Consuelo, page 47
"It won't do," said Anzoleto, in a low tone, to Consuelo; for he had observed and passed his own comments on this interchange of looks.
"You have done me a great service," replied Consuelo; "and I thank you."
They spoke in the Venetian dialect, which seems composed only of vowels, and which the Romans and Florentines, when they first hear it, cannot always understand.
"I can imagine that you hate me," replied Anzoleto, "and that you think you will always hate me, but you shall not escape me for all that."
"You have unmasked yourself too soon," said Consuelo.
"But not too late," replied Anzoleto, "Come, padre mio benedetto," said he, addressing the chaplain, and giving him at the same time a jog, so as to spill half his wine, "drink more vigorously of this famous wine, which is equally good for body and soul. Signor Count," said he, extending his glass to Count Christian, "you keep there beside your heart a flask of yellow crystal which sparkles like the sun. I feel that if I were to swallow but a drop of that nectar, that I should be changed into a demigod."
"Take care, my child," said the count, placing his wasted and meager hand, covered with rings, on the cut neck of the flask; "the wine of old men sometimes closes the mouth of the young."
"Your anger has made you as handsome as a young witch," said Anzoleto to Consuelo, in good, clear Italian, so that every one could understand him. "You remind me of the Diavolessa of Galuppi, which you played so well last year at Venice. Ha! Signor Count, do you intend to keep my sister long in this gilt cage, lined with silk? She is a singing-bird, I must tell you, and a bird that loses its voice soon loses its feathers also. She is well off here, I admit; but the public, who ran crazy after her, want her back to them again. As to myself, were you to give me your name and your castle, all the wine in your cellar, and your chaplain into the bargain, I would not part with my footlights, my buskin, or my roulades."
"Then you are an actor also?" said the canoness, with an air of cold contempt.
"Comedian and jack-pudding, at your service, illustrissima," replied Anzoleto, without being at all disconcerted.
"Has he any talent?" asked old Christian, turning to Consuelo with a calm and benevolent air.
"None whatever," replied Consuelo, looking at her adversary with an air of pity.
"If that be true, it is you who are to blame," said Anzoleto; "for I am your pupil. I hope, however," continued he in Venetian, "that I have still enough to frustrate your plans."
"You will only harm yourself," replied Consuelo in the same dialect. "Base intentions contaminate the heart, and yours will suffer more than you could possibly cause me to do, in the opinion of others."
"I am delighted to see that you accept my challenge. To arms then, my fair amazon; it is of no use to lower the visor of your casque—I see uneasiness and fear painted in your eyes."
"Alas! you can only see there profound sorrow for your degradation. I hoped to have forgotten the contempt I owe you, and you force me to remember it."
"Contempt and love often go together."
"In mean souls."
"In the proudest. It has been and always will be so."
The same scene lasted during the whole of dinner. When they retired into the drawing-room, the canoness, who appeared determined to amuse herself with Anzoleto's impertinence, requested him to sing. He scarcely waited to be asked, and after vigorously preluding upon the old creaking harpsichord with his sinewy fingers, he thundered out one of those songs with which he had been in the habit of enlivening Zustiniani's select suppers. The words were rather free. The canoness did not understand them, but felt herself amused at the force with which he uttered them. Count Christian could not avoid being struck with the fine voice and wonderful execution of the singer. He abandoned himself with artless delight to the pleasure of hearing him, and, when the first air was concluded, asked for another. Albert, who was seated by the side of Consuelo, appeared deaf to all that passed, and said not a word. Anzoleto imagined that he was annoyed, and that he at last felt himself surpassed in something. His design had been to banish his auditors by his musical improprieties; but seeing that, whether from the innocence of his hosts, or from their ignorance of the language, it was labor lost, he gave himself up to the thirst for admiration, and sang for the pleasure of singing; and besides, he wished to let Consuelo see that he had improved. He had in fact made considerable progress in the species of talent he possessed. His voice had perhaps already lost its original freshness, but he had become more complete master of it, and more skillful in the art of overcoming the difficulties toward which his taste and genius continually led him. He sang well, and received warm eulogiums from Count Christian, from the canoness, and even from the chaplain, who liked display, and who considered Consuelo's manner too simple and too natural to be very learned.
"You told us he had no talent," said the count to the latter; "you are either too severe or too modest as regards your pupil. He has a great deal of talent, and, moreover, I recognize in him something of your style and genius."
The good Christian wished, by this little triumph of Anzoleto's, to efface the humiliation which his manner of conducting himself had caused his pretended sister. He therefore insisted much upon the merit of the singer, and the latter, who loved to shine too well not to be already tired of the low part he had played, returned to the harpsichord, after having remarked that Count Albert became more and more pensive. The canoness, who dozed a little at the long pieces of music, asked for another Venetian song; and this time Anzoleto chose one which was in better taste. He knew that the popular airs were those which he sang the best. Even Consuelo herself had not the piquant accent and dialect in such perfection as he, a child of the lagunes, and gifted by nature with high comic powers.
He counterfeited with so much ease and grace, now the rough and frank manner of the fishermen of Istria, now the free and careless nonchalance of the gondoliers of Venice, that it was impossible not to look at and listen to him with the liveliest interest. His handsome features, flexible and expressive, assumed at one moment the grave and bold aspect of the former, at another the caressing and jesting cheerfulness of the latter mentioned race. His somewhat outré and extravagant costume, which smacked strongly of Venice, added still more to the illusion, and on this occasion improved his personal advantages instead of injuring them. Consuelo, at first cold, was soon obliged to take refuge in indifference and preoccupation. Her emotion gained upon her more and more. She again saw all Venice in Anzoleto, and in that Venice the Anzoleto of former days, with his gaiety, his innocent love, and his childish pride. Her eyes filled with tears, and the merry strokes which made the others laugh, penetrated her heart with a feeling of deep and tender melancholy.
When the songs were ended, Count Christian asked for sacred music. "Oh, as for that," said Anzoleto, "I know every thing which is sung at Venice; but they are all arranged for two voices, and unless my sister, who knows them also, will consent to sing with me, I shall not be able to comply with your highness' commands."
They all entreated Consuelo to sing. She refused for a long time, although she felt tempted to do so. At length, yielding to the request of Count Christian, who wished to induce her to be on good terms with her brother by seeming so himself, she seated herself beside Anzoleto, and began in a trembling voice one of those long hymns in two parts, divided into strophes of three verses, which are heard at Venice during the festivals of the church, and all the night long before the images of the madonnas at every corner. The rhythm is rather lively than otherwise, but in the monotony of the burden and in the poetical turn of the words, in which there is somewhat of a pagan expression, there is a sweet melancholy that gains upon the hearer by degrees, and carries him away.
Consuelo sang in a soft and mellow voice, in imitation of the women of Venice, and Anzoleto in one somewhat rough and guttural, like the young men of the same locality. He improvised at the same time on the harpsichord, a low, uninterrupted, yet cheerful accompaniment, which reminded his companion of the murmuring waters of the lagunes, and the sighing of the winds among the reeds. She imagined herself in Venice during one of its lovely summer nights, kneeling before one of the little chapels, covered with vines, and lighted by the feeble rays of a lamp reflected from the rippled waters of the canal. Oh! what a difference between this vision of Venice, with its blue sky, its gentle melodies, its azure waves sparkling in the light of rapid flambeaus, or dotted with shining stars, and the harrowing emotions inspired by Albert's violin, on the margin of the dark, motionless, and haunted waters. Anzoleto had wakened up this magnificent vision, full of ideas of life and liberty; while the caverns and the wild and dreary hymns of old Bohemia, the heaps of bones on which flashed the light of torches, reflected on waters filled perhaps with the same sad relics, and in the midst of all these, the pale yet impassioned form of the ascetic Albert—the symbol of a hidden world—and the painful emotions arising from his incomprehensible fascination—were too much for the peaceful soul of the simple-minded Consuelo. Her southern origin, still more than her education, revolted at this initiation into a love so stern and forbidding. Albert seemed to her the genius of the north—deep, earnest, sublime, but ever sorrowful—like the frozen night-winds or the subterranean voices of winter torrents. His was a dreamy inquiring soul that sought into every thing—the stormy nights, the course of meteors, the wild harmonies of the forests, and the half-obliterated inscriptions of ancient tombs. Anzoleto, on the contrary, hot and fiery, was the image of the sunny south, drawing its inspiration from its rapid and luxuriant growth, and its pride from the riches hidden in its bosom. His was a life of sensation and feeling, drinking in pleasure at all his pores, artistic, rejoicing, careless, fancy-free, ignorant and indifferent alike as to good or ill, easily amused, heedless of reflection—in a word, the enemy and the antipodes of thought.
Between these two men, so diametrically opposed to each other, Consuelo was lifeless and inactive as a soul without a body. She loved the beautiful, thirsted after the ideal. Albert taught and offered it to her; but, arrested in the development of his genius by disease, he had given himself up too much to a life of thought. He knew so little the necessities of actual life, that he almost forgot his own existence. He never supposed that the gloomy ideas and objects to which he had familiarized himself, could, under the influence of love and virtue, have inspired his betrothed with any other sentiments than the soft enthusiasm of faith and happiness. He had not foreseen nor understood, that like a plant of the tropics plunged into a polar twilight, he had dragged Consuelo into an atmosphere of death. In short, he was not aware of the violence to her feelings which it would have required, to identify her being with his own.
Anzoleto, on the contrary, although wounding the feelings and disgusting the mind of Consuelo at every point, had all the energy and warmth of character which the Flower of Spain (as he was wont to call her) required to make her happy. In hearing him, she once more recalled her unthinking and joyous existence, her bird-like love of song, her life of calm and varied enjoyment, of innocence undisturbed by labor, of uprightness without effort, of pity without thought. But is not an artist something of a bird, and must he not thus mingle in the pursuits and drink of the cup of life common to his fellow-man, in order to perfect his character and make it useful and instructive to those around him?
Consuelo sang with a voice every moment more sweet and touching, as she gave herself up, by a vague and dreamy instinct, to the reflections which I have just made, perhaps at too great length, in her place. I must, however, be pardoned. For otherwise how could the reader understand the fatal mobility of feeling by which this sincere and prudent young girl, who had such good reason, only fifteen minutes before, to hate the perfidious Anzoleto, so far forgot herself as to listen to his voice, and to mingle, with a sort of delight, her sweet breath with his. The saloon, as has been already said, was too large to be properly lighted, and the day besides was declining. The music-stand of the instrument, on which Anzoleto had left a large sheet of music, concealed them from those at a distance, and by degrees their heads approached closer and closer together. Anzoleto, still accompanying himself with one hand, passed his other arm round Consuelo's waist, and drew her insensibly toward him. Six months of indignation and grief vanished from her mind like a dream—she imagined herself in Venice—she was praying to the Madonna to bless her love for the dear betrothed her mother had given her, and who prayed with his hand locked in hers, his heart beating against her heart. At the end of a strophe she felt the burning lips of her first betrothed pressed against her own—she smothered a cry, and leaning on the harpsichord, burst into tears.
At this instant Count Albert returned, heard her sobs, and saw the insulting joy of Anzoleto. This interruption had not astonished the other spectators of this rapid scene, as no person had seen the kiss, and every one believed that the recollection of her infancy and the love her art had caused these tears. Count Christian was somewhat vexed at a sensitiveness that implied so much regret for pursuits of which he required the sacrifice. As for the canoness and the chaplain, they were rejoiced at it, hoping that the sacrifice could never take place. Albert had not yet even asked himself whether the Countess of Rudolstadt could once more become an artist or not. He would have accepted every thing, permitted every thing, even exacted every thing, so that she should be happy and free—in retirement, in the world, or in the theater—at her pleasure. His complete absence of prejudice or selfishness produced a total want of foresight, even regarding the most simple matters. It never occurred to him that Consuelo should think of submitting to sacrifices which he did not wish to impose. But although not perceiving this first step, he saw beyond, as he always saw; he penetrated to the heart of the tree and placed his hand upon the cankerworm. Anzoleto's true relation toward Consuelo, his real object, and the feeling which he inspired, were revealed to him in an instant. He looked attentively at this man, between whom and himself there existed a violent antipathy, and on whom he had not deigned till then to cast a glance, because he would not hate the brother of Consuelo. He saw in him a bold, a dangerous, and a persevering lover. The noble Albert never thought of himself—a whisper of jealousy never entered his heart—the danger was all for Consuelo: for with his profound and lucid, yet delicate, vision—that vision which could hardly bear the light, nor distinguish color and form—he read the soul, and penetrated by mysterious intuition into the most hidden thoughts of the wicked and abandoned. I shall not attempt to explain this strange gift by natural causes. Certain of his faculties appeared incomprehensible to those around him, as they appear to her who relates them, and who, at the end of a hundred years, is not a whit more advanced in their knowledge than the greatest intellects of her time. Albert, in laying bare the vain and selfish soul of his rival, did not say "Behold my enemy;" but he said "Behold the enemy of Consuelo." And without letting his discovery appear, he resolved to watch over and preserve her.
CHAPTER LXII
AS soon as Consuelo found a favorable opportunity, she left the saloon and hastened to the garden. The sun had set, and the first stars of evening shone bright and clear in the sky, still tinged with its setting rays. The young artist sought calmness and quietude in the refreshing atmosphere of one of the earliest evenings of autumn. Her bosom was oppressed with a languid delight; yet she felt a pang of remorse, and called to her aid all the powers of her soul. She might well say to herself, "Do I not then know whether I love or hate?" She trembled as if her courage were about to fail her, and for the first time in her life she did not experience that rectitude of impulse, that sacred confidence in her intentions, which had hitherto sustained her in all her trials. She had left the saloon to avoid Anzoleto's fascinating gaze, and yet she had experienced a vague desire that he should follow her. The leaves had begun to fall, and when the hem of her garment rustled them behind her, she imagined she heard footsteps following hers, and, ready to fly, and yet not daring to return, she remained rooted to the spot, as if by some magic power.
Some one indeed had followed her, but without daring and without wishing to show himself; it was Albert. A stranger alike to dissimulation and formality, the purity and strength of his love rose above all false shame, and he had left the saloon the instant after her, resolved to protect her, unobserved, and to prevent her would-be lover from rejoining her. Anzoleto saw this movement, but it gave him no concern. He was too well aware of Consuelo's agitation not to look upon his victory as certain, and, thanks to the conceited assurance which his previous easy conquests had inspired, he resolved not to hasten matters, not to irritate his beloved, nor to outrage the family. "It is not at all necessary," said he, "that I should hurry myself; anger might give her strength, while a look of pain and dejection will dissipate the remains of her displeasure against me. Whether from fear or compassion, she has not betrayed my real character; and the old people, in spite of all my folly, seem resolved to support me out of affection for her. I must change my tactics; I have got on better than I expected, and shall now call a halt."
Count Christian, the canoness, and the chaplain, were therefore much surprised to see him assume all at once an air of good manners, and a moderate, mild and considerate demeanor. He had sufficient address to complain to the chaplain in a low voice of a severe headache, and to mention that, being usually very temperate, the Hungarian wine, which he had not distrusted at dinner, had confused his brain. This declaration was soon repeated to the canoness, and the count, who charitably accepted the excuse. Wenceslawa was at first less indulgent; but the pains which the actor took to please her, the respectful praise which he adroitly lavished on the nobility, and the admiration he expressed for the order which prevailed in the castle, quickly disarmed the benevolent and forgiving soul. She listened at first carelessly, and ended by chatting to him with pleasure, and agreeing with her brother that he was an excellent and charming young man. An hour elapsed before Consuelo returned from her walk, during which Anzoleto had not lost his time. He had so well established himself in the good graces of the family as to be able to remain at least for some days at the castle, until his designs should be accomplished. He did not understand what the count said to Consuelo in German, but he guessed from the looks turned toward him, and the surprise and embarrassment depicted on Consuelo's features, that Count Christian was praising him very highly, while he scolded Consuelo for the little interest she manifested in so amiable a relative.
