CHAPTER LX

CONSUELO was deeply affected by an explanation which restored to her her self-respect, and tranquilized her conscience. Until this moment she had often feared that she had imprudently yielded to the dictates of her generosity and her courage, but now she received their sanction and recompense. Her joyful tears mingled with those of the old man, and they both remained for some time too deeply agitated to continue the conversation.

Nevertheless Consuelo did not yet understand the proposition which had been made to her, and the count, thinking that he had sufficiently explained himself, regarded her silence and her tears as signs of assent and gratitude. "I will go," said he at last, "and bring my son to your feet, in order that he may unite his blessings with mine on learning the extent of his happiness."

"Stop, my lord!" said Consuelo, astonished at this haste. "I do not understand what you require of me. You approve of the attachment which Count Albert has manifested for me, and my gratitude and devotion toward him. You have given me your confidence, you know that I will not betray it; but how can I engage to consecrate my whole life to a friendship of so delicate a nature? I see clearly that you depend on time and my reason to preserve you son's health of mind and to calm the enthusiasm of his attachment for me. But I do not know if I shall long have that power; and even if such an intimacy were not dangerous for so excitable a nature as his, I am not free to devote my days to that glorious task. I am not my own mistress."

"O Heavens! what do you say, Consuelo? Did you not understand me, then? Or did you deceive me in saying that you were free, that you had no attachment of the heart, no engagement, no family?"

"But, my lord," said Consuelo, stupified, "I have an object, a vocation, a calling; I belong to the art to which I have devoted myself since my childhood."

"Great Heavens! what do you say? Do you wish to return to the stage?"

"On that point I am not decided, and I spoke the truth in affirming that my inclination did not lead me thither. I have hitherto experienced only excruciating sufferings in that stormy career, but I feel nevertheless that I should be rash in resolving to renounce it. It has been my destiny, and perhaps I cannot withdraw myself from the future which has been traced out for me. Whether I again appear on the stage, or only give lessons and concerts, I am still—I must be—a singer. What should I be good for otherwise? Where can I attain independence? In what pursuit can I occupy my mind, accustomed as it is to labor and nursed by sweet sounds?"

"O Consuelo, Consuelo!" cried Count Christian, sadly, "what you say is too true. But I thought you loved my son, and now I see that you do not love him!"

"And what if I should learn to love him with the passion which I must feel in order to sacrifice myself for him, my lord?" cried Consuelo, growing impatient in her turn. "Do you think it absolutely impossible for a woman to feel love for Count Albert that you ask me to remain always with him?"

"What! can I have explained myself so badly, or do you think me crazy, dear Consuelo? Have I not asked your heart and your hand for my son? Have I not placed at our feet a legitimate and certainly an honorable alliance? If you loved Albert, you would doubtless find in the happiness of sharing his life a sufficient recompense for the loss of your glory and your triumphs. But you do not love him, since you consider it impossible to renounce what you call your destiny!"

This explanation had been tardy, even without the good Christian being aware of it. It was not without a mixture of terror and of extreme repugnance that the old nobleman had sacrificed to the happiness of his son all the ideas which he had cherished through life, all the prejudices of his caste; and even when, after a long and painful struggle with Albert and with himself, he had completed the sacrifice, he could not without an effort pronounce the absolute ratification of so terrible an act.

Consuelo perceived or guessed this; for at the moment when Count Christian appeared to despair of obtaining her consent to this marriage, there certainly was upon the old man's countenance an expression of involuntary joy, mingled with strange consternation.

Consuelo understood her situation in an instant, and a feeling of pride, perhaps a little too personal, served to increase her repugnance for the match proposed to her.

"You wish that I should marry Count Albert?" said she, still stunned by so strange a proposal. "You consent to call me daughter, give me your name, present me to your relatives and friends? Ah, my lord, how very deeply you love your son, and how much should your son love you!"

"If you find so much generosity in that, Consuelo, it is because your heart cannot conceive an equal amount, or that the object does not appear to you worthy of it."

"My lord," replied Consuelo, endeavoring to collect her thoughts, and hiding her face in her hands, "I must be dreaming. My pride is roused despite of my efforts at the idea of the humiliation to which I would be exposed should I accept the sacrifice suggested by your paternal love."

"And who would dare to offer them, Consuelo, when father and son should unite in shielding you with their legitimate ægis of protection?"

"And the canoness, my lord? she who fills here the post of a mother, would she see all that unmoved?"

"She would join her prayers to ours, if you promise to allow yourself to be persuaded. Do not ask more than the weakness of human nature can grant. A lover, a father, can undergo the grief and humiliation of a refusal; my sister could not. But with the certainty of success, we shall lead her to your arms."

"My lord," said Consuelo, trembling, "did Count Albert inform you that I loved him?"

"No," replied the count, suddenly recollecting himself; "Albert assured me the obstacle would be in your own heart; he has told me so a hundred times, but I could not believe him. Your reserve appeared to be founded on rectitude and delicacy, but I thought that in removing your scruples, I should obtain the avowal you refused to him."

"And what did he mention of our walk today?"

"A single word; 'Try, my father; it is the only way of ascertaining whether pride or estrangement closes her heart against me.'"

"Alas, my lord, what will you think when I say that I do not know myself?"

"I must think that it is estrangement, my dear Consuelo. Oh, my son, what a destiny is thine! You cannot gain the love of the only woman on whom you could bestow your own. This last misfortune is all that was needed."

"Oh, Heavens! you must hate me, my lord. You do not understand that my pride resists, when yours is overcome. Perhaps the pride of a person in my situation may appear to have slight foundation, and yet at this moment there is as violent a combat waging in my heart, as that in which you yourself have proved victorious."

"I know it. Do not think, signora, that I so lightly esteem modesty, rectitude, and disinterestedness, as not to appreciate your lofty feelings. But what paternal love can overcome, I think woman's love may do also; you see, I speak without reserve. Well, suppose that Albert's whole life, yours, and mine, should prove a continual struggle against the prejudices of the world; suppose we were to suffer long and much, would not our mutual tenderness, the approval of our conscience, and the fruits of our devotion render us stronger than this world united? Toils which seem heavy to you and to us, are lightened by devoted love. But this love you timidly seek in the depths of your soul, and do not find, Consuelo, because it is not there."

"Yes, that is indeed the question," said Consuelo, pressing her hands upon her heart; "the rest is nothing. I, too, had prejudices; your example proves that I ought to overcome them and be great and heroic like you. Let us then speak no more of my aversion, my false shame. Let us not even speak of the future—of my profession," added she sighing deeply. "I could renounce all—if—if I loved Albert. This is what I must find out. Listen to me, my lord. I have asked myself this question a hundred times, but never so seriously as I now can with your consent. How could I seriously interrogate myself when even the question seemed a madness and a crime? Now I think I may know and decide, but I ask a few days to collect my thoughts, to discover whether this devotion which I experience toward him, the unlimited esteem, great goodwill and respect which his virtues inspire, the extraordinary sympathy and strange power which he exercises over me, be love or admiration; for I experience all this, and yet it is combated by an indefinable terror, profound sadness, and—I shall tell you every thing, my noble friend—by the memory of a love less enthusiastic, but far more sweet and tender, and in nothing resembling this."

"Strange and noble girl!" replied Christian with emotion, "what wisdom and at the same time what strange ideas, in your words and thoughts! You resemble my poor Albert in many respects, and the agitation and uncertainty of your feelings recall to me my wife—my noble, my beautiful, my melancholy Wanda! O, Consuelo! you awaken in me a recollection at once tender and bitter in the extreme. I was about to say to you: surmount these irresolutions, triumph over these dislikes, love—from virtue, from greatness of soul, from compassion, from the effort of a noble and pious charity—this poor man who adores you, and who, while perhaps making you unhappy, will owe his salvation to you, and will entitle you to a heavenly recompense. But you have recalled to my mind his mother—his mother, who gave herself to me from duty and from friendship. She could not feel for me, a simple, gentle, timid man, the enthusiasm with which her imagination burned. Still she was faithful and generous to the last; but how she suffered! Alas! her affection was at once my joy and my punishment; her constancy, my pride and my remorse. She died in suffering, and my heart was broken forever. And now, if I am a useless being, worn out, dead before being buried, do not be too much astonished, Consuelo. I have suffered what no one has ever known, what I have never spoken to any one, and what I now confess to you with trembling. Ah! rather than induce you to make such a sacrifice, rather than advise Albert to accept it, may my eyes close in sadness and my son at once sink under his sad fate. I know too well the cost of endeavoring to force nature and combating the insatiable desires of the soul. Take time therefore to reflect, my daughter," added the old count, pressing Consuelo to his breast, which heaved with emotion, and kissing her noble brow with a father's love. "It will be much better so. If you must refuse, Albert, when prepared by anxious uncertainty, will not be so utterly prostrated as he would now be by the frightful news."

They separated with this understanding; and Consuelo, stealing through the galleries in fear of meeting Anzoleto, shut herself up in her chamber, overpowered with emotion and fatigue.

At first she endeavored to take a little rest, in order to attain the calmness which she felt to be necessary. She felt exhausted, and, throwing herself on her bed, she soon fell into a state of torpor, which was more painful than refreshing. She had wished to go to sleep while thinking of Albert, in order that in her dreams she might perhaps be visited with one of those mysterious revelations which sometimes serve to guide and mature our decisions. But the interrupted dreams which she had for several hours, constantly recalled Anzoleto, instead of Albert, to her thoughts. It was always Venice, always the Corte Minelli, always her first love, calm, smiling, and poetic!

Every time she awoke, the remembrance of Albert was connected with the gloomy grotto; or the sound of his violin, echoing ten-fold in the solitude, evoked the dead, and wailed over the freshly closed tomb of Zdenko. Fear and sorrow thus closed her heart against the impulses of affection. The future which was required of her, seemed filled with chill darkness and bloody visions, while the radiant and fruitful past occupied all her thoughts, and caused her heart to beat. It seemed then as if she heard her voice echoing in space, filling all nature, and mounting upward even to the immeasurable heavens; but when the sounds of the violin recurred to her memory, it seemed as if her voice became hoarse and hollow, and died away in mournful wailings in the depths of the earth.

These wandering visions fatigued her so much that she rose in order to dispel them; the first sound of the bell informed her that dinner would be served in half an hour, and she went to her toilet, her mind still full of the same ideas. But how strange!—for the first time in her life she was more attentive to the mirror, and the adjustment of her attire, than to the serious problems she would fain resolve. She made herself beautiful in spite of herself, and wished to be so. It was not to awaken jealousy in rival lovers that this coquettish whim had seized her, for she thought and could think only of one. Albert had never made an allusion to her appearance. In the enthusiasm of passion he perhaps deemed her more beautiful than she was; but his thoughts were so devoted and his love so great, that he would have considered it profanation to have looked at her with the intoxicated gaze of a lover or the satisfied scrutiny of an artist. To him she was always enveloped in a cloud which his gaze never dared to penetrate, and in his thoughts she was ever surrounded by a beaming halo. Whatever she was, he saw her always the same. He had seen her half dead, emaciated, prostrate, more like a specter than a woman. He had then sought in her features with anxiety and attention for the evidence of disease; but he never seemed to perceive moments of ugliness, or dream that she could be an object of terror or disgust. And now that she had recovered the splendor of youth and health, he had never inquired of himself whether she had lost or gained in beauty. She was all to him in life as in death, the ideal of youth, beauty, and sublimity. Therefore Consuelo had never thought of him while arranging her dress before the mirror.

But how different was it with Anzoleto! how carefully had he examined, judged, and compared, on the day that he sought to find if she were ugly. He had taken into account the slightest graces of her form, the least efforts she had made to please. How well was he acquainted with her hair, her arms, her feet, her walk, the colors which became her, even the least fold of her garment; and with what ardent vivacity had he praised her, with what voluptuous languor had he contemplated her! The innocent girl, indeed, had not then understood the emotions of her own heart; nor did she yet understand them, though she felt them not the less at the idea of appearing before him. She was angry with herself, blushed with shame and vexation, and tried to adorn herself for Albert alone, but nevertheless sought out the head-dress, the ribbon, and even the very look that pleased Anzoleto. "Alas! alas!" said she, tearing herself from the mirror when her toilet was completed: "it is true, then, that I can think only of him, and that past happiness exercises a greater power over me than present scorn and the promise of another love! I may look forward to the future, but without him it is but terror and despair. What would it be with him? Ah! well I know that the days of Venice can never return; that innocence can dwell with us no more; that the soul of Anzoleto is utterly corrupt; that his caresses would degrade me, and that our life would be hourly poisoned by shame, jealousy, regret, and fear."

Questioning herself on this point with sincerity, Consuelo saw that she was not deceived, and that she had not the remotest wish to please Anzoleto. She loved him indeed no longer in the present; she almost hated and feared him as regarded the future, in which his faults could only become more aggravated; but then she cherished his memory in the past to such a degree, that neither in heart nor mind could she sever herself from it. He was henceforward to her but as a picture which recalled the adored object of past happiness; but, like one who hides herself from her new husband to look upon the image of the first, she felt that the memory of the past was better than the living present.