PART THE EIGHTH.
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Conrad! Conrad! how was it possible for me to mistake for a moment the characters ofyourpen, for those of any other? Of that pen, which like its master’s persuasive tongue, knows howto blend truth, raillery, and praise together so artfully, that the heart feels itself irresistibly subdued, irresistibly compelled to follow, whither-soever it is your pleasure to conduct it!
I was aware of your power: it was therefore that I fled from your presence, that I shunned your conversation, that I declined your correspondence. I knew well, that your eloquence could give a fair appearance even to the worst cause; and at that time Ida’s cause was believed by me to be one of the worst, otherwise I would not have fled from its discussion.
But now how are my sentiments changed! Helen, sainted Helen! now then the time is arrived for my imitating thy glorious example: Ida is a secondAmalberga: Elizabeth shall be a second Helen!
No: Helen’s curse shall not fall uponmyhead: I will not hate those, whomshehas blest; I will not rob her beloved ones of their inheritance. Look down on me, fair saint! Behold; I sacrifice to Ida that, which is most precious to me, the affection of my heart, the happiness of my life, the hand of Henry: and can you doubt, whether I will restore to her that which I prize so little, a few handfuls of sordid earth?
Conrad, my whole soul is in a storm! I scarcely know, what I say ... what I write ... what I think ... in the present moment, I can only feel!—Yet ere I close my letter, learn thus much. Constantia is with me; yesterdayI clasped her to my heart. Alas! for the gentle, innocent, suffering girl! Never did my bosom harbour againstherone spark of ill-will: her intercourse would have been like balsam to the wounds of my heart, even while I hated Ida as the inflictor of those wounds. It was cruel in you, my good Abbot, to let me inhabit the same dwelling with her for so long, and yet keep me in ignorance, that such a blessing was so near me.
In truth, you have not dealt well with me throughout; neither yourself, Conrad, nor your confidante the Abbess of Zurich. The most secret recesses of my soul were known to you, while I believed them to be closed against all the world; you knew much, of which Iwould have purchased the knowledge with my whole wealth, and which you concealed from me far too long. I thought, that I acted without being observed: and you were busied in watching and numbering every step which I took. I cannot feel quite satisfied with your proceedings towards me; my heart involuntarily breaks out into reproaches and complaints. Yet neither complaints nor reproaches can now avail. The die is cast; I cannot avoid following the path, which is pointed out by duty—cannot, did I say?—No; let me not wrong my feelings: Iwouldnot, if Icould!
Oh! that I could paint to you in colours sufficiently vivid the scenes, which followed my perusal of your manuscript!—theAbbess is ill.... I fear ill unto death!—I flew to her sick bed, and with the enthusiasm of my sensations forced her back from contemplating the fields of blessedness, to which she is already so near, that she needs but to close her eyes in order to behold the reflection of their glories! She smiled at what I said to her, and which must have appeared to her so trifling, so unworthy of a thought, when compared with those images by which her mind had just been occupied.—Her words inscribed themselves upon my heart in characters of flame: you will soon be informed of their effects.
Constantia was summoned—the Abbess joined our hands; we sank upon each other’s bosom. No explanationwas necessary; no one spoke a word; we understoodher... we understood ourselves.
—“Now then,” said the invalid in a soft faltering voice, which seemed a middle tone between a mortal’s and a spirit’s: “now then nothing is wanting ... but the presence of Ida!”—
—“Of Ida,” I repeated, “and of her Henry!”—
And Henry came; came the next morning, as you had assured me that he would, and for that purpose which you mentioned. He has vindicated my cause like an hero, and has fully established my authority and my rights: he has knelt at my feet; he has offered me his hand. He has named love as the reward of his services, and has obtained the boon: how couldI refuse the reward of love to the most pure, the most tender, the most unfortunate of lovers?
Constantia, Countess of Werdenberg, to Abbot Conrad.
Elizabeth’s letter must already have apprized you, my kind protector, of the favourable change, which has taken place in the situation of your wards. Count Henry has been here, and is again departed. He came by Ida’s command to offer his hand to Elizabeth: he is returned at Elizabeth’s desire to salute her rival as joint-heiress with myself of the rich domains of Torrenburg.
—“I do no more than my duty,” said Elizabeth, when Henry endeavouredto express his gratitude. “Your heart belongs to Ida, and neveroughtto be another’s, therefore nevercanbe mine. As to Count Frederick’s inheritance, demand of this venerable man, whose claim to it is the most just; that of Elizabeth, or of the Damsels of Werdenberg.”—
As she spoke, the door opened, and a silver-haired stranger entered the apartment. It was the Sage of Zurich, the well-known Albert Reding, to whom Elizabeth had referred her disputed claims, previous to your unveiling the truth of our history, and removing her prejudices against us. Yes, Conrad, yes! even had she still continued to abhor us, so sure as I have life, Elizabeth would still have acted by us with justice!
The venerable Albert confirmed Elizabeth’s declaration; he even consented to accompany the enraptured Montfort to Ida’s valley, and make known to her this sudden change in her situation. They would fain have persuaded me to join their party: but I could not endure the thoughts of quitting my generous friend, at a moment, when she so greatly needs support after this difficult self-victory, and under the deep affliction which she feels at the approaching dissolution of our worthy Abbess.—Farewell, dear father, and believe, that the memory of your kindness shall live in my heart for ever!
Abbot Conrad to Sigisbert, Bishop of Coira.
Count Henry of Montfort and his bride are established in the Castle of Torrenburg. Their arrival threw the populace into an ecstasy of joy, and all inclination to uproar and revolt seems to be completely annihilated. Neither is Elizabeth any longer an object of aversion to her former subjects; you are already informed of the laudable manner, in which she past the month immediately succeeding the death of the Abbess of Zurich, and which she entirely dedicated to providing for the future benefit of those, over whom she was so soon to renounce all jurisdiction,and who (while under her command) had been so little sensible of the value of such a mistress.
—“The few minutes,” said she, when she addrest them for the last time; “the few minutes, during which I can still consider you as my subjects, shall be employed in convincing you, that you mistook my character; and that your welfare neither is now, nor ever was, indifferent to the heart of Elizabeth. I am preparing to resign my authority into the hands of the Damsels of Werdenberg; but that authority shall be the only one worth having, authority over afree people.”—
What she promised, she has performed most amply. Everything in these regions breathes freedom and happiness; she has established the privilegesof this people on grounds so firm, that even were the antient Tyrants of Carlsheim and Sargans to resume their abused authority, they would be compelled to leave their subjects in possession of their unviolated freedom.
Henry and Ida would fain have exprest to her their gratitude in person; but she has declined receiving them for the present, under colour of too great affliction for the late loss of her friend, the Abbess. How say you, my Lord Bishop?—I fear, the heart of our Elizabeth is by no means healed, since she cannot prevail on herself to endure the sight of her rival’s happiness, even although that happiness is a work of her own creation.
Well! well!—time I hope, will do much; and (unless I flatter myself withbelieving too ardently what I wish) the attentions of Richard of Ulmenhorst will do more. This excellent young man is full of hope, that he may yet be able to establish his former claims on the heart of Elizabeth; Ida and Henry encourage him in his sanguine expectations; and no efforts of mine, that can advance his wishes, shall be wanting, you may be sure. However, nothing can be attempted, till St. Helena’s Festival arrives; on that day Elizabeth has promised to receive all her friends (Henry and Ida not excepted) and every one looks forward with the utmost impatience to this appointed day.
Of course Constantia did not fail to be present at the wedding of her beloved sister. Methinks, her passion for the Cloister is sensibly diminished since herre-establishment in her legitimate claims. With my whole heart shall I say—“Amen!”—to her resolution to lay aside the veil: she is so well calculated to form the blessing of an earthly bridegroom, that it would be a sin to bury her within the walls of a Convent. She already numbers many powerful noblemen in the list of her admirers; but no one hangs upon her smiles with more perfect adoration, than Count Oswald, Elizabeth’s brother. He has confided his passion to me, and I am best able to judge the nature of his sentiments. No contracted views of interest (as many unjustly suppose, and as perhaps Constantia herself suspects) induce him to kneel at the feet of the rich Heiress of Sargans: no one can imagine such a motive, who is acquaintedwith the real character of the proud but noble Oswald, the lustre of which is bright and glorious as the light of the sun; though like that luminary it is now and then obscured by a few dark spots, moveable and insignificant. No; he seeks the hand of Constantia from no other cause than the consciousness of her perfections; except that he repents of his former injustice towards the Sisters, and is anxious to express his present respect in the most marked and striking manner.
I know not, what hopes he is authorized to nourish. The quiet retired Constantia gives encouragement to none of her admirers, and observes an obstinate silence respecting her intentions even to me: however, Count Oswaldpossesses a powerful interest in her opinion from his being the brother of Elizabeth.—I expect that the festival of St. Helena will decide much.
Conclusion—written by Abbot Conrad.
That the readers of the fore-going manuscripts may not be left with their curiosity entirely ungratified, I will endeavour to fill up the chasm, which otherwise would appear in the Memoirs of Elizabeth. Let me obtain their pardon, if I relate as briefly as possible the circumstances of a scene, which produced upon my heart an impression very painful at the time, and never to be obliterated.
St. Helena’s festival arrived. All those, whom Elizabeth had invited, failed not to attend at the appointed place and hour; among them were the Heiresses of Torrenburg, Count Henryof Montfort, Count Oswald of March (Elizabeth’s brother) Richard of Ulmenhorst, the Bishop of Coira, and myself.
It is the pious and laudable custom of our days (a custom, which I hope will be preserved even to the latest posterity) that all our most distinguished festivities should commence by offering an homage of adoration to the Supreme: it was therefore natural, that immediately on our arrival we should be conducted to the church belonging to the Convent of Zurich. Yet we could not help feeling some surprize, that Elizabeth as our hostess did not welcome us at the church-door, and place herself at the head of our procession, while it moved through the cloisters towards the chapel; that beingthe established custom on such occasions. However, we had scarcely time to make any reflections, before we found ourselves within the chapel.
It was most gorgeously adorned, as if set out for some great solemnity. The walls were decorated with wreaths of flowers; the reliques were exposed, the pictures were uncovered: the whole wealth of the Convent was displayed, and blazed on every side; innumerable tapers in chandeliers of gold, intermingled with silver lamps, dispelled the gloom of the long aisles; and clouds of incense rolled along the fretted roof, which echoed back the melodious sounds of lutes and voices, as they swelled in full chorus from the adjoining choir. At that moment our knowledge of church-customs naturallymade the Bishop and myself conceive a suspicion of the purpose, for which we had been conducted thither: perhaps too, the same thought suggested itself to Constantia, for on a sudden her tears began to flow. The situation of Richard of Ulmenhorst was most distressing: he ceased not to enquire, why Elizabeth did not appear; and it was with difficulty, that Montfort, Ida, and Count Oswald (who preserved their presence of mind better than the rest) could persuade him to observe that silence, which was necessary in so holy a place.
Unhappy Richard! for many weeks past had his friends conspired to buoy him up with hopes, which this single moment was destined to destroy for ever: for now the curtain, which concealedfrom us the chapel’s sanctuary, was withdrawn, and all our worst fears were confirmed. Elizabeth, adorned with all the pomp and splendour of wealth, and still more with all the charms, which nature had bestowed upon her superior to her whole sex, knelt before the altar, and offered up at the footstool of the Almighty’s throne the greatest sacrifice, which a mortal can ever make; the sacrifice of youth, love, beauty, liberty, and life!
What impression this unexpected, this unwished for scene made upon the assembly at large, it is neither inmypower to describe, nor (I believe) in the power of any one of those, who were personally interested about Elizabeth. Each individual felt so much upon his own account, that he wasrendered incapable of attending to the sensations produced upon others. It was not till the awful ceremony of pronouncing the great and total renunciation was on the point of taking place, that I turned my eyes upon the countenance of the unhappy Richard: it was pale as that of a corse; and yet with every moment it seemed to grow still paler, till his eyes closed, and he sank into my arms without sentiment.
—“My soul,” said Elizabeth in a firm voice, “I bequeath to him, who gave it! my body I bequeath to the grave; my wealth to the church; the domains of Torrenburg to its legitimate possessors; the recollection of Henry of Montfort to his beloved Ida; Richard of Ulmenhorst.... Richard, my friend of youth, and the truest of all lovers....Richard, whom I ought never to have quitted for the sake of any Montfort.... Ah! to what consoling Angel shall I consign the noble Richard, that she may heal the wounds inflicted by my caprice on his honest suffering heart?—Constantia! friend of my bosom, be thou that Angel! thou art far more worthy of his love than the inconstant Elizabeth, who in resigninghim, resigns every prospect of earthly happiness; who in sacrificinghim, offers up to Heaven the greatest sacrifice, of which her nature is capable.—Be he thine, dear injured Constantia; accept from me his hand, his heart! my injustice to Ida I have repaired by the resignation of Henry; but I still owed thee a mighty sacrifice, to efface the memory of many a bitter houroccasioned by my obstinacy, my persecution, my self-will.—Now then I have done with the world for ever!—Beloved-ones! I bless you!—Pray for me, and farewell!”—
The Bishop (though greatly affected by this whole unexpected scene) thought it right to wait till the conclusion of the ceremony: But anxiety for Richard, whose indisposition had occasioned the bye-standers to remove him into the open air, furnished me with an excuse for leaving the chapel, which I seized with eagerness. To say the truth, I was far from satisfied with Elizabeth’s determination. I shall no doubt be severely censured by my more devout successors; yet I needs must confess, that in spite of my own vows (which I pronounced with the most heart-feltjoy, and never have felt the slightest wish to retract) yet still I say, in spite of my own vows, I never have seen without a pang society deprived of a valuable member, and those talents buried within the solitude of the Cloister, which might have made its owner a blessing to the world at large.
When the first shock was past, Richard recovered his resolution, and endeavoured to conceal the agony of his feelings under the veil of seriousness and silence. A splendid entertainment was spread before us, at which none of the holy Sisters appeared; consequently, we were at liberty to communicate our sentiments on what had just past without restraint. ’Twas the most melancholy feast, at which I ever assisted; a feast, which I shall never forget, as longas I possess existence; it seemed to me Elizabeth’s funeral-feast! we soon rose from the table, on which the viands remained untouched, and we prepared for our departure; for we thought it vain to expect admission to the newly-profest Nun, and indeed in our present temper of mind that admission was scarcely to be wished—the Bishop, however, delivered it as his opinion, that propriety required us at least to give Elizabeth the option of seeing us. Accordingly, a message informed her of our approaching departure; her answer was, that she must decline all visits, except those of Constantia and of Richard of Ulmenhorst.
They obeyed her orders. Elizabeth received them with joy and tenderness.She doubted not the success of her proposal, and addrest Constantia as the heiress of Richard’s heart: but she was speedily undeceived. Richard declared, in terms so express as left no doubt of his decision, that since Elizabeth was lost to the world, no refuge was left for him but the Cloister; while on the other hand, Constantia confest, that her heart was no longer in her own power. After a long and unavailing discussion, Elizabeth dismist them, whether satisfied or displeased by the firmness of her two dearest friends, it may be difficult to say: but unless I am totally ignorant of the female mind, she could not help being flattered by Richard’s refusal to admit any rival to her in his heart, but God; andprobably she was secretly not much incensed against Constantia for having bestowed her affections else-where.
Count Oswald, who had been by no means pleased by his sister’s endeavours to unite Richard and Constantia, now felt his hopes revive: he flattered himself, thathewas the unknown object of Constantia’s choice; but in this belief he was mistaken. There was a young knight, who had offered her his heart and hand at a time, when she had nothing but a heart and hand to offer in return. Conradin, an ill-portioned brother of the Landgrave of Thuringia, would have loved her, had she been no other than Mary Tell; Conradin had been faithful to Constantia of Werdenberg under all the scorn and obloquy, under which she at one time laboured;and Conradin was now the man, for whom the wealthy Heiress of Sargans rejected every other.Hedeserved the inestimable treasure of a wife like Constantia; andshewas well worthy to be the mistress of a heart, whose tenderness and generosity could only be excelled by her own.
It was long, before Elizabeth acquired sufficient firmness to receive the personal thanks of Ida and Henry for that felicity, of which she was herself the authoress; but on the day when she was consecrated as Domina of Zurich, this long-delayed interview took place. The impression, which it made upon her mind, will be best explained by the following letter.
Elizabeth to Constantia.
At length then this dreaded interview is over: I have seen Ida and her happy husband.—Wrong me not, Constantia, by suspecting, that resentment or pique has made me delay this meeting for so long; oh! no! it was the consciousness of my own weak heart!—Even Helen of Homburg could not at once resolve to witness the happiness of Eginhart and Amalberga; and alas! I am no faultless Saint like Helen!—the Cloister is the palace of enthusiasm, is the native land of visions; its inhabitants are only happy in proportion, as those visions are sweet and soothing.I had formed for myself a little circle of ideal companions, whom at my pleasure I could summon to dispel my solitude. My venerable friend, by the side of whose death-bed I formed the resolution of dedicating my life to the service of Heaven, was among the dearest of those apparitions. The hand of mortality had torn her from me; Enthusiasm restored her to my arms. I saw her, as if she had been still alive.... I spoke to her, and laid open the most secret folds of my heart.... I almost fancied, that at times I heard her reply in words of comfort.... Alas! the fatal sight of Ida and her Henry has dispelled all these visions, which were to me the source of so much happiness! it seemed like a flash of lightning, which penetrates through ourclosed eye-lids, and wakes us suddenly from some delightful dream.—Now nothing flits before me in my solitude, but those scenes of my melancholy life, in which Ida and Montfort bore so great a share.—Leave me, oh! leave me, ye cruel thoughts, which force me back to a world of sorrow; and thou, mild-spirit of my sainted friend, return, and by thy presence aid me to prepare for that state of bliss, whichyoualready enjoy, and to which I feel thatIam hastening.
The will of Heaven be done; but the moment of dissolution will be sweet and welcome!
THE END.
THE END.
THE END.
Printed by D. N. SHURY, Berwick-street, Soho.
Printed by D. N. SHURY, Berwick-street, Soho.
Printed by D. N. SHURY, Berwick-street, Soho.
Transcriber’s Notes:Errata listed in this volume have been applied to all volumes.Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.Typographical errors were silently corrected.Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when a predominant form was found in this book.