The Countess von Rudolstadt

by George Sand

  “Who are you, and what do you want?” asked the man in black without getting up.

  For a few seconds Consuelo was speechless. She finally took courage and answered, “I am Consuelo, a singer by profession, also known as Zingarella and Porporina.”

  “Don’t you have another name?” asked the questioner.

  Consuelo hesitated, then said, “I could lay claim to another one, but I’ve given my word never to do so.”

  “So you’re hoping to hide something from this tribunal? Do you think you are standing before ordinary judges, elected to adjudicate ordinary concerns, in the name of a crude and blind set of laws? Why have you come here if you intend to delude us with vain pretexts? State your name, make yourself known for what you are, or withdraw.”

  “You know who I am, you no doubt know as well that my silence is a duty, and you will encourage me to persevere in it.”

  One of the red cloaks leaned over, gestured to a black cloak and instantly all the black cloaks left the hall except for the examiner, who remained in place and went on in these words.

  “Countess von Rudolstadt, now that the investigation is being conducted in secret and that you are alone in the presence of your judges, will you deny that you are lawfully married to Count Albert Podiebrad, known as Rudolstadt according to his family’s claims.”

  “Before I answer that question,” said Consuelo firmly, “I want to know what authority disposes of me here, and what law obligates me to recognize it.”

  “What law would you invoke? Human or divine? By the law of society you are still under the absolute domination of Frederick II, King of Prussia, Elector of Brandenburg, from whose territory we had you removed to free you from indefinite imprisonment and yet more dreadful dangers, as you know.”

  “I know,” said Consuelo with a curtsey, “that I am bound to you by eternal gratitude. I would therefore invoke divine law alone, and I beg you to define for me that rule of gratitude. Does it command that I bless you and devote myself to you wholeheartedly? That I accept. But if it prescribes that I go against my conscience to oblige you, mustn’t I object? Judge for yourselves.”

  “May your thoughts and deeds in the world succeed in matching your words! But the circumstances that put you here under our authority defy all common sense. We are above all human law, as you’ve been able to see from our power. We are also beyond all human considerations: biases based on fortune, rank, and birth, scruples and niceties of position, fear of opinion, respect even for commitments to ideas and individuals in society. None of that has any meaning for us or value in our eyes while we, gathered far from the eyes of men and armed with the sword of divine justice, weigh in the palm of our hands the trifles of your frivolous, fearful lives. Give us, we who are the support, the family, and the living law of every free being, a straightforward account of yourself. There will be no hearing until we know in what capacity you are coming before us. Who is appealing to us, Consuelo the Zingarella or Countess von Rudolstadt?”

  “Countess von Rudolstadt, having given up all her rights in society, has none to claim here. Consuelo the Zingarella. . . .”

  “Stop and weigh the words you’ve just said. If your husband were alive, would you have the right to rescind your vows, to renounce his name, to repudiate his fortune, in short, to become once again Consuelo the Zingarella to spare the childish, insane pride of his family and his caste?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “So you think that death has severed your bonds forever? Do you not owe Albert’s memory respect, love, and fidelity?”

  Consuelo got red and flustered, then paled again. The idea that they, like Cagliostro and the Count de Saint-Germain, were going to speak to her about Albert’s possible resurrection and even show her his ghost filled her with such fear that she could not say a word.

  “Wife of Albert Podiebrad,” the examiner continued, “your silence indicts you. Albert is entirely dead for you, and in your eyes your marriage is nothing more than an incident in your life of adventure, without any consequences, without any obligations for the future. Zingara, you can go now. It was only because of your ties to the most excellent of men that we took an interest in your fate. You were not worthy of our love because you were not worthy of his. We don’t regret having liberated you; every reparation of the evils of despotism is for us a duty and a pleasure. But our protection will go no further. Tomorrow you shall leave this refuge which we had given you in the hope that you would depart from it being made pure and holy; you shall go back to the world: the chimera of glory, the intoxication of mad passions. May God have pity on you! We are forsaking you forever.”

  This verdict left Consuelo momentarily stunned. A few days before she would not have accepted it without lodging an appeal, but the words mad passions that had just been uttered brought back before her eyes, then and there, the insane love that she had conceived for the stranger, whom she had welcomed into her heart almost without reflection or struggle.

  She was humiliated in her own eyes and found herself deserving of the Invisibles’ verdict up to a certain point. Their austere language inspired respect and terror in her, and she no longer thought of rebelling against the right that they assumed to judge and condemn her as a person under their jurisdiction. Whatever our natural pride or the irreproachability of our lives, we seldom manage to block the force of a solemn accusation that catches us off guard; instead of questioning it, we search our souls to see if above all else we do not deserve the blame. Consuelo did not consider herself entirely above reproach, and the formalities of the setting made her position singularly painful. Yet she promptly remembered that she had not asked to appear before this tribunal without having prepared for their severity and resigned herself to it. She had come resolved to accept reproof, punishment if necessary, provided that the chevalier be exonerated or pardoned. So putting aside all pride, she took their rebuke without bitterness and briefly meditated the terms of her reply.

  “It may be that I deserve that strong curse,” she said at last. “I am far from being satisfied with myself. Yet I came here imbued with a certain idea of the Invisibles that I want to share with you. The little that I’ve heard rumored about you as well as the liberty you’ve given me have led me to think that you are men as perfect in virtue as you are powerful in society. If you are such as I wish to believe, why are you rejecting me so abruptly, without showing me how to correct the error of my ways and become worthy of your protection? I know that it was on account of Albert von Rudolstadt, the most excellent of men, as you have rightly called him, that his widow deserved some measure of interest, but were I not Albert’s wife, or had I always been unworthy of him, Consuelo the Zingara, the girl without a name, without a family, without a country, wouldn’t I still be entitled to your paternal care? Supposing I’m a great sinner, are you not like the kingdom of heaven where one reprobate’s repentance brings more joy than the perseverance of a hundred righteous souls? Finally, if the law that draws you together and inspires you is divine, you are wrong to drive me away. You had undertaken, you say, to make me pure and holy. Strive to lift my soul up to the level of yours. I am ignorant, not rebellious. Prove to me that you are saints by showing me patience and mercy, and I’ll accept you as my masters and models.”

  There was a moment of silence. The examiner turned toward the judges, and they seemed to be deliberating. At last one of them spoke up and said, “Consuelo, you approached us with pride; why do you not wish to leave the same way? We were entitled to rebuke you since you came here to question us. We have no right to put your conscience in chains and take hold of your life if you don’t freely and voluntarily surrender them to us. Can we ask this sacrifice of you? You don’t know us. This tribunal whose saintliness you invoke may be the most perverse or at the least the most daring ever to have labored in the shadows against the principles that rule the world. What do you know about this? And if we were to reveal to you the deep science of an utterly new morality, would you have the courage to dev
ote yourself to very long and arduous study before knowing its goal? Could we ourselves have confidence in the persevering faith of a neophyte as poorly prepared as you? We might have important secrets to entrust to you, and we would seek no guarantee outside of your generous instincts. We know them well enough to believe in your discretion, but it is not discreet confidants that we need. We have enough of those. We need, to further the law of God, fervent disciples, free of all prejudice and egotism, of all frivolous passions and worldly habits. Look deep into yourself. Can you make all these sacrifices for us? Can you model your actions and conform your life to the instincts that you feel as well as to the principles that we would instill in you to develop them? Woman, artist, child, would you dare reply that you can join with solemn men to help carry out the work of the centuries?”

  “Indeed, everything you say is very weighty,” Consuelo replied, “and I scarcely understand it. Will you give me time to think? Don’t chase me from your midst without having examined my heart. I don’t know if it is worthy of the enlightenment you can diffuse there. But what sincere soul is unworthy of the truth? How can I be of service to you? I cringe at my powerlessness. Woman and artist, which means child! Yet, to protect me as you have, you must have sensed something in me. . . . And something tells me that I must not leave you without having tried to prove to you my gratitude. So don’t banish me; try teaching me.”

  “We’ll give you another week to think about it,” said the red-gowned judge who had already spoken. “But first you must give your word of honor not to make the slightest effort to learn where you are and who the people are that you see here. You must also pledge not to leave the enclosure reserved for your walks, even if you were to see the gates standing open and the ghosts of your dearest friends beckoning to you. You must not ask a single question of your servants nor of any person who might secretly gain entrance to your quarters.”

  “That will never happen,” Consuelo briskly replied. “I give my word, if you wish, never to receive any visit without your authorization, and in return I humbly request the favor. . . .”

  “There will be no favors requested, no conditions proposed. All your needs, soul and body, have been foreseen for the duration of your stay here. If you are missing any relative, friend, or servant, you are free to go. Solitude or the companionship we see fit to give you will be your lot here with us.”

  “I ask nothing for myself, but I’ve been told that one of your friends, disciples, or servants (for I do not know his rank among you) was being severely punished because of me. I stand ready to take upon myself the wrongs being imputed to him, and that is why I asked to appear before you.”

  “Are you offering us a sincere and detailed confession?”

  “If that is necessary for his absolution . . . even though, for a woman, it is strange moral torture to confess aloud before eight men.”

  “Spare yourself that humiliation. We would not have any guarantee of your sincerity, and besides even a short while ago we still had no rights over you. What you said, what you thought an hour ago is, for us, part of your past. But bear in mind that we are henceforth entitled to probe the most secret recesses of your soul. It is your responsibility to keep that soul sufficiently pure so that you may always be ready to unveil it without suffering or shame.”

  “Your generosity is delicate and fatherly. But this doesn’t involve me alone. Someone else is atoning for my wrongs. Mustn’t I justify him?”

  “That is not your concern. If there is a guilty party among us, he will exonerate himself, not by vain pretexts and reckless allegations, but by acts of courage, devotion, and virtue. If his soul has faltered, we will raise it up again and help him become master of himself. You speak of severe punishment; the only kind of punishment we inflict is moral. That man, whoever he is, is our peer, our brother; there are no masters, servants, subjects, nor princes among us. You’ve no doubt been deceived by false reports. Go in peace and refrain from sin.”

  At this last word the examiner rang a little bell. The two masked men clad in black and bearing swords returned, replaced the hood over Consuelo’s head, and took her back to the lodge by the same circuitous underground route by which she had come.

  Chapter XXVII

  According to the kindly, paternal language of the Invisibles, Porporina no longer had reason to be seriously concerned about the chevalier. Considering as well that Matteus had not been very clear-sighted in this matter, she felt greatly relieved leaving the mysterious conclave. Everything that had just been said to her was floating in her imagination like rays of light behind a cloud. No longer sustained by anxiety or the exercise of will, she was soon overcome with fatigue on the way back. Suffering cruel pangs of hunger and smothering under the gummy hood, she stopped several times; to keep on going she had to take the arms of her guides; reaching her room, she fell down in a faint. A few seconds later she felt herself being revived by a phial that was presented to her and the good air circulating through the apartment. Then she noticed that the men who had brought her back were hurriedly leaving while Matteus was busy putting a most appetizing supper on the table and the little masked doctor who had drugged her into a state of lethargy to bring her to this estate was taking her pulse and lavishing her with care. She easily recognized him because of his wig, also because of his voice that she had heard somewhere before, though in what circumstances she could not say.

  “Dear Doctor,” she said with a smile, “I think the best prescription will be to give me supper right away. The only thing wrong with me is hunger, but this time I beg you to spare me the coffee you make so well. I think I wouldn’t be strong enough to take it.”

  “My coffee,” replied the doctor, “is an excellent sedative. But have no worry, Countess, my prescription is for nothing of the sort. Will you entrust yourself to me today and let me sup with you? It is His Highness’s wish that I not leave your side until you are altogether well again, and I think that within half an hour the refection will have entirely driven away this weakness.”

  “If such is His Highness’s pleasure as well as your own, Doctor, it will be mine as well,” said Consuelo, letting Matteus roll her chair up to the table.

  “I won’t be useless to you,” the doctor went on, starting to demolish a superb pheasant pasty and slicing into the birds with the dexterity of a consummate practitioner. “Without me here you might yield to the insuperable voraciousness that comes after a long fast and suffer the consequences. Having no such fears for myself, I’ll take care to count your morsels while putting the double on my plate.”

  Despite herself, Consuelo was preoccupied by the voice of this gastronomic physician. But great was her surprise when he deftly unfastened his mask and put it down on the table saying, “To hell with this childish nonsense that prevents me from breathing and tasting what I eat!”

  Consuelo was startled to recognize in this rake of a doctor the one she had seen at her husband’s deathbed, Supperville, first physician to the Margravine von Bayreuth. Since then she had caught sight of him from afar in Berlin without having had the courage to look him in the eye or speak to him. Just now the contrast between his gluttonous appetite and her drained emotional state reminded her of his matter-of-fact thoughts and remarks amid the dismay and grief of the Rudolstadt family, and she had a hard time hiding the unpleasant impression he caused her. But Supperville, engrossed by the pheasant’s aroma, seemed utterly unaware that she was ill at ease.

  With an ingenuous exclamation, Matteus put the finishing touch on the ridiculous situation that the doctor had created for himself. The wary servant had been serving the doctor for five minutes without seeing that his face was bare, and only after Matteus had mistaken the mask as the pasty’s cover and methodically placed it over the open gash in its side did he shriek with terror, “Mercy, Doctor, you’ve dropped your face on the table!”

  “To hell with it, I say! I’ll never get used to eating with the thing. Put it aside, and give it back to me when I leave.”

>   “As you wish, Doctor,” said Matteus in a dismayed tone of voice. “I wash my hands of it. But Your Lordship knows that every evening I have to give a detailed account of everything that has been said and done here. I’ll say in vain that your face came off inadvertently; I won’t be able to deny that Madame has seen what is underneath.”

  “Fine, my good man. You make your report,” said the doctor unperturbed.

  “And you’ll observe, Monsieur Matteus,” noted Consuelo, “that I in no way incited this disobedience on the doctor’s part nor is it my fault if I recognized him.”

  “You need not worry, Countess,” Supperville went on with his mouth full. “The prince is not as bad as he is made out to be, and I’m hardly afraid of him. I’ll tell him that having allowed me to sup with you, by the same token he gave me leave to rid myself of any impediment to mastication and deglutition. Besides, I was too well known to you not to have been already betrayed by the sound of my voice. So it’s an idle formality I’m casting aside, and the prince will be the first to make light of it.”

  “All the same, Doctor,” said Matteus scandalized, “I’m glad it was you and not I to have made that joke.”

  The doctor shrugged his shoulders, scoffed at fainthearted Matteus, ate an enormous amount, and drank commensurately, after which, Matteus having left to bring in another course, he pulled up his chair, lowered his voice, and said to Consuelo, “Dear Signora, I am not the glutton I appear to be (Supperville, having satisfactorily gorged himself, felt very comfortable saying this), and my object in coming to sup with you was to apprise you of important matters of very particular interest to you.”

  “On whose behalf and in what name do you wish to reveal these matters to me, Monsieur?” asked Consuelo, remembering the promise she had just made to the Invisibles.

  “I do so in my own right and of my own free will,” replied Supperville. “So have no worry. I’m not an informer, I’m being frank with you and don’t much care if my words are repeated.”