The anger of the old Count knew no bounds; yet the event appeared to him so monstrous, that he determined to interrogate the Countess herself upon it, Hortensia appeared. The sight of the pale faces, disfigured by rage and fright, excited her terror.
“What has happened?” cried she, almost beside herself.
With fearful earnestness, the Count replied, “That thou must say.” He then, with a forced tranquillity and kindness, took her hand and said:
“Hortensia, thou art accused of having stained the honor of our name, by—well then, it must be said—by an intrigue with the painter, Faust. Hortensia, deny it—say no! Give honor and tranquillity again to thy father. Thou canst do it. Refute all malicious tongues—refute the assertion that thou wast seen today in Faust’s arms; it was a delusion, a misunderstanding, deception. Here stands the Prince, thy future husband. Reach him thy hand. Declare to him, that all that has been said against thee and Faust, are wicked lies. Faust’s presence shall no longer disturb our peace: this night he leaves us forever.”
The Count spoke still longer. He did so, in order to give an advantageous turn to the fact—since the alternate redness and paleness of Hortensia allowed him no longer to doubt of its truth—which might satisfy the Prince, and make every thing smooth again. He was prepared for nothing less than what Hortensia, as soon as he was silent, openly declared. Excited to the most impetuous feelings, as much by the treachery of Beatrice, who was still present, as by the reproaches cast upon her, and the news of my sudden departure, with her own peculiar dignity and resolution, she turned first towards Beatrice, and said:
“Wretch! I stand not opposed to you. My servant must not dare to be my accuser. I have not to justify myself before you. Leave the room, and the castle, and never appear before me again.”
Beatrice fell weeping at her feet. It was in vain—she must obey, and departed.
“Dear Faust,” said she to me—and her cheeks glowed with an unnatural color—“you stand here as one accused or condemned.” She then related what had happened, and went on to say: “They expect me to justify myself. I have no justification to make before any one but God, the judge of hearts. I have only here to acknowledge the truth, since my father exacts it, and to declare my unalterable design, since destiny commands it, and I am born to be unhappy. Faust, I should be unworthy of your regard, could I not raise myself above any misfortune.”
She then turned to the Prince and said, “I esteem you, but I do not love you. My hand will never be yours; nourish no farther hopes. After what has just passed, I must beg you to avoid us forever. Do not expect that my father can force me against my will. Life is indifferent to me. His first act of power, would have no other consequences than that he must bury the corpse of his daughter. To you, I have nothing more to say. But to you, my father, I must acknowledge that I love—love this Faust. But it is not my fault. He is hateful to you—he is not of our rank. He must separate from us. I annul my earthly union with him. But my heart remains with him. You, my father, can make no change, since any endeavor to do so will be the end of my life. I say to you beforehand, I am prepared for my death, since that only will terminate my miseries.”
She stopped. The Count wished to speak—the Prince likewise. She motioned them to be silent. She approached me, drew a ring from her finger, gave it to me, and said, “My friend, I part from you, perhaps forever. Take this ring in remembrance of me. This gold and these diamonds shall become dust, sooner than my love and truth shall cease. Do not forget me.”
As she said this, she laid her arms on my shoulders, pressed a kiss on my lips—her countenance changed, the blood forsook her cheeks—and pale and cold she sank with closed eyes, to the floor.
The Count gave a piercing, fearful shriek. The Prince called for assistance. I carried the beautiful body to a couch. Women hurried in—physicians were called. I sunk, without consciousness on my knees, before the couch, and held the cold hand of the senseless one to my cheek. The Count tore me away. He was like a madman.
“Thou hast murdered her,” thundered he to me. “Fly, wretch, and never let me see thee again!”
He thrust me out of the door. Upon his sign, the huntsmen seized me and dragged me down the stairs before the castle. Sebald stood before the stable. As soon as he perceived me, he hurried forward and drew me towards the saddled horses in the stable. There I lost all power and sense. I lay, as Sebald afterwards said, a full quarter of an hour, senseless on the earth. I had scarcely recovered, when he lifted me upon one of the horses, and we hastened from the castle. I rode as if in my sleep, and was often in danger of falling. By degrees, I gained full consciousness and power. The past was now clear before me. I became desperate, and determined to return to the castle and know Hortensia’s fate. Sebald entreated me, by all the saints, to give up so frantic a design. It was in vain. I had just turned my horse, when I saw a rider coming towards us at full gallop, and heard some one cry, “Cursed assassin.” It was Charles’s voice. At the same time some shot struck me. As I grasped my pistols, my horse fell dead. I sprang up. Charles rode towards me with a drawn sword, and as he was about to cut me down, I shot him through the body. His attendant caught him as he fell. Sebald pursued them in their flight and sent some balls after them. He then returned, took the portmanteau from the dead horse; I mounted with him, and we hurried on at a quick pace.
This murder had occurred in the vicinity of a little wood, which we soon reached. The sun had already set. We rode through the whole night, without knowing where. As we stopped at daybreak, at a village inn, in order to give our horse some rest, we found him so excoriated by the saddle, that we gave up all hope of using him further. We sold him at a very low price, and continued our flight on foot by a secure by-road, carrying our baggage by turns.
NEW ADVENTURE.
The first rays of the rising sun, as we journeyed on, fell on the diamonds of Hortensia’s ring. I kissed it and wept over the recollections it brought to mind. Sebald had already told me in the night, that he had heard from one of the servants, whilst I was lying insensible near the horses in the yard, that Hortensia, who had been considered dead, had returned to life. This news had strengthened and consoled me. I was perfectly indifferent about my own fate. Hortensia’s greatness of soul had inspired me. I was proud of my misery. My conscience, free from reproach, raised me above all fear. I had but one sorrow—to be eternally separated from one whom I must ever love.
When we reached Ravenna, we took our first day’s rest. It was a long day’s rest—for I, shaken by the late events and exhausted by my unusual fatigue and exertion, was very ill. For two weeks I lay in a fever. Sebald endured the most painful anxiety, since he feared, and justly, the murder of the Prince would necessarily bring us into the hands of justice. He had given to us both feigned names, and bought other clothes. My good constitution, more than the science of my physician, at length preserved me, though great weakness remained in all my limbs. But as we had determined to go by ship from Rimini to Trieste, I hoped to recover my health on the way.
One evening Sebald came to me in the greatest fright and said, “Sir, we can remain here no longer. A stranger stands without, and wishes to speak with you. We are betrayed. He asked at first my name, and I could not deny it. He then asked for you.”
“Let him come in,” said I.
A well-dressed man entered, who, after the first exchange of politeness, inquired after my health. As I assured him, that I was quite well again, he said, “So much the better. I may then give you some good advice. You know, what passed between Prince Charles and yourself. He is out of danger, but has sworn to take your life. You had, therefore, better leave immediately. You intend to go to Germany by Trieste. Do not do so. There is no ship for Trieste at Rimini. There is only a Neapolitan vessel that goes back to Naples. When once at sea, you are safe; otherwise, in a few hours, death or a prison. Here is a letter for the Neapolitan captain, he is my truest friend, and will receive you with pleasure. Now, go immediately to Rimini, an
d from thence to Naples.”
I was not a little embarrassed at seeing this stranger so well informed. To my questions, how he acquired this knowledge, he smiled and only replied, “I know nothing more, and can tell you nothing more. I reside here in Ravenna; am a clerk of the court. Save yourself.” He then suddenly left us.
Sebald affirmed stoutly and firmly, that the man must be possessed by a devil, or he could not have known our secrets. As the stranger spoke with several of the people of the hotel, we learnt afterwards that the unknown so called court’s secretary, was a good, honest man, wealthy and married. It was incomprehensible how our most carefully concealed plan of going to Germany by Trieste, could be so exactly known, as no one but ourselves was privy to it. The enigma was, however, soon solved, when Sebald confessed to me, that he had during my illness, written a letter to his former comrade Casper at Battaglia, begging to know whether the Prince was really dead or not. He expected the answer in vain. Without doubt, the letter had fallen into the hands of Charles or his people, or the contents were betrayed to him.
Sebald was now in the greatest anxiety. He engaged a carriage for Rimini without delay, and we set out that same night. These untoward circumstances made me not quite at ease. I knew not whether I was flying from or going to meet the danger. The justices’ clerk might be an agent of the Prince. In the meanwhile, we not only reached Rimini, but found there the Neapolitan captain. I gave him the letter of the clerk—though I do not deny that I had before opened and read it. I soon agreed with him as to our voyage to Naples. The wind became fair—the anchors were raised. Besides ourselves, there were some other travellers on board; amongst others, a young man, whose sight at first was not very agreeable to me, as I remembered to have seen him once, though very transiently, at the baths of Battaglia. I, however, became easy, as I judged from his conversation, that he had not observed me, and that I was completely a stranger to him. He had only left Battaglia three days since, and was returning to Naples, where he carried on a considerable business. He mentioned the acquaintances which he had made at the baths, and spoke of the German Countess, who was a wonder of grace and beauty. How his remark made my heart beat! He appeared to know nothing of the wounding or death of the Prince. The Countess, whose name was unknown to him, had gone four days before him, but where, he had not troubled himself to inquire.
However imperfect this news was, it served not a little to tranquillize me. Hortensia lived—Hortensia was in health. “May she be happy!” was my sigh.
The voyage was tedious to all but myself. I sought solitude. Upon the deck, I watched through many nights and dreamed of Hortensia. The young merchant, who called himself Tufaldini, remarked my melancholy, and took much pains to enliven me. He heard I was a painter; he passionately loved the art, and constantly turned the conversation upon that subject, since nothing but that appeared to interest or make me talkative. His sympathy and friendship went so far, that he invited me to stay at his house in Naples, which I was the less inclined to refuse, as I was an entire stranger in that city, and my own and Sebald’s joint stock of gold, particularly after the deduction of travelling expenses, had considerably dwindled away.
NEW WONDER.
The kindness and attention of the generous Tufaldini, in fact put me to the blush. From a travelling companion, he had made himself my friend, though I had done little or nothing to gain or merit his love. He introduced me as his friend to his aged and respectable mother and charming wife. They prepared the best chambers for Sebald and myself, and treated me, from the first day of our arrival, like an old family friend. But Tufaldini did not rest here. He introduced me to all his acquaintances, and orders soon came for pictures. He was as eager to make me known, as if it were for his own advantage. He consented at last to receive payment for my board and lodging, though he was at first much mortified by my offering it. But when he saw my determination to leave his house, if he would not accept any remuneration, he took the money, though more to gratify me than indemnify himself.
I was, above all expectation, fortunate in my works. My pictures were liked, and I was paid what I demanded. One finished order brought on another. Even Sebald found himself so comfortable in Naples, that he forgot his home sickness. He thanked God for having escaped from the service of the Count with a sound head, and would, as he expressed it, rather serve me for bread and water, than the Count for a whole bowl of gold.
My plan was to gain sufficient by my labors to enable me to travel to Germany, and there settle myself. I was industrious and economical. So passed one year. The love which I enjoyed in Tufaldini’s house; my quiet life in the dissipated city; the charm of the soft climate, and then, that I was without a vocation, without friends in Germany, induced me to forget my first design. I remained where I was. Joy bloomed for me as little in Germany as in the Italian soil; only the thought, that perhaps Hortensia dwelt on the estate of her father; that I might then have the consolation to see her once more, though at a distance; this thought alone, sometimes drew my desires towards the north. But then I recollected the parting hour and the words she spoke: I annul my earthly union with him! as, before her father, she solemnly, and with such heroic greatness, renounced me: I again roused my courage, and determined to suffer all and cheerfully. I was an oak, which the storm had shattered, without branches, without leaves, solitary, unregarded and dying in itself.
It is said, that Time’s beneficent hand heals all wounds. I myself had believed the saying, but found it untrue. My melancholy continued the same—I avoided the gay. Tears often gave me relief, and my only joy was to dream of her—when I again saw her in her greatness and loveliness. Her ring was my holiest relic. Had it fallen into the depths of the sea, nothing should have prevented my plunging in after it.
The second year passed, but not my sorrow. A faint gleam of hope sometimes refreshed me, even in my darkest hour, that perhaps an accident might again bring me in the vicinity of my lost chosen one, or that at least I should have some news of her.
It is true, I did not see the possibility of it. How could the distant one know, after years, where the solitary one dwelt? It was all the same. What has hope to do with impossibilities? But at the end of the second year, I gave up this hope. Hortensia was dead for me. I saw her no longer in my dreams, except as a spirit shining in the rays of a glorified being.
Tufaldini and his wife had often asked me, in our confidential conversations, the cause of my melancholy. I could never prevail on myself to violate my secret. They no longer inquired, but they were more careful of my health. I felt that the powers of my life were sinking—and thoughts of the grave to me were sweet. All was suddenly changed. One morning, Sebald brought some letters from the post. Amongst them were some new orders for pictures, and a little casket. I opened it. Who can imagine my joyful fright? I saw Hortensia’s image—living, beautiful—but dressed in mourning—the face softer, thinner, and paler than I had actually seen it. On a small piece of paper, in Hortensia’s hand, were written three words: “My Emanuel, hope.”
I reeled through the room like an intoxicated person. I sank down speechless on a chair, and raised my hands prayerfully to Heaven. I shouted—I sobbed. I kissed the picture and the little paper which her hand must have touched. I knelt, and with my face bowed to the floor, weeping did I thank Providence.
Thus Sebald found me. He thought I was deranged. He did not err. I feel that man is always stronger to bear misfortune than happiness; while against the one he always approaches more or less prepared, the other comes upon him without preparation or foresight.
Again my hopes bloomed out joyfully, and in them my health and life. Tufaldini and all my acquaintances were delighted at it. I expected from day to day fresh news from my dearly beloved. There was no doubt she knew my residence, though I could not comprehend how she had acquired the intelligence. But from what part of the world did her picture come? All my researches and inquiries on that subject were in vain.
THE SOLUTION.
At th
e end of eight months, I received another letter from her. It contained the following lines:
“I may see thee, Emanuel, only once more. Be in Leghorn the first morning of May, where thou shalt receive further information from a Swiss mercantile house, if thou inquirest for the widow Marian Schwarz, who will show thee my dwelling. Tell no one in Naples where thou goest; least of all speak of me. I belong no longer to any one in this world, except perhaps, for a few moments to thee.”
This letter filled me with new delight, but at the same time with an anxious foreboding, on account of the sad secret which seemed to pierce through it. Nevertheless, again to see the most perfect of her sex, though only for a moment, was sufficient for my soul. I left Naples in April, to the great sorrow of the Tufaldini family. Sebald and every one believed that I was going back to Germany.
I arrived at Gaeta with Sebald. We had here an unexpected pleasure. In passing by the garden door of a villa, before the city, I observed among many other young ladies, Miss Cecilia, I stopped, sprang down, and made myself known. She led me into the circle of her relations. She had been married for three months. I learnt from her, that she had left Hortensia about a year since. She knew nothing of the residence of the Countess, only, that she had gone into a nunnery. “It is already a year,” said Cecilia, “since Count Hormegg died. From the sudden contraction of his accustomed expenditure, I soon remarked, that he had left his affairs in a sadly confused state. The Countess diminished her train of domestics to very few persons. I had the favor of remaining with her. As she soon after, by an unfortunate lawsuit, lost all hopes of preserving any thing from the paternal estates, we were all discharged. She retained only one old attendant, and declared she would end her days in a cloister. Oh, how many tears did this separation cost us! Hortensia was an angel, and never more beautiful, never more charming, never more exalted than under the heaviest blow of destiny. She resigned all her accustomed splendor, and divided, like a dying person, all the riches of her wardrobe, amongst her dismissed servants—rewarded all with a princely generosity, which must certainly have placed her in danger of want, and only begged us to include her in our prayers. I left her in Milan, and returned home here to my family. She has declared her intention of travelling to Germany and there seeking the solitude of a cloister.”
The Second Macabre Megapack Page 24