authorised to assure my friend of a welcome reception within these
walls? Speak but one gracious word, and a few hours will be sufficient
to bring her to your feet. Conducted by the good Abbot she has followed
my steps hither, and I need only your permission to deliver her up to
your protection,”—
It is superfluous to say, that Herman’s request was granted with
readiness; but how great was the emotion, which his narrative had
excited in his auditress, how ardent her impatience for the arrival of
the unhappy lady! She was unable to restrain her tears, and a thousand
joyful exclamations escaped her lips, whose import was unintelligible to
Herman.
—“Am I right,” said he, “in supposing, that my friend is not unknown to
you?”—
—“Heaven grant, that it may prove so,” answered the Abbess, while she
hastily wiped away her tears. “But as yet you have allowed me so little
insight into her history, that I scarcely dare give credit to my hopes.
Oh! furnish me with more light; tell me every thing that you know about
her; and prevent my nourishing the sweet but deceitful dreams, which now
occupy my fancy. Alas! alas! it is impossible that they should be
verified; in pity then destroy them at once, before these fond hopes
have time to take such root in my heart, that to tear them out again
would almost break it.”—
—“All that I know respecting this stranger,” answered Herman, “is, that
she was immured by her friends in the Convent of St. Roswitha several
months before the fatal conflagration. It was not long, before she
became acquainted with the manners, which prevailed in this polluted
Sanctuary. Luprian, the unworthy Abbot of Curwald, who even under the
protecting roof of her father had insulted her by a declaration of his
passion, renewed his persecution with increased ardour in a place, which
was completely under his dominion. Much time was not suffered to elapse,
before her resistance was punished by confinement in the cell, whence I
released her: yet she was occasionally compelled to return to the
Convent, in order that her virtue might be assailed by art, flattery,
and every power of the most refined seduction, as well as by severity
and persecution.
“The day preceding the dreadful night, in which these dwellings of sin
were purified by fire, had witnessed such a scene of temptation, as
Luprian thought could not possibly fail of success. But it was defeated
in a manner so disgraceful for the enemies of innocence, that spite and
fury took the place of seduction and love. The heroine was compelled to
endure a variety of the most cruel insults and injuries, and then was
dragged back to her dungeon so exhausted with her sufferings, that she
could scarcely be called alive.
“To her return to this prison was she indebted for existence. It was
sunk so deep within the earth and so remote from the inhabited parts of
the Convent, that she only had a slight suspicion from different
circumstances, that something unusual was passing above her head. She
was confirmed in this idea by several days elapsing without any
nourishment being brought to her. She was reduced to the greatest
extremity; and hunger would soon have put a period to her sufferings,
when the prison-door was unlocked, and the Abbot entered. A cordial of
great power, which he gave her, restored her strength sufficiently to
enable her at length to comprehend the object of his visit. He first
informed her of the events which had lately taken place, and then
proceeded to propose to her the terms, on which she might obtain her
liberty.
—“It is universally believed,” said he, “that I, as well as the rest of
my Order, have fallen a prey to the flames; I encourage this opinion,
since it enables me with security to quit a profession, for which I am
ill calculated, and which I have always held in detestation. I
acknowledge it, my passion for you has hitherto been such, as you ought
not to have complied with; but I now come to declare sentiments so pure,
that you may safely listen to them without doing the least injury to
your honour. I have rescued the Abbey-treasure from the ruins; I have
also secured such considerable funds in other countries, as will enable
me to support the establishment of a temporal prince in any place which
you may prefer, provided it be one where my person is not known. Nothing
is wanting to complete my happiness, except the possession of your hand,
and I trust, you will not be so blind to your own advantage, as to
reject my honourable suit. But one choice is allowed you; either you
must perish in this dungeon, whose existence is now a secret to every
human being except myself; or else you must take a solemn oath upon the
cross to share my flight from Germany, and become my wife, as soon as we
are safe in some foreign climate. There is no time for deliberation; the
success of my plans depends upon their speedy execution, and you must
instantly and at once pronounce the sentence, which decides both _your_
fate and my own.—I wait your answer.”—
“That answer was such, as might have been expected from one, by whom the
licentious Luprian was held in as much abhorrence, as virtue was held
dear and idolized. She asserted the indissoluble nature of his vows to
religion, and repaid his tender speeches with such scorn, that he left
her with a threat never to repeat his offer, but to suffer her to perish
of hunger without compassion or remorse. But the captive was too dear to
him to permit his keeping that resolution. He tormented her with
frequent visits, and desisted not from his fruitless endeavours to
reconcile her to his plans; though to her great satisfaction he was
latterly compelled to abstain from entering her dungeon. A suspicion
existed, that considerable treasures were buried among the ruins of the
Monastery; it was therefore judged prudent to place sentinels about
them, and thus was the execrable Monk debarred all intercourse with his
prisoner, except such as could be carried on by favour of the iron
grating.
“Luprian now found it absolutely necessary for him to visit Italy, where
he had deposited the chief part of his wealth. He entrusted the care of
the lady to his sole Confident. As his absence was protracted longer
than he had himself expected, she enjoyed some respite from his infamous
addresses, and was not without hopes, that her entreaties and sufferings
would at last induce his representative to take some steps towards
effecting her deliverance. Those hopes however were continually
disappointed. His heart was not more flexible than his associate’s; he
remained immutably faithful to the trust reposed in him; and in answer
to her enquiries respecting the transactions of the regions above her,
he gave her such accounts of the successes of her enemies and of the
destruction of all those who were dear to her, as almost extinguished
her anxiety to escape from her dungeon. She saw, that nothing but sorrow
would welcome her return to liberty, and the natural love of life
struggled but faintly against the certainty of present sufferings, and
the apprehension of those, which were still to come.
“Day after day crept away, during which the dreadful uniformity of her
unhappy situation was uninterrupted, except by moments of utter despair,
whose power frequently was on the point of subduing the poor prisoner;
or else by those gleams of ungrounded hope, with which Providence
strengthens and comforts those whom he means finally to preserve, in
order that they may not quite sink beneath the burthen of their
calamities. Luprian still returned not: the lady’s complaints seemed
gradually to make their impression on the mind of his deputy. He
occasionally suffered hints to escape him, that it would not be
impossible to obtain his consent to her liberty: and at length at her
earnest request he was induced to declare, that he was ready that
instant to put an end to her sufferings, provided she would consent to
share with him as his wife the enjoyment of that wealth, which the Abbot
had placed in his custody.
“Here then her hopes again were disappointed. Vexation added bitterness
to the manner, in which she indignantly rejected his infamous proposal:
and the wretch, exasperated by her cutting expressions, swore, that he
would put his plan in execution without her that very day, and would
leave her to her fate. He kept his oath; and the captive must have
perished, had not the Abbot fortunately returned at this identical
moment. His expedition had been attended with nothing but
disappointment. The wealth, which he had vested in foreign hands, had
disappeared from a variety of causes, some through mischance, more
through treachery; and he now only returned to find his associate fled,
his treasure plundered, and his mistress as inflexible as ever.
Vexation, poverty, and fatigue threw him on the bed of sickness. Many
days frequently past, during which the captive was totally neglected;
when at length her gaoler appeared, it was only to throw to her a loaf
of that bread, of which he now could with difficulty procure a
sufficiency for his own sustenance, and with every time to assure her,
that this nourishment was the last, which she would ever receive from
his hands. He spoke no longer of flight, or indeed of his passion for
her; in truth, the former now seemed to be almost impracticable, for the
rebuilding of the Monastery was begun; people were constantly employed
in the neighbourhood of the dungeon’s entrance; and the outlets from the
ruins were watched with more vigilance than ever. The sufferer
frequently entreated him to promise, that he would at least reveal to
some one the place of her confinement before his death; since in order
to increase her terrors he never mist an opportunity of assuring her,
that he had not many days to exist. But in vain did she represent to
him, that when he should be in another world, her sufferings in this
could by no means be to him of any advantage: he was deaf to her
supplications. Bitter and contemptuous irony was his only answer; and it
seemed as if he solely enabled her to support life, in order that he
might still have a human being in his power to torment.
“It was about this time, that the vaults above her prison became an
object of examination: they were completely clogged up with rubbish,
except one narrow passage conducting to the grate. She had often
determined on ending her sufferings by a voluntary death, and for
several days persisted in refusing sustenance; but now that she
frequently heard a noise above her head, and even once or twice caught
the gleam of distant torches through the iron opening, her fearful
resolutions were laid aside, and their place occupied by the hope, that
accident perhaps might effect her deliverance.
“These hopes she concealed most sedulously from her tyrant; and so often
had her sweetest dreams disappointed her, that despair still was able at
times to regain his former influence over her mind. Yet she was now so
accustomed to mark by some piteous sound, that there was a suffering
creature buried in these caverns who implored assistance, that she
continued her groans and cries, even when she had long given up the
expectation of their reaching the ear of compassion. In truth, the
workmen, during the intervals of their labours, had caught the faint
murmurs of her complaints; but they put no other interpretations upon
the sound, than such as were suggested by terror and superstition.
Fortunately our enterprise necessarily brought us every day nearer the
place of her seclusion; till at length some good Angel made me attentive
to the cry of sorrow, and guided me to the performance of an action,
which I shall never cease to consider as the most blessed and fortunate
event of my whole life.”—
Herman of Werdenberg here ended his long narrative; the emotions which
it had produced in Helen were so violent, that every similitude would
fall short of expressing their strength.
—“Emmeline!” said she in that internal voice, which is only audible to
the soul, “thou liv’st then, and I shall once more clasp to my bosom the
poor forlorn orphan, the persecuted dove, the pious martyr of chastity
and religion!—And Herman is your deliverer! that very Herman of
Werdenberg, who once was unjust to your merits, and who now (if I may
judge by every possible evidence) adores you with the warmest, purest
affection, ever kindled in the bosom of a mortal! Oh! Helen, Helen, what
unexpected joy! You will see two of the best of human beings made happy
after long and cruel sufferings, and will yourself assist in forwarding
their happiness! My own plans of worldly bliss have all been ruined; in
reward for my not murmuring at their destruction, grant me, ye powers of
mercy, that wisdom and that foresight, which may enable me to establish
the felicity of my friend on the firmest foundations and with the least
delay.”—
Herman was at a loss to comprehend the long silence of the Abbess, and
the deep meditation, into which his narrative seemed to have plunged
her. At length she recollected herself, and at her request he retired in
search of the stranger, Helen having previously stipulated that he
should not be present at their meeting. She was not certain, that in the
first moments of emotion she should be sufficiently mistress of herself
to conceal Emmeline’s name; and from what he had said, she collected,
that it was not her friend’s intention at present to discover herself to
her deliverer.
A few hours elapsed, before Emmeline appeared leaning on the good Abbot:
Helen now was no longer surprised, that in her present situation she had
not been recognized by her former lover. She was sadly, sadly changed.
It was necessary to have been quite as lovely as Emmeline, in order not
to have lost every charm of person during the long and cruel period of
her captivity; it was necessary to have possest as wonderful a strength
of mind as hers, in order to escape with her senses unimpaired from the
fearful shipwreck of all that was then most dear to her. Ah! Herman,
Herman! that youthful vivacity, which appeared to you so high a crime,
and for which you so unjustly blamed the innocent girl, was now fled for
ever; its place was supplied by a mild and serious look of resignation,
whose melancholy it’s true was sometimes illumined by a benevolent
smile; but the smile was but momentary, and its lustre soon faded away.
Yet thus it was, that you wished her to be; and thus must Emmeline needs
appear to you a thousand times more pleasing, than while she yet shone
with all the brilliant powers of unfaded youth, vivacity, and beauty.
Beautiful in truth was Emmeline no more; but Emmeline was still
interesting beyond expression. A slight frail nymph-like form, so light
that it seemed as if air could have sustained her; a face, robbed of its
roseate colour, but so dazzling fair, that she resembled a marble
statue; a countenance, from which a painter might have formed a portrait
of Christian Humility, and to which the consciousness of heroic
self-denial and of long abstraction from all earthly hopes and
pleasures, had given a saint-like expression that was almost
supernatural; such now was the once brilliant Emmeline of Sargans!
But Helen did not make these observations during the first moments of
their meeting; she could attend to nothing but the joy of once more
embracing her persecuted friend, whom she prest to her bosom with
pleasure too great for utterance. Emmeline was more composed; it was
long since she had seen Helen, who had never been to her more than a
beloved play-fellow, whom she sometimes remembered with a wish to meet
again, and sometimes quite forgot in contemplation of nearer interests
and impending dangers: but much more was she to Helen. The sufferings of
amiable persons, with whom we have ever had even the slightest
acquaintance, give them an extraordinary value in our eyes; and they
inspire us with an affection for them which rises to the highest pitch,
if we feel that it is at all in our power to show them kindness, and to
repair in some degree the past injustice of their fate.
What happened at this interview between the re-united friends; with what
rapture Emmeline was received by the infirm Urania, whose life was now
drawing towards its close; the recapitulation of what had past during
their separation, and the plans which they arranged for the future; all
this I shall pass over in silence, and shall only relate so much of the
latter, as may be absolutely necessary. Time and grief had made
alterations in Herman’s appearance scarcely less surprising than in
Emmeline’s. His assumed name; his gentle manners softened by melancholy
recollections and by compassion for the invalid, so different from the
sternness and contempt with which he had ever treated her at the
Bishop’s court; the dimness of her still-enfeebled sight; the darkened
chamber, whose half-light only afforded her an indistinct view of her
deliverer, when he visited her; these circumstances had contributed to
conceal Herman from her knowledge, and she only entertained a suspicion,
that the sound of his voice was not totally unknown to her. But she
remarked his growing affection; and being unwilling to encourage it, she
abstained from making those enquiries, which might perhaps have
satisfied her curiosity, but which also might have led him to believe,
that she was interested respecting him.
She was perfectly ignorant of all, that had passed during her captivity.
She had given her gaoler’s assertions implicit credit, and firmly
believed, that the few persons whom she loved were numbered among the
dead.—With what joy did she hear from Helen’s lips the assurance, that
Amalberga was alive and happy, and that she herself was indebted for her
release to no other than Herman of Werdenberg!—In truth, she had
hitherto been resolved to discourage the attachment of this unknown
warrior; but this resolution only lasted, till she discovered his real
name. Present gratitude and former affection now gave him a double
interest in her heart: yet did it not so totally overpower all other
feelings, as to determine her to forget entirely the injustice of his
former conduct. She was resolved to put him to a severe trial; she was
besides not quite certain, that his ancient prejudices might not still
have some influence over him; but a few conversations with the Knight
were sufficient to efface every suspicion on this subject. He frequently
visited his unknown mistress at the Convent-grate, where (the better to
elude a discovery) she never appeared without a veil: with every visit
his attachment evidently increased in strength; yet even in her presence
he frequently bestowed a sigh upon the rejected Emmeline, whom he never
mentioned but in terms of interest and compassion. This conduct was not
without its advantage, and when he was soon after compelled to fulfill
his vow of assisting in the crusade against the infidel Albigese, he did
not depart without hopes of being welcome at his return.
During his absence the meeting took place between Emmeline and her
beloved sister. Helen had at length gained such perfect mastery over her
feelings, as to endure without agony the presence of Torrenburg and the
happy Amalberga; and she and Urania were the delighted witnesses of a
scene, which appeared rather calculated for the regions of light beyond
the grave, than for the habitation of wretched mortality. Amalberga,
clasped in the arms of that sister, whom she had so long numbered with
the dead; Torrenburg, Urania, and Helen, the spectators of and the
partners in their joy; and then the relation of Emmeline’s cruel
sufferings; and then the description of Amalberga’s unclouded happiness;
and then the brilliant prospects for the future which displayed
themselves to both, and which for _this_ time were no illusions.... No,
I will not trust my feeble pen with the description!
The report soon circulated through the country, that the lost daughter
of Count Donat was still in existence. The sisters shared the
inheritance amicably, like two lovers dividing some scarce and delicious
fruit, each anxious that the other should receive a full proportion.
From every quarter of the free and happy Helvetia thronged the ancient
friends of the family of Sargans to congratulate the co-heiresses. At
length came also Herman of Werdenberg in quest of his unknown mistress,
whom he understood to be resident at Sargans; he returned from his
expedition, crowned with glory, and rewarded by the Pope with absolution
from his sins; a favour, of which the pious warrior stood but little in
need. Count Torrenburg proffered him the hand of his sister, of the rich
heiress of Sargans, of her whose beauty had formerly fascinated his
eyes; but his heart was now possest by the poor and friendless stranger,
and the hand of the rich heiress was respectfully declined. Indignation
at this refusal was the reason assigned by Amalberga for the
non-appearance of her sister; the stranger however was not equally
invisible, though her veil was not yet laid aside; and her consent to
become his bride soon repaid him for his constancy. It was not till the
espousals had taken place, that she revealed to him her real name, which
Herman now grown wiser heard without repugnance; for his early
prejudices had at length lost their influence in his bosom, and
Emmeline’s past sufferings left him no doubt respecting the purity of
her future conduct. He believed, that he had plighted his faith to a
needy friendless orphan; and the orphan in giving him her hand made him
the powerful Lord of Upper-Carlsheim, of Ortenstein, and of many other
fruitful territories. Happy were their days; happy was she through him,
and he through her! He had found once more the long-lost jewel, of whose
value he was so long unconscious; he had found the attachments of his
early youth and of his maturer manhood, the choice both of his heart and
of his head, and had found them all united in the person of his adored
Emmeline!
And Helen was the spectatress of their felicity, nay is so still at the
moment that I trace these lines! Dear as they were to her, so dear to
her are still the sisters and their worthy husbands!—Lo! how in this
world every thing passes away; God be thanked for it, even our passions
pass away, as well as the rest. Tranquil age succeeds the impetuosity
and hurry of youth; the summer, whose every day was disturbed by
tempests, is replaced by the mild and mellow autumn.—Much as it had
suffered, bitter as had been its disappointments, cruel as had been its
sacrifices, even the heart of Helen at length was at rest.
All my friends still flourish; all who are dear to me still live, even
the venerable Urania. My native land smiles all around in blessed peace;
not one of those, who are near to my heart, has as yet been obliged to
pay with his blood the price of precious Freedom! Guilt begins to be a
stranger among our citizens; the dwellings of luxury and indolence are
converted into sanctuaries of virtue and religion. The Monastery of
Curwald has risen from its ashes with increased lustre; no Luprian, no
Guiderius now rules there over proud voluptuous Monks; no sisters of
Love[4] now inhabit the cells of the neighbouring Convent. The good
Abbot John has admitted into his fraternity none but such men, as look
on vice with no less detestation than himself; and their holy conduct
has completely removed the stigma, which the remembrance of their
abandoned predecessors had fixed upon the whole brotherhood of
Cloister-Curwald.
Footnote 4:
Sorores Agapetæ.
In the subterraneous vaults of Sargans has Herman lately raised a
splendid monument sacred to the sufferings of his wife. Thirty silver
lamps blaze before it; an easy and unguarded entrance admits every one,
who chooses to approach it; and there does many a pilgrim often loiter
to hear with pious admiration the history of a still living saint.