by George Sand
“Yours may still be full of glory and pleasure, my dear Trenck! On the soil of Europe there are limits, thank God, to the power of the tyrant who hates you.”
“But my mistress, Albert, is it possible that she’ll remain eternally and fruitlessly faithful to me?”
“You ought not wish that, friend, but it’s only too certain that her passion will be as lasting as her sorrows.”
“So tell me about her, Albert! You’re luckier than I; you can see her, hear her voice!”
“Not any longer, dear Trenck; don’t fool yourself on that score. The fantastic name and bizarre character of Trismegistus that was rigged up for me, that shielded me for several years in my brief and mysterious relations with the palace in Berlin have lost their charm; my friends will be discreet, and my dupes (since, for the sake of our cause and your love, I was most innocently forced to make a few dupes) wouldn’t be anymore clear-sighted than in the past; but Frederick has smelled a plot, and I can’t go back to Prussia. My efforts would be stymied by his suspicions, and the doors of Spandau wouldn’t spring open a second time for my escape.”
“Poor Albert! You must have suffered in that prison as much as I did in mine, perhaps more!”
“No, I was close to her. I could hear her voice, I was working for her deliverance. I don’t regret enduring the horrors of the dungeon or trembling for her life. If I suffered for myself, I took no notice; if I suffered for her, I’ve forgotten about it now. She is saved, and she’ll be happy.”
“Through you, Albert? Tell me that she’ll only be happy through you and with you, or else I have no respect for her, I take back my admiration and friendship.”
“Don’t say such things, Trenck. That’s an outrage against nature, love, and heaven. Our wives have the same freedom as our lovers, and wanting to put them in chains in the name of a duty which benefits us alone would be a crime and a sacrilege.”
“I know, and without raising myself to that level of virtue, I certainly feel that if Amalia, instead of confirming her pledge to me, had withdrawn it, I wouldn’t have stopped loving her and blessing the days of happiness she has given me, but surely I’m allowed to love you more than myself and to hate anyone who doesn’t love you? You’re smiling, Albert, you don’t understand my friendship, and I don’t understand your courage. Ah, if it’s true that the woman who received your troth has fallen in love (while still in mourning, what madness!) with one of our brothers, even if he were the most deserving among us, and the most seductive man on earth, I’ll never be able to forgive her. Forgive her yourself, if you can!”
“Trenck, Trenck, you don’t know what you’re saying, you don’t understand, and I can’t explain myself. Don’t pass judgment on her yet; later on, you’ll get to know this admirable woman.”
“And who is stopping you from justifying her in my eyes? Say something! Why this mystery? We’re alone here. She can’t be compromised by what you have to say, and as far as I know, you aren’t bound by any oath to hide from me what we all suspect from the way you’re behaving. She doesn’t love you anymore? What’s her excuse?”
“Had she ever loved me?”
“That’s her crime. She never understood you.”
“She couldn’t, and I couldn’t reveal myself to her. Besides, I was ill, I was mad. Nobody loves a madman; they are pitied and feared.”
“You were never mad, Albert; I’ve never seen you in that condition. On the contrary, I’ve always been dazzled by your wisdom and intelligence.”
“You’ve seen me steady and self-possessed in action; you’ve never seen me in the throes of idleness, the torments of discouragement.”
“So you know discouragement, you? I never would have thought so.”
“That’s because you don’t see all the dangers, obstacles, and vices of our endeavors. You’ve never gone down into the depths of the abyss where I’ve sunk my whole soul, cast my whole life; you’ve envisaged only the chivalrous, high-minded side of things, embraced only the easy tasks and pleasant prospects.”
“That’s because I’m less great, less enthusiastic and, since it must be said, less fanatic than you, noble count! You wanted to drain the cup of zeal, and when you choked on the bitter dregs, you doubted heaven and humankind.”
“Yes, I had doubts, and I was most cruelly punished for them.”
“And you still have doubts now? Are you still suffering?”
“Now I hope, believe, and act. I feel strong and happy. Don’t you see my face radiant with delight? and don’t you feel my heart brimming with joy?”
“And yet you’ve been betrayed by your mistress! What am I saying, by your wife!”
“She was never either one or the other. She owed me nothing, nor does she owe me anything now; she is not betraying me. God has sent her love, the most celestial of the graces from on high, as a reward for having shown me a moment of pity on my deathbed. And I, to thank her for having closed my eyes, grieved over me and given me her blessing on the eternal threshold I thought I was crossing, I should invoke a promise wrested from her generous compassion, her sublime charity? I should say to her, ‘Woman, I am your master, you are mine by law, through your own recklessness and error. You shall submit to my embrace because on a day of parting you deposited a farewell kiss on my icy brow! You shall put your hand in mine forever, follow in my footsteps, bear my yoke, destroy a newborn love in your heart, repress unconquerable desires, and waste away with regret in my profane arms, on my selfish, cowardly heart!’ Oh, Trenck, do you think I could be happy this way? Wouldn’t my life be even more bitter torment than hers? Isn’t the slave’s suffering the master’s curse? Great God! Who is so vile, so brutish as to take pride and pleasure in love which is not shared, in fidelity against which the victim’s heart is rebelling? Thank heaven, I am not, nor shall I ever be, someone of that sort. This evening I was going to see Consuelo, to say all these things to her and set her free. I didn’t run across her in the garden where she usually takes a stroll; then the storm came and removed any hope of seeing her down into the garden. I didn’t want to go to her rooms. I would have gone in with a husband’s rights, but just seeing her start with horror, her face pale with despair, would have pained me in a way that I couldn’t bring myself to face.”
“And in the darkness didn’t you meet up with Liverani’s black mask?”
“Who is this Liverani?”
“You don’t know your rival’s name?”
“Liverani is a false name. Do you know this man, this happy rival?”
“No, but you’ve got a strange look asking me that. Albert, I think I’m understanding you. You forgive your unfortunate wife, you are abandoning her, you must do so, but you’ll punish, I hope, the coward that seduced her.”
“Are you sure he’s a coward?”
“What! The man entrusted with rescuing and looking after her during a long and dangerous trip! The man who was to protect and respect her, not to speak a single word to her nor show her his face! A man invested with the powers and blind trust of the Invisibles! Your brother in arms, your brother by oath, just as I am, no doubt! Ah, had your wife been entrusted to me, Albert, I wouldn’t even have dreamed of such criminal treachery, of making her fall in love with me!”
“Trenck, once again, you don’t know what you’re saying! Just three men among us know this Liverani and his crime. In a few days you’ll stop blaming and cursing the happy mortal to whom God in his goodness, perhaps in his justice, has given Consuelo’s love.”
“What a strange, sublime man you are! You don’t hate him?”
“I cannot.”
“You won’t disturb his happiness?”
“On the contrary, I’m fervently working to ensure it, and in that I am neither sublime nor strange. You’ll soon be smiling at the praise you’re giving me.”
“What! You aren’t even suffering?”
“I am the happiest of men.”
“In that case, you don’t love much, or you don’t love any longer. Such heroism
is not human; it’s almost monstrous; and I cannot admire what I don’t understand. Just a minute, Count; you’re making fun of me, and I’m a simpleton. Now I’ve got it. You’re in love with another woman, and you’re blessing Providence which is freeing you from your obligations to Consuelo by making her unfaithful.”
“So I’ll have to bare my heart to you, Baron; you don’t leave me any choice. Listen, it’s a long and complicated story, a whole novel, but it’s cold here, and this little fire can’t take the chill out of these old walls. Besides, I’m afraid they’ll wind up giving you an unhappy reminder of Glatz. The sky has cleared, we can start back to the castle, and since you’re leaving at dawn, I don’t want to keep you up too late. On the way I’ll tell you a strange tale.”
The two friends shook the rain off their caps and put them back on their heads. After scattering the embers with a few kicks to extinguish the fire, they left the tower arm in arm. Their voices grew fainter and fainter in the distance, and soon the old manor ceased resonating with the echo of their footsteps over the wet grass of the courtyard.
Chapter XXX
Consuelo remained sunk in a strange stupor. What astonished her the most, what she found hard to believe despite the evidence of her eyes and ears was not Albert’s magnanimous conduct nor his heroic sentiments, but the miraculous ease with which he himself was unraveling the terrible problem of her destiny, a problem of his making. Was it so easy then for Consuelo to be happy? Was Liverani’s love so right? She thought that what she had just heard was a dream. Already she could give way to her impetuous feelings for the stranger. The austere Invisibles considered him Albert’s equal in greatness of soul, courage, and virtue. Albert himself justified Consuelo and defended her against Trenck’s blame. In short, Albert and the Invisibles, far from condemning their mutual passion, were abandoning them to their own free choice, their invincible sympathy, and all that without struggle or effort, without cause for regret or remorse, without anyone having to shed a tear! Consuelo, trembling more from emotion than cold, went back down to the vaulted hall and revived the fire that Albert and Trenck had just scattered in the hearth. She looked at their damp footprints on the dusty flagstones, which testified that they had indeed been there. Consuelo needed to examine this evidence to believe it. Crouching under the hood of the fireplace, like dreamy Cinderella over whom the elves of the hearth kept watch, she fell into a deep meditation. Such an easy triumph over destiny did not seem made for her, she felt. Yet no fear could prevail over Albert’s marvelous peace of mind. That was precisely the thing that Consuelo could doubt the least. Albert was not suffering; his love was not in revolt against his sense of justice. With a kind of enthusiastic joy he was making the greatest sacrifice that man can offer God. The strange virtue of this unique man amazed and horrified Consuelo. She asked herself if such total detachment from human weaknesses could be reconciled with human affections. Wasn’t Albert’s apparent insensibility the sign of a new phase of delirium? After the exacerbated disorders that come from living in the past and having just one focus for his emotions, wasn’t Albert undergoing some kind of paralysis of the heart and memory? Could he be cured of his love so quickly, and was this love such a trifling thing that a simple act of will, a single rational decision could wipe out even its slightest trace? All the while admiring this triumph of philosophy, Consuelo could not help feeling a bit humiliated to see this long passion, of which she had been rightly proud, destroyed with one breath. She reconsidered every last thing he had just said and could still see the look on his face while he was saying it. She had never seen him with that look before. Albert was as different outside as he was inside. He was truly a new man, and had the sound of his voice, the lines of his face, and the reality of his words not confirmed the truth, Consuelo could have thought that she had seen not Albert but his so-called double, this imaginary Trismegistus, that the doctor stubbornly wanted to put in his place. The changes that this state of calm and good health had wrought in Albert’s outward appearance and manners seemed to confirm Supperville’s error. No longer was he frightfully thin, and he looked taller now that a youthful, erect posture had replaced his languid slouch. His bearing was different; his movements were more supple, his step firmer, his clothing was as elegant and natty as it had once been neglected and, as it were, an object of scorn. Even his slightest preoccupations astonished Consuelo. In the past he would not have thought to make a fire; he would have felt sorry that his friend Trenck was wet, and it would not have crossed his mind, exterior objects and material cares having become so foreign to him, to gather the scattered embers under his feet; he would not have shaken off his cap before putting it back on; he would have let the rain stream down his long hair without feeling it. Finally, he was carrying a sword, and never in the past would he have agreed to handle, even in sport, this ceremonial weapon, this symbol of hatred and murder. Now it did not get in his way; he could see the blade shining before the flames without its reminding him of the blood spilled by his ancestors. The expiation inflicted on Jan Zizka, on his person, was a painful dream that salutary sleep had at last completely erased. Perhaps he had lost that memory along with the other memories of his life and his love, which seemed to have been for him, though no longer, life itself.
Something uncertain and inexplicable took place in Consuelo, something resembling sorrow, regret, wounded pride. She repeated to herself Trenck’s final conjectures about Albert’s new love, which seemed plausible to her. This new love was the only thing that make him so tolerant and merciful. The parting words to his friend promising a tale, a novel, did they not confirm this suspicion, were they not the confession and explanation of the deep, discreet joy with which he seemed to be brimming? “Yes, his eyes had a shine I’ve never seen before,” Consuelo thought to herself. “His smile was an expression of triumph, of heady pleasure, and he was smiling, almost laughing, even though laughter seemed unknown to him in the past; there was even something like irony in his voice when he said to the baron, ‘Soon you too will be smiling at the praise you’re giving me.’ There’s no doubt now, he’s in love, and it’s not with me any longer. He’s not holding back, nor is he thinking of fighting it; he’s blessing my infidelity, urging me on and rejoicing in it; he’s not blushing for me, but abandoning me to a weakness that will make me alone blush, and all the shame will be on my head! Oh heavens! I was not the only guilty party, and Albert was even more so! Alas, why did I overhear the secret of a generosity that I would have so admired, that I never would have wanted to accept? I know now that there’s something sacred about sworn faith; God alone who changes our hearts can release us from it. Then maybe those who have been joined by a vow can give and receive in turn the sacrifice of their rights. But when mutual infidelity alone presides over a divorce, there is something dreadful, like a partnership in parricide, the two killing in cold blood the love in their hearts that had made them one.”
After spending the whole night in the tower, absorbed in a thousand sad, somber thoughts, Consuelo returned to the woods at dawn’s first light. She found the path back to her lodgings without any problem, even though she had come this way in the dark and her hasty flight had made it seem less long than on the return. She went down the hill and followed the stream back to the grate which she deftly maneuvered by stepping on the crosspiece joining the vertical bars at the level of the water. She was no longer fearful or agitated. Determined to come right out and tell her confessor everything, she did not care if anyone caught sight of her. Besides, she was so engrossed in her past feelings that present concerns were now only of secondary interest. Liverani scarcely existed for her. Such is the human heart: new love requires dangers and difficulties; old love is revived when it is no longer up to us to rekindle it in another’s heart.
This time the Invisibles keeping watch over Consuelo seemed to have fallen asleep, and her nocturnal outing had apparently gone unnoticed. She found a new letter from the stranger in her harpsichord, and it was as tenderly respectful as the
previous one had been bold and passionate. He complained that she was afraid of him, he reproached her for having retrenched herself in her rooms as though she mistrusted his timid veneration. He humbly begged her just to let him catch a glimpse of her in the garden at dusk; he promised not to say a word to her nor to show himself if she so required. “For reasons of detachment or conscience,” he added, “Albert is giving you up, and he seems calm, even cold-blooded about it. Duty speaks louder than love in his heart. In a few days the Invisibles will let you know his resolution and pronounce your freedom. Then you can stay here to be initiated into their mysteries if you persist in that generous intention, and up to that time I’ll respect my vow to them not to appear before your eyes. But if you made that promise only out of compassion for me, if you wish to be released from it, just say the word, and I’ll break all my commitments and run away with you. I, for one, am not Albert; I have more love than virtue. Choose!”
“Yes, indeed,” said Consuelo, dropping the stranger’s letter on the keys of her harpsichord. “This man loves me, and Albert does not. Perhaps he never loved me, and my image was only a figment of his delirium. Yet to me that love seemed sublime, and would to heaven that it were still so enough to conquer mine by a painful and sublime sacrifice! That would be better for the two of us than the calm separation of two adulterous souls. Better too for Liverani that I abandon him at the price of struggle and suffering rather than accepting him as a necessity in my solitude, on a day of indignation, shame, and grievous intoxication!”
She made this brief reply to Liverani: “I am too proud and too sincere to deceive you. I know what Albert thinks, what he has resolved to do. I overheard him confiding in a mutual friend. He is abandoning me without regrets, and it is not virtue alone that has triumphed over his love. I will not follow his example. I have loved you, and I’m giving you up without loving another. I owe this sacrifice to my dignity and my conscience. I hope that you won’t come near my lodge any longer. If you were to yield to a blind passion and wring some new confession out of me, you would regret it. You might owe my trust to a broken heart’s rightful anger, a forsaken soul’s feelings of terror. It would be my torment and yours. If you persist, Liverani, the love in you is not the love of my dreams.”