Consuelo, p.21
Consuelo, page 21
"'Allow her to be me, Albert,' said I exerting myself to cheer him, 'and do not think too ill of me for not having delivered you up to the executioners in 1619.'
"'You my mother!' said he, looking at me with flaming eyes; 'do not say that, for if so I cannot forgive you. God caused me to be born again in the bosom of a stronger woman; he retempered me in the blood of Ziska—in my own substance, which had been misled, I know not how. Amelia, do not look at me! above all, do not speak to me! It is your voice, Ulrica, which has caused me all the suffering I endure today.'
"On saying this, Albert hastily left the room, and we remained overpowered by the sad discovery we had made of the alienation of his mind.
"It was then two o'clock in the afternoon; we had dined quietly, and Albert had drunk only water. There was nothing therefore which could lead us to suppose that this frenzy could be occasioned by intoxication. The chaplain and my aunt immediately rose to follow and nurse him, thinking him seriously ill. But, inconceivable as it may seem, Albert had already disappeared, as if by enchantment. They could not find him in his own apartment, nor in his mother's, where he frequently used to shut himself up, nor in any corner of the château. They searched for him in the garden, in the warren, in the surrounding woods, and among the mountains. No one had seen him, far or near. No trace of his steps was anywhere to be found. The rest of the day and the succeeding night were spent in the same manner. No one went to bed in the house; our people were on foot until dawn, and searching for him with torches.
"All the family retired to pray. The next day and the following night were passed in the same consternation. I cannot describe the terror I felt—I, who had never suffered any uneasiness, who had never experienced in my life domestic events of such importance. I seriously believed that Albert had either killed himself or fled forever. I was seized with convulsions, and finally with a malignant fever. I still felt for him some remains of love, in the midst of the terror with which so fatal and so strange a character inspired me. My father had strength enough to pursue his usual sport of hunting, thinking that in his distant excursions he might possibly happen on Albert in the midst of the woods. My poor aunt, a prey to anguish, but still active and courageous, nursed me, and tried to comfort every body. My uncle prayed night and day. When I saw his faith and his pious submission to the will of Heaven, I regretted that I was not devout.
"The abbé feigned some concern, but affected to feel no apprehension. It was true, he said, that Albert had never thus disappeared from his presence, but he required seasons of solitude and reflection. His conclusion was that the only remedy for these singularities was never to thwart them, and not to appear to remark them much. The fact is, that this intriguing and profoundly selfish underling cared for nothing but the large salary attached to his situation of tutor, which he had made to last as long as possible by deceiving the family respecting the result of his good offices. Occupied by his own affairs and his own pleasures, he had abandoned Albert to his extravagant inclinations. Possibly he had often seen him ill and frequently excited, and had, without doubt, allowed free scope to his fancies. Certain it is that he had had the tact to conceal them from every one who could have given us notice; for in all the letters which my uncle received respecting his son, there was nothing but eulogiums upon his appearance and congratulations upon the beauty of his person. Albert had nowhere left the impression that he was ill or devoid of sense. However this may have been, his mental life during those eight years of absence has always remained an impenetrable mystery to us. The abbé, after three days had elapsed, seeing that he did not make his appearance, and fearing that his own position had been injured by this accident, departed, with the intention as he said of seeking for him at Prague, whither the desire of searching for some rare book might, according to him, have drawn him. 'He is,' said he, 'like those learned men who bury themselves in their studies, and forget the whole world when engaged in their harmless pursuits.' Thereupon the abbé departed, and did not return.
"After seven days of mortal anguish, when we began at last to despair, my aunt, in passing one evening before Albert's chamber, saw the door open, and Albert seated in his arm-chair, caressing his dog, who had followed him in his mysterious journey. His garments were neither soiled nor torn; only the gold ornaments belonging to them were somewhat blackened, as if he had come from a damp place or had passed the nights in the open air. His shoes did not appear as if he had walked much; but his beard and hair bore evidence to a long neglect of the care of his person. Since that day he has constantly refused to shave himself, or to wear powder like other men, and that is why he had to you the appearance of a ghost.
"My aunt rushed toward him with a loud cry. 'What is the matter, my dear aunt?' said he, kissing her hand. 'One would imagine you had not seen me for ages.'
"'Unhappy child!' cried she, 'it is now seven days since you left us without saying a word; seven long, weary days, seven dreadful nights, during which we have searched for you, wept for you, and prayed for you.'
"'Seven days?' said Albert, looking at her with surprise. 'You must mean to say seven hours, my dear aunt, for I went out this morning to walk, and I have come back in time to sup with you. How can I have occasioned you so much anxiety by so short an absence?'
"'I must have made a slip of the tongue,' said she, fearing to aggravate his disease by mentioning it; 'I meant to say seven hours. I was anxious because you are not accustomed to take such long walks, and besides I had an unpleasant dream last night; I was foolish!'
"'Good, excellent aunt!' said Albert, covering her hands with kisses, 'you love me as if I were still a little child. I hope my father has not shared your anxiety.'
"'Not at all; he is expecting you at supper. You must be very hungry.'
"'Not very. I dined well.'
"'Where and when, Albert?'
"'Here, this morning, with you, my good aunt; you have not yet recovered your senses, I perceive. Oh, I am very unhappy at having caused you such a fright! How could I foresee it?'
"'You know that such is my character. But allow me to ask you then where you have eaten and slept since you left us?'
"'How could I have had any inclination either to eat or sleep since this morning?'
"'Do you not feel ill?'
"'Not the least in the world.'
"'Nor wearied? You must no doubt have walked a great deal, and scaling the mountains is so fatiguing. Where have you been?'
"Albert put his hand to his forehead, as if to recollect, but he could not tell.
"'I confess to you,' said he, 'that I know nothing about it. I was much preoccupied. I must have walked without seeing, as I used to do in my childhood; you know I never could answer you when you questioned me.'
"'And during your travels, did you pay any more attention to what you saw?'
"'Sometimes, but not always. I observed many things, but I have forgotten many others, thank God.'
"'And why thank God?'
"'Because there are such horrible things to be seen on the face of the earth!' replied he, rising with a gloomy expression which my aunt had not yet observed in him. She saw that it would not do to make him talk any more, and she ran to announce to my uncle that his son was found. No one yet knew it in the house; no one had seen him enter. His return had left no more trace than his departure.
"My poor uncle, who had shown so much courage in enduring misfortune, had none in the first moments of joy. He swooned away; and when Albert reappeared before him, his face was more agitated than his son's. Albert, who since his long journey had not seemed to notice any emotion in those around him, appeared entirely renewed and different from what he had been before. He lavished a thousand caresses on his father, was troubled at seeing him so changed, and wished to know the cause. But when they ventured to acquaint him with it, he never could comprehend it, and all his answers were given with a good faith and earnestness, which proved his complete ignorance of where he had been during the seven days he had disappeared."
"What you have told me seems like a dream, my dear baroness," said Consuelo, "and has set me thinking rather than sleeping. How could a man live seven days without being conscious of any thing?"
"That is nothing compared to what I have yet to relate; and until you have seen for yourself, that, far from exaggerating, I soften matters in order to abridge my tale, you will, I can conceive, have some difficulty in believing me. As for me, who am relating to you what I have seen, I still ask myself sometimes if Albert is a sorcerer, or if he makes fools of us. But it is late, and I really fear that I have imposed upon your patience."
"It is I who impose upon yours," replied Consuelo; "you must be tired of talking. Let us put off till tomorrow evening, if you please, the continuation of this incredible history."
"Till tomorrow then," said the young baroness, embracing her.
CHAPTER XXX
THE incredible history which she had just heard, kept Consuelo, in fact, long awake. The dark, rainy, and tempestuous night also contributed to fill her with superstitious fancies which she had never before experienced. "Is there then some incomprehensible fatality," said she to herself, "which impends over certain individuals? What crime against God could that young girl have committed, who was telling me so frankly just now of her wounded self-love and the vanishing of her fairest dreams? What evil have I myself done, that the sole affection of my heart should be torn from my bleeding bosom? But, alas! what fault has this savage Albert of Rudolstadt been guilty of, that he should thus lose his consciousness and the power of governing his life? What hatred has Providence conceived for Anzoleto, thus to abandon him as it has done, to wicked and perverse inclinations."
Overcome at last by fatigue, she slept, and lost herself in a succession of dreams without connection and without end. Two or three times she awoke and fell asleep again, without being able to understand where she was, and thinking she was still traveling. Porpora, Anzoleto, Count Zustiniani, Corilla, all passed in turn before her eyes, saying sad and strange things to her, and reproaching her with some unknown crime, for which she was obliged to undergo punishment, without being able to remember that she had ever committed it. But all these visions disappeared to give place to that of Count Albert, who passed continually before her with his black beard, his fixed and motionless eyes, and his suit of mourning trimmed with gold, and sometimes sprinkled with tears like a funeral pall.
On opening her eyes in the morning, fully awake, she found Amelia already dressed with elegance, fresh and smiling, beside her bed.
"Do you know, my dear Porporina," said the young baroness, as she imprinted a kiss upon her brow, "that there is something strange about you? I must be destined to live with extraordinary beings, for you also are certainly one. I have been looking at you asleep for the last quarter of an hour, to see by daylight if you are handsomer than I am. I confess to you that this matter is of some consequence to me, and that notwithstanding I have entirely abjured my love for Albert, I should be somewhat piqued if he looked upon you with interest. Do you think that strange? The reason is, he is the only man here, and hitherto I have been the only woman. Now we are two, and we shall pull caps if you extinguish me completely."
"You are pleased to jest," replied Consuelo, "and it is not generous on your part. But will you leave aside your raillery, and tell me what there is extraordinary in my appearance? Perhaps all my ugliness has come back. Indeed that must be the case."
"I will tell you the truth, Nina. At the first glimpse I caught of you this morning, your paleness, your large eyes only half closed and rather fixed than asleep, and your thin arm which lay stretched on the coverlet, gave me a moment's triumph. And then, looking at you longer, I was almost terrified by your immobility and your truly regal attitude. Your arm I will maintain is that of a queen, and your calmness has in it something commanding and overpowering, for which I cannot account. Now, I think you are fearfully beautiful, and yet there is a sweetness in your countenance. Tell me who you are. You attract and intimidate me. I feel ashamed of the follies I related of myself last night. You have not yet told me anything of yourself, and yet you are acquainted with nearly all my defects."
"If I have the air of a queen, of which I never was aware," replied Consuelo, smiling sadly, "it must be the piteous air of a dethroned one. As to my beauty, it has always seemed to me very problematical; and as to the opinion I have of you, dear Baroness Amelia, it is all in favor of your frankness and good nature."
"I am indeed frank—but are you so, Nina? Yes, you have an air of grandeur and royalty. But are you confiding? I do not believe that you are."
"It was not my place to be so first—that you will allow. It was for you, protectress and mistress of my destiny as you are at this moment, to make the first advances."
"You are right. But your strong sense terrifies me. If I seem a scatter-brain, you will not lecture me too much, will you?"
"I have no right to do so. I am your mistress in music, and in nothing else. Beside, a poor daughter of the people, like me, will always know how to keep her place."
"You a daughter of the people, high-spirited Porporina! Oh! you deceive me; it is impossible. I should sooner believe you the mysterious offspring of some family of princes. What was your mother?"
"She sang, as I do."
"And your father?"
Consuelo was struck dumb. She had not prepared all her answers to the rather indiscreet questions of the little baroness. In truth she had never heard her father spoken of, and had never even thought of asking if she had one.
"Come," said Amelia, bursting into a laugh, "I was sure I was right; your father is some grandee of Spain, or some doge of Venice."
This style of speaking seemed to Consuelo trifling and offensive.
"So," said she, with some displeasure, "an honest mechanic or a poor artist has no right to transmit natural distinction to his child? Is it absolutely necessary that the children of common people should be coarse and misshapen?"
"That last word is an epigram for my aunt Wenceslawa," replied the baroness, laughing still more loudly. "Come, my dear, forgive me if I do plague you a little, and permit me to fashion in my own brain a more attractive romance about you. But dress yourself quickly, my child; for the bell will soon ring, and my aunt would let the family die of hunger rather than have breakfast served without you. I will help you to open your trunks; give me the keys. I am sure that you have brought the prettiest dresses from Venice, and I am dying to see all the new fashions—I have lived so long in this country of savages."
Consuelo, in a hurry to arrange her hair, gave the keys, without hearing what had been said, and Amelia hastened to open a trunk which she imagined was full of dresses; but to her great surprise she found only a mass of old music, printed rolls worn out by long use, and apparently illegible manuscripts.
"Ah? what is all this?" cried she, hastily shaking the dust from her pretty fingers. "You have a droll wardrobe there, my dear child."
"They are treasures; treat them with respect, my dear baroness," replied Consuelo. "There are among them the autographs of the greatest masters, and I would rather lose my voice than not return them safely to Porpora, who has confided them to me." Amelia opened a second trunk, and found it full of ruled paper, treatises on music, and other books on composition, harmony, and counterpoint.
"Ah! I understand," said she laughing; "this is your jewel-box."
"I have no other," replied Consuelo, "and I hope you will use it often."
"Very well: I see you are a severe mistress. But may one ask, without offending you, my dear Nina, where you have put your dresses?"
"At the bottom of this little box," replied Consuelo, opening it, and showing the baroness a little dress of black silk, carefully and freshly folded.
"Is that all?" said Amelia.
"That is all," replied Consuelo, "with my traveling dress. In a few days I shall make a second black dress, for a change."
"Ah! my dear child, then you are in mourning?"
"Perhaps so, signora," replied Consuelo, gravely.
"In that case forgive me. I ought to have known from your manner that you had some sorrow at your heart, and I shall love you quite as well for it. We shall sympathize even sooner; for I also have many causes of sadness, and might even now wear mourning for my intended husband. Ah! my dear Nina, do not be provoked at my gaiety; It is often merely an effort to conceal the deepest suffering." They kissed each other, and went down to breakfast, where they found the family waiting for them.
Consuelo saw, at the first glance, that her modest black dress and her white neckerchief, closed even to the chin by a pin of jet, gave the canoness a very favorable opinion of her. Old Christian was a little less embarrassed and quite as affable toward her as the evening before. Baron Frederick, who through courtesy had refrained that day from going to the chase, could not find a word to say, although he had prepared a thousand fine speeches to thank her for the attentions she would pay to his daughter. But he took a seat beside her at the table, and set himself to help her with an importunity so child-like and minute, that he had no time to satisfy his own appetite. The chaplain asked her in what order the patriarch arranged the procession at Venice, and questioned her upon the appearance and ornaments of the churches. He saw by her answers that she had visited them frequently; and when he knew that she had learned to sing in the divine service, he testified the utmost respect for her.
As for Count Albert, Consuelo hardly dared to raise her eyes to him, precisely because he was the only one who inspired her with a lively feeling of curiosity. She did not even know what sort of a reception he had given her. Once only she looked at him in a mirror as she crossed the saloon, and saw that he was dressed with some care, although still in black. But although possessing all the distinguished appearance of a man of high birth, his untrimmed beard and hair, and pallid complexion, gave him rather the pensive and neglected air of a handsome fisherman of the Adriatic, than that of a German noble.
