Consuelo was taken to her house in the same carriage which had brought
her to the palace. Two sentinels were placed at each door of her house;
and the Baron of Buddenbrock, watch in hand, imitating the rigid
punctuality of his master, gave her one hour to make her preparations,
telling her at the same time that her packages would be examined by the
officers of the fortress to which she was about to be sent. When she
entered her room, all was in the most picturesque disorder. During her
conference with the king, officers of the secret police had come, in
obedience to order, to open every lock and take possession of all her
papers. Consuelo had except her music, nothing of consequence, and was
much distressed in thinking that perhaps she would never see her
favorite authors again--and they were the only fortune she had amassed.
She cared much less for various jewels given her by some of the most
exalted personages of Vienna and Berlin, as a kind of pay for her
services at their concerts. They were taken from her under the pretence
that perhaps the rings were poisoned or had seditious emblems. The king
never heard of them, nor did Consuelo ever see them. The subordinate
officers of Frederick had no scruples in relation to such peculations,
for they were badly paid, and knew the king would rather shut his eyes
to their conduct than increase their pay.
Consuelo looked first for her crucifix, and thinking that they had
neglected it on account of its small value, took it down and put it in
her pocket. She saw the chaplet of roses lying withered on the floor.
When she took it up, she perceived with terror that the band of
parchment which contained the mysterious encouragement was not there.
This was the only proof possible of her complicity in the pretended
conspiracy; but to what commentaries might this be the index? While
looking anxiously around for it, she put her hand in her pocket and
found it there, where she had placed it mechanically when Buddenbrock
had called her an hour before.
Made at ease in relation to this, and being well aware that nothing
which could compromise her would be found among her papers, she hastened
to collect all she might need during an absence the duration of which
she knew would be altogether indefinite. She had no one to help her, her
servant having been arrested as a witness; and amid her dresses which
had been pulled out of the drawers and thrown at random about the room,
she had great difficulty in finding what she needed. Suddenly she heard
some sonorous object fall on the floor. It was a large nail which was
passed through a letter.
The style was laconic. "Do you wish to escape? Show yourself at the
window, and in ten minutes you will be in safety."
The first idea of Consuelo was to go to the window. She paused, however,
for she fancied that her flight, in case she effected it, would be
considered as proof of guilt, and that this would be considered a
confession that she had accomplices.
"Princess Amelia!" thought she, "if it be true that you have betrayed
me, so will I not you! I will discharge my debt to Trenck. He saved my
life; and if it be necessary, I will lose mine for him!"
Revived by this generous idea, she completed her preparations with much
presence of mind, and was ready when Buddenbrock came for her to go. On
this occasion she thought him more hypocritical and disagreeable than
ever. Being both servile and arrogant, Buddenbrock was jealous of his
master's sympathies, just as old dogs snap at all who visit the house.
He had been mortified at the lesson the king had given him when he
received orders to make Consuelo suffer from her situation, and asked
for nothing better than to be avenged.
"I am much grieved, signora," said he, "at having to execute such
rigorous orders. For a long time nothing like it has been witnessed in
Berlin. No; it has not occurred since the time of Frederick William, the
august father of the present king. It was a cruel example of the
severity of the law, and of the power of our princes. I will remember it
as long as I live. Then neither age nor sex were respected when an error
was to be punished. I remember a very pretty girl, well-born and
amiable, who, for having received the visit of an august person,
contrary to the king's wish, was flogged by an executioner, and driven
from the city."
"I know that story, sir," said Consuelo, with mingled fear and
indignation. "The young girl was prudent and pure. Her only offence was,
that she used to practise music with the present king, then prince
royal. Has the king suffered so little from the catastrophes to which he
has subjected others, that he now dares attempt to frighten me by so
infamous a threat?"
"I think not, signora. His majesty does nothing but what is great and
just, and you must know whether or not your innocence shelters you from
his anger. I would think so if I could, but just now I saw the king more
irritated than he ever was. He said that he was wrong in attempting to
reign by mildness, and that in his father's days no woman had dared to
act as you had. From some other words of his majesty, I am afraid some
degrading punishment--I cannot conjecture what--awaits you. But my duty
is painful; we are now at the gates of the city, and if I find there
that the king has given any orders contrary to those I received to
conduct you to Spandau, I will withdraw, my rank not permitting me to be
present."
Buddenbrock, seeing the effect he had produced, and that Consuelo was
almost ready to faint, stopped. She, at that moment, almost regretted
her devotion, and could not in her heart refrain from appealing to her
unknown protectors. But as she looked with a haggard eye at Buddenbrock,
she saw in his face the hesitating expression of falsehood, and began to
grow calm. Her heart yet beat as if it would burst her breast, when a
police officer presented himself at the gate, to exchange a few words
with Buddenbrock. During this conversation, one of the grenadiers who
had come on horseback with the carriage, came to the other door, and
said, in a low tone, "Be calm, signorina, blood will be shed rather than
that you should be injured." In her trouble, Consuelo did not
distinguish the features of her unknown friend, who at once withdrew.
The carriage proceeded at a gallop towards the fortress, and, in about
an hour, Porporina was incarcerated in due form, or rather with the
prevailing want of form, in the castle of Spandau.
This citadel, at that time considered impregnable, is situated in the
bay formed by the confluence of the Havel and the Spree. The day had
become dark and gloomy, and Consuelo having completed the sacrifice,
experienced that apathetic exhaustion which follows energy and
enthusiasm. She therefore suffered herself to be taken to the gloomy
abode intended for her, without even looking around. She was exhausted;
and though it was noon only, threw herself, dressed as she was, on the
bed, and went fast asleep. In addition to the fatigue, she experienced,
was added that kind of delicious security, the fruits of which a good
conscience always receives. Though the bed was hard, she slept
profoundly as possible.
She had been for some time in a kind of half-slumber, when she heard
midnight struck by the castle clock. The impression of sound is so keen
to musical ears that she was awakened at once. When she left her bed,
she understood that she was in prison, and she was forced to pass the
whole night in thought, as she had slept all day. She was surprised at
not suffering with cold, and was especially pleased at not feeling that
physical inconvenience which paralyses thought. The wind bellowed
outside in the most mournful manner, the rain beat on the window, and
Consuelo could see through the narrow window nothing but the iron
grating painted on the dark ground of a starless sky.
The poor captive passed the first hour of this new and unknown
punishment, with her mind perfectly lucid, and with thoughts full of
logic, reason, and philosophy. Gradually, however, this tension fatigued
her brain, and the night became lugubrious. Her positive reflections
changed into vague and strange reveries. Fantastic images, painful
memories, terrible apprehensions assailed her, and she found herself in
a state neither of sleeping nor watching, yet where all her ideas
assumed some form and seemed to float amid the darkness of her cell.
Sometimes she fancied herself on the stage, and mentally sang a part
that fatigued her, and the representation of which haunted her, without
her being able to get rid of it: sometimes she saw herself in the hands
of the executioner, with bare shoulders, amid a stupid and curious
crowd, lacerated by the rod, while the king, with angry air, looked down
from the balcony, and Anzoleto stood laughing in one corner. At last,
she felt a kind of torpor, and saw nothing but the spectre of Albert in
a cenotaph, making vain efforts to rise and come to her aid. Then, this
image was effaced, and she fancied herself asleep in the grotto of
Schreckenstein, while the sublime and sad notes of the violin uttered in
the depths of the cavern Albert's eloquent and lacerating prayer.
Consuelo, in fact, was but half asleep, and the sound of the instrument
flattered her ear, and restored quiet to her soul. The phrases, however,
were so united, though weakened by distance, and the modulations were so
distinct, that she really fancied she heard them, and was not astonished
at the fact. It seemed that this fantastic performance lasted more than
an hour, and that it lost in the air its insensible gradations. Consuelo
then sunk again to sleep and day began to dawn when she opened her eyes.
The first care she had was to look around her room, which she had not
even looked at on the previous evening, so absorbed was she by the
sensations of physical life. She was in a cell, perfectly naked, but
clean, and warmed by a brick stove, which was lighted on the outside,
and which shed no light in the room, though it maintained an equable
temperature. One single arched window lighted the room, which yet was
not too dark: the walls were white-washed and rather high.
Three knocks were heard at the door, and the keeper said aloud,
"_Prisoner, number three_, get up and dress: in a quarter of an hour
your room will be visited."
Consuelo hastened to obey, and to remake her bed before the return of
the keeper, who in a very respectful manner brought her bread and water
for the day. He had the air and bearing of an old major-domo, and placed
the frugal prison-allowance on the table, with as much care and
propriety as if it had been the most carefully prepared repast.
Consuelo looked at this man, who was old, and whose fine and gentle
physiognomy at first had nothing repulsive in it. He had been selected
to wait on the women, on account of his manners, his good behavior, and
his discretion, beyond all trial. His name was Swartz, and he informed
Consuelo of the fact.
"I live below you," said he, "and if you be sick call to me through the
window."
"Have you not a wife?" said Consuelo.
"Certainly," said he, "and if you really need her, she will wait on you.
It is, however, forbidden to have anything to say with female prisoners,
except in special cases--the surgeon must say when. I have also a son
who will share with me the honor of serving you."
"I have no need of so many servants, and if you please, Swartz, I will
be satisfied with your wife and yourself."
"I know that ladies are satisfied with my age and appearance. You need
not fear my son more than you do me, for he is a lad full of piety,
gentleness, and firmness."
"You will not require that last quality with me. I came hither almost
voluntarily, and have no wish to escape. As long as I am served decently
and properly, as people seem disposed, I will submit to the prison
rules, rigorous as they may be."
As she spoke thus, Consuelo, who had eaten nothing during the past
twenty-four hours, and who had suffered all night with hunger, began to
break the loaf and to eat it with a good appetite.
She then observed that her resignation made an impression on the old
keeper, and both amazed and annoyed him.
"Your ladyship, then, has no aversion to this coarse food?" said he,
awkwardly.
"I will not deny, that for the sake of my health in future, I wish for
something more substantial: if, however, I must be satisfied with this,
I will not be greatly put out."
"Yet you are used to live well? You have a good table at home, I
suppose?"
"Yes, certainly."
"Then," said Swartz, "why do you not have a comfortable one prepared for
you here?"
"Is that permitted?"
"Certainly," said Swartz, whose eyes glittered at the idea of this
business, for he had feared to find a person too poor or too sober to
ask it. "If your ladyship has been shrewd enough to conceal any money on
your person, I am not prohibited from furnishing food to you. My wife is
a very good cook, and we have a very comfortable table service."
"That is very kind," said Consuelo, who discovered Swartz' cupidity with
more disgust than satisfaction. "The question, however, is to know if I
really have money. They searched me when I came hither, and I know they
left me a crucifix, to which I attached much interest, but I cannot say
whether they have left me my purse."
"Has not your ladyship observed it?"
"No; does that surprise you?"
"But your ladyship certainly knows what was in the purse."
"Nearly." As she spoke, Consuelo examined her pockets, but did not find
a farthing. She said, in a gay tone, "They have left me nothing that I
can find: I must be satisfied with prison fare. Do not be mistaken as to
that fact."
"Well, madame," said Swartz, not without a visible effort over himself,
"I will show you that my family is honest. Your purse is in my pocket;
here it is," and he showed Porporina her purse, which he immediately put
in his pocket.
"Much good may it do you," said Porporina, amazed at his impudence.
"Wait awhile," said the avaricious keeper. "My wife searched you. She
was ordered to let the prisoners have no money, lest they should use it
to corrupt their keepers. When the latter are incorruptible, the
precaution is useless. She thought, therefore, her duty did not require
her to give your money to the major. As, however, she must obey the
letter of the order, your purse cannot be returned directly to your
hands."
"Keep it, then," said Consuelo, "since such is your pleasure."
"To be sure I will, and you will thank me for doing so. I am the
depository of your money, and will use it for your wants. I will bring
you such dishes as you wish; I will keep your stove hot, and even
furnish you with a better bed and bed-linen. I will keep a regular
account, and pay myself discreetly from your fund."
"So be it," said Consuelo. "I see one can make terms with heaven, and I
appreciate the honesty of Herr Swartz as I should. When this sum, which
is not large, shall be exhausted, will you not furnish me with the means
of procuring more?"
"I do not say so. That would be to violate my duty, a thing I will never
do; but your ladyship will never suffer, if you will tell me who at
Berlin or elsewhere is the depository of your funds. I will send my
accounts to that person, in order that they may be regularly paid. My
orders do not forbid that."
"Very well: you have contrived a way to correct that order, which is a
very agreeable thing, as it permits you to treat us well, and prohibits
us from having anything to say about it. When my ducats are gone, I will
contrive to satisfy you. First of all, bring me some chocolate; give me
for dinner a chicken and vegetables; get some books for me during the
day, and at night give me a light."
"The chocolate your ladyship will have in five minutes; dinner will be
prepared at once. I will give you also some good soup, little delicacies
which ladies do not disdain, and coffee, which is very salutary to
combat the damp air of our residence. The books and light are
inadmissible: I would be dismissed at once, and my conscience does not
permit me to violate my orders."
"But, other than prison food is equally prohibited."
"Not so. We are permitted to treat ladies, and especially your ladyship,
humanely, in all that relates to health and comfort."
"_Ennui_ is equally injurious to the health."
"Your ladyship is mistaken. Good food and mental repose make all here
fat. I might mention a lady who came hither as thin as you, and who,
after being a prisoner twenty years, was discharged, weighing one
hundred and twenty pounds."
"Thank you, sir, I do not wish such immense _embonpoint._ I hope you
will not refuse me books and a light."
"I humbly ask your ladyship's pardon; but I cannot violate my duty.
Besides, your ladyship will not suffer from _ennui_; you will have a
piano and music here."
"Indeed! And to whom will I be indebted for this consolation? To you?"
"No, signora: to his majesty: and I have an order from the governor to
have the above-mentioned articles placed in your room."
Consuelo was delighted at being allowed the means of _making music_, and
asked nothing more. She took her chocolate gaily, while Swartz put her
furniture in order, that is to say, a miserable bed, two straw chairs,
and a pine table. "Your ladyship will need a _commode_," said he, with
the kind air assumed by persons who wish to overpower others with care
and attention, in exchange for their money: "then a better bed, a
carpet, a chest of drawers, an arm-chair, and a toilette."
"I will take the commode and toilette," said Consuelo, who sought to
take care of her means. "The rest I will not ask you for. I am not
particular, and beg you to give me only what I ask for."
Swartz shook his head with astonishment, almost with contempt; he did
not reply, however, and when he had rejoined his worthy wife, said:
"She is not a bad person, I mean the new prisoner, but she is poor; we
will not make much from her."
"How much do you wish her to spend?" said the wife, shrugging her
shoulders. "She is not a great lady, but an actress, they tell me."
"An actress!" said Swartz. "Well, I am glad for our son Gotlieb's sake."
"Fie on you," said Vrau Swartz, with a frown. "Do you wish to make him a
rope-dancer?"
"You do not understand, wife. He will be a preacher. I will never give
it up, for he is of the wood of which they are made, and has studied. As
he must preach, and as he has as yet shown no great eloquence, this
actress will give him lessons in declamation."
"That is not a bad idea, if she will not charge her lessons against our
bills."
"Be easy, then; she has no sense," said Swartz, snickering and rubbing
his hands.