never think in the early period of their ecstacies. Once an
opportunity of an alliance likely to add to the lustre of her house
presented itself. What fury and bitter rancour were aroused in me!
For only appearing favourably disposed towards this illustrious
alliance, she suffered much from my anger. My passion was ignoble, as
she deeply felt, more from her love to me, than from the sufferings it
caused her. Oh! she was never able to erase from her soul this picture
of my madness. To alleviate my sufferings and completely to reconcile
me, she stooped to my mean and rude nature. Our hearts harmonised
again, but from the lowering clouds that now surrounded me, I looked
back with yearnings to that heavenly serenity that first shone
dazzlingly upon me so. In imagination we lived as though affianced,
and dreamt of our union, of unexpected bliss, of varied pleasures and
turns of fate never to be realised. But these were misty visions, and
we considered the greatest improbabilities as near and natural. The
habitual thoughts of our love gradually destroyed necessary precaution.
The looks of spies were watchful, and were sharpened by our imprudence.
Rumours were circulated, which perhaps never would have reached the
prince himself, had not his own glance suspected and discovered our
connection. He now learnt more from his questions than he desired to
know, and far more than was in accordance with truth. One evening he
sent for me to attend him alone in his closet, and displayed to me in
this serious interview all the nobleness of his great mind. Without
reproaching me, he ascribed to himself alone the immediate cause of my
presumption, saying that he had treated me with too much confidence,
nay, almost like a son; that he had deviated too much from his rank and
the laws of etiquette; that he had foolishly rejoiced in the thought of
his daughter being able by intercourse with me to improve her mind. As
he became more serious, I assured the agitated father by my honour, and
by all that is sacred,--which indeed was in accordance with the
truth,--that our mutual passion had never led us astray, and that our
better genius had never forsaken us. At this he became tranquil, and
only replied by prohibiting as I had anticipated. I was not allowed to
meet his daughter again privately. I was to endeavour by degrees to
heal the wounds which our separation caused, to eradicate the
affection, which I had so rashly kindled, by my good sense and
demeanour, and thereby to make myself worthy to regain the confidence
and love of the prince.
“Suddenly I felt as if the veil had fallen from my eyes,” continued
Francis, “indeed, I may say, that by this interview, I was quite a
changed being. Truth and reality had now, at length, with victorious
power, asserted their ascendancy over me. Many periods of life may be
compared to a vivid fantastic dream; we awake to sober consciousness,
but still feel the reality of the vision.
“But, ah! my friend, this truth created a hell within me. My mind
yielded to the noble father in every thing. He was right in the
fullest sense of the word. If I admired Juliet, and recognised her
worth, if she was my friend, and I sufficiently important to elevate
her mind, what had that to do with our passion and my efforts to
possess her? With this conviction I was now penetrated, and the
feeling exerted a benign influence over me. But how different were her
feelings! When such changes occur, women usually suffer from the
consuming fire of passion. What letters did I receive from her, when I
had communicated to her my resolution and the advice that we must
submit to necessity! I almost repeated the words which I had heard
from her beautiful lips when I urged my ardent attachment. She now
listened in a spirit different from that which harassed her formerly;
deaf to all advice, unsusceptible to every kindness, inaccessible to
conviction, she only listened to the wild suggestions of her ardent
affection. My reason seemed to her cowardice, my resignation baseness.
She alone was exclusively to be considered in the question that
agitated my heart. In short, she now played the same part that I had
done formerly. Looking back upon my former conduct with repentance and
shame, I hoped I should be able, by calm perseverance, to bring her
gradually to the same conviction. But she frustrated my hopes. It was
singular that I was made unhappy by possessing, in the fullest measure,
what I had formerly considered my supreme felicity; and that my most
fervent desire extended no further than to be able to restore her to
tranquillity, nay, even to produce coldness and indifference.
“So whimsical are the gods frequently towards us in the bestowal of
their gifts.
“My letters grieved her deeper and deeper, as she showed by her
replies. Thence it was that I could not but wish myself once more able
to obtain a _tête-à-tête_ with her in some evening hour, such as I had
formerly enjoyed over and over again. By bribery, entreaty, and
humiliation, I succeeded.
“But, oh, Heavens! how different was this Juliet from her who once had
so enraptured and inspired me. With her grief, her mortified feelings
and her offended pride she resembled a raving Bacchante. On
approaching her, I said to myself: ‘To this state then has my love,
vanity, and eloquence, reduced her! Oh! ye men, who, by your power,
are able to elevate these tender beings to angels, or change them to
wild furies!’ But these reflections came too late. If her letters
were violent, her words were raging. Nothing in the whole world she
desired, except my love. She cared for nothing; every thing seemed
right and desirable,--flight into the open world, sacrifice of station,
mortification of her father and family. I was terrified at this
distraction, that seemed to fear and dread nothing. The more
persuasive my manner, and the more desirous I was to convince her of
the unavoidable necessity of submitting, the more furious in words and
gestures she became. She would fly with me immediately. I felt it
required nothing more than to express the wish, and she would have
surrendered herself, in this distraction, totally and unconditionally.
I was wretched from my inmost heart, indeed, all my energies were
annihilated.
“I learned that the prince had only spoken to her in hints; the truth
was known to her only from our correspondence. She blamed me, her
father, and fate, and only became calm after a flood of tears. I was
obliged to promise to see her again in a few days in order to discuss
the means of her flight. Thus my feelings were so changed that I
feared this once adored Juliet, and, indeed, could not help despising
her. And yet she was the same, and only the unhappy passion that I had
infused from my heart into hers had rendered her thus infatuated, I
trembled again to see her. I was at a loss what to say, what pretext
for delay, or what excuses to invent. Thus some weeks passed, during
which we only exchanged letters. To conclude, I saw her again. She
seemed ill, but still in that excitement which would not listen to
reason. She had provided a carriage, packed up her jewels, made the
necessary preparations on the frontier, procured passports, and
powerful protections in distant countries; in short she had done all
that madness of an unbounded love could undertake. I treated her as an
invalid who does not know her own state, humoured all her
extravagances, and praised her most whimsical plans. Thus she thought
we agreed, and in a week we were to fly during a masquerade while all
were busied, and no one could be recognised. To satisfy her for the
moment I agreed to every thing, but proposed in my own heart to quit
the court and the town. While we were thus discussing our highly
reasonable projects I suddenly perceived behind us the prince, who had
been for sometime listening to our conversation. The scene which then
took place I will not attempt to describe. The father’s anger
overstepped all bounds on finding me untrue to my promise, since he was
convinced that I quite agreed to all the wild plans of his daughter.
She cast herself at his feet totally unlike the beautiful being she was
formerly, she resembled an automaton moved by powerful springs, a
figure only manifesting life in convulsive gestures. It is astonishing
that we ever outlive some moments. I was banished, obliged to fly into
solitude, and for a long time heard nothing of the city or what
occurred there, as I avoided all intercourse with men. When I in some
measure recovered my tranquillity of mind, and was able to bear the
sight of friends, I heard that she was suffering from an incurable
disease, and that her life was despaired of by the physician. How
whimsically does fate sport with man and all human intentions! I was
informed that her father in the extremity of grief, would willingly
have given me his beloved child had he been able thereby to save her;
that he would have despised the opinion of the world, and the
objections of his family, could he by these means have saved his
Juliet, by whose illness he had first learnt how much he loved her, and
how much his life was bound up in hers. All was in vain,--she died in
agonies, calling for me, and the disconsolate father heaped execrations
upon me that will overtake me, ay,--as surely as her own.”
These are, as nearly as possible, the affecting confessions of my
unhappy friend. He added, in conclusion, that the whole of his
property would be lost, unless he discovered a certain document for
which he had long been searching, but which he could find nowhere.
There are sufferings during which it is foolish to make even the
attempt at offering consolation. Such sufferings must be lived
through, they are peculiar to human nature, and he who is not
overwhelmed by them but survives them, will afterwards see that to pass
such a severe reprobation was essential to his happiness.
“I am convinced,” said my friend a few days afterwards when I took
leave of him, “that these execrations and the prophesies of the old
fury will visit me. My life will be consumed in illness, misery,
delirium, and poverty. The spirit of the departed will tread in my
footsteps and sow poison, where, perhaps, some joy might otherwise have
sprung.”
I began to comfort him, calling to my aid, hope and consolation from
every source, because such apprehensions are generally imaginary, and
may be combated. Hope is at least more infinite than the
all-engrossing sensation of such visionary fear. We separated, and for
a long time I heard nothing of my friend Francis. I lived in foreign
countries and returned some years after the period in question.
We had not kept up any correspondence. I was therefore surprised and
delighted by his first letter which I received in my own comfortable
home. There was no allusion to his former sufferings; all was
forgotten. Time and fortune had transformed my friend into a truly new
being. He wrote to me of his approaching marriage. The most beautiful
girl of the country, young, cheerful, and innocent, had bestowed her
affections upon him; and on the very day on which their vows were
exchanged, he had, after years of fruitless search, discovered the
important document which would complete their nuptial happiness. The
melancholy time, he informed me, had vanished from his mind, his youth
seemed renewed, and now only he began to live. In a week his marriage
was to be celebrated, and he urged me to come and be a witness of his
happiness.
It would have delighted me to have complied with his invitation, had
not my uncle, who lived forty miles distant, and was then lying on his
death-bed, called me from home. The prince, who bitterly hated and
persecuted my friend, had died in the meanwhile, so that, in all human
probability, there was the prospect that every thing ominous, menacing,
and fatal, would fade away and be forgotten, and that spirits of
fortune and delight would henceforth draw my friend’s car of life.
My stay with my uncle, who was dying, was protracted. His sufferings
lasted longer than his physicians had expected, and I was glad that my
presence was so consoling and beneficial to him. After his death, I
had various business to transact, to execute his will, to make
arrangements with the remaining relatives, part of his fortune being
left to me, and to settle all to our mutual satisfaction. As journeys
were required for these matters, nearly eighteen months elapsed before
they were completed. The journeys had carried me far from our
neighbourhood, and I must confess that these circumstances, and the
pressure of business, had almost caused me to forget my friend Francis.
He had not written to me, nor had I heard any thing of him, and I was,
therefore, convinced that it was well with him; that he was married and
happy in his new condition. Being soon after near Switzerland, I made
a tour to that country, and then visited a watering place on the Rhine,
to which my medical adviser had long before recommended inc.
Here I abandoned myself to amusements, enjoyed the beauties of nature
during my rambles, and felt happier than I had been for some time.
Being one day at the _table d’hôte_, I accidentally looked over the
list of visiters, and found that my friend Francis, with his wife, had
been a week in the town. I wondered he had not found me out, as my
name must have struck him in the list. However, I accounted for his
not doing so, by saying to myself that he had not looked over the
leaves attentively, that he had not heard my name mentioned, or that
possibly he might be seriously ill and would see no company. Satisfied
so far, I called upon him, and was told he was not at home. I hoped to
meet him in my walks, but perceived him nowhere. Calling the following
day, I received the same answer, that he had gone out. I left my card,
requesting he would pay me a visit or tell me when he would receive me.
I heard nothing from him. The next morning early, I called again, and
the servant again replied, with a troubled countenance, that his master
was already from home.
Now I plainly saw, that Francis did not choose to see me, and had
denied himself. I endeavoured to call to my memory, whether I had at
any time given him offence; but, after the strictest scrutiny, could
not find the least spot on my conscience respecting him. I therefore,
wrote him rather a severe letter, requiring him to see me, and that not
merely from friendship to me, but from the respect he owed himself.
When I called again, I was admitted, and having waited for some time in
the room, I saw a stranger approaching from the adjoining chamber, not
like a human being, but a tottering, trembling skeleton, with a pale,
sunken countenance, which, but for the fiery eye, one might have taken
for the face of a corpse. “Great God!” I exclaimed with horror, as I
recognised in this spectre my friend Francis, that once handsome, noble
fellow.
I sank terrified into a chair, and he sat down by me, took my hand
between his withered fingers, and said, “Yes! my friend, thus we again
meet, and you now understand why I wished to spare you this sad sight.
Yes! friend, all those curses have been realised, and calamity has
overtaken me, however actively I endeavoured to escape it; my life is
exhausted by disease, as well as that of my youthful wife, once a
paragon of beauty; I am a beggar, and all hope is gone for ever.”
Still I could not recover from my astonishment; the first chilling
terror was succeeded by the deepest compassion and ineffable sympathy
in my soul, and my unfortunate friend saw my tears flow.
“But how has all this been possible?” I exclaimed, “Speak; confide all
to your friend.”
“Spare me,” he said, in a faint voice, “let us throw a veil over these
calamities, for what good can it do you to know the why and wherefore?
You would not comprehend nor believe it, and still less could your
advice or consolation avail any thing.”
I could make no reply, his distress seemed so great, that he was,
perhaps, right in what he said. Words, details, and complaints, are
often only stings to the deadly wound. I requested him to introduce me
to his wife. He led her in. She seemed to suffer equally with
himself, but still showed evident traces of beauty. She was of a tall,
noble figure, her blue eye was of a piercing clearness, and her
sweet-toned voice was full of soul. After some conversation, the
physician entered, and I took my leave, making it a condition, that in
future he would not refuse to see me.
I required rest to collect myself, and, therefore, sought the most
solitary spot to arrange my thoughts and feelings. How strange, in
these moments, appeared human life, friendship, death, and health! In
these, my dreams, I was interrupted by a friendly voice addressing me.
It was the physician, an elderly, good-natured man, who sat down beside
me. “I have learned,” he began, “that you are a youthful friend of our
poor patient, and have sought you to consult with you, respecting his
lamentable and enigmatical state. I have never met with a similar
illness, I do not understand it, and, therefore, am but groping in the
dark with my remedies; nor do I know whether the waters here are
salutary to him or his sick wife, who seems wasting away from the same
complaint. I have no name for this wasting fever, which defies all
known remedies. Sometimes I could almost imagine them insane, did not
reason absolutely manifest itself. But even should their minds be
unimpaired, they are, doubtless, hypochondriacs. And the worst is, the
count will not communicate freely, but, on the contrary, anxiously
avoids all questions respecting his condition, and all inquiries as to
its cause and commencement. I do not wish to irritate him, though my
inquiries and questions have more than once had that effect, and yet it
seems necessary to learn from himself the history of his complaint. I
therefore request you, dear sir, to exert your influence with him, as
his friend, that he may confess to us the origin of his illness. If I
once knew this, it might, perhaps, be possible to afford relief to both
of them. If the disease is mental, of which I feel almost convinced,
the physician must be in their confidence to afford relief; but if this
is withheld, he may cause even death, not only by his prescriptions,
but by an unguarded word. I therefore conjure you to do all in your
power to make him confide every thing to you.” I promised all he
desired, for I had long entertained the same opinion. But when, on the
following day, I remonstrated with my friend, I found the task more
difficult than I expected, as he was inaccessible on that point. He
did not yield until I united tears to my entreaties, and his suffering
wife joined with me, as the hope arose within her that the physician
might be able to afford relief to her husband. He stipulated that
whatever he should communicate should be communicated in private to me
alone, undisturbed, and without even the presence of his wife, who
would be much pained at the relation.
Thus was it arranged. My little room looking on the garden was so
quiet and retired, that no intrusion was to be feared, and after a
frugal supper I dismissed the servant, enjoining him not to admit any
one. The invalid countess was left with her attendants, and a lady of
my acquaintance kindly read some amusing work to her during her
husband’s absence.
We sat then in my well lighted little room, while the summer breezes
murmured sweetly through the trees without. My sick friend was on the
sofa, and the physician and myself were opposite, when Francis began
slowly and with many pauses, (as speaking seemed painful to him) the
following narrative:
“Yes, my friend, you see me again, ill and dying, and my wife, who but
two years since was a paragon of health and beauty, is no less
afflicted. The Klausenburg which more than once sheltered us so
hospitably is become a desolate ruin; storms and fire have destroyed
it, and whatever useful material remained was wrested from it by my
cruel creditors in derision, and sold for a mere trifle. You know, my
friend, the belief or rather superstition that followed me, but with
this I will not weary our good physician, as it had no sensible
influence on my immediate fate. I have moreover, so much of the
marvellous to tell in the recent events that have befallen me, that it
will be more than sufficient fully to convince the learned doctor that
I am insane.
“Young as I was I had already resigned life, since I considered it
completely at a close. But as it frequently happens that the power of
a beautiful spring will revive a tree apparently lifeless, so that its
branches again become verdant, and at last one blossom springs from
them, so it happened with me. Travelling about in a misanthropical
mood I stopped in a small town situate in a delightful country, and
through my introductions made acquaintance with some interesting
people. One of these, a distant relative, who received me most kindly,
introduced me to his family, where, for the first time I saw my beloved
Elizabeth, and at the second visit I had lost my heart and peace of
mind. But wherefore dwell on charms that are fled? Suffice it to say
that I was enraptured, and flattered myself that my feelings were
understood, and might perhaps in a short time be returned. Elizabeth
was residing with an aged aunt; they were neither of them wealthy
though they belonged to an ancient family. I was superior to the talk
and astonishment of the townspeople, and I stayed a long while in this
insignificant place, where there was neither a theatre to amuse, nor
large assemblies, balls, and festivals to engage me. I was so happy
that I only lived for, and enjoyed, the present moment. The family was
very musical, and Elizabeth a truly accomplished performer on the piano
forte. Her voice was highly cultivated, full-toned, and beautiful, and
she agreeably surprised me by joining in my perhaps one-sided taste for
ancient composition. Harmony, skill, and kind looks from her beautiful
eyes,--all this so charmed me that weeks vanished like days, and days
like hours in the poetical intoxication.
“I spoke of the family. The aunt too was musical, and accompanied us
when we sang. I also found myself benefited by becoming again
conscious of the talents which I had so long neglected to exercise.
Yes, indeed, talents, amiability, social gifts, and pleasing manners,
&c.”--continued Francis after a pause, during which he seemed lost in
thought--“the vanity of possessing these graces have rendered me and
others unhappy. Speaking of the family, I must now mention Ernestine,
an elder sister of my wife’s. Their parents had died early in life.
They had lived at a distance from that small town, in what is called
good style. This they did without considering their fortune, and the
consequence was that they became impoverished and involved in debt.
Where this confusion breaks in, where the necessity of the moment ever
absorbs the security of the days and weeks, few men possess sufficient
energy and resolution firmly to hold the rudder amid the tumult of a
returning storm. And thus the wildest and most confused management had
broken into this ruined household. The parents not only diverted
themselves in banqueting, dress, and theatres, but, as it were, even
with new and singular misfortunes. The latter were more particularly
caused by their eldest daughter, Ernestine. This poor being had, when
only three years old, during the confusion and bustle of a banquet,
unnoticed by any one, taken up a bottle of strong liquid, and drinking
it, became intoxicated by it, and thus had unconsciously fallen down a
high staircase.