The Spectre Bride

Chapter I

Through the whole summer, there had been delightful weather, and the Baths of W2 had been more frequented this year than at any former period;—but, though the rooms and public gardens were always crowded by guests, it seemed by no means to follow that a social and convivial spirit should prevail among them. The nobility flocked together quite apart; the military had their own separate club; and as for the citizens, they made criticisms harshly enough on the conduct of both. Even the balls that were frequently given failed to produce unanimity; nor could it be otherwise, for the master of ceremonies always appeared at them with his star and ribbon, attended by a train of lacqueys in red coats with gold lace. This, joined to the stiff, formal manners of himself and all his family, constantly reminded the commoners, that they must not, on any occasion, step beyond their prescribed rules and limitations. Consequently, those public assemblies became every day less and less attended, and private family circles were made up to pass away the evenings.

One of these minor clubs used to meet twice or thrice in the week, at a large room in one of the hotels, which they knew would, at such times, be unoccupied. Here they supped, and entertained themselves with conversation merely, without thinking of cards, having the advantage too of a large beautiful garden behind the house for their promenade. The members of this society had all been acquainted with each other before now,—only one individual had introduced himself who was a stranger to them, and to every one else at W2. He was styled Marquis, which title seemed, in his case, not a little extraordinary, as, according to the list of arrivals, he was neither of French nor Italian extraction, but had a name that might perchance be Norwegian, Islandic, or Russian,—a string of consonant that no reader could even attempt to pronounce. Altogether, his manner and appearance were strange and mysterious; his pale visage, tall meagre frame, and stern black eyes, were so little adapted to inspire confidence, that he would certainly have been shunned by all the world, if he had not possessed a fund of entertaining anecdotes, which were gladly drawn upon to dispel ennui. It was universally allowed, however, that his stories required rather more credulity than his listeners were always willing to afford.

Our party had, on one occasion, supped together as usual, and this time rose from the table in very bad humour. The fatigues of a dancing assembly, which had lasted very late the preceding night, still weighed on their nerves; and though the moon shone invitingly, not one among them showed any inclination to walk. They seemed too tired even for conversation; no wonder, therefore, if the Marquis, who was absent, should be wished for now, more than he had ever been. “Where in the world can he have staid so long?” said the Countess, impatiently. “Doubtless once more at the pharo table, where he drives all the bankers to despair;” said Florentine. “Merely on his account two of these gentlemen set out suddenly from Wiesbaden, and will not return hither in a hurry.”—“Their presence may well be dispensed with,” said another of the party. “By us, no doubt,” replied Florentine; “but not by our master of ceremonies, Mons. le proprieteur, who has forbidden gaming, indeed, only that it may be carried on with greater perseverance.”—“The Marquis, however, should avoid such conduct,” said a certain chevalier in a mysterious tone. These gamesters are revengeful, and generally are well-connected in the world. If that be true, which is now whispered in various quarters, that the Marquis is involved in dangerous political schemes”2“But, after all,” said the Countess interrupting him; “what injury has he committed against the pharo bankers?”—“Nothing more, indeed,” answered the chevalier, “but that he stakes on cards which never once fail to win. And it is strange enough that he seems not to take advantage of this to benefit his own fortune, for he always confines himself to the lowest possible risk. But, of course, the other players do not neglect to follow his lead—they stake high—win invariably—and the bank is ruined even at a single game.”

The Countess was about to answer, when the Marquis’s entrance put an end to the discussion. “So you are come at last?” said the chevalier. “We have this evening longed exceedingly for your entertaining conversation,” added the Countess; “and this time, more than ever, you have chosen to absent yourself so late, that it seemed you had forgotten us altogether.”—“I had, indeed, some particular business in view,” said the Marquis, “in which I have succeeded to my entire satisfaction. To-morrow, probably not a single pharo bank will exist at Wisbaden. I have gone from house to house, and the result is, that we have not post-horses enough to carry away the outrageous bankers.”—“Cannot you assist us to learn this wonderful art of yours?” said the Countess. “Not easily, Madam,” he replied. “A lucky hand, doubtless, is required, and I can give no other explanation.”—“But, in truth,” said the chevalier, “your hand is so lucky, that, in all my life, I have never heard of any one who could compare with it.”—“At your time of life,” answered the Marquis, “this is no great argu- ment—you have yet much to learn for the first time in the world.” And, with these words, he looked at the young man so steadfastly, that the latter said—“Are you inclined, perhaps, to cast my nativity?”—“Only not at present, Mons. le Chevalier,” interposed the Countess, “for who knows whether your horoscope might lead to any diverting adventures, such as the Marquis, some days ago, promised us?”—“Diverting, did I say?” said the latter. Surely, in that respect, you are mistaken.”—“At least you promised us some very extraordinary incidents, and such are absolutely requisite, in order to rouse our party from the lethargy in which we have been lost for several hours.”—“I shall not refuse,” replied the Marquis; “yet I should like to know, in the first place, if any one here has yet heard the story of the Spectre Bride?” Of course, all answered in the negative, and expressed the utmost impatience for its commencement.

“I had already made many appointments,” said the Marquis, “to visit my friend the Count Globoda, at his castle in the country. On our travels we had met together in almost every district in Europe; in youth, and in middle age, we had been cordial friends; and now, when years began to steal on us, we both wished to meet once more, and talk over our past adventures. Besides, I had an additional motive for visiting my friend’s house, as I have been always an admirer of fine scenery, and he described his estate to me as one of the most romantic in the world. The castle, too, was wonderfully ancient, yet had been so well built and preserved, that it was still habitable, and kept up in all its ancient magnificence. The Count used to live here with his family almost the whole year, spending only a short winter in the capital. I knew this; and being certain of finding him at home, I came quite unexpectedly one night, just about this season, and was delighted to behold, by moonlight, the fine varied country, and flourishing woods, by which the noble rocky old fortress was environed.

“The kindness with which I was received, did not prevent me from remarking an expression of reserved grief and anxiety which lay on the countenances of the Count and his lady, from a share of which, too, their beautiful daughter Libussa had not escaped. I understood, after some time, that they had never been able to forget the twin sister of this your lady, whose earthly remains had been deposited about a year preceding in the castle chapel. Libussa and her sister Hildegarde had been so exactly like one another, that they were not to be distinguished, except by a small red mark on the neck of the latter, whose apartments, with their furniture, were preserved just as she had left them, and were occasionally visited by her friends in their hours devoted to melancholy recollection. Libussa and she had only one heart, and one mind. Their parents, therefore, could not persuade themselves that the separation here could be long, and were harassed by apprehensions, that their beloved and beautiful Libussa would also be taken from them.

“I did, of course, what I was able, to divert their thoughts, by relating stories from my own past life, and tried to lead their attention from such mournful reflections; nor was I disappointed in my endeavours. Sometimes we used to make excursions in the fine summer weather through the country; and often explored the oldest apartments of the castle, many of which had been long untenanted, admiring the rude but warlike manners of the Count’s ancestors, of whom there was also a noble range of portraits in the picture gallery.

“One evening, after the Count had for a long time spoken with me confidentially of his plans for the future, among other things, of his wish to see Libussa fortunately married, as, although only in her sixteenth year, she had already attracted many suitors, and rejected every one, the gardener rushed breathless into our room, with the intelligence, that a ghost had been seen below, which must certainly be that of the old castle chaplain, who, according to tradition, had appeared, for the first time, as a revenant, about an hundred years ago. Several other servants followed this man, and, with pale ghastly visages, all confirmed what he had said. ‘You will be terrified, ere long, at your own shadows,’ said the Count, and sent them away with the order, that, whatever they might choose to say to each other, they would at least spare him the trouble of listening to such absurdity for the future. ‘It is awful,’ said he, turning to me, ‘to reflect, what absurd lengths the superstition of these poor people carries them; and how impossible it proves for any one to eradicate this folly. For about a century, indeed, the story has been current here, of an old priest foosooth, who is said to walk about the castle, and even to read prayers in the chapel, and so forth. This fable, since I have been proprietor here, has been kept pretty well in the back ground; but, as I now perceive, it is impracticable to get the better of it altogether.’

“At this moment a new visitor was announced—the Italian Duke de Marino. ‘The Duke de Marino?’ repeated the Count in a tone of perplexity, and declared that he could not recollect ever to have heard such a name before. ‘I have been a good deal acquainted with that family,’ said I, ‘and a short time ago was present at the betrothing of the younger duke in Venice.’ The entrance of our visitor, which now followed, would have, therefore, been very agreeable to me, had I not perceived that our mutual recognition was, on his part, attended with great embarrassment and agitation. ‘Well,’ said he, recovering his composure after the first salutation, ‘now that I find you, my Lord Marquis, I need not be surprised at what occurred to me a little while ago. I supposed that my name was perfectly unknown in this country, and yet when I drew near the castle, a voice called out three times, ‘Welcome—welcome Duca de Marino!’ It was a strange hollow tone, certainly, and yet, Marquis, I am indebted to you for that reception.’

“I assured him, that till his name was announced from the corridor, I was perfectly unaware of his approach to the castle; nor could any of my servants have addressed him, as the valet who attended me in Italy had been long since dismissed. ‘Besides,’ added I, ‘it would have been exceedingly difficult to have recognised any equipage, however well known, in the gloom of such a night as this.’—‘Very true,’ answered the Duke, ‘and in that case I am perfectly at a loss.’ He looked much confounded, and the Count, determined not to listen to aught that was in any degree marvellous, assured him, with great politeness, that the voice, whose soever it might be, only expressed very truly the sentiments of the family towards their distinguished guest.

“Before a single word had been said as to the purpose of this unexpected visit, Marino begged that I would allow him the favour of a private conversation, and then entrusted me with the secret, that he had come thither on account of the beautiful Libussa. If he were so fortunate as to obtain her affections, he would immediately request her hand in marriage from the Count. ‘Good Heaven,’ said I, ‘have you then had the misfortune to lose your bride whom I saw at Venice—the Countess Apollonia?’—‘Of this I shall speak at another time,’ was his answer. ‘From the deep sigh that accompanied these words, I concluded, that the young bride had, by infidelity or some other fearful offence, been separated from the Duke, and that I must not venture to revive painful emotion by farther questioning. As he begged, meanwhile, that I would use my influence with the Count in his favour, I was obliged, however, to remind him how strange and hazardous a marriage might be considered, which was sought after on no other ground but that of the wish to efface painful impressions of an earlier and unfortunate connection. But he answered me, that I did him real injustice by the light in which I had now placed his conduct,—that he cherished the utmost respect as well as admiration towards Libussa,—and would consider himself the happiest of men if she should not reject his addresses.

“The enthusiam, indeed, with which he spoke of her, quieted my apprehensions, and I promised that I would prepare the Count for an interview on the subject, and would acquaint him fully with the Duke’s fortune, family, and character. At the same time, I declared that I should not vote for a hasty marriage, as I by no means wished to load my own shoulders with the responsibility of having brought about an irrevocable transaction, which might or might not prove fortunate. The Duke was content with what I had said. At the same time he exacted from me a promise, which appeared to me then perfectly innocent, that I would not mention the circumstance of his former connection with Apollonia, as he would otherwise be exposed to the necessity of very tedious and disagreeable explanations.

“The Duke seemed to succeed in his purposes with wonderful rapidity. He had a fine manly figure, and eyes so sparkling and expressive, that they made their way at once to Libussa’s heart. His agreeable conversation was very welcome to the old Countess, and, by his knowledge of rural economy, he promised to be a most useful assistant to our worthy host in the management of his estate. As to the Duke’s disinclination ever to revisit his own country, that was a point ascertained and adjusted at the very outset. Marino did fail zealously to make to make use of the advantages he had gained; and one afternoon I was exceedingly surprised to hear that Libussa and he were immediately to be betrothed. I imagined this would scarcely have been spoken of for a long time to come. After dinner, the discourse naturally revived what I had mentioned once before of my having been present at the betrothing of a certain Duke de Marino in Italy, and the old Countess inquired whether the hero of that day were not a near relation of their friend.’ ‘Yes—a pretty near relation,’ answered I, not forgetting my promise of secrecy to the Duke, who now threw across the table a very embarrassed look at me. ‘But now, my dear Marino,’ said I, wishing to change the subject, ‘tell us, once for all, I beseech you, how were you first induced to come to this remote castle? Did some friend inform you of the Countess Libussa’s extraordinary beauty, or had you, perhaps, seen her portrait? For yesterday, if I remember right, you said that you had intended to make a tour of a year long, going from one place to another, when, all at once, in Paris your intentions were changed, and you came straight hither, no doubt, solely on her account.

In Paris—yes,’ answered the Duke, ‘you have remembered correctly. I had gone to look at the picture gallery of the Louvre, but no sooner had I entered the room, than my attention was attracted from the lifeless beauties on the walls to a young lady, whose unequalled charms were heightened, in my estimation, by a certain cast of pensive melancholy on her features. With trembling timidity I ventured to approach her, and remained always near at hand, yet without venturing to address to her even a single word. When she left the gallery, I followed, and took her servant aside to inquire her name. This he frankly gave me; and when I expressed an earnest wish to pay my respects to her father, he told me that a meeting could hardly take place in Paris, as the family were just preparing to take their departure from France.

Yet at one time or another I may be more fortunate,’ said I, and looked round for the lady; but, meanwhile, under the belief, perhaps, that her servant was always following, she had walk- ed on, and was now out of sight. In trying to find her I lost the servant, and thus ended my first adventure. ‘And who was the lady?’ inquired Libussa. ‘Who?—Can you ask?’ said the Duke in a tone of the greatest surprise. I told you the story in jest, indeed, as if it were quite new—but is it possible that you did not observe me that day in the gallery?’—‘I, indeed?’ exclaimed Libussa. ‘My daughter?’ said the Countess, ‘it is incredible.’—‘Nay, indeed,’ resumed the Duke. ‘The same servant whom, to my great satisfaction, you left behind you in Paris, and whom I hailed one night as if he had been a guardian spirit, told me all that I wished to know, so that, after a short visit to my native country, I came hither.’—‘What strange story is this?’ said the Count to his daughter, who remained speechless with wonder. ‘Libussa,’ added he, turning to me, ‘has never yet been out of her native country—‘and, for my own part, I have not visited Paris for sixteen years.’ The Duke now looked as much perplexed as they did, and the conversation would have died away altogether, if I had not started a new subject, which I was obliged to keep up alone.

“Afterwards, when we rose from table, the Count drew Marino into a window recess, and though I was at a considerable distance from them, and seemed inattentive, I could yet hear all that they said. ‘My Lord Duke,’ said Globoda, very gravely, ‘what in all the world can have led you to that invention of the scene in the picture gallery, which, as far as I can understand it, will serve no purpose whatever? If you wished only to conceal the cause of your visit here, you might say so at once, and there an end. Or even if you disliked this method, you might have evaded the question in a hundred ways, and it was quite needless to outrage probability with such violence.’—‘My Lord Count,’ answered the Duke, much offended, ‘I was silent at table, because I believed you had private reasons for concealing the circumstance of your daughter’s residence in Paris. I was silent out of mere delicacy. But the situation in which I am now placed, forces me to maintain firmly what I then asserted, and unless you will allow the subject to drop, I must assert before every one, that Paris is the place where I had the happiness of seeing, for the first time, your daughter, the Countess Libussa.’—‘But what if I should bring before you all my people,’ said the Count, ‘all my servants and vassals, to prove, as witnesses, that Libussa has never been out of her native land?’—‘In despite of all this,’ replied the Duke, ‘I should still believe rather the evidence of my own senses, which bear testimony that, in my estimation at least, is not less important.’—‘What you say is very mysterious,’ said the Count, in a more moderate tone; ‘your grave manner convinces me at all events that you have yourself been under some delusion—and that you have unquestionably taken some other person for my daughter. Forgive me, therefore, for the irritation of temper into which I was unfortunately betrayed.’—‘Some other person!’ cried the Duke: ‘it would then follow that I have not only mistaken another for your daughter, but that her servant was also different from what I supposed him to be; yet he described to me all that I find in this castle and its environs, precisely as they now exist around me!’—‘My dear Marino,’ answered the Count, ‘it follows only that this servant must have been an impostor, who was well acquainted with our neighbourhood, and who persuaded you that some other lady that you met at Paris was my daughter.’—‘I am afraid, my Lord Count,’ said Marino, ‘to contradict you in direct terms; but absolutely the features I then beheld were those of Libussa, nor, since that meeting in the gallery have they been even for a moment absent from my remembrance.’

“Globoda shook his head significantly, but the Duke resumed; ‘Still another proof,—yet forgive me if I now deem it necessary to mention a circumstance which would otherwise, certainly, never have escaped my lips. When I stood behind the lady at the Louvre, it happened that her handkerchief had been drawn a little aside, and on her neck, that was otherwise white as alabaster, I observed an extraordinary red mark.’ ‘What in God’s name means this?’ cried the Count; ‘you seem determined that I should be forced into the belief of things utterly incomprehensible.’ But only let one question be answered, ‘Can this mark be found on Libussa’s neck?’ ‘No,’ replied the Count, staring in the utmost astonishment at his intended son-in-law. ‘Is it possible?’ said Marino, in a voice faltering with affright. ‘I have told you the truth,’ said the Count; ‘but it is no less certain that Libussa’s twin sister, Hildegarde, who resembled her in every feature, had the mark which you describe, and carried it with her to the grave more than a year ago.’—‘Yet it is only a few months,’ answered Marino, ‘since I saw that lady in Paris.’ At this moment the old Countess and Libussa drew near, anxious to know what could be the purport of this long conversation, but the Count’s manner of receiving them was so stern, that they durst not venture any questions. He retreated with Marino farther into the dark window recess, and I could not distinguish another word of their discourse.

Chapter II

“No one knew what to conclude from the extraordinary orders issued by Globoda, at a late hour of that same evening. He directed the sacristan to attend him, in order that the coffin of the deceased Countess Hildegarde should be opened in his presence. Before this was done, however, he repeated to me summarily the strange story which the Duke had told him, and placed it at my choice and that of the young nobleman to be present at the investigation. The latter excused himself, saying, that he could not help shuddering at the mere thoughts of such a scene. He had always a great horror of the dead, and especially in the night could not overcome this weakness. The Count in reply, only begged of him that he would preserve a strict silence as to the adventure in the picture gallery; especially that he should not run the risk of shocking Li- bussa’s feelings by any detail of minute circumstances attending it, though it was to be expected that she would question him what could have been the subject of the prolonged discourse at the window.

“The sacristan came meanwhile with a lantern, and I determined to attend the Count. On our way to the chapel, the latter said to me, ‘It is scarcely within the limits of possibility (for probability is now out of the question) that any deception should have been practised as to my daughter’s death. The circumstances as to that event are all known to me; and you may readily imagine, Marquis, that our parental love did not permit her funeral obsequies to be performed too early. But suppose, for a moment, that this had been possible—that the fabulous legend of the robber were revived, and that, on her coffin being opened, she had awoke and come forth—it is not surely to be thought, that our beloved daughter, instead of flying for protection into our arms, would have gone hence into a distant country. Even had she been forced to go hither, at all events she would have written letters, or found her way home ere now. At present, however, my own eyes shall convince me, whether this coffin yet holds her sacred remains. I shall have proof,’ he added, in a tone so loud and agitated, that the sacristan looked round with affright.

“Being thus put on his guard, the Count resumed, almost in a whisper. ‘Yet how could I allow myself to believe, that of our dear Hildegarde’s beautiful features even a trace can yet be remaining,—that the worm would spare his destined prey, however lovely?—Let us return, Marquis; for although the coffin were opened, how should I be certain that the skeleton found there was not that of a stranger? It is in vain to proceed.’ In truth, he was resolved to give up his design, even when we had come to the church door; but I suggested, after he had gone so far, he should now certainly carry through the examination. If the story of the robber had been realized, it would, at least, be possible to ascertain whether any of the ornaments or jewels were removed, which had been laid with her in the coffin. Besides, there were instances where a body remained long in the grave without being destroyed.

“These remarks had their intended effect, and we followed the sacristan, who, by his paleness and trembling, betrayed a very decided aversion to his present employment. I know not, if any one in this party has ever stood at midnight before the grated door of a burial vault, beholding the piles of leaden shrines, in which are deposited the mouldering remains of a distinguished train of ancestors. But it is certain that, at such a moment, even the rattling of the keys in their locks makes a deep and mysterious impression;—that when the door is forced open, one feels at the grating of the rusty hinges as if he were committing a fearful crime, and is glad to linger on the threshold, before he enters into the dark abode of the dead. The Count experienced all these emotions as much as any one could do. This, I perceived by the deep sigh—almost a groan—which he heaved as we stood there. He controlled his agitation, however, by a great effort; did not allow himself to look at the other coffins, but went directly to that of his daughter, of which he lifted up the cover with his own hands. ‘Did I not say so?’ I exclaimed, as on the first instant we perceived that the body had so precisely the features of Libussa, that I was obliged to withhold my astonished friend from imprinting the kiss of an affectionate parent on her forehead. ‘Nay,—touch her not—disturb not the repose of death, said I,’ and endeavoured as quickly as possible to withdraw him from the frightful vault into the free air of the living world.

“We found the two ladies and the Duke in a state of painful anxiety. They had both urged on him questions as to the long conversation which he had held with the Count, nor were by any means satisfied with his answer, that he had promised not to speak on the subject. Now, they applied to us, but of course with as little success. On the following morning, however, their curiosity was in some measure gratified by the sacristan, who was sent for privately, and who, at least, told all that he knew. By this means their anxiety was only rendered the more vehement, to discover what could have given rise to that strange violation of the sepulchral sanctuary.

“For my own part, I reflected for the rest of the night on that inexplicable apparition which Marino had doubtless encountered in Paris. Ideas suggested themselves, which I would willingly have communicated to the Count, if I had not been so well aware that he was an absolute infidel as to the possible intercourse subsisting between the spiritual and corporeal world—so that it was needless to dispute with him on that point. Under such circumstances, it proved very agreeable to me, that the whole affair, though certainly not forgotten, was very seldom made the topic of conversation.

“Ere long, however, I had other reasons for being extremely anxious and perplexed. The Duke constantly avoided speaking with me in private of the young lady to whom he had formerly been betrothed. From this circumstance, and the embarrasment betrayed by him whenever I spoke of her seeming amiable temper and extraordinary beauty, I could not help supposing that Marino had, in consequence of his meeting with the pretended Libussa, become unfaithful, and that he had basely deserted the Countess Apollonia without any fault on her part to warrant such conduct. With such impressions on my mind, it was impossible that I could expect happiness for Libussa in her approaching marriage, and I resolved to take the very first opportunity of tearing off his mask, so that he might repent of his cruelty, and return ere it was too late to the forsaken bride.