Chapter V: Part THE SECOND: Memoirs (4)

Count Lodowick fought bravely, but unsuccessfully. His troops were cut to pieces; their chief was compelled however reluctantly to find safety in flight. The most faithful of our vassals under the command of Henric Melthal still defended for a while the approaches to the Castle of Sargans; but they too at length were compelled to give way.—And now there was nothing to prevent the dreadful victor from seizing the unfortunates, who trembled at his approach.

Among the many unpleasant circumstances, which had followed my re-union with the wretched Ethelbert, it was not the least of my griefs, that I was compelled almost constantly to endure the presence of a man, whom I had but too just grounds for abhorring.—This person, whom I half despised and half dreaded, was at that time Abbot of Cloister-Curwald, and by name Guiderius. Had there been no other reason for my disliking him, it would have been sufficient, that it was he, whom the rebellious monks of that monastery had elected their Superior after the expulsion of my friends Christian and Matthias; and that he had taken a conspicuous part against his predecessor, whose dignity he coveted, and whose blameless life made his own appear the more disgusting. Never did I see him approaching the Castle, in all the state and splendour of a petty prince, without comparing his ostentation with the dignified simplicity of my venerable friend; of whose fate no intelligence had ever reached me, after I had procured his escape by the private passage conducting to the mountains.

But the repugnance towards him, which these reflections inspired, was not my only reasons for disliking the society of Guiderius. He had formerly been Ethelbert’s companion in his profligate enjoyments; he was now his confessor and the only confidant of his secret sins, and in this quality he assumed a much greater share of authority in the Castle, than was left to its weak master and his powerless wife. At first I occasionally forced myself to throw aside that timidity, which I had acquired from so many years of suffering, and endeavoured to dispossess the hypocrite of my husband’s favour and of such immoderate influence: but the attempt was always attended with so little success, that I was compelled to abandon it, and submit patiently to bear the yoke, which the omnipotent Abbot imposed on all the Castle’s inmates.

Guiderius was young; he might have been called handsome, had not every feature betrayed the traces of riot and licentiousness. When I complained of his usurped authority, he frequently assured me, that I was not _his_ captive as I stated, but much rather was he _mine_: but these declarations, which made him still more hateful to me, were received and answered with such contempt and bitterness, that he at length desisted from making them. Instead of these insulting liberties, he seemed to adopt a particularly delicate and humble manner in all things, in which _I_ was concerned, and about which I appeared interested. So that as I now began to feel easy respecting his professions of too warm an attachment, and in this moment of most urgent necessity, when our terrible foe was at our gates, and as every one had recourse to me for that advice, which I, poor trembling woman, would so willingly have asked of others; in such a situation, helpless and bewildered as I was, I did nor think it wise to reject without an hearing the proposition, which the Abbot of Curwald requested leave to lay before me, and whose adoption (he said) would be greatly for my advantage. It proved to be of a nature so innocent, that ill as I thought of the person who proposed it, I could find no reasonable grounds for its rejection.

—“There are few hearts,” said Guiderius, “so hardened as to resist the tears which flow from the eyes of women, or the voice of God when it speaks from the lips of his servants. I am thoroughly persuaded, that Count Donat’s fury would be this moment disarmed, could he witness the streams of anguish, which fear of his vengeance forces into eyes so bright; nor did he once see you kneeling at his feet, could he resist raising you, to fall himself at yours. But you are unconscious of the power which Heaven confided to you, when he formed you so lovely; or knowing it, you will not condescend to make it of use. Well then! Let us have recourse to some other means of softening Count Donat. Permit me to assemble the whole brotherhood of my convent in the Castle-chapel: these holy monks shall form around you with their prayers a wall more solid than one of brass; as soon as your dreaded foe approaches, I will place myself at their head, go forth with them to meet him, command him in the name of our patron-saint to lay aside his blood-thirsty designs, and you will be astonished to witness the effects of our interference.”—

I consented to his proposal. Guiderius gave his orders; and it was not long before _the holy monks_ (no one but their Abbot could have had the assurance to call them holy) set forth on their march with all possible solemnity, and with every circumstance of pomp, which might make them appear of the more consequence in the eyes of him, to whom their embassy was addrest. They laid no slight stress upon the merit of this act of heroism, as they scrupled not to call their interference; and one of the most learned brethren went so far, as to compare their conduct with that of the Roman Deeii, who for the general good devoted themselves to the infernal gods; a comparison, which would have extorted a smile from Minna and myself, had any thing at that moment of danger been capable of making us smile.

We waited for the return of these modern Deeii with inexpressible anxiety. Yet unhappy as we were, and much as we required all our strength of mind and body to support _ourselves_, we were compelled to exhaust our powers in the difficult task of preventing Ethelbert from sinking under his apprehensions of his foe’s approach, which he dreaded, as if it had been that of an avenging Deity.

During the consultation, which took place on the proposition of Guiderius, we had been necessitated to leave the wretched sufferer to himself. After the departure of the monks, we found him to our great astonishment busied in removing the stone, which covered the mouth of that well, which I have already mentioned as being so terrible to him in his hours of distraction. A variety of circumstances, as well as some broken sentences, which at first escaped from him, left us no doubt, with what object he had sought that particular spot, and what would have been the event, had we not arrived in time to rescue him from his own fury.

In the situation in which he then was, it was unsafe for us to suffer him out of our sight for a moment. We employed all our powers of persuasion to his agitated mind; Minna, whose kind and gentle manner had great influence over him, at length succeeded in kindling a faint spark of hope in his anxious bosom; and he seemed to derive some comfort from her assurances, that (even should Count Donat prove the furious tyrant, which report described him to be) still it was impossible for him to have so totally laid aside all vestiges of humanity, as to look on his father as on a foe, and punish him for offences, which it was now beyond his power to remedy.

—“You are right, sweet angel!” said Ethelbert with a childish vacant smile, which generally took possession of his countenance, when he felt himself exhausted by any violent breaking out of his delirium; “you are quite right! Donat should not revenge his mother’s death on _me_; I never hated Lucretia; no, no; she was my first love. Its true, I was unfaithful to her; but though Urania was more beautiful and rich, that could only have injured Lucretia for a while. Had but death relieved me from my second wife, nothing need have prevented my restoring my first to liberty, and permitting her to resume her legal rights! then all would have been well; then Lucretia and Donat would have been appeased: fool that I was! Oh! that I had not suffered Urania to live!”—

The pious Minna shrunk back in horror at this proof of aggravated wickedness, which she had undesignedly drawn from an heart, whose sentiments (I had so vainly flattered myself) had been chastened by adversity. Minna dropt the miscreant’s hand in disgust, while she cast upon me a look expressive of the deepest sorrow and compassion; I could not restrain my feelings, and burst into a flood of tears.

—“Nay, weep not!” said the wretched man, whose senses had quite forsaken him; “trust me with a dagger for a few minutes, and neither you nor I shall have reason any longer to tremble at the thoughts of Donat’s vengeance!”—

This conversation, which became more painful with every minute that it lasted, and which was only calculated to make two unprotected women apprehend a nearer danger than Count Donat’s sword, was interrupted by the return of two of the monks, who had accompanied Guiderius. They accosted us with countenances expressing the greatest consternation, and gave us to understand, that the eloquence of their holy brethren had by no means produced the desired effect. Count Donat, an avowed enemy of the church and her servants, had ordered them all to be made prisoners, and flight alone had enabled these two to hasten back to the Castle, and apply to us for assistance.

—“For assistance? assistance from us?” Minna and myself exclaimed at the same moment.

—“Yes, noble ladies, from you!” answered one of the monks, whose name was Hilderic; “a sign from our discreet Abbot gave us to understand, what steps he wished to be taken. He is certain, that the intercession of the Damsel of Mayenfield, one tear falling from her dove-like eyes, one word spoken in her touching voice, would be sufficient to preserve us all! Oh! dear lady, be not deaf to our entreaties! A mule stands ready at the Castle-gate to bear you to the camp, and we will accompany you thither, and protect you back in safety.”—

—“Oh! for the love of Heaven,” exclaimed my husband eagerly, “go, Minna, go! Soften my son’s heart towards his wretched father, and I will bless you with my latest breath.”—

Minna shuddered, while she listened to Hilderic’s proposal and Ethelbert’s entreaties: nor did I hear this singular request without making many objections. Yet Hilderic’s powers of persuasion, and the humble supplications of his companion, the unsuspicious Mark, began to make us relax in our opposition, when the Abbot himself made his appearance, and decided our conduct at once.

—“If it is your intention to preserve us,” said he, addressing himself to Minna, “hasten to the camp, ere it is yet too late! Under our safe-guard you cannot have any danger to apprehend, and in the few minutes, which I passed with him, I took care to make your situation so well known to Count Donat, that you need not fear, lest the power of your charms should produce an effect on his heart prejudicial to the rights of your destined husband.”—

These assurances Guiderius failed not to strengthen with a variety of others; Hilderic also exerted all his eloquence in support of his superior; and their joint efforts were so successful, that Minna was obliged to give a promise to follow them to the camp.

What line of conduct was it now most proper for me to adopt? My ideas were too confused, my apprehensions too painful, to admit of my observing a thousand contradictions in the Abbot’s statement, a thousand trifling circumstances indicating some concealed design, which could not have failed to strike any indifferent person. Besides, as Minna had now promised to accompany the monks, it seemed impossible that I should suffer her to set out without the sanction of a female’s presence, and expose her beauty and innocence to the perils, which threatened them in Count Donat’s camp. It was equally impossible for me to leave my poor weak husband to himself, and resign him to the dangerous caprices of his delirium, which during our absence would most probably return. Yet my blood ran cold at the idea of remaining alone in the power of a desperate man, who had so lately declared his intentions to destroy me; intentions, which in his frenzy he would find but little difficulty in carrying into effect. Part of our adherents had already hastened to the camp, in hopes of avoiding Count Donat’s vengeance by a voluntary surrender; the rest of them had either betaken themselves to flight, or had sought various places of concealment, till the first storm should have subsided. After Minna’s departure I should be left quite alone with the frantic Ethelbert. I knew not what to resolve, and yet it was necessary to resolve on something without delay.

At length it was settled, that accompanied by the fathers Mark and Hilderic I should set forward with Minna, and throw myself at the feet of our enemy. In the mean while the Abbot consented to watch over my husband’s actions; a consent, which he seemed to give with evident reluctance, though the great influence which he possest over the maniac’s mind pointed him out as well suited for the employment.

We proceeded slowly, as those are accustomed to do, whose road conducts them to certain sorrow. The learned Hilderic endeavoured to inspire the trembling Minna with confidence, for which purpose he vainly exhausted every argument of consolation, which religion or philosophy could furnish. In the mean while, I was busied in trying to draw such information out of the simple Mark, as might confirm either my hopes, or my apprehensions. This man, both in conduct and inclinations, was in truth the best among the brotherhood of Cloister-Curwald; but his perception was so limited, that the world might have perished, without his having the least suspicion of such an event taking place, or being able to give the least account of it after it had happened. All that he could produce to satisfy me, were repeated assurances, that he believed the step which we were taking to be right and prudent; but as to what had past between Guiderius and Count Donat, or what reception we might reasonably expect from the latter, I found that father Mark was no less ignorant than myself.

We drew near the conqueror’s tent. My heart beat violently: what was I to expect from one, who had sworn to sacrifice me to the manes of his mother! I endeavoured to muster up all my resolution; I threw back my veil, and followed with desperate courage, whither the Monks conducted us. Count Donat stood before me. I threw myself at his feet, and strove to comprise in one imploring look all that I wished to ask of him, but which terror prevented me from expressing in words.

Donat’s piercing eyes dwelt for some moments on my face in silence. He then turned to one of the Friars of Curwald who stood behind him, and asked, “if this was the person, whose beauty he had heard him praise so highly?”

—“That is Urania Venosta,” answered the Monk, “Countess of Carlsheim and Sargans.”—

Instantly the expression of Donat’s features changed, and the look of satisfaction, which they had worn at first, was replaced by that of aversion. He turned from me without speaking, and advanced to receive Minna, who approaching slowly raised her veil, and sank on her knees before him with that inexpressible grace, which accompanied even the most trifling of her actions.

—“Mercy! mercy!” she exclaimed, while she extended towards him her hands clasped in supplication; “mercy for the helpless and the innocent! Is it possible, that the victorious Donat should stain the glory of his sword, by directing it against trembling women, against an infirm father, against a people who willingly submit themselves to his power?—Oh! be that far from him!”—

Donat drew back a few steps, and gazed on her with a look, in which we endeavoured vainly to read the sentiments of his bosom. No one could guess from it, whether he suffered the fair suppliant to remain kneeling through forgetfulness of every thing but her beauty, or from feeling the same contempt for _her_ entreaties, with which he had treated mine.

—“Rise!” said he at length in a stern voice, but whose sternness was evidently assumed; “who are you?”—

—“Minna of Mayenfield.”—

—“And your companion?” he resumed, pointing to me.

—“Urania Venosta, my adopted mother, and the wife of your father, of your father who shudders at your approach! Oh! Donat, think how dreadful it is to be the cause of terror to a repentant father!—Mercy, Donat! Oh! mercy for us all!”—

Donat raised the imploring girl without replying; he also motioned to me to quit my kneeling posture, and then ordered his attendants to conduct us into another tent.

Towards evening he visited us, and gave that answer in person, which we had vainly solicited in the morning. Now that he had laid aside his threatening casque and blood-stained armour, he appeared to be entirely a different person. His manner was respectful to Minna, courteous to me. He mentioned his father in terms rather of grief than anger; Lucretia’s name, (which, as we had been informed, used to be constantly on his lips) was not pronounced by him; and in the course of conversation he once so far forgot his wrath, as to mention me by the title of “his mother.”—

—“Oh! rejoice with me, dear Minna,” I exclaimed, while I prest the Damsel of Mayenfield to my bosom; “it is now certain, that we are safe! Heard you not, that Count Donat called me mother? See’st thou in him that terrific conqueror, such as report described him? Oh! that Ethelbert were but here to know, and love the real character of his so dreaded son: all would be pardoned, all forgotten!”

—“That is possible,” answered Donat, who could not help smiling at the unrestrained expression of my feelings; “the only person who has anything to pardon is myself; and I cannot deny that beauty like Urania’s may well excuse an act of injustice, even though it should be monstrous as that, which was suffered by the poor Lucretia!”—

We saw, that at the recollection of Lucretia a cloud seemed to pass over Donat’s countenance, though it soon disappeared again. We therefore lost no time in mentioning to him the only request about which we were now anxious, fearful lest he should alter his good dispositions towards us, before they had produced the effect which was so earnestly desired.

We entreated him to suffer us to return to his anxious father, and inform him, how unjustly he had doubted his son’s filial affection. Donat hesitated, and inquired, why we were desirous of leaving him in such haste?—Besides our wish to relieve Count Ethelbert from his apprehensions without loss of time, we alleged as an excuse the impropriety of our remaining in a camp without any other females.

—“Oh!” replied Donat, “this last reason can be none for your departure; and if you have no better, I flatter myself, that I shall not lose your company, till after I have been presented by you to-morrow to my long-estranged father in the Castle of Sargans. You are not the only ladies in my camp; I have a wife and sister with me, who will be delighted to welcome you, and who (to confess the truth) pleaded with me in your behalf most urgently, ere I was yet decided, what answer I should make to your request.”—

It is impossible to express the various causes of satisfaction, which we discovered in these few words. It is no trifling comfort for bashful timid women to meet with persons of their own sex in a place, where they expected to find only rude turbulent soldiers; and here we found two benevolent beings, whose kind hearts had already induced them even without knowing us to interest themselves in our behalf. But that which above all seemed music to my ear, was the information, that one of these unknown ladies was Count Donat’s wife. In the course of our conversation, our conqueror’s eyes had frequently dwelt on Minna’s face with an expression by no means equivocal; I was strongly inclined to attribute his unexpected lenity entirely to my companion’s charms. Minna was the betrothed of another. Donat was a tyrant. My heart foreboded from these circumstances a long succession of difficulties and dangers; all of which were banished as phantoms existing only in my imagination, as soon as I understood, that Donat was already married, and that he hesitated not to place the young creature, whom he looked upon with so much interest, under the protection of his wife.

We were presented to the ladies, who composed Count Donat’s family. We were graciously received: yet we could not help remarking, that the behaviour of the young Countess of Carlsheim rather exprest that condescension which is only used with inferiors, than the friendly openness which marked our reception by Count Donat’s sister, who was made known to us by the name of Adelaide, Lady of the Beacon-Tower.

Besides this, it must be confest that the appearance of the Countess Mellusina (such was the name of Donat’s wife) was by no means such, as prejudiced us in her favour. The best that could be said of her, was that she was not ugly; and the haughty manners, which she thought proper to assume, were but ill calculated to make her person appear to advantage.—Oh! how different was Mellusina from the interesting Lady of the Beacon-Tower!

—“Can this lovely woman,” I said to Minna, as soon as we were left alone, “can she be Lucretia’s daughter, and the sister of Count Donat? I vainly endeavoured to find in that heavenly countenance a single feature, which resembled her nearest relations.”—

Minna however maintained, that she could discover a strong likeness to Count Donat; we at length determined, that early misfortune had extinguished the brilliant fire of Lucretia’s eyes, which (on further reflection I was compelled to own) had descended to her daughter; and also that female delicacy prevented her superior stature and commanding make (in both of which she was her brother’s very counterpart) from inspiring that terrific awe, which at sight of Count Donat made every beholder’s heart tremble.

The night, which succeeded a day, in which we had gone through so much, and with success so unexpected, was past in a state of no trifling anxiety. Finding ourselves obliged to accept the invitation prest upon us most earnestly by Count Donat and the ladies (to remain with them till the next morning, when the camp would be raised) we entreated, that at least a messenger might be dispatched to assure Ethelbert, that his fears were without foundation. Adelaide lost no time in causing Mark and Hilderic to hasten back to the Castle, and relieve the Abbot from the difficult task of watching over the actions of a man, who was by no means fit to be trusted with himself; they were also commissioned to request Guiderius to return without delay to the camp, and inform us, in what manner our absence had affected the unfortunate Count of Carlsheim.

Gladly would Adelaide have accompanied the Friars, and thrown herself at the feet of her wretched father, whom she had never seen. Her brother however did not think proper to permit her departure; and she now shared in our uneasiness at perceiving, that one hour after another stole away without the arrival of any intelligence from the Castle.

Yet great as was my own anxiety, it was evidently far inferior to Adelaide’s. Her evident agitation was so excessive, that I found some difficulty in ascribing it entirely to the interest, which she felt about a father, whom she had never seen, and for whom she had nothing to fear, since his fate depended on her brother. She had suddenly left the tent during supper without taking leave of us: it was already past midnight; when, guiding her steps with a dark lanthorn, we saw her return, under the pretence of paying us those compliments of the night, which she had before omitted, and of talking over with us undisturbed the circumstances of our mutual inquietude. But it was clear, that she had not yet mentioned all her motives for visiting us at this unusual hour. Somewhat lay concealed in her heart, which she longed to reveal; unluckily she delayed the wished disclosure, till the opportunity was lost. The curtain, which closed our tent, was suddenly withdrawn, and Mellusina entered.

While her manner gave us to understand, that her presence was an honour which she bestowed on us extremely against her own inclination, she entreated permission to share our nocturnal conference. Adelaide inquired with her accustomed gentleness, why her dear sister should think it necessary to deprive herself of her night’s repose?

—“You have not the same cause that we have,” said she, “to watch away the melancholy hours; sleep is not banished from _your_ eyes, by anxiety for the fate of an husband and a father, and by those foreboding fears of some misfortune having befallen him, which the long delay of our messenger must needs excite.”—

—“Whatever may be the reason,” answered the Countess coldly, “I found it impossible to sleep. The glimmering of your lamp attracted me hither, and I was much surprised ... much rejoiced, I meant to say, ... at finding that _you_, Adelaide, had arrived here before me!”—

Good heavens! how is it possible for any being possest of common feeling, to intrude into a circle without any other object, than disturbing the pleasure of those who are already assembled! Mellusina’s situation must have been as unpleasant to herself, as her presence was to us. She resisted with difficulty her inclination to slumber; and on the other hand, we suffered under the most torturing impatience to see her either departing, or asleep. It was more evident with every moment, that matters of the utmost importance floated upon the lips of Adelaide, and we waited with inexpressible anxiety for the moment, when she would be at liberty to disclose them.

Thus did we mutually torment each other during more than half the night; when suddenly we were startled by a circumstance, at once the most unaccountable and the most impossible for me to forget.—It was almost morning. We were all silent, for we had long exhausted the few uninteresting topics, on which we could converse with Mellusina.

Adelaide had already made two or three movements, as if she would have taken leave of us, and yet could not resolve to abandon all hopes of finding an opportunity of speaking to us unobserved. The lights burned faintly. Mellusina’s eyes at length closed; and to our great delight we saw her head recline against her shoulder with a look, which convinced us, that sleep had at last taken complete possession of her. Adelaide drew nearer to us, and pressing her finger on her lip with an air of caution, pointed with her other hand to the sleeping Mellusina. At that moment * * * * *

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

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_Printed by D. N. SHURY, Berwick-Street, Soho._

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● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ Errata listed in volume IV have been applied to this volume.
○ 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.
○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).