Court and Lady’s Magazine/Volume 3/February 1839/The Two New Year’s Nights

by Johann August Apel

For other English-language translations of this work, see Zwei Neujahrsnächte.

THE TWO NEW YEAR’S NIGHTS.

FROM THE GERMAN OF LAUN.

NIGHT THE FIRST.

It struck eleven.

“One parting glass to the departing year!” exclaimed our host, “and to the many happy hours we have enjoyed therein.”

The glasses rang merrily, and every eye beamed with the remembrance of social pleasure past.

“There is certainly,” said Herrmann, “something awful—a contradictory feeling between mirth and sadness—connected with the moment which marks the change of the year. In point of fact, every succeeding instant is the beginning and end of a year—of a century—of a thousand years, if you will: and it is convention alone which makes us attach a degree of solemnity to the midnight hour between the last day of December and the first of January.”

“Exactly so,” replied Falk; “on religious grounds whole nations have attached importance to it, and what more do we require? In the life of man, periodical rejoicings concerning himself individually are much more apt to affect him, and, for my own part, I always gladly contribute my quota of cheerfulness to the celebration of them. But it must be owned, that when family anniversaries assume a shade of seriousness, they are apt to degenerate into mawkish sentimentality; for, however pleasingly the name of festival may strike upon the ear, it is, after all, but the commemoration of some circumstance that has contributed to our happiness. The pleasures of domestic life, however dear to the man of feeling, fall short of festival dignity. We all, indeed, rejoice to find ourselves again re-united in the same social intercourse of a twelvemonth since; and the old year smiles on us as benignly in its dying hour as though it had nothing to reproach us with. But it is a higher feeling than that of mirth alone, which consecrates this hour; and the received opinions of a large class of mankind confirm it. Even as the church has its All Saint’s and All Soul’s feasts, so must this hour prove a solemn festival of all joy or all sorrow to mankind at large. Where, then, mutual good wishes are exchanged for the welfare and happiness of all around us, there is far less of egotism than in the celebration of mere family anniversaries. The old year resembles a dignified matronly friend casting a last mournful smile upon us ere she leave the world for ever, and the new year greets us like a lovely, promising infant; while, between the bier of the one, and the cradle of the other, lie hidden presentiments which are sometimes unconsciously expressed by the lips of man in wishes of serious import.”

“Prithee let our good wishes rest until midnight,” interposed the host, “otherwise we may blend our New Year’s congratulations with half-embodied forebodings; for, as we sincerely wish each other well, it would be more agreeable to hope that our good wishes may, like true presentiments, be realised. But, alas! experience upsets your theory like that of many others.”

“Speak more circumspectly as regards experience,” replied Falk, “or else, weigh well what real experience you have had: suppose, for instance, a man be betrayed into unusual conviviality, and his slumbers thereby disturbed, he forthwith decides from experience that wine at night must disagree with him.”

“The example you give is applicable to men only,” observed the hostess; “we ladies are inclined to agree with you as regards the magic of a New Year’s wi-h, so pray expound to us, but in a manner adapted to our feminine comprehensions, why so many aspirations remain unfulfilled?”

“Probably,” said Herrmann, “because Falk’s theory is only a prelude to what he will presently favour us with. The theme is almost worn out, so a dash of probability will give it an interest, like a good story-teller, who assures you his tale is ‘founded on fact.’”

Without seeming to notice Herrmann’s irony, Falk addressed the hostess:—

“In reply to your query, I may say that the greater part of New Year’s wishes are but empty ceremonial, mere compliment, from which no result is either intended or expected. I might also have added, that I attribute a magical power only to those wishes offered at the hour of midnight, which will considerably diminish the number of those unfulfilled; but I’ll do my best, and take Herrmann’s side of the question, allowing that it was only by way of prelude, and therefore (our worthy host permitting), declare beforehand my hope and belief, that the sincere good wishes we shall presently mutually interchange, will be so many expressed predictions of what may befall us in the ensuing year.”

“You cannot be serious,” said the hostess; “I think you are inclined to retract your opinion. You either do not think your audience worthy to participate in your view of the subject, or you are half ashamed of your own opinions; now make your choice. Which suspicion would you rather incur?”

“Unquestionably the latter,” he replied; “you are not far from guessing the truth. The hour which precedes the entrance of the New Year, is certainly not the moment to place a New Year’s wish in an equivocal light; for the rest, my remark was merely the effect of chance, engendered by the run, or rather spring of conversation.”

“That,” said the hostess, “leads us easier to conceive how presentiments, as you lately expressed yourself, arise between the bier and the cradle of the two years, appearing not in the form of wishes only, but by way of remark, opinion, or some similar casualty. See how attentively yon affianced pair are listening to us, they are living in the very spring-time of happiness. Ask the professor, dear Elisa, to explain this magic to us; he cannot refuse the request of so lovely a betrothed.”

Elisa seconded the proposal of the hostess, and Falk, importuned on all sides, at length began:—

“My error has induced you to raise your expectations too high, and they will consequently remain unsatisfied. During our conversation, I bethought me of the old belief in the import of words and signs, involuntarily made or uttered, at certain periods. The Ancients, it is known, placed implicit faith in this belief; traces of which remain among us at the present day. The Glückauf, or ‘Good-be-with-you’ of the mountaineers, thence draws its origin, as also many other village customs, particularly those in mountainous districts, where the peasantry scrupulously avoid making use of expressions implying misfortune; still more do they shun words of doubtful, or double import, which, however innocently spoken, may be misapplied by evil spirits in the opposite sense, and lead to a miserable fulfilment. And such, methought, may be the fate of many an aspiration; like the prophecies in Macbeth, realized to the letter, only to destroy.”

“Are you really in earnest?” exclaimed several voices at once, whose eyes, with incredulous looks, were turned upon the professor.

“It is certain,” said Anselm, “that many singular instances of this kind have occurred.”

Falk, halting between jest and earnest, remained silent; the rest patiently waited for him to continue.

At length, Herrmann said with a smile—“Suppose we take up the catalogue of legendary lore. I believe there exists no popular belief without its explanatory example. Quick, therefore, give us proof of the magic power of words.”

“An interesting little tale of that description might easily be found,” said Anselm; “with your permission, I will experimentalize on the professor’s lecture; requesting you to observe that I offer you only a simple illustration, and not a brilliant chef-d’œuvre; in fact, I only relate what I have myself seen and heard. In Carlsbad, several years ago, I formed the acquaintance of the Countess Amalia Von Kulm. She had recently become a widow, and with her daughter, a child of five years, visited the baths for the sole purpose of accompanying an aged valetudinarian uncle, for she was herself in the fairest bloom of youth, health, and beauty. Her uncle did not derive the expected benefit from the baths, and his physician urged his departure. My stay being concluded, the countess proposed that I should pursue my journey with them, making a slight détour to the old gentleman’s landhaus. The fact was, the lady feared what at the time she did not own, namely, that some mortal accident would occur on the road; for the old housekeeper, who prided herself on her second sight, had been heard to say, that ‘the party would find a corpse upon the journey.’ The very weak state of the invalid did not allow us to perform the journey at once, so we resolved to rest at the pretty little village of Rastag. We had cause to be satisfied with our determination. The young hostess was all attention to our invalid, and her activity and sprightliness so much interested and amused him, that he requested his niece to take a walk accompanied by myself, and leave him in charge of his charming little nurse. We entered upon a beautiful path behind the gardens of the village; the slight improvement in her uncle’s health had so exhilarated the countess’s spirits, that she was more animated than I had ever known her before, and enlivened the walk by relating many scenes and passages from her own life, and those of some distinguished friends. Suddenly, we heard the tolling of a bell: ‘Hark!’ she exclaimed; ‘that’s for a death; come, it is long since I have seen a village funeral. Poor little Minna cried bitterly, and begged her mamma not to go into the churchyard amongst the dead people; but her’s were childish fears, and we went. The coffin, according to custom, was placed beside the grave, with the lid open for the last for the last time; it contained the corpse of a young and lovely girl. An old peasant, leading by the hand a little child attired like himself, in deep mourning, brought fruit to lay beside the corpse, whilst the child placed fresh flowers within the folded hands. ‘Sleep sweetly,’ sighed the old man; ‘I thought thy hands would have closed these eyes; but God’s will be done.’

“The minister, an elderly, but remarkably fine man, then approached, and pronounced a funeral discourse full of grace and dignity. The countess was delighted with him, and signified her approbation by frequent remarks to myself. Just before the conclusion, we observed her uncle coming towards us. ‘Oh! dear sir,’ exclaimed the countess; ‘how much I regret that you should have lost so beautiful a service;’ and when the clergyman, after the sad rites were over, drew near to pay his respects to his distinguished auditors, she instantly addressed him: ‘Pastor, accept my best thanks; your eloquence has charmed me; none other than yourself shall be my funeral orator.’

“Little Minna seized her mother’s hand, and entreated her not to talk so; while the uncle gravely remarked, that such a topic was more applicable to himself. The lady smiled: ‘This,’ she said, is not the place for an explanation of my seemingly hasty speech,’ then addressing the minister—‘favour us, sir, with your company to dinner at the hotel; we will then finish the conversation.’

“The invitation was accepted, and it then appeared that the countess destined for him the vacant and very lucrative living on her own estate. The pastor requested time to consider of it; for notwithstanding his very narrow income, his present flock was dear to him. It was therefore settled that the affair should be concluded in future correspondence; but the letters never passed.

“On the following morning, when the travelling carriage was ordered, the countess complained of severe head-ache, and begged to postpone their departure; the pain increased, followed by symptoms of so dangerous a nature, that no medical aid could counteract them: death ensued. Exactly eight days from the scene in the churchyard, the minister again performed mournful ceremony at the grave of that lovely and amiable young woman. I will not attempt to describe my feelings as I contemplated the old uncle, and the now poor little orphan, Minna, standing beside the coffin of Amalia, forming so exact a repetition of the scene we had all witnessed together on the same spot, but a few short days before. The old gentleman lived for several years after, and often have we recurred to the past, and talked over the singular fulfilment of his lamented niece’s wish.”

Herrmann remarked, “that it would have been much more singular had the death of the countess been the effect of accident, indisposition being in itself a natural cause. The lady might have felt alarmed at her own sudden impulse, or her uncle’s remark, and consequent agitation might have brought on the illness which occasioned her death.”

“Pardon me,” interrupted the professor; “but I cannot help smiling when the conversation turns upon natural causes, as if it were possible for anything in nature to be unnatural. Whatever happens in the world, must imperatively be natural, or it could not take place.”

“A truce with your literal interpretations,” cried Herrmann, “one is apt to term unnatural all that is difficult of explanation, or that cannot be accounted for.”

“Were I not professor of philosophy,” rejoined Falk, laughing, “I would ask you what, according to your views, may be accounted natural? Our worthy physician here, restores his patients—certainly not by unnatural means—and yet ask him on conscience, if he can comprehend why any of his drugs are efficacious? And if, when a case has succeeded beyond his expectations, he has not exclaimed, ‘Nature has done her best!’”

“I pray you, gentlemen, cease this war of words,” said the hostess. “In my opinion you have quite lost sight of the point in question. Anselm’s story, however, scarcely strikes me as being an example, as it leaves us in doubt as to whether the malady arose from the words made use of, or from the construction that might be put upon them.”

“Neither,” replied Anselm; “I think I gave you to understand that Amalia had been for some time previously in an exalted frame of mind. The enthusiastic admiration she expressed for the minister’s very excellent, but certainly not extraordinary discourse, alone sufficed to show a high degree of excitement: those very expressions were perhaps symptomatic of her disorder, and their import was darkened by a shadow of prophecy cast upon them by singularly coinciding circumstances.”

“Then you acknowledge,” said the hostess, “that the case in point presents nothing unnatural or out of the common.”

“Certainly nothing unnatural. I am of Falk’s opinion that in nature, where all is open to our inspection, nothing contrary to her laws can take place. But truly the wonderful prevails!”

“May I beg you,” said Elisa, “to explain to us if these appearances may not be termed unnatural, which are so difficult to be accounted for that it is as though nature herself solicited the aid of a foreign power, and used it with regret? I am too inexperienced to express myself with sufficient clearness, but perhaps you will give a form to my confused ideas.”

“You have spoken very intelligibly,” replied Falk, “on a subject which, as you observe, even nature herself treats obscurely. Could you not oblige us with an instance, it would render the discussion easier.”

“Oh!” said Elisa laughing, “that would lead us to a ghost story.”

“And why not?” interposed Herrmann. “Who is not willing to listen to one? See, Anselm is all attention.”

The request was general that Elisa would relate a case in point; but she excused herself saying “that, with all her fondness for listening to a story, she should feel very timid at relating one.”

Her betrothed smiling, said he could guess her meaning, and if she felt diffident would, with her permission, relate the circumstance she alluded to.

Elisa consented, requesting only an alteration of the names. This was of course acceded to, and the baron proceeded:—

“A very near relation of my Elisa, and a little dreamer like herself—we will call her Caroline—had formed the tenderest friendship for her neighbour, Angelica. The two girls were inseparable; their parents approved of their intimacy, and allowed them to pass their time alternately at each other’s house; this was particularly the case in winter, when the badness of the roads made the communication between the properties somewhat dangerous during the long nights. The father of Angelica had formerly been well acquainted with Cagliostro, whose mysteries (although many were explained and unravelled to him) nevertheless imparted to his mind a strong bias for the mystic and the supernatural. Besides the best works on general literature, his library contained a quantity of legends and old chronicles. Oftentimes would these two girls sit up the greater part of the night, inflaming their already excited imaginations with tales of apparitions and demons of every description. It happened that, during one of these fits of excitement, they pledged themselves that whichever should first quit this world would re-appear to acquaint the other of it. They had read of instances of such promises being made, and, in order to render the contract more binding, they vowed that were they even induced to retract the engagement verbally, the circumstance should remain unalterably determined. While their hands were still clasped within each other the house bell struck midnight. ‘Hark!’ cried Angelica as if inspired, ‘the hour of my death has tolled, at this time shall my vow be fulfilled!’ The terrified Caroline started up with a piercing shriek. ‘Hush!’ cried Angelica, ‘do not alarm yourself. I spoke in haste; I meant to have said the hour of my birth; sixteen years ago at midnight I came into the world, and the hour is now become doubly sacred to me through our mutual engagement which it may possibly be my lot to ratify.’ The friends had again wandered far into the ideal world, when the self-extinguishing lights warned them to seek their pillows. Some time after this mad freak Caroline was taken ill. For some days Angelica would not leave her friend, until the physicians declared it to be a malignant fever, when the parents of Angelica insisted upon her return home. She obeyed without a murmur so long as Caroline’s life was not in danger, but no sooner were fears entertained for her safety than Angelica hastened to the couch of her friend; that fatal promise now exercised a fearful power over her mind, and she determined to risk her own life rather than endure such anxiety any longer; she conjured the invalid to retract the engagement, which the latter the more readily did, observing her friend’s deep anxiety on her account, who moreover had not considered the subject in so serious a point of view. This scene, so dreaded by all present as likely to produce a most unfavourable effect on the invalid, was, on the contrary, followed by the most cheering result; the effort proved salutary, and Caroline, to the amazement of her doctors, became speedily convalescent; she looked upon Angelica as her preserver, and the two friends came to the determination never again to hazard a wish or an inquiry respecting the unseen world, and at last the passion for the mysterious, if not the belief in it, appeared to have vanished from their minds. In course of time the illness and the vow (which very probably caused it) were almost forgotten, and the two girls, now more firmly attached than ever, soon discovered other sources for a far more genial intercouse. It happened one day that Angelica accompanied her parents to a ball in the neighbouring town. Caroline made a plea of domestic engagements as an excuse for declining the party, but she secretly gave up the pleasures of the dance in order that she might prepare a little surprise in honour of her friend’s birth-day, which was to happen on the morrow, and she sat up until late in the night with her own maid, in order to complete her work, and had just finished, and begun to lay it aside, as the clock struck midnight. Immediately so strong a current of air was felt in the room, that the needlework and materials lying on the table were blown and scattered about in all directions by it, and Caroline, looking up, beheld the shadowy form of Angelica flitting before her eyes, and then, apparently sinking upon the ground, it disappeared. Alarmed by her cries, the woman hastened to her, and received the terrified and fainting girl in her arms. The servant had observed nothing but the strong draught and instant dispersion of the work, which she was busied in collecting, when called to her mistress’ assistance. True it was, that at that same moment Angelica, in the very act of waltzing, sank upon the floor a corpse!”

“That is truly awful,” said the hostess.

“What strikes me as most appalling,” observed Falk, “is the dark prophetic meaning of the words, ‘The hour of my death has tolled!’ Angelica involuntarily foretold the moment of her dissolution.”

“How do you account for that naturally?” inquired Elisa.

“Excuse me, fair lady; I must perforce resign the office of interpreter general. I neither can, nor would I attempt to explain the very extraordinary occurrence we have just been listening to. If it happened, it was imperatively according to the order and laws of nature. I never met with so astonishing an instance as the sequel. I cannot account for it, and consequently it appears unnatural. In the same way is this egotistical theory the basis of all criticism. Höpfner, the jurist, gave, many years since, the invention of the balloon in illustration of an impossibility. In the later edition of his works this opinion has, of course, been suppressed. Meteoric showers, and other wonders of nature, which our ancestors looked upon as mere chimera, and ridiculed as such, are to us neither fabulous nor impossible, but acknowledged natural appearances. Popular belief, or, in other words, superstition, offers a mine of inquiry to the naturalist. Truth, it must be owned, does not always burst into light with all her full perfection; but what man of understanding would argue that the earth embosoms the sterile rock alone, because her gems and precious metals must be extracted by artificial means?”

“See!” exclaimed Elisa; “the magic hour is almost arrived. Now I am sure you all wish well to my Louis and myself, and that our lot may prove a happy one.”

“Pr’ythee patience, patience,” said Herrman; “depend upon it Falk will produce a solemn address to the New Year, adapted for the occasion. He has been composing and poetising the whole afternoon.”

“Well,” said the hostess, “it is really scandalous that we allow the year to close without a song. Come, Falk, produce it; I’ll wager you have brought one with you.”

“Indeed I have not; besides, the conversation was interrupted.”

“Produce it, Falk,” repeated the hostess: “I know you have it.”

“But it belongs to the New Year.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Elisa, “it is the congratulation Herrmann alluded to;” then taking her glass—“Here’s to the magic power of prediction.”

All hastened to touch glasses with the fair betrothed.

“Hark! I hear a bell,” said Herrmann.

“Hush! still!” answered the host, opening a window.

The quarter had already struck from the belfry. With a shrill clear sound the house clock repeated twelve. The company sat still, listening in silence to the expiring echoes of the year, as from the cathedral tower pealed forth in full deep tones the parting knell.

Elisa gently bent towards her betrothed. From her eyes beamed a paradise of youthful hope and happiness. Every one beheld with interest that mute expression of the fondest and purest affection.

The hostess gently approached her, and kissed her fair young brow, shaded by its rich chesnut curls. As yet no one ventured to break the stillness of that moment, until the nearer parish church, with still heavier toll, sent forth the last stroke of midnight.

Falk arose, noiselessly unfolding a sheet of paper, and, sinking his voice to a portentous whisper, began—

“Hark the death-bell’s tone—”

Elisa raised her eyes, and instantly fell with a cry of horror. The hostess and the baron received her, fainting and pale as death, in their arms.

“What was that?” asked all in a breath: some thought it was Elisa, having remarked her previous emotion, others said the cry was distant and had been the cause of her alarm. Meanwhile Elisa, assisted by the two physicians who were fortunately present, recovered her senses, and she explained that the cry which she also heard, certainly alarmed her at first, but on looking up, she thought she beheld a phantom; it seemed as if the Virgin stood before her, her face and form rigid like those of a corpse, the sight of which deprived her of sensation.”

“I am happy,” said the host, “that it is in my power to relieve you from all apprehension as regards the phantom. My Madonna is hung in a most advantageous morning light, but in the evening the rays of the lamp produce quite a contrary effect, and give the picture so death-like an aspect, that I am sometimes inclined to hang a curtain before it. Only look now and convince yourself.”

He then led the still exhausted girl back to her seat, from whence the picture had a most singular effect; the face of the mother appearing almost colourless, presented a shadowy, unearthly contrast to the healthful rounded form of the infant. Elisa immediately recognized the phantom created by her over-excited imagination.

The scream remains to be inquired into said the hostess, ringing for the domestics. The nursery maid was called. “It was nothing of any consequence, gnädige frau, only the night lamp went out, and the little Emelius waking, shrieked to find himself in the dark.”

“Heaven be praised!” observed Falk, sotto voce to Anselm; “I was absolutely frightened, for just as I began to read, the singular connexion between my poem and the previous conversation fell like a weight upon my heart. However, she does not appear to have noticed it.”

The little New-Year’s gifts with which the host presented each of his friends, now completely restored the cheerfulness of the party. Each received some bagatelle in complimentary or playful allusion to his or her tastes or feelings. The baron’s portion was an ancient castle, which changed itself into a temple of Hymen; Anselm’s, a wine glass that became a smiling Hebe; Falk’s, a dance of Bacchanals round a wine barrel, which, seen by candle-light, presented the Muses at the fountain of Helicon; and Elisa received a rosebud, changing to a Cupid, surrounded by children’s playthings. The song and the jest went merrily round; Falk was at last enabled to read his ode to the New Year without interruption, and as the party were about to separate, the baron invited them all to re-assemble at his castle at the same period in the ensuing year. The proposition was gladly acceded to, and the friends drank to their next happy meeting, in a bumper of the oldest and best that their host’s liberal cellar afforded.

“Keep your word,” said Elisa, as she took leave. “Not one of us must be absent on the next New Year’s Night; remember, the first promise made in the year is irrevocable, and must be conscientiously adhered to.”

NIGHT THE SECOND.

Christmas passed off with the greatest possible hilarity; the customary étrennes of the season were interchanged, not forgetting the absent baron, for whom a store of badinage was in preparation with which to surprize him at the approaching reunion of the little coterie at the castle, where he and his young wife passed their time in a state of uninterrupted happiness. During the year repeated invitations had been sent and accepted; and the friends already enjoyed by anticipation the pleasures of that social intercourse which a few days spent together in the country would afford them. Hard frost and a brilliant sky enlivened the last days of December, as well as the prospects of the party. It was arranged they should all meet at the baron’s on the 31st, and while celebrating the vanishing moments of the year, herald in the merry hours they hoped to enjoy at the hospitable mansion.

Schloss Hartenstein is situated on a prominent rock, surrounded by beautiful and romantic scenery. The style of architecture suffices to show (even were old chronicles wanting to testify it) that the castle took its origin in the earliest feudal ages. Owing to repeated hostile attacks the building (excepting the many dungeons and passages excavated to the very depth of the rock) had at various periods been partially destroyed; so that the eye of the most casual observer discerns the tastes and requisites of many a century, both as regards the form and distribution of the different parts appropriated to internal convenience. In later times the more recent possessors have endeavoured to improve and impart an air of comfort to the Schloss as a dwelling, without interfering with, or injuring the massive antiquity of the exterior, so that many parts of the building present a rather ludicrous contrast between the present arrangement of some of the apartments, and what had been evidently their primitive destination. Altogether the ensemble, although strikingly singular, is far from disagreeable to the eye of a spectator. It must be allowed that a considerably less space would have sufficed for a more superb, as well as a more commodious residence; but, the absence of all uniformity is more than compensated for by the picturesque and disjointed masses of building which surprise the visitor in every possible direction, and any endeavour to explore the whole of this elaborate structure would be fruitless indeed, as many parts of it remain unknown to its present occupier, and perhaps have not been visited for many successive generations.

The deep snow having become firm and hardened, rendered the roads delightfully easy, and the travellers arrived in the highest spirits at the castle; most of them were strangers to it, and the novelty of the scene attracted their attention from object to object, as the baron led them through innumerable corridors and lofty halls, until they reached the warm and cheerful withdrawing room.

“And where is the lady of the house?” eagerly inquired Falk; after the hearty “Welcome to Hartenstein!” had been again repeated to the guests; “I fear that we arrive too early, but the roads are now so good, that we travelled faster than we expected.”

“Alas! I am a widower bewitched,” replied the baron, “so I must e’en solicit the indulgence of the ladies if the absence of the hostess is too observable in my performance of the honours to them. Meanwhile, I trust that this evening, or early to-morrow, my wife will be enabled to resume her agreeable office; we have been spending Christmas with my mother-in-law, and so not entirely to spoil the good old lady’s pleasure, I found myself compelled to leave her daughter with her a couple of days longer.”

“But she may still arrive to-day,” exclaimed several voices at once.

“I certainly expect her,” said the baron; “yet I know how difficult the separation will be, and her present situation renders her mother trebly anxious on her account. Their medical adviser laughs at these alarms, and will not hear of any danger; but you all know how impossible it is to oppose reasoning to the fond wishes of an anxious mother; to-morrow, however, my wife will undoubtedly be here.”

The baron had arranged a hunting party for the gentlemen; Falk alone devoted himself to the ladies and the tea-table, where Cecilia, a near relation of Elisa’s, presided in her absence; he looked more confidently than any of them for the return of Elisa, and at every noise in the castle-yard sprang to the window, in the expectation of seeing her. At last his impatience increased so much, that the party jested him about it.

“Laugh if you will,” he retorted; “but I owe Elisa some satisfaction since last year, consequently her return concerns me more than any of you.”

In reply to the general inquiry, Falk reminded them of the ominous commencement of his New Year’s poem, which he thought might, under the then existing circumstances, have powerfully affected Elisa, although she was too good-natured to make it evident.

Cecilia begged to be enlightened—“You have sufficient reason,” she said, “when all was told her, to atone for the alarm you caused Elisa. But you are, apparently, yourself unaware why the first line of your poem so strongly affected her.”

Cecilia was pressed by all to be more explicit.

She continued. “After what you have related, it was scarcely the story of Angelica, that Elisa excused herself from relating; had she mentioned the circumstance, upon which I am convinced her mind was dwelling at the time, you would doubtless not have read your poem in her presence.”

“Really, you make me uneasy,” said Falk; “and I am sure all present are desirous to know what Elisa then concealed from us.”

“It is no secret,” said Cecilia; “yet I presume the baron is not aware of it, therefore I request you will use the information discreetly. There exists in the family of our friend an old tradition, whose original meaning, like many other things of the kind, has been obscured in the lapse of time. The legend declares, that the death of every member of that family shall be announced by the sound of a bell, and that the last of them should ring his own knell. I have never been able to ascertain the origin of this singular prediction, yet the village church books can prove that the different members of the family have died while the hour was striking. It is said that one of them having lain for some days in the last agonies, commanded the bells to be tolled, which being done, he closed his eyes, and slept in peace. It is not for me to decide whether this be truth or fable; I will only show you how singularly the tradition has been verified in the case of Elisa’s father. The major was, as you know, the last of his line, and this circumstance awakened the remembrance of the prediction which had been for many years almost forgotten. Without being exactly superstitious, the major always disliked the subject of the tradition to be reverted to, and gave orders, through an indirect channel, that a large house-bell used for assembling the domestics at dinner, should be taken from its place. When he was attacked with his last illness, the doctors gave up all hope of saving him—not so the peasantry; they maintained that so long as their lord was not a bell-ringer, there could be no fear of his life. Their hope was strengthened by an accident which seemed to promise a removal of every bell from the vicinity of the invalid. It happened that on a Saint’s-day one of the bells became injured, and in order to improve the chime, the old set was taken down to be re-cast. This was no sooner done, than the major’s health began daily to improve; only a visionary dread that he suffered from, amounting sometimes almost to mental aberration, caused his medical attendants still some anxiety. One fancy tormented him in particular, namely, that the castle might take fire, and from the want of an alarm-bell, assistance would come too late. In this respect, his fears were certainly not groundless; accordingly the old house-bell was again restored to its place: upon this, the major appeared calmer; but on the following night experienced so violent a relapse, that he quite overcame his attendants; he ran madly through the castle, shrieking ‘Fire! fire!’ Fate led him to the newly-suspended bell, and seizing the rope with both hands, he rang an alarum that set the whole household in commotion, and at last fell exhausted and lifeless upon the ground. You will agree with me,” continued Cecilia, “that Elisa’s emotion was caused more by the connexion with the death-bell than the apparition of Angelica?”

“Undoubtedly,” answered Falk; “and I doubly regret that I was persuaded to read the poem after our previous conversation. The remembrance of it will always be painful to me.”

“True,” observed Cecilia; “but these circumstances cannot be foreseen. Who knows but accident may again frustrate your best intentions?”

“Never fear; I am now on my guard.”

“Who can tell? Surely you anticipated no such result last year?”

“Experience makes us wise,” said Falk.

“It is my opinion,” rejoined Cecilia, “that you will not have the opportunity of paying compliments, for I’ll wager anything Elisa does not arrive before to-morrow.”

“And I,” said Falk, “will wager what you will that she returns to-day. I know Elisa, and know how strictly she keeps her word.”

Cecilia purposely turned the conversation to the huntsmen, who might shortly be expected. She then went to the piano, and proposed they should amuse themselves with a little music. Time, aided by the fascination of song, flew rapidly by, and it was late before the hunting party returned from the forest, laden with its spoil. The baron led his guests to the supper-room, where an elegant repast awaited them.

“Just so were we all seated this time last year,” exclaimed Herrmann, “with the exception of the mistress of the feast, and that she should be wanting is, indeed, a misfortune. Our round table puts one in mind of a beautiful face deprived of one of its visual organs. Will she really not arrive today?”

“My dear friends,” said the baron, “in pity cease these inquiries. Believe me, I miss my wife even more than you can; but, under the circumstances, too much exactitude would have been cruel.”

“Ah! ah!” said Falk, “I see how it is; you are under the slipper already. However, she shall be at least symbolically among us. Let me arrange it. In some monasteries they have a custom, and it is a pretty one, when the abbot dines from home, of placing opposite his chair a bouquet of beautiful flowers instead of the plate—thus.”—While speaking he had drawn a chair to the table, and taking a few roses from an ornamental basket of fruit, had placed them in a glass before the vacant seat.

The baron was ill at ease, but, rousing himself, said, “Come, my friends, let us be gay, and not deplore what is unavoidable; though my wife will not thank you when she is informed that her absence has cast a damp upon your spirits. Come, fill your glasses. Wine is like sunshine and vernal showers together—let our mirth bloom and flourish beneath its influence.”

The guests took the hint of their hospitable entertainer, and the ladies exerted themselves to appear more animated. Only the baron and Cecilia exchanged occasional uneasy glances, and now and then looked towards the window, as if in expectation of some one’s arrival.

Falk whispered to his inquisitive neighbours his conviction that they were to be surprised by the sudden return of Elisa, and thus prevented those wearying inquiries which the baron had endeavoured to avoid.

It had just struck eleven when a horseman alighted at the castle gate, and was speedily ushered into the supper-room. He brought the baron intelligence that his lady was well, but could not possibly be with him before an early hour on the morrow. A billet from the hand of the baroness confirmed the message, and conveyed her affectionate New Year’s wishes to her assembled friends.

“Now from my heart I can be cheerful,” exclaimed the baron, as the envoy withdrew.—“Now I confess to you that I have passed the last few hours in a state of mortal anxiety. To-morrow I will explain all, and am confident you will grant me your forgiveness for having played the host so unworthily.”

The baron was besieged for an earlier explanation.

After some reluctance he said, “Well, be it so, though strangely enough we recur to the same topic that occupied us the last New Year’s-night.”

“Hast thou had a vision?” quoth Falk. “Impossible!”

“Something like it,” said the baron; “though not I myself, but my wife. Her lively imagination is so apt to border on the romantic, that I took but little notice of the circumstance at the time. However, as the critical moment approached, the mere thought of the coincidence made me tremble like a child. You all, probably, remember our conversation on the last New Year’s-eve, and that it turned upon the obscure, but still interesting theme of presentiments and forebodings; also the alarm caused by the sudden fainting fit of my then betrothed Elisa?”

“I remember it well,” interposed Adolf (better known as “the host,”) “and the false light giving my Madonna a spectre-like appearance.”

Exactly,” replied the baron. “As early as possible the next morning I called, and found Elisa perfectly recovered and cheerful as usual; all was forgotten, and we conversed as young lovers are wont. As was natural, I besought her to fix the earliest period for our union; at this she became thoughtful, and no longer listened to my plans for little excursions and other summer amusements; and when at last I expressed my surprise at the change in her demeanour, she sorrowfully replied: ‘We must not indulge in too happy anticipations; perhaps this year may not yet witness our union.’”

“Bravo!” cried Herrmann, “the old year has belied the prophecy.”

“I was nevertheless anxious,” said the baron.

“Impossible,” interrupted Herrmann; “you were married whilst winter and spring yet strove for mastery.”

“You will agree with me,” continued the baron, “when you have heard all. I could not prevail upon her to explain her enigmatical meaning. Well, time passed on and the subject was gradually forgotten; my mother-in-law coincided in my wish that the marriage should take place immediately; not the shadow of an obstacle presented itself, and in the first days of spring I led my Elisa to my paternal home. As I sat beside her for the first time alone in the twilight, amongst other prattle I jested her upon her false prophecy; she looked down and turned very pale; at length, with deep emotion, she exclaimed, ‘Oh! that we had waited one other year; my dream will be accomplished, but far, far worse for us both.’ There was so much of solemnity in her manner that I tried every persuasion to win her secret from her, and with some difficulty succeeded in doing so. It appeared that that same New Year’s-night Elisa’s vision transported her to the next—namely the present; this was doubtless occasioned by my proposition that we should re-assemble here. Hartenstein was also the scene of her imaginings. She found herself here surrounded by you all, but she was still my betrothed, not my wife. The interpretation the little dreamer put upon this was, either that she should not be my wife at this period, or, if so, would be only as one dead among us.”

“Now I have it,” said Falk; “’tis on that account the amiable Elisa is absent.”

“Yes,” continued the baron; “I endeavoured to reason her out of this persuasion, and to convince her of the very natural connexion between her dream and the previous discussion. At last I succeeded in calming her, and, by the summer, dreams and fears were thought of no more. Meanwhile, we laid down many plans for winter pastime, and repeated our invitation to you. During the last month, the old fantasy has again returned, and I confess it, I myself urged her to pass this portentous night at her mother’s; nor was my mind easy until news arrived that she was well and determined to remain where she is until to-morrow; for the wish that we should pass to-day together having originated with herself, she deemed it a point of honour not to be absent.”

“That I can well believe,” observed Falk. “She is indeed a being full of truth and candour, and would keep her word unto the grave itself.”

“She is so,” replied the baron; “but her romantic turn of mind often causes me great uneasiness.”

“Time will soften that down,” said Herrmann. “Youth, without a tinge of the romantic, is always cold and repulsive.”

“I don’t deny it,” continued the baron, “I only say it makes me uneasy; such natures prey upon themselves; what would only affect the thoughts or feelings of another, attacks them in the very core of life. That dream occasioned my wife a severe fit of illness which it required great care and several little summer excursions to remove.”

“The dream had probably less to do with it than the interpretation,” said Herrmann. “There was nothing in the vision, it is only the conventional idea that dreams are to be explained in a contrary sense, which forces itself unpleasantly upon the mind.”

“That is not a merely conventional idea,” observed Falk. “Love and death, marriage and the grave, bear the same relation to each other as does the spring to the autumn, or morn to the evening. In dreams, the symbolical representation of one may signify the approach of the other in life, even as the rosy clouds of morning portend a storm, or the same in evening a bright and genial day. There is certainly something appalling in that dream, particularly for an imaginative mind prone to tint everything with its own colours.”

“The extraordinary part of the story remains to be told,” said the baron; “it may also serve to prove what strange effects may arise from an over-heated imagination. My wife had never seen Hartenstein until I brought her here as its mistress; and I know that she had never heard any precise description of its localities, as I wished her to be agreeably surprised on her arrival, the castle having been, at a remote period, in the possession of her family: strange to say, the vision presented to her mind everything precisely as she found it. She also pointed out to me a peculiarity in the building unknown to myself, and probably to many of my predecessors.”

“Doubtless,” rejoined Falk, as the baron remained silent; “doubtless, this old stronghold conceals many a wonder of feudal times; I have oft heard tell of subterranean passages where the spirits of monks keep watch over their hidden treasures. Let us hear some of them.”

The baron proceeded: “It appears that each New Year’s-night leads us to the same topic. Well, let it be so—perhaps I had better relate to you as I found it, an old legend discovered amongst some papers in the archives. It is a fact we must all acknowledge, I believe, that our feudal ancestors were distinguished more by their power and ferocity, than by the nobler feelings of human nature. Of this description was Ritter Wolff, who dwelt many centuries back at Hartenstein. He was wealthy, bold, and the terror of his neighbours—consequently overbearing—and his wrath, when his slightest wish was opposed, knew no bounds. It happened that two young men were found poaching in the Ritter’s forests, and were taken prisoners by the huntsmen. Ritter Wolff, according to the custom of the times, ordered them to be confined in the castle dungeon, and at the expiration of a few days to be put to death. The father of the youths, a respectable citizen, tendered a large ransom for them, but in vain; the Ritter was inexorable, and added insult to injury. This was more than human nature could bear, and the unfortunate old man, forgetting the power of his oppressor, gave vent to his feelings in no measured terms. Wolff’s rage was ungovernable. He commanded him to be cast into the deepest dungeon, and for days the Ritter brooded over some extravagant mode of punishment, until at last some wealthy citizens succeeded in ransoming the old man and one of his sons, on account of their handicraft, for they were bell-founders famed far and wide. But the knight gave them their liberty only with this dread restriction, namely, that the father should with his own hand cast a bell whose first sound should summon his imprisoned son to death. The shortest possible time was purposely fixed for its completion, in order that the miserable parent should use every exertion to hasten the last moments of his child. To save the life of one, the wretched father saw himself compelled to cast a death-bell for his firstborn. Even the Ritter’s dependants and vassals were moved to compassion at sight of the old man going about silently with his tools, borne down as he was with a weight of grief and years. They tried to comfort him, and would gladly have assisted him. Many collected all the bits of metal they possessed, that they might be melted down; but the allotted time was so short, that the necessary quantity could not be procured, until several crucifixes sacred to their private devotions were contributed by his poor relations in the town. Amidst tears, and groans, and many an imprecation, the hated work was completed—the fatal bell was cast.

The old man’s fellow-citizens, aided by nearly all the Ritter’s dependants, hazarded one petition more. It was generally believed that Wolff would be satisfied with the father’s sufferings in the prosecution of the work, and not exact the fulfilment of the horrid sentence. But entreaties were of no avail. The bell was suspended in the tower, and no sooner ready than the Ritter commanded it should be tolled for the death of the prisoner. Then it was that the parent’s reason forsook him. Madly raving, he ran to the tower, seized the rope, and himself sounded the knell. His wild cries were heard shrill above the booming tones. He invoked the saints whose images had mingled in that fearful cast to shower vengeance on the oppressor, and then pronounced a curse upon the bell, that henceforth its sound might bring misfortune upon the Ritter and his house for ever, nor its death-toll cease, so long as one of his name or family should exist on earth. The malediction was responded to. The youth had ceased to live—still the maniac rang wildly on. The mountain storm arose, and mingled awfully in the din. The castle was struck by lightning, and a considerable portion of the building destroyed, ere the wretched man, overcome with excitement and exhaustion, lost sight of his sufferings in death.”

“Well!” exclaimed Herrmann, “even supposing the lightning to have been attracted by the bell, the coincidence of the catastrophe with the crime and the malediction was, nevertheless, truly singular.”

“The old man’s curse fell heavier still,” continued the baron. “Some years afterwards, when the subject was probably forgotten, the Ritter was about to celebrate the marriage of his only daughter. The bridegroom was to have been received with all possible distinction and magnificence, and welcomed with ringing of bells. The lady, in her bridal robes, stood in the balcony, watching the splendid cortège of her future lord as it advanced towards the castle. The great bell struck up, and whilst the young lady bent forwards to acknowledge the salutation of her betrothed, she fainted, and fell over the balcony down the precipice below. Her scared attendants fled in all directions, and at last discovered her lifeless, but without external injury, among the brushwood at the foot of the rock.

Many visitations of a similar nature aroused the attention of the Ritter’s descendants. The bell might have been destroyed, but for the superstitious fear that the race would become extinct with it; so they contented themselves by walling up every entrance to the tower, and removing the tongue from the ominous bell. But the cause remained; and whenever a misfortune befell that family, it was preceded by a spontaneous movement of the metal screech-owl (so the old writings term it), and its dull prophetic tone fell mournfully on the ear in the dead of night. So great became the dread of it, that the family resolved to abandon their paternal heritage; and now, for more than three centuries that my ancestors have possessed the castle, the bell has never once been heard. Even the recollection of it has been lost in the lapse of time—at least, it never came to my knowledge. The old tower passes for a prison, which no one has felt disposed to explore, on account of the confined air, and its now dilapidated state. Had it not been for the dream of Elisa I should never have commenced the research, for in recognising every part of the castle she also distinctly remembered a tongueless bell. I made many inquiries of the oldest people in the village without any satisfactory result, and was about to give it up as a hopeless case, when I chanced to light upon some traces of it in the archives, which by degrees I was at length able to connect. I have not mentioned the discovery to my wife, nor do I wish her to be acquainted with it, as it would only excite her to no purpose.”

“That was, indeed, a death-bell,” said Falk, with a meaning look, to Cecilia.

“Avaunt! with your prophetic New Year’s ditty,” said Herrmann; “the bells will soon strike up merrily, to greet the infant year.”

“Yes,” replied Falk, mournfully, “and they will toll the infant’s mother to the tomb. That tale has made me melancholy; I see before me the maniac bell-founder, his white hair and venerable beard streaming in the storm-blast. I hear the father’s groans, as he summoned one child to liberty, the other to death. Really, I should never be easy in the vicinity of the ‘Metal Screechowl;’ I would have had it buried, and a new one hung in the church instead.”

“You only anticipate my intention, Falk,” said the baron; “as soon as the frost is over, the last trace of that crime shall be effaced. I mean to have the bell sunk in the river, the old tower shall give place to a gay pavilion, you shall pen the inscription for the new bell, and we will have a fête at the consecration.”

“That we will, and the sooner the better,” said Falk; “Heaven knows what other calamity the odious thing may not bring upon the house.”

“I do not agree with you,” observed Anselm; “the former proprietors might have had equal foresight, before they gave up the castle for the sake of a bell, but they feared lest the dark prophecy should be connected with the duration of their line.”

“On which account it shall not be destroyed,” interrupted the baron; “it shall continue, but in a situation where its sound shall not disturb the peace of my family. Besides, the anathema has been accomplished to the letter; the name of the Ritter has long since passed into oblivion; my father-in-law was the last of his line, and my wife, fortunately, bears that name no longer.”

“I quite agree with Anselm,” said Cecilia, “that too much foresight often produces the evil it would avoid.”

“Pray,” said Herrmann, “let the gloomy subject rest; the old year has scarcely one short quarter of an hour to exist. Let us sing our adieu to her, and a welcome to the new one. Hist! First in quartett, and the last line in full chorus.”

Herrmann, Falk, Adolf, and Julie began:—

“TO THE EXPIRING YEAR.

“Beloved matron! fare thee well;
 We’ve ta’en a last adieu;
We grieve to hear thy parting knell,
 Our tears thy grave bedew.

“The joys thy lavish hand bestow’d,
 Like angels shall watch o’er thee;
Perchance each cup has not o’erflowed
 With joy; yet we deplore thee.

“May the young year the past transcend,
 We’ll welcome it right merrily,
We see thy waning form descend,
 Thy smiling babe comes cheerily.”

Scarcely had the chorus finished when a tremendous crash that almost shook the massive building, started the affrighted guests from their seats. The baron, with much presence of mind, opened the window, the sound appearing to come from without. While they were yet conjecturing as to the probable cause of it, another and a louder report took place, followed by a long reverberation.

“It had the sound of a bell,” faltered the baron, visibly agitated.

Some of his friends thought the noise more resembled the falling of brickwork or stone.

All the household had run to the yard in their first fright, and the baron was proceeding to inquire personally into it, when the noise was again repeated, and sounded distinctly like powerful strokes dealt upon some metal substance. Fearfully the hollow sounds boomed through the midnight air, and immediately another crash ensued, while several voices from the court-yard exclaimed at once, that the old tower was falling in.

“The same—the walled-up belfry,” sighed the baron.

It struck midnight.

Again all was still; but, as the company were about to resume their seats, in the chair which Falk had playfully placed for the baroness, was her form distinctly visible: with the last stroke of the pendulum it disappeared, before the terrified guests had time to utter more than an exclamation of alarm.

The domestics now returned to say, “that the roof of the old tower had fallen, and that amongst the rubbish fragments of a huge bell were to be seen, which in its fall, must have occasioned the strange sounds they had heard.”

“The coincidence is singular,” said the baron, with a faltering voice. “The bell is destroyed at the same moment that the shade of my absent wife appeared to all of us. That dream! I can no longer doubt my loss!”

An express was instantly dispatched to bring immediate intelligence of the baroness, and relays of horses were sent on to expedite it as much as possible. Before sunrise the messenger returned, his dejected countenance too plainly showing the nature of his mission. The baroness had been attacked by spasms. Medical assistance was promptly rendered, but every exertion to save her proved unavailing. She expired as the clock struck twelve.

“Everything has had its portent, and all is consummated,” exclaimed the baron in the bitterest grief.

No one ventured to intrude words of vain comfort on the bereaved husband’s woe. He retired to his cabinet, and for some hours lived only to the indulgence of his feelings. The following day his son—his Elisa’s son—was brought to him. The nurse related the last moments of his beloved wife—tears came to his relief—he took the unconscious babe in his arms, and whispered—

“Thy smiling babe comes cheerily—”

then kissed its soft cheek, and once more listened to the consoling accents of friendship.

 

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