H appy are
they who consecrate to heaven the sentiments no earthly ties
can merit.
they who consecrate to heaven the sentiments no earthly ties
can merit.
Madame de Stael - Corinna, or Italy
W e
cannot mix in society without, in some way, neglecting
our worship of the dead. I n vain their memory reigns
in the heart' s core; we lend ourselves to the activity of the
living, which banishes the thought of death as painful and
unavailing. I f solitude prolongs not our regrets, life, as it
is, calls back the most feeling minds, renews their in-
terests, their passions. This imperious necessity is one
of the sad conditions of human nature; and although de-
creed by Providence, that man may support the idea of
death, both for himself and others, yet often, in the
midst of our enj oyments, we feel remorse at being still
capable of them, and seem to hear a resigned, affecting
voice ask ing us, -- " H ave you, whom I so loved, for-
gotten me? " O swald felt not now the despair he had
suffered on his first return home after his father' s death,
but a melancholy, deepened by his perceiving that time
had accustomed every one else to the loss he still deplored.
The servants no longer thought it their duty to speak of
their late lord; his place in the rank of life was filled;
children grew up as substitutes for their sires. O swald
shut himself in his father' s room, for lonely meditation.
' O h, human destiny! " he sighed, " what wouldst thou
have? so much life perish? so many thoughts ex pire?
N o, no! my only friend hears me, yet sees my tears, is
present,-- our immortal spirits still commune. O h, God!
be thou my guide. Those iron souls, that seem immovable
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? CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 305
as nature' s rock s, pity not the vacillations and repentance
of the sensitive, the conscientious, who cannot tak e one
step without the fear of straying from the right. They
may bid duty lead them, but duty' s self would vanish
from their eyes, if Thou revealedst not the truth to their
hearts. "
I n the evening O swald roved through the favourite
walk s of his father. W ho has not hoped, in the ardour
of his prayers, that the one dear shade would re-appear,
and miracles be wrought by the force of love? V ain
trust! beyond the tomb we can see nothing. These end-
less uncertainties occupy not the vulgar, but the nobler
the mind the more incontrollably is it involved in specu-
lations. W hile O swald wandered thus absorbed, he did,
indeed, behold a venerable man slowly advancing towards
him. S uch a sight, at such a time and place, took a
strong effect; but he soon recognised his father' s friend,
Mr. Dick son, and with an affection which he never felt for
him before.
CH A PTE R V I I I .
This gentleman in no way eq ualled the parent of O swald,
but he was with him at his death; and having been bom
in the same year, he seemed to linger behind but to carry
L ord N evil some tidings of his son. O swald offered him
his arm as they went up stairs; and felt a pleasure in
paying attention to age, however little resembling that of
his father. Mr. Dick son remembered O swald' s birth, and
hesitated not to speak his mind on all that concerned his
young friend, strongly reprimanding his connection with
Corinne; but his weak arguments would have gained less
ascendancy over O swald' s mind than those of L ady E dgar-
mond, had he not handed him the letter to which she
alluded. W ith considerable tremor he read as follows: --
" W ill you forgive me, my dear friend, if I propose
a change of plan in the union of our families? My
x
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? S 06 CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
son is more than a year younger than your eldest daugh-
ter; will it not be better, therefore, that he should wait
for the little L ucy?
of age; but, as I
named my wishes, I
k
I might confine myself to the subj ect
new Miss E dgarmond' s when first I
should deem myself wanting in con-
fidence, if I did not tell you my true reasons for desiring
that this marriage may not tak e place. W e have k nown
each other for twenty years, and may speak frank ly of our
children, especially while they are young enough to be
improved by our opinions. Y our daughter is a charming
girl, but I seem to be gazing on one of those Grecian
beauties who, of old, enchanted and subdued the world.
Do not be offended by this comparison. S he can have
received from you none but the purest principles; yet she
certainly loves to produce an effect, and create a sensation:
she has more genius than self-love; such talents as hers
necessarily engender a taste for display; and I k now no
theatre that could suffice the activity of a spirit, whose
impetuous fancy, and ardent feelings, break through each
word she utters. S he would inevitably wean my son from
E ngland; for such a woman could not be happy here:
only I taly can content her. S he must have that free life
which is guided but by fantasy: our domestic country
habits must thwart her every taste. A man born in this
happy land ought to be in all things E nglish, and fulfil
the duties to which he is so fortunately called. I n coun-
tries whose political intitutions give men such honourable
opportunities for public action, the women should bloom
in the shade: can you ex pect so distinguished a person as
your daughter to be satisfied with such a lot? Tak e my
advice. Marry her in I taly: her religion and manners
suit that country. I f my son should wed her, I am sure
it would be from love, for rio one can be more engaging:
to please her, he would endeavour to introduce foreign
customs into his establishment, and would soon lose his
national character, those prej udices, if you please to call
them so, which unite us with each other, and render
us a body free but indissoluble, or which can only be
brok en up by the death of its last associate. My son could
not be comfortable where his wife was unhappy: he is
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? corinne; or italy. 307
sensitive, even to weak ness; and his ex patriation, if I
to see it, would render me most miserable; not merely as
deprived of my son, but as k nowing him lost to the glory
of serving his native land. I s it worthy a mountaineer to
lived
drag on a useless life amid the pleasures of I taly? A S cot
become the cicisbeo of his own wife, if not of some other
man' s? N either the guide nor the prop of his family!
I even rej oice that O swald is now in F rance, and still un-
k nown to a lady whose empire over him would be too
great. I dare conj ure you, my dear friend, should I die
before his marriage, do not let him meet your eldest daugh-
ter until L ucy be of an age to fix his affections. L et him
lear n my wishes, if req uisite. I k now he will respect
them-- the more if I should then be removed from this
life. Give all your attention, I entreat you, to his union
with L
all ex
true E
ucy. Child as she is, her features, look , and voice,
press the most endearing modesty. S he will be a
nglishwoman, and may constitute the happiness of
my boy. I f I do not live to witness their felicity, I shall
ex ult over it in heaven; and when we re-unite there, my
dear friend, our prayers and benedictions will protect our
children still. " E ver yours,
" N evil. "
A fter reading this, O swald remained silent, and left
Mr. Dick son time to continue his long discourse without
interruption. H e admired the j udgment of his friend,
who, nevertheless, he said, was far from anticipating the
reprehensible life Miss E dgarmond had since led: a mar-
riage between O swald and herself now, he added, would
be an eternal insult to L ord N evil' s memory;
appeared, during his son' s fatal residence in F
passed a whole summer at L ady E dgarmond'
who, it
rance, had
s, solacing him-
self by superintending the education of his favourite L ucy.
I n fact, without either artifice or forbearance, Mr. Dick -
son attack ed the heart of O swald through all the avenues
of sensibility. Thus every thing conspired against the ab-
sent Corinne, who had no means, save letters, for reviving,
from time to time, the tenderness of O swald. S he had to
contend with his love of country, his filial remorse, the
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? 308 corinne; or I taly.
ex hortations of his friends, in favour of resolutions so easy
to adopt, as they led him towards a budding beauty, whose
? very charm seemed to harmonise with the calm, chaste
hopes of a domestic lot.
BOOKXVII.
CO R I N N B I N S CO TL A N D.
CH A PTE R I .
Corinne, meanwhile, had settled in a villa on the
B renta: she could not q uit the scenes in which she had
last met O swald-- and also hoped that she should here re-
ceive her letters earlier than at R ome. Prince Castel
F orte had written, begging leave to visit her; but she
refused. The friendship ex isting between them com-
manded mutual confidence; and had he striven to detach
her from her love, -- had he told her what she so
often told herself, -- that absence must decrease N evil' s
attachment, one inconsiderate word would have been a
dagger to her heart. S he wished to see no one; yet it is
not easy to live alone, while the soul is ardent, and its
situation unfortunate. The employments of solitude re-
q uire peace of mind: if that be lost, forced gaiety, how-
ever troublesome, is more serviceable than meditation. I f
we could trace madness to its source, we should surely
find that it originated in the power of one single thought,
which ex cluded all mental variety. Corinne' s imagination
consumed herself, unless diverted by ex ternal ex citement.
W hat a life now succeeded that which she had led for
nearly a year, with the man of her heart' s choice for ever
with her, as her most appreciating companion, her tenderest
friend and fondest lover! N ow all was barren around
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? corinne; O R I TA L Y . S O Q
and gloomy within her. The only interesting event was the
arrival of a letter from him; and the irregularity of the
post, during winter, every day tormented her with ex pect-
ations, often disappointed. E ach morning she walk ed on the
bank s of the canal, now covered by large leaved water lilies,
watching for the black gondola, which she had learnt to dis-
tinguish afar off. H ow did her heart beat, as she perceived
it! S ometimes the messenger would answer, " N o letters
for you, madam," and carelessly proceed to other matters,
as if nothing were so simple as to have no letters: another
time he would say, " Y es, madam, here are some. " S he
ran over them all with a trembling hand: if the well-
k nown characters of O swald met not her eye, the day wa6
terrible, the night sleepless, the morrow redoubled her
anx iety and suspense. " S urely," she thought, " he might
write more freq uently; " and her nex t letter reproached
his silence. H e j ustified himself; but his style had already
lost some of its tenderness: instead of ex pressing his own
solicitude, it seemed but attempting to dissipate hers.
This change did not escape her: day and night would
she reperuse a particular phrase, seek ing some new inter-
pretation on which to build a few days' composure. This
state shattered her nerves: she became superstitious.
Constantly occupied by the same fear, we may draw pre-
sages from every thing. O ne day in every week she went
to V enice, for the purpose of receiving her letters some
hours earlier: this merely varied the tortures of waiting;
and in a short time she conceived as great a horror for
every obj ect she encountered on her way, as if they had
been the spectres of her own thoughts, re-appearing clothed
in the most dreadful aspects. O nce, on entering the
church of S t. Mark , she remembered how, on her arrival
in V enice, the idea had occurred to her that perhaps, ere
she departed, O swald would lead her thither to call her
his in sight of heaven. S he gave way once more to this
illusion; saw him approach the altar; heard him vow be-
fore his God to love her for ever; they k nelt together,
and she received the nuptial crown. The organ, then
playing, and the lights that shone through the aisle, gave
life to her vision; and for a moment she felt not the
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? 310 corinne; or italy.
cruel void of absence: but suddenly a dreary murmur suc-
ceeded -- she turned, and beheld a bier brought into the
church. S he staggered; her sight almost failed; and from
that moment she felt convinced that her love for O swald
would lead her but to the grave.
CH A PTE R I I .
L ord N evil was now the most unhappy and irresolute of
men. H e must either break the heart of Corinne, or
outrage the memory of his father. Cruel alternative! to
escape which he called on death a thousand times a day. A t
last he once more resorted to his habitual procrastination,
telling himself that he would go to V enice, since he could
not resolve to write Corinne the truth, and mak e her his
j udge; but then he daily ex pected that his regiment would
embark . H e was free from all engagement with L ucy.
H e believed it his duty not to marry Corinne; but in
what other way could he pass his life with her? Could
he desert his country? or bring her to it, and ruin her
fair name for ever? H e resolved to hide from her the
obstacles which he had encountered from her stepmother,
because he still hoped ultimately to surmount them.
Manifold causes rendered his letters brief, or filled them
with subj ects remote from his future prospects. A ny one,
save Corinne, would have guessed all; but passion rendered
her at once q uick -sighted and credulous. I n such a state
we see nothing in a natural manner; but discover what is
concealed, while blind to that which should seem clearest.
W e cannot brook the idea of suffering so much without
some ex traordinary cause; we will not confess to ourselves
that such despair may be produced by the simplest circum-
stances in life. Though O swald pitied her, and blamed
himself, his correspondence betrayed an irritation which
it did not ex plain; wildly reproaching her for what he
endured, as if she had not been far the most unfortunate.
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? CO R I N N E J O B I TA L Y . 311
This tone deprived her of all mastery over herself. H er
mind was disordered by the most fatal images: she could
not believe that the being capable of writing with such
abrupt and heartless bitterness was the same O swald she
had k nown so generous, so tender. S he felt a resistless
desire to see and speak with him once more. " L et me
hear him tell me," she raved, " that it is he who thus
mercilessly stabs her whose least pain once so strongly
afflicted him; let him say so, and I submit: but some
infernal power seems to inspire this language; it is not
O swald who writes thus to me. They have slandered me
to him: some treachery must be ex erted, or I could not
be used thus. " S he adopted the resolution of going to
S cotland, if we may so call the impulse of an imperious
grief, which would fain alter its present situation at all
hazards. S he dared not write nor speak to any one on
this subj ect, still flattering herself that some fortunate
change would prevent her acting on a plan which, never-
theless, soothed her imagination, and forced her to look
forward. To read was now impossible: music thrilled
her to agony; and the charms of nature induced a reverie
that redoubled her distress. This creature, once so ani-
mated, now passed whole days in motionless silence. H er
internal pangs were but betrayed by a mortal paleness:
her eyes were freq uently fix ed upon her watch, though she
lenew not why she should wish one hour to succeed an-
other, since not one of them could bring her aught, save
restless nights and despairing days.
O ne evening she was informed that a female was
earnestly req uesting to see her: she consented; and the
woman entered her presence dressed in black , and veiled,
to conceal, as much as possible, a face deformed by the
most frightful malady. Thus wronged by nature, she
consoled herself by collecting alms for the poor; demanding
them nobly, and with an affecting confidence of success.
Corinne gave her a large sum, entreating her prayers in
return. The poor being, resigned to her own fate, was
astonished to behold a person so lovely, young, rich, and
celebrated, a prey to sorrow. " My God, madam! " she
cried," I wouldyouwereas" calmasI ! " W hatanaddress
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? 312 corinne; or italy.
from such an obj ect tothemost brilliantwomaninltaly! A las!
the power of love is too vast in souls lik e hers.
H appy are
they who consecrate to heaven the sentiments no earthly ties
can merit. That time was not yet come for poor Corinne;
she still deceived herself, still sought for bliss; she prayed,
indeed, but not submissively. H er peerless talents, the
glory they had won, gave her too great an interest in her-
self. I t is only by detaching our hearts from all the world
that we can renounce the thing we love. E very other sa-
crifice must precede this: life may be long a desert ere
the fire that made it so is q uenched. A t last, in the
midst of this sad indecision, Corinne received a letter from
O swald, telling her that his regiment would embark in six
week s, and that, as its colonel, he could not profit by this
delay to visit V enice without inj uring his reputation.
There was but j ust time for Corinne to reach E ngland, ere
he must leave it, perhaps for ever. This thought decided
her; she was not ignorant of her own rashness; she j udged
herself more severely than any one else could. Pity her,
then! W hat woman has a right to " cast the first stone"
at the unfortunate sister, who j ustifies not her fault, hopes
for no pleasure, but flies from one misfortune to another, as
if driven on by persecuting spirits r1 H er letter to Castel
F orte thus concludes : -- " A dieu, my faithful protector!
A dieu, my friends in R ome! with whom I passed such
j oyous,easydays. I tisdone-- allisover. F atehas
strick en me. I feel the wound is mortal. I struggle still,
but soon shall fall. I must see him again. I am not an-
swerable for myself. A storm is in my breast such as I
cannot govern; but I draw near the term at which all
will cease. This is the last act of my history: it will end
in penitence and death. O h, wild confusion of the human
heart! E ven now, while I am obeying the will of passion,
I see the shades of evening in the distance, I hear a voice
divine that whispers me, -- ' S till these fond agitations,
hapless wretch! the abode of endless rest awaits thee. '
O h God! grant me the presence of mine O swald once more,
but one last moment! The very memory of his features
now is dark ened by despair; but is there not something
heavenly in his look ? Did not the air become more pure,
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? corinne; or italy. S I S
more brilliant, as he approached? Y ou, my friend, have
seen him with me, have witnessed his k ind cares, and
the respect with which he inspired others for the woman
of his choice. H ow can I live without him? Pardon my
ingratitude: ought I thus to req uite thy disinterested con-
stancy? B ut I am no longer worthy any blessing; and
might pass for insane, had I not still the miserable con-
sciousness of mine own madness. F arewell, then-- yes,
farewell! "
CH A PTE R I I I .
H ow pitiable is the feeling, delicate woman, who commits
a great imprudence for a man whose love she k nows in-
ferior to her own! S he has but herself to be her support.
I f she has risk ed repose and character to do some signal
service for her idol, she may be envied. S weet is the
self-devotion that braves all danger to save a life that is
dear to us, or solace the distress which rends a heart re-
sponsive to our own. B ut thus to travel unk nown lands,
to arrive without being ex pected, to blush before the one
beloved, for the unask ed proof thus given of his power,--
painful degradation! W hat would it be if we thus in-
volved the happiness of others, and outraged our duty to
more sacred bonds? Corinne was free. S he sacrificed
but her own peace and glory. H er conduct was irrational,
indeed, but it could overcloud no destiny save hers. *
O n landing in E ngland, Corinne learnt from the papers
that L ord N evil' s departure was still delayed. S he saw
no society in L ondon ex cept the family of a bank er, to
whom she had been recommended under a false name.
H e was interested in her at first sight, and enj oined his
wife and daughter to pay her all the attentions in their
power. S he fell dangerously ill, and, for a fortnight, her
new friends watched over her with the most tender care.
* The Corinnes of this world care little how they pain the Castel F
ortes.
The mere esteem of such a man would have been worth even the love of twenty
O swalds. -- Tk .
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? 314 corinne; or italy.
S he heard that L ord N evil was in S cotland, but must
shortly rej oin his regiment in L ondon. S he k new not
how to announce herself, as she had not written to him
respecting her intentions -- indeed O swald had received
no letter from her for three months. H e mentally accused
her of infidelity, as if he had any right to complain. O n
his return to town he went first to his agents, where he
hoped to find letters from I taly: there were none;
he was musing over this silence, he encountered Mr.
and, as
E dgarmond, who ask ed him for news of Corinne. " I hear
nothing of her," he replied, irritably. -- " That I can
easily understand," added E dgarmond: " these I
always forget a foreigner, once out of sight: one ought
never to heed it; they would be too delightful if they
united constancy with genius: it is but fair that our own
talians
women should have some advantage! " H e sq ueezed
O swald' s hand as he said this, and took leave, as he was j ust
starting for W ales; but his few words had pierced their
hearer' s heart. -- "
should regret me, since I
but so soon to forget!
future. "
I am wrong," he said, " to wish she
cannot constitute her happiness;
This blights the past as well as the
Despite his father' s will he had resolved not to see L ucy
more; and even scorned himself for the impression she had
made on him. Condemned as he was to defeat the hopes of
Corinne, he felt that, at least, he ought to preserve his
heart' s faith inviolately hers: no duty urged him to for-
feit that. H e renewed his solicitations in her cause, by
letters to L ady E dgarmond, who did not even deign to
answer them: meanwhile Mr. Dick son assured him that
the only way of melting her to his wishes would be --
marrying her daughter; whose establishment, she feared,
Corinne might frustrate, if she resumed her name, and
was received by her family. F ate had hitherto spared her
the pang of suspecting O swald' s interest in her sister.
N ever was she herself more worthy of him than now.
During her illness, the candid, simple beings by whom
she was surrounded had given her a sincere taste for
E nglish habits and manners. The few persons she saw
were any thing but distinguished, yet possessed an estimable
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? corinne; or italy. 315
strength and j ustice of mind. Their affection for her was
less professing than that to which she had been accustomed,
but evinced with every opportunity by fresh good offices.
The austerity of L ady E dgarmond, the tedium of a small
country town, had cruelly misled her, as to the k indness,
the true nobility to be found in the country she had aban-
doned: unluck ily she now became attached to it under
such circumstances that it would have been better for her
own peace had she never been untaught her dislik e.
CH A PTE R I V .
The bank er' s family, who were for ever studying how to
prove their friendship, pressed Corinne to see Mrs. S iddons
perform I sabella, in the F atal Marriage, one of the char-
acters in which that great actress best displayed her ad-
mirable genius. Corinne refused for some time: at last
she remembered that L ord N evil had often compared her
manner of recitation with that of Mrs. S iddons; she was
therefore anx ious to see her, and, thick ly veiled, went to
a small box , whence she could see all, herself unseen.
S hek newnotifO swaldwasinL ondon,butfearedtobe
recognised by any one who might have met her in I taly.
The commanding beauty and deep sensibility of the heroine
so rivetted her attention, that, during the earliest acts, her
eyes were never turned from the stage.
E nglish declamation is better calculated than any other
to touch the soul, especially when such fine talents give it
all its power and originality. I t is less artificial, less con-
ventional, than that of F rance. The impressions produced
are more immediate-- for thus would true despair ex press
itself: the plots and versification of E nglish dramas too
are less remote from real life, and their effect more heart-
rending. I t req uires far higher genius to become a great actor
in F rance, so little liberty being left to individual manner,
so much influence attached to general rules (4); but in
E ngland you may risk any thing, if inspired by nature
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? S I 6 CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
The long groans that appear ridiculous if described, mak e
those shudder who hear them. Mrs. S iddons, the most
nobly mannered woman who ever adorned a theatre, lost
none of her dignity by prostrating herself on the earth.
There is no action but may become graceful, if prompted
by an impulse, which rises from the depths of the breast,
and lords it over the mind which conceives it, still more
than over its witnesses. V arious nations have their
different styles of tragic acting, but the ex pression of
grief is understood from one end of the world to the other;
and, from the savage to the k ing, there is some similarity
between all men while they are really suffering.
B etween the fourth and fifth acts, Corinne observed
that all eyes were turned towards a box , in which she be-
held L ady E dgarmond and her daughter: she could not
doubt that it was L ucy, much as the last seven years had
embellished her form. The death of a rich relation had
obliged L ady E dgarmond to visit L ondon, and settle the
succession of his fortune. L ucy was more dressed than
usual * ; and it was long since so beauteous a girl had been
seen, even in E ngland, where the women are so lovely.
Corinne felt a melancholy surprise: she thought it impossible
for O swald to resist that countenance. O n comparing herself
with her sister she was so conscious of her own inferiority,
that she ex aggerated (if such ex aggeration be possible) the
charm of that fair complex ion, those golden curls, and in-
nocent blue eyes -- that image of life' s spring! S he felt
almost degraded in setting her own mental acq uirements in
competition with gifts thus lavished by H eaven itself.
S uddenly, in an opposite box , she perceived L ord N evil,
whose gaze was fix ed on L ucy. W hat a moment for
Corinne! S he once more beheld that face, for which she
had so long searched her memory every instant, as if the
image could be effaced -- she beheld it again -- absorbed
by the beauty of another. O swald could not guess the
presence of Corinne; but if his eyes had even wandered
* I f E nglishwomen ever do go into public immediately after the death of a
near relation, it must be in deep mourning. Corinne saw these wonders very
plainly, considering that L ady E dgarmond and L ucy sat on the same side of the
house with herself; which must have been the case, by her calling O swald' s an
opposite box . -- Th.
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? CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 317
towards her, she might, from such a chance, have drawn
a happy omen.
Mrs. S iddons re-appeared, and L ord N evil look ed but
on her. Corinne breathed again, trusting that mere cu-
riosity had drawn his glance towards L ucy. The tragedy
became every moment more affecting; and the fair girl
was bathed in tears, which she strove to conceal, by re-
tiring to the back of her box . N evil noticed this with
increased interest. A t last the dreadful instant came
when I sabella, laughing at the fruitless efforts of- those
who would restrain her, stabs herself to the heart. That
despairing laugh is the most difficult and powerful effect
which tragic acting can produce; its bitter irony moves
one to more than tears. H ow terrible must be the suffer-
ing that inspires so barbarous a j oy, and, in the sight of
our own blood, feels the ferocious pleasure that one might
ex perience when tak ing full revenge upon some savage
foe. I t was evident that L ucy' s agitation had alarmed
her mother, who turned anx iously towards her. O swald
rose, as if he would have flown to them; but he soon
reseated himself, and Corinne felt some relief; yet she
sighed,-- " My sister L ucy, once so dear to me, has a
feeling heart; why should 1 then wish to deprive her of a
blessing she may enj oy without impediment, without any
sacrifice on O swald' s part? "
W hen the play concluded, Corinne stayed until the
parties who were leaving the house had gone, that she
might avoid recognition: she concealed herself near the
door of her box , where she could see what passed near
her. A s soon as L ucy came out, a crowd assembled to
look on her; and ex clamations in praise of her beauty were
heard from all sides, which greatly embarrassed her: the
infirm L ady E dgarmond was ill able to brave the throng,
in spite the cares of her child, and the politeness shown
them both; but they k new no one, therefore no gentleman
dared accost them. L ord N evil, seeing their situation,
hastened to offer each an arm. L ucy, blushing and
downcast, availed herself of this attention. They passed
elose by Corinne, whom O swald little suspected of wit-
nessing a sight so painful: he was proud of thus escort-
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? S I 8 corinne; or italy.
ing one of the handsomest girls in E ngland through the
numerous admirers who followed her steps. *
CHAPTER V.
Corinne returned to her dwelling in cruel disq uiet;
k nowing what steps to tak e, how to apprise N
arrival, nor what to say in defence of her motives;
not
evil of her
for
every instant decreased her confidence in his love: some-
times it seemed as if the man she sought to see again were
some passionately beloved stranger, who could not even
recognise her. S he sent to his house the nex t evening,
and was informed that he had gone to L ady E dgarmond' s;
the same answer was brought her on the following day,
with tidings that her L adyship was ill, and would return
to N orthumberland on her recovery. Corinne waited
for her removal ere she let O swald k now she was in E
land. E very evening she walk ed by her stepmother'
residence, and saw his carriage at its door. A n in-
ng-
s
ex pressible oppression seized on her heart; yet she daily
persevered, and daily received the same shock . S he erred,
however, in supposing that O swald was there as the suitor
of L ucy.
A s he led L ady E dgarmond to her carriage, after the
play, she told him that Corinne was concerned in the
will of their late k insman; and begged that he would
write to I taly on the arrangements made in this affair.
A s O swald promised to call, he fancied he felt the
hand of L ucy tremble. Corinne' s silence persuaded
him that he was no longer dear to her; and the emo-
tion of this young girl gave him the idea that she was
interested in him. Y et he thought not of break ing his
* I f so scrupulous a person as L ady E dgarmond would tak e her daughter to
a theatre without male protection, she could not, fortunately, have been ex -
posed to all these annoyances. O ur private box es are few. E ach side has its
own passage and staircase. O swald might mak e his way from one to the other;
but if all the individuals on one side left, the house as soon as the tragedy con.
eluded, they could not, after q uitting their box es, be thus seen by the parties
opposite. 1 have vainly endeavoured to clear this obscurity Tu.
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? corinnb; or italy. 319
promise to Corinne: the ring she held was a pledge that
he would never marry another without her consent. H e
sought her stepmother nex t day, merely on her account;
but L ady E dgarmond was so ill, and her daughter so un-
easy at finding herself in L ondon without another relative
near her, without even k nowing to what physician she
should apply, that, in duty to the friends of his father,
O swald felt he ought to devote his time to their service.
The cold, proud L ady E dgarmond had never softened so
much as she did now; letting him visit her every day
without his having said a word that could be construed
into a proposal for her daughter, whose beauty, rank , and
fortune rendered her one of the first matches in E ngland.
S ince her appearance in public, her address had been
eagerly enq uired, and her door besieged by the nobility;
yet her mother went no where, -- received no one but L ord
N evil. Could he avoid feeling flattered by this silent and
delicate generosity, which trusted him without conditions,
without complaint? yet every time he went did he fear
that his presence would be interpreted into an engagement.
H e would have ceased to go thither as soon as Corinne' s
business was settled; but that L ady E dgarmond under-
went a relapse, more dangerous than her first attack ; and
had she died, L ucy would have had no friend beside her
but himself. S he had never breathed a word that could
assure him of her preference; yet he fancied he detected
it in the light but sudden changes of her cheek , the abrupt
fall of her lashes, and the rapidity of her breathing. H e stu-
died her young heart with tender interest; and her reserve
left him always uncertain as to the nature of her sen-
timents. The highest eloq uence of passion cannot entirely
satisfy the fancy: we desire something beyond it; and
not finding that, must either cool or sate; while the faint
light which we perceive through clouds, long k eeps our
curiosity in suspense, and seems to promise a whole future
of new discoveries: this ex pectation is never gratified;
for when we k now what all this mystery hid, its charm
is gone, and we awak e to regret the candid impulses of a
more animated character.
cannot mix in society without, in some way, neglecting
our worship of the dead. I n vain their memory reigns
in the heart' s core; we lend ourselves to the activity of the
living, which banishes the thought of death as painful and
unavailing. I f solitude prolongs not our regrets, life, as it
is, calls back the most feeling minds, renews their in-
terests, their passions. This imperious necessity is one
of the sad conditions of human nature; and although de-
creed by Providence, that man may support the idea of
death, both for himself and others, yet often, in the
midst of our enj oyments, we feel remorse at being still
capable of them, and seem to hear a resigned, affecting
voice ask ing us, -- " H ave you, whom I so loved, for-
gotten me? " O swald felt not now the despair he had
suffered on his first return home after his father' s death,
but a melancholy, deepened by his perceiving that time
had accustomed every one else to the loss he still deplored.
The servants no longer thought it their duty to speak of
their late lord; his place in the rank of life was filled;
children grew up as substitutes for their sires. O swald
shut himself in his father' s room, for lonely meditation.
' O h, human destiny! " he sighed, " what wouldst thou
have? so much life perish? so many thoughts ex pire?
N o, no! my only friend hears me, yet sees my tears, is
present,-- our immortal spirits still commune. O h, God!
be thou my guide. Those iron souls, that seem immovable
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? CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 305
as nature' s rock s, pity not the vacillations and repentance
of the sensitive, the conscientious, who cannot tak e one
step without the fear of straying from the right. They
may bid duty lead them, but duty' s self would vanish
from their eyes, if Thou revealedst not the truth to their
hearts. "
I n the evening O swald roved through the favourite
walk s of his father. W ho has not hoped, in the ardour
of his prayers, that the one dear shade would re-appear,
and miracles be wrought by the force of love? V ain
trust! beyond the tomb we can see nothing. These end-
less uncertainties occupy not the vulgar, but the nobler
the mind the more incontrollably is it involved in specu-
lations. W hile O swald wandered thus absorbed, he did,
indeed, behold a venerable man slowly advancing towards
him. S uch a sight, at such a time and place, took a
strong effect; but he soon recognised his father' s friend,
Mr. Dick son, and with an affection which he never felt for
him before.
CH A PTE R V I I I .
This gentleman in no way eq ualled the parent of O swald,
but he was with him at his death; and having been bom
in the same year, he seemed to linger behind but to carry
L ord N evil some tidings of his son. O swald offered him
his arm as they went up stairs; and felt a pleasure in
paying attention to age, however little resembling that of
his father. Mr. Dick son remembered O swald' s birth, and
hesitated not to speak his mind on all that concerned his
young friend, strongly reprimanding his connection with
Corinne; but his weak arguments would have gained less
ascendancy over O swald' s mind than those of L ady E dgar-
mond, had he not handed him the letter to which she
alluded. W ith considerable tremor he read as follows: --
" W ill you forgive me, my dear friend, if I propose
a change of plan in the union of our families? My
x
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? S 06 CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
son is more than a year younger than your eldest daugh-
ter; will it not be better, therefore, that he should wait
for the little L ucy?
of age; but, as I
named my wishes, I
k
I might confine myself to the subj ect
new Miss E dgarmond' s when first I
should deem myself wanting in con-
fidence, if I did not tell you my true reasons for desiring
that this marriage may not tak e place. W e have k nown
each other for twenty years, and may speak frank ly of our
children, especially while they are young enough to be
improved by our opinions. Y our daughter is a charming
girl, but I seem to be gazing on one of those Grecian
beauties who, of old, enchanted and subdued the world.
Do not be offended by this comparison. S he can have
received from you none but the purest principles; yet she
certainly loves to produce an effect, and create a sensation:
she has more genius than self-love; such talents as hers
necessarily engender a taste for display; and I k now no
theatre that could suffice the activity of a spirit, whose
impetuous fancy, and ardent feelings, break through each
word she utters. S he would inevitably wean my son from
E ngland; for such a woman could not be happy here:
only I taly can content her. S he must have that free life
which is guided but by fantasy: our domestic country
habits must thwart her every taste. A man born in this
happy land ought to be in all things E nglish, and fulfil
the duties to which he is so fortunately called. I n coun-
tries whose political intitutions give men such honourable
opportunities for public action, the women should bloom
in the shade: can you ex pect so distinguished a person as
your daughter to be satisfied with such a lot? Tak e my
advice. Marry her in I taly: her religion and manners
suit that country. I f my son should wed her, I am sure
it would be from love, for rio one can be more engaging:
to please her, he would endeavour to introduce foreign
customs into his establishment, and would soon lose his
national character, those prej udices, if you please to call
them so, which unite us with each other, and render
us a body free but indissoluble, or which can only be
brok en up by the death of its last associate. My son could
not be comfortable where his wife was unhappy: he is
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? corinne; or italy. 307
sensitive, even to weak ness; and his ex patriation, if I
to see it, would render me most miserable; not merely as
deprived of my son, but as k nowing him lost to the glory
of serving his native land. I s it worthy a mountaineer to
lived
drag on a useless life amid the pleasures of I taly? A S cot
become the cicisbeo of his own wife, if not of some other
man' s? N either the guide nor the prop of his family!
I even rej oice that O swald is now in F rance, and still un-
k nown to a lady whose empire over him would be too
great. I dare conj ure you, my dear friend, should I die
before his marriage, do not let him meet your eldest daugh-
ter until L ucy be of an age to fix his affections. L et him
lear n my wishes, if req uisite. I k now he will respect
them-- the more if I should then be removed from this
life. Give all your attention, I entreat you, to his union
with L
all ex
true E
ucy. Child as she is, her features, look , and voice,
press the most endearing modesty. S he will be a
nglishwoman, and may constitute the happiness of
my boy. I f I do not live to witness their felicity, I shall
ex ult over it in heaven; and when we re-unite there, my
dear friend, our prayers and benedictions will protect our
children still. " E ver yours,
" N evil. "
A fter reading this, O swald remained silent, and left
Mr. Dick son time to continue his long discourse without
interruption. H e admired the j udgment of his friend,
who, nevertheless, he said, was far from anticipating the
reprehensible life Miss E dgarmond had since led: a mar-
riage between O swald and herself now, he added, would
be an eternal insult to L ord N evil' s memory;
appeared, during his son' s fatal residence in F
passed a whole summer at L ady E dgarmond'
who, it
rance, had
s, solacing him-
self by superintending the education of his favourite L ucy.
I n fact, without either artifice or forbearance, Mr. Dick -
son attack ed the heart of O swald through all the avenues
of sensibility. Thus every thing conspired against the ab-
sent Corinne, who had no means, save letters, for reviving,
from time to time, the tenderness of O swald. S he had to
contend with his love of country, his filial remorse, the
x2
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? 308 corinne; or I taly.
ex hortations of his friends, in favour of resolutions so easy
to adopt, as they led him towards a budding beauty, whose
? very charm seemed to harmonise with the calm, chaste
hopes of a domestic lot.
BOOKXVII.
CO R I N N B I N S CO TL A N D.
CH A PTE R I .
Corinne, meanwhile, had settled in a villa on the
B renta: she could not q uit the scenes in which she had
last met O swald-- and also hoped that she should here re-
ceive her letters earlier than at R ome. Prince Castel
F orte had written, begging leave to visit her; but she
refused. The friendship ex isting between them com-
manded mutual confidence; and had he striven to detach
her from her love, -- had he told her what she so
often told herself, -- that absence must decrease N evil' s
attachment, one inconsiderate word would have been a
dagger to her heart. S he wished to see no one; yet it is
not easy to live alone, while the soul is ardent, and its
situation unfortunate. The employments of solitude re-
q uire peace of mind: if that be lost, forced gaiety, how-
ever troublesome, is more serviceable than meditation. I f
we could trace madness to its source, we should surely
find that it originated in the power of one single thought,
which ex cluded all mental variety. Corinne' s imagination
consumed herself, unless diverted by ex ternal ex citement.
W hat a life now succeeded that which she had led for
nearly a year, with the man of her heart' s choice for ever
with her, as her most appreciating companion, her tenderest
friend and fondest lover! N ow all was barren around
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? corinne; O R I TA L Y . S O Q
and gloomy within her. The only interesting event was the
arrival of a letter from him; and the irregularity of the
post, during winter, every day tormented her with ex pect-
ations, often disappointed. E ach morning she walk ed on the
bank s of the canal, now covered by large leaved water lilies,
watching for the black gondola, which she had learnt to dis-
tinguish afar off. H ow did her heart beat, as she perceived
it! S ometimes the messenger would answer, " N o letters
for you, madam," and carelessly proceed to other matters,
as if nothing were so simple as to have no letters: another
time he would say, " Y es, madam, here are some. " S he
ran over them all with a trembling hand: if the well-
k nown characters of O swald met not her eye, the day wa6
terrible, the night sleepless, the morrow redoubled her
anx iety and suspense. " S urely," she thought, " he might
write more freq uently; " and her nex t letter reproached
his silence. H e j ustified himself; but his style had already
lost some of its tenderness: instead of ex pressing his own
solicitude, it seemed but attempting to dissipate hers.
This change did not escape her: day and night would
she reperuse a particular phrase, seek ing some new inter-
pretation on which to build a few days' composure. This
state shattered her nerves: she became superstitious.
Constantly occupied by the same fear, we may draw pre-
sages from every thing. O ne day in every week she went
to V enice, for the purpose of receiving her letters some
hours earlier: this merely varied the tortures of waiting;
and in a short time she conceived as great a horror for
every obj ect she encountered on her way, as if they had
been the spectres of her own thoughts, re-appearing clothed
in the most dreadful aspects. O nce, on entering the
church of S t. Mark , she remembered how, on her arrival
in V enice, the idea had occurred to her that perhaps, ere
she departed, O swald would lead her thither to call her
his in sight of heaven. S he gave way once more to this
illusion; saw him approach the altar; heard him vow be-
fore his God to love her for ever; they k nelt together,
and she received the nuptial crown. The organ, then
playing, and the lights that shone through the aisle, gave
life to her vision; and for a moment she felt not the
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? 310 corinne; or italy.
cruel void of absence: but suddenly a dreary murmur suc-
ceeded -- she turned, and beheld a bier brought into the
church. S he staggered; her sight almost failed; and from
that moment she felt convinced that her love for O swald
would lead her but to the grave.
CH A PTE R I I .
L ord N evil was now the most unhappy and irresolute of
men. H e must either break the heart of Corinne, or
outrage the memory of his father. Cruel alternative! to
escape which he called on death a thousand times a day. A t
last he once more resorted to his habitual procrastination,
telling himself that he would go to V enice, since he could
not resolve to write Corinne the truth, and mak e her his
j udge; but then he daily ex pected that his regiment would
embark . H e was free from all engagement with L ucy.
H e believed it his duty not to marry Corinne; but in
what other way could he pass his life with her? Could
he desert his country? or bring her to it, and ruin her
fair name for ever? H e resolved to hide from her the
obstacles which he had encountered from her stepmother,
because he still hoped ultimately to surmount them.
Manifold causes rendered his letters brief, or filled them
with subj ects remote from his future prospects. A ny one,
save Corinne, would have guessed all; but passion rendered
her at once q uick -sighted and credulous. I n such a state
we see nothing in a natural manner; but discover what is
concealed, while blind to that which should seem clearest.
W e cannot brook the idea of suffering so much without
some ex traordinary cause; we will not confess to ourselves
that such despair may be produced by the simplest circum-
stances in life. Though O swald pitied her, and blamed
himself, his correspondence betrayed an irritation which
it did not ex plain; wildly reproaching her for what he
endured, as if she had not been far the most unfortunate.
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? CO R I N N E J O B I TA L Y . 311
This tone deprived her of all mastery over herself. H er
mind was disordered by the most fatal images: she could
not believe that the being capable of writing with such
abrupt and heartless bitterness was the same O swald she
had k nown so generous, so tender. S he felt a resistless
desire to see and speak with him once more. " L et me
hear him tell me," she raved, " that it is he who thus
mercilessly stabs her whose least pain once so strongly
afflicted him; let him say so, and I submit: but some
infernal power seems to inspire this language; it is not
O swald who writes thus to me. They have slandered me
to him: some treachery must be ex erted, or I could not
be used thus. " S he adopted the resolution of going to
S cotland, if we may so call the impulse of an imperious
grief, which would fain alter its present situation at all
hazards. S he dared not write nor speak to any one on
this subj ect, still flattering herself that some fortunate
change would prevent her acting on a plan which, never-
theless, soothed her imagination, and forced her to look
forward. To read was now impossible: music thrilled
her to agony; and the charms of nature induced a reverie
that redoubled her distress. This creature, once so ani-
mated, now passed whole days in motionless silence. H er
internal pangs were but betrayed by a mortal paleness:
her eyes were freq uently fix ed upon her watch, though she
lenew not why she should wish one hour to succeed an-
other, since not one of them could bring her aught, save
restless nights and despairing days.
O ne evening she was informed that a female was
earnestly req uesting to see her: she consented; and the
woman entered her presence dressed in black , and veiled,
to conceal, as much as possible, a face deformed by the
most frightful malady. Thus wronged by nature, she
consoled herself by collecting alms for the poor; demanding
them nobly, and with an affecting confidence of success.
Corinne gave her a large sum, entreating her prayers in
return. The poor being, resigned to her own fate, was
astonished to behold a person so lovely, young, rich, and
celebrated, a prey to sorrow. " My God, madam! " she
cried," I wouldyouwereas" calmasI ! " W hatanaddress
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? 312 corinne; or italy.
from such an obj ect tothemost brilliantwomaninltaly! A las!
the power of love is too vast in souls lik e hers.
H appy are
they who consecrate to heaven the sentiments no earthly ties
can merit. That time was not yet come for poor Corinne;
she still deceived herself, still sought for bliss; she prayed,
indeed, but not submissively. H er peerless talents, the
glory they had won, gave her too great an interest in her-
self. I t is only by detaching our hearts from all the world
that we can renounce the thing we love. E very other sa-
crifice must precede this: life may be long a desert ere
the fire that made it so is q uenched. A t last, in the
midst of this sad indecision, Corinne received a letter from
O swald, telling her that his regiment would embark in six
week s, and that, as its colonel, he could not profit by this
delay to visit V enice without inj uring his reputation.
There was but j ust time for Corinne to reach E ngland, ere
he must leave it, perhaps for ever. This thought decided
her; she was not ignorant of her own rashness; she j udged
herself more severely than any one else could. Pity her,
then! W hat woman has a right to " cast the first stone"
at the unfortunate sister, who j ustifies not her fault, hopes
for no pleasure, but flies from one misfortune to another, as
if driven on by persecuting spirits r1 H er letter to Castel
F orte thus concludes : -- " A dieu, my faithful protector!
A dieu, my friends in R ome! with whom I passed such
j oyous,easydays. I tisdone-- allisover. F atehas
strick en me. I feel the wound is mortal. I struggle still,
but soon shall fall. I must see him again. I am not an-
swerable for myself. A storm is in my breast such as I
cannot govern; but I draw near the term at which all
will cease. This is the last act of my history: it will end
in penitence and death. O h, wild confusion of the human
heart! E ven now, while I am obeying the will of passion,
I see the shades of evening in the distance, I hear a voice
divine that whispers me, -- ' S till these fond agitations,
hapless wretch! the abode of endless rest awaits thee. '
O h God! grant me the presence of mine O swald once more,
but one last moment! The very memory of his features
now is dark ened by despair; but is there not something
heavenly in his look ? Did not the air become more pure,
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? corinne; or italy. S I S
more brilliant, as he approached? Y ou, my friend, have
seen him with me, have witnessed his k ind cares, and
the respect with which he inspired others for the woman
of his choice. H ow can I live without him? Pardon my
ingratitude: ought I thus to req uite thy disinterested con-
stancy? B ut I am no longer worthy any blessing; and
might pass for insane, had I not still the miserable con-
sciousness of mine own madness. F arewell, then-- yes,
farewell! "
CH A PTE R I I I .
H ow pitiable is the feeling, delicate woman, who commits
a great imprudence for a man whose love she k nows in-
ferior to her own! S he has but herself to be her support.
I f she has risk ed repose and character to do some signal
service for her idol, she may be envied. S weet is the
self-devotion that braves all danger to save a life that is
dear to us, or solace the distress which rends a heart re-
sponsive to our own. B ut thus to travel unk nown lands,
to arrive without being ex pected, to blush before the one
beloved, for the unask ed proof thus given of his power,--
painful degradation! W hat would it be if we thus in-
volved the happiness of others, and outraged our duty to
more sacred bonds? Corinne was free. S he sacrificed
but her own peace and glory. H er conduct was irrational,
indeed, but it could overcloud no destiny save hers. *
O n landing in E ngland, Corinne learnt from the papers
that L ord N evil' s departure was still delayed. S he saw
no society in L ondon ex cept the family of a bank er, to
whom she had been recommended under a false name.
H e was interested in her at first sight, and enj oined his
wife and daughter to pay her all the attentions in their
power. S he fell dangerously ill, and, for a fortnight, her
new friends watched over her with the most tender care.
* The Corinnes of this world care little how they pain the Castel F
ortes.
The mere esteem of such a man would have been worth even the love of twenty
O swalds. -- Tk .
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? 314 corinne; or italy.
S he heard that L ord N evil was in S cotland, but must
shortly rej oin his regiment in L ondon. S he k new not
how to announce herself, as she had not written to him
respecting her intentions -- indeed O swald had received
no letter from her for three months. H e mentally accused
her of infidelity, as if he had any right to complain. O n
his return to town he went first to his agents, where he
hoped to find letters from I taly: there were none;
he was musing over this silence, he encountered Mr.
and, as
E dgarmond, who ask ed him for news of Corinne. " I hear
nothing of her," he replied, irritably. -- " That I can
easily understand," added E dgarmond: " these I
always forget a foreigner, once out of sight: one ought
never to heed it; they would be too delightful if they
united constancy with genius: it is but fair that our own
talians
women should have some advantage! " H e sq ueezed
O swald' s hand as he said this, and took leave, as he was j ust
starting for W ales; but his few words had pierced their
hearer' s heart. -- "
should regret me, since I
but so soon to forget!
future. "
I am wrong," he said, " to wish she
cannot constitute her happiness;
This blights the past as well as the
Despite his father' s will he had resolved not to see L ucy
more; and even scorned himself for the impression she had
made on him. Condemned as he was to defeat the hopes of
Corinne, he felt that, at least, he ought to preserve his
heart' s faith inviolately hers: no duty urged him to for-
feit that. H e renewed his solicitations in her cause, by
letters to L ady E dgarmond, who did not even deign to
answer them: meanwhile Mr. Dick son assured him that
the only way of melting her to his wishes would be --
marrying her daughter; whose establishment, she feared,
Corinne might frustrate, if she resumed her name, and
was received by her family. F ate had hitherto spared her
the pang of suspecting O swald' s interest in her sister.
N ever was she herself more worthy of him than now.
During her illness, the candid, simple beings by whom
she was surrounded had given her a sincere taste for
E nglish habits and manners. The few persons she saw
were any thing but distinguished, yet possessed an estimable
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? corinne; or italy. 315
strength and j ustice of mind. Their affection for her was
less professing than that to which she had been accustomed,
but evinced with every opportunity by fresh good offices.
The austerity of L ady E dgarmond, the tedium of a small
country town, had cruelly misled her, as to the k indness,
the true nobility to be found in the country she had aban-
doned: unluck ily she now became attached to it under
such circumstances that it would have been better for her
own peace had she never been untaught her dislik e.
CH A PTE R I V .
The bank er' s family, who were for ever studying how to
prove their friendship, pressed Corinne to see Mrs. S iddons
perform I sabella, in the F atal Marriage, one of the char-
acters in which that great actress best displayed her ad-
mirable genius. Corinne refused for some time: at last
she remembered that L ord N evil had often compared her
manner of recitation with that of Mrs. S iddons; she was
therefore anx ious to see her, and, thick ly veiled, went to
a small box , whence she could see all, herself unseen.
S hek newnotifO swaldwasinL ondon,butfearedtobe
recognised by any one who might have met her in I taly.
The commanding beauty and deep sensibility of the heroine
so rivetted her attention, that, during the earliest acts, her
eyes were never turned from the stage.
E nglish declamation is better calculated than any other
to touch the soul, especially when such fine talents give it
all its power and originality. I t is less artificial, less con-
ventional, than that of F rance. The impressions produced
are more immediate-- for thus would true despair ex press
itself: the plots and versification of E nglish dramas too
are less remote from real life, and their effect more heart-
rending. I t req uires far higher genius to become a great actor
in F rance, so little liberty being left to individual manner,
so much influence attached to general rules (4); but in
E ngland you may risk any thing, if inspired by nature
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? S I 6 CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
The long groans that appear ridiculous if described, mak e
those shudder who hear them. Mrs. S iddons, the most
nobly mannered woman who ever adorned a theatre, lost
none of her dignity by prostrating herself on the earth.
There is no action but may become graceful, if prompted
by an impulse, which rises from the depths of the breast,
and lords it over the mind which conceives it, still more
than over its witnesses. V arious nations have their
different styles of tragic acting, but the ex pression of
grief is understood from one end of the world to the other;
and, from the savage to the k ing, there is some similarity
between all men while they are really suffering.
B etween the fourth and fifth acts, Corinne observed
that all eyes were turned towards a box , in which she be-
held L ady E dgarmond and her daughter: she could not
doubt that it was L ucy, much as the last seven years had
embellished her form. The death of a rich relation had
obliged L ady E dgarmond to visit L ondon, and settle the
succession of his fortune. L ucy was more dressed than
usual * ; and it was long since so beauteous a girl had been
seen, even in E ngland, where the women are so lovely.
Corinne felt a melancholy surprise: she thought it impossible
for O swald to resist that countenance. O n comparing herself
with her sister she was so conscious of her own inferiority,
that she ex aggerated (if such ex aggeration be possible) the
charm of that fair complex ion, those golden curls, and in-
nocent blue eyes -- that image of life' s spring! S he felt
almost degraded in setting her own mental acq uirements in
competition with gifts thus lavished by H eaven itself.
S uddenly, in an opposite box , she perceived L ord N evil,
whose gaze was fix ed on L ucy. W hat a moment for
Corinne! S he once more beheld that face, for which she
had so long searched her memory every instant, as if the
image could be effaced -- she beheld it again -- absorbed
by the beauty of another. O swald could not guess the
presence of Corinne; but if his eyes had even wandered
* I f E nglishwomen ever do go into public immediately after the death of a
near relation, it must be in deep mourning. Corinne saw these wonders very
plainly, considering that L ady E dgarmond and L ucy sat on the same side of the
house with herself; which must have been the case, by her calling O swald' s an
opposite box . -- Th.
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? CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 317
towards her, she might, from such a chance, have drawn
a happy omen.
Mrs. S iddons re-appeared, and L ord N evil look ed but
on her. Corinne breathed again, trusting that mere cu-
riosity had drawn his glance towards L ucy. The tragedy
became every moment more affecting; and the fair girl
was bathed in tears, which she strove to conceal, by re-
tiring to the back of her box . N evil noticed this with
increased interest. A t last the dreadful instant came
when I sabella, laughing at the fruitless efforts of- those
who would restrain her, stabs herself to the heart. That
despairing laugh is the most difficult and powerful effect
which tragic acting can produce; its bitter irony moves
one to more than tears. H ow terrible must be the suffer-
ing that inspires so barbarous a j oy, and, in the sight of
our own blood, feels the ferocious pleasure that one might
ex perience when tak ing full revenge upon some savage
foe. I t was evident that L ucy' s agitation had alarmed
her mother, who turned anx iously towards her. O swald
rose, as if he would have flown to them; but he soon
reseated himself, and Corinne felt some relief; yet she
sighed,-- " My sister L ucy, once so dear to me, has a
feeling heart; why should 1 then wish to deprive her of a
blessing she may enj oy without impediment, without any
sacrifice on O swald' s part? "
W hen the play concluded, Corinne stayed until the
parties who were leaving the house had gone, that she
might avoid recognition: she concealed herself near the
door of her box , where she could see what passed near
her. A s soon as L ucy came out, a crowd assembled to
look on her; and ex clamations in praise of her beauty were
heard from all sides, which greatly embarrassed her: the
infirm L ady E dgarmond was ill able to brave the throng,
in spite the cares of her child, and the politeness shown
them both; but they k new no one, therefore no gentleman
dared accost them. L ord N evil, seeing their situation,
hastened to offer each an arm. L ucy, blushing and
downcast, availed herself of this attention. They passed
elose by Corinne, whom O swald little suspected of wit-
nessing a sight so painful: he was proud of thus escort-
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? S I 8 corinne; or italy.
ing one of the handsomest girls in E ngland through the
numerous admirers who followed her steps. *
CHAPTER V.
Corinne returned to her dwelling in cruel disq uiet;
k nowing what steps to tak e, how to apprise N
arrival, nor what to say in defence of her motives;
not
evil of her
for
every instant decreased her confidence in his love: some-
times it seemed as if the man she sought to see again were
some passionately beloved stranger, who could not even
recognise her. S he sent to his house the nex t evening,
and was informed that he had gone to L ady E dgarmond' s;
the same answer was brought her on the following day,
with tidings that her L adyship was ill, and would return
to N orthumberland on her recovery. Corinne waited
for her removal ere she let O swald k now she was in E
land. E very evening she walk ed by her stepmother'
residence, and saw his carriage at its door. A n in-
ng-
s
ex pressible oppression seized on her heart; yet she daily
persevered, and daily received the same shock . S he erred,
however, in supposing that O swald was there as the suitor
of L ucy.
A s he led L ady E dgarmond to her carriage, after the
play, she told him that Corinne was concerned in the
will of their late k insman; and begged that he would
write to I taly on the arrangements made in this affair.
A s O swald promised to call, he fancied he felt the
hand of L ucy tremble. Corinne' s silence persuaded
him that he was no longer dear to her; and the emo-
tion of this young girl gave him the idea that she was
interested in him. Y et he thought not of break ing his
* I f so scrupulous a person as L ady E dgarmond would tak e her daughter to
a theatre without male protection, she could not, fortunately, have been ex -
posed to all these annoyances. O ur private box es are few. E ach side has its
own passage and staircase. O swald might mak e his way from one to the other;
but if all the individuals on one side left, the house as soon as the tragedy con.
eluded, they could not, after q uitting their box es, be thus seen by the parties
opposite. 1 have vainly endeavoured to clear this obscurity Tu.
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? corinnb; or italy. 319
promise to Corinne: the ring she held was a pledge that
he would never marry another without her consent. H e
sought her stepmother nex t day, merely on her account;
but L ady E dgarmond was so ill, and her daughter so un-
easy at finding herself in L ondon without another relative
near her, without even k nowing to what physician she
should apply, that, in duty to the friends of his father,
O swald felt he ought to devote his time to their service.
The cold, proud L ady E dgarmond had never softened so
much as she did now; letting him visit her every day
without his having said a word that could be construed
into a proposal for her daughter, whose beauty, rank , and
fortune rendered her one of the first matches in E ngland.
S ince her appearance in public, her address had been
eagerly enq uired, and her door besieged by the nobility;
yet her mother went no where, -- received no one but L ord
N evil. Could he avoid feeling flattered by this silent and
delicate generosity, which trusted him without conditions,
without complaint? yet every time he went did he fear
that his presence would be interpreted into an engagement.
H e would have ceased to go thither as soon as Corinne' s
business was settled; but that L ady E dgarmond under-
went a relapse, more dangerous than her first attack ; and
had she died, L ucy would have had no friend beside her
but himself. S he had never breathed a word that could
assure him of her preference; yet he fancied he detected
it in the light but sudden changes of her cheek , the abrupt
fall of her lashes, and the rapidity of her breathing. H e stu-
died her young heart with tender interest; and her reserve
left him always uncertain as to the nature of her sen-
timents. The highest eloq uence of passion cannot entirely
satisfy the fancy: we desire something beyond it; and
not finding that, must either cool or sate; while the faint
light which we perceive through clouds, long k eeps our
curiosity in suspense, and seems to promise a whole future
of new discoveries: this ex pectation is never gratified;
for when we k now what all this mystery hid, its charm
is gone, and we awak e to regret the candid impulses of a
more animated character.
