S he was pale, and her
lips trembled as she offered a cup of tea to L ord N eviL
These symptoms increased his own embarrassment, yet,
animated by zeal for her he loved, he began, " L ady E d-
garmond, I have often in I taly seen a female particularly
interesting to you.
lips trembled as she offered a cup of tea to L ord N eviL
These symptoms increased his own embarrassment, yet,
animated by zeal for her he loved, he began, " L ady E d-
garmond, I have often in I taly seen a female particularly
interesting to you.
Madame de Stael - Corinna, or Italy
" -- " Y es, yes,"
he murmured, " let us be still together, though these cruel
combats are even worse than absence. " They now heard
the boatmen calling up L ord N evil' s servants; one of
whom soon tapped at the door, informing him that all
was ready. -- " A ll is ready," echoed Corinne, and k nelt
beside his father' s portrait. Doubtless her former life
then passed in review before her; she ex aggerated every
fault, and feared herself unworthy of Divine compassion,
though far too wretched to ex ist without it. W hen she
arose, she held forth her hand to N evil, saying, -- " N
can bid you farewell -- a moment more, and, perhaps, I
not. May God protect your steps, and mine,-- for I much
need his care! " O swald flung himself once more into
ow I
could
her arms, trembling and pale lik e one prepared for torture,
and left the room, where, perhaps, for the last time, he
had loved, and felt himself beloved, as few have ever been,
or ever can be.
W hen he disappeared, a horrid palpitation attack ed
Corinne; she could not breathe; every thing she beheld
look ed unreal; obj ects seemed vanishing from her sight;
the chamber tottering as from a shock of earthq uak e. F or
aq uarter of an hour she heard the servants completing
the preparations for this j ourney. H e was still near; she
might yet again behold him, speak to him once more;
but she would not trust herself. O swald lay almost sense-
loss in the gondola: at last it rowed away; and at that
moment Corinne fled forth to recall him; but Theresina
stopped her. A heavy rain was falling, and a high wind
arose: the house was now, indeed, shak en lik e a ship at
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? CO R I N N E J O R I TA L Y . 293
sea, and O swald had to cross the L agune in such weather!
Corinne descended, purposing to follow him, at least till
he should land in safety; but it was so dark that not a
single gondola was plying: she walk ed, in dreadful agi-
tation, the narrow pavement that divides the houses from
the water. The storm increased: she called upon the
boatmen, who mistook her cries for those of some poor
creature drowning,-- yet no one dared approach, the waves
of the grand canal had swollen so formidably. Corinne
remained till daybreak in this state; meanwhile the tem-
pest ceased. O ne of the gondoliers brought word from
O swald that he had crossed securely. That moment was
almost a happy one; and it was some hours ere the un-
fortunate creature again felt the full weight of absence, or
calculated the long days which but anx iety and grief might
henceforth occupy.
CH A PTE R I V .
During the first part of his j
on the point of returning;
vanq uished this desire. W
ourney, O swald was freq uently
but the motives for perseverance
e mak e a solemn step towards the
limits of L ove' s empire, after we have once disobeyed him --
the dream of his resistlessness is over. O n approaching E ng-
land, all O swald' s homefelt recollections returned. The
year he had passed abroad had no connection with any
other era of his life. A glorious apparition had charmed
his fancy, but could not change the tastes, the opinions, of
which his ex istence had been, till then, composed. H e
regained himself; and though regret prevented his yet
feeling any delight, his thoughts began to steady from
the I talian intox ication which had unsettled them. N
o
the
sooner had he landed than his mind was struck
ease, the order, the wealth, and industry he look
habits and inclinations to which he was born wak
more force than ever.
with the
ed on;
ed with
I n a land where men have so much dignity, and women
v3
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? 294 corinne; or italy.
so much virtue, where domestic peace is the basis of public
welfare, O swald could but remember I taly to pity her.
H e saw the stamp of human reason upon all things; he
had lately found, in social life as in state institutions,
nothing but confusion, weak ness, and ignorance. Painting
and poetry gave place in his heart to freedom and to
morals; and, much as he loved Corinne, he gently blamed
her for wearying of a race so wise, so noble. H ad he left
her imaginative land for one of bare frivolity, he would
have pined for it still; but now he ex changed the vague
yearnings after romantic rapture, for pride in the truest
blessings-- security and independence. H e returned to a
career that suits man' s mind -- action that has an aim!
R everie may be the heritage of women, weak and resigned
from their birth; but man would win what he desires:
his courage irritates him against his fate, unless he can
direct it by his will. I n L ondon, O swald met his early
friends: he heard that language so condensed in power,
that it seems to imply more thoughts than it ex plains.
A gain he saw those serious countenances that k indle or
that melt so suddenly, when deep affections triumph over
their habit of reserve. H e once more tasted the pleasure
of mak ing discoveries in the human heart, there by de-
grees revealed to the observant eye. H e felt himself in
his own land, and those who never left it k now not by
how many link s it is endeared to them. The image of
Corinne mingled with all these impressions; and the more
reluctant he felt to leave his country, the more he wished
to marry, and fix in S cotland with her. H e was even
impatient to embark that he might return the sooner; but
the ex pedition was suspended, though still liable to be
ordered abroad immediately. N o officer, therefore, could
dispose of his time even for a fortnight. L ord N evil
doubly felt his separation from Corinne, having neither
leisure nor liberty to form or follow any decided plan.
H e passed six week s in L ondon, fretted by every moment
thus lost to her. F inally, he resolved to beguile his im-
patience by a short visit to N orthumberland, and, by in-
fluencing L ady E dgarmond to recognise the daughter of
her late lord, contradict the report of her death, and the
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? corinne; or italv. 295
unfavourable insinuations of the papers; for he longed to
tender her the rank and respect so thoroughly her due.
CHAPTER V.
O swald reflected with emotion that he was about to behold
the scene in which Corinne had passed so many years. H e
felt embarrassed by the necessity of informing L ady E dgar-
mond that he could not mak e L ucy his wife. The north
of E ngland, too, reminded him of S cotland, and the memory
of his father was never absent from his mind.
W hen he reached L ady E dgarmond' s estate, he was
struck by the good taste which pervaded its grounds; and,
as the mistress of the mansion was not ready to receive
him, he walk ed awhile in the park : through its foliage he
beheld a youthful and elegant figure reading with much
attention. A beautiful fair curl, escaping from her bonnet,
told him that this was L ucy, whom three years had im-
proved from child to woman. H e approached her, bowed,
and forgetting where he was, would have imprinted a re-
spectful k iss upon her hand, after the I talian mode; but
the young lady drew back , and, blushing as she courtesied,
replied, " I will inform my mother, sir, that you desire to
see her. " S he withdrew, and N evil remained awed by the
modest air of that angelic face. L ucy had j ust entered her
six teenth year; her features were ex tremely delicate; she
had a little outgrown her strength, as might be j udged by
her gait and mutable complex ion. H er blue eyes were so
downcast that her countenance owed its chief attraction to
these rapid changes of colour, which alone betrayed her
feelings. O swald, since he had dwelt in the south, had
never beheld this species of ex pression. H e reproached him-
self for having accosted her with such familiarity ; and, as he
followed her to the Castle, mused on the perfect innocence
of a girl who had never left her mother, nor felt one emo-
tion stronger than filial tenderness. L ady E dgarmond was
alone when she received him. H e had seen her twice,
u4
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? 296 corinne; or italt.
some years before, without any particular notice; but now
he observed her carefully, comparing her with the descrip-
tions of Corinne. H e found them correct in many respects ?
yet he thought that he detected more sensibility than she
had done, not being accustomed, lik e himself, to guess what
such self-regulated physiognomies conceal. H is first anx iety
was on Corinne' s account, and he began the conversation
by praising I taly. " I t is an amusing residence for men,"
returned L ady E dgarmond; " but I should be very sorry
if any woman, in whom I
pleased with it. " -- "
hurt by this insinuation, "
felt an interest, could long be
A nd yet," continued O swald, already
I found there the most dis-
tinguished woman I ever met. " -- " Probably, as to mental
attainments; but an honourable man seek s other q ualities
in the companion of his life. " -- " A nd he would find
them ! " he said warmly: he might have made his meaning
clear at once, but that L ucy entered, and said a few words
apart to her mother, who replied aloud, " N o, my dear,
you cannot go to your cousin' s to-day. L ord N evil dines
here. " L ucy blushed, seated herself beside her mother,
and took up her embroidery, from which she never raised
her eyes, nor did she utter a syllable. N evil was almost
angry: it was most probable that L ucy k new there had been
some idea of their union: he remembered all Corinne had
said on the probable effects of the severe education L ady
E dgarmond would give her daughter. I n E ngland young
girls are usually more at liberty than married women: rea-
son and morality alik e favour their privileges; but L ady
E dgarmond would have had all females thus rigorously
secluded. O swald could not, before L ucy, ex plain his in-
tentions relative to Corinne; and L ady E dgarmond k ept
up a discourse on other subj ects, with a firm and simple
good sense, that ex torted his deference. H e would have
combated her strict opinions, but he felt that if he used
one word in a different acceptation from her own, she
would form an opinion which nothing could efface; and he
hesitated at this first step, so irreparable with a person
who will mak e no individual ex ceptions, but j udges every
thing by fix ed and general rules. Dinner was announced/,
and L ucy offered her arm to L ady E dgarmond. O swald
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? corinne; or I taly. 297
then first discovered that his hostess walk ed with great
difficulty. " I am suffering," she said, " from a painful,
perhaps a fatal ailment. " L ucy turned pale; and her
mother resumed, with a more gentle cheerfulness, " My
daughter' s attention has once saved my life, and may pre-
serve it long. " L ucy bent her head, and when she raised
it, her lashes were still wet with tears; yet she dared not
even tak e her mother' s hand: all had passed at the bottom
of her heart; and she was only conscious of a stranger' s pre-
sence, from the necessity of concealing her agitation. O swald
deeplyfelt this restraintof hers, and his mind, so lately thrilled
by passionate eloq uence, refreshed itself by contemplating
so chastely simple a picture. L ucy seemed enveloped in
some immaculate veil, that sweetly baffled his speculations.
During dinner she spared her mother from all fatigue --
serving every thing herself; and N evil only heard her
voice when she offered to help him; but these common-
place courtesies were performed with such enchanting
grace, that he ask ed himself how it was possible for such
slight actions to betray so much soul. " O ne must have,"
he said to himself, " either the genius of Corinne, that
surpasses all one could imagine, or this pure unconscious
mystery, which leaves every man free to suppose whatever
virtues he prefers. "
The mother and daughter rose from table: he would
have followed them; but her L adyship adhered so scru-
pulously to old customs, that she begged he would wait
till they sent to let him k now the tea was ready. H e
j oined them in a q uarter of an hour. Most part of the
evening passed without his having one opportunity of
speak ing to L ady E dgarmond as he designed. H e was
about to depart for the town, purposing to return on the
morrow, when his hostess offered him a room in the castle.
H e accepted it without deliberation; but repented his
readiness, on perceiving that it seemed to be tak en as a
proof of his inclination towards L ucy. This was but an
additional motive for his renewing the conversation re-
specting Corinne. L ady E dgarmond proposed a turn in
the garden. O swald offered her his arm: she look ed at
him steadfastly, and then said, " That is right: I thank
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? 298 corinne; or I taly.
you. " L ucy resigned her parent to N evil, but timidly-
whispered, " Pray, my L ord, walk slowly! " H e started at
this first private intelligence with her: those pitying tones
were j ust such as he might have ex pected from a being
above all earthly passions. H e did not think his sense of
such a moment any treason to Corinne. They returned
for evening prayer, at which her L adyship always as-
sembled her household in the great hall. Most of them
were very infirm, having served the fathers of L ord and
L ady E dgarmond. O swald was thus reminded of his
paternal home. E very one k nelt, ex cept the matron, who,
prevented by her lameness, listened with folded Tiands and
downcast eyes in reverent silence. L ucy was on her
k nees beside her parent: it was her duty to read the ser-
vice; a chapter of the Gospel, followed by a prayer adapted
to domestic country life, composed by the mistress of the
house: its somewhat austere ex pressions were contrasted
by the soft voice that breathed them.
A fter blessing the k ing and country, the servants and
the k indred of this family, L ucy tremblingly added,
" Grant also, O God! that the young daughter of this
house may live and die with soul unsullied by a single
thought or feeling that conforms not with her duty; and
that her mother, who must soon return to thee for j udg-
ment, may have some claim on pardon for her faults, in
the virtues of her only child! "
L ucy said this prayer daily;
but now O swald' s presence
so affected her, that tears, which she strove to conceal,
flowed down her cheek s. H e was touched with respectful
tenderness, as he gazed on the almost infantine face, that
look ed as if it still remembered having dwelt in heaven.
I ts beauty, thus surrounded by age and decrepitude, was an
image of divine commiseration. H e reflected on her lonely
life, deprived of all the pleasures, all the flatteries, due to
her youth and charms: his soul melted towards her. The
mother of L ucy, too, he found a person more severe to
herself than to others. The limits of her mind might
rather be attributed to the strength of her principles than
to any natural deficiencies: the asperity of her character was
acq uired from repressed impulses; and, as Corinne had said.
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? << orinne; O R I TA L Y . 299
her affection for her child gained force from this ex treme
control of all others.
B y ten in the evening all was silent throughout the
castle, and O swald left to muse over his few last hours:
he owned not to himself that L ucy had made an impression
on his heart; perhaps, as yet, this was not the case; hut
in spite of the thousand attractions Corinne offered to his
fancy, there was one class of ideas, that L ucy might have
reigned more supremely than her sister. The image of
domestic felicity suited better with a retreat in N orthum-
berland than with a coronation at the Capitol; besides, he
remembered which of these sisters his father had selected
for him: but he loved Corinne, was beloved by her, had
given her his faith, and therefore persisted in his intention
of confiding this to L ady E dgarmond on the morrow. H e
fell asleep think ing of I
flitted lightly before him. H
the same dream returned;
taly, but still the form of L ucy
e awok e: when he slept again,
at last this ethereal shape
seemed flying from him, he strove to detain her, and
started up, as she disappeared, fearing her lost to him.
The day had brok en, and he left his room to enj oy a
morning walk .
CH A PTE R V I .
The sun was j ust risen. O swald supposed that no one
was yet stirring, till he perceived L ucy already drawing
in a balcony. H er hair, not yet fastened, was waving in
the gale: she look ed so lik e his dream, that for a moment
he started, as if he had beheld a spirit; and though soon
ashamed at having been so affected by such a natural cir-
cumstance, he remained for some time beneath her station,
but she did not perceive him. A s he pursued his walk , he
wished more than ever for the presence that would have
dissipated these half-formed impressions. L ucy was an
enigma, which Corinne' s genius could have solved; without
her aid, it took a thousand changeful forms in his mind' s
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? 300 corinne; or italy.
eye. H e re-entered the drawing-room, and found L ucy
placing her morning' s work in a little brown frame, facing
her mother' s tea-table. I t was a white rose, on its leafy
stalk , finished to perfection. " Y ou draw, then ? " he said.
-- " N o, my L ord," she answered; " I merely copy the
easiest flowers I can find: there is no master near us: the
little I ever learnt I owe to a sister who used to give me
lessons. "
ask ed O
her. " --
S he sighed. -- " A nd what is become of her? "
swald. -- " S he is dead; but I shall always regret
H e found that she, too, had been deceived* ; but
her confession of regret evinced so amiable a disposition,
that he felt more pleased, more affected, than before.
L ucy was about to retire, remembering that she was alone
with L ord N evil, when L ady E dgarmond j oined them.
S he look ed on her daughter with surprise and displeasure,
and motioned her to withdraw. This first informed O s-
wald, that L ucy had done something very ex traordinary, in
remaining a few minutes with a man out of her mother' s
presence; and he was as much gratified as he would have
been by a decided mark of preference under other auspices.
L ady E dgarmond took her seat, and dismissed the servant
who had supported her to the sofa.
S he was pale, and her
lips trembled as she offered a cup of tea to L ord N eviL
These symptoms increased his own embarrassment, yet,
animated by zeal for her he loved, he began, " L ady E d-
garmond, I have often in I taly seen a female particularly
interesting to you. " -- " I cannot believe it," she answered
dryly: " no one there interests me. " -- " I should think
that the daughter of your husband had some claim on your
affection. " -- " I f the daughter of my husband be indiffer-
ent to her duties and reputation, though I surely cannot
wish her any ill, I shall be very glad to hear no more of
her. " -- " B ut," saidO swaldq uick ly," ifthewomanyour
L adyship deserts is celebrated by the world for her great
and varied talents, will you for ever thus disdain her? "
-- " N ot the less, sir, for the abilities that wean her from
her rightful occupations. There are plenty of actresses,
* A religious, moral, E nglish gentlewoman propose a romantic falsehood,
so lik ely to wreck its theme on the dangers against which L ady E dgarmond
warned Corinne! This anti-national inconsistency neutralises all the rest of
Madame de S teel' s intended satire. -- Tr.
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? corinne; or italy. 301
artists, and musicians, to amuse society: in our rank , a
woman' s only becoming station is that which devotes her
to her husband and children. " -- " Madam," returned
O swald, " such talents cannot ex ist without an elevated
character and a generous heart: do you censure them for
ex tending the mind, and giving a more vast, more general
influence to virtue itself? " -- " V irtue! " she repeated, with
a bitter smile; " 1 k now not what you mean by the word,
so applied. The virtue of a young woman, who flies from
her father' s home, establishes herself in I taly, leads the
freest life, receives all k inds of homage, to say no worse,
sets an ex ample pernicious to others as to herself, abandon-
ing her rank , her family, her name " -- " Madam,"
interrupted O swald, " she sacrificed her name to you, and to
your daughter, whom she feared to inj ure. " -- " S he k new
that she dishonoured it, then," replied the stepmother. --
" This is too much," said O swald, violently: " Corinne
E dgarmond will soon be L ady N evil, and we shall then
see if you blush to ack nowledge the daughter of your lord.
Y ou confound with the vulgar herd a being gifted lik e no
other woman-- an angel of goodness, tender and diffident
at heart, as she is sublime of soul. S he may have had her
faults, if that innate superiority that could not conform
with common rules be one, but a single deed or word of
hers might well efface them all. S he will more honour the
man she chooses to protect her than could the empress of a
world. " -- " B ethatman,then,myL ord! " saidL ady
E dgarmond, mak ing an effort to restrain her feelings:
" satirise me as narrow minded; nothing you say can
change me. I understand by morality, an ex act observ-
ance of established rules; beyond which, fine q ualities
misapplied deserve at best but pity. " -- " The world would
have been very sterile, my L ady," said O swald, " had it
always thought as you do of genius and enthusiasm : human
nature would have become a thing of mere formalities. B ut,
not to continue this fruitless discussion, I will only ask , if
you mean to ack
nowledge your daughter-in-law, when she
-- " S till less on that account," answered her
owe your father' s memory my ex ertions to
is my wife? "
L adyship: "
I
prevent so fatal an union if I can. " -- " My father ! " re-
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? 302 corinne; or italy.
peated N evil, always agitated by that name. -- " A re you
ignorant," she continuedj " that he refused her, ere she
had committed any actual fault? foreseeing, with the per-
fect sagacity that so characterised him, what she would one
daybecome? " -- " H ow,madam! whatmorek nowyouof
this? " -- " Y ourfather' slettertoL ordE dgarmondonthe
subj ect," interrupted the lady, " is in the hands of his
old friend, Mr. Dick son. I sent it to him, when I heard
of your connection with this Corinne, that you might read
it on your return: it would not have become me to retain
it. " O swald, after a few moments' silence, resumed: --
ask your L adyship but for an act of j ustice, due to your-
self, that is, to receive your husband' s daughter as she
" I
deserves. " -- " I shall not, in any way, my L ord, contri-
bute to your misery. I f her present nameless and unma-
tronised ex istence be an obstacle to your marrying her,
God, and your father, forbid that I should remove it! "
-- " Madam," he ex claimed, " her misfortunes are but
added chains that bind me to her. " -- " W ell," replied L ady
E dgarmond, with an impetuosity to which she would not
have given way had not her own child been thus deprived
of a suitable husband, " well, render yourself wretched
then! she will be so too: she hates this country, and
never will comply with its manners: this is no theatre for
the versatile talents you so prize, and which render her so
fastidious. S he will carry you back to I taly: you will
forswear your friends and native land, for a lovely foreigner,
I confess, but for one who could forget you, if you wished
it. Those nighty brains are ever changeful: deep griefs were
made for the women you deem so common-place, those
who live but for their homes and families. " This was,
perhaps, the first time in her life that L ady E dgarmond
had spok en on impulse: it shook her weak ened nerves; and,
as she ceased, she sunk back , half fainting. O swald rang
loudly for help. L ucy ran in alarmed, hastened to revive
her parent, and cast on N evil an uneasy look , that seemed
tosay," I sityouwhohavemademammasoill? " H efelt
this deeply, and strove to atone by attentions to L ady
E dgarmond; but she repulsed him coldly, blushing to
think that she had seemed to pride but little in her girl, by
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? CO R I N N E J O R I TA L Y . 808
betraying this anx iety to secure her a reluctant bridegroom.
S he bade L ucy leave them; and said calmly, " My L ord,
at all events, I beg that you will consider yourself free.
My daughter is so young, that she is no way concerned in
the proj ect formed by your father and myself; but that
being changed, it would be an indecorum for me to receive
you until she is married. " N evil bowed. -- " I will con-
tent myself, then," he said, " with writing to you on the
fate of a person whom I can never desert. " -- " Y ou are the
master of that fate," concluded L ady E dgarmond, in a
smothered voice; and O swald departed. I n riding down
the avenue, he perceived, at a distance, the elegant figure of
young L ucy. H e check ed his horse to look on her once
more, and it appeared that she took the same direction with
himself. The high road passed before a summer-house, at
the end of the park ; he saw her enter it, and went by with
some reluctance, unable to discern her: he freq uently
turned his head, and, at a point from which the road was
best commanded, observed a slight movement among the
trees. H e stopped; it ceased: uncertain whether he had
guessed correctly, he proceeded, then abruptly rode back
with the speed of lightning, as if he had dropped something
by the way; there, indeed, he saw her, on the edge of the
bank , and bowed respectfully: she drew down her veil,
and hastily concealed herself in the thick et, forgetting that
she thus tacitly avowed the motive which had brought her
there. The poor child had never felt so guilty in her life;
and far from think ing of simply returning his salute, she
feared that she must have lost his good opinion by having
been so forward. O swald felt flattered by this blameless
and timorous sincerity. " N o one," thought he, " could
be more candid than Corinne; but then, no one better
k new herself or others. L ucy has all to learn. Y et this
charm of the day, could it suffice for a life? this pretty
ignorance cannot endure; and since we must penetrate the
secrets of our own hearts at last, is not the candour which
survives such ex amination worth more than that which
precedes it? " This comparison, he believed, was but an
amusement to his mind, which could never occupy it nore
gravely.
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? 804CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
CH A PTE R V I I .
O swald proceeded to S cotland. The effect of L ucy' s pre-
sence, the sentiment he still felt for Corinne, alik e gave
place to the emotions that awak ened at the sight of scenes
where he had dwelt with his father. H e upbraided him-
self with the dissipations in which he had spent the last
year; fearing that he was no longer worthy to re-enter
the abode he now wished he had never q uitted. A las!
after the loss of life' s dearest obj ect, how can we be con-
tent with ourselves, unless in perfect retirement? 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
x2
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he murmured, " let us be still together, though these cruel
combats are even worse than absence. " They now heard
the boatmen calling up L ord N evil' s servants; one of
whom soon tapped at the door, informing him that all
was ready. -- " A ll is ready," echoed Corinne, and k nelt
beside his father' s portrait. Doubtless her former life
then passed in review before her; she ex aggerated every
fault, and feared herself unworthy of Divine compassion,
though far too wretched to ex ist without it. W hen she
arose, she held forth her hand to N evil, saying, -- " N
can bid you farewell -- a moment more, and, perhaps, I
not. May God protect your steps, and mine,-- for I much
need his care! " O swald flung himself once more into
ow I
could
her arms, trembling and pale lik e one prepared for torture,
and left the room, where, perhaps, for the last time, he
had loved, and felt himself beloved, as few have ever been,
or ever can be.
W hen he disappeared, a horrid palpitation attack ed
Corinne; she could not breathe; every thing she beheld
look ed unreal; obj ects seemed vanishing from her sight;
the chamber tottering as from a shock of earthq uak e. F or
aq uarter of an hour she heard the servants completing
the preparations for this j ourney. H e was still near; she
might yet again behold him, speak to him once more;
but she would not trust herself. O swald lay almost sense-
loss in the gondola: at last it rowed away; and at that
moment Corinne fled forth to recall him; but Theresina
stopped her. A heavy rain was falling, and a high wind
arose: the house was now, indeed, shak en lik e a ship at
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? CO R I N N E J O R I TA L Y . 293
sea, and O swald had to cross the L agune in such weather!
Corinne descended, purposing to follow him, at least till
he should land in safety; but it was so dark that not a
single gondola was plying: she walk ed, in dreadful agi-
tation, the narrow pavement that divides the houses from
the water. The storm increased: she called upon the
boatmen, who mistook her cries for those of some poor
creature drowning,-- yet no one dared approach, the waves
of the grand canal had swollen so formidably. Corinne
remained till daybreak in this state; meanwhile the tem-
pest ceased. O ne of the gondoliers brought word from
O swald that he had crossed securely. That moment was
almost a happy one; and it was some hours ere the un-
fortunate creature again felt the full weight of absence, or
calculated the long days which but anx iety and grief might
henceforth occupy.
CH A PTE R I V .
During the first part of his j
on the point of returning;
vanq uished this desire. W
ourney, O swald was freq uently
but the motives for perseverance
e mak e a solemn step towards the
limits of L ove' s empire, after we have once disobeyed him --
the dream of his resistlessness is over. O n approaching E ng-
land, all O swald' s homefelt recollections returned. The
year he had passed abroad had no connection with any
other era of his life. A glorious apparition had charmed
his fancy, but could not change the tastes, the opinions, of
which his ex istence had been, till then, composed. H e
regained himself; and though regret prevented his yet
feeling any delight, his thoughts began to steady from
the I talian intox ication which had unsettled them. N
o
the
sooner had he landed than his mind was struck
ease, the order, the wealth, and industry he look
habits and inclinations to which he was born wak
more force than ever.
with the
ed on;
ed with
I n a land where men have so much dignity, and women
v3
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? 294 corinne; or italy.
so much virtue, where domestic peace is the basis of public
welfare, O swald could but remember I taly to pity her.
H e saw the stamp of human reason upon all things; he
had lately found, in social life as in state institutions,
nothing but confusion, weak ness, and ignorance. Painting
and poetry gave place in his heart to freedom and to
morals; and, much as he loved Corinne, he gently blamed
her for wearying of a race so wise, so noble. H ad he left
her imaginative land for one of bare frivolity, he would
have pined for it still; but now he ex changed the vague
yearnings after romantic rapture, for pride in the truest
blessings-- security and independence. H e returned to a
career that suits man' s mind -- action that has an aim!
R everie may be the heritage of women, weak and resigned
from their birth; but man would win what he desires:
his courage irritates him against his fate, unless he can
direct it by his will. I n L ondon, O swald met his early
friends: he heard that language so condensed in power,
that it seems to imply more thoughts than it ex plains.
A gain he saw those serious countenances that k indle or
that melt so suddenly, when deep affections triumph over
their habit of reserve. H e once more tasted the pleasure
of mak ing discoveries in the human heart, there by de-
grees revealed to the observant eye. H e felt himself in
his own land, and those who never left it k now not by
how many link s it is endeared to them. The image of
Corinne mingled with all these impressions; and the more
reluctant he felt to leave his country, the more he wished
to marry, and fix in S cotland with her. H e was even
impatient to embark that he might return the sooner; but
the ex pedition was suspended, though still liable to be
ordered abroad immediately. N o officer, therefore, could
dispose of his time even for a fortnight. L ord N evil
doubly felt his separation from Corinne, having neither
leisure nor liberty to form or follow any decided plan.
H e passed six week s in L ondon, fretted by every moment
thus lost to her. F inally, he resolved to beguile his im-
patience by a short visit to N orthumberland, and, by in-
fluencing L ady E dgarmond to recognise the daughter of
her late lord, contradict the report of her death, and the
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? corinne; or italv. 295
unfavourable insinuations of the papers; for he longed to
tender her the rank and respect so thoroughly her due.
CHAPTER V.
O swald reflected with emotion that he was about to behold
the scene in which Corinne had passed so many years. H e
felt embarrassed by the necessity of informing L ady E dgar-
mond that he could not mak e L ucy his wife. The north
of E ngland, too, reminded him of S cotland, and the memory
of his father was never absent from his mind.
W hen he reached L ady E dgarmond' s estate, he was
struck by the good taste which pervaded its grounds; and,
as the mistress of the mansion was not ready to receive
him, he walk ed awhile in the park : through its foliage he
beheld a youthful and elegant figure reading with much
attention. A beautiful fair curl, escaping from her bonnet,
told him that this was L ucy, whom three years had im-
proved from child to woman. H e approached her, bowed,
and forgetting where he was, would have imprinted a re-
spectful k iss upon her hand, after the I talian mode; but
the young lady drew back , and, blushing as she courtesied,
replied, " I will inform my mother, sir, that you desire to
see her. " S he withdrew, and N evil remained awed by the
modest air of that angelic face. L ucy had j ust entered her
six teenth year; her features were ex tremely delicate; she
had a little outgrown her strength, as might be j udged by
her gait and mutable complex ion. H er blue eyes were so
downcast that her countenance owed its chief attraction to
these rapid changes of colour, which alone betrayed her
feelings. O swald, since he had dwelt in the south, had
never beheld this species of ex pression. H e reproached him-
self for having accosted her with such familiarity ; and, as he
followed her to the Castle, mused on the perfect innocence
of a girl who had never left her mother, nor felt one emo-
tion stronger than filial tenderness. L ady E dgarmond was
alone when she received him. H e had seen her twice,
u4
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? 296 corinne; or italt.
some years before, without any particular notice; but now
he observed her carefully, comparing her with the descrip-
tions of Corinne. H e found them correct in many respects ?
yet he thought that he detected more sensibility than she
had done, not being accustomed, lik e himself, to guess what
such self-regulated physiognomies conceal. H is first anx iety
was on Corinne' s account, and he began the conversation
by praising I taly. " I t is an amusing residence for men,"
returned L ady E dgarmond; " but I should be very sorry
if any woman, in whom I
pleased with it. " -- "
hurt by this insinuation, "
felt an interest, could long be
A nd yet," continued O swald, already
I found there the most dis-
tinguished woman I ever met. " -- " Probably, as to mental
attainments; but an honourable man seek s other q ualities
in the companion of his life. " -- " A nd he would find
them ! " he said warmly: he might have made his meaning
clear at once, but that L ucy entered, and said a few words
apart to her mother, who replied aloud, " N o, my dear,
you cannot go to your cousin' s to-day. L ord N evil dines
here. " L ucy blushed, seated herself beside her mother,
and took up her embroidery, from which she never raised
her eyes, nor did she utter a syllable. N evil was almost
angry: it was most probable that L ucy k new there had been
some idea of their union: he remembered all Corinne had
said on the probable effects of the severe education L ady
E dgarmond would give her daughter. I n E ngland young
girls are usually more at liberty than married women: rea-
son and morality alik e favour their privileges; but L ady
E dgarmond would have had all females thus rigorously
secluded. O swald could not, before L ucy, ex plain his in-
tentions relative to Corinne; and L ady E dgarmond k ept
up a discourse on other subj ects, with a firm and simple
good sense, that ex torted his deference. H e would have
combated her strict opinions, but he felt that if he used
one word in a different acceptation from her own, she
would form an opinion which nothing could efface; and he
hesitated at this first step, so irreparable with a person
who will mak e no individual ex ceptions, but j udges every
thing by fix ed and general rules. Dinner was announced/,
and L ucy offered her arm to L ady E dgarmond. O swald
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? corinne; or I taly. 297
then first discovered that his hostess walk ed with great
difficulty. " I am suffering," she said, " from a painful,
perhaps a fatal ailment. " L ucy turned pale; and her
mother resumed, with a more gentle cheerfulness, " My
daughter' s attention has once saved my life, and may pre-
serve it long. " L ucy bent her head, and when she raised
it, her lashes were still wet with tears; yet she dared not
even tak e her mother' s hand: all had passed at the bottom
of her heart; and she was only conscious of a stranger' s pre-
sence, from the necessity of concealing her agitation. O swald
deeplyfelt this restraintof hers, and his mind, so lately thrilled
by passionate eloq uence, refreshed itself by contemplating
so chastely simple a picture. L ucy seemed enveloped in
some immaculate veil, that sweetly baffled his speculations.
During dinner she spared her mother from all fatigue --
serving every thing herself; and N evil only heard her
voice when she offered to help him; but these common-
place courtesies were performed with such enchanting
grace, that he ask ed himself how it was possible for such
slight actions to betray so much soul. " O ne must have,"
he said to himself, " either the genius of Corinne, that
surpasses all one could imagine, or this pure unconscious
mystery, which leaves every man free to suppose whatever
virtues he prefers. "
The mother and daughter rose from table: he would
have followed them; but her L adyship adhered so scru-
pulously to old customs, that she begged he would wait
till they sent to let him k now the tea was ready. H e
j oined them in a q uarter of an hour. Most part of the
evening passed without his having one opportunity of
speak ing to L ady E dgarmond as he designed. H e was
about to depart for the town, purposing to return on the
morrow, when his hostess offered him a room in the castle.
H e accepted it without deliberation; but repented his
readiness, on perceiving that it seemed to be tak en as a
proof of his inclination towards L ucy. This was but an
additional motive for his renewing the conversation re-
specting Corinne. L ady E dgarmond proposed a turn in
the garden. O swald offered her his arm: she look ed at
him steadfastly, and then said, " That is right: I thank
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? 298 corinne; or I taly.
you. " L ucy resigned her parent to N evil, but timidly-
whispered, " Pray, my L ord, walk slowly! " H e started at
this first private intelligence with her: those pitying tones
were j ust such as he might have ex pected from a being
above all earthly passions. H e did not think his sense of
such a moment any treason to Corinne. They returned
for evening prayer, at which her L adyship always as-
sembled her household in the great hall. Most of them
were very infirm, having served the fathers of L ord and
L ady E dgarmond. O swald was thus reminded of his
paternal home. E very one k nelt, ex cept the matron, who,
prevented by her lameness, listened with folded Tiands and
downcast eyes in reverent silence. L ucy was on her
k nees beside her parent: it was her duty to read the ser-
vice; a chapter of the Gospel, followed by a prayer adapted
to domestic country life, composed by the mistress of the
house: its somewhat austere ex pressions were contrasted
by the soft voice that breathed them.
A fter blessing the k ing and country, the servants and
the k indred of this family, L ucy tremblingly added,
" Grant also, O God! that the young daughter of this
house may live and die with soul unsullied by a single
thought or feeling that conforms not with her duty; and
that her mother, who must soon return to thee for j udg-
ment, may have some claim on pardon for her faults, in
the virtues of her only child! "
L ucy said this prayer daily;
but now O swald' s presence
so affected her, that tears, which she strove to conceal,
flowed down her cheek s. H e was touched with respectful
tenderness, as he gazed on the almost infantine face, that
look ed as if it still remembered having dwelt in heaven.
I ts beauty, thus surrounded by age and decrepitude, was an
image of divine commiseration. H e reflected on her lonely
life, deprived of all the pleasures, all the flatteries, due to
her youth and charms: his soul melted towards her. The
mother of L ucy, too, he found a person more severe to
herself than to others. The limits of her mind might
rather be attributed to the strength of her principles than
to any natural deficiencies: the asperity of her character was
acq uired from repressed impulses; and, as Corinne had said.
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? << orinne; O R I TA L Y . 299
her affection for her child gained force from this ex treme
control of all others.
B y ten in the evening all was silent throughout the
castle, and O swald left to muse over his few last hours:
he owned not to himself that L ucy had made an impression
on his heart; perhaps, as yet, this was not the case; hut
in spite of the thousand attractions Corinne offered to his
fancy, there was one class of ideas, that L ucy might have
reigned more supremely than her sister. The image of
domestic felicity suited better with a retreat in N orthum-
berland than with a coronation at the Capitol; besides, he
remembered which of these sisters his father had selected
for him: but he loved Corinne, was beloved by her, had
given her his faith, and therefore persisted in his intention
of confiding this to L ady E dgarmond on the morrow. H e
fell asleep think ing of I
flitted lightly before him. H
the same dream returned;
taly, but still the form of L ucy
e awok e: when he slept again,
at last this ethereal shape
seemed flying from him, he strove to detain her, and
started up, as she disappeared, fearing her lost to him.
The day had brok en, and he left his room to enj oy a
morning walk .
CH A PTE R V I .
The sun was j ust risen. O swald supposed that no one
was yet stirring, till he perceived L ucy already drawing
in a balcony. H er hair, not yet fastened, was waving in
the gale: she look ed so lik e his dream, that for a moment
he started, as if he had beheld a spirit; and though soon
ashamed at having been so affected by such a natural cir-
cumstance, he remained for some time beneath her station,
but she did not perceive him. A s he pursued his walk , he
wished more than ever for the presence that would have
dissipated these half-formed impressions. L ucy was an
enigma, which Corinne' s genius could have solved; without
her aid, it took a thousand changeful forms in his mind' s
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? 300 corinne; or italy.
eye. H e re-entered the drawing-room, and found L ucy
placing her morning' s work in a little brown frame, facing
her mother' s tea-table. I t was a white rose, on its leafy
stalk , finished to perfection. " Y ou draw, then ? " he said.
-- " N o, my L ord," she answered; " I merely copy the
easiest flowers I can find: there is no master near us: the
little I ever learnt I owe to a sister who used to give me
lessons. "
ask ed O
her. " --
S he sighed. -- " A nd what is become of her? "
swald. -- " S he is dead; but I shall always regret
H e found that she, too, had been deceived* ; but
her confession of regret evinced so amiable a disposition,
that he felt more pleased, more affected, than before.
L ucy was about to retire, remembering that she was alone
with L ord N evil, when L ady E dgarmond j oined them.
S he look ed on her daughter with surprise and displeasure,
and motioned her to withdraw. This first informed O s-
wald, that L ucy had done something very ex traordinary, in
remaining a few minutes with a man out of her mother' s
presence; and he was as much gratified as he would have
been by a decided mark of preference under other auspices.
L ady E dgarmond took her seat, and dismissed the servant
who had supported her to the sofa.
S he was pale, and her
lips trembled as she offered a cup of tea to L ord N eviL
These symptoms increased his own embarrassment, yet,
animated by zeal for her he loved, he began, " L ady E d-
garmond, I have often in I taly seen a female particularly
interesting to you. " -- " I cannot believe it," she answered
dryly: " no one there interests me. " -- " I should think
that the daughter of your husband had some claim on your
affection. " -- " I f the daughter of my husband be indiffer-
ent to her duties and reputation, though I surely cannot
wish her any ill, I shall be very glad to hear no more of
her. " -- " B ut," saidO swaldq uick ly," ifthewomanyour
L adyship deserts is celebrated by the world for her great
and varied talents, will you for ever thus disdain her? "
-- " N ot the less, sir, for the abilities that wean her from
her rightful occupations. There are plenty of actresses,
* A religious, moral, E nglish gentlewoman propose a romantic falsehood,
so lik ely to wreck its theme on the dangers against which L ady E dgarmond
warned Corinne! This anti-national inconsistency neutralises all the rest of
Madame de S teel' s intended satire. -- Tr.
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? corinne; or italy. 301
artists, and musicians, to amuse society: in our rank , a
woman' s only becoming station is that which devotes her
to her husband and children. " -- " Madam," returned
O swald, " such talents cannot ex ist without an elevated
character and a generous heart: do you censure them for
ex tending the mind, and giving a more vast, more general
influence to virtue itself? " -- " V irtue! " she repeated, with
a bitter smile; " 1 k now not what you mean by the word,
so applied. The virtue of a young woman, who flies from
her father' s home, establishes herself in I taly, leads the
freest life, receives all k inds of homage, to say no worse,
sets an ex ample pernicious to others as to herself, abandon-
ing her rank , her family, her name " -- " Madam,"
interrupted O swald, " she sacrificed her name to you, and to
your daughter, whom she feared to inj ure. " -- " S he k new
that she dishonoured it, then," replied the stepmother. --
" This is too much," said O swald, violently: " Corinne
E dgarmond will soon be L ady N evil, and we shall then
see if you blush to ack nowledge the daughter of your lord.
Y ou confound with the vulgar herd a being gifted lik e no
other woman-- an angel of goodness, tender and diffident
at heart, as she is sublime of soul. S he may have had her
faults, if that innate superiority that could not conform
with common rules be one, but a single deed or word of
hers might well efface them all. S he will more honour the
man she chooses to protect her than could the empress of a
world. " -- " B ethatman,then,myL ord! " saidL ady
E dgarmond, mak ing an effort to restrain her feelings:
" satirise me as narrow minded; nothing you say can
change me. I understand by morality, an ex act observ-
ance of established rules; beyond which, fine q ualities
misapplied deserve at best but pity. " -- " The world would
have been very sterile, my L ady," said O swald, " had it
always thought as you do of genius and enthusiasm : human
nature would have become a thing of mere formalities. B ut,
not to continue this fruitless discussion, I will only ask , if
you mean to ack
nowledge your daughter-in-law, when she
-- " S till less on that account," answered her
owe your father' s memory my ex ertions to
is my wife? "
L adyship: "
I
prevent so fatal an union if I can. " -- " My father ! " re-
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? 302 corinne; or italy.
peated N evil, always agitated by that name. -- " A re you
ignorant," she continuedj " that he refused her, ere she
had committed any actual fault? foreseeing, with the per-
fect sagacity that so characterised him, what she would one
daybecome? " -- " H ow,madam! whatmorek nowyouof
this? " -- " Y ourfather' slettertoL ordE dgarmondonthe
subj ect," interrupted the lady, " is in the hands of his
old friend, Mr. Dick son. I sent it to him, when I heard
of your connection with this Corinne, that you might read
it on your return: it would not have become me to retain
it. " O swald, after a few moments' silence, resumed: --
ask your L adyship but for an act of j ustice, due to your-
self, that is, to receive your husband' s daughter as she
" I
deserves. " -- " I shall not, in any way, my L ord, contri-
bute to your misery. I f her present nameless and unma-
tronised ex istence be an obstacle to your marrying her,
God, and your father, forbid that I should remove it! "
-- " Madam," he ex claimed, " her misfortunes are but
added chains that bind me to her. " -- " W ell," replied L ady
E dgarmond, with an impetuosity to which she would not
have given way had not her own child been thus deprived
of a suitable husband, " well, render yourself wretched
then! she will be so too: she hates this country, and
never will comply with its manners: this is no theatre for
the versatile talents you so prize, and which render her so
fastidious. S he will carry you back to I taly: you will
forswear your friends and native land, for a lovely foreigner,
I confess, but for one who could forget you, if you wished
it. Those nighty brains are ever changeful: deep griefs were
made for the women you deem so common-place, those
who live but for their homes and families. " This was,
perhaps, the first time in her life that L ady E dgarmond
had spok en on impulse: it shook her weak ened nerves; and,
as she ceased, she sunk back , half fainting. O swald rang
loudly for help. L ucy ran in alarmed, hastened to revive
her parent, and cast on N evil an uneasy look , that seemed
tosay," I sityouwhohavemademammasoill? " H efelt
this deeply, and strove to atone by attentions to L ady
E dgarmond; but she repulsed him coldly, blushing to
think that she had seemed to pride but little in her girl, by
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? CO R I N N E J O R I TA L Y . 808
betraying this anx iety to secure her a reluctant bridegroom.
S he bade L ucy leave them; and said calmly, " My L ord,
at all events, I beg that you will consider yourself free.
My daughter is so young, that she is no way concerned in
the proj ect formed by your father and myself; but that
being changed, it would be an indecorum for me to receive
you until she is married. " N evil bowed. -- " I will con-
tent myself, then," he said, " with writing to you on the
fate of a person whom I can never desert. " -- " Y ou are the
master of that fate," concluded L ady E dgarmond, in a
smothered voice; and O swald departed. I n riding down
the avenue, he perceived, at a distance, the elegant figure of
young L ucy. H e check ed his horse to look on her once
more, and it appeared that she took the same direction with
himself. The high road passed before a summer-house, at
the end of the park ; he saw her enter it, and went by with
some reluctance, unable to discern her: he freq uently
turned his head, and, at a point from which the road was
best commanded, observed a slight movement among the
trees. H e stopped; it ceased: uncertain whether he had
guessed correctly, he proceeded, then abruptly rode back
with the speed of lightning, as if he had dropped something
by the way; there, indeed, he saw her, on the edge of the
bank , and bowed respectfully: she drew down her veil,
and hastily concealed herself in the thick et, forgetting that
she thus tacitly avowed the motive which had brought her
there. The poor child had never felt so guilty in her life;
and far from think ing of simply returning his salute, she
feared that she must have lost his good opinion by having
been so forward. O swald felt flattered by this blameless
and timorous sincerity. " N o one," thought he, " could
be more candid than Corinne; but then, no one better
k new herself or others. L ucy has all to learn. Y et this
charm of the day, could it suffice for a life? this pretty
ignorance cannot endure; and since we must penetrate the
secrets of our own hearts at last, is not the candour which
survives such ex amination worth more than that which
precedes it? " This comparison, he believed, was but an
amusement to his mind, which could never occupy it nore
gravely.
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? 804CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
CH A PTE R V I I .
O swald proceeded to S cotland. The effect of L ucy' s pre-
sence, the sentiment he still felt for Corinne, alik e gave
place to the emotions that awak ened at the sight of scenes
where he had dwelt with his father. H e upbraided him-
self with the dissipations in which he had spent the last
year; fearing that he was no longer worthy to re-enter
the abode he now wished he had never q uitted. A las!
after the loss of life' s dearest obj ect, how can we be con-
tent with ourselves, unless in perfect retirement? 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
x2
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