My brother had received a new book from Germany. It was a tragedy, and
the first attempt of a Saxon poet, of whom my brother had been taught to
entertain the highest expectations. The exploits of Zisca, the Bohemian
hero, were woven into a dramatic series and connection. According to
German custom, it was minute and diffuse, and dictated by an adventurous
and lawless fancy. It was a chain of audacious acts, and unheard-of
disasters. The moated fortress, and the thicket; the ambush and the
battle; and the conflict of headlong passions, were pourtrayed in
wild numbers, and with terrific energy. An afternoon was set apart to
rehearse this performance. The language was familiar to all of us but
Carwin, whose company, therefore, was tacitly dispensed with.
The morning previous to this intended rehearsal, I spent at home. My
mind was occupied with reflections relative to my own situation. The
sentiment which lived with chief energy in my heart, was connected
with the image of Pleyel. In the midst of my anguish, I had not been
destitute of consolation. His late deportment had given spring to my
hopes. Was not the hour at hand, which should render me the happiest
of human creatures? He suspected that I looked with favorable eyes upon
Carwin. Hence arose disquietudes, which he struggled in vain to conceal.
He loved me, but was hopeless that his love would be compensated. Is it
not time, said I, to rectify this error? But by what means is this to be
effected? It can only be done by a change of deportment in me; but how
must I demean myself for this purpose?
I must not speak. Neither eyes, nor lips, must impart the information.
He must not be assured that my heart is his, previous to the tender of
his own; but he must be convinced that it has not been given to another;
he must be supplied with space whereon to build a doubt as to the true
state of my affections; he must be prompted to avow himself. The line
of delicate propriety; how hard it is, not to fall short, and not to
overleap it!
This afternoon we shall meet at the temple. We shall not separate till
late. It will be his province to accompany me home. The airy expanse is
without a speck. This breeze is usually stedfast, and its promise of
a bland and cloudless evening, may be trusted. The moon will rise at
eleven, and at that hour, we shall wind along this bank. Possibly that
hour may decide my fate. If suitable encouragement be given, Pleyel will
reveal his soul to me; and I, ere I reach this threshold, will be made
the happiest of beings. And is this good to be mine? Add wings to thy
speed, sweet evening; and thou, moon, I charge thee, shroud thy beams at
the moment when my Pleyel whispers love. I would not for the world, that
the burning blushes, and the mounting raptures of that moment, should be
visible.
But what encouragement is wanting? I must be regardful of insurmountable
limits. Yet when minds are imbued with a genuine sympathy, are not words
and looks superfluous? Are not motion and touch sufficient to impart
feelings such as mine? Has he not eyed me at moments, when the pressure
of his hand has thrown me into tumults, and was it possible that he
mistook the impetuosities of love, for the eloquence of indignation?
But the hastening evening will decide. Would it were come! And yet I
shudder at its near approach. An interview that must thus terminate, is
surely to be wished for by me; and yet it is not without its terrors.
Would to heaven it were come and gone!
I feel no reluctance, my friends to be thus explicit. Time was, when
these emotions would be hidden with immeasurable solicitude, from every
human eye. Alas! these airy and fleeting impulses of shame are gone. My
scruples were preposterous and criminal. They are bred in all hearts, by
a perverse and vicious education, and they would still have maintained
their place in my heart, had not my portion been set in misery. My
errors have taught me thus much wisdom; that those sentiments which we
ought not to disclose, it is criminal to harbour.
It was proposed to begin the rehearsal at four o'clock; I counted the
minutes as they passed; their flight was at once too rapid and too slow;
my sensations were of an excruciating kind; I could taste no food, nor
apply to any task, nor enjoy a moment's repose: when the hour arrived, I
hastened to my brother's.
Pleyel was not there. He had not yet come. On ordinary occasions, he was
eminent for punctuality. He had testified great eagerness to share
in the pleasures of this rehearsal. He was to divide the task with my
brother, and, in tasks like these, he always engaged with peculiar
zeal. His elocution was less sweet than sonorous; and, therefore,
better adapted than the mellifluences of his friend, to the outrageous
vehemence of this drama.
What could detain him? Perhaps he lingered through forgetfulness. Yet
this was incredible. Never had his memory been known to fail upon even
more trivial occasions. Not less impossible was it, that the scheme had
lost its attractions, and that he staid, because his coming would afford
him no gratification. But why should we expect him to adhere to the
minute?
An half hour elapsed, but Pleyel was still at a distance. Perhaps he had
misunderstood the hour which had been proposed. Perhaps he had conceived
that to-morrow, and not to-day, had been selected for this purpose:
but no. A review of preceding circumstances demonstrated that such
misapprehension was impossible; for he had himself proposed this day,
and this hour. This day, his attention would not otherwise be occupied;
but to-morrow, an indispensible engagement was foreseen, by which all
his time would be engrossed: his detention, therefore, must be owing
to some unforeseen and extraordinary event. Our conjectures were vague,
tumultuous, and sometimes fearful. His sickness and his death might
possibly have detained him.
Tortured with suspense, we sat gazing at each other, and at the path
which led from the road. Every horseman that passed was, for a moment,
imagined to be him. Hour succeeded hour, and the sun, gradually
declining, at length, disappeared. Every signal of his coming proved
fallacious, and our hopes were at length dismissed. His absence affected
my friends in no insupportable degree. They should be obliged, they
said, to defer this undertaking till the morrow; and, perhaps, their
impatient curiosity would compel them to dispense entirely with his
presence. No doubt, some harmless occurrence had diverted him from
his purpose; and they trusted that they should receive a satisfactory
account of him in the morning.
It may be supposed that this disappointment affected me in a very
different manner. I turned aside my head to conceal my tears. I fled
into solitude, to give vent to my reproaches, without interruption
or restraint. My heart was ready to burst with indignation and grief.
Pleyel was not the only object of my keen but unjust upbraiding. Deeply
did I execrate my own folly. Thus fallen into ruins was the gay fabric
which I had reared! Thus had my golden vision melted into air!
How fondly did I dream that Pleyel was a lover! If he were, would he
have suffered any obstacle to hinder his coming? Blind and infatuated
man! I exclaimed. Thou sportest with happiness. The good that is
offered thee, thou hast the insolence and folly to refuse. Well, I will
henceforth intrust my felicity to no one's keeping but my own.
The first agonies of this disappointment would not allow me to be
reasonable or just. Every ground on which I had built the persuasion
that Pleyel was not unimpressed in my favor, appeared to vanish. It
seemed as if I had been misled into this opinion, by the most palpable
illusions.
I made some trifling excuse, and returned, much earlier than I expected,
to my own house. I retired early to my chamber, without designing to
sleep. I placed myself at a window, and gave the reins to reflection.
The hateful and degrading impulses which had lately controuled me were,
in some degree, removed. New dejection succeeded, but was now produced
by contemplating my late behaviour. Surely that passion is worthy to
be abhorred which obscures our understanding, and urges us to the
commission of injustice. What right had I to expect his attendance?
Had I not demeaned myself like one indifferent to his happiness, and as
having bestowed my regards upon another? His absence might be prompted
by the love which I considered his absence as a proof that he wanted.
He came not because the sight of me, the spectacle of my coldness or
aversion, contributed to his despair. Why should I prolong, by hypocrisy
or silence, his misery as well as my own? Why not deal with him
explicitly, and assure him of the truth?
You will hardly believe that, in obedience to this suggestion, I rose
for the purpose of ordering a light, that I might instantly make this
confession in a letter. A second thought shewed me the rashness of this
scheme, and I wondered by what infirmity of mind I could be betrayed
into a momentary approbation of it. I saw with the utmost clearness that
a confession like that would be the most remediless and unpardonable
outrage upon the dignity of my sex, and utterly unworthy of that passion
which controuled me.
I resumed my seat and my musing. To account for the absence of Pleyel
became once more the scope of my conjectures. How many incidents might
occur to raise an insuperable impediment in his way? When I was a child,
a scheme of pleasure, in which he and his sister were parties, had been,
in like manner, frustrated by his absence; but his absence, in that
instance, had been occasioned by his falling from a boat into the river,
in consequence of which he had run the most imminent hazard of being
drowned. Here was a second disappointment endured by the same persons,
and produced by his failure. Might it not originate in the same cause?
Had he not designed to cross the river that morning to make some
necessary purchases in Jersey? He had preconcerted to return to his
own house to dinner; but, perhaps, some disaster had befallen him.
Experience had taught me the insecurity of a canoe, and that was the
only kind of boat which Pleyel used: I was, likewise, actuated by
an hereditary dread of water. These circumstances combined to bestow
considerable plausibility on this conjecture; but the consternation
with which I began to be seized was allayed by reflecting, that if
this disaster had happened my brother would have received the speediest
information of it. The consolation which this idea imparted was ravished
from me by a new thought. This disaster might have happened, and his
family not be apprized of it. The first intelligence of his fate may
be communicated by the livid corpse which the tide may cast, many days
hence, upon the shore.
Thus was I distressed by opposite conjectures: thus was I tormented by
phantoms of my own creation. It was not always thus. I can ascertain the
date when my mind became the victim of this imbecility; perhaps it was
coeval with the inroad of a fatal passion; a passion that will never
rank me in the number of its eulogists; it was alone sufficient to the
extermination of my peace: it was itself a plenteous source of
calamity, and needed not the concurrence of other evils to take away the
attractions of existence, and dig for me an untimely grave.
The state of my mind naturally introduced a train of reflections upon
the dangers and cares which inevitably beset an human being. By no
violent transition was I led to ponder on the turbulent life and
mysterious end of my father. I cherished, with the utmost veneration,
the memory of this man, and every relique connected with his fate was
preserved with the most scrupulous care. Among these was to be numbered
a manuscript, containing memoirs of his own life. The narrative was by
no means recommended by its eloquence; but neither did all its value
flow from my relationship to the author. Its stile had an unaffected and
picturesque simplicity. The great variety and circumstantial display of
the incidents, together with their intrinsic importance, as descriptive
of human manners and passions, made it the most useful book in my
collection. It was late; but being sensible of no inclination to sleep,
I resolved to betake myself to the perusal of it.
To do this it was requisite to procure a light. The girl had long since
retired to her chamber: it was therefore proper to wait upon myself.
A lamp, and the means of lighting it, were only to be found in the
kitchen. Thither I resolved forthwith to repair; but the light was of
use merely to enable me to read the book. I knew the shelf and the spot
where it stood. Whether I took down the book, or prepared the lamp in
the first place, appeared to be a matter of no moment. The latter was
preferred, and, leaving my seat, I approached the closet in which, as I
mentioned formerly, my books and papers were deposited.
Suddenly the remembrance of what had lately passed in this closet
occurred. Whether midnight was approaching, or had passed, I knew not. I
was, as then, alone, and defenceless. The wind was in that direction
in which, aided by the deathlike repose of nature, it brought to me
the murmur of the water-fall. This was mingled with that solemn and
enchanting sound, which a breeze produces among the leaves of pines. The
words of that mysterious dialogue, their fearful import, and the wild
excess to which I was transported by my terrors, filled my imagination
anew. My steps faultered, and I stood a moment to recover myself.
I prevailed on myself at length to move towards the closet. I touched
the lock, but my fingers were powerless; I was visited afresh by
unconquerable apprehensions. A sort of belief darted into my mind, that
some being was concealed within, whose purposes were evil. I began to
contend with those fears, when it occurred to me that I might, without
impropriety, go for a lamp previously to opening the closet. I receded
a few steps; but before I reached my chamber door my thoughts took a new
direction. Motion seemed to produce a mechanical influence upon me. I
was ashamed of my weakness. Besides, what aid could be afforded me by a
lamp?
My fears had pictured to themselves no precise object. It would be
difficult to depict, in words, the ingredients and hues of that phantom
which haunted me. An hand invisible and of preternatural strength,
lifted by human passions, and selecting my life for its aim, were parts
of this terrific image. All places were alike accessible to this foe, or
if his empire were restricted by local bounds, those bounds were utterly
inscrutable by me. But had I not been told by some one in league with
this enemy, that every place but the recess in the bank was exempt from
danger? I returned to the closet, and once more put my hand upon the
lock. O! may my ears lose their sensibility, ere they be again assailed
by a shriek so terrible! Not merely my understanding was subdued by the
sound: it acted on my nerves like an edge of steel. It appeared to cut
asunder the fibres of my brain, and rack every joint with agony.
The cry, loud and piercing as it was, was nevertheless human. No
articulation was ever more distinct. The breath which accompanied it did
not fan my hair, yet did every circumstance combine to persuade me that
the lips which uttered it touched my very shoulder.
"Hold! Hold!" were the words of this tremendous prohibition, in whose
tone the whole soul seemed to be wrapped up, and every energy converted
into eagerness and terror.
Shuddering, I dashed myself against the wall, and by the same
involuntary impulse, turned my face backward to examine the mysterious
monitor. The moon-light streamed into each window, and every corner of
the room was conspicuous, and yet I beheld nothing!
The interval was too brief to be artificially measured, between the
utterance of these words, and my scrutiny directed to the quarter whence
they came. Yet if a human being had been there, could he fail to have
been visible? Which of my senses was the prey of a fatal illusion? The
shock which the sound produced was still felt in every part of my frame.
The sound, therefore, could not but be a genuine commotion. But that I
had heard it, was not more true than that the being who uttered it was
stationed at my right ear; yet my attendant was invisible.
I cannot describe the state of my thoughts at that moment. Surprize
had mastered my faculties. My frame shook, and the vital current was
congealed. I was conscious only to the vehemence of my sensations. This
condition could not be lasting. Like a tide, which suddenly mounts to
an overwhelming height, and then gradually subsides, my confusion slowly
gave place to order, and my tumults to a calm. I was able to deliberate
and move. I resumed my feet, and advanced into the midst of the room.
Upward, and behind, and on each side, I threw penetrating glances. I was
not satisfied with one examination. He that hitherto refused to be
seen, might change his purpose, and on the next survey be clearly
distinguishable.
Solitude imposes least restraint upon the fancy. Dark is less fertile
of images than the feeble lustre of the moon. I was alone, and the walls
were chequered by shadowy forms. As the moon passed behind a cloud and
emerged, these shadows seemed to be endowed with life, and to move. The
apartment was open to the breeze, and the curtain was occasionally
blown from its ordinary position. This motion was not unaccompanied with
sound. I failed not to snatch a look, and to listen when this motion
and this sound occurred. My belief that my monitor was posted near,
was strong, and instantly converted these appearances to tokens of his
presence, and yet I could discern nothing.
When my thoughts were at length permitted to revert to the past, the
first idea that occurred was the resemblance between the words of the
voice which I had just heard, and those which had terminated my dream in
the summer-house. There are means by which we are able to distinguish a
substance from a shadow, a reality from the phantom of a dream. The pit,
my brother beckoning me forward, the seizure of my arm, and the voice
behind, were surely imaginary. That these incidents were fashioned in my
sleep, is supported by the same indubitable evidence that compels me to
believe myself awake at present; yet the words and the voice were the
same. Then, by some inexplicable contrivance, I was aware of the danger,
while my actions and sensations were those of one wholly unacquainted
with it. Now, was it not equally true that my actions and persuasions
were at war? Had not the belief, that evil lurked in the closet, gained
admittance, and had not my actions betokened an unwarrantable security?
To obviate the effects of my infatuation, the same means had been used.
In my dream, he that tempted me to my destruction, was my brother. Death
was ambushed in my path. From what evil was I now rescued? What minister
or implement of ill was shut up in this recess? Who was it whose
suffocating grasp I was to feel, should I dare to enter it? What
monstrous conception is this? my brother!
No; protection, and not injury is his province. Strange and terrible
chimera! Yet it would not be suddenly dismissed. It was surely no vulgar
agency that gave this form to my fears. He to whom all parts of time are
equally present, whom no contingency approaches, was the author of that
spell which now seized upon me. Life was dear to me. No consideration
was present that enjoined me to relinquish it. Sacred duty combined
with every spontaneous sentiment to endear to me my being. Should I not
shudder when my being was endangered? But what emotion should possess me
when the arm lifted aginst me was Wieland's?
Ideas exist in our minds that can be accounted for by no established
laws. Why did I dream that my brother was my foe? Why but because an
omen of my fate was ordained to be communicated? Yet what salutary end
did it serve? Did it arm me with caution to elude, or fortitude to bear
the evils to which I was reserved? My present thoughts were, no
doubt, indebted for their hue to the similitude existing between these
incidents and those of my dream. Surely it was phrenzy that dictated my
deed. That a ruffian was hidden in the closet, was an idea, the genuine
tendency of which was to urge me to flight. Such had been the effect
formerly produced. Had my mind been simply occupied with this thought at
present, no doubt, the same impulse would have been experienced; but
now it was my brother whom I was irresistably persuaded to regard as the
contriver of that ill of which I had been forewarned. This persuasion
did not extenuate my fears or my danger. Why then did I again approach
the closet and withdraw the bolt? My resolution was instantly conceived,
and executed without faultering.
The door was formed of light materials. The lock, of simple structure,
easily forewent its hold. It opened into the room, and commonly moved
upon its hinges, after being unfastened, without any effort of mine.
This effort, however, was bestowed upon the present occasion. It was
my purpose to open it with quickness, but the exertion which I made was
ineffectual. It refused to open.
At another time, this circumstance would not have looked with a face of
mystery. I should have supposed some casual obstruction, and repeated my
efforts to surmount it. But now my mind was accessible to no conjecture
but one. The door was hindered from opening by human force. Surely, here
was new cause for affright. This was confirmation proper to decide my
conduct. Now was all ground of hesitation taken away. What could be
supposed but that I deserted the chamber and the house? that I at least
endeavoured no longer to withdraw the door?
Have I not said that my actions were dictated by phrenzy? My reason had
forborne, for a time, to suggest or to sway my resolves. I reiterated
my endeavours. I exerted all my force to overcome the obstacle, but in
vain. The strength that was exerted to keep it shut, was superior to
mine.
A casual observer might, perhaps, applaud the audaciousness of this
conduct. Whence, but from an habitual defiance of danger, could my
perseverance arise? I have already assigned, as distinctly as I am able,
the cause of it. The frantic conception that my brother was within, that
the resistance made to my design was exerted by him, had rooted itself
in my mind. You will comprehend the height of this infatuation, when
I tell you, that, finding all my exertions vain, I betook myself to
exclamations. Surely I was utterly bereft of understanding.
Now had I arrived at the crisis of my fate. "O! hinder not the door to
open," I exclaimed, in a tone that had less of fear than of grief in
it. "I know you well. Come forth, but harm me not. I beseech you come
forth."
I had taken my hand from the lock, and removed to a small distance from
the door. I had scarcely uttered these words, when the door swung upon
its hinges, and displayed to my view the interior of the closet. Whoever
was within, was shrouded in darkness. A few seconds passed without
interruption of the silence. I knew not what to expect or to fear. My
eyes would not stray from the recess. Presently, a deep sigh was heard.
The quarter from which it came heightened the eagerness of my gaze. Some
one approached from the farther end. I quickly perceived the outlines
of a human figure. Its steps were irresolute and slow. I recoiled as it
advanced.
By coming at length within the verge of the room, his form was clearly
distinguishable. I had prefigured to myself a very different personage.
The face that presented itself was the last that I should desire to meet
at an hour, and in a place like this. My wonder was stifled by my fears.
Assassins had lurked in this recess. Some divine voice warned me of
danger, that at this moment awaited me. I had spurned the intimation,
and challenged my adversary.
I recalled the mysterious countenance and dubious character of Carwin.
What motive but atrocious ones could guide his steps hither? I was
alone. My habit suited the hour, and the place, and the warmth of the
season. All succour was remote. He had placed himself between me and the
door. My frame shook with the vehemence of my apprehensions.
Yet I was not wholly lost to myself: I vigilantly marked his demeanour.
His looks were grave, but not without perturbation. What species of
inquietude it betrayed, the light was not strong enough to enable me
to discover. He stood still; but his eyes wandered from one object to
another. When these powerful organs were fixed upon me, I shrunk into
myself. At length, he broke silence. Earnestness, and not embarrassment,
was in his tone. He advanced close to me while he spoke.
"What voice was that which lately addressed you?"
He paused for an answer; but observing my trepidation, he resumed, with
undiminished solemnity: "Be not terrified. Whoever he was, he hast done
you an important service. I need not ask you if it were the voice of
a companion. That sound was beyond the compass of human organs. The
knowledge that enabled him to tell you who was in the closet, was
obtained by incomprehensible means.
"You knew that Carwin was there. Were you not apprized of his intents?
The same power could impart the one as well as the other. Yet, knowing
these, you persisted. Audacious girl! but, perhaps, you confided in his
guardianship. Your confidence was just. With succour like this at hand
you may safely defy me.
"He is my eternal foe; the baffler of my best concerted schemes. Twice
have you been saved by his accursed interposition. But for him I should
long ere now have borne away the spoils of your honor."
He looked at me with greater stedfastness than before. I became every
moment more anxious for my safety. It was with difficulty I stammered
out an entreaty that he would instantly depart, or suffer me to do so.
He paid no regard to my request, but proceeded in a more impassioned
manner.
"What is it you fear? Have I not told you, you are safe? Has not one
in whom you more reasonably place trust assured you of it? Even if I
execute my purpose, what injury is done? Your prejudices will call it
by that name, but it merits it not. I was impelled by a sentiment that
does you honor; a sentiment, that would sanctify my deed; but, whatever
it be, you are safe. Be this chimera still worshipped; I will do nothing
to pollute it." There he stopped.
The accents and gestures of this man left me drained of all courage.
Surely, on no other occasion should I have been thus pusillanimous. My
state I regarded as a hopeless one. I was wholly at the mercy of this
being. Whichever way I turned my eyes, I saw no avenue by which I might
escape. The resources of my personal strength, my ingenuity, and my
eloquence, I estimated at nothing. The dignity of virtue, and the force
of truth, I had been accustomed to celebrate; and had frequently vaunted
of the conquests which I should make with their assistance.
I used to suppose that certain evils could never befall a being in
possession of a sound mind; that true virtue supplies us with energy
which vice can never resist; that it was always in our power to
obstruct, by his own death, the designs of an enemy who aimed at less
than our life. How was it that a sentiment like despair had now invaded
me, and that I trusted to the protection of chance, or to the pity of my
persecutor?
His words imparted some notion of the injury which he had meditated. He
talked of obstacles that had risen in his way. He had relinquished his
design. These sources supplied me with slender consolation. There was no
security but in his absence. When I looked at myself, when I reflected
on the hour and the place, I was overpowered by horror and dejection.
He was silent, museful, and inattentive to my situation, yet made no
motion to depart. I was silent in my turn. What could I say? I was
confident that reason in this contest would be impotent. I must owe my
safety to his own suggestions. Whatever purpose brought him hither, he
had changed it. Why then did he remain? His resolutions might fluctuate,
and the pause of a few minutes restore to him his first resolutions.
Yet was not this the man whom we had treated with unwearied kindness?
Whose society was endeared to us by his intellectual elevation and
accomplishments? Who had a thousand times expatiated on the usefulness
and beauty of virtue? Why should such a one be dreaded? If I could have
forgotten the circumstances in which our interview had taken place, I
might have treated his words as jests. Presently, he resumed:
"Fear me not: the space that severs us is small, and all visible succour
is distant. You believe yourself completely in my power; that you stand
upon the brink of ruin. Such are your groundless fears. I cannot lift
a finger to hurt you. Easier it would be to stop the moon in her course
than to injure you. The power that protects you would crumble my sinews,
and reduce me to a heap of ashes in a moment, if I were to harbour a
thought hostile to your safety. Thus are appearances at length solved.
Little did I expect that they originated hence. What a portion is
assigned to you? Scanned by the eyes of this intelligence, your path
will be without pits to swallow, or snares to entangle you. Environed by
the arms of this protection, all artifices will be frustrated, and all
malice repelled."
Here succeeded a new pause. I was still observant of every gesture and
look. The tranquil solemnity that had lately possessed his countenance
gave way to a new expression. All now was trepidation and anxiety.
"I must be gone," said he in a faltering accent. "Why do I linger here?
I will not ask your forgiveness. I see that your terrors are invincible.
Your pardon will be extorted by fear, and not dictated by compassion. I
must fly from you forever. He that could plot against your honor, must
expect from you and your friends persecution and death. I must doom
myself to endless exile."
Saying this, he hastily left the room. I listened while he descended the
stairs, and, unbolting the outer door, went forth. I did not follow him
with my eyes, as the moon-light would have enabled me to do. Relieved by
his absence, and exhausted by the conflict of my fears, I threw myself
on a chair, and resigned myself to those bewildering ideas which
incidents like these could not fail to produce.