OF THE UNIVERSITY Of ILLINOIS 845SI9 OconsuE 188 - n Return this book on or before the Latest Date stamped below. A charge is made on all overdue books. University of Illinois Library FEB 1 o m c m -3 mi DEC 1 3 !%*0 mm mas Pop in* iji M3 2 CONSUELO.. AUTHOR OP “THE COUNTESS OP RUDOLSTADT," “ INDIANA,” “THE CORSAIR, ** ** FARCHON, THE CRICKET; OR, LA PETITE FADETTE,** ao, would you repel me ? ” Anzoleto — “ I know not if I should have the power to fly; but if I had, I know that I should never behold you again.” “ Very well,” said Corilla, “ I have a fancy to try the experiment — Anzoleto, I love you.” “ I do not believe it,” replied he. “ If I stay, it is because I think you are only mocking me. That is a game at which you shall not frighten me, and still less shall you pique me.” “ You wish to try an encounter of wit, I think.” “ No, indeed; I am not in the least to be dreaded, since I give you ' the means of overcoming me; it is to freeze me with terror, and drbe me from your presence, in telling me seriously what you have just now uttered in jest.” “You are a knowing fellow, and I see that one must be careful what one says to you. You are one of those who not only wish to breathe the fragrance of the rose, but would pluck and preserve it. I could not have supposed you so bold and so decided at your age.” u And do you despise me therefore ? ” “ On the contrary, I am the more pleased with you. Good night, Anzoleto ; we shall see each other again.” She held out her white hand, which he kissed passionately. “I have got off famously,” said he, as he escaped by the passages lead- ing from the Canaletto. Despairing of gaining access to his nest at so late an hour, h« thought he would lie down at the first porch, to gain the heavenly iw. fete which infancy and poverty alone know; tmt» for the first time Vi r CONSUELO 87 his life, he xmld not find a slab sufficiently smooth for his purpose The pavement of Venice is the cleanest and whitest in the world; still, the light dust scattered over it hardly suited a dark dress of ele- gant material and latest fashion. And then the propriety of the thing! The boatmen who would have carefully stepped over the young plebeian in the morning, would have insulted him, and perhaps soiled his parasitic livery during his repose. What would they have thought of one reposing in the open air in silk stockings, fine linen, and lace ruffles? Anzoleto regretted his good woollen capa, worn and old no doubt, but thick and well calculated to resist the unhealthy morning fogs of Venice. It was now towards the latter end of Feb- uary ; and, although the days at this period were warm and brilliant, the nights at Venice were still very cold. Then he thought he would gain admission into one of the gondolas fastened to the bank, but they were all secured under lock and key. At last he found one of which the door yielded ; but in getting in, he stumbled over the legs of the barcarole, who had retired for the night. “ Per diavolo l ” said a rough voice from the bottom of the cabin, 44 who are you, and what do you want ? ” “ Is it you, Zanetto ? ” replied Anzoleto, recognizing the man, who was generally very civil to him; "let me stretch myself beside you, and dream a while within your cabin.” 44 And who are you ? ” said Zanetto. “ Anzoleto : do you not know me?” 44 Per diavolo , no ! You have garments which Anzoleto never wore, unless he stole them. Be off! Were you the Doge in person, I would not open my bark to a man who strutted about in fine clothes when he had not a corner to rest in.” "So, so,” thought Anzoleto; “ the protection and favor of Count Zustiniani have exposed me to greater dangers and annoyances than they have procured me advantages. It is time that my fortune should correspond with my success, and I long to have a few sequins to enable me to support the station which I have assumed.” Sufficiently out of sorts, he sauntered through the deserted streets, not daring to pause a moment, lest the perspiration should be checked which anger and fatigue had caused to flow freely forth. 44 It is well, I do not grow hoarse,” said he to himself; 44 to-morrow the count will show me off to some foolish Aristarchus, who, if I have the least feather in the throat in consequence of this night’s want of rest, will say that I have no voice ; and the Signor Count, who knows better, will repeat, 4 If you had but heard him last night ! ’ 4 He is not equal, then,’ the other will observe; 4 or perhaps he is not in good healthy ’ Dr perhaps,’ as a third will aver, 4 he was tired last night. The truth is, he is very young to sing several days in succession. Had you not better wait till he is riper and more robust? ’ And the count will say, 4 Diavolo ! if he grows hoarse after a couple of songs, he will not answer me.’ Then, to make sure that I am strong and well, they will make me exercise every day till I am out of breath, and break my voice to prove that I have lungs. To the devil with their protec tion, I say! Ah! if I were only free of these great folk, and in favor with the public, and courted by the theatres, I could sing in theii saloons, and treat with them as equal powers.” Thus plotting, Anzoleto reached one of those little spots termeo forti in Venice. Courts indeed they were not, but an assemblage ot hfin 19*5 opening on a common space, corresponding with what in Parfe 8S C0K8UIL0, !• called cite. But the-e is nothing in the disposition of these pm tended courts like the elegant and systematic arrangements of oui modern squares. They are obscure spots, sometimes impassable, at other times allowing passage ; but little frequented, and dwelt in by persons of slender fortune — laborers, workmen, or washerwomen who stretch their linen across the road, somewhat to the annoyance of the passengers, who put up with it in return for permission to go across. Woe to the poor artist who is obliged to open the windows of his apartment in these secluded recesses, where rustic life, with its noisy, unclean habits, re-appears in the heart of Venice, not two steps from large canals and sumptuous edifices! Woe to him if silence be necessary to his occupation ! for, from morn till night, there is an in- terminable uproar, with children, fowls, and dogs, screaming and playing within the narrow space, the chatter of women in the porches, and the songs of workmen, which do not leave him a moment of re- pose. Happy, too, if improvisatori do not bawl their sonnets till they have gathered a coin from every window ; or Brighella do not fix her station in the court, ready to begin her dialogue afresh with the “ avo - catOy il tedesco, e il diavolo” until she has exhausted in vain her elo- quence before the dirty children — happy spectators, who do not scru- ple to listen and to look on, although they have not a farthing in their possession. But atnight, when all is silent, and when the quiet moon lights up the scene, this assemblage of houses of every period, united to each other without symmetry or pretension, divided by deep shadows full of mystery in their recesses, and of a wild spontaneous beauty, pre- sents an infinitely picturesque assemblage. Everything is beautiful under the light of the moon. The least architectural effect assumes force and character, and the meanest balcony, with its clustering vine, reminds you of Spain and of romantic adventures with the cloak and sword. The clear atmosphere in which the distant cupolas rising above the dark mass are bathed, sheds on the minutest details of the picture a vague yet harmonious coloring, which invites one to reveries without end. It was in the Corte Minelli, near the church of San Fan tin, that Anzoleto found himself when the clocks of the different churches tolled the hour of two. A secret instinct had led his devious steps to the dwelling of one of whom he had not thought since the setting of the sun. Hardly had he entered the court, when he heard a sweet voice call him by the last syllables of his name; and raising his head he saw for an instant a faint profile shadow itself on one of the most miserable abodes of the place. A moment afterwards a door opened and Consuelo, in a muslin petticoat and wrapped in an old black silk mantle which had served as adornment for her mother, extended one hand to him, while at the same time she placed her finger on her lip to enforce silence. They crept up the ruined stair, and seated at length on the terrace, they began one of those long whispering con- versations, interrupted by kisses, which one hears by night along the level roofs, like the converse of wandering spirits wafted through the mist, amidst the strange chimneys, hooded with red turbans, of all the houses of Venice. " How, my poor friend } said Anzoleto ; “ have you waited for me until now ? ” “ Did you not say you would give me an account of the evening, and tell me if you sang well— if you afforded pleasure — if they ap gl&uded you — u they signed your engagement! CO NSU E IrO M * And you, my best Consuelo,” said Anzoleto, struck with remonw on seeing the confidence and sweetness of this poor girl, “ tell me if my long absence has made you impatient — if you are not tired — if you do not feel chill on this cold terrace — if you have already supped — if you are not angry with me for coming so late — if you are uneasy — if you found fault with me.” “ No such thing,” she replied, throwing her arm3 about his neck. “ If I have been impatient, it was not with you ; if I fejt wearied — if I was cold — I am no longer so, since you are here. Whether I have supped or not, I do not know ; whether I have found fault with you ? —Why should I find fault with you ? — if 1 have been disquieted ? — why should I have been so? — if I have been angry with you?— nev- er!” “ You are an angel ! ” said Anzoleto, returning her caress. “Ah, my only consolation ! how cold and perfidious are all other hearts I ” “ Alas ! what has happened ! — what have they done to the son of my soul? ” exclaimed Consuelo, mixing with the sweet Yenetian dia- lect the passionate expressions of her native tongue. Anzoleto told her all that had happened — even to his gallantries with Corilla, and more especially the encouragement which she held out to him ; only he smoothed matters over somewhat, saying nothing that could vex Consuelo, since in point of fact he had been faithful — and he told almost all. But there is always some minute particle of truth on which judicial inquiry has never thrown light — which no client has revealed to his advocate — which no sentence has ever aimed at except by chance — because in these few secret facts or intentions is the entire cause, the motive, the aim — the object in a word — of these great suits, always so badly pleaded and always so badly judged, what- ever may be the ardor of the speakers or the coolness of the magis- trate. To return to Anzoleto. It is not necessary to say what pecadilloes he omitted, what emotions in public he translated in his own fashion, what secret palpitations in the gondola he forgot to mention. I do not think he even spoke of the gondola at all, and as to his flatteries at the cantatrice, why they were adroit mystifications by means of which he escaped her perilous advances without making her angry. Wherefore, being unwilling, and I may add unable, to mention all the temptations which he had surmounted by his prudence and caution, why, dear lady reader, should the young rogue awaken jealousy in the bosom of Consuelo? Happily for the little Spaniard she knew nothing of jealousy. This dark and bitter feeling only afflicts souls that have greatly suffered, and hitherto Consuelo had been happy in her affection as she was good. The only thing that made a pro- found impression upon her was the severe yet flattering denunciation of Professor Porpora on the adored head of Anzoleto. She made him repeat all the expressions which the maestro had used, and when he had done so, pondered on them long and earnestly. “ My little Consuelo,” said Anzoleto without remarking her ab- straction, “it is horribly cold here. Are you not afraid of getting cold ? Think, my dear, that our prospects depend much more upon your voice than mine.” “ I never get cold,” said she ; “ but you are so lightly dressed with your fine clothes. Here now, put on this mantle.” “ What would you have me do with this fine bit of torn taffewi? > $ould rather take shelter for half m hour in your 40 CONSUELO. “’Tiswell,” said Consuelo, “but tben we must not speak; the neighbors would hear us, and we should be to blame. They are not ill-disposed; they see us together without tormenting me about it, be- cause they know very well you do not come here at night. You would do better to sleep at home.” “ Impossible ! They will only open at daylight, and there are still three hours to watch. See, my teeth chatter with the cold ! ” “ Well,” said Consuelo, getting up, “I shall let you into my room and return to the terrace, so that if anybody should observe it, it will be seen there is nothing wrong.” She brought him into a dilapidated apartment, where, under flow- ers and frescoes on the wall, appeared a second picture, almost in a worse condition than the first. A large square bed with a mattress of sea-weed, and a spotted muslin coverlet, perfectly clean but patched with fragments of every imaginable color; a straw chair, a little table, an antique guitar, a filagree cross — the only wealth her mother had left — a spinet, a great heap of worm-eaten music, which Professor Pro- pora was kind enough to lend— such was the furniture of the young aiitist, daughter of a poor Bohemian, the pupil of a celebrated master, and sweetheart of a handsome adventurer. A s there was but one chair, and as the table was covered with music, there was no seat for Anzo- leto but the bed, on which he placed himself without hesitation. Hardly was he seated, when overwhelmed with fatigue, his head fell upon the woolen cushion which served as a pillow; but. almost im- mediately starting up again by a violent effort, he exclaimed — ‘‘And you, my poor girl ! are you going to take no rest? Ah ! I am a wretch — I shall go and lie in the streets." “ No,” said Consuelo, gently thrusting him back; “ you are ill and I am not. My mother died a good Catholic; she is now in heaven, and sees us at this very hour. She knows you have kept the promise you made to her, never to abandon me. She knows that our affection has been pure since her death as before. She sees at this moment that I neither do nor think what is wrong — that her soul may repose in the Lord !” And here Consuelo made the sign of the cross. An- zoleto already slumbered. ‘‘ I am going to tell my beads,” continued Consuelo, moving away, “that you may not take the fever.” “ Angel that you are !” faintly murmured Anzoleto, and he did not even perceive that he was alone. She had gone, in fact, to the ter- race. In a short time she returned to assure herself that he was not ill, and, finding that he slept tranquilly, she gazed long and earnestly at his beautiful face, as it lay lighted by the moon. Then, determined to resist drowsiness herself, and finding that the emotions of the evening had caused her to neglect her work, she lighted the lamp, and seated before the little table, she noted a com- position which Master Porpora had required of her for the following day. CHAPTER VI. The Count Zustiniani, notwithstanding his philosophical composure was not so indifferent to the insolent caprices of Corilla as he pre- tended. Good-natured, weak, frivolous, Zustiniani was only a rake in 43 OH SUKLtt 41 Appearance and by his social position. He could not help feeling a! the bottom of his heart the ungrateful return which this insolent and foolish girl had made to his generosity ; and though at that period it was considered the worst possible taste, as well at Venice as at Paris, to seem jealous, his Italian pride revolted at the absurd and miserable position in which Corilla had placed him. So, the same afternoon that had seen Anzoleto shine at he Palazzo Zustiniani, the count, after having laughed with Barberigo over the tricks of Corilla, his saloons being emptied and the wax-lights extinguished, took down his Joak and sword, and, in order to ease his mind, set off for the palazzo nhabited by his mistress. He found that she was alone, but still doubted her. He began to converse in a low voice with the barcarole who was mooring the gon- dola of the prima dohna under the arch reserved for that purpose ; and, by virtue of a few sequins, he easily convinced himself that he was not mistaken, and that Corilla had not been alone in the gondola; but who tt was that had accompanied her he could not ascertain — the gondolier knew not. He had met Anzoleto a hundred times in the passages of the theatre, or near the Palazzo Zustiniani, but failed to recognise him when powdered and in his dark attire. This inscrutable mystery completed the count’s annoyance. He consoled himself with ridiculing his rival, the only vengeance which good breeding permitted, and not less cruel in a gay and frivolous age than murder at more serious periods. He could not sleep ; and at the hour when Porpora began his instructions, he set out for the Scuola di Mendicanti, and the hall where the young pupils were wont to assemble. The position of the count with regard to the learned professor was for some years past much changed. Zustiniani was no longer the musical antagonist of Porpora, but in some sort his associate and leader. He had advanced considerable sums to the establishment over which the learned maestro presided, and out of gratitude the directors had invested him with the supreme control. The two asso- ciates then were as good friends as could be expected from the intol- erance of the maestro with regard to the music in vogue — an intoler- ance, however, which was considerably softened by the assistance and resources lavished by the count in behalf of the propagation of serious music. Besides, the latter had brought out at San Samuel an, opera which the maestro had written. “ My dear master,” said Zustiniani, drawing Porpora aside, “ you must not only give me one of your pupils for the theatre, but say which of them is best calculated to replace Corilla. That artist i« worn out, her voice has decayed, her caprices ruin us, and the publis will be disgusted. Truly, we must obtain a succeditrice.” Pardon, dear reader, for this was said in Italian, and the count made no mis- take. “ I have not got what you require,” replied Porpora, dryly. “What! my dear maestro,” exclaimed the count, “you are not going to fall back into your dark moods ? Is it after all the sacrifices and all the devotion which I have manifested towards you, that you are going to deny me a slight favor when I ask your assistance and advice in my own behalf? ,r “ I should not be justified in doing so,” repliecLthe professor, “ and what I have just said is the trir.h, told you by a friend, and with the doaiis to oblige you. I have not in my school a single person capable r 41 COMStJKLO. ef replacing Gorilla. I do not estimate her higher than she deserve* yet in declaring that the talent of this girl has no real worth In my eyes, I am forced to acknowledge that she possesses an experience, a skill, a facility, and a sympathy with the public, which can only be acquired by years of practice, and which could not be obtained by other debutantes for a long time.” “ That is true,” said the count ; “ but we made Corilla, we saw her begin, we procured the approbation of the public ; her beauty gained her three-fourths of her success, and you have individuals equally agreeable in your school. You cannot deny that, master. Come, admit that Clorinda is the most beautiful creature in the universe.” “ Yes, but saucy, simpering, intolerable. — The public perhaps may Cud her grimaces charming — but she sings false, she has neither soul nor intelligence. It is true that the public has only ears; but then she has neither memory nor address, and she could only save herself from condemnation by the happy charlatanism that succeeds with so many others.” Thus saying, the professor cast an Involuntary glance upon Anzo- lejo, who, under favor of the count, and on pretence of listening to the class, had kept a little apart, attending to the conversation. “ It matters not,” said Zustiniani, who heeded little the master's rancour; “ I shall not give up my project. It is long since I have heard Clorinda. Let her come with five or six others, the prettiest that can be found. Come, Anzoleto,” said he, smiling, “ you are well enough attired to assume the grave air of a young professor. Go to the garden and speak to the most striking of these young beauties, i and tell them that the professor and I expect them here.’' Anzoleto obeyed, but whether through malice or address, he brought the ugliest, so that then Jacques might have said for once with truth, “ Sofia was one-eyed, and Cattina was a cripple.” This quid jpro quo was taken in good part: and after they had laughed in their sleeves, they issed them, in order to send those of their companions whom the professor named. A charming group soon made their appearance, with Clorinda at their head. “ What magnificent hair 1 ” exclaimed the count, as the latter passed him with her superb tresses. “ There is much more on than in that head,” said the professor, without deigning to lower his voice. After an hour's trial, the count could stand it no ionger, but with courteous expressions to the young ladies, retired full of consterna- tion, after saying in the professor's ear, “ we must not think of these cockatoos ! ” “ Would your Excellency permit me to say a word respecting the subject which occupies you,” said Anzoleto in a low voice to the count as they descended the steps. “ Speak,” said the count; “do yon know this marvel wbsm we seek ? ” ^ “Yes, ExceHenza.” “ In what sea will you fish up this precious pearl? ” " At the bottom of the class, where the jealous Porpora places her on the day when you pass your female battalion in review.” “What I is there a diamond in the school whose spleudor has never reached my eyes ? If Master Porpora has played me such a trick ! — ” “ Illustrious, the diamond of vhich I speak is not strictly part of the school: she is only a poor gir 1 who sings in the choruses when they OOH8UXLO. *8 require her xeryices, and to whom the professor gives lessons partly through charity, but still more from love of his art.” " In that case her abilities must be extraordinary, for the professor & not easily satisfied, and in no way prodigal of his time and labor. Could I have heard her perchance without knowing it ? ” “ Your Excellency heard her long ago when she was but a child Now she is a young woman — able, studious, wise as the professor himself, and capable of extinguishing Gorilla on the first occasion dial she sings a single air beside her in the theatre.” " Does she never sing in public ? Did she not sing sometimes at vespers ? ” “ Formerly, your Excellency, the professor took pleasure in he&rin$ her sing in the church: but since then the scolari , through jeatousj and revenge, have threatened to chase her from the tribune if s&e re appears there by their side.” “ She is a girl of bad conduct then ° ” “ Oh Heavens 1 she is a virgin, purt as the newly fallen snow ! Bn she is poor and of mean extraction — like myself, Eccellenza, whon you yet deign to elevate by your goodness — and these wicked I arpte have threatened to complain to you of bringing into their class xpupi who did not belong to it.” “ Where can I hear this wonder? ” “ Let your Highness order the professor to make her sin# before you, and" you can then judge of her voice and the amoun* of he talent.” " Your confidence inclines me to believe you. You say I h^ard he? long since ? — I cannot remember when.” “ In the church of the Mendicanti, on a general rehears*! of tin • Sc Jue Regina * of Pergolese.” ‘ k Oh, I remember now,” exclaimed the count; " voice, event, an*, intelligence equally admirable ! ” " She was then but fourteen, my lord — no better than a f/iild.” “ Yes— but now I think of it, I remember she was not Wndsome/ "Not handsome, Excellenza I ” exclaimed Anzoleto vpiite tounded. “ She was called— let me see— was it not a Spanish nr**e? — some thing out of the way ? ” " It was Consuelo, my lord.” u Yes, that is the name; you were to marry her then. * ntep whief made the professor and myself laugh a little. Consuelo- -yes, it is th* same; the favorite of the professor, an intelligent girl, bu^ very ugly- 5 " Yery ugly? ” repeated Anzoleto, as f stupefied. "Yes, my child. Do you still admire her*? ” " She is mon amie , Illustrissimo.” " Amie / that is to say, sister or sweetheart, which of the two Y ” " Sister, my master.” In that case I can give you an answer without paining you ; you i idea is devoid of common sense. To replace Corilla it would require an angel of beauty, and your Consuelo, if I remember rightly, was nov only ugly but frightful ! ” The count was accosted at this moment by one of his friends, and left Anzoleto, who was struck dumb with amazement, and w tic peated with a v'gh, " She is frightful l ” 44 OOVIUliO CHAPTER TIL It mar appear rather astonishing, dear reader, and yet It la veiy» certain, that Anzo.eto never had formed an opinion of the beauty or the ugliness of Consuelo. Consuelo was a being so solitary, so un- known in Venice, that no one had thought of seeking whether, be- neath this veil of isolation and obscurity, intelligence and goodness had ended by showing themselves under an agreeable or insignificant form. Poipora, who had no senses but for his art, had only seen in her the artist. Her neighbors of the Corte Minelli observed, without attaching any blame to it, her innocent love for Anzoleto. At Venice they are not particular on this score. They predicted indeed very often, that she would be unhappy with this youth without business or calling, and they counselled her rather to seek to establish herself with some honest workman. But she replied to them that, as she herself was without friends or support, Anzoleto suited her per* fectly, and as for six years no day had passed without their seeing them together, never seeking any concealment and never quarreling, they had ended by accustoming themselves to their free and apparent- ly indissoluble union, and no neighbor had ever paid court to the arnica of Anzoleto. Whether was this owing to her supposed engage* ment or to her extreme poverty ! — or was it, perhaps, that her person had no attractions for them ? This last supposition is the most pro* bable. Every one knows, however, that from fourteen to fifteen, girls are generally thin, out of sorts, without harmony either as to proportions or movements. Towards fifteen, to use a common expression, they undergo a sort of fusion, after which they become, if not pretty, at least agreeable. It has even been remarked that it is not desirable that a young girl should grow good-looking too early. Consuelo, like others, had gained all the benefits of adolescence ; she was no longer called ugly, simply because she had ceased to be so. As she was neither Dauphine nor infanta, however, there were no crowds of courtiers to proclaim that her royal highness grew day by day more beautiful ; and no one was sufficiently solicitous to tell An- zoleto that he should have no occasion to blush for his bride. Since Anzoleto had heard her termed ugly at an age when the word had neither sense nor meaning, he had forgotten to think about it; his vanity had taken another direction. The theatre and renown were all his care, and he had no time to think of conquests. His curiosity was appeased — he had no more to learn. At twenty-two he was in a measure blast; yet his affection for Consuelo was tranquil as at eighteen, despite a few chaste kisses, taken as they were given, without shame. Let us not be astonished at this calmness and propriety on the part of a youth in other respects not ove : particular. Our young people had ceased to live as described at the beginning of this history. Con- suelo, now nearly sixteen, continued her somewhat wandering life, leaving the conservatory to eat her rice and repeat her lesson on the steps of the Piazetta with Anzoleto. When her mother, worn out by fatigue, ceased to sing for charity in the coffee-houses in the evening* the poor creature sought refuge in one of the most miserable garrets & the Corte Minelli, to die upon a pallet, Then the good Consuelo CONSUBLO quitting her no more, entirely changed her manner of lift. Exclusive of the hours when the professor deigned to give his lessons, she 1»* bored sometimes at her needle, sometimes at counter-point, but al- ways at the bedside of her imperious and despairing mother, who had cruelly ill-treated her in her infancy, and who now presented the frightful spectacle of a last struggle without courage and without virtue. The filial piety and devotion of Consuelo never flagged for a single instant. The pleasures of youth and of her free and wander- ing life*— even love itself— all were sacrificed without a moment’s hes- itation or regret. Anzoleto made bitter complaints, but finding re* E roaches useless, resolved to forge.* her and to amuse himself ; but this e found impossible. He had none of the industry of Consuelo ; he learned quickly but imperfectly the inferior lessons which his teacher to gain the salary promised by Zustiniani, gave him equally quickly and equally ill. This was all very well for Anzoleto, in whom prodi- gal nature made up for lost time and the effects of inferior instruc- tion, but there were hours of leisure during which the friehdly and cheerful society of Consuelo were found sadly wanting. He tried to addict himself to the habits of his class ; he frequented public-houses, and wasted with young scapegraces the trifling bounties he enjoyed through the iavor of Count Zustiniani. This sort of life pleased him for some week* ; but he soon found that his health and his voice were becoming sensibly impaired— that the far-niente was not excess, and that excess was not his element, Preserved from bad passion* through a higher species of self-love, he retired to solitude and study; but they only presented a frightful mixture of gloom and difficulty.; He saw that Consuelo was no less necessary to his talents than to his happiness. She was studious and persevering— livingln an atmosphere of music as a bird in the air, or a fish in the wave— loving to^overcoma; difficulties without inquiring into their nature any more than a child —but impelled to combat the obstacles and penetrate the mysteriea of art, by an instinct invisible as that which causes the germ to pen- etrate the soil and seek the air. Consuelo enjoyed one of those rara and happy temperaments for which labor is an,enjoyment, a sort of re* pose, a necessary condition, and to which inaction would be an effort* a waste, in short, a disease — if inaction indeed to such natures were possible. But they know nothing of the kind ; in apparent idlenes* they still labor, but it is not so much reverie as meditation; In sea-[ ing them act, one would suppose that they were creating, whereat they but give expression to what has been already created. You will tell me, gentle reader, that you have never known such rare tempera^ ments ; to which I shall reply, dearly beloved reader, that I have met' with but one. If so, am I older than you ? Why can I not tell you that I have analyzed in my own poor brain the divine mystery of this Intellectual activity ? But alas I friendly reader, it is neither you nor, I who shall study this in ourselves. Consuelo worked on, amusing herself the while. She persisted for hours together, either by free and capricious flights of song or by study on the book, to vanquish difficulties which would have repelled Anzoleto if left to himself; and without any idea of emulation oii premeditated design, she forced him to follow her, to second her, to» comprehend and to reply to her — sometimes, as it were, in the midstt of almost childish bursts cf laughter — sometimes borne away by th# poetic and creative fantasia , which pervades the popular tempera* ttient of Italy and Spain. During the many years in which he OONSUBLO 40 Influenced by the genius of Consuelo — drinking at a source which ti did not comprehend— copying her without knowing it— Anzoloto, held Desides in chains by his indolence, had become a strange compound of knowledge and ignorance, of inspiration and frivolity, of power and weakness, of boldness and awkwardness, such as had plunged Porpora at the last rehearsal into a perfect labyrinth of meditation and conjecture. The maestro did not know the secret of the riches he had borrowed from Consuelo ; for having once severely scolded the little one for her intimacy with this great idler, he had never again seen them together. — Consuelo, bent upon maintaining the good-wilJ of her master, took care whenever she saw him at a distance, if in company with Anzoleto, to hide herself with agile bounds behind a column, or to disappear in the recesses of some gondola. These precautions were still continued, when, Consuelo having be- come a nurse, Anzoleto, unable to support her absence, and feeiing life, hope, inspiration, and even existence failing him,, returned to share her sedentary life, and to bear with her the sourness and angry whims of the dying woman. Some months before the close of her life, the unhappy creature, broken down by her sufferings, and vanquished by the filial piety of her daughter, felt her soul opened to milder emotions. She habituated herself to the attentions of Anzoleto, who, although little accustomed to acts of friendship and self-denial, displayed a zeal- ous kindness and good-will towards the feeble sufferer. Anzoleto had an even temper and gentle demeanor. His perseverance towards her and Consuelo at length won her heart, and in her last moments she made them promise never to abandon each other. Anzoleto promised, and even felt in this solemn act a depth of feeling to which he had been hitherto a stranger. The dying woman made the engagement easier to him by saying : — “ Let her be your friend, your sister, or your wife, only leave her not; she knows none, has listened to none, but you.” Consuelo, now an orphan, continued to ply her needle and study music, as well to procure means for the present as to prepare for her union with Anzoleto. During two years he continue^ to visit her in her garret, without experiencing any passion for her, or being able to feel it for others, so much did the charm of being with her seem pref- erable to all other things. Without ftilly appreciating the lofty faculties of his companion, he could see that her attainments and capabilities were superior to those of any of the singers at San Samuel, or even to those of Corilla her- self. To this habitual affection were now added the hope, and almost the conviction, that a community of interests would render their fu- ture existence at once brilliant and profitable. Consuelo thought lit- tle of the future: foresight was not among her good qualities. She would have cultivated music without any other end in view than that of fulfilling her vocation ; and the community of interest which the practice of that art was to realise between her and her friend, had no other meaning to her than that of an association of happiness and affection. It was therefore without apprising her of it, that he con- ceived the hope of realizing their dreams ; and learning that Zustini- ani had decided on replacing Corilla, Anzoleto, sagaciously divining the wishes of his patron, had made the proposal which has already been mentioned. But Consuelo’s ugliness — this strange, unexpected, and invincible drawback, U the count indeed were not deceived — had struck tatiwx; OOKSUBIO 47 And consternation to his soul. So he retraced his steps to the Corte Minelli, stopping every instant to recal to his mind in a new point of ▼lew the likeness of his friend, and to repeat again and again, “ Not pretty ?— ugly ?— frightful ? ” CHAPTER VIIL “ Why do you stare at me so ? ” said Consuelo, seeing him entet her apartment, and fix a steady gaze upon her, without uttering a word. “ One would think you had never seen me before.” “ It is true, Consuelo,” he replied ; “ I have never seen you.” “ Are you mad ? ” continued she ; “ I know not what you mean.” “ Ah, Heaven ! I fear I am,” exclaimed Anzoleto. “ I have a dark, hideous spot in my brain, which prevents me from seeing you.” “ Holy Virgin ! you are ill, my friend ! ” “ No, dear girl ; calm yourself, and let us endeavor to see clearly. Tell me, Consuelo, do you think me handsome ? ” “ Surely I do, since I love you.” “ But if you did not love me, what would you think of me then ? “ How can I tell?” “ But when you look at othei men, do you know whether they are handsome or ugly ? ” “ Yes; But I think you handsomer than the handsomest.” “ Is it because I am so, or because you love me ? ” “ Both one and the other, I think. Everybody calls you handsome, and you know that you are so. But why do you ask ? ” “ I wish to know if you would love me were I frightful? “ I should not be aware of it, perhaps.” “ Do you believe, then, that it is possible to love one who is ugly ? " “ Why not, since you love me ? ” “Are you ugly, then, Consuelo? Tell me truly—are you indeed ugly ? ” “ They have told me so — do you not see it ? “No; in truth, I see no such thing.” “ In that case, I am handsome enough, and am well satisfied.” “ Hold there, Consuelo. When you look at me so sweetly, so lov- ingly, so naturally, I think you prettier far than Corilla ; but I want to know if it be an illusion of my imagination, or reality. I know the expression of your countenance ; I know that it is good, and that it pleases me. When I am angry, it calms me ; when sorrowful, cheer s me ; when I am cast down, it revives me. But your feature* Consu- elo, I cannot tell if they are ugly or not.” “ But I ask you once more, what does it matter ? ” “ I must know ; tell me, therefore, if it be possible for a handsome man to love an ugly woman.” “You loved my dear mother, who was no better than a spectre, and 1 loved her so dearly I ” “ And did you think her ugly ? ” “No; did you?” “ I thought nothing about it. But to love with passion, Consuefo — for, in truth, I love you passionately, do I not? 1 cannot liva witib* put you — cannot quit you. Is not that love, Consuelo ? v COHSOBI.O r- * Oonld it be anything else ? ” u Could it be friendship ? ” “ Yes, it might, indeed, be friendship-—” Here the much surprised Consuelo paused and looked attentively at Anzoleto, while he, falling into a melancholy reverie, asked himself for the first time whether it was love or friendship he felt for Consue- lo, or whether the moderation and propriety of his demeanor were the result of respect or indifference. For the first time he looked at the young girl with the eyes of a youth; analysed, not without diffi- culty, her face, her form, her eyes— all the details in fine of which he had had hitherto but a confused ideal in his mind. For the first time Consuelo was embarrassed by the demeanor of her friend. She blush- ed, her heart beat with violence, and she turned aside her head, una- ble to support Anzoleto’s gaze. At last, as he preserved a silence which she d'.d not care to break, a feeling of anguish took possession of her heart, tears rolled down her cheeks, and she hid her face in her hands. “Oh, I see it plainly,” she said; “you have come to tell me that you will no longer have me for your sweetheart.” “ No, no; I did not say that— I did not say that!” exclaimed Anzo- leto, terrified by the tears which he had caused her to shed for the first time ; and, restored to all his brotherly-feeling, he folded Consu elo in his aims. But as she turned her head aside, he kissed, in E lace of her calm, cool cheek, a glowing shoulder, ill-concealed by a andkerchief of black lace. 44 I know not well what ails me,” exclaimed Consuelo, tearing her- self from his arms; “I think I am ill; I feel as if I were going to die.” “ You must not die,” said Anzoleto, following and supporting her in his arms ; “ you are fair, Consuelo — yes, you are fair 1 ” In truth, she was then very fair. Anzoleto never inquired how, but he could not help repeating it, for his heart felt it warmly. “ But,” said Consuelo, pale and agitated, 44 why do you insist so on finding me pretty to-day ? ” 44 Would you not wish to be so, dear Consuelo? n u Yes, for you I ” u And for others too ? ” 44 It concerns me not.” “ But if it influenced our future prospects ? ” Here, Anzoleto, see- ing the uneasiness which he caused his betrothed, told her candidly all that had occurred between the count and himself. And when he came to repeat the expressions, anything but flattering, which Zus- tiniani had employed when speaking of her, the good Consuelo, now perfectly tranquil, could not restrain a violent burst of laughter, dry- ing at the same time her tear-stained eyes. u Well?” said Anzoleto, surprised at this total absence of vanity, u do you take it so coolly ? Ah ! Consuelo, I can see that you are a little coquette. You know very well that you are not ugly.” 44 Listen,” said she, smiling : 44 since you are so serious about trifles, I find I must satisfy you a little. I never was a coquette, and not being handsome, do not wish to seem ridiculous. But as to being ugly, I am no longer so.” 44 Indeed ! Who has told you ? ” a First it was my mother, who was never uneasy about my uglinena* I heard her often say that she was far less passable than I in her ha* CONSUELO 4fl fancy, and yet when she was twenty she was the handsomest girl In Burgos. You know that when the people looked at her in the caftts where she s'ing, they said, 4 this woman must have been once beauti- fied.’ See, ’ny good friend, beauty is fleeting ; when its possessor is sunk in poverty it lasts for a moment, and then is no more. I might become lnndsome — who knows? — if I was not to be too much ex- hausted ; if I got sound rest, and did not suffer too much from hun- ger.” 44 Cons' \elo, we will never part. I shall soon be rich; you will then want fo’ nothing, and can be pretty at your ease.” “ Hej^ en grant it ; but God’s will be done I ” “ But all this is nothing to the purpose ; we must see if the count will find you handsome enough for the theatre.” 44 That hard-hearted count ! Let us trust that he will not be too exacting.” 44 First and foremost then, you are not ugly ? ” 44 No ; I am not ugly. I heard the glass-blower over the way there say not long ago to his wife — 4 Do you know* that little Consuelo is not so much amiss. She has a fine figure, and when she laughs she fills one’s heart with joy ; but when she sings, oh, how beautiful she is!” 44 And what did the glass-blower’s wife say ? ” 44 She said — 4 What is it to you ? Mind your business. What has a married man to do with young girls ? ” 44 Did she appear angry ? ” 44 Oh, very angry.” 44 It is a good sign. She knew that her husband was not far wrong. Well, what more ? ” 44 Why, the Countess Moncenigo, who gives out work, and has al- ways been kind to me, said last week to Dr. Ancillo, who was there when I called — 4 Only look, doctor, how this Zitella has grown, how fair she is and how well made I ” 44 And what did the doctor say? ” “‘Very true, madam,’ said he; 4 per Baccot I should not have known her; she is one of those constitutions that become handsome when they gain a little fat. She will be a fine girl, you will see that.’” 44 And what more ? ” 44 Then the superior of Santa Chiara, for whom I work embroidery ibr the altars, said to one of the sisters — 4 Does not Consuelo resemble Santa Cecilia? Every time that I pray before her image I cannot help thinking of this little one, and then I pray for her that she may never fall into sin, and that she may never sing but for the church,’ ” 44 And what said the sister?” 44 The sister replied — 4 It is true, mother, it is quite true.’ As for myself, I hastened to the church and looked at their Cecilia, which is painted by a great master, and is very, very beautiful.” 44 And like you ? ” 44 A little.” 44 And you never told me that?” “ I never thought of it” 44 Dear Consuelo, you are beautiful then ? ” 44 1 do net think so ; but I am not so ugly as they said. One thins * certain— they no longer call me ugly. Perhaps they think It worm give me pain to hear it” . i M goxiono. * Let me see, Jttle Consuelo ; look at me. First, yon base tkfl most beautiful eyes in the world.” “ But my mouth is large ,” said Consuelo, laughing, and taking up a bioken piece of looking glass, which served her as a pysche, “ It is not very small indeed, but then what glorious teeth! ” sail Anzoleto; “they are as white as pearls, and when you smile yot show them all.” “ In that case you must say something that will make me laugh, when we are with the count.” “ You have magnificent hair, Consuelo.” “ Oh yes ; would you like to see it ? ” And she loosed the pins which fastened it, and her dark shining locks fell in flowing masses to the floor. “ Your chest is broad, your waist small, your shoulders — ah, they are beautiful, Consuelo ! ” “ My feet,” said Consuelo, turning the conversation, “ are not se bad ; ” and she held up a little Andalusian foot, a beauty almost urn known in Venice. “ Your hand is beautiful, also,” said Anzoleto. kissing for the first time the hand which he had hitherto clasped only in companionship. “ Let me see your arms.” tt But you have seen them a hundred times,” said she, removing her long gloves. “Xo; I have never seen them,” said Anzoleto, whose admiration every moment increased, and he again relapsed into silence, gazing with beaming eyes on the young girl, in whom each moment he db? covered new beauties. All at once Consuelo, embarrassed by this display, endeavored to regain her former quiet enjoyment, and began to pace up and down the apartment, gesticulating and singing from time to time in a some- what exaggerated fashion, several passages from the lyric drama, just as if she were a performer on the stage. “ Magnificent 1 ” exclaimed Anzoleto, ravished with surprise at find- ing her capable of a display which she had not hitherto manifested. “ It is anything but magnificent,” said Consuelo, reseating herself; “ and I hope you only spoke in jest.” “ It would be magnificent on the boards, at any rate. I assure you there would not be a gesture too much. Corilia would burst with jealousy, for it is just the way she gets on when they applaud her to the skies.” “ My dear Anzoleto, I do not wish that Corilia should grow jealous About any such nonsense ; if the public were to applaud me merely because I knew how to ape her, I would never appear before them.” M You would do better, then ? ” “ I hope so, or I should never attempt it.” “ Very well ; how would you manage ? ” “ I cannot say.” “ Try.” “No; for all this is but a dream; and until they have decided whether I am ugly or not, we had better not plan any more fine pro- jects. Perhaps we are a little mad just now, and after all, as the count has said, Consuelo may be frightful.” This last supposition eaused Anzoleto to take Ids leara. sen xi0 11 CHAPTER IX At this period of his life, though almost unknown to biographers Porpora, one of the best Italian composers of the eighteenth century, the pupil of Scarlatti, the master of Hasse, Farrinelli,Carfarielli, Min- E itti, Salimbini, Hubert (surnamed the Porporino), of Gabrielli. of onteni — in a word, the founder of the most celebrated scnoo* ol Ms time — languished in obscurity at Venice, in a condition bordering on poverty and despair. Nevertheless, he had formerly been director of the conservatory of the Ospedaletto in the same city, and this period of his life, had been even brilliant. He had there written and pro- duced his best operas, his most beautiful cantatas, and his finest church music. Invited to Vienna in 1728, he had there, after some effort, gained the favor of the Emperor Charles VI. Patronized at the court of Saxony, where he gave lessons to the electoral princess, Porpora from that repaired to London, where he rivalled for nine or ten years the glory of Handel, the master of masters, whose star at that period had begun to pale. The genius of the latter however obtained the supremacy, and Porpora, wounded in pride and purse, had returned to Venice to resume the direction of another conserva- tory. He still composed operas, but found it difficult to get them represented. His last, although written in Venice, was brought out in London, where it had no success. His genius had incurred these serious assaults, against which fortune and glory might perhaps have sustained him ; but the neglect and ingratitude of Hasse, Farinelli, and Cafarieili, broke his heart, soured his character, and poisoned his old age. He is known to have died miserable and neglected in his eightieth year at Naples. At the period when Count Zustiniani, foreseeing and almost desir- ing the defection of Corilla, sought to replace her, Porpora was sub- ject to violent fits of ill-humor, not always without foundation ; for if they preferred and sang at Venice the music of Jomelli, of Lctti, of Carissimi, of Gaspirini, and other excellent masters, they also adopted without discrimination the productions of Cocchi, of Buini, of Salvator Apollini, and other local composers, whose common and easy style served to flatter mediocrity. The operas of Hasse could not please a master justly dissatisfied. The worthy but unfortunate Porpora, therefore, closing his heart and ears alike to modern produc- tions, sought to crush them under the glory and authority of the an- ciprts. He judged too severely of the graceful compositions of Ga- I 1.4 , i, and even the original fantasies of Chiozetto, a favorite composei at Venice. In short, he would only speak of Martini, Durante, Monte Verde, and Palestrina; I do not know if even Marcello and lice found favor in his eyes. It was therefore with reserve and dissatisfac- tion that he received the first overtures of Zustiniani concerning his poor pupil, whose good fortune and glory he nevertheless desired to promote ; for he had too much experience not to be aware of her abilities and her deserts. But he shook his head at the idea of the profanation of a genius so pure, and so liberally nurtured on the sa- cred manna of the old masters, an i replied, “ Take her if it must be *o— this spotless soul, this stainless intellect— cast her to the dogs, hand her over to the brutes, for such seems the deathly of genius «l the period in which we Mvg.” Or iLL Liiiu 62 C0N8UK10 This dissatisfaction, at once grave and ludicrous, gave the eotmt a lofty klea of the merit of the pupil from the high value which the severe master attached to it u So, so, my dear maestro,” he exclaimed, “ is that indeed your opinion? is this Consuelo a creature so extraordinary, so divine? ” “ Fou shall hear her,” said Porpora, with an air of resignation, while he murmured, “ it is her destiny.” The count succeeded in raising the spirits of the master from their state of depression, and led him to expect a serious reform in the choice of operas. He promised to exclude inferior productions so soon as he should succeed in getting rid of Corilla, to whose caprices he attributed their admission and success. He even dexterously gave him to understand that he would be very reserved as to Hasse; and declared that if Porpora would write an opera for Consuelo, the pupil would confer a double glory on her master in expressing his thoughts in a style which suited them, as well as realize a lyric triumph for San Samuel and for the count. Porpora, fairly vanquished, began to thaw, and now secretly longed for the coming out of his pupil, as much as he had hitherto dreaded it from the fear that she should be the means of adding fresh lustre to the productions of his rivals. But as the count expressed some anxiety touching Consuelo’s appearance, he refused to permit him to hear her in private, and without preparation. “ I do not wish you to suppose,” said he, in reply to the count’s questions and entreaties, “that she is a beauty. A poorly- dressed and timid girl, in presence of a nobleman and a judge — a child of the people, who has never been the object of the slightest attention — can- not dispense with some preparatory toilet. And, besides, Consuelo .s one whose expression genius ennobles in an extraordinary degree. She must be seen and heard at the same time. Leave it all to me ; If you are not satisfied you may leave her alone, and I shall find out means of making her a good nun, who will be the glory of the school, and the instructress of future pupils.” Such, in fact, was the destinj which Porpora had planned for Consuelo. When he saw his pupil again, he told her that she was to be heard and an opinion given of her by the count ; but as she was uneasy on the score of her looks, he gave her to understand that she would not be seen — in short, that she would sing behind the organ-screen, the count being merely present at the service in the church. He advised her, however, to dress with some attention to appearance, as she v ould have to be presented, and though the noble master was poor, ae gave her money for the purpose. Consuelo, frightened and agitat- ed, bulled for the first time in her life with attention to her person, h^tened to see after her toilet and her voice. She tried the last, and found it to fresh, so brilliant, and so full, that Anzoleto, to whom she rang, more than once repeated with ecstasy, “ Alas ! why should they require more than that she knows how to sing? ” CHAPTER X Oar the eve of the important day, Anzoleto found Con»uelo’» door ctoeed and locked; and after having waited for a quarter of an hour €0 V8UKL0 4 * m the stain, he finally obtained permission to see his friend in her festal attire, the effect of which she wished to try before him. She had on a handsome flowered muslin, dress, & lace handkerchief, and powder. She was so much altered, that Anzoleto was for 3ome mo- ments uncertain whether she had gained or lost by the change. The hesitation which Consuelo read in his eyes was as the stroke of a dagger to her heart. “ Ah I ” said she, a I see very well that I do not please you. How can I hope to please a stranger, when he who loves me sees nothing agreeable in my appearance ? ” “ Wait a little,” replied Anzoleto. “ I like your elegant figure in ♦hose long stays, and the distinguished air which this lace gives you. The large folds of your petticoat suit you to admiration, but I regret your long black hair. However, it is the fashion, and to-morrow yon must be a lady.” “And why must I be a lady? For my part I hate this powder, which fades one, and makes even the most beautiful grow old before her time. I have an artificial air under all these furbelows ; in short. I am not satisfied with myself, and I see you are not so either. Oh I by-the-bye, I was at rehearsal this morning, and saw Clorinda, who also was trying on a new dress. She was so gay, so fearless, so hand- some, (oh I she must be happy! — you need not look twice at her to be sure of her beauty), that I feel afraid of appearing beside her before the count.” - “You maybe easy; the count has seen her, and has heard her too.” “ And did she sing badly ? ” “ As she always does.” “Ah I my friend, those rivalries spoil the disposition. A little while ago, if Clorinda, who is a good girl, notwithstanding her vanity, had been spoken of unfavorably by a judge, I should have been sorry for her from the bottom of my heart ; I should have shared her grief and humiliation; and now I find myself rejoicing at it! To strive, to envy, to seek to ipjure each other, and all that for a man whom we love not, nay! but whom we know not! I feel very low-spirited, my dear love, and it seems to me as if I were as much frightened by the idea of succeeding as by that of failing. It seems as if our happiness vas coming to a close, and that to-morrow, after the trial, whatever may be the result, I shall return to this poor apartment a different person from what I have hitherto lived in it.” Two large tears rolled down over Consuelo’s cheeks. “ Well, are you going to cry now ?” said Anzoleto. “ What can you be thinking of? You will dim your eyes, and swell your eyelid*. Ycur eyes, Consuelo! do not spoil your eyes, which are the most beautiful feature in your face.” “ Or rather the least ugly,” said she, wiping away her tears. “ Come, when we give ourselves up to the world we have not even the right to weep.” Her friend tried to comfort her, but she was exceedingly dejected all the rest of the day ; and in the evening, when she was again alone, she brushed out the powder, uncurled her ebon hair, and sleeked it, tried on a little black silk dress, well preserved, and still nearly new her usual Sunday garb, and regained a portion of her confidence on once more recognising herself in her mirror. Then she prayed fer* vently, and thought of her mother, until, melted to tears, she cried 54 «0X iUBL© herself to sleep* When Anzoleto came to gee her the following to take her to church, she was sitting at her spinnet, piactlsing her first air, and her hair dressed as on every Sunday. — “ What ! ” he ex- claimed, “not dressed yet? unpowdered still? It is almost the hour; what can you be about, Consuelo ? ” “ My dear, she replied, steadily, “ I wear my hair as it is. I am ready as I am. I am tranquil, and shall go thus. This fine 3lack dress does not suit me. M black hair pleases you better than powder. These corsets do but checx my breath. Do not endeavor to change my resolution ; I have made up my mind. I have prayed to God to direct me, and my mother to watch over my conduct. God has di- rected me to be quiet and simple. My mother has visited me in my dreams, and she said what she always used to say : ‘ Try to sing well, Providence will do the rest.’ I saw her take my fine dress, my laces, and my ribbons, and put them away in the cupboard ; and then she laid my black frock and white muslin mantilla on the chair by the bed- side ; when I awoke, I locked up my full dress as I saw her do in the dream, and put on my black frock and mantilla, as you see me. I have more courage, pow that I have given up the idea of pleasing by graces which I do not comprehend. Listen to my voice; after all, every- thing lies in that,” — and she sounded a note. “Good Lord! we are ruined!” cried Anzoleto. “Your voice is voile * and your eyes are bloodshot. You liave been crying all night, Consuelo. This is a pretty business ! I say we are ruined ! It is ab- surd to wear mourning on a holiday ; besides, it is unlucky, and it does not become you. Come, be quick — put on your fine full dress, while I go and get you some rouge. You are pale as a ghost! ” The poor girl’s mind was again agitated, and her tears flowed afresh. Anzoleto was vexed more and more, and while they were still debat- ing, the clock struck the fatal hour. Consuelo, pale and trembling, looked at herself for the last time in the little broken mirror. Then* turning round, sprang impetuously into Anzoleto’s arms. “ Oh, my beloved,” she cried, “ do not swear at me. Clasp me more closely in your arms, to give some color to my pale cheeks. Be your kiss to my cheeks as was the sacred fire which kindled Isaiah’s lips, and may God pardon us for doubting His assistance ! ” Then she cast her mantilla eagerly over her head, snatched up her music books, and hurrying away her dispirited lover, made haste to the church of the Mendicanti, whither the crowd were already flock- ing, to listen to Porpora’s admirable music. Anzoleto, more dead than alive, went to seek the count, who had given him the meeting in the organ-loft, while Consuelo went up to the organ-loft, in which the choirs were already in air, with the professor at his desk. Consuelo was not aware that the count’s tribune was so contrived that he could look into the organ-loft more easily than into the church— that he had already fixed his eyes on her, and was watching her every ges- ture. Her features, however, he could no t yet distinguish, for on entering • Toils. Wo have thought It advisable to ^ave this word untranslated, although nothing in general is more abominable than to see books professing to be written la the English language, interlarded with foreign words or phrases. This word voile is, however, a musical technicality, and can be expressed by no English word. It does not mean huixy exactly, nor hoarse, nor thick, hut something interme* iiate. The literal meaning of the worl being veiled or shrouded, wfcioh, as ftp* tted to a voice is English, would he s aaply nonsense. CON81XLO 56 o kne.t dtwn, buried her face in her hands, and prayed fervently d devoutly. “ Oh, my God,” she cried, with the voice of the heart thou knowest that I seek not advancement for the humiliation of y rivals. Thou knowest that I have no thought to surrender myself the world and worldly acts, abandoning thy love, and straying into the paths of vice. Thou knowest that pride dwells not in me, and that I implore thee to support me, and to swell my voice, and to ex- pand my thoughts as I sing thy praises, only that I may dwell with him whom my mother permitted me to love.” When the first sounds of the orchestra called Consuelo to her place, she rose slowly, her mantilla fell from her shoulders, and her face was at length visible to the impatient and restless spectators in the neigh- boring tribune. But what marvellous change is here in this young girl, just now so pale, so cast down, so overwhelmed by fatigue and fear I The ether of heaven seemed to bedew her lofty forehead, while a gentle languor was diffused over the noble and graceful out- lines of her figure. Her tranquil countenance expressed none of those petty passions, which seek, and as it were, exact applause. There was something about her solemn, mysterious, and elevated — at once lovely and affecting. “ Courage, my daughter,” said the professor, in a low voice. “ You are about to sing the music of a great master, and he is here to listen to you.” “Who? — Marcello ?” said Consuelo, seeing the professor lay the Hymns of Marcello open on the desk. “ Yes — Marcello,” replied he. “ Sing as usual — nothing more and nothing less — and all will be well.” Marcello, then in the last year of his life, had in fact come once again to revisit Venice, his birth-place, where he had gained renown as composer, as writer, and as magistrate. He had been full of cour- tesy towards Porpora, who had requested him to be present in his school, intending to surprise him with the performance of Consuelo, who knew his magnificent “ I deli immensi narrano ” by heart. Nothing could be better adapted to the religious glow that now an- imated the heart of this noble girl. So soon as the first words of this lofty and brilliant production shone before her eyes, she felt as if wafted into another sphere. Forgetting Count Zustiniani — forgetting the spiteful glances of her rivals — forgetting even Anzoleto — she thought only of God and of Marcello, who seemed to interpret those wondrous regions whose glory she was about to celebrate. What sub- ject so beautiful ! — what conception so elevated I — I ciell immensi narrano Del grand! Iddio la gloria II flrmamento lucido All universe* annunzla Quanto sieno mirabili Della Bua destra le opere. A divine glow overspread her features, and the sacred fire of genius darted from her large black eyes, as the vaulted roof rang with that unequalled voice, and with those lofty accents which could only pro- ceed from an elevated intell set, joined to a good heart. After he had listened for a few instants, a t }rrent-of delicious tears streamed from Marcello’s eyes. The count, unable to restrain his emotion, exclaim- ed—" By the* Holy Rood, this woman is beautiftil I She is Santa Ce- cilia, Santa Teresa, Santa Co t suelo ! She is poetry, she is music, she 50 tiovstrxLo Is fhlth personified ” As for Anzoleto, who had risen, and w trembling knees bare.y sufficed to sustain him with the aid of 1 hands, which clung convulsively to the grating of the tribune, fell back upon his seat, ready to swoon, intoxicated with pride a\ joy. It required all the respect due to the locality, to prevent the numer- ous dilettanti in the crowd from bursting into applause, as if they had been in the theatre. The count would not wait till the close of the service to express his enthusiasm to Porpora and Consuelo. She was obliged to repair to the tribune of the count to receive the thanks and gratitude of Marcello. She found him so much agitated as to be hardly able to speak. “ My daughter,” said he, with a broken voice, “ receive the blessing of a dying man. You have caused me to forget for an instant the mortal suffering of many years. A miracle seems exerted in my be- half, and the unrelenting, frightful malady appears to have fled forever at the sound of your voice. If the angels above sing like you, I shall long to quit the world in order to enjoy that happiness which you have made known to me. Blessings then be on you, oh my child, and may your earthly happiness correspond with your deserts 1 I have heard Faustina, Romanina, Cuzzoni, and the rest; but they are not to be named along with you. It is reserved for you to let the world hear what it has never yet heard, and to make it feel what no man has ever yet felt.” Gonsuelo, overwhelmed by this magnificent eulogium, bowed her head, and almost bending to the ground, kissed, without being able to utter a word, the livid fingers of the dying man, then rising, she cast a look upon Anzoleto which seemed to say — “ Ungrateful one, you knew not what I was ! ” CHAPTER XL Dubing the remainder of the service, Consuelo displayed energy and resources which completely removed any hesitation Count Zustin- iani might have felt respecting her. She led, she animated, she sus- tained the choir, displaying at each instant prodigious powers, and the varied qualities of her voice rather than the strength of her lungs. For those who know how to sing do not become tired, and Consuelo sang with as little effort and labor as others might have in merely breathing. She was heard above all the rest, not because she scream- ed like those performers, without soul and without breath, but be- cause of the unimaginable sweetness and purity of her tones. Be- sides, she felt that she was understood in every minute particular. She alone, amidst the vulgar crcwd, the shrill voices and imperfect trills of those around her, was a musician and a master. She filled therefore instinctively and withoct ostentation her powerful part, and as long as the service lasted she took the prominent place which she felt was necessary. After all was ov*r, the choristers imputed it to her as a grievance and a crime ; and tnose very persons who, failing and sinking, had as it w^re implored her assistance with their looks, daimed for themselves all the eulogiums which were given to the 0OHIU1IO 67 school of Porpora at large. At these eulogiums the matter smiled and said nothing: but he looked at Consuelo, and Anzoleto under- stood very well what his look meant. After the business of the day was over, the choristers partook of a select collation which the count had caused to be served up in one of the parlors of the convent. Two immense tables in the form of a half-moon were separated by the grating, in the centre of which, over an immense gat6, there was an opening to pass the dishes, which the count himself gracefully handed round to the principal nuns and pu- pils. The latter, dressed as Beguines, came by dozens alternately to occupy the vacant places in the interior of the cloisters. The supe- rior, seated next the grating, was thus at the right hand of the count a« regarded the outer hall ; the seat on his left was vacant. Marcello, Porpora, the curate of the parish, and the officiating priests, some dilettanti patricians, and the lay administrators of the school, together with the handsome Anzoleto with his black coat and sword, had a place at the secular table. The young singers, though usually ani- mated enough on such occasions, what with the pleasure of feasting, of conversing with gentlemen, the desire of pleasing, or at least of being observed — were on that day thoughtful and constrained. The project of the count had somehow expired — for what secret can be kept in a convent without oozing out ? — and each of these young girls secretly flattered herself that she should be presented by Porpora in order to succeed Corilla. The professor was even malicious enough to encourage their illusions, whether to induce them to perform bet- ter before Marcello, or to revenge himself for the previous annoyance during their course of instruction. Certain it is that Clorinda, who was one of the out-pupils of the conservatory, was there in full attire, waiting to-take her place beside the count; but when she saw the de- spised Consuelo, with her black dress and tranquil mein, the ugly creature whom she affected to despise, henceforth esteemed a musi- cian and the only beauty of the school, she became absolutely fright- ful with anger — uglier that Consuelo had ever been — ugly as Y enus herself would become were she actuated by a base and degrading mo- tive. Anzoleto, exulting in his victory, looked attentively at her, seated himself beside her, and loaded her with absurd compliments which she had not sense to understand, but which nevertheless consoled her. She imagined she would revenge herself on her rival by attracting her betrothed, and spared no pains to intoxicate him with her charms. She was no match however for her companion, and Anzoleto was acute enough to load her with ridicule. In the mean time Count Zustiniani, upon conversing with Con- suelo, was amazed to find her endowed with as much tact, good sense, and conversational powers, as he had found in her talent and ability at church. Absolutely devoid of coquetry, there was a cheer- ful frankness and confiding good nature in her manner which in- spired a sympathy equally rapid and irresistible. When the repast was at an end, he invited her to take the air in his gondola with his friends. Marcello was excused on account of his failing health ; but Porpora, Barberigo, and other patricians were present, and Anzoleto was also of the party. Consuelo, who felt not quite at home among so many men, entreated the count to invite Clorinda ; and Zdstiniani, who did not suspect the badinage of Anzoleto with this poor girl, was not sorry to see him attracted by her. The noble count, thanks to the aprlghtiiness of his character, his fine figure, his wealth, his then* CONSUELO 58 tre, and also the easy manners of the country and of the time, had a strong spice of conceit in his character. Fired by the wine of Greece and by his musical enthusiasm, and impatient to revenge himself on the perfidious Corilla, he thought there was nothing more natural than to pay his court to Consuelo. Seating himself therefore beside her in the gondola, and so arranging that the young people should occupy the other extremity, he began to direct glances of a very sig- nificant character on his new flame. The simple and upright Gon- euelo took no notice. Her candor and good principle revolted at the idea that the protector of her friend could harbor ill designs ; indeed, her habitual modesty, in no way affected by the splendid tri- umph of the day, would have made it impossible for her to believe it She persisted therefore in respecting the illustrious signor, who adopted her along with Anzoleto, and continued to amuse herself with the party of pleasure, in which she could see no harm. So much calmness and good faith surprised the count, who re- mained uncertain whether it was the joyous submission of an unre- sisting heart or the unsuspiciousness of perfect innocence. At eight- een years of age, however, now, as well as a hundred years ago, espec- ially with a friend such as Anzoleto, a girl could not be perfectly ig- norant. Every probability was in favor of the count ; nevertheless, each time that he seized the hand of his protegee, or attempted to steal his arm round her waist, he experienced an indefinable fear, and a feeling of uncertainty — almost of respect, which restrained him, he could not tell how. Barberigo thought Consuelo sufficiently attractive, and he would In his turn gladly have maintained his pretensions, had he not been re- strained by motives of delicacy towards the count. “ Honor to all,” said he to himself, as he saw the eyes of Zustiniani swimming in an atmosphere of voluptuous delight; “my turn will come next.” Meanwhile the young Barberigo, not much accustomed to look at the stars when on excursions with ladies, inquired by what right Anzoleto should appropriate the fair Clorinda ; and approaching, he endeav- ored to make him understand that his place was rather to take the oar than to flirt with ladies. Anzoleto, notwithstanding his acute- ness, was not well-bred enough to understand at first what he meant ; besides, his pride was fully on a par with the insolence of the pa- tricians. He detested them cordially, and his apparent deference towards them merely served to disguise his inward contempt. Bar- berigo, seeing that he took a pleasure in opposing them, bethought himself of a cruel revenge. “ By Jove!” said he to Clorinda, “ your friend Consuelo is getting on at a furious rate ; I wonder where she will stop. Not contented with setting the town crazy with her voice, •he is turning the head of the poor count. He will fall madly in love, and Corilla’s affair will be soon settled.” “Oh, there is nothing to fear,” exclaimed Clorinda, mockingly; * Consuelo’s affections are the property of Anzoleto here, to whom in ikct she is e ;ed. They have been burning for each other, I don’t know how 1 y years.” “ I do not know how many years may be swept away in the twink- ling of an eye,” said Barberigo, “ especially when the eyes of Zustin- iani takedt upon them to cast the mortal dart Do not you think so, beautiful Clorinda? ” Anzoleto could bear it no longer. A thousand serpents already ftmnd admission into his bosom. Hitherto such a suspicion had 0HU0BLO never entered his mind. He was transported with Joy ai witnessing his friend’s triumph, and it was as much to give expression to his transports as to amuse his vanity, that he occupied himself in rallying the unfortunate victim of the day. After some cross purposes with Barberigo, he feigned a sudden interest in a musical discussion which Porpora was keeping up with some of the company in the centre of the bark, and thus leaving a situation which he had now no longer any wish to retain, he glided along unobserved almost to the prow. He 3aw at the first glance that Zustiniani did not relish his attempt to interrupt this tete-a-tete with his betrothed, for he replied coolly, and even with displeasure. At last, after several idle questions badly re- ceived, he was advised to go and listen to the instructions which the great Porpora was giving on counterpoint. “ The great Porpora is not my master,” said Anzoleto, concealing the rage which devoured him. “ He is Consuelo’s master; and if it would only please your Highness,” said he, in a low tone, bending to- wards the count in an insinuating manner, “ that my poor Consuelo should receive no other lessons than those of her old teacher. — ” “ Dear and well-beloved Zoto,” replied the count caressingly, but at the same time with profound malice, “ I have a word for your ear;” and leaning towards him he added: “Your betrothed has doubtless received lessons from you that must render her invulnerable ; but if I had any pretension to offer her others, I should at least have the right of doing so during one evening.” Anzoleto felt a chill run through his frame from head to foot u Will your gracious Highness deign to explain yourself? ” said he, In a choking voice. M It is soon done, my good friend,” replied the count in a clear tone — * gondola for gondola” Anzoleto was terrified when he found that the count had discov- ered his tete-fc-tete with Corilla. The foolish and audacious girl had boasted to Zustinani in a violent quarrel that they had been together. The guilty youth vainly pretended astonishment. “ You had better go and listen to Porpora about the principle of the Neapolitan schools,” said the count ; “ you will come back and tell me about it, for it is a subject that interests me much.” “ I perceive, your Excellency,” replied Anzoleto, frantic with rage and ready to dash himself into the sea. “ What ! ” said the innocent Consuelo, astonished at his hesitation, u will you not go ? Permit me, Signor Count ; you shall see that I am willing to serve you.” And before the count could interpose, she bounded lightly over the seat which separated her from her old master, and sat down close beside him. The count, perceiving that matters were not far enough advanced, found it necessary to dissemble. “ Anzoleto,” said he, smiling, and pulling the ear of his protege a little too hard, “ my revenge is at an end. It has not proceeded nearly so far as your deserts ; neither do I make the slightest comparison between the pleasure of conversing in the presence of a dozen persons with your fair friend and the tete-h- tdte which you have enjoyed in a well-closed gondola with mine.” w Signor Count ! ” exclaimed Anzoleto, violently agitated, “ I pro- tect on my honor ” u Where is your honor? ” resumed the count; w is it in your left ear?” And he menaced the unfortunate organ with an mfiictioa flMUar to that which he had just visited the right so const? itld 4 Do you suppose you! proteg<$ has so little sense/’ said Ausoiefca recovering his presence tf mind, “ as to be guilty of such folly? " “ Guilty or not,” rejoined the count, drily, “ it is all the same te me.” And he seated himself beside Coisuelo. CHAPTER XIL Thb musical dissertation was continued until they reached the palace of Zustiniani, where they arrived towards midnight, to partake cf coffee and sherbet. From the technicalities of art they had passed on to style, musical ideas, ancient and modem forms ; from that to ar- tists and their different modes of feeling and expressing themselves. Porpora spoke with admiration of his master Scarlatti, the first who had imparted a pathetic character to religious compositions ; but there he stopped, and would not admit that sacred music should trespass upon profane, in tolerating ornaments, trill, and roulades. 44 Do you, then, Signor,” said Anzoleto, 44 find fault with these and other difficult additions, which have nevertheless constituted the glory and success of your illustrious pupil Farinelli? ” 44 I only disapprove of them in the church,” replied the maestro ; 44 I would have them in their proper place, which is the theatre. I wish them of a pure, sober, genuine taste, and appropriate in their modu- lations, not only to the subject of which they treat, but to the person and situation that are represented, and the passion which is expressed. The nymphs and shepherds may warble like any birds; their ca- dences may be like the flowing fountain ; but Medea or Dido can only sob and roar like a wounded lioness. The coquette, indeed, may load her silly cavatina with capricious aud elaborate ornament Co- rilla excels in this description of music ; but once she attempts to ex- press the deeper emotions, the passions of the human heart, she be- comes inferior even to herself. In vain she struggles, in vain she swells her voice and bosom — a note misplaced, an absurd roulade, par- odies in an instant the sublimity which she had hoped to reach. You have all heard Faustina Bordini, now Madame Hasse : in situations appropriate to her brilliant qualities, she had no equal; but when Cuzzoni came, with her pure, deep feeling, to sing of pain, of prayer, or tenderness, the tears which she drew forth banished in an instant from your heart the recollection of Faustina. The solution of this is to be found in the fact that there is a showy and superficial cleverness, very different from lofty and creative genius. There is also that which amuses, which moves us, which astonishes, and which com- pletely carries us away. I know very well that sudden and startling effects are now in fashion ; but if I taught them to my pupils as use- ful exercises, I almost repent of it when I see the majority so abuse them — so sacrifice what is necessary to what is superfluous — the last- ing emotion of the audience to cries of surprise and the starts of a fe- verish and transitory pleasure. No one attempted to combat conclusions so eternally true with re- gard to all the arts, and which will be always applied to their varied manifestations by lofty minds. Nevertheless, the count, who was cu- rious to know how Consueb would sing ordinary music, pretended te COWBUKLO •2 eombat a little the severe notions of Porpora; bnt seeing that the modest girl, instead of refuting his heresies, ever turned her eyes to her old master as if to solicit his victorious replies, he determined to attack herself, and asked her “ if she sang upon the stage with as much ability and purity as at church ? ” “ I do not think,” she replied, with unfeigned humility, “ that I should there experience the same inspirations, or acquit myself near- ly so well.” “This modest and sensible reply satisfies me,” said the count; * and I feel assured that if you will condescend to study tfi >se bril- liant difficulties of which we every d ly become more greedy, you will sufficiently inspire an ardent, curious, and somewhat spoiled public.” “Study!” replied Porpora, with a meaning smile. “ Study ! ” cried Anzoleto, with superb disdain. “ Yes, without doubt,” replied Consuelo, with her accustomed sweetness. u Though I have sometimes labored in this direction, 1 do not think I should be able to rival the illustrious performers who have appeared in our time.” “You do not speak sincerely,” exclaimed Anzoleto, with anima- tion. “ Eccellenza, she does not speak the truth. Ask her to try the most elaborate and difficult airs in the repertory of the theatre, and you will see what she can do.” “ If I did not think she were tired,” said the count, whose eyes sparkled with impatience and curiosity. Consuelo turned hers art- lessly to Porpora, as if to await his command. “ Why, as to that,” said he, “ such a trifle could not tire her; and as we are here a select few, we can listen to her talent in every de- scription of music. Come, Signor Count, choose an air, and accom- pany it yourself on the harpsichord.” “ The emotion which the sound of her voice would occasion me,** replied Zustiniani, “ would,cause me to play falsely. Why not accom- pany her yourself, maestro : ” “ I should wish to see her sing,” continued Porpora ; “ for between us be it said, I have never seen her sing. I wish to know how she de* means herself, and what she does with her mouth and with her eyes. Come, my child, arise ; it is for me as well as for you that this trial is to be made.” “Let me accompany her, then,” said Anzoleto, seating himself 'at the instrument. “ You will frighten me, O my master!” said Consuelo to Porpora. “ Fools alone are timid,” replied the master. “ Whoever is inspir* ed with the love of art need fear nothing. If you tremble it ifl because you are vain ; if you lose your resources, it is because they are false; and if so, I shall be one of the first to say: ‘Consuelo £a good for nought/ ” And without troubling himself as to what effect these tender en- couragements might produce, the professor donned his spectacles, placed himself before his pupil, and began to beat the time on the harpisehord to give the true movement of the ritornella. They chose a brilliant, strange, and difficult air from an opera buffa of Galuppi, — The Dianolessa , — in order to test her in a species of art the most opposite to that in which she had succeeded in the morning. The voung girl enjoyed a facility so prodigious as to be able, almost with- out study, and as if in sport, to overeo ne, with her pliable and pow- erful voice, all the difficulties of execut on then known. Porpora had C0K8UEL0, 62 recommended and made her repeat such exercises from time to time, in order to see that she did not neglect them ; but he was quite una- ware of the ability of his wonderful pupil in this respect. As if to re- venge himself for the bluntness which he had displayed, Consnelo wai roguish enough to add to The JDiavolessa a multitude of turns and o> naments until then esteemed impracticable, but which she improvised with as much unconcern and calmness as if she had studied them with care. These embellishments were so skilftil in their modulations, of a character so energetic, wild, and startling, and mingled in the midst of their most impetuous gaiety with accents so mournful, that a shud- der of ^rror replaced the enthusiasm of the audience ; and Porpora rising suddenly, cried out with a loud voice: “You are the devil in person ! ” Consuelo brought her air to a close with a crescendo di forza, which produced bursts of applause, and taking her seat again began laughing merrily. “ Naughty girl,” cried Porpora. “ This trick you have played me, deserves the gallows. You have made a fool of me, concealing from me half your studies and powers. It is many a day since you have had aught to learn of me; and you have taken my lessons treacher- ously ; to steal my secrets of composition and of teaching, I fancy, and so to outdo me in everything, and make me pass for an old-fashioned pedagogue.” “ Master mine,” Consuelo made reply, “ what have I done but imi- tate your trick upon the Emperor Charles ? You have related that to me already, many times. — How his Imperial Majesty detested trills, and forbade your introducing one into your oratorio ; and how, after obeying his orders rigidly unto the very end of the piece, you gave him a divertissement at the last fugue, in perfectly good taste, begin- ning with four ascending trills, afterwards repeated infinitely in the stretto by all the parts. You have discoursed all this evening on the abuse of ornament, and you end by ordering me to execute them. I executed too many, in order to prove myself capable of extravagance — a fault to which I willingly plead guilty.” “I tell you that you are Beelzebub incarnate,” answered Porpora. u Now then play some human air, and sing it according to your own notions, for I perceive that I, at least, can teach you no longer.” “ You will always be my revered, always my beloved master,” cried she, falling on his neck and clasping him in her arms. “ It is to you only that I owe my livelihood, my instructions for the last ten years. Oh, master, I have heard say that you have formed but ungrateful pupils ; but may God deprive me at once of the power of living and of singing, if my heart is tainted with the full venom of ingratitude!” Porpora grew pale, spoke a few indistinct words, and kissed the brow of his pupil paternally ; but with the kiss he left a tear, which Consuelo, who would not wipe it, felt drying on her forehead, — the*cy bitter tear of unhappy age, an I unappreciated genius. A sort ol \ superstitious horror overwhelm id her with deep emotion, and her gaiety was overshadowed, an. her liveliness extinguished for the night. An hour afterwards, when all the set terms of admiration had been lavished on her — not of that only, but of rapture and surprise —without drawing her from her gloom, they asked for a specimen of her dramatic skill. She sang a grand aria of J omellvs opera, “ Didont Abandonata.” Never had she felt before the wish to give her COWSUELO. 68 >©bL In the pathetic, the simple, tho grand—she was sublime; and her ace showed fairer yet, and more expressive than it had done Whi?/J she sang in church. Her complexion was flushed with a feverish glow; her eyes lightened with a strange and lurid lustre. Sha was a s&int no longer — but what suited better far, she was a woman tortured by devouring' love. The count, his friend Barberigo, Anzo- .eto, all the auditors, even, I believe, to old Porpora himself, were al- most beside themselves. Clorinda was choking with envy. Then Consuelo, on the count’s telling her that her engagement should be drawn and signed to-morrow, asked him to promise her yet another favor, and to plight his word like a knight of old, to grant a request which he had not heard. He did so, and the party broke up, exhaust- ed with that sweet emotion which is produced by great effect, and wielded at will by great intellects. CHAPTER XIII. While Consuelo was achieving all these triumphs, Anzoleto had lived so completely in her as to forget himself ; nevertheless, when the count in dismissing him mentioned the engagement of his betrothed, without saying a word of his own, he called to mind the coolness with which he had been treated during the evening, and the dread of being ruined without remedy poisoned all his joy. The idea darted across his mind to leave Consuelo on the steps, leaning on Porpora’s arm, and to return to cast himself at the feet of his benefactor ; but as at this moment he hated him, we must say in his praise that he withstood the temptation to humiliate himself. When he had taken leave of Porpora, and repaired to accompany Consuelo along the canal, the gondoliers of the count informed him that by the commands of their master the gondola waited to conduct' the signora home. A cold perspiration burst upon his forehead. “ The signora,” said be, rudely, “ is accustomed to use her own limbs ; she is much obliged to the count for his attentions.” *' By what right do you refuse for her?” said the count, who was close behind him. Anzoleto turned and saw him, not with uncovered head, as a man who dismissed his guests, but with bis cloak thrown over Ms shoulders, his hat in one hand, and his sword in the other, ms one who seeks adventures. Anzoleto was so enraged, that a 'bought of stabbing him with the long narrow knife which a Venetian always carried about concealed on his person, flashed across his mind. u I hope, Signora,” said the count, in a firm voice, “ that you will not iffer me the affront of refusing my gondola to take you home, and uausing me the vexation of not permitting me to assist you to enter V’ Consuelo, always confiding, and suspecting nothing of what passed around her, accepted the offer, thanked him, and placing her pretty rounded elbow in the hand of the count, she sprang without ceremo- ny into the gondola. Then a dumb but energetic dialogue took place between the Count and Anzoleto. The count, with one foot on the bank and one on the bark, measured Anzoleto with his eye, who, standing on the last step of the stairs leading from the wafer’s edge 64 CONSUELO, to the pa_ace, measured him with a fierce air in return, his hand in his breast, and grasping the handle of his knife. A single step, and the count was lost. What was most characteristic of the Venetian disposition in this rapid and silent scene, was, that the two rivals watched each other without either hastening the catastrophe. The count was determined to torture his rival by apparent irresolution, and he did so at leisure, although he saw and comprehended the gesk ture of Anzoleto. On his side, Anzoleto had strength to wait, with- out betraying himself, until it would please the count to finish his malicious pleasantry or to surrender life. This pantomime lasted two minutes, which seemed to Anzoleto an age, and which the count sup- ported with stoical disdain. The count then made a profound bow to Consuelo, and turning towards his protege, “ I permit you also,” said he, “ to enter my gondola ; in future you will know how a gallant man conducts himself;” and he stepped back to allow Anzoleto to pass into the boat. Then he gave orders to the gondolier to row to the Corte Minelli, while he remained standing on the bank, motionless as a statue. It almost seemed as if he awaited some new attempt at’ murder on the part of his humiliated rival. “How does the count know your abode?” was the first word which Anzoleto addressed to his betrothed, when they were out of sight of the palace of Zustiniani. u Because I told him,” replied Consuelo. u And why did you tell him ? ” — “ Because he asked me.” * You do not guess then why he wished to know? ” * Probably to convey me home.” w Do you think so ? Do you think he will not come to see you ? ” u Come to see me ? what madness I And in such a wretched abode 1 That would be an excess of politeness which I should never wish.” u Vou do well not to wish it, Consuelo; for excess of shame might ensue from this excess of honor.” * Shame I and why shame to me ? In good faith I do not under- stand you to-night, dear Anzoleto ; and I think it rather odd that you should speak of things I do not comprehend, instead of expressing yourjoy at our incredible and unexpected success.” “ Unexpected indeed,” returned Anzoleto, bitterly. u It seemed to me that at vespers, and while they applauded me this evening, you were even more enchanted than I was. You looked at me with such, passionate eyes that my happiness was doubled in see- ing it reflected from you. But now you are gloomy and out of sorts, just as when we wanted bread, ai^our prospects were uncertain, “ And now you wish that I should rejoice in the future? Possibly it is no longer uncertain, but assuredly it presents nothing cheering for me.” “ What more would we have ? It is hardly a week since you ap- peared before the count and were received with enthusiasm.” “ My success was infinitely eclipsed by yours — you know it well” “I hope not; besides, if it were so, there can be no jealousy be- tween us.” These ingenuous words, uttered with the utmost truth and tender- ness, calmed the heart of Anzoleto. " Ah, you are right,” said he clasping his betrothed in his arms; “ we cannot be jealous of each other, we cannot deceive each other : ” but as he xttered these word* fee recalled with remorse his adventure with Corilla, and it occurred to 6OKSUBL0. 66 that the count, Id arder to punish him, might reveal his conduct th Consuelo whenever he had reason to suppose that she in the least encouraged him. He fell into a gloomy reverie, and Consuelo aiso became pensive. u Why,” said she, after a moment’s silence, “ did you say that we could not deceive each other ? It is a great truth surely, but why did you just then think of it? ” “ Hush ! let us not say another word in this gondola,” said Anzo- leto ; “ they will hear what we say, and tell it to the count. This vel- vet covering is very thin, and these palace gondolas have recesses four times as deep and as large as those for hire. Permit me to accom- pany you home,” said he, when they had been put ashore at the en- trance of the Corte Minelli. “ You know that it is contrary to our usage, and engagement,” re- plied she. “ Oh do not refuse me,” said Anzoleto, “ else you will plunge me into fury and despair.” Frightened by his tone and his words, Consuelo dared no longer re- fuse; and when she had lighted her lamp and drawn the curtains, seeing him gloomy and lost in thought she threw her arms around him. “ How unhappy and disquieted you seem this evening! ” said she • “ what is passing in your mind ? ” “ l)o you not know, Consuelo ? do you not guess ? ” “ No, on my soul ! ” “ Swear that you do not guess it. Swear it by the soul of your mother— by your hopes of heaven I ” “Oh, I swear it!” “ And by our love ? ” “ By our love.” “ I believe you, Consuelo, for it would be the first time you ever uttered an untruth ! ” “ And now will you explain yourself.” “ I shall explain nothing. Perhaps I may have to explain myself loon ; and when that moment comes, and when you have too well comprehended me, woe to us both, the day on which you know what I now suffer ! ” “ O Heaven ! What new misfortune threatens us ? what curse as- sails us, as we re-enter this poor chamber, where hitherto we had no secrets from each other ? Something too surely told me when I left it this morning that I should return with death in my soul. What have I done that I should not enjoy a day that promised so well ? Have I not prayed God sincerely and ardently ? Have I not thrust aside each proud thought ? Have I not suffered from Clorinda’s hu- miliation ? Have I not obtained from the count a promise that he should engage her as seconda donna with us ? What have I done, must I again ask, to incur the sufferings of which you speak — which I already feel since you feel them ? ” “ And did you indeed procure an engagement for Clorinda ? r “ I am resolved upon it, and the count is a man of his word. Thia poor girl has always dreamed of the theatre, and has no other means of subsistence.” “ And do you think that the count will part with Rosalba, who knows something, for Clorinda, who knows nothing ? ” “ Rosalba will follow her sister Corilla’s fortunes ; and as to Clorinda W® Bh*dl give her lessons, and teach to turn her voice, which fa not vfe*--' ■ • > I M COffSUKLO, Amiss, to the best account. The public, best ies, will be indulgent to a pretty girl. Were she only to obtain a third place, it would be always something — a beginning— a source of subsistence.” “ You are a saint, Consuelo ; you do not see that this dolt, in ac- cepting your intervention, although she should be happy in obtaining a third or even a fourth place, will never pardon you for being first” “What signifies her ingratitude ? I know already what ingratitude and the ungrateful are.” “ You 1 ” said Anzoleto, bursting into a laugh, as he embraced her with all his old brotherly warmth. “ Oh, ” replied she, enchanted at having diverted him from his cares, “ I should always have before my eyes the image of my noble master Porpora. Many bitter words he uttered which he thought me incapable of comprehending ; but they sank deep into my heart, and shall never leave it. He is a man who has suffered greatly, and is devoured by sorrow. From his grief -and his deep indignation, as well as what has escaped from him before me, I have learned that artists, my dear Anzoleto, are more wicked and dangerous than I could suppose — that the public is fickle, forgetful, cruel, and unjust— that a great career is but a heavy cross, and that glory is a crown of thorns. Yes, I know all that, and I have thought and reflected upon it so often, that I think I should neither be astonished nor cast down were I to experience it myself. Therefore it is that you have not been able to intoxicate me by the triumph of to-day — therefore it is your dark thoughts have not discouraged me. I do not yet compre- hend them very well ; but I know that with you, and provided you love me, I shall strive not to hate and despise mankind like my poor unhappy master, that noble yet simple old man. In listening to his betrothed, Anzoleto recovered his serenity anti his courage. She exercised great influence over him, and each day he discovered in her a firmness and rectitude which' supplied every- thing that was wanting in himself. The terrors with which jealousy had inspired him, were forgotten at the end of a quarter of an hoar’s conversation ; and when she questioned him again he was so much ashamed of having suspected a being so pure and so calm, that he ascribed his agitation to other causes. “ I am only afraid,” said he, “ that the count will find you so superior, that he shall judge me unworthy to appear with you before the public. He seemed this evening to have forgotten my very existence. He did not even per- ceive that in accompanying you I played well. In fine, when he told you of your engagement, he did not say a word of mine. How is it that you did not remark that ? ” “ It never entered my head that I should be engaged without you. Does he not know that nothing would persuade me to it? — that w* are betrothed? — that we love each other? Have you not told him all this?” “ I have told him so, but perhaps he thinks that I wish to boast, Consuelo.” “ In that easel shall boast myself of my love, Anzoleto: I shall tell him so that he cannot doubt it. But you are deceived, my friend ; the count has not thought it necessary to speak of your engagement because it was a settled thing since the clay that jou sung so well, at his house.” “ Brit not yet ratified, and your engagement he has told you will h« tigned to-morrow,” C O S S V 2 l. G. 8? * Do you think I shall sign the first ? Oh, no ! you have done well to put me on my guard. My name shall be written below yours. ’ “ You swear it ? ” “ Oh, fie ! Do you ask oaths for what you know so well ? Truly you do not love me this evening, or you would not make me suffer by seeming to imagine that I did not love you.” At this thought Consuelo’s eyes filled with tears, and she sat down with a pouting air, which rendered her charming. I am a fool— an ass ! thought Anzoleto. “ How could I for one instant suppose that the count could triumph over a soul so pure — an affection so full and entire ? He is not so inexperienced as not to perceive at a glance that Consuelo is not for him, and he would not have been so generous as to offer me a place in his gondola, had he not known that he would have played the part of a fool there. No, no ; my lot is well assured — my position unassailable. Let Consuelo please him or not, let him love, pay court to her — all that can only advance my fortunes, for she will soon learn to obtain what she wishes without incurring any dan- ger. Consuelo will soon be better informed on this head than myself. She is prudent, she is energetic. The pretensions of the dear count will only turn to my profit and glory.” And thus adjuring all his doubts, he cast himself at the feet of his betrothed, and gave vent to that passionate enthusiasm which he now experienced for the first time, and which his jealousy had served for some hours to restrain. “ O my beauty — my saint — my queen ! ” he cried “ excuse me fbr having thought of myself before you, as I should have done, on finding myself again with you in this chamber. I left it this morning in anger with you. Yes, yes; I should have re-entered it upon my knees. How could you love and smile upon a brute like me ? Strike me with your fan, Consuelo; place your pretty foot upon my neck. You are greater than I am by a hundred fold, and I am your slave forever from this day.” “ I do not deserve these fine speeches,” said she, abandoning her- self to his transports ; “ and I excuse your doubts, because I compre- hend them. It was the fear of being separated from me — of seeing our lot divided — which caused you all this unhappiness. You have failed in your faith in God, which is much worse than having accused me. But I shall pray for you, and say — ‘ Lord, forgive as^I forgive him.’” While thus innocently and simply expressing her love, and min- gling with it that Spanish feeling of devotion so full of human affection and ingenuous candor, Consuelo was beautiful. Anzoleto gazed on her with rapture. “ Oh, thou mistress of my soul!” he exclaimed, in a suffocated voice, “ be mine for ever more ! ” “When you will— to-morrow,” said Consuelo, with a heavenly smile. “ To-morrow ? and why to-morrow ? ” “ You are right; it is now past midnight — we may be married to- day. When the sun rises let us seek the priest. We have no friends, and the ceremony need not be long. I have the muslin dress which I have never yet worn. When I made it, dear Anzoleto, I said to myself— 4 Perhaps I may not have money to purchase my wedding dress, and if my friend should soon decide on marrying me, I woula be obliged to wear one that I have had on already/ That, they say* CONSUXLO, •8 is unlucky. So, when my mother appeared to me In a dream, to take it from me and lay it aside, she knew what she did, poor soul ! Thera* fore, by to-morrow’s sun we sha.l swear at San Samuel fidelity for ever. Did you wish to satisfy yourself first, wicked one, that I was not ugly ? ” “O Consuelo!” exclaimed Anzoleto, with anguish, "you are a child. We could not marry thus, from one day to another, without its being known. The Count and Porpora, whose protection is so accessary to us, would be justly irritated if we took this step without consulting or even informing them. Your old master does not like me too well, and the count, as I know, does not care much for mar- ried singers. We cannot go to San Samuel, where everybody knows us, and where the first old woman we met would make the palace ac- quainted with it in half an hour. We must keep our union secret.” “ No, Anzoleto,” said Consuelo, “ I cannot consent to so rash — so ill-advised a step. I did not think of the objections you have urged to a public marriage ; but if they are well founded, they apply with equal force to a private and clandestine one. It was not I who first spoke of it. Anzoleto, although I thought more than once that we were old enough to be married ; yet it seemed right to leave the decision to your prudence, and, if I must say it, to your wishes; for I saw very well that you were in no hurry to make me your wife, nor had I any desire to remind you. You have often told me that before settling ourselves, we must think of our future family, and secure the needful resources. My mother said the same, and it is only right. Thus, all things considered, it would be too soon. First, our engagement must be signed — is not that so? — then we must be certain of the good will of the public. We can speak of all this after we make our debut. But why do you grow pale, Anzoleto? W r hy do you wring your hands? O Heavens! are we not happy? Does it need an oath to insure our mutual love and reliance?” “ o Consuelo 1 how calm you are I — how pure I — how cold 1 n ex- claimed Anzoleto, with a sort of despair. “ Cold! ” exclaimed the young Spaniard, stupefied, and crimsoned with indignation. * God, who reads my heart, knows whether I love you ! ” “ Very well,” retorted Anzoleto, angrily ; “ throw yourself into his bosom, for mine is no safe refuge; and I shall fly lest I become im- pious.” Thus saying he rushed towards the door, believing that Consuelo, who had hitherto never been able to separate from him in any quar- rel however trifling, would hasten to prevent him ; and in fact she made an impetuous movement as if to spring after him, then stopped, saw him go out, ran likewise to the door, and put her hand on the hktch in order to call him back. But summoning up all her resolution by a superhuman effort, she fastened the bolt behind him, and them overcome by the violent struggle she had undergone, sje swooned away upon the floor, where she remain 3d motionless till daybreak* «OK*U*L©v ft CHAPTER XIT. a I must confess that I am completely enchanted with her,* said Count Zustiniani to his friend Barberigo, as they conversed together on the balcony of his palace about two o’clock the same night “ That is as much as to say that I must not be so,” replied the young and brilliant Barberigo, “ and I yield the point, for your rights take precedence of mine. Nevertheless, if Corilla should mesh you afresh in her nets, you will have the goodness to let me know, that 1 may try and win her ear.” “ Do not think of it, if you love me. Corilla has never been other than a plaything. I see by your countenance that you are but mock- ing me.” “ No, but I think that the amusement is somewhat serious which causes us to commit such follies and incur such expense.” “ I admit that I pursue my pleasures with so much ardor that I spare no expense to prolong them; but in this case it is more than fancy — it is passion which I feel. I never saw a creature so strangely beautiful as this Consuelo ; she is like a lamp that pales from time to time, but which at the moment when it is apparently about to expire, sheds so bright a light that the very stars are eclipsed.” “ Ah!” said Barberigo, sighing, “ that little black dress and white collar, that slender and half devout toilet, that pale, calm face, at first so little striking, that frank address and astonishing absence of coquetry — all become transformed, and, as it were, grow divine ■when inspired by her own lofty genius of song. Happy Zustiniani, who hold in your hands the destinies of this dawning star!” ‘ ‘Would I were secure of the happiness which you envy! But I am discouraged when I find none of those passions with which I am ac- quainted, and which are so easy to bring into play. Imagine, friend, that this girl remains an enigma: to me even after a whole day’s study of her. It would almost seem from her tranquillity and my awkward- ness, that I am already so far gone that I cannot see clearly.” “ Truly you are captivated, since you already grow blind. I, whom hope does not confuse, can tell you in three words what you do not understand. Consuelo is the flower of innocence ; she loves the little Anzoleto, and will love him yet for some time ; but if you affront this attachment of childhood, you will only give it fresh strength. Ap- pear to consider it of no importance, and the comparison which she will not fail to make between you and him will not fail to cool her preference.” “ But the rascal is as handsome as an Apollo, he has a magnificent voice, and must succeed. Corilla is already crazy about him ; he is not one to be despised by a girl who has eyes.” M But he is poor, and you are rich — he is unknown, and you are powerful. The needful thing is to find out whether they are merely betrothed, or whether a more intimate connexion binds them. In the latter case Consuelo’s eyes will soon be opened ; in the former there will be a struggle and uncertainty which will but prolong her anguish.” “I must then desire what I horribly fear, and which maddens nr with rage when I think of it. What do yon suppose f 9 * I think they are merely betrothed,” 70 ©OHIUlLd “ But it is impossible. He is a bold and ardent youth, and then tba manners of those people ! ” “ Consuelo is in all respects a prodigy. You hare had experience to little purpose, dear Zustiniani, if you do not see in all the more- ments, all the looks, all the words of this girl, that she is pure as the ocean gem.” “ You transport me with joy.” * “ Take care — it is folly, prejudice. If you love Consuelo, she must be married to-morrow, so that in eight days her master may make her feel the weight of her chain, the torments of jealousy, the ennui of a troublesome, unjust, and faithless guardian; for the handsome Anzo- leto will be all that. I could not observe him yesterday between Con- suelo and Clorinda without being able to prophesy her wrongs and misfortunes. Follow my advice, and you will thank me. The bond of marriage is easy to unloose between people of that condition, and you know that with women love is an ardent fancy which only In- ci eases with obstacles.” “ You drive me to despair,” replied the count; “nevertheless,! feel that you are right. ” Unhappily for the designs of Count Zustiniani, this dialogue had a listener upon whom they did not reckon, and who did not lose one syl- lable of it. After quitting Consuelo, Anzoleto, stung with jealousy had come to prowl about the palace of his protector, in order to assure himself that the count did not intend one of those forcible abductions then so much in vogue, and for which the patricians had almost entire impunity. He could hear no more, for the moon, which just then arose over the roofs of the palace, began to cast his shadow on the pajpnent and the two young lords, perceiving that a man was under tWSalcony, withdrew and closed the window. Anzoleto disappeared in order to ponder at his leisure on what he had just heard ; it was quite enough to direct him what course to take in order to profit by the virtuous counsels of Barberigo to his friend. He slept scarcely two hours, and immediately when he awoke ran to the Corte Minelli. The door was still locked, but through the chinks he could see Consuelo, dressed, stretched on the bed and sleeping, pale and motionless as death. The coolness of the morning had roused her from her swoon, and she threw herself on the bed without having strength to undress. He stood for some moments looking at her with remorseful disquietude, but at last becoming uneasy at this heavy sleep, so contrary to the active habits of his betrothed, he gently enlarged an opening through which he could pass his knife and slide back the bolt. This occasioned some noise: but Ccnsuelo, overcome with fatigue, was not awakened. He then entered, knelt down beside her couch, and remained thus until she awoke. On finding him there, Consuelo uttered a cry of joy, but instantly taking away her arms, which she had thrown round his neck, she drew back with an expression of alarm. “You disad me now, and instead of embracing, fly me,” said he with grief. “Oh, I am cruelly punished for my fault; pardon me, Consuelo, and see if you have ever cause to mistrust your friend again. I have watched you sleeping for a whole hour; pardon me, sister — it is the first and last time you shall have to blame or repulse your brother; I shall never m>re offend you by my jealousies or pas- sions. Leave me, banish me if I fail in my oath. Are you satisfied, dear and good Consuelo?” n C OVIUIIO. Consuelo only replied by pressing the fair head of the Venetian to her heart, and bathing it with tears. This outburst comforted her; and soon after falling back on her pillow, “ I confess,” said she, M that I am overcome ; I hardly slept all night, we parted so unhappily.” “ Sleep, Consuelo ; sleep, dear angel,” replied Anzoleto. “ Do you remember the night that you allowed me to sleep on your couch, while you worked and prayed at your little table? It is now my turn to watch and protect you. — Sleep, my child : I shall turn over your music and read it to myself whilst you repose an hour or two ; no one will disturb us before the evening. Sleep, then, and prove by this confidence that you pardon and trust me.” Consuelo replied by a heavenly smile. He kissed her forehead and placed himself at the table, while she onjoyed a refreshing sleep, min- gled with sweet dreams. Anzoleto had lived calmly and innocently too long with this young girl to render it difficult after one day’s agitation, to regain his usu sd demeanor. This brotherly feeling was, as it were, the ordinary condi- tion of his soul ; besides, what he had heard the preceding night un- der the balcony of 'Zustiniani, was well calculated to strengthen his faltering purpose. “ Thanks, my brave gentlemen,” said he to him- self; “you have given me a lesson which the rascal will turn to ac- count just as much as one of your own class. I shall abstain from jealousy, infidelity, or any weakness which may give you an advan- tage over me. Illustrious and profound Barberigo 1 your prophecies bring counsel ; it is good to be of your school.” Thus reflecting, Anzoleto, overcome by a sleepless night, dozed in his turn, his head supported on* his hand, and his elbows on the table ; but his sleep was not sound, and the daylight had begun to de- cline as he rose to see if Consuelo still slumbered. The rays of the setting sun streaming through the window, cast a glorious purple tinge on the old bed and its beautiful occupant. Her white mantilla she had made into a curtain, which was secured to a filagree crucifix nailed to the wall above her head. Her veil fell gracefully over her well-proportioned and admirable figure ; and, bathed in this rose-col- ored light as a flower which closes its leaves together at the approach of evening, her long tresses falling upon her white shoulders, her hands crossed on her bosom as a saint on her marble tomb, she looked bo chaste and heavenly that Anzoleto mentally exclaimed, “ Ah, Count Jiustiniani, that you could see her this moment, and behold the prudent and jealous guardian of a treasure you vainly covet, beside her!” At this moment, a faint noise was heard outside, and Anzoleto, whose faculties were kept on the stretch, thought he recognised the splashing of water at the foot of Consuelo’s ruined dwelling, although gondolas rarely approached the Corte Minelli. He mounted on a chair, and was by this means able to see through a sort of loop-hole near the ceiling, which looked towards the canal. He distinctly saw Count Zustiniani leave his bark, and question the half-naked children who played on the beach. He was uncertain whether he should awaken his betrothed or close the door; but, during the ten minutes which the count occupied n finding out the garret of Consuelo, he had time to regain the utmost self-possession and to leave the door agar, so that anyone might enter without noise or hindrance , then reseating himself, he took a pen and pretended to write musie. He appeared ^rfectly calm and tranquil, although his heart beat vio- 72 CONSUELO. The count slipped in, rejoicing in the idea of surprising his protafdc whose obvious destitution he conceived would favor his corrupt in- tentions. He brought Consuelo’s engagement ready signed along with him, and he thought with such a passport his reception could not be very discouraging ; but at the first sight of the strange sanctu- ary in which this sweet girl slept her angelic sleep under the watch- ful eye of her contented lover, Count Zustiniani lost his presence of mind, entangled his cloak which he had thrown with a conquering air over his shoulders, and stopped between the bed and the table, utter- ly uncertain whom he should address. Anzoleto was revenged for the scene at the entrance of the gondola. “ My lord,” he exclaimed, rismg, as if surprised by an unexpected visit, “ shall I awake my betrothed ? ” “ No,” replied the count, already at his ease, and affecting to turn his back that he might contemplate Consuelo ; “ I am so happy to see her thus, I forbid you to awaken her.” “ Yes, you may* look at her,” thought Anzoleto; “ it is all I wished for.” Consuelo did not awaken, and the count, speaking in a low tone and assuming a gracious and tranquil, aspect, expressed his admiration without restraint. “ You were right, Zoto,” said he with an easy air; “ Consuelo is the first singer in Italy, and I was wrong to doubt that she was the most beautiful woman in the world.” “Your highness thought her frightful, however,” said Anzoleto, maliciously. “You have doubtless complained to her of all my folly; but I re- serve to myself the pleasure of obtaining pardon by so honorable and complete an apology, that you shall not again be able to injure me in recalling ray errors.” “Injure you, Signor Count! — how. could I do so even had I the wish?” Consuelo moved. “Xet us not awaken her too suddenly,” said the count, and clear this table, that I may place on it and read, her en- gagement. Hold ! ” said he when Anzoleto had obeyed him ; “ cast your eyes over this paper, while we wait for hers to open.” “ An engagement before trial 1 — it is magnificent, my noble patron. And she is to appear at once, before Corilla’s engagement has ex- pired ? ” “ That is nothing ; there is some trifling debt of a thousand sequin* or so due her, which we shall pay off.” H But what if Corilla should rebel ! ” “We will confine her under .the leads.” ’ “ Tore Heaven ! nothing stops your highness.” Yes, Zoto ” replied the count coldly; “ thus it is: what we desire we do, towards one and all.” “ And the conditions are the same as for Corilla — the same condi- tions for a debutante without name or reputation, as for an illustrious performer adored by the public. “ The new singer shall have even more; and if the conditions granted her predecessor do not satisfy her, she has only to say a word and they shall be doubled, Everything depends upon herself,” con- tinued he, raising his voice a little, as he perceived that Consuelo was awake: “ her fate is in her own hands.” Copsuelo had heard a'd this partially, through her sleep. When she ha d rubbed her eyes, and assured herself that she was not dreamiD^ ttonairiLd. n she slid down into the space between the bed and the wall, without considering the strangeness of her position, and after arranging her hair, came forward with ingenuous confidence to join in the conver- sation. u Signor Count,” said she, “ you are only too good ; but I am not so'presumptuous as to avail myself of your offer. I will not sign this engagement until I have made a trial of my powers before the public. It would not be delicate on my part. I might not please — I might in- cur a fiasco and be hissed. Even should I be hoarse or unprepared, or even ugly that day, your word would still be pledged — you would be too proud to take it back, and I to avail myself of’ it.” “ Ugly on that day, Consuelo — you ugly ! ” said the count, looking at her with burning glances ; “ come now,” he added, taking her by the hand and leading her to the mirror, “ look at yourself there. If you are adorable in this costume, what would you be, covered with diamonds and radiant with triumph ? ” The count’s impertinence made Anzoleto gnash his teeth ; but the calm indifference with which Consuelo received his compliments re- strained his impatience. “ Sir,” said she, pushing back the fragment of a lookingrglass which he held in his hand, “ do not break my mir- ror; it is the only one I ever had, and it has never deceived me.— Ugly or pretty, I refuse your liberality ; and I may tell you frankly that I shall not appear unless my betrothed be similarly engaged. I will have no other theatre nor any other public except his ; we cannot be separate, being engaged to each other.” This abrupt declaration took the count a little unawares, but he soon regained his equanimity. 44 You are right, Consuelo,” replied he; a I never intended to sepa- arate you : Zoto shall appear with yourself. At the same time I can- not conceal from you that his talents, although remarkable, are much inferior to yours.” * I do not believe it, my lord,” said Consuelo, blushing as if she had received a personal insult. “ I hear that he is your pupil, much more than that of the. maestro I gave him. Do not deny it, beautiful Consuelo. On learning your ‘ntimacy, Porpora exclaimed, Tam no longer astonished at certain qualities he possesses, which I was unable to reconcile with his de- fects.’ ” u Thanks to the Signor Professor,” said Anzoleto, with a forced smile. “He will change his mind,” said Consuelo, gaily — u besides, the public will ©ontradict this dear good master.” “ The dear good master is the best judge of music in the world,” re- plied the count. “ Anzoleto will do well to profit by your lessons; but we cannot arrange the terms of his agreement before we have as- certained the sentiments of the public. Let him make his appear- ance, and we shall settle with him according to justice and our own favorable feeling towards him, on which he has every reason to rely.” “ Then let us both make our appearance,” replied Consuelo : u but no signature — no agreement before trial ; on that I am determined.” u Y;u are not satisfied with my terms, Consuelo ; very well, then you shall dictate them yourself ; here is the pen — add — take away— • my signature is below.” Consuelo seized the pen ; Anzoleto turned pale, and the count, who ©beerved him, chewed with pleasure the end of the ruffle which he 7 CONSUELO. 14 twisted In his finders. Consuelo erased the contract, and wrote njMa the portion remaining above the signature of the count — “ Anzoleto and Consuelo severally agree to such conditions as it shall please Count Zustiniani to impose, after their first appearance which shall take place during the ensuing month at the theatre of San Samuel.” w She signed rapidly, and passed the pen to her lover. “ Sign without looking,” said she. “ You can do no less to prove your gratitude, and your confidence in your benefactor.” Anzoleto had glanced over it in a twinkling ; he signed — it was but the work of a moment. — The count read over his shoulder. “ Consuelo,” said he, “ you are a strange girl — in truth an admirable creature. You will both dine with me,” he continued, tearing the contract and offering his hand to Consuelo, who accepted it, but at the same time requested him to wait with Anzoleto in his gondola while »he should arrange her toilet. “ Decidedly,” said she to herself when alone, “ I shall be able to buy a new marriage robe.” She then arranged her muslin dress, settled her hair, and flew down the stairs singing with a voice full of fresh- ness and vigor. The count, with excess of courtesy, had waited for her with Anzoleto at the foot of the stair. She believed him furtner off, and almost fell into his arms, but suddenly disengaging 1 hers jlf, she took his hand and carried it to her lips, after the fashion of the country, with the* respect of an inferior who does not wish to infringe upon the distinctions of rank ; then turning she clasped her betrothed, and bounded with joyous steps towards the gondola, without await- ing the, ceremonious escort of her somewhat mortified protector. CHAPTER XY. The count seeing that Consuelo was insensible to the stimulus of gain, tried to flatter her vanity by offering her jewels and ornaments; but these she refused. Zustiniani at first imagined that she was aware of his secret intentions ; but he soon saw that it was but a species of rustic pride, and that she would receive no recompense un- til she had earned it by working for the prosperity of his theatre He obliged her however to accept a white satin dress, observing that she could not appear with propriety in her muslin robe in his saloon, and adding that he would consider it a favor if she would abandon the attire of the people. She submitted her fine figure to the fashion- able milliners, who made the very most of it, and did not spare the material. Thus transformed in two days into a woman of the world, and induced to accept a necklace of fine pearls which the count pre- sented to her as payment for the evening when she sang before him and his friends, she was beautiful, if not according to her own peculiar style of beauty, at least as she sh mid be admired by the vulgar. This result however was not perfectly attained. At the first glance Con- #uelo neither struck nor dazzled anybody; she was always pale, and Jer modest, studious habits took from her look that brilliant glance which we witness in the syes of women whose only object is to shine. The basis of her fiiaracter, as well as the distinguishing CONSUELO. 75 peculiarity of lier countenance, was a reflective seriousness.- -On« might see her eat, and talk, and weary herself with the trivial con cenis of daily life, without even supposing that she was pretty; but once the smile of enjoyment, so easily allied to serenity of soul, came to light up her features, how charming she became 1 And when she was further animated — when she interested herself seriously in the business of the piece — when she displayed tenderness, exaltation of mind, the manifestation of her inward life and hidden power — she •hone resplendent with all the fire of genius and love, she was another being, the audience were hurried away — passion-stricken as it were — annihilated at pleasure — without her being able to explain the mystery of her power. What the count experienced for her therefore astonished and i noyed him strapgely. There were in this man of the world artisti chords which had never yet been struck, and which she caused to thri with unknown emotions ; but this revelation could not penetrate patrician’s soul sufficiently to enable him to discern the impotence a poverty of the means by which he attempted to lead away a worn so different from those he had hitherto endeavored to corrupt. He took patience and determined to try the effects of emulation He conducted her to his box in the theatre that she might witness Corilla’s success, and that ambition might be awakened in her ; but the result was quite different from that which he expected from it. Consuelo left the theatre, cold, silent, fatigued, and in no way excited by the noise and applause. Corilla was deficient in solid talent, noble sentiment, and well-founded power : and Consuelo felt quite compe- tent to form an opinion of this forced, factitious talent, already vitiated at its source by selfishness and excess. She applauded unconsciously, uttered words of formal approval, and disdained to put on a mask of enthusiasm for one whom she could neither fear nor admire. The count for a moment thought her under the influence of secret jealousy of the talents, or at least of the person, of the prima donna. “ This is nothing,” said he, “ to the triumphs you will achieve when you ap- pear before the public as you have already appeared before me. I hope that you are not frightened by what you see.” “No, Signor Count,” replied Consuelo, smiling; “the public fright- ens me not, for I never think of it. I only think of what might be realized in the part which Corilla fills in so brilliant a manner, but in which there are many defects which she does not perceive.” “ Whatl you do not think of the public?” “ No ; I think of the piece, of the intentions of the composer, of the spirit of the part, and of the good qualities and defects of the orches- tra, from the former of which we are to derive advantage, while we are to conceal the latter by a louder intonation at certain parts. I listen to the choruses, which are not always satisfactory, and require a more strict direction ; I examine the passages on which all one’s strength is required, and also those of course where it njay advan- tageously be reserved. You will perceive, Signor Count, that I have many things to think of besides the public, who know nothing about all that I have mentioned, and can teach me noth ng.” This grave judgment and serious im uiry so surprised Zustiniani that he could not utter a single question, and asked himself, with some trepidation, what hold a gallant like himself could have on genius of this stamp. The appearance of the two debutants was preceded by all flie usm^ 76 OONBUELO. Inflated announcements ; and this was the source of continual disco* alon and difference of opinion between the count andPorpora, Constt- elo and her lover. The old master and his pupil blamed the quack announcements and all thtse thousand unworthy tricks which have driven us so far into folly and bad faith. In Venice during those days the journals had not much to say as to public affairs ; they did not concern themselves with the composition of the audience ; they were unaware of the deep resources of public advertisements, the gossip of biographical announcements, and the powerful machinery of hired ap- plause. There was plenty of bribing and not a few cabals, but ail this was concocted in coteries, and brought about through the instru- mentality of. the public, warmly attached to one side or sincerely hostile to the other. Art was not always the moving spring ; passions great d small, foreign alike to art and talent, then as now, came to do tie in the temple ; but they were not so skilful in concealing these ees of discord, and in laying them to the account of pure love for At bottom, indeed, it was the same vulgar, worldly spirit, with t rface less complicated by civilization. Zustiniani managed these affairs more as a nobleman than the con- ductor of a theatre. His ostentation was a more powerful impulse than the avarice of ordinary speculators. He prepared the public in his saloons, and warmed up his representations beforehand. It is true his conduct was never cowardly or mean, but it bore the puerile stamp of self-love, a busy gallantry, and the pointed gossip of good society. He therefore proceeded to demolish, piece by piece, with considerable art, the edifice so lately raised by his own hands to the glory of Gorilla. Everybody saw that he wanted to set up in its place the miracle of talent; and as the Exclusive possession of this wonderful phenomenon was ascribed to him, poor Consuelo never suspected the nature of his intentions towards her, although all Venice knew that the coimt, dis- gusted with the conduct of Corilla, was about to introduce in her place another singer; while many added, “ Grand mystification for the public, and great prejudice to the theatre; for his favorite is a little street singer, who has nothing .to, recommend her except her fine voice and tolerable figure.” Hence arose fresh cabals for Corilla, who went about playing the part of an injured rival, and who implored her extensive circle of adorers and their friends to do justice to the insolent pretensions of the zingarella . Hence also new cabals in favor of Consuelo, by a numerous party, who, although differing widely on other subjects, united In a wish to mortify Corilla and elevate her rival in her place. As to the veritable dilettanti of music, they were equally divided between the opinion of the serious masters— such as Porpora, Mar- cello, and Jomelli, who predicted with the appearance of an excellent musician, the return of the good old usages and casts of performance — and the anger of second-rate composers, whose compositions Co- rilla had always preferred, and who now saw themselves threatened with neglect in her person. The orchestra, dreading to set to work on scores which had been long laid aside, and which consequently would require study, all those retainers of the theatre, who in every thorough reform always foresaw an entire change of the performers, even the very scene-shifters, the tirewoman, and the hair-dressers — all were in movement for or against the debutante at San Samuel. In point of feet the debut was much more in everybody’s thoughts than the new administration or the acts of the Doge, Pietro, Grimaldi, who had Juif then peaceably succeeded his predecessor, Luigi Pisasb CONSUELO, n Consuelo was exceedingly distressed at these delays and the petty quarrels connected with her new career; she would have wished to come out at once, without any other preparation than what concerned herself and the study of the new piece. She understood nothing of those endless intrigues which seemed to her more dangerous than useful, and which she felt she could very well dispense with. But the count, who saw more clearly into the secrets of his profession, and who wished to be envied his imaginary happiness, spared nothing to secure partisans, and made her come every day to his palace to be presented to all the aristocracy of Venice. Consuelo’s modesty and reluctance ill supported his designs • but he induced her to sing, and the victory was at once decisive — brilliant — incontestible. Anzoleto was far from sharing the repugnance of his betrothed for these secondary means. His success was by no means so certain at hers. In the first place, the count was not so ardent in his favor, and the^tenor whom he was to succeed was a man of talent, who would not be easily forgotten. It is true he also sang nightly at the counts palace, and Consuelo in their duets brought him out admirably; so that, urged and sustained by the magic of a genius superior to his own, he often attained great heights. He was on these occasions both encouraged and applauded; but when the first surprise excited by his fine voice was over, more especially when Consuelo had revealed herself, his deficiency was apparent, and frightened even himself, This was the time to work with renewed vigor; but in vain Consuelo exhorted him, and appointed him to meet her each morning at the Corte Minelli— where she persisted in remaining, spite of the remon- strances of the count, who wished to establish her more suitably Anzoleto had so much to do— so many visits, engagements, and in* trigues on hand — such distracting anxieties to occupy his mind — that neither time nor courage was left for study. In the midst of these perplexities, seeing that the greatest opposl* tion would be given by Corilla, and also that the count no longer gave himself any trouble about her, Anzoleto resolved to visit her himself in order to deprecate her hostility. As may easily be con- ceived, she had pretended to take the matter very lightly, and treated the neglect and contempt of Zustiniani with philosophical unconcern. She mentioned and boasted everywhere that she had received brilliant offers from the Italian opera at Paris, and calculating on the^ reverse which she thought awaited her arrival, laughed outright at the illusions of the count, and his party. Anzoleto thought that with prudence and by employing a little deceit, he might disarm this formidable ene- my ; and having perfumed and adorned himself, he waited on her at one in the afternoon — an hour when the siesta renders visits unusual and the palaces silent. CHAPTER XYL Anzoleto found Co ilia alone in a charming boudoir, reclining on a couch In a becoming undress ; but the alterations in her features by daylight led him to suspect that her security with regard to Consuelo was not so great as her faithful partisans asserted. Nevertheless, she COWSUIIO, n received him with an easy air, and tapping him playfully on the cheeky while she made a sign to her servant to withdraw, exclaimed— “ Ah* wicked one, is it you?— are you come with your tales, or would you make me believe you are no dealer in flourishes, nor the most intri- guing of all the postulants for fame ? You were somewhat conceited my handsome friend, if you supposed that I should be disheartened by your sudden flight after so many tender declarations; and still more conceited was it to suppose that you were wanted, for in four- and-twenfcy hours I had forgotten that such a person existed.” “ Four-and-t wen ty hours! — that is a long time,” replied Anzoleto, kissing the plump and rounded arm of Corilla. “ Ah, if 1 believed that, I should be proud indeed ; but I know that if I was so far de- ceived as to believe you when you said — ” “What I said, I advise you to forget also. Had you called, you would have found my door shut against you. What assurance to come to-day ! ” “ Is it not good taste to leave those who are in favor, and to lay one’s heart and devotion at the feet of her who—*” “Well, finish — to her who is in disgrace. It is most generous and humane on your part, most illustrious friend I ” And Corilla fell back upon the satin pillow with a burst of shrill and forced laughter. Although the disgraced prima donna was no longer in her early freshness— although the mid-day sun was not much in her favor, and although vexation had somewhat taken from the effect of her full- formed features — Anzoleto, who had never been on terms of intimacy with a woman so brilliant and so renowned, felt himself moved in re- gions of the soul to which Consuelo had never descended, and whence he had voluntarily banished her pure image. He therefore palliated the raillery of Corilla by a profession of love which he had only inten- ded to feign, but which he now actually began to experience. I say love, for want of a better word, for it were to profane the name to apply it to the attraction awakened by such women as Corilla. When she saw the young tenor really moved, she grew milder, and addressed him after a more amiable fashion. “ I confess,” said she, “ you selected me for a whole evening, but I did not altogether esteem you. I know you are ambitious, and conse- quently false, and ready for every treason. I dare not trust to you. You pretended to be jealous on a certain night in my gondola, and took upon you the airs of a despot. That might have disenchanted me with the inspired gallantries of our patricians, but you deceived me, ungrateful one ! you were engaged to another, and are going to marry — whom? — oh, I know very well — my rival, my enemy, the debutante, the new protegee of Zustiniani. Shame upon us two — upon us three — upon us all 1 ” added she, growing animated in spite of herself, and withdrawing her hand from Anzoleto. “ Cruel creature ! ” he exclaimed, trying to regain her fair fingers, ' you ought to understand what passed in my heart when I first saw you, and not busy yourself with what occupied me before that terri- ble moment. As to what happened since, can you not guess it, and is there any necessity to recur to the subject? ” “lam not to be put off with half words and reservations ; do yon love the zincarella , and are you about to marry her?” “ And if I loved her, how does it happen I did not marry her bo* fore?” * Perhaps the count would have opposed it Every one knows what eosacBta. "ib h# wants now. They even say that he has ground for lmp&tieD/W| and the little one still more so.” The color mounted to Anzoleto’s face when he heard language of this sort applied to the being whom he venerated above all others. “ Ah, you are angry at my supposition,” said Corilla ; “ it is wed — that is what I wished to find out. You love her. When will the marriage take place ? ” “ For the love of Heaven, madam, let us speak of nobody except ourselves.” “ Agreed,” replied Corlla. “ So, my former lover and your future spouse ” Anzoleto was enraged ; he rose to go away ; but what was he to do ? Should he enrage still more the woman whom he had come to pacify ? He remained undecided, dreadfully humiliated, and unhappy at the part he had imposed upon himself. Corilla eagerly desired to win his affections, not because she loved him, but because she wished to be revenged on Consuelo, whom she had abused without being certain that her insinuations were well founded. “ You see,” said she, arresting him on the threshold with a pene- trating look, “ that I have reason to doubt you ; for at this moment you are deceiving some one — either her or myself.” “ Neither one nor the other,” replied he, endeavoring to justify himself in his own eyes. “ I am not her lover, and I never was so. I am not in love with her, for I am not jealous of the count.” “ Oh ! indeed ? You are jealous, even to the point of denying it* and you come here to cure yourself or to distract your attention from a subject so unpleasant. Many thanks 1 ” “ I am not jealous, I repeat ; and to prove that it is not mortificar- tion which makes me speak, I tell you that the count is no more her lover than I am ; that she is virtuous, child as she is, and that the only one guilty towards you is Count Zustiniani.” “ So, so ; then I may hiss the zingcirella without afflicting you. You shall be in my box on the night of her debut, and you shall hiss her. Your obedience shall be the price of my favor — take me at my word, or I draw back.” “ Alas ! madam, you wish to prevent me appearing myself, for you know I am to do so at the same time as Consuelo. If you hiss her, I shall fall a victim to your wrath, because I shall sing with her. And what have I done, wretch that I am, to displease you ? Alas ! I had a delicious but fatal dream. I thought for a whole evening that you took an interest in me, and that I should grow great under your pro- tection. Now I am the object of your hatred and anger — I, who have so loved and respected you as to fly you! Very well, madam; satiate your enmity. Overthrow me — ruin me — close my career. So that you can here tell me, in secret, that I am not hateful to you, shall I accept the public marks of your anger.” “ Serpent ! ” exclaimed Corilla, “ where have you imbibed the* poison which your tongue and your eyes distil ? — Much would I give to know, to comprehend you, for you are the most amiable of lover* and the most dangerous of enemies.” Ik“ I your enemy I how could I be so, even were I not subdued by your charms ? Have you enemies then, divine Corilla t Can you have them in Venice, where you are known, and where you rule over no divided empire? A lover quarrel throws the count into despair: ho 80 eoKiuiio. would remove you, since thereby he would cease to suffer. He meets a litte creature in his path who appears to display resources, and who only asks to be heard. Is this a crime on the part of a poor child who only hears your name with terror, and who never utters it her- self without respect ? And you ascribe to this little one insolent pre- tensions which she does not entertain. The efforts of the count to recommend her to his friends, the kindness of these friends, who ex- aggerate her deserts, the bitterness of yours, who spread calumnies which serve but to annoy and vex you, whilst they should but calm your soul in picturing to you your glory unassailable, and your rival all trembling— these are the prejudices which I discover in you, and at which I am so confounded that I hardly know how to assail them. ,, “ You know but too well, with that flattering tongue of yours,” said Gorilla, looking at him with tenderness mixed with distrust ; “ I hear the honied words which reason bids me disclaim. I wager that this Consuelo is divinely beautiful, whatever may have been said to the contrary, and that she has merits, though opposed to mine, since the severe Porpora has proclaimed them ” “ You know Porpora; you know all his crotchety ideas. An ene- my of all originality in others, and of every innovation in the art of song, he declares a little pupil, who listens to his dotage, submissive to his pedantry, and who runs over the scale decently, to be preferable to all the wonders which the public adores. How long have you tor- mented yourself about this crazy old fool ? ” “ Has she no talent, then ? ” “ She has a good voice, and sings church music fairly, but she can know nothing about the stage; and as to the power of displaying what talent she has, she is so overcome with alarm, that there is much reason to fear that she will lose what little Heaven has given her.” “ Afraid !— what, she ? I have heard say, on the other hand, that she is endowed with a fair stock of impudence ? ” “ Ah, the poor girl 1 Alas I some one must have a great spite at her. You shall hear her, divine Corilla, and you will be touched with sympathising pity, and will applaud her rather than have her hissed, as you said for her just now.” “ Either you are cheating me, or my friends have cheated strangely concerning her.” , “ They have cheated themselves. In their absurd and useless ardor for you they have got frightened at seeing a rival raised up to you. Frightened at a mere child I — and frightened for you ! Ah, how little can they know you! Oh, were I your permitted friend, I should know better what you are, than to think that I was doing you aught but injury in holding up any rivalry as a fear to you, were it that of a Faustina or a Molteni.” “ Don’t imagine that I have been frightened. I am neither enviou* nor ill-natured, and I should feel no regret at the success of any one who had never injured my own. But when I have cause to believe that people are injuring and braving me, then indeed — ” “Will you let me bring little Consuelo to your feet? Had she dared it, she would have come to ask your aid and advice. But she is a mere shy child. And you, too. have been calumniated to her. 8he has been told that you are cruel, revengeful and bent on causing her fali” “ She has been told so? Ah, then I understand what brought you hither.” comma. 81 * You understand nothing of the sorkmadam. For I did not be- lieve at all, and never shall believe it. You have not an idea what brought me." And as he spoke, Anzoleto turned his sparkling eyes upon Corilla, and bent his knee before her with the deepest show of reverence and iove. Corilla was destitute neither of acuteness nor of ill-nature ; but as happens to women excessively taken with themselves, vanity sealed her eyes and precipitated her into the clumsy trap. She thought she had nothing to apprehend as regarded Anzoletc’s sentiments for the debutante. When he justified himself, and swore by all the gods that he had never loved this young girl, save as a brother should love, he told the truth, and there was so much confi- dence in his manner that Corilla’s jealousy was overcome. At length the great day approached, and the cabal was annihilated. Corilla, on her part, thenceforth went on in a different direction, fully persuaded that the timid and inexperienced Consuelo would not succeed, and that Anzoleto would owe her an infinite obligation for having con- tributed nothing to her downfall. Besides, he had the address to em broil her with her firmest champions, pretending to be jealous, and obliging her to dismiss them rather rudely. Whilst he thus labored in secret to blast the hopes of a woman whom he pretended to love, the cunning Venetian played anothei game with the count and Consuelo. He boasted to them of having, disarmed this most formidable enemy by dexterous management, in- terested visits, and bold falsehoods. The count, frivolous and some- what of a gossip, was extremely amused by the stories of his protege. His self-love was flattered at the regret which Corilla was said to ex- perience on account of their quarrel, and he urged on this young man, with the levity which one witnesses in affairs of love and gallantry, to the commission of cowardly perfidy. Consuelo was astonished and distressed. “ You would do better,” said she, u to exercise your voice and study your part. You think you have done much in propitiating the enemy, but a single false note, a movement badly expressed, would do more against you with the impartial public than the silence of the ~ envious. It is of this public that you should think, and 1 see with pain that you are thinking nothing about it.” “ Be calm, little Consuelo,” said he ; “ your error is to believe a pub- lic at once impartial and enlightened. Those best acquainted with the matter are hardly ever in earnest, and those who are in earnest know so little about it, that it only requires boldness to dazzle and lead them away.” CHAPTER XVII. In the midst of the anxieties awakened by the desire of success, and by the ardor of Corilla, the jealousy of Anzoleto with regard to the count slumbered. Happily, Consuelo did not need a more watch- ful or more moral protector. Secure in innocence she avoided the advances of Zustiniani, and kept him at a distance precisely by car- ing nothing about it. At the end of a fortnight this Venetian liber- tine acknowledged that she had none of those worldly passions which 82 OOUBtlLO. led to corruption, .hough he spared no pains to make them spring tzp, But even in this respect he had adva iced no further than the first day, and he feared to ruin his hopes by pressing them too openly. Had Anzoleto annoyed him by keeping watch, anger might have caused him to precipitate matters; but Anzoleto left him at perfect liberty. Consuelo distrusted nothing, and he only tried to make him- self agreeable, hoping in time to become necessary to her. There was no sort of delicate attentions, or refined gallantries, that he omitted. Consuelo placed them all to the account of the liberal and elegant manners of his class, united with a love for art and a natural goodness of disposition. She displayed towards him an unfeigned regard, a sacred gratitude, while he, happy and yet dissatisfied with this pure-hearted unreserve, began to grow uneasy at the sentiment which he inspired until such period as he might wish to break the ice. While he gave himself up with fear, and yet not without satisfkc- tion, to this new feeling — consoling himself a little for his want of success by the opinion which all Venice entertained of his triumph — Corilla experienced the same transformation in herself. She loved with ardor, if not with devotion; and her irritable and imperious soul bent beneath the yoke of her young Adonis. It was truly the queen of beauty in love with the beautiful hunter, and for the first time humble and timid before the mortal of her choice. She affected with a sort of delight, virtues which she did not possess. So true it ts that the extinction of self-idolatry in favor of another, tends to raise and ennoble, were it but for an instant, hearts the least suscep- tible of pure emotions. The emotion which she experienced reacted on her talents, and it - was remarked at the theatre that she performed pathetic parts more naturally and with greater sensibility. But as her character and the essence of her nature were thus as it seemed inverted ; as it required a sort of internal convulsion to effect this change, her bodily strength gave way in the combat, and each day they observed — some with ma- licious joy, others with serious alarm — the failure of her powers. Her brilliant execution was impeded by shortness of breath and false in- tonations. The annoyance and terror which she experienced, weak- ened her still further, and at the representation which took place pre- vious to the debut of Consuelo, she sang so false, and failed in so many brilliant passages, that her friends applauded faintly, and were toon reduced to silence and consternation by the murmurs of her op- ponents. At length the great day arrived: the house was filled to suffocation. Corilla, attired in black, pale, agitated, more dead than alive, divided between the fear of seeing her lover condemned and her rival tri umph, was seated in the recess of her little box in the theatre. Crowds of the aristocracy and beauty ofV enice, tier above tier, made a brilliant display. The fops were crowded behind the scenes, and even in the front of the stage. The lady of the Doge took her place along with the great dignitaries of the republic. Porpora directed the orchestra in person : and Count Zust; niani waited at the door of Consuelo’s apartment till •he had conclu led her toilet, while Anzoleto, dressed as an antique warrior, with ail the absurd and lavish ornaments of the age, retired behind the scenes to sw&llcw a draught of Cyprus wino, in order to restore his courage. The opera was neither of the classic period nor yet the work of tm CON8UELO, 88 Innovator. It was the unknown production of a stranger. To escape the cabals which his own name or that of any other celebrated person would have caused, Porpora, above all things anxious for the success of his pupil, had brought forward Ipermnestra , the lyrical production of a young German, who had enemies neither in Italy nor elsewhere, and who was styled simply Christopher Gluck. When Anzoleto appeared on the stage a murmur of admiration burst forth. The tenor to whom he succeeded — an admirable singer, who had had the imprudence to continue on the boards till his voice became thin and age had changed his looks — was little regretted by an ungrateful public ; and the fair sex, who listen ofteuer with their eyes than with their ears, were delighted \o find, in the place of a fat, elderly man, a fine youth of twenty-four, fresh as a rose, fair as Phoo- bus, and formed as if Phidias himself had been the artist— a true son of the lagunes, Bianco crespo , e grassotto. He was too much agitated to sing his first air well, but his magnifi- cent voice, his graceful attitudes, and some happy turns, sufficed to propitiate the audience and satisfy the ladies. The debutant had great resources ; he was applauded threefold, and twice brought back before the scenes, according to the custom of Italy, and of Venice in particular. Success gave him courage, and, when he reappeared with Iperm- nestra, he was no longer afraid. But all the effect of this scene was for Consuelo. They only saw, only listened to her. They said to each other, “Look at her — yes, it is she!” “Who? — the Span- iard ? ” “ Yes — the debutante, Vamante del Zustiniani.” Consuelo entered, self-possessed and serious. Casting her eyes around, she received the plaudits of the spectators with a propriety of manner equally devoid of humility and coquetry, and sang a re- citative with so firm a voice, with accents so lofty, and a self-possession so victorious, that cries of admiration from the very first resounded from every part of the theatre. “ Ah ! the perfidious creature has de- ceived me,” exclaimed Corilla, darting a terrible look towards Anzo- leto, who could not resist raising his eyes to hers with an ill-disguised smile. She threw herself back upon her seat, and burst into tears. Consuelo proceeded a little further ; while old Lotti was heard mut- tering with his cracked voice from his corner, “ Amici miei f questo b un portento ! ” She sang a bravura, and was ten times interrupted. They shouted “ Encore ! ” they recalled her to the stage seven times, amid thunders of applause. At length the furor of Venetian dilettantism displayed itself in all its ridiculous and absurd excesses. “ Why do they cry out thus?” said Consuelo, as she retired behind the scenes only to be brought back immediately by the vociferous applause of the pit “ One would think that they wished to stone me.” From that moment they paid but a secondary attention to Anzole- to. They received him very well indeed, because they were in a happy vein ; but the indulgence with which they passed over the pas- sages in which he failed, without immediately applauding those in which he succeeded, showed him very plainly, that however he might please the ladies, the noisy majority of males held him cheaply, and reserved their tempestuous applause for the prima donna. Not one among all those who had come with hostile intentions, ventured a murmur; and in truth there were not three among them who could withstand the irresistf >1© inclination to applaud the wonder of Hbm day. 84 eOWBUXLO' The piece had the greatest success, although it was not listened to and nobody was occupied with the music in itself. It was quite In the Italian style— -graceful, touching, and gave no indication of the author of Alcestes and Orpheus . There were not many striking eeauties to astonish the audience. After the first act, the German jnaestro was called for, with Anzoleto, the ddbutante, and Clorinda, who, thanks to the protection of Consuelo, had sung through the sec- ond part with a flat voice, and an inferior tone, but whose beautiftil arms propitiated the spectators—Rosalba, whom she had replaced, being very lean. In the last act, Anzoleto, who secretly watched Corilla, and per- ceived her increasing agitation, thought it prudent to seek ner in her box, in order to avert any explosion. So soon as she per* ceived him she threw herself upon him like a tigress, bestowed sev- eral vigorous cuffs, the least of which was so smart as to draw blood, leaving a mark that red and white could not immediately cover. The angry tenor settled matters by a thrust on the breast, which threw the singer gasping-into the arms of her sister Rosalba. “ Wretch! — traitor ! ” she murmured in a choking voice, “ your Consuelo and you shall perish by my hand ! ” “ If you make a step, a movement, a single gesture, I will stab you in the face of Venice,” replied Anzoleto, pale and with clenched teeth, while his faithful knife, which he knew how to use with all the dexterity of a man of the lagunes, gleamed before her eyes. “He would do as he says,” murmured the terrified Rosalba; “be silent — let us leave this ; we are here in danger of our lives.” Although this tragi-comic scene had taken, place after the manner of the Venetians, in a mysterious and rapid sotto voce , on seeing the debutante pass quickly behind the scenes to regain his box, his cheek hidden in his hand, they suspected some petty squabble. The hair- dresser, who was called to adjust the curls of the Grecian prince, and to plaster up his wound, related to the whole band of choristers that an amorous cat had sunk her claw into the face of the hero. The aforesaid barber was accustomed to this kind of wounds, and was no new confidant of such adventures. The anecdote made the round of the stage, penetrated no one knew how, into the body of the house, found its way into the orchestra, the boxes, and with some additions, descended to the pit. They were not yet aware of the position of Anzoleto with regard to Corilla ; but some had noticed his apparent devotion to Clorinda, and the general report was, that the seconda donna , jealous of the prima donna , had just blackened the eye and broken three teeth of the handsomest of tenors. This was sad news for some, but an exquisite bit of scandal for the majority. They wondered if the representation would be put off, or whether the old tenor Stefanini, should have to appear, roll in hand, to finish the part. The curtain rose, and everything was forgotten on seeing Consuelo appear, calm and sublime as at the beginning. Al- though her part was not extremely tragical, she made it so by the power of her acting and the expression of her voice. She called forth tears, and when the tenor reappeared, the slight scratch only excited a smile ; but this absurd incident prevented his success from being so brilliant, and all the glory >f the evening was reserved for Consuelo, who was applauded to the last with frenzy. After the play, they went to sup at the Palace Zustinlani, and An* ©oUt» forgot Corilla, whom he had shut in her box, and who was CONSUELO. 85 /breed to burst it open in order to leave it. In the tumult which al- ways follows so successful a representation, her retreat was not no- ticed ; but the next day, this broken door coincided so well with the torn face of Anzoleto, that the love affair, hitherto so carefully con- cealed. was made known. Hardly was he seated at the sumptuous banquet which the count gave in honor of Consuelo, and at which the Venetian dilettanti handed to the triumphant actress sonnets and mandrigals composed the evening before, when a valet slipped under his plate a little billet from Corilla, which he read aside, and which was to the following effect : — u If you do not come to me this instant, I shall go to seek you openly, were you even at the end of the world — were you even at the feet of your Consuelo, thrice accursed 1 ” Anzoleto pretended to be seized with a fit of coughing, and retired to write an answer with a pencil on a piece of ruled paper which he had tom in the antechamber of the count from a music-book : — u Come If you will. My knife is ready, and with it my scorn and hatred.” The despot was well aware that with such a creature fear was the only restraint ; that threats were the only expedient at the moment ; but in spite of himself he was gloomy and absent during the repast, and as soon as it was over he hurried off to go to Corilla. He found the unhappy girl in a truly pitiable condition. Convul- sions were followed by torrents of tears. She was seated at the win- dow, her hair dishevelled, her eyes swollen with weeping, and her dress disordered. She sent away her sister and maid, and in spite of herself, a ray of joy overspread her features, at finding herself with him whom she had feared she might never see again. But Anzoleto knew her too well to seek to comfort her. He knew that at the first appearance of pity or penitence he would see her fury revive, and seize upon revenge. He resolved to keep up the appearance of in- flexible harshness ; and although he was moved with her despair, he overwhelmed her with cruel reproaches-, declaring that he was only come to bid her an eternal farewell. He suffered her to throw herself at his feet, to cling to his knees even to the door, and to implore his pardon in the anguish of grief. When he had thus subdued and humbled her, he pretended to be somewhat moved, and promising to return in the morning, he left her. CHAPTER XVHL Wwar Anzoleto awoke the following morning, he experienced a reverse of the jealousy with which Count Zustiniani had inspired him. A thousand opposing sentiments divided his soul. First, that other jealousy which the genius and success of Consuelo had awak- ened in his bosom. This sank the deeper in his breast in proportion M he measured the triumph of his betrothed with what in his ttghtod ambition he was pleased to call his downfall. Again, 86 * 8U8I0 the mortflcatlon of being supplanted in reality, as he was already thought to be, with her, now so triumphant and powerful, and or whom the preceding evening he was so pleased to believe himself the •nly lover. These two feelings possessed him by turns, and he knew not to which to give himself up, in order to extinguish the other. He had to choose between two things, either to remove Consuelo from the count and from Venice, and along with her to seek his for- tune elsewhere, or to abandon her to his rival, and take his chance alone in some distant country with no drawback to his success. In this poignant uncertainty, in place of endeavoring to recover his calmness with his true friend, he returned to Corilla and plunged back into the storm. She added fuel to the flame, by showing him, even in stronger colors than he had imagined the preceding night, all the disadvantages cf nis position. “No person,” said she, “is a prophet in his own country. This is a bad place for one who has been seen running about in rags, and where every one may say — (and God knows the nobles are sufficiently given to boast of the protec- tion, even when it is only imaginary, which they accord to artists)— 1 1 was his protector ; I saw his hidden talent ; it was I who recom- mended and gave him a preference. , You have lived too much in pub- lic here, my poor Anzoleto. Your charming features struck those who knew not what was in you. You astonished people who have seen you in their gondolas singing the stanzas of Tasso, or doing their errands to gain the means of support. The plain Consuelo, leading a retired life, appears here as a strange wonder. Besides she is a Span- iard, and uses not the Venetian accent; and her agreeable, though somewhat singular pronunciation, would please them, even were it detestable. It is something of which their ears are not tired. Your good looks have contributed mainly to the slight success you obtained in the first act; but now people are accustomed to you.” “ Do not forget to mention that the handsome scratch you gave me beneath the eye, and for which I ought never to pardon you, will jjo far to lessen the last-mentioned trifling advantage.” “ On the contrary, it is a decided advantage in the eyes of women, but frivolous in those of men. You will reign in the saloons with one party, without the other you would fall at the theatre. But how can you expect to occupy their attention, when it is a woman who disputes it with you — a woman who not only enthrals the serious dilettanti, but who intoxicates by her grace and the magic of her sex, all who are not connoisseurs in music. To struggle with me, how much talent did Stefanini, Savario— all indeed who have appeared with me on the stage, require ! ” “ In that case, dear Corilla, I should run as much risk in appear- ing with you as with Consuelo. If I were inclined to follow you to Trance, you have given me fair warning.” These words which escaped from Anzoletto were as a ray of light to Corilla. She saw that she had hit the mark more nearly than she had supposed, for the thought of leaving Venice had already dawned in the mind of her lover. The instant she conceived the idea of bear- ing him away with her, she spared no pains to make him relish the project. She humbled herself as much as she could, and even had the modesty to place herself aelow her rival. She admitted that she was not a great singer, nor yet sufficiently beautiful to attract the public ; and as all this was even truer than she cared to think, and a » Ansoleto waa very well aware of it, having never been deceived aa te C0N8UBLG, 8T tft* immense superiority of Consuelo, she had little trouble In per* •uading him. Their partnership and flight were almost determined upon at this interview, and Anzoleto thought seriously of it, although be always kept a loop-hole for escape if necessary. Corilla, seeing his uncertainty, urged him to continue to appear, in hopes of better success ; but quite sure that these unlucky trials would disgust him altogether with Venice and with Consuelo. Oh leaving his fair adviser, he went to seek his only real friend, Consuelo. He felt an unconquerable desire to see her aga4n. It was the first time he had begun and ended a day without receiving her chaste kiss upon his brow ; but as, after what had passed with Corilla, he would have blushed for his own instability, he persuaded himself that he only went to receive assurance of her unfaithfulness, and to undeceive himself as to his love for her. “ Doubtless,” said he, “ the count has taken advantage of my absence to urge his suit, and who can tell how far he has been successful ? ” This idea caused a cold perspiration to stand upon his forehead ; and the thought of Consu- elo’s perfidy so affected him that he hastened his steps, thinking to find her bathed in tears. Then an inward voice, which drowned every other, told him that he wronged a being so pure and noble, and he slackened his pace, reflecting on his own odious conduct, his sel- fish ambition, and the deceit and treachery with which he had stored his life and conscience, and which must inevitably bear their bitter fruit. He found Consuelo in her black dress, seated beside her table, pure, serene, and tranquil, as he had ever beheld her. She came forward to meet him with the same affection as ever, and questioned him with anxiety, but without distrust or reproach, as to the employment of his time during his absence. “ I have been suffering,” said he, with the very deep despondency which his inward humiliation had occasioned. “ I hurt my head against a decoration, and although I told you it was nothing, it so confused me that I was obliged to leave the Palazzo Zustiniani last night, lest I should faint and have to keep my bed all the morning.” “Oh, Heavens!” said Consuelo, kissing the wound inflicted by her rival ; “ you have suffered, and still suffer.” “No, the rest has done me good: do not think of it; but tell me how you managed to get home all alone last night.” “ Alone ? Oh, no ; the count brought me in his gondola.” “ Ah, I was sure of it,” cried Anzoleto, in a constrained voice. “ And of course he said a great many flattering things to you in this interview.” “ What could he say that he has not already said a hundred times? He would spoil me skid make me vain,- were I not on my guard against him. Besides, we were not alone ; my good master accompa- nied me — ah ! my excellent friend and master.” “What master? — what excellent friend?” said Anzoleto, once more reassured, and already absent and thoughtful. “ Why, Porpora, to be sure. What are you thinking of? ” “ I am thinking, dear Consuelo, of your triumph yesterday evening: are you not thinking of it too ? ” “ Less than of yours, I assure you.” “{Mine ! ah, do not jest, dear friend ; mine was so meagre that It lather resembled a downfall.” Consuelo grew pale jrith surprise. Notwithstanding her remark* 88 COHICEIO. ble self-possession, she had not the necessary coolness to appreciate the different degrees of applause bestowed on herself and her lover. There is in this sort of ovation an intoxication which the wisest artists cannot shun, and which deceives some so widely as to induce them to look upon the support of a cabal as a public triumph. But instead of exaggerating the favor of her audience, Consuelo, terrified by so frightful a noise, had hardly understood it, and could not distin- guish the preference awarded to her over Anzoleto. She artlessly chid him for his unreasonable expectations; and seeing that she could not persuade him, nor conquer his sadness, she gently re- proached him with being too desirous of glory, and with attaching too much value to the favor of the world. “ I have always told you,” said •he, 4< that you prefer the results of art to art itself. When we do our best — when we feel that we have done well— it seems to me that a little more or less of approbation can neither increase nor lessen our internal content. Hold in mind what Porpora said to me, when I first sang at the Palazzo Zustiniani: ‘Whoever feels that he. is truly pervaded with the love of his art has no room for fear/ ” “ Oh, your Porpora and you ! ” cried Anzoleto, spitefully, “ it is well for you to feed yourselves on those fine maxims. Nothing can be easier than to philosophise on the evils of life, when we are acquain- ted only with its advantages. Porpora, though poor, and his authori- ty disputed, has won himself a great name. He has gathered laurels enough to grow gray in peace beneath their shade. You who know yourself invincible, are of course fearless. You spring at one bound to the highest step of the ladder, and reproach those who are lame that they are dizzy. It is scarce charitable, Consuelo, and is horribly unjust. And, again, your argument applies not to me. You say that the applause of the public is not to be heeded as long as we have ou; own. But suppose I have not the inward conscience of well-doing? And can you not perceive that I am wofully out of sorts with my- self? could you not see that I was abominable ? could you not hear that I sang pitifully ? ” “ I could not — for it was not so. You were nor greater nor less than yourself. Your own emotions deprived you of almost all your resources. That soon passed, and the music which you knew you sang well.” “ And the music which I did not know? ” said Anzoleto, fixing his great black eyes, rendered cavernous by weariness and vexation, upon her, “ what of that? ” She heaved a sigh, and held her peace awhile. Then, embracing him as she spoke, — ■“ The music which you do not know you must learn. Had you chosen to study seriously during the rehearsals. Did I not tell you so? But the time for reproaches has gone by. Come now, let us take but two hours a day, and you will see how quickly we will surmount the obstacles.” “ Can it be dohe in a day ? ” “ It cannot be done under several months.” “ And I have got to play to-morrow ! Am I to go on appealing before an audience which attends to my defects more than it does te my good qualities ? ” “ It will so m appreciate your endeavors. * Who can say tha,? It may take a distaste for me." * It has proved the contrary.” "Ah! so you think it has treated me with in^ulganea? 9 * If you ask mo — it has, my dear ; where you failed It was kind— where you made hits it did you justice.” “ But in the meantime I shall get but a miserable engagement* “ The count is liberal U magnificence in all his dealings, and counts so expense. Moreover, does he not offer me more than enough to maintain us both in opulence ? ” “ That is to say that I am to live on your success.” “ Why not ? I lived long enough on your favor.” u It is not merely money of which I am thinking. Let him engage me as low as he please, I care not ; but he will engage me for second or third parts.” “ He cannot lay his hand on any other primo nomo. He has reck- oned on you long, arid thinks of none other than you. Besides, he is all on your side. You said he would oppose our marriage. So far from it, he seems to wish it to take place, and often asks when I am going to ask him to my wedding.” “ Excellent— good, forsooth ! A thousand thanks, Signor Count I ” “ What do you mean ? ” “ Nothing. On you were very wrong, for riot hindering me from making my debut before I had corrected these faults, which, it seems; you knew better than I did myself by better studies. For, I repeat, you know all my faults.” “ Have I ever failed in frankness with you ? Have I not often warned you of them ? No ; you told me that the public knew noth- ing about it, and when I heard of the great success you had met with at the count’s, the first time you sung in his palace, I thought that ” “ That the fashionable world knew no more about it than the vulgar world.” “ I thought that your brilliant qualities had struck them more for- cibly than your weak points, and, as I think, such has been the case with both parties.” “ In fact she is quite right,” thought Anzoleto to himself. “ If I could but defer my debut ; but it would be running the risk' of seeing another tenor called into my place, who would never make way for me. Come,” he added, after walking twice or thrice up and down the room, “ whkt are my faults ? ” “I have told you them very often — too much boldness, and* not enough study. An energy factitious and feverish, rather than felt. Dramatic effects, the result of will rather than of sentiment. You never penetrated to the inner meaning of your part. You picked it up piecemeal. You have discovered in it only a succession of more or less brilliant hits. You have neither hit on the scale of their con- nexion, nor sustained, nor developed them. Eager to display your fine voice, and the facility which you possess in certain points, you showed as much power in your first as in your last entrance on the stage. On the least opportunity you strove for an effect, and all your effects were identical. At the end of your first act you were known, and known, too, by heart — but they were unconscious that there was nothing more to be known, and something prodigious was expected from you at the finale. That something you lacked. Your emotion was exhausted, ard your voice had no longer the same fill-; ness. You perceived this yourself, and endeavored to force both.| Your audience perceived this, too, and to your great surmise they) were cold where you thought yourself the most pathetic. The cause] •0 COM8UKL0. was this, that when they looked for the actor’s passion they found only the actor’s struggle for success.” “ And how do others get on ? ” cried Anzoleto, stamping his foot for rage. “ Do you think I have not heard them all — all who have been applauded in Venice these last ten years? Did not old Stefa- nlni screech when his voice gave out ? and was he not still applauded to the echo ? ” “ It is quite true ; and I never believed that the audience were so mistaken. I doubt not they bore in mind the time when he had all his powers, and felt unwilling to allow him to feel the defects and misfortunes of his old age.” “ And Corilla — what have you to say to her — the idol whom yon overthrew ? — did not she force her effects, did she not make exertions painful, both to the eye and ear? Were her passions, was her ex- citement, real when she was vaunted to the skies? ” “ It is because I knew all her resources to be fictitious, all her efforts atrocious, her acting, no less than her singing, utterly deficient, both in taste and dignity, that I came upon the stage so confidently, being satisfied, as you were, that the public did not know much about it.” “ Ah, you are probing my worst wound, my poor Consuelo! ” said Anzoleto, sighing very ieeply ere he spoke. “ How so, my well be^tr^d ? ” w How so ? — can you ask me ? —we were both deceiving ourselves, Consuelo. The public knows right well. Its instincts reveal to it all which its ignorance covers with a shroud. It is a great baby, which must have amusement and excitement. It is satisfied with whatever they give it ; but once show it anything better, and at once it compares and comprehends. Corilla could enthral it last week, though she sang out of tune and was short-breathed. You made your appear- ance, and Corilla was ruined ; she is blotted out of their memories — entombed. If she should appear again she would be hissed off the stage. Had I made my debut with her, I should have succeeded as thoroughly as I did on the night when I sang after her for the first time at the Palazzo Zustiniani. But compared with you I was eclips- ed. It needs must have been so ; and so it ever will be. The public had a taste for pinchbeck. It took false stones for jewels; it was dazzled. A diamond of the first water is shown to it, and at a glance it sees that it has been grossly cheated. It can be humbugged no longer with sham diamonds, and when it meets them does justice on them at sight. This, Consuelo, has beenmy misfortune: to have made my appearance, a mere bit of Venetian bead- work, beside an invalu- able pearl from the treasuries of the sea.” Consuelo did not then apprehend all the bitterness and truth which lay in these reflections. She set them down to the score of the affec- tion of her betrothed, and rep* ed to what she took for mors •y smiles and caresses only. 0OM 8UBL&. *1 CHAPTER XIX Ewooukagkd bj Consuelo’s frankness, and by ihe faitnless Gorilla's perfidy, to present himself once more in public, Anzoleto began to work vigorously, so that at the second representation Ipermnestra he sang much better. But as the success of Consuelo was propor* tionably greater, he was still dissatisfied, and began to feel discour- aged by this confirmation of his inferiority. Everything from this moment wore a sinister aspect. It appeared to him that they did not listen to him — that the spectators who were near him were making humiliating observations upon his singing — and that benevolent ama- teurs, who encouraged him behind the scenes, did so with an air of pity. Their praises seemed to have a double meaning, of which he applied the less favorable to himself. Corilla, whom he went to con- sult in her box between the acts, pretended to ask him with a fright- en, ed air if he were not ill. “ Why ? ” said he, impatiently. w Because your voice is dull, and you seem overcome. Dear Anxo- leto, strive to regain your powers, which were paralyzed by fear or discouragement.” M Did I not sing my first air well? ” “ Not half so well as on the first occasion. My heart sank so that I found myself on the point of fainting.” “ But the audience applauded me, nevertheless.” “ Alas 1 what does it signify ? I was wrong to dispel your illusion. Continue then ; but endeavor to clear your voice.” “ Consuelo,” thought he, “ meant to give me good advice. She acts from instinct, and succeeds. But where could I gain the experience which would enable me to restrain the unruly public ? In following her counsel I lose my own natural advantages ; and they reckon noth- ing on the improvement of my style. Come, let me return to my early confidence. At my first appearance at the count’s, I saw that I could dazzle those whom I failed to persuade. Did not old Porpora tell me that I had the blemishes of genius. Come, then, let me bend this public to my dictation, and make it bow to the yoke.” He exerted himself to the utmost, achieved wonders in the second act, and was listened to with surprise. Some clapped their hands, others imposed silence, while the majority inquired whether it were sublime or detestable. A little more boldness, and Anzoleto might perhaps have won the day; but this reverse affected him so much that he became conftised, and broke down shamefully in the remainder of his part. At the third representation he had resumed his confidence, and re- solved to go on in his own way. Not heeding the advice of Consuelo, he hazarded the wildest caprices, the most daring absurdities. Cries of “ oh, shame ! ” mingled with hisses, once or twice interrupted the silence with which these desperate attempts were received. The good and generous public silenced the hisses and began to applaud ; but it was easy to perceive the kindness was for the person, the blame for the artist. Anzoleto tore his dress on re-entering his box, and scarce- ly had the representation terminated, than he flew to Corilla, a Drey to the deepest rage, and resolved to fly with her to the ends of the earth. OOKStELO. M Three days passed without his seeing Oonsue.o. She inapirei neither with hatred nor coldness, but merely with terror ; for in tlis depths of a soul pierced with remorse, he still cherished her image, and suffered cruelly from not seeing her. He felt the superiority of a being who overwhelmed him in puolic with her superiority, but who secretly held possession of his confidence and his good will. In his agitation he betrayed to Corilla how truly he was bound to his noble- hearted betrothed, and what an empire she held over his mind. Co- rilla was mortified, but knew how to conceal it. She pitied him, elic- ited a confession, and so soon as she had learned the secret of his jealousy, she struck a grand blow, by making Zustiniani aware of their mutual affection, thinking that the count would immediately ac- quaint Consuelo, and thus render a reconciliation impossible. Surprised to find another day pass away in the solitude of her gar ret, Comruelo grew uneasy ; and as still another day of mortal anguish and vain expectation drew to its close, she wrapped herself in a thick mantle, for the famous singer was no longer sheltered by her obscur- ity, and ran to the house occupied for some weeks by Anzoleto, a more comfortable abode than what he had before enjoyed, and one of numerous houses which the count possessed in the city. She did not find him, and learned that he was seldom there. This did not enlighten her as to his infidelity. She knew his wan- dering and poetic habits, and thought that, not feeling at home in these sumptuous abodes, he had returned to his old quarters. She was about to continue her search, when, on returning to pass the door a second time, she found herself face to face with Porpora. “ Consuelo,” said he in a low voice, “ it is useless to hide from me your features. J have just heard your voice, and cannot be mistaken In it. What do you here at this hour, my poor child, and whom do you seek in this house ? ” “ I seek my betrothed,” replied Consuelo, while she passed her arm within that of her old master; “and I do not know why. I should blush to confess it to my best friend. I see very well that you disap- prove of my attachment, but I could not tell an untruth. I am un- happy ; I have not seen Anzoleto since the day before yesterday at the theatre ; he must be unwell.” “ He unwell I ” said the professor, shrugging his shoulders. u Come, my poor girl, we must talk over this matter; and since you have at last opened your heart to me, I must open mine also. Give me your arm : we can converse as we go along. Listen, Consuelo, and attend earnestly to what I say. You cannot — you ought not — to be the wife of this young man. I forbid you, in the name of God, who has in- spired me with the feelings of a father towards you.” “ Oh, my master,” replied Consuelo, mournfully, “ ask of me the •acrifice of my life, but not that of my love.” “ I do not ask it— I command it,” said Porpora, firmly. * The er is accursed — he will prove your torment and your shame, if you not forswear him for ever.” “ Dear master,” replied she, with a sad and tender smile, “ you have told me so very often ; I have endeavored in vain to obey you. You dislike this poor youth ; you do not know him, and I am certain you will alter your mind.” * Consuelo,” said the master, more decl ledly, “ I have till now, I know, made vain and rseless objections. I spoke to you as an artist 1 as to an artist— as I only saw one a your betrothed. Now I F eOHStJELO. OS speak to you as a man — I speak to yon of a man — and I address yon as a woman. This woman’s love is wasted : the man is unworthy ol it, and he who tells you so knows he speaks the truth.” “ Oh, Heaven I Anzoleto — my only friend, my protector, my brother — unworthy of my love ! Ah, you do not know what he has done for me — how he has cared for me since I was left alone in the world. I must tell you all.” And Consuelo related the history of her life and of her love, and it was one and the same history. Porpora was affected, but not to be shaken from his purpose. “ In all this,” said he, “ I see nothing but your innocence, your virtue, your fidelity. As to him, I see very well that he has need of your society and your instructions, to which, whatever you may think, he owes the little that he knows, and the little he is worth. It is not however, the less true, that this pure and upright lover is no better than a castaway — that he spends his time and money in low dissipa- tion— and only thinks of turning you to the best account in forward ing his career.” “ Take heed to what you say,” replied Consuelo,. in suffocating ac- cents. “ I have always believed in you, oh, my master I after God ; but as to what concerns Anzoleto, I have resolved to close my heart and my ears. Ah, suffep me to leave you,” she added, taking her arm from the professor — “ it is- death to listen to you.” “ Let it be death then to your fatal passion, and through the truth let me restore you to life,” he said, pressing her arm to his generous and indignant breast. “ I know that I am rough, Consuelo — I cannot be otherwise ; and therefore it is that I have put off as long as I could the blow which I am about to inflict. I had hoped that you would open your eyes, in order that you might comprehend what was going on around you. But in place of being enlightened by expe rience, you precipitate yourself blindly into the abyss. I will not suf fer you to do so — you, the only one for whom I have cared for many years. You must not perish — no, you must not perish.” “ But, my kind friend, I am in no danger. Do you believe that I tell an untruth when I assure you by all that is sacred that I have re- spected my mother’s wishes ? Iam not Anzoleto’s wife, but I am his betrothed.” “ And you were seeking this evening the man who may not and cannot be your husband.” “ Who told you so ? ” “ Would Corilla ever permit him? ” “ Corilla ! — what has he to say to Corilla ? ” “ We are but a few paces from this girl’s abode. Do yon seek your betrothed ?— if you have courage, you will find him there.” “No, no I a thousand times no!” said Consuelo, tottering as she went, and leaning for support against the wall. “ Let me live, my master — do not kill me ere I have well begun to live. I toid you that it was death to listen to you.” “ You must drink of the cup,” said the inexorable old man ; “ I but fhlfil your destiny. — Having only realised ingratitude, and consequent- ly made the objects of my teniemess and attention unhappy, I must say the truth to those I love. It is the only thing a heart long with- ered and rendered callous by suffering an& despair can do. I pity you, poor girl, in that- you have not a friend more gentle and humane te •ustain you in such a crisis. But such as I am I must be ; I must act upon others, If not as with the sun’s genial heat, with the lightning’s 94 CON8UELO, blasting power. So then, Consue.o, let there be no faltering between ns. Come to this palace. You must surprise your faithless lo^er at tha feat of the treacherous Corilla. If you cannot walk, I must drag you along — if you :annot stand, I shall carry you. Ah, old Porpora is yet strong, when the fire of Divine anger burns in his heart.” 44 Mercy I mercy ! ” exclaimed Consuelo, pale as death. “ Suffer me yet to doubt. Give me a day, were it but a single day, to believe in him— I am not prepared for this affliction.” 44 No, not a day — not a single hour,” replied he inflexibly. 44 Away ! I shall not be able to recall the passing hour, to lay the truth open to you; and the faithless one will take advantage of the day which you ask, to place you again under the dominion of falsehood. Come with me, I command you — I insist on it.” 44 Well, I will go ! ” exclaimed Consuelo, regaining strength, through a violent reaction of her love. 44 1 will go, were it only to demonstrate your injustice and the truth of my lover; for you deceive yourself unworthily, as you would also deceive me. Come, then, executioner as you are, I shall follow, for I do not fear you.” Porpora took her at her word ; and, seizing her with a hand of iron, he conducted her to the mansion which he inhabited. Having passed through the corridors and mounted the stairs, they reached at last a terrace, whence they could distinguish over the roof of a lower build ing, completely uninhabited, the palace of Corilla, entirely darkened with the exception of one lighted window, which opened upon the sombre and silent front of the deserted house. Any one at this window might suppose that no person could see them ; for the balcony prevent- ed any one from seeing up from below. There was nothing level with it, and above, nothing but the cornice of the house which Porpora inhabited, and which was not placed so as to command the palace of the singer. But Corilla was ignorant that there was at the angle a projection covered with lead, a sort of recess concealed by a large chimney, where the maestro with artistic caprice came every evening to gaze at the stars, shun his fellows, and dream of sacred or dramatic subjects. Chance had thus revealed to him the intimacy of Anzoleto with Corilla, and Consuelo had only to look in the direction pointed out, to discover her lover in a tender tete-k-tete with her rival. She instantly turned away : and Porpora, who dreading the effects of the sight upon her, had held her with superhuman strength, led her to a lower story in his apartments, shutting .the door and window to con- ceal the explosion which he anticipated. CHAPTER XX. But there was no explosion. Consuelo remained silent, and as it were stunned. Porpora spoke to her. She made no reply, and signed to him not to question her. She then rose, and going to a large pitcher of iced water which stood on the harpsichord, swallowed Jurge draughts of it. took several turns up and down the apartment, ana sat down before her master without uttering ‘a word. The austere old ana a di i not comprehend the extremity of •offerings* eoiffltrsio* 96 •Well,* said he, * did I deceive you? What do you think of doing?" A painftil shrdder shook her motionless figure— she passed her hand over her forehead. “ I can think of nothing," said she, ** till I understand what has happened to me.” “ And what remains to be understood ? ” u Everyth mg l because I understand nothing. I am seeking for the cause of my misfortune without finding anything to explain it to me. What have I done to Anzoleto that he should cease to love me? What fault have I committed to render me unworthy in his eyes ? You cannot tell me, for I searched into my own heart and can find there no key to the mystery. O ! it is inconceivable. My mother be- lieved in the power of charms. Is Corilla a magician ? ” u My poor child,” said the maestro, “ there is indeed a magician, but she is called Vanity; there is indeed a poison, which is called Envy. Corilla can dispense it, but it was not she who molded the soul so fitted for its reception. The venom already flowed in the im- pure veins of Anzoleto. An extra dose has changed him from t knave into a traitor — faithless as well as ungrateful.” “ What vanity, what envy ? ” “ The vanity of surpassing others. The desire to excel, and rags at being surpassed by you.” “ Is that possible? Can a man be jealous of the advantages o&a woman ? Can a lover be displeased with the success of his beloved ? Alas ! there are indeed many things which I neither know nor under- stand.” “ And will never comprehend, but which you will experience every hour of your existence. You will learn that a man can be jealous of the superiority of a woman, when this man is an ambitious artist : and that a lover can loathe the success of his beloved when the theatre is the arena of their efforts. It is because the actor is no longer a man, Consu- elo — he is turned into a woman. He lives but through the medium of his sickly vanity, which alone he seeks to gratify and for which alone he labors. The beauty of a woman he feels a grievance; her talent ex- tinguishes or competes with his own. A woman is his rival, or rather he is the rival of a woman ; he has all the littleness, all the caprice, all the wants, all the ridiculous airs of a coquette. This is the char- acter of the greatest number of persons belonging to the theatre. There are indeed grand exceptions, but they are so rare, so admirable, that one should bow before them and render them homage, as to the wisest and best. Anzoleto is no exception ; he is the vainest of the vain. In that one word you have the explanation of his conduct.” “ But what unintelligible revenge. What poor and Insufficient means I How can Corilla recompense him for his losses with the public? Had he only spoken openly to me of his sufferings (alas! it needed only a word for that,) I should have understood him perhaps — at least I would have compassionated him, and retired to yield him the first place.” “ It is the peculiarity of envy to hate people in proportion to the happiness of which it deprives them ; just as it is the peculiarity of selfish love to hate in the object which we love, the pleasure which w« are not the means of procuring him. Whilst your lover abhors the public which loads you with glory, do you not hate the rival who In- toxicates him with her charms f ” ') ' CONSUELO. “ My master, fin have uttered a profound reflection, which I would fain ponder on.” “ It is true. While Anzoleto detests you for your happiness on the stage, you hate him for his happiness in the boudoir of Corilla.” “ It is not so. I could not hate him ; and you have made me feel feat it would be cowardly and disgraceful to hate my rival. As to the passion with which she fills him, I shudder to think of it — why, I know not. If it be involuntary on his part, Anzoleto is not guilty in hating my success.” “You are quick to interpret matters, so as to excuse his conduct and sentiments. No ; Anzoleto is not innocent or estimable in his suf- fering like you. He deceives, he disgraces you, whilst you endeavor to justify him. However, I did not wish to inspire you with hatred and resentment, but with calmness and indifference. The character of this man influences his conduct. You will never change him. De- cide, and think only of yourself.” “ Of myself— -of myself alone? Of myself, without hope *oVe?” “Think of music, the divine art, Consuelo; you would not care to say that you love it only for Anzoleto ? ” “ I have loved art for itself also ; but I never separated in my thoughts these inseparable objects — my life and that of Anzoleto. How shall I be able to love anything when the half of my existence is taken away ? ” “Anzoleto was nothing more to you than an idea, and this idea im parted life. You will replace it by one greater, purer, more elevating. Your soul, your genius, your entire being, will no longer be at the mercy of a deceitftil, fragile form ; you shall contemplate the sublime ideal stripped of its earthly covering ; you shall mount heavenward, and live in holy unison with God himself.” “ Do you wish, as you once did, that I should become a nun ? ” “ No ; this would confine the exercise of your artistic faculties to one direction, whereas you should embrace all. Whatever you do, or wherever you are, in the theatre or in the cloister, you may be a saint, the bride of heaven.” “ What you say is full of sublimity, but shrouded in a mysterious garb. Permit me to retire, dear master ; I require time to collect my thoughts and question my heart.” “ You have said it, Consuelo ; you need insight into yourself. Hith- erto in giving up your heart and your prospects to one so much your inferior, you have not known yourself. You have mistaken your des- seeing that you were born without an equal* and consequently liout the possibility of an associate in this world. Solitude, abso- 1 3 liberty, are needful for you. I would not wish you a husband, or 1 er, or family, or passions, or bonds of any kind. It is thus I have conceived your existence, and would direct your career. The day on x hich you give yourself away, you lose your divinity. Ah, if Mingott i and Moltini, my illustrious pupils, my powerful creations, had believed In me, they would have lived unrivalled on the earth. But woman is ( weak and curious; vanity blinds her, vain desires agitate, caprices hurry her away. In what do these disquietudes result ?— what but in storms and weariness, in the loss, the destruction, or vitiation, of their genius. Would you not be more than they, Consuelo ?— does not tout ambition soar above the poor concerns of this life ? — or would you nat appease these vain desires, and seize the glorkris crown of everlasting genius ? ” 3OH8U1L0. m Porpora continued to speak for a long time w th an eloquence and energy to which I cannot do justice. Consuelo listened, her looks bent upon the ground. When he had finished, she said, “ My dear master, you are profound ; but I cannot follow you sufficiently throughout. It seems to me as if you outraged human nature in proscribing its most noble passions — as if you would extinguish the instincts which God himself has implanted, for the purpose of elevating what would otherwise be a monstrous and anti-social impulse. Were I a better Christian, I should perhaps better understand you; I shall try to be- come so, and that is all I can promise.’’ She took her leave, apparently tranquil, but in reality deeply agita- ted. The great though austere artist conducted her home, always preaching, but never convincing. He nevertheless was of infinite ser- vice in opening to her a vast field of serious thought and inquiry, where- in Anzoleto’s particular crime served but as a painful and solemn in- troduction to thoughts of eternity. She passed long hours, praying, weeping, and reflecting ; then lay down to rest, with a virtuous and confiding hope in a merciful and compassionate God. The next day Porpora announced to her that there would be a re- hearsal of Ipermnestra for Stefanini, who was to fill Anzoleto’s part. The latter was ill, confined to bed, and complained of a loss of voice. Consuelo’s first impulse was to fly to him and nurse him. u Spare yourself this trouble,” said the professor, “ he is perfectly well ; the physician of the theatre has said so, and he will be this evening with Corilla. But Count Zustiniani, who understands very well the mean- ing of it, and who consents without much regret that he should put off his appearance, has forbidden the physician to reveal the falsehood, and has requested the good Stefanini to return to the theatre for some days.” “ But., rcod Heavens I what does Anzoleto mean to do ? is he about to quit the theatre? ” “ Yea — the theatre of San Samuel. In a month he is off with Corilla for France. That surprises you? He flies from the shadow which you cast over him. He has entrusted his fate to a woman whom he dreads less, and whom he will betray so soon as he finds he no longer requires her.” Consuelo turned pale, and pressed her hands convulsively on her' bursting heart. Perhaps she had flattered herself with the idea of reclaiming Anzoleto, by reproaching him gently with his faults, and offering to put off h**r appearance for a time. This news was a dag- ger stroke to her, and she could not believe that she should no more see him whom sho had so fondly loved. “ Ah,” said she, “ it is but an uneasy dream; I must go and seek him; he will explain every- thing. He cannc / follow this woman ; it would be his destruction. I cannot permit b>'n to do so; I will keep him back; I will make him aware of his tru$ interests, if indeed he be any longer capable of .com- prehending tho’Ji. Come with me, dear master ; let us not forsake “ I will abandon you,” said the angry Porpora, u and forever, if you commit wav Mich folly. Entreat a wretch — dispute with Corilla? Ah, Santa O'M'jlia ! distrust your Bohemian origin, extinguish your blind and v/andering instincts. Come 1 they are waiting for you at •he reheun&i. You will feel pleasure in singing with a master like Stefanini, a modest, generous, and well-informed artist.” He led her to the theatre, and then for the first time she (bit an a** 8 r • M «OH« JBLO. horrence of this artist life, chained to the wants of the public, and obliged to repress one’s own sentiments and emotions to obey those of others. This very rehearsal, the subsequent toilet, the perform- ance of the evening, proved a frightful torment. Anzoleto was still absent Next day there was to be an opera buffa of Galuppi’s— Arcifanfano Be de’ Matti. They had chosen this farce to please Ste- fanini, who was an excellent comic performer. Consuelo must now make those laugh whom she had formerly made weep. She was bril- liant, charming, pleasing to the last degree, though plunged at the same time in despair. Twice or thrice sobs that would force their way found vent in a constrained gaiety, which would have appeared frightful to those who understood it. On retiring to her box, she fell down insensible. The public would have her return to receive their applause. She did not appear ; a dreadful uproar took place, benches were broken, and people tried to gain the stage. Stefanini hastened to her box, half dressed, his hair dishevelled, and pale as a spectre. She allowed herself to be supported back upon the stage, where she was received with a shower of bouquets, and forced to stoop to pick up a laurel crown. “ Ah, the pitiless monsters ! ” she murmured, as she retired behind the scenes. “ My sweet one,” said the old singer, who gave her his hand, “ you suffer greatly ; but these little things,” added he, picking up a bunch of brilliant flowers, “ are a specific for all our woes; you will become used tx> it, and the time perhaps will arrive when you will only feel fa- tigue and uneasiness when they forget to crown.” “ Oh, how hollow and trifling they are ! ” thought poor Consuelo. Having re-entered her box, she fainted away, literally upon a bed of flowers which had been gathered on the stage and thrown pell-mell upon the sofa. The tire-woman left the box to call a physician. Count Zustiniani remained for some instants alone by the side of his beautiful singer, who looked pale and broken as the beautiful jasmines which strewed her couch. Carried away by his admiration, Zustin- iani lost his reason, and yielding to his foolish hopes, he seized her hand and carried it to his lips. But his touch was odious to the pure- minded Consuelo. She roused herself to repel him, as if it had been the bite of a serpent. “ Ah I far from me, said she, writhing in a species of delirium ; “ far from me all love, all caresses, all honied words! — no love— no husband — no lover — no family for me! my dear master has said it— liberty, the ideal, solitude, glory!” And she melte,d into tears so agonizing that the count was alarmed, and cast- ing himself on his knees beside her strove to tranquilize her; but he could find no words of soothing import to that pierced soul ; and de- spite his efforts to conceal it, his passion would speak out. He per- fectly understood the despairing love of the betrayed one, and he let too much of the ardor of the hopeful lover escape him. Consuelo seemed to listen, and mechanically drew her hand away from his, with a bewildered smile, which the count mistook for encouragement. Some men, although possessing great tact and penetration in the world, are absurd in su:h conjunctures. The physician arrived and administered a sedative in the style which they called drops . Consu- elo was then wrapped up in her mantle and carried to her gondola. The count entered with her, supporting her in his arms, and always talking of his loves, with some degree of eloquence, which, as he im- agined, must carry conviction. At the end of a quarter of an hooi| obtaining no response, he imp. o red a reply, a glance. ooMstntLO. 9i 44 To what then shall I answer?” said Consuelo, 4 I have heard nothing.” Zustiniani, although at first discouraged, thought there could not be a better opportunity, and that this afflicted soul would be more acces- sible than after reflection and reason. He spoke again, but there wai the same silence, the same abstraction, only that there was a nofc-to- be-mistaken effort, though without* any angry demonstration, to repel his advances. When the gondola touched the shore, he tried to de- tain Consuelo for an instant to obtain a word of encouragement “Ah, signor,” said she, coldly, “ excuse my weak state. I have heard badly, but I understand. Oh yes, I understand perfectly. 1 ask this night, this one night, to reflect, to recover from my distress To-morrow, yes, to-morrow, I shall reply without fail.” 44 To-morrow ! dear Consuelo, oh, it is an age ! But I shall submit —only allow me at least to hope for your friendship.” “Oh, yes, yesl there is hope,” replied Consuelo, in a constrained voice, placing her foot upon the bank ; “ but do not follow me,” said the, as she motioned him with an imperious gesture back to the gon- dola; “ otherwise there will be no room for hope.” Shame and anger restored her strength, but it was a nervous, fev- erish strength, which found vent in hysteric laughter as she ascended the stairs. 44 You are very happy, Consuelo,” said a voice in the darkness, which almost stunned her; 44 1 congratulate you on your gaiety.” 44 Oh, yes,” she replied, while she seized Anzoleto’s arm violently, and rapidly ascended with him to her chamber. 44 1 thank you, An- loleto. You were right to congratulate me. I am truly happy— oh, so happy ! ” Anzoleto, who had been waiting for her, had already lighted the lamp, and when the bluish light fell upon their agitated features, they both started back in affright. 44 We are very happy, are we not, Anzoleto?” said she, with a choking voice, while her features were distorted with a smile that covered her cheeks with tears. “What think you of our hjq>pl ness? ” 44 1 think, Consuelo,” replied he, with a calm and bitter smile, 44 that we have found it troublesome; but we shall get on better by-and- bye.” 44 You seemed to me to be much at home in Corilla’s boudoir.” 44 And you, I find, very much at your ease in the gondola of the count.” 44 The count ! You knew, then, Anzoleto, that the count wished to supplant you in my affections ? ” 44 And in order not to annoy you, my dear, I prudently kept in the background.” 44 Ahj you knew it ; and this is the time you have taken to abandon me.” 44 Have I not done well ?— are you not content with your lot ? The count is a generous lover, and the poor, condemned singer would have no business, I fancy, to contend with him.” 44 Porpora was right ; you are an infamous man. Leave my sight\ You do not deserve that I shou.d justify myself. It would be a stain were I to regret you. Leave me, I tell you; but first know, that you can come out at Venice and re-enter San Samuel with Corilla. Sever shall my mother’s daughter set foot upon the vile boards of a theatre again.” GONSUSCL&, 100 M The daughter of your mother the zingara will play the great lady ip the villa of Zustiniani, on the shores of the B rents. It will be a fair career, and I shall be glad of it.” "Oh my mother!” exclaimed Consuelo, turning towards the bed and falling on her knees, as she buried her face in the counterpane which had served as a shroud for the zingara . Anzoleto was terrified and afflicted by this energetic movement, and the convulsive sobs which burst from the breast of Consuelo. Re- morse seized on his heart, and he approached his betrothed to raite her in his arms ; but she rose of herself, and pushing him from her with wild strength, thrust him towards the door, exclaiming as she did so, “ Away — away ! from my heart, from my memory ! — farewell forever I” Anzoleto had come to seek her with % low and selfish design ; nev- ertheless it was the best thing he could have done. He could not bear to leave her, and he had struck out a plan to reconcile matters. He meant to inform her of the danger she ran from the designs of Zustiniani, and thus remove her from the theatre. In this resolution he paid full homage to the pride and purity of Consuelo. He knew her incapable of tampering with a doubtful position, or of accepting protection which ought to make her blush. His guilty and corrupt soul still retained unshaken faith in the innocence of this young girl, whom he was certain of finding as faithful and devoted as he had left her days before. But how reconcile this devotion with the precon- ceived design of deceiving her, and, without a rupture with Corilla, of remaining still her betrothed, her friend ? He wished to re-enter the theatre with the latter, and could not think of separating at the very moment when his success depended on her. This audacious and cowardly plan was nevertheless formed in his mind, and he treated Consuelo as the Italian women do those madonnas whose protection they implore in the hour of repentance, and whose faces they veil in their erring moments. When he beheld her so brilliant and so gay, in her buffa part at the theatre, he began to fear that he had lost too much time in maturing his design. When he saw her return in the gondola of the count, and approach with a joyous burst of laughter, he feared he was too late, and vexation seized him ; but when she rose above his insults, and banished him with scorn, respect returned with fear, and he wan dered long on the stair and on the quay, expecting her to recall him. He even ventured to knock and implore pardon through the door; but a deep silence reigned in that chamber, whose threshold he was never to cross with Consuelo again. He retired, confused and chagrined, determined to return on the morrow, and flattering himself that he should then prove more successful. — “ After all,” said he to himself, M my project will succeed ; she knows the count’s love, and all that is requisite is half done.” Overwhelmed with fatigue, he slept : long in the afternoon he went to Corilla. “ Great news ! ” she exclaimed, running to meet him with out- •tretched arms ; “ Consuelo is off.” “ Off! gracious Heaven ! — whither, and with whom ? ” “ To Vienna, where Porpora has sent her, intending to join her there himself. She has deceived us all, the little cheat She wai en- gaged for the emperor’s theatre, where Porpora propose# that aha Should appear in his new opera.” C0N3UEL0. 101 * Gone ! gone without a word ! ” exclaimed Anzoleto, rushing to- wards the door. “ It is of no use seeking her in Venice,” said Gorilla with a sneer- ing smile and a look of triumph. “ She set out for Palestrina at day- break, and is already far from this on the mainland. Zustiniani, who thought himself beloved, but who was only made a fool of, is furious, and confined to his couch with fever ; but he sent Porpora to me just now, to try and get me to sing this evening; and Stefanini, who i» tired of the stage, and anxious to enjoy the sweets of retirement in his cassino, is very desirous to see you resume your performances. Therefore prepare for appearing to-morrow in Ipermneetra. In the mean time, as they are waiting for me, I must run away. If you do not believe, you can take a turn through the city, and convince your- self that I have told you the truth.” “ By all the furies ! ” exclaimed Anzoleto, “ you have gained your point, but you have taken my life along with it.” And he swooned away on the Persian carpet of the false Corilla. JHAPTEK XXL Of all others the Count Zustiniani was the person most put out In his part by the flight of Consuelo. After having allowed it to be said and, indeed, induced all Venice to believe, that the wonderful new actress was his mistress, how was he to explain, in a manner tolerably satisfactory to his own self-love, the fact, that on his first word of declaration, she had abruptly and mysteriously evaded his hopes and desires? Some persons were of opinion that, jealous of his treasure, he had concealed her in one of his country houses. But when. Porpora was heard to declare, with his wanted stern grav- ity, the part which his pupil had adopted — of going in advance of him into Germany — there was no more to be done, but to seek the causes of her singular resolution. The count, in order to divert men’s minds, affected to be neither vexed nor surprised; but still his annoy- ance leaked out in spite of him, and the world ceased to attribute to him, in this instance, the success on w r hich he so greatly prided him- self. The greater part of the truth, in fact, soon became known to the public — to wit: Anzoleto’s faithlessness, Corilla’s rivalry, and the despair of the poor Spaniard, who was now warmly pitied and ten- derly regretted. Anzoleto’s first impulse was to hurry to Porpora ; but he had met with the sternest repulses from him. “ Cease ques- tioning me, young ambitious fool, heartless and faithless that you are,” replied the master, with noble indignation. “ You never de- served that noble girl’s affection, and never shall you learn of me what has become of her. I will exert all my cares to prevent you from ever getting on her traces ; and I hope that, should you ever chance to meet her at some future day, her image will be effaced from your heart and memory, as completely as I hope and endeavor to ef- fect that it shall be” From the house of Porpora, Anzoleto had hastened to the Corte Minelli, where he found Consuelo’s room occupied by a new tenant, ffeo was already in possession, —and fitted up with the instrument* 102 COXSUBLO, and materials of his trade. He was a glass-worker, who had long dwelt in the same house, and was now gaily moving his workshop in- to his new premises. “Ah, ha! so this is you, my boy?” he cried to the young tenor; “so you have come to see me in my new lodging? I shall do very well here, and my wife is delighted at having means to lodge her children here down stairs. What are you looking for ? Has Consuelo forgotten anything? Look away, my boy, look away; you cannot disturb me,” “ What have they done with her furniture? ” asked Anzoleto, dis- turbed, and really cut to the heart at seeing no vestige more of Cod- suelo in this spot, consecrated to the only nure joys of his whole past existence. “ The furniture is down yonder in the court ; she made a present of it to mother Agatha, and a good deed that was. The old woman is poor, and will make a little money out of it. Oh! Consuelo had a good heart. She has not left a farthing of debt in the court, and made every one a slight gift at her departure. She took nothing with her but her crucifix. It is strange, nevertheless, that she should have gone off in the dead of night without letting a soul know of it. Master Porpora came here this morning, and settled all her business it was just like executing a will. All the neighbors were sorry for it , but after a while they all consoled themselves, knowing that she is gone to live In a fine palace on the Canalazzo, now that she has be- come rich and a great lady. For my part, I was always sure that she would make a fortune with her voice, she worked so hard. And when are you to be married, Anzoleto ? I hope that you will buy some trifles of me to make presents to the girls of the neighborhood.” “ Oh, surely, surely,” answered Anzoleto, without knowing what he said ; and he hurried away with hell in his heart, and saw all the beldames of the place bidding at auction in the court-yard for Con- suelo’s bed and table — that bed on which he had so often seen hef sleep, that table at which she had sat so often ! “ Oh, my God ! already not a sign left of her 1 ” he cried, wringing his hands involuntarily, and be felt pretty well inclined to go and stab Corilla. Three days afterwards he came upon the stage again with Gorilla They were hissed tremendously, one and the other, and the curtain fell amid a storm of censure, with the piece unfinished. Anzoleto was furious, and Corilla utterly unmoved. “ Behold the w T orth of your protection to me,” he cried, in threatening tones, as soon as he was again alone with her. The prima donna answered him with infinite composure — “ You worry yourself about nothing, my child,” said she; “it is not difficult to perceive that you know nothing about the world, and are unused to its caprices. I was so well prepared for this evening’s reception, that I did not even give myself the trouble of go- ing over my part; and the only reason why I did not warn you whai was to come, is, that I knew you had not the courage to come upon the stage at all, with the certainty of being hissed. Now you must be aiade aware what we have to look for. The next time w r e shall be treated worse yet. Three, four, perhaps six or eight appearances of this kind will pass in succession. J>ut, if we were the most wretched bunglers in the world, the spirit of independence and contradiction will raise up for us some zealous partisans. There are so many folks who think to elevate themselves by running down others, that there j»ust needs be some who think to raise themselves by helping others C ( ' N SUKI O, 10S forward. After ten or a dozen contests, during which the theatre will be a battle fk*ld — half hissing, half applause — the opposition will get tired, our obstinate supporters will get sulky, and we shall enter upon a new state of affairs. That portion of the public which sup- ported us, why, itself knew not, will listen to us very coldly ; we shall nave, as it were, a new debut ; and then all is our own way, thank God ! for we have but to five the audience, and to remain masters of the field. I promise you great success from that moment, dear An- soleto; the charm which weighed you down of late, is dissipated. You will breathe, thenceforth, an atmosphere of unmixed favor and sweet praises, and your powers will be restored straightways. Re member the effect of your first appearance at Zustiniani’s ; you had not then the time to establish yourself firmly on that victorious foot- ing — a star, before which yours paled, culminated in the sky; but that star has, in its turn, been unsphered, and you may prepare yourself again with me to scale the empyrean.” All fell out to the letter, as Corilla foretold it. For, of a truth, the two lovers were made to pay very dearly for the first few days, for the loss the public had undergone in the person of Consuelo. But the hardihood which they exerted in braving the storm, lasted longer than the indignation, which was too lively to be durable. The count lent his encouragement to Corilla' s efforts. As to Anzoleto, — not until he had made every exertion in vain, to attract a primo nomo to Venice at so advanced a season, when all the engagements have been made with all the principal theatres in Europe, did the count come to a de- cision, and receive him as his champion in the strife which was about to commence between his theatre and the public. The career and reputation of that theatre had been, by far too brilliant, that it should lose it with this or that performer. Nothing of the nature of the present contest was likely to affect the course of usages so long estab- lished. All the boxes had been hired for the season ; and the ladies were in the habit of receiving their visits, and chatting in them as usual. The real amateurs of music were out of sorts for some time, but they were too few in number to produce any perceivable effect. Moreover, in the long run, they got bored by their own anger, and Corilla, having sung one evening with unwonted animation, was unanimously called for. She reappeared, drawing Anzoleto on the stage along with her, although he had not been recalled, appearing to yield to her gentle violence with modest timidity. In a word, before a month had elapsed, Consuelo, was forgotten like the lightning which flashes and vanishes along a summer sky. Corilla was the rage as much as ever, and perhaps deserved to be so more than ever; for emulation had given her an enthusiasm, and love an expression of sentiment which she had lacked before. As for Anzoleto, though he had got rid of no one of his faults, he had contrived to display all the unquestionable qualities which he did possess. His fine personal ap- pearance captivated the women ; ladies vied for his presence at even- ing parties, the more so that Corilla’s jealousy added something piquant to the coquetries which were addressed to him. Clorinda, moreover, devolved all her theatrical resources, that is to say, her full blown beauty and the voluptuous nonchalance of her unexam- pled dulness, which was not without its attraction for spectators of s certain order, Zustiniani, in order to divert his mind from the rea* disappointment he had undergone, had made her his mistress, loaded „ her with diamonds, and thrust her forward into first parts, hoping to 104 OONIUELO. fit her to succeed Corilla in that position, since she was definitively encaged at Paris for the following season. Corilla regarded this rivalry, from which she had nothing whatever to apprehend, either present or future, without a touch of annoy- ance or of alarm; she even took a mischievous pleasure in displaying the coldly impudent incapacity of her rival, which was daunted by no difficulties. In the full tide of his prosperity and success, (for the count had given him a very good engagement,) Anzoleto was weighed down by disgust and self-reproach, which prevented his enjoying his onerous good fortune. It was truly pitiful to see him dragging himself to re- hearsals, linked to the arm of Corilla in her haughty triumph, pale, languid, handsome, as a man can be, ridiculously over-dressed, worn out like one overdone with adoration, fainting and unbraced among the laurels and the myrtles which he had so liberally and so indolently won. Even when upon the stage, when in the midst of a scena with his fiery mistress, he could not refrain from defying her by his haughty attitude and the -superb languor of his impertinence. When she seemed to devour him with her eyes, he replied to the public by a glance, which appeared to say — “ Fancy not that I respond to ail this love! Far from it; he who shall rid me of it, shall serve me largely.” In real truth, Anzoleto, having been corrupted and spoiled by Co- rilla, poured out upon her those phials of selfishness and ingratitude, which she urged him to pour out against all the world beside. There was but one true, one pure sentiment which now remained in his heart; it was the indestructible love which he still cherished, in de- spite of all his vices, for Consuelo. He could divert his mind from it, thanks to his natural levity, but cure it he could not ; and that love came back upon him as a remorse — as a torture — in the midst of his guilty excesses. Faithless to Corilla, given up to numberless intrigues — avenging himself to-day upon the count with Corilla, to-morrow amusing himself with some fashionable beauty — the third day with the lowest of their sex ; passing from mystic appointments to open revelries, he seemed struggling to bury the past in the oblivion of the present. But in the midst of these disorders, a ghost seemed to haunt him ; and sighs would burst from his breast, as he glided in his gondola dead of night, with his debauched companions, beside the dark buildings of the Corte Minelli. Corilla, long since conquered by his cruel treatment, and inclined, as all base spirits are — to love the more in proportion as they are the more scorned and outraged— began herself to hate him, and to grow weary of her fatal passion. One night as Anzoleto floated with Clorinda through the streets of Venice in his gondola, another gondola, shot by them rapidly — its ex- tinguished lantern proving its clandestine errand. He scarcely heed- ed it; but Clorinda, who was ever on thorns from her fear of discov- ery, said to him — “ Let us go slower; ’tis the count’s gondola; I know his barcarole.” “ Is it — Oh, then,” cried Anzoleto, “ I will overtake him, and find out what infidelity he is at to-night.” “ No, no ; let us go back,” cried Clorinda. “ His eye — his ear, is so quick. Do not let us intrude upon his leisure.” “ On ! I say, on! ” cried Anzoleto to the gondolier; “ I must over- take that gondola ahead of us.” Spite of all Clorinda’s tears, all her entreaties, it was but a second era the boats clasped together, and a burst of laughter from the other go rt tola fell upon Anzoleto’s ear. u Ahl this is fair war — It is Gorilla enjoying the breeze with the count.” As he spoke, Anzoleto jumped to the bow of his gondola, snatched the oar from his barcarole, and darting on the track of the other gondola, again grazed its side ; and whether he heard his own name among Corilla’s bursts of laughter, or whether he was indeed mad, he cried aloud, “ Sweetest Clorinda, unquestionably, you are the loveliest and the dearest of your sex.” “ I was just telling Corilla so,” said the count, coming easily out of his cabin, and approaching the other barque. “ And now as we have both brought our excursions to an end, we can make a fair exchange, as honest folks do of equally valuable merchandise.” “ Count, you but do justice to my love of fair play,” replied Anzo- leto, in the same tone. “ If he permit me, I will offei him my arm, that he may himself escort the fair Clorinda into his gondola.” The count reached out his arm to rest upon Anzoleto’s ; but the tenor, inflamed by hatred, and transported with rage, leaped with all his weight upon the count’s gondola and upset it, crying with savage voice — “ Signor count, gondola for gondola ! ” Then abandoning his victims to their fate, and leaving Clorinda speechless with terror and trembling for the consequences of his frantic conduct, he gained the opposite bank by swimming, took his course through the dark and tortuous streets, entered his lodging, changed his clothes in a twink- ling, gathered together all the money he had, left the house, threw himself into the first shallop w T hich was getting under way for Trieste, and snapped his fingers in triumph as he saw in the dawn of morn- ing, the clock-towers and domes of Venice sink beneath the waves. CHAPTER XXII. In the western range of the Carpathian mountains, whfch separ- ates Bohemia from Bavaria, and which receives in these countries the name of the Boehmer Wald, there was still standing, about a century ago, an old country seat of immense extent, called, in consequence of some forgotten tradition, the Castle of the Giants. — Though present- ing at a distance somewhat the appearance of an ancient fortress, it was no more than a private residence, furnished in the taste, then somewhat antiquated, but always rich and sumptuous, of Louis XIV. The feudal style of architecture had also undergone various tasteful modifications in the parts of the edifice occupied by the Lords of Rudolstadt, masters of this rich domain. The family was of Bohemian or, gin, but had become naturalized in Germany, on its members changing their name, and abjuring the principles of the Reformation, at the most frying period of the Thirty Years’ War. A noble and valiant ancestor, of inflexible Protestant principles, had been murdered on the mountain in the neighborhood of his castle, by the fanatic soldiery. His widow, who was of a Sax on family, saved the fortune and the life of her young children by de- claring herself a Catholic, and entrusting to the Jesuits the education of the heirs of Rudolstadt. After two generations had passed away, Bohemia being silent and oppressed, the Austrian power permanently* established, and the glory and misfortunes of the Reformation at last 108 eoNSVKia. apparently forgotten, the Lords of Rudolstadt peacefully practised the Christian virtues, professed the Romish faith, and dwelt on their e» tates in unostentatious state, like good aristocrats, and faithful aer vants of Maria Theresa. They had formerly displayed their bravery, in the service of their emperor, Charles VI ; but it was strange that young Albert, the last of this illustrious and powerful race, and the only son of Count Christian Rudolstadt, had never borne arms in the War of {Succession, which had just terminated; and that he had reached his thirtieth year without having sought any other distinction than what he inherited from his birth and fortune. This unusual course had in* spired his sovereign with suspicion of collusion with her enemies; but Count Christian, having had the honor to receive the empress in his castle, had given such reasons for. the conduct of his son as seemed to satisfy her. Nothing, however, had transpired of the conversation between Maria Theresa and Count Rudolstadt. A strange mystery reigned in the bosom of this devout and beneficent family, which for ten years a neighbor had seldom visited ; which no business, no pleas* ure, no political agitation, induced to leave their domains; which paid largely and without a murmur all the subsidies required for the war, displaying no uneasiness in the midst of public danger and mis- fortune ; which in fine seemed not to live after the same fashion as the other nobles, who viewed them with distrust, although knowing nothing of them but their praiseworthy deeds and noble conduct At a loss to what to attribute this unsocial and retired mode of life, they accused the Rudolstadts sometimes of avarice, sometimes of misanthropy ; but as their actions uniformly contradicted these impu- tations, their maligners were at length obliged to confine their re- proaches to their apathy and indifference. They asserted that Count Christian did not wish to expose the life of his son — the last of his race — in these disastrous wars, and the empress had, in exchange for his services, accepted a sum of money sufficient to equip a regiment of hussars. The ladies of rank who had marriageable daughters ad- mitted that Count Christian had done well ; but when they learned the determination that he seemed to entertain of' providing a wife for his son in his own family, in the daughter of the Baron Frederick, his brother — when they understood that the young Baroness Amelia had just quitted the convent at Prague, where she had been educated, to reside henceforth with her cousin in the Castle of the Giants — these noble dames unanimously pronounced the family of Rudolstadt to be a den of wolves, each of whom was more unsocial and savage than the others. A few devoted servants and faithful friends alone knew the secret of the family, and kept it strictly. This noble family was assembled one evening round a table profuse- ly loaded with game, and those substantial dishes with which our an- cestors in Slavonic states still continued to regale themselves at that period, notwithstanding the refinements which the court of Louis XV. had introduced into the aristocratic customs of a great part of Europe. An immense hearth, on which burned huge billets of oak, diffused heat throughout the large and gloomy hall. Count Christian in a loud voice had just said grace, to which the other members of the family listened standing. Numerous aged and grave domestics, in the costume of the country — viz. ; large mamaluke trousers, and long mustachios — moved slowly to and fro, in attendance on their honored masters. The chaplain of the castle was seated on the right of the count the young baroness on his left— “ next his heart,” as he waa GONSUBLO, 107 wont to §ay, with austere and paternal gallantry. The Baron Fred- erick, his Junior brother, whom he always called his “ young t brother,” from his being more than sixty years old, was seated opposite. The Canoness Wenceshrwa of Rudolstadt, his eldest sister, a venerable lady of seventy, afflicted with an enormous hump, and a frightful leanness, took her place at the upper end of the table ; while Count Albert, the son of Count Christian, the betrothed of Amelia, and the last of the Rudolstadts, came forward, pale and melancholy, to seat himself at the other end, opposite his noble aunt. Of all these silent personages, Albert was certainly the one least dis- posed and least accustomed to impart animation to the others. The chaplain was so devoted to his masters, and so reverential towards the head of the family in particular, that he never opened his mouth to speak unless encouraged to do so by a look from Count Christian ; and the latter was of so calm and reserved a disposition that he sel- dom required to seek from others a relief from his own thoughts. Baron Frederick was of a less thoughtful character and more active temperament, but he was by no means remarkable for animation. — Although mild and benevolent as his eldest brother,* he had less intel- ligence and less enthusiam. His devotion was a matter of custom and politeness. His only passion was a love for the chase, in which he spent almost all his time, going out each morning and returning each evening, ruddy with exercise, out of breath, and hungry. He ate for ten, drank for thirty, and even showed some sparks of animation when relating how his dog Sapphire had started the hare, how Pan- ther had unkenneled the wolf, or how his falcon Attila’ had taken flight ; and when the company had listened to all this with inexhaus- tible patience, he dozed over quietly near the fire in a great black leathern arm-chair, and enjoyed his nap until his daughter came to warn him that the hour for retiring was about to strike. The canoness was the most conversable of the party. She might even be called chatty, for she discussed with the chaplain, two or three times a week, for an hour at a stretch, sundry knotty points touching the genealogy of Bohemian, Hungarian, and Saxon families, the names and biographies of whom, from kings down to simple gen- tlemen, she had on her finger ends. As for Count Albert, there was something repelling and solenm in his exterior, as if each of his gestures had been^prophetic, each of his sentences oracular to the rest of the family. — By a singular peculiarity inexplicable to any one not acquainted with the secret of the mansion, as soon as he opened his lips, which did not happen once in twenty- four hours, the eyes of his friends and domestics were turned upon him ; and there was apparent on every face a ieep anxiety, a painful and affectionate solicitude ; always excepting that of the young Ame- lia, who listened to him with a sort of ironical impatience, and who alone ventured to reply, with the gay or sarcastic familiarity which her fancy prompted. This young girl, exquisitely fair, of a blooming complexion, lively, and well formed, was a little pearl of beauty ; and when her waiting- maid told her so, in order to console her for her cheerless mode of life, “ Alas I” the youig girl would reply, “ I am a pearl shut up in an oyster, of which this frightful Castle of the Giants is the shell.” This will serve to show the reader what sort of a petulant bird was •hut up in so gloomy a cage. On thU evening the solemn silence which weighed down the family 109 eCKBUXLO, particularly during the first course (for the two old gentlemen, the canoness, and the chaplain were p.ossessed of a solidity and regularity ef appetite which never failed), was interrupted by Count Albert “ What frightful weather,” said he, with a profound sigh. Every one looked at him with surprise ; for if the weather had bo* come gloomy and threatening during the hour they hai been shut up In the interior of the castle, nobody could have perceived it, since the thick shutters were closed. Everything was calm without and within, and nothing announced an approaching tempest. Nobody, however, ventured to contradict Albert ; and Amelia con- tented herself with shrugging her shoulders, while the clatter of knives and forks, and the removal of the dishes by the servants, pro- ceeded, after a moment’s interruption, as before. “ Do not you hear the wind roaring amid the pines of the Boehmer Wald, and the.voice of the torrent sounding in your ears? ” continued Albert, in a louder voice, and with a fixed gaze at his father. Count Christian was silent. The baron, in his quiet way, replied, without removing his eyes from his venison, which he hewed with athletic hand, as if it had been a lump of granite ; “ yes, we had wind and rain together at sunset, and I should not be surprised were the weather to change to-morrow.” Albert smiled in his strange manner, and everything again became still ; but five iginutes had hardly elapsed when a furious blast shook the lofty casements, howled wildly around the old walls, lashing the waters of the moat as with a whip, and died away on the mountain tops with a sound so plaintive, that every face, with the exception of Count Albert’s, who again smiled with the same indefinable expres- sion, grew pale. “ At this very instant,” said he, “ the storm drives a stranger to- wards our castle. You would do well, Sir Chaplain, to pray for those who travel beneath the tempest, amid these rude mountains.” “ I hourly pray from my very soul,” replied the trembling chaplain, u for those who are cast on the rude paths of life amid the tempests of human passions.” “ Do not reply, Mr. Chaplain,” said Amelia, without regarding the looks or signs which warned her on every side not to continue the conversation. “ You know very well that my cousin likes to torment people with his enigmas. For my part, I never think of finding them out.” Count Albert paid no more attention to the railleries of his cousin than she appeared to pay to his discourse. He leaned an elbow on his plate, which almost always remained empty and unused before him, and fixed his eyes on the damask table-cloth, as if making a calculation of the ornaments on the pattern, though all the while ab- sorbed in a reverie. CHAPTER XXIII. A furious tempest raged d iring the supper, which meal lasted just two hours, neither more nor less, even on fast days, which were reli- giously observed, but which never prevented the count from indulging Eis customary habits, no less sacred to him than the usages of the R»» CdHSUIL* 101 mifth Church. Storms were too frequent in these mountains, and the immense forests which then covered their sides imparted to the echoes a character too well known to the inhabitants of the castle, to occar sion them even a passing emotion. Nevertheless, the unusual agita- tion of Count Albert communicated itself to the rest of the family, and the baron, disturbed in the usual current of his reflections, might have evinced some dissatisfaction, had it been possible for his imper- turbable placidity to be for a moment ruffled. He contented himself with sighing deeply, when a frightful peal of thunder, occurring with the second remove, caused the carver to miss the choice morsel of boar’s ham, which he was just then engaged in detaching. “ It cannot be helped,” said the baron, directing a compassionating smile towards the poor carver, who was quite downcast with his mis- hap. “ Yes, uncle, you are right,” exclaimed Count Albert, in a loud voice, and rising to his feet ; “ it cannot be helped. The Hussite ii down; the lightning consumes it; Spring will revisit its foliage no more.” “ What say you, my son ? ” asked the old count, in a melancholy tone. “ Do you speak of the huge oak of the Schreckenstein ? ” * “ Yes, father ; I speak of the great oak to whose branches we hung up some twenty monks the other day.” “ He mistakes centuries for weeks just now,” said the canoness in a low voice, while she made the sign of the cross. “ My dear child,” she continued, turning to her nephew, “ if you have really seen what has happened, or what is about to happen, in a dream, as has more than once been the case, this miserable withered oak, considering the sad recollections associated with the rock it shaded, will be no great loss.” “ As for me,” exclaimed Amelia, “ I am delighted that the storm has rid us of that gibbet, with its long, frightful skeleton arms, and its red trunk which seemed to ooze out blood. I jiever passed beneath it when the breeze of evening moved amid its foliage, without hear- ing sighs as if of agony, and commending my soul to God while I ^ turned away and fled.” “ Amelia,” replied the count, who just now appeared to hear her words for the first time perhaps for days, “ you did well not to remain beneath the Hussite as I did for hours, and even entire nights. You would have seen and heard things which would have chilled you with terror and never have left your memory.” u Pray, be silent,” cried the young baroness, starting and moving from- the table where Albert was leaning: “ I cannot imagine what pleasure you take in terrifying others every time you open your Ups.” “ Would to Heaven, dear Amelia,” said the old baron, mildly, “it were indeed but an amusement which your cousin takes in uttering such things.” “ No, my father; I speak in all seriousness. The oak of the Stone of Terror is overthrown, cleft in pieces. You may send the wood- cutters to-morrow to remove it. I shall plant a cypress in its place, which I shall name, not the Hussite, but the Penitent, and the Stone of Terror shall be called the Stone of Expiation.” “Enough, enough, my son!” exclaimed the agonized old man. * Banish these melancholy images, and leave it to God to judge t he actions of mem” • " Stoa# ©f Terror,”— « unfrequ«&tly used Im Hum ragtoaa no 66H SUB10< “They have disappeared, father— annihilated with the hnp.ements of torture which the breath of the storm and the fire of Heaven hava Mattered in the dust. In place of pendent skeletons, fruits and flow* ere rock themselves amid the zephyrs on the new branches ; and in place of the man in black who nightly lit up the flames beside the stake, I see a pure celestial soul, which hovers over my head and yours. The storm is gone — the danger over ; those who travelled are in shelter ; my soul is in peace, the period of expiation draws nigh, and I am about to be born again.” “ May what you say, O well -beloved child, prove true! ” said Chris* tian, with extreme tenderness ; “ and may you be freed from the phan* toms which trouble your repose. Heaven grant me this blessing, and restore peace, and hope, and light to my son ! ” Before the old man had finished speaking, Albert leaned forward, and appeared to fall into a tranquil slumber. “'What means this?” broke in the young baroness; “ what do 1 see ? — Albert sleeping at table ? Very gallant, truly ! ” “ This deep and sudden sleep,” said tlie chaplain, surveying tht young man with intense interest, “ is a favorable crisis, which lead* me to look forward to a happy change, for a time at least, in his situa- tion.” “ Let no one speak to him, or attempt to arouse him,” exclaimed Count Christian. “Merciful Heaven,” prayed the canoness, with clasped hand*, “ realize this prediction, and let his thirtieth year be that of hi* re- covery 1 ” “ Amen ! ” added the chaplain devoutly. “ Let us raise our heart* with thanks to the God of Mercy for the food which he has given us, and entreat him to deliver this noble youth, the object of so much •©- leitude.” They rose for grace, and every one remained standing, absorbed in prayer, for the last of the Budolstadts. As for the old count, tear* streamed down his withered cheeks. He then gawe orders to hi* faithful servants to convey his son to his apartment, when Baron Frederick, considering how he could best display his devotion toward* his nephew, observed with childish satisfaction; “Dear brother, a good idea has occurred to me. If your son awakens in the seclusion of his chamber, while digestion is going on, bad dreams may assail him. Bring him to the saloon, and place him in my large arm-chair. It is the best one for sleeping in the whole house. He will be better there than in bed, and when he awakens he will find a good fire and friends to cheer his heart.” “ You are right, brother,” replied Christian, “ let us bear him to the saloon and place him on the large sofa.” y “ It is wrong to sleep lying after dinner,” continued the baron; u £ believe, brother, that I am aware of that from experience. Let him have my arm-chair — yes, my arm-chair is the thing.” Christian very well knew that were he to refuse his brother’s often it would vex and annoy him : the young count was therefore propped up in the hunter’s leathern chair, but he remained quite insensible to the change, so sound was his sleep. The baron placed himself on an- other seat, and warming his legs before a fire worthy of the times of old, smiled with a triumphant air whenever the chaplain observed that Albert’s repose would assuredly ha^e happy results. The good *oul proposed to give up his i ap as weU as his chair, and to join the 60H SU2L0 111 fkmily in watching over tlie youth ; but aftei lome quarter of an hour he was so much at ease that he began to sno e after so lusty a faihioi as to drown the last faint and now far distant gusts of the storm. The castle bell, which only rang on extraordinary occasions, was now heard, and old Hans, the head domestic, entered shortly after- wards with a letter, which he presented to Count Christian without saying a word. He then retired into an adjoining apartment to await his master’s commands. Christian opened the letter, cast his eyes cn the signature, and handed the paper to the young baroness, with a request that she would peruse the contents. Curious and excited, Amelia approached a candle, and read as follows : — u t t.lustbious and well-beloved Lord Count *‘Your Excellency has conferred on me the favor of asking a ser- vice at my hands. This, indeed, is to confer a greater favor than all those which I have already received, and of which my heart fondly cherishes the remembrance. Despite my anxiety to execute your es- teemed orders, I did not hope to find so promptly and so suitably the individual that was required; but favorable circumstances having concurred to an unforseen extent in aiding me to fulfill the desires of your Highness, I hasten to send a young person who realizes at least in part, the required conditions. I therefore send her only provision- ally, that your amiable and illustrious niece may not too impatiently await a more satisfactory termination to my researches and proceed- ings. “ The individual who has the honor to present this is my pupil, anc in a measure my adopted child ; she will prove, as the amiable baron- ess has desired, an agreeable and obliging companion, as well as a competent musical instructress. In other respects, she does not pos- sess the necessary information for a governess. She speaks several languages, though hardly sufficiently acquainted with them perhaps to teach them. Music she knows thoroughly, and she sings remarka- bly well. You will be pleased with her talents, her voice, her de- meanor, and not less so with the sweetness and dignity of her char- acter. Your Highness may admit her into your circle without risk of her infringing in any way on etiquette, or affording any evidence of low tastes. She wishes to remain free as regards your noble family, and therefore Will accept no salary. In short, it is neither as a du- enna nor as a servant, but as companion and friend to the amiable baroness, that she appears : just as that lady did me the honor to mention in the gracious post scriptum which she added to your Excel- lency’s communication. “ Signor Corner who has been appointed ambassador to Austria, awaits the orders for his departure ; but these he thinks will not ar- rive before two months. Signora Corner, his worthy spouse and my generous pupil, would have me accompany them to Vienna, where she thinks I should enjoy a happier career. Without perhaps agree- ing with her in this, I have acceded to her kind offers, desirous as I am to abandon Venice, where I have only experienced annoyance, deception, and reverses. I long to revisit the noble German lard, where I have seen so many happy days, and renew my intimacy with the venerable friends, left there. Your Highness holds the first place m this old, worn-out, yet not wholly chilled heart, since it is actuated by 6temal affection and deepest gratitude. To you, therefore, illustri- ous signor, do I commend and confide my adopted child, request ug in 60N SUEL& on her behalf hospitality, protection, and favor. She will repay yoai goodness by her zeal and attention to the young baroness. In three months I shall come for her, and offer in her place a teacher who may contract a more permanent engagement. “ Awaiting the day on which I may once more press the hand ou one of the best of men, I presume to declare myself, with respect and pride, the most humble and devoted of the friends and servants of your Highness, chiarissima, stimatissima, illustrissima. Nicolas Porpora. “ Chapel Master f Composery and Professor of Vocal MusU * Venice, the of 17—.” Amelia sprang up with joy on perusing this letter, while the oh count, much affected, repeated — “ Worthy Porpora! respectable man I excellent friend ! ” “ Certainly, certainly,” exclaimed the Canoness Wenceslawa, divided between the dread of deranging their family usages and the desire of displaying the duties of hospitality towards a stranger, “ w r e must re- ceive and treat her well, provided she do not become weary of us here.” “But, uncle, where is this precious mistress and future friend?” exclaimed the young baroness, without attending to her aunt’s reflec- tions. “ Surely she will shortly be here in person. I await her with impatience.” Count Christian rang. “ Hans,” said he, “ by whom was this de- livered ? ” “ By a lady, most gracious lord and master.” “ Where is she ? ” exclaimed Amelia. “ In her post-carriage at the drawbridge.” “ And you have left her to perish outside, instead of introducinf her at once ? ” “Yes, madam; I took the letter, but forbade the postilion ta slacken rein or take foot out of the stirrup. I also raised the bridge behind me until I should have delivered the letter to my master.” “ But it is unpardonable, absffrd, to make guests wait outside in such weather. Would nbt any one think we were in a fortress, and that we take every one who comes for an enemy ? Speed away then, Hans.” Hans remained motionless as a statue. His eyes alone expressed regret that he could not obey the wishes of his* young mistress ; but a cannon-ball whizzing past his ear would not have deranged by a hair’s-b read tli the impassive attitude with which he awaited the sov- ereign orders of his old master. “ The faithful Hans, my child,” said the baron slowly, “ knows nothing but his duty and the word of command. Now then, Han$ open the gates and lower the bridge. Let every one light torches and bid the stranger welcome.” Hans evinced no surprise in being ordered to usher the unknown into a house where the nearest and best friends were only admitted after tedious precautions. The canoness proceeded to give direction! for supper. Amelia would have set out for the drawbridge; but her uncle, holding himself bound in honor to meet his guest there, offered his arm to his niece, and the impatient baroness was obliged to pro- ceed msyestically to the castle gate, where the wandering fugitive Consuelo had already alighted. COJPfBUELO, 119 CHAPTER XXIV. Dubing the three months that had elapsed since the Baroness Amelia had taken it into her head to have a companion, less to in- struct her than to solace her weariness, she had in fancy pictured to herself a hundred times the form and features of her future friend. Aware of Porpora’s crusty humor, she feared he would send some severe and pedantic governess. She had therefore secretly written to him to say (as if her desires were not law to her doting relatives,) that she would receive no one past twenty-five. On reading Porpora’s answer she was so transported with joy that she forthwith sketched in imagination a complete portrait of the young musician — the adopt- ed child of the professor, young, and a Venetian — that is to say, in Amelia’s eyes, made expressly for herself, and after her own image. She was somewhat disconcerted, therefore when, instead of the blooming, saucy girl that her fancy had drawn, she beheld a pale, mel- ancholy, and embarrassed young person ; for, in addition to the pro- found grief with which her poor heart was overwhelmed, and the fa- tigue of a long and rapid journey, a fearful and almost fatal impres- sion had been made on Consuelo’s mind by the vast pine forest tossed by the tempest, the dark night illuminated at intervals by livid flashes of lightning, and, above all, by the aspect of this grim castle, to which the howlings of the baron’s kennel and the light of the torches borne by the servants, lent a strange and ghastly effect. What a contrast with the flrmamento lueido of Marcello— the harmonious silence of the nights at Venice — the confiding liberty of her former life, passed in the bosom of love and joyous poesy I When the carriage had slowly passed over the drawbridge, which sounded hollow under the horses’ feet, aQd the portcullis fell with a startling clang, it seemed to her as if she had entered the portals of the “ Inferno ” of Dante ; and, seized with terror, she recommended her soul to God. .Her countenance therefore showed the symptoms of extreme agita- tion when she presented herself before her hosts ; and the aspect of Count Christian, his tall, wasted figure, worn at once by age and vex- ation, and dressed in his ancient costume, completed her dismay. She imagined she beheld the spectre of some ancient nobleman of the middle ages ; and looking upon everything that surrounded ker as a dream, she drew back, uttering an exclamation of terror. The old count, attributing her hesitation and paleness to the jolting of the carriage and the fatigue of the journey, offered his arm to as- sist her in mounting the steps, endeavoring at the same time to utter some kind and polite expressions. But the worthy man, on whom Nature had bestowed a cold and reserved exterior, had become, dur- ing so long a period of absolute retirement, such a stranger to the usages and conventional courtesies of the world, that this timidity was redoubled ; and under a grave and severe aspect he concealed the hes itation and confusion of a child. The obligation which he considered himself under to speak Italian, a language which he had formerly known tolerably well, but which he had almost forgotten, only added to his embarrassment ; and he could merely stammer out a few words, which Consuelo heard with difficulty, and which she took for the un- known and mysterious language of the Shades. Amelia, who had intended to throw herself upon Consuelo’s neek, 7 114 CONSUELO. and at once npproj riate her to herself, had nothing to say — such is the reserve imparted, as f by contagion, even to the boldest natures, when the timidity of others seems to shun their advances. Consuelo was introduced into the great hall where the> had supped. The count, divided between the wish to do her honor and the fear of letting her see his son while buried in his morbid sleep, paused and hesitated; and Consuelo, trembling and feeling her knees give way under her, sank into the nearest seat. “ Uncle,” said Amelia, seeing the embarrassment of* the count, “ I think it would be better to receive the signora here. “ It is warmer than in the great saloon, and she must be frozen by the wintry wind of our mountains. I am grieved to see her so overcome with fatigue, and I am sure that she requires a good supper and a sound sleep much more than our ceremonies. Is it not true, my dear signora? ” added she, gaining courage enough to press gently with her plump and pret- ty fingers the powerless arm of Consuelo. i Her lively voice, and the German accent with which die pronounced her Italian, reassured Consuelo. She raised her eyes to the charming countenance of the young baroness, and, looks once exchanged, re- serve and timidity were alike banished. The traveller understood immediately that this’ was her pupil, and that tins enchanting face at least was not that of a spectre. She gratefully received all the atten- tions offered her by Amelia, approached the fire, allowed her cloak to be taken off, accepted the offer of supper, although she was not the least hungry ; and, more and more reassured by the kindness of her young hostess, she found at length the faculties of seeing, hearing, and replying. Whilst the domestics served supper, the conversation naturally turned on Porpcra, and Consuelo was delighted to hear the old count speak of him as his friend, his equal — almost as his superior. Then they talked of Consuelo’s journey, the route by which she had come, and the storm which must have terrified her. “ We are accustomed at Venice,” replied Consuelo, “‘to tempests still more sudden and perilous ; for in our gondolas, in passing from one part of the city to another, we are often threatened with shipwreck even at our very thresholds. The water which serves us instead 'of paved streets, swells and foams like the waves of the sea, dashing our frail barks with such violence against the walls, that they are in danger of de- struction before we have time to land. Nevertheless, although I have frequently witnessed such occurrences, and am not naturally very timid, I was more terrified this evening than I have ever been before, by the fall of a huge tree, uprooted by the tempest in the mountains and crashing across our path. The horses reared upright, while the postilion in terror exclaimed — i It is the Tree of Misfortune I — it is the Hussite which has fallen ! 9 Can you explain what that means, Sig- nora Baronessa f 99 Neither the count nor Amelia attempted to reply to this question; they trembled while they looked at each other. “ My son was not de- ceived,” said the old man. “ Strange I strange in truth ! ” And excited by his solicitude for Albert, he left the saloon to rejoin him, while Amelia, clasping her hands, murmured: “ There is magic here, and the devil in presence bodily.” These strange remarks re-awakened the superstitious feeling which Consuelo had experienced on entering the castle of Rudolstadt. The sudden paleness of Amelia, the solemn silence of the ild servants in , CON S V E t O. 114 their red liveries— whose square bulky figures and whose lack-lustra eyes, which their long servitude seemed to have deprived of all sense and expression, appeared each the counterpart of his neighbors — tha immense hall wainscotted with black oak, whose gloom a chandelier loaded with lighted candles did not suffice to dissipate ; the cries of tlie screech-owl, which had recommenced its flight round the castle, the storm being over ; even the family portraits and the huge heads of stags and boars carved in relief on the wainscotting— all awakened emotions of a gloomy cast that she was unable to shake off. The ob- servations of the young baroness were not very cheering. “ My dear signora, ! ” said she, hastening to^assist her, “ you must be prepared to meet here things strange, inexplicable, often unpleasant, sometimes evea frightful; true scenes of romance which no one would believe if you related them, and on which you must pledge your honor to be silent forever.” While the baroness was thus speaking the door opened slowly, and the Canoness Wenceslawa, with her hump, her angular figure, and severe attire, the effect of which was heightened by the decorations of her order which she never laid aside, entered the apartment with an air more affably majestic than she had ever worn since the period when the Empress Maria Theresa, returning from her expedition to Hungary, had conferred on the castle the unheard-of honor of taking there a glass of hippocras and an hour’s repose. She advanced to- wards Consuelo, and after a couple of courtesies and a harangue in German, which she had apparently learned by heart, proceeded to kiss her forehead. The poor girl, cold as marble, received what she considered a death salute, and murmured some inaudible reply. When the canoness had returned to the saloon, for she saw that she rather frightened the stranger than otherwise, Amelia burst into laughter long and loud. “By my faith,” said she to her companion, “I dare swear you thought you saw the ghost of Queen Libussa; but calm yourself; it is my aunt, and the best and most tiresome of women.” Hardly had Consuelo recovered from this emotion when she heard the creaking of great Hungarian boots behind her. A heavy and measured step shook the floor, and a man with a face so massive, red, and square, that those of the servants appeared pale and aristocratic beside it, traversed the hall in profound silence, and went out by the great door which the valets respectfully opened for him. Fresh shuddering on Consuelo’s part, fresh laughter on Amelia’s followed. “ This,” said she, “ is Baron Rudolstadt, the greatest hunter, the most unparalleled sleeper, and the best of fathers. His nap in the saloon is concluded. At nine he rises from his chair, without on that account awaking, walks across this hall without seeing or hearing anything, retires to rest, and wakes with the dawn , alert, active, vig- orous a9 if he were still young, and bent on pursuing the chase anew with falcon, hound, and horse.” Hardly had she concluded when the chaplain passed. He was •tout, short, and pale as a dropsical patient. A life of meditation does not suit the dull Sclavonian temperament, and the good man’* obesity was no criterion of robust health. He made a profound bow to the ladies, spoke in an under tone to a servant, and disappeared in the track of the baron. Forthwith old Hans and another of these automatons, which Consuelo could not distinguish, so closely did they rwemble each other, took their way to the ssdoon. Consuelo, unable 116 CONSUBLO. any .onger evei to appear to eat, followed them with her eyes, Hardly had they passed the door, when a new apparition, more etrik- ing than all the rest, presented itse.f at the threshold. It was a youth of lofty stature and admirable proportions, but with a countenance of corpse-like paleness. lie was attired in black from head to foot, while a velvet cloak trimmed with sable and held by tassels and clasps of gold, hung from his shoulders. Hair of ebon blackness fell in dis- order over his pale cheeks, which were further concealed by the curls of his glossy beard. He motioned away the servants who advanced to meet him, with an imperative gesture, before which they recoiled as if his gaze had fascinated them. Then he turned towards Count Christian, who followed him. “ I assure you, father,” said he, in a sweet voice and winning ac- cents, “ that I have never felt so calm. Something great is accom- plished in my destiny, and the peace of heaven has descended on our house.” “ May God grant it, my child ! ” exclaimed the old man, extending his hand to bless him. The youth bent his head reverently under the hand of his father; then raising it with a mild and sweet expression, he advanced to the centre of the hall, smiled faintly, wdiile he slightly touched the hand which Amelia held out to him, and looked earnestly at Consuelo for some seconds. Struck with involuntary respect, Consuelo bowed to him with downcast eyes ; but he did not return the salutation, and still continued to gaze on her. u This is the young person,” said the canoness in German u whom — .” But the young man interrupted her with a gesture which seemed to say, “ Do not speak to me— do not disturb my thoughts.” Then slowly turning away, without testifying either sur- prise or interest, he deliberately retired by the great door. “You must excuse him, my dear young lady,” said the canoness; u he ” “ I beg pardon, aunt, for interrupting you,” exclaimed Amelia ; “ but you are speaking German, which the signora does not under- stand.” “ Pardon me, dear signora,” replied Consuelo, in Italian ; I have spoken many languages in my childhood, for I have travelled a good deal. I remember enough of German to understand it perfectly. I dare not yet attempt to speak it, but if you will be so good as to give me some lessons, I hope to regain my knowledge of it in a few days.” “ I feel just in the same position,” replied the canoness, in Ger- man. “ I comprehend all the young lady says, yet I could not speak her language. Since she understands me, I may tell her that I hope she will pardon my nephew the rudeness of which he has been guilty in not saluting her, when I inform her that this young man has been seriously ill, and that after his fainting fit he is so weak that probably he did not see her. Is not this so, brother?” asked the good Wen- ceslawa, trembling at the falsehood she had uttered, and seeking her pardon in the eyes of Count Christian. “ My dear sister,” replied the old main, “it is generous in you to ex- cuse my son. The signora, I trust, will not be too much surprised on learning certain particulars which we shall communicate to her to- morrow with all the confidence which we ought to feel for a child of Porpora, and I hope I may soon add, a friend of the family.” It was no* the hoir for retiring, and the habits of the establishment CONSUBLd. 117 were bo uniform, that if the two young girls had remained much longer at table, the servants would doubtless have removed the chain and extinguished the lights, just as if they had not been there. Be- sides, Consuelo longed to retire, and the baroness conducted her to the elegant and comfortable apartment which had been set apart for her accommodation. “ I should like to have an hour’s chat with you,” said she, as soon as the canoness, who had done the honors of the apartment, had left the room. “ I long to make you acquainted with matters here, so as to enable you to put up with our eccentricities. But you are so tired that you must certainly wish, in preference, to repose. “Do not let that prevent you, signora,” replied Consuelo; “I am fatigued, it is true, but I feel so excited that I am sure I shall not close my eyes during the night. Therefore talk to me as much as you please, with this stipulation only, that it shall be in German. It will serve as a lesson for me ; for I perceive that the Signor Count and the canoness as well, are not familiar with Italian.” “ Let us make a bargain,” said Amelia. “ You shall go to bed to rest yourself a little, while I throw on a dressing-gown and dismiss my waiting-maid. I shall then return, seat myself by your bedside, and speak German so long as we can keep awake. Is it agreed ? ” “ With all my heart,” replied Consuelo. CHAPTER XXV. “ Know, then, my dear,” said Amelia, when she had settled herself as aforesaid — “ but now that I think of it, I do not know your name,” she added, smiling. “ It is time, however, to banish all ceremony be- tween us; you will call me Amelia, what shall I call you — ” “ I have a singular name, somewhat difficult to pronounce,” replied Consuelo. “ The excellent Porpora, when he sent me hither, re- quested me to assume his name, according to the custom which pre- vails among masters towards their favorite pupils. I share this privi- lege, therefore, with the great Huber, surnamed Porporina; but, in place of Porporina, please to call me simply Hina.” “ Let it be Hina, then, between ourselves,” said Amelia. “ How, lis- ten, for I have a long story to tell you ; and if I do not go back a little into the history of the past, you will never understand what took place in this house to-day.” “ I am all attention,” replied the new Porporina. u Of course my dear Hina,” said the young baroness, “ you know something of the history of Bohemia.” “ Alas ! ” replied Consuelo, “ as my master must have informed you, I am very deficient in information. I know somewhat of the history of music, indeed ; but as to that of Bohemia or any other country, I know nothing.” “ In that case,” replied Amelia, “ I must tell you enough of it to render my story intelligible. Some three hundred years ago, the peo- ple among whom yo i find yourself, were great, heroic, and uncon- querable. They had, indeed, strange masters, and a religion which they did not very well understand, but which their rulers wished to C 0 & A V S 1 0, 118 Impose by force. They were oppressed by hordes of monks while A cruel and abandoned king insulted their dignity, and crushed their gym- pathies. But a secret fury and deep-seated hatred fermented below; the storm broke out ; the strangers were expelled ; religion was re* formed ; convents were pillaged and razed to the ground, while the drunken Wenceslas was cast into prison, and deprived of his crown. The signal of the revolt had been the execution of John Huss and Jerome of Prague, two wise and courageous Bohemians, who wished to examine and throw light upon the mysteries of Catholicism, and whom a council cited, condemned, and burned, after having promised them safe conduct and freedom of discussion. This infamous treason was so grating to national honor, that a bloody war ravaged Bohemia, and a large portion of Germany, for many years. This 'exterminating war was called the war of the Hussites. Innumerable and dreadful crimes were committed on both sides. The manners of the times were fierce and cruel over the whole earth. Party spirit and religious fanaticism rendered them still more dreadful ; and Bohemia was the terror of Europe. I shall not shock your imagination, already unfa- vorably impressed by the appearance of this savage country, by recit- ing the horrible scenes which then took place. On one side, it was nothing but murder, burnings, destructions ; churches profaned, and monks and nuns mutilated, hung, and thrown into boiling pitch. On the other side, villages were destroyed, whole districts desolated, trea- sons, falsehoods, cruelties, abounded on every side. Hussites were cast by thousands into the mines, filling abysses with their dead bodies* and strewing the earth with their own bones and those of their ene- mies. These terrible Hussites were for a long time invincible ; even yet their name is not mentioned without terror ; and yet their patri- otism, their intrepid constancy and incredible exploits, have be- queathed to us a secret feeling of pride and admiration, which young minds, such as mine, find it somewhat difficult to conceal.” “ And why conceal it ? ” asked Consuelo, simply. 44 It is because Bohemia has fallen back, after many struggles, under the yoke of slavery. Bohemia is no more, my poor Nina. Our mas- ters were well aware that the religious liberty of our country was also its political freedom ; therefore they have stifled both.” 44 See,” replied Consuelo, “ how ignorant I am 1 I never heard of these things before, and I did not dream that men could be so un« happy and so wicked.” 44 A hundred years after John Huss, another wise man, a new sec- tarian, a poor monk called Martin Luther, sprang up to awaken the national spirit, and to inspire Bohemia, and all the independent pro- vinces of Germany, with hatred of a foreign yoke and revolt against popedom. The most powerful kings remained catholics, not so much for love of religion, as for love of absolute power. Austria united with them in order to overwhelm us, and a new war, called the Thirty Tears’ War, came to shake and destroy our national independence. From the commencement of this war, Bohemia was the prey of the strong- est; Austria treated us as conquered; took from us our faith, our liberty, our language, and even our name. Our fathers resisted cour- ageously, but the imperial yoke has weighed more and more heavily upon us. For the last hundred and twenty years, our nobility, ruined and decimated by exactions, wars, and torments, have been forced to expatriate themselves, or turn renegades by abjuring their origin, Germanising their names (pay attention to this), and renouncing the CONSU1LO, lid iberty of professing .heir religious opinions. They have burned our books, destroyed our schools — m a word, made us Austrians. We are but a province of the empire, and you hear German spoken in a Sclavonic state ; that is saying enough.” “ And you now suffer and blush for this slavery? I understand you, and I already hate Austria with all my heart.” “ Oh ! speak low,” exclaimed the young baroness. “ No one can, without danger, speak thus under the black sky of Bohemia ; and in this castle there is but one person, my dear Nina, who wouM have the boldness or the folly to say what you have just said: that is my cous- in Albert.” “ Is this, then, the cause of the sorrow which is imprinted on his countenance? I felt an involuntary sensation of respect on looking at him.” “ Ah, my fair lioness of St. Mark,” said Amelia, surprised at the generous animation which suddenly lighted up the pale features of her companion ; “ you take matters too seriously. I fear that in a few days my poor cousin will inspire you rather with pity than with respect.” “ The one need not prevent the other,” replied Consuelo, “ but ex- plain yourself, my dear baroness.” “ Listen,” said Amelia ; “ we are a strictly Catholic family, faithful to church and state. — We bear a Saxon name, and our ancestors, on the Saxon side, were always rigidly orthodox. Should my aunt, the canoness, some day undertake to relate, unhappily for you, the ser- vices which the counts and German barons have rendered to the holy cause, you will find that, according to her, there is not the slightest stain of heresy on our escutcheon. Even when Saxony was protest- ant, the Rudolstadts preferred to abandon their Protestant electors, rather than the communion of the Romish church. But my aunt takes care never to dilate on these things in presence of Count Albert; if it were not for that, you should hear the most astonishing things that ever human ears have listened to.” “ You excite my curiosity without gratifying it. I understand this much, that I should not appear before your noble relatives, to share your sympathy and that of Count Albert for old Bohemia. You may trust to my prudence, dear baroness ; besides, I belong to a Catholic country, and the respect which I entertain for my religion, as well as that which I owe your family, would ensure my silence on every occa- sion.” “ It will he wise; for I warn you once again that we are terribly rig- id upon that point. As to myself, dear Nina, I am a better compound — neither Protestant nor Catholic. I was educated by nuns, vdiose prayers and paternosters wearied me. The same weariness pursues me here, and my aunt Wenceslawa, in her own person, represents the pedantry and superstition of a whole community. But I am too much imbued with the spirit of the age, to throw myself, through contradiction, into the not less presumptuous controversies of the Lutherans : as for the Hussites, their history is so ancient that I have no more relish for it than for the glory of the Greeks and Romans. The French way of thinking is to my mind; and I do not believe there can be any other reason, philosophy, or civilization, than that which is practised in charming and delightful France, the writings of which I sometimes ha/e a peep at in secret, and whose liberty, hap- piness, and pleasures, l behold from a distance, as in a dream, through the bars of my prison ? 120 GOXSfTELO, u Yon each moment surprise me more,” said Consuelo, Innocently “ How does it come that just now you appeared full of heroism, m recalling the exploits of your ancient Bohemians ? I -believed you a Bohemian, and somewhat of a heretic.” “ I am more than heretic, and more than Bohemian,” replied Amelia, laughing ; “lam the least thing in life incredulous altogeth- er; I hate and denounce every kind of despotism, spiritual or tem- poral ; in particular I protest against Austria, which of all old duen- nas is the most wrong-headed and devout.” “And is Count Albert likewise incredulous? Is he also imbued with French principles ? In that case, you should suit each other wonderfully ? ” “ Oh, we are the farthest in the world from suiting each other, and now, after all these necessary preambles, is the proper time to speak of him.” “ Count Christian, my uncle, was childless by his first wife. Mar- ried again at the age of forty, he had five girls, who as well as their mother all died young, stricken with the same malady — a continual pain, and a species of slow brain fever. This second wife was of pure Bohemian blood, and had besides great beauty and intelligence. I did not know her. You will see her portrait in the grand saloon, where she appears dressed in a bodice of precious stones and scarlet mantle. Albert resembles her wonderfully. He is the sixth and last of her children, the only one who has attained the age of thirty ; and this not without difficulty; for without apparently being ill, he has experienced rude shocks and strange symptoms of disease of the brain, which still cause fear and dread as regards his life. Between ourselves, I do not think that he will long outlive this fatal period which his mother could not escape. Although born of a father al- ready advanced in years, Albert is gifted with a strong constitution, but, as he himself says, the malady is in his soul, and has ever been increasing. From his earliest infancy, his mind was filled with strange and superstitious notions. When he was four years old, he frequently fancied he saw his mother beside his cradle, although she was dead, and he had seen her buried. In the night he used to awake and converse with her, which terrified my aunt Wenceslawa so much that she always made several women sleep in his chamber near the child, whilst the chaplain used I do not know how much holy water, and said masses by the dozen, to oblige the spectre to keep quiet. But it was of no avail, for the child, although he had not spoken of his apparitions for a long time, declared one day in confidence to his nurse, that he still saw his own dear mother ; but he would not tell, because Mr. Chaplain had said wicked words in the chamber to pre- vent her coming back. “ He was a silent and serious child. They tried to amuse him ; they overwhelmed him with toys and playthings, but these only served for a long time to make him more sad. At last they resolved not to oppose the taste which he displayed for study, and in effect this passion being satisfied, imparted more animation to him, but only served to change his calm and languishing melancholy into a strange excitement, mingled with paroxysms of grief, the cause of which it was impossible to foresee or avert. For example, when he saw the poor, he melted into x tears, stripped himself of his little weal Ji, even /eproacliing himself *hat he had not more to give. If he saw a child beaten, or a peasant ill-used, he became so indignant that he would OOKSUSLC COH1D1LC. 121 i away, or fall Into convulsions for hours together. All this dis- played a noble disposition and a generous heart; but the best quali- ties. pushed to extremes, become defective or absurd. Reason was not developed in young Albert in proportion to feeling and imagina- tion. The study of history excited without enlightening him. When be learned the crimes and injustice of men, he felt an emotion like that of the barbarian monarch, who, listening to the history of Christ’s passion and death, exclaimed while he brandished his weapon, ‘ Ah ! had I been there, I should have cut the wicked Jews into a thousand pieces ! 9 “ Albert could not deal with man as they have been and are. He thought Heaven unjust in not having created them all kind and com- passionate like himself ; he did not perceive that from an excess of tenderness and virtue, he was on the point of becoming impious and misanthropic. He did not understand what he felt, and at eighteen was as unfit to live among men, and hold the place which his position demanded in society, as he was at six months old. If any person ex- pressed in his presence a selfish thought, such as our poor world abounds with, and without which it could not exist, regardless of the rank of the person, or the feelings of the family towards him, he dis- played immediately an invincible dislike to him, and nothing could in- duce him to make the least advance. He chose his society from among the most humble, and those most in disfavor with fortune and even nature. In the plays of his childhood he only amused himself with the children of the poor, and especially with those whose stu- pidity or infirmities had inspired all others with disgust or weariness. This strange inclination, as you will soon perceive, had not abandoned him. “ As in the midst of these eccentricities he displayed much intelli- gence, a good memory, and a taste for fine arts, and his father and nis good aunt Wenceslawa, who tenderly cherished him, had no cause to blush for him in society. They ascribed his peculiarities to his rustic habits; and when he was inclined to go too far, they took care to hide them under some pretext or other from those who might be offended by them. But in spite of his admirable qualities and happy dispositions, the count and the canoness saw with terror this inde- pendent, and in many respects insensible nature, reject more and more the laws of polite society and the amenities and usages of the world.” “ But as far as you have gone,” interrupted Consuelo, “ I see noth' mg of the unreasonableness of which you speak.” “ Oh,” replied Amelia, “ that is because you are yourself, so far as 1 can see, of an open and generous disposition. But perhaps you arc tired of my chatter, and would wish to sleep? ” “ Not at all, my dear Baroness,” replied Consuelo. “I entreat von to continue.” * A melia resumed he* narrative in ihese words* 122 C 0 X I U 1 L ft. CHAPTER XX VL * You say, dear Nina, that hither! j you discover nothing extrava gant in the actions or mariner of my poor cousin. I am about to give you better proofs of it. My uncle and aunt are without doubt the best Christians and the most charitable souls in the world. They liberally dispense alms to all around them, and it would be impossible to display less pomp or pride in the use of riches than do these wor- thy relatives of mine. Well, my cousin made the discovery that their manner of living was altogether opposed to the spirit of the Gospel. He wished that, after the example of the early Christians, they should sell all they had, and become beggars, after having distributed the proceeds among the poor. If, restrained by the respect and love which he bore them, he did not exactly use words to this effect, he 6howed plainly what he thought, in bitterly deploring the lot of the poor, who are only born to toil and suffer, whilst the rich live in lux- ury and idleness. When he had given away in charity all his pocket- money, it was in his estimation but as a drop of water in the sea, and he demanded yet larger sums, which they dared not refuse him, and which flowed through his hands as water. He has given so much that you will no longer see a poor person in all the country which surrounds us, and I must add that we find our position nothing the better for it; inasmuch as the wants and demands of the lower orders increase in proportion to the concessions made to them, and our good peasants, formerly so mild and humble, begin to give themselves airs, thanks to the prodigality and fine speeches of their young master. If we had not the power of the imperial government to rely upon, which aflbrds us protection on one hand, while it oppresses us on the other, I believe that, more especially since the succession of the Em- peror Charles, our estates and castles might have been pillaged twen- ty times over by the bands of war-famished peasants which the inex- haustible benevolence of Albert, celebrated for thirty leagues round, has brought upon our backs, “ When Count Christian attempted to remonstrate with young Al- bert, telling him that to give all in one day was to deprive us of the means of giving any the next, 4 Why, my beloved father/ he replied, 4 have we not a roof to shelter us which will last longer than ourselves, whilst thousands of unfortunates have only the cold and inclement sky above their heads ? Have we not each more clothes tham would suffice for one of these ragged and shivering families ? Do I not see daily upon our table more meats and good Hungarian wine than would suffice to refresh and comfort these poor beggars, exhausted with fatigue and hunger? Have we a right to refuse when we have so much more than we require ? Are we even permitted to use what is necessary whilst others are in want? Has the law of Christ changed ? ’ “What reply could the count, the canoness and the chaplain, who had educated this young man in the austere principles of religion, make to these fine words ? They were accordingly embarrassed when they found him take matters thus literally, and hold no terms with those existing arrangements on which, as it appears to me, is founded the whole structure of society. * When these affectionate and sensible parents perceived that he