Book: Wieland; or The Transformation, An American Tale

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




"It was an house of mourning. His father was overwhelmed
with grief, and incapable of answering his inquiries. The
servants, sorrowful and mute, were equally refractory. He
explored the house, and called on the names of his wife and
daughter, but his summons was fruitless. At length, this new
disaster was explained. Two days before his arrival, his wife's
chamber was found empty. No search, however diligent and
anxious, could trace her steps. No cause could be assigned for
her disappearance. The mother and child had fled away together.

"New exertions were made, her chamber and cabinets were
ransacked, but no vestige was found serving to inform them as to
the motives of her flight, whether it had been voluntary or
otherwise, and in what corner of the kingdom or of the world she
was concealed. Who shall describe the sorrow and amazement of
the husband? His restlessness, his vicissitudes of hope and
fear, and his ultimate despair? His duty called him to America.
He had been in this city, and had frequently passed the door of
the house in which his wife, at that moment, resided. Her
father had not remitted his exertions to elucidate this painful
mystery, but they had failed. This disappointment hastened his
death; in consequence of which, Louisa's father became possessor
of his immense property."

This tale was a copious theme of speculation. A thousand
questions were started and discussed in our domestic circle,
respecting the motives that influenced Mrs. Stuart to abandon
her country. It did not appear that her proceeding was
involuntary. We recalled and reviewed every particular that had
fallen under our own observation. By none of these were we
furnished with a clue. Her conduct, after the most rigorous
scrutiny, still remained an impenetrable secret. On a nearer
view, Major Stuart proved himself a man of most amiable
character. His attachment to Louisa appeared hourly to
increase. She was no stranger to the sentiments suitable to her
new character. She could not but readily embrace the scheme
which was proposed to her, to return with her father to England.
This scheme his regard for her induced him, however, to
postpone. Some time was necessary to prepare her for so great
a change and enable her to think without agony of her separation
from us.

I was not without hopes of prevailing on her father entirely
to relinquish this unwelcome design. Meanwhile, he pursued his
travels through the southern colonies, and his daughter
continued with us. Louisa and my brother frequently received
letters from him, which indicated a mind of no common order.
They were filled with amusing details, and profound reflections.
While here, he often partook of our evening conversations at the
temple; and since his departure, his correspondence had
frequently supplied us with topics of discourse.

One afternoon in May, the blandness of the air, and
brightness of the verdure, induced us to assemble, earlier than
usual, in the temple. We females were busy at the needle, while
my brother and Pleyel were bandying quotations and syllogisms.
The point discussed was the merit of the oration for Cluentius,
as descriptive, first, of the genius of the speaker; and,
secondly, of the manners of the times. Pleyel laboured to
extenuate both these species of merit, and tasked his ingenuity,
to shew that the orator had embraced a bad cause; or, at least,
a doubtful one. He urged, that to rely on the exaggerations of
an advocate, or to make the picture of a single family a model
from which to sketch the condition of a nation, was absurd. The
controversy was suddenly diverted into a new channel, by a
misquotation. Pleyel accused his companion of saying
"polliciatur" when he should have said "polliceretur."
Nothing would decide the contest, but an appeal to the volume.
My brother was returning to the house for this purpose, when a
servant met him with a letter from Major Stuart. He immediately
returned to read it in our company.

Besides affectionate compliments to us, and paternal
benedictions on Louisa, his letter contained a description of a
waterfall on the Monongahela. A sudden gust of rain falling, we
were compelled to remove to the house. The storm passed away,
and a radiant moon-light succeeded. There was no motion to
resume our seats in the temple. We therefore remained where we
were, and engaged in sprightly conversation. The letter lately
received naturally suggested the topic. A parallel was drawn
between the cataract there described, and one which Pleyel had
discovered among the Alps of Glarus. In the state of the
former, some particular was mentioned, the truth of which was
questionable. To settle the dispute which thence arose, it was
proposed to have recourse to the letter. My brother searched
for it in his pocket. It was no where to be found. At length,
he remembered to have left it in the temple, and he determined
to go in search of it. His wife, Pleyel, Louisa, and myself,
remained where we were.

In a few minutes he returned. I was somewhat interested in
the dispute, and was therefore impatient for his return; yet, as
I heard him ascending the stairs, I could not but remark, that
he had executed his intention with remarkable dispatch. My eyes
were fixed upon him on his entrance. Methought he brought with
him looks considerably different from those with which he
departed. Wonder, and a slight portion of anxiety were mingled
in them. His eyes seemed to be in search of some object. They
passed quickly from one person to another, till they rested on
his wife. She was seated in a careless attitude on the sofa, in
the same spot as before. She had the same muslin in her hand,
by which her attention was chiefly engrossed.

The moment he saw her, his perplexity visibly increased. He
quietly seated himself, and fixing his eyes on the floor,
appeared to be absorbed in meditation. These singularities
suspended the inquiry which I was preparing to make respecting
the letter. In a short time, the company relinquished the
subject which engaged them, and directed their attention to
Wieland. They thought that he only waited for a pause in the
discourse, to produce the letter. The pause was uninterrupted
by him. At length Pleyel said, "Well, I suppose you have found
the letter."

"No," said he, without any abatement of his gravity, and
looking stedfastly at his wife, "I did not mount the
hill."--"Why not?"--"Catharine, have you not moved from that
spot since I left the room?"--She was affected with the
solemnity of his manner, and laying down her work, answered in
a tone of surprise, "No; Why do you ask that question?"--His
eyes were again fixed upon the floor. and he did not
immediately answer. At length, he said, looking round upon us,
"Is it true that Catharine did not follow me to the hill? That
she did not just now enter the room?"--We assured him, with one
voice, that she had not been absent for a moment, and inquired
into the motive of his questions.

"Your assurances," said he, "are solemn and unanimous; and
yet I must deny credit to your assertions, or disbelieve the
testimony of my senses, which informed me, when I was half way
up the hill, that Catharine was at the bottom."

We were confounded at this declaration. Pleyel rallied him
with great levity on his behaviour. He listened to his friend
with calmness, but without any relaxation of features.

"One thing," said he with emphasis, "is true; either I heard
my wife's voice at the bottom of the hill, or I do not hear your
voice at present."

"Truly," returned Pleyel, "it is a sad dilemma to which you
have reduced yourself. Certain it is, if our eyes can give us
certainty that your wife has been sitting in that spot during
every moment of your absence. You have heard her voice, you
say, upon the hill. In general, her voice, like her temper, is
all softness. To be heard across the room, she is obliged to
exert herself. While you were gone, if I mistake not, she did
not utter a word. Clara and I had all the talk to ourselves.
Still it may be that she held a whispering conference with you
on the hill; but tell us the particulars."

"The conference," said he, "was short; and far from being
carried on in a whisper. You know with what intention I left
the house. Half way to the rock, the moon was for a moment
hidden from us by a cloud. I never knew the air to be more
bland and more calm. In this interval I glanced at the temple,
and thought I saw a glimmering between the columns. It was so
faint, that it would not perhaps have been visible, if the moon
had not been shrowded. I looked again, but saw nothing. I
never visit this building alone, or at night, without being
reminded of the fate of my father. There was nothing wonderful
in this appearance; yet it suggested something more than mere
solitude and darkness in the same place would have done.

"I kept on my way. The images that haunted me were solemn;
and I entertained an imperfect curiosity, but no fear, as to the
nature of this object. I had ascended the hill little more than
half way, when a voice called me from behind. The accents were
clear, distinct, powerful, and were uttered, as I fully
believed, by my wife. Her voice is not commonly so loud. She
has seldom occasion to exert it, but, nevertheless, I have
sometimes heard her call with force and eagerness. If my ear
was not deceived, it was her voice which I heard.

"Stop, go no further. There is danger in your path." The
suddenness and unexpectedness of this warning, the tone of alarm
with which it was given, and, above all, the persuasion that it
was my wife who spoke, were enough to disconcert and make me
pause. I turned and listened to assure myself that I was not
mistaken. The deepest silence succeeded. At length, I spoke in
my turn. Who calls? is it you, Catharine? I stopped and
presently received an answer. "Yes, it is I; go not up; return
instantly; you are wanted at the house." Still the voice was
Catharine's, and still it proceeded from the foot of the stairs.

"What could I do? The warning was mysterious. To be uttered
by Catharine at a place, and on an occasion like these, enhanced
the mystery. I could do nothing but obey. Accordingly, I trod
back my steps, expecting that she waited for me at the bottom of
the hill. When I reached the bottom, no one was visible. The
moon-light was once more universal and brilliant, and yet, as
far as I could see no human or moving figure was discernible.
If she had returned to the house, she must have used wondrous
expedition to have passed already beyond the reach of my eye.
I exerted my voice, but in vain. To my repeated exclamations,
no answer was returned.

"Ruminating on these incidents, I returned hither. There was
no room to doubt that I had heard my wife's voice; attending
incidents were not easily explained; but you now assure me that
nothing extraordinary has happened to urge my return, and that
my wife has not moved from her seat."

Such was my brother's narrative. It was heard by us with
different emotions. Pleyel did not scruple to regard the whole
as a deception of the senses. Perhaps a voice had been heard;
but Wieland's imagination had misled him in supposing a
resemblance to that of his wife, and giving such a signification
to the sounds. According to his custom he spoke what he
thought. Sometimes, he made it the theme of grave discussion,
but more frequently treated it with ridicule. He did not
believe that sober reasoning would convince his friend, and
gaiety, he thought, was useful to take away the solemnities
which, in a mind like Wieland's, an accident of this kind was
calculated to produce.

Pleyel proposed to go in search of the letter. He went and
speedily returned, bearing it in his hand. He had found it open
on the pedestal; and neither voice nor visage had risen to
impede his design.

Catharine was endowed with an uncommon portion of good sense;
but her mind was accessible, on this quarter, to wonder and
panic. That her voice should be thus inexplicably and
unwarrantably assumed, was a source of no small disquietude.
She admitted the plausibility of the arguments by which Pleyel
endeavoured to prove, that this was no more than an auricular
deception; but this conviction was sure to be shaken, when she
turned her eyes upon her husband, and perceived that Pleyel's
logic was far from having produced the same effect upon him.

As to myself, my attention was engaged by this occurrence.
I could not fail to perceive a shadowy resemblance between it
and my father's death. On the latter event, I had frequently
reflected; my reflections never conducted me to certainty, but
the doubts that existed were not of a tormenting kind. I could
not deny that the event was miraculous, and yet I was invincibly
averse to that method of solution. My wonder was excited by the
inscrutableness of the cause, but my wonder was unmixed with
sorrow or fear. It begat in me a thrilling, and not unpleasing
solemnity. Similar to these were the sensations produced by the
recent adventure.

But its effect upon my brother's imagination was of chief
moment. All that was desirable was, that it should be regarded
by him with indifference. The worst effect that could flow, was
not indeed very formidable. Yet I could not bear to think that
his senses should be the victims of such delusion. It argued a
diseased condition of his frame, which might show itself
hereafter in more dangerous symptoms. The will is the tool of
the understanding, which must fashion its conclusions on the
notices of sense. If the senses be depraved, it is impossible
to calculate the evils that may flow from the consequent
deductions of the understanding.

I said, this man is of an ardent and melancholy character.
Those ideas which, in others, are casual or obscure, which are
entertained in moments of abstraction and solitude, and easily
escape when the scene is changed, have obtained an immoveable
hold upon his mind. The conclusions which long habit has
rendered familiar, and, in some sort, palpable to his intellect,
are drawn from the deepest sources. All his actions and
practical sentiments are linked with long and abstruse
deductions from the system of divine government and the laws of
our intellectual constitution. He is, in some respects, an
enthusiast, but is fortified in his belief by innumerable
arguments and subtilties.

His father's death was always regarded by him as flowing from
a direct and supernatural decree. It visited his meditations
oftener than it did mine. The traces which it left were more
gloomy and permanent. This new incident had a visible effect in
augmenting his gravity. He was less disposed than formerly to
converse and reading. When we sifted his thoughts, they were
generally found to have a relation, more or less direct, with
this incident. It was difficult to ascertain the exact species
of impression which it made upon him. He never introduced the
subject into conversation, and listened with a silent and
half-serious smile to the satirical effusions of Pleyel.

One evening we chanced to be alone together in the temple.
I seized that opportunity of investigating the state of his
thoughts. After a pause, which he seemed in no wise inclined to
interrupt, I spoke to him--"How almost palpable is this dark;
yet a ray from above would dispel it." "Ay," said Wieland, with
fervor, "not only the physical, but moral night would be
dispelled." "But why," said I, "must the Divine Will address
its precepts to the eye?" He smiled significantly. "True,"
said he, "the understanding has other avenues." "You have
never," said I, approaching nearer to the point--"you have never
told me in what way you considered the late extraordinary
incident." "There is no determinate way in which the subject
can be viewed. Here is an effect, but the cause is utterly
inscrutable. To suppose a deception will not do. Such is
possible, but there are twenty other suppositions more probable.
They must all be set aside before we reach that point." "What
are these twenty suppositions?" "It is needless to mention
them. They are only less improbable than Pleyel's. Time may
convert one of them into certainty. Till then it is useless to
expatiate on them."



Chapter V


Some time had elapsed when there happened another occurrence,
still more remarkable. Pleyel, on his return from Europe,
brought information of considerable importance to my brother.
My ancestors were noble Saxons, and possessed large domains in
Lusatia. The Prussian wars had destroyed those persons whose
right to these estates precluded my brother's. Pleyel had been
exact in his inquiries, and had discovered that, by the law of
male-primogeniture, my brother's claims were superior to those
of any other person now living. Nothing was wanting but his
presence in that country, and a legal application to establish
this claim.

Pleyel strenuously recommended this measure. The advantages
he thought attending it were numerous, and it would argue the
utmost folly to neglect them. Contrary to his expectation he
found my brother averse to the scheme. Slight efforts, he, at
first, thought would subdue his reluctance; but he found this
aversion by no means slight. The interest that he took in the
happiness of his friend and his sister, and his own partiality
to the Saxon soil, from which he had likewise sprung, and where
he had spent several years of his youth, made him redouble his
exertions to win Wieland's consent. For this end he employed
every argument that his invention could suggest. He painted, in
attractive colours, the state of manners and government in that
country, the security of civil rights, and the freedom of
religious sentiments. He dwelt on the privileges of wealth and
rank, and drew from the servile condition of one class, an
argument in favor of his scheme, since the revenue and power
annexed to a German principality afford so large a field for
benevolence. The evil flowing from this power, in malignant
hands, was proportioned to the good that would arise from the
virtuous use of it. Hence, Wieland, in forbearing to claim his
own, withheld all the positive felicity that would accrue to his
vassals from his success, and hazarded all the misery that would
redound from a less enlightened proprietor.

It was easy for my brother to repel these arguments, and to
shew that no spot on the globe enjoyed equal security and
liberty to that which he at present inhabited. That if the
Saxons had nothing to fear from mis-government, the external
causes of havoc and alarm were numerous and manifest. The
recent devastations committed by the Prussians furnished a
specimen of these. The horrors of war would always impend over
them, till Germany were seized and divided by Austrian and
Prussian tyrants; an event which he strongly suspected was at no
great distance. But setting these considerations aside, was it
laudable to grasp at wealth and power even when they were within
our reach? Were not these the two great sources of depravity?
What security had he, that in this change of place and
condition, he should not degenerate into a tyrant and
voluptuary? Power and riches were chiefly to be dreaded on
account of their tendency to deprave the possessor. He held
them in abhorrence, not only as instruments of misery to others,
but to him on whom they were conferred. Besides, riches were
comparative, and was he not rich already? He lived at present
in the bosom of security and luxury. All the instruments of
pleasure, on which his reason or imagination set any value, were
within his reach. But these he must forego, for the sake of
advantages which, whatever were their value, were as yet
uncertain. In pursuit of an imaginary addition to his wealth,
he must reduce himself to poverty, he must exchange present
certainties for what was distant and contingent; for who knows
not that the law is a system of expence, delay and uncertainty?
If he should embrace this scheme, it would lay him under the
necessity of making a voyage to Europe, and remaining for a
certain period, separate from his family. He must undergo the
perils and discomforts of the ocean; he must divest himself of
all domestic pleasures; he must deprive his wife of her
companion, and his children of a father and instructor, and all
for what? For the ambiguous advantages which overgrown wealth
and flagitious tyranny have to bestow? For a precarious
possession in a land of turbulence and war? Advantages, which
will not certainly be gained, and of which the acquisition, if
it were sure, is necessarily distant.

Pleyel was enamoured of his scheme on account of its
intrinsic benefits, but, likewise, for other reasons. His abode
at Leipsig made that country appear to him like home. He was
connected with this place by many social ties. While there he
had not escaped the amorous contagion. But the lady, though her
heart was impressed in his favor, was compelled to bestow her
hand upon another. Death had removed this impediment, and he
was now invited by the lady herself to return. This he was of
course determined to do, but was anxious to obtain the company
of Wieland; he could not bear to think of an eternal separation
from his present associates. Their interest, he thought, would
be no less promoted by the change than his own. Hence he was
importunate and indefatigable in his arguments and
solicitations.

He knew that he could not hope for mine or his sister's ready
concurrence in this scheme. Should the subject be mentioned to
us, we should league our efforts against him, and strengthen
that reluctance in Wieland which already was sufficiently
difficult to conquer. He, therefore, anxiously concealed from
us his purpose. If Wieland were previously enlisted in his
cause, he would find it a less difficult task to overcome our
aversion. My brother was silent on this subJect, because he
believed himself in no danger of changing his opinion, and he
was willing to save us from any uneasiness. The mere mention of
such a scheme, and the possibility of his embracing it, he knew,
would considerably impair our tranquillity.

One day, about three weeks subsequent to the mysterious call,
it was agreed that the family should be my guests. Seldom had
a day been passed by us, of more serene enjoyment. Pleyel had
promised us his company, but we did not see him till the sun had
nearly declined. He brought with him a countenance that
betokened disappointment and vexation. He did not wait for our
inquiries, but immediately explained the cause. Two days before
a packet had arrived from Hamburgh, by which he had flattered
himself with the expectation of receiving letters, but no
letters had arrived. I never saw him so much subdued by an
untoward event. His thoughts were employed in accounting for
the silence of his friends. He was seized with the torments of
jealousy, and suspected nothing less than the infidelity of her
to whom he had devoted his heart. The silence must have been
concerted. Her sickness, or absence, or death, would have
increased the certainty of some one's having written. No
supposition could be formed but that his mistress had grown
indifferent, or that she had transferred her affections to
another. The miscarriage of a letter was hardly within the
reach of possibility. From Leipsig to Hamburgh, and from
Hamburgh hither, the conveyance was exposed to no hazard.

He had been so long detained in America chiefly in
consequence of Wieland's aversion to the scheme which he
proposed. He now became more impatient than ever to return to
Europe. When he reflected that, by his delays, he had probably
forfeited the affections of his mistress, his sensations
amounted to agony. It only remained, by his speedy departure,
to repair, if possible, or prevent so intolerable an evil.
Already he had half resolved to embark in this very ship which,
he was informed, would set out in a few weeks on her return.

Meanwhile he determined to make a new attempt to shake the
resolution of Wieland. The evening was somewhat advanced when
he invited the latter to walk abroad with him. The invitation
was accepted, and they left Catharine, Louisa and me, to amuse
ourselves by the best means in our power. During this walk,
Pleyel renewed the subject that was nearest his heart. He
re-urged all his former arguments, and placed them in more
forcible lights.

They promised to return shortly; but hour after hour passed,
and they made not their appearance. Engaged in sprightly
conversation, it was not till the clock struck twelve that we
were reminded of the lapse of time. The absence of our friends
excited some uneasy apprehensions. We were expressing our
fears, and comparing our conjectures as to what might be the
cause, when they entered together. There were indications in
their countenances that struck me mute. These were unnoticed by
Catharine, who was eager to express her surprize and curiosity
at the length of their walk. As they listened to her, I
remarked that their surprize was not less than ours. They gazed
in silence on each other, and on her. I watched their looks,
but could not understand the emotions that were written in them.

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