The Countess von Rudolstadt

by George Sand

  April 7th.—While I was walking on my rampart and looking with all my eyes, I noticed a narrow little slit in the side of the tower where I live. It’s about ten feet up from my window and almost entirely hidden by the topmost shoots of the ivy. With that little slit of a window no one can be living there, I thought with a shudder. Still I wanted to know for sure, so I tried to get Gottlieb out on the rampart by flattering his obsession, rather his unhappy passion, for making shoes. I asked him if he could make me a pair of slippers. For the first time he came up to me of his own accord and spoke without embarrassment. But his way of talking is as odd as his face, and I’m starting to think that he’s no moron but a madman. “Shoes for you?” he asked. “No, I would not dare. It is written, I am not worthy to unfasten the laces of his shoes.”

  I saw his mother standing just outside the door and ready to come join the conversation, which meant that there was no time to try and understand why he was being so humble or reverent. I hurriedly asked him if anyone lived on the floor above me, even though I was scarcely hoping for a sensible reply.

  “Nobody lives there,” was Gottlieb’s very judicious reply. “It’s not possible for anyone to live there. There’s only a staircase going up to the platform.”

  “And the platform stands alone? It’s not connected to anything?”

  “Why are you asking me that, since you already know the answer?”

  “No, I don’t know, nor do I much care to know. I’m only trying to get you talking, Gottlieb, to see if you’re as quick-witted as they say.”

  “My wits are very, very quick,” said poor Gottlieb in a sad, solemn tone that did not square with his comic words.

  “In that case, tell me,” I asked (for time was precious), “how this courtyard is put together.”

  “Ask the robin,” he replied with a strange smile. “He knows. He flies and goes everywhere. I don’t know anything since I don’t go anywhere.”

  “What? Not even to the top of the tower where you live? You don’t know what’s behind this wall?”

  “Maybe I’ve been there, but I didn’t take any notice. I hardly ever look at anything or anybody.”

  “Yet you look at the robin. You see him, you know him.”

  “Oh, him. That’s different. One knows the angels well. That’s no reason to look at walls.”

  “That’s very deep what you’ve just said, Gottlieb. Could you explain it to me?”

  “Ask the robin. I’m telling you, he knows everything. He can go everywhere, but he only ever visits his own kind. That’s why he goes to your room.”

  “Thanks very much, Gottlieb. You take me for a bird.”

  “The robin is not a bird.”

  “So what is he?”

  “An angel, as you know.”

  “In that case, I’m one too?”

  “You said it.”

  “How gallant of you!”

  “Gallant!” Gottlieb gave me a stunned look. “What does gallant mean?”

  “You don’t know the word?”

  “No.”

  “How do you know that the robin comes to my room?”

  “I saw him. Besides, he told me.”

  “So he talks to you?”

  “Sometimes,” sighed Gottlieb. “Very rarely. But yesterday he told me, ‘No! I’ll never go into your hell of a kitchen. Angels have no business with evil spirits.’ ”

  “Would you be an evil spirit, Gottlieb?”

  “Oh! No, not me, but. . . .”

  Then, with an air of mystery, Gottlieb put a finger to his fat lips.

  “Who then?”

  He didn’t say a word, but stealthily pointed at his cat, as if he were afraid that the cat might notice.

  “Is that why you’ve given him such an ugly name? Beelzebub, right?”

  “Hush! That’s his name, and he knows it well. He’s had that name since the beginning of the world, but he won’t always have it.”

  “No doubt, once he’s dead.”

  “He won’t die, that one! He can’t die, and that really annoys him because he doesn’t know that one day he’ll be forgiven.”

  Then we were interrupted by Frau Schwartz, amazed to see Gottlieb talking freely with me at last. She was overjoyed and asked if I were pleased with him.

  “Most pleased, I assure you. Gottlieb is very interesting, and now it will be a pleasure getting him to open up.”

  “Ah! Fraulein, that will be a great help to us. The poor child doesn’t have anyone to talk to, and with us he seems determined to keep his teeth clenched. You’re a real character and stubborn to boot, aren’t you, my poor Gottlieb? Here you are chatting away with this young lady you hardly know, while with your parents. . . .”

  At that moment Gottlieb turned on his heel and disappeared into the kitchen, without even appearing to have heard his mother’s voice.

  “That’s what he always does!” Frau Schwartz exclaimed. “When his father or I say something to him, twenty-nine times out of thirty you’d swear he’d gone deaf. But what was he saying, Fraulein? What the devil could he go on and on about for such a long time?”

  “I confess that I didn’t understand very well,” I replied. “First, one would have to know what is on his mind. Leave me alone for a chat with him every now and then, and once I’ve figured it out, I’ll tell you what’s going on.”

  “But he’s not demented, he is, Fraulein?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. May God forgive me that huge lie!

  My first impulse was to spare the poor woman’s illusion. She’s truly a miserable witch, but she’s also a mother and fortunate not to see that her son is crazy. This is still very strange. It must be that Gottlieb, who so naïvely showed me his peculiarities, is silently crazy with his parents. While thinking about this, I imagined that I might be able to get out of this poor simpleton some information about my fellow prisoners and just happen to learn who is writing me these anonymous notes. So I want to befriend him, all the more because his sympathies seem to me subject to those of the robin, who definitely honors me with his! There is poetry in the poor child’s sick head! The little bird is an angel, the cat an evil spirit who will be forgiven! What is all this? These German minds, even the most deranged, have a wealth of imagination that I admire.

  Frau Schwartz, at any rate, is very pleased that I was so kind, and we’re on fine terms for the time being. Gottlieb’s nonsense will entertain me. Poor creature! I’ve only begun to know him for a day now, and he doesn’t inspire feelings of aversion in me any longer. A madman is probably not bad in this country, where intelligent, very reasonable people are so far from being good!

  April 8th—A third note at my window.

  “Dear sister, the platform stands alone, but the stairs leading up to it connect with another building, at the far end of which is an apartment occupied by a lady prisoner like you. Her name is a mystery, but the robin will tell you if you ask. By the way, this is what you wanted to learn from poor Gottlieb, what he wasn’t able to tell you.”

  So who is this friend who knows, sees, and hears everything I do, everything I say? I’m perplexed. So he’s invisible? This is all so marvelous that I’m seriously amused. It seems to me, as it did in my childhood, that I’m living in a fairy tale, that my robin is going to start talking all of a sudden. Yet, if it is true that the only thing lacking in this charming little imp is the ability to speak, it’s only too certain that this lack is absolute or that I can’t understand his language. He’s completely used to me now. He comes to my room, leaves, and comes back again, he feels at home. I move and walk around, he flits away, but no farther than an arm’s length and comes right back. If he really loved bread, he’d love me more, for I can’t fool myself about why he’s become attached to me. He’s hungry. It’s also a bit because he needs and likes to warm up on my stove. If I manage to catch a fly (there are still so few of them!), I’m sure he’ll come take it from my fingers. He already takes a good, long look at the bits I offer him. If they were more
tempting, he’d put aside all ceremony. Now I remember hearing Albert say that the only thing required for taming the most timid animals, as long as they had a spark of intelligence, was a few hours of steadfast patience. Once he met a zingara, a so-called witch, who never spent a day in the same spot of the woods without a few birds coming to light on her. It was said that she had magical powers, and she maintained that the birds revealed mysteries to her, as they did to Apollonius of Tyana, whom I also heard about from Albert. He said her whole secret was the patience with which she had studied the little creatures’ instincts as well as a certain affinity of character that often shows up between beings of our own kind and those of another species. In Venice people raise a lot of birds; they have a passion for it, which I now understand. It’s because that beautiful city, separated from the mainland, is something like a prison. They outdo themselves training nightingales. There the pigeons, protected by a special law and almost venerated by the population, are free to live on the old buildings, and they’re so at home in the streets and squares that you’ve got to watch your step if you don’t want to trample them underfoot. The seagulls in the harbor light on the sailors’ arms. There are also renowned bird-tamers in Venice. As a child I was very close to a boy from a humble family who plied this trade. After an hour with the wildest of birds, he’d hand it back to you tame as could be. It’s fun trying the same things on my robin, and now he’s cozier and cozier with me with every passing minute. When I’m outside, he follows me around, calling to me. When I go to my window, he hurries over to me. Does he love me? Is he able to love me? I feel that I love him. He, on the other hand, knows me and isn’t afraid of me, and that’s all it is. The same way a baby in a cradle loves its wet nurse, no doubt. A baby! What tender feelings that must inspire! Alas, it seems to me that we only feel passionate love for those who can scarcely love us in return! Ingratitude and devotion or, at the least, indifference and passion, these are the eternal bride and groom in life. Anzoleto, you didn’t love me. . . . And you, Albert, whom I loved so much, I let you die. . . . So here I am reduced to loving a robin! How can I complain that I don’t deserve my lot? Are you thinking, my friends, that I’d dare joke about such a thing? No. Maybe solitude has addled my wits; my heart, deprived of affection, feeds on itself, and this paper is drenched with my tears.

  I had promised myself not to waste any of this precious paper, and here I go covering it with childish drivel. It’s a great comfort to me, and I can’t help it. It’s been raining all day long. I haven’t seen Gottlieb; I haven’t taken a walk. I’ve been busy with the robin all this time, and this puerile little business has wound up making me strangely sad. When the fickle, mischievous bird pecked at the pane to take leave of me, I gave in to him. I opened the window out of respect for that sacred liberty that men don’t fear stealing from their own kind. Yet I felt hurt by that brief desertion, as if the creature owed me something for so much love and care. I really think I’m losing my mind, and it won’t be long before I understand Gottlieb’s ramblings perfectly.

  April 9th.—What have I learned? Rather, what do I think I’ve learned? For I still don’t know anything, although my imagination is working tremendously hard.

  First of all, I’ve found out who is writing these mysterious notes. It’s the last person I would have imagined. But that’s not what is filling me with wonder right now. Never mind, I’ll tell you everything that has happened today.

  As soon as it was morning, I opened my little window. The single pane of glass is sufficiently big and clear, thanks to all my wiping, so that I don’t lose a single ray of the scarce light that reaches me, for which I have to vie with the ugly grate. Even the ivy threatens to invade and plunge me into darkness, but I don’t yet dare tear off a single leaf. This ivy is alive; it’s free in its own way. What? Thwart it? Mutilate it? Yet I’ll have to resolve to do that. The ivy feels the influence of April; it’s growing fast, reaching out and taking hold everywhere. Its roots are fastened in the rock, but up it goes, looking for air and sun. The poor old human mind does just the same. Now I can understand how in ages past there were sacred plants . . . sacred animals. . . . The robin came right away and lit on my shoulder without further ado; then, as is his habit, he began looking all around and getting into everything. Poor creature! There’s so little here to amuse him! Yet he is free, he can live in the fields, and he prefers this prison, his old ivy and my dreary cell. Maybe he loves me? No. He feels nice and warm in my room, and he’s developing a taste for my bits of bread. Now it scares me that I’ve done such a good job taming him. What if he went into the Schwartzes’ kitchen and fell prey to that nasty cat! My tender care for him would be the cause of that dreadful death. . . . Torn apart, devoured by a ferocious beast! And what do we do, poor, weak humans with our candid, defenseless hearts, aside from being tortured and destroyed by pitiless creatures who kill us slowly, making us feel their claws and cruel fangs!

  The sun came up clear, and my cell was almost the color of a rose, like my old room at the Corte Minelli when the Venetian sun . . . but I mustn’t think about that sun; never again will it rise over my head. May you, my dear friends, greet in my stead lovely Italy, the vast skies, and il firmamento lucido . . . that I’ll surely never see again.

  I asked to go out. Permission was granted, even though it was earlier than usual. And this is what I call going out! A platform some thirty feet long, bordered by a swamp and boxed in between high walls! Yet the place is not without beauty. At least I think so now that I’ve contemplated its every aspect. At night its very dreariness makes it beautiful. I’m sure that here there are many innocents like me and much worse off, in dungeons that they never leave, into which no ray of sun ever penetrates, that even the moon, that friend of desolate hearts, never visits. Ah, I’d be wrong to grumble. My God! If I had some dominion over this earth, I’d want to make people happy! . . .

  Gottlieb scurried over to me, hobbling and smiling as broadly as he could with his petrified mouth. Nobody bothered him, he was left alone with me, and all of a sudden, what a miracle! he began talking almost like a rational being.

  “I didn’t write to you last night,” he said, “and you didn’t find any note at your window. That’s because I didn’t see you yesterday, and you didn’t give me any orders.”

  “What are you saying! Gottlieb, are you the one who’s been writing to me?”

  “Who else could have done so? You hadn’t guessed it was me? But I won’t uselessly write you letters any longer, now that you don’t mind talking to me. I don’t mean to be a bother to you, I just want to be of service.”

  “Kind Gottlieb, so you have compassion for me? You take an interest in me?”

  “Yes, because I recognized you as a spirit of light!”

  “I’m nothing more than you are, Gottlieb. You’re mistaken.”

  “I don’t make mistakes. Don’t I hear you sing?”

  “You love music?”

  “I love yours. It’s in accord with God, with my heart.”

  “I can see that you’ve got a pious heart and a pure soul, Gottlieb.”

  “I’m striving to make them so. The angels will help me, and I’ll triumph over the spirit of darkness that has burdened my poor body but without succeeding in taking my soul.”

  Little by little Gottlieb was carried away by enthusiasm. Even so, his poetic symbols remained noble and true. Finally, what can I say? This moron, this madman waxed truly eloquent about God’s goodness, humanity’s woes, the justice that Providence will bring forth with its rewards, evangelical virtues, the duties of the true believer, even about the arts, music, and poetry. I still haven’t been able to grasp from what religion he’s drawn all his ideas and this fervent zeal, for he seemed to me neither Catholic or Protestant, and even though he said several times that he believed in the one, true religion, the only thing I learned was that he, unbeknownst to his parents, belongs to a particular sect. Which one? I’m too ignorant to guess. Little by little I’ll study the mystery
of this soul singularly strong and beautiful, singularly ailing and afflicted. For, in short, poor Gottlieb is crazy, like Zdenko in his poetry . . . like Albert, too, in his sublime virtue! . . . After Gottlieb had gone on passionately for a while, enthusiasm got the better of him, and his madness reappeared. Then, in a childish manner I found distressing, he began babbling about the angel robin and the demon cat, also about his mother who has made a pact with the cat and the evil spirit dwelling in him, and finally about his father, who was turned to stone by a glance from the poor old tomcat Beelzebub. I managed to calm him down by distracting him from his gloomy fantasies, and I questioned him about the other prisoners. I no longer had any personal interest in learning these details because the notes, instead of being tossed down to my window from the top of the tower, as I once supposed, were hoisted up from below by Gottlieb, before dawn, by means of I-don’t-know-what apparatus, no doubt something very simple. But Gottlieb, obeying my intentions with singular docility, had already looked into what I had seemed curious to know the day before. He told me that the prisoner in the building just behind mine was young and beautiful, that he had caught a glimpse of her. I wasn’t paying much attention to his words when all of a sudden he said her name, which gave me a start. The captive’s name is Amalia.

  Amalia! What a sea of anxieties, what a world of memories the name arouses in me! I’ve known two Amalias, and they both hurled my destiny into the abyss with their secrets. Is this one the Prussian princess or the young Baroness von Rudolstadt? Neither one, no doubt. Gottlieb, who has no curiosity on his own part, who seems unable to take a step or ask a single question unless I push him forward like an automaton, could only tell me that her first name is Amalia. He has seen the captive but in his usual way, meaning through a cloud. She must be young and beautiful; Frau Schwartz says so. But Gottlieb admits that he’s no authority on this score. Catching sight of her at her window, he only sensed that she was not a good spirit, an angel. Her family name is kept secret. She’s rich and runs up bills with the Schwartzes. But she’s in solitary confinement like me. She never goes out. She’s often ill. That’s all I’ve been able to extract from him. To learn more, Gottlieb only has to open his ears to his parents’ chatter since they don’t watch their tongues around him. He’s promised to listen and tell me how long this Amalia has been here. As for her full name, the Schwartzes don’t seem to know what it is. Could this be the case if it were the Abbess of Quedlinburg? Could the king have thrown his sister in prison? Princesses wind up in prison like everybody else, and more so. The young Baroness von Rudolstadt. . . . What would she be doing here? What reason would he have had to deprive her of her liberty? Hold on! Now I’m falling prey to the curiosity of a recluse. Likewise, my elaborations on nothing more than a first name are the work of an idle, unhealthy imagination. Never mind. Until I learn the identity of this companion in misfortune whose name I find so moving, there’ll be a mountain weighing on my heart.