Tales from the German, Comprising specimens from the most celebrated authors

The count, who had now repented of his hasty wrath, wished to appease the awful woman, by speaking kindly to her, and offering her, by way of reconciliation, his purse well filled with gold. She cast an evil, though covetous look at the gold, and, grinding her teeth, threw the purse at the count's feet. "That mammon," she cried, "would have made me and my poor sister happy, but after the meal you have given us, I would rather gnaw the bark of trees than receive the wealth from your accursed hands." Various and many were the curses she continued heaping on him, and the torments and misfortunes she denounced against him and his house. When she had finished, she tottered down the stone staircase, all the servants fleeing from her as from a spectre.

From this moment the count was a changed man. His energies were crushed. He lived as in a dream, having no wish, and being incapable of forming a single resolution. Those around him could not learn whether he was deeply shocked by the death of his consort, who died the night after that fatal day. Since that time he was scarcely ever heard to speak or to utter a sound, sigh, or complaint. He no longer concerned himself about any thing, and seemed perfectly indifferent when the government confiscated his largest estate to punish him as a rebel and violator of the laws. In his present state of mind, he abandoned himself to the guidance of those very priests whom previously he had so pointedly avoided; he frequented the church often, and was fervent in his devotions. He never looked round when people behind him called out, "There sneaks the old sinner, the traitor, the murderer, and rebel, back again into God's house." Now, likewise, some relatives profited by his listlessness so far as to deprive him by a lawsuit of another large estate, and there was every appearance that of all the large possessions of his ancestors, nothing would be left, for his only heir, a beautiful boy, had not a prudent guardian of the child done all in his power for him. From the unconcern of his father, the young count became daily more impoverished, leaving to his offspring but a small portion of the large property to which he had succeeded; but, notwithstanding these misfortunes, and also the breaking out of war, the next proprietor of the Klausenburg, and his family, maintained their rank, and were respected in the neighbourhood. By his industry, his success, and his marriage with a wealthy lady, he partly retrieved his fortune, and succeeded in his endeavours to revive and maintain the former splendour of his castle for some fifty or sixty years, so that his friends and relatives resorted to it as formerly, with delight, and he, at his death, left to his only son his remaining estates in good condition, besides large sums of money. Thus the curse of the gipsies appeared totally removed, the count and his son having completely forgotten former events, or, having, perhaps, never heard of the curse.

I was a spirited boy when I made the acquaintance of Francis, the last heir of the Klausenburg. This Francis, who was about a year my senior, was cheerful, amiable, and handsome, and the pride of his father, the persevering man who had partly restored the splendour of his ancestors. My playmate grew up to be, not merely the delight of his father, but of all around. He was manly, witty, and engaging, an accomplished dancer, and expert horseman, and in fencing, had not his equal. After being presented at court, he soon gained the prince's favour, by his natural vivacity, and in a few years was raised to the office of counsellor. Few men on earth had fairer prospects of a happy life. All mothers and aunts in the neighbourhood saw, and hoped to find in him, the future husband of their daughters and nieces, and at the assemblies in the capital he was the adored and chosen hero of the ladies, as he was the object of envy and persecution among the young fashionables. No one could conceive why he so long deferred his choice, and, for a long time, people would not credit the rumours that were circulated, that he had formed an engagement with the young princess. It was confidently whispered that the lovers waited only for some favourable chance, or occurrence, to acknowledge publicly their mutual affection and wishes. However, nothing of the kind happened, and years passed, and with them faded the rumours, and various interpretations of sage politicians.

Suddenly, when the affair seemed forgotten, my youthful friend was banished the court and capital in disgrace. All his former friends forsook him, and what was still worse, an intrigue countenanced by the government, involved him in a dangerous lawsuit, which threatened the loss of his fortune. Thus then this courted, admired, and universally caressed Francis, saw himself in the very worst position, and was obliged to confess that his career was closed, and that all his splendid prospects were darkened for ever.

About this time I saw him again; he bore his misfortune manfully. He was still as youthful and handsome as ever, and the serenity of his temper had suffered but little. We were travelling in this neighbourhood, and the Klausenburg having gone to ruin, he built a pleasant house not far distant, on the slope of a hill, from whence he enjoyed a beautiful prospect.

He avoided speaking of former circumstances, but one evening, he was deeply affected by a letter announcing the decease of the young princess, who had died of a broken heart, or, as was afterwards said, had voluntarily sought death, because she could no longer bear the burden of her embittered life.

It was evident to me that a deep-seated melancholy had taken possession of my friend, and often showed itself; his mind, however, was not so affected as to display any symptoms of weariness of life, which made me hope that his misfortune and the evil fate that had attended him, would serve to purify his character, and give him that genuine deportment which is essential even to those who are not tried by calamity, and much more to those who have to pass through heavy trials.

There lived in the neighbourhood about that time a wild old woman who was half crazy, and who went begging from village to village.

The higher class called her jokingly, the Sibyl, the common people did not hesitate to call her a witch. The place of her residence was not exactly known; probably she had no certain place of resort, as she was constantly seen on the high-roads, and roaming in every direction in the country. Some old rangers maintained that she was a descendant of that notorious gang of gipsies whom Count Moritz many years before had persecuted and dispersed.

Walking one day in a beautiful beech-wood, and engaged in conversation which made us forget the world without, we suddenly saw, at a turn of the footpath, the old hideous Sibyl before us. Being both in a cheerful mood, we were rather astonished, but in no way startled. Having dismissed the impudent beggar by giving her some money, she hastily returned, saying: "Will not you have your fortunes told for what you have given to me?"

"If it is something good that you can tell me, you may earn a few more pence."

I held out to her my hand at which she looked at very carefully, and then said, scornfully: "My good sir, you have a miserable hand which would puzzle even the best fortune-teller. Such a middling person, neither one thing nor the other, as you, I have never seen in all my life; you are neither wise nor stupid, neither bad nor good, neither fortunate nor unfortunate; without passions, mind, virtue, or vice; you are what I call a real A.B.C. scholar of Heaven's blockheads, and you will not in all your life have the slight merit of ever perceiving your own insignificance. From your paltry hand and unmeaning countenance nothing at all can be prophesied; a dry fungus, without it is first prepared and macerated, cannot even receive a spark. Therefore, Jack Mean-nothing, your dull nature will never live to see any thing worth telling."

My friend Francis did not laugh at the old woman's opinion and description of my character, but being attached to me, his anger arose, and he reproved her in strong terms. She listened very calmly to what he said, and then replied: "Why are you so angry? If you will not give me something more for my trouble and wisdom, let me go quietly. No doubt men do not like to have their inner-most heart exposed to the daylight. Is it my fault that there is nothing better in your friend's character? He is neither my son nor disciple." Thus the prophetess meant to justify and atone for her insolence by repeating it anew. My friend was pacified, and gave her a ducat, saying: "Make merry with that, – where do you live?"

"Where do I live?" she replied; "my roof changes so often that I cannot tell or describe it to you; not unfrequently it is open, and my companion is the howling storm; where men have not built houses they usually call it nature. But I thank you, and must requite your kindness." Quickly and forcibly taking the unwilling hand of my friend, she held it firmly between her bony fingers and considered it for some time; then letting the arm drop, with a sigh, she said in a tone of voice expressive of deep sorrow, "Son, son; you descend from wicked blood, are an evil scion of evil ancestors; but fortunately you are the last of your race, for your children would be more evil still. What begins in evil must end in evil. Ah! ah! your physiognomy; your expression; your whole countenance; I feel almost as if I saw a murderer before me. Yes! yes! – you have killed a young, beautiful, and noble maiden. On her dying bed she long struggled with grief and anguish. O ye wicked men, can you not be faithful and keep your oaths. It is not only daggers, swords, and guns, that cut and kill; looks and sweet words will also do it. Oh, those seductive words, and all that pretended affection! Now this splendid frame that first dazzled your foolish eye, breaks, and is consigned to corruption. Beauty! oh thou fatal gift of Heaven! and besides, murderer, you are handsome enough to kill others. The curses of your father follow you now whether you dwell in the forest or in your finely tapestried rooms. See you not, feel you not, how, coming from the very heart, they waft misfortune and misery towards you as the stormy wind scatters the dry leaves in the valleys between the mountains? Where is your peace, your happiness, your confidence? All scattered like the drifting sand in the barren plain; no fruit can there strike root."

Suddenly the crazy woman shouted aloud and ran shrieking and yelling discordantly into the thickest part of the wood. When I looked round I was terrified on seeing my friend become pale as death. He shook so violently that he could not support himself, but sank on a hillock beside him. I sat down by him and endeavoured to comfort and quiet him.

"Is this madwoman," he exclaimed; "inspired by truth? does she really see the past and the future, or are those only mad sounds which she utters in brutish thoughtlessness, and if it be so, have not such random words been perhaps the genuine oracles in all ages?"

He now gave way to tears and loud lamentations; he called loudly in the air, what hitherto he had so carefully and mysteriously locked up in his heart.

"Yes!" he exclaimed; "accursed be every talent, speech, grace, and all the gifts with which a malicious fate endowed us to ruin ourselves and others! Could I not have avoided her first kind look? Why did I suffer myself to be infatuated, to exchange glance for glance, and then word for word? Yes! she was lovely, noble, and graceful; but in my heart there arose together with better feelings, the vanity that even she, the most exalted, distinguished me. I approached her nearer, more boldly, more decidedly, and my pure exalted sentiments surprised and won her. She gave me her confidence. Her heart was so virtuous, so noble; all her youthful feelings were so tender and fervent; it was a paradise that opened to our view. Childishly enough, we thought that no higher happiness on earth could be offered us, the present heavenly moment sufficed. But now passion awoke in my heart. This she expected not, she was terrified and withdrew. This goaded my self-love, I felt unhappy, crushed, and ill. Her compassion was moved, and she no longer avoided me. By means of an attendant in our confidence, we were able to meet without witnesses. Our intercourse became more tender, our love more defined and ardent; but as these feelings were embodied in language, and expressed more definitely, the paradisiacal breath, the heavenly bloom was fled for ever. It was happiness, but changed in character; it was more earthly, more kindly, more confiding, but was not surrounded by that magic which had transported me formerly, so that I could frequently ask myself when alone, 'are you really happy?' Alas! my friend, as we saw each other so often, how many foolish and mad projects were then conceived!

"We talked, we conversed of the future of which those who ardently love never think in the early period of their ecstacies. Once an opportunity of an alliance likely to add to the lustre of her house presented itself. What fury and bitter rancour were aroused in me! For only appearing favourably disposed towards this illustrious alliance, she suffered much from my anger. My passion was ignoble, as she deeply felt, more from her love to me, than from the sufferings it caused her. Oh! she was never able to erase from her soul this picture of my madness. To alleviate my sufferings and completely to reconcile me, she stooped to my mean and rude nature. Our hearts harmonised again, but from the lowering clouds that now surrounded me, I looked back with yearnings to that heavenly serenity that first shone dazzlingly upon me so. In imagination we lived as though affianced, and dreamt of our union, of unexpected bliss, of varied pleasures and turns of fate never to be realised. But these were misty visions, and we considered the greatest improbabilities as near and natural. The habitual thoughts of our love gradually destroyed necessary precaution. The looks of spies were watchful, and were sharpened by our imprudence. Rumours were circulated, which perhaps never would have reached the prince himself, had not his own glance suspected and discovered our connection. He now learnt more from his questions than he desired to know, and far more than was in accordance with truth. One evening he sent for me to attend him alone in his closet, and displayed to me in this serious interview all the nobleness of his great mind. Without reproaching me, he ascribed to himself alone the immediate cause of my presumption, saying that he had treated me with too much confidence, nay, almost like a son; that he had deviated too much from his rank and the laws of etiquette; that he had foolishly rejoiced in the thought of his daughter being able by intercourse with me to improve her mind. As he became more serious, I assured the agitated father by my honour, and by all that is sacred, – which indeed was in accordance with the truth, – that our mutual passion had never led us astray, and that our better genius had never forsaken us. At this he became tranquil, and only replied by prohibiting as I had anticipated. I was not allowed to meet his daughter again privately. I was to endeavour by degrees to heal the wounds which our separation caused, to eradicate the affection, which I had so rashly kindled, by my good sense and demeanour, and thereby to make myself worthy to regain the confidence and love of the prince.

"Suddenly I felt as if the veil had fallen from my eyes," continued Francis, "indeed, I may say, that by this interview, I was quite a changed being. Truth and reality had now, at length, with victorious power, asserted their ascendancy over me. Many periods of life may be compared to a vivid fantastic dream; we awake to sober consciousness, but still feel the reality of the vision.

"But, ah! my friend, this truth created a hell within me. My mind yielded to the noble father in every thing. He was right in the fullest sense of the word. If I admired Juliet, and recognised her worth, if she was my friend, and I sufficiently important to elevate her mind, what had that to do with our passion and my efforts to possess her? With this conviction I was now penetrated, and the feeling exerted a benign influence over me. But how different were her feelings! When such changes occur, women usually suffer from the consuming fire of passion. What letters did I receive from her, when I had communicated to her my resolution and the advice that we must submit to necessity! I almost repeated the words which I had heard from her beautiful lips when I urged my ardent attachment. She now listened in a spirit different from that which harassed her formerly; deaf to all advice, unsusceptible to every kindness, inaccessible to conviction, she only listened to the wild suggestions of her ardent affection. My reason seemed to her cowardice, my resignation baseness. She alone was exclusively to be considered in the question that agitated my heart. In short, she now played the same part that I had done formerly. Looking back upon my former conduct with repentance and shame, I hoped I should be able, by calm perseverance, to bring her gradually to the same conviction. But she frustrated my hopes. It was singular that I was made unhappy by possessing, in the fullest measure, what I had formerly considered my supreme felicity; and that my most fervent desire extended no further than to be able to restore her to tranquillity, nay, even to produce coldness and indifference.

"So whimsical are the gods frequently towards us in the bestowal of their gifts.

"My letters grieved her deeper and deeper, as she showed by her replies. Thence it was that I could not but wish myself once more able to obtain a tête-à-tête with her in some evening hour, such as I had formerly enjoyed over and over again. By bribery, entreaty, and humiliation, I succeeded.

"But, oh, Heavens! how different was this Juliet from her who once had so enraptured and inspired me. With her grief, her mortified feelings and her offended pride she resembled a raving Bacchante. On approaching her, I said to myself: 'To this state then has my love, vanity, and eloquence, reduced her! Oh! ye men, who, by your power, are able to elevate these tender beings to angels, or change them to wild furies!' But these reflections came too late. If her letters were violent, her words were raging. Nothing in the whole world she desired, except my love. She cared for nothing; every thing seemed right and desirable, – flight into the open world, sacrifice of station, mortification of her father and family. I was terrified at this distraction, that seemed to fear and dread nothing. The more persuasive my manner, and the more desirous I was to convince her of the unavoidable necessity of submitting, the more furious in words and gestures she became. She would fly with me immediately. I felt it required nothing more than to express the wish, and she would have surrendered herself, in this distraction, totally and unconditionally. I was wretched from my inmost heart, indeed, all my energies were annihilated.

"I learned that the prince had only spoken to her in hints; the truth was known to her only from our correspondence. She blamed me, her father, and fate, and only became calm after a flood of tears. I was obliged to promise to see her again in a few days in order to discuss the means of her flight. Thus my feelings were so changed that I feared this once adored Juliet, and, indeed, could not help despising her. And yet she was the same, and only the unhappy passion that I had infused from my heart into hers had rendered her thus infatuated, I trembled again to see her. I was at a loss what to say, what pretext for delay, or what excuses to invent. Thus some weeks passed, during which we only exchanged letters. To conclude, I saw her again. She seemed ill, but still in that excitement which would not listen to reason. She had provided a carriage, packed up her jewels, made the necessary preparations on the frontier, procured passports, and powerful protections in distant countries; in short she had done all that madness of an unbounded love could undertake. I treated her as an invalid who does not know her own state, humoured all her extravagances, and praised her most whimsical plans. Thus she thought we agreed, and in a week we were to fly during a masquerade while all were busied, and no one could be recognised. To satisfy her for the moment I agreed to every thing, but proposed in my own heart to quit the court and the town. While we were thus discussing our highly reasonable projects I suddenly perceived behind us the prince, who had been for sometime listening to our conversation. The scene which then took place I will not attempt to describe. The father's anger overstepped all bounds on finding me untrue to my promise, since he was convinced that I quite agreed to all the wild plans of his daughter. She cast herself at his feet totally unlike the beautiful being she was formerly, she resembled an automaton moved by powerful springs, a figure only manifesting life in convulsive gestures. It is astonishing that we ever outlive some moments. I was banished, obliged to fly into solitude, and for a long time heard nothing of the city or what occurred there, as I avoided all intercourse with men. When I in some measure recovered my tranquillity of mind, and was able to bear the sight of friends, I heard that she was suffering from an incurable disease, and that her life was despaired of by the physician. How whimsically does fate sport with man and all human intentions! I was informed that her father in the extremity of grief, would willingly have given me his beloved child had he been able thereby to save her; that he would have despised the opinion of the world, and the objections of his family, could he by these means have saved his Juliet, by whose illness he had first learnt how much he loved her, and how much his life was bound up in hers. All was in vain, – she died in agonies, calling for me, and the disconsolate father heaped execrations upon me that will overtake me, ay, – as surely as her own."

These are, as nearly as possible, the affecting confessions of my unhappy friend. He added, in conclusion, that the whole of his property would be lost, unless he discovered a certain document for which he had long been searching, but which he could find nowhere.

There are sufferings during which it is foolish to make even the attempt at offering consolation. Such sufferings must be lived through, they are peculiar to human nature, and he who is not overwhelmed by them but survives them, will afterwards see that to pass such a severe reprobation was essential to his happiness.

"I am convinced," said my friend a few days afterwards when I took leave of him, "that these execrations and the prophesies of the old fury will visit me. My life will be consumed in illness, misery, delirium, and poverty. The spirit of the departed will tread in my footsteps and sow poison, where, perhaps, some joy might otherwise have sprung."

I began to comfort him, calling to my aid, hope and consolation from every source, because such apprehensions are generally imaginary, and may be combated. Hope is at least more infinite than the all-engrossing sensation of such visionary fear. We separated, and for a long time I heard nothing of my friend Francis. I lived in foreign countries and returned some years after the period in question.

We had not kept up any correspondence. I was therefore surprised and delighted by his first letter which I received in my own comfortable home. There was no allusion to his former sufferings; all was forgotten. Time and fortune had transformed my friend into a truly new being. He wrote to me of his approaching marriage. The most beautiful girl of the country, young, cheerful, and innocent, had bestowed her affections upon him; and on the very day on which their vows were exchanged, he had, after years of fruitless search, discovered the important document which would complete their nuptial happiness. The melancholy time, he informed me, had vanished from his mind, his youth seemed renewed, and now only he began to live. In a week his marriage was to be celebrated, and he urged me to come and be a witness of his happiness.

It would have delighted me to have complied with his invitation, had not my uncle, who lived forty miles distant, and was then lying on his death-bed, called me from home. The prince, who bitterly hated and persecuted my friend, had died in the meanwhile, so that, in all human probability, there was the prospect that every thing ominous, menacing, and fatal, would fade away and be forgotten, and that spirits of fortune and delight would henceforth draw my friend's car of life.