Chapter XIX (1)

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.

"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 from _terra 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 the _Corte 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 skies _é 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 a _good 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 his _broum, 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 how _ennuyé_ one 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 from _ennui._'

"'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 and _ennui_----'

"'_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.'

"'I will never abuse your kindness, Herr Mayer.'

"'Mayer!' said the adjutant, interrupting at once the _broum, broum_ which was on his lips. 'Why do you call me Mayer? Where the devil did you pick up that name?'

"'I forgot, and beg your pardon, adjutant. I had a singing-master of that name, and have been thinking of him all day.'

"'A singing-master? That was not me. There are many Mayers in Germany. I am called Nauteuil, and am of French extraction.'

"'Well, sir, how shall I announce myself to that lady? She does not know me, and will refuse my visit, as just now I refused her acquaintance. People become so ill-tempered when they live alone.'

"'Ah, whoever she may be, the lady will be delighted to talk with you, I am sure. Will you write her anything?'

"'I have nothing to write with.'

"'Ah, that is impossible. Have you no money?'

"'If I had, old Swartz is incorruptible. Besides, I do not know how to bribe him.'

"'Well, I will take you this very evening to see No. 2--that is, when you have sung something for me.'

"I was terrified at the idea of Mayer--or Nauteuil, as he now pleases to call himself--introducing himself into my room, and I was about to reply, when he made me understand his intentions more perfectly. He had either not intended to visit me, or he read in my countenance an utter distate to his company. 'I will listen to you,' said he, 'on the platform which overlooks the tower in which you live. Sound ascends, and I will hear you there well enough. Then I will have the doors opened, and a woman shall escort you, I will not see you. In fact, it would not do for me to seem to tempt you to an act of disobedience, though, after all, in such a matter--_broum, broum_--there is a very easy way to get out of any difficulty. It is only necessary to shoot prisoner No. 3 with a pistol, and say that she was surprised, _flagrante delicto_, attempting to escape. Ah! the idea is strange, is it not? In prison strange ideas come into one's head. Adieu, signorina Porporina, till this evening.'

"I was lost in mazes of reflection on the conduct of this wretch, and, in spite of myself, became terribly afraid of him. I could not think so base and contemptible a soul loved music so much as to do what he did for the mere pleasure of hearing me. I supposed that the prisoner was the Abbess of Quedlimburgh, and that, in obedience to the king's order, an interview between her and myself was brought about, that we might be watched, and some state secret, she was supposed to have confided to me, be discovered. Under this impression I was as much afraid of the interview as I had previously desired it, for I am absolutely ignorant how much of this conspiracy, of which I am charged with being an accomplice, is true or false.

"Thinking that it was my duty to brave all things to extend some assistance to a companion in misfortune, whoever she might be, I began to sing at the appointed time, to gratify the ears of the post-adjutant. I sang badly enough, the audience inspiring me with no admiration. Besides, I felt he listened to me merely for form's sake, and that perhaps he did not hear me at all. When the clock struck eleven, I was seized with the most puerile terror. I fancied that the adjutant had received orders to get rid of me, and that he was about to kill me, as he said, just as if he looked on the manner as a jest, when I stopped outside of my cell. When the door opened, I trembled in every limb. An old woman, very dirty and ugly, (far more so than Vrau Swartz,) bade me follow, and preceded me up a narrow and steep staircase, built in the hollow of the wall. When we reached the top, I found myself on the platform, twenty feet above where I walk by day, and eighty or a hundred above the fosse which surrounds all that portion of the esplanade. The terrible old woman bade me wait there for a time, and went I know not whither. My uneasiness was removed, and I was so glad to find myself in the pure air, and so far up as to be able to see the country around, that I was not uneasy at the solitude in which I was left. The silent waters around the citadel, and on which its dark shadows fall, the trees and fields, which I saw far in the distance, the immense sky, and even the bats, whirling in space, all seemed, oh, God! grand and majestic, for I had passed two months in prison, counting the few stars which crossed the window of my cell. I could not enjoy this long. A noise forced me to look around, and all my terrors revived when I beheld Mayer near me.

"'Signora,' said he, 'I am sorry to tell you that you cannot see No. 2, at least at present. She seems to be a very capricious person. Yesterday she exhibited the greatest desire to have company, and just now she made me this answer:--"Is prisoner No. 3 the person who sings in the tower, and whom I hear every evening? Ah, I know her voice, and it is needless for you to tell me her name. I had rather never see a living soul again, than that unfortunate creature. She is the cause of all my troubles, and I pray to God the expiation required from her may be as strictly exacted as I am made to atone for the imprudent friendship I have felt for her." This, signora, is the lady's opinion about you. It is only necessary to know whether it is merited or not, and that concerns only your own conscience. I have nothing to say about it, and am ready to take you back to your cell when you think proper.'

"'Do so at once, sir,' said I, deeply mortified at being accused of treachery before so miserable a wretch, and feeling the deepest indignation against the one of the Amelias who had testified so much ingratitude and bitterness.

"'I am not anxious that you should go,' said the new adjutant. 'You seem to like to look at the moon. Do so as long as you please. It costs nothing, and does no one any harm.'

"I was imprudent enough to take a little advantage of his kindness. I could not make up my mind to leave the beautiful spectacle of which I was, perhaps, to be deprived so soon, at once. Besides, I could not resist the idea that Mayer was a bad servant, but too much honored by being permitted to wait on me. He took advantage of my position, and became bold enough to seek to talk to me. 'Do you know, signorina,' said he, 'that you sing devilish well? I heard nothing better in Italy. Yet I have been to the greatest theatre, and passed the principal artists in review. Where did you make your first appearance? You have travelled much?' As I pretended not to understand his questions, he added, boldly, 'Sometimes you travelled on foot, in male attire?'

"This question made me tremble, and I hastened to reply in the negative. He said, 'Ah! you will not own it, but I never forget; and I recall to my memory a strange adventure which you have not forgotten.'

"'I do not know what you wish to say,' said I moving from the wall, and commencing to retreat to my cell.

"'A moment--a moment!' said Mayer.--'Your key is in my pocket, and you cannot go back without me. Let me say a word or two to you.'

"'Not a word, sir: I wish to return to my room, and am sorry that I left it.'