Feudal tyrants; or, The Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans, volume 2 (of 4)

With this letter, my dear brother, you will receive a part of the manuscripts, which I engaged to send you: these leaves contain the memoirs of the unfortunate Urania Venosta, which have interested me greatly from a variety of reasons. I had erroneously supposed that the MS. was complete, but it proves to be nothing more than a fragment. Perhaps I imprudently included the second part of her adventures in the number of those papers, which I was compelled to restore to the Abbess’s custody; but I am rather more inclined to believe, that Time has destroyed the remainder of these memoirs, whose conclusion I am so desirous of perusing.

It’s true, I have found a few more detached leaves, and the last page or two; but these only serve to augment a curiosity, which would have remained totally unsatisfied, if I had suffered the labour of examining the moth-eaten parchments to overcome my perseverance. I have now no reason to regret the trouble which I gave myself, since I owe to it the possession of several other manuscripts, relating to persons and circumstances already mentioned by Urania. The memoirs of Minna of Homburg and of Lucretia Malaspina are both lost; but I have found much respecting the two Ladies of Sargans, to whom Urania’s narrative is addrest; much too respecting the noble and ill-fated Adelaide; as also several letters written by the latter, one of which seems to supply tolerably well the chasm in Urania’s memoirs. As soon as I succeed in decyphering them (which, thanks to the dust and the moths, is no easy task) I will not fail to impart to you their contents.

You will ask me, what impression the perusal of this history has made on my heart. Ah! my dear brother, it is but too certain, that the unfortunate are apt to find their own resemblance every where! At first, how little similar do the fortunes of Urania and myself appear! and yet how easily might it have happened, that we should have both been sisters united in the same misfortune! Might not Henry of Montfort, (whose loss has cost me so many tears,) in spite of his fair exterior, have proved at heart as great a monster, as Ethelbert of Carlsheim proved in spite of his? May not the prayers, with which I solicited Heaven to grant me Henry’s hand, have pleaded for that, whose possession would have proved to me the bitterest curse of Heaven?

Eternal Providence! never more will I murmur that you denied me a request, whose consequences were known to you far better than to myself. I besought you to bestow on me a blessing; you granted it by withholding that, which if conferred on me would perhaps have made me miserable for ever.

Oh! tell me, unhappy wife of my unhappy father; you, whom I would so gladly call my mother, had not she to whom Nature bade me give that valued name, compelled me to blend with it no ideas but those of pain and terror; you, whom I already love, and whose future affection I wish so anxiously to obtain; oh! tell me, Urania, was it but a dream, or have I indeed found at length the friend and sister whom I sought so long in vain, and whose counsels and whose comfort my tortured heart needs so greatly?

Yet alas! what avails it that we have met? Already are we separated, as I feared we should be, and separated (as I now fear) for ever! Yet, much as I grieve for what I lose myself by this event, still more do I grieve to think, that what you lose is greater!

How much do I now reproach myself, that when I stole to your tent at midnight to warn you and the fair partner of your captivity of what was about to happen, I should have been so tardy in acknowledging,—“Count Donat of Carlsheim is a man not to be trusted.”—Yet forgive me, Urania; Donat is my brother; and oh! it is so painful to declare a brother’s disgrace!

I charge you, dear friend, in the name of Heaven and the Holy Virgin I charge you, suffer not yourself to be deceived by his perfidious friendship. On your journey to the Castle seize the first opportunity of escaping; should you be once inclosed within the gates of Sargans, you have nothing to expect but a cruel death or an ignominious prison; and, alas for the damsel of Mayenfield! she has a still more dreadful lot to apprehend!

That hypocritical abbot Guiderius, or whatever be his detested name, who came to my brother’s camp with his monks under pretence of pleading in your behalf, was skilful enough to discover Count Donat’s darling weakness. He promised him the possession of a young beauty, who (according to his account) was entirely at the Abbot’s disposal. My brother, who never confides in the word of ecclesiastics, insisted on the immediate accomplishment of this promise; and the poor Minna was betrayed into the seducer’s hands. You accompanied her, and by your presence increased the ardour with which I had resolved to labour at preserving the innocent girl; a service which I had already rendered to many others, who found themselves enveloped in the same snare.

I saw you, Urania; oh! how strong was the sympathy which attracted my heart towards you, my heart to which at this moment a friend is so necessary! It’s true I have a sister; but she.... But you have already seen Mellusina, and you shall now know her.

Mellusina is privy to the designs of her faithless husband. Nothing but the promise of overlooking all his errors of this nature, and the temptation of her immense wealth, could have induced Donat to bestow on her the title of his wife. She is neither lovely in person, nor amiable in manners; and she bears a mortal hatred to every woman, who possesses those advantages which Nature has denied to herself. I cannot boast much of her good will towards me; yet I am compelled to pay my court to her, that she may not injure me with my brother, of whose powerful help my dear unfortunate husband stands at present but too much in need.

I trust a time will come when I may reveal to you the whole history of my sorrows; at present I can only repeat my warning. Yet surely some invisible power was disposed last night to give that warning in my stead! What could be the cause of that singular and terrific sensation, which we all felt at that moment, when Mellusina’s sleep at length left me at liberty to afford you the information, which this letter contains? What was it that startled us all at the same instant, and made us utter a scream of fear? What form was it that passed before us so swiftly? Whence came that sound, which seemed like a distant bell tolling? Whose were the cold fingers which seemed to grasp my neck?——Struck with an universal terror, we sprang from our seats at once, and asked each other—“What was that?”—Even the slumbering Mellusina was rouzed from her insensibility by alarm, and the hand with which she drew me from your tent was cold and trembling!

Surely, Urania, this must have been the warning of your guardian angel, who wished to accomplish that which Mellusina’s presence forbad my performing without danger ... unless indeed I were to give this mysterious event a different, and a more dreadful meaning! I know not why, but since that moment of terror in which we parted, the thought of my father never quits me for an instant! I trust no misfortune has befallen him.—Is he not in the hands of his son?—Alas! alas! and is not Donat capable of violating even the first and most sacred rights of Nature?

Oh! good, good father! since I have seen Urania Venosta, how much more warmly does my heart glow towards you with filial affection! How despicable, how execrable was she described to be, for whose sake my mother was sacrificed; and how different did I find her from the description! Her dignified air, her interesting countenance, inspired even the savage Donat with respect! Oh! surely I have been equally deceived respecting Count Ethelbert; surely I shall still enjoy the blessing of being clasped to the bosom of a virtuous father!

Once again, beloved Urania, be cautious both with regard to your own proceedings and Minna’s.—Fail not to let me know, as soon as possible, what passes at the Castle, if your evil genius decrees that you should be brought thither, and if an opportunity is afforded you of answering me by the faithful messenger, by whom this letter will be delivered. With regard to myself, I shall only inform you briefly, that my intention of warning you was suspected. Mellusina was commissioned to watch over me last night, as soon as it was discovered, that I had stolen to your tent unknown to my brother and his wife. In order to prevent the execution of my good design this morning, I was forcibly compelled to suffer you to depart without me for the Castle of Sargans; and I understand, that my absence was accounted for to you by the pretence of sudden illness. I am now setting out, by Donat’s orders, for the convent of St. Mary, at Basle: the Abbess is my secret friend, and soon after my arrival you shall hear from me. I trust, that I shall learn what has happened to you at the return of my messenger; and I need not assure you, that nothing in my power to assist you shall be neglected for a moment. Farewell!

The explanation which you demand of me, dear mother, would be very painful to make. For the benefit of my husband’s grand-daughters, I have confided to paper the whole history of my misfortunes; and the first time that you visit our Domina, the manuscript shall be laid before you. For the present I shall only tell you thus much: From that fearful moment when an invisible agent warned me, that misfortune was at hand; when we all felt, saw, heard something, which even yet none of us have been able to describe or understand; when I saw my earthly guardian angel, your Adelaide and mine, torn from me, and felt (yet knew not wherefore) that a separation from her was the signal for robbing me of all my hopes; from that moment was I doomed to experience sorrows, whose bitterness was till then unknown to me, practised as I was in the school of suffering.

The morning had scarcely broken, when we set forward for the Castle of Sargans; illness, as it was said, compelled Adelaide to remain behind, and her letter was not delivered till too late to be of use. Ere we reached the fortress, intelligence arrived that my unfortunate husband was no more. Guiderius, to whom the charge of him had been committed, had either been too remiss in watching him, or had trembled for his own miserable existence while exposed to a madman’s fury; or, as his enemies scrupled not to whisper (though the fact seems too atrocious for me to give it credit), had himself been the means of “ridding the world of an useless creature.” Such was the expression used by the insolent vassal, who informed Count Donat that his father had perished by an untimely death: I had the satisfaction of seeing, that the Count of Carlsheim rewarded the base wretch as he deserved!

The body of Count Ethelbert was found in the ruined well, into which (so said the Abbot) he had precipitated himself in a fit of frantic passion. This story did not meet with implicit belief; even Count Donat was openly among the disbelievers. Yet (after I had passed some time in the prison, which I was compelled to enter on the very evening of my arrival at that castle, of which I was the rightful owner) I was assured by my jailors that the Abbot of Curwald was fully reinstated in Count Donat’s favour, and constantly partook of the licentious feasts, the noise of whose riotous pleasures penetrated even to the depth of my subterraneous dungeon.

Yet I was not entirely forsaken. My guardian angel, my kind protecting Adelaide suffered no circumstance to escape her, that might tend to my relief. On the first evening of our acquaintance (alas! it was the first and last, for never since have I been permitted to embrace the dear one!) I mentioned accidentally that the daughters of the Emperor Rudolf had been my earliest friends and playmates: from this trifling hint did Adelaide derive means for effecting my deliverance. No sooner was she permitted to leave the convent, in which her brother at first caused her to be confined, than she made use of her liberty to procure mine; and (since she knew that gentle means would be of no avail) she endeavoured with the strong arm of authority to force me out of the power of my inhuman jailor.

She, who in a single interview had been inspired with so much interest and compassion for the unfortunate Urania; she, who in spite of her want of power was still able to benefit me so much, could little suspect that six powerful Princesses would remain inactive, when the business was to rescue from misery the companion of their childhood, the selected friend of their youth. Alas! she found herself mistaken: five of Rudolf’s daughters were the wives of sovereign Princes; the interests of kingdoms occupied their attention, and left them no thought to bestow on her whom they had once treated as their equal, and to whom they had sworn at parting firm friendship and affection without end. One only of the five (it was Matilda, the virtuous Duchess of Saxony) listened to Adelaide’s unwearied intercessions, and exerted her whole influence to obtain the Emperor’s interference in my behalf.

Her endeavours were at length successful; but ere I regained my freedom many years had elapsed, and by all but Adelaide’s ardent friendship I was believed to be no more. During the first months of my captivity Minna of Mayenfield had experienced a persecution, compared to which my dungeon appeared a Paradise. For its particulars I refer you to the journal of her imprisonment, as written by herself: the Helvetian women even then were well skilled in guiding the pen, and did not yield in that noble art to many of the highest dignitaries of the church. Dear unfortunate Minna! who can restrain their tears while reading in your own affecting language the sad account of sufferings and trials, almost too difficult for the strength of a Saint to endure with fortitude or even patience, much less for an unprotected girl; and yet Minna passed through the flames victorious!

The enamoured Donat neglected no means of seduction, which might tempt his virtuous captive from the path of honour, and in this shameful attempt Mellusina was his faithful assistant. It is shocking to think, that a wife should be so depraved as to aid in removing the obstacles, which impede her husband in his licentious pursuits; and that a woman should forget her sex so far, as to aim at the destruction of female innocence! I am persuaded, since the world was created, there has been but one woman capable of such unworthy conduct; and that one was Mellusina.

The fascinating arts of seduction having proved vain, they were followed by violence and ill-treatment; and when, after passing several months in ignorance of her fate, Lodowick of Homburg at length forced Count Donat’s fortress in search of his bride, he found her in a subterraneous cell, similar to that in which I was myself imprisoned. I heard the tumult occasioned by her deliverance, and doubted not that my own was at hand.—Alas! my hopes were vain! My feeble cries could not reach the hearing of my friends; they knew not that those caverns contained any captive except Minna. Mellusina managed to persuade my adopted daughter and her deliverer, that I had paid the debt of Nature. They shed unavailing tears upon the grave, which the deceiver pointed out to them as mine, while buried alive beneath the castle’s foundations I shrieked to them for help in vain; and I sank from the height of my deceived hopes into the deepest despair, till time and faith in God at length restored me to composure.

The only effect resulting to myself from Minna’s deliverance was, that the strictness of my imprisonment was increased. The Count of Homburg’s desperate enterprize could only have succeeded, while Donat was absent; and the latter now seldom left the Castle, lest similar accidents should occur. They say, that the fires of the infernal regions burn doubly fierce, when their monarch returns from his wanderings on earth; such too was the case in the Castle of Sargans—When their tyrant breathed the same air with them, the chains of the poor captives were rendered doubly heavy, and their sufferings doubly sharp!

Yet was he not permitted to kill me, since Heaven had decreed, that I should at last see the moment of deliverance. Adelaide still maintained, that I was in existence; imperial majesty interfered in my behalf, and insisted on Donat’s producing proofs of my death. My tyrant became embarrassed, and at length proposed to me that my liberty should be restored, provided I would voluntarily make over the whole of my possessions (which descended to me in right of my uncle) to the man, who had so long unlawfully possessed them. I joyfully embraced the offer. I had long considered liberty as the only real wealth; I had long harboured no other wish than to end my wretched life in the repose and security of a cloister!

The sacrifice of my inheritance was completed, and Donat condescended to conduct me from my prison with his own hand; he even carried his hypocrisy so far (when he presented me to the nobleman who had negociated with him by order of the Emperor and the Duchess of Saxony) as to call me “his kind mother, to whose affection he was indebted for the greatest part of his possessions.” Yes! the wretch dared to profane the name of mother! How ill would that sacred word have accorded with the marks of his tyranny, with which my wrists were still scarred, had it been pronounced before impartial hearers? But the persons into whose charge I was delivered, were contented with having obtained my liberty, the only point expressed in their instructions. Far was it from the intention of my royal deliverers, that I should have been compelled to pay so dearly for my escape from Donat’s power; but I was myself prepared to make the sacrifice, and was besides much too weak to vindicate my rights against my powerful oppressor. Those who could have advised me and acted in my behalf, Edith and her daughter, were far from me, and still believed me to be no longer in existence.

Under the protection of the imperial envoys (though in truth their manner of executing their commission had given me but little reason to believe them much disposed to protect me) I hastened to the convent, which I had selected for my future abode. Yet I left behind me in Count Donat’s castle a treasure, with which I was deeply grieved to part, and which I would most joyfully have taken with me. During the few days which want of strength to begin my journey compelled me to remain his guest, the Count of Carlsheim thought it proper to shew me every mark of outward respect; his attentions, which he forced me to endure, excited in me only sentiments of disgust at his hypocrisy, till he presented to me his daughters, or (as he chose to call them) my grand-children, whom my bounty had destined to be the future heiresses of Sargans.

They were lovely innocent cherubs, born during the second year of my captivity. The birth of these twin-sisters had cost Mellusina her life; and the loss of a mother so unworthy might have been reckoned their gain, had not Heaven abandoned them to the care of a father, whose example was likely to ruin them both in body and mind. Oh! Emmeline! oh! Amalberga! how closely did you entwine yourselves round my heart, even in those few days of our first acquaintance! When I was about to leave you, you clung to me, wept, and begged me to take you with me! Oh! could you but have known what I suffered, when I tore myself from your little arms, Heaven knows how unwillingly!—I cast a melancholy look on Count Donat, and in the most humble manner hazarded a request: but instantly his brow was clouded with frowns, and in an ironical tone he asked me—“Whether I could not confide in his sincerity without his delivering up hostages?”—

Heaven be praised, his sincerity and his insincerity have been since then a matter of indifference to me; protected by these holy walls and the power of the good Domina of Zurich, I no longer tremble at the thoughts of Count Donat’s hatred. Nor have unexpected causes of rejoicing been denied me, even in this abode of pious seclusion. The youngest of the Emperor Rudolf’s daughters, the gentle and pious Euphemia, whose grave and prudent air had made her an object of ridicule to her sportive sisters and the thoughtless Urania, and who in the days of petulant youth had ever been excluded from our circle and our girlish secrets; Euphemia was the first, whose open arms received me on my arrival at the convent of Zurich. She congratulated me with a joy, which evidently came from the heart, on my having reached a place of security; and she offered me a friendship, whose value I now first learnt to estimate, when time and sorrow had humbled and instructed me.

She had learnt my story through her sister, the Duchess of Saxony, and had quitted the convent of Tull, where she led the life of a Saint, to wait for my arrival at Zurich, and comfort me in person for the many sufferings which I had undergone. I have since had good reason to believe, that her approach to Count Donat’s neighbourhood, and her declared resolution never to rest till she had obtained my liberty (a resolution which she took care should reach the Castle of Sargans), had no slight weight in influencing the determination of my tyrant: the wretched Urania would probably have expired long since in Count Donat’s dungeons, had not the eyes of this benevolent Princess been fixed upon the forlorn one’s destiny!

What have I not besides to thank her for! It is to her that I am indebted for a reunion with my beloved Edith and her daughter, who received me as one just risen from the dead. It is to her too that I am indebted for your valuable friendship, Holy Mother, and for the hope of once more embracing my preserver, my sister, my Adelaide! Till that wished-for moment arrives, never must you expect me, venerable Lady, to desist from entreating you to make me more accurately informed respecting the past adventures and present situation of my unequalled friend. I know, they are both strange and melancholy; and a cloister is exactly the place, where the relation of such histories nourish the emotions of holy pity, and produce a calm submissive adoration of the wonderful and mysterious ordinations of that Providence, which formed and which governs the world.