There is not in all Germany a more pleasant station for a regiment of
horse than the city of Salzburgh, capital of the province of that name,
in the dominions of the House of Austria. Here, during the summer and
autumn of 1795, lay the third regiment of Hungarian hussars. This corps
had sustained a heavy loss during the campaign of the year previous in
Flanders, and was sent into garrison to be recruited and organized anew.
Count Zichy, who commanded it, was a noble of the highest rank, of
princely fortune, and of lavish expenditure; and being of a cheerful and
social turn of mind, he promoted all the amusements of the place, and
encouraged the gaiety of his officers.
The scenery around is grand and alpine. The narrow defiles and
picturesque valleys are watered by mountain rivers; and, at an easy
distance from the city, is the lone lake of Berchtolsgaden, lying
beneath a lofty, inaccessible alp, of the most stern and majestic
aspect. Need it be told how sweet upon that placid lake sounded the
mellow horns of the Hungarian band; and may it not be left to fancy to
image out, how these parties, these scenes, and these sensations, gave
birth to some abiding, and to very many passing loves.
Among the fair women of Salzburgh, the palm of beauty was yielded
readily by all to Beatrice Adony, the only daughter of a respected
statesman, long favoured at court, and then resident upon a private
estate in the neighbourhood. He had retired from public affairs a few
years before, when under deep affliction from the loss of a beloved
wife; and lived a life of fond parental devotion with this lovely
Beatrice, who was the image of her departed mother. He had directed
all her studies; and with such judgment, that he had imparted to her
character a masculine strength, which elevated her above all the common
dangers of that season of life when woman passes forth into society.
The Count Zichy was a relation of Count Adony, and a constant and
welcome guest at his mansion; and Beatrice, therefore, attended many and
most of the entertainments which the Count and his officers gave to the
society of Salzburgh during their stay. As she smiled no encouragement
upon the attentions which the Count seemed at first disposed to pay her,
and as he was a cheerful, manly-hearted creature, and though made of
penetrable stuff, by no means a person to lose either appetite, society,
or life, for love, he bestowed his gallantries elsewhere. She liked him
for this all the better; and gave him, in return, that free-hearted,
sisterly friendship, which might be innocently suffered to grow out of
their connexion and intimacy.
All the regular, conceited male coquettes were abashed and perplexed by
manners so natural, that they could make nothing of her; while those
more dangerous, but much to be blamed admirers, who stand apart with
sighs and gazes, were baffled and made sad by the silent dignity of eyes
serenely bright, that never looked upon their flattering worship with
one ray of favour. Such was Beatrice Adony; all the fair girls were fond
of her, and proud of her--because she was no one's rival. They looked on
her as a being of a higher order; one whose thoughts were chaste as the
unsunned Alps. She was admired by them, meditated upon--but never
envied.
Most true it was, Beatrice was of another and a higher order. She was
"among them, not of them." She took part in those amusements which
belong to the customs of her country; and filled that place, and
performed those customs, which her station in society demanded, with
unaffected ease and grace. But while the trifles and pleasures of the
passing day were to her companions everything, they were to her little
and unsatisfying. For the last few years of her mother's life, whose
habits were meditative and devotional, she had daily listened to the
gracious lessons of divine truth, and the closet of Beatrice Adony was
hallowed by the Eye that seeth in secret, and that often saw her there
upon her knees.
It was on a fine day, in the early spring of 1796, that orders reached
Salzburgh for the march of these Hungarian hussars. They were to
traverse the Tyrol, and to join the army of Italy. They were to march at
sunrise on the following morning; and Count Adony, collecting all the
acquaintances of the corps in the town and neighbourhood, gave the
Hungarian officers a farewell banquet and ball; preparations for which,
in anticipation of their early departure, Beatrice had already directed.
Beatrice was the radiant queen of this fair festival; and it was strange
to think, that from the presence of such a being so many men were going
to part without one lover's pang. Amiable, affable, natural, and full of
grace, she presided over this little court of love--serene, unmoved,
herself. Yet any thoughtful and suspicious observer would have said,
that her heart was not quite at ease; for every now and then, as the
night wore on, her eyes gave less attention to those who spoke with her,
and her thoughts were evidently turning inwards with trouble. The supper
was over--the tastefully decorated table was deserted--and the guests
were again assembled in the ball-room. Fond partners that might never
dance with each other again, stood side by side--hand locked in
hand--and waited for the rising swell of the tender music, to which they
were to dance their last waltz. Beatrice stood up with her cousin Count
Zichy, and deadly pale she looked. The Count and all others thought she
had a headach, and would have had her sit down; but she persisted, with
a faint smile, in doing the last honours.
Just at this very moment a manly young officer, whose dress denoted that
he had been on duty, and was ready again to mount and go forward, came
in to make a report to the colonel.
As the first bars of the music were heard, he stood aside, his cap in
his hand, and looked on. Already, however, a young brother officer had
run from his partner's side, to renew to him, with all extravagance of
gratitude, his thanks for having, by an exchange of duty, enabled him to
enjoy a last, long parting with the girl he loved. The dance went
forward, and Julius Alvinzi leaned cheerfully upon his sabre. Suddenly
Count Zichy and his fair cousin broke out from the large circle, and
setting to him, he was led off to the waltz movement before he had time
to ungird his sword. This, however, even as he danced, he gracefully
effected; and afterwards for one tour of waltzing, Beatrice Adony was
the partner of Julius Alvinzi, quitting for the time her own.
This is a custom, in Germany, so common, and seemed so natural and so
kind a courtesy to Julius, under the particular circumstances of his
late and short appearance at the ball, that neither himself, nor any one
in the room, attached to it any other character than that of a pretty
and gentle compliment. But if the ear of Julius had been quickened by
the faintest spark of sympathy, he might have heard the very heart of
Beatrice beat.
"You are tired," said Julius, as the music suddenly ceased.
"Rather so," she replied.
He led her, faint, pale, and trembling, to a seat. Some colour returned
to her cheek as she sat down; and, with an open and cheerful air, she
put out her hand to him, and said, "Farewell, Captain Alvinzi; all
honour, and all happiness go with you."
As he took her hand, he observed, for the first time, that pale-changing
of the cheek which is so eloquent of love; and, looking into her eyes,
he felt his heart sink with a sweeter emotion than he had ever known
before.
Thus silently they parted; and Julius went out from her presence sad,
but happy. "Il est si doux aimer, et d'etre aimé." He felt that he was
beloved. In half an hour, the noble gateway at Salzburgh, cut through
the solid rock, rang to the loud echo of trampling hoofs; and Julius was
riding under it with an advanced guard, and a few troop-sergeants, to
prepare the quarters of the regiment, then mustering for their march.
In all the camps of Europe, a finer youth, or a nobler spirit, could
no where have been found than Julius Alvinzi. Five years of military
service--three of which had been spent in the toils, the watchings,
and the combats of warfare--had accomplished and perfected him in all
points, as the zealous and enterprising leader of a squadron. Glory was
his idol--war his passion. His day-dreams over-leaped the long interval
of years which, of necessity, separated him from high command; and, as
he built up the castle of his future fame, many were the victories which
he won "in the name of God, and the Kaiser!" With this, the gallant
war-cry of Austria, he had already, in some few charges, led on his bold
and bitter Hungarians; and two or three dashing affairs of outposts--a,
daring and important reconnoissance, most skilfully conducted--and the
surprise and capture of a French picquet--had already given him an
established name for intelligence and enterprise. There was a manliness
about him superior to low, sensual enjoyment; and the imagery and
language of vulgar voluptuousness found no cell in a well-stored,
well-principled, and masculine mind, to receive or retain them. He was a
happy, handsome, hardy soldier; knowing his duly, loving it, and always
performing it with honour. Such was the man whom Beatrice Adony, with a
quick perception of true nobility of character, had silently observed
during the stay of the Hungarians at Salzburgh, and her love for him was
a secret--
The only jewel of her speechless thoughts.
It was thus in the full lustihood of life, and in all the bloom of high
hope and promise, that in one of those severe actions, which took place
in the summer of 1796 on the plains of Mantua, Julius Alvinzi led his
brave squadron into battle. The brigade to which he belonged was brought
forward by the veteran Wurmser at a very anxious moment, and, by their
devoted courage, saved a column of Austrian infantry from being
enveloped and cut off by the French. The Hungarians charged with such
vigour and success, that they not only overthrew the body of horse
opposed to them, but they possessed themselves of a battery of
field-pieces which endeavoured to cover their retreat, and which
continued to vomit forth grape with a deadly fury till the horses' heads
of the leading squadron, under Alvinzi, reached the very muzzles of the
cannon.
The Austrians were, however, compelled finally to retreat, that same
evening, from the ground which they had so resolutely contested:--the
movement was made in fine order, and they carried off all their wounded
in safety. Upon a crowded wagon lay Julius Alvinzi; living, indeed, but
a living wreck, and his recovery despaired of. He had been wounded in
six places, and lay motionless and insensible; his servant walking by
his side in silent trouble. As the remains of his regiment marched
slowly back upon Mantua, and passed the convoy of the wounded close to
the gates, you might have heard the name of Alvinzi singled out by the
men for more deep and particular lamentation. He had been their friend,
their pride, their example; and their eyes were turned upon the wagon on
which he lay with an expression of sadness too stern and severe for
tears.
The news of this disastrous battle was communicated to Count Adony at
Salzburgh in a letter from his cousin the Count Zichy. Beatrice and her
father were sitting in his library after night-fall, each occupied with
a book, under the calm, soft light of a lamp which hung a little above
them, when this letter was brought in. He read it eagerly and rapidly to
himself; and then, with a grateful exclamation for the safety of Zichy,
and those officers with whom he was more especially acquainted, he again
read it aloud to Beatrice. It ran as follows:--
"MY DEAR AND HONOURED COUSIN,
"We are all doing our best; but, I am sorry to say, we are losing
everything except our honour. Fortune is with these Frenchmen. Of six
hundred swords, with which I marched from Salzburgh ten weeks ago, only
two hundred and twenty remain to me. We lost, in the battle of yesterday,
nearly three hundred killed and wounded. I never saw our men fight
better: the enemy opposed to us were fairly beaten at the sword's point;
and we took a battery of twelve guns, which tried to cover their
discomfiture; but we conquered only to retire. I have not a word to say
against old Wurmser: he is a clear headed, tough-hearted veteran, but
these French generals are too young for him. I am quite well, but had a
narrow escape; two horses were killed under me, and a grape shot passed
through my cap.
"Tell dear Beatrice, I have got that engraving of the Madonna del
Rosario of Domenichino which she wanted. I picked it up at Verona;
thanks to poor Alvinzi, by the way. Though you, neither of you, saw nor
knew much of this youth, you have so often heard me speak of his worth,
that you will be sorry for me when I tell you that I have lost him; and,
in him, my best and most zealous officer. He is covered with wounds, and
cannot live through the night;--the noble fellow was struck down within
a yard of the enemy's guns. Of others, whom you may remember, Kreiner,
Zetter, and Hartmann, are killed; and several are wounded: Kalmann and
Hettinger very severely.--You shall hear from me again soon; but matters
look very unpromising.
"Your faithful and loving cousin, CASIMIR ZICHY."
"Read the letter again, father," said Beatrice, with a tone such as he
had never heard from her before; "read it again," she cried, "pray read
it again!--'my best and most zealous officer,'--is it not so?--'covered
with wounds, and cannot live through the night,'--is it not so?--Father,
I loved this Alvinzi.--Ah! yes, I loved him well--now better than
ever;--but I knew it would be thus the very day on which I first saw
him:--read it again,--pray do?"--and, with a still-bewilderment of eye,
she took it from her trembling father, and read it slowly to herself.
"Give me this letter, father;" and she put it in her bosom: and there it
lay,--there it lay through a long and nervous illness, which mercifully
terminated in her death.
For a long time she was enabled to govern and controul her feelings, and
was silent, and, to outward seeming, resigned. She often remarked to her
father, that she could, and did, say daily upon her knees, "Thy will be
done,"--but that tears always followed that sincere, but mournful,
exercise. However her frame at last gave way--she sunk into great
weakness of body, and her mind became affected.
Her father watched her with unceasing solicitude throughout her
sufferings; but he was often driven from her chamber by the agony of his
emotions, as she read over the fatal letter, or sung, which she did
continually, that mournful song of Thecla.
The world it is empty, the heart will die,
There's nothing to wish for beneath the sky:
Thou Holy One, call Thy child away--
I've lived and loved; and that was to-day--
Make ready my grave-clothes to-morrow.
Such was the early and melancholy close of a young life of the loveliest
promise. The severe and sudden horror struck hard upon her fine mind,
and drove it mournfully astray. Her heart was so broken that she could
not live on. But Julius Alvinzi did not then or so perish: for seventeen
weeks he lay upon a hospital bed in Mantua, helpless as an infant;
and finally recovered so much of health as gave him again the common
promise of life. He was afterwards sent to pass the long period of his
convalescence at Venice; but the Julius Alvinzi, who rode forth from
Salzburgh, was no longer to be recognised: crippled in his limbs--his
fine countenance disfigured by deep and unsightly scars--his complexion
pale--his hair turned grey with suffering. He had already stepped on
twenty years in as many weeks, and he was already, to the eye, a worn
and broken-down officer of veterans. He could not stir a pace without
crutches; and his hip had been so shattered and distorted that it was
painful to see him move. It was well that Beatrice was in her grave. No
doubt she would have exhibited the noble constancy of a pure, angelic,
and true love;--but she was spared that longer and heavier trial.
Alvinzi, like a stricken deer, betook himself, with decayed hopes and an
aching bosom, to a retired valley near Burgersdorf, about ten miles from
Vienna. Here he took a small fishing cottage, near a lone and lovely
stream, which flowed across a few velvet meadows, amid deep dells
and still woods; and here he threw himself on the beautiful bosom of
nature as on that of a mother. Here, for the first time, he was made
acquainted, by a letter and a packet from the aged and desolate Adony,
of the melancholy end of the lovely Beatrice. The packet contained a
small cross which she had always worn, her miniature, and her psalter.
The traveller who may now wander into the little valley, near
Burgersdorf, where Alvinzi dwelt, will find the cypress, planted upon
his grave the day after his funeral, only three years' growth; and if he
go and sit under the tree, beneath which Alvinzi reposed his withered
and broken frame for thirty summers, will perhaps agree with the
narrator of this mournful story, that mercy was mingled in his bitter
cup, and that
Society is all but rude,
To that delicious solitude.
The peasants of that valley tell, with a superstitious awe, that Alvinzi
was wont to discourse for hours together with departed spirits; and
that they have stolen near his tree at sunset, and in the gloom of the
evening, and by moonlight, and have distinctly heard him talking with
some one whom he called "Beatrice."
[The Embellishments of the _Souvenir_ are nearly on a par with
those of previous years, with a light sprinkling of originality in the
subjects.]
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