Complete Works of Mary Shelley

by Mary Shelley

  “Dreadful were the imprecations which I heaped upon my enemy; and deep was the revenge I swore. I know not to what fearful length my unbridled passion would have hurried me; had I not, from its very excess, sunk senseless into the arms of my domestics. When I recovered, I found myself in my own chamber, and Wilfred seated near me. Sometime, however, elapsed before I came to a clear recollection of the past events; and when I did, it seemed as if an age of crime and misery had weighed me down, and chained my tongue. My eye involuntarily wandered to that part of the chamber where hung my daughter’s portrait. But this, the faithful old man, — who had not removed it, no doubt thinking that to do so would have offended me, — had contrived to hide, by placing before it a piece of armour, which seemed as though it had accidentally fallen into that position.

  “Many more days elapsed ere I was enabled to listen to the particulars of my daughter’s flight; which I will, not to detain you longer with my griefs, now briefly relate. — It appeared, that urged by the fame of her beauty, and by a curiosity most natural, I confess to youth, Conrad of Wàdischwyl had, for a long time sought, but sought in vain, to see my Ida. Chance, at length, however, favoured him. On her way to hear mass at our neighbouring monastery, he beheld her; and beheld her but to love. Her holy errand did not prevent him from addressing her; and well the smooth-tongued villain knew how to gain the ear of one so innocent, so unsuspicious as my Ida! Too soon, alas, did his accursed flatteries win their way to her guiltless heart.

  “My child’s affection for her father was unbounded; and readily would she have sacrificed her life for mine. But when love has once taken possession of the female heart, too quickly drives he thence those sterner guests, reason and duty. Suffice it therefore to say she was won; and induced to unite herself to Wàdischwyl, before my return, by his crafty and insidious argument that I should be more easily persuaded to give them my pardon and my blessing, when I found that the step that she had taken was irrevocable. With almost equal art, he pleaded too that their union would doubtless heal the breach between the families of Wâdischwvl and Unspunnen; and thus terminate that deadly hatred which my gentle Ida, ever the intercessor for peace, had always condemned. By this specious sophistry, my poor misguided child was prevailed upon to tear herself from the heart of a fond parent, to unite herself with an unprincipled deceiver, the son of that parent’s most bitter enemy.”

  The pain of these recollections so overcame Burkhardt, that some time elapsed ere he could master his feelings: at length he proceeded.

  “My soul seemed now to have but one feeling, revenge. All other passions were annihilated by this master one; and I instantly prepared myself and my vassals to chastise this worse than robber. But such satisfaction was (I now thank God) denied me; for the Duke of Zàhringen soon gave me memorable cause to recollect his parting words. Having attached himself with his numerous followers to my rival’s party, these powerful chiefs suddenly invaded my domain. A severe struggle against most unequal numbers ensued. But, at length, though my brave retainers would fain have prolonged the hopeless strife, resolved to stop a needless waste of blood, I left the field to my foes; and, with the remnant of my faithful soldiers, hastened, in deep mortification, to bury myself within these walls. This galling repulse prevented all possibility of reconciliation with my daughter, whom I now regarded as the cause of my disgrace: and consequently, I forbad her name even to be mentioned in my presence.

  “Years rolled on: and I had no intelligence of her until I learned by a mere chance that she had with her husband quitted her native land. Altogether, more than twenty, to me long, long years, have now passed since her flight; and though, when time brought repentance, and my anger and revenge yielded to better feelings, I made every effort to gain tidings of my poor child, I have not yet been able to discover any further traces of her. The chance of so doing was indeed rendered more difficult, by the death of my faithful Wilfred, shortly after my defeat, and by the character of his successor; an individual of strict integrity, but of an austere temper and forbidding manners. Here, therefore, have I lived a widowed, childless, heart-broken old man. But I have at least learned to bow to the dispensations of an All-Wise Providence, which has in its justice stricken me, for thus remorselessly cherishing that baneful passion which Holy Law so expressly forbids. Oh! how I have yearned to see my beloved child! how I have longed to clasp her to this withered, blighted heart! With scalding tears of the bitterest repentance have I revoked those deadly curses, which, in the plenitude of my unnatural wrath, I dared to utter daily. Ceaselessly do I now weary Heaven with my prayers to obliterate all memory of those fatal imprecations; or to let them fall on my own head, and shower down only its choicest blessings on that of my beloved child! But a fear, which freezes my veins with horror, constantly haunts me lest the maledictions which I dared to utter in my moments of demoniac vindictiveness, should, in punishment for my impiety, have been fulfilled.

  “Often, in my dreams, do I behold my beloved child; but her looks are always in sadness, and she ever seems mildly but most sorrowfully to upbraid me, for having so inhumanly cast her from me. Yet she must, I fear, have died long ere now; for, were she living, she would not, I think, have ceased to endeavour to regain the affections of a father who once loved her so tenderly. It is true that at first she made many efforts to obtain my forgiveness. Nay, I have subsequently learned that she even knelt at the threshold of my door, and piteously supplicated to be allowed to see me. But my commands had been so peremptory, and, as I before observed, the steward who had replaced Wilfred, was of so stern and unbending a disposition, that, just and righteous as was this her last request, it was unfeelingly denied to her. Eternal Heaven! she whom I had loved as perhaps never father loved before — she whom I had fondly watched almost hourly lest the rude breeze of winter should chill her, or the summer’s heat should scorch her — she whom I had cherished in sickness through many a livelong night, with a mother’s devotion, and more than a mother’s solicitude, even she, the only child of my beloved Agnes, and the anxious object of the last moments of her life, was spurned from my door! from this door whence no want goes unrelieved, and where the very beggar finds rest! And now, when I would bless the lips that even could say to me, ‘she lives,’ I can no where gather the slightest tidings of my child. Ah, had I listened to the voice of reason, had I not suffered my better feelings to be mastered by the wildest, and fellest passions, I might have seen herself, and perhaps her children, happy around me, cheering the evening of my life. And when my last hour shall come, they would have closed my eyes in peace, and, in unfeigned sorrow have daily addressed to Heaven their innocent prayers for my soul’s eternal rest; instead of the hirelings who will now execute the mummery of mourning, and impatiently hurry me to an unlamented, a lonely, and an unhonoured grave. To those children also, would have descended that inheritance which must at my decease fall to an utter stranger, who bears not even my name.

  “You now know, Pilgrims, the cause of my grief; and I see by the tears which you have so abundantly shed, that you truly pity the forlorn being before you. Remember him and his sorrows therefore ever in your prayers; and when you kneel at the shrine to which you are bound, let not those sorrows be forgotten.”

  The elder Pilgrim in vain attempted to answer; the excess of his feelings overpowered his utterance. At length, throwing himself at the feet of Burkhardt, and casting off his Pilgrim’s habits, he, with difficulty exclaimed, “See here, thine Ida’s son! and behold in my youthful companion, thine Ida’s daughter! Yes, before you kneel the children of her whom you so much lament. We came to sue for that pardon, for that love, which we had feared would have been denied us. But, thanks be to God, who has mollified your heart, we have only to implore that you will suffer us to use our poor efforts to alleviate your sorrows; and render more bright and cheerful your declining years.”

  In wild and agitated surprise, Burkhardt gazed intently upon them. It seemed to him as if a beautiful vision were before him, which he f
eared even a breath might dispel. When, however, he became assured that he was under the influence of no delusion, the tumult of his feelings overpowered him, and he sank senselessly on the neck of the elder Pilgrim; who, with his sister’s assistance, quickly raised the old man, and by their united efforts restored him, ere long, to his senses. But when Burkhardt beheld the younger Pilgrim, the very image of his lost Ida, bending over him with the most anxious and tender solicitude, he thought that death had ended all his worldly sufferings, and that Heaven had already opened to his view.

  “Great God!” at length he exclaimed, “I am unworthy of these thy mercies! Grant me to receive them as I ought! I need not ask,” added he, after a pause, and pressing the Pilgrims to his bosom, “for a confirmation of your statement, or of my own sensations of joy. All, all tells me that you are the children of my beloved Ida. Say, therefore, is your mother dead? or dare I hope once more to clasp her to my heart?”

  The elder Pilgrim, whose name was Hermann, then stated to him, that two years had passed since his parent had breathed her last in his arms. Her latest prayer was, that Heaven would forgive her the sorrow she had caused her father, and forbear to visit her own error on her children’s heads. He then added that his father had been dead many years.

  “My mother,” continued Hermann, drawing from his bosom a small sealed packet, “commanded me, on her death-bed, to deliver this into your own hands. ‘My son,’ she said, ‘when I am dead, if my father still lives, cast yourself at his feet, and desist not your supplications until you have obtained from him a promise that he will read this prayer. It will acquaint him with a repentance that may incite him to recall his curse; and thus cause the earth to lie lightly on all that will shortly remain of his once loved Ida. Paint to him the hours of anguish which even your tender years have witnessed. Weary him, my son, with your entreaties; cease them not until you have wrung from him his forgiveness.’

  “As you may suppose, I solemnly engaged to perform my mother’s request; and as soon as our grief for the loss of so dear, so fond a parent, would permit us, my sister and myself resolved, in these pilgrim’s habits, to visit your castle; and, by gradual means, to have attempted to win your affections, if we should have found you still relentless, and unwilling to listen to our mother’s prayer.”

  “Praise be to that God, my son,” said Burkhardt, “at whose command the waters spring from the barren rock, that he has bidden the streams of love and repentance to flow once more from my once barren and flinty heart. But let me not delay, to open this sad memorial of your mother’s griefs. I wish you, my children, to listen to it, that you may hear both her exculpation and her wrongs.”

  Burkhardt hid his face in his hands, and remained for some moments earnestly struggling with his feelings. At length, he broke the seal; and, with a voice which at times was almost overpowered, read aloud the contents.

  “My beloved father, — if by that fond title your daughter may still address you, — feeling that my sad days are now numbered, I make this last effort, ere my strength shall fail me, to obtain at least your pity for her you once so much loved; and to beseech you to recall that curse which has weighed too heavily upon her heart. Indeed, my father, I am not quite that guilty wretch you think me. Do not imagine, that, neglecting every tie of duty and gratitude, I could have left the tenderest of parents to his widowed lonely home, and have united myself with the son of his sworn foe, had I not fondly, most ardently, hoped, nay, had cherished the idea almost to certainty, that you would, when you found that I was a wife, have quickly pardoned a fault, which the fears of your refusal to our union had alone tempted me to commit. I firmly believed that my husband would then have shared with me my father’s love, and have, with his child, the pleasing task of watching over his happiness and comfort. But never did I for an instant imagine that I was permanently wounding the heart of that father. My youth, and the ardour of my husband’s persuasions, must plead some extenuation of my fault.

  “The day that I learnt the news of your having pronounced against me that fatal curse, and your fixed determination never more to admit me to your presence, has been marked in characters indelible on my memory. At that moment, it appeared as if Heaven had abandoned me, had marked me for its reprobation as a parricide! My brain and my heart seemed on fire, whilst my blood froze in my veins. The chillness of death crept over every limb, and my tongue refused all utterance. I would have wept, but the source of my tears was dried within me.

  “How long I remained in this state I know not, as I at length became insensible, and remained so for some days. On returning to a full consciousness of my wretchedness, I would instantly have rushed to your abode, and cast myself at your feet, to wring from you, if possible, your forgiveness of my crime; but my limbs were incapable of all motion. Soon, too, I learned that the letters, which I dictated, were returned unopened; and my husband at last informed me, that all his efforts to see you had been utterly fruitless.

  “Yet the moment I had gained sufficient strength, I went to the castle, but, unfortunately for me, even as I entered, I encountered a stern wretch, to whom my person was not unknown; and he instantly told me that my efforts to see his master would be useless. I used prayers and entreaties; I even knelt upon the bare ground to him. But so far from listening to me, he led me to the gate, and, in my presence, dismissed the old porter who had admitted me, and who afterwards followed my fortunes until the hour of his death. Finding that all my attempts were without hope, and that several of the old servants had been discarded on my account, with a heart completely broken, I succumbed to my fate, and abandoned all farther attempt.

  “After the birth of my son (to whose fidelity and love I trust this sad memorial) my husband, who, with the tenderest solicitude, employed every means in his power to divert my melancholy, having had a valuable property in Italy bequeathed to him, prevailed upon me to repair to that favoured and beauteous country. But neither the fond attentions of my beloved Conrad, nor the bright sunshine and luxurious breezes of that region of wonders, could overcome a grief so deeply rooted as mine; and I soon found that the gay garden of Europe had less charms for me, than my own dear native land, with its dark, pine-clad mountains.

  “Shortly after we had arrived at Rome, I gave birth to a daughter; an event which was only too soon followed by the death of my affectionate husband. The necessity of ceaseless attention to my infant, in some measure alleviated the intense anguish which I suffered from that most severe loss. Nevertheless, in the very depth of this sorrow which almost overcharged my heart, Heaven only knows how often, and how remorsefully, while bending over my own dear children in sickness, have I called to mind the anxious fondness with which the tenderest and best of fathers used to watch over me!

  “I struggled long and painfully with my feelings, and often did I beseech God to spare my life, that I might be enabled to instruct my children in His holy love and fear, and teach them to atone for the error of their parent. My prayer has in mercy been heard; the boon I supplicated has been granted; and I trust, my beloved father, that if these children should be admitted to your affections, you will find that I have trained up two blessed intercessors for your forgiveness, when it shall have pleased Heaven to have called your daughter to her account before that dread tribunal where a sire’s curse will plead so awfully against her. Recall then, oh, beloved parent! recall your dreadful malediction from your poor repentant Ida! and send your blessing as an angel of mercy to plead for her eternal rest. Farewell, my father, for ever! for ever, farewell! By the cross, whose emblem her fevered lips now press; by Him, who in his boundless mercy hung upon that cross, your daughter, your once much loved Ida, implores you, supplicates you, not to let her plead in vain!

  “My child, my child!” sobbed Burkhardt, as the letter dropped from his hand, “may the Father of All forgive me as freely as I from the depths of my wrung heart forgive you! Would that your remorseful father could have pressed you to his heart; with his own lips have assured you of his aff
ection; and wiped away the tears of sorrow from your eyes! But he will cherish these beloved remembrances of you; and will more jealously guard them than his own life.”

  Burkhardt passed the whole of the following day in his chamber, to which the good Father Jerome alone was admitted; as the events of the preceding day rendered a long repose absolutely necessary. The following morning, however, he entered the hall, where Hermann and Ida were impatiently waiting for him. His pale countenance still exhibited deep traces of the agitation he had experienced; but having kissed his children most affectionately, he smilingly flung round Ida’s neck a massive gold chain, richly wrought, with a bunch of keys appended to it.

  “We must duly instal our Lady of the Castle,” said he, “and invest her with her appropriate authorities. — But, hark! from the sound of the porter’s horn, it seems as if our hostess would have early calls upon her hospitality. Whom have we here?” continued he, looking out up the avenue; “By St. Hubert, a gay and gallant knight is approaching, who shall be right welcome — that is, if my lady approve. Well, Willibald, what bring you? a letter from our good friend the abbot of St. Anselm. What savs he?”

  “I am sure that you will not refuse your welcome to a young knight, who is returning by your castle to his home, from the emperor’s wars. He is well known to me, and I can vouch for his being a guest worthy of your hospitality, which will not be the less freely granted to him, because he does not bask in the golden smiles of fortune.”

  “No, no, that it shall not, my good friend; and if fortune frown upon him, he shall be doubly welcome. Conduct him hither, instantly, good Willibald.”