Goethe has described, in a
delicious
romance, the
passion felt, in warm climates, for the water.
passion felt, in warm climates, for the water.
Madame de Stael - Corinna, or Italy
org/access_use#pd-google
? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 223
that she had prepared her fete; nothing could he more
tastefully arranged. S ailors, in habits of contrasted hues,
and some O rientalists from a L evantine bark then in the
port, danced with the peasant girls from I schia and Procida,'
whose costume still preserves a Grecian grace; sweet voices
were heard singing from a distance; and instrumental
music answered from behind the rock s. I t was lik e echo
echoed by sounds that lost themselves in the sea. The
softness of the air animated all around-- even Corinne her-
self. S he was entreated to dance among the rustics: at
first she consented with pleasure, but scarcely had she be-
gun ere her forebodings rendered all amusement odious to
her, and she withdrew to the ex treme verge of the cape;
thither O swald followed, with others, who now begged
her to ex temporise in this lovely scene: her emotions were
such that she permitted them to lead her towards the
elevation on which they had placed her lyre, without
power to comprehend what they ex pected.
CH A PTE R I V .
S till Corinne desired that O swald should once more hear
her, as on the day at the Capitol. I f the talent with which
H eaven had gifted her was about to be ex tinguished for
ever, she wished its last rays to shine on him she loved:
these very fears afforded her the inspiration she req uired.
H er friends were impatient to hear her. E ven the com-
mon people k new her fame; and, as imagination rendered
them j udges of poetry, they closed silently round, their
eager faces ex pressing the deepest attention. The moon
arose; but the last beams of day still paled her light.
F rom the top of the small hill that, standing over the sea,
forms the cape of Micena, V esuvius is plainly seen, and the
bay and isles that stud its bosom. W ith one consent the
friends of Corinne begged her to sing the memories that
scene recalled. S he tuned her lyre, and began with a
brok en voice. H er look was beautiful; but one who k new
her, as O swald did, could there read the trouble of her
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? 224-CO R I N N B ; O R I TA L Y .
soul. S he strove, however, to restrain her feelings, and
once more, if but for awhile, to soar above her personal
situation.
CO R I N N e' sCH A N TI N TH E V I CI N I TY O F N A PL E S .
A y, N ature, H istory, and Poesie,
R ival each other' s greatness : -- here the eye
S weeps with a glance, all wonders and all time.
A dead volcano now, I see thy lak e
A vernus, with the fear-inspiring waves
A cheron, and Phlegeton boiling up
W ith subterranean flame: these are the streams
O f that old hell J E neas visited.
F ire, the devouring life which first creates
The world which it consumes, struck terror most
W hen least its laws were k nown. --
R eveal' d her secrets but to Poetry.
A h! N ature then
The town of Cuma and the S ibyl' s cave,
The temple of A pollo mark ' d this height;
H ere is the wood where grew the bough of gold.
The country of the ^ neid is around;
The fables genius consecrated here
A re memories whose traces still we seek .
A Triton has beneath these billows plunged
The daring Troj an, who in song defied
The sea divinities: still are the rock s
H ollow and sounding, such as V irgil told.
I magination' s truth is from its power:
Man' s genius can create when nature' s felt;
H e copies when he deems that he invents.
A mid these masses, terrible and old,
Creation' s witnesses, you see arise
A younger hill of the volcano born:
F or here the earth is stormy as the sea,
B ut doth not, lik e the sea, peaceful return
W ithin its bounds: the heavy element,
Upshak en by the tremulous abyss,
Digs valleys, and rears mountains; while the waves,
H arden' d to stone, attest the storms which rend
H er depths; strik e now upon the earth,
Y ou hear the subterranean vault resound.
I t is as if the ground on which we dwell
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 225
I W ere but a surface ready to unclose.
N aples! how doth thy country lik eness bear
To human passions; fertile, sulphurous:
I ts dangers and its pleasures both seem born
O f those inflamed volcanoes, which bestow
Upon the atmosphere so many charms,
Y et bid the thunder growl beneath our feet.
Pliny but studied nature that the more
H e might love I taly; and call' d his land
The loveliest, when all other titles fail' d.
H e sought for science as a warrior seek s
F or conq uest: it was from this very cape
H e went to watch V esuvius through the flames:
Those flames consumed him.
O h Memory! noble power! thy reign is here.
S trange destiny, how thus, from age to age,
Doth man complain of that which he has lost.
S till do departed years, each in their turn,
S eem treasurers of happiness gone by;
A nd while mind, j oyful in its far advance,
Plunges amid the future, still the S oul
S eems to regret some other ancient home
To which it is drawn closer by the past.
W e envy R oman grandeur -- did they not
E nvy their fathers' brave simplicity?
O nce this voluptuous country they despised;
I ts pleasures but subdued their enemies.
| S ee, in the distance, Capua! she o' ercame
The warrior, whose 6 rm soul resisted R ome
More time than did a world.
The R omans in their turn dwelt on these plains,
W hen strength of mind but only served to feel
More deeply shame and grief; effeminate,
They sank without remorse. Y et B aise saw
The conq uer' d sea give place to palaces:
Columns were dug from mountains rent in twain,
A nd the world' s masters, now in their turn slaves,
Made nature subj ect to console themselves
That they were subj ect too.
A nd Cicero on this promontory died:
This Gaeta we see. A h! no regard
Those triumvirs paid to posterity,
R obbing her of the thoughts yet unconceivett
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? 226
CO K I N N E :O B I TA L Y .
O f this great man: their crime continues still;
Committed against us was this offence.
Cicero ' neath the tyrant' s dagger fell,
B ut S cipio, more unhappy, was ex iled
W ith yet his country free. B eside this shore
H e died; and still the ruins of his tomb
R etain the name, " Tower of my native land: " *
Touching allusion to the memory
W hich haunted his great soul.
Marius found a refuge in yon marsh f,
N ear to the S cipio' s home. Thus in all time
H ave nations persecuted their great men.
B ut they ensk ied them after death \ ; and H
eaven,
W here still the R omans deem' d they could command,
R eceived amid her planets R omulus,
N uma, and Caesar; new and dazzling stars!
Mingling together in our erring naze
The rays of glory and celestial light.
A nd not enough alone of misery,
The trace of crime is here. I n yonder gulf behold
The isle of Capri, where at length old age
Disarm' d Tiberius; violent, yet worn;
Cruel, voluptuous; wearied e' en of crime,
H e sought yet viler pleasures; as he were
N ot low enough debased by tyranny.
A nd A grippina' s tomb is on these shores,
F acing the isle ? , rear' d after N ero' s death;
The murderer of his mother had proscribed
E ven her ashes. L ong at B aiae he dwelt
A mid the memories of his many crimes.
W hat wretches fate here brings before our eyes!
Tiberius, N ero, on each other gaze.
The isles, volcano-born amid the sea,
S erved at their birth the crimes of the old world.
The sorrowing ex iles on these lonely rock s,
W atch'
S eek
* " L
d ' mid the waves their native land afar,
ing to catch its perfumes in the air:
a tour de la patrie. " Patrie can scarce be rendered by a single word -
" native land" perhaps best ex presses the ancient patria L . E . L .
+ Minturno.
X " lis sont consoles par 1' apotheose. " This is the only instance in which I
have not given, as nearly as possible, the E nglish word that answered most
ex actly; but I confess one so long as " apotheosis" fairly baffled my efforts to
get it into rhythm. I t is curious to notice how many Pagan observances were
grafted on the R oman Catholic worship. Canonisation is but a Christian
apotheosis, -- only the deceased turned into saints instead of gods L . E . L .
$ Caprea.
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? GO K I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 227
A nd often, a long ex ile worn away,
S entence of sudden death arrived to show
They were remember' d by their enemies.
O
H
A
E arth ! all bathed with blood and tears, yet never
ast thou ceased putting forth thy fruit and flowers;
nd hast thou then no pity for mank ind?
Can thy maternal breast receive again
Theirdust,andyetnotthrob? L . E . L .
H ere Corinne paused for some moments. A ll her as-
sembled hearers threw laurels and myrtle at her feet.
The soft pure moonlight fell on her brow, and the breeze
wantoned with her ringlets as if nature delighted to
adorn her: she was so overpowered as she look ed on
the enchanting scene, and on O swald, who shared this de-
licious eve with her, yet might not be thus near for ever,
that tears flowed from her eyes. E ven the crowd, who
had j ust applauded her so tumultuously, respected her
emotion, and mutely awaited her words, which they trusted
would mak e them participators in her feelings. S he pre-
luded for some time on her lyre, then, no longer dividing
her song into stanzas, abandoned herself to the uninter-
rupted stream of verse.
S ome memories of the heart, some woman' s manes
Y et ask your tears. ' Twas at this very place,
Massena * , that Cornelia k ept till death
H er noble mourning; A grippina too
L ong wept Germanicus beside these shores.
A t length the same assassin who deprived
H er of her husband found she was at last
W orthy to follow him. A nd yonder isle f
S aw B rutus and his Portia bid farewell.
Thus women loved of heroes have beheld
The obj ect perish which they so adored.
L ong time in vain they follow' d in their path;
There came the hour when they were forced to part.
Portia destroy' d herself; Cornelia clasp' d
The sacred urn which answer' d not her cries;
A nd A grippina, for how many years!
V ainly her husband' s murderer defied.
A nd wander' d here the wretched ones, lik e ghosts
O n wasted shores of the eternal stream,
* The retreat of F ompey. t N isida.
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? 228 corinne; or italy.
S ighing to reach the other far-off land.
Did they not ask in their long solitude
O f silence, of all nature, of the sk y,
S tar-shining ? -- and from the deep sea, one sound,
O ne only tone of the beloved voice
They never more might hear.
Mysterious enthusiasm, L ove!
The heart' s supremest power; -- which doth combine
W ithin itself religion, poetry,
A nd heroism. L ove, what may befall
W hen destiny has bade us separate
F rom him who has the secret of our soul;
W ho gave us the heart' s life, celestial life.
W hat may befall when absence, or when death
I solate woman on this earth ? -- S he pines,
S he sink s. H ow often have these rock s
O ffer' d their cold support to the forlorn!
Those once worn in the heart; -- those once sustain' d
Upon a hero' s arm.
B efore you is S orrento : -- dwelling there
W as Tasso' s sister, when the pilgrim came
A sk ing asylum ' gainst the prince unj ust
F rom humble friends: long grief had almost q
R eason' s clear light, but genius still was left.
uench' d
Y et k ept he k nowledge of the things divine,
W hen earthly images were all obscured.
Thus shrink ing from the desert spread around
Doth Genius wander through the world, and finds
N o lik eness to itself; no echo given
B y N ature; and the common crowd but hold
A s madness that desire of the rapt soul,
W hich finds not in this world enough of air --
O f high enthusiasm, or of hope.
F or Destiny compels ex alted minds:--
The poet, whose imagination draws
I ts power from loving and from suffering,--
They are the vanish' d from another sphere.
F or the A lmighty goodness might not frame
A ll for the few, -- the' elect or the proscribed.
W hy spok e the ancients with such awe of F ate?
W hat had this terrible F ate to do with them,
The common and the q uiet, who pursue
The seasons, and still follow timidly
The beaten track of ordinary life?
B ut she, the priestess of the oracle,
S hook with the presence of the cruel power.
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? corinne; or italy. 229
I k now not what the involuntary force
That plunges Genius into misery.
Genius doth catch the music of the spheres,
W hich mortal ear was never meant to k now.
Genius can penetrate the mysteries
O f feeling, all unk nown to other hearts;
A power hath entered in the inmost soul,
W hose presence may not be contained.
S ublime Creator of this lovely world,
Protect us: our ex ertions have no strength;
O ur hope' s a lie. Tumultuous tyranny
O ur passions ex ercise, and neither leave
R epose nor liberty. W hat we may do
To-morrow may perhaps decide our fate.
W e may have said but yesterday some word
W hich may not be recalled. S till when our mind
I s elevate with noblest thoughts, we feel
A s on the height of some great edifice,
Giddiness blending all things in our sight;
B ut even there, woe! terrible woe! appears.
N ot lost amid the clouds, it pierces through;
I t flings the shades asunder; O h my God!
W hatdothitheraldtous? " L . E . L .
A t these words a mortal paleness overspread her coun-
tenance; her eyes closed; and she would have fallen to the
earth, had not O swald rushed to support her.
CHAPTER V.
Corinne revived: the affecting interest of O swald' s look
restored her to some composure. The N eapolitans were
surprised at the gloomy character of her poetry, much as
they admired it. They thought it the Muse' s task to dis-
sipate the cares of life, and not to ex plore their terrible
secrets; but the E nglish who were present seemed deeply
touched. Their own melancholy, embellished by I talian
imagination, delighted them. This lovely woman, whose
features seemed designed to depict felicity,-- this child of
the sun, a prey to hidden grief,-- was lik e a flower, still
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? 230CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
(
fresh and brilliant, but within whose leaves may be seen
the first dark impress of that withering blight which soon
shall lay it low. The party embark ed to return: the
glowing calm of the hour made it a lux ury to be upon the
sea.
Goethe has described, in a delicious romance, the
passion felt, in warm climates, for the water. A nymph
of the flood boasts to the fisherman the charms of her
abode; invites him to taste its refreshment, and, by degrees,
allures him to his death. This magic of the tide resembles
that of the basilisk , which fascinates by fear. The wave
rising gently afar, swelling, and hurrying as it nears the
shore, is but a type of passion that dawns in softness, but
soon grows invincible. Corinne put back her tresses, that
she might better enj oy the air: her countenance was thus
more beautiful than ever. The musicians, who followed
in another boat, poured forth enchantments that harmonised
with the stars, the sea, and the sweet intox ication of an
I talian evening. " O h, my heart' s love! " whispered O s-
wald, " can I ever forget this day, or ever enj oy a happier? "
H is eyes filled with tears. O ne of his most seductive
attributes was this ready yet restrained sensibility, which
so oft, in spite of him, bedewed his lids: at such moments
he was irresistible: sometimes even in the midst of an en-
dearing pleasantry, a melting thrill stole on his mirth, and
lent it a new, a noble charm. " A las! " returned Corinne,
" I hope not for another day lik e this; but be it blest, at
least, as the last such of my life, if forbidden to prove the
dawn of more endearing bliss. "
CH A PTE R V I .
The weather changed ere they reached N aples: the heavens
dark ened, and the coming storm, already felt in the air,
convulsed the waves, as if the sea sympathised with the
sk y. O swald preceded Corinne, that he might see the
flambeaux borne the more steadily before her. A s they
neared the q uay, he saw some L azzaroni assembled, crying
" Poor creature! he cannot save himself! we must be
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? corinne; O R I TA L Y . 231
patient. " -- " O f whom speak ye ? " cried N evil impetuously.
-- " A n old man," they replied, " who was bathing below
there, not far from the mole; but the storm has risen: he
is too weak to struggle with it. " O swald' s first impulse
was to plunge into the water; then reflecting on the alarm
he should cause Corinne, when she came, he offered all the
money he had with him, promising to double it, for the
man who would swim to this unfortunate being' s assistance;
but the L azzaroni all refused, saying, " I t cannot be, the
danger is too fearful. " A t that moment the old man sunk .
O swald could hesitate no longer: he threw off his coat,
and sprang into the sea, spite of its waves, that dashed
above his head: he buffetted them bravely; seized the
sufferer, who must have perished had he been a moment
later, and brought him to the land; but the sudden chill
and violent ex ertion so overwhelmed L ord N evil, that he
had scarcely seen his charge in safety, when he fell on the
earth insensible, and so pallid, that the by-standers believed
him a corpse. (10) I t was then that the unconscious
Corinne beheld the crowd, heard them cry, " H e is dead,"
and would have drawn back in terror; wherA he saw one of
the E nglishmen who had accompanied her, break eagerly
through the people: she made some steps to follow him;
and the first obj ect which met her eye was a portion of
O swald' s dress, lying on the bank . S he seized it with des-
peration, believing it all that was left of her love; and when
she saw him, lifeless as he appeared, she threw herself en
his breast, in transport, and ardently pressed him to her
heart: with what inex pressible rapture did she detect that
his still beat, perhaps re-animated by her presence! " H e
lives! " she cried, " he lives! " and instantly regained a
strength, a courage, such as his mere friends could scarcely
eq ual. S he sent for every thing that could revive him: and
herself applied these restoratives, supporting his fainting
head upon her breast, and, though she wept over it, for-
getting nothing, losing not a moment, nor permitting her
grief to interrupt her cares. O swald grew better, but re-
sumed not yet the use of his senses. S he had him carried to
his hotel, and, k neeling beside him, bathed his brow with
stimulating perfumes, calling on him in tones of impassioned
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? 232CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y .
tenderness that might have wak ed the dead. H e opened
his eyes, and pressed her hand. F or the j oy of such a
moment might one not endure the tortures of demons?
Poor human nature! W e guess at infinitude but by suf-
fering; and not a bliss in life can compensate the anguish
of beholding those we love ex pire. " Cruel, cruel! " cried
Corinne; " think what you have done ! " -- " Pardon," he
replied, in a trembling voice. " B elieve me, dearest, while
I thought myself dying, I trembled but for thee. "
q uisite ex pression of mutual love and confidence!
to her last day, could not recall those words without a
fondness, which, while it lasted, taught her to forgive
him all.
CH A PTE R V I I .
E x -
Corinne,
O swald' s nex t impulse was to thrust his hand into his bosom
for his father' s portrait: it was still there; but the water
had left it scarcely recognisable: he was bitterly afflicted
by this loss. " My God ! " he cried, " dost thou deny me
even his image? " Corinne besought his permission to
restore it: he consented, without much hope: what then
was his amaze, when, on the third morning she brought it
to him, not only repaired, but more faithful than ever!
" Y es," cried O swald, " you have divined his features and
his look . This heavenly miracle decides you for my life' s
companion, since to you is thus revealed the memory of
one who must for ever dispose my fate. H ere is the ring
my father gave his wife-- the sacred bond sincerely offered
by the noblest, and accepted by the most constant of hearts.
L et me transfer it from my hand to thine, and, while thou
k eepest it, be no longer free. I tak e this solemn oath, not
k nowing to whom, but in thy soul, I trust, that tells me
all: the events of your life, if springing from yourself,
must needs be lofty as your character. I f you have been
the victim to an unworthy fate, thank H eaven I can repair
it; therefore, my own Corinne, you owe your secrets to
one whose promises precede your confidence. " -- " O swald,"
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? corinne; or italy. 233
she answered, " this delirium is the result of a mistak e.
I cannot accept your ring till I have undeceived you.
A n inspiration of the heart, you think , taught me your
father' s features: I
often. " -- " S
ought to tell you that I have seen him
a moment' s pause; " I
swear never to wed another till you
een him!
how? when? where? O God!
who are you, then ? " -- " H ere is your ring," returned
Corinne, in a smothered tone. -- " N o," cried O swald, after
send hack that ring. F orgive the tumult you have raised
within me: confused and half-forgotten thoughts afflict my
mind. " -- " I see it," said Corinne; " and this shall end:
already your accents and your words are changed. Per-
haps when you have read my history, the horrid word
adieu" -- " N o,no," criedN evil; " onlyfrommy
death-hed-- fear not that word till then. " Corinne retired,
and, in a few moments, Theresina brought him the papers
which he was now to read.
BOOKXIV.
H I S TO R Y O F CO R I N N E .
CH A PTE R I .
" O swald, I begin with the avowal which must determine
my fate. I f, after reading it, you find it impossible to
pardon, do not finish this letter, but rej ect and banish me;
yet if, when you k now the name and destiny I have re-
nounced, all is not brok en between us, what follows may
then serve as my ex cuse.
" L ord E dgarmond was my father. I was born in I
his first wife was a R oman; and L ucy, whom they in-
tended for your bride, is my sister, by an E nglish lady,--
by my father' s second marriage. N ow, hear me! I
mother ere I was ten years old, and, as it was her dying
wish that my education should be finished ere I went to
taly:
lost my
E ngland, I was confided to an aunt at F lorence, with whom
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? 234CO R I N N E J O R I TA L Y .
I lived till I was fifteen. My tastes and talents were formed
ere her death induced L ord E dgarmond to have me with
him. H e lived at a small town in N orthumberland, which
cannot, I suppose, give any idea of E ngland; yet was all
I k new of it for six years. My mother, from my infancy,
impressed on me the misery of not living in I taly; my
aunt had often added, that this fear of q uitting her country
had brok en her heart. My good aunt herself was per-
suaded too that a Catholic would be condemned to perdition
for settling in a Protestant country ; and though I was not
infected by this fear, the thought of going to E ngland
alarmed me much. I set forth with an inex plicable sense
of sadness. The woman sent for me did not understand
a word of I talian. I spok e it now and then to console my
poor Theresina, who had consented to follow me, though
she wept incessantly at leaving her country; but I k new
that I must unlearn the habit of breathing the sweet sounds
so welcome even to foreigners, and, for me, associated with
all the recollections of my childhood. I approached the
north unable to comprehend the cause of my own changed
and sombre sensations. I t was five years since I had seen
my father. I hardly recognised him when I reached his
house. Methought his countenance was very grave; yet
he received me with tenderness, and told me I was ex -
tremely lik e my mother. My half-sister, then three years
of age, was brought to me: her sk in was fairer, her silk en
curls more golden than I
hardly any such faces in I
terested me from the first;
had ever seen before; we have
taly; she astonished and in-
that same day I cut off some
of her ringlets for a bracelet, which I have preserved ever
since. A t last my step-mother appeared, and the impres-
sion made on me by her first look grew and deepened dur-
ing the years I passed with her. L ady E dgarmond was
ex clusively attached to her native county; and my father,
whom she over-ruled, sacrificed a residence in L ondon or
E dinburgh to her wishes. S he was a cold, dignified, silent
person, whose eyes could turn affectionately on her child,
but who usually wore so positive an air, that it appeared
impossible to mak e her understand a new idea, or even one
phrase to which she had not been accustomed. S he met
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? corinne; or I taly. 235
me politely, but I soon perceived that my whole manner
amazed her, and that she proposed to change it, if she
could. N ot a word was said during dinner, though some
neighbours had been invited. I was so tired of this silence,.
that, in the midst of our meal, I strove to converse a tittle
with an old gentleman who sat beside me. I spok e E nglish
tolerably, as my father had taught me in childhood; but
happening to cite some I talian poetry, purely delicate, in
which there was some mention of love, my mother-in-law,
who k new the language slightly, stared at me, blushed, and
signed for the ladies, earlier than usual, to withdraw, pre-
pare tea, and leave the men to themselves during the des-
sert. * I k new nothing of this custom, which ' would not
be believed in V enice. ' -- S ociety agreeable without women!
-- F or a moment I thought her L adyship so displeased that
she could not remain in the same room with me; but I
was re-assured by her motioning me to follow, and never
reverting to my fault during the three hours we passed in
the drawing room, waiting for the gentlemen. A t supper,
however, she told me, gently enough, that it was not usual
in E ngland for young ladies to talk ; above all, they must
never think of q uoting poetry in which the name of love
occurred. ' Miss E dgarmond,' she added, ' you must en-
deavour to forget all that belongs to I taly: it is to be wished
that you had never k nown such a country. ' I passed the
night in tears, my heart was oppressed. I n the morning
I attempted to walk : there was so tremendous a fog that
I could not see the sun, which at least would have reminded
me of my own land; but I met my father, who said to me,
' My dear child, it is not here as in I taly; our women have
no occupations save their domestic duties. Y our talents
may beguile your solitude, and you may win a husband
who will pride in them; but in a country town lik e this,
all that attracts attention ex cites envy, and you will never
marry at all if it is thought that you have foreign manners.
H ere, every one must submit to the old prej
obscure county. I passed twelve years in I
mother: their memory is very dear to me. I
udices of an
taly with your
was young
? I f this was Cori line' s first E nglish dinner, how did she k now the usual
time for retiring? -- T<< .
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? 236 CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
then, and novelty delightful. I have now returned to my
original situation, and am q uite comfortahle; a regular,
perhaps rather a monotonous life, mak es time pass unper-
ceived; one must not combat the habits of a place in which
one is established; we should be the sufferers if we did,
for, in a scene lik e this, every thing is k nown, every thing
repeated; there is no room for emulation, but sufficient for
j ealousy; and it is better to bear a little ennui than to be
beset by wondering faces that every instant demand reasons
for what you do. ' -- My dear O swald, you can form no
idea of my anguish while my father spok e thus. I remem-
bered him all grace and vivacity, and I saw him stooping
beneath the leaden mantle which Dante invented for hell,
and which mediocrity throws over all who submit to her
yok e. E nthusiasm for nature and the arts seemed vanish-
ing from my sight; and my soul, lik e a useless flame, con-
sumed myself, having no longer any food from without.
A s I was naturally mild, my stepmother had nothing to
complain of in my behaviour towards her; and for my
father, I loved him tenderly. A conversation with him was
my only remaining pleasure; he was resigned, but he k new
that he was so; while the generality of our country gen-
tlemen drank , hunted, and slept, fancying such life the
wisest and best in the world. Their content so perplex ed
me, that I ask ed myself if my own way of think ing was
not a folly, and if this solid ex istence, which escaped grief,
in avoiding thought and sentiment, was not far more en-
viable than mine. W hat would such a conviction have
done for me? it must have taught me to deplore as a mis-
fortune that genius which in I taly was regarded as a bless-
ing from heaven.
" Towards the close of autumn the pleasures of the
chase freq uently k ept my father from home till midnight.
During his absence I remained mostly in my own room,
endeavouring to improve myself: this displeased L ady E d-
garmond. ' W hat good will it do? ' she said: ' will you
be any the happier for it? ' The words struck me with
despair. W hat then is happiness, I thought, if it consist
not in the developement of our faculties? Might we not
as well k ill ourselves physically as morally? I f I must
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? corinne; O R I TA L Y . 237
stifle my mind, my soul, why preserve the miserable re-
mains of life that would but agitate me in vain? B ut I
was careful not to speak thus before my mother-in-law.
I had essayed it once or twice, and her reply was, that
women were made to manage their husbands' houses, and
watch over the health of their children: all other accom-
plishments were dangerous, and the best advice she could
give me was to hide those I possessed. This discourse,
though so common-place, was unanswerable; for enthu-
siasm is peculiarly dependent on encouragement, and
withers lik e a flower beneath a dark or freezing sk y.
There is nothing easier than to assume a high moral air,
while condemning all the attributes of an elevated spirit.
Duty, the noblest destination of man, may be distorted,"
<<
lik e all other ideas, into an offensive weapon by which nar-
row minds silence their superiors as their foes. O ne would
think , if believing them, that duty enj oined the sacrifice of
all the q ualities that confer distinction; that wit were a
fault, req uiring the ex piation of our leading precisely the
same lives with those who have. none; but does duty pre-
scribe lik e rules to all characters? A re not great thoughts
and generous feelings debts due to the world, from all who
are capable of paying them? O ught not every woman,
lik e every man, to follow the bent of her own talents?
Must we imitate the instinct of the bees, whose every sue.
? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 223
that she had prepared her fete; nothing could he more
tastefully arranged. S ailors, in habits of contrasted hues,
and some O rientalists from a L evantine bark then in the
port, danced with the peasant girls from I schia and Procida,'
whose costume still preserves a Grecian grace; sweet voices
were heard singing from a distance; and instrumental
music answered from behind the rock s. I t was lik e echo
echoed by sounds that lost themselves in the sea. The
softness of the air animated all around-- even Corinne her-
self. S he was entreated to dance among the rustics: at
first she consented with pleasure, but scarcely had she be-
gun ere her forebodings rendered all amusement odious to
her, and she withdrew to the ex treme verge of the cape;
thither O swald followed, with others, who now begged
her to ex temporise in this lovely scene: her emotions were
such that she permitted them to lead her towards the
elevation on which they had placed her lyre, without
power to comprehend what they ex pected.
CH A PTE R I V .
S till Corinne desired that O swald should once more hear
her, as on the day at the Capitol. I f the talent with which
H eaven had gifted her was about to be ex tinguished for
ever, she wished its last rays to shine on him she loved:
these very fears afforded her the inspiration she req uired.
H er friends were impatient to hear her. E ven the com-
mon people k new her fame; and, as imagination rendered
them j udges of poetry, they closed silently round, their
eager faces ex pressing the deepest attention. The moon
arose; but the last beams of day still paled her light.
F rom the top of the small hill that, standing over the sea,
forms the cape of Micena, V esuvius is plainly seen, and the
bay and isles that stud its bosom. W ith one consent the
friends of Corinne begged her to sing the memories that
scene recalled. S he tuned her lyre, and began with a
brok en voice. H er look was beautiful; but one who k new
her, as O swald did, could there read the trouble of her
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? 224-CO R I N N B ; O R I TA L Y .
soul. S he strove, however, to restrain her feelings, and
once more, if but for awhile, to soar above her personal
situation.
CO R I N N e' sCH A N TI N TH E V I CI N I TY O F N A PL E S .
A y, N ature, H istory, and Poesie,
R ival each other' s greatness : -- here the eye
S weeps with a glance, all wonders and all time.
A dead volcano now, I see thy lak e
A vernus, with the fear-inspiring waves
A cheron, and Phlegeton boiling up
W ith subterranean flame: these are the streams
O f that old hell J E neas visited.
F ire, the devouring life which first creates
The world which it consumes, struck terror most
W hen least its laws were k nown. --
R eveal' d her secrets but to Poetry.
A h! N ature then
The town of Cuma and the S ibyl' s cave,
The temple of A pollo mark ' d this height;
H ere is the wood where grew the bough of gold.
The country of the ^ neid is around;
The fables genius consecrated here
A re memories whose traces still we seek .
A Triton has beneath these billows plunged
The daring Troj an, who in song defied
The sea divinities: still are the rock s
H ollow and sounding, such as V irgil told.
I magination' s truth is from its power:
Man' s genius can create when nature' s felt;
H e copies when he deems that he invents.
A mid these masses, terrible and old,
Creation' s witnesses, you see arise
A younger hill of the volcano born:
F or here the earth is stormy as the sea,
B ut doth not, lik e the sea, peaceful return
W ithin its bounds: the heavy element,
Upshak en by the tremulous abyss,
Digs valleys, and rears mountains; while the waves,
H arden' d to stone, attest the storms which rend
H er depths; strik e now upon the earth,
Y ou hear the subterranean vault resound.
I t is as if the ground on which we dwell
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 225
I W ere but a surface ready to unclose.
N aples! how doth thy country lik eness bear
To human passions; fertile, sulphurous:
I ts dangers and its pleasures both seem born
O f those inflamed volcanoes, which bestow
Upon the atmosphere so many charms,
Y et bid the thunder growl beneath our feet.
Pliny but studied nature that the more
H e might love I taly; and call' d his land
The loveliest, when all other titles fail' d.
H e sought for science as a warrior seek s
F or conq uest: it was from this very cape
H e went to watch V esuvius through the flames:
Those flames consumed him.
O h Memory! noble power! thy reign is here.
S trange destiny, how thus, from age to age,
Doth man complain of that which he has lost.
S till do departed years, each in their turn,
S eem treasurers of happiness gone by;
A nd while mind, j oyful in its far advance,
Plunges amid the future, still the S oul
S eems to regret some other ancient home
To which it is drawn closer by the past.
W e envy R oman grandeur -- did they not
E nvy their fathers' brave simplicity?
O nce this voluptuous country they despised;
I ts pleasures but subdued their enemies.
| S ee, in the distance, Capua! she o' ercame
The warrior, whose 6 rm soul resisted R ome
More time than did a world.
The R omans in their turn dwelt on these plains,
W hen strength of mind but only served to feel
More deeply shame and grief; effeminate,
They sank without remorse. Y et B aise saw
The conq uer' d sea give place to palaces:
Columns were dug from mountains rent in twain,
A nd the world' s masters, now in their turn slaves,
Made nature subj ect to console themselves
That they were subj ect too.
A nd Cicero on this promontory died:
This Gaeta we see. A h! no regard
Those triumvirs paid to posterity,
R obbing her of the thoughts yet unconceivett
Q
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? 226
CO K I N N E :O B I TA L Y .
O f this great man: their crime continues still;
Committed against us was this offence.
Cicero ' neath the tyrant' s dagger fell,
B ut S cipio, more unhappy, was ex iled
W ith yet his country free. B eside this shore
H e died; and still the ruins of his tomb
R etain the name, " Tower of my native land: " *
Touching allusion to the memory
W hich haunted his great soul.
Marius found a refuge in yon marsh f,
N ear to the S cipio' s home. Thus in all time
H ave nations persecuted their great men.
B ut they ensk ied them after death \ ; and H
eaven,
W here still the R omans deem' d they could command,
R eceived amid her planets R omulus,
N uma, and Caesar; new and dazzling stars!
Mingling together in our erring naze
The rays of glory and celestial light.
A nd not enough alone of misery,
The trace of crime is here. I n yonder gulf behold
The isle of Capri, where at length old age
Disarm' d Tiberius; violent, yet worn;
Cruel, voluptuous; wearied e' en of crime,
H e sought yet viler pleasures; as he were
N ot low enough debased by tyranny.
A nd A grippina' s tomb is on these shores,
F acing the isle ? , rear' d after N ero' s death;
The murderer of his mother had proscribed
E ven her ashes. L ong at B aiae he dwelt
A mid the memories of his many crimes.
W hat wretches fate here brings before our eyes!
Tiberius, N ero, on each other gaze.
The isles, volcano-born amid the sea,
S erved at their birth the crimes of the old world.
The sorrowing ex iles on these lonely rock s,
W atch'
S eek
* " L
d ' mid the waves their native land afar,
ing to catch its perfumes in the air:
a tour de la patrie. " Patrie can scarce be rendered by a single word -
" native land" perhaps best ex presses the ancient patria L . E . L .
+ Minturno.
X " lis sont consoles par 1' apotheose. " This is the only instance in which I
have not given, as nearly as possible, the E nglish word that answered most
ex actly; but I confess one so long as " apotheosis" fairly baffled my efforts to
get it into rhythm. I t is curious to notice how many Pagan observances were
grafted on the R oman Catholic worship. Canonisation is but a Christian
apotheosis, -- only the deceased turned into saints instead of gods L . E . L .
$ Caprea.
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? GO K I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 227
A nd often, a long ex ile worn away,
S entence of sudden death arrived to show
They were remember' d by their enemies.
O
H
A
E arth ! all bathed with blood and tears, yet never
ast thou ceased putting forth thy fruit and flowers;
nd hast thou then no pity for mank ind?
Can thy maternal breast receive again
Theirdust,andyetnotthrob? L . E . L .
H ere Corinne paused for some moments. A ll her as-
sembled hearers threw laurels and myrtle at her feet.
The soft pure moonlight fell on her brow, and the breeze
wantoned with her ringlets as if nature delighted to
adorn her: she was so overpowered as she look ed on
the enchanting scene, and on O swald, who shared this de-
licious eve with her, yet might not be thus near for ever,
that tears flowed from her eyes. E ven the crowd, who
had j ust applauded her so tumultuously, respected her
emotion, and mutely awaited her words, which they trusted
would mak e them participators in her feelings. S he pre-
luded for some time on her lyre, then, no longer dividing
her song into stanzas, abandoned herself to the uninter-
rupted stream of verse.
S ome memories of the heart, some woman' s manes
Y et ask your tears. ' Twas at this very place,
Massena * , that Cornelia k ept till death
H er noble mourning; A grippina too
L ong wept Germanicus beside these shores.
A t length the same assassin who deprived
H er of her husband found she was at last
W orthy to follow him. A nd yonder isle f
S aw B rutus and his Portia bid farewell.
Thus women loved of heroes have beheld
The obj ect perish which they so adored.
L ong time in vain they follow' d in their path;
There came the hour when they were forced to part.
Portia destroy' d herself; Cornelia clasp' d
The sacred urn which answer' d not her cries;
A nd A grippina, for how many years!
V ainly her husband' s murderer defied.
A nd wander' d here the wretched ones, lik e ghosts
O n wasted shores of the eternal stream,
* The retreat of F ompey. t N isida.
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? 228 corinne; or italy.
S ighing to reach the other far-off land.
Did they not ask in their long solitude
O f silence, of all nature, of the sk y,
S tar-shining ? -- and from the deep sea, one sound,
O ne only tone of the beloved voice
They never more might hear.
Mysterious enthusiasm, L ove!
The heart' s supremest power; -- which doth combine
W ithin itself religion, poetry,
A nd heroism. L ove, what may befall
W hen destiny has bade us separate
F rom him who has the secret of our soul;
W ho gave us the heart' s life, celestial life.
W hat may befall when absence, or when death
I solate woman on this earth ? -- S he pines,
S he sink s. H ow often have these rock s
O ffer' d their cold support to the forlorn!
Those once worn in the heart; -- those once sustain' d
Upon a hero' s arm.
B efore you is S orrento : -- dwelling there
W as Tasso' s sister, when the pilgrim came
A sk ing asylum ' gainst the prince unj ust
F rom humble friends: long grief had almost q
R eason' s clear light, but genius still was left.
uench' d
Y et k ept he k nowledge of the things divine,
W hen earthly images were all obscured.
Thus shrink ing from the desert spread around
Doth Genius wander through the world, and finds
N o lik eness to itself; no echo given
B y N ature; and the common crowd but hold
A s madness that desire of the rapt soul,
W hich finds not in this world enough of air --
O f high enthusiasm, or of hope.
F or Destiny compels ex alted minds:--
The poet, whose imagination draws
I ts power from loving and from suffering,--
They are the vanish' d from another sphere.
F or the A lmighty goodness might not frame
A ll for the few, -- the' elect or the proscribed.
W hy spok e the ancients with such awe of F ate?
W hat had this terrible F ate to do with them,
The common and the q uiet, who pursue
The seasons, and still follow timidly
The beaten track of ordinary life?
B ut she, the priestess of the oracle,
S hook with the presence of the cruel power.
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? corinne; or italy. 229
I k now not what the involuntary force
That plunges Genius into misery.
Genius doth catch the music of the spheres,
W hich mortal ear was never meant to k now.
Genius can penetrate the mysteries
O f feeling, all unk nown to other hearts;
A power hath entered in the inmost soul,
W hose presence may not be contained.
S ublime Creator of this lovely world,
Protect us: our ex ertions have no strength;
O ur hope' s a lie. Tumultuous tyranny
O ur passions ex ercise, and neither leave
R epose nor liberty. W hat we may do
To-morrow may perhaps decide our fate.
W e may have said but yesterday some word
W hich may not be recalled. S till when our mind
I s elevate with noblest thoughts, we feel
A s on the height of some great edifice,
Giddiness blending all things in our sight;
B ut even there, woe! terrible woe! appears.
N ot lost amid the clouds, it pierces through;
I t flings the shades asunder; O h my God!
W hatdothitheraldtous? " L . E . L .
A t these words a mortal paleness overspread her coun-
tenance; her eyes closed; and she would have fallen to the
earth, had not O swald rushed to support her.
CHAPTER V.
Corinne revived: the affecting interest of O swald' s look
restored her to some composure. The N eapolitans were
surprised at the gloomy character of her poetry, much as
they admired it. They thought it the Muse' s task to dis-
sipate the cares of life, and not to ex plore their terrible
secrets; but the E nglish who were present seemed deeply
touched. Their own melancholy, embellished by I talian
imagination, delighted them. This lovely woman, whose
features seemed designed to depict felicity,-- this child of
the sun, a prey to hidden grief,-- was lik e a flower, still
<<3
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? 230CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
(
fresh and brilliant, but within whose leaves may be seen
the first dark impress of that withering blight which soon
shall lay it low. The party embark ed to return: the
glowing calm of the hour made it a lux ury to be upon the
sea.
Goethe has described, in a delicious romance, the
passion felt, in warm climates, for the water. A nymph
of the flood boasts to the fisherman the charms of her
abode; invites him to taste its refreshment, and, by degrees,
allures him to his death. This magic of the tide resembles
that of the basilisk , which fascinates by fear. The wave
rising gently afar, swelling, and hurrying as it nears the
shore, is but a type of passion that dawns in softness, but
soon grows invincible. Corinne put back her tresses, that
she might better enj oy the air: her countenance was thus
more beautiful than ever. The musicians, who followed
in another boat, poured forth enchantments that harmonised
with the stars, the sea, and the sweet intox ication of an
I talian evening. " O h, my heart' s love! " whispered O s-
wald, " can I ever forget this day, or ever enj oy a happier? "
H is eyes filled with tears. O ne of his most seductive
attributes was this ready yet restrained sensibility, which
so oft, in spite of him, bedewed his lids: at such moments
he was irresistible: sometimes even in the midst of an en-
dearing pleasantry, a melting thrill stole on his mirth, and
lent it a new, a noble charm. " A las! " returned Corinne,
" I hope not for another day lik e this; but be it blest, at
least, as the last such of my life, if forbidden to prove the
dawn of more endearing bliss. "
CH A PTE R V I .
The weather changed ere they reached N aples: the heavens
dark ened, and the coming storm, already felt in the air,
convulsed the waves, as if the sea sympathised with the
sk y. O swald preceded Corinne, that he might see the
flambeaux borne the more steadily before her. A s they
neared the q uay, he saw some L azzaroni assembled, crying
" Poor creature! he cannot save himself! we must be
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? corinne; O R I TA L Y . 231
patient. " -- " O f whom speak ye ? " cried N evil impetuously.
-- " A n old man," they replied, " who was bathing below
there, not far from the mole; but the storm has risen: he
is too weak to struggle with it. " O swald' s first impulse
was to plunge into the water; then reflecting on the alarm
he should cause Corinne, when she came, he offered all the
money he had with him, promising to double it, for the
man who would swim to this unfortunate being' s assistance;
but the L azzaroni all refused, saying, " I t cannot be, the
danger is too fearful. " A t that moment the old man sunk .
O swald could hesitate no longer: he threw off his coat,
and sprang into the sea, spite of its waves, that dashed
above his head: he buffetted them bravely; seized the
sufferer, who must have perished had he been a moment
later, and brought him to the land; but the sudden chill
and violent ex ertion so overwhelmed L ord N evil, that he
had scarcely seen his charge in safety, when he fell on the
earth insensible, and so pallid, that the by-standers believed
him a corpse. (10) I t was then that the unconscious
Corinne beheld the crowd, heard them cry, " H e is dead,"
and would have drawn back in terror; wherA he saw one of
the E nglishmen who had accompanied her, break eagerly
through the people: she made some steps to follow him;
and the first obj ect which met her eye was a portion of
O swald' s dress, lying on the bank . S he seized it with des-
peration, believing it all that was left of her love; and when
she saw him, lifeless as he appeared, she threw herself en
his breast, in transport, and ardently pressed him to her
heart: with what inex pressible rapture did she detect that
his still beat, perhaps re-animated by her presence! " H e
lives! " she cried, " he lives! " and instantly regained a
strength, a courage, such as his mere friends could scarcely
eq ual. S he sent for every thing that could revive him: and
herself applied these restoratives, supporting his fainting
head upon her breast, and, though she wept over it, for-
getting nothing, losing not a moment, nor permitting her
grief to interrupt her cares. O swald grew better, but re-
sumed not yet the use of his senses. S he had him carried to
his hotel, and, k neeling beside him, bathed his brow with
stimulating perfumes, calling on him in tones of impassioned
q4
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? 232CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y .
tenderness that might have wak ed the dead. H e opened
his eyes, and pressed her hand. F or the j oy of such a
moment might one not endure the tortures of demons?
Poor human nature! W e guess at infinitude but by suf-
fering; and not a bliss in life can compensate the anguish
of beholding those we love ex pire. " Cruel, cruel! " cried
Corinne; " think what you have done ! " -- " Pardon," he
replied, in a trembling voice. " B elieve me, dearest, while
I thought myself dying, I trembled but for thee. "
q uisite ex pression of mutual love and confidence!
to her last day, could not recall those words without a
fondness, which, while it lasted, taught her to forgive
him all.
CH A PTE R V I I .
E x -
Corinne,
O swald' s nex t impulse was to thrust his hand into his bosom
for his father' s portrait: it was still there; but the water
had left it scarcely recognisable: he was bitterly afflicted
by this loss. " My God ! " he cried, " dost thou deny me
even his image? " Corinne besought his permission to
restore it: he consented, without much hope: what then
was his amaze, when, on the third morning she brought it
to him, not only repaired, but more faithful than ever!
" Y es," cried O swald, " you have divined his features and
his look . This heavenly miracle decides you for my life' s
companion, since to you is thus revealed the memory of
one who must for ever dispose my fate. H ere is the ring
my father gave his wife-- the sacred bond sincerely offered
by the noblest, and accepted by the most constant of hearts.
L et me transfer it from my hand to thine, and, while thou
k eepest it, be no longer free. I tak e this solemn oath, not
k nowing to whom, but in thy soul, I trust, that tells me
all: the events of your life, if springing from yourself,
must needs be lofty as your character. I f you have been
the victim to an unworthy fate, thank H eaven I can repair
it; therefore, my own Corinne, you owe your secrets to
one whose promises precede your confidence. " -- " O swald,"
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? corinne; or italy. 233
she answered, " this delirium is the result of a mistak e.
I cannot accept your ring till I have undeceived you.
A n inspiration of the heart, you think , taught me your
father' s features: I
often. " -- " S
ought to tell you that I have seen him
a moment' s pause; " I
swear never to wed another till you
een him!
how? when? where? O God!
who are you, then ? " -- " H ere is your ring," returned
Corinne, in a smothered tone. -- " N o," cried O swald, after
send hack that ring. F orgive the tumult you have raised
within me: confused and half-forgotten thoughts afflict my
mind. " -- " I see it," said Corinne; " and this shall end:
already your accents and your words are changed. Per-
haps when you have read my history, the horrid word
adieu" -- " N o,no," criedN evil; " onlyfrommy
death-hed-- fear not that word till then. " Corinne retired,
and, in a few moments, Theresina brought him the papers
which he was now to read.
BOOKXIV.
H I S TO R Y O F CO R I N N E .
CH A PTE R I .
" O swald, I begin with the avowal which must determine
my fate. I f, after reading it, you find it impossible to
pardon, do not finish this letter, but rej ect and banish me;
yet if, when you k now the name and destiny I have re-
nounced, all is not brok en between us, what follows may
then serve as my ex cuse.
" L ord E dgarmond was my father. I was born in I
his first wife was a R oman; and L ucy, whom they in-
tended for your bride, is my sister, by an E nglish lady,--
by my father' s second marriage. N ow, hear me! I
mother ere I was ten years old, and, as it was her dying
wish that my education should be finished ere I went to
taly:
lost my
E ngland, I was confided to an aunt at F lorence, with whom
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? 234CO R I N N E J O R I TA L Y .
I lived till I was fifteen. My tastes and talents were formed
ere her death induced L ord E dgarmond to have me with
him. H e lived at a small town in N orthumberland, which
cannot, I suppose, give any idea of E ngland; yet was all
I k new of it for six years. My mother, from my infancy,
impressed on me the misery of not living in I taly; my
aunt had often added, that this fear of q uitting her country
had brok en her heart. My good aunt herself was per-
suaded too that a Catholic would be condemned to perdition
for settling in a Protestant country ; and though I was not
infected by this fear, the thought of going to E ngland
alarmed me much. I set forth with an inex plicable sense
of sadness. The woman sent for me did not understand
a word of I talian. I spok e it now and then to console my
poor Theresina, who had consented to follow me, though
she wept incessantly at leaving her country; but I k new
that I must unlearn the habit of breathing the sweet sounds
so welcome even to foreigners, and, for me, associated with
all the recollections of my childhood. I approached the
north unable to comprehend the cause of my own changed
and sombre sensations. I t was five years since I had seen
my father. I hardly recognised him when I reached his
house. Methought his countenance was very grave; yet
he received me with tenderness, and told me I was ex -
tremely lik e my mother. My half-sister, then three years
of age, was brought to me: her sk in was fairer, her silk en
curls more golden than I
hardly any such faces in I
terested me from the first;
had ever seen before; we have
taly; she astonished and in-
that same day I cut off some
of her ringlets for a bracelet, which I have preserved ever
since. A t last my step-mother appeared, and the impres-
sion made on me by her first look grew and deepened dur-
ing the years I passed with her. L ady E dgarmond was
ex clusively attached to her native county; and my father,
whom she over-ruled, sacrificed a residence in L ondon or
E dinburgh to her wishes. S he was a cold, dignified, silent
person, whose eyes could turn affectionately on her child,
but who usually wore so positive an air, that it appeared
impossible to mak e her understand a new idea, or even one
phrase to which she had not been accustomed. S he met
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? corinne; or I taly. 235
me politely, but I soon perceived that my whole manner
amazed her, and that she proposed to change it, if she
could. N ot a word was said during dinner, though some
neighbours had been invited. I was so tired of this silence,.
that, in the midst of our meal, I strove to converse a tittle
with an old gentleman who sat beside me. I spok e E nglish
tolerably, as my father had taught me in childhood; but
happening to cite some I talian poetry, purely delicate, in
which there was some mention of love, my mother-in-law,
who k new the language slightly, stared at me, blushed, and
signed for the ladies, earlier than usual, to withdraw, pre-
pare tea, and leave the men to themselves during the des-
sert. * I k new nothing of this custom, which ' would not
be believed in V enice. ' -- S ociety agreeable without women!
-- F or a moment I thought her L adyship so displeased that
she could not remain in the same room with me; but I
was re-assured by her motioning me to follow, and never
reverting to my fault during the three hours we passed in
the drawing room, waiting for the gentlemen. A t supper,
however, she told me, gently enough, that it was not usual
in E ngland for young ladies to talk ; above all, they must
never think of q uoting poetry in which the name of love
occurred. ' Miss E dgarmond,' she added, ' you must en-
deavour to forget all that belongs to I taly: it is to be wished
that you had never k nown such a country. ' I passed the
night in tears, my heart was oppressed. I n the morning
I attempted to walk : there was so tremendous a fog that
I could not see the sun, which at least would have reminded
me of my own land; but I met my father, who said to me,
' My dear child, it is not here as in I taly; our women have
no occupations save their domestic duties. Y our talents
may beguile your solitude, and you may win a husband
who will pride in them; but in a country town lik e this,
all that attracts attention ex cites envy, and you will never
marry at all if it is thought that you have foreign manners.
H ere, every one must submit to the old prej
obscure county. I passed twelve years in I
mother: their memory is very dear to me. I
udices of an
taly with your
was young
? I f this was Cori line' s first E nglish dinner, how did she k now the usual
time for retiring? -- T<< .
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? 236 CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
then, and novelty delightful. I have now returned to my
original situation, and am q uite comfortahle; a regular,
perhaps rather a monotonous life, mak es time pass unper-
ceived; one must not combat the habits of a place in which
one is established; we should be the sufferers if we did,
for, in a scene lik e this, every thing is k nown, every thing
repeated; there is no room for emulation, but sufficient for
j ealousy; and it is better to bear a little ennui than to be
beset by wondering faces that every instant demand reasons
for what you do. ' -- My dear O swald, you can form no
idea of my anguish while my father spok e thus. I remem-
bered him all grace and vivacity, and I saw him stooping
beneath the leaden mantle which Dante invented for hell,
and which mediocrity throws over all who submit to her
yok e. E nthusiasm for nature and the arts seemed vanish-
ing from my sight; and my soul, lik e a useless flame, con-
sumed myself, having no longer any food from without.
A s I was naturally mild, my stepmother had nothing to
complain of in my behaviour towards her; and for my
father, I loved him tenderly. A conversation with him was
my only remaining pleasure; he was resigned, but he k new
that he was so; while the generality of our country gen-
tlemen drank , hunted, and slept, fancying such life the
wisest and best in the world. Their content so perplex ed
me, that I ask ed myself if my own way of think ing was
not a folly, and if this solid ex istence, which escaped grief,
in avoiding thought and sentiment, was not far more en-
viable than mine. W hat would such a conviction have
done for me? it must have taught me to deplore as a mis-
fortune that genius which in I taly was regarded as a bless-
ing from heaven.
" Towards the close of autumn the pleasures of the
chase freq uently k ept my father from home till midnight.
During his absence I remained mostly in my own room,
endeavouring to improve myself: this displeased L ady E d-
garmond. ' W hat good will it do? ' she said: ' will you
be any the happier for it? ' The words struck me with
despair. W hat then is happiness, I thought, if it consist
not in the developement of our faculties? Might we not
as well k ill ourselves physically as morally? I f I must
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? corinne; O R I TA L Y . 237
stifle my mind, my soul, why preserve the miserable re-
mains of life that would but agitate me in vain? B ut I
was careful not to speak thus before my mother-in-law.
I had essayed it once or twice, and her reply was, that
women were made to manage their husbands' houses, and
watch over the health of their children: all other accom-
plishments were dangerous, and the best advice she could
give me was to hide those I possessed. This discourse,
though so common-place, was unanswerable; for enthu-
siasm is peculiarly dependent on encouragement, and
withers lik e a flower beneath a dark or freezing sk y.
There is nothing easier than to assume a high moral air,
while condemning all the attributes of an elevated spirit.
Duty, the noblest destination of man, may be distorted,"
<<
lik e all other ideas, into an offensive weapon by which nar-
row minds silence their superiors as their foes. O ne would
think , if believing them, that duty enj oined the sacrifice of
all the q ualities that confer distinction; that wit were a
fault, req uiring the ex piation of our leading precisely the
same lives with those who have. none; but does duty pre-
scribe lik e rules to all characters? A re not great thoughts
and generous feelings debts due to the world, from all who
are capable of paying them? O ught not every woman,
lik e every man, to follow the bent of her own talents?
Must we imitate the instinct of the bees, whose every sue.
