Consuelo, p.15
Consuelo, page 15
"Where have they put her furniture?" said Anzoleto, agitated and struck with despair at not finding any vestige of Consuelo in this place which had been consecrated to the purest enjoyments of his life.
"The furniture is below in the court; she made a present of it to mother Agatha, and she did well. The old woman is poor, and will make a little money out of it. Oh! Consuelo always had a good heart. She has not left a farthing of debt in the Corte, and she made a small present to every body when she went away. She merely took her crucifix with her. But it was very odd her going off in the middle of the night without telling any one! Master Porpora came this morning to arrange all her affairs; it was like the execution of a will. It grieved all the neighbors; but they consoled themselves at last with the thought that she is no doubt going to live in a fine palace on the canalazzo, now that she is rich and a great lady. As for me, I always said she would make a fortune with her voice, she worked so hard. And when will the wedding be, Anzoleto? I hope that you will buy something from me to make presents to all the young girls of the quarter."
"Yes, yes," replied Anzoleto wildly. He fled with death in his soul, and saw in the court all the gossips of the place holding an auction of Consuelo's bed and table—that bed on which he had seen her sleep, that table at which he had seen her work! "Oh, Heavens! already nothing left of her!" cried he involuntarily, wringing his hands. He felt almost tempted to go and stab Corilla.
After an interval of three days he reappeared on the stage with Corilla. They were both outrageously hissed, and the curtain had to be lowered before the piece was finished. Anzoleto was furious, Corilla perfectly unconcerned. "This is what your protection procures me," said he, in a threatening tone, as soon as he was alone with her. The prima donna answered him with great coolness: "You are affected by trifles, my poor child; it is easily seen that you know little of the public, and have never borne the brunt of its caprices. I was so well prepared for the reverse of this evening, that I did not even take the pains to look over my part; and if I did not tell you what was to happen, it was because I knew very well you would not have had courage enough to enter upon the stage with the certainty of being hissed. Now, however, you must know what you have to expect. The next time we shall be treated even worse. Three, four, six, eight representations perhaps, will pass thus; but during these storms an opposition will manifest itself in our favor. Were we the most stupid blockheads in the world, the spirit of contradiction and independence would raise up partisans for us, who will become more and more zealous. There are so many people who think to elevate themselves by abusing others, that there are not wanting those who think to do the same by protecting them. After a dozen trials, during which the theater will be a field of battle between the hissers and the applauders, our opponents will be fatigued, the refractory will look sour, and we shall enter upon a new phase. That portion of the public which has sustained us, without well knowing why, will hear us coldly; it will be like a new début for us, and then it will depend upon ourselves, thank Heaven! to subdue the audience and remain masters of them. I predict great success for you from that moment, dear Anzoleto; the spell which has hitherto weighed you down will be removed. You will breathe an atmosphere of encouragement and sweet praises, which will restore your powers. Remember the effect which you produced at Zustiniani's the first time you were heard there. You had not time to complete your conquest—a more brilliant star came too soon to eclipse you; but that star has allowed itself to sink below the horizon, and you must be prepared to ascend with me into the empyrean."
Every thing happened as Corilla had predicted. The two lovers had certainly to pay dearly, during some days, for the loss the public had sustained in the person of Consuelo. But their constancy in braving the tempest wearied out an anger which was too excessive to be lasting. Zustiniani encouraged Corilla's efforts. As for Anzoleto, the count, after having made vain attempts to draw a primo uomo to Venice at so advanced a season, when all the engagements were already made with the principal theaters in Europe, made up his mind, and accepted him for his champion in the struggle which was going on between the public and the administration of his theater. That theater had a reputation too brilliant to be periled by the loss of one performer. Nothing like this could overcome fixed habits. All the boxes were let for the season, and the ladies held their levees there, and met as usual. The real dilettanti kept up their dissatisfaction for a time, but they were too few in number to be cared for. Besides, they were at last tired of their own animosity, and one fine evening, Corilla, having sung with power, was unanimously recalled. She reappeared, leading with her Anzoleto, who had not been called for, and who seemed to yield to a gentle violence with a modest and timid air. He received his share of the applauses, and was reengaged the next day. In short, before a month had passed, Consuelo was as much forgotten as is the lightning which shoots athwart a summer sky. Corilla excited enthusiasm as formerly, and perhaps merited it more; for emulation had given her more earnestness, and love sometimes inspired her with more feeling and expression. As for Anzoleto, though he had not overcome his defects, he had succeeded in displaying his incontestible good qualities. They had become accustomed to the first and admired the last. His charming person fascinated the women, and he was much sought after for the saloons, the more so because Corilla's jealousy increased the piquancy of coquetting with him. Clorinda also developed her powers upon the stage; that is to say, her heavy beauty and the easy nonchalance of unequaled dulness, which was not without its attraction for a portion of the spectators. Zustiniani, partly to relieve his mind after his deep disappointment, covered her with jewels, and pushed her forward in the first parts, hoping to make her succeed Corilla, who was positively engaged at Paris for the coming season.
Corilla saw without vexation this competition, from which she had nothing to fear either present or future: she even took a malicious pleasure in bringing out that cool and impudent incapacity which recoiled before nothing. These two creatures lived therefore in a good understanding and governed the administration imperiously. They put aside every serious piece, and revenged themselves upon Porpora by refusing his operas, to accept and bring forward those of his most unworthy rivals. They agreed together to injure all who displeased them, and to protect all who humbled themselves before their power. During that season, thanks to them, the public applauded the compositions of the decadence, and forgot that true and grand music had formerly flourished in Venice.
In the midst of his success and prosperity (for the count had given him a very advantageous engagement) Anzoleto was overwhelmed with profound disgust, and drooped under the weight of a melancholy happiness. It was pitiful to see him drag himself to the rehearsals hanging on the arm of the triumphant Corilla, pale, languishing, handsome as Apollo, but ridicuously foppish in his appearance, like a man wearied of admiration, crushed and destroyed under the laurels and myrtles he had so easily and so largely gathered. Even at the performances, when upon the stage with Corilla, he yielded to the necessity he felt of protesting against her by his superb attitude and his impertinent languor. While she devoured him with her eyes, he seemed by his looks to say to the audience: "Do not think that I respond to so much love! On the contrary, whoever will deliver me from it will do me a great service."
The fact was that Anzoleto, spoiled and corrupted by Corilla, turned against her the instincts of selfishness and ingratitude which she had excited in his heart against the whole world. There remained to him but one sentiment which was true and pure in its nature; the imperishable love which, in spite of his vices, he cherished for Consuelo. He could divert his attention from it, thanks to his natural frivolity; but he could not cure himself of it, and that love haunted him like remorse, like a torture, in the midst of his most culpable excesses. In the midst of them all, a specter seemed to dog his steps; and deep-drawn sighs escaped from his breast when in the middle of the night he passed in his gondola along the dark buildings of the Corte Minelli. Corilla, for a long time subdued by his bad treatment, and led, as all mean souls are, to love only in proportion to the contempt and outrages she received, began at last to be tired of this fatal passion. She had flattered herself that she could conquer and enchain his savage independence. She had worked for that end with a violent earnestness, and she had sacrificed every thing to it. When she felt and acknowledged the impossibility of ever succeeding, she began to hate him, and to search for distractions and revenge. One night when Anzoleto was wandering in his gondola about Venice with Clorinda, he saw another gondola rapidly glide off, whose extinguished lantern gave notice of some clandestine rendezvous. He paid little attention to it; but Clorinda, who, in her fear of being discovered, was always on the look-out, said to him, "Let us go more slowly. It is the count's gondola; I recognise the gondolier."
"In that case we will go more quickly," replied Anzoleto; "I wish to rejoin him, and to know with whom he is enjoying this fresh and balmy evening."
"No, no; let us return;" cried Clorinda. "His eye is so piercing and his ear so quick. We must be careful not to annoy him."
"Row, I say!" cried Anzoleto, to his gondolier; "I wish to overtake that bark which you see before us."
Notwithstanding Clorinda's prayers and terror, this was the work of but an instant. The two barks grazed each other, and Anzoleto heard a half-stifled burst of laughter proceed from the other gondola. "Ha!" said he, "this is fair play—it is Corilla who is taking the air with the signor count." So saying, Anzoleto leaped to the bow of his gondola, took the oar from the hands of the bacarole, and following the other gondola rapidly, overtook it and grazed it a second time, exclaiming aloud as he passed, "Dear Clorinda, you are without contradiction the most beautiful and the most beloved of all women."
"I was just saying as much to Corilla," immediately replied the count, coming out of his cabin and approaching the other bark with consummate self-possession; "and now that our excursions on both sides are finished, I propose that we make an exchange of partners."
"The signor count only does justice to my loyalty," replied Anzoleto in the same tone. "If he permit me, I will offer him my arm, that he may himself escort the fair Clorinda into his gondola."
The count reached out his arm to rest upon Anzoleto's; but the tenor, inflamed by hatred, and transported with rage, leaped with all his weight upon the count's gondola and upset it, crying with a savage voice: "Signor Count, gondola for gondola!" Then abandoning his victims to their fate, and leaving Clorinda speechless with terror and trembling for the consequences of his frantic conduct, he gained the opposite bank by swimming, took his course through the dark and tortuous streets, entered his lodging, changed his clothes in a twinkling, gathered together all the money he had, left the house, threw himself into the first shallop which was getting under way for Trieste, and snapped his fingers in triumph as he saw, in the dawn of morning, the clock-towers and domes of Venice sink beneath the waves.
CHAPTER XXIII
IN the western range of the Carpathian mountains, which separate Bohemia from Bavaria, and which receives in these countries the name of the Boehmer Wald, there was still standing, about a century ago, an old country seat of immense extent, called, in consequence of some forgotten tradition, the Castle of the Giants. Though presenting at a distance somewhat the appearance of an ancient fortress, it was no more than a private residence, furnished in the taste, then somewhat antiquated but always rich and sumptuous, of Louis XIV. The feudal style of architecture had also undergone various tasteful modifications in the parts of the edifice occupied by the Lords of Rudolstadt, masters of this rich domain.
The family was of Bohemian origin, but had become naturalized in Germany on its members changing their name, and abjuring the principles of the Reformation, at the most trying period of the Thirty Years' War. A noble and valiant ancestor, of inflexible Protestant principles, had been murdered on the mountain in the neighborhood of his castle, by the fanatic soldiery. His widow, who was of a Saxon family, saved the fortune and the life of her young children by declaring herself a Catholic, and entrusting to the Jesuits the education of the heirs of Rudolstadt. After two generations had passed away, Bohemia being silent and oppressed, the Austrian power permanently established, and the glory and misfortunes of the Reformation at last apparently forgotten, the Lords of Rudolstadt peacefully practiced the Christian virtues, professed the Romish faith, and dwelt on their estates in unostentatious state, like good aristocrats and faithful servants of Maria Theresa. They had formerly displayed their bravery, in the service of their emperor Charles VI; but it was strange that young Albert, the last of this illustrious and powerful race, and the only son of Count Christian Rudolstadt, had never borne arms in the War of Succession, which had just terminated; and that he had reached his thirtieth year without having sought any other distinction than what he inherited from his birth and fortune. This unusual course had inspired his sovereign with suspicion of collusion with her enemies; but Count Christian, having had the honor to receive the empress in his castle, had given such reasons for the conduct of his son as seemed to satisfy her. Nothing, however, had transpired of the conversation between Maria Theresa and Count Rudolstadt. A strange mystery reigned in the bosom of this devout and beneficent family, which for ten years a neighbor had seldom visited; which no business, no pleasure, no political agitation, induced to leave their domains; which paid largely and without a murmur all the subsidies required for the war, displaying no uneasiness in the midst of public danger and misfortune; which in fine seemed not to live after the same fashion as the other nobles, who viewed them with distrust, although knowing nothing of them but their praiseworthy deeds and noble conduct. At a loss to what to attribute this unsocial and retired mode of life, they accused the Rudolstadts sometimes of avarice, sometimes of misanthropy; but as their actions uniformly contradicted these imputations, their maligners were at length obliged to confine their reproaches to their apathy and indifference. They asserted that Count Christian did not wish to expose the life of his son—the last of his race—in these disastrous wars, and that the empress had, in exchange for his services, accepted a sum of money sufficient to equip a regiment of hussars. The ladies of rank who had marriageable daughters admitted that Count Christian had done well; but when they learned the determination that he seemed to entertain of providing a wife for his son in his own family, in the daughter of the Baron Frederick, his brother—when they understood that the young Baroness Amelia had just quitted the convent at Prague where she had been educated, to reside henceforth with her cousin in the Castle of the Giants—these noble dames unanimously pronounced the family of Rudolstadt to be a den of wolves, each of whom was more unsocial and savage than the others. A few devoted servants and faithful friends alone knew the secret of the family, and kept it strictly.
This noble family was assembled one evening round a table profusely loaded with game, and those substantial dishes with which our ancestors in Slavonic states still continued to regale themselves at this period, notwithstanding the refinements which the court of Louis XV had introduced into the aristocratic customs of a great part of Europe. An immense hearth on which burned huge billets of oak, diffused heat throughout the large and gloomy hall. Count Christian in a loud voice had just said grace, to which the other members of the family listened standing. Numerous aged and grave domestics, in the costume of the country—viz. large mameluke trousers, and long mustachios—moved slowly to and fro in attendance on their honored masters. The chaplain of the castle was seated on the right of the count, the young Baroness Amelia on his left—"next his heart," as he was wont to say with austere and paternal gallantry. The Baron Frederick, his junior brother, whom he always called his "young brother," from his not being more than sixty years old, was seated opposite. The Canoness Wenceslawa of Rudolstadt, his eldest sister, a venerable lady of seventy, afflicted with an enormous hump and a frightful leanness, took her place at the upper end of the table; while Count Albert, the son of Count Christian, the betrothed of Amelia, and the last of the Rudolstadts, came forward, pale and melancholy, to seat himself on the other end, opposite his noble aunt.
Of all these silent personages, Albert was certainly the one least disposed and least accustomed to impart animation to the others. The chaplain was so devoted to his masters, and so reverential toward the head of the family in particular, that he never opened his mouth to speak unless encouraged to do so by a look from Count Christian; and the latter was of so calm and reserved a disposition, that he seldom required to seek from others a relief from his own thoughts.
Baron Frederick was of a less thoughtful character and more active temperament, but he was by no means remarkable for animation. Although mild and benevolent as his eldest brother, he had less intelligence and less enthusiasm. His devotion was a matter of custom and politeness. His only passion was a love for the chase, in which he spent almost all his time, going out each morning and returning each evening, ruddy with exercise, out of breath, and hungry. He ate for ten, drank for thirty, and even showed some sparks of animation when relating how his dog Sapphire had started the hare, how Panther had unkenneled the wolf, or how his falcon Attila had taken flight; and when the company had listened to all this with inexhaustible patience, he dozed over quietly near the fire in a great black leathern arm-chair, and enjoyed his nap until his daughter came to warn him that the hour for retiring was about to strike.
The canoness was the most conversable of the party. She might even be called chatty, for she discussed with the chaplain, two or three times a week, for an hour at a stretch, sundry knotty points touching the genealogy of Bohemian, Hungarian, and Saxon families, the names and biographies of whom, from kings down to simple gentlemen, she had on her finger ends.
As for Count Albert, there was something repelling and solemn in his exterior, as if each of his gestures had been prophetic, each of his sentences oracular to the rest of the family. By a singular peculiarity inexplicable to any one not acquainted with the secret of the mansion, as soon as he opened his lips, which did not happen once in twenty-four hours, the eyes of his friends and domestics were turned upon him; and there was apparent on every face a deep anxiety, a painful and affectionate solicitude; always excepting that of the young Amelia, who listened to him with a sort of ironical impatience, and who alone ventured to reply, with the gay or sarcastic familiarity which her fancy prompted.
