I have just left the venerable Urania, but I have received in her society to-day less satisfaction than usual. I have gone through a strict examination. Though, Heaven be thanked, my heart is unconscious of harbouring any thing which I should blush to own, yet I could not help feeling, that such close enquiries were painful to me, and that it was impossible for me to answer every question with equal readiness. Explain to me, Amabel, what was the cause of these sensations; you are more intelligent than I am, and have frequently set me right, while I have been bewildered among the secret avenues of my heart. Who was it but Amabel, who first taught me to look into myself, and to sit in severe and impartial judgment over my own thoughts and feelings?
Urania during my former visits had thought proper to enquire, how far I am acquainted with the annals of my family. I did not conceal from her, that Gertrude Bernsdorf during the short visit which Count Donat suffered me to pay you in the Vale of Frutiger, had made known to us every thing, of which during fifty years she had been an eyewitness. Urania blames highly the good old woman’s loquaciousness, and assures me, that above half what I have heard from her was only calculated to do me harm. I can well believe, that Urania is in the right; it is at least certain, that Gertrude’s narrative had almost robbed me of one virtue, respect for the character of my father; how can I love and esteem that cruel Donat, who was the author of all those complicated misfortunes, which afflicted so many of the best of earthly beings, and my admirable friend Urania among the rest? the benevolent saint chides me for encouraging such thoughts, and bids me forget that, which she has herself long since forgotten; but how is it possible for me to obey her? alas! I have already been myself too severely the victim of Count Donat’s vices. I cannot forget that he abandoned my youth to the ill impressions of his low-born and libertine associates; that he degraded me to be the companion of his Parasites and his harlots: I cannot forget, that it is he and his harsh treatment of her, that I must thank for the loss of my beloved Amalberga!
The subject of Urania’s next question regarded the fate of my sister: on this point also I answered her with openness. I did not merely relate those melancholy scenes, which never can be effaced from my memory; I painted them with such warmth and in such lively colours, that the emotion with which my story was heard convinced me, that I had made them present to the eyes of my auditor. Still was she not contented with merely hearing me briefly recite those circumstances, which made her mingle her tears with mine: she has desired me to communicate to her in writing all that has past in the most circumstantial manner; and she flatters me with the hope of her being able to found such conjectures on this narrative, as may be the source to me of much future consolation, and may even be the means of finally re-uniting me to my dear lost sister.
Oh! were I but certain, that this would really be the consequence, with what pleasure should I undertake a task, which I shall now enter upon so unwillingly! Amabel, you saw how many tears I shed, when that unexpected and most inexplicable event took place; and you will not wonder, that sitting where I now do, those tears flow with renewed violence. It was in this very chamber, that I saw Amalberga for the last time! what pain did it cost me to tear myself away from her! in what distraction did I fall at the feet of my cruel father, and entreat him no longer to imprison my beloved sister, or at least to make me her companion in captivity! he repulsed me with frowns; and the innocent girl heard Count Donat’s own hand turn the lock of this chamber, in which the next morning she was no longer to be found. My father and myself mutually accused each other of her flight; his accusations were curses, mine were confined to tears: whether both were equally innocent of Amalberga’s disappearing is at least to me still a mystery.
And these events, which when even slightly hinted at gave my heart a severe pang, must I compel myself to commit to paper calmly and circumstantially!—yet be it so! the painful task will cost me many tears, but they will not be the first tears, which have streamed within these walls. Urania informs me, that this very chamber was long her own; how severe were her afflictions is already known to you.
I now come to the third subject of enquiry, with which (I might almost say) my adopted mother tortured me this morning; and I am scarcely less unwilling to mention it even to you, than I was unable to reply to her with firmness and sincerity.
You cannot have forgotten what past at the tournament, at which I saw the Bishop of Coira’s nephew for the first time. Urania seems to be almost as well acquainted as you and myself with all that past on that occasion; and were I not thoroughly convinced of the discretion of my faithful Amabel, I might be tempted to suspect her of having incautiously suffered herself to be seduced into revealing the secrets of her friend.
I was not so frank, as you might possibly have been in a similar situation; and my want of confidence in her drew down upon me in some degree the matron’s displeasure. I will endeavour on a future occasion to repair my fault, but I doubt being able to prevail on myself to do so. It seems to me very difficult, I might almost say quite impossible, to lay before the eyes of a Nun considerably advanced in years those weaknesses, which she must have long since forgotten and have learned to despise and ridicule; even supposing, that she should ever have been subject to them in the same degree with myself.
I flatter myself, that I deserve to be forgiven, and that I should run no risque in discovering my secret sentiments even before the most severe tribunal. Who could see Herman of Werdenberg without emotion? neither is it an object of slight importance, to obtain by marriage my deliverance from a family so constituted as Count Donat’s. I am assured daily, that I might immediately obtain that deliverance, would I but insist upon being permitted to assume the veil; and heaven only knows, what step I should not be ready to take, rather than remain longer exposed to such dangers as environ me at Sargans, had I not hopes of being released in a more agreeable manner, by the hand of my beloved warrior. Do you think it possible, my friend, that Herman should persist in his obstinacy much longer, when his only motive is grounded on his aversion to my name, the melancholy and hated name of Count Donat’s daughter?
It would be superfluous to describe to you the mode of life at present followed in the Castle of Sargans; things go on in their old track. The female favourites of the Count my father resemble each other so nearly, that the change is scarcely perceptible, when one Sultana retires, and a new one commands in her place. Those days, which I might otherwise pass in tranquillity, while Count Donat with his wild companions are ranging among hills and forests in pursuit of game, those days are now made almost insupportable, thanks to the insolence of the reigning mistress of the Castle. Besides this, the boon companion of my father’s riotous pleasures Abbot Luprian of Cloister-Curwald, through impatience for the return of the hunters, never fails to make his appearance at the Castle too soon; and then not knowing how to dispose of his time, he thinks proper to bestow it on me, a favour with which I could most readily dispense. This man is odious to me beyond measure: the ostentatious pomp of his appearance continually reminds me of that worthless Guiderius, who made Urania pass so many uneasy hours. Perhaps, my aversion to the Abbot is merely founded on prejudice; God grant, that I may not find cause to be confirmed in my ill opinion.