 | CHAPTER X. The headsman, or, The Abbaye des Vignerons |  |
10. CHAPTER X.
—But I have not the time to pause
Upon these gewgaws of the heart.
Werner.
Though the word castle is of common use in
Europe, as applied to ancient baronial edifices, the
thing itself is very different in style, extent, and
cost, in different countries. Security, united to
dignity and the means of accommodating a train
of followers suited to the means of the noble, being
the common object, the position and defences of
the place necessarily varied according to the general
aspect of the region in which it stood. Thus
ditches and other broad expanses of water were
much depended on in all low countries, as in Flanders,
Holland, parts of Germany, and much of
France; while hills, spurs of mountains, and more
especially the summits of conical rocks, were
sought in Switzerland, Italy, and wherever else
found. Other circumstances, such as climate,
wealth, the habits of a people, and the nature of
the feudal rights, also served greatly to modify the
appearance and extent of the building. The ancient
hold in Switzerland was originally little more than
a square solid tower, perched upon a rock, with
turrets at its angles. Proof against fire from without,
it had ladders to mount from floor to floor,
and often contained its beds in the deep recesses of
the windows, or in alcoves wrought in the massive
wall. As greater security or greater means enabled,
offices and constructions of more importance arose
around its base, inclosing a court. These necessarily
followed the formation of the rock, until, in
time, the confused and inartificial piles, which are
now seen mouldering on so many of the minor
spurs of the Alps, were created.
As is usual in all ancient holds, the Rittersaal—
the Salle des Chevaliers—or the knights' hall, of
Blonay, as it is differently called in different languages,
was both the largest and the most laboriously
decorated apartment of the edifice. It was
no longer in the rude gaol-like keep that grew, as
it were, from the living rock, on which it had been
reared with so much skill as to render it difficult to
ascertain where nature ceased and art commenced;
but it had been transferred, a century before the
occurrences related in our tale, to a more modern
portion of the buildings that formed the south-eastern
angle of the whole construction. The room
was spacious, square, simple, for such is the fashion
of the country, and lighted by windows that looked
on one side towards Valais, and on the other over
the whole of the irregular, but lovely declivity, to
the margin of the Leman, and along that beautiful
sheet, embracing hamlet, village, city, castle, and
purple mountain, until the view was limited by the
knights' hall, had an iron balcony at a giddy height
from the ground, and in this airy look-out Adelheid
had taken her seat, when, after quitting her
father, she mounted to the apartment common to
all the guests of the castle.
We have already alluded generally to the personal
appearance and to the moral qualities of the
Baron de Willading's daughter, but we now conceive
it necessary to make the reader more intimately
acquainted with one who is destined to act
no mean part in the incidents of our tale. It has
been said that she was pleasing to the eye, but her
beauty was of a kind that depended more on expression,
on a union of character with feminine
grace, than on the vulgar lines of regularity and
symmetry. While she had no feature that was defective,
she had none that was absolutely faultless,
though all were combined with so much harmony,
and the soft expression of the mild blue eye accorded
so well with the gentle play of a sweet mouth,
that the soul of their owner seemed ready at all
times to appear through these ingenuous tell-tales
of her thoughts. Still, maidenly reserve sate in
constant watch over all, and it was when the spectator
thought himself most in communion with her
spirit, that he most felt its pure and correcting influence.
Perhaps a cast of high intelligence, of a
natural power to discriminate, which much surpassed
the limited means accorded to females of
that age, contributed their share to hold those near
her in respect, and served in some degree as a mild
and wise repellant, to counteract the attractions of
her gentleness and candor. In short, one cast unexpectedly
in her society would not have been
slow to infer, and he would have decided correctly,
that Adelheid de Willading was a girl of warm
and tender affections, of a playful but regulated
whether natural or merely the result of social obligations,
of melting pity, and yet of a habit and
quality to think and act for herself, in all those
cases in which it was fitting for a maiden of her
condition and years to assume such self-control.
It was now more than a year since Adelheid had
become fully sensible of the force of her attachment
for Sigismund Steinbach, and during all that
time she had struggled hard to overcome a feeling
which she believed could lead to no happy result.
The declaration of the young man himself, a declaration
that was extorted involuntarily and in a
moment of powerful passion, was accompanied by
an admission of its uselessness and folly, and it
first opened her eyes to the state of her own feelings.
Though she had listened, as all of her sex will
listen, even when the passion is hopeless, to such
words coming from lips they love, it was with a
self-command that enabled her to retain her own
secret, and with a settled and pious resolution to
do that which she believed to be her duty to herself,
to her father, and to Sigismund. From that
hour she ceased to see him, unless under circumstances
when it would have drawn suspicion on her
motives to refuse, and while she never appeared to
forget her heavy obligations to the youth, she firmly
denied herself the pleasure of even mentioning
his name when it could be avoided. But of all
ungrateful and reluctant tasks, that of striving to
forget is the least likely to succeed. Adelheid was
sustained only by her sense of duty and the desire
not to disappoint her father's wishes, to which habit
and custom had given nearly the force of law with
maidens of her condition, though her reason and
judgment no less than her affections were both
strongly enlisted on the other side. Indeed, with
the single exception of the general unfitness of a
nothing to discredit her choice, if that may be
termed choice which, after all, was more the result
of spontaneous feeling and secret sympathy than of
any other cause, unless it were a certain equivocal
reserve, and a manifest uneasiness, whenever
allusion was made to the early history and to the
family of the soldier. This sensitiveness on the
part of Sigismund had been observed and commented
on by others as well as by herself, and it
had been openly ascribed to the mortification of
one who had been thrown, by chance, into an intimate
association that was much superior to what
he was entitled to maintain by birth; a weakness
but too common, and which few have strength of
mind to resist or sufficient pride to overcome.
The intuitive watchfulness of affection, however,
led Adelheid to a different conclusion; she saw
that he never affected to conceal, while with equal
good taste he abstained from obtrusive allusions to
the humble nature of his origin, but she also perceived
that there were points of his previous history
on which he was acutely sensitive, and which
at first she feared must be attributed to the consciousness
of acts that his clear perception of moral
truth condemned, and which he could wish forgotten.
For some time Adelheid clung to this discovery
as to a healthful and proper antidote to her
own truant inclinations, but native rectitude banished
a suspicion which had no sufficient ground, as
equally unworthy of them both. The effects of a
ceaseless mental struggle, and of the fruitlessness
of her efforts to overcome her tenderness in behalf
of Sigismund, have been described in the fading of
her bloom, in the painful solicitude of a countenance
naturally so sweet, and in the settled melancholy
of her playful and mellow eye. These
were the real causes of the journey undertaken by
events which we are about to describe.
The prospect of the future had undergone a
sudden change. The color, though more the effect
of excitement than of returning health—for
the tide of life, when rudely checked, does not resume
its currents at the first breath of happiness—
again brightened her cheek and imparted brilliancy
to her looks, and smiles stole easily to those
lips which had long been growing pallid with anxiety.
She leaned forward from the balcony, and
never before had the air of her native mountains
seemed so balmy and healing. At that moment
the subject of her thoughts appeared on the verdant
declivity, among the luxuriant nut-trees that
shade the natural lawn of Blonay. He saluted her
respectfully, and pointed to the glorious panorama
of the Leman, The heart of Adelheid beat violently;
she struggled for an instant with her fears
and her pride, and then, for the first time in her
life, she made a signal that she wished him to join
her.
Notwithstanding the important service that the
young soldier had rendered to the daughter of the
Baron de Willading, and the long intimacy which
had been its fruit, so great had been the reserve
she had hitherto maintained, by placing a constant
restraint on her inclinations, though the simple usages
of Switzerland permitted greater familiarity of
intercourse than was elsewhere accorded to maidens
of rank, that Sigismund at first stood rooted to
the ground, for he could not imagine the waving
of the hand was meant for him. Adelheid saw
his embarrassment, and the signal was repeated.
The young man sprang up the acclivity with the
rapidity of the wind, and disappeared behind the
walls of the castle.
The barrier of reserve, so long and so successfully
she felt as if a few short minutes must decide her
fate. The necessity of making a wide circuit in
order to enter the court still afforded a little time
for reflection, however, and this she endeavored to
improve by collecting her thoughts and recovering
her self-possession.
When Sigismund entered the knights' hall, he
found the maiden still seated near the open window
of the balcony, pale and serious, but perfectly
calm, and with such an expression of radiant happiness
in her countenance as he had not seen reigning
in those sweet lineaments for many painful
months. The first feeling was that of pleasure at
perceiving how well she bore the alarms and dangers
of the past night. This pleasure he expressed,
with the frankness admitted by the habits of the
Germans.
“Thou wilt not suffer, Adelheid, by the exposure
on the lake!” he said, studying her face until the
tell-tale blood stole to her very temples.
“Agitation of the mind is a good antidote to the
consequences of bodily exposure. So far from
suffering by what has passed, I feel stronger to-day
and better able to endure fatigue, than at any time
since we came through the gates of Willading.
This balmy air, to me, seems Italy, and I see no
necessity to journey farther in search of what they
said was necessary to my health, agreeable objects
and a generous sun.”
“You will not cross the St. Bernard!” he exclaimed
in a tone of disappointment,
Adelheid smiled, and he felt encouraged, though
the smile was ambiguous. Notwithstanding the
really noble sincerity of the maiden's disposition,
and her earnest desire to set his heart at ease, nature,
or habit, or education, for we scarcely know
her to avoid a direct explanation.
“Why need one desire aught that is more lovely
than this?” she answered, evasively. “Here is
a warm air, such a scene as Italy can scarcely
surpass, and a friendly roof. The experience of
the last twenty-four hours gives little encouragement
for attempting the St. Bernard, notwithstanding
the fair promises of hospitality and welcome
that have been so liberally held out by the good
canon.”
“Thy eye contradicts thy tongue, Adelheid; thou
art happy and well enough to use pleasantry to-day.
For heaven's sake, do not neglect to profit
by this advantage, however, under a mistaken
opinion that Blonay is the well-sheltered Pisa.
When the winter shall arrive, thou wilt see that
these mountains are still the icy Alps, and the
winds will whistle through this crazy castle, as
they are wont to sing in the naked corridors of
Willading.”
“We have time before us, and can think of this.
Thou wilt proceed to Milan, no doubt, as soon as
the revels of Vévey are ended.”
“The soldier has little choice but duty. My long
and frequent leaves of absence of late,—leaves
that have been liberally granted to me on account
of important family-concerns,—impose an additional
obligation to be punctual, that I may not seem
forgetful of favors already enjoyed. Although we
allowe a heavy debt to nature, our voluntary engagements
have ever seemed to me the most serious.”
Adelheid listened with breathless attention.
Never before had he uttered the word family, in
reference to himself, in her presence. The allusion
appeared to have created unpleasant recollections
in the mind of the young man himself, for
when he ceased to speak his countenance fell, and
of his fair companion. The latter turned sensitively
from a subject which she saw gave him
pain, and endeavored to call his thoughts to other
things. By an unforeseen fatality, the very expedient
adopted hastened the explanation she would
now have given so much to postpone.
“My father has often extolled the site of the
Baron de Blonay's castle,” said Adelheid, gazing
from the window, though all the fair objects of the
view floated unheeded before her eyes: “but, until
now, I have always suspected that friendly feeling
had a great influence on his descriptions.”
“You did him injustice then,” answered Sigismund,
advancing to the opening: “of all the ancient
holds of Switzerland, Blonay is perhaps entitled
to the palm, for possessing the fairest site.
Regard yon treacherous lake, Adelheid! Can we
fancy that sleeping mirror the same boiling cauldron
on which we were so lately tossed, helpless
and nearly hopeless?”
“Hopeless, Sigismund, but for thee!”
“Thou forgett'st the daring Italian, without
whose coolness and skill we must indeed have irredeemably
perished.”
“And what would it be to me if the worthless
bark were saved, while my father and his friend
were abandoned to the frightful fate that befell the
patron and that unhappy peasant of Berne!”
The pulses of the young man beat high, for there
was a tenderness in the tones of Adelheid to which
he was unaccustomed, and which, indeed, he had
never before discovered in her voice.
“I will go seek this brave mariner,” he said,
trembling lest his self-command should be again
lost by the seductions of such a communion:—“it
is time he had more substantial proofs of our
gratitude.”
“No, Sigismund,” returned the maiden firmly,
and in a way to chain him to the spot, “thou must
not quit me yet.—I have much to say—much that
touches my future happiness, and, I am perhaps
weak enough to believe, thine.”
Sigismund was bewildered, for the manner of
his companion, though the color went and came
in sudden and bright flashes across her pure brows,
was miraculously calm and full of dignity. He
took the seat to which she silently pointed, and sat
motionless as if carved in stone, his faculties absorbed
in the single sense of hearing. Adelheid
saw that the crisis was arrived, and that retreat,
without an appearance of levity that her character
and pride equally forbade, was impossible. The
inbred and perhaps the inherent feelings of her sex
would now have caused her again to avoid the explanation,
at least as coming from herself, but that
she was sustained by a high and holy motive.
“Thou must find great delight, Sigismund, in
reflecting on thine own good acts to others. But
for thee Melchior de Willading would have long
since been childless; and but for thee his daughter
would now be an orphan. The knowledge that
thou hast had the power and the will to succor
thy friends must be worth all other knowledge!”
“As connected with thee, Adelheid, it is,” he
answered in a low voice: “I would not exchange
the secret happiness of having been of this use to
thee, and to those thou lovest, for the throne of the
powerful prince I serve. I have had my secret
wrested from me already, and it is vain attempting
to deny it, if I would. Thou knowest I love thee;
and, in spite of myself, my heart cherishes the
weakness. I rather rejoice, than dread, to say,
that it will cherish it until it cease to feel. This
is more than I ever intended to repeat to thy modest
ears, which ought not to be wounded by idle
thy gentle spirit mock at a hopeless
passion!”
“Why should my smile mean mockery?”
“Adelheid!—nay—this never can be. One of
my birth—my ignoble, nameless origin, cannot
even intimate his wishes, with honor, to a lady
of thy name and expectations!”
“Sigismund, it can be. Thou hast not well calculated
either the heart of Adelheid de Willading,
or the gratitude of her father.”
The young man gazed earnestly at the face of
the maiden, which, now that she had disburthened
her soul of its most secret thought, reddened to
the temples, more however with excitement than
with shame, for she met his ardent look with the
mild confidence of innocence and affection. She
believed, and she had every reason so to believe,
that her words would give pleasure, and, with the
jealous watchfulness of true love, she would not
willingly let a single expression of happiness escape
her. But, instead of the brightening eye,
and the sudden expression of joy that she expected,
the young man appeared overwhelmed with feelings
of a very opposite, and indeed of the most painful,
character. His breathing was difficult, his look
wandered, and his lips were convulsed. He passed
his hand across his brow, like a man in intense
agony, and a cold perspiration broke out, as by a
dreadful inward working of the spirit, upon his
forehead and temples, in large visible drops.
“Adelheid — dearest Adelheid — thou knowest
not what thou sayest!—One like me can never
become thy husband.”
“Sigismund!—why this distress? Speak to me
—ease thy mind by words. I swear to thee that
the consent of my father is accompanied on my
wouldst thou have me—can I say more?”
The young man gazed at her incredulously, and
then, as thought became more clear, as one regards
a much-prized object that is hopelessly lost. He
shook his head mournfully, and buried his face in
his hands.
“Say no more, Adelheid — for my sake—for
thine own sake, say no more—in mercy, be silent!
Thou never canst be mine—No, no—honor forbids
it; in thee it would be madness, in me dishonor
—we can never be united. What fatal weakness
has kept me near thee—I have long dreaded this—”
“Dreaded!”
“Nay, do not repeat my words,—for I scarce
know what I say. Thou and thy father have
yielded, in a moment of vivid gratitude, to a generous,
a noble impulse—but it is not for me to profit
by the accident that has enabled me to gain this
advantage. What would all of thy blood, all of
the republic say, Adelheid, were the noblest born,
the best endowed, the fairest, gentlest, best maiden
of the canton, to wed a nameless, houseless, soldier
of fortune, who has but his sword and some gifts
of nature to recommend him? Thy excellent father
will surely think better of this, and we will speak
of it no more!”
“Were I to listen to the common feelings of my
sex, Sigismund, this reluctance to accept what
both my father and myself offer might cause me
to feign displeasure. But, between thee and me,
there shall be naught but holy truth. My father
has well weighted all these objections, and he has
generously decided to forget them. As for me,
placed in the scale against thy merits, they have
never weighed at all. If thou canst not become
noble in order that we may be equals, I shall find
more happiness in descending to thy level, than by
I have been placed by accident.”
“Blessed, ingenuous girl!—But what does it all
avail? Our marriage is impossible.”
“If thou knowest of any obstacle that would
render it improper for a weak, but virtuous girl—”
“Hold, Adelheid!—do not finish the sentence.
I am sufficiently humbled—sufficiently debased—
without this cruel suspicion.”
“Then why is our union impossible—when my
father not only consents, but wishes it may take
place?”
“Give me time for thought—thou shalt know
all, Adelheid, sooner or later. Yes, this is, at the
least, due to thy noble frankness. Thou shouldst
in justice have known it long before.”
Adelheid regarded him in speechless apprehension,
for the evident and violent physical struggles
of the young man too fearfully announced the
mental agony he endured. The color had fled
from her own face, in which the beauty of expression
now reigned undisputed mistress; but it was
the expression of the mingled sentiments of wonder,
dread, tenderness, and alarm. He saw that
his own sufferings were fast communicating themselves
to his companion, and, by a powerful effort,
he so far mastered his emotions as to regain a portion
of his self-command.
“This explanation has been too heedlessly delayed,”
he continued: “cost what it may, it shall
be no longer postponed. Thou wilt not accuse me
of cruelty, or of dishonest silence, but remember
the failing of human nature, and pity rather than
blame a weakness which may be the cause of as
much future sorrow to thyself, beloved Adelheid,
as it is now of bitter regret to me. I have never
concealed from thee that my birth is derived from
that class which, throughout Europe, is believed
I am proud rather than humble, for the invidious
distinctions of usage have too often provoked
comparisons, and I have been in situations to know
that the mere accidents of descent bestow neither
personal excellence, superior courage, nor higher
intellect. Though human inventions may serve to
depress the less fortunate, God has given fixed limits
to the means of men. He that would be greater
than his kind, and illustrious by unnatural expedients,
must debase others to attain his end. By
different means than these there is no nobility, and
he who is unwilling to admit an inferiority which
exists only in idea can never be humbled by an
artifice so shallow. On the subject of mere birth,
as it is ordinarily estimated, whether it come from
pride, or philosophy, or the habit of commanding
as a soldier those who might be deemed my superiors
as men, I have never been very sensitive.
Perhaps the heavier disgrace which crushes me
may have caused this want to appear lighter than
it otherwise might.”
“Disgrace!” repeated Adelheid, in a voice that
was nearly choked. “The word is fearful, coming
from one of thy regulated mind, and as applied
to himself.”
“I cannot choose another. Disgrace it is by
the common consent of men—by long and enduring
opinion—it would almost seem by the just
judgment of God. Dost thou not believe, Adelheid,
that there are certain races which are deemed
accursed, to answer some great and unseen
end—races on whom the holy blessings of Heaven
never descend, as they visit the meek and well-deserving
that come of other lines!”
“How can I believe this gross injustice, on the
part of a Power that is wise without bounds, and
forgiving to parental love?”
“Thy answer would be well, were this earth
the universe, or this state of being the last. But
he whose sight extends beyond the grave, who
fashions justice, and mercy, and goodness, on a
scale commensurate with his own attributes, and
not according to our limited means, is not to be
estimated by the narrow rules that we apply to
men. No, we must not measure the ordinances
of God by laws that are plausible in our own eyes.
Justice is a relative and not an abstract quality;
and, until we understand the relations of the
Deity to ourselves as well as we understand our
own relations to the Deity, we reason in the
dark.”
“I do not like to hear thee speak thus, Sigismund,
and, least of all, with a brow so clouded, and in
a voice so hollow!”
“I will tell my tale more cheerfully, dearest. I
have no right to make thee the partner of my
misery; and yet this is the manner I have reasoned,
and thought, and pondered—ay, until my brain
has grown heated, and the power to reason itself
has nearly tottered. Ever since that accursed
hour, in which the truth became known to me,
and I was made the master of the fatal secret,
have I endeavored to feel and reason thus.”
“What truth?—what secret?—If thou lovest
me, Sigismund, speak calmly and without reserve.”
The young man gazed at her anxious face in
a way to show how deeply he felt the weight of
the blow he was about to give. Then, after a pause,
he continued.
“We have lately passed through a terrible scene
together, dearest Adelheid. It was one that may
well lessen the distances set between us by human
laws and the tyranny of opinions. Had it been
the will of God that the bark should perish, what
a confused crowd of ill-assorted spirits would have
of all degrees of vice, as of nearly all degrees of
cultivation, from the subtle iniquity of the wily
Neapolitan juggler to thine own pure soul. There
would have died in the Winkelried the noble of
high degree, the reverend priest, the soldier in the
pride of his strength, and the mendicant! Death
is an uncompromising leveller, and the depths of
the lake, at least, might have washed out all our
infamy, whether it came of real demerits or merely
from received usage; even the luckless Balthazar,
the persecuted and hated headsman, might
have found those who would have mourned his
loss.”
“If any could have died unwept in meeting
such a fate, it must have been one that, in common,
awakes so little of human sympathy; and one too,
who, by dealing himself in the woes of others, has
less claim to the compassion that we yield to most
of our species.”
“Spare me—in mercy, Adelheid, spare me—
thou speakest of my father!”
| CHAPTER X. The headsman, or, The Abbaye des Vignerons | |