Book: Wieland; or The Transformation, An American Tale

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But the hastening evening will decide. Would it were come!
And yet I shudder at its near approach. An interview that must
thus terminate, is surely to be wished for by me; and yet it is
not without its terrors. Would to heaven it were come and gone!

I feel no reluctance, my friends to be thus explicit. Time
was, when these emotions would be hidden with immeasurable
solicitude, from every human eye. Alas! these airy and fleeting
impulses of shame are gone. My scruples were preposterous and
criminal. They are bred in all hearts, by a perverse and
vicious education, and they would still have maintained their
place in my heart, had not my portion been set in misery. My
errors have taught me thus much wisdom; that those sentiments
which we ought not to disclose, it is criminal to harbour.

It was proposed to begin the rehearsal at four o'clock; I
counted the minutes as they passed; their flight was at once too
rapid and too slow; my sensations were of an excruciating kind;
I could taste no food, nor apply to any task, nor enjoy a
moment's repose: when the hour arrived, I hastened to my
brother's.

Pleyel was not there. He had not yet come. On ordinary
occasions, he was eminent for punctuality. He had testified
great eagerness to share in the pleasures of this rehearsal. He
was to divide the task with my brother, and, in tasks like
these, he always engaged with peculiar zeal. His elocution was
less sweet than sonorous; and, therefore, better adapted than
the mellifluences of his friend, to the outrageous vehemence of
this drama.

What could detain him? Perhaps he lingered through
forgetfulness. Yet this was incredible. Never had his memory
been known to fail upon even more trivial occasions. Not less
impossible was it, that the scheme had lost its attractions, and
that he staid, because his coming would afford him no
gratification. But why should we expect him to adhere to the
minute?

An half hour elapsed, but Pleyel was still at a distance.
Perhaps he had misunderstood the hour which had been proposed.
Perhaps he had conceived that to-morrow, and not to-day, had
been selected for this purpose: but no. A review of preceding
circumstances demonstrated that such misapprehension was
impossible; for he had himself proposed this day, and this hour.
This day, his attention would not otherwise be occupied; but
to-morrow, an indispensible engagement was foreseen, by which
all his time would be engrossed: his detention, therefore, must
be owing to some unforeseen and extraordinary event. Our
conjectures were vague, tumultuous, and sometimes fearful. His
sickness and his death might possibly have detained him.

Tortured with suspense, we sat gazing at each other, and at
the path which led from the road. Every horseman that passed
was, for a moment, imagined to be him. Hour succeeded hour, and
the sun, gradually declining, at length, disappeared. Every
signal of his coming proved fallacious, and our hopes were at
length dismissed. His absence affected my friends in no
insupportable degree. They should be obliged, they said, to
defer this undertaking till the morrow; and, perhaps, their
impatient curiosity would compel them to dispense entirely with
his presence. No doubt, some harmless occurrence had diverted
him from his purpose; and they trusted that they should receive
a satisfactory account of him in the morning.

It may be supposed that this disappointment affected me in a
very different manner. I turned aside my head to conceal my
tears. I fled into solitude, to give vent to my reproaches,
without interruption or restraint. My heart was ready to burst
with indignation and grief. Pleyel was not the only object of
my keen but unjust upbraiding. Deeply did I execrate my own
folly. Thus fallen into ruins was the gay fabric which I had
reared! Thus had my golden vision melted into air!

How fondly did I dream that Pleyel was a lover! If he were,
would he have suffered any obstacle to hinder his coming? Blind
and infatuated man! I exclaimed. Thou sportest with happiness.
The good that is offered thee, thou hast the insolence and folly
to refuse. Well, I will henceforth intrust my felicity to no
one's keeping but my own.

The first agonies of this disappointment would not allow me
to be reasonable or just. Every ground on which I had built the
persuasion that Pleyel was not unimpressed in my favor, appeared
to vanish. It seemed as if I had been misled into this opinion,
by the most palpable illusions.

I made some trifling excuse, and returned, much earlier than
I expected, to my own house. I retired early to my chamber,
without designing to sleep. I placed myself at a window, and
gave the reins to reflection.

The hateful and degrading impulses which had lately
controuled me were, in some degree, removed. New dejection
succeeded, but was now produced by contemplating my late
behaviour. Surely that passion is worthy to be abhorred which
obscures our understanding, and urges us to the commission of
injustice. What right had I to expect his attendance? Had I
not demeaned myself like one indifferent to his happiness, and
as having bestowed my regards upon another? His absence might
be prompted by the love which I considered his absence as a
proof that he wanted. He came not because the sight of me, the
spectacle of my coldness or aversion, contributed to his
despair. Why should I prolong, by hypocrisy or silence, his
misery as well as my own? Why not deal with him explicitly, and
assure him of the truth?

You will hardly believe that, in obedience to this
suggestion, I rose for the purpose of ordering a light, that I
might instantly make this confession in a letter. A second
thought shewed me the rashness of this scheme, and I wondered by
what infirmity of mind I could be betrayed into a momentary
approbation of it. I saw with the utmost clearness that a
confession like that would be the most remediless and
unpardonable outrage upon the dignity of my sex, and utterly
unworthy of that passion which controuled me.

I resumed my seat and my musing. To account for the absence
of Pleyel became once more the scope of my conjectures. How
many incidents might occur to raise an insuperable impediment in
his way? When I was a child, a scheme of pleasure, in which he
and his sister were parties, had been, in like manner,
frustrated by his absence; but his absence, in that instance,
had been occasioned by his falling from a boat into the river,
in consequence of which he had run the most imminent hazard of
being drowned. Here was a second disappointment endured by the
same persons, and produced by his failure. Might it not
originate in the same cause? Had he not designed to cross the
river that morning to make some necessary purchases in Jersey?
He had preconcerted to return to his own house to dinner; but,
perhaps, some disaster had befallen him. Experience had taught
me the insecurity of a canoe, and that was the only kind of boat
which Pleyel used: I was, likewise, actuated by an hereditary
dread of water. These circumstances combined to bestow
considerable plausibility on this conjecture; but the
consternation with which I began to be seized was allayed by
reflecting, that if this disaster had happened my brother would
have received the speediest information of it. The consolation
which this idea imparted was ravished from me by a new thought.
This disaster might have happened, and his family not be
apprized of it. The first intelligence of his fate may be
communicated by the livid corpse which the tide may cast, many
days hence, upon the shore.

Thus was I distressed by opposite conjectures: thus was I
tormented by phantoms of my own creation. It was not always
thus. I can ascertain the date when my mind became the victim
of this imbecility; perhaps it was coeval with the inroad of a
fatal passion; a passion that will never rank me in the number
of its eulogists; it was alone sufficient to the extermination
of my peace: it was itself a plenteous source of calamity, and
needed not the concurrence of other evils to take away the
attractions of existence, and dig for me an untimely grave.

The state of my mind naturally introduced a train of
reflections upon the dangers and cares which inevitably beset an
human being. By no violent transition was I led to ponder on
the turbulent life and mysterious end of my father. I
cherished, with the utmost veneration, the memory of this man,
and every relique connected with his fate was preserved with the
most scrupulous care. Among these was to be numbered a
manuscript, containing memoirs of his own life. The narrative
was by no means recommended by its eloquence; but neither did
all its value flow from my relationship to the author. Its
stile had an unaffected and picturesque simplicity. The great
variety and circumstantial display of the incidents, together
with their intrinsic importance, as descriptive of human manners
and passions, made it the most useful book in my collection. It
was late; but being sensible of no inclination to sleep, I
resolved to betake myself to the perusal of it.

To do this it was requisite to procure a light. The girl had
long since retired to her chamber: it was therefore proper to
wait upon myself. A lamp, and the means of lighting it, were
only to be found in the kitchen. Thither I resolved forthwith
to repair; but the light was of use merely to enable me to read
the book. I knew the shelf and the spot where it stood.
Whether I took down the book, or prepared the lamp in the first
place, appeared to be a matter of no moment. The latter was
preferred, and, leaving my seat, I approached the closet in
which, as I mentioned formerly, my books and papers were
deposited.

Suddenly the remembrance of what had lately passed in this
closet occurred. Whether midnight was approaching, or had
passed, I knew not. I was, as then, alone, and defenceless.
The wind was in that direction in which, aided by the deathlike
repose of nature, it brought to me the murmur of the water-fall.
This was mingled with that solemn and enchanting sound, which a
breeze produces among the leaves of pines. The words of that
mysterious dialogue, their fearful import, and the wild excess
to which I was transported by my terrors, filled my imagination
anew. My steps faultered, and I stood a moment to recover
myself.

I prevailed on myself at length to move towards the closet.
I touched the lock, but my fingers were powerless; I was visited
afresh by unconquerable apprehensions. A sort of belief darted
into my mind, that some being was concealed within, whose
purposes were evil. I began to contend with those fears, when
it occurred to me that I might, without impropriety, go for a
lamp previously to opening the closet. I receded a few steps;
but before I reached my chamber door my thoughts took a new
direction. Motion seemed to produce a mechanical influence upon
me. I was ashamed of my weakness. Besides, what aid could be
afforded me by a lamp?

My fears had pictured to themselves no precise object. It
would be difficult to depict, in words, the ingredients and hues
of that phantom which haunted me. An hand invisible and of
preternatural strength, lifted by human passions, and selecting
my life for its aim, were parts of this terrific image. All
places were alike accessible to this foe, or if his empire were
restricted by local bounds, those bounds were utterly
inscrutable by me. But had I not been told by some one in
league with this enemy, that every place but the recess in the
bank was exempt from danger?
I returned to the closet, and once more put my hand upon the
lock. O! may my ears lose their sensibility, ere they be again
assailed by a shriek so terrible! Not merely my understanding
was subdued by the sound: it acted on my nerves like an edge of
steel. It appeared to cut asunder the fibres of my brain, and
rack every joint with agony.

The cry, loud and piercing as it was, was nevertheless human.
No articulation was ever more distinct. The breath which
accompanied it did not fan my hair, yet did every circumstance
combine to persuade me that the lips which uttered it touched my
very shoulder.

"Hold! Hold!" were the words of this tremendous prohibition,
in whose tone the whole soul seemed to be wrapped up, and every
energy converted into eagerness and terror.

Shuddering, I dashed myself against the wall, and by the same
involuntary impulse, turned my face backward to examine the
mysterious monitor. The moon-light streamed into each window,
and every corner of the room was conspicuous, and yet I beheld
nothing!

The interval was too brief to be artificially measured,
between the utterance of these words, and my scrutiny directed
to the quarter whence they came. Yet if a human being had been
there, could he fail to have been visible? Which of my senses
was the prey of a fatal illusion? The shock which the sound
produced was still felt in every part of my frame. The sound,
therefore, could not but be a genuine commotion. But that I had
heard it, was not more true than that the being who uttered it
was stationed at my right ear; yet my attendant was invisible.

I cannot describe the state of my thoughts at that moment.
Surprize had mastered my faculties. My frame shook, and the
vital current was congealed. I was conscious only to the
vehemence of my sensations. This condition could not be
lasting. Like a tide, which suddenly mounts to an overwhelming
height, and then gradually subsides, my confusion slowly gave
place to order, and my tumults to a calm. I was able to
deliberate and move. I resumed my feet, and advanced into the
midst of the room. Upward, and behind, and on each side, I
threw penetrating glances. I was not satisfied with one
examination. He that hitherto refused to be seen, might change
his purpose, and on the next survey be clearly distinguishable.

Solitude imposes least restraint upon the fancy. Dark is
less fertile of images than the feeble lustre of the moon. I
was alone, and the walls were chequered by shadowy forms. As
the moon passed behind a cloud and emerged, these shadows seemed
to be endowed with life, and to move. The apartment was open to
the breeze, and the curtain was occasionally blown from its
ordinary position. This motion was not unaccompanied with
sound. I failed not to snatch a look, and to listen when this
motion and this sound occurred. My belief that my monitor was
posted near, was strong, and instantly converted these
appearances to tokens of his presence, and yet I could discern
nothing.

When my thoughts were at length permitted to revert to the
past, the first idea that occurred was the resemblance between
the words of the voice which I had just heard, and those which
had terminated my dream in the summer-house. There are means by
which we are able to distinguish a substance from a shadow, a
reality from the phantom of a dream. The pit, my brother
beckoning me forward, the seizure of my arm, and the voice
behind, were surely imaginary. That these incidents were
fashioned in my sleep, is supported by the same indubitable
evidence that compels me to believe myself awake at present; yet
the words and the voice were the same. Then, by some
inexplicable contrivance, I was aware of the danger, while my
actions and sensations were those of one wholly unacquainted
with it. Now, was it not equally true that my actions and
persuasions were at war? Had not the belief, that evil lurked
in the closet, gained admittance, and had not my actions
betokened an unwarrantable security? To obviate the effects of
my infatuation, the same means had been used.

In my dream, he that tempted me to my destruction, was my
brother. Death was ambushed in my path. From what evil was I
now rescued? What minister or implement of ill was shut up in
this recess? Who was it whose suffocating grasp I was to feel,
should I dare to enter it? What monstrous conception is this?
my brother!

No; protection, and not injury is his province. Strange and
terrible chimera! Yet it would not be suddenly dismissed. It
was surely no vulgar agency that gave this form to my fears. He
to whom all parts of time are equally present, whom no
contingency approaches, was the author of that spell which now
seized upon me. Life was dear to me. No consideration was
present that enjoined me to relinquish it. Sacred duty combined
with every spontaneous sentiment to endear to me my being.
Should I not shudder when my being was endangered? But what
emotion should possess me when the arm lifted aginst me was
Wieland's?

Ideas exist in our minds that can be accounted for by no
established laws. Why did I dream that my brother was my foe?
Why but because an omen of my fate was ordained to be
communicated? Yet what salutary end did it serve? Did it arm
me with caution to elude, or fortitude to bear the evils to
which I was reserved? My present thoughts were, no doubt,
indebted for their hue to the similitude existing between these
incidents and those of my dream. Surely it was phrenzy that
dictated my deed. That a ruffian was hidden in the closet, was
an idea, the genuine tendency of which was to urge me to flight.
Such had been the effect formerly produced. Had my mind been
simply occupied with this thought at present, no doubt, the same
impulse would have been experienced; but now it was my brother
whom I was irresistably persuaded to regard as the contriver of
that ill of which I had been forewarned. This persuasion did
not extenuate my fears or my danger. Why then did I again
approach the closet and withdraw the bolt? My resolution was
instantly conceived, and executed without faultering.

The door was formed of light materials. The lock, of simple
structure, easily forewent its hold. It opened into the room,
and commonly moved upon its hinges, after being unfastened,
without any effort of mine. This effort, however, was bestowed
upon the present occasion. It was my purpose to open it with
quickness, but the exertion which I made was ineffectual. It
refused to open.

At another time, this circumstance would not have looked with
a face of mystery. I should have supposed some casual
obstruction, and repeated my efforts to surmount it. But now my
mind was accessible to no conjecture but one. The door was
hindered from opening by human force. Surely, here was new
cause for affright. This was confirmation proper to decide my
conduct. Now was all ground of hesitation taken away. What
could be supposed but that I deserted the chamber and the house?
that I at least endeavoured no longer to withdraw the door?

Have I not said that my actions were dictated by phrenzy? My
reason had forborne, for a time, to suggest or to sway my
resolves. I reiterated my endeavours. I exerted all my force
to overcome the obstacle, but in vain. The strength that was
exerted to keep it shut, was superior to mine.

A casual observer might, perhaps, applaud the audaciousness
of this conduct. Whence, but from an habitual defiance of
danger, could my perseverance arise? I have already assigned,
as distinctly as I am able, the cause of it. The frantic
conception that my brother was within, that the resistance made
to my design was exerted by him, had rooted itself in my mind.
You will comprehend the height of this infatuation, when I tell
you, that, finding all my exertions vain, I betook myself to
exclamations. Surely I was utterly bereft of understanding.

Now had I arrived at the crisis of my fate. "O! hinder not
the door to open," I exclaimed, in a tone that had less of fear
than of grief in it. "I know you well. Come forth, but harm me
not. I beseech you come forth."

I had taken my hand from the lock, and removed to a small
distance from the door. I had scarcely uttered these words,
when the door swung upon its hinges, and displayed to my view
the interior of the closet. Whoever was within, was shrouded in
darkness. A few seconds passed without interruption of the
silence. I knew not what to expect or to fear. My eyes would
not stray from the recess. Presently, a deep sigh was heard.
The quarter from which it came heightened the eagerness of my
gaze. Some one approached from the farther end. I quickly
perceived the outlines of a human figure. Its steps were
irresolute and slow. I recoiled as it advanced.

By coming at length within the verge of the room, his form
was clearly distinguishable. I had prefigured to myself a very
different personage. The face that presented itself was the
last that I should desire to meet at an hour, and in a place
like this. My wonder was stifled by my fears. Assassins had
lurked in this recess. Some divine voice warned me of danger,
that at this moment awaited me. I had spurned the intimation,
and challenged my adversary.

I recalled the mysterious countenance and dubious character
of Carwin. What motive but atrocious ones could guide his steps
hither? I was alone. My habit suited the hour, and the place,
and the warmth of the season. All succour was remote. He had
placed himself between me and the door. My frame shook with the
vehemence of my apprehensions.

Yet I was not wholly lost to myself: I vigilantly marked his
demeanour. His looks were grave, but not without perturbation.
What species of inquietude it betrayed, the light was not strong
enough to enable me to discover. He stood still; but his eyes
wandered from one object to another. When these powerful organs
were fixed upon me, I shrunk into myself. At length, he broke
silence. Earnestness, and not embarrassment, was in his tone.
He advanced close to me while he spoke.

"What voice was that which lately addressed you?"

He paused for an answer; but observing my trepidation, he
resumed, with undiminished solemnity: "Be not terrified.
Whoever he was, he hast done you an important service. I need
not ask you if it were the voice of a companion. That sound was
beyond the compass of human organs. The knowledge that enabled
him to tell you who was in the closet, was obtained by
incomprehensible means.

"You knew that Carwin was there. Were you not apprized of
his intents? The same power could impart the one as well as the
other. Yet, knowing these, you persisted. Audacious girl! but,
perhaps, you confided in his guardianship. Your confidence was
just. With succour like this at hand you may safely defy me.

"He is my eternal foe; the baffler of my best concerted
schemes. Twice have you been saved by his accursed
interposition. But for him I should long ere now have borne
away the spoils of your honor."

He looked at me with greater stedfastness than before. I
became every moment more anxious for my safety. It was with
difficulty I stammered out an entreaty that he would instantly
depart, or suffer me to do so. He paid no regard to my request,
but proceeded in a more impassioned manner.

"What is it you fear? Have I not told you, you are safe?
Has not one in whom you more reasonably place trust assured you
of it? Even if I execute my purpose, what injury is done? Your
prejudices will call it by that name, but it merits it not.
"I was impelled by a sentiment that does you honor; a
sentiment, that would sanctify my deed; but, whatever it be, you
are safe. Be this chimera still worshipped; I will do nothing
to pollute it." There he stopped.

The accents and gestures of this man left me drained of all
courage. Surely, on no other occasion should I have been thus
pusillanimous. My state I regarded as a hopeless one. I was
wholly at the mercy of this being. Whichever way I turned my
eyes, I saw no avenue by which I might escape. The resources of
my personal strength, my ingenuity, and my eloquence, I
estimated at nothing. The dignity of virtue, and the force of
truth, I had been accustomed to celebrate; and had frequently
vaunted of the conquests which I should make with their
assistance.

I used to suppose that certain evils could never befall a
being in possession of a sound mind; that true virtue supplies
us with energy which vice can never resist; that it was always
in our power to obstruct, by his own death, the designs of an
enemy who aimed at less than our life. How was it that a
sentiment like despair had now invaded me, and that I trusted to
the protection of chance, or to the pity of my persecutor?

His words imparted some notion of the injury which he had
meditated. He talked of obstacles that had risen in his way.
He had relinquished his design. These sources supplied me with
slender consolation. There was no security but in his absence.
When I looked at myself, when I reflected on the hour and the
place, I was overpowered by horror and dejection.

He was silent, museful, and inattentive to my situation, yet
made no motion to depart. I was silent in my turn. What could
I say? I was confident that reason in this contest would be
impotent. I must owe my safety to his own suggestions.
Whatever purpose brought him hither, he had changed it. Why
then did he remain? His resolutions might fluctuate, and the
pause of a few minutes restore to him his first resolutions.

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