No More Learning

The sight of F lorence recalls its history, previous to the
Medicean sway. The palaces of its best families are built
lik e fortresses: without are still seen the iron rings, to
which the standards of each party were attached. A ll
things seem to have been more arranged for the support
of individual powers, than for their union in a common
cause. The city appears formed for civil war. There are
towers attached to the H all of J ustice, whence the approach
of the enemy could be discerned. S uch were the feuds
between certain houses, that you find dwellings incon-
veniently constructed, because their lords would not let
them ex tend to the ground on which that of some foe had
been pulled down. H ere the Pazzi conspired against the
De' Medici; there the Guelfs assassinated the Ghibellines.
The mark s of struggling rivalry are every where visible,
though but in senseless stones. N othing is now left for
any pretenders but an inglorious state, not worth dis-
puting. The life led in F lorence has become singularly
monotonous: its natives walk every afternoon on the bank s
of the A rno, and every evening ask one another if they
have been there. Corinne settled at a little distance from
the town; and let Prince Castel F orte k now this, in the
only letter she had strength to write: such was her horror
of all habitual actions, that even the fatigue of giving the
slightest order redoubled her distress. S he sometimes
passed her day in complete inactivity, retired to her pillow,
rose again, opened a book , without the power to compre-
hend a line of it. O ft did she remain whole hours at her
window ; then would walk rapidly in her garden, cull its
flowers, and seek to deaden her senses in their perfume;
but the consciousness of life pursued her, lik e an unrelent-
ing ghost: she strove in vain to calm the devouring faculty
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? corinne; or iTA iyr. 339
of thought, which no longer presented her with varied
images; but one lone idea, armed with a thousand stings,
that pierced her heart.
CH A PTE R I I I .
A n hour passed in S t. Peter' s had been wont to compose
her; and Corinne hoped to find the same effect from visit-
ing the churches of fair F lorence. S he walk ed beneath the
fine trees on the river' s bank , in a lovely eve of J une.
R oses embalmed the air, and every face ex pressed the
general felicity from which she felt herself ex cluded; yet
she unenvyingly blessed her God for his k ind care of man.
" I am an ex ception to universal order," she said; " there
is happiness for every one but me: this power of B uf-
fering, beneath which I die, is then peculiar to myself.
My God! wherefore was I selected for such a doom?
May I not say, lik e thy Divine S on, ' F ather, let this
cupbetak enfromme? ' " Theactiveairofthein-
habitants astonished her: since she had lost all interest in
life she k new not why others seemed occupied; and slowly
pacing the large stoned pavement of F lorence, she forgot
where she had designed to go. A t last, she found herself
before the far-famed gate of brass, sculptured by Ghiberti
for the font of S t. J ohn' s which stands beside the ca-
thedral. F or some time she ex amined this stupendous
work ; where, wrought in bronze, the divers nations, though
of minute proportions, are distinctly mark ed by their varied
physiognomies; all of which ex press some thought of their
artist. " W hat patience ! " cried Corinne; " what respect
for posterity! yet how few scrutinise these doors through
which so many daily pass, in heedlessness, ignorance, or
disdain! H ow difficult it is to escape oblivion! how vast
the power of death! "
I n this cathedral was J ulian de Medicis assassinated.
N ot far thence, in the church of S t. L orenzo, is shown the
marble chapel, enriched with precious stones, where rise
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? 340 corinne; or I taly
the tombs of that high family, and Michael A ngelo' s
statues of J ulian and L orenzo: the latter, meditating
vengeance on the murder of his brother, deserves the
honour of having been called ' la pensee de Michel A ngela! '
A t the feet of these figures are A urora and N ight. The
awak ing of the one is admirable; still more so is the other' s
sleep. A poet chose it for his theme, and concluded by saying,
" S ound as is her slumber, she lives: if you believe not,
wak e her, she will speak . " A ngelo, who cultivated letters
(without which imagination of all k inds must soon decay)
replied, --
" Grato m' e il sono e piii Tesser d' y sasso.
Mentre che il danno e la vergogna dura,
N on veder, non sentir m' ^ gran ventura;
Pero non mi destar, deh parla basso! "
" I t is well for me to sleep, still better to be stone; while
shame and inj ustice last: -- not to see, not to hear, is a
great blessing; therefore disturb me not! speak low! "
This great man was the only comparatively modern
sculptor who neither gave the human figure the beauty of
the antiq ue nor the affected air of our own day. Y ou see
the grave energy of the middle ages, its perseverance, its
passions, but no ideal beauty. H e was the genius of his
own school; and imitated no one, not even the ancients.
This tomb is in the church of S anta Croce. A t his desire
it faces a window whence may be seen the dome built by
F ilippo B runelleschi; as if his ashes would stir, even be-
neath the marble, at the sight of a cupola copied from that
of S t. Peter' s. S anta Croce contains some of the most
illustrious dead in E urope. Galileo, persecuted by man,
for having discovered the secrets of the sk y:-- Machiavel,
who revealed the arts of crime rather as an observer than
an actor; yet whose lessons are more available to the op-
pressors than the oppressed:-- A retino, who consecrated
his days to mirth, and found nothing serious in life ex -
cept its end:-- B occaccio, whose laughing fancy resisted the
united scourges of civil war and plague: -- a picture in
honour of Dante, showing that the F lorentines, who per-
mitted him to perish in ex ile, were not the less vain of his
glory{ 5), with many other worthy names, and some cele-
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? corinne; O R I TA L Y . 341
brated in their own day, but echoing less forcibly from age
to age, so that their sound is now almost unheard. (6 )
This church, adorned with noble recollections, rek indled
the enthusiasm of Corinne, which the living had repressed.
The silent presence of the great revived, for a moment,
that emulation which once she felt for fame. S he stepped
more steadfastly, and the high thoughts of other days arose
within her breast. S ome young priests came slowly down
the aisle, chanting in subdued tones: she ask ed the mean-
ing of this ceremony. " W e are praying for our dead,"
said one of them. " R ight," thought Corinne; " your
dead! well may you boast them; they are the only noble
relics left ye. A h! why then, O swald, have you stifled all the
gifts H eaven granted me, with which I ought to ex cite the
sympathy of k indred minds? O h God ! " she added, sink -
ing on her k nees, " it is not in vanity I dare entreat thee
to give me back my talents; doubtless the lowly saints
who lived and died for thee alone are greatest in thy sight;
but there are different careers for mortals: genius, which
illustrates our noblest virtues, devotes itself to generous
humanity and truth, may trust to be received into some
outer heaven. " S he cast her eyes to earth, and, on the
stone where she had k nelt, read this inscription, --
" A lone I rose, alone I sunk , I am alone e' en here. "
" A h! " cried Corinne, "
should embolden me to toil?
that is mine answer. W hat
what pride can I ever feel?
who would participate in my success, or interest himself
in my defeats? O h, I should need his look for my re-
ward. " A nother epitaph fix ed her attention, that of a
youth who says, --
" Pity me not, if you can guess how many pangs the grave hath
spared me. "
H ow did those words wean her from life! amid the tumult
of a city this church opened to teach mank ind the best of
secrets, if they would learn: but no; they passed it by,
and the miraculous forgetfulness of death k ept all the
world alive.
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? 342 corinne; or italy.
. >
CH A PTE R I V .
The spring of feeling which had consoled Corinne for a
few moments, led her nex t morning to the Gallery: she
hoped to recover her taste, and draw some pleasure from
her former pursuits. E ven the fine arts are republican in
F lorence. Pictures and statues are shown at all hours,
with the greatest ease. W ell informed men, paid by the
government, lik e public functionaries, ex plain all these
ehefs-d' auvre. This lingering respect for talent has ever
pervaded I taly; particularly F lorence, where the Medicii
ex torted pardon for their power over human actions, by the
free scope they left for human minds. The common people
love the arts, and blend this taste with their devotion,
which is more regular in Tuscany than in any other I talian
state; but they freq uently confound mythologic figures
with S cripture history. O ne of the guides used to show a
Minerva as J udith, and an A pollo as David; adding, when
he ex plained a bas-relief, which represented the fall of
Troy, that " Cassandra was a good Christian. " Many
days may be passed in the gallery ere half its beauties are
k nown. Corinne went from one to the other, mortified at
her own indifference and abstraction. The calm dignity
which shines through the deep grief of N iobe, however,
recalled her attention. I n such a case, the countenance of
a living mother would doubtless be more agitated; but the
ideal arts preserve beauty even in despair; and what
affects us most in work s of genius, is not grief' s self, but
the soul' s power o' er grief. N ot far from this is a head of
the dying A lex ander. These two countenances afford rich
material for thought. The conq ueror look s astonished
and indignant at not having achieved a victory even over
nature. The anguish of maternal love is depicted on all
the traits of N iobe: she presses her daughter to her heart
with the most touching eagerness; her fine face bearing
the stamp of that fatality which left the ancients no re-
source, even in religion. N iobe lifts her eyes to heaven,
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? CO riN N E ; O B I TA L Y . 343
but without hope; for the gods themselves are her
enemies.
O n her return home, Corinne strove to reflect on what
she had seen, and retrace her impressions, as she had for-
merly done; but her mental distraction was uncontrollable.
H ow far was she now from the power of improvisation!
I n vain she sought for words, or wrote unmeaning ones,
that dismayed her on perusal, as would the ravings of de-
lirium. I ncapable of turning her thoughts from her own
situation, she then strove to describe it; but no longer
could she command those universal sentiments that find
echoes in all hearts. H ers were now but long unvaried
wailings, lik e the cry of the night bird; her ex pressions
were too impetuous, too unveiled, -- they were those of
misery, not of talent. To write well, we req uire to feel
truly, but not heart-break ingly. The best melancholy
poetry is that inspired by a k ind of rapture, which still
tells of mental strength and enj oyment. R eal grief is a
foe to intellectual fertility : it produces a gloomy agitation,
that incessantly returns to the same point, lik e the k night
who, pursued by an evil genius, sought a thousand roads
for escape, yet always found himself at the spot from
whence he started.
The state of Corinne' s health completed the confusion
of her mind. The following are a few of the reflections she
wrote, while mak ing a fruitless effort to become capable of
a connected work .
CHAPTER V.
F R A GME N TS O F CO R I N N e' sTH O UGH TS .
Mr genius lives no longer: I regret
I ts death: I own I should have loved that yet
My lays had wak ed his sympathy; my name
Might still have reach' d him, heralded by fame.
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? 344CO R I N N B j O R I TA L Y .
I erred by hoping that in his own land
The thoughts, the feelings -- that our fates united
The influence of habit could withstand --
A mid such scenes love' s flower must soon be blighted.
There is so much to say ' gainst maid lik e me!
H ow futile must the only answer be!
" S uchwasherheart-- hermind; Mapoorreply
F or hosts who k now not what I was, nor why.
Y et are they wrong to fear superior mind,
The more it towers, more morally refined:
The more we k now, the better we forgive;
W hoe' er feels deeply, feels for all who live.
H ow can two beings who confided all,
W hose converse was the spirit' s griefs, its dangers,
A nd immortality, bear this swift fall,
Thus to each other become once more strangers?
W hat a mysterious sentiment is love!
N othing, if not all other ties above --
V ying in faith with all that martyrs feel --
O r -- colder than the simplest friendship' s zeal.
This most involuntary sense on earth,
Doth heaven or mortal passion give it birth?
W hat storms it raises deep within the breast!
Must we obey, or combat such wild guest?
Talent should be a refuge; as when one ?
I mprisoned to a cloister, art' s true son,
B eq ueathed its walls such traces of his doom,
That genius glorified monastic gloom!
B ut he, though captive, sufter' d from without;
H is bosom was not torn by dread or doubt;
W hen grief is there, all efforts lose their force,
The spring of comfort' s poison' d from its source.
S ometimes I view myself as one apart,
I mpartially, and pity my own heart;
W as I not mental, k ind to others' pain,
Generous, and frank ? Then why all this in vain?
I
L
?
s the world really so vile, that charms
ik e these but rob us of our needful arms?
Dominichino
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? corinne; O R I TA L Y . 343
' Tis pitiful! S pite all my youth hath shown,
I n spite my glory, I shall die unk nown;
N or leave one proof of what I might have been,
H ad I learnt happiness, or could defy
This all-devouring fever -- men had seen
Me contemplate them from a station high,
Track ing the hidden link s between yon heaven
A nd human nature; but the clue is riven.
H ow, how think freely, while each painful breath
B ut bids me feel the woe that weighs me down to death?
O h! why would he forbear to render blest
A heart whose secret he alone possess' d?
To him -- him only spok e my inmost soul!
' Tis easy to leave those chance may control,
The common herd -- but she who must admire,
Y et j udge ere fancy k indles love' s chaste fire,
E x pansive as it is, to soul lik e hers,
There ' s but one obj ect in the universe!
I
V
W
learnt life from the poets; ' tis not thus;
ainly they strive to change the truth, for us
ho live to wak e from their soft dreams, and see
The barrenness of life' s reality!
R emembering what I was but chafes my pride.
W hy tell me I could charm, if not for love?
W hy inspire confidence, to mak e me prove
B ut the more fearful anguish when it died?
W ill he, in any other, meet more mind
Than was mine own? a heart more true and k ind?
N o! but-- congenial with heartlessness --
H e will be more content in finding less.
I n presence of the sun, or starry spheres,
To deserve love we need but to desire --
F or love ennobles all that it endears;
Conscious of mutual worth, we look no higher.
B ut ah, society! where each must owe
H is fate but to factitious j oy or woe,--
W here what is said of him becomes the test--
J H ow soon it hardens e' en the trifler' s breast.
Could men once meet, free from this false control,
H ow pure an air were breathed into the soul!
H ow would the mind, refresh' d by feelings true,
Teem with ideas natural and new!
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? 346 CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
E ' en N ature' s cruel: this praised face
I s fading: what avails it now
That still I pour affection' s vow,
W ithout one look my prayer to grace?
These tear-dimm' d eyes no more ex press,
A s once they might, my tenderness.
W ithin my bosom is a pain
N o language ever can ex plain --
I have no strength for task lik e tins;
L ove, only love, could sound the abyss.
H ow happy men! in honour' s strife
They burst the chains of hated life.
W e hope no solace from the throng;
O ur torture is to bear,
S tirless and mute, a lone life long,
The presence of Despair.
S ometimes, when listing music' s tone,
I t tells of powers so late mine own,
S ong, dance, and poesie -- I start,
A s I could fly from this sad heart,
To j oy again; a sudden chill
R eminds me that the world would say,
' B ack , lingering ghost! it fits thee ill
To brave the living, and the day! '
I wish I now could find a spell
' Gainst misery in the crowd: ' t was well
To mix there once, lest solitude
S hould bear my thoughts too far through fate.
My mind grew flex ible, imbued
W ith gay impressions; '
F eatures and feeling fix
S miles, fancies, graces!
t is too late;
for aye;
where are they?
A h! if' t were in a moment o' er,
F ain would I taste of hope once more!
B ut all is done: life can but be
A burning desert now to me;
The drop of water, lik e the river,
S
A
I
ullied with bitterness for ever.
single day' s enj oyment is
mpossible, as years of bliss.
Guilty towards me as I must deem
My love, -- compared with other men
W hat mindless things of art they seem!
H owdoesheriseanangelthen! --
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? CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y .
347
E ' en though his sword of flame consume
My life, and devastate my doom;
H eaven lends the one beloved its power
Thus to avenge each mis-spent hour.
' Tis not first love that must endure;
I t springs but from the dreams of youth;
B ut if, with intellect mature,
W e meet the mind long sought in vain,
F ancy is then subdued by truth,
A nd we have reason to complain.
" W hat maniacs! " the many cry,
" A re those for love who live or die!
A s if, when such frail boon is reft,
A thousand blessings were not left! "
E nthusiasm, though the seed
O f every high heroic deed,
E ach pious sacrifice -- its lot
I s scorn, from those who feel it not.
A ll then is folly, if they will,
S ave their own selfish care
O f mortal life ; this nobler thrill
I s madness every where.
A las! it is my worst distress
That he alone my thoughts could guess:
Too late and vainly may he find
That I alone could read his mind.
Mine own should thus be understood;
I n friendship' s varying degrees
E asy, yet difficult to please:
W ith cordial hours for all the good,
B ut with affection deep and true,
W hich but for one, for him I k new.
F eeling and fancy, wit and reason,
W here now such union can I
S eek the world through --
' Gainst love hath slain me?
find,
save his --
whose treason
s mind
d
B lends all these charms, unless I
H e was the wonder he but seem'
O
swald'
dream'
d.
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? 348CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y .
H ow then to others should I speak ?
I n whom confide? what subj ects seek ?
W hat end, aim, interest remains?
The sweetest j oys, the bitterest pains,
A lready k nown, what should I fear?
O r what ex pect? B efore me cast
A future changeless, wan, and drear,
A s but the spectre of my past!
W hy, why is happiness so brief?
L ife' s weeds so strong, its flower so frail?
I s nature' s natural order grief?
Unwonted pain soon finds relief
W hen its strange throes our frames assail --
J oy to the soul * s less usual: there
The habitual state is this despair.
H ow mutable the world appears
W here nothing lasts, but pain and tears !
A nother life! another life!
That is my hope! but still such force
H ath this we bear, that we demand
I n heaven the same rebellious band
O f passions that here caused our strife.
The northern zealots paint the shade
S till hunting, with his hound and horse,
The phantom stag, through cloudy glade;
Y et dare we call such shapes unreal?
N ought here is sure save that Distress --
W hose power all suffer who can feel --
K eeps her unpitying promises *
I dream of immortality I
N o more of that which man can give;
O nce in the future did I live,
The present seemed too old for me. f
A llI nowask ofH imonhigh,
*
I
s, that my heart may never die!
F ather! the offering and the shrine
A
mortal spurns; with grace divine,
Deign to receive, -- ' tis thine! -- '
tis thine!
* " A M! null'
t That idea is Dante'
altro che pianto almondo dura,*
s.
* --
Petrarch.
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? CO R I N N E j O R I TA L Y . 349
I k now my days will be but few;
That thought restores a sense of rest:
" Tis sweet to feel, as now I do,
Death draw Griefs barb from out my breast.
' Tis S uperstition' s sad retreat,
More than the home of pious trust;
Devotion to the blest is sweet. --
W hat gratitude to the A ll J ust
O ught O swald' s wife to feel! O
A nd yet misfortune oft improves,
Corrects us, teaches us to weigh
O ur errors with our sufferings: they
A re wedded: we repent the loves
O f earth, when salutary time
h God, she must.
A nd solitude inspires love more sublime.
' Tis this I need, ere yet I can fulfil
A tranq uil voyage to life more tranq uil still: --
W hat innocence is in the thoughts of those
A bout to leave this life of passion' s woes?
The secret which not Genius' self can share,
The enigma, may it be reveal' d to prayer?
May not some simple thought, by reverie
F ull oft approach' d, disclose the mystery?
V ast as the efforts which the soul may mak e
They weary her in vain; she cannot tak e
This latest step; life must be still unk nown,
Till its last hour on earth be well nigh flown!
' Tis time mine should repose; and who will sigh,
' Tis still, at last, the heart that beat so high!
CH A PTE R V I .
Prince Castel F orte q uitted R ome, to settle near Corinne.
S he felt most grateful for this proof of friendship, and yet
ashamed that she could not req uite it, even hy such con-
versation as of yore: now she was silent and abstracted;
her failing health robbed her of all the strength req uired,
even for a momentary triumph over her absorbing griefs.
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? 350 corinne; or italy.
That interest, which the heart' s courtesy inspires, she could
still at times evince; hut her desire to please wae lost for
ever. Unhappy love freezes all our affections: our own
souls grow inex plicable to us. More than we gained while
we were happy we lose by the reverse. That added life
which made us enj oy nature lent an enchantment to our
intercourse with society; but the heart' s vast hope once
lost, ex istence is impoverished, and all spontaneous im-
pulses are paralysed. Therefore, a thousand duties com-
mand women, and men still more, to respect and fear the
passion they awak en, since it may devastate the mind as
well as the heart.
S ometimes Castel F orte might speak for several minutes
to Corinne without a reply, because she neither under-
stood nor even heard him. W hen she did, her answers
had none of that glowing animation once so remark able;
they merely dragged on the dialogue for a few seconds, and
then she relapsed into silence. S ometimes, as she had done
at N aples, she would smile in pity over her own failures.
The amiable prince humoured her on all her favourite
topics. S he would thank him, by pressing his hand, and
once, after a walk on the bank s of the A rno, began to j est
with her accustomed grace: he gazed, and listened in glad
surprise; but she abruptly brok e off, and rushed from the
room in tears. O n returning, she said, gently, "
me, my generous friend; I would fain mak
agreeable; it will not be: bear with me as I
Pardon
e myself
am. " W hat
most distressed him, was the shock her constitution had
received: no immediate danger threatened her, yet it was
impossible that she could live long, unless she regained
some vigour. I f she endeavoured to speak on aught that
concerned the soul, her wan tremor was painful to behold;
and he strove to divert her from this strain. H e ventured
to talk of O swald, and found that she took a perverse
pleasure in the subj ect; but it left her so shak en, that he
was obliged to interdict it. Castel F orte was a susceptible
being; but not even the most magnanimous of men k nows
how to console the woman he has loved under the pangs
thus inflicted by another. S ome little self-love on his side,
must aid her timidity, in preventing perfect confidence.
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? corinne; O B I TA L Y . 351
B esides, what would it avail? I t can only be of service to
those wounds which would cure themselves without it.
A t this time the prince received a letter from L ord
N evil, replete with professions, which would have deeply
affected Corinne: he mused for hours together on the pro-
priety of showing it to her; but anticipating the violence of
its effects on a creature so feeble, he forebore. E ven while
he was thus deliberating, another letter reached him, an-
nouncing his L ordship' s departure for A merica. Castel
F orte then decided on saying nothing to Corinne. Perhaps
he erred: one of her greatest griefs was N evil' s silence;
she scarce dared own it to herself; but though for ever
separated from him, one recollection, one regret, would
have been very precious to her: as it was, he gave her,
she thought, no opportunity of hearing his name, left her
no ex cuse for breathing it. The sorrow, of which no one
speak s to us, which gains no change from time, cuts
deeper than reiterated blows: the good prince followed
the usual max im, which bids us do our utmost towards
teaching a mourner to forget; but there is no oblivion for
the imaginative: it were better to k eep alive their memories,
weary them of their tears, ex haust their sighs, and force
them back upon themselves, that they may reconcentrate
their own powers.
BOOKXIX.
O swald' s return to italy.
CH A PTE R I .
L et us now return to the events which occurred in S cot-
land, after the sad fete at which Corinne made her self-
sacrifice. L ord N evil' s servant carried his letters to the
ball-room. O swald retired to read them. H e opened
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? 352CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L r.
several which his agent had sent from L ondon, little guess-
ing that among them was one which would decide his
fate; but when he beheld the writing of Corinne, and
saw the ring, the words,-- " Y ou are free! " -- he felt at
once the most cruel grief and the most furious irritation.
H e had not heard from her for two months, and now her
silence was brok en by this laconic decision. H e remem-
bered what L ady E dgarmond had said of her instability,
and entered into all the stepdame' s feelings against her;
for he still loved enough to be unj ust, forgetting how long
he had renounced the idea of marrying her, how much
L ucy had pleased him; he look ed on himself as the
blameless victim of an inconstant woman: perplex ity and
despair beset him; but over them both towered his proud
soul prompting him to rise superior to his wronger. This
boasted pride rarely ex
over affection. H ad N
days at R ome and N
ists unless self-love predominates
evil now valued Corinne as in their
aples, not all his " wrongs supposed"
could have torn her from his heart.
L ady E dgarmond detected his distress. The fatal ma-
lady beneath which she laboured increased her ardent
interest in her daughter. S he k new the poor child' s heart,
and feared that she had compromised her happiness for
ever; therefore she seldom lost sight of N evil, but read
his secrets with that discernment which is deemed peculiar
to our sex , but which belongs solely to the continual ob-
servance which a real interest teaches us. O n the pretex t
of transferring Corinne'
N evil' s company nex
he was much dissatisfied;
s inheritance, she besought L ord
t morning, and shortly guessed that
she flattered his resentment by
the prospect of a noble vengeance, offering to recognise
her husband' s daughter. This sudden change amazed
him; yet though its condition was unex plained, he com-
prehended it; and, in one of those moments at which we
act more q uick ly than we can think , demanded L ucy' s
hand. H er mother, scarce able to restrain her j oy, so as
not to say yes too hastily, consented; and he left her pre-
sence, bound by an engagement, which, when he entered
it, he had not dreamt of undertak ing. W hile L ady E d-
garmond prepared L ucy to receive him, he paced the garden
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? corinne; or italy. 353
in violent agitation, telling himself that she had merely
pleased him, because he k new little of her, and that it
was madness to found the happiness of his life on the
charm of a mystery that must inevitably be dissipated.
H e then retraced his letters to Corinne, too plainly show-
ing his internal struggles. " S he ' s right! " he sighed:
" I have not the courage fit to mak e her blest; but yet it
should have cost her more to lose me -- that cold brief
line -- yet who k nows but her tears might have fallen on
it! " H is own burst forth in spite of him. These re-
veries hurried him on unconsciously so far, that he was
long sought in vain by the servant sent to tell him, that
L ady E dgarmond desired his return. A stonished at his
own lack of eagerness, he obeyed. O n re-entering the
drawing-room, he found L ucy k neeling, her head reclined
on the bosom of her parent, with a most touching grace.
A s she heard his footsteps, she raised her flowing eyes,
and, ex tending her hand to him, said simply, " My
L ord, I k now you will not separate me from my mother. "
This innocent manner of announcing her consent much
interested O swald, who, sink ing on his k nees, besought
L ady E dgarmond' s permission to imprint on that blushing
forehead the first k iss which had ever awak ened more
than childlik e emotions in the breast whose beauty less
enchanted him than did its celestial modesty. The days
which preceded that chosen for their marriage were spent
in the needful arrangements. L ucy spok e more than
usual; but all she said was so nobly natural, that O swald
loved and approved her every word, and yet he felt a void
beside her. Their conversation consisted but of q uestions
and answers; she neither started nor prolonged any sub-
j ect: all went well; but without that ex haustless animation
with which it is so difficult for those who have once en-
j oyed it to dispense. L ord N evil thought of Corinne; but,
as he no longer heard her named, hoped that her image
would at last become merely an obj ect of his vague regret.
W hen L
lived in I
wald, but L
ucy learnt from her mother that her sister still
taly, she much wished to talk of her with O s-
ady E dgarmond forbade; and the girl, ha-
bitually submissive, ask ed not the reason of this prohibition.
AA
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