"Ah! how happy I am between you," said she to her confidants, who formed with herself the most perfect trio of profane coquetry ever concealed from the eyes of man. "I am as free as Trenck. I feel as good as he is and always was. It seemed to me that the fortress of Glatz pressed on my soul at night, and swept over me like a nightmare. I was cold in my eider-bed when I thought of him on the damp pavement of the dark prison. I did not live. I could enjoy nothing. Ah! dear Porporina! imagine my horror, when I said, 'All this he suffers for me! My fatal love has cast him into a living tomb!' This idea changed my food into poison, like the gall of the harpies. Pour me out some champagne. Ah! it seems to me like ambrosia! The lights are smiling! the flowers smell sweetly! the dishes are delicate, and Von Kleist and yourself are beautiful as angels! Yes: I see, I hear, I breathe! I have been restored to life, from the statue, the carcass I was! Here, drink with me to the health of Trenck! and then to the health of the friend who escaped with him! Afterwards, we will drink to the kind keepers who let him fly! and then to my brother Frederick, who could not help it! No bitter thought shall trouble us this holiday. I have no animosity against anyone. I think I love the king. Here! 'To the health of the king!' Porporina! 'Vive le Roi!'"
What chiefly enhanced the pleasure which the poor princess conferred on her two friends was the simplicity of her manners to the party. When her turn came, she left the table and changed the plates, carved for herself, and served her companions with the most infantine gaiety.
"Ah! if I was not born to a life of equality," said she "love, at least, has taught me what it is; and the misfortune of my position has made me appreciate the folly of the prejudices of rank and birth. My sisters are not like me. My sister of Anspach would place her head on the block, rather than bow it to a non-reigning highness. My sister of Bareith, who talks logic and philosophy with M. de Voltaire, would scratch out the eyes of any duchess who had an inch more silk in her train than herself. The reason is, you see, they never loved. They will pass their lives in the pneumatic machine they call their rank. They will die embalmed in majesty like mummies. They will not have known great griefs, as I have; but, in all their lives of etiquette and gala, they will never have had a quarter of an hour of freedom such as I enjoy now! You must, my dears, make thefêtecomplete, andtutoyeach other. I wish to be Amelia! not your highness! Plain Amelia! Ah! Von Kleist, you look as if you were about to refuse me! The unhealthy air of the court has spoiled you. You, Porporina, though an actress, seem a child of nature!"
"Yes, dear Amelia, I will do all I can to oblige you," said Porporina, laughing.
"Oh, heaven! did you but know how I love to betutoyedand hear myself called Amelia! 'Amelia!' How wellhepronounced that name! It seemed to me then to be the most beautiful name in the world, the softest ever woman bore; at least, when he pronounced it."
Gradually, the princess carried her joy to such an excess, that she forgot herself, and attended only to her guests. In this strife for equality, she became so happy and kind that she divested herself of the stern egotism which had been developed by passion and suffering. She ceased entirely to speak of herself, nor seemed even to claim merit for simplicity and amiability. She questioned the Baroness Von Kleist about her family, her situation and sentiments, more closely than she had done since she had been absorbed by her own sorrows. She was anxious to know the artist's life, to hear of the emotions of the theatre, the ideas and affections of Porporina. She inspired confidence into others from the abundance of her own heart, and took exquisite delight in reading their souls, and most in seeing in those beings, so unlike herself, a similar essence—as meritorious in the eyes of God, as richly gifted by nature, as important on earth as she had ever thought she was, in relation to others.
The ingenuous answers and sympathetic expansion of Porporina, filled her with respect mingled with surprise.
"You seem to me an angel! You!—an actress!—you speak and think more nobly than any crowned head I know! Listen to me! I have conceived an affection for you almost amounting to devotion. You must grant me your heart, Porporina. You must open to me your heart. Tell me of your life—your birth, your education, your amours, your misfortunes—of your very errors. They must certainly be noble ones, like those which I bear, not on my conscience, but in the sanctuary of my heart. It is eleven o'clock, and we have the night before us. Our orgie is nearly over, for we only gossip, and I see the second bottle of champagne will be neglected. Will you tell me your story, as I have asked you to do? It seems to me that the knowledge of your heart will be new and unknown to me, and will instruct me in the true duties of life better than all the reflections I have ever made. I feel myself capable of hearing and of listening to you. Will you satisfy me?"
"With all my heart, madame," said Porporina.
"Why, 'madame?' whom do you call 'madame?'" said the princess, gaily, interrupting her.
"I mean, my dear Amelia," said Porporina, "that I would do so willingly, if there were not in the history of my life an important and almost formidable secret, on which so much hangs, that no desire, no prompting of my heart, can induce me to reveal!"
"Well, my dear child, I know your secret! and if I did not speak of it at the commencement of the supper, it was in consequence of a feeling of discretion, which my friendship for you now enables me to dispense with."
"You know my secret!" said Porporina, petrified with surprise. "Pardon me, madame; but that seems impossible!"
"You still continue to address me as highness. Can you doubt?"
"Excuse me, Amelia. But you cannot know my secret, unless you have really an understanding with Cagliostro, as is said."
"I have heard your adventure with Cagliostro spoken of, and I am dying with curiosity to learn its details. Curiosity, however, does not influence me this evening, but friendship, as I have sincerely told you. To encourage you, I will say, frankly, that since this morning have I learned that Consuelo Porporina may, if she pleases, legally assume the title of Countess of Rudolstadt!"
"In heaven's name, madame! who could tell you?"
"My dear Rudolstadt, you do not know that my sister, the Margravine of Bareith, is here?"
"Yes."
"With her is her physician, Supperville."
"I see he has broken his word—his oath! He has said——?"
"Calm yourself. He has spoken only to me. I do not see, however, why you should be afraid to make known a matter which is so honorable to your character and can hurt no one. The Rudolstadts are extinct, with the exception of an old canoness, who ere long will rejoin her brothers in the tomb. We have, it is true, princes of Rudolstadt in Saxony, who are your near relations, being cousins german, and who are proud of their name. If my brother were to sustain you, they would not dare to protest: unless you prefer to be called Porporina, which is more glorious and more pleasant to the ear."
"That is really my intention," said the singer. "I wish, however, to know how Supperville came to tell you this. When I know it, and when my conscience is no longer bound by my oath, I promise to tell you the details."
"Thus it is," said the princess:—"One of my women was sick, and I sent to ask Supperville, who was, I learned, in the palace, to come to see her. Supperville is a man of mind, and I knew him when he resided here. This made me talk to him. Chance directed the conversation to music, the opera, and, consequently, to yourself. I spoke of you so highly, that, whether to please me or from conviction, he surpassed even me, and extolled you to the clouds. I was pleased, and observed a kind of affectation, which made me entertain a presentiment of some romantic interest in you, and a grandeur of soul superior even to what I had presumed. I urged him strongly, and he seemed to like to be besought, I must say, in justification. Finally, after having made me promise not to betray him, he told me of your marriage on the death bed of the Count of Rudolstadt, and of your generous renunciation of every right and advantage accruing from it. You see, my dear, you may now tell me the rest, for I promised never to betray you."
"This being the case," said Consuelo, after a moment of silence, "though the story will awaken the most painful emotions, especially since my sojourn at Berlin, I will repay the interest of your highness—I mean, my dear Amelia—with confidence."
"I was born in I know not what part of Spain, and I know not exactly in what year. I must be, however, twenty-three or four years old. I do not know my father's name, and am inclined to think that my mother was as uncertain about her parents as I am. She was called at Venice La Zingara, and I was called La Zingarella. My mother had given me the Christian name of Maria del Consuelo—in French, "Our Lady of Consolation."[7]My childhood was wandering and miserable. We travelled on foot, living by our songs. I have a vague recollection that, in a forest of Bohemia, we received hospitality at a castle, where the son of the lord, a handsome youth named Albert, overwhelmed me with attention and kindness, and gave my mother a guitar. This was the Giants' Castle, to be the mistress of which I was one day to refuse; and the young lord was Albert, Count of Rudolstadt, whose wife I became.
"At the age of ten, I began to sing in the streets. One day, as I sang a little piece in Saint Mark's-place at Venice, Maestro Porpora, who was at acafé, struck with the accuracy of my voice, and the natural manner my mother had transmitted to me, called me to him, questioned me, followed me to my garret, gave me some little pecuniary aid, and promised to have me admitted into theScoula dei Mendicanti, one of the free musical schools, of which there are so many in Italy, and whence come eminent artists of both sexes, for the bestmaestrihave the direction of them. I made rapid progress, and Maestro Porpora conceived a friendship for me which soon exposed me to the jealousy and ill-feeling of my companions. Their unjust spite at my rags soon taught me the habit of patience and reserve.
"I do not remember the first day I saw him; but it is certain that at the age of seven or eight years, I already loved—loved a young man, an orphan, friendless, and, like myself, learning music by protection and charity, and living in the streets. Our friendship, or our love, (for it was the same thing), was a chaste and delicious sentiment. We passed together in innocent wanderings all the time not devoted to study. My mother, after having vainly opposed it, sanctioned our intimacy by an oath she made us take to marry as soon as we should be able to support a family.
"At the age of eighteen or nineteen, I was far advanced in singing. Count Zustiniani, a noble Venetian, owner of the Theatre of Saint Samuel, heard me sing at church, and engaged me to replace La Corilla, theprima donna—a beautiful and robust woman, who had been his mistress, and who had been unfaithful to him. This Zustiniani was the protector of my lover Anzoleto, who was engaged with me to sing the chief male parts. Ourdébutwas brilliant. He had a magnificent voice, extraordinary ease, and an attractive exterior. All the fine ladies protected him. He was idle, however, and his professor was neither as skillful nor as zealous as mine. His success was less brilliant. He was grieved at first, afterwards he was angry, and at last he became jealous, and I lost his love."
"Is it possible?" said the Princess Amelia, "for such a cause? He was, then, very vile."
"Alas! no, madame, but he was vain and anartiste. He won the protection of Corilla, the dismissed and furiousartiste, who took possession of his heart, and made him rapidly lacerate and tear mine. One evening, the Maestro Porpora, who had always opposed our sentiments, because he maintains that a woman, to be a greatartiste, must be a stranger to every passion and every preoccupation of the heart, unfolded Anzoleto's treason to me. On the evening of the next day, Count Zustiniani made a declaration of love, which I was far from expecting, and which wounded me deeply. Anzoleto pretended to be jealous, and to say that I was corrupted. He wished to break with me. I left my house in the night: I went to seek my maestro, who is a man prompt to act, and who had used me to act decidedly, he gave me letters, a small sum of money, and a guide-book: he put me in a gondola, accompanied me to the mainland, and, at dawn, I set out alone for Bohemia."
"For Bohemia!" said the Baroness Von Kleist, whom the virtue of Porpora filled with surprise.
"Yes, madame," said the young girl, "in our artistic language, we have the phrase, to travel in Bohemia,"[8]which expresses that one runs through all the risks of poverty, labor, and not unfrequently crime, like the Zingari, whom you call in FrenchBohemians. I set out, not for this symbolical Bohemia, for which fate seemed to destine me, like many others; but for the chivalric country of the Tcheques, the land of Huss and Ziska, for the Boehmer-wald, for the Giants' Castle, where I was generously received by the family of Rudolstadt."
"Why did you go thither?" said the princess, who listened attentively. "Would any one remember to have seen a child?"
"No, no, I did not remember it myself until long after, when Count Albert by chance discovered, and aided me in discovering the key to this adventure. My master, Porpora, in Germany, had been very intimate with the good Count Christian, the head of the house. The young Baroness Amelia, his niece, wished a governess, that is to say, a companion, who should teach her music and entertain her, in the dull life she led at Riesenberg. Her noble and kind relations received me like a friend, and almost like a relation. I taught nothing, in spite of my disposition, to my beautiful and capricious pupil, and——"
"Count Albert fell in love with you? That must have happened."
"Alas! madame, I would not speak with such volubility of so grave and painful a thing. Count Albert was considered to be mad; and united a sublime soul with an enthusiastic genius, strange whims and a diseased imagination, which was entirely inexplicable."
"Supperville, though he neither believed nor could make me understand it, has told me all that. Supernatural power was attributed to this young man, such as second sight, the power of making himself invisible... His family told the most unheard of things. . . All this, however, is impossible, and I hope you place no faith in it."
"Excuse me, madame, the suffering and distress of pronouncing on matters which surpass my capacity. I have seen strange things, and, at times, Count Albert has seemed to me a being superior to humanity. Then, again, he has appeared an unfortunate creature, deprived, by the very excess of his virtue, of the light of reason; never, however, did I see him like common men. When in delirium, and when calm, when enthusiastic and when depressed, he was always the best, the most just, the most enlightened, and the most poetically exalted of men. In a word, I would not know what to think, for I am the involuntary, though it may be the innocent cause, of his death."
"Well, dear countess, dry your beautiful eyes, take courage, and continue. I hear you without profane volatility, I vow."
"When he first loved me, I did not even suspect it. He never spoke to me; he did not even seem to see me. I think he was first aware of my presence, when he heard me sing. I must tell you he was a very great musician, and played the violin better than you would suspect any one in the world capable of doing. I think, however, I was the only person who ever heard him at Riesenberg; for his family were not aware that he possessed this great talent. His love, then, had its origin in a burst of enthusiasm, and in sympathy for music. His cousin, the Baroness Amelia, who had been betrothed to him for two years, and whom he did not love, became offended with me, though she did not love him. This, she exhibited with more frankness than wickedness: for, amid all her obstinacy, there existed something of greatness of soul. She became weary of Albert's coldness, of the sadness that pervaded the castle, and one fine morning left us, taking away, so to say, her father, Baron Frederick, Count Christian's brother, an excellent man, though of restricted mind, indolent and pure-hearted, a perfect slave to his daughter, and passionately devoted to the chase."
"You say nothing about the invisibility of Count Albert, of his disappearance for fifteen or twenty days, after which he reappeared suddenly, believing, or pretending to think that he had not left the house, and being either unwilling or unable to say where he had hid himself during the time he had been searched for everywhere."
"Since Dr. Supperville has told you this apparently wonderful fact, I will explain it; I alone can do so, for this has always been a secret, between Albert and myself. Near the Giants' Castle, there is a mountain known as the Stone of Terror,[9]an old subterranean work, which dates from the days of the Hussites. Albert, after studying a series of philosophical characters, yielded to an enthusiasm, extending almost to mysticism, and became a Hussite, or rather Taborite. Descended on the mother's side from George Podiebrad, he had preserved and developed in himself the sentiments of patriotic independence and of evangelical equality, which the preaching of John Huss and the victories of John Ziska instilled into the Bohemians."
"How she speaks of history and philosophy," said the princess, with an expressive glance to the Baroness Von Kleist. "Who would think an actress would understand those things as well as I who have passed a lifetime in study? Have I not told you, Von Kleist, that there was among those persons whom the opinions of courts dooms to the lowest class of society, intelligences equal, if not superior, to those formed with so much care and expense amid the highest grades?"
"Alas! madame," said Porporina, "I am very ignorant, and I never read anything before I came to Riesenberg; while there, however, I heard so much said of things of this kind, that thought itself forced me to understand all that passed in Albert's mind, so that finally I had some idea of it myself."
"Yes; but my dear, you became foolish; and, something of a mystic myself, I admire the campaigns of John Ziska, and the republican genius of Bohemia, if you please; however, I have ideas as utterly republican as yourself; for love has revealed to me a truth altogether contradictory to what pedants told me, in relation to the rights of the people, and the merits of individuals. I do not participate in your admiration of Taborite fanaticism, and their delirium of Christian equality. This is absurd, not to be realized, results in ferocious excesses, and overturns thrones. If it be necessary, I will aid you—make Spartan, Athenian, Roman republics—make republics like that of old Venice—I can submit to that. These sanguinary and filthy Taborites suit me no better than the Vandals of burning memory, the odious Anabaptists of Munster, and the Picords of old Germany."
"I have heard Count Albert say, that all this is not precisely the same thing," said Consuelo, with great modesty. "I will not, however, venture to discuss with your highness, matters, perhaps, you have studied closely. You have here historians andsavans, who devote themselves to these grave matters, and you can form a better opinion of their wisdom than I can. Yet, had I the academy to instruct me, I do not think my sympathies would ever change. But let me resume my story."
"Yes, I interrupted you by pedantic reflections, and I pray you excuse me. Go on. Count Albert, enthusiastic in relation to the exploits of his ancestors, (that is easily understood, and very pardonable,) in love with you, (and that is most legitimate and natural,) would not admit that you were not his equal in the eye of God and man. He was right; but this was no reason why he should desert his father's house, and leave all who loved him in despair."
"This is not the point I wished to reach," said Consuelo. "He had been dreaming and meditating for a long time in the cavern of the Hussites, at Schreckenstein, and he was especially delighted in doing so from the fact that, besides himself, no one but a poor mad peasant was aware of these subterraneous abodes. Thither he used to go when any domestic chagrin, or any violent emotion overcame his will. He was aware of the approach of these attacks, and to hide his madness from his kindred, went to the Schreckenstein, by a secret passage, the entrance to which he had discovered in a cistern near his rooms, amid aparterreof flowers. When once in this cavern, he forgot the lapse of time, of days, and weeks. Attended by Zdenko, the visionary and poetic peasant, the excitement of whom was not a little like his own, he had no idea of ever returning to the upper world, or of seeing his parents again, until the attack began to pass away. Unfortunately, these attacks became every time more violent, and lasted longer. Once, he was so long absent, that all thought him dead, and I undertook to discover the place of his retreat. I reached it, with much difficulty and danger. I went down this cistern, which was amid the garden, and from which, one night, I had seen Zdenko come. Not knowing the way through this abyss, I was near losing my life. At last, I found Albert, and succeeded in dispersing the torpor in which he had been plunged. I restored him to his parents, and made him swear he never would return again to the fatal cavern, he yielded to me, but said, this was to sentence him to death. His prediction was but too well fulfilled."
"How so? Thus you restored him to life."
"No, madame; not unless I could love him, and never be a cause of trouble to him."
"What, did you not love him? Yet you descended in that abyss; you risked your life under-ground?"
"The mad Zdenko, not comprehending my design, and, like a faithful dog, jealous of his master's safety, was near murdering me. A torrent came near sweeping me away. Albert at first, not knowing me, almost made me share his folly; for terror and emotion make all hallucinations contagious. . . . At last, he was attacked by a new fit of delirium, as he bore me from the cave, and had very nearly closed the outlet. . . I exposed myself to all that, without loving Albert."
"Then you made a vow to Maria del Consuelo to rescue him?"
"Something like it, in fact," said Consuelo, with a sad smile; "an emotion of tender pity to his family, of deep sympathy to him, perhaps a romantic attraction, a sincere friendship, certainly, but not an appearance of love. At least, nothing like the blind, intoxicating and delicious passion I had entertained for the ungrateful Anzoleto, in which, I think, my heart was prematurely exhausted. What shall I say, madame? After that terrible expedition, I had a brain fever, and was at the very point of death. Albert, who was somewhat skilled in physic, saved my life. My slow recovery and his assiduous cares placed us on the footing of the closest intimacy. His reason returned entirely, and his father blessed and treated me as a beloved daughter. An old lame aunt, the Countess Wenceslawa, an angel of tenderness, and a patrician full of prejudices, even consented to receive me. Albert besought my love. Count Christian, too, pleaded for his son. I was moved, I was terrified. I loved Albert as one loves virtue, truth, and the beautiful; I was yet afraid of him; I dreaded becoming a countess, and of making a match, the result of which would be to raise against him and his family all the nobility of the country, and which would cause me to be accused of sordid views and base intrigues. Yet, must I own it, that was, perhaps, my only crime. . . . I regretted my profession, my liberty, my old teacher, and the exciting arena of the theatre, where, for a moment, I had appeared to glitter, and where I would disappear like a meteor. The burning stage on which my love had been crushed, my misfortune consummated, which I thought I could hate and despise forever, and yet, on which I dreamed every night I was either applauded or hissed. This must seem strange and unaccountable to you; but when one has been educated for the theatre, when one has toiled all life long for such combats and such victories, the idea of returning to them no more, is as terrible, as would be to you, Madame Amelia, that of being a princess on the stage, as I am twice a week."
"You are mistaken, my dear. You are mad. If from a princess I could become an artist, I would marry Trenck, and be happy. You to marry Rudolstadt would not from an actress become a countess or princess. I see you did not love him. That was not your fault. We cannot love those whom we please."
"Madame, that is an aphorism of which I would willingly convince myself, and in solving it, I have passed my life; could I do so my conscience would be at ease. Yet I have not been able to accomplish it."
"Let me see," said the princess, "this is a grave matter, and, as an abbess, I should be able to decide on it. You think, then, that love can choose and reason?"
"It should. A noble heart should subject its inclination; I do not say to that worldly reason, which is folly and falsehood, but to the noble discernment, which is only the love of the beautiful, and a passion for truth. You, madame, are proof of what I advance, and your example condemns me. Born to fill a throne, you have immolated false greatness on the altar of true passion, to the possession of a heart worthy of your own. I, also, born to occupy a throne, (on the stage,) had neither courage nor generosity to sacrifice the glitter of that false glory to the calm and sublime affection offered to me. I was ready to do so from devotion, but could not without grief and terror. Albert, who saw the struggle, would not accept my faith as an offering. He wished enthusiasm, equal joys, and a heart devoid of sorrow. I could not deceive him. Is it possible to deceive one in such matters? I asked time, and he granted it. I promised to do all I could to love like him. I was sincere, but wished I had not been forced by my conscience to make this formidable engagement."
"Strange girl! I will bet that you loved theother!"
"Oh my God! I thought I did not love him. One morning I waited on the mountain for Albert, and heard a voice in the ravine. I recognised a song which I had formerly studied with Anzoleto, and I recognised that penetrating voice I had loved so much, and that Venetian accent which was so dear to me. I looked down, and saw a cavalier pass. It was Anzoleto, madame."
"Alas! What was he doing in Bohemia?"
"I have since learned that he had broken his engagement, and fled from Venice, to avoid the persecution of Count Zustiniani. Having soon become tired of the quarrelsome love of the despotic Corilla, with whom he had appeared at St. Samuel's again, and had the greatest success, he had obtained the favors of a certain Clorinda, the second singer, my old schoolfellow, who had become Zustiniani's mistress. Like a man of the world, that is to say, like a frivolous libertine, the count avenged himself by taking up again with Corilla, without discharging Anzoleto. Amid this double intrigue, Anzoleto, being ridiculed by his rival, became mortified and angry, and one fine summer night, by an adroit kick, upset the gondola in which Zustiniani and his mistress were taking the fresh air. They only were upset, and had a cold bath. The waters of Venice are nowhere deep. Anzoleto, thinking this pleasantry would take him to theLeads, fled to Prague, and passed the Giants' Castle.
"He passed on, and I rejoined Albert to make a pilgrimage to the cavern of the Schreckenstein, which he desired once more to see with me. I was melancholy and unhappy. I there suffered under the most lugubrious emotions. The dark place, the Hussite bones, of which Albert had built an altar by the mysterious fountain, the admirable and touching tone of his violin—I know not what terrors—darkness, and the superstitions which here took possession of him, and which I could scarcely shake from my own mind——"
"Say all. He fancied he was John Ziska—that he was endowed with eternal life—the memory of the events of past centuries—in fine, he was as mad as the Count de St. Germain is."
"Yes, madame, since you know all; his convictions made such an impression on me, that instead of curing him, I almost participated in it."
"Can your mind, then, notwithstanding your courageous heart, be weak?"
"I do not pretend to a strong mind. Whence could I have derived this power? The only real education I have was derived from Albert. How is it possible for me not to have felt his influence, and partaken of his illusions? He had so much, and so many, truths in his soul, that I could not discern error and separate it from truth. In this cavern I felt that my reason was deserting me. What most terrified me was the fact that I did not meet Zdenko, as I had expected. For several months he had not been seen. As he persisted in being angry with me, Albert had exiled him from his presence, after a violent discussion, beyond doubt, for he seemed to regret it. Perhaps he thought that when he left him Zdenko had killed himself. At all events, he spoke of him in enigmatical terms, and with mysterious concealments, which terrified me. I fancied, (may God forgive me the idea!) that in an access of fury Albert, being unable to make the unfortunate man renounce his intention of destroying me, had murdered him."
"Why, then, did Zdenko hate you?"
"This was one of the consequences of his madness. He said that he had dreamed that I killed his master, and afterwards danced over his tomb. Oh! madame, this sad prediction has been fulfilled. My love killed Albert, and eight days after I made mydébutin one of the gayestbuffooperas in Berlin. I was compelled to do so, I know; and my heart was filled with grief. The sad fate of Albert was accomplished as Zdenko had foretold."
"My God! your story is so diabolical that I begin to forget where I am, and lose my senses as I listen to you. But, go on; all this may be explained, certainly?"
"No, madame. The fantastic world which Albert and Zdenko bore in their souls has never been explained to me; and, like myself, you must be satisfied merely with a knowledge of the results."
"Then the count at least did not kill the poor buffoon?"
"Zdenko to him was not a buffoon, but a friend and companion of misfortune, a devoted servant. He was grieved at his conduct, but, thank God! never dreamed of immolating him to me. Yet I was so foolish and so guilty as to think this murder had been completed. A grave recently opened in the cavern, and which Albert confessed contained the dearest thing he had ever known, until he met me, at that time when he accused himself of I know not what crime, chilled me to the heart. I felt certain that Zdenko was buried there, and fled from the grotto crying and weeping like a child!"
"You had reason to do so," said the Baroness Von Kleist, "and I am sure such things would have terrified me to death. A lover like Albert would not have suited me at all. The good Baron Von Kleist believed in, and used to make sacrifices to the devil. That made me a coward, and had I not been divorced, I think I would have gone mad."
"You have much consolation left you. I think you were divorced a little too late," said the princess; "but do not interrupt the Countess of Rudolstadt."
"When I returned to the castle with Albert, who had not dreamed of defending himself from my suspicions, whom think you I found there?"
"Anzoleto!"
"He presented himself as my brother, and waited for me. I do not know how he had learneden routethat I was living there, and was to marry Albert. But it was talked of in the country long before anything was determined. Whether from mortification, a remnant of love, or the love of evil, he had suddenly returned with the intention of breaking off this marriage. He did all he could to succeed, using prayers, tears, persuasion, and threats. Apparently I was unmoved, but in my coward heart I was troubled, and I felt I was no longer mistress of myself. By means of the falsehood by which he had obtained admission, and which I did not dare to contradict, though I had never spoken to Albert of this brother, he remained all day at the castle. The old count made us at night sing Venetian airs. These melodies of my adopted country awoke all the recollections of my infancy, of my fine dreams, pure love, and past happiness. I felt that I yet loved, but not the person I should, and had promised to love. Anzoleto conjured me in a low tone to receive him at night in my room, and threatened to come at any hazard or danger to him or to me. I had ever been a sister to him, and under the purest professions he concealed his plan. He would submit to my decision; he was going at dawn, but wished to bid me farewell. I fancied that he wished to make trouble and slander in the castle, that he proposed to make a terrible scene with Albert, and that I would be disgraced. I took a desperate resolution and executed it. At midnight I packed up in a small bundle all the clothing I required—I wrote a note for Albert—took what money I had, and (par parenthèse) forgot half of it. I left my room, mounted the hired horse Anzoleto had ridden, paid his guide to aid me, crossed the draw-bridge, and went to the neighboring city. I had never been on horseback before, and galloped four leagues. I then sent back the guide, and, pretending that I would await Anzoleto on the road to Prague, gave him false intelligence as to where mybrotherwould find me. I set out for Vienna, and at dawn was alone, on foot, without resources, in an unknown country, and walking rapidly as possible, to escape from two passions, apparently each equally unfortunate. I must, however, say that after a few hours the phantom of the perfidious Anzoleto was effaced from my mind, never to return, while the pure image of my Albert, like an ægis and promise of the future, cheered me amid the dangers of my route."
"Why did you go to Vienna rather than Venice?"
"My maestro had gone thither, having been brought by our ambassador to replenish his broken fortune, and recover his ancient fame, which had begun to grow pale before the success of luckier innovators. Luckily, I met an excellent youth, already a musician of talent, who, in passing through the Boehmer-wald, had heard of me, and had determined to ask my recommendation and good offices in his behalf, with Porpora. We went together to Vienna on foot—suffered much from fatigue, but were always gay, always friends and brothers. I became especially fond of him, because he did not dream of making love to me, and it did not enter into my mind that he would do so. I disguised myself as a boy, and played the part so well that all kinds of pleasant mistakes occurred. One, however, came near being unfortunate to both of us. I will pass the others in silence—not to shorten my story—and will mention this only because I know it will interest your highness more than the rest of my narrative."
[6]The adventures of Consuelo having passed from the reader's mind, the author has thought it best to make a "resume" of them. Persons whose memory will recall a long romance, will find this chapter wearisome, and they may therefore skip it.
[6]The adventures of Consuelo having passed from the reader's mind, the author has thought it best to make a "resume" of them. Persons whose memory will recall a long romance, will find this chapter wearisome, and they may therefore skip it.
[7]Notre Dame de la Consolation.
[7]Notre Dame de la Consolation.
[8]To run Bohemia.
[8]To run Bohemia.
[9]Gormanice, Schreckenstein.
[9]Gormanice, Schreckenstein.
"I fancy you are about to speak ofhim" said the princess, moving the lights, to get a better view of the speaker, and placing her elbows on the table.
"While going down the Moldau, on the Bavarian frontier, we were seized by the recruiting parties of the king, your brother, and were flattered with the smiling hope of becoming, both Haydn and myself, fifer and drummer in the glorious armies of his Majesty."
"You, a drummer!" said the princess with surprise. "Ah! had Von Kleist seen you thus I venture to swear she would have lost her senses. My brother would have made you his page; and heaven knows what ravage you would have made in the hearts of our Court ladies. But what is it you say of Haydn? I know the name, and have recently received music of his, and, I remember, excellent music. He is not the lad you speak of?"
"Excuse me. He is about twenty years old, and does not seem fifteen. He was my travelling companion, and was a sincere and faithful friend. On the edge of a little wood, where our captors halted to breakfast, we escaped. They pursued us, and we ran like hares, until we had the good fortune to overtake a travelling carriage, in which was the handsome and noble Frederick Von Trenck and theci-devantconqueror, Count Hoditz de Roswald."
"The husband of my aunt, the Margravine of Culmbach?" said the princess. "Another love match, Von Kleist. By the by, that is the only honest and prudent thing my aunt ever did in her life. What kind of a man is this Count Hoditz?"
Consuelo was about to give a minute account of the lord of Roswald, but the princess interrupted her by countless questions about Trenck, the dress he wore, and the minutest details. When Consuelo told her how Trenck had hurried to her defence, how he came near being shot, and had put the brigands to flight, and rescued an unfortunate deserter who was borne in the wagon with his hands and feet bound, she had to begin again to repeat the most trifling words and detail the merest circumstances. The joy and emotion of the princess were intense when she heard that Trenck and Count Hoditz, having taken the two travellers into their coach, the baron had taken no notice of Consuelo, but seemed wrapped in the examination of a portrait he concealed in his bosom—that he sighed, and talked to the count of a mysterious love for an exalted person, who was the origin of the happiness and despair of his life.
When Consuelo was permitted to continue, she said that Count Hoditz, having discovered her sex at Passau, sought to presume on the protection he had granted her, and that she had fled with Haydn and resumed her adventurous travels in a boat which went down the Danube.
At last she told how, playing on the pipe, while Haydn played the violin, they paid for their dinners by making music for the peasants to dance, and at length reached a pleasant priory still disguised, and represented herself as a wandering musician, a Zingara, called Bertoni.
"The prior," said she, "was passionately fond of music, and was besides a man of heart and mind. He conceived for us, for myself especially, a great friendship, and wished even to adopt me, promising me an excellent benefice, if I would but take the minor orders. I began to be tired of manhood, and thetonsurewas no more to my taste than the drum. A strange adventure forced me to prolong my abode with my excellent host. A woman travelling by post, was seized with the pains of labor, and gave birth to a daughter, which she abandoned and I persuaded the good canon to adopt it in my place. She was called Angela, from her father's name Anzoleto, and the mother, Corilla, went to Vienna to procure an engagement at the Court Theatre. She did so, and with greater success than I had. The Prince Von Kaunitz presented her to the Empress Maria Theresa as a respectable widow, and I was rejected, as being accused and suspected of being the mistress of Joseph Haydn, who received lessons from Porpora, and lived in the same house with us."
Consuelo described her interview with the great Empress. The princess was anxious to hear of this wonderful woman, the virtue of whom no one at Berlin believed in, and who was said to have as lovers the Prince Von Kaunitz, Doctor Von Switzer and Metastasio.
Consuelo told at length of her reconciliation on account of Angela, with La Corilla, of herdébutin the principal parts at the Imperial Theatre, on account of the remorse and a generous impulse of her impetuous rival. She then told of the friendship that existed at Vienna between Trenck and herself at the abode of the Ambassador of Venice; and told how she had arranged a method of communicating with him, if the persecution of the King of Prussia made it necessary. She spoke of the piece of music, the sheets of which were to serve as a wrapper and signature to the letters he might send her, as occasion required, for her whom he loved: and told how she had recently been informed, by one of the sheets, of the importance of the cabalistic scroll she had given to the princess. It may be imagined these explanations occupied more time than the rest of the story.
Porporina having told of her departure with the maestro from Venice, and how, in the uniform of a company, and as the Baron Von Kreutz, she had met the King of Prussia at the wonderful Castle of Roswald, she was obliged also to mention the important service she had rendered the monarch before she knew him.
"That I was very curious to know," said the Baroness Von Kleist. "Poelnitz, who loves to talk, told me that his majesty at supper said that his friendship for the beautiful Porporina had more serious causes than a mere love affair."
"What I did was very simple. I used the ascendancy I had over an unfortunate fanatic to keep him from murdering the king. Karl, the poor Bohemian giant, whom Trenck had rescued from the recruiting party when he liberated me, had entered the service of Count Hoditz. He had known the king, and wished to be revenged for the death of his wife and child, who died of want and sorrow, just after his second arrest. Fortunately, he had not forgotten that I had been a party to his rescue, and had contributed something to his wife's assistance. He let me persuade and take the gun from him. The king, who was concealed hard by, as he afterwards told me, heard all, and, lest the assassin should have a return of fury, took a different road from the one he had intended. The king was on horseback, with no one but Bruddenbrock. It is, then, very possible that a good shot like Karl, whom I had thrice seen shoot a pigeon from the top of a mast, during the entertainment given by Count Hoditz, would not have missed."
"God knows," said the princess in a dreamy manner, "what changes this misfortune would have effected in European politics, and in individual destinies. Now, dear Rudolstadt, I think I know the rest of your story, until the death of Count Albert. At Prague you met his uncle, the baron, who took you to the Giant's Castle, to see him die of phthisis, and to marry him just before he breathed his last. You had not made up your mind to love him?"
"Alas! madame, I loved him too late, and have been cruelly punished for hesitation, and passion for the stage. Forced by my master, Porpora, to appear at Vienna, deceived in relation to Albert's indisposition, for his last letters had been intercepted, I suffered myself to be led astray by the glitter of the stage; and, in conclusion, while waiting for an engagement at Berlin, appeared with perfect madness at Vienna."
"And with glory" said the princess. "We know that."
"Miserable and fatal glory," said Consuelo. "One thing your highness does not know; it is that Albert came secretly to Vienna and saw me play. Following every step like a mysterious shadow, he heard me say, behind the scenes to Joseph Haydn, that I could not abandon my art without serious regret, yet I loved Albert. I swear before God, that within my heart, I knew that it was more impossible to renounce him than my profession, and wrote to him to say so. Porpora, who looked on this love as a chimera and madness, had intercepted and burned my letters. I found Albert in a rapid consumption; I gave him my hand, but could not restore him to life. I saw him lying in state, clad as a noble of yore, beautiful in the embrace of death, with his brow pure as that of the pardoning angel—but I could not follow him to the grave. I left him in the lighted chapel of the Giants' Castle, watched over by Zdenko, the poor mad prophet, who gave me his hand with a smile, and rejoiced at the tranquil slumber of his friend. He, at least, more pious and respectful than I, placed him in the tomb of his fathers, without being aware that he would never again leave that bed of repose. I was hurried away by Porpora, a devoted, yet stern friend, with a paternal yet inflexible heart, who shouted to me over the very tomb of my husband—'On Saturday next, you will make yourdébutinLes Virtuoses Ridicules.'"
"Strange, indeed, are the vicissitudes of an artist's life," said the princess, wiping away a tear. Porporina, as she concluded her story, sobbed aloud. "You do not tell me, my dear Consuelo, the greatest honor of your life, and which, when Supperville mentioned, filled me with admiration. Not to distress the old canoness, and not to forfeit your romantic disinterestedness, you abandoned your title, your dower, and your name. You requested Supperville and Porpora, the only witnesses of your marriage, to keep it a secret, and came hither poor as before, and remained a Zingarella."
"And an artiste," said Consuelo, "that is to say independent, virgin and dead to all sentiment of love, such as Porpora always represented the ideal type of the muses. My terrible master carried his point, and at last I consented to what he struggled for. I do not think that I am happier, nor that I am better. Since I love no longer, and feel no longer capable of loving, I feel no longer the fire and inspiration of the stage. This icy atmosphere, and this courtly air precipitates me into the deepest distress. The absence of Porpora, the despair in which I am, and the will of the king, who prolongs my engagement, contrary to my wishes. May I not confess this, madame, to you?"
"I might have guessed it, poor thing—all thought you proud of the kind of preference with which the king honors you; but like myself, you are his slave and prisoner,—in the same condition as his family favorites, soldiers, pages and puppies. Alas! for the glitter of royalty, the glories of the princely crown; how nauseous are they, to those whose life is exhausted in furnishing them with rays of light. But, dear Consuelo, you have yet other things to tell me, which are not those that interest me least. I expect from your sincerity, that you will tell me on what terms you are with my brother, and I will induce you to do so by my own frankness. Thinking that you were his mistress, and flattering myself that you could obtain Trenck's pardon from him, I sought you out, to place the matter in your hands. Now, thank heaven! we have no need of that, and I shall be pleased to love you for yourself. I think you can tell me all without compromising yourself, especially as the affairs of my brother do not seem far advanced from me."
"The manner in which you speak of this matter, madame, makes me shudder," replied Consuelo, growing pale. "Eight days ago I heard it whispered around me, that the king, our master, entertained a serious passion for me, his sad and trembling subject. Up to that time I had never conceived anything possible between him and me, but a pleasant conversation, benevolent on his side, and respectful on mine, he exhibits a friendship and gratitude which was too great for the simple part I had played at Roswald. There is a gulf, though, between that and love, which I hope he will never pass."
"I think differently. He is impetuous, talkative and familiar with you; he talks to you as to a boy, and passes your hand to his brow and to his lips. He effects in the presence of his friends—and for some days this has been the case—to be less in love with you than he is. This all proves that he is likely to become so. I know it, and warn you, that ere long you will be called on to decide. What will you do? If you resist, you are lost; if you yield that will still be the case. If this be so, what will you do?"
"Neither, madame. Like his recruits, I will desert."
"That is not easy, and I do not wish you to do so, having become very fond of you; and I think I would put the recruiters on your tracks rather than you should escape. Well, we will find a way. The case is grave, and demands consideration. Tell me all that has passed since Albert's death."
"Some strange and inexplicable things amid a monotonous and moody life. I will tell you what they are, and your highness perhaps will aid me in understanding them."
"I will try, on condition that you will call me Amelia, as you did just now. It is not yet midnight, and I do not wish to behighnesseduntil day."
Porporina resumed her story thus:
"I have already told to Madame Von Kleist, when she first did me the honor of coming to my house, that I was separated from Porpora on the frontier of Prussia, as I was coming from Bohemia. Even now, I am ignorant, whether his passport was not regular, or if the king had caused us to be preceded by one of those orders, the rapidity of which is a prodigy, to exclude Porpora from his territories. This idea, perhaps wrong, at first suggested itself to me, for I remembered the brusque lightness and scowling sincerity with which the maestro defended Trenck, and blamed the king, when Frederick, at supper at Count Hoditz's, where he had represented himself as the Baron Von Kreutz, and told us himself of Trenck'streasonand confinement at Glatz."
"Indeed! then the Maestro Porpora displeased the king in talking of Trenck?"
"The king never mentioned it to me, and I feared to remind him of it. It is certain, that in spite of my prayers, and his majesty's promises, Porpora has not been recalled."
"And he never will be," said Amelia, "for the king forgets nothing, and never pardons frankness when it wounds his self-love. The Solomon of the north hates and persecutes whoever doubts the infallibility of his opinions; his arrest is but a gross feint, and an odious pretext to get rid of an enemy. Weep, then, if you wish, my dear, for you will never see Porpora at Berlin."
"In spite of my chagrin at his absence, I do not wish, madame, to see him here, and I will take no steps to induce the king to pardon him. I received a letter from him this morning, in which he announces that an opera of his had been received at the imperial theatre at Vienna. After a thousand disappointments he has attained his purpose, and his pieces are about to be studied: I prefer, therefore, to go to him, than to bring him hither. I am afraid, though, I shall not be at more liberty to go hence, than I was to come."
"What say you?"
"At the frontier, when I saw that my master was forced to return I wished to accompany him and give up my engagement at Berlin. I was so indignant at the brutality and apparent bad faith of such a reception, that to pay the penalty I would have lived by the sweat of my brow rather than enter a country so despotically ruled. At the first exhibition of my intentions I was ordered by the officer to get into the post-chaise, which was ready in the twinkling of an eye; and as I saw myself surrounded by soldiers determined to use constraint, I embraced my master with tears, and resolved to suffer myself to be taken to Berlin, which, crushed with grief and fatigue, I reached at midnight. I was set down near the palace, not far from the opera in a handsome house belonging to the king, in which I was absolutely alone. I found servants at my orders, and supper all ready. I have learned that Von Poelnitz had been directed to prepare every thing for my arrival. I was scarcely installed when the Baron Von Kreutz sent to know if I was visible. I hastened to receive him, being anxious to complain of Porpora's treatment, and to ask reparation. I pretended not to know that Frederick II. was the Baron Von Kreutz. I appeared to be ignorant of it. The deserter, Karl, in confiding his plan to murder him, to me, had not mentioned his name, but had spoken of him as a superior Prussian officer, and I had learned who it was from the lips of Count Hoditz, after the king had left Roswald. He came in with a smiling and affable air, which I had not seen during his incognito. Under his false name, and in a foreign country, he had been much annoyed. At Berlin he seemed to have regained all the majesty of his character—that is, the benevolent kindness and generous mildness which sometimes decks his omnipotence. He came to me with his hand extended, and asked if I remembered to have met him.
"'Yes, baron,' said I, 'and I remember that you offered and promised me your good offices at Berlin, should I need them.' I then told him with vivacity what had taken place on the frontier, and asked if he could not forward to the king, his illustrious master, a demand for reparation for the outrage and the constraint to which I had been subjected.
"'Reparation?' said the king, smiling maliciously, 'that all! Would Signor Porpora call the King of Prussia out? Signorina Porporina, perhaps, would require him to kneel to her.'
"This jeer increased my ill-humor. 'Your majesty may add irony to what I have already suffered, but I had rather thank than fear you.'
"The king shook his arm rudely. 'Ah!' said he, 'you play a sharp game.' As he spoke he fixed his penetrating eyes on mine: 'I thought you simple and full of honesty; yet you know me at Roswald.'"
"'No, sire, I did not know you then. Would that I did not know you now.'
"'I cannot say so much,' said he, mildly, 'for had it not been for you, I would have remained in some ditch at Roswald. Victories furnish no ægis against assassination, and I will never forget that if the fate of Prussia yet be in my hands, I owe it to a kind heart, opposed to all plots. Your ill temper, then, dear Porporina, will not make me ungrateful. Be calm, I beg you, and tell me what you complain of, for, as yet, I know nothing about it.'
"Whether the king really knew nothing, or the police had discovered something informal in the passport of Porpora, I know not. He listened with great attention to my story, and told me afterwards, with the calmness of a judge, who is unwilling to speak unadvisedly, 'I will examine all this, and tell you about it. I shall be much surprised, if, without good cause, my officers have annoyed a traveller. There must be some mistake; I will find out, and if any one has exceeded his orders he shall be punished.'
"'Sire, that is not what I ask; I wish Porpora recalled.'
"'I promise you he shall be. Now be less sombre, and tell me frankly how you discovered my incognito.'
"I then spoke freely with the king, and found him so kind and amiable, so agreeable, that I forgot all the prejudices I entertained against him. I admired his brilliant and judicious mind, his easy and benevolent manners, which I had not remarked in Maria Theresa, and finally the delicacy of his sentiments about all things on which his conversation touched. 'Hear me,' said he, taking up his hat to go, 'I have a piece of friendly advice to give you on this, the very day of your arrival here. It is, not to speak of the service you have rendered me, nor of this visit. Though it be very honorable and natural that I should hasten to thank you, the fact would give rise to a very false idea of the friendly relations I wish to maintain with you. All would think you anxious of that position, known in court language as the king's favorite. Some would distrust, and others be jealous of you. The least inconvenience would be to attract to you all who had petitions, the channel of which they would expect you to be. As you would certainly have the good sense not to play this part, you would be the complete object of their enmity.'
"'I promise your majesty to act as you have ordered me.'
"'I give you no orders, Consuelo,' said he, 'but rely on your prudence and correctness. At the first glance I saw you had a pure and noble soul, and because I wished to make you the fine pearl of my department of the arts, I ordered from the remotest part of Siberia that a carriage should be provided for you as soon as you came to my frontier. It was not my fault that you were placed in a kind of travelling prison, and separated from your protector. Until he be restored to you I will replace him, if you find me worthy of the confidence and attachment you bore him.'
"I own, my dear Amelia, that I was keenly sensible of this paternal language and delicate attention. Something of pride, perhaps, mingled with it, and tears came to my eyes when the king, as he left me gave me his hand. I had to kiss it, as doubtless duty required; but as I am making a confession, I will say at the time I felt terrified and paralyzed. It seemed to me that his majesty flattered and cajoled my self-esteem, to prevent my telling what had passed at Roswald, as likely to produce in some minds an impression injurious to his policy. It also occurred to me that he was afraid of being ridiculed for feeling grateful for my services. At once, too, I recalled the terrible militaryrégimeof Prussia, of which Trenck had minutely informed me—the ferocity of the recruiters—the misfortunes of Karl—the captivity of the noble Trenck, which I attributed to his having rescued the poor soldier—the cries of another soldier I had seen beaten that morning, as I passed through a village—and all that despotism which was the force and glory of Frederick the Great. I could not hate him personally—but I saw in him an absolute master, the natural enemy of those pure minds which do not see the necessity of inhuman laws, and cannot penetrate the secrets of empires."
"Thenceforth," continued Porporina, "I never saw the king at home. He sometimes sent for me to come toSans Souci, where I even passed several days with my companions, Porporino or Conceolini; and here I used to play the piano at his little concerts, and accompany the violin of Braun or Benda, or the flute of Quantz, and sometimes the king himself."
"It is less pleasant to accompany him than any of the others," said the Princess of Prussia. "I know, by experience, that whenever my dear brother plays a false note, or loses the time, he does not fail to scold all theconcertanti."
"That is true," said Porporina, "and his skilful master, Quantz, himself, has not always been able to avoid his injustice. His majesty, however, when thus led astray, soon repairs the injury by acts of deference and delicate praise, which pour balm on wounded self-love. Thus, by a kind word, by an exclamation of admiration, he causes his severity and his anger to be excused, even by artists, who are the most susceptible people in the world."
"But could you, after you knew of him, suffer yourself to be fascinated by this basilisk?"
I will own, madame, that often, without knowing it, I felt the influence of his ascendancy. As trickery has ever been foreign to me, I may always be the dupe, and only ascertain the meaning of disingennousness too late. I also saw the king very frequently on the stage and sometimes even, when the performance was over, in my dressing-room. He was always paternal in his conduct towards me. I was never alone with him more than two or three times in the gardens ofSans Souci, and I must confess that then I had found out his hour of walking, and went thither expressly to meet him. He then called or came courteously to me, and I took advantage of the opportunity to speak to him of Porpora, and renew my request. I always received the same promises, but never reaped any advantage. Subsequently I changed my tactics, and asked leave to return to Vienna. He heard my prayer, sometimes with affectionate reproaches, sometimes with icy coldness, and often with yet greater ill-humor. The last attempt was not more fortunate than the others, and even when the king said, drily—'Go, signora; you are free,' I could obtain no settlement of accounts, nor permission to travel. This is the state of affairs, and I see no resource but in flight, should my situation here become too grievous to be borne. Alas! madame, I have often been wounded by Maria Theresa's small taste for music, but never suspected that a king, almost fanatic for the art, was more to be feared than an empress without any ear.
"I have told you briefly all my relations with his majesty. I never had occasion to fear or even to suspect that your highness would think he loved me. Nevertheless, I was proud, sometimes, when I thought that, thanks to my musical talent and the romantic incident which led to my preserving his life, the king seemed to have a friendship for me. He often told me so with the greatest grace, and most perfect simplicity; he seemed to love to talk with me with such perfectbonhommie, that I became used, I know not how, to love him with perfect friendship. The word is, perchance,bizarre, and a little misplaced in my mouth; but the sentiment of affectionate respect and timid confidence which the presence, glance, eye, words and tone of the royal basilisk, as you call him, inspired me with, is strange as it is sincere. We are here to make a full confession, and we have agreed that I shall shrink from nothing: well, I protest that I am afraid of the king, and almost have a horror of him, when I do not see him, yet breathe the rarified air of his empire. When I see him, however, I am charmed, and am ready to give him every proof of devotion, which a timid, but affectionate girl, can give to a rigid, yet kind father."
"You frighten me," said the princess. "Good God! what if you were to suffer yourself to be controlled and cajoled so as to destroy our cause?"
"Ah! madame, have no apprehensions about that. When the affairs of my friends or of any other persons arc concerned, I am able to defy the king, and others even more shrewd than he, if there be such, and yet fall into no snare."
"I believe you. You exercise over me by your frankness the same influence which Frederick exerts over you. Well, do not be excited for I do not compare you together. Resume your story, and tell me of Cagliostro. I have heard that at one of his magic representations, he recalled to you one who had long been dead. I suppose that person was Albert?"
"I am ready to satisfy you, my noble Amelia; but, if I consent to reveal to you a painful story, which I would willingly forget, I have the right to address a few questions to you, according to the arrangement we have made."
"I am ready to answer you."
"Well, madame; do you think the dead can leave the tomb, or, at least, that a reflection of their forms animated by the appearance of life, may be evoked, at the will of sorcerers, and so take possession of our fancy, that it may be reproduced before our eyes and take possession of our reason?"
"The question is very complicated, and all that I can say is, that I do not believe in the impossible. I do not think that a resurrection of the dead can be produced by magic. As far as our poor foolish imagination is concerned, I think it capable of everything."
"Your highness—excuse me—your highness has no faith in magic yet. . . But the question is indiscreet beyond doubt."
"Go on—yet I have devoted myself to magic; that is well known. Well, my dear girl, let me explain this inconsistency, which appears so strange both in place and time. After being aware of the nature of the scroll sent by Saint Germain, which, to tell the truth, was but a letter sent to me by Trenck, you can understand that necromancy is a pretext for many other things. To reveal to you, however, all that it conceals from the vulgar eye, all that it hides from courtly espionage and legal oppression, would be but the affair of an instant. Be patient, for I have resolved to initiate you into all my secrets. You are far more deserving of this confidence than my dear Von Kleist, who is timid and superstitious. Yes, I tell you this angel of goodness, this tender heart, has no common sense. She has faith in the devil, in sorcerers, ghosts, and presages, just as if she did not have in her hands and under her very eyes, the mysterious clues of the great work. She is, like the alchemists of the past, who created patiently and wisely, all kinds of monsters, but who then became afraid of their own handicraft, so that they became the slaves of demons, originated in their own alembic."
"Perhaps I may not be braver than the Baroness Von Kleist," said Porporina, "and I confess I am under the influence, if not under the power of Cagliostro. Imagine, that after having promised to show me the person of whom I thought, the name of whom he pretended to read in my eyes, he showed me another. Besides, he showed me as living, whom he did not know to be dead. Notwithstanding this double error, he resusicated the husband I had lost, and that will ever be to me a painful and inexpressible enigma."
"He showed you some phantom, and fancy filled up the details."
"I can assure you that my fancy was in no respect interested. I expected to see in a mirror some representation of Maestro Porpora, for I had spoken often of him at supper, and while deploring his absence, had seen that Cagliostro paid no little attention to my words. To make his task more easy, I chose in my mind the face of Porpora, as the subject of the apparition, and I expected him certainly, not having as yet considered the test as serious. Finally at perhaps the only moment in my life in which I did not think of the Count, he appeared. Cagliostro asked me when I went into the magic closet, if I would consent to have my eyes bandaged and follow him, holding on to his hand. As he was a man of good reputation, I did not hesitate; but made it a condition, that he would not leave me for an instant. 'I was going,' said he, 'to address you a request, not to leave me a moment, and not to let go my hand, without regard to what may happen, or what emotion you may feel.' I promised him; but a simple affirmative did not suffice, he made me solemnly swear that I would make no gesture nor exclamation, but remain mute and silent during the whole of the experiment. He then put on his glove, and having covered my head with a hood of black velvet, which fell over my shoulders, he made me walk about five minutes without my being able to hear any door opened or shut. The hood kept me from being aware of any change in the atmosphere, therefore I could not know whether I had gone out of the room or not, for he made me make such frequent turns, that I had no appreciation of the direction."
At last he paused; and, with one hand removed the hood, so lightly that I was not even aware of it. My respiration having become more free, he informed me that I might look around. I found myself, however, in such intense darkness that I could ascertain nothing. After a short time, I saw a luminous star, which at first trembled, and soon became brilliant before me. At first, it seemed most remote, but, when at its brightest, appeared very near me. It was produced, I think, of a light, which became more and more intense, and which was behind a transparency. Cagliostro made me approach the star, which was an orifice pierced in the wall. On the other side of that wall I saw a chamber, magnificently decorated and filled with lights regularly arranged. This room, in its character and ornaments, had every air of a place dedicated to magical operations. I had not time, however, to examine it, my attention being absorbed by a person who sat before a table. He was alone, and hid his face with his hands, as if immersed in deep meditation. I could not see his features, and his person was disguised by a costume in which I had hitherto seen no one. As far as I was able to remark it, it was a robe or cloak of white satin, faced with purple, fastened over the breast with hieroglyphic gems, on which I observed a rose, a triangle, a cross, a death's-head, and many rich ribbons of various kinds. All that I could see was that it was not Porpora. After one or two minutes, this mysterious personage, which I began to fancy a statue, slowly moved its hands, and I saw the face of Count Albert distinctly, not as it had last met my gaze, covered with the shadows of death, but animated amid its pallor, and full of soul in its serenity; such, in fine, as I had seen it in its most beautiful seasons of calm and confidence. I was on the point of uttering a cry, and by an involuntary movement, crushing the crystal which separated him from me. A violent pressure of Cagliostro's hand, reminded me of my oath, and impressed me with I know not what vague terror. Just then a door opened at the extremity of the room in which I saw Albert; and many unknown persons, dressed as he was, joined him, each bearing a sword. After having made strange gestures, as if they had been playing a pantomime, they spoke to him in a very solemn tone words I could not comprehend. He arose and went towards them, and replied in words equally strange, and which were unintelligible to me, though now I know German nearly as well as my mother tongue. This dialogue was like that which we hear in dreams, and the strangeness of the scene, the miracle of the apparition, had so much of this character, that I really doubted whether I dreamed or not. Cagliostro, however, forced me to be motionless, and I recognised the voice of Albert so perfectly that I could not doubt the reality of what I saw. At last, completely carried away by the scene, I was about to forget my oath and speak to him, when the hood again was placed over my head and all became dark. 'If you make the least noise,' said Cagliostro, 'neither you nor I will see the light again.' I had strength enough to follow him, and walk for a long time amid the zig-zags of an unknown space. Finally, when he took away the hood again, I found myself in his laboratory which was dimly lighted as it had been at the commencement of this adventure. Cagliostro was very pale, and still trembled, for, as I walked with him, I became aware of a convulsive agitation of his arm, and that he hurried me along as if he was under the influence of great terror. The first thing he said was to reproach me bitterly about my want of loyalty, and the terrible dangers to which I had exposed him by wishing to violate my promises. 'I should have remembered,' said he, 'that women are not bound by their word of honor, and that one should forbear to accede to their rash and vain curiosity.' His tone was very angry.
"Hitherto I had participated in the terror of my guide. I had been so amazed at Albert's being alive, that I had not enquired if this was possible. I had even forgotten that death had bereft me of this dear and precious friend. The emotion of the magician recalled to me, that all this was very strange, and that I had seen only a spectre. My reason, however, repudiated what was impossible, and the bitterness of the reproaches of Cagliostro caused a kind of ill-humor, which protected me from weakness. 'You feign to have faith in your own falsehood,' said I, with vivacity; 'ah! your game is very cruel. Yes; you sport with all that is most holy, even with death itself.'
"'Soul without faith, and without power,' said he angrily, but in a most imposing manner. 'You believe in death, as the vulgar do, and yet you had a great master—one who said: "We do not die. Nothing dies;—there is nothing dies." You accuse me of falsehood, and seem to forget that the only thing which is untrue here, is the name of death in your impious mouth.' I confess that this strange reply overturned all my thoughts, and for a moment overcame the resistance of my troubled mind. How came this man to be aware of my relations with Albert, and even the secrets of his doctrine? Did he believe as Albert did, or did he make use of this as a means to acquire an ascendancy over me?
"I was confused and alarmed. Soon, however, I said that this gross manner of interpreting Albert's faith, could not be mine, and that God, not the impostor Cagliostro, can evoke death, or recall life. Finally, convinced that I was the dupe of an inexplicable illusion, the explanation of which, however, I might some day find, I arose, praising coldly thesavoir-faireof the sorcerer, and asked him for an explanation of the whimsical conversation his phantoms had together. In relation to that he replied, that it was impossible to satisfy me, and that I should be satisfied with seeing the person calm, and carefully occupied. 'You will ask me in vain,' added he, 'what are his thoughts and actions in life. I am ignorant even of his name. When you desired, and asked to see it, there was formed between you two a mysterious communication, which my power was capable of making able to bring you together. All science goes no farther.'