Can you attribute
my delay to contemptible motives?
my delay to contemptible motives?
Madame de Stael - Corinna, or Italy
32044021204953 Public Domain, Google-digitized / http://www.
hathitrust.
org/access_use#pd-google
? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 127
Count guessed his impulse; but he was so satisfied with
his own concluding remark , that he tripped from the
room, without a suspicion of having offended L ord N evil:
had he dreamt of such a thing, he would assuredly have
remained where he was, though he lik ed O swald as well as
he could lik e any one; but his undaunted valour contri-
buted still more than his conceit to veil his defects from
himself. W ith so much delicacy in all affairs of honour,
he could not believe himself deficient in that of feeling;
and having good right to consider himself brave and gen-
tlemanly, he never calculated on any deeper q ualities than
his own. N ot one cause of O swald' s agitation had escaped
the eye of E dgarmond. A s soon as they were alone, he
said, " My dear N eville, good bye! I ' m off for N aples. "
-- " S osoon? " ex claimedhisfriend. " Y es,itisnot
good for me to stay here; for even at fifty I am not sure
that I should not go mad for Corinne. " -- " A nd what
then? " -- " W hythen,suchawomanisnotfittolivein
W ales: believe me, dear O swald, none but E nglish wives
willdoforE ngland. I tisnotformetoadvise,andI
scarce need say that I shall never allude there to what I
have seen here; but Corinne, all-charming as she is, mak es
methink ,withW alpole,' O fwhatusewouldshebeina
house? ' N ow the house is every thing with us, you k now,
at least to our wives. Can you fancy your lovely I talian
remaining q uietly at home, while fox -hunts or debates
took you abroad? or leaving you at your wine, to mak e
tea against your rising from table? Dear O swald, the
domestic worth of our women you will never find else-
where. H ere men have nothing to do but to please the
ladies; therefore, the more agreeable they find them, the
better: but with us, where men lead active lives, the
women should bloom in the shade; to which it were a
thousand pities if Corinne were condemned. I would
place her on the E nglish throne, not beneath my humble
roof. My lord! I k new your mother, whom your re-
spected father so much regretted: j ust such a woman will
be my young cousin; and that is the wife I would choose,
were I still of an age to be beloved. F arewell, my dear
N evil: do not tak e what I have said amiss, for no one can
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? 128 corinne; or it aly.
admire Corinne more than I do; nay, perhaps, at your
years, I should not be able to give up the hope of winning
her. " H e pressed his young friend' s hand very cordially,
and left him, ere O swald could utter a word; but E dgar-
mond understood the cause of this silence, and, content
with the grasp which replied to his, was glad to conclude
a conversation which had cost him no slight pain. The
only portion of what he had said, that reached the heart of
O swald, was the mention of his mother, and the deep
affection his father felt for her. S he had died ere their
child was fourteen; yet he reveringly recalled the retiring
virtues of her character. "
cried, " I desired to k
had destined me, and I
own, whom he adored. W
Madman that I am! " he
now what k ind of wife my father
am answered by the image of his
hat would I more, then? why
deceive myself? why pretend an ignorance of what he
would think now, could I yet consult him? " S till it was
with terror that he thought of returning to Corinne, with-
out giving her a confirmation of the sentiments he had
testified. The tumult of his breast became at last so un-
controllable, that it occasioned a recurrence of the distress-
ing accident against which he now believed his lungs
secure. O ne may imagine the frightful scene, -- his
alarmed domestics calling for help, as he lay silently hoping
that death would end his sorrow. " I f I could die, once
more look ing on Corinne," he thought, " once more
called her R omeo. " A few tears fell from his eyes, the
first that any grief, save the loss of his father, had cost
him since that event. H e wrote a melancholy line
accounting for his absence, to Corinne. S he had begun
the day with fond delusive hopes. B elieving herself loved,
she was content; for she k new not very clearly what more
on earth she wished. A thousand circumstances blended the
thought of marrying O swald with fear; and, as her nature
was the present' s slave, too heedless of the future, the day
which was to load her with such care rose lik e the purest,
calmest of her life. O n receiving his note, how were her
feelings changed! S he deemed him in great danger, and
instantly, on foot, crossed the then crowded Corso, enter-
ing his abode before all the eyes of R ome. S he had not
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? CO R I N N B J O R I TA L Y . ] 29
given herself time to think , but walk ed so rapidly, that
when she reached his chamber 6 he could neither speak nor
breathe. H e comprehended all she had risk ed for his
sak e, and over-rated the conseq uences of an act which in
E ngland would have ruined a woman' s fame, especially if
unwed: transported by generosity and gratitude, he raised
himself, weak as he was, pressed her to his heart, and mur-
mured, " Dear love! leave thee? now that thou hast
compromised thyself ? -- no, no ! -- let my reparation"
S he read his thought, and gently withdrawing from his
arms, first ascertained that he was better than she had
ex pected, then said gravely, -- " Y ou mistak e, my L ord!
in coming to you I have done no more than the greatest
number of women in R ome would have done in my place.
H ere you k now none but me. I heard you were ill; it is
my duty to nurse you. Ceremony should be obeyed, in-
deed, when it sacrifices but one' s self, yet ought to yield
before the higher feelings due to the grief or danger of a
friend. W hat would be the lot of a woman, if the same
laws which permitted her to love forbade her to indulge
the resistless impulse of flying to the aid of those most dear
to her? I repeat, my L ord, fear nothing for me! My age
and talents give me the freedoms of a married female. I
do not conceal from my friends that I am here. I k now
not if they blame me for loving you, but surely, as I do,
they cannot blame my devotion to you now. " This sincere
and natural reply filled O swald' s heart with most contrasted
emotions: touched as he was by its delicacy, he was half
disappointed. H e would have found a pretex t in her
peril-- a necessity for terminating his own doubts. H e
mused with displeasure on I talian liberty, which prolonged
them thus, by permitting him so much favour, without
imposing any bonds in return. H e wished that honour had
commanded him to follow inclination. These troublous
thoughts caused him a severe relapse. Corinne, though
suffering the most intense anx iety, lavished the fondest
cares on his revival. Towards evening he was still more
oppressed; she k nelt beside his couch, supporting his
head upon her bosom, though far more pitiable than him-
self. O ft as he gazed on her, did a look of rapture break
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? 130 corinne; or italy.
through all his pangs. " Corinne,' ' he whispered, " here are
some papers-- you shall read to me -- written by my father
on Death. Think not," he added, as he mark ed her dismay,
" that I believe myself dying; but whenever I am ill I
reperuse these consolations, and seem again to hear them
from his lips; besides, my dearest, I wish you to k now
what a man he was; you will the better comprehend my
regret, his empire over me,-- all that I will some day confide
in you. " Corinne took the papers, which O swald always
carried about him, and with a faltering voice began, --
" O h,yej ust! belovedoftheL ord! yespeak ofdeath
without a fear; to you it is but a change of homes; and
this ye leave may be the least of all. I nnumerable worlds
that shine through yon infinitude of space! unk nown com-
munities of H is creatures -- children! strewn through the
firmament, ranged beneath its concave, let our praises rise
with yours! W e k now not your condition, nor your share
of God' s free bounty; but, in think ing over life and death,
the past, the future, we participate in the interests of all
intelligent, all sentient beings, however distant be their
dwelling places. A ssembled spheres! wide scattered fa-
milies! ye sing with us, Glory to the L ord of H eaven! the
K ing of earth! the S pirit of the universe! whose will
transforms sterility to harvest, dark ness to light, and death
to life eternal. A ssuredly the end of the j ust man deserves
our envy; but few of us, or of our sires before us, have
look ed on such a death. W here is he who shall meet the
eye of O mnipotence unawed? W here is he who hath loved
God without once wavering? W ho served him from his
youth up, and, in his age, finds nothing to remember with
remorse? W here is the man, in all his actions moral, who
has not been led by flattery, or scared by slander? S o rare
a model were worthy of imitation; but where ex ists it?
I f such be amongst us, how ought our respect to follow
him! L et us beg to be present at his death, as at the loveliest
of human spectacles. Tak e courage, and surround the bed,
whence he will rise no more! H e k nows it, yet is all se-
rene: a heavenly halo seems to crown his brow. H e says,
with the A postle, ' I k now in whom I have believed; ' and
this reliance, as his strength decays, lights up his features
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 131
fltDL A lready he beholds his celestial home, yet unforget-
ful of the one he leaves. H e is God' s own; but turns not
stoically from ties that lent a charm to his past life. H is
faithful partner, by the law of nature, will be the first to
follow him. H e dries her tears, and tells her they shall
meet in heaven! E ven there unable to ex pect felicity
without her. N ex t he reminds her of the happy days that
they have led together; not to afflict the heart of such
dear friend, but to increase their mutual confidence in
their L ord' s pardoning grace. The tender love he ever
bore his life' s companion now seek s to soften her regrets;
to bid her revel in the sweet idea that their two beings
grew from the same stem; and that this union may prove
one defence, one guarantee the more, against the terrors
of that dark futurity wherein God' s pity is the sole refuge
of our startled thoughts. B ut how conceive the thousand
feelings that pierce a constant heart, when one vast solitude
appears before it? and all the interests that have filled
past years are vanishing for ever? O thou, who must
survive this second self, H eaven lent for thy support!
who was thine all, and whose look s now bid thee a sad
adieu! thou wilt not shrink from laying thy hand upon
the fainting heart, whose latest pulse, after the death of
words, speak s it thine own. S hall we then blame you if
you wish your dust might mingle? A ll-gracious Deity!
awak en them together. O r, if but one deserves thy
favouring call to number with the elect, let but the other
learn these blissful tidings; read them in angel light one
fleeting instant, and he will sink resigned back to per-
petual gloom. Perhaps I err in this essay to paint the
last hours of such a man, who sees the advancing strides
of death, and feels that he must part from all he holds
most dear. H e struggles for a momentary strength, that
his last words may serve to instruct his children. ' F ear
not,' he says, ' to watch your sire' s release, to lose your
oldest friend; it is by God' s ordinance he goes before
you, from a world into which he came the first. H e
would fain teach you courage, though he weeps to say
farewell: he could have wished to stay and aid you longer,
by ex perience to have led you some steps farther on the
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? 132 corinne; or italy.
way surrounded by such perils for your youth; but life
has no defence against its Giver' s mandate. Y ou will pro-
ceed alone in a wide world, where I shall be no more.
May you abundantly reap all the blessings that Providence
has sown there! B ut never forget that this world is a
land through which we only j ourney to our home. L et
us hope to meet again. May our F ather accept the sa-
crifice I tender, in your cause, of all my vows and tears!
Cling to religion! Trust its promises! L ove it, as the
last link betwix t child and parent; betwix t life and death!
Draw near me, that I may see you still. The benedic-
tion of an humble Christian rest with you all! ' H e dies!
A ngels, receive his soul, and leave us here the memory
of his deeds, his faith, his chastened hope. " (1)
The emotions of O swald and Corinne had freq uently
interrupted their progress: at last they were obliged to
give up the attempt. S he trembled lest he should harm
himself by weeping, unconscious that her tears flowed
fast as his. " Y es," sobbed N evil; " yes, sweetest friend
of my bosom, the floods of our hearts have mingled; you
have mourned with me that guardian saint whose last em-
brace yet thrills my breast, whose noble countenance I
still behold. Perhaps he has chosen thee for my solace. "
-- " N o, no," ex claimed Corinne; " he did not think me
worthy. " -- " W hat say you? " interrupted O swald, and
alarmed lest she had betrayed herself. S he replied,-- " H e
might not have thought me worthy of you. " This slight
change of phrase dissipated his uneasiness, and he fear-
lessly continued speak ing of his father. The physicians
arrived,and slightly re-assured him; but absolutely forbade
his attempting to converse, until his internal hurt was
healed. S ix whole days passed, during which Corinne
never left him. W ith gentle firmness she enj oined his
silence, yet contrived to vary the hours by reading, music,
and sometimes by a sportive dialogue, in which she sus-
tained both parts; -- serious or gay, it was for his sak
she supported herself, veiling beneath a thousand graceful
arts the solicitude which consumed her; she was never
e that
off her guard for an instant. S he perceived what O swald
suffered, almost before himself: the courage he assumed
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 133
deceived her not: she did, indeed, " anticipate the ask ing
eye," while her chief endeavour was that of diverting his
mind, as much as possible, from the value of these tender
offices. I f he turned pale, the rose fled from her lip, and
her hand trembled as she brought him a restorative:
even then would she smile through her tears, and press his
hand to her heart, as if she would fain have added her
stock of life to his. A t last her efforts succeeded: he reco-
vered. " Corinne," he said, as soon as permitted to speak
" why has not my friend E dgarmond witnessed your con-
duct? he would have seen that you are not less good than
great; that domestic life with you would be a perpetual
enchantment; that you differ from our women only in
adding charms to virtue. I t is too much! here ends the
combat that so nearly reduced me to the grave. Corinne!
you, who conceal your own secrets, shall hear all mine, and
pronounce our doom. " -- " O ur doom," she replied, "
you feel as I do, is-- not to part; yet believe me, till now,
at least, I have never dared to wish myself your wife : the
scheme of my ex istence is entirely disordered by the love
that every day enslaves me more and more; yet I k now
,
if
not if we ought to marry. " -- " Corinne," he cried, " do
you despise me for having hesitated?
Can you attribute
my delay to contemptible motives? H ave you not guessed
that the deep remorse to which I have been for two years
apreyalonehasbeenthecause? " -- " I k nowit," she
answered. " H ad I suspected you of considerations foreign
to those of the heart, you would not have been dear to me.
B ut life, I k now, belongs not all to love; habit and me-
mory weave such nets around us that even passion cannot
q uite destroy; brok en for a moment, they will grow again,
as the ivy clasps the oak . - My dear O swald! let us give
no epoch of life more than it req uires. A t this, it is essential
to me that you leave me not. The dread of a sudden se-
paration incessantly pursues me. Y ou are a stranger here;
no ties detain you: if once you go, all is over; nothing will
be left to me of you, but my own grief. N ature, the arts,
poetry, all that I have shared with you, lately, alas! with
you alone, will speak no longer to my soul! I never wak e
without trembling. I ask the fair day if it has still a right
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? 134CO R I N N E J O R I TA L Y .
to shine; if you, the sun of my being, are near me yet?
O swald, remove this fear, and I will not look beyond the
present' s sweet security. " -- " Y ou k now," replied he, " that
no E nglishman should renounce his country: war may
recall me. " -- " O h God! "
pare my mind? " H er limbs q
of the most terrific danger. " I
she cried, " would you pre-
uivered, as if at the approach
" tak e me with you-- asyourwife-- yourslave!
denly regaining her spirits, she continued,-- " O
will never depart without warning me? N ever!
L isten! in no country is a criminal led to torture without
being allowed some hours to collect his thoughts. I t must
not be by letter: you will come yourself, to tell me -- to
hear me-- ere you fly? H ow! you hesitate to grant my
prayer? " -- " N o," returnedhe," youwishit; andI
swear, if my departure be necessary, I will apprise you
of it, and that moment shall decide our fate. " S he left
him.
CH A PTE R I I .
Corinne now carefully avoided all ex planations. S he
wished to render her lover' s life as calm as possible.
Their every interview had tended to convince her that the
disclosure of what she had been, and sacrificed, was but too
lik ely to mak e an unfavourable impression; she, therefore,
sought again to interest him in the still unseen wonders of
R ome, and thus retard the instant that must clear all doubts.
S uch a situation would be insupportable beneath any other
feeling than love, which sheds such spells over every mi-
nute, that, though still desiring some indefinite futurity, we
receive a day as a century of j oy, and pain, so full of sen-
sations and ideas, is each succeeding morrow. L ove is
the emblem of eternity: it confounds all notion of time;
effaces all memory of a beginning, all fear of an end: we
fancy that we have always possessed what we love, so dif-
ficult is it to imagine how we could have lived without it.
The more terrible separation seems the less probable it
f it be even so,"
she added,
" Thensud-
swald, you
will you?
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? CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 135
becomes: lik e death, it is an evil we rather name than
believe, as if the inevitable were impossible. Corinne,
who, in her innocent artifices for varying O swald' s amuse-
ments, had hitherto reserved the statues and paintings, now
proposed tak ing him to see them, as his health was suf-
ficiently re-established. -- " I t is shameful," she said, with
a smile, " that you should be still so ignorant; therefore
to-morrow we will commence our tour through the galle-
ries and museums. " -- " A s you will," replied N evil;
" but, indeed, Corinne, you want not the aid of such re-
sources to k eep me with you; on the contrary, I mak e a
sacrifice to obey you, in turning my gaze to any other
obj ect, be it what it may. "
They went first to the V atican, that palace of sculpture,
where the human form shines deified by paganism, as are
the virtues by Christianity. I n those silent halls are
assembled gods and heroes; while beauty, in eternal sleep,
look s as if dreaming of herself were the sole pleasure she
req uired. A s we contemplate these admirable forms and
features, the design of theTDivinity, in creating man, seems
revealed by the noble person he has deigned to bestow on
him. The soul is elevated by hopes full of chaste enthu-
siasm; for beauty is a portion of the universe, which, be-
neath whatever guise presented, awak es religion in the
heart of man. W hat poetry invests a face where the most
sublime ex pression is fix ed for ever, where the grandest
thoughts are enshrined in images so worthy of them!
S ometimes an ancient sculptor completed but one statue in
his life; that constituted his history. H e daily added to
its perfection: if he loved or was beloved; if he derived
fresh ideas from art or nature, they served but to embellish
the features of this idol. H e translated into look s all the
feelings of his soul. Grief, in the present state of society
so cold and oppressive, then actually ennobled its victim;
indeed to this day the being who has not suffered can
never have thought or felt. B ut the ancients dignified
grief by heroic composure, a sense of their own strength,
developed by their public freedom. The loveliest Grecian
statues were mostly ex pressive of repose. The L aocoon and
the N iobe are among the few stamped by sorrow; but it
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? 136 C0R 1N N E J O R I TA L Y .
is the vengeance of heaven and not human passion that they
both recall. The moral being was so well organised of old,
the air circulated so freely in those manly chests, and po-
litical order so harmonised with such faculties, that those
' times scarce ever, lik e our own, produced discontented men.
S ubtle as were the ideas then discovered, the arts were fur-
nished with none but those primitive affections which alone
can be typified by eternal marble. H ardly can a trace of
melancholy be found on their statues. A head of A pollo,
in the J ustinian palace, and one of the dying A lex ander,
indeed, betray both thoughtfulness and pain; but they
belonged to the period of Grecian slavery, which banished
the tranq uil pride that usually pervaded both their sculp-
ture and their poetry. Thought, unfed from without, preys
on itself, digging up and analysing its own treasures; but
it has not the creative power which happiness alone can
give. E ven the antiq ue sarcophagii of the V atican teem
but with martial or j oyous images: the commemoration
of an active life they thought the best homage they could
pay the dead -- nothing weak ened or discouraged the
living. E mulation was the reigning principle in art as in
policy: there was room for all the virtues, as for all the
talents. The vulgar prided in the ability to admire, and
genius was worshipped even by those who could not aspire
to its palm. Grecian religion was not, lik e Christianity,
the solace of misery, the wealth of the poor, the future of
the dying: it req uired glory and triumph; it formed the
apotheosis of man. I n this perishable creed even beauty
was a dogma: artists, called on to represent base or fero-
cious passions, shielded the human form from degradation,
by blending it with the animal, as in the satyrs and cen-
taurs. O n the contrary, when seek ing to realise an un-
usual sublimity, they united the charms of both sex es; as
in the warlik e Minerva, and the A pollo Musagetes; feli-
citous propinq uity of vigour and sweetness, without which
neither q uality can attain perfection! Corinne delayed
O swald some time before the sleeping figures that adorn
the tombs, in the manner most favourable to their art. S he
observed that statues representing an action suspended at
its height, an impulse suddenly check ed, create, sometimes.
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? CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 137
a painful astonishment; but an attitude of complete repose
offers an image that thoroughly accords with the influence
of southern sk ies. The arts there seem but the peaceful
spectators of nature; and genius itself, which agitates a
northern breast, there appears but one harmony the more.
O swald and Corinne entered the court in which the sculp-
tured animals are assembled, with the statue of Tiberius in
the midst of them: this arrangement was made without
premeditation; the creatures seem to have ranged them-
selves around their master. A nother such hall contains
the gloomy work s of the E gyptians, resembling mummies
more than men. This people, as much as possible, assimi-
lated life with death, and lent no animation to their human
effigies: that province of art appeared to them inaccessible.
A bout the porticoes of this museum each step presents
new wonders: vases, altars, ornaments of all k inds, sur-
round the A pollo, the L aocoon, and the Muses. H ere may
one learn to appreciate H omer and S ophocles, attaining a
k nowledge of antiq uity that cannot be elsewhere acq uired.
A mid these porticoes are fountains, whose incessant flow
gently reminds you of past hours: it is two thousand
years since the artists of these chefs-d' amvre ex isted. B ut
the most melancholy sights here are the brok en statues, the
torso of H ercules, heads separated from their trunk s; the
foot of a J upiter, which it is supposed must have belonged
to the largest and most symmetrical statue ever k nown.
O ne sees the battle-field whereon Time contended with
Glory; these mutilated limbs attesting the tyrant' s victory,
and our own losses. A fter leaving the V atican, Corinne
led O swald to the colossal figures on Monte Cavallo, said
to be those of Castor and Pollux . E ach of these heroes
govern a foaming steed with one hand: this struggle of
man with brute, lik e all the work s of the ancients, finely
ex emplifying the physical powers of human nature, which
had then a dignity it no longer possesses. B odily ex ercises
are generally abandoned to our common people: personal
vigour, in the antiq ue, appeared so intimately connected
with the moral q ualities of those who lived in the heart of
war, a war of single combats, that generosity, fierceness,
command, and height of stature, seemed inseparable, ere
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? 138 corinne; on italy.
intellectual religion had throned man' s potency in his soul.
A s the gods wore our shape, every attribute appears sym-
bolical: the " brawns of H ercules" suggest no recollections
of vulgar life, but of divine, almighty will, clothed in super-
natural grandeur.
Corinne and O swald finished their day by visiting the
studio of the great Canova. The statues gained much from
being seen by torchlight, as the ancients must have thought,
who placed them in their Thermes, inaccessible to the day.
A deeper shade thus softens the brilliant uniformity of the
marble: its pallor look s more lik e that of life. A t that
time Canova had j ust achieved an ex q uisite figure, intended
i for a tomb; it represented Grief leaning on a L ion. Co-
rinne detected a resemblance to N evil, with which the
artist himself was struck
his head, to avoid this k
beloved, " Corinne, I
. O ur E nglishman turned away
ind of attention, whispering to his
believed myself condemned to this
eternal grief ere I met you, who have so changed me, that
sometimes hope, and always a delicious agitation, pervades
the heart that ought to be devoted to regret. "
CH A PTE R I I I .
I n painting, the wealth of R ome surpasses that of the rest
of the world. O nly one point of discussion can ex ist on
the effect which her pictures produce -- does the nature of
the subj ects selected by I taly' s great masters admit the
varied originality of passion which painting can ex press?
The difference of opinion between O swald and Corinne on
this point, as on others, sprung but from the difference of
their countries and creeds. Corinne affirmed that S cripture
subj ects were those most favourable to the painter; that
sculpture was the Pagan' s art, and painting the Christian' s;
that Michael A ngelo, the painter of the O ld, and R aphael,
that of the N ew Testament, must have been gifted with
sensibility profound as that of S hak speare or R acine.
" S culpture," she said, " can present but a simple or ener-
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA I j . 139
getic life to the eye, while painting displays the mys-
teries of retirement and resignation, and mak es the im-
mortal spirit speak through the fleeting colours. H istorical
facts, or incidents drawn from the poets, are rarely pic-
turesq ue. O ne had need, in order to understand them,
to k eep up the custom of writing the speeches of their per-
sonages on ribands rolling from their mouths. B ut re.
ligious pieces are instantly comprehended by the whole
world; and our attention is not turned from the art in
order to divine their meaning.
" The generality of modern painters are too theatrical.
They bear the stamp of an age in which the unity of ex ist-
ence and natural way of life, familiar to A ndrew Mantegne,
Perugin, and L eonardo de V inci, is entirely forgotten.
To this antiq ue repose they were wont to add the depth of
feeling which mark s Christianity. F or this I admire the
compositions of R aphael, especially in his early work s.
A ll the figures tend towards the main obj ect, without
being elaborately grouped to create a sensation -- this ho-
nesty in the arts, as in all things else, characterises true
genius; for speculations on success usually destroy enthu- |
siasm. There is a rhetoric in painting as in poetry; and
those who have it not seek to veil the defect in brilliant
but illusive aux iliaries, rich costume, remark able postures,
while an unpretending virgin, with her infant at her
breast, an old man attending the mass of B olsena, a
young one leaning on his staff, in the school of A thens,
or S aint Cecilia raising her eyes to heaven, by the mere
force of ex pression, act most powerfully on the mind.
These natural beauties grow on us each day, while of
work s done for effect our first sight is always the most
B trik ing. " (2) Corinne fortified these reflections by another
-- it was the impossibility of our sympathising with the my-
thology of the Greek s and R omans, or inventing on their
ground. " W e may imitate them by study," she said;
" but the wings of genius cannot be restrained to flights
for which learning and memory are so indispensable, and
wherein it can but copy book s or statues. N ow in pic-
tures alluding to our own history and faith the painter is
personally inspired; feeling what he depicts, retracing
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? 140CO B I N N E ; O R I TA L T.
what he has seen, he draws from the life. Portraitures
of piety are mental blessings that no others could replace;
as they assure us that the artist' s genius was animated by
the holy zeal which alone can support us against the dis-
gusts of life and the inj ustice of man. "
O swald could not, in all respects, agree with her: he
was almost scandalised at seeing that Michael A ngelo had
attempted to represent the Deity himself in mortal shape;
he did not think that we should dare embody H im; and could
scarcely call up one thought sufficiendy ethereal thus to
ascend towards the S upreme B eing, though he felt that
images of this k ind, in painting, always leave us much to
desire. H e believed, with Corinne, that religious medita-
tion is the most heartfelt sentiment we can ex perience, and
that which supplies a painter with the grandest physiogno-
mical mysteries; but as religion represses all movements
of the heart to which she has not given birth, the faces of
saints and martyrs cannot be much varied. H umility, so
lovely in the sight of heaven, weak ens the energy of
earthly passion, and necessarily monotonises the generality
of scriptural subj ects. W hen the terrible A ngelo dealt
with them, he almost changed their spirit, giving to his
prophets that formidable air more suitable to heathen gods
than to saints. O ft, too, lik e Dante, he mix ed Pagan at-
tributes with those of Christianity. O ne of the most
affecting truths in its early establishment is the lowly
station of the apostles who preached it, the slavery of the
J ews, so long depositaries of the promise that announced
the S aviour. This contrast between insignificance of
means and greatness of result is morally beautiful. Y et,
in painting, where means alone can be displayed, Christian
subj ects must needs prove less attractive than those derived
from the times of heroic fable. O f all arts, none save
music can be purely religious. Painting cannot be content
with an ex pression indefinite as that of sound. I t is true
that a happy combination of colours, and of clair-obscure,
is harmony to the eye; but as it shows us life, it should
give forth life' s strong and varied passions. Undoubtedly
such passages of history ought to be selected as are too
well k nown to be unintelligible: facts must flash on us
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 141
from canvass, for all the pleasures the fine arts bestow are
thus immediate; but with this eq uality provided, histori-
cal pictures have the advantage of diversified situation and
sentiments. N evil asserted, too, that a preference should
be given to scenes from tragedies, or the most touching
poetic fictions, so that all the pleasures of imagination
might thus unite. Corinne contended against this opinion,
seducing as it was; convinced that the encroachment of
one art upon another would be mutually inj urious. F or
sculpture loses by attempting the groups that belong to
painting, painting by aspiring to dramatic animation.
The arts are limited, not in their powers but in their
means. Genius seek s not to vanq uish the fitness of things
which its glory consists in guessing. " Y ou, my dear
O swald," said Corinne, " love not the arts for themselves,
but as they accord with your own feelings; you are moved
merely when they remind you of your heart' s afflictions.
Music and poetry better suit such a disposition than those
which speak to the eye, however ideally; they can but
please or interest us while our minds are calm and our
fancy is free. W e need not the gaiety which society con-
fers in order to enj oy them, but the composure born of
soft and radiant climes. W e ought, in the arts that re-
present ex terior obj ects, to feel the universal harmony of
nature, which, while we are distressed, we have not within'
ourselves. " -- " I k now not," answered O swald, " if I
have sought food for my sorrows in the arts, but at least I
am sure that I cannot endure their reminding me of
physical suffering. My strongest obj ection against S crip-
ture pictures is the pain I feel in look ing on blood and
tortures, however ex alted the faith of their victims.
? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 127
Count guessed his impulse; but he was so satisfied with
his own concluding remark , that he tripped from the
room, without a suspicion of having offended L ord N evil:
had he dreamt of such a thing, he would assuredly have
remained where he was, though he lik ed O swald as well as
he could lik e any one; but his undaunted valour contri-
buted still more than his conceit to veil his defects from
himself. W ith so much delicacy in all affairs of honour,
he could not believe himself deficient in that of feeling;
and having good right to consider himself brave and gen-
tlemanly, he never calculated on any deeper q ualities than
his own. N ot one cause of O swald' s agitation had escaped
the eye of E dgarmond. A s soon as they were alone, he
said, " My dear N eville, good bye! I ' m off for N aples. "
-- " S osoon? " ex claimedhisfriend. " Y es,itisnot
good for me to stay here; for even at fifty I am not sure
that I should not go mad for Corinne. " -- " A nd what
then? " -- " W hythen,suchawomanisnotfittolivein
W ales: believe me, dear O swald, none but E nglish wives
willdoforE ngland. I tisnotformetoadvise,andI
scarce need say that I shall never allude there to what I
have seen here; but Corinne, all-charming as she is, mak es
methink ,withW alpole,' O fwhatusewouldshebeina
house? ' N ow the house is every thing with us, you k now,
at least to our wives. Can you fancy your lovely I talian
remaining q uietly at home, while fox -hunts or debates
took you abroad? or leaving you at your wine, to mak e
tea against your rising from table? Dear O swald, the
domestic worth of our women you will never find else-
where. H ere men have nothing to do but to please the
ladies; therefore, the more agreeable they find them, the
better: but with us, where men lead active lives, the
women should bloom in the shade; to which it were a
thousand pities if Corinne were condemned. I would
place her on the E nglish throne, not beneath my humble
roof. My lord! I k new your mother, whom your re-
spected father so much regretted: j ust such a woman will
be my young cousin; and that is the wife I would choose,
were I still of an age to be beloved. F arewell, my dear
N evil: do not tak e what I have said amiss, for no one can
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? 128 corinne; or it aly.
admire Corinne more than I do; nay, perhaps, at your
years, I should not be able to give up the hope of winning
her. " H e pressed his young friend' s hand very cordially,
and left him, ere O swald could utter a word; but E dgar-
mond understood the cause of this silence, and, content
with the grasp which replied to his, was glad to conclude
a conversation which had cost him no slight pain. The
only portion of what he had said, that reached the heart of
O swald, was the mention of his mother, and the deep
affection his father felt for her. S he had died ere their
child was fourteen; yet he reveringly recalled the retiring
virtues of her character. "
cried, " I desired to k
had destined me, and I
own, whom he adored. W
Madman that I am! " he
now what k ind of wife my father
am answered by the image of his
hat would I more, then? why
deceive myself? why pretend an ignorance of what he
would think now, could I yet consult him? " S till it was
with terror that he thought of returning to Corinne, with-
out giving her a confirmation of the sentiments he had
testified. The tumult of his breast became at last so un-
controllable, that it occasioned a recurrence of the distress-
ing accident against which he now believed his lungs
secure. O ne may imagine the frightful scene, -- his
alarmed domestics calling for help, as he lay silently hoping
that death would end his sorrow. " I f I could die, once
more look ing on Corinne," he thought, " once more
called her R omeo. " A few tears fell from his eyes, the
first that any grief, save the loss of his father, had cost
him since that event. H e wrote a melancholy line
accounting for his absence, to Corinne. S he had begun
the day with fond delusive hopes. B elieving herself loved,
she was content; for she k new not very clearly what more
on earth she wished. A thousand circumstances blended the
thought of marrying O swald with fear; and, as her nature
was the present' s slave, too heedless of the future, the day
which was to load her with such care rose lik e the purest,
calmest of her life. O n receiving his note, how were her
feelings changed! S he deemed him in great danger, and
instantly, on foot, crossed the then crowded Corso, enter-
ing his abode before all the eyes of R ome. S he had not
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? CO R I N N B J O R I TA L Y . ] 29
given herself time to think , but walk ed so rapidly, that
when she reached his chamber 6 he could neither speak nor
breathe. H e comprehended all she had risk ed for his
sak e, and over-rated the conseq uences of an act which in
E ngland would have ruined a woman' s fame, especially if
unwed: transported by generosity and gratitude, he raised
himself, weak as he was, pressed her to his heart, and mur-
mured, " Dear love! leave thee? now that thou hast
compromised thyself ? -- no, no ! -- let my reparation"
S he read his thought, and gently withdrawing from his
arms, first ascertained that he was better than she had
ex pected, then said gravely, -- " Y ou mistak e, my L ord!
in coming to you I have done no more than the greatest
number of women in R ome would have done in my place.
H ere you k now none but me. I heard you were ill; it is
my duty to nurse you. Ceremony should be obeyed, in-
deed, when it sacrifices but one' s self, yet ought to yield
before the higher feelings due to the grief or danger of a
friend. W hat would be the lot of a woman, if the same
laws which permitted her to love forbade her to indulge
the resistless impulse of flying to the aid of those most dear
to her? I repeat, my L ord, fear nothing for me! My age
and talents give me the freedoms of a married female. I
do not conceal from my friends that I am here. I k now
not if they blame me for loving you, but surely, as I do,
they cannot blame my devotion to you now. " This sincere
and natural reply filled O swald' s heart with most contrasted
emotions: touched as he was by its delicacy, he was half
disappointed. H e would have found a pretex t in her
peril-- a necessity for terminating his own doubts. H e
mused with displeasure on I talian liberty, which prolonged
them thus, by permitting him so much favour, without
imposing any bonds in return. H e wished that honour had
commanded him to follow inclination. These troublous
thoughts caused him a severe relapse. Corinne, though
suffering the most intense anx iety, lavished the fondest
cares on his revival. Towards evening he was still more
oppressed; she k nelt beside his couch, supporting his
head upon her bosom, though far more pitiable than him-
self. O ft as he gazed on her, did a look of rapture break
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? 130 corinne; or italy.
through all his pangs. " Corinne,' ' he whispered, " here are
some papers-- you shall read to me -- written by my father
on Death. Think not," he added, as he mark ed her dismay,
" that I believe myself dying; but whenever I am ill I
reperuse these consolations, and seem again to hear them
from his lips; besides, my dearest, I wish you to k now
what a man he was; you will the better comprehend my
regret, his empire over me,-- all that I will some day confide
in you. " Corinne took the papers, which O swald always
carried about him, and with a faltering voice began, --
" O h,yej ust! belovedoftheL ord! yespeak ofdeath
without a fear; to you it is but a change of homes; and
this ye leave may be the least of all. I nnumerable worlds
that shine through yon infinitude of space! unk nown com-
munities of H is creatures -- children! strewn through the
firmament, ranged beneath its concave, let our praises rise
with yours! W e k now not your condition, nor your share
of God' s free bounty; but, in think ing over life and death,
the past, the future, we participate in the interests of all
intelligent, all sentient beings, however distant be their
dwelling places. A ssembled spheres! wide scattered fa-
milies! ye sing with us, Glory to the L ord of H eaven! the
K ing of earth! the S pirit of the universe! whose will
transforms sterility to harvest, dark ness to light, and death
to life eternal. A ssuredly the end of the j ust man deserves
our envy; but few of us, or of our sires before us, have
look ed on such a death. W here is he who shall meet the
eye of O mnipotence unawed? W here is he who hath loved
God without once wavering? W ho served him from his
youth up, and, in his age, finds nothing to remember with
remorse? W here is the man, in all his actions moral, who
has not been led by flattery, or scared by slander? S o rare
a model were worthy of imitation; but where ex ists it?
I f such be amongst us, how ought our respect to follow
him! L et us beg to be present at his death, as at the loveliest
of human spectacles. Tak e courage, and surround the bed,
whence he will rise no more! H e k nows it, yet is all se-
rene: a heavenly halo seems to crown his brow. H e says,
with the A postle, ' I k now in whom I have believed; ' and
this reliance, as his strength decays, lights up his features
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 131
fltDL A lready he beholds his celestial home, yet unforget-
ful of the one he leaves. H e is God' s own; but turns not
stoically from ties that lent a charm to his past life. H is
faithful partner, by the law of nature, will be the first to
follow him. H e dries her tears, and tells her they shall
meet in heaven! E ven there unable to ex pect felicity
without her. N ex t he reminds her of the happy days that
they have led together; not to afflict the heart of such
dear friend, but to increase their mutual confidence in
their L ord' s pardoning grace. The tender love he ever
bore his life' s companion now seek s to soften her regrets;
to bid her revel in the sweet idea that their two beings
grew from the same stem; and that this union may prove
one defence, one guarantee the more, against the terrors
of that dark futurity wherein God' s pity is the sole refuge
of our startled thoughts. B ut how conceive the thousand
feelings that pierce a constant heart, when one vast solitude
appears before it? and all the interests that have filled
past years are vanishing for ever? O thou, who must
survive this second self, H eaven lent for thy support!
who was thine all, and whose look s now bid thee a sad
adieu! thou wilt not shrink from laying thy hand upon
the fainting heart, whose latest pulse, after the death of
words, speak s it thine own. S hall we then blame you if
you wish your dust might mingle? A ll-gracious Deity!
awak en them together. O r, if but one deserves thy
favouring call to number with the elect, let but the other
learn these blissful tidings; read them in angel light one
fleeting instant, and he will sink resigned back to per-
petual gloom. Perhaps I err in this essay to paint the
last hours of such a man, who sees the advancing strides
of death, and feels that he must part from all he holds
most dear. H e struggles for a momentary strength, that
his last words may serve to instruct his children. ' F ear
not,' he says, ' to watch your sire' s release, to lose your
oldest friend; it is by God' s ordinance he goes before
you, from a world into which he came the first. H e
would fain teach you courage, though he weeps to say
farewell: he could have wished to stay and aid you longer,
by ex perience to have led you some steps farther on the
k2
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? 132 corinne; or italy.
way surrounded by such perils for your youth; but life
has no defence against its Giver' s mandate. Y ou will pro-
ceed alone in a wide world, where I shall be no more.
May you abundantly reap all the blessings that Providence
has sown there! B ut never forget that this world is a
land through which we only j ourney to our home. L et
us hope to meet again. May our F ather accept the sa-
crifice I tender, in your cause, of all my vows and tears!
Cling to religion! Trust its promises! L ove it, as the
last link betwix t child and parent; betwix t life and death!
Draw near me, that I may see you still. The benedic-
tion of an humble Christian rest with you all! ' H e dies!
A ngels, receive his soul, and leave us here the memory
of his deeds, his faith, his chastened hope. " (1)
The emotions of O swald and Corinne had freq uently
interrupted their progress: at last they were obliged to
give up the attempt. S he trembled lest he should harm
himself by weeping, unconscious that her tears flowed
fast as his. " Y es," sobbed N evil; " yes, sweetest friend
of my bosom, the floods of our hearts have mingled; you
have mourned with me that guardian saint whose last em-
brace yet thrills my breast, whose noble countenance I
still behold. Perhaps he has chosen thee for my solace. "
-- " N o, no," ex claimed Corinne; " he did not think me
worthy. " -- " W hat say you? " interrupted O swald, and
alarmed lest she had betrayed herself. S he replied,-- " H e
might not have thought me worthy of you. " This slight
change of phrase dissipated his uneasiness, and he fear-
lessly continued speak ing of his father. The physicians
arrived,and slightly re-assured him; but absolutely forbade
his attempting to converse, until his internal hurt was
healed. S ix whole days passed, during which Corinne
never left him. W ith gentle firmness she enj oined his
silence, yet contrived to vary the hours by reading, music,
and sometimes by a sportive dialogue, in which she sus-
tained both parts; -- serious or gay, it was for his sak
she supported herself, veiling beneath a thousand graceful
arts the solicitude which consumed her; she was never
e that
off her guard for an instant. S he perceived what O swald
suffered, almost before himself: the courage he assumed
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 133
deceived her not: she did, indeed, " anticipate the ask ing
eye," while her chief endeavour was that of diverting his
mind, as much as possible, from the value of these tender
offices. I f he turned pale, the rose fled from her lip, and
her hand trembled as she brought him a restorative:
even then would she smile through her tears, and press his
hand to her heart, as if she would fain have added her
stock of life to his. A t last her efforts succeeded: he reco-
vered. " Corinne," he said, as soon as permitted to speak
" why has not my friend E dgarmond witnessed your con-
duct? he would have seen that you are not less good than
great; that domestic life with you would be a perpetual
enchantment; that you differ from our women only in
adding charms to virtue. I t is too much! here ends the
combat that so nearly reduced me to the grave. Corinne!
you, who conceal your own secrets, shall hear all mine, and
pronounce our doom. " -- " O ur doom," she replied, "
you feel as I do, is-- not to part; yet believe me, till now,
at least, I have never dared to wish myself your wife : the
scheme of my ex istence is entirely disordered by the love
that every day enslaves me more and more; yet I k now
,
if
not if we ought to marry. " -- " Corinne," he cried, " do
you despise me for having hesitated?
Can you attribute
my delay to contemptible motives? H ave you not guessed
that the deep remorse to which I have been for two years
apreyalonehasbeenthecause? " -- " I k nowit," she
answered. " H ad I suspected you of considerations foreign
to those of the heart, you would not have been dear to me.
B ut life, I k now, belongs not all to love; habit and me-
mory weave such nets around us that even passion cannot
q uite destroy; brok en for a moment, they will grow again,
as the ivy clasps the oak . - My dear O swald! let us give
no epoch of life more than it req uires. A t this, it is essential
to me that you leave me not. The dread of a sudden se-
paration incessantly pursues me. Y ou are a stranger here;
no ties detain you: if once you go, all is over; nothing will
be left to me of you, but my own grief. N ature, the arts,
poetry, all that I have shared with you, lately, alas! with
you alone, will speak no longer to my soul! I never wak e
without trembling. I ask the fair day if it has still a right
K3
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? 134CO R I N N E J O R I TA L Y .
to shine; if you, the sun of my being, are near me yet?
O swald, remove this fear, and I will not look beyond the
present' s sweet security. " -- " Y ou k now," replied he, " that
no E nglishman should renounce his country: war may
recall me. " -- " O h God! "
pare my mind? " H er limbs q
of the most terrific danger. " I
she cried, " would you pre-
uivered, as if at the approach
" tak e me with you-- asyourwife-- yourslave!
denly regaining her spirits, she continued,-- " O
will never depart without warning me? N ever!
L isten! in no country is a criminal led to torture without
being allowed some hours to collect his thoughts. I t must
not be by letter: you will come yourself, to tell me -- to
hear me-- ere you fly? H ow! you hesitate to grant my
prayer? " -- " N o," returnedhe," youwishit; andI
swear, if my departure be necessary, I will apprise you
of it, and that moment shall decide our fate. " S he left
him.
CH A PTE R I I .
Corinne now carefully avoided all ex planations. S he
wished to render her lover' s life as calm as possible.
Their every interview had tended to convince her that the
disclosure of what she had been, and sacrificed, was but too
lik ely to mak e an unfavourable impression; she, therefore,
sought again to interest him in the still unseen wonders of
R ome, and thus retard the instant that must clear all doubts.
S uch a situation would be insupportable beneath any other
feeling than love, which sheds such spells over every mi-
nute, that, though still desiring some indefinite futurity, we
receive a day as a century of j oy, and pain, so full of sen-
sations and ideas, is each succeeding morrow. L ove is
the emblem of eternity: it confounds all notion of time;
effaces all memory of a beginning, all fear of an end: we
fancy that we have always possessed what we love, so dif-
ficult is it to imagine how we could have lived without it.
The more terrible separation seems the less probable it
f it be even so,"
she added,
" Thensud-
swald, you
will you?
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? CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 135
becomes: lik e death, it is an evil we rather name than
believe, as if the inevitable were impossible. Corinne,
who, in her innocent artifices for varying O swald' s amuse-
ments, had hitherto reserved the statues and paintings, now
proposed tak ing him to see them, as his health was suf-
ficiently re-established. -- " I t is shameful," she said, with
a smile, " that you should be still so ignorant; therefore
to-morrow we will commence our tour through the galle-
ries and museums. " -- " A s you will," replied N evil;
" but, indeed, Corinne, you want not the aid of such re-
sources to k eep me with you; on the contrary, I mak e a
sacrifice to obey you, in turning my gaze to any other
obj ect, be it what it may. "
They went first to the V atican, that palace of sculpture,
where the human form shines deified by paganism, as are
the virtues by Christianity. I n those silent halls are
assembled gods and heroes; while beauty, in eternal sleep,
look s as if dreaming of herself were the sole pleasure she
req uired. A s we contemplate these admirable forms and
features, the design of theTDivinity, in creating man, seems
revealed by the noble person he has deigned to bestow on
him. The soul is elevated by hopes full of chaste enthu-
siasm; for beauty is a portion of the universe, which, be-
neath whatever guise presented, awak es religion in the
heart of man. W hat poetry invests a face where the most
sublime ex pression is fix ed for ever, where the grandest
thoughts are enshrined in images so worthy of them!
S ometimes an ancient sculptor completed but one statue in
his life; that constituted his history. H e daily added to
its perfection: if he loved or was beloved; if he derived
fresh ideas from art or nature, they served but to embellish
the features of this idol. H e translated into look s all the
feelings of his soul. Grief, in the present state of society
so cold and oppressive, then actually ennobled its victim;
indeed to this day the being who has not suffered can
never have thought or felt. B ut the ancients dignified
grief by heroic composure, a sense of their own strength,
developed by their public freedom. The loveliest Grecian
statues were mostly ex pressive of repose. The L aocoon and
the N iobe are among the few stamped by sorrow; but it
K4
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? 136 C0R 1N N E J O R I TA L Y .
is the vengeance of heaven and not human passion that they
both recall. The moral being was so well organised of old,
the air circulated so freely in those manly chests, and po-
litical order so harmonised with such faculties, that those
' times scarce ever, lik e our own, produced discontented men.
S ubtle as were the ideas then discovered, the arts were fur-
nished with none but those primitive affections which alone
can be typified by eternal marble. H ardly can a trace of
melancholy be found on their statues. A head of A pollo,
in the J ustinian palace, and one of the dying A lex ander,
indeed, betray both thoughtfulness and pain; but they
belonged to the period of Grecian slavery, which banished
the tranq uil pride that usually pervaded both their sculp-
ture and their poetry. Thought, unfed from without, preys
on itself, digging up and analysing its own treasures; but
it has not the creative power which happiness alone can
give. E ven the antiq ue sarcophagii of the V atican teem
but with martial or j oyous images: the commemoration
of an active life they thought the best homage they could
pay the dead -- nothing weak ened or discouraged the
living. E mulation was the reigning principle in art as in
policy: there was room for all the virtues, as for all the
talents. The vulgar prided in the ability to admire, and
genius was worshipped even by those who could not aspire
to its palm. Grecian religion was not, lik e Christianity,
the solace of misery, the wealth of the poor, the future of
the dying: it req uired glory and triumph; it formed the
apotheosis of man. I n this perishable creed even beauty
was a dogma: artists, called on to represent base or fero-
cious passions, shielded the human form from degradation,
by blending it with the animal, as in the satyrs and cen-
taurs. O n the contrary, when seek ing to realise an un-
usual sublimity, they united the charms of both sex es; as
in the warlik e Minerva, and the A pollo Musagetes; feli-
citous propinq uity of vigour and sweetness, without which
neither q uality can attain perfection! Corinne delayed
O swald some time before the sleeping figures that adorn
the tombs, in the manner most favourable to their art. S he
observed that statues representing an action suspended at
its height, an impulse suddenly check ed, create, sometimes.
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? CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 137
a painful astonishment; but an attitude of complete repose
offers an image that thoroughly accords with the influence
of southern sk ies. The arts there seem but the peaceful
spectators of nature; and genius itself, which agitates a
northern breast, there appears but one harmony the more.
O swald and Corinne entered the court in which the sculp-
tured animals are assembled, with the statue of Tiberius in
the midst of them: this arrangement was made without
premeditation; the creatures seem to have ranged them-
selves around their master. A nother such hall contains
the gloomy work s of the E gyptians, resembling mummies
more than men. This people, as much as possible, assimi-
lated life with death, and lent no animation to their human
effigies: that province of art appeared to them inaccessible.
A bout the porticoes of this museum each step presents
new wonders: vases, altars, ornaments of all k inds, sur-
round the A pollo, the L aocoon, and the Muses. H ere may
one learn to appreciate H omer and S ophocles, attaining a
k nowledge of antiq uity that cannot be elsewhere acq uired.
A mid these porticoes are fountains, whose incessant flow
gently reminds you of past hours: it is two thousand
years since the artists of these chefs-d' amvre ex isted. B ut
the most melancholy sights here are the brok en statues, the
torso of H ercules, heads separated from their trunk s; the
foot of a J upiter, which it is supposed must have belonged
to the largest and most symmetrical statue ever k nown.
O ne sees the battle-field whereon Time contended with
Glory; these mutilated limbs attesting the tyrant' s victory,
and our own losses. A fter leaving the V atican, Corinne
led O swald to the colossal figures on Monte Cavallo, said
to be those of Castor and Pollux . E ach of these heroes
govern a foaming steed with one hand: this struggle of
man with brute, lik e all the work s of the ancients, finely
ex emplifying the physical powers of human nature, which
had then a dignity it no longer possesses. B odily ex ercises
are generally abandoned to our common people: personal
vigour, in the antiq ue, appeared so intimately connected
with the moral q ualities of those who lived in the heart of
war, a war of single combats, that generosity, fierceness,
command, and height of stature, seemed inseparable, ere
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? 138 corinne; on italy.
intellectual religion had throned man' s potency in his soul.
A s the gods wore our shape, every attribute appears sym-
bolical: the " brawns of H ercules" suggest no recollections
of vulgar life, but of divine, almighty will, clothed in super-
natural grandeur.
Corinne and O swald finished their day by visiting the
studio of the great Canova. The statues gained much from
being seen by torchlight, as the ancients must have thought,
who placed them in their Thermes, inaccessible to the day.
A deeper shade thus softens the brilliant uniformity of the
marble: its pallor look s more lik e that of life. A t that
time Canova had j ust achieved an ex q uisite figure, intended
i for a tomb; it represented Grief leaning on a L ion. Co-
rinne detected a resemblance to N evil, with which the
artist himself was struck
his head, to avoid this k
beloved, " Corinne, I
. O ur E nglishman turned away
ind of attention, whispering to his
believed myself condemned to this
eternal grief ere I met you, who have so changed me, that
sometimes hope, and always a delicious agitation, pervades
the heart that ought to be devoted to regret. "
CH A PTE R I I I .
I n painting, the wealth of R ome surpasses that of the rest
of the world. O nly one point of discussion can ex ist on
the effect which her pictures produce -- does the nature of
the subj ects selected by I taly' s great masters admit the
varied originality of passion which painting can ex press?
The difference of opinion between O swald and Corinne on
this point, as on others, sprung but from the difference of
their countries and creeds. Corinne affirmed that S cripture
subj ects were those most favourable to the painter; that
sculpture was the Pagan' s art, and painting the Christian' s;
that Michael A ngelo, the painter of the O ld, and R aphael,
that of the N ew Testament, must have been gifted with
sensibility profound as that of S hak speare or R acine.
" S culpture," she said, " can present but a simple or ener-
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA I j . 139
getic life to the eye, while painting displays the mys-
teries of retirement and resignation, and mak es the im-
mortal spirit speak through the fleeting colours. H istorical
facts, or incidents drawn from the poets, are rarely pic-
turesq ue. O ne had need, in order to understand them,
to k eep up the custom of writing the speeches of their per-
sonages on ribands rolling from their mouths. B ut re.
ligious pieces are instantly comprehended by the whole
world; and our attention is not turned from the art in
order to divine their meaning.
" The generality of modern painters are too theatrical.
They bear the stamp of an age in which the unity of ex ist-
ence and natural way of life, familiar to A ndrew Mantegne,
Perugin, and L eonardo de V inci, is entirely forgotten.
To this antiq ue repose they were wont to add the depth of
feeling which mark s Christianity. F or this I admire the
compositions of R aphael, especially in his early work s.
A ll the figures tend towards the main obj ect, without
being elaborately grouped to create a sensation -- this ho-
nesty in the arts, as in all things else, characterises true
genius; for speculations on success usually destroy enthu- |
siasm. There is a rhetoric in painting as in poetry; and
those who have it not seek to veil the defect in brilliant
but illusive aux iliaries, rich costume, remark able postures,
while an unpretending virgin, with her infant at her
breast, an old man attending the mass of B olsena, a
young one leaning on his staff, in the school of A thens,
or S aint Cecilia raising her eyes to heaven, by the mere
force of ex pression, act most powerfully on the mind.
These natural beauties grow on us each day, while of
work s done for effect our first sight is always the most
B trik ing. " (2) Corinne fortified these reflections by another
-- it was the impossibility of our sympathising with the my-
thology of the Greek s and R omans, or inventing on their
ground. " W e may imitate them by study," she said;
" but the wings of genius cannot be restrained to flights
for which learning and memory are so indispensable, and
wherein it can but copy book s or statues. N ow in pic-
tures alluding to our own history and faith the painter is
personally inspired; feeling what he depicts, retracing
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? 140CO B I N N E ; O R I TA L T.
what he has seen, he draws from the life. Portraitures
of piety are mental blessings that no others could replace;
as they assure us that the artist' s genius was animated by
the holy zeal which alone can support us against the dis-
gusts of life and the inj ustice of man. "
O swald could not, in all respects, agree with her: he
was almost scandalised at seeing that Michael A ngelo had
attempted to represent the Deity himself in mortal shape;
he did not think that we should dare embody H im; and could
scarcely call up one thought sufficiendy ethereal thus to
ascend towards the S upreme B eing, though he felt that
images of this k ind, in painting, always leave us much to
desire. H e believed, with Corinne, that religious medita-
tion is the most heartfelt sentiment we can ex perience, and
that which supplies a painter with the grandest physiogno-
mical mysteries; but as religion represses all movements
of the heart to which she has not given birth, the faces of
saints and martyrs cannot be much varied. H umility, so
lovely in the sight of heaven, weak ens the energy of
earthly passion, and necessarily monotonises the generality
of scriptural subj ects. W hen the terrible A ngelo dealt
with them, he almost changed their spirit, giving to his
prophets that formidable air more suitable to heathen gods
than to saints. O ft, too, lik e Dante, he mix ed Pagan at-
tributes with those of Christianity. O ne of the most
affecting truths in its early establishment is the lowly
station of the apostles who preached it, the slavery of the
J ews, so long depositaries of the promise that announced
the S aviour. This contrast between insignificance of
means and greatness of result is morally beautiful. Y et,
in painting, where means alone can be displayed, Christian
subj ects must needs prove less attractive than those derived
from the times of heroic fable. O f all arts, none save
music can be purely religious. Painting cannot be content
with an ex pression indefinite as that of sound. I t is true
that a happy combination of colours, and of clair-obscure,
is harmony to the eye; but as it shows us life, it should
give forth life' s strong and varied passions. Undoubtedly
such passages of history ought to be selected as are too
well k nown to be unintelligible: facts must flash on us
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 141
from canvass, for all the pleasures the fine arts bestow are
thus immediate; but with this eq uality provided, histori-
cal pictures have the advantage of diversified situation and
sentiments. N evil asserted, too, that a preference should
be given to scenes from tragedies, or the most touching
poetic fictions, so that all the pleasures of imagination
might thus unite. Corinne contended against this opinion,
seducing as it was; convinced that the encroachment of
one art upon another would be mutually inj urious. F or
sculpture loses by attempting the groups that belong to
painting, painting by aspiring to dramatic animation.
The arts are limited, not in their powers but in their
means. Genius seek s not to vanq uish the fitness of things
which its glory consists in guessing. " Y ou, my dear
O swald," said Corinne, " love not the arts for themselves,
but as they accord with your own feelings; you are moved
merely when they remind you of your heart' s afflictions.
Music and poetry better suit such a disposition than those
which speak to the eye, however ideally; they can but
please or interest us while our minds are calm and our
fancy is free. W e need not the gaiety which society con-
fers in order to enj oy them, but the composure born of
soft and radiant climes. W e ought, in the arts that re-
present ex terior obj ects, to feel the universal harmony of
nature, which, while we are distressed, we have not within'
ourselves. " -- " I k now not," answered O swald, " if I
have sought food for my sorrows in the arts, but at least I
am sure that I cannot endure their reminding me of
physical suffering. My strongest obj ection against S crip-
ture pictures is the pain I feel in look ing on blood and
tortures, however ex alted the faith of their victims.
