No More Learning

" I might have passed my life in this deplorable situation
had I not lost my father. A sudden accident deprived me
>> f my protector, my friend,-- the only being who had un-
derstood me in that peopled desert. My despair was
uncontrollable. I found myself without one support. I
nad no relation save my stepmother, with whom I was no
More intimate now than on the day I met her first. S he
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? corinne; or italy. 245
soon renewed the suit of Mr. Maclinson; and though she
had no authority to command my marrying him, received
no one else at her house, and plainly told me that she
should countenance no other match. N ot that she much
loved her k insman; but she thought me presumptuous in
refusing him, and made his cause her own, rather for the
defence of mediocrity than from family pride. E very day
my state grew more odious. I felt myself attack ed by that
home-sick
death. I
j ect,--
yearning which renders ex ile more terrible than
magination is displeased by each surrounding ob-
the country, climate, language, and customs: life as
a whole, life in detail, each moment, each circumstance
has its sting; for one' s own land inspires a thousand plea-
sures that we guess not till they are lost.
" la favella, i costumi,
L ' aria, i tronchi,il terren, le mura, il sassi,"
" Tongue, manners, air, trees, earth, walls, every stone,'
says Metastasio. I t is, indeed, a grief no more to look
upon the scenes of childhood: the charm of their
memory renews our youth, yet sweetens the thought of
death. The tomb and cradle there repose in the same
shade; while the years spent beneath stranger sk ies seem
lik e branches without roots. The generation which pre-
ceded yours remembers not your birth; it is not the
generation of your sires: a host of mutual interests ex ist
between you and your countrymen, which cannot be
understood by foreigners, to whom you must ex plain
every thing, instead of finding the initiated ease that bids
your thoughts flow forth secure the moment you meet
a compatriot. I
such amiable ex
them as I walk
could not remember without emotion,
pressions as ' Cara, Carissima:' I repeated
ed alone, in imitation of the k indly welcomes
so contrasted with the greetings I
day I wandered into the fields. O
had been wont to hear rich music;
now received. E very
f an evening, in I taly, I
but now the cawing
of rook s alone resounded beneath the clouds. The fruits
could scarcely ripen. I saw no vines: the languid flowers
it 3
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? 246 CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
succeeded each other slowly; black pines covered the
hills: an antiq ue edifice, or even one fine picture, would
have been a relief, for which I should have sought thirty
miles round in vain,* A ll was dull and sullen: the
houses and their inhabitants served but to rob solitude of
its poetic horrors. There was enough of commerce and
of agriculture near for them to say, ' Y ou ought to be
content, you want for nothing. " S tupid superficial j udg-
ment! The hearth of happiness or suffering is in our own
breast' s secret sanctuary. A t twenty-one I had a right to
my mother' s fortune, and whatever my father had left me.
Then did I first dream of returning to I taly, and devoting
my life to the arts. This proj ect so inebriated me with
j oy, that, at first, I could anticipate no obj ections; yet,
as my feverish hope subsided, I feared to tak e an irre-
parable resolve, and thought on what my acq uaintance
might say, to a plan which, from appearing perfectly easy,
now seemed utterably impracticable; yet the image of a
life in the midst of antiq uities and arts was detailed
before my mind' s eye with so many charms, that I felt
a fresh disgust at my tiresome ex istence. My talent,
which I had feared to lose, had increased by my constant
study of E nglish literature. The depth of thought and
feeling which characterises your poets had strengthened
my mind without impairing my fancy. I therefore pos-
sessed the advantages of a double education and twofold
nationalities. I remembered the approbation paid by a
few good critics in F lorence to my first poetical essays,
and prided in the added success I might obtain; in sooth,
I had great hopes of myself. A nd is not such the first,
the noblest illusion of youth? Methought that I should
be mistress of the universe, the moment I escaped the
withering breath of vulgar malice; but when I thought
of flying in secret, I felt awed by that opinion which
swayed me much more in E ngland than in I taly; for
though I ' could not lik e the town where I resided, I
* Corinne should have rather lamented that she was not permitted to ex
plore the county which contains A lnwick , H ex ham, Tynemouth, H
.
oly I sle,
and so many other scones dear to the lovers of antiq uity, the fine arts, history,
and nature -- Ts.
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 247
respected, as a whole, the country of which it was a part.
I f my mother-in-law had deigned to tak e me to L ondon
or E dinburgh, if she had thought of marrying me to a
man of mind, I should never have renounced my name,
even for the sak e of returning to my own country. I n
fact, severe as she was, I never could have found the
strength to alter my destiny, but for a multitude of cir-
cumstances which conspired to terminate my uncertainty.
Theresina is a Tuscan, and, though uneducated, she con-
verses in those noble and melodious phrases that lend
such grace to the discourse of our people. S he was
the only person with whom 1 spok e my own language;
and this tie attached me to her. I often found her sad,
and dared not ask why, not doubting that she, lik e myself,
regretted our country. I k new that I should have been
unable to restrain my own feelings, if ex cited by those of
another. There are griefs that are ameliorated by commu-
nication; but imaginary ills augment if confided, above
all, to a fellow-sufferer. A woe so sanctioned we no
longer strive to combat. My poor Theresina suddenly
became seriously ill; and hearing her groan night and
day, I determined to enq uire the cause. A las, she de-
scribed ex actly what I had felt myself. S he had not reflected
on the source of her pangs, and attached more importance
to local circumstances and particular persons; but the
sadness of the country, the insipidity of the town, the
coldness of its natives, the constraint of their habits, -- she
felt as I did, and cried incessantly, ' O h, my native land . '
shall I never see you more ? ' yet added, that she would
not leave me, in heart-break ing tones, unable to reconcile
her love for me with her attachment to our fair sk ies
and mother-tongue. N othing more affected my spirits
than this reflex of my own feelings in a common mind,
but one that had preserved the I talian taste and character
in all its natural vivacity. I promised her that she should
see her home again. ' W ith you ? ' she ask ed. I was silent:
then she tore her hair, again declaring that she could never
leave me, though look ing ready to ex pire before my eyes
8s she said so. A t last a promise that I would return with
r4
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? 248O O R I N N E j O R I TA L Y .
her escaped me; and though spok en but to soothe her,
the j oyous faith she gave it rendered it solemnly binding.
F rom that day she cultivated the intimacy of some traders
in the town, and punctually informed me when any vessel
sailed from the neighbouring port for Genoa or L eghorn.
I heard her, but said nothing: she imitated my silence;
but her eyes filled with tears. My health suffered daily
from the climate and anx iety. My mind req uires gaiety.
I have often told you that grief would k ill me. I struggle
against it too much: to live beneath sorrow one must
yield to it. I freq uently returned to the idea which had
so occupied me since my father' s death; but I loved L ucy
dearly; she was now nine years old: for six had I watched
over her lik e a second mother. I thought, too, that, if I
departed privately, I should inj ure my own reputation, and
that the name of my sister might thus be sullied. This ap-
prehension, for the time, banished all my schemes. O ne
evening, however, when I was more than usually depressed,
I found myself alone with L ady E dgarmond; and, after
an hour' s silence, took so sudden a distaste towards her
imperturbable frigidity, that I began the conversation, by
lamenting the life I led, rather to force her to speak , than
to achieve any other result; but as I grew animated, I
represented the possibility of my leaving E ngland for ever.
My mother-in-law was not at all alarmed; but with a dry
indifference, which I shall never forget, replied, ' Y ou are
of age, Miss E dgarmond; your fortune is your own; you
are the mistress of your conduct: but if you tak e any step
which would dishonour you in the eyes of the world,
you owe it to your family to change your name, and be
reported dead. ' This heartless scorn inspired me with such
indignation, that for a while a desire for vengeance, foreign
to my nature, seized on my soul. That impulse left me;
but the conviction that no one was interested in my wel-
fare brok e every link which, till then, had bound me to
the house where I had seen my father. H is wife certainly
had never pleased me, save by her tenderness for L ucy.
I believed that I must have conciliated her by the pains
I had bestowed on her child; which, perhaps, rather
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? coeinne; or I taly. 249
ex cited her j ealousy; for the more sacrifices she im-
posed on her other inclinations, the more passionately she
indulged the sole affection she permitted herself. A ll that
is q uick and ardent in the human breast, mastered by her
reason in her other connections, spok e from her counte-
nance when any thing concerned her daughter. A t the
height of my resentment, Theresina came to me, in
ex treme emotion, with tidings that a ship had arrived
from L eghorn, on board which were some traders whom
she k new: ' the best people in the world,' she added,
weeping; ' for they are all I talians, can speak nothing but
I talian: in a week
is decided ' -- '
said I . -- ' N
left the room, and I
they sail again for I taly; and if madame
R eturn with them, my good Theresina!
o, madame; I would rather die here. '
mused over my duty to my step-
'
S he
mother. I t was plain that she did not wish to have me
with her; my influence over L ucy displeased her: she
feared that the name I had gained there, as an ex traordi-
nary person, would, one day, interfere with the establish-
ment of my sister: she had told me the secret of her
heart, in desiring me to pass for dead; and this bitter V
advice, which had, at first, so shock ed me, now appeared
reasonable enough. ' Y es, doubtless I may pass for dead,
where my ex istence is but a disturbed sleep,' said I . ' W ith
nature, with the sun, the arts, I shall awak en, and the
poor letters which compose my name, graven on an idle
tomb, will fill my station here as well as I . ' These mental
leaps towards liberty gave me not yet sufficient power for
a decided aim. There are moments when we trust the
force of our own wishes; others in which the habitual
order of things assumes a right to over-rule all the senti-
ments of the soul. I was in a state of indecision which
might have lasted for ever, as nothing obliged me to tak e
an active part; but on the S unday following my convers-
ation with L ady E dgarmond I heard, towards evening,
beneath my window, some I talians singing:. they belonged
to the ship from L eghorn. Theresina had brought them
to give me this agreeable surprise. I cannot ex press what
I felt: a torrent of tears deluged my cheek s. A ll my
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? 250 corinne; oh italy.
recollections were revived: nothing recalls the past lik e
music: it does more than depict, it conj ures it hack , lik e
some beloved shade, veiled in mysterious melancholy. The
musicians sung the delicious verses composed by Monti
inhisex ile:--
' B ella I talia! amate sponde!
Pur vi torno, a riveder,
Trema in petto, e si confonde,
L ' alma oppressa dal piacer! *
' B eauteous I talia! beloved ever!
S hall I behold thy shore again?
Trembling -- bewildered -- my bonds I sever --
Pleasure oppresses my heart and brain. '
I n a k ind of delirium I felt for I taly all love can mak
feel-- desire, enthusiasm, regret. I was no longer mistress
of myself; my whole soul was drawn towards my country:
I yearned to see it, hear it, taste its breath; each throb of
my heart was a call to my own smiling land. W ere life
offered to the dead, they would not dash aside the stone
that k ept them in the tomb with more impatience than I
felt to rush from all the gloom around me, and once more
tak e possession of my fancy, my genius, and of nature.
Y et, at that moment, my sensations were too confused for
me to frame one settled idea. My stepmother entered my
room, and begged that I would order them to cease singing,
as it was scandalous on the S abbath. I insisted that they
were to embark on the morrow, and that it was six years
e one
since I had enj oyed such a pleasure. S he would not hear
me; but said that it behoved us, above all things, to
respect the customs of the place in which we lived; then,
from the window, bade her servants send my poor coun-
trymen away. They departed, singing me, as they went,
an adieu that pierced me to the heart. The measure of my
temptation was full. Theresina, at all hazards, had, un-
k nown to me, made every preparation for my flight. L ucy
had been away a week with a relative of her mother.
The ashes of my father did not repose in the country-
house we inhabited: he had ordered his tomb to be erected
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? CO K I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 251
on his S cotch estate* E nough: I set forth without warn-
ing my stepmother, but left a letter, apprising her of my
plans. I started in one of those moments at which we give
ourselves up to destiny, when any thing appears preferable
to servitude and insipidity; when youth inconsiderately
trusts the future, and sees it, in the heavens, lik e a bright star
that promises a happy lot.
CH A PTE R I V .
" More anx ious thoughts attack ed me as I lost sight of the
E nglish coast; but as I had not left there any strong
attachment, I was soon consoled, on arriving at L eghorn,
and reviewing the charms of I taly. I told no one my true
namet, and took merely that of Corinne, which the history
of a Grecian poetess, the friend of Pindar, had endeared to
me. (11) My person was so changed that I was secure against
recognition. I had lived so retired in F lorence, that I had
a right to anticipate my identity' s remaining unk nown in
R ome. L ady E dgarmond wrote me word of her having
spread the report that the physicians had prescribed a
voyage to the south for my health, and that I had died on
my passage. H er letter contained no comments. S he re-
mitted, with great ex actness, my whole fortune, which was
considerable; but wrote to me no more. F ive years then
elapsed ere I beheld you; during which I tasted much
good fortune. My fame increased: the fine arts and liter-
ature afforded me even more delight in solitude than in
my own success. I k new not, till 1 met you, the full power
of sentiment: my imagination sometimes coloured and dis-
coloured my illusions without giving me great uneasiness.
I had not yet been seized by any affection capable of over-
ruling me. A dmiration, respect, and love had not en-
chained all the faculties of my soul: I conceived more
* Did the authoress think it usual for the E nglish to be buried in their own
grounds, whether consecrated or not ? -- Tr.
f H er real Christian name is never divulged even to the reader. -- Tr.
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? 252CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
charms than I ever found, and remained superior to my
own impressions. Do not insist on my describing to you
how two men, whose passion for me is but too generally
k nown, successively occupied my life, before I k new you.
I outrage my own conviction in now reminding myself
that any one, save you, could ever have interested me: on
this subj ect I feel eq ual grief and repentance. I shall only
tell you what you have already heard from my friends.
My free life so much pleased me, that, after long irreso-
lutions and painful scenes, I twice brok e the ties which the
necessity of loving had made me contract, and could not
resolve to render them irrevocable. A German noble would
have married and tak en me to his own country. A n I talian
prince offered me a most brilliant establishment in R ome.
The first pleased and inspired me with the highest esteem;
but, in time, I perceived that he had few mental resources.
W hen we were alone together, it cost me great trouble to
sustain a conversation, and conceal from him his own de-
ficiencies.
I dared not display myself at my best for fear
of embarrassing him. I foresaw that his regard for me
must necessarily decrease when I should cease to manage
him; and it is difficult, in such a case, to k eep up one' s en-
thusiasm: a woman' s feeling for a man any way inferior
to herself is rather pity than love; and the calculations, the
reflections req uired by such a state, wither the celestial
nature of an involuntary sentiment. The I talian prince
was all grace and fertility of mind: he participated in my
tastes, and loved my way of life; but, on an important oc-
casion, I remark ed that he wanted energy, and that, in
any difficulties, I should have to sustain and fortify him.
There was an end of love -- for women need support;
and nothing chills them more than the necessity of affording
it. Thus was I twice undeceived, not by faults or mis-
fortunes, but by the spirit of observation, which detected
what imagination had concealed. I believed myself des-
tined never to love with the full power of my soul: some-
times this idea pained me; but more freq uently I applauded
my own freedom -- fearing the capability of suffering that
impassioned impulse which might threaten my happiness
and my life. I always re-assured myself in think ing that
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? CO R I N N E J O R I TA L T. 253
my j udgment was not easily captivated, and that no man
could answer my ideal of masculine mind and character.
I hoped ever to escape the absolute power of love, by per-
ceiving some defects in those who charmed me. I then
k new not that there are faults which increase our passion
by the inq uietude they cause. O swald! the melancholy
indecision which discourages you -- the severity of your
opinions -- troubles my repose, without decreasing my
affection. I often think that it will never mak e me
happy; but then it is always myself I j udge, and not
you. A nd now you k now my history -- my flight from
E ngland-- my change of name-- my heart' s inconstancy:--
I have concealed nothing. Doubtless you think that fancy
hath oft misled me; but, if society bound us not by chains
from which men are free, what were there in my life which
should prevent your loving me? H ave I ever deceived?
have I ever wronged any one? has my mind been seared
by vulgar interests? S incerity, good will, and pride--
does God ask more from an orphan alone in the world?
H appy the women who, in their early youth, meet those
they ought to love for ever; but do I the less deserve you
for having k nown you too late? Y
L ord, and you may trust my frank
et, I assure you, my
ness, could I but pass my
life near you, methink s, in spite the loss of the greatest
happiness and glory I can imagine, I would not be your
wife. Perhaps such marriage were to you a sacrifice:
you may one day regret the fair L ucy, my sister, to whom
your father destined you. S he is twelve years my younger;
her name is stainless as the first flower of spring: we
should be obliged, in E ngland, to revive mine, which is
nowasthatofthedead. L ucy,I k now,hasapureand
gentle spirit: if I may j udge from her childhood, she may
become capable of understanding-- loving you. O swald,
you are free. W hen you desire it, your ring shall be re-
stored to you. Perhaps you wish to hear, ere you decide,
what I shall suffer if you leave me. I k now not: some-
times impetuous impulses arise within me, that over-rule
my reason: should I
life insupportable? I
faculty of happiness;
be to blame, then, if they rendered
t is eq ually true that I have a great
it interests me in every thing: I
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? 254 corinne; or italy.
converse with pleasure, and revel in the minds of others--
in the friendship they show me-- in all the wonders of art
and nature, which affectation hath not strick en dead. B ut
would it be in my power to live when I no longer saw you?
it is for you to j udge, O swald: you k now me hetter than
I k now myself. 1 am not responsible for what I may ex -
perience: it is he who plants the dagger should guess
whether the wound is mortal; but if it were so I should
forgive you. My happiness entirely depends on the affection
you have paid me for the last six months. I defy all your
delicacy to blind me, were it in the least degree impaired.
B anish from your mind all idea of duty. I n love I ac-
k nowledge no promises, no security: God alone can raise
the flower which storms have blighted. A tone, a look ,
will be enough to tell me that your heart is not the same;
and I shall detest all you may offer me instead of love --
your love, that heavenly ray, my only glory! B e free,
then, N evil! now-- ever-- even if my husband; for, did
you cease to love, my death would free you from bonds
that else would be indissoluble. W hen you have read this,
I would see you: my impatience will bring me to your
side, and I shall read my fate at a glance; for grief is a
rapid poison,-- and the heart, though weak , never mistak es
the signal of irrevocable destiny. A dieu. "
E N DO PTH E S E CO N DV O L UME .
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? CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 255
V O L UME TH E TH I R D.
BOOKXV.
TH E A DI E UTO R O ME ,A N DJ O UR N E Y TO V E N I CE .
CH A PTE R I .
I t was with deep emotion that O swald read the narrative
of Corinne: many and varied were the confused thoughts
that agitated him. S ometimes he felt hurt by the picture
she drew of an E nglish county, and despairingly ex claimed,
" S uch a woman could never be happy in domestic life! "
then he pitied what she had suffered there, and could not
but admire the simple frank ness of her recital. H e was
j ealous of the affections she had felt ere she met him; and
the more he sought to hide this from himself the more it
tortured him; but above all was he afflicted by his father'
part in her history. H is anguish was such that, not k now-
ing what he did, he rushed forth, beneath the noonday
s
? sun, when the streets of N aples were deserted, and their in-
habitants all secluded in the shade. H e hurried at random
towards Portici: the beams which fell on his brow at once
ex cited and bewildered his ideas. Corinne, meanwhile,
having waited for some hours, could no longer resist her
desire to see him. S he entered his room; he was not there:
his absence, at such a crisis, fearfully alarmed her. S he
saw her papers on the table, and doubted not that, after
reading them, he had left her for ever. E ach moment' s
attempt at patience added to her distress: she walk ed the
chamber hastily, then stopped, in fear of losing the least
sound that might announce his return; at last, unable to
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? 256 corinne; or italy.
control her anx iety, she descended to enq uire if any one
had seen L ord N evil go out, and which way he went. The
master of the inn replied, ' Towards Portici; ' adding,
' that his L ordship surely would not walk far at such a
dangerous period of the day. ' This terror, blending with
so many others, determined Corinne to follow him, though
her head was undefended from the sun. The large white
pavements of N aples, formed of lava, redoubling the light
and heat, scorched and dazzled her as she walk ed. S he did
not intend going to Portici, yet advanced towards it with
increasing speed, meeting no one; for even the animals
now shrunk from the ardours of the clime. Clouds of dust
filled the air, with the slightest breeze, covering the fields,
and concealing all appearance of verdant life. E very in-
stant Corinne felt about to fall; not even a tree was near
to support her. R eason reeled in this burning desert: a
few steps more, and she might reach the royal palace, be-
neath whose porch she would find both shade and water:
but her strength failed-- she could no longer see her way --
her head swam-- a thousand flames, more vivid even than
the blaze of day, danced before her eyes-- an unrefreshing
dark ness suddenly succeeded them -- a cruel thirst consumed
her. O ne of the L azzaroni, the only human creature ex -
pected to brave these fervid horrors, now came up: she
prayed him to bring her a little water; but the man, be-
holding so beautiful and elegant a woman alone, on foot,
H t such an hour, concluded that she must be insane, and
ran from her in dismay. F ortunately O swald at this
moment returned: the voice of Corinne reached his ear.
H e hastened towards her, as she was falling to the earth
insensible, and bore her to the palace portico, where he
called her back to life by the tenderest cares. A s she
recognised him, her senses still wandered, and she wildly
ex claimed, " Y ou promised never to depart without my
consent! I
promise, O
may now appear unworthy of your love; but a
swald ! " -- " Corinne," he cried, " the thought
of leaving you never entered my heart. I would only reflect
on our fate; and wished to recover my spirits ere I saw
you again. " -- " W ell," she said, struggling to appear calm,
" you have had time, during the long hours that might
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 257
bave cost my life; time enough-- therefore speak ! tell me
what have you resolved? " O swald, terrified at the accents,
which betrayed her inmost feelings, k nelt before her, an-
swering, " Corinne, my heart is unchanged; what have I
learnt that should dispel your enchantment? O nly hear
me; " and as she trembled still more violently, he added,
with much earnestness, " L isten fearlessly to one who cannot
live, and k now thou art unhappy. " -- " A h," she sighed,
" it is of my happiness you speak ; your own, then, no
longer depends on me? Y et I
repulse not your pity; for,
at this moment, I have need of it: but think you I will
liveforthatalone? " -- " N o,no,wewillbothlivefor
love. I will return. " --
" A h, you do go, then?
changed since yesterday!
" R eturn! " interrupted Corinne,
W hat has happened? how is all
hapless wretch that I am! " --
" Dearest love," returned O swald, " be composed; and let
me, if I can, ex plain my meaning; it is better than you
suppose, much better; but it is necessary, nevertheless,
that I should ascertain my father' s reasons for opposing
our union seven years since: he never mentioned the sub-
j ect to me; but his most intimate surviving friend, in
E ngland, must k now his motives. I f, as I believe, they
sprung from unimportant circumstances, I can pardon your
desertion of your father' s land and mine; to so noble a
country love may attach you yet, and bid you prefer home-
felt peace, with its gentle and natural virtues, even to the
fame of genius. I will hope every thing, do every thing;
if my father decides against thee, Corinne, I will never be
' the husband of another, though then I cannot be thine. "
A cold dew stood on his brow: the effort he had made to
speak thus cost him so much agony, that for some time
Corinne could think of nothing but the sad state in which
she beheld him. A t last she took his hand, crying, " S o,
you return to E ngland without me. " O swald was silent.
" Cruel! " she continued: " you say nothing to contradict
my fears; they are j ust, then, though even while saying so
I cannot yet believe it. " -- " Thank s to your cares," an-
swered N evil, " I have regained the life so nearly lost: it
belongs to my country during the war. I f I can marry
you, we part no more. I will restore you to your rank in
s
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? 258CO R I N ' N E ; O B I TA L Y .
E ngland. I f this too happy lot should be forbidden me, I
shall return, with the peace, to I taly, stay with you long,
and change your fate in nothing save in giving you one
faithful friend the more. " -- " N ot change my fate! "
repeated; " you, who have become my only interest in the
world! to whom I owe the intox icating draught which?
gives happiness or death? Y et tell me, at least, this
parting, when must it be? H ow many days are left me? "
-- " B eloved! " he cried, pressing her to his heart, "
that for three months I will not leave thee; not, perhaps,
even then. " -- " Three months! " she burst forth; "
I to live so long? it is much, I did not hope so much.
Come, I feel better. Three months? -- what a futurity! "
she added, with a mix ture of j oy and sadness, that pro-
foundly affected O swald; and both, in silence, entered the
carriage which took them back to N aples.
CH A PTE R I I .
Castel F orte awaited them at the inn. A report had
been circulated of their marriage: it greatly pained the
Prince, yet he came to assure himself of the fact, to regain,
as a friend, the society of his love, even if she were for ever
united to another. The state of dej ection in which he be-
held her, for the first time, occasioned him much uneasi-
ness; but he dared not q uestion her, as she seemed to
avoid all conversation on this subj ect. There are situations
which we dread to confide in any one; a single word, that
we might say or hear, would suffice to dissipate the illusion
that supports our life. The self-deceptions of impassioned
sentiment have the peculiarity of humouring the heart, as
we humour a friend whom we fear to affiict by the truth;
thus, unconsciously, trust we our own griefs to the protection
of our own pity. .
N ex t day, Corinne, who was too natural a person to
attempt producing an effect by her sorrows, strove to appear
gay; believing that the best method of retaining O swald
she
I
swear,
am
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? corinne; or italy. 259
was to seem as attractive as formerly. S he, therefore, in-
troduced some interesting topic; but suddenly her abstrac-
tion returned, her eyes wandered: the woman who had
possessed the greatest possible facility of address now
hesitated in her choice of words, and sometimes used ex -
pressions that bore not the slightest reference to what she
intended saying: then she would laugh at herself, though
through tears; and O swald, overwhelmed by the wreck he
had made, would have sought to be alone with her, but she
carefully denied him an opportunity.
" W hat would you learn from me? " she said one day,
when, for an instant, he insisted on speak ing with her. " I
regret myself-- that is all! I had some pride in my
talents. I loved success, glory. The praises, even of in-
different persons, were obj ects of my ambition; now I
for nothing: and it is not happiness that weans me from
these vain pleasures, but a vast discouragement. I accuse
not you; it springs from myself; perhaps I may yet tri-
umph over it. Many things pass in the depths of the soul
care
that we can neither foresee nor direct; but I do you j ustice,
O swald: I see you suffer for me. I sympathise with you,
too: why should not pity bestow her gifts on us? A las!
they might be offered to all who breathe, without proving
very inapplicable. "
O swald, indeed, was not less wretched than Corinne.
H e loved her strongly; but her history had wounded his
affections, his way of think ing. H e seemed to perceive
clearly that his father had prej udged every thing for him;
and that he could only wed Corinne in defiance of such
warning; -- yet how resign her? H is uncertainty was more
painful than that which he hoped to terminate by a k now-
ledge of her life. O n her part, she had not wished that the
tie of marriage should unite her to O swald: so she could
have been certain that he would never leave her, she would
have wanted no more to render her content; but she k new
him well enough to understand, that he could conceive no
happiness save in domestic life; and would never abj ure
the design of marrying her, unless in ceasing to love. H ia \
departure for E ngland appeared the signal for her death.
S he was aware how great an influence the manners and
s2
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