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

The death of Clementine's grandfather occasioned a family mourning, and our union was postponed, out of respect, for six months. But this could not darken our happiness; we saw each other daily, and nothing in the world could separate us.

During the first few months the Mareschale de Montreval treated me with marked favour. Still I could not prevail upon myself to approach him with confidence, or to return his kind sentiments with equal cordiality. His affable demeanour had something terrible in it, and in his smile there was always something threatening. He was a man of genius and judgment, but yet beclouded by prejudices which were sacred to him, and which were probably owing to his monkish education in his early life. Enervated by former excesses, he was sickly, fearful of death, tormented by dark imaginations and suspicions. He never scrupled to commit the most arbitrary acts, to be severe even to cruelty, and to sacrifice the welfare of many to his caprice; but at the same time he professed to be very religious. The monks were his favourite associates, and ruled him without his suspecting it. He never neglected a mass, and passed for a most devout man. He seldom smiled, was generally grave and cold; and there was something commanding in his calm demeanour. The more I knew him, the more I privately disliked him. A man like Bertollon, without religion, without God, without eternity, and without moral principles, who, acting only on the suggestions of prudence, could see with an egotist smile a whole despairing world sink for his gain, is not more atrocious, not more dangerous, than a man of the world, filled with bigotry, like Montreval. The atheist and bigot, who do not acknowledge moral principles and eternal right, weigh equally in the scale of morals, and are equally poisonous to society. Both without feeling for the true dignity of man, without regard for humanity, spin their subtle web between the relations of society, and rob and kill with honour. Neither fear God, for the one does not believe in him, the other tries to appease his wrath with prayers and masses, and in the temple cleanses himself of the sins which he has committed without.

Even during the first days of my residence in Nismes, I was surrounded by a holy troop of monks, who feared my influence on the mareschale as being hostile to their views. But they perceived how little I cared for this influence, and gradually left me to myself. They, however, continued very friendly, praised my character to the mareschale, and ended by expressing their pity I was a man without religion.

The Protestants of Nismes looked upon me as their leader and protector. They showed me extravagant honours, which could not fail to excite the suspicion of the mareschale, even if he had been less suspicious than he was. They became bolder in their words and deeds. More than once I succeeded in obtaining his pardon for their inconsiderate acts; but instead of being warned by such occurrences, their fanaticism, in frequent combat with their persecutors, and a secret confidence in my protection, only rose higher, and it was in vain for me to represent to them the danger which they wantonly prepared for themselves.

"No!" cried M. Etienne, my uncle; "no, where God is, there is no danger. Oh! Colas, be not afraid of men, for the Lord is with you. 'He who confesses me before men, him will I also confess before my Father,' says the Saviour of the world. In France, the gospel grain of mustard-seed will spring up, as on the mountains of Switzerland and in the forests of Germany; but we want men like Zuinglius, Calvin, and Luther, who do not tremble before the princes of this world. And you, Alamontade, be like them, and God will be your strong fortress."

Once, when I was again obliged to intercede for the Protestants, the mareschale asked me, with a penetrating glance, "You are not a heretic, I hope?" He refused my solicitations, and from that time became more reserved towards me.

I perceived how little good I could do under existing circumstances, but, on the contrary, how injurious my presence in Nismes, my office, and the false notion of my influence must be to the followers of Calvin, who relied upon me with too much confidence. This brought me to the resolution of requesting my discharge; but Madame de Sonnes and Clementine prevented me from doing so by their entreaties until the winter had passed. The mareschale was in Montpellier, and his absence rendered me happier, but the Protestants still more daring.

On the Palm Sunday of the year 1703, the mareschale, who had recently returned from Montpellier, invited me to a banquet in his castle, and though not feeling quite well I determined on going.

In the morning I said smiling to Clementine, "To-morrow I shall ask for my discharge, and whatever your mother may say, it must be done to-morrow, and then, Clementine! – "

"And then?" – she asked.

"We will no longer delay our union. We may now rejoice with propriety since you have this day left off your black dress. Therefore in a week you will be my wife. And then," I continued, "we will leave this melancholy Nismes, and go to our new estate near Montpellier. Spring is coming with its beauty; we must live amid rural nature."

And this was resolved on, and sealed by a kiss.

At this moment I was called out. I quitted the room; I found that my uncle had come, and requested a private interview in my own apartment.

"Colas," said he, "this is Palm Sunday, and you must come with me."

"I cannot," was my reply, "for I am invited to dine with the mareschale."

"And I," said he, with solemn voice. "I invite you to the holy supper. No grandee of this earth will there sit at table with us, but we shall be assembled in Jesus' name, and he will be in the midst of us. All of us, some hundreds in number, with our wives and children, celebrate this morning the holy sacrament in my mill near the Carmelite gate."

I was terrified, and exclaimed: "What presumption! Do you not know that the mareschale is in Nismes?"

"We know it, and the Almighty God is there also."

"Will you then designedly plunge yourselves into misery and a dungeon? The law forbids most strictly all meetings of this kind, and threatens death."

"What law? The law of the mortal king? Thou shalt obey God rather than man."

In this way my uncle knew how to surmount all my objections, by biblical quotations, and the more I urged the unlawfulness and danger of such meetings, and the more vividly I described the probable consequences, the more zealous he became.

"When Jesus was betrayed," he exclaimed, "and when the traitor stood near him, and when he knew they were preparing to take him, then, oh! Colas, surrounded by the danger of certain death, he instituted the holy sacrament. And should we, who would be the disciples of Jesus, tremble? No, never; if all hell were in arms it should not terrify us."

I could not bring my uncle to his senses; he called me an apostate, a hypocrite, a papist, and left me in a rage.

I returned to Clementine. She had seen my uncle, and the vexation expressed in all his gestures; she inquired the cause which I dared not disclose to her. Amidst her innocent caresses, my fear and uneasiness gradually left me. She told me that her mother agreed to all my wishes; this cheered me still more. On Clementine's bosom I dreamed of the peaceful happiness of the future.

Withdrawn from the tumult of the world and its passions, I proposed to live alone with my young wife, surrounded by blooming nature, by love and friendship, and in the pursuit of science.

How happy we were both in these moments! "Oh! Clementine," said I, "no throne is indeed required to make others happy, but only the will. We may be useful even in a small and insignificant sphere. We will visit the abodes of poverty. I shall again defend the cause of accused innocence, and a kiss shall be my reward when I have succeeded in accomplishing any good. Our library furnishes an inexhaustible store for the mind, and our harp shall sound in the evening, to record the unenvied felicity of two loving souls in the shade of our own grove. The poor shall eat at our table, and those consoled in their griefs shall be our companions. Surely, Clementine, we shall never yearn for the cold splendour of this palace. And some day, you, Clementine – the mere thought vibrates rapture through me – some day, Clementine, you will be a mother. Mother! oh, Clementine!" – Her kisses interrupted my words.

At this moment my servant entered pale as death and breathless.

"What is the matter with you?" I asked.

"Sir," he faltered, "the Calvinists have met for their interdicted worship in the mill of M. Etienne near the Carmelite gate."

I was much alarmed. Lo, then, it was betrayed. "And what else," I cried.

"The mill is surrounded by dragoons, and all within are prisoners. Only think, the Mareschale de Montreval is there himself. The preacher and a few others of the secured heretics endeavoured to escape through the window, but the mareschale gave the signal, and the dragoons fired."

"Fired?" I cried. "Was any one killed?"

"Four of them lie dead on the spot," was the servant's reply.

Without asking any further questions, I took my hat and stick. Clementine wept and trembled; she would not let me leave her, turned pale, and clung speechless and in great anguish round my neck.

Madame de Sonnes came in. I told her of this frightful occurrence, and that I was resolved to hasten there in order to move the mareschale to humanity. She praised my resolution, entreating me to fly thither without delay, and spoke consoling words to Clementine.

As I departed, I looked back, and saw Clementine pale and trembling in her mother's arms. I returned, kissed her pale lips, and hastened away.

When I reached the gate, I had to force my way through a throng of people who stood crowded together, gaping with mingled curiosity, terror, joy, and expectation.

With cold shuddering I beheld above the crowd the glittering arms of the dragoons, who surrounded, three deep, my beloved uncle's mill. High above all I saw the mareschale on horseback, surrounded by noblemen; he seemed grave and thoughtful.

"My lord!" I exclaimed, when I reached him.

He turned round on hearing me, looked at me, and pointing with his stick to the mill, said, without changing a feature, "The wretches! Now they are caught."

"What do you intend doing, my lord?" I asked.

"I have been considering for the last quarter of an hour."

"Oh! my lord," I said; "it is true these infatuated men have broken the laws, but truly they are more the objects of your contempt than your wrath. Be magnanimous, my lord, and the transgressors will fall at your feet in repentance, and never again – "

"What!" interrupted the mareschale, "these men are incorrigible. They are rebels, furious, audacious rebels. Am I to let this accursed weed luxuriate until it can perpetrate a second Michelade?"30

"No, my lord," I said, seizing his hand, which was hanging down; "you are too just to attribute to these unfortunate persons cruelties which happened nearly a century and a half ago."

"It is time to set a severe example," said the mareschale, who to this moment had been undecided. He withdrew his hand, rode a few paces forward without further noticing me, and cried, with a loud voice, "Fire the mill!"

Cold with terror, I staggered after him, seized the reins of his horse, and cried, "For God's sake mercy, mercy."

"Begone," he cried, casting a furious look at me, and flourishing his stick as if he would strike me. I let go the horse and fell upon my knees before this cold-blooded demon, crying, "Mercy!"

I heard the crackling and hissing of the flames, saw the thick clouds of smoke rolling over the roof of the mill, and then heard the horrible cries of those enclosed within. I sprang up again and clasped the mareschale's knees, but God only knows what I cried to him in my anguish. He heard me not, he had no humanity; the pious tiger only looked upon the burning mill.

Soon my voice was drowned amidst the wild roar around, the cries of those consigned to death, and the thunder of the carabines. Those who endeavoured to escape the flames were shot down by the dragoons.

I started up and ran to the mill. At this moment a girl threw herself from the window. I caught her in my arms; it was Antonia my uncle's youngest daughter.

"You are saved, Antonia," said I, carrying away the poor creature through the smoke and fire, and came up, without knowing it, to the mareschale.

"The dog!" he cried, "I always said he was one of them!" I knew not he spoke of me.

"Down with them!" he shouted again. Two dragoons tore the fainting girl from my arms, and while she lay on the ground these ruffians shot the innocent creature at my feet.

"It serves the cursed heretics right!" said the mareschale calmly, close behind me.

"Oh! you atrocious monster! how will you answer for this deed before your and our king, – before your and our God?" I cried, foaming with rage.

He galloped up to me, gave me a blow on my head with his stick, and rode over me. Half stunned, I imagined he had given orders to kill me. I started up and snatched a carabine from the hands of a dragoon to defend my life. No one dared to lay hands on me, in spite of the mareschale's exclaiming repeatedly, "Secure him! secure him!"

While looking around me with consternation, I beheld – oh! horrible sight – I beheld my uncle with blood streaming from his head, standing over the corpse of Antonia; I only recognised him by his figure and clothing. He uttered a frightful shriek towards heaven, and sank amidst musket shots over the body of his beloved child.

I was going to address the mareschale, but my tongue was paralysed. Raising my eyes and my arm with the musket to heaven, I received a blow, and sank down perfectly insensible.

Until then, I had still preserved my faith in humanity, and blindly devoted myself to this belief. Impressed with the best works of the greatest minds of our time, I had lulled myself into happy illusions. I had believed mankind much more humane and freer from the bonds of barbarism. Indeed, I was the subject of the most lauded monarch of the world, and France called the reign of Louis XIV. her Golden Age. Alas! Montreval was one of his governors, and the Palm Sunday of 1703, a day of that Golden Age. About 200 men were burnt alive and shot on that day, and even the infant on its mother's breast was not spared. All the property of the murdered was confiscated, and Montreval's cruelty was crowned with laurels by the royal hand.

When I had recovered my consciousness and could discover the objects around, I found myself among strangers, and my wounded head bandaged. Now and then, during my insensibility, I felt pain, and dimly perceived that people were employed about me; but this consciousness soon left me, and I relapsed again into stupor as into a heavy sleep.

"By my faith thou hast a tough life." These were the first words I heard, as they were uttered by a dirty old fellow, who was standing by me offering medicine.

I did not see Clementine. I was in a narrow chamber, on a hard, coarse bed.

"Where am I then?" I asked.

"Thou art with me," said the fellow. I now, for the first time, remembered the fatal event to which I owed my present situation.

"Am I then a prisoner?"

"To be sure, and quite right too!" answered my keeper.

"Does Madame de Sonnes know of this? Has she not sent here? May I not see her?"

"Dost thou know any one here? Where does she live?"

"In the Rue de Martin. The house Albertas."

"Thou fool! there is no Rue de Martin in all Marseilles. Thou art still feverish, I think, or dost thou not know that thou art in Marseilles?"

"In Marseilles? What, in Marseilles am I? Am I not in Nismes? How long have I been here?"

"May be three weeks. I can easily believe that thou, poor devil, dost not know of it. Thou hast been raving in a burning fever till last night. Thou must have a strong constitution. We thought we should have to bury thee to-day."

"What am I to do here?"

"When thou art recovered thou wilt put on that dress; dost thou know it?"

"That is a galley slave's dress. What? pray tell me, am I then – I will – I cannot believe – have I been sentenced?"

"Perhaps so; only for twenty-nine years to the oars, as they say."

The fellow spoke too truly. As soon as I recovered, my terrible sentence was announced to me. I was condemned to punishment in the galleys for twenty-nine years, for menaces, and murderous attempts on the life of the Mareschale de Montreval; also for the crime of being a secret Protestant, and for having committed sundry peculations, for the benefit of the heretics, in the office where I had influence, by virtue of my situation.

I sighed, yet conscious of my innocence, put on the dress without pain. My tears flowed only for the fate of Clementine. I endeavoured to send her a few lines, which I wrote as a farewell, on a scrap of paper, with a pencil I borrowed. But alas! I was too poor to bribe my keeper; he took the paper, read it, and laughing, tore it to pieces, saying, "There is no post for love letters here."

I was now put in chains, and led, together with some companions in misfortune, to the galley appointed for us in the harbour. It was a beautiful evening, and the city displayed its splendour in the radiance of the setting sun. Amidst the dark green of the sloping mountains surrounding the harbour, which was crowded with the vessels of all nations, glistened innumerable snow-white villas, and between the almond and olive trees of the Bastides, waved a thousand silken pennons, displaying all the colours of the rainbow; while through the mouth of the harbour, the view was lost in the immeasurable expanse of the ocean.

The splendour of this spectacle dazzled me, and filled me with melancholy. The shores of my native land seemed to display all their glory, only to make me feel more vividly what I had lost. All around breathed joy, I only was for ever joyless, and I saw no limits to my misery, except on the brink of the distant grave.

I passed the night sleepless; with the early dawn our galley left the harbour and when the sun arose above the ruddy waves, I lost sight of Marseilles. I and five other slaves were chained to the oars.

What a fate! To be for ever separated from all the friends and playmates of my youth, – to be separated alas! from thee, Clementine, cast from the lap of wealth upon the hard bench, forgotten by all the happy, dishonoured, and among malefactors, to hear now, instead of Clementine's delightful conversation, only the curses and ribaldry of low thieves, murderers, smugglers, and robbers; – to be without books, without information as to the progress of science, my mind left the prey of itself, without hope; – to hear the terrible clanking of my chains instead of the magic of music and Clementine's harp! Surely, death itself is not so bitter as this dreadful change.

"But I will bear it," said I to myself; "there is a God, and my spirit knows its divine origin. I have not lost myself. I shall remain faithful to virtue, and though mistaken by the world, I carry with me across the sea the esteem which innocent souls feel for themselves. I have only been compelled to forsake that which was not my own, and what I suffer is but the pain of a body which hitherto has not been accustomed to deny itself."

Thus my mind, after one year had passed, obtained the victory; thus did I live the greater part of my life, joyless, and in solitude. I have grown old in misfortune, and have never again heard any thing of those who once loved me. The only cheerful feelings I have had were when, in my leisure hours, I could write down my thoughts, and look back with tears on the long passed paradise of my youth. Often during the monotonous sound of the oars, grief recalled to my mind the visions of the happy past. Then it seemed as if Clementine floated on the waves of the sea, and encouraged me with her smiles, like an angel of consolation. I gazed with moistened eyes at the beloved vision, and felt all the wounds of my heart again opened. Still I despaired not, but rowed cheerfully on.

I should sometimes have taken all the felicities of my youth as the effect of imagination, had not the melancholy farewell letter which Madame Bertollon had written from the convent, by some chance remained with me. I preserved it with veneration, as the last sacred remnant of what I formerly possessed. I often read it in distant seas, and on the burning coasts of Africa; and I always drew from it unspeakable consolation, and rowed cheerfully onwards, nearer and nearer to the end of my life.

Thus nine-and-twenty years have now elapsed. What are they?

Death, my ardently wished for friend comes to release me. Ah! sir, you have shown much compassion for me in making the last hours of my life so sweet. Our minds are congenial, and will, perhaps, meet again.

* * * * *

[The preceding narrative, according to the author, is related to some friends by the Abbé Dillon, who was with Alamontade the last days of his life, after his liberation from the galleys.

Shortly before his death, Alamontade learns that Clementine is still living, and is much delighted to hear that she has remained faithfully attached to him. His only wish and consolation now is, that his days may be prolonged till she arrives; but she does not come till the day after his death; aged and infirm herself, she soon follows him to the grave.

The whole of Alamontade is divided into two books in the original, the first containing Zschokhe's31 views on religion and moral philosophy. The following are the author's prefatory remarks:

"The following narrative was composed during the winter of 1801-2, at Berne, where the author having retired from public affairs, wished to devote his leisure hours to some useful purpose, having, by frequent intercourse become acquainted with many of those diseased minds who, being entangled in doubts, have lost their God and the joys of life. He therefore was desirous of making an attempt to raise again in them a holy faith and courage for virtue. He was inspired by the affecting dream of one night; it was an angelic but transient vision, which he in vain endeavoured to hold fast. However imperfect the original narrative was, yet it went through four editions during the first ten years after its appearance. This circumstance makes the author believe that he has not altogether failed in his object."]

C. A. F.

THE JESUITS' CHURCH IN G —

BY E. T. W. HOFFMANN

Packed up in a wretched post-chaise, which the moths had left from instinct – as the rats left Prospero's vessel – I at last, after a break-neck journey, stopped half dislocated, at the inn in the G – market-place. All the possible misfortune that might have befallen me had lighted on my carriage, which lay, shattered, with the postmaster at the last stage. Four skinny, jaded horses, after a lapse of many hours, dragged up the crazy vehicle, with the help of several peasants and my own servant; knowing folks came up, shook their heads, and thought that a thorough repair, which might occupy two, or even three days would be necessary. The place seemed to me agreeable, the country pretty, and yet I felt not a little horror-struck at the delay with which I was threatened. If, gentle reader, you were ever compelled to stop three days in a little town, where you did not know a soul, but were forced to remain a stranger to every body, and if some deep pain did not destroy the inclination for social converse, you will be able to appreciate my annoyance. In words alone does the spirit of life manifest itself in all around us; but the inhabitants of your small towns are like a secluded orchestra, which has worked into its own way of playing and singing by hard practice, so that the tone of the foreigner is discordant to their ears, and at once puts them to silence. I was walking up and down my room, in a thorough ill-humour, when it at once struck me that a friend at home, who had once passed two years at G – , had often spoken of a learned, clever man, with whom he had been intimate. His name, I recollected, was Aloysius Walter, professor at the Jesuits' college. I now resolved to set out, and turn my friend's acquaintance to my own advantage. They told me at the college that Professor Walter was lecturing, but would soon have finished, and as they gave me the choice of calling again or waiting in the outer rooms, I chose the latter. The cloisters, colleges, and churches of the Jesuits are everywhere built in that Italian style which, based upon the antique form and manner, prefers splendour and elegance to holy solemnity and religious dignity. In this case the lofty, light, airy halls were adorned with rich architecture and the images of saints, which were here placed against the walls, between Ionic pillars, were singularly contrasted by the carving over the doorways, which invariably represented a dance of genii, or fruit and the dainties of the kitchen.