Feudal Tyrants;
or The Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans. Vol. II
◆ ◆ ◆
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FEUDAL TYRANTS;
OR,
_The Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans_.
A ROMANCE.
_TAKEN FROM THE GERMAN._
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
◆ ◆ ◆
BY M. G. LEWIS,
AUTHOR OF
_The Bravo of Venice, Adelgitha, Rugantino, &c._
◆ ◆ ◆
VOL. II.
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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 SECOND.
_Elizabeth, Countess of Torrenburg, to Count Oswald of March._
With this letter, my dear brother, you will receive a part of the
manuscripts, which I engaged to send you: these leaves contain the
memoirs of the unfortunate Urania Venosta, which have interested me
greatly from a variety of reasons. I had erroneously supposed that the
MS. was complete, but it proves to be nothing more than a fragment.
Perhaps I imprudently included the second part of her adventures in the
number of those papers, which I was compelled to restore to the Abbess’s
custody; but I am rather more inclined to believe, that Time has
destroyed the remainder of these memoirs, whose conclusion I am so
desirous of perusing.
It’s true, I have found a few more detached leaves, and the last page or
two; but these only serve to augment a curiosity, which would have
remained totally unsatisfied, if I had suffered the labour of examining
the moth-eaten parchments to overcome my perseverance. I have now no
reason to regret the trouble which I gave myself, since I owe to it the
possession of several other manuscripts, relating to persons and
circumstances already mentioned by Urania. The memoirs of Minna of
Homburg and of Lucretia Malaspina are both lost; but I have found much
respecting the two Ladies of Sargans, to whom Urania’s narrative is
addrest; much too respecting the noble and ill-fated Adelaide; as also
several letters written by the latter, one of which seems to supply
tolerably well the chasm in Urania’s memoirs. As soon as I succeed in
decyphering them (which, thanks to the dust and the moths, is no easy
task) I will not fail to impart to you their contents.
You will ask me, what impression the perusal of this history has made on
my heart. Ah! my dear brother, it is but too certain, that the
unfortunate are apt to find their own resemblance every where! At first,
how little similar do the fortunes of Urania and myself appear! and yet
how easily might it have happened, that we should have both been sisters
united in the same misfortune! Might not Henry of Montfort, (whose loss
has cost me so many tears,) in spite of his fair exterior, have proved
at heart as great a monster, as Ethelbert of Carlsheim proved in spite
of _his_? May not the prayers, with which I solicited Heaven to grant me
Henry’s hand, have pleaded for that, whose possession would have proved
to me the bitterest curse of Heaven?
Eternal Providence! never more will I murmur that you denied me a
request, whose consequences were known to you far better than to myself.
I besought you to bestow on me a blessing; you granted it by withholding
that, which if conferred on me would perhaps have made me miserable for
ever.
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_Adelaide of the Beacon-Tower to Urania Venosta._
Oh! tell me, unhappy wife of my unhappy father; you, whom I would so
gladly call my mother, had not she to whom Nature bade me give that
valued name, compelled me to blend with it no ideas but those of pain
and terror; you, whom I already love, and whose future affection I wish
so anxiously to obtain; oh! tell me, Urania, was it but a dream, or have
I indeed found at length the friend and sister whom I sought so long in
vain, and whose counsels and whose comfort my tortured heart needs so
greatly?
Yet alas! what avails it that we have met? Already are we separated, as
I feared we should be, and separated (as I _now_ fear) for ever! Yet,
much as I grieve for what I lose myself by this event, still more do I
grieve to think, that what _you_ lose is greater!
How much do I now reproach myself, that when I stole to your tent at
midnight to warn you and the fair partner of your captivity of what was
about to happen, I should have been so tardy in acknowledging,—“_Count
Donat of Carlsheim is a man not to be trusted_.”—Yet forgive me, Urania;
Donat is my brother; and oh! it is so painful to declare a brother’s
disgrace!
I charge you, dear friend, in the name of Heaven and the Holy Virgin I
charge you, suffer not yourself to be deceived by his perfidious
friendship. On your journey to the Castle seize the first opportunity of
escaping; should you be once inclosed within the gates of Sargans, you
have nothing to expect but a cruel death or an ignominious prison; and,
alas for the damsel of Mayenfield! _she_ has a still more dreadful lot
to apprehend!
That hypocritical abbot Guiderius, or whatever be his detested name, who
came to my brother’s camp with his monks under pretence of pleading in
your behalf, was skilful enough to discover Count Donat’s darling
weakness. He promised him the possession of a young beauty, who
(according to his account) was entirely at the Abbot’s disposal. My
brother, who never confides in the word of ecclesiastics, insisted on
the immediate accomplishment of this promise; and the poor Minna was
betrayed into the seducer’s hands. You accompanied her, and by your
presence increased the ardour with which I had resolved to labour at
preserving the innocent girl; a service which I had already rendered to
many others, who found themselves enveloped in the same snare.
I saw you, Urania; oh! how strong was the sympathy which attracted my
heart towards you, my heart to which at this moment a friend is so
necessary! It’s true I have a sister; but she.... But you have already
_seen_ Mellusina, and you shall now _know_ her.
Mellusina is privy to the designs of her faithless husband. Nothing but
the promise of overlooking all his errors of this nature, and the
temptation of her immense wealth, could have induced Donat to bestow on
her the title of his wife. She is neither lovely in person, nor amiable
in manners; and she bears a mortal hatred to every woman, who possesses
those advantages which Nature has denied to herself. I cannot boast much
of her good will towards me; yet I am compelled to pay my court to her,
that she may not injure me with my brother, of whose powerful help my
dear unfortunate husband stands at present but too much in need.
I trust a time will come when I may reveal to you the whole history of
my sorrows; at present I can only repeat my warning. Yet surely some
invisible power was disposed last night to give that warning in my
stead! What could be the cause of that singular and terrific sensation,
which we all felt at that moment, when Mellusina’s sleep at length left
me at liberty to afford you the information, which this letter contains?
What was it that startled us all at the same instant, and made us utter
a scream of fear? What form was it that passed before us so swiftly?
Whence came that sound, which seemed like a distant bell tolling? Whose
were the cold fingers which seemed to grasp my neck?——Struck with an
universal terror, we sprang from our seats at once, and asked each
other—“What was that?”—Even the slumbering Mellusina was rouzed from her
insensibility by alarm, and the hand with which she drew me from your
tent was cold and trembling!
Surely, Urania, this _must_ have been the warning of your guardian
angel, who wished to accomplish that which Mellusina’s presence forbad
my performing without danger ... unless indeed I were to give this
mysterious event a different, and a more dreadful meaning! I know not
why, but since that moment of terror in which we parted, the thought of
my father never quits me for an instant! I trust no misfortune has
befallen him.—Is he not in the hands of his son?—Alas! alas! and is not
Donat capable of violating even the first and most sacred rights of
Nature?
Oh! good, good father! since I have seen Urania Venosta, how much more
warmly does my heart glow towards you with filial affection! How
despicable, how execrable was _she_ described to be, for whose sake my
mother was sacrificed; and how different did I find her from the
description! Her dignified air, her interesting countenance, inspired
even the savage Donat with respect! Oh! surely I have been equally
deceived respecting Count Ethelbert; surely I shall still enjoy the
blessing of being clasped to the bosom of a _virtuous_ father!
Once again, beloved Urania, be cautious both with regard to your own
proceedings and Minna’s.—Fail not to let me know, as soon as possible,
what passes at the Castle, if your evil genius decrees that you should
be brought thither, and if an opportunity is afforded you of answering
me by the faithful messenger, by whom this letter will be delivered.
With regard to myself, I shall only inform you briefly, that my
intention of warning you was suspected. Mellusina was commissioned to
watch over me last night, as soon as it was discovered, that I had
stolen to your tent unknown to my brother and his wife. In order to
prevent the execution of my good design this morning, I was forcibly
compelled to suffer you to depart without me for the Castle of Sargans;
and I understand, that my absence was accounted for to you by the
pretence of sudden illness. I am now setting out, by Donat’s orders, for
the convent of St. Mary, at Basle: the Abbess is my secret friend, and
soon after my arrival you shall hear from me. I trust, that I shall
learn what has happened to you at the return of my messenger; and I need
not assure you, that nothing in my power to assist you shall be
neglected for a moment. Farewell!
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_Urania Venosta to the Abbess of St. Mary’s._
The explanation which you demand of me, dear mother, would be very
painful to make. For the benefit of my husband’s grand-daughters, I have
confided to paper the whole history of my misfortunes; and the first
time that you visit our Domina, the manuscript shall be laid before you.
For the present I shall only tell you thus much: From that fearful
moment when an invisible agent warned me, that misfortune was at hand;
when we all felt, saw, heard something, which even yet none of us have
been able to describe or understand; when I saw my earthly guardian
angel, _your_ Adelaide and _mine_, torn from me, and felt (yet knew not
wherefore) that a separation from her was the signal for robbing me of
all my hopes; from that moment was I doomed to experience sorrows, whose
bitterness was till then unknown to me, practised as I was in the school
of suffering.
The morning had scarcely broken, when we set forward for the Castle of
Sargans; illness, as it was said, compelled Adelaide to remain behind,
and her letter was not delivered till too late to be of use. Ere we
reached the fortress, intelligence arrived that my unfortunate husband
was no more. Guiderius, to whom the charge of him had been committed,
had either been too remiss in watching him, or had trembled for his own
miserable existence while exposed to a madman’s fury; or, as his enemies
scrupled not to whisper (though the fact seems too atrocious for me to
give it credit), had himself been the means of “ridding the world of an
useless creature.” Such was the expression used by the insolent vassal,
who informed Count Donat that his father had perished by an untimely
death: I had the satisfaction of seeing, that the Count of Carlsheim
rewarded the base wretch as he deserved!
The body of Count Ethelbert was found in the ruined well, into which (so
said the Abbot) he had precipitated himself in a fit of frantic passion.
This story did not meet with implicit belief; even Count Donat was
openly among the disbelievers. Yet (after I had passed some time in the
prison, which I was compelled to enter on the very evening of my arrival
at that castle, of which I was the rightful owner) I was assured by my
jailors that the Abbot of Curwald was fully reinstated in Count Donat’s
favour, and constantly partook of the licentious feasts, the noise of
whose riotous pleasures penetrated even to the depth of my subterraneous
dungeon.
Yet I was not entirely forsaken. My guardian angel, my kind protecting
Adelaide suffered no circumstance to escape her, that might tend to my
relief. On the first evening of our acquaintance (alas! it was the first
and last, for never since have I been permitted to embrace the dear
one!) I mentioned accidentally that the daughters of the Emperor Rudolf
had been my earliest friends and playmates: from this trifling hint did
Adelaide derive means for effecting my deliverance. No sooner was she
permitted to leave the convent, in which her brother at first caused her
to be confined, than she made use of her liberty to procure mine; and
(since she knew that gentle means would be of no avail) she endeavoured
with the strong arm of authority to force me out of the power of my
inhuman jailor.
She, who in a single interview had been inspired with so much interest
and compassion for the unfortunate Urania; she, who in spite of her want
of power was still able to benefit me so much, could little suspect that
six powerful Princesses would remain inactive, when the business was to
rescue from misery the companion of their childhood, the selected friend
of their youth. Alas! she found herself mistaken: five of Rudolf’s
daughters were the wives of sovereign Princes; the interests of kingdoms
occupied their attention, and left them no thought to bestow on her whom
they had once treated as their equal, and to whom they had sworn at
parting firm friendship and affection without end. One only of the five
(it was Matilda, the virtuous Duchess of Saxony) listened to Adelaide’s
unwearied intercessions, and exerted her whole influence to obtain the
Emperor’s interference in my behalf.
Her endeavours were at length successful; but ere I regained my freedom
many years had elapsed, and by all but Adelaide’s ardent friendship I
was believed to be no more. During the first months of my captivity
Minna of Mayenfield had experienced a persecution, compared to which my
dungeon appeared a Paradise. For its particulars I refer you to the
journal of her imprisonment, as written by herself: the Helvetian women
even then were well skilled in guiding the pen, and did not yield in
that noble art to many of the highest dignitaries of the church. Dear
unfortunate Minna! who can restrain their tears while reading in your
own affecting language the sad account of sufferings and trials, almost
too difficult for the strength of a Saint to endure with fortitude or
even patience, much less for an unprotected girl; and yet Minna passed
through the flames victorious!
The enamoured Donat neglected no means of seduction, which might tempt
his virtuous captive from the path of honour, and in this shameful
attempt Mellusina was his faithful assistant. It is shocking to think,
that a wife should be so depraved as to aid in removing the obstacles,
which impede her husband in his licentious pursuits; and that a woman
should forget her sex so far, as to aim at the destruction of female
innocence! I am persuaded, since the world was created, there has been
but one woman capable of such unworthy conduct; and that one was
Mellusina.
The fascinating arts of seduction having proved vain, they were followed
by violence and ill-treatment; and when, after passing several months in
ignorance of her fate, Lodowick of Homburg at length forced Count
Donat’s fortress in search of his bride, he found her in a subterraneous
cell, similar to that in which I was myself imprisoned. I heard the
tumult occasioned by her deliverance, and doubted not that my own was at
hand.—Alas! my hopes were vain! My feeble cries could not reach the
hearing of my friends; they knew not that those caverns contained any
captive except Minna. Mellusina managed to persuade my adopted daughter
and her deliverer, that I had paid the debt of Nature. They shed
unavailing tears upon the grave, which the deceiver pointed out to them
as mine, while buried alive beneath the castle’s foundations I shrieked
to them for help in vain; and I sank from the height of my deceived
hopes into the deepest despair, till time and faith in God at length
restored me to composure.
The only effect resulting to myself from Minna’s deliverance was, that
the strictness of my imprisonment was increased. The Count of Homburg’s
desperate enterprize could only have succeeded, while Donat was absent;
and the latter now seldom left the Castle, lest similar accidents should
occur. They say, that the fires of the infernal regions burn doubly
fierce, when their monarch returns from his wanderings on earth; such
too was the case in the Castle of Sargans—When their tyrant breathed the
same air with them, the chains of the poor captives were rendered doubly
heavy, and their sufferings doubly sharp!
Yet was he not permitted to kill me, since Heaven had decreed, that I
should at last see the moment of deliverance. Adelaide still maintained,
that I was in existence; imperial majesty interfered in my behalf, and
insisted on Donat’s producing proofs of my death. My tyrant became
embarrassed, and at length proposed to me that my liberty should be
restored, provided I would voluntarily make over the whole of my
possessions (which descended to me in right of my uncle) to the man, who
had so long unlawfully possessed them. I joyfully embraced the offer. I
had long considered liberty as the only real wealth; I had long
harboured no other wish than to end my wretched life in the repose and
security of a cloister!
The sacrifice of my inheritance was completed, and Donat condescended to
conduct me from my prison with his own hand; he even carried his
hypocrisy so far (when he presented me to the nobleman who had
negociated with him by order of the Emperor and the Duchess of Saxony)
as to call me “his kind mother, to whose affection he was indebted for
the greatest part of his possessions.” Yes! the wretch dared to profane
the name of mother! How ill would that sacred word have accorded with
the marks of his tyranny, with which my wrists were still scarred, had
it been pronounced before impartial hearers? But the persons into whose
charge I was delivered, were contented with having obtained my liberty,
the only point expressed in their instructions. Far was it from the
intention of my royal deliverers, that I should have been compelled to
pay so dearly for my escape from Donat’s power; but I was myself
prepared to make the sacrifice, and was besides much too weak to
vindicate my rights against my powerful oppressor. Those who could have
advised me and acted in my behalf, Edith and her daughter, were far from
me, and still believed me to be no longer in existence.
Under the protection of the imperial envoys (though in truth their
manner of executing their commission had given me but little reason to
believe them much disposed to protect me) I hastened to the convent,
which I had selected for my future abode. Yet I left behind me in Count
Donat’s castle a treasure, with which I was deeply grieved to part, and
which I would most joyfully have taken with me. During the few days
which want of strength to begin my journey compelled me to remain his
guest, the Count of Carlsheim thought it proper to shew me every mark of
outward respect; his attentions, which he forced me to endure, excited
in me only sentiments of disgust at his hypocrisy, till he presented to
me his daughters, or (as he chose to call them) my grand-children, whom
my bounty had destined to be the future heiresses of Sargans.
They were lovely innocent cherubs, born during the second year of my
captivity. The birth of these twin-sisters had cost Mellusina her life;
and the loss of a mother so unworthy might have been reckoned their
gain, had not Heaven abandoned them to the care of a father, whose
example was likely to ruin them both in body and mind. Oh! Emmeline! oh!
Amalberga! how closely did you entwine yourselves round my heart, even
in those few days of our first acquaintance! When I was about to leave
you, you clung to me, wept, and begged me to take you with me! Oh! could
you but have known what I suffered, when I tore myself from your little
arms, Heaven knows how unwillingly!—I cast a melancholy look on Count
Donat, and in the most humble manner hazarded a request: but instantly
his brow was clouded with frowns, and in an ironical tone he asked
me—“Whether I could not confide in his sincerity without his delivering
up hostages?”—
Heaven be praised, his sincerity and his insincerity have been since
then a matter of indifference to me; protected by these holy walls and
the power of the good Domina of Zurich, I no longer tremble at the
thoughts of Count Donat’s hatred. Nor have unexpected causes of
rejoicing been denied me, even in this abode of pious seclusion. The
youngest of the Emperor Rudolf’s daughters, the gentle and pious
Euphemia, whose grave and prudent air had made her an object of ridicule
to her sportive sisters and the thoughtless Urania, and who in the days
of petulant youth had ever been excluded from our circle and our girlish
secrets; Euphemia was the first, whose open arms received me on my
arrival at the convent of Zurich. She congratulated me with a joy, which
evidently came from the heart, on my having reached a place of security;
and she offered me a friendship, whose value I now first learnt to
estimate, when time and sorrow had humbled and instructed me.
She had learnt my story through her sister, the Duchess of Saxony, and
had quitted the convent of Tull, where she led the life of a Saint, to
wait for my arrival at Zurich, and comfort me in person for the many
sufferings which I had undergone. I have since had good reason to
believe, that her approach to Count Donat’s neighbourhood, and her
declared resolution never to rest till she had obtained my liberty (a
resolution which she took care should reach the Castle of Sargans), had
no slight weight in influencing the determination of my tyrant: the
wretched Urania would probably have expired long since in Count Donat’s
dungeons, had not the eyes of this benevolent Princess been fixed upon
the forlorn one’s destiny!
What have I not besides to thank her for! It is to her that I am
indebted for a reunion with my beloved Edith and her daughter, who
received me as one just risen from the dead. It is to her too that I am
indebted for your valuable friendship, Holy Mother, and for the hope of
once more embracing my preserver, my sister, my Adelaide! Till that
wished-for moment arrives, never must you expect me, venerable Lady, to
desist from entreating you to make me more accurately informed
respecting the past adventures and present situation of my unequalled
friend. I know, they are both strange and melancholy; and a cloister is
exactly the place, where the relation of such histories nourish the
emotions of holy pity, and produce a calm submissive adoration of the
wonderful and mysterious ordinations of that Providence, which formed
and which governs the world.
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_PART THE THIRD._
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MEMOIRS
OF
_Adelaide of the Beacon-Tower_;
Written by the Abbess of St. Mary’s,
and addressed to Urania Venosta,
Countess of Carlsheim and Sargans.
I must begin, noble Lady, by requesting your pardon for having delayed
so long to make known to you an history, which I thought would have more
interest in the mouth of its heroine, than it could possibly receive
from my unskilful pen. Fatal events (I grieve to say it) have for ever
deprived you of that satisfaction; and you must either learn Adelaide’s
adventures from me, or from no one.
Have not these few words already led you to guess the melancholy truth,
which this letter is intended to break to you? Oh! that the painful task
of being the first to inform you “that Adelaide is no more,” had been
imposed upon another! Yet surely it is scarcely possible, that report
should have been totally silent at Zurich, respecting events which have
excited the attention of the whole German Empire.
Yet dry your tears, virtuous Urania! they who have lived in the world so
long as we have done, should not grieve for the departure of our
beloved-ones; the hope of speedily rejoining them in another world,
never to be separated from them more, should console us under this
temporary deprivation. Lament not, that you are prevented from shewing
your gratitude to your generous deliverer; she will find the reward of
her glorious deeds in Heaven; alas! she found none on earth!
Tell me, dear Adelaide, thou suffering Saint! Chaste martyr of the
holiest love, say, with what feelings do you now enshrined in glory
review the sorrows, which oppressed you in your mortal progress?
Doubtless you review them not with such tears as obscure the eyes of
your friend, while in this mournful hour of midnight solitude she
retraces the transactions of your eventful life! Methinks I see your
form radiant with light hover round me, and hear you with a smile bid me
weep no more over afflictions, which now seem to yourself no longer
deserving of a single tear!
You see, Urania, how difficult I find the task of beginning a narrative,
which must rend open anew many an old and cruel wound; you see how
anxiously I endeavour to delay the executing so painful a commission.
But I gave you my promise! You shall be satisfied!—Permit me, however,
to be as brief as possible, and to reserve the relation of minute
particulars till the time, when I shall have an opportunity of
explaining them to you in person.
That which I look upon as the first of our dear Adelaide’s misfortunes,
was her being the daughter of Lucretia Malaspina. Lucretia (you already
know but too well) was not lovely enough to bind Count Ethelbert’s heart
in lasting fetters; nor did she possess that generous and almost
Saint-like forbearance, with which Urania supported the misfortunes
necessarily entailed upon the wife of such an husband. The discovery of
an artifice, which her short-sighted policy had induced her to practice
upon him, contributed to alienate Ethelbert’s affections, and to convert
what already was indifference into the most positive aversion.
Lucretia’s wealth was a chief inducement with the Count of Carlsheim,
when he offered her his hand. The birth of a son gave occasion to a
discovery, that the estates believed to be her own absolute property
were only held in trust for her eldest son, to whom they descended with
the first breath of air that inflated his lungs. Within a year after
Lucretia had been brought to bed for the first time, to Ethelbert’s
infinite surprize he was summoned to surrender his wife’s estates to the
guardians, appointed by her uncle’s will to take charge of them, till
the new-born infant should arrive at years of discretion. Ethelbert’s
rage was extreme; he was compelled to surrender the property, and in
revenge was barbarous enough to tear the child from its mother’s arms,
commit it to the care of strangers without informing her to whom, and
then to abandon her with every expression of hatred and contempt.
Lucretia bore this parting (dearly as she loved her incensed husband)
with the more fortitude, from her secret consciousness that she
nourished in her bosom another innocent creature, and from her fears
that if Ethelbert were present at the time of her delivery, the new-born
babe would be separated from her in the same manner, that she had been
deprived of its brother. The same apprehension, on being brought to bed
of twins, induced her to conceal the birth of one of them, in order that
she might at least have the pleasure of seeing it grow up under her own
eye, should Ethelbert’s vengeance induce him to deprive her of the
other. Accident directed her choice, which fell upon Adelaide.
The event, however, proved her fears to have been for this time
unfounded. At a distance from her, and totally engrossed by his own
libertine pursuits, Ethelbert scarcely deigned to bestow upon her a
single thought. Yet Lucretia’s partiality for her son Donat, which every
day increased, prevented her from revealing the birth of his
twin-sister, who would then have had a joint and equal right with him to
those estates, of which at that period the death of his elder brother
(while yet an infant) made him to be supposed the sole inheritor. Thus
Adelaide grew up under her mother’s eyes, and was the play-mate of her
brother, without having the least suspicion how nearly she was related
to either of them. This was of inconceivable advantage to her in her
early education. She believed herself to be a vassal’s daughter in that
house, of which she ought to have shone as the joint-heiress; and as the
youthful Donat enjoyed all the advantages of his rank, and made his
dependents feel the whole weight of his influence, many a lesson of
humility and patient suffering did Adelaide learn in her youth, which
was of material service to her in the painful scenes, which she had
afterwards to encounter. Donat ruled his mother with the most despotic
authority; his resemblance to herself, that violence of passions which
he possessed in common with her, and the docility with which he received
her pernicious instructions had won Lucretia’s whole heart, and left no
room in it for her neglected daughter; who thus was early afforded
frequent opportunities of submitting to injustice, without being
conscious that her treatment was unjust.
Lucretia had been wise enough to foresee, long before they arrived, that
such events might very possibly happen, as actually did at length take
place. With all her love for Ethelbert, she had discovered his faults
sufficiently to make her take precautions for her own security; and she
endeavoured to confine his actions by means, which though they still
preserved her the title of his wife, were nevertheless insufficient to
prevent her suffering the extreme of misery and disappointment.
She knew well, that little as Count Ethelbert _loved_ religion, he
greatly _dreaded_ it: she therefore (previous to their marriage)
insisted on his taking a most solemn oath, that however they might
disagree, or however his sentiments might alter, he would never attempt
her life, nor would (even in case of a divorce) make the offer of his
hand to a rival, as long as she herself should still be in existence.
She thus hoped to bind her inconstant lover in eternal chains; but she
little dreamt of so tyrannical a subterfuge, as that by which the
hypocrite contrived to evade the consequences of his oath.
Though she found all endeavours to regain his affection were vain, she
still watched her husband’s conduct with jealous eyes. While he visited
in turn every Italian state, whose reputation promised him new means of
indulging his propensity to pleasure, her spies still pursued him
wherever his footsteps strayed. Lucretia was accurately informed
respecting his intrigues; and seldom did the objects of Ethelbert’s
licentious passions escape without experiencing the vengeance of his
wife. His short-lived inclination once gratified, the Count of Carlsheim
heeded but little what became of his victim, and Lucretia was suffered
to exercise her resentment unimpeded; but the case was altered, when
Urania Venosta became the mistress of his heart. Her extraordinary
beauty, her high rank, and her immense possessions made him at the same
time desirous of becoming her husband, hopeless of gratifying the
passion with which she inspired him, except by giving her his hand. It
therefore became absolutely necessary, that Lucretia should be removed.
He contrived by various well-imagined artifices to lure her into
Germany; where she had no sooner set her foot, than he caused her to be
seized privately, and confined in Ravenstein Castle. A plausible story
was then spread of her having expired suddenly: no one was interested to
dispute the fact, except her son, who in truth was fondly attached to
her; but his youth and devoted attention to licentious pursuits
prevented Donat from inquiring minutely into the circumstances, which
attended his mother’s death. Lucretia was believed to be no more by all
but Count Ethelbert, who was thus left at liberty to pursue his designs
upon the lovely heiress of Sargans.
Adelaide had accompanied her mistress (for such she was taught to
believe her mother) when she quitted Italy; she refused to be separated
from her, followed her courageously to the Castle of Ravenstein, and
shared with her the miseries of her long captivity. Then was it, that
the mother’s heart for the first time felt a sentiment of tenderness for
her rejected daughter. Adelaide learnt from Lucretia’s lips her real
name and rank, and while she clasped her to her bosom, was permitted for
the first time to call her mother. Yet was the severity of her fate but
little alleviated by this discovery. Lucretia’s heart was naturally
hard; it was incapable of harbouring so pure a sentiment as that of true
parental love. Long sufferings and much disappointment had still further
embittered her character. To that kind of moral delirium, which ever
attends on a corrupted heart, was now frequently added a temporary
alienation of the understanding; and when Adelaide reflected, that the
wretched woman, whose complicated misery (both mental and corporeal) was
every moment before her eyes, was her own mother, the knowledge of her
birth only served to make her feel a double portion of agony.
Day and night was Lucretia employed in forming plans of revenge against
her cruel husband, and the innocent usurper of her matrimonial rights.
She had early taught the innocent Adelaide to hate Urania Venosta: in
the eyes of that deceived girl the heiress of Sargans was nothing better
than Count Ethelbert’s abandoned paramour, who had insolently forced
herself into the place of his lawful wife, and had been the principal
and conscious cause of her mother’s being confined in that deserted
castle. But in despite of these prejudices against you, which Lucretia
had infused into the heart of her daughter, she found it impossible to
make her enter cheerfully into the plans, which she was continually
forming for your destruction. Adelaide was well aware, that her mother
was totally without the power of carrying her wicked designs into
execution; but still she could not prevail on herself to assume even the
appearance of giving them her approbation. This obstinacy and incessant
contradiction of her hopes and views at length made her so completely
the object of Lucretia’s aversion, that she insisted on her daughter’s
being separated from her, and confined in the deepest dungeon, which the
subterraneous caverns of the Castle could supply.
You are acquainted, Urania, with the weakness of the man, who was at
that time Castellan of Ravenstein. He possessed a singular kind of
conscience, which frequently made his actions contradictory. Lucretia
had found means to send letters to her son in Italy, of which conduct
(as it was not formally prohibited in his instructions) he affected not
to take notice; but as he had been ordered to confine her _rigorously_,
she found it impossible to obtain from him the slightest alleviation of
her sufferings. Again, as Adelaide had been delivered to his custody at
the same time with her mother, no entreaties could prevail on him to
restore her to liberty; but it required but little persuasion to make
him believe, that she ought to submit to the punishment, which the
person (whom he believed to be her mistress) thought proper to inflict
on her.
Adelaide therefore was separated from her unnatural mother. She was
removed to a subterraneous cell, whose strength proved the means of
preserving her on that dangerous night, when Lucretia in despair and
frenzy enveloped the whole fortress in flames. The fire raged above her;
but she knew not what occasioned the confusion, which seemed to have
taken place in the Castle. Her wretched mother died without mentioning
her name, and her corse was committed to the earth unknown to her
daughter. The deliverance of Urania and the Countess of Mayenfield was
effected; the Castellan, who alone knew the place of her confinement,
had been dangerously hurt during the conflagration, and in his last
moments was too much occupied by the terrors of approaching dissolution
to bestow a thought on his prisoner. No one knew what was become of the
poor Adelaide; no one enquired, no one cared.
Scarcely had you escaped from Ravenstein through the well-imagined
device of Walter Forest and his followers, before your jailors began to
suspect the truth. A variety of circumstances combined to prove that
they had been over-reached, and they were enabled to see the whole
adventure in its true light. In truth, nothing but the rashness of the
attempt and the rapidity of its execution could have prevented them from
making this discovery sooner.
They were provoked beyond measure at the contemptible part, which they
had played on this occasion; too much time had already elapsed to leave
them any hopes of over-taking the fugitives, and to pursue them now had
been only giving themselves unavailing trouble. When they reflected on
the wrath of their tyrannical lord, terror almost turned their blood
into ice. It was evident, that nothing could preserve them from
destruction, but immediate flight from a place, whose natural horrors
were increased tenfold by the ravages of the late conflagration, and by
the recollection of many a cruel action, which they had committed within
those dreary walls!
Flight then was resolved upon unanimously; but they thought it as well,
not to quit Ravenstein with empty hands. It’s true, the whole wealth,
that was to be found there above ground, consisted in chains, rusty
armour, and instruments of torture; but report had assured them, that
treasures of immense value lay concealed in the subterraneous parts of
the Castle, and these they determined not to leave behind them.
They tore open the bosom of the rock, on which the Castle was situated,
without discovering aught but Adelaide’s dungeon, in which she was found
almost at the point of death, not having tasted nourishment for several
days. They were humane enough to remove the unfortunate girl into a
purer atmosphere, and to exert themselves in some measure to effect her
recovery. Her beauty probably was of some use in persuading the younger
part of the garrison to assist her the more readily; and what little
wealth she possest in jewels (the only presents of her unnatural mother)
purchased for her the protection of the more ancient and flinty-hearted.
While they were busied in attending upon her, she heard them talk much
respecting the escape of two ladies, who as well as Lucretia and herself
had been prisoners at Ravenstein: she also heard Walter Forest mentioned
as their deliverer, for Count Ethelbert’s deceived soldiers had by that
time discovered who their deceiver _really_ was, and where he resided.
On these hints did Adelaide build a plan for her escape from the society
of these lawless ruffians, for whose temporary mercy (she saw clearly)
she was only indebted to her illness and to the hurry of their
preparations for flight. At the risk of her life therefore did she, in
spite of her weak condition, take the advantage of a stormy night to
escape from the Castle, and hasten to the tranquil valley inhabited by
that friend of the opprest, Walter Forest; who failed not to receive the
poor Adelaide also with the same openness and hospitality, with which he
had received ourselves.
She rewarded his kindness by apprizing him of the attack, with which he
had been threatened by the soldiery of Ravenstein in revenge for the
artifice, by which he had contrived the escape of their captives. The
warning however proved unnecessary, for the cowardly vassals of the
Count of Carlsheim had already altered their plans. Adelaide’s flight
had ruined their hopes of falling upon Walter by surprize; they did not
dare to attack openly the brave inhabitants of the Frutiger Valley; and
they judged it more prudent on many accounts to proceed without delay to
request protection of the Lords of Eschenbach from the resentment of the
Count of Carlsheim. Ravenstein Castle had originally belonged to the
family of Eschenbach; the protection asked was readily granted; the
rebellious vassals of Count Ethelbert took the oath of allegiance to
their new master, and the shattered towers of Ravenstein Castle were
delivered into his possession.
In the mean while Adelaide, under the escort of some of Walter Forest’s
people, arrived in safety at the place, to which she had desired to be
conducted. She knew in what part of Italy Donat was then resident; and
as the prejudices, with which she had been inspired against Count
Ethelbert and his second wife, prevented her seeking a refuge in her
paternal mansion, there seemed for her no proper abode except with her
brother. Her reception was kinder, than she had expected from her
experience of Donat’s unfeeling nature. He was young, and indulged
himself to excess in the pleasures of voluptuous Italy: if his dissolute
mode of life had not bettered his heart, it had at least made it softer,
and more accessible to compassion, when the indulgence of that sentiment
did not interfere with his own gratifications. Therefore though he
listened with impatience to Adelaide’s melancholy account of her
mother’s sufferings in Ravenstein Castle, and suffered his pleasures to
make him put off from day to day the affording Lucretia that aid, of
which her daughter (who was still ignorant of her decease) never ceased
to assure him, she stood so much in need: still was he not without
compassion for the helpless situation of his sister, nor so blind to
merit, as to reject the title of brother to a creature so amiable and so
deserving. Of their relationship he had no doubt; Adelaide had brought
with her the acknowledgment of her birth written by Lucretia’s own hand;
and had other proofs been wanting, the strong resemblance imprest by
Nature on the features of Donat and his sister would have left the
spectator no doubt, that they sprang from the same parents.
Adelaide, however, soon discovered, that she could not long accept with
propriety the protection afforded her in her brother’s house. Count
Donat was surrounded day and night by a swarm of youthful libertines,
who sported in the sunshine of his wealth, assisted him in his
licentious pursuits, and were his companions in all the excesses of his
unrestrained habits of enjoyment. His lovely sister became the general
object of their insolent addresses; and Donat had neither firmness of
mind nor love of reputation sufficient to guard her against their
importunities.
She entreated permission to retire into a convent; but this was refused
her with too much anger and determination to permit her making the
request a second time. She therefore found herself compelled to give her
hand to one of her admirers, who might at least protect her from the
insults of the rest; and fortunately both for him and for myself, the
man who was least displeasing to her among the number, was Rodolpho of
the Beacon-Tower; was my brother. I have to thank _him_ for the
happiness of calling one of the best of created women by the name of
friend; I have to thank _her_ for having snatched from the jaws of ruin
the dear but erring youth, whom I loved, though but his sister, with
affection not less fervent than a mother’s!
At that time I resided in an Italian cloister, sufficiently near the
theatre of Count Donat’s exploits for the report of them to reach me,
and to make me bewail the fate of those, who were drawn by his example
into the whirlpool of licentiousness.
Alas! the intelligence at length reached me, that my unfortunate brother
was one of the young Count of Carlsheim’s most distinguished companions
in his profligate career. Mutual friendship united them; and Rodolpho’s
warm heart and too yielding nature made him look upon it as the highest
pitch of human glory, when he trod in the footsteps of his abandoned
friend.
My warnings and remonstrances had no effect upon the poor misguided
youth. You must be well aware, dear Urania, that instructions coming
from the mouth of a Nun are little regarded by the worldly, merely
because it _is_ a Nun who speaks them. Very different was the effect of
those reproofs, which the lovely Adelaide condescended to bestow on her
admirer. I have already told you, that among the Damsel of Carlsheim’s
suitors my brother was the man who displeased her the least; and this is
the strongest term which can be applied to her sentiments towards him at
that period. It is true, Rodolpho was esteemed (and that justly) the
handsomest youth in Italy; but Adelaide’s mind was too elevated to
suffer her heart to be captivated by the mere glare of a pleasing
exterior. The man, whom she now honoured with her choice, would
undoubtedly have been seen by her with as much indifference as his
worthless companions, had she not found some traces of manly sense in
his bewildered brain, and in his erring heart some still surviving
sparks of the love of virtue.
What cannot female beauty, when united with solid sense and a feeling
mind, effect upon a being, who is not yet totally lost to every sense of
goodness? Guided by the hand of Adelaide, already had Rodolpho retraced
many a step in the paths of vice: she made his immediate departure from
the theatre of his follies the only condition, on which she would bestow
on him her hand. He loved her; he complied: Adelaide became my sister,
and my brother was entirely rescued.
Oh! dearest Adelaide, how heartily did I thank you (when bidding you
farewell) for removing from the dangers of Italy a man, whom I knew to
be as safe in your arms, as under the wings of his protecting angel!
Willingly did I part with him, since he left me but to follow the path
of virtue, in which you knew how to guide him so well!
She was no sooner Rodolpho’s wife, than Adelaide insisted on his
immediately performing his promise to quit Italy: she saw, that her
personal remonstrances had no power to hasten Donat’s departure for
Ravenstein; and she was obliged to content herself with receiving from
him the most solemn assurances, that he would proceed to liberate his
unfortunate mother without further delay; assurances, which he had
frequently made before, and which were performed no better on this, than
they had been on former occasions.
Adelaide, advised her husband (who could refuse nothing to her
entreaties) to accompany her to the Court of the German Emperor, where
there was no doubt of his easily obtaining an employment suited to his
rank and talents. Rodolpho had but one objection to offer against taking
this step. Rudolf of Hapsburg had been succeeded in the imperial throne
by Adolphus of Nassau. This unfortunate monarch, who was long the friend
and benefactor of our family, was cut off in the middle of his glorious
career by the sword of Albert of Austria; and his crown became the prey
of the powerful conqueror, whose brows it still decorated. My father
lost his life in defence of his sovereign at the battle of Worms; and
his last words commanded his son Rodolpho (who together with many other
young Knights made on that day his first trial in arms) to revenge the
deaths of his father and his sovereign.