Chapter XLV: Epilogue (3)

"Trismegistus then became divinely enthusiastic. His eyes glittered like stars, and his voice overcame us as the hurricane would. He spoke to us for more than four hours, and his words were pure as some hymn of the poetic, artistic, and pious work of all ages. He composed a poem sublimely majestic; he explained to us all the religions of the past, all the mysteries of the temples, the poems and laws, all the efforts and objects of men of the olden time. In those things, which to us had ever appeared dead or condemned, he discovered the essence of life; and from the very obscurity of fables caused the essence of life to emanate, and the light of truth to beam forth, he translated the old myths--he fixed, by his clear and shrewd demonstration, all the ties and points of union of religions. He pointed out to us what humanity truly demanded, however its requisitions might be understood or interpreted by the people. He convinced us of the unity of life in man, of doctrine in religion, and, from the dispersed materials of the old and new world, formed the basis of that which was to come. Finally, he dispersed those doubts of eternity which long had annoyed our studies. He explained the lapses of history, which had so alarmed us--he unfolded the countless bandages enwrapping the mummy of science; and when, in a flash, we had received what he exhibited with the quickness of electricity--when we saw all he had seen--when the past, parent of the present, stood before us, like the luminous one of the Apocalypse, he paused, and said, with a smile, 'Now that the past and present stand before you, need I explain the future to you? Does not the Holy Spirit shine before you? See you not that all man has fancied and wished, sublime as it may be, in the future is certain, for the simple reason that truth, in spite of the wish of our faculties to know and own, is simple and positive. We all, in heart and in hope, possess it. In us it lives, and is. It exists from all time in humanity, in the germ before fecundation.'

"He spoke again, and his poem about the future was as magnificent as that of the past. I will not attempt to embody it in language, for, to transmit the words of inspiration, one must himself be inspired. To explain what Trismegistus told us in two or three hours, would require years of thought from me. What Socrates did consumed his life, and Jesus' labors have occupied seventeen centuries. You see that, unfortunate and unworthy as I am, I must tremble at the task before me. But I do not abandon it. The master will not write this out as I would. He is a man of action, and has already condensed what Trismegistus told him, as fully as if those subjects had been studied by himself. As if by an electric touch, he has appropriated all the soul of the philosopher communicated to him. It is his; it is his own, and, as a politician, he will use it. He will be the verbatim and spiritual translator, instead of the lifeless and obscure renderer I am. Ere my work is done, his school will know the letter. Yes, ere two years have passed, the strange, wild words uttered on this mountain, will have taken root in the hearts of many adepts, and the vast world of secret societies, now moving in night, will unite under one doctrine, receive a new law, and resume activity by initiation into the word of life. We give you this monument, establishing Spartacus's foresight, sanctioning all the truth that he has yet attained, and filling his vista with all the power of faith and inspiration.

"As Trismegistus spoke, and I listened eagerly, fearing to lose one of those notes which acted on me like a holy hymn, Spartacus, controlling his excitement, with a burning eye but firm hand, and with a mind more eager than his ear, wrote on his tablets characters and signs, as if the conception of this doctrine had been communicated under geometrical forms. That very night he returned to those notes, which to me meant nothing. I was surprised to see him write down and accurately organize the conclusions of the poet-philosopher. All was simplified and summed up, as if magically, in the alemble of our master's poetical mind.[28]

"He was not satisfied. Trismegistus's inspiration abandoned him. The brightness left his eyes, and his frame seemed to shrink within itself. Consuelo, by a sign, bade us say no more. Spartacus, however, was ardent in the pursuit of truth, and did not see her. He continued his questions.

"'You have,' said he, 'talked of God's earthly kingdom,'--and as he spoke he shook Albert's icy hand. 'Jesus, however, has said, "My kingdom is not of earth." For seventeen centuries man has vainly hoped for the fulfilment of his promise. I have not been, by meditation on eternity, as exalted as you have been. To you time enfolds, as it does to God, the idea of perpetual action--all the phases of which, at all times, accord with your exalted feelings. But I live nearer the earth, and count centuries and years. I wish to study while I live. Explain to me, oh, prophet! what I must do in this phase of life--what your words will effect--what they have already effected. I would not live in it vainly.'

"'What matters it to you what I know? None live in vain, and nothing is lost. None of us are useless. Let me look from the detail, saddening the heart, and contracting the mind. I am wearied even at the thought.'

"'You, gifted with the power of revelation, should not be exhausted,' said Spartacus, with energy. 'If you look away from human misery, you are not the real and complete man of whom was said, "_Homo sum et nihil humani, a me alienum puto._" You do not love men, and are not a brother, if their sufferings at every hour of eternity do not disturb you--if you do not search for a remedy in the unfolding of your ideal. Unhappy artist, who does not feel a consuming fire in this terrible and pleasant inquiry?'

"'What, then, do you wish?' said the poet, who now was excited and almost angry. 'Are you so far vain as to think you alone toil and that I alone can impart inspiration? I am no magician. I despise false prophets, and long have striven against them. My predictions are demonstrations, my visions are elevated perceptions. The poet is not a sorcerer; he dreams with positiveness, while the other invents wildly. I realise your activity, for I can judge of your capacity. I believe in the sublimity of your dreams, because I feel capable of producing them, and because humanity is vast and powerful enough to expand a hundred times all the conceptions of one of its members.'

"'Then,' said Spartacus, 'I ask from you the fate of humanity, in the name of that sympathy that perhaps fills my bosom more completely than your own. An enchanted veil hides its sorrows from you, while every hour of my life I touch and shudder at them. I am anxious to soothe them, and, like the doctor by the bed-side of death, would rather kill by imprudence, than suffer to die by neglect. You see I will be a dangerous being, perhaps even monstrous, unless you change me into a saint. Tremble at the idea of my death, unless you give the enthusiast a remedy. Humanity dreams, sings, and beseeches in you. With me it suffers, bewails, and laments. You have expanded your future, though, in the distance before me. You may say what you please, yet it will require toil, labor, and sweat to gather something of your remedy for my bleeding wounds. Generations and language may pass away, inert and lifeless; I, the incarnation of suffering humanity--I, the cry of distress, and the longing for salvation--wish to know whether I shall do good or injury. You have not looked so far from wrong as to be unaware of its existence. Whither must we go first? what must I do to-morrow? Must I oppose the enemies of virtue by mildness or violence? Remember your idolised Taborites saw before the gates of the terrestrial paradise a sea of blood and tears. I do not think you a magician, but in your symbols I see a mighty logic and perfect lucidity. If you can foretell with certainty things far away, you can more certainly lift up the veil of the horizon of my sight.'

"Albert appeared to suffer deeply. Perspiration fell from his forehead, and he looked at Spartacus, now with terror, and then with enthusiasm; a fearful contest oppressed him. His wife in alarm clasped him in her arms, and silently reproached the master by her glances--instinct, however, with respect as well as fear. Never was I more impressed with Spartacus's capacity. He was overpowered with his fanaticism of virtue and truth, the tortures of the prophet striving with inspiration, the distress of Consuelo, the terror of the children, and upbraidings of his own heart. I too trembled, and thought him cruel. I feared that the poet's soul would be crushed by a last effort, and the tears in his wife's eyes fell deeply and hotly on my heart. All at once Trismegistus arose, and putting aside both Spartacus and Consuelo, made a gesture to his children to go. He seemed transformed. His eyes, from an invisible book, vast as the universe, and written in characters of light on the arch of heaven, seemed to read.

"He then said aloud--

"'Am I not human? Why should I not say what nature demands and therefore will have. I am a man, and therefore I have a right to express the will of the human family, and to declare their intention. One who witnesses the gathering of the clouds can predict the lightning and the storm. I know what is in my heart, and what it will bring forth. I am a man, and I live in an age when the voice of Europe murmurs trumpet-tongued. Friends, these are not dreams. I swear by the name of human nature they are dreams merely in relation to the present formation of our moral and social systems. Which of the two, spirit or matter, will take the lead? The gospel says, the spirit bloweth where it pleaseth. The spirit will do so, and will alter the face of the universe. It is said in Genesis--"When all was dark and chaotic, the Spirit blew on the waters." Now, creation is eternal. Let us create, or, in other words, obey the Spirit. I see darkness and chaos. Why should we remain in darkness? "_Veni, Creator Spiritus._"'

"He paused, and then began again.

"'Can Louis XV. contend with you, Spartacus? Frederick, the pupil of Voltaire, is less powerful than his master; and were I to compare Maria Theresa to my Consuelo, it would be almost blasphemous.'

"He again paused for a short time; and resumed--

"'Come, Zdenko, my child, descendant of the Podiebrad, bearing the name of my second self and dearest friend, prepare to aid us. You are a new man, and must choose for yourself. Which side will you take,--that of your parents, or in the ranks of the tyrants of the earth? The power of a new generation is in you. Which will you subscribe to, slavery or liberty? Son of Consuelo, child of the Zingara, godson of the Sclave, I trust your choice will be with the advocates of liberty, not in the ranks of the enslavers, else I will renounce you. Though I am a descendant of the proud ones who sit on thrones, I have long since despised the bauble, and you, my son, must follow in my footsteps.'

"He continued--

"'He who dares assert that the divine essence--beauty, goodness, and power--is not to be found on earth, is Satan.'

"Again he added--

"'He who dares assert that man's likeness to his Creator, in sensation, sentiment, and knowledge, is not, as the Bible says, to be realised on earth, is Cain.'

"Here he was silent for a time, and added--

"'Your mind, Spartacus, by its strength of purpose in the good cause, has delighted me. Feeble are enthroned kings. They fancy themselves mighty, because the slaves of the earth kneel to them; but they see not what threatens. Their destruction has already begun. To promulgate our doctrines is to overthrow kings, nobles, armies, and to silence the profane priests who pander to the tyrants. Neither their courtiers, nor mistresses, nor their church's influence will protect them. Hurry, then, to France, my friend, where the work of destruction will soon begin. If you would share in the good work, do not delay. France is the pre-ordained of nations. Join the friends of humanity. Throughout France the words of Isaiah are now being shouted--"Arise! and be enlightened, for the light is come, and the glory of the Eternal has descended on thee, and the nations will come to thy light!" Thus the Taborites sang of Tabor, and France is the Tabor of our era.'

"For a time he was silent, and his face was kindled with joy. He continued--

"'I am happy! Glory to God! Glory to God on high! as the gospel says; and peace and good-will on earth! Thus sing the angels; and, feeling as they do, I would sing like them. What has happened? I am yet with you, my friends! I am yet with thee, my Eve!--my Consuelo! These are my children--souls of my soul! We are not, however, on the mountains of Bohemia, nor amid the ruins of the castle of my fathers. I seem to breathe, see, feel, and taste of eternity. It is said: How beautiful is Nature--life--humanity--these which tyrants have perverted. Tyrants!--There are none! Men are equal; and human nature is understood, appreciated, and sanctified. Men are free--they are equals--they are brothers. There is no longer any other definition of man. He masters no slaves. Hear you that cry--_Vive la République?_ Hear you that crowd proclaiming liberty, equality, and fraternity? That formula in our mysteries was uttered in a low voice, and communicated only to adepts of the higher grades. There is no secret now. The sacraments are for all. Our Hussite ancestors said----'

"All at once he began to weep.

"'I know the doctrine is not far enough advanced. Too few wear it in their hearts, and understand it. Horror!--war!--such a war everywhere!'

"He wept long. We did not know what visions passed before his eyes; but we thought he again saw the Hussite contest. All his faculties seemed disturbed, and his soul was troubled like as Christ's on Calvary.

"The sight of his trouble distressed me. Spartacus was firm as one who consults an oracle. 'Lord! Lord!' said the prophet in agony, 'have mercy on us! We are in thy power. Do with us according to thy will.'

"Trismegistus reached out his hands to grasp those of his wife and son, as if he had suddenly become blind. The girls rushed in terror to his bosom, and silently clung there. Consuelo was alarmed; and Zdenko looked anxiously at his mother. Spartacus saw them not. Was the poet's vision yet before his eyes? At length he approached the group, and Consuelo warned him not to excite Albert, whose eyes were open and fixed, as if he slept a mesmeric sleep, or saw slowly fade away the dreams which agitated him. After fifteen minutes his eyes relaxed their rigidity, when he drew his wife and Zdenko to his heart. Ho embraced them for some time; and afterwards rose up, expressing himself willing to resume his travels.

"'The sun is very hot,' said Consuelo. 'Had you not rather sleep beneath these trees?'

"'The sun is pleasant,' he said, with a sweet smile; 'and unless you fear it more than usual, it will do me good.'

"Each took up his burden, the father a large bag, and the son the musical instruments, while Consuelo led her daughters by the hand.

"'We suffer thus in the cause of truth,' said Consuelo to Spartacus.

"'Do you not fear that this excitement will injure your husband?' said I. 'Let me go farther with you. I may be able to render you some assistance.'

"'I thank you for your kindness,' she said; 'but do not follow us. I apprehend nothing but a few sad hours. There was danger in the sad recollections connected with this spot, from which you have preserved him by occupying his mind. He wished to come hither, but did not remember the way. I thank you, then, for your many kindnesses, and wish you every facility for performing God's will.'

"To prolong their stay, I sought to caress the children; but their mother took them away, and I felt when she was gone as if deserted by all I held dear on earth.

"Trismegistus did not bid us adieu. He seemed to have forgotten us; and Consuelo did not arouse him. He walked firmly down the hill; and his face was expressively calm and even cheerful as he assisted his daughter to spring over the bushes and rocks.

"The young and handsome Zdenko followed with the Zingara and youngest child. We looked long after them, as they threaded their way on the gold-colored forest-path without a guide. At length they were hidden from our sight. When about to disappear, we saw the Zingara place Winceslawa on her shoulders, and hasten to join her husband. She was strong and active as a true Zingara, and as poetical as the goddess of Poverty.

* * * * * * * *

"We, too, are on the road. We walk on our journey of life, the end of which is not death, as is grossly said by materialists, but true life.

"We consoled the people of the hamlet as well as we could, and left old Zdenko to abide his _to-morrow._

"We shortly after joined our friends at Pilsen, whence I write this letter; and am about to go on other business. You, too, must also prepare for the restless journey, for action without feebleness. We advance, my friend, to success or martyrdom!"[29]

[Footnote 23: Probably the famous Baron Knigge known as Philo, in the Order of the Illuminati.]

[Footnote 24: This is well known to have been the assumed name of Adam Weishaupt. Is he really referred to? All induces us to think so.]

[Footnote 25: Certainly Zavier Zwack, who was Autic Councillor, and exiled as one of the chiefs of the Illuminati.]

[Footnote 26: Bader, who was the medical attendant of the electress-dowager, an Illuminatus.]

[Footnote 27: Massenhousen, a councillor at Munich, and an Illuminatus.]

[Footnote 28: Weishaupt, it is known, and he was eminently an organizer, used material signs to explain his system, and sent to some of his pupils an explanation of his whole system, expressed by squares and circles on a small piece of paper.]

[Footnote 29: This letter was written to Martinowicz a great savant and member of the Illuminati. He, with several other Hungarian nobles, his accomplices in conspiracy, was beheaded in Buda, in 1795.]

Note--See note 22.--We will recall to the reader, that we may no longer have occasion to return to the subject, the rest of Trenck's story. He grew old in poverty, and busied himself in the publication of newspapers, of remarkable energy for the times. He married a woman he loved, became the father of many children, was persecuted for his opinions, his writings, and doubtless for his affiliation with secret societies. He took refuge in France when he was very old, and during the early days of the revolution was received with enthusiam and confidence. Destined, however, to be the victim of unhappy mistakes, he was arrested as a foreign agent during the Reign of Terror, and taken to the scaffold. He met his fate with great firmness. He had previously seen himself described in a drama, retracing the incidents of his life and imprisonment. He had enthusiastically welcomed French liberty, and on the fatal car, said, "This, too, is a comedy!"

For sixty years he had seen the Princess Amelia but once. When he heard of tho death of Frederick the Great, he hurried to Berlin. The lovers were terrified at the appearance of each other, shed tears, and vowed a new affection. The abbess bade him send for his wife, took the responsibility of his fortune, and wished to take one of his daughters as reader or lady-in-waiting. Before many days, however, had passed, she was dead. The memoirs of Trenck, written with the passion of youth and prolixity of age, are one of the most noble and touching items of the records of the last century.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Countess of Rudolstadt, by George Sand