by George Sand
The husband’s life, albeit parallel to hers, for he accompanied her on all her travels, lies under a thicker cloud. The presumption is that he did not make himself a slave to his wife’s riches and devote all his energy to keeping track of her income and expenses. Besides, Consuelo had rather small gains from her profession. Audiences did not remunerate artists back then with the prodigious bounty that distinguishes our times. Artists got rich mainly through gifts from princes and prominent people, and women who knew how to make the most of things were already acquiring great wealth, but chastity and disinterestedness are the worst enemies of prosperity for a woman in the theater. Consuelo earned high levels of respect, sometimes enthusiasm, for her singing when by chance the perversity of her entourage did not come too much between her and the real audience, but she had no success as a coquette, and infamy did not crown her with diamonds and millions. Her laurels remained immaculate, and they were not tossed up on stage to her by self-serving hands. After working and traveling ten years long she was no richer than at the start; she had not known how to speculate and, what is more, she had not wanted to; and in such conditions wealth does not come seeking workers of any class against their will. Plus, she had not saved the often contested fruit of her labors, but constantly used it for good works, and in a life secretly devoted to active proselytizing, her resources alone had not always been enough; sometimes the Invisibles’ central authority had provided additional funds.
What was the real success of Albert’s and Consuelo’s ardent, tireless pilgrimage through France, Spain, England, and Italy? None was obvious to the world, and I believe that one must look ahead twenty years to discover, by induction, what was wrought by secret societies in the history of the eighteenth century. Did these societies have more effect in France than in the womb of Germany which gave birth to them? The French Revolution energetically replies in the affirmative. Yet the Illuminist conspiracy all over Europe and Weishaupt’s gigantic notions also show that the divine dream of the Holy Grail had kept on stirring German imaginations for thirty years, despite the first disciples’ dispersion or defection.
We read in old gazettes that Porporina made a great splash in Paris in Pergolesi’s operas, in London in Handel’s oratorios and operas, in Madrid where she appeared with Farinelli, in Dresden with Faustina and Mingotti, and in Venice, Rome, and Naples in the operas and sacred music of Porpora and other great masters.
We know nothing about Albert’s moves. A few notes from Consuelo to Trenck or Wanda show us this mysterious character full of faith, confidence, activity and enjoying lucid thoughts more so than any other man up until a time when we utterly lack reliable documents. Here is what was said among a certain group of people, now nearly all dead, about Consuelo’s last appearance on stage.
It was in Vienna around 1760. The singer could have been about thirty; she was, people said, more beautiful than in her early youth. A pure life, habits of inner calm, and physical sobriety had preserved her in all the power of her grace and talent. She was accompanied by beautiful children, yet her husband was nowhere to be seen, though she was said to have one and to be irrevocably faithful to him. Porpora, after several trips to Italy, had returned to Vienna and was putting on a new opera at the imperial theater. So little is known about the last twenty years of this great composer’s life that we have been unable to find the name of this last work in any of his biographies. We only know that Porporina took the leading role with undeniable success and drew tears from the entire court. The empress deigned to be satisfied. But in the night following this triumph some invisible messenger brought Porporina some news that horrified and dismayed her. At seven in the morning, that is to say at the moment when the empress was alerted by the faithful servant known as Her Majesty’s Polisher (given that his functions in actual fact consisted in opening the shutters, making the fire, and polishing the room, while Her Majesty gradually awoke), Porporina, having won over all the guardians of the sacred avenues with gold and eloquence, appeared at the very door of the august bedroom.
“My friend,” she said to the polisher, “I must throw myself at the empress’s feet. A good man’s life is in danger, and a family’s honor in jeopardy. A great crime may be consummated a few days from now if I don’t see Her Majesty this very instant. I know that you are incorruptible, but I know as well that you are a generous and magnanimous man. Everyone says so; you have obtained many graces that the haughtiest courtiers would not have dared solicit.”
“Good heavens! Is it you again, at long last, oh my dear mistress!” exclaimed the polisher, joining his hands and dropping his feather duster.
“Karl!” she exclaimed in turn, “oh, thank you, God, I’m saved! Albert has a good angel even in this palace.”
“Albert? Albert!” said Karl, “my God, is he the one in danger? Then hurry up and come right in, Signora, even if it gets me sacked. . . . And God knows I’d miss this position, for here I’m doing some good and serving our holy cause better than I’ve been able to do anywhere else so far. But Albert! Look, the empress is a kind woman when she’s not ruling,” he added in a low voice. “Go on in, the valets will think you were here before I was. Let the blame fall on these rascals that don’t deserve to serve a queen, for they tell her nothing but lies.”
Consuelo went in, and when the empress opened her eyes heavy with sleep, she saw Consuelo on her knees, prostrate as it were, at the foot of the bed.
“What’s this?” exclaimed Maria Theresa, draping her coverlet over her shoulders with a majestic bearing that was not at all affected and sitting up, as superb and daunting in bed with her night-cap as she would have been on her throne, with a crown on her head and a sword at her side.
“Madame,” replied Consuelo, “a humble subject, an unfortunate mother, a desperate wife is begging you on bended knee for her husband’s life and liberty.”
Just then Karl came in, feigning great surprise.
“Wretched woman!” he thundered, with a show of horror and rage, “who let you in here?”
“Bravo, Karl, for your vigilance and fidelity!” said the empress. “Never in my whole life has such a thing happened to me, to be awakened with a start and face such insolence!”
“A word from Your Majesty,” said Karl boldly, “and I’ll kill this woman before her very eyes.”
Karl knew the empress very well; he knew that she liked to perform acts of mercy in front of witnesses, that she knew how to be a great queen and great woman, even in front of her valets de chambre.
“That is too much zeal!” she replied with a smile that was both majestic and maternal. “Go away, and let this poor weeping woman have her say. I’m not in danger with any of my subjects. What do you want, Madame? Well, well, it’s you, my lovely Porporina! You’re going to ruin your voice sobbing like that.”
“Madame,” said Consuelo, “I’ve been married in the Catholic church for ten years now. I don’t have a single offence against honor on my conscience. My children are legitimate, and I’m bringing them up in virtue. So I dare. . . .”
“In virtue, I know,” said the empress, “but not in religion. You’re well- behaved, that I’ve been told, but you never go to church. Still, have your say. What misfortune has befallen you?”
“My husband, whose side I’ve never left,” the supplicant went on, “is currently in Prague and, through what vile machination I know not, has just been arrested, thrown into a dungeon, accused of wanting to take a name and title that are not his and to despoil an inheritance, of being, in short, a schemer, an impostor, and a spy, accused therefore of high treason, and condemned to life in prison, perhaps to death at this very moment.”
“In Prague? an impostor?” said the empress calmly. “There’s a similar story in my secret-police reports. Now, by what name does your husband go, since you people don’t take your husbands’ names.”
“Liverani is his name.”
“That’s the one. Well, my child, it saddens me to know that you’re married to such a wretche
d man. This Liverani is indeed a crook or a madman who, thanks to a perfect resemblance, is trying to pass himself off as a Count von Rudolstadt who died over ten years ago, which is an established fact. He weaseled his way in with an elderly Canoness von Rudolstadt, making so bold as to claim to be her nephew, and he would surely have usurped her estate if, just as she was drawing up her will in his favor, good people devoted to the family hadn’t freed the poor lady, now in her dotage, from her obsession. He was arrested, of which I heartily approve. I understand your chagrin, but that I cannot remedy. The case is under investigation. If it is recognized that the man, as I wish to believe, is insane, he’ll be placed in an asylum, where you’ll be able to see and look after him. But if he’s merely an underhanded thief, as I fear, he’ll have to be detained on somewhat harsher terms to prevent him from making trouble for the true Rudolstadt heir, a Baroness Amalia, I believe, who after a few youthful indiscretions, is about to marry one of my officers. I prefer to think, mademoiselle, that you are unaware of your husband’s conduct and that you’re deluding yourself about his character; otherwise, I would find your entreaties most unseemly. But I feel too much pity for you to want to mortify you. . . . You may go.”
Consuelo saw that she had nothing to hope for, that any attempt to prove that Liverani and Albert von Rudolstadt were one and the same person would only put her cause in greater and greater jeopardy. She stood up and walked toward the door, pale and ready to faint. Following her with a searching eye, Maria Theresa felt sorry for Consuelo and called her back.
“You are much to be pitied,” she said less curtly. “All this is not your fault, I’m sure. Calm down, and take care of yourself. The matter will be conscientiously examined, and if your husband doesn’t wish to consummate his own ruin, I’ll arrange for him to be considered insane. If you can communicate with him, make him understand that. That’s my advice to you.”
“I’ll follow that advice, blessing Your Majesty. But without Your Majesty’s protection I won’t be able to do a single thing. My husband is locked up in Prague, and I’m under contract at the imperial theater here in Vienna. If Your Majesty deigns not grant me leave and deliver me orders allowing me to communicate with my husband who is being held in solitary confinement. . . .”
“You’re asking a great deal! I don’t know if Herr von Kaunitz will wish to grant you this leave nor if it will be possible to replace you at the theater. We’ll see about that in a few days.”
“In a few days!” exclaimed Consuelo, recovering her courage. “But in a few days time will have run out! I have to leave this very instant!”
“That’s enough,” said the empress. “Your insistence will do you harm if you bring it before judges less calm and indulgent than I. Go, Mademoiselle.”
Consuelo ran to the home of Canon *** and entrusted her children to him, announcing that she was leaving, not knowing for how long.
“If you’re away a long time, too bad for us!” replied the kind old man. “As for the children, I won’t complain. They’re perfectly well-behaved, and they’ll be company for Angela, who gets a bit bored with me.”
“Listen!” Consuelo went on, unable to keep back her tears after having gone to hug her children one last time, “don’t tell them that I’ll be away a long time, but I’ll have you know that it could be forever. I may be about to undergo suffering from which I won’t recover unless God works me a miracle; pray for me, and have my children do the same.”
The good canon did not attempt to pry her secret out of her; yet, as his peaceful, nonchalant soul did not easily admit the idea of misfortune without remedy, he did his best to console her. Seeing that he was not succeeding in giving her hope, he at least wanted to reassure her about her children.
“My dear Bertoni,” he said in a heartfelt tone, striving for a playful note through his tears, “if you don’t return, just remember that your children are mine! I’ll see to their education. I’ll marry off your daughter, which will reduce Angela’s dowry a bit and make her more industrious. As for the boys, I’m warning you that I’ll make musicians out of them!”
“Joseph Haydn will share the burden,” said Consuelo, kissing the canon’s hands, “and old Porpora will surely give them a few more lessons. My poor children are docile and show signs of intelligence; I’m not worried about their material existence. One day they’ll be able to earn an honest living. But my love and advice. . . . You alone can stand in for me there.”
“And that’s my promise to you,” exclaimed the canon. “I certainly hope to live long enough to see them all settled. I’m not too fat yet, I’ve still got good legs. I’m only sixty, even though that wicked Brigitte once tried to make me older so that I’d have to draw up my last will and testament. There now, daughter! Courage and health to you! Go now and come back to us! The good Lord is on the side of decent folks.”
Consuelo, without bothering about her leave, had post-horses hitched up to her carriage. Yet, just as she was climbing in, Porpora, who was alarmed to see her departing, held her up. Foreseeing the storm, she had wanted to avoid him. He was afraid, despite the stiff, preoccupied promises she gave him, that she would not be back for the opera the next day.
“Who the devil dreams of a trip to the country in the dead of winter?” he said with a nervous tremor, half from old age, half from anger and apprehension. “If you catch cold, my success is jeopardized, and things were going so well! I don’t understand you. A triumph yesterday, and today you’re off on some trip!”
This quarrel delayed Consuelo a quarter of an hour and gave the theater management, already on the alert, time to warn the authorities. A squad of uhlans arrived and unhitched the carriage. Consuelo was begged to return home, and her house put under guard to prevent her from fleeing. She was taken with fever, of which she took no notice, pacing back and forth in her rooms, prey to a sort of frenzy, and making no reply, aside from somber stares, to Porpora’s irritating questions and those of the director. She did not go to bed and spent the night in prayer. Come morning she seemed calm and went to rehearsal on orders. Her voice had never been lovelier, but she had bouts of absentmindedness that terrified Porpora. “Oh blasted marriage! Oh infernal folly of love!” he muttered in the orchestra, pounding on his harpsichord hard enough to break it. Old Porpora was still the same; gladly would he have said, “Better that all the lovers, all the husbands on this earth perish rather than my opera!”
In the evening Consuelo dressed as usual and went on stage. She assumed her pose, and her lips formed a word . . . but no sound came from her throat; she had lost her voice.
The dumbfounded audience rose to its feet. The courtiers, who had begun to hear something or another about her attempted flight, declared that this was an intolerable caprice. There was shouting, booing, clapping each time the singer tried again. She attempted to say something and could not utter a single word. Yet she remained upright and dejected, not thinking about her lost voice, not feeling humiliated by her tyrants’ indignation, but resigned and proud like an innocent condemned to iniquitous torture, and thanking God for sending her this sudden infirmity that would let her leave the theater and go to Albert.
It was suggested to the empress that she put the recalcitrant artist in prison to make her recover her voice and good will. Her Majesty had been briefly angry, and people thought that they were paying her court by heaping reproach on the accused. But Maria Theresa, who sometimes allowed crimes from which she drew advantage, was not fond of making others suffer unnecessarily.
“Kaunitz,” she said to her prime minister, “have a passport delivered to that poor creature, and I don’t want to hear anything more about it. While losing her voice may be a stratagem of war, it’s at least an act of virtue. Few actresses would sacrifice an hour of success to a life of conjugal love.”
Consuelo, provided with all the necessary papers, finally departed, still ill, but oblivious to it. Here we once again lose the thread of the events. Albert’s trial could have been a cause célèbre,
but it was handled as a secret matter. It was probably a trial similar in substance to the one that Frederick von Trenck at about the same time began, endured and lost after many years of struggle. Who today in France would know the details of that iniquitous affair if Trenck himself had not taken the trouble to publish them and reiterate his heated complaints during thirty years of his life? But Albert did not leave behind any documents. For that reason we are forced to refer to Baron von Trenck’s story since he is one of our heroes as well, and perhaps his troubles will shed some light on those of Albert and Consuelo.
Scarcely a month after the reunion of the Holy Grail, about which Trenck kept the deepest secret in his Memoirs, he had been recaptured and locked up at Magdeburg, where he wasted the ten best years of his youth in a dreadful dungeon, sitting on a stone already bearing his epitaph, Here lies Trenck, and laden with eighty pounds of irons. Everyone is familiar with this notorious calamity and the odious circumstances that went along with it, such as being made to suffer pangs of hunger for eighteen months and having his prison built at his sister’s expense to punish her with financial ruin for having given him asylum; his miraculous attempts to escape, the incredible energy that, never abandoning him, was foiled by his acts of chivalrous imprudence; the artwork that he accomplished in prison, the marvelous engravings that he managed to do with the point of a nail on pewter goblets, whose allegorical subjects and versified mottoes are so profound and so poignant;3 finally, his secret contacts, in spite of everything, with Princess Amalia of Prussia; the despair that consumed her, the pains that she took to make herself ugly with a corrosive liquid that nearly blinded her, the deplorable state of health to which she deliberately reduced herself in order to elude the obligation to marry, the dreadful revolution in her disposition; finally, the ten years of tribulation that made Trenck a martyr and his illustrious lover, an old, ugly, and nasty woman, instead of the angel of sweetness and beauty that she had once been, that she could have continued to be in a happy state.4 This is all a matter of history, but people have not borne this sufficiently in mind when drawing the portrait of Frederick the Great. This crime, accompanied by acts of gratuitous and refined cruelty, is an indelible blot on the philosopher-tyrant’s memory.