I was
compelled to abandon it, and submit patiently to bear the yoke, which
the omnipotent Abbot imposed on all the Castle’s inmates.
Guiderius was young; he might have been called handsome, had not every
feature betrayed the traces of riot and licentiousness. When I
complained of his usurped authority, he frequently assured me, that I
was not _his_ captive as I stated, but much rather was he _mine_: but
these declarations, which made him still more hateful to me, were
received and answered with such contempt and bitterness, that he at
length desisted from making them. Instead of these insulting liberties,
he seemed to adopt a particularly delicate and humble manner in all
things, in which _I_ was concerned, and about which I appeared
interested. So that as I now began to feel easy respecting his
professions of too warm an attachment, and in this moment of most urgent
necessity, when our terrible foe was at our gates, and as every one had
recourse to me for that advice, which I, poor trembling woman, would so
willingly have asked of others; in such a situation, helpless and
bewildered as I was, I did nor think it wise to reject without an
hearing the proposition, which the Abbot of Curwald requested leave to
lay before me, and whose adoption (he said) would be greatly for my
advantage. It proved to be of a nature so innocent, that ill as I
thought of the person who proposed it, I could find no reasonable
grounds for its rejection.
—“There are few hearts,” said Guiderius, “so hardened as to resist the
tears which flow from the eyes of women, or the voice of God when it
speaks from the lips of his servants. I am thoroughly persuaded, that
Count Donat’s fury would be this moment disarmed, could he witness the
streams of anguish, which fear of his vengeance forces into eyes so
bright; nor did he once see you kneeling at his feet, could he resist
raising you, to fall himself at yours. But you are unconscious of the
power which Heaven confided to you, when he formed you so lovely; or
knowing it, you will not condescend to make it of use. Well then! Let us
have recourse to some other means of softening Count Donat. Permit me to
assemble the whole brotherhood of my convent in the Castle-chapel: these
holy monks shall form around you with their prayers a wall more solid
than one of brass; as soon as your dreaded foe approaches, I will place
myself at their head, go forth with them to meet him, command him in the
name of our patron-saint to lay aside his blood-thirsty designs, and you
will be astonished to witness the effects of our interference.”—
I consented to his proposal. Guiderius gave his orders; and it was not
long before _the holy monks_ (no one but their Abbot could have had the
assurance to call them holy) set forth on their march with all possible
solemnity, and with every circumstance of pomp, which might make them
appear of the more consequence in the eyes of him, to whom their embassy
was addrest. They laid no slight stress upon the merit of this act of
heroism, as they scrupled not to call their interference; and one of the
most learned brethren went so far, as to compare their conduct with that
of the Roman Deeii, who for the general good devoted themselves to the
infernal gods; a comparison, which would have extorted a smile from
Minna and myself, had any thing at that moment of danger been capable of
making us smile.
We waited for the return of these modern Deeii with inexpressible
anxiety. Yet unhappy as we were, and much as we required all our
strength of mind and body to support _ourselves_, we were compelled to
exhaust our powers in the difficult task of preventing Ethelbert from
sinking under his apprehensions of his foe’s approach, which he dreaded,
as if it had been that of an avenging Deity.
During the consultation, which took place on the proposition of
Guiderius, we had been necessitated to leave the wretched sufferer to
himself. After the departure of the monks, we found him to our great
astonishment busied in removing the stone, which covered the mouth of
that well, which I have already mentioned as being so terrible to him in
his hours of distraction. A variety of circumstances, as well as some
broken sentences, which at first escaped from him, left us no doubt,
with what object he had sought that particular spot, and what would have
been the event, had we not arrived in time to rescue him from his own
fury.
In the situation in which he then was, it was unsafe for us to suffer
him out of our sight for a moment. We employed all our powers of
persuasion to his agitated mind; Minna, whose kind and gentle manner had
great influence over him, at length succeeded in kindling a faint spark
of hope in his anxious bosom; and he seemed to derive some comfort from
her assurances, that (even should Count Donat prove the furious tyrant,
which report described him to be) still it was impossible for him to
have so totally laid aside all vestiges of humanity, as to look on his
father as on a foe, and punish him for offences, which it was now beyond
his power to remedy.
—“You are right, sweet angel!” said Ethelbert with a childish vacant
smile, which generally took possession of his countenance, when he felt
himself exhausted by any violent breaking out of his delirium; “you are
quite right! Donat should not revenge his mother’s death on _me_; I
never hated Lucretia; no, no; she was my first love. Its true, I was
unfaithful to her; but though Urania was more beautiful and rich, that
could only have injured Lucretia for a while. Had but death relieved me
from my second wife, nothing need have prevented my restoring my first
to liberty, and permitting her to resume her legal rights! then all
would have been well; then Lucretia and Donat would have been appeased:
fool that I was! Oh! that I had not suffered Urania to live!”—
The pious Minna shrunk back in horror at this proof of aggravated
wickedness, which she had undesignedly drawn from an heart, whose
sentiments (I had so vainly flattered myself) had been chastened by
adversity. Minna dropt the miscreant’s hand in disgust, while she cast
upon me a look expressive of the deepest sorrow and compassion; I could
not restrain my feelings, and burst into a flood of tears.
—“Nay, weep not!” said the wretched man, whose senses had quite forsaken
him; “trust me with a dagger for a few minutes, and neither you nor I
shall have reason any longer to tremble at the thoughts of Donat’s
vengeance!”—
This conversation, which became more painful with every minute that it
lasted, and which was only calculated to make two unprotected women
apprehend a nearer danger than Count Donat’s sword, was interrupted by
the return of two of the monks, who had accompanied Guiderius. They
accosted us with countenances expressing the greatest consternation, and
gave us to understand, that the eloquence of their holy brethren had by
no means produced the desired effect. Count Donat, an avowed enemy of
the church and her servants, had ordered them all to be made prisoners,
and flight alone had enabled these two to hasten back to the Castle, and
apply to us for assistance.
—“For assistance? assistance from us?” Minna and myself exclaimed at the
same moment.
—“Yes, noble ladies, from you!” answered one of the monks, whose name
was Hilderic; “a sign from our discreet Abbot gave us to understand,
what steps he wished to be taken. He is certain, that the intercession
of the Damsel of Mayenfield, one tear falling from her dove-like eyes,
one word spoken in her touching voice, would be sufficient to preserve
us all! Oh! dear lady, be not deaf to our entreaties! A mule stands
ready at the Castle-gate to bear you to the camp, and we will accompany
you thither, and protect you back in safety.”—
—“Oh! for the love of Heaven,” exclaimed my husband eagerly, “go, Minna,
go! Soften my son’s heart towards his wretched father, and I will bless
you with my latest breath.”—
Minna shuddered, while she listened to Hilderic’s proposal and
Ethelbert’s entreaties: nor did I hear this singular request without
making many objections. Yet Hilderic’s powers of persuasion, and the
humble supplications of his companion, the unsuspicious Mark, began to
make us relax in our opposition, when the Abbot himself made his
appearance, and decided our conduct at once.