CHAP. XI.
The stranger heard him with much attention, and when the narrative was concluded made the following reply. "Your imprudent marriage with a stranger, unknown to your father, was the source from whence flowed all your misfortunes, consequently from that wrong step you may trace every ill in progression. I do not however exculpate him from blame in being so rash and unadvised, as to draw upon you the evils of life by a father's curses; the idea is horrible, it is usurping the power of the Most High, to whom only curses belongeth; yet I have rarely observed through life, that an union, contracted contrary to a parent's approbation, has been fortunate or happy; to a mind of sensibility there must ever be a drawback from felicity, when conscious of giving pain, and disappointing the best hopes of those so nearly interested for our happiness, and who have a right to more than a negative obedience, if I may so express myself, when a marriage is contracted without consulting the parents; but when completed, contrary to their wishes and commands, few, I am convinced, are the instances of matrimonial happiness: But I see I oppress you, therefore, to drop that point, permit me to observe, you did wrong in not seeking opportunities to soften your father. Was your brother a warm advocate, think you? I fear not; much less can I believe that a good man could have left the world without being in charity with it, and revoking, as far as he could, the imprecation his passion had dictated.
"As to the other circumstances, the voice at different times, so applicable to your situations, I shall only observe, that they were very extraordinary, but not impossible.—Respecting your wife, I fear much black treachery remains concealed, beyond your penetration; her flight, after hearing the prohibition of the voice, confirms my conjectures. O, you know not (said he, starting from his seat) you know not to what excesses a corrupted heart may be driven!"
He paced about the room for two or three minutes, then suddenly stopping:—"The leading features towards explaining the particular circumstances of your story are wanting; it is impossible I can give any advice that ought to influence you in your future conduct or sentiments. Your wife may be in the neighbouring convent, but I see not what you can promise yourself from the discovery, because it is not at all probable that she will see you: I sincerely wish you returning happiness, and am sorry I must remind you that your departure from hence is necessary before the day is too far advanced; you must return through the valley, and take the opposite direction towards the convent, which is nearly as much retired as this melancholy place."
Ferdinand arose: "I beg your pardon," said he, "for obliging you to remind me that I have trespassed too long on your kindness: I feel regret at leaving you in this solitary desolated mansion, and yet, such is the complexion of my mind, I could be contented to remain in it myself with such a companion."
"Leave me (replied the other) add not to the horrors of my situation by permitting me to taste the solace of a companion from which I am for ever excluded."
"How! (said Ferdinand) are you then here alone? Did you not say that you was not master here?"
"I told you that I was not the owner of this castle: I spoke truth; inquire no farther." As his brow grew contracted, his eyes wild, and his whole figure agitated, Ferdinand repressed his curiosity, and prepared to depart. The other attended him to the gate with a sort of sullen civility, and opened it without speaking. Ferdinand took his hand, "Heavens bless you," said he, "I thank your charity. Must we never meet again?" The supplicating tone melted the hardened heart of the stranger, his features relaxed:—"Why should you wish it?"
"Not from an unwarrantable curiosity," returned the other, "not from a wish to penetrate farther into your secrets, or your habitation, than you would choose to allow of; but from sympathy, from a desire of participating in sorrow, and a wish to render your situation less deplorable by the converse of a fellow sufferer."
The man paused, viewed Ferdinand from head to foot with a searching eye, opened his mouth to speak, again paused, and turned from him. The other seeing his emotions, was also affected: "I have afflicted you undesignedly; pardon me (added he) I will not be intrusive, I submit to your restrictions." He was turning from the gate, the stranger caught his hand: "You have overcome (said he) my hitherto invincible resolutions; you have awakened sensations long, very long strangers to my bosom: I will consider, I must have time to reflect, and to determine, I can promise nothing; go to the convent, satisfy your anxiety respecting your wife.—Return to this gate to-morrow, I shall by that time decide on your wishes, and either wholly repress my own rising inclination, or gratify it without reserve; but expect nothing, for I make no promises." He hastily shut the gate without waiting for an answer, and left Ferdinand under a great perturbation of spirits.
He had now to retrace his steps, through the gloomy valley, and force his way through the woodlands. The various conjectures that occupied his mind relative to the old man, and his ruinous solitary mansion, lessened the apparent difficulties, and tedious length of the road. He regained the foot of the mountain, and turned to the right, where he met with a chain of small rocky hills both painful and dangerous to climb, and to descend from, and which so far impeded his haste, that he saw the twilight drawing on fast, and the appearance of the heavy clouds portending rain or snow. He redoubled his speed, and on coming over a pretty high hill discovered a grove of chestnut trees before him, in the midst of which he saw something rising above them like a turret. "At last (cried he, almost exhausted with fatigue) at last I have found the convent." The object in view seemed to diminish the distance, and he walked for some time through the grove before he arrived at a large moat, which extended round the walls of the building.—He took a circular walk, in the hope, which was not disappointed, of finding a bridge.—On one side was a narrow stone causeway made on piles, but more resembling a path-way than a bridge; this he crossed to the gate that appeared in the wall, and rung the bell.
The door was almost instantly opened by the porteress, and to his great joy he found himself at the desired port. She seemed extremely surprised at seeing him, and demanded his business. "Was there not a young Lady brought here within this fortnight?" said he.
"There was (she replied) and what then?"
"I beseech you (said he) to tell her, her nearest relation wishes to speak with her."
"'Tis very improbable a relation should come here to see her. Young man, you have not spoken the truth; nor will you, whoever you are, be permitted to see her."
"Oh! (cried Ferdinand, off his guard, and agonized by vexation and fatigue) oh! tell her it is her husband, it is the father of her child; she has no right to withdraw herself from me, nor can you answer it, to detain a wife from her husband without his knowledge or consent."
The porteress seemed staggered. "What you assert (replied she) seems very strange and improbable; I will, however, report it to the Abbess, which is all I can do in the business."
She shut the grate, and left him overwhelmed with vexation. He was now convinced that Claudina was here, and could he see her, and obtain from her satisfaction relative to her self-accusation, and a confession of the real motives which had induced her to leave the Castle under such an appearance of mystery, he concluded that he should be much easier in his mind, and submit patiently to a separation which seemed to have been commanded, though why at that particular period he could not conceive, and was what he supposed a conversation with her would clear up. During the absence of the porteress, his mind dwelt on these circumstances; the grate was at length opened, and the old woman appeared.
"The young Lady refuses to see you; she denies that you have any authority over her; bids you remember the dreadful circumstances lately passed, and never presume to trouble her more. The letter she left for you sufficiently explained her sentiments: Her child is with her, but it has no longer a father, nor after this day will any messages from you be received or delivered here."
"Barbarous woman!" exclaimed Ferdinand, "ungrateful and unjust! Would she but explain herself with openness and candour, I could submit to the 'dreadful circumstances' she alludes to; but this silence, this mystery, and my child too! 'It has no longer a father!' Just Heaven, how am I punished!"
"I am sorry for you," said the porteress; "but I cannot help you. Night is drawing on; a short distance to the left is a convent of Friars, there you may be accommodated for the night; but return no more here, for it avails nothing to complain where you cannot be heard." She shut the grate, and left Ferdinand standing in an attitude of fixed despair.
He stood for some moments insensible to every thing around him, when the sound of a distant bell roused him from the torpor that had seized him, and instantly recollecting the convent mentioned by the old Nun, with reluctant steps, and an oppressed mind, he walked through the wood, keeping to the left as she had directed him; but overwhelmed by a thousand doubts and painful conjectures, he proceeded so slowly that night overtook him, and it was with much difficulty he espied through the trees a rising hill before him which terminated the wood, and on reaching to the foot of it, he perceived an old building on one side of the declivity, with large pieces of rock suspended over it, which seemed to threaten hourly danger: He recollected the shepherd's cottage; "strange (thought he) that people should choose such dangerous situations to erect dwellings on! It appears to me a daring presumption, or a total insensibility." He rang the bell, a small gate was opened by a Friar, Ferdinand announced himself as an unfortunate and wearied traveller seeking shelter from the inclemencies of the night.
"Enter, my son, and welcome," said the father. Seldom does the traveller find his way to our solitary mansion, so remote and distant from any great road; enter therefore freely, and partake of our homely fare, and humble lodging." Ferdinand followed his conductor to a large room, where several of the Fathers were assembled just returned from their evening vespers. All but one saluted him, and withdrew, that one advanced, and requested he would be seated. Some bread, salad, milk and fruit, were brought in, of which Ferdinand partook very sparingly, for the uneasiness of his mind had destroyed his appetite.
"You look fatigued, my son," said the Friar, "and I suppose must have wandered considerably out of your way to have arrived at this dwelling, seldom in the habit of receiving strangers."
"I have indeed been wandering about," replied the other, "and with very little satisfaction to myself. To this house I was directed from a neighbouring convent; both houses are so remote, so impervious, even to the eye of curiosity, from the woods and deep valleys, that only a wretched fugitive, like myself, could possibly have found it."
"If you are unhappy, my son, I am sorry for you, but yield not to despair; hope is implanted in the mind of man by our great Creator as the sweetener of life, and only one set of beings are excluded from that cordial drop in earthly pursuits."
"And who are those?" asked Ferdinand.
"Men and women devoted to a monastic life," answered the Father; "cut off from every worldly expectation, their hopes are founded in heavenly promises which can receive no disappointment but from themselves; they depend not on others; no earthly views can distract their attention from the one great object of their wishes: Happiness unalloyed by fears or doubts must inhabit the bosom of a religious man."
"Most true," replied Ferdinand; "but that man must be detached from worldly cares, must have no dear connexions that twine about the heart; no wife, no children; no agonizing apprehensions for those he loves; no distracting doubts he cannot comprehend. The man who secludes himself from society, who can devote his days to religious duties only, must have a heart and mind at ease, ere he can embrace such a life as you have chosen."
"Alas! my son, and does not religion hold out comfort to the afflicted?"
"Undoubtedly, that is the rock on which we must erect the foundation of all our hopes and expectations both here and hereafter; but a monastic life I still aver, should be sought for only by those free from the ties that nature binds about the heart, and who have ceased to be solicitous for worldly objects."
This conversation was interrupted by the entrance of another Friar, not so old as the one before him, in whose countenance Ferdinand discerned traits of benevolence and sensibility, his heart sprung to meet him, and involuntarily he arose as if to do him homage.
"Father Joseph," said the former one, with a supercilious air, "you will see this traveller comfortably lodged, and then attend your duty:" Turning to Ferdinand, "Son, I shall see you to-morrow, and hold some further conversation with you." He withdrew.
"You will follow me, my good brother," said Father Joseph, with an air of mildness, taking up the lamp. The other obeyed; he was conducted through an outer court into a very small chamber, about eight feet square, with a bed made in a niche of the wall, a table, on which stood a crucifix, and one stool. "May you rest in peace under the protection of Heaven!" said the Father, and was going to leave him.
"Ah!" exclaimed Ferdinand, "and must you go? I feel a rising wish to be indulged with your company; must I repress it?"—"For the present I am obliged to leave you; but if sleep is not more desirable than conversation, I will return to you in half an hour. Go to bed, rest if you can, for I see you are overcome with fatigue." He retired, and left his companion with the pleasing hope of seeing him again. The countenance of this man beamed with mild complacence, and Ferdinand hoped from him to gather full information respecting the other convent, and possibly of the ruinous building where he had been so oddly received. Not to offend the Friar, he got into the bed, which was pretty hard, and very unlikely to lull him presently to sleep, he therefore anxiously watched for the approach of Father Joseph, who came when he had began to despair of seeing him.
"I have complied with your wishes, son, and now tell me how I may serve you; I have one hour to spare." Ferdinand then briefly repeated the latter part of his story from the time his wife had left him, his reception at the old Castle, and his treatment at the convent. He concluded with saying, that all he wished for from his wife was, "an explanation of her letter, and a candid confession of her motives for withdrawing herself from the protection of her friends."
"If (said he) as I suppose, you have communication with the convent, I beseech you to see my wife, tell her I will not force myself into her presence, let her but write to free me from my present doubts and inquietude, and I will obey her orders, and never intrude myself into any place she inhabits without her permission."
"Your story is very strange (observed Father Joseph) and I fear you will obtain no satisfaction; I have no power to serve you: Our Superior, whom you have been with, is the only one that visits the convent; the order is one of the severest in all Germany: Ours is much more relaxed, yet we can derive little advantage from the indulgence allowed us, because our situation precludes all chance of society, and Father Ambrose only admitted to visit the convent, to which he is confessor. As your wife is in that retirement, be assured she is dead to you. Those that enter that house seldom return again to the world."
"Distraction!" cried Ferdinand; "but my child, they cannot keep my child from me!"—"At a certain age she may make her own election: Mean time you may represent the case to the Bishop, that is all you can do, having taken sanctuary in the bosom of the church, and the child being at this age more immediately under the care of its mother; at present, you cannot oblige her to resign it." Observing that Ferdinand appeared overwhelmed with vexation, he went on.
"The building you have mentioned, so buried from all observation, was once, I have heard, a most superb mansion, inhabited by one of the Bavarian family, who marrying an heiress of a Suabian Baron, came into the possession of that estate which has long fallen into decay, nor did I ever hear that it had been inhabited these twenty years. On the other side it joins with the black forest, and has been always understood, from its being desolated in one of the late wars, and never repaired, uninhabitable ever since; the house must be in ruins, and the grounds round it barren and uncultivated. Who the person or persons can be that reside there I have no idea, and indeed I should suppose it can afford no accommodations for any other than banditti."
"Or the sons of misery," cried Ferdinand, "such are neither delicate in their accommodations, nor fastidious in their choice of situations; all places are alike to the wretched, and I hope to-morrow I shall be admitted as an inmate."
"And I hope not," returned Father Joseph. "My son, you are very young, let not the first disappointment in your calculations of happiness induce you to renounce the world. You have been wrong, perhaps, in your first selection of the means to attain it. Man has but little prescience, and that little is often ill-directed. Consider your present troubles as a chastisement for some misconduct, some rash actions resulting from the impetuosity of youth; receive the correction with humility, but give not way to despair. Believe me, there is no merit in retiring from the world; society has its claims not incompatible with your sacred duties; on the contrary, duty towards God, and duty towards your brethren, is equally commanded and inculcated. A young man may have a thousand opportunities of doing active service to his fellow creatures, and of promoting the cause of religion and virtue. Retirement suits not with the ardour of youth; let me advise you therefore to resume your situation in life, whatever it may be, to scan over your past actions with discrimination and impartiality; you will then discover the errors that have impeded your expectations of happiness; you will chalk out for yourself a new path, and the end will be mental tranquillity, and the never-fading satisfaction of having been beneficial to the extent of your abilities towards the less fortunate and happy."
"And is this," cried Ferdinand, 'the language of a man detached from the world, this the advice of a holy Father, to expose a fluctuating disappointed heart to the allurements and dissipations that tempt, in a hundred pleasurable shapes, the mind of youth, and lead him into vice?"
"It is the language of truth and reason," answered Father Joseph, with energy, "it is the advice of dear-bought wisdom and experience. Man was not intended for a solitary being, and a young man, who flies from the world because he has indulged delusive hopes, and formed expectations that in the nature of them must at one time or other receive a severe check, who neglects the duties he has it in his power to perform, and by a rash and ill-judged misanthropy, shuns mankind to give up his mind to despair; believe me, such a man is a pusillanimous wretch, who deserts his post, and by his cowardice and impatient spirit, lays up for himself bitter repentance, and never-ending regret, that will mix itself in his most earnest devotions, render those acts of religion, which should communicate joy and cheerfulness to the mind, cold, gloomy, and mechanical; whilst the good, the active, the benevolent mind, performs his sacred duties with delight, from conviction and choice diffuses blessings to all around him, and by precept and example animates others to the practice of religion and virtue, which his conduct renders both easy and pleasant."
"If I may judge from the expression of your countenance," said Ferdinand, "your advice is not the declamation of an unimpassioned man, who has forsaken the world from choice, but the warnings of a feeling heart, desirous of saving others from equal regret and misery with himself."
"You have observed justly, I will not deny," answered the Father: "Many are the victims in this house to pride, impatience, and avarice, sacrificed by their friends, or driven by the impetuosity of their own passions. Some there are doubtless from choice and the purest motives, but these last are comparatively few; a monastery therefore I do not recommend, nor a residence with that solitary being, whoever he may be, that inhabits those stately ruins; even this desultory mode of gratifying your curiosity, rambling among uninhabited and almost impassable hills and valleys, can benefit neither yourself, nor others, may subject you to much inconvenience, perhaps to certain dangerous situations, you do not apprehend: Once more then I recommend you to seek an active life, and an occupation that may diversify your thoughts, and engage your attention. Good night, reflect on what I have said, and may Heaven direct you for the best; I will see you again after morning service."
The good father having withdrawn, left Ferdinand overwhelmed with a variety of contending emotions, whether to profit by, or disregard the advice he had received:—whether he should yield to the dictates of prudence and experience, or follow the lead of his own inclinations. Sleep at length overtook him before he had settled the point, and, hard as his bed was, fatigue threw him into a profound repose, from which he started on the entrance of Father Joseph. "I come only to inform you," said he, "that you are expected by Father Ambrose, breakfast is prepared for you, hasten therefore to attend him."
"How!" cried Ferdinand, "do you leave me? I thought to have had a further conversation with you."
"I am forbidden to indulge it, and have received a reprimand for being so long in your room last night: I may just whisper you, that the passions of mankind are the same in all places, and in all situations; jealousy, envy, and avarice, prevail as much in monasteries as in palaces, they pervade in the most profound retirements, and lead to the most despicable actions and sentiments. Adieu, may Heaven preserve you." Ending those words, he darted from the room, and left Ferdinand to follow.
On entering the apartment he had quitted the preceding evening, he found Father Ambrose alone, refreshments before him, and having inquired of the other his name and rank in life, he began to launch forth in the praise of a monastic life, as the only asylum from trouble and pain; that abstracted from the world, its hopes and fears, the holy Fathers fixed their thoughts on things above, where no cares or disappointments could attend their hopes or desires. He harangued so long, and so eloquently on the subject, that, had not the advice of Father Joseph guarded his mind from the fascination of the picture of contentment held to his view, it is more than probable that Ferdinand, under the impression of his present vexations, might have been induced to end his travels, and have fixed himself for life in that solitary mansion; but already pre-possessed, the avenues to his heart were closed, and the eloquence of the Superior was exerted in vain: He heard him, however, with complaisance, but alleged absolute necessity for his departure, as an excuse for not embracing that plan of life so calculated to insure happiness. He added, 'that it was by no means improbable, but that he should return, and have the pleasure of visiting the community for a longer time, if he might hope for admission."
The zealous Father, eager to make a proselyte of a young Nobleman, greatly approved of his design, and assured him of a hearty welcome. Ferdinand felt half inclined to have mentioned Claudina, but not much pre-possessed in his favour, nor desirous of being then detained from visiting the solitary, who had permitted his return, he repressed the sentiment of confidence half rising to his lips, and rose to take leave, with grateful thanks for his hospitality. When conducted to the grate, he saw Father Joseph in company with some others; a general salute only passed between them, but their eyes spoke much cordiality towards each other.