george sand-第34章

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　of　the　Hussites。　　It　is　a　fantastical　story　with　digressions　on　music　and　on　popular　songs；　but　running　through　it　all；　with　the　persistency　of　a　fixed　idea；　are　divagations　on　the　subject　of　earthly　metempsychosis。　　Such；　then；　is　this　incongruous　story；　odd　and　exaggerated；　but　with　gleams　of　light　and　of　great　beauty；　the　reading　of　which　is　apt　to　leave　one　weary　and　disturbed。

We　meet　with　Consuelo　again　in　another　book。　　In　those　days；　it　was　not　enough　for　a　novel　to　consist　of　several　volumes。　　People　liked　a　sequel　also。　　_Vingt　ans　apres_　was　the　sequel　to　_Trois　Mousquetaires_；　and　the　_Vicomte　de　Bragelonne_　was　a　sequel　to　that　sequel。　　Our　grandparents　were　capable　of　allowing　themselves　to　be　bored　to　a　degree　which　makes　us　ashamed　of　our　frivolity。　　The　_Comtesse　de　Rudolstadt_　was　the　sequel　to　_Consuelo_。　　As　time　went　on；　Pierre　Leroux　called　George　Sand's　attention　to　the　study　of　freemasonry。　　In　1843；　she　declared　that　she　was　plunged　in　it；　and　that　it　was　a　gulf　of　nonsense　and　uncertainties；　in　which　〃she　was　dabbling　courageously。〃

〃I　am　up　to　my　ears　in　freemasonry；〃　she　writes。　　〃I　cannot　get　away　from　the　kaddosh；　the　Rose　Croix　and　the　Sublime　Scotchman。　　The　result　of　all　this　will　be　a　mysterious　novel。〃　　The　mysterious　novel　was　the　_Comtesse　de　Rudolstadt_。　　Consuelo；　who　through　her　marriage　with　Albert　is　now　Comtesse　de　Rudolstadt；　continues　her　European　tour。　　She　reaches　Berlin；　and　we　find　her　at　the　Court　of　Frederick　II。　　We　now　have　Voltaire；　La　Mettrie；　the　Sans…Souci　suppers；　Cagliostro；　Saint…Germain　and　the　occult　sciences。　　Frederick　II　sends　Consuelo　to　prison。　　There　appears　to　be　no　reason　for　this；　unless　it　be　that　in　order　to　escape　she　must　first　have　been　imprisoned。　　Some　mysterious　rescuers　take　a　great　interest　in　Consuelo；　and　transport　her　to　a　strange　dwelling；　where　she　has　a　whole　series　of　surprises。　　It　is；　in　fact；　a　sort　of　Palace　of　Illusions。　　She　is　first　in　a　dark　room；　and　she　then　finds　herself　suddenly　in　a　room　of　dazzling　light。　　〃At　the　far　end　of　this　room；　the　whole　aspect　of　which　is　very　forbidding；　she　distinguishes　seven　personages；　wrapped　in　red　cloaks　and　wearing　masks　of　such　livid　whiteness　that　they　looked　like　corpses。　　They　were　all　seated　behind　a　table　of　black　marble。　　Just　in　front　of　the　table；　and　on　a　lower　seat；　was　an　eighth　spectre。　　He　was　dressed　in　black；　and　he；　too；　wore　a　white　mask。　　By　the　wall；　on　each　side　of　the　room；　were　about　twenty　men　in　black　cloaks　and　masks。　　There　was　the　most　profound　silence。　　Consuelo　turned　round　and　saw　that　there　were　also　black　phantoms　behind　her。　　At　each　door　there　were　two　of　them　standing　up；　each　holding　a　huge；　bright　sword。〃＇37＇


＇37＇　_Comtesse　de　Rudolstadt。_


She　wondered　whether　she　had　reached　the　infernal　regions；　but　she　discovered　that　she　was　in　the　midst　of　a　secret　society；　styled　the　Invisibles。　　Consuelo　is　to　go　through　all　the　various　stages　of　the　initiation。　　She　first　puts　on　the　bridal　dress；　and　after　this　the　widow's　weeds。　　She　undergoes　all　the　various　trials；　and　has　to　witness　the　different　spectacles　provided　for　her　edification；　including　coffins；　funeral　palls；　spectres　and　simulated　tortures。　　The　description　of　all　the　various　ceremonies　takes　up　about　half　of　the　book。　　George　Sand's　object　was　to　show　up　this　movement　of　secret　societies；　which　was　such　a　feature　of　the　eighteenth　century；　and　which　was　directed　both　against　monarchical　power　and　against　the　Church。　　It　contributed　to　prepare　the　way　for　the　Revolution；　and　gave　to　this　that　international　character　and　that　mystic　allure　which　would　otherwise　have　been　incomprehensible。


From　_Spiridion_　to　the　_Comtesse　de　Rudolstadt_；　then；　we　have　this　series　of　fantastical　novels　with　ghosts；　subterranean　passages；　secret　hiding…places；




hallucinations　and　apparitions。　　The　unfortunate　part　is　that　at　present　we　scarcely　know　to　what　category　of　readers　they　would　appeal。　　As　regards　grown…up　people；　we　all　prefer　something　with　a　vestige　of　truth　in　it　now…a…days。　As　to　our　children；　they　would　prefer　_Monte…Cristo_　to　_Consuelo_；　and　_Tom　Thumb_　to　_Spiridion_。　　At　the　time　that　they　were　written；　in　spite　of　the　fact　that　Buloz　protested　against　all　this　philosophy；　these　novels　were　quite　in　accordance　with　the　public　taste。　　A　mania　for　anything　fantastic　had　taken　possession　of　the　most　serious　people。　　Ballanche　wrote　his　_La　Palingenesie_；　and　Edgar　Quinet　_Ahasverus_。　　Things　took　place　through　the　ages；　and　the　reader　travelled　through　the　immensity　of　the　centuries；　just　as　though　Wells　had　already　invented　his　machine　for　exploring　time。　　In　a　country　like　France；　where　clear…mindedness　and　matter…of…fact　intelligence　are　appreciated；　all　this　seems　surprising。　　It　was　no　doubt　the　result　of　infiltrations　which　had　come　from　abroad。　　There　was　something　wrong　with　us　just　then；　〃something　rotten　in　the　kingdom　of　France。〃　　We　see　this　by　that　fever　of　socialistic　doctrines　which　burst　forth　among　us　about　the　year　1840。　　We　have　the　_Phalanstere_　by　Fourier；　_La　Phalange_　by　Considerant；　the　_Icarie_　by　Cabet；　and　his　famous　_Voyage_；　which　appeared　that　very　year。　　We　were　always　to　be　devoured　by　the　State；　accompanied　by　whatever　sauce　we　preferred。　　The　State　was　always　to　find　us　shelter；　to　dress　us；　to　govern　us　and　to　tyrannize　over　us。　　There　was　the　State　as　employer；　the　State　as　general　storekeeper；　the　State　to　feed　us；　all　this　was　a　dream　of　bliss。　　Buonarotti；　formerly　Babeuf's　accomplice；　preached　Communism。　　Louis　Blanc　published　his　_Organisation　du　travail_；　in　which　he　calls　to　his　aid　a　political　revolution；　foretaste　of　a　social　revolution。　　Proudhon　published　his　_Memoire　sur　la　propriete_；　containing　the　celebrated　phrase：　　〃Property　means　theft。〃　　He　declared　himself　an　anarchist；　and　as　a　matter　of　fact　anarchy　was　already　everywhere。　　A　fresh　evil　had　suddenly　made　its　appearance；　and；　by　a　cruel　irony；　it　was　the　logical　consequence　of　that　industrial　development　of　which　the　century　was　so　proud。　　The　result　of　all　that　wealth　had　been　to　create　a　new　form　of　misery；　an　envious；　jealous　form　of　misery；　much　more　cruel　than　the　former　one；　for　it　filled　the　heart　with　a　ferment　of　hatred；　a　passion　for　destruction。

It　was　Pierre　Leroux；　also；　who　led　George　Sand　on　to　Socialism。　　She　had　been　on　the　way　to　it　by　herself。　　For　a　long　time　she　had　been　raising　an　altar　in　her　heart　to　that　entity　called　the　People；　and　she　had　been　adorning　it　with　all　the　virtues。　　The　future　belonged　to　the　people；　the　whole　of　the　future；　and　first　of　all　that　of　literature。

Poetry　was　getting　a　little　worn　out；　but　to　restore　its　freshness　there　were　the　poets　of　the　people。　　Charles　Poncy；　of　Toulon；　a　bricklayer；　published　a　volume　of　poetry；　in　1842；　entitled　_Marines_。　　George　Sand　adopted　him。　　He　was　the　demonstration　of　her　theory；　the　example　which　illustrated　her　dream。　　She　congratulated　him　and　encouraged　him。　　〃You　are　a　great　poet；〃　she　said　to　him；　and　she　thereupon　speaks　of　him　to　all　her　friends。　　〃Have　you　read　Baruch？〃　she　asks　them。　　〃Have　you　read　Poncy；　a　poet　bricklayer　of　twenty　years　of　age？〃　　She　tells　every　one　about　his　book；　dwells　on　its　beauties；　and　asks　people　to　speak　of　it。

As　a　friend　of　George　Sand；　I　have　examined　the　poems　by　Poncy　of　which　she　specially　speaks。　　The　first　one　is　entitled　_Meditation　sur　les　toits_。　　The　poet　has　been　obliged　to　stay　on　the　roof　to　complete　his　work；　and　while　there　he　meditates。

_〃Le　travail　me　retient　bien　tard　sur　ces　toitures_。　。　。　。〃

He　then　begins　to　wonder　what　he　would　see　if；　like　Asmodee　in　the　_Diable　boiteux_；　he　could　have　the　roof　taken　off；　so　that　the　various　rooms　could　be　exposed　to　view。　　Alas！　he　would　not　always　find　the　concord　of　the　Golden　Age。

　　　　　　　　_Que　de　fois　contemolant　cet　amas　de　maisons　　　　　　　　　Quetreignent　nos　remparts　couronnes　de　gazons；　　　　　　　　　Et　ces　faubourgs　naissants　que　la　ville　trop　pleine　　　　　　　　　Pour　ses　enfants　nouveaux　eleve　dans　la　plaine。　　　　　　　　　Immobiles　troufieaux　ou　notre　clocher　gris　　　　　　　　　Semble　un　patre　au　milieu　de　ses　blanches　brebis；　　　　　　　　　Jai　pense　que；　malgre　notre　angoisse　et　nos　peines；