Consuelo, p.53
Consuelo, page 53
"Did I not say truly, Joseph," said Consuelo, "that we alone are rich in the world, who pay no tax on our voice, and only labor when we please?"
The hour for repose having now arrived, Consuelo felt so much fatigued that she had fallen asleep on a bench before the door. Joseph, meanwhile, inquired about beds from the farmer's wife.
"Beds, my child?" replied she, smiling; "if we can give you one it will be very well, and you must be content with it."
This reply made the blood rush into poor Joseph's face. He looked at Consuelo, and finding she did not hear a word of what passed, he suppressed his emotion.
"My companion is sadly tired," said he, "and if you could give him a little bed to himself we will pay you whatever you ask. As for myself, a corner in the barn or in the stable will do very well."
"Oh, if the boy is ill, we will on that account give him a bed in the common room; our three daughters can sleep together. But tell him to be very quiet and orderly, or else my husband or son-in-law, who sleep on the same floor, will soon bring him to reason."
"I can answer for the good conduct of my companion; but perhaps he may still prefer sleeping in the hay to a chamber where there are so many people."
The good Joseph had now to awaken Signor Bertoni in order to acquaint him with this arrangement. Consuelo was not shocked as he expected. She thought as the three girls slept in the same room as the father and son-in-law, she would be safer there than elsewhere, and having wished Joseph a good night, she glided behind the four curtains of brown woolen which inclosed the bed, and, scarcely taking time to undress, she soon slept soundly.
CHAPTER LXIX
AFTER a few hours of deep and dreamless repose, she was awakened by the continued noises around her. On one side the old grandmother, whose bed almost touched hers, coughed and wheezed distressingly; on the other was a young woman who suckled her infant, and sang lullabies to sooth it to sleep again; there were men who snored like horses, boys four in a bed quarreling with each other, women rising to quiet them and only adding to the uproar by their threats and chidings. This perpetual annoyance, the crying children, the dirt, the heavy odors and heated atmosphere, became so disagreeable to Consuelo, that she could not bear it any longer. She dressed herself quietly, and seizing a moment when every one was asleep, she left the house and sought a corner where she could repose till daybreak.
She thought she would rest better in the open air. Having walked all the preceding night, she did not feel the cold; but, besides that she was now overwhelmed with fatigue and in a condition very different from the excitement consequent on her departure, the climate of this elevated region was keener than the neighborhood of Riesenburg. She shuddered, and a sense of severe indisposition made her fear she would be unable to support one day's journey after another, without resting at night, when the beginning proved so disagreeable. In vain she reproached herself with having turned into a princess, in consequence of her luxurious life at the castle. She would have given all the world for an hour's good sleep.
However, not venturing to re-enter the house lest she should awaken or displease her hosts, she sought the barn, and finding the floor partly open, crept in. Every thing was silent. Thinking that the place was empty, she lay down on a heap of straw; the heat and the wholesome odor appeared delicious.
She was just falling asleep, when she felt on her face a warm moist breath, which was suddenly withdrawn with a snort and what seemed to her a stifled imprecation. Her first apprehension being allayed, she perceived in the twilight a huge head surmounted by two formidable horns, just above her. It was that of a fine cow which had thrust its head into the rack, and having breathed on her, drew back affrighted. Consuelo withdrew into the corner, so as not to disturb her, and fell fast asleep. Her ear soon grew accustomed to all the noises of the place, to the clank of chains, the bellowing of heifers, and the rubbing of their horns against the bars. She did not awake even when the milkmaids came in to drive out the beasts to be milked in the open air. The dark corner where Consuelo had taken refuge hindered her from being observed, and the sun was high in the heavens when she next opened her eyes. Buried in the straw, she enjoyed for a few moments the comfort of her situation, and was delighted at feeling herself refreshed and rested, and ready to resume her journey without effort or inquietude.
When she started up to look for Joseph, the first object she encountered was Joseph himself seated beside her.
"You have occasioned me great uneasiness, Signor Bertoni," said he. "When the young women informed me that you were not in the apartment, and that they did not know what had become of you, I sought you everywhere, and it was only in despair that I returned here where I passed the night, and where, to my great surprise, I have found you. I left the barn in the gray of the morning, and had little idea that you were then close by me, and under the very nose of this animal who might have hurt you. Really, signora, you are very rash, and you do not reflect on all the perils to which you expose yourself."
"You see, Joseph," replied Consuelo, "that in my imprudence Heaven does not abandon me, since it conducted me to you. It was Providence who caused me to meet you yesterday morning by the fountain, when you shared your goodwill and your bread with me, and it was the same Providence which confided me this night to your brotherly care."
She then related to him, laughing, the disagreeable night she had passed in the common room, and how happy and tranquil she felt among the cows.
"Is it true then," said Joseph, "that the beasts have a more agreeable habitation and better manners than those who take care of them?"
"That is just what I was thinking of before I fell asleep in this manger. These animals caused me neither terror nor disgust, and I blamed myself for having contracted so aristocratic habits, that the society of my equals, and contact with their indigence, has become insupportable to me. How comes it so, Joseph? He who is born in poverty, should not experience, when he falls back into it, the disdainful repugnance to which I have yielded. When the heart is not perverted in the lap of luxury, why should one remain fastidious, as I have been tonight in shunning the nauseous warmth and noisy confusion of this poor swarming human hive?"
"It is because cleanliness, purity, and order are doubtless wants of all elevated minds," replied Joseph. "Whoever is born an artist has the feeling of the beautiful and the good, just as he feels aversion for the hateful and ugly. And poverty is ugly! I am myself a peasant; I was born in a cottage. But my parents were artists, and our house although small was neat and orderly. It is true that our poverty bordered on comfort, while excessive privation takes away even the sense of what is better."
"Poor people!" said Consuelo, "if I were rich I would forthwith build them a house; and were I a queen, I would put down these taxes, these Jews, and these monks who prey upon them."
"If you were rich you would never think of it; if you were a queen you would not do it. Thus runs the world."
"The world runs very badly then."
"Alas! yes; and without music, which transports the soul into an ideal world, we would be miserable when we think of what is going on here below."
"It is easy to talk of being miserable, Joseph, what good does it do? it is better to grow rich, and remain happy."
"And how is that possible, unless all poor people were to turn artists?"
"That is not a bad idea, Joseph. If the poor had a love of art, it would ennoble their sufferings and lighten their misery. There would then exist no longer uncleanliness, discouragement, or neglect; and the rich would no longer harass and despise the poor. Artists, you know, are always somewhat respected."
"Ah! I never thought of that before," replied Hadyn. "Art then may have a serious aim, and one truly useful to mankind?"
"What! did you think it was no better than an amusement?"
"No, I held it to be a disease, a passion, a storm raging in the heart, a fever that communicated itself to others—in short if you know what it is, tell me."
"I will tell you when I find out myself, Joseph; but it is something very great; no doubt of that. Come, let us set out, and do not forget your violin—your only inheritance, friend Beppo, and the foundation of our future opulence."
They commenced by making preparations for breakfast, which they intended to eat upon the grass in some romantic spot; but when Joseph pulled out his purse and proposed to pay, the farmer's wife smiled and would not hear of it. Whatever Consuelo could say she would take nothing, and she even watched her young guests to see that they slipped nothing to the children. "Recollect," said she, with some little evidence of disdain, "that my husband is noble by birth, and that misfortune has not so far reduced him as to cause him to sell his hospitality."
"This pride seems to me rather superfluous," said Joseph to his companion when they had once more set out. "There is more pride than charity in the feeling which animates them."
"I see nothing in it," said Consuelo, "but what is charitable, and I am ashamed at heart and repent to think that I could not put up with a house that harbored a wanderer like myself. Ah! accursed refinement, foolish delicacy of the spoiled children of the world!—thou art a malady, since thou art health to some only at the expense of others!"
"For a great artist like you," said Joseph, "I think you are somewhat too sensitive to worldly matters. Methinks an artist should be rather more indifferent to what does not beseem his profession. They said in the inn at Klatau, where they talked about you and the Castle of the Giants, that Count Albert of Rudolstadt was a great philosopher with all his eccentricity. You knew very well, signora, that one could not be both artist and philosopher, therefore you took yourself off. Do not trouble yourself any more then with human misfortune, and let us resume yesterday's lesson."
"With all my heart, Beppo; but first learn that Count Albert is a greater artist than us both, philosopher as he is."
"Indeed?" said Joseph with a sigh, "he seems to want no quality then to make him beloved."
"Nothing in my eyes but that of being poor and of humble birth," answered Consuelo; and interested by the attention which Joseph paid to her remarks, and stimulated by his timid questions, she yielded to the pleasure she felt in speaking openly and fully respecting her betrothed. Each reply brought on a fresh explanation, until from one circumstance to another she came to relate minutely all the particulars of her preference for Albert. This confidence in a youth whom she had only known since the preceding morning, would, under any other circumstances, have been imprudent. Certainly these circumstances alone could justify it. However, Consuelo yielded to an irresistible impulse in recalling to her own mind and confiding to a friendly heart the virtues of her betrothed. And as she spoke she had the satisfaction of feeling that she loved Albert more than she could have supposed when promising to endeavor to love but him. Her imagination rose to a loftier height the greater the distance that intervened; and all that was beautiful, and great, and excellent in his character, appeared in a more brilliant light when she felt herself no longer under the necessity of hastily coming to a positive decision. Her pride was soothed by the idea that she could no longer be accused of ambition, for in flying him she renounced in some measure the worldly advantages connected with the proposed union. She could therefore without shame or restraint yield to the impulses of her soul. Anzoleto's name never once passed her lips, and she felt with pleasure that she had not once thought of mentioning him in the account of her stay in Bohemia.
These disclosures, however rash or misplaced, brought about the best results. They made Joseph understand how much Consuelo's affections were pre-occupied; and the vague hopes which he had ventured to cherish, vanished like dreams, the very memory of which he hastened to forget. After one or two hours' silence which succeeded this animated conversation, he formed the firm resolution to see in Consuelo neither a beautiful siren nor a dangerous companion, but a great artist and a noble-minded woman, whose advice and friendship would exercise the happiest influence on his life.
As much to regain her confidence as to raise up a barrier against rash desires, he opened his heart to her, and told her how he also was in a manner engaged. The romance of his affection was less poetical than that of Consuelo, but he who knows the issue of this romance in Hadyn's after life, is aware that it was not less noble-minded or less pure. He had evinced a preference for the daughter of his generous host, Keller the barber, and the latter seeing this innocent attachment, said to him: "Joseph, I confide in thee; thou dost appear to love my daughter, and I see that she is not indifferent to thee. If thou art as honest and successful as thou art grateful and laborious, thou shalt be my son-in law." In a moment of exaggerated gratitude, Joseph had sworn—promised; and though his betrothed did not inspire him with the least passion, he considered himself bound to her forever.
He related all this with a feeling of melancholy, suggested by the difference between his actual position and his intoxicating dreams with reference to Consuelo. Nevertheless, the latter looked upon it as evincing the warmth of his attachment for Keller's daughter. He did not venture to undeceive her, and consequently her esteem and confidence in Beppo's good faith increased proportionately.
Their progress therefore was not interrupted by any of those symptoms of love, which might have been anticipated from a tête-à-tête journey of two amiable, intelligent, and sympathetic young persons for fifteen days together, although Joseph felt not the slightest love for Keller's daughter. He allowed the fidelity of his conscience to be taken for that of his heart, and though his bosom chafed, he knew so well how to subdue his feelings, that his unsuspecting companion never had the least suspicion of the truth. When Haydn in his old age read the first book of Rousseau's Confessions, he smiled through his tears as he recalled to mind his journey through the Böehmer Wald with Consuelo—trembling love and pious innocence their only guardians.
CHAPTER LXX
HAYDN never had reason to regret his journey, nor the sufferings to which it had subjected him, for he made considerable progress in Italian, and acquired a more thorough knowledge of music than he ever had before. During their long halts in the shady recesses of the Böehmer Wald, the young artists revealed to each other all their genius and skill. Though Joseph Haydn sang well, and played agreeably on the violin and other instruments, he soon saw, when listening to Consuelo, that she was infinitely his superior, and that she could make him an excellent artist without Porpora's aid. But Haydn's ambition was not confined to singing merely, and Consuelo, seeing him so backward as to the practical part, while in theory he was so lofty and correct, said to him one day, smiling; "I am not sure that I am right to confine you to vocal music, for, if you once become attached to the profession of singer, you will perhaps sacrifice to it the still higher powers which you possess. Let me look at your composition. Notwithstanding my long and arduous study of counterpoint with so severe a master as Porpora, what I have learned only suffices to enable me to understand the creations of genius, and I have no longer time, even had I sufficient ability, to produce original works; whereas, if you indeed possess creative power, you should follow this path, and only look upon singing and instrumentation as materials."
Since Haydn had met Consuelo, he had, in fact, thought only of becoming a singer. To follow or live near her, to find her everywhere in his wandering life, had become his ardent dream during the last few days. He therefore hesitated to show her his first manuscript, although he had it with him, having written it out before going to Pilsen. He feared equally to appear deficient as to display talents that might induce him to combat his desire to be a singer. However he yielded at last, and half willingly and half reluctantly he allowed her to get possession of the mysterious manuscript. It was a little sonata for the harpsichord, which he intended for his pupils. Consuelo read it with her eyes, while Joseph marveled to see her comprehend it as easily as if she had heard him play it. She afterward made him try different passages on the violin, and sang those herself which were practicable for the voice. I know not if Consuelo divined from this trifle the future author of The Creation, and so many other remarkable works; but assuredly she foresaw in him an able master, and said, as she returned his manuscript:
"Courage, Beppo! thou art already a distinguished artist, and mayest be a distinguished composer, if thou wilt only study. Thou hast ideas, that is certain; with these and science much may be done. Acquire science, therefore, and let us triumph over Porpora's temper; for he is the master that you require. But think no longer of the stage; thy place is elsewhere, and thy baton of command is the pen. Thou must not obey, but rule. When you may become the animating soul, would you rank yourself among the machinery? Come then, thou maestro in the bud! study shakes and cadences no more: only study where you are to place them in your compositions, and not how they are to be executed. This concerns your very humble servant and subordinate, who requests from you the post of prima donna in the first mezzo-soprano part that you intend to write."
