Consuelo, page 10
"Signor Count," said she, "you are only too good; but I am not so presumptuous as to avail myself of your offer. I will not sign this engagement until I have made a trial of my powers before the public. It would not be delicate on my part. I might not please—I might incur a fiasco and be hissed. Even should I be hoarse or unprepared, or even ugly that day, your word would be still pledged—you would be too proud to take it back and I to avail myself of it."
"Ugly on that day, Consuelo!—you ugly!" said the count, looking at her with burning glances; "come now," he added, taking her by the hand and leading her to the mirror, "look at yourself there. If you are adorable in this costume, what would you be, covered with diamonds and radiant with triumph?"
The count's impertinence made Anzoleto gnash his teeth; but the calm indifference with which Consuelo received his compliments restrained his impatience. "Sir," said she, pushing back the fragment of looking-glass which he held in his hand, "do not break my mirror; it is the only one I ever had, and it has never deceived me. Ugly or pretty, I refuse your liberality; and I may tell you frankly that I shall not appear unless my betrothed be similarly engaged. I will have no other theater nor any other public except his; we cannot be separate, being engaged to each other."
This abrupt declaration took the count a little unawares, but he soon regained his equanimity.
"You are right, Consuelo," replied he; "I never intended to separate you; Zoto shall appear with yourself. At the same time I cannot conceal from you that his talents, although remarkable, are much inferior to yours."
"I do not believe it, my lord," said Consuelo, blushing as if she had received a personal insult.
"I hear that he is your pupil, much more than that of the maestro I gave him. Do not deny it, beautiful Consuelo. On learning your intimacy, Porpora exclaimed, 'I am no longer astonished at certain qualities he possesses which I was unable to reconcile with his defects.'"
"Thanks to the Signor Professor" said Anzoleto with a forced smile.
"He will change his mind," said Consuelo, gaily; "besides the public will contradict this dear good master."
"The good dear master is the best judge of music in the world," replied the count. "Anzoleto will do well to profit by your lessons; but we cannot arrange the terms of his agreement before we have ascertained the sentiments of the public. Let him make his appearance, and we shall settle with him according to justice and our own favorable feelings toward him, on which he has every reason to rely."
"Then let us both make our appearance," replied Consuelo; "but no signature—no agreement before trial; on that I am determined."
"You are not satisfied with my terms, Consuelo; very well, then you shall dictate them yourself; here is the pen—add—take away—my signature is below."
Consuelo seized the pen; Anzoleto turned pale, and the count, who observed him, chewed with pleasure the end of the ruffle which he twisted on his fingers. Consuelo erased the contract and wrote upon the portion remaining above the signature of the count:
"Anzoleto and Consuelo severally agree to such conditions as it shall please Count Zustiniani to impose after their first appearance, which shall take place during the ensuing month at the theater of San Samuel."
She signed rapidly, and passed the pen to her lover.
"Sign without looking," said she. "You can do no less to prove your gratitude, and your confidence in your benefactor."
Anzoleto had glanced over it in a twinkling; he signed—it was but the work of a moment. The count read over his shoulder.
"Consuelo," said he, "you are a strange girl—in truth an admirable creature. You will both dine with me," he continued, tearing the contract and offering his hand to Consuelo, who accepted it, but at the same time requested him to wait with Anzoleto in his gondola while she should arrange her toilet.
"Decidedly," said she to herself when alone, "I shall be able to buy a new marriage robe." She then arranged her muslin dress, settled her hair, and flew down the stairs, singing with a voice full of freshness and vigor. The count, with excess of courtesy, had waited for her with Anzoleto at the foot of the stair. She believed him further off, and almost fell into his arms, but suddenly disengaging herself, she took his hand and carried it to her lips, after the fashion of the country, with the respect of an inferior who does not wish to infringe upon the distinctions of rank; then turning, she clasped her betrothed, and bounded with joyous steps toward the gondola, without awaiting the ceremonious escort of her somewhat mortified protector.
CHAPTER XVI
THE count, seeing that Consuelo was insensible to the stimulus of gain, tried to flatter her vanity by offering her jewels and ornaments; but these she refused. Zustiniani at first imagined that she was aware of his secret intentions; but he soon saw that it was but a species of rustic pride, and that she would receive no recompense until she conceived she had earned it by working for the prosperity of his theater. He obliged her, however, to accept a white satin dress, observing that she could not appear with propriety in her muslin robe in his saloon, and adding that he would consider it a favor if she would abandon the attire of the people. She submitted her fine figure to the fashionable milliners, who turned it to good account, and did not spare the material. Thus transformed in two days into a woman of the world, and induced to accept a necklace of fine pearls which the count presented to her as payment for the evening when she sang before him and his friends, she was beautiful, if not according to her own peculiar style of beauty, at least as she should be to be admired by the vulgar. This result, however, was not perfectly attained. At the first glance Consuelo neither struck nor dazzled any body; she was always pale, and her modest, studious habits took from her look that brilliant glance which we witness in the eyes of women whose only object is to shine. The basis of her character, as well as the distinguishing peculiarity of her countenance, was a reflective seriousness. One might see her eat, and talk, and weary herself with the trivial concerns of daily life, without even supposing that she was pretty; but once the smile of enjoyment, so easily allied to serenity of soul, came to light up her features, how charming she became! And when she was further animated—when she interested herself seriously in the business of the piece—when she displayed tenderness, exaltation of mind, the manifestation of her inward life and hidden power—she shone resplendent with all the fire of genius and love, she was another being, the audience were hurried away—passion-stricken as it were—annihilated at pleasure—without her being able to explain the mystery of her power.
What the count experienced for her therefore astonished and annoyed her strangely. There were in this man of the world artistic chords which had never yet been struck, and which she caused to thrill with unknown emotions; but this revelation could not penetrate the patrician's soul sufficiently to enable him to discern the impotence and poverty of the means by which he attempted to lead away a woman so different from those he had hitherto endeavored to corrupt.
He took patience and determined to try the effects of emulation. He conducted her to his box in the theater that she might witness Corilla's success, and that ambition might be awakened in her; but the result was quite different from what might have been anticipated. Consuelo left the theater, cold, silent, fatigued, and in no way excited by the noise and applause. Corilla was deficient in solid talent, noble sentiment, and well-founded power; and Consuelo felt quite competent to form an opinion of this forced, factitious talent, already vitiated at its source by selfishness and excess. She applauded unconsciously, uttered words of formal approval, and disdained to put on a mask of enthusiasm for one whom she could neither fear nor admire. The count for a moment thought her under the influence of secret jealousy of the talents, or at least of the person, of the prima donna. "This is nothing," said he, "to the triumphs which you will achieve when you appear before the public as you have already appeared before me. I hope that you are not frightened by what you see."
"No, Signor Count," replied Consuelo, smiling; "the public frightens me not, for I never think of it. I only think of what might be realized in the part which Corilla fills in so brilliant a manner, but in which there are many defects which she does not perceive."
"What! you do not think of the public?"
"No; I think of the piece, of the intentions of the composer, of the spirit of the part, and of the good qualities and defects of the orchestra, from the former of which we are to derive advantage, while we are to conceal the latter by a louder intonation at certain parts. I listen to the choruses, which are not always satisfactory, and require a more strict direction; I examine the passages on which all one's strength is required, and also those of course where it may advantageously be reserved. You will perceive, Signor Count, that I have many things to think of besides the public, who know nothing about all that I have mentioned, and can teach me nothing."
This grave judgment and serious inquiry so surprised Zustiniani that he could not utter a single question, and asked himself, with some trepidation, what hold a gallant like himself could have on a genius of this stamp.
The appearance of the two débutants was preceded by all the usual inflated announcements; and this was the source of continual discussion and difference of opinion between the Count and Porpora, Consuelo and her lover. The old master and his pupil blamed the quack announcements and all those thousand unworthy tricks which have driven us so far into folly and bad faith. In Venice, during those days, the journals had not much to say as to public affairs; they did not concern themselves with the composition of the audience; they were unaware of the deep resources of public advertisements, the gossip of biographical announcements, and the powerful machinery of hired applause. There was plenty of bribing, and not a few cabals, but all this was concocted in coteries, and brought about through the instrumentality of the public, warmly attached to one side, or sincerely hostile to the other. Art was not always the moving spring; passions, great and small, foreign alike to art and talent, then as now, came to do battle in the temple; but they were not so skillful in concealing these sources of discord, and in laying them to the account of pure love for art. At bottom, indeed, it was the same vulgar, worldly spirit, with a surface less complicated by civilization.
Zustiniani managed these affairs more as a nobleman than as the conductor of a theater. His ostentation was a more powerful impulse than the avarice of ordinary speculators. He prepared the public in his saloons, and warmed up his representations beforehand. His conduct, it is true, was never cowardly or mean, but it bore the puerile stamp of self-love, a busy gallantry, and the pointed gossip of good society. He therefore proceeded to demolish, piece by piece, with considerable art, the edifice so lately raised by his own hands to the glory of Corilla. Every body saw that he wanted to set up in its place the miracle of talent; and as the exclusive possession of this wonderful phenomenon was ascribed to him, poor Consuelo never suspected the nature of his intentions toward her, although all Venice knew that the count, disgusted with the conduct of Corilla, was about to introduce in her place another singer; while many added, "Grand mystification for the public, and great prejudice to the theater; for his favorite is a little street singer, who has nothing to recommend her except her fine voice and tolerable figure."
Hence arose fresh cabals for Corilla, who went about playing the part of an injured rival, and who implored her extensive circle of adorers and their friends to do justice to the insolent pretensions of the zingarella. Hence, also new cabals in favor of Consuelo, by a numerous party, who, although differing widely on other subjects, united in a wish to mortify Corilla, and elevate her rival in her place.
As to the veritable dilettanti of music, they were equally divided between the opinion of the serious masters—such as Porpora, Marcello, and Jomelli, who predicted, with the appearance of an excellent musician, the return of the good old usages and casts of performance—and the anger of second-rate composers, whose compositions Corilla had always preferred, and who now saw themselves threatened with neglect in her person. The orchestra, dreading to set to work on scores which had been long laid aside, and which consequently would require study, all those retainers of the theater, who in every thorough reform always foresaw an entire change of the performers, even the very scene-shifters, the tirewomen, and the hairdressers—all were in movement for or against the débutante at San Samuel. In point of fact the début was much more in every body's thoughts than the new administration or the acts of the Doge, Pietro Grimaldi, who had just then peaceably succeeded his predecessor, Luigi Pisani.
Consuelo was exceedingly distressed at these delays and the petty quarrels connected with her new career; she would have wished to come out at once, without any other preparation than what concerned herself and the study of the new piece. She understood nothing of those endless intrigues which seemed to her more dangerous than useful, and which she felt she could very well dispense with. But the count, who saw more clearly into the secrets of his profession and who wished to be envied his imaginary happiness, spared nothing to secure partisans, and made her come every day to his palace to be presented to all the aristocracy of Venice. Consuelo's modesty and reluctance ill supported his designs; but he induced her to sing, and the victory was at once decisive—brilliant—incontestible.
Anzoleto was far from sharing the repugnance of his betrothed for these secondary means. His success was by no means so certain as hers. In the first place the count was not so ardent in his favor, and the tenor whom he was to succeed was a man of talent, who would not be easily forgotten. It is true he also sang nightly at the count's palace and Consuelo in their duets brought him out admirably; so that, urged and sustained by the magic of a genius superior to his own, he often attained great heights. He was on these occasions both encouraged and applauded; but when the first surprise excited by his fine voice was over, more especially when Consuelo had revealed herself, his deficiency was apparent and frightened even himself. This was the time to work with renewed vigor; but in vain Consuelo exhorted him and appointed him to meet her each morning in the Corte Minelli—where she persisted in remaining spite of the remonstrances of the count, who wished to establish her more suitably—Anzoleto had so much to do—so many visits, engagements and intrigues on hand—such distracting anxieties to occupy his mind—that neither time nor courage was left for study.
In the midst of these perplexities, seeing that the greatest opposition would be given by Corilla, and also that the count no longer gave himself any trouble about her, Anzoleto resolved to visit her himself in order to deprecate her hostility. As may easily be conceived, she had pretended to take the matter very lightly, and treated the neglect and contempt of Zustiniani with philosophical unconcern. She mentioned and boasted everywhere that she had received brilliant offers from the Italian opera at Paris, and calculating on the reverse which she thought awaited her rival, laughed outright at the illusions of the count and his party. Anzoleto thought that with prudence and by employing a little deceit, he might disarm this formidable enemy; and having perfumed and adorned himself, he waited on her at one in the afternoon—an hour when the siesta renders visits unusual, and the palaces silent.
CHAPTER XVII
ANZOLETO found Corilla alone in a charming boudoir, reclining on a couch in a becoming undress; but the alteration in her features by daylight, led him to suspect that her security with regard to Consuelo was not so great as her faithful partisans asserted. Nevertheless she received him with an easy air, and tapping him playfully on the cheek, while she made a sign to her servant to withdraw, exclaimed—"Ah, wicked one, is it you?—are you come with your tales, or would you make me believe you are no dealer in flourishes, nor the most intriguing of all the postulants for fame? You were somewhat conceited, my handsome friend, if you supposed that I should be disheartened by your sudden flight after so many tender declarations; and still more conceited was it to suppose that you were wanted, for in four-and-twenty hours I had forgotten that such a person existed."
"Four and-twenty hours!—that is a long time," replied Anzoleto, kissing the plump and rounded arm of Corilla. "Ah! if I believed that, I should be proud indeed; but I know that if I was so far deceived as to believe you when you said——"
"What I said, I advise you to forget also. Had you called you would have found my door shut against you. What assurance to come today!"
"Is it not good taste to leave those who are in favor, and to lay one's heart and devotion at the feet of her who——"
"Well, finish—to her who is in disgrace. It is most generous and humane on your part, most illustrious friend!" And Corilla fell back upon the satin pillow with a burst of shrill and forced laughter.
Although the disgraced prima donna was no longer in her early freshness—although the mid-day sun was not much in her favor, and although vexation had somewhat taken from the effect of her full-formed features—Anzoleto, who had never been on terms of intimacy with a woman so brilliant and so renowned, felt himself moved in regions of the soul to which Consuela had never descended, and whence he had voluntarily banished her pure image. He therefore palliated the raillery of Corilla by a profession of love which he had only intended to feign, but which he now actually began to experience. I say love for want of a better word, for it were to profane the name to apply it to the attraction awakened by such women as Corilla. When she saw the young tenor really moved, she grew milder, and addressed him after a more amiable fashion. "I confess," said she, "you selected me for a whole evening, but I did not altogether esteem you. I know you are ambitious, and consequently false, and ready for every treason. I dare not trust to you. You pretended to be jealous on a certain night in my gondola, and took upon you the airs of a despot. That might have disenchanted me with the insipid gallantries of our patricians, but you deceived me, ungrateful one! you were engaged to another, and are going to marry—whom?—oh? I know very well—my rival, my enemy, the débutante, the new protegée of Zustiniani. Shame upon us two—upon us three—upon us all!" added she, growing animated in spite of herself, and withdrawing her hand from Anzoleto.
