Читать книгу The Countess of Rudolstadt - George Sand - Страница 9

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"I was born in I know not what part of Spain, and I know not exactly in what year. I must be, however, twenty-three or four years old. I do not know my father's name, and am inclined to think that my mother was as uncertain about her parents as I am. She was called at Venice La Zingara, and I was called La Zingarella. My mother had given me the Christian name of Maria del Consuelo—in French, "Our Lady of Consolation."7 My childhood was wandering and miserable. We travelled on foot, living by our songs. I have a vague recollection that, in a forest of Bohemia, we received hospitality at a castle, where the son of the lord, a handsome youth named Albert, overwhelmed me with attention and kindness, and gave my mother a guitar. This was the Giants' Castle, to be the mistress of which I was one day to refuse; and the young lord was Albert, Count of Rudolstadt, whose wife I became.

"At the age of ten, I began to sing in the streets. One day, as I sang a little piece in Saint Mark's-place at Venice, Maestro Porpora, who was at a café, struck with the accuracy of my voice, and the natural manner my mother had transmitted to me, called me to him, questioned me, followed me to my garret, gave me some little pecuniary aid, and promised to have me admitted into the Scoula dei Mendicanti, one of the free musical schools, of which there are so many in Italy, and whence come eminent artists of both sexes, for the best maestri have the direction of them. I made rapid progress, and Maestro Porpora conceived a friendship for me which soon exposed me to the jealousy and ill-feeling of my companions. Their unjust spite at my rags soon taught me the habit of patience and reserve.

"I do not remember the first day I saw him; but it is certain that at the age of seven or eight years, I already loved—loved a young man, an orphan, friendless, and, like myself, learning music by protection and charity, and living in the streets. Our friendship, or our love, (for it was the same thing), was a chaste and delicious sentiment. We passed together in innocent wanderings all the time not devoted to study. My mother, after having vainly opposed it, sanctioned our intimacy by an oath she made us take to marry as soon as we should be able to support a family.

"At the age of eighteen or nineteen, I was far advanced in singing. Count Zustiniani, a noble Venetian, owner of the Theatre of Saint Samuel, heard me sing at church, and engaged me to replace La Corilla, the prima donna—a beautiful and robust woman, who had been his mistress, and who had been unfaithful to him. This Zustiniani was the protector of my lover Anzoleto, who was engaged with me to sing the chief male parts. Our début was brilliant. He had a magnificent voice, extraordinary ease, and an attractive exterior. All the fine ladies protected him. He was idle, however, and his professor was neither as skillful nor as zealous as mine. His success was less brilliant. He was grieved at first, afterwards he was angry, and at last he became jealous, and I lost his love."

"Is it possible?" said the Princess Amelia, "for such a cause? He was, then, very vile."

"Alas! no, madame, but he was vain and an artiste. He won the protection of Corilla, the dismissed and furious artiste, who took possession of his heart, and made him rapidly lacerate and tear mine. One evening, the Maestro Porpora, who had always opposed our sentiments, because he maintains that a woman, to be a great artiste, must be a stranger to every passion and every preoccupation of the heart, unfolded Anzoleto's treason to me. On the evening of the next day, Count Zustiniani made a declaration of love, which I was far from expecting, and which wounded me deeply. Anzoleto pretended to be jealous, and to say that I was corrupted. He wished to break with me. I left my house in the night: I went to seek my maestro, who is a man prompt to act, and who had used me to act decidedly, he gave me letters, a small sum of money, and a guide-book: he put me in a gondola, accompanied me to the mainland, and, at dawn, I set out alone for Bohemia."

"For Bohemia!" said the Baroness Von Kleist, whom the virtue of Porpora filled with surprise.

"Yes, madame," said the young girl, "in our artistic language, we have the phrase, to travel in Bohemia,"8 which expresses that one runs through all the risks of poverty, labor, and not unfrequently crime, like the Zingari, whom you call in French Bohemians. I set out, not for this symbolical Bohemia, for which fate seemed to destine me, like many others; but for the chivalric country of the Tcheques, the land of Huss and Ziska, for the Boehmer-wald, for the Giants' Castle, where I was generously received by the family of Rudolstadt."

"Why did you go thither?" said the princess, who listened attentively. "Would any one remember to have seen a child?"

"No, no, I did not remember it myself until long after, when Count Albert by chance discovered, and aided me in discovering the key to this adventure. My master, Porpora, in Germany, had been very intimate with the good Count Christian, the head of the house. The young Baroness Amelia, his niece, wished a governess, that is to say, a companion, who should teach her music and entertain her, in the dull life she led at Riesenberg. Her noble and kind relations received me like a friend, and almost like a relation. I taught nothing, in spite of my disposition, to my beautiful and capricious pupil, and——"

"Count Albert fell in love with you? That must have happened."

"Alas! madame, I would not speak with such volubility of so grave and painful a thing. Count Albert was considered to be mad; and united a sublime soul with an enthusiastic genius, strange whims and a diseased imagination, which was entirely inexplicable."

"Supperville, though he neither believed nor could make me understand it, has told me all that. Supernatural power was attributed to this young man, such as second sight, the power of making himself invisible... His family told the most unheard of things. . . All this, however, is impossible, and I hope you place no faith in it."

"Excuse me, madame, the suffering and distress of pronouncing on matters which surpass my capacity. I have seen strange things, and, at times, Count Albert has seemed to me a being superior to humanity. Then, again, he has appeared an unfortunate creature, deprived, by the very excess of his virtue, of the light of reason; never, however, did I see him like common men. When in delirium, and when calm, when enthusiastic and when depressed, he was always the best, the most just, the most enlightened, and the most poetically exalted of men. In a word, I would not know what to think, for I am the involuntary, though it may be the innocent cause, of his death."

"Well, dear countess, dry your beautiful eyes, take courage, and continue. I hear you without profane volatility, I vow."

"When he first loved me, I did not even suspect it. He never spoke to me; he did not even seem to see me. I think he was first aware of my presence, when he heard me sing. I must tell you he was a very great musician, and played the violin better than you would suspect any one in the world capable of doing. I think, however, I was the only person who ever heard him at Riesenberg; for his family were not aware that he possessed this great talent. His love, then, had its origin in a burst of enthusiasm, and in sympathy for music. His cousin, the Baroness Amelia, who had been betrothed to him for two years, and whom he did not love, became offended with me, though she did not love him. This, she exhibited with more frankness than wickedness: for, amid all her obstinacy, there existed something of greatness of soul. She became weary of Albert's coldness, of the sadness that pervaded the castle, and one fine morning left us, taking away, so to say, her father, Baron Frederick, Count Christian's brother, an excellent man, though of restricted mind, indolent and pure-hearted, a perfect slave to his daughter, and passionately devoted to the chase."

"You say nothing about the invisibility of Count Albert, of his disappearance for fifteen or twenty days, after which he reappeared suddenly, believing, or pretending to think that he had not left the house, and being either unwilling or unable to say where he had hid himself during the time he had been searched for everywhere."

"Since Dr. Supperville has told you this apparently wonderful fact, I will explain it; I alone can do so, for this has always been a secret, between Albert and myself. Near the Giants' Castle, there is a mountain known as the Stone of Terror,9 an old subterranean work, which dates from the days of the Hussites. Albert, after studying a series of philosophical characters, yielded to an enthusiasm, extending almost to mysticism, and became a Hussite, or rather Taborite. Descended on the mother's side from George Podiebrad, he had preserved and developed in himself the sentiments of patriotic independence and of evangelical equality, which the preaching of John Huss and the victories of John Ziska instilled into the Bohemians."

"How she speaks of history and philosophy," said the princess, with an expressive glance to the Baroness Von Kleist. "Who would think an actress would understand those things as well as I who have passed a lifetime in study? Have I not told you, Von Kleist, that there was among those persons whom the opinions of courts dooms to the lowest class of society, intelligences equal, if not superior, to those formed with so much care and expense amid the highest grades?"

"Alas! madame," said Porporina, "I am very ignorant, and I never read anything before I came to Riesenberg; while there, however, I heard so much said of things of this kind, that thought itself forced me to understand all that passed in Albert's mind, so that finally I had some idea of it myself."

"Yes; but my dear, you became foolish; and, something of a mystic myself, I admire the campaigns of John Ziska, and the republican genius of Bohemia, if you please; however, I have ideas as utterly republican as yourself; for love has revealed to me a truth altogether contradictory to what pedants told me, in relation to the rights of the people, and the merits of individuals. I do not participate in your admiration of Taborite fanaticism, and their delirium of Christian equality. This is absurd, not to be realized, results in ferocious excesses, and overturns thrones. If it be necessary, I will aid you—make Spartan, Athenian, Roman republics—make republics like that of old Venice—I can submit to that. These sanguinary and filthy Taborites suit me no better than the Vandals of burning memory, the odious Anabaptists of Munster, and the Picords of old Germany."

"I have heard Count Albert say, that all this is not precisely the same thing," said Consuelo, with great modesty. "I will not, however, venture to discuss with your highness, matters, perhaps, you have studied closely. You have here historians and savans, who devote themselves to these grave matters, and you can form a better opinion of their wisdom than I can. Yet, had I the academy to instruct me, I do not think my sympathies would ever change. But let me resume my story."

"Yes, I interrupted you by pedantic reflections, and I pray you excuse me. Go on. Count Albert, enthusiastic in relation to the exploits of his ancestors, (that is easily understood, and very pardonable,) in love with you, (and that is most legitimate and natural,) would not admit that you were not his equal in the eye of God and man. He was right; but this was no reason why he should desert his father's house, and leave all who loved him in despair."

"This is not the point I wished to reach," said Consuelo. "He had been dreaming and meditating for a long time in the cavern of the Hussites, at Schreckenstein, and he was especially delighted in doing so from the fact that, besides himself, no one but a poor mad peasant was aware of these subterraneous abodes. Thither he used to go when any domestic chagrin, or any violent emotion overcame his will. He was aware of the approach of these attacks, and to hide his madness from his kindred, went to the Schreckenstein, by a secret passage, the entrance to which he had discovered in a cistern near his rooms, amid a parterre of flowers. When once in this cavern, he forgot the lapse of time, of days, and weeks. Attended by Zdenko, the visionary and poetic peasant, the excitement of whom was not a little like his own, he had no idea of ever returning to the upper world, or of seeing his parents again, until the attack began to pass away. Unfortunately, these attacks became every time more violent, and lasted longer. Once, he was so long absent, that all thought him dead, and I undertook to discover the place of his retreat. I reached it, with much difficulty and danger. I went down this cistern, which was amid the garden, and from which, one night, I had seen Zdenko come. Not knowing the way through this abyss, I was near losing my life. At last, I found Albert, and succeeded in dispersing the torpor in which he had been plunged. I restored him to his parents, and made him swear he never would return again to the fatal cavern, he yielded to me, but said, this was to sentence him to death. His prediction was but too well fulfilled."

"How so? Thus you restored him to life."

"No, madame; not unless I could love him, and never be a cause of trouble to him."

"What, did you not love him? Yet you descended in that abyss; you risked your life under-ground?"

"The mad Zdenko, not comprehending my design, and, like a faithful dog, jealous of his master's safety, was near murdering me. A torrent came near sweeping me away. Albert at first, not knowing me, almost made me share his folly; for terror and emotion make all hallucinations contagious. . . . At last, he was attacked by a new fit of delirium, as he bore me from the cave, and had very nearly closed the outlet. . . I exposed myself to all that, without loving Albert."

"Then you made a vow to Maria del Consuelo to rescue him?"

"Something like it, in fact," said Consuelo, with a sad smile; "an emotion of tender pity to his family, of deep sympathy to him, perhaps a romantic attraction, a sincere friendship, certainly, but not an appearance of love. At least, nothing like the blind, intoxicating and delicious passion I had entertained for the ungrateful Anzoleto, in which, I think, my heart was prematurely exhausted. What shall I say, madame? After that terrible expedition, I had a brain fever, and was at the very point of death. Albert, who was somewhat skilled in physic, saved my life. My slow recovery and his assiduous cares placed us on the footing of the closest intimacy. His reason returned entirely, and his father blessed and treated me as a beloved daughter. An old lame aunt, the Countess Wenceslawa, an angel of tenderness, and a patrician full of prejudices, even consented to receive me. Albert besought my love. Count Christian, too, pleaded for his son. I was moved, I was terrified. I loved Albert as one loves virtue, truth, and the beautiful; I was yet afraid of him; I dreaded becoming a countess, and of making a match, the result of which would be to raise against him and his family all the nobility of the country, and which would cause me to be accused of sordid views and base intrigues. Yet, must I own it, that was, perhaps, my only crime. . . . I regretted my profession, my liberty, my old teacher, and the exciting arena of the theatre, where, for a moment, I had appeared to glitter, and where I would disappear like a meteor. The burning stage on which my love had been crushed, my misfortune consummated, which I thought I could hate and despise forever, and yet, on which I dreamed every night I was either applauded or hissed. This must seem strange and unaccountable to you; but when one has been educated for the theatre, when one has toiled all life long for such combats and such victories, the idea of returning to them no more, is as terrible, as would be to you, Madame Amelia, that of being a princess on the stage, as I am twice a week."

"You are mistaken, my dear. You are mad. If from a princess I could become an artist, I would marry Trenck, and be happy. You to marry Rudolstadt would not from an actress become a countess or princess. I see you did not love him. That was not your fault. We cannot love those whom we please."

"Madame, that is an aphorism of which I would willingly convince myself, and in solving it, I have passed my life; could I do so my conscience would be at ease. Yet I have not been able to accomplish it."

"Let me see," said the princess, "this is a grave matter, and, as an abbess, I should be able to decide on it. You think, then, that love can choose and reason?"

"It should. A noble heart should subject its inclination; I do not say to that worldly reason, which is folly and falsehood, but to the noble discernment, which is only the love of the beautiful, and a passion for truth. You, madame, are proof of what I advance, and your example condemns me. Born to fill a throne, you have immolated false greatness on the altar of true passion, to the possession of a heart worthy of your own. I, also, born to occupy a throne, (on the stage,) had neither courage nor generosity to sacrifice the glitter of that false glory to the calm and sublime affection offered to me. I was ready to do so from devotion, but could not without grief and terror. Albert, who saw the struggle, would not accept my faith as an offering. He wished enthusiasm, equal joys, and a heart devoid of sorrow. I could not deceive him. Is it possible to deceive one in such matters? I asked time, and he granted it. I promised to do all I could to love like him. I was sincere, but wished I had not been forced by my conscience to make this formidable engagement."

"Strange girl! I will bet that you loved the other!"

"Oh my God! I thought I did not love him. One morning I waited on the mountain for Albert, and heard a voice in the ravine. I recognised a song which I had formerly studied with Anzoleto, and I recognised that penetrating voice I had loved so much, and that Venetian accent which was so dear to me. I looked down, and saw a cavalier pass. It was Anzoleto, madame."

"Alas! What was he doing in Bohemia?"

"I have since learned that he had broken his engagement, and fled from Venice, to avoid the persecution of Count Zustiniani. Having soon become tired of the quarrelsome love of the despotic Corilla, with whom he had appeared at St. Samuel's again, and had the greatest success, he had obtained the favors of a certain Clorinda, the second singer, my old schoolfellow, who had become Zustiniani's mistress. Like a man of the world, that is to say, like a frivolous libertine, the count avenged himself by taking up again with Corilla, without discharging Anzoleto. Amid this double intrigue, Anzoleto, being ridiculed by his rival, became mortified and angry, and one fine summer night, by an adroit kick, upset the gondola in which Zustiniani and his mistress were taking the fresh air. They only were upset, and had a cold bath. The waters of Venice are nowhere deep. Anzoleto, thinking this pleasantry would take him to the Leads, fled to Prague, and passed the Giants' Castle.

"He passed on, and I rejoined Albert to make a pilgrimage to the cavern of the Schreckenstein, which he desired once more to see with me. I was melancholy and unhappy. I there suffered under the most lugubrious emotions. The dark place, the Hussite bones, of which Albert had built an altar by the mysterious fountain, the admirable and touching tone of his violin—I know not what terrors—darkness, and the superstitions which here took possession of him, and which I could scarcely shake from my own mind——"

"Say all. He fancied he was John Ziska—that he was endowed with eternal life—the memory of the events of past centuries—in fine, he was as mad as the Count de St. Germain is."

"Yes, madame, since you know all; his convictions made such an impression on me, that instead of curing him, I almost participated in it."

"Can your mind, then, notwithstanding your courageous heart, be weak?"

"I do not pretend to a strong mind. Whence could I have derived this power? The only real education I have was derived from Albert. How is it possible for me not to have felt his influence, and partaken of his illusions? He had so much, and so many, truths in his soul, that I could not discern error and separate it from truth. In this cavern I felt that my reason was deserting me. What most terrified me was the fact that I did not meet Zdenko, as I had expected. For several months he had not been seen. As he persisted in being angry with me, Albert had exiled him from his presence, after a violent discussion, beyond doubt, for he seemed to regret it. Perhaps he thought that when he left him Zdenko had killed himself. At all events, he spoke of him in enigmatical terms, and with mysterious concealments, which terrified me. I fancied, (may God forgive me the idea!) that in an access of fury Albert, being unable to make the unfortunate man renounce his intention of destroying me, had murdered him."

"Why, then, did Zdenko hate you?"

"This was one of the consequences of his madness. He said that he had dreamed that I killed his master, and afterwards danced over his tomb. Oh! madame, this sad prediction has been fulfilled. My love killed Albert, and eight days after I made my début in one of the gayest buffo operas in Berlin. I was compelled to do so, I know; and my heart was filled with grief. The sad fate of Albert was accomplished as Zdenko had foretold."

"My God! your story is so diabolical that I begin to forget where I am, and lose my senses as I listen to you. But, go on; all this may be explained, certainly?"

"No, madame. The fantastic world which Albert and Zdenko bore in their souls has never been explained to me; and, like myself, you must be satisfied merely with a knowledge of the results."

"Then the count at least did not kill the poor buffoon?"

"Zdenko to him was not a buffoon, but a friend and companion of misfortune, a devoted servant. He was grieved at his conduct, but, thank God! never dreamed of immolating him to me. Yet I was so foolish and so guilty as to think this murder had been completed. A grave recently opened in the cavern, and which Albert confessed contained the dearest thing he had ever known, until he met me, at that time when he accused himself of I know not what crime, chilled me to the heart. I felt certain that Zdenko was buried there, and fled from the grotto crying and weeping like a child!"

"You had reason to do so," said the Baroness Von Kleist, "and I am sure such things would have terrified me to death. A lover like Albert would not have suited me at all. The good Baron Von Kleist believed in, and used to make sacrifices to the devil. That made me a coward, and had I not been divorced, I think I would have gone mad."

"You have much consolation left you. I think you were divorced a little too late," said the princess; "but do not interrupt the Countess of Rudolstadt."

"When I returned to the castle with Albert, who had not dreamed of defending himself from my suspicions, whom think you I found there?"

"Anzoleto!"

"He presented himself as my brother, and waited for me. I do not know how he had learned en route that I was living there, and was to marry Albert. But it was talked of in the country long before anything was determined. Whether from mortification, a remnant of love, or the love of evil, he had suddenly returned with the intention of breaking off this marriage. He did all he could to succeed, using prayers, tears, persuasion, and threats. Apparently I was unmoved, but in my coward heart I was troubled, and I felt I was no longer mistress of myself. By means of the falsehood by which he had obtained admission, and which I did not dare to contradict, though I had never spoken to Albert of this brother, he remained all day at the castle. The old count made us at night sing Venetian airs. These melodies of my adopted country awoke all the recollections of my infancy, of my fine dreams, pure love, and past happiness. I felt that I yet loved, but not the person I should, and had promised to love. Anzoleto conjured me in a low tone to receive him at night in my room, and threatened to come at any hazard or danger to him or to me. I had ever been a sister to him, and under the purest professions he concealed his plan. He would submit to my decision; he was going at dawn, but wished to bid me farewell. I fancied that he wished to make trouble and slander in the castle, that he proposed to make a terrible scene with Albert, and that I would be disgraced. I took a desperate resolution and executed it. At midnight I packed up in a small bundle all the clothing I required—I wrote a note for Albert—took what money I had, and (par parenthèse) forgot half of it. I left my room, mounted the hired horse Anzoleto had ridden, paid his guide to aid me, crossed the draw-bridge, and went to the neighboring city. I had never been on horseback before, and galloped four leagues. I then sent back the guide, and, pretending that I would await Anzoleto on the road to Prague, gave him false intelligence as to where my brother would find me. I set out for Vienna, and at dawn was alone, on foot, without resources, in an unknown country, and walking rapidly as possible, to escape from two passions, apparently each equally unfortunate. I must, however, say that after a few hours the phantom of the perfidious Anzoleto was effaced from my mind, never to return, while the pure image of my Albert, like an ægis and promise of the future, cheered me amid the dangers of my route."

"Why did you go to Vienna rather than Venice?"

"My maestro had gone thither, having been brought by our ambassador to replenish his broken fortune, and recover his ancient fame, which had begun to grow pale before the success of luckier innovators. Luckily, I met an excellent youth, already a musician of talent, who, in passing through the Boehmer-wald, had heard of me, and had determined to ask my recommendation and good offices in his behalf, with Porpora. We went together to Vienna on foot—suffered much from fatigue, but were always gay, always friends and brothers. I became especially fond of him, because he did not dream of making love to me, and it did not enter into my mind that he would do so. I disguised myself as a boy, and played the part so well that all kinds of pleasant mistakes occurred. One, however, came near being unfortunate to both of us. I will pass the others in silence—not to shorten my story—and will mention this only because I know it will interest your highness more than the rest of my narrative."