PART THE FIRST.
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ELIZABETH OF TORRENBURG
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LETTERS.
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Conrad, Abbot of Cloister-Curwald, to Elizabeth, the Widowed Countess of Torrenburg[[1]].
[1]. The real name is Toggenburg; but as this would have sounded harsh in English ears, I have taken the liberty of softening it a little; and in several parts of this work I have changed the names of places and personages entirely.
Your resolution, noble Elizabeth, to remain in cloistered solitude, passing your hours in tears for your husband’s loss, and in prayers for the repose of his spirit, is dignified and worthy of the illustrious race to which you have the glory to belong. Model of female constancy! though years have elapsed since Frederick died, your tears flow as freely as on the first day of your widowhood! Unequalled lady! does there exist a virtue, whose seeds we ought not to depend on finding in a heart like yours? Is there a sacrifice so great that a soul like Elizabeth’s is incapable of making it?—In the bloom of life to tear yourself from the pleasures of the world and the eyes of a thousand admirers, that you may watch away the lonely nights by the sepulchral urn of an husband far advanced in years; to fly from the charms of sway and grandeur that you may humble yourself before the altar, kneeling in the dust, and praying for the repose of the deceased-one, oh! what an act of self-denial! an act, which reaches the summit of magnanimity, by not being established on the foundation of love; for in truth, how could love for the decrepit Frederick find a place in the heart of the young and blooming Elizabeth, whose warmest sentiment must have been filial respect towards a benefactor?
Oh! Elizabeth, is indeed your state of widowhood your only motive for taking refuge in a convent?
Elizabeth to Conrad.
An expression used in the conclusion of your letter fully explains the sentiment which I felt, and still feel for the Count of Torrenburg.
Yes, Conrad; Frederick was my benefactor in the strongest sense of the word—and therefore is it, that though years have elapsed since his decease, my tears for his loss still flow as freely as they did on the first day. But whether sorrow for my widowed state was my only motive for burying myself in a cloister.... Oh! Conrad, it was unnecessary for you to use flattery in order to obtain a knowledge of the truth. Without calling me “the model of female constancy,” or declaring me to be without an equal, I might have been Induced to confess, that Frederick’s death was not the only reason which at first induced me to take refuge in a convent, and which perhaps will induce me never to leave it more. Oh! much, very much lies heavy upon this heart of mine! I suffer under the pressure of misfortunes, of which but a small part is known to you; yet even that little must be sufficient to make you comprehend, why I feel compelled to abandon the world, and fly to solitude for relief and comfort. Conrad! Conrad! would to Heaven it were true, that there is no sacrifice so great, that I am incapable of making it! Alas! I feel but too strongly, that great sacrifices are in my power, for which I must prepare myself by supplication to Heaven, and the solitude and calm of a cloister.
Conrad to Elizabeth.
I know not to what sacrifices you allude in saying, there exist some which are too great for you to make. Worldly possessions, I am certain, are without value in your eyes: should then hereafter generosity or a sense of justice require of you some trifling renunciation in this respect, could it possibly cost you much pain, or would you long deliberate what course you should adopt? In order to be rich and powerful, Elizabeth needed not to become the heiress of Torrenburg. Independent of her husband’s attachment, fortune had already rendered her mistress of sufficient wealth to make it easy for her to afford posterity an admirable example of self-denial. She who can dispose of castles and villages[[2]] without receiving on the one hand any return but ingratitude, and on the other but hatred and rebellion, may surely bring herself in the course of time to restore those possessions (to which the prepossession of her fascinated husband could in fact give her no right) to the forsaken innocent orphans, whose claims have so undeservedly been set aside. How glorious a recompense hereafter would she earn by such an act! What gratitude, what tranquillity of soul would she obtain at present! what rapturous admiration would she be viewed with even by the latest posterity! How shining and how distinguished would be the place allotted to her among the illustrious ladies, who derive their blood from the Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans.
[2]. Elizabeth of March (who inherited from her husband the valuable county of Torrenburg and other extensive possessions to the exclusion of his natural heirs) bestowed considerable districts of her territory on the people of Zurich, which excited great discontent among her vassals.
Elizabeth to Conrad.
Conrad, what am I to think of you?—you almost adopted in your first letters to me the tone of adoration; I was a “model of female constancy;” I was “an unequalled woman.” In your last, the secret seems to have escaped you, “that nothing but the prepossession of a fascinated husband could have made me what I am.”
I guess your views: you hope to draw from me some decision favorable to the claims of the Damsels of Werdenberg; but in truth I am not arrived at such high excellence in the science of self-denial. It is easy, my good Abbot, to give away half our property out of pure generosity, even though we meet in return with nothing but ingratitude; but it is hard, very hard to bestow that same half on those who think they have a title to it, even though all the universe should admire and praise us for ... having done our duty.
My brother Oswald, who has arrived here within these few days, salutes you, and recommends himself to your prayers.
Conrad to Elizabeth.
I was certain, before I read the conclusion of your letter, that Count Oswald was not far from you: uninfluenced, never could Elizabeth have suffered her hand to trace such words! Go then, ye innocent victims of slander, even from the generous Elizabeth have ye nothing to hope! she terms you “the Damsels of Werdenberg,” without recollecting that another name would have belonged to you, had not fortune robbed you of it in order to confer it upon her. Go then, go, thou gentle Constantia; go too, afflicted and much belied Ida; increase the number of the unfortunate ladies of Sargans, and live upon the bounty of the vassals of your forefathers: the heiress of Torrenburg has nothing to bestow upon you, not even unavailing pity; of justice I will not speak. Under what climate of Heaven you now exist, Elizabeth knows not, asks not, cares not!
Elizabeth to Conrad.
I have long remarked one fault in you, my good Abbot; you generally press your point too eagerly, and thus ruin the cause which you support, with those whose natural inclinations would have disposed them otherwise to do what you require. Not that this is the case with me; to convince you of which, I now entreat you for the present, and only for the present, to be silent on a subject which (from causes as yet unknown to you) pains my heart most cruelly. I am not ignorant of Constantia’s abode; as to Ida ... yet why should I concern myself about the Damsels of Werdenberg? If (as you assert) I have robbed them of a name which but for me would have belonged to them, they perhaps have deprived me of another, which was more precious to me than my life; a name, which was the long-wished-for goal of all my fondest hopes; a name, for which I would have exchanged the high-sounding title of “heiress of Torrenburg,” God knows how willingly!
Suffer me to chuse another subject—you seem to be well acquainted with the annals of the family with which I am become connected by marriage; it is certain at least, that neither in your conversations or letters have I ever heard you mention the knights and ladies of the houses of Carlsheim and Sargans, without applying to them some striking epithet. Even in your very last epistles, “the unfortunate ladies,”—“the illustrious ladies of Sargans,”—were mentioned. Who were these remarkable personages, and what were their misfortunes? If it lies in your power to give me any account of them, you will oblige me by making them the subject of your future letters. Otherwise I am necessitated to request a temporary interruption of our correspondence, as I am not desirous of reading more upon the subject which of late has employed your pen.
Conrad to Elizabeth.
The annals of the ladies of Sargans are in the possession of the Abbess of Zurich, whose convent you at present inhabit. I can myself do no more than furnish you with a short supplement to this family history, and which I will readily transmit to you, whenever you think proper to renew a correspondence, which ceases for the present with this letter.
Elizabeth to Count Oswald of March.
I have offended our good old Conrad: the correspondence which I have kept up for so many years with the faithful instructor of my childhood is at length laid aside; and many a vacant hour as this instructive intercourse has beguiled, I yet must confess, I am not sorry that it has ceased for the present. Conrad latterly began to press me too hard upon a subject, on which (in compliance, dear brother, with your advice) I am determined not to come to any hasty determination. Ah! the point would have been determined long ago, had I not been compelled to hesitate by your friendly representations and the weakness of my own heart!
And yet, dear Oswald, to confess the truth, the latter had more influence with me than the former. Paint to me in as brilliant colours as you chuse the advantage of being sovereign lady of such an extensive territory; ah! can the empty pride of governing a turbulent ungrateful people restore to me the ruined tranquillity of my heart? My wealth and power were even beyond my wishes, unaided by the liberal bequest of my dear, my partial husband; and long ago should Constantia have enjoyed those rights to which (so at least they say) her claim is undoubted, were it not that Ida must necessarily have shared in the good-fortune of her sister; Ida, who stole from me the heart of Montfort! Ida, who trampled on the fondest wishes of my soul! No! that thought is not to be endured! The wanton arts of that perfidious girl forced me from the bosom of my Henry into the aged arms of the Count of Torrenburg: now then let her enjoy the fruits of her good deed! Gratitude taught me to love Frederick, and to forget Henry; but to reward these traitors for having so successfully betrayed me; to enrich them with all that has been bestowed on me by the last will of the excellent possessor ... this is a pitch of heroic virtue, of which I can be capable but in a very few moments of romantic enthusiasm. In one of those moments, you, dear Oswald, came to my assistance, rouzed me from my dream of heroism, dissipated the vapours which bewildered my senses, and now you may rest secure that I shall make no rash resolutions.
I confess, the Abbot helped to give your advice effect, by preaching to me such endless sermons about justice. What then, my good Conrad? the conferring happiness on those perfidious hypocrites by whom my confidence has been so cruelly abused, this sacrifice which but to think upon makes all my long-inflicted wounds bleed afresh, all this would be nothing more than an every-day performance of a positive duty? Is this the way to estimate one of the most difficult tasks of self-victory that ever was prescribed to the heart of a woman?
Agitated as are my present feelings, I dare not trust myself to be much alone. I seek every where for subjects of amusement, but find every where ennui. You, my kind friend, are at a distance, and my epistolary communication with Conrad, to which I have been so long accustomed, has for the present ceased entirely. Yet the good Abbot, to whom I am already under such obligations, is also in this instance the cause of my looking forward to some future means of rescuing myself from this state of tedious indolence.
In hopes of leading him away from a topic, which I am at present unwilling to discuss, I reminded him of the antient histories of the Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans; and I requested him to make them the subject of his future correspondence—you know, the old man is generally delighted to find an opportunity of talking over such matters; but just now he is too much offended with me, and too much occupied with a different business, to permit himself to be lured away from his point by this little artifice. He has coldly referred me for information to the Abbess of Zurich; and the want of other amusement has actually induced me to apply to her on this subject, which, when I first took it up, was merely a pretence for relieving myself from the pressure of Conrad’s too urgent solicitations.
The Abbess as yet has only given me distant hopes that my curiosity shall be indulged; but by dint of repeated petitions, I trust I shall persuade her to communicate to me these “important and remarkable writings,” as the Abbess calls them. Should I succeed, I shall not fail, oh! most learned of all knights of the present day! to lay whatever seems worthy of attention before your philosophical eyes.
Sigisbert, Bishop of Coira, to the Abbot Conrad.
Without attempting further to influence her conduct, let Elizabeth be permitted to act according to her own pleasure: I know her motives; I know that in the end we shall have reason to be satisfied with her. I am informed also, that she has already taken some such steps towards settling this important business as will bear but one interpretation. Letters have been received from her by our friend the Seneschal, a man whose superior for probity is not to be found in Zurich; in these letters Elizabeth explains the whole transaction, requests him to act as an impartial judge, and engages to obey his decision blindly. You know well the venerable Albert Reding, to whose justice the whole country refers every dispute of consequence; think you, he will decide to the disadvantage of innocence? Not that I have obtained my knowledge of these secret particulars from Albert himself, the delicacy of whose opinions on this species of confidence is extreme. In truth, he carries that delicacy so far, that he anxiously avoids mentioning the disputes between the Countess and her vassals, and endeavours, when others speak of them, to listen with a cold indifferent air: but I read plainly on his serious brow that he meditates deeply on the subject; he weighs the bequest of Count Frederick, and the situation of the unfortunate sisters, and I can prophecy to which side the balance will incline. He, who never yet gave an unfair judgment; he, who has never deserved to have an appeal made from his decision, cannot surely pronounce erroneously upon a business like this.
Your intention of laying before Elizabeth’s eyes the whole history of the rejected heiresses of Torrenburg is well imagined, and may produce a good effect: but what shall I say to you respecting your imprudence, in advising her to inspect the private annals of the house of Sargans? My good but inconsiderate friend, are you then ignorant of the part which your Abbey plays in these memorials of the days of yore? Is it adviseable, think you, to lay before the laity the transgressions of the church? Let us rejoice, that we walk ourselves in the paths of virtue, without endeavouring to make our own merits appear more shining, by contrasting them with the crimes of our predecessors.
Yet I know well, that so mean a design was far from the thoughts of my good Conrad; he has only erred through want of consideration. I shall immediately endeavour, if possible, to repair your fault; already must letters from me have reached the Abbess of Zurich, and I hope that Elizabeth will not be suffered to peruse a single line of the papers.
It is but a short time since these curious Memoirs were in my possession; and I can assure you (if, as I take for granted, you are not already conscious of it) they contain many circumstances, which for the honour of the Abbey of Curwald, and (with grief I write it) for that of some of my own ancestors, had better remain for ever unknown.
Elizabeth to Count Oswald
In vain do I strive to turn my thoughts from Montfort; the reflection “what is to become of him” occupies my mind incessantly. Alas! there was a time, when I loved him with such passion! when there was nothing which I would not have given to purchase for him one moment’s happiness! and now, oh! what a change! she, who once was ready to sacrifice for this Montfort every thing, even the affection of a warning brother, who saw deeper into the deceiver’s heart than herself; she now hesitates, by giving up a few superfluous miles of territory and some high-sounding empty titles, to rescue him from the very abyss of misery and ruin!—and all this change in her heart is produced by the sole reflection, that Montfort’s prosperity would now be shared no longer with herself. Oh! Elizabeth! Elizabeth! thou hast a groveling soul! thy passion for Henry, so falsely called heroic, was nothing better than mere self-love!
Chide me not, dear brother, for this want of resolution; I am conscious the expression of such feelings must be little expected by you after the temper of mind, in which you saw me when we parted: but you know not the dreadful contest between affection and duty, which has but lately been excited in my bosom—what! Henry imprisoned by his uncle, as a punishment for having bestowed his heart on the portionless Ida? Henry, commanded by the incensed Count de Montfort to purchase liberty by offering me his hand? What then, do I live to see my nuptial bed made the alternative of a dungeon? Oswald! Oswald! oh! what a humiliation for the proud Elizabeth, let what is required of him be refused or accepted by Henry!—as for myself, my resolution is fixed; but yet, through respect for you and your counsels, it has not been fixed till after mature deliberation. I will not have the appearance of acting either from an impulse of extravagant generosity, or from that spirit of refined vengeance, which induces us to crush our enemies under the load of obligations: no; I will do nothing but my duty. I have submitted the whole affair to the decision of an impartial judge: I will ascertain how much I ought to do for the Damsels of Werdenberg, and exactly that much will I do, without desiring to be thanked by any one. What would be my feelings, Oswald.... Heaven and Earth! what would be my feelings, were I to hear Montfort thank me for having kindly facilitated his union with his beloved Ida!
Elizabeth to Oswald.
My brother, we will in future chuse other subjects for discussion: Montfort and Ida ought now to hold a place no longer in my private thoughts, nor shall their names be ever again traced by my pen. To banish these spectres which haunt my mind so fearfully, and bury them for ever in oblivion, or at least only to remember them with contempt, surely I need but to recall that memorable day, when my dear exasperated brother forgave the lovesick-girl’s elopement, her elopement with this deceitful Montfort; when he promised still to acknowledge her as his sister, and condescended to make known to the traitor with his own lips, that Count Oswald would not disdain to honour and esteem him as his sister’s husband—and then let me remember, how Henry led the proud Elizabeth in triumph to the altar; and how at the very moment that he prepared to swear to her eternal constancy, the irrevocable word refused to pass his lips, because ... because among her attendants he discovered a face, whose features seemed to him more lovely than his bride’s.
Oh! when I recollect these circumstances, my brother! the Damsels of Werdenberg, the chosen friends of my bosom, were invited to place the nuptial garland on my brow, and the false-ones tore it in pieces, and trampled it under their feet. With what a look of horror and aversion did Henry throw away my hand! He affected to be suddenly indisposed too! oh! ’twas a mere pretence! his midnight flight from the Castle, and his consternation at hearing, that those perfidious girls were gone, ought to have left me no doubt upon the subject; yet I suspected nothing till the cruel news arrived, that Ida’s fate was as closely connected with Henry’s, as I once had flattered myself to have seen my own.
Again I repeat it, I will discuss this subject no longer. My prayers had once the power of soothing Oswald’s vengeance and saving the offender’s life; shall my lamentations excite afresh that sleeping vengeance?—No! I will be silent!—I thank you, dear Oswald, for all your kindness; still love Elizabeth, but strive not to avenge her.
Elizabeth to Oswald.
I doubt whether I act wisely in writing to you so often? a less interesting occupation would conduce more to the tranquillity of my bosom, and such an occupation am I earnestly endeavouring to procure. A visit to the Abbess, for the purpose of renewing my entreaties respecting the annals of Sargans, has exalted my curiosity to the very highest pitch. I am sensible, that anxiety to learn the sufferings of those who have been as unfortunate as myself, alleviates the weight of my own afflictions.
The Abbess appeared to be undecided whether she should indulge me with a sight of these writings, which she had already been drawn into an half promise to communicate.
—“My dear lady,” said she smiling, “had you not rather obtain a personal knowledge of those ladies, who are treated of in these moth-eaten ill-written leaves, and whose adventures, or at least as much of them as deserves your attention, I can myself relate to you concisely?—Look!” she continued, at the same time removing a silken curtain which extended itself over the whole western side of her closet; “look! here are the portraits of the most remarkable among those celebrated ladies, respecting whose lives some idle person has contrived to make you so inquisitive. I confess, I do possess the writings in question; but believe me, daughter, they are buried under such a heap of uninteresting papers relating to different matters, that to explore them would be too tedious a task for the leisure of an anchoret or the patience of a saint.”
I stood silent, and listened, and looked; but in truth the speaking portraits of these females, the most lovely and excellent of their day, and the interesting fragments of their annals which escaped from the Abbess of Zurich as she pointed them out to me by name, were by no means likely to cure me of my inclination to know more of their adventures.
You are not the only one of the family, Oswald, who possesses the talent of persuasion; your sister too inherits some little portion of that for which her brother is so remarkable. I conquered; and before evening arrived, I had the satisfaction to see brought into my chamber a large iron chest, which contained materials of sufficient interest to steal me from my own sorrows, and transport me into a different world from that in which I am existing—oh! how delightful is it for a wounded heart thus to steal itself away from the theatre of its afflictions!
Elizabeth to Oswald.
The morning broke, and found me still occupied in examining the moth-eaten parchments; selecting those which appeared to be the most interesting, and separating them from the rest, which I purposed to reserve for a future opportunity. It was fortunate, that I did not delay this examination till the next day. Scarcely were the nuns returned from matins, when my treasure was redemanded of me. The Abbess came to make excuses in person. She talked of secrets regarding the Convent, and the commands of the Bishop of Coira, though, as far as I can make out, the great lady (for such is the appellation which the nuns give the Domina of Zurich) is totally independent of him. She might as well have spared her apologies; I was angry, and scarcely could prevail on myself to answer her with common politeness. She had broken her word with me; and therefore I feel but little compunction for having over-reached her, and kept back several of the writings, which I had previously laid aside. They happen to be exactly those (at least I hope so) which the sight of those portraits in the Domina’s closet had made me most anxious to examine.
One parcel consists of the Memoirs of Urania Venosta; she is pale, and a black veil half conceals her features, yet the grief which is exprest in her countenance (the picture represents her in the decline of life) has still left her charms sufficient to make us guess, how perfect must have been her beauty while yet in the full bloom of youth.
Another packet contains some account of the unfortunate Adelaide, lady of the Beacon-Tower; she was a daughter of the house of Carlsheim, and had resolution enough to attend upon her unfortunate husband till his last breath, which he was doomed to breathe out upon the scaffold! Adelaide only left the place of execution to lay herself down, and die.
I possess also the adventures of two Damsels of Sargans, who particularly arrested my attention yesterday in the closet of the Domina.—The picture represented them as two solitary pilgrims, both imprest with beauty and innocence in every feature—features, which seemed to be not totally unknown to me, and which even recalled those to my memory, which my partial friendship once viewed with such fond admiration, while gazing on Constantia and her perfidious sister!—They were represented, as wandering on a barren mountain covered with snow, and endeavouring with inexpressible anxiety in different quarters to discover an out-let from this desolate pass, where they must inevitably perish, unless some higher power should graciously interpose in their behalf. In truth, I fancied that I could discover in the back-ground of the picture a faint shadow, which seemed to beckon one the poor wanderers to advance: probably it meant to convey the idea of a guardian angel, or a saint, who had descended from Heaven to guide the distressed pilgrims out of this fearful labyrinth.
Besides these, I have kept back several other fragments of less interest, which I shall not examine, till all those which I have mentioned have been gone through, and their contents communicated to you, dear Oswald. Into the bargain, the Domina (in hopes, I suppose, of softening my resentment) sent me by the hands of a lay-sister the life of one of her predecessors, who had also belonged to the family of Sargans, and respecting whom she thought, that what she had told me respecting her wisdom and piety, must needs have powerfully excited my curiosity. I took the ponderous roll of parchment with many thanks; I have already ran through it, and returned it, for it contained nothing except that this worthy Abbess was not only a saint, but was also a woman of great learning; that she had sacrificed to the Muses at the same time with Walter of Vogelfeld, the Counts of Hapsburg and Welsh-Neuburg, the Abbot of Einsiedel, and the Bishop of Constance, and had carried off the prize from those distinguished Authors; and finally, that she had instituted a weekly meeting of literati at the house of Rudiger Manstein, the burgo-master of Zurich.
These particulars possest very few charms for me; and the moment that I was left to myself, I had recourse to my precious stolen treasure, of which I shall immediately communicate to you as much, as I have as yet had leisure to peruse. Oh! my kind Oswald, will you not blame me, when I confess, that even this interesting occupation was insufficient to banish Montfort from my mind? Yet to waste another thought on this paragon of human perfidy is too great a weakness—I will return to my parchments, in hopes to collecting from the sorrows of others resolution enough to endure my own with patience.