CHAPTER XXXI

WHEN the family reassembled toward evening, Consuelo, feeling more at ease with all these people whom she now began to get acquainted with, replied with less reserve and brevity to the questions, which on their part they felt more courage to address to her, respecting her country, her art, and her travels. She carefully avoided, as she had determined, speaking of herself, and she related the events in the midst of which she had lived, without ever mentioning the part she had taken in them. In vain did the curious Amelia strive to lead her to enlarge on her personal adventures. Consuelo did not fall into the snare, nor for an instant betray the incognito she had resolved to maintain. It would be difficult to say precisely why this mystery had a peculiar charm for her. Many reasons induced her to observe it. In the first place, she had promised, even sworn to Porpora, to keep herself so completely hidden and concealed in every manner, that it would be impossible for Anzoleto to discover her route, if he should attempt to pursue her—a very useless precaution, for Anzoleto, at this time, after a few quickly smothered wishes of the kind, was occupied only with his débuts and his success at Venice.

In the second place, Consuelo, wishing to conciliate the esteem and affection of the family who gave her a temporary refuge in her friendless and melancholy situation, understood very well that they would much more readily receive her as a simple musician, a pupil of Porpora, and teacher of vocal music, than as prima donna, a performer on the stage, and a celebrated cantatrice. She knew that among these unpretending and pious people, an avowal of such a position would impose upon her a difficult part; and it is probable that, notwithstanding Porpora's recommendation, the arrival of Consuelo, the débutante, and the wonder of San Samuel, would have somewhat startled them. But even if these powerful motives had not existed, Consuelo would still have experienced the necessity of silence, and of keeping secret the brilliancy and the sufferings of her career. Every thing was linked together in her life—her power and her weakness, her glory and her love. She could not raise the smallest corner of the veil, without laying bare one of the wounds of her soul; and these wounds were still too recent, too painful, too deep, to be healed by kindness or sympathy. She found relief only in the barrier which she had raised between the sorrowful memories of the past and the calm energy of her new existence. This change of country, of scene, and of name, transported her at once into an unknown region, where, by assuming a new character, she hoped to become a new being.

This renunciation of vanities, which might have solaced another woman, proved the salvation of this courageous being. In renouncing all compassion, as well as all human glory, she felt celestial strength come to her aid. "I must regain some portion of my former happiness," she said; "that which I so long enjoyed, and which consisted in loving and in being beloved. The moment I sought their admiration, they withdrew their love, and I have paid too dear for the honors they bestowed in place of their goodwill. Let me begin again, obscure and insignificant, that I may be subjected neither to envy, nor ingratitude, nor enmity on the earth. The least token of sympathy is sweet, and the highest testimony of admiration is mingled with bitterness. If there be proud and strong hearts to whom praise suffices, and whom triumph consoles, I have cruelly experienced that mine is not of the number. Alas! glory has torn my lover's heart from me; let humility yield me in return at least some friends."

It was not thus that Porpora meant. In removing Consuelo from Venice, and from the dangers and agonies of her love, he only intended to procure her some repose before recalling her to the scene of ambition, and launching her afresh into the storms of artistic life. He did not know his pupil. He believed her more of a woman—that is to say, more impressionable than she was. In thinking of her he did not fancy her as calm, affectionate, and busied with others, as she had always been able to become, but plunged in tears and devoured with vain regret. But he thought at the same time that a reaction would take place, and that he should find her cured of her love, and anxious to recommence the exercise of her powers, and enjoy the privileges of her genius.

The pure and religious feeling conceived by Consuelo of the part she was to play in the family of Rudolstadt, spread from this day a holy serenity over her words, her actions, and her countenance. Those who had formerly seen her dazzling with love and joy beneath the sun of Venice, could not easily have understood how she could become all at once calm and gentle in the midst of strangers, in the depths of gloomy forests, with her love blighted, both as regarded the past and the future. But goodness finds strength where pride only meets despair. Consuelo was glorious that evening, with a beauty which she had not hitherto displayed. It was not the half-developed impulse of sleeping nature waiting to be roused, nor the expansion of a power which seizes the spectators with surprise or delight; neither was it the hidden, incomprehensible beauty of the scolare zingarella: no, it was the graceful penetrating charm of a pure and self-possessed woman, governed by her own sacred impulses.

Her gentle and simple hosts needed no other than their generous instincts to drink in, if I may use the expression, the mysterious incense which the angelic soul of Consuelo exhaled in their intellectual atmosphere. They experienced, even in looking at her, a moral elevation which they might have found it difficult to explain, but the sweetness of which filled them as with a new life. Albert seemed for the first time to enjoy the full possession of his faculties. He was obliging and good-natured with every one. He was suitably so with Consuelo, and spoke to her at different times in such terms as showed that he had not relinquished, as might be supposed, the elevated intellect and clear judgment with which nature had endowed him. The baron did not once fall asleep, the canoness ceased to sigh, and Count Christian, who used to sink at night into his arm-chair, bent down under the weight of old age and vexation, remained erect with his back to the chimney, in the center of his family, and sharing in the easy and pleasant conversation, which was prolonged till nine in the evening.

"God has at length heard our prayers," said the chaplain to Count Christian and the canoness, who remained in the saloon after the departure of the baron and the young people. "Count Albert has this day entered his thirtieth year, and this solemn day, so dreaded by him and by ourselves, has passed over calmly and with unspeakable happiness."

"Yes, let us return thanks to God," said the old count. "It may prove but a blessed dream, sent for a moment to comfort us, but I could not help thinking all this day, and this evening in particular, that my son was perfectly cured."

"Brother," replied the canoness, "and you, worthy chaplain, I entreat pardon, but you have always believed Albert to be tormented by the enemy of human kind. For myself, I thought him at issue with opposing powers which disputed the possession of his poor soul, for often when he repeated words of the bad angel, Heaven spoke from his mouth the next moment. Do you recollect what he said yesterday evening during the storm, and his words on leaving us? 'The peace of God has come down on this house.' Albert experienced the miracle in himself, and I believe in his recovery as in the divine promise."

The chaplain was too timid to admit all at once so bold a proposition. He extricated himself from his embarrassment by saying: "Let us ascribe it to Eternal Goodness;" "God reads hidden things;" "The soul should lose itself in God;" and other sentences more consolatory than novel.

Count Christian was divided between the desire of conforming to the somewhat exaggerated asceticism of his good sister, and the respect imposed by the prudent and unquestioning orthodoxy of his confessor.

He endeavored to turn the conversation by speaking of the charming demeanor of Porporina. The canoness, who loved her already, praised her yet more; and the chaplain sanctioned the preference which they experienced for her. It never entered their heads to attribute the miracle which had taken place among them to Consuelo. They accepted the benefit without recognizing its source. It was what Consuelo would have asked of God could she have been consulted.

Amelia was a closer observer. It soon became evident to her that her cousin could conceal the disorder of his thoughts from persons whom he feared, as well as from those whom he wished to please. Before relations and friends of the family whom he either disliked or esteemed, he never betrayed by any outward demonstration the eccentricity of his character. When Consuelo expressed her surprise at what had been related the preceding evening, Amelia, tormented by a secret uneasiness, tried to make her afraid of Count Albert by recitals which had already terrified herself. "Ah, my poor friend," said she, "distrust this deceitful calm; it is a pause which always intervenes between a recent and an approaching crisis. You see him today as I first saw him, when I arrived here in the beginning of last year. Alas! if you were destined to become the wife of such a visionary, and if, to combat your reluctance they had determined to keep you prisoner for an indefinite period in this frightful castle, with surprises, terrors, and agitations for your daily fare—nothing to be seen but tears, exorcisms and extravagances—expecting a cure which will never happen—you would be quite disenchanted with the fine manners of Albert, and the honeyed words of the family."

"It is not credible," said Consuelo, "that they would unite you against your will to a man whom you do not love. You appear to be the idol of your relatives."

"They will not force me; they know that would be impossible. But they forget that Albert is not the only husband who would suit me, and God knows when they will give up the foolish hope that the affection with which I at first regarded him will return. And then my poor father, who has here wherewith to satisfy his passion for the chase, finds himself so well off in this horrible castle, that he will always discover some pretext for retarding our departure. Ah! if you only knew some secret, my dear Nina, to make all the game in the country perish in one night, you would render me an inestimable service."

"I can do nothing, unfortunately, but try to amuse you by giving you lessons in music, and chatting with you in the evenings when you are not inclined to sleep. I shall do my utmost to soothe and to compose you."

"You remind me," said Amelia, "that I have not related the remainder of the story. I shall begin at once, that I may not keep you up too late.

"Some days after his mysterious absence, which he still believed had only lasted seven hours, Albert remarked the absence of the abbé, and asked where he had gone.

"'His presence was no longer necessary,' they replied; 'he returned to his own pursuits. Did you not observe his absence?'

"'I perceived,' replied Albert, 'that something was needful to complete my suffering, but I did not know what it was.'

"'You suffer much then, Albert?' asked the canoness.

"'Much;' he replied, in the tone of a man who had been asked if he had slept well.

"'And the abbé was obnoxious to you?' said Count Christian.

"'Very,' he replied, in the same tone.

"'And why, my son, did you not say so sooner? Why have you borne for so long a time the presence of a man whom you so much disliked, without informing me of it? Do you doubt, my dear child, that I should have quickly terminated your sufferings?'

"'It was but a feeble addition to my grief,' said Albert, with frightful tranquility; 'and your goodness, which I do not doubt, my dear father, would have but slightly relieved it, by giving me another superintendent.'

"'Say another traveling companion, my son; you employ an expression injurious to my tenderness.'

"'Your tenderness was the cause of your anxiety, my father. You could not be aware of the evil you inflicted on me in sending me from this house, where it was designed by Providence I should remain till its plans for me should be accomplished. You thought to labor for my cure and repose; but I knew better what was good for us both—I knew that I should obey you—and this duty I have fulfilled.'

"'I know your virtue and your affection, Albert; but can you not explain yourself more clearly?'

"'That is very easy,' replied Albert; 'and the time is come that I should do so.'

"Albert spoke so calmly that we thought the fortunate moment had arrived when his soul should cease to be a melancholy enigma. We pressed around him, and encouraged him by our looks and caresses to open his heart for the first time in his life. He appeared at length inclined to do so, and spoke as follows:

"'You have always looked upon me,' said he, 'and still continue to look upon me, as in ill-health and a madman. Did I not feel for you all infinite respect and affection, I should, perhaps, have widened the abyss which separates us, and I should have shown you that you are in a world of errors and prejudices, while Heaven has given me access to a sphere of light and truth. But you could not understand me without giving up what constitutes your tranquillity, your security, and your creed. When, borne away by my enthusiasm, imprudent words escaped me, I soon found I had done you harm in wishing to root up your chimeras and display before your enfeebled eyes the burning flame which I bore about with me. All the details and habits of your life, all the fibers of your heart, all the springs of your intellect, are so bound up together, so trammeled with falsehood and darkness, that I should but seem to inflict death instead of life. There is a voice, however, which cries to me in watching and in sleep, in calm and in storm, to enlighten and convert you. But I am too loving and too weak a man to undertake it. When I see your eyes full of tears, your bosoms heave, your foreheads bent down—when I feel that I bring only sorrow and terror—I fly, I hide myself, to resist the cry of conscience and the commands of destiny. Behold the cause of my illness! Behold my torment, my cross, my suffering! Do you understand me now?'

"My uncle, my aunt, and the chaplain, understood this much—that Albert had ideas of morality and religion totally different from their own; but, timid as devout, they feared to go too far, and dared not encourage his frankness. As to myself, I was only imperfectly acquainted with the peculiarities of his childhood and youth, and I did not at all understand it. Besides, I was at this time like yourself, Nina, and knew very little of this Hussitism and Lutheranism which I have since heard so much of, while the controversies between Albert and the chaplain overwhelmed me with weariness. I expected a more ample explanation, but it did not ensue. 'I see,' said Albert, struck with the silence around him, 'that you do not wish to understand me, for fear of understanding too much. Be it so, then. Your blindness has borne bitter fruits. Ever unhappy, ever alone, a stranger among those I love, I have neither refuge nor stay but in the consolation which has been promised me.'

"'What is this consolation, my son?' said Count Christian, deeply afflicted. 'Could it not come from us? Shall we never understand each other?'

"'Never, my father; let us love each other, since that alone is permitted. Heaven is my witness, that our immense and irreparable disagreement has never diminished the love I bear you.'

"'And is not that enough?' said the canoness, taking one hand, while her brother pressed Albert's other hand in his own. 'Can you not forget your wild ideas, your strange belief, and live fondly in the midst of us?'

"'I do live on affection,' replied Albert. 'It is a blessing which produces good or evil, according as our faith is a common one or otherwise. Our hearts are in union, dear Aunt Wenceslawa, but our intellects are at war; and this is a great misfortune for us all. I know it will not end for centuries. Therefore I await the happiness that has been promised me, and which gives me power to hope on.'

"'What is that blessing, Albert? can you not tell me?'

"'No, I cannot tell you, because I do not know. My mother has not allowed a week to pass without announcing it to me in my sleep, and all the voices of the forest have repeated it to me as often as I have questioned them. An angel often hovers above the Stone of Terror, and shows me his pale and luminous face, at that ominous place, under the shade of that oak, where, when my contemporaries called me Ziske, I was transported with the anger of the Lord, and became for the first time the instrument of his vengeance; at the foot of that rock, where, when I called myself Wratislaw, I saw the mutilated and disfigured head of my father Withold stricken off by one blow of a saber—a fearful expiation, which taught me to know sorrow and pity—a day of fatal retribution, when the Lutheran blood washed away the Catholic blood, and made me a weak and tender man in the place of the man of fanaticism and destruction, which I had been a hundred years before——'

"'Divine goodness!' said my aunt, crossing herself, 'his madness has seized him again!'

"'Do not interrupt him, sister,' said Count Christian, making a great effort, 'let him explain himself. Speak, my son, what did the angel say to you upon the Stone of Terror?'

"'He told me that my consolation was near,' replied Albert, his face glowing with enthusiasm, 'and that it would descend upon my heart as soon as I had completed my twenty-ninth year!'

"My uncle dropped his head upon his breast. Albert seemed to allude to his death, in designating the age at which his mother died, and it appears she had often predicted that neither she nor her son would reach the age of thirty. It seems that my aunt Wanda was also somewhat visionary, to say the least; but I have never been able to obtain any precise information on this subject. It is a very sad recollection to my uncle, and no one about him dares to awaken it.

"The chaplain endeavored to banish the unpleasant feeling which this prediction had occasioned, by leading Albert to explain himself respecting the abbé. It was on that point the conversation had begun.

"Albert on his side made a great effort to answer him. 'I speak to you of things divine and eternal,' replied he, after a little hesitation, 'and you recall to my mind the short and fleeting concerns of time—those childish and ephemeral cares, the record of which is almost effaced within me.'

"'Speak, my son, speak!' returned Count Christian; 'we must strive to know you this day.'

"'You have never known me, father,' replied Albert, 'and you will not know me in what you call this life. But if you wish to know why I traveled, why I endured that unfaithful and careless guardian, whom you had attached to my steps like a greedy and lazy dog to the arm of a blind man, I will tell you in a few words. I had caused you enough of suffering. It was my duty to withdraw from your sight, a son rebellious to your teachings and deaf to your remonstrances. I knew well that I should not be cured of what you called my insanity, but you required both repose and hope, and I consented to remove myself. You exacted from me a promise that I would not separate, without your consent, from the guide you had given me, and that I would permit myself to be conducted by him over the world. I wished to keep my promise. I wished also that he should sustain your hope and your confidence, by giving you an account of my gentleness and patience. I was gentle and patient. I closed my heart and my ears against him; he had the sagacity not even to think of opening them. He led me about, dressed me, and fed me like a child. I renounced the idea of fulfilling the duties of life as I thought they ought to be fulfilled. I accustomed myself to see misery, injustice, and folly reign upon the earth. I have seen men and their institutions, and indignation has given place to pity in my heart, for I have seen that the misfortunes of the oppressed were less than those of their oppressors. In my childhood I loved only the victims: now I feel charity for the executioners—melancholy penitents, who endure in this generation the punishment of crimes which they have committed in former existences, and whom God condemns to be wicked, a suffering which is a thousand times more cruel than that of being their innocent prey. This is why I now give alms only to relieve myself personally from the weight of riches, without tormenting you with my sermonizing—knowing, as I now do, that the time has not yet come for happiness, since the time for being good, to speak the language of men, is still far off.'

"'And now that you are delivered from this superintendent, as you call him, now that you can live tranquilly, without having before your eyes the spectacle of miseries which you extinguish one by one about you, without being restrained by any one in your generous disposition, can you not make an effort to banish these mental disquietudes?'

"'Do not ask me any more questions, my dear parents,' replied Albert; 'I shall not speak any more today.'

"He kept his word and even more; for he did not open his lips for a whole week.