University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.

Such, for some time, was the course of my meditations.
My weakness, and my aversion to be
pointed at as an object of surprize or compassion,
prevented me from going into public. I studiously
avoided the visits of those who came to express their
sympathy, or gratify their curiosity. My uncle was
my principal companion. Nothing more powerfully
tended to console me than his conversation.

With regard to Pleyel, my feelings seemed to
have undergone a total revolution. It often happens
that one passion supplants another. Late disasters
had rent my heart, and now that the wound
was in some degree closed, the love which I had
cherished for this man seemed likewise to have vanished.

Hitherto, indeed, I had had no cause for despair.
I was innocent of that offence which had estranged
him from my presence. I might reasonably expect
that my innocence would at some time be irresistably
demonstrated, and his affection for me be revived
with his esteem. Now my aversion to be thought
culpable by him continued, but was unattended
with the same impatience. I desired the removal of
his suspicions, not for the sake of regaining his
love, but because I delighted in the veneration of
so excellent a man, and because he himself would
derive pleasure from conviction of my integrity.

My uncle had early informed me that Pleyel and
he had seen each other, since the return of the latter

from Europe. Amidst the topics of their conversation,
I discovered that Pleyel had carefully omitted
the mention of those events which had drawn upon
me so much abhorrence. I could not account for
his silence on this subject. Perhaps time or some
new discovery had altered or shaken his opinion.
Perhaps he was unwilling, though I were guilty, to
injure me in the opinion of my venerable kinsman.
I understood that he had frequently visited me during
my disease, had watched many successive nights
by my bedside, and manifested the utmost anxiety
on my account.

The journey which he was preparing to take, at
the termination of our last interview, the catastrophe
of the ensuing night induced him to delay. The
motives of this journey I had, till now, totally mistaken.
They were explained to me by my uncle,
whose tale excited my astonishment without awakening
my regret. In a different state of mind, it
would have added unspeakably to my distress, but
now it was more a source of pleasure than pain.
This, perhaps, is not the least extraordinary of the
facts contained in this narrative. It will excite less
wonder when I add, that my indifference was temporary,
and that the lapse of a few days shewod me
that my feelings were deadened for a time, rather
than finally extinguished.

Theresa de Stolberg was alive. She had conceived
the resolution of seeking her lover in America.
To conceal her flight, she had caused the
report of her death to be propagated. She put herself
under the conduct of Bertrand, the faithful servant
of Pleyel. The pacquet which the latter received
from the hands of his servant, contained the
tidings of her safe arrival at Boston, and to meet
her there was the purpose of his journey.

This discovery had set this man's character in a
new light. I had mistaken the heroism of friendship
for the phrenzy of love. He who had gained
my affections, may be supposed to have previously
entitled himself to my reverence; but the levity which
had formerly characterized the behaviour of this man,
tended to obscure the greatness of his sentiments. I
did not fail to remark, that since this lady was still
alive, the voice in the temple which asserted her
death, must either have been intended to deceive, or
have been itself deceived. The latter supposition
was inconsistent with the notion of a spiritual, and
the former with that of a benevolent being.

When my disease abated, Pleyel had forborne
his visits, and had lately set out upon this journey.
This amounted to a proof that my guilt was still
believed by him. I was grieved for his errors, but
trusted that my vindication would, sooner or later,
be made.

Meanwhile, tumultuous thoughts were again set
afloat by a proposal made to me by my uncle. He
imagined that new airs would restore my languishing
constitution, and a varied succession of objects
tend to repair the shock which my mind had received.
For this end, he proposed to me to take up
my abode with him in France or Italy.

At a more prosperous period, this scheme would
have pleased for its own sake. Now my heart
sickened at the prospect of nature. The world of
man was shrowded in misery and blood, and constituted
a loathsome spectacle. I willingly closed
my eyes in sleep, and regretted that the respite it
afforded me was so short. I marked with satisfaction
the progress of decay in my frame, and consented
to live, merely in the hope that the course
of nature would speedily relieve me from the burthen.

Nevertheless, as he persisted in his scheme,
I concurred in it merely because he was entitled to
my gratitude, and because my refusal gave him
pain.

No sooner was he informed of my consent, than
he told me I must make immediate preparation to
embark, as the ship in which he had engaged a
passage would be ready to depart in three days.
This expedition was unexpected. There was an
impatience in his manner when he urged the necessity
of dispatch that excited my surprize. When
I questioned him as to the cause of this haste, he
generally stated reasons which, at that time, I could
not deny to be plausible; but which, on the review,
appeared insussicient. I suspected that the true motives
were concealed, and believed that these motives
had some connection with my brother's destiny.

I now recollected that the information respecting
Wieland which had, from time to time, been imparted
to me, was always accompanied with airs
of reserve and mysteriousness. What had appeared
sufficiently explicit at the time it was uttered, I now
remembered to have been faltering and ambiguous.
I was resolved to remove my doubts, by visiting the
unfortunate man in his dungeon.

Heretofore the idea of this visit had occurred to
me; but the horrors of his dwelling-place, his wild
yet placid physiognomy, his neglected locks, the
fetters which constrained his limbs, terrible as they
were in description, how could I endure to behold!

Now, however, that I was preparing to take an
everlasting farewell of my country, now that an
ocean was henceforth to separate me from him,
how could I part without an interview? I would
examine his situation with my own eyes. I would
know whether the representations which had

been made to me were true. Perhaps the sight of
the sister whom he was wont to love with a passion
more than fraternal, might have an auspicious influence
on his malady.

Having formed this resolution, I waited to communicate
it to Mr. Cambridge. I was aware that,
without his concurrence, I could not hope to carry
it into execution, and could discover no objection
to which it was liable. If I had not been deceived
as to his condition, no inconvenience could arise
from this proceeding. His consent, therefore, would
be the test of his sincerity.

I seized this opportunity to state my wishes on
this head. My suspicions were confirmed by the
manner in which my request affected him. After
some pause, in which his countenance betrayed
every mark of perplexity, he said to me, “Why
would you pay this visit? What useful purpose
can it serve?”

“We are preparing,” said I, “to leave the
country forever: What kind of being should I be
to leave behind me a brother in calamity without
even a parting interview? Indulge me for three
minutes in the sight of him. My heart will be
much easier after I have looked at him, and shed
a few tears in his presence.”

“I believe otherwise. The sight of him would
only augment your distress, without contributing,
in any degree, to his benefit.”

“I know not that,” returned I. “Surely the
sympathy of his sister, proofs that her tenderness is
as lively as ever, must be a source of satisfaction
to him. At present he must regard all mankind as
his enemies and calumnjators. His sister he, probably,
conceives to partake in the general infatuation,
and to join in the cry of abhorrence that is

raised against him. To be undeceived in this respect,
to be assured that, however I may impute
his conduct to delusion, I still retain all my former
affection for his person, and veneration for the purity
of his motives, cannot but afford him pleasure.
When he hears that I have left the country, without
even the ceremonious attention of a visit, what
will he think of me? His magnanimity may hinder
him from repining, but he will surely consider
my behaviour as savage and unfeeling. Indeed,
dear Sir, I must pay this visit. To embark with
you without paying it, will be impossible. It may
be of no service to him, but will enable me to acquit
myself of what I cannot but esteem a duty. Besides,”
continued I, “if it be a mere fit of infanity
that has seized him, may not my presence chance to
have a salutary influence? The mere sight of me,
it is not impossible, may rectify his perceptions.”

“Ay,” said my uncle, with some eagerness; “it
is by no means impossible that your interview may
have that effect; and for that reason, beyond all
others, would I dissuade you from it.”

I expressed my surprize at this declaration. “Is
it not to be desired that an error so fatal as this
should be rectified?”

“I wonder at your question. Reflect on the
consequences of this error. Has he not destroyed
the wife whom he loved, the children whom he
idolized? What is it that enables him to bear the
remembrance, but the belief that he acted as his
duty enjoined? Would you rashly bereave him of
this belief? Would you restore him to himself, and
convince him that he was instigated to this dreadful
outrage by a perversion of his organs, or a delusion
from hell?

“Now his visions are joyous and elate. He conceives

himself to have reached a loftier degree of
virtue, than any other human being. The merit
of his sacrifice is only enhanced in the eyes of superior
beings, by the detestation that pursues him here,
and the sufferings to which he is condemned. The
belief that even his sister has deserted him, and gone
over to his enemies, adds to his sublimity of feelings,
and his confidence in divine approbation and
future recompense.

“Let him be undeceived in this respect, and what
floods of despair and of horror will overwhelm him!
Instead of glowing approbation and serene hope,
will he not hate and torture himself? Self-violence,
or a phrenzy far more savage and destructive than
this, may be expected to succeed. I beseech you,
therefore, to relinquish this scheme. If you calmly
reflect upon it, you will discover that your duty lies
in carefully shunning him.”

Mr. Cambridge's reasonings suggested views to
my understanding, that had not hitherto occurred.
I could not but admit their validity, but they shewed,
in a new light, the depth of that misfortune in
which my brother was plunged. I was silent and
irresolute.

Presently, I considered, that whether Wieland
was a maniac, a faithful servant of his God, the
victim of hellish illusions, or the dupe of human
imposture, was by no means certain. In this state
of my mind it became me to be silent during the
visit that I projected. This visit should be brief;
I should be satisfied merely to snatch a look at him.
Admitting that a change in his opinions were not
to be desired, there was no danger from the conduct
which I should pursue, that this change should
be wrought.

But I could not conquer my uncle's aversion to

this scheme. Yet I persisted, and he found that to
make me voluntarily relinquish it, it was necessary
to be more explicit than he had hitherto been. He
took both my hands, and anxiously examining my
countenance as he spoke, “Clara,” said he, “this
visit must not be paid. We must hasten with the
utmost expedition from this shore. It is folly to
conceal the truth from you, and since it is only
by disclosing the truth that you can be prevailed
upon to lay aside this project, the truth shall be
told.

“O my dear girl!” continued he with increasing
energy in his accent, “your brother's phrenzy is,
indeed, stupendous and frightful. The soul that
formerly actuated his frame has disappeared. The
same form remains; but the wise and benevolent
Wieland is no more. A fury that is rapacious of
blood, that lifts his strength almost above that of
mortals, that bends all his energies to the destruction
of whatever was once dear to him, possesses
him wholly.

“You must not enter his dungeon; his eyes
will no sooner be fixed upon you, than an exertion
of his force will be made. He will shake off his
fetters in a moment, and rush upon you. No
interposition will then be strong or quick enough
to save you.

“The phantom that has urged him to the murder
of Catharine and her children is not yet appeased.
Your life, and that of Pleyel, are exacted
from him by this imaginary being. He is eager to
comply with this demand. Twice he has escaped
from his prison. The first time, he no sooner found
himself at liberty, than he hasted to Pleyel's house.
It being midnight, the latter was in bed. Wieland
penetrated unobserved to his chamber, and opened

his curtain. Happily, Pleyel awoke at the critical
moment, and escaped the fury of his kinsman, by
leaping from his chamber-window into the court.
Happily, he reached the ground without injury.
Alarms were given, and after diligent search, your
brother was found in a chamber of your house,
whither, no doubt, he had sought you.

“His chains, and the watchfulness of his guards,
were redoubled; but again, by some miracle, he restored
himself to liberty. He was now incautiously
apprized of the place of your abode: and had not
information of his escape been instantly given, your
death would have been added to the number of his
atrocious acts.

“You now see the danger of your project. You
must not only forbear to visit him, but if you would
save him from the crime of embruing his hands in
your blood, you must leave the country. There is
no hope that his malady will end but with his life,
and no precaution will ensure your safety, but that
of placing the ocean between you.

“I confess I came over with an intention to reside
among you, but these disasters have changed
my views. Your own safety and my happiness
require that you should accompany me in my return,
and I entreat you to give your cheerful concurrence
to this measure.”

After these representations from my uncle, it was
impossible to retain my purpose. I readily consented
to seclude myself from Wieland's presence. I likewise
acquiesced in the proposal to go to Europe;
not that I ever expected to arrive there, but because,
since my principles forbad me to assail my
own life, change had some tendency to make supportable
the few days which disease should spare to
me.

What a tale had thus been unfolded! I was
hunted to death, not by one whom my misconduct
had exasperated, who was conscious of illicit motives,
and who sought his end by circumvention and
surprize; but by one who deemed himself commissioned
for this act by heaven; who regarded this career
of horror as the last refinement of virtue; whose
implacability was proportioned to the reverence and
love which he felt for me, and who was inaccessible
to the fear of punishment and ignominy!

In vain should I endeavour to stay his hand by
urging the claims of a sister or friend: these were
his only reasons for pursuing my destruction. Had
I been a stranger to his blood; had I been the most
worthless of human kind; my safety had not been
endangered.

Surely, said I, my fate is without example. The
phrenzy which is charged upon my brother, must
belong to myself. My foe is manacled and guarded;
but I derive no security from these restraints. I live
not in a community of savages; yet, whether I sit
or walk, go into crouds, or hide myself in solitude,
my life is marked for a prey to inhuman violence;
I am in perpetual danger of perishing; of perishing
under the grasp of a brother!

I recollected the omens of this destiny; I remembered
the gulf to which my brother's invitation had
conducted me; I remembered that, when on the
brink of danger, the author of my peril was depicted
by my fears in his form: Thus realized,
were the creatures of prophetic sleep, and of wakeful
terror!

These images were unavoidably connected with
that of Carwin. In this paroxysm of distress, my
attention fastened on him as the grand deceiver; the

author of this black conspiracy; the intelligence
that governed in this storm.

Some relief is afforded in the midst of suffering,
when its author is discovered or imagined; and an
object found on which we may pour out our indignation
and our vengeance. I ran over the events that
had taken place since the origin of our intercourse
with him, and reflected on the tenor of that description
which was received from Ludloe. Mixed up
with notions of supernatural agency, were the vehement
suspicions which I entertained, that Carwin was
the enemy whose machinations had destroyed us.

I thirsted for knowledge and for vengeance. I
regarded my hasty departure with reluctance, since
it would remove me from the means by which this
knowledge might be obtained, and this vengeance
gratified. This departure was to take place in two
days. At the end of two days I was to bid an
eternal adieu to my native country. Should I not
pay a parting visit to the scene of these disasters?
Should I not bedew with my tears the graves of my
sister and her children? Should I not explore their
desolate habitation, and gather from the sight of its
walls and furniture food for my eternal melancholy?

This suggestion was succeeded by a secret shuddering.
Some disastrous influence appeared to
overhang the scene. How many memorials should
I meet with serving to recall the images of those I
had lost!

I was tempted to relinquish my design, when it
occurred to me that I had left among my papers a
journal of transactions in short-hand. I was employed
in this manuscript on that night when Pleyel's
incautious curiosity tempted him to look over my

shoulder. I was then recording my adventure in
the recess, an imperfect sight of which led him into
such fatal errors.

I had regulated the disposition of all my property.
This manuscript, however, which contained
the most secret transactions of my life, I was desirous
of destroying. For this end I must return to
my house, and this I immediately determined to
do.

I was not willing to expose myself to opposition
from my friends, by mentioning my design; I therefore
bespoke the use of Mr. Hallet's chaise, under
pretence of enjoying an airing, as the day was remarkably
bright.

This request was gladly complied with, and I
directed the servant to conduct me to Mettingen.
I disinissed him at the gate, intending to use, in returning,
a carriage belonging to my brother.