my followers announced to me that the duke had arrived in my camp, and
wished an immediate interview with me. I instantly went forth to meet
him; and Berchtold, hastening towards me with a smile, offered me his
hand in token of reconciliation. I frankly accepted it, not suspecting
that falsehood could lurk beneath so open and friendly an aspect.
“‘My friend,’ said he, ‘for such I must call you; your valour in this
contest has won my esteem, although I could at once convince you that I
have just cause of quarrel with the insolent mountaineers. But, in spite
of your victory in this unjust strife, into which doubtless you were
induced to enter by the misrepresentations of those villains, yet as my
nature abhors to prolong dissensions, I would willingly cease to think
that we are enemies, and commence a friendship which, on my part, at
least, shall not be broken. In token, therefore, that you do not
mistrust a fellow-soldier, return with me to my castle, that we may
there drown all remembrance of our past dissensions.’
“During a long time I resisted his importunity, for I had now been more
than a year absent from my home, and was doubly impatient to return, as
I fondly imagined that my delay would occasion much anxiety to my
daughter. But the duke, with such apparent kindness and in such a
courteous manner, renewed and urged his solicitations, that I could
resist no longer.
“His Highness entertained me with the greatest hospitality and
unremitted attention. But I soon perceived that an _honest_ man is more
in his element amidst the toils of the battle than amongst the
blandishments of a Court, where the lip and the gesture carry welcome,
but where the heart, to which the tongue is never the herald, is
corroded by the unceasing strifes of jealousy and envy. I soon, too, saw
that my rough and undisguised manners were an occasion of much mirth to
the perfumed and essenced nothings who crowded the halls of the duke. I
however stifled my resentment, when I considered that these creatures
lived but in his favour, like those swarms of insects which are warmed
into existence from the dunghill, by the sun’s rays.
“I had remained the unwilling guest of the duke during some days, when
the arrival of a stranger of distinction was announced with much
ceremony; this stranger I found to be my bitterest foe, Rupert of
Wädischwyl. The duke received him with the most marked politeness and
attention, and more than once I fancied that I perceived the precedence
of me was studiously given to my enemy. My frank yet haughty nature
could ill brook this disparagement; and, besides, it seemed to me that I
should but play the hypocrite if I partook of the same cup with the man
for whom I entertained a deadly hatred.
“I resolved therefore to depart, and sought his Highness to bid him
farewell. He appeared much distressed at my resolution, and earnestly
pressed me to avow the cause of my abrupt departure. I candidly
confessed that the undue favour which I thought he showed to my rival,
was the cause.
“‘I am hurt, deeply hurt,’ said the duke, affecting an air of great
sorrow, ‘that my friend, and that friend the valiant Unspunnen, should
think thus unjustly, dare I add, thus meanly of me. No, I have not even
in thought wronged you; and to prove my sincerity and my regard for your
welfare, know that it was not chance which conducted your adversary to
my court. He comes in consequence of my eager wish to reconcile two men
whom I so much esteem, and whose worth and excellence place them amongst
the brightest ornaments of our favoured land. Let me, therefore,’ said
he, taking my hand and the hand of Rupert, who had entered during our
discourse, ‘let me have the satisfaction of reconciling two such men,
and of terminating your ancient discord. You cannot refuse a request so
congenial to that holy faith which we all profess. Suffer me therefore
to be the minister of peace, and to suggest that, in token and in
confirmation of an act which will draw down Heaven’s blessing on us all,
you will permit our holy Church to unite in one your far-famed lovely
daughter with Lord Rupert’s only son, whose virtues, if reports speak
truly, render him no undeserving object of her love.’
“A rage, which seemed in an instant to turn my blood into fire, and
which almost choked my utterance, took possession of me.
“‘What!’ exclaimed I, ‘what, think you that I would thus sacrifice,
_thus_ cast away my precious jewel! thus debase my beloved Ida? No, by
her sainted mother, I swear that rather than see her married to _his_
son, I would devote her to the cloister! Nay, I would rather see her
dead at my feet than suffer her purity to be sullied by such
contamination!’
“‘But for the presence of his Highness,’ cried Rupert wrathfully, ‘your
life should instantly answer for this insult! Nathless, I will well mark
you, and watch you, too, my lord; and if you escape my revenge, you are
more than man.’
“‘Indeed, indeed, my Lord of Unspunnen,’ said the duke, ‘you are much
too rash. Your passion has clouded your reason; and, believe me, you
will live to repent having so scornfully refused my friendly proposal.’
“‘You may judge me rash, my Lord Duke, and perhaps think me somewhat too
bold, because I dare assert the truth in the courts of princes. But
since my tongue cannot frame itself to speak that which my heart does
not dictate, and my plain but honest manner seems to displease you, I
will, with your Highness’s permission, withdraw to my own domain, whence
I have been but too long absent.’
“‘Undoubtedly, my lord, you have my permission,’ said the duke
haughtily, and at the same time turning coldly from me.
“My horse was brought, I mounted him with as much composure as I could
command, and I breathed more freely as I left the castle far behind.
“During the second day’s journey I arrived within a near view of my own
native mountains, and I felt doubly invigorated as their pure breezes
were wafted towards me. Still the fond anxiety of a father for his
beloved child, and that child his only treasure, made the way seem
doubly long. But as I approached the turn of the road which is
immediately in front of my castle, I almost then wished the way
lengthened; for my joy, my hopes, and my apprehensions crowded upon me
almost to suffocation. ‘A few short minutes, however,’ I thought, ‘and
then the truth, ill or good, will be known to me.’
“When I came in full sight of my dwelling, all seemed in peace; nought
exhibited any change since I had left it. I spurred my horse on to the
gate, but as I advanced the utter stillness and desertion of all around
surprised me. Not a domestic, not a peasant, was to be seen in the
courts; it appeared as if the inhabitants of the castle were still
asleep.
“‘Merciful Heaven!’ I thought, ‘what can this stillness forebode! Is
she, is my beloved child dead?’
“I could not summon courage to pull the bell. Thrice I attempted, yet
thrice the dread of learning the awful truth prevented me. One moment,
one word, even one sign, and I might be a forlorn, childless, wretched
man, for ever! None but a father can feel or fully sympathize in the
agony of those moments! none but a father can ever fitly describe them!
“I was aroused from this inactive state by my faithful dog springing
towards me to welcome my return with his boisterous caresses, and deep
and loud-toned expressions of his joy. Then the old porter, attracted by
the noise, came to the gate, which he instantly opened; but, as he was
hurrying forward to meet me, I readily perceived that some sudden and
painful recollection checked his eagerness. I leaped from my horse
quickly, and entered the hall. All the other domestics now came forward,
except my faithful steward Wilfred, he who had been always the foremost
to greet his master.
“‘Where is my daughter? where is your mistress?’ I eagerly exclaimed;
‘let me but know that she lives!’
“The faithful Wilfred, who had now entered the hall, threw himself at my
feet, and with the tears rolling down his furrowed cheeks, earnestly
pressed my hand, and hesitatingly informed me that my daughter _lived_:
was well, he believed, but—had quitted the castle.
“‘Now, speak more quickly, old man,’ said I hastily, and passionately
interrupting him. ‘What is it you can mean? my daughter lives; my Ida is
well, but she is _not here_. Now, have you and my vassals proved
recreants, and suffered my castle in my absence to be robbed of its
greatest treasure? Speak! speak plainly, I command ye!’
“‘It is with anguish, as great almost as your own can be, my beloved
master, that I make known to you the sad truth that your daughter has
quitted her father’s roof to become the wife of Conrad, the son of the
Lord of Wädischwyl.’
“‘The wife of Lord Rupert’s son! my Ida the wife of the son of him whose
very name my soul loathes!’
“My wrath now knew no bounds; the torments of hell seemed to have
changed the current of my blood. In the madness of my passion I even
cursed my own dear daughter! Yes, pilgrim, I even cursed her on whom I
so fondly doted; for whose sake alone life for me had any charms. Oh!
how often since have I attempted to recall that curse! and these bitter
tears, which even now I cannot control, witness how severe has been my
repentance of that awful and unnatural act!
“Dreadful were the imprecations which I heaped upon my enemy; and deep
was the revenge I swore. I know not to what fearful length my unbridled
passion would have hurried me, had I not, from its very excess, sunk
senseless into the arms of my domestics. When I recovered, I found
myself in my own chamber, and Wilfred seated near me. Some time,
however, elapsed before I came to a clear recollection of the past
events; and when I did, it seemed as if an age of crime and misery had
weighed me down, and chained my tongue. My eye involuntarily wandered to
that part of the chamber where hung my daughter’s portrait. But this the
faithful old man—who had not removed it, no doubt thinking that to do so
would have offended me—had contrived to hide, by placing before it a
piece of armour, which seemed as though it had accidentally fallen into
that position.
“Many more days elapsed ere I was enabled to listen to the particulars
of my daughter’s flight, which I will, not to detain you longer with my
griefs, now briefly relate.—It appeared that, urged by the fame of her
beauty, and by a curiosity most natural, I confess to youth, Conrad of
Wädischwyl had, for a long time sought, but sought in vain, to see my
Ida. Chance at length, however, favoured him. On her way to hear mass at
our neighbouring monastery, he beheld her; and beheld her but to love.
Her holy errand did not prevent him from addressing her; and well he
knew how to gain the ear of one so innocent, so unsuspicious as my Ida!
Too soon, alas! did his flatteries win their way to her guiltless heart.
“My child’s affection for her father was unbounded; and readily would
she have sacrificed her life for mine. But when love has once taken
possession of the female heart, too quickly drives he thence those
sterner guests, reason and duty. Suffice it therefore to say she was
won, and induced to unite herself to Wädischwyl, before my return, by
his crafty and insidious argument that I should be more easily persuaded
to give them my pardon and my blessing, when I found that the step that
she had taken was irrevocable. With almost equal art, he pleaded too
that their union would doubtless heal the breach between the families of
Wädischwyl and Unspunnen; and thus terminate that deadly hatred which my
gentle Ida, ever the intercessor for peace, had always condemned. By
this specious of sophistry my poor child was prevailed upon to tear
herself from the heart of a fond parent, to unite herself with the son
of that parent’s most bitter enemy.”
The pain of these recollections so overcame Burkhardt, that some time
elapsed ere he could master his feelings. At length he proceeded.
“My soul seemed now to have but one feeling, _revenge_. All other
passions were annihilated by this master one; and I instantly prepared
myself and my vassals to chastise this worse than robber. But such
satisfaction was (I now thank God) denied me; for the Duke of Zähringen
soon gave me memorable cause to recollect his parting words. Having
attached himself with his numerous followers to my rival’s party, these
powerful chiefs suddenly invaded my domain. A severe struggle against
most unequal numbers ensued. But, at length, though my brave retainers
would fain have prolonged the hopeless strife, resolved to stop a
needless waste of blood, I left the field to my foes; and, with the
remnant of my faithful soldiers, hastened, in deep mortification, to
bury myself within these walls. This galling repulse prevented all
possibility of reconciliation with my daughter, whom I now regarded as
the cause of my disgrace; and, consequently, I forbade her name even to
be mentioned in my presence.
“Years rolled on; and I had no intelligence of her until I learned by a
mere chance that she had with her husband quitted her native land.
Altogether, more than twenty, to me long, long years, have now passed
since her flight; and though, when time brought repentance, and my anger
and revenge yielded to better feelings, I made every effort to gain
tidings of my poor child, I have not yet been able to discover any
further traces of her. Here therefore have I lived a widowed, childless,
heart-broken old man. But I have at least learned to bow to the
dispensations of an all-wise Providence, which has in its justice
stricken me, for thus remorselessly cherishing that baneful passion
which Holy Law so expressly forbids. Oh! how I have yearned to see my
beloved child! how I have longed to clasp her to this withered, blighted
heart! With scalding tears of the bitterest repentance have I revoked
those deadly curses, which, in the plenitude of my unnatural wrath, I
dared to utter daily. Ceaselessly do I now weary Heaven with my prayers
to obliterate all memory of those fatal imprecations; or to let them
fall on my own head, and shower down only its choicest blessings on that
of my beloved child! But a fear, which freezes my veins with horror,
constantly haunts me lest the maledictions which I dared to utter in my
moments of demoniac vindictiveness, should, in punishment for my
impiety, have been fulfilled.
“Often, in my dreams, do I behold my beloved child; but her looks are
always in sadness, and she ever seems mildly but most sorrowfully to
upbraid me for having so inhumanly cast her from me. Yet she must, I
fear, have died long ere now; for, were she living, she would not, I
think, have ceased to endeavour to regain the affections of a father who
once loved her so tenderly. It is true that at first she made many
efforts to obtain my forgiveness. Nay, I have subsequently learned that
she even knelt at the threshold of my door, and piteously supplicated to
be allowed to see me. But my commands had been so peremptory, and the
steward who had replaced Wilfred, after his death, was of so stern and
unbending a disposition, that, just and righteous as was this her last
request, it was unfeelingly denied to her. Eternal Heaven! she whom I
had loved as perhaps never father loved before—she whom I had fondly
watched almost hourly lest the rude breeze of winter should chill her,
or the summer’s heat should scorch her—she whom I had cherished in
sickness through many a livelong night, with a mother’s devotion, and
more than a mother’s solicitude, even _she_, the only child of my
beloved Agnes, and the anxious object of the last moments of her life,
was spurned from my door! from this door whence no want goes unrelieved,
and where the very beggar finds rest! And now, when I would bless the
lips that even could say to me ‘she lives,’ I can nowhere gather the
slightest tidings of my child. Ah, had I listened to the voice of
reason, had I not suffered my better feelings to be mastered by the
wildest and fellest passions, I might have seen herself, and perhaps her
children, happy around me, cheering the evening of my life. And when my
last hour shall come, they would have closed my eyes in peace, and, in
unfeigned sorrow have daily addressed to Heaven their innocent prayers
for my soul’s eternal rest.
“You now know, pilgrims, the cause of my grief; and I see by the tears
which you have so abundantly shed, that you truly pity the forlorn being
before you. Remember him and his sorrows therefore ever in your prayers;
and when you kneel at the shrine to which you are bound, let not those
sorrows be forgotten.”
The elder pilgrim in vain attempted to answer; the excess of his
feelings overpowered his utterance. At length, throwing himself at the
feet of Burkhardt, and casting off his pilgrim’s habits, he with
difficulty exclaimed,—
“See here, thine Ida’s son! and behold in my youthful companion, thine
Ida’s daughter! Yes, before you kneel the children of her whom you so
much lament. We came to sue for that pardon, for that love, which we had
feared would have been denied us. But, thanks be to God, who has
mollified your heart, we have only to implore that you will suffer us to
use our poor efforts to alleviate your sorrows, and render more bright
and cheerful your declining years.”
In wild and agitated surprise, Burkhardt gazed intently upon them. It
seemed to him as if a beautiful vision were before him, which he feared
even a breath might dispel. When, however, he became assured that he was
under the influence of no delusion, the tumult of his feelings
overpowered him, and he sank senselessly on the neck of the elder
pilgrim; who, with his sister’s assistance, quickly raised the old man,
and by their united efforts restored him, ere long, to his senses. But
when Burkhardt beheld the younger pilgrim, the very image of his lost
Ida, bending over him with the most anxious and tender solicitude, he
thought that death had ended all his worldly sufferings, and that heaven
had already opened to his view.
“Great God!” at length he exclaimed, “I am unworthy of these Thy
mercies! Grant me to receive them as I ought! I need not ask,” added he
after a pause, and pressing the pilgrims to his bosom, “for a
confirmation of your statement, or of my own sensations of joy. All, all
tells me that you are the children of my beloved Ida. Say, therefore, is
your mother dead? or dare I hope once more to clasp her to my heart?”
The elder pilgrim, whose name was Hermann, then stated to him that two
years had passed since his parent had breathed her last in his arms. Her
latest prayer was, that Heaven would forgive her the sorrow she had
caused her father, and forbear to visit her own error on her children’s
heads. He then added that his father had been dead many years.
“My mother,” continued Hermann, drawing from his bosom a small sealed
packet, “commanded me, on her deathbed, to deliver this into your own
hands. ‘My son,’ she said, ‘when I am dead, if my father still lives,
cast yourself at his feet, and desist not your supplications until you
have obtained from him a promise that he will read this prayer. It will
acquaint him with a repentance that may incite him to recall his curse;
and thus cause the earth to lie lightly on all that will shortly remain
of his once loved Ida. Paint to him the hours of anguish which even your
tender years have witnessed. Weary him, my son, with your entreaties;
cease them not until you have wrung from him his forgiveness.’
“As you may suppose, I solemnly engaged to perform my mother’s request;
and as soon as our grief for the loss of so dear, so fond a parent,
would permit us, my sister and myself resolved, in these pilgrim’s
habits, to visit your castle; and, by gradual means, attempt to win your
affections, if we found you still relentless, and unwilling to listen to
our mother’s prayer.”
“Praise be to God, my son,” said Burkhardt, “at whose command the waters
spring from the barren rock, that He has bidden the streams of love and
repentance to flow once more from my once barren and flinty heart. But
let me not delay to open this sad memorial of your mother’s griefs. I
wish you, my children, to listen to it, that you may hear both her
exculpation and her wrongs.”
Burkhardt hid his face in his hands, and remained for some moments
earnestly struggling with his feelings. At length he broke the seal,
and, with a voice which at times was almost overpowered, read aloud the
contents.
* * * * *
“My beloved father,—if by that fond title your daughter may still
address you,—feeling that my sad days are now numbered, I make this last
effort, ere my strength shall fail me, to obtain at least your pity for
her you once so much loved; and to beseech you to recall that curse
which has weighed too heavily upon her heart. Indeed, my father, I am
not quite that guilty wretch you think me. Do not imagine that,
neglecting every tie of duty and gratitude, I could have left the
tenderest of parents to his widowed lonely home, and have united myself
with the son of his sworn foe, had I not fondly, most ardently, hoped,
nay, had cherished the idea almost to certainty, that you would, when
you found that I was a wife, have quickly pardoned a fault, which the
fears of your refusal to our union had alone tempted me to commit. I
firmly believed that my husband would then have shared with me my
father’s love, and have, with his child, the pleasing task of watching
over his happiness and comfort. But never did I for an instant imagine
that I was permanently wounding the heart of that father. My youth, and
the ardour of my husband’s persuasions, must plead some extenuation of
my fault.
“The day that I learnt the news of your having pronounced against me
that fatal curse, and your fixed determination never more to admit me to
your presence, has been marked in characters indelible on my memory. At
that moment it appeared as if Heaven had abandoned me, had marked me for
its reprobation as a parricide! My brain and my heart seemed on fire,
whilst my blood froze in my veins. The chillness of death crept over
every limb, and my tongue refused all utterance. I would have wept, but
the source of my tears was dried within me.
“How long I remained in this state I know not, as I became insensible,
and remained so for some days. On returning to a full consciousness of
my wretchedness, I would instantly have rushed to you, and cast myself
at your feet, to wring from you, if possible, your forgiveness; but my
limbs were incapable of all motion. Soon, too, I learned that the
letters which I dictated were returned unopened; and my husband at last
informed me that all his efforts to see you had been utterly fruitless.
“Yet the moment I had gained sufficient strength, I went to the castle,
but, unfortunately for me, even as I entered, I encountered a stern
wretch, to whom my person was not unknown; and he instantly told me that
my efforts to see his master would be useless. I used prayers and
entreaties; I even knelt upon the bare ground to him. But so far from
listening to me, he led me to the gate, and, in my presence, dismissed
the old porter who had admitted me, and who afterwards followed my
fortunes until the hour of his death. Finding that all my attempts were
fruitless, and that several of the old servants had been discarded on my
account, with a heart completely broken, I succumbed to my fate, and
abandoned all further attempt.
“After the birth of my son (to whose fidelity and love I trust this sad
memorial), my husband, with the tenderest solicitude, employed every
means in his power to divert my melancholy, and having had a valuable
property in Italy bequeathed to him, prevailed upon me to repair to that
favoured and beauteous country. But neither the fond attentions of my
beloved Conrad, nor the bright sunshine and luxurious breezes, could
overcome a grief so deeply rooted as mine; and I soon found that Italy
had less charms for me than my own dear native land, with its dark
pine-clad mountains.
“Shortly after we had arrived at Rome, I gave birth to a daughter;—an
event which was only too soon followed by the death of my affectionate
husband. The necessity of ceaseless attention to my infant in some
measure alleviated the intense anguish which I suffered from that most
severe loss. Nevertheless, in the very depth of this sorrow, which
almost overcharged my heart, Heaven only knows how often, and how
remorsefully, while bending over my own dear children in sickness, have
I called to mind the anxious fondness with which the tenderest and best
of fathers used to watch over me!