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 her re-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 acquainted with 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 Oswald possesses 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 Henry of 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 being the 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 naturally made 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 concealed from 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 in my power 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 was rendered 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.