INTRODUCTION.
In Lady Blennerhassett's enthusiastic and
encyclopædic book on Madame de Stael she quotes approvingly Sainte-Beuve's
phrase that "with Corinne Madame de Stael ascended the Capitol." I
forget in which of his many dealings with an author who, as he remarks in
the "Coppet-and-Weimar" causeries, was "an idol of his youth and one
that he never renounced," this fancy occurs. It must probably have been in
one of his early essays; for in his later and better, Sainte-Beuve was not
wont to give way to the little flashes and crackles of conceit and epigram
which many Frenchmen and some Englishmen think to be criticism. There was,
however, some excuse for this. In the first place (as one of Charles Lamb's
literal friends would have pointed out), Madame de Stael, like her heroine,
did actually "ascend the Capitol," and received attentions there from an
Academy. In the second, there can be no doubt that Corinne in a
manner fixed and settled the high literary reputation which she had already
attained. Even by her severest critics, and even now when whatever slight
recrudescence of biographical interest may have taken place in her, her
works are little read, Corinne is ranked next to De l'Allemagne
as her greatest production; while as a work of form, not of matter, as
literature of power, not of knowledge, it has at last a chance of enduring
when its companion is but a historical document—the record of a moment that
has long passed away.
The advocates of the milieu
theory—the theory which will have it that you can explain almost the whole
of any work of art by examining the circumstances, history, and so forth of
the artist—have a better chance with Corinne than with many books,
though those who disagree with them (as I own that I do) may retort that
this was precisely because Madame de Stael in literature has little
idiosyncracy, and is a receptive, not a creative, force. The moment at which
this book was composed and appeared had really many of the characteristics
of crisis and climax in the life of the author. She was bidding adieu to
youth; and though her talents, her wealth, her great reputation, and her
indomitable determination to surround herself with admirers still made her a
sort of queen of society, some illusions at least must have been passing
from her. The most serious of her many passions, that for Benjamin Constant,
was coming, though it had not yet come, to an end. Her father, whom she
unfeignedly idolised, was not long dead. The conviction must have been for
some time forcing itself on her, though she did not even yet give up hope,
that Napoleon's resolve not to allow her presence in her still more idolised
Paris was unconquerable. Her husband, who indeed had long been nothing to
her, was dead also, and the fancy for replacing him with the boy Rocca had
not yet arisen. The influence of the actual chief of her usual herd of
lovers, courtiers, teachers, friends (to use whichever term, or combination
of terms, the charitable reader pleases), A.W. Schlegel, though it never
could incline her innately unpoetical and unreligious mind to either poetry
or religion, drove her towards æsthetics of one kind and another. Lastly,
the immense intellectual excitement of her visits to Weimar, Berlin, and
Italy, added its stimulus to produce a fresh intellectual ferment in her. On
the purely intellectual side the result was De l'Allemagne, which
does not concern us; on the side of feeling, tinged with æsthetic
philosophy, of study of the archaic and the picturesque illuminated by
emotion—the result was Corinne.
If there had been only one difference
between this and its author's earlier attempt at novel-writing, that
difference would have given Corinne a great advantage. Delphine
had been irreverently described by Sydney Smith, when it appeared a few
years earlier, as "this dismal trash which has nearly dislocated the jaws of
every critic with gaping." The Whigs had not then taken up Madame de Stael,
as they did afterwards, or it is quite certain that Mr Sydney would not have
been allowed to exercise such Britannic frankness. Corinne met with
gentler treatment from his friends, if not from himself. Sir James
Mackintosh, in particular, was full of the wildest enthusiasm about it,
though he admitted that it was "full of faults so obvious as not to be worth
mentioning." It must be granted to be in more than one, or two important
points a very great advance on Delphine. One is that the easy and
illegitimate source of interest which is drawn upon in the earlier book is
here quite neglected. Delphine presents the eternal French situation
of the "triangle;" the line of Corinne is straight, and the only
question is which pair of three points it is to unite in an honourable way.
A French biographer of Madame de Stael, who is not only an excellent critic
and an extremely clever writer, but a historian of great weight and
acuteness, M. Albert Sorel, has indeed admitted that both Léonce, the hero
of Delphine, who will not make himself and his beloved happy because
he has an objection to divorcing his wife, and Lord Nelvil, who refuses
either to seduce or to marry the woman who loves him and whom he loves, are
equal donkeys with a national difference. Léonce is more of a "fool;" Lord
Nelvil more of a "snob." It is something to find a Frenchman who will admit
that any national characteristic is foolish: I could have better
reciprocated M. Sorel's candour if he had used the word "prig" instead of
"snob" of Lord Nelvil. But indeed I have often suspected that Frenchmen
confuse these two engaging attributes of the Britannic nature.
A "higher moral tone" (as the phrase goes)
is not the only advantage which Corinne possesses over its
forerunner. Delphine is almost avowedly autobiographical; and though
Madame de Stael had the wit and the prudence to mix and perplex her
portraits and her reminiscences so that it was nearly impossible to fit
definite caps on the personages, there could be no doubt that Delphine was
herself—as she at least would have liked to be—drawn as close as she dared.
These personalities have in the hands of the really great masters of fiction
sometimes produced astonishing results; but no one probably would contend
that Madame de Stael was a born novelist. Although Delphine has many
more personages and much more action of the purely novel kind than
Corinne, it is certainly not an interesting book; I think, though I have
been reproached for, to say the least, lacking fervour as a Staelite, that
Corinne is.
But it is by no means unimportant that
intending readers should know the sort of interest that they are to expect
from this novel; and for that purpose it is almost imperative that they
should know what kind of person was this novelist. A good deal of
biographical pains has been spent, as has been already more than once
hinted, on Madame de Stael. She was most undoubtedly of European reputation
in her day; and between her day and this, quite independently of the real
and unquestionable value of her work, a high estimate of her has been kept
current by the fact that her daughter was the wife of Duke Victor and the
mother of Duke Albert of Broglie, and that so a proper respect for her has
been a necessary passport to favour in one of the greatest political and
academic houses of France; while another not much less potent in both ways,
that of the Counts d'Haussonville, also represents her. Still people, and
especially English people, have so many non-literary things to think of,
that it may not be quite unpardonable to supply that conception of the life
of Anne Louise Germaine Necker, Baroness of Stael-Holstein, which is so
necessary to the understanding of Corinne, and which may, in possible
cases, be wanting.
She was born on the 22nd of April 1766, and
was, as probably everybody knows, the daughter of the Swiss financier,
Necker, whom the French Revolution first exalted to almost supreme power in
France, and then cast off—fortunately for him, in a less tragical fashion
than that in which it usually cast off its favourites. Her mother was
Suzanne Curchod, the first love of Gibbon, a woman of a delicate beauty, of
very considerable mental and social faculties, a kind of puritanical
coquette, but devoted to her (by all accounts not particularly interesting)
husband. Indeed, mother and daughter are said to have been from a very early
period jealous of each other in relation to Necker. Germaine, as she was
generally called, had, unluckily for her, inherited nothing of her mother's
delicacy of form and feature; indeed, her most rapturous admirers never
dared to claim much physical beauty for her, except a pair of fine, though
unfeminine, eyes. She was rather short than tall; her figure was square-set
and heavy; her features, though not exactly ill-formed, matched her figure;
her arms were massive, though not ill-shaped; and she was altogether
distinctly what the French call hommasse. Nevertheless, her great
wealth, and the high position of her father, attracted suitors, some of whom
at least may not have overlooked the intellectual ability which she began
very early to display. There was talk of her marrying William Pitt, but
either Pitt's well-known "dislike of the fair," or some other reason, foiled
the project. After one or two other negotiations she made a match which was
not destined to good fortune, and which does not strike most observers as a
very tempting one in any respect, though it carried with it some exceptional
and rather eccentric guarantees for that position at court and in society on
which Germaine was set. The King of Sweden, Gustavus, whose family oddity
had taken, among less excusable forms, that of a platonic devotion to Marie
Antoinette, gave a sort of perpetual brevet of his ministry at Paris to the
Baron de Stael-Holstein, a nobleman of little fortune and fair family. This
served, using clerical language, as his "title" to marriage with Germaine
Necker. Such a marriage could not be expected to, and did not, turn out very
well; but it did not turn out as ill as it might have done. Except that M.
de Stael was rather extravagant (which he probably supposed he had bought
the right to be) nothing serious is alleged against him; and though more
than one thing serious might be alleged against his wife, it is doubtful
whether either contracting party thought this out of the bargain. For
business reasons, chiefly, a separation was effected between the pair in
1798, but they were nominally reconciled four years later, just before
Stael's death.
Meanwhile the Revolution broke out, and
Madame de Stael, who, as she was bound to do, had at first approved it,
disapproved totally of the Terror, tried to save the Queen, and fled herself
from France to England. Here she lived in Surrey with a questionable set of
émigrés, made the acquaintance of Miss Burney, and in consequence of
the unconventionalities of her relations, especially with M. de Narbonne,
received, from English society generally, a cold shoulder, which she has
partly avenged, or tried to avenge, in Corinne itself. She had
already written, or was soon to write, a good deal, but nothing of the first
importance. Then she went to Coppet, her father's place, on the Lake of
Geneva, which she was later to render so famous; and under the Directory was
enabled to resume residence in Paris, though she was more than once under
suspicion. It was at this time that she met Benjamin Constant, the future
brilliant orator, and author of Adolphe, the only man perhaps whom
she ever really loved, but, unluckily, a man whom it was by no means good to
love. For some years she oscillated contentedly enough between Coppet and
Paris. But the return of Bonaparte from Egypt was unlucky for her. Her
boundless ambition, which, with her love of society, was her strongest
passion, made her conceive the idea of fascinating him, and through him
ruling the world. Napoleon, to use familiar English, "did not see it." When
he liked women he liked them pretty and feminine; he had not the faintest
idea of admitting any kind of partner in his glory; he had no literary
taste; and not only did Madame de Stael herself meddle with politics, but
her friend, Constant, under the Consulate, chose to give himself airs of
opposition in the English sense. Moreover, she still wrote, and Bonaparte
disliked and dreaded everyone who wrote with any freedom. Her book, De la
Littérature, in 1800, was taken as a covert attack on the Napoleonic
régime; her father shortly after republished another on finance and
politics, which was disliked; and the success of Delphine, in 1803,
put the finishing touch to the petty hatred of any kind of rival superiority
which distinguished the Corsican more than any other man of equal genius.
Madame de Stael was ordered not to approach within forty leagues of Paris,
and this exile, with little softening and some excesses of rigour, lasted
till the return of the Bourbons.
Then it was that the German and Italian
journeys already mentioned (the death of M. Necker happening between them
and recalling his daughter from the first) led to the writing of Corinne.
A very few words before we turn to the
consideration of the book, as a book and by itself, may appropriately finish
all that need be said here about the author's life. After the publication of
Corinne she returned to Germany, and completed the observation which
she thought necessary for the companion book De l'Allemagne. Its
publication in 1810, when she had foolishly kindled afresh the Emperor's
jealousy by appearing with her usual "tail" of worshippers or parasites as
near Paris as she was permitted, completed her disgrace. She was ordered
back to Coppet: her book was seized and destroyed. Then Albert de Rocca, a
youth of twenty-three, who had seen some service, made his appearance at
Geneva. Early in 1811, Madame de Stael, now aged forty-five, married him
secretly. She was, or thought herself, more and more persecuted by Napoleon;
she feared that Rocca might be ordered off on active duty, and she fled
first to Vienna, then to St Petersburg, then to Stockholm, and so to
England. Here she was received with ostentatious welcome and praises by the
Whigs; with politeness by everybody; with more or less concealed terror by
the best people, who found her rhapsodies and her political dissertations
equally boring. Here too she was unlucky enough to express the opinion that
Miss Austen's books were vulgar. The fall of Napoleon brought her back to
Paris; and after the vicissitudes of 1814-15, enabled her to establish
herself there for the short remainder of her life, with the interruption
only of visits to Coppet and to Italy. She died on the 13th July 1817: her
two last works, Dix Années d'Exil and the posthumous
Considérations sur La Révolution Française, being admittedly of
considerable interest, and not despicable even by those who do not think
highly of her political talents.
And now to Corinne, unhampered and
perhaps a little helped by this survey of its author's character, career,
and compositions. The heterogeneous nature of its plan can escape no reader
long; and indeed is pretty frankly confessed by its title. It is a love
story doubled with a guide-book: an eighteenth-century romance of
"sensibility" blended with a transition or even nineteenth-century diatribe
of æsthetics and "culture." If only the first of these two labels were
applicable to it, its case would perhaps be something more gracious than it
is; for there are more unfavourable situations for cultivating the
affections, than in connection with the contemplation of the great works of
art and nature, and it is possible to imagine many more disagreeable
ciceroni than a lover of whichever sex. But Corinne and Nelvil (whom our
contemporary translator
has endeavoured to acclimatise a little more by Anglicising his name further
to Nelville), do not content themselves with making love in the congenial
neighbourhoods of Tiber or Pœstum, or in the stimulating presence of the
masterpieces of modern and ancient art. A purpose, and a double purpose, it
might almost be said, animates the book. It aims at displaying "sensibility
so charming"—the strange artificial eighteenth-century conception of love
which is neither exactly flirtation nor exactly passion, which sets
convention at defiance, but retains its own code of morality; at exhibiting
the national differences, as Madame de Stael conceived them, of the English
and French and Italian temperaments; and at preaching the new cult of
æsthetics whereof Lessing and Winckelmann, Gœthe, and Schlegel, were in
different ways and degrees the apostles. And it seems to have been generally
admitted, even by the most fervent admirers of Madame de Stael and of
Corinne itself, that the first purpose has not had quite fair play with
the other two. "A little thin," they confess of the story. In truth it could
hardly be thinner, though the author has laid under contribution an at least
ample share of the improbabilities and coincidences of romance.
Nelvil, an English-Scottish peer who has
lost his father, who accuses himself of disobedience and ingratitude to that
father, and who has been grievously jilted by a Frenchwoman, arrives in
Italy in a large black cloak, the deepest melancholy, and the company of a
sprightly though penniless French émigré, the Count d'Erfeuil. After
performing prodigies of valour in a fire at Ancona, he reaches Rome just
when a beautiful and mysterious poetess, the delight of Roman society, is
being crowned on the Capitol. The only name she is known by is Corinne. The
pair are soon introduced by the mercurial Erfeuil, and promptly fall in love
with each other, Corinne seeking partly to fix her hold on Nelvil, partly to
remove his Britannic contempt for Italy and the Italians, by guiding him to
all the great spectacles of Rome and indeed of the country generally, and by
explaining to him at great length what she understands of the general theory
of æsthetics, of Italian history, and of the contrasted character of the
chief European nations. Nelvil on his side is distracted between the
influence of the beauty, genius, and evident passion of Corinne, and his
English prejudices; while the situation is further complicated by the
regulation discovery that Corinne, though born in Italy of an Italian
mother, is, strictly speaking, his own compatriot, being the elder and
lawful daughter of a British peer, Lord Edgermond, his father's closest
friend. Nay more, he had always been destined to wed this very girl; and it
was only after her father's second marriage with an Englishwoman that the
younger and wholly English daughter, Lucile, was substituted in the paternal
schemes as his destined spouse. He hears, on the other hand, how Corinne had
visited her fatherland and her step-mother, how she had found both
intolerable, and how she had in a modified and decent degree "thrown her cap
over the mill" by returning to Italy to live an independent life as a
poetess, an improvisatrice, and, at least in private, an actress.
It is not necessary to supply fuller
argument of the text which follows, and of which, when the reader has got
this length, he is not likely to let the dénoûment escape him. But
the action of Corinne gets rather slowly under weigh; and I have
known those who complained that they found the book hard to read because
they were so long in coming to any clear notion of "what it was all about."
Therefore so much argument as has been given seems allowable.
But we ought by this time to have laid
sufficient foundation to make it not rash to erect a small superstructure of
critical comment on the book now once more submitted to English readers. Of
that book I own that I was myself a good many years ago, and for a good many
years, a harsh and even a rather unfair judge. I do not know whether years
have brought me the philosophic mind, or whether the book—itself, as has
been said, the offspring of middle-aged emotions—appeals more directly to a
middle-aged than to a young judgment. To the young of its own time and the
times immediately succeeding it appealed readily enough, and scarcely Byron
himself (who was not a little influenced by it) had more to do with the
Italomania of Europe in the second quarter of this century than Madame de
Stael.
The faults of the novel indeed are those
which impress themselves (as Mackintosh, we have seen, allowed) immediately
and perhaps excessively. M. Sorel observes of its companion sententiously
but truly, "Si le style de Delphine semble vieilli, c'est qu'il a été
jeune." If not merely the style but the sentiment, the whole properties and
the whole stage management of Corinne seem out of date now, it is
only because they were up to date then. It is easy to laugh—not perhaps very
easy to abstain from laughing—at the "schall" twisted in Corinne's hair,
where even contemporaries mocked the hideous turban with which Madame de
Stael chose to bedizen her not too beautiful head; at Nelvil's inky cloak;
at the putting out of the fire; at the queer stilted half-Ossianic,
half-German rants put in the poetess's mouth; at the endless mingling of
gallantry and pedantry; at the hesitations of Nelvil; at the agonies of
Corinne. When French critics tell us that as they allow the good-humoured
satire on the Count d'Erfeuil to be just, we ought to do the same in
reference to the "cant Britannique" of Nelvil and of the Edgermond circle,
we can only respectfully answer that we should not presume to dispute their
judgment in the first case, but that they really must leave us to ours in
the second. As a matter of fact, Madame de Stael's goody English characters,
are rather like Miss Edgeworth's naughty French ones in Leonora and
elsewhere—clever generalisations from a little observation and a great deal
of preconceived idea, not studies from the life.
But this (and a great deal more that might
be said if it were not something like petty treason in an
introduction-writer thus to play the devil's advocate against his author)
matters comparatively little, and leaves enough in Corinne to furnish
forth a book almost great, interesting without any "almost," and remarkable
as a not very large shelf-ful in the infinite library of modern fiction
deserves remark. For the passion of its two chief characters, however oddly,
and to us unfashionably, presented, however lacking in the commanding and
perennial qualities which make us indifferent to fashion in the work of the
greatest masters, is real. And it is perhaps only after a pretty long
study of literature that one perceives how very little real passion books,
even pretty good books, contain, how much of what at times seems to us
passionate in them owes its appeal to accident, mode, and the personal
equation. Of the highest achievement of art—that which avails itself of, but
subdues, personal thought and feeling in the elaboration of a perfectly live
character—Madame de Stael was indeed incapable. But in the second order—that
which, availing itself of, but not subduing, the personal element, keeps
enough of its veracity and lively force to enliven a composite structure of
character—she has here produced very noteworthy studies. Corinne is a very
fair embodiment of the beauty which her author would so fain have had; of
the youthful ardour which she had once actually possessed; of the ideas and
cults to which she was sincerely enough devoted; of the instruction and
talent which unquestionably distinguished her. And it is not, I think,
fanciful to discover in this heroine, with all her "Empire" artifice and
convention, all her smack of the theatre and the salon, a certain
live quiver and throb, which, as has been already hinted, may be traced to
the combined working in Madame de Stael's mind and heart of the excitements
of foreign travel, the zest of new studies, new scenes, new company, with
the chill regret for lost or passing youth and love, and the chillier
anticipation of coming old age and death. It is a commonplace of psychology
that in shocks and contrasts of this kind the liveliest workings of the
imagination and the emotions are to be expected. If we once establish the
contact and complete the circle, and feel something of the actual thrill
that animated the author, we shall, I think, feel disposed to forgive
Corinne many things—from the dress and attitude which recall that admirable
frontispiece of Pickersgill's to Miss Austen's Emma, where Harriet
Smith poses in rapt attitude with "schall" or scarf complete, to that more
terrible portrait of Madame de Stael herself which editors with remorseless
ferocity will persist in prefixing to her works, and especially to
Corinne. We shall consent to sweep away all the fatras and
paraphernalia of the work, and to see in the heroine a real woman
enough—loving, not unworthy of being loved, unfortunate, and very
undeserving of her ill fortune. We shall further see that besides other
excuses for the mere guide-book detail, the enthusiasm for Italy which
partly prompted it was genuine enough and very interesting as a sign of the
times—of the approach of a period of what we may call popularised learning,
culture, sentiment. In some respects Corinne is not merely a
guide-book to Italy; it is a guide-book by prophecy to the nineteenth
century.
The minor characters are a very great deal
less interesting than Corinne herself, but they are not despicable, and they
set off the heroine and carry out what story there is well enough. Nelvil of
course is a thing shreddy and patchy enough. He reminds us by turns of
Chateaubriand's René and Rousseau's Bomston, both of whom Madame de Stael of
course knew; of Mackenzie's Man of Feeling, with whom she was very probably
acquainted; but most of no special, even bookish, progenitor, but of a
combination of theoretic deductions from supposed properties of man in
general and Englishman in particular. Of Englishmen in particular Madame de
Stael knew little more than a residence (chiefly in émigré society)
for a short time in England, and occasional meetings elsewhere, could teach
her. Of men in general her experience had been a little unfortunate. Her
father had probity, financial skill, and, I suppose, a certain amount of
talent in other directions; but while he must have had some domestic virtues
he was a wooden pedant. Her husband hardly counted for more in her life than
her maître d'hôtel, and though there seems to have been no particular
harm in him, had no special talents and no special virtues. Her first
regular lover, Narbonne, was a handsome, dignified, heartless roué of
the old régime. Her second, Benjamin Constant, was a man of genius,
and capable of passionate if inconstant attachment, but also what his own
generation in England called a thorough "raff"—selfish, treacherous, fickle,
incapable of considering either the happiness or the reputation of women,
theatrical in his ways and language, venal, insolent, ungrateful. Schlegel,
though he too had some touch of genius in him, was half pedant, half
coxcomb, and full of intellectual and moral faultiness. The rest of her
mighty herd of male friends and hangers-on ranged from Mathieu de
Montmorency—of whom, in the words of Medora Trevilian it may be said, that
he was "only an excellent person"—through respectable savants like Sismondi
and Dumont, down to a very low level of toady and tuft-hunter. It is rather
surprising that with such models and with no supreme creative faculty she
should have been able to draw such creditable walking gentlemen as the
Frenchman Erfeuil, the Englishman Edgermond, and the Italian Castel-Forte;
and should not have produced a worse hero than Nelvil. For Nelvil, whatever
faults he may have, and contemptible as his vacillating refusal to take the
goods the gods provide him may be, is, after all, if not quite a live man,
an excellent model of what a considerable number of the men of his time
aimed at being, and would have liked to be. He is not a bit less life-like
than Byron's usual hero for instance, who probably owes not a little to him.
And so we get to a fresh virtue of
Corinne, or rather we reach its main virtue by a different side. It has
an immense historical value as showing the temper, the aspirations, the
ideas, and in a way the manners of a certain time and society. A book which
does this can never wholly lose its interest; it must always retain that
interest in a great measure, for those who are able to appreciate it. And it
must interest them far more keenly, when, besides this secondary and, so to
speak, historical merit, it exhibits such veracity in the portraiture of
emotion, as, whatever be its drawbacks, whatever its little temptations to
ridicule, distinguishes the hapless, and, when all is said, the noble and
pathetic figure of Corinne.
George
Saintsbury.
Book I
OSWALD.
Chapter i.
Oswald, Lord Nelville, Peer of Scotland,
quitted Edinburgh for Italy during the winter of 1794-5. He possessed a
noble and handsome figure, an abundance of wit, an illustrious name, and an
independent fortune, but his health was impaired by deeply-rooted sorrow,
and his physicians, fearing that his lungs were attacked, had prescribed him
the air of the South. Though indifferent as to the preservation of his life,
he followed their advice. He expected, at least, to find in the diversity of
objects he was about to see, something that might divert his mind from the
melancholy that preyed upon it. The most exquisite of griefs—the loss of a
father—was the cause of his malady; this was heightened by cruel
circumstances, which, together with a remorse inspired by delicate scruples,
increased his anguish, which was still further aggravated by the phantoms of
the imagination. Those who suffer, easily persuade themselves that they are
guilty, and violent grief will extend its painful influence even to the
conscience.
At twenty-five years of age he was
dissatisfied with life, his mind anticipated every thing that it could
afford, and his wounded sensibility no longer enjoyed the illusions of the
heart. Nobody appeared more complacent, more devoted to his friends when he
was able to render them service; but not even the good he performed could
afford him a pleasurable sensation.
He incessantly sacrificed his own taste to
that of others; but it was impossible to explain, upon principles of
generosity alone, this total abnegation of every selfish feeling, most
frequently to be attributed to that species of sadness which no longer
permitted him to take any interest in his own fate. Those indifferent to him
enjoyed this disposition so full of benignity and charm; but those who loved
him perceived that he sought the happiness of others like a man who no
longer expected any himself; and they almost experienced a pain from his
conferring a felicity for which it was impossible to make him a return in
kind.
He was, notwithstanding, of a nature
susceptible of emotion, sensibility and passion; he combined every thing
that could evoke enthusiasm in others and in himself; but misfortune and
repentance had taught him to tremble at that destiny whose anger he sought
to disarm by forbearing to solicit any favour at her hands.
He expected to find in a strict attachment
to all his duties, and in a renunciation of every lively enjoyment, a
security against those pangs that tear the soul. What he had experienced
struck fear into his heart; and nothing this world can afford, could, in his
estimation, compensate the risk of those sufferings; but when one is capable
of feeling them, what mode of life can shelter us from their power?
Lord Nelville flattered himself that he
should be able to quit Scotland without regret, since he resided in it
without pleasure; but the unhappy imagination of the children of sensibility
is not so formed: he did not suspect what ties attached him to those scenes
which were most painful to him,—to the home of his father. There were in
this habitation, chambers, places, which he could not approach without
shuddering, and, nevertheless, when he resolved to quit them, he felt
himself still more solitary. His heart became dried up; he was no longer
able to give vent to his sufferings in tears; he could no longer call up
those little local circumstances which affected him deeply; his
recollections no longer possessed anything of the vivid semblance of real
existence; they were no longer in affinity with the objects that surrounded
him; he did not think less on him whose loss he lamented, but he found it
more difficult to recall his presence.
Sometimes also he reproached himself for
abandoning those abodes where his father had dwelt. "Who knows," said he to
himself, "whether the shades of the departed are allowed to pursue every
where the objects of their affection? Perhaps it is only permitted them to
wander about the spot where their ashes repose! Perhaps at this moment my
father regrets me, while distance prevents my hearing his voice exerted to
recall his son. Alas! while he was living must not a concourse of strange
events have persuaded him that I had betrayed his tenderness, that I was a
rebel to my country, to his paternal will, to everything that is sacred on
earth?"—These recollections excited in Lord Nelville a grief so
insupportable that not only was he unable to confide it to others, but even
dreaded himself to sound it to the bottom. So easily do our own reflections
become to us an irreparable evil.
It costs us more to quit our native country
when to leave it we must traverse the sea; all is solemn in a journey of
which ocean marks the first steps. An abyss seems to open behind you, and to
render your return for ever impossible. Besides, the sublime spectacle which
the sea presents must always make a deep impression on the imagination; it
is the image of that Infinity which continually attracts our thoughts, that
run incessantly to lose themselves in it. Oswald, supporting himself on the
helm, his eyes fixed on the waves, was apparently calm, for his pride,
united to his timidity, would scarcely ever permit him to discover, even to
his friends, what he felt; but he was internally racked with the most
painful emotions.
He brought to mind the time when the sight
of the sea animated his youth with the desire of plunging into her waves,
and measuring his force against her's.—"Why," said he to himself, with the
most bitter regret, "why do I yield so unremittingly to reflection? How many
pleasures are there in active life, in those exercises which make us feel
the energy of existence? Death itself then appears but an event, perhaps
glorious, at least sudden, and not preceded by decline. But that death which
comes without having been sought by courage, that death of darkness which
steals from you in the night all that you hold most dear, which despises
your lamentations, repulses your embrace, and pitilessly, opposes to you the
eternal laws of nature and of time! such a death inspires a sort of contempt
for human destiny, for the impotence of grief, for all those vain efforts
that dash and break themselves upon the rock of necessity."
Such were the sentiments that tormented
Oswald; and what particularly characterised his unhappy situation, was the
vivacity of youth united to thoughts of another age. He entered into those
ideas which he conceived must have occupied his father's mind in the last
moments of his life; and he carried the ardour of twenty-five into the
melancholy reflections of old age. He was weary of every thing, and yet
still regretted happiness, as if her illusions were still within his grasp.
This contrast, quite in hostility with the ordinance of nature, which gives
uniformity and graduation to the natural course of things, threw the soul of
Oswald into disorder; but his manners always possessed considerable
sweetness and harmony, and his sadness, far from souring his temper, only
inspired him with more condescension and goodness towards others.
Two or three times during the passage from
Harwich to Empden the sea put on the appearance of approaching storm; Lord
Nelville counselled the sailors, restored confidence to the passengers, and
when he himself assisted in working the ship, when he took for a moment the
place of the steersman, there was in all he did, a skill and a power which
could not be considered as merely the effect of the agility of the
body,—there was soul in all that he did.
On his quitting the vessel all the crew
crowded around Oswald to take leave of him; they all thanked him for a
thousand little services which he had rendered them during the voyage, and
which he no longer remembered. Upon one occasion, perhaps, it was a child
which had occupied a large share of his attention; more often an old man,
whose tottering steps he had supported when the wind agitated the ship. Such
a general attention, without any regard to rank or quality, was perhaps
never met with. During the whole day he would scarcely bestow a single
moment upon himself: influenced alike by melancholy and benevolence, he gave
his whole time to others. On leaving him the sailors said to him with one
voice, "My dear Lord, may you be more happy!" Oswald had not once expressed
the internal pain he felt; and the men of another rank, who had accompanied
him in his passage, had not spoken a word to him on that subject. But the
common people, in whom their superiors rarely confide, accustom themselves
to discover sentiments and feelings by other means than speech: they pity
you when you suffer, though they are ignorant of the cause of your grief,
and their spontaneous pity is unmixed with either blame or advice.
Chapter ii.
Travelling, whatever may be said of it, is
one of the saddest pleasures of life. When you find yourself comfortable in
some foreign city it begins to feel, in some degree, like your own country;
but to traverse unknown realms, to hear a language spoken which you hardly
comprehend, to see human countenances which have no connection either with
your past recollections or future prospects, is solitude and isolation,
without dignity and without repose; for that eagerness, that haste to arrive
where nobody expects us, that agitation, of which curiosity is the only
cause, inspires us with very little esteem for ourselves, till the moment
when new objects become a little old, and create around us some soft ties of
sentiment and habit.
The grief of Oswald was, then, redoubled in
traversing Germany in order to repair to Italy. On account of the war it was
necessary to avoid France and its environs; it was also necessary to keep
aloof from the armies who rendered the roads impracticable. This necessity
of occupying his mind with particulars material to the journey, of adopting,
every day, and almost every instant, some new resolution, was quite
insupportable to Lord Nelville. His health, far from becoming better, often
obliged him to stop, when he felt the strongest desire to hasten to his
journey's end or at least to make a start. He spat blood, and took scarcely
any care of himself; for he believed himself guilty, and became his own
accuser with too great a degree of severity. He no longer wished for life
but as it might become instrumental to the defence of his country. "Has not
our country," said he, "some paternal claims upon us? But we should have the
power to serve it usefully: we must not offer it such a debilitated
existence as I drag along to ask of the sun some principle of life to enable
me to struggle against my miseries. None but a father would receive me to
his bosom, under such circumstances, with affection increased in proportion
as I was abandoned by nature and by destiny."
Lord Nelville had flattered himself that
the continual variety of external objects would distract his imagination a
little from those ideas by which it was habitually occupied; but that
circumstance was far from producing, at first, this happy effect. After any
great misfortune we must become familiarised anew with everything that
surrounds us; accustom ourselves to the faces that we behold again, to the
house in which we dwell, to the daily habits that we resume; each of these
efforts is a painful shock, and nothing multiplies them like a journey.
The only pleasure of Lord Nelville was to
traverse the Tirolese Mountains upon a Scotch horse which he had brought
with him, and which like the horses of that country ascended heights at a
gallop: he quitted the high road in order to proceed by the most steep
paths. The astonished peasants cried out at first with terror at beholding
him thus upon the very brink of precipices, then clapped their hands in
admiration of his address, his agility, and his courage. Oswald was fond of
this sensation of danger; it supports the weight of affliction, it
reconciles us, for a moment, with that life which we have reconquered, and
which it so easy to lose.
Chapter iii.
In the town of Inspruck, before entering
Italy, Oswald heard a merchant at whose house he had stopped some time,
relate the story of a French emigré called the Count d'Erfeuil, which
greatly interested him in his favour. This man had suffered the entire loss
of a very large fortune with the most perfect serenity; he had, by his
talent for music, supported himself and an old uncle, whom he had taken care
of until his death; he had constantly refused to accept offers of pecuniary
assistance pressingly made to him; he had manifested the most brilliant
valour—a French valour—during the war, and the most invincible gaiety in the
midst of reverses. He was desirous of going to Rome to see a relation, whose
heir he was to be, and wished for a companion, or rather a friend, in order
to render the journey more agreeable to both.
The most bitter recollections of Lord
Nelville were connected with France; nevertheless he was exempt from those
prejudices which divide the two nations; for a Frenchman had been his
intimate friend, and he had found in this friend the most admirable union of
all the qualities of the soul. He, therefore, offered to the merchant who
related to him the story of the Count d'Erfeuil, to take this noble and
unfortunate young man to Italy; and at the end of an hour the merchant came
to inform Lord Nelville that his proposition was accepted with gratitude.
Oswald was happy in being able to perform this service, but it cost him much
to renounce his solitude; and his timidity was wounded at finding himself,
all of a sudden, in an habitual relation with a man whom he did not know.
The Count d'Erfeuil came to pay a visit to
Lord Nelville, in order to thank him. He possessed elegant manners, an easy
politeness, good taste, and appeared, from the very first introduction,
perfectly at his ease. In his company one would feel astonished at all that
he had suffered, for he supported his fate with a courage approaching to
oblivion; and there was in his conversation a facility truly admirable when
he spoke of his own reverses; but less admirable, it must be confessed, when
it extended to other subjects.
"I owe you infinite obligation, my lord,"
said the Count d'Erfeuil, "for rescuing me from this Germany, where I was
perishing with ennui." "You are here, nevertheless," replied Lord
Nelville, "generally beloved and esteemed." "I have friends here," replied
the Count d'Erfeuil, "whom I sincerely regret; for we meet in this country
the best people in the world; but I do not know a word of German, and you
will agree with me that it would be too long and fatiguing a task for me to
set about learning it now. Since I have had the misfortune to lose my uncle
I do not know what to do with my time, when I had the care of him it filled
up my day, at present the twenty-four hours weigh heavily upon my hands."
"The delicacy of your conduct towards your uncle," said Lord Nelville,
"inspires everybody with the most profound esteem for your character,
Count." "I have only done my duty," replied the Count d'Erfeuil; "the poor
man had overwhelmed me with kindnesses during my childhood; I should never
have deserted him had he lived a hundred years! But it is happy for him,
however, that he is dead; it would be a happy thing for me also were I to
follow him," added he, laughing; "for I have not much hope in this world. I
used my best endeavours, during the war, to get killed; but, since fate has
spared me, I must only live as well as I can." "I shall congratulate myself
on my arrival here," answered Lord Nelville, "if you find yourself
comfortable at Rome, and if—" "Oh, mon Dieu," interrupted the Count
d'Erfeuil, "I shall find myself comfortable every where: when we are young
and gay every thing accommodates itself to us. It is not from books, nor
from meditation, that I have derived the philosophy which I possess, but
from knowledge of the world, and trials of misfortune; and you see, my lord,
that I have reason to reckon upon chance, since it has procured me the
honour of travelling with you." In finishing these words the Count d'Erfeuil
saluted Lord Nelville with the best grace in the world, settled the hour of
departure for the following day, and took his leave.
The Count d'Erfeuil and Lord Nelville set
out on the morrow. Oswald, after some expressions of politeness had passed
between them, was several hours without saying a word; but perceiving that
this silence was disagreeable to his companion, he asked him if he
anticipated pleasure from a residence in Italy: "Mon Dieu," replied
the Count d'Erfeuil, "I know what I have to expect from that country. I have
no hope of any amusement there: a friend of mine, who had passed six months
at Rome, has assured me there is not a province of France where one may not
find a better theatre and a more agreeable society than at Rome, but in that
ancient capital of the world I shall surely find some Frenchmen to chat
with, and that is all I desire." "You have not attempted to learn Italian?"
interrupted Oswald. "Not at all," replied the Count d'Erfeuil; "that did not
enter into my plan of study." And in saying this he assumed such a serious
air that one would have believed it was a resolution founded upon grave
motives.
"If I may speak my mind to you," continued
the Count d'Erfeuil, "as a nation, I love only the English and the French,
one must either be proud like them or brilliant like us; all the rest is
only imitation." Oswald was silent; the Count d'Erfeuil some moments after
resumed the conversation by the most lively sallies of wit and gaiety. He
played with words and phrases in a very ingenious manner, but neither
external objects nor intimate sentiments were the object of his discourse.
His conversation proceeded, if it may be so expressed, neither from without
nor within; it was neither reflective nor imaginative, and the bare
relations of society were its subject.
He repeated twenty proper names to Lord
Nelville, either in France, or in England, to know if he was acquainted with
them, and related upon this occasion highly seasoned anecdotes with a most
graceful turn; but one would have said, in hearing him, that the only
discourse suitable to a man of taste was, to use the expression, the gossip
of good company.
Lord Nelville reflected some time on the
character of Count d'Erfeuil; that singular mixture of courage and
frivolity, that contempt of misfortune, so great if it had cost more
efforts, so heroic if it did not proceed from the same source that renders
us incapable of deep affections. "An Englishman," said Oswald to himself,
"would be weighed down with sadness under similar circumstances.—Whence
proceeds the resolution of this Frenchman? Whence proceeds also his
mobility? Does the Count d'Erfeuil then truly understand the art of living?
Is it only my own disordered mind that whispers to me I am superior to him?
Does his light existence accord better than mine with the rapidity of human
life? And must we shun reflection as an enemy, instead of giving up our
whole soul to it?" Vainly would Oswald have cleared up those doubts; no one
can escape from the intellectual region allotted him; and qualities are
still more difficult to subdue than defects.
The Count d'Erfeuil paid no attention to
Italy, and rendered it almost impossible for Lord Nelville to bestow a
thought upon it; for he incessantly distracted him from that disposition of
mind which excites admiration of a fine country, and gives a relish for its
picturesque charms. Oswald listened as much as he could to the noise of the
wind and to the murmuring of the waves; for all the voices of nature
conveyed more gratification to his soul than he could possibly receive from
the social conversation indulged in at the foot of the Alps, among the
ruins, and on the borders of the sea.
The sadness which consumed Oswald would
have opposed fewer obstacles to the pleasure which he could have derived
from Italy than the gaiety of Count d'Erfeuil, the sorrows of a sensitive
mind will blend with the contemplation of nature and the enjoyment of the
fine arts; but frivolity, in whatever form it presents itself, deprives
attention of its force, thought of its originality, and sentiment of its
profundity. One of the singular effects of this frivolity was to inspire
Lord Nelville with a great deal of timidity in his intercourse with Count
d'Erfeuil: embarrassment is nearly always on the side of him whose character
is the more serious. Mental levity imposes upon the mind habitually disposed
to meditation, and he who proclaims himself happy, appears wiser than he who
suffers.
The Count d'Erfeuil was mild, obliging, and
easy in every thing; serious only in self love, and worthy of being regarded
as he regarded others; that is to say, as a good companion of pleasures and
of perils; but he had no idea whatever of sharing sorrows: he was wearied to
death with the melancholy of Oswald, and, as much from goodness of heart as
from taste, was desirous of dissipating it.
"What is it you find wanting?" said he to
him often; "are you not young, rich, and if you choose, in good health? for
you are only ill because you are sad. For my part I have lost my fortune, my
existence: I know not in fact what will become of me; nevertheless I enjoy
life as if I possessed all the prosperity that earth can afford." "You are
endowed with a courage as rare as it is honourable," replied Lord Nelville;
"but the reverses which you have experienced are less injurious in their
consequences than the grief which preys upon the heart." "The grief which
preys upon the heart," cried the Count d'Erfeuil; "Oh! it is true, that is
the most cruel of all;—but—but yet we should console ourselves under it; for
a sensible man ought to drive away from his soul every thing that can
neither be useful to others nor to himself. Are we not here below to be
useful first and happy afterwards? My dear Nelville let us hold to that."
What the Count d'Erfeuil said was
reasonable, according to the general import of the word, for it savoured a
good deal of what is usually called common sense: passionate characters are
much more capable of folly than cool and superficial ones; but so far was
the Count d'Erfeuil's mode of feeling from exciting the confidence of Lord
Nelville that he would gladly have convinced him he was the most happy of
men in order to avoid the pain which his consolation gave him.
However the Count became greatly attached
to Lord Nelville: his resignation and his simplicity, his modesty and his
pride, inspired him with an involuntary respect for his character. He was
concerned at the calm exterior of Oswald; he ransacked his head to bring to
recollection all the most grave sayings which, in his childhood, he had
heard from his aged parents, in order to try their effect upon Lord Nelville;
and, quite astonished at not overcoming his apparent coldness, he said to
himself: "Do I not possess courage, goodness, and openness of disposition?
Am I not beloved in society? What is it then that I want to make an
impression upon this man? There surely must be some misunderstanding between
us which probably arises from his not understanding French sufficiently
well."
Chapter iv.
An unforeseen circumstance greatly
increased the sentiment of respect which the Count d'Erfeuil experienced
already, almost without knowing it, for his travelling companion. The health
of Lord Nelville had obliged him to stop some days at Ancona. The mountains
and the sea render the situation of this city very fine, and the crowd of
Greeks who work in front of their shops seated in the oriental manner, the
diversity of costume of the inhabitants of the Levant, whom one meets in the
streets, give it an original and interesting appearance. The art of
civilization has a continual tendency to render all men alike in appearance
and almost in reality; but the mind and the imagination take pleasure in the
characteristic differences of nations: it is only by affectation and by
calculation that men resemble each other; all that is natural is varied. The
eyes then, at least, derive some little pleasure from diversity of costume;
it seems to promise a new manner of feeling and of judging.
The Greek, the Catholic, and the Jewish
worships exist simultaneously and peaceably in the city of Ancona. The
ceremonies of these several religions differ widely from each other; but in
those various forms of worship, the same sentiment lifts the soul to
heaven—the same cry of grief, the same need of support.
The catholic church is on the top of a
mountain, which dominates the sea: the roaring of the waves is often mingled
with the song of the priests. The interior of the church is overladen with a
crowd of rather tawdry ornaments; but if one stop beneath the portico of the
temple, the soul is filled with the purest sentiments of religion,
heightened by that sublime spectacle the sea, on whose bosom man has never
been able to imprint the smallest trace. The earth is tilled by him, the
mountains are cut through by his roads, and rivers shut up into canals to
transport his merchandise; but if the waves are furrowed for a moment by his
vessels the billows immediately efface this slight mark of servitude, and
the sea appears again as it was the first day of the creation.
Lord Nelville had fixed his departure for
Rome for the morrow, when he heard, during the night the most dreadful cries
in the city. He hastily quitted the inn in order to learn the cause, when he
beheld a terrible fire, which proceeded from the port, and climbed from
house to house even to the very top of the city. The flames were mirrored at
a distance in the sea; the wind, which increased their fierceness, also
disturbed their image in the surging waves, which reflected in a thousand
ways the lurid traits of the conflagration.
The inhabitants of Ancona[2],
not having among them pumps in good condition, were obliged to carry water
to extinguish the flames, which they did with great eagerness. Amidst the
din of different cries was heard the clank of chains, from the galley
slaves, who were employed in saving that city which served them for a
prison. The different nations of the Levant, which commerce draws to Ancona,
expressed their fear by the stupor which appeared in their looks. The
merchants, on beholding their warehouses in flames, entirely lost their
presence of mind. Alarm for the loss of fortune affects the common order of
men as much as the fear of death, and does not inspire that energy of the
soul, that enthusiasm which brings resources to our aid.
The cries of sailors have always something
doleful and prolonged in them, and were now rendered still more so by
terror. The mariners on the shores of the Adriatic are clad in a red and
brown hooded cloak of most singular appearance, and from the midst of this
vestment emerged the animated countenances of the Italians, painting fear in
a thousand shapes. The inhabitants, throwing themselves down in the streets,
covered their heads with their cloaks, as if nothing remained for them now
to do but to avoid seeing their disaster; others precipitated themselves
into those flames from which they entertained no hope of escaping. A
thoughtless fury and a blind resignation appeared by turns; but nowhere was
seen that cool deliberation which redoubles our resources and our strength.
Oswald recollected that there were two
English vessels in the harbour which had on board pumps of the best
construction: he ran to the captain, who accompanied him in a boat to bring
away these pumps. The inhabitants, seeing them enter the boat, exclaimed, "Ah!
strangers you do well to quit our unhappy city!" "We shall come back
again," said Oswald. They did not believe him. He returned however, fixed
one of the pumps opposite the first house on fire, near the port, and the
other facing that which was burning in the middle of the street. The Count
d'Erfeuil exposed his life with carelessness, courage, and gaiety; the
English sailors, and the domestics of Lord Nelville, all came to his aid;
for the inhabitants of Ancona remained motionless, hardly comprehending what
these strangers were about, and not expecting the least success from them.
The bells rang in every quarter, the
priests made processions, the women lamented and prostrated themselves
before the images of the saints at the corners of the streets; but no one
thought of those natural means which God has given to man for his defence.
However, when the inhabitants perceived the happy effect of Oswald's
activity; when they saw that the flames were being extinguished, and that
their houses would be saved, they passed from astonishment to enthusiasm;
they thronged about Lord Nelville, and kissed his hands with such lively
eagerness that he was obliged to appear angry in order to drive away from
him all who might obstruct the rapid succession of orders, and of efforts
necessary to save the city. Every body was arranged under his command; for,
in the least as well as in the greatest circumstances, when danger presents
itself courage assumes its proper station; as soon as men are possessed with
fear they cease to be jealous of one another.
Oswald, however, amid the general din,
distinguished some cries more horrible than the rest, which resounded from
the other extremity of the city. He demanded whence these cries proceeded,
and was informed that they came from the quarter which was allotted for the
Jews: the officer of the police was accustomed to shut the gates of this
quarter in the evening, and, the fire having reached that part of the city,
the Jews had no means of escape.
Oswald shuddered at this idea, and demanded
that the gate should be immediately opened; but some women of the people who
heard him threw themselves at his feet, entreating him to desist.—"You
see very well," said they, "our good angel! that it is certainly on
account of these Jews who reside here that we have suffered this fire, it is
they who bring calamity upon us, and if you set them at liberty all the
water in the sea will not extinguish the flames." And they besought
Oswald to let the Jews be burnt with as much eloquence and tenderness as if
they were soliciting an act of clemency. This was not the effect of natural
cruelty, but of a superstitious imagination acutely impressed by a great
misfortune; however, Oswald could hardly contain his indignation on hearing
these strange entreaties.
He sent four English sailors with hatchets
to break open the gates which inclosed these unfortunate people, who spread
themselves in an instant through the city, running to their merchandise with
that greed of possession which has something very melancholy in it, when it
induces mortals to risk their lives for worldly wealth. One would say that
in the present state of society the simple blessing of life is esteemed by
man of little value.
There now remained but one house at the top
of the city, which the flames surrounded in such a manner that it was
impossible to extinguish them, and more impossible to enter it. The
inhabitants of Ancona had manifested so little concern for this house, that
the English sailors, not believing it to be inhabited, had dragged their
pumps towards the harbour. Oswald himself, stunned by the cries of those who
surrounded him and solicited his aid, had not paid attention to it. The fire
had extended the latest to that quarter, but had made considerable progress
there. Lord Nelville demanded so impatiently what house that was, that at
length a man informed him it was the madhouse. At this idea his whole soul
was agitated; he turned, but found none of the sailors around him; the Count
d'Erfeuil was not there either, and he would vainly have addressed himself
to the inhabitants of Ancona: they were almost all occupied in saving their
merchandise, and considered it absurd to run any risk to rescue men, of whom
there was not one who was not incurably mad: "It is a blessing from
Heaven," said they, "for them, and for their relations, that they
should die in this manner; without any one incurring a crime by their death."
Whilst they held such language as this
around Oswald, he proceeded with the utmost speed towards the madhouse, and
the crowd, by whom he was censured, followed him with a confused sentiment
of involuntary enthusiasm. As Oswald approached the house, he saw, at the
only window which was not surrounded with flames, a number of lunatics, who
regarded the progress of the fire with that horrid kind of smile which
either supposes ignorance of all the ills of life, or so much grief at the
bottom of the soul that death in no shape can terrify it. An inexpressible
shudder seized upon Oswald at this sight; he had felt in the most dreadful
moment of his despair, that his reason was on the point of being affected,
and since that epoch, the aspect of madness always inspired him with the
most sorrowful emotions of pity. He seized a ladder which he found near the
spot, fixed it against the wall, and entered by the window into an apartment
where the unhappy people who remained in the madhouse were assembled
together.
Their insanity was so harmless, that they
were suffered to be at large in the interior of the house with the exception
of one, who was chained in this very room, where the flames already began to
appear through the door, but had not yet consumed the floor. These miserable
creatures, quite degraded by disease and suffering, were so surprised and
enchanted by the appearance of Oswald among them, that they obeyed him at
first without resistance. He ordered them to descend before him, one after
another, by means of the ladder, which the flames might devour in a moment.
The first of these wretched people obeyed without uttering a word; the
accent and the physiognomy of Lord Nelville had entirely subdued him. A
third wished to resist, without suspecting the danger that he incurred by
each moment of delay, and without thinking of the peril to which he exposed
Oswald in detaining him. The people, who felt all the horrors of his
situation, cried out to Lord Nelville to return, and to let those maniacs
get away how they could. But the deliverer would listen to nothing till he
had achieved his generous enterprise.
Of the six lunatics who were in the
madhouse, five were already saved; there now only remained the sixth who was
chained. Oswald loosened his irons, and endeavoured to make him take the
same means of escaping as his companions had done; but it was a poor young
man, whose reason was entirely destroyed, and, finding himself at liberty,
after being chained for two years, he darted about the room with an
extravagant joy. This joy rose to fury, when Oswald tried to make him go out
at the window. Lord Nelville perceiving that it was impossible to prevail
upon this maniac to save himself, though the flames increased around them,
seized him in his arms, in spite of the efforts of the unhappy wretch, who
struggled against his benefactor. He carried him off, without knowing where
he placed his feet, so much was his sight obscured by the smoke; he leaped
from nearly the middle of the ladder, and consigned the lunatic, who loaded
him with curses, to some people whom he made promise to take care of him.
Oswald, animated by the danger he had just
run, his hair dishevelled, his look so proud yet so mild, struck the crowd
who beheld him with admiration, and almost with fanaticism; the women, above
all, expressed themselves with that imagination which is an almost universal
gift in Italy, and even gives a nobleness to the conversation of the common
people. They threw themselves on their knees before him, and cried, "You
are surely St Michael, the patron of our city; display thy wings most holy
saint! but do not quit us: deign to ascend the steeple of the cathedral,
that all the city may behold, and pray to thee." "My child is sick,"
said one, "heal him." "Tell me," said another, "where my
husband is, who has been absent several years?" Oswald sought a means of
escape. The Count d'Erfeuil arrived, and said to him, pressing his hand, "My
dear Nelville, we ought to share all things with our friends; it is unkind
of you thus to monopolise all the danger." "Release me from these people,"
said Oswald to him, in a low voice. A moment of darkness favoured their
flight, and both of them went in haste to get post horses.
Lord Nelville experienced, at first, some
pleasure from the good action he had just performed, but with whom could he
enjoy it now that his best friend was no more? How unhappy is the lot of
orphans! The most fortunate events, as well as the most painful, make them
feel alike the solitude of the heart. How is it possible, in effect, ever to
replace that affection which is born with us, that intelligence, that
sympathy of blood, that friendship prepared by heaven between the child and
the father? We may still, it is true, find an object of love; but one in
whom we can confide our whole soul is a happiness which can never be found
again.
Chapter v.
Oswald pursued his journey through the
Marches of Ancona, and the Ecclesiastical States, without any thing
attracting his observation, or exciting his interest: this was occasioned as
well by the melancholy habit of his soul, as by a certain natural indolence,
from which he was only to be aroused by strong passions. His taste for the
arts had not yet unfolded itself; he had never dwelt but in France, where
society is all in all, and in London, where political interests absorb
almost every other: his imagination, concentrated in his sufferings, had not
yet learnt to take pleasure in the wonders of nature and the masterpieces of
art.
The Count d'Erfeuil traversed every town
with the "Traveller's Guide" in his hand, and had at once the double
pleasure of losing his time in seeing every thing, and of declaring, that he
had seen nothing which could excite admiration in any person acquainted with
France. The ennui of Count d'Erfeuil discouraged Oswald; he, besides,
entertained prejudices against the Italians and against Italy: he did not
yet penetrate the mystery of this nation or of this country;—a mystery which
must be comprehended by the imagination, rather than by that faculty of
judgment which is particularly developed by an English education.
The Italians are much more remarkable for
what they have been, and for what they might be than for what they actually
are. The deserts which surround the city of Rome, that land which, fatigued
with glory, seems to hold in contempt the praise of being productive,
presents but an uncultivated and neglected country to him who considers it
with regard to utility. Oswald, accustomed from his infancy to the love of
order and public prosperity, received, at first, unfavourable impressions in
traversing those deserted plains which announce the approach to that city
formerly the queen of the world: he blamed the indolence of the inhabitants
and that of their rulers. Lord Nelville judged of Italy as an enlightened
administrator, the Count d'Erfeuil as a man of the world: thus the one from
reason, and the other from levity, were not sensible of that effect which
the country about Rome produces upon the imagination, when it is impressed
with the recollections, the sympathies, the natural beauties and the
illustrious misfortunes which spread over these regions an undefinable
charm.
The Count made ludicrous lamentations on
the environs of Rome. "What," said he, "no country house, no carriage,
nothing that announces the vicinity of a great city? Heavens! what a
melancholy prospect!" In approaching Rome, the postillions cried, with
transport, "See! See, there is the dome of St Peter's!" It is thus
that the Neapolitans shew mount Vesuvius, and the sea excites the same
emotions of pride in the inhabitants of the coast. "One would have thought
they had seen the dome of Les Invalides;" cried the Count d'Erfeuil.
This comparison, more patriotic than just, destroyed the impression which
Oswald might have received on beholding this magnificent wonder of human
creation. They entered Rome, not on a fine day—not on a fine night—but on a
gloomy evening, which tarnished and confounded every object. They traversed
the Tiber without remarking it; they arrived at Rome by the Porta del Popolo
which conducts immediately to the Corso, to the largest street of the modern
city, but to that part of Rome which possesses the least originality,
because it resembles more the other cities of Europe.
Crowds were walking in the streets; the
puppet shows and the charlatans were formed in groups in the square, where
stands the column of Antoninus. All the attention of Oswald was captivated
by the objects nearest to him. The name of Rome no longer vibrated through
his soul; he felt nothing but that isolation which oppresses the heart when
we enter a strange city, when we behold that multitude of people to whom our
existence is unknown, and who have no interest in common with us. Those
reflections, so sad for every man, are still more so for the English, who
are accustomed to live among themselves, and who with difficulty enter into
the manners of other nations. In the vast caravansary of Rome everything is
foreign, even the Romans seem to inhabit there not as the possessors, but
like pilgrims who repose beneath the ruins.
Oswald, oppressed with painful sensations, shut himself up at home, and went
not out to see the city. He was very far from thinking that this country,
which he entered under such sadness and dejection of spirits, would soon
become for him a source of so many new ideas and enjoyments.
Book II
CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL.
Chapter i.
Oswald awoke in Rome. His first looks were
saluted by the brilliancy of an Italian sun, and his soul was penetrated
with a sentiment of love and gratitude towards that Power which seemed
manifested in its resplendent beams. He heard the bells of the different
churches of the city; the firing of cannon at intervals announced some great
solemnity. He demanded the cause of it, and was informed that that morning
was to be crowned, at the Capitol, the most celebrated woman in Italy.
Corinne, poetess, writer, improvisatrice, and one of the greatest
beauties of Rome. He made some enquiries respecting this ceremony
consecrated by the names of Petrarch and of Tasso, and all the answers that
he received strongly excited his curiosity.
There is certainly nothing more contrary to
the habits and opinions of an Englishman, than this great publicity given to
the destiny of a woman; but even foreigners are affected, at least for a
moment, with that enthusiasm which is inspired in the Italians by all those
talents that belong to the imagination, and they forget the prejudices of
their country amidst a nation so warm in the expression of its feelings. The
common people of Rome reason with taste upon their statues, pictures,
monuments and antiquities; and literary merit, carried to a certain pitch,
excites in them a national interest.
Oswald quitted his lodgings to repair to
the public square, where he heard everybody speaking of the genius and
talents of Corinne. The streets through which she was to pass had been
decorated; the people, who rarely assemble together except to pay their
homage to fortune or power, were, upon this occasion, almost in a tumult to
behold a female whose mind was her only claim to distinction. In the actual
state of the Italians the field of glory is only open to them in the fine
arts, and they possess a sensibility for genius in that department, which
ought to give birth to great men, if applause alone were sufficient to
produce them, if the stress of vigorous life, great interests and an
independent existence were not necessary to nourish thought.
Oswald walked the streets of Rome, waiting
the arrival of Corinne. At every instant he heard her name accompanied with
some anecdote concerning her, which implied the possession of all those
talents that captivate the imagination. One said that her voice was the most
touching in Italy; another, that nobody played tragedy like her; somebody
else, that she danced like a nymph, and designed with as much taste as
invention: all said that nobody had ever written or improvised such fine
verses, and that, in habitual conversation she possessed by turns, a grace
and an eloquence which charmed every mind. Disputes were entered into as to
what city of Rome had given her birth; but the Romans maintained, warmly,
that she must have been born in Rome to speak Italian in such purity as she
did. No one was acquainted with her family name. Her first work had appeared
five years before, and only bore the name of Corinne; nobody knew where she
had lived, nor what she had been before that time: she was, however, nearly
twenty-six years of age. This mystery and publicity both at the same time,
this woman of whom everybody spoke, but whose real name was known to nobody,
appeared to Lord Nelville one of the wonders of the singular country he had
just come to live in. He would have judged very severely of such a woman in
England, but he did not apply the usual etiquette of society to Italy, and
the coronation of Corinne inspired him beforehand with that interest to
which an adventure of Ariosto would give birth.
Very fine and brilliant music preceded the
arrival of the triumphal procession. Any event, whatever it may be, which is
announced by music, always produces emotion. A great number of Roman Lords,
and some foreigners, preceded the car of Corinne. "That is the train of
her admirers!" said a Roman. "Yes," replied the other, "she
receives the incense of everybody; but she grants nobody a decided
preference: she is rich and independent; it is even believed, and certainly
her appearance bespeaks it, that she is a woman of illustrious birth who
desires to remain unknown." "Be it as it may," replied a third, "she
is a goddess wrapt in a cloud." Oswald looked at the man who spoke thus,
and every thing about him indicated that he belonged to the most obscure
rank in society; but in the south people so naturally make use of poetical
expressions, that one would say they were inhaled with the air and inspired
by the sun.
At length way was made through the crowd
for the four white horses that drew the car of Corinne. Corinne was seated
in this car which was constructed upon an antique model, and young girls,
dressed in white, walked on each side of her. Wherever she passed an
abundance of perfumes was thrown into the air; the windows, decorated with
flowers and scarlet tapestry, were crowded with spectators; every body
cried, "Long live Corinne!" "Long live Genius and Beauty!" The
emotion was general but Lord Nelville did not yet share it, and though he
had observed in his own mind that in order to judge of such a ceremony we
must lay aside the reserve of the English and the pleasantry of the French,
he did not share heartily in the fête till at last he beheld Corinne.
Corinne at the Capitol.
She was dressed like the Sybil of
Domenichino; an Indian shawl twisted about her head, and her hair of the
finest jet black, entwined with this shawl; her dress was white, with blue
drapery from her bosom downwards, and her costume was very picturesque, at
the same time without departing so much from established modes as to savour
of affectation. Her attitude on the car was noble and modest: it was easily
perceived that she was pleased with being admired, but a sense of timidity
was mingled with her joy, and seemed to ask pardon for her triumph. The
expression of her physiognomy, of her eyes, of her smile, interested all in
her favour, and the first look made Lord Nelville her friend, even before
that sentiment was subdued by a warmer impression. Her arms were of dazzling
beauty; her shape, tall, but rather full, after the manner of the Grecian
statues, energetically characterised youth and happiness; and there was
something inspired in her look. One might perceive in her manner of greeting
and returning thanks for the applause which she received, a kind of
disposition which heightened the lustre of the extraordinary situation in
which she was placed. She gave at once the idea of a priestess of Apollo
advancing towards the temple of the Sun, and of a woman of perfect
simplicity in the common relations of life. To conclude, in her every motion
there was a charm which excited interest, curiosity, astonishment and
affection. The admiration of the people increased in proportion as she
advanced towards the Capitol—that spot so fertile in memories. The beauty of
the sky, the enthusiasm of these Romans, and above all Corinne, electrified
the imagination of Oswald. He had often, in his own country, seen statesmen
carried in triumph by the people, but this was the first time he had been a
witness of the honours paid to a woman—a woman illustrious only by the gifts
of genius. Her chariot of victory was not purchased at the cost of the tears
of any human being, and no regret, no terror overshadowed that admiration
which the highest endowments of nature, imagination, sentiment and mind,
could not fail to excite.
Oswald was so absorbed in his reflections,
so occupied by novel ideas, that he did not remark the antique and
celebrated places through which the car of Corinne passed. It was at the
foot of the flight of steps which leads to the Capitol, that the car
stopped, and at that moment all the friends of Corinne rushed forward to
offer her their hands. She chose that of the prince Castel-Forte, the most
esteemed of the Roman nobility, for his intellect and for his disposition:
every one approved the choice of Corinne, and she ascended the steps of the
Capitol whose imposing majesty seemed to receive, with kind condescension,
the light footsteps of a woman. A new flourish of music was heard at the
moment of Corinne's arrival, the cannon resounded and the triumphant Sybil
entered the palace prepared for her reception.
At the lower end of the hall in which she
was received were placed the senator who was to crown her, and the
conservators of the senate; on one side all the cardinals and the most
distinguished women of the country; on the other the men of letters of the
academy of Rome; and at the opposite extremity the hall was occupied by a
part of the immense crowd who had followed Corinne. The chair destined for
her was placed a step below that of the senator. Corinne, before she seated
herself in it, made a genuflection on the first step, agreeably to the
etiquette required in this august assembly. She did it with so much
nobleness and modesty, so much gentleness and dignity, that Lord Nelville in
that moment felt his eyes moist with tears: he was astonished at his own
tenderness, but in the midst of all her pomp and triumph it seemed to him
that Corinne had implored, by her looks, the protection of a friend—that
protection which no woman, however superior, can dispense with; and how
sweet, said he within himself, would it be to become the support of her to
whom sensibility alone renders that support necessary.
As soon as Corinne was seated the Roman
poets began to read the sonnets and odes which they had composed for the
occasion. They all exalted her to the skies, but the praises which they
lavishly bestowed upon her did not draw any characteristic features of
distinction between her and other women of superior talents. They were only
pleasing combinations of images, and allusions to mythology, which might,
from the days of Sappho to those in which we live, have been addressed
indiscriminately to any woman who had rendered herself illustrious by her
literary talents.
Already Lord Nelville felt hurt at this
manner of praising Corinne; he thought, in beholding her, that he could at
that very instant draw a portrait of her, more true, more just, more
characteristic—a portrait in fact that could only belong to Corinne.
Chapter ii.
The Prince Castel-Forte then rose to speak,
and his observations upon the merits of Corinne excited the attention of the
whole assembly. He was about fifty years of age, and there was in his speech
and in his deportment much deliberate ease and dignity. The assurances which
Lord Nelville received from those about him, that he was only the friend of
Corinne, excited, in his lordship's mind, an interest for the portrait which
he drew of her, unmixed with any other emotion. Without such a security a
confused sentiment of jealousy would have already disturbed the soul of
Oswald.
The Prince Castel-Forte read some
unpretentious pages of prose which were particularly calculated to display
the genius of Corinne. He first pointed out the peculiar merit of her work,
and said that that merit partly consisted of her profound study of foreign
literature: she united, in the highest degree, imagination, florid
description and all the brilliancy of the south, with that knowledge, that
observation of the human heart, which falls to the share of those countries
where external objects excite less interest.
He extolled the elegant graces and the
lively disposition of Corinne—a gaiety which partook of no improper levity,
but proceeded solely from the vivacity of the mind and the freshness of the
imagination. He attempted to praise her sensibility, but it was easily
perceived that personal regret mingled itself with this part of his speech.
He lamented the difficulty which a woman of her superior cast experienced of
meeting with the object of which she has formed to herself an ideal
portrait—a portrait clad with every endowment the heart and mind can wish
for. He however took pleasure in painting the passionate sensibility which
the poetry of Corinne inspired, and the art she possessed of seizing every
striking relation between the beauties of nature and the most intimate
impressions of the soul. He exalted the originality of Corinne's
expressions, those expressions which were the offspring of her character and
manner of feeling, without ever permitting any shade of affectation to
disfigure a species of charm not only natural but involuntary.
He spoke of her eloquence as possessing an
irresistible force and energy which must the more transport her hearers the
more they possessed within themselves true intellectual sensibility.
"Corinne," said he, "is indubitably the most celebrated woman of our
country, and nevertheless it is only her friends who can properly delineate
her; for we must always have recourse, in some degree, to conjecture, in
order to discover the genuine qualities of the soul. They may be concealed
from our knowledge by celebrity as well as obscurity, if some sort of
sympathy does not assist us to penetrate them." He enlarged upon her talent
for extemporisation, which did not resemble any thing of that description
known in Italy. "It is not only to the fecundity of her mind that we ought
to attribute it;" said he; "but to the deep emotion which every generous
thought excites in her. She cannot pronounce a word that recalls such
thoughts without enthusiasm, that inexhaustible source of sentiments and of
ideas animating and inspiring her." The Prince Castel-Forte also made his
audience sensible of the beauties of a style always pure and harmonious.
"The poetry of Corinne," added he, "is an intellectual melody which can
alone express the charm of the most fugitive and delicate impressions."
He praised the conversation of his heroine
in a manner that easily made it perceived he had experienced its delight.
"Imagination and simplicity, justness and elevation, strength and
tenderness, are united," said he, "in the same person to give incessant
variety to all the pleasures of the mind: we may apply to her, this charming
verse of Petrarch:
Il parlar che nell' anima si sente.
and, I believe, in her will be found that
grace so much boasted of, that oriental charm which the ancients attributed
to Cleopatra.
"The places I have visited with her, the
music we have heard together, the pictures she has pointed out to me, the
books she has made me comprehend, compose the universe of my imagination.
There is in all these objects a spark of her life; and if I were to exist at
a distance from her I would wish at least to be surrounded by those objects,
certain as I am of finding nowhere else that trace of fire, that trace of
herself in fact, which she has left in them. Yes," continued he (and at that
moment his eyes fell by chance upon Oswald), "behold Corinne; if you can
pass your life with her, if that double existence which it is in her power
to give can be assured to you for a long time; but do not behold her if you
are condemned to quit her; you will seek in vain as long as you live that
creative soul which shares and multiplies your sentiments and your thoughts;
you will never behold her like again."
Oswald started at these words, his eyes
fixed themselves upon Corinne, who heard them with an emotion that was not
inspired by self-love, but which was allied to the most amiable and delicate
feelings. The Prince Castel-Forte was much affected for a moment, and then
resumed his speech. He spoke of Corinne's talent for music, for painting,
for declamation and for dancing: In all these talents, he said, she was
entirely herself, not confined to any particular manner, or to any
particular rule, but expressing in various languages the same powers of the
imagination, and the same witchery of the fine arts under all their
different forms.
"I do not flatter myself," said the Prince
Castel-Forte in concluding, "that I have been able to paint a lady of whom
it is impossible to form an idea without having heard her; but her presence
is, for us at Rome, as one of the benefits of our brilliant sky and our
inspired nature. Corinne is the tie that unites her friends together; she is
the moving principle and the interest of our life. We reckon upon her
goodness; we are proud of her genius; we say to strangers, 'Behold her! She
is the image of our beautiful Italy; she is what we should be without the
ignorance, the envy, the discord and the indolence to which our fate has
condemned us.' We take pleasure in contemplating her as an admirable
production of our climate and of our fine arts,—as a scion shooting out of
the past, as a prophecy of the future. When foreigners insult this country,
whence has issued that intelligence which has shed its light over Europe;
when they are without pity for our defects, which arise out of our
misfortunes, we will say to them: 'Behold Corinne! 'Tis our desire to follow
her footsteps; we would endeavour to become, as men, what she is as woman,
if man like woman could create a world in his own heart; and if our genius,
necessarily dependent upon social relations and external circumstances,
could be kindled by the torch of poetry alone.'"
The moment the Prince Castel-Forte left off
speaking unanimous applause was heard on all sides, and though towards the
conclusion of his speech he indirectly blamed the present state of the
Italians, all the nobles of the state approved of it; so true it is that we
find in Italy that sort of liberality which does not lead men to alter
institutions, but which pardons in superior minds a tranquil opposition to
existing prejudices. The reputation of Prince Castel-Forte was very great in
Rome. He spoke with a rare sagacity, which is a remarkable gift in a nation
who exhibit more intellect in their conduct than in their conversation. He
did not in his worldly concerns shew that address which often distinguishes
the Italians, but he took delight in thought, and did not dread the fatigue
of meditation. The happy inhabitants of the south sometimes shrink from this
fatigue, and flatter themselves that imagination will do everything for
them, as their fertile soil produces fruit without cultivation assisted only
by the bounty of the sky.
Chapter iii.
Corinne arose when the Prince Castel-Forte
had ceased speaking; she thanked him by an inclination of the head so
dignified yet so gentle, that it expressed at once the modesty and joy so
natural at having received praise according to her heart's desire. It was
the custom that every poet crowned at the Capitol should recite or
extemporise some piece of poetry, before the destined laurel was placed on
his head. Corinne ordered her lyre to be brought to her—the instrument of
her choice—which greatly resembled the harp, but was however more antique in
form and more simple in its sounds. In tuning it she was seized with
uncommon timidity, and it was with a trembling voice that she asked to know
the subject imposed on her. "The glory and happiness of Italy!" cried
all around her with a unanimous voice. "Very well," replied she already
fired with enthusiasm, already supported by her genius, "the glory and
happiness of Italy;" and feeling herself animated by the love of her
country she commenced the most charming strains, of which prose can give but
a very imperfect idea.
The Improvisation of
Corinne, at the Capitol.
"Italy, empire of the sun! Italy, mistress
of the world! Italy, the cradle of letters, I salute thee! How often has the
human race been subjected to thee, tributary to thy arms, to thy art and to
thy sky.
"A deity quitted Olympus to take refuge in
Ausonia; the aspect of this country recalled the virtues of the golden
age;—man appeared there too happy to be supposed guilty.
"Rome conquered the universe by her genius,
and became sovereign by liberty. The Roman character was imprinted
everywhere, and the invasion of the Barbarians, in destroying Italy obscured
the whole world.
"Italy appeared again with the divine
treasures which the fugitive Greeks brought back to her bosom; heaven
revealed its laws to her; the daring of her children discovered a new
hemisphere; she again became sovereign by the sceptre of thought, but this
laurelled sceptre only produced ingratitude.
"Imagination restored to her the universe
which she had lost. The painters and the poets created for her an earth, an
Olympus, a hell, and a heaven; and her native fire, better guarded by her
genius than by the Pagan deity, found not in Europe a Prometheus to ravish
it from her.
"Why am I at the Capitol? Why is my humble
forehead about to receive the crown which Petrarch, has worn, and which
remained suspended on the gloomy cypress that weeps over the tomb of
Tasso?—Why, if you were not so enamoured of glory, my fellow-countrymen,
that you recompense its worship as much as its success?
"Well, if you so love this glory which too
often chooses its victims among the conquerors which it has crowned, reflect
with pride upon those ages which beheld the new birth of the arts. Dante,
the modern Homer, the hero of thought, the sacred poet of our religious
mysteries, plunged his genius into the Styx to land in the infernal regions,
and his mind was profound as the abyss which he has described.
"Italy in the days of her power was wholly
revived in Dante. Animated by a republican spirit, warrior as well as poet,
he breathed the flame of action among the dead; and his shadows have a more
vivid existence than the living here below.
"Terrestrial remembrances pursue them
still; their aimless passions devour one another in the heart; they are
moved at the past which seems to them less irrevocable than their eternal
future.
"One would say that Dante, banished from
his country, has transported into imaginary regions the pangs which devoured
him. His shades incessantly demand news from the scene of mortal existence,
as the poet himself eagerly enquires after his native country; and hell
presents itself to him in the form of exile.
"All, in his eyes, are clothed in the
costume of Florence. The ancient dead whom he invokes, seem to be born again
as completely Tuscan as himself. It was not that his mind was limited—it was
the energy of his soul, that embraced the whole universe within the circle
of his thoughts.
"A mystical chain of circles and of spheres
conducts him from hell to purgatory, from purgatory to paradise. Faithful
historian of his vision, he pours a flood of light upon the most obscure
regions, and the world which he creates in his triple poem is as complete,
as animated and as brilliant as a planet newly-discovered in the firmament.
"At his voice the whole earth assumes a
poetical form, its objects, ideas, laws and phenomena, seem a new Olympus of
new deities; but this mythology of the imagination is annihilated, like
paganism, at the aspect of paradise, of that ocean of light, sparkling with
rays and with stars, with virtues and with love.
"The magic words of our great poet are the
prism of the universe; all its wonders are there reflected, divided, and
recomposed; sounds imitate colours, and colours are blended in harmony;
rhyme, sonorous or bizarre, rapid or prolonged, is inspired by this poetical
divination; supreme beauty of art! triumph of genius! which discovers in
nature every secret in affinity with the heart of man.
"Dante hoped from his poem the termination
of his exile; he reckoned on Fame as his mediator; but he died too soon to
receive the palm of his country. Often is the fleeting life of man worn out
in adversity! and if glory triumph, if at length he land upon a happier
shore, he no sooner enters the port than the grave yawns before him, and
destiny, in a thousand shapes, often announces the end of life by the return
of happiness.
"Thus unfortunate Tasso, whom your homage,
Romans, was to console for all the injustice he had suffered; Tasso, the
handsome, the gentle, the heroic, dreaming of exploits, feeling the love
which he sang, approached these walls as his heroes did those of
Jerusalem—with respect and gratitude. But on the eve of the day chosen for
his coronation, Death claimed him for its terrible festival: Heaven is
jealous of earth, and recalls her favourites from the treacherous shores of
Time!
"In an age more proud and more free than
that of Tasso, Petrarch was, like Dante, the valorous poet of Italian
independence. In other climes he is only known by his amours,—here, more
severe recollections encircle his name with never-fading honour; for it is
known that he was inspired by his country more than by Laura herself.
"He re-animated antiquity by his vigils;
and, far from his imagination raising any obstacle to the most profound
studies, its creative power, in submitting the future to his will, revealed
to him the secrets of past ages. He discovered how greatly knowledge assists
invention; and his genius was so much the more original, since, like the
eternal forces, he could be present at all periods of time.
"Ariosto derived inspiration from our
serene atmosphere, and our delicious climate. He is the rainbow which
appeared after our long wars; brilliant and many-hued, like that herald of
fine weather, he seems to sport familiarly with life; his light and gentle
gaiety is the smile of nature and not the irony of man.
"Michael Angelo, Raphael, Pergolese,
Galileo, and you, intrepid travellers, greedy of new countries, though
nature could offer nothing finer than your own, join your glory also to that
of the poets. Artists, scholars, philosophers! you are, like them, the
children of that sun which by turns developes the imagination, animates
thought, excites courage, lulls us into a happy slumber, and seems to
promise everything, or cause it to be forgotten.
"Do you know that land where the
Orange-trees bloom, which the rays of heaven make fertile with love? Have
you heard those melodious sounds which celebrate the mildness of the nights?
Have you breathed those perfumes which are the luxury of that air, already
so pure and so mild? Answer, strangers; is nature in your countries so
beautiful and so beneficent?
"In other regions, when social calamities
afflict a country, the people must believe themselves abandoned by the
Deity; but here we ever feel the protection of heaven; we see that he
interests himself for man, that he has deigned to treat him as a noble
being.
"It is not only with vine branches, and
with ears of corn, that Nature is here adorned; she prodigally strews
beneath the feet of man, as on the birthday of a sovereign, an abundance of
useless plants and flowers, which, destined to please, will not stoop to
serve.
"The most delicate pleasures nourished by
nature are enjoyed by a nation worthy of them—a nation who are satisfied
with the most simple dishes; who do not become intoxicated at the fountains
of wine which plenty prepares for them;—a nation who love their sun, their
arts, their monuments, their country, at once antique and in the spring of
youth;—a nation that stand equally aloof from the refined pleasures of
luxury, as from the gross and sordid pleasures of a mercenary people."
"Here sensations are confounded with ideas;
life is drawn in all its fulness from the same spring, and the soul, like
the air, inhabits the confines of earth, and of heaven. Genius is
untrammelled because here reverie is sweet: its holy calm soothes the soul
when perturbed, lavishes upon it a thousand illusions when it regrets a lost
purpose, and when oppressed by man nature is ready to welcome it."
"Thus is our country ever beneficent, and
her succouring hand heals every wound. Here, even the pangs of the heart
receive consolation, in admiring a God of kindness, and penetrating the
secrets of his love; the passing troubles of our ephemeral life are lost in
the fertile and majestic bosom of the immortal universe."
Corinne was interrupted, for some moments,
by a torrent of applause. Oswald alone took no share in the noisy transports
that surrounded him. He had leaned his head upon his hand, when Corinne
said: "Here, even the pangs of the heart receive consolation;" and
had not raised it since. Corinne remarked it, and soon, from his features,
the colour of his hair, his costume, his lofty figure, from his whole manner
in short, she knew him for an Englishman: she was struck with his mourning
habit, and the melancholy pictured in his countenance. His look, at that
moment fixed upon her, seemed full of gentle reproaches; she guessed the
thoughts that occupied his mind, and felt the necessity of satisfying him,
by speaking of happiness with less confidence, by consecrating some verses
to death in the midst of a festival. She then resumed her lyre, with this
design, and having produced silence in the assembly, by the moving and
prolonged sounds which she drew from her instrument, began thus:
"There are griefs however which our
consoling sky cannot efface, but in what retreat can sorrow make a more
sweet and more noble impression upon the soul than here?
"In other countries hardly do the living
find space sufficient for their rapid motions and their ardent desires;
here, ruins, deserts and uninhabited palaces, afford an asylum for the
shades of the departed. Is not Rome now the land of tombs?
"The Coliseum, the obelisks, all the
wonders which from Egypt and from Greece, from the extremity of ages, from
Romulus to Leo X. are assembled here, as if grandeur attracted grandeur, and
as if the same spot was to enclose all that man could secure from the
ravages of time; all these wonders are consecrated to the monuments of the
dead. Our indolent life is scarcely perceived, the silence of the living is
homage paid to the dead; they endure and we pass away.
"They only are honoured, they are still
celebrated: our obscure destinies serve only to heighten the lustre of our
ancestors: our present existence leaves nothing standing but the past; it
will exact no tribute from future recollections! All our masterpieces are
the work of those who are no more, and genius itself is numbered among the
illustrious dead.
"Perhaps one of the secret charms of Rome,
is to reconcile the imagination with the sleep of death. Here we learn
resignation, and suffer less pangs of regret for the objects of our love.
The people of the south picture to themselves the end of life in colours
less gloomy than the inhabitants of the north. The sun, like glory, warms
even the tomb.
"The cold and isolation of the sepulchre
beneath our lovely sky, by the side of so many funereal urns, have less
terrors for the human mind. We believe a crowd of spirits is waiting for our
company; and from our solitary city to the subterranean one the transition
seems easy and gentle.
"Thus the edge of grief is taken off; not
that the heart becomes indifferent, or the soul dried up; but a more perfect
harmony, a more odoriferous air, mingles with existence. We abandon
ourselves to nature with less fear—to nature, of whom the Creator has said:
'Consider the lilies of the field; they toil not neither do they spin: yet I
say unto you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of
these.'"
Oswald was so ravished with these last
strains, that he gave the most lively testimonies of his admiration; and,
upon this occasion, the transports of the Italians themselves did not equal
his. In fact, it was to him more than to the Romans, that the second
improvisation of Corinne was directed.
The greater part of the Italians have, in
reading poetry, a kind of singing monotony, called cantilene, which
destroys all emotion[5].
It is in vain that the words vary—the impression remains the same; since the
accent, more essential than even the words, hardly varies at all. But
Corinne recited with a variety of tone, which did not destroy the sustained
charm of the harmony;—it was like several different airs played on some
celestial instrument.
The tones of Corinne's voice, full of
sensibility and emotion, giving, effect to the Italian language, so pompous
and so sonorous, produced upon Oswald an impression entirely novel. The
English prosody is uniform and veiled, its natural beauties are all of a
sombre cast; its colouring has been formed by clouds, and its modulation by
the roaring of the sea; but when Italian words, brilliant as an Italian
festival, resonant like those instruments of victory, which have been
compared to scarlet among colours; when these words, bearing the stamp of
that joy which a fine climate spreads through every heart, are pronounced in
a moving voice, their lustre softened, their strength concentrated, the soul
is affected in a manner as acute as unforeseen. The intention of nature
seems baffled, her benefits of no use, her offers rejected, and the
expression of pain, in the midst of so many enjoyments, astonishes and
affects us more deeply than the grief which is sung in those northern
languages which it seems to inspire.
Chapter iv.
The Senator took the crown of myrtle and
laurel which he was to place on the head of Corinne. She removed the shawl
which graced her forehead, and all her ebon hair fell in ringlets about her
shoulders. She advanced with her head bare, and her look animated by a
sentiment of pleasure and gratitude which she sought not to conceal. She a
second time bent her knee, to receive the crown; but she displayed less
agitation and tremor than at first; she had just spoken; she had just filled
her mind with the most noble thoughts, and enthusiasm conquered diffidence.
She was no longer a timid woman, but an inspired priestess who joyfully
consecrated herself to the worship of genius.
As soon as the crown was placed on the head
of Corinne all the instruments were heard in those triumphant airs which
fill the soul with the most sublime emotion. The sound of kettle-drums, and
the flourish of trumpets, inspired Corinne with new feelings—her eyes were
filled with tears—she sat down a moment, and covered her face with her
handkerchief. Oswald, most sensibly affected, quitted the crowd, and
advanced to speak to her, but was withheld by an invincible embarrassment.
Corinne looked at him for some time, taking care nevertheless, that he
should not observe the attention she paid him; but when the Prince
Castel-Forte came to take her hand, in order to conduct her to the car, she
yielded to his politeness with an absent mind; and, while she permitted him
to hand her along, turned her head several times, under various pretexts, to
take another view of Oswald.
He followed her, and at the moment when she
descended the steps accompanied by her train, she made a retrograde
movement, in order to behold him once more, when her crown fell off. Oswald
hastened to pick it up; and in restoring it to her, said in Italian, that an
humble mortal like himself might venture to place at the feet of a goddess
that crown which he dared not presume to place on her head.
Corinne thanked Lord Nelville in English, with that pure national
accent—that pure insular accent, which has scarcely ever been successfully
imitated on the continent. What was the astonishment of Oswald in hearing
her! He remained at first immovably fixed to the spot where he was, and
feeling confused he leaned against one of the lions of basalt at the foot of
the stairway descending from the Capitol. Corinne viewed him again, forcibly
struck with the emotion he betrayed; but she was dragged away towards the
car, and the whole crowd disappeared long before Oswald had recovered his
strength and his presence of mind.
Corinne, till then, had enchanted him as
the most charming of foreigners—as one of the wonders of that country he had
come to visit; but her English accent recalled every recollection of his
native country, and in a manner naturalised all the charms of Corinne. Was
she English? Had she passed several years of her life in England? He was
lost in conjecture; but it was impossible that study alone could have taught
her to speak thus—Corinne and Lord Nelville must have lived in the same
country. Who knows whether their families were not intimate? Perhaps even,
he had seen her in his infancy! We often have in our hearts, we know not
what kind of innate image of that which we love, which may persuade us that
we recognise it in an object we behold for the first time.
Oswald had cherished many prejudices
against the Italians; he believed them passionate, but changeable, and
incapable of any deep and lasting affection. Already the language of Corinne
at the Capitol had inspired him with a different idea. What would be his
fortune, then, if he could at once revive the recollections of his native
country, and receive by imagination a new existence,—live again for the
future without forgetting the past!
In the midst of his reveries, Oswald found
himself upon the bridge of St Angelo, which leads to the castle of the same
name, or rather to the tomb of Adrian, which has been converted into a
fortress. The silence of the place, the pale waves of the Tiber, the
moon-beams which shed their mild radiance upon the statues placed on the
bridge, and gave to those statues the appearance of white spectres
steadfastly regarding the current of the waters, and the flight of time
which no longer concerned them; all these objects led him back to his
habitual ideas. He put his hand upon his breast, and felt the portrait of
his father which he always carried there; he untied it, contemplated the
features, and the momentary happiness which he had just experienced, as well
as the cause of that happiness, only recalled, with too severe a
remembrance, the sentiment which had already rendered him so guilty towards
his father: This reflection renewed his remorse.
"Eternal recollection of my life!" cried
he: "Friend so offended, yet so generous! Could I have believed that any
pleasurable sensation would so soon have found access to my heart? It is not
thou, best and most indulgent of men,—it is not thou who reproachest me with
them—it was thy wish that I should be happy, and, in spite of my errors,
that is still thy desire: but at least, may I not misconceive thy voice, if
thou speak to me from heaven, as I have misconceived it upon earth!"
Book
III
CORINNE
Chapter i.
The Count d'Erfeuil was present at the
ceremony of the Capitol: He came the next day to Lord Nelville, and said to
him, "My dear Oswald, shall I take you this evening to see Corinne?" "How!"
interrupted Oswald; "are you acquainted with her, then?" "No," replied the
Count d'Erfeuil; "but so celebrated a lady is always flattered when people
express a desire to see her; and I have written to her this morning to
request permission to visit her in the evening accompanied by you." "I could
have wished," replied Oswald blushing, "that you had not named me in this
manner without my consent." "Do not be angry with me," replied the Count
d'Erfeuil, "for having spared you some tiresome formalities: Instead of
going to an ambassador, who would have taken you to a cardinal, who would
have conducted you to a lady, who would have introduced you to Corinne, I
present you—you present me, and we shall both of us be very well received I
have no doubt."
"I am less confident on that subject than
you," replied Lord Nelville, "and certainly not without reason. I am afraid
that this forward request may have displeased Corinne." "Not at all, I
assure you," said the Count d'Erfeuil; "she has too much good sense for
that; and her answer is extremely polite." "How! she has answered you,"
replied Lord Nelville; "and what has she said to you, my dear Count?" "Ah,
my dear Count?" said M. d'Erfeuil, laughing, "you change your note then,
since you know that Corinne has answered me; however, I love you, and all
is pardoned. I will confess to you then, modestly, that in my note I had
spoken of myself more than of you, and that, in her answer she seems to have
named you first, but I am never jealous of my friends." "Indeed," replied
Lord Nelville, "I do not think that either you or I have any reason to
flatter ourselves with being agreeable to Corinne; and as to me, all that I
desire is sometimes to enjoy the society of so extraordinary a lady: so
adieu till this evening, since you have arranged it so." "You will accompany
me then?" said the Count d'Erfeuil. "Well, yes, I will," answered Lord
Nelville with visible embarrassment. "Why then," continued the Count, "find
fault with what I have done? You finish as I have begun, but however, I must
allow you the honour of being more reserved than I, provided you lose
nothing by it. Corinne is certainly a charming lady, she is graceful and
witty; I could not comprehend what she said very well, because she spoke
Italian; but I would venture to lay a wager, from only seeing her, that she
knows French very well: however, we shall judge of that in the evening. She
leads a very singular life; she is rich, young, and independent; yet no one
can tell, to a certainty, whether she has lovers or not. It appears certain,
notwithstanding, that, at present she gives a preference to no one; indeed,"
added he, "it may be the case that she has not been able to find in this
country a man worthy of her: that would not astonish me at all."
The Count held this kind of discourse some
time longer without being interrupted by Lord Nelville. He said nothing that
was discourteous; but he always wounded the delicate feelings of Oswald by
speaking with too much boldness or too much levity upon what interested him.
There is a certain tact that even wit and knowledge of the world will not
teach; so that, without being wanting in the most perfect politeness, we may
often wound the heart.
Lord Nelville was very much agitated the
whole day in thinking of the visit he was to make in the evening; but he
drove away from him as much as he could the reflections which disturbed him,
and endeavoured to persuade himself that he might find pleasure in a
sentiment, without permitting it to decide the fate of his life. False
security! for the soul receives no pleasure from anything which it deems
transient.
Oswald and the Count arrived at Corinne's
house, which was situated in the Quartiere di Trastevere, a little
beyond the castle of St Angelo.
The view of the Tiber gave an additional
embellishment to this house, which was ornamented, internally, with the most
perfect elegance. The saloon was decorated with copies, in plaster, of the
best statues in Italy—Niobe, Laocoon, Venus de Medicis, and the Dying
Gladiator. In the apartment where Corinne received company were instruments
of music, books, and furniture not more remarkable for its simplicity than
for its convenience, being merely arranged so as to render the conversation
easy, and to draw the circle more closely together. Corinne had not yet made
her appearance when Oswald arrived; while waiting for her he walked about
the apartment with much eager curiosity, remarking in every particular a
happy medley of all that is most agreeable in the English, French and
Italian nations; the love of literature, the taste for society, and a
passion for the fine arts.
Corinne at length appeared; her costume was
still picturesque without being over-studied. Her hair was ornamented with
antique cameos and she wore a necklace of coral: her politeness was noble
and easy: in beholding her in the familiar circle of her friends, you might
discover in her the goddess of the Capitol, notwithstanding she was
perfectly simple and natural in everything. She first saluted the Count
d'Erfeuil, her eyes fixed upon Oswald; and then, as if she repented this
piece of falsehood, she advanced towards the latter—and it might be remarked
that in addressing him by the title of Lord Nelville, that name seemed to
produce a singular effect upon her, and twice she repeated it with a
faltering voice, as if it recalled some affecting remembrances.
At length, in the most graceful manner, she
thanked Lord Nelville, in Italian, for his obliging behaviour on the
preceding day in picking up her crown. Oswald answered by expressing the
admiration with which she inspired him, and gently complained of her not
speaking to him upon this occasion in English: "Am I more an alien to you
to-day," added he, "than I was yesterday?" "No certainly," replied Corinne;
"but when people have, like me, for several years, been in the habit of
speaking two or three different languages, they are apt to employ that which
will best convey the sentiments they wish to express." "Surely," said
Oswald, "English is your natural language, that which you speak to your
friends, that—" "I am an Italian," interrupted Corinne—"pardon me, my lord,
but I think I discover in you that national pride which often characterises
your countrymen. In this country we are more modest; we are neither pleased
with ourselves like the French, nor proud of ourselves like the English: we
only ask a little indulgence of foreigners, and as we have long ceased to be
considered a nation, we are guilty of sometimes being wanting, as
individuals, in that dignity which is not allowed us as a people. But when
you are acquainted with the Italians, you will see that they possess in
their character, some traces of ancient greatness, some rare traces which,
though now effaced, may appear again in happier times. I will speak English
to you sometimes, but not always: Italian is dear to me; for I have endured
much," added she, "to reside in Italy."
The Count d'Erfeuil politely reproached
Corinne with having entirely forgotten him, by expressing herself in
languages he did not understand. "Lovely Corinne," said he to her, "pray
talk French; indeed you are worthy of such an accomplishment." Corinne
smiled at this compliment, and began to speak French, with great purity and
much facility, but with an English accent. Lord Nelville and the Count
d'Erfeuil were equally astonished, but the Count, who believed he might say
anything, provided it was done with grace, and who imagined that
impoliteness consisted in the form, and not the substance, asked directly of
Corinne, the reason of this singularity. She was at first a little
discomposed at this sudden interrogation; but recovering her presence of
mind, she said to the Count—"Apparently, Sir, I have learnt French of an
Englishman?" He renewed his questions smilingly, but with much earnestness.
Corinne more and more embarrassed, said to him at last, "For these four
years past, Sir, since I have settled at Rome, none of my friends, none of
those who, I am sure, are most interested on my account have questioned me
concerning my destiny; they easily perceived that it was painful to me to
speak on the subject."
Those words put an end to the questions of
the Count; but Corinne was afraid she had offended him, and as he appeared
to be very intimately connected with Lord Nelville, she feared still more,
without asking herself the reason of such fear, that he might speak
disadvantageously of her to his friend; and therefore she set about taking
much pains to please him.
The Prince Castel-Forte arrived at this
moment, with several Romans, friends of his and of Corinne. They were men of
an amiable mind and lively disposition, very prepossessing in their
appearance, and so easily animated by the conversation of others that it was
a great pleasure to converse with them, so exquisitely did they appear to
feel every thing that was worthy of being felt. The indolence of the
Italians prevents them from displaying in company, or often in any way
whatever, all the wit they possess. The greater part of them do not even
cultivate in retirement, the intellectual faculties that nature has given
them; but they enjoy with transport, that which comes to them without
trouble.
Corinne possessed a very gay turn of wit;
she perceived the ridiculous with the keen sense of a French woman, and
coloured it with the imagination of an Italian; but in every instance it was
mingled with goodness of heart; nothing was ever seen in her, either
premeditated or hostile; for, in every thing, it is coldness that
offends—and imagination on the contrary, is always accompanied with
good-nature.
Oswald discovered a grace in Corinne which
was entirely new to him. One great and terrible circumstance of his life was
connected with the remembrance of a very amiable and intelligent French
woman; but Corinne resembled her in nothing—her conversation was a mixture
of every kind of intellectual endowment, enthusiasm for the fine arts, and
knowledge of the world; refinement of ideas, and depth of sentiment; in
short, all the charms of a vivacious and rapid mind were observable in her,
without her thoughts ever being on that account incomplete, or her
reflections superficial. Oswald was at once surprised and charmed, uneasy
and transported; he was unable to comprehend how one person alone could
combine all the qualifications of Corinne. He asked himself whether the
union of all these qualities was the effect of an inconsistent or a superior
character; whether it was by the force of universal feeling, or because she
forgot every thing successively, that she passed thus, almost in the same
instant, from melancholy to gaiety, from profundity to grace—from
conversation the most astonishing, by the knowledge and the ideas it
displayed, to the coquetry of a woman who seeks to please, and desires to
captivate; but there was, even in that coquetry, such perfect nobleness that
it imposed as much respect as the most severe reserve.
The Prince Castel-Forte was very much taken
up with Corinne, and the sentiments of all his party were manifested towards
her by attention and the most delicate and assiduous respect; and the
habitual worship with which they surrounded her, made every day of her life
a sort of festival. Corinne felt herself happy in being thus beloved; but it
was that sort of happiness which we feel in living in a mild climate,
hearing nothing but harmonious sounds, and receiving, in short, nothing but
agreeable impressions. The serious and profound passion of love was not
painted on her countenance, where every emotion of her soul was expressed by
a most bright and mobile physiognomy. Oswald beheld her in silence; his
presence animated Corinne, and inspired her with the desire of pleasing.
However, she sometimes checked herself in those moments when her
conversation was the most brilliant, astonished at the calm exterior of
Oswald, not knowing whether he approved her or blamed her secretly, or
whether his English ideas would permit him to applaud this display of
talents in a woman.
Oswald was too much captivated by the
charms of Corinne, to call to mind his old opinions upon that obscurity
which became women; but he was inquiring of himself, whether it were
possible to be beloved by her; whether any man could expect to concentrate
in himself so many rays of light. In fact, he was at the same time dazzled
and disturbed; and although, at his departure, she invited him, very
politely, to come and see her again, he suffered a whole day to pass without
availing himself of the invitation, experiencing a sort of terror from the
sentiment by which he felt himself impelled.
Sometimes he compared this sentiment with
the fatal error of the first moments of his youth, but immediately banished
such a comparison from his mind—for then it was a perfidious art that had
overcome him; but who could doubt the truth of Corinne? Was that peculiar
charm she possessed the effect of magic, or of poetical inspiration? Was she
an Armida, or a Sappho? Was there any hope of captivating so lofty and
brilliant a genius! It was impossible to decide; but at least it was easily
seen, that not society, but heaven itself, could have formed this
extraordinary being, and that her mind could no more be imitated, than her
character feigned. "Oh, my father!" said Oswald, "if you had known Corinne
what would you have thought of her?"
Chapter ii.
The Count d'Erfeuil came in the morning,
according to custom, to see Lord Nelville, and reproaching him for not
having been to see Corinne the day before, said, "Had you come, you would
have been very happy." "Why so?" replied Oswald. "Because yesterday I
discovered, to a certainty, that you have greatly interested her." "Still
this levity," interrupted Lord Nelville; "know that I neither can nor will
endure it." "Do you call levity," said the Count, "the promptitude of my
observation? Am I less in the right, because more quickly so? You were made
to live in the happy time of the Patriarchs, when the age of man was five
centuries; but mind, I give you notice that four of them at least are lopped
off in our days." "Be it so," answered Oswald, "and what discovery have you
made by these rapid observations?"—"That Corinne loves you. Yesterday, when
I arrived at her house, she received me very kindly, to be sure; but her
eyes were fixed on the door, to see whether you followed me. She tried for a
moment to talk of something else; but as she is a lady of a very ingenuous
and natural disposition, she asked me, quite frankly, why you had not come
with me? I blamed you very much; I said that you were a very odd, gloomy
sort of creature; but you will excuse my relating all that I said over and
above in your praise."
"'He is very sad,' said Corinne; 'he must
certainly have lost some one very dear to him. Whom is he in mourning for?'
'His father, Madam,' said I; 'though it is more than a year since he lost
him; and as the law of nature obliges us all to survive our parents, I
imagine there is some other secret cause for so long and deep a melancholy.'
'Oh!' replied Corinne, 'I am very far from thinking that griefs, similar in
appearance, are felt alike by all men. I am very much tempted to believe
that the father of your friend, and your friend himself, are exceptions from
the general rule.' Her voice was very tender, my dear Oswald, when she said
these words." "Are these," replied Oswald, "your proofs of that interest you
spoke of?" "In truth," replied the Count d'Erfeuil, "these are quite enough,
according to my way of thinking, to convince a man that he is beloved by a
lady; but since you wish for better, you shall have them; I have reserved
the strongest for the last. Prince Castel-Forte arrived, and related your
adventure at Ancona, without knowing that he was speaking of you: he related
it with much fire and imagination, as well as I could judge from the two
lessons of Italian I have taken; but there are so many French words in the
foreign languages, that we comprehend them, almost all, without even knowing
them. Besides, the countenance of Corinne would have explained to me what I
did not understand. One might read in it so visibly the agitation of her
heart! She did not breathe, for fear of losing a single word; and when she
asked if he knew the name of this generous and intrepid Englishman, such was
her anxiety, that it was easy to judge how much she dreaded to hear
pronounced any other name than yours.
"Prince Castel-Forte said he did not know
the gentleman's name; and Corinne, turning quickly towards me, cried, 'Is it
not true, Sir, that it was Lord Nelville?' 'Yes, Madam,' answered I, 'it was
he, himself;' and Corinne then melted in tears. She had not wept during the
story; what was there then more affecting in the name of the hero than in
the recital itself?" "She wept!" cried Nelville, "Ah!—why was I not there?"
Then, checking himself all of a sudden, he cast down his eyes, and his manly
countenance was expressive of the most delicate timidity: he hastened to
resume the conversation, for fear that the Count might disturb his secret
joy by observing it. "If the adventure of Ancona deserves to be related,"
said Oswald, "'tis to you, also, my dear Count, that the honour of it
belongs." "It is true," answered d'Erfeuil, laughing, "that they mentioned
an amiable Frenchman, who was along with you, my lord; but no one save
myself paid attention to this parenthesis in the narration. The lovely
Corinne prefers you; she believes you, without doubt, the more faithful of
the two: perhaps she may be mistaken; you may even cause her more grief than
I should; but women are fond of pain, provided it is a little romantic; so
you will suit her."
Lord Nelville suffered from every word of
the Count, but what could he say to him? He never argued; he never listened
attentively enough to change his opinion; his words, once uttered, gave him
no farther concern, and the best way was to forget them, if possible, as
soon as he himself did.
Chapter iii.
Oswald arrived in the evening at Corinne's,
with a sentiment entirely new; he thought that he was expected. What
enchantment there is in that first gleam of intercourse with the object of
our love!—before remembrance enters into partnership with hope—before words
have expressed our sentiments,—before eloquence has painted what we feel,
there is in these first moments, something so indefinite, a mystery of the
imagination, more fleeting than happiness, it must be owned, but also more
celestial.
Oswald, on entering the apartment of
Corinne, felt more timid than ever. He saw that she was alone, and that
circumstance almost gave him pain: he could have wished to see her longer in
the midst of society; he could have wished to be convinced, in some manner,
of her preference, instead of finding himself all of a sudden engaged in a
conversation which might make Corinne cool towards him, if, as was certain,
he should appear embarrassed, and cold in consequence of that embarrassment.
Whether Corinne perceived this disposition
of Oswald, or whether it was that a similar disposition produced in her a
desire to animate the conversation in order to remove restraint, she asked
his Lordship whether he had seen any of the monuments of Rome. "No,"
answered Oswald. "What did you do with yourself yesterday, then?" replied
Corinne smiling. "I passed the whole day at home," said Oswald. "Since I
have been at Rome, Madam, my time has been divided between solitude and
you." Corinne wished to introduce the subject of his behaviour at Ancona;
she began by these words: "Yesterday I learnt—" then she stopped and said,
"I will speak to you of that when the company comes." There was a dignity in
the manners of Lord Nelville that intimidated Corinne; and, besides, she
feared, lest in reminding him of his noble conduct, she should betray too
much emotion; conceiving that emotion would be less when they were no longer
alone. Oswald was deeply touched with the reserve of Corinne, and the
frankness with which she testified, without thinking, the motives of that
reserve; but the more he was affected the less was he able to express what
he felt.
He arose all of a sudden, and advanced
towards the window; then he felt that Corinne would be unable to explain the
meaning of this movement, and more disconcerted than ever, he returned to
his place without saying anything. There was in the conversation of Corinne
more confidence than in that of Oswald; nevertheless, she partook of the
embarrassment which he exhibited; and in her absence of mind, seeking to
recover her countenance, she placed her fingers upon the harp which was
standing by her side, and struck some chords, without connection or design.
These harmonious sounds, by increasing the emotion of Oswald, seemed to
inspire him with more boldness. He could now look at Corinne, and who but
must have been struck, in beholding her, with that divine inspiration which
was painted in her eyes! Encouraged at the same moment by that mild
expression which veiled the majesty of her looks, he would then perhaps have
spoken, but was prevented by the entrance of Prince Castel-Forte.
It was not without pain that he beheld
Nelville tête-à-tête with Corinne, but he was accustomed to
dissimulate his feelings. This habit, which is often found in the Italians
united with great vehemence of sensation, was in him rather the result of
indolence and of natural gentleness. He was content not to be the first
object of Corinne's affections; he was no longer young; he possessed great
intelligence, considerable taste for the arts, an imagination sufficiently
animated to diversify life without disturbing it, and such a desire to pass
all his evenings with Corinne, that if she were to be married he would
conjure her husband to let him come every day, to see her as usual, and upon
this condition he would not have been very unhappy at seeing her united to
another. The grief of the heart is not found in Italy complicated with the
sufferings of vanity, so that we find there, men either passionate enough to
stab their rival through jealousy, or men modest enough to take willingly
the second rank in the favour of a lady whose conversation is agreeable to
them; but rarely will be found any who for fear of being thought despised,
would refuse to preserve any sort of connection which they found pleasing.
The empire of society over self-esteem is almost null in this country.
The Count d'Erfeuil and the company that
met every evening at Corinne's house being assembled, the conversation
turned upon the talent for improvisation which their heroine had so
gloriously displayed at the Capitol, and they went so far as to ask her own
opinion of it. "It is something so rare," said Prince Castel-Forte, "to find
any one at once susceptible of enthusiasm and of analysis, gifted as an
artist and capable of observing herself, that we must intreat her to reveal
to us the secrets of her genius." "The talent for improvisation," replied
Corinne, "is not more extraordinary in the languages of the south, than the
eloquence of the tribune, or the brilliant vivacity of conversation in other
tongues. I will even say that, unfortunately it is with us more easy to make
verses impromptu than to speak well in prose. The language of poetry
is so different from that of prose, that from the first verses the attention
is commanded by the expressions themselves, which, if I may so express it,
place the poet at a distance from his auditors. It is not only to the
softness of the Italian language, but much more to its strong and pronounced
vibration of sonorous syllables, that we must attribute the empire of poetry
amongst us. There is a kind of musical charm in Italian, by which the bare
sound of words, almost independently of the ideas, produces pleasure;
besides, these words have almost all something picturesque in them; they
paint what they express. You feel that it is in the midst of the arts, and
under an auspicious sky that this melodious, and highly-coloured language
has been formed. It is therefore more easy in Italy than any where else, to
seduce with words, without profundity of thought or novelty of imagery.
Poetry, like all the fine arts, captivates the senses, as much as the
intellect. I dare venture to say, however, that I have never improvised
without feeling myself animated by some real emotion, some idea which I
believed new, therefore I hope that I have trusted less than others to our
bewitching language. It is possible, if I may say so, to prelude at random,
and convey a lively pleasure by the charm of rhythm and of harmony alone."
"You believe then," interrupted one of the
friends of Corinne, "that the talent for improvisation injures our
literature; I thought so once myself, but hearing you, madam, has made me
entirely alter that opinion." "I have said," replied Corinne, "that there
resulted from this facility, this literary abundance, a quantity of inferior
poetry; but I am as pleased with this fecundity, which exists in Italy, as I
am with seeing our fields covered with a thousand superfluous products. This
liberality of nature makes me proud. I am particularly pleased with the
improvisations of the lower classes of the people; it discovers their
imagination to us, which is concealed everywhere else, and is only developed
amongst us. They give a poetical character to the lowest orders of society,
and spare us the contempt which we cannot help feeling for every thing that
is vulgar. When our Sicilians, conveying travellers in their vessels, so
delicately and politely felicitate them in their pleasing dialect, and wish
them in verse a sweet and long adieu, one would say the pure breeze of
heaven and of the sea produces the same effect upon the imagination of men
as the wind on the Æolian harp, and that poetry, like the chords of that
instrument, is the echo of nature. One thing makes me attach an additional
value to our talent for improvisation, and that is, that it would be almost
impossible in a society disposed to mockery. It requires the good humour of
the south, or rather of those countries where people love to amuse
themselves without taking pleasure in criticising that which affords them
amusement, to encourage poets to venture on so perilous an enterprise. One
jeering smile would be sufficient to destroy that presence of mind necessary
for a sudden and uninterrupted composition: your audience must become
animated with you, and inspire you with their applause."
"But madam," said Oswald at last, who till
then had kept silence without having for a moment ceased to behold Corinne,
"to which of your poetical talents do you yourself give the preference? To
the work of inflection, or of momentary inspiration?" "My lord," answered
Corinne, with a look that expressed the highest interest and the most
delicate sentiment of respectful consideration, "it is you that I would wish
to make the judge of that; but if you ask me to examine my own thoughts upon
this subject, I would say that improvisation is to me as an animated
conversation. I do not confine myself to any particular subject, I yield
entirely to the impression produced on me by the attention of my hearers,
and it is to my friends, in this instance, that I owe the greatest part of
my talent. Sometimes the impassioned interest with which I am inspired by a
conversation in which we have spoken of some great and noble question that
relates to the moral existence of man, his destiny, his end, his duties and
his affections; sometimes this interest elevates me above my strength, makes
me discover in nature, in my own heart, bold truths, expressions full of
life, that solitary reflection would not have given birth to. I then believe
myself acted upon by a supernatural enthusiasm, and feel that what is
speaking within me is greater than myself. Often I quit the rhythm of poetry
to express my thoughts in prose; sometimes I quote the finest verses of the
different languages I am acquainted with. These divine verses, with which my
soul is penetrated, have become my own. Sometimes also I finish upon my lyre
by chords, by simple and national airs, the sentiments and thoughts which
have escaped me in speaking. In a word, I feel myself a poet, not only when
a happy choice of rhymes and harmonious syllables, or a happy combination of
images dazzles my auditors, but when my soul is elevated to the highest
degree and looks down with contempt upon every thing that is selfish and
base: in short, when a noble action appears most easy to me, it is then that
my poetry is in its greatest perfection. I am a poet when I admire, when I
despise, when I hate, not from personal feeling, not on my own account, but
for the dignity of human nature and the glory of the world."
Corinne then perceiving how the
conversation had carried her away, blushed a little, and turning towards
Lord Nelville said to him, "you see, my lord, I cannot touch upon any of
those subjects that affect me without experiencing that sort of shock which
is the source of ideal beauty in the arts, of religion in solitary minds, of
generosity in heroes, and of disinterestedness among men. Pardon me, my
lord, although such a woman resemble but little those whom your nation
approves." "Who could resemble you?" replied Lord Nelville; "can we make
laws for one who is without her like?"
The Count d'Erfeuil was absolutely
enchanted, notwithstanding he had not understood all that Corinne had said;
but her gestures, the sound of her voice, and her pronunciation, charmed
him.—It was the first time that any grace which was not French had produced
an effect upon him. But indeed the great celebrity of Corinne at Rome put
him a little in the way of what he should think of her, and in his
admiration of this extraordinary lady he did not drop the good custom of
letting himself be guided by the opinion of others.
He quitted Corinne's house along with Lord
Nelville, and said to him on their way home, "allow, my dear Oswald, that I
may lay claim to some merit for not having paid my court to so charming a
lady." "But," observed Nelville, "it seems, according to general opinion,
that she is not easy to please in that respect." "It is said so," replied
the Count, "but I can hardly believe it. A single woman of independent means
who leads nearly the life of an artist ought not to be so difficult to
captivate." Lord Nelville was wounded by this reflection. The Count, whether
he did not perceive it, or whether he wished to pursue the train of his own
ideas, continued thus:
"I do not mean to say, however, that if I
entertained much faith in a lady's virtue, I might not as readily believe in
that of Corinne as in that of any other. She has certainly a thousand times
more expression in her look, and vivacity in her arguments than would be
necessary in your country, or even in ours, to excite suspicion of the
rigidness of a lady's virtue; but she is a person of so superior a mind,
such profound knowledge, and such fine tact, that the ordinary rules by
which we judge a woman cannot apply to her. In fact, would you believe it,
notwithstanding the openness of her disposition, and the freedom of her
conversation, she really imposes reserve upon me. It was my wish, yesterday,
with all due respect to her predilection for you, to say a few words, at
random, upon my own account: they were words that take their chance; if they
are heard, well and good; if not, well and good still; and do you know
Corinne gave me such cold looks that I was quite disconcerted. It is,
however, singular that one should feel any timidity in the company of an
Italian, a poet, an artist, every thing, in short, that ought to produce
quite a contrary effect." "Her name is unknown," observed Nelville, "but her
manners would make one believe that her birth is illustrious." "Ah! it is in
romances," said the Count, "that we see the finest part of a character
concealed, but in real life people are more disposed to exhibit all that is
most honourable in their life, and even a little more than all." "Yes,"
interrupted Oswald, "in some societies where people think of nothing but the
effect they can produce upon one another; but in one whose existence is
internal there may be mysteries in circumstances, as there are secrets in
thought, and he only who would espouse Corinne might be able to know them."
"Espouse Corinne!" interrupted the Count, bursting out laughing, "truly that
idea never occurred to me! Take my advice, my dear Nelville, if you wish to
do foolish things let them be such as will admit of reparation; but as for
marriage, you must always consider propriety. I appear frivolous in your
eyes, nevertheless I wager that in the conduct of life I shall be more
reasonable than you." "I believe so too," answered Lord Nelville, and said
not another word.
In effect, he might have told the Count
d'Erfeuil that there is often a great deal of egotism in frivolity, and that
such egotism can never betray people into those errors of sentiment in which
we always sacrifice our own personal considerations to those of others!
Frivolous characters are very likely to acquire address in the pursuit of
their own interests; for in all that is called the political science of
private, as well as of public life, people succeed oftener by those
qualities which they have not than by those which they possess. Absence of
enthusiasm, absence of opinion, absence of sensibility, a little
understanding, combined with this negative treasure, and social life, that
is to say, fortune and rank, may be acquired or supported well enough. The
pleasantries of the Count however pained Lord Nelville; he blamed them, but
nevertheless they continually occupied his thoughts.
Book IV
ROME.
Chapter i.
A fortnight passed away, during which Lord
Nelville dedicated himself entirely to the society of Corinne. He quitted
his lodgings but to go and visit her—he saw nothing—he sought nothing but
her; and, without ever mentioning his passion, he made her sensible of it at
every moment of the day. She was accustomed to the lively and flattering
homage of the Italians; but Oswald's dignity of manners, his apparent
coldness, and the sensibility which he betrayed in spite of himself,
produced a more powerful effect upon her imagination.—Never did he relate a
generous action, never did he speak of a misfortune, without his eyes being
filled with tears; but he always endeavoured to conceal his emotion. He
inspired Corinne with a sentiment of respect such as she had not felt for a
long time before. No wit, however sparkling, could dazzle her; but she was
deeply interested by elevation and dignity of character. Lord Nelville
joined to these qualities, a nobleness in his expressions, an elegance in
the least actions of his life, which formed a striking contrast to the
negligence and familiarity of the greater part of the Roman nobility.
Though the tastes of Oswald were in some
respects different from those of Corinne, they mutually understood each
other in a most wonderful manner. Nelville conjectured the impressions of
Corinne with perfect sagacity, and Corinne discovered, in the slightest
alteration of Nelville's countenance, what passed in his mind. Accustomed to
the stormy demonstrations of passion that characterise the Italians, this
timid but proud attachment, this passion, incessantly proved, but never
avowed, spread a new charm over her existence: she felt as if encircled with
a calmer and purer atmosphere, and every instant of the day inspired her
with a sentiment of happiness which she loved to enjoy without accounting
for it.
One morning Prince Castel-Forte visited
her—he appeared sorrowful—she asked him the cause of his sorrow. "This
Scotsman," said he to her, "is about to deprive us of your affections; and
who knows even, whether he will not rob us of you entirely?" Corinne was
silent for some moments, and then answered, "I assure you he has not even
once told me that he loved me." "You are, notwithstanding, convinced of it,"
answered Prince Castel-Forte; "his conduct is sufficiently eloquent, and
even his silence is a powerful means of interesting you.—What can language
express that you have not heard? What kind of praise is there that has not
been offered you? What species of homage is there that you are not
accustomed to receive? But there is something concealed in the character of
Lord Nelville which will never allow you to know him entirely as you know
us. There is no person in the world whose character is more easy than yours
to become acquainted with; but it is precisely because you shew yourself
without disguise that mystery and reserve have a pleasing ascendancy over
you. That which is unknown, be it what it may, influences you more strongly
than all the sentiments which are manifested to you." Corinne smiled; "You
believe then, my dear Prince," said she, "that my heart is ungrateful, and
my imagination capricious. Methinks however that Lord Nelville possesses and
displays qualities sufficiently remarkable to render it impossible that I
can flatter myself with having discovered them." "He is, I agree," answered
Prince Castel-Forte, "proud, generous and intelligent; with much sensibility
too, and particularly melancholy; but I am very much deceived, or there is
not the least sympathy of taste between you. You do not perceive it while he
is under the charm of your presence, but your empire over him would not hold
if he were absent from you. Obstacles would fatigue him; his soul has
contracted by the grief which he has experienced, a kind of discouragement,
which must destroy the energy of his resolutions; and you know, besides, how
much the English in general are enslaved to the manners and habits of their
country."
At these words Corinne was silent and
sighed. Painful reflections on the first events of her life were retraced in
her mind; but in the evening she saw Oswald again, more her slave than ever;
and all that remained in her mind of the conversation of Prince Castel-Forte
was the desire of fixing Lord Nelville in Italy by making him enamoured of
the beauties of every kind with which that country abounds. It was with this
intention that she wrote to him the following letter. The freedom of the
life which is led in Rome excused this proceeding, and Corinne in
particular, though she might be reproached with too much openness and
enthusiasm, knew how to preserve dignity with independence, and modesty with
vivacity.
Corinne to Lord Nelville.
Dec. 15th, 1794.
"I do not know, my lord, whether you will
think me too confident in myself, or whether you will do justice to the
motives which may excuse that confidence. Yesterday I heard you say that you
had not yet seen Rome, that you were neither acquainted with the
masterpieces of our fine arts, nor those ancient ruins which teach us
history by imagination and sentiment, and I have conceived the idea of
presuming to offer myself as your guide in this journey through a course of
centuries.
"Without doubt, Rome could easily present a
great number of scholars whose profound erudition might be much more useful
to you, but if I can succeed in inspiring you with a love for this retreat,
towards which I have always felt myself so imperiously attracted, your own
studies will finish the rude draft which I shall have begun.
"Many foreigners come to Rome as they would
go to London or to Paris, to seek the dissipation of a great city; and if
they dared confess they were bored at Rome, I believe the greater part would
confess it; but it is equally true that here may be found a charm that never
tires. Will you pardon me, my lord, a wish that this charm were known to
you.
"It is true that here you must forget all
the political interests in the world, but when these interests are not
united to sacred sentiments and duties they chill the heart. Here too you
must renounce what would be called the pleasures of society, but these
pleasures almost invariably wither up the imagination. In Rome you may enjoy
an existence at once solitary and animated, which freely develops all that
Heaven has implanted in us. I repeat it, my lord; pardon this love of my
country, which begets a desire to make it beloved by such a man as you; and
do not judge, with the severity of an Englishman, those testimonies of
good-will which an Italian hopes she may give you without sinking either in
her own estimation or in yours.
Corrine."
In vain would Oswald have endeavoured to
conceal the exquisite pleasure he received from this letter; he caught a
glimpse of a confused future of enjoyment and happiness: imagination, love,
enthusiasm, all that is divine in the soul of man, appeared to him united
with the project of seeing Rome with Corinne. For, this time he did not
reflect; this time he set out the very instant to visit Corinne, and by the
way he contemplated the sky, he enjoyed the charm of the weather, life sat
lightly on him. His griefs and his fears were lost in the clouds of hope;
his heart, so long oppressed by sadness, palpitated and leaped with joy; he
feared, it is true, that so happy a disposition of mind might not last; but
the very idea that it was fleeting gave to this fever of enjoyment more
force and activity.
"What, are you come already?" said Corinne,
seeing Lord Nelville enter; "Ah, thanks!" and she stretched forth her hand.
Oswald seized it, and imprinted his lips on it with the warmest tenderness;
nor did he suffer now that timidity which often mingled itself with his most
agreeable impressions, and caused him sometimes to endure, in the company of
those he loved best, the most bitter and painful feelings. The intimacy had
commenced between Oswald and Corinne since they had parted; it was the
letter of Corinne which had established it: they were satisfied with each
other, and mutually felt the most tender gratitude.
"This morning then," said Corinne, "I will
shew you the Pantheon and St Peter's: I had, indeed, some hope," added she
smiling, "that you would accept my offer to make the tour of Rome with you,
so my horses are ready. I have expected you; you have arrived; 'tis very
well, let us set out." "Astonishing woman!" said Oswald; "Who then, art
thou? Whence hast thou derived so many opposite charms, which it would seem
ought to exclude each other;—sensibility, gaiety, profound reflection,
external grace, freedom, and modesty? Art thou an illusion? art thou some
supernatural blessing, destined to make happy the life of him who is
fortunate enough to meet with thee?" "Ah!" replied Corinne, "if I have it in
my power to do you any service you must not think I will ever give up the
merit of it." "Take care," said Oswald, seizing Corinne's hand with emotion;
"take care what service it is you are about to render me. For these two
years the iron hand of affliction has closed up my heart; if your sweet
presence has afforded me relief; if, while with you, I breathe again, what
will become of me when once more abandoned to my destiny?—What will become
of me?" "Let us leave to time and to chance," interrupted Corinne, "to
decide whether this impression of a day, which I have produced upon you,
will be longer than a day in its duration. If there be a mutual sympathy
between our souls, our mutual affection will not be transient. Be that as it
may, let us go and admire together all that can elevate our mind and our
sentiments; we shall thus taste some moments of happiness."
In finishing these words Corinne went down
stairs, and Nelville followed her, astonished at her answer. It seemed to
him that she admitted the possibility of a half sentiment,—a momentary
attraction. In short, he thought he perceived something like levity in the
manner in which she had expressed herself, and he was hurt at it.
He placed himself, without saying a word,
in Corinne's carriage; who, guessing his thoughts, said to him, "I do not
believe that the heart of man is so formed that he must always feel either
no love at all or the most invincible passion. There are beginnings of
sentiment which a more profound examination may dissipate. We flatter and
then undeceive ourselves, and even the enthusiasm of which we are
susceptible, if it renders the enchantment more rapid, may also cause
coldness to succeed the more quickly." "You have, then, reflected deeply on
the tender passion," said Oswald with bitterness. Corinne blushed at this
word, and was silent for some moments; then resuming the conversation, with
a striking mixture of frankness and dignity, "I do not believe," said she,
"that a woman of sensibility has ever arrived at the age of twenty-six
years, without having known the illusion of love; but if never having been
happy, if never having met the object who could merit all the affections of
my heart, be any claim to interest in the bosom of man, I have a claim to
yours." These words, and the accent with which Corinne pronounced them,
dissipated a little, the cloud which had spread over the soul of Lord
Nelville; nevertheless he said to himself: "She is the most fascinating of
women, but an Italian; and hers is not that timid, innocent heart, to
herself unknown, which the young English lady that my father destined for me
must possess."
The name of this young English lady was
Lucilia Edgermond, daughter to the best friend of Lord Nelville's father;
but she was too young when Oswald quitted England for him to marry her, or
even foresee, with certainty, what she would one day become.
Chapter ii.
Oswald and Corinne went first to the
Pantheon, which is now called St Mary of the Rotunda. In every part
of Italy Catholicism has inherited something of Paganism, but the Pantheon
is the only ancient Temple of Rome which is preserved entire, the only one
where may be remarked in its ensemble the beauty of the architecture
of the ancients, and the particular character of their worship. Oswald and
Corinne stopped in the square of the Pantheon to admire the portico of this
Temple and the pillars that support it.
Corinne made Nelville observe that the
Pantheon was constructed in such a manner as to appear greater than it was.
"The church of St Peter," said she, "will produce quite a different effect
upon you; you will believe it at first less stupendous than it is in
reality. This illusion, so favourable to the Pantheon, comes, as I am
assured, from there being more space between the pillars, and the air
playing freely around it; but principally from your not perceiving any of
that detailed ornament with which St Peter's is overladen. It is thus that
the ancient poets only designed large masses, and left the imagination of
the hearer to fill up the intervals, and supply the developments; but we
moderns in all things say too much."
"This Temple," continued Corinne, "was
consecrated by Agrippa, the favourite of Augustus, to his friend, or rather
to his master. However, the master had the modesty to refuse the dedication
of the Temple, and Agrippa was obliged to dedicate it to all the gods in
Olympus, in order to take the place of Power, the god of the earth. There
was a car of bronze on the top of the Pantheon, on which were placed the
statues of Augustus and of Agrippa. On each side of the portico these same
statues were placed in another form, and on the pediment of the Temple is
still to be read: 'Consecrated by Agrippa.' Augustus gave his name to
the age in which he lived because he made that age an epoch of the human
mind. The masterpieces of every kind produced by his contemporaries form the
rays of glory that encircle his head. He knew how to honour the men of
genius who cultivated letters, and he has found his recompense in
posterity."
"Let us enter the temple," said Corinne.
"You see it remains uncovered, almost the same as it was formerly. They say
that this light, proceeding from the top, was the emblem of that God who was
superior to all the other deities. The Pagans have always been fond of
symbolic images. It seems, in effect, that this language is more fitting
than speech to religion. The rain often falls upon this marble court, but
the rays of the sun also enter to enlighten devotion. What serenity! What an
air of festivity is remarkable in this edifice! The Pagans have deified
life, and the Christians have deified death. Such is the spirit of the two
worships, but the Roman Catholic religion here, however, is less sombre than
in the northern countries. You will observe it when we visit St Peter's.
Inside the sanctuary of the Pantheon are the busts of our most celebrated
artists, they adorn the niches where were placed the gods of the
ancients.—As, since the destruction of the empire of the Cæsars, we have
hardly ever had political independence in Italy, you do not find here either
statesmen or great commanders. It is the genius of imagination which
constitutes our own glory; but do you not think, my lord, that a people who
honour talents in this manner ought to merit a nobler fate?" "I am very
severe towards nations," answered Oswald; "I always believe that they
deserve their fate let it be what it may." "That is hard," replied Corinne;
"perhaps after a longer residence in Italy you will experience a sentiment
of compassion towards this unhappy country, which nature seems to have
decorated as a victim; but, at least, you will remember that the dearest
hope of us artists, of us lovers of glory, is to obtain a place here. I have
already fixed upon mine," said she pointing to a niche still vacant.
"Oswald! who knows whether you will not come again to this same enclosure
when my bust shall be placed there? Then—"
Oswald interrupted her quickly and said,
"In the shining splendour of youth and beauty can you talk thus to one whom
misfortune and suffering have already bent towards the grave?" "Ah!" replied
Corinne, "the storm may in a moment snap asunder those flowers that now have
their heads upreared in life and bloom. Oswald, dear Oswald!" added she;
"why should you not be happy? Why—" "Never interrogate me," replied Lord
Nelville, "you have your secrets—I have mine, let us mutually respect each
other's silence. No—you know not what emotion I should feel were I obliged
to relate my misfortunes." Corinne was silent, and her steps in leaving the
temple were slower, and her looks more thoughtful.
She stopped beneath the portico:—"There,"
said she to Lord Nelville, "was a most beautiful urn of porphyry, now
transferred to St John of Lateran; it contained the ashes of Agrippa, which
were placed at the foot of the statue that he had raised to himself. The
ancients took so much care to soften the idea of dissolution that they knew
how to strip it of every thing that was doleful and repulsive. There was,
besides, so much magnificence in their tombs that the contrast was less felt
between the blank of death and the splendours of life. It is true that the
hope of another world being less vivid among the Pagans than amongst
Christians, they endeavoured to dispute with death the future remembrance
which we place, without fear, in the bosom of the Eternal."
Oswald sighed and was silent. Melancholy
ideas have many charms when we have not been ourselves deeply wretched, but
when grief in all its asperity has seized upon the soul, we no longer hear
without shuddering certain words which formerly only excited in us reveries
more or less pleasing.
Chapter iii.
On the way to St Peter's the bridge of St
Angelo is passed, and Corinne and Lord Nelville crossed it on foot. "It was
on this bridge," said Oswald, "that, in returning from the Capitol, I for
the first time thought deeply of you." "I did not flatter myself," replied
Corinne, "that the coronation at the Capitol would have procured me a
friend, but however, in the pursuit of fame it was always my endeavour to
make myself beloved.—What would fame be to woman without such a hope?" "Let
us stop here a few minutes," said Oswald. "What remembrance of past ages can
produce such welcome recollections as this spot, which brings to mind the
day when first I saw you." "I know not whether I deceive myself," replied
Corinne; "but it seems to me that we become more dear to one another in
admiring together those monuments which speak to the soul by true grandeur.
The edifices of Rome are neither cold nor dumb, they have been conceived by
genius, and consecrated by memorable events. Perhaps, Oswald, it is even
necessary that we should be enamoured of such a character as yours, in order
to derive such pleasure from feeling with you all that is noble and fine in
the universe." "Yes," replied Lord Nelville; "but in beholding you, and
listening to your observations, I feel no want of other wonders." Corinne
thanked him in a bewitching smile.
On their way to St Peter's they stopped
before the castle of St Angelo. "There," said Corinne, "is one of those
edifices whose exterior is most original; this is the tomb of Adrian, which,
changed into a fortress by the Goths, bears the double character of its
first and second destination. Built for the dead, an impenetrable enclosure
surrounds it; and, nevertheless, the living have added something hostile to
it by the external fortifications, which form a contrast with the silence
and noble inutility of a funereal monument. On the top is seen an angel of
bronze with a naked sword,
and in the interior the most cruel prisons are contrived. Every event of
Roman history, from Adrian to our time, is connected with this monument. It
was here that Belisarius defended himself against the Goths, and, almost as
barbarous as they who attacked him, threw at his enemy the beautiful statues
that adorned the interior of the edifice.
Crescentius, Arnault de Brescia, Nicolas Rienzi, those friends of Roman
liberty who so often mistook memories for hopes, defended themselves for a
long time in this imperial tomb. I love these stones which are connected
with so many illustrious facts. I love this luxury of the master of the
world—a magnificent tomb. There is something great in the man who,
possessing every enjoyment, every terrestrial pomp, is not dismayed from
making preparations for his death a long time before hand. Moral ideas and
disinterested sentiments fill the soul when it in a manner breaks through
the boundaries of mortality.
"It is from here that we ought to perceive
St Peter's. The pillars before it were to extend as far as here:—such was
the superb plan of Michael Angelo; he expected, at least, that it would be
so finished after his death; but the men of our days no longer think of
posterity. When once enthusiasm has been turned into ridicule every thing
except money and power is destroyed." "It is you who will revive that
sentiment," cried Lord Nelville. "Who ever experienced the happiness I
enjoy? Rome shewn by you, Rome interpreted by imagination and genius,
Rome, that is a world animated by sentiment, without which the world itself
is a desert.
Ah, Corinne! what will succeed to these days, more happy than my heart and
my fate permit!" Corinne answered him with sweetness: "All sincere
affections proceed from heaven, Oswald! Why should it not protect what it
inspires? To that Power belongs our fate."
At that moment St Peter's appeared to them,
the greatest building that man has ever raised; for the pyramids of Egypt
themselves are inferior to it in height. "Perhaps," said Corinne, "I ought
to have shewn you the finest of our buildings last, but that is not my
system. It is my opinion that to beget a sensibility for the fine arts, we
must begin by beholding objects that inspire a deep and lively admiration.
This sentiment once felt, reveals, if I may so express myself, a new sphere
of ideas, and renders us afterwards more capable of loving, and of judging,
what even in an inferior order recalls the first impression we have
received. All those gradations, those prudent methods, one tint after
another, to prepare for great effects, are not to my taste; we cannot arrive
at the sublime by degrees; infinite distances separate it even from that
which is only beautiful." Oswald felt an altogether extraordinary emotion on
arriving opposite St Peter's. It was the first time that the work of man had
produced upon him the same effect as one of the wonders of nature. This is
the only work of art, now on our earth, possessing that kind of grandeur
which characterises the immediate works of the creation. Corinne enjoyed the
astonishment of Oswald. "I have chosen," said she, "a day when the sun is in
all its lustre, to shew you this edifice. I have in reserve for you a still
more exquisite, more religious pleasure, when you shall contemplate it by
moonlight: but you must first witness the most brilliant intellectual
feast—the genius of man adorned with the magnificence of nature."
The square of St Peter is surrounded by
pillars—those at a distance of a light, and those near of a massive
structure. The ground, which is upon a gentle ascent up to the portico of
the church, still adds to the effect which it produces. An obelisk, 80 feet
high, stands in the middle of the square, but its height appears as nothing
in presence of the cupola of St Peter's. The form of an obelisk alone has
something in it that pleases the imagination; its summit is lost in the air,
and seems to lift the mind of man to heaven. This monument, which was
constructed in Egypt to adorn the baths of Caligula, and which Sixtus
Quintus caused to be transported to the foot of the temple of St Peter, this
cotemporary of so many centuries, which have spent their fury upon it in
vain, inspires us with a sentiment of respect; man, sensible of his own
fleeting existence, cannot contemplate without emotion that which appears to
be immutable. At some distance on each side of the obelisk are two
fountains, whose waters form a perpetual and abundant cascade. This
murmuring of waters, which we are accustomed to hear in the open country,
produces, in this enclosure, an entirely new sensation; but this sensation
is quite in harmony with that to which the aspect of a majestic temple gives
birth.
Painting and sculpture, imitating generally
the human figure or some object existing in nature, awaken in our soul
perfectly clear and positive ideas; but a beautiful architectural monument
has not any determinate meaning, if it may be so expressed, so that we are
seized, in contemplating it, with that kind of aimless reverie, which leads
us into a boundless ocean of thought. The sound of fountains harmonises with
all these vague and deep impressions; it is uniform as the edifice is
regular.
"Eternal motion, and eternal rest,"
are thus blended with each other. It is
particularly in a spot like this that Time seems stript of his power, for he
appears no more able to dry up the fountains than to shake these immovable
stones. The waters, which spout in sheaves from these fountains, are so
light and cloudlike that on a fine day the rays of the sun produce on them
little rainbows, formed of the most beautiful colours.
"Stop here a moment," said Corinne to Lord
Nelville, when they had already reached the portico of the church; "stop a
little before you lift up the curtain which covers the door of the temple.
Does not your heart beat as you approach this sanctuary? And do not you feel
at the moment of entrance all that excites expectation of a solemn event?"
Corinne herself lifted up the curtain and held it to let Nelville pass; she
displayed so much grace in this attitude that the first look of Oswald was
to admire her as she stood, and for some moments she engrossed his whole
observation. However, he proceeded into the temple, and the impression which
he received beneath these immense arches was so deep, and so solemn, that
love itself was no longer able to fill his soul entirely. He walked slowly
by the side of Corinne, both preserving silence. Indeed here every thing
seemed to command silence; the least noise re-echoes to such a distance that
no language seems worthy of being repeated in an abode which may almost be
called eternal! Prayer alone, the voice of calamity, produces a powerful
emotion in these vast regions; and when beneath these immense domes you hear
some old man dragging his feeble steps along the polished marble, watered
with so many tears, you feel that man is imposing even by the infirmity of
his nature which subjects his divine soul to so many sufferings; and that
Christianity, the worship of suffering, contains the true guide for the
conduct of man upon earth.
Corinne interrupted the reverie of Oswald,
and said to him, "You have seen Gothic churches in England and in Germany;
you must have remarked that they have a much more gloomy effect than this
church. There was something mysterious in the Catholicism of the northern
nations; ours speaks to the imagination by external objects. Michael Angelo
said on beholding the cupola of the Pantheon, 'I will place it in the air;'
and, in effect, St Peter's is a temple built upon a church. There is some
connection between the ancient religions and Christianity, in the effect
which the interior of this edifice produces upon the imagination. I often
come and walk here to restore to my soul that serenity which it sometimes
loses: the sight of such a monument is like continual and sustained music,
which waits to do you good when you approach; and certainly we must reckon
among the claims of our nation to glory, the patience, the courage and the
disinterestedness of the heads of the church, who have devoted one hundred
and fifty years, so much money, and so much labour, to the completion of an
edifice which they who built it could not expect to enjoy.
It is even a service rendered to the public morals to present a nation with
a monument which is the emblem of so many noble and generous ideas." "Yes,"
answered Oswald; "here the arts possess grandeur, and imagination and
invention are full of genius; but how is the dignity of man himself
protected here! What institutions! what feebleness in the greater part of
the governments of Italy! and, nevertheless, what subjugation in the mind!"
"Other nations," interrupted Corinne, "have borne the yoke the same as we,
and have lacked the imagination to dream of another fate.
'Servi siam sì, ma servi
ognor frementi.'
'Yes! we are slaves, but
slaves ever quivering with hope,'
says Alfieri, the most bold of our modern
writers. There is so much soul in our fine arts that perhaps one day our
character will be equal to our genius.
"Behold," continued Corinne, "those statues
placed on the tombs, those pictures in mosaic—patient and faithful copies of
the masterpieces of our great artists. I never examine St Peter's in detail,
because I do not wish to discover those multiplied beauties which disturb in
some degree the impression of the whole. But what a monument is that, where
the masterpieces of the human mind appear superfluous ornaments! This temple
is like a world by itself; it affords an asylum against heat and cold; it
has its own peculiar season—a perpetual spring, which the external
atmosphere can never change. A subterraneous church is built beneath this
temple;—the popes, and several foreign potentates, are buried there:
Christina after her abdication—the Stuarts since the overthrow of their
dynasty. Rome has long afforded an asylum to exiles from every part of the
world. Is not Rome herself dethroned? Her aspect affords consolation to
kings, fallen like herself.
'Cadono le citta, cadono i regni,
E l'uom, d'esser mortal, par che
si sdegni.'
'Cities fall. Empires
disappear, and yet man is angry at being mortal!'
"Place yourself here," said Corinne to Lord
Nelville, "near the altar in the middle of the cupola; you will perceive
through the iron grating, the church of the dead, which is beneath our feet,
and lifting up your eyes, their ken will hardly reach the summit of the
vault. This dome, viewing it even from below, inspires us with a sentiment
of terror; we imagine that we see an abyss suspended over our head. All that
is beyond a certain proportion causes man, limited creature as he is, an
invincible dread. That which we know is as inexplicable as that which is
unknown, but then we are accustomed to our habitual darkness, whilst new
mysteries terrify us and disturb our faculties.
"All this church is ornamented with antique
marble, and its stones know more than we concerning the ages that are past.
There is the statue of Jupiter, which has been converted into St Peter, by
adding the nimbus to the head. The general expression of this temple
perfectly characterises the mixture of gloomy tenets with brilliant
ceremonies; a depth of sadness in ideas, but the softness and vivacity of
the south in external application; severe intentions, but mild
interpretations; the Christian theology, and the images of Paganism; in a
word, the most admirable union of splendour and majesty that man can infuse
into his worship of the deity.
"The tombs, decorated by the wonders of the
fine arts, do not present death under a formidable aspect. It is not
altogether like the ancients, who engraved dances and games upon their
sarcophagi; but the mind is abstracted from the contemplation of a coffin by
the masterpieces of genius. They recall immortality, even upon the altar of
death; and the imagination animated by the admiration which they inspire,
does not feel, as in the north, silence and cold, the immutable guardians of
sepulchres." "Without doubt," said Oswald, "we wish death to be surrounded
by sadness; and even before we were enlightened by Christianity our ancient
mythology, our Ossian, made lamentations and dirges concomitants of the
tomb. Here one wishes to forget and to enjoy. I know not whether I should be
desirous of such a benefit from your fine sky." "Do not believe, however,"
replied Corinne, "that our character is light, or our mind frivolous; it is
only vanity that causes frivolity. Indolence may introduce some intervals of
sleep, or of forgetfulness into our lives, but it neither wears out nor
dries up the heart; and unfortunately for us we may be aroused from this
state by passions more deep, and more terrible than those of souls
habitually active."
In finishing these words, Corinne and Lord
Nelville approached the door of the church. "Another glance towards this
immense sanctuary," said she to Nelville: "See how little man appears in
presence of religion, even when we are reduced to consider only its material
emblem! See what immobility, what eternity, mortals can give to their works,
whilst they themselves pass away so rapidly, and only survive themselves by
their genius! This temple is an image of the infinite, and there is no limit
to the sentiments to which it gives birth—to the ideas which it revives—to
the immense quantity of years which it recalls to our reflection, either of
past or future ages; and on quitting its walls we seem to pass from
celestial thoughts to worldly interests, from the eternity of religion to
the atmosphere of time."
When they were outside the church Corinne
pointed out to Nelville Ovid's Metamorphoses, which were represented on the
gates in basso-relievo. "We are not scandalised in Rome," said she to him,
"with the images of Paganism when they have been consecrated by the fine
arts. The wonders of genius always make a religious impression on the soul,
and we make an offering to the Christian religion of all the masterpieces
which other modes of worship have inspired." Oswald smiled at this
explanation. "Believe me, my lord," continued Corinne, "there is much
sincerity in the sentiments of nations who possess a very lively
imagination. But to-morrow if you choose I will conduct you to the Capitol.
I have, I hope, many other walks to propose to you. When they are finished
will you go? Will you—" She stopped, fearing she had said too much. "No
Corinne," replied Oswald; "no, I will never renounce that gleam of happiness
which my guardian angel, perhaps, causes to shine upon me from the height of
heaven."
Chapter iv.
The next day Oswald and Corinne set out
with more confidence and serenity. They were friends travelling
together;—they began to say we. Ah! how touching is that we
when pronounced by love! How timidly, yet how vividly expressed, is the
declaration which it contains! "We will go to the Capitol then," said
Corinne. "Yes, we will go there," replied Oswald. Simplicity was in his
words—softness and tenderness in his accent. "From the height of the
Capitol, such as it is now," said Corinne, "we can easily perceive the seven
hills; we will survey them all, one after another; there is not one of them
which does not preserve in it some traces of history."
Corinne and Lord Nelville took what was
formerly called the Via Sacra or Triumphal Way. "'Tis this way that
your car passed," said Oswald to Corinne. "Yes," answered she; "this ancient
dust might be astonished at bearing such a car; but since the Roman
republic, so many criminal traces have been imprinted on it that the
sentiment of respect which it inspires is much weakened." They then arrived
at the foot of the steps of the present Capitol. The entrance to the ancient
Capitol was through the Forum. "I could wish," said Corinne, "that these
steps were the same that Scipio mounted, when, repelling calumny by glory,
he entered the temple to return thanks to the gods for the victories which
he had gained. But these new steps, this new Capitol, has been built upon
the ruins of the old, in order to receive the peaceable magistrate who bears
in himself alone the immense title of Roman Senator, formerly an object of
respect to the whole universe. Here we have no longer any thing but names;
yet their harmony, their ancient dignity, inspire us with a pleasing
sensation, mingled with regret. I asked a poor woman, whom I met the other
day, where she lived? 'At the Tarpeian Rock,' answered she. This
word, however stripped of the ideas which formerly attached to it, still
vibrates upon the imagination."
Oswald and Corinne stopped to contemplate
the two lions of basalt at the foot of the steps.
They came from Egypt. The Egyptian sculptors were more happy in seizing the
figure of animals than that of man. These lions of the Capitol are nobly
peaceful, and their physiognomy is the true image of tranquillity in
strength.
"A guisa di leon, quando si
posa."
Dante.
"In the manner of the
lion, when he reposes."
Not far from these lions is a statue of
Rome, mutilated, which the modern Romans have placed there, without thinking
that they were thus giving the most perfect emblem of their city as it now
is. This statue has neither head nor feet, but the body and the drapery
which still remain have something of their ancient beauty. At the top of the
steps are two colossal figures which represent as it is believed Castor and
Pollux; then the trophies of Marius; then two milliary columns which served
for the admeasurement of the Roman universe; and the equestrian statue of
Marcus Aurelius, noble and calm in the midst of these several recollections.
Thus, the whole Roman history is here emblematically represented: The heroic
age by the Dioscuri; the republic by the lions; the civil wars by Marius;
and the golden age of the emperors by Marcus Aurelius.
Advancing towards the modern Capitol, we
see to the right and to the left two churches, built on the ruins of the
temples of the Feretrian and Capitoline Jupiter. Before the vestibule is a
fountain, over which preside two rivers, the Nile and the Tiber, with the
she-wolf of Romulus. The name of the Tiber is not pronounced like that of
inglorious rivers; it is one of the pleasures of the Romans, to say, "Conduct
me to the borders of the Tiber; let us cross the Tiber." In pronouncing
these words they seem to invoke history and to re-animate the dead. In going
to the Capitol, by way of the Forum, we find, to the right, the Mamertine
prisons.—These prisons were at first constructed by Ancus Martius, and were
then employed for ordinary criminals. But Servius Tullius caused more horrid
ones to be dug under ground for state criminals, as if such prisoners were
not those who deserve most consideration, since their errors might be united
with sincerity. Jugurtha and the accomplices of Cataline perished in these
prisons. It is also said that St Peter and St Paul have been incarcerated in
them. On the other side of the Capitol is the Tarpeian Rock, and at the foot
of this rock we find at the present time a hospital, called The Hospital of
Consolation. It seems that thus in Rome the severe spirit of antiquity and
the mildness of Christianity meet each other throughout the ages, and
present themselves to our sight as well as to our reflection.
When Oswald and Corinne had reached the top
of the tower of the Capitol, she showed him the Seven Hills; the city of
Rome bounded at first by Mount Palatine, then by the walls of Servius
Tullius, which enclose the Seven Hills; lastly by the walls of Aurelian,
which still serve as an enclosure to the greatest part of Rome. Corinne
recalled to mind the verses of Tibullus and Propertius,
who are proud of the weak beginnings whence has sprung the mistress of the
world. Mount Palatine was in itself the whole of Rome for some time, but
afterwards the palace of the Emperors filled the space which had before
sufficed for a nation. A poet, in the time of Nero, made the following
epigram upon this occasion.
Rome will soon be only a palace. Go to Veii Romans, if this palace does
not now occupy Veii itself.
The Seven Hills are infinitely less
elevated than formerly when they deserved the name of the Steep Mountains.
Modern Rome is raised forty feet above the ancient city. The valleys which
separated the hills are almost filled up by time with the ruins of edifices;
but what is more singular yet, a heap of broken vases has raised two new
hills;
and we almost discover an image of modern times, in this progress, or rather
this wreck of civilisation, levelling mountains with valleys, effacing in
the moral as well as the physical world all those beautiful inequalities
produced by nature.
Three other hills,
not comprised in the seven famous ones, give something picturesque to the
city of Rome, which perhaps is the only city that of itself, and in its own
boundaries, offers the most magnificent points of observation. It presents
such a remarkable mixture of ruins, edifices, fields and deserts, that we
may contemplate Rome on all sides, and always find a striking picture in the
opposite perspective.
Oswald could never feel tired of viewing
the traces of ancient Rome from the elevated point of the Capitol to which
Corinne had conducted him. The reading of history, and the reflections which
it excites, produce a less powerful effect upon the soul than those heaps of
stones, those ruins mingled with new habitations. So strongly do our eyes
carry conviction to the mind, that after having beheld these ruins of Rome
we believe the history of the ancient Romans as if we had been cotemporary
with them. The recollections of the mind are acquired by study; the
recollections of the imagination are born of a more immediate and intimate
impression, which gives body to thought, and renders us, if I may so express
it, witnesses of what we have learnt. Undoubtedly one is vexed sometimes at
those modern buildings which intrude themselves among the venerable spoils
of antiquity. But a portico by the side of a humble cottage, pillars,
between which appear the little windows of a church, a tomb affording an
asylum to a whole rustic family, produce an indescribable mixture of great
and simple ideas, a newly-discovered pleasure which inspires a continual
interest. The greater part of our European cities have externally a common
and prosaic appearance; and Rome, oftener than any other, presents the
melancholy aspect of misery and degradation; but all of a sudden a broken
column, a bas-relief half-destroyed, stones knit together in the
indestructible manner of the ancient architects, remind us that there is in
man an eternal power, a divine spark, which he must never cease to excite in
himself and revive in others.
This Forum, whose enclosure is so narrow in
compass, and which has witnessed so many astonishing things, is a striking
proof of the moral greatness of man. When the universe, in the latter times
of Rome, was subjected to inglorious masters, we find whole centuries, of
which history has scarcely preserved any events; and this Forum, this little
space in the centre of a city, at that time very circumscribed, whose
inhabitants were fighting all around them for their territory, has it not
occupied by the memories which it recalls, the most sublime geniuses of
every age! Honour then, eternal honour, to nations, courageous and free,
since they thus captivate the admiration of posterity!
Corinne observed to Lord Nelville that
there were very few remains of the Republican age to be found at Rome. The
aqueducts, the canals formed under ground, for the distribution of water,
were the only luxury of the Republic and the kings who preceded it. They
have only left us useful edifices: tombs raised to the memory of their great
men, and some temples of brick, which still subsist. It was not until after
the conquest of Sicily that the Romans for the first time made use of marble
for their monuments; but it is sufficient to behold places where great
actions have occurred, to experience an indefinable emotion. It is to this
disposition of the soul that we must attribute the religious power of
pilgrimages. Celebrated countries of every kind, even when stripped of their
great men and of their monuments, preserve their effect upon the
imagination. What struck our sight no longer exists, but the charm of
recollection remains.
This Forum no longer presents us with any
trace of that famous Tribune, from which the Roman people were governed by
eloquence. Three pillars remain of a temple, raised by Augustus in honour of
Jupiter Tonans, when the thunderbolt fell at his feet without striking him,
and an arch which the senate raised to Septimus Severus in reward of his
exploits. The names of his two sons, Caracalla and Geta, were inscribed on
the fronton of the arch; but when Caracalla had assassinated Geta he caused
his name to be erased, and some traces of the cancelled letters are still to
be seen. At some distance is a temple to Faustina, a monument of the blind
weakness of Marcus Aurelius; a temple to Venus which, in the time of the
republic, was consecrated to Pallas—and farther on, the ruins of a temple
dedicated to the Sun and Moon, built by the Emperor Adrian, who was jealous
of Apollodorus, the famous Grecian architect, and put him to death for
having found fault with the proportions of his edifice.
On the other side of the square we behold
the ruins of some monuments consecrated to nobler and purer aims. The
pillars of a temple which is believed to have been that of Jupiter Stator,
who prevented the Romans from ever flying before their enemies. A pillar
remaining of the Temple of Jupiter Guardian, placed, we are told, not far
from the abyss into which Curtius precipitated himself. Pillars also of a
temple, raised, some say, to Concord, others to Victory. Perhaps these two
ideas are confounded by conquering nations, who probably think no real peace
can exist till they have subdued the universe! At the extremity of Mount
Palatine is a beautiful triumphal arch, dedicated to Titus, for the conquest
of Jerusalem. We are informed that the Jews who are at Rome never pass under
this arch, and a little path is shewn which they take to avoid it. It is to
be wished, for the honour of the Jews, that this anecdote may be true; long
recollections suit long misfortunes.
Not far from thence is the arch of
Constantine, embellished with some bas-reliefs taken away from the forum of
Trajan, by the Christians, who wished to adorn the monument consecrated to
the founder of repose; so they called Constantine. The arts at this
epoch were already on the decline, and they stripped the past to honour new
exploits. These triumphal gates, which are seen at Rome, give perpetuity as
much as man can give it, to the honours paid to glory. There was a place
upon their summits destined for flute and trumpet players, in order that the
victor when passing might be intoxicated at the same time by music and
praise, and taste at the same moment all the most exalted emotions.
Facing these triumphal arches are the ruins
of the temple of Peace built by Vespasian; it was so decorated with brass
and with gold, internally, that when consumed by fire, the streams of
burning metal that flowed from it extended even to the Forum. Lastly, the
Coliseum, the most beautiful ruin of Rome, terminates this noble enclosure,
which embraces all history in its compass. This superb edifice, of which
only the stones remain, stript of the gold and the marble, served as an
amphitheatre for the combats of the gladiators, with wild beasts. It was
thus that the Roman people were amused and deceived by strong emotions, when
natural sentiments could no longer soar. The entrance to the Coliseum is by
two doors, one consecrated to the victors, and by the other were carried out
the dead: strange contempt for the human race, which made the life or death
of man dependent upon the pastime of a public spectacle! Titus, the best of
emperors, dedicated the Coliseum to the Roman people,—and these admirable
ruins bear such fine traits of magnificence and genius, that we are led into
an illusion on the subject of true greatness, and tempted to grant that
admiration to the masterpieces of art, which is only the due of monuments
consecrated to generous institutions.
Oswald did not indulge in that admiration
which Corinne felt in contemplating these four galleries; these four
edifices, rising one upon another; this medley of pomp and barbarism, which
at once inspires respect and compassion. He beheld in these scenes nothing
but the luxury of the master, and the blood of the slaves, and felt
indignant at the arts which, regardless of their aim, lavish their gifts
upon whatever object they may be destined for. Corinne endeavoured to combat
this disposition:—"Do not," said she, to Lord Nelville, "carry the rigour of
your principles of morality and justice into the contemplation of the
Italian monuments; they, for the most part, recall, as I have told you,
rather the splendour, the elegance of taste of ancient forms, than the
glorious epoch of Roman virtue. But do you not find some traces of the moral
greatness possessed by the first ages, in the gigantic luxury of the
monuments which have succeeded them? Even the degradation of the Roman
people still commands respect: the mourning of her liberty covers the world
with wonders, and the genius of ideal beauty seeks to console man for the
true and real dignity which he has lost. Behold those immense baths, open to
all those who were willing to taste oriental voluptuousness—those circuses
destined for the elephants which were brought there to combat with tigers,
and those aqueducts which in a moment converted the amphitheatre into a
lake, where galleys too fought in their turn, and crocodiles appeared where
lions were seen before:—such was the luxury of the Romans when luxury was
their pride! Those obelisks which were brought from Egypt, stolen from
African shades, in order to adorn the Roman sepulchres; that population of
statues which formerly existed in Rome cannot be looked upon in the same
light as the useless pageantry of the Asiatic despots: it is the Roman
genius which conquered the world, and to which the arts have given an
external form. There is something supernatural in this magnificence, and its
poetical splendour makes us forget its origin and its aim."
The eloquence of Corinne excited the
admiration of Oswald without convincing him; he sought for some moral
sentiment in all this, without which all the magic of the arts could not
satisfy him. Corinne then recollected that in this very amphitheatre the
persecuted Christians died victims of their perseverance, and showing Lord
Nelville the altars which are raised in honour of their ashes, as well as
the path of the cross, which is trodden by penitents, at the foot of the
most magnificent wrecks of worldly grandeur, asked him if the ashes of
martyrs conveyed no language to his heart? "Yes," cried he, "I deeply admire
the triumph of the soul and of the will over the pains of death. A
sacrifice, whatever it may be, is nobler and more difficult than all the
flights of the soul and of thought.—An exalted imagination may produce
miracles of genius, but it is only in devoting ourselves to our opinion or
to our sentiments that we are truly virtuous;—it is then alone that a
celestial power subdues the mortal man in us."
This language, so noble and so pure, yet
gave uneasiness to Corinne. She looked at Nelville—then cast down her
eyes—and though, at that moment, he took her hand and pressed it against his
heart, she shuddered at the idea that such a man could sacrifice others or
himself to the worship of opinions, of principles, or of duties, which he
might have chosen.
Chapter v.
After the excursion to the Capitol and the
Forum, Corinne and Nelville spent two days in visiting the Seven Hills. The
Romans formerly observed a festival in honour of them. These hills, enclosed
in her bosom, are one of the original beauties of Rome; and we may easily
conceive what delight was experienced by feelings attached to their native
soil, in celebrating this singularity.
Oswald and Corinne, having seen the
Capitoline Hill the day before, began their walks by Mount Palatine; it was
entirely occupied by the palace of the Cæsars, called the golden palace.
This hill offers nothing to our view, at present, but the ruins of that
palace. The four sides of it were built by Augustus Tiberius, Caligula, and
Nero; but the stones, covered with fertile plants, are all that now remain
of it: Nature has there resumed her empire over the labours of man, and the
beauty of the flowers consoles us for the destruction of the palace. The
luxury of the times of the kings and of the Republic only consisted in
public edifices; private houses were very small, and very simple. Cicero,
Hortensius, and the Gracchi, dwelt upon Mount Palatine, which, at the
decline of Rome, was scarcely sufficient for the abode of a single man. In
the latter ages, the nation was nothing more than an anonymous crowd, merely
designated by the era of its master. We look in vain here for the two
laurels planted before the door of Augustus, the laurel of war, and that of
the fine arts cultivated by peace; both have disappeared.
There is still remaining, on Mount
Palatine, some chambers of the Baths of Livia; we are there shown the holes
which contained the precious stones that were then lavished upon ceilings,
as a common ornament, and paintings are to be seen there whose colours are
yet perfectly untouched; the fragility of the colours adds to our
astonishment at seeing them preserved, and seems to carry us back nearer to
past ages. If it be true that Livia shortened the days of Augustus, it is in
one of these rooms that the crime was conceived, and the eyes of the
sovereign of the world, betrayed in his most intimate affections, were
perhaps fixed upon one of those pictures whose elegant flowers still remain.
What, in old age, were his thoughts upon his life and his pomp? Did he
recall to mind his proscriptions or his glory? Did he hope, or did he fear a
world to come? Does the last thought, which reveals everything to man; does
the last thought of a master of the universe still wander beneath these
vaults?
Mount Aventine offers more traces than any
other of the first periods of the Roman History. Exactly opposite the
Palace, raised by Tiberius, we see the ruins of the Temple of Liberty, which
was built by the father of the Gracchi. At the foot of Mount Aventine stood
the temple dedicated to the Fortune of men by Servius Tullius, to thank the
gods for having raised him from the condition of a slave to the rank of a
king. Without the walls of Rome we find also the ruins of a temple, which
was consecrated to the Fortune of women when Veturia stopped the progress of
Coriolanus. Opposite Mount Aventine is Mount Janicula, on which Porsenna
placed his army. It was opposite this Mount that Horatius Cocles caused the
bridge leading to Rome to be cut away behind him. The foundation of this
bridge is still to be seen; there stands on the bank of the river a
triumphal arch, built of brick, as simple as the action which it recalls was
grand; this arch having been raised, it is said, in honour of Horatius
Cocles. In the middle of the Tiber is perceived an island formed of sheaves
of corn gathered in the fields of Tarquin, which were a long time exposed on
the river because the Roman people would not take them, believing that they
should entail bad fortune on themselves by so doing. It would be difficult
in our days to cast a malediction upon riches of any sort which could
prevent everybody from seizing them.
On Mount Aventine were placed the temple of
patrician, and that of plebeian modesty. At the foot of this hill is seen
the temple of Vesta, which yet remains whole, though it has been often
menaced by the inundations of the Tiber. Not far from thence is the ruin of
a prison for debt, where it is said a fine trait of filial piety was
displayed, which is pretty generally known. It was also in this place that
Clelia and her companions, prisoners of Porsenna, crossed the Tiber in order
to rejoin the Romans. This Aventine Mount affords the soul repose after the
painful reflections which the other hills awaken, and its aspect is as
beautiful as the memories it recalls. The name of Pulchrum Littus,
Beautiful Shore, was given to the banks of the river, which rolls at its
foot, which was the walk of the Roman orators when they quitted the forum—it
was there that Cæsar and Pompey met like private citizens, and sought to
captivate Cicero whose independent eloquence was then of more importance to
them than even the power of their armies.
Poetry too lends its aid to embellish this
retreat; Virgil has placed the cavern of Cacus upon Mount Aventine, and the
Romans, so great by their history, are still more so by the heroic fictions
with which the bards have decorated their fabulous origin. Lastly, in
returning from this mountain is seen the house of Nicholas Rienzi, who
vainly endeavoured to revive ancient times among the moderns, and this
memento, feeble as it is, by the side of so many others, gives birth to much
reflection. Mount Cælius is remarkable because there we behold the remains
of the Prætorian camp, and that of the foreign soldiers. This inscription
has been found in the ruins of the edifice built for the reception of these
soldiers:—"To the hallowed genius of foreign camps!" Hallowed indeed, for
those whose power it maintained! What remains of these ancient barracks,
enables us to judge that they were built after the manner of cloisters, or
rather, that cloisters have been built upon their model.
Mount Esquiline was called the Poets'
Mount, because Mecenas having his palace on this hill, Horace,
Propertius and Tibullus dwelt there also. Not far from here are the ruins of
the Thermæ of Titus, and of Trajan. It is believed that Raphael took the
model of his arabesques from the fresco paintings of the Thermæ of Titus. It
is there, also, that was discovered the group of the Laocoon. The freshness
of water affords such pleasure in hot countries that delight is taken in
assembling together all the pomp of luxury, and every enjoyment of the
imagination, in the places appropriated for bathing. It was there that the
Romans exposed their masterpieces of painting and of sculpture. They were
seen by the light of lamps, for it appears by the construction of these
buildings, that daylight never entered them: they wished thus to preserve
themselves from the rays of the sun, so burning in the south: the sensation
they produce must certainly have been the cause of the ancients calling them
the darts of Apollo. It is reasonable to suppose, from observing the extreme
precaution of the ancients to guard against heat, that the climate was then
more burning than it is in our days. It is in the Thermæ of Caracalla, that
were placed the Hercules Farnese, the Flora, and the group of Dirce. In the
baths of Nero near Ostia was found the Apollo Belvedere. Is it possible to
conceive that in contemplating this noble figure Nero did not feel some
generous emotions?
The Thermæ and the Circuses are the only
kind of buildings appropriated to public amusements of which there remain
any relics at Rome. There is no theatre except that of Marcellus whose ruins
still exist. Pliny relates that there were three hundred and sixty pillars
of marble, and three thousand statues employed in a theatre, which was only
to last a few days. Sometimes the Romans raised fabrics so strong that they
resisted the shock of earthquakes; at others they took pleasure in devoting
immense labour to buildings which they themselves destroyed as soon as their
feasts were over; thus they sported with time in every shape. Besides, the
Romans were not like the Greeks—influenced by a passion for dramatic
representations. It was by Grecian work, and Grecian artists, that the fine
arts flourished at Rome, and Roman greatness expressed itself rather by the
colossal magnificence of architecture than by the masterpieces of the
imagination. This gigantic luxury, these wonders of riches, possess great
and characteristic dignity, which, though not the dignity of liberty, is
that of power. The monuments appropriated for public baths, were called
provinces; in them were united all the divers productions and divers
establishments which a whole country can produce. The circus (called
Circus Maximus) of which the remains are still to be seen, was so near
the palace of the Cæsars that Nero could from his windows give the signal
for the games. The circus was large enough to contain three hundred thousand
persons. The nation almost in its entirety was amused at the same moment,
and these immense festivals might be considered as a kind of popular
institution, which united every man in the cause of pleasure as they were
formerly united in the cause of glory.
Mount Quirinal and Mount Viminal are so
near each other that it is difficult to distinguish them: it was here that
the houses of Sallust and of Pompey, formerly stood; it is here also that
the Pope has now fixed his abode. We cannot take one step in Rome without
bringing the present near to the past, and different periods of the past
near to each other. But we learn to reconcile ourselves to the events of our
own time, in beholding the eternal mutability of the history of man; and we
feel ashamed of letting our own lot disturb us in the presence of so many
ages, which have all overthrown the work of the preceding ones.
By the side of the Seven Hills, on their
declivities or on their summits, are seen a multitude of steeples, and of
obelisks; Trajan's column, the column of Antoninus, the Tower of Conti
(whence it is said Nero beheld the conflagration of Rome), and the Dome of
St Peter's, whose commanding grandeur eclipses that of every other object.
It appears as if the air were peopled with all these monuments, which extend
towards Heaven, and as if an aerial city were majestically hovering over the
terrestrial one.
On entering Rome again Corinne made Oswald
pass under the portico of Octavia, she who loved so well, and suffered so
much; then they traversed the Path of Infamy, by which the infamous
Tullia passed, trampling her father's corpse beneath the feet of her horses.
At a distance from this spot is seen the temple raised by Agrippina in
honour of Claudius whom she caused to be poisoned. And lastly we pass the
tomb of Augustus, whose enclosure now serves as an amphitheatre for the
combats of beasts.
"I have caused you to run over very
rapidly," said Corinne to Lord Nelville, "some traces of ancient history;
but you will comprehend the pleasure to be found in these researches, at
once learned and poetic, which speak to the imagination as well as to the
mind. There are in Rome many distinguished men whose only occupation is to
discover some new relation between history and the ruins." "I know no study
that would more captivate and interest me," replied Lord Nelville, "if I
felt sufficiently at rest to give my mind to it: this species of erudition
is much more animated than that which is acquired from books: one would say
that we make what we discover to live again, and that the past re-appears
from beneath the dust in which it has been buried." "Undoubtedly," said
Corinne, "this passion for antiquity is not a vain prejudice. We live in an
age when personal interest seems to be the only principle of all the actions
of men, and what sympathy, what emotion, what enthusiasm, can ever result
from such a principle? It is sweeter to dream of those days of devotion, of
personal sacrifice and heroism, which however, have existed, and of which
the earth still bears some honourable testimonies."
Chapter vi.
Corinne flattered herself in secret with
having captivated the heart of Oswald, but as she knew his reserve and his
severity, she had not dared make known to him all the interest he had
excited in her heart, though she was disposed, by character, to conceal
nothing that she felt. Perhaps also she believed that even in speaking on
subjects foreign to their growing passion there was a tenderness of accent
in their voice, which betrayed their mutual affection, and that a secret
avowal of love was painted in their looks, and in that melancholy and veiled
language which penetrates so deeply into the soul.
One morning, when Corinne was getting ready
to continue her walks with Oswald, she received a note from him, somewhat
ceremonious, informing her that the bad state of his health would confine
him at home for some days. A painful disquietude seized upon the heart of
Corinne: she at first feared he might be dangerously ill, but the Count
d'Erfeuil, whom she saw at night, told her it was one of those melancholy
fits to which he was very much subject and, during which he would not speak
to anybody.—"He will not see even me," said the Count d'Erfeuil,
"when he is so."—This even me was highly displeasing to Corinne, but
she was upon her guard not to betray any symptoms of that displeasure to the
only man who might be able to give her news of Lord Nelville. She
interrogated him, flattering herself that a man of so much apparent levity
would tell her all he knew. But on a sudden, whether he wished to conceal
from her by an air of mystery that Oswald had confided nothing to him, or
whether he believed it more honourable to refuse what was asked of him than
to grant it, he opposed an invincible silence to the ardent curiosity of
Corinne. She who had always had an ascendency over those with whom she
conversed, could not comprehend why all her means of persuasion were without
effect upon the Count d'Erfeuil: did she not know that there is nothing in
the world so inflexible as self-love?
What resource remained then to Corinne to
know what was passing in the heart of Oswald! should she write to him? The
formality it would require was too foreign to her open disposition. Three
days glided away, during which she did not see Lord Nelville, and was
tormented by the most cruel agitation.—"What have I done then," said she,
"to drive him from me? I have not told him that I loved him.—I have not been
guilty of that crime, so terrible in England, but so pardonable in Italy.
Has he guessed it? But why should he esteem me the less for it?" Oswald had
only absented himself from Corinne because he felt the power of her charms
becoming too strong to resist. Though he had not given his word to espouse
Lucilia Edgermond, he knew it was his father's wish that she should become
his wife, and to that wish he desired to conform. Besides, Corinne was not
known by her real name, and had, for several years, led a life much too
independent. Such a marriage, Lord Nelville believed would not have obtained
the approbation of his father, and he felt that it was not thus he could
expiate the transgressions he had been guilty of towards him. Such were his
motives for removing himself from the presence of Corinne. He had formed the
project of writing to her on quitting Rome, stating the motives that
condemned him to this resolution; but as he could not find strength to do
that, he contented himself with abstaining from visiting her, and even this
sacrifice became almost too painful to bear from the second day of his
absence.
Corinne was struck with an idea that she
should never behold Oswald again; that he would go away without bidding her
adieu. She expected every instant to receive the news of his departure, and
this fear so increased the agony of her feelings that she felt herself all
of a sudden seized by passion, that vulture beneath whose talons happiness
and independence sink. Unable to endure the house that Lord Nelville no
longer visited, she frequently wandered in the gardens of Rome, hoping to
meet with him. The hours so spent were the least insupportable, since they
afforded some chance of seeing the object of her wanderings. The ardent
imagination of Corinne was the source of her talents; but, unfortunately for
her, it was united to her natural sensibility, which often rendered it
extremely painful to her.
On the evening of the fourth day of this
cruel absence, the moon shone beautifully bright, and the silence of the
night gives Rome a fine effect: it seems then to be inhabited by the shades
of its illustrious ancients. Corinne, returning from the house of a female
friend, oppressed with grief, quitted her carriage, to sit for a few moments
near the fountain of Trevi; before that abundant cascade, which, falling in
the midst of Rome, seems like the vital principle of this tranquil abode.
When this cascade ceases to play for some days, one would say that Rome is
struck with stupor. It is the noise of carriages that we expect to hear in
other capitals; but at Rome, it is the murmuring of this immense fountain,
which seems to be an accompaniment necessary to the pensive life people lead
there: the image of Corinne was painted in this stream, so pure, that for
several centuries past it has borne the name of the Virgin Spring.
Oswald, who had stopped in the same place a few moments afterwards, beheld
the charming features of his love reflected in the water. He was seized with
so lively an emotion, that he did not know, at first, whether it was not his
imagination which presented to him the shadow of Corinne, as it had so often
done that of his father; he bent towards the fountain to observe more
distinctly, when his own countenance was reflected by the side of Corinne's.
She knew him, uttered a cry, and darting towards him rapidly, seized his arm
as if she were afraid he would leave her again; but hardly had she yielded
to this impetuous emotion than recollecting the character of Nelville, she
blushed at having given him this lively testimony of her feelings, and
letting fall the hand which held Oswald, she covered her face with the other
to conceal her tears.
"Corinne!" said Oswald, "dear Corinne! my
absence has then rendered you unhappy!" "Oh yes," answered she, "you were
sure of that! Why then pain me! have I deserved to suffer at your hand?"
"No, certainly," cried Nelville, "but if I do not think myself free; if I
feel in my heart a storm of grief, why should I associate you with such a
torture of sentiment and dread?"—"It is too late," interrupted Corinne, "it
is too late, grief has already seized upon my bosom—spare me."—"Do you
mention grief?" replied Oswald, "in the midst of so brilliant a career, of
such renown, and possessing so lively an imagination?"—"Hold," said Corinne,
"you do not know me; of all the faculties I possess, the most powerful is
that of suffering. I am born for happiness, my disposition is open, my
imagination animated; but pain excites in me a certain impetuosity, powerful
enough to disturb my reason or bring me to my grave; therefore I beseech
you, spare me. My gaiety and mobility are only superficial; but there are in
my soul abysses of sadness, which I can only escape by guarding against
love."
Corinne pronounced these words with an
expression that deeply affected Oswald.—"I will come and see you to-morrow
morning," said he. "Do you swear it?" said she, with a disquietude which she
vainly endeavoured to conceal. "Yes, I swear it," cried Lord Nelville, and
disappeared.
Book V
THE TOMBS, THE CHURCHES, AND THE PALACES.
Chapter i.
The next day, Oswald and Corinne felt much
embarrassed at meeting each other. Corinne was no longer confident of the
love which she inspired. Oswald was dissatisfied with himself; he knew there
was a weakness in his character which sometimes made him feel irritated at
his own sentiments as at a species of tyranny; and both endeavoured to avoid
speaking of their mutual affection. "I have to propose to-day," said
Corinne, "rather a solemn walk; but one that will certainly prove highly
interesting: let us go and see the tombs, let us go and see the last asylum
of those who inhabited the monuments whose ruins we have
contemplated."—"Yes," answered Oswald, "you have conjectured what will suit
the present disposition of my soul;" and he pronounced these words in so
dolorous an accent, that Corinne was silent some moments, not daring to
speak to him. But the desire of affording consolation to Oswald, and the
lively interest she took in every thing they were to see together, inspired
her with courage, and she said to him: "You know my lord, that, among the
ancients, so far was the aspect of the tombs from dispiriting the living,
that they endeavoured to excite a new emulation by placing these tombs on
the public roads, in order that by recalling to young people the remembrance
of illustrious men, they might silently admonish them to follow their
example." "Ah! how I envy all those," said Oswald, "whose grief is not
mingled with remorse!" "Do you talk of remorse," cried Corinne; "you whose
only failings, if they may be so called, are an excess of virtue, a
scrupulosity of heart, an exalted delicacy—" "Corinne, Corinne, do not
approach that subject," interrupted Oswald, "in your happy country, sombre
thoughts disappear before the lustre of a brilliant sky; but that grief
which has penetrated to the depths of our soul, must for ever sap the
foundation of our existence." "You form an erroneous judgment of me,"
replied Corinne; "I have already told you, that though I am formed by the
nature of my character, for lively enjoyment, I should suffer more
exquisitely than you if—" She did not conclude; but changed the
discourse.—"My only desire, my lord, is to divert your attention for a
moment; I hope for nothing more." The sweetness of this reply moved Lord
Nelville, and seeing a melancholy expression in the looks of Corinne,
naturally so interesting and so full of fire, he reproached himself for
having afflicted a woman, born for the most tender and lively sensations,
and endeavoured to atone for it. But the disquietude which Corinne
experienced with regard to the future intentions of Oswald, and the
possibility of his departure, entirely disturbed her accustomed serenity.
She conducted Lord Nelville outside the
gates of the city, where are to be seen the ancient vestiges of the Appian
way. These vestiges are indicated in the midst of the Campagna, by the tombs
to the right and to the left, which extend out of sight for several miles
beyond the walls. The Romans would not permit their dead to be buried inside
the city: the emperors alone were allowed that privilege. One private
citizen, however, named Publius Bibulus, obtained this favour in reward of
his obscure virtues.—Cotemporaries are always more willing to honour virtues
of that description than any other.
It is the gate of St Sebastian, formerly
called Capene, that conducts to the Appian way. Cicero tells us, that
the first tombs we meet after passing this gate, are those of the Metelli,
the Scipios, and the Servilii. The family tomb of the Scipios has been found
in this very spot and since transplanted to the Vatican. It is almost a
sacrilege to displace the ashes of the dead or to change the aspect of
ruins. Imagination is more closely connected with morality than is generally
believed, and should not be offended. Among so many tombs which strike our
sight, names are ascribed to some without any positive certainty; but even
the emotion which this uncertainty inspires will not permit us to
contemplate any of these monuments with indifference. There are some in
which houses for the peasantry are built; for the Romans consecrated an
extensive space and vast edifices to the funereal urns of their friends or
their illustrious fellow-citizens. They were not influenced by that dry
principle of utility which fertilized a few corners of the earth, while
blasting with sterility the vast domain of sentiment and of thought.
At some distance from the Appian way is
seen a temple, raised by the republic to Honour and Virtue; another to the
god who caused Hannibal to turn back, and also the fountain of Egeria, where
Numa went to consult the god of all good men,—conscience interrogated in
solitude. It seems that about these tombs no traces but those of virtue have
subsisted. No monument of the ages of crime is to be found by the side of
those where repose the illustrious dead; they are surrounded by an
honourable space, where the noblest memories may preserve their reign
undisturbed.
The aspect of the country about Rome has
something in it singularly remarkable: undoubtedly it is a desert, for it
contains neither trees nor habitation; but the earth is covered with wild
plants which the energy of vegetation incessantly renews. These parasitic
plants glide among the tombs, adorn the ruins, and seem only there to honour
the dead. One would say, that proud Nature has rejected all the labours of
man, since Cincinnatus no longer guided the plough which furrowed her bosom.
She produces plants by chance, without permitting the living to make use of
her riches. These uncultivated plains must be displeasing to the
agriculturist, to administrators, to all those who speculate upon the earth,
and who would lay it under contribution to supply the wants of man. But
pensive minds, which are occupied as much by death as by life, take pleasure
in contemplating this Roman Campagna upon which the present age has
imprinted no trace; this land which cherishes its dead, and covers them
lovingly with useless flowers, with useless plants which creep upon the
earth, and never rise sufficiently to separate themselves from the ashes
which they appear to caress.
Oswald agreed that in this spot the mind
felt more calm than it possibly could any where else; besides, here the soul
does not suffer so much from the images that grief presents to it; one seems
still to share with those who are no more, the charms of that air, of that
sun, and of that verdure. Corinne observed the impression that Lord Nelville
received, and conceived some hopes from it: she did not flatter herself with
being able to console Oswald; she had not even wished to efface from his
heart the just regret he must feel at the loss of his father; but there is,
even in this regret, something tender and harmonious, which we must
endeavour to make known to those who have hitherto only felt its bitterness;
it is the only benefit we can confer upon them.
"Let us stop here," said Corinne, "opposite
this tomb, the only one which remains yet almost whole: it is not the tomb
of a celebrated Roman, it is that of Cecilia Metella, a young maiden to whom
her father has raised this monument." "Happy!" said Oswald, "happy are the
children who die in the arms of their father and receive death in the bosom
of him who gave them life; death itself then loses its sting." "Yes," said
Corinne; "happy are those not doomed to the wretched lot of orphans. See,
arms have been sculptured on this tomb, though it belongs to a woman: but
the daughters of heroes may have their monuments adorned with the trophies
of their fathers; what a beautiful union is that of innocence and valour!
There is an elegy of Propertius which paints better than any other writing
of antiquity, this dignity of woman among the Romans, more imposing, more
pure than the worship paid to them during the age of chivalry. Cornelia,
dying in her youth, addresses to her husband the most affecting consolations
and adieus, in which we feel at every word, all that is respectable and
sacred in family ties. The noble pride of an unspotted life is painted in
this majestic poetry of the Latins, this poetry, noble and severe as the
masters of the world.
'Yes,' says Cornelia, 'no stain has sullied my life from the
nuptial bed to the funeral pyre; I have lived pure between the two torches.'
What an admirable expression" cried Corinne; "What a sublime image! How
worthy of envy is the lot of that woman who has been able to preserve the
most perfect unity in her destiny and carries but one recollection to the
grave: it is enough for a life!"
In finishing these words, the eyes of
Corinne were filled with tears; a cruel sentiment, a painful suspicion
seized upon the heart of Oswald.—"Corinne," cried he, "Corinne, has your
delicate soul nothing to reproach itself with? If I were able to dispose of
myself, if I could offer myself to you, should I have no rival in the past?
Should I have reason to be proud of my choice? Would no cruel jealousy
disturb my happiness?"—"I am free, and I love you as I never loved man
before!" answered Corinne—"What would you have more?—Must I be condemned to
an avowal, that before I have known you I have been deceived by my
imagination as to the interest which another excited in me? Is there not in
the heart of man a divine pity for the errors which sentiment, or rather the
illusion of sentiment, may have led us to commit?" In finishing these words
a modest blush covered her face. Oswald was startled; but remained silent.
There was in Corinne's look an expression of repentance and timidity which
did not permit him to judge with rigour—a ray from heaven seemed to descend
upon, and absolve her! He took her hand, pressed it against his heart, and
knelt before her, without uttering anything, without promising anything; but
contemplated her with a look of love which gave the utmost latitude to hope.
"Believe me," said Corinne, to Lord
Nelville—"let us form no plan for the years to come. The most happy moments
are those which a bountiful chance gives us. Is it here then, is it in the
midst of the tombs that we should think of future days?"—"No," cried Lord
Nelville, "I can think of no future day that would be likely to part us!
these four days of absence have taught me too well that I now no longer
exist but in you!"—Corinne made no reply to these sweet expressions; but she
treasured them religiously in her heart; she was always fearful that in
prolonging the conversation upon that subject most interesting to her, she
might draw from Oswald a declaration of his future intentions, before a
longer acquaintance might render separation impossible. She often, even
designedly, turned his attention towards external objects—like that Sultana
in the Arabian Tales, who sought by a thousand different recitals to awaken
the interest of him she loved, in order to postpone the decision of her fate
till her charms and her wit had completed their conquest.
Chapter ii.
Not far from the Appian way, Oswald and
Corinne visited the Columbarium, where slaves are united with their
masters; where are seen in the same tomb, all who lived under the protection
of one man or one woman. The women of Livia, for example, they who,
appointed to the care of her beauty, struggled for its preservation against
the power of time and disputed with the years some one of her charms, are
placed by her side in little urns. We fancy that we see an assemblage of the
obscure dead round one of the illustrious departed, not less silent than his
train. At a little distance from here, is perceived the field where vestals,
unfaithful to their vows, were buried alive; a singular instance of
fanaticism in a religion naturally tolerant.
"I will not conduct you to the catacombs,"
said Corinne to Lord Nelville, "though, by a singular chance, they are under
this Appian way; tombs thus having their abode beneath tombs; but this
asylum of the persecuted Christians has something so gloomy, and so terrible
in it, that I cannot find resolution to return thither. It does not inspire
the same affecting melancholy as more open situations; it is like a dungeon
adjoining a sepulchre; the torment of life accompanied with the horrors of
death. Undoubtedly, we feel penetrated with admiration of men who, by the
power of enthusiasm alone, have been able to support this subterraneous
existence; separating themselves from the sun and from nature; but the mind
is so ill at ease in this abode that it is incapable of receiving any
improvement. Man is a part of the creation; he must find his moral harmony
in the whole system of the universe, in the usual order of destiny, and
certain violent and formidable exceptions may astonish the mind; but they
are so terrifying to the imagination that the habitual disposition of the
soul cannot benefit by them. Let us rather," continued Corinne, "go and see
the pyramid of Cestius: the Protestants who die here are all buried around
this pyramid, which affords them a mild, tolerant, and liberal asylum."
"Yes," answered Oswald, "it is there that several of my fellow-countrymen
have found their last retreat. Let us go thither; and thus, at least, it may
happen that I shall never quit you."—Corinne shuddered at these words, and
her hand trembled as she supported herself upon the arm of Lord Nelville—"I
am better, much better," said he, "since I have known you."—The countenance
of Corinne was lighted up anew with that sweet and tender joy which it was
accustomed to express.
Cestius presided over the Roman games. His
name is not to be found in history; but it is rendered illustrious by his
tomb. The massive pyramid which encloses his ashes, defends his death from
that oblivion which has entirely effaced his life. Aurelian, fearing that
this pyramid might be employed as a fortress to attack Rome, has caused it
to be enclosed within the walls which are yet standing, not as useless
ruins, but as the actual enclosure of the modern city. It is said that the
form of the pyramid is in imitation of the flame which ascends from a
funeral pyre. It is certain that this mysterious form attracts the eye and
gives a picturesque aspect to every perspective of which it forms a part.
Opposite this pyramid is Mount Testaceo, under which there are extremely
cool grottos where feasts are given in summer. The festivals of Rome are not
disturbed at the sight of tombs. The pines and the cypresses which are
perceived at various distances in the smiling country of Italy, are also
pregnant with solemn remembrances; and this contrast produces the same
effect as the verses of Horace,
—————————moriture Delli
——————————————
Linquenda tellus, et domus, et
placens
in the midst of poetry consecrated to every
enjoyment upon earth. The ancients have always felt that the idea of death
has its pleasures: it is recalled by love and by festivals, and the most
lively emotion of joy seems to increase even from the idea of the shortness
of life.
Corinne and Nelville returned from the walk
among the tombs, along the banks of the Tiber.—Once it was covered with
vessels and bordered with palaces; once even its inundations were regarded
as presages; it was the prophetic river, the tutelary Deity of Rome.
At present, one would say that it rolled its tide through a land of shadows;
so solitary does it seem, so livid do its waters appear. The finest
monuments of the arts, the most admirable statues have been thrown into the
Tiber, and are concealed beneath its waves. Who knows whether, in order to
find them, the river will not one day be turned from its bed? But when we
think that the masterpieces of human genius are perhaps there before us, and
that a more piercing eye would behold them through the waves—we feel that
indescribable emotion which incessantly arises at Rome, under various forms,
and creates a society for the mind in physical objects which every where
else are dumb.
Chapter iii.
Raphael has said that modern Rome was
almost entirely built with the ruins of the ancient city, and it is certain
that we cannot take a step here without being struck by some relics of
antiquity. We perceive the eternal walls, to use the expression of
Pliny, through the work of the later centuries; the Roman edifices almost
all bear a historical stamp; in them may be remarked, if we may so express
it, the physiognomy of ages. From the Etruscans to our days, from that
people, more ancient than the Romans themselves, and who resembled the
Egyptians by the solidity of their works and the fantastical nature of their
designs, from that people to Chevalier Bernini, an artist whose style
resembles that of the Italian poets of the seventeenth century, we may
observe the human mind at Rome, in the different characters of the arts, the
edifices and the ruins. The middle ages, and the brilliant century of the
Medici, re-appear before our eyes in their works, and this study of the past
in objects present to our
sight, penetrates us with the genius of the
times. It was believed that Rome had formerly a mysterious name which was
only known to a few adepts; it seems that it is yet necessary to be
initiated into the secret of this city. It is not simply an assemblage of
habitations, it is the history of the world, figured by divers emblems and
represented under various forms.
Corinne agreed with Lord Nelville that they
should go and visit together, the edifices of modern Rome, and reserve for
another opportunity the admirable collections of pictures and statues which
it contains. Perhaps, without accounting for it to herself, she desired to
put off till the most distant day possible, those objects which people
cannot dispense with seeing at Rome; for who has ever quitted it without
having contemplated the Apollo Belvedere and the pictures of Raphael? This
guarantee, weak as it was, that Oswald should not leave her, pleased her
imagination. Is there not an element of pride some one will ask, in
endeavouring to retain the object of our love by any other means than the
real sentiment itself? I really do not know; but the more we love, the less
we trust to the sentiment we inspire; and whatever may be the cause which
secures the presence of the object who is dear to us, we always embrace it
joyfully. There is often much vanity in a certain species of boldness, and
if charms, generally admired, like those of Corinne, possess a real
advantage, it is because they permit us to place our pride to the account of
the sentiment we feel rather than to that which we inspire.
Corinne and Nelville began their
observations by the most remarkable of the numerous churches of Rome—they
are all decorated with ancient magnificence; but something gloomy and
fantastical is mingled with that beautiful marble and those festival
ornaments which have been taken from the Pagan temples. Pillars of porphyry
and granite were so numerous in Rome that they have lavishly distributed
them, scarcely considering them of any value. At St John Lateran, that
church so famous for the councils that have been held in it, are found such
a quantity of marble pillars that many of them have been covered with a
cement of plaster to make pilasters, so indifferent have they become to
these riches from their multitude.
Some of these pillars were in the tomb of
Adrian, others at the Capitol; these latter still bear on their capitals the
figures of the geese which saved the Roman people. Some of these pillars
support Gothic, and others Arabian ornaments. The urn of Agrippa conceals
the ashes of a Pope; for even the dead have yielded place to other dead, and
the tombs have almost as often changed their masters as the abodes of the
living.
Near St John Lateran is the holy
stair-case, transported, it is said, from Jerusalem to Rome. It may only be
ascended kneeling. Cæsar himself, and Claudius also, mounted on their knees
the stair-case which conducted to the Temple of the Capitoline Jove. On one
side of St John Lateran is the font where it is said that Constantine was
baptised.—In the middle of the square is seen an obelisk, which is perhaps
the most ancient monument in the world—an obelisk cotemporary with the
Trojan war!—an obelisk which the barbarous Cambyses respected so much that
in honour of it he put a stop to the conflagration of a city!—an obelisk for
which a king pledged the life of his only son!—The Romans have,
miraculously, brought this pillar to Italy from the lowest part of
Egypt.—They turned the Nile from its course in order that it might seek it,
and transport it to the sea. This obelisk is still covered with
hieroglyphics which have preserved their secret during so many ages, and
which to this day defy the most learned researches. The Indians, the
Egyptians, the antiquity of antiquity, might perhaps be revealed to us by
these signs.—The wonderful charm of Rome is not only the real beauty of its
monuments; but the interest which it inspires by exciting thought; and this
kind of interest increases every day with each new study.
One of the most singular churches of Rome,
is that of St Paul: its exterior is like a badly built barn, and the
interior is ornamented with eighty pillars of so fine a marble and so
exquisite a make, that one would believe they belonged to an Athenian temple
described by Pausanias. Cicero said—We are surrounded by the vestiges of
history,—if he said so then, what shall we say now?
The pillars, the statues, the bas-reliefs
of ancient Rome, are so lavished in the churches of the modern city, that
there is one (St Agnes) where bas-reliefs, turned, serve for the steps of a
stair-case, without any one having taken the trouble to examine what they
represented. What an astonishing aspect would ancient Rome offer now, if the
marble pillars and the statues had been left in the same place where they
were found! The ancient city would still have remained standing almost
entire—but would the men of our day dare to walk in it?
The palaces of the great lords are
extremely vast, of an architecture often very fine, and always imposing: but
the interior ornaments are rarely tasteful; we do not find in them even an
idea of those elegant apartments which the finished enjoyments of social
life have given rise to elsewhere. These vast abodes of the Roman princes
are empty and silent; the lazy inhabitants of these superb palaces retire
into a few small chambers unperceived, and leave strangers to survey their
magnificent galleries where the finest pictures of the age of Leo X. are
collected together. The great Roman lords of the present day, are as
unacquainted with the pompous luxury of their ancestors, as these ancestors
themselves were with the austere virtues of the Roman republic. The country
houses convey still more the idea of this solitude, of this indifference of
the possessors in the midst of the most admirable abodes in the world.
People may walk in these immense gardens without suspecting that they have a
master. The grass grows in the middle of the walks, and in these very walks
are trees fantastically cut according to the ancient taste that prevailed in
France.—What a singular whimsicality is this neglect of the necessary, and
affectation of the useless!—But one is often surprised at Rome, and in the
greater part of the other cities of Italy, at the taste of the Italians for
extravagant ornaments,—they who have incessantly before their eyes the noble
simplicity of the antique. They love what is brilliant, much better than
what is elegant and commodious. They have in every instance, the advantages
and the inconveniences of not living habitually in society. Their luxury is
rather that of the imagination, than the luxury of actual
enjoyment;—isolated as they are among themselves, they cannot dread the
spirit of ridicule, which seldom penetrates at Rome into domestic secrecy;
and often, in contrasting the interior with the exterior of their palaces,
one would say, that the greater part of the Italian nobility arrange their
dwellings more to dazzle the passers-by than to receive their friends.
After having surveyed the churches and the
palaces, Corinne conducted Oswald to the villa Mellini, a solitary garden,
without any other ornament than its magnificent trees. From here is seen, at
a distance, the chain of the Appenines; the transparency of the air colours
these mountains and throws them forward in the perspective, giving them a
most picturesque appearance. Oswald and Corinne remained in this spot to
enjoy the charms of the sky and the tranquillity of nature. It is impossible
to form an idea of this singular tranquillity without having lived in
Southern countries. On a hot day there is not felt the lightest breath of
wind. The feeblest blade of grass is perfectly still, and the animals
themselves partake of the indolence which the fine weather inspires: in the
middle of the day, you neither hear the hum of flies, the chirping of
grasshoppers, nor the song of birds; no object fatigues itself with useless
and trifling agitation; all sleep till storm or the passions awaken the
vehemence of nature, who then rushes with impetuosity from her profound
repose.
There are in the gardens of Rome, a great
number of trees clad in perennial green, which heighten the illusion
produced by the mildness of the climate during winter. Pines, of a
particular elegance, large, tufted towards the top, and interwoven with one
another, form a kind of plain in the air, whose effect is charming when we
mount sufficiently high to perceive it. The lower trees are placed beneath
the shelter of this verdant vault. Two palm trees only are found in Rome
which are both planted in the gardens of the monks; one of them, placed upon
an eminence, serves as a landmark, and a particular pleasure must always be
felt in perceiving and retracing in the various perspectives of Rome, this
deputy of Africa, this type of a Southern climate more burning still than
that of Italy, and which awakens so many new ideas and sensations.
"Do you not find," said Corinne,
contemplating with Oswald the country surrounding them; "that nature in
Italy disposes us more to reverie than any where else?—It might be said,
that she is here more in affinity with man, and that the Creator uses her as
a medium of interpretation between his creature and himself." "Undoubtedly,"
replied Oswald, "I think so; but who knows whether it may not be the deep
feelings of tenderness which you excite in my heart, that render me sensible
to all I see?—You reveal to me the emotions and thoughts, which external
objects can give birth to. I existed but in my heart; you have awakened my
imagination. But this magic of the universe, which you teach me to know,
will never present me with any thing more lovely than your look, more moving
than your voice." "May the sentiment I now inspire you with, last as long as
my life," said Corinne, "or at least, may my life never survive the power of
inspiring it!"
Oswald and Corinne terminated their tour of
Rome by the Borghese villa. Of all the Roman gardens and palaces, here the
splendours of nature and the arts, are assembled with the greatest taste and
brilliancy. Here are seen trees of every kind, and magnificent fountains; an
incredible number of statues, vases, and antique sarcophagi, mingled with
the freshness of the youthful nature of the South. The ancient mythology
here seems revived; the naiades are placed on the borders of rivers, the
nymphs in woods worthy of them, the tombs beneath Elysian shades, and the
statue of Esculapius in the middle of an isle, while that of Venus appears
to rise out of the waters: Ovid and Virgil might walk in this enchanting
spot, and still believe themselves in the Augustan age. The masterpieces of
sculpture which the palace contains, give it a magnificence ever new. At a
distance, through the trees, is perceived the city of Rome and St Peter's,
the Campagna, and those long arches, the wrecks of aqueducts, which conveyed
the springs from the mountains into ancient Rome. Everything is there that
can excite thought, delight the imagination, and foster reverie. The most
pure sensations are confounded with the pleasures of the soul, and give an
idea of perfect happiness; but when we ask why this charming abode is not
inhabited? they answer you that the malaria (la cattiva aria) will
not permit any one to live here during summer.
This malaria, in a manner, lays siege to
Rome; it advances every year some steps farther, and they are obliged to
abandon the most charming habitations to its empire: undoubtedly, the
absence of trees in the country about the city, is one of the causes of it;
and it is perhaps, on that account, that the ancient Romans consecrated the
woods to goddesses, in order to make them respected by the people. At
present, forests without number have been cut down;—can there indeed exist,
in our days, any place so sanctified, that the avidity of man will spare it
from the work of devastation? The malaria is the scourge of the inhabitants
of Rome, and threatens the city with an entire depopulation; but perhaps it
increases the effect produced by the superb gardens which are seen within
the walls of Rome. The malign influence is not felt by any external sign;
you breathe an air which seems pure, and is very agreeable; the earth is
smiling and fertile; a delicious coolness refreshes you in the evening after
the burning heat of the day; and all this is death!
"I love," said Oswald to Corinne, "this
mysterious, invisible danger, this danger under the form of the sweetest
impressions. If death be only, what I believe it to be, a summons to a
happier existence, why should not the perfume of flowers, the umbrage of
fine trees, and the refreshing breath of the evening breeze, be the bearers
of that summons? Undoubtedly, governments ought to watch in every way over
the preservation of human life; but there are secrets in nature which the
imagination alone can penetrate; and I easily conceive that neither the
inhabitants nor the strangers who visit it, are disgusted with Rome, by the
species of peril to which they are exposed there during the most beautiful
seasons of the year."
Book VI
THE MANNERS AND CHARACTER OF THE ITALIANS.
Chapter i.
The indecision of Oswald's character,
increased by his misfortunes, led him to dread forming any irrevocable
resolve. He had not even dared, in his state of irresolution, to ask of
Corinne the secret of her name and destiny; nevertheless, his love acquired
every day new strength; he never beheld her without emotion; in company he
could hardly quit, even for an instant, the place where she was seated; she
did not speak a word that he felt not; nor did she experience one moment's
sadness or gaiety, that was not reflected in his countenance. But in the
midst of his admiration and of his love for Corinne, he recollected how
little such a woman agreed with the English manner of living; how much she
differed from the idea which his father had formed of her whom it would be
proper for him to espouse; and all that he said to Corinne partook of the
trouble and constraint which these reflections caused him.
Corinne perceived this too well; but it
would have cost her so much to break off with Lord Nelville, that she
herself endeavoured to avoid, as much as he, a decisive explanation; and as
she was not possessed of much foresight she was happy with the present, such
as it was, although it was impossible for her to know what would be the
issue of it.
She had become entirely divided from the
world, in order to devote herself entirely to her passion for Oswald. But at
length, so much affected was she at his silence with regard to the future,
that she resolved to accept an invitation for a ball to which she had been
pressingly solicited. Nothing is more common at Rome than to leave society
and to appear in it again, alternately, just as the parties feel it
agreeable to themselves: it is the country where people trouble their minds
the least with what is elsewhere called gossip; each one does as he
pleases, without any person enquiring about it, or at least, without finding
in others any obstacle either to his love or his ambition. The Romans are as
inattentive to the conduct of their fellow-countrymen, as to that of
strangers, who pass and repass through their city, the rendezvous of
Europeans. When Lord Nelville knew that Corinne was going to the ball, he
was vexed at it. He thought he had perceived in her for some time a
melancholy disposition in sympathy with his own: all on a sudden she
appeared to him to be taken up with dancing, an art in which she excelled;
and her imagination seemed fired at the approach of a féte. Corinne
was not frivolous by character; but she felt herself every day more and more
enslaved by her love for Oswald, and she would fain endeavour to weaken its
force. She knew by experience, that reflection and sacrifices have less
effect upon passionate characters than dissipation, and she thought that
reason did not consist in conquering ourselves according to rules, but by
doing so how we can.
"I must," said she to Lord Nelville, who
reproached her with her intention of going to the ball, "I must know,
however, if there be only you in the world who can fill the void of my life;
if that which pleased me formerly may not still have the power to amuse me;
and if the sentiment you have inspired me with must absorb every other
interest, every other idea."—"You would then cease to love me?" replied
Oswald.—"No;" answered Corinne, "but it is only in domestic life that it
could be pleasing to me to feel thus governed by a single affection. To me
who need my talents, my mind, and my imagination, to support the lustre of
that kind of life which I have adopted, it must be painful—extremely painful
to love as I love you."—"You would not sacrifice to me then," said Oswald to
her, "this homage and this glory."—"Of what importance can it be to you,"
said Corinne, "to know whether or not I would sacrifice them to you? Since
we are not absolutely destined for one another, it would not be prudent to
let that happiness with which I must be satisfied, wither for ever."—Lord
Nelville made no answer, because it was necessary, in expressing his
sentiments, to avow also the purpose they inspired, and of this his own
heart was still in ignorance. He was silent therefore, and sighing, followed
Corinne to the ball, whither he went with much reluctance.
It was the first time since his calamity
that he had seen a large assembly; and the tumult of a féte caused
him such an impression of sadness that he remained a long time in a room
contiguous to that appropriated for the ball, his head supported on his
hand, not even curious to behold Corinne dance. He listened to the festive
music, which like every other music, produces reverie, though only intended
to inspire joy. The Count d'Erfeuil arrived, quite enchanted at the sight of
a ball, which produced in him some recollections of France.—"I have tried
all I could," said he to Lord Nelville, "to discover something interesting
in these ruins of which they talk so much, and I can really find no charm in
them. It must be the effect of a very great prejudice to admire those heaps
of rubbish covered with thorns. I shall speak my mind of them when I return
to Paris, for it is time that this Italian delusion should cease. There is
not a monument now standing whole in any part of Europe, that I would not
sooner see than those old stumps of pillars, those bas-reliefs, all black
with time, which can only be admired by dint of erudition. A pleasure which
must be bought with so much study, does not appear to me very lively in
itself—to be charmed with the sights of Paris, nobody need grow pale over
books." Lord Nelville made no reply.—The Count interrogated him afresh, as
to the impression that Rome produced on him. "In the midst of a ball," said
Oswald, "is not the most proper time for serious conversation on this
subject; and you know that I am incapable of any other."—"Well and good:"
replied the Count d'Erfeuil, "I am more gay than you I admit; but who knows
whether I am not also the more wise of the two? Believe me, there is much
philosophy in my apparent levity: it is the way we should take life."—"You
are perhaps in the right," answered Oswald, "but it is from nature, and not
from reflection, that you acquire that way of thinking; and that is why your
manner of taking life may only suit yourself."
The Count d'Erfeuil heard the name of
Corinne mentioned in the ball room, and entered it to know what was going
forward. Lord Nelville advanced as far as the door, and beheld the Prince
Amalfi, a Neapolitan of the most handsome figure, who besought Corinne to
dance with him the Tarantula, a Neapolitan dance full of grace and
originality. The friends of Corinne besought her also to comply with his
request. She yielded to their desire without waiting to be asked frequently,
which astonished the Count d'Erfeuil, accustomed as he was to the refusals
with which it is customary to precede consenting to a request of this
nature. But in Italy, these kind of graces are unknown, and all believe they
please most in society by showing an eagerness to do what is asked of them.
Corinne would have invented this natural behaviour if she were not already
accustomed to it. The dress she had chosen for the ball was elegant and
light; her hair was gathered up in a fillet of silk, after the Italian
fashion; and her eyes expressed a lively pleasure, which rendered her more
seductive than ever. Oswald was disturbed at this; he warred against
himself; he was indignant at being captivated with charms which he ought to
lament, since, far from thinking to please him, it was to escape his empire
that Corinne appeared so attractive.—But who could resist the seductions of
a grace like hers? Were she even disdainful, she would be still more
omnipotent; and that certainly was not the disposition of Corinne. She
perceived Lord Nelville, and blushed, while there was in her eyes as she
looked upon him, a most enchanting softness.
The Prince d'Amalfi accompanied himself, in
dancing, with castanets. Corinne before she began saluted the assembly most
gracefully with both her hands, then turning round upon her heel took the
tambourine which the Prince Amalfi presented her with. She then began to
dance, striking the air upon the tambourine, and there was in all her
motions, an agility, a grace, a mixture of modesty and voluptuousness, which
might give an idea of that power which the Bayadores exercise over the
imagination of the Indians, when, if we may use the expression, they are
almost poets in their dance; when they express so many different sentiments
by the characteristic steps and the enchanting pictures which they offer to
the sight. Corinne was so well acquainted with all the attitudes which the
ancient painters and sculptors have represented, that by a light movement of
her arms, sometimes in placing the tambourine over her head, sometimes
forward, with one of her hands, whilst the other ran over the little bells
with an incredible dexterity, she recalled to mind the dancers of
Herculaneam,
and gave birth successively to a crowd of new ideas for painting and design.
It was not the French style, characterised
by the elegance and difficulty of the step; it was a talent more connected
with imagination and sentiment. The character of the music was alternately
expressed by the exactitude and softness of the movements. Corinne, in
dancing, conveyed to the souls of her spectators what was passing in her
own. The same as in her improvisation, her performance on the lyre, or the
efforts of her pencil,—she reduced everything to language. The musicians, in
beholding her, exerted themselves to make the genius of their art felt more
exquisitely; a kind of passionate joy, a sensibility of the imagination,
electrified all the spectators of the magic dance, and transported them to
that state of ideal existence in which we dream of happiness that does not
exist in this world.
There is a part of this Neapolitan dance
when the lady kneels, whilst the gentleman moves round her, not as a master,
but as a conqueror.—What at this moment were the charms and dignity of
Corinne. How regal, even in kneeling, did she appear! And when she arose,
striking her aerial cymbal, she seemed animated with that lively enthusiasm
of youth and beauty, which would create a belief that nothing was wanting to
complete her happiness. Alas! it was far otherwise; but Oswald feared it,
and sighed in the midst of his admiration of Corinne, as if each triumph of
her genius was a degree of separation from him: at the conclusion of the
dance, the gentleman kneels in his turn, and the lady dances round him.
Corinne in this part, if it were possible, surpassed herself; her step was
so light, as she tripped two or three times round the same circle, that her
buskined feet seemed to fly over the floor with the velocity of lightning;
and when she lifted up one of her hands, shaking the tambourine, while with
the other she motioned the Prince Amalfi to rise, all the male part of the
company were tempted to throw themselves on their knees too, except Oswald,
who retired a few paces backward, and the Count d'Erfeuil, who advanced a
few paces forward to compliment Corinne. This enthusiasm of the Italians was
by no means assumed, but was the spontaneous effect of their feelings. They
are not sufficiently practised in society and in self-esteem to pay much
regard to the effect which their actions will produce; they never let
themselves be thwarted in their pleasures by vanity, nor turned aside from
the object of their pursuit by applause.
Corinne was charmed at her success, and
thanked all her admirers with the most simple grace.—The satisfaction she
felt at having succeeded so well, appeared beneath a veil of modesty; but
her chief anxiety was to make her way through the crowd, in order to reach
the door against which the pensive Oswald was leaning. When she had reached
the spot, she paused to hear what he would say to her:—"Corinne," said he,
endeavouring to conceal his captivation as well as the pain that he felt:
"Corinne, I hope you have met with sufficient homage and sufficient
applause; but in the midst of these enthusiastic admirers, have you found
one certain and courageous friend—one protector for life? Can this vain
tumult of applause satisfy a heart like thine?"
Chapter ii.
Corrine was prevented by the crowd from
making any answer to Lord Nelville. They were going to the supper room, and
each cavaliere servente was hastening to seat himself by the side of
his partner. A strange lady entered when all the seats were occupied, and no
gentleman, except Lord Nelville and Count d'Erfeuil, made her an offer of
his. This was not the effect of impoliteness or of egotism; but the idea
which the great Roman lords entertain of honour and duty, is not to stir one
step, nor be absent one moment from their ladies. Some who were unable to
find seats, stood behind the chairs of their mistresses, ready to wait upon
them at the least signal. The ladies only conversed with their gallants;
strangers wandered unnoticed about the circle; for the ladies in Italy are
unacquainted with coquetry, nor does any vain triumph of self-love ever
introduce itself into their tender attachments. They have no desire to
please any other than him who possesses their affection; you can never
engage their minds before you have interested their hearts or pleased their
eyes, and frequently the most sudden beginnings of passion are followed by a
sincere devotion, and even a very long constancy. In Italy, infidelity is
more severely condemned in man than in woman. Three or four gentlemen, under
different titles, are followers of the same lady, who leads them about with
her, often without even concerning herself to mention their names to the
master of the house who receives them. One is the favoured suitor—the other
he who aspires to be so—a third is called the sufferer (il patito);
this latter is absolutely disdained, but nevertheless, permitted to continue
his adoration; and all these rivals live peaceably together. The use of the
poignard now only survives among the common people. There is in this country
a whimsical mixture of simplicity and depravity, dissimulation and truth,
sincerity and revenge, weakness and resolution, which can only be explained
by constant observation; the reason being that their good qualities proceed
from the fact that nothing is done from vanity, and their bad ones from the
fact that they will do a great deal for interest, whether that interest be
allied to love, to ambition, or to fortune.
Distinctions of rank have in general little
effect in Italy; this is not from philosophy, but their facility of
character and familiarity of manners. This accounts for the little influence
of aristocratic prejudices amongst them; for as society does not pretend to
judge of anything, it embraces the opinions of all.
After supper the company betook themselves
to play. Some ladies preferred the game of hazard, whilst others chose the
silent one of whist; and not a word was heard pronounced in that room which
so lately was filled with noise. The inhabitants of the south often pass
from the greatest agitation to the most profound repose: another contrasted
part of their character is indolence united to the most unwearied activity.
In any individual instance among these people, we must beware of judging
upon a first observation, since we find in them the most opposite qualities:
if at one moment they are prudent, perhaps in the next they show themselves
the boldest of men; if they appear indolent, it is only because they are
reposing after some exertion, or preparing for another: their soul loses
none of its force in society, but is most probably concentrating all its
energies for decisive circumstances.
In this Roman assembly of which Oswald and
Corinne formed a part, there were men who lost enormous sums at play,
without betraying in their countenances the slightest emotion. Had these men
been relating some facts of trifling importance, they would have exhibited
the most lively expression and the most animated gestures; but when their
passions arrive at a certain pitch of violence, they dread the eye of
observation, and nearly always conceal them beneath a veil of silence and
apparent apathy.
The scene of the ball was impressed upon
Lord Nelville's memory, associated with bitter resentment; for he feared
that the enthusiasm of the Italians had, at least for a moment, robbed him
of the affection of Corinne. This rendered him very unhappy; but pride
whispered him to conceal it, or discover it only by expressing contempt for
the suffrages of those who had flattered the dazzling accomplishments of his
mistress. He was invited by the company to make one at play, but he refused.
Corinne did the same, and motioned him to come and sit down by her. Oswald
expressed himself uneasy, lest he should expose Corinne to observation by
thus passing the whole evening with her in company. "Make yourself easy on
that score," said she, "nobody will trouble their heads with us: it is the
custom here for people to do as they please in company; we have no
established, ceremonious forms to lay one another under an unpleasant
restraint, nor do we exact any formal attention; a general polite
disposition is all that is expected. This is not, certainly, a country where
liberty exists such as you understand the term in England; but we enjoy here
a perfect independence in society." "That is to say," replied Oswald, "you
show a complete disregard for manners." "At least," interrupted Corinne, "we
show no hypocrisy. M. de la Rochefoucault has said, 'coquetry is the
least of a woman's defects': in truth, whatever may be the faults of
women in Italy, they do not seek to hide them by dissimulation. And if the
sacredness of marriage be not here sufficiently respected, it is at least
with the consent of both parties."
"It is not from sincerity that this kind of
frankness proceeds," replied Oswald, "but from indifference to public
opinion. When I arrived here, I had a letter of recommendation to a
princess, which I gave to my Italian servant to deliver; he said to me, 'Sir,
it will be of no use to deliver this letter now, for the princess sees
nobody; she is inamorata;' and this state of
being in love, is announced with as much indifference as any other
situation incidental to our existence. This publicity cannot be palliated by
the plea of extraordinary vehemence of passion; several attachments of this
sort succeed each other, and are of equal notoriety. So little are women
given to mystery in this respect, that they avow their connections with less
embarrassment than those of our country would feel in speaking of their
husbands. It is easy to believe that no profound or delicate sentiment is
mixed with this sensibility of passion, divested of modesty. Hence it
happens that in this nation, where nothing is thought of but love, there is
not a single romance; because love is here so rapid and so public that it
affords no interesting developments; and to give a true picture of general
manners in this respect, it would be necessary to begin and terminate it in
the first page. Pardon me, Corinne," cried Lord Nelville, observing the pain
that he gave her; "you are an Italian, and that thought ought to disarm me;
but one of the causes of that incomparable grace which distinguishes you, is
the union of all the characteristic charms of different nations. I know not
in what country you have been brought up; but it appears to me certain, that
you have not passed your whole life in Italy—perhaps in England itself—Ah,
Corinne! if that were so, how could you have quitted that sanctuary of
modesty and delicacy, for these regions, where not only virtue, but love
itself, is so badly understood? It is breathed in the air; but does it
penetrate the heart? Your poetry, in which love performs so principal a
part, possesses considerable grace, and much imagination; it is ornamented
with brilliant pictures, whose colours are lively and voluptuous. But where
will you find that tender, melancholy sentiment, which animates our poetry?
What have you that can be put in comparison with the scene between Belvidera
and her husband, in Otway; or with that in
Shakespeare, between Romeo and Juliet? But above
all, what have you to compare with those admirable lines of
Thomson, in his 'Spring,' where he paints in such
noble and affecting traits, the happiness of love, when sanctioned by
marriage? Have you any such marriage in Italy? And can love exist where
there is no domestic felicity? Is it not this happiness which the heart
seeks, as possession is the object of sensual passion? Do not all young and
beautiful women resemble each other, unless the qualities of the mind and
soul determine a preference? And what desire is excited by all these
qualities? Marriage. That is to say, the association of every thought, and
of every sentiment. Illicit love, when unfortunately it exists amongst us,
is, if it may be so expressed, only a reflection of marriage. In such
connections, that happiness is sought for, which the wanderer cannot find at
home; and infidelity itself is more moral in England than marriage in
Italy."
These words were hard: they deeply wounded
the sensibility of Corinne; who, rising immediately, her eyes filled with
tears, quitted the room and returned directly home. Oswald was distracted at
having offended her; but it was the irritation of his mind, occasioned by
the impression she made in the ball, which had betrayed itself in the
remarks that had just escaped him. He followed her to her abode; but she
refused to see him. He called again the next morning, but in vain: her door
was closed against him. This protracted refusal to receive Lord Nelville,
was not agreeable to the disposition of Corinne; but she was painfully
afflicted at the opinion he had expressed of the Italian women; and this
very opinion induced her to form a determination of concealing, for the
future, if possible, the sentiment that preyed on her heart.
Oswald, on his side, found, in this
instance, that the behaviour of Corinne was not consistent with her natural
simplicity, and he became confirmed more and more in the discontent with
which the ball had inspired him; and a disposition of mind was excited from
these circumstances, capable of struggling against the passion whose empire
he dreaded. His principles were rigid, and the mystery which enveloped the
past life of her whom he loved, afflicted him intensely. The manners of
Corinne appeared to him most fascinating, but sometimes too much animated by
the universal desire of pleasing. He discovered much nobleness and reserve
in her conversation and deportment; but she seemed to indulge in too much
latitude of opinion. In fact, Oswald was a captivated man, hurried away by
the passion he felt for his accomplished mistress, but cherishing in his
breast an opponent which combated his feelings. Such a situation of mind is
frequently attended with much bitterness. We are dissatisfied with
ourselves, and with others. We suffer, and feel at the same time that our
suffering ought to increase, or at least terminate in a violent explanation,
by which one of those two sentiments that lacerate the heart must obtain a
complete triumph.
It was in such a state of mind as this that
Lord Nelville wrote to Corinne. His letter was harsh and ungentlemanly. He
felt this; but various confused emotions impelled him to send it: he was
rendered so wretched by these internal conflicts, that he wished, at all
hazards, for some circumstance or other to terminate them.
A report, which had just been communicated
to him by the Count d'Erfeuil, though he did not give credence to it,
contributed perhaps to give more asperity to his expressions. It was noised
about Rome, that Corinne was about to marry the Prince Amalfi. Oswald knew
very well that she did not love him, and of course concluded that the events
of the ball afforded the only foundation for such a report; but he was
convinced that she had been at home to the Prince on the morning when he
himself was refused admission; and too proud to discover the slightest
sentiment of jealousy, he satisfied his discontent by denigrating the
nation, for which he beheld with so much pain, Corinne's predilection.
Chapter iii.
Oswald's Letter to
Corinne.
January 24, 1795.
"You refuse to see me; you are offended at
our conversation of the night before last; and you have doubtless formed an
intention to open your doors in future only to your own countrymen, meaning
probably by this means, to expiate the fault you have committed in admitting
to your society a man of another nation. However, far from repenting my
sincerity with respect to the Italians, far from regretting the observations
which I made to you, whom, deluded by phantoms, I wished to consider as an
Englishwoman, I will venture to predict more strongly still, that you will
find neither happiness nor dignity should you make choice of a husband from
that society by which you are surrounded. I know not the Italian worthy of
you; there is not one by whose alliance you could be honoured, let him be
invested with whatever title he may. Men in Italy are much less estimable
than women; for they possess the defects of the women, in addition to their
own. Will you persuade me, that these inhabitants of the South, who so
pusillanimously shrink from pain, and pursue the phantom of pleasure with so
much avidity, can be susceptible of love? Have you not seen (I have the fact
from you) the very last month, an Italian husband at the play, who but eight
days before had lost his wife, and a wife whom he pretended to love? They
are here not more eager to remove the dead from their sight than to efface
the remembrance of them from their mind. The funeral ceremonies are attended
to by the priests, as the rites of love are performed by the attendant
Cavaliers: ceremonial and custom supply the place of regret and enthusiasm.
Lastly, and it is this that principally destroys love, the men of Italy are
incapable of inspiring the women with any kind of respect: the latter do not
feel obliged by the submission of the former, because their character is not
dignified with firmness, nor their life with serious occupation. In order
that nature and social order may appear in all their beauty, man must be the
protector, and woman the protected; but the protector must adore that
weakness which he defends, and reverence the helpless deity, who, like the
household gods of the ancients, brings happiness to his home. So it might
almost be said, that every woman is a Sultan, having at her command a
seraglio of men.
The men are here distinguished by that
softness and pliability of character, which properly belongs to women. An
Italian proverb says: 'who knows not how to feign, knows not how to live.'
Is not that a woman's proverb? In truth, how can the manly character be
formed upon true principles of dignity and strength, in a country which
affords no military career of glory, which contains no free institutions?
Hence it is, that they direct their minds to all the little arts of cunning;
they treat life like a game of chess, in which success is everything. All
that remains to them from antiquity, is something gigantic in their
expressions and in their external magnificence; but this baseless grandeur
is frequently accompanied by all that is vulgar in taste, and miserably
negligent in domestic life. Is this, Corinne, the nation which you would be
expected to prefer to every other? Is this the nation whose roaring
applauses are so necessary to you, that every other destiny would appear
dull and congenial compared with their noisy 'bravos?' Who could
flatter himself with being able to render you happy away from these dear
scenes of tumult? What an inconceivable character is that of Corinne!
profound in sentiment, but frivolous in taste; independent from innate
pride, yet servile from the need of distraction! She is a sorceress whose
spells alternately alarm and then allay the fears which they have created;
who dazzles our view in native sublimity, and then, all of a sudden
disappears from that region where she is without her like, to lose herself
in an indiscriminate crowd. Corinne, Corinne, he who is your adorer cannot
help feeling his love disturbed by fear!
Oswald."
Corinne, on reading this letter, was much
incensed at the inveterate prejudices which Oswald appeared to entertain of
her country. But she was happy enough in her conjectures, to discover that
she owed this to the dissatisfaction he experienced at the fête, and
to her refusing to see him ever since after his final conversation on that
evening; and this reflection softened a little the painful impression which
the letter produced upon her. She hesitated for some time, or at least,
fancied she hesitated, as to the conduct which she should observe towards
him. The tenderness she cherished for this eccentric lover, induced a wish
to see him; but it was extremely painful to her that he should imagine her
to be desirous of marrying him, although their fortunes were at least equal,
and although in revealing her name, it would be easy to show that it was by
no means inferior to that of Lord Nelville. Nevertheless, the independence
and singularity of that mode of life which she had adopted, ought to have
inspired her with a disinclination for marriage; and most assuredly she
would have repulsed the idea, had not her passion blinded her to the
sufferings she would have to undergo in espousing an Englishman and
renouncing Italy.
We willingly make an offering of pride upon
the altar of the heart; but when social prosperity and worldly interests
oppose obstacles in any shape, when we can suppose that the object of our
love makes any sort of sacrifice in uniting himself to us, it is no longer
possible to show him any alteration of sentiment. Corinne not being equal to
a determination to break off with Oswald, wished to persuade herself of the
possibility of seeing him in future, and yet concealing the passion which
she felt for him. It was in this intention that she came to a determination
to confine herself, in the answer she should send to his letter, merely to
his unjust accusations against the Italian nation, and to reason with him
upon this subject as if it were the only one that interested her. Perhaps
the best way in which a woman of intellect can resume her coldness and
dignity, is by seeking an asylum in her own mind.
Corinne to Lord Nelville.
Jan. 15, 1795.
"Did your letter, my lord, concern only me,
I should not have attempted the task of self-justification: my character is
so easy to know, that he who might not be able to comprehend it by himself,
would derive little aid in his scrutiny by any explanation that I could give
him on the subject. The virtuous reserve of the English women, and the
graceful art of the French, take my word for it, often serve to conceal one
half of what is passing in their souls: that which you are pleased to
distinguish in me by the name of magic, is nothing but a sort of
transparency of mind, which allows its different sentiments and opposing
thoughts to be seen without labouring to harmonize them; for that harmony,
when it exists, is almost always assumed—most genuine characters being by
nature inconsequent—but it is not of myself I wish to speak, it is of that
unfortunate nation you so cruelly attack. Can it be my affection for my
friends which has inspired you with this bitter malevolence? You know me too
well to be jealous of me; indeed I have not the vanity to believe that a
sentiment of this description could have sufficient power to transport you
to such a degree of injustice. You repeat the opinion of every other
foreigner upon the Italian character, when drawn from first impressions; but
it requires deeper penetration, and a more patient scrutiny, to be able to
form a correct judgment upon this country, which at different epochs has
been so great. Whence comes it that this nation, under the Romans, has
attained the highest military character in the world? that it has been the
most jealous of its liberties, in the republics of the middle ages, and in
the sixteenth century, the most illustrious in literature, and the arts and
sciences? Has she not pursued glory under every form? And if now, alas! she
can boast of none, why do you not rather accuse her political situation,
since in other circumstances she has shown herself different?
"I know not whether I deceive myself; but
the wrongs of the Italians inspire me with no other sentiment than pity for
their lot. Foreigners have in every age conquered and torn asunder this
beautiful country, the perpetual object of their ambition; and yet
foreigners bitterly reproach this nation, with the wrongs of a conquered and
dismembered country? Europe is indebted to the Italians for the arts and
sciences, and shall Europe, turning their own benefits against them, dispute
with her benefactors the only species of renown which can distinguish a
nation without either military strength or political liberty?
"It is so true that nations derive their
character from the nature of their government, that in this same Italy, we
behold a remarkable difference of manners in the different states that
compose it. The Piedmontese, who formed a little national body, have a more
martial spirit than all the rest of Italy; the Florentines, who have had the
good fortune either to enjoy their liberty, or to be governed by liberal
princes, are mild and enlightened; the Venetians and the Genoese, discover a
genius for politics, because their government is a republican Aristocracy;
the Milanese are remarkable for their sincerity, which character they have
long since derived from the nations of the north; the Neapolitans might
easily become a warlike people, because during several centuries they have
been united under a government, very imperfect it is true, but yet a
government of their own. The Roman nobility being totally unoccupied with
either military or political pursuits, must in consequence become indolent
and uninformed; but the ecclesiastics, having a career of emulation open
before them, are much more enlightened and cultivated than the nobles, and
as the papal government admits of no distinction of birth, and is purely
elective in the clerical body, it begets a sort of liberality, not in ideas,
but in habits, which renders Rome a most agreeable abode for those who have
neither the prospect, nor the ambition of worldly eminence.
"The nations of the south more easily
receive the impression of their political establishment than those of the
north; they possess an indolence which soon softens into resignation, and
nature offers them so many enjoyments, that they are easily consoled for the
loss of those which society refuses them. There is certainly much depravity
in Italy, and nevertheless civilisation is here in a much lower stage of
development than that of other countries. There is something almost savage
in the character of the Italians, notwithstanding their intellectual
acuteness, which too much resembles that of the hunter in the art of
surprising his prey. And indolent people easily acquire a cunning character;
they possess a habit of gentleness which serves them, upon occasion, to
dissimulate even their wrath: it is always by our usual manners that we
succeed in concealing an unexpected situation.
"The Italians are sincere and faithful in
the private intercourse of life. Interest and ambition exercise considerable
sway among them; but pride and vanity none: the distinctions of rank produce
little impression. They have no society, no salons, no fashions, no little
daily methods of giving effect to minute circumstances. These habitual
sources of dissimulation and envy exist not among them. When they deceive
their enemies and their rivals, it is because they consider themselves in a
state of warfare with them; but in other circumstances they are frank and
ingenuous. It is this ingenuousness alone that has scandalised you
respecting our women, who, hearing love constantly spoken of, and surrounded
by its seductions and examples, conceal not their sentiments, and if it may
be so expressed, give even, to gallantry a character of innocence; besides,
they have no ridicule to dread from that society in which they live. Some of
them are so ignorant that they cannot write; this they publicly avow, and
answer a billet by means of their agent (il paglietto) in a formal
style on official paper. But to make amends for this, among those who are
well educated, you will find academy professors who give public lessons in a
black scarf; and should this excite a smile, you would be answered, 'Is
there any harm in knowing Greek? Is there any harm in earning one's living
by one's own exertions? Why should so simple a matter provoke your mirth?'
"But now my lord, allow me to touch upon a
more delicate subject; allow me to enquire the cause why our men display so
little military ardour. They expose their lives freely when impelled by love
and hatred; and a stab from a stiletto given or received in such a cause,
excites neither astonishment nor dread. They fear not death when natural
passions bid them brave its terrors; but often, it must be owned, they
prefer life to political interests, which seldom affect them because they
possess no national independence. Often too, that notion of honour which
descends to us from the age of chivalry, has little power in a nation where
opinion, and society by which opinion is formed, do not exist; it is a
natural consequence of this disorganisation of every public authority, that
women should attain that ascendancy which they here possess over the men,
perhaps in too high a degree to respect and admire them. Nevertheless, the
conduct of men towards women is full of delicacy and attention. The domestic
virtues in England constitute female glory and happiness; but if there are
countries where love exists outside the sacred ties of marriage; that one
among these countries where female happiness excites the greatest attention
and care, is Italy. Here men have invented moral duties for relations
outside the bounds of morality itself; but at least in the division of these
duties, they have been both just and generous: they considered themselves
more guilty than women, when they broke the ties of love; because the latter
had made the greater sacrifice and lost more. They conceive that before the
tribunal of the heart, he is the most guilty who does the most injury. Men
do wrong for want of feeling; but women through weakness of character.
Society, which is at once rigorous and depraved—that is to say, without pity
for errors when they entail misfortunes,—must be very severe upon women; but
in a country which has no society, natural goodness of heart has freer
exercise.
"Ideas of consideration and dignity are, I
agree, less powerful and even less known in Italy than any where else: the
want of society and of public opinion is the cause of it: but
notwithstanding all that may be said of the perfidy of the Italians, I
maintain that there is not a country in the world where more sincerity is to
be found. So far is this sincerity from being checked by vanity, that
although that country be one of which foreigners speak most ill, there is no
country where they meet with a more kindly reception. The Italians are
reproached with being too much inclined to flattery; but it must be allowed
in their favour, that generally, they lavish their soft expressions, not
from design, but a real desire to please; nor can it be alleged that these
expressions are ever falsified by their conduct. But it may be asked, would
they be faithful to their friends in extraordinary circumstances, in which
it might be necessary to brave for them the perils of adversity? A very
small number, I must own, would be capable of such friendship; but this
observation will not apply to Italy alone.
"The Italians are remarkable for that
lassitude which distinguishes the eastern nations; but there are no men more
active and persevering when once their passions are excited. These very
women, too, whom you behold as indolent as the odalisks of a seraglio, upon
some occasions give most striking proofs of attachment. There is something
mysterious in the character and the imagination of the Italians, in whom you
will find by turns, either unexpected traits of generosity and friendship,
or gloomy and formidable proofs of hatred and revenge. They have no
emulation, because life to them is only a pleasant summer's dream; but give
those men a purpose, and you will see them in six months, develop an
unrivalled power of will and intelligence. It is the same with women: what
ambition can they feel, to excel in education when the ignorance of the men
renders them insensible to its value? By cultivating their minds their
hearts would become isolated; but these very women would soon become worthy
a man of superior mind, if such a man were the object of their tender
affection[21].
"Everything here sleeps: but in a country
where great interests are dead, repose and carelessness are more noble than
a busy anxiety about trifling concerns.
"Even literature languishes in a country
where thought is not renewed by the strong and varied action of life.—But
what nation has testified more admiration for literature and the fine arts
than Italy? We are informed by history, that the popes, the princes, and the
people, have at all times paid to painters, poets, and distinguished
writers, the most public homage. This enthusiastic veneration of talent is I
confess, my lord, one of the first motives of my attachment to this
country.—We do not find here that blasée imagination, that
discouraging temper of mind, that despotic mediocrity, which in other
countries so effectually torment and stifle natural genius.—A happy idea,
sentiment, or expression, sets an audience on fire, if I may say so. By the
same rule that talent holds the first rank amongst us, it excites
considerable envy; Pergolese was assassinated for his Stabat Mater;
Giorgione armed himself with a cuirass when he was obliged to paint in
public; but the violent jealousy which talent inspires amongst us, is that
which, in other nations, gives birth to power. This jealousy does not
degrade its object; it may hate, proscribe, and kill, but it is nevertheless
mingled with the fanaticism of admiration, and encourages genius, even in
persecuting it. To conclude; when we see so much life in so confined a
circle, in the midst of so many obstacles and so much subjection of every
kind, we cannot avoid in my opinion taking the deepest interest in a people
who inhale, with so much avidity, the little air which the loopholes of
imagination allow to enter through the walls that confine them.
"That this confinement is such, I will not
deny: nor that men rarely acquire in Italy that dignity, that boldness,
which distinguishes free and military nations.—I will even admit my lord, if
you choose, that the character of such nations is capable of inspiring women
with more love and enthusiasm. But might it not also be possible, that a
noble and interested man, cherishing the most rigid virtues, might unite in
his character every quality that can excite love, without possessing those
which promise happiness.
"Corinne."
Chapter iv.
Corinne's letter made Oswald a second time
repent the idea he had formed of detaching himself from her. The
intellectual dignity, the attractive tenderness with which she repelled the
harsh allegations he had made against her country, affected him deeply, and
penetrated him with admiration. A superiority, so grand, so simple, and so
true, appeared to him above all ordinary rules. He felt that Corinne was not
the weak, timid woman, without an opinion on any subject beyond the sphere
of her private duties and sentiments, which he had chosen in his imagination
as a partner for life. The remembrance of Lucilia, such as he had beheld her
at the age of twelve years, agreed much better with this idea;—but could any
woman be compared with Corinne? Could ordinary laws and rules be applied to
one, who united in herself so many different qualities, cemented by genius
and sensibility? Corinne was a miracle of nature, and was it not a miracle
worked in favour of Oswald, when he could flatter himself with interesting
such a woman? But her real name and condition were unknown to him. What
would be her future projects were he to avow his intention of uniting
himself to her? All was yet in obscurity; and although the enthusiasm with
which Corinne had inspired Oswald made him desirous of espousing her, yet
the idea that her life had not been wholly irreproachable, and that such an
union would certainly have been condemned by his father, threw his soul into
confusion, and racked him with the most painful anxiety.
He was not now so sunk in grief, as before
his acquaintance with Corinne; but he no longer felt that sort of calm,
which may even accompany repentance, when our whole life is devoted to the
expiation of a crime. Formerly, he was not afraid to abandon himself to his
recollections, bitter as they were; but now he dreaded those long and
profound reveries, which would have revealed to him what was passing at the
bottom of his soul. In the meantime he prepared to visit Corinne, in order
to thank her for her letter, and obtain pardon for what he had written to
her, when Mr Edgermond, a relation of young Lucilia, entered the room.
He was a worthy English gentleman, who had
almost constantly resided in Wales, where he possessed an estate. He
cherished those principles and prejudices which, in every country, serve to
maintain things as they are, and which have a most beneficial tendency, when
things are as well as human reason will permit. When that is the case, such
men as Mr Edgermond, that is to say, the partizans of established order,
though strongly and even obstinately attached to their customs and to their
manner of thinking, ought to be considered as men of rational and
enlightened minds.
Lord Nelville was startled when he heard Mr
Edgermond announced; every recollection of the past rushed upon him at once;
but as it immediately occurred to his mind that Lady Edgermond, the mother
of Lucilia, had sent her relation to reproach him, and thus restrain his
independence, this thought restored his firmness, and he received Mr
Edgermond with great coldness. However, he wronged his visitor by his
suspicions, for he had not the least design in his head that regarded
Nelville. He visited Italy for the sake of his health alone; and ever since
he had been in the country, he was constantly employed in hunting, and
drinking to King George and Old England. He was the most open-hearted of
men, and possessed a much better informed mind than his habits would induce
many to believe. He was a downright Englishman, not only as he ought to be,
but also as one might wish he were not: following in every country the
customs of his own, living only with Englishmen, and never discoursing with
foreigners; not out of contempt to them, but from a sort of repugnance to
foreign languages, and a timidity, which even at the age of fifty, rendered
him very diffident in forming new acquaintances.
"I am happy to see you," said he to
Nelville, "I am going to Naples in a fortnight and should be glad to see you
there, for I have not long to stay in Italy; my regiment will soon embark."
"Your regiment!" repeated Lord Nelville, and blushed as if he had forgotten
that he had a year's leave of absence because his regiment was not to be
employed before the expiration of that period. He blushed at the thought
that Corinne could make him forget even his duty. "Your regiment," continued
Mr Edgermond, "will not go upon service so soon; so stay here quietly, and
regain your health. I saw my young cousin before I set out—she is more
charming than ever. I am sure by the time you return she will be the finest
woman in England." Lord Nelville said nothing—and Mr Edgermond was also
silent. Some other words passed between them, very laconic, though extremely
friendly, and Mr Edgermond was going, when suddenly turning back, he said,
"Apropos, my lord, you can do me a kindness—they tell me you are acquainted
with the celebrated Corinne: I don't much like forming new acquaintances,
but I am quite curious to see this lady." "Since you desire it, I will ask
Corinne's permission to introduce you," replied Oswald. "Do so, I beseech
you," said Mr Edgermond; "and contrive to let me see her some day when she
improvises, or dances and sings to the company." "Corinne does not thus
display her talents to strangers," said Nelville; "she is your equal and
mine in every respect." "Pardon my mistake," said Mr Edgermond, "as she is
not known by another name than that of Corinne, and lives by herself at the
age of twenty-six years unaccompanied by any part of her family, I thought
she derived support from her talents." "Her fortune is entirely
independent," answered his lordship warmly, "and her mind is still more so."
Mr Edgermond immediately dropped this subject, and repented at having
introduced it, seeing that it interested Oswald. No men in the world have so
much discretion and delicate precaution in what concerns the affections, as
the English.
Mr Edgermond went away. Lord Nelville, when
alone, could not help exclaiming with emotion, "I must espouse Corinne. I
must become her protector, in order to preserve her from obloquy. She shall
have the little it is in my power to bestow—a rank and a name; whilst she on
her part will confer on me every earthly felicity." It was in this
disposition that he hastened to visit Corinne, and never did he enter her
doors with sweeter sentiments of hope and love; but, swayed by his natural
timidity, and in order to recover confidence, he began the conversation with
insignificant topics, and of this number was his request for permission to
introduce Mr Edgermond. At this name Corinne was visibly agitated, and with
a faltering voice refused what Oswald solicited. All astonishment, he said
to her, "I thought that in this house, to which so many are allowed access,
the title of my friend would not afford a motive of exclusion." "Do not be
offended, my lord," replied Corinne: "Believe that I must have very powerful
reasons not to consent to your desire." "Ands will you acquaint me with
those reasons?" replied Oswald. "Impossible!" cried Corinne; "Impossible!"
"So then—" said Nelville, and his emotion rendered him unable to proceed. He
was about to depart, when Corinne, all in tears, exclaimed in English, "For
God's sake do not leave me unless you wish to break my heart!"
These words, and the tone of voice in which
they were uttered, deeply affected the soul of Oswald. He sat down again at
some distance from Corinne, supporting his head against a vase of alabaster
which embellished her apartment; then, suddenly, he said to her, "Cruel
woman! you see that I love you—you see that, twenty times a day, I am ready
to offer you my hand and my heart; yet you will not inform me who you are!
Tell me, Corinne, tell me the story of your past life," repeated he,
stretching his hand to her with the most moving expression of sensibility.
"Oswald!" cried Corinne; "Oswald! you do not know the pain you give me. If I
were mad enough to tell you all you would no longer love me." "Great God!"
replied he; "what have you then to reveal?" "Nothing that renders me
unworthy of you," said she; "but fortuitous circumstances, and differences
between our tastes and opinions, which existed formerly and which no longer
exist. Do not oblige me to confess who I am. Some day, perhaps—some day,
should you love me sufficiently—Ah! I know not what I say," continued
Corinne; "you shall know all; but do not forsake me before you have heard
it. Promise me that you will not, in the name of your father who is now in
heaven!" "Pronounce not that name," cried Lord Nelville; "can you fathom his
will respecting us? Think you that he would consent to our union? If you do,
declare it, and I shall no longer be racked with doubts and fears. Some time
or other, I will unfold to you my sad story; but behold the condition you
have now reduced me to." In truth, his forehead was covered with a cold
sweat, his face was pale, and his trembling lips with difficulty articulated
these last words. Corinne, seated by the side of Nelville, holding his hands
in hers, gently recalled him to himself. "My dear Oswald," said she to him;
"ask Mr Edgermond if he has ever been in Northumberland; or at least if he
has only been there within these past five years. Should he answer in the
affirmative he may then accompany you hither." At these words Oswald looked
steadfastly at Corinne, who cast down her eyes and was silent. "I shall do
as you desire me," said Lord Nelville, and went away.
On his return home, he exhausted conjecture
upon the secrets of Corinne. It appeared evident that she had passed a
considerable time in England, and that her name and family must be known
there. But what could be her motive for concealing them; and if she had been
settled in England, why had she left it? These questions greatly disturbed
the heart of Oswald. He was convinced that no stain would be found in her
life; but he feared a combination of circumstances might have rendered her
guilty in the eyes of others. What he most dreaded, was her being an object
of English disapprobation. He felt sufficiently fortified against that of
every other country; but the memory of his father was so intimately
connected with the love of his native country, that these two sentiments
strengthened each other.
Oswald, having learnt of Mr Edgermond that
he had been in Northumberland for the first time the preceding year,
promised to introduce him to Corinne that evening. Oswald arrived at her
house before him, and made her acquainted with the ideas that Mr Edgermond
had conceived respecting her, suggesting the propriety of convincing him how
much he was in error, by assuming the most cold and reserved manners.
"If you permit me," replied Corinne, "I
will be the same to him as to everybody else; if he desire to hear me, I
will improvise before him; in fact, I will appear to him as I am, not
doubting that he will perceive as much dignity of soul in this simple and
natural behaviour, as if I were to put on an air of restraint which would
only be affected." "Yes, Corinne," replied Oswald, "you are right. Ah! how
much in the wrong is he, who would in the least alter your admirable
disposition."
At this moment Mr Edgermond arrived with
the rest of the company. At the commencement of the evening, Lord Nelville
placed himself by the side of Corinne, and with an interest which at once
became the lover and the protector, he said every thing that could enhance
her worth. The respect he testified for her seemed to have for its object
rather to win the attention of others, than to satisfy himself; but it was
with the most lively joy that he soon felt the folly of all his anxiety.
Corinne entirely captivated Mr Edgermond—she not only captivated him by her
genius and her charms, but by inspiring him with that sentiment of esteem
which true characters always obtain of honest ones; and when he presumed to
express a wish to hear her upon a subject of his choice, he aspired to this
favour with as much respect as eagerness. She consented without for a moment
waiting to be pressed, and thus manifested that this favour had a value
independent of the difficulty of obtaining it. But she felt so lively a
desire to please a countryman of Oswald's, a man who by the consideration
which he merited might influence his opinion in speaking of her, that this
sentiment suddenly filled her with a timidity which was quite new to her:
she wished to begin, but her tongue was suspended by the emotion she felt.
Oswald was pained that she did not dazzle his English friend with all her
superiority; his eyes were cast down, and his embarrassment was so visible,
that Corinne, solely engrossed by the effect that she produced upon him,
lost more and more the presence of mind necessary for improvisation. At
length, sensible of her hesitation, feeling that her words were the
offspring of memory and not of sentiment, and that thus she was neither able
to paint what she thought nor what she really felt, she suddenly stopped and
said to Mr Edgermond, "Pardon me Sir, if upon this occasion timidity has
deprived me of my usual facility; it is the first time, as my friends can
testify, that I have been below myself; but perhaps," added she, sighing,
"it will not be the last."
Oswald was deeply affected by the touching
failure of Corinne. Till then he had always been accustomed to see
imagination and genius triumph over her affections and reanimate her soul at
the moment when she was most cast down; but at this time her mind was
entirely fettered by feeling, yet Oswald had so identified himself with her
fame on this occasion, that he partook of the mortification of her failure,
instead of rejoicing at it. But as it appeared certain, that she would one
day shine with her natural lustre, he yielded to the tender reflections that
arose in his mind, and the image of his mistress was enthroned more than
ever in his heart.
Book VII
ITALIAN LITERATURE.
Chapter i.
Lord Nelville felt a lively desire that Mr
Edgermond should enjoy the conversation of Corinne, which was more than
equivalent to her improvised verses. The following day the same company
assembled at her house; and to elicit her sentiments, he turned the
conversation upon Italian literature, and provoked her natural vivacity, by
affirming that the English poets were much superior in energy and
sensibility to those of which Italy could boast.
"In the first place," said Corinne,
"strangers are for the most part acquainted only with our poets of the first
rank—Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, Guarini, Tasso, and Metastasio; whilst we
have several others, such as Chiabrera, Guidi, Filicaja, Parini, without
reckoning Sannazarius, Politian, &c., who have written in Latin, with as
much taste as genius; and all unite in their verses the utmost beauty of
colouring and harmony; all, with more or less talent, adorn the wonders of
nature and art with the imagery of speech. Without doubt our poets cannot
pretend to that profound melancholy, that knowledge of the human heart which
characterise yours; but does not this kind of superiority belong more
properly to philosophical writers than to poets? The brilliant melody of
Italian is more suitable to the splendour of external objects than to
meditation; our language is better adapted to paint fury than sadness,
because sentiments which arise from deep reflection demand more metaphysical
expressions, whilst the desire of vengeance animates the imagination to the
exclusion of grief. Cesarotti has produced the best and most elegant
translation of Ossian extant; but it seems in reading it that the words
possess in themselves an air of festivity that forms a contrast with the
sombre ideas of the poem. We cannot help being charmed with our sweet
expressions,—the limpid stream, the smiling plain, the cooling shade,
the same as with the murmur of the waves, and variety of colours. What more
do you expect from poetry? Why would you ask of the nightingale, the meaning
of her song? She can only answer you by resuming the strain, and you cannot
comprehend it without yielding to the impression which it produces. The
measure of verse, harmonious rhymes, and those rapid terminations composed
of two short syllables whose sounds glide in the manner that their name (Sdruccioli)
indicates, sometimes imitate the light steps of a dance; at others, more
sombre tones recall the fury of the tempest and the clangour of arms. In
fact, our poetry is a wonder of the imagination—we must only seek it in the
various pleasures which it affords."
"It must be allowed," replied Lord Nelville,
"that you explain very clearly the beauties and defects of your poetry; but
how will you defend your prose, in which those defects are to be found
unaccompanied by the beauties? That which is only loose and indefinite in
poetry will become emptiness in prose; and the crowd of common ideas which
your poets embellish with their melody and their images, are in prose, cold
and dry, while their vivacity of style renders them more fatiguing. The
language of the greater part of the prose-writers of the present day is so
declamatory, so diffuse, and so abundant in superlatives, that their work
seems written to order, in hackneyed phraseology, and for conventional
natures; it does not once enter into their heads that to write well is to
express one's thoughts and character. Their style is an artificial web, a
kind of literary mosaic, every thing in fact that is foreign to their soul,
and is made with the pen as any other mechanical work is with the fingers.
They possess in the highest degree the secret of developing, commenting,
inflating an idea, and, if I may use the expression, of working a sentiment
into a ferment. So much do they excel in this, that one would be tempted to
ask these writers, what the African woman asked a French lady, who wore a
large pannier under a long dress:—'Madam, is all that a part of yourself?'
In short, what real existence is there in all this pomp of words which one
true expression would dissipate like a vain prestige."
"You forget," interrupted Corinne sharply;
"first, Macchiavelli and Boccacio; next Gravina, Filangieri, and in our
days, Cesarotti, Verri, Bettinelli, and so many others, in short, who know
how to write and to think.
But I agree with you that in the latter ages, unfortunate circumstances
having deprived Italy of its independence, its people have lost all interest
in truth and often even the possibility of speaking it: from this has
resulted the habit of sporting with words without daring to approach a
single idea. As they were certain of not being able to obtain any influence
over things by their writings, they were only employed to display their wit,
which is a sure way to end in having no wit at all; for it is only in
directing the mind towards some noble object that ideas are acquired. When
prose writers can no longer in any way influence the happiness of a
nation—when they only write to dazzle—when, in fact, the road itself is the
object of their journey, they indulge in a thousand windings without
advancing a step. The Italians, it is true, fear new thoughts; but that is
an effect of indolence, and not of literary baseness. In their character,
their gaiety, and their imagination, there is much originality; and
nevertheless, as they take no pains to reflect, their general ideas do not
soar above mediocrity; their eloquence even, so animated when they speak,
has no character when they write; one would say that labour of any kind
freezes their faculties; it may also be added, that the nations of the South
are fettered by prose, and that poetry alone can express their real
sentiments. It is not thus in French literature," said Corinne, addressing
herself to the Count d'Erfeuil—"your prose writers are often more eloquent,
and even more poetic, than your poets."—"It is true," answered the Count,
"your assertion can be verified by truly classical authorities:—Bossuet, La
Bruyère, Montesquieu, and Buffon, cannot be excelled; more particularly the
first two, who are of the age of Louis the Fourteenth, in whose praise too
much cannot be said, for they are perfect models for imitation. They are
models that foreigners ought to be as eager to imitate as the French
themselves."—"I can hardly think it desirable," answered Corinne, "for the
whole world entirely to lose their national colouring, as well as all
originality of sentiment and genius; and I am bold enough to tell you Count,
that even in your country, this literary orthodoxy, if I may so express
myself, which is opposed to every innovation, will in time render your
literature extremely barren. Genius is essentially creative; it bears the
character of the individual that possesses it. Nature, who has not formed
two leaves alike, has infused a still greater variety into the human soul;
imitation is therefore a species of death, since it robs each one of his
natural existence."
"You would not wish, fair stranger,"
replied the Count, "that we should admit Teutonic barbarism amongst us—that
we should copy Young's Night Thoughts, and the Concetti of the
Italians and Spaniards. What would become of the taste and elegance of our
French style after such a mixture?" Prince Castel-Forte, who had not yet
spoken, said—"It seems to me that we all stand in need of each other: the
literature of every country discovers to him who is acquainted with it a new
sphere of ideas. It was Charles the Fifth himself who said—that a man who
knows four languages, is worth four men. If that great political genius
judged thus, in regard to the conduct of affairs, how much more true is it
with respect to literature? Foreigners all study French; thus they command a
more extended horizon than you, who do not study foreign languages. Why do
you not more often take the trouble of learning them?—You would thus
preserve your own peculiar excellence, and sometimes discover your
deficiencies."
Chapter ii.
"You will at least confess," replied the
Count d'Erfeuil, "that there is one part of literature in which we have
nothing to learn of any country.—Our drama is decidedly the first in Europe;
for I cannot believe that the English would presume to oppose their
Shakespeare to us."—"I beg your pardon," interrupted Mr Edgermond, "they
have that presumption."—And after this observation he was silent.—"In that
case I have nothing to say," continued the Count, with a smile which
expressed a kind of civil contempt: "Each one may think as he pleases, but
for my part I persist in believing that we may affirm without presumption
that we are the very first in dramatic art. As to the Italians, if I may
speak my mind freely, they do not appear even to suspect that there is a
dramatic art in the world.—With them the music is every thing, and the play
itself nothing. Should the music of the second act of a piece be better than
the first, they begin with the second act. Or, should a similar preference
attach to the first acts of two different pieces, they will perform these
two acts in the same evening, introducing between, perhaps, an act of some
comedy in prose that contains irreproachable morality, but a moral teaching
entirely composed of aphorisms, that even our ancestors have already cast
off to the foreigner as too old to be of any service to them. Your poets are
entirely at the disposal of your famous musicians; one declares that he
cannot sing without there is in his air the word felicità; the tenor
must have tomba; while a third singer can only quaver upon the word
catene. The poor bard must make these different whims agree with
dramatic situation as well as he can. This is not all; there are actors who
will not appear immediately treading the boards of the stage; they must
first be seen in a cloud, or they must descend the lofty stairs of a palace,
in order to give more effect to their entrée. When the air is
finished, whatever may be the violent or affecting situation of his
character, the singer must bow to the audience in acknowledgment of their
applause. The other day, in Semiramis, after the spectre of Ninus had sung
his air, the representative of this shadowy personage made in his ghostly
costume a low reverence to the pit, which greatly diminished the terror of
the apparition.
"They are accustomed in Italy to consider
the theatre merely as a large assembly room, where there is nothing to hear
but the airs, and the ballet! I am justified in saying that they listen
to nothing but the ballet; for it is only when the ballet is about to
begin, that silence is called for in the pit: and what is this ballet but a
masterpiece of bad taste? There is nothing amusing in the dancing save the
comic part of it; the grotesque figures alone afford entertainment, being
indeed a good specimen of caricature. I have seen Gengis-Kan in a ballet,
all covered with ermine, and full of fine sentiments; for he ceded his crown
to the child of a king whom he had conquered, and lifted him up in the air
upon one foot; a new mode of establishing a monarch upon his throne. I have
also seen the sacrifice of Curtius formed into a ballet of three acts, with
divertisements. Curtius, in the dress of an Arcadian shepherd, danced for a
considerable time with his mistress; then mounting a real horse in the
middle of the stage, he plunged into the gulf of fire, made of yellow satin
and gilt paper, which looked more like a fancy riding habit than an abyss.
In fact, I have seen the whole of Roman history from Romulus to Cæsar,
compressed into a ballet."
"What you say is true," replied Prince
Castel-Forte, mildly; "but you have only spoken of music and dancing, which
do not comprise what we understand by the drama of any country." "It is much
worse," interrupted the Count d'Erfeuil, "when tragedies are represented, or
dramas that are not termed dramas that end happily: they unite more
horrors in the course of five acts, than the imagination could form a
picture of. In one piece of this kind, the lover kills the brother of his
mistress in the second act; in the third he blows out the brains of his
mistress herself upon the stage; her funeral occupies the fourth; in the
interval, between the fourth and fifth acts, the actor who performs the
lover comes forward, and announces to the audience with the greatest
tranquillity in the world, the harlequinades which are to be performed on
the following evening; he then reappears in the fifth act, to shoot himself
with a pistol. The tragic actors are quite in harmony with the coldness and
extravagance of these pieces: they commit all these horrors with the utmost
calm. When a performer uses much action, they say he conducts himself like a
preacher; for in truth, there is more acting in the pulpit than on the
stage. It is very fortunate that these actors are so moderate in their
pathos; for as there is nothing interesting, either in the piece or its
situations, the more noise they made about it, the more ridiculous they
would appear: it might still be endurable, were there any thing gay in this
nonsense; but it is most stupidly dull and monotonous. There is in Italy no
more comedy than tragedy; and here again we stand foremost. The only species
of comedy peculiar to Italy is harlequinade. A valet, at once a knave, a
glutton, and a coward; an old griping, amorous dupe of a guardian, compose
the whole strength of these pieces. I hope you will allow that Tartuffe,
and the Misanthrope, require a little more genius than such
compositions."
This attack of the Count d' Erfeuil was
sufficiently displeasing to the Italians who were his auditors; nevertheless
they laughed at it. The Count was more desirous of showing his wit than his
natural goodness of disposition; for though this latter quality influenced
his actions, self-love guided his speech. Prince Castel-Forte and the rest
of his countrymen present, were extremely impatient to refute the Count
d'Erfeuil; but as they were little ambitious of shining in conversation and
believed their cause would be more ably defended by Corinne, they besought
her to reply, contenting themselves with barely citing the celebrated names
of Maffei, Metastasio, Goldoni, Alfieri, and Monti. Corinne began by
granting that the Italians had no drama; but she undertook to prove that
circumstances and not want of talent, were the cause of it. Comedy, which
depends upon the observation of manners, can only exist in a country where
we live in the midst of a numerous and brilliant society. In Italy we meet
with nothing but violent passions or idle enjoyments which produce crimes of
so black a hue that no shades of character can be distinguished. But ideal
comedy, if it may be so termed, that which depends upon the imagination, and
may agree with all times and all countries, owes its invention to Italy.
Harlequin, punchinello, pantaloon, &c., have the same character in every
different piece. In all cases they exhibit masks, and not faces: that is to
say, their physiognomy is that of some particular species of character, and
not that of any individual. Undoubtedly, the modern authors of
harlequinades, finding every part ready carved out for them like the men of
a chess-board, have not the merit of inventing them; but their first
invention is due to Italy; therefore these fantastic personages, which from
one end of Europe to the other afford amusement to every child, and to every
grown-up person whom imagination has made childlike, must certainly be
considered as the creation of Italians: this I should conceive ought to give
them some claim to the art of comedy.
The observation of the human heart is an
inexhaustible source of literature; but nations more disposed to poetry than
to reflection, more easily surrender themselves to the intoxication of joy
than to philosophic irony. That pleasantry which is founded upon the
knowledge of mankind has something sad at bottom. It is only the gaiety of
the imagination which is truly inoffensive. It is not that the Italians do
not study deeply the men whom they have to do with; for none discover more
subtly their secret thoughts; but they employ this talent as a guide of
conduct, and have no idea of converting it to any literary purpose. Perhaps
even they have no wish to generalise their discoveries, and publish their
perceptions. There is a prudent dissimulation in their character, which
teaches them not to expose in comedies that which affords rules for private
intercourse; not to reveal by the fictions of the mind what may be useful in
circumstances of real life.
Macchiavelli however, far from concealing
anything, has exposed all the secrets of a criminal polity; and through him
we may learn of what a terrible knowledge of the human heart the Italians
are capable. But profound observation is not the province of comedy: the
leisure of society, properly speaking, can alone furnish matter for the
comic scene. Goldoni, who lived at Venice, where there is more society than
in any other Italian city, has introduced more refinement of observation
into his pieces than is generally to be found in other authors. Nevertheless
his comedies are monotonous, and we meet with the same situations in them,
because they contain so little variety of character. His numerous pieces
seem formed upon the general model of dramatic works, and not copied from
real life. The true character of Italian gaiety is not satire, but
imagination; not delineation of manners, but poetical exaggeration. It is
Ariosto, and not Molière, who can amuse Italy.
Gozzi, the rival of Goldoni, has more
originality in his compositions; they bear less resemblance to regular
comedy. His determination was liberally to indulge the Italian genius; to
represent fairy tales, and mingle buffoonery and harlequinade with the
marvels of poetry; to imitate nothing in nature, but to give free scope to
the gay illusions of fancy, to the chimeras of fairy magic, and to transport
the mind by every means beyond the boundaries of human action. He was
crowned with prodigious success in his time, and perhaps there never existed
an author more congenial to an Italian imagination; but to know with
certainty what degree of perfection Tragedy and Comedy can reach in Italy,
it should possess a theatrical establishment. The multitude of little cities
who all wish to have a theatre, lose, by dispersing them, its dramatic
resources: that division in states, in general so favourable to liberty and
happiness, is hurtful to Italy. She must needs concentrate her light and
power to resist the prejudices which are devouring her. The authority of
governments often represses individual energy. In Italy this authority would
be a benefit if it struggled against the ignorance of separate states and of
men isolated among them; if it combated by emulation that indolence so
natural to the climate; and if, in a word, it gave life to the whole of this
nation which now is satisfied with a dream.
These ideas, and several others besides,
were ingeniously developed by Corinne. She well understood the rapid art of
light conversation, which does not dogmatically insist upon any thing, and
also that pleasing address which gives a consideration to each of the
company in turn, though she often indulged in that kind of talent which
rendered her a celebrated improvisatrice. Several times she intreated Prince
Castel-Forte to assist her with his opinion on the same subject; but she
spoke so well herself, that all the audience were delighted in listening to
her, and would not suffer her to be interrupted. Mr Edgermond, in
particular, could scarcely satisfy himself with seeing and hearing Corinne;
hardly did he dare to express the admiration she inspired him with, and he
pronounced some words of panegyric in a low tone of voice hoping she would
comprehend them without obliging him to address her personally. He however
possessed such a lively desire to know her sentiments on Tragedy, that in
spite of his timidity he ventured a few words on that subject.
"Madam," said he to Corinne, "where the
Italian literature appears to me most defective is in Tragedy; methinks the
distance is not so great between infancy and manhood, as between your
Tragedies and ours; for in the changeableness of children may be discovered
true if not deep sentiments, but there is something affected and extravagant
in Italian Tragedy, which destroys for me all emotion whatever. Is this not
so? Lord Nelville," continued Mr Edgermond, turning to his lordship and
inviting his support by a glance, quite astonished at having found courage
to speak in such a numerous assembly.
"I am entirely of your opinion," answered
Oswald; "Metastasio, who is vauntingly called the poet of love, gives the
same colouring to this passion in every country and under every
circumstance. His admirable airs are entitled to our applause as much from
their grace and harmony as the lyrical beauties which they contain,
especially when detached from the drama in which they are placed; but it is
impossible for us who possess Shakespeare, who has most deeply fathomed
History and the passions of man, to suffer those amorous couples, that
divide between them almost all the pieces of Metastasio alike, under the
names of Achilles, of Tircis, of Brutus, and of Corilas, singing, in a
manner that hardly touches the surface of the soul, the grief and sufferings
of love, so as almost to reduce to imbecility the noblest passion that
animates the human heart. It is with the most profound respect for the
character of Alfieri that I shall indulge in a few reflections upon his
pieces. Their aim is so noble, the sentiments which the author expresses are
so much in unison with his personal conduct, that his tragedies must always
deserve praise as actions, even when they are criticised as literary
performances. But I find in the vigour of some of his tragedies as much
monotony as in the tenderness of Metastasio. There is, in the plays of
Alfieri, such a profusion of energy and magnanimity, or rather such an
exaggeration of violence and crime, that it is impossible to discover in
them the true characters of men. They are never so wicked nor so generous as
painted by this author. The aim of most of his scenes is to place virtue and
vice in contrast with each other; but these oppositions are not according to
the gradations of truth. If, during their life, tyrants bore with what the
oppressed are made to say to their face in the tragedies of Alfieri, one
would be almost tempted to pity them. His play of Octavia is one of those
where the want of probability is most striking. In this piece, Seneca
moralises incessantly with Nero, as if the latter were the most patient of
men, and Seneca the most courageous. The master of the world permits himself
to be insulted, and his anger to be excited in every scene, for the
amusement of the spectators, as if it were not in his power to end it all
with a word. Certainly these continual dialogues give rise to some very fine
replies on the part of Seneca, and one would be glad to find in an harangue
or in a moral work the noble thoughts which he expresses; but is this the
way to give us an idea of tyranny? It is not painting it in its formidable
colours, but merely making it a subject for verbal fencing. If Shakespeare
had represented Nero surrounded by trembling slaves, who hardly dared reply
to the most indifferent question, himself concealing his internal agitation
and endeavouring to appear calm, with Seneca near him writing the apology
for the murder of Agrippina, would not the terror have been a thousand times
greater? And for one reflection spoken by the author, would not a thousand
be generated in the soul of the spectators by the very silence of rhetoric
and the truth of the picture?"
Oswald might have spoken much longer
without receiving any interruption from Corinne; so much pleasure did she
receive from the sound of his voice and the noble elegance of his language,
that she could have wished to prolong this impression for hours together.
Hardly could she remove her eyes, which were earnestly fixed upon him, even
after he had ceased to speak. She turned them reluctantly to the rest of the
company, who were impatient to hear her thoughts upon Italian tragedy, and
turning to Lord Nelville:—"My Lord," said she, "it is not to combat your
sentiments that I reply, for they meet mine in almost every point: my only
intention is to offer some exceptions to your rather too general
observations. It is true that Metastasio is rather a lyrical than a dramatic
poet, and that he describes love like one of the fine arts that adorn life,
not as the most important secret of our happiness and our pain. I will
venture to say, notwithstanding our language has been consecrated to the
cause of love, that we have more profoundness and sensibility in describing
any other passion than this. The practice of making amorous verses has
created a kind of commonplace language amongst us for that subject; so that
not what he has felt, but what he has read, inspires the poet. Love, such as
it exists in Italy, by no means resembles that love which is described by
our writers. It is only in Boccacio's romance of Fiametta, that
according to the best of my recollection, there is to be found an idea of
that passion, painted in truly national colours. Our poets subtilise and
exaggerate the sentiment, whilst agreeably to the real Italian character, it
is a rapid and profound impression, which rather expresses itself by silent
and passionate actions than by ingenious language. In general our literature
is not characteristic of our national manners.
We are much too modest, I had almost said too humble a nation to aspire to
tragedies taken from our own history, and bearing the stamp of our own
sentiments.
"Alfieri, by a singular chance, was
transplanted, if I may use the expression, from ancient to modern times; he
was born for action, and his destiny only permitted him to write; this
constraint appears in the style of his tragedies. He wished to make
literature subservient to a political purpose; undoubtedly his object was
noble, but nothing perverts the labours of the imagination so much as having
a purpose. In this nation, where certainly, some erudite scholars and very
enlightened men are to be met with, Alfieri was indignant at seeing
literature consecrated to no serious end, but merely engrossed with tales,
novels, and madrigals. Alfieri wished to give a more austere character to
his tragedy. He has stript it of all the borrowed appendages of theatrical
effect, preserving nothing but the interest of the dialogue. It appears to
have been his wish to place the natural vivacity and imagination of the
Italians in a state of penitence; he has however been very much admired for
his character and the energies of his soul, which were truly great. The
inhabitants of modern Rome are particularly given to applaud the actions and
sentiments of their ancient country; as if those actions and sentiments had
any relation to them in their present state.
They are amateurs of energy and
independence, in the same manner as they are of the fine pictures which
adorn their galleries. But it is not less true that Alfieri has by no means
created what may be called an Italian theatre; that is to say, tragedies of
a merit peculiar to Italy. He has not even characterised the manners of
those countries and those centuries which he has painted. His conspiracy of
the Pazzi, his Virginia, and his Philip II., are to be admired for elevation
and strength of thought; but it is always the character of Alfieri, and not
that of peculiar nations and peculiar times, which are to be discovered in
them. Although there be no analogy between the French genius and that of
Alfieri, they resemble each other in this, that both of them give their own
colouring to every subject of which they treat."
The Count d' Erfeuil, hearing the French
genius called in question, was induced to speak. "It would be impossible for
us," said he, "to tolerate upon the stage either the incongruities of the
Greeks or the monstrosities of Shakespeare; the French have too pure a taste
for that. Our theatre is the model of delicacy and elegance: those are its
distinguishing characteristics, and we should plunge ourselves into
barbarism by introducing anything foreign amongst us."
"That would be like encompassing yourselves
with the great wall of China," said Corinne, smiling. "There are certainly
many rare beauties in your tragic authors; and perhaps they would admit of
new ones, could you bring yourselves to tolerate anything not exactly French
on your stage. But as for us Italians, our dramatic genius would be greatly
diminished in submitting to the fetters of those laws which we had not the
honour of inventing, and from which, consequently, we could derive nothing
but their restraint. A theatre ought to be formed upon the imagination, the
character, and the custom of a nation. The Italians are passionately fond of
the fine arts, of music, painting, and even pantomime: of every thing, in
short, that strikes the senses. How then could they be satisfied with the
austerity of an eloquent dialogue, as their only theatrical pleasure?
Vainly has Alfieri, with all his genius, endeavoured to reduce them to it;
he felt himself that his system was too rigorous.
"The Merope of Maffei, the Saul of Alfieri,
the Aristodemus of Monti, and particularly the poem of Dante, although this
last author never composed a tragedy, seem calculated to convey an idea of
what the dramatic art might be brought to in Italy. There is in the Merope
of Maffei, a great simplicity of action, but the most brilliant poetry,
adorned with the happiest images: and why should this poetry be forbidden in
dramatic works? The language of poetry is so magnificent in Italy that we
should be more censurable than any other nation in renouncing its beauties.
Alfieri, wishing to excel in every department of poetry, has, in his Saul,
made a most beautiful use of the lyric; and one might with excellent effect
introduce music itself into the piece, not so much to harmonise the words,
as to calm the frenzy of Saul by the harp of David. So delicious is our
music that it may even render us indolent as to intellectual enjoyments. Far
therefore from wishing to separate music from the drama, it should be our
earnest endeavour to unite them; not in making heroes sing, which destroys
all dramatic effect, but in introducing choruses, as the ancients did, or
such other musical aid, as may naturally blend with the situations of the
piece, as so often happens in real life. So far from retrenching the
pleasures of the imagination on the Italian stage, it is my opinion, that we
should on the contrary augment and multiply them in every possible manner.
The exquisite taste of the Italians for music, and for splendid ballets, is
an indication of the power of their imagination, and manifests the necessity
of rendering even the most serious subjects interesting to them, instead of
heightening their severity as Alfieri has done. The nation conceive it their
duty to applaud what is grave and austere; but they soon return to their
natural taste; however, tragedy might become highly pleasing to them if it
were embellished by the charm and the variety of different kinds of poetry,
and with all the divers theatrical attractions which the English and the
Spaniards enjoy.
"The Aristodemus of Monti has in it
something of the terrible pathos of Dante; and surely this tragedy is very
justly one of the most admired. Dante, that great master of various powers,
possessed that kind of tragic genius which would have produced the most
effect in Italy, if it could in any way be adapted to the stage; for that
poet knew how to represent to the eye, what was passing at the bottom of the
soul, and his imagination could make grief seen and felt. If Dante had
written tragedies, they would have been as striking to children as to men,
to the illiterate crowd as to the polished few. Dramatic literature ought to
be popular; like some public event, the whole nation ought to judge of it."
"When Dante was living," said Oswald, "the
Italians performed a distinguished part in the political drama of Europe.
Perhaps it would now be impossible for you to have a national tragic
theatre: it would be necessary for the existence of such a theatre, that
great events should develop in life those sentiments which are expressed
upon the stage. Of all the masterpieces of literature, there is not one
which depends so much upon the whole people as tragedy; the spectators
contribute to it as much as the author. Dramatic genius is composed of the
public mind, of History, of government, of national customs, of everything,
in fact, which each day blends itself with thought, and forms the moral
being, as the air which we breathe nourishes physical existence. The
Spaniards, with whom you have some affinity as to climate and religion, are
much superior to you in dramatic genius; their pieces are filled with their
history, their chivalry, and their religious faith, and these pieces possess
life and originality; but their success, in this respect, dates back to the
epoch of their historical glory. How then could it be possible now to
establish in Italy, that which it never could boast of—a genuine tragic
drama!"
"It is unfortunately possible that you may
be in the right," replied Corinne; "however, I hope for greater things from
the natural impulse of mind in Italy, and from the individual emulation of
my countrymen, even when not favoured by external circumstances; but what we
most want in tragedy is actors. Affected words necessarily lead to false
declamation; but there is no language in which an actor can display so much
talent as in ours; for the melody of sound gives a new charm to truth of
accent: it is a continual music which mingles with the expression of feeling
without diminishing its vigour." "If you wish," interrupted Prince
Castel-Forte, "to convince the company of what you assert, it only remains
for you to prove it: yes, allow us to enjoy the inexpressible pleasure of
seeing you perform tragedy; you must grant these foreign gentlemen the rare
enjoyment of being made acquainted with a talent which you alone in Italy
possess; or rather that you alone in the world possess, since the whole of
your genius is impressed upon it."
Corinne felt a secret desire to play
tragedy before Lord Nelville, and by this means show herself to very great
advantage; but she dared not accede to the proposal of Prince Castel-Forte,
without that approbation of Oswald, which the looks she cast upon him
earnestly entreated. He understood them; and as he was at the same time
concerned at that timidity which had the day before prevented the exertion
of her talent for improvisation, and ambitious that she should obtain the
applause of Mr Edgermond, he joined in the solicitations of her friends.
Corinne therefore no longer hesitated. "Well, then," said she, turning to
Prince Castel-Forte, "we will accomplish the project which I have so long
formed, of playing my own translation of Romeo and Juliet," "Shakespeare's
Romeo and Juliet?" cried Mr Edgermond; "you understand English, then?"
"Yes," answered Corinne. "And you are fond of Shakespeare!" added Mr
Edgermond. "As a friend," replied she; "he was so well acquainted with all
the secrets of grief." "And you will perform in Italian," cried Mr Edgermond;
"and I shall hear you! And you too, my dear Nelville. Ah, how happy you will
be!" Then, repenting immediately this indiscreet word, he blushed: and a
blush inspired by delicacy and goodness may be interesting at all periods of
life. "How happy we shall be," resumed he, a little embarrassed, "to be
present at such a representation!"
Chapter iii.
Every thing was arranged in a few days, the
parts distributed, and the evening chosen for the performance in a palace
belonging to a female relation of Prince Castel-Forte, and a friend of
Corinne. Oswald felt a mixture of uneasiness and pleasure, at the approach
of this new scene of triumph for the talents of Corinne. He enjoyed the by
anticipation; but he was also jealous in the same manner, not of any man in
particular, but of that whole audience in general who were to witness the
talents of her whom he loved. He wished to be the only witness of her mental
charms;—he wished that Corinne, timid and reserved, like an English woman,
should possess eloquence and genius for none but him. However distinguished
a man may be, perhaps he never enjoys, without alloy, the superiority of a
woman: if he feel an affection for her, his heart is disturbed;—if not, his
self-love is wounded. Oswald, in the presence of Corinne, was more
intoxicated than happy; and the admiration which she inspired him with,
increased his love without giving more stability to his projects. He
contemplated her as an admirable phenomenon, which appeared to him anew
every day; but even the transport and astonishment which she made him feel,
seemed to render the hope of a peaceful and tranquil life more distant.
Corinne, however, was of the tenderest and most easy disposition in private
life; her ordinary qualities would have made her beloved independently of
her brilliant ones; but yet again, she united in herself too much talent,
and was too dazzling in every respect. Lord Nelville, with all his
accomplishments, did not believe himself equal to her, and this idea
inspired him with fears as to the duration of their mutual affection. Vainly
did Corinne by force of love become his slave; the master, often uneasy
about his captive queen, did not enjoy his empire undisturbed.
Some hours before the representation, Lord
Nelville conducted Corinne to the palace of Princess Castel-Forte, where the
theatre was fitted up. The sun shone most brilliantly, and from one of the
windows of the stair-case, Rome and the Campagna were discovered.
Oswald stopped Corinne a moment and said, "Behold this beautiful day, it is
for your sake; it is to heighten the splendour of your fame." "Ah, if that
were so," answered she, "it is you who would bring me happiness; it is to
you that I should owe the protection of heaven." "Would the pure and gentle
sentiments which the beauty of nature inspires, be sufficient to make you
happy?" replied Oswald: "there is a great distance between the air that we
breathe, the reverie which the country inspires, and that noisy theatre
which is about to resound with your name." "Oswald," said Corinne, "if the
applause which I am about to receive, have the power to affect me, will it
not be because it is witnessed by you? And should I display any talent, will
it not owe its success to you, who have animated and inspired it? Love,
poetry, and religion, all that is born of enthusiasm, is in harmony with
nature; and in beholding the azure sky, in yielding to the impression which
it causes, I have a juster comprehension of the sentiments of Juliet, I am
more worthy of Romeo." "Yes, thou art worthy of him, celestial creature!"
cried Lord Nelville; "'tis only a weakness of the soul, this jealousy of thy
talents, this desire to live alone with thee in the universe. Go, receive
the meed of public homage, go; but let that look of love, still more divine
than thy genius, be directed to me alone!" They then parted, and Lord
Nelville went and took his seat in theatre, awaiting the pleasure of
beholding the appearance of Corinne.
Romeo and Juliet is an Italian subject; the
scene is placed in Verona, where is still to be seen the tomb of those two
lovers. Shakespeare has written this piece with that Southern imagination at
once impassioned and pleasing; that imagination which triumphs in happiness,
but which, nevertheless, passes so easily from happiness to despair, and
from despair to death. The impressions are rapid; but one easily feels that
these rapid impressions will be ineffaceable. It is the force of nature, and
not the frivolity of the heart, which beneath an energetic climate hastens
the development of the passions. The soil is not light, though vegetation is
prompt; and Shakespeare has seized, more happily than any other foreign
writer, the national character of Italy and that fecundity of the mind which
invents a thousand ways of varying the expression of the same sentiments—the
oriental eloquence which makes use of all the images of nature to paint what
is passing in the heart. It is not as in Ossian, one same tint, one uniform
sound which responds constantly to the most sensitive chords of the heart;
the multiplied colours that Shakespeare employs in Romeo and Juliet, do not
give a cold affectation to his style; it is the ray divided, reflected, and
varied, which produces these colours, in which we ever feel that fire they
proceed from. There is a life and a brilliancy in this composition which
characterise the country and the inhabitants. The play of Romeo and Juliet
translated into Italian would only seem to return to its mother tongue.
The first appearance of Juliet is at a
ball, where Romeo Montague has introduced himself into the house of the
Capulets, the mortal enemies of his family. Corinne was dressed in a
charming festive habit, conformable to the costume of the times. Her hair
was tastefully adorned with precious stones and artificial flowers. Her
friends did not know her on her first appearance, till her voice discovered
her: her figure then became familiar to them; but it was in a manner
deified, and preserved only a poetical expression. The theatre resounded
with unanimous applause upon her appearance. Her first looks discovered
Oswald, and rested upon him—a spark of joy, a lively and gentle hope, was
painted in her countenance: on beholding her, every heart beat with pleasure
and fear: it was felt that so much felicity could not last upon earth; was
it for Juliet, or Corinne, that this presentiment was to be verified?
When Romeo approached to address to her in
a low voice, the lines, so brilliant in English, so magnificent in the
Italian translation, upon her grace and beauty, the spectators, charmed to
hear their own sentiments so finely interpreted, joined in the transport of
Romeo; and the sudden passion which the first look of Juliet kindled in his
soul, appeared like reality to every eye. Oswald from this moment felt
disturbed; it appeared to him that all was near to being revealed, that
Corinne was about to be proclaimed an angel among women, that he should be
forced to reveal his sentiments, that his claim would be disputed and the
prize ravished from him—a kind of dazzling cloud seemed to pass before his
eyes—he feared his sight might fail him—he was ready to faint, and retired
for some moments behind a pillar. Corinne, uneasy, sought him with anxiety,
and pronounced this line,
"Too early seen unknown, and
known too late!"
with such a tone of voice, that Oswald
started as he heard it, for it seemed to him to be applied to their personal
situation.
He could never feel tired of admiring the
grace of her actions, the dignity of her motions, and the expression of her
countenance, in which was painted what language could not reveal, all those
mysteries of the heart which cannot be reduced to words; but which,
nevertheless, dispose of our life. The accent, the look, the least gesture
of an actor, truly inspired and influenced by genuine emotion, are a
continual revelation of the human heart; and the ideal of the fine arts is
always mingled with these revelations of nature. The harmony of the verse
and the charm of the attitudes, lend to passion that grace and dignity which
it often wants in reality. Thus every sentiment of the heart, and every
emotion of the soul, pass before the imagination without losing anything of
their truth.
In the second act, Juliet appears in the
balcony to converse with Romeo. Corinne had preserved, of her former
ornaments, only the flowers, and those were soon to disappear: the theatre
half-lighted to represent night, cast a milder reflection upon the
countenance of Corinne. There was now something more melodious in her voice,
than when surrounded with the splendour of a fête. Her hand lifted
towards the stars, seemed to invoke the only witnesses worthy of hearing
her, and when she repeated, "Romeo! Romeo!" although Oswald was
certain that she thought of him, he felt jealous that these delicious
accents should make the air resound with any other name than his. Oswald was
seated opposite the balcony, and he who performed Romeo being a little
concealed by the darkness of the scene, Corinne was enabled to fix her eyes
upon Oswald when pronouncing these lines:
"In truth, fair Montague, I am too
fond;
And therefore thou may'st think my
'haviour light;
But trust me, gentleman, I'll
prove more true
Than those that have more cunning
to be strange.
* * *
* * *
* * *
* * *
* * *
* therefore pardon me."
At these words—"Pardon me! Pardon me for
loving; pardon me for having let you know it!"—There was in Corinne's look,
so tender a prayer and so much respect for her lover, so much exultation in
her choice, when she said, "Noble Romeo! Fair Montague!" that Oswald felt as
proud as he was happy. He raised his head, which tenderness had bowed down,
and fancied himself the king of the world, since he reigned over a heart
which contained all the treasures of life.
Corinne, perceiving the effect which she
produced upon Oswald, became more and more animated by that emotion of the
heart which alone produces miracles; and when at the approach of day, Juliet
thought she heard the song of the lark—a signal for the departure of Romeo,
the accents of Corinne possessed a supernatural charm: they described love,
and nevertheless one might perceive that there was something of religious
mystery in them, some recollections of heaven, with a presage that she was
shortly to return thither; a kind of celestial melancholy, as of a soul
exiled upon earth, but which was soon to be called to its divine home. Ah!
how happy was Corinne the day that she represented the part of a noble
character in a beautiful tragedy before the lover of her choice; how many
years, how many lives would appear dull, compared to such a day!
If Lord Nelville could have performed, with
Corinne, the part of Romeo, the pleasure which she would have tasted would
not have been so complete. She would have desired to put aside the verses of
the greatest poet in order to speak the dictates of her own heart; perhaps
even her genius would have been confined by insurmountable timidity; she
would not have dared to look at Oswald for fear of betraying herself, and
truth would have destroyed the charm of art; but how sweet it was to know
that he whom she loved was present when she experienced those exalted
sentiments which poetry alone can inspire; when she felt all the charm of
tender emotions, without their real pain; when the affection she expressed
was neither personal nor abstract; and when she seemed to say to Lord
Nelville, "See how I am able to love."
It is impossible when the situation is our
own to be satisfied with ourselves: passion and timidity alternately
transport and check us—inspire us either with too much bitterness or too
much submission; but to appear perfect without affectation; to unite calm to
sensibility, which too frequently destroys it; in a word, to exist for a
moment in the sweetest reveries of the heart; such was the pure enjoyment of
Corinne in performing tragedy. She united to this pleasure that of all the
plaudits she received; and her look seemed to place them at the feet of
Oswald, at the feet of him whose simple approval she valued more than all
her fame. Corinne was happy, at least for a moment! for a moment, at least,
she experienced at the price of her repose, those delights of the soul which
till then she had vainly wished for, and which she would ever have to
regret!
Juliet in the third act becomes privately,
the wife of Romeo. In the fourth, her parents wishing to force her to marry
another, she determines to take the opiate which she receives from the hand
of a friar, and which is to give her the appearance of death. All the
motions of Corinne, her disturbed gait, her altered accent, her looks,
sometimes animated and sometimes dejected, painted the cruel conflict of
fear and love, the terrible images which pursued her at the idea of being
transported alive to the tomb of her ancestors, and the enthusiasm of
passion, which enabled a soul, so young, to triumph over so natural a
terror. Oswald felt an almost irresistible impulse to fly to her aid. At one
time she lifted her eyes towards heaven, with an ardour which deeply
expressed that need of divine protection, from which no human being was ever
free. At another time, Lord Nelville thought he saw her stretch her arms
towards him to ask his assistance—he rose up in a transport of delirium, and
then sat down immediately, brought to his senses by the astonished looks of
those about him; but his emotion became so strong that it could no longer be
concealed.
In the fifth act, Romeo, who believes
Juliet dead, lifts her from the tomb before she awakes and presses her to
his heart. Corinne was clad in white, her black hair dishevelled, and her
head inclined upon Romeo with a grace, and nevertheless an appearance of
death, so affecting and so gloomy, that Oswald felt himself shaken with the
most opposite impressions. He could not bear to see Corinne in the arms of
another, and he shuddered at beholding the image of her whom he loved,
apparently deprived of life; so that in fact he felt, like Romeo, that cruel
combination of despair and love, of death and pleasure, which makes this
scene the most agonising that ever was represented on a stage. At length,
when Juliet awakes in this tomb, at the foot of which her lover has just
immolated himself, when her first words in her coffin, beneath these funeral
vaults, are not inspired by the terror which they ought to cause, when she
exclaims:
"Where is my lord? Where is
my Romeo?"
Lord Nelville replied by deep groans, and
did not return to himself till Mr Edgermond conducted him out of the
theatre.
The piece being finished, Corinne felt
indisposed from emotion and fatigue. Oswald entered first into her
apartment, where he saw her alone with her women, still in the costume of
Juliet, and, like Juliet, almost swooning in their arms. In the excess of
his trouble he could not distinguish whether it was truth or fiction, and
throwing himself at the feet of Corinne, exclaimed, in English:
"Eyes look your last! Arms
take your last embrace."
Corinne, still wandering, cried: "Good God!
what do you say? are you going to leave me?"—"No;" interrupted Oswald, "I
swear—" At that instant the crowd of Corinne's friends and admirers forced
the door in order to see her. Her eyes were fixed upon Oswald, listening
with anxiety for what he was about to answer; but there was no opportunity
for further conversation between them during the whole evening, for they
were not left alone a single instant.
Never had the performance of a tragedy
produced such an effect in Italy. The Romans extolled with transport the
talents of Corinne, both as the representative of Juliet, and the translator
of the piece. They said that this was truly the species of tragedy which
suited the Italians, which painted their manners, moved the soul by
captivating the imagination, and gave effect to their beautiful language, in
a style alternately eloquent and lyrical, inspired and natural. Corinne
received all these praises with the sweetest air imaginable; but her soul
remained suspended on the words "I swear,"—which Oswald had
pronounced when he was prevented by the entrance of the company from
concluding his sentence: this word might in truth contain the secret of her
destiny.
Book VIII
THE STATUES AND THE PICTURES.
Chapter i.
After the day which had passed, Oswald
could not close his eyes during the night. He had never been so near
sacrificing every thing to Corinne. He did not even desire to know her
secret; or rather, before he was acquainted with it, he wished to contract a
solemn engagement, to consecrate his life to her. For some hours uncertainty
seemed banished from his mind; and he took pleasure in composing, in his
thoughts, the letter which he should write to her on the morrow, and which
would decide his fate. But this confidence in happiness, this reliance upon
resolution, was of no long duration. His thoughts soon reverted to the past,
he remembered that he had loved, much less, it is true, than he loved
Corinne; and the object of his first choice could not be compared to her;
but nevertheless it was this sentiment which had hurried him away to
thoughtless actions, to actions which had torn the heart of his father.—"Ah!
who knows," cried he, "whether he would not fear equally to-day, lest his
son should forget his native country and the duties which he owes it?"
"Oh thou!" said he, addressing the portrait
of his father, "thou, the best friend I shall ever have upon earth, I can no
longer hear thy voice, but teach me by that silent look which yet retains
such power over my soul, inform me what I am to do, that now at least in thy
celestial abode, thou mayest be satisfied with the conduct of thy son!
Forget not, however, that need of happiness which consumes mortal man—be
indulgent in heaven, as thou wert upon earth! I shall become better if I am
allowed to taste of happiness; if I am permitted to live with this angelic
creature, to have the honour of protecting, of saving such a woman.—Of
saving her?" continued he suddenly; "and from what? From a life of homage,
of fame, and of independence!"—This reflection, which originated in himself,
terrified him like an inspiration of his father.
In conflicts of sentiment, who has not felt
that kind of secret superstition which makes us take our own thoughts for
presages, and our sufferings for a warning from heaven? Ah! how bitter is
the struggle between passion and conscience, in susceptible minds!
Oswald paced his chamber under the most
cruel agitation, sometimes stopping to look at the moon, which in Italy is
so mild and so beautiful. The aspect of nature inspires resignation; but it
is without effect upon a mind racked with uncertainty. The next day arrived
without bringing any relief to his distracted thoughts, and when the Count
d'Erfeuil and Mr Edgermond came to visit him, they were uneasy as to the
state of his health, so much was he altered by the anxieties of the night.
The Count d'Erfeuil was the first who spoke.—"It must be allowed," said he,
"that yesterday's entertainment was charming. Corinne is a most admirable
woman. I lost half her words, but I understood everything from her voice and
her countenance. What a pity it is, that a rich lady should be possessed of
this talent! For if she were in humbler circumstances, and unrestrained as
she is, she might embrace the stage as a profession; and to have an actress
like her, would be the glory of Italy."
Oswald received a painful impression from
this speech, and yet could not tell how to make it known. For there was that
about the Count, that one could not be angry at what he said, even though it
were disagreeable to one's feelings. None but sensitive minds understand
those delicate precautions which they owe each other: self-love, so alive to
every thing that affects itself, hardly ever thinks of the susceptibility of
others.
Mr Edgermond praised Corinne in the most
becoming and flattering terms. Oswald answered him in English, in order to
relieve the conversation about Corinne from the disagreeable eulogiums of
the Count. "I see I am one too many here," said the Count; "well I will pay
a visit to Corinne: she will not be sorry I dare say to hear my observations
upon her acting yesterday evening. I have some advice to give her, too, upon
details; but these details are very essential to the effect of the whole:
she is really so astonishing a woman that one should neglect nothing to
assist her in attaining perfection.—And besides," said he, inclining towards
Nelville's ear, "I wish to encourage her to play tragedy more often: 'tis a
certain way to get married by some foreigner of distinction who may pass
through this city. As to you and me, my dear Oswald, that idea does not
concern us, we are too much accustomed to charming women to commit foolish
things; but who knows? a German prince, or a Spanish grandee—" At these
words Oswald rose up almost beside himself, and it is impossible to conceive
what would have been the issue, if the Count d'Erfeuil had perceived his
emotion; but he was so satisfied with his last reflection, that he tripped
away lightly, not in the least suspecting that he had offended Lord Nelville:
had he known it, though he loved him as much as man could love another, he
would certainly have remained. The brilliant valour of the Count,
contributed still more than his self-love to render him blind to his
defects. As he was extremely delicate in everything that regarded honour, he
did not imagine that he could be wanting with respect to sensibility; and
believing himself, not without reason, amiable and brave, he was pleased
with his lot, and did not suspect there was any more profound way of
regarding life than his own.
None of the sentiments which agitated
Oswald had escaped Mr Edgermond, and when the Count d'Erfeuil was gone, he
said to him—"My dear Oswald, I take my leave,—I am going to Naples."—"Why so
soon?" answered Nelville. "Because it is not good for me to stay here,"
continued Edgermond; "I am fifty years of age, and nevertheless I am not
sure that Corinne would not make a fool of me."—"And even in that case,"
interrupted Oswald, "what would be the consequence?"—"Such a woman is not
formed to live in Wales," replied Mr Edgermond; "believe me, my dear Oswald,
only Englishwomen are fit for England: it does not become me to give you
advice, I need not assure you that I shall not mention a word of what I have
seen; but with all Corinne's accomplishments, I should say, with Thomas
Walpole, of what use is all that at home? And, you know the home
is all with us, all for our women at least. Imagine to yourself your
beautiful Italian alone, while you are hunting or attending your duty in
Parliament; imagine her leaving you at dessert to get tea ready against you
shall leave table! Dear Oswald, depend upon it our women possess those
domestic virtues which are to be found nowhere else. The men in Italy have
nothing to do but to please the women; therefore the more attractive they
are the better. But with us, where men have active pursuits, women must be
satisfied with the shade. That it would be a great pity to condemn Corinne
to such a destiny, I freely acknowledge. I should be glad to see her upon
the throne of England; but not beneath my humble roof. My lord, I knew your
mother, whose loss was so much lamented by your worthy father: she was a
lady in every respect like my young cousin. Such is the wife, which, were I
at a proper time of life, I should choose. Adieu, my dear friend, do not be
offended at what I have said, for nobody can be a greater admirer of Corinne
than I am, and I own to you that after all were I at your time of life, I
doubt whether I could have sufficient fortitude to renounce the hope of
becoming agreeable to her."—In finishing, these words, he took the hand of
Oswald, squeezed it cordially, and departed without receiving a word in
reply. But Mr Edgermond comprehended the cause of his silence, and satisfied
with a pressure of the hand from Oswald in answer to his own, he went away,
impatient himself to finish a conversation which was painful to him.
Of all that he had said, only one word had
penetrated the heart of Oswald, and that was the recollection of his mother,
and his father's profound attachment to her. He had lost her when he was
only fourteen years of age, but he recollected her virtues with the most
heart-felt reverence, as well as that timidity and reserve which
characterised them.—"Fool that I am," cried he, when alone, "I wish to know
what kind of wife my father destined for me, and do I not know it, since I
can call to mind the image of my mother whom he so tenderly loved? What do I
want more? Why deceive myself in feigning ignorance of what would be his
sentiments now, were it in my power to consult his will?" It was, however, a
terrible task for Oswald to return to Corinne, after what had passed the
evening before, without saying something in confirmation of the sentiments
which he had expressed. His agitation and his trouble became so violent,
that they affected a ruptured blood-vessel which he thought had completely
healed up, but which now re-opened and began to bleed afresh. Whilst his
servants, in affright, called everywhere for assistance, he secretly wished
that the end of life might terminate his sufferings.—"If I could die," said
he, "after having seen Corinne once more, after having heard her again call
me her Romeo!"—Tears rolled down his cheeks; they were the first tears he
had shed for the sake of another since the death of his father.
He wrote to Corinne informing her of his
accident, and some melancholy words terminated his letter. Corinne had begun
this day under the most deceitful auspices: happy in the impression she
conceived she had made upon Oswald, believing herself beloved, she was
happy; nor did busy thought conjure up any reflection not in unison with
what she so much desired. A thousand circumstances ought to have mingled
considerable fear with the idea of espousing Lord Nelville; but as there was
more passion than foresight in her character, governed by the present, and
not diving into the future, this day, which was to cost her so many pangs,
dawned upon her as the most pure and serene of her life.
On receiving Oswald's note, her soul was a
prey to the most cruel feelings: she believed him in imminent danger, and
set out immediately on foot, traversing the Corso at the hour when all the
city were walking there, and entered the house of Oswald in face of all the
first society of Rome. She had not taken time to reflect, and had walked so
fast, that when she reached the chamber, she could not breathe, or utter a
single word. Lord Nelville conceived all that she had risked to come and see
him, and exaggerating the consequences of this action, which in England
would have entirely ruined the reputation of an unmarried woman, he felt
penetrated with generosity, love, and gratitude, and rising up, feeble as he
was, he pressed Corinne to his heart, and cried:—"My dearest love! No, I
never will abandon you! After having exposed yourself on my account! When I
ought to repair—" Corinne comprehended what he would say, and as she gently
disengaged herself from his arms, interrupted him thus, having first
enquired how he was:—"You are deceived, my lord; in coming to see you I do
nothing that most of my countrywomen would not do in my place. I knew you
were ill—you are a stranger here—you know nobody but me; it is therefore my
duty to take care of you. Were it otherwise, ought not established forms to
yield to those real and profound sentiments, which the danger or the grief
of a friend give birth to? What would be the fate of a woman if the rules of
social propriety, permitting her to love, forbade that irresistible emotion
which makes us fly to succour the object of our affection? But I repeat to
you, my lord, you need not be afraid that I have compromised myself by
coming hither. My age and my talents allow me, at Rome, the same liberty as
a married woman. I do not conceal from my friends that I am come to see you.
I know not whether they blame me for loving you; but that fact admitted, I
am certain that they do not think me culpable in devoting myself entirely to
you."
On hearing these words, so natural and so
sincere, Oswald experienced a confused medley of different feelings. He was
moved with the delicacy of Corinne's answer; but he was almost vexed that
his first impression was not just. He could have wished that she had
committed some great fault in the eyes of the world, in order that this very
fault, imposing upon him the duty of marrying her, might terminate his
indecision. He was offended at this liberty of manners in Italy, which
prolonged his anxiety by allowing him so much happiness, without annexing to
it any condition. He could have wished that honour had commanded what he
desired, and these painful thoughts produced new and dangerous effects.
Corinne, notwithstanding the dreadful alarm she was in, lavished upon him
the most soothing attentions.
Towards the evening, Oswald appeared more
oppressed; and Corinne, on her knees by the side of his bed, supported his
head in her arms, though she was herself racked with more internal pain than
he. This tender and affecting care made a gleam of pleasure visible through
his sufferings.—"Corinne," said he to her, in a low voice, "read in this
volume, which contains the thoughts of my father, his reflections on death.
Do not think," he continued, seeing the terror of Corinne; "that I feel
myself menaced with it. But I am never ill without reading over these
consoling reflections. I then fancy that I hear them from his own mouth;
besides, my love, I wish you to know what kind of man my father was; you
will the better comprehend the cause of my grief, and of his empire over me,
as well as all that I shall one day confide to you."—Corinne took this
manuscript, which Oswald never parted from, and in a trembling voice read
the following pages.
"Oh ye just, beloved of the Lord! you can
speak of death without fear; for you it is only a change of habitation, and
that which you quit is perhaps the least of all! Oh numberless worlds, which
in our sight fill the boundless region of space! unknown communities of
God's creatures; communities of His children, scattered throughout the
firmament and ranged beneath its vaults, let our praises be joined to yours!
We are ignorant of your condition, whether you possess the first, second, or
last share of the generosity of the Supreme Being; but in speaking of death
or of life, of time past or of time to come, we assimilate our interests
with those of all intelligent and sensible beings, no matter where placed,
or by what distance separated from us. Families of peoples! Families of
nations! Assemblage of worlds! you say with us, Glory to the Master of the
Heavens, to the King of Nature, to the God of the Universe! Glory and homage
to Him, who by his will can convert sterility into abundance, shadow into
reality, and death itself into eternal life.
"Undoubtedly the end of the just is a
desirable death; but few amongst us, few amongst our forefathers have
witnessed it. Where is the man who could approach without fear the presence
of the Eternal? Where is the man who has loved God unremittingly, who has
served Him from his youth, and who, attaining an advanced age, finds in his
recollections no subject of uneasiness? Where is the man, moral in all his
actions, without ever thinking of the praise and the reward of public
opinion? Where is that man, so rare among the human species, who is worthy
to serve as a model to all? Where is he? Where is he? Ah! if he exist
amongst us, let our reverence and respect surround him; and ask, you will do
wisely to ask, to be present at his death, as at the sublimest of earthly
spectacles: only arm yourself with courage to follow him to that bed, so
repulsive to our feelings, from which he will never rise. He foresees it; he
is certain of it; serenity reigns in his countenance, and his forehead seems
encircled with a celestial aureole: he says, with the apostle, I know in
whom I have believed; and this confidence animates his countenance, even
when his strength is exhausted. He already contemplates his new country, but
without forgetting that which he is about to quit: he gives himself up to
his Creator and to his God, without forgetting those sentiments which have
charmed him during his life.
"Is it a faithful spouse, who according to
the laws of nature must be the first of all his connections to follow him:
he consoles her, he dries her tears, he appoints a meeting with her in that
abode of felicity of which he can form no idea without her. He recalls to
her mind those happy days which they have spent together; not to rend the
heart of a tender friend, but to increase their mutual confidence in the
goodness of heaven. He also reminds the companion of his fortunes, of that
tender love which he has ever felt for her; not to give additional poignancy
to that grief which he wishes to assuage, but to inspire her with the sweet
idea that two lives have grown upon the same stalk; and that by their union
they will become an additional defence to each other in that dark futurity
where the pity of the Supreme God is the last refuge of our thoughts. Alas!
is it possible to form a just conception of all the emotions which penetrate
a loving soul at the moment when a vast solitude presents itself to our
eyes, at the moment when the sentiments, the interests upon which we have
subsisted during so many smiling years, are about to vanish for ever? Ah!
you who are to survive this being like unto yourself whom heaven had given
you for your support; that being who was every thing to you, and whose looks
bid you an agonizing adieu, you will not refuse to place your hand upon an
expiring heart, in order that its last palpitation may still speak to you
when all other language has failed! And shall we blame you, faithful pair,
if you had desired that your mortal remains should be deposited in the same
resting place? Gracious God, awaken them together; or if one of them only
has merited that favour, if only one of them must join the small number of
the elect, let the other be informed of it; let the other perceive the light
of angels at the moment when the fate of the happy shall be proclaimed, in
order that he may possess one moment of joy before he sinks into eternal
night.
"Ah! perhaps we wander when we endeavour to
describe the last days of the man of sensibility, of the man who beholds
death advance with hasty strides, who sees it ready to separate him from all
the objects of his affection.
"He revives, and regains a momentary
strength in order that his last words may serve for the instruction of his
children. He says to them—'Do not be afraid to witness the approaching end
of your father, of your old friend.—It is in obedience to a law of nature
that he quits before you, this earth which he entered first. He teaches you
courage, and nevertheless he leaves you with grief. He would certainly have
wished to assist you a little longer with his experience—to walk a little
longer side by side with you through all those perils with which your youth
is surrounded; but life has no defence in the hour allotted for our
descent to the tomb. You will now live alone in the midst of a world
from which I am about to disappear; may you reap in abundance the gifts
which Providence has sown in it; but do not forget that this world itself is
only a transient abode, and that you are destined for another more permanent
one. We shall perhaps see one another again; and in some other region, in
the presence of my God, I shall offer for you as a sacrifice, my prayers and
my tears! Love then religion, which is so rich in promise! love religion,
the last bond of union between fathers and their children, between death and
life!—Approach, that I may behold you once more! May the benediction of a
servant of God light on you!'—He dies!—O, heavenly angels, receive his soul,
and leave us upon earth the remembrance of his actions, of his thoughts, and
of his hopes!"
The emotion of Oswald and Corinne had
frequently interrupted this reading. At length they were obliged to give it
up. Corinne feared for the effects of Oswald's grief, which vented itself in
torrents of tears, and suffered the bitterest pangs at beholding him in this
condition, not perceiving that she herself was as much afflicted as he.
"Yes," said he, stretching his hand to her, "dear friend of my heart, thy
tears are mingled with mine. Thou lamentest with me that guardian angel,
whose last embrace I yet feel, whose noble look I yet behold; perhaps it is
thou whom he has chosen for my comforter—perhaps—" "No, no," cried Corinne;
"he has not thought me worthy of it." "What is it you say?" interrupted
Oswald. Corinne was alarmed at having revealed what she so much wished to
conceal, and repeated what had escaped her, in another form, saying—"He
would not think me worthy of it!"—This phrase, so altered, dissipated the
disquietude which the first had excited in the heart of Oswald, and he
continued, undisturbed by any fears, to discourse with Corinne concerning
his father.
The physicians arrived and dissipated
somewhat the alarm of Corinne; but they absolutely forbade Lord Nelville to
speak till the ruptured blood-vessel was perfectly closed. For a period of
six whole days Corinne never quitted Oswald, and prevented him from uttering
a word, gently imposing silence upon him whenever he wished to speak. She
found the art of varying the hours by reading, music, and sometimes by a
conversation of which the burden was supported by herself alone; now
serious, now playful, her animation of spirits kept up a continual interest.
All this charming and amiable attention concealed that disquietude which
internally preyed upon her, and which it was so necessary to conceal from
Lord Nelville; though she herself did not cease one instant to be a martyr
to it. She perceived almost before Oswald himself what he suffered, nor was
she deceived by the courage he exerted to conceal it; she always anticipated
everything that would be likely to relieve him; only endeavouring to fix his
attention as little as possible upon her assiduous cares for him. However,
when Oswald turned pale, the colour would also abandon the lips of Corinne;
and her hands trembled when stretched to his assistance; but she struggled
immediately to appear composed, and often smiled when her eyes were suffused
with tears. Sometimes she pressed the hand of Oswald against her heart, as
if she would willingly impart to him her own life. At length her cares
succeeded, and Oswald recovered.
"Corinne," said he to her, as soon as he
was permitted to speak: "why has not Mr Edgermond, my friend, witnessed the
days which you have spent by my bedside? He would have seen that you are not
less good than admirable; he would have seen that domestic life with you is
a scene of continual enchantment, and that you only differ from every other
woman, by adding to every virtue the witchery of every charm. No, it is too
much—this internal conflict which rends my heart, and that has just brought
me to the brink of the grave, must cease. Corinne, thou shalt know my
secrets though thou concealest from me thine—and thou shalt decide upon our
fate."—"Our fate," answered Corinne, "if you feel as I do, is never to part.
But will you believe me that, till now, I have not dared even entertain a
wish to be your wife. What I feel is very new to me: my ideas of life, my
projects for the future, are all upset by this sentiment, which every day
disturbs and enslaves me more and more. But I know not whether we can,
whether we ought to be united!"—"Corinne," replied Oswald, "would you
despise me for having hesitated? Would you attribute that hesitation to
trifling considerations? Have you not divined that the deep and sad remorse
which for two years has preyed upon me, could alone cause my indecision?"
"I have comprehended it," replied Corinne;
"had I suspected you of a motive foreign to the affections of the heart, you
would not have been he whom I loved. But life, I know, does not entirely
belong to love. Habits, recollections, and circumstances, create around us a
sort of entanglement that passion itself cannot destroy. Broken for a
moment, it will join again, and encircle our heart as the ivy twines round
the oak. My dear Oswald, let us not appropriate to any epoch of our
existence more than that epoch demands. Nothing is now so absolutely
necessary to my happiness as that you should not leave me. The terror of
your sudden departure pursues me incessantly. You are a stranger in this
country, and bound to it by no tie. Should you go, all my prospects would
fade,—you would leave your poor Corinne nothing but her grief. This
beautiful climate, these fine arts, that poetical inspiration which I feel
with you, and now, alas! with you alone, would for me become mute. I never
awake but trembling; when I behold the god of day, I know not whether it
deceives me by its resplendent beams, ignorant as I am whether this city
still contains you within its walls—you, the star of my life! Oswald, remove
this terror from my soul, and I will desire to know nothing beyond the
delightful security you will give me."—"You know," replied Oswald, "that an
Englishman can never abandon his native country, that war may recall me,
that—" "Oh, God!" cried Corinne, "are you going to prepare me for the
dreadful moment?" and she trembled in every limb, as at the approach of some
terrible danger.—"Well, if it be so, take me with you as your wife—as your
slave—" But, suddenly recovering herself, she said—"Oswald, you will not go
without giving me previous notice of your departure, will you? Hear me: in
no country whatever, is a criminal conducted to execution without some hours
being allotted for him to collect his thoughts. It will not be by letter
that you will announce this to me—but you will come yourself in person—you
will hear me before you go far away! And shall I be able then—What, you
hesitate to grant my request?" cried Corinne. "No," replied he, "I do not
hesitate; since it is thy wish, I swear that should circumstances require my
departure, I will apprize thee of it beforehand, and that moment will decide
the fate of our future lives."—She then left the room.
Chapter ii.
During those days which immediately
followed the illness of Oswald, Corinne carefully avoided any thing that
might lead to an explanation between them. She wished to render life as calm
as possible; but she would not yet confide her history to him. All her
remarks upon their different conversations, had only served to convince her
too well of the impression he would receive in learning who she was, and
what she had sacrificed; and nothing appeared more dreadful to her than this
impression, which might detach him from her.
Returning then to the amiable artifice with
which she had before prevented Oswald from abandoning himself to passionate
disquietudes, she desired to interest his mind and his imagination anew, by
the wonders of the fine arts which he had not yet seen, and by this means
retard the moment when their fate should be cleared up and decided. Such a
situation would be insupportable, governed by any other sentiment than that
of love; but so much is it in the power of love to sweeten every hour, to
give a charm to every minute, that although it need an indefinite future, it
becomes, intoxicated with the present, and is filled every day with such a
multitude of emotions and ideas that it becomes an age of happiness or pain!
Undoubtedly it is love alone that can give
an idea of eternity; it confounds every notion of time; it effaces every
idea of beginning and end; we believe that we have always loved the object
of our affection; so difficult is it to conceive that we have ever been able
to live without him. The more dreadful separation appears, the less it seems
probable; it becomes, like death, a fear which is more spoken of than
believed—a future event which seems impossible, even at the very moment we
know it to be inevitable.
Corinne, among her innocent stratagems to
vary the amusements of Oswald, had still in reserve the statues and the
paintings. One day therefore, when Oswald was perfectly restored, she
proposed that they should go together to see the most beautiful specimens of
painting and sculpture that Rome contains. "It is a reproach," said she to
him, smiling, "not to be acquainted with our statues and our pictures; so
to-morrow we will commence our tour of the museums and the galleries."—"It
is your wish," answered Nelville, "and I agree. But in truth, Corinne, you
have no need of these foreign resources to retain me; on the contrary, it is
a sacrifice that I make whenever I turn my eyes from you to any object
whatever."
They went first to the Museum of the
Vatican, that palace of statues where the human figure is deified by
Paganism, in the same manner as the sentiments of the soul are now by
Christianity. Corinne directed the observation of Lord Nelville to those
silent halls, where the images of the gods and the heroes are assembled, and
where the most perfect beauty seems to enjoy itself in eternal repose. In
contemplating these admirable features and forms, the intentions of the
Deity towards man, seems, I know not how, to be revealed by the noble figure
which He has been pleased to give him. The soul is uplifted by this
contemplation to hopes full of enthusiasm and virtue; for beauty is one and
the same throughout the universe, and under whatever form it presents
itself, it always excites a religious emotion in the heart of man. What
poetic language, there is in those countenances where the most sublime
expression is for ever imprinted,—where the grandest thoughts are clad with
an image so worthy of them!
In some instances, an ancient sculptor only
produced one statue during his life—it was his whole history.—He perfected
it every day: if he loved, if he was beloved, if he received from nature or
the fine arts any new impression, he adorned the features of his hero with
his memories and affections: he could thus express to outward eyes all the
sentiments of his soul. The grief of our modern times, in the midst of our
cold and oppressive social conditions, contains all that is most noble in
man; and in our days, he who has not suffered, can never have thought or
felt. But there was in antiquity, something more noble than grief—an heroic
calm—the sense of conscious strength, which was cherished by free and
liberal institutions. The finest Grecian statues have hardly ever indicated
anything but repose. The Laocoon and Niobe are the only ones which paint
violent grief and pain; but it is the vengeance of heaven which they
represent, and not any passion born in the human heart; the moral being was
of so sound an organization among the ancients, the air circulated so freely
in their deep bosoms, and the order politic was so much in harmony with
their faculties, that troubled minds hardly ever existed then, as at the
present day. This state causes the discovery of many fine ideas, but does
not furnish the arts, particularly sculpture, with those simple affections,
those primitive elements of sentiment, which can alone be expressed by
eternal marble. Hardly do we find any traces of melancholy; a head of
Apollo, at the Justinian palace, another of the dying Alexander, are the
only ones in which the thoughtful and suffering dispositions of the soul are
indicated; but according to all appearances they both belong to the time
when Greece was enslaved. Since that epoch, we no longer see that boldness,
nor that tranquillity of soul, which among the ancients, has produced
masterpieces of sculpture, and poetry composed in the same spirit.
That thought which has nothing to nourish
it from without, turns upon itself, analyses, labours, and dives into every
inward sentiment; but it has no longer that creative power which supposes
happiness, and that plenitude of strength which happiness alone can give.
Even the sarcophagi, among the ancients, only recall warlike or pleasing
ideas: in the multitude of those which are to be found at the museum of the
Vatican, are seen battles and games represented in bas-relief on the tombs.
The remembrance of living activity was thought to be the finest homage that
could be rendered to the dead; nothing relaxed, nothing diminished strength.
Encouragement and emulation were the principles of the fine arts as well as
of politics; they afforded scope for every virtue, and for every talent. The
vulgar gloried in knowing how to admire, and the worship of genius was
served even by those who could not aspire to its rewards.
The religion of Greece was not, like
Christianity, the consolation of misfortune, the riches of poverty, the
future hope of the dying—it sought glory and triumph;—in a manner it deified
man: in this perishable religion, beauty itself was a religious dogma. If
the artists were called to paint the base and ferocious passions, they
rescued the human form from shame, by joining to it, as in Fauns and
Centaurs, some traits of the animal figure; and in order to give to beauty
its most sublime character, they alternately blended in their statues (as in
the warlike Minerva and in the Apollo Musagetus), the charms of both
sexes—strength and softness, softness and strength; a happy mixture of two
opposite qualities, without which neither of the two would be perfect.
Corinne, continuing her observations,
retained Oswald some time before those sleeping statues which are placed on
the tombs, and which display the art of sculpture in the most agreeable
point of view. She pointed out to him, that whenever statues are supposed to
represent an action, the arrested movement produces a sort of astonishment
which is sometimes painful. But statues asleep, or merely in the attitude of
complete repose, offer an image of eternal tranquillity which wonderfully
accords with the general effect of a southern climate upon man. The fine
arts appear there to be peaceful spectators of nature, and genius, which in
the north agitates the soul of man, seems beneath a beautiful sky, only an
added harmony.
Oswald and Corinne passed on to the hall
where are collected together the sculptured images of animals and reptiles;
and the statue of Tiberius is found, by chance, in the midst of this court.
This assemblage is without design. Those statues appear to have ranged
themselves of their own accord about their master. Another hall enclosed the
dull and rigid monuments of the Egyptians; of that people whose statues
resembled mummies more than men, and who by their silent, stiff, and servile
institutions, seem to have assimilated as much as possible, life to death.
The Egyptians excelled much more in the art of imitating animals than in
representing men: the dominion of the soul seems to have been inaccessible
to them.
After these come the porticos of the
museum, where at each step is seen a new masterpiece. Vases, altars,
ornaments of every kind, encircle the Apollo, the Laocoon, and the Muses. It
is there that we learn to feel Homer and Sophocles: it is there that a
knowledge of antiquity is awakened in the soul, which cannot be acquired
elsewhere. It is in vain that we trust to the reading of history to
comprehend the spirit of nations; what we see inspires us with more ideas
than what we read, and external objects cause in us a strong emotion, which
gives that living interest to the study of the past which we find in the
observation of contemporary facts and events.
In the midst of these magnificent porticos,
which afford an asylum to so many wonders of art, there are fountains,
which, flowing incessantly, seem to tell us how sweetly the hours glided
away two thousand years ago, when the artists who executed these
masterpieces were yet alive. But the most melancholy impression which we
experience at the Vatican, is in contemplating the remains of statues which
are collected there: the torso of Hercules, heads separated from the trunks,
and a foot of Jupiter, which indicates a greater and more perfect statue
than any that we know. We fancy a field of battle before us, where time has
fought with genius; and these mutilated limbs attest its victory, and our
losses.
After leaving the Vatican, Corinne
conducted him to the Colossi of Mount Cavallo; these two statues represent,
as it is said, Castor and Pollux. Each of the two heroes is taming with one
hand a fiery steed. These colossal figures, this struggle between man and
the animal creation, gives, like all the works of the ancients, an admirable
idea of the physical power of human nature. But this power has something
noble in it, which is no longer found in modern society, where all bodily
exercises are for the most part left to the common people. It is not merely
the animal force of human nature, if I may use the expression, which is
observable in these masterpieces. There seems to have been a more intimate
union between the physical and moral qualities among the ancients, who lived
incessantly in the midst of war, and a war almost of man to man. Strength of
body and generosity of soul, dignity of features and boldness of character,
loftiness of stature and commanding authority, were ideas almost
inseparable, before a religion, entirely intellectual, had placed the power
of man in his mind. The human figure, which was also the figure of the gods,
appeared symbolical; and the nervous colossus of Hercules, as well as every
other ancient statue of this sort, do not convey vulgar ideas of common
life; but an omnipotent and divine will, which shews itself under the emblem
of a supernatural physical force.
Corinne and Lord Nelville finished the day
with a visit to the studio of Canova, the greatest modern sculptor. As it
was late when they got there, they were shewn it by torch light; and statues
improve much in their effect by being seen in this manner. The ancients
appear to have been of this opinion, since they often placed them in their
Thermæ, where day could not enter. By the light of the flambeaux, the
shadows being more full, the uniform lustre of the marble was softened, and
the statues appeared as so many pale figures, possessing a more touching
character of grace and life. There was, in the studio of Canova, an
admirable statue destined for a tomb, which represented the genius of grief
leaning upon a lion, the emblem of strength. Corinne, in contemplating the
figure of grief, thought she discovered in it some resemblance to Oswald,
and the artist himself was struck with it; Lord Nelville turned about to
avoid this kind of notice; but he said in a low voice to his fair companion,
"Corinne, I was condemned to a fate like that which is here represented,
when I met with you; but you have changed my existence, and sometimes hope,
and always an anxiety mixed with charm, fills that heart which was to suffer
nothing but regret."
Chapter iii.
The masterpieces of painting were then all
collected together at Rome, whose riches in this respect surpassed that of
all the rest of the world. There could exist only one disputable point as to
the effect produced by this collection, namely, whether the nature of the
subjects chosen by the Italian artists, afford a scope for all the variety
and all the originality of passion and character which painting can express?
Oswald and Corinne were of contrary opinions in this respect; but this, like
every other opposition of sentiment that existed between them, was owing to
the difference of nation, climate, and religion. Corinne affirmed that the
most favourable subjects for painting were religious ones.
She said that sculpture was a Pagan art, and painting a Christian one; and
that in these arts were to be found, as in poetry, the distinguishing
qualities of ancient and modern literature. The pictures of Michael Angelo,
the painter of the Bible, and of Raphael, the painter of the Gospel, suppose
as much profound thought, as much sensibility as are to be found in
Shakespeare and Racine: sculpture can only present a simple, energetic
existence, whilst painting indicates the mysteries of reflection and
resignation, and makes the immortal soul speak through transient colours.
Corinne maintained also that historical or poetical facts were rarely
picturesque. In order to comprehend such subjects, it would often be
necessary to preserve the practice of painters of old, and write the speech
of each personage in a ribbon proceeding out of the mouth. But religious
subjects are instantly understood by everybody, and attention is not removed
from the picture to guess what it represents.
Corinne was of opinion that the expression
of modern painters was often theatrical, and that it bore the stamp of their
age, in which was no longer found, as in Andrea Mantegna, Perugino, and
Leonardo da Vinci, the unity and simplicity which characterised the repose
of the ancients; a repose to which is joined that profundity of sentiment
which is the characteristic of Christianity. She admired the artless
composition of Raphael's pictures, especially those in his first manner. All
the figures are directed towards one principal object, without any
contrivance on the part of the artist to group them in various attitudes in
order to produce a laboured effect. Corinne said that this sincerity in the
arts of the imagination, as well as in every other, is the true character of
genius; and that studied efforts for fame are almost always destructive of
enthusiasm. She maintained that there was rhetoric in painting as well as in
poetry, and that all those who could not embody character called every
accessory ornament to their aid, uniting rich costumes and remarkable
attitudes to the attraction of a brilliant subject, whilst a single Virgin
holding a child in her arms, an attentive old man in the Mass of Bolsena, a
man leaning on his stick in the School of Athens, or Saint Cecilia with her
eyes lifted up to heaven, produced the deepest effect by the expression of
the countenance alone. These natural beauties increase every day more and
more in our estimation; but on the contrary, in pictures done for effect,
the first glance is always the most striking.
Corinne added to these reflections an
observation which strengthened them: which was, that the religious
sentiments of the Greeks and Romans, and the disposition of their minds,
being in every respect absolutely foreign from ours, it is impossible for us
to create according to their conceptions, or to build upon their ground.
They may be imitated by dint of study; but how can genius employ all its
energies in a work where memory and erudition are so necessary? It is not
the same with subjects that belong to our own history and our own religion.
Here the painter himself may be inspired; he may feel what he paints, and
paint what he has seen. Life assists him to imagine life; but in
transporting himself to the regions of antiquity, his invention must be
guided by books and statues. To conclude, Corinne found that pictures from
pious subjects, impart a comfort to the soul that nothing could replace; and
that they suppose a sacred enthusiasm in the artist which blends with
genius, renovates, revives, and can alone support him against the injustice
of man and the bitterness of life.
Oswald received, in some respects, a
different impression. In the first place, he was scandalized to see the
Deity represented as he is by Michael Angelo, in human form and feature. It
was his opinion that thought dare not give Him shape and figure, and that
hardly at the very bottom of the soul could be found an idea sufficiently
intellectual, sufficiently ethereal to elevate it to the Supreme Being; as
to subjects taken from the Holy Scripture, it seemed to him that the
expression and the images left much to be desired. He thought, with Corinne,
that religious meditation is the most intimate sentiment that man can
experience; and in this respect, it is that which furnishes the painter with
the deepest mysteries of physiognomy and expression; but as religion
represses every emotion which does not proceed immediately from the heart,
the figures of the saints and martyrs cannot admit of much variety. The
sentiment of humility, so noble in the face of heaven, weakens the energy of
terrestrial passions and necessarily gives monotony to most religious
subjects. When Michael Angelo applied his terrible genius to those subjects,
he almost changed their essence by giving to his prophets a formidable
expression of power more becoming a Jupiter than a Saint. He, like Dante,
often avails himself of the images of Paganism and blends the heathen
mythology with the Christian religion. One of the most admirable
circumstances attending the establishment of Christianity, is the lowly
estate of the apostles who have preached it, and the misery and debasement
of the Jewish people, so long the depositaries of the promises that
announced the coming of Christ. This contrast between the littleness of the
means and the greatness of the result, is in a moral point of view,
extremely fine; but in painting, which exhibits the means alone, Christian
subjects must be less dazzling than those taken from the heroic and fabulous
ages. Among the arts, music alone can be purely religious. Painting cannot
be confined to so abstract and vague an expression as that of sound. It is
true that the happy combination of colour, and of chiaro-oscuro
produces, if it may be so expressed, a musical effect in painting; but as
the latter represents life, it should express the passions in all their
energy and diversity. Undoubtedly it is necessary to choose among historical
facts, those which are sufficiently known not to require study in order to
comprehend them; for the effect produced by painting ought to be immediate
and rapid, like every other pleasure derived from the fine arts; but when
historical facts are as popular as religious subjects, they have the
advantage over them of the variety of situations and sentiments which they
recall.
Lord Nelville thought also, that scenes of
tragedy and the most moving poetical fictions, ought to claim a preference
in painting, in order that all the pleasures of the imagination and of the
soul might be united. Corinne combated this opinion, fascinating as it was.
She was convinced that the encroachment of one art upon another was mutually
injurious. Sculpture loses the advantages which are peculiar to it when it
aspires to represent a group of figures as in painting; painting when it
wishes to attain dramatic expression. The arts are limited in their means,
though boundless in their effects. Genius seeks not to combat that which is
in the essence of things; on the contrary, its superiority consists in
discovering it.—"As for you, my dear Oswald," said Corinne, "you do not love
the arts in themselves, but only on account of their relation with mind and
feeling. You are only sensible to that which represents the sorrows of the
heart. Music and poetry agree with this disposition; whilst the arts which
speak to the eyes, though their signification be ideal, only please and
interest us when the soul is tranquil and the imagination entirely free; nor
do we require, in order to relish them, that gaiety which society inspires,
but only the serenity which beautiful weather and a fine climate diffuse
over the mind. We must be capable of feeling the universal harmony of nature
in those arts which represent external objects; this is impossible when the
soul is troubled, that harmony having been destroyed in us by calamity."—"I
know not," replied Oswald, "whether my taste in the fine arts be confined to
that alone which can recall the sufferings of the soul; but I know, at
least, that I cannot endure the representation of physical pain. My
strongest objection," continued he, "against Christian subjects in painting,
is the painful sensations excited in me by the image of blood, wounds, and
torture, notwithstanding the victims may have been animated by the noblest
enthusiasm. Philoctetus is perhaps the only tragical subject in which bodily
ills can be admitted. But with how many poetical circumstances are his cruel
pangs surrounded? They have been caused by the arrows of Hercules. They will
be healed by the son of Æsculapius. In short, the wound is almost confounded
with the moral resentment produced in him who is struck, and cannot excite
any impression of disgust. But the figure of the boy possessed with a devil,
in Raphael's superb picture of the Transfiguration, is a disagreeable image,
and in no way possesses the dignity of the fine arts. They must discover to
us the charm of grief, as well as the melancholy of prosperity; it is the
ideal part of human destiny which they should represent in each particular
circumstance. Nothing torments the imagination more than bloody wounds and
nervous convulsions. It is impossible in such pictures not to seek, and at
the same time dread, to find the exactness of the imitation. What pleasure
can we receive from that art which only consists in such an imitation; it is
more horrible, or less beautiful than nature herself, the moment it only
aspires to resemble her."
"You are right, my lord," said Corinne, "to
wish that Christian subjects were divested of painful images; they do not
require them. But confess, however, that genius, and the genius of the soul,
can triumph over every thing. Behold that picture of the Communion of St
Jerome, by Domenichino. The body of the dying saint is livid and gaunt:
death has seized upon it; but in that look is eternal life, and every
earthly misery seems produced here only to disappear before the pure lustre
of a religious sentiment. However, dear Oswald," continued Corinne, "though
I am not of your opinion in everything, I will shew you that even in
differing from one another there is some analogy of sentiment between us. I
have endeavoured to accomplish what you desire, in the gallery of pictures
which has been furnished me by those artists who were of my acquaintance,
among which are some designs of my own sketching. You will there see the
defects and the advantages of those subjects which you prefer. This gallery
is at my country seat at Tivoli. The weather is fine enough to visit
it.—Shall we go thither to-morrow?" As she awaited Oswald's consent, he said
to her: "My love, have you any doubt of my answer? Have I in this world, any
other pleasure, any other thought, besides you? And is not my life, too free
perhaps from any occupation, as from every interest, solely taken up with
the happiness of seeing and hearing you?"
Chapter iv.
They set out therefore the next day for
Tivoli. Oswald himself drove the four horses that drew them; he took
pleasure in their swiftness, which seemed to increase the vivacity of
thought and of existence; and such an impression is sweet by the side of the
object we love. He performed the office of whip with the most extreme
attention, for fear the slightest accident should happen to Corinne. He felt
the duties of a protector which is the softest tie that binds man to woman.
Corinne was not, like most women, easily terrified by the possible dangers
of a journey; but it was so sweet to remark the solicitude of Oswald, that
she almost wished to be frightened, to enjoy the pleasure of, hearing him
cheer and comfort her.
That which gave Lord Nelville, as will be
seen in the sequel, so great an ascendancy over the heart of his mistress,
was the unexpected contrasts which gave a peculiar charm to his manners.
Everybody admired his intellect and the gracefulness of his figure; but he
must have been particularly interesting to one, who uniting in herself by a
singular accord, constancy and mobility, took delight in impressions, at
once various and faithful. Never did he think of anything but Corinne; and
this very occupation of his mind incessantly assumed different characters:
at one time he was governed by reserve, at another he was open and
communicative: one moment he was perfectly calm, and another a prey to the
most gloomy and bitter sensations, which proved the depth of his sentiments,
but mingled anxiety with confidence and incessantly gave birth to new
emotions. Oswald, internally agitated, endeavoured to assume an external
appearance of composure, and Corinne, occupied in conjecturing his thoughts,
found in this mystery a continual interest. One would have said, that the
very defects of Oswald were only made to set off his agreeable qualities. No
man, however distinguished, in whose character there was no contradiction,
who was subject to no internal conflict, could have captivated the
imagination of Corinne. She felt a sort of awe of Oswald, which subjected
her to him. He reigned over her soul by a good and by an evil power; by his
qualities, and by the disquietude which these qualities, badly combined,
could inspire: in short there was no security in the happiness that Lord
Nelville conferred, and perhaps the violence of Corinne's passion was owing
to this; perhaps she could only love, to such a degree, him whom she feared
to lose. A superior mind, a sensibility as ardent as it was delicate, might
become weary of everything, except that truly extraordinary man, whose soul,
constantly agitated, seemed like the sky—sometimes serene, sometimes covered
with clouds. Oswald, always true, always of profound and impassioned
feelings, was nevertheless often ready to renounce the object of his
tenderness, because a long habit of mental pain made him believe, that only
remorse and suffering could be found in the too exquisite affections of the
heart.
Lord Nelville and Corinne, in their journey
to Tivoli, passed before the ruins of Adrian's palace, and the immense
garden which surrounded it. That prince had collected together in this
garden, the most rare productions, the most admirable masterpieces of those
countries which were conquered by the Romans. To this very day some
scattered stones are seen there, which are called Egypt, India,
and Asia. Farther on was the retreat, where Zenobia, Queen of
Palmyra, ended her days. She did not support in adversity, the greatness of
her destiny; she was incapable of dying for glory like a man; or like a
woman, dying rather than betray her friend.
At length they discovered Tivoli, which was
the abode of so many celebrated men, of Brutus, of Augustus, of Mecenas, and
of Catullus; but above all, the abode of Horace, for it is his verse which
has rendered this retreat illustrious. The house of Corinne was built over
the noisy cascade of Teverone; at the top of the mountain, opposite her
garden, was the temple of the Sybil. It was a beautiful idea of the
ancients, to place their temples on the summits of high places. They
majestically presided over the surrounding country, as religious ideas over
all other thoughts. They inspired more enthusiasm for nature, by announcing
the Deity from which she emanates, and the eternal gratitude of successive
generations towards her. The landscape, from whatever point of view
considered, formed a picture with the temple, which was placed there as the
centre and the ornament of the whole. Ruins spread a singular charm over the
campagna of Italy. They do not recall, like modern edifices, the
labour and the presence of man; they are confounded with nature and the
trees; they seem in harmony with the solitary torrent; they present the
image of time, which has made them what they are. The most beautiful
countries in the world, when they bring to mind no recollection, when they
bear the stamp of no remarkable event, are stripped of interest when
compared with historical countries. What place in Italy could be more
suitable for the habitation of Corinne than the retreat consecrated to the
sybil, to the memory of a woman, animated by divine inspiration. The house
of Corinne was delightful; it was ornamented with the elegance of modern
taste, and yet discovered the charm of an imagination enamoured of the
beauties of antiquity; happiness, in the most elevated sense of the word,
seemed to reign there; a felicity which consisted in all that ennobles the
soul, excites thought, and vivifies talent.
In walking with Corinne, Oswald perceived
that the wind possessed an harmonious sound, and filled the air with chords,
which seemed to proceed from the waving of the flowers, and the rustling of
the trees, and to give a voice to nature. Corinne told him that the wind
produced this harmony from the æolian harps, which she had placed in
grottoes to fill the air with sound, as well as perfumes. In this delicious
abode, Oswald was inspired with the purest sentiment.—"Hear me," said he to
Corinne; "till this moment I felt the happiness I derived from your society
blended with remorse; but now I say to myself, that you are sent by my
father to terminate my sufferings upon this earth. It is he that I had
offended; but it is, nevertheless, he who has obtained by his prayers my
pardon in heaven. Corinne!" cried he, throwing himself upon his knees, "I am
pardoned; I feel it in this sweet calm of innocence which pervades my soul.
Thou canst now, without apprehension, unite thyself to me, nor fear that
fate opposes our union."—"Well," said Corinne, "let us continue to enjoy
this peace of the heart which is granted us. Let us not meddle with destiny:
she inspires so much dread when we wish to interfere with her, when we try
to obtain from her more than she will give! Since we are now happy, let us
not desire a change!"
Corinne showing Oswald
her pictures.
Lord Nelville was hurt at this answer of
Corinne. He conceived she ought to comprehend that he was ready to tell her
every thing, to promise every thing, if she would only confide to him her
history; and this manner of avoiding it gave him as much offence as
apprehension; he did not perceive that a sense of delicacy prevented Corinne
from taking advantage of his emotion, to bind him by an oath. Perhaps also,
it is in the nature of a profound and genuine passion, to dread a solemn
moment, however much desired, and to tremble at exchanging hope for
happiness itself. Oswald, far from judging in this manner, persuaded
himself, that although Corinne loved him, she wished to preserve her
independence, and intentionally deferred all that might lead to an
indissoluble union. This thought excited in him a painful irritation, and
immediately assuming a cold and reserved air, he followed Corinne to her
gallery of pictures, without uttering a word. She soon divined the
impression she had produced on him, but knowing his pride, she durst not
impart to him her observations; however, in showing him her pictures and
discussing general topics, she felt a vague hope of softening him, which
gave to her voice a more moving charm, even when uttering the most
indifferent words.
Her gallery was composed of historical
pictures, paintings on poetical and religious subjects, and landscapes. None
of them was composed of a very large number of figures. That style of
painting undoubtedly presents greater difficulties, but affords less
pleasure. Its beauties are too confused, or too minute. That unity of
interest, which is the vital principle of the arts, as well as anything
else, is necessarily divided and scattered. The first of the historical
pictures represented Brutus, in profound meditation, seated at the foot of
the statue of Rome. In the back ground, the slaves are carrying the lifeless
bodies of his two sons, whom he had condemned to death; and on the other
side of the picture, the mother and sisters appear plunged into an agony of
grief: women are, happily, divested of that courage, which can triumph over
the affections of the heart. The statue of Rome, placed by the side of
Brutus, is a beautiful idea; it speaks eloquently. Yet how can any body know
without an explanation, that it is the elder Brutus who has just sent his
sons to execution? Nevertheless, it is impossible to characterise this event
better than it is done in this picture. At a distance the city of Rome is
perceived in its ancient simplicity, without edifices or ornaments, but full
of patriotic grandeur, since it could inspire such a
sacrifice.—"Undoubtedly," said Corinne, "when I have named Brutus, your
whole soul will become fixed to this picture; but still it would be possible
to behold it without divining the subject it represented. And does not this
uncertainty, which almost always exists in historical pictures, mingle the
torment of an enigma with the enjoyment of the fine arts, which ought to be
so easy and so clear?
"I have chosen this subject because it
recalls the most terrible action that love of country has inspired. The
companion to this picture is Marius, spared by the Cimbrian, who cannot
bring himself to kill this great man; the figure of Marius is imposing; the
costume of the Cimbrian and the expression of his physiognomy, are very
picturesque. It is the second epoch of Rome, when laws no longer existed,
but when genius still exercised considerable influence upon circumstances.
Then comes that era when talents and fame were only objects of misfortune
and insult. The third picture which you see here, represents Belisarius,
carrying on his shoulders the body of his young guide, who died while asking
alms for him. Belisarius, blind and mendicant, is thus recompensed by his
master; and in the universe which he has conquered, he is employed in
bearing to the grave the remains of the poor boy who alone had not abandoned
him. This figure of Belisarius is admirable; another so fine is not to be
found in the modern school. The painter, with a truly poetical imagination,
has united here every species of misfortune, and perhaps the picture is too
dreadful even to awaken pity: but who tells us it is Belisarius? to indicate
him it should be faithful to history: but that fidelity would deprive the
subject of all its picturesque beauty. Following these pictures which
represent in Brutus, virtues approaching to crime; in Marius, glory, the
cause of calamity; in Belisarius, services paid by the blackest
persecutions; in short, every misery of human destiny, which is recorded in
the events of history, I have placed two pictures of the old school, which a
little relieve the oppressed soul by recalling that religion which has
consoled the enslaved and distracted universe, that religion which stirred
the depths of the heart when all without was but oppression and silence. The
first is by Albano; he has painted the infant Jesus sleeping on a cross.
Behold the sweetness and calm of that countenance! What pure ideas it
recalls; how it convinces the soul that celestial love has nothing to fear,
either from affliction or death. The second picture is by Titian; the
subject is Christ sinking beneath the weight of the cross. His mother comes
to meet Him, and throws herself upon her knees on perceiving Him. Admirable
reverence in a mother for the misfortunes and divine virtues of her son!
What a look is that of our Redeemer, what a divine resignation in the midst
of suffering, and in this suffering what sympathy with the heart of man!
That is, doubtless, the finest of my pictures. It is that towards which I
incessantly turn my eyes, without ever being able to exhaust the emotion
which it inspires. Next come the dramatic pieces," continued Corinne, "taken
from four great poets. Judge with me, my lord, of the effect which they
produce. The first represents Æneas in the Elysian fields, when he wishes to
approach Dido. The indignant shade retires, rejoiced that she no longer
carries in her bosom that heart which would still beat with love at the
aspect of her guilty paramour. The vapoury colour of the shades and the
paleness of the surrounding scene, form a contrast with the life-like
appearance of Æneas and of the sybil who conducts him. But this kind of
effect is an amusement of the artist, and the description of the poet is
necessarily superior to anything that painting can produce. I will say as
much of this picture of Clorinda dying, and Tancred. The utmost pathos which
it can excite, is to call to our minds the beautiful lines of Tasso, when
Clorinda pardons her adoring enemy who has just pierced her breast. Painting
necessarily becomes subordinate to poetry, when devoted to subjects which
have been treated by great poets; for their words leave an impression which
effaces every other; the situations which they have chosen almost ever
derive their chief strength from the development of the passions and their
eloquence, whilst the greater part of picturesque effects arises from a calm
beauty, a simple expression, a noble attitude, a moment of repose, worthy of
being indefinitely prolonged without ever wearying the eye.
"Your terrible Shakespeare, my lord,"
continued Corinne, "has furnished the subject of the third dramatic
picture—it is Macbeth,—the invincible Macbeth—who, ready to fight Macduff,
whose wife and children he has put to death, learns that the oracle of the
witches is accomplished, that Birnam Wood is advancing to Dunsinane, and
that he is fighting a man who was born after the death of his mother.
Macbeth is conquered by fate, but not by his adversary.—He grasps the sword
with a desperate hand;—he knows that he is about to die;—but wishes to try
whether human strength cannot triumph over destiny. There is certainly in
this head, a fine expression of wildness and fury—of trouble and of energy;
but how many poetical beauties do we miss? Is it possible to paint Macbeth
plunged in guilt by the spells of ambition, which offer themselves to him
under the shape of witchcraft? How can painting express the terror which he
feels? That terror, however, which is not inconsistent with intrepid
bravery? Is it possible to characterise that peculiar species of
superstition which oppresses him? That belief without dignity, that
hell-born fatality which weighs him down, his contempt of life, his horror
of death? Undoubtedly the human countenance is the greatest of mysteries;
but the motionless physiognomy of a painting can never express more than the
workings of a single sentiment. Contrasts, conflicts of the mind, events, in
short, belong to the dramatic art. Painting can with difficulty render a
succession of events: time and movement exist not for it.
"The Phèdre of Racine has furnished the
subject of the fourth picture," said Corinne, showing it to Lord Nelville.—"Hippolitus,
in all the beauty of youth and innocence, repels the perfidious accusations
of his step-mother; the hero, Theseus, still protects his guilty spouse,
whom he encircles with his conquering arm. There is in the countenance of
Phèdre, a trouble which freezes the soul with horror; and her nurse, without
remorse, encourages her in her guilt. Hippolitus in this picture is perhaps
more beautiful than even in Racine; he resembles more the ancient Meleager,
because no love for Aricia disturbs the impression of his wild and noble
virtue; but is it possible to suppose that Phèdre, in the presence of
Hippolitus, can support her falsehood? Is it possible that she can behold
him innocent and persecuted without falling at his feet? An offended woman
may wrong the object of her affection in his absence; but when she sees him,
her heart is wholly absorbed in love. The poet has never put Phèdre and
Hippolitus in the same scene after the former has calumniated the latter;
the painter has been obliged to do so in order to bring together, as he has
done in his picture, all the beauties of the contrast; but is not this a
proof that there is such a difference between poetical and picturesque
subjects that it would be better for the poets to write from pictures, than
for the painters to compose their works from the poets? The history of the
human mind proves to us that imagination must always precede thought."
Whilst Corinne was thus explaining her
pictures to Lord Nelville, she had stopped several times, in the hope that
he would speak to her; but his wounded soul did not betray itself by a
single word; whenever she expressed a feeling idea he only sighed and turned
his head, in order that she might not see how easily he was affected in his
present state of mind. Corinne, overcome by this silence, sat down and
covered her face with her hands—Lord Nelville for some time walked about the
room with a hurried step, then approaching Corinne, was about to betray his
feelings; but the invincible pride of his nature repressed his emotion, and
he returned to the pictures as if he were waiting for Corinne to finish
showing them. Corinne expected much from the effect of the last of all; and
making an effort in her turn to appear calm, she arose and said, "My lord, I
have yet three landscapes to show you—two of them are allied to very
interesting ideas. I am not fond of those rustic scenes which are as dull in
painting as idylls, when they make no allusion to fable or to history. I am
most pleased with the manner of Salvator Rosa, who represents, as you see in
this picture, a rock with torrents and trees, without a single living
creature, without even a bird recalling an idea of life. The absence of man
in the midst of natural scenes, excites deep reflection. What would the
earth be in this state of solitude? A work without an aim; and yet a work so
beautiful, the mysterious impression of which would be addressed to the
Divinity alone!
"We are come at last to the two pictures in
which, according to my opinion, history and poetry are happily blended with
landscape.
One represents the moment when Cincinnatus is invited by the consuls to
leave the plough, in order to take the command of the Roman armies. In this
landscape you behold all the luxury of the South, its abundant vegetation,
its burning sky, the smiling aspect of all nature, discoverable even in the
plants themselves; and that other picture which forms a contrast with this,
is the son of Cairbar asleep upon the tomb of his father.—For three days and
three nights he has awaited the arrival of the bard who is to honour the
memory of the dead. This bard is perceived at a distance descending the
mountain; the shade of the father hovers in the clouds; the country is
covered with hoar frost; the trees, though naked, are agitated by the wind,
and their dead branches and dried leaves, still follow the current of the
storm."
Till then, Oswald had been influenced by
resentment at what had taken place in the garden; but on beholding this
picture, the tomb of his father and the mountains of Scotland appeared to
his mind, and his eyes were filled with tears. Corinne took her harp, and
before this picture, began to sing one of those Scotch ballads whose simple
notes seem to accompany the noise of the wind, mournfully complaining
through the valleys. She sang the farewell of a warrior quitting his native
land and his mistress; and the word, no more, one of the most
harmonious and touching in the English language, was pronounced by Corinne
with the most moving expression. Oswald sought not to resist his emotion,
and both yielded without restraint to their tears.—"Ah!" cried Lord Nelville,
"does my native country speak no language to thy heart? Wouldst thou follow
me into those retreats, peopled by my recollections? Wouldst thou be the
worthy companion of my life, as thou art its sole charm and delight?"—"I
believe so," replied Corinne—"I believe so; for I love thee!"—"In the name
of love then, no longer conceal anything from me," said Oswald.—"I consent,"
interrupted Corinne; "since it is thy wish. My promise is given; I only make
one condition, which is, that thou wilt not exact it of me before the
approaching epoch of our religious ceremonies. Will not the support of
heaven be more than ever necessary to me at the moment when my fate is about
to be decided?"—"No more," cried Lord Nelville, "if that fate depend upon
me, it is no longer doubtful."—"Thou thinkest so," replied she; "I have not
the same confidence; but, in a word, I intreat thee show that condescension
to my weakness which I request."—Oswald sighed, without either granting or
refusing the delay required.—"Let us now return to town," said Corinne. "How
can I conceal anything from thee in this solitude? And if what I have to
relate must divide us, ought I so soon—Let us go, Oswald—thou wilt return
hither again, happen what may: my ashes will find rest here." Oswald, much
affected, obeyed Corinne. He returned to the city with her, and scarcely a
word passed between them upon the road. From time to time they looked at
each other with an affection that said everything; but nevertheless, a
sentiment of melancholy reigned in the depths of their souls when they
arrived in the midst of Rome.
Book IX
THE POPULAR FESTIVAL, AND MUSIC.
Chapter i.
It was the last day of carnival, which is
the most noisy festival of the year, when a fever of joy, a mania of
amusement, unparalleled in any other country, seized the Roman people.
Everybody is disguised; hardly does there remain at the windows, an unmasked
spectator: the scene of gaiety commences at a given hour on a certain day,
and scarcely ever does any public or private event of the year hinder any
person from joining the sports of the season.
It is then that we can form a judgment of
the extent of imagination possessed by the common people. The Italian
language, even in their mouths, is full of charm. Alfieri said that he went
to the public market at Florence to learn to speak good Italian,—Rome has
the same advantages: and perhaps these are the only two cities in the world
where the people speak so well that the mind may receive entertainment at
every corner of the street.
That kind of humour which shines in the
authors of harlequinades and opera-buffa, is very commonly found even among
men without education. In these days of carnival, when extravagance and
caricature are admitted, the most comic scenes take place between the masks.
Often a burlesque gravity is contrasted
with the vivacity of the Italians; and one would say that these fantastic
vestments inspired a dignity in the wearers, not natural to them; at other
times, they manifest such a singular knowledge of mythology in their
disguises, that we would be inclined to believe the ancient fables still
popular in Rome; and more frequently they ridicule different gradations of
society with a pleasantry full of force and originality. The nation appears
a thousand times more distinguished in its sports than in its history. The
Italian language yields to every shade of gaiety with a facility which only
requires a light inflection of the voice and a little difference of
termination in order to increase or diminish, ennoble or travesty, the sense
of words. It is particularly graceful in the mouth of children.
The innocence of this age and the natural malice of the language, form an
exquisite contrast. In truth, it may be said, that it is a language which
explains itself without any aid and always appears more intellectual than he
who speaks it.
There is neither luxury nor good taste in
the feast of carnival; a kind of universal petulance makes it resemble the
bacchanals of the imagination; but in imagination only is this resemblance,
for the Romans are in general very sober, and except the last day of
carnival, tolerably serious. We often make sudden discoveries of every sort
in the character of the Italians, and this is what contributes to give them
the reputation of being subtle and crafty.—There is, undoubtedly, a strong
habit of dissimulation in this country, which has supported so many
different yokes; but it is not to dissimulation that we must always
attribute the rapid transition from one manner of being to another. An
inflammable imagination is often the cause of it. The character of a people
who are only rational or witty, may be easily understood and will not
suddenly surprise us, but all that belongs to the imagination is unexpected.
It leaps over intermediate barriers, it is often hurt at nothing, and
frequently indifferent to that which ought most to affect it. In fact, it is
a law unto itself, and we can never calculate its impressions from their
causes.
For example, we cannot comprehend what
amusement the Roman nobility find in riding in their carriages from one end
of the corso to the other for whole hours together, as well during
the carnival as on the other days of the year. Nothing ever diverts them
from this custom. There are also among the masks, men who saunter about with
every appearance of weariness, in the most ridiculous costume imaginable,
and who—melancholy harlequins and silent punchinellos,—do not say a word the
whole evening, but appear, if it may be so expressed, to have satisfied
their carnival conscience by having neglected nothing to be merry.
We find at Rome a certain species of mask
which is not seen elsewhere: masks formed after the figures of the ancient
statues, and which at a distance imitate the most perfect beauty—the women
often lose greatly by removing them. But nevertheless this motionless
imitation of life, these stalking wax countenances, however pretty they may
be, have something terrifying in them. The great nobles make a tolerably
grand display of carriages on the last days of the carnival; but the
pleasure of this festival is the crowd and the confusion: it seems like a
relic of the Saturnalia; every class in Rome is mixed together. The
most grave magistrates ride with official dignity in the midst of the masks;
every window is decorated. The whole town is in the streets: it is truly a
popular festival. The pleasure of the people consists neither in the shows
nor the feasts that are given them, nor the magnificence they witness. They
commit no excess either in drinking or eating: their recreation is to be set
at liberty, and to find themselves among the nobility, who on their side are
pleased at being among the people. It is especially the refinement and
delicacy of amusements as well as the perfection of education, that places a
barrier between different classes of people. But in Italy this distinction
of rank is not very sensible; the country is more characterised by the
natural talent and imagination of all, than by the extraordinary cultivation
of the upper classes. There is therefore, pending carnival, a complete
confusion of ranks, of manners, and of sentiments: the crowd, the cries, the
wit, and the comfits with which they inundate without distinction the
carriages as they pass along, confound every mortal together and set the
nation pell-mell, as if social order no longer existed.
Corinne and Lord Nelville, both buried in
thought, arrived in the midst of this tumult. They were at first almost
stunned; for nothing appears more singular than this activity of noisy
pleasures, when the soul is entirely absorbed in itself. They stopped at the
Piazza del Popolo to ascend the amphitheatre near the obelisk, whence is
seen the race course. At the moment they got out of their calash, the Count
d'Erfeuil perceived them and took Oswald aside to speak to him.
"It is not right," said he, "to show
yourself in this public manner, arriving from the country alone with
Corinne; you will compromise her character, then what will you do?" "I do
not think," answered Nelville, "that I compromise the character of Corinne
by showing the attachment she inspires me with. But even were that true, I
should be too happy if the devotion of my life—" "As to your being happy,"
interrupted the Count, "I do not believe it;" people can only be happy in
acting becomingly. Society, think as you may, has much influence "upon our
happiness, and we should never do what it disapproves."—"We should then
never be guided by our own thoughts and our own feelings, but live entirely
for society," replied Oswald. "If it be so, if we are constantly to imitate
one another, to what purpose was a soul and an understanding given to each?
Providence might have spared this superfluity."—"That is very well said,"
replied the Count, "very philosophically thought; but people ruin themselves
by these kind of maxims, and when love is gone, the censure of opinion
remains. I, who appear to possess levity, would never do any thing to draw
upon me the disapprobation of the world. We may indulge in trifling
liberties, in agreeable pleasantries which announce an independent manner of
thinking, provided we do not carry it into action; for when it becomes
serious—" "But the serious consequences are love and happiness," answered
Lord Nelville.—"No, no;" interrupted the Count d'Erfeuil, "that is not what
I wish to say; there are certain established rules of propriety, which one
must not brave, on pain of passing for an eccentric man, a man—in fact, you
understand me—for a man who is not like others."—Lord Nelville smiled, and
without being in the least vexed; for he was by no means pained with these
remarks; he rallied the Count upon his frivolous severity; he felt with
secret satisfaction that for the first time, on a subject which caused him
so much emotion, the Count did not possess the least influence over him.
Corinne, at a distance, conjectured what was passing; but the smile of
Nelville restored tranquillity to her heart, and this conversation of the
Count d'Erfeuil, far from embarrassing Oswald or his fair companion, only
inspired them with a temper of mind more in harmony with the scene before
them.
The horse-racing was about to begin. Lord
Nelville expected to see races like those of England; but what was his
surprise, when informed that only little Barbary horses without riders were
to run against each other. This sight excites the attention of the Romans in
a singular manner. The moment it is about to commence, all the crowd arrange
themselves on each side of the way. The Piazza del Popolo, which was covered
with people, is empty in a moment. Each one ascends the amphitheatres which
surround the obelisk, and innumerable multitudes of heads and dark eyes are
turned towards the barrier from which the horses are to start.
They arrive without bridle or saddle, with
merely a rich cloth thrown over their backs, and led by extremely
well-dressed grooms, who take a most passionate interest in their success.
The horses are placed behind the barrier and their ardour to clear it is
extreme. At every moment they are held back; they prance, they neigh, they
clatter with their feet, as if they were impatient of a glory which they are
about to obtain themselves without the guidance of man. This impatience of
the horses and the shouts of the grooms at the moment when the barrier
falls, produce a fine dramatic effect. The horses start, the grooms cry
"Stand back! Stand back!" with inexpressible transport. They accompany the
horses with their voice and gestures till they are out of sight. The horses
seem inspired with the same emulation as men. The pavement sparkles beneath
their feet; their manes fly in the air, and their desire, thus left to their
own efforts, of winning the prize is such, that there have been some who, on
arriving at the goal, have died from the swiftness with which they have run.
It is astonishing to see these freed horses thus animated with personal
passions; it almost induces a belief that thought exists beneath this animal
form. The crowd break their ranks when the horses are gone by, and follow
them in disorder. They reach the Venetian palace which serves for the goal.
Never was anything like the cries of the grooms whose horses are victors. He
who had gained the first prize, threw himself on his knees before his horse,
and thanked him, recommending him to the protection of St Anthony, the
patron of animals, with an enthusiasm as serious as it was comic to the
spectators.
It is generally the close of day when the
races finish. Then commences another kind of amusement, much less
picturesque, but also very noisy. The windows are illuminated. The guards
abandon their post to mix in the general joy.
Each one then takes a little torch called a moccolo, and they seek
mutually to extinguish each other's light, repeating the word ammazzare
(kill) with a formidable vivacity. Che la Bella Principessa sia ammazata!
Che il signore abbate sia ammazata! (Let the fair princess be killed,
let the abbot be killed!) is shouted from one end of the street to the
other. The crowd, become emboldened, because at this hour horses and
carriages are forbidden, hurl themselves in all directions. At length there
is no other pleasure than that of tumult and disorder. In the meantime night
advances, the noise ceases by degrees—a profound silence succeeds, and there
only remains of this evening the confused idea of a dream, in which the
people had forgotten for a moment their labour, the learned their studies,
and the nobility their idleness.
Chapter ii.
Oswald, since his calamity, had not found
spirits to seek the pleasure of music. He dreaded those ravishing strains so
soothing to melancholy, but which inflict pain, when we are oppressed by
real grief. Music awakens those bitter recollections which we are desirous
to appease. When Corinne sang, Oswald listened to the words she uttered; he
contemplated the expression of her countenance, it was she alone that
occupied him; but if in the streets of an evening, several voices were
joined, as it frequently happens in Italy, to sing the fine airs of the
great masters, he at first endeavoured to listen, and then retired, because
the emotion it excited, at once so exquisite and so indefinite, renewed his
pain. However, there was a magnificent concert to be given in the theatre at
Rome, which was to combine the talents of all the best singers. Corinne
pressed Lord Nelville to accompany her to this concert, and he consented,
expecting that his feelings would be softened and refined by the presence of
her he loved.
On entering her box, Corinne was
immediately recognised, and the remembrance of the Capitol adding to the
interest which she usually inspired, the theatre resounded with applause.
From every part of the house they cried, "Long live Corinne!" and the
musicians themselves, electrified by this general emotion, began to play
victorious strains; for men are led to associate triumph of every sort with
war and battle. Corinne was intimately affected with these universal tokens
of admiration and respect. The music, the applause, the bravos, and
that indefinable impression, which a multitude of people expressing one
sentiment always produces, awakened those feelings which, in spite of her
efforts to conceal them, appeared in her eyes suffused with tears, and the
palpitation of her heart equally visible. Oswald, jealous of this emotion,
approached her, saying in a low voice,—"It would be a pity madam to snatch
you from this brilliant popularity, it is certainly equal to love, since it
produces the same effect in your heart."—Having spoken thus, he retired to
the further end of the box without waiting for any reply. These words
produced the most cruel agitation in the bosom of Corinne, and in a moment
destroyed all the pleasure she received from these expressions of applause,
which principally gave her delight because they were witnessed by Oswald.
The concert began—he who has not heard
Italian singing can have no idea of music! Italian voices are so soft and
sweet, that they recall at once the perfume of flowers, and the purity of
the sky. Nature has destined the music for the climate: one is like a
reflection of the other. The world is the work of one mind, expressed in a
thousand different forms. The Italians, during a series of ages, have been
enthusiastically fond of music. Dante, in his poem of purgatory, meets with
one of the best singers of his age; being entreated, he sings one of his
delicious airs, and the ravished spirits are lulled into oblivion of their
sufferings, until recalled by their guardian angel. The Christians, as well
as the pagans, have extended the empire of music beyond the grave. Of all
the fine arts, it is that which produces the most immediate effect upon the
soul. The others are directed to some particular idea; but this appeals to
the intimate source of our existence, and entirely changes our inmost soul.
What is said of Divine Grace, which suddenly transforms the heart, may
humanly speaking be applied to the power of melody; and among the
presentiments of the life to come, those which spring from music are not to
be despised.
Even the gaiety which the comic music of
Italy is so well calculated to excite, is not of that vulgar description
which does not speak to the imagination. At the very bottom of the mirth
which it excites, will be found poetical sensations and an agreeable
reverie, which mere verbal pleasantry never could inspire. Music is so
fleeting a pleasure, that it glides away almost at the same time we feel it,
in such a manner, that a melancholy impression is mingled with the gaiety
which it excites; but when expressive of grief, it also gives birth to a
sweet sentiment. The heart beats more quickly while listening to it, and the
satisfaction caused by the regularity of the measure, by reminding us of the
brevity of time, points out the necessity of enjoying it. You no longer feel
any void, any silence, around you; life is filled; the blood flows quickly;
you feel within you that motion which gives activity to life, and you have
no fear of the external obstacles with which it is beset.
Music redoubles the ideas which we possess
of the faculties of the soul; when listening to it we feel capable of the
noblest efforts. Animated by music, we march to the field of death with
enthusiasm. This divine art is happily incapable of expressing any base
sentiment, any artifice, any falsehood. Calamity itself, in the language of
music, is stript of its bitterness; it neither irritates the mind nor rends
the heart. Music gently raises that weight which almost constantly oppresses
the heart when we are formed for deep and serious affections; that weight
which sometimes becomes confounded with the very sense of our existence, so
habitual is the pain which it causes. It seems to us in listening to pure
and delectable sounds, that we are about to seize the secret of the Creator,
and penetrate the mystery of life. No language can express this impression,
for language drags along slowly behind primitive impressions, as prose
translators behind the footsteps of poets. It is only a look that can give
some idea of it; the look of an object you love, long fixed upon you, and
penetrating by degrees so deeply into your heart, that you are at length
obliged to cast down your eyes to escape a happiness so intense, that, like
the splendour of another life, it would consume the mortal being who should
presume stedfastly to contemplate it.
The admirable exactness of two voices
perfectly in harmony produces, in the duets of the great Italian masters, a
melting delight which cannot be prolonged without pain. It is a state of
pleasure too exquisite for human nature; and the soul then vibrates like an
instrument which a too perfect harmony would break. Oswald had obstinately
kept at a distance from Corinne during the first part of the concert; but
when the duet began, with faintly-sounding voices, accompanied by wind
instruments, whose sounds were more pure than the voices themselves, Corinne
covered her face with her handkerchief, entirely absorbed in emotion; she
wept, but without suffering—she loved, and was undisturbed by any fear.
Undoubtedly the image of Oswald was present to her heart; but this image was
mingled with the most noble enthusiasm, and a crowd of confused thoughts
wandered over her soul: it would have been necessary to limit these thoughts
in order to render them distinct. It is said that a prophet traversed seven
different regions of heaven in a minute. He who could thus conceive all that
an instant might contain, must surely have felt the sublime power of music
by the side of the object he loved. Oswald felt this power, and his
resentment became gradually appeased. The feelings of Corinne explained and
justified everything; he gently approached her, and Corinne heard him
breathing by her side in the most enchanting passage of this celestial
music. It was too much—the most pathetic tragedy could not have excited in
her heart so much sensation as this intimate sentiment of profound emotion
which penetrated them both at the same time, and which each succeeding
moment, each new sound, continually exalted. The words of a song have no
concern in producing this emotion—they may indeed occasionally excite some
passing reflection on love or death; but it is the indefinite charm of music
which blends itself with every feeling of the soul; and each one thinks he
finds in this melody, as in the pure and tranquil star of night, the image
of what he wishes for on earth.
"Let us retire," said Corinne; "I feel
ready to faint." "What ails you?" said Oswald, with uneasiness; "you grow
pale. Come into the open air with me; come." They went out together.
Corinne, leaning on the arm of Oswald, felt her strength revive from the
consciousness of his support. They both approached a balcony, and Corinne,
with profound emotion, said to her lover, "Dear Oswald, I am about to leave
you for eight days." "What do you tell me?" interrupted he. "Every year,"
replied she, "at the approach of Holy Week, I go to pass some time in a
convent, to prepare myself for the solemnity of Easter." Oswald advanced
nothing in opposition to this intention; he knew that at this epoch, the
greater part of the Roman ladies gave themselves up to the most rigid
devotion, without however on that account troubling themselves very
seriously about religion during the rest of the year; but he recollected
that Corinne professed a different worship to his, and that they could not
pray together. "Why are you not," cried he, "of the same religion as
myself?" Having pronounced this wish, he stopped short. "Have not our hearts
and minds the same country?" answered Corinne. "It is true," replied Oswald;
"but I do not feel less painfully all that separates us." They were then
joined by Corinne's friends; but this eight days' absence so oppressed his
heart that he did not utter a word during the whole evening.
Chapter iii.
Oswald visited Corinne at an early hour,
uneasy at what she had said to him. He was received by her maid, who gave
him a note from her mistress informing him that she had entered the convent
on that same morning, agreeably to the intention of which he had been
apprised by her, and that she should not be able to see him until after Good
Friday. She owned to him that she could not find courage to make known her
intention of retiring so soon, in their conversation the evening before.
This was an unexpected stroke to Oswald. That house, which the absence of
Corinne now rendered so solitary, made the most painful impression upon his
mind; he beheld her harp, her books, her drawings, all that habitually
surrounded her; but she herself was no longer there. The recollection of his
father's house struck him—he shuddered and, unable to support himself, sunk
into a chair.
"In such a way as this," cried he, "I might
learn her death! That mind, so animated, that heart, throbbing with life,
that dazzling form, in all the freshness of vernal bloom, might be crushed
by the thunderbolt of fate, and the tomb of youth would be silent as that of
age. Ah! what an illusion is happiness! What a fleeting moment stolen from
inflexible Time, ever watching for his prey! Corinne! Corinne! you must not
leave me; it was the charm of your presence which deprived me of reflection;
all was confusion in my thoughts, dazzled as I was by the happy moments
which I passed with you. Now I am alone—now I am restored to myself, and all
my wounds are opened afresh." He invoked Corinne with a kind of despair
which could not be attributed to her short absence, but to the habitual
anguish of his heart, which Corinne alone could assuage. Corinne's maid,
hearing the groans of Oswald, entered the room and, touched with the manner
in which he was affected by the absence of her mistress, said to him, "My
lord, let me comfort you; I hope my dear lady will pardon me for betraying
her secret. Come into my room, and you shall see your portrait." "My
portrait!" cried he. "Yes; she has painted it from memory," replied Theresa
(that was the name of Corinne's maid); "she has risen at five o'clock in the
morning this week past, in order to finish it before she went to the
convent."
Oswald saw this portrait, which was a
striking likeness and most elegantly executed: this proof of the impression
which he had made on Corinne penetrated him with the sweetest emotion.
Opposite this portrait was a charming picture, representing the Blessed
Virgin—and before this picture was the oratory of Corinne. This singular
mixture of love and religion is common to the greater part of Italian women,
attended with circumstances more extraordinary than in the apartment of
Corinne; for free and unrestrained as was her life, the remembrance of
Oswald was united in her mind with the purest hopes and purest sentiments;
but to place thus the resemblance of a lover opposite an emblem of divinity,
and to prepare for a retreat to a convent by consecrating a week to paint
that resemblance, was a trait that characterised Italian women in general
rather than Corinne in particular. Their kind of devotion supposes more
imagination and sensibility than seriousness of mind and seventy of
principles;—nothing could be more contrary to Oswald's religious ideas; yet
how could he find fault with Corinne, at the very moment when he received so
affecting a proof of her love?
He minutely surveyed this chamber, which he
now entered for the first time: at the head of Corinne's bed he saw the
portrait of an elderly man, whose physiognomy was not Italian; two bracelets
were hanging near this portrait, one formed of dark and light hair twisted
together; the other was of the most lovely flaxen, and what appeared a most
remarkable effect of chance, perfectly resembled that of Lucilia Edgermond,
which he had observed very attentively three years ago on account of its
extreme beauty. Oswald contemplated these bracelets without uttering a word,
for to interrogate Theresa he felt to be unworthy of him. But Theresa,
fancying she guessed Oswald's thoughts, and wishing to remove from his mind
every jealous suspicion, hastened to inform him that during eleven years
that she had waited on Corinne, her mistress had always worn these
bracelets, and that she knew they were composed of the hair of her father
and mother, and that of her sister. "You have been eleven years with
Corinne," said Lord Nelville; "you know then—" blushing, he suddenly checked
himself, ashamed of the question he was about to put, and quitted the house
immediately, to avoid saying another word.
In going away, he turned about several
times to behold the windows of Corinne, and when he had lost sight of her
habitation, he felt a sadness now new to him—that which springs from
solitude. In the evening, he sought to dissipate his melancholy by joining a
distinguished assembly in Rome; for to find a charm in reverie, we must in
our happy as well as in our clouded moments, be at peace with ourselves.
The party he visited was soon insupportable
to Lord Nelville, inasmuch as it made him feel more sensibly all the charms
that Corinne could diffuse through society, by observing the void caused by
her absence. He essayed to converse with some ladies, who answered him in
that insipid phraseology which is established to avoid the true expression
of our sentiments and opinions, if those who use it have anything of this
sort to conceal. He approached several groups of gentlemen who seemed by
their voice and gesture to be discoursing upon some important subject; he
heard them discussing the most trivial topic in the most common manner. He
then sat down to contemplate at his ease, that vivacity without motive and
without aim which is found in most numerous assemblies; nevertheless,
mediocrity in Italy is by no means disagreeable; it has little vanity,
little jealousy, and much respect for superiority of mind; and if it
fatigues with its dulness, it hardly ever offends by its pretensions.
It was in these very assemblies, however,
that Oswald had found so much to interest him a few days before; the slight
obstacle which the company opposed to his conversation with Corinne,—the
speedy opportunity which she took to return to him as soon as she had been
sufficiently polite to the rest of the circle,—the similarity of sentiment
which existed between them in the observations which the company
suggested,—the pleasure which Corinne took when discoursing in Oswald's
presence, to address indirectly to him some reflection of which he alone
comprehended the true meaning, had attached such recollections to every part
of this very room, that Oswald had been deluded so far as to believe that
there was something amusing in these assemblies themselves. "Ah!" said he,
when departing, "it was here as every where else—she was the life of the
scene; let me rather seek the most desert spot till she return. I shall feel
her absence less bitterly when there is nothing about me bearing the
resemblance of pleasure."
Book X
HOLY WEEK.
Chapter i.
Oswald passed the following day in the
gardens of some monasteries. He went first to that of the Carthusians, and
stopped some time before he entered, to contemplate two Egyptian lions which
are at a little distance from the gate. Those lions have a remarkable
expression of strength and repose; there is something in their physiognomy
belonging neither to the animal nor the man: they seem one of the forces of
nature and enable us to form a conception how the gods of the Pagan theology
might be represented under this emblem.
The Carthusian monastery is built upon the
ruins of the Thermæ of Diocletian; and the church by the side of the
monastery, is decorated with such of its granite columns as remained
standing. The monks who inhabit this retreat are very eager to show them,
and the interest they take in these ruins seems to be the only one they feel
in this world. The mode of life observed by the Carthusians, supposes in
them either a very limited mind, or the most noble and continued elevation
of religious sentiments; this succession of days without any variety of
event, reminds us of that celebrated line:
Sur les mondes détruits le
Temple dort immobile.
The Temple sleeps
motionless on the ruins of worlds.
The whole employment of their life serves
but to contemplate death. Activity of mind, with such an uniformity of
existence, would be a most cruel torment. In the midst of the cloister grow
four cypresses. This dark and silent tree, which is with difficulty agitated
by the wind, introduces no appearance of motion into this abode. Near the
cypresses is a fountain, scarcely heard, whose fall is so feeble and slow,
that one would be led to call it the clepsydra of this solitude, where time
makes so little noise. Sometimes the moon penetrates it with her pale lustre,
and her absence and return may be considered as an event in this monotonous
scene.
Those men who exist thus, are nevertheless
the same to whom war and all its bustle would scarcely suffice if they had
been brought up to it.
The different combinations of human destiny
upon earth afford an inexhaustible source of reflection. A thousand
accidents pass, and a thousand habits are formed in the interior of the
soul, which make every individual a world and the subject of a history. To
know another perfectly, would be the task of a whole life; what is it then
that we understand by knowing men? To govern them is practicable by human
wisdom, but to comprehend them belongs to God alone.
From the Carthusian monastery Oswald
repaired to that of St Bonaventure, built upon the ruins of the palace of
Nero; there, where so many crimes have been committed without remorse, poor
monks, tormented by scruples of conscience, impose upon themselves the most
cruel punishment for the slightest fault. "Our only hope," said one
of these devotees, "is that at the hour of death our sins will not have
exceeded our penances." Lord Nelville, as he entered this monastery
struck his foot against a trap, and asking the use of it—"It leads to our
place of interment;" said one of the young monks, who was already struck
with the malady caused by the malaria. The inhabitants of the south being
very much afraid of death, we are astonished to find institutions in Italy
which fix the ideas upon this point; but it is natural to be fond of
thoughts that inspire us with dread. There is, as it were, an intoxication
of sadness, which does good to the soul by occupying it entirely.
An ancient Sarcophagus of a young child
serves for the fountain to this convent. The beautiful Palm-tree of which
Rome boasts, is the only tree of any sort in the garden of these monks; but
they pay no attention to external objects. Their discipline is too rigorous
to allow any kind of latitude to the mind. Their looks are cast down, their
gait is slow, they make no use of their will. They have abdicated the
government of themselves, so fatiguing is this empire to its sad
possessor. This day, however, did not produce much emotion in the soul
of Oswald; the imagination revolts at death, presented under all its various
forms in a manner so manifestly intentional. When we unexpectedly meet this
memento mori, when it is nature and not man that speaks to our soul,
the impression we receive is much deeper.
Oswald felt the most calm and gentle
sensations when, at sunset, he entered the garden of San Giovanni e Paolo.
The monks of this monastery are subjected to a much less rigid discipline,
and their garden commands a view of all the ruins of ancient Rome. From this
spot is seen the Coliseum, the Forum, and all the triumphal arches, the
obelisks, and the pillars which remain standing. What a fine situation for
such an asylum! The secluded monks are consoled for their own nothingness,
in contemplating the monuments raised by those who are no more. Oswald
strolled for a long time beneath the umbrageous walks of this garden, whose
beautiful trees sometimes interrupt for a moment the view of Rome, only to
redouble the emotion which is felt on beholding it again. It was that hour
of the evening, when all the bells in Rome are heard chiming the Ave
Maria.
—————squilla di lontano
Che paja il giorno pianger che si
muore.
Dante.
—————the vesper bell from far,
That seems to mourn for the
expiring day.
Carey's
Tr.
The evening prayer is used to fix the time.
In Italy they say: I will see you an hour before, or an hour after the
Ave Maria: and the different periods of the day and of the night, are
thus religiously designated. Oswald enjoyed the admirable spectacle of the
sun which towards the evening descends slowly in the midst of the ruins, and
appears for a moment submitted to the same destiny as the works of man.
Oswald felt all his habitual thoughts revive within him. Corinne herself was
too charming, and promised too much happiness to occupy his mind at this
moment. He sought the spirit of his father in the clouds, where the force of
imagination traced his celestial form, and made him hope to receive from
heaven some pure and beneficent breath, as the benediction of his sainted
parent.
Chapter ii.
The desire of studying and becoming
acquainted with the Roman religion, determined Lord Nelville to seek an
opportunity of hearing some of those preachers who make the churches of this
city resound with their eloquence during Lent. He reckoned the days that
were to divide him from Corinne, and during her absence, he wished to see
nothing that appertained to the fine arts; nothing that derived its charm
from the imagination. He could not support the emotion of pleasure produced
by the masterpieces of art when he was not with Corinne; he was only
reconciled to happiness when she was the cause of it. Poetry, painting,
music, all that embellishes life by vague hopes, was painful to him out of
her presence.
It is in the evening, with lights half
extinguished, that the Roman preachers deliver their sermons in Holy Week.
All the women are then clad in black, in remembrance of the death of Jesus
Christ, and there is something very moving in this anniversary mourning,
which has been so often renewed during a lapse of ages. It is therefore
impossible to enter without genuine emotion those beautiful churches, where
the tombs so fitly dispose the soul for prayer; but this emotion is
generally destroyed in a few moments by the preacher.
His pulpit is a fairly long gallery, which
he traverses from one end to the other with as much agitation as regularity.
He never fails to set out at the beginning of a phrase and to return at the
end, like the motion of a pendulum; nevertheless he uses so much action, and
his manner is so vehement, that one would suppose him capable of forgetting
everything. But it is, to use the expression, a kind of systematic fury that
animates the orator, such as is frequently to be met with in Italy, where
the vivacity of external action often indicates no more than a superficial
emotion. A crucifix is suspended at the extremity of the pulpit; the
preacher unties it, kisses it, presses it against his heart, and then
restores it to its place with the greatest coolness, when the pathetic
period is concluded. There is a means of producing effect which the ordinary
preachers frequently have recourse to, namely, the square cap they wear on
their head, which they take off, and put on again with inconceivable
rapidity. One of them imputed to Voltaire, and particularly to Rousseau, the
irreligion of the age. He threw his cap into the middle of the pulpit,
charging it to represent Jean Jacques, and in this quality he harangued it,
saying; "Well, philosopher of Geneva, what have you to object to my
arguments?" He was silent for some minutes as if he waited for a
reply—the cap made no answer: he then put it upon his head again and
finished the conversation in these words: "now that you are convinced I
shall say no more."
These whimsical scenes are often repeated
among the Roman preachers; for real talent in this department is here very
scarce. Religion is respected in Italy as an omnipotent law; it captivates
the imagination by its forms and ceremonies, but moral tenets are less
attended to in the pulpit than dogmas of faith, which do not penetrate the
heart with religious sentiments. Thus the eloquence of the pulpit, as well
as several other branches of literature, is absolutely abandoned to common
ideas, which neither paint nor express any thing. A new thought would cause
almost a panic in those minds at once so indolent and so full of ardour that
they need the calm of uniformity, which they love because it offers repose
to their thoughts. The ideas and phraseology of their sermons are confined
to a sort of etiquette. They follow almost in a regular sequence, and this
order would be disturbed if the orator, speaking from himself, were to seek
in his own mind what he should say. The Christian philosophy, whose aim is
to discover the analogy between religion and human nature, is as little
known to the Italian preachers as any other kind of philosophy. To think
upon matters of religion would scandalise them as much as to think against
it; so much are they accustomed to move in a beaten track.
The worship of the Blessed Virgin is
particularly dear to the Italians, and to every other nation of the south;
it seems in some manner united with all that is most pure and tender in the
affection we feel for woman. But the same exaggerated figures of rhetoric
are found in what the preachers say upon this subject; and it is impossible
to conceive why their gestures do not turn all that is most serious into
mockery. Hardly ever in Italy do we meet in the august function of the
pulpit, with a true accent or a natural expression.
Oswald, weary of the most tiresome of all
monotony—that of affected vehemence, went to the Coliseum, to hear the
Capuchin who was to preach there in the open air, at the foot of one of
those altars which mark out, within the enclosure, what is called the
Stations of the Cross. What can offer a more noble subject of eloquence
than the aspect of this monument, of this amphitheatre, where the martyrs
have succeeded to the gladiators! But nothing of this kind must be expected
from the poor Capuchin, who, of the history of mankind, knows no more than
that of his own life. Nevertheless, if we could be insensible to the badness
of his discourse, we should feel ourselves moved by the different objects
that surround him. The greater part of his auditors are of the confraternity
of the Camaldoli; they are clad during their religious exercises in a
sort of grey robe, which entirely covers the head and the whole body, with
two little holes for the eyes. It is thus that the spirits of the dead might
be represented. These men, who are thus concealed beneath their vestments,
prostrate themselves on the earth and strike their breasts. When the
preacher throws himself on his knees crying for mercy and pity, the
congregation throw themselves on their knees also, and repeat this same cry,
which dies away beneath the ancient porticoes of the Coliseum. It is
impossible at this moment not to feel the most religious emotion; this
appeal from earthly misery to celestial good, penetrates to the inmost
sanctuary of the soul. Oswald started when all the audience fell on their
knees; he remained standing, not to join in a worship foreign to his own;
but it was painful to him that he could not associate publicly with mortals
of any description, who prostrated themselves before God. Alas! is there an
invocation of heavenly pity that is not equally suited to all men?
The people had been struck with the fine
figure and foreign manners of Lord Nelville, but were by no means
scandalized at his not kneeling down. There are no people in the world more
tolerant than the Romans; they are accustomed to visitors who come only to
see and observe; and whether by an effect of pride or of indolence, they
never seek to instil their opinions into others. What is more extraordinary
still, is, that during Holy Week particularly, there are many among them who
inflict corporal punishment upon themselves; and while they are performing
this flagellation, the church-doors are open, and they care not who enters.
They are a people who do not trouble their heads about others; they do
nothing to be looked at; they refrain from nothing because they are
observed; they always proceed to their object, and seek their pleasure
without suspecting that there is a sentiment called vanity, which has no
object, no pleasure, except the desire of being applauded.
Chapter iii.
The ceremonies of Holy Week at Rome have
been much spoken of. Foreigners come thither during Lent expressly to enjoy
this spectacle; and as the music of the Sixtine Chapel and the illumination
of St Peter's are beauties unique in themselves, it is natural that they
should excite a lively curiosity; but expectation is not equally satisfied.
The ceremonies themselves, properly speaking—the dinner of the twelve
Apostles, served by the Pope, the washing of the feet by him, and all the
different customs of this solemn season—excite very moving recollections;
but a thousand inevitable circumstances often injure the interest and the
dignity of this spectacle. All those who assist at it are not equally
devout, equally occupied with pious ideas. These ceremonies, so often
repeated, have become a sort of mechanical exercise for most people, and the
young priests despatch the service of great festivals with an activity and a
dexterity little calculated to produce any religious effect. That
indefinite, that unknown, that mysterious impression, which religion ought
to excite, is entirely destroyed by that species of attention which we
cannot help paying to the manner in which each acquits himself of his
functions. The avidity of some for the meats presented them, and the
indifference of others in the genuflections which they multiply and the
prayers which they recite, often strip the festival of its solemnity.
The ancient costumes which still serve for
the vestments of the priests, agree badly with the modern style of treating
the hair. The Greek bishop, with his long beard, has the most respectable
appearance. The ancient custom also of making a reverence after the manner
of women, instead of bowing as men do now, produces an impression by no
means serious. In a word, the ensemble is not in harmony, and the
ancient is blended with the modern without sufficient care being taken to
strike the imagination, or at least to avoid all that may distract it. A
worship, dazzling and majestic in its external forms, is certainly
calculated to fill the soul with the most elevated sentiments; but care must
be taken that the ceremonies do not degenerate into a spectacle in which
each one plays his part—in which each one studies what he must do at such a
moment; when he is to pray, when he is to finish his prayer; when to kneel
down, and when to get up. The regulated ceremonies of a court introduced
into a temple of devotion, confine the free movement of the heart, which can
alone give man the hope of drawing near to the Deity.
These observations are pretty generally
felt by foreigners, but the Romans for the most part do not grow weary of
those ceremonies; and every year they find in them new pleasure. A singular
trait in the character of the Italians is, that their mobility does not make
them inconstant, nor does their vivacity render variety necessary to them.
They are in every thing patient and persevering; their imagination
embellishes what they possess; it occupies their life instead of rendering
it uneasy; they think every thing more magnificent, more imposing, more
fine, than it really is: and whilst in other nations vanity consists in an
affectation of boredom, that of the Italians, or rather their warmth and
vivacity, makes them find pleasure in the sentiment of admiration.
Lord Nelville, from all that the Romans had
said to him, expected to be more affected by the ceremonies of Holy Week. He
regretted the noble and simple festivals of the Anglican church. He returned
home with a painful impression; for nothing is more sad than not being moved
by that which ought to move us; we believe that our soul is become dry, we
fear that the fire of enthusiasm is extinguished in us, without which the
faculty of thinking can only serve to disgust us with life.
Chapter iv.
But Good Friday soon restored to Lord
Nelville all those religious emotions, the want of which he so much
regretted on the preceding days. The seclusion of Corinne was about to
terminate; he anticipated the happiness of seeing her again: the sweet
expectations of tender affection accord with piety; it is only a factious,
worldly life, that is entirely hostile to it. Oswald repaired to the Sixtine
Chapel to hear the celebrated miserere, so much talked of all over
Europe. He arrived thither whilst it was yet day, and beheld those
celebrated paintings of Michael Angelo, which represent the Last Judgment,
with all the terrible power of the subject and the talent which has handled
it. Michael Angelo was penetrated with the study of Dante; and the painter,
in imitation of the poet, represents mythological beings in the presence of
Jesus Christ; but he always makes Paganism the evil principle, and it is
under the form of demons that he characterises the heathen fables. On the
vault of the chapel are represented the prophets, and the sybils called in
testimony by the Christians,
Teste David cum Sibyllâ.
A crowd of angels surround them; and this
whole vault, painted thus, seems to bring us nearer to heaven, but with a
gloomy and formidable aspect. Hardly does daylight penetrate the windows,
which cast upon the pictures shadow rather than light. The obscurity
enlarges those figures, already so imposing, which the pencil of Michael
Angelo has traced; the incense, whose perfume has a somewhat funereal
character, fills the air in this enclosure, and every sensation is prelusive
to the most profound of all—that which the music is to produce.
Whilst Oswald was absorbed by the
reflections which every object that surrounded him gave birth to, he saw
Corinne, whose presence he had not hoped to behold so soon, enter the
women's gallery, behind the grating which separated it from that of the men.
She was dressed in black, all pale with absence, and trembled so when she
perceived Oswald, that she was obliged to lean on the balustrade for support
as she advanced; at this moment the miserere began.
The voices, perfectly trained in this
ancient song, proceeded from a gallery at the commencement of the vault; the
singers are not seen; the music seems to hover in the air; and every instant
the fall of day renders the chapel more gloomy. It was not that voluptuous
and impassioned music which Oswald and Corinne had heard eight days before;
they were holy strains which counselled mortals to renounce every earthly
enjoyment. Corinne fell on her knees before the grating and remained plunged
in the most profound meditation. Oswald himself disappeared from her sight.
She thought that in such a moment one could wish to die, if the separation
of the soul from the body could take place without pain; if, on a sudden, an
angel could carry away on his wings our sentiments and our thoughts—sparks
of ethereal fire, returning towards their source: death would then be, to
use the expression, only a spontaneous act of the heart, a more ardent and
more acceptable prayer.
The miserere, that is to say,
have mercy on us, is a psalm, composed of verses, which are sung
alternately in a very different manner. A celestial music is heard by turns,
and the verse following, in recitative, is murmured in a dull and almost
hoarse tone. One would say, that it is the reply of harsh and stern
characters to sensitive hearts; that it is the reality of life which withers
and repels the desires of generous souls. When the sweet choristers resume
their strain, hope revives; but when the verse of recitative begins, a cold
sensation seizes upon the hearer, not caused by terror, but by a repression
of enthusiasm. At length, the last piece, more noble and affecting than all
the others, leaves a pure and sweet impression upon the soul: may God
vouchsafe that same impression to us before we die.
The torches are extinguished; night
advances, and the figures of the prophets and the sybils appear like
phantoms enveloped in twilight. The silence is profound; a word spoken would
be insupportable in the then state of the soul, when all is intimate and
internal; as soon as the last sound expires, all depart slowly and without
the least noise; each one seems to dread the return to the vulgar interests
of the world.
Corinne followed the procession, which
repaired to the temple of St Peter, then lighted only by an illuminated
cross. This sign of grief, alone and shining in the august obscurity of this
immense edifice, is the most beautiful image of Christianity in the midst of
the darkness of life. A pale and distant light is cast on the statues which
adorn the tombs. The living, who are perceived in crowds beneath these
vaults, seem like pigmies, compared with the images of the dead. There is
around the cross, a space which it lights up, where the Pope clad in white
is seen prostrate, with all the cardinals ranged behind him. They remain
there for half an hour in the most profound silence, and it is impossible
not to be moved at this spectacle. We know not the subject of their prayers;
we hear not their secret groanings; but they are old, they precede us in the
journey to the tomb. When we in our turn pass into that terrible advance
guard, may God by his grace so ennoble our age, that the decline of life may
be the first days of immortality!
Corinne, also,—the young and beautiful
Corinne,—was kneeling behind the train of priests, and the soft light
reflected on her countenance, gave it a pale hue, without diminishing the
lustre of her eyes. Oswald contemplated her as a beautiful picture—a being
that inspired adoration. When her prayer was concluded she arose. Lord
Nelville dared not yet approach her, respecting the religious meditation in
which he thought her plunged; but she came to him first with a transport of
happiness; and this sentiment pervading all her actions, she received with a
most lively gaiety, all those who accosted her in St Peter's, which had
become, all at once, a great public promenade, and a rendezvous to discuss
topics of business or pleasure.
Oswald was astonished at this mobility
which caused such opposite impressions to succeed each other; and though the
gaiety of Corinne gave him pleasure, he was surprised to find in her no
trace of the emotions of the day. He did not conceive how, upon so solemn, a
day, they could permit this fine church to be converted into a Roman café,
where people met for pleasure; and beholding Corinne in the midst of her
circle, talking with so much vivacity, and not thinking on the objects that
surrounded her, he conceived a sentiment of mistrust as to the levity of
which she might be capable. She instantly perceived it, and quitting her
company abruptly, she took the arm of Oswald to walk with him in the church,
saying, "I have never held any conversation with you upon my religious
sentiments—permit me to speak a little upon that subject now; perhaps I
shall be able to dissipate those clouds which I perceive rising in your
mind."
Chapter v.
"The difference of our religions, my dear
Oswald," continued Corinne, "is the cause of that secret censure which you
cannot conceal from me. Yours is serious and rigid—ours, cheerful and
tender. It is generally believed that Catholicism is more rigorous than
Protestantism; and that may be true in a country where a struggle has
subsisted between the two religions; but we have no religious dissensions in
Italy, and you have experienced much of them in England. The result of this
difference is, that Catholicism in Italy has assumed a character of mildness
and indulgence; and that to destroy it in England, the Reformation has armed
itself with the greatest severity in principles and morals. Our religion,
like that of the ancients, animates the arts, inspires the poets, and
becomes a part, if I may so express it, of all the joys of our life; whilst
yours, establishing itself in a country where reason predominates more than
imagination, has assumed a character of moral austerity which will never
leave it. Ours speaks in the name of love, and yours in the name of duty.
Our principles are liberal, our dogmas are absolute; nevertheless, our
despotic orthodoxy accommodates itself to particular circumstances, and your
religious liberty enforces obedience to its laws without any exception. It
is true that our Catholicism imposes very hard penance upon those who have
embraced a monastic life. This state, freely chosen, is a mysterious
relation between man and the Deity; but the religion of laymen in Italy is
an habitual source of affecting emotions. Love, hope, and faith, are the
principal virtues of this religion, and all these virtues announce and
confer happiness. Our priests therefore, far from forbidding at any time the
pure sentiment of joy, tell us that it expresses our gratitude towards the
Creator. What they exact of us, is an observance of those practices which
prove our respect for our worship, and our desire to please God, namely,
charity for the unfortunate, and repentance for our errors. But they do not
refuse absolution, when we zealously entreat it; and the attachments of the
heart inspire a more indulgent pity amongst us than anywhere else. Has not
Jesus Christ said of the Magdalen: Much shall be pardoned her, because
she hath loved much? These words were uttered beneath a sky, beautiful
as ours; this same sky implores for us the Divine mercy."
"Corinne!" answered Lord Nelville, "how can
I combat words so sweet, and of which my heart stands so much in need? But I
will do it, nevertheless, because it is not for a day that I love Corinne—I
expect with her a long futurity of happiness and virtue. The most pure
religion is that which makes a continual homage to the Supreme Being, by the
sacrifice of our passions and the fulfilment of our duties. A man's morality
is his worship of God; and it would be degrading the idea we form of the
Creator, to suppose that He wills anything in relation with His creature,
that is not worthy of His intellectual perfection. Paternal authority, that
noble image of a master sovereignly good, demands nothing of its children
that does not tend to make them better or happier. How then can we imagine
that God would exact anything from man, which has not man himself for its
object? You see also what confusion in the understandings of your people
results from the practice of attaching more importance to religious
ceremonies than to moral duties. It is after Holy Week, you know, that the
greatest number of murders is committed at Rome. The people think, to use
the expression, that they have laid in a stock during Lent, and expend in
assassination the treasures of their penitence. Criminals have been seen,
yet reeking with murder, who have scrupled to eat meat on a Friday; and
gross minds, who have been persuaded that the greatest of crimes consists in
disobeying the discipline of the church, exhaust their consciences on this
head, and conceive that the Deity, like human sovereigns, esteems submission
to his power more than every other virtue. This is to substitute the
sycophancy of a courtier for the respect which the Creator inspires, as the
source and reward of a scrupulous and delicate life. Catholicism in Italy,
confining itself to external demonstrations, dispenses the soul from
meditation and self-contemplation. When the spectacle is over, the emotion
ceases, the duty is fulfilled, and one is not, as with us, a long time
absorbed in thoughts and sentiments, which give birth to a rigid examination
of one's conduct and heart."
"You are severe, my dear Oswald," replied
Corinne; "it is not the first time I have remarked it. If religion consisted
only in a strict observance of moral duties, in what would it be superior to
reason and philosophy? And what sentiments of piety could we discover, if
our principal aim were to stifle the feelings of the heart? The stoics were
as enlightened as we, as to the duties and the austerity of human conduct;
but that which is peculiar to Christianity is the religious enthusiasm which
blends with every affection of the soul; it is the power of love and pity;
it is the worship of sentiment and of indulgence, so favourable to the
flights of the soul towards heaven. How are we to interpret the parable of
the Prodigal Son, if not that love, sincere love, is preferred even to the
most exact discharge of every duty? This son had quitted his paternal abode,
and his brother had remained there; he had plunged into all the dissipation
and pleasure of the world, and his brother had never deviated for a single
moment from the regularity of domestic life; but he returned, full of love
for his father and of repentance for his past follies, and his parent
celebrated this return by a festival. Ah! can it be doubted that among the
mysteries of our nature, to love and to love again is what remains to us of
our celestial inheritance? Even our virtues are often too complicated with
life, for us to comprehend the gradations of good, and what is the secret
sentiment that governs and leads us astray: I ask of my God to teach me to
adore him, and I feel the effect of my prayers in the tears that I shed. But
to support this disposition of the soul, religious practices are more
necessary than you think; they are a constant communication with the Deity;
they are daily actions, unconnected with the interests of life and solely
directed towards the invisible world. External objects are also a great help
to piety; the soul falls back upon itself, if the fine arts, great
monuments, and harmonic strains, do not reanimate that poetical genius,
which is synonymous with religious inspiration.
"The most vulgar man, when he prays, when
he suffers, and places hope in heaven, has at that moment something in him
which he would express like Milton, Homer, or Tasso, if education had taught
him to clothe his thoughts with words. There are only two distinct classes
of men in the world; those who feel enthusiasm, and those who despise it;
every other difference is the work of society. The former cannot find words
to express their sentiments, and the latter know what it is necessary to say
to conceal the emptiness of their heart. But the spring that bursts from the
rock at the voice of heaven, that spring is the true talent, the true
religion, the true love.
"The pomp of our worship; those pictures in
which the kneeling saints express a continual prayer in their looks; those
statues placed on the tombs as if they were one day to rise with their
inhabitants; those churches and their immense domes, have an intimate
connection with religious ideas. I like this splendid homage paid by men to
that which promises them neither fortune nor power—to that which neither
punishes nor rewards them, but by a sentiment of the heart. I then feel more
proud of my being; I recognise something disinterested in man; and were even
religious magnificence multiplied to an extreme, I should love that
prodigality of terrestrial riches for another life, of time for eternity:
enough is provided for the morrow, enough care is taken for the economy of
human affairs. How I love the useless, useless if existence be only a
painful toil for a miserable gain! But if on this earth we are journeying
towards heaven, what can we do better than to take every means of elevating
our soul, that it may feel the infinite, the invisible, and the eternal, in
the midst of all the limits that surround us?
"Jesus Christ permitted a weak, and
perhaps, repentant woman, to anoint His feet with the most precious
perfumes, and repulsed those who advised that those perfumes should be
reserved for a more profitable use. "Let her alone" said He, "for
I am only with you for a short time." Alas! all that is good and sublime
upon earth is only with us for a short time; age, infirmity, and death,
would soon dry up that drop of dew which falls from heaven and only rests
upon the flowers. Let us then, dear Oswald, confound everything,—love,
religion, genius, the sun, the perfumes, music, and poetry: atheism only
consists in coldness, egotism, and baseness. Jesus Christ has said: When
two or three are gathered together in my name, I will be in the midst of
them. And what is it O God! to be assembled in Thy name, if it be not to
enjoy Thy sublime gifts, and to offer Thee our homage, to thank Thee for
that existence which Thou hast given us; above all, to thank Thee, when a
heart, also created by Thee is perfectly responsive to our own?"
At this moment a celestial inspiration
animated the countenance of Corinne. Oswald could hardly refrain from
falling on his knees before her in the midst of the temple, and was silent
for a long time to indulge in the pleasure of recalling her words and
retracing them still in her looks. At last he set about replying; for he
would not abandon a cause that was dear to him. "Corinne," said he, then,
"indulge your lover with a few words more. His heart is not dry; no,
Corinne, believe me it is not, and if I am an advocate for austerity in
principle and action, it is because it renders sentiment more deep and
permanent. If I love reason in religion, that is to say, if I reject
contradictory dogmas and human means of producing effect upon men, it is
because I perceive the Deity in reason as well as in enthusiasm; and if I
cannot bear that man should be deprived of any one of his faculties, it is
because I conceive them all barely sufficient to comprehend truths which
reflection reveals to him, as well as the instinct of the heart, namely, the
existence of God, and the immortality of the soul. What can be added to
these sublime ideas, to their union with virtue? What can we add thereto
that is not beneath them? The poetical enthusiasm which gives you so many
charms, is not, I venture to assert, the most salutary devotion. Corinne,
how could we by this disposition prepare for the innumerable sacrifices
which duty exacts of us! There was no revelation, except by the flights of
the soul, when human destiny, present and future, only revealed itself to
the mind through clouds; but for us, to whom Christianity has rendered it
clear and positive, feeling may be our recompense, but ought not to be our
only guide: you describe the existence of the blessed, not that of mortals.
Religious life is a combat, not a hymn. If we were not condemned in this
world to repress the evil inclinations of others and of ourselves, there
would in truth be no distinction to be made except between cold and
enthusiastic souls. But man is a harsher and more formidable creature than
your heart paints him to you; and reason in piety, and authority in duty,
are a necessary curb to the wanderings of his pride.
"In whatever manner you may consider the
external pomp and multiplied ceremonies of your religion, believe me, my
love, the contemplation of the universe and its author, will be always the
chief worship; that which will fill the imagination, without any thing
futile or absurd being found in it upon investigation. Those dogmas which
wound my reason also cool my enthusiasm. Undoubtedly the world, such as it
is, is a mystery which we can neither deny nor comprehend; it would
therefore be foolish to refuse credence to what we are unable to explain;
but that which is contradictory is always of human creation. The mysteries
of heavenly origin are above the lights of the mind; but not in opposition
to them. A German philosopher
has said: I know but two beautiful things in the universe: the starry sky
above our heads, and the sentiment of duty in our hearts. In truth all
the wonders of the creation are comprised in these words.
"So far from a simple and severe religion
searing our hearts, I should have thought, before I had known you, Corinne,
that it was the only one which could concentrate and perpetuate the
affections. I have seen the most pure and austere conduct unfold in a man
the most inexhaustible tenderness. I have seen him preserve even to old age,
a virginity of soul, which the passions and their criminal effects would
necessarily have withered. Undoubtedly repentance is a fine thing, and I
have more need than any person to believe in its efficacy; but repeated
repentance fatigues the soul—this sentiment can only regenerate once. It is
the redemption which is accomplished at the bottom of our soul, and this
great sacrifice cannot be renewed. When human weakness is accustomed to it,
the power to love is lost; for power is necessary in order to love, at least
with constancy.
"I shall offer some objections of the same
kind to that splendid form of worship, which according to you, acts so
powerfully upon the imagination. I believe the imagination to be modest, and
retired as the heart. The emotions which are imposed on it, are less
powerful than those born of itself. I have seen in the Cevennes, a
Protestant minister who preached towards the evening in the heart of the
mountains. He invoked the tombs of the French, banished and proscribed by
their brethren, whose ashes had been assembled together in this spot. He
promised their friends that they should meet them again in a better world.
He said that a virtuous life secured us this happiness; he said: do good
to mankind, that God may heal in your heart the wound of grief. He
testified his astonishment at the inflexibility and hard-heartedness of man,
the creature of a day, to his fellow man equally with himself the creature
of a day, and seized upon that terrible idea of death, which the living have
conceived, but which they will never be able to exhaust. In short, he said
nothing that was not affecting and true: his words were perfectly in harmony
with nature. The torrent which was heard in the distance, the scintillating
light of the stars, seemed to express the same thought under another form.
The magnificence of nature was there, that magnificence, which can feast the
soul without offending misfortune; and all this imposing simplicity, touched
the soul more deeply than dazzling ceremonies could have done."
On the second day after this conversation,
Easter Sunday, Corinne and Lord Nelville went together to the square of St
Peter, at the moment when the Pope appears upon the most elevated balcony of
the church, and asks of heaven that benediction which he is about to bestow
on the land; when he pronounces these words, urbi et orbi (to the
city and to the world)—all the assembled people fell on their knees, and
Corinne and Lord Nelville felt, by the emotion which they experienced at
this moment, that all forms of worship resemble each other. The religious
sentiment intimately unites men among themselves, when self-love and
fanaticism do not make it an object of jealousy and hatred. To pray together
in the same language, whatever be the form of worship, is the most pathetic
bond of fraternity, of hope, and of sympathy, which men can contract upon
earth.
Chapter vi.
Easter-Day was passed, and Corinne took no
notice of the fulfilment of her promise to confide her history to Lord
Nelville. Wounded by this silence, he said one day before her that he had
heard much of the beauty of Naples, and that he had a mind to visit it.
Corinne, discovering in a moment what was passing in his soul, proposed to
perform the journey with him. She flattered herself that she, should be able
to postpone the confession which he required of her, by giving him this
satisfying proof of her love. And besides she thought that if he should take
her with him, it would be without doubt because he desired to consecrate his
life to her. She waited then with anxiety for what he should say to her, and
her almost suppliant looks seemed to entreat a favourable answer. Oswald
could not resist; he had at first been surprised at this offer and the
simplicity with which Corinne made it, and hesitated for some time before he
accepted it; but beholding the agitation of her he loved, her palpitating
bosom, her eyes suffused with tears, he consented to set out with her,
without reflecting upon the importance of such a resolution. Corinne was
elevated to the summit of joy; for at this moment her heart entirely relied
on the passion of Oswald.
The day was fixed upon, and the sweet
perspective of their journey together made every other idea disappear. They
amused themselves with settling the details of their journey, and every one
of these details was a source of pleasure. Happy disposition of the soul, in
which all the arrangements of life have a particular charm, from their
connection with some hope of the heart! That moment arrives only too soon,
when each hour of our existence is as fatiguing as its entirety, when every
morning requires an effort to support the awakening and to guide the day to
its close.
The moment Lord Nelville left Corinne's
house in order to prepare every thing for their departure, the Count
d'Erfeuil arrived, and learnt from her the project which they had just
determined on.—"Surely you don't think of such a thing!" said he, "what!
travel with Lord Nelville without his being your husband! without his having
promised to marry you! And what will you do if he abandon you?" "Why,"
replied Corinne, "in any situation of life if he were to cease to love me, I
should be the most wretched creature in the world!" "Yes, but if you have
done nothing to compromise your character, you will remain entirely
yourself."—"Remain entirely myself, when the deepest sentiment of my life
shall be withered? when my heart shall be broken?"—"The public will not know
it, and by a little dissimulation you would lose nothing in the general
opinion." "And why should I take pains to preserve that opinion," replied
Corinne, "if not to gain an additional charm in the eyes of him I love?"—"We
may cease to love," answered the Count, "but we cannot cease to live in the
midst of society, and to need its services."—"Ah! if I could think,"
retorted Corinne, "that that day would arrive when Oswald's affection would
not be all in all to me in this world; if I could believe it, I should
already have ceased to love. What is love when it anticipates and reckons
upon the moment when it shall no longer exist? If there be any thing
religious in this sentiment, it is because it makes every other interest
disappear, and, like devotion, takes a pleasure in the entire sacrifice of
self."
"What is that you tell me?" replied the
Count d'Erfeuil, "can such an intellectual lady as you fill her head with
such nonsense? It is the advantage of us men that women think as you do—we
have thus more ascendancy over you; but your superiority must not be lost,
it must be serviceable to you." "Serviceable to me?" said Corinne, "Ah! I
owe it much, if it has enabled me to feel more acutely all that is
interesting and generous in the character of Lord Nelville."—"Lord Nelville
is like other men," said the Count; "he will return to his native country,
he will pursue his profession; in short he will recover his reason, and you
would imprudently expose your reputation by going to Naples with him."—"I am
ignorant of the intentions of Lord Nelville," observed Corinne, "and perhaps
I should have done better to have reflected more deeply before I had let him
obtain such power over my heart; but now, what signifies one more sacrifice!
Does not my life depend on his love? I feel pleasure, on the contrary, in
leaving myself no resource;—there is none when the heart is wounded;
nevertheless, the world may sometimes think the contrary, and I love to
reflect that even in this respect my calamity would be complete, if Lord
Nelville were to leave me!"—"And does he know how you expose yourself on his
account?" proceeded d'Erfeuil.—"I have taken great care to conceal it from
him," answered Corinne, "and as he is not well acquainted with the customs
of this country, I have a little exaggerated to him the latitude of conduct
which they allow. I must exact from you a promise, that you will never
undeceive him in this respect—I wish him to be perfectly free, he can never
make me happy by any kind of sacrifice. The sentiment which renders me happy
is the flower of my life; were it once to decay, neither kindness nor
delicacy could revive it. I conjure you then, my dear Count, not to
interfere with my destiny; no opinion of yours upon the affections of the
heart can possibly apply to me. Your observations are very prudent, very
sensible, and extremely applicable to the situations of ordinary life; but
you would innocently do me a great injury, in attempting to judge of my
character in the same manner as large bodies of people are judged, for whom
there are maxims ready made. My sufferings, my enjoyments, and my feelings,
are peculiar to myself, and whoever would influence my happiness must
contemplate me alone, unconnected with the rest of the world."
The self-love of Count d'Erfeuil was a
little wounded by the inutility of his counsels, and the decided proof of
her affection for Lord Nelville which Corinne gave him. He knew very well
that he himself was not beloved by her, he knew equally that Oswald was; but
it was unpleasant to him to hear this so openly avowed. There is always
something in the favour which a man finds in a lady's sight, that offends
even his best friends.—"I see that I can do nothing for you," said the
Count; "but should you become very unhappy you will think of me; in the
meantime, I am going to leave Rome, for since you and Lord Nelville are
about to quit it, I should be too much bored in your absence. I shall
certainly see you both again, either in Scotland or Italy; for since I can
do nothing better with myself, I have acquired a taste for travelling.
Forgive my having taken the liberty to counsel you, charming Corinne, and
believe me ever devoted to you!"—Corinne thanked him, and separated with a
sentiment of regret. Her acquaintance with him commenced at the same time as
with Oswald, and this remembrance formed a tie between them which she did
not like to see broken. She conducted herself agreeably to what she had
declared to the Count. Some uneasiness disturbed for a moment the joy with
which Lord Nelville had accepted the project of the journey. He feared that
their departure for Naples might injure Corinne, and wished to obtain her
secret before they went, in order to know with certainty whether some
invincible obstacle to their union might not exist; but she declared to him
that she would not relate her history till they arrived at Naples, and
sweetly deceived him, as to what the public opinion would be on her conduct.
Oswald yielded to the illusion. In a weak and undecided character, love half
deceives, reason half enlightens, and it is the present emotion that decides
which of the two halves shall be the whole. The mind of Lord Nelville was
singularly expansive and penetrating; but he only formed a correct judgment
of himself in reviewing his past conduct. He never had but a confused idea
of his present situation. Susceptible at once of transport and remorse, of
passion and timidity, those contrasts did not permit him to know himself
till the event had decided the combat that was taking place within him.
When the friends of Corinne, particularly
Prince Castel-Forte, were informed of her project, they felt considerably
chagrined. Prince Castel-Forte was so much pained at it, that he resolved in
a short time to go and join her. There was certainly no vanity in thus
filling up the train of a favoured lover; but he could not support the
dreadful void which he would find in the absence of Corinne. He had no
acquaintances but the circle he met at her house; and he never entered any
other. The company which assembled around her would disperse when she should
be no longer there; and it would be impossible to collect together the
fragments. Prince Castel-Forte was little accustomed to domestic life:
though possessing a good share of intellect, he did not like the fatigue of
study; the whole day therefore would have been an insufferable weight to
him, if he had not come, morning and evening, to visit Corinne. She was
about to depart—he knew not what to do; however he promised himself in
secret to approach her as a friend, who indulged in no pretensions, but who
was ever at hand to offer his consolation in the moment of misfortune; such
a friend may be sure that his hour will come.
Corinne felt oppressed with melancholy in
thus breaking all her former connections; she had led for some years in Rome
a manner of life that pleased her. She was the centre of attraction to every
artist and to every enlightened man. A perfect independence of ideas and
habits gave many charms to her existence: what was to become of her now? If
destined to the happiness of espousing Oswald, he would take her to England,
and what would she be thought of there; how would she be able to confine
herself to a mode of existence so different from what she had known for six
years past! But these sentiments only passed through her mind, and her
passion for Oswald always obliterated every trace of them. She saw, she
heard him, and only counted the hours by his absence or his presence. Who
can dispute with happiness? Who does not welcome it when it comes? Corinne
was not possessed of much foresight—neither fear nor hope existed for her;
her faith in the future was vague, and in this respect her imagination did
her little good, and much harm.
On the morning of her departure, Prince
Castel-Forte visited her, and said with tears in his eyes: "Will you not
return to Rome?" "Oh, Mon Dieu, yes!" replied she, "we shall be back
in a month."—"But if you marry Lord Nelville you must leave Italy!" "Leave
Italy!" said Corinne, with a sigh.—"This country," continued Prince
Castel-Forte, "where your language is spoken, where you are so well known,
where you are so warmly admired, and your friends, Corinne—your friends!
Where will you be beloved as you are here? Where will you find that
perfection of the imagination and the fine arts, so congenial to your soul?
Is then our whole life composed of one sentiment? Is it not language,
customs, and manners, that compose the love of our country; that love which
creates a home sickness so terrible to the exile?" "Ah, what is it you tell
me," cried Corinne, "have I not felt it? Is it not that which has decided my
fate?"—She regarded mournfully her room and the statues that adorned it,
then the Tiber which rolled its waves beneath her windows, and the sky whose
beauty seemed to invite her to stay. But at that moment Oswald crossed the
bridge of St Angelo on horseback, swift as lightning. "There he is!" cried
Corinne. Hardly had she uttered these words, when he was already
arrived,—she ran to meet him, and both impatient to set out hastened to
ascend the carriage. Corinne, however, took a kind farewell of Prince
Castel-Forte; but her obliging expressions were lost in the midst of the
cries of postillions, the neighing of horses, and all that bustle of
departure, sometimes sad, and sometimes intoxicating, according to the fear
or the hope which the new chances of destiny inspire.
Book XI
NAPLES AND THE HERMITAGE OF ST SALVADOR.
Chapter i.
Oswald was proud of carrying off his
conquest; he who felt himself almost always disturbed in his enjoyments by
reflections and regrets, for once did not experience the pangs of
uncertainty. It was not that he was decided, but he did not think about it
and followed the tide of events hoping it would lead him to the object of
his wishes.
They traversed the district of Albano,
where is still shown what is believed to be the tomb of the Horatii and the
Curiatii. They passed near the lake of Nemi and the sacred woods that
surround it. It is said that Hippolitus was resuscitated by Diana in these
parts; she would not permit horses to approach it, and by this prohibition
perpetuated the memory of her young favourite's misfortune. Thus in Italy
our memory is refreshed by History and Poetry almost at every step, and the
charming situations which recall them, soften all that is melancholy in the
past, and seem to preserve an eternal youth.
Oswald and Corinne traversed the Pontine
marshes—a country at once fertile and pestilential,—where, with all the
fecundity of nature, a single habitation is not to be found. Some sickly men
change your horses, recommending to you not to sleep in passing the marshes;
for sleep there is really the harbinger of death. The plough which some
imprudent cultivators will still sometimes guide over this fatal land, is
drawn by buffaloes, in appearance at once mean and ferocious, whilst the
most brilliant sun sheds its lustre on this melancholy spectacle. The marshy
and unwholesome parts in the north are announced by their repulsive aspect;
but in the more fatal countries of the south, nature preserves a serenity,
the deceitful mildness of which is an illusion to travellers. If it be true
that it is very dangerous to sleep in crossing the Pontine marshes, their
invincible soporific influence in the heat of the day is one of those
perfidious impressions which we receive from this spot. Lord Nelville
constantly watched over Corinne. Sometimes she leant her head on Theresa who
accompanied them; sometimes she closed her eyes, overcome by the languor of
the air. Oswald awakened her immediately, with inexpressible terror; and
though he was naturally taciturn, he was now inexhaustible in subjects of
conversation, always well supported and always new, to prevent her from
yielding to this fatal sleep. Ah! should we not pardon the heart of a woman
the cruel regret which attaches to those days when she was beloved, when her
existence was so necessary to that of another, when at every moment she was
supported and protected? What isolation must succeed this season of delight!
How happy are they whom the sacred hand of Hymen has conducted from love to
friendship, without one painful moment having embittered their course!
Oswald and Corinne, after the anxious
passage of the marshes, at length arrived at Terracina, on the sea coast,
near the confines of the kingdom of Naples. It is there that the south truly
begins; it is there that it receives travellers in all its magnificence.
Naples, that happy country, is, as it were, separated from the rest
of Europe by the sea which surrounds it and by that dangerous district which
must be passed in order to arrive at it. One would say that nature, wishing
to secure to herself this charming abode, has designedly made all access to
it perilous. At Rome we are not yet in the south; we have there a foretaste
of its sweets, but its enchantment only truly begins in the territory of
Naples. Not far from Terracina is the promontory fixed upon by the poets as
the abode of Circe: and behind Terracina rises Mount Anxur, where Theodoric,
king of the Goths, had placed one of those strong castles with which the
northern warriors have covered the earth. There are few traces of the
invasion of Italy by the barbarians; or at least, where those traces consist
in devastation, they are confounded with the effects of time. The northern
nations have not given to Italy that warlike aspect which Germany has
preserved. It seems that the gentle soil of Ausonia was unable to support
the fortifications and citadels which bristle in northern countries. Rarely
is a Gothic edifice or a feudal castle to be met with here; and the
monuments of the ancient Romans reign alone triumphant over Time, and the
nations by whom they have been conquered.
The whole mountain which dominates
Terracina, is covered with orange and lemon trees, which embalm the air in a
delicious manner. There is nothing in our climate that resembles the
southern perfume of lemon trees in the open air; it produces on the
imagination almost the same effect as melodious music; it gives a poetic
disposition to the soul, stimulates genius, and intoxicates with the charms
of nature. The aloe and the broad-leaved cactus, which are met here at every
step, have a peculiar aspect, which brings to mind all that we know of the
formidable productions of Africa. These plants inspire a sort of terror:
they seem to belong to a violent and despotic nature. The whole aspect of
the country is foreign: we feel ourselves in another world, a world which is
only known by the descriptions of the ancient poets, who have at the same
time so much imagination and so much exactness in their descriptions. On
entering Terracina, the children threw into the carriage of Corinne an
immense quantity of flowers which they gather by the road-side or on the
mountain, and which they carelessly scatter about; such is their reliance on
the prodigality of nature! The carts which bring home the harvest from the
fields are every day ornamented with garlands of roses, and sometimes the
children surround the cups they drink out of with flowers; for beneath such
a sky the imagination of the common people becomes poetical. By the side of
these smiling pictures the sea, whose billows lashed the shore with fury,
was seen and heard. It was not agitated by the storm; but by the rocks which
stand in habitual opposition to its waves, irritating its grandeur.
E non udite ancor come risuona
Il roco ed alto fremito marino?
And do you not hear still
the hoarse and deep roar of the sea?
This motion without aim, this strength
without object which is renewed throughout eternity without our being able
to discover either its cause or its end, attracts us to the shore, where
this grand spectacle offers itself to our sight; and we experience, as it
were, a desire mingled with terror, to approach the waves and to deaden our
thoughts by their tumult.
Towards the evening all was calm. Corinne
and Lord Nelville walked into the country; they proceeded with a slow pace
silently enjoying the scene before them. Each step they took crushed the
flowers and extorted from them their delicious perfumes; the nightingales,
resting on the rose-bushes, willingly lent their song, so that the purest
melodies were united to the most delicious odours; all the charms of nature
mutually attracted each other, while the softness of the air was beyond
expression. When we contemplate a fine view in the north, the climate in
some degree disturbs the pleasure which it inspires: those slight sensations
of cold and humidity are like a false note in a concert, and more or less
distract your attention from what you behold; but in approaching Naples you
experience the friendly smiles of nature, so perfectly and without alloy,
that nothing abates the agreeable sensations which they cause you. All the
relations of man in our climate are with society. Nature, in hot countries,
puts us in relation with external objects, and our sentiments sweetly
expand. Not but that the south has also its melancholy. In what part of the
earth does not human destiny produce this impression? But in this melancholy
there is neither discontent, anxiety, nor regret. In other countries it is
life, which, such as it is, does not suffice for the faculties of the soul;
here the faculties of the soul do not suffice for life, and the
superabundance of sensation inspires a dreamy indolence, which we can hardly
account for when oppressed with it.
During the night, flies of a shining hue
fill the air; one would say that the mountain emitted sparks of fire, and
that the burning earth had let loose some of its flames. These insects fly
through the trees, sometimes repose on the leaves, and the wind blows these
minute stars about, varying in a thousand ways their uncertain light. The
sand also contained a great number of metallic stones, which sparkled on
every side: it was the land of fire, still preserving in its bosom the
traces of the sun, whose last rays had just warmed it. There is a life, and
at the same time, a repose, in this nature, which entirely satisfies the
various desires of human existence.
Corinne abandoned herself to the charms of
this evening, and was penetrated with joy; nor could Oswald conceal the
emotion they inspired—many times he pressed Corinne to his heart, many times
he drew back from her, then returned, then drew back again out of respect to
her who was to be the companion of his life. Corinne felt no alarm, for such
was her esteem for Oswald, that if he had demanded the entire surrender of
her being she would have considered that request as a solemn vow to espouse
her; but she saw him triumph over himself, and this conquest was an honour
paid her; whilst her heart felt that plenitude of happiness, and of love,
which does not permit us to form another desire. Oswald was far from being
so calm: he was fired with the charms of Corinne. Once he threw himself at
her feet with violence, and seemed to have lost all empire over his passion;
but Corinne regarded him with such an expression of sweetness and fear, she
made him so sensible of his power while beseeching him not to abuse it, that
this humble entreaty inspired him with more respect than any other could
possibly have done.
They then perceived in the sea, the
reflection of a torch carried by the unknown hand of one who traversed the
shore, repairing secretly to a neighbouring house. "He is going to see the
object of his love;" said Oswald.—"Yes," answered Corinne. "And my
happiness, for to-day, is about to end,"—resumed Oswald. At this moment the
looks of Corinne were lifted towards heaven, and her eyes suffused with
tears. Oswald, fearing that he had offended her, fell on his knees to
entreat her forgiveness for that love which had overpowered him. "No," said
Corinne, stretching forth her hand to him, and inviting him to return with
her. "No, Oswald, I feel no alarm: you will respect her who loves you: you
know that a simple request from you would be all-powerful with me; it is
therefore you who must be my security—you who would for ever reject me as
your bride, if you had rendered me unworthy of being so." "Well," answered
Oswald, "since you believe in this cruel empire of your will upon my heart,
Corinne, whence arises your sadness?"—"Alas!" replied she, "I was saying to
myself, that the moments which I have just passed with you were the happiest
of my life, and as I turned my eyes in gratitude to heaven, I know not by
what chance, a superstition of my childhood revived in my heart. The moon
which I contemplated was covered with a cloud, and the aspect of that cloud
was fatal. I have always found in the sky a countenance sometimes paternal
and sometimes angry; and I tell you, Oswald, heaven has to-night condemned
our love."—"My dear," answered Lord Nelville, "the only omens of the life of
man, are his good or evil actions; and have I not this very evening,
immolated my most ardent desires on the altar of virtue?"—"Well, so much the
better if you are not included in this presage," replied Corinne; "it may be
that this angry sky has only threatened me."
Chapter ii.
They arrived at Naples by day, in the midst
of that immense population, at once so animated and so indolent. They first
traversed the Via Toledo, and saw the Lazzaroni lying on the pavement, or in
osier baskets which serve them for lodging, day and night. There is
something extremely original in this state of savage existence, mingled with
civilization. There are some among these men who do not even know their own
name, and who go to confess anonymous sins; not being able to tell who it is
that has committed them. There is a subterranean grotto at Naples where
thousands of Lazzaroni pass their lives, only going out at noon to see the
sun, and sleeping the rest of the day, whilst their wives spin. In climates
where food and raiment are so easy of attainment it requires a very
independent and active government to give sufficient emulation to a nation;
for it is so easy for the people merely to subsist at Naples, that they can
dispense with that industry which is necessary to procure a livelihood
elsewhere. Laziness and ignorance combined with the volcanic air which is
breathed in this spot, ought to produce ferocity when the passions are
excited; but this people is not worse than any other. They possess
imagination, which might become the principle of disinterested actions and
give them a bias for virtue, if their religious and political institutions
were good.
Calabrians are seen marching in a body to
cultivate the earth with a fiddler at their head, and dancing from time to
time, to rest themselves from walking. There is every year, near Naples, a
festival consecrated to the madonna of the grotto, at which the girls
dance to the sound of the tambourine and the castanets, and it is not
uncommon for a condition to be inserted in the marriage contract, that the
husband shall take his wife every year to this festival. There is on the
stage at Naples, a performer eighty years old, who for sixty years has
entertained the Neapolitans in their comic, national character of
Polichinello. Can we imagine what the immortality of the soul may be to a
man who thus employs his long life? The people of Naples have no other idea
of happiness than pleasure; but the love of pleasure is still better than a
barren egotism.
It is true that no people in the world are
more fond of money than the Neapolitans: if you ask a man of the people in
the street to show you your way, he stretches out his hand after having made
you a sign, for they are more indolent in speech than in action; but their
avidity for money is not methodical nor studied; they spend it as soon as
they get it. They use money as savages would if it were introduced among
them. But what this nation is most wanting in, is the sentiment of dignity.
They perform generous and benevolent actions from a good heart rather than
from principle; for their theory in every respect is good for nothing, and
public opinion in this country has no force. But when men or women escape
this moral anarchy their conduct is more remarkable in itself and more
worthy of admiration than any where else, since there is nothing in external
circumstances favourable to virtue. It is born entirely in the soul. Laws
and manners neither reward nor punish it. He who is virtuous is so much the
more heroic for not being on that account either more considered or more
sought after.
With some honourable exceptions the higher
classes pretty nearly resemble the lower: the mind of the one is seldom more
cultivated than that of the other, and the practice of society is the only
external difference between them. But in the midst of this ignorance there
is such a natural intelligence in all ranks that it is impossible to foresee
what a nation like this might become if all the energies of government were
directed to the advancement of knowledge and morality. As there is little
education at Naples, we find there, at present, more originality of
character than of mind. But the remarkable men of this country, it is said,
such as the Abbé Galiani, Caraccioli, &c., possessed the highest sense of
humour, joined to the most profound reflection,—rare powers of the mind!—an
union without which either pedantry or frivolity would hinder us from
knowing the true value of things.
The Neapolitan people, in some respects,
are not civilized at all; but their vulgarity does not at all resemble that
of other nations. Their very rudeness interests the imagination. The African
coast which borders the sea on the other side is almost perceptible; there
is something Numidian in the savage cries which are heard in every part of
the city. Those swarthy faces, those vestments formed of a few pieces of red
or violet stuff whose deep colours attract the eye, even those very rags in
which this artistic people drape themselves with grace, give to the populace
a picturesque appearance, whilst in other countries they exhibit nothing but
the miseries of civilization. A certain taste for finery and decoration is
often found in Naples accompanied with an absolute lack of necessaries and
conveniences. The shops are agreeably ornamented with flowers and fruit.
Some have a festive appearance that has no relation to plenty nor to public
felicity, but only to a lively imagination; they seek before every thing to
please the eye. The mildness of the climate permits mechanics of every class
to work in the streets. The tailors are seen making clothes, and the
victuallers providing their repasts, and these domestic occupations going on
out of doors, multiply action in a thousand ways. Singing, dancing, and
noisy sports, are very suitable to this spectacle; and there is no country
where we feel more clearly the difference between amusement and happiness.
At length we quit the interior of the city, and arrive at the quays, whence
we have a view of the sea and of Mount Vesuvius, and forget then all that we
know of man.
Oswald and Corinne arrived at Naples,
whilst the eruption of Mount Vesuvius yet lasted. By day nothing was seen
but the black smoke which mixed with the clouds; but viewing it in the
evening from the balcony of their abode it excited an entirely unexpected
emotion. A river of fire descends towards the sea, and its burning waves,
like the billows of the sea, express the rapid succession of continual and
untiring motion. One would say that when nature transforms herself into
various elements she nevertheless preserves some traces of a single and
primal thought. The phenomenon of Vesuvius deeply impresses us. We are
commonly so familiarised with external objects that we hardly perceive their
existence; we scarcely ever feel a new emotion in the midst of our prosaic
countries, but that astonishment which the universe ought to cause, is
suddenly evoked at the aspect of an unknown wonder of creation: our whole
being is shaken by this power of nature, in whose social combinations we
have been so long absorbed; we feel that the greatest mysteries in this
world do not all consist in man, and that he is threatened or protected by a
force independent of himself, in obedience to laws which he cannot
penetrate. Oswald and Corinne proposed to ascend Mount Vesuvius, and the
peril of this enterprise gave an additional charm to a project which they
were to execute together.
Chapter iii.
There was at that time in the port of
Naples, an English man-of-war in which divine service was performed every
Sunday. The captain, and all the English who were at Naples, invited Lord
Nelville to come the following day; he consented without thinking at first
whether he should take Corinne with him, and how he should present her to
his fellow-countrymen. He was tormented by this disquietude the whole night.
As he was walking with Corinne, on the following morning near the port and
was about to advise her not to go on board, they saw an English long-boat
rowed by ten sailors, clad in white, and wearing black velvet caps, on which
was embroidered silver leopards. A young officer landed from it, and
accosting Corinne by the name of Lady Nelville, begged to have the honour of
conducting her to the ship. At the name of Lady Nelville Corinne was
embarrassed—she blushed and cast down her eyes. Oswald appeared to hesitate
a moment: then suddenly taking her hand, he said to her in English,—"Come,
my dear,"—and she followed him.
The noise of the waves and the silence of
the sailors, who neither moved nor spoke but in pursuance of their duty, and
who rapidly conducted the bark over that sea which they had so often
traversed, gave birth to reverie. Besides, Corinne dared not question Lord
Nelville on what had just passed. She sought to conjecture his purpose, not
thinking (which is however the more probable) that he had none, and that he
yielded to each new circumstance. One moment she imagined that he was
conducting her to divine service in order to espouse her, and this idea
caused her at the time more fear than happiness: it appeared to her that she
was going to quit Italy and return to England, where she had suffered so
much. The severity of manners and customs in that country returned to her
mind, and love itself could not entirely triumph over the bitterness of her
recollections. But how astonished will she be in other circumstances at
those thoughts, fleeting as they were! how she will abjure them!
Corinne ascended the ship, the interior of
which presented a picture of the most studied cleanliness and order. Nothing
was heard but the voice of the captain, which was prolonged and repeated
from one end to the other by command and obedience. The subordination,
regularity, silence, and serious deportment so remarkable on this ship,
formed a system of social order rigid and free, in contrast with the city of
Naples, so volatile, so passionate, and tumultuous. Oswald was occupied with
Corinne and the impressions she received; but his attention was sometimes
diverted from her by the pleasure he felt in finding himself in his native
country. And indeed are not ships and the open sea a second country to an
Englishman? Oswald walked the deck with the English on board to learn the
news from England, and to discuss the politics of their country; during
which time Corinne was with some English ladies who had come from Naples to
attend divine worship. They were surrounded by their children, as beautiful
as the day, but timid as their mothers; and not a word was spoken before a
new acquaintance. This constraint, this silence, rendered Corinne very sad;
she turned her eyes towards beautiful Naples, towards its flowery shores,
its animated existence, and sighed. Fortunately for her Oswald did not
perceive it; on the contrary, beholding her seated among English women, her
dark eyelids cast down like their fair ones, and conforming in every respect
to their manners, he felt a sensation of joy. In vain does an Englishman
find pleasure in foreign manners; his heart always reverts to the first
impressions of his life. If you ask Englishmen sailing at the extremity of
the world whither they are going, they will answer you, home, if they
are returning to England. Their wishes and their sentiments are always
turned towards their native country, at whatever distance they may be from
it.
They descended between decks to hear divine
service, and Corinne soon perceived that her idea was without foundation,
that Lord Nelville had not formed the solemn project she had at first
supposed. She then reproached herself with having feared such an event, and
the embarrassment of her present situation revived in her bosom; for all the
company believed her to be the wife of Lord Nelville, and she had not the
courage to say a word that might either destroy or confirm this idea. Oswald
suffered as cruelly as she did; but in the midst of a thousand rare
qualities, there was much weakness and irresolution in his character. These
defects are unperceived by their possessor, and assume in his eyes a new
form under every circumstance; he conceives it alternately to be prudence,
sensibility, or delicacy, which defers the moment of adopting a resolution
and prolongs a state of indecision; hardly ever does he feel that it is the
same character which attaches this kind of inconvenience to every
circumstance.
Corinne, however, notwithstanding the
painful thoughts that occupied her, received a deep impression from the
spectacle which she witnessed. Nothing, in truth, speaks more to the soul
than divine service performed on board a ship; and the noble simplicity of
the reformed worship seems particularly adapted to the sentiments which are
then felt. A young man performed the functions of chaplain; he preached with
a mild but firm voice, and his figure bespoke the rigid principles of a pure
soul amidst the ardour of youth. That severity carries with it an idea of
force, very suitable to a religion preached among the perils of war. At
stated moments, the English minister delivered prayers, the last words of
which all the assembly repeated with him. These confused but mild voices
proceeding from various distances kept alive interest and emotion. The
sailors, the officers, and the captain, knelt down several times,
particularly at these words, "Lord, have mercy upon us!" The sword of
the captain, which dragged on the deck whilst he was kneeling, called to
mind that noble union of humility before God and intrepidity before man,
which renders the devotion of warriors so affecting; and whilst these brave
people besought the God of armies, the sea was seen through the port-holes,
and sometimes the murmuring of the waves, at that moment tranquil, seemed to
say, "your prayers are heard." The chaplain finished, the service by
a prayer, peculiar to the English sailors. "May God," say they, "give
us grace to defend our happy Constitution from without, and to find on our
return domestic happiness at home!" How many fine sentiments are united
in these simple words! The long and continued study which the navy requires
and the austere life led in a ship, make it a military cloister in the midst
of the waves; and the regularity of the most serious occupations is there
only interrupted by perils and death. The sailors, in spite of their rough,
hardy manners, often express themselves with much gentleness, and show a
particular tenderness to women and children when they meet them on board. We
are the more touched with these sentiments, because we know with what
coolness they expose themselves to those terrible dangers of war and the
sea, in the midst of which the presence of man has something of the
supernatural.
Corinne and Lord Nelville returned to the
boat which was to bring them ashore; they beheld the city of Naples, built
in the form of an amphitheatre, as if to take part more commodiously in the
festival of nature; and Corinne, in setting her foot again upon Italian
ground, could not refrain from feeling a sentiment of joy. If Nelville had
suspected this sentiment he would have been hurt at it, and perhaps with
reason; yet he would have been unjust towards Corinne, who loved him
passionately in spite of the painful impression caused by the remembrance of
a country where cruel circumstances had rendered her so unhappy. Her
imagination was lively; there was in her heart a great capacity for love;
but talent, especially in a woman, begets a disposition to weariness, a want
of something to divert the attention, which the most profound passion cannot
make entirely disappear. The idea of a monotonous life, even in the midst of
happiness, makes a mind which stands in need of variety, to shudder with
fear. It is only when there is little wind in the sails, that we can keep
close to shore; but the imagination roves at large, although affection be
constant; it is so, at least, till the moment when misfortune makes every
inconsistency disappear, and leaves but one thought and one grief in the
mind.
Oswald attributed the reverie of Corinne
solely to the embarrassment into which she had been thrown by hearing
herself called Lady Nelville; and reproaching himself for not having
released her from that embarrassment he feared she might suspect him of
levity. He began therefore in order to arrive at the long-desired
explanation by offering to relate to her his own history. "I will speak
first," said he, "and your confidence will follow mine." "Yes, undoubtedly
it must," answered Corinne, trembling; "but tell me at what day—at what
hour? When you have spoken, I will tell you all."—"How agitated you are,"
answered Oswald; "what then, will you ever feel that fear of your friend,
that mistrust of his heart?" "No," continued Corinne; "it is decided; I have
committed it all to writing, and if you choose, to-morrow—" "To-morrow,"
said Lord Nelville, "we are to go together to Vesuvius; I wish to
contemplate with you this astonishing wonder, to learn from you how to
admire it; and in this very journey, if I have the strength, I will make you
acquainted with the particulars of my past life. My heart is determined;
thus my confidence will open the way to yours." "So you give me to-morrow,"
replied Corinne; "I thank you for this one day. Ah! who knows whether you
will be the same for me when I have opened my soul to you? And how can I
feel such a doubt without shuddering?"
Chapter iv.
The ruins of Pompei are near to Mount
Vesuvius, and Corinne and Lord Neville began their excursion with these
ruins. They were both silent; for the moment approached which was to decide
their fate, and that vague hope they had so long enjoyed, and which accords
so well with the indolence and reverie that the climate of Italy inspires,
was to be replaced by a positive destiny. They visited Pompei together, the
most curious ruin of antiquity. At Rome, seldom any thing is found but the
remains of public monuments, and these monuments only retrace the political
history of past ages; but at Pompei it is the private life of the ancients
which offers itself to the view, such as it was. The Volcano, which has
covered this city with ashes, has preserved it from the destroying hand of
Time. Edifices, exposed to the air, never could have remained so perfect;
but this hidden relic of antiquity was found entire. The paintings and
bronzes were still in their pristine beauty; and every thing connected with
domestic life is fearfully preserved. The amphoræ are yet prepared for the
festival of the following day; the flour which was to be kneaded is still to
be seen; the remains of a woman, are still decorated with those ornaments
which she wore on the holiday that the Volcano disturbed, and her calcined
arms no longer fill the bracelets of precious stones which still surround
them. Nowhere is to be seen so striking an image of the sudden interruption
of life. The traces of the wheels are visible in the streets, and the stones
on the brink of the wells bear the mark of the cord which has gradually
furrowed them. On the walls of a guardhouse are still to be seen those
misshapen characters, those figures rudely sketched, which the soldiers
traced to pass away the time, while Time was hastily advancing to swallow
them up.
When we place ourselves in the midst of the
crossroads from which the city that remains standing almost entire is seen
on all sides, it seems to us as if we were waiting for somebody, as if the
master were coming; and even the appearance of life which this abode offers
makes us feel more sadly its eternal silence. It is with petrified lava that
the greater part of these houses are built, which are now swallowed up by
other lava. Thus ruins are heaped upon ruins, and tombs upon tombs. This
history of the world, where the epochs are counted from ruin to ruin, this
picture of human life, which is only lighted up by the Volcanoes that have
consumed it, fill the heart with a profound melancholy. How long man has
existed! How long he has suffered and died! Where can we find his sentiments
and his thoughts? Is the air that we breathe in these ruins impregnated with
them, or are they for ever deposited in heaven where reigns immortality?
Some burnt leaves of manuscripts, which have been found at Herculaneum, and
Pompei, and which scholars at Portici are employed to decipher, are all that
remain to give us information of those unhappy victims, whom the Volcano,
that thunder-bolt of earth, has destroyed. But in passing near those ashes,
which art has succeeded in reanimating, we are afraid to breathe lest a
breath should carry away that dust where noble ideas are perhaps still
imprinted.
The public edifices in the city itself of
Pompei, which was one of the least important of Italy, are yet tolerably
fine. The luxury of the ancients had almost ever some object of public
interest for its aim. Their private houses are very small, and we do not see
in them any studied magnificence, though we may remark a lively taste for
the fine arts in their possessors. Almost the whole interior is adorned with
the most agreeable paintings and mosaic pavements ingeniously worked. On
many of these pavements is written the word Salve. This word is
placed on the threshold of the door, and must not be simply considered as a
polite expression, but as an invocation of hospitality. The rooms are
singularly narrow, and badly lighted; the windows do not look on the street,
but on a portico inside the house, as well as a marble court which it
surrounds. In the midst of this court is a cistern, simply ornamented. It is
evident from this kind of habitation that the ancients lived almost entirely
in the open air, and that it was there they received their friends. Nothing
gives us a more sweet and voluptuous idea of existence than this climate,
which intimately unites man with nature; we should suppose that the
character of their conversation and their society, ought, with such habits,
to be different from those of a country where the rigour of the cold forces
the inhabitants to shut themselves up in their houses. We understand better
the Dialogues of Plato in contemplating those porches under which the
ancients walked during one half of the day. They were incessantly animated
by the spectacle of a beautiful sky: social order, according to their
conceptions, was not the dry combination of calculation and force, but a
happy assemblage of institutions, which stimulated the faculties, unfolded
the soul, and directed man to the perfection of himself and his equals.
Antiquity inspires an insatiable curiosity.
Those men of erudition who are occupied only in forming a collection of
names which they call history, are certainly divested of all imagination.
But to penetrate the remotest periods of the past, to interrogate the human
heart through the intervening gloom of ages, to seize a fact by the help of
a word, and by the aid of that fact to discover the character and manners of
a nation; in effect, to go back to the remotest time, to figure to ourselves
how the earth in its first youth appeared to the eyes of man, and in what
manner the human race then supported the gift of existence which
civilization has now rendered so complicated, is a continual effort of the
imagination, which divines and discovers the finest secrets that reflection
and study can reveal to us. This occupation of the mind Oswald found most
fascinating, and often repeated to Corinne that if he had not been taken up
with the noblest interests in his own country, he could only have found life
supportable in those parts where the monuments of history supply the place
of present existence. We must at least regret glory when it is no longer
possible to obtain it. It is forgetfulness alone that debases the soul; but
it may find an asylum in the past, when barren circumstances deprive actions
of their aim.
On leaving Pompei and returning to Portici,
Corinne and Lord Nelville were surrounded by the inhabitants, who cried to
them loudly to come and see the mountain; so they call Vesuvius.
Is it necessary to name it? It is the glory of the Neapolitans and the
object of their patriotic feelings; their country is distinguished by this
phenomenon. Oswald had Corinne carried in a kind of palanquin as far as the
hermitage of St Salvador, which is half way up the mountain, and where
travellers repose before they undertake to climb the summit. He rode by her
side to watch those who carried her, and the more his heart was filled with
the generous thoughts that nature and history inspire, the more he adored
Corinne.
At the foot of Vesuvius the country is the
most fertile and best cultivated that can be found in the kingdom of Naples,
that is to say, in the country of Europe most favoured of heaven. The
celebrated vine, whose wine is called Lacryma Christi, grows in this
spot, and by the side of lands which have been laid waste by the lava. One
would say that nature has made a last effort in this spot, so near the
Volcano, and has decked herself in her richest attire before her death. In
proportion as we ascend the mountain, we discover on turning round, Naples,
and the beautiful country that surrounds it. The rays of the sun make the
sea sparkle like precious stones; but all the splendour of the creation is
extinguished by degrees as we approach the land of ashes and smoke which
announces the vicinity of the Volcano. The ferruginous lava of preceding
years has traced in the earth deep and sable furrows, and all around them is
barren. At a certain height not a bird is seen to fly, at another, plants
become very scarce, then even the insects find nothing to subsist on in the
arid soil. At length every living thing disappears; you enter the empire of
death, and the pulverised ashes alone roll beneath your uncertain feet.
Nè griggi nè armenti
Guida bifolco, mai guida pastore
Neither flocks nor herds
does the husbandman or the shepherd ever guide to this spot.
Here dwells a hermit on the confines of
life and death. A tree, the last farewell of vegetation, grows before his
door: and it is beneath the shadow of its pale foliage that travellers are
accustomed to wait the approach of night, to continue their route; for
during the day, the fires of Vesuvius are only perceived like a cloud of
smoke, and the lava, so bright and burning in the night, appears black
before the beams of the sun. This metamorphosis itself is a fine spectacle,
which renews every evening that astonishment which the continuity of the
same aspect might weaken. The impression of this spot and its profound
solitude, gave Lord Nelville more resolution to reveal the secrets of his
soul; and desiring to excite the confidence of Corinne, he said to her with
the most lively emotion:—"You wish to read the inmost soul of your unhappy
friend; well, I will tell you all: I feel my wounds are about to bleed
afresh; but ought we, in this desolate scene of nature, to dread so much
those sufferings which Time brings in its course?"
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