CHAPTER XCI

IN the uncertainty under which she labored respecting her future fate, Consuelo, hoping perhaps by such a step to find some comfort or assistance, at last decided to write to Count Christian of Rudolstadt, and inform him of her position with respect to Porpora, of the efforts which the latter was making to bring her again upon the stage, and of the hope she cherished of seeing them fail. She spoke to him with perfect sincerity, expatiated upon the gratitude, devotedness, and submission which she owed to her old master, and, confiding to him the fears she entertained respecting Albert, requested him to dictate to her immediately the letter she ought to write to the latter, in order to calm his mind and inspire him with confidence toward her. She concluded with these words: "I requested time from your lordship to examine my heart and to decide. I am resolved to keep my word, and I can safely affirm that I feel sufficient strength in myself to close my heart and mind to all conflicting fancies, as well as to all new affections. And yet, if I once more return to the stage, I take a step which is in appearance an infraction of my promises, a formal renunciation of the hope of keeping them. I wish your lordship to judge of my conduct, or rather of the circumstances in which I am unfortunately placed. I see no means of escaping from them without being guilty of a dereliction of duty. I anxiously await your advice, which is so superior to any judgment I could myself form, but which I cannot think will contradict the dictates of my conscience."

When this letter was sealed and intrusted to Joseph to despatch, Consuelo felt more tranquil, as generally happens when, in a difficult crisis, we have found some means of gaining time, and putting off the decisive moment. She therefore prepared to accompany Porpora on a visit, in his opinion important and decisive, to the celebrated and highly praised imperial poet, the Abbé Metastasio.

This illustrious personage was about fifty years of age, and possessed a good figure and captivating manners. He conversed admirably, and Consuelo would have been much prepossessed in his favor if, on her way to the mansion which Keller and the poet inhabited jointly, though at different altitudes, she had not had the following conversation with Porpora:

"Consuelo" (it is Porpora who is speaking), "you are going to see a handsome, keen looking man, with a fresh color and a constant smile upon his lips, and who, nevertheless, would have you believe that he is the prey of a cruel and dangerous disease; a man who eats, drinks, sleeps, grows fat like his neighbors, and who, nevertheless, imagines that he is sleepless, starving, the victim of exhaustion and decline. Do not be so awkward, when he laments his maladies, as to tell him that he has no appearance of ill health, that his complexion is good, or any other similar remark; for he must be sympathized with and bewailed beforehand. Neither must you speak to him of death or the dead; for he is a coward, and fears to die. And yet do not be so silly as to say on leaving him that you hope his precious health will soon be restored; for he wishes it to be imagined that he is dying, and if he could succeed in making others believe that he is at the point of death, he would be quite satisfied, so that he does not think so himself."

"What a silly idea!" replied Consuelo, "and how unworthy of a great man! But what am I to say to him, if I am neither to speak of death nor recovery?"

"Oh! you must talk to him about his illness, ask him a thousand questions, listen to the detail of all his sufferings, and wind up with telling him that he does not take sufficient care of himself, that he does not attend to his health, and that he works too hard. In this manner he may be rendered favorable to us."

"But are we not going to ask him for a poem, which you may set to music, and which I may sing? How can we advise him then not to write, and at the same time urge him to write as fast as possible?"

"All that can be easily managed in the course of conversation; it is only necessary to bring things into a proper train."

The maestro wished his pupil to make herself agreeable to the poet, but his sarcastic habits would not suffer him to conceal the foibles of others, and he committed the error of awakening Consuelo's clear-sighted judgment, and inducing her to regard him with that sort of inward contempt which was not likely to render her amiable or sympathizing toward him. Incapable of adulation or deceit, it pained her to see Porpora hypocritically bewail the sorrows of the poet, and ridicule him unmercifully under the seeming garb of sympathy for his imaginary ills. She blushed repeatedly, and could not help remaining silent, notwithstanding the signs which the master gave her to speak.

Consuelo's reputation had begun to spread through Vienna, she had sung in several saloons, and her admission to the Italian theater was a subject of discussion in the musical world. Metastasio was all-powerful; and should Consuelo secure his sympathy by adroitly flattering his self-love, he might confide to Porpora the care of setting to music his Attileo Regolo, which he had kept in his portfolio for several years. It was necessary for this purpose that the pupil should plead for her master, for the maestro was far from a favorite with the imperial poet. Matastasio was not an Italian for nothing, and Italians are not readily deceived respecting each other. He was well aware Porpora had no great admiration for his dramatic genius, and that, right or wrong, he had censured oftener than once his timidity, his selfishness, and false sensibility. Consuelo's icy reserve, and the slight interest she seemed to take in his disease, did not appear to him what they really were, the result of a feeling of respectful pity. It seemed no better than an insult, and if he had not been a slave to propriety and politeness, he would have refused plumply to hear her sing. He consented, however, after some little affectation, alleging as his excuse the state of his nerves, and the risk he ran of being excited. He had heard Consuelo sing his oratorio of Judith, but it was necessary he should form some idea of her dramatic powers, and Porpora insisted much.

"But what am I to do, and how am I to sing," whispered Consuelo, "if he is not to be excited?"

"On the contrary, he must be excited," replied the maestro; "he loves dearly to be roused from his torpor; for when he is so, he feels in a better vein for writing."

Consuelo sung an air from Achillo in Sciro, Metastasio's best opera, which had been set to music by Caldara in 1736, and performed at the marriage festival of Maria Theresa. Metastasio was as much struck with her voice and manner as on the first occasion, but he was resolved to maintain the same cold and rigid silence that she had displayed during the recital of his symptoms. But he could not succeed; for the worthy man was an artist in spite of every thing, and when the accents of a poet's muse and the remembrance of his triumphs are nobly interpreted, a cord is touched which thrills through his whole being, and rancor cannot hold its ground.

The abbé tried to defend himself against this potent charm. He coughed repeatedly, fidgetted on his chair like a man in the extremity of suffering, then all at once, carried away by his emotion, he hid his face in his handkerchief and sobbed aloud. Porpora, concealed behind the arm-chair, motioned to Consuelo not to spare him, and rubbed his hands with malicious glee.

These tears, which flowed so abundantly and so earnestly, immediately reconciled Consuelo to the pusillanimous abbé. As soon as she had finished, she approached and kissed his hand, saying with evident emotion:

"Alas! sir, I should be proud and happy to have produced an impression on your feeling, did it not inspire me with remorse. The dread of injuring your health poisons my joy."

"Ah! my dear child," replied the abbé, completely won over, "you do not—you cannot, know the mingled pleasure and suffering that you inflict upon me. I never till this moment heard a voice which reminded me of my dear Marianna; and you have so recalled her manner and expression, that I imagined I was listening to herself. Ah! you have pierced my heart!" And he began to sob afresh.

"His lordship speaks of a celebrated person whom you ought certainly to place before you as a model," said Porpora to his pupil, "the illustrious and incomparable Marianna Bulgarini."

"What! the Romanina?" exclaimed Consuelo. "Ah! I heard her in my childhood at Venice; she is the first who made a great impression on me, and I shall never forget her!"

"I see that you have indeed heard her, and that she has deeply impressed you," replied Metastasio. "Ah! young girl, imitate her in every thing, in her acting as in her singing, in her goodness of mind as in her greatness of character, in her power as in her tenderness! Ah! she was beautiful, when she represented the divine Venus in my first opera at Rome! I owe to her my earliest triumphs."

"And it is to your lordship that her most brilliant success was due," said Porpora.

"True, we assisted each other. But nothing could repay the obligation I feel toward her. Never was there such affection, such heroic perseverance and delicate attention, before in human breast. Angel of my soul! I shall lament thee forever, and my only hope is to meet thee again!"

Here the abbé wept afresh. Consuelo was deeply affected. Porpora pretended to be so; but in spite of himself his countenance remained ironical and disdainful. Consuelo observed it, and resolved that she would reproach him for his coldness and distrust. As to Metastasio, he only observed what indeed he wished to observe, the tenderness and admiration displayed by the good Consuelo. He was possessed of the true distinguishing peculiarity of poets, for his tears flowed more readily before spectators than in the privacy of his chamber, and never did he feel his affections and his griefs so deeply as when he eloquently detailed them to an admiring audience. Carried away by his emotion, he related to Consuelo the history of that portion of his youth in which Romanina had borne so large a part, the services which this gentle creature had rendered him, her filial devotion to his old parents, the sacrifice to which she submitted in separating from him that he might be at liberty to seek advancement in Vienna; and when he came to the parting scene—when he told in the choicest and most tender terms, how his dear Marianna, with a broken heart and a bosom torn with sobs, had exhorted him to leave her—to think only of himself—he exclaimed:

"Oh! if she had foreseen what awaited me when far from her—if she could have known the grief, the fears, the anguish, the apprehensions, the sinking of the heart, and lastly, my terrible disease—she would have spared herself and me! Alas, I was far from thinking that our farewell was an eternal one—that we should never meet again on earth!"

"How? you never met again?" said Consuelo, whose eyes were bathed with tears, for Metastasio's manner was touching in the extreme. "She never came to Vienna?"

"No, she never came," replied the abbé in a heart-rending tone.

"After such devotion she had not courage to meet you again?" resumed Consuelo, to whom Porpora was making in vain the most hideous grimaces.

Metastasio did not reply; he seemed lost in thought.

"But she may yet come?" continued the kind-hearted Consuelo. "Ah! she will surely come, and this happy event will make you well again."

The abbé grew pale, and made a gesture indicative of terror. The maestro coughed with all his might, and Consuelo, suddenly recollecting that Romanina had been dead upward of ten years, became aware of the awkwardness of which she had been guilty in reminding Metastasio of the death of his well-beloved, whom he only desired to meet beyond the grave. She bit her lips with vexation, and soon after took her leave with Porpora, who only obtained vague promises and forced civilities as usual.

"What have you done, numskull?" exclaimed he to Consuelo, as soon as they were outside.

"Yes, I see I was very foolish. I forgot that Romanina was no longer alive. But do you really think, my dear master, that this tender-hearted and unhappy man is so attached to life as you are pleased to say? I fancy his want of sleep is the principal cause of his disease, and that if some superstitious terror makes him dread his last moments, he is not the less sincerely and painfully wearied of life."

"Child!" said Porpora; "people are never tired of life when they are rich, honored, paid court to, and in good health; when they have no other cares, no other passions than these, it is but a lying farce for them to rave at existence."

"Do not say he has had no others. He loved his Marianna, and I can very well imagine why he gave this cherished name to his grandchild, and to his niece, Marianna Martinez." Consuelo had almost said Joseph's pupil, but she suddenly checked herself.

"Go on," said Porpora, "his grandchild, his niece, or his daughter."

"So it is said, but it is of no moment to me."

"It would prove at least that the dear abbé quickly consoled himself for the absence of his beloved. When you asked him—plague take your stupidity—why his dear Marianna did not rejoin him, he did not answer you, but I shall answer in his place. Romanina had indeed rendered him the greatest services which a man could accept at the hands of a woman. She had supported him, lodged, clothed, succored, assisted him on all occasions, and had got him appointed poeta cesareo. She aided, befriended, nursed, and lavished every care upon his aged parents. All that is perfectly true. For Marianna had a great soul; I knew her well. But it is also perfectly true that she wished to join him again by procuring an engagement at the court theater, and still more, it is equally true that the abbé paid no attention to her wishes, and never acceded to them. There certainly was the tenderest correspondence in the world carried on between them. I have no doubt that his letters were masterpieces. He knew very well they would be printed. But although he wrote to his dilettissima amica that he sighed for the day when they should meet again, and that it was his constant effort to bring about that happy time, the cunning fox managed things so that the unhappy songstress should not disturb his illustrious and lucrative attachment to a third Marianna—for this name was fated to be a fortunate one with him—the noble and puissant Countess of Athan, the favorite of the last Cesar. Report says that there was a secret marriage; and I think therefore it is rather bad taste to tear his hair for poor Romanina, who died of a broken heart while in the meantime he wrote madrigals in honor of the charms of the court beauties."

"You criticise and judge his conduct very severely," replied Consuelo, mournfully.

"I only repeat what the world says—I invent nothing. I am merely the echo of public opinion. Come, there are more actors than those who walk the stage; it is an old saying."

"The public voice is not always the most enlightened, and never the most charitable. Ah! my dear master, I cannot believe that a man of such talent and renown should be no better than a mere actor. I saw him weep bitter and heartfelt tears, and even if he has cause to reproach himself for having too quickly forgotten his Marianna, his remorse would only add to his present grief. In all this I would rather consider him as weak than base. They made him an abbé, and loaded him with favors, the court was strict, and an attachment to an actress would have compromised his reputation. He did not deliberately intend to betray and deceive Bulgarini—he was afraid, he hesitated, he thought to gain time, and in the meantime she died."

"And he returned thanks to Heaven for the happy event," added the implacable maestro. "And now the empress sends him boxes and rings with her initials set in brilliants, pens of lapis lazuli with diamond laurels, gold boxes filled with Spanish tobacco, seals made out of a single diamond; and all these glitter so, that the poet's eyes are constantly watering."

"And will all that console him for having broken Romanina's heart?"

"Perhaps not; but his longing after these things induced him to do it. Paltry, yet fatal ambition! For my part I could hardly help laughing when he showed us his gold chandelier, with the ingenious motto suggested by the empress:

'Perche possa risparmiare i suoi occhi!'

"It is certainly very pretty, and made him exclaim aloud—'Affettuosa espressiona valutabile piu assai dell'oro!' Poor man!"

"Unfortunate man," exclaimed Consuelo, sighing, as she returned home sorrowfully, for she could not help sadly comparing Metastasio's position with respect to Marianna, and her own in relation to Albert. "To wait and die! is this then the fate of those who love with passion? And is it the destiny of those who pursue the vain chimera, glory, to make others wait and die?"

"What are you dreaming of?" said the maestro. "It seems to me that all goes well, and that in spite of your awkwardness, you have won over Metastasio."

"It is a poor conquest, that of a weak mind," she replied; "and I do not believe that he who wanted courage to admit Marianna to the imperial theater, will exert himself any more to serve me."

"Metastasio, in matters of art, henceforth governs the court of the empress."

"Metastasio in matters of art will never advise the empress to do any thing she does not wish; and whatever may be said of her favorites and counselors, I have observed her countenance, and I tell you, master, that Maria-Theresa is too politic to have favorites—too absolute to have friends."

"Well, then," said Porpora, somewhat anxiously, "we must win over the empress herself. You must sing some morning in her apartments, and give her an opportunity of speaking to you and conversing with you. People say that she likes only well-conducted girls. If she have the eagle eye which is imputed to her, she will judge you and prefer you. It shall now be my endeavor to bring about such an interview."