Book: Wieland; or The Transformation, An American Tale

C >> Charles Brockden Brown >> Wieland; or The Transformation, An American Tale




Such is man. Time will obliterate the deepest impressions.
Grief the most vehement and hopeless, will gradually decay and
wear itself out. Arguments may be employed in vain: every
moral prescription may be ineffectually tried: remonstrances,
however cogent or pathetic, shall have no power over the
attention, or shall be repelled with disdain; yet, as day
follows day, the turbulence of our emotions shall subside, and
our fluctuations be finally succeeded by a calm.

Perhaps, however, the conquest of despair was chiefly owing
to an accident which rendered my continuance in my own house
impossible. At the conclusion of my long, and, as I then
supposed, my last letter to you, I mentioned my resolution to
wait for death in the very spot which had been the principal
scene of my misfortunes. From this resolution my friends
exerted themselves with the utmost zeal and perseverance to make
me depart. They justly imagined that to be thus surrounded by
memorials of the fate of my family, would tend to foster my
disease. A swift succession of new objects, and the exclusion
of every thing calculated to remind me of my loss, was the only
method of cure.

I refused to listen to their exhortations. Great as my
calamity was, to be torn from this asylum was regarded by me as
an aggravation of it. By a perverse constitution of mind, he
was considered as my greatest enemy who sought to withdraw me
from a scene which supplied eternal food to my melancholy, and
kept my despair from languishing.

In relating the history of these disasters I derived a
similar species of gratification. My uncle earnestly dissuaded
me from this task; but his remonstrances were as fruitless on
this head as they had been on others. They would have withheld
from me the implements of writing; but they quickly perceived
that to withstand would be more injurious than to comply with my
wishes. Having finished my tale, it seemed as if the scene were
closing. A fever lurked in my veins, and my strength was gone.
Any exertion, however slight, was attended with difficulty, and,
at length, I refused to rise from my bed.

I now see the infatuation and injustice of my conduct in its
true colours. I reflect upon the sensations and reasonings of
that period with wonder and humiliation. That I should be
insensible to the claims and tears of my friends; that I should
overlook the suggestions of duty, and fly from that post in
which only I could be instrumental to the benefit of others;
that the exercise of the social and beneficent affections, the
contemplation of nature and the acquisition of wisdom should not
be seen to be means of happiness still within my reach, is, at
this time, scarcely credible.

It is true that I am now changed; but I have not the
consolation to reflect that my change was owing to my fortitude
or to my capacity for instruction. Better thoughts grew up in
my mind imperceptibly. I cannot but congratulate myself on the
change, though, perhaps, it merely argues a fickleness of
temper, and a defect of sensibility.

After my narrative was ended I betook myself to my bed, in
the full belief that my career in this world was on the point of
finishing. My uncle took up his abode with me, and performed
for me every office of nurse, physician and friend. One night,
after some hours of restlessness and pain, I sunk into deep
sleep. Its tranquillity, however, was of no long duration. My
fancy became suddenly distempered, and my brain was turned into
a theatre of uproar and confusion. It would not be easy to
describe the wild and phantastical incongruities that pestered
me. My uncle, Wieland, Pleyel and Carwin were successively and
momently discerned amidst the storm. Sometimes I was swallowed
up by whirlpools, or caught up in the air by half-seen and
gigantic forms, and thrown upon pointed rocks, or cast among the
billows. Sometimes gleams of light were shot into a dark abyss,
on the verge of which I was standing, and enabled me to
discover, for a moment, its enormous depth and hideous
precipices. Anon, I was transported to some ridge of AEtna, and
made a terrified spectator of its fiery torrents and its pillars
of smoke.

However strange it may seem, I was conscious, even during my
dream, of my real situation. I knew myself to be asleep, and
struggled to break the spell, by muscular exertions. These did
not avail, and I continued to suffer these abortive creations
till a loud voice, at my bed side, and some one shaking me with
violence, put an end to my reverie. My eyes were unsealed, and
I started from my pillow.

My chamber was filled with smoke, which, though in some
degree luminous, would permit me to see nothing, and by which I
was nearly suffocated. The crackling of flames, and the
deafening clamour of voices without, burst upon my ears.
Stunned as I was by this hubbub, scorched with heat, and nearly
choaked by the accumulating vapours, I was unable to think or
act for my own preservation; I was incapable, indeed, of
comprehending my danger.

I was caught up, in an instant, by a pair of sinewy arms,
borne to the window, and carried down a ladder which had been
placed there. My uncle stood at the bottom and received me. I
was not fully aware of my situation till I found myself
sheltered in the HUT, and surrounded by its inhabitants.

By neglect of the servant, some unextinguished embers had
been placed in a barrel in the cellar of the building. The
barrel had caught fire; this was communicated to the beams of
the lower floor, and thence to the upper part of the structure.
It was first discovered by some persons at a distance, who
hastened to the spot and alarmed my uncle and the servants. The
flames had already made considerable progress, and my condition
was overlooked till my escape was rendered nearly impossible.

My danger being known, and a ladder quickly procured, one of
the spectators ascended to my chamber, and effected my
deliverance in the manner before related.

This incident, disastrous as it may at first seem, had, in
reality, a beneficial effect upon my feelings. I was, in some
degree, roused from the stupor which had seized my faculties.
The monotonous and gloomy series of my thoughts was broken. My
habitation was levelled with the ground, and I was obliged to
seek a new one. A new train of images, disconnected with the
fate of my family, forced itself on my attention, and a belief
insensibly sprung up, that tranquillity, if not happiness, was
still within my reach. Notwithstanding the shocks which my
frame had endured, the anguish of my thoughts no sooner abated
than I recovered my health.

I now willingly listened to my uncle's solicitations to be
the companion of his voyage. Preparations were easily made, and
after a tedious passage, we set our feet on the shore of the
ancient world. The memory of the past did not forsake me; but
the melancholy which it generated, and the tears with which it
filled my eyes, were not unprofitable. My curiosity was
revived, and I contemplated, with ardour, the spectacle of
living manners and the monuments of past ages.

In proportion as my heart was reinstated in the possession of
its ancient tranquillity, the sentiment which I had cherished
with regard to Pleyel returned. In a short time he was united
to the Saxon woman, and made his residence in the neighbourhood
of Boston. I was glad that circumstances would not permit an
interview to take place between us. I could not desire their
misery; but I reaped no pleasure from reflecting on their
happiness. Time, and the exertions of my fortitude, cured me,
in some degree, of this folly. I continued to love him, but my
passion was disguised to myself; I considered it merely as a
more tender species of friendship, and cherished it without
compunction.

Through my uncle's exertions a meeting was brought about
between Carwin and Pleyel, and explanations took place which
restored me at once to the good opinion of the latter. Though
separated so widely our correspondence was punctual and
frequent, and paved the way for that union which can only end
with the death of one of us.

In my letters to him I made no secret of my former
sentiments. This was a theme on which I could talk without
painful, though not without delicate emotions. That knowledge
which I should never have imparted to a lover, I felt little
scruple to communicate to a friend.

A year and an half elapsed when Theresa was snatched from him
by death, in the hour in which she gave him the first pledge of
their mutual affection. This event was borne by him with his
customary fortitude. It induced him, however, to make a change
in his plans. He disposed of his property in America, and
joined my uncle and me, who had terminated the wanderings of two
years at Montpellier, which will henceforth, I believe, be our
permanent abode.

If you reflect upon that entire confidence which had
subsisted from our infancy between Pleyel and myself; on the
passion that I had contracted, and which was merely smothered
for a time; and on the esteem which was mutual, you will not,
perhaps, be surprized that the renovation of our intercourse
should give birth to that union which at present subsists. When
the period had elapsed necessary to weaken the remembrance of
Theresa, to whom he had been bound by ties more of honor than of
love, he tendered his affections to me. I need not add that the
tender was eagerly accepted.

Perhaps you are somewhat interested in the fate of Carwin.
He saw, when too late, the danger of imposture. So much
affected was he by the catastrophe to which he was a witness,
that he laid aside all regard to his own safety. He sought my
uncle, and confided to him the tale which he had just related to
me. He found a more impartial and indulgent auditor in Mr.
Cambridge, who imputed to maniacal illusion the conduct of
Wieland, though he conceived the previous and unseen agency of
Carwin, to have indirectly but powerfully predisposed to this
deplorable perversion of mind.

It was easy for Carwin to elude the persecutions of Ludloe.
It was merely requisite to hide himself in a remote district of
Pennsylvania. This, when he parted from us, he determined to
do. He is now probably engaged in the harmless pursuits of
agriculture, and may come to think, without insupportable
remorse, on the evils to which his fatal talents have given
birth. The innocence and usefulness of his future life may, in
some degree, atone for the miseries so rashly or so
thoughtlessly inflicted.

More urgent considerations hindered me from mentioning, in
the course of my former mournful recital, any particulars
respecting the unfortunate father of Louisa Conway. That man
surely was reserved to be a monument of capricious fortune. His
southern journies being finished, he returned to Philadelphia.
Before he reached the city he left the highway, and alighted at
my brother's door. Contrary to his expectation, no one came
forth to welcome him, or hail his approach. He attempted to
enter the house, but bolted doors, barred windows, and a silence
broken only by unanswered calls, shewed him that the mansion was
deserted.

He proceeded thence to my habitation, which he found, in like
manner, gloomy and tenantless. His surprize may be easily
conceived. The rustics who occupied the hut told him an
imperfect and incredible tale. He hasted to the city, and
extorted from Mrs. Baynton a full disclosure of late disasters.

He was inured to adversity, and recovered, after no long
time, from the shocks produced by this disappointment of his
darling scheme. Our intercourse did not terminate with his
departure from America. We have since met with him in France,
and light has at length been thrown upon the motives which
occasioned the disappearance of his wife, in the manner which I
formerly related to you.

I have dwelt upon the ardour of their conjugal attachment,
and mentioned that no suspicion had ever glanced upon her
purity. This, though the belief was long cherished, recent
discoveries have shewn to be questionable. No doubt her
integrity would have survived to the present moment, if an
extraordinary fate had not befallen her.

Major Stuart had been engaged, while in Germany, in a contest
of honor with an Aid de Camp of the Marquis of Granby. His
adversary had propagated a rumour injurious to his character.
A challenge was sent; a meeting ensued; and Stuart wounded and
disarmed the calumniator. The offence was atoned for, and his
life secured by suitable concessions.

Maxwell, that was his name, shortly after, in consequence of
succeeding to a rich inheritance, sold his commission and
returned to London. His fortune was speedily augmented by an
opulent marriage. Interest was his sole inducement to this
marriage, though the lady had been swayed by a credulous
affection. The true state of his heart was quickly discovered,
and a separation, by mutual consent, took place. The lady
withdrew to an estate in a distant county, and Maxwell continued
to consume his time and fortune in the dissipation of the
capital.

Maxwell, though deceitful and sensual, possessed great force
of mind and specious accomplishments. He contrived to mislead
the generous mind of Stuart, and to regain the esteem which his
misconduct, for a time, had forfeited. He was recommended by
her husband to the confidence of Mrs. Stuart. Maxwell was
stimulated by revenge, and by a lawless passion, to convert this
confidence into a source of guilt.

The education and capacity of this woman, the worth of her
husband, the pledge of their alliance which time had produced,
her maturity in age and knowledge of the world--all combined to
render this attempt hopeless. Maxwell, however, was not easily
discouraged. The most perfect being, he believed, must owe his
exemption from vice to the absence of temptation. The impulses
of love are so subtile, and the influence of false reasoning,
when enforced by eloquence and passion, so unbounded, that no
human virtue is secure from degeneracy. All arts being tried,
every temptation being summoned to his aid, dissimulation being
carried to its utmost bound, Maxwell, at length, nearly
accomplished his purpose. The lady's affections were withdrawn
from her husband and transferred to him. She could not, as yet,
be reconciled to dishonor. All efforts to induce her to elope
with him were ineffectual. She permitted herself to love, and
to avow her love; but at this limit she stopped, and was
immoveable.

Hence this revolution in her sentiments was productive only
of despair. Her rectitude of principle preserved her from
actual guilt, but could not restore to her her ancient
affection, or save her from being the prey of remorseful and
impracticable wishes. Her husband's absence produced a state of
suspense. This, however, approached to a period, and she
received tidings of his intended return. Maxwell, being
likewise apprized of this event, and having made a last and
unsuccessful effort to conquer her reluctance to accompany him
in a journey to Italy, whither he pretended an invincible
necessity of going, left her to pursue the measures which
despair might suggest. At the same time she received a letter
from the wife of Maxwell, unveiling the true character of this
man, and revealing facts which the artifices of her seducer had
hitherto concealed from her. Mrs. Maxwell had been prompted to
this disclosure by a knowledge of her husband's practices, with
which his own impetuosity had made her acquainted.

This discovery, joined to the delicacy of her scruples and
the anguish of remorse, induced her to abscond. This scheme was
adopted in haste, but effected with consummate prudence. She
fled, on the eve of her husband's arrival, in the disguise of a
boy, and embarked at Falmouth in a packet bound for America.

The history of her disastrous intercourse with Maxwell, the
motives inducing her to forsake her country, and the measures
she had taken to effect her design, were related to Mrs.
Maxwell, in reply to her communication. Between these women an
ancient intimacy and considerable similitude of character
subsisted. This disclosure was accompanied with solemn
injunctions of secrecy, and these injunctions were, for a long
time, faithfully observed.

Mrs. Maxwell's abode was situated on the banks of the Wey.
Stuart was her kinsman; their youth had been spent together; and
Maxwell was in some degree indebted to the man whom he betrayed,
for his alliance with this unfortunate lady. Her esteem for the
character of Stuart had never been diminished. A meeting
between them was occasioned by a tour which the latter had
undertaken, in the year after his return from America, to Wales
and the western counties. This interview produced pleasure and
regret in each. Their own transactions naturally became the
topics of their conversation; and the untimely fate of his wife
and daughter were related by the guest.

Mrs. Maxwell's regard for her friend, as well as for the
safety of her husband, persuaded her to concealment; but the
former being dead, and the latter being out of the kingdom, she
ventured to produce Mrs. Stuart's letter, and to communicate her
own knowledge of the treachery of Maxwell. She had previously
extorted from her guest a promise not to pursue any scheme of
vengeance; but this promise was made while ignorant of the full
extent of Maxwell's depravity, and his passion refused to adhere
to it.

At this time my uncle and I resided at Avignon. Among the
English resident there, and with whom we maintained a social
intercourse, was Maxwell. This man's talents and address
rendered him a favorite both with my uncle and myself. He had
even tendered me his hand in marriage; but this being refused,
he had sought and obtained permission to continue with us the
intercourse of friendship. Since a legal marriage was
impossible, no doubt, his views were flagitious. Whether he had
relinquished these views I was unable to judge.

He was one in a large circle at a villa in the environs, to
which I had likewise been invited, when Stuart abruptly entered
the apartment. He was recognized with genuine satisfaction by
me, and with seeming pleasure by Maxwell. In a short time, some
affair of moment being pleaded, which required an immediate and
exclusive interview, Maxwell and he withdrew together. Stuart
and my uncle had been known to each other in the German army;
and the purpose contemplated by the former in this long and
hasty journey, was confided to his old friend.

A defiance was given and received, and the banks of a
rivulet, about a league from the city, was selected as the scene
of this contest. My uncle, having exerted himself in vain to
prevent an hostile meeting, consented to attend them as a
surgeon.--Next morning, at sun-rise, was the time chosen.

I returned early in the evening to my lodgings.
Preliminaries being settled between the combatants, Stuart had
consented to spend the evening with us, and did not retire till
late. On the way to his hotel he was exposed to no molestation,
but just as he stepped within the portico, a swarthy and
malignant figure started from behind a column. and plunged a
stiletto into his body.

The author of this treason could not certainly be discovered;
but the details communicated by Stuart, respecting the history
of Maxwell, naturally pointed him out as an object of suspicion.
No one expressed more concern, on account of this disaster, than
he; and he pretended an ardent zeal to vindicate his character
from the aspersions that were cast upon it. Thenceforth,
however, I denied myself to his visits; and shortly after he
disappeared from this scene.

Few possessed more estimable qualities, and a better title to
happiness and the tranquil honors of long life, than the mother
and father of Louisa Conway: yet they were cut off in the bloom
of their days; and their destiny was thus accomplished by the
same hand. Maxwell was the instrument of their destruction,
though the instrument was applied to this end in so different a
manner.

I leave you to moralize on this tale. That virtue should
become the victim of treachery is, no doubt, a mournful
consideration; but it will not escape your notice, that the
evils of which Carwin and Maxwell were the authors, owed their
existence to the errors of the sufferers. All efforts would
have been ineffectual to subvert the happiness or shorten the
existence of the Stuarts, if their own frailty had not seconded
these efforts. If the lady had crushed her disastrous passion
in the bud, and driven the seducer from her presence, when the
tendency of his artifices was seen; if Stuart had not admitted
the spirit of absurd revenge, we should not have had to deplore
this catastrophe. If Wieland had framed juster notions of moral
duty, and of the divine attributes; or if I had been gifted with
ordinary equanimity or foresight, the double-tongued deceiver
would have been baffled and repelled.

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