Corinne, though
suffering the most intense anx iety, lavished the fondest
cares on his revival.
suffering the most intense anx iety, lavished the fondest
cares on his revival.
Madame de Stael - Corinna, or Italy
#*?
?
"
>
k
Therefore -- pardon me! "
A t those words " Pardon me ! " for loving, for letting thee
now it, -- so tender an appeal filled the eyes of Corinne,
such respect for her lover, such pride in her " fair Mon-
tague," that O swald raised his head, and believed himself
the monarch of the world, since he reigned over a heart
enclosing all the treasures of love and life. Corinne, per-
ceiving the effect this took on him, became doubly ani-
mated by that heartfelt enthusiasm which, of itself, can
work such miracles; and when, at the approach of day,
J uliet fancies that she hears the lark , the signal for R o-
meo' s departure* , the accents of Corinne acq uired a super-
human power; they told of love, indeed, but a religious
mystery was now mingled with ' it; -- recollections of
heaven -- a presage of returning thither -- the celestial
grief of a soul ex iled on earth, and soon to be reclaimed by
its diviner home. A h, how happy was Corinne, while
playing so noble a part before the lover of her choice!
H ow few lives can bear a comparison with one such night!
H ad O swald himself been the R omeo, her pleasure could
not have been so complete. S he would have longed to
break through the greatest poet' s verse, and speak after her
own heart; or perhaps the diffidence of love would have
enchained her genius; truth carried to such a height would
have destroyed illusion: but how sweet was the conscious-
ness of his presence, while she was influenced by the ex -
alted impulses which poetry alone can awak en, giving us
all the ex citement, without the anguish, of reality; while
the affections she portrayed were neither wholly personal
nor entirely abstract, but seemed saying to her O swald,
" B ehold, how capable I am of loving! " I t was impos-
* Corinne' s translation deviated widely from the original. Minor points I
have presumed to reconcile, but this I must leave as I find, though the two
parting scenes in R omeo and J uliet are so dissimilar, that it is difficult to guess
now they could become confused in such a mind as Madame de S tael' s; nor
why she should have omitted all mention of Tybalt' s death, and R omeo' s
banishment -- Th.
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? corinne; O R I TA L Y . 123
sible for her to be perfectly at ease in her own situation.
Passion and modesty alternately impelled and restrained
her, now piq uing her pride, now enforcing its submission:
but thus to display her perfections without arrogance, to
unite sensibility with the calm it so often disturbs; to live a
moment in the sweetest dreams of the heart,-- such was the
pure delight of Corinne while acting J uliet. To this was
united all her pleasure in the applause she won; and her
look s seemed laying her success at the feet of him whose
acceptance was worth all fame, and who preferred her glory
to his own. Y es, for that hour, Corinne, thou wert enviable!
tasting, at the price of thy repose, the ecstasies for which,
till then, thou hadst vainly sighed, and must henceforth
for ever deplore.
J uliet secretly becomes the wife of R omeo. H er pa-
rents command her to espouse another, and she obtains
from a friar a sleeping-draught, which gives her the ap-
pearance of death. Corinne' s trembling step and altered
voice; her look s, now wild, now dej ected, betrayed the
struggles of love and fear; the terrible image of being
borne alive to the tomb of her ancestors, and the brave
fidelity which bade her young soul triumph over so natu-
ral a dread. O nce she raised her eyes to heaven, with an
ardent petition for that aid with which no human being
can dispense; at another time O swald fancied that she
spread her arms towards him: he longed to fly to her aid;
he rose in a k ind of delirium, then sunk on his seat, re-
called to himself by the surprise of those around him; but
his agitation was too strong to be concealed. I n the fifth
act, R omeo, believing J uliet dead, bears her from the tomb.
Corinne was clad in white, her black lock s dishevelled,
her head gracefully resting on his bosom; but with an air
of death so sadly true, that O swald' s heart was torn by
contending sensations. H e could not bear to see her in
another' s embrace; he shuddered at the sight of her in-
animate beauty, and felt, lik e R omeo, that cruel union of
despair and love, voluptuousness and death, which renders
this scene the most heart-rending on the stage. A t last,
when J uliet wak es in the grave, beside which her lover
has j ust sacrificed himself, her first words beneath those
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? 124- corinne; or italy.
funeral vaults partak e not of the fear they might occasion,
hut she cries,
" W hereismylord? whereismyR omeo? "
N evil replied but by a groan; and was hurried by Mr.
E dgarmond out of the theatre. A t the conclusion of the
piece, Corinne was overpowered by fatigue and ex ej j
ement.
O swald was the first to seek her room, where, still, in the
shroud of J uliet, she lay half-swooning in the arms of' her
women. I n the ex cess of his dismay, he could no longer
distinguish fiction from reality; but, throwing himself at
her feet, ex claimed,
" E yes, look your last! A rms, tak e your last embrace! "
Corinne, whose senses still wandered, shriek ed, " Great
God! whatsayyou? W ouldyouleaveme? " -- " N o,
no, I swear! " he cried. A t that instant a crowd of
admiring friends brok e in upon them; she anx iously de-
sired to hear what he had meant to say, but they were not
left alone together for an instant, and could not speak to
each other again that evening.
N ever had any drama produced such an effect in I taly.
The R omans ex tolled the piece, the translation, and the
actress; asserting that this was the tragedy which repre-
sented them to the life, and gave an added value to their
language, by eloq uence at once inspired and natural.
Corinne received all these eulogiums with gracious sweet-
ness; but her soul hung on these brief words, " I swear! "
believing that they contained the secret of her destiny.
E N DO F TH E F I R S TV O L UME .
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? corinne; O R I TA L Y . 125
V O L UME TH E S E CO N D.
BOOKVIII.
TH E S TA TUE S A N DPI CTUR E S .
CH A PTE R I .
A fter such an evening, O swald could not close his eyes
all night. H e had never been so near sacrificing every
thing to Corinne. H e wished not even to learn her
secret, until he had solemnly consecrated his life to her
service; all indecision seemed banished, as he mentally
composed the letter which he intended to write the nex t
morning: but this resolved and happy confidence was not
of long duration. H is thoughts again strayed towards the
past, reminding him that he had loved before; and though
far less than he adored Corinne, nay, an obj ect not to be
compared with her, he had then been hurried into rashness
thatbrok ehisfather' sheart. " H owk nowI ," hecried,
" that he does not once more fear his son may forget his
duty to his native land? O h thou, the best friend I can
ever call mine own ! " he continued, to the miniature of his
parent, " I can no longer hear thy voice, yet teach me by
that silent look , still -- still so powerful over me, how
I should act, that thou mayest gaze from heaven with some
satisfaction on thy son. Y et, yet remember the thirst for
happiness which consumes humanity; be but as indulgent
in thy celestial home, as late thou wert on earth. I should
become more worthy of thee, were my heart content; did
I live with that angelic creature, had I the honour of pro-
tecting-- saving such a woman! S ave her? " he added,
suddenly, " and from what? from the life she loves; a
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? 126 corinne; or italy.
life of triumph, flattery, and freedom! " This reflection of
his own scared him as if it had been spok
of his sire. I n situations lik e O swald'
en by the spirit
s, who has not felt
that secret superstition which mak es us regard our thoughts
and sufferings as warnings from on high? A h, what
struggles beset the soul susceptible alik e of passion and of
conscience! H e paced his chamber in cruel agitation;
sometimes pausing to gaze on the soft and lovely moon-
light of I taly. N ature' s fair smile may render us resigned
to every thing but suspense. Day rose on his -- and
when d' E rfeuil and E dgarmond entered his room, so much
had one night changed him, that both were alarmed for his
health. The Count first brok e silence. " I must confess,"
he said, " that I was charmed last evening. W hat a pity
that such capabilities should be wasted on a woman of
fortune! were Corinne but poor, free as she is, she might
tak e to the stage, and be the glory of I taly. " O swald was
grieved by this speech; yet k new not how to show it;
for such was d' E rfeuil' s peculiarity, that one could not
legitimately obj ect to aught he said, however great the pain
and anger he awak ened. I t is only for feeling hearts to
practise reciprocal indulgence. S elf-love, so sensitive in
its own cause, has rarely any sympathy to spare for others.
Mr. E dgarmond spok e of Corinne in the most pleasing
manner; and N evil replied in E nglish, to defend this theme
from the uncongenial comments of d' E rfeuil, who ex -
claimed, " S o, it seems, I am one too many here: well,
I ' ll to the lady; she must be longing for my opinion of her
J uliet. I have a few hints to give her, for future improve-
ment: they relate merely to detail, but details do much
towards a whole; and she is really so astonishing a woman,
that I shall neglect nothing that can bring her to per-
fection. I ndeed," he added, confidentially addressing
N evil, " I must encourage her to play freq uently;
the surest way of catching some foreigner of rank . Y ou
and I , dear O swald, are too accustomed to fine girls for
any one of them to lead us into such an absurdity; but a
it is
German prince, now, or a S panish grandee -- who k nows?
eh? " A t these words O swald started up, beside himself;
and there is no telling what might have occurred had the
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? 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
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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.
"
>
k
Therefore -- pardon me! "
A t those words " Pardon me ! " for loving, for letting thee
now it, -- so tender an appeal filled the eyes of Corinne,
such respect for her lover, such pride in her " fair Mon-
tague," that O swald raised his head, and believed himself
the monarch of the world, since he reigned over a heart
enclosing all the treasures of love and life. Corinne, per-
ceiving the effect this took on him, became doubly ani-
mated by that heartfelt enthusiasm which, of itself, can
work such miracles; and when, at the approach of day,
J uliet fancies that she hears the lark , the signal for R o-
meo' s departure* , the accents of Corinne acq uired a super-
human power; they told of love, indeed, but a religious
mystery was now mingled with ' it; -- recollections of
heaven -- a presage of returning thither -- the celestial
grief of a soul ex iled on earth, and soon to be reclaimed by
its diviner home. A h, how happy was Corinne, while
playing so noble a part before the lover of her choice!
H ow few lives can bear a comparison with one such night!
H ad O swald himself been the R omeo, her pleasure could
not have been so complete. S he would have longed to
break through the greatest poet' s verse, and speak after her
own heart; or perhaps the diffidence of love would have
enchained her genius; truth carried to such a height would
have destroyed illusion: but how sweet was the conscious-
ness of his presence, while she was influenced by the ex -
alted impulses which poetry alone can awak en, giving us
all the ex citement, without the anguish, of reality; while
the affections she portrayed were neither wholly personal
nor entirely abstract, but seemed saying to her O swald,
" B ehold, how capable I am of loving! " I t was impos-
* Corinne' s translation deviated widely from the original. Minor points I
have presumed to reconcile, but this I must leave as I find, though the two
parting scenes in R omeo and J uliet are so dissimilar, that it is difficult to guess
now they could become confused in such a mind as Madame de S tael' s; nor
why she should have omitted all mention of Tybalt' s death, and R omeo' s
banishment -- Th.
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? corinne; O R I TA L Y . 123
sible for her to be perfectly at ease in her own situation.
Passion and modesty alternately impelled and restrained
her, now piq uing her pride, now enforcing its submission:
but thus to display her perfections without arrogance, to
unite sensibility with the calm it so often disturbs; to live a
moment in the sweetest dreams of the heart,-- such was the
pure delight of Corinne while acting J uliet. To this was
united all her pleasure in the applause she won; and her
look s seemed laying her success at the feet of him whose
acceptance was worth all fame, and who preferred her glory
to his own. Y es, for that hour, Corinne, thou wert enviable!
tasting, at the price of thy repose, the ecstasies for which,
till then, thou hadst vainly sighed, and must henceforth
for ever deplore.
J uliet secretly becomes the wife of R omeo. H er pa-
rents command her to espouse another, and she obtains
from a friar a sleeping-draught, which gives her the ap-
pearance of death. Corinne' s trembling step and altered
voice; her look s, now wild, now dej ected, betrayed the
struggles of love and fear; the terrible image of being
borne alive to the tomb of her ancestors, and the brave
fidelity which bade her young soul triumph over so natu-
ral a dread. O nce she raised her eyes to heaven, with an
ardent petition for that aid with which no human being
can dispense; at another time O swald fancied that she
spread her arms towards him: he longed to fly to her aid;
he rose in a k ind of delirium, then sunk on his seat, re-
called to himself by the surprise of those around him; but
his agitation was too strong to be concealed. I n the fifth
act, R omeo, believing J uliet dead, bears her from the tomb.
Corinne was clad in white, her black lock s dishevelled,
her head gracefully resting on his bosom; but with an air
of death so sadly true, that O swald' s heart was torn by
contending sensations. H e could not bear to see her in
another' s embrace; he shuddered at the sight of her in-
animate beauty, and felt, lik e R omeo, that cruel union of
despair and love, voluptuousness and death, which renders
this scene the most heart-rending on the stage. A t last,
when J uliet wak es in the grave, beside which her lover
has j ust sacrificed himself, her first words beneath those
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? 124- corinne; or italy.
funeral vaults partak e not of the fear they might occasion,
hut she cries,
" W hereismylord? whereismyR omeo? "
N evil replied but by a groan; and was hurried by Mr.
E dgarmond out of the theatre. A t the conclusion of the
piece, Corinne was overpowered by fatigue and ex ej j
ement.
O swald was the first to seek her room, where, still, in the
shroud of J uliet, she lay half-swooning in the arms of' her
women. I n the ex cess of his dismay, he could no longer
distinguish fiction from reality; but, throwing himself at
her feet, ex claimed,
" E yes, look your last! A rms, tak e your last embrace! "
Corinne, whose senses still wandered, shriek ed, " Great
God! whatsayyou? W ouldyouleaveme? " -- " N o,
no, I swear! " he cried. A t that instant a crowd of
admiring friends brok e in upon them; she anx iously de-
sired to hear what he had meant to say, but they were not
left alone together for an instant, and could not speak to
each other again that evening.
N ever had any drama produced such an effect in I taly.
The R omans ex tolled the piece, the translation, and the
actress; asserting that this was the tragedy which repre-
sented them to the life, and gave an added value to their
language, by eloq uence at once inspired and natural.
Corinne received all these eulogiums with gracious sweet-
ness; but her soul hung on these brief words, " I swear! "
believing that they contained the secret of her destiny.
E N DO F TH E F I R S TV O L UME .
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? corinne; O R I TA L Y . 125
V O L UME TH E S E CO N D.
BOOKVIII.
TH E S TA TUE S A N DPI CTUR E S .
CH A PTE R I .
A fter such an evening, O swald could not close his eyes
all night. H e had never been so near sacrificing every
thing to Corinne. H e wished not even to learn her
secret, until he had solemnly consecrated his life to her
service; all indecision seemed banished, as he mentally
composed the letter which he intended to write the nex t
morning: but this resolved and happy confidence was not
of long duration. H is thoughts again strayed towards the
past, reminding him that he had loved before; and though
far less than he adored Corinne, nay, an obj ect not to be
compared with her, he had then been hurried into rashness
thatbrok ehisfather' sheart. " H owk nowI ," hecried,
" that he does not once more fear his son may forget his
duty to his native land? O h thou, the best friend I can
ever call mine own ! " he continued, to the miniature of his
parent, " I can no longer hear thy voice, yet teach me by
that silent look , still -- still so powerful over me, how
I should act, that thou mayest gaze from heaven with some
satisfaction on thy son. Y et, yet remember the thirst for
happiness which consumes humanity; be but as indulgent
in thy celestial home, as late thou wert on earth. I should
become more worthy of thee, were my heart content; did
I live with that angelic creature, had I the honour of pro-
tecting-- saving such a woman! S ave her? " he added,
suddenly, " and from what? from the life she loves; a
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? 126 corinne; or italy.
life of triumph, flattery, and freedom! " This reflection of
his own scared him as if it had been spok
of his sire. I n situations lik e O swald'
en by the spirit
s, who has not felt
that secret superstition which mak es us regard our thoughts
and sufferings as warnings from on high? A h, what
struggles beset the soul susceptible alik e of passion and of
conscience! H e paced his chamber in cruel agitation;
sometimes pausing to gaze on the soft and lovely moon-
light of I taly. N ature' s fair smile may render us resigned
to every thing but suspense. Day rose on his -- and
when d' E rfeuil and E dgarmond entered his room, so much
had one night changed him, that both were alarmed for his
health. The Count first brok e silence. " I must confess,"
he said, " that I was charmed last evening. W hat a pity
that such capabilities should be wasted on a woman of
fortune! were Corinne but poor, free as she is, she might
tak e to the stage, and be the glory of I taly. " O swald was
grieved by this speech; yet k new not how to show it;
for such was d' E rfeuil' s peculiarity, that one could not
legitimately obj ect to aught he said, however great the pain
and anger he awak ened. I t is only for feeling hearts to
practise reciprocal indulgence. S elf-love, so sensitive in
its own cause, has rarely any sympathy to spare for others.
Mr. E dgarmond spok e of Corinne in the most pleasing
manner; and N evil replied in E nglish, to defend this theme
from the uncongenial comments of d' E rfeuil, who ex -
claimed, " S o, it seems, I am one too many here: well,
I ' ll to the lady; she must be longing for my opinion of her
J uliet. I have a few hints to give her, for future improve-
ment: they relate merely to detail, but details do much
towards a whole; and she is really so astonishing a woman,
that I shall neglect nothing that can bring her to per-
fection. I ndeed," he added, confidentially addressing
N evil, " I must encourage her to play freq uently;
the surest way of catching some foreigner of rank . Y ou
and I , dear O swald, are too accustomed to fine girls for
any one of them to lead us into such an absurdity; but a
it is
German prince, now, or a S panish grandee -- who k nows?
eh? " A t these words O swald started up, beside himself;
and there is no telling what might have occurred had the
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? 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.
