predecessors, the old Bishops of Coira. When I recollect the portraits
of the venerable Adelfried-Herbert, and of the pious Thomas of Planta,
such as I saw them in your closet; and when I compare their austere and
mortified countenances with that of the penetrating, the polished, the
gallant, the martial Herman of Werdenberg; when too I reflect how
different their simple Priest’s habit appeared from the glittering and
costly robes, in which our Cousin appeared when we were unexpectedly
presented to him for the first time, though the day was not a festival;
when I think on all these things, my dear mother, I can scarcely
persuade myself, that he and the originals of your pictures ever have
belonged to the same profession.
The manners of the Bishop’s court were entirely new to us, but were not
the less pleasing. Certainly, our father must have been little aware of
the nature of the place, whither he had sent us for shelter; or else it
must have been the most bitter hatred against his daughters, which
induced him to make us first acquainted with the pleasures of the world,
in order that the recollection of the enchanting scenes which they were
now witnessing, and the hopeless desire of witnessing them again, might
make the cloister for which he destined them seem doubly hateful.
Everything here appeared new to us; not merely the amusements which
offered themselves every day to our enjoyment, but the discovery which
was made to us in a very few hours after our arrival, that we were
beautiful.
—“Beautiful?” said I to Amalberga; “How could it possibly happen, that
we should not have found this out long ago?—It is true, I always
thought, there was something uncommonly pleasing in your countenance, my
dear sister; but still your features were too much like my own, for me
ever to have suspected them of being beautiful.”—
We consulted Amabel on this important point. She assured us with that
simplicity which was natural to her, that we did not appear beautiful to
_her_, for that on the banks of the Lake of Thun (where she was born)
the blooming charms of the village damsels were far superior to ours, at
least as far as she could give an opinion; a confession, which we heard
her make without feeling the slightest displeasure.
Perhaps in time we should have returned to our former opinion of our
beauty, if we had heard them praised by no one except the old Bishop,
who was the first to make the remark. But among the young knights, whom
the love of Tilts and Tournaments had collected at Count Herman’s court,
there were many whose existence seemed to hang upon our smiles, and who
loaded us with compliments which we not only heard but too willingly,
but even began to consider as a tribute, which ought not to be withheld
from us with impunity.
Among the youthful warriors whom a splendid Tournament had attracted to
the court of Coira, were two who particularly attracted the attention of
my sister and myself; and it happened to be precisely these two, who
seemed blind to that beauty, on which we had now learnt to set so high a
value. It is true, Count Eginhart of Torrenburg, to whom my sister gave
the preference, afforded us strong reasons for suspecting, that he was
not insensible of the power of Amalberga’s charms; yet his attentions to
her were ever cold and constrained, like those of one who had already
formed engagements, and had only just discovered, that he had been too
hasty in making his choice.
As for me, my situation was still more unpleasant. The youthful Herman
of Werdenberg, the Bishop’s nephew, had indeed paid me a few unmeaning
compliments on my arrival, before he was informed of my name; but after
our first interview, he treated me with utter neglect, and seized every
excuse for avoiding my society. Nay; he carried his unjustifiable
aversion so far, that when on the evening before the Tournament his
Uncle gave him a scarf of my colours, with a command to wear it at the
next day’s solemnity, it was not without difficulty, that he abstained
from insulting me (whom this unexpected mark of the Bishop’s partiality
for me had covered with blushes) by positively refusing to accept his
gift.
—“These are the colours of the Lady Emmeline,” said the Bishop, “of the
future Heiress of Carlsheim and Sargans. The permission to wear them
publicly, which I now give you in her name, may authorize you to
encourage hopes, whose completion will not be purchased too dearly with
the most precious blood that runs in your veins.”——
I attempted to express my disapprobation of the Bishop’s inconsiderate
conduct, and to disclaim the permission which he asserted me to have
given; but vexation choaked my utterance, and I was obliged to quit the
chamber, unable longer to restrain my tears from gushing.
—“This is not to be endured!” I said to myself, as I hastened to take
refuge in my own apartment. “Good Heavens! then interest is the only
motive, which can persuade Herman to connect his fate with that of
Emmeline! let her be as fair, as kind, as amiable as she can be,
Emmeline will still be nothing in the eyes of Herman, but the Heiress of
Carlsheim and Sargans.—Alas! poor slighted girl! hide yourself to-morrow
in your thickest veil, nor let the public eye perceive the blush of
shame on your cheek, when every one who sees Count Herman’s mail
decorated with the sky-blue scarf, will cast on you a look of
congratulation, and believe that you are the most fortunate of your sex
while you are in fact the most wretched and despised.”—
Much as it cost me, I resolved to deny myself the satisfaction of
witnessing Count Herman’s exploits, and under pretence of indisposition
I absented myself from the Tournament. My sister alone distributed the
prizes; but Herman had gained the first, and according to the
regulations of the lists he was under the necessity of laying it at the
feet of the lady, whose colours he had thought proper to wear.
I was compelled to go through this painful scene, and to see him
kneeling before me: but it was evident, that he performed his task with
the utmost reluctance; and his manner provoked me to such a degree, that
I could not refrain from assuring him—“that I ascribed no part of this
compliment to my own merits, but attributed it entirely to my bearing
the title of an Heiress of Carlsheim and Sargans.”—
—“Oh! lady,” exclaimed Herman with all that impetuous warmth which is
usual in young warriors, and which frequently borders on imprudence and
rudeness; “how much are you mistaken! the title, which you have
mentioned, has no charms for me; besides, you cannot be unconscious,
that only in consequence of my Uncle’s positive command did I tender my
services to a daughter of Count Donat.”—
Could any human being have spoken with more contempt and insolence? From
that moment I really began to abhor the very sight of the youthful Count
of Werdenberg, though the Bishop redoubled his exertions to influence me
in his favour. At length finding me deaf to all his insinuations, and
that I persisted on all occasions in avoiding his nephew, he plainly
declared his resolution of making me his niece, whether my father should
consent or not; since the gift of my hand would make young Herman lord
of all those extensive domains, which are generally known by the name of
the Twelve Cantons.
In reply, I declared my father’s intention of making me take the veil; I
also mentioned, that my sister being older than myself had much stronger
claims than mine to the paternal inheritance; but above all I dwelt upon
Herman’s behaviour to me, which became more insulting with every
succeeding day. The Bishop treated the two first objections very
lightly, declaring, that the mild and bashful Amalberga seemed designed
by nature for a Nun, and that her embracing a religious life, would
leave me sole heiress to my father’s possessions: but when I declared my
full persuasion, that I was the object of his nephew’s aversion, the
Bishop gave way to an involuntary fit of laughter.
—“The youth is an ideot!” exclaimed he. “Lady Emmeline, I protest to
you, that in the very first moment of beholding you his heart was made
your own, and he spoke of your charms with rapture, as long as he was
ignorant of your name: in truth, his passion was so evident, that it was
this alone, which suggested to me the idea of making him happy by
bestowing you upon him. But no sooner was he informed, that his adored
Emmeline was the daughter of that Count Donat, whose cruelty and
licentiousness have made him an object of abhorrence throughout
Helvetia, than he changed his intentions, and swore to extinguish in his
breast every spark of affection for one, who from her birth and mode of
education could not possibly be worthy of the love of a man of honour.
The youth spoke much about the dissolute manners of Sargans, about
libertine associates, and unprincipled courtezans, to whom the care of
your youth had been committed: nay, (to conceal nothing from you) he
even found fault with your amiable gaiety of character, which he called
by the harsh name of levity; and which (according to him) showed him but
too plainly what your husband must expect, fascinating as are the
outward charms, with which you have been so liberally endowed by
nature.”—
Such, Urania, were the Bishop’s words; but how shall I explain to you
the effect, which they produced upon my mind! at the outset of this
conversation, the Uncle’s unjust and interested views had increased my
resentment against the nephew; and I was prepared to express my
disapprobation of both in the strongest terms, when this last speech
gave a sudden turn to my thoughts, and rendered it impossible for me to
utter a syllable more respecting the business, which was then in
deliberation.
—“Herman’s heart once was mine!”—Such was the sentence, which now
occupied my whole mind.—“His heart once was mine,” I repeated to myself,
as soon as I was alone; “was mine, before he knew my name and
expectations! and it is on this name and these expectations, that his
whole aversion is now grounded!”—“the licentious manners of
Sargans.”—“My education committed to unprincipled courtezans.”—“Oh! that
is true, too true; but yet Herman, does the mariner, who gains the land
amidst the fury of winds and waves, deserve less praise, than he whom
favouring gales have wafted into the haven? and is it just, that
Amalberga and Emmeline should be objects of contempt and abhorrence,
because even in the very bosom of vice, surrounded by a thousand snares,
a thousand dangers, they never yet wandered for a moment from the paths
of virtue?—but it seems, my levity shows but too plainly, what my
husband may expect from me! oh! Herman, that was cruel, was unjust! it’s
true, nature gave me a light heart and a fondness for amusement, which
(having but just escaped from my paternal prison) perhaps I may have
sometimes suffered to carry me too far; but was this a reason sufficient
for condemning me? alas! perhaps these very spirits, with which you now
reproach me as a crime, are but a precious gift of Providence to enable
me to bear with fortitude the weight of future woes!”—
These reflections cost me many tears, and I hastened to communicate
their cause to Amabel and my sister. With their assistance, I soon
discovered that it was absolutely necessary to quit the Bishop’s court
without loss of time. Amalberga was not less anxious to avoid the Count
of Torrenburg, than I was to quit the unjust Herman for ever. Its true,
her gentle manners, her quiet and retired turn of mind had saved her
from that prejudice against a child of Count Donat’s, which my gaiety
had excited against me in the bosom of the Bishop’s nephew; but still
her union with the man of her choice was equally impracticable, though
on a different account.
The Count of Torrenburg was already betrothed to the youthful Helen of
Homburg, whom I formerly mentioned in such advantageous terms. He had
never seen her; of course she was totally indifferent to him, while what
he felt for Amalberga.... Yet how was it possible for the noble Eginhart
to break his knightly word? and even had he been resolved to break it,
how was it possible for Amalberga to rob the friend of her youth of an
husband so truly deserving, that scarcely could Helvetia produce his
equal?
Amalberga and Eginhart had never exprest their mutual sentiments in
words: but it appeared to me, that they had long understood each other
sufficiently to render any verbal explanation needless.
Our departure was determined. Our next letters hinted to our father,
that he had but little reason to expect, that the Bishop of Coira would
assist his views respecting us; and we soon received an order to return
to Sargans. Amalberga and Eginhart made their adieus rather by looks
than words: as for myself, I thought it unnecessary to take any formal
leave of Count Herman. I felt sentiments in my heart towards him, which
I insisted upon terming aversion, and grief that I had ever thought
favourably of him; but Amabel assured me, that I felt nothing of the
kind—she said, the whole was nothing more than a misunderstanding, which
was greatly to be lamented; and she vowed never to rest, till she had
justified me in the opinion of a man, who by his endeavours to detach
himself from the woman whom he adored, because he believed her unworthy
of his love, had proved sufficiently, how totally his soul was devoted
to the cause of virtue.
We had managed ill respecting our hints to Count Donat. They excited his
suspicions against the Bishop of Coira, and he insisted upon a full
explanation. This it was impossible to give, without betraying all our
own secrets; and the embarrassment, with which we answered our father’s
questions, drew down a considerable share of his suspicions upon
ourselves.
We had soon the grief to witness the renewal of hostilities between
Count Donat and the Bishop, and to accuse ourselves of having furnished
the occasion. At the same time we were watched with the utmost
strictness, and on the pretence of suspecting us of carrying on together
some secret intercourse, (though with whom was not mentioned) we were
separated. I had always been in a slight degree a greater favourite with
Count Donat than my unfortunate sister, and my beloved Amabel was
suffered to remain with me. Amalberga was confined alone in this
chamber, which I at present inhabit, and ordered to resolve upon taking
that step, which she had formerly been forbidden to think of; and which
now was only insisted upon, because it was fancied, that she discovered
some symptoms of unwillingness.
A day was already fixed, when Amalberga was to take the veil in the
Convent of St. Roswitha. She discovered more repugnance to this measure
with every succeeding day, though for what reason I know not. Her love
for the Count of Torrenburg was hopeless; what then remained for her,
except a cloister? the Abbot of Curwald past several hours daily in
endeavouring to persuade her to obey her father’s commands; and the
dislike, which I feel myself towards this man, makes me think it
probable, that his interesting himself in the business made her still
more unwilling to comply. Besides this, she received a letter from
Gertrude Bernsdorf, which Amabel found means of delivering secretly, and
which probably was not favourable to the Convent of St. Roswitha.
However, I am still ignorant of its contents; since though whenever I
was permitted to pass a few moments with my sister, she endeavoured to
find means of communicating something to me which lay upon her heart, so
many spies surrounded us, that the attempt was always made in vain.
I have already informed you, my kind protectress, on the last time that
I saw my sister, how I threw myself at my father’s feet, and implored
for gentler treatment both for her and for myself; how I entreated in
vain to be at least permitted to pass that one night with her; and how I
had the agony of being informed the next morning that she was torn from
me, without the least information being given as to whither she had been
conveyed, or the least hope held out of our ever being re-united.
Since that time my situation has become more painful in many respects.
My friend, my Amabel was compelled to abandon me, because it became
evident that Count Donat thought her handsome enough to be raised, or
rather to be degraded, to the rank of one of his favourites. You know
well, that Amabel’s open nature never suspects villainy or danger,
except where their existence is not to be mistaken; and therefore you
cannot doubt, that she had good cause for her flight from Sargans; her
departure and my sister’s disappearance, following each other so
closely, robbed me of even that little share, which I possest in my
father’s confidence. It was evident, that I had assisted Amabel’s
escape, and from this he argued, that I was equally culpable respecting
Amalberga’s. Would to Heaven, that this charge were just! willingly
would I pay for the certainty that my sister is safe, by suffering twice
as much as I do on Amabel’s account, and which I carefully conceal from
my friend, that the knowledge may not pain her gentle heart.
Oh! Urania, you may chide as you will, but can I _love_ such a father?
think, that to him alone I owe the loss of my sister and my friend;
think too, that his misdeeds were the sole cause, which robbed me of the
heart of the man, on whom my whole earthly happiness depended! Herman
hated and despised me only for being the Count of Carlsheim’s daughter;
now (as I hear) he is the suitor of another maiden; and all those hopes,
with which Amabel so fondly used to flatter me, of one day regaining his
good opinion, are lost, and lost for ever.
I am at length determined to take the veil; fool that I was, for having
delayed to take it long ago! how easily might I have remained in your
convent at any one of those times, when I privately contrived to visit
you! who would have thought of looking for me there? or if found, who
would have been able to force me from the protection of the powerful
Domina of Zurich?
Alas! these reflections come too late! I dare not quit my chamber,
unless accompanied by watchful guards; and no one is suffered to visit
me, except my attendants and the odious Abbot of Cloister-Curwald. He is
the only person, who combats my resolution of obeying my father, and
shutting myself up for ever in the Convent of St. Roswitha. I could
almost fancy, that he acts thus, because he knows me disposed to do
exactly the contrary of every thing, that he advises. In general these
dignified ecclesiastics are much more inclined to speak in favour of
religious seclusion than against it.
Yet whatever may be his design, it is certain that I _shall_ take the
veil, or rather that I _must_ take it. My father’s unaccountable
determination of burying his acknowledged heiresses in a cloister, is
decided and immoveable. I understand, that weary of his riotous mode of
life and of the dominion of unprincipled wantons, he meditates a second
marriage, and that he has selected one of the fairest and most virtuous
among the Helvetian ladies to enjoy the happiness and honour of
enlivening days, embittered by age, infirmities, and remorse.
Oh! pardon me, dear Urania, for expressing myself with such bitterness
when writing of one, who with all his faults is still my _father_! my
unfortunate situation, and the weakness of human nature must plead my
excuse for what I have said above: neither did I mention Count Donat’s
future intentions for the purpose of exasperating you against him, but
of interesting you in the cause of the innocent girl, on whom my father
has fixed his choice. In truth, I need but mention the name of her, whom
every engine of force and cunning will be employed to bring into his
power, to induce you to exert yourself in defeating his schemes: she is
no other than ... Helen of Homburg! she is the daughter of your friend
and pupil, Minna; she is the grand-child of the companion of your
sorrows, Edith of Mayenfield! she is the betrothed bride of the noble
Torrenburg! oh! hasten, if it be possible, to prevent the misery of her,
who in the days of my childhood through her instructions and example
purchased for herself the strongest claims on my gratitude! for myself,
I ask nothing but your blessing to assist me in that profession, which I
shall shortly embrace irrevocably, without bestowing one other lingering
thought on all the pleasures, which I leave behind me in the world, and
of which I have now taken my farewell for ever!
_Amabel to Emmeline._
Oh! lady, that you were but with us! your sufferings in your father’s
Castle, and your melancholy resolution of taking the veil would soon be
effaced from your thoughts completely! Great-ones of the earth, do ye
possess even one of those many unconstrained and innocent pleasures,
which daily fall to the lot of us, your inferiors? then only do you
enjoy the rights of Nature, (to which we, the favourites of that kind
mother, have no better claim than yourselves) when you throw aside your
fetters, and dare to act like the noble-minded Peregrine of Landenberg.
He, though the representative of our feudal lord the powerful Emperor,
esteems us as not beneath himself, and lives with us, as were he one of
the same humble station.
Last Sunday ... never shall I forget that glorious day! when the first
beams of the sun were discovered rising from behind the hills of snow,
and began to tinge the lake with crimson, all the young maidens of our
quarter were already assembled on the green meadow before my father’s
house—(you know, that Henric Melthal is universally respected, on
account both of his age and his wisdom.)—We were to proceed to the
neighbouring church in solemn procession, and as Henric’s daughter the
right of heading the company was mine: but I resigned my place favour of
a stranger damsel, who has lately arrived at our village, and who
(however exalted may be her proper rank) has become so well acquainted
with its disadvantages, that she has been induced to resign it, and seek
comfort and oblivion for past sorrows in the bosom of rural
tranquillity. Dear lady, could you but see this unknown maiden.... She
has adopted our simple dress, and her peasant’s habit makes it as
difficult to with-hold admiration from her, as to discover her: I mean
to say, that it alters her appearance so much, that whoever had known
her in more costly apparel, would scarcely recognize her in her present
garb. I saw her for the first time so drest on this occasion; she has of
late been resident in the Convent of Engelberg, and.... But I am running
on, forgetful that I meant to describe to you the festivities of last
Sunday.
As we moved on under the guidance of our elected queen, our white robes
and unbound ringlets fluttered loose in the morning-air, whose freshness
stained our cheeks with a deeper red, and even spread a slight tinge
over the lovely pale face of our Conductress. It was Easter-day; with
songs, pious and joyful such as suited the occasion, we reached the
Lake, where a croud of painted boats waited to waft us to the opposite
shore, on which the grey spires of the Convent-church were discernable;
and thither was our pilgrimage directed.
Long ago, a Convent was established here respecting which there are
still many traditions current; but now nothing of it remains but a heap
of ruins. The church however is still in perfect preservation. It is
never opened, except on Easter-day: and as the Friars hold this place in
abhorrence as having been the scene of many monastic crimes and of
Heavenly vengeance, it has ever been found difficult to persuade any of
them to officiate within these deserted walls. On these occasions,
therefore, the short service is frequently performed merely under the
superintendance of the two elders of our village. The service consists
of nothing more than the expansion and humiliation of the heart before
the Almighty for a few minutes in adoring silence, and a solemn hymn
chaunted by the whole united congregation, the words and melody of which
are equally simple to the ear and affecting to the heart.
Walter Forest and Werner Bernsdorf, as the two eldest, opened the holy
doors for us, and we descended a few steps into the chilling aisle of
the church: they commended us girls, for having shown our impatience to
pay our service to Heaven by arriving the first. Soon after the matrons
made their appearance, conducted by Gertrude Bernsdorf; oh! with what
joy did this venerable woman, the counterpart of her former mistress and
friend Urania, receive our conductress, the lovely stranger! I mean, how
pleased she was to see, that we girls were sensible of our duties, and
were arranged in the church before her arrival.