Consuelo

The life of the great French novelist, George Sand, is as

romantic as any of the characters in her novels. She was born

at Paris in July, 1804, her real name being Armandine Lucile

Aurore Dupin. At eighteen she married the son of a colonel and

baron of the empire, by name Dudevant, but after nine years

she separated from her husband, and, bent upon a literary

career, made her way to Paris. Success came quickly. Entering

into a literary partnership with her masculine friend, Jules

Sandeau, the chief fruit of their joint enterprise was "Rose

et Blanche." This was followed by her independent novel,

"Indiana," a story that brought her the enthusiastic praises

of the reading public, and the warm friendship of the most

distinguished personages in French literary society. A few

years later her relations with the poet Alfred De Musset

provided the matter for what is now an historic episode. Her

literary output was enormous, consisting of a hundred or more

volumes of novels and stories, four volumes of autobiography,

and six of correspondence. Yet everything that she wrote is

marked by that richness, delicacy and power of style and of

thought which constitutes her genius. "Consuelo," which

appeared in 1844, is typical of all these in its sparkling

dialogue, flowing narrative, and vivid description. George

Sand died on June 7, 1876.

_I.--In Venice_

Little Consuelo, at the age of fourteen, was the best of all the pupils

of the Maestro Porpora, a famous Italian composer, of the eighteenth

century.

At that time in Venice a certain number of children received a musical

education at the expense of the state, and it was Porpora, the great

musician--then a soured and disappointed man--who trained the voices of

the girls. They were not equally poor, these young ladies, and among

them were the daughters of needy artists, whose wandering existence did

not permit them a long stay in Venice. Of such parentage was little

Consuelo, born in Spain, and arriving in Italy by the strange routes of

Bohemians. Not that Gonsuelo was really a gipsy. She was of good Spanish

blood, and had a calmness of mind and manner quite foreign to the

wandering races. A rare and happy temperament was hers, and, in spite of

poverty and orphanhood--for her mother, who brought her to Venice, was

dead--Consuelo worked on with Porpora, finding the labour an enjoyment,

and overcoming the difficulties of her art as if by some invisible

instinct.

When Consuelo was eighteen Count Zustiniani, having heard her sing in

Porpora's choir, decided she must come out as a prima donna in his

theatre. For the fame and success of this theatre Zustiniani cared more

than for anything else in the world--not that he was eager for money,

but because he was an enthusiast for music--a man of taste, an amateur,

whose great business in life was to gratify his taste. He liked to be

talked about and to have his theatre and his magnificence talked about.

The success of Consuelo was assured when she appeared for the first time

in Gluck's "Ipermnestra." The debutante was at once self-possessed and

serious, receiving the applause of the audience without fear or

humility. For her art itself, and not the results of art, were the main

thing, and her inward satisfaction in her performance did not depend on

the amount of approbation manifested by the public.

But Zustiniani, gratified as he was by the triumph of his new prima

donna, was not content with Consuelo's success on the stage; he also

wanted her for himself. Consuelo gravely refused the jewels and

ornaments he offered her, and the count was strangely annoyed. He was

thrilled with unknown emotions by Consuelo's singing, and his patrician

soul could not realise that this poor little pupil of Porpora's was not

to be won by the ordinary methods, which he had hitherto employed

successfully in the conquest of opera singers.

Porpora saved Consuelo from the count's threatening attentions.

The prima donna suddenly disappeared, and it was said she had gone to

Vienna, that she had been engaged for the emperor's theatre, and that

Porpora was also going there to conduct his new opera.

Count Zustiniani was particularly embarrassed by Consuelo's flight. He

had led all Venice to believe this wonderful new singer favoured his

addresses. Some, indeed, maintained for a time that, jealous of his

treasure, the count had hidden her in one of his country houses. But

when they heard Porpora say, with a blunt openness which could never

deceive, that he had advised his pupil to go to Germany and wait for

him, there was nothing left but to try and find out the motives for this

extraordinary decision.

To all inquiries addressed to him Porpora answered that no one should

ever know from him where Consuelo was to be found.

In real truth, it was not only Zustiniani who had driven Consuelo away.

A youth named Anzoleto, who had grown up in Venice with Consuelo so that

the two were as brother and sister, and who lacked both heart and

constancy, made life too hard for Consuelo. Anxious to get all the

advantages of Consuelo's friendship, and to be known as her betrothed,

so that he could procure an engagement in the opera through her generous

influence, he yet made love to another singer, a former favourite of

Zustiniani's. Learning of Anzoleto's heartless unfaithfulness, and

pressed by Zustiniani, Consuelo had turned to her old master for help,

and had not been disappointed.

_II.--In Bohemia_

Among the mountains which separate Bohemia from Bavaria stood an old

country house, known as the Castle of the Giant, the residence of the

Lords of Rudolstadt. A strange mystery reigned over this ancient family.

Count Christian Rudolstadt, the head of the house, a widower, his elder

sister, the Canoness Wenceslawa, a venerable lady of seventy, and Count

Albert, the only son and heir, lived alone with their retainers, never

associating with their neighbours. The count's brother, Baron Frederick

Rudolstadt, with his daughter Amelia, had for some time past taken up

their abode in the Castle of the Giants, and it was the hope of the two

brothers that Albert and Amelia would become betrothed. But the silence

and gloom of the place were hateful to Amelia, and Albert's deep

melancholy and absent-mindedness were not the tokens of a lover.

Albert, in fact, had so brooded over the horrors of the old wars between

Catholic and Protestant in Bohemia, that when the fit was on him he

believed himself living and acting in those terrible times, and it was

this kind of madness in his son which made Count Christian shun all

social intercourse. Albert was now thirty, and the doctors had predicted

that this year he would either conquer the fancies which took such

fierce hold on him, or succumb entirely.

One night, when the family were assembled round the hearth, the castle

bell rang, and presently a letter was brought in. It was from Porpora to

Count Christian, and the count, having read it, passed it on to Amelia.

It seemed that Christian had written to Porpora, whom he had long known

and respected, to ask him to recommend him a companion for Amelia, and

the letter now arrived not only recommended Consuelo, but Consuelo

herself had brought it.

The old count at once hastened with his niece to welcome Porporpina, as

the visitor was called, and the terror which the journey to the castle

and the first impressions of the gloomy place had struck upon the young

singer only melted at the warmth of Christian's praises of her old

master, Porpora.

From the first the whole household treated Consuelo with every kindness,

and Amelia very soon confided in her new friend all that she knew of the

family history, explaining that her cousin Albert was certainly mad.

Albert himself seemed unaware of Consuelo's presence until one day when

he heard her sing. Amelia's singing always made him uneasy and restless,

but the first time Consuelo sang--she had chosen a religious piece from

Palestrina--Albert suddenly appeared in the room, and remained

motionless till the end. Then, falling on his knees, his large eyes

swimming in tears, he exclaimed, in Spanish: "Oh, Consuelo, Consuelo! I

have at last found thee!"

"Consuelo?" cried the astonished girl, replying in the same language.

"Why, señor, do you call me by that name?"

"I call you Consolation, because a consolation has been promised to my

desolate life, and because you are that consolation which God at last

grants to my solitary and gloomy existence. Consuelo! If you leave me,

my life is at an end, and I will never return to earth again!" Saying

this he fell at her feet in a swoon; and the two girls, terrified,

called the servants to carry him to his room and restore him to

consciousness. But hardly had Albert been left alone before his

apartment was empty, and he had disappeared.

Days passed, and the anxiety at the castle remained unrelieved. It was

not the first time Albert had disappeared, but now his absence was

longer than usual. Consuelo found out the secret of his hiding-place--a

vaulted hall at the end of a long gallery in a cave in the forest was

Albert's hermitage, and a secret passage from the moat of the castle

enabled him to pass unseen to his solitude. She traced him to the

chamber in the recesses of the cavern.

Already Consuelo had discovered the two natures in Albert--the one wise,

the other mad; the one polished, tender, merciful; the other strange,

untamed and violent She saw that sympathy and firmness were both needed

in dealing with this lonely and unfortunate man--sympathy with his

religious mysticism, and firmness in urging him not to yield to the

images of his mind.

That Albert was in love with her, Consuelo understood; but to his

pleadings she had but one answer:

"Do not speak of love, do not speak of marriage. My past life, my

recollections, make the first impossible. The difference in our

conditions would render the second humiliating and insupportable to me.

Let it be enough that I will be your friend and your consoler, whenever

you are disposed to open your heart to me."

And with this Albert, for a time, professed to be content. So determined

was he, however, to win Consuelo's heart, that he readily obeyed her

advice, and even promised never to return to his hermitage without first

asking her to accompany him.

Gentle old Count Christian himself came later to plead his son's cause

with Consuelo. Amelia and her father had left the Castle of the Giants,

and Christian realised how much Consuelo had already done for the

restoration of his son's health.

"You were afraid of me, dear Consuelo," said the old man. "You thought

that the old Rudolstadt, with his aristocratic prejudices, would be

ashamed to owe his son to you. But you are mistaken, and I go to bring

my son to your feet, that together we may bless you for extending his

happiness."

"Oh, stop, my dear lord!" said Consuelo, amazed. "I am not free. I have

an object, a vocation, a calling. I belong to the art to which I have

devoted myself since my childhood. I could only renounce all this--if--

if I loved Albert. That is what I must find out. Give me at least a few

days, that I may learn whether I have this love for him within my

heart."

The arrival of the worthless Anzoleto at the Castle of the Giants drove

Consuelo once more to flight. Anzoleto had enjoyed some success at

Venice, but having incurred the wrath of Zustiniani, he was escaping to

Prague. Passing through Bohemia, the fame of a beautiful singer at the

castle of the Rudolstadts came to his ears, and Anzoleto resolved to

recover the old place he had once held in Consuelo's heart. He gave

himself out as Consuelo's brother, and was at once admitted to the

castle and treated kindly. For Consuelo, the only course open now was to

flee to Vienna, and take refuge with Porpora, and this she did, leaving

in the dead of night, after writing explanations to Christian and

Albert.

_III.--In Vienna_

The greater part of the journey to Vienna was accomplished on foot, and

Consuelo had for her travelling companion a humble youth, whose name was

Joseph Haydn, and whose great musical genius was yet to be recognized by

the world.

Many months had elapsed since Consuelo had seen her master and

benefactor, and to the joy which she experienced in pressing old Porpora

in her arms a painful feeling soon succeeded. Vexation and sorrow had

imprinted their marks on the brow of the old maestro. He looked far

older, and the fire of his countenance seemed chilled by age. The

unfortunate composer had flattered himself that he would find in Vienna

fresh chances of success and fortune; but he was received there with

cold esteem, and happier rivals were in possession of the imperial

favour and the public admiration. Being neither a flatterer nor an

intriguer, Porpora's rough frankness was no passport to influence, and

his ill-humour made enemies rather than friends. He held out no hopes to

Consuelo.

"There are no ears to listen, no hearts to comprehend you in this place,

my child," he said sadly. "If you wish to succeed, you would do well to

follow the master to whom they owe their skill and their fortune."

But when Consuelo told him of the proposal made by Count Albert, and of

Count Christian's desire for her marriage with his son, the tyrannical

old musician at once put his foot down.

"You must not think of the young count!" he said fiercely. "I positively

forbid you! Such a union is not suitable. Count Christian would never

permit you to become an artist again. I know the unconquerable pride of

these nobles, and you cannot hesitate for an instant between the career

of nobility and that of art."

So resolute was Porpora that Consuelo should not be tempted from the

life he had trained her for, that he did not hesitate to destroy,

unread, her letters to the Rudolstadts, and letters from Count Christian

and Albert. He even wrote to Christian himself, declaring that Consuelo

desired nothing but the career of a public singer.

But when, after many disappointments and rebuffs, Consuelo at last was

appointed to take the prima donna's place for six days at the imperial

opera house, she was frightened at the prospect of the toils and

struggles before her feverish arena of the theatre seemed to her a place

of terror and the Castle of the Giants a lost paradise, an abode of

peace and virtue.

Consuelo's triumph at the opera had been indisputable. Her voice was

sweeter and richer than when she sang in Venice, and a perfect storm of

flowers fell upon the stage at the end of the performance. Amid these

perfumed gifts Consuelo saw a green branch fall at her feet, and when

the curtain was lowered for the last time she picked it up. It was a

bunch of cypress, a symbol of grief and despair.

To add to her distress, she was now conscious that her love for Albert

was a reality, and no answer had come from him or from Count Christian

to the letters she had sent. Twice in the six days at the opera she had

caught a glimpse, so it seemed to her, of Count Albert, but on both

occasions the figure had melted away without a word, and unobserved by

all at the theatre.

No further engagement followed at the opera, and Consuelo's thoughts

turned more and more to the Rudolstadts. If only she could hear from

Christian or his son, she would know whether she was free to devote

herself absolutely to her art. For she had made her promise to Count

Christian that she would send him word should she feel sure of being in

love with Albert; and now that word had been sent, and no reply had

come.

Porpora, with a promise of an engagement at the royal theatre in Berlin,

and anxious to take Consuelo with him, had confessed, in answer to her

objection to leaving Vienna before hearing from Christian, that letters

had come from the Rudolstadts, which he had destroyed.

"The old count was not at all anxious to have a daughter-in-law picked

up behind the scenes," said Porpora, "and so the good Albert sets you at

liberty."

Consuelo never suspected her master of this profound deceit, and, taking

the story he had invented for truth, signed an agreement to go to Berlin

for two months.

_IV.--The Return to Bohemia_

The carriage containing Porpora and Consuelo had reached the city of

Prague, and was on the bridge that spans the Moldau, when a horseman

approached and looked in at the window, gazing with a tranquil

curiosity. Porpora pushed him back, exclaiming:

"How dare you stare at ladies so closely."

The horseman replied in Bohemian, and Consuelo, seeing his face, called

out:

"Is it the Baron Frederick of Rudolstadt?"

"Yes, it is I, signora!" replied the baron, in a dejected tone. "The

brother of Christian, the uncle of Albert. And in truth, is it you

also?"

The baron accompanied them to a hotel, and there explained to Consuelo

that he had received a letter from the canoness, his sister, bidding

him, at Albert's request, be on the bridge of Prague at seven o'clock

that evening.

"The first carriage that passes you will stop; if the first person you

see in it can leave for the castle that same evening, Albert, perhaps,

will be saved. At least, he says it will give him a hold on eternal

life. I do not know what he means, but he has the gift of prophecy and

the perception of hidden things. The doctors have given up all hope for

his life."

"Is the carriage ready, sir?" Consuelo said, when the latter was

finished. "If so I am ready also, and we can set out instantly."

"I shall follow you," said Porpora. "Only we must be in Berlin in a

week's time."

The carriage and horses were already in the courtyard, and in a few

minutes the baron and Consuelo were on their journey to the castle of

the Rudolstadts.

At the doorway of the castle they were met by the aged canoness, who,

seizing Consuelo by the arm, said:

"We have not a moment to lose. Albert begins to grow impatient. He has

counted the hours and minutes till your arrival, and announced your

approach before we heard the sound of the carriage wheels. He was sure

of your coming; but, he said, if any accident detained you, it would be

too late. Signora, in the name of Heaven, do not oppose any of his

wishes; promise all he asks; pretend to love him. Albert's hours are

numbered; his life is close. All we ask of you is to soothe his

sufferings." Then, as they approached the great saloon, she added, "Take

courage, signora. You need not be afraid of surprising him, for he

expects you, and has seen you coming hours ago."

The door opened and Consuelo darted forward to her lover. Albert was

seated in a large arm-chair before the fire. It was no longer a man, it

was a spectre, Consuelo saw. His face, still beautiful, was as a face of

marble. There was no smile on his lips, no ray of joy in his eyes.

Consuelo knelt before him; he looked fixedly at her, and then, giving a

sign to the canoness, she placed his arms on Consuelo's shoulders. Then

she made the young girl lay her head on Albert's breast, and the dying

man whispered in her ear: "I am happy." With another sign, he made the

canoness understand that she and his father were to kiss his betrothed.

"From my very heart!" exclaimed the canoness, with emotion. The old

count who had been holding his brother's hand in one of his and

Porpora's in the other, left them to embrace Consuelo fervently.

The doctor urged an immediate marriage.

"I can answer positively for nothing," he said, "but I venture to think

much good may come of it. Your excellency consented to this marriage

formerly----"

"I always consented to it. I never opposed it," said the count. "It was

Master Porpora who wrote to say that he would never consent, and that

she likewise had renounced all idea. Alas, it was the death-blow to my

unhappy child!"

"Do not grieve," murmured Albert to Consuelo. "I have understood for

many days now that you were faithful. I know that you have endeavoured

to love me, and have succeeded. But we have been deceived, and you must

forgive your master, as I forgive him."

Consuelo looked at Porpora, and the old musician reproached himself for

homicide, and burst into tears. Only Consuelo's consent was necessary,

and this was given.

The marriage was hastened on. Porpora and the doctor served as

witnesses. Albert found strength to pronounce a decisive "Yes," and the

other responses in the service in a clear voice, and the family from

this felt a new hope for his recovery. Hardly had the chaplain recited

the closing prayer over the newly-married couple, before Albert arose

and threw himself into his father's arms; then, seating himself again in

his arm-chair, he pressed Consuelo to his heart, and exclaimed:

"I am saved!"

"It is nature's last effort," said the doctor.

Albert's arms loosed their hold, and fell forward on his knees. His gaze

was riveted on Consuelo; gradually the shade crept from his forehead to

his lips, and covered his face with a snowy veil.

"It is the hand of Death!" said the doctor, breaking the silence.

Consuelo would take neither her husband's title nor his riches.

"Stay with us, my daughter?" cried the canoness, "for you have a lofty

soul and a great heart!"

But Consuelo tore herself away after the funeral, though her heart was

wrung with grief. As she crossed the drawbridge with Porpora, Consuelo

did not know that already the old count was dead, and that the Castle of

the Giants, with its riches and its sufferings, had become the property

of the Countess of Rudolstadt.

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