At dawn, Consuelo was awakened by the sounds of the horn and the barking
of dogs. When Matteus came to bring her breakfast, he told her there had
been a great _battue_ of deer and wild boar in the forest. "More than a
hundred guests," he said, "had assembled at the castle, to participate
in this lordly amusement." Consuelo understood that a large number of
her sons, affiliated with the order, had assembled under the pretext of
the chase, in this castle, which was the principal rendezvous of the
most important of the meetings of the Invisibles. She was not a little
shocked that perhaps all these men would be witnesses of her initiation,
and asked if it could really be so interesting an affair to the order as
to attract so great a crowd of its members. She made an effort to
meditate, for the purpose of abiding by the directions of the initiator:
her attention, however, was distracted by an internal emotion, and by
vague fears, by _fanfares_, the gallop of horses, and the baying of
bloodhounds through the woods all day long. Was this _battue_ real or
imaginary? Was Albert converted so completely to all the habits of
ordinary life, as to participate in such a sport, and shed the blood of
innocent beasts? Would not Leverani leave this pleasure party, and,
taking advantage of the disorder, molest the neophyte in the privacy of
her retreat?
Consuelo saw nothing that passed out of doors, and Leverani did not
come. Matteus, too much occupied, beyond doubt, at the castle to think
of her, brought her no dinner. Was this, as Supperville said, a fast
carefully imposed, a fast intended to weaken the mental powers of the
adept?
Towards night, when she returned to the library, whence she had gone an
hour before to take the air, she shrank with terror at the sight of a
man, red and masked, sitting in her chair. Soon, however, she regained
her presence of mind, for she recognized the frail old man who was her
spiritual father. "My child," said he, rising and coming to meet her,
"have you nothing to say to me? Have I yet your confidence?"
"You have, sir," said Consuelo, making him sit on the chair, and taking
a folding chair in the embrasure of the window; "I have long wished to
speak to you."
Then she told faithfully all that had passed between her, Albert, and
the stranger, since their last interview. She concealed none of the
involuntary emotions she had experienced.
When she was done, the old man was silent long enough to trouble and
annoy Consuelo. Persuaded by her, at last, to judge her conduct and
sentiments, he said, "Your conduct is irreproachable: what, though, can
I say of your sentiments? That sudden, insurmountable, violent affection
called love, is a consequence of the good and bad instincts which God
has permitted to penetrate or placed in our souls for our perfection or
punishment. Bad human laws--which always oppose, in all things, the will
of nature and the designs of Providence--often make an inspiration of
God a crime, and curse the sentiment he has blessed, while they sanction
infamous unions and base instincts. It is for us legislators--excepted
from common-place laws, hidden constructors of a new society--to
distinguish as much as possible legitimate and true love from a vain and
guilty passion, that we may pronounce in the name of a purer and more
generous law than that of the world, on the fate you merit. Will you be
willing to commit it to our decision? Will you grant us the power to
bind and loose?"
"You inspire me with absolute confidence; I have told you so, and I now
repeat it."
"Well, Consuelo, we will discuss and deliberate on this question of the
life and death of your love and that of Albert."
"And shall I not have a right to listen to the appeal of my conscience?"
"Yes, to enlighten us; when I have heard all, I will be your advocate.
You must, however, relieve me of the seal of the confessional."
"What! you would not be the only confidant of my innocent sentiments, my
agonies, my sufferings?"
"If you drew up a petition for divorce, and presented it to the
tribunal, would you have no public complaints to make? This suffering
will be spared to you. You have no complaints to make of any one? Is it
not more pleasant to avow love than hatred?"
"Is it enough to feel a new passion, to have the right to abjure an old
one?"
"You did not love Albert."
"It seems I did not: yet, I would not swear so."
"You would have no doubt, had you loved him. Besides, the question you
ask carries a reply in itself. The new love, from the necessity of
things, excludes the old."
"Do not decide too quickly on that, my father," said Consuelo, with a
sad smile. "Although I love Albert differently from the other, I do not
love him less than I used to do; who knows if I do not love him more? I
feel ready to sacrifice this unknown man to him, though the thought of
the latter deprives me of sleep, and makes my heart beat at the very
moment I speak to you."
"Is it not the pride of duty, rather a self-devotion than love for
Albert, which makes you thus prefer him?"
"I do not think so."
"Are you sure? Remember, here you are far from the world, sheltered from
its opinions, and protected from its laws. Should we give you a new rule
of life and new ideas of duty, would you persist in preferring the
happiness of a man you do not love to one whom you do?"
"Have I ever told you that I do not love Albert?" said Consuelo,
eagerly.
"I can answer this question only by another, my daughter--can two loves
exist at once?"
"Yes; two different loves. One may love a brother and a husband."
"Yet not a husband and a lover. The rights of a brother and lover are
different. Those of a husband and lover are identical; unless, indeed,
the husband consent to become a brother. In that case, the law of
marriage would be violated in its most mysterious, intimate, and sacred
relation. It would be a divorce, except that it would not be public.
Reply to me, Consuelo: I am an old man, on the brink of the tomb, and
you are a child. I am here as your parent and confessor. I cannot offend
your modesty by this delicate question, to which I hope you will reply
boldly. In the enthusiastic friendship which Albert inspired, was there
not always a secret and insurmountable terror at the idea of his
caresses?"
"There was," said Consuelo, with a blush. "Usually this idea was not
mingled with that of his love, to which it seemed strange: when it did
arise, however, a deathly chill passed through my veins."
"And the breath of the man you call Leverani inspired you with new
life?"
"That, too, is true. Should not such instincts be stifled by our will?"
"Why? Has God suggested them for nothing? Has he authorised you to
abjure your sex, and to pronounce in marriage either the vestal vow or
the more degrading asseveration of slavery. The passiveness of slavery
has something like the coldness and degradation of prostitution. Did God
intend any being should be so degraded? Woe to the children sprung from
such unions! God inflicts some disgrace on them; their organization is
either incomplete, or they are delirious or stupid. They do not belong
altogether to humanity, not having been begotten according to that law
of humanity which requires reciprocity of ardor and a community of
feeling between man and woman. Where that reciprocity is not, there is
no equality; where equality is crushed, there is no real union. Be sure,
then, that God, far from commanding your sex to make such sacrifices,
forbids and refuses them the right to make them. Such a suicide is base,
and far more cowardly than the renunciation of life. The vow of
continence is inhuman and anti-social, but continence with love is
monstrous. Deflect, Consuelo, and if you persist in thus annihilating
yourself, think on the part you assign your husband, should he adopt it
without understanding your submission. Unless he be deceived, I can
assure you he will never receive you: deceived, however, by your
devotion, intoxicated by your generosity, would he not seem to you
either strangely selfish or egotistical? Would you not degrade him in
your eyes, as you really would in the presence of God, by thus ensnaring
his candor and making it almost impossible for him not to succumb? Where
would his grandeur and delicacy be, did he not read the pallor of your
lips and the tears in your eyes? Can you flatter yourself that hatred
would not enter your heart in spite of yourself, mingled with shame and
regret at not having been understood or comprehended? No: woman, you
have no right to deceive the love in your bosom; you would rather have a
right to suppress it. Whatever cynics and philosophers say in relation
to the passive condition of the feminine sex in the order of nature,
what always will distinguish man from brutes, will be discernment in
love and the right to choose. Vanity and cupidity makes the majority of
marriages _sworn prostitution_, as the old Lollards called it. Devotion
and generosity alone can guide the heart to such results. Virgin, it has
been my duty to instruct you in delicate matters, which the purity of
your life prevented you from foreseeing or analysing. When a mother
marries her daughter, she reveals to her a portion of what she has
hitherto concealed, with more or less prudence and wisdom. You had no
mother when you pronounced, with an enthusiasm which was rather
fanatical than human, an oath to belong to a man whom you loved in an
incomplete manner. A mother--given you to-day to assist and enlighten
you in your new relations at the hour of the divorce or definitive
sanction of this strange marriage--this mother, Consuelo, is myself; for
I am not a man but a woman."
"You a woman!" said Consuelo, looking with surprise at the thin and
blue, but delicate and really feminine hand which during this discourse
had taken possession of hers.
"This pale and broken old man," said the strange confessor, "this
suffering old being (whose stifled voice no longer indicated her sex) is
a woman overpowered by grief, disease, and anxiety rather than by age.
I am not more than sixty, Consuelo, though in this dress, which I wear
only as an Invisible, I seem an ill-tempered octogenarian. In other
particulars, as in this, I am but a ruin; yet I was a tall,
healthy-looking, beautiful and an imposing woman. At thirty I was
already bent, and trembling as you see me. Would you know, my child, the
cause of this decay? It was a misfortune, from which I wish to preserve
you--an incomplete love, an unfortunate attachment, a terrible effort of
courage and resignation, which for ten years bound me to a man I
esteemed, but could not love. A man would not have been able to tell you
what are the sacred rights and true duties of a woman in love. They made
their laws and ideas without consulting us. I have, however, often
enlightened the minds of my associates in this particular, and they have
had the courage and nerve to hear me. Believe me, I was aware if they
did not place themselves in direct contact with you, they would not have
the key to your heart, and would perhaps condemn you to complete
degradation, to endless suffering, whilst your virtue looked for
happiness. Now, open your heart to me, Consuelo. Do you love Leverani?"
"Alas! I love him. The fact is but too true," said Consuelo, placing the
hand of the mysterious sybil on her lip. "His presence terrifies me more
than Albert's did. This terror, however, is mixed with strange
pleasures. His arms are a magnet which attracts me to him; and when his
lips press my brow, I am transported to another world, where I live and
breathe differently from here."
"Well, Consuelo, you must love this man, and forget Albert. Now I
pronounce the divorce: it is my duty and my right to do so."
"Whatsoever you may say, I cannot submit to this sentence until I have
seen Albert--until he has spoken to and renounced me without
regret--until he relieves me from my promise without contempt."
"Either you do not know Albert, or you fear him. I know him, and have a
stronger claim on him than on yourself, and can speak in his name. We
are alone, Consuelo, and I can open my heart to you, that not being
forbidden. Although I belong to the supreme council of the Invisibles,
their nearest disciples shall never know me. My situation and yours are,
however, peculiar. Look at my withered face, and see if my features are
not familiar to you."
As she spoke the sibyl took off her mask and false hair, and revealed to
Consuelo a female head, old and marked with suffering, it is true, but
with incomparable beauty of outline, and a sublime expression of
goodness, sadness, and power. These three so different habits of mind,
and which are rarely united in the same person, were marked on the broad
brow, in the maternal smile, the profound glance of the sibyl. The shape
of her head and the lower part of her face announced great natural
power, but the ravages of disease were too visible, and a kind of
nervousness made her head tremble in a manner that recalled a dying
Niobe, or rather Mary at the foot of the cross. Grey hair, fine and
glossy as floss silk, was parted across her brow, and, bound in small
folds around her temple, strangely completed her noble and striking
appearance. At this epoch all women wore powder, with their curls
gathered up behind, exhibiting their full foreheads. The sibyl had her
hair braided in a less careful manner, to facilitate her disguise, not
being aware that she adopted the one most in harmony with the cast and
expression of her face. Consuelo looked for a long time at her with
respect and admiration. At length, however, under the influence of great
surprise, she cried out, seizing the sibyl's hands--
"My God! How much you resemble him!"
"Yes, I do resemble Albert; or, rather, he resembles me very much,"
replied she. "Have you never seen my portrait?"
Seeing Consuelo make an effort of memory, she said, to assist her--
"A portrait which was as much like me as it is possible for art to
resemble nature, and of which I am now a mere shadow. A full portrait of
a woman in young, fresh, and brilliant beauty, with a corsage of gold
brocade covered with flowers and gems, a purple cloak, and black hair
with knots of pearls and ribbons to keep the tresses from the shoulders.
Thus was I dressed forty years ago on my wedding-day. I was beautiful,
but could not long remain so, for death had made my heart its own."
"The portrait of which you speak," said Consuelo, "is at the Giants'
Castle, in Albert's room. It is the portrait of his mother, whom he did
not remember distinctly, but whom he yet adored, and in his ecstasies
fancied he yet saw and heard. Can, you be a near relation to the noble
Wanda, of Prachalitz, and consequently----"
"I _am_ Wanda of Prachalitz!" said the sibyl regaining something of the
firmness of her voice and attitude. "I am Albert's mother! I am the
widow of Christian of Rudolstadt--the descendant of John Ziska de
_Calice_, and the mother-in-law of Consuelo! I wish to be merely her
adoptive mother, for she does not love Albert, and he must not be happy
at the expense of his wife."
"His mother! His mother!" said Consuelo, falling at Wanda's knees. "Are
you not a spectre? Were you not mourned for at the Giants' Castle as if
you were dead?"
"Twenty years ago, Wanda of Prachalitz, Countess of Rudolstadt, was
buried in the chapel of the Giants' Castle, beneath the pavement; and
Albert, subject to similar cataleptic crises, was attacked by the same
disease, and buried there last year, a victim of the same mistake. The
son would never have left this frightful tomb, if the mother, attentive
to the dangers which menaced him, had not watched his agony unseen, and
taken care to disinter him. His mother saved him, full of life, from the
worms of the sepulchre, to which he had been abandoned. His mother
wrested him from the yoke of the world in which he had lived too long,
and in which he could not exist, to bear him to an impenetrable asylum
in which he has recovered, if not the health of his body, at least that
of his soul. This is a strange story, Consuelo, which you must hear, in
order to understand, concerning Albert, his strange life, his pretended
death, and his wonderful resurrection! The Invisibles will not initiate
you until midnight. Listen to me, and may the emotions arising from this
strange story prepare you for those excitements which yet await you!"