Book: Wieland; or The Transformation, An American Tale

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




Here I had remained for the last four or five hours, without
the means of resistance or defence, yet I had not been attacked.
A human being was at hand, who was conscious of my presence, and
warned me hereafter to avoid this retreat. His voice was not
absolutely new, but had I never heard it but once before? But
why did he prohibit me from relating this incident to others,
and what species of death will be awarded if I disobey?

He talked of my father. He intimated, that disclosure would
pull upon my head, the same destruction. Was then the death of
my father, portentous and inexplicable as it was, the
consequence of human machinations? It should seem, that this
being is apprised of the true nature of this event, and is
conscious of the means that led to it. Whether it shall
likewise fall upon me, depends upon the observance of silence.
Was it the infraction of a similar command, that brought so
horrible a penalty upon my father?

Such were the reflections that haunted me during the night,
and which effectually deprived me of sleep. Next morning, at
breakfast, Pleyel related an event which my disappearance had
hindered him from mentioning the night before. Early the
preceding morning, his occasions called him to the city; he had
stepped into a coffee-house to while away an hour; here he had
met a person whose appearance instantly bespoke him to be the
same whose hasty visit I have mentioned, and whose extraordinary
visage and tones had so powerfully affected me. On an attentive
survey, however, he proved, likewise, to be one with whom my
friend had had some intercourse in Europe. This authorised the
liberty of accosting him, and after some conversation, mindful,
as Pleyel said, of the footing which this stranger had gained in
my heart, he had ventured to invite him to Mettingen. The
invitation had been cheerfully accepted, and a visit promised on
the afternoon of the next day.

This information excited no sober emotions in my breast. I
was, of course, eager to be informed as to the circumstances of
their ancient intercourse. When, and where had they met? What
knew he of the life and character of this man?

In answer to my inquiries, he informed me that, three years
before, he was a traveller in Spain. He had made an excursion
from Valencia to Murviedro, with a view to inspect the remains
of Roman magnificence, scattered in the environs of that town.
While traversing the scite of the theatre of old Saguntum, he
lighted upon this man, seated on a stone, and deeply engaged in
perusing the work of the deacon Marti. A short conversation
ensued, which proved the stranger to be English. They returned
to Valencia together.

His garb, aspect, and deportment, were wholly Spanish. A
residence of three years in the country, indefatigable attention
to the language, and a studious conformity with the customs of
the people, had made him indistinguishable from a native, when
he chose to assume that character. Pleyel found him to be
connected, on the footing of friendship and respect, with many
eminent merchants in that city. He had embraced the catholic
religion, and adopted a Spanish name instead of his own, which
was CARWIN, and devoted himself to the literature and religion
of his new country. He pursued no profession, but subsisted on
remittances from England.

While Pleyel remained in Valencia, Carwin betrayed no
aversion to intercourse, and the former found no small
attractions in the society of this new acquaintance. On general
topics he was highly intelligent and communicative. He had
visited every corner of Spain, and could furnish the most
accurate details respecting its ancient and present state. On
topics of religion and of his own history, previous to his
TRANSFORMATION into a Spaniard, he was invariably silent.
You could merely gather from his discourse that he was English,
and that he was well acquainted with the neighbouring countries.

His character excited considerable curiosity in this
observer. It was not easy to reconcile his conversion to the
Romish faith, with those proofs of knowledge and capacity that
were exhibited by him on different occasions. A suspicion was,
sometimes, admitted, that his belief was counterfeited for some
political purpose. The most careful observation, however,
produced no discovery. His manners were, at all times, harmless
and inartificial, and his habits those of a lover of
contemplation and seclusion. He appeared to have contracted an
affection for Pleyel, who was not slow to return it.

My friend, after a month's residence in this city, returned
into France, and, since that period, had heard nothing
concerning Carwin till his appearance at Mettingen.

On this occasion Carwin had received Pleyel's greeting with
a certain distance and solemnity to which the latter had not
been accustomed. He had waved noticing the inquiries of Pleyel
respecting his desertion of Spain, in which he had formerly
declared that it was his purpose to spend his life. He had
assiduously diverted the attention of the latter to indifferent
topics, but was still, on every theme, as eloquent and judicious
as formerly. Why he had assumed the garb of a rustic, Pleyel
was unable to conjecture. Perhaps it might be poverty, perhaps
he was swayed by motives which it was his interest to conceal,
but which were connected with consequences of the utmost moment.

Such was the sum of my friend's information. I was not sorry
to be left alone during the greater part of this day. Every
employment was irksome which did not leave me at liberty to
meditate. I had now a new subject on which to exercise my
thoughts. Before evening I should be ushered into his presence,
and listen to those tones whose magical and thrilling power I
had already experienced. But with what new images would he then
be accompanied?

Carwin was an adherent to the Romish faith, yet was an
Englishman by birth, and, perhaps, a protestant by education.
He had adopted Spain for his country, and had intimated a design
to spend his days there, yet now was an inhabitant of this
district, and disguised by the habiliments of a clown! What
could have obliterated the impressions of his youth, and made
him abjure his religion and his country? What subsequent events
had introduced so total a change in his plans? In withdrawing
from Spain, had he reverted to the religion of his ancestors; or
was it true, that his former conversion was deceitful, and that
his conduct had been swayed by motives which it was prudent to
conceal?

Hours were consumed in revolving these ideas. My meditations
were intense; and, when the series was broken, I began to
reflect with astonishment on my situation. From the death of my
parents, till the commencement of this year, my life had been
serene and blissful, beyond the ordinary portion of humanity;
but, now, my bosom was corroded by anxiety. I was visited by
dread of unknown dangers, and the future was a scene over which
clouds rolled, and thunders muttered. I compared the cause with
the effect, and they seemed disproportioned to each other. All
unaware, and in a manner which I had no power to explain, I was
pushed from my immoveable and lofty station, and cast upon a sea
of troubles.

I determined to be my brother's visitant on this evening, yet
my resolves were not unattended with wavering and reluctance.
Pleyel's insinuations that I was in love, affected, in no
degree, my belief, yet the consciousness that this was the
opinion of one who would, probably, be present at our
introduction to each other, would excite all that confusion
which the passion itself is apt to produce. This would confirm
him in his error, and call forth new railleries. His mirth,
when exerted upon this topic, was the source of the bitterest
vexation. Had he been aware of its influence upon my happiness,
his temper would not have allowed him to persist; but this
influence, it was my chief endeavour to conceal. That the
belief of my having bestowed my heart upon another, produced in
my friend none but ludicrous sensations, was the true cause of
my distress; but if this had been discovered by him, my distress
would have been unspeakably aggravated.



Chapter VIII


As soon as evening arrived, I performed my visit. Carwin
made one of the company, into which I was ushered. Appearances
were the same as when I before beheld him. His garb was equally
negligent and rustic. I gazed upon his countenance with new
curiosity. My situation was such as to enable me to bestow upon
it a deliberate examination. Viewed at more leisure, it lost
none of its wonderful properties. I could not deny my homage to
the intelligence expressed in it, but was wholly uncertain,
whether he were an object to be dreaded or adored, and whether
his powers had been exerted to evil or to good.

He was sparing in discourse; but whatever he said was
pregnant with meaning, and uttered with rectitude of
articulation, and force of emphasis, of which I had entertained
no conception previously to my knowledge of him.
Notwithstanding the uncouthness of his garb, his manners were
not unpolished. All topics were handled by him with skill, and
without pedantry or affectation. He uttered no sentiment
calculated to produce a disadvantageous impression: on the
contrary, his observations denoted a mind alive to every
generous and heroic feeling. They were introduced without
parade, and accompanied with that degree of earnestness which
indicates sincerity.

He parted from us not till late, refusing an invitation to
spend the night here, but readily consented to repeat his visit.
His visits were frequently repeated. Each day introduced us to
a more intimate acquaintance with his sentiments, but left us
wholly in the dark, concerning that about which we were most
inquisitive. He studiously avoided all mention of his past or
present situation. Even the place of his abode in the city he
concealed from us.

Our sphere, in this respect, being somewhat limited, and the
intellectual endowments of this man being indisputably great,
his deportment was more diligently marked, and copiously
commented on by us, than you, perhaps, will think the
circumstances warranted. Not a gesture, or glance, or accent,
that was not, in our private assemblies, discussed, and
inferences deduced from it. It may well be thought that he
modelled his behaviour by an uncommon standard, when, with all
our opportunities and accuracy of observation, we were able, for
a long time, to gather no satisfactory information. He afforded
us no ground on which to build even a plausible conjecture.

There is a degree of familiarity which takes place between
constant associates, that justifies the negligence of many rules
of which, in an earlier period of their intercourse, politeness
requires the exact observance. Inquiries into our condition are
allowable when they are prompted by a disinterested concern for
our welfare; and this solicitude is not only pardonable, but may
justly be demanded from those who chuse us for their companions.
This state of things was more slow to arrive on this occasion
than on most others, on account of the gravity and loftiness of
this man's behaviour.

Pleyel, however, began, at length, to employ regular means
for this end. He occasionally alluded to the circumstances in
which they had formerly met, and remarked the incongruousness
between the religion and habits of a Spaniard, with those of a
native of Britain. He expressed his astonishment at meeting our
guest in this corner of the globe, especially as, when they
parted in Spain, he was taught to believe that Carwin should
never leave that country. He insinuated, that a change so great
must have been prompted by motives of a singular and momentous
kind.

No answer, or an answer wide of the purpose, was generally
made to these insinuations. Britons and Spaniards, he said, are
votaries of the same Deity, and square their faith by the same
precepts; their ideas are drawn from the same fountains of
literature, and they speak dialects of the same tongue; their
government and laws have more resemblances than differences;
they were formerly provinces of the same civil, and till lately,
of the same religious, Empire.

As to the motives which induce men to change the place of
their abode, these must unavoidably be fleeting and mutable. If
not bound to one spot by conjugal or parental ties, or by the
nature of that employment to which we are indebted for
subsistence, the inducements to change are far more numerous and
powerful, than opposite inducements.

He spoke as if desirous of shewing that he was not aware of
the tendency of Pleyel's remarks; yet, certain tokens were
apparent, that proved him by no means wanting in penetration.
These tokens were to be read in his countenance, and not in his
words. When any thing was said, indicating curiosity in us, the
gloom of his countenance was deepened, his eyes sunk to the
ground, and his wonted air was not resumed without visible
struggle. Hence, it was obvious to infer, that some incidents
of his life were reflected on by him with regret; and that,
since these incidents were carefully concealed, and even that
regret which flowed from them laboriously stifled, they had not
been merely disastrous. The secrecy that was observed appeared
not designed to provoke or baffle the inquisitive, but was
prompted by the shame, or by the prudence of guilt.

These ideas, which were adopted by Pleyel and my brother, as
well as myself, hindered us from employing more direct means for
accomplishing our wishes. Questions might have been put in such
terms, that no room should be left for the pretence of
misapprehension, and if modesty merely had been the obstacle,
such questions would not have been wanting; but we considered,
that, if the disclosure were productive of pain or disgrace, it
was inhuman to extort it.

Amidst the various topics that were discussed in his
presence, allusions were, of course, made to the inexplicable
events that had lately happened. At those times, the words and
looks of this man were objects of my particular attention. The
subject was extraordinary; and any one whose experience or
reflections could throw any light upon it, was entitled to my
gratitude. As this man was enlightened by reading and travel,
I listened with eagerness to the remarks which he should make.

At first, I entertained a kind of apprehension, that the tale
would be heard by him with incredulity and secret ridicule. I
had formerly heard stories that resembled this in some of their
mysterious circumstances, but they were, commonly, heard by me
with contempt. I was doubtful, whether the same impression
would not now be made on the mind of our guest; but I was
mistaken in my fears.

He heard them with seriousness, and without any marks either
of surprize or incredulity. He pursued, with visible pleasure,
that kind of disquisition which was naturally suggested by them.
His fancy was eminently vigorous and prolific, and if he did not
persuade us, that human beings are, sometimes, admitted to a
sensible intercourse with the author of nature, he, at least,
won over our inclination to the cause. He merely deduced, from
his own reasonings, that such intercourse was probable; but
confessed that, though he was acquainted with many instances
somewhat similar to those which had been related by us, none of
them were perfectly exempted from the suspicion of human agency.

On being requested to relate these instances, he amused us
with many curious details. His narratives were constructed with
so much skill, and rehearsed with so much energy, that all the
effects of a dramatic exhibition were frequently produced by
them. Those that were most coherent and most minute, and, of
consequence, least entitled to credit, were yet rendered
probable by the exquisite art of this rhetorician. For every
difficulty that was suggested, a ready and plausible solution
was furnished. Mysterious voices had always a share in
producing the catastrophe, but they were always to be explained
on some known principles, either as reflected into a focus, or
communicated through a tube. I could not but remark that his
narratives, however complex or marvellous, contained no instance
sufficiently parallel to those that had befallen ourselves, and
in which the solution was applicable to our own case.

My brother was a much more sanguine reasoner than our guest.
Even in some of the facts which were related by Carwin, he
maintained the probability of celestial interference, when the
latter was disposed to deny it, and had found, as he imagined,
footsteps of an human agent. Pleyel was by no means equally
credulous. He scrupled not to deny faith to any testimony but
that of his senses, and allowed the facts which had lately been
supported by this testimony, not to mould his belief, but merely
to give birth to doubts.

It was soon observed that Carwin adopted, in some degree, a
similar distinction. A tale of this kind, related by others, he
would believe, provided it was explicable upon known principles;
but that such notices were actually communicated by beings of an
higher order, he would believe only when his own ears were
assailed in a manner which could not be otherwise accounted for.
Civility forbad him to contradict my brother or myself, but his
understanding refused to acquiesce in our testimony. Besides,
he was disposed to question whether the voices heard in the
temple, at the foot of the hill, and in my closet, were not
really uttered by human organs. On this supposition he was
desired to explain how the effect was produced.

He answered, that the power of mimickry was very common.
Catharine's voice might easily be imitated by one at the foot of
the hill, who would find no difficulty in eluding, by flight,
the search of Wieland. The tidings of the death of the Saxon
lady were uttered by one near at hand, who overheard the
conversation, who conjectured her death, and whose conjecture
happened to accord with the truth. That the voice appeared to
come from the cieling was to be considered as an illusion of the
fancy. The cry for help, heard in the hall on the night of my
adventure, was to be ascribed to an human creature, who actually
stood in the hall when he uttered it. It was of no moment, he
said, that we could not explain by what motives he that made the
signal was led hither. How imperfectly acquainted were we with
the condition and designs of the beings that surrounded us? The
city was near at hand, and thousands might there exist whose
powers and purposes might easily explain whatever was mysterious
in this transaction. As to the closet dialogue, he was obliged
to adopt one of two suppositions, and affirm either that it was
fashioned in my own fancy, or that it actually took place
between two persons in the closet.

Such was Carwin's mode of explaining these appearances. It
is such, perhaps, as would commend itself as most plausible to
the most sagacious minds, but it was insufficient to impart
conviction to us. As to the treason that was meditated against
me, it was doubtless just to conclude that it was either real or
imaginary; but that it was real was attested by the mysterious
warning in the summer-house, the secret of which I had hitherto
locked up in my own breast.

A month passed away in this kind of intercourse. As to
Carwin, our ignorance was in no degree enlightened respecting
his genuine character and views. Appearances were uniform. No
man possessed a larger store of knowledge, or a greater degree
of skill in the communication of it to others; Hence he was
regarded as an inestimable addition to our society. Considering
the distance of my brother's house from the city, he was
frequently prevailed upon to pass the night where he spent the
evening. Two days seldom elapsed without a visit from him;
hence he was regarded as a kind of inmate of the house. He
entered and departed without ceremony. When he arrived he
received an unaffected welcome, and when he chose to retire, no
importunities were used to induce him to remain.

The temple was the principal scene of our social enjoyments;
yet the felicity that we tasted when assembled in this asylum,
was but the gleam of a former sun-shine. Carwin never parted
with his gravity. The inscrutableness of his character, and the
uncertainty whether his fellowship tended to good or to evil,
were seldom absent from our minds. This circumstance powerfully
contributed to sadden us.

My heart was the seat of growing disquietudes. This change
in one who had formerly been characterized by all the
exuberances of soul, could not fail to be remarked by my
friends. My brother was always a pattern of solemnity. My
sister was clay, moulded by the circumstances in which she
happened to be placed. There was but one whose deportment
remains to be described as being of importance to our happiness.
Had Pleyel likewise dismissed his vivacity?

He was as whimsical and jestful as ever, but he was not
happy. The truth, in this respect, was of too much importance
to me not to make me a vigilant observer. His mirth was easily
perceived to be the fruit of exertion. When his thoughts
wandered from the company, an air of dissatisfaction and
impatience stole across his features. Even the punctuality and
frequency of his visits were somewhat lessened. It may be
supposed that my own uneasiness was heightened by these tokens;
but, strange as it may seem, I found, in the present state of my
mind, no relief but in the persuasion that Pleyel was unhappy.

That unhappiness, indeed, depended, for its value in my eyes,
on the cause that produced it. It did not arise from the death
of the Saxon lady: it was not a contagious emanation from the
countenances of Wieland or Carwin. There was but one other
source whence it could flow. A nameless ecstacy thrilled
through my frame when any new proof occurred that the
ambiguousness of my behaviour was the cause.



Chapter IX


My brother had received a new book from Germany. It was a
tragedy, and the first attempt of a Saxon poet, of whom my
brother had been taught to entertain the highest expectations.
The exploits of Zisca, the Bohemian hero, were woven into a
dramatic series and connection. According to German custom, it
was minute and diffuse, and dictated by an adventurous and
lawless fancy. It was a chain of audacious acts, and unheard-of
disasters. The moated fortress, and the thicket; the ambush and
the battle; and the conflict of headlong passions, were
pourtrayed in wild numbers, and with terrific energy. An
afternoon was set apart to rehearse this performance. The
language was familiar to all of us but Carwin, whose company,
therefore, was tacitly dispensed with.

The morning previous to this intended rehearsal, I spent at
home. My mind was occupied with reflections relative to my own
situation. The sentiment which lived with chief energy in my
heart, was connected with the image of Pleyel. In the midst of
my anguish, I had not been destitute of consolation. His late
deportment had given spring to my hopes. Was not the hour at
hand, which should render me the happiest of human creatures?
He suspected that I looked with favorable eyes upon Carwin.
Hence arose disquietudes, which he struggled in vain to conceal.
He loved me, but was hopeless that his love would be
compensated. Is it not time, said I, to rectify this error?
But by what means is this to be effected? It can only be done
by a change of deportment in me; but how must I demean myself
for this purpose?

I must not speak. Neither eyes, nor lips, must impart the
information. He must not be assured that my heart is his,
previous to the tender of his own; but he must be convinced that
it has not been given to another; he must be supplied with space
whereon to build a doubt as to the true state of my affections;
he must be prompted to avow himself. The line of delicate
propriety; how hard it is, not to fall short, and not to
overleap it!

This afternoon we shall meet at the temple. We shall not
separate till late. It will be his province to accompany me
home. The airy expanse is without a speck. This breeze is
usually stedfast, and its promise of a bland and cloudless
evening, may be trusted. The moon will rise at eleven, and at
that hour, we shall wind along this bank. Possibly that hour
may decide my fate. If suitable encouragement be given, Pleyel
will reveal his soul to me; and I, ere I reach this threshold,
will be made the happiest of beings. And is this good to be
mine? Add wings to thy speed, sweet evening; and thou, moon, I
charge thee, shroud thy beams at the moment when my Pleyel
whispers love. I would not for the world, that the burning
blushes, and the mounting raptures of that moment, should be
visible.

But what encouragement is wanting? I must be regardful of
insurmountable limits. Yet when minds are imbued with a genuine
sympathy, are not words and looks superfluous? Are not motion
and touch sufficient to impart feelings such as mine? Has he
not eyed me at moments, when the pressure of his hand has thrown
me into tumults, and was it possible that he mistook the
impetuosities of love, for the eloquence of indignation?

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