Heaven, the men arrived.—I was still kneeling by the side of our
conductress (our hearts were full; much had we to return thanks for on
that day) when the solemn hymn began around us, and compelled us to
change our attitude. The chorus of a thousand voices, whose united
melody made the vaulted pavement tremble beneath our feet, informed us,
that the assembly had increased greatly during our prayers. We hastily
drew back, for all eyes were fixed upon us; but alas! I found it
impossible to withdraw my attention from the objects which surrounded
us, and restore my heart entirely to that devotion, from which the
commencement of the hymn had rouzed me.
Alas! dear lady, your poor Amabel, who past so grave a censure on the
sudden inclination conceived by yourself and your sister for two
knights, with whose merits you were well acquainted; that very Amabel
has been still more weak and hasty in her choice! it was a man who stole
my thoughts from Heaven, and who made it difficult for me to withdraw my
eyes from his countenance. In truth, it was scarcely possible not to
look at him now and then; for he was placed exactly opposite, and
forgetting the motive which had brought us together, he seemed to make
me the only object of his contemplation.
It was now, Emmeline, that I envied you one of the privileges of your
rank; I mean, your veil which we simple country-girls, who love to look
unimpeded at the Almighty’s lovely world, and who have no reason to
conceal our countenances, consider in general as an unnecessary piece of
dress. For the first time I wished for a veil at once to conceal my
confusion, and to restore the man (who continued to gaze on me with fixt
glances), to that devotion, which he seemed to have lost.—However, he
soon recovered himself; but as for me, I still felt during the remainder
of the service that kind of uneasiness, of which I have so often heard
others speak, and which I have so often treated with derision.
Well! say, that it be love, which has excited such emotions in my bosom,
why should I grieve? the path of the humble children of the soil is not
so rough and uneven, as that of the mighty-ones; the inclinations of the
one are not so subject to difficulties, as those of the other; our
inclinations and acknowledgements are embarrassed by no superfluous
considerations of decorum and etiquette; and unless the eyes of my
unknown friend have deceived me, I am far from indifferent to him, and
we may hope for mutual happiness.
Yet you will smile, when I describe to you the person, of whom I speak.
The youthful Amabel has given her heart to no stripling: the
noble-looking exalted man, with his heroic mien and with that look of
true Helvetian frankness which attracts the observer’s confidence so
irresistibly, is already in the Autumn of life; and yet....
But what am I doing? you cannot suppose, that this transient feeling can
affect my heart seriously?—Oh! no, no! everything is forgotten, or
_must_ be forgotten, and it shall be done without a single tear. The
object of my attention disappeared immediately after the service, nor
have I seen him since. Perhaps, the whole business was a fabrication of
my fancy, for the fair stranger, who stood next to me, cannot recollect
to have observed such a person.—But then she was so entirely absorbed in
her devotions, that she did not even remark, that Peregrine of
Landenberg never removed his eyes from her during the whole ceremony;
and when the procession set forward on our return, he followed her with
looks that were by no means equivocal: at least this is asserted by
several of my village-companions.
Emmeline, how happy would it make me, should such a heart as
Landenberg’s be bestowed on your ... I would say, on my fair and unhappy
friend. She loves without hope; and Peregrine of Landenberg, very
handsome, very good, and very powerful, is in every respect calculated
to make her happy. The persons, whom the good emperor sends among us as
his deputies, are not inferior in power to princes, and in birth are as
illustrious as Count Donat; and Peregrine is so mild, so pious, so
noble! in truth, the condescending manner in which he treats all who are
subject to his authority, and the little distinction which he makes
between his station and ours, have won me to his interests completely.
You will chide me for writing on no other subject than love; but
liberty, health, and the contemplation of the beauties of nature are the
best nourishers of that sweetest of all feelings! and be comforted, dear
lady; for you too shall one day bless the hour, when your heart first
learnt to love. Let but this fair stranger be once the bride of
Peregrine of Landenberg, and we shall soon find means of rescuing you
from your captivity: then shall Herman of Werdenberg (in whose union
with the Damsel of Eschenbach there is not one syllable of truth, and to
whom I am certain you are still as dear, as before he knew your name) be
compelled to do justice to your excellence, and every trace of
misunderstanding shall for ever be cleared away.
The word “misunderstanding” reminds me, that the day whose beginning I
have described to you, did not conclude quite so well as was expected.
While the youths and maidens under the care of some of our matrons past
the evening with songs and dances, there arose some little discord among
the men. I mentioned to you in a former letter the prejudices of some of
them, among whom I am sorry to count my father. The Lord of Landenberg
had prepared a splendid feast at the Castle; but our elders thought
proper to decline partaking of it, and Landenberg was obliged to consent
instead to become a guest at their rustic table in the valley. Peregrine
showed us this mark of condescension with a good grace. Unluckily during
the entertainment there arrived the emperor’s lieutenant of the next
Province, by name Gessler; and with him came the Abbot of St. Gall, one
of the most abandoned characters existing. These began to reproach our
worthy governor for his complaisance, and to treat our elders with
contempt; till the indignation of the latter was excited, and they gave
the scoffers such answers, as they deserved. The worst treated however
was the Abbot, who thought proper to defend Gessler’s conduct without
having either eloquence or common sense in his discourse, nor indeed
even breath sufficient to utter it. Upon this several of our young men
(my brother Arnold was one of the foremost) interrupted him by singing
in chorus the ballad called “Bishop Ulric of Constance;”[2] and at the
end of every stanza they introduced an extempore chorus applying the
ballad to the present Abbot. This at length offended him so much, that
he left the place almost distracted with passion; but Gessler thought
proper to remain behind, and is still a guest at the Castle, from which
many of our wise-ones augur no good.—Farewell, dear lady, and Heaven’s
blessing be with you.
Footnote 2:
About the middle of the 10th Century, Bishop Ulric of Constance
bequeathed “a very large hogshead of good old wine” to the Convent of
St. Gall, on condition that the Monks should themselves be at the
trouble of bringing it home. Unluckily, the waggon broke not far from
the Convent, and the hogshead fell into a deep pit: it was recovered
with great difficulty, and conveyed home in triumph; where in
remembrance of this event a great feast was held, at which the Monks,
wearied with their exertions in its rescue, did not spare the Bishop’s
bequest. About midnight (when all were buried in sleep, overcome by
fatigue and the strength of liquor) a fire broke out in the Convent,
and consumed it, the Monks however escaped with their lives; and the
Abbot is said to have fallen on his knees and thanked Heaven for its
mercies, on hearing that though the Convent was destroyed, he had
saved his strong-box, and the remainder of the Bishop’s hogshead.—This
probably furnished the subject of the satirical ballad, mentioned
above.
_Emmeline to Amabel._
Difficult as it was, I have accomplished my painful confession to
Urania, and I feel my heart relieved; I also made another important
discovery to her, but alas! without effect. It related to Count Donat’s
views upon the youthful Helen of Homburg. As was expected, her parents
rejected his suit, and it was not concealed from him, that she was
already betrothed to Eginhart of Torrenburg. My father’s spies brought
him intelligence, that on Easter-Monday Helen was to be conducted to her
bridegroom’s Castle; and Count Donat chose his time so well, that it was
almost impossible for his unfortunate victim to escape him. He set
forward suddenly with the greatest part of his soldiery; and this
morning I heard with horror, that Helen has fallen into his hands! she
has been carried by him to the Castle of Upper Halbstein, where he is
determined to make her his wife either by fair means or violence, before
her friends have time to effect her rescue. My heart bleeds for the poor
Helen!
I have already received orders to prepare for my departure to the
Convent; it is thought desirable, that as soon as the nuptial
festivities are over, I should no longer make the Castle of Sargans my
residence, Count Donat supposing that my presence would be disagreeable
to his new bride. Alas! dear Helen, my presence _disagreeable_ to you?
though I could not relieve you from the weight of your cruel destiny,
surely the society of the friend of your childhood, of a companion in
sorrow, would enable you to bear them with greater fortitude.
Methinks, Amabel, it seems to me now more difficult to resolve on
entering a Convent. Heaven knows, I wished not, that Helen should be so
unfortunate as to become my father’s wife; I spared no pains to rescue
her from this impending danger; yet if in spite of my efforts she should
be compelled to become the Countess of Carlsheim and Sargans, might not
that event produce the most desirable consequences? might not her virtue
and charms work a blessed change in Donat’s nature? might I not in her
society and under her protection again look forward with pleasure to
living in that world, which had once such charms for me, but which of
late I have considered as an object of such disgust? oh! what blessed
effects might the presence of such a mistress produce throughout the
domains of Sargans!
_In Continuation._
Where shall I look for help! how shall I find some means of changing my
father’s determination respecting me? This Convent.... Oh! Amabel, call
me not capricious, for I have now good reasons to dread and shun that
Convent. I have been warned, warned by some supernatural being, not to
take the step prescribed to me by my father: and shall I be disobedient
to the voice of Heaven?——Hear, what has happened to me! I went this
morning to walk with my usual guards for a few minutes on the
battlements. I left my chamber-door locked. Yet on my return I found a
slip of parchment fastened on my tapestry frame, containing these words:
—“Fly from Sargans! destruction awaits you at the Convent.”—
I had scarcely time to conceal this writing, (whose import, while I read
it, had made my blood run cold) before the Abbot of Cloister-Curwald
entered the room: I have already mentioned, that he pays me a daily
visit.
The impression made upon my mind by what I had just read, for some time
prevented me from attending to his conversation: I believed, that in
this late occurrence I had received a confirmation of that delightful
idea, that there exist guardian Angels, who at times condescend to
snatch poor mortals from destruction; and my heart, already half
estranged from the Convent by the hopes which I grounded on the
exertions of my amiable step-mother, began to search for additional
reasons, why I should decline taking the veil, once so much the object
of my desires. On a sudden something which fell from the Abbot in
discourse, caught my attention; and I now first discovered, that the
conversation which he had been addressing to me, agreed entirely with
the warning of my guardian Angel. I drew back in astonishment! its true,
he had before frequently exprest his disapprobation of the Convent; but
he now spoke with more energy than ever, and advanced such strong
arguments, as could only have failed of their effect, because advanced
by _him_.
It immediately struck me, that the mysterious warning was an artifice of
this man, who by means of that cunning (which is universally ascribed to
him) had managed to obtain entrance privately into my chamber; and who
now, by his taking this artful method to give his arguments the greater
weight with me, became more than ever an object of suspicion. Under this
impression, I threw the writing towards him with contempt; and asked
him—“whether he knew, whose hand had written the warning, which agreed
so wonderfully with his discourse?”—
I was prepared to hear him deny positively any knowledge of the
parchment, and pour out a long declamation to prove, that it must have
come straight from Heaven: how was I astonished, when on the contrary I
saw the most lively surprize and indignation exprest upon his
countenance. With a stammering tongue he asked me, how I came by the
writing; and before I could answer, he hastily enquired, whether I was
sure, that my chamber-door had been fastened, and whether I knew
anything of a private entrance? to these questions I made no reply; I
wished to _obtain_ information, not to _impart_ it.
With every moment he became more uneasy. He examined the windows, tried
all the locks, stamped upon various parts of the flooring, and then
resumed his seat opposite to me, and for some time appeared to be lost
in thought.
After a long silence—“and so then” I began, “the worthy Abbot Luprian
denies, that this writing came from him, and that it was intended to
give my mind that impression, which his arguments were unable to
produce?”—
—“And even suppose,” he resumed after a considerable pause, “suppose
that I should confess your suspicion to be well-founded; would you
therefore accuse me either of treachery, or of views inimical to your
interests? well then, lady; since the attempt to deceive you would be
vain, I own, that these characters were traced by me. Take the advice,
which they give you; take mine with it, and fly from Sargans!”—
—“Fly, say you? my Lord Abbot, this is the first time, that I ever heard
that word from your lips!”—
—“Yes, lady, I repeat it! fly from the insolence of your young
step-mother, from the tyranny of your unfeeling father!”—
—“And whither should I fly?”—
—“To the Convent.”—
—“What? of St. Roswitha?”—
—“Oh! no, no, no! any where, but thither! fly to Zurich, to the
protection of your adopted mother, of the venerable Countess of
Carlsheim.”—
Sweet as his words sounded, I knew too well the impracticability of this
advice, to indulge the idea for a moment. It was plain, that he was only
trifling with me; I turned from the hypocritical Friar with contempt,
and requested his absence.
Amabel, you already know, what disgraceful reports are circulated
respecting this man; reports, of whose justice his conduct towards
myself has left me no doubt! the modesty of Innocence is always ashamed
to own, that she has been made the object of an improper attachment: I
have therefore hitherto avoided the confession, that Luprian (whose
religious vows forbid his laying any claims to the indulgence of
honourable love) has been daring enough to avow a passion for me! this
it is, which makes his advice so hateful to me; and this it is, which
makes me so determined to watch every word which falls from his lips, in
order that I may act exactly contrary.
The neighbourhood of his monastery would make me averse to entering the
Convent of St. Roswitha, did not his endeavours to put me out of conceit
with it convince me, that my abode there will lay obstacles in the way
of his designs: he naturally foresees, that I shall be better guarded
against his importunities when protected by the good Abbess and her
pious train, than in this Castle where there is no compassionate being
to listen to my entreaties and complaints.
Before he left me, the Miscreant again mentioned the Convent of Zurich;
he again advised me to hasten thither, and had the insolence to propose
to be the companion of my flight! you will not therefore wonder, that I
repeated my commands to be left alone in a tone the most peremptory—I
was obeyed.
I past a great part of the night in melancholy reflections. It was late,
when I retired to bed; but after the adventure of that evening not
thinking myself in safety, I took care to fasten every window most
carefully, and trebly turned the key of every lock.
I started from my slumbers in alarm: methought, a cold hand had touched
me! I uttered a loud scream on perceiving, that the gloom of my chamber
was dissipated by a glimmering light, and that a tall figure was
standing at the foot of my bed. My first thought was, “this is a new
artifice of the Abbot;” but there was something in the appearance of
this figure so singular, that my earthly terrors gave place to others of
a much more awful nature.
It was a tall pale man, his countenance bearing the marks of extreme old
age, and wrapped in a monk’s habit. The blue faint glare of a lamp in
his right hand gave so strange and frightful an appearance to the deep
cavities of his cheeks and eyes, that I was certain of being in the
presence of a Denizen of the other world, and in terror I concealed my
face beneath the coverlet.
The fearful vision stood long by my bedside. It muttered much in a
melancholy and imploring voice; but the bed-cloaths, in which my head
was enveloped, prevented my distinguishing what was said, till I caught
something which sounded like “Amalberga:” that beloved name brought me
in some measure to myself. After a few moments’ hesitation I ventured to
lower the coverlet, and to look up.
—“What?” cried I; “com’st thou to tell me, that Amalberga’s spirit stays
for me? speak, awful vision....”—
It heard me not! it had left my bedside; I still saw at the further
extremity of my spacious chamber the glimmering of the lamp; but in a
moment afterwards all disappeared.
I consumed the remainder of the night in examining, what could be the
meaning of this midnight visit? I put together the few fragments of the
Spectre’s discourse, which had reached my hearing; and at first I
concluded, that the Abbot (from some motive or other, but from what I
vainly strove to form a guess) had falsely accused himself of being the
author of the mysterious warning; and that the parchment and the
spectre, which had both been conveyed into my apartment so
unaccountably, must needs have some connection. However, more mature
reflection left me no doubt, that both the one and the other were
artifices employed by the detested Monk to betray me into his power; and
I resolved never again to sleep in this suspicious room, which so easily
afforded entrance either to corporeal villains or to immaterial
apparitions.
My resolution was taken, and I executed it. The insolent house-keeper
was well pleased to hear, that I meant to quit this handsome apartment
with its noble prospect over hill and dale, and which she immediately
appropriated to her own use; while I was contented to take hers in
exchange. I have accordingly established myself in a small chamber in
the Western Tower, where the only attendant who is suffered to approach
me is an old house-maid, who has out lived two generations of the family
of Carlsheim. She is a kind-hearted creature, and frequently endeavours
to beguile me from weeping over my doubtful and gloomy prospects by many
a tale of events long past, and which now only exist in her
recollection.
Part of what she has told me, I shall now repeat, since it seems to have
some connection with my midnight visitor. The old Bertha listened with
great attention, while I recounted what had happened, and paused for
some time, before she made any observation.
—“Lady,” said she, “it is clear to me, that you are deceived in
supposing, that what you saw on that mysterious night was either the
delusion of a dream, or the artifice of some villain; no, lady, no! as
sure as you sit there, you have been visited by the real spectre of a
dead man!
“Long ago ... (Lord forgive me! it is long indeed, since I came to live
in this Castle!) long ago was that very apartment the bed-chamber of the
good Countess Urania, who (they say) is still living in some Convent or
other. Her husband Count Ethelbert was a cruel man, almost such another
as my lord your father, whom Heaven mend, I pray it! well! the Monks of
Cloister-Curwald expelled their Abbot and the good Prior Matthias, who
took refuge with the Countess; and by means of a subterraneous passage
she enabled them to escape. Unluckily Count Ethelbert was among the
number of their enemies; in a passion he sent his wife away from
Sargans, and then descended into the subterraneous chambers to seek for
the fugitives. An old servant of Count Ethelbert’s assured me, that his
lord discovered two of them, and brought them back to that very chamber,
where they were tortured in hopes of making them confess some secret or
other, though what I know not. At length they were put back into one of
the subterraneous dungeons, whose entrance the Count caused to be walled
up, and there they were left to perish with hunger. Ah! lady, lady! the
dead, if they choose it, could reveal many a cruel act, of which we
little dream! many of my fellow-servants, when afterwards Ethelbert lost
his senses, could not comprehend much of his ravings; alas! I
comprehended them well! I knew much that must have prest heavy on his
conscience, and which now is known to few except myself.
“After a time the bodies of the good Monks were removed from the cavern,
because it was said, that their spirits appeared in that chamber, and
wept, and wailed so piteously, that nobody could sleep for the noise!
yet they were not allowed Christian burial, but were cast into that
ruined draw-well in the little back-court, in which finally Ethelbert
himself lost his life, being thrown into it by the Abbot Guiderius. So
you see, lady, crimes ever meet with their just punishment, while
innocence often is rewarded, and always is avenged; which I mention for
your own consolation. But as I was saying, doubtless it was the blessed
spirit of one of these good Friars, which appeared to you the other
night; and truly it is a pity, that your fear prevented you from
listening to what he said, for I warrant you, he had good cause for
coming. However, it is now too late; and methinks as matters stand, you
will do well to take the only means of security now left you as soon as
possible and enter into the holy sisterhood of St. Roswitha, where you
will be well taken care of, both in body and soul.”—
Such was the discourse of my old attendant, which in truth was not
calculated to abate the awful impression made on me by this mysterious
visit! however, whether her explanation was right or false, it is
certain, that the advice contained in the conclusion of her speech was
the best that could be given. I have just received an order from my
father to hasten my departure, since in a few days he means to bring
home his young bride, and will be displeased to find me still at
Sargans.
_In Continuation._
Then my father has renounced me, and for ever! renounced me for Helen’s
sake, and as they tell me, at Helen’s persuasion! oh! how much must she
be changed, if she knows and countenances the severity, with which I am
treated. Then farewell my paternal mansion, and welcome, ye holy walls!
yet why should I grieve to go? what do I lose in the one? what have I to
fear in the other?
And yet methinks, I do not feel quite satisfied in seeking the Convent
of St. Roswitha. Oh! if it were but possible to escape to Zurich, where
Urania.... But alas! this is impracticable. A strong guard is appointed
to conduct me, not whither I wish to go, but whither my father chuses me
to be carried.
Farewell, ye gloomy walls, which have witnessed so many of my tears!
farewell too, thou my good kind-hearted Bertha! would I had known
sooner, that among the Castle’s inhabitants there existed one such
honest creature, whose simple counsels would have frequently stood me in
much stead, and whose maternal sympathy would have cheered many a heavy,
heavy hour!