The Countess von Rudolstadt

by George Sand

  “This drum which doesn’t seem at all special at first glance, whose authenticity I even suspect, is nonetheless very famous,” he said. “This much is sure. The membrane of this instrument of war is human skin, as you yourself can see by the trace of the pectoral bulge. This trophy, which His Majesty carried off from Prague in the glorious war that he has just concluded, is allegedly made from the skin of Jan Zizka of the Chalice, the famous head of the great Hussite revolt of the fifteenth century. It is said that he bequeathed this sacred hide to his fellow soldiers, promising them that where it would be, there too would be victory. The Bohemians say that the sound of this dreadful drum made their enemies take to their heels, that it conjured up the ghosts of their leaders who had died fighting for the holy cause and a thousand other marvels. . . . Yet, apart from the fact that such superstitions deserve only contempt in this splendid century of reason in which we are fortunate to live, Monsieur Lenfant, Her Majesty the Queen Mother’s preacher and the author of a commendable history of the Hussites, asserts that Jan Zizka was buried with his skin on, that consequently. . . . You seem to be growing pale, Mademoiselle. . . . Are you ill, or does the sight of this bizarre object disgust you? This Zizka was a great scoundrel as well as a most ferocious rebel. . . .”

  “That may be, Monsieur,” replied Porporina, “but I have lived in Bohemia, and I’ve heard it said that he was a very great man. His memory is still as alive there as Louis XIV’s in France, and he’s considered the savior of his country.”

  “Alas! A country very poorly saved,” said Herr Stoss with a smile. “However much I might beat the resonant breast of Bohemia’s liberator, I wouldn’t even conjure up his shamefully captive shade in the palace of the man who conquered his descendants.”

  While uttering these words in a pedantic tone, the commendable Herr Stoss ran his fingers over the membrane, which made a dull, sinister sound like that of drums when they are muffled in mourning and pounded in funeral marches. But this profane entertainment on the part of the learned conservator was suddenly cut short by a piercing shriek out of Porporina, who threw herself into his arms and hid her face in the crook of his shoulder, like a child terrified by some odd or dreadful thing.

  The solemn Herr Stoss looked around for the cause of this sudden terror and saw, standing on the threshold, a person whose aspect engendered only disdain in him. He was going to wave him away, but by the time Porporina, still clinging to him, had left him free to move, the person was gone.

  “Truly, Mademoiselle,” he said, leading her to a chair into which she slumped, trembling and overwhelmed, “I do not understand what has come over you. I didn’t see anything to cause such an upset.”

  “You didn’t see anything, nobody at all?” Porporina’s voice was faint, her mien distraught. “There, on the threshold. . . . You didn’t see a man just standing there, looking at me with terrifying eyes?”

  “I saw perfectly well a man who often wanders through the castle, who might like to make himself look terrifying, as you say so well. Yet I have to say that he doesn’t intimidate me much, and I’m not taken in by him.”

  “You saw him? Ah! Monsieur, so he was really there? I wasn’t just dreaming? My God, my God, what does this mean?”

  “This means that, by virtue of the special protection of a lovable and august princess who, I believe, is entertained by his follies more than she lends credence to them, he has entered the castle on his way to see her Royal Highness.”

  “But who is he? What is his name?”

  “You don’t know? Why then are you afraid?”

  “In the name of Heaven, Monsieur, just tell me who he is!”

  “Well, Trismegistus, Princess Amalia’s sorcerer! One of those charlatans who ply the trade of predicting the future, revealing hidden treasures, making gold, and a thousand other parlor tricks that were all the fashion here before the glorious reign of Frederick the Great. You’ve certainly heard, Signora, that the abbess of Quedlinburg is still fond. . . .”

  “Yes, yes, Monsieur, I know she studies the Kaballah, out of curiosity no doubt. . . .”

  “Oh, certainly! How could one think that a princess, who is so enlightened, so learned, would take a serious interest in such nonsense?”

  “In short, Monsieur, you know the man!”

  “Oh, I’ve known him for quite a while. For the last four years or so he has been appearing here at least once every six to eight months. Since he’s very peaceable and doesn’t dabble in intrigue, His Majesty, having no wish to deprive his dear sister of any innocent pastimes, tolerates his presence in the city and even his unrestricted access to the palace. He doesn’t abuse the privilege and only practices his so-called science here with Her Highness. Herr von Golowkin is his protector and answers for him. That’s all I can tell you. But why do you take such a lively interest in this, Mademoiselle?”

  “Rest assured, Monsieur, it doesn’t interest me in the least. And since I don’t want you to take me for a madwoman, I must tell you that this man seemed to bear—an illusion no doubt—a striking resemblance to a person who was once dear to me, and who still is; for, isn’t it true, Monsieur, that death doesn’t sever the bonds of affection?”

  “A noble sentiment, Mademoiselle, and most worthy of a person of your merit. But you’ve had quite a shock, and I see that you can hardly stand on your feet. Allow me to see you home.”

  Once home, Porporina took to her bed for several days, tormented by a fever and an extraordinary nervous commotion. Then there was a letter from Mme von Kleist inviting her to come make music in her rooms at eight in the evening. This was merely a pretext for furtively getting Porporina into the palace. Having made their way through secret passages to the princess’s suite, they found her charmingly attired, even though the rooms were scarcely lit, and all her servants had been dismissed for the evening, as she claimed to be indisposed. She gave the singer a most affectionate welcome. Taking her arm like an old friend, she led Porporina to a pretty little round room lit with fifty candles, where a dainty, tastefully elegant supper had been served. French rococo style had not yet invaded the Prussian court. At that time, moreover, Prussian aristocrats displayed sovereign contempt for the reigning king of France and confined themselves to imitating the traditions of the century of Louis XIV, for whom Frederick, secretly eager to ape the great king, professed boundless admiration. Yet Princess Amalia was dressed in the latest fashion. Though more chastely adorned than Mme de Pompadour was wont to be, she was no less splendid. Mme von Kleist had also put on her loveliest finery. And yet there were but three place settings and not a single servant.

  “You’re flabbergasted by our little feast,” laughed the princess. “Well, you’ll be even more so when you hear that the three of us shall sup and serve each other, as Mme von Kleist and I have already prepared everything ourselves. We set the table and lit the candles, and I’ve never had such fun. For the first time in my life I dressed and did my hair all by myself, and, to my mind at least, I’ve never looked better. In short, we’re going to entertain ourselves incognito! The king is at Potsdam for the night, the queen at Charlottenburg, my sisters with the queen mother at Montbijou, my brothers, I don’t know where, so we’re alone in the castle. I’m supposed to be ill, and I’m taking advantage of this night of freedom to feel myself live a little and celebrate with the two of you (the only people in the world whom I can trust) my dear Trenck’s escape. So we’re going to toast his health with champagne, and if one of us gets tipsy, the others will keep the secret. Ah! This splendid, jolly feast will outshine Frederick’s fine philosophical suppers!”

  They sat down, and the princess showed herself in a whole new light to Porporina. She was kind, congenial, unaffected, lively, beautiful as an angel, in a word, adorable that evening, as she had been in her salad days. She seemed to swim in happiness, a pure, generous, unselfish happiness. Her lover was fleeing far away from her, she did not know if she would ever see him again, but he was free, his sufferings were over, and this
radiant lover was pouring blessings upon fate.

  “Ah, how fine I feel between the two of you!” she said to her confidantes, who formed with her the loveliest trio that refined coquetry has ever hidden away from the eyes of men. “I feel as free as Trenck right now; I feel as benevolent as he has always been, as I believed I would never be again! The fortress of Glatz was always pressing my soul. At night it weighed on my breast like a nightmare. I was cold in my feather bed, thinking that the man I loved was shivering on damp flagstones in a dark dungeon. I was no longer alive and couldn’t enjoy a single thing. Ah! dear Porporina, just imagine how horrible it feels to tell yourself: It’s because of me that he’s suffering all this! It’s my fatal love that has buried him alive!

  “That thought turned every morsel of food to gall, just like the Harpies’ breath.

  “Pour me some champagne, Porporina. I’ve never liked it, and for two years I’ve drunk only water. Well, now it tastes like ambrosia. The candlelight is lovely, the flowers smell sweet, the delicacies are exquisite, and most of all, you are beautiful as two angels, you and von Kleist! Oh! yes, I see, I hear, I breathe; I’m alive again, no longer the statue, the cadaver that I was. Here, raise a toast with me, first to Trenck’s health, then to the friend who escaped with him; next, to the fine guards who let him escape and, finally, to my brother Frederick who couldn’t prevent it. No, no bitter thought will trouble this festival day. Now I don’t feel bitterness toward anyone. I think I love the king. Now then, to the king’s health, Porporina! Long live the king!”

  Her good-natured ways and the perfect equality that she made reign among the three enhanced the well-being that the joy of this poor princess communicated to her two lovely guests. She got up, changed the plates when it was her turn, carved, and served her companions with a childlike, moving pleasure.

  “Ah! While I wasn’t born for the life of equality, love at least has made me understand it,” she said, “and my wretched situation has shown me the idiocy of these antiquated notions of rank and birth. My sisters aren’t like me. My sister von Anspach would rather lose her head than drop the first curtsey to anyone not wearing a crown, and my sister von Bayreuth, who plays the philosopher and freethinker with Monsieur Voltaire, would rip out the eyes of any duchess who dared have a train even an inch longer than hers. It’s because they’ve never loved, you see! They’ll spend their whole lives inside that vacuum pump they call the dignity of their rank. Like mummies, they’ll die embalmed in their majesty. They won’t have known my bitter sorrows, but neither will they have had, at any time in their lives of etiquette and fancy balls, a quarter hour of abandon, pleasure, and trust like the one I’m savoring just now! My little dears, you must make this the perfect feast and speak to me tonight as though I weren’t a princess. I want to be Amalia for you; no more ‘Your Highness,’ just Amalia. Ah, you look reluctant, von Kleist! The court has spoiled you, my child. You’ve taken in that unhealthy air, despite yourself. But you, dear Porporina, even though you’re an actress, you seem a child of nature. You’ll yield to my innocent desire.”

  “Yes, my dear Amalia, with all my heart I will, as a favor to you,” laughed Porporina.

  “Heavens!” exclaimed the princess. “If you only knew how it makes me feel to hear someone speaking to me like that, calling me Amalia! Amalia! Oh, he had such a way of saying my name, he did! I found it was the most beautiful name on earth, the sweetest name a woman ever bore whenever he’d say it.”

  Little by little the princess’s soul became so enraptured that she forgot herself and turned all her attention to her friends, and this experiment in equality made her feel so grand, happy, and good that she instinctively sloughed off the acrimonious self that passion and suffering had developed in her. No longer talking only about herself, no longer giving herself a little pat on the back for being so lovable and simple, she asked Mme von Kleist about her family, situation, and sentiments, which she had neglected to do since being absorbed in her own sorrows. She also wanted to know about the life of the artist, the excitement of the theater, and Porporina’s thoughts and feelings. Inspiring trust, enjoying it as well, she took infinite pleasure reading in the souls of others and finally seeing, in these beings different from her up to this point, beings of the same essence, as worthy in God’s eyes, as well endowed by nature, as important on the face of the earth as she was, all qualities with regard to which she had long been convinced to take priority over others.

  It was especially Porporina whose ingenuous replies and sympathetic expansiveness filled her with respect mingled with sweet surprise.

  “You seem like an angel to me,” the princess told her. “You, a theater girl! You speak and think more nobly than any crowned head of my acquaintance. I feel a respect for you that goes to the point of infatuation. You must accord me all your respect, lovely Porporina. You must open your heart to me and tell me your life, the circumstances of your birth, your upbringing, your loves, your sorrows, even your faults, if you’ve committed any. Of course, they can only be noble faults, like the one I keep not on my conscience but in the sanctuary of my heart. It is eleven o’clock, we’ve got the whole night before us, our little orgy is winding down since now we’re only talking, and I see that the second bottle of champagne would be too much. Will you tell me your story as I’m asking you to do? I have a feeling that learning your heart and seeing a life where everything will be new and unfamiliar to me is going to teach me more about our real duties in this world than my own meditations have ever succeeded in doing. I feel able to listen and follow you as I’ve never been able to listen to anything alien to my passion. Will you gratify my wish?”

  “I would gladly do so, Madame . . . ,” Porporina replied.

  “Who are you talking to? Where did that ‘Madame’ come from?” the princess merrily cut in.

  “I say, my dear Amalia, that I’d be pleased to,” Porporina continued, “if in my life there weren’t a great, almost dreadful secret on which everything hinges, a secret that no need to pour out my feelings nor any impulse of the heart allows me to reveal.”

  “Well, my dear child, your secret is known to me! I kept quiet about it at the start of our supper out of discretion. Now I feel no compunction about putting my affection for you above such considerations.”

  “What! You know my secret!” exclaimed Porporina, petrified with surprise. “Oh, Madame, I beg your pardon! I think that’s impossible.”

  “A penalty for that Madame. You’re still treating me like a princess.”

  “Pardon me, Amalia . . . , but you can’t know my secret, not unless you’re really in league with Cagliostro, as some people say.”

  “After hearing about your adventure with Cagliostro some time ago, I was dying to know all the details. But this evening my motivation is not curiosity, but affection, as I said in all sincerity. So, to encourage you, I’ll tell you that since this morning I know that Signora Consuelo Porporina could legitimately take, if she so desired, the title of Countess von Rudolstadt.”

  “In the name of Heaven, Madame . . . Amalia . . . Who on earth could have told you that?”

  “My dear Rudolstadt, don’t you know that my sister, the Margravine von Bayreuth, is here?”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “And that Supperville, her doctor, came with her?”

  “I see. Monsieur Supperville failed to keep his word, his promise. He’s blabbed!”

  “Don’t worry. He’s only blabbed to me, and under the seal of secrecy. Besides, I don’t see why you’re so afraid of people finding out something that only does you such honor and can no longer do anyone harm. The Rudolstadt family has all died out except for an ancient canoness who’ll soon join her brothers in the grave. True, in Saxony there are some Rudolstadt princes who are your close relatives, second cousins, and very proud of their name. Yet, if my brother is willing to support you, you’ll bear the name and they won’t dare protest . . . unless you go on preferring your name of Porporina, which is just as glori
ous and much sweeter to the ear.”

  “That is indeed my intention, no matter what happens,” replied the singer. “Yet I’d really like to know how Monsieur Supperville came to tell all this. . . . When I’ve learned that, and when my conscience is no longer bound by an oath, I promise to tell you, Madame . . . Amalia, every single thing about that sad, strange wedding.”

  “Here’s how it happened,” said the princess. “One of my maids was ill, so I asked Supperville, who I had heard was here at the castle with my sister, to come by to see her. Supperville is an intelligent man whom I got to know when he was in residence here. He didn’t ever like my brother, which put me at ease to chat with him. We just happened to start talking about music and opera and therefore about you. I said such fine things about you that he, whether trying to please me or speaking out of conviction, went even further and praised you to the skies. I liked listening to him and remarked as well a keen desire on his part to make me sense in you a romantic life worthy of interest and a magnanimity surpassing all my fine suppositions. I pressed him a good deal, I have to tell you, and he needed a good deal of coaxing, I must say in his defense. Finally, after making me promise not to betray him, he told me about your wedding at the deathbed of Count von Rudolstadt and your generous renunciation of all the rights and privileges that had become yours. You see, my child, without compunction you can tell me the rest if you are not duty bound to keep it from me.”

  “That being the case,” said Porporina after a moment of silence and keen emotion, “although this tale will certainly reawaken terribly painful memories in me, especially since I’ve been here in Berlin, I’ll trustfully reply to Your Majesty’s . . . I mean, my dear Amalia’s expressions of interest.”