"Rich, young, and of illustrious birth, I was married at the age of
twenty to Count Christian, who was already more than forty. He might
have been my father, and inspired me with affection and respect, but not
with love. I had been brought up in ignorance of what that sentiment is
to a woman. My parents were austere Lutherans, but were obliged to
practise the obligations of their faith as obscurely as possible. Their
habits and ideas were excessively rigid, and had great power on the
mind. Their hatred of the stranger, their mental revolt against the
religious and political tyranny of Austria, their fanatical attachment
to the old liberties of the country, had passed into my mind, and these
passions sufficed my youth. I suspected the existence of no other, and
my mother, who had never known aught but duty, would have fancied she
committed a crime, had she suffered me to have the least presentiment of
any other. The Emperor Charles, father of Maria Theresa, long persecuted
my family on account of heresy, and placed our fortune, our liberty, and
almost our life, up to the highest bidder. I might _ransom_ my parents
by marrying a Catholic noble devoted to the empire, and I sacrificed
myself with a kind of enthusiastic pride. Among those pointed out to me
I chose Count Christian, because his mild, conciliatory, and apparently
meek character made me entertain a hope of secretly converting him to
the ideas of my family. Gladly did my parents receive and bless me for
my devotion. Misfortune, though we may understand its extent, and be
aware of its injustice, is not a means by which the soul can be
developed. I very soon saw that the wise and calm Christian hid, under
his benevolent mildness, an invincible obstinacy, and a deep attachment
to the customs of his class and the prejudices of those around him--a
kind of scornful hatred of all opposition to established ideas. His
sister, Wenceslawa--tender, vigilant, generous but yet most alive to
petty religious bigotry and pride of rank--was at once a pleasant and
disagreeable companion for me. She was kindly but overpoweringly
tyrannical to me; and her friendship, though devoted, was irritating to
the last degree. I deeply suffered the want of sympathetic friends, the
absence of the intellectual beings I could love. A contact with my
companions destroyed me, and the atmosphere I breathed in seemed to dry
up my heart. You know the story of the youth of Albert--his repressed
enthusiasm, his misunderstood religion, and his evangelical ideas
treated as heretical and mad. My life was the prelude to his; and you
have sometimes at the Giants' Castle heard exclamations of terror and
grief at the unfortunate resemblance, both in a moral and physical point
of view, of the mother and son.
"The absence of love was the greatest evil of my life, and from it all
others are derived. I loved Christian with deep friendship, but nothing
could inspire me with enthusiasm, and an enthusiastic affection would
have been necessary to repress the profound alienation of our natures.
The stern and religious education I had received would not permit me to
separate intelligence from love. I devoured myself. My health gave way;
a strange excitement took possession of my nervous system. I had
hallucinations and ecstasies called attacks of madness, which were
carefully concealed instead of being cured. They sought to amuse and
took me into society, as if balls, spectacles, and fetes, could replace
sympathy, love, and confidence. At Vienna I became so ill that I was
brought back to the Giants' Castle. I preferred this sad abode, the
exorcisms of the chaplain, and the cruel friendship of the Canoness
Wenceslawa, to the court of our tyrants.
"The death of my five children, one after the other, inflicted the last
blow on me. It appeared that heaven had cursed my marriage. I longed
anxiously for death, and expected nothing from life. I strove not to
love Albert, my youngest son, being persuaded that he too was condemned
like the others, and that my care would not suffice to save him.
"One final misfortune completely extinguished my faculties. I loved and
was loved, and the austerity of my religion forced me to stifle even the
self-knowledge of this terrible feeling. The medical man who attended me
in my frequent and painful crises, was apparently not younger and not so
handsome as Christian. I was not moved by the graces of his person, but
by the profound sympathy of our souls, the conformity of ideas, or
rather religious and philosophical instincts, and an incredible
similarity of character. Marcus, I can mention only his first name, had
the same energy, the same activity, the same patriotism, I had. Of him,
as well as of me, might be said what Shakespeare makes Brutus assert. He
was not one of those who hear injustice with an unmoved brow. The misery
and degradation of the poor, serfdom, despotic laws and monstrous
abuses, all the impious rights of conquest aroused tempests of
indignation in his mind. What torrents of tears have we shed together
over the wrongs of our country and of the human race, every where
oppressed and deceived--in one place degraded by ignorance, in another
decimated by avarice, and in a third, violated and degraded by the
ravages of war--vile and unfortunate over all the world! Marcus, who was
better informed than I was, conceived the idea of a remedy for all these
evils, and often spoke to me of a strange and mysterious plan to
organise an universal conspiracy against despotism and intolerance. I
listened to his plans as mere things of romance. I hoped for nothing
more. I was too ill and too utterly crushed to entertain hopes of the
future. He loved me ardently; I saw and felt it. I partook of his
passion, and yet during five years of apparent friendship and chaste
intimacy, we never spoke of the lamentable secret that united us. He did
not usually live in the Boehmer-wald--at least he often left it on
pretence of visiting patients who were at a distance, but in fact to
organise that conspiracy of which he constantly spoke to me, though
without convincing me that it would be successful. As often as I saw
him, I felt myself more excited by his genius, his courage and
perseverance. Whenever he returned, he found me more debilitated, more
completely a prey to an internal fire, and more devasted by physical
suffering.
"During one of his absences I had terrible convulsions, to which the
ignorant and vain Doctor Wetzelius, whom you know, and who attended me
during my absence, gave the name of _malignant fever._ After these
crises, I fell into so complete a state of _annihilation_ that it was
taken for death. My pulse ceased to beat, my respiration was not
perceptible. Yet I retained my consciousness. I heard the prayers of the
chaplain, and the lamentations of the family. I heard the agonising cry
of poor Albert, my only child, and could not move. I could not even see
him. My eyes had been closed, and it was impossible for me to open them.
I asked myself if this could be death, and if the soul, having lost all
means of action on the body in death, preserved a recollection of
earthly sorrows, and was aware of the terrors of the tomb. I heard
terrible things around my death-bed: the chaplain, seeking to calm the
deep and sincere grief of the canoness, told her God should be thanked
for all things, and it was a blessing to any husband to be freed from my
continual agony, and the storms of a guilty mind. He did not use terms
quite so harsh, but that was the sense. I heard him afterwards seek to
console Christian with the same arguments, yet more softened in
expression, but to me the sense was identical and cruel. I heard
distinctly, I understood thoroughly. It was, they thought, God's will
that I should not bring up my child, and that in his youth he would be
removed from contact with the poison of heresy. Thus they talked to my
husband when he wept and clasped Albert to his bosom, saying--'Poor
child! what will become of you without your mother?' The chaplain's
reply was, 'You will bring him up in a godly manner.'
"Finally, after three days of mute and silent despair, I was borne to
the tomb, without having the power of motion, yet without for an instant
having any doubt of the terrible death about to be inflicted on me. I
was covered with diamonds--I was dressed in my wedding robe--the
magnificent costume you saw in my portrait. A chaplet of flowers was
placed on my head, a gold crucifix on my bosom, and I was placed in a
white marble cenotaph, cut in the pavement of the chapel. I felt neither
cold, nor the want of air. I existed in the mind alone.
"An hour after, Marcus came. His consternation deprived him of all
thought; he prostrated himself on my grave, and they had to tear him
away. At night he returned, bringing a lever and chisel with him. A
strange suspicion had passed through his mind. He knew my lethargic
crises. He had never seen them so long or so complete. From a few brief
attacks which he had observed, he was satisfied of the possibility of a
terrible error. He had no confidence in the science of Wetzelius. I
heard him walking above my head, and I knew his step. The noise of the
lever, as it lifted up the pavement, made my heart quiver, but I could
not utter a cry, or make a sound. When he lifted up the veil which
covered my face, I was so exhausted by the efforts I made to call him,
that I seemed dead forever. He hesitated for a long time; he examined my
extinct breath, my heart, and my icy hands. I had all the rigidity of a
corpse. I heard him murmur, in an agonising tone--'All, then, is over!
No hope! Dead--dead! Oh, Wanda!' Again there was a terrible silence. Had
he fainted? Did he abandon me, forgetting, in the tremor inspired by the
sight of one he loved, to shut up my sepulchre?
"Marcus, while in moody meditation, formed a scheme melancholy as his
grief, and strange as his character. He wished to wrest my body from the
outrage of destruction. He wished to bear it away secretly, to embalm
and enclose it in a metallic case, keeping it ever with him. He asked
himself if he would be bold enough to do so, and suddenly, in a kind of
fanatic transport, exclaimed, that he would. He took me in his arms,
and, without knowing if his strength would enable him to bear me to his
house, which was more than a mile distant, he laid me down on the
pavement, and with the terrible calmness which is often found in persons
who are delirious, replaced the stones. Then he wrapped me up, covered
me entirely with his cloak, and left the castle, which then was not shut
so carefully as it now is, because at that time the bands of
malefactors, made desperate by war, had not shown themselves in the
environs. I was become so thin, that he had not a very heavy burden.
Marcus crossed the woods, and chose the least frequented paths. He twice
placed me on the rocks, being overcome with grief and terror, rather
than with fatigue. He has told me since, more than once, that he was
horrified at this violation of a grave, and that he was tempted to carry
me back. At last he reached his home, going noiselessly into his garden,
and put me, unseen by any one, into an isolated building, which was his
study. There the joy of feeling myself saved, the first feeling of
pleasure I had experienced in ten years, loosened my tongue, and I was
able to make a faint exclamation.
"A new emotion violently succeeded the depression. I was suddenly gifted
with excessive powers, and uttered cries and groans. The servant and
gardener of Marcus came, thinking that he was being murdered. He had the
presence of mind to meet them, saying that a lady had come to his house,
to give birth secretly to a child, and that he would kill any one who
saw her, and discharge any one who was so unfortunate as to mention the
circumstance. This feint succeeded. I was dangerously ill in the study
for three days. Marcus, who was shut up with me, attended to me with a
zeal and intelligence which were worthy of his will. When I was cured,
and could collect my ideas, I threw myself in alarm into his arms,
remembering only that we must separate. 'Oh, Marcus!' said I, 'why did
you not suffer me to die here in your arms? If you love me, kill me, for
to return to my family is worse than death!'
"'Madame,' said he firmly, 'I have sworn before God that you never shall
return there. You belong to me alone. You will not leave me; if so, it
will cause my death.' This terrible resolution at once terrified and
charmed me. I was too much enfeebled to be able to comprehend its
meaning for a long time. I listened to him, with the timid submission
and compliance of a child. I suffered him to cure and attend to me,
becoming gradually used to the idea of never returning to Riesenberg,
and never contradicting the belief of my death. To convince me, Marcus
made use of a lofty eloquence, he told me, with such a husband I could
not live, and had no right to undergo certain death. He swore that he
had the means of hiding me for a long time, and even forever, from all
who would know me. He promised to watch over my son, and to enable me to
see him in secret. He gave me, even, certain assurances of these strange
possibilities, and I suffered myself to be convinced. I lived with him,
and was no longer the Countess of Rudolstadt.
"One night, just as we were about to part, they came for Marcus, saying
that Albert was dangerously ill. Maternal love, which misfortune seemed
to have suppressed, awoke in my bosom. I wished to go to Riesenberg with
Marcus, and no human power could dissuade me from it. I went in his
carriage, and in a long veil waited anxiously at some distance from the
house, while he went to see my son, and promised me an account of his
state. He soon returned, and assured me that my child was in no danger,
and wished me to go to his house, to enable him to pass the night with
Albert. I could not do so. I wished to wait for him, hidden behind the
walls of the castle, while he returned to watch my son. Scarcely was I
alone, than a thousand troubles devoured my heart. I fancied that Marcus
concealed Albert's true situation from me, and perhaps that he would die
without receiving my last farewell. Under the influence of this unhappy
persuasion, I rushed into the portico of the castle. A servant I met in
the court let his light fall, and fled when he saw me. My veil hid my
face, but the apparition of a woman at midnight was sufficient to awake
the superstitious fears of these credulous servants. No one suspected
that I was the shadow of the unfortunate and impious Countess Wanda. An
unexpected chance enabled me to reach the room of my son without meeting
any one, and it happened that Wenceslawa had just left to procure some
remedy Marcus had ordered. My husband, as was his wont, had gone to the
oratory to pray, instead of trying to avert the danger. I took my child
in my arms; I pressed him to my bosom. He was not afraid of me, for he
had not understood what was meant by my death. At that moment the
chaplain appeared at the door. Marcus thought that all was lost. With a
rare presence of mind, however, he stood without moving, and appeared
not to see me. The chaplain pronounced, in a broken voice, a few words
of an exorcism, and fell half dead, after having made a single step
towards me. I then made up my mind to fly through another door, and in
the dark reached the place where Marcus had left me. I was reassured; I
had seen Albert restored, and the heat of fever was no longer on his
lips. The fainting and terror of the chaplain were attributed to a
vision. He maintained that he had seen me with Marcus, clasping my child
to my bosom. Marcus had seen no one. Albert had gone to sleep. On the
next day he asked for me, and on the following nights, satisfied that I
did not sleep the eternal slumber, as they had attempted to persuade
him, he fancied that he saw me yet, and called me again and again.
Thenceforth, throughout his whole youth, Albert was closely watched, and
the superstitious family of Riesenberg made many prayers to conjure the
unfortunate assiduities of my phantom around his cradle.
"Marcus took me back before day. We postponed our departure for a week,
and when the health of my son was completely established we left
Bohemia. Always concealed in my places of abode, always veiled in my
journeys, bearing a fictitious name, and for a long time having no other
confidant than Marcus, I passed many years with him in a foreign
country. He maintained a constant correspondence with a friend, who kept
him informed of all that passed at Riesenberg, and who gave him ample
details of the health, character, and education of my son. The
deplorable condition of my health was a full excuse for my living in
retirement and seeing no one. I passed for the sister of Marcus, and
lived long in Italy, in an isolated villa, while during a portion of the
time Marcus travelled and toiled for the accomplishment of his vast
plans.
"I was not Marcus's mistress: I remained under the influence of my
scruples, and I needed ten years' meditation to conceive the right of a
human being to repudiate the yoke of laws, without pity and without
intelligence, such as rule human society. Being thought dead, and being
unwilling to endanger the liberty I had so dearly purchased, I could not
invoke any civil or religious power to break my marriage with Christian,
and I would not have been willing to arouse again his sorrow, which had
long been lulled to sleep. He was not aware how unhappy I had been with
him; he thought I had gone for my own happiness, for the peace of my
family, and for the health of my son, into the deep and never-ending
repose of the tomb. Thus situated, I looked on myself as sentenced to
eternal fidelity to him. At a later day, when by the care of Marcus the
disciples of the new faith were reunited and constituted secretly into a
religious church, when I had so changed my opinions as to accept the new
communion, and had so far modified my ideas as to be able to enter this
new church which had the power to pronounce my divorce and consecrate my
union, it was too late. Marcus, wearied by my obstinacy, had felt the
necessity of another love, to which I had attempted to persuade him. He
had married, and I was the friend of his wife; yet he was not happy.
This woman had not mind enough, nor a sufficient intelligence, to
satisfy such a man as Marcus. He had been unable to make her comprehend
his plans or to initiate her in his schemes. She died, after some years,
without having guessed that Marcus had always loved me. I nursed her on
her death-bed; I closed her eyes without having any reproach to make
against her, without rejoicing at the disappearance of this obstacle to
my long and cruel passion. Youth was gone; I was crushed; my life was
too sad, and had been too austere, to change it when age had begun to
whiten my hairs. I at last began to enter the calm of old age, and I
felt deeply all that is august and holy in this phase of female life.
Yes; our old age, like our whole life, when we understand it, is much
more serious than that of men. _They_ may forget the course of
years--they may love and become parents at a more advanced period than
we can, for nature prescribes a term after which there seems to be
something monstrous and impious in the idea of seeking to awaken love,
and infringing, by ridiculous delirium, on the brilliant privileges of
the generation which already succeeds and effaces us. The lessons and
examples which it also expects from us at this solemn time, ask for a
life of contemplation and meditation which the agitation of love would
disturb without any benefit. Youth can inspire itself with its own
ardor, and find important revelations. Mature age has no commerce with
God, other than in the calm serenity which is granted to it as a final
benefit. God himself aids it gently, and by an irresistible
transformation, to enter into this path. He takes care to appease our
passions, and to change them into peaceable friendship. He deprives us
of the prestige of beauty, also removing all dangerous temptations from
us. Nothing, then, is so easy as to grow old, whatever we may say and
think of those women of diseased mind, whom we see float through the
world in a kind of obstinate madness, to conceal from each other and
from themselves the decay of their charms and the close of their mission
_as women._ Yes; age deprives us of our sex, and excuses us from the
terrible labors of maternity, and we will not recognise that this moment
exalts to a kind of angelic state. You, however, my dear child, are far
from this terrible yet desirable term, as the ship is from the port
after a tempest, so that all my reflections are lost on you. Let them
serve, therefore, merely to enable you to comprehend my history. I
remained, what I had always been, the sister of Marcus, and the
repressed emotions, the subdued wishes which had tortured my youth,
gave, at least, to the friendship of matured age a character of force
and enthusiastic confidence not to be met with in vulgar friendships.
"As yet I have told you nothing of the mental cares and the serious
occupations which during the last fifteen years kept us from being
absorbed by our suffering, and which since then have given us no reason
to regret them. You know their nature, their object, and result; all
that was explained to you last night. You will to-night learn much from
the Invisibles. I can only tell you that Marcus sits among them, and
that he himself formed their secret council with the aid of a virtuous
prince, the whole of whose fortune is devoted to the grand mysterious
enterprise with which you are already acquainted. To it I also have
consecrated all my power for fifteen years. After an absence of twelve
years, I was too much changed and too entirely forgotten not to be able
to return to Germany. The strange life required by certain duties of our
order also favored my incognito. To me was confided, not the absolute
propagandism which is better suited to your brilliant life, but such
secret missions as befitted my prudence. I have made long journeys, of
which I will tell you by-and-bye. Since then I have lived here totally
unknown, performing the apparently insignificant duties of
superintending a portion of the prince's household, while in fact I was
devoting myself to our secret task, maintaining in the name of the
council a vast correspondence with our most important associates,
receiving them here, and often with Marcus alone, when the other supreme
chiefs are absent, exercising a marked influence on those of their
decisions which appeared to appeal to the delicate views and the
particular qualities of the female mind. Apart from the philosophical
questions which exist and exert an influence here, and in relation to
which I have by the maturity of my mind taken an active part, there are
often matters of sentiment to be discussed and decided. You may fancy,
from your temptations elsewhere, circumstances often occur where
individual passions--love, hatred, and jealousy--come into contact. By
means of my son, and even in person, though under disguises not unusual
to women in courts, as a witch or _illuminatus_, I have had much to do
with the Princess Amelia, with the interesting and unfortunate Princess
of Culmbach, and with the young Margravine of Bareith, Frederick's
sister. Women must be won rather by the heart than by the mind. I have
toiled nobly, I must say, to attach them to us, and I have succeeded.
This phase of my life, however, I do not wish to speak of to you. In
your future enterprises you will find traces of me, and will continue
what I have begun. I wish to speak to you of Albert, and to tell you all
that part of his existence of which you are ignorant. Attend to me for a
brief time. You will understand how, in the terrible and strange life I
have led, I became alive to tender emotions and maternal joys."