has called it, is related to a circle of friends by a gentleman, Baron
Blamberg, who was a friend of the unfortunate subject of the story.
The ruins of the Klausenburg are, according to the words of the
narrator, near the house where they are assembled. The story is often
interrupted by the company, but their conversation has no connection
with it, and has therefore been omitted.--C. A. F.]
It is about fifty years since that a rich family lived among the
mountains a short distance off, in a castle, of which only the ruins
are now to be seen, since it was partly destroyed by thunder and
lightning, and the remainder was demolished in war. It is now only
occasionally visited by huntsmen and travellers who have lost their
way, and it is called the ruins of the Klausenburg. Proceeding up the
solitary footpath through the pine wood, and then climbing the pathless
crag, you stand facing its entrance, which is cut out of the living
rock and secured by an ancient and strongly barred gate. On the
outside is an iron rod with a handle apparently communicating with a
bell on the inside. Having once wandered there while hunting, I pulled
this handle, but received no answer to my summons from within. As this
spot can only be approached with much difficulty, and it is almost
impossible to climb the chasms and rocks on the other side, there are
many legends and tales current among the vulgar about this singular
Klausenburg the remains of which present an almost spectral appearance.
Among other stories, it is reported that more than a century ago, there
resided within its walls a very wealthy, benevolent, and industrious
man, who was much beloved by his friends and tenants. He had early in
life retired from the state service to devote himself to the management
of his estates, of which he possessed many, including mines, and glass
and iron foundries which he was able to work to great advantage, having
abundant fuel from his extensive forests. Although beloved by his
tenants, he was yet hated and envied by many of his equals, the more
reasonable of whom disliked him because he avoided them, and they
readily perceived that he despised them for their want of industry;
while the more foolish believed, and even openly declared, that Count
Moritz was in league with Satan, and was therefore successful beyond
expectation in all he undertook.
However absurd the report, it was calculated at this early period to
injure the character of this persevering man; as it was not many years
after the time when people were burnt at the stake for witchcraft and
for being in league with the evil one. Hence it was that the count in
disgust retired from the world to the solitary castle of Klausenburg,
and was only happy when conversing on his affairs with intelligent
miners, machine makers, and learned men. Knowing the distrust with
which he was looked upon by the old priests who held the livings in his
different parishes, he but rarely appeared at church, a circumstance
which but little contributed to raise his reputation in the
neighbourhood.
It happened once that a band of gipsies, who at that time roved about
in Germany with little molestation, came to these parts. The nobles of
the country as well as the government were undecided and dilatory in
checking this nuisance, and the boundaries of several states meeting
here, the tribe could carry on their depredations with impunity and
even unnoticed. Where they did not receive any thing, they robbed;
where they were resisted they came at night and burnt the barns; and in
this manner the fire on one occasion rapidly spreading, two villages
were burnt to the ground. Count Moritz was induced by this
circumstance to unite with some resolute neighbours, and to pursue and
punish, on his own authority, the lawless tribe. Imprisonment,
scourging, flogging, and starvation, were awarded by him without
reference to any authority, and only some who were convicted of arson
were sent to the town for what was called the gipsy trial, and were
then legally condemned to suffer capital punishment.
The count considering himself the benefactor of his country, could not
help feeling mortified when his enviers and calumniators used this very
circumstance to accuse him of the blackest crimes, and the most
atrocious injustice. To this ingratitude he opposed nothing but calm
indignation, and a contempt which was perhaps too magnanimous; for if a
nobleman always preserves silence, calumny and falsehood will be more
readily believed by the foolish and those who have no character to
lose. If he could not prevail on himself to meet his opponents and to
relate the circumstance in detail, he felt himself quite disarmed on
discovering how much he was misunderstood in his family, and by the
being who was nearest to his heart. He had married late in life, and
his wife having a few days before presented him with a son, was still
confined to her room. In her present weak state he could not dispute
or urge with any force the justice of his proceedings, when she
reproached him with the cruelty he had exercised towards these poor
innocent men, who rather deserved his compassion than such hard
persecution. When on leaving her chamber some old cousins told him the
same thing in plainer terms, he could no longer suppress his rage, and
his replies were so wrathful, his curses so vehement, the gestures of
the irritated man so superhuman, that the old prattling women lost
their composure and almost swooned. To prevent his sick wife from
learning all this, he immediately sent them by main force to another of
his estates and then rode to a solitary part of the mountains, partly
to divert his thoughts and strengthen himself by the sublime aspect of
nature, and partly to resume the pursuit of the gipsies. But what was
his astonishment when he learned from his ranger that those noblemen
who, in conjunction with him, had undertaken the war against these
vagabonds had dispersed and retired to their seats without giving him
notice!
Without being disconcerted at this, he again succeeded in apprehending
some of them who were guilty of heavy crimes, and ordered them to be
bound and thrown into a secure dungeon. When after having dismissed
his attendants, he rode thoughtfully back alone towards the
Klausenburg, the aged castellan on his arriving at the gate gave him a
packet which had been sent by the government. This he opened with
anticipating vexation, and was so surprised by its contents that his
anger rose, and he became infuriated almost to madness. The purport of
the letters it contained was no less than a penal accusation for murder
and high treason in consequence of the count’s having, on his own
authority, and as leader of an armed troop, seditiously opposed the
government. Almost senseless, he dropped these preposterous letters,
and then, recovering by a sudden effort, went to his apartment to read
the impeachment more calmly, and to consider how he could defend
himself. Passing the countess’s chamber and hearing strange voices
within, he hastily opened the door, and beheld--what he certainly did
not expect, two dirty old gipsies dressed in rags, sitting by the
bedside of the invalid, and foretelling her fate, while they
frightfully distorted their hideous countenances. As might be
expected, the countess was horror-struck at beholding her husband
enter, for what he now did was truly barbarous. In his fury he
scarcely knew what he did, and seizing the old prophetesses by their
long gray hair, he dragged them out of the room and threw them down the
staircase. He then commanded the servants, who came crowding round, to
secure them to a stone pillar in the yard, to bare their backs, and
chastise them with whips, as long as the strength of the ministers of
his cruelty would hold out. His orders were executed.
Having locked himself in his room, he was horrified, on becoming
calmer, as he reflected on the barbarities he had committed. From
these thoughts he was aroused by a loud knocking at the door. He
opened it, and a servant in evident terror entered, saying, “Oh!
gracious count, I was afraid you were ill, or perhaps dead, for I have
been knocking for a long time, without receiving any answer from your
lordship.” “What do you want?” “The eldest of these hideous witches,”
replied the servant, “insists on speaking to you for a minute before
she leaves the castle. She will not be refused, and the most severe
threats and curses avail nothing with the old woman.” The count
ordered the ill-used woman to be led to his room. The appearance of
the poor creature was frightful, and the count himself started back
with horror, when she presented herself covered with blood, her face
and arms lacerated, and a deep wound in her head, which was still
uncovered. “I thank you,” she said, “kind brother, for the Christian
kindness that you have shown me in your palace. You are, indeed, a
virtuous man, a persecutor of vice, an impartial judge, and a punisher
of crimes; and I suppose you would call yourself an avenging angel in
the service of your God. Do you know then, tender-hearted man, why we
were sitting by the bedside of your wife? We had, indeed, told her
fortune, but the real object of our visit was to speak to you, and you
were not in your hospitable house. It was our wish to separate from
the gang, and seek a humble and honest living. We know the haunt where
the leader conceals himself, that notorious incendiary whom you have so
long sought in vain, and intended to deliver him into your hands; but
you are worse than the most atrocious of our gang, and as you have
shown us to-day so much kindness, a curse for it shall light upon you,
your family, and your offspring, to the third and fourth generation.”
The count, who had now repented of his hasty wrath, wished to appease
the awful woman, by speaking kindly to her, and offering her, by way of
reconciliation, his purse well filled with gold. She cast an evil,
though covetous look at the gold, and, grinding her teeth, threw the
purse at the count’s feet. “That mammon,” she cried, “would have made
me and my poor sister happy, but after the meal you have given us, I
would rather gnaw the bark of trees than receive the wealth from your
accursed hands.” Various and many were the curses she continued
heaping on him, and the torments and misfortunes she denounced against
him and his house. When she had finished, she tottered down the stone
staircase, all the servants fleeing from her as from a spectre.
From this moment the count was a changed man. His energies were
crushed. He lived as in a dream, having no wish, and being incapable
of forming a single resolution. Those around him could not learn
whether he was deeply shocked by the death of his consort, who died the
night after that fatal day. Since that time he was scarcely ever heard
to speak or to utter a sound, sigh, or complaint. He no longer
concerned himself about any thing, and seemed perfectly indifferent
when the government confiscated his largest estate to punish him as a
rebel and violator of the laws. In his present state of mind, he
abandoned himself to the guidance of those very priests whom previously
he had so pointedly avoided; he frequented the church often, and was
fervent in his devotions. He never looked round when people behind him
called out, “There sneaks the old sinner, the traitor, the murderer,
and rebel, back again into God’s house.” Now, likewise, some relatives
profited by his listlessness so far as to deprive him by a lawsuit of
another large estate, and there was every appearance that of all the
large possessions of his ancestors, nothing would be left, for his only
heir, a beautiful boy, had not a prudent guardian of the child done all
in his power for him. From the unconcern of his father, the young
count became daily more impoverished, leaving to his offspring but a
small portion of the large property to which he had succeeded; but,
notwithstanding these misfortunes, and also the breaking out of war,
the next proprietor of the Klausenburg, and his family, maintained
their rank, and were respected in the neighbourhood. By his industry,
his success, and his marriage with a wealthy lady, he partly retrieved
his fortune, and succeeded in his endeavours to revive and maintain the
former splendour of his castle for some fifty or sixty years, so that
his friends and relatives resorted to it as formerly, with delight, and
he, at his death, left to his only son his remaining estates in good
condition, besides large sums of money. Thus the curse of the gipsies
appeared totally removed, the count and his son having completely
forgotten former events, or, having, perhaps, never heard of the curse.
I was a spirited boy when I made the acquaintance of Francis, the last
heir of the Klausenburg. This Francis, who was about a year my senior,
was cheerful, amiable, and handsome, and the pride of his father, the
persevering man who had partly restored the splendour of his ancestors.
My playmate grew up to be, not merely the delight of his father, but of
all around. He was manly, witty, and engaging, an accomplished dancer,
and expert horseman, and in fencing, had not his equal. After being
presented at court, he soon gained the prince’s favour, by his natural
vivacity, and in a few years was raised to the office of counsellor.
Few men on earth had fairer prospects of a happy life. All mothers and
aunts in the neighbourhood saw, and hoped to find in him, the future
husband of their daughters and nieces, and at the assemblies in the
capital he was the adored and chosen hero of the ladies, as he was the
object of envy and persecution among the young fashionables. No one
could conceive why he so long deferred his choice, and, for a long
time, people would not credit the rumours that were circulated, that he
had formed an engagement with the young princess. It was confidently
whispered that the lovers waited only for some favourable chance, or
occurrence, to acknowledge publicly their mutual affection and wishes.
However, nothing of the kind happened, and years passed, and with them
faded the rumours, and various interpretations of sage politicians.
Suddenly, when the affair seemed forgotten, my youthful friend was
banished the court and capital in disgrace. All his former friends
forsook him, and what was still worse, an intrigue countenanced by the
government, involved him in a dangerous lawsuit, which threatened the
loss of his fortune. Thus then this courted, admired, and universally
caressed Francis, saw himself in the very worst position, and was
obliged to confess that his career was closed, and that all his
splendid prospects were darkened for ever.
About this time I saw him again; he bore his misfortune manfully. He
was still as youthful and handsome as ever, and the serenity of his
temper had suffered but little. We were travelling in this
neighbourhood, and the Klausenburg having gone to ruin, he built a
pleasant house not far distant, on the slope of a hill, from whence he
enjoyed a beautiful prospect.
He avoided speaking of former circumstances, but one evening, he was
deeply affected by a letter announcing the decease of the young
princess, who had died of a broken heart, or, as was afterwards said,
had voluntarily sought death, because she could no longer bear the
burden of her embittered life.
It was evident to me that a deep-seated melancholy had taken possession
of my friend, and often showed itself; his mind, however, was not so
affected as to display any symptoms of weariness of life, which made me
hope that his misfortune and the evil fate that had attended him, would
serve to purify his character, and give him that genuine deportment
which is essential even to those who are not tried by calamity, and
much more to those who have to pass through heavy trials.
There lived in the neighbourhood about that time a wild old woman who
was half crazy, and who went begging from village to village.
The higher class called her jokingly, the Sibyl, the common people did
not hesitate to call her a witch. The place of her residence was not
exactly known; probably she had no certain place of resort, as she was
constantly seen on the high-roads, and roaming in every direction in
the country. Some old rangers maintained that she was a descendant of
that notorious gang of gipsies whom Count Moritz many years before had
persecuted and dispersed.
Walking one day in a beautiful beech-wood, and engaged in conversation
which made us forget the world without, we suddenly saw, at a turn of
the footpath, the old hideous Sibyl before us. Being both in a
cheerful mood, we were rather astonished, but in no way startled.
Having dismissed the impudent beggar by giving her some money, she
hastily returned, saying: “Will not you have your fortunes told for
what you have given to me?”
“If it is something good that you can tell me, you may earn a few more
pence.”
I held out to her my hand at which she looked at very carefully, and
then said, scornfully: “My good sir, you have a miserable hand which
would puzzle even the best fortune-teller. Such a middling person,
neither one thing nor the other, as you, I have never seen in all my
life; you are neither wise nor stupid, neither bad nor good, neither
fortunate nor unfortunate; without passions, mind, virtue, or vice; you
are what I call a real A.B.C. scholar of Heaven’s blockheads, and you
will not in all your life have the slight merit of ever perceiving your
own insignificance. From your paltry hand and unmeaning countenance
nothing at all can be prophesied; a dry fungus, without it is first
prepared and macerated, cannot even receive a spark. Therefore, Jack
Mean-nothing, your dull nature will never live to see any thing worth
telling.”
My friend Francis did not laugh at the old woman’s opinion and
description of my character, but being attached to me, his anger arose,
and he reproved her in strong terms. She listened very calmly to what
he said, and then replied: “Why are you so angry? If you will not give
me something more for my trouble and wisdom, let me go quietly. No
doubt men do not like to have their inner-most heart exposed to the
daylight. Is it my fault that there is nothing better in your friend’s
character? He is neither my son nor disciple.” Thus the prophetess
meant to justify and atone for her insolence by repeating it anew. My
friend was pacified, and gave her a ducat, saying: “Make merry with
that,--where do you live?”
“Where do I live?” she replied; “my roof changes so often that I cannot
tell or describe it to you; not unfrequently it is open, and my
companion is the howling storm; where men have not built houses they
usually call it nature. But I thank you, and must requite your
kindness.” Quickly and forcibly taking the unwilling hand of my
friend, she held it firmly between her bony fingers and considered it
for some time; then letting the arm drop, with a sigh, she said in a
tone of voice expressive of deep sorrow, “Son, son; you descend from
wicked blood, are an evil scion of evil ancestors; but fortunately you
are the last of your race, for your children would be more evil still.
What begins in evil must end in evil. Ah! ah! your physiognomy; your
expression; your whole countenance; I feel almost as if I saw a
murderer before me. Yes! yes!--you have killed a young, beautiful, and
noble maiden. On her dying bed she long struggled with grief and
anguish. O ye wicked men, can you not be faithful and keep your oaths.
It is not only daggers, swords, and guns, that cut and kill; looks and
sweet words will also do it. Oh, those seductive words, and all that
pretended affection! Now this splendid frame that first dazzled your
foolish eye, breaks, and is consigned to corruption. Beauty! oh thou
fatal gift of Heaven! and besides, murderer, you are handsome enough to
kill others. The curses of your father follow you now whether you
dwell in the forest or in your finely tapestried rooms. See you not,
feel you not, how, coming from the very heart, they waft misfortune and
misery towards you as the stormy wind scatters the dry leaves in the
valleys between the mountains? Where is your peace, your happiness,
your confidence? All scattered like the drifting sand in the barren
plain; no fruit can there strike root.”
Suddenly the crazy woman shouted aloud and ran shrieking and yelling
discordantly into the thickest part of the wood. When I looked round I
was terrified on seeing my friend become pale as death. He shook so
violently that he could not support himself, but sank on a hillock
beside him. I sat down by him and endeavoured to comfort and quiet him.
“Is this madwoman,” he exclaimed; “inspired by truth? does she really
see the past and the future, or are those only mad sounds which she
utters in brutish thoughtlessness, and if it be so, have not such
random words been perhaps the genuine oracles in all ages?”
He now gave way to tears and loud lamentations; he called loudly in the
air, what hitherto he had so carefully and mysteriously locked up in
his heart.
“Yes!” he exclaimed; “accursed be every talent, speech, grace, and all
the gifts with which a malicious fate endowed us to ruin ourselves and
others! Could I not have avoided her first kind look? Why did I
suffer myself to be infatuated, to exchange glance for glance, and then
word for word? Yes! she was lovely, noble, and graceful; but in my
heart there arose together with better feelings, the vanity that even
she, the most exalted, distinguished me. I approached her nearer, more
boldly, more decidedly, and my pure exalted sentiments surprised and
won her. She gave me her confidence. Her heart was so virtuous, so
noble; all her youthful feelings were so tender and fervent; it was a
paradise that opened to our view. Childishly enough, we thought that
no higher happiness on earth could be offered us, the present heavenly
moment sufficed. But now passion awoke in my heart. This she expected
not, she was terrified and withdrew. This goaded my self-love, I felt
unhappy, crushed, and ill. Her compassion was moved, and she no longer
avoided me. By means of an attendant in our confidence, we were able
to meet without witnesses. Our intercourse became more tender, our
love more defined and ardent; but as these feelings were embodied in
language, and expressed more definitely, the paradisiacal breath, the
heavenly bloom was fled for ever. It was happiness, but changed in
character; it was more earthly, more kindly, more confiding, but was
not surrounded by that magic which had transported me formerly, so that
I could frequently ask myself when alone, ‘are you really happy?’
Alas! my friend, as we saw each other so often, how many foolish and
mad projects were then conceived!