unfortunate Urania, are but too well acquainted; Dungeons, whose massy
walls had rendered them impenetrable to the flames, which had laid all
above them in ruins. But what fortress is so strong, what abyss of the
earth is so deep, that its approach is inaccessible to the generous
activity of friendship? Gertrude had no sooner clasped in her arms the
poor ill-treated babe, than she lost not a moment before she quitted the
Castle, and fled with him to implore the honest inhabitants of the vale
to afford their assistance to his unfortunate mother.
As more than half the attendants of the barbarous Queen of Hungary
disapproved of her late treatment of the wretched and the helpless, and
were favourable to the cause of opprest innocence, Gertrude met with but
little difficulty (when she secretly returned to Ravenstein) in gaining
admission to the dungeon of her friend: but she found the unfortunate in
a situation, which made her escape almost impracticable—the Queen had
that morning condescended to enter her cell, possibly thinking that it
was right to fulfill one of the most sacred duties of her faith, the
visiting the prisoner: but what she brought with her was not, according
to the divine precept, hope and consolation. No; much rather was it her
business to heap on the head of her heart-broken captive an additional
weight of motives for affliction. An animated picture of the enormity of
Rodolpho’s crimes, and an horrible enumeration of the tortures to which
his sentence condemned him, nearly robbed the wretched Adelaide of her
senses; and she only retained recollection sufficient to feel the last
stab inflicted by her tormentor, when the unfeeling woman named the day,
on which Rodolpho was to suffer. Well did she hear that cruel word, and
that moment of horror inscribed itself on her bewildered brain in
characters of fire.
Gertrude, when she hastened to her friend’s bedside, could not help
fancying that she already embraced her corse: her feelings had been
strained beyond their utmost boundaries, and were followed by a total
cessation of her powers both of body and of mind.
Gertrude had received some plain hints, that the compassionate servants
of an inhuman mistress were disposed to shut their eyes to any thing,
which she might undertake in favour of the captive. Walter Forest’s
mother had accompanied her to Ravenstein; these two kind-hearted women
raised the unconscious Adelaide in their arms, and not without much
difficulty conveyed her from the dungeon. The guards appointed to watch
the door appeared to be buried in sleep, while the fugitives past them;
and they reached a narrow portal in the back part of the fortress
without meeting any impediment. The good porter turned the lock for them
in silence, and (conscious that the veil of darkness would conceal his
benevolent action from the queen, who would not easily have been
persuaded to pardon it), he assisted Gertrude to place her rescued
friend in the litter, which waited for them at a few paces from the
Castle-gate. Swiftly did they now descend the mountain-pass, and it was
not long, before the Castle of Ravenstein was left far behind them.
The good peasants, to whom Gertrude applied for shelter and concealment,
granted it without hesitation: but many days elapsed, before they
succeeded in snatching Adelaide from the shadows of the grave, towards
which her unbroken stupor appeared to be conducting her. On the fourth
day, she discovered the first symptoms of consciousness; she started up
suddenly, and asked several hurried questions, which were faithfully
answered.
Adelaide again sank back upon her couch, and remained for some time
silent, with her eyes staring wildly, and directed towards Heaven.
—“Then it was not a dream!” she said at length aloud; “it was not in a
vision, that I saw those dreadful scenes at Ravenstein! it was but
yesterday, that all this happened, and yet it seems to me, as if since
then there had past half a century!”—
—“Pardon me, noble Lady. It is now three days, since you have been in
safety: to-day is the first Monday after the Nativity, and....”—
—“Monday, say’st thou? the first Monday after ... Rodolpho! oh!
Rodolpho!”—
She attempted to quit her bed, but Gertrude prevented her.
—“Dear Lady,” said she, “recollect your weak condition: the sudden chill
or the morning-air would be enough to kill you.”—
—“Right, right! then it is only morning yet? oh! yes; I now see myself
that it is no more. Look, where the sun rises from behind yonder
mountain! ha! how red and how gloomy he burns, foreboding that it will
be a bloody day!”—
Gertrude comprehended not her meaning, and replied not. Adelaide
repeated her request that she might be permitted to rise, with such
earnestness that her attendants were compelled to obey her. She suddenly
drew her arm from Gertrude’s, and walked a few paces without assistance.
—“Yes, it will do well,” said she, after a pause with a look of
satisfaction. “Now then bring my child; let me once again embrace
him.—But alas! it must not be. My boy is very young, and needs much
attention; even in your hands, good Gertrude, he will not be taken
sufficient care of, and I must remain here. Oh! my poor husband, I am
forbid to follow you; but peace, peace to your tortured bones; repose
and pardon to your afflicted spirit!”——
Adelaide with folded hands had sunk on her knees before the
cottage-window, whose casement was illuminated by the beams of the
morning sun. She now rose up, and again demanded, that her baby should
be brought to her.
Her attendants delayed to obey the order. That delay alarmed her; she
insisted with increased earnestness on seeing her child, and they were
at last compelled to acknowledge, that on the evening before it had
expired.
—“Dead!” she exclaimed, and the tone in which she spoke it exprest by
that single word at once all the feelings of agony, which a mother’s
heart can suffer.—“Dead!” she again repeated, after some moments of
silence. Then as if she had suddenly discovered a ray of comfort, she
added—“that is right! quite right!—but still I must see it!—my child!
show me my child!”—
They conducted her to the cradle, in which the pallid infant lay, and
appeared to smile even in death. She kist it without shedding a single
tear, and desired to be conducted back to her couch, and to be left
alone.
Gertrude was too much on her guard to grant the sufferer more than the
first half of her request. She seated herself by her bedside, and for
some time watched unremittingly.—But wearied with her long vigils during
Adelaide’s insensibility, she at length found her powers inadequate to
fulfill her good intentions. About midnight sleep completely overcame
her; and now was an opportunity afforded to the wife of my unfortunate
brother, to execute that wild resolution whose consequences soon
re-united her to the husband whom she adored.
Adelaide rose silently from her bed, and left the house without being
observed. Through the shadows of night she wandered towards the place,
where her broken heart panted to arrive. Her weakness made her long in
accomplishing this painful journey. On the day before her arrival
Rodolpho had already undergone the torture of the rack; yet did Adelaide
reach the place of execution time enough to receive his last breath and
his last blessing. His breaking eyes recognized her well-known features,
before they closed for ever; he murmured her name, and she sank upon his
bleeding bosom[1].
Footnote 1:
Some historians assert, that the sufferings of Rodolpho of the
Beacon-Tower lasted for three whole days. During this time his wife
could not be persuaded to quit the place of execution, and it was not
till he had breathed his last, that she suffered herself to be
conveyed to Basle, where she soon after expired.
They forcibly removed her from the scaffold; whether out of cruelty or
compassion I cannot pretend to say. Understanding how closely I was
connected with her, the new Emperor Henry of Luxemburg caused her to be
removed to my convent, that she might end her days in my arms. God be
thanked, they were ended soon! death and eternal rest were all, that it
was left us to wish the poor sufferer. Scarcely had she strength to
reach the place of my abode. The lay-sister informed me that a lady ill
and weary requested to see me. I hastened to the convent-gate; it was
Adelaide. Wearied in truth she was, alas! wearied even unto death! it
was on my bosom, that the angel breathed her last.
All-merciful Heaven, was not the burthen then imposed on me too great
for the strength of one like me, a poor weak helpless mortal? the bloody
death of my beloved though guilty brother was scarcely announced, when I
was doomed to weep over the grave of that innocent creature, whom I
called my sister not more with my lips, than with my whole full heart!
Adelaide was herself unable to explain to me the connection of those
terrible events, which cost her her existence: but it was easy to guess
those which had happened lately. Her poor wounded feet convinced me,
that she had performed some long and painful journey, and whither could
the wife have directed her steps but to the scaffold, on which her
husband was condemned to breathe his last? Poor, poor Adelaide! the
attempt to throw yourself into my arms was the last exertion of your
exhausted powers: words were denied you to explain your excess of
suffering to your sister; but your looks so expressive of anguish and
pious resignation spoke to my heart in a language most intelligible!
Adelaide’s attendants had mist her soon after her escape, and hastened
in pursuit of her: but ignorance of the way which she had taken for some
time led them astray. At length the report of Rodolpho’s death reached
them, and gave them a clue to trace the fugitive. From the place of
execution it was easy to follow her to my convent; where else could they
expect to find the unhappy Adelaide, but in the arms of sisterly
affection?
I learned such circumstances as were still unknown to me from these
afflicted women, who were almost distracted at hearing the loss of their
mistress, whose sudden death they attributed to their own carelessness
in suffering her to escape. Not long after these melancholy events, the
_gentle_ and pious Queen of Hungary sent to request that the body of the
noble sufferer might be delivered up to her messengers; it being (as
they informed me) her intention to deposit it in her newly-erected
church of Konigfeld, which she had built on the spot where her father
Albert had perished, and in which she had already ordered a sumptuous
monument to be prepared for the Lady of the Beacon-Tower.
Report was loud in praise of this generous act of the saint-like
Johanna, who thus offered an honourable grave to the wife of her
father’s murderer. As it appeared to me in a light by no means so
amiable, I scrupled not to give the Queen’s request a positive refusal.
My sister’s bones repose in the vaults beneath our convent-chapel; the
marble which covers them bears no inscription except the name of her who
is buried there, a name which will be sacred to the latest posterity, as
an example of undeserved affliction and of love and truth unequalled.
Come to this place of sorrow, dearest Urania; come, and bathe that
hallowed stone with your tears, on which my own still fall in my most
serious hours. At present suffer me to rest from the painful task of
describing scenes, the slightest recollection of which is almost
sufficient to break my heart in pieces. God grant that ere long it may
break for ever! Adelaide’s smiling form seems to beckon me away to the
regions of light.—Rodolpho’s shade I strive in vain to discern; it
appears not!—oh! thou my brother! my dear seduced unhappy brother! may
the Divine Providence grant me not to close my eyes, till my unceasing
fervent prayers shall have obtained the absolution of thy sins, and have
gained thy admission into the dwellings of the blessed!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_PART THE FOURTH._
═══════════════
_Count Donat’s Daughters._
_Emmeline of Sargans to Amabel Melthal._
Perhaps, dear Amabel, you had good reasons for quitting the Castle of
Sargans, though filial respect forbids my examining what those reasons
were; but have not I reasons equally good for lamenting your departure?
oh! never more term me your mistress; that name is painful to my heart
and injurious to our friendship. You know well, that I never treated you
as really filling that station, to which you were destined, when in the
days of our childhood my father first brought you with him to Sargans.
You were not my attendant; you were my companion, were my sister! away
with the jargon of illustrious ancestry and of humble birth; such
distinctions disgrace the lips of Helvetia’s daughters; and in truth,
dear Amabel, when all is justly weighed, she who is the daughter of
Henric Melthal, the relation of Walter Forest and the pupil of Gertrude
Bernsdorf, has far greater cause to be proud of her origin, than one who
is the offspring of Donat and Mellusina, and who must blush to name as
her grandfather Ethelbert of Carlsheim, the unfortunate and the guilty.
Yet take comfort, Emmeline of Sargans! you too can number some few among
the connections of your family, who would not disgrace the best and
proudest. The venerable Urania Venosta deigns to bestow on you the names
of daughter and of grand-child; what matters it, that her blood does not
actually flow in my veins, since her heart feels towards me the
affection of a mother?
Never can I prize too highly my good fortune in having gained an
interest in the bosom of this admirable matron, and being occasionally
permitted to profit by her intercourse!
For this too am I indebted to _you_, my Amabel! its true, I can still
remember well to have seen her in this Castle, while I was yet but a
child; I remember well, that she bestowed on me the most affectionate
appellations, that she suffered me to repose in her arms, and that when
she quitted Sargans, I wept bitterly, and begged, that I might accompany
her. But the harshness with which my father repulsed my dear lost sister
and myself, whenever we ventured to express a wish that we might see
Urania once more, aided by the lapse of years and the volatility of
youth, had by degrees nearly effaced all recollection of her; when you,
my beloved friend, arrived at the Castle, and recalled to my mind the
noble image of Urania. You boasted, that you had resided for some time
under her protection, and that she had taken the greatest pains to
instill into your young mind lessons of the purest virtue, in order that
you might impart them to the two poor orphan sisters, when your father
should conduct you to Count Donat’s fortress; a step, to which nothing
less powerful than Urania’s influence could have induced Henric Melthal
to consent.
That step was the preservation of Amalberga and of myself. Orphans in
truth we were! brought up under the tuition of such a father, and
associating with his abandoned intimates, what was it probable would
become of us? Heaven be thanked, you have saved us, or at least you have
saved _me_. But you are torn from me; and now that you are gone, how
difficult should I have found it to remain steady in the way that I
ought to pursue, had you not shown me the secret path through the wood
which terminates at Urania’s convent. I have already frequently eluded
the vigilance of my attendants; I have visited Urania; have always found
the doors of her cell open to me, and methinks have never returned,
without feeling myself happier and better than when I came.
And all this do I owe to you, and yet in writing to your friend
Emmeline, can you resolve to offend her by calling yourself her servant?
Amabel, you are my benefactress; while I exist, never will I cease to
thank you.
_Emmeline of Sargans to Amabel._
I have just left the venerable Urania, but I have received in her
society to-day less satisfaction than usual. I have gone through a
strict examination. Though, Heaven be thanked, my heart is unconscious
of harbouring any thing which I should blush to own, yet I could not
help feeling, that such close enquiries were painful to me, and that it
was impossible for me to answer every question with equal readiness.
Explain to me, Amabel, what was the cause of these sensations; you are
more intelligent than I am, and have frequently set me right, while I
have been bewildered among the secret avenues of my heart. Who was it
but Amabel, who first taught me to look into myself, and to sit in
severe and impartial judgment over my own thoughts and feelings?
Urania during my former visits had thought proper to enquire, how far I
am acquainted with the annals of my family. I did not conceal from her,
that Gertrude Bernsdorf during the short visit which Count Donat
suffered me to pay you in the Vale of Frutiger, had made known to us
every thing, of which during fifty years she had been an eyewitness.
Urania blames highly the good old woman’s loquaciousness, and assures
me, that above half what I have heard from her was only calculated to do
me harm. I can well believe, that Urania is in the right; it is at least
certain, that Gertrude’s narrative had almost robbed me of one virtue,
respect for the character of my father; how can I love and esteem that
cruel Donat, who was the author of all those complicated misfortunes,
which afflicted so many of the best of earthly beings, and my admirable
friend Urania among the rest? the benevolent saint chides me for
encouraging such thoughts, and bids me forget that, which she has
herself long since forgotten; but how is it possible for me to obey her?
alas! I have already been myself too severely the victim of Count
Donat’s vices. I cannot forget that he abandoned my youth to the ill
impressions of his low-born and libertine associates; that he degraded
me to be the companion of his Parasites and his harlots: I cannot
forget, that it is he and his harsh treatment of her, that I must thank
for the loss of my beloved Amalberga!
The subject of Urania’s next question regarded the fate of my sister: on
this point also I answered her with openness. I did not merely relate
those melancholy scenes, which never can be effaced from my memory; I
painted them with such warmth and in such lively colours, that the
emotion with which my story was heard convinced me, that I had made them
present to the eyes of my auditor. Still was she not contented with
merely hearing me briefly recite those circumstances, which made her
mingle her tears with mine: she has desired me to communicate to her in
writing all that has past in the most circumstantial manner; and she
flatters me with the hope of her being able to found such conjectures on
this narrative, as may be the source to me of much future consolation,
and may even be the means of finally re-uniting me to my dear lost
sister.
Oh! were I but certain, that this would really be the consequence, with
what pleasure should I undertake a task, which I shall now enter upon so
unwillingly! Amabel, you saw how many tears I shed, when that unexpected
and most inexplicable event took place; and you will not wonder, that
sitting where I now do, those tears flow with renewed violence. It was
in this very chamber, that I saw Amalberga for the last time! what pain
did it cost me to tear myself away from her! in what distraction did I
fall at the feet of my cruel father, and entreat him no longer to
imprison my beloved sister, or at least to make me her companion in
captivity! he repulsed me with frowns; and the innocent girl heard Count
Donat’s own hand turn the lock of this chamber, in which the next
morning she was no longer to be found. My father and myself mutually
accused each other of her flight; _his_ accusations were curses, mine
were confined to tears: whether both were equally innocent of
Amalberga’s disappearing is at least to me still a mystery.
And these events, which when even slightly hinted at gave my heart a
severe pang, must I compel myself to commit to paper calmly and
circumstantially!—yet be it so! the painful task will cost me many
tears, but they will not be the first tears, which have streamed within
these walls. Urania informs me, that this very chamber was long her own;
how severe were her afflictions is already known to you.
I now come to the third subject of enquiry, with which (I might almost
say) my adopted mother _tortured_ me this morning; and I am scarcely
less unwilling to mention it even to you, than I was unable to reply to
_her_ with firmness and sincerity.
You cannot have forgotten what past at the tournament, at which I saw
the Bishop of Coira’s nephew for the first time. Urania seems to be
almost as well acquainted as you and myself with all that past on that
occasion; and were I not thoroughly convinced of the discretion of my
faithful Amabel, I might be tempted to suspect her of having
incautiously suffered herself to be seduced into revealing the secrets
of her friend.
I was not so frank, as you might possibly have been in a similar
situation; and my want of confidence in her drew down upon me in some
degree the matron’s displeasure. I will endeavour on a future occasion
to repair my fault, but I doubt being able to prevail on myself to do
so. It seems to me very difficult, I might almost say quite impossible,
to lay before the eyes of a Nun considerably advanced in years those
weaknesses, which she must have long since forgotten and have learned to
despise and ridicule; even supposing, that she should ever have been
subject to them in the same degree with myself.
I flatter myself, that I deserve to be forgiven, and that I should run
no risque in discovering my secret sentiments even before the most
severe tribunal. Who could see Herman of Werdenberg without emotion?
neither is it an object of slight importance, to obtain by marriage my
deliverance from a family so constituted as Count Donat’s. I am assured
daily, that I might immediately obtain that deliverance, would I but
insist upon being permitted to assume the veil; and heaven only knows,
what step I should not be ready to take, rather than remain longer
exposed to such dangers as environ me at Sargans, had I not hopes of
being released in a more agreeable manner, by the hand of my beloved
warrior. Do you think it possible, my friend, that Herman should persist
in his obstinacy much longer, when his only motive is grounded on his
aversion to my name, the melancholy and hated name of _Count Donat’s
daughter_?
It would be superfluous to describe to you the mode of life at present
followed in the Castle of Sargans; things go on in their old track. The
female favourites of the Count my father resemble each other so nearly,
that the change is scarcely perceptible, when one Sultana retires, and a
new one commands in her place. Those days, which I might otherwise pass
in tranquillity, while Count Donat with his wild companions are ranging
among hills and forests in pursuit of game, those days are now made
almost insupportable, thanks to the insolence of the reigning mistress
of the Castle. Besides this, the boon companion of my father’s riotous
pleasures Abbot Luprian of Cloister-Curwald, through impatience for the
return of the hunters, never fails to make his appearance at the Castle
too soon; and then not knowing how to dispose of his time, he thinks
proper to bestow it on me, a favour with which I could most readily
dispense. This man is odious to me beyond measure: the ostentatious pomp
of his appearance continually reminds me of that worthless Guiderius,
who made Urania pass so many uneasy hours. Perhaps, my aversion to the
Abbot is merely founded on prejudice; God grant, that I may not find
cause to be confirmed in my ill opinion.
_Amabel Melthal to Emmeline of Sargans._