CAROLINE OF LICHTFIELD *.
THE Baron of Lichtfield was High Chamberlain and Minister of State to the King of Prussia. "Caroline," said he to his daughter, as they one day sat at breakfast, "tell me, (the Baron had an insinuating smile as he spoke, with somewhat of penetration in his look) tell me, dear Caroline, is thy heart free?"
"Sir!"
Caroline did not immediately comprehend his meaning.
"It is two months since I brought thee to court, from the retreat in which thou hadst been educated; and hast thou seen nobody in that short space, no young courtier, to whom thy heart would give a preference?"
Caroline was but sixteen, and the question was of that kind that usually embarrasses, when addressed to a virgin of sixteen. Caroline, however, might reply without dread or hesitation. Her young bosom, as pure and tranquil as in the serene and jocund days of infancy, had never sighed, except for pleasures innocent and pure as itself. A new blown rose, a favorite bullfinch, or a fairy tale, had, hitherto, been the general limits of her hopes and fears. These pleasures, indeed, since she had come to court, had been somewhat superseded by a ball, a concert, or a new-fashioned cap; but that man might influence the happiness of her life had never yet entered her imagination. Those who were the best and most indefatigable dancers, certainly, gave her the greatest satisfaction, while at an assembly; but, the ball over, Caroline could sweetly sleep twelve hours together, awake with a song, and prepare for a new appointment, without thinking of the partner with whom she last had danced.
[Page 4] [...] [...]erefore rather surprised than confu [...] [...] a short silence, she replied, "Your [...] very singular!"
[...] natural, my dear," said the Baron: "and moreover, I will endeavour to shew you it is likewise very important. Listen to me seriously, Caroline," continued he, drawing his chair closer to hers, and tenderly clasping her hand. "You have the misfortune to be the only daughter of the High Chamberlain of Prussia, and heiress to twenty-five thousand crowns a year."
The mixture of irony and satisfaction visible in his countenance, though unseen by Caroline, while rehearsing his titles and estate, proved, too powerfully, that these his misfortunes were his supreme pleasures. But it was necessary to his present purpose to assume a philosophic, a disinterested, and a sentimental air, thereby to inspire [...], and, by affecting the passions, to read the heart, and induce obedience. This was the more easy for him to effect, in that he was not only perfectly a courtier, but had a degree of natural eloquence, which supplied the want of a sound understanding, or a feeling heart. Besides, it is not easy, at sixteen, to discover the face of honesty from the mask, especially when a father speaks.
The word misfortune, however, had somewhat surprised Caroline; who, thinking she perhaps had misunderstood, repeated, smiling, "Misfortune, papa!"
"Yes, misfortune, my child," replied the Baron▪ apparently affected. "I see, with pleasure, you know not as yet all the consequences of these seeming blessings, for this informs me you still remain such as I could wish you to be."
A thousand confused ideas were crossing and combating one another in the mind of Caroline. Misfortune and herself had never before been united in her imagination: the idea for a moment made her melancholy, and she stood with downcast eyes, unconsciously plucking the leaves of a rose, which she held in her white and virgin hand.
"Yes, my dear daughter," said the Baron, rising, and gravely walking the room, "it is often one of our greatest misfortunes to be born of noble parents, and to be possessed of vast domains. The chain, I ow [...] is gilt, but is not the less heavy, or the less a chain. (The Baron was charmed to hear his own wit.) "Yet I hope," added he, [Page 5] assuming a cheerful smile of benig [...]ty, "I hope, my Caroline, the chains that thou shalt [...]ear shall hang lightly, and be ever worn with grace and pleasure."
The Baron paused, and Caroline looked up, vainly endeavouring to comprehend to what this his preface tended. He continued:
"My dear girl, the first wish of my heart has ever been thy felicity. Long have I foreseen (the Baron sighed, but the Baron was a courtier), long feared, that not on me, but on a Monarch, whose power is absolute, and must not be controverted, thy destiny would depend — No, not on a tender father! To avoid, therefore, heaping on thee the distress, the torment, of combating affections which may not be consulted, ever since the death of thy mother I have committed thy education to a friend, whose care and retired situation have preserved thy heart free. I have sacrificed the sweet pleasure of living with my child, of superintending her education, and being myself delighted with her progress, to her future happiness; and if I have secured this happiness, my self-denial will be more than repa [...]d."
"Ah, my dear dear father!" cried Caroline, kissing the Baron's hand, which she moistened with her tears, unable to express her sensations. Somewhat she would have added, but he interrupted her.
"The moment is arrived, my daughter, in which the success of all my precautions must be ascertained. Two months since (thou we [...]t then at Rindaw) the King told me he should with pleasure behold thee united to the Count of Walstein, his known favorite, and his present ambassador to Petersburgh. Notwithstanding that this marriage might even exceed the utmost wishes of a father, I alleged thy great youth, in hopes to see the ceremony deferred, and longer to enjoy thy company, longer to behold thee a part of myself.
"The King replied, thy society I might and should enjoy as soon as thou wert married. Caroline, said he, must now be sixteen; it is time she should come to adorn my court, and make my Walstein happy. He will return immediately from his embassy; send, therefore, for your daughter, and the nuptials shall as immediately take place.
[Page 6]"I could make no reply to a command so precise; and, is thou knowest, I directly came and brought thee hither. But scarcely had we returned before I learnt the Count was fallen dangerously ill on the road, and that his arrival and our intents were, for a while suspended. I, therefore, thought it useless to speak to thee of a marriage which, perhaps, might never take place; and I was willing to see thee enjoy, for a moment, the sweet illusions of youth. Yesterday evening, however, the Count returned, recovered from his illness, and the King sent instantly for me, presented my future son-in-law, and bade me prepare for this marriage with all possible speed. Thou seest I could no longer delay to inform thee of the will of my sovereign: thou seest, my child, thy destiny is fixed. My fear was that, during the two months thou hast been at court, thy young heart might, unfortunately, have selected some one of the youths thou hast seen there. Thus, what should have been thy happiness would then, have been thy misery; but I see, with transport, thy heart is yet untouched; thy present simplicity and innocence are certain proofs, and my Caroline may now comply, may give me her promise, that she will willingly become the Countess of Walstein, and the Ambassadress of Russia. Wilt thou not, my Caroline? Wilt thou not, my child?"
These fine titles, emphatically dwelt on, dazzled the young fancy of Caroline. Astonished, taken by surprise, and conceiving nothing so wonderful and so charming as all at once to become an Ambassadress, and a Countess, she raised her charming blue eyes, and looking at her father, while they sparkled with pleasure—
"What," said she, in the simplicity of her heart, "shall I be all that, papa? Indeed I am exceedingly glad to hear it!"
Her natural good sense, for she had abundance, immediately reproved her: she felt she had rather spoken from the fulness of her heart than from prudent reflection; again her eyes were cast down, and the blood rose blushing to her cheeks, till they resembled the rose leaves she had just been scattering. After a moments silence, she timidly added, still with downcast eyes,
"But I have never seen the Count, papa; and if I should not love him?"
[Page 7]"You must marry him, notwithstanding, my child," instantly replied the Baron. "We only ask your hand; there is no authority, royal or paternal, which can command the heart."
This moral sentiment was, no doubt, a very strange one to come from the mouth of a father; but the Baron, we may well conjecture, had his reasons for being thus relax.
Caroline replied, with surprise, "Indeed, papa, I do not understand you. Give the Count my hand and not my heart! No, really, papa, I do not understand you!"
"You will do before you have lived six months at court," replied the Baron, as he rose. (Another proof, this, that the Baron was a courtier.) "But this is nothing to our present purpose. Give me thy promise, thy solemn promise, my Caroline, that thou wilt fulfil the engagement I have entered into in thy name. I am waited for at court; I will announce thy consent, dine there, and return, this evening, with the Count. Go, dress thyself, and prepare to receive the man who is shortly to be thy husband."
After having received the solemn promise of the gentle and tractable Caroline, and tenderly kissed her, he departed, well satisfied with his negotiation.
The reader, perhaps, may expect that the sweet Caroline, left alone, would then, immediately, have abundance of serious reflections on all that had passed; and particularly on the approaching marriage. For six-and-twenty these would have afforded sufficient subject for a whole morning's contemplation; but, at sixteen, the mind does not dwell so long on the same subject. Truth, however, obliges us to remark that Caroline, after the departure of her father, remained full ten minutes in the same place and attitude; which certainly was a thing somewhat extraordinary.
At length, finding she had so many things to think on that she could absolutely think on nothing, and that the rushing ideas floated and whirled into confusion, she suddenly started up, ran to her piano forte, and played cotillons and country dances, presto prestissimo, for a full half hour.
Now, while she was playing, it happened naturally enough to strike her active imagination, how delightfully [Page 8] the Count would dance them all with her; "and it will be quite charming," said she to herself, "to continually have a partner at one's command."
Dance!—His Excellency dance!—Yes, to be sure; his Excellency dance: for the Baron had been very careful to inform her that, notwithstanding his high rank, great dignity, and that he was also an Ambassador, he still was not above thirty; which circumstance, it is very probable, pleased her full as much as all the aforesaid titles, dazzling as they were: for though this was nearly twice the age of Caroline, she had remarked that men of thirty, and women of sixteen, are a kind of cotemporaries.
Thus, forming the project of dancing everyday, as soon as she should be the mistress of her own house, she ran to the garden to gather a nosegay. There, as she plucked the flowers, she saw several beautiful butterflies wantoning from bud to bud▪ and, delighted with the restless vagrants, and their various hues, and vivid tints, began, with ardour, to pursue them: till, somewhat heated and fatigued, without having had the good fortune to catch a single fugitive, she consoled herself with supposing the Count, more [...]ble and active than her, would catch them for her. "Besides," said she, skipping back towards the house, "we shall be very unfortunate, indeed, if we can't both of us entrap them."
The hour of dressing succeeded, and, while at her toilet, the idea of jewels, new dresses, equipage, balls, operas, and assemblies, presently made her forget the butterflies: for, with the lively, the innocent, and the happy Caroline, one pleasure came but to efface another.
"O yes," said she, "I well know Ambassadors' ladies are invited every where, are dressed like queens, and are envied by the whole world. Instead of simple flowers, I shall have clusters of diamonds adorning my hair; my dresses shall be all the most fanciful and elegant ever beheld, and I will put them on with a grace that shall charm every eye, and win every heart."
Thus, the conjugal felicity of Caroline, founded on dress, dancing, and butterflies, seemed to her the most certain of all certain things: she already beheld herself the happiest of women, employed every moment to embellish her person, and enchant her Ambassador, and expected [Page 9] him with an impatience unchecked by any fear, except that of not appearing sufficiently handsome in his eyes.
As for him, she was well assured he would please her infinitely; for, innocently thoughtless as she appeared, she still had her moments of reflection; and, all circumstances again and again considered, had fully persuaded herself the Count was the most charming man in the world.
He was the King's Favorite! Her father had told her so; and the word Favorite was most extensive and significant to the imagination of Caroline. She, in the country, had likewise had her little court, and her little Favorites; there was her favorite bird, her favorite lapdog, her favorite lamb, and these were all the prettiest creatures of their kind, she had ever beheld; wherefore, there could be no doubt but the Favorite of a King must be the Phoenix of Nature.
Of all this she was so perfectly convinced, so happy, and so rejoiced to think she should see him, that, when her maid came to tell her he was come, and that her father waiting for her, she made but one skip from the glass to the door; where finding the High Chamberlain, who earnestly bade her to remember her promise, he took her by the hand, which trembled with pleasure and emotion between his, and, exorting her to be very prudent, and behave with great propriety, led her to the apartment in which was the Favorite of the King.
They entered, Caroline looked, and no sooner saw, than, instantly hiding her eyes with her hands, she gave a piercing shriek, and disappeared like a flash of lightning at midnight.
Now, while the father follows, while he employs the whole force of paternal eloquence to calm and make Caroline return, let us give the outline of the picture that thus had terrified; let us justify the young and innocent Caroline.
The Count of Walstein was, in f [...]ct, little more than thirty; but an enormous fear on one cheek, a countenance excessively meagre and of a livid yellow, round shoulders, and, instead of hair, a periwig, made him appear at least fifty. His large black eye was fine; but, alas! it was single; he had but one, the other a bullet had extinguished. Nature designed him for a tall and well-proportioned man, but a habit of stooping had prevented [Page 10] her intent. He had one very good leg; but this husband, who was to dance from morning to night, and aid Caroline to catch butter-flies, walked with difficulty, and limped exceedingly on the other.
Such was the exterior appearance of Walstein, and we shall hereafter see how far the mind corresponded with the body, We have said enough, at present, to paliate the emotion and the flight of Caroline. Perhaps, we will not say but that, had she taken time to consider and examine, she might have found an air of grandeur, and a somewhat of benevolence, characterizing this uncouth figure. But she saw only the fear, the one eye, the round shoulders, the periwig, and the limping gait. She had received the first impression, and, almost fainting in her apartment, Caroline scarcely heard her father's menaces and prayers to return. Her only answer was a torrent of tears, and her struggles to overcome the shock, rather increased than repelled her disorder.
Her father, finding it impossible she should appear again at present, left her, and went back to the Count. He reflected that this would certainly be the wisest course, and that his daughter's sudden illness would be sufficient excuse.
He found his intended son-in-law exceedingly agitated at his reception, and too truly suspecting the motive. But the High Chamberlain was so eloquent, so persuasive, when he had any purpose to obtain, and his oratory was so powerful on the present occasion, that the Count was appeased; fully convinced that a violent head-ach, the consequence of the preparations of that busy day, which had suddenly seized Caroline, had been the sole occasion of her exclamation and her flight. It may be, even, that he feigned conviction. Who dare be responsible for courtiers? Historians, the most exact, by them may be deceived.
Be these things as they may, he took leave of the High Chamberlain, hoping to find the young lady recovered, and not liable to the same disorder on the morrow; tho' it is very certain, Walstein found himself a good deal affected by what had passed. Not that we will suppose him in love with Caroline, whom he had scarcely seen, but that this marriage was in many respects exceedingly suitable to his wishes and his views; insomuch that he thought [Page 11] the future happiness of his life depended on it; not to mention the will and pleasure of the King. This latter might be as strong a reason for the Favorite as for the High Chamberlain; and the latter undoubtedly thought it irresistable. We must own he would have been wise to have pre-informed his daughter of the person of the Count. He felt all this, and deeply regretted his want of foresight; but it was too late. He imagined it best to extort a promise from which she would not dare to recede. Little had he foreseen the effect of the first interview, or the terror of Caroline, which was doubled by the imaginary and beautiful picture she had formed of the Count.
The moment he was alone, he returned, and found her just as he had left her. She had still, however, sufficient strength to fall at his feet and implore his mercy, conjuring him, by every tender appellation, not thus to sacrifice his child.
The High Chamberlain saw her emotion was too violent for her to hear reason at that instant. We would not have the reader think it too strange, but he was even affected himself, raised her with tenderness, begged her to be calm, and to assure herself that her happiness was the utmost of his hopes, and that he would speak with her on the subject the next morning; and, again exhorting her to be tranquil, leave weeping, and go to rest, quitted her apartment.
The drowning wretch, 'tis said, will catch at straws. Caroline ardently seized this ray of hope, and her fears were almost hushed to peace. Ah! thought she, how good is my papa! How dearly he loves me! How desirous is he to see me happy! Surely then, since it is his wish, he will not unite me to a monster who has but one eye, whose legs do not pair, who is humpbacked, and who wears a periwig!
Caroline saw defects ten-fold defective: but such is the nature of youth; its propensities, its passions, its love, its friendship, its aversions are all extremes. At first she thought herself lost beyond recovery; at present she imagined herself freed for ever from the Count, and as suddenly recovered the gaiety that had so suddenly fled.— Somewhat wearied, however, she went to bed, reflecting on the strange and singular taste of Kings in the choice of their Favorites, and protesting that, were she a Queen, Walstein never should be hers.
[Page 12]As sound was her sleep, and as gentle were her dreams, as if nothing had happened; and when the morning appeared, no stronger impression remained than that which an ugly vision sometimes occasions. Presently her father entered, and found the same smile, the same sweetness, the same infantine graces with which he was daily received. Nay, she was fonder, more attentive, more eager to oblige than usual; and thanks for his condescension, of which she entertained no doubt, were in every motion and in every look; though she dared not retrace the past, her heart was all gratitude and joy for the future. Her father's behaviour increased it; for, instead of reproaches, his looks were all good nature, and kindness and smiles accompanied every expression.
Lovely girl! Sweet emblem of innocence, that, kno [...] ing not sorrow nor guile, knoweth not suspicion, enjoy the flattering illusion! Thou hast been but two months at court, and how shouldest thou be acquainted with the heart of a courtier? Thou, who art thyself all sensibility, how shouldest thou suppose it shut to every tender feeling? Thou thinkest thou hast a father, a tender father; thou art to learn that he is only a Minister of State and a High Chamberlain!
Let us, however, be just: except his titles, his places, and his pensions, of all things in the world the Baron certainly loved his daughter the best. Not to mention that he really thought, for such was his manner of thinking, he was laying the foundation of her future happiness by so high an alliance, so magnificent a marriage! made immediately under the auspices of the King! and by order of the King! and to the Favorite of the King! and with the daughter of the High Chamberlain of the King!
Determined, therefore, to accomplish his purpose, by prayer or by power, he thought it best first to try how far affection and tenderness might win. Taking, therefore, his daughter's hands, and tenderly clasping them between his own—
"Caroline," said he, "dost thou love thy father?"
"Do I love him?" replied she; falling with enthusiasm o [...] her knees, and kissing his hands; "Let him only permit me to live with him, and for him, and he shall then and how much gratitude, respect, and filial affection [...] perform!"
[Page 13]"Of all these I have no doubt▪ but thou wilt give me a farther proof?"
"Any! every! all you can desire, my dear, dear papa! except—"
She was going to add, "marry the C [...]nt;" but the Baron, assuming a momentary and patern [...] austerity, put his hand upon her mouth.
"No exceptions, Caroline; and the first proof of love I shall ask will be to listen to me silently and attentively.
"What wouldest thou do, my child?" (The Baron changed his countenance; it was now all sentiment; it was an appeal to the best affections of the heart,) "What wouldest thou do, Caroline, if the life of thy father were in thy hands?"
"His life! The life of my father! Save, preserve, cherish it, at the expence of my own. Can my father doubt it? But how—Wherefore, my—"
"I expected no less, my dear girl," replied the Baron, taking care to stop her in due time; "and thou thyself shall decide between us.—Yes, my life, my very life depends upon the alliance. Think not I would survive my dis [...]ce! and, unless my engagements with the Co [...] of Walstein are fulfilled, that is inevitable! Terrified by thy repugnance for this marriage, yesterday, I left thee went instantly to the King, and threw myself at my Sovereign's feet, entreating and even imploring him to restore us our promise and our freedom. Thus daring had my affection for thee, Caroline▪ made me.
"Your daughter is a child," said the frowning monarch; "a baby who knows not what pleases, or what is proper, and with whom you ought to [...]t according to your own prudence, not her caprice. You may, however, act as you please. If she persist in this her refusal, you will re-conduct her to her country retreat; and you will, likewise, remain there yourself. It is impossible so feeble a father can be a good Minister of State."
"He turned away, and spoke no more to me during the whole evening. Imagine, Caroline, what are my present feelings? I saw the malicious joy of my enemies, they had marked my Sovereign's frowns, and, with the smile of malignity, prophesied my approaching fall, disposed of my places, and, imitating their master, scornfully turned from me. Oh my child! my Caroline! wilt [Page 14] thou, the darling of thy father's heart, be the cause of this his misery? What talk I of misery? His certain, his instantaneous death!"
The trembling, the tender, the affectionate Caroline, a thousand times more terrified by this idea than she even had been by the aspect of Walstein, shuddering, flung herself into her father's arms.
"I will obey, I will obey," repeated she sobbing. "Lead me to the altar this moment; lead me, if so it must be! Cause your death! I! God of Heaven forbid! Oh! my father, go immediately, tell the King to dispose of me as he pleases; only let him restore his favour and friendship to my father. Yes, I promise, solemnly promise, to submit to his will; but do thou, also, my father, promise me not to die."
So strongly had the idea of her father's death seized upon her imagination that she feared lest a moment's delay might make it certain. She would willingly have gone, even herself, and told the Count she was ready to be his; and ceased not to intercede with the Baron to depart, instantly, to the King; again engaging herself, by promises the most positive and unlimited, to be in all things obedient.
Once more left alone, she thought no more of court balls, cotillons, or chasing butterflies. With one hand hiding her eyes, mournfully resting upon her elbow, and agitated by a thousand struggling sensations, she remained motionless; incoherently dreading lest the least change or movement might precipitate her into the gulph that seemed gaping to receive her, and in which she were then eternally sunk. Filial affection, at length, came to her aid. Once more erect she sat, with self-approbation raised, when she recollected that, by suffering herself, she should save her father. "I shall preserve his honour, and, with his honour, his life," said she, with affection and admiration mingled: her own heroism inspired the latter; and which a sentiment so virtuous ever must inspire in a noble mind.
"Yet how dear must I pay for this!" continued she, "and what shall my life be?"
Straight the image and figure of the Count presented itself, and the father vanished. Caroline shuddering, recoiled, and doubted whether yet she should keep her word.
[Page 15]In this attitude, in this agitation, she continued, when her father suddenly returned, Joy excessive brightened in his countenance. Scarcely could he tell, so out of breath [...]ith haste and transported was he, that the King himself and the Count were coming. "Yes, the King! The King in person!" repeated he: "Publicly coming! and those who yesterday rejoiced at my disgrace, may now retire and weep. May their own envy be their only comforter. See, my Caroline, my child, my darling, what obedience is, and what shall be its reward."
Caroline, alas! thought not of rewards, but of punishments, and of the confirmation of the fearful sentence she herself had pronounced. Her father reproved her for not having employed the time of his absence at her toilette. The day before, she herself would have been very sorry to have been caught by Majesty in her present dishabille; but, at present, this was become a trifle beneath thought; and she waited, in expectation of her august visitor, without once casting a look towards the glass.
The Baron was in his fourth repetition of the manner in which she should comport herself, when he was interrupted by the rattling of the coach wheels. Up he started, ran to receive Majesty, and left the trembling Caroline to the assistance of salts, and as much fortitude as she herself could collect, for this interview of constraint and dread. The Monarch entered, followed only by his Favorite and his High Chamberlain, elate with joy, and instated with self-applause.
"Beauteous Caroline," said the king, as he advanced and presented the Count, "be thou the recompense of the man who has rendered me so many important services; and do thou, dear Walstein, receive, from my hand, this lovely bride, whose worth, I am certain, thou wilt well know how to estimate."
The Count drew near, and, taking the half retiring hand of Caroline, begged her, with a low and timid accent, kindly to confirm his happiness.
Had the riches of the whole world, and all its Monarchs, been prostrate at the feet of Caroline, she could not have articulated a single word. Perhaps, had she raised her down cast eyes, and looked at the bridegroom, she might have had sufficient power to have said no. But this she very prudently avoided. She made a most respectful [Page 16] courtesy, and, at the king's desire, sat down in silence. This command was well timed: had she been longer required to stand, the scene of over-night might again have been repeated. A universal tremor had come over her; she was obliged to have recourse to her salts, and might still, perhaps, have betrayed her feelings by a fainting fit, or a deluge of tears, had not a glance of her father, himself almost fainting at seeing her agitation, restored her all her fortitude: she even forced a smile, to quiet his fears, and collected the resolution to answer the King's condescending interrogation, by saying, she was very well. Every thing was then placed to the account of country education and virgin timidity.
She hoped the company would retire, or, at least, change the subject of conversation; but she was deceived. To respect the feelings of their subjects is one of those things that Kings understand the least; and his Prussian Majesty, delighted with the marriage he himself had made, could talk of nothing else. Totally inattentive to the suffering Caroline, he dwelt circumstantially on particulars, first naming the day, then the hour, and then the place of performing the ceremony.
Unable to support this any longer, Caroline, at length, made another effort, and begged permission to retire. Her prayer was granted, and the Monarch did not neglect, as she made her reverence, to salute her by the title of the Countess of Walstein.
The youthful and wretched Countess, alone in her apartment, gave a full flow to affliction. Finding, however, that tormenting reflection could not change her destiny, that now being fixed beyond the power of reprieve, she wisely concluded submission was her only course; and to take such advantage as her present situation might afford her best expedient.
Let no one be astonished to hear [...]hat a young girl of sixteen could reason thus prudently. Misfortune is a most able master; and a few hours of affliction, trouble, and terror, had taught Caroline more than years of tranquillity. She heard the coach of the King depart with much less emotion than she felt at its thundering approach; and her father had the satisfaction to find her tolerably calm and resigned, when he came to acquaint her with the royal arrangements.
[Page 17]The marriage was fixed for that day week; the Count had desired it might be as secret as possible, and celebrated at his country seat, six leagues from Berlin; and, moreover, that the rejoicings, visits, bride-favours, and presentation of the Countess at court, should not take place till the ceremony was over.
Caroline highly approved the Count's plan, and begged her father's permission to pass the intervening time in retirement. So well pleased was the Baron with her doc [...]lity, that, except breaking off the marriage, there was nothing she could have asked he would have refused; he therefore promised, and kept his word. Her solitude was uninterrupted, except by a few visits from the bridegroom; and him the Baron undertook to hold in conversation. Thus, while they were deep in politics, debating on matters of high moment, States, Empires, and Kings, Caroline was silently determining to execute the projects she had formed.
We shall not follow her through the many and melancholy ideas which occupied her mind, during this penitential week; it is sufficient for us to observe that she might, truly, be said to have thought more, in that space of time, than she had done in the whole course of her life. With the result of all this thinking we shall presently become acquainted.
Time passes away as well in pleasure as in pain. Behold then the redoubted day, on which the sate of Caroline was irrevocably to be fixed. She was prepared for it, and appeared perfectly resigned. Her father was in ecstacies, for he was now at the height of all his happiness and honours. Majesty, in person, intended to accompany his daughter to the altar. The High Chamberlain, good man, would have been happy to have had the whole world spectators; but two Lords of the court, and their wives, were alone appointed assistants. He consoled himself, however, with the idea of the many fine things he should have to relate on his return to Berlin. Off they set, for the country seat of the Count; and the tender bride, more thoughtful than melancholy, not only supported the journey exceedingly well, but even the marriage ceremony, which was immediately performed on their arrival: the Baron, wondering at, and blessing himself [Page 18] for, the dexterity and address with which he had insured the obedience of Caroline, had, at length, the inexpressible gratification of presenting her to the King by the title of the Countess of Walstein!
This was the only moment in which the fortitude of Caroline had nearly forsaken her. Affected, agitated, by the caresses of the High Chamberlain, who was unbounded in his panegyric, she owned she deserved not all this praise, and earnestly supplicated him to spare her. Caroline had a delicate heart, on which every praise the Baron bestowed inflicted a fresh pang.
They were to return that evening to Berlin, there to install the young Countess in her new dignity, as Lady of Walstein House; and they were already preparing to depart, when, taking advantage of the moment when the Count was standing alone, concealed by the projecting of the window, she went up to him, presented a paper, entreated him to read it with indulgence, and retired into an anti-chamber, where, she told him, she would wait for his answer, and his orders. Surprised as much as man could possibly be, the Count instantly opened the letter, and read:
"My Lord,
"I have obeyed. The absolute commands of my father and my King have given me to you, and yours at present I am; wholly yours; I acknowledge no other master▪ You only have the right to dispose of me, and from you I dare ask and hope benevolence, indulgence, and generosity. Yes, it is from him who just has sworn to make me happy I now presume to ask what may ascertain my happiness, and, no doubt, his own. You know not, my Lord, cannot imagine, how much the young creature, to whom you but this instant gave your hand, is unworthy of that honour; how little reasonable she is, and how much a child; how much it behoves her to pass whole years in that retreat where she has been educated, and with that dear friend who has been to her a mother. Oh, consent! I conjure you in mercy to consent and suffer me this evening to return to Rindaw; there to wait till my reason has so far conquered prejudice that I may submit, without expiring, to engagements I have formed. By doing this, you will ensure gratitute inexpressible, and, perhaps, accelerate that event. Your refused on the [Page 19] contrary—Yes, be certain, your refusal will, equally, and forever, deprive you of the wretched Caroline.
"I feel, most forcibly, the just reproaches I merit by acting thus. This letter should not have been sent now; but, had I explained what my sensations were before our union, I should have hazarded the life of my father: at present I only hazard my own. He swore, solemnly swore, he could not survive his disgrace; and his disgrace was inevitable if I did not become yours. Yours, therefore, I am, and the King now will rest satisfied: for I dare hope that, should he make my father responsible for my conduct, and should this conduct offend him, you will have the justice to save my father, and inform him, that I alone am culpable. But certainly the King cannot complain of his want of zeal, or the unlimited obedience with which he is devoted to his will; neither will I complain, if you, only, will have the goodness to grant my present request."
This letter, the offspring of a hundred, which had been written and torn during the preceding week, had been finished that very morning before they left Berlin. If ever man was astonished, confounded, thunderstruck, it was the Count of Walstein. He could not believe what he beheld. What! a young creature so timid, and so submissive! Had she a will of her own? And could she declare what that will was with fortitude like this?
Again he read the paper, and pity presently succeeded to surprise. He then saw she had been the sacrifice of despotism and ambition; and mortally reproached himself for being the object and the cause. Though we all may be somewhat deceived respecting our own personal attractions, and though the Count, like others, might not be wholly exempt from self-illusion, he still did himself the justice to imagine he certainly had not been married for his beauty; but, from the positive assurances of the High Chamberlain, and the apparent resignation of Caroline, he supposed, at least, it had been witho [...] [...]gnance, and without constraint. The moment that [...] deceived him, or, rather, told him he had been deceived, was no doubt to him a dreadful one; but he did not hesitate an instant concerning how it was proper for him now to act. Desirous to relieve Caroline from her fears, he, with his pencil, wrote thus on the cover of her letter▪
[Page 20]"Lovely and unfortunate victim of obedience! you, in your turn shall be obeyed. Instantly I will go and obtain the King's compliance with your request; instantly will repair, as much as in me is possible, the wrong done you; the tyranny of which I am the cause, without being the accomplice. Should I be refused, depend on me for restoring you that liberty of which you have been so cruelly deprived. I feel the inestimable value of the confidence you place in me, and will endeavour to deserve it, by renouncing my own happiness! Though, not so; for still shall I be happy, if any conduct of mine can render me less odious to her by whom it would be felicity supreme to be"—
Beloved, Walstein would have added; but it was a moment of most trying affliction. A mirror hung over the table at which he wrote; he looked in it and durst not. Half opening the door of the anti-chamber, where Caroline waited the sentence of life or death, he gave in his short answer, which she tremblingly received, and instantly disappeared.
The first sensation of Caroline, when she attempted to read, was dread; but this, as she proceeded was presently dissipated, and when she had ended she was so surprised, so affected, so grateful, that she had almost an inclination to recall the Count; but unfortunately for him, as she looked through the window, she saw him walking in the gardens with the King. Walking and broad day-light are little favourable to a man who limps in his gait, and whose face is disfigured by wounds. Could she have read his billet, and forgot his person, the effect would have been different; her favourable ideas would not have been so easily effaced, nor would she, so instantly, again have felt that impatient desire of returning to her former retreat. Besides, indeed, she recollected it was too late; that she had gone too far to recede, without appearing capricious and weak. While thus she reflected, still looking through the window at the Count, his billet crumbled away between her fingers, and, like the impression it had made, was no more.
While Caroline was thus employed, the generous Walstein was using all his influence with the King, over whose mind he had a wonderful ascendency, persuading him to consent to the request she had made. He shewed [Page 21] his Majesty the letter, who, instead of anger, found himself interested and affected by the style and resolution of a girl so innocent and so young.
"There is energy in this young lady's character," said the monarch, as he ended, and looking at the Count as he returned the letter.
He looked, and could not help acknowledging that his Favorite did not, altogether, possess that kind of form which the hoping fancy of sixteen loves to contemplate. The recollection came a little too late, but the moment was favourable to Caroline, and he added—
"You are right, Walstein. You must overlook this whim. She is a child, whom it will be best to indulge. She will soon be tired of her retreat; and as to the thing most essential, the fortune, it is yours. A man has always enough of his wife's company."
The Monarch was frank; but, state secrets excepted, Monarchs take little trouble to disguise their thoughts. Accordingly, the sentence pronounced, the High Chamberlain was sent for, this new project communicated, and his daughter's letter shewn. He was, certainly, in a very high passion, but the presence of Majesty made him, apparently, somewhat calm: and, after hazarding a few objections, which were silenced, he was all acquiescence. The King, indeed, who had never before seen him of a different opinion, thought it exceedingly strange, and, likewise, somewhat presuming, he should be so at present; which thoughts he did not take the least trouble to conceal. Whereupon the High Chamberlain, a little affrighted, made a most profound and reverential bow, supplicated pardon, and begged his Majesty would dispose of his daughter just as his Majesty should please.
The conclusion of this consultation was that Caroline should return, that very evening, to Rindaw; where the Baroness and Canoness of that name, by whom she had been educated, lived. Here she had permission to remain as long as she pleased, concluding she would soon be glad to return. A clause was, indeed, annexed, which seemed to render a long stay impossible; and this was, that the most profound and absolute secrecy must be kept concerning the marriage. The King did not give his reasons; indeed, Reason to Kings is a superfluous thing, Will is sufficient. It has, moreover, been said, he was [Page 22] fearful lest this history should cast some kind of ridicule either upon his High Chamberlain, or his Favorite, or, perhaps, even upon himself; but, we must own, this assertion is too improbable to be true.
Leave we these in the uncertainty in which we found them, and let us add that it was his Majesty's command Caroline should still pass by her own name, and that no individual should know she was the Countess of Walstein. He went so far as to declare that, the moment the least breath transpired, she should again beome subject to conjugal power, and that her indiscretion should ensure the loss of his favour. All this he said, looking stedfastly at the High Chamberlain, who could not get the words out fast enough to inform his Majesty of the eternal silence he himself should keep.
The King, likewise, pressingly, recommended secrecy to those who had been present at the ceremony; who readily promised obedience, and who readily did not tell it—to above some thirty of their friends; and that under the most solemn promises it should go no farther. Ah, happy Berlin! that thus, for a whole week, was plentifully supplied with behind-fan whispers and corner conversations!—"Do you know that Count Walstein has married the High Chamberlain's daughter!—Is it possible?—Oh! the King himself was present!—Indeed! —Fact, I assure you! I had it from the first hand; but don't mention it; don't let my name appear," &c. &c.
Thus ran Rumour, or rather, thus she flew; but as there was no farther confirmation of these whisperings, as Caroline did not appear, as the Count returned quietly on his embassy to Russia, as the High Chamberlain was discreet, and as, moreover, new secrets made the old forgotten, it was, at length, either not believed or not remembered.
Behold, then, the nuptial day concluded in a very different manner from▪ what might have been imagined. The Baron was required to inform his daughter that her request was granted, and that she had le [...]e to live retired at Rindaw. He was, likewise, to have conducted her thither himself; but Walstein, fearing he should ve [...]t upon her that wrath which had been so much curbed by the King, was desirous to bereave his young bride of so disagreeable a travelling companion. He therefore, easily [Page 23] pursuaded his dear father-in-law that it was most essential to his interest not to leave the Court, in this critical conjuncture; and as the High Chamberlain had not the same taste for retirement with his daughter, he thought proper to confide her to the care of trusty servants, and to send a letter by her to his dear friend the Baroness and Canoness, for she was both, of Rindaw.
This Canoness, with whom we shall soon become acquainted, was a most excellent lady in her way. She had formerly been deeply in love with the High Chamberlain who likewise, had himself been as much in love with her as it was possible for him to be; but reasons of convenience, wealth, and ambition, ever decisive with the High Chamberlain, had determined him to marry the mother of Caroline. The affectionate, the tender, and constant Baroness, thus crossed in love, had vowed celibacy, became a Canoness, retired totally from the fashionable world, and lived privately at her chateau. To meditate on her perfidious High Chamberlain, renew her vows of eternal fidelity, read novels and romances from morning till night, imagine parallels between herself and the heroine of the tale, to faunter in her gardens, and muse for hours in lonely arbours, had been her mode of life for several years. This passion, so strong, might be said, at last, to perish of inanity and want of food. Therefore, when her dear Chamberlain, become a widower, offered to recompense her constancy by marriage, she was prudent enough to refuse, alleging she had totally lost the habits of high life, and all relish for courts: which indeed was very true: but, pleased with the proposal, she promised eternal friendship, offered to take his daughter under her care, and educate her till the time of her marriage. We have before seen the motives which determined the Baron to accept this offer; and the rather, modestly added he, because he really knew nothing of the education of a daughter.
It might be presumed, our romantic Baroness knew, perhaps, as little as himself of the matter; but no; a few ridiculous singularities excepted, she did not want understanding, and was really, and earnestly, desirous to fulfil the duty she had undertaken. She had read much, had addicted herself to various useful studies, and had become very capable of instructing her pupil, and of forming her heart and mind.
[Page 24]Some remains we own there were of ancient habitudes; of a sentimental and Quixote imagination: and this was the more pleasant by being a singular contrast to her natural character, which was indiscretion personified; though she had an inexhaustible goodness of heart. But it has been remarked that these two qualities are very frequently companions, and the Canoness was an instance of its truth. She was so frank, so unsuspicious, so confiding, and loved so much to talk, that it was not possible for her to keep a secret above half an hour. And, as for friends, every person she saw might soon become her dearest intimate.
Her reputation was so well known, even at court, and her indiscretions so indubitable, that there was an absolute prohibition laid on Caroline not to tell her the secret, as well as on the High Chamberlain. Caroline, who dreaded daily remonstrances and persecutions, was happy at the interdict.
The obedient Baron, ever submissive to his Master's will, wrote, by his order, to the Canoness, that the projected marr [...]age of his daughter being deferred for some time, he again confided her to the care of his dear friend, the Baroness.
Caroline, provided with this letter, took leave of her father kneeling for pardon and benediction. The High Chamberlain, well satisfied, High Chamberlain to remain, granted both the one and the other with a tenderness that did not come truly from the heart. He saw her depart for Rindaw, which was only seven or eight leagues thence, and soon after, returned himself to Berlin, with the King and the Ambassador.
Caroline could not help being somewhat surprised, at first, at seeing herself alone in one of the Count's carriages. Affected by her father's farewell and the quick succession of events, it would be difficult to describe exactly what passed in her mind; all there was tumult and disorder, and she scarcely knew whether it were better to rejoice or weep: all things happened as she herself had desired; but, perhaps, though she did not confess that to herself, she expected to meet with more resistance; and Caroline was not the only person to whom the facility of obtaining a blessing had diminished its value.
Perhaps, too, her self-love, or her vanity, if any such quality could reside in a breast so pure, would have been [Page 25] more flattered, had a greater desire to detain her been demonstrated. "Here I am," said she to herself (and with a small tincture of sorrow was it said), "Here I am, all alone, left by myself; I said but a word, and my father, the King, and the Count, all three are agreed I may go as soon as I please. Is this indifference, anger or generosity?"
In the midst of these meditations she recollected the short billet she had torn, and endeavoured again to recall every expression, and every word. She saw the action of the Count, at last, in the most amiable, the most generous point of view; a tear started into her eye, and she sighed and said, "What a pity it is he should not be handsome!"
Her thoughts, mingled with regret, turned, occasionally towards her father also, whom she had forsaken, whom she had afflicted, and a little, likewise, on the pleasures she had abandoned, and the sounding titles she might have borne. My Lady, the Coun [...]ess of Walstein! The Russian Ambassador's Lady! The Lady of the Favorite of the King! All these she might have been: she was simply Caroline. At certain moments her head was half out of the coach to bid them drive back to Berlin; but these might be called moments of forgetfulness; the image of the Count returned, presented itself, she shrunk back, hid herself in the corner, and, congratulating herself on her escape, "No, it is impossible," said she, "it is impossible I ever could support! I should die with apprehension: and to see him every day, and all the day, and all the night! Oh! no, it is impossible!" Then did she applaud her fortitude, and the manner in which she had fulfilled her duty, saved her father's life, and preserved her liberty.
With these ideas, and such as th [...]se was her full heart occupied for two thirds of the [...]ou [...]e, but the nearer she approached to Rindaw the feebler grew [...]r regret; she, presently, thought only of the pleasure of again seeing her dear Mamma; for thus she called the Canoness, who, really, to her, had been a mother, and a tender mother.
This Lady idolized her pupil, and seemed to have transferred the tender affection she once felt for the father to the child. When the Baron had come for Caroline, and had told the Canoness his intention to marry her, so great was her despair, and so violent the efforts of separation, that her health was injured; she had been ill ever since; mirth, pleasure, happiness fled with Caroline. Farmers, [Page 26] peasants, servants, the whole village, whose darling and friend she was, ceased not to speak of her, to sigh for her, and to say they had lost their angel and their protector.
Imagine, then, what was the joy of all these good people, when, one evening, by the clear light of the moon, a coach drove through the village (a thing that seldom happened, at Rindaw), and stopped at the Chateau, and as it stopped, and as the eager inhabitants crowded to see what and who it was, Caroline, their beloved, their adored Caroline, appeared. Enraptured to behold her, for the smile and the flush of joy on Caroline's countenance acted with sympathetic magic on them all, they knew not what to say, how to testify then feelings.
"Are not you glad, my dear friends," said she, "that I am come again to live among you; again am one of yourselves Are you not glad to see me once more?"
Eager enthusiasm and tumultuous rapture spoke, but they spoke in confusion; and, their cries reaching the ear of the Canoness, she ran out to see what all this noise meant. She ran, and she beheld—Yes, it was Caroline— Her beloved! Her child! Her darling! She was in her arms, and the sweet tears of sensibility, unrestrained, flowed plenteously.
"Mamma! Mamma! My dear Mamma, your happy Caroline is returned, never to leave you more!"
The Canoness was the daughter of Sensibility: her frame was slender, her habit sickly, and her nerves delicate. Caroline was alarmed to see her so much affected, her joy amounted almost, to suffocation; but the effects of joy are not often fatal. She recovered by degrees, and began to inquire of her beloved pupil what enchantment had conveyed her thither. Caroline, without further explanation, gave her the letter of the High Chamberlain; she read it, and wanted further information concerning this marriage deferred just at the moment of its conclusion.
"The last post," said the Baroness, "brought me a letter from thy father, which informed me the day was fixed—The day fixed!—Yea, it was this very day, I believe —Let me see—Yes, it was this very day—This is very strange!—I declare it is the most singular adventure I ever heard of, and I delight in singular adventures—Tell me, tell me the whole, how was it? Thou knowest thou mayest rely on my prudence, I'll not say a word; if there is [Page 27] any secret in the affair, depend upon me."—Caroline knew just the contrary, yet was she obliged to use considerable efforts over herself, not to tell her dear friend every thing she thought, who, till then, had ever been the partner of all her joys and griefs; her innocent heart, unaccustomed to dissemble, ill could perform the task; and, had it not been for the severe, the absolute prohibition imposed upon her, and the fearful condition annexed to her imprudence, she certainly had told all.
To come as near the truth, however, as possible, for falsehood and Caroline were natural foes, she confessed that she herself was the cause of delay, that she could not endure the deformity of the Count, for which reason, said she, "they have granted me a respite, but I am certain I shall never change."
She then, by way of excuse, gave her friend a portrait of Walstein, which she undoubtedly did not much embellish. The Baroness scarcely could let her finish, so highly was she provoked that they should ever once think of marrying her sweet Caroline to such a monster.
"The High Chamberlain has certainly lost his understanding!" said she. "But be comforted, my dear child, thou knowest I have some ascendency over him, and either this ascendency is entirely gone o [...] this absurd marriage never shall take place. I give thee my promise, depend upon me, make thyself easy, thou never shalt be Countess of Walstein. The wife of the lame and the blind! What, thou! No, no, we will find as good a husband as he who shall be able to see thy beauty with both eyes; aye, and they shall be fine eyes too, and I warrant thee he shall walk upright. A charming spouse they had chosen thee, truly! It was just the same with me, when I was thy age; I must be married without ever being consulted; but they were mistaken; I saw my Gentleman squinted most frightfully, and never would hear another word on the subject. I own, I loved thy father to distraction at that time, and there is nothing inspires fortitude like love. My grand system is that young people should be most passionately enamoured with each other before they marry, for what else can make us support the duties, fatigues, and pangs of the marriage state? Yes, my child, marriages of pure passion are the only happy marriages; for which reason, I refused all [Page 28] Chamberlain, after thy mother's death, it was in support of my system, and because I felt I had only a tender friendship and not a passionate affection for him, which is so essential to happiness. Love, love, mutual love, 'tis that that makes the house of Hymen the house of joy."
Caroline, embarrassed, and burthened with her secret, with downcast eyes, silently listened to this inundation of words; and the happy Canoness, who for three months past had been deprived of the pleasure of speaking at her case, took ample revenge and did not wait for an answer; she only paused a moment for breath, and then, with an air of penetration in her eye, thus continued:
"But I believe, my child, it is not love that gave thee this fortitude and this resistance—Is it?—Tell me, make me thy confidant; come, own thou hast seen some one who has found the way to please thee better than the Count."
"Alas!" replied Caroline, with innocent simplicity, "all men can please me better than the Count."
"All! That is saying a great deal, indeed. But didst thou never distinguish any one in particular? Hast thou never seen the man for whom thou wouldest wish to live, and with whom thou wouldest wish to die? Has no one yet found a place in thy heart?"
"No, indeed, Mamma," said Caroline, sighing, "I am in love with nobody, nor is any body in love with me."
"Well, that is very singular! There are certainly then no longer men so handsome as thy father at court. But have patience, my dear, all in good time, the man will be found, I warrant; as for this Count, never let me hear his name mentioned, for thou never shalt be his wise, that I am determined."
The poor young Countess again replied only with a sigh, kissed her dear Mamma, said her friendship was all she asked, and retired to her old apartment to repose after the fatigues of a very trying day.
In the morning she awoke, looked round, and scarcely knew where or what she was▪ "Good God!" said she, collecting her ideas, "Is it true, or is it a dream? Am I a wise? Is my faith plighted, my hands chained▪ never more to be free? Do I but enjoy the shadow of a liberty of which the very next moment I may be deprived, and for which I am indebted to the generosity, only, of him to whom I appertain? Appertain!—Do I then appertain [Page 29] to some one, and have I forever lost the hope of disposing of myself!"
Not all the flow of spirits natural to her age, not all that sweetness and happiness of temper natural to herself, could, for some time, banish this corroding idea from her mind: it empoisoned her pleasures, it robbed her of that gaiety and those enlivening graces with her, formerly, so habitual. The indulgent Canoness, attributing her melancholy to the privation of town pleasures, feigned not to perceive it, and redoubled her cares and caresses to make her retreat supportable. Not only the Canoness, but the servants, individually, and even the very animals, testified their joy at the return of their favorite, and the reciprocal attachment they felt for her who had so often felt for them. The tender heart of Caroline was the very opposite to insensible, and the secret charm which fancy affixes to those haunts in which the sports of childhood have past, added to the soft delight of being beloved by every person around her, soon had their usual effect; she fell into her former habits, and her daily occupations became as pleasant now, as before her residence at Berlin. Her flower garden, neglected while she was absent, again flourished under her eye, and was enamelled with a thousand various bads, and ten thousand tints and dyes. Again her aviary was re-peopled, and the new-mown hay, the yellow harvest, the distant mountains covered with flocks of sheep [...]e browsing cattle, the sports o [...] [...]he green [...] [...]ic flageolet amused and delighted her as m [...]s [...] had seen the spectacles of Luxury and the feasts [...]e. These far-fetched pleasures had been but moment [...] and had rather dazzled than intoxicated; while those of Nature, simple but real, and always preferred by the unadulterated heart and the elevated mind, ever various and ever sublime, are beheld without weariness, and enjoyed without felf-detestation.
She seldom heard from Berlin. Her father, whose cherished anger was only smothered, and who was, besides, totally occupied by his court dignities and state employments, seldom wrote, and her husband never. The High Chamberlain had another motive, indeed, for his silence; he hoped dulness would soon make her tired of her retreat; and Walstein, remembering only how much pain it must cost her to reply, was silent lest he [Page 30] should distress. Neither did he well know in what manner to treat a lady so young, whom he knew not, by whom he was unknown, and who he might well suppose thought him little less than an odious tyrant. Hoping every thing, therefore, from time and maturity of reason, he patiently waited their effects, and returned to Petersburg and his duty. There, multiplicity of business and affairs of great importance occupied him so entirely, that we will not pretend to affirm he did not even think the caprice of his young bride very fortunate; since, without laying a constraint on her inclinations, it placed her in that kind of retreat, during his absence, which he himself would most have desired, without, perhaps, daring to ask.
The result of all this was, that Caroline had scarcely remained three months at Rindaw before all that had passed appeared but as a dream; which she scarcely could, and never wished perfectly to recollect. She was even careful to banish all ideas from her mind that were any way relative to the Count, and no one sought to make her remember them.
Her friend, perceiving that at the very name of Walstein her countenance was clouded and her mind disturbed, was careful never to pronounce it; and thus, at length was this union so far effac [...]d from her mind, that had any one asked her if she was married, the probabilities were th [...] she would, in the first moment of forgetfulness, very s [...]rely have answered, No.
None of the ideas she brought fr [...] [...]mained, except an earnest desire of becoming [...]k [...]dge, and in grace, to some few distinguished [...] she had there beheld; and, to effect these purpose [...]he winter was employed in music, drawing, the st [...] of English and Italian, for the French she had already been taught. In these, by the help of good masters, she made great progress. Undisturbed by passion, much time, a strong desire for instruction, an unincumbered memory, and a genius of the first order, were advantages by which she profited surprisingly. Reading was not neglected, and her natural good taste led her to a proper choice of books. Her person kept pace with her mind, and advanced to angelic perfection. Each succeeding day seemed to bestow some new grace, and, all beautiful as she was one month, she was evidently more beautiful the next. She grew taller, and her shape was so fine, each limb and feature [Page 31] so proportionate, her colour was so blooming, the white so pure, the red so transparent, her eyes so mild, so large, so expressive▪ so innocent and yet so animated, that it was a delight to look upon her. Virgin timidity she had, but no ill-timed bashfulness that makes even the form of beauty unmeaning: if the sympathetic tale of feeling were told, the precious pearl of sensibility would brighten in her eye, and fall on her cheek; and if the poet, with sublime hand, touched the lyre, genius would instantly rush on her imagination, animate her form, and illuminate her countenance.
Her voice too she learnt to modulate, and it acquired a sweetness and flexibility that, when she sang to the harp, or Spanish guitar, it was not possible to resist those mild emotions, those delicious sensations, which she so well could feel, and so powerfully inspire.
To these, her talents, her graces and her gifts, she added another; which, though perhaps not so esteemed, is still more uncommon, and not less captivating. There was an elegant simplicity and an air of dignity in her dress that seemed to make grace itself more graceful. These, added to her bright auburn ringlets, profuse in growth and flowing on her neck and shoulders, made her a creature such as the imagination scarcely can conceive, and such as tongue or pen must never hope to describe.
Yes, such, and still more beauteous, was Caroline, at sixteen, while all these blooming sweets seemed doomed to wither in the desert air, unseen, except by the homely village swains, unadmired, except by the good Canoness.
She, it is true, was all ecstacy, and never ceased regretting the happy times of knighthood, and enamoured chevaliers, when Caroline would have, undoubtedly, been the paragon of courts, the arbitress of tilts and tournaments, and the reward of valour that never had been equalled. How often did she vow, as she beheld her, silently appealing to every sacred power, that the Count of Walstein never should be master of such a profusion of charms! How unappeaseable, how enraged, how furious would she have been, had she known she was already his, and that Caroline was thus improving, thus embellishing for him alone! A Prince, at least, she deserved; but might the Canoness have chosen, it should have been a husband of romance, beauteous as Astolpho, faithful as Amadis, and tender as Celadon: neither could she help [Page 32] being astonished to find that they did not come in crowds to Rindaw, to dispute the hand of the lovely Caroline.
As to Caroline herself, she was astonished at none of these things, and only desired to remain where she was. Ever peaceable, and ever busy, happiness seemed incapable of increase, except that, sometimes, when she was [...]one, and even in the midst of those occupations she most delighted in, she would feel a kind of mild melancholy come over her, or rather a dream, a reverie without subject, and without end, of which she knew not, nor sought the cause. This was a very different sort of sensation from that which her marriage had occasioned; the one was painful and oppressive, the other so pleasant, that, were it not for the efforts she occasionally made, she could have remained whole hours in that kind of gentle trance which the guests of heaven only are supposed perfectly to enjoy.
In these happy occupations and still happier dreams did winter glide away, for nothing makes time so short as employing it well; and the return of spring began to add to her pleasures, which, however, were cruelly interrupted. Her good Mamma, who so long had been languishing, at last fell dangerously ill. To know how sincerely she was attached to the Canoness, to express the greatness of her fears, and to imagine all the duties, cares, and attentions she paid her, one must have the heart of Caroline. During her illness, which lasted almost a month, she never quitted her bedside, and it was with difficulty they could get her to repose a little while, occasionally, in the same chamber. Let no one imagine that the fear of again falling into her father's or her husband's power, if her friend should die, occasioned this severe grief. However natural such a thought might be, it never once entered her mind. Harassed by apprehension, absorbed in sorrow, wholly occupied by nursing, and solacing, and searing for her friend, Caroline never once thought of herself.
No; had it been necessary, to restore life to the Canoness, that Caroline must have yielded hers to the Count, she would not have hesitated a single instant. But, happily, to this cruel proof she was not put. Heaven, touched by her tears, attentive to her prayers, which never saint offered more sincere, preserved the life of her friend; the good Canoness recovered by degrees, to which recovery the tenderness of Caroline did not, perhaps, contribute [Page 33] less than the prescriptions of the physician; at least, so the Canoness thought, and so said, and therefore redoubled, if it were possible, her former attachment to the lovely girl who gave such unequivocal proofs of affection.
During her illness she received a visit from the High Chamberlain. Alarmed, as he protested, at the dange [...] of his dear friend, he had flown to Rindaw. Some people have pretended this was not his motive, but that he had hoped to take back his daughter, and with her own consent. Continually controverted in all his schemes, he, unfortunately, found the sick lady somewhat better, and the attentive Caroline never out of her sight, never leaving her for a moment, more powerfully fixed at Rindaw by her love for the Canoness than even by her fear of the Count. This, certainly, was not the time to mention returning, nor yet the place; wherefore not a hint was dropped, nor was the name of Walstein once pronounced, who was still at Petersburg.
The Canoness, indeed, would have pronounced it if she could, that is, if she had been able to express all the indignation she felt at this marriage; but alas! she was too weak, she only just told the High Chamberlain that his daughter was an angel, that her life was preserved by her affection and care, and that she would, therefore, consecrate her life to her happiness. The Baron soon departed, informing them he should pay them [...] second visit in autumn. It was then he expected the return of the Ambassador, and he told his daughter he hoped to find her perfectly reasonable and prudent.
At any other time a visit from her father would have most powerfully brought to mind what Caroline most wished to forget; but she was then too much occupied by her cares for her friend, and had lately been too much agitated concerning her, to think of any thing else. Present danger effaces, or, at least▪ or feebles the fear of future and Caroline was too happy to see the Canoness recovering to imagine she ever could be miserable.
Not but that, at the Baron's departure, the autumnal visit he anounced with so much solemnity occasioned a kind of dread she could not overcome; and, without remembering the emotion she might cause her convalescent, she fell on her neck, kissed her checks, bathed them with her tears, and exclaimed, "O my dear, dear Mamma, [Page 34] now you are restored to me, never will I leave you more, but live and die with you." Her friend, affected even to excess, returned her caresses, and promised that, if possible, they would never separate.
The fear of the moment over, peace again took possession of the soul of Caroline. She presently forgot the [...]tumnal visit which was at so prodigious a distance. Is it for sixteen to fear an evil six months before it shall happen? Not to mention that she had something else to do than think about any such thing. As soon as the Canoness was sufficiently recovered, she ran, morning and evening, about the garden, from flower to flower, and from arbour to arbour, enchanted and amazed at the progress which nature had made during her month's retreat, that the sorrows of a suffering friend had not contributed to enliven. Never before had the return of spring made such an impression upon her; for, indeed, this was the first time of her life she had remarked and felt the growing charms of the reviving earth in all their infant varieties; then, when each returning day Nature assumes a newer, and still a fresher face; still bequeaths other, and more abundant blessings to man; and, with her pure breath, inspires pleasure, plenty, and gladness of heart!
What a contrast, this, to the close Chamber, the bed of pain, watered with tears, the distracting complaints of her dear friend, and the dread of being left desolate; for, if her friend died, who should comfort Caroline! Yes, these mournful objects, these fearful apprehensions were exchanged for the cowslip meadow, the budding grove, the lilac, the violet, honeysuccle, and the rose of May, to which succeeded the hyacinth, the ranunculous, the anemone, and the tulip, enamelling the earth and perfuming the air. At day-break was heard the warbling of ten thousand birds, and at the setting sun the nightingale and the linnet again began their song, responsive from tree to tree, in sounds melodious, wild, and sweet.
Nothing was indifferent to, nothing lost, nothing unobserved by Caroline. She felt all, all enjoyed, enjoyed with rapture; believed she inhabited an enchanted world, and her happiness remained uninterrupted. The season, reviving to nature, gave new life and health also to her friend, and she recovered rapidly. A weakness i [...] the hams and a disorder of the eyes made her still keep [Page 35] her chamber, but she could breathe the pure air of spring in the balcony; she could see her Caroline course along the gardens, collect the flowers, support those that drooped, and water and preserve them from weeds; she could hear her sweet voice mingle with the song of birds, and thus enjoyed the pleasures and the sports of Caroline.
Another very interesting incident was added to thi [...] rural happiness of the youthful Countess. She wished to raise some monument consecrated to her friend, and the happy epocha of her recovery. Desirous of causing an agreeable surprise, she took advantage of the time during which the Canoness was still held recluse in her chamber, to erect a small temple without her knowledge. For which reason, she chose her spot in an angle of the garden, and at the far end of it, towards which the windows of the Canoness did not look. On this spot was a wild irregular arbour, full in foliage. The beech tree, the hazle, the woodbine, and the j [...]ssamine, were there abundant; among them the path that led to the arbour winded, and beside them a small clear bro [...]k ran murmuring.
The Canoness had planted this arbour during the time her unfortunate passion was at its height; the name of the persidious High Chamberlain had been traced on every tree by her beauteous hand; and she had always preserved her former predilection for this spot, the score of her sorrows, her tenderness, and truth.
Caroline was pleased with it likewise; the thick shrubs and uninterrupted security made it the delighted haunt of the red breast, the wren, the finch, and the linnet, and the Baroness and Caroline had, many a summer, passed delicious moments amid the refreshing foliage. At the farther end, of this favoured asylum did she resolve to erect the Temple of Friendship. Caroline informe [...] her father, secretly, of her project, which he willing [...]y forwarded by sending her the necessary workmen. A door which opened to the road gave them free egress and regress, without being perceived from the chateau, and Caroline was too great a favorite among the servants to fear their indiscretion. The Canoness, confined to her apartment, suspected nothing of all this; Caroline might, perhaps, have betrayed herself, had this happened six months sooner, but she had learned to keep one secret, and the second was certainly far less burthensome. Neither care, assiduity, nor money were wanting; her zeal [Page 36] communicated itself to the workmen; she furnished ideas, drew plans, and was always the first in the morning at the building, which went forward with excessive rapidity, and which was finished in less than a month.
As soon as the temple was ready for the reception of her friend, she was most earnest in her entreaties to go [...]here. "The air of your arbour, Mamma, is so cool, so refreshing, so pure, the foliage is so abundant, and the flowers so sweet, you will be delighted."
"I have no doubt of it, my dear, but thou knowest I cannot walk so far."
"If that be all, I will carry you thither, myself, Mamma."
Caroline was so pressing, that the Canoness, who could deny her nothing, suffered herself, at last, to be carried in her arm-chair, and was well rewarded for her condescension, by the surprise, the pleasure, and the new mark of affection thus testified by her adopted daughter.
This little temple, or pavilion, was an octagon; the architecture was exceedingly simple. Eight columns of white stucco left an open space, which was paved in Mosaic, with black and white marble. In the middle was an altar of white marble ornamented with festoons of most elegant sculpture; upon the altar stood a bust of the Canoness, modelled after an exceedingly good portrait in the possession of Caroline. In her youth she had been beautiful; and, when the High Chamberlain was her lover, he had more than one rival. It gave her pleasure often to remark, that she was thought greatly to resemble the statue of Cleopatra. Though grief and years had stolen the roses from her cheeks, and destroyed somewhat of this resemblance, her features were still sufficiently regular for a very agreeable bust.
Caroline was very desirous of engraving some verses on the base of the altar, indicating to whom it was consecrated: but, as she determined not to borrow, it was necessary to write them herself; and, as the talent of poetry is not, however it may be supposed, intuitive, but requires long application and severe study before it can be good, Caroline was not a good poet. She made the attempt, however; for when the feelings are strong and the ideas flowing in abundance, the expression of them seems, before trial, to be exceedingly easy; but, when the [...]ssay [...] made, is found to be exactly the reverse. Caroline wro [...] [Page 37] and effaced, interlined, tore, began again, and, at last, wrote some verses, which might be, once, heard with pleasure, but which did not deserve to be engraved in marble. At first she was enchanted with them, but presently recoiled at recollecting they should always remain there, and would be read by every one. Renouncing poetical same, therefore, she caused a simple inscriptio [...] in letters of gold, to be written, beneath the bust, indicating the day, the month, and the year in which the Canoness was snatched from the grave, herself restored to happiness, and this Temple dedicated to Friendship.
A double stair case of white marble led to an upper apartment of the same dimensions and form with that beneath, that is to say octagonal, but walled in and lighted by four large windows. The ceiling was a lofty dome, painted with such art that it perfectly imitated a most serene and crystal sky. Round the walls, between the windows, were paintings, emblematic of the person to whom the temple was dedicated. In one of the partitions was Caroline, kneeling to Esculapius, ardently invoking his aid, and pointing to her expiring friend. In the second Caroline was assisting her as she rose, while little Genii sported around her, scattered flowers, overset the table on which phials and physical remedies were placed, and broke the javelin of Death who was seen flying in the back ground. In the third a pavilion was building, Caroline placing the bust upon the altar, and the Genii of friendship and gratitude engraving the inscription. In the fourth and last, Caroline was leading, and sustaining with one arm, the Canoness, whose attitude expressed surprise and joy, and extending the other towards the temple she had been building, and which she there presented to her.
The partitions were wainscot, and had doors, behind each of which was a recess for a small library; a table stood in the middle, and cabriole chairs round the room.
In short, nothing was forgotten, yet all was planned and conducted by a young girl of sixteen; but this girl was inspired and informed by friendship: her heart overflowing with this affection, and, totally ignorant of any other, loving by nature, without other object of attachment than this her dear and only friend, to her the effusions of sensibility were all directed, and the dread of losing her had rendered them still more creative, more powerful, [Page 38] and more profuse. Genius likewise begins to show itself at her age, and the mind and imagination have then an ardor that must find employment, a fire that will have fuel. Independent of the pleasure she should give her friend, that which pertained to herself, alone, was far from small. To build was in some sort to create, each new [...] was a new enjoyment, the execution and the effect of which gave her momentary rapture. Caroline, perhaps, never enjoyed greater felicity than while she was thus employed; so has she since frequently acknowledged, and never, afterwards, beheld this monument of affection and friendship, without emotion.
Let the reader, if the reader can, imagine the ecstacy of the sentimental Baroness. It was the denouement of a romance, an incident of surprise so unexpected, and so perfectly conformable to her ideas and taste, that it seemed imagined and contrived purposely for her—a temple built by enchantment by the wand of a Fairy, or the talisman of a Genius. Behold her clasping the lovely Sylph in her arms to whom she is indebted for this prodigy! and lo! Caroline kneeling, kissing her hands, and expressing her multitudinous sensations by looks and silence incapable of speech! see them mingle their tears, each contending for superior gratitude and love!
This was the moment in which Caroline felt happiness unmixed, free from the slightest shade of pain, and as pure as it was innocent. Happy age! existing but for the present moment, forgetful of the past, and regardless of the future! Rindaw was the world to Caroline, and her pavilion the Temple of Felicity. So enamoured was she of it, that she p [...]sed her whole time there, when she was not with her friend. The moment she left the Baroness she slew to the pavilion, and she scarcely could quit it without regret. The lofty dome was most excellently adapted to [...]us [...], the sound was echoed, lengthened and increased; and [...]cordingly, all the instruments were carried thithe [...] [...] that, presently, it was impossible to play or sing any [...] but in the pavilion.
The clear light was equally excellent for drawing; for, by means of the four windows and Venetian blind, the light might be disposed in what manner the painter pleased; and pencils, ballets and colours were all transported thither.
The place was so tranquil, so undisturbed so free from [Page 39] noise and interruption, that it was the properest in the world for reading, and Caroline's whole library stole thither by degrees. Caroline scarcely had any other apartment; she never entered her own room, except to sleep, or hastily arrange her dress, and often in that of her dear mamma she felt a kind of impatience to be gone. Novelty is a pleasure which habit soon renders absolutely necessary.
Let us, however, do justice to Caroline. She was all impatience that her friend should so far recover her strength as daily to come and live with her in her dear pavilion and so charmed was the Baroness to see Caroline thus happy, that she contributed every thing in her power to continue the sweet delirium. How long it was to continue, how long she was to love her pavilion for itself alone, we shall presently see.
Hitherto, the tranquil existence of Caroline has glided away untroubled in its progress, except the now forgotten week at Berlin, unmolested by love or hatred; for her repugnance to Walstein, her dread of living with him, was not hatred; and if, by chance, she thought of him, the remembrance inspired gratitude for the present liberty in which she lived. But this was, indeed, a kind of chance that seldom happened; seldom, indeed, did the recollection of the Count intrude itself, and the enjoyment of present pleasures effaced his image from her mind almost to total forgetfulness. Her freedom she enjoyed as though it had been absolute, and did not ill resemble a bird secured by a thread winging the air, warbling, and fancying itself as free as the feathered songsters that vault from bush to bush: its forgotten captivity is not perceived till the hand that retains it draws gently back, catches, and carefully again incloses it within the cage.
Caroline had lately received some new music from Berlin; among it was a collection of lyric compositions, some of which she was delighted with, and one in particular. The air suited her voice, and the words her feelings; she sang it from morning to night, accompanying herself alternately on the guitar, the harp, and the piano forte, and each time of repeating it, finding a wish and a pleasure to repeat it again.
It is necessary to this our history that we should insert this song and, perhaps, our readers will not be displeased to see words that gave Caroline so much delight.
[Page 41]As she was singing this song, one day, in the pavilion, and, as it this time happened, accompanying herself with her guitar, she expressively repeated
when she heard another voice, as sweet and melodious as her own, but deeper and more sonorous, that sung, as a second,
The accent, the voice, the expression, were very different from the rustic songs to which she was accustomed, and gave her infinite surprise. She left singing, listened, but heard the voice no more; she then again began to sing, but in a softer tone, and an accompaniment less loud; and distinctly heard, as she wished, the voice once more. With her guitar in her hand, she ran towards the casement to look towards the high road, where she saw a youth, beauteous, finely formed, and arrived at full manhood, in a hunting dress, leaning on his fowling-piece, with his eyes fixed on the temple. This, no doubt, was the person who sang. Caroline, however, had but a glance of him; for the moment she beheld him, confused and ashamed of having been heard and seen, and of her own curiosity, she instantly retired to the farther side of the pavilion, where, standing on tip-toe, and stretching forwards, she looked, with all her might, through the window from which she had fled; but it was too far distant, she could see nothing. She would have begun again to sing, only to see if she should again have been accompanied; but her voice failed her, she could not, or durst not, force out a single sound, and scarcely, and but lightly, could she touch a few chords on her guitar. Thus she remained for some time; at length, no longer able to subdue her curiosity, after having advanced eight paces and retire [...] took courage, and went up to the window. [...] the [...] [...]sman, the youth, w [...] [...] proceeding along the road, an [...] [...], every moment, anxiously towards t [...] [...] ▪
[...]; perfectly [...] [...]ences. [...] [...]owly [Page 42] erected, and decorated with taste. He saw, remarked it, and heard most sweet music as he stood; he listened, and yielded to the desire of joining in sounds so delightful. He then beheld a charming virgin approach the window, and it was very natural he should look at her. What, indeed, could be more natural? And yet was Caroline occupied, the whole day, by reflecting on these incidents, as if they had been the most extraordinary possible.
We own that to Caroline, who saw each succeeding day but like the day before, a common incident might seem strange, and any being who should interrupt solitude, so continued and so absolute as her's, might well appear singular. Of this youth, therefore, she often thought, and as often wondered who he might be, or why he should travel a road where beings like himself were so seldom seen. Of these her cogitations, however, she said not a word; for she felt some vague idea of dread lest her dear pavilion should become an interdicted place, and this, to her, would have been worse than death.
On the morrow, therefore, she flew with more early haste even than usual, and, after having possed an hour, looking through the window towards the road, and well assuring herself, by examining every way, that no one could either see or hear her, she took her guitar, sat down with the sash thrown up, and sang her favourite song from beginning to end; and, though she always had liked the last verse the least, it this time so far took her fancy that it was repeated: she next sung it to her harp, and afterwards to her piano forte. At this, however, she did not long remain; for it stood at the far end of the pavilion, and Caroline found the air so pure, so mild, so refreshing, that she could not possibly sit any where but at the window. She had written down the second that she had heard, and repeated in every kind of mode
which, alas! no one came to contradict.
Tired, at length, and, for aught we know, somewhat chagrined to sing so long by herself when there were people in the world who so harmoniously could bear a part, she threw down her music, laid by her instrument, ran into the garden, plucked some flowers which she tossed without order into her flower-basket, and, for want of other amusement, again returned to the pavilion, took up her [Page 43] pallet and her pencil, and carelessly began to imitate the tints and beauties she had been collecting. It was with difficulty, at first, she could any way fix her attention, and she looked oftener toward the window than the pannel on which she painted; but her work by degrees drew her attention, and wholly occupied her. The flowers, which from her traces took birth, pleased her; each new touch was happy, and gave a new effect; the powers of genius were roused and high in action when, suddenly, the clattering of a horse's h [...]ss were heard at a distance.
This noise, though of a very different nature, was little less surprising than the melodious sounds of the evening before; it bore no resemblance to the slow and heavy step of the beast of burden or the village horse. Accordingly, the pencil was thrown by, and Caroline, in a moment, was at the window, looking every way. She presently beheld, and not far distant, a fine handsome man, mounted on a gray horse that champed the bit he seemed to disdain, and foaming obeyed the restraining hand of his graceful rider.
How observant, how piercing, how exact is the female eye! Scarcely had Caroline seen the stranger of over-night▪ who was in a green sporting dress; the present youth wore a uniform; the one was on foot, the other on horseback; the first sung, the latter galloped. How little did these things resemble each other! and yet did Caroline, instantly, recollect these two to be one and the same person. It was not possible to resist that curiosity that desired to know if this youth could ride as well as he could sing. He, or rather his horse, advanced, for the proud animal was difficult to detain, and not easy to manage; yet was he forgotten the moment his rider had a glance of Caroline; the hand quitted the bridle for the hat (for what cavalier would forbear to salute an angelic creature who appeared to be the goddess of the temple?) and the impatient steed, profiting by momentary liberty, and, perhaps, somewhat frightened at the sudden motion of the rider, gave a prodigious plunge, which would have unhorsed a rider less firm and daring, and set off, full speed, regardless of every effort of the cavalier, and quick as lightning, was out of sight.
Caroline, greatly terrified, gave a piercing shriek, and followed the horse and his rider with looks of anxiety and dread as long as she could, which, however, was but a moment; [Page 44] they were gone, but her fears remained, and again, and ardently, she looked, though nothing was there to be seen. Fear, like other beings, propogates and multiplies, and Caroline saw the noble cavalier falling from his horse, rolled in the dust, wounded and trampled on.—If the dangerous beast would but run towards the village, he might there, perhaps, be stopped, the people might come to his master's aid, and they might bring him back, if wounded, to the chateau. For a moment she thought to have sent the servants after him, but after whom? She herself knew not. And which road? for there were several at leaving the village. Besides, it was not easy to overtake a horse full speed. And then how could she give these orders? It seemed so particular, at least so she feared it would seem. No, she never could resolve, and, therefore, remain she must with all her anxious inquietudes.
These she endeavoured to calm by recollecting how firm, how graceful the officer sat, and how certain he seemed of his power before that vexatious salutation, for which she wholly reproached herself; having no other person to salute, she hoped the horse would lose his fears, and the cavalier regain his command; and even that she should be happy enough to see him again on the morrow; "and really," said she to herself, "he ought to come merely to quiet my apprehensions."
The agitation of Caroline had totally deprived her of any desire any longer to sing or paint; so, after a few turns in the garden, still thinking on the youth who, like an apparition, had twice suddenly appeared, and twice as suddenly vanished, she returned to keep the Baroness company; to whom, however, she did not mention a syllable of what had happened; fearing, no doubt, to terrify her as much as she had been terrified herself. She went to bed impatiently wishing for the morrow, and ardently hoping she should either see the stranger, or, at least, be certified he had escaped unhurt. Yesterday, simple and pure curiosity had engaged her to think of him; to-day, humanity was added▪ for the life of a man was endangered. After many reflections on the subject, and after being very angry with unruly horses, that will not suffer cavaliers to be polite, and take off their hats to ladies, Caroline, at last, fell asleep.
On the morrow—Why on the morrow it ruined, in [Page 45] torrents, from morning to night; it was a day that might well have been a day during Noah's flood; it was as impossible to go to the pavilion, as it was to suppose any one could ride out on such a day. Caroline, baulked in all her expectations, sound the day intolerably tedious, and, tired, and vexed to death, could find no mode pleasantly to employ her time; her books, her music, her drawings, all were at the pavilion; her heart was at the pavilion, also, and she herself most impatiently wished to be there, but, ah! it was impossible.
Conversations with her dear Mamma, concerning rain and fine weather, and most sincere wishes for the return of the latter, singing the burthen of Peaceful Indifference, and imagining the second, remembering the galloping horse, and again hoping for the morrow, where the best means Caroline could find of passing the day. The morrow—why this good for nothing morrow was as bad as the former one; the rain was worse and worse, and the clouds seemed all to have made an appointment to meet at Rindaw. It was too much for nature to bear, and Caroline, for the first time in her life, was really out of temper, and shewed she was so. "Is it not intolerable, Mamma, that one cannot so much as step into the pavilion? There is my flower-basket, which I had begun to paint! The flowers will be all faded, and those in the garden will be beat down and deluged by this good-for-nothing unceasing rain! I shall find the leaves all torn from the roses, and nothing but the thorns remaining."
Alas! poor Caroline! the thorns already are in thy heart; thy gaiety, before so uniform, is now no more; that cheerful void of care, happily improvident, which gave thee smiles and songs, as [...] [...]th the gloomy as the golden and the azure sk [...], [...] those are fled.
So impatient was Caroline [...] old the dazzling brightness of the [...] on this second day, every barometer [...] the house; every moment was looking [...] [...]uds were likely to disperse; but no, they [...] for ever emptying and for ever increasing. Although, however, in the evening, a purple cloud, st [...]king the horizon, gave some small hopes: a fresh wind sprang up, and they were confirmed; and in the mo [...]ning, when Caroline waked, she had the pleasure to perceive the sun's rays illuminating her curtains, and the shining ardor of day enlightening her apartment. [Page 46] The disappointment of the time past augmented the pleasure of the time present, and scarcely would she wait till the path was dry before she flew to the pavilion.
Not her flowers, so much regretted, not her books, for which she seemed to sigh, nor yet her music, which might enliven the dulness of dark and cloudy weather, were the things that first drew her attention: it was the window and the road, uniform and inanimate as such objects may seem, that attracted and riveted the eyes of Caroline. She looks this way, that way, and every way; she listens and fears to breathe; yet nothing sees, nothing hears; she examines the humid green swerd, and the gravel-path, trying if she can discover the new-made traces of a horse's hoof. "Ah! could I only know he had passed this way, that he were safe, that no accident had happened, how tranquil, how perfectly contented should I be! For, certainly, I was the cause of his misfortune. If I had left the window, he would not have pulled off his hat, and his horse would not have been frightened; but only let me get the least glimpse of him once again, and I will withdraw instantly, that he no more may be tempted to salute me." Thus to herself said Caroline.
Now, so it happened, just as thus she had said, she not only had a glimpse, but a full view of a caval [...]er, wearing the same uniform, mounted on the same gray, unruly horse, and advancing, full trot, towards the pavilion, from which he was as yet at some distance. Well then, there he was, safe and unhurt, and Caroline, no doubt, was made perfectly easy; and, no doubt, she will retire, as she promised herself, and think of him no more.
But wherefore the tremor which suddenly has seized her? Wherefore this quickening pulse, this palpitating heart, this spreading suffusion that dyes alabaster scarlet, and gives the rose of the cheek a deeper hue? I know not wherefore these things were; I only know they were, and that Caroline was all agitation. She was going to leave the window, but just at that moment, for things will sometimes happen oddly, her handkerchief, on which she had been leaning, fell, and was borne (no doubt by Zephyr [...], for they are apt at wanton and malicious tricks), yes, it was borne into the middle of the highway.
Caroline was absolutely in despair: the act was most surely involuntary, yet so it might not seem; not forgetting that this was still more dangerous to the cavalier than [Page 47] the salute she meant to avoid; for it is certainly less difficult to take off one's hat, on horseback, than to pick up a handkerchief from the ground. This was a very just conclusion, but so was not the next she made; she supposed the cavalier still so far distant as to give her time to run down, open the pavilion door, sally forth, pick up her handkerchief, and re-enter before he should arrive. The idea she thought excellent, it seemed to be the only possible expedient of clearly demonstrating that the handkerchief had not been purposely thrown out of the window for the cavalier to pick up; nor was there time to lose in reflection; away, therefoer, she flew to the door, opened it, and was stepping out at the very moment that the young officer, after alighting from his horse, was himself in the act of taking up the handkerchief.
With a graceful and dignified manner the youth approached, and, in an elegant compliment returned his prize; while Caroline, disconcerted and unable to reply, extended her timid hand. The youth, with infinite modesty, begged permission to see the garden and pavilion, which, he said, appeared most charming. Understanding the silence of the trembling Caroline as consent (cavaliers will so understand), he presently hung the bridle of his horse to the pavilion door, and followed her.
The latent feelings of Caroline told her she ought to have denied his request; but which way? Caroline was naturally all benevolence, and there is something painful in denial. Neither did she perceive any infinite evil which could thence result. Her own innocence, her total ignorance of the world, concealed the danger that might lurk thus under the form of a youthful soldier. Beside, his uniform spoke him a gentleman, and the noble ease of his manner of no mean birth: his politeness was so natural, so graceful, so familiar, the tone of his voice, his modest confidence, all confirmed him perfectly well bred. The symmetry and beauty of his form made not all that impression which might naturally be expected, because Caroline durst not look at him; and yet she had seen sufficient to find that his full fine eyes were most expressively intelligent, and she very soon could have informed us that his teeth were white and regular, his smile enchanting, his nose acquiline, his visage oval, his eyebrows markingly arched, his stature tall, his dark complexion animated by the warm glow of youth and health, [Page 48] and that his open and frank countenance inspired confidence and friendship the moment they were beheld. All these things had the furtive beauteous Countess presently remarked. This might, perhaps, in part, excuse that sacility with which she suffered him to walk up into the pavilion; unless it should be thought more natural to cast the whole blame on absolute Innocence, too secure in its own simplicity. But whether this or that excuse were best, there he is, there looks, there admires, there praises with ecstacy, and yet with propriety, void of exaggeration, the taste and the talents which had decorated the temple. The altar and paintings particularly fixed his attention. He asked an explanation; it was given, and thus he gained a happy opportunity of learning to whom the place belonged without the indelicacy of interrogation, though neither the names of the Baroness of Rindaw or the High Chamberlain Lichtfield made him more polite, more attentive, or more respectful; for that was impossible.
The song and the guitar were lying on the piano forte, which, with a gentle but submissive smile, led him to mention the second, and to ask pardon for that teme [...]ity which had suffered him to mingle his voice with the harmonious sounds he had heard, and which, he added, he should be most happy again to hear. He saw the proposition augmented the confusion of Caroline; he said not a word more concerning it, therefore; but spoke of music, its effects and charms, like one who felt them, and was the first to propose quitting the pavilion and walking in the garden.
The fortitude of Caroline began to return: the stranger's conversation was so agreeable, so unaffected, and yet so animated, that it could not long leave her under any constraint; and, after a turn or two in the garden, Caroline spoke to him as naturally as if they had been acquainted all their lives. With the most perfect simplicity did she relate the terror with which she had been seized at the impetuosity of the unmanageable horse, and tell all her fears and apprehensions during those two dreadful days of rain. Desirous, however, as she was to learn the name of the cavalier, this was a thing she durst not ask; she only understood he was captain in the guards, and her country neighbour, which both gave her pleasure; for the one informed her he was a proper visitor, and the other that she should certainly see him again.
[Page 49]A quarter of an hour, which, short as it was, seemed still infinitely shorter, they thus conversed; when the steed, neighing and pawing at the door, became so impatient that his master was obliged, however unwilling, again to mount. "Really," said Caroline to him as he threw the bridle over his neck, "were I in your place, Sir, I should not like a horse that would neither permit one to take off one's hat nor walk in a garden."—Ah! how infinite are the charms of Innocence! The stranger with a smile half restrained, assured Caroline his horse should be better taught, and that, indeed, he had played him to many malicious tricks, of which he should be corrected; then, lightly vaulting into the saddle, after a thousand repeated thanks to Caroline for her condescension, he departed, as slowly as possible, curbing the haughty animal to obedience. Caroline, as slowly, returned to the pavilion, as soon, that is, as he was out of fight; her head, aye and her heart too, wholly occupied by the departed cavalier.
"How amiable his person! how soft, how attentive his manners! Oh that Heaven had given me a brother like him! How dearly would he have been beloved!— But wherefore may I not love this youth as I should love a brother, or as a friend, sent by Heaven to make solitude cheerful? Yet how do I know if ever I shall behold him again?"
Thus meditated Caroline; and what the thought was which, added to this latter, so might move her we know not, but Caroline felt a sudden oppression at her heart, and the tear rose glistening in her eye. Sensible of this, and somewhat alarmed, she was desirous to divert her attention to other objects, and sat down to her music; but the two days rain had put her harp and guitar out of tune, and she was obliged to lay them by; the piano forte was less affected, and she played an adagio, which but augmented melancholy. To painting she had next recourse, but with no better success; and reading was still lets amusing than either: she opened books, but they seemed dull and ill written before she had finished a period. Some change must certainly have taken place, for objects that before gave pleasure, at present gave distate, or painful lassitude at best.
Caroline returned to the garden, and took the same [Page 50] round she lately had gone with the cavalier, stopped at the same places, and recollected every expression, every attitude, and every look. The grand question now remained to be determined; that is to say, whether she should or should not, tell all that had happened to the good Canoness. Silence was disagreeable, and to mystery Caroline was naturally averse; yet she seemed more averse to speak or [...] occasion. She knew not how to speak, nor [...] [...]p [...]k; and, supposing there to be nothing wrong in keeping the secret, there was nothing difficult in it; for secrecy was, at present become habitual, and she herself, it may be, less communicative. Beside, what should she say? "Why mention a person, whom, perhaps, I shall never see again, whose name I know not? It will be time enough if he should return. And then should the Baroness blame me for having admitted him into the garden, forbid me the pavilion, and not suffer me any more to look out of the window!"
Caroline half shuddered, as thus she meditated, and resolved not to tell what had happened. When, however, she returned to her friend, she could not forbear asking a thousand questions concerning the neighbourhood, for two leagues round. As the Canoness never was visited, Caroline knew none of the neighbour [...], nor had she ever, before, made the least enquiry; though her good friend made a merit of knowing the genealogy of all their families through every branch. To question her concerning the characters and affairs of her neighbours was taking her on her weak side; and poor Caroline had a hundred histories to hear, while the only on to which she could have listened with pleasure was unrelated. Not the least circumstance could she learn that had any reference to the stranger. Here lived an old Baron who had retired from the army, with his wife as old as himself, shut up in their chateau; there a young couple, with several children, but they were infants, and all girls. Yonder, as you entered the village, an ancient commander of the Teutonic Order; very infirm, very avaricious, and on very good terms with his gouvernante. A little farther, an old dowager, with an only son of five and twenty.
Caroline, who was half asleep, no sooner heard of the only son of five and twenty, than she was as perfectly awake as ever she had been in her life; but to little purpose [Page 51] half an ideot, with no other employment that what hunting and drinking afforded, and who, notwithstanding his great riches, could pursuade no woman to become his wife. Ah! thought Caroline, that is not my cavalier.
The Baroness continued, for it was not easy to interrupt her, and she was inexhaustible. At last Caroline, quite wearied, and learning nothing of what she most desired to know, wishing to be alone, took advantage of a slight head-ach, and retired sooner than usual. "He is not my neighbour, then," said she sighing. "And has he deceived, could he deceive me? If so, I shall never see him more. Well then I must forget, never think of him more."
Moncrief has said that the very act of determining to forget makes us remember. Thus, Caroline, fortifying herself in this her noble resolution, forget the cav [...]lier by recollecting every word that had passed; and, thus ruminating, dropt asleep. No doubt the project of thinking on him no more was her first on waking the next morning. She rose, and resolved not to go to the pavilion all the forenoon: habit was very strong, and was with difficulty vanquished, yet vanquished it was: she raised her drooping flowers, examined her aviary, and sat down to her embroidery, every moment repeating, "I must think of him no more," and as often looking towards the pavilion. "Dear pavilion▪" said Caroline, sighing, "I am never happy but when I am there; I must pay it a visit, but it shall be very very late, when I am sure no person is walking. I will not go, at soonest, before four o'clock in the afternoon."
The day appeared exceedingly long, and Caroline persuaded herself it was already far advanced, as she sauntered near the pavilion, when she heard, in the very court-yard of the chateau, the trampling of a horse and the sound of hoofs she began to think she recollected, which made her heart palpitate. In a moment a servant enters and announces the Baron of Lindorf. The astonished Baroness recollects to have heard the name, and gives orders for his admission; when the charming stranger of the pavilion, with all his grace and gentleness, appeared.
Poor Caroline, what was thy emotion! How bitterly▪ didst thou reproach thyself for not having mentioned him to [...] friend! How [...] are thy blushes at thy [Page 52] own dissimulation! For, whether he speak or whether he do not, thou art, equally, afraid of his indiscretion and his silence.
Lindorf chose the latter; a glance at Caroline, who, tremblingly confused, alternately pale and red, had courtesied to him with downcast eyes and timidity in every feature, in a moment informed him how it was proper to act. He returned her salutation as if it had been the first time he had seen her; and addressing himself to the Canoness, congratulated himself on the happiness of being her neighbour, with self-reproaches for not having sooner profited by this advantage.
The Baroness, to whom this youthful cavalier was a total stranger, asked an explanation, and learned that the commander of the Teutonic Order had, like herself been ill, but had not, like her, recovered; for he was lately dead, and the Baron of Lindorf, his nephew and heir, was come to take possession of the mansion and estate of Risberg, which was adjoining to the Barony of Rindaw. He had at first intended not to make a long stay, but the country had pleased him infinitely; and he had very lately come to a resolution to pass the remainder of the summer there. His first wish was to be acquainted with his lovely neighbours, to present them his duty and his homage, and to solicit permission these occasionally to renew.
All this was said looking towards Caroline, who, with her eyes fixed on her work, which she was industriously spoiling [...]pt a profound silence. Thanks, however, to the good Canoness, the conversation was not therefore interrupted; she gave the history of her whole illness, then reverted with great pity, to that of the Commander, and lamented his death, of which she had been wholly ignorant. "It was but yesterday," said she, "I mentioned him to Caroline, who had asked me who were my neighbours."
Lindorf did not recollect himself soon enough totally to suppress a smile, and Caroline was absolutely ready to faint with shame and vexation.
The Baroness proceeded with compliments to the heir, and enquiries concerning the estate and property, which must from the character of the Commander, be considerable. After which came interrogatories concerning the degree of kindred in which the deceased and the youth [Page 53] stood, all which she answered herself. "Oh! I am acquainted with every branch of the family. Your name is Lindorf, is it not? Yes, yes, your name is Lindorf; and you inherit in right of my Lady, your mother. She, yes, she was Baroness of Risberg, own sister to the Commander, as I think; yes, yes, I am sure she was. To be sure, I was not personally acquainted with her, but one of your lady aunts was educated in the very convent I was, and she told me of this marriage of her sister with your father. Aye, with the Baron of Lindorf, I remember it as well as if had only happened yesterday. There was a mutual passion, real and true love, and I was exceedingly affected by the story. Your aunt was in my confidence also; I told her of my passion for the High Chamberlain. Upon my word, all this seems as if it had happened last week, and here I see a fine young gentleman—the [...]ldest of the family, I suppose—Were there many children?—Is your father still alive; and my Lady your mother too?—Ah! they still adore each other, no doubt. Love, love, only, can give happiness; and my dear friend, your aunt, whom I just now mentioned, is she dead? Is she married? It is so long since we saw each other, and I have lived retired here so many years, that I have quite lost sight of former friends."
These questions succeeded each other with such rapidity that Lindorf, surprised at the voluble haste with which they were delivered, scarcely could find opportunity to come in with a yes; or no; I am an only son; I had the misfortune to lose my parents: with like answers, as concise as possible. But his eyes, continually fixed on Caroline, would have said many things to her if Caroline would have attended to them. She, seemingly observant of nothing but her work, had not ventured a single word, when the Canoness desirous of doing honour to her friendship and affection, asked her to show the young cavalier her pavilion; and, not foreseeing the least obstruction, began, without waiting her reply, to give him its history; why it had been built, by whom the altar, the bust, the inscription, the painting, the surprise, and every thing; all which he knew as well as herself; though by his manner, it might well have been supposed he had never heard it before.
To a heart undisguised and sincere by nature, a heart [Page 54] like Caroline's this was too much; she could support it no longer; and when her friend, surprised at her backwardness to go to the pavilion, repeated her command, she scarcely could articulate that a sudden and strange indisposition had seized her, and that it was impossible she should go. In reality her voice was so affected, her face so pale, and her whole form so altered, that her indisposition was sufficiently visible, and made the Baroness very uneasy, "Dear child, what can be the matter?" said she, laying her hand on her forehead. "Yesterday evening I particularly remarked, when you came in, you seemed absent, and your mind wholly occupied; and, for several days past, you have not only retired sooner than ordinary, but have been particularly melancholy and agitated. My Caroline, Sir, certainly has a fever; 'tis that vile pavilion that kills her. I assure you, Sir, she is quite infatuated with it; and lately, more than ever; for, notwithstanding the humidity of the earth and the air, the moment it had ceased raining she would be gone, by which means she has caught cold."
Lindorf, without being remarkably vain, had heard sufficient to imagine himself a party somewhat concerned; but, suffering with the suffering Caroline, and most desirous of relieving her from pain, he shortened his visit, took leave of the ladies, and hoped the indisposition of Carolin [...] would have no bad consequences.
Caroline made no other answer than by courtesying, and the Baroness, repeatedly, entreated Lindorf to take advantage of their near neighbourhood and come frequently to the chateau of Rindaw.—"It is but a step," said she. "The poor Commander was gouty, and during three parts of the year, never stirred abroad; but you, Sir, are young and agile, and it will be only a short walk to our house. Miss Lichtfield will not always be indisposed, and some other day will shew you her pavilion: she tells me it is most excellently adapted to music; you, no doubt are a musician, and you may play and sing in concert."
It only wanted this last trait to complete the confusion of Caroline, and the Baroness seemed not willing any thing should be wanting. At length the cavalier departed, and the Canoness was silent. Caroline, however, was not greatly relieve [...] ▪ [...]ning on her great chair, her face hid by both her hands, with difficulty she restrained the [Page 55] tears and sobs that rose thronging for passage. The Canoness attributed all to her indisposition, and begged her to go and lie down. Caroline was glad to profit by the permission. Her chagrin, however, went with her; but, being alone, she could now abandon herself to grief, and again and again repeated, "Good God! what must he think of me!"
The Canoness, alone also, was occupied by ideas much less melancholy; the handsome, the amiable Lindorf had obsolutely gained her heart; he was precisely the husband she wished for her dear Caroline. And how happy should she be to have her near her, at least for a part of the year; and to see her so well, so properly, and so highly married! The young officer united in himself every thing she wished; youth, beauty, wit, birth, fortune; for, without mentioning his own wealth, of which he was before in possession, being an only son and his parents deceased, the inheritance of the avaricious Commander must have been, immense. Already high in rank in the army, every thing that ambition could hope he seemed formed to obtain.
The advantages of Lindorf were great, yet her dear Caroline was in no respect inferior: first, Caroline was an angel, and as to fortune, that of the High Chamberlain was not to be disdained; to which she should add all her own; and, together, they would be vast. No match, in short, could be every way more proper; and the protested Caroline should be Baroness of Lindorf, or her endeavours should be strangely frustrated. She even fixed on the epocha for celebrating the wedding; the autumn following she determined on, when the High Chamberlain was to pay his promised visit.
In thinking all this she resolved carefully to conceal her projects and ideas even from Caroline. It would, certainly, be very difficult to be silent, but her passion for every thing romantic was still stronger than her inclination to talk. She imagined what a pleasure it would be to observe the effects of sympathy; to follow it through the progressions of two young hearts; day after day to see p [...]s [...]on augmented by hope and fear; and, at last, to make them happy at the very moment when they expected to be eternally miserable. Oh! what delicious pleasure, this for the Baroness! But this she could not obtain except by keeping her secret.
[Page 56]As to the projected union with the Count of Walstein▪ she troubled herself little concerning it; she thought it impossible not to make the High Chamberlain understand reason; for he, most certainly, knew, by his own heart, the influence of mutual passion. "I need only—(the Baroness was almost as simple and innocent as Caroline) I need only to recall to memory how much we suffered for each other, and he will yield, with melting tears, to the happiness of a pair of true lovers. On this condition, too, I will leave Caroline all I possess. Beside, when the High Chamberlain shall see the youthful Lindorf, all perfect as he is, can he, for a moment, make comparison between him and a monster? No, no; leave we sympathy, love, and paternal tenderness to their natural effects, and the happiness of my dear Caroline is for ever fixed."
While the good Canoness was composing her little romance, and enjoying, by anticipation, the tender scenes at which she should be present, and the sweet delight of making two beings happy, Caroline was abandoning herself to grief and self-reproach, for having acted so imprudently, and given Lindorf an idea so much the reverse of her real character. Every word the Baroness had said, though unintentionally, had made a wound; every word a thousand times recalled the blushes and confusion of Caroline. "I will leave Rindaw," said she, "never more to return. Yet to fly-would be to confess my guilt; and to confirm the idea, the cruel, distracting idea, that I am dissembling, false, and artful. Oh! impossible!"
Then did she search for and imagine all imaginary means of self-justification; but found not one which did not increase, instead of eradicate suspicion. So troubled were her thoughts that all night long she lay, restless, and disturbed by ten thousand fears and suspicions; and, for the first time in her whole life, sleep fled from the eyelids of Caroline. How long, how painful was this night, and yet how much was her agitation increased, the next morning, when a letter, addressed to her, was brought by a servant of Lindorf's, who was waiting for an answer! The offended Caroline had almost instantly returned it unopened.—"What," says she, "does he write to me purposely to demonstrate how much he despises me? Nothing but the idea he must have entertained of me, for my reprehensible conduct, could have emboldened him to take such a liberty. Yet is not this his excuse? And am not [Page 57] I alone guilty? How polite, how respectful was he before the unfortunate visit of yesterday! Yes, I myself, alone, am to blame."
But what was to be done with the packet? To open it was impossible; to return it unopened was very severe. Beside, who could tell what his thoughts, or what his style might be? The letter was held and turned in the hand, and looked at again and again, in every possible form, as if the eye wished to penetrate the paper and purloin the contents. At last, a ray of light broke in upon the mind of Caroline; she determined to run to the chamber of her dear Mamma, open her curtains, fall on her knees, and there, with tears and penitence, make a full confession of all that had passed between her and Lindorf.
The execution was as prompt as the resolve; the second, the run-a-way horse, the handkerchief, the walk in the garden, every circumstance was related, even to the avowal of the secret reasons of her silence, for which she had been so severely punished.
"Judge, Mamma," said Caroline, "what I suffered during his visit! I really thought I should have died! And he to be totally silent, as if it had been a plot agreed on between both; while you, Mamma, every moment, unconsciously, was piercing my very heart! Can you, can you forgive me for having acted thus? No, load me with your reproaches; I well deserve them all, and they will be less cutting, less painful, than those with which I load myself."
Alas! the good Canoness, all emotion, all tenderness, and tears at her recital, thought of nothing less than reproach. She had been dreaming all night on her projected marriage, on which the more she thought, the more she was enchanted; her sole fear had been that Lindorf, so long an officer, so long in commerce with the gay world, might have formed other engagements; but the history of Caroline, and the manner in which she had related it, had quieted all her fears; the Baroness saw, or imagined she saw, that sweet sympathy of souls which re-established all her hopes, and gave certainty to all her schemes; she raised Caroline, tenderly kissed her, and declared she never, in her life, had heard any thing so interesting.
"Ah! if I had but known it!—To be sure, I should not have said many things I did say; for these men are [Page 58] so self-sufficient, so ready to believe well of themselves, and that we women are enamoured of them!—However, I must do Lindorf the justice to say he is very different from men in general; his modesty, his politeness"—
"Ah! Mamma," said Caroline, shaking her head, and interrupting [...]he Baroness, "I have but too much cause to fear he is like the rest. Has he not had the audacity to write to me this morning?"
"Write to thee child! Quick, quick, quick! Show me the letter, read it, let me hear his style, his sentiments; I can imagine all his ardour."
"Alas!" said Caroline, taking the packet from her pocket, "here it is; it would not have been proper, Mamma, for me to have opened it. You will do with it what you please." And the pleasure of the Baroness was, instantly, to break the seal; for her curiosity was stronger even than that of Caroline, which was much diminished by fears of what might be the contents of the letter. The first thing they came to was a polite card, in the usual style, in which the Baron of Lindorf "presented respectful compliments to the ladies, inquired after their health, and, in particular, concerning the indisposition of Miss Lichtfield."
But all this was a mere pretext; and, certainly, needed not to have been so closely sealed up; wherefore, this laid by, a paper, folded up and placed under the card, was eagerly seized and opened. Caroline, trembling as she unfolded it, after slightly running it over to herself, read aloud as follows:
"I am about, Madam, to commit a new impropriety, to aggravate former errors, and, perhaps, increase anger which I had but too justly raised, by a new offence. Now, while I write, I imagine your indignation, feel the effects of your resentment, behold myself punished for my te [...]erity, yet have not the power to forbear. If, Madam, you will but deign to read this letter, and surmount that first emotion which should bid you tear or send it back unopened, you then, at least, will understand my motives, and confess that to you, alone, could I, with propriety, address myself.
"You know not all my offences. No, Madam, you know them not; and yet you treat me with as much severity as if you were acquainted with my whole guilt. Since, then, I am not benefited by your ignorance of it, [Page 59] I will make a free confession; hoping that my sincerity may obtain a generous pardon.
"Four times did I, yesterday, pass your pavilion, each at a different hour, hoping to find you there and ask permission to pay my respects to you and the Baroness: but continually were my hopes deceived; you appeared no more in that pavilion so dear to you, and in which you had before that time unceasingly dwelt; while I, far from suspecting the truth, far from accusing you as the cause of this absence, cast the whole blame on Madam the Baroness; she, thought I, informed of my temerity, not knowing who the person was who had dared to obtrude into your asylum, had forbidden you to go there any more. Vain and weak as I was, I even imagined you might obey with regret; I thought myself certain that, when I was known to Madam the Baroness, she would no longer lay you under the like restraint, and, therefore, did not hesitate to com [...] and pay her my respects in the afternoon. Alas! Madam, how severely, and how justly have you punished my presumption! Your reception of me, so very different from hers, instantly informed me how much I had been deceived; and that it was you, alone, who thus had renounced the unfortunate stranger. You did not permit me to entertain the least doubt, the least hope; the illusion was wholly destroyed; I instantly saw that Madam the Baroness, whom I had imagined so severe, was ignorant even of my existence, and that the youthful, the ocauteous Caroline, whom I had supposed obedient to her commands, to the counsels of, perhaps, a too rigid friend, had been subject only to her own prudence, uncommon and unexpected as it was in a lady so young. I had been happy had this prudence only been extended to a stranger who might himself have been an improper person, or have had improper designs; but, though this doubt was removed, though I was named and known, I could not obtain so much as a look of pardon. Your determined silence, Madam, your refusal to shew me the pavilion, your apparent anger at the invitation of the Baroness, all informed me that I, personally, had given irreparable offence. However, Madam, whatever my errors may have been, whatever I may endure, I will not again offend by visiting at Rindaw without your permission; yet suffer me to supplicate this permission, and be assured, Madam, I will endeavour hereafter to deserve [Page 60] it. You were a witness to the obliging manner in which Madam the Baroness was pleased to desire I would frequently visit at Rindaw. What answer am I to make to a request so kind, and which I so earnestly wish to profit by? You, Madam, must decide. On you my conduct must depend. Must I neglect the civilities of Madam the Baroness, and submit to that sentence of condemnation which you have silently pronounced; or may I dare entreat you to revoke it? I wait your commands, and solemnly vow, whatever they be, to me they shall be sacred. Yet permit me, for a moment, to hope you will not be inexorable; and that he, whom your respectable friend has deigned to honour with her protection, may, being thus protected, obtain a pardon which is become absolutely necessary to the future happiness of his life."
While Caroline was reading this letter, which was dated from the chateau of Risberg, she felt a confused mixture of sensations so opposite to each other as to be almost indesinable. At first, utter astonishment at perceiving, without ever suspecting herself to be thus consummately prudent; afterwards, that kind of shame which a sincere mind feels at receiving praise it does not merit; and, next joy of the most pure and perfect kind to learn that she was still esteemed and still respected. Yet, on reflection, she was somewhat uneasy concerning the poor young gentleman, the embarrassment he was under, and the means of removing it, without destroying the high opinion he entertained of her.
These different affections were alternately visible in her countenance; pleasing sensations, however were predominant, and her heart felt eased of a most insupportable burthen. When she had finished the letter, she could have pressed it to her lips; but she forbore, laid it on the pillow of the Canoness, seized one of her hands, and on that bestowed her kisses and her tears. Again the Baroness took the letter, again desired Caroline to read it, and again was in raptures.
"Did not I tell you this young gentleman did not resemble other men? I saw it instantly. What a delicate turn has he given to your silence and embarrassment, which he had understood to proceed from anger! Is it possible to be more modest, or more respectful? One of your court fops would have interpreted the whole of [Page 61] Well, really he is a most charming youth, and we must instantly put him out of pain. Get the pen and ink, my dear, sit down and write; come, come, make haste."
"I! Mamma," said Caroline, blushing. "I thought you would have been kind enough to answer his letter."
"You know my dear girl, it is with difficulty I can write, at present. (The Baroness had a disorder in her eyes, the consequence of her illness, and her sight daily became worse.) But no matter; you shall write in my name, and I will dictate." Caroline obeyed, and, having taken pen, ink, and paper, the Canoness, after considering a moment, thus began:
"Sir.
"Your letter came most seasonably to the relief and consolation of Caroline; she had all night lain in the most desperate affliction—"
"Really, Mamma," said Caroline, stopping her, "I cannot write what you bid me; for, though I own it [...] partly true, it would absolutely contradict all his pr [...] favourable thoughts concerning me."
After a short contest, the Baroness owned Carolin [...] right; the paper was torn, another sheet taken, the Baroness again began to think and to dictate.
"Sir,
"Miss Lichtfield is most exceedingly glad to find you entertain so high an opinion of her, her joy cannot be expressed—"
"Upon my word, Mamma," said Caroline, throwing down the pen, "this is worse than the other; let me beg you will neither speak of my joys nor griefs."
The Baroness was now absolutely vexed, and said she would have nothing at all to do with her answer; and that she might write it herself. Caroline began to think this the wisest way, and after considering in her turn, and, in her turn, tearing two or three sheets of paper, she had the good sense, at last, to recollect that the simplest and most unaffected mode is always the best; she therefore wrote,
"We thank you, Sir, for the concern you are kind enough to take in the health of your neighbours. My indisposition is gone off. Madam the Baroness is deprived, by the disorder in her eyes, of the pleasure of answering your letter, the contents of which I have just [Page 62] communicated to her; she has therefore desired me to inform you, Sir, that your visits will always be well received at Rindaw; the Baron of Lindorf, when known, never can doubt of a proper reception. "C. L."
The Canoness thought the style of this exceedingly common and trivial; there were a thousand things to say, a thousand sensations to commun [...]cate, according to her; but Caroline was firm, and would not change a word, and, at last, by caresses and coaxing, prevailed on the Baroness to let the letter be sent.
As to the epistle of Lindorf, we have been assured, from the best authority, that it was read and re-read at least a hundred times that day; and that, before the evening there was a person in the world who could have repeated it by heart. It is likewise affirmed that these repeated readings had dissipated every remaining trace of [...] over-night's chagrin. Yes, Caroline, by being thus [...]uently told of her uncommon prudence, at last belie [...] real; still, however, owning that she never could [...] [...]agined her absence from the pavilion, and her se [...] with her friend, could have been productive of such excellent effects. It was very certain, nevertheless, that the thought was her own; wherefore, gaining her own self-esteem by degrees, no longer having any reason to blush for her mysterious conduct towar [...] the Baroness, and being assured of the respect of Lindorf, Caroline lost both her sorrows and her fears.
Nobody will doubt but that Lindorf was very careful to avail himself of the permission granted, and to pay his respects in the evening. Caroline had foreseen this, expected him with somewhat of impatience, saw him arrive with joy, and not without emotion. He himself was rather disconcerted, but a gentle smile from Caroline presently restored him all his former ease; they both became perfectly unconstrained, to which the Baroness did not a little contribute; she, with pleasantry which she highly enjoyed, ran over every incident of the stranger, the secret, and the letter; and thus saved Caroline explanations which she was most happy to avoid.
Lindorf was cautious and penetrating; he read the feelings of Caroline: they went together to the pavilion, and he said not a word that had the slightest reference to what had passed, except that he entreated Caroline to [...]. She c [...]seated, and Lindorf [Page 63] accompanied her on the piano forte; but, though he was an excellent musician, he was often out of time; and Caroline herself made several mistakes. Notwithstanding this, the song pleased him so much that he asked permission to take and copy it; which granted, Lindorf, on receiving it, had the courage to kiss the hand by which it was presented, and to pronounce, in a half whisper, "How good, Madam, are you to-day, and how different are my present feelings from those of yesterday!" The ingenuous Caroline was on the point of declaring that she herself was much easier and happier, but she just had the recollection to refrain. They returned to the Canoness, and Lindorf, shortening his visit, begged permission to repeat it on the morrow.
The morrow and the morrow, and every succeeding morrow, each resembled the [...]her; and this was the history of their lives. Again Caroline inhabited her pavilion, in the morning; and again Lindorf took his u [...] ride. The horse, formerly so unmanageable, was b [...] quite docile; so that he would sometimes stand qui [...] half an hour, under the window of Caroline, with w [...] he began to be acquainted, and which, when he came to, he instinctively would stop at. Every afternoon Lindorf came betimes to Rindaw, where he often remained to sup; and every night, after he was gone, the Canoness, more and more transported with his conduct, spoke of him with enthusiasm. Caroline listened, and modestly approved, and each went nightly to bed declaring he was the most amiable of men: nay, Caroline it is said, would sometimes repeat it in her sleep; and as for the Baroness, her nocturnal dreams were all concerning the marriage she had imagined, and which she thought nothing could frustrate.
Well, but Lindorf?—Why Lindorf had his dreams likewise; for he loved with an ardour which he sought not to oppose, and with a sincerity that gave dignity to affection, which every day grew stronger. Born with great sensibility and strong passions, he had not lived till five-and-twenty without a knowledge of love, or, at least, without a supposed knowledge. But how different were his former tumultuous sensations to those he at present felt! His thoughts all tender, delicate, and pure, had no other object but Caroline▪ happy in her sight, happy to hear the sweet sound of her [...]ce, infinitely happy in her presence [Page 64] and that sweet familiarity which country retirement authorises, he could not imagine superior bliss; and if, when alone, which walking, music, and the infirmities of the Baroness occasioned them often to be, he sometimes were like to betray himself, and risk an avowal of his sentiments: timidity, respect, and dread of destroying that share of felicity of which he was in present possession, always made him silent. Such ever are the effects of true and sincere love. Caroline too confided all her thoughts to him with such innocence, such security, he was so perfectly convinced that she no way suspected either what passed in his heart or her own, that Lindorf, whose delicacy equalled his affection, would likewise have thought it a crime to disturb that happy ignorance before the moment in which he himself should be at his own disposal, which he could not then be perfectly said to be.
Beside, what could he gain by the confession? A know [...] [...] that his love was returned. And could he doubt of [...] Certainly not; for, though the penetration of man [...] not that of women in this respect, Caroline was so frank, and so little understood the art of dissembling, of concealing her feelings, that it was impossible for him to doubt. She alone was ignorant of them. She supposed her love for Lindorf was the love of a sister, and her affection the affection of friendship; she even applauded herself for daily finding fresh occasion to love him more, nor had the slightest idea that an attachment so pure, as she felt hers to be, could, in the least, become injurious to engagements which she held sacred, but of which she seldom thought. How, indeed, could she? Was there time to think on any thing but Lindorf, when Lindorf was present? And he was ever present, either ideally or really; for, the moment he was gone, either the pleasure of having seen him, impatience to see him again, or his image in every attitude, under every aspect in which it had so lately been beheld, occupied her whole thoughts. Lindorf to Caroline was every thing, and, the Baroness excepted, she knew not of, thought not of, any other being in the universe.
This imprudent Baroness still added, by her enthusiasm, to the fascination of Caroline. From infancy accustomed to think as she thought, and to see as she saw, her authority would have been fully sufficient to fix the attachment of Caroline on a person for whom the Canoness had a predilection [Page 65] so absolute, and so continually augmenting. Often did the Baroness, when she could find opportunity by being left for a moment with Lindorf, suffer her secret half to escape; clearly enough did she give him to understand that it depended on him, only, to obtain the hand of Caroline; and that she already looked upon him as her son.
Thus the happy Lindorf, encouraged by one, adored by the other, and, perhaps, in more full and delicious enjoyment of happiness than if he had been a declared lover, thought himself certain of prevailing the moment he should speak; and for which moment he waited a little impatiently. Engagements he had, by which he had [...]n restrained; and from these it was necessary to be free before he could honestly avow his passion for Caroline, and make an offer of his hand and heart. He had been very busily employed in removing these obstacles; and for some time past, his agitation and short symptoms of melancholy betrayed something of his inquietude and fears.
One evening, as he left Rindaw, he informed the ladies he was fearful lest he could not have the pleasure of seeing them on the morrow; he was obliged to go, himself, immediately to Berlin, where he expected to find letters that were to him of the utmost importance. "But," added he, with a tone of voice more than usually animated, "I hope, in compensation for a day thus lost to life, I shall be permitted to return early the morning after."
The Canoness immediately invited him to breakfast, and Caroline accompanied him to the garden, where they took leave of each other as if it were for a long farewell, and separated, impatiently wishing the morrow over. The next day, which for two months had been the only one passed without Lindorf, appeared exceedingly tedious to both the ladies, The good Baroness loved Lindorf so entirely, that, had not her friendship for Caroline intervened, which we must do her the justice to acknowledge was always predominant, he might, in all probability, if so he had pleased, have even banished the High Chamberlain from her bosom. She acknowledged that Lindorf continually brought him to her recollection, and made her remember the happy days of their former loves. "Yes," said the Baroness, "the High Chamberlain was just so fine, so sweet a youth."
[Page 66]"My father, then, is surprisingly altered," said Caroline.
"Ah! yes, my dear," replied the Baroness, "whatever he may be at present, he was then a most charming man—If thy mother had not been so rich—But, alas! my dear High Chamberlain was ever ambitious."
"And is still," mournfully thought Caroline; "he is not altered in that respect; his poor child is the victim of that unrelenting ambition, to which every other feeling has been sacrificed."
This conversation, this gloomy retrospect, naturally led her to think of the Count, and of her union with him. The absence of Lindorf, and the certainty of not seeing him all the long long day, had disposed her mind to languor and melancholy: in the evening she walked in the garden, when these sensations and gloomy ideas accompanied her: the image of the Count, particularly, tormented her; in spite of every effort to remove it from her imagination, and to think on something else, it continually recurred, and with encreasing pain and disgust. A dry and yellow leaf fell from one of the trees at her feet, and approaching autumn immediately rose to memory; her heart shrunk at the thought, and an oppressive weight, almost to suffocation, came over her; tears at length began to flow.
"And is the summer, this happy summer, already passed? It has endured but a moment, and it will return no more: with it ease and content are fled from Caroline. Autumn approaches, it is here, and my father is coming to tear me from these beloved haunts, to separate me from my good Mamma; and, if the Count my husband pleases —My husband!—My husband!—O Lindorf! friend, brother, every thing that esteem holds most dear, must I never see thee more!—Alas! poor Caroline, wherefore hast thou known him if thou must so soon be separate from him!"
This was the first time she had ever made the reflection, and it was so cutting, so dreadful, and affected her so much, that it absorbed every other afflicting thought.
Intent on this idea, and absent to every other, she walked till she came to the door of the pavilion that led to the road. It was open: opposite it was a wood. Caroline was alone: the thick foliage was adapted to the present temper of her mind; it was dark and gloomy, and [Page 67] almost shut out day. During the summer she had often wished to walk in this wood, but with Lindorf it would have been improper; the recollection of this wish slightly returned; there was no present restraint, and she crossed the road. As she entered the wood, she felt herself highly affected by objects which were new to Caroline. It was a glorious evening; the rays of the setting sun with gold and purple beamed over the horizon through an immense space of clouds, which seemed almost on fire, and the red & ardent colours of which were seen through the branches of oaks whose antiquity appeared almost coeval with Nature. The evening song of the birds was loud, melodious, and universal; to which the monotonous chirping, of the swarming grass-hopper gave variety.
If it be imp [...]le for a feeling mind ever to enter a forest with indi [...]ce, what emotion must the young heart of Caroline, an [...] in its present disposition, receive from objects so vast and so magnificent! She took the first path she saw, and which apparently led through the wood; she followed it, for a considerable time, without thinking or perceiving how far she had strayed; at length, some noise suddenly drew her from the profound reverie in which she was plunged; she looked up and saw before her, at no great distance, a grand and elegant chateau; she had not much time for reflection; there was an avenue that led to that chateau, and in that avenue was—Lindorf.
The lover instantly leaped the wall that separated them, for he had seen Caroline; and already he is by her side, already testifying, more by looks than words, his astonishment and joy at finding her almost at his own habitation. Caroline, confused, amazed, blushed even to the finger ends, and durst not look on Lindorf, but, stammering, said she had lost herself!—She was absolutely ignorant of—She had supposed Risberg lay another way!
Lindorf saw, by her manner, she had supposed so, and, far from pressing her to stay, far from desiring her to walk into his gardens and repose herself, he had the delicacy to offer to re-conduct her to Rindaw immediately. The offer was instantly accepted, and Lindorf, to vary the walk of Caroline, took another path, still, as he said, more agreeable, still more pleasant.
Lindorf, undoubtedly, by the pleasantest understood the longest, and the distance was doubled. Caroline [Page 68] could not but remark it, and was so fatigued at last as to be obliged to accept an arm she had at first refused.
"This way must be greatly round about, Sir?"
"It is; I ask pardon, but I was willing you should know what I do every day."
"How do you mean, Sir?"
"When I go to Rindaw, I take the shortest way, through the wood; but when I return home I go this, which is the most round about."
Caroline blushed, and made no reply.
Whether it was a continuation of the reflections of the day, or whether it was her e [...]rrassment at finding herself at Risberg, the presence of Lindorf had failed of its usual effect; far from dissipating, it but increased her present dejection of spirits; tears stood brim full in her eyes, and she felt that if she had but spok [...] [...]ingle word they must have overflowed.
Lindorf, on the contrary, had, when they first met, seemed more than usually pleased and contented; joy unmixed enlivened his countenance, and gave animation to every feature and every express [...]on. He had spoken with rapture of the beauties of the country, and the delight of living there with the person on earth the most beloved. Caroline scarcely could give the shortest answers, such oppression was there at her heart; Lindorf could not help remarking the change; he was silent, and observed her with eyes alternately expressive of tenderness, hope, and fear. He appeared as if he had something to say which he durst not utter. The moon rose, and her soft clear beams, glimmering on their silent path, still increased their mutual emotion.
At last, Caroline, having recovered herself sufficiently to pronounce a few words, asked Lindorf if he had received the letters he had so impatiently expected.
"The letters! The letters!" repeated Lindorf, with passion in his words and looks, "O, yes! I have received them!—You know not, dear Caroline, cannot imagine, how essentially these letters may influence my future happiness!—To morrow morning I will come, will communicate their contents.—Yes, charming Caroline, gentlest and dearest friend of my heart," to morrow you shall read that heart which burns with impatience to expand, to unburthen itself, and pour its most secret thoughts into your bosom—Every thing I think, every thing I feel, [Page 69] all I have thought, and all I have felt, to morrow you shall know; and my destiny shall be eternally decided!"
These words, and particularly the tone and manner in which they were uttered, roused and terrified Caroline: they tore off the veil which had already been half raised. Without the power of replying a single word, she still had the force to disengage her arm, which Lindorf pressed with ardour, and, looking up, found herself precisely opposite the garden door, which she precipitately entered; saying, with words that almost choaked her as they obtained passage, "Farewell, Lindorf!—To morrow— I will, also—tell you something—You shall hear"—
She could contain no longer; her head fell on her bosom; her tears, too long withheld, streamed down her cheeks; a universal tremor seized her, and she was obliged to sit down [...] grass bank.
And Lindorf?—Why Lindorf follows. Lindorf is at her feet. Lindorf is pressing with transport her lily hands, and stooping to kiss them, while Caroline is unable to resist; he dares even clasp her in his arms; and the languid head of Caroline, reclining, droops upon his shoulder.
"My dearest, my best beloved," said Lindorf; "Oh! suffer me to assuage, to dry those precious tears, pledges of my approaching happiness.—Adored lady! Oh calm thyself, fear not; 'tis thy friend, thy lover, thy future husband, who thus conjures thee."
This word, this dreadful word, recalled Caroline to animation and herself. She rose, terrified, broke from Lindorf, would have spoke, but could not articulate a word, and, shuddering at her present danger, felt that flight alone could retrieve, could save her. Lindorf remained, for a moment, half amazed at the terror of Caroline, and doubting to what motives it ought to be attributed; while she escaped, ran to her chamber, threw herself into the first chair she found, and was so affected, for some time, that she lost all coherency of thought.
She remained not long in this state; and that which succeeded was much more dreadful. Happily for her, the Baroness had gone to bed before supper, as she sometimes did, and was in a sound sleep: her appearance, therefore, was dispensed with; and, that she might with freedom yield to her present feelings without a witness, she likewise determined to go to bed and dismiss her maid.
As soon as she was sufficiently collected to reflect, not [Page 70] [...]apathy, but something more calmly, on her present [...]ation, she felt the absolute necessity of informing Lindorf she was no longer free, and of determining never to see him more. The sentence was indeed most severe. Virtue pronounced it; but the heart of Virtue herself must bleed while it was pronounced. Caroline no longer could, in the least, deceive herself respecting the nature of her feelings. Love stood confessed, arrayed in all his tyranny; his arm was pitiless, and his power unbounded. Sorrow sharpened his arrows, and Despair shot them; yet Despair itself only confirmed Caroline in her resolution; Dishonour threatened her, and she did not hesitate a moment.
But how was she to inform him?—How speak the dreadful tidings?—The scene of the evening was too recent and too painful to risk renewin [...] [...]nd she felt it impossible to be herself the narrator. A letter was the only means, and she was all night mentally occupied in writing it; but a letter, on such an occasion, and with sensations like hers, was not easily written; each word, each phrase, appeared either too cold or too passionate. At length, when she had imagined nearly the manner and the turn she should give it, she was impatient for day-break, that she might rise and write. Every minute did she open her curtains, hoping to discover the first rays of morning; and no sooner had she discovered them than she left her bed, put on a morning gown, and prepared to begin this most painful task.
We have already seen that every thing Caroline most delighted in had found the way to the pavilion; and so had her ink-stand, and writing-desk, along with the rest. There was nothing in her chamber wherewith she might trace a single line; patience, therefore, was her last resource, and waiting till the servants were up and should open the doors. But, as none of these had a lover to dismiss, they slept a full hour longer. This hour Caroline passed at her window, and it depended wholly on her to have enjoyed the most sublime of sights, and no doubt, for the first time in her life. The retiring of darkness, the gradual increase of light, and the sun rising in all its splendour and animating great Nature, made no impression on the wretched heart of Caroline. Lindorf, whom she was forever to forbid her presence, whom she was to render miserable; Lindorf, whose love she had been ignorant [Page 71] of, and ignorant also how dear he was to her till the very moment when they must separate forever; Lindorf obscured every object, she thought of him only, him only she saw. The bright colours of the morning, the sun's rays, and the revival of Nature, were to her, all dark and inanimate.
No sooner could she go out but she ran to the pavilion. It was necessary that Lindorf should receive her letter before his arrival at Rindaw; and Caroline had no doubt but he would be there as soon as possible.—Mournfully, then, she took her way towards the pavilion; but what were her thoughts, what her emotion, when, as she entered, she saw, or thought she saw, Lindorf himself, seated at the far end, pale, dejected, his hair all in disorder, leaning on his elbow, and apparently plunged in the most profound reverie!
We say thought she saw, because, for the moment, she supposed it to be an illusion of a mind that had lately been most liable to illusion, and of an imagination that beheld no other object. She looked and shrieked, but she could not any longer doubt it was Lindorf himself, when, as she shrieked, he rose, flew to catch her, fell at her feet, and uttered with an impetuosity it was not in her power to stop, "Oh! pardon, pardon, Caroline, pardon one who adores you! Think not I have forfeited my word. Yesterday, when I left you, I went home, but, think not I passed the night in sleep; no, at day-break I rose; hither my wishes bore me; the door was open; in short I scarcely know how I came in this place, but this place never will I leave, Caroline, no never, by every sacred power I swear, never, till thou hast told me what my destiny is to be; or, at least, Caroline, till thou hast suffered thy happy lover to interpret thy silence and emotion in his own favour. A smile will suffice. Certain of thy consent and the consent of our dear friend the Baroness, I will fly to obtain that of thy father.—To-morrow, yes, perhaps, to-morrow, thou mayest confess, without blushing, thou lovest!"
This, no doubt, was the moment to have spoken. A word would have been enough, would have instantly destroyed the lovers dearest, sweetest hopes, but, oh! how painful was it to pronounce a word like this! It stopped short as it rose to the lips; Caroline wished but could not utter it. Lindorf, prepossessed by former appearances, [Page 72] interpreted this silence in his own favour; it was attributed to modesty, embarrassment, timidity; and, wishing to oblige her to speak, he precipitately rose, ran, and snatched his hat as it lay on the piano forte.
"Dear Caroline," said he, as he seized it, "I would not lose a moment when happiness so supreme is in question! I will no longer demand a confession which I see distresses you so much to make; I will fly instantly to Berlin, and as instantly return; I hope, with a better claim to request this confession."
Longer delay was now impossible. Caroline, terrified, collecting all her force, stopped and held Lindorf.— "What are you going to do?" said she. "Alas! you know not—But learn"—
Lindorf himself no [...] partook of the terror of Caroline. "Learn what?" said he.
"A secret."
"What secret! Speak▪ Caroline, release me from this dread."
"I—I—I am"—
"You are"—
"Married."
The bolt of thunder could not have struck more effectually—"Married!" repeated he, with the accent, or rather with the shriek, of terror.—The most profound silence followed. Caroline, trembling, sat down, and hid her face with her handkerchief. Lindorf remained petrified: at last, starting wild, and striding about the room, he repeated again, "Married!"
Silence again ensued.—And again striking his forehead, "No, it is impossible, absolutely impossible; you deceive me, Caroline, you impose upon a wretch whom you have driven mad. Ah! cease, cease a sport so cruel. Say, tell me, you are not married."
"It is but too true that I am," replied Caroline, almost fainting.
"But the Canoness?"—
"She is ignorant of my marriage, I told you it as a secret."
"Oh! Caroline, Caroline!—Fatal secret! And I a confirmed and everlasting wretch!"
For some minutes he was in an agony that approached the wildest phrensy; he sat down, rose, tore his hair, [Page 73] groaned, gnashed his teeth; every action denoted the fury and tempest within.
"Be calm, Lindorf, dear Lindorf, be calm! In the name of Heaven be calm! Do not thus give way to passion! Am not I, also, still more unhappy?"
"You! You unhappy! Caroline?"
Affection and tenderness rose at the supposition, and tears—ay, bitter tears scalded the manly cheek, and gave a little ease to the heart.—"Caroline," said he in a softer tone, "explain this secret, the discovery of which is thus fatal. Who is this unknown, this inconceivable husband; who thus can leave, thus neglect, the supremity of mortal bliss?"
Caroline, who scarce could speak, somewhat, however, consoled, to see Lindorf more tranquil, gave a succinct relation of her marriage with a nobleman whom she did not name. She respected the secret of Walstein, and gave not any indications by which he might be known. She only said that invincible repugnance for a match to which she had submitted, in obedience to her father, had occasioned her to entreat a separation, at least for some time, which had been granted her, under condition of keeping it a secret. "Perhaps," said she, "I forfeit one of my duties now by revealing it; but I trust I shall carefully fulfil every other, whatever pangs it may cost my heart. Farewell, Lindorf, we must see each other no more. Fly this fatal place, and if possible, forget the unfortunate Caroline."
"Fly! Forget you!" replied Lindorf, whose countenance was somewhat changed by a ray of hope during the short recital of Caroline.—"No, never, never!—I still see a possibility, I still dare hope for happiness!"
"Lindorf!—Be careful what you say; grief certainly has disturbed your reason!"
"No, if thou wilt deign but to consent, bliss may still be mine—My dearest Caroline, hear me—I know thy heart pleads in my behalf, in vain wouldst thou forbid it; to me it appertains, by the ardour, the purity of affection have I deserved it, and my rights are far more sacred than those of a tyrannical husband, who thus has abused paternal authority; grant me but thy permission, and these hated bands shall be broken; yes, they shall; I dare affirm they shall. The King is just, he loves me, will [Page 74] listen to me. Beside, I have a certain resource, a friend, a support that cannot fail."
"Unhappy Lindorf!" interrupted Caroline; "yield not to these chimeras. The King himself has forged the chains which no power can break; for who is there whose interest may, for a moment, outweigh that of the Count of Walstein?"
Again Lindorf stood the statue of amazement and dread! Again, the moment he could respire, he echoed— "Caroline!—The Count of Walstein!"
"The name has escaped my lips," said Caroline, "and my only dependence is on your discretion. Judge then, what your hopes must be, since it is he, Lindorf; yes, it is the Count of Walstein who is—my husband!"
Lindorf remained with his eyes fixed on the earth, his arms crossed, his faculties wholly absorbed, and in thought so deep as to seem almost lifeless; long he remained; but recovering, at length, from apparent stupor, "Caroline," said he, fetching a deep and almost endless sigh, and without looking at her, "I must leave you, Caroline, but I will return to-morrow morning; it is essentially necessary that I should speak to you once more. To-morrow, here, in this same place, at this same hour, tell me, will you meet me?"
"Yes," answered Caroline, scarcely knowing what she said.
"To-morrow, then," continued Lindorf, making a step to approach Caroline, but instantly recoiling, and seizing his hat—"To-morrow"—He could say no more, but suddenly fled.
Imagine what the condition, what the feelings were of Caroline, and what the crowded and confused ideas that assailed her heart. The first, however, was the promise that she should see him once more. What could he have to say which he might not then have said? Wherefore, so earnestly, and with such solemnity, entreat an interview to-morrow? She almost repented of the consent she had given; and yet, could she have refused? Beside, it was possible he had not abandoned the hope of obtaining a divorce, for he did not say he had; it therefore was necessary to meet again, that she might dissuade him from all useless efforts, which could only end in discovering their affection, and in rendering the miserable Caroline still more miserable.
[Page 75]The reflection determined her to be punctual to the appointed time, and at the appointed place. She afterwards began to think how difficult it would be longer to conceal the truth from the Canoness. What would the absence of Lindorf lead her to suppose? Caroline felt too how great the consolation would be of giving her sorrows vent, and shedding her tears in the bosom of a friend so tender and so indulgent. Yet the promise they had required of her had been so strong, so positive, and the menaced punishment was so terrible, that without permission, she durst not speak. Her having betrayed it to Lindorf was enough, nay, too much; and nothing but the motives on which she had acted could justify her to herself. Yet the more she reflected, the more she saw the necessity of informing the Baroness; she therefore determined, be the consequence what it might, to write to her father, and beg permission to inform her. "It was no longer possible," she said, "to dissemble with her dear Mamma, or to conceal her marriage. The ignorance of the Baroness, concerning that event, exposed her to most painful conversations, and which were continually repeated. Every moment ready to betray herself, she most humbly supplicated permission to confess a secret which say too heavy on her heart, and which was an offence to the gratitude and friendship she owed the Baroness. And what was there to fear? The ill health of the Baroness, her love of retirement, her absence from all society, made discretion certain; for to whom could she speak; since nobody she saw?—Beside," added Caroline, willing to prevent the visit and the persecution she dreaded, "determined as I am not to leave her, so long as she lives, is it not a shocking thing to be forbidden to speak truth, and to open my heart to the dear friend who has been to me a mother? —Believe me, dear, dear Sir," continued she, "to afflict you will doubly afflict myself; or to deprive you of a child, who, if so you had pleased, never would have forsaken you, but to you would have consecrated her life, in proof of her affection; but you, Sir, thought proper otherwise to ordain: permit me, dear Sir, in my turn, to enjoy that liberty which my husband and King have granted, which was, that I might remain at Rindaw as long as I pleased; for such was the sentence, which I shall never forget. My resolution, Sir, is to remain here so long as my only friend shall live, to whom my cares and attentions may [Page 76] be useful, and so long as my heart and my reason shall revolt at the ties I have formed."
Such was the substance of the letter, which after having copied and sent, Caroline found herself somewhat relieved; her secret became less burthensome by the hope of being permitted to reveal it; and the idea of not beholding the Count, for years to come, somewhat consoled her for the dreadful one of never beholding Lindorf more. It was, indeed, too much to feel the double torment of [...]nouncing the man she loved, and living with the man she hated; persuaded that her fortitude would rid her of the latter misfortune, she felt recovering strength to support the former.
"I [...]hall see him no more," said she; "but though I see not him, I shall be troubled with the sight of no one else; and of him I may think unceasingly, here, in these groves, in this pavilion, which his presence has rendered so dear to memory."
Thus fortified, Caroline was able to support the conversation of the Canoness and her questions, afflicting as they were; for she every moment was inquiring if Caroroline did not imagine Lindorf would come to-day, every moment was repeating her astonishment that he had not been punctual to his promise. The disorder in her eyes, which still increased, prevented her from seeing the effects of her inquiries on the countenance of Caroline, whose cheeks were flush and pale and continually varying, affected by a continued variety of distress, but this the Baroness saw not; she spoke of nothing but the dear youth, was fearful lest some misfortune had happened to him, and, in the evening, determined to send the next day to make inquiries.
At length she retired to her chamber, as did Caroline gladly to hers, in which she passed the night as she had done the night before. At the appointed hour she was at the pavilion; but Lindorf was not come. She waited half an hour, which seemed half an age, and yet he came not. She opened the window, went out on the road, went to the entrance of the wood, and looked every way as far as she could look; at length, she beheld him coming. She just had strength enough to gain the pavilion, where she sat herself down, unable to rise when he entered, and could only return his salutation by a slight inclination of the head.
[Page 77]Lindorf observed her excessive paleness and dejection: he advanced, tremblingly, and without speaking a single word. When he was near her, he kneeled on one-knee and presented her a packet, sealed up, and a box containing a miniature picture. He bowed and, rising, recovered sufficient strength to say, in a low and half suffocated voice, "Accept these from a friend.—Farewell! Caroline, farewell! may you be happy!" Then, respectfully, though not without passion, twice kissing her hand, he rose, put his handkerchief to his eyes, and left the pavilion.
Had not the packet and the box remained, Caroline would have imagined she had seen an apparition, so suddenly and so strangely had he disappeared. With wild stupor her looks followed Lindorf; and no sooner was he gone than, her arms instinctively extending themselves towards the door, Caroline exclaimed, "Oh Lindorf! Lindorf!"
Lindorf heard her not, Lindorf saw her not, Lindorf, alas! was no longer there. She rose precipitately, let the packet and the box fall from her lap, on which they had been placed, and ran to the window, where she saw Lindorf as if flying from an enemy, or struck with panic fear. He was presently out of sight, and the tears of Caroline began abundantly to stream down her cheeks. It was well they did; for, in all probability, they prevented fainting, and, perhaps, worse consequences.
"It is past," said she, "I shall see him no more. To me he is forever lost."
Her sobs interrupted speech, and almost respiration; and again her tears began to course each other with greater violence. At length she remembered the packet and the box, which Lindorf had left, and which were lying at her feet. In these, no doubt, she would find something that might explain this singular and mysterious farewell; she took the box up first. It is his image, the portrait of Lindorf, thought she, as she was endeavouring to open it. "And thinkest thou I have need of such aid to recollect thee, Lindorf?"
Yet was it a consolation to possess his picture, the value of which she fully felt, and the recollection made her open the box witn eagerness.—How great was her surprise!—It was the uniform of Lindorf, it was a Captain [Page 78] of the guards, it was a most handsome man, but it was not her lover; a person entirely different from Lindorf, and to her entirely unknown. She instantly shut the box again, threw it with anger on the table, and took up the packet.
"Let us see," said she, "if this incomprehensible man has explained what this may mean. Whose is this portrait? Wherefore leave, why give it me?" The seals of the packet were presently broken, and in it she found a manuscript in the hand-writing of Lindorf. Caroline was so much affected that she began to read without at all comprehending what she read; at length, however, her scattered thoughts were somewhat collected, and, seating herself at the window, she took up the manuscript, and again began to read.
The MANUSCRIPT of LINDORF. Dated at the chateau of Risberg, the evening after he had quitted Caroline; and at the conclusion was written,
"GENERAL WALSTEIN, father of the Ambassador, having travelled to England in his youth, he there saw Lady Matilda Seymour, whom he loved, whose hand he asked in marriage and obtained, and whom he brought to Prussia, where he made her the happiest of women. Two children were the sole fruits of this union; the first a son, the present Count, and the only remaining male of the family, which, if he dies childless, will, with him become extinct. This son was, therefore, the greatest blessing Heaven could bestow on his parents. Twelve years after he was born they had a daughter, whose tardy and unexpected birth was the death of her mother. The event threw the General into the deepest melancholy; he had adored his lady, and remained faithful to her memory; for, though still young, he vowed never again to marry, but to consecrate the remainder of his days to the service of his country and the education of his children.
"The daughter, to whom the name of Matilda had been given, was committed to the care of the General's sisters, one of whom had married the Baron of Zastrow, a Saxo [...] gentleman, but living then at Berlin; so that the child [Page 79] was still under her father's eye. His son, conducted through the paths of honour and virtue by himself, gave signs, in earliest infancy, of what he should one day become, and inspired his tender father with the sweet and certain hope of hereafter fully recompensing all his cares.
"But, alas! this happy father lived not to the full enjoyment of a pleasure so supreme. War broke out between Austria and Prussia. The General commanded a part of the victorious Prussians, and the King had already distinguished him as one of his greatest generals, when he had the happiness to prove his unbounded attachment and zeal to his Majesty, by sacrificing his own life, at the battle of Molviez, and saving that of his Sovereign. The King, depending wholly on his courage, and neglecting his safety, was in the utmost danger; pursued by several Austrian hussars, his horse had been wounded and could not fly, and himself ran the risk of either being taken or killed. General Walstein was the sole person who saw the danger attended by his son, then in his sixteenth year, and making his campaign, in the company of his father, as a simple volunteer. The general intercepted the hussars; the young Count flew to the king with his horse, while his father wounded, or put to flight, the pursuers, and himself received the mortal blow which else, perhaps, had descended on the Monarch.
"Some officers came up, among whom my father was, who was the General's most intimate friend, and they and young Walstein bore his father to his tent. The King, in consternation, followed; and the surgeons, having examined the wound, declared he had only a few moments to live. His son, kneeling by his bedside, gave way to grief the most unbounded; and incessantly repeated, "Oh! my father, my dear father, why was it not me they killed!" The general collected the little remaining strength he possessed, to console and recommend his son to the King. "I commit him, Sir," said he, "into your hands; he has partook my peril and my glory; and he, like me, will learn to live and die in the defence of his King and country. You will be to him a father, be faithful to you as I have been, and thus both to you and him I shall be replaced.—And for you, young man, weep not; shew more fortitude, and envy the glorious death I die. Instead of grieving, think of deserving, by your courage, the august father to whom I dying confide you."
[Page 80]"Yes," said the King, exceedingly affected, clasping the young Count in his arms, "I will be a father to him, and never, so long as I live, will forget that for my sake he lost his own. He shall henceforth be my son and friend; and, to prove it, I now, instantly, give him a commission in the guards, which will fix his residence near me, during his youth, and which is but the beginning of the good I intend."
"The young Count, wholly devoted to affliction, answered not; perhaps, did not hear what the King had said. Gratitude and happiness however again were visible in the countenance of the expiring General, and animation once more to those eyes which the shades of death had half obscured; he stretched out one hand to his King and the other to his son, and, making a last effort, said to the latter—"My son—your sister—my dear little Matilda— to you I confide her and the care of her future happiness —Poor girl!—But you will love, you will be a father."
"He could say no more. The young Count would have replied, but incessant sobs choaked up utterance; he only could kiss the General's hand, which he did with such an enthusiasm of affliction as might well assure the dying father of the love and obedience of the son. Alas! that hand was already cold, and the next moment the breath departed from the General, who lay reclined in the arms of my father, to whom, likewise, expiring, he said, "Lindorf, you love my children. Oh! my King, my son, my friend, grieve not for me, for I die the happiest of subjects and of fathers."
"Perhaps, Madam, these affecting incidents are not unknown to you, but, if so, I still thought it my duty, on the present occasion, to recall them to your memory. Yet I have reason to suppose you wholly unacquainted with them, and that they will make the same impression on you they did on me when my father, a witness of this affecting scene, has taken pleasure in recounting it to me. How has it warmed my heart! How has it incited admiration and a desire to emulate the young hero who, at so tender an age, had saved the life of his King, and discovered so much courage and sensibility! With what ardo [...] did I desire to become acquainted with him, attach myself [...] to him, and imitate his virtues as far as for me imitation was possible! How often have I entreated my father to take me to Berlin, that I might solicit the King to permit [Page 81] the young Count of Walstein to come and pass some months at our house!
"My father's ill health had obliged him to quit the service a few years after the death of the General; since which time he constantly remained at an estate which lies in the farther part of Silesia. Several years were passed there before the passionate desire I had to see the Count could be gratified; I was too young to appear at court, and being engaged in my studies, these could not be interrupted; nor could my father, notwithstanding his frequent solicitations, prevail on the King to suffer his adopted son out of his sight, for whom his attachment daily increased.
"Never, perhaps, was there so great a favourite, and never, perhaps, was there so deserving a one. Far from profiting by their partiality of his master, and accumulating wealth and honours to himself, he sought only to make others happy; and, instead of being envied, was adored. The name of the young Count of Walstein was never pronounced without affection and praise; every father proposed him as a model to his sons, and every mother wished him the husband of her daughter; though few, indeed, might flatter herself with such a hope. The King openly said he himself would give him a wife, and the King destined the most amiable of women for Walstein.
"Oh, Caroline! Caroline!—Yet, have I a right to murmur?—No, you ought to appertain to the best of men; you, only, could reward the virtues of Walstein, and Walstein, only, could merit you.
"At last, the long-wished for moment of meeting the Count arrived. Returning from a most fatiguing campaign, young Walstein, having need of rest, added his entreaties to those of my father, and supplicated permission of the King to pass apart of the summer at Ronebourg, the estate at which my father resided. The King had not the power to refuse him any thing, and his request was granted, though reluctantly. I heard the news with transport. He came, and I found that Fame, instead of having exaggerated, was still far beneath the truth. The Count was in the very prime of life; he was then four-and-twenty, and to the most dignified figure, and features the most beautiful, he added a countenance incredibly expressive; his eyes were the very mirror of [Page 82] his mind; in them were painted benevolence and sensibility, and, whenever any trait of virtue or of courage was related, they perfectly flashed with animation and pleasure; he was tall, his legs were remarkably handsome, nor is it impossible to convey the pleasing sensations that the symmetry of his person and his whole appearance inspired.
"I see your surprise, Caroline—Yes, such was your husband, and such your husband would still have been, if—O, Caroline, I implore your pity; never did wretch stand in greater need of compassion.—You cannot imagine the horrible tale I have to tell; you cannot have the most distant conception of the pangs I fell at recollecting that, perhaps, in a moment, you will detest me—Yet, no; the good, the gentle, the tender Caroline will weep over my destiny, will pardon, and, I hope, forgive; for, though great have been my crimes, yet, surely, great is my present punishment."
Tears and contending passions took possession of the soul of Caroline, obliged her to rest, and the manuscript dropped from her hands. She cast her eyes on the box th [...] contained the portrait, comprehended whose it once was, reached out her arm to take it, and, without daring to touch it, as suddenly drew back. The palpitations of her heart were violent, her ideas disordered, her imagination bewildered, and it was necessary to recollect herself, for a moment, ere she could again begin reading.— She sighed profoundly, dried up her tears, once more glanced at the box, again turned her eyes away, took up the manuscript, and continued with an emotion that augmented at every line:
"I was in my nineteenth year when Walstein came to Ronebourg, and, notwithstanding the difference of age and situation, his kindness outran my hopes by the most delicate offers of friendship, which, to me, was as necessary as it was flattering; for I then stood in the utmost need of a friend. My heart panted after some one who could understand it, to whom it could open itself, and who could participate its feelings. I was distractedly in love—Yet, no, it is profanation so to use the word. I loved not. I have since too well known what love really is, so to confound the two sensations—But I was ardently, inordinately, desirous of obtaining a young woman of absolutely obscure birth; yet, whose beauty might [Page 83] have placed her on a throne. Yes, Caroline, Louisa was indeed beautiful; she must have been, otherwise, I could not think her so now, could not tell you so at this moment."
The heart of Caroline had undergone such variety of trials, and so severe, that it is not wonderful she felt herself affected at this place. She leaned back, for a moment, on her chair; had recourse to her smelling-bottle, and, when she was somewhat recovered, again went on:
"Louisa was the daughter of an invalid serjeant (my father held it a duty to maintain a certain number of invalids) and one of my mother's maids. The old couple lived a quarter of a league from Ronebourg, on a small farm, which my parents had given them as a reward for past services. During my childhood I was continually with them, continually in the arms of the good Cicely, who had nursed me, and who loved me as dearly as she did her own son, Fritz; who, in these my boyish days, was my intimate friend. Louisa, younger by some years than he, was still dearer to me; for I could not quit the farm of the good Josselin, her father, nor live separate from her a moment; and when they sent me to the University I shed as many tears at taking leave of Cicely, Josselin, and, particularly, the little Louisa, as in quitting the house of my father.
"I obtained permission to take Fritz with me. I was ignorant, then, that this [...]d was, naturally, as vile and deceitful as his parents were honest; or, I should rather say, his baseness was not at that time come to maturity. I saw him acute, active, faithful, and zealous for my service and my interests. He was the son of my nurse, the brother of Louisa. How many claims, therefore, had he on my confidence and love! They were not forgotten, and he was esteemed rather as a friend than as a domestic.
"Some years stay at Erlang greatly enfeebled the remembrance of the farm, and the pleasures of childhood; yet were they occasionally revived by letters that Fritz received from his sister, and shewed me. These always contained some short article concerning her young master, which was so tenderly expressed, and she recommended Fritz so urgently to love him, to serve him faithfully, asked so earnestly concerning his health and welfare, that I melted while I read them, and felt great impatience again▪ to see her by whom they were written.
[Page 84]"Among them came one which informed Fritz of the death of his mother, my good and dear nurse. The grief of Louisa was real and affecting, and painted with so much sensibility, an energy so powerful, and so native to a noble heart, that, at hearing it read, the most rugged nature must have been moved. I too, was sincerely afflicted for her who, ever since my birth, had bestowed the most tender attentions on me. I wept her death more than Fritz, and was far less easily consoled. I have since recollected that one day, when I spoke of my sorrow for the death of his mother, a phrase escaped him which I did not then interpret as I do now. "You may see Louisa with much less difficulty," said he. Had age and experience better taught me, this would have sufficiently unveiled his odious character; but I, at that time, preserved that sweet innocence which suffers us not to suspect evil.
"A short time after I was recalled home. I returned to Ronebourg, and arrived there some months before the visit of the young Count of Walstein took place.—The very next day I ran to the farm of Josselin, accompanied by Fritz; but, good God! what were my feelings when I beheld Louisa, and saw the amazing change which a few years had made in her person! Never before had I beheld a being so beauteous. She was in mourning, and her black vest, while it marked her ele [...]t form and shewed her slender shape more slender, gave a fine contrast to one of the finest complexions Nature ever bestowed. Her cheeks glowed with animation and pleasure at the return of her brother and young master; her large dark eyes were powerfully and affectingly expressive; and her hair, black as the ribband by which it was decorated, falling in large tresses on each side, made freshness look more fresh, and added brighthess to the vivid colours of youth.
"Pardon me, Caroline for thus dwelling on circumstances which, to you, cannot be very interesting; and which now, to me, are become only indifferent, except as they may prove some alleviation to excesses into which a most ungovernable passion hurried me; for never can my crime find forgiveness, unless in the superiority of that beauty by which it was inspired; its effects, alas were the most sudden and the most deplorable!
"When I set out for the farm, I had resolved, in the gaiety of my heart, to let Louisa guess which of the two [Page 85] was her brother; and had, therefore, dressed myself nearly like him; but the ecstacy, the trouble, the desires, of my soul, presently betrayed me. Fritz laughed, and saw, with joy, the impression his sister had made on me. Louisa ran with open arms and pleasure in her eyes; but, suddenly stopping when she came to me, she made me a rustic courtesy, which I thought all grace, and, falling on her brother's neck, melted into tears.
"I was as much affected as she, and the good old Josselin came to add to our emotion. He received me with tenderness and respect; we went into the house, and there he spoke to me of Cicely, the manner of her death, the greatness of his affliction, and recited all she had said, in her dying moments, relative to Fritz and me. I wished to answer, but I could only behold Louisa and weep with her. Josselin, afterwards, talked of his children, and asked if I was satisfied with his son, "As for Louisa," said he, "she is a good girl; she takes care of me and the household affairs, and supplies the place of her mother better than could be expected; so long as she continues prudent, and her brother behaves well, I shall be easy and happy, and, after a while, shall, in my turn, again go and meet my dear Cicely. When I am gone, I trust to God and my Lord the Baron to take care of my small family, in whom, my children, I hope you will find consolation for the loss of your poor old father."
"Louisa ran into hi [...] arms. Fritz, also approached, but he appeared to me but feebly moved: or, rather, I beheld Louisa, the beauteous, the affectionate, the tender Louisa; and I could have wished, like her, to have kneeled to the old man, to have called him my father also, to have taken his hands and have pressed them to my lips. The father of Louisa was to me, at that moment, the most respectable of beings.
"It was time that a scene so affecting should finish. My heart was overcharged, and might not contain all these thronging sensations, and I left the farm, bearing, in this captivated heart, the image of Louisa and the fever of love. Fritz perceived all this, because he waited and wished it all. A connection between his sister and me made him suppose my favour certain, and his own fortune made. Perhaps, his ambition went farther still, and flattered him he might become the brother of his master. His base and interested mind regarded not the dishonour [Page 86] of his family, or of mine, if he only could receive benefit thereby; he, therefore, took every means in his power to blow up the flame by which I was devoured, and in which he succeeded but too well.
"Is not Louisa, well grown and exceedingly handsome, Sir," said he, "What a pity would it be if some stupid lout should possess such a treasure of charms? For my part, I verily believe I should rather see her the mistress of a great Lord, like you, than the wife of a rustic who would never know half her worth."
"This, and other similar conversation, disgusted me not, though it would have done, no doubt, before I had seen Louisa. The dear idea of possessing her, no matter by what means, transported me; and I, every day, swallowed deeper draughts of the poison by which my feeble heart was infected; every day went to the farm, under the pretext of coursing or shooting, and was always kindly received by Josselin and his daughter, when they were together. As soon as I arrived, Louisa would run to the dairy, fetch me a bowl of milk, cut me some brown bread and sometimes eat with me. The good Josselin would recount his ancient exploits and campaigns, while emptying his bottle of beer. I feigned to listen, while my eyes were continually searching Louisa, and devouring her beauties; and never could I leave the place without an increase of passion.
"If I found her alone, all her former pleasing attentions, all that air of friendship and satisfaction were gone, and a marked embarrassment was ever apparent. She began a sentence and left it unfinished; sometimes seemed affected, and ready to weep; then, no longer master of myself, would I approach her with ecstacy, venture some little liberties, and recal to her mind the sports of our infancy. But she ever rep [...]lled me with so firm, so serious, so decided a tone, that it awed my audacity, and inspired headstrong passion with fear.
"When I returned home I would complain to Fritz of his sister's reserve, conjure him to see her, to speak in my favour, and to prevail on her to grant me more of her friendship and confidence. He would laugh, and assure me I was beloved, passionately beloved, that he knew it well from the confusion in which Louisa always appeared when we were alone, which was a certain proof. "But [Page 87] these young girls," said he, "who, in fact, only wish to yield, wish to have some excuse for yielding."
"Emboldened by this hope, I would return to the farm. If Josselin was present I was received with every possible kindness; if not, the same continual embarrassment took place, and, if I became pressing, the same resistance. This conduct drove me to despair, and my love, at length, knew no bounds.
"Such was the trouble and effervescence of my passions when the Count of Walstein came to Ronebourg. Louisa was the whole world to me, for Louisa only I existed, and 'Louisa I must possess, or die,' was the continual exclamation of my heart. The very reputation of the Count for prudence was sufficient to deter me, for some days, from making any avowal of my passion. At first I was afraid of his over powerful reason, but the Count knew so well how to conceal his own superiority that he himself seemed unconscious of it. His mind, while it was strong and sublime, was so gentle and affectionate, and to a ripened wisdom of age he so naturally added all the graces and vivacity of youth, that after a short acquaintance, all fear and constraint were gone.
"His indulgent nature was so conciliating, so winning, that, one day, as we were walking together, and he was rallying me on the absence, the apparent distraction of my thoughts, I ventured to inform him of the cause, and to open my whole heart. To him I made a recital much like that you just have read; I omitted no circumstance, and all was repeated with that warmth, and enthusiasm which well were descriptive of the passion by which I was devoured, while he seemed to listen with the utmost emotion and concern. When I had ended, he took me by the hand, and clasping it with all the sympathy of affection, "O Lindorf," said he, "my too youthful, too tender friend, what a mountain of affliction art thou heaping on thyself!"
"He was proceeding to give me some advice, but I interrupted him. "It is not advice," said I, "dear Count, that I ask; it is compassion and indulgence, it is your consent to see my Louisa, and, till you have seen her, not to pass judgment on me." So saying, I forcibly drew him towards the farm.
"Louisa was alone, and very melancholy. She appeared as if she had been weeping, but this only made the [Page 88] greater impression on me; the surprise of seeing a stranger, as we entered, spread her beautiful face with modest blushes; and her timidity and embarrassment heightened her charms. She recovered herself, and received us as well as possible. I observed she often looked at the Count, and that sighs occasionally escaped her which she endeavoured to repress. As for Walstein, he beheld her with astonishment, and turned, afterwards, and looked on me with eyes of affliction.
"We took a walk round the little kitchen garden of Louisa. There were a few flowers intermingled, and she gathered each of us a violet. I could not help observing she gave the finest of them to my friend; but, certainly, this was nothing more than politeness, and I could not be jealous of the Count, whom she had never seen before; no, I was only pleased that she behaved so as might best obtain his good opinion. Nothing, I observed, escaped him; the good order of her little garden, the neatness of her person, and the cleanliness of her house; he saw them all, and felt them all.
"We took our leave, and, at a little distance from the house, met Josselin who was returning from the fields. His long white hair and venerable figure struck the Count. "This," said I, "is the father of Louisa." Josselin came up, and spoke some time with his usual good sense; after which we parted, and continued our way. I walked beside the Count without uttering a word, my anxious and inquisitive eyes endeavoured to penetrate his thoughts, but he likewise kept silence. At length, I could forbear no longer—"Well, my dear Count, tell me, am I so very culpable for adoring Louisa?"
"Not, at present," replied he; "you are yet only unfortunate; she deserves to be adored"—Then tenderly embracing me, "No, you are not culpable," added he, but, perhaps, another day, and you may be—Fly dear Lindorf, fly that dangerous girl; there is no other possible resource. If the most sincere, the most tender friendship may any way soften the pangs of love, mine shall be wholly yours. I will not forsake you, will go with you to Berlin, or take you to my own estate, or, in fine, wherever you please, provided it be far enough from Ronebourg."
"Fly!" said I, "Fly Louisa! Live without Louisa! No, never, never."
[Page 89]"And what, in the name of heaven," replied the Count, with ardour, "do you think of doing? What are your hopes? Do you mean to marry her?—Remember your parents, and think whether you also mean to murder them.—Do you wish to seduce her? I cannot suppose you would entertain an idea so dishonorable, so abhorrent. Louisa is the picture of virtue and innocence. And her respectable aged father, who esteems, who loves, who receives you as if you were his own son, would you betray the confidence he reposes in you by bearing that from him which of all things on earth is to him the most precious? No, Lindorf, you never can be guilty of an act so atrocious. Lindorf will listen to the voice of honour, of reason, of true friendship, and if he shed tears, they shall not be the distracting tears of guilty remorse."
"The features, the voice, the eyes of the Count assumed an expression and energy which are impossible for me to convey; and with conviction irresistable assailed the heart. A Deity seemed speaking! A supreme intelligence, descended from heaven to enlighten and save! Every word he pronounced was so different from what I daily heard from Fritz, and I had been so little accustomed to behold my passion under so criminal a point of view, that I was absolutely struck speechless, and stood before him abashed. The Count observed me, knew what was passing in my mind, and, tenderly taking me by the hand, I see," said he, "the reasons I have urged have made some impression on you, and that virtue will soon regain her empire. Come, my friend, come with me, and ask your father's permission to travel awhile. We will depart to-morrow."
"To-morrow!" cried I, in all the pangs of returning passion, "depart to-morrow! From Louisa! See her no more! Ignorant whether I am beloved, whether I ever may see her again! No, Walstein, no; hope it not; it is too much; it is at once to plunge a dagger to my heart." Then, leaning my head against a tree, and shedding tears, I added, "I feel the force of what you have said: it is but too true. Ah! wherefore had I not a friend like you in the beginning of this fatal passion? But it is now too late, a devouring fire scorches me up, and now I feel, too powerfully feel, there is no alternative but Louisa or death—Yet I will endeavour, in part, [Page 90] to follow your advice; to remain some days without seeing her, without going to the farm; but let me have the consolation of being near her.—Alas! dear Sir, I am a sick man, to whom nursing and precaution are necessary, and whom a remedy too violent would immediately kill."
"The Count owned I was right, and mildly endeavoured to calm and console me. He remained satisfied with the promise, which I repeated, of not going for some days to the farm, and no doubt hoped, by degrees, to bring me to consent to a longer absence.
"In the evening I complained of not being well, that I might thus impose an obligation upon myself of keeping my chamber; for I felt, if I should leave it, my feet would, instinctively, conduct me to Louisa; but a feigned sickness would deprive me of the liberty of going. Yet could it not be said to be feigned; for I, for several days past, had had an inward fever, the usual consequence of violent passions. I slept little, and ate less; this excessive change alarmed my parents, but I assured them a few days rest and proper care would presently restore me. Walstein failed not highly to praise my fortitude, left me but seldom, and, while with me, took every means to increase and give force to reason, and greatly relieved the torment of passion; but the moment he left me it as suddenly resumed its empire, to which Fritz, indeed, was continually aiding, by his insinuations and discourse.
"He had perceived, from some few words he had heard, and even from what had escaped me myself, that the Count opposed my love for Louisa; and this fellow was, therefore, only the more industrious to keep it alive and enflamed. Nor were any great efforts necessary; for no sooner was I ever alone with him than I began, in spite of all my endeavours to be silent, to speak of his sister. He assured me she secretly moaned my absence and my indisposition, and that, for four days, during which she had not seen me, she had done nothing but weep. "Poor girl! 'tis quite piteous to see her, my Lord; she loves you to distraction; and then she keeps it all to herself; no soul but I knows it, but I does all I can to comfort her; I tells her she is not the first country lass that has loved a great Lord, and I says, how happy she would be with you; for, to be sure, you are so good, and so generous, that, certainly, you would never forsake her."
[Page 91]"These kind of conversations, continually repeated, too potently contributed to increase passion and enfeeble fortitude. One day, the fifth or sixth of my retreat, the Count having left me to go a shooting, and Fritz having spoken for a whole hour of Louisa and her love for me, unable any longer to resist, I broke loose, like a child whose guardian had left him to himself, and flew to the farm, hoping to be back before the return of the Count.
"Josselin was gone to the field, and Louisa left alone in the house. Her wheel stood by her, yet was she not spinning, but, leaning on her elbows, she had covered her eyes with her handkerchief. At first she did not perceive me, but, hearing the noise the shutting-to of the door made, she looked up, and exclaimed, blushing, "Good God! my Lord, is it you? I was told you were very ill, and am exceedingly glad to see that"—
"I did not give her time to finish her sentence; the affection which I imagined these few words contained, her blushes, and her eyes, red and humid with tears, all confirmed me every thing Fritz had told me concerning her love was true. Enchanted, in ecstacies, at seeing her again, and at seeing her thus soft and tender, I flung myself at her feet, and knew not what I said. No longer master of my reason, I expressed myself with such enthusiasm and fire, that Louisa was terrified, but she could neither stop me nor break from me; I had seized both her hands, which, with great agitation and force, I held, while I devoured them with my kisses.
"Just at this instant the door opened, and in came the Count—I know not which of the three seemed most confounded. The surprise of being thus caught made me quit Louisa's hands, who, the moment she was free, fled precipitately; I rose, but durst not look up at Walstein—At length, "Are you here, Lindorf?" said he, "I left you in your chamber, and I find you at the feet of Louisa?"
"Then you did not come to seek me?" replied I; with amazement still superior to his own.
"I know not what passed at this instant in my mind; I certainly did not suspect the Count; no, I did not; and yet could I no way account for this his unexpected arrival at the farm. I had, at first, supposed that, having been home and not finding me in my chamber, he [Page 92] had mistrusted where I was gone; but the surprise he discovered had wholly eradicated that idea.
"No," said he, recovering himself, "it was not you I came to seek; I wanted to speak to Josselin; I will tell you on what subject." Then taking me by the arm, he brought me away before I could again see Louisa.
"As soon as we were out of the house, he told me his serjeant was recruiting at the neighbouring village, that he had just been speaking to him, and finding he had enlisted several young men, with whom he supposed Josselin to be acquainted, he had come to make enquiries concerning them. This appeared plausible, and half dissipated the vague kind of inquietude, I had involuntary felt.
"And now," said the Count, "permit me to ask you, in your turn, what you were doing there; and what saying, to Louisa, in an attitude of such supplication, and a tone so vehement? Forgive me, Lindorf, but you have granted me your confidence, and of this confidence I should be most unworthy if I did not endeavour to protect you from the worst of dangers. You promised me to remain a week without seeing Louisa; what then could be the intention of this secret visit?"
"To convince myself that I am beloved, and in that case"
"Well! what then?"
"Why, then,—to sacrifice every thing to Louisa; to renounce all for her; family, country, fortune, friends: she to me would be all, with her would I fly to the end of the world, if so it were necessary. I have offered her the choice of a secret marriage or an elopement; and I am determined on the one or the other. I ask not the Count of Walstein to assist me in this enterprise, but I depend upon his discretion."
"And has Louisa consented?" said he, with emotion.
"She has not answered me; you suddenly, came in; but she was greatly affected; her tears, her manner, every thing spoke her tenderness; beside, I am very certain I am beloved."
"It is possible you may deceive yourself," said the Count. "I think I am more certain that Louisa loves another."
"Loves another!" repeated I with phrensy—"But, no, it cannot be; Louisa is all innocence; she never is from home, she sees only her father, brother, and me."
"And one more," replied the Count, a young peasant, [Page 93] called Justin, as I believe; nay, I am assured he and Louisa have been lovers these three years, and that Josselin has refused his consent to the marriage only because Justin is poor. If, however, he be beloved"—
"Unable any longer to listen, my blood boiling in my veins, and jealousy maddening in my eyes, I seized the Count by the arm, looked steadily at him, with wild distraction, and demanded from whom he had his information—My countenance was so frantic, to which my voice was so correspondent, that Walstein was alarmed.
"In the name of Heaven! Lindorf," said he, taking me by the hand, "be calm; dear Lindorf, recover yourself; I may have been misinformed or deceived; I will inquire, however, and particularly; that I promise; ere long I will let you know from whom I received my information, and whether it be or be not exact. But, indeed, Lindorf," added he, in a tone of the deepest affliction, "you rend my very heart; there is nothing I would not do, or suffer, to restore you to yourself and happiness."
"Happiness!" said I, in a low voice; happiness exists not without Louisa."
"The friendship, however, of the Count, and his affecting and tender manner made me somewhat more composed. I fancied he had been ill informed; I knew this Justin, and never had had the least suspicion of him; he was a poor orphan, whose sole advantage seemed to be a good person hid under a dress so mean that it was an attestation of his extreme poverty. Educated by charity in the parish, he had been made shepherd to the village. I had often heard speak of the activity, honesty, zeal, and even courage with which he did the duties of his place; the flocks all prospered under his care, and he knew how to cure most of their diseases; he could defend them, likewise, and had, already, killed several wolves which came to attack them. The country people vaunted of his talents. He worked prettily in osier, and carved with his knife, for he had no other tool; his voice was fine, and he played exceedingly well on the flageolet, untaught, except by nature, and perhaps love. I had often, while out a-shooting, stopped to listen to him; but never had it entered my imagination that the poor shepherd, Justin, could be my rival. Louisa had appeared to me so very much above him; though, indeed, [Page 94] to me, she had appeared above the whole world. Yet, led now to reflect on these circumstances, I could not help remembering their birth was equal, and a trifling difference of wealth the only distinction. Justin, too, was a handsome lad, and I well recollected that, in my continual visits at the farm, I had often met Justin and his flock in the vicinity; but he was always with them, and never had I seen him at the farm; nay, I had often spoken of his songs and flageolet to Louisa and her father, but they always had appeared not to pay the least attention.
"Thus by turns, tortured and relieved, I knew not what to think; though a rival like Justin was too humiliating not to make me endeavour to doubt. No sooner was I alone than I called for Fritz, who, intimate with his sister, and very often at his father's, ought to know something of this affair. I interrogated him, very seriously, concerning Justin, his intercourse with Louisa, their pretended love for each other, and the secrecy with which it had been kept from me.
"At first, he appeared greatly confused; but afterwards, denied every thing; spoke of poor Justin with the utmost contempt, assured me his sister thought like him, and would be exceedingly offended at such reports; and concluded by asking me from whom I could hear such a falsehood. I had the imprudence to name the Count!
"My Lord, the Count," answered Fritz, shaking his head, "knows very well what he is about; he takes care not to [...]ell you it is he himself who loves Louisa; and that this very morning—but one must not tell all one knows."
"He pretended to be going to leave the room; but I commanded him to stay, and, after pressing him repeatedly, he told me that, ever since the first day I had brought the Count to the farm, he had become passionately in love with Louisa; that, while I kept my chamber, not a single day had passed on which the Count had not come to the farm, and endeavoured to seduce her by the most flattering and advantageous offers; nay, that very morning, that he, Fritz, had caught him with her, and that the Count had tried to bribe him to secrecy. "Perhaps," added Fritz, "I should have said nothing, because, to be sure, I don't like to vex my Lord: but since I see he wishes to scandalize my sister, by pretending to talk of her loving a beggar, like Justin, I can no [Page 95] longer hold my tongue. To be sure, I would wish to consult my Lord thereupon; for, though I know Louisa is a very virtuous body, and that she loves my Lord too much to love any body else, yet who can answer for these young girls? My Lord the Count is so rich and so pressing; and, besides, he is his [...]wn master; he has neither father nor mother, and these are plaguy great temptations. Then, if he should go about to run off with her, for he loves her so desperately that he would do any thing to get her, would it not be better for us to be beforehand with him? If my Lord pleases, we will put her out of his reach in a twinkling; for my part, I have always said, and always shall say, I would rather my Lord had her than any body else."
"My agitation while Fritz was speaking was excessive; I walked, or rather strode, about my chamber, not knowing what to think of the Count; my esteem for him was so rooted, that I could not persuade myself he might be guilty of such perfidy. Were what I heard true, his persuasive, his affecting, his powerful eloquence, which seemed the effusion of the purest friendship, would have been nothing more than deceitful artifice to remove me from Louisa, and snatch from me this object of my adoration. I could not support the horrible idea; it appeared wholly incompatible with the known character of the Count, and, sternly looking at Fritz, I commanded him to leave my presence, and no longer insult my friend by falsehoods totally undeserving belief.
"I did more, I intended to go to Walstein, and undisguisedly inform him of what I had heard; certain that a single word from him would presently efface every remaining trait of suspicion. I went; but I found my father with him, who did not leave us the whole evening, and before whom such a conversation was impossible. Theirs turned on the duties of society, morality, and true honor. The Count said many things, on these subjects, so strong, with such natural conviction, expressed himself with such a noble energy of mind, and such a purity of heart, that I inwardly blushed for having a moment doubted of his virtue, and promised myself never to doubt more. I resolved, likewise, not to speak to him on the subject; for to suspect a man lik [...] him of such an action, I was convinced, was equally foolish and disgraceful. Beside, to have mentioned it I must, in some measure, [Page 96] have made my footman his accuser, which was too degrading; I was, therefore, determined to be silent myself, and to make Fritz silent also, whom a false zeal for my service might have deceived.
"But, while repelling from my memory all his accusations against the Count, I still was resolved to profit by his assistance in carrying off his sister. I admired the principles of Walstein, without the power of imitating them; or, rather, I wilfully shut my eyes on the consequences of the act. I imagined my benefactions would console the aged Josselin. Madman, that I was! as if gold could console a father for the loss of his child; and a child, too, like Louisa. But I was incapable of reason. Fatal and terrible effect of the passions, how much are they to be feared, since they can lead a naturally upright and virtuous heart thus dreadfully astray!
"Walstein came the next morning to my chamber before I was up; he was dressed and booted. "Lindorf," said he, "I am going to the village to meet my serjeant and examine my recruits. I do not ask you to go with me, because I intend to call at the farm. I want to speak with Josselin. After your scene of yesterday, I suppose both you and Louisa would be eq [...]ally embarrassed in the presence of a third person; and I inform you that I am going," added he, smiling, "in order that, should you once more escape from yourself, you may not be once more surprised." After affectionately pressing my hand, he left me.
"This visit to the farm, of which he spoke so openly, ought rather to have removed than confirmed my fears. He could not know what Fritz had been saying to me; therefore, there could be no insidious mystery; and yet I was very uneasy; tormented by suspicions of I know not what; suspicions which, notwithstanding, I could not wholly subdue. I rang my bell, Fritz was not to be found, but one of my father's servants came i [...] his stead; he was a native of the village, where he went every day, and I asked him, with all the indifference I could assume, whether the serjeant of Walstein was there, recruiting. He answered in the affirmative, and moreover, that one of his own brothers was enlisted; as, likewise was that Justin, who the Count had pretended was the favoured lover of Louisa. "My Lord the Count," [Page 97] said he, "is so good a nobleman, and so kind an officer, that all the young men wish to serve under him."
"This simple panegvric made me blush at my own doubts; tranquil, therefore, respecting the Count and this Justin, I thought of nothing but carrying off Louisa, and living and dying for her. This idea was for ever fermenting in my head and my heart; and, at twenty, when devoured by a passion so unconquerable, youth is not apt at imagining reasons which should counteract it, nor at foreseeing difficulties; seconded by Fritz, all things appeared possible, and I waited for him with impatience, that we might hold consultation together.— Fritz, however, came not, and the Count returned.— Wholly occupied by my own projects, and held in restraint by his presence, he observed the difference of my manner, and very unaffectedly told me so. I saw he wished to penetrate my thoughts, and, unwilling to deceive him more than necessary, I spoke as little as possible, yet enough to let him understand I persisted in the design I had mentioned the evening before.
"After dinner, he left me, as he said, to go to his apartment and write some letters; and, after they were finished, we were to ride out together. Anxious to take advantage of the moment, the only one, perhaps, I should have to myself, I would have instantly flown to Louisa to have obtained her so much desired consent to go off with me; but I might find her father with her, and my going would have been fruitless. A letter, therefore, which I could privately convey to her, would remove this inconvenience, and I immediately sat down to write. The disorder of my mind was visible in every line. My propositions of flight were renewed; eternal love was avowed; promises of compliance to all her wishes repeated and sworn to with all the exaggerations of passion. I requested an answer, and referred her to her brother for our mutual arrangement.
"I had folded up my letter▪ and was got to the door, when Fritz, whom I had not seen all day, entered my chamber, hastily. You, yesterday, Sir," said he, "treated me as an impostor. Where do you suppose my Lord the Count this moment is?"
"My blood instantly ran cold—"In his own chamber," answered I. "Why that question?"
[Page 98]"Not in his own chamber, but in my sister's, where I just have seen him with my own eyes."
"Take care what you say—Walstein!—Impossible!"
"You may convince yourself, Sir; only go, and you will find him, either there or in the garden, waiting for Louisa, for she was not at home, nor my father either. The Count sent a boy to seek Louisa, instantly; I heard him, he did not see me, and came, immediately, to tell you Sir, that you may be convinced I am no lyar."
"As Fritz proceeded, my rage increased, till it was soon ungovernable. To be imposed upon with so much perfidy and baseness!—And by whom? By the man I venerated, the man in the world I most respected, and the friend to whom I had confided the secrets of my soul!—I sent Fritz away, and, almost mechanically, seized my pistols, loaded them with ball without perceiving they were loaded before, and, putting them in my pocket, went out with a fury that approached madness, and was presently within sight of the farm.
"It was necessary to pass by the far end of the garden, where, the hedge being low, I saw the Count, impatiently walking, and incessantly looking towards the garden door, which was opposite to where I stopped. Before I had time to determine how it was proper for me to act, the garden door opened, and Louisa, the timid, the modest Louisa, from whom I never could obtain the smallest favour, ran, with open arms to the Count. who opened his to receive her, kissed his hands, pressed them between hers, and on him fixed her fine eyes, sparkling with love and pleasure.
"I scarcely know how I recovered, for I felt as if I had received the stroke of death. A cold, a mortal cold, froze up my blood; my strength abandoned me, and I was obliged to support myself by leaning against a tree. Rage presently again brought me to life; again my eyes were cast towards the fatal garden; the lovers, for I no longer doubted they were so, were expressing themselves with all the warmth of sensibility; the countenance of Walstein shone, as it were, with bliss, and never had I beheld it so illumined. I could not hear their discourse, but, by their gestures, it seemed as if he ardently entreated something which Louisa feebly refused. At last, the Count took out a purse, which appeared full of gold, [Page 99] presented it, which, after another moment's hesitation, Louisa received with a half confused half tender air.
"The Count kissed her, and both together re-entered the house, just at the very moment I was going to leap the hedge, and perhaps immolate two victims to revenge. I was no longer master of my actions, and should certainly have taken away my own life, if I had not immediately seen the Count leave the farm, with all the tranquillity of innocence and virtue, which I interpreted into the triumph of successful love.
"Defend thyself," said I, "traitor," running up to him with my pistols; presenting him the handle of one and the muzzle of the other to his heart; "Deprive me of the life which thou hast rendered miserable, or let me rid the world of a perfidious monster!"
"He would have laid hold of my arm, and have spoken to me. "I will hear nothing," said I, "defend yourself! I am capable of any mischief!"
"So saying, I clapped the mouth of my pistol to my own forehead. Happy, most happy, had I been had I drawn the trigger! But the Count prevented me, and, taking the pistol—"You are determined," said he; then, drawing back a few paces, fired it in the air. Mine was discharged at the same moment; but mine (for ever cursed be that moment!) took a fatal, an abhorred direction. I saw my friend stagger, and fall, bathed in his own blood, and saying, "Alas! poor Lindorf! when you shall know—Ah! how much more will you be to be pitied than I!"
"All my rage instantly vanished. I cast the murderous pistol from me; and, running up to my friend, endeavoured, with my handkerchief, to stop the blood that bubbled from the wound. One ball had struck him on the face, and, he said, he thought he felt a wound in the knee, but was convinced that neither of them was mortal. I dragged him to the tree, and placed him against it, where I gave him all the succour in my power; for I was so totally beside myself that I had even forgot the farm, which was not forty paces distant. I remembered not so much as the cause of this miserable affair; at that moment of horror the danger of Walstein was all I remembered: I kneeled behind him; he leaned against my breast, and, notwithstanding the universal tremor of [Page 100] my limbs, I bound up his wound with our two handkerchiefs.
No sooner had I finished, than recollection suddenly [...]t [...]r [...]d. "Oh God," said I, "Wretch! accursed [...]e [...]ch that I am! it is I who have committed this dreadful▪ this murderous act." My groans could not find utterance. I hid my face in the dust, and added nothing but inarticulate cries and exclamations.
"Lindorf," said the poor wounded Walstein, "Dear Lindorf, be calm, listen to me. There is one way, still, of repairing your wrongs, of preserving, nay, even of augmenting my friendship. Yes, dearer to me shall you be than ever, if you will pledge your honour to perform what I am going to request."
"I had no doubt but it was to renounce Louisa; but the atrocious crime I had committed had wrought so instant a revolution in my feelings that I did not hesitate a moment to promise, by the most sacred oaths, to perform all he should require.
"Well, then," said the most generous of men, "I require, absolutely, without reserve, that this affair, forever, remain a secret between you and me; happily, no one has seen us; let me tell the story my own way; and beware, Lindorf, how thou contradictest me. Thou hast sworn, and I repeat, on this condition, only, can I pardon and love thee still. A sole word will for ever deprive thee of my friendship."
"I would have spoken, but sobs and groans prevented me. I could only take his hand and press it to my heart, which was rent by the most cruel remorse. In despite of all my cares the wound continued to bleed; Walstein, with my aid, endeavoured to rise, but he soon perceived the wound in his knee was much worse than he had supposed. One of the balls had taken a different direction, and, we feared, the knee-pan was wounded, for he could not bear the least weight on it, but again sunk down on the ground.
"I detested, I cursed, I prayed, I almost shrieked with agony, I prostrated myself at the feet of my friend, while he continued to yield me every consolation.
"At last said he, "Go to the farm, and endeavour to get assistance; you will there find a proof that I was not, as you have supposed, the basest of men. Go, but remember your oath; if you break it, I never will see you more."
[Page 101]"I could not reply, but ran to the farm, and, as I precipitately entered, immediately beheld in explanation of the conduct of Walstein, and irrefragable reasons for holding my own in still more utter, more damnable abhorrence! O! pardon—Mine was the guilt of fiends! The shepherd, Justin, new clothed, was seated beside Louisa, holding one of her hands between his, while she was leaning on his shoulder, and looking up at him with every speaking sensation that tenderness and happiness could inspire. The old man, Josselin, sat opposite to them, contemplating a scene so affecting to the heart, and holding the purse the Count had given Louisa, and which I had supposed the price of her dishonour, On the table was another, equally large. Every circumstance was a dagger to my heart, and, insensate as I had been, devoured by passion, I can solemnly attest that remorse, bitter, inexpressible, and almost intolerable, was the only feeling of which I was conscious, or capable.
"Oh! my friends," said I, as I entered; "come with me, fly to succour the Count; he is here, just by, wounded, come, instantly." My sudden appearance, my paleness, the blood on my clothes, and the intelligence I brought, were each a subject of terror.—"Good God!" exclaimed Louisa and Justin, "our dear benefactor wounded!"
"I led them to the place where I had left the Count. Pain, and the loss of blood, had so enfeebled him that he was almost insensible. Louisa ran for water, and vinegar. He came a little to himself, and, with difficulty, related that a pistol, with which he had been amusing himself, having burst as he fired it, had occasioned all this disaster, and that my coming by was the effect of chance.
"It was necessary to bear him to the Chateau, and Justin slew to the farm, and brought back a kind of hurdle, and a mattress, on which he was laid. Justin, in the prime of youth, and animated by gratitude, not, like me, weighed down by guilt, was most useful and active. Louisa and her aged father gave us all the assistance in their power, and we began our march. It was long, and most painful; and, as we proceeded, several things that Justin and Louisa said to each other gave me to understand they had long been lovers, and that the Count, that [Page 102] very day, had removed every obstacle to their union, by giving Justin a considerable farm, at his estate of Walstein▪ under the sole condition that they should marry, immediately depart, and that Josselin should go with them.
"Criminal, indeed, most criminal, did this relation make me; but my passion for Louisa was so perfectly cured by this dreadful event, that I heard, even with a kind of horrid pleasure, she was to be gone, and that I should see her no more!
"We arrived, at length, at the Chateau; and the hurdle being placed in the hall, and servants called to assist, my first care was to take a horse, and ride, with all possible speed, to the next town in search of surgeons. It was more than three leagues distant. I made, however, so much haste that I returned with them by dusk. I found every person in the most fearful consternation. The manner in which my father received me, tenderly embracing me, melting in tears, and praising my zeal, proved that he was totally ignorant of the part I had had in this dreadful affair. His despair was such that, had he known it, he certainly could not have survived such tenfold addition of misery. The recollection of this, more than my oath, kept me silent; but I may truly say the silence was a burthen to my heart, and that nothing could so effectually have given it ease as to have proclaimed my guilt, and thus have rendered me as detestable to the whole world as I was to myself.
"The surgeon, after the operation of extracting the balls, and probing the wounds of Walstein, declared they were not mortal, but that, it was to be feared, he would lose one eye, and the use of his leg; and they even spoke of amputation. The Count, who somewhat doubted of their skill, resolutely opposed this, and sustained, with fortitude, almost incredible, the dressing of the wounds, and the afflicting intelligence they had communicated. I could not support being present; but, when the surgeons had done, I again entered his chamber, and solemnly swore never to quit it but in company with Walstein. I know not how it happened that my excessive grief did not betray our secret. It was, indeed, most profound. My tears flowed continually; while the suffering victim of my hateful crime unceasingly endeavoured to calm and comfort me. He said, and protested, that he looked on the event as fortunate; that his inclination and abilities [Page 103] had always rather led him to study than to a military life; that he had devoted himself to the latter, in obedience to his father and his king; and that he should be exceedingly glad of so fair a pretext to forsake it, and yield to his love of literature and political and legislative researches. "Beside," added he, "you are now cured of your passion; the remedy, it is true, has been somewhat violent, but it has had its effect, and I most unfeignedly return Heaven thanks for all that has passed."
"Yes, it had had its effects; but I should ill deserve the sublime friendship of Walstein if I did not lament and execrate them everlastingly. I was cured of my love; for, three weeks after this misfortune had happened, I heard, without the least emotion, unless it were an emotion of joy from the mouth of Justin, who came every day to enquire concerning the health of his benefactor, that he had married Louisa, and that they were ready to depart for their new habitation.
"The Count now entered circumstantially on that subject; delicacy had, hitherto, kept him silent; but, solicited by me, he informed me that the morrow after the visit we had together paid at the farm, alarmed by the violence of my passion, he most seriously reflected on the means of avoiding effects so fatal; that his serjeant brought him a young man whom he had just enlisted; this was the poor Justin; his handsome person, intelligent countenance, and profound melancholy, gained the attention of the Count, and he questioned him concerning what induced him to enlist. The sincere and simple Justin did not endeavour to disguise his motives. Passionately enamoured of Louisa, her lover for several years, but without the least ray of hope, rejected by Josselin, menaced by Fritz, he wished only to die; but he wished to die like a brave fellow, combating the enemies of his King, I should die all the same," said he, "with grief at seeing Louisa the wife of another; and this misfortune must be mine, for her father has sworn I shall never be her husband."
"The Count asked him if he were beloved by Louisa. "To be sure, I certainly am," answered he; "if I were not, I might not, perhaps, have been true to her for so long a time. But, poor dear Louisa! I yesterday saw her never to see her again, and we both wept so much at parting that we thought we should have died with grief."
[Page 104]"I recollect, dear Lindorf," said the Count, "that when you first took me to see Louisa her melancholy struck us both."
"But, I hope," continued Justin, "that, when I am gone, Louisa will be less unhappy▪ her father, and her brother in particular, ill treat her every day on my account; and that is the reason why I am determined to become a soldier. I wish, indeed indeed I do, she may forget me; but her I shall never forget; no never never to my dying day."
"Walstein was extremely affected by the sincerity; honest intentions, and passion of Justin; and instantly conceived the project of rendering two lovers happy, and rescuing me from the worst of dangers. He mentioned nothing of his intentions to Justin, being first desirous to speak to Louisa and know if he had told him the exact truth. He went twice to the farm before he could find her alone, but watched his opportunity so well that at last he spoke to her in private. He had little difficulty in bringing her to confess her love for Justin; her heart was full of nothing else; and she had done nothing but weep since he had enlisted. She was desirous of recommending him to the Count; and, therefore, glad of finding him alone, she told him their love had commenced long before the death of her mother; that ever since she bad each day gone to meet him at the pasturage, and Justin had taught himself to play on the flageolet, purposely that he might not only give her the signal to come and join him, but accompany her likewise when she sung. To gain her favour, also, he had learned to make basket-work, spinning-wheels, bobbins, to twine the osier, and to carve in wood. Louisa shewed the Count two little groups of his sculpture exceedingly well carved, the one representing Louisa and the other Justin himself seated at her feet; both the figures were sufficiently like to be known. In another carving, still better executed, the young shepherd was combating a large wolf; for it was for the sake of Louisa, also, that he had first given proofs of his courage▪ by killing the wolf which was bearing off one of the [...]en of Josselin.
"How might the tender and grateful Louisa refuse yielding her heart to him who so well had merited the gift! "Yes, my Lord, said she to the Count, with all the enthusiasm of legibility, "I love him with my whole [Page 105] soul, and shall for ever love him, though I never should see him more.—One hope, alas, we had, one sole hope. I often said to Justin, when he bewailed his poverty, "Be comforted, dear Justin, only wait till our young master returns, he will speak for us to his father, and, I am well persuaded, will have us married. Our young master is returned, but"—
"Louisa stopped—"Finish what you had to say," said the Count.—"I very well perceive," said she, blushing and looking down, "I was wrong; and I should even be very sorry, at present, if he knew I loved Justin: for my brother has assured me he would kill him, immediately. When Justin is out of his reach, I then will tell him, the first time I see him; and if he wishes to kill one of us, let it be me."
"Walstein comforted Louisa, promised her she should soon be happy, that Justin belonged to him, at present; he might dispose of him, and he would make him the husband of Louisa. Scarcely could she believe what she heard, and the very hope appeared but like a dream. Walstein, however, assured her it should be realized immediately, for that he had spoken to Justin, and that he would directly speak to Josselin.
"It was that very day, dear Lindorf," continued the Count, "when, after having arranged every thing with the young shepherd, after having enjoyed the purest of pleasures, and spoken to Josselin concerning the marriage of his children, that I found you kneeling to Louisa. The poor girl, conscious of what I had been doing, and who was waiting for me with all the impatience of love, was exceedingly ashamed of being surprised with you in that manner. I confess, I also was disconcerted, insomuch that I scarcely could conceal my feelings; which, perhaps, first gave rise to your suspicions▪ I myself was not free from them; I was fearful lest Louisa had deceived both Justin and me; lest you and she understood each other; and, anxious to know the truth, questioned you. Your answer was but half satisfactory; it, however, convinced me of the great danger you were in, and that, at all events, it was necessary to tear from you the object of that passion to which you were ready to sacrifice every moral duty. You may remember, Lindorf, I in part informed you of the love of Justin for Louisa; imagining that, perhaps, your passion would decrease if [Page 106] you knew the love of Louisa was divided. Had you received this intelligence with more moderation, I then should have told you all; but your phrensy was too visible. Reason had lost every hold over your mind, and your actions had somewhat convulsive about them that made me shudder. I saw this was not the proper opportunity to proceed further. I had said too much, and all I had to do was to smother the fire I had kindled.
"I, therefore, endeavoured to calm your mind, bring you to yourself, and promised to make farther enquiries; hoping, thereby to gain time for Louisa and Justin to depart, and thus prevent your rash project of marriage or elopement. In order to hasten the wedding, I went the next morning to Josselin; after having told you where I was going, purposely that you might not come and interrupt our conversation. I was alone with Louisa but a moment, but this was enough to convince me of the wrong I had done her, by suspecting any concerted treachery between her and you. The idea had tormented her all night, and her inquietude, grief, and ingenuous answers removed every remaining doubt.
"She left the room as her father entered. I spoke first of my recruits; and taking out the list, read over their names. When I came to that of Justin, I saw the old man was highly pleased.—"Ah!" said he, "is that knave enlisted? Heaven be praised! we shall now be rid of him."
"Knave! what knave, Josselin?" said I. "I will have no knaves in my regiment; and I will give him his discharge."
"Oh! do not do so, by any means, my Lord," replied Josselin. "To be sure, I ought to speak with more respect before you, and not have called him a knave, for there is not an honester lad in the whole village, nor is the King himself a braver fellow. He will make nothing of killing you a wolf, you may suppose then what he would do with a man; and you cannot have a better soldier; but to tell you the truth," added he, lowering his voice, "he has taken it into his head to fall in love with our Louisa, and the poor little fool, with consent or without consent, would fain marry him; a fellow without a shilling, educated by charity; but no, I would rather follow her to the grave. God be praised! he must now soon leave the country, and I hope we shall never hear [Page 107] of him more. And yet, it is a pity too; for he took great care of all our flocks; he saved me a fine sheep; and the lad wants neither courage nor ingenuity—if it was not for that devilish love."
"And do you not wish to marry Louisa, to console her for the absence of Justin?"
"Ah! would to Heaven she was married! Girls are nothing but torment. I no sooner find myself relieved, on one hand, than I am attacked on the other. Our young Baron is always haunting, now, about the house: so long as she had her Justin she was well guarded. I did not stand on ceremony with him; but, at present, I do not know what may happen; for I cannot forbid my young master my house as I did Justin; and, then, one cannot always be at home. I should be happy if I could but see her once well settled, but there is not the least appearance of it. The people of our village are all poor, and Louisa is not rich."
"Well, Josselin, if you consent, I myself will marry her to one of my farmers; an honest young man and above want. He possesses a good grass farm, on my estate at Walstein; some days journey from this place; larger, I believe, than this of [...]ours; and, as I esteem him very much, I will give him a purse of fifty ducats, on the wedding day, and as much to your daughter, to defray the ex [...]tence of the nuptials, and begin housekeeping. If you think this a proper match, say so, and it is a bargain."
"Josselin, all amazement, would have fallen prostrate. "A proper match! my Lord▪" said he: "I cannot forbear weeping with joy and gratitude. All my fear is lest he should not fancy Louisa; and if he should hear of her love for Justin"—
"Fear nothing, he will not be jealous. Justin is his friend, and the more Louisa shall love her husband the happier will Justin be."
"The good old Josselin opened his eyes, staring, as it were, after the meaning of what I had said. An explanation, therefore, was necessary; and this threw him into still greater astonishment. But he the more joyfully confirmed his consent, because his daughter, by this means, would be happy.
"The only thing I stipulated for was that they should immediately depart for my farm; and to this there was [Page 108] no objection. Josselin proposed even to remove himself, and live with his children. I desired him to inform Louisa of what had passed, and left him to go down to the village. I there gave Justin his discharge, signed the gift of the farm, and left him the purse of fifty ducats which I had promised. After this I returned to you. Your air and manner, sometimes absent, sometimes agitated, sentences half pronounced, and the disappearance of Fritz, who had been away from the castle all night and all day; these, collectively, made me fear you had concerted some project; the execution of which might, perhaps, be more prompt than I suspected.
"I resolved, therefore, to hasten the marriage, and the departure of the young people, as much as possible; and, for this purpose, I again returned to the farm. This was the only injunction I had to lay on them, for the benefits already conferred, and the purse I intended to present to Louisa.
"What followed, dear Lindorf, I need not relate. You know how much you were deceived by appearances. Louisa had been, all the day, at the village with a relation, in order, most likely, to avoid another visit from you. Her father, impatient to inform her of her happiness, had gone in search of her. They had met the happy Justin, who came along with them; he had shewn them all his treasure. A boy, whom I had sent in search of Louisa, told her I was waiting for her; she, unable to repress the first emotions of her joy, ran, out of breath, to testify her gratitude in the manner by which you were so cruelly deceived.
"Yes, Lindorf, I can imagine myself in your place, during this terrible moment; can suppose all the dreadful ideas and sensations by which you were assaulted. Surely, you cannot doubt, then, that I can forgive you. A little more openness on my part, a little less passion on yours, and this misfortune had never happened; and, let me add, it will be no real misfortune to me so long as you shall remain unsuspected of being in any manner an accessary."
"This recital was made at various times, as his strength permitted, and continually excited in my bosom the most painful remorse. I listened, and, in my turn, informed the Count how entirely that vile fellow Fritz had deceived me. I never saw him since the fatal day on [Page 109] which he disappeared from the chateau, and I learned from his father he had listed for a soldier: since when I have never heard of him more.
"The day after these fearful events, my father thought it his duty to go himself to Berlin and inform the King; and, leaving Walstein to my care, he undertook this melancholy journey. The King was most sensibly affected when he was told, and immediately sent his own surgeons to Ronebourg, informing my father he would come himself as soon as Walstein should be out of danger.— The surgeons of Berlin confirmed all the others had said; except that they hoped the wound of the knee would be less prejudicial than had been supposed, and that the Count might preserve his leg, though he certainly would become somewhat lame.
"I had a bed brought into his chamber, never leaving him a moment day or night, and incessantly endeavouring, by attention and care, to prove how deeply I repented; Walstein seemed as sensible of, and as grateful for, these by attentions, as if I had not been the person who occasioned him to stand in need of them. To amuse and divert his mind I read to him, as soon as the surgeons would permit me. Till then, my youth, vivacity, want of thought, and the fatal passion I had conceived for Louisa, had prevented my application to study. I now learned the charms of this occupation, which communicates knowledge, amends the heart, and ornaments the mind. I could easily perceive that, in his choice of books, his purpose was rather my instruction, and a wish to give n [...] a taste for reading, than his own amusement. When I had ended, he made the most just and profound reflections on what had been read; which, to me, were so many rays of light. Whenever the subject happened to be the duties of a sold [...]er, he described them with energy, proved how they were compatible with morality and true honour, and how far courage might be allied to humanity and sensibility.
"Excellent Walstein! If, at present, I have any virtues, to thee am I indebted for them. Thou hast made me such as I am, and the two months I lived in thy chamber, after a crime for which any other man would have held me in everlasting abhorrence, and have been appeased only by my blood, by thy benolence and wisdom [Page 110] I gained more knowledge, and was better taught the duties of man, than by all my preceding education."
We have forborne to interrupt a narrative so interesting by any remarks on what the feelings of Caroline were; and our reason for this forbearance was, that every reader might judge from his own heart, and imagine the passages at which the manuscript was laid down or taken up; or where it dropt from the hands of the wife of Walstein; those at which her heart palpitated more or less, or where some strong exclamation was involuntarily uttered. It is very certain, however, that she did not read thus far without interruption; and, moreover, that, at this particular place, an emotion, prompt and instinctive, made her snatch up the box. She only half opened it, and shut it again, with a kind of respectful fear, as if it had been profaned by her looks: after which, laying it close to her elbow, she again took up the manuscript.
"A month after the accident, the King, learning that his favourite could rise, came to Ronebourg, with few attendants. Walstein, then, presented me, for the first time; and the King gave me assurances of his good will and future protection. Alas! what was my confusion, what my shame, when I heard him praising me for the proofs of friendship I had given, on this melancholy occasion, and the uninterrupted attention I had paid the Count! Had it not been for my father's presence and the recollection of the pangs he must have suffered, I really believe, I should have fallen at his feet, have confessed how little I deserved his eulogiums, and have owned the whole enormity of my guilt.
"The King, after remaining a few moments in the chamber, desired to be left alone with the Count. They were together for some time. At last my father was called in; and, presently afterwards, I also. As I entered, I found my father kneeling to the King, and kissing his hand. "Come hither my son," said he; "come and kneel with me, to thank the best of Monarchs, and the most generous of friends.—The Count has resigned his commission in the guards, and, at his entreaty, his Majesty has graciously bestowed it on you. Lindorf! my son! if it be possible, merit this distinction, by equalling your predecessor!"
"To Walstein I would have kneeled, in his bosom would have hid my confusion, if I might; and so strongly [Page 111] was I affected, that my father, thinking me half distracted with my joy, was obliged to recall my attention to the King, who raised me with affability, and, like my father, exhorted me to imitate the Count.
"Imitate him!" said I, approaching him and seizing his hand, which he held out to me. "Is it possible for man to acquire virtue so sublime? Can I, wretch!"—
"Walstein looked at me, and immediately put his hand on my mouth.
"Oh, Caroline! such is the man to whom you are united; such is he to whom, no doubt, you are proud, at present, to appertain, and whom you are now wishing to make happy—And, oh, how exquisite must be his felicity! So exquisite, that he alone, I confess, can be worthy of it!
"The King departed, the same day, for Berlin, and soon after sent me my Captain's commission. At length, I found myself alone with Walstein. My heart was full, almost to suffocation, and I wished to express some part of what I felt. But no! Expressions could not be found! Words were too feeble! and I could only testify my gratitude as to a Deity!
His friendship for me seemed to increase every day. "Good young man," would he often say, when he saw me stand with my eyes fixed on his wounds, "do not suppose these a misfortune. Believe me, for it is a truth, we both are gainers; and I, especially: a friend, such as thou wilt be, merits well to be purchased with the loss of an eye. Had I a mistress," added he, smiling, "perhaps I should be less a philosopher; yet, such as I shall be, I do not despair of finding a woman rational enough to love me. Love has been the cause of my misfortune, and love ought to make me reparation."
"Behold, how just Heaven is, Caroline! Love will make him reparation, and I alone, as I ought, shall be unhappy.—Yet, no! I ought not, I shall not be, while I am a witness of the felicity of two persons so dear to my heart! Oh! that I may but accomplish the ardent wish I have that these two persons, so worthy, should be fully known to each other!
"As soon as he was sufficiently recovered to travel to Berlin, I joined my regiment, which lay there, and which I found most excellently disciplined. Walstein, yielding to his inclinations, retired to continual and severe [Page 112] study; which, added to want of exercise, was detrimental to his health. He became meagre, and his incessant application to reading and writing gave him that stoop in the shoulders which you, no doubt, have observed; but he had no longer pretension to beauty, and he was become passionately fond of study. The laws and policy of nations, which require knowledge so extensive, were the researches to which he was most addicted. In two or three years he was capable of undertaking the most difficult negociations, and of filling, with the greatest dignity and success, the brilliant employment he now holds.
"When we arrived at Berlin, he introduced me to his aunt, the Baroness de Zastrow, with whom the young Countess Matilda, his sister, had been brought up.— Long a widow, and without children, the Baroness looked upon her niece as her daughter, and sole heiress. The Count, also, was fond of his young sister, and was as careful of her education and future happiness as the most tender father could have been. He had often sp [...]en of her to me, at Ronebourg, and made it no secret that he should behold with pleasure a probability of our union, and thus add another tie to friendship. I thought her charming, but she was scarcely thirteen. She was still but a lively girl with whom I could play with pleasure, but who did not inspire the same sensations I had felt from the company of Louisa.
"My heart, however, being perfectly free, and the company I found at the Baroness de Zastrow's exceedingly agreeable, I went there, regularly, every day; where I was received as the intimate friend of Walstein. Matilda, particularly, took a thousand opportunities of doing me little favours. She called me her brother, and told me, laughing, she hardly ever saw her own, since he was become so ordinary and so learned; therefore, she thought it was my duty to come in his stead. I, in the same kind of sport, called her my dear little sister, and behaved as if she really had been so. Although she was very handsome▪ and daily became more formed, I felt no other sentiments for her than those of friendship, or brotherly affection. The kind of beauty she possessed, however seductive it might be to others, was not, precisely, that which I should prefer. It was neither the regular and striking features of Louisa, nor the enchanting [Page 113] countenance, the look celestial, which penetrates the hidden sentiments of the soul, the lip of innocence, the angelic voice, the—
"Another word, Caroline, and you must never behold this manuscript! Let me speak only of the Count, him only see, think only of him; let my mind be wholly occupied by that sublime idea, and forget every other.
"Where was I?—Speaking, I believe, of the young Countess Matilda. You, I suppose, have never seen her. She was at Dresden when you were at Berlin, where she remains, with Madam de Zastrow, who has there fixed her residence. She no way resembles what her brother was before his misfortune. Instead of his benevolent and dignified presence, Matilda's features are delicate and small; the character of her countenance is that of mirth and vivacity. The symmetry of her person is exact; her arm is round; her feet exceedingly pretty; her wait small; her nose turned up; her eyes blue, and intelligent; her rose-coloured lips are always ready to laugh, and add dimples to her cheeks; and her whole form conveys the idea of what we call sports and smiles; but never any thing of tender sentiment. She seems even incapable of such sensations; so that one may play with her without the least danger either to her or one's self.
"Yet, however, did she, sensibly, begin to lose a part of the thoughtless gaiety by which she seemed to be characterized. She still laughed, but the laugh often seemed forced, and was sometimes followed by a sigh. By degrees she ceased to call me her brother, or let me assume the privilege of one. If I offered to kiss her, she would draw back and blush; and, when I called her my dear little sister, she very gravely would reply with a— Sir; which, at times, she had some difficulty to pronounce. The Count perceived the change sooner than I did.— "Either I am much deceived," said he, "or the heart of our young siste [...] begins to take part in my project; but tell me, dear Lindorf, what says yours? May I hereafter call you brother?"
"I was too sincere to endeavour to conceal that I had hitherto felt nothing farther than friendship; "But certainly," said I to the Count, "my heart, already exhausted, is no longer capable of love, and since the charming Matilda fails to inspire passion, I shall never [Page 114] feel it more." Ah, Caroline, how much was I deceived!
"You are mistaken," replied he, "Lindorf; at three▪ and twenty the heart is never satiated with love: nor have you ever known love; for your passion for Louisa was rather an effervescence of the senses than love itself; its excess was a proof of my assertion, and I desire no better than your meditated elopement. When a lover, Lindorf, prefers his own enjoyment to the interest of the object beloved, you may be certain his heart is but feebly affected. My utmost wish is, that my sister may make you feel the difference between your passion for Louisa and the delicious sentiments of refined love. She is still sufficiently young to give me hope that this may happen; and, perhaps, it is her great youth that retards the desired event. You think her only a girl; but when this girl shall discover sensibility, there will be but another step to inspire you with similar sensations."
"I embraced the Count, and assured him I had already love enough for Matilda, to think with pleasure on the time when I should love her more, and when I might add the name of brother to that of friend; but that I had still many errors to repair and to efface, and that his charming sister merited a heart wholly hers, and capable of feeling her worth.
"A short time after this conversation happened, Wal [...]n was appointed Ambassador to Russia. Our farewell was tender, and affected me greatly. Since the commission of my crime (for what other name can I give it?) I never could behold the Count without a renewal of affliction and remorse. That countenance, so beautiful, that walk and figure, so noble, that look, which expressed so much, all incessantly haunted me. The Count seemed to recollect nothing of this, nor to entertain the least regret. Before we parted, I entreated him to give me his picture, such as it was when he came to Ronebourg. I knew he had one, and I wished he would bequeath it to me; that my own fault and his generosity might continually be recalled, and that I might be certain time should not enfeeble the remembrance of them.
"This he absolutely refused. "No, dear Lindorf," said he, "you shall have no portrait of mine, neither past nor present. I would have them forgotten as totally by you as they are by me. I never would have them mentioned [Page 115] more. I wish you only to remember our friendship, which is, and ever shall be inviolable."
"I did not persist in my request, because I saw him determined, and because I had another resource. The young Countess, Matilda, had a miniature picture in a bracelet; but which, after his accident, she no longer wore; and which, I believe, he himself had forgotten. I had no great difficulty in prevailing on her, under a promis [...] secrecy, to suffer a copy to be taken. It is this which I have now left with you, Caroline, and which I beg you to accept. You are the only person to whom I would have given that picture; but you, I am certain, will know its value. Look at it often; and, while you look, remember the beauteous mind which animated that once beauteous form still exists, with still improving beauty, and increasing purity. "Yes, the change of his features gives Walstein new lustre, nor should the remaining scars make you hold your husband in horror.—Ah! Caroline, you must detest his wretched assassin, but forget not his remorse; remember his repentance! Think on what he suffered while he was making this his confession, and conjuring you to love another; banishing himself for ever from your presence. An expiation like this ought, almost, to make the crime forgotten, and to obtain a generous pardon.
"The Count, at parting, promised to write to me, as often as the multiplicity of affairs in which he was going to engage would permit. Wholly devoted to his duty, he had little time for a correspondence of pleasure, or even friendship. Soon after his arrival, however, at Petersburg, I received the letters which I enclose in this packet; you will find them numbered according to the order in which they came. Read them, Caroline; your spouse is a much better painter of himself than I am."
Caroline took the letters, looked for No. I. and hastily opened it. The hand-writing recalled to recollection the short penciled billet of the antichamber; the only one she had ever received from Walstein, and the impression of which had been so strong, yet so little durable. She felt the anguish of remorse; and, for some moments, her tears impeded her sight. At length she began to read. The letter was dated from Petersburgh, the year before her marriage, and was as follows:
No. I. The Count of Walstein to the Baron of Lindorf.
'The letter I received, yesterday, from Matilda, confirmed what I long suspected. Yes, you are beloved, dear Lindorf: her innocent and pure mind is itself astonished at the new ideas which affect it, and has not had the art to conceal them from the penetrating friendship of a brother. Each phrase, each word, in her letter, betrays her secret; and I think myself guilty of no treason in revealing it to her husband—Yes, her husband, dear Lindorf!—In vain would your delicacy longer decline what friendship so ardently desires; it now ought to yield to what I shall say, or rather to what I shall repeat. I have reflected a good deal on our last conversation. Because you do not love my sister with the same transport, with the same burning raptures you felt for Louisa, you imagine yourself unworthy of her, and conclude you never shall love her. Yet, you acknowledge, and I believe you have the tenderest friendship for Matilda, and that she is the woman you at present would most prefer, and the only one concerning whom you are any way interested. What more is necessary, dear Lindorf, to happiness? Does a sensation so sweet to the soul leave any thing farther to wish? And, when to these are added the gratitude you would feel for the love she bears to you, do you suppose it possible you should not make her perfectly happy? For my part, I think her happiness much more certain, this way, than if you had a violent passion for her, which consumes itself in its own flames, and leaves only regret and a painful void. Ever since I have thought of this union, which to see accomplished, would, I own, be one of the greatest pleasures of my life, I have studied the characters of you and Matilda much more attentively than you imagine; and each remark I have made has confirmed and even convinced me you were born for each other. Without perhaps being so beauteous as Louisa, or, even, as many other women, my sister has somewhat in her figure which every day pleases more, because it every day is gaining some additional grace; and because it consists in that varied and animated play of countenance which is more pleasing than a regularity of features, that are but too apt, by their sameness, to lose their charm.— Perhaps, you will tell me she wants sensibility, and that [Page 117] you have too much. But shall I surprise you, nay, shall I not vex you, dear Lindorf, when I say I believe Matilda has at least as much feeling as my friend himself? Under the apparent thoughtlessness of childhood, if I mistake not, I have discovered the tenderest, the most affectionate heart, and the most capable of a strong and lasting attachment. You see, already, this little insensible has understanding enough to know your worth, to love you, and, I think, Lindorf, you will never have any complaints to make of her want of tenderness. Her mind, likewise, has those propensities which best please and fix the attention of yours. Her amiable vivacity, her uninterrupted gaiety, are qualities that will preserve you from dulness; which, of all the plagues of a conjugal state, is one of the worst. Her gentleness and good temper will meliorate that natural warmth which so often overpowers you, and, in your own despite, carries you beyond the bounds of moderation. I hear your reply, dear Lindorf. "Yes, my own happiness, I see will be certain; but what will become of that of Matilda?" Be not unhappy on that account, my friend, for, once again I tell thee, I am not; and that, when I press thee to marry my sister, I foresee how thy heart, perhaps the most excellent I have ever known, will act. Yes, Matilda must be happy, and I defy thee to prove the contrary. Besides, she loves thee, and therefore without thee, Lindorf, must be wretched; and, whatever thou mayest say, thou hast more love for her than thou supposest. Love, my friend, is nothing more than a lively friendship founded on reciprocal esteem, and improved on a difference of sex. Matilda has inspired this friendship already; and what shall it be, when mutual interest and children give it additional strength? Lindorf, thou, like me, must feel how dear to a man must be the mother of his children. Oh! my friend, that kind of sensation which you experience when thinking of my sister, will, then, daily increase, daily acquire new powers, and confirm you both in happiness. Renounce, therefore, these vain scruples, and prepare every thing for this happy u [...]ion. Speak to Matilda, speak to my aunt; with the first your efforts need not be very great. My aunt, perhaps, may not be so complying. She wishes her niece to marry a nephew of the late Baron de Zastrow, the heir of the title and estates; but I will write to her, and she [Page 118] loves my sister too well not to yield when she thinks her happiness at stake; besides which, she is acquainted with you, Lindorf, and your reception at her house, may well make you suppose she will not reject you for a nephew.
'Adieu, write to me immediately, I am impatient to know whether I have convinced you, you are such as it is requisite you should be, to become the brother, the beloved brother, of your dear friend,
'P. S. The steward of my estate at Walstein being lately dead, it has given me pleasure to bestow his place on the honest Justin, who manages his farm excellently. I yesterday received his answer, which is written with such simplicity of heart, and affords so fine a picture of happiness, that, I am certain, you will be pleased to see it; for which reason I have enclosed it.—Perhaps you would rather have seen that of Matilda; if so, dear Lindorf, be certain you may marry her without dread or apprehension.'
Whether the letter from Justin was by chance enclosed in that of the Count, when sent by Lindorf to Caroline, or whether purposely put there, does not greatly matter; but there it was, and we imagine our readers will be glad to read it, and once again recollect the beauteous Louisa, whom certainly they have not yet forgotten.
The LETTER of JUSTIN. 'To his Excellency, my Lord, the Count of Walstein, Ambassador to the Court of Petersburgh.
'I am certain, for I know my Lord's goodness, his heart would have been right glad if his Excellence had seen how happy his Lordship's letter made us all; nay, more happy than we were before, which, if any body had told us that such a thing might be, I am sure we should have said it was impossible. To be sure, I did not think that ever the poor Justin could have arrived at the honour of being my Lord the Count's steward; tho' at present I feel, I am sure, I can do my duty in the discharge of that high office, of which I am as proud as if I were a King; and though I be not learned, I am certain I can do any thing to serve my good and dear Lord; and I hope, when it shall please God to send him back, that he will be satisfied, and find every thing in good order.
[Page 119]'We have been in the steward's apartment, at the chateau, for these two days past. My dear Louisa, at first, was sorry to leave the farm; but she tells me, now, she finds as she shall be happy every where with me; tho' be this said with all respect to my Lord the Count, for I know one should not brag of one's self; but when one is the husband of Louisa, and the steward of my Lord the Count of Walstein, one may well be a little proud. Our good old father, too, is as proud as I am, and so gay of heart that he seems younger by ten years. He calls me nothing but my Lord the Count's steward; and he drinks a glass of wine more, every meal, to the health and honour of my Lord. All of us, even to our two dear little poppets, are quite overjoyed at being at the chateau; and they are so pleased to play in the gardens of my Lord the Count! The eldest can go any where, the sturdy little rogue; and his young brother, who is not yet weaned, already begins to lisp the name of my Lord the Count, for that is the first word we teach them; and when his grandfather drinks the health of my Lord he always takes off his bonnet. To be sure they are two charming little knaves, and almost as beautiful as their mother.
'I should never dare to presume to tell all this to my Lord the Ambassador if he had not commanded me to write him word of every thing that concerned our good old father, my dear Louisa, and our little boys.—I had almost forgot the flageolet, but Louisa, who knows my Lord the Count's letter by heart, made me recollect it; and so I continue, as aforetime, to play to Louisa, to amuse her while she gives the breast to the little one, and so the biggest dances all the while I play, for this your Lordship knows is like the birds in their nests; the male sings while the female is sitting; and so my Lord the Count will very well perceive I am the happiest man this day on God's earth. Every thing goes its gait; all we undertake succeeds; and when we are in the meadow we see our four calves, three hens, and their broods of chickens, and I know not how many sheep, goats, and lambs, without reckoning our little boys, all playing around us; and all this my Lord the Count has given us, and so it is my opinion that my Lord the Count is as happy, or perhaps even happier, than we are, because he has done the good, and we have only received it: but it [Page 120] ought to be so; he wants nothing but a Louisa, which may the good and bountiful God give him! We pray every day for my Lord the Count; for truly, my Lord has, after God himself, the first place in our hearts. Wherefore, may God grant my Lord all his wishes and a long life to enjoy them in, which is the most sincere prayer of his most humble servants and superintendants of his estate at Walstein.
"You hear the prayers of these good people, Caroline, and Heaven has been pleased to hear them likewise.— Walstein has a Louisa! No, not so; he has a still superior angel!
"I answered the Count's letter by the next courrier. Gratitude, the pleasure of being still dearer and nearer related [...]o him, an ardent desire to merit the good opinion he entertained of me, certitude of my own happiness, and a promise to make Matilda happy; these my letter expressed, and these my heart dictated. The only thing omitted was love; but the Count had just shewn me love was not necessary to happiness, but that it would be more certain from that kind of attachment which I felt for his sister. Walstein had too great an ascendant over me not to convince, and I was the more easy to persuade from the belief of being beloved, which gave a degree of force to the favourable sentiments I had for the lovely Matilda. I no longer saw her without emotion; and this became sufficiently strong to make me perfectly easy; when after a conversation of some length held with her, she gave me permission, though not without deep blushes, to ask her aunt's consent, and endeavour to gain her over to the views of her brother.
"I thought it best, however, to wait, before I spoke to the Baroness, till I had written to the Count, and received his promised answer. This I told Matilda, who thought it very proper; and we no longer endeavoured to conceal an affection thus authorized by fraternal authority.
"I continued, therefore, my daily visits at the Baroness de Zastrow's, and very assiduously paid her my court, tho' with very little success. After the departure of the Count her conduct to me had been wholly changed; always polite but always distant, she affected to receive me [Page 121] with great ceremony, and took her measures so well that I seldom had an opportunity of speaking a word in private to Matilda. These impediments and contradictions might natually have been expected to augment love; and, I own, I was secretly vexed, which did not pass unobserved by Matilda, and which consoled her for her aunt's behaviour by persuading her she was beloved; and so, no doubt, she was; friendship, gratitude, attached me to her, and, had I then obtained her hand, I might myself have been well persuaded my affection was much stronger than it has proved.
"I waited, however, without any violent impatience the effect of the Count's promises and letter to his aunt. He wrote me word 'he had not yet been able to gain the consent of that lady, for she tenaciously adhered to her design of marrying Matilda to the young Baron de Zastrow, then on his travels. Yet that he, however, was still more tenacious of his own, which certainly should be effective; for which reason he conjured me not to take offence, but to wait with patience. A considerable estate,' he said, 'depended on this aunt, which required some caution; but that, by one means or other, he would obtain his end, and that he already regarded me as his brother.'
"I wished to shew Matilda this letter, and immediately went to the house of the Baroness. I found it shut up! No porter, not a single servant, was there to whom I could speak! This circumstance appeared extremely singular; for, the very evening before, I had been received as usual, without the least mention of a removal. I inquired in the neighbourhood, and was told the coach had set off very early in the morning; but could learn nothing more. While I was remaining in the utmost astonishment, I saw Matilda's maid coming to me. I ran to meet her, and was going to question, but was prevented by her telling me to ask nothing, for that nothing she knew. "I cannot tell you where they are," said she. "Yesterday, as soon as you were gone, I heard my lady speaking very loud, and Miss Matilda weeping▪ All night long there was nothing but packing up, scolding, and crying; and, at last, I was paid my wages, discharged, and they set off in a coach; but Miss Matilda, when she bade me farewell, slipt this into my hand."
[Page 122]"The maid then gave me a rumpled paper, addressed to me; which, taking, I directly opened, but without at first being able to comprehend a word of its contents. It seemed an inventory of chairs, tables, and furniture. At last, I discovered that what regarded myself was interlined, and was as follows:
'Oh! Mr. Lindorf, we are going to depart for Dresden, presently; and we are to stay there a long, long while; perhaps forever. What will you think when you shall come to-morrow and find your poor young friend gone? Will you grieve as much as she does? I hope you will be a little sorry; yet do not afflict yourself too much; for I promise you my thoughts will be the same at Dresden as they were at Berlin, and so they will forever continue to be. Besides, have I not a brother, a dear good brother? Write to him immediately; and, should you wish to send a word in answer to this, let it be under cover to him, for there are no other means of its arriving at me. No, if you write to me▪ your letter; must first go to Russia. But what of that, if I but get them at last?— I wish I were as sure this would come to your hands. I could contrive no means of writing to you, but, luckily, my aunt gave me an inventory to copy. When she looks at me, I set down a figure, and the moment she is gone▪ write a line. When it is done, perhaps, I may give it to poor Nancy, whom my aunt intends to turn away, because she might assist us, and because she loves you. I am sure she will give it you, faithfully —I am vexed to be obliged to write thus clandestinely and deceive my aunt; yet she has had no remorse at deceiving me. Till this very night I knew not a word of our departure; no, I protest to you, I did not know a word of it. Is it not a shocking thing to set off without seeing you? I scarcely can write for crying, and I hear my aunt coming. My paper is no more like an inventory, so I must hide it, and begin another. Farewell, Mr. Lindorf, I will remember you and pray for you continually; and do not forget the poor Matilda, and do not think ill of her because she has written to you first.'
"Such was the letter of Matilda, on reading of which it was impossible, without any violent love, not to be affected at the native simplicity of the niece, and piqued at the behaviour of the aunt. I felt both these sensations in their full force, and returned to my chamber, where I [Page 123] immediately wrote an account of all that had passed to Walstein, and of the unworthy artifice that had been used. I believe anger was stronger than regret, for I insinuated to the Count that I looked upon our project as impracticable; and, since Madame de Zastrow was so determined, to renounce it appeared to me the wisest way, I enclosed a copy of the letter from Matilda, and my answer, desiring her brother to send it to her; and I received a letter from the Count, by the return of the post, as follows."
No. II. The Count of Walstein to the Baron of Lindorf.
'I am exceedingly angry, dear Lindorf, at the trick out good aunt, de Zastrow, has played us; but her efforts are fruitless, Matilda shall be yours. I declare, nay, have sworn, my sister shall not become the victim of her obstinacy. I have nothing to allege against the young Baron de Zastrow, whom I have not the honour of knowing, and to whom I wish all manner of happiness, except that of being the husband of Matilda. You, Lindorf, has she selected, and you, already, doth her young heart prefer. No, that innocent and open heart, which spoke all its secrets with such ingenuous confidence to me, shall not be deceived in its wishes; shall not have to combat a passion to which I myself may be said to have given birth; nor shall she have to blush for having first written to any other man than her husband. Poor dear girl! how much did her billet affect me! I will write immediately, to console her, and afford her no very distant prospect of felicity: a little perseverence and we shall conquer. I will enclose your letter, likewise, which, I believe, will be more effectual than mine. By the same post I will write to my aunt, and, if necessary, assert the rights a dying father bequeathed to me over my sister. To you I confide her and the care of her future happiness; nor, oh! my father will I betray this trust. Matilda and Lindorf shall be one, and your dear girl, then, cannot fail of being happy! Take courage, therefore▪ my friend, and be assured our project shall succeed. Matilda is yet but fifteen; in three or four years she will be more formed, more capable of happiness, more worthy of herself and you. My only fear is that, you being separate from her, that heart, so suddenly become cold, insensible, that heart, [Page 124] no longer susceptible of love, as you have supposed, may, in the mean time, stand convicted of its error, and find that it never yet knew the passion. If, dear Lindorf, this misfortune should happen, promise me, swear to me, you will neither sacrifice yourself nor my sister to engagements which, from that moment, will cease to exist. I am desirous of this union no farther than as I am persuaded it will not be a misfortune to either party, and would rather have to comfort Matilda for the loss of a lover than for the indifference of the husband of her heart. Therefore, Lindorf, the very moment she would no longer be the wife you would prefer to all others, the very moment you are convinced some other woman may render you more happy, have the fortitude to inform your friend of this change, and be assured that, instead of diminishing, by this conduct, you will redouble his esteem. I think violent love no way necessary to conjugal felicity. I have said so in my former letter▪ and I persist in the opinion; but I am still more effectually convinced that a husband and wife ought, at least, mutually to prefer each other to the whole world, and never know regret at the remembrance of being united for life. I think it necessary that that agreement of taste and feeling, that entire confidence, that bond of affection, should be found which cannot exist if one of the two love another, and be obliged to conceal the thoughts by which he or she is most occupied.—These considerations, I own, have hitherto hindered me from marrying and yielding to the wishes and entreaties of my family, which, with me, will become extinct. I dread lest my present rank and favour might engage some woman, to whom I might address myself, to marry me, though she really loved another. I fear acquiring rights which I shall find are usurpations, and over a heart that has other engagements. I dread being the unconscious cause of misery to two lovers, and being myself still more miserable when I shall have made the discovery. You know me too well, dear Lindorf, ever to imagine I can mean to reproach when I thus speak my secret sentiments. You know my manner of thinking relative to the accident that has altered my person; it is ever the same; and, I again protest, I every day congratulate myself on the present opportunity I enjoy of indulging my most prevalent inclination, and following the studies in which I most delight; happy in [Page 125] having had the means, in my former station, of giving those proofs of courage and zeal in the service of my King which I most wished; and, in my present, of serving him, as I think, much more effectually. A good minister, Lindorf, is still a greater character than a good general. It is my greatest pleasure to fulfil the duties of the office to which I am appointed; and this office, I repeat it, is much more agreeable to me than the life of a soldier; therefore I can have nothing to regret; nothing, nothing—Yet I must do myself justice. I may not now hope to inspire love, nor do I make any such weak pretences; and, perhaps, it may be for that reason I persuade myself that love is not necessary to happiness. But I wish, at least, to find a woman who has no partiality for another. I do not even shrink from a slight repugnance, at first; that is natural, and what I ought to expect. My endeavours must be to dispel it by degrees, and make myself beloved first through gratitude, and afterwards from habit. The eye would soon accommodate itself to my person, and my sole study should be to make it forgotton by my actions. Is it possible that a woman must not, at last, love him who exists but to render her happy; who would prevent her wishes, to which his own would be ever subservient, and who would be grateful for the smallest marks of attachment which she might bestow! Such, my friend, are the loved illusions of my heart, and which I yet, one day, hope to behold realized. I foresee all the obstacles, but they discourage me not. I know how difficult it is to find a woman whose heart is entirely free, without which my whole scheme would be frustrated; for comparisons would incessantly be made between me and the regretted, the beloved object. I should be looked upon as a monster. Partiality and bitter remembrance would poison life.— But, could I meet some young heart, such as I wish, and such as I shall incessantly [...]n [...]eavour to find, simple and innocent, unacquainted with love and with little knowledge of the world; if such I find, it shall be mine, even though I should oblige her to marry me; for I would render her happy in her own despite. I am sensible that I should at first be accused of want of delicacy; but my secret motives would justify me in my own eyes. I have no other means of enjoying a felicity my heart most [Page 126] ardently desires; that of being a husband and a father, and ending my days in the arms of my children. Sacred ties! Connections of the soul, which double existence! without which man is desolate; alone, in the wide world, as in a desert; dragging a useless life and dying without regret!—Yes, such intimate relations will constitute my happiness. Never can I think of them without emotion, never can read the letter from Justin, a copy of which I sent to you, without shedding tears.— How happy are those good people! He wants nothing but a Louisa, which may the good and bountiful God give him!—Yes, honest Justin, the prayers of a heart so pure as thine, ought to, and no doubt will be heard. I shall find this companion whom already I adore; though I know her not. She and Walstein, Lindorf and Matilda, Justin and Louisa, and there will be three happy couples in the universe! What say you, Lindorf, to my prophecy? For my part, I am in raptures at the idea, and have faith in perfect bliss.—But what is it you mention about the loss of inheritance? Should my aunt be unjust enough to deprive Matilda of hers, is she not sufficiently rich at present; and does more or less influence happiness when we have more than sufficient for the enjoyment of life? Will not your wealth and hers be enough? However, as plenty is not an evil, and as it is best that what is done should be done with a good grace, let us wait awhile, my friend. I would not affirm I should not be jealous were you happy while I remain single [...] and my dear wife is not yet found. I shall soon, however, seriously begin the search. At present, I have too many affairs on hand. I fear I shall not often have the pleasure of writing to you, for which reason I take full revenge of the present opportunity.'
The remainder of the letter related only to political affairs, and accounts of Russia, which Caroline skipped over, or read unconsciously; her thoughts had other employment, and her heart was not capacious enough for her own affairs. She seemed as if transported into another world, of which, till then, she had no idea. This last letter particularly struck her. She read it again, and with sensations somewhat painful. The prediction of the love of Lindorf, the excessive fear of Walstein, lest he should marry a woman whose heart was pre-engaged, made a severe impression on her. When she came to [Page 127] Walstein's project of happiness, and to the motives which had induced him to marry her, she found herself, notwithstanding her repugnance, so affected, that, at the moment, she thought she loved him only in the world; or, rather, she did not herself understand her own feelings. She remained with her eyes fixed on this letter, without remembering that the manuscript was not ended. Her enthusiasm, at length, vanished by degrees; the idea of the Count was effaced, and the image of Lindorf regained a part of its former empire. The letter was laid down, and the manuscript once more taken up.
"Time fails, Caroline, and the four-and-twenty hours I have dedicated to this painful work are almost ended. I already perceive the first rays of day, of that day on which, perhaps, for the last time I shall behold her, to whom, yesterday, at the same hour, I hoped to devote my life. How happy was I then! How did the sweet chimeras of hope and love flatter my heart! A single moment has destroyed them all, has plunged me into an abyss of despair!—Yet what complaints are these? Ought I thus to employ the few remaining minutes in which I would conduct you to happiness, by pointing out the road? Yes, Caroline, you will be, must be happy; and the certainty of this will be the sole consolation of my future existence.
"The whole year passed without the least change of circumstance or situation. Matilda remained at Dresden, the Count in Russia, and I at Berlin. An uninterrupted correspondence maintained our mutual connections, but that of Dresden, passing first by Petersburg, was neither very frequent nor very animated. Matilda, educated in restraint, and even with severity, durst not indulge her feelings; and, at the utmost, expressed friendship only. My answers nearly assumed the same tone; yet, determined to espouse her as soon as her aunt would consent, and preferring her to all the women I then knew, I carefully avoided every occasion of meeting objects who might eradicate these ideas, and take place of her in my heart.
"To deprive myself of the pleasures of courts cost me but little. Ever since the unfortunate adventure of Louisa and the Count I had preserved an habitual melancholy, which well accorded with my future intentions. Wholly devoted to my military occupations and paying my [Page 128] duty to the King, I employed the remainder of my time in riding, music, or reading.
"An unfortunate event happened which disturbed my tranquillity and increased my melancholy. My father, who remained at Ronebourg, had an apoplectic fit; my mother, who had long been in a feeble and ill state of health, scarcely could support her grief and terror. I was instantly sent for, and found them both, on my arrival, in great danger. The sight of me appeared to animate them; my mother especially, who loved me with most affectionate tenderness, found herself sensibly better, which she attributed to my presence and cares; but the state in which she still remained required every attention I could bestow. I wrote to court to obtain leave of absence. My motive was too sacred for me to be refused, and I devoted my whole time and faculties to my parents.
"It was during this absence, Caroline, that you came to embellish the Court I had quitted; and it was then also the Count had that unfortunate sickness which detained him so long on the road, and which I heard of by accident. At any other moment I should have flown to his assistance; but I was then detained at Ronebourg, by duties too sacred, and too dear, to admit even the idea.
"Some time after, I had the pleasure to learn, from himself, he had recovered and arrived at Berlin. His letter had an enigmatic and mysterious turn, which I remarked when I read it first—'He would have given,' he said, 'the whole world to see and speak to me. The cruel event which detained me at Ronebourg, was the more distressing to him, because he absolutely could not come thither, on account of the distance (Ronebourg is at the farther end of Silesia, and four long days journey from Berlin) and the little time he had to remain in Prussia, during which every moment would be occupied. He then spoke of Matilda, was grieved at the perversity of her aunt, but was determined, he said, the instant I should be at liberty to leave Ronebourg, to exert his authority and terminate our marriage.—He had a new motive for hastening the affair.—Perhaps he was himself on the point of being happy—of obtaining what he so ardently desired; but he could not enjoy perfect content unless I enjoyed it also.'
"I paid less attention to this letter than I should have done at any other time; for scarcely had I time to read [Page 129] it, nor have I, till now, hardly recollected it since. I received it on the very day on which my father, after having languished four months, expired in my arms, recommending my mother to me, and commanding me not to leave her.
"Alas! my heart had already fore-run the command, which was itself to me a law. Already had sworn, to the tenderest of mothers, that her son, her only son, would not abandon her in the hour of her affliction!
"As soon as I had rendered my father the last duties of humanity, I wrote to the Count to inform him of my loss, and to entreat he would obtain a renewal of my leave of absence; and the King not only permitted me to remain at Ronebourg, but deigned, likewise, to approve the motive that made me wish to stay.
"The Count, in his answer, wrote in a style of melancholy that did not surprise me. I knew how sensibly his heart was affected by, and partook of, the afflictions of his friends; beside, he himself had a strong attachment to my father. He made no references to the subject of his former letter, which had been mislaid in the grief of the terrible moment in which it was received, and I had almost forgot its contents▪ He only said he should go immediately to Dresden, being desirous to see his sister before he returned into Russia; he added that, if it were possible, he would also come to Ronebourg, but durst not promise; and, in fact, did not come.
"Wherefore, Oh! where [...]e did he not then confide to me the fatal secret? Yet, no doubt, his delicacy would not suffer him to increase my present pangs, by informing me of an event of which I could not help knowing myself to be the original cause.
"Three months more passed away, still more sorrowful, still more painful than the preceding. I had but one object of attention▪ filial affection was, now, solely attached to my mother, whom I beheld daily decline, without other hope, other consolation, than that of soothing her last moments. At length, I lost her, also. Her pure soul quitted its terrestrial residence, and rejoiced at the hope of once again meeting her husband, and expiring in the arms of her son.
"Pardon, Oh Caroline! this gloomy narrative. I have need of the support of former misfortunes to enable me to endure the present; and am obliged to retrace antecedent [Page 130] losses, now, when I suffer one which might have consoled me for them all. It is necessary for me incessantly to remember that man is born to be unhappy, and that misery is his portion; that he is successively to lose every object he held most dear, and for whom he only wished to live. No, happiness is not for man—at least only for one man—and his virtues, perhaps, make it his right. I, certainly, ought not to murmur.
"After the death of my father, I fled from Ronebourg; it was become a hated place, as well by the double loss I so lately had sustained as by the act of barbarity I formerly had committed there. I returned to Berlin and Po [...]sdam, where I passed the remainder of the winter, and lived still more retired than the year before. The Count wrote seldom, and, when he did, his style seemed embarrassed and gloomy; and, at length, I began to perceive there was something which lay heavy at his heart. I told him so, he owned it, but deferred a full explanation till he should see me in person. This was to be in the following autumn, which was the time, also, he had fixed for my marriage with his sister. 'Thy destiny and mine,' said he, 'Lindorf, will then be finally determined. Oh! may they be happy! Or, if I myself am obliged to renounce bliss, may, at least, the felicity of my sister and my friend supply the loss of what I dare not hope!'
"I supposed he had a passion for some Russian lady, and that he found insurmountable obstacles; but, respecting his secret, I ceased my inquiries. I likewise occasionally received short letters from Matilda, which always were first sent to her brother. Her aunt remained fixed in her opinion, and had written for the young Baron de Zastrow to return from his travels. Her inheritance was only to be Matilda's on condition this marriage took place; but the generous girl was ready to forego every advantage, and asked me, with an affecting openness of hearts▪ whether it were not a thousand times better to have less riches and more happiness. For my part, I little regretted the loss of Madam de Zastrow's fortune; for my own, by the death of my parents, had become considerable, and was very largely increased by the decease of the Commander of Risberg, my maternal uncle. He lived, like a hermit, on the estate I at present inhabit; would never see me while living, and left me all his wealth at his death, under the condition, however, that I should [Page 131] marry within two years, and give the name of Risberg to my eldest son. My engagements with Matilda made the fulfilling of this clause apparently easy; and, perhaps, to this motive might have contributed to decide Madame de Zastrow in my favour.
"Since that time, Caroline, how kind have I thought the obligation laid on me by my uncle's will! How sweet has the idea been of marrying within much less than the time prescribed! How many future joys did I dare expect, and how sincerely did I bless my uncle's memory! —At present, I renounce, for ever renounce his gift. I pretend not to wealth to which I have no right; and will quit an estate, to-morrow, to which I am never to return. What to me are riches and estates? Or what, alas! can I suffer now?—I have nothing to lose!
"Oh pardon! pardon! Caroline! How may the vows of a wretch whom it is your duty to forget affect you? I add to my crimes by continuing to adore you; and the purpose of this writing is to make reparation.
"Determined no longer to remain at Ronebourg, which retraced sorrowful thoughts, only, and heart-rending recollections, and which, beside, is too far distant from the capital, I was delighted with the acquisition of Risberg, and came to take possession, at the beginning of the summer, a short time after my uncle's decease.—Caroline —It is here, at this place, at this moment, that I have need of all my fortitude to continue the fatal recital.— Angel adored! can I speak to you of yourself, and of what my feelings were, and are, and not expire!
"Sacred and pure Friendship! Thou who shouldest expiate the crimes Love hath committed▪ thou who, henceforth, only shouldest find place in my heart, return and animate my zeal; once more return, and sustain relapsing Nature!
"I was charmed with my new abode, yet did not intend to stay here long; and was, therefore, desirous of examining the neighbourhood. The evening before that day on which I first beheld you, at the window of the pavilion, I had accidentally passed and heard those sweet and harmonious sounds, that affecting and angelic voice, the impressions of which have since been so powerful, and the effects of which, indeed, I felt the very moment they first were heard. Never before had I heard a voice of so much sensibility. I listened for some time after you [Page 132] had ceased to sing, and still thought I heard sounds [...]o correspondent to the feelings of my heart. Nay, I continued to hear them, even at a distance; and, the next day, impatiently visited the same place.
"Passionately fond of music, to that alone did I attribute that irresistible attraction by which I was led thither. I will, however, confess I was, indeed, most desirous to see the person of her whose power over the heart I found so great; but this I attributed to curiosity. I imagined that, by singing with you, I might bring you to the window; and the stratagem was succcessful. I beheld you! Though but for a moment; but that moment was sufficient. The impression it made never can be forgotten; and my first wish was I might have beheld you ever.
"Wherefore, Oh! wherefore may I not dwell on incidents once so dear to memory? Wherefore not retrace each circumstance, recount each rapturous event of time which fled so swift away; and which has left mementos so fatal in my heart! Ah! happy I! when, my soul absorbed by sensations of bliss so pure, sensations of which, till then, I had been wholly ignorant, I existed only at Rindaw, forgotten of the world beside! Ah how happy! when, leaving you in the evening, my sole idea was that of seeing you again on the morrow; and while that idea was so vast, so perfect, that it excluded every other! Not those burning, resistless and tumultuous sensations that Louisa inspired; nor yet that monotonous tranquillity, that indolence of heart, and apathy of sense Matilda gave, did I feel. No; the charm was new, delicious, exquisite! It was another world which Caroline embellished! I beheld her in every surrounding object; or, rather, I beheld no other object but her.— The only letter I wrote, during two months, was to ask permission to pass the summer at Risberg, which I obtained, and I thought those two months an eternity! The past forgotton, to the future blind, the present was Heaven, for Caroline was present!
"Yet wherefore seek to redouble my torments, by painting happiness foregone? Alas! I had forgotten that I ought no more to speak of myself; forgotten that Caroline is the wife of the best, the sublimest of mortals! Yes, of him I will speak, of him only.
"About a month since, I received a letter from him; and this letter first awakened me from this inebriety of [Page 133] pleasure. He complained of my silence, at which Matilda, likewise, was not less surprised. Matilda!—The very name rent my heart, and made me feel it was wholly Carolin [...]—I laid down the letter, and it was long before I had the fortitude again to read. At length I took it up once more, and the following passage restored me to life."—'Have you,' said Walstein, 'changed your opinion, either respecting Matilda or our future destinies, and do you fear to own it, Lindorf? All you have to fear is to leave us either in incertitude, or error. I [...]fer you to the letter I wrote, last autumn, relative to this subject: read it again, and recollect well that the only thing I never could pardon would be your having deceived, and sacrificed your happiness to me. Write to me immediately, Lindorf, and be careful to let me know the true state of your heart, as the only means by which you can prove it has suffered no change in friendship:' &c.—"This was a ray of light to my bewildered mind, and, at once, informed me what my sentiments for Caroline were▪ and what my duty towards the best of friends. Alas! I thought to fulfil them all by placing the most entire confidence in him; by relating the truth, and entreating him to dispose of me at his will. How might I know that this very confidence was an outrage, and that I asked his consent to ro [...] himself of the most precious of Heaven's blessings?—Impelled by some dreadful fatality, I seem destined to offend in every manner, and at all times this most noble of men. Oh! Walstein! Walstein! might thy greatest enemy have injured thee as I have done!—Yet should this writing have the effect which I expect, and even hope—Yes, hope— If she who reads it can feel the inestimable value of a soul like thine, what shall I then have to lament?
"I here add a copy of the letter, No. III. Which I sent to the Count, the very day I received his. Condescend to run it over, it will be the last time you will have occasion to remember an unfortunate man, who himself entreats you would forever forget him; yet, as some small alleviation, wishes you to see how infinitely▪ you were once adored."
No. III. Copy of a Letter from the Baron of Lindorf to the Count of Walstein, Ambassador at Petersburg.
'You have but too truly divined my dear Count, what are the present feelings of my heart. I have a secret to [Page 134] relate, the relation of which is become the more painful by having been so long delayed. Yet, believe me when I declare, it was your letter that first informed me what my feelings truly were: and that, till the mo [...]ent I received it, I remained in unconscious security; or, rather, in the enjoyment of sensations the most congenial my soul has ever known, without once enquiring whence they originated. —Love, that true, that pure love, of which you, my friend have so often spoken, and which I never [...]e [...] [...]efore; love is the secret, love the source of this my happiness; the only happiness of which man is capable! Ah! did you know how the two last months have glided away! They have been but as a moment, and yet have I volumes to write concerning them, though not a single incident which Walstein will not approve.—Oh, my friend▪ in her are united every talent, every grace, and every virtue. Beauty is the least of her advantages; for, infinite as this is, it is remembered no more when the sound of her voice is heard, when her fingers touch the chords of harmony, or animate the lifeless canvass. She alone seems ignorant of the wondrous pleasure she herself cro [...]es. Did you hear her sing, Walstein! Oh! did you listen while she reads our best poets, adding a meaning more profound, and feeling superior even to what they themselves imagined; did you, especially, see how she is adored by all around her; were you a witness of her affectionate attentions to an infirm and blind friend; what a blessing she renders life to one, who else, might find life her severest affliction; were you where I am! —Yes, I might have my fears, but not that you would blame my choice.
I feel too well any longer to doubt that, without her, for me there cannot be happiness. She only taught me to know what it was, nor, till her I knew, had I any conception of that sweet peace of mind which I imagined so incompatible with love. I am no longer the same. It is she who has wholly changed me. The headstrong, impetuous Lindorf, happy in her sight, happy when she speaks, most happy in the progress he daily makes in her affections, dares hope he is beloved though he has never dared to ask, having been too much enraptured with present enjoyment. 'Thus might I have passed a whole life away had not your letter awakened me from this trance of beatitude! I feel, at present, without the consent of [Page 135] my friends, will not be injurious to that of others, this my vision of bl [...]ss must end! Can Matilda, the generous, the tender Matilda, preserve esteem and friendship for one who could see yet and not adore her; and who, certain of bein [...] [...]lessed in her possession, if so his way ward heart had pleased, knew [...] d [...]nd himself against tyrannic love [...] ▪ And can you, [...] Walstein, pardo [...] and esteem me still; me whom you had befo [...] [...] so much reason to detest, whom yet you destined to [...] brother; and who renounces a name so endearing? [...] no, I do not renounce it, but refer the decision of what I am to be to you. Be you umpire; for, here I vow, whatever you determine, that w [...] become. If the husband of Matilda, I cannot promise to forget my passion, it is too much a part of myself; but it shall remain for ever hidden in the most secret corner of my [...] Ay, so that even you yourself shall forget its [...] This involuntary and concealed wrong, far from [...]juri [...] ▪ shall but increase your sister's happiness. Remember this and reflection it well, [...] Walstein, before [...] [...]te, however impatient I may be so [...]an answer▪ [...] [...] stein, remember it is the sentence [...] that, after it is pronounced, I will either [...] more, or kneel at her feet, and consecrate to her my [...] [...] ture life! Till then I will be silen [...] [...] [...]he [...] remain ignorant of how much she [...] seein [...] her every day, and every d [...] [...] more enchanting, I have yet [...] [...]p [...] [...]t, think you not, if you require it, [...] [...]ep [...] I shall behold her no more? [...] [...]ains it never shall escape my lips, if I find [...] to renounce her; not even you, Walstein, [...] know her name; it shall remain buried in my bosom▪ and never once rise to my lips; if; on the contrary, I obtain your consent, with transport will I inform you of one who merits the adoration of the universe. And most delighted shall I be to hear a friend, like Walstein, applaud my choice and participate my joys; but again, I repeat, these joys cannot exist should they cost a Matilda a tear, or her brother so much as a sigh.'
"Such, Caroline, was my letter, and thus did every thing contribute to blind me, even to the omitting informing my friend of your name; one single word and you had been known to the Count, which at least would [Page 136] have prevented the declaration I have made to you of a criminal passion. I had been less guilty, but I thought this a respect due to yourself; for what right had I to name a person to whom I was not certain of being at liberty to offer my hand? Another motive, also, made me silent. Your i [...]ns [...] fortune, at the remembrance of which I have, [...] than once, grie [...] and which wo [...] even have prevented me from declaring my senti [...] had my own been less considerable, might have in [...]enced the Count in his decision, and I wished him to be wholly free from influence. It was enough, nay, indeed, too much, to own that my future happiness depended on this decision, and I waited in expectation of his answer with excessive anxiety. Sometimes, relying on his generosity and principles, my heart yielded to all t [...]tte [...]ies of hope; at others, knowing how tenacious he was [...]he project he had formed, and his great affection for his sister, I dreaded he would require the sacrifice of my passion; and this sacrifice, to the performance of which I had pledged myself, seemed beyond my stre [...].
[...], so powerful were the mild sensations you in [...], it [...] only when absent from you I ever found [...]elf tormented by these apprehensions of horror. The [...]ment I b [...] [...]u they disappeared; and the same [...]ranquilli [...] [...] the same dreams of bliss, again recu [...] [...] [...]quietude gave place, and it see [...] impossible [...]ppiness, so pure, so permanent▪ could suffer interr [...]. The tender friendship which you, with ingenu [...] [...] [...]eserved, testified for me; the evident and par [...] [...]ness of the Baroness; the discourse she he [...]el [...] in your absence; all aided the deception, and contributed to make me fancy myself the most blessed of mortal men. But so, indeed, I was, and three months of joys so heavenly, so unspeakable as these, well might compensate for an age of torments, did not the certainty that they never can return, empoison the remainder of a wretched life.—Yes, whenever this wretchedness shall become too oppressive for nature to support, th [...] will I return to Rindaw, and say, here did I pass three months, with Caroline, and can I complain of being miserable?
"At length I received the answer so much dreaded, and so much desired. My impatience too, daily had become [Page 137] so great that I was every moment in fear lest my secret should escape my lips. I rode, therefore, myself to Berlin, to inquire at the post-office, and found the letter lying there. So great was my tremor at receiving it from the post-master, that he imagined I was ill, and asked if I wanted aid. I begged him to let me retire to a chamber and read it, and when alone, I remained almost a quarter of an hour without daring to touch the seal, Yet how could I justify this excessive emotion? Did not I know Walstein? How, indeed, unless presaging nature was informing me of my involuntary crime? In fine, my agitation increased so much that I left the room without opening the letter, resolved not to read it till I came home. I therefore mounted my horse, but had scarcely got an hundred yards out of town before I suddenly alighted, hang my horse to a gate, and broke the seal which enclosed my sentence, resolved, had it been such as I feared it might, never to return to Rindaw more. My project, in such a case, was immediately to depart to the Count at Petersburg, and seek from him that fortitude I found not in myself. But Fate, to make my punishment the greater, suffered my delusion to continue and increase. Oh! Caroline, imagine what my raptures were when I read the letter I have here inclosed."
No. IV. From the Count of Walstein to the Baron of Lindorf, at Berlin.
'Love, dear Lindorf, of her and love; think of these, and remember not aught else the universe contains. Or, should Love grant a moment to Friendship, employ that moment to assure thyself that a friend participates thy joys.—Happy Lindorf! Thou lovest and art beloved! Thou hast found the mate of thy heart, the sympathizing mind which the supreme Creator modelled after thy own, his fiat formed ye for each other. And fearest thou then I should oppose a decree so immutable; that I should tear thee from her who was written thine in the first records of eternity? Thy letter has removed all doubts; not a phrase, not a word is there which does not breathe love. It is a passion thou knowest too well how to describe, not both to feel it and inspire. In thee I behold [Page 138] that supreme felicity the seeds of which have been deposited in my own heart, and of which I have sometimes doubted the actual existence. Something of it I beheld in the loves of Louisa and Justin, but this I attributed to country simplicity, and supposed it impossible to be found elsewhere. Oh! how grateful is it to my heart to know that this felicity has been realized by my friend, to have proof it is not wholly banished this earth; and of these proofs thy letter is full; even to that sacrifice which thou with such sincerity offerest, but which I should be a barbarian to accept. My affection for my sister, were yours, Lindorf, out of the question, would ensure my refusal. You are a man of honour, and I know you sincere, when you assure me, you would be careful never to let Matilda perceive she was not the wife of your heart; but how might you keep this fatal secret? Alas, my friend, I am convinced it is impossible so to deceive a woman, and the misery of both would be the inevitable consequence of a discovery.
'No Lindorf, I wish your delicacy and conscience to be wholly at ease, respecting our dear Matilda. I own she is strongly attached to you, and that you are the first and only man who has made any progress in her affections. But, whether it be the effect of character, education, or of youth, her sensations are not of that profound and determined species on which the happiness or misery of life depends; nor am I certain that we ought to give them the name of love.
'It has seemed to me that her feelings are rather the effect of a fervid imagination, than of the heart, which, perhaps, have been heightened by opposition; and that friendship has been mistaken for love. During my late visit at Dresden, I was struck with the levity, and even gaiety, with which she supported your absence and her own chagrin. It is true, she always speaks of you with infinite tenderness, but she laughed and cried both in a breath; and a moment after she had vowed eternal love for you, would begin to sing and dance. I was not uneasy on this account, because, I own, I partly foresaw what has happened; and, supposing I had been deceived in this, I, for my part, was well pleased with this kind of passion; if you were united it might become every thing you wished, and, if not, Matil [...]a [...]ght easily receive consolation, and be glad to hear of your happiness▪ [Page 139] elsewhere. The young Baron de Zastrow is returned, and, as I am informed, is a handsome youth. He, perhaps, may contribute to her tranquillity; but, be it as it may, make not yourself uneasy; rest assured both brother and sister will find their happiness in yours. I, therefore, release you from every obligation, dear Lindorf, and only have to blame you for having supposed it possible I could do otherwise. Fly, the moment you have received this letter, and pay your homage to the lady you love, and who, if I may judge from your description, so transcendantly deserves to be beloved; nor, have I any cause to doubt it, for, with all the enthusiasm of passion, you seem to have preserved the coolness of reason. How impatient am I to judge for myself! To see, hear, and, as you yourself say, to applaud your choice! Nor will it be long before I shall enjoy this pleasure. Preparations are made for my return to Berlin; you must direct no more letters to me at Petersburg. I shall be on the road when you receive this, and soon afterwards in your arms. We shall then, dear Lindorf, no longer have any thing to conceal from each other, for hitherto we have mutually had some reserve. I shall learn who your beloved is, and you will then be informed of a secret which, hitherto, a combination of circumstances has obliged me to keep; nay, indeed, to have afflicted you would but have added to my own grief, for my sorrows were of a kind that admitted not of alleviation. When I return, they, perhaps, may cease, and perhaps, also, I may then be destined never to enjoy that felicity, which I do not envy you, Lindorf, but which I yet most ardently wish to partake. Oh! my friend, there is another She, another beloved, in existence, who, when you shall know, will not a little surprise you.—But not a word of this till I see you. I hope to find you either happy or on the point of becoming so. This, at least, is a certain bliss; and with this, if so my destiny should decree, I must endeavour to rest content. Farewell! Should you mention your friend to the mistress of your heart, should you tell her she has superseded his sister, tell her likewise she has gained a brother, nay, perhaps, a sister also, of whom may she become the friend, and whom may she render as much alive to love as she herself is. That she may, however, love you▪ Lindorf, equal to your deserts, is the ardent prayer of
P. S. 'Were you not in love I scarcely could pardon you two thoughtless omissions; the first, not having dated your letter, so that I neither know how long it has been coming, nor where you at present are; I suppose at Berlin, and, therefore, have directed as usual; the second, your not having said a word of your late uncle, the commander, nor his will. You find I have heard of it, tho' I congratulate you on this addition to your fortune.— The clause by which you are obliged to marry within two years will not be the least impediment to your succession. Once more, farewell, I am impatient till we meet, and till I have said the thousand things I have to say.'
"You know the rest, Caroline: I have done. It is not for words to tell you either what I felt after reading this letter, or after finding how presumptuous and culpable my hopes had been. I began this manuscript the moment I got home, yesterday. The time has been short; my wearied hand and eyes scarce have power to trace an adieu which my tears would efface; or to supplicate your pardon for an unfortunate man who has disturbed your future tranquillity. Oh! may he be wholly forgotten by you, and may you recover that pe [...]e, that serenity of soul without which happiness may not be. Oh! Caroline, believe the friend who knows your heart better, at this moment, than you yourself, and who knows, also the man to whom, henceforth, it is your duty to consecrate this your heart, your life; it is with him, only, by making him as happy as he deserves, that you can find happiness yourself. But you have read, and justice and love by this time must have passed sentence. This sentence cannot but be in favour of Walstein, and I have nothing more to add.
"I have not yet come to any determination respecting myself; I neither know what I shall do, or what say, to Walstein. I ought, perhaps, to tell him all; but a word which escaped me in my letter, a word I would redeem with my life, has for ever sealed my lips."
"No, Caroline, never shall these lips, or this heart pronounce your name. I will even deprive myself of that consolation. Farewell Caroline, farewell—for ever! —Ay, for ever; for never more must I see you, unless I could cease to love you. Oh! might this love become so sanctified, that I might only behold, in you, the wife of Walstein. Oh! might I restore each of you a friend [Page 141] worthy of yourselves!—This or death is all I have to hope!—Adieu, adieu! I fly to give you this; once more to behold you—No, not to behold. I will not look on Caroline! You are the wife of my friend; the Countess of Walstein. Yes, to the Countess of Walstein I am bringing these papers, this picture. Caroline is no longer in being; not Lindorf's Caroline!—You are now at the pavilion, I fly. Oh! Heaven grant me fortitude, sustain me in this fearful moment!"
We shall not attempt to describe what were the sensations of Caroline after what she had read. Who may express all that passed in a heart divided between love, remorse, admiration, and, perhaps, even a tincture of jealousy? Louisa and Matilda, by turns, drew her attention; she read again the passages that related to them. What fire, what enthusiasm did she find in Lindorf's expression of his passion for Louisa, compared to the feelings she had observed when in company with herself! She was tempted to believe that the latter were little more than the result of tranquil friendship. As to the young Matilda—how happy was she, who dared love Lindorf and own her passion!—Ay▪ but how much to be pitied; not to be beloved again! Charming Matilda! Generous Walstein! Ye merit not ingratitude from others!
Caroline well recollected, that during the week preceding her marriage, the Count had mentioned his sister, and the hope that Caroline and she would become friends! but, as she was then wholly absorbed in meditating on the means of separation, she had paid little attention to his discourse. But ah! how bitter was the remembrance of having injured this Matilda, this sister; injured her beyond reparation; robbed her of a heart over which her claims were so numerous, and so legitimate! It was true she did not seem sufficiently to know the value of this heart, thought Caroline, as she again perused the letter of the Count to Lindorf; and though the apparent want of sensibility in Matilda was in every respect a subject of consolation to Caroline, yet could she scarcely pardon her.
Deep in thought, on the many and strange events she just had read, sat Caroline, and perceived not that it was noon, when a servant came from the Baroness to seek her. She hastily gathered up the papers that were spread open around her, and locked them up in her bureau; but, as she was going, she perceived the box, containing the portrait, [Page 142] still on the table; this she slipped into her pocket, and ran to the Baroness.
Caroline found her with a note she had received from Lindorf, which she could not read. Here, my dear, said the Canoness, as she entered, open this, and let me hear what our dear young Gentleman says, whom we have not seen for these two days; we shall learn why he is absent; I cannot tell thee how much I miss him. The melancholy Caroline, expecting what the contents would be, sighed, raised her eyes to Heaven, and took the note. It contained compliments to the ladies; informed them, he, Lindorf, was forced to depart, immediately, on very essential and pressing business; could not have the honour of seeing them again; assured them, however, he never could forget them, and earnestly hoped a continuance of their esteem and friendship.
Yes certainly, Caroline, knew, before she read the contents of this note; it was no surprise to her; yet was she so affected as scarcely to be able to pronounce a word. The conviction she should see him no more, that all intercourse between them was over, the cold and studied contrast of this billet, compared to the manuscript she just had read, the words esteem and friendsh [...]p, traced by the same hand, that so lately had painted, with such enthusiasm, the strongest sensations of the soul, the constraint she was under by the presence of the Baroness, all conspired to render her situation almost insupportable. Might one easily suppose her distress could suffer augmentation?— Scarcely had she finished the note, suppressing her sobbs, tho' the tears ran incessantly down her cheeks, when taking her handkerchief out of her pocket, the box, which she had just put in it, and which was then far from her thoughts, fell at her feet, and, laying open on the ground, presented that form, and those features which she had before feared to look on. The accident was a very trifling one, yet did it make an incredible impression on Caroline; ay, as great as though the Count him [...]elf, in person, had stood before her and reproached her [...]or infidelity. Her exclamation was almost a shriek. She stooped for the box, turned away her eyes, as she picked it up, and hastily ran from the chamber, without knowing why or from whom she fled—she presently recovered, returned and found the Canoness surprised at the cry she had uttered, and her sudden flight; and still more affected at the▪ [Page 143] farewell billet of Lindorf, and this his so unexpected departure.
The disorder in her eyes was a cataract; which, daily increasing, had too far injured her sight to see the picture. Caroline might say what she pleased, and it was much more easy to avoid an explanation concerning that, than to answer the questions, suppositions, and lamentations of the Baroness on the departure of Lindorf, which were unceasing. It broke all her measures, disconcerted all her projects, and absoutely threw her into despair! Caroline, afflicted as she herself was, yet was obliged to exhaust her imagination to comfort her friend. The best mode, no doubt, would have been to have proved, by confessing her marriage, how chimerical all these her projects were. Caroline, who, at last, perceived what her views had been, in encouraging the visits of Lindorf, wished to make this confession; but it was now become so painful, so difficult, she had not the power. How might she so much as pronounce the name of the Count! How relate his wrongs! I am the source of misery to the most virtuous of human beings, the most sublime, most worthy of felicity; and then, when I ought to have held myself blest, beyond the lot of women, then did I yield to antipathy, the most unreasonable, the most unjust.
Thus reasoned Caroline▪ nor was this antipathy the only sensation for which she had cause to blush. The name of Lindorf was as painful to pronounce as that of Walstein; she resolved, therefore, to wait the answer of her father, and the effect of time, ere she spoke, and to support, as well as she was able, the regret of the Baroness, for the absence of Lindorf. In fact, she regretted it too much herself not to find her heart in unison with that of her friend; and, however painful this continual subject of conversation might sometimes be, yet was she so interested in it, that she seemed to listen as though it were fascination to her ears. She became still more assiduous in her attentions to the Baroness than before, who, being deprived of sight, had still more need of her cares. She went no more to the pavilion; her books and treasures were, one after another, brought back to her apartment! though her musical instruments and painting utensils were the last. The mind must be at ease before it can wholly devote itself to, and coolly [Page 144] consider any subject. Caroline, whenever alone, was constantly reading her manuscript and letters, ruminating on the beauteous Louisa, the young Matilda, and the Count; sitting lost in a multitude of unconnected ideas, which were usually succeeded by a flood of tears. She likewise, become so familiar with the picture, that at last, she was never easy but when looking at it, and never beheld it without emotion; nay, even not without pleasure. Great God; would she say with her eyes fixed on the features, if, to so many virtues, a person so noble and a countenance so expressive were added? what mortal might be worthy of him? If?—Why do I say if? Who at present is worthy of Walstein? Am I? Oh! no, no; the best of men deserves the best of women; deserves a heart devoted to him, and him only!