The Countess of Rudolstadt / A Sequel to "Consuelo"

by George Sand

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:—

Journal of Consuelo, otherwise Poporina, a Prisoner at
Spandau, April, 175—

"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 of ennui and 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.