Consuelo, page 22
Still, the harmony of his voice, which pleased the musical ear of Consuelo, gave her courage by degrees to look at him, and she was surprised to find in him the air and manners of a very sensible man. He spoke little, but judiciously; and when she rose from the table, he offered her his hand, without looking at her it is true (he had not done her that honor since the day before), but with much ease and politeness. She trembled in every limb on placing her hand in that of the fantastic hero of the tales and dreams of the preceding evening, and expected to find it cold as that of a corpse. But it was soft and warm as that of a healthy man. Consuelo could hardly conceal her amazement. Her emotion gave her a sort of vertigo; and the glances of Amelia, who followed her every motion, would have completed her embarrassment, if she had not called all her powers to her aid, in order to preserve her dignity in presence of the mischievous young girl. She returned Count Albert the profound bow which he made after conducting her to a chair; but not a word, not a look, was exchanged between them.
"Do you know, perfidious Porporina," said Amelia to her companion, seating herself near her in order to whisper freely in her ear, "that you have produced a wonderful effect upon my cousin?"
"I have not perceived much of it yet," replied Consuelo.
"That is because you have not deigned to notice his manner toward me. For a whole year he has not once offered me his hand to lead me to or from the table, and now he conducts himself toward you with the most marked attention. It is true that he is in one of his most lucid moments, and one might say that you have brought him health and reason. But do not trust to appearances, Nina. It will be the same with you as it was with me: after three days of cordiality he will not even remember your existence."
"I see that I must accustom myself to your jesting," said Consuelo.
"Is it not true, my dear aunt," said Amelia, in a low voice, to the canoness, who came forward and took a seat near her and Consuelo, "that my cousin is extremely amiable toward our dear Porporina?"
"Do not jest about him, Amelia," said Wenceslawa, gently; "the young lady will soon enough perceive the cause of our sorrows."
"I am not jesting, good aunt. Albert is perfectly well this morning, and I rejoice to see him as I have never before seen him since I came here. If he were shaved and powdered like other people, you would think he had never been ill."
"His air of calmness and health strikes me very agreeably in truth," said the canoness; "but I dare not flatter myself that so happy a state of things will last."
"What a noble and benevolent expression he has!" said Consuelo, wishing to touch the heart of the canoness in its most tender point.
"Do you think so?" said Amelia, transfixing her with a saucy and incredulous look.
"Yes, I do think so," replied Consuelo firmly; "and as I told you yesterday evening, never did a human face inspire me with more respect."
"Ah! my dear daughter," said the canoness, suddenly casting off her constrained air, and pressing Consuelo's hand tenderly, "good hearts at once understand each other! I feared lest my poor child should terrify you. It is a source of great pain to me to read in the countenances of others the aversion inspired by such maladies. But you have great sensibility, I perceive, and have at once comprehended that in his wasted and diseased frame dwells a sublime soul, well worthy of a happier lot."
Consuelo was moved even to tears by the words of the excellent canoness, and kissed her hand affectionately. She already felt more confidence and sympathy with that old deformed lady than with the brilliant and frivolous Amelia.
They were interrupted by Baron Frederick, who, relying more upon his courage than his conversational powers, approached with the intention of asking a favor from the Signora Porporina. Even more awkward in the presence of ladies than his elder brother (this awkwardness was, it would seem, a family complaint, which one need not be much astonished to find developed, even to boorishness, in Albert), he stammered out some words, which Amelia undertook to comprehend and translate to Consuelo.
"My father asks you," said she, "if you feel courage enough to think of music after so painful a journey, and if it would not be an imposition on your good nature, to request you to hear my voice and judge of my style?"
"With all my heart;" replied Consuelo, rising immediately, and opening the harpsichord.
"You will see," said Amelia to her in a low voice, as she arranged her music on the stand, "that this will put Albert to flight, notwithstanding your good looks and mine." In fact, Amelia had hardly played a few bars, when Albert rose and went out on tip-toe, like a man who flatters himself that he is not perceived.
"It is astonishing," said Amelia, still talking in a low voice while she played out of time, "that he did not slam the door furiously after him, as he sometimes does when I sing. He is quite amiable, one might almost say, gallant, today."
The chaplain, thinking to cover Albert's departure, approached the harpsichord and pretended to listen attentively. The rest of the family formed a half-circle at a little distance, waiting respectfully for the judgment which Consuelo should pronounce upon her pupil.
Amelia courageously chose an air from the Achille in Scyro of Pergolese, and sang it with assurance from beginning to end in a shrill, piercing voice, accompanied by so comical a German accent, that Consuelo, who had never heard any thing of the kind, was scarcely able to keep from smiling at every word. It was hardly necessary to hear four bars, to be convinced that the young baroness had no true idea and no knowledge whatever of music. She had a flexible voice, and perhaps had received good instruction; but her character was too frivolous to allow her to study any thing conscientiously, For the same reason she did not mistrust her own powers, and, with German sang froid, attempted the boldest and most difficult passages. She failed in all, and thought to cover her unskillfulness by forcing her intonation and thundering the accompaniment, eking out the measure as best she could, by adding time to the bars which followed those in which she had diminished it, and changing the character of the music to such an extent, that Consuelo could hardly recognize what she heard, although the pages were before her eyes.
Yet Count Christian, who was a perfect connoisseur, but who attributed to his niece all the timidity he would have felt in her place, exclaimed from time to time to encourage her: "Very well, Amelia, very well indeed! beautiful music." The canoness, who did not know very much about it, looked anxiously into the eyes of Consuelo, in order to anticipate her opinion; and the baron, who loved no other music than the flourishes of the hunting-horn, believing that his daughter sang too well for him to understand, waited in confidence for the expression of the judge's satisfaction. The chaplain alone was charmed by these gargouillades, which he had never heard before Amelia's arrival at the château.
Consuelo very clearly saw that to tell the plain truth would distress the whole family. Resolving to enlighten her pupil in private upon all these matters which she had to forget before she could learn any thing, she praised her voice, asked about her studies, approved the choice of masters whose works she had been made to study, and thus relieved herself of the necessity of declaring that she had studied them incorrectly.
The family separated, well pleased with a trial which had been painful only to Consuelo. She was obliged to go and shut herself up in her apartments with the music she had just heard profaned, and read it with her eyes, singing it mentally; in order to efface the disagreeable impression she had received.
CHAPTER XXXI
WHEN the family reassembled toward evening, Consuelo, feeling more at ease with all these people whom she now began to get acquainted with, replied with less reserve and brevity to the questions, which on their part they felt more courage to address to her, respecting her country, her art, and her travels. She carefully avoided, as she had determined, speaking of herself, and she related the events in the midst of which she had lived, without ever mentioning the part she had taken in them. In vain did the curious Amelia strive to lead her to enlarge on her personal adventures. Consuelo did not fall into the snare, nor for an instant betray the incognito she had resolved to maintain. It would be difficult to say precisely why this mystery had a peculiar charm for her. Many reasons induced her to observe it. In the first place, she had promised, even sworn to Porpora, to keep herself so completely hidden and concealed in every manner, that it would be impossible for Anzoleto to discover her route, if he should attempt to pursue her—a very useless precaution, for Anzoleto, at this time, after a few quickly smothered wishes of the kind, was occupied only with his débuts and his success at Venice.
In the second place, Consuelo, wishing to conciliate the esteem and affection of the family who gave her a temporary refuge in her friendless and melancholy situation, understood very well that they would much more readily receive her as a simple musician, a pupil of Porpora, and teacher of vocal music, than as prima donna, a performer on the stage, and a celebrated cantatrice. She knew that among these unpretending and pious people, an avowal of such a position would impose upon her a difficult part; and it is probable that, notwithstanding Porpora's recommendation, the arrival of Consuelo, the débutante, and the wonder of San Samuel, would have somewhat startled them. But even if these powerful motives had not existed, Consuelo would still have experienced the necessity of silence, and of keeping secret the brilliancy and the sufferings of her career. Every thing was linked together in her life—her power and her weakness, her glory and her love. She could not raise the smallest corner of the veil, without laying bare one of the wounds of her soul; and these wounds were still too recent, too painful, too deep, to be healed by kindness or sympathy. She found relief only in the barrier which she had raised between the sorrowful memories of the past and the calm energy of her new existence. This change of country, of scene, and of name, transported her at once into an unknown region, where, by assuming a new character, she hoped to become a new being.
This renunciation of vanities, which might have solaced another woman, proved the salvation of this courageous being. In renouncing all compassion, as well as all human glory, she felt celestial strength come to her aid. "I must regain some portion of my former happiness," she said; "that which I so long enjoyed, and which consisted in loving and in being beloved. The moment I sought their admiration, they withdrew their love, and I have paid too dear for the honors they bestowed in place of their goodwill. Let me begin again, obscure and insignificant, that I may be subjected neither to envy, nor ingratitude, nor enmity on the earth. The least token of sympathy is sweet, and the highest testimony of admiration is mingled with bitterness. If there be proud and strong hearts to whom praise suffices, and whom triumph consoles, I have cruelly experienced that mine is not of the number. Alas! glory has torn my lover's heart from me; let humility yield me in return at least some friends."
It was not thus that Porpora meant. In removing Consuelo from Venice, and from the dangers and agonies of her love, he only intended to procure her some repose before recalling her to the scene of ambition, and launching her afresh into the storms of artistic life. He did not know his pupil. He believed her more of a woman—that is to say, more impressionable than she was. In thinking of her he did not fancy her as calm, affectionate, and busied with others, as she had always been able to become, but plunged in tears and devoured with vain regret. But he thought at the same time that a reaction would take place, and that he should find her cured of her love, and anxious to recommence the exercise of her powers, and enjoy the privileges of her genius.
The pure and religious feeling conceived by Consuelo of the part she was to play in the family of Rudolstadt, spread from this day a holy serenity over her words, her actions, and her countenance. Those who had formerly seen her dazzling with love and joy beneath the sun of Venice, could not easily have understood how she could become all at once calm and gentle in the midst of strangers, in the depths of gloomy forests, with her love blighted, both as regarded the past and the future. But goodness finds strength where pride only meets despair. Consuelo was glorious that evening, with a beauty which she had not hitherto displayed. It was not the half-developed impulse of sleeping nature waiting to be roused, nor the expansion of a power which seizes the spectators with surprise or delight; neither was it the hidden, incomprehensible beauty of the scolare zingarella: no, it was the graceful penetrating charm of a pure and self-possessed woman, governed by her own sacred impulses.
Her gentle and simple hosts needed no other than their generous instincts to drink in, if I may use the expression, the mysterious incense which the angelic soul of Consuelo exhaled in their intellectual atmosphere. They experienced, even in looking at her, a moral elevation which they might have found it difficult to explain, but the sweetness of which filled them as with a new life. Albert seemed for the first time to enjoy the full possession of his faculties. He was obliging and good-natured with every one. He was suitably so with Consuelo, and spoke to her at different times in such terms as showed that he had not relinquished, as might be supposed, the elevated intellect and clear judgment with which nature had endowed him. The baron did not once fall asleep, the canoness ceased to sigh, and Count Christian, who used to sink at night into his arm-chair, bent down under the weight of old age and vexation, remained erect with his back to the chimney, in the center of his family, and sharing in the easy and pleasant conversation, which was prolonged till nine in the evening.
"God has at length heard our prayers," said the chaplain to Count Christian and the canoness, who remained in the saloon after the departure of the baron and the young people. "Count Albert has this day entered his thirtieth year, and this solemn day, so dreaded by him and by ourselves, has passed over calmly and with unspeakable happiness."
"Yes, let us return thanks to God," said the old count. "It may prove but a blessed dream, sent for a moment to comfort us, but I could not help thinking all this day, and this evening in particular, that my son was perfectly cured."
"Brother," replied the canoness, "and you, worthy chaplain, I entreat pardon, but you have always believed Albert to be tormented by the enemy of human kind. For myself, I thought him at issue with opposing powers which disputed the possession of his poor soul, for often when he repeated words of the bad angel, Heaven spoke from his mouth the next moment. Do you recollect what he said yesterday evening during the storm, and his words on leaving us? 'The peace of God has come down on this house.' Albert experienced the miracle in himself, and I believe in his recovery as in the divine promise."
The chaplain was too timid to admit all at once so bold a proposition. He extricated himself from his embarrassment by saying: "Let us ascribe it to Eternal Goodness;" "God reads hidden things;" "The soul should lose itself in God;" and other sentences more consolatory than novel.
Count Christian was divided between the desire of conforming to the somewhat exaggerated asceticism of his good sister, and the respect imposed by the prudent and unquestioning orthodoxy of his confessor.
He endeavored to turn the conversation by speaking of the charming demeanor of Porporina. The canoness, who loved her already, praised her yet more; and the chaplain sanctioned the preference which they experienced for her. It never entered their heads to attribute the miracle which had taken place among them to Consuelo. They accepted the benefit without recognizing its source. It was what Consuelo would have asked of God could she have been consulted.
Amelia was a closer observer. It soon became evident to her that her cousin could conceal the disorder of his thoughts from persons whom he feared, as well as from those whom he wished to please. Before relations and friends of the family whom he either disliked or esteemed, he never betrayed by any outward demonstration the eccentricity of his character. When Consuelo expressed her surprise at what had been related the preceding evening, Amelia, tormented by a secret uneasiness, tried to make her afraid of Count Albert by recitals which had already terrified herself. "Ah, my poor friend," said she, "distrust this deceitful calm; it is a pause which always intervenes between a recent and an approaching crisis. You see him today as I first saw him, when I arrived here in the beginning of last year. Alas! if you were destined to become the wife of such a visionary, and if, to combat your reluctance they had determined to keep you prisoner for an indefinite period in this frightful castle, with surprises, terrors, and agitations for your daily fare—nothing to be seen but tears, exorcisms and extravagances—expecting a cure which will never happen—you would be quite disenchanted with the fine manners of Albert, and the honeyed words of the family."
"It is not credible," said Consuelo, "that they would unite you against your will to a man whom you do not love. You appear to be the idol of your relatives."
"They will not force me; they know that would be impossible. But they forget that Albert is not the only husband who would suit me, and God knows when they will give up the foolish hope that the affection with which I at first regarded him will return. And then my poor father, who has here wherewith to satisfy his passion for the chase, finds himself so well off in this horrible castle, that he will always discover some pretext for retarding our departure. Ah! if you only knew some secret, my dear Nina, to make all the game in the country perish in one night, you would render me an inestimable service."
"I can do nothing, unfortunately, but try to amuse you by giving you lessons in music, and chatting with you in the evenings when you are not inclined to sleep. I shall do my utmost to soothe and to compose you."
"You remind me," said Amelia, "that I have not related the remainder of the story. I shall begin at once, that I may not keep you up too late.
"Some days after his mysterious absence, which he still believed had only lasted seven hours, Albert remarked the absence of the abbé, and asked where he had gone.
