Louisa made her appearance at that meal. You may imagine my pleasure at again seeing her out of her sick chamber. She made room for me by her side. I accompanied her into the orange-walk near the house, and I sat near her for two hours while she enjoyed the beauty of the scene. She looked at the Alps, then at me, it seemed as if the recollection of our first meeting passed through the minds of both. Involuntarily I opened the bosom of my vest and showed her the scarf, which I had constantly worn since that day. She smiled. ‘I did not think of this at that time,’ she said, ‘I did not know your name, but when the fame of Berchtold, Ernestus Berchtold, was echoed by the wild rocks to the voice of every peasant, I sighed and wished he might be the chamois hunter of the Wengern Alp. It was I sent the saviour of my brother’s life to battle. I sent the hero to aid in the rescue of his country; it was in vain, yet I was conscious of a feeling of pride whenever I thought of it.’ She spoke of my former life, and passed in silence over that part, when every moment had been spent in shame. I cannot describe my sensations to you. The feeling of how little I deserved such praise, mingling with the pleasure of hearing it from Louisa’s lips, embittered what else would have been the proudest moment of my life. Her father joined us, and seemed pleased at seeing us together; he seated himself upon the other side of his daughter, and we spent the whole morning together in conversation, till the sun becoming too powerful, Louisa was obliged to retire for shelter and repose, and we separated.
Day passed after day, and Louisa’s health seemed rapidly to recover; but my sister evidently became more and more restless. She generally avoided, and very seldom sought our society. I knew not what to understand; determined however to force her to an explanation, I one evening, finding her alone, induced her to walk out with me. We wandered, without perceiving it, into the garden. She seemed determined upon silence. Wrapt in thought, the sun’s red disk fast sinking in the West, the birds’ evening carol, the varied light of the Heavens reflected from the soft silky clouds over the purpling surface of the lake, the cooling breeze which played upon her feverish cheek, were all unnoticed. Yet she was wont, in all that feeling of nature’s charms which accompanies youth, to gaze upon that orb, and figuring it as the image of that Providence she adored, think the birds sang hymns of thanks to him for all he gave. But now she passed, and all was unheeded. There was a seat upon the river’s side, which, shaded by the plants that crept entangled round the branches of a noble chestnut, formed a bower, whence all the beauties of the rich nature round could be viewed. I attempted in vain to enter upon the subject of what was causing this apparent misery in her breast; she was abstracted, and answered merely by monosyllables. I at last ceased to press her, and we both sunk into silence.
The spreading clematis of the bower hid us completely from the path near us, while its open leaves allowed us to see distinctly all that passed in the avenue. There was a wall of cypress which ran along one side of the gravel walk, fully exposed at this moment to the sun’s rays. I saw at last approaching from the bottom, the Count our protector; he seemed in earnest conversation with some one, but I could perceive no one near him; yet his lips and hands certainly moved as if he spoke. As he gradually approached, I could even distinguish sounds. I motioned Julia to observe him; she did so and soon pointed to the hedge. I could not at first see to what she directed my attention; but at last I perceived the outline of a figure, through the shape of whose body the very leaves were visible; something in the manner that I have seen in the summer, a current of heated air, accurately defined by the wavering outline of the things between which and our sight it stands, only that this was even more sensible to vision. I could not distinguish its voice, but I at last caught some of the words of Doni. I had hardly time to make these observations, when the Count seemed to start, and the figured vapour went.
We did not move; we for some time seemed rooted to our seats; at last Doni disappeared amidst the trees, and we looked at each other. It was then true what we heard at the lake of Thun, our protector had communication with a spirit. My sister seized the subject of conversation with avidity. We related to one another several slight circumstances, which had come to our knowledge, many incidents which we could not explain. The reluctance of the servants to approach the chambers of the Count all pressed upon our minds. The immense wealth, which seemed inexhaustible, must, it appeared to us, be connected with this untenanting spirit. We resolved not to mention the circumstance we had just witnessed to any one. But it was not effaced from our own memory. We returned to the house and saw our protector there as usual, but his face was, or I imagined it to be, pale; his eyes wandered, and then seemed to fix their angry glance at times upon us; but whether this were imagination or reality, I could not decide. I went to bed, but not to sleep, the thoughts of having seen an unembodied being, the tales of my foster-mother, of power, of wealth, arising from the communication with beings of another world, arose before me. Obtaining such a power, it seemed as if I might learn the things hidden in the earth’s deepest recesses, the ocean’s depth; I even thought, that by such a power, I might tear away the veil which the first Cause has thrown over itself. Nor did these visions disappear with the morning’s light, they were as distinct in the sun’s brightness, as in the night’s obscurity. I arose determined to speak on the subject with the Count. He met me with an affectionate embrace; I took his hand, had the words upon my lips, when, meeting his eye, I saw expressed therein such anxious fear, such meaning, that the words fell into inarticulate sounds; instantly his eye was as usual; nothing but brilliancy was there. We went together to fetch Louisa from her apartment, and descended to the breakfast table.
Louisa seemed to take a great pleasure in my society, and sought in every way to bring me near her; she seemed afraid of trusting me to myself in my first steps towards retracing the paths of virtue. She again resumed the subject which had formed the topic of conversation, before her fatal departure to visit her sick relation. She painted to me the charms of a religion, which taught us to look up to the infinite power above us, not as to an object of terror and fear, but of love and hope. Her mind, without losing the least of that delicacy which is the magic charm that spreads its influence round the footsteps of woman, was energetic and clear. Her simplicity was not misled by the winding, intricate sophisms of the deist and unbeliever; her belief was built upon persuasion, which, though it had at first depended upon faith, had not scorned the bulwarks of reason. The earnestness with which she spoke, did not make her appear bold or presuming; for the mild look of her dark eye seemed looking to Heaven to beg for inspiration from him, whose cause her lips were pleading. She would often lead me towards the chapel, and without affectation, would kneel down by my side motioning me to imitate her, and bending devoutly before her maker, would pray for me. I did not think of myself; but gazing upon that veiled eye, which did not seem to think itself worthy of looking towards the throne of God, while petitioning for strength against mortal weakness, a prayer would involuntarily rise from my heart for her. I did not feel the time long when near her, though it was even spent in prayer; to have communication with the Almighty in union with her, seemed to be an additional bond amongst those numberless ties which bound me to her. From the first moment that I had seen her, she seemed to visit this earth as my protecting angel; now it appeared as if such a being had led me to the throne of him of whose commands she was the bearer. I did not notice the lapse of months; and autumn had already vested the scene around with its checquered hues, ere this happiness was interrupted; I had even forgotten all my imaginations concerning the being attendant upon Doni. It seemed as if misfortune could no longer visit me; such is human foresight.
I have already mentioned to you the singularity of my sister’s conduct; it grew more and more remarkable. She never came down in the morning, but, confined to her room, she spent the hours in solitude: when she did appear, it was but to retire to a corner, where, enveloping herself in her shawl, she apparently brooded over some thoughts that destroyed her peac
e. Her appearance was completely changed; her auburn hair, which once floated in ringlets of soft varying light upon her shoulders, was now entangled and neglected; her cheeks, on which was wont to play a hue more delicate than that of the white rose, were pale and sickly; her eyes no longer shone with sparkling lustre, they were now heavy and inflamed from the want of sleep. I often saw the silent tears fall from her eye; but it was in vain to question her; she wept bitterly at every inquiry I made, and seemed agitated to the most violent excess whenever Olivieri’s name was mentioned. I was bewildered by the inquiries of Doni and Louisa, who constantly expressed their anxiety concerning her.
We were assembled together at the breakfast table as usual one morning, and were conversing about Julia, who had made her appearance the evening before at the supper table, which she had not done for a long time, when a servant came to tell us that her maid had applied several times in the course of the last hour for admission to her room, but that she could obtain no answer. Louisa offered to see if she could obtain admission; in vain, we went together; all, all was silent. We burst open the door, there was no one, every thing seemed in disorder, the bed had not been slept in the last night; upon the floor there were many pieces of paper torn into fragments; and upon the table there was a note addressed to myself. I took it trembling, I was afraid she had committed some desperate act. I could not open it, but gave it into Doni’s hand; he read it
‘My shame can be no longer hidden; I fly then to hide myself; curse not your sister, my own feelings are sufficiently bitter to satisfy even the injured honour of Berchtold. – Your degraded Julia.’
I sunk upon the bed; Olivieri immediately presented himself to my mind as the seducer of my sister. I could not speak, and my friends were silent, they looked upon me with pity. I dared not inform them of my suspicions, they would bring the old man’s grey hairs to their grave, and would cut off the feeble thread of life in Louisa. She bore up against the shock; and while the tear trembled in her eye, she sat down by me, and strove to soothe, not console me, for that she knew was impossible.
Servants were sent in every direction. I searched all the neighbourhood. I determined instantly to go to Milan, and make inquiries directly from Olivieri, concerning the fate of my sister. I made a plausible excuse for my departure, and soon reached the Corso, Doni’s palace. The servants had not seen him for some time. I forced myself to seek him in the places which had been my former resort. My late companions hailed my approach; but I turned from them in disgust. Olivieri had no where been heard of lately. Distracted by my suspicions, which now seemed to wear the semblance of certainty, after several days spent in the vain search, I returned to the Lake.
We soon fixed ourselves again at Milan. It was now impossible to keep his son’s absence a secret from Doni. He learnt it, but did not seem to imagine any connection between the flight of my sister and his son’s conduct. Perceiving this, I did not intimate to him my horrible doubts, but left him in entire ignorance. In the mean time I made the most minute inquiries concerning both; but could learn nothing.
Louisa’s health in the mean time gradually recovered; but she never lost the hectic flush upon her cheek; she gained strength, but the seeds of death were hidden, not destroyed. During her gradual recovery, I was always with her; and if you can picture the happy hours of one sitting by a being he loves – adores, at the same time, that his imagination paints her to him as a spirit of Heaven, you may imagine my happiness, when sitting by Louisa, whose smile, whose glance told me she loved. She had gained me fame; had saved my life, my honour; had restored to me the hopes of a future state, the belief in a kind God. I know not your belief, your principles; you may sneer at the feeling which dictates my ranking the two last with the former; but, young man! believe one who has experienced the whole of fate’s wanton inflictions; he who can still rest upon futurity, confident in the goodness of his maker, may find a refuge in the greatest misery; he who cannot, may indeed despair, he has but the present, and that may indeed be dreadful.
Louisa’s image was always with me. I loved her, but so did every one; I could not for that reason hope to gain her. I was an orphan, how often has the thought of that sunk my buoyant hope, which still would revive. I had no rank. Count Wilhelm had again renewed his addresses. It seemed dishonourable in me to continue any longer near her, endeavouring to gain her affections; it seemed as if the debt of gratitude I owed to Doni forbade my attempting to gain his daughter. The Count had rank and wealth. I could not hope that her father should prefer me, degraded by vice, my birth perhaps tainted with dishonour, to one whose name was a spell upon all Europe. I had determined to leave Milan, and to plead the necessity of further inquiries for my sister. Doni approved of my intentions, and in a few days I was to set off. I had been preparing for my departure, and had been talking to the servant about the trifles necessary for a solitary journey; it was not yet the hour for the company to assemble, and lost in sorrow I was slowly approaching the saloon, when those notes which had sung hope to me in prison, sounded on the air. They were falling upon the breeze broken, and in a melancholy tone; though the air was lively, it seemed as if Louisa sought to sing of hope, while her heart could not echo back the strain. I had not heard the song since I sunk into vice. The sound was silenced, I entered; Louisa was leaning upon her harp, her head was fallen upon her hand. There was no light, and the lowering clouds hid the little daylight that might have been afforded by the setting sun. I could just distinguish her form, almost lost in the obscurity; suddenly she moved, struck her harp in wild notes, and sung the words of a broken heart. I could not hear more; Louisa’s name fell from my lips; ‘Sing not so, Louisa; if you have not happiness, who shall possess it?’ She sunk upon a chair, and I approached. ‘You leave me tomorrow,’ she said, ‘I shall no longer have any one to cheer me, any one, whom I can’ – She stopped and hesitated. I stood breathless by her side. ‘I shall, I will return.’ ‘You will find me a corpse, I feel no power of life within me, it seems as if my soul still clung to life that it might converse with you, when you are gone.’ I took her hand; I bade her, if she loved me, not to speak in words that pierced my heart. ‘Love you,’ she answered, ‘you cannot know what I feel towards you, I am myself ashamed that any can divide my heart with God, but you –’ I fell upon my knees. ‘I will not go, I cannot, Louisa has confessed her love, she loves the orphan Berchtold, if that words could express the least part of what I feel, I would speak. I love you, let my silence speak the rest.’ I felt her feeble hand press mine, she had fainted, her weak health had not given her strength to listen. We had not heard the storm which had burst over our heads, I had not seen the flashes of Heaven’s anger, which had unobserved spread its lurid light around us. I lifted her in my arms, carried her to her chamber, and delivered her to her maid. She recovered.
I was alone; the thunders echoed still in the distance, and the horizon was lit by the forked lightning. But in my breast the convulsions were not subsiding. At the first moment it seemed as if happiness indeed were mine; but Doni’s image came quickly across my mind, and all I owed him seemed to be imaged as so many reproaches for my having stolen the affections of my benefactor’s daughter. The company assembled, but I could not join them. The tumult in my breast was too powerful to allow me to participate in the light frivolity of a drawing room. I retired to my chamber, and was soon lost in meditation upon that fatality, which made the very circumstance on which I had rested as the bourne of all my hopes, a cause of anguish and reproach. I determined to see the Count immediately after the company had retired. No malefactor, who is listening in expectation of hearing the lengthened toll, warning him of the executioner’s approach, ever counted the moments with greater anxiety than mine. The clock struck, and each brazen sound seemed to vibrate through my body, as if it bore grief upon its sound. At last the carriages began to depart, and I entered the apartment of my friend. I had never dared to call him father, it seemed to my mind too sacred a title to be profaned by me; he was Louisa’s
father.
I had been some time in his apartment before he entered. He came, his face was full of anxiety. ‘My daughter,’ he said, ‘I fear is going to relapse, something has agitated her strongly, and she will not tell even her father what it is. Berchtold,’ he continued, ‘you have never before seen a father in the agony that I endure, my daughter’s life sinks visibly before me, and I cannot discover the cause. You have therefore no conception of the pain it brings.’ I knew not what to say. ‘Olivieri too is I know not where, perchance in the haunt of the lowest vice, perhaps acting again the hero, as when with you. You are not my child, yet you now form my only comfort, my only hope.’ I could not hear more; – he praise me! who had, like the snake stinging the child enchanted by the beauty of its scales, robbed him of his treasure, insidiously won his daughter’s love; I interrupted him. ‘I am a wretch, not worthy of your affection, your daughter loves me, I have dared to tell her she was my only hope; spurn me from you, I expect it; but do not blame her.’ I fell upon my knees, ‘Do not blame her for loving such a wretch as me, she pitied me and my daring devotion changed pity into love.’ My head was hid within my hands, I expected to be cursed by him I looked up to as a father. He raised me from the ground. ‘Ernestus, this is nobly spoken, I will not reproach you with your former vices, Louisa shall be security to me, that you will always prove what you now show yourself.’ I was amazed; I embraced him, but could not speak. Louisa was to be mine, – my guide, my wife. At that moment happiness seemed to be descending from Heaven to be our handmaid, while in fact despair and horror were preparing their flight from the lowest abyss to wait upon our nuptials.
Next morning I was admitted to Louisa’s chamber; I told her that her father had consented to our union. A gleam of joy crossed her pale face, she said she was happy, but those words were in a broken and weak voice. I heeded it not, so great was my joy, I sat with her, she listened to my plans of happiness, and smiled; it seemed as if she were conscious of their being but to be imagined. I was at last called away by my own servant, who putting a letter in my hand, told me that he had found it thrown in at the door. It was my sister’s hand-writing; fearful of agitating Louisa, I hastily put it into my bosom, and making an excuse left her. When in my chamber, I opened the note. The lines were few:
Vampyre' and Other Writings Page 14