by Mary Shelley
The steward hastened to usher in the stranger, who advanced into the hall, with a modest but manly air. He was apparently about twenty-five years of age; his person was such as might well, in the dreams of a young maiden, occupy no unconspicuous place.
“Sir Knight,” said Burkhardt, taking him cordially by the hand, “you are right welcome to my castle, and such poor entertainment as it can afford. We must make you forget your wounds, and the rough usage of a soldier’s life. But, soft, I already neglect my duty, in not first introducing our hostess,” added the aged knight, presenting Ida. “By my faith,” he continued, “judging from my lady’s blushing smile, you seem not to have met for the first time. Am I right in my conjecture?”
“We have met, sir,” replied Ida, with such confusion as pleasantly implied that the meeting was not indifferently recollected, “in the parlour of the Abbess of the Ursulines, at Munich, where I have sometimes been to visit a much valued friend.”
“The abbess,” said the young knight, “was my cousin; and my good fortune more than once gave me the happiness of seeing in her convent this lady. But little did I expect that amongst these mountains the fickle goddess would again have so favoured a homeless wanderer.”
“Well, Sir Knight,” replied Burkhardt, “we trust that fortune has been equally favourable to us. And now we will make bold to ask your name; and then, without useless and tedious ceremony, on the part of ourselves and our hostess, bid you again a hearty welcome.”
“My name,” said the stranger, “is Walter de Blumfeldt; though humble, it has never been disgraced; and with the blessing of Heaven, I hope to hand it down as honoured as I have received it.”
Weeks, months, rolled on, and Walter de Blumfeldt was still the guest of the Lord of Unspunnen; till, by his virtues, and the many excellent qualities which daily more and more developed themselves, he wound himself around Burkhardt’s heart; which the chastened life of the old knight had rendered particularly susceptible of the kindlier feelings. Frequently would he now, with tears in his eyes, declare that he wished he could convince each and all with whom his former habits had caused any difference, how truly he forgave them, and desired their forgiveness.
“Would,” said he one day, in allusion to this subject, “that I could have met my old enemy, the Duke of Zahringen, and with a truly heartfelt pleasure and joy have embraced him, and numbered him amongst my friends. But he is gathered to his fathers, and I know not whether he has left any one to bear his honours.”
Each time that Walter had offered to depart, Burkhardt had found some excuse to detain him; for it seemed to him that in separating from his young guest, he should lose a link of that chain which good fortune had so lately woven for him. Hermann, too, loved Walter as a brother; and Ida fain would have imagined that she loved him as a sister: but her heart more plainly told her what her colder reasoning sought to hide. Unspunnen, who had for some time perceived the growing attachment between Walter and Ida, was not displeased at the discovery, as he had long ceased to covet riches; and had learnt to prize the sterling worth of the young knight, who fully answered the high terms in which the Prior of St. Anselm always spoke of him. Walking one evening under the shade of that very avenue where he had first encountered Hermann and Ida, he perceived the latter, at some little distance, in conversation with Walter. It was evident to Burkhardt that the young knight was not addressing himself to a very unwilling ear, as Ida was totally regardless of the loud cough with which Burkhardt chose to be seized at that moment; nor did she perceive him, until he exclaimed, or rather vociferated, “Do you know, Walter, that, under this very avenue, two pilgrims, bound to some holy shrine, once accosted me; but that, in pity to my sins and forlorn condition, they exchanged their penitential journey for an act of greater charity; and have ever since remained to extend their kind cares to an aged and helpless relative but too little worthy of their love. One, however, of these affectionate beings is now about to quit my abode, and to pass through the rest of this life’s pilgrimage with a helpmate in his toilsome journey, in the person of the fair daughter of the Baron de Leichtfeldt; and thus leave his poor companion to battle the storms of the world, with only the tedious society of an old man. Say, Sir Knight, will thy valour suffer that such wrong be done; or wilt thou undertake to conduct this forsaken pilgrim on her way, and guide her through the chequered paths of this variable life? I see by the lowliness with which you bend, and the colour which mantles in your cheek, that I speak not to one insensible to an old man’s appeal. But soft, soft, Sir Knight, my Ida is not yet canonized, and therefore cannot afford to lose a hand, which inevitably must occur, if you continue to press it with such very ardent devotion. But what says our pilgrim, does she accept of thy conduct and service, Sir Knight?”
Ida, scarcely able to support herself, threw herself on Burkhardt’s neck. We will not raise the veil which covers the awful moment that renders a man, as he supposes, happy or miserable for ever. Suffice it to say, that the day which made Hermann the husband of the daughter of the Baron de Leichtfeldt, saw Ida the wife of Walter de Blumfeldt.
Six months had passed rapidly away to the happy inhabitants of Unspunnen; and Burkhardt seemed almost to have grown young again; such wonders did the tranquillity which now reigned within him perform. He was therefore one of the most active and foremost in the preparations, which were necessary, in consequence of Walter suggesting that they should spend Ida’s birthday in a favorite retreat of his and hers. This chosen spot was a beautiful meadow, in front of which meandered a small limpid river, or rather stream; at the back was a gorgeous amphitheatre of trees, the wide spreading branches of which cast a refreshing shade over the richly enameled grass.
In this beauteous retreat, were Burkhardt, Walter, and his Ida, passing the sultry hours of noon, with all that flow of mirth which careless hearts can alone experience; when Walter, who had been relating some of his adventures at the Court of the Emperor, and recounting the magnificence of the tournaments, turning to his bride, said; “But what avails all that pomp, my Ida. How happy are we in this peaceful vale! we envy neither princes nor dukes their palaces, or their states. These woods, these glades, are worth all the stiffly trimmed gardens of the Emperor, and the great Monarch of France, to boot. What say you, my Ida, could you brook the ceremony of a court, and the pride of royalty? Methinks even the coronet of a duchess would but ill replace the wreath of blushing roses on your head.”
“Gently, my good husband,” replied Ida, laughing, “they say, you know, that a woman loves these vanities too dearly in her heart, ever to despise them. Then how can you expect so frail a mortal as your poor wife to hold them in contempt? Indeed, I think,” added she, assuming an air of burlesque dignity, “that I should make a lofty duchess, and wear my coronet with most becoming grace. And now, by my faith, Walter, I recollect that you have this day, like a true and gallant knight, promised to grant whatever boon I shall ask. On my bended knee, therefore, I humbly sue that if you know any spell or magic wile, to make a princess or a duchess for only a single day, that you will forthwith exercise your art upon me; just in order to enable me to ascertain with how much or how little dignity I could sustain such honours. It is no very difficult matter, Sir Knight: you have only to call in the aid of Number Nip, or some such handy workman of the woods. Answer, most chivalrous husband, for thy disconsolate wife rises not until her prayer is granted.”
“Why, Ida, you have indeed craved a rare boon,” replied Walter, “and how to grant it may well puzzle my brain, till it becomes crazed with the effort. But, let me see, let me see,” continued he, musingly; “I have it! — Come hither, love, here is your throne,” said he, placing her on a gentle eminence richly covered with the fragrant wild thyme and the delicate harebell; “kings might now envy you the incense which is offered to you. And you, noble sir,” added he, addressing Burkhardt, “must stand beside her Highness, in quality of chief counsellor. There are your attendants around you: behold that tall oak, he must be your Highness
’ poursuivant; and yonder slender mountain ashes, your trusty pages.”
“This is but a poor fulfilment of the task you have undertaken, Sir mummer,” said Ida, with a playful, and arch affectation of disappointment.
“Have patience for a brief while, fair dame,” replied Walter, laughing; “for now must I awaken your Highness’ men at arms.”
Then, taking from his side, a silver horn, he loudly sounded the melodious reveillée. As he withdrew the instrument from his lips, a trumpet thrillingly answered to the call; and scarcely had its last notes died away, when, from the midst of the woods, as if the very trees were gifted with life, came forth a troop of horsemen, followed by a body of archers on foot. They had but just entirely emerged, when numerous peasants, both male and female, appeared in their gayest attire; and, together with the horsemen and the archers, rapidly and picturesquely ranged themselves in front of the astonished Ida, who had already abdicated her throne, and clung to the arm of Walter. They then suddenly divided; and twelve pages in richly emblazoned dresses advanced. After them followed six young girls, whose forms and features the Graces might have envied, bearing two coronets placed on embroidered cushions. In the rear of these, supporting his steps with his abbatial staff, walked the venerable Abbot of St. Anselm; who, with his white beard flowing almost to his girdle, and his benign looks, that showed the pure commerce of the soul which gave life to an eye, the brightness of which seventy years had scarcely diminished, seemed to Ida a being of another world. The young girls then advancing, and kneeling before Walter, and his wife, presented the coronets.
Ida, who had remained almost breathless with wonder, could now scarcely articulate, “Dear, dear Walter, what is all this pomp — what does — what can it mean?”
“Mean! my beloved,” replied her husband, “did you not bid me make you a Duchess? I have but obeyed your high commands, and I now salute you, Duchess of Zâhringen!”
The whole multitude then made the woods resound with the acclamation, “Long live the Duke, and Duchess of Zâhringen!”
Walter, having for some moments, enjoyed the unutterable amazement of the now breathless Ida, and the less evident but perhaps equally intense surprise of Burkhardt, turning to the latter, said, “My more than father, you see in me the son of your once implacable enemy, the Duke of Zâhringen. He has been many years gathered to his fathers; and I, as his only son, have succeeded to his title, and his large possessions. My heart, my liberty, were entirely lost in the parlour of the Abbess of the Ursulines. But when I learnt whose child my Ida was, and your sad story, I resolved ere I would make her mine, to win not only her love, but also your favour and esteem. How well I have succeeded, this little magic circle on my Ida’s finger is my witness. It will add no small measure to your happiness, to know that my father had for many years repented of the wrongs which he had done you; and, as much as possible to atone for them, entrusted the education of his son to the care of this my best of friends, the Abbot of St. Anselm, that he might learn to shun the errors into which his sire had unhappily fallen. And now,” continued he, advancing, and leading Ida towards the Abbot, “I have only to beg your blessing, and that this lady, whom through Heaven’s goodness I glory to call my wife, be invested with those insignia of the rank which she is so fit to adorn.”
Walter, or as we must now call him, the Duke of Zâhringen, with Ida, then lowly knelt before the venerable Abbot; whilst the holy man, with tears in his eyes, invoked upon them the blessings of Heaven. His Highness then rising, took one of the coronets, and placing it on Ida’s head, said, “Mayst thou be as happy under this glittering coronet, as thou wert under the russet hood, in which I first beheld thee.”
“God and our Lady aid me!” replied the agitated Ida; “and may He grant that I may wear it with as much humility. Yet thorns, they say, spring up beneath a crown.”
“True, my beloved,” said the Duke, “and they also grow beneath the peasant’s homely cap. But the rich alchemy of my Ida’s virtues will ever convert all thorns into the brightest jewels of her diadem.”
EUPHRASIA
TWO YEARS AGO, that is at Christmas, 1836, four friends left Brighton on their way to the seat of an acquaintance, about thirty miles distant, where they intended to pass this season of festivity. Any one who was in Sussex at that time, must remember the fall of snow on Christmas eve, which transformed Brighton into a town of Siberia, and held all its sojourners prisoners. The king’s courier was stopt by the drift on his way to London; no letters were sent or received for three days; the Pavilion had no guests; the horses and carriages could not make their way through the blocked-up streets; it was a strange wild sight. Still, as this party was resolved to pursue its way, four horses were harnessed to their carriage, and they set out. They arrived half way to Lewes, when the carriage became blocked up; the postilions blinded by the drift; the horses unable to move. Night was drawing in, and they saw naught but one wide expanse of snow, which was scattered in thick showers by the winds. They looked from the windows; the horses were above their knees in drift, as the postilions urged them to wade on. What made it worse was, that one of the party was a woman; a being ill suited to encounter the rude elements; whose father was overwhelmed with terror lest she should be chilled by the night air, or forced to alight and wet her feet. Her spirit was high; she had insisted on accompanying him, and wrapt in fur, had braved the season; but now he wondered at his folly in bringing her, and looked at her little foot in its satin slipper, with a sort of feeling, that if she moved from the carriage, she would be but a mouthful for the tempest, and disappear on the instant. Meanwhile darkness gathered thick around; there was no hope of moving. The father of the lady had alighted to view the scene, and then was afraid of getting into the carriage again, with a coating of snow round him, lest its thawing should give his daughter cold. She was not afraid; she was afraid of nothing; but he feared for her more than words can express. At length it was agreed that the father of the young lady and the postilions should mount the horses and make their way to Lewes, whence some sort of litter could be sent for her, and horses for the rest of the party, who remained to guard her.
They went, and those left behind continued looking wistfully on the scene, visible by its transcendent whiteness, even now that night had closed round. For a few minutes they were silent; they thought on the road the travellers had to pass; they longed for their return — a few moments seemed an age. One of the gentlemen struck his repeater; the same sound was given, as when he had struck it at the departure of his friend — a quarter past six.
“The hours will never pass!” exclaimed the anxious girl.
“O yes, they will,” said the other, “I once passed a night more anxious than this promises to be, yet it had an end. It is strange that the scene I refer to should be vividly present now, being so different in scenery, in season, in personages, and in country from this.”
Anxious to divert the mind of the daughter, and to lighten the slow pace of the hour, the third of this anxious party asked his young friend, Harry Valency, by name, what the events were that marked that long unforgotten night, and made him understand that he would do well to relate them, if the task were not a painful one. He understood the hint, and began. His tale was afterwards repeated to me, and, as I heard it, I wish to recount it now; yet, hearing it only at second-hand, I shall tell it lamely, and spoil the lively earnest interest he spread over every detail; while he who told it to me had but a vague recollection of dates and names of places, and even some of those of persons had entirely escaped him. However, such portion as reached me of the story, I will set down.
It was not long after the breaking out of the Greek revolution, that Harry Valency visited Greece. Many an Englishman was led thither at that time by the spirit of adventure, and many perished. Valency was not nineteen; his spirit was wild and reckless; — thought or care had never touched his brow; his heart was too light for love. Restless and energetic, he longed to try his powers, with the instinct that leads t
he young deer to butt against trees, or to wrestle with each other in the forest-dells. He was the only son of a widowed mother, whose life was wrapt in his, and he loved her fondly; yet left her, guided by a desire for adventure, unable to understand what anxiety and fear meant; and in his own person eager to meet even misfortune, so that it came in a guise to call forth manly and active struggles. He longed to have the pages of his young life written over by deeds that would hereafter be memories, to which he could turn with delight. The cause of Greece warmed his soul. He was in a transport of ecstacy when he touched the shores of that antique land, and looked around on mountain and mountain-stream, whose names were associated with the most heroic acts, and the most sublime poetry man ever achieved or wrote. Yes, he was now in Greece. He was about to fight in her cause against the usurping Turk. He had prepared himself by a sedulous study of Romaic; he was on his way to the seat of government, to offer his services. To proceed thither from the spot where he had disembarked, was a matter of some difficulty; the troops of the Pasha being then in possession of many of the passes. At length he heard that a band of about fifty Greek soldiers, headed by a young but brave and renowned chief, was about to pursue the same road; he asked and obtained leave to accompany them.
How delightful was the commencement of the journey! How beautiful the country! — defile and steep hill side, by which they proceeded; where the grey olive clothed the upland, or vines, embracing elms, red now with late summer tints, varied the scene. The mountain tops were bare or crowned with pines, and torrents ran down the sides and fed a stream in the dell. The air was balmy, the cicala loud and merry — to live was to be happy. Valency was mounted on a spirited horse; he made it leap and caracole. He threw a spear against a tree, and dashed after to recover it. He fired at a mark as he hurried on at full gallop; every feat was insufficient to tame his exhaustless spirits.
