The arrest of Porporina had been much talked of, and the audience, composed of persons devoted by conviction or position to the royal will, put their hands in their pockets as if to restrain the wish and habit of applauding the singer. Every one looked at the king, who glanced curiously over the crowd, and seemed to command the most absolute silence. Suddenly a crown of flowers, thrown no one knew whence, fell at the feet of Consuelo, and many voices said, simultaneously and loud enough to be heard in every part of the house, "It is the king—the royal pardon!" This assertion passed rapidly as lightning from mouth to mouth, and fancying they paid Frederick a compliment, such a torrent of applause broke forth as Berlin had never before resounded with. For some minutes Porporina, amazed and confounded, would not commence her part. The king, amazed, looked at the spectators with a terrible expression, which was taken as a signal of consent and approbation. Buddenbrock, himself, who was not far off, asking young Benda what it all meant, was told the crown came from the king, and at once began to applaud with the most comical bad grace. Porporina thought she was dreaming, and the king scratched his head to know if he was awake.
Whatever might have been the cause and result of this triumph, Consuelo felt its salutary effect. She surpassed herself, and was applauded with the same transport, through all the first act. During the interval, however, the mistake became gradually corrected, and there was but one part of the audience, the most obscure and least likely to be influenced by courtiers, which refrained from giving tokens of approbation. Finally, between the second and third acts, the corridor-orators informed every one, that the king was very much dissatisfied with the stupid applause of the public, that a cabal had been created by Porporina's unheard-of audacity, and that any one who was observed to participate in it, would certainly regret it. During the third act, in spite of the wonders performed by the prima donna, the silence was so great that a fly's wings might have been heard to move at the conclusion of every song, while the other actors received all the benefit of the reaction.
Porporina was soon undeceived in relation to her triumph. "My poor friend," said Conciolini, when behind the scenes he presented her the chaplet, "how I pity you for having such dangerous friends! They will ruin you."
Between the acts, Porporino came to her dressing-room, and said, in a low tone, "I bade you distrust M. de Saint Germain, but it was too late. Every party has its traitors. Do not, however, be less faithful to friendship and obedient to the voice of conscience. You are protected by a more powerful arm than the one which oppresses you."
"What mean you?" said Porporina, "are you of those——"
"I say, God will protect you," said Porporino, who seemed afraid that he would be overheard, and he pointed to the partition which divided the dressing-rooms of the actors. The partitions were ten feet high, but left, between the top and the ceiling, a space sufficiently wide to suffer sound to pass freely from one to the other. "I foresaw," said he, giving her a purse filled with money, "that you would need this, and therefore have brought it."
"I thank you," said Porporina. "If the keeper, who sells me food at a dear price, come to ask payment, as I have here enough to satisfy him for a long time, do not give it him. He is an usurer."
"Very well," said the good and kind Porporino, "I will bid you good-bye, for I would but aggravate your position, if I seemed to have any secret with you."
He glided away, and Consuelo was visited by Madame Coccei (La Barberini,) who boldly showed much interest and affection. The Marquise d'Argens, (La Cochois,) joined them, and exhibited a much more eager manner, playing the queen who protects misfortune. Consuelo was not very much pleased atherbearing, and asked her not to compromise her husband's favor by remaining long with her.
* * * * * * * *
The king said to Von Poelnitz, "Well, have you questioned her? Could you make her talk?"
"No more than if she were dumb."
"Did you say I would pardon her, if she would tell me what she knew ofLa Balayeuse, and what St. Germain said?"
"She cares no more about it, than about what happened forty years ago."
"Did you frighten her, by talking of a long captivity?"
"Not yet; your majesty bade me act mildly——"
"Frighten her as you go back."
"I will try. It will be in vain, however."
"She is, then, a saint, a martyr."
"She is a fanatic, possessed by a demon—a devil in petticoats."
"Then, woe to her. I give her up. The Italian opera season ends in a few days. Arrange matters so that I shall not hear of this girl till next year."
"A year! Your majesty will not stick to that."
"More firmly than your head sticks to your shoulders."
[10]Sophia Wilhelmina. She used the signature of "Sister Guillemette," in her correspondence with Voltaire.
[10]Sophia Wilhelmina. She used the signature of "Sister Guillemette," in her correspondence with Voltaire.
Von Poelnitz hated Porporina sufficiently to take this opportunity to avenge himself. He, however, did not, his conduct being cowardly in the extreme; he had not sufficient strength of mind to injure any but those who yielded to him. As soon as he was alone, he became timid, and one might say, experienced an involuntary respect for those whom he could not deceive. He had been even known to detach himself from those who flattered his vices, and to follow, like a whipped hound, those who trampled on him. Was this a feeling of weakness, or the memory of a less degraded youth? It would be pleasant to think, that in the most degraded souls, something appeals to our better instincts, which yet remain, though oppressed and existing in suffering and remorse alone. Von Poelnitz had long attached himself to Prince Henry, and feigning to participate in his sorrows, had induced him to complain of the king's bad treatment: these conversations he repeated to Frederick, filling them with venom, as a means of increasing the anger of the latter. Poelnitz did this dirty work for the very pleasure of mischief; for, in fact he did not hate the prince, being incapable of the passion. He hated no one but the king, who dishonored him every day, without making him rich. Poelnitz loved trickery for its own sake. To deceive, was a flattering triumph in his eyes. He felt, besides, a real pleasure in speaking and causing others to speak ill of the king, and when he repeated all these slanders to the king, he had an interval of pleasure at being able to play his master the same trick, by concealing the pleasure he took in laughing at him, betraying and revealing his vicious and ridiculous points to his enemies. Both parties, therefore, he considered his dupes, and this life of intrigue in which he fomented hatred, without knowing precisely why, had a secret attraction.
The consequence, however, was, that Henry discovered, that as often as he suffered his ill-humor to appear before the complaisant baron, in the course of a few hours he found the king more offended and outrageous than ever. If he complained before Von Poelnitz of having been twenty-four hours in arrest, on the next day he had twice the confinement awarded him. This prince, as frank as brave, as confiding as Frederick was suspicious, finally arrived at a correct appreciation of the character of the miserable baron. Instead of managing him prudently, he had overpowered him with indignation. Since that time, Poelnitz humbled himself to the ground and never had offended him. He seemed, even, in the depth of his heart, to love him as much as he was capable of loving any one. He warmed with admiration when he spoke of him, and these testimonials of respect appeared so strange that all were astonished at such an incomprehensible whim in such a man.
The fact is, Von Poelnitz, finding the prince more generous and a thousand times more tolerant than Frederick, would have preferred him as a master; having a vague presentiment or rather a guess, as the king had, that a mysterious conspiracy was spun around the prince, the threads of which he wished to hold, so that he might know whether success was so certain that he might join it. It was then for his own interests that he sought to ingratiate himself with Consuelo, and ascertain its secrets. Had she revealed the little she knew, he would not have disclosed it to the king, unless Frederick had given him a great deal of money. Frederick was too economical, however, to purchase the services of great scoundrels.
Poelnitz had ascertained something of this mystery from the Count de Saint Germain. He had spoken so positively, so boldly of the king, that this skillful adventurer had not sufficiently distrusted him. Let us say,en passant, that in this adventurer's character there was something of enthusiasm and folly: that though he was a charlatan and even Jesuitical in many respects, there was a foundation for the entire man, a fanatical conviction which presented singular contrasts, and induced him to perpetrate many errors.
In conveying Consuelo back to the fortress, having somewhat familiarized himself with the contempt she had exhibited, he conducted himself with greatnaïvetétowards her. He confessed to her, voluntarily, that he was ignorant of everything, that all he had said about the plans of the prince, in relation to foreign powers, was but a gratuitous commentary on the whimsical conduct and secret association of the prince and his sister with suspicious characters.
"This commentary does no honor to your lordship's sincerity," said Consuelo, "and, perhaps, should not be boasted of."
"The commentary is not my own," said Poelnitz, quietly. "It is conceived by a royal master, with a diseased and unhealthy brain, if there ever was one, whenever any suspicion takes possession of him. To consider suppositions as certainties, is a mode of conduct so firmly established by the custom of courts and diplomatists, that it is pretence in you to scandalise it. I, too, learned it from kings. They are the persons who have educated me, and my vices come from the father and the son, the two Prussian monarchs I have the honor to have served. To state falsehood, to discover the truth—Frederick never acts otherwise, and is considered a great man. See what it is to be popular. Yet I am treated as a criminal because I have his errors; what a prejudice!"
Von Poelnitz insinuatingly endeavored, as well as he could, to ascertain from Consuelo what had passed between herself, the abbess, Von Trenek, the adventurers Cagliostro, Trismegistus, Saint Germain, and a number of very important persons, who, it was said, were involved in the affair. He told her, naïvely enough, that if the matter had any consistency, he would not hesitate to join in it. Consuelo at last saw that he spoke sincerely. As she knew nothing, however, there was no merit in persisting in her denial.
When the fortress gates closed on Consuelo and her pretended secret, he reflected on the course he ought to adopt in relation to her, and, in conclusion, hoping if she returned to Berlin that she would suffer her secret to be discovered, determined to vindicate her. The first sentence he said to the king on the next day Frederick interrupted.
"What has she revealed?" said he.
"Nothing, sire."
"Then do not disturb me. I forbade you to speak of her. Never utter her name again before me."
This was said in such a tone that reply was impossible. Frederick certainly suffered when he thought of Porporina, for there was in his heart and conscience a tender point which quivered, as when a pin is driven into the flesh. To shake off this painful sensation he determined to forget the matter, and had no difficulty in doing so. Eight days had not elapsed, when, thanks to his strong character and the servile conduct of those around him, he forgot that Consuelo had ever existed. She was at Spandau. The theatrical season was over, and her piano had been taken from her. The king had given orders to that effect on the evening when, thinking to gratify him, the audience had applauded her even in his presence. Prince Henry was placed under an indefinite arrest. The Abbess of Quedlimburg was very sick. The king was cruel enough to make her think Trenck had been retaken, and was again in prison. Trismegistus and Saint Germain had really disappeared, andla balayeuseno longer haunted the palace. What her apparition presaged really seemed confirmed. The youngest of the prince's brothers died of premature disease.
Added to these domestic troubles was the final dispute between Voltaire and the king. Almost all biographers have declared that Voltaire had the best of it. When we look closely at the documents, we find recorded circumstances which do honor to neither, though the most contemptible part was played by Frederick. Colder, more implacable, more selfish than Voltaire, Frederick was capable neither of envy nor hatred, and these bitter passions stripped Voltaire of a dignity the king knew how to assume. Among the bitter disputes which added, drop by drop, to the explosion, was one in which Consuelo was not named, but which prolonged the sentence of wilful oblivion pronounced on her. D'Argens was reading one evening the Parisian newspapers, in the presence of Voltaire. They mentioned the affair of M'lle Clairon, who was interrupted in her part by a spectator, who shouted out "louder." Called on to make an apology to the public, she cried out, in royal phraseology, "et vous plus bas."[11]The result was, she was sent to theBastillefor having acted with as much pride as firmness. The newspapers said that this circumstance would not deprive the public of the pleasure of seeing M'lle Clairon, because during her incarceration she would be brought under an escort from the Bastille, to play the parts ofPhédreorChimene, after which she would be returned to prison until her sentence had expired, which it was hoped and presumed would not be long.
Voltaire was very intimate with Clairon, because she had greatly contributed to the success of his dramatic works. He was indignant at the circumstance, and forgetting that a perfectly analogous circumstance was passing under his eyes, said—"This does little honor to France. The fool! to interrupt an actress in such a brutal manner—and such an actress as M'lle Clairon—stupid public! She make an apology—a lady—a charming woman! Brutes! Barbarians! The Bastile? In God's name, marquis, are you not amazed? A woman in the Bastile at this age—for abon mot, full of mind,apropos, and taste! France, too!"
"Certainly," said the king, "La Clairon was playingElectraandSemiramis; and the public, unwilling to lose a single word, should find favor with M. de Voltaire."
At another time, this remark of the king would have been flattering to Voltaire; but it was now uttered with such irony, that the philosopher was surprised, and it reminded him of the blunder he had committed. He had wit enough to repair it, but would not. The king's ill-temper excited him, and he replied: "No, sire: Madame Clairon would have disgraced my tragedy had she obeyed; and I cannot think the world has a police-system brutal enough to bury beauty, genius, and weakness in a dungeon."
This reply, added to others, and especially the brutal ridicule, cynical laughter,&c., reported to the king by the officious Poelnitz, super-induced the rupture with which all are acquainted, and supplied Voltaire with the means of making the most piquant complaints, most comical imprecations, and most bitter reproaches. Consuelo was more than ever forgotten, while Clairon left the Bastile in triumph. Deprived of her piano, the poor girl appealed to her courage, and continued to sing and compose at night. She succeeded, and did not fail to discover that her beautiful voice was improved by this most difficult practice. The fear of lunacy made her very circumspect. She was enabled to attend to herself alone, and a constant exercise of memory and mind was required. Her manner became more serious, and nearer perfection. Her compositions became more simple, and, at Spandau, she was the author of airs of wonderful beauty and grand sadness. Before long, however, she became aware of the injury which the loss of her piano did to her health and calmness. Knowing the necessity of ceaseless occupation, and unwilling to repose after exciting and stormy production and execution, by more tranquil study and research, she became aware that fever was gradually kindling in her veins, and she was plunged in grief. Her active character, which was happy and full of affectionate expansion, was not formed for isolation and the absence of sympathy. She would, in a few weeks have been sacrificed to this cruelrégime, had not Providence sent her a friend whom she certainly did not expect to meet.
[11]Royalty in Europe always uses the plural. The meaning of the phrase is, "And you SPEAK not so loudly!"
[11]Royalty in Europe always uses the plural. The meaning of the phrase is, "And you SPEAK not so loudly!"
Beneath the cell, which our recluse occupied, a large smoky room (a thick and mournful vault, which received no other light than that of the fire in a vast chimney, continually filled with iron pots, boiling and hissing) contained the Swartz family. While the wife made the greatest possible number of dinners out of the smallest number of comestibles, the husband sat before a table, blackened with ink and oil, and, by the light of a lamp which burned constantly in this dark sanctuary, wrote out immense bills containing the most fabulous items imaginable. The miserable dinners were for the large number of prisoners whom Swartz had contrived to number among his boarders; the bills were to be presented to their relations or bankers without being always submitted to the recipients of this luxurious alimentation. While the speculative couple were devoting themselves with all their power to toil, two more peaceable personages, in the chimney-corner, sat by in silence, perfect strangers to the advantage and profit of what was going on. The first was a poor starved cat, thin and famished, whose whole existence seemed wasted in sucking its paws. The second was a young man, or rather a lad, if possible uglier than the cat, who wasted his life in reading a book, if possible, more greasy than his mother's pots, and whose eternal reveries seemed to partake more of tranquil idiocy than the meditation of a sentient being. The cat had been christened Belzebub, as an antithesis to the name conferred by Herr and Vrau Swartz on the lad, who was called Gottlieb.
Gottlieb, intended for the church, until he was fifteen had made rapid progress in Protestant Theology. For four years, however, he had been inert and invalid, hanging over the hearth side, unwilling to see the sun, and unable to continue his studies. A rapid and irregular growth had reduced him to a state of languor and indolence. His long, thin legs scarcely sufficed to support his unnatural and ungainly height. His arms were so feeble, and his hands so clumsy, that he could touch nothing without breaking it. His avaricious mother had, therefore, forbidden him to interfere at all, and he was ready enough to obey her. His face was coarse and beardless, terminated by a high forehead, and was altogether not unlike a ripe pear. His features were irregular as his figure. His eyes seemed decidedly astray, so cross and diverging were they. His thick lips had a stupid smile; his nose was shapeless, his complexion colorless, his ears flat, and sticking close to his head. A few coarse, wiry hairs covered his head, which was more like a turnip than the poll of a Christian: this, at least, was the poetical comparison of his good mother.
In spite of his natural disadvantages, in spite of the shame and disappointment with which Vrau Swartz regarded him, Gottlieb, her only son, an inoffensive and patient invalid, was yet the pride and joy of the authors of his existence. They flattered themselves, when he became less ugly, that some day he would be a handsome man. They had expected, from his studious childhood, that his success in life would be brilliant. Notwithstanding the precarious state to which he was reduced, they hoped he would recover strength, power, intelligence, and beauty, as soon as his growth had stopped. It is, besides, needless to remark, that maternal love becomes used to anything, and is satisfied with little. Vrau Swartz, though she abused, adored him, and had she not seen him all day long planted like apillar of salt(such were her words) at the corner of the fireplace, would have been unable to mix her sauces or remember the items of her bills. Old Swartz, who, like many men, had more self-love than tenderness in his paternal regard, persisted in jewing and robbing his prisoners, in the hope that some day Gottlieb would be a minister and a famous preacher. This was his fixed idea, because, before he became rich, the young man had always displayed great facility of expression. For four years, however, he had not said one single sensible thing, and if he ever united two or three sentences together, he spoke them to his cat Belzebub. In fine, Gottlieb was said by the physicians to be an idiot, and his parents, alone thought that he could be cured.
Gottlieb, however, once shook off his apathy, and told his parents that he wished to learn a trade, to amuse himself, and make his tiresome hours profitable. They yielded to this innocent desire, though it scarcely conformed with the dignity attached to a preacher of the reformed church to work with his hands. The mind of Gottlieb appeared, however, so sunk in repose, that it was deemed prudent to permit him to acquire the art of making shoes in a cobbler's stall. His father would have wished him to study a more elegant profession. In vain did they exhibit to him every branch of industry; he had a decided predilection for the craft of Saint Crispin, and said that he was satisfied Providence called him to embrace it. As this wish became a fixed idea, and as the very fear of being interfered with threw him into an intense melancholy, he was suffered to pass a month in the shop of a master workman, whence he came one day with all the tools of the trade, and installed himself in the chimney-corner, saying that he knew enough, and had no need of further instruction. This was not probable; and his parents, hoping that his experience had disgusted him, and that he probably would resume the study of theology, neither reproached nor laughed at him on his return. A new era in Gottlieb's life then began, which was entirely delighted by the prospect of the manufacture of an imaginary pair of shoes. Three or four hours a-day, he took his last and worked at a shoe, which no one over wore, for it was never finished. Every day it was stitched, stretched beaten, pointed, and took all possible shapes, except that of a shoe. The artisan was, however, delighted with his work, and was attentive, careful, patient, and content, so that he utterly disregarded all criticism. At first, his parents were afraid of this monomania, but gradually became used to it, and the great shoe and the volume of sermons and prayers alternated in his hands. Nothing more was required of him than to go from time to time with his father through the galleries and courts, to get fresh air. These promenades gave Swartz a great deal of annoyance, because the children of the other keepers of the prison ran after Gottlieb, imitating his idle and negligent gait, and shouting out "Shoes! shoes!Cobbler, make me a pair of shoes! Take my measure—who wants shoes?" For fear of getting him into difficulty with this rabble, Swartz dragged him along, and the shoemaker was not at all troubled nor distressed at being thus hurried from his work.
In the early part of her imprisonment, Consuelo had been humbly requested by Swartz to get into conversation with Gottlieb, and try to awaken in him the memory of and taste for that eloquence with which he had been endowed in his childhood. While he owned the unhealthy state and the apathy of his heir, Swartz, faithful to the law of nature, so well defined by La Fontaine—
"Nos petits sont mignons,Beaux, bienfaits, et jolis sur touts leurs compagnons."
had not described very faithfully the attractions of poor Gottlieb. Had they done so, Consuelo, it is probable, would not have refused to receive in her cell a young man of nineteen, five feet eight inches high, who made the mouth of all the recruiters of the country water, but who, unfortunately for his health, but fortunately for his independence, was weak in the arms and legs, so as to be unfit for a soldier. The prisoner thought that the society of achildof that age and stature was not exactly proper, and refused positively to receive him. This was an insult the female Swartz made her atone for, by adding a pint of water every day to herbouillon.
On her way to the esplanade, where she was permitted to walk every day, Consuelo was forced to pass the filthy home of the Swartz, and also to go through it under the escort, and with the permission of her keeper, who ever insisted on persuasion, (the article ofceaseless complaisancebeing highly charged in his bills.) It happened, then, that in passing through this kitchen, one door of which opened on the esplanade, Consuelo observed Gottlieb. A child's head on a giant's frame, badly formed too, at first disgusted her; but, gradually, she learned to pity him; questioned him kindly, and tried to make him talk. Ere long, she discovered that his mind was paralysed either by disease or extreme timidity. He would not accompany her to the rampart, until his parents forced him to do so, and replied to her questions only by monosyllables. In talking to him, therefore, she was afraid of aggravating theennuishe fancied he suffered from, and would not either speak or talk to him. She had told his father she saw not the slightest disposition for the oratorical art in him.
Consuelo had been searched a second time by Madame Swartz, on the day when she had met Porporino and sang to the Berlinese public. She contrived, however, to deceive the vigilance of the female Cerberus. The hour was late, and the old woman was out of humor at being disturbed in her first slumber. While Gottlieb slept in one room, or rather in a closet which opened into the kitchen, and the jailer went up stairs to open her cell, Consuelo had approached the fire, which was smothered by the ashes, and while pretending to caress Belzebub, managed to save her funds from the hands of the searcher, so as to be no longer fully at her control. While Madame Swartz was lighting her lamp and putting on her spectacles, Consuelo observed in the chimney-corner, where Gottlieb habitually sat, a recess in the wall about the elevation of her arm, and in this mysterious recess lay his library and tools. This hole, blackened by soot and smoke, contained all Gottlieb's wealth and riches. By an adroit movement, Consuelo slipped her purse into the recess, and then suffered herself to be patiently examined by the old vixen, who persisted for a long time in passing her oily fingers over all the folds of her dress, and who was surprised and angry at finding nothing. Thesang froidof Consuelo, who after all, was not very anxious to succeed in her enterprise, at last satisfied the jailer that she had nothing hidden; and, as soon as the examination was over, she contrived to recover her purse, and keep it in her hand under her cloak until she reached her cell. There she set about concealing it, being well aware that when she was taking her walk, her cell was searched regularly. She could do nothing better than keep her little fortune always about her, sewed up in a girdle, the female Swartz having no right to search her except when she had left the prison.
By and by, the first sum which had been found on the person of the prisoner, when she reached the fortress, was exhausted, thanks to the ingenious bills of Swartz. When he had given her a few very meagre meals and a round bill, being, as usual, too timid to speak of business, and ask a person condemned to poverty for money, in consonance with information had from her, on the day of her incarceration, in relation to the money in Porporino's hands, Swartz went to Berlin, and presented his bill to the contralto. Porporino, in obedience to Cousuelo's directions, refused to pay the bill until the prisoner directed it, and bade the creditor ask his prisoner, whom he knew to have a comfortable sum of money, to pay it.
Swartz returned, pale and in despair, asserting that he was ruined. He looked on himself as robbed, although the hundred ducats he first found on the prisoner would have paid him four-fold for all she had consumed during two entire months. The old woman bore this pretended loss with the philosophy of a stronger head and more persevering mind.
"We are robbed," said she, "of a surety; but you never relied on this prisoner certainly? I told you what would happen. An actress—bah! those sort of people never save anything. An actor as her banker!—what would you expect? We have lost two hundred ducats—we will make this loss up on others, however, who have means. This will teach you to go headlong and offer your services to the first comer. I am not sorry, Swartz, you have had this lesson. I will now do myself the pleasure of putting her on dry bread, and that, too, rather stale, for being so careless as not to put a single 'Frederick' in her pocket to pay the searcher, and for treating Gottlieb as a fool, because he would not make love to her."
Thus scolding and shrugging her shoulders, the old woman seating herself near the chimney by Gottlieb, said—"What do you think of all this, my clever fellow?"
She talked merely to hear herself, being well aware that Gottlieb paid no more attention than the cat Belzebub did to her words.
"My shoe is almost done, mother; I will soon begin a new pair."
"Yes," said the old woman, with an expression of pity; "work so, and you will make a pair a-day. Go on, my boy; you will be very rich. My God! my God!" she continued, opening her pots, and with an expression of pitiful resignation, just as if the maternal instinct had endowed her with any of the feelings of humanity.
Consuelo, seeing her dinner did not come, was well aware what had happened, though she could scarcely think a hundred ducats had been absorbed in such a short time. She had previously marked out a plan of conduct, in regard to the jailer: not having as yet received a penny from the King of Prussia, (that was the way Voltaire was paid.) She was well aware that the money she had gained by charming the ears of some less avaricious persons would not last her long, if her incarceration were prolonged and Swartz did not modify his claims. She wished to force him to reduce his demands, and for two or three days contented herself with the bread and water he brought, without remarking the change in her diet. The stove also, began to be neglected, and Consuelo suffered with cold, without complaining of it. The weather, fortunately, was not very severe. It was April, when in Prussia the weather is not as mild as it is in France, but when the genial season commences.
Before entering into a parley with her avaricious tyrant, she set about disposing her money in a place of safety. She could not hope that she would not be subjected to an examination and an arbitrary seizure of her funds, as soon as she should own her resources. Necessity makes us shrewd, if it does not do more. Consuelo had nothing with which she could cut either wood or stone. On the next day as she examined with the minute patience of a prisoner, every corner of her cell, she observed a brick which did not seem to be as well jointed as the others. She scratched it with her nails, took out the mortar, which she saw was not lime, but a friable substance, which she supposed to be dried bread. She took out the brick, and found behind it a recess carefully formed in the depth of the wall. She was not surprised to find in it many things which to a prisoner were real luxuries; a package of pencils, a penknife, a flint, tinder, and parcels of that thin waxlight, twisted in rolls, and calledcare-nots. These things were not at all injured, the wall being dry, and besides, they could not have been there long before she took possession of the cell. With them she placed her purse, her filagree crucifix, which Swartz looked greedily at, saying it would be such a pretty thing for Gottlieb. She then replaced the brick and cemented it with her loaf, which she soiled a little by rubbing it on the floor, to make it appear the color of mortar.
Having become tranquil for a time, in relation to the occupation of her evenings and her means of existence, she waited with not a little eagerness for the domiciliary visit of Swartz, and felt proud and happy as if she had discovered a new world.
Swartz soon became tired of having no speculation. If he must work, said he, it was better to do it for a small sum than for nothing, and he broke the silence by asking prisonerNo. 3if she had nothing to order? Then Consuelo resolved to tell him that she had no money, but would receive funds every week by a means which it was impossible for him to discover.
"If you should do so," said she, "it would make it impossible for me to receive anything, and you must say whether you prefer the letter of your orders, to your interests."
After a long discussion, and after having for some days examined the clothes, floor, furniture, and bed, Swartz began to think that Consuelo received the means of existence from some superior officer of the fortress. Corruption existed in every grade of the prison officials, and subalterns never contradicted their more powerful associates.
"Let us take what God sends us," said Swartz, with a sigh, and he consented to settle every week with Porporina. She did not dispute about the disbursement of her funds, but regulated the accounts, so as not to pay more than twice the value of each article, a plan which Vrau Swartz thought very mean, but which did not prevent her from earning it.
To any one fond of reading the history of prisoners, the simplicity of this concealment, which escaped the examination of the keepers anxious to discover it, will not seem at all wonderful. The secret of Consuelo was never discovered; and when she looked for her treasures, on her return from walking, she found them untouched. Her first care was to put her bed before her window, as soon as it was night, to light her lamp and commence writing. We will suffer her to speak for herself. We are owners of the manuscript which was for a long time after her death in the possession of the canon *****. We translate from the Italian:—
"April 2.—I have never written anything but music; and though I speak several tongues with facility, I am ignorant whether I can express myself in a correct style in any. It never has seemed proper that I should expound what fills my heart otherwise than in the divine art which I profess, words and phrases appear so cold to me, compared with what I could express in song. I can count the letters, or rather notes, I have hastily written, without knowing how, in the three or four most decisive instances of my life. This is, then, the first time in the course of my life that I find it necessary to trace in words what has happened to me. It is a pleasure for me to attempt it. Illustrious and venerated Porpora! amiable and dear Haydn! excellent and kind canon *****! you, my only friends—except, perhaps, you, noble and unfortunate Trenck—it is of you that I think as I write; it is to you that I recount my reverses and trials. It seems to me that I speak to you, that I am with you, and that in my sad solitude I escape annihilation by initiating you into the secret of my existence. It may be I shall die here ofennuiand want, though as yet neither my health nor spirits are materially changed. I am ignorant, however, of the evils reserved for me in the future; and if I die, at least a trace of my agony, a description of it, will remain in your hands. This will be the heritage of the prisoner who will succeed me in this cell, and who in the recess in the wall will find these sheets, as I found myself the paper and pencil with which I write. How I thank my mother, who could not write, for having caused me to be taught! It is a great consolation in prison to be able to write. My sad song could not pierce the walls, nor could it reach you. Some day this manuscript may; and who knows but I may send it soon. I have always trusted in Providence.
"April 3.—I will write briefly, and will not indulge in long reflections. This small supply of paper, fine as silk, will not last always, and my imprisonment perhaps will not soon end. I will tell you something every night, before I go to sleep. I must also be economical of my waxlights. I cannot write by day, lest I should be surprised. I will not tell you why I have been sent here, for I do not know myself, and perhaps by guessing at the cause, I might compromise persons who have nothing to do with me. I will not either complain of the authors of my misfortune. It seems to me that I would lose the power of sustaining myself, if I were to complain or become angry at them. I wish here to speak only of those whom I love, and of him I have loved.
"I sing for two hours every evening, and it seems to me that I improve. What will be the use of this? The roofs of my dungeon reply, they do not understand—but God does; and when I have composed some canticle which I sing in the fervor of my heart, I experience a celestial calm, and sink to sleep almost happily. I fancy that heaven replies to me, and that a mysterious voice sings while I sleep a strain far more beautiful than mine, which in the morning I attempt to remember and repeat. Now that I have pencils and a small supply of ruled paper, I will write out my compositions. Some day, my friends, it may be that you will attempt them, and that I shall not have altogether vanished from your memory.
"April 4.—This morning the 'red-throat' came into my room, and remained there more than a quarter of an hour. For a fortnight I have invited him to do me this honor, and at last he decided on it. He dwells in an old ivy which clings to the wall near my window, and which my keepers spare, because it gives a green shelter to their door, which is a few feet below. The little bird for some time looked at me in a curious and suspicious manner. Attracted by the crumbs of bread which I rolled up to resemble little worms, hoping to entice him by what appeared living prey, he came lightly, as if he were wafted by the wind, to my bars; but as soon as he became aware of the deceit, he went away with a reproachful air, and I heard a chattering which sounded very like a complaint. And these rude iron bars, so close and black, across which we made our acquaintance! they are so like a cage that he was afraid of them. To-day, when I was not thinking of him, he determined to cross them, and perched himself on the back of a chair. To avoid frightening him, I did not stir, and he looked around with an air of terror. He seemed like a traveller who has discovered an unknown land, and who examines it, that he may impart to his compatriots an idea of its curiosities. I astonished him most, and as long as I did not move he was much amazed. With his large round eye, and his turned-up nose, he has an impudent, saucy look, which is quite amusing. At last, to bring about a conversation I coughed, and he flew away with great alarm. In his hurry he could not find the window, and for some time he flew around as if he were out of his senses; but he soon became calm, when he saw I had no disposition to pursue him, and alighted on the stove. He seemed agreeably surprised at its warmth, and returned thither frequently to warm his feet. He then ventured to touch the bread-worms on the table, and, after scattering them contemptuously about, being beyond doubt pressed by hunger, he ate them. Just then, Swartz, the keeper, came in, and my visitor flew in terror from the window. I hope he will return, for he scarcely left me during the day, and looked constantly at me, as if he said he had not a bad opinion of me or of my bread.
"This is a long story about a red-throat. I did not think myself such a child. Does prison life have a tendency to produce idiocy; or is there a mystery and affection between all things that breathe under heaven? I had my piano here for a few days. I could practise, study, compose, sing. None of these things, however, pleased me so much as the visit of this little bird!—of this being!—yes, it is a living thing! and therefore was it that my heart beat when I saw him near me. Yet my keeper, too, is a living thing, one of my own species; his wife, his son (whom I have seen several times), the sentinels who walk day and night on the rampart, are better organised beings, my natural friends and brothers before God—yet their aspect is rather painful. The keeper produces the effect of a wicket on me; his wife is like a chain; and his son, a stone fastened to the wall. In the soldiers, I see nothing but muskets pointed at me. They seem to have nothing human about them. They are machines, instruments of torture and death. Were it not for the fear of impiety, I would hate them. Oh! red-throat, I love you! I do not merely say so, but feel it. Let any one who can explain this kind of love.
"April 5.—Another event. This note I received this morning. It was scarcely legible, and was written on a piece of paper much soiled:—
"'Sister—Since the spirit visits you, I am sure you are a saint. I am your friend and servant. Dispose as you please of your brother.'
"Who is this friend thus improvised? It is impossible to guess. I found the note on my window this morning, as I opened it to say good morning to my bird. Can he have brought it? I am tempted to think the bird wrote it, so well does he know and seem to love me. He never goes near the kitchen below, the windows of which give vent to a greasy smell, which reaches even me, and which is not the least disagreeable condition of my place of incarceration. I do not wish to change it, however, since my bird has adopted it. He has too much taste to become intimate with the vulgar turnkey, his ill-tempered wife, and ugly son.[12]He yields his confidence especially to me. He breakfasted here with an appetite, and when I walked on the esplanade, hovered around me. He chattered away, as if to please me, and attract my attention. Gottlieb was at the door, and looked at me as I passed, giggling and staring. This creature is always accompanied by a horrid red cat, which looks at my bird with an expression yet more horrible than his master's. This makes me shudder. I hate the animal as much as I do Vrau Swartz, the searcher.
"April 6th.—Another note this morning. It is strange. The same crooked, angular, blotted writing, and the same sheet of dirty paper. My friend is not an hidalgo, but he is gentle and enthusiastic. 'Dear sister—chosen spirit, marked by the finger of God—you distrust me, and are unwilling to speak to me. Can I aid you in nothing? My life is yours. Command the services of your brother.'—I look at the sentinel, who is a brutish soldier, and employs himself in knitting as he walks up and down, with his gun on his shoulder. He looks at me, and apparently had rather send a ball than a note to me. Let me look in any direction I please, I see nothing but stern gray walls beset with nettles, surrounded by ditches, and they, too, shut in by another fortification, the use and the very name of which I am ignorant of, but which hides the water from me. On the summit of this other work I see another sentinel, or at least his cap and gun, and hear from time to time the savage cry, 'Keep off!' Could I but see the water, the boats, or catch a glimpse of the landscape! I can hear the sound of the oars, the fisherman's song, and when the wind blows thence, the rushing of the waters at the place of meeting of the two rivers. But whence come the mysterious notes, and this devotion of which I can make nothing? My bird knows, perhaps, but he will not tell me.
"April 7th.—As I looked carefully about me during my walk on the rampart, I discovered a narrow opening in the flank of the tower I inhabit, about ten feet above my window, and almost hidden by the ivy branches which grow over it. 'So little light,' I said, sadly, to myself, 'cannot illumine the habitation of aught human.' I wished to learn for what it was intended, and attempted to induce Gottlieb to go on the rampart with me, by flattering his passion or rather monomania for shoemaking. I asked him if he could make me a pair of slippers, and for the first time he approached me without being made to do so, and he replied to me without difficulty. He talks as strangely as he looks, and I begin to think he is not an idiot but a madman.
"'Shoes for thee!' he said, and he is familiar withal. 'It is written "the latches of whose shoes I am unworthy to unloose."'
"I saw his mother three paces from the door, and ready to join in the conversation. At that time I had neither leisure nor opportunity to comprehend his humility and veneration, and I asked if the story above me was occupied, but scarcely hoping to obtain a distinct answer.
"'It is not,' said Gottlieb, 'but merely contains a stairway to the platform.'
"'And is the platform isolated? Does it communicate with nothing?'
"'Why ask me? You know.'
"'I neither know, nor care to know, Gottlieb. I ask the question merely to ascertain if you have as much sense as they say.'
"'Ah! I have sense—much sense,' said the poor lad, in a grave and sad tone, which contrasted strangely with the comical air of his words.
"'Then you can tell me,' continued I, '(for time is precious,) how this court is constructed?'
"'Ask your bird,' he said, with a strange smile. 'He knows, for he flies and goes everywhere; but I know nothing, for I go nowhere.'
"'What! not even to the top of the tower in which you live? Do you not know what is behind that wall?'
"'Perhaps I have been there, but I paid no attention to it. I look at no one and nobody.'
"'Yet you see the bird. You know that?'
"'Ah! the bird is a thing of a different kind. All look at angels. That is no reason why I should look at the walls.'
"'What you say is very profound, Gottlieb. Can you explain it to me?'
"'Ask the red-throat. I tell you he knows everything. He can go anywhere, but never goes except among his equals. That is why he comes to see you.'
"'Thank you, Gottlieb. Do you take me for a bird?'
"'The red-throat is not a bird.'
"'What then?'
"'An angel, as you know.'
"'Then so am I.'
"'You have said it.'
"'You are gallant, Gottlieb.'
"'Gallant!' said he, looking anxiously at me. 'What is the meaning of that?'
"'Do you not know?'
"'No.'
"'How know you that the red-throat comes into my room?'
"'I have seen and heard so from him.'
"'Then he has spoken to you?'
"'Sometimes,' said Gottlieb with a sigh, 'but very seldom. Yesterday he said, "No, I will never go into that hellish kitchen." The angels have nothing to say to evil spirits."'
"'Are you an evil spirit, Gottlieb?'
"'No, no; not I, but——' Here Gottlieb put his fingers on his thick lips with a mysterious air.
"'But who?'
"'He did not reply, but he pointed to his cat stealthily, as if he was afraid of being heard.
"'That is the reason, then, why you call him by that terrible name, Belzebub?'
"'Sh—! That is his name, and he knows it well enough. He has been called so ever since the world began. He will not always bear that name.'
"'Certainly not; he will die.'
"'He will not die—not he—he cannot; and he is sorry for it, for he does not know when he will be pardoned.'
"Here we were interrupted by the coming of Madame Swartz, who was amazed at seeing Gottlieb talk so freely with me. She asked me if I was pleased with him.
"'Very much so, I assure you. Gottlieb is very interesting, and I will be glad to talk with him.'
"'Ah, signora, you will do us a great service, for the poor lad has no one to talk with, and to us he never opens his mouth. Are you stupid, and a fool, my poor child? You talk well enough with the signorina whom you do not know, while with your parents——'
"Gottlieb suddenly turned on his heel and disappeared in the kitchen, apparently not having even heard his mother's voice.
"'He always does so,' said Madame Swartz; 'when his father speaks to him, or when I do, twenty-nine times out of thirty, he never opens his lips. What did he say to you, signorina? Of what on earth could he converse so long?'
"'I will confess to you that I did not understand him,' said I. 'To do so, it is necessary to know to what his ideas relate. Let me talk to him from time to time freely, and when I am sure, I will tell you what he thinks of.'
"'But, signorina, his mind is not disturbed.'
"'I think not;' and there I told a falsehood, for which I beg God to pardon me. My first idea was to spare the poor woman, who, malicious as she is, is yet a mother, and who, fortunately, is not aware of her child's madness. This is always very strange. Gottlieb, who exhibited his folly very naïvely to me, must be silent with his parents. When I thought of it, I fancied that perhaps I might extract from him some information in relation to the other prisoners, and discover, perhaps, from his answers, who was the author of my anonymous notes. I wish, then, to make him my friend, especially as he seems to sympathise with the red-throat, who sympathises with me. There is much poetry in the diseased mind of this poor lad. To him the bird is an angel, and the cat a being who never can be pardoned. What means all this? In these German heads, even in the mildest of them, there is a luxury of imagination which I cannot but admire.'
"The consequence of all this is, that the female Swartz is much satisfied with my kindness, and that I am on the best possible terms with her. The chattering of Gottlieb will amuse me. Now that I know him, he inspires me with no dislike. A madman in this country, where even people of high talent are not a little awry, cannot be so very bad.
"April 8th.—Third note on my window. 'Dear sister, that platform is isolated, but the staircase to it connects with another block in which a lady prisoner is confined. Her name is a mystery, but if you question the red-throat, you can find out who she is. This is what you wished poor Gottlieb to tell you. He could not.'
"Who is then the friend who knows, sees, and hears all I do and say? I cannot tell. Is he invisible? All this seems so strange that it really amuses me. It seems to me, that, as in my childhood, I live amid a fairy tale, and that my bird will really speak to me. If I must say of my charming pet, that he needs speech alone, he certainly needs that, and thus I will never understand his language. He is now used to me; he comes to and goes from my room as if he felt himself at home. If I move or walk, he does not fly farther than my arm's-length and then returns immediately to me. If he loved bread a great deal, he would be fonder of me, for I cannot deceive myself as to the nature of his attachment. Hunger, and perhaps a desire to warm at my stove, are his great attractions. Could I but catch a fly, (for they are rare,) I am sure I could get hold of him: he already has learned to look closely at the food I offer him, and were the temptation stronger, he would cast aside all ceremony. I now remember having heard Albert say, that to tame the wildest animals, if they had any mind, nothing more than a few hours' patience is necessary. He had met a Zingara, who pretended to be a sorceress, and who never remained a whole day in any forest without the birds lighting on her. She said she had some charm, and pretended, like Appolonius of Tyana, the history of whom Albert had related to me, to receive revelations about strange things from them. Albert assured me that all her secret was the patience with which she had studied their instincts, and a certain affinity of character which exists between individuals of our own and other species. At Venice a great many birds are domesticated, and I can understand the reason, which is, that that beautiful city being separated fromterra firma, is not unlike a prison. In the education of nightingales they excel. Pigeons are protected by a special law, and are almost venerated by the population: they live undisturbed in old buildings, and are so tame, that, in the street, it is necessary to be careful to avoid treading on them. When I was a girl, I was very intimate with a young person who dealt in them, and if the wildest bird was given him for a single hour, he tamed it as completely as if it had been brought up in a cage. I amuse myself by trying similar experiments on my red-throat, which grows every minute more used to me. When I am out, he follows me and calls after me; when I go to the window, he hurries to me. Would he, could he love me! I feel that I love him; but he does not avoid nor fly from me; that is all. The child in the cradle doubtless has no other love for its nurse. What tenderness! Alas! I think we love tenderly only those who can return our love. Ingratitude and devotion, indifference and passion, are the universal symbols of the hymen of all; yet I suffered you, Albert, who loved me so deeply, to die; I am now reduced to love a red-throat, and complain that I did not deserve my fate. You think, my friends, perhaps, that I should not dare to jest on such a subject! No; my mind is perhaps disturbed by solitude; my heart, deprived of affection, wastes itself away, and this paper is covered with tears.
"I had promised not to squander this precious paper; yet I am covering it up with puerilities I find great consolation in, and cannot refrain from doing so. It has rained all day and I have not seen Gottlieb. I have not been out; I have been occupied wholly with the red-throat, and this child's play has had the effect of making me very sad. When the smart shrewd bird sought to leave me and began to peck at the glass, I yielded to him. I opened the window from a feeling of respect for that holy liberty which men are not afraid to take from their fellows. I was wounded at this momentary abandonment, and felt as if he owed me something for the great care I had taken of him. I really think I am becoming mad, and that, ere long, I shall fully understand all Gottlieb's fancies.
"April 9th.—What have I learned?—or rather, what have I fancied that I learned? for I know nothing now, although my imagination is busy.
"Now I have discovered the author of the mysterious notes. It is the last person I would ever have imagined; but that is not what surprises me; it matters not, I will tell you all.
"At dawn I opened my window, which is formed of a large square of glass, that I might lose nothing of the small portion of daylight, which is partially excluded by that abominable grating. The very ivy also threatens to plunge me into darkness, but I dare not pluck one leaf, for it lives and is free in its natural existence. To distort, to mutilate it, would require much courage. It feels the influence of April; it hurries to grow; it extends and fixes its tendrils on every side; its roots are sealed to the stone, yet it ascends and looks for air and light. Human thought does the same thing. Now I understand why once there were holy plants—sacred birds. The red-throat has come and has lighted on my shoulder without any hesitation. He then immediately began to look around, to examine everything, to touch everything. Poor thing! it finds so little here to amuse itself. It is free, however; it may inhabit the fields, yet it prefers a prison, the old ivy and my cell. Does it love me? No! It is warm in my room and likes my crumbs. I am now distressed at having tamed it so thoroughly. What if it should go into the kitchen and become the prey of that abominable cat; my care for it would have brought about its terrible death! to be lacerated and devoured by that fearful beast. But what is the condition of our feeble sex, the hearts of whom are pure and defenceless? Are we not tortured and destroyed by pitiless beings, who, as they slowly kill us, make us feel their claws and cruel teeth?
"The sun rose clear, and my cell was almost rose color, bright as my room in theCorte Minelli, when the sun of Venice ****. We must not think, however, of that sun. It will never rise for me. May you, my dear friends, salute smiling Italy for me, the vast skiesé il firmamento lucido—which I never will see again.
"I have asked leave to go out; they have permitted me to do so, though the hour was earlier than usual. I call this going out; a platform thirty feet long, bordered by a swamp, and shut in by huge walls. Yet the place is not without beauty; at least I think so now, that I have seen it under all its aspects. At night it is beautiful, because it is sad. I am sure there are many persons innocent as I am, here, who are much worse treated. There are dungeons whence people never come, which the light of day never penetrates, and on which the moon, the friend of the wretched, never shines. Ah! I am wrong to complain. My God! had I portion of the power of earth, how I would love to make people happy!
"Gottlieb came shuffling rapidly towards me, smiling too, as well as his stony lips permit him. They did not disturb him, but left him alone with me. A miracle happened. He began at once to talk like a reasonable being.
"'I did not write to you, last night,' said he, 'and you found no note on your window. The reason was, I did not see you yesterday, and you asked for nothing.'
"'What mean you, Gottlieb? Did you write to me?'
"'Who else could! You did not guess it was I? I will not write to you now, for since you let me talk to you, it is useless. I did not wish to trouble, but to serve you.'
"'Kind Gottlieb! Then you pity me? You take an interest in me?'
"'Yes; since I found out that you were a spirit of light.'
"'I am nothing more than you are, Gottlieb. You are mistaken!'
"'I am not mistaken; I have heard you sing!'
"'You like music, then?'
"'I like yours. It is pleasant to God and to my heart!'
"'Your heart is pious, your soul is pure, I see!'
"'I strive to make them so! The angels will aid me, and I will overcome the powers of darkness which weigh on my poor body, but which have no influence on my soul!'
"Gradually, Gottlieb began to speak with enthusiasm, never ceasing, however, to be noble and true to poetical symbolism.
"In fine, what shall I say? This idiot, this madman, reached the tone of true eloquence, when he spoke of God's mercy, of human misery, of the future justice of Providence, of evangelical virtues, of the duties of a true believer, of arts, of music, and poetry. As yet, I have not been able to understand in what religion he vested his ideas and fervent exultation, for he seems to be neither catholic nor protestant, and though he told me he believed in the true religion, he told me nothing except that, unknown to his parents, he belonged to a peculiar sect: I am too ignorant to know what. I will study by-and-bye the mystery, singularly strong and beautiful, singularly sad and afflicted soul; for, in fact, Gottlieb is mad, as in poetry Zdenko was, and as Albert was in his lofty virtue. The madness of Gottlieb reappeared after he had spoken for some time with great animation; his enthusiasm became too strong for him, and then he began to talk in a manner that distressed me, about the bird, the demon-cat, and his mother, who, he said, had allied herself to the evil spirit in him. Finally, he said his father had been changed into stone by a glance of the devil-cat, Belzebub. I was enabled to calm him by leading his attention away from his moody fancies, and asked him about the other prisoners. I had now no personal interest in these details, because the notes, instead of being thrown from the top of the tower into my window, were pushed up by Gottlieb, from below, by means of I know not what simple apparatus. Gottlieb obeyed my inquiries with singular docility, had already ascertained what I wished to know. He told me that the prisoner in the building back of me, was young and beautiful, and that he had seen her. I paid no attention to what he said, until he mentioned her name, which really made me shiver. The prisoner's name was Amelia.
"Amelia! What an ocean of anxiety; what a world of memories did that name arouse in me! I have known two Amelias, each of whom hurled my fate into an abyss of ruin, by their confessions. Was the Princess, or the young Baroness of Rudolstadt, the prisoner? Certainly neither the one or the other. Gottlieb, who seems to have no curiosity, and who never takes a step, nor asks a question, unless urged to do so, could tell me nothing more. He saw the prisoner as he sees everything, through a cloud. She must be young and beautiful, for his mother says so; but Gottlieb told me that he did not know. He only knew from having seen her at a window, that she is not agood spirit and angel.Her family name is concealed. She is rich and pays the jailer much money; but she is, like myself, in solitary confinement; she is often sick; she never goes out. I could discover nothing more. Gottlieb has only to listen to his parents' chatter to find out all, for they pay no attention to him. He has promised to listen and find out how long Amelia has been here. Her other name the Swartzes seem to be ignorant of. Were the abbess here, would they not know it? Would the king imprison his sister? Princesses are here treated even worse than others. The young baroness! Why should she be here? Why has Frederick deprived her of liberty? Well! a perfect prison curiosity has beset me, and my anxiety, wakened by her name, results from an idle and diseased imagination. It matters not; I will have a mountain on my heart until I discover who is my fellow-prisoner, bearing that name, which has ever been so important to me."
"May 1.—For many days I have been unable to write. In the interval much has happened that I am anxious to record.
"In the first place, I have been sick. From time to time since I have been here, I have felt the symptoms of a brain fever, similar to that severe attack I had at the Giants' Castle, after going into the cavern in search of Albert. I had painfully disturbed nights, interrupted with dreams, during which I cannot say whether I sleep or am awake. At those times I seem to hear the terrible violin playing old Bohemian airs, chants, and war-songs. This does me much injury; yet when this fancy begins to take possession of me, I cannot but listen and hearken to the faint sounds which the breeze bears to me from the distance. Sometimes I fancy that the violin is played by a person who glides over the surface of the water, that sleeps around the castle; then, that it comes from the walls above, or rises from some dungeon. My heart and mind are crushed, yet when night comes, instead of looking for amusement with my pen and pencil, I throw myself on my bed, and seek again to resume that kind of half sleep which brings me my musical dream, or rather reverie, for there is something real about it. A real violin certainly is played by some prisoner; but what and how does it play? It is too far distant for me to hear aught but broken sounds. My diseased imagination invents the rest, I am sure. Now I can no longer doubt that Albert is dead, and I must look on it as a misfortune that has befallen me. It is apparently a part of our nature to hope against hope, and not to submit to the rigor of fate.
"Three nights ago I was sound asleep, and was awakened by a noise in my room. I opened my eyes, but the night was so dark that I could distinguish nothing. I heard distinctly some one walking with stealthy step by my bed. I thought Vrau Swartz had come to inquire into my condition, and I spoke to her. I had no answer, however, but a deep sigh. The person went out on tiptoe, and I distinctly heard the door closed and bolted. I was overpowered and went to sleep, without paying any great attention to the circumstance. The next day I had so confused a recollection of it, that I was not sure whether I had dreamed or not. Last night I had a more violent fever than hitherto; yet I prefer that to my uneasy slumbers and disjointed dreams. I slept soundly, and dreamed, but did not hear the sad violin. As often as I awoke, I became aware of the difference between sleeping and waking. In these intervals the breathing of a person not far from me reached my ear. It seemed to me that I could almost distinguish some one on my chair, and I was not afraid, for I thought Madame Swartz had come to give me my drink. I did not awake her; but when I fancied she roused herself, I thanked her for her kindness and asked the hour. The person then left; and I heard a stifled sob, so painful and distressing that the sweat even now comes to my brow whenever I think of it. I do not know why it made this impression. It seemed to me that I was thought very ill, perhaps dying, and was pitied. I was not sick enough to feel myself in danger, and I was not sorry to die with so little pain amid a life in which I had so little to regret. At seven o'clock, when the old woman came to my room, I was not asleep, and as I had been for some hours perfectly lucid, I have a distinct remembrance of this strange visit. I asked her to explain it. She merely shook her head, however, and said she did not know what I meant, and that as she kept the keys under her pillow while she slept, it was certain that I had a dream or was deceived. I had been so far from delirium that about noon I felt well enough to take air, and went on the esplanade, accompanied by my bird, which seemed to congratulate me on my recovery. The weather was pleasant. It had begun to grow warm, and the wind from the fields was pure and genial. Gottlieb hurried to me. I found him much changed and much uglier than usual. There was yet an expression of angelic kindness, and even of pure intelligence, in the chaos of his face, whenever it was lighted up. His eyes were so red and bloodshot that I asked if he was sick.
"'Yes,' said he, 'I have wept much.'
"'What distresses you, my poor Gottlieb?'
"'At midnight, my mother came from the cell, and said to my father, "No. 3 is very sick to-night. She has the fever sadly. We must send for the doctor. I would not like to have her die on our hands." My mother thought I was asleep, but I determined not to be so, until I found out what she said. I knew you had the fever, and when I heard it was dangerous I could not help weeping, until sleep overcame me. I think, however, I wept in my sleep, for when I awoke this morning, my eyes were like fire, and my pillow was wet.'"
"I was much moved at the attachment of poor Gottlieb, and I thanked him, shaking his great black paw, which smells of leather and wax a league off. The idea then occurred to me, that in his simple zeal the poor lad might have paid me the visit. I asked him if he had not got up and come to listen at the door. He assured me that he had not stirred, and I am fully satisfied that he had not. The place in which he sleeps is so situated that in my room I can hear his sighs through a fissure in the wall, perhaps through the hollow in which I keep my journal and money. Who knows but this opening communicates secretly with that near the chimney in which Gottlieb keeps his treasures—his books and his tools. In this particular he and I are alike, for each of us, like rats or bats, has a nest in the wall in which we bury our riches. I was about to make some interrogations, when I saw a personage leave Swartz's house and come toward me. I had not as yet seen him here, and his appearance filled me with terror, though I was far from being sure that I was not mistaken about him.
"'Who is that man?' said I to Gottlieb, in a low tone.
"'No great things,' said he. 'He is the new adjutant. Look how Belzebub bows his back, and rubs against his legs. They know each other well.'
"'What is his name?'
"Gottlieb was about to answer, when the adjutant said, with a mild voice and good-humored smile, pointing to the kitchen—
"'Young man, your father wants you.'
"This was only a pretext to be alone with me, and Gottlieb left. I was alone, and found myself face to face with whom—friend Beppo, think you? With the very recruiter whom we met so unfortunately in the Boehmer-wald, two years ago. It was Mayer. I could not mistake him, for, except that he had become fat, he was unchanged. He was the same man, with his pleasant manners, his simple bearing, his false face, his perfidious good humor, and hisbroum, broum, as if he was imitating the trumpet. From the band, he had been promoted to the department of finding food for powder, and as a recompense for his good service in that position, had been made a garrison officer, or rather a military jailer, for which he was as well calculated as he was for his old position of travelling turnkey, which he had discharged so well.
"'Mademoiselle, (he spoke French), I am your humble servant. You have a very pleasant place to walk in—air, room, and a fine view, I congratulate you, for you have an easy time in prison. The weather is magnificent, and it is a real pleasure to be at Spandau, when the sun is so bright.Broum, broum.'
"These insolent jests so disgusted me, that I did not speak. He was not disconcerted and said—
"'I ask your pardon for speaking to you in a tongue which perhaps you do not understand. I forgot that you are an Italian—an Italian singer—a superb voice, they say. I have a passion for music, and therefore wish to make your time as pleasant as my order will permit. Ah! where the devil did I have the honor of seeing you? I know your face perfectly—perfectly.'
"'At the Berlin Theatre, probably, for I sang there during the winter which has just passed.'
"'No; I was in Silesia. I was sub-adjutant at Glatz. Luckily, that devil Trenck made his escape while I was away, on duty, near the frontiers of Saxony. Otherwise I would not have been promoted, or been here, which, in consequence of its proximity to Berlin, I like very much. The life of a garrison officer, madame, is very melancholy. You may imagine howennuyéone is when in a lonely country, and far from any large town, especially when one loves music as I do. Where had I the honor to meet you?'
"'I do not remember, sir, ever to have had that honor.'
"'I must have seen you on some stage in Italy or Vienna. You have travelled a great deal. How many theatres have you belonged to?'
"As I did not reply, he continued, insolently, 'It matters not; I will perhaps remember. What did I say? Ah! you, too, suffer fromennui.'
"'Not so, sir.'
"'But are you not in close confinement? Is not your name Porporina?'
"'Yes, sir.'
"'Just so, prisoner No. 3. Well, do you not wish for amusement—for company?'
"'Not at all, sir,' said I, thinking he intended to offer me his.
"'As you please. It is a pity. There is another prisoner here, extremely well-bred—a charming woman, who, I am sure, would be delighted to make your acquaintance.'
"'May I ask her name, sir?'
"'Her name is Amelia.'
"'Amelia what?'
"'Amelia—broum—broum; on my word I do not know. You are curious, I see. Ah! that is a regular prison-fever.'
"I was sorry that I had repelled the advances of Mayer, for after having despaired of making the acquaintance of this mysterious Amelia, and having abandoned the idea, I felt myself attracted by a feeling of pity towards her. I tried then to be more pleasant to this disagreeable man, and he soon offered to put me in connection with No. 2. Thus he called Amelia.
"'If this infraction of my arrest will not compromise you, sir, and if I can be useful to this lady, who, they say, is ill from sadness andennui——'
"'Broum—broum.You take things literally, you do. You are kind. That old scamp Swartz has made you afraid of his orders. What are they but chimeras—good for door-keepers and wicket masters. We officers, though,' (and as he spoke Mayer expanded himself, as if he had not been long used to such an honorary title,) 'shut our eyes to such honorable infractions of discipline. The king himself, were he in our place, would do so. Now, signorina, when you wish to obtain any favor, go to no one but myself, and I promise that you shall not be contradicted uselessly. I am naturally humane and indulgent; God made me so; besides, I love music. If once in a while you will be kind enough to sing for me, I will hear you here, and you can do any thing you please with me.'