Amberg was in her own dwelling," said he, severely, "with her children,
and under the protection of a devoted friend. Her husband toiled in
foreign parts to increase the fortune of the family; she remained at
home to keep house and educate her daughters; all that is very natural."
And he filled his pipe.
"True," replied William; "but still she was unhappy. Was it a crime? God
will decide. Leave her to His justice, Karl, and let us be merciful!
During your long absence, chance conducted hither some Spaniards whom
Annunciata had known in her childhood, and amongst them the son of an
old friend of her father's. Oh! with what mingled joy and agitation did
the dear child welcome her countrymen! What tears she shed in the midst
of her joy ... for she had forgotten how to be happy, and every emotion
made her weep. How eagerly she heard and spoke her native tongue! She
fancied herself again in Spain; for a while she was almost happy. You
returned, brother, and you were cruel; one day, without explaining your
motives, you shut your door upon the strangers. Tell me, why would you
not allow fellow-countrymen, friends, a companion of her childhood, to
speak to your wife of her family and native land? Why require complete
isolation, and a total rupture with old friends? She obeyed without a
murmur, but she suffered more than you thought. I watched her closely;
I, her old friend. Since that fresh proof of your rigour, she is sadder
than before. A third time she became a mother; it was in vain; her
unhappiness continued. Brother, your hand has been too heavy on this
feeble creature."
M. Van Amberg rose, and slowly paced the room. "Have you finished,
William?" said he; "this conversation is painful, let it end here; do
not abuse the license I give you."
"No; I have yet more to say. You are a cold and severe husband, but that
is not all; you are also an unjust father. Christine, your third
daughter, is denied her share of your affection, and by this partiality
you further wound the heart of Annunciata. Christine resembles her; she
is what I can fancy her mother at fifteen--a lively and charming
Spaniard; she has all her mother's tastes; like her she lives with
difficulty in our climate, and although born in it, by a caprice of
nature she suffers from it as Annunciata suffered. Brother, the child is
not easy to manage; independent, impassioned, violent in all her
impressions, she has a love of movement and liberty which ill agrees
with our regular habits, but she has also a good heart, and by appealing
to it you might perhaps have tamed her wild spirit. For Christine you
are neither more nor less than a pitiless judge. Her childhood was one
long grief. And thus, far from losing her wild restlessness, she loves
more than ever to be abroad and at liberty; she goes out at daybreak;
she looks upon the house as a cage whose bars hurt her, and you vainly
endeavour to restrain her. Brother, if you would have obedience, show
affection. It is a power that succeeds when all others fail. Why prevent
her marrying the man she loves? Herbert the student is not rich, nor is
his alliance brilliant; but they love each other!"
M. Van Amberg, who had continued his walk, now stopped short, and coldly
replied to his brother's accusations: "Christine is only fifteen, and I
do my duty by curbing the foolish passion that prematurely disturbs her
reason. As to what you call my partiality, you have explained it
yourself by the defects of her character. You, who reproach others as
pitiless judges, beware yourself of judging too severely. Every man acts
according to his internal perceptions, and all things are not good to be
spoken. Empty your glass, William, and if you have finished your pipe,
do not begin another. The business I had to discuss with you will keep
till another day; it is late, and I am tired. It is not always wise to
rake up the memories of the past. I wish to be alone a while. Leave me,
and tell Madame Van Amberg to come to me in a quarter of an hour."
"Why not say, 'Tell Annunciata?' Why, for so long a time, has that
strange sweet name never passed your lips?"
"Tell Madame Van Amberg I would speak with her, and leave me, brother,"
replied Karl sternly.
William felt he had pushed Karl Van Amberg's patience to its utmost
limit; he got up and left the room. At the foot of the stairs he
hesitated a moment, then ascended, and sought Annunciata in Christine's
chamber. It was a narrow cell, shining with cleanliness, and containing
a few flowers in glasses, a wooden crucifix, with chaplets of beads
hanging on it, and a snow-white bed; a guitar (it was her mother's) was
suspended on the wall. From the window was seen the meadow, the river,
and the willows. Christine sat on the foot of the bed, still weeping;
her mother was beside her, offering her bread and milk, with which
Christine's tears mingled. Annunciata kissed her daughter's eyes, and
then furtively wiped her own. On entering, William stood for a few
moments at the door, mournfully contemplating this touching picture.
"My brother, my good brother," cried Annunciata, "speak to my child! She
has forgotten prayer and obedience; her heart is no longer submissive,
and her tears avail nothing, for she murmurs and menaces. Ask her,
brother, by whom it was told her that life is joy? that we live only to
be happy? Talk to her of duty, and give her strength to accomplish it!"
"Your husband inquires for you, sister. Go, I will remain with
Christine."
"I go, my brother," replied Annunciata. Approaching the little mirror
above the chimney-piece, she washed the tear-stains from her eyes,
pressed her hand upon her heart to check its throbbings, and when her
countenance had resumed its expression of calm composure, she descended
the stairs. Gothon was seated on the lower steps.
"You spoil her, madame," said she roughly to her mistress; "foolish ears
need sharp words. You spoil her."
Gothon had been in the house before Annunciata, and had been greatly
displeased by the arrival of her master's foreign lady, whose authority
she never acknowledged. But she had served the Van Ambergs' mother, and
therefore it was without fear of dismissal that she oppressed, after her
own fashion, her timid and gentle mistress.
Annunciata entered the parlour and remained standing near the door as if
waiting an order. Her husband's countenance was graver and more gloomy
than ever.
"Can no one hear us, madam? Are you sure we are alone?"
"Quite alone, sir," replied the astonished Annunciata.
M. Van Amberg recommenced his walk. For some moments he said nothing.
His wife, her hand resting on the back of an arm-chair, silently awaited
his pleasure. At last he again spoke.
"You bring up your daughter Christine badly; I left her to your care and
guidance, and you do not watch over her. Do you know where she goes and
what she does?"
"From her childhood, sir," replied Annunciata gently, pausing between
each phrase, "Christine has loved to live in the open air. She is
delicate, and requires sun and liberty to strengthen her. Till now you
have allowed her to live thus; I saw no harm in letting her follow her
natural bent. If you disapprove, sir, she will obey your orders."
"You bring up your daughter badly," coldly repeated M. Van Amberg. "She
will dishonour the name she bears."
"Sir!!" exclaimed Annunciata, her cheeks suffused with the deepest
crimson; her eyes emitting a momentary but vivid flash.
"Look to it, madam, I will have my name respected, that you know! You
also know I am informed of whatever passes in my house. Your daughter
secretly meets a man to whom I refused her hand; this morning, at six
o'clock, they were together on the river bank!"
"My daughter! my daughter!" cried Annunciata in disconsolate tones. "Oh!
it is impossible! She is innocent! she shall remain so! I will place
myself between her and evil, I will save my child! I will take her in my
arms, and close her ears to dangerous words. My daughter, I will say,
remain innocent, remain honoured, if you would not see me die!"
With unmoved eye M. Van Amberg beheld the mother's emotion. Beneath his
frozen gaze, Annunciata felt embarrassed by her own agitation; she made
an effort to calm herself; then, with clasped hands, and eyes filled
with tears, which she would not allow to flow, she resumed, in a
constrained voice:
"Is this beyond doubt, sir?"
"It is," replied M. Van Amberg: "I never accuse without certainty."
There was a moment's silence. M. Van Amberg again spoke.
"You will lock Christine in her room, and bring me the key. She will
have time to reflect, and I trust reflection will be of service to her;
in a prolonged seclusion she will lose that love of motion and liberty
which leads her into harm; the silence of complete solitude will allay
the tumult of her thoughts. None shall enter her room, save Gothon, who
shall take her her meals, and return me the key. This is what I have
decided upon as proper."
Madame Van Amberg's lips opened several times to speak, but her courage
failed her. At last she advanced a pace or two.
"But I, sir, I," said she in a stifled voice, "_I_ am to see my child!"
"I said no one," replied M. Van Amberg.
"But she will despair, if none sustain her. I will be severe with her;
you may be assured I will! Let me see her, if only once a-day. She may
fall ill of grief, and who will know it? Gothon dislikes her. For pity's
sake, let me see Christine! For a minute only, a single minute."
M. Van Amberg once more stood still, and fixed upon his wife a look that
made her stagger. "Not another word!" he said. "I allow no discussion,
madam. No one shall see Christine; do you hear?"
"I will obey," replied Annunciata.
"Convey my orders to your daughter. At dinner bring me the key of her
room. Go."
Madame Van Amberg found Christine alone, seated on her bed, and
exhausted by long weeping. Her beautiful face, at times so energetic,
wore an expression of profound and touching dejection. Her long hair
fell in disorder on her shoulders, her figure was bent, as if weighed
down by grief: her rosary had fallen from her half-open hand; she had
tried to obey her mother and to pray, but had been able only to weep.
Her black mantle, still damp with rain, lay upon a table, a few willow
sprays peeping from its silken folds. Christine eyed them with mingled
love and melancholy. She thought it a century since she saw the sun
rise on the river, on the old trees, and on Herbert's skiff. Her mother
slowly approached her.
"My child," said she, "where were you at daybreak this morning?"
Christine raised her eyes to her mother's face, looked at her, but did
not answer. Annunciata repeated her question without change of word or
tone. Then Christine let herself slide from the bed to the ground, and
kneeled before her mother.
"I was seated," she said, "upon the trunk of a willow that overhangs the
stream. I was near Herbert's boat."
"Christine!" exclaimed Madame Van Amberg, "can it be true? Oh, my child,
could you so infringe the commands laid upon you! Could you thus forget
my lessons and advice! Christine, you thought not of me when you
committed that fault!"
"Herbert said to me, 'Come, you shall be my wife, I will love you
eternally, you shall be free and happy; all is ready for our marriage
and our flight; come!' I replied, 'I will not leave my mother!' Mother,
you have been my safeguard; if it be a crime to follow Herbert, it is
the thought of you alone that prevented my committing it. I would not
leave my mother!"
A beam of joy illumined Annunciata's countenance. Murmuring a
thanksgiving to God, she raised her kneeling child and seated her by her
side.
"Speak to me, Christine," she said, "open your heart, and tell me all
your thoughts. Together we will regret your faults, and seek hope for
the future. Speak, my daughter; conceal nothing."
Christine laid her head upon her mother's shoulder, put one of her
little hands in hers, sighed deeply, as though her heart were too
oppressed for words, and spoke at last with effort and fatigue.
"Mother," she said, "I have nothing to confess that you do not already
know. I love Herbert. He is but a poor student, intrusted to my father's
care, but he has a noble heart--like mine, somewhat sad. He knows much,
and he is gentle to those who know nothing. Poor, he is proud as a king:
he loves, and he tells it only to her who knows it. My mother, I love
Herbert! He asked my hand of my father, whose reply was a smile of
scorn. Then he was kept from me, and I tried to exist without seeing
him. I could not do it. I made many _neuvaines_ on the rosary you gave
me. I had seen you weep and pray, mother, and I said to myself--Now that
I weep as she does, I must also pray like her. But it happened once, as
day broke, that I saw a small boat descend the stream, then go up again,
and again descend; from time to time a white sail fluttered in the air
as one flutters a kerchief to a departing friend. My thoughts, then as
now, were on Herbert; I ran across the meadow--I reached the
stream--Mother, it was he! hoping and waiting my coming. Long and
mournfully we bewailed our separation; fervently we vowed to love until
death. This morning Herbert, discouraged and weary of waiting a change
in our position, urged me to fly with him. I might have fled, mother,
but I thought of you and remained. I have told you all; if I have done
wrong, forgive me, dearest mother!"
With deep emotion Madame Van Amberg listened to her daughter, and
remained buried in reflection, when Christine paused. She felt that the
young girl's suffering heart needed gentle lessons, affectionate advice;
and, instead of these, she was the bearer of a sentence whose severity
must aggravate the evil--she was compelled to deny her sick child the
remedies that might have saved her.
"You love him very dearly, then," said she at last, fixing a long
melancholy look on her daughter's countenance.
"Oh, mother!" exclaimed Christine, "I love him with all my soul! My life
is passed in expecting, seeing, remembering him! I could never make you
understand how entirely my heart is his. Often I dream of dying for him,
not to save his life, that were too easy and natural, but uselessly at
his command."
"Hush! Christine, hush! you frighten me," cried Annunciata, placing both
hands upon her daughter's mouth. By a quick movement Christine
disengaged herself from her mother's arms.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, "you know not what it is to love as I do! My father
could never let himself be loved thus!"
"Be silent, my child! be silent!" repeated Annunciata energetically.
"Oh, my daughter! how to instil into your heart thoughts of peace and
duty! Almighty Father! bless my weak words, that they may touch her
soul! Christine, hear me!"
Annunciata took her daughter's hands, and compelled her to stand before
her. "My child," she said, "you know nothing of life; you walk at
random, and are about to wander from the right path. All young hearts
have been troubled as yours is now. The noble ones have struggled and
triumphed; the others have fallen! Life is no easy and pleasant passage;
its trials are many and painful--its struggles severe; believe me, for
us women there is no true happiness beyond the bounds of duty. And when
happiness is not our destiny, many great things still remain to us.
Honour, the esteem of others, are not mere empty words. Hear me, beloved
child! That God whom from your infancy I have taught you to love, do you
not fear offending him? Seek Him, and you will find better consolation
than I can offer. Christine, we love in God those from whom we are
severed on earth. He, who in his infinite wisdom imposed so many
fetters on the heart of woman, foresaw the sacrifices they would entail,
and surely he has kept treasures of love for hearts that break in
obedience to duty."
Annunciata rapidly wiped the tears inundating her fine countenance; then
clasping Christine's arm--
"On your knees, my child! on our knees both of us before the Christ I
gave you! 'Tis nearly dark, and yet we still discern Him--his arms
seeming to open for us. Bless and save and console my child, oh merciful
God! Appease her heart; make it humble and obedient!"
Her prayer at an end, she rose, and throwing her arms round Christine,
who had passively allowed herself to be placed on her knees and lifted
up again, she embraced her tenderly, pressed her to her heart, and
bathed her hair with tears. "My daughter," she murmured between her
kisses, "my daughter, speak to me! Utter one word that I may take with
me as a hope! My child, will you not speak to your mother?"
"Mother, I love Herbert!" was Christine's reply.
Annunciata looked despairingly at her child, at the crucifix upon the
wall, at the darkening sky seen through the open window. The dinner-bell
rang. Madame Van Amberg made a strong effort to collect and express her
ideas.
"M. Van Amberg," said she in broken voice, "orders you to remain in your
room. I am to take him the key. You are to see no one. The hour is come,
and he expects me."
"A prisoner!" cried Christine; "A prisoner,--alone, all day! Death
rather than that!"
"He will have it so," repeated Annunciata mournfully; "I must obey. He
will have it so." And she approached the door, casting upon Christine a
look of such ineffable love and grief, that the young girl, fascinated
by the gaze, let her depart without opposition. The key turned in the
lock, and Annunciata, supporting herself by the banister, slowly
descended. She found M. Van Amberg alone in the parlour.
"You have been a long time up stairs," said he. "Have you convinced
yourself that your daughter saw the student Herbert this morning?"
"She did," murmured Annunciata.
"You have told her my orders?"
"I have done so."
"Where is the key?" She gave it him.
"Now to dinner," said M. Van Amberg, walking into the dining-room.
Annunciata endeavoured to follow him, but her strength failed her, and
she sank upon a chair.
M. Van Amberg sat down alone to his dinner.
* * * * *
"A prisoner!" repeated Christine in her solitude; "apart from all! shut
up! Yon meadow was too wide a range; the house too spacious a prison. I
must have a narrower cell, with more visible walls--a straiter
captivity! They deprive me of the little air I breathed--the scanty
liberty I found means to enjoy!"
She opened the window to its full extent; leaned upon the sill, and
looked at the sky. It was very dark; heavy clouds hid the stars; no
light fell upon the earth; different shades of obscurity alone marked
the outlines of objects. The willows, so beautiful when Herbert and the
sun were there, were now a black and motionless mass; dead silence
reigned around. In view of nature thus lifeless and lightless, hopes of
happiness could hardly enter the heart. Christine was in a fever: she
felt oppressed and crushed by unkindly influences, by the indifference
of friends, by a tyrant's will, even by the cold and mournful night. The
young girl's heart beat quickly and rebelliously.
"Be it so!" she exclaimed aloud; "let them have their way! They may
render me unhappy; I will not complain. They sanctify my love by
persecution. Happy, I should perhaps have been ashamed to love so much.
But they rob me of air and liberty; I suffer; I weep. Ah! I feel proud
that my heart still throbs with joy in the midst of so many evils. My
sufferings will hallow my love, will compel the respect of those who
scoffed and slighted it. Herbert! dear Herbert! where are you at this
moment? Do you joyfully anticipate to-morrow's dawn: are you busy with
your boat, preparing it for its early cruise? Or do you sleep, dreaming
of the old willows in the meadow, hearing the waters murmur through
their branches, and the voice of Christine promising her return? But no;
it cannot be; our hearts are too united for their feelings thus to
differ! You are sad, my love, and you know not why; I am sad with
knowledge of our misfortune--'tis the sole difference separation can
establish between us. When shall we meet again, Herbert? Alas! I know
not, but meet we surely shall. If God lets me live, he will let me love
you."
Christine shut the window and threw herself on her bed without
undressing. It was cold; she wrapped herself in her mantle, and
gradually her head sank upon her breast. Her hands, at first pressed
against each other, opened and fell by her sides. She dropped asleep,
like an infant, in the midst of her tears.
The first sun-rays, feeble though they were, awoke Christine, who sprang
hastily from her couch. "Herbert waits for me!" she exclaimed. At her
age memory is better for joy than for sorrow. For her the dawn of day
was still a rendezvous of love. The next moment she awoke to the
consciousness of her captivity. She went to the window, leaned out as on
the previous evening, and looked mournfully around. In a corner of the
heavens was a glow of light, intercepted by billows of cloud. The pale
foliage of the willows shivered in the breeze, which ruffled the leaves
without bending the branches; the long fine grass of the meadow was seen
through a veil of fog, as yet undispelled by the sun. The sounds of
awakening nature had scarce begun, when a white sail stood out upon the
surface of the stream, gliding lightly along like the open wing of a
graceful bird. It passed to and fro in front of the meadow; was lowered
before the trees, and then again displayed, bending the boat's gunwale
to the water's surface, hovering continually around a point of the bank,
as though confined within the circle of an invisible fascination. At
long intervals the wind brought a faint and scarce perceptible sound,
like the last notes of a song; then the little bark again manoeuvred,
and its sail flapped in the air. The pale tints of dawn gave way to the
warmer sunbeams; passengers appeared upon the bank; trading boats
ascended the river; the windows of the red brick house opened as if to
inhale the morning air. The boat lowered its sail, and floated slowly
away at the will of the current. Christine looked after it and wept.
Twice during that day, Gothon opened the door of the young girl's
chamber, and brought her a frugal meal. Twice did Gothon depart without
uttering a word. The whole day passed in silence and solitude. Christine
knew not how to get rid of the weary hours. She knelt before the
crucifix, her alabaster rosary in her hand, her head raised towards the
cross, and prayed. But her prayer was for Herbert, to see him again; she
never dreamed of praying to forget him. Then she took down the guitar,
passed round her neck the faded blue ribbon, tied on it at Seville, and
which her mother would never allow to be changed. She struck a few
chords of the songs she best loved; but her voice was choked, and her
tears flowed more abundantly when she tried to sing. She collected the
little sprays of willow, and placed them in a book to dry and preserve
them. But the day was very long; and the poor child fluttered in her
prison like a caged bird, with an anguish that each moment increased.
Her head burned, her bosom throbbed. At last night came. Seated near the
open window, the cold calmed her a little. They brought her no light,
and time passed more slowly than ever. She went to bed, but, deprived of
her accustomed exercise, tormented by a thousand anxieties, she could
not sleep; she got up, walked about in the darkness, and again lay down;
slumber still avoided her. This time her eyes, red with tears and
watchfulness, beheld the sun rise without illusion; she did not for a
moment forget her captivity, but looked mournfully out at the little
sail which, faithful to its rendezvous, came each morning with the sun.
Again, none but Gothon disturbed her solitude. During another long day,
Christine, alternately desponding and excited, walked, wept, lamented,
and prayed. Night came again. Nothing broke the silence; the lights in
the red house were extinguished one after the other. Profound darkness
covered the earth. Christine remained at her window, insensible to cold.
Suddenly she started: she heard her name pronounced in low tones at the
foot of the wall. She listened.
"Christine, my daughter!" repeated the voice.
"Mother," exclaimed Christine, "you out in this dreadful weather! I
conjure you to go in!"
"I have been two days in bed, my child; I have been unwell; to-night I
am better; I felt it impossible to remain longer without seeing you, who
are my life, my strength, my health! Oh! you were right not to leave me;
it would have killed me. Are you well, dear Christine? Have you all you
require? How do you live, deprived of my caresses?"
"Dearest mother, for heaven's sake, go in! The night is damp and cold;
it will be your death!"
"Your voice warms me; it is far from you that I feel chill and faint.
Dearest child, my heart sends you a thousand kisses."
"I receive them on my knees, mother, my arms extended towards you. But,
when shall I see you again?"
"When you submit, and promise to obey; when you no longer seek him you
are forbidden to see, and whom you must forget. My daughter, it is your
duty."
"Oh mother, I thought your heart could better understand what it never
felt. I thought you respected the true sentiments of the soul, and that
your lips knew not how to utter the word 'forget.' If I forgot, I should
be a mere silly child, capricious, unruly, unworthy your tenderness. If
my malady is without remedy, I am a steadfast woman, suffering and
self-sacrificing. Good God! how is it you do not understand that?"
"I understand," murmured Annunciata, but in so low a tone that she was
sure her daughter could not hear her.
"Mother," resumed Christine, "go to my father! summon up that courage
which fails you when you alone are concerned; speak boldly to him, tell
him what I have told you; demand my liberty, my happiness."
"I!" exclaimed Annunciata in terror; "I brave M. Van Amberg, and oppose
his will!"
"Not oppose, but supplicate! compel his heart to understand what mine
experiences; force him to see and hear and feel that my life may cease,
but not my love. Who can do it, if you cannot? I am a captive. My
sisters know not love, my uncle William has never known it. It needs a
woman's voice to express a woman's feelings."
"Christine, you know not what you ask. The effort is above my strength."
"I ask a proof of my mother's love; I am sure she will give it me."
"I shall die in so doing. M. Van Amberg can kill me by a word."
Christine started and trembled. "Do not go, then, dearest mother.
Forgive my egotism; I thought only of myself. If my father has such
terrible power, avoid his anger. I will wait, and entreat none but God."
There was a brief pause. "Christine," said Madame Van Amberg, "since I
am your only hope, your sole reliance, and you have called me to your
aid, I will speak to him. Our fate is in the hands of heaven."
Annunciata interrupted herself by a cry of terror; a hand rudely grasped
her arm; M. Van Amberg, without uttering a word, dragged her to the
house door, compelled her to enter, took out the key, and made her pass
before him into the parlour. A lamp burned dimly upon the table, its oil
nearly exhausted; at times it emitted a bright flash, and then suddenly
became nearly extinguished. The corners of the room were in darkness,
the doors and windows closed, perfect silence reigned; the only object
on which a strong light fell, was the countenance of M. Van Amberg. It
was calm, cold, motionless. His great height, the piercing look of his
pale grey eyes, the austere regularity of his features, combined to give
him the aspect of an implacable judge.
"You would speak with me, madam," said he to Annunciata; "I am here,
speak!"
On entering the parlour, Annunciata let herself fall into a chair. Her
clothes streamed with water; her hair, heavy with rain, fell upon her
shoulders; her extreme paleness gave her the appearance of a corpse
rather than of a living creature. Terror obliterated memory, even of
what had just occurred; her mind was confused; she felt only that she
suffered horribly. Her husband's voice and words restored the chain of
her ideas; the poor woman thought of her child, made a violent effort,
rallied her strength, and rose to her feet.
"Now then," she murmured, "since it must be so!"
M. Van Amberg waited in silence, his arms crossed upon his breast, his
eyes fixed upon his wife; he stood like a statue, assisting neither by
word nor gesture the poor creature who trembled before him. Annunciata
looked long at him before speaking; she hoped that at sight of her
tears and sufferings, M. Van Amberg would remember he had loved her. She
threw her whole soul into her eyes, but not a muscle of her husband's
countenance moved. He waited for her to break silence.
"I need your indulgence," she at last said; "it costs me a fearful
effort to address you. In general I do but answer; I am unaccustomed to
speak first, and I am afraid. I dread your anger; have compassion on a
trembling woman, who would fain be silent, and who must speak.
Christine's happiness is in your hands. The poor child implores me to
soften your rigour.... Did I refuse, not a creature upon earth would
intercede for her. This is why I venture to petition you, sir."
M. Van Amberg continued silent. Annunciata wiped the tears from her
cheeks and resumed with more courage.
"She is much to be pitied; she has inherited the faults you blame in me.
Believe me, sir, I have laboured hard to check them in the bud. I have
striven, exhorted, punished, have spared neither advice nor prayers, but
all in vain. God has not been pleased to spare me this new grief. Her
nature is unchangeable; she is to blame, but she is also much to be
pitied. Christine loves with all her soul. Women die of such love as
hers, and when they do not die, they suffer frightfully. For pity's
sake, sir, let her marry him she loves!"
Annunciata covered her face with her hands, and awaited in an agony of
anxiety her husband's reply.
"Your daughter," said M. Van Amberg, "is still a child; she has
inherited, as you say, a character that needs restraint. I will not
yield to the first caprice that traverses her silly head. Herbert is
only two-and-twenty; we know nothing of his character. Your daughter
requires a protector, and a judicious guide. Herbert has neither family,
fortune, nor position. He shall never be the husband of a woman who
bears the name of Mademoiselle Van Amberg!"
"Sir!" cried Annunciata, clasping her hands and breathless with emotion,
"Sir! the best guidance for a woman's life is a union with the man she
loves! It is her best safeguard, it strengthens her against the cares of
the world. I entreat you, Karl!" exclaimed Madame Van Amberg, falling
upon her knees, "have compassion on my daughter! Do not render duty a
torture; do not exact from her too much courage! We are weak creatures:
we have need both of love and virtue. Place her not in the terrible
necessity of choosing between them. Pity, Karl, pity!"
"Madam," cried M. Van Amberg, and this time his frame was agitated by a
slight nervous trembling, "Madam, you are very bold to speak to me thus!
You! you! to dare to hold such language to me! Silence! and teach your
daughter not to hesitate in her choice between good and evil. Do that,
instead of weeping uselessly at my feet."
"Yes, it is bold of me, sir, thus to address you; but I have found
courage in suffering. I am ill,--in pain,--my life is worthless, save as
a sacrifice--let my child take it, I will speak for her! Her fate is in
your hands, do not crush her by a cruel decision! An absolute judge and
master should be guarded in word and deed, for a reckoning will be asked
of him! Be merciful to my child!"
M. Van Amberg approached his wife, took her arm, placed his other hand
on her mouth, and said:--
"Silence! I command you; no such scenes in my house, no noise and
whimpering. Your daughters sleep within a few yards of you, do not
disturb their repose. Your servants are above, do not awaken them.
Silence! you had no business to speak; I was wrong to listen to you.
Never dare again to discuss my orders; it is I whom your children must
obey, I whom you must obey yourself. Retire to your apartment, and
to-morrow let me find you what you yesterday were."
M. Van Amberg had regained his usual calmness. He walked slowly from the
room.
"Oh, my daughter!" exclaimed Annunciata, despairingly, "nothing can I do
for you! Merciful Father! what will become of me, placed between him and
her, both inflexible in their resolves!"
The lamp which feebly illuminated this scene of sorrow, now suddenly
went out and left the unhappy mother in profound darkness. The rain beat
against the windows,--the wind howled,--the house clock struck four.
Christine had seen M. Van Amberg seize Annunciata's arm, and lead her
away with him; afterwards, she had distinguished, through the slight
partitions of the house, a faint echo as of mingled sobs, entreaties,
and reproaches. She understood that her fate was deciding,--that her
poor mother had devoted herself for her, and was face to face with the
stern ruler whose look alone she usually dared not brave. Christine
passed the night in terrible anxiety, abandoning herself alternately to
discouragement and to joyful hopes. At her age it is not easy to
despair. Fear, however, predominated over every other emotion, and she
would have given years of existence to learn what had passed. But the
day went by like the previous one. She saw none but Gothon. Her she
ventured to question, but the old servant had orders not to answer.
Another day elapsed. Christine's solitude was still unbroken, no
friendly voice reached her ear, no kindly hand lifted the veil shrouding
her future. The poor girl was exhausted, she had not even the energy of
grief. She wept without complaint, almost without a murmur. Night came,
and she fell asleep, exhausted by her sorrow. She had scarcely slept an
hour when she was awakened by the opening of the door, and Gothon, lamp
in hand, approached her bed. "Get up Mademoiselle," said the servant,
"and follow me."
Christine dressed herself as in a dream, and hastily followed Gothon,
who conducted her to her mother's room, opened the door, and drew back
to let her pass. A sad spectacle met the young girl's eyes. Annunciata,
pale and almost inanimate, lay in the agonies of death. Her presentiment
had not deceived her; suffering and agitation had snapped the slender
strings that bound her to the earth. The light of the lamp fell full
upon her features, whose gentle beauty pain was impotent to deface.
Resignation and courage were upon her countenance, over which came a
gleam of joy when Christine appeared. Wilhelmina and Maria knelt and
wept at the foot of their mother's bed. William stood a little apart,
holding a prayer-book, but his eyes had left the page to look at
Annunciata, and two large tears trembled on their lids. M. Van Amberg,
seated beside his wife's pillow, had his face shaded by his hand, so
that none could see its expression.
With a piercing cry, Christine rushed to Madame Van Amberg, who received
her in her arms. "Mother!" she cried, her cheek against Annunciata's,
"it is I who have killed you! For love of me you have exceeded your
strength."
"No, my beloved, no," replied Annunciata, kissing her daughter between
each word, "I die of an old and incurable malady. But I die happy, since
I once more clasp you in my arms."
"And they did not let me nurse you!" cried Christine, indignantly
raising her head; "they concealed your illness! They let me weep for
other sorrows than yours, my mother!"
"Dearest child," replied Annunciata gently, "this crisis has been very
sudden; two hours ago they knew not my danger, and I wished to fulfil my
religious duties before seeing you. I wished to think only of God. Now I
can abandon myself to the embraces of my children." And she clasped her
weeping daughters to her heart. "Dear children," said she, "God is full
of mercy to the dying, and sanctifies a mother's benediction. I bless
you, my daughters; remember and pray for me."
The three young girls bowed their heads upon their mother's hand, and
replied by tears alone to this solemn farewell.
"My good brother," resumed Annunciata to William, "my good brother, we
have long lived together, and to me you have ever been a devoted friend,
indulgent and gentle. I thank you, brother!"
William averted his head to conceal his tears, but a deep sob escaped
him, and he turned his venerable face towards Annunciata.
"Do not thank me, sister," he said, "I have done little for you. I loved
you, that is certain, but I could not enliven your solitude. My sister,
you will still live for the happiness of us all."
Annunciata gently shook her head. Her glance sought her husband, as if
she would fain have addressed her last words to him. But they expired on
her lips. She looked at him timidly, sadly, and then closed her eyes, to
check the starting tears. She grew visibly weaker, and as death
approached, a painful anxiety took possession of her. Resigned, she was
not calm. It was ordained her soul should suffer and be troubled to the
end. The destiny of one of her daughters disturbed her last moments; she
dared not pronounce the name of Christine, she dared not ask compassion
for her; a thousand conflicting doubts and fears agitated her poor
heart. She died as she had lived, repressing her tears, concealing her
thoughts. From time to time she turned to her husband, but his head
continued sunk upon his hand; not one look of encouragement could she
obtain. At last came the spasm that was to break this frail existence.
"Adieu! Adieu!" she murmured in unintelligible accents. Her eyes no
longer obeyed her, and none could tell whom they sought. William
approached his brother, and placed his hand upon his shoulder. "Karl!"
he whispered in tones audible but to him he addressed, "she is dying!
Have you nothing to say to a poor creature who has so long lived with
you and suffered by you? Living, you loved her not; do not let her die
thus! Fear you not, Karl, lest this woman, oppressed and slighted by
you, should expire with a leaven of resentment in her heart? Crave her
pardon before she departs."
For an instant all was silent. M. Van Amberg stirred not. Annunciata,
her head thrown back, seemed to have already ceased to exist. On a
sudden, she moved, raised herself with difficulty, leaned over towards
M. Van Amberg, and groped for his hand as though she had been blind.
When she found it, she bowed her face upon it, kissed it twice, and
expired in that last kiss.
"On your knees!" cried William, "on your knees, she is in heaven! let us
implore her intercession!" And all knelt down.
Of all the prayers addressed to God by man during his life of trial, not
one is more solemn than that which escapes the desolate heart, when a
beloved soul flies from earth to heaven, to stand, for the first time,
in the presence of its Creator.
M. Van Amberg rose from his knees.
"Leave the room!" said he to his brother and daughters, "I would be
alone with my wife."
Alone, beside the bed of his dead wife, Karl Van Amberg gazed upon the
pale countenance, to which death had restored all the beauty of youth. A
tear, left there by human suffering, a tear which none other was to
follow, glittered upon the clay-cold cheek; one arm still hung out of
bed, as when it held his hand; the head was in the position in which it
had kissed his fingers. He gazed at her, and the icy envelope that bound
his heart was at last broken. "Annunciata!" he exclaimed, "Annunciata!"
For fifteen years that name had not passed his lips. Throwing himself on
his wife's corpse, he clasped her in his arms and kissed her forehead.
"Annunciata!" he cried, "can you not feel this kiss of peace and love!
Annunciata, we have both suffered terribly! God did not grant us
happiness. I loved you from the first day that I saw you, a joyous child
in Spain, till this sad moment that I press you dead upon my heart. Oh
Annunciata, how great have been our sufferings!"
Karl Van Amberg wept.
"Repose in peace, poor woman!" he murmured; "may you find in heaven the
repose denied you upon earth!" And with trembling hand he closed
Annunciata's eyes. Then he knelt down beside her.
"Almighty God!" he said, "I have been severe. Be thou merciful!"
* * * * *
When, at break of day, M. Van Amberg left the chamber of death, his face
had resumed its habitual expression; his inflexible soul, for a moment
bowed, had regained its usual level. To Annunciata had been given the
last word of love, the last tear of that heart of adamant. To the eyes
of all he reappeared as the stern master and father, the man on whose
brow no sorrow left a trace. His daughters bowed themselves upon his
passage, William spoke not to him, order and regularity returned to the
house. Annunciata was buried without pomp or procession. She left, to
revisit it no more, the melancholy abode where her suffering soul had
worn out its mortal envelope; she ceased to live, as a sound ceases to
be heard, as a cloud passes, as a flower fades; nothing stopped or
altered because she went. If any mourned her, they mourned in silence;
if they thought of her, they proclaimed not their thoughts; her name was
no more heard; only the interior of the little red house was rather more
silent, and M. Van Amberg's countenance appeared to all more rigid than
before. During the day, Christine's profound grief obeyed the iron will
that weighed on each member of the family. The poor child was silent,
worked, sat at table, lived on as if her heart had not been crushed; but
at night, alone in the little room where her mother had so often wept
with her, she gave free course to grief; she invoked her mother, spoke
to her, extended her arms to her, and would fain have left the earth to
be with her in heaven. "Take me to you, dear mother!" she would exclaim.
"Deprived of you, apart from him, I cannot live! Since I saw you die, I
no longer fear death."
Since the death of Annunciata, Christine was allowed her liberty, M. Van
Amberg doubtless thinking, and with reason, that she would make no use
of it during her first grief. Or, perhaps, with his wife's corpse
scarcely cold, he hesitated to recur to the severity that had caused her
so many tears. Whatever his motive, Christine was free, at least to all
appearance. The three sisters, in deep mourning, never passed the
threshold; they sat all day at work near the low window of the parlour,
supped with their uncle and father, then retired to bed. During the long
hours of their silent work, Christine often thought of her lover. She
dared not attempt to see him; she would have expected to hear her
mother's voice murmur in her ear,--"My daughter, it is too soon to be
happy! Mourn me yet a little, alone and without consolation."
One morning, after a night of tears, Christine fell into a tardy
slumber, broken by dreams. Now it was her mother, who took her in her
arms, and flew with her towards heaven. "I will not let you live," said
Annunciata, "for life is sorrow. I have prayed of God to let you die
young, that you may not weep as I have wept!"
The next instant she beheld herself clothed in white and crowned with
flowers. Herbert was there, love sparkling in his eyes. "Come, my
betrothed!" he said, "life is joy! My love shall guard you from all
evil; come, we will be happy!"
She started up, awakened by a sudden noise in her chamber. The window
was open, and on the floor lay a pebble with a letter attached. Her
first impulse was to fly to the window; a bush stirred in the direction
of the river, but she saw no one. She snatched up the letter, she
guessed it was Herbert's writing. It seems as if one never saw for the
first time the writing of him one loves; the heart recognises as if the
eyes had already seen it. Christine was alone, a beam of the rising sun
tinted the summits of the willows, and hope and love revived in the
young girl's heart, as she read what follows:
"Christine, I can write but a few lines; a long letter, difficult to
conceal, might never reach you. Hear me with your heart, and guess what
I am unable to write. As you know, dearest, my family intrusted me to
your father, and gave him all authority over me. He can employ me at his
will, and according to the convenience of his commercial establishments.
Christine, I have just received orders to embark in one of his ships,
sailing for Batavia."
A cry escaped Christine's lips, and her eyes, suffused with tears,
devoured the subsequent lines.
"Your father places the immensity of ocean between us; he separates us
for ever. We are to meet no more! Christine, has your heart, since I
last saw you, learned to comprehend those words? No, my adored
Christine, we must live or die together! Your poor mother is no more;
your presence is no longer essential to the happiness of any one. Your
family is pitiless and without affection for you. Your future is gloom
and unhappiness. Come, then, let us fly together. In the Helder are
numerous ships; they will bear us far from the scene of our sufferings.
All is foreseen and arranged. Christine, my life depends on your
decision. For ever separated! ... subscribe to that barbarous decree,
and I terminate an existence which henceforward would be all bitterness!
And you, Christine! will you love another, or live without love? Oh!
come! I have suffered so much without you! I summon you, I await you,
Christine! my bride! At midnight--on the riverbank--I will be there! and
a world of happiness is before us. Come, dear Christine, come!"
As Christine read, her tears fell fast on Herbert's letter. She
experienced a moment of agonising indecision. She loved passionately,
but she was young and innocent, and love had not yet imparted to her
pure soul the audacity that braves all things. The wise counsels heard
in her father's house, uncle William's pious exhortations, the holy
prayers she had learned from her infancy upwards, resounded in her
ears; the Christ upon her wooden crucifix seemed to look at her; the
beads of her rosary were still warm with the pressure of her fingers.
"Oh! my dream! my dream!" she exclaimed; "Herbert who calls his bride!
my mother claiming her daughter! With him, life and love! With her,
death and heaven!..." And Christine sobbed aloud. For an instant she
tried calmly to contemplate an existence in that melancholy house,
weeping for Herbert, growing old without him, without love, within those
gloomy walls, where no heart sympathised with hers. The picture was too
terrible; she felt that such a future was unendurable. She wept
bitterly, kissed her rosary, her prayer-book, as if bidding adieu to all
that had witnessed the innocence of her early years. Then her heart beat
violently. The fire of her glance dried her tears. She looked out at the
river, at the white sail which seemed to remind her of her vows of love;
she gave one last sob, as if breaking irrevocably the links between her
past and future. The image of her mother was no longer before her.
Christine, abandoned to herself, followed the impulse of her passionate
nature; she wept, trembled, hesitated, and at last exclaimed,--
"At midnight, I will be there!"
Then she wiped her tears, and remained quite still for a few moments, to
calm her violent agitation. A vast future unrolled itself before her;
liberty would be hers; a new world was revealed to her eyes; a new life
began for her.
At last night came. A lamp replaced the fading daylight. The window was
deserted for the table. William and Karl Van Amberg came in. The former
took a book; his brother busied himself with commercial calculations.
The lamp gave a dull light; all was silent, sad, and monotonous in the
apartment. The clock slowly told the successive hours. When its hammer
struck ten, there was a movement round the table; books were shut, work
was folded. Karl Van Amberg rose; his two eldest daughters approached
him, and he kissed their foreheads in silence. Christine no longer a
captive, but still in disgrace, bowed herself before her father. Uncle
William, grown drowsy over his book, put up his spectacles, muttering a
"good-night." The family left the parlour, and the three sisters
ascended the wooden staircase. At her chamber door, Christine felt a
tightness at her heart. She turned and looked after her sisters.
"Good-night, Wilhelmina! good-night, Maria!"
The sisters turned their heads. By the faint light of their tapers
Christine saw them smile and kiss their hands to her. Then they entered
their rooms without speaking. Christine found herself alone. She opened
her window; the night was calm; at intervals clouds flitted across the
moon, veiling its brightness. Christine made no preparations for
departure; she only took her mother's rosary, and the blue ribbon so
long attached to the guitar; then she wrapped herself in her black
mantle and sat down by the window. Her heart beat quick, but no distinct
thought agitated her mind. She trembled without terror; her eyes were
tearful, but she felt no regret. For her, the hour was rather solemn
than sad; the struggle was over, and she was irrevocably decided.
At last midnight came; each stroke of the clock thrilled Christine's
heart; for an instant she stood still, summoning strength and courage;
then, turning towards the interior of the room,--
"Adieu, my mother!" she whispered. Many living creatures dwelt under
that roof. It seemed to Christine as if she left her only who was no
longer there. "Adieu, my mother!" she repeated.
Then she stepped out of the window; a trellis, twined with creepers,
covered the wall. With light foot and steady hand, Christine descended,
aiding herself by the branches, and pausing when they cracked under her
tread or grasp. The stillness was so complete that the slightest sound
assumed importance. Christine's heart beat violently; at last she
reached the ground, raised her head, and looked at the house. Her
father's window was still lighted. Again she shuddered with
apprehension; then, feeling more courage for a minute's daring than for
half an hour's precautions, she darted across the meadow and arrived
breathless at the clump of willows. Before plunging into it, she again
looked round. All was quiet and deserted; she breathed more freely and
disappeared amongst the branches. Leaning upon the old tree, the witness
of her former rendezvous, she whispered, so softly that none but a lover
could hear, "Herbert, are you there?"
A cautious oar skimmed the water; a well-known voice replied. The boat
approached the willow; the young student stood up and held out his arms
to Christine, who leaped lightly into the skiff. In an instant, they
were out of the willow-shaded inlet; in another, the sail--the signal of
their loves--was hoisted to the breeze; the bark sped swiftly over the
water, and Herbert, scarce daring to believe his happiness, was seated
at Christine's feet. His hand sought hers; he heard her weep, and he
wept for sympathy. Both were silent, agitated, uneasy, and happy.
But the night was fine, the moon shed its softest light, the ripple of
the stream had a harmony of its own, the light breeze cooled their
cheeks, the sail bent over them like the wing of an invisible being;
they were young, they loved, it was impossible that joy should not
revive in their hearts.
"Thanks, Christine, thanks!" exclaimed Herbert, "thanks a thousand
times for so much devotedness, for such confidence and love! Oh how
beautiful will life now appear! We are united for ever!"
"For ever!" repeated Christine, her tears flowing afresh. For the first
time she felt that great happiness, like great grief, expresses itself
by tears. Her hand in Herbert's, her eyes raised to heaven, she gazed
upon bright stars and fleecy clouds, sole and silent witnesses of her
happiness. Presently she was roused from this sweet reverie.
"See there, Herbert!" she exclaimed; "the sail droops along the mast,
the wind has fallen, we do not advance."
Herbert took the oars, and the boat cut rapidly through the water.
Wrapped in her mantle, Christine sat opposite, and smiled upon him.
Onwards flew the boat, a track of foam in its wake. Daylight was still
distant; all things favoured the fugitives. Again Christine broke
silence.
"Herbert, dear Herbert, do you hear nothing?"
Herbert ceased to row, and listened. "I hear nothing," he said, "save
the plash of the river against its banks." He resumed the oars; again
the boat moved rapidly forward. Christine was pale; half risen from her
seat, her head turned back, she strove to see, but the darkness was too
great.
"Be tranquil, best beloved," said Herbert with a smile. "Fear creates
sounds. All is still."
"Herbert," cried Christine, this time starting up in the boat, "I am not
mistaken! I hear oars behind us ... pause not to listen ... row, for
Heaven's love, row!"
Her terror was so great, she seemed so sure of what she said, that
Herbert obeyed in silence, and a sensation of alarm chilled his heart.
Christine seated herself at his feet.
"We are pursued!" she said; "the noise of your own oars alone prevented
your hearing. A boat follows us."
"If it be so," Herbert cried, "what matter! That boat does not bear
Christine--is not guided by a man who defends his life, his happiness,
his love. My arm will weary his, his bark will not overtake mine." And
Herbert redoubled his efforts. The veins of his arms swelled to
bursting; his forehead was covered with sweat-drops. The skiff clove the
waters as though impelled by wings. Christine remained crouched at the
young man's feet, pressing herself against him, as to seek refuge.
Other oars, wielded by stalwart arms, now struck the water not far from
Herbert's boat. The young student heard the sound; he bent over his oars
and made desperate efforts. But he felt his strength failing; as he
rowed he looked with agony at Christine; no one spoke, only the noise of
the two boats interrupted the silence. Around, all was calm and serene
as when the fugitives set out. But the soul of the young girl had
passed from life to death; her eyes, gleaming with a wild fire, followed
with increasing terror each movement of Herbert's; she saw by the
suffering expression of his countenance, that little hope of escape
remained. Still he rowed with the energy of despair; but the fatal bark
drew nearer, its shadow was seen upon the water, it followed hard in the
foamy track of Herbert's boat. Christine stood up and looked back; just
then the moon shone out, casting its light full upon the pale,
passionless features of M. Van Amberg. Christine uttered a piercing cry.
"My father!" she cried; "Herbert, 'tis my father!"
Herbert also had recognised his pursuer. The youth had lived too long in
Karl Van Amberg's house not to have experienced the strange kind of
fascination which that man exercised over all around him. Darkness had
passed away to reveal to the fugitives the father, master, and judge!
"Stop, Herbert!" cried Christine, "we are lost, escape is impossible! Do
you not see my father?"
"Let me row!" replied Herbert, disengaging himself from Christine, who
had seized his arm. He gave so violent a pull with the oars, that the
skiff bounded out of the water and seemed to gain a little on its
pursuer.
"Herbert," cried Christine, "I tell you we are lost! 'Tis my father, and
resistance is useless! God will not work a miracle in our favour!
Herbert, I will not return to my father's house! Let us die together,
dear Herbert!"
And Christine threw herself into her lover's arms. The oars fell from
the young man's hands; with a cry of anguish he pressed Christine
convulsively to his heart. For a single instant he thought of obeying
her, and of plunging with her into the dark tide beneath; but Herbert
had a noble heart, and he repelled the temptation of despair. The next
moment a violent shock made the boat quiver, and M. Van Amberg stepped
into it. Instinctively Herbert clasped Christine more tightly, and
retreated, as if his strength could withhold her from her father--as if,
in that little boat, he could retreat far enough not to be overtaken.
With a vigorous arm, M. Van Amberg seized Christine, whose slender form
bent like a reed over his shoulder.
"Have mercy on her!" cried the despairing Herbert; "I alone am guilty!
Punish her not, and I promise to depart, to renounce her! Pity, sir!
pity for Christine!"
He spoke to a deaf and silent statue. Wresting Christine's hand from the
student's grasp, M. Van Amberg stepped back into his boat, and pushed
Herbert's violently with his foot. Yielding to the impulse, the boats
separated; one was pulled swiftly up the river, whilst the other,
abandoned to itself, was swept by the current in a contrary direction.
Erect on the prow of his bark, his head thrown back, his arms folded on
his breast, M. Van Amberg fixed a terrible look upon Herbert and then
disappeared in the darkness. All was over. The father had taken his
daughter, and no human power could henceforward tear her from his arms.
Within a week from that fatal night, the gates of a convent closed upon
Christine Van Amberg.
* * * * *
On the frontier of Belgium, on the summit of a hill, stands a large
white building of irregular architecture, a confused mass of walls,
roofs, angles, and platforms. At the foot of the hill is a village,
whose inhabitants behold with a feeling of respect the edifice towering
above their humble dwellings. For there is seen the belfry of a church,
and thence is heard unceasingly the sound of pious bells, proclaiming
afar that on the mountain's summit a few devout souls pray to God for
all men. The building is a convent; the poor and the sick well know the
path leading to the hospitable threshold of the Sisters of the
Visitation.
To this convent was Christine sent. To this austere dwelling, the abode
of silence and self-denial, was she, the young, the beautiful, the
loving, pitilessly consigned. It was as though a gravestone had suddenly
closed over her head. With her, the superior of the convent received
the following letter:--
"MADAME LA SUPÉRIEURE,--I send you your niece, Christine Van
Amberg, and beg you to oblige me by keeping her with you. I intend
her to embrace a religious life; employ the influence of your wise
counsels to predispose her to it. Her misconduct compels me to
exclude her my house; she requires restraint and watching, such as
are only to be found in a convent. Be pleased, dear and respected
kinswoman, to receive her under your roof; the best wish that can
be formed for her is, that she may make up her mind to remain there
for ever. Should she inquire concerning a young man named Herbert,
you may inform her that he has sailed to Batavia, whence he will
proceed to our most remote settlements.
"I am, with respect, _Madame la Supérieure_, your kinsman and
friend,
"KARL VAN AMBERG."
Five years had elapsed since the date of this letter, when one day the
convent gate opened to admit a stranger, who craved to speak with the
superior. The stranger was an old man; a staff sustained his feeble
steps. Whilst waiting in the parlour, he looked about him with surprise
and emotion, and several times he passed his hand across his eyes as if
to brush away a tear. "Poor, poor child!" he muttered. When the superior
appeared behind the grating, he advanced quickly towards her.
"I am William Van Amberg," he said, "the brother of Karl Van Amberg. I
come, madam, to fetch Christine, his daughter and my niece."
"You come very late!" replied the superior; "sister Martha-Mary is on
the eve of pronouncing her vows."
"Martha-Mary!--I do not know the name!" said William Van Amberg; "I seek
Christine--my niece Christine."
"Christine Van Amberg, now sister Martha-Mary, is about to take the
veil."
"Christine a nun! Oh, impossible! Madame, they have broken the child's
heart; from despair only would she take the veil; they have been
cruel--they have tortured her; but I bring her liberty and the certainty
of happiness,--permission to marry him she loves. Let me speak to her
and she will quickly follow."
"Speak to her then; and let her depart if such be her will."
"Thanks, madam,--a thousand thanks! Send me my child, send me my
Christine--with joy and impatience I await her."
The superior retired. Left alone, William again contemplated the
melancholy abode in which he found himself, and the more he gazed, the
sadder his heart became. He would fain have taken Christine in his arms,
as he did when she was little, and have fled with her from those chilly
walls and dismal gratings.
"Poor child!" he repeated, "what a retreat for the bright years of your
youth!... How you must have suffered! But console thyself, dearest
child, I am here to rescue thee!"
He remembered Christine as a wild young girl, delighting in liberty,
air, and motion; then as an impassioned woman, full of love and
independence. And a smile crossed the old man's lips as he thought of
her burst of joy, when he should say to her,--"You are free, and Herbert
waits to lead you to the altar!" His heart beat as it had never beaten
in the best days of his youth; he counted the minutes and kept his eyes
fixed upon the little door through which Christine was to come. He could
not fold her in his arms, the grating prevented it, but at least he
should see and hear her. Suddenly all his blood rushed to his heart, for
the hinges creaked and the door opened. A novice, clothed in white,
slowly advanced; he looked at her, started back, hesitated, and
exclaimed: "Oh God! is that Christine?"
William had cherished in his heart the memory of a bright-eyed, sunburnt
girl, alert and lively, quick and decided in her movements, running
more often than she walked, like the graceful roe that loves the
mountain-steeps. He beheld a tall young woman, white and colourless as
the robes that shrouded her; her hair concealed under a thick linen
band, her slender form scarcely to be distinguished beneath the heavy
folds of her woollen vestments. Her movements were slow, her black eyes
veiled by an indescribable languor; a profound calm was the
characteristic of her whole being--a calm so great, that it resembled
absence of life. One might have thought her eyes looked without seeing,
that her lips could not open to speak, that her ears listened without
hearing. Sister Martha-Mary was beautiful, but her beauty was not of the
earth--it was the beauty of infinite repose,--of a calm that nothing
could disturb.
The old man was touched to the bottom of his soul; the words expired on
his lips, and he extended his hands towards Christine. On beholding her
uncle, Martha-Mary endeavoured to smile, but moved not, and said
nothing.
"Oh my child!" cried William at last, "how you must suffer here!"
Martha-Mary gently shook her head, and the tranquil look she fixed upon
her uncle, protested against his supposition.
"Is it possible that five years have thus changed my Christine! My heart
recognises you, my child, not my eyes! They have compelled you to great
austerities, severe privations?"
"No."
"A cruel bondage has weighed heavily upon you?"
"No."
"You have been ill then?"
"No."
"Your poor heart has suffered too much, and has broken. You have shed
many tears?"
"I remember them no longer."
"Christine! Christine! do you live? or has the shade of Annunciata risen
from the grave? Oh my child! in seeing you, I seem to see her corpse,
extended on the bed of death!"
Martha-Mary raised her large eyes to heaven; she joined her hands, and
murmured, "My mother!"
"Christine, speak to me! weep with me! you frighten me by your calm and
silence.... Ah! in my trouble and emotion, I have as yet explained
nothing.... Listen: my brother Karl, by the failure of a partner,
suddenly found his whole fortune compromised. To avoid total ruin he was
obliged to embark immediately for the colonies. He set sail expecting to
return in a few years; but his affairs prolong his absence, and his
return is indefinitely postponed. His two eldest daughters are with him.
To me, who am too old to follow him, too old to remain alone, he has
given Christine. I would not accept the precious charge, my child,
without the possibility of rendering you happy. I implored permission to
marry you to Herbert. You are no longer a rich heiress: your father
gone, you need protection, and that of an old man cannot long avail you.
In short, your father has agreed to all I asked: he sends you, as a
farewell gift, your liberty and his consent to your marriage....
Christine! you are free, and Herbert awaits his bride!"
The long drapery of the novice was slightly agitated, as if the limbs it
covered trembled; she remained some seconds without speaking, and then
replied, "It is too late! I am the affianced of the Lord!"
William uttered a cry of grief, and looked with alarm at the pale calm
girl, who stood immovable before him.
"Christine!" he cried, "you no longer love Herbert?"
"I am the affianced of the Lord!" repeated the novice, her hands crossed
upon her breast, her eyes raised to heaven.
"Oh my God! my God!" cried William, weeping bitterly, "my brother has
killed his child! Her soul has been sad even unto death! Poor victim of
severity, tell me, Christine, tell me, what has passed within you,
during your abode here?"
"I saw others pray, and I prayed also. There was a great stillness, and
I was silent; none wept, and I dried my tears; a something, at first
cold, then soothing, enveloped my soul. The voice of God made itself
heard to me, and I listened; I loved the Lord, and gave myself to Him."
Then, as if fatigued with speaking so much, Martha-Mary relapsed into
silence, and into that absorbing meditation which rendered her
insensible to surrounding things. Just then a bell tolled. The novice
started, and her eyes sparkled.
"God calls me!" she said; "I go to pray!"
"Christine! my daughter, will you leave me thus?"
"Hear you not the bell? It is the hour of prayer."
"But, Christine, dearest child, I came to take you hence."
"I shall never leave these walls!" said Martha-Mary, gliding slowly
away. As she opened the parlour door, she turned towards William; her
eyes fixed upon him with a sad and sweet expression; her lips moved, as
if to send him a kiss; then she disappeared. William made no attempt to
detain her; his head was pressed against the grating, and big tears
chased each other down his cheeks. How long he remained thus plunged in
mournful reflection, he noted not. He was roused by the voice of the
superior, who seated herself, wrapped in her black robes, on the other
side of the grating.
"I foresaw your grief," she said. "Our sister Martha-Mary refuses to
follow you."
With a despairing look, William answered the nun.
"Alas! alas!" he said, "the child I so dearly loved met me without joy,
and left me without regret."
"Listen, my son," resumed the superior; "listen to me.--Five years ago,
there came to this convent a young girl overwhelmed with grief and sunk
in terrible despair; her entrance here was to her a descent into the
tomb. During one entire year, none saw her but with tears on her face.
Only God knows how many tears the eyes must shed before a broken spirit
regains calm and resignation; man cannot count them. This young girl
suffered much; in vain we implored pardon for her, in vain we summoned
her family to her relief. She might say, as is written in the
psalm,--'_I am weary with my groaning: mine eye is consumed because of
grief._' What could we do, save pray for her, since none would receive
her back!..."
"Alas!" cried William, "your letters never reached us. My brother was
beyond sea; and I, having then no hope of changing his determination,--I
had quitted his empty and melancholy house."
"Man abandoned her," continued the superior, "but God looked upon His
servant, and comforted her soul. If He does not see fit to restore
strength to her body, exhausted by suffering--His will be done! Perhaps
it would now be wise and generous to leave her to that love of God which
she has attained after so many tears; perhaps it would be prudent to
spare her fresh shocks."
"No! no!" interrupted William, "I cannot give up, even to God, this last
relic of my family, the sole prop of my old age. I will try every means
to revive in her heart its early sentiments. Give me Christine for a few
days only! Let me conduct her to the place of her birth, to the scenes
where she loved. She is deaf to my entreaties, but she will obey an
order from you; bid her return for a while beneath her father's roof!
Should she still wish it, after this last attempt, I will restore her
hither."
"Take her, my son," replied the superior; "I will bid her follow. If God
has indeed spoken to her soul, no worldly voice will move her. If it be
otherwise, may she return no more to the cloister, but be blessed
wherever she goes! Adieu, my son; the peace of the Lord be with you!"
Hope revived in the heart of William Van Amberg; it seemed to him as
if--the convent threshold once passed--Christine would revert to her
former character--to her youth and love. He believed he was about to
remove his beloved child for ever from these gloomy walls, and with
painful impatience he awaited her coming. Soon a light step was heard in
the corridor; William threw open the door, Christine was there, and no
grating now separated her from her uncle.
"My beloved Christine!" exclaimed William; "at last, then, you are
restored to me; at last I can press you to my heart! Come, we will
return to our own country, and revisit the house where we all dwelt
together."
Sister Martha-Mary was still paler than at her first interview with
William. If any expression was discernible upon that calm countenance,
it was one of sadness. She allowed herself to be taken by the hand and
conducted to the convent gate; but when the gate was opened, and,
passing into the open air, she encountered the broad daylight and the
fresh breeze, she tottered and leaned for support against the wall. Just
then the sun rent the clouds, and threw its golden beams on plain and
mountain; the air was clear and transparent, and the flat and monotonous
horizon acquired beauty from the burst of light.
"See, my daughter!" said William; "see how lovely is the earth! How soft
is the air we breathe! How good it is to be free, and to move towards
that immense horizon!"
"Oh, my dear uncle!" replied the novice; "how beautiful are the heavens!
See how the sun shines above our heads! It is in heaven that his glory
should be admired! His rays are already dim and feeble when they touch
the earth!"
William led Christine to a carriage; they got in, and the horses set
off. Long did the gaze of the novice remain fixed on her convent's
walls; when these were hidden from her by the windings of the road, she
closed her eyes and seemed to sleep. During the journey, William
endeavoured in vain to make her converse; she had forgotten how to
express her thoughts. When compelled to reply, fatigue overwhelmed her;
her whole existence was concentrated in her soul, and detached entirely
from the external world. At intervals she would say to herself, "How
long the morning is! Nothing marks the hours; I have not heard a single
bell to-day!"
At last they reached the red house, and the carriage drove into the
court, where the grass grew between the stones. Gothon came out to
receive them, and Martha-Mary, leaning on her uncle's arm, entered the
parlour where the family of Van Amberg had so often assembled. The room
was deserted and cold; no books or work gave it the look of habitation;
abandoned by its last occupants, it awaited new ones. Christine slowly
traversed this well-known apartment, and sat down upon a chair near the
window. It was there her mother had sat for twenty years; there had her
childhood passed at the knees of Annunciata.
William opened the window, showed her the meadow, the willows, and the
river. Christine looked at them in silence, her head resting on her
hand, her eyes fixed on the horizon. For a long while William stood
beside her, then he placed his hand on her shoulder and pronounced her
name. She rose and followed him. They ascended the stairs, traversed the
gallery, and William opened a door. "Your mother's room," said he to
Christine. The novice entered and paused in the middle of the chamber;
tears flowed from her eyes, she clasped her hands and prayed.
"My daughter," said William, "_she_ ardently desired your happiness."
"She has obtained it!" replied the novice.
The old man felt a profound sadness come over him. It was like pressing
to his heart a corpse to which his love restored neither breath nor
warmth. Martha-Mary approached her mother's bed, knelt down, and kissed
the pillow that had supported the dying head of Annunciata.
"Mother," she murmured, "soon we shall meet again."
William shuddered. He took Christine's hand, and led her to the room she
had formerly occupied. The little white-curtained bed was still there,
the guitar hung against the wall, Christine's favourite volumes filled
the shelves of her modest book-case; through the open window were seen
the willows and the river. Martha-Mary noticed none of these things: the
wooden crucifix was still upon the wall; she rapidly approached it,
knelt, bowed her head upon the feet of Christ, closed her eyes and
breathed deeply, like one finding repose after long fatigue. Like the
exile returning to his native land, like the storm-tossed mariner
regaining the port, she remained with her brow resting upon her
Saviour's feet.
Standing by her side, William looked on in tearful silence. Farther off,
Gothon wiped her eyes with her apron. Several hours elapsed. The house
clock struck, the birds sang in the garden; the wind rustled among the
trees; in the lofty pigeon-house the doves cooed; the cock crowed in the
poultry-yard. None of these loved and familiar sounds could divert
Martha-Mary from her devout meditation. Sick at heart, her uncle
descended to the parlour. He remained there long, plunged in gloomy
reflections. Suddenly hasty steps were heard; a young man rushed into
the room, and into William's arms.
"Christine! Christine!" cried Herbert; "where is Christine? Is it not a
dream? M. Van Amberg gives me Christine!... Once more in my native land,
and Christine mine!"
"Karl Van Amberg gives, but God refuses her to you!" replied William,
mournfully. Then he told Herbert what had passed at the convent, and
since their arrival at the house: he gave a thousand details--he
repeated them a thousand times, but without convincing Herbert of the
melancholy truth.
"It is impossible!" cried the young man; "if Christine is alive, if
Christine is here, to the first word uttered by her lover, Christine
will reply."
"God grant it!" exclaimed William; "my last hope is in you."
Herbert sprang up the stairs, his heart too full of love to have room
for fear. Christine free, was for him Christine ready to become his
wife. He hastily opened her chamber door; but then he paused, as if
petrified, upon the threshold. The day was closing in, and its fading
light fell upon Martha-Mary, whose form stood out like a white shadow
from the gloom of the room. She was still on her knees, her head resting
on the feet of Christ, her fragile person lost in the multiplied folds
of her conventual robes. She heard not the opening of the door, and
Herbert stood gazing at her, till a flood of tears burst from his eyes.
William took his hand and silently pressed it.
"I am frightened!" said Herbert, in a low tone. "That is not my
Christine! A phantom risen from the earth, or an angel descended from
heaven, has taken her place!"
"No, she is no longer Christine!" replied William, sadly.
For a few moments more Herbert stood in mournful contemplation. Then he
exclaimed--"Christine, dear Christine!"
At the sound of his voice the novice started, rose to her feet, and
pronounced his name. As in former days, when her lover called
"Christine!" Martha-Mary replied "Herbert!"
The young man's heart beat violently; he stood beside the novice, he
took her hands. "It is I, it is Herbert!" he said, kneeling down before
her.
The novice fixed her large black eyes upon him with a long inquiring
gaze; a slight flush passed across her brow; then she became pale as
before, and said gently to Herbert--"I thought not to see you again upon
earth."
"Dear Christine! tears and suffering have long been our portion; but
happy days at last dawn upon us! My love! my bride! we will never part
again!"
Martha-Mary extricated her hands from those of Herbert, and retreated
towards the image of Christ.
"I am the bride of the Lord," she said in trembling accents. "He expects
me."
Herbert uttered a cry of grief.
"Christine! dear Christine! remember our oft-repeated pledges, our
loves, our tears, our hopes. You left me vowing to love me always.
Christine, if you would not have me die of despair, remember the past!"
Martha-Mary's eyes continued riveted on the crucifix; her hands,
convulsively clasped, were extended towards it.
"Gracious Lord!" she prayed, "speak to his heart as you have spoken to
mine! It is a noble heart, worthy to love you. Stronger than I, Herbert
may survive, even after much weeping! Console him, oh Lord!"
"Christine! my first and only love! sole hope and joy of my life! do you
thus abandon me? That heart, once entirely mine, is it closed to me for
ever?"
Her gaze upon the crucifix, her hands still joined, the novice, as if
able to speak only to her God, gently replied:--"Lord! he suffers as I
suffered! shed upon him the balm wherewith you healed my wounds! Leaving
him life, take his soul as you have taken mine. Give him that ineffable
peace which descends upon those thou lovest!"
"Oh Christine! my beloved!" cried Herbert, once more taking her hand,
"do but look at me! turn your eyes upon me and behold my tears! Dearest
treasure of my heart! you seem to slumber! Awake! Have you forgotten our
tender meetings, the willows bending over the stream, the boat in which
we sailed a whole night, dreaming the joy of eternal union? See! the
moon rises as it rose that night. We were near each other as now; but
then they tore us asunder, and now we are free to be together!
Christine, have you ceased to love? Is all forgotten?"
William took her other hand. "Dear child," he said, "we entreat you not
to leave us! To you we look for happiness; remain with us, Christine."
One hand in the hands of Herbert, the other in those of William, the
novice slowly and solemnly replied:
"The corpse that reposes in the tomb lifts not the stone to re-enter the
world. The soul that has seen heaven, does not leave it to return to
earth. The creature to whom God has said, 'Be thou the spouse of
Christ,' does not quit Christ to unite herself to a man; and she who is
about to die should turn her affections from mortal things!"
"Herbert!" cried William, "be silent! Not another word! I can scarcely
feel the throbbing of her pulse! She is paler even than when I first saw
her behind the convent grating. We give her pain. Enough, Herbert,
enough! Better yield her to God upon earth, than send her to Him in
heaven!"
The old man placed the almost inanimate head of Martha-Mary upon his
shoulder, and pressed her to his heart as a mother embraces her child.
"Recover yourself, my daughter," he said; "I will restore you to the
house of God."
Martha-Mary turned her sad and gentle gaze upon her uncle, and her hand
feebly pressed his. Then addressing herself to Herbert:
"You, Herbert," she said, in a scarcely audible voice--"you, who will
live, do not abandon him!"
"Christine!" cried Herbert, on his knees before his betrothed.
"Christine! do we part for ever?"
The novice raised her eyes to heaven.
"Not for ever!" she replied.
Some days afterwards the convent gates opened to receive sister
Martha-Mary. They closed upon her for the last time. With feeble and
unsteady step the novice traversed the cloisters to prostrate herself on
the altar-steps. The superior came to her.
"Oh my mother!" exclaimed Christine, the fountain of whose tears was
opened, and who wept as in the days of her childhood, "I have seen him
and left him! To thee I return, oh Lord! Faithful to my vows, I await
the crown that shall consecrate me thy spouse. Thy voice alone shall
henceforward reach my ears; I come to sing thy praises, to pray and
serve thee until the end of my life!--Holy mother, prepare the robe of
serge, the white crown, the silver cross; I am ready!"
"My daughter," replied the superior, "you are very ill--much exhausted
by so many shocks; will you not delay the ceremony of profession?"
"No, holy mother! no; delay it not! I would die the bride of the
Lord!... And I have little time!" replied sister Martha-Mary.
THE MAN IN THE BELL.
[_MAGA._ NOVEMBER 1821.]
In my younger days, bell-ringing was much more in fashion among the
young men of ---- than it is now. Nobody, I believe, practises it there
at present except the servants of the church, and the melody has been
much injured in consequence. Some fifty years ago, about twenty of us
who dwelt in the vicinity of the Cathedral, formed a club, which used to
ring every peal that was called for; and, from continual practice and a
rivalry which arose between us and a club attached to another steeple,
and which tended considerably to sharpen our zeal, we became very
Mozarts on our favourite instruments. But my bell-ringing practice was
shortened by a singular accident, which not only stopped my performance,
but made even the sound of a bell terrible to my ears.
One Sunday, I went with another into the belfry to ring for noon
prayers, but the second stroke we had pulled showed us that the clapper
of the bell we were at was muffled. Some one had been buried that
morning, and it had been prepared, of course, to ring a mournful note.
We did not know of this, but the remedy was easy. "Jack," said my
companion, "step up to the loft, and cut off the hat;" for the way we
had of muffling was by tying a piece of an old hat, or of cloth (the
former was preferred), to one side of the clapper, which deadened every
second toll. I complied, and mounting into the belfry, crept as usual
into the bell, where I began to cut away. The hat had been tied on in
some more complicated manner than usual, and I was perhaps three or four
minutes in getting it off; during which time my companion below was
hastily called away--by a message from his sweetheart, I believe--but
that is not material to my story. The person who called him was a
brother of the club, who, knowing that the time had come for ringing for
service, and not thinking that any one was above, began to pull. At this
moment I was just getting out, when I felt the bell moving; I guessed
the reason at once--it was a moment of terror; but by a hasty and almost
convulsive effort, I succeeded in jumping down, and throwing myself on
the flat of my back under the bell.
The room in which it was, was little more than sufficient to contain it,
the bottom of the bell coming within a couple of feet of the floor of
lath. At that time I certainly was not so bulky as I am now, but as I
lay it was within an inch of my face. I had not laid myself down a
second, when the ringing began.--It was a dreadful situation. Over me
swung an immense mass of metal, one touch of which would have crushed me
to pieces; the floor under me was principally composed of crazy laths,
and if they gave way, I was precipitated to the distance of about fifty
feet upon a loft, which would, in all probability, have sunk under the
impulse of my fall, and sent me to be dashed to atoms upon the marble
floor of the chancel, an hundred feet below. I remembered--for fear is
quick in recollection--how a common clockwright, about a month before,
had fallen, and, bursting through the floors of the steeple, driven in
the ceilings of the porch, and even broken into the marble tombstone of
a bishop who slept beneath. This was my first terror, but the ringing
had not continued a minute, before a more awful and immediate dread came
on me. The deafening sound of the bell smote into my ears with a thunder
which made me fear their drums would crack: there was not a fibre of my
body it did not thrill through. It entered my very soul; thought and
reflection were almost utterly banished; I only retained the sensation
of agonising terror. Every moment I saw the bell sweep within an inch of
my face; and my eyes--I could not close them, though to look at the
object was bitter as death--followed it instinctively in its
oscillating progress until it came back again. It was in vain I said to
myself that it could come no nearer at any future swing than it did at
first; every time it descended, I endeavoured to shrink into the very
floor to avoid being buried under the down-sweeping mass; and then,
reflecting on the danger of pressing too weightily on my frail support,
would cower up again as far as I dared.
At first my fears were mere matter of fact. I was afraid the pulleys
above would give way, and let the bell plunge on me. At another time,
the possibility of the clapper being shot out in some sweep, and dashing
through my body, as I had seen a ramrod glide through a door, flitted
across my mind. The dread also, as I have already mentioned, of the
crazy floor, tormented me; but these soon gave way to fears not more
unfounded, but more visionary, and of course more tremendous. The
roaring of the bell confused my intellect, and my fancy soon began to
teem with all sort of strange and terrifying ideas. The bell pealing
above, and opening its jaws with a hideous clamour, seemed to me at one
time a ravening monster, raging to devour me; at another, a whirlpool
ready to suck me into its bellowing abyss. As I gazed on it, it assumed
all shapes; it was a flying eagle, or rather a roc of the Arabian
story-tellers, clapping its wings and screaming over me. As I looked
upward into it, it would appear sometimes to lengthen into indefinite
extent, or to be twisted at the end into the spiral folds of the tail of
a flying dragon. Nor was the flaming breath or fiery glance of that
fabled animal wanting to complete the picture. My eyes, inflamed,
blood-shot, and glaring, invested the supposed monster with a full
proportion of unholy light.
It would be endless were I to merely hint at all the fancies that
possessed my mind. Every object that was hideous and roaring presented
itself to my imagination. I often thought that I was in a hurricane at
sea, and that the vessel in which I was embarked tossed under me with
the most furious vehemence. The air, set in motion by the swinging of
the bell, blew over me, nearly with the violence, and more than the
thunder, of a tempest; and the floor seemed to reel under me, as under a
drunken man. But the most awful of all the ideas that seized on me were
drawn from the supernatural. In the vast cavern of the bell hideous
faces appeared, and glared down on me with terrifying frowns, or with
grinning mockery still more appalling. At last, the devil himself,
accoutred as in the common description of the evil spirit, with hoof,
horn, and tail, and eyes of infernal lustre, made his appearance, and
called on me to curse God and worship him, who was powerful to save me.
This dread suggestion he uttered with the full-toned clangour of the
bell. I had him within an inch of me, and I thought on the fate of the
Santon Barsisa. Strenuously and desperately I defied him and bade him
begone. Reason, then, for a moment, resumed her sway, but it was only to
fill me with fresh terror, just as the lightning dispels the gloom that
surrounds the benighted mariner, but to show him that his vessel is
driving on a rock, where she must inevitably be dashed to pieces. I
found I was becoming delirious, and trembled lest reason should utterly
desert me. This is at all times an agonising thought, but it smote me
then with tenfold agony. I feared lest, when utterly deprived of my
senses, I should rise--to do which I was every moment tempted by that
strange feeling which calls on a man, whose head is dizzy from standing
on the battlement of a lofty castle, to precipitate himself from it, and
then death would be instant and tremendous. When I thought of this, I
became desperate. I caught the floor with a grasp which drove the blood
from my nails; and I yelled with the cry of despair. I called for help,
I prayed, I shouted, but all the efforts of my voice were of course
drowned in the bell. As it passed over my mouth, it occasionally echoed
my cries, which mixed not with its own sound, but preserved their
distinct character. Perhaps this was but fancy. To me, I know, they then
sounded as if they were the shouting, howling, or laughing of the
fiends with which my imagination had peopled the gloomy cave which swung
over me.
You may accuse me of exaggerating my feelings; but I am not. Many a
scene of dread have I since passed through, but they are nothing to the
self-inflicted terrors of this half hour. The ancients have doomed one
of the damned, in their Tartarus, to lie under a rock, which every
moment seems to be descending to annihilate him--and an awful punishment
it would be. But if to this you add a clamour as loud as if ten thousand
furies were howling about you--a deafening uproar banishing reason, and
driving you to madness--you must allow that the bitterness of the pang
was rendered more terrible. There is no man, firm as his nerves may be,
who could retain his courage in this situation.
In twenty minutes the ringing was done. Half of that time passed over me
without power of computation,--the other half appeared an age. When it
ceased, I became gradually more quiet, but a new fear retained me. I
knew that five minutes would elapse without ringing, but, at the end of
that short time, the bell would be rung a second time, for five minutes
more. I could not calculate time. A minute and an hour were of equal
duration. I feared to rise, lest the five minutes should have elapsed,
and the ringing be again commenced, in which case I should be crushed,
before I could escape, against the walls or framework of the bell. I
therefore still continued to lie down, cautiously shifting myself,
however, with a careful gliding, so that my eye no longer looked into
the hollow. This was of itself a considerable relief. The cessation of
the noise had, in a great measure, the effect of stupifying me, for my
attention, being no longer occupied by the chimeras I had conjured up,
began to flag. All that now distressed me was the constant expectation
of the second ringing, for which, however, I settled myself with a kind
of stupid resolution. I closed my eyes, and clenched my teeth as firmly
as if they were screwed in a vice. At last the dreaded moment came, and
the first swing of the bell extorted a groan from me, as they say the
most resolute victim screams at the sight of the rack, to which he is
for a second time destined. After this, however, I lay silent and
lethargic, without a thought. Wrapt in the defensive armour of
stupidity, I defied the bell and its intonations. When it ceased, I was
roused a little by the hope of escape. I did not, however, decide on
this step hastily, but, putting up my hand with the utmost caution, I
touched the rim. Though the ringing had ceased, it still was tremulous
from the sound, and shook under my hand, which instantly recoiled as
from an electric jar. A quarter of an hour probably elapsed before I
again dared to make the experiment, and then I found it at rest. I
determined to lose no time, fearing that I might have lain then already
too long, and that the bell for evening service would catch me. This
dread stimulated me, and I slipped out with the utmost rapidity, and
arose. I stood, I suppose, for a minute, looking with silly wonder on
the place of my imprisonment, penetrated with joy at escaping, but then
rushed down the stony and irregular stair with the velocity of
lightning, and arrived in the bell-ringers' room. This was the last act
I had power to accomplish. I leant against the wall, motionless and
deprived of thought, in which posture my companions found me, when, in
the course of a couple of hours, they returned to their occupation.
They were shocked, as well they might, at the figure before them. The
wind of the bell had excoriated my face, and my dim and stupified eyes
were fixed with a lack-lustre gaze in my raw eyelids. My hands were torn
and bleeding; my hair dishevelled; and my clothes tattered. They spoke
to me, but I gave no answer. They shook me, but I remained insensible.
They then became alarmed, and hastened to remove me. He who had first
gone up with me in the forenoon, met them as they carried me through the
churchyard, and through him, who was shocked at having, in some
measure, occasioned the accident, the cause of my misfortune was
discovered. I was put to bed at home, and remained for three days
delirious, but gradually recovered my senses. You may be sure the bell
formed a prominent topic of my ravings, and if I heard a peal, they were
instantly increased to the utmost violence. Even when the delirium
abated, my sleep was continually disturbed by imagined ringings, and my
dreams were haunted by the fancies which almost maddened me while in the
steeple. My friends removed me to a house in the country, which was
sufficiently distant from any place of worship, to save me from the
apprehensions of hearing the church-going bell; for what Alexander
Selkirk, in Cowper's poem, complained of as a misfortune, was then to me
as a blessing. Here I recovered; but, even long after recovery, if a
gale wafted the notes of a peal towards me, I started with nervous
apprehension. I felt a Mohammedan hatred to all the bell tribe, and
envied the subjects of the Commander of the Faithful the sonorous voice
of their Muezzin. Time cured this, as it does the most of our follies;
but even at the present day, if, by chance, my nerves be unstrung, some
particular tones of the cathedral bell have power to surprise me into a
momentary start.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.
Transcriber's Note
Apparent printer's errors and archaic spelling have been retained,
unless stated below.
Punctuation markup has been made consistent.
"_" surrounding text represents italics.
In the original, pages are numbered 1-100 three times consecutively.
In this Transcriber's Note, they have been differentiated by
using 1a-100a, 1b-100b, 1c-100c.
Page 58a, "cause" changed to "case". (In due time the case was called.)
Page 60a, "eat" changed to "ate". (... and he would have sailed thither
before the 31st of December, on which day his father, a joyous liver and
confirmed votary of Bacchus, ate and drank to such an extent to
celebrate the exit of the old year and commencement of the new, that he
fell down, on his way to his bed, in a thundering fit of apoplexy, and
was a corpse before morning.)
Page 67a, "Μητ' ἐμοὶ παρέστιος γένοιτο" has been changed to "Μήτ' ἐμοὶ
παρέστιος γένοιτο".
Page 25b, "raw" changed to "law". (I was not quite sure of the effect of
my commentary on the evidence, and therefore thought it might be
advisable to touch upon a national law.)
Page 67c, "Amburg" changed to "Amberg" for consistency. (With a vigorous
arm, M. Van Amberg seized Christine, whose slender form bent like a reed
over his shoulder.)
End of Project Gutenberg's Tales from "Blackwood," Volume 6, by Various