Book: Wieland; or The Transformation, An American Tale

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




These appearances diverted Catharine's inquiries into a new
channel. What did they mean, she asked, by their silence, and
by their thus gazing wildly at each other, and at her? Pleyel
profited by this hint, and assuming an air of indifference,
framed some trifling excuse, at the same time darting
significant glances at Wieland, as if to caution him against
disclosing the truth. My brother said nothing, but delivered
himself up to meditation. I likewise was silent, but burned
with impatience to fathom this mystery. Presently my brother
and his wife, and Louisa, returned home. Pleyel proposed, of
his own accord, to be my guest for the night. This
circumstance, in addition to those which preceded, gave new edge
to my wonder.

As soon as we were left alone, Pleyel's countenance assumed
an air of seriousness, and even consternation, which I had never
before beheld in him. The steps with which he measured the
floor betokened the trouble of his thoughts. My inquiries were
suspended by the hope that he would give me the information that
I wanted without the importunity of questions. I waited some
time, but the confusion of his thoughts appeared in no degree to
abate. At length I mentioned the apprehensions which their
unusual absence had occasioned, and which were increased by
their behaviour since their return, and solicited an
explanation. He stopped when I began to speak, and looked
stedfastly at me. When I had done, he said, to me, in a tone
which faultered through the vehemence of his emotions, "How were
you employed during our absence?" "In turning over the Della
Crusca dictionary, and talking on different subjects; but just
before your entrance, we were tormenting ourselves with omens
and prognosticks relative to your absence." "Catherine was with
you the whole time?" "Yes." "But are you sure?" "Most sure.
She was not absent a moment." He stood, for a time, as if to
assure himself of my sincerity. Then, clinching his hands, and
wildly lifting them above his head, "Lo," cried he, "I have news
to tell you. The Baroness de Stolberg is dead?"

This was her whom he loved. I was not surprised at the
agitations which he betrayed. "But how was the information
procured? How was the truth of this news connected with the
circumstance of Catharine's remaining in our company?" He was
for some time inattentive to my questions. When he spoke, it
seemed merely a continuation of the reverie into which he had
been plunged.

"And yet it might be a mere deception. But could both of us
in that case have been deceived? A rare and prodigious
coincidence! Barely not impossible. And yet, if the accent be
oracular--Theresa is dead. No, no," continued he, covering his
face with his hands, and in a tone half broken into sobs, "I
cannot believe it. She has not written, but if she were dead,
the faithful Bertrand would have given me the earliest
information. And yet if he knew his master, he must have easily
guessed at the effect of such tidings. In pity to me he was
silent."

"Clara, forgive me; to you, this behaviour is mysterious. I
will explain as well as I am able. But say not a word to
Catharine. Her strength of mind is inferior to your's. She
will, besides, have more reason to be startled. She is
Wieland's angel."

Pleyel proceeded to inform me, for the first time, of the
scheme which he had pressed, with so much earnestness, on my
brother. He enumerated the objections which had been made, and
the industry with which he had endeavoured to confute them. He
mentioned the effect upon his resolutions produced by the
failure of a letter. "During our late walk," continued he, "I
introduced the subject that was nearest my heart. I re-urged
all my former arguments, and placed them in more forcible
lights. Wieland was still refractory. He expatiated on the
perils of wealth and power, on the sacredness of conjugal and
parental duties, and the happiness of mediocrity.

"No wonder that the time passed, unperceived, away. Our
whole souls were engaged in this cause. Several times we came
to the foot of the rock; as soon as we perceived it, we changed
our course, but never failed to terminate our circuitous and
devious ramble at this spot. At length your brother observed,
"We seem to be led hither by a kind of fatality. Since we are
so near, let us ascend and rest ourselves a while. If you are
not weary of this argument we will resume it there."

"I tacitly consented. We mounted the stairs, and drawing the
sofa in front of the river, we seated ourselves upon it. I took
up the thread of our discourse where we had dropped it. I
ridiculed his dread of the sea, and his attachment to home. I
kept on in this strain, so congenial with my disposition, for
some time, uninterrupted by him. At length, he said to me,
"Suppose now that I, whom argument has not convinced, should
yield to ridicule, and should agree that your scheme is
eligible; what will you have gained? Nothing. You have other
enemies beside myself to encounter. When you have vanquished
me, your toil has scarcely begun. There are my sister and wife,
with whom it will remain for you to maintain the contest. And
trust me, they are adversaries whom all your force and stratagem
will never subdue." I insinuated that they would model
themselves by his will: that Catharine would think obedience
her duty. He answered, with some quickness, "You mistake.
Their concurrence is indispensable. It is not my custom to
exact sacrifices of this kind. I live to be their protector and
friend, and not their tyrant and foe. If my wife shall deem her
happiness, and that of her children, most consulted by remaining
where she is, here she shall remain." "But," said I, "when she
knows your pleasure, will she not conform to it?" Before my
friend had time to answer this question, a negative was clearly
and distinctly uttered from another quarter. It did not come
from one side or the other, from before us or behind. Whence
then did it come? By whose organs was it fashioned?

"If any uncertainty had existed with regard to these
particulars, it would have been removed by a deliberate and
equally distinct repetition of the same monosyllable, "No." The
voice was my sister's. It appeared to come from the roof. I
started from my seat. Catharine, exclaimed I, where are you?
No answer was returned. I searched the room, and the area
before it, but in vain. Your brother was motionless in his
seat. I returned to him, and placed myself again by his side.
My astonishment was not less than his."

"Well," said he, at length, "What think you of this? This is
the self-same voice which I formerly heard; you are now
convinced that my ears were well informed."

"Yes," said I, "this, it is plain, is no fiction of the
fancy." We again sunk into mutual and thoughtful silence. A
recollection of the hour, and of the length of our absence, made
me at last propose to return. We rose up for this purpose. In
doing this, my mind reverted to the contemplation of my own
condition. "Yes," said I aloud, but without particularly
addressing myself to Wieland, "my resolution is taken. I cannot
hope to prevail with my friends to accompany me. They may doze
away their days on the banks of Schuylkill, but as to me, I go
in the next vessel; I will fly to her presence, and demand the
reason of this extraordinary silence."

"I had scarcely finished the sentence, when the same
mysterious voice exclaimed, "You shall not go. The seal of
death is on her lips. Her silence is the silence of the tomb."
Think of the effects which accents like these must have had upon
me. I shuddered as I listened. As soon as I recovered from my
first amazement, "Who is it that speaks?" said I, "whence did
you procure these dismal tidings?" I did not wait long for an
answer. "From a source that cannot fail. Be satisfied. She is
dead." You may justly be surprised, that, in the circumstances
in which I heard the tidings, and notwithstanding the mystery
which environed him by whom they were imparted, I could give an
undivided attention to the facts, which were the subject of our
dialogue. I eagerly inquired, when and where did she die? What
was the cause of her death? Was her death absolutely certain?
An answer was returned only to the last of these questions.
"Yes," was pronounced by the same voice; but it now sounded from
a greater distance, and the deepest silence was all the return
made to my subsequent interrogatories.

"It was my sister's voice; but it could not be uttered by
her; and yet, if not by her, by whom was it uttered? When we
returned hither, and discovered you together, the doubt that had
previously existed was removed. It was manifest that the
intimation came not from her. Yet if not from her, from whom
could it come? Are the circumstances attending the imparting of
this news proof that the tidings are true? God forbid that they
should be true."

Here Pleyel sunk into anxious silence, and gave me leisure to
ruminate on this inexplicable event. I am at a loss to describe
the sensations that affected me. I am not fearful of shadows.
The tales of apparitions and enchantments did not possess that
power over my belief which could even render them interesting.
I saw nothing in them but ignorance and folly, and was a
stranger even to that terror which is pleasing. But this
incident was different from any that I had ever before known.
Here were proofs of a sensible and intelligent existence, which
could not be denied. Here was information obtained and imparted
by means unquestionably super-human.

That there are conscious beings, beside ourselves, in
existence, whose modes of activity and information surpass our
own, can scarcely be denied. Is there a glimpse afforded us
into a world of these superior beings? My heart was scarcely
large enough to give admittance to so swelling a thought. An
awe, the sweetest and most solemn that imagination can conceive,
pervaded my whole frame. It forsook me not when I parted from
Pleyel and retired to my chamber. An impulse was given to my
spirits utterly incompatible with sleep. I passed the night
wakeful and full of meditation. I was impressed with the belief
of mysterious, but not of malignant agency. Hitherto nothing
had occurred to persuade me that this airy minister was busy to
evil rather than to good purposes. On the contrary, the idea of
superior virtue had always been associated in my mind with that
of superior power. The warnings that had thus been heard
appeared to have been prompted by beneficent intentions. My
brother had been hindered by this voice from ascending the hill.
He was told that danger lurked in his path, and his obedience to
the intimation had perhaps saved him from a destiny similar to
that of my father.

Pleyel had been rescued from tormenting uncertainty, and from
the hazards and fatigues of a fruitless voyage, by the same
interposition. It had assured him of the death of his Theresa.

This woman was then dead. A confirmation of the tidings, if
true, would speedily arrive. Was this confirmation to be
deprecated or desired? By her death, the tie that attached him
to Europe, was taken away. Henceforward every motive would
combine to retain him in his native country, and we were rescued
from the deep regrets that would accompany his hopeless absence
from us. Propitious was the spirit that imparted these tidings.
Propitious he would perhaps have been, if he had been
instrumental in producing, as well as in communicating the
tidings of her death. Propitious to us, the friends of Pleyel,
to whom has thereby been secured the enjoyment of his society;
and not unpropitious to himself; for though this object of his
love be snatched away, is there not another who is able and
willing to console him for her loss?

Twenty days after this, another vessel arrived from the same
port. In this interval, Pleyel, for the most part, estranged
himself from his old companions. He was become the prey of a
gloomy and unsociable grief. His walks were limited to the bank
of the Delaware. This bank is an artificial one. Reeds and the
river are on one side, and a watery marsh on the other, in that
part which bounded his lands, and which extended from the mouth
of Hollander's creek to that of Schuylkill. No scene can be
imagined less enticing to a lover of the picturesque than this.
The shore is deformed with mud, and incumbered with a forest of
reeds. The fields, in most seasons, are mire; but when they
afford a firm footing, the ditches by which they are bounded and
intersected, are mantled with stagnating green, and emit the
most noxious exhalations. Health is no less a stranger to those
seats than pleasure. Spring and autumn are sure to be
accompanied with agues and bilious remittents.

The scenes which environed our dwellings at Mettingen
constituted the reverse of this. Schuylkill was here a pure and
translucid current, broken intO wild and ceaseless music by
rocky points, murmuring on a sandy margin, and reflecting on its
surface, banks of all varieties of height and degrees of
declivity. These banks were chequered by patches of dark
verdure and shapeless masses of white marble, and crowned by
copses of cedar, or by the regular magnificence of orchards,
which, at this season, were in blossom, and were prodigal of
odours. The ground which receded from the river was scooped
into valleys and dales. Its beauties were enhanced by the
horticultural skill of my brother, who bedecked this exquisite
assemblage of slopes and risings with every species of vegetable
ornament, from the giant arms of the oak to the clustering
tendrils of the honey-suckle.

To screen him from the unwholesome airs of his own residence,
it had been proposed to Pleyel to spend the months of spring
with us. He had apparently acquiesced in this proposal; but the
late event induced him to change his purpose. He was only to be
seen by visiting him in his retirements. His gaiety had flown,
and every passion was absorbed in eagerness to procure tidings
from Saxony. I have mentioned the arrival of another vessel
from the Elbe. He descried her early one morning as he was
passing along the skirt of the river. She was easily
recognized, being the ship in which he had performed his first
voyage to Germany. He immediately went on board, but found no
letters directed to him. This omission was, in some degree,
compensated by meeting with an old acquaintance among the
passengers, who had till lately been a resident in Leipsig.
This person put an end to all suspense respecting the fate of
Theresa, by relating the particulars of her death and funeral.

Thus was the truth of the former intimation attested. No
longer devoured by suspense, the grief of Pleyel was not long in
yielding to the influence of society. He gave himself up once
more to our company. His vivacity had indeed been damped; but
even in this respect he was a more acceptable companion than
formerly, since his seriousness was neither incommunicative nor
sullen.

These incidents, for a time, occupied all our thoughts. In
me they produced a sentiment not unallied to pleasure, and more
speedily than in the case of my friends were intermixed with
other topics. My brother was particularly affected by them. It
was easy to perceive that most of his meditations were tinctured
from this source. To this was to be ascribed a design in which
his pen was, at this period, engaged, of collecting and
investigating the facts which relate to that mysterious
personage, the Daemon of Socrates.

My brother's skill in Greek and Roman learning was exceeded
by that of few, and no doubt the world would have accepted a
treatise upon this subject from his hand with avidity; but alas!
this and every other scheme of felicity and honor, were doomed
to sudden blast and hopeless extermination.



Chapter VI


I now come to the mention of a person with whose name the
most turbulent sensations are connected. It is with a
shuddering reluctance that I enter on the province of describing
him. Now it is that I begin to perceive the difficulty of the
task which I have undertaken; but it would be weakness to shrink
from it. My blood is congealed: and my fingers are palsied
when I call up his image. Shame upon my cowardly and infirm
heart! Hitherto I have proceeded with some degree of composure,
but now I must pause. I mean not that dire remembrance shall
subdue my courage or baffle my design, but this weakness cannot
be immediately conquered. I must desist for a little while.

I have taken a few turns in my chamber, and have gathered
strength enough to proceed. Yet have I not projected a task
beyond my power to execute? If thus, on the very threshold of
the scene, my knees faulter and I sink, how shall I support
myself, when I rush into the midst of horrors such as no heart
has hitherto conceived, nor tongue related? I sicken and recoil
at the prospect, and yet my irresolution is momentary. I have
not formed this design upon slight grounds, and though I may at
times pause and hesitate, I will not be finally diverted from
it.

And thou, O most fatal and potent of mankind, in what terms
shall I describe thee? What words are adequate to the just
delineation of thy character? How shall I detail the means
which rendered the secrecy of thy purposes unfathomable? But I
will not anticipate. Let me recover if possible, a sober
strain. Let me keep down the flood of passion that would render
me precipitate or powerless. Let me stifle the agonies that are
awakened by thy name. Let me, for a time, regard thee as a
being of no terrible attributes. Let me tear myself from
contemplation of the evils of which it is but too certain that
thou wast the author, and limit my view to those harmless
appearances which attended thy entrance on the stage.

One sunny afternoon, I was standing in the door of my house,
when I marked a person passing close to the edge of the bank
that was in front. His pace was a careless and lingering one,
and had none of that gracefulness and ease which distinguish a
person with certain advantages of education from a clown. His
gait was rustic and aukward. His form was ungainly and
disproportioned. Shoulders broad and square, breast sunken, his
head drooping, his body of uniform breadth, supported by long
and lank legs, were the ingredients of his frame. His garb was
not ill adapted to such a figure. A slouched hat, tarnished by
the weather, a coat of thick grey cloth, cut and wrought, as it
seemed, by a country tailor, blue worsted stockings, and shoes
fastened by thongs, and deeply discoloured by dust, which brush
had never disturbed, constituted his dress.

There was nothing remarkable in these appearances; they were
frequently to be met with on the road, and in the harvest field.
I cannot tell why I gazed upon them, on this occasion, with more
than ordinary attention, unless it were that such figures were
seldom seen by me, except on the road or field. This lawn was
only traversed by men whose views were directed to the pleasures
of the walk, or the grandeur of the scenery.

He passed slowly along, frequently pausing, as if to examine
the prospect more deliberately, but never turning his eye
towards the house, so as to allow me a view of his countenance.
Presently, he entered a copse at a small distance, and
disappeared. My eye followed him while he remained in sight.
If his image remained for any duration in my fancy after his
departure, it was because no other object occurred sufficient to
expel it.

I continued in the same spot for half an hour, vaguely, and
by fits, contemplating the image of this wanderer, and drawing,
from outward appearances, those inferences with respect to the
intellectual history of this person, which experience affords
us. I reflected on the alliance which commonly subsists between
ignorance and the practice of agriculture, and indulged myself
in airy speculations as to the influence of progressive
knowledge in dissolving this alliance, and embodying the dreams
of the poets. I asked why the plough and the hoe might not
become the trade of every human being, and how this trade might
be made conducive to, or, at least, consistent with the
acquisition of wisdom and eloquence.

Weary with these reflections, I returned to the kitchen to
perform some household office. I had usually but one servant,
and she was a girl about my own age. I was busy near the
chimney, and she was employed near the door of the apartment,
when some one knocked. The door was opened by her, and she was
immediately addressed with "Pry'thee, good girl, canst thou
supply a thirsty man with a glass of buttermilk?" She answered
that there was none in the house. "Aye, but there is some in
the dairy yonder. Thou knowest as well as I, though Hermes
never taught thee, that though every dairy be an house, every
house is not a dairy." To this speech, though she understood
only a part of it, she replied by repeating her assurances, that
she had none to give. "Well then," rejoined the stranger, "for
charity's sweet sake, hand me forth a cup of cold water." The
girl said she would go to the spring and fetch it. "Nay, give
me the cup, and suffer me to help myself. Neither manacled nor
lame, I should merit burial in the maw of carrion crows, if I
laid this task upon thee." She gave him the cup, and he turned
to go to the spring.

I listened to this dialogue in silence. The words uttered by
the person without, affected me as somewhat singular, but what
chiefly rendered them remarkable, was the tone that accompanied
them. It was wholly new. My brother's voice and Pleyel's were
musical and energetic. I had fondly imagined, that, in this
respect, they were surpassed by none. Now my mistake was
detected. I cannot pretend to communicate the impression that
was made upon me by these accents, or to depict the degree in
which force and sweetness were blended in them. They were
articulated with a distinctness that was unexampled in my
experience. But this was not all. The voice was not only
mellifluent and clear, but the emphasis was so just, and the
modulation so impassioned, that it seemed as if an heart of
stone could not fail of being moved by it. It imparted to me an
emotion altogether involuntary and incontroulable. When he
uttered the words "for charity's sweet sake," I dropped the
cloth that I held in my hand, my heart overflowed with sympathy,
and my eyes with unbidden tears.

This description will appear to you trifling or incredible.
The importance of these circumstances will be manifested in the
sequel. The manner in which I was affected on this occasion,
was, to my own apprehension, a subject of astonishment. The
tones were indeed such as I never heard before; but that they
should, in an instant, as it were, dissolve me in tears, will
not easily be believed by others, and can scarcely be
comprehended by myself.

It will be readily supposed that I was somewhat inquisitive
as to the person and demeanour of our visitant. After a
moment's pause, I stepped to the door and looked after him.
Judge my surprize, when I beheld the self-same figure that had
appeared an half hour before upon the bank. My fancy had
conjured up a very different image. A form, and attitude, and
garb, were instantly created worthy to accompany such elocution;
but this person was, in all visible respects, the reverse of
this phantom. Strange as it may seem, I could not speedily
reconcile myself to this disappointment. Instead of returning
to my employment, I threw myself in a chair that was placed
opposite the door, and sunk into a fit of musing.

My attention was, in a few minutes, recalled by the stranger,
who returned with the empty cup in his hand. I had not thought
of the circumstance, or should certainly have chosen a different
seat. He no sooner shewed himself, than a confused sense of
impropriety, added to the suddenness of the interview, for
which, not having foreseen it, I had made no preparation, threw
me into a state of the most painful embarrassment. He brought
with him a placid brow; but no sooner had he cast his eyes upon
me, than his face was as glowingly suffused as my own. He
placed the cup upon the bench, stammered out thanks, and
retired.

It was some time before I could recover my wonted composure.
I had snatched a view of the stranger's countenance. The
impression that it made was vivid and indelible. His cheeks
were pallid and lank, his eyes sunken, his forehead overshadowed
by coarse straggling hairs, his teeth large and irregular,
though sound and brilliantly white, and his chin discoloured by
a tetter. His skin was of coarse grain, and sallow hue. Every
feature was wide of beauty, and the outline of his face reminded
you of an inverted cone.

And yet his forehead, so far as shaggy locks would allow it
to be seen, his eyes lustrously black, and possessing, in the
midst of haggardness, a radiance inexpressibly serene and
potent, and something in the rest of his features, which it
would be in vain to describe, but which served to betoken a mind
of the highest order, were essential ingredients in the
portrait. This, in the effects which immediately flowed from
it, I count among the most extraordinary incidents of my life.
This face, seen for a moment, continued for hours to occupy my
fancy, to the exclusion of almost every other image. I had
purposed to spend the evening with my brother, but I could not
resist the inclination of forming a sketch upon paper of this
memorable visage. Whether my hand was aided by any peculiar
inspiration, or I was deceived by my own fond conceptions, this
portrait, though hastily executed, appeared unexceptionable to
my own taste.

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