Consuelo, page 34
"You ask of me the secret of my life, the solution of my destiny, and yet you know it better than I do, Consuelo. It is from you I expected the revelation of my being, and you question me! Oh! I understand you; you wish to lead me to a confession, to an efficacious repentance, to a victorious resolution. You shall be obeyed. But it is not at this instant that I can know, and judge, and transform myself in this manner. Give me some days, some hours at least, to learn for myself and for you if I am mad, or if I enjoy the use of my reason. Alas! alas! both are true, and it is my misery not to be able to doubt it; but, to know if I must lose my judgment and my will entirely, or if I shall be able to triumph over the demon who besieges me, that is what I cannot do at this instant. Have pity upon me, Consuelo; I am still under the influence of an emotion more powerful than myself. I know not what I have said to you; I know not how many hours you have been here; I know not how you could be here without Zdenko, who did not wish to bring you; I know not even in what region my thoughts were wandering when you first appeared to me. Alas! I know not how many ages I have been shut up here, struggling with unheard-of sufferings against the scourge which destroys me. Even these sufferings I remember no longer when they have passed; there remains in their place only a terrible fatigue, a sort of stupor, a terror which I long to banish. Let me forget myself, Consuelo, if it be only for a few moments; my ideas will become clearer, my tongue will be loosened. I promise, I swear it to you. Let the light of truth beam softly and by degrees on my eyes, long shrouded in fearful darkness and unable to endure the full strength of its rays. You have ordered me to concentrate all my life in my heart. Yes; those were your words; my reason and my memory date no further back than from the moment you spoke them. Well! these words have diffused an angelic calm over my spirit. My heart lives now once more, though my spirit still sleeps. I fear to speak to you of myself; I might wander, and again terrify you by my ravings. I wish to live only in feeling, and it is an unknown life to me; it would be a life or delight if I could abandon myself to it without displeasing you. Ah, Consuelo! why did you tell me to concentrate all my life in my heart? Explain your meaning; let me think only of you, see and comprehend only you—in a word, love you. O my God, I love—I love a living being!—a being like myself! I love her with all the strength of my heart and soul! I can concentrate upon her all the ardor, all the holiness of my affections. It is happiness enough for me to be allowed this, and I have not the madness to ask for more."
"Well, dear Albert, let your wearied soul repose in this sweet sentiment of a peaceful and brotherly tenderness. God is my witness that you can do so without fear and without danger; for I feel a strong and sincere friendship for you—a kind of veneration which the frivolous observations and vain judgments of the world cannot shake. You have become aware, by a sort of divine and mysterious intuition, that my whole life is broken by sorrow; you said so, and it was divine truth which prompted your words. I cannot love you otherwise than as a brother; but do not say that it is charity, pity alone, which influences me. If humanity and compassion have given me courage to come here, sympathy and a heartfelt esteem for your virtues gave me also the courage and the right to speak to you as I do. Banish, therefore, from this moment and forever, the illusion under which you labor respecting your own feelings. Do not speak of love, do not speak of marriage. My past life, my recollections, make the first impossible; the difference in our conditions would render the second humiliating and insupportable to me. By indulging in such dreams you will render my devotion to you rash, perhaps culpable. Let us seal by a sacred promise the engagement which I make, to be your sister, your friend, your consoler, whenever you are disposed to open your heart to me; your nurse, when suffering renders you gloomy and taciturn. Swear that you will not look on me in any other light, and that you will never love me otherwise."
"Generous woman!" said Albert, turning pale, "you reckon largely on my courage, and you know well the extent of my love, in asking of me such a promise. I should be capable of lying for the first time in my life—I could even debase myself so far as to pronounce a false oath—if you required it of me. But you will not require it of me, Consuelo; you know that this would be to introduce a new source of agitation into my life, and into my conscience a remorse which has not yet stained it. Do not be uneasy at the manner in which I love you. First of all I am ignorant of it; I only know that to deprive this affection of the name of love would be to utter a blasphemy. I submit myself to all the rest; I accept your pity, your care, your goodness, your peaceful friendship; will speak to you only as you permit; I will not say a single word which could trouble you, nor give you a single look which could make you veil your eyes; I will not even touch your dress, if you fear being sullied by my breath. But you would be wrong to treat me with such mistrust, and you would do better to encourage in me those gentle emotions which restore us to life, and from which you can fear nothing. I can well understand that your modesty might be alarmed at the expression of a love which you do not share; I know that your pride would reject the marks of a passion which you do not wish either to excite or to encourage. Therefore be calm, and swear without fear to be my sister and my consoler, as I swear to be your brother and servant. Do not ask of me more; I will neither be indiscreet nor importunate. It is sufficient for me that you know you can command me and govern me despotically—not as you would govern a brother, but as you would dispose of a being who has given himself to you entirely and forever."
CHAPTER XLVI
THIS language reassured Consuelo for the present, but did not leave her without apprehension for the future. That Albert's fanatical self-denial had its source in a deep and unconquerable passion, the serious nature of his character and the solemnity of his countenance could leave no doubt. Consuelo, perplexed, though at the same time moved with compassion, asked herself if she could continue to consecrate her cares to this man, so unreservedly and unchangeably in love with her. She had never treated this sort of relation lightly in her thoughts, and she saw that with Albert no woman could enter upon it without serious consequences. She did not doubt his devotedness; but the calmness which she had flattered herself she should restore to him must be irreconcilable with the existence of so ardent a love and the impossibility she felt of responding to it. She held out her hand to him with a sigh, and remained pensive, with her eyes fixed on the ground, and plunged in a melancholy reverie.
"Albert," said she at last, raising her eyes, and finding his anxiously fixed upon her with an expression of anguish and sorrow, "you do not know me, when you wish to impose upon me a character for which I am so ill fitted. None but a woman who would abuse it could accept it. I am neither proud nor a coquette; I think I am not vain, and I have no passion for sway. Your love would flatter me, if I could share it; and if it were so, I would tell you instantly. To afflict you in the situation in which I find you, by the reiterated assurance of the contrary, would be an act of cold-blooded cruelty which you ought to have spared me, and which is nevertheless imposed upon me by my conscience, though my heart detests it, and is deeply grieved in accomplishing it. Pity me for being obliged to afflict you, to offend you perhaps, at a moment when I would willingly give my life to restore you to happiness and health."
"I know it, high souled maiden," said Albert, with a melancholy smile. "You are so good, so great, that you would give your life for the meanest creature; but I know that your conscience will bend to no one. Do not then fear to offend me in displaying this sternness which I admire—this stoical coldness, which your virtue maintains along with the most moving pity. It is not in your power to afflict me, Consuelo. I am not the sport of illusion; I am accustomed to bitter grief; my life has been made up of painful sacrifices. Do not then treat me as a visionary, as a being without heart and without self-respect, in repeating what I already know, that you will never love me. Consuelo, I am acquainted with the circumstances of your life, although I know neither your name, nor family, nor any important fact concerning you. I know the history of your soul; the rest does not concern me. You loved, you still love, and you will always love, one of whom I know nothing, whom I do not wish to know, and with whom I shall never compete. But know, Consuelo, that you shall never be his, or mine, or even your own. God has reserved for you a separate existence, of which the events are hidden from me, but of which I foresee the object and end. The slave and victim of your own greatness of soul, you will never receive in this life other recompense than the consciousness of your own power and goodness. Unhappy in the world's estimation, you will yet be the most serene and the most fortunate of human creatures, because you will ever be the best and the most upright; for the wicked and the base, dearest sister, are alone to be pitied, and the words of Christ will remain true as long as men continue blind and unjust: 'Happy are those who are persecuted; happy those who weep, and who labor in trouble.'"
The power and dignity which were at this moment stamped upon the lofty and majestic forehead of Albert, exercised over Consuelo so great a fascination that she forgot the part of proud sovereign and austere friend, which she had imposed upon herself, to bow to the spell of this man's influence, so inspired by faith and enthusiasm. She supported herself with difficulty, still overwhelmed with fatigue and emotion, and trembling from excess of weariness, she sank on her knees, and, clasping her hands, began to pray fervently and aloud. "If Thou, my God," she exclaimed, "dost put this prophecy in the mouth of a saint, Thy holy will be done! In my infancy I besought from Thee an innocent and childlike happiness; but Thou hast reserved for me happiness under a severe and rude form, which I am unable to comprehend. Open Thou mine eyes—grant me an humble and contrite heart. I am willing, O my God! to submit to this destiny, which seems so adverse, and which so slowly revealed itself, and only ask from Thee that which any of Thy creatures is entitled to expect from Thy loving justice—faith, hope, and charity!"
While praying thus, Consuelo was bathed in tears, which she did not seek to restrain. After such feverish agitation, this paroxysm served to calm her troubled feelings, while it weakened her yet more. Albert prayed and wept along with her, blessing the tears which he had so long shed in solitude, and which now mingled with those of a pure and generous being.
"And now," said Consuelo, rising, "we have thought long enough of what concerns ourselves; it is time to think of others, and to recollect our duties to them. I have promised to restore you to your family, who already mourn and pray for you as for one dead. Do you not desire, my dear Albert, to restore joy and peace to your afflicted relatives? Will you not follow me?"
"So soon!" exclaimed the young count in despair; "separate so soon, and leave this sacred asylum, where God alone is with us—this cell, which I cherish still more since you have appeared to me in it—this sanctuary of a happiness which I shall perhaps never again experience—to return to the false and cold world of prejudices and customs. Ah! not yet, my soul, my life! Suffer me to enjoy yet a day, yet an age of delight. Let me here forget that there exists a world full of deceit and sorrow, which pursues me like a dark and troubled dream; permit me to return by slow degrees to what men call reason. I do not yet feel strong enough to bear the light of their sun and the spectacle of their madness. I require to gaze upon your face and listen to your voice yet longer. Besides, I have never left my retreat from a sudden impulse, or without long reflection—my endeared yet frightful retreat, this terrific yet salutary place of expiation, whither I am accustomed to hasten as with a wild joy, without once looking back, and which I leave with doubts but two well founded, and with lasting regret. You know not, Consuelo, what powerful ties attach me to this voluntary prison—you know not that there is here a second self, the true Albert, who will not leave it—a self which I ever find when I return, and yet which besets me like a specter when I leave it. Here I have conscience, faith, light, strength—in a word, life. In the world there are fear, madness, despair—passions which sometimes invade my peaceful seclusion, and engage with me in a deadly struggle. But, behold! behind this door there is an asylum where I can subdue them and become myself again. I enter sullied with their contact; and giddy from their presence—I issue purified, and no one knows what tortures purchase this patience and submission. Force me not hence, Consuelo, but suffer me gradually and by prayer to wean my attachment from the place."
"Let us then enter and pray together," said Consuelo; "we shall set out immediately afterward. Time flies; the dawn is perhaps already near. They must remain ignorant of the path which leads to the castle, they must not see us enter together; for I am anxious not to betray the secret of your retreat, and hitherto no one suspects my discovery. I do not wish to be questioned, or to resort to falsehoods. I must be able to keep a respectful silence before your relatives, and suffer them to believe that my promises were but presentiments and dreams. Should I be seen to return with you, my absence would seem disobedience; and although, Albert, I would brave every thing for you, I would not rashly alienate the confidence and affection of your family. Let us hasten then; I am exhausted with fatigue, and if I remain here much longer I shall lose all my remaining strength, so necessary for this new journey. We shall pray, and then depart."
"Exhausted, say you? Repose here then, beloved one. I will guard you religiously, or if my presence disturb you, you shall shut me up in the adjacent grotto; close this iron door between us, and while, sunk in slumber, you forget me, I shall, until recalled by you, pray for you in my church."
"But reflect that while you are praying and sunk in repose, your father suffers long hours of agony, pale and motionless as I once saw him, bowed down with age and grief, pressing with feeble knees the floor of his oratory, and apparently only awaiting the news of your death to resign his last breath. And your poor aunt's anxiety will throw her into a fever, incessantly ascending, as she does, the highest towers of the castle, vainly endeavoring to trace the paths to the mountain, by one of which it is supposed you departed. This very morning the members of your family, when they assemble together in the château, will sorrowfully accost each other with fruitless inquiries and conjectures, and again separate at night with despair and anguish in their hearts. Albert, you do not love your relatives, otherwise you would not thus, without pity or remorse, permit them to suffer and languish."
"Consuelo! Consuelo!" exclaimed Albert, as if awaking from a dream, "do not speak to me thus; your words torture me. What crime have I committed?—what disasters have I caused? Why are my friends thus afflicted? How many hours have passed since I left them?"
"You ask how many hours! Ask rather how many days—how many nights—nay, now many weeks!"
"Days!—nights! Hush! Consuelo, do not reveal to me the full extent of my misfortune. I was aware that I here lost correct ideas of time, and that the remembrance of what was passing on the earth did not descend with me into this tomb; but I did not think that the duration of this unconsciousness could be measured by days and weeks."
"Is it not, my friend, a voluntary obliviousness? Nothing in this place recalls the days which pass away and begin again; eternal darkness here prolongs the night. You have not even a glass to reckon the hours. Is not this precaution to exclude all means of measuring time, a wild expedient to escape the cries of nature and the voice of conscience?"
"I confess that when I come here, I feel it requisite to abjure every thing merely human. But, O God! I did not know that grief and meditation could so far absorb my soul as to make long hours appear like days, or days to pass away as hours. What am I, and why have they never informed me of this sad change in my mental organization?"
"This misfortune is, on the contrary, a proof of great intellectual power, but diverted from its proper use, and given up to gloomy reverie. They try to hide from you the evils of which you are the cause. They respect your sufferings while they conceal their own. But in my opinion it was treating you with little esteem; it was doubting the goodness of your heart. But, Albert, I do not doubt you, and I conceal nothing from you."
"Let us go, Consuelo, let us go," said Albert, quickly throwing his cloak over his shoulders. "I am a wretch! I have afflicted my father whom I adore, my aunt whom I dearly love. I am unworthy to behold them again. Ah! rather than again be guilty of so much cruelty, I would impose upon myself the sacrifice of never revisiting this retreat. But, no; once more I am happy, for I have found a friend in you, Consuelo, to direct my wandering thoughts, and restore me to my former self. Some one has at length told me the truth, and will always tell it to me. Is it not so, my dear sister?"
"Always, Albert; I swear to you that you shall ever hear the truth from me."
"Power Divine! and the being who comes to my aid is she to whom alone I can listen—whom alone I can believe. The ways of God are known but to himself. Ignorant of my own mental alienation, I have always blamed the madness of others. Alas Consuelo! had my noble father himself told me of that which you have just disclosed, I would not have believed him. But you are life and truth; you can bring conviction, and give to my troubled soul that heavenly peace which emanates from yourself."
"Let us depart," said Consuelo, assisting him to fasten his cloak, which his trembling hand could not arrange upon his shoulders.
"Yes, let us go," said he gazing tenderly upon her as she fulfilled this friendly office; "but first, swear to me, Consuelo, that if I return hither you will not abandon me, swear that you will come again to seek me, were it only to overwhelm me with reproaches—to call me ingrate, parricide—and to tell me that I am unworthy of your solicitude. Oh! leave me not a prey to myself, now that you see the influence you have over my actions, and that a word from your lips persuades and heals, where a century of meditation and prayer would fail."
