my poor love is
no longer so; yet forget not, my L ord, that she was a bril-
liant creature when you saw her first.
no longer so; yet forget not, my L ord, that she was a bril-
liant creature when you saw her first.
Madame de Stael - Corinna, or Italy
handle.
net/2027/hvd.
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? O O R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 36 7
Mont Cenis. O n entering the inn, L ucy embraced her
child, and returned her fervent thank s to God. O swald
leaned pensively near the fire, and, when she rose, held out
his hand to her, saying, " Y ou were alarmed then, love? "
-- " Y es,dear. " -- " W hywouldyougoon? " -- " Y ou
seemed impatient to proceed. " -- " Do you not k now that,
above all things, I dread ex posing you to pain or danger? "
-- " I tisforJ ulietthattheyaretobedreaded," shere-
plied, tak ing the little one on her lap to warm it, and
twisting round her fingers the beautiful black curls that the
snow had matted on that fair brow. * The mother and
child formed so charming a picture, that O swald gazed on
them with tender admiration; but L ucy' s silence dis-
couraged the feeling which might else have led to a mutual
understanding. They arrived at Turin, where the season
was unusually severe. The vast apartments of I taly were
destined to receive the sun. Their freshness in summer is
most welcome; but, in the depth of winter, they seem
cheerless deserts; and their possessors feel lik e pigmies in
the abode of giants. The death of A lfieri had j ust oc-
casioned a general mourning among his proud countrymen.
N evil no longer recognised the gaiety formerly so dear to
him. The absence of her he loved disenchanted both
nature and art: he sought intelligence of her, and learnt
that for five years she had published nothing, but lived in
B eclusion at F lorence. H e resolved on going thither; not to
remain, and thus violate the affection he owed to L ucy, but
to tell Corinne how ignorant he had been of her residence
in S cotland. I n crossing L ombardy he sighed, " H ow
beautiful this was, when all those elms were in full leaf,
with vines link ing them together ! " -- " H ow beautiful it
was," thought L ucy, " while Corinne shared it with you! "
A humid fog, such as oft arises in so well watered a land,
obscured their view of the country. During the night they
heard the deluge of southern rain fall on, nay, through the
roof, as if water were pursuing them with all the avidity of
* Madame de S tael gave L ucy, at three years of age, hair long enough to
mak e a bracelet. S he was think ing of F rench children. The formal E dgar,
monds were not more lik ely to deviate from the E nglish fashion than to
Christen N evil' s daughter J uliette. -- in.
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? 36 8C0R I N N E J O R I TA L Y .
fire. L ucy sought in vain for the charm of I taly: it
seemed that every thing conspired to veil it in gloom for
O swald and herself.
CH A PTE R V I .
S inceL ordN evilhadbeeninI taly,hehadnotspok ena
word of the language; it even made him ill to hear it.
O n the evening of his arrival at Milan he heard a tap at
the door, which was followed by the entrance of a man,
whose dark and prominent face would have been ex pressive,
if animated by natural enthusiasm: it wore an unvaryingly
giacious smile, and a look that strove to be poetical. H e
stood at the door, improvising verses in praise of the
group before him, but such as might have suited any other
husband, wife, or child, j ust as truly; and so ex aggerated,
that the speak er seemed to think poetry ought to have no
connection with truth. O swald perceived that he was a
R oman; yet, harmonious as were the sounds he uttered,
the vehemence of his declamation served but to indicate
more plainly the unmeaning insipidity of all he said.
N othing could be more painful for O swald than to hear
the R oman tongue thus spok en, for the first time after so
long an interval, to see his dearest memories travestied,
and feel his melancholy renewed by an obj ect so ridiculous.
L ucy guessed all this, and would have dismissed the im-
provisatore; but it was impossible to mak e him hear her:
he paced the chamber all gesture and ex clamation, heedless
of the disgust he dealt his hearers, proceeding lik e a
machine that could not stop till after a certain moment.
A t last that time arrived, and L ucy paid him to depart.
" Poetic language," said O swald, " is so easily parodied
here, that it ought to be forbidden all save those who are
worthy to employ it. " -- " True," observed L ucy, perhaps
a little too pointedly: " it is very disagreeable to be re-
minded of what you admire, by such a burlesq ue as we
have j ust endured. " -- " N ot so," he answered; " the con-
trast only mak es me more deeply feel the power of genius.
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? CO R I N N E j O B I TA L Y . S O ' D
This same language, which may be so miserably degraded,
became celestial poetry from the lips of Corinne -- your
sister. " L ucy felt overwhelmed: he had not pronounced
that name to her before; the addition of your sister
sounded as if conveying a reproach. S he was half suffo-
cated; and had she given way to her tears, this moment
might have proved the sweetest in her life; but she re-
strained them, and the embarrassment between herself and
husband became more painful than before. O n the nex t
day the sun brok e forth, lik e an ex ile returning to his own
land. The N evils availed themselves of his brightness to
visit Milan cathedral, the chef-d' oeuvre of Gothic architec.
ture: it is built in the form of a cross,-- fair melancholy
image in the midst of wealth. L ofty as it is, the orna-
ments are elaborate as those lavished on some minute
obj ect of admiration. , W hat time and patience must it
have cost! This perseverance towards the same aim is
transmitted from age to age, and the human race, stable at
least in thought, can leave us proofs of this, imperishable
almost as thought itself. A Gothic building engenders
true religion: it has been said that the popes have con-
secrated more wealth to the building of modern temples
than devotion to the memory of old churches. The light,
falling through coloured glass, the singular forms of the
architecture, unite to give a silent image of that infinite
mystery which the soul for ever feels, and never compre-
hends.
L ord and L ady N evil left Milan when the earth wa>>
covered with snow. This is a sadder sight in I taly than
elsewhere, because it is unusual: the natives lament bad
weather as a public calamity. O swald was vain of his
favourite country, and angry that it would not smile its best
for L ucy. They passed through Placenta, Parma, and
Modena. The churches and palaces of each are too vast, in
proportion to the number and fortune of the inhabitants:
all seems arranged for the reception of the great, who as
yet have but sent some of their retinue forward. O n the
morning of their reaching Taro, the floods were thunder-
ing from the A lps and A pennines, with such frightful
rapidity, that their roar scarce announced them ere they
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? 370CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
came. B ridges are hardly practicable over rivers that so
often rise above the levei of the plain. O swald and L ucy
found their course suddenly check ed. A ll boats had been
washed away by the current; and they were obliged to wait
till the I talians, who never hurry themselves, chose to
bring them back . The fog confounded the water with the
sk y; and the whole spectacle rather resembled the descrip-
tions of S tyx than the bounteous streams lent as refresh-
ments to the burning south. L ucy, trembling lest the
intense cold should hurt her child, bore it into a fisher' s
hut, in the centre of which a fire had been k indled, as is
done in R ussia.
" W hereisyourlovelyI taly? " sheask edO swald,with
a smile. " I k now not when I shall regain her," he an-
swered, sadly. A pproaching Parma, and all the cities on
that road, they perceived from far the flat-terraced roofs
that give I taly so original an air. Churches and spires
stand forth boldly amid these buildings; and, after seeing
them, the northern-pointed roofs, so constructed to permit
the snow to run off, create a very unpleasant sensation.
Parma still preserves some fine pictures by Correggio. O s-
wald took L ucy to a church which boasts a fresco of his,
L a Madonna delta S cala: while he drew the curtain from
before it, L ucy raised J uliet in her arms, that she might
better see the picture; and by chance their attitude was
nearly the same with that of the V irgin and Child. L ucy
had so much of the modest grace which Correggio loved to
paint, that O swald look ed from the ideal to the real with
surprise. A s she noticed this her lids declined, and the
resemblance became still more strong. Correggio is, perhaps,
the only painter who k new how to give downcast eyes an
ex pression affecting as that of those raised to heaven. The
veil he throws over such look s, far from decreasing their
thoughtful tenderness, lends it the added charm of hea-
venly mystery. The Madonna is almost detached from
the wall. A breath might blow its hues away; this fear
gives it a melancholy interest: its adorers oft return to
bid such fleeting beauty a fond farewell. A s they left the
church, O swald said to L ucy, " A little while, and that
picture will be no more! but its model is mine own for
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? CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 371
ever. " These soft words touched her heart: she pressed
his hand, about to ask him if he could not trust her ten-
derness; but, as when he spok e coldly, her pride forbade
complaint, so when his language made her blest, she
dreaded to disturb that moment' s peace, in an attempt to
render it more durable. Thus always she found reasons for
her silence, hoping that time, resignation, and gentleness,
might bring at last the happy day which would disperse
her apprehensions.
CH A PTE R
L ord N evil'
tated his heart. H
V I I .
s health improved, yet cruel anx iety still agi-
e constantly sought tidings of Corinne;
but every where heard the same report: how different
from the strain in which her name had once been breathed!
Could the man who had destroyed her peace and fame
forgive himself? Travellers drawing near B ologna are
attracted by two very high towers; the one, however,
leans so obliq uely as to create a sensation of alarm; vainly
is it said to have been built so, and to have lasted thus for
centuries; its aspect is irresistibly oppressive. B ologna
boasts a great number of highly informed men; but the
common people are disagreeable. L ucy listened for the
melodious I talian, of which she had been told; but the
B olognese dialect painfully disappointed her. N othing
more harsh can ex ist in the north. They arrived at the
height of the Carnival, and heard, both day and night,
cries of j oy that sounded lik e those of rage. A population
lik e that of the L azzaroni eat and sleep beneath the nu-
merous arcades that border the streets: during winter they
carry a little fire in an earthen vessel. I n cold weather
no nightly music is heard in I taly: it is replaced in
B ologna by a clamour truly alarming to foreigners. The
manners of the populace are much more gross in some few
southern states than can be found elsewhere. I n-door life
perfects social order: the heat that permits people to live
thus in public engenders many savage habits. (7) L ord
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? 872 corinne; or italt.
and L ady N evil could not walk forth without being as-
sailed by beggars, the scourge of I taly. A s they passed
the prisons, whose barred windows look upon the street,
the captives demanded alms with immoderate laughter. " I t
is not thus," said L ucy, ' ' that our people show themselves
the fellow-citizens of their betters. O h, O swald! can such
a country please you ? " -- " H eaven forbid," he replied,
" that I should ever forget my own! but when you have
passed the A pennines you will hear the Tuscans, -- meet
intellectual and animated beings, who, I hope, will render
you less severe. "
I talians, indeed, must be j udged according to circum-
stances. S ometimes the evil that hath been spok en of
them seems but true; at others, most unj ust. A ll that
has previously been described of their governments and
religion proves that much may be asserted against them
generally, yet that many private virtues are to be found
amongst them. The individuals chance throws on the
acq uaintance of our travellers decide their notions of the
whole race: such j udgment, of course, can find no basis
in the public spirit of the country. O swald and L ucy
visited the collections of pictures that enrich B ologna.
A mong them was Dominichino' s S ibyl; before which N evil
unconsciously lingered so long, that his wife at last dared
ask him, if this beauty said more to his heart than Correg-
gio' s Madonna had done. H e understood, and was amazed
at so significant an appeal: after gazing on her for some
time, he replied, " The S ibyl utters oracles no more: her
beauty, lik e her genius, is gone; but the angelic features
I admired in Correggio have lost none of their charms; and
the unhappy wretch who so much wronged the one will
never betray the other. " H e left the place, to conceal his
agitation.
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? corinne; or italy. 373
BOOKXX.
CO N CL US I O N .
CH A PTE R I .
O swald now, for the first time, comprehended that L ucy
was aware of his affection for her sister, and deemed that
her coolness might have sprung from secret disq uietude:
yet now he feared an ex planation as much as she had done;
and now she would have told him all had he req uired it;
but it would have cost him too much to speak of Corinne,
j ust as he was about to rej oin her, especially with a person
whose character he so imperfectly k new. They crossed the
A pennines, and regained the sweet climate of I taly. The
sea breeze, so glowing in summer, now spread a gentle
heat. The turf was green, the autumn hardly over, and
yet the spring already peeping forth. The mark ets teemed
with oranges and pomegranates. The Tuscan tongue was
audible; and all O swald' s dearest memories revived, though
now unmix ed with hope. The mild air would have ren-
dered L ucy confiding, had he encouraged her. H ad a
Corinne been with them, she would soon have learned their
secrets; but the more congenial they were, in natural and
national reserve, the less easy was it for them to break the
ice which k ept their hearts asunder.
CH A PTE R I I .
A s soon as they arrived, in F lorence, N evil wrote to Castel
F orte; and in a few minutes the Prince came to him. I t
was some time ere either spok e; at last N evil ask ed for
Corinne. " I have none but sad news for you," said her
friend: " she grows weak er every day; sees no one but
myself, and can scarce attempt any occupation; yet I
think she has been calmer since we learnt you were in
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? 374CO R I N ' N B ; O R I TA L Y .
I taly; though I cannot disguise from you, that at first her
emotions on that intelligence caused her a relapse of fever.
S he has not told me her intentions, for I carefully avoid
your name. " -- " H ave the goodness, Prince," said O
" to give her the letter I wrote you nearly five years since:
it contained a detail of all the circumstances that prevented
my hearing of her j ourney to S cotland before I married.
W hen she has read it, ask her to receive me. I long to
j ustify myself with her, if possible. H er esteem is essential
swald,
to me, though I can no longer pretend to more. " -- " I will
obey your desires, my L ord," said Castel F orte, " and wish
that I may in any way be of service. " L ady N evil now-
entered the room. O swald made her k nown to his friend.
S he met him coldly. H e gazed on her with much attention,
sighed, thought of Corinne, and took leave. O swald fol-
lowed him. " L ady N evil is very beautiful," said the
Prince: " so fresh and young! A las!
my poor love is
no longer so; yet forget not, my L ord, that she was a bril-
liant creature when you saw her first. " -- " F orget! " ex -
claimed O swald; " no, nor ever forgive myself. " H e
could utter no more, and for the rest of the day was
gloomily silent. L ucy sought not to disturb him: her for-
bearance was unluck y; for he only thought, " H
beheld me sad, she would have striven to console me. "
nex t morning his anx iety early led him to Castel F
ad Corinne
The
orte.
" W ell! " hecried," whatsaysshe? " -- " Thatshewill
not see you," answered the Prince. -- " A nd her motives? "
-- " I found her yesterday, in spite her weak ness, pacing
the room all agitation, her paleness sometimes giving way
to a vivid blush, that faded as suddenly as it rose. I
told her your req uest: after some instants' silence, she
said-- ifyouex actfrommeherownwords,-- ' Thatman
has done me too much wrong already; but the foe who
threw me into prison, banished and proscribed me, has not
yet brought my spirit q uite so low as he may think . I have
suffered more than woman ever endured beside -- alternate
fondness and indignation mak ing thought a perpetual tor-
ture. O swald should remember that I once told him it
would cost me more to renounce my admiration than my
love. H e has despoiled the obj ect of my worship: he de-
X
m
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 375
ceived me, voluntarily or otherwise -- no matter: he is not
what I believed him. H e sported for nearly a year with
my affection; and, when he ought to have defended me,
when his actions should have proved he had a heart, how
did he treat me? Can he boast of having made one ge-
nerous sacrifice? N o! he is happy now, possessing all the
advantages best appreciated by the world. I am dying; let
him leave me in peace! "
sighed O swald. -- " S
Castel F orte; " yet I
-- " These words are very harsh,' '
he is changed by suffering," admitted
have often found her so charitable,
that, let me own, she has defended you against me. " --
" Y ou think me unpardonable, then ? " -- "
I f you permit
me to say so. The inj uries we may do women hurt not us in
public opinion. The fragile idol of to-day may be brok en
to-morrow, without finding one protector; for that very
reason do I respect the sex , whose moral welfare can find
its safety but in our bosoms. A mortal stab is punished by
the law; but break ing a tender heart is a theme for j est.
I would forgive murder by poniard soonest. " -- "
me," cried N evil, " I , too, have been wretched,--
B elieve
that is my
sole ex tenuation; but formerly she would have listened to
it, now it avails me nothing; yet I will write to her: I
still believe, in spite of all that parts us, she may yet un-
derstand me. " -- " I will bear your letter, my L ord;
entreat you temper it well; you guess not what you are
to her. Y ears can but deepen an impression, when no
new idea has divided its empire. W ould you k now in
what state she is at present? A fantasy, from which my
prayers could not divert her, enables me to show you. "
H e opened the door of another room; and N evil first be-
held a portrait of Corinne as she appeared in J uliet, on
the night, of all others, when he felt most enamoured of
her. The confidence of happiness breathed from each fea-
ture. The memories of that festal time came back on O s-
wald' s heart; but as he yielded to them, the prince took
hand, drew aside a crape from another picture, and showed
him Corinne, painted that same year, in the black dress, such
as she had never abandoned since her return from E ngland.
H er lost lover recollected the figure which had passed him
but I
his
in the Park : but above all was he struck with the total change
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? 316 C0R 1K N E J O R I TA L Y .
in her appearance. The long black lashes veiled her lan-
guid eyes, and threw a shadow over the tintless cheek :
beneath was written this line, from the Pastor F ido, --
" A penasipuodir,' Q uestafurosa! ' "
" S carcely can we now say, ' This was a rose ! '
"
' ' H ow! " criedL ordN eyil; " look sshelik ethis? " --
" W ithin the last fortnight still worse," returned the
Prince; and O swald rushed from him, as if distracted.
CH A PTE R I I I .
The unhappy man shut himself in his room. A t the dinner
hour, L ucy, leading J uliet by the hand, tapped gently at
his door: he opened itv saying, " Think not the worse of
me, my dear, for begging that I may be left to myself to-
day. " H is wife raised her child in her arms, and retired
without a word. H e now look ed at the letter he had written
to Corinne, and, bursting into tears, ex claimed, " S hall I ,
then, mak e poor L ucy wretched too? W hat is my life worth,
if it serves but to render all who love me miserable? "
L etter from L ord N evil to Corinne.
" W ere you not the most generous of human beings,
what could I say to you, who might weigh me so low by
reproaches, or still lower by your griefs? I have done such
ill to her I loved, that I
A m I , Corinne? I
self an utter barbarian!
almost believe myself a monster.
suffer so much, that I cannot think my-
Y ou k now, when first I met you,
I was a prey to despair, that nearly brought me to the
grave: I sought not happiness, but struggled long against
your attraction; even when it triumphed, presentiments of
misfortune lingered still. S ometimes I believed you des-
tined by my father to mak e me once more feel myself as
well beloved as I had been by him; then did I fear to dia-
" iij
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? corinne; or italy. 377
obey his will, in marrying a foreigner. O n my return to
E ngland this sentiment prevailed, sanctioned as it was by
parental authority. H ad he still lived I should have felt a
right to combat it; but the dead cannot hear us, and the
irrevocable commands of those now powerless possess a
touching and a sacred force. -- O nce more surrounded by
the ties of country, I met your sister, selected for me by my
sire, and well according with my wish for a regular, a q uiet
life. My weak ness mak es me dread some k inds of agitation:
my mind is easily seduced by new hopes; but my sick soul
shrink s from resolves that interfere with its original habits
or affections. Y et, Corinne, had I k nown you were in
E ngland, that proof of tenderness would have decided me.
A h! wherefore vaunt I what I would have done? S hould
we have been content? A m I capable of being so? Could
I ever have chosen any one fate, without still pining after
some other? W hen you restored my liberty I fell into the
common error, telling myself that so superior a woman
might easily be estranged from me. Corinne, I have
wounded your heart, I k now; but I thought mine the only
sacrifice: I deemed you would forget me. I cannot deny
that L ucy is worthy of a still warmer attachment than I
could give her; but since I learnt your voyage to E ngland,
and the sorrow I had dealt you, my life has been a perpetual
pain. I sought for death, certain that when you heard I
was no more, you would forgive me. Doubtless you can
oppose to this years of fidelity and regret, such as my ingra-
titude ill merits; yet think -- a thousand complicated cir-
cumstances invade the constancy of man. I magine, if
possible, that I have neither given nor received felicity; that
my heart has been lonely since^ I left you, scarce daring even
to commune with itself; that the mother of my child, who
has so manj f titles to my love, is a stranger to my history
and feelings; in truth, that my habitual sadness has reduced
me to the state from which your cares, Corinne, once ex -
tricated me. I f I have returned to I taly, not for my health
(you cannot suspect me of any love for life), but to bid you
farewell, can you refuse to see me but once more? I wish
it, because I think that it would benefit you; my own suf-
ferings less prompt this desire. W hat use were it that I
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? 378CO R I N N E J O B I TA L Y .
am miserable, that a dreadful weight presses upon my heart,
if I came hither without obtaining pardon from you?
ought to be unhappy, and am sure of being so; but I
certain that you would be solaced, if you could think
I
feel
upon
me as your friend, and read, in O swald' s look s and accents,
how dear you are to the criminal whose fate is far more
altered than his heart. I respect the ties I have formed,
and love your sister; but the human breast, wild and incon-
sistent as it is, can reconcile that tenderness with what I feel
for you. I have nothing to say for myself that can be
written; all I might ex plain would but condemn me;
if you saw me prostrate before you, through all my faults
and duties, you would perceive what you are to me still,
and that conversation would leave a balm for both. O ur
health is failing: H eaven may not accord us length of days.
L et then whichever may be destined to precede the other
feel regretted by the dear friend left behind. The innocent
alone deserve such j oy; but may it not be granted to the
yet
guilty? Corinne, sublime soul! you who canread all hearts,
guess what I cannot add, and comprehend me, as you used
to do. L
weak
N o;
et me but see you; let my pallid lips touch your
hand! I t was not I alone who wrought this ruin.
the same sentiment consumed us both: destiny struck
two hearts, devoting one to crime; that one, Corinne, may
not be the least pitiable. "
A nswer.
" I f I req uired but to see and pardon you, I could not
for an instant refuse. W hy is it that I do not feel resent-
ment, although the pangs you have caused me are so dread-
ful? I must still love you, not to hate. R eligion alone
would not disarm me thus. There have been moments
when my reason has left me; others far sweeter, when I hoped
to die before the day could end; and some in which I have
doubted even virtue: you were to me its image here below:
there was no guide for either my thoughts or feelings, when
the same blow struck both my admiration and my love.
W hat would have become of me without H eaven' s help?
E very thing in this world was poisoned by your image:
,A &
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? O O R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 379
one sole asylum was left, and God received me. My
strength decays, but not that supporting enthusiasm. I
j oy to think that the best aim in life is to become worthy
of eternity: our bliss, our bane, alik e tend to this purpose;
and you were chosen to uproot the too strong hold I had on
earth. Y et when I saw your handwriting, learnt that you
were but on the other side of the river, a fearful tumult rose
within me: incessantly was I obliged to tell myself, ' My
sister is his wife. ' To see you again appeared felicity: I
will not deny that my heart, inebriated afresh, preferred
these indefinite raptures to an age of calm; but Providence
has not abandoned me in this peril. A re you not the
husband of another? W hat then have I to say to you?
I sitformetodieinyourarms? W hatwouldmycon-
science suffer, if I made no sacrifice? if I permitted myself
another hour with you? I can only appear before my God
with any thing lik e confidence by renouncing it. This re-
solution may appease my soul. S uch happiness as I felt
while you loved me is not in harmony with our mortal
state; it agitates us, because we feel its fleetness: but
religious meditation, that aims at self-improvement, and
refers every cause to duty, is a state of peace; and I k now
not what ravages the mere sound of your voice would mak e
on the repose I believe I have regained. W hy do you tell
me that your health is impaired? A las! I am no longer
your nurse; but still I suffer with you. May God bless
and prolong your days, my L ord! B e happy, but be so
through piety. A secret communion with Divinity gives
us in ourselves the power of confiding to a B eing who con-
soles us: it mak es two friends of one spirit. Do you still
seek for what the world calls happiness? W here will you
find more than my tenderness would have bestowed?
K now you that in the deserts of the N ew W orld I should
have blest my lot had you permitted me to follow you? I
could have served you lik e a slave, have k nelt before you
as a heavenly being, had you but loved me truly. W hat
have you done with so much faith? Y ou have changed it
into an affliction peerless as itself. O utrage me not, then,
by one hope of happiness, ex cept in prayer: let our
thoughts meet in heaven! Y et when I feel myself about
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? 880 corinne; or italy.
to die, perhaps I will be tak en somewhere whence I may
behold you pass. A ssuredly when my failing eyes can see
no more, your image will be with me; but might not a
recent review of your features render it more distinct?
Deities of old were never present at the hour of death,
so I forbid you mine; but I should lik e to see you per-
fectly when O swald, O swald! behold how weak I am,
when abandoned to your recollection! W hy has not L ucy
sought me? Though she is your wife, she is still my sister.
I have some k ind and even generous things to tell her.
A nd your child -- I ought not to meet you; but you are
surrounded by my family. Do they disown me still? or
fear ye that poor little J uliet would be scared at seeing me?
Ghost as I look , I yet could smile upon your daughter.
A dieu, my L ord, adieu! R emember that I might call you
brother. A t least you will mourn for me ex ternally, and,
as a k insman, follow my remains to R ome: let them be borne
by the road where my car passed; and pause upon the spot
where you restored my crown. Y et no, I am wrong, O s-
wald: I would ex act nothing that could afflict you, only
one tear, and sometimes a fond look towards the heaven
where I shall soon await you. "
CH A PTE R I V .
Many days elapsed ere O swald could regain his composure:
he avoided the presence of his wife, and passed whole
hours on the bank s of the river that separated him from
Corinne; often tempted to plunge amid its waves, that
they might bear his body to the abode he never must enter
living. A mazed as he was at Corinne' s wish to see her
sister, he longed to gratify it; yet how introduce the sub-
j ect? H e saw that L ucy was hurt by his distress, and hoped
that she would q uestion him; but she forbore, merely ex -
pressing a desire to visit R ome or N aples: he always
begged a brief delay, and L ucy, with cold dignity, was
silent. y* *
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? CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 331
O swald, at least, could secure Corinne the presence of
his little daughter, and secretly bade the nurse tak e J uliet
to her.
? O O R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 36 7
Mont Cenis. O n entering the inn, L ucy embraced her
child, and returned her fervent thank s to God. O swald
leaned pensively near the fire, and, when she rose, held out
his hand to her, saying, " Y ou were alarmed then, love? "
-- " Y es,dear. " -- " W hywouldyougoon? " -- " Y ou
seemed impatient to proceed. " -- " Do you not k now that,
above all things, I dread ex posing you to pain or danger? "
-- " I tisforJ ulietthattheyaretobedreaded," shere-
plied, tak ing the little one on her lap to warm it, and
twisting round her fingers the beautiful black curls that the
snow had matted on that fair brow. * The mother and
child formed so charming a picture, that O swald gazed on
them with tender admiration; but L ucy' s silence dis-
couraged the feeling which might else have led to a mutual
understanding. They arrived at Turin, where the season
was unusually severe. The vast apartments of I taly were
destined to receive the sun. Their freshness in summer is
most welcome; but, in the depth of winter, they seem
cheerless deserts; and their possessors feel lik e pigmies in
the abode of giants. The death of A lfieri had j ust oc-
casioned a general mourning among his proud countrymen.
N evil no longer recognised the gaiety formerly so dear to
him. The absence of her he loved disenchanted both
nature and art: he sought intelligence of her, and learnt
that for five years she had published nothing, but lived in
B eclusion at F lorence. H e resolved on going thither; not to
remain, and thus violate the affection he owed to L ucy, but
to tell Corinne how ignorant he had been of her residence
in S cotland. I n crossing L ombardy he sighed, " H ow
beautiful this was, when all those elms were in full leaf,
with vines link ing them together ! " -- " H ow beautiful it
was," thought L ucy, " while Corinne shared it with you! "
A humid fog, such as oft arises in so well watered a land,
obscured their view of the country. During the night they
heard the deluge of southern rain fall on, nay, through the
roof, as if water were pursuing them with all the avidity of
* Madame de S tael gave L ucy, at three years of age, hair long enough to
mak e a bracelet. S he was think ing of F rench children. The formal E dgar,
monds were not more lik ely to deviate from the E nglish fashion than to
Christen N evil' s daughter J uliette. -- in.
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? 36 8C0R I N N E J O R I TA L Y .
fire. L ucy sought in vain for the charm of I taly: it
seemed that every thing conspired to veil it in gloom for
O swald and herself.
CH A PTE R V I .
S inceL ordN evilhadbeeninI taly,hehadnotspok ena
word of the language; it even made him ill to hear it.
O n the evening of his arrival at Milan he heard a tap at
the door, which was followed by the entrance of a man,
whose dark and prominent face would have been ex pressive,
if animated by natural enthusiasm: it wore an unvaryingly
giacious smile, and a look that strove to be poetical. H e
stood at the door, improvising verses in praise of the
group before him, but such as might have suited any other
husband, wife, or child, j ust as truly; and so ex aggerated,
that the speak er seemed to think poetry ought to have no
connection with truth. O swald perceived that he was a
R oman; yet, harmonious as were the sounds he uttered,
the vehemence of his declamation served but to indicate
more plainly the unmeaning insipidity of all he said.
N othing could be more painful for O swald than to hear
the R oman tongue thus spok en, for the first time after so
long an interval, to see his dearest memories travestied,
and feel his melancholy renewed by an obj ect so ridiculous.
L ucy guessed all this, and would have dismissed the im-
provisatore; but it was impossible to mak e him hear her:
he paced the chamber all gesture and ex clamation, heedless
of the disgust he dealt his hearers, proceeding lik e a
machine that could not stop till after a certain moment.
A t last that time arrived, and L ucy paid him to depart.
" Poetic language," said O swald, " is so easily parodied
here, that it ought to be forbidden all save those who are
worthy to employ it. " -- " True," observed L ucy, perhaps
a little too pointedly: " it is very disagreeable to be re-
minded of what you admire, by such a burlesq ue as we
have j ust endured. " -- " N ot so," he answered; " the con-
trast only mak es me more deeply feel the power of genius.
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? CO R I N N E j O B I TA L Y . S O ' D
This same language, which may be so miserably degraded,
became celestial poetry from the lips of Corinne -- your
sister. " L ucy felt overwhelmed: he had not pronounced
that name to her before; the addition of your sister
sounded as if conveying a reproach. S he was half suffo-
cated; and had she given way to her tears, this moment
might have proved the sweetest in her life; but she re-
strained them, and the embarrassment between herself and
husband became more painful than before. O n the nex t
day the sun brok e forth, lik e an ex ile returning to his own
land. The N evils availed themselves of his brightness to
visit Milan cathedral, the chef-d' oeuvre of Gothic architec.
ture: it is built in the form of a cross,-- fair melancholy
image in the midst of wealth. L ofty as it is, the orna-
ments are elaborate as those lavished on some minute
obj ect of admiration. , W hat time and patience must it
have cost! This perseverance towards the same aim is
transmitted from age to age, and the human race, stable at
least in thought, can leave us proofs of this, imperishable
almost as thought itself. A Gothic building engenders
true religion: it has been said that the popes have con-
secrated more wealth to the building of modern temples
than devotion to the memory of old churches. The light,
falling through coloured glass, the singular forms of the
architecture, unite to give a silent image of that infinite
mystery which the soul for ever feels, and never compre-
hends.
L ord and L ady N evil left Milan when the earth wa>>
covered with snow. This is a sadder sight in I taly than
elsewhere, because it is unusual: the natives lament bad
weather as a public calamity. O swald was vain of his
favourite country, and angry that it would not smile its best
for L ucy. They passed through Placenta, Parma, and
Modena. The churches and palaces of each are too vast, in
proportion to the number and fortune of the inhabitants:
all seems arranged for the reception of the great, who as
yet have but sent some of their retinue forward. O n the
morning of their reaching Taro, the floods were thunder-
ing from the A lps and A pennines, with such frightful
rapidity, that their roar scarce announced them ere they
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? 370CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
came. B ridges are hardly practicable over rivers that so
often rise above the levei of the plain. O swald and L ucy
found their course suddenly check ed. A ll boats had been
washed away by the current; and they were obliged to wait
till the I talians, who never hurry themselves, chose to
bring them back . The fog confounded the water with the
sk y; and the whole spectacle rather resembled the descrip-
tions of S tyx than the bounteous streams lent as refresh-
ments to the burning south. L ucy, trembling lest the
intense cold should hurt her child, bore it into a fisher' s
hut, in the centre of which a fire had been k indled, as is
done in R ussia.
" W hereisyourlovelyI taly? " sheask edO swald,with
a smile. " I k now not when I shall regain her," he an-
swered, sadly. A pproaching Parma, and all the cities on
that road, they perceived from far the flat-terraced roofs
that give I taly so original an air. Churches and spires
stand forth boldly amid these buildings; and, after seeing
them, the northern-pointed roofs, so constructed to permit
the snow to run off, create a very unpleasant sensation.
Parma still preserves some fine pictures by Correggio. O s-
wald took L ucy to a church which boasts a fresco of his,
L a Madonna delta S cala: while he drew the curtain from
before it, L ucy raised J uliet in her arms, that she might
better see the picture; and by chance their attitude was
nearly the same with that of the V irgin and Child. L ucy
had so much of the modest grace which Correggio loved to
paint, that O swald look ed from the ideal to the real with
surprise. A s she noticed this her lids declined, and the
resemblance became still more strong. Correggio is, perhaps,
the only painter who k new how to give downcast eyes an
ex pression affecting as that of those raised to heaven. The
veil he throws over such look s, far from decreasing their
thoughtful tenderness, lends it the added charm of hea-
venly mystery. The Madonna is almost detached from
the wall. A breath might blow its hues away; this fear
gives it a melancholy interest: its adorers oft return to
bid such fleeting beauty a fond farewell. A s they left the
church, O swald said to L ucy, " A little while, and that
picture will be no more! but its model is mine own for
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? CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 371
ever. " These soft words touched her heart: she pressed
his hand, about to ask him if he could not trust her ten-
derness; but, as when he spok e coldly, her pride forbade
complaint, so when his language made her blest, she
dreaded to disturb that moment' s peace, in an attempt to
render it more durable. Thus always she found reasons for
her silence, hoping that time, resignation, and gentleness,
might bring at last the happy day which would disperse
her apprehensions.
CH A PTE R
L ord N evil'
tated his heart. H
V I I .
s health improved, yet cruel anx iety still agi-
e constantly sought tidings of Corinne;
but every where heard the same report: how different
from the strain in which her name had once been breathed!
Could the man who had destroyed her peace and fame
forgive himself? Travellers drawing near B ologna are
attracted by two very high towers; the one, however,
leans so obliq uely as to create a sensation of alarm; vainly
is it said to have been built so, and to have lasted thus for
centuries; its aspect is irresistibly oppressive. B ologna
boasts a great number of highly informed men; but the
common people are disagreeable. L ucy listened for the
melodious I talian, of which she had been told; but the
B olognese dialect painfully disappointed her. N othing
more harsh can ex ist in the north. They arrived at the
height of the Carnival, and heard, both day and night,
cries of j oy that sounded lik e those of rage. A population
lik e that of the L azzaroni eat and sleep beneath the nu-
merous arcades that border the streets: during winter they
carry a little fire in an earthen vessel. I n cold weather
no nightly music is heard in I taly: it is replaced in
B ologna by a clamour truly alarming to foreigners. The
manners of the populace are much more gross in some few
southern states than can be found elsewhere. I n-door life
perfects social order: the heat that permits people to live
thus in public engenders many savage habits. (7) L ord
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? 872 corinne; or italt.
and L ady N evil could not walk forth without being as-
sailed by beggars, the scourge of I taly. A s they passed
the prisons, whose barred windows look upon the street,
the captives demanded alms with immoderate laughter. " I t
is not thus," said L ucy, ' ' that our people show themselves
the fellow-citizens of their betters. O h, O swald! can such
a country please you ? " -- " H eaven forbid," he replied,
" that I should ever forget my own! but when you have
passed the A pennines you will hear the Tuscans, -- meet
intellectual and animated beings, who, I hope, will render
you less severe. "
I talians, indeed, must be j udged according to circum-
stances. S ometimes the evil that hath been spok en of
them seems but true; at others, most unj ust. A ll that
has previously been described of their governments and
religion proves that much may be asserted against them
generally, yet that many private virtues are to be found
amongst them. The individuals chance throws on the
acq uaintance of our travellers decide their notions of the
whole race: such j udgment, of course, can find no basis
in the public spirit of the country. O swald and L ucy
visited the collections of pictures that enrich B ologna.
A mong them was Dominichino' s S ibyl; before which N evil
unconsciously lingered so long, that his wife at last dared
ask him, if this beauty said more to his heart than Correg-
gio' s Madonna had done. H e understood, and was amazed
at so significant an appeal: after gazing on her for some
time, he replied, " The S ibyl utters oracles no more: her
beauty, lik e her genius, is gone; but the angelic features
I admired in Correggio have lost none of their charms; and
the unhappy wretch who so much wronged the one will
never betray the other. " H e left the place, to conceal his
agitation.
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? corinne; or italy. 373
BOOKXX.
CO N CL US I O N .
CH A PTE R I .
O swald now, for the first time, comprehended that L ucy
was aware of his affection for her sister, and deemed that
her coolness might have sprung from secret disq uietude:
yet now he feared an ex planation as much as she had done;
and now she would have told him all had he req uired it;
but it would have cost him too much to speak of Corinne,
j ust as he was about to rej oin her, especially with a person
whose character he so imperfectly k new. They crossed the
A pennines, and regained the sweet climate of I taly. The
sea breeze, so glowing in summer, now spread a gentle
heat. The turf was green, the autumn hardly over, and
yet the spring already peeping forth. The mark ets teemed
with oranges and pomegranates. The Tuscan tongue was
audible; and all O swald' s dearest memories revived, though
now unmix ed with hope. The mild air would have ren-
dered L ucy confiding, had he encouraged her. H ad a
Corinne been with them, she would soon have learned their
secrets; but the more congenial they were, in natural and
national reserve, the less easy was it for them to break the
ice which k ept their hearts asunder.
CH A PTE R I I .
A s soon as they arrived, in F lorence, N evil wrote to Castel
F orte; and in a few minutes the Prince came to him. I t
was some time ere either spok e; at last N evil ask ed for
Corinne. " I have none but sad news for you," said her
friend: " she grows weak er every day; sees no one but
myself, and can scarce attempt any occupation; yet I
think she has been calmer since we learnt you were in
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? 374CO R I N ' N B ; O R I TA L Y .
I taly; though I cannot disguise from you, that at first her
emotions on that intelligence caused her a relapse of fever.
S he has not told me her intentions, for I carefully avoid
your name. " -- " H ave the goodness, Prince," said O
" to give her the letter I wrote you nearly five years since:
it contained a detail of all the circumstances that prevented
my hearing of her j ourney to S cotland before I married.
W hen she has read it, ask her to receive me. I long to
j ustify myself with her, if possible. H er esteem is essential
swald,
to me, though I can no longer pretend to more. " -- " I will
obey your desires, my L ord," said Castel F orte, " and wish
that I may in any way be of service. " L ady N evil now-
entered the room. O swald made her k nown to his friend.
S he met him coldly. H e gazed on her with much attention,
sighed, thought of Corinne, and took leave. O swald fol-
lowed him. " L ady N evil is very beautiful," said the
Prince: " so fresh and young! A las!
my poor love is
no longer so; yet forget not, my L ord, that she was a bril-
liant creature when you saw her first. " -- " F orget! " ex -
claimed O swald; " no, nor ever forgive myself. " H e
could utter no more, and for the rest of the day was
gloomily silent. L ucy sought not to disturb him: her for-
bearance was unluck y; for he only thought, " H
beheld me sad, she would have striven to console me. "
nex t morning his anx iety early led him to Castel F
ad Corinne
The
orte.
" W ell! " hecried," whatsaysshe? " -- " Thatshewill
not see you," answered the Prince. -- " A nd her motives? "
-- " I found her yesterday, in spite her weak ness, pacing
the room all agitation, her paleness sometimes giving way
to a vivid blush, that faded as suddenly as it rose. I
told her your req uest: after some instants' silence, she
said-- ifyouex actfrommeherownwords,-- ' Thatman
has done me too much wrong already; but the foe who
threw me into prison, banished and proscribed me, has not
yet brought my spirit q uite so low as he may think . I have
suffered more than woman ever endured beside -- alternate
fondness and indignation mak ing thought a perpetual tor-
ture. O swald should remember that I once told him it
would cost me more to renounce my admiration than my
love. H e has despoiled the obj ect of my worship: he de-
X
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 375
ceived me, voluntarily or otherwise -- no matter: he is not
what I believed him. H e sported for nearly a year with
my affection; and, when he ought to have defended me,
when his actions should have proved he had a heart, how
did he treat me? Can he boast of having made one ge-
nerous sacrifice? N o! he is happy now, possessing all the
advantages best appreciated by the world. I am dying; let
him leave me in peace! "
sighed O swald. -- " S
Castel F orte; " yet I
-- " These words are very harsh,' '
he is changed by suffering," admitted
have often found her so charitable,
that, let me own, she has defended you against me. " --
" Y ou think me unpardonable, then ? " -- "
I f you permit
me to say so. The inj uries we may do women hurt not us in
public opinion. The fragile idol of to-day may be brok en
to-morrow, without finding one protector; for that very
reason do I respect the sex , whose moral welfare can find
its safety but in our bosoms. A mortal stab is punished by
the law; but break ing a tender heart is a theme for j est.
I would forgive murder by poniard soonest. " -- "
me," cried N evil, " I , too, have been wretched,--
B elieve
that is my
sole ex tenuation; but formerly she would have listened to
it, now it avails me nothing; yet I will write to her: I
still believe, in spite of all that parts us, she may yet un-
derstand me. " -- " I will bear your letter, my L ord;
entreat you temper it well; you guess not what you are
to her. Y ears can but deepen an impression, when no
new idea has divided its empire. W ould you k now in
what state she is at present? A fantasy, from which my
prayers could not divert her, enables me to show you. "
H e opened the door of another room; and N evil first be-
held a portrait of Corinne as she appeared in J uliet, on
the night, of all others, when he felt most enamoured of
her. The confidence of happiness breathed from each fea-
ture. The memories of that festal time came back on O s-
wald' s heart; but as he yielded to them, the prince took
hand, drew aside a crape from another picture, and showed
him Corinne, painted that same year, in the black dress, such
as she had never abandoned since her return from E ngland.
H er lost lover recollected the figure which had passed him
but I
his
in the Park : but above all was he struck with the total change
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? 316 C0R 1K N E J O R I TA L Y .
in her appearance. The long black lashes veiled her lan-
guid eyes, and threw a shadow over the tintless cheek :
beneath was written this line, from the Pastor F ido, --
" A penasipuodir,' Q uestafurosa! ' "
" S carcely can we now say, ' This was a rose ! '
"
' ' H ow! " criedL ordN eyil; " look sshelik ethis? " --
" W ithin the last fortnight still worse," returned the
Prince; and O swald rushed from him, as if distracted.
CH A PTE R I I I .
The unhappy man shut himself in his room. A t the dinner
hour, L ucy, leading J uliet by the hand, tapped gently at
his door: he opened itv saying, " Think not the worse of
me, my dear, for begging that I may be left to myself to-
day. " H is wife raised her child in her arms, and retired
without a word. H e now look ed at the letter he had written
to Corinne, and, bursting into tears, ex claimed, " S hall I ,
then, mak e poor L ucy wretched too? W hat is my life worth,
if it serves but to render all who love me miserable? "
L etter from L ord N evil to Corinne.
" W ere you not the most generous of human beings,
what could I say to you, who might weigh me so low by
reproaches, or still lower by your griefs? I have done such
ill to her I loved, that I
A m I , Corinne? I
self an utter barbarian!
almost believe myself a monster.
suffer so much, that I cannot think my-
Y ou k now, when first I met you,
I was a prey to despair, that nearly brought me to the
grave: I sought not happiness, but struggled long against
your attraction; even when it triumphed, presentiments of
misfortune lingered still. S ometimes I believed you des-
tined by my father to mak e me once more feel myself as
well beloved as I had been by him; then did I fear to dia-
" iij
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? corinne; or italy. 377
obey his will, in marrying a foreigner. O n my return to
E ngland this sentiment prevailed, sanctioned as it was by
parental authority. H ad he still lived I should have felt a
right to combat it; but the dead cannot hear us, and the
irrevocable commands of those now powerless possess a
touching and a sacred force. -- O nce more surrounded by
the ties of country, I met your sister, selected for me by my
sire, and well according with my wish for a regular, a q uiet
life. My weak ness mak es me dread some k inds of agitation:
my mind is easily seduced by new hopes; but my sick soul
shrink s from resolves that interfere with its original habits
or affections. Y et, Corinne, had I k nown you were in
E ngland, that proof of tenderness would have decided me.
A h! wherefore vaunt I what I would have done? S hould
we have been content? A m I capable of being so? Could
I ever have chosen any one fate, without still pining after
some other? W hen you restored my liberty I fell into the
common error, telling myself that so superior a woman
might easily be estranged from me. Corinne, I have
wounded your heart, I k now; but I thought mine the only
sacrifice: I deemed you would forget me. I cannot deny
that L ucy is worthy of a still warmer attachment than I
could give her; but since I learnt your voyage to E ngland,
and the sorrow I had dealt you, my life has been a perpetual
pain. I sought for death, certain that when you heard I
was no more, you would forgive me. Doubtless you can
oppose to this years of fidelity and regret, such as my ingra-
titude ill merits; yet think -- a thousand complicated cir-
cumstances invade the constancy of man. I magine, if
possible, that I have neither given nor received felicity; that
my heart has been lonely since^ I left you, scarce daring even
to commune with itself; that the mother of my child, who
has so manj f titles to my love, is a stranger to my history
and feelings; in truth, that my habitual sadness has reduced
me to the state from which your cares, Corinne, once ex -
tricated me. I f I have returned to I taly, not for my health
(you cannot suspect me of any love for life), but to bid you
farewell, can you refuse to see me but once more? I wish
it, because I think that it would benefit you; my own suf-
ferings less prompt this desire. W hat use were it that I
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? 378CO R I N N E J O B I TA L Y .
am miserable, that a dreadful weight presses upon my heart,
if I came hither without obtaining pardon from you?
ought to be unhappy, and am sure of being so; but I
certain that you would be solaced, if you could think
I
feel
upon
me as your friend, and read, in O swald' s look s and accents,
how dear you are to the criminal whose fate is far more
altered than his heart. I respect the ties I have formed,
and love your sister; but the human breast, wild and incon-
sistent as it is, can reconcile that tenderness with what I feel
for you. I have nothing to say for myself that can be
written; all I might ex plain would but condemn me;
if you saw me prostrate before you, through all my faults
and duties, you would perceive what you are to me still,
and that conversation would leave a balm for both. O ur
health is failing: H eaven may not accord us length of days.
L et then whichever may be destined to precede the other
feel regretted by the dear friend left behind. The innocent
alone deserve such j oy; but may it not be granted to the
yet
guilty? Corinne, sublime soul! you who canread all hearts,
guess what I cannot add, and comprehend me, as you used
to do. L
weak
N o;
et me but see you; let my pallid lips touch your
hand! I t was not I alone who wrought this ruin.
the same sentiment consumed us both: destiny struck
two hearts, devoting one to crime; that one, Corinne, may
not be the least pitiable. "
A nswer.
" I f I req uired but to see and pardon you, I could not
for an instant refuse. W hy is it that I do not feel resent-
ment, although the pangs you have caused me are so dread-
ful? I must still love you, not to hate. R eligion alone
would not disarm me thus. There have been moments
when my reason has left me; others far sweeter, when I hoped
to die before the day could end; and some in which I have
doubted even virtue: you were to me its image here below:
there was no guide for either my thoughts or feelings, when
the same blow struck both my admiration and my love.
W hat would have become of me without H eaven' s help?
E very thing in this world was poisoned by your image:
,A &
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? O O R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 379
one sole asylum was left, and God received me. My
strength decays, but not that supporting enthusiasm. I
j oy to think that the best aim in life is to become worthy
of eternity: our bliss, our bane, alik e tend to this purpose;
and you were chosen to uproot the too strong hold I had on
earth. Y et when I saw your handwriting, learnt that you
were but on the other side of the river, a fearful tumult rose
within me: incessantly was I obliged to tell myself, ' My
sister is his wife. ' To see you again appeared felicity: I
will not deny that my heart, inebriated afresh, preferred
these indefinite raptures to an age of calm; but Providence
has not abandoned me in this peril. A re you not the
husband of another? W hat then have I to say to you?
I sitformetodieinyourarms? W hatwouldmycon-
science suffer, if I made no sacrifice? if I permitted myself
another hour with you? I can only appear before my God
with any thing lik e confidence by renouncing it. This re-
solution may appease my soul. S uch happiness as I felt
while you loved me is not in harmony with our mortal
state; it agitates us, because we feel its fleetness: but
religious meditation, that aims at self-improvement, and
refers every cause to duty, is a state of peace; and I k now
not what ravages the mere sound of your voice would mak e
on the repose I believe I have regained. W hy do you tell
me that your health is impaired? A las! I am no longer
your nurse; but still I suffer with you. May God bless
and prolong your days, my L ord! B e happy, but be so
through piety. A secret communion with Divinity gives
us in ourselves the power of confiding to a B eing who con-
soles us: it mak es two friends of one spirit. Do you still
seek for what the world calls happiness? W here will you
find more than my tenderness would have bestowed?
K now you that in the deserts of the N ew W orld I should
have blest my lot had you permitted me to follow you? I
could have served you lik e a slave, have k nelt before you
as a heavenly being, had you but loved me truly. W hat
have you done with so much faith? Y ou have changed it
into an affliction peerless as itself. O utrage me not, then,
by one hope of happiness, ex cept in prayer: let our
thoughts meet in heaven! Y et when I feel myself about
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? 880 corinne; or italy.
to die, perhaps I will be tak en somewhere whence I may
behold you pass. A ssuredly when my failing eyes can see
no more, your image will be with me; but might not a
recent review of your features render it more distinct?
Deities of old were never present at the hour of death,
so I forbid you mine; but I should lik e to see you per-
fectly when O swald, O swald! behold how weak I am,
when abandoned to your recollection! W hy has not L ucy
sought me? Though she is your wife, she is still my sister.
I have some k ind and even generous things to tell her.
A nd your child -- I ought not to meet you; but you are
surrounded by my family. Do they disown me still? or
fear ye that poor little J uliet would be scared at seeing me?
Ghost as I look , I yet could smile upon your daughter.
A dieu, my L ord, adieu! R emember that I might call you
brother. A t least you will mourn for me ex ternally, and,
as a k insman, follow my remains to R ome: let them be borne
by the road where my car passed; and pause upon the spot
where you restored my crown. Y et no, I am wrong, O s-
wald: I would ex act nothing that could afflict you, only
one tear, and sometimes a fond look towards the heaven
where I shall soon await you. "
CH A PTE R I V .
Many days elapsed ere O swald could regain his composure:
he avoided the presence of his wife, and passed whole
hours on the bank s of the river that separated him from
Corinne; often tempted to plunge amid its waves, that
they might bear his body to the abode he never must enter
living. A mazed as he was at Corinne' s wish to see her
sister, he longed to gratify it; yet how introduce the sub-
j ect? H e saw that L ucy was hurt by his distress, and hoped
that she would q uestion him; but she forbore, merely ex -
pressing a desire to visit R ome or N aples: he always
begged a brief delay, and L ucy, with cold dignity, was
silent. y* *
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? CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 331
O swald, at least, could secure Corinne the presence of
his little daughter, and secretly bade the nurse tak e J uliet
to her.
