by George Sand
“Good God! What was he doing in Bohemia?”
“I’ve since learned that he had broken his contract and was fleeing Venice and Count Zustiniani’s wrath. Soon weary of the quarrelsome, despotic love of Corilla, with whom he had performed again at the Teatro San Samuele to much applause, he had won the favors of a certain Clorinda, a second soprano and my old schoolmate, whom Zustiniani had made his mistress. As a man of the world, in other words, a frivolous libertine, the count took vengeance by taking back Corilla without dismissing Clorinda. In the middle of this double intrigue, Anzoleto became the butt of his rival’s jokes, which he resented. Resentment turned to rage, and one fine summer night he delivered a tremendous kick to the gondola in which Zustiniani was enjoying the cool with Corilla. The gondola capsized, and they got off with a lukewarm bath. The waters of Venice are not deep everywhere. Yet Anzoleto, who felt sure that this joke would mean a little trip to the Prison of Lead, took flight. Headed for Prague, he passed by the Castle of the Giants.
“He continued on his way, and I caught up with Albert for a pilgrimage to the Schreckenstein cave that he wanted to see again with me. Gloomy and upset, I experienced the most painful emotions in that cave. The lugubrious place, the bones out of which Albert had fashioned an altar near the mysterious spring, the admirable, heartrending sounds of his violin, vague terrors, the shadows, the superstitious notions that came back to him in this place, from which I no longer had the strength to protect him. . . .”
“Say it all! He thought he was Jan Zizka. He claimed to have eternal life, the remembrance of centuries past. In short, he had the same delusions as the Count de Saint-Germain?”
“Well, yes, Madame, since you already know this, and his firm belief in that regard made such an impression on me that, instead of curing him of these notions, I almost came to share them.”
“Could it be that, despite your brave heart, your head is weak and suggestible?”
“I cannot pretend to be a free thinker. Where would I have come by that? The only serious education I’ve had was given to me by Albert. How could I not fall under his influence and come to share his illusions? There were so many and such lofty truths in his soul that I couldn’t distinguish fact from fallacy. In that cave I felt my mind coming unhinged. What terrified me the most was that I didn’t find Zdenko there, as I had expected him to be. He hadn’t been seen for several months. Because Zdenko had persisted in his rage against me, Albert had sent him away, expelled him from his presence, no doubt after some violent argument, for he seemed remorseful. Perhaps he thought that Zdenko had gone away and killed himself. In any case, he talked about him in puzzling terms and with a mysterious reserve that made me shudder. I imagined (God forgive me!) that in a fit of frenzy Albert, unable to make the poor wretch give up his murderous intentions toward me, had murdered him himself.”
“And why did Zdenko hate you so?”
“That was a result of his madness. He had dreamed, he said, that I killed his master, then danced on his grave. Oh, Madame! That sinister prediction came true! My love killed Albert, and a week later I made my début here in Berlin in the merriest comic opera. True, I was forced to do so and felt sick at heart. Even so, Albert’s somber fate had been fulfilled, in accordance with Zdenko’s terrifying prognostic.”
“My word, your story is so diabolical that I’m starting to lose my place as well as my wits. But go on. That will all be explained no doubt?”
“No, Madame. I never got an explanation for the fantastic world that Albert and Zdenko carried in their souls. Like me, you’ll just have to make do with seeing what happened.”
“Come on! At least, Rudolstadt hadn’t killed his poor buffoon?”
“Zdenko wasn’t a buffoon for him, but a companion in misery, a friend, a devoted servant. Albert mourned him, but, thank God, it had never crossed his mind to sacrifice his friend to his love for me. Yet I, foolish and guilty, felt sure that the deed had been done. There was a freshly turned grave in the cave. I went into a cold sweat when Albert, who was accusing himself of I-don’t-know-what crime, told me that it contained what had been most dear to him before we had known each other. There was no doubt in my mind that this was Zdenko’s tomb, and I ran out of the cave screaming like a madwoman and weeping like a baby.”
“And with good reason,” said Mme von Kleist. “I’d have been scared to death. A lover like your Albert wouldn’t have suited me in the least. My worthy husband believed in the devil and made sacrifices to him. It’s because of him that I’m such a coward. If I hadn’t made up my mind to divorce him, he’d have driven me mad.”
“It’s clear that he nearly succeeded,” said Princess Amalia. “I think you divorced a bit too late. But don’t interrupt our Countess von Rudolstadt.”
“When I got back to the castle with Albert, who followed me without giving a thought to clearing himself of my suspicions, can you guess who was there, Madame?”
“Anzoleto!”
“Having introduced himself as my brother, he was waiting for me. I don’t know how he had learned en route that I lived there and was going to marry Albert; for people in the area were saying so before anything had been settled. Whether out of spite, a vestige of love, or a love of trouble, he had come back with the sudden intention of stopping the wedding and whisking me away from the count. He tried everything: entreaties, tears, enticements, and threats. I looked unshakable, but deep in my fainting heart I was upset and no longer felt in control. Thanks to the lie that had got him into the castle, and which I dared not refute, even though I had never mentioned to Albert this nonexistent brother, he spent the whole day at the castle. That evening the old count had us sing Venetian airs, and these songs of my adoptive land reawakened all my memories of childhood, of my pure love, beautiful dreams, and past happiness. I felt that I still loved . . . and that it wasn’t the one I was supposed to love, wanted to love and had promised to love. In a whisper, Anzoleto begged me to allow him a visit to my room that night, threatening to come, despite my objections, at his own risk and especially at mine. I had only ever been a sister to him, so he put the best possible face on his intentions. He submitted to my decree and was leaving at daybreak, but he wanted to bid me farewell. I thought he intended to create a fuss in the castle, a scandal; that there would be some terrible scene with Albert and I would be sullied. I made a desperate resolution and carried it out. At midnight I packed a few necessities, wrote Albert a note, and took the little money I had (and, in parenthesis, forgetting the half of it). I left my room, jumped on Anzoleto’s hired horse, paid his guide to help me get away, crossed the drawbridge, and reached the next town. This was my first time on a horse. I galloped four leagues, then sent the guide on his way. Pretending that I was going to wait for Anzoleto on the road to Prague, I gave the man false instructions about where my so-called brother was to meet me. I headed toward Vienna and at the break of day found myself alone, on foot, without resources, in an unknown country and marching as fast as I could to escape from these two loves that to my mind were equally deadly. Yet I must say that after a few hours the phantom of perfidious Anzoleto left my soul, never to return, whereas the pure image of my noble Albert followed me, like a shield and a promise for the future, through the dangers and toils of my voyage.”
“And why were you going to Vienna, instead of back to Venice?”
“Professor Porpora had just arrived in Vienna, brought there by our ambassador, who wanted to restore his depleted fortune as well as his former glory which had paled and drooped before the successes of more felicitous innovators. I was lucky to make the acquaintance of an excellent boy, already a musician full of promise. On his travels through the Bohemian forest he had heard about me and decided to seek me out to ask that I recommend him to Porpora. We hiked back to Vienna together, often very tired, always merry, always friends and brothers. I grew all the more attached to him for two reasons: he didn’t dream of courting me, nor did it ever cross my mind that he might dream of it. I dressed as
a boy and played the role so well that I was the cause of all kinds of amusing misapprehensions. Yet there was one that was nearly fatal to both of us. I’ll keep silent about the others so that this tale doesn’t go on too long, and I’ll only mention this one because I know that it will interest Your Highness much more than all the rest of my story.”
1. The Castle of the Giants, in German.
2. The rock of horror.
Chapter VIII
“I guess you’re going to talk to me about him,” said the princess, pushing aside the candles to see the storyteller better and setting her elbows on the table.
“While Haydn and I were traveling down the banks of the Moldau, on the Bavarian border we were kidnapped by army recruiters working for your brother the king and delighted by the cheery prospect of becoming fife and drum in the glorious armies of His Majesty!”
“You, a drummer boy?” the princess burst out laughing. “Ah! If von Kleist had caught sight of you like that, I bet you would have swept her off her feet. My brother would have made you his page, and God knows what a swath you would have cut through the hearts of our lovely ladies. But what’s this about Haydn? The name is familiar to me. I received some music from this Haydn a little while back, and it’s good stuff. He’s not the boy you’re talking about?”
“I beg your pardon, Madame. Haydn is a boy of about twenty who looks about fifteen. He was my traveling companion, a true and faithful friend as well. At the edge of a little wood where our kidnappers stopped for lunch, we bolted. They followed. We ran like hares and were fortunate to catch up with a traveling coach in which the noble, handsome Frederick von Trenck and an erstwhile conquering hero, Count Hoditz von Roswald, were riding.”
“You mean the husband of my aunt, the Margravine von Kulmbach?” exclaimed the princess. “There’s another love-match for you, von Kleist! In her whole life, moreover, that’s the only wise and honest thing my portly aunt ever did. So, what is he like, this Count Hoditz?”
Consuelo was about to undertake a full portrait of the lord of Roswald, but the princess interrupted with a thousand questions about Trenck, what he was wearing that day, down to every last detail. And when Consuelo told her how Trenck had flown to her defense, how he had almost taken a bullet, how finally he had chased off the marauders and freed a poor deserter whom they found bound hand and foot in their little cart, she had to start all over again, explaining every little thing and relating the most trivial of words. The princess’s joy and emotion reached a zenith when she heard that once Trenck and Count Hoditz had taken the two young travelers into their coach, the baron paid no attention to Consuelo and kept gazing at a portrait hidden in his bosom, sighing and talking to the count about a mysterious love for a highly placed person, the joy and despair of his life.
When Consuelo was finally allowed to go on, she told how Count Hoditz, having divined her sex at Passau, had tried to take a bit too much advantage of the protection he had granted her, after which she ran away with Haydn to continue her humble, adventurous voyage on a boat going down the Danube.
Finally, she told how she with her shepherd’s pipe and Haydn with his violin had been making peasants dance and playing for their supper when one evening, still disguised as Signor Bertoni, itinerant musician and zingaro by trade, she arrived at a nice little priory.
“The hospitaler of this priory,” Consuelo continued, “was a passionate music-lover as well as an intelligent man with an excellent heart. He was very friendly to us, especially to me, and even wanted to adopt me, promising me a nice benefice if I would only take minor orders. I was growing weary of the male sex. I didn’t like the tonsure any better than the drum, but a bizarre event made me stay on a bit with that kind host. A woman traveling by express coach went into labor at the priory gate and gave birth to a little girl that she abandoned the next morning, and I persuaded the fine canon to adopt the baby in my place. She was named Angela, after her father Anzoleto, and Madame Corilla, her mother, went off to Vienna to solicit a contract at the imperial theater. She got it, at my exclusion. Prince von Kaunitz presented her to Empress Maria Theresa as a respectable widow, and I was rejected, as someone accused and vehemently suspected of being in love with Joseph Haydn, who was taking lessons from Porpora and living in the same building as we did.”
Consuelo detailed her interview with the great empress. Princess Amalia was very curious to hear about that extraordinary woman, whose virtue was considered most dubious in Berlin, where it was said that Prince von Kaunitz, Doctor Van Swieten, and the poet Metastasio were all her lovers.
Finally Consuelo recounted her reconciliation with Corilla in connection with Angela and her début in the leading roles at the imperial theater, thanks to that strange girl’s twinges of conscience and burst of generosity. Then she turned to her sweet, noble friendship with Baron von Trenck at the Venetian ambassador’s house and reported in minute detail that while saying their goodbyes they had agreed upon a way of communicating with each other if the persecution on the part of the Prussian king were to make it necessary. She talked about the musical score whose pages would serve both as the envelope and signature of the letters that he would send her, if need be, for his beloved Amalia and also explained how she had been recently enlightened by one of these sheets as to importance of the cabalistic text she had delivered to the princess.
These elucidations, of course, took more time than the rest of her story. Finally, after having recounted how she had left Vienna with Porpora and met Frederick the Great, wearing the uniform of a lowly officer and bearing the name of Baron von Kreutz, at the fabulous castle of Count Hoditz in Moravia, she was forced to mention the tremendous favor she had done the king without knowing who he was.
“This I’m curious to hear,” said Mme von Kleist. “Herr von Poelnitz, who loves to prattle, confided to me that His Majesty recently told guests over supper that his feelings for the lovely Porporina were caused by something more serious than a simple passing fancy.”
“Yet what I did was very simple,” replied Mme von Rudolstadt. “I used my influence over a miserable fanatic to prevent him from assassinating the king. Karl, the wretched Bohemian giant that Baron von Trenck had rescued from the recruiters along with me, had become one of Count Hoditz’s servants. He had just recognized the king and wanted to take vengeance on him for his wife and child, who had both died of poverty and grief after he’d been kidnapped for the second time. Fortunately, he hadn’t forgotten that I had helped save him and given his wife a hand. He let himself be talked into giving up his gun. The king, concealed in a nearby lodge, overheard everything, as he has since told me. Afraid that his would-be assassin might suffer some relapse of rage, he decided to leave by a road other than the one where Karl had planned to ambush him. The king was traveling alone on horseback with Herr von Buddenbrock, so it’s very likely that a good shot like Karl would not have missed his target. That very morning I had seen him hit the pigeon on a pole three times at the festivities that Count Hoditz had arranged for us.”
“God knows,” said the princess, with a dreamy look, “what changes that misfortune would have brought about in the politics of Europe and the fate of individuals! Now, my dear Rudolstadt, I think I know very well the rest of your story up until Count Albert’s death. In Prague you met up with his uncle the baron, who took you back to the Castle of the Giants to see him die of some wasting disease only seconds after having married you. So you hadn’t been able to make up your mind to love him?”
“Alas, Madame! I loved him too late, and I’ve been very cruelly punished for all my hesitations and love of the theater. Forced by Professor Porpora to make my début in Vienna, deceived by him about Albert’s condition—he did away with the last letters of Albert, who I thought cured of his fatal love for me—I let myself get carried away by the glamour of the stage and wound up, while awaiting my contract in Berlin, performing in Vienna with a sort of rapture.”
“And with glory!” the princess added. “That we know.�
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“Wretched, fatal glory,” Consuelo went on. “What Your Highness doesn’t know is that Albert made a secret trip to Vienna and saw me perform. Following me around like a mysterious shadow, he overheard me confess to Joseph Haydn in the wings of the theater that I couldn’t give up singing without a dreadful sense of regret. Yet I loved Albert! I had recognized, I swear to God, that giving him up was even more impossible than giving up my vocation, and I had written to tell him this; but Porpora, who called our love a chimera, madness, had intercepted my letter and burned it. When I returned to the castle, Albert was wasting away before my very eyes. I gave him my troth and could not give him back life.
“I saw him lying in state, dressed like a lord of old, beautiful in the arms of death, his brow serene like that of an angel of forgiveness. but I couldn’t accompany him to his final resting place. I left him on a candle-lit bier in the Castle of the Giants, under the watch of that poor, mad prophet, Zdenko, who shook my hand, laughing and rejoicing in his friend’s tranquil sleep. He, at least, more pious and faithful than I, placed him in the tomb of his forefathers, not realizing that Albert would never rise from that bed of repose! And I left, dragged away by Porpora, a devoted but ferocious friend, with a fatherly but inflexible heart, who was shrieking in my ears even beside my husband’s coffin, ‘Next Saturday is your début in the Virtuosi ridicoli!’ ”
“The strange vicissitude, indeed, of an artist’s life!” said the princess, wiping away a tear, for Porporina was sobbing at the end of her story. “But you haven’t said a word, dear Consuelo, about your finest deed, and that’s the thing that Supperville related to me admiringly. To spare the old canoness and abide by your romantic indifference to money and position, you gave up your title, your dower, and your name; you asked Supperville and Porpora, the only witnesses to this hasty wedding, to keep everything secret; and you came here, poor as before, a Zingarella as always. . . .”