"I was born in I know not what part of Spain, and I know not exactly in
what year. I must be, however, twenty-three or four years old. I do not
know my father's name, and am inclined to think that my mother was as
uncertain about her parents as I am. She was called at Venice La
Zingara, and I was called La Zingarella. My mother had given me the
Christian name of Maria del Consuelo--in French, "Our Lady of
Consolation."[7] My childhood was wandering and miserable. We travelled
on foot, living by our songs. I have a vague recollection that, in a
forest of Bohemia, we received hospitality at a castle, where the son of
the lord, a handsome youth named Albert, overwhelmed me with attention
and kindness, and gave my mother a guitar. This was the Giants' Castle,
to be the mistress of which I was one day to refuse; and the young lord
was Albert, Count of Rudolstadt, whose wife I became.
"At the age of ten, I began to sing in the streets. One day, as I sang a
little piece in Saint Mark's-place at Venice, Maestro Porpora, who was
at a _café_, struck with the accuracy of my voice, and the natural
manner my mother had transmitted to me, called me to him, questioned me,
followed me to my garret, gave me some little pecuniary aid, and
promised to have me admitted into the _Scoula dei Mendicanti_, one of
the free musical schools, of which there are so many in Italy, and
whence come eminent artists of both sexes, for the best _maestri_ have
the direction of them. I made rapid progress, and Maestro Porpora
conceived a friendship for me which soon exposed me to the jealousy and
ill-feeling of my companions. Their unjust spite at my rags soon taught
me the habit of patience and reserve.
"I do not remember the first day I saw him; but it is certain that at
the age of seven or eight years, I already loved--loved a young man, an
orphan, friendless, and, like myself, learning music by protection and
charity, and living in the streets. Our friendship, or our love, (for it
was the same thing), was a chaste and delicious sentiment. We passed
together in innocent wanderings all the time not devoted to study. My
mother, after having vainly opposed it, sanctioned our intimacy by an
oath she made us take to marry as soon as we should be able to support a
family.
"At the age of eighteen or nineteen, I was far advanced in singing.
Count Zustiniani, a noble Venetian, owner of the Theatre of Saint
Samuel, heard me sing at church, and engaged me to replace La Corilla,
the _prima donna_--a beautiful and robust woman, who had been his
mistress, and who had been unfaithful to him. This Zustiniani was the
protector of my lover Anzoleto, who was engaged with me to sing the
chief male parts. Our _début_ was brilliant. He had a magnificent
voice, extraordinary ease, and an attractive exterior. All the fine
ladies protected him. He was idle, however, and his professor was
neither as skillful nor as zealous as mine. His success was less
brilliant. He was grieved at first, afterwards he was angry, and at last
he became jealous, and I lost his love."
"Is it possible?" said the Princess Amelia, "for such a cause? He was,
then, very vile."
"Alas! no, madame, but he was vain and an _artiste_. He won the
protection of Corilla, the dismissed and furious _artiste_, who took
possession of his heart, and made him rapidly lacerate and tear mine.
One evening, the Maestro Porpora, who had always opposed our sentiments,
because he maintains that a woman, to be a great _artiste_, must be a
stranger to every passion and every preoccupation of the heart, unfolded
Anzoleto's treason to me. On the evening of the next day, Count
Zustiniani made a declaration of love, which I was far from expecting,
and which wounded me deeply. Anzoleto pretended to be jealous, and to
say that I was corrupted. He wished to break with me. I left my house in
the night: I went to seek my maestro, who is a man prompt to act, and
who had used me to act decidedly, he gave me letters, a small sum of
money, and a guide-book: he put me in a gondola, accompanied me to the
mainland, and, at dawn, I set out alone for Bohemia."
"For Bohemia!" said the Baroness Von Kleist, whom the virtue of Porpora
filled with surprise.
"Yes, madame," said the young girl, "in our artistic language, we have
the phrase, to travel in Bohemia,"[8] which expresses that one runs
through all the risks of poverty, labor, and not unfrequently crime,
like the Zingari, whom you call in French _Bohemians_. I set out, not
for this symbolical Bohemia, for which fate seemed to destine me, like
many others; but for the chivalric country of the Tcheques, the land of
Huss and Ziska, for the Boehmer-wald, for the Giants' Castle, where I
was generously received by the family of Rudolstadt."
"Why did you go thither?" said the princess, who listened attentively.
"Would any one remember to have seen a child?"
"No, no, I did not remember it myself until long after, when Count
Albert by chance discovered, and aided me in discovering the key to this
adventure. My master, Porpora, in Germany, had been very intimate with
the good Count Christian, the head of the house. The young Baroness
Amelia, his niece, wished a governess, that is to say, a companion, who
should teach her music and entertain her, in the dull life she led at
Riesenberg. Her noble and kind relations received me like a friend, and
almost like a relation. I taught nothing, in spite of my disposition, to
my beautiful and capricious pupil, and----"
"Count Albert fell in love with you? That must have happened."
"Alas! madame, I would not speak with such volubility of so grave and
painful a thing. Count Albert was considered to be mad; and united a
sublime soul with an enthusiastic genius, strange whims and a diseased
imagination, which was entirely inexplicable."
"Supperville, though he neither believed nor could make me understand
it, has told me all that. Supernatural power was attributed to this
young man, such as second sight, the power of making himself invisible...
His family told the most unheard of things. . . All this, however,
is impossible, and I hope you place no faith in it."
"Excuse me, madame, the suffering and distress of pronouncing on matters
which surpass my capacity. I have seen strange things, and, at times,
Count Albert has seemed to me a being superior to humanity. Then, again,
he has appeared an unfortunate creature, deprived, by the very excess of
his virtue, of the light of reason; never, however, did I see him like
common men. When in delirium, and when calm, when enthusiastic and when
depressed, he was always the best, the most just, the most enlightened,
and the most poetically exalted of men. In a word, I would not know what
to think, for I am the involuntary, though it may be the innocent cause,
of his death."
"Well, dear countess, dry your beautiful eyes, take courage, and
continue. I hear you without profane volatility, I vow."
"When he first loved me, I did not even suspect it. He never spoke to
me; he did not even seem to see me. I think he was first aware of my
presence, when he heard me sing. I must tell you he was a very great
musician, and played the violin better than you would suspect any one in
the world capable of doing. I think, however, I was the only person who
ever heard him at Riesenberg; for his family were not aware that he
possessed this great talent. His love, then, had its origin in a burst
of enthusiasm, and in sympathy for music. His cousin, the Baroness
Amelia, who had been betrothed to him for two years, and whom he did not
love, became offended with me, though she did not love him. This, she
exhibited with more frankness than wickedness: for, amid all her
obstinacy, there existed something of greatness of soul. She became
weary of Albert's coldness, of the sadness that pervaded the castle, and
one fine morning left us, taking away, so to say, her father, Baron
Frederick, Count Christian's brother, an excellent man, though of
restricted mind, indolent and pure-hearted, a perfect slave to his
daughter, and passionately devoted to the chase."
"You say nothing about the invisibility of Count Albert, of his
disappearance for fifteen or twenty days, after which he reappeared
suddenly, believing, or pretending to think that he had not left the
house, and being either unwilling or unable to say where he had hid
himself during the time he had been searched for everywhere."
"Since Dr. Supperville has told you this apparently wonderful fact, I
will explain it; I alone can do so, for this has always been a secret,
between Albert and myself. Near the Giants' Castle, there is a mountain
known as the Stone of Terror,[9] an old subterranean work, which dates
from the days of the Hussites. Albert, after studying a series of
philosophical characters, yielded to an enthusiasm, extending almost to
mysticism, and became a Hussite, or rather Taborite. Descended on the
mother's side from George Podiebrad, he had preserved and developed in
himself the sentiments of patriotic independence and of evangelical
equality, which the preaching of John Huss and the victories of John
Ziska instilled into the Bohemians."
"How she speaks of history and philosophy," said the princess, with an
expressive glance to the Baroness Von Kleist. "Who would think an
actress would understand those things as well as I who have passed a
lifetime in study? Have I not told you, Von Kleist, that there was among
those persons whom the opinions of courts dooms to the lowest class of
society, intelligences equal, if not superior, to those formed with so
much care and expense amid the highest grades?"
"Alas! madame," said Porporina, "I am very ignorant, and I never read
anything before I came to Riesenberg; while there, however, I heard so
much said of things of this kind, that thought itself forced me to
understand all that passed in Albert's mind, so that finally I had some
idea of it myself."
"Yes; but my dear, you became foolish; and, something of a mystic
myself, I admire the campaigns of John Ziska, and the republican genius
of Bohemia, if you please; however, I have ideas as utterly republican
as yourself; for love has revealed to me a truth altogether
contradictory to what pedants told me, in relation to the rights of the
people, and the merits of individuals. I do not participate in your
admiration of Taborite fanaticism, and their delirium of Christian
equality. This is absurd, not to be realized, results in ferocious
excesses, and overturns thrones. If it be necessary, I will aid
you--make Spartan, Athenian, Roman republics--make republics like that
of old Venice--I can submit to that. These sanguinary and filthy
Taborites suit me no better than the Vandals of burning memory, the
odious Anabaptists of Munster, and the Picords of old Germany."
"I have heard Count Albert say, that all this is not precisely the same
thing," said Consuelo, with great modesty. "I will not, however, venture
to discuss with your highness, matters, perhaps, you have studied
closely. You have here historians and _savans_, who devote themselves to
these grave matters, and you can form a better opinion of their wisdom
than I can. Yet, had I the academy to instruct me, I do not think my
sympathies would ever change. But let me resume my story."
"Yes, I interrupted you by pedantic reflections, and I pray you excuse
me. Go on. Count Albert, enthusiastic in relation to the exploits of his
ancestors, (that is easily understood, and very pardonable,) in love
with you, (and that is most legitimate and natural,) would not admit
that you were not his equal in the eye of God and man. He was right; but
this was no reason why he should desert his father's house, and leave
all who loved him in despair."
"This is not the point I wished to reach," said Consuelo. "He had been
dreaming and meditating for a long time in the cavern of the Hussites,
at Schreckenstein, and he was especially delighted in doing so from the
fact that, besides himself, no one but a poor mad peasant was aware of
these subterraneous abodes. Thither he used to go when any domestic
chagrin, or any violent emotion overcame his will. He was aware of the
approach of these attacks, and to hide his madness from his kindred,
went to the Schreckenstein, by a secret passage, the entrance to which
he had discovered in a cistern near his rooms, amid a _parterre_ of
flowers. When once in this cavern, he forgot the lapse of time, of days,
and weeks. Attended by Zdenko, the visionary and poetic peasant, the
excitement of whom was not a little like his own, he had no idea of ever
returning to the upper world, or of seeing his parents again, until the
attack began to pass away. Unfortunately, these attacks became every
time more violent, and lasted longer. Once, he was so long absent, that
all thought him dead, and I undertook to discover the place of his
retreat. I reached it, with much difficulty and danger. I went down this
cistern, which was amid the garden, and from which, one night, I had
seen Zdenko come. Not knowing the way through this abyss, I was near
losing my life. At last, I found Albert, and succeeded in dispersing the
torpor in which he had been plunged. I restored him to his parents, and
made him swear he never would return again to the fatal cavern, he
yielded to me, but said, this was to sentence him to death. His
prediction was but too well fulfilled."
"How so? Thus you restored him to life."
"No, madame; not unless I could love him, and never be a cause of
trouble to him."
"What, did you not love him? Yet you descended in that abyss; you risked
your life under-ground?"
"The mad Zdenko, not comprehending my design, and, like a faithful dog,
jealous of his master's safety, was near murdering me. A torrent came
near sweeping me away. Albert at first, not knowing me, almost made me
share his folly; for terror and emotion make all hallucinations
contagious. . . . At last, he was attacked by a new fit of delirium, as
he bore me from the cave, and had very nearly closed the outlet. . . I
exposed myself to all that, without loving Albert."
"Then you made a vow to Maria del Consuelo to rescue him?"
"Something like it, in fact," said Consuelo, with a sad smile; "an
emotion of tender pity to his family, of deep sympathy to him, perhaps
a romantic attraction, a sincere friendship, certainly, but not an
appearance of love. At least, nothing like the blind, intoxicating and
delicious passion I had entertained for the ungrateful Anzoleto, in
which, I think, my heart was prematurely exhausted. What shall I say,
madame? After that terrible expedition, I had a brain fever, and was at
the very point of death. Albert, who was somewhat skilled in physic,
saved my life. My slow recovery and his assiduous cares placed us on the
footing of the closest intimacy. His reason returned entirely, and his
father blessed and treated me as a beloved daughter. An old lame aunt,
the Countess Wenceslawa, an angel of tenderness, and a patrician full of
prejudices, even consented to receive me. Albert besought my love. Count
Christian, too, pleaded for his son. I was moved, I was terrified. I
loved Albert as one loves virtue, truth, and the beautiful; I was yet
afraid of him; I dreaded becoming a countess, and of making a match, the
result of which would be to raise against him and his family all the
nobility of the country, and which would cause me to be accused of
sordid views and base intrigues. Yet, must I own it, that was, perhaps,
my only crime. . . . I regretted my profession, my liberty, my old
teacher, and the exciting arena of the theatre, where, for a moment, I
had appeared to glitter, and where I would disappear like a meteor. The
burning stage on which my love had been crushed, my misfortune
consummated, which I thought I could hate and despise forever, and yet,
on which I dreamed every night I was either applauded or hissed. This
must seem strange and unaccountable to you; but when one has been
educated for the theatre, when one has toiled all life long for such
combats and such victories, the idea of returning to them no more, is as
terrible, as would be to you, Madame Amelia, that of being a princess on
the stage, as I am twice a week."
"You are mistaken, my dear. You are mad. If from a princess I could
become an artist, I would marry Trenck, and be happy. You to marry
Rudolstadt would not from an actress become a countess or princess. I
see you did not love him. That was not your fault. We cannot love those
whom we please."
"Madame, that is an aphorism of which I would willingly convince myself,
and in solving it, I have passed my life; could I do so my conscience
would be at ease. Yet I have not been able to accomplish it."
"Let me see," said the princess, "this is a grave matter, and, as an
abbess, I should be able to decide on it. You think, then, that love can
choose and reason?"
"It should. A noble heart should subject its inclination; I do not say
to that worldly reason, which is folly and falsehood, but to the noble
discernment, which is only the love of the beautiful, and a passion for
truth. You, madame, are proof of what I advance, and your example
condemns me. Born to fill a throne, you have immolated false greatness
on the altar of true passion, to the possession of a heart worthy of
your own. I, also, born to occupy a throne, (on the stage,) had neither
courage nor generosity to sacrifice the glitter of that false glory to
the calm and sublime affection offered to me. I was ready to do so from
devotion, but could not without grief and terror. Albert, who saw the
struggle, would not accept my faith as an offering. He wished
enthusiasm, equal joys, and a heart devoid of sorrow. I could not
deceive him. Is it possible to deceive one in such matters? I asked
time, and he granted it. I promised to do all I could to love like him.
I was sincere, but wished I had not been forced by my conscience to make
this formidable engagement."
"Strange girl! I will bet that you loved the _other!_"
"Oh my God! I thought I did not love him. One morning I waited on the
mountain for Albert, and heard a voice in the ravine. I recognised a
song which I had formerly studied with Anzoleto, and I recognised that
penetrating voice I had loved so much, and that Venetian accent which
was so dear to me. I looked down, and saw a cavalier pass. It was
Anzoleto, madame."
"Alas! What was he doing in Bohemia?"
"I have since learned that he had broken his engagement, and fled from
Venice, to avoid the persecution of Count Zustiniani. Having soon become
tired of the quarrelsome love of the despotic Corilla, with whom he had
appeared at St. Samuel's again, and had the greatest success, he had
obtained the favors of a certain Clorinda, the second singer, my old
schoolfellow, who had become Zustiniani's mistress. Like a man of the
world, that is to say, like a frivolous libertine, the count avenged
himself by taking up again with Corilla, without discharging Anzoleto.
Amid this double intrigue, Anzoleto, being ridiculed by his rival,
became mortified and angry, and one fine summer night, by an adroit
kick, upset the gondola in which Zustiniani and his mistress were taking
the fresh air. They only were upset, and had a cold bath. The waters of
Venice are nowhere deep. Anzoleto, thinking this pleasantry would take
him to the _Leads_, fled to Prague, and passed the Giants' Castle.
"He passed on, and I rejoined Albert to make a pilgrimage to the cavern
of the Schreckenstein, which he desired once more to see with me. I was
melancholy and unhappy. I there suffered under the most lugubrious
emotions. The dark place, the Hussite bones, of which Albert had built
an altar by the mysterious fountain, the admirable and touching tone of
his violin--I know not what terrors--darkness, and the superstitions
which here took possession of him, and which I could scarcely shake from
my own mind----"
"Say all. He fancied he was John Ziska--that he was endowed with eternal
life--the memory of the events of past centuries--in fine, he was as mad
as the Count de St. Germain is."
"Yes, madame, since you know all; his convictions made such an
impression on me, that instead of curing him, I almost participated in
it."
"Can your mind, then, notwithstanding your courageous heart, be weak?"
"I do not pretend to a strong mind. Whence could I have derived this
power? The only real education I have was derived from Albert. How is it
possible for me not to have felt his influence, and partaken of his
illusions? He had so much, and so many, truths in his soul, that I could
not discern error and separate it from truth. In this cavern I felt that
my reason was deserting me. What most terrified me was the fact that I
did not meet Zdenko, as I had expected. For several months he had not
been seen. As he persisted in being angry with me, Albert had exiled him
from his presence, after a violent discussion, beyond doubt, for he
seemed to regret it. Perhaps he thought that when he left him Zdenko had
killed himself. At all events, he spoke of him in enigmatical terms, and
with mysterious concealments, which terrified me. I fancied, (may God
forgive me the idea!) that in an access of fury Albert, being unable to
make the unfortunate man renounce his intention of destroying me, had
murdered him."
"Why, then, did Zdenko hate you?"
"This was one of the consequences of his madness. He said that he had
dreamed that I killed his master, and afterwards danced over his tomb.
Oh! madame, this sad prediction has been fulfilled. My love killed
Albert, and eight days after I made my _début_ in one of the gayest
_buffo_ operas in Berlin. I was compelled to do so, I know; and my heart
was filled with grief. The sad fate of Albert was accomplished as Zdenko
had foretold."
"My God! your story is so diabolical that I begin to forget where I am,
and lose my senses as I listen to you. But, go on; all this may be
explained, certainly?"
"No, madame. The fantastic world which Albert and Zdenko bore in their
souls has never been explained to me; and, like myself, you must be
satisfied merely with a knowledge of the results."
"Then the count at least did not kill the poor buffoon?"
"Zdenko to him was not a buffoon, but a friend and companion of
misfortune, a devoted servant. He was grieved at his conduct, but, thank
God! never dreamed of immolating him to me. Yet I was so foolish and so
guilty as to think this murder had been completed. A grave recently
opened in the cavern, and which Albert confessed contained the dearest
thing he had ever known, until he met me, at that time when he accused
himself of I know not what crime, chilled me to the heart. I felt
certain that Zdenko was buried there, and fled from the grotto crying
and weeping like a child!"
"You had reason to do so," said the Baroness Von Kleist, "and I am sure
such things would have terrified me to death. A lover like Albert would
not have suited me at all. The good Baron Von Kleist believed in, and
used to make sacrifices to the devil. That made me a coward, and had I
not been divorced, I think I would have gone mad."
"You have much consolation left you. I think you were divorced a little
too late," said the princess; "but do not interrupt the Countess of
Rudolstadt."
"When I returned to the castle with Albert, who had not dreamed of
defending himself from my suspicions, whom think you I found there?"
"Anzoleto!"
"He presented himself as my brother, and waited for me. I do not know
how he had learned _en route_ that I was living there, and was to marry
Albert. But it was talked of in the country long before anything was
determined. Whether from mortification, a remnant of love, or the love
of evil, he had suddenly returned with the intention of breaking off
this marriage. He did all he could to succeed, using prayers, tears,
persuasion, and threats. Apparently I was unmoved, but in my coward
heart I was troubled, and I felt I was no longer mistress of myself. By
means of the falsehood by which he had obtained admission, and which I
did not dare to contradict, though I had never spoken to Albert of this
brother, he remained all day at the castle. The old count made us at
night sing Venetian airs. These melodies of my adopted country awoke all
the recollections of my infancy, of my fine dreams, pure love, and past
happiness. I felt that I yet loved, but not the person I should, and had
promised to love. Anzoleto conjured me in a low tone to receive him at
night in my room, and threatened to come at any hazard or danger to him
or to me. I had ever been a sister to him, and under the purest
professions he concealed his plan. He would submit to my decision; he
was going at dawn, but wished to bid me farewell. I fancied that he
wished to make trouble and slander in the castle, that he proposed to
make a terrible scene with Albert, and that I would be disgraced. I took
a desperate resolution and executed it. At midnight I packed up in a
small bundle all the clothing I required--I wrote a note for
Albert--took what money I had, and (_par parenthèse_) forgot half of
it. I left my room, mounted the hired horse Anzoleto had ridden, paid
his guide to aid me, crossed the draw-bridge, and went to the
neighboring city. I had never been on horseback before, and galloped
four leagues. I then sent back the guide, and, pretending that I would
await Anzoleto on the road to Prague, gave him false intelligence as to
where my _brother_ would find me. I set out for Vienna, and at dawn was
alone, on foot, without resources, in an unknown country, and walking
rapidly as possible, to escape from two passions, apparently each
equally unfortunate. I must, however, say that after a few hours the
phantom of the perfidious Anzoleto was effaced from my mind, never to
return, while the pure image of my Albert, like an ægis and promise of
the future, cheered me amid the dangers of my route."
"Why did you go to Vienna rather than Venice?"
"My maestro had gone thither, having been brought by our ambassador to
replenish his broken fortune, and recover his ancient fame, which had
begun to grow pale before the success of luckier innovators. Luckily, I
met an excellent youth, already a musician of talent, who, in passing
through the Boehmer-wald, had heard of me, and had determined to ask my
recommendation and good offices in his behalf, with Porpora. We went
together to Vienna on foot--suffered much from fatigue, but were always
gay, always friends and brothers. I became especially fond of him,
because he did not dream of making love to me, and it did not enter into
my mind that he would do so. I disguised myself as a boy, and played the
part so well that all kinds of pleasant mistakes occurred. One, however,
came near being unfortunate to both of us. I will pass the others in
silence--not to shorten my story--and will mention this only because I
know it will interest your highness more than the rest of my narrative."
[Footnote 6: The adventures of Consuelo having passed from the reader's
mind, the author has thought it best to make a "resume" of them. Persons
whose memory will recall a long romance, will find this chapter
wearisome, and they may therefore skip it.]
[Footnote 7: Notre Dame de la Consolation.]
[Footnote 8: To run Bohemia.]
[Footnote 9: Gormanice, Schreckenstein.]