The Second Macabre Megapack

by Various Writers

  The Prince as well as the Count had seen me dancing with Hortensia, and had heard the general whisper of applause. The Prince burnt with jealousy—he did not even conceal it from Hortensia. The Count was offended at my boldness in asking his daughter to dance, and reproached her the next day for so thoughtlessly forgetting her rank. Both maintained, like all the world, that her dancing had been more full of soul, more impassioned. Neither the Count nor the Prince doubted but that I had inspired the Countess with an unworthy inclination for myself. I soon perceived, notwithstanding their efforts to conceal it, that I was an object of hate and fear to them both. I was very seldom, and at last not at all taken into the society where Hortensia moved. I was, however, silent.

  Both gentlemen indulged, nevertheless, too much anxiety on this account. The Countess certainly did not deny that she felt a sense of gratitude towards me, but any other feeling was a reproach at which she revolted. She confessed that she esteemed me, but that it was all the same to her whether I danced in Venice or Constantinople.

  “You are at liberty to dismiss him,” said she to her father, “so soon as my cure is perfected.”

  THE AMULET.

  The Count and Charles awaited this moment, in pain, to get rid of me, and to bring on the marriage of Hortensia. Hortensia looked for it with impatience, in order to rejoice over her own recovery, and at the same time to quiet the suspicions of her father. I also expected it with no less desire. It was only far from Hortensia, amidst new scenes, and other occupations, that I could hope to heal my mind. I felt myself unhappy.

  The Countess one day announced, not unexpectedly, as she lay in her strange sleep, the near approach of her re-establishment.

  “In the warm baths of Battaglia,” said she, “she will entirely lose the gift of being entranced. Take her there. Her cure is no longer distant. Every morning, immediately on waking, one bath. After the tenth, Emanuel, she separates from thee. She sees thee never again, if such is thy will. But leave her a token of remembrance. She cannot be healthy without it. For a long time, thou wearest in thy breast a dried rose, between glasses, and set in gold. So long as she wears this, enclosed in silk, immediately about the region of the heart, she will not fall again into her cramps. Neither later nor earlier than the seventh hour after receiving the thirteenth bath, yield it to her. Wear it constantly till then. She is then healthy.”

  She repeated this desire frequently, and with singular anxiety; she laid particular stress upon the hour when I should deliver up to her my only jewel, and of whose existence she had never heard.

  “Do you really wear such a thing?” asked the Count, astonished, and highly delighted on account of the announced restoration of health to his daughter. As I answered, he asked further, if I laid any particular value upon the possession of this trifle. I assured him the highest, and that I would rather die than have it taken from me—nevertheless, for the safety of the Countess, I would sacrifice it.

  “Probably a remembrance from some beloved hand?” observed the Count, laughing, and in an inquiring manner, to whom it seemed a good opportunity to learn whether my heart had already been bestowed.

  “It comes,” I replied, “from a person who is every thing to me.”

  The Count was as much moved by my generosity as contented, that I had resolved to make the sacrifice on which Hortensia’s continued health depended—and forgetting his secret grudge, embraced me, a circumstance which had not happened for a long time.

  “You make me your greatest debtor!” said he.

  He was most urgent to relate to Hortensia, so soon as I had gone, on her awaking, what she had desired in her trance; he, moreover, did not conceal from her his conversation with me on the subject of the amulet, which had so great a value for me, since it was the remembrance of a person that I loved above all. He laid great stress on this, as his suspicion still remained, and, in case Hortensia really felt any inclination for me, to destroy it, by the discovery that I, since a long time, sighed in the chains of another beauty. Hortensia listened to it all with such innocent unembarrassment, and so sincerely congratulated herself upon her early recovery, that the Count perceived he had done injustice to the heart of his daughter by his suspicions. In the joy of his heart, he was eager to confess to me his conversation with his daughter, and immediately to mention to the Prince all that had passed. From that hour I remarked, both in the manner of the Count and Prince, something unconstrained, kind and obliging. They kept me no longer, with their former anxiety, at a distance from Hortensia, but treated me with the attention and forbearance due to a benefactor, to whom they were indebted for the happiness of their whole life. Arrangements were immediately made for our journey to the baths of Battaglia. We left Venice on a beautiful summer morning. The Prince had gone before, in order to prepare everything for his intended bride.

  Through the pleasant plains of Padua we approached the mountains, at the foot of which lay the little town, with its healing spring.. On the way the Countess often liked to walk; then I must always be her conductor. Her cordiality charmed as much as her tender sense of the noble in the human character, and of the beautiful in nature. “I could be very happy,” she often said, “if I could pass my days in any one of these beautiful Italian regions, amidst the simple occupations of domestic life. The amusements of the city leave the feelings vacant—they are more stunning than pleasing. How happy could I be if I might live simply, unprovoked by the miseries of the palace, where one vexes one’s-self about nothing, sufficiently rich to make others happy, and in my own creations to find the source of my happiness! Yet one must not desire every thing.”

  More than once, and in the presence of her father, she spoke of her great obligations to me as the preserver of her life. “If I only knew how to repay it!” said she. “I have for a long time racked my head to discover something right pleasing for you. You must indeed permit my father to place you in a situation which will enable you to live quite independent of others. But that is the least. I need for myself some other satisfaction.” At other times, and frequently, she brought the conversation to my resolution of leaving them as soon as she recovered. “We shall be sorry to lose you,” said she, good naturedly; “we shall lament your loss as the loss of a true friend and benefactor. We will not, however, by our entreaties for you to remain with us, render your resolution more difficult. Your heart calls you elsewhere,” added she, with an arch smile, as if initiated in the secret of my breast: “If you are happy, there is nothing else for us to wish for; and I do not doubt that love will make you happy. Do not, however, therefore, forget us, but send us news from time to time of your health.”

  What I felt at such expressions, could be as little uttered as that I should repeat what I was usually in the habit of replying. My answers were full of acknowledgments and cold politeness; for respect forbid my betraying my heart. Nevertheless, there were moments when the strength of my feelings mastered me, and I said more than I wished. When I said something more than mere flattery, Hortensia looked at me with the clear bright look of innocence, as if she did not comprehend or understand me. I was convinced that Hortensia felt a grateful esteem for me, and wished me to be happy and content, without, on that account, giving me a secret preference over any other mortal. She had joined me in the dance at the ball, from mere good nature, and to give me pleasure. She herself confessed that she had always expected me to ask her. Ah! how my passion had created presumptuous hopes from it! Presumptuous hopes indeed; since had Hortensia, in reality, felt more than mere common good will towards me, of what service would it have been to me? I should only have become more miserable by her partiality.

  Whilst the flame silently devoured me, in her breast was a pure heaven, full of repose. Whilst I could have sunk at her feet, and confessed what she was to me, she wandered near me without the slightest suspicion of my feelings, and endeavored to dissipate my seriousness by pleasantry.

  THE DISENCHANTMENT.

  By the arrangements of the Prince, rooms were pr
epared for us in the castle of the Marquisa d’Este. This castle, situated on a hill near the village, offered, with the greatest comfort, the most lovely distant prospect, and rich shaded walks in the neighborhood. But we were obliged to resort to the town for the baths—therefore a house was arranged in that place for the Countess, where she passed the mornings as long as she bathed.

  Her trance in Battaglia, after the first bath, was very short and indistinct. She spoke but seldom, did not once answer, and appeared to enjoy quite a natural sleep. She spoke after the seventh bath, and commanded, that after the tenth she should no longer remain in that house. It is true she once more fell asleep after the tenth bath, though she said nothing more than “Emanuel, I see thee no more!” These were the last words she spoke in her transfigurations.

  Since then she had had, indeed for some days, an unnaturally sound sleep, but without the power of speech in it.

  At last arrived the day of her thirteenth bath. Until now, all that she had commanded or predicted in her transfigured hours had been most punctually fulfilled. Now was the last to be done. The Count and Prince came to me early in the morning, in order to remind me of the speedy delivery of my amulet. I must show it to them. They did not leave me for a moment the whole morning, as if, that now being so near the long desired goal, they had suddenly become mistrustful, and feared I might, as regarded the sacrifice, change my mind, or that the relic might accidentally be lost. The minutes were counted so soon as the news came that the Countess was in the bath. When she had reposed some hours after her bath, she was conducted by us to the castle. She was uncommonly gay, almost mischievous. Having been told that she was to receive a present from me in the seventh hour, which she must wear all her life, she was as delighted as a child at a gift, and teased me, jestingly, with the faithlessness I committed towards my chosen one, whose present I gave to another.

  It struck twelve. The seventh hour had arrived. We were in a bright garden saloon. The Count, the Prince, and the women of the Countess were present.

  “Delay no longer,” cried the Count, “the moment which is to be the last of Hortensia’s sufferings and the first of my happiness.”

  I drew the dear medallion from my breast, where I had carried it so long, and loosening the golden chain from my neck, pressed, not without a sorrowful feeling, a kiss upon the glass, and delivered it to the Countess.

  Hortensia took it, and as her look fell on the dried rose, a sudden and fiery red spread over her face. She bowed gently towards me, as if she would thank me, but in her features one discovered a surprise or confusion, which she appeared to endeavor to conceal. She stammered some words, and then suddenly withdrew with her women. The Count and Prince were all gratitude towards me. They had arranged for the evening a little festival at the castle, to which some noble families from Este and Rovigo were invited.

  In the meantime we expected long and in vain the reappearance of the Countess. After an hour we learnt, that as soon as she had put on the medallion, she had fallen into a sweet and profound sleep. Two, three, four hours passed—the invited guests had assembled, but Hortensia did not awake. The Count, in great disquiet, ventured to go himself to her bed. As he found her in a deep and quiet slumber, he feared to disturb her. The fete passed over without Hortensia’s presence—though, without her, half the pleasure was wanting. Hortensia still slept as they separated about midnight. And even the following morning she was still in the same sound sleep. No noise affected her. The Count was in great agony. My uneasiness was no less. A physician was called, who assured us that the Countess slept a sound and refreshing sleep—both her color and pulse announced the most perfect health. Mid-day and evening came—yet Hortensia did not awake! The repeated assurances of the physician that the Countess was manifestly in perfect health, were necessary to quiet us. The night came, and passed. The next morning rejoicing echoed through the castle as Hortensia’s women announced her cheerful awaking. Every one hurried forward, and wished the restored one joy.

  NEW ENCHANTMENT.

  Wherefore shall I not say it? During the general joy, I alone remained sad—ah, more than sad, in my room. The duties, on account of which I had entered into an engagement with Count Hormegg, were now fulfilled. I could leave him whenever I chose. I had often enough expressed my desire and intention of doing so. Nothing more was expected from me but that I should keep my word. Yet only to be allowed to breathe in her vicinity, appeared to me the most enviable of all lots—to receive only one of her looks, the most exquisite nourishment to the flame of life—to live far from her was to me the sentence of death.

  But I thought of her near marriage with the Prince, and the fickleness of the weak Count—I thought of my own honor—of my necessities—that I was free to die then my pride and firmness were roused, and the determination remained to withdraw from the service of the Count as soon as possible. I swore to fly—I saw that my misery was without end, but I preferred bidding adieu to joy for the remainder of life to becoming contemptible to myself.

  I found Hortensia in the garden of the castle. A soft shudder ran through me as I approached her, in order to offer my congratulations. She stood, separated from her women, thoughtfully before a bed of flowers. She appeared fresher and more blooming than I had ever seen her—glowing with a new life. She first discovered my presence as I spoke to her.

  “How you frightened me!” said she, laughing and embarrassed, whilst a deep blush overspread her beautiful cheeks.

  “I also, my dear Countess, would offer to you my joy and good wishes.”

  I could say no more—my voice began to tremble—my thoughts became confused—I could not support her looks, which penetrated into the depths of my heart. With difficulty I stammered an excuse for having disturbed her.

  Her looks were silently fastened on me. After a long pause, she said, “You speak of joy, dear Faust; are you also gay?”

  “Heartily, as I know you to be saved from an illness by which you have so long suffered. In a few days I must depart, and endeavor, if it be possible, in other lands to belong to myself, since I am no longer connected with any one. My promise is redeemed!”

  “Is it your serious intention to leave us, dear Faust? I hope not. How can you say that you belong to no one? Have you not bound us to you by all the obligations of gratitude? What forces you to separate from us?” said the Countess.

  I laid my hand upon my heart; my looks sunk to the earth; to speak was impossible.

  “You remain with us, Faust. Is it not so?” said the Countess.

  “I dare not,” I replied.

  “And if I entreat you, Faust?” said the Countess.

  “For God’s sake, gracious Countess, do not entreat—do not command me. I can only be well when I—No, I must go hence,” I replied.

  “You are not happy with us—and yet what other employment, what other duty draws you from us?” asked the Countess.

  “Duty towards myself,” I replied.

  “Go, then, Faust,” said the Countess, “I have been mistaken in you. I believed that we also were of some value to you.”

  “Gracious Countess,” I replied, “if you knew what your words excite, you would from compassion forbear.”

  “I must then be silent, Faust. Go, then, but you commit a great injustice,” said the Countess.

  As she said these words she turned from me. I ventured to follow her, and entreated her not to be angry. Tears fell from her eyes. I was frightened. With folded hands I implored her not to be angry.

  “Command me, I will obey,” said I. “Do you command me to remain? My inward peace, my happiness, my life, I sacrifice with joy to this command!”

  “Go Faust, I force nothing,” said the Countess. “You remain unwillingly with us.”

  “O! Countess!” said I, “drive not a man to desperation.”

  “Faust, when do you depart?” said she.

  “Tomorrow—today,” I replied.

  “No, no, Faust!” said she, softly, and approached nearer to me—�
�I place no value on my health, on your gift, if you—Faust! you remain, at least, only a few days.” She whispered with such a soft entreating voice, and looked so anxiously at me with her moist eyes, that I ceased to be master over my own will.

  “I remain,” said I.

  “But willingly?” she asked.

  “With delight,” I replied.

  “It is well! Now leave me a moment, Faust. You have quite disturbed me. But do not leave the garden. I only wish to recover myself.” With these words she left me, and disappeared amongst the blooming orange trees.

  I remained long in the same place, like a dreamer. I had never heard such language from the Countess before; it was not that of mere politeness. My whole being trembled at the idea that I possessed some interest in her heart. These solicitations for me to remain—these tears, and, what cannot be described, that peculiar something—the extraordinary language in her manners, in her movements, in her voice—a language, without words, yet which said more than words could express—I understood nothing of it all, and, nevertheless, understood all. I doubted, and yet was convinced.

  In about ten minutes, as I wandered up and down the garden walks, and joined the women, the Countess approached us quickly and gaily. Enveloped in white drapery, and surrounded by the sun’s rays, she appeared like a being out of Raphael’s dreams. In her hand she carried a bouquet of pinks, roses and violet-colored vanilla flowers.

  “I have plucked a few flowers for you, dear Faust,” said she; “do not despise them. I give them to you with quite different feelings from those with which, during my sickness, I gave the rose. But I should not remind you, my dear physician, how I vexed you with my childish humors. I recollect it myself, as in duty bound, in order to make up for it. And, oh! how much have I to make up! Do give me your arm—and you, Miss Cecilia, take the other,” which was the name of one of her women.