N ex t day, Corinne, who was too natural a person to
attempt producing an effect by her sorrows, strove to appear
gay; believing that the best method of retaining O swald
she
I
swear,
am
?
attempt producing an effect by her sorrows, strove to appear
gay; believing that the best method of retaining O swald
she
I
swear,
am
?
Madame de Stael - Corinna, or Italy
L ady E dgarmond wrote me word of her having
spread the report that the physicians had prescribed a
voyage to the south for my health, and that I had died on
my passage. H er letter contained no comments. S he re-
mitted, with great ex actness, my whole fortune, which was
considerable; but wrote to me no more. F ive years then
elapsed ere I beheld you; during which I tasted much
good fortune. My fame increased: the fine arts and liter-
ature afforded me even more delight in solitude than in
my own success. I k new not, till 1 met you, the full power
of sentiment: my imagination sometimes coloured and dis-
coloured my illusions without giving me great uneasiness.
I had not yet been seized by any affection capable of over-
ruling me. A dmiration, respect, and love had not en-
chained all the faculties of my soul: I conceived more
* Did the authoress think it usual for the E nglish to be buried in their own
grounds, whether consecrated or not ? -- Tr.
f H er real Christian name is never divulged even to the reader. -- Tr.
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? 252CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
charms than I ever found, and remained superior to my
own impressions. Do not insist on my describing to you
how two men, whose passion for me is but too generally
k nown, successively occupied my life, before I k new you.
I outrage my own conviction in now reminding myself
that any one, save you, could ever have interested me: on
this subj ect I feel eq ual grief and repentance. I shall only
tell you what you have already heard from my friends.
My free life so much pleased me, that, after long irreso-
lutions and painful scenes, I twice brok e the ties which the
necessity of loving had made me contract, and could not
resolve to render them irrevocable. A German noble would
have married and tak en me to his own country. A n I talian
prince offered me a most brilliant establishment in R ome.
The first pleased and inspired me with the highest esteem;
but, in time, I perceived that he had few mental resources.
W hen we were alone together, it cost me great trouble to
sustain a conversation, and conceal from him his own de-
ficiencies. I dared not display myself at my best for fear
of embarrassing him. I foresaw that his regard for me
must necessarily decrease when I should cease to manage
him; and it is difficult, in such a case, to k eep up one' s en-
thusiasm: a woman' s feeling for a man any way inferior
to herself is rather pity than love; and the calculations, the
reflections req uired by such a state, wither the celestial
nature of an involuntary sentiment. The I talian prince
was all grace and fertility of mind: he participated in my
tastes, and loved my way of life; but, on an important oc-
casion, I remark ed that he wanted energy, and that, in
any difficulties, I should have to sustain and fortify him.
There was an end of love -- for women need support;
and nothing chills them more than the necessity of affording
it. Thus was I twice undeceived, not by faults or mis-
fortunes, but by the spirit of observation, which detected
what imagination had concealed. I believed myself des-
tined never to love with the full power of my soul: some-
times this idea pained me; but more freq uently I applauded
my own freedom -- fearing the capability of suffering that
impassioned impulse which might threaten my happiness
and my life. I always re-assured myself in think ing that
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? CO R I N N E J O R I TA L T. 253
my j udgment was not easily captivated, and that no man
could answer my ideal of masculine mind and character.
I hoped ever to escape the absolute power of love, by per-
ceiving some defects in those who charmed me. I then
k new not that there are faults which increase our passion
by the inq uietude they cause. O swald! the melancholy
indecision which discourages you -- the severity of your
opinions -- troubles my repose, without decreasing my
affection. I often think that it will never mak e me
happy; but then it is always myself I j udge, and not
you. A nd now you k now my history -- my flight from
E ngland-- my change of name-- my heart' s inconstancy:--
I have concealed nothing. Doubtless you think that fancy
hath oft misled me; but, if society bound us not by chains
from which men are free, what were there in my life which
should prevent your loving me? H ave I ever deceived?
have I ever wronged any one? has my mind been seared
by vulgar interests? S incerity, good will, and pride--
does God ask more from an orphan alone in the world?
H appy the women who, in their early youth, meet those
they ought to love for ever; but do I the less deserve you
for having k nown you too late? Y
L ord, and you may trust my frank
et, I assure you, my
ness, could I but pass my
life near you, methink s, in spite the loss of the greatest
happiness and glory I can imagine, I would not be your
wife. Perhaps such marriage were to you a sacrifice:
you may one day regret the fair L ucy, my sister, to whom
your father destined you. S he is twelve years my younger;
her name is stainless as the first flower of spring: we
should be obliged, in E ngland, to revive mine, which is
nowasthatofthedead. L ucy,I k now,hasapureand
gentle spirit: if I may j udge from her childhood, she may
become capable of understanding-- loving you. O swald,
you are free. W hen you desire it, your ring shall be re-
stored to you. Perhaps you wish to hear, ere you decide,
what I shall suffer if you leave me. I k now not: some-
times impetuous impulses arise within me, that over-rule
my reason: should I
life insupportable? I
faculty of happiness;
be to blame, then, if they rendered
t is eq ually true that I have a great
it interests me in every thing: I
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? 254 corinne; or italy.
converse with pleasure, and revel in the minds of others--
in the friendship they show me-- in all the wonders of art
and nature, which affectation hath not strick en dead. B ut
would it be in my power to live when I no longer saw you?
it is for you to j udge, O swald: you k now me hetter than
I k now myself. 1 am not responsible for what I may ex -
perience: it is he who plants the dagger should guess
whether the wound is mortal; but if it were so I should
forgive you. My happiness entirely depends on the affection
you have paid me for the last six months. I defy all your
delicacy to blind me, were it in the least degree impaired.
B anish from your mind all idea of duty. I n love I ac-
k nowledge no promises, no security: God alone can raise
the flower which storms have blighted. A tone, a look ,
will be enough to tell me that your heart is not the same;
and I shall detest all you may offer me instead of love --
your love, that heavenly ray, my only glory! B e free,
then, N evil! now-- ever-- even if my husband; for, did
you cease to love, my death would free you from bonds
that else would be indissoluble. W hen you have read this,
I would see you: my impatience will bring me to your
side, and I shall read my fate at a glance; for grief is a
rapid poison,-- and the heart, though weak , never mistak es
the signal of irrevocable destiny. A dieu. "
E N DO PTH E S E CO N DV O L UME .
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? CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 255
V O L UME TH E TH I R D.
BOOKXV.
TH E A DI E UTO R O ME ,A N DJ O UR N E Y TO V E N I CE .
CH A PTE R I .
I t was with deep emotion that O swald read the narrative
of Corinne: many and varied were the confused thoughts
that agitated him. S ometimes he felt hurt by the picture
she drew of an E nglish county, and despairingly ex claimed,
" S uch a woman could never be happy in domestic life! "
then he pitied what she had suffered there, and could not
but admire the simple frank ness of her recital. H e was
j ealous of the affections she had felt ere she met him; and
the more he sought to hide this from himself the more it
tortured him; but above all was he afflicted by his father'
part in her history. H is anguish was such that, not k now-
ing what he did, he rushed forth, beneath the noonday
s
? sun, when the streets of N aples were deserted, and their in-
habitants all secluded in the shade. H e hurried at random
towards Portici: the beams which fell on his brow at once
ex cited and bewildered his ideas. Corinne, meanwhile,
having waited for some hours, could no longer resist her
desire to see him. S he entered his room; he was not there:
his absence, at such a crisis, fearfully alarmed her. S he
saw her papers on the table, and doubted not that, after
reading them, he had left her for ever. E ach moment' s
attempt at patience added to her distress: she walk ed the
chamber hastily, then stopped, in fear of losing the least
sound that might announce his return; at last, unable to
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? 256 corinne; or italy.
control her anx iety, she descended to enq uire if any one
had seen L ord N evil go out, and which way he went. The
master of the inn replied, ' Towards Portici; ' adding,
' that his L ordship surely would not walk far at such a
dangerous period of the day. ' This terror, blending with
so many others, determined Corinne to follow him, though
her head was undefended from the sun. The large white
pavements of N aples, formed of lava, redoubling the light
and heat, scorched and dazzled her as she walk ed. S he did
not intend going to Portici, yet advanced towards it with
increasing speed, meeting no one; for even the animals
now shrunk from the ardours of the clime. Clouds of dust
filled the air, with the slightest breeze, covering the fields,
and concealing all appearance of verdant life. E very in-
stant Corinne felt about to fall; not even a tree was near
to support her. R eason reeled in this burning desert: a
few steps more, and she might reach the royal palace, be-
neath whose porch she would find both shade and water:
but her strength failed-- she could no longer see her way --
her head swam-- a thousand flames, more vivid even than
the blaze of day, danced before her eyes-- an unrefreshing
dark ness suddenly succeeded them -- a cruel thirst consumed
her. O ne of the L azzaroni, the only human creature ex -
pected to brave these fervid horrors, now came up: she
prayed him to bring her a little water; but the man, be-
holding so beautiful and elegant a woman alone, on foot,
H t such an hour, concluded that she must be insane, and
ran from her in dismay. F ortunately O swald at this
moment returned: the voice of Corinne reached his ear.
H e hastened towards her, as she was falling to the earth
insensible, and bore her to the palace portico, where he
called her back to life by the tenderest cares. A s she
recognised him, her senses still wandered, and she wildly
ex claimed, " Y ou promised never to depart without my
consent! I
promise, O
may now appear unworthy of your love; but a
swald ! " -- " Corinne," he cried, " the thought
of leaving you never entered my heart. I would only reflect
on our fate; and wished to recover my spirits ere I saw
you again. " -- " W ell," she said, struggling to appear calm,
" you have had time, during the long hours that might
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 257
bave cost my life; time enough-- therefore speak ! tell me
what have you resolved? " O swald, terrified at the accents,
which betrayed her inmost feelings, k nelt before her, an-
swering, " Corinne, my heart is unchanged; what have I
learnt that should dispel your enchantment? O nly hear
me; " and as she trembled still more violently, he added,
with much earnestness, " L isten fearlessly to one who cannot
live, and k now thou art unhappy. " -- " A h," she sighed,
" it is of my happiness you speak ; your own, then, no
longer depends on me? Y et I
repulse not your pity; for,
at this moment, I have need of it: but think you I will
liveforthatalone? " -- " N o,no,wewillbothlivefor
love. I will return. " --
" A h, you do go, then?
changed since yesterday!
" R eturn! " interrupted Corinne,
W hat has happened? how is all
hapless wretch that I am! " --
" Dearest love," returned O swald, " be composed; and let
me, if I can, ex plain my meaning; it is better than you
suppose, much better; but it is necessary, nevertheless,
that I should ascertain my father' s reasons for opposing
our union seven years since: he never mentioned the sub-
j ect to me; but his most intimate surviving friend, in
E ngland, must k now his motives. I f, as I believe, they
sprung from unimportant circumstances, I can pardon your
desertion of your father' s land and mine; to so noble a
country love may attach you yet, and bid you prefer home-
felt peace, with its gentle and natural virtues, even to the
fame of genius. I will hope every thing, do every thing;
if my father decides against thee, Corinne, I will never be
' the husband of another, though then I cannot be thine. "
A cold dew stood on his brow: the effort he had made to
speak thus cost him so much agony, that for some time
Corinne could think of nothing but the sad state in which
she beheld him. A t last she took his hand, crying, " S o,
you return to E ngland without me. " O swald was silent.
" Cruel! " she continued: " you say nothing to contradict
my fears; they are j ust, then, though even while saying so
I cannot yet believe it. " -- " Thank s to your cares," an-
swered N evil, " I have regained the life so nearly lost: it
belongs to my country during the war. I f I can marry
you, we part no more. I will restore you to your rank in
s
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? 258CO R I N ' N E ; O B I TA L Y .
E ngland. I f this too happy lot should be forbidden me, I
shall return, with the peace, to I taly, stay with you long,
and change your fate in nothing save in giving you one
faithful friend the more. " -- " N ot change my fate! "
repeated; " you, who have become my only interest in the
world! to whom I owe the intox icating draught which?
gives happiness or death? Y et tell me, at least, this
parting, when must it be? H ow many days are left me? "
-- " B eloved! " he cried, pressing her to his heart, "
that for three months I will not leave thee; not, perhaps,
even then. " -- " Three months! " she burst forth; "
I to live so long? it is much, I did not hope so much.
Come, I feel better. Three months? -- what a futurity! "
she added, with a mix ture of j oy and sadness, that pro-
foundly affected O swald; and both, in silence, entered the
carriage which took them back to N aples.
CH A PTE R I I .
Castel F orte awaited them at the inn. A report had
been circulated of their marriage: it greatly pained the
Prince, yet he came to assure himself of the fact, to regain,
as a friend, the society of his love, even if she were for ever
united to another. The state of dej ection in which he be-
held her, for the first time, occasioned him much uneasi-
ness; but he dared not q uestion her, as she seemed to
avoid all conversation on this subj ect. There are situations
which we dread to confide in any one; a single word, that
we might say or hear, would suffice to dissipate the illusion
that supports our life. The self-deceptions of impassioned
sentiment have the peculiarity of humouring the heart, as
we humour a friend whom we fear to affiict by the truth;
thus, unconsciously, trust we our own griefs to the protection
of our own pity. .
N ex t day, Corinne, who was too natural a person to
attempt producing an effect by her sorrows, strove to appear
gay; believing that the best method of retaining O swald
she
I
swear,
am
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? corinne; or italy. 259
was to seem as attractive as formerly. S he, therefore, in-
troduced some interesting topic; but suddenly her abstrac-
tion returned, her eyes wandered: the woman who had
possessed the greatest possible facility of address now
hesitated in her choice of words, and sometimes used ex -
pressions that bore not the slightest reference to what she
intended saying: then she would laugh at herself, though
through tears; and O swald, overwhelmed by the wreck he
had made, would have sought to be alone with her, but she
carefully denied him an opportunity.
" W hat would you learn from me? " she said one day,
when, for an instant, he insisted on speak ing with her. " I
regret myself-- that is all! I had some pride in my
talents. I loved success, glory. The praises, even of in-
different persons, were obj ects of my ambition; now I
for nothing: and it is not happiness that weans me from
these vain pleasures, but a vast discouragement. I accuse
not you; it springs from myself; perhaps I may yet tri-
umph over it. Many things pass in the depths of the soul
care
that we can neither foresee nor direct; but I do you j ustice,
O swald: I see you suffer for me. I sympathise with you,
too: why should not pity bestow her gifts on us? A las!
they might be offered to all who breathe, without proving
very inapplicable. "
O swald, indeed, was not less wretched than Corinne.
H e loved her strongly; but her history had wounded his
affections, his way of think ing. H e seemed to perceive
clearly that his father had prej udged every thing for him;
and that he could only wed Corinne in defiance of such
warning; -- yet how resign her? H is uncertainty was more
painful than that which he hoped to terminate by a k now-
ledge of her life. O n her part, she had not wished that the
tie of marriage should unite her to O swald: so she could
have been certain that he would never leave her, she would
have wanted no more to render her content; but she k new
him well enough to understand, that he could conceive no
happiness save in domestic life; and would never abj ure
the design of marrying her, unless in ceasing to love. H ia \
departure for E ngland appeared the signal for her death.
S he was aware how great an influence the manners and
s2
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? 26 0CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y *
opinions of his country held over his mind. V ainly did he
talk of passing his life with her in I taly: she doubted not
that, once returned to his home, the thought of q uitting it
again would be odious to him. S he felt that she owed her
power to her charms; and what is that power in absence?
W hat are the memories of imagination to a man encircled
by all the realities of social order, the more imperious from
being founded on pure and noble reason? Tormented by
these reflections, Corinne strove to ex ert some power over
her fondness. S he tried to speak with Castel F orte on
literature and the fine arts; but, if O swald j oined them,
the dignity of his mien, the melancholy look which seemed
to ask , " W hy will you renounce me? " disconcerted all her
attempts. Twenty times would she have told him, that his
/ irresolution offended her, and that she was decided to leave
him; but she saw him now lean his head upon his hand,
as if bending breathless beneath his sorrows; now musing
beside the sea, or raising his eyes to heaven, at the sound
of music; and these simple changes, whose magic was
k nown but to herself, suddenly overthrew her determin-
ation. A look , an accent, a certain grace of gesture, re-
veals to love the nearest secrets of the soul;
a countenance, so apparently cold as N evil'
read, save by those to whom it is dearest. I
and, perhaps,
s, can never be
mpartiality
guesses nothing, j udges only by what is displayed. Co-
rinne, in solitude, essayed a test which had succeeded
when she had but believed that she loved. S he tax ed her
spirit of observation (which was capable of detecting the
slightest foibles) to represent O swald beneath less seducing
colours; but there was nothing about him less than noble,
simple, and affecting. H ow then defeat the spell of so per-
fectly natural a mind? I t is only affectation which can at
once awak en the heart, astonished at ever having loved.
B esides, there ex isted between O swald and Corinne a sin-
gular, all-powerful sympathy. Their tastes were not the
same; their opinions rarely accorded; yet in the centre of
each soul dwelt k indred mysteries, drawn from one source;
a secret lik eness, that attests the same nature, however
differently modified by ex ternal circumstances. Corinne,
therefore, found to her dismay, that she had but increased
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? O O R I N N E J O R I TA L Y . 26 1
her passion, by thus minutely considering O swald anew,
even in her very struggle against his image. S he invited
Castel F orte to return to R ome with them. N evil k new
she did this to avoid being alone with him: he felt it sadly,
but could not oppose. H e was no longer persuaded, that
what he might offer Corinne would constitute her content;
and this thought rendered him timid. S he, the while, had
hoped, that he would refuse the Prince' s company. Their
situation was no longer honest as of old: though as yet
without actual dissimulation, restraint already troubled a.
regard, which for six months had daily conferred on them
a bliss almost unq ualified. R eturning by Capua and Gaeta,
scenes which she had so lately visited with such delight,
Corinne felt that these beauties vainly called on her to reflect
their smile. W hen such a sk y fails to disperse the clouds
of care, its laughing contrast but augments their gloom.
They arrived at Terracina on a deliciously refreshing
eve. Corinne withdrew after supper. O swald went forth,
and his heart, lik e hers, led him towards the spot where
they had rested on their way to N aples. H e beheld her,
k neeling before the rock on which they sat; and, as he
look ed on the moon, saw that she was veiled by a cloud, as
she had been two months since at that hour. Corinne, at
his approach, rose, and pointing upwards, said, " H ave I
not reason to believe in omens? I s there not some com-
passion in that heaven? I t warned me of the future; and
to-night, you see, it mourns for me. F orget not, O swald,
to remark , if such a cloud passes not over the moon when
I am dying. " -- " Corinne," he cried, " have I deserved
that you should k ill me? I t were easily done: speak thus
again, and you will see how easily,-- but for what crime?
Y our mode of think ing lifts you above the world' s opinion:
in your country it is not severe; and if it were, your genius
could surmount it. W hatever happens, I will live near
you; whence, then, this despair? I f I cannot be your
husband, without offence to the memory of one who reigns
eq ually with yourself in my breast,-- do you not love me
well enough to find some solace in the tender devotion ot
mine every instant. H ave you not still my ring? that
sacredpledge? " -- . " I willreturnit,O swald. " -- " N ever! "
s3
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? 26 2CO R I N N E ; O R H A L T-
-- " A h, yes, when you desire it; the ring itself will tell
me. A n old legend says, that the diamond, more true than
man, dims when the giver has betrayed our trust. " (1)
-- " Corinne,"
your mind is lost;
oh, pardon me!
said O swald, " dare you speak such treason?
it no longer k nows me. " -- " Pardon!
in love lik e mine, the heart, O swald, is
gifted suddenly with most miraculous instincts; and its
own sufferings hecome oracles. W
hat portends, then, the
heavy palpitation of my heart? A h, love, I should not
fear it, if it were hut my k nell! " S he fled, precipitately,
dreading to remain longer with him. S he could not dally
with her grief, but sought to break from it; yet it returned
but the more violently for her repulse. The nex t day, as
they crossed the Pontine Marsh, O swald' s care of her was
even more scrupulous than before; she received it with the
sweetest thank fulness: but there was something in her look
thatsaid," W hywillyounotletmedie? " '
CH A PTE R I I I .
W hat a desert seems R ome, in going to it from N aples!
E ntering by the gate of S t. J ohn L ateran, you traverse
but long solitary streets; they please afresh after a little
time; but, on j ust leaving a lively, dissipated population,
it is melancholy to be thrown upon one' s self, even were
that self at ease. B esides this, R ome, towards the end
of J uly, is a dangerous residence. The malaria renders
many q uarters uninhabitable; and the contagion often
spreads through the whole city. This year, particularly,
every face bore the impress of apprehension. Corinne
wasmetatherowndoorbyamonk ,whoask edleaveto
bless her house against infection: she consented; and the
priest walk ed through the rooms, sprink ling holy water,
and repeating L atin prayers. L ord N evil smiled at this
ceremony-- Corinne' s heart melted over it. " I find in-
definable charms," she said, " in all that is religious, cr
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? corinne; or italy. 26 3
even superstitious, while nothing hostile nor intolerant
blends with it. Divine aid is so needful, when our
thoughts stray from the common path, that the highest
minds most req uire superhuman care. " -- " Doubtless
such want ex ists, but can it thus be satisfied? " -- "
never refuse a prayer associated with my own, from whom-
soever it is offered me. " -- " Y ou are right," said N
giving his purse to the old friar, who departed, with be-
nedictions on them both. W hen the friends of Corinne
heard of her return, they flock ed to see her: if any won-
dered that she was not O swald' s wife, none, at least, ask
the reason: the pleasure of regaining her diverted them
from every other thought. Corinne endeavoured to appear
unchanged; but she could not succeed. S he revisited the
work s of art that once afforded her such vivid pleasure;
but sorrow was the base of her every feeling now. A t the
V illa B orghese, or the tomb of Cecilia Metella, she no
longer enj oyed that reverie on the instability of human
blessings, which lends them a still more touching character.
I
evil,
ed
A fix ed, despondent pensiveness absorbed her. N ature,
who ever speak s to the heart vaguely, can do nothing for
it when oppressed by real calamities. O swald and Corinne
were worse than unhappy; for actual misery oft causes
such emotions as relieve the laden breast; and from
the storm may burst a flash pointing the onward way:
but mutual restraint, and fruitless efforts to escape pur-
suing recollections, made them even discontented with one
another. I ndeed, how can we suffer thus, without ac-
cusing the being we love as the cause? True, a word, a
look , suffices to efface our displeasure; but that look , that
word, may not come when most ex pected, or most needful.
N othing in love can be premeditated; it is as a power
divine, that think s and feels within us unswayed by our
control.
A fever, more malignant than had been k nown in R omp
for some years, now brok e out suddenly. A young woman
was attack ed: her friends and family refused to fly, and
perished with her. The nex t house ex perienced the same
devastation. E very hour a holy fraternity, veiled in white,
accompanied the dead to interment; themselves appearing
84
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? 26 ? A corinne; oritaly.
lik e the ghosts of those they followed. The bodies, -with
their faces uncovered, are borne on a k ind of litter. O ver
their feet is thrown a pall of gold or rose-colour satin;
and children often unconsciously play with the cold hands
' of the corpse. This spectacle, at once terrific and familiar,
is graced but by the monotonous murmur of a psalm, in
which the accent of the human soul can scarce be recog-
nised. O ne evening, when O swald and Corinne were
alone together, and he more depressed than usual by her
altered manner, he heard, beneath the windows, these
dreary sounds, announcing a funeral: he listened awhile
in silence, and then said, " Perhaps to-morrow I may be
seized by this same malady, against which there is no
defence; you will then wish that you had said a few k ind
words to me on the day that may be my last. Corinne,
death threatens us both closely. A re there not miseries
enough in life, that we should thus mutually augment
each other' s? " S truck by the idea of his danger, she now
entreated him to leave R ome instantly; he stubbornly
refused: she then proposed their going to V enice; to this
he cheerfully assented: it was for her alone that he had
trembled. Their departure was fix ed for the second day
from this; but on that morning O swald, who had not
seen Corinne the night before, received a note, informing
him that indispensable business obliged her to visit F lo-
rence; but that she should rej oin him at V enice in a fort-
night: she begged him to tak e A ncona in his way, and
gave him a seemingly important commission to ex ecute
for her there. H er style was more calm and considerate
than he had found it since they left N aples. H e believed
her implicitly, and prepared for his j ourney; but, wishing
once more to behold the dwelling of Corinne ere he left
R ome, he went thither, found it shut up, and rapped at the
door. A n old woman appeared, told him that all the other
servants had gone with her mistress, and would not answer
another word to his numerous q uestions. H e hastened to
Prince Castel F orte, who was as surprised as himself at
Corinne' s abrupt retirement. N evil, all anx iety, imagined
that her agent at Tivoli must have received some in-
structions as to her affairs. H e mounted his horse with
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 2fl5
a promptitude unusual to him, and, in ex treme agitation,
rode to her country house: its doors were open; he en-
tered, passed some of the rooms without meeting any one,
till he reached that of Corinne: though dark ness reigned
there, he saw her on her bed, with There' sina alone beside
her: he uttered a cry of recognition; it recalled her to
consciousness: she raised herself, saying eagerly, -- " Do
not come near me! I forbid you! I die if you do! "
O swald felt as if his beloved were accusing him of some
crime which she had all at once suspected: believing him-
self hated-- scorned-- he fell on his k nees, with a despair-
ing submission which suggested to Corinne the idea of
profiting by this mistak e, and she commanded him to leave
her for ever, as if he had in truth beerj guilty. S peechless
with wonder, he would have obeyed, when Theresina
sobbed forth, --
dear lady? S
banish me too;
" O h, my L ord! will you then desert my
he has sent every one away, and would fain
for she has caught the infectious fever! "
These words instantly ex plained the affecting stratagem
of Corinne; and O swald clasped, her to his heart, with a
transport of tenderness, such as he had never before ex -
perienced. I n vain she repelled him; in vain she re-
proached Theresina. O swald bade the good creature with-
draw, and lavished his tearful k isses on the face of his
adored. " N ow, now," he cried, " thou shalt not die
without me: if the fatal poison be in thy veins, at least,
thank H
eaven, I breathe it in thine arms. " -- " Dear, cruel
O swald! " she sighed, " to what tortures you condemn
me! O
h God! since he will not live without me, let not
my better angel perish! no, save him, save him! " H ere
her strength was lost, and, for eight days, she remained in
the greatest danger. I n the midst of her delirium, she
would cry, -- " K eep O swald from me!
here! never tell him where I am! " W
returned, she gazed on him, murmuring, -- "
let him not come
hen her reason
O swald! in
death as in life you are with me; we shall be re-united. "
W hen she perceived how pale he was, a deadly terror
seized her, and she called to his aid the physicians who
had given her a strong proof of devotion in never having
abandoned her. O swald constantly held her burning hands
?
spread the report that the physicians had prescribed a
voyage to the south for my health, and that I had died on
my passage. H er letter contained no comments. S he re-
mitted, with great ex actness, my whole fortune, which was
considerable; but wrote to me no more. F ive years then
elapsed ere I beheld you; during which I tasted much
good fortune. My fame increased: the fine arts and liter-
ature afforded me even more delight in solitude than in
my own success. I k new not, till 1 met you, the full power
of sentiment: my imagination sometimes coloured and dis-
coloured my illusions without giving me great uneasiness.
I had not yet been seized by any affection capable of over-
ruling me. A dmiration, respect, and love had not en-
chained all the faculties of my soul: I conceived more
* Did the authoress think it usual for the E nglish to be buried in their own
grounds, whether consecrated or not ? -- Tr.
f H er real Christian name is never divulged even to the reader. -- Tr.
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? 252CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
charms than I ever found, and remained superior to my
own impressions. Do not insist on my describing to you
how two men, whose passion for me is but too generally
k nown, successively occupied my life, before I k new you.
I outrage my own conviction in now reminding myself
that any one, save you, could ever have interested me: on
this subj ect I feel eq ual grief and repentance. I shall only
tell you what you have already heard from my friends.
My free life so much pleased me, that, after long irreso-
lutions and painful scenes, I twice brok e the ties which the
necessity of loving had made me contract, and could not
resolve to render them irrevocable. A German noble would
have married and tak en me to his own country. A n I talian
prince offered me a most brilliant establishment in R ome.
The first pleased and inspired me with the highest esteem;
but, in time, I perceived that he had few mental resources.
W hen we were alone together, it cost me great trouble to
sustain a conversation, and conceal from him his own de-
ficiencies. I dared not display myself at my best for fear
of embarrassing him. I foresaw that his regard for me
must necessarily decrease when I should cease to manage
him; and it is difficult, in such a case, to k eep up one' s en-
thusiasm: a woman' s feeling for a man any way inferior
to herself is rather pity than love; and the calculations, the
reflections req uired by such a state, wither the celestial
nature of an involuntary sentiment. The I talian prince
was all grace and fertility of mind: he participated in my
tastes, and loved my way of life; but, on an important oc-
casion, I remark ed that he wanted energy, and that, in
any difficulties, I should have to sustain and fortify him.
There was an end of love -- for women need support;
and nothing chills them more than the necessity of affording
it. Thus was I twice undeceived, not by faults or mis-
fortunes, but by the spirit of observation, which detected
what imagination had concealed. I believed myself des-
tined never to love with the full power of my soul: some-
times this idea pained me; but more freq uently I applauded
my own freedom -- fearing the capability of suffering that
impassioned impulse which might threaten my happiness
and my life. I always re-assured myself in think ing that
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? CO R I N N E J O R I TA L T. 253
my j udgment was not easily captivated, and that no man
could answer my ideal of masculine mind and character.
I hoped ever to escape the absolute power of love, by per-
ceiving some defects in those who charmed me. I then
k new not that there are faults which increase our passion
by the inq uietude they cause. O swald! the melancholy
indecision which discourages you -- the severity of your
opinions -- troubles my repose, without decreasing my
affection. I often think that it will never mak e me
happy; but then it is always myself I j udge, and not
you. A nd now you k now my history -- my flight from
E ngland-- my change of name-- my heart' s inconstancy:--
I have concealed nothing. Doubtless you think that fancy
hath oft misled me; but, if society bound us not by chains
from which men are free, what were there in my life which
should prevent your loving me? H ave I ever deceived?
have I ever wronged any one? has my mind been seared
by vulgar interests? S incerity, good will, and pride--
does God ask more from an orphan alone in the world?
H appy the women who, in their early youth, meet those
they ought to love for ever; but do I the less deserve you
for having k nown you too late? Y
L ord, and you may trust my frank
et, I assure you, my
ness, could I but pass my
life near you, methink s, in spite the loss of the greatest
happiness and glory I can imagine, I would not be your
wife. Perhaps such marriage were to you a sacrifice:
you may one day regret the fair L ucy, my sister, to whom
your father destined you. S he is twelve years my younger;
her name is stainless as the first flower of spring: we
should be obliged, in E ngland, to revive mine, which is
nowasthatofthedead. L ucy,I k now,hasapureand
gentle spirit: if I may j udge from her childhood, she may
become capable of understanding-- loving you. O swald,
you are free. W hen you desire it, your ring shall be re-
stored to you. Perhaps you wish to hear, ere you decide,
what I shall suffer if you leave me. I k now not: some-
times impetuous impulses arise within me, that over-rule
my reason: should I
life insupportable? I
faculty of happiness;
be to blame, then, if they rendered
t is eq ually true that I have a great
it interests me in every thing: I
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? 254 corinne; or italy.
converse with pleasure, and revel in the minds of others--
in the friendship they show me-- in all the wonders of art
and nature, which affectation hath not strick en dead. B ut
would it be in my power to live when I no longer saw you?
it is for you to j udge, O swald: you k now me hetter than
I k now myself. 1 am not responsible for what I may ex -
perience: it is he who plants the dagger should guess
whether the wound is mortal; but if it were so I should
forgive you. My happiness entirely depends on the affection
you have paid me for the last six months. I defy all your
delicacy to blind me, were it in the least degree impaired.
B anish from your mind all idea of duty. I n love I ac-
k nowledge no promises, no security: God alone can raise
the flower which storms have blighted. A tone, a look ,
will be enough to tell me that your heart is not the same;
and I shall detest all you may offer me instead of love --
your love, that heavenly ray, my only glory! B e free,
then, N evil! now-- ever-- even if my husband; for, did
you cease to love, my death would free you from bonds
that else would be indissoluble. W hen you have read this,
I would see you: my impatience will bring me to your
side, and I shall read my fate at a glance; for grief is a
rapid poison,-- and the heart, though weak , never mistak es
the signal of irrevocable destiny. A dieu. "
E N DO PTH E S E CO N DV O L UME .
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? CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 255
V O L UME TH E TH I R D.
BOOKXV.
TH E A DI E UTO R O ME ,A N DJ O UR N E Y TO V E N I CE .
CH A PTE R I .
I t was with deep emotion that O swald read the narrative
of Corinne: many and varied were the confused thoughts
that agitated him. S ometimes he felt hurt by the picture
she drew of an E nglish county, and despairingly ex claimed,
" S uch a woman could never be happy in domestic life! "
then he pitied what she had suffered there, and could not
but admire the simple frank ness of her recital. H e was
j ealous of the affections she had felt ere she met him; and
the more he sought to hide this from himself the more it
tortured him; but above all was he afflicted by his father'
part in her history. H is anguish was such that, not k now-
ing what he did, he rushed forth, beneath the noonday
s
? sun, when the streets of N aples were deserted, and their in-
habitants all secluded in the shade. H e hurried at random
towards Portici: the beams which fell on his brow at once
ex cited and bewildered his ideas. Corinne, meanwhile,
having waited for some hours, could no longer resist her
desire to see him. S he entered his room; he was not there:
his absence, at such a crisis, fearfully alarmed her. S he
saw her papers on the table, and doubted not that, after
reading them, he had left her for ever. E ach moment' s
attempt at patience added to her distress: she walk ed the
chamber hastily, then stopped, in fear of losing the least
sound that might announce his return; at last, unable to
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? 256 corinne; or italy.
control her anx iety, she descended to enq uire if any one
had seen L ord N evil go out, and which way he went. The
master of the inn replied, ' Towards Portici; ' adding,
' that his L ordship surely would not walk far at such a
dangerous period of the day. ' This terror, blending with
so many others, determined Corinne to follow him, though
her head was undefended from the sun. The large white
pavements of N aples, formed of lava, redoubling the light
and heat, scorched and dazzled her as she walk ed. S he did
not intend going to Portici, yet advanced towards it with
increasing speed, meeting no one; for even the animals
now shrunk from the ardours of the clime. Clouds of dust
filled the air, with the slightest breeze, covering the fields,
and concealing all appearance of verdant life. E very in-
stant Corinne felt about to fall; not even a tree was near
to support her. R eason reeled in this burning desert: a
few steps more, and she might reach the royal palace, be-
neath whose porch she would find both shade and water:
but her strength failed-- she could no longer see her way --
her head swam-- a thousand flames, more vivid even than
the blaze of day, danced before her eyes-- an unrefreshing
dark ness suddenly succeeded them -- a cruel thirst consumed
her. O ne of the L azzaroni, the only human creature ex -
pected to brave these fervid horrors, now came up: she
prayed him to bring her a little water; but the man, be-
holding so beautiful and elegant a woman alone, on foot,
H t such an hour, concluded that she must be insane, and
ran from her in dismay. F ortunately O swald at this
moment returned: the voice of Corinne reached his ear.
H e hastened towards her, as she was falling to the earth
insensible, and bore her to the palace portico, where he
called her back to life by the tenderest cares. A s she
recognised him, her senses still wandered, and she wildly
ex claimed, " Y ou promised never to depart without my
consent! I
promise, O
may now appear unworthy of your love; but a
swald ! " -- " Corinne," he cried, " the thought
of leaving you never entered my heart. I would only reflect
on our fate; and wished to recover my spirits ere I saw
you again. " -- " W ell," she said, struggling to appear calm,
" you have had time, during the long hours that might
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 257
bave cost my life; time enough-- therefore speak ! tell me
what have you resolved? " O swald, terrified at the accents,
which betrayed her inmost feelings, k nelt before her, an-
swering, " Corinne, my heart is unchanged; what have I
learnt that should dispel your enchantment? O nly hear
me; " and as she trembled still more violently, he added,
with much earnestness, " L isten fearlessly to one who cannot
live, and k now thou art unhappy. " -- " A h," she sighed,
" it is of my happiness you speak ; your own, then, no
longer depends on me? Y et I
repulse not your pity; for,
at this moment, I have need of it: but think you I will
liveforthatalone? " -- " N o,no,wewillbothlivefor
love. I will return. " --
" A h, you do go, then?
changed since yesterday!
" R eturn! " interrupted Corinne,
W hat has happened? how is all
hapless wretch that I am! " --
" Dearest love," returned O swald, " be composed; and let
me, if I can, ex plain my meaning; it is better than you
suppose, much better; but it is necessary, nevertheless,
that I should ascertain my father' s reasons for opposing
our union seven years since: he never mentioned the sub-
j ect to me; but his most intimate surviving friend, in
E ngland, must k now his motives. I f, as I believe, they
sprung from unimportant circumstances, I can pardon your
desertion of your father' s land and mine; to so noble a
country love may attach you yet, and bid you prefer home-
felt peace, with its gentle and natural virtues, even to the
fame of genius. I will hope every thing, do every thing;
if my father decides against thee, Corinne, I will never be
' the husband of another, though then I cannot be thine. "
A cold dew stood on his brow: the effort he had made to
speak thus cost him so much agony, that for some time
Corinne could think of nothing but the sad state in which
she beheld him. A t last she took his hand, crying, " S o,
you return to E ngland without me. " O swald was silent.
" Cruel! " she continued: " you say nothing to contradict
my fears; they are j ust, then, though even while saying so
I cannot yet believe it. " -- " Thank s to your cares," an-
swered N evil, " I have regained the life so nearly lost: it
belongs to my country during the war. I f I can marry
you, we part no more. I will restore you to your rank in
s
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? 258CO R I N ' N E ; O B I TA L Y .
E ngland. I f this too happy lot should be forbidden me, I
shall return, with the peace, to I taly, stay with you long,
and change your fate in nothing save in giving you one
faithful friend the more. " -- " N ot change my fate! "
repeated; " you, who have become my only interest in the
world! to whom I owe the intox icating draught which?
gives happiness or death? Y et tell me, at least, this
parting, when must it be? H ow many days are left me? "
-- " B eloved! " he cried, pressing her to his heart, "
that for three months I will not leave thee; not, perhaps,
even then. " -- " Three months! " she burst forth; "
I to live so long? it is much, I did not hope so much.
Come, I feel better. Three months? -- what a futurity! "
she added, with a mix ture of j oy and sadness, that pro-
foundly affected O swald; and both, in silence, entered the
carriage which took them back to N aples.
CH A PTE R I I .
Castel F orte awaited them at the inn. A report had
been circulated of their marriage: it greatly pained the
Prince, yet he came to assure himself of the fact, to regain,
as a friend, the society of his love, even if she were for ever
united to another. The state of dej ection in which he be-
held her, for the first time, occasioned him much uneasi-
ness; but he dared not q uestion her, as she seemed to
avoid all conversation on this subj ect. There are situations
which we dread to confide in any one; a single word, that
we might say or hear, would suffice to dissipate the illusion
that supports our life. The self-deceptions of impassioned
sentiment have the peculiarity of humouring the heart, as
we humour a friend whom we fear to affiict by the truth;
thus, unconsciously, trust we our own griefs to the protection
of our own pity. .
N ex t day, Corinne, who was too natural a person to
attempt producing an effect by her sorrows, strove to appear
gay; believing that the best method of retaining O swald
she
I
swear,
am
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? corinne; or italy. 259
was to seem as attractive as formerly. S he, therefore, in-
troduced some interesting topic; but suddenly her abstrac-
tion returned, her eyes wandered: the woman who had
possessed the greatest possible facility of address now
hesitated in her choice of words, and sometimes used ex -
pressions that bore not the slightest reference to what she
intended saying: then she would laugh at herself, though
through tears; and O swald, overwhelmed by the wreck he
had made, would have sought to be alone with her, but she
carefully denied him an opportunity.
" W hat would you learn from me? " she said one day,
when, for an instant, he insisted on speak ing with her. " I
regret myself-- that is all! I had some pride in my
talents. I loved success, glory. The praises, even of in-
different persons, were obj ects of my ambition; now I
for nothing: and it is not happiness that weans me from
these vain pleasures, but a vast discouragement. I accuse
not you; it springs from myself; perhaps I may yet tri-
umph over it. Many things pass in the depths of the soul
care
that we can neither foresee nor direct; but I do you j ustice,
O swald: I see you suffer for me. I sympathise with you,
too: why should not pity bestow her gifts on us? A las!
they might be offered to all who breathe, without proving
very inapplicable. "
O swald, indeed, was not less wretched than Corinne.
H e loved her strongly; but her history had wounded his
affections, his way of think ing. H e seemed to perceive
clearly that his father had prej udged every thing for him;
and that he could only wed Corinne in defiance of such
warning; -- yet how resign her? H is uncertainty was more
painful than that which he hoped to terminate by a k now-
ledge of her life. O n her part, she had not wished that the
tie of marriage should unite her to O swald: so she could
have been certain that he would never leave her, she would
have wanted no more to render her content; but she k new
him well enough to understand, that he could conceive no
happiness save in domestic life; and would never abj ure
the design of marrying her, unless in ceasing to love. H ia \
departure for E ngland appeared the signal for her death.
S he was aware how great an influence the manners and
s2
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? 26 0CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y *
opinions of his country held over his mind. V ainly did he
talk of passing his life with her in I taly: she doubted not
that, once returned to his home, the thought of q uitting it
again would be odious to him. S he felt that she owed her
power to her charms; and what is that power in absence?
W hat are the memories of imagination to a man encircled
by all the realities of social order, the more imperious from
being founded on pure and noble reason? Tormented by
these reflections, Corinne strove to ex ert some power over
her fondness. S he tried to speak with Castel F orte on
literature and the fine arts; but, if O swald j oined them,
the dignity of his mien, the melancholy look which seemed
to ask , " W hy will you renounce me? " disconcerted all her
attempts. Twenty times would she have told him, that his
/ irresolution offended her, and that she was decided to leave
him; but she saw him now lean his head upon his hand,
as if bending breathless beneath his sorrows; now musing
beside the sea, or raising his eyes to heaven, at the sound
of music; and these simple changes, whose magic was
k nown but to herself, suddenly overthrew her determin-
ation. A look , an accent, a certain grace of gesture, re-
veals to love the nearest secrets of the soul;
a countenance, so apparently cold as N evil'
read, save by those to whom it is dearest. I
and, perhaps,
s, can never be
mpartiality
guesses nothing, j udges only by what is displayed. Co-
rinne, in solitude, essayed a test which had succeeded
when she had but believed that she loved. S he tax ed her
spirit of observation (which was capable of detecting the
slightest foibles) to represent O swald beneath less seducing
colours; but there was nothing about him less than noble,
simple, and affecting. H ow then defeat the spell of so per-
fectly natural a mind? I t is only affectation which can at
once awak en the heart, astonished at ever having loved.
B esides, there ex isted between O swald and Corinne a sin-
gular, all-powerful sympathy. Their tastes were not the
same; their opinions rarely accorded; yet in the centre of
each soul dwelt k indred mysteries, drawn from one source;
a secret lik eness, that attests the same nature, however
differently modified by ex ternal circumstances. Corinne,
therefore, found to her dismay, that she had but increased
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? O O R I N N E J O R I TA L Y . 26 1
her passion, by thus minutely considering O swald anew,
even in her very struggle against his image. S he invited
Castel F orte to return to R ome with them. N evil k new
she did this to avoid being alone with him: he felt it sadly,
but could not oppose. H e was no longer persuaded, that
what he might offer Corinne would constitute her content;
and this thought rendered him timid. S he, the while, had
hoped, that he would refuse the Prince' s company. Their
situation was no longer honest as of old: though as yet
without actual dissimulation, restraint already troubled a.
regard, which for six months had daily conferred on them
a bliss almost unq ualified. R eturning by Capua and Gaeta,
scenes which she had so lately visited with such delight,
Corinne felt that these beauties vainly called on her to reflect
their smile. W hen such a sk y fails to disperse the clouds
of care, its laughing contrast but augments their gloom.
They arrived at Terracina on a deliciously refreshing
eve. Corinne withdrew after supper. O swald went forth,
and his heart, lik e hers, led him towards the spot where
they had rested on their way to N aples. H e beheld her,
k neeling before the rock on which they sat; and, as he
look ed on the moon, saw that she was veiled by a cloud, as
she had been two months since at that hour. Corinne, at
his approach, rose, and pointing upwards, said, " H ave I
not reason to believe in omens? I s there not some com-
passion in that heaven? I t warned me of the future; and
to-night, you see, it mourns for me. F orget not, O swald,
to remark , if such a cloud passes not over the moon when
I am dying. " -- " Corinne," he cried, " have I deserved
that you should k ill me? I t were easily done: speak thus
again, and you will see how easily,-- but for what crime?
Y our mode of think ing lifts you above the world' s opinion:
in your country it is not severe; and if it were, your genius
could surmount it. W hatever happens, I will live near
you; whence, then, this despair? I f I cannot be your
husband, without offence to the memory of one who reigns
eq ually with yourself in my breast,-- do you not love me
well enough to find some solace in the tender devotion ot
mine every instant. H ave you not still my ring? that
sacredpledge? " -- . " I willreturnit,O swald. " -- " N ever! "
s3
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? 26 2CO R I N N E ; O R H A L T-
-- " A h, yes, when you desire it; the ring itself will tell
me. A n old legend says, that the diamond, more true than
man, dims when the giver has betrayed our trust. " (1)
-- " Corinne,"
your mind is lost;
oh, pardon me!
said O swald, " dare you speak such treason?
it no longer k nows me. " -- " Pardon!
in love lik e mine, the heart, O swald, is
gifted suddenly with most miraculous instincts; and its
own sufferings hecome oracles. W
hat portends, then, the
heavy palpitation of my heart? A h, love, I should not
fear it, if it were hut my k nell! " S he fled, precipitately,
dreading to remain longer with him. S he could not dally
with her grief, but sought to break from it; yet it returned
but the more violently for her repulse. The nex t day, as
they crossed the Pontine Marsh, O swald' s care of her was
even more scrupulous than before; she received it with the
sweetest thank fulness: but there was something in her look
thatsaid," W hywillyounotletmedie? " '
CH A PTE R I I I .
W hat a desert seems R ome, in going to it from N aples!
E ntering by the gate of S t. J ohn L ateran, you traverse
but long solitary streets; they please afresh after a little
time; but, on j ust leaving a lively, dissipated population,
it is melancholy to be thrown upon one' s self, even were
that self at ease. B esides this, R ome, towards the end
of J uly, is a dangerous residence. The malaria renders
many q uarters uninhabitable; and the contagion often
spreads through the whole city. This year, particularly,
every face bore the impress of apprehension. Corinne
wasmetatherowndoorbyamonk ,whoask edleaveto
bless her house against infection: she consented; and the
priest walk ed through the rooms, sprink ling holy water,
and repeating L atin prayers. L ord N evil smiled at this
ceremony-- Corinne' s heart melted over it. " I find in-
definable charms," she said, " in all that is religious, cr
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? corinne; or italy. 26 3
even superstitious, while nothing hostile nor intolerant
blends with it. Divine aid is so needful, when our
thoughts stray from the common path, that the highest
minds most req uire superhuman care. " -- " Doubtless
such want ex ists, but can it thus be satisfied? " -- "
never refuse a prayer associated with my own, from whom-
soever it is offered me. " -- " Y ou are right," said N
giving his purse to the old friar, who departed, with be-
nedictions on them both. W hen the friends of Corinne
heard of her return, they flock ed to see her: if any won-
dered that she was not O swald' s wife, none, at least, ask
the reason: the pleasure of regaining her diverted them
from every other thought. Corinne endeavoured to appear
unchanged; but she could not succeed. S he revisited the
work s of art that once afforded her such vivid pleasure;
but sorrow was the base of her every feeling now. A t the
V illa B orghese, or the tomb of Cecilia Metella, she no
longer enj oyed that reverie on the instability of human
blessings, which lends them a still more touching character.
I
evil,
ed
A fix ed, despondent pensiveness absorbed her. N ature,
who ever speak s to the heart vaguely, can do nothing for
it when oppressed by real calamities. O swald and Corinne
were worse than unhappy; for actual misery oft causes
such emotions as relieve the laden breast; and from
the storm may burst a flash pointing the onward way:
but mutual restraint, and fruitless efforts to escape pur-
suing recollections, made them even discontented with one
another. I ndeed, how can we suffer thus, without ac-
cusing the being we love as the cause? True, a word, a
look , suffices to efface our displeasure; but that look , that
word, may not come when most ex pected, or most needful.
N othing in love can be premeditated; it is as a power
divine, that think s and feels within us unswayed by our
control.
A fever, more malignant than had been k nown in R omp
for some years, now brok e out suddenly. A young woman
was attack ed: her friends and family refused to fly, and
perished with her. The nex t house ex perienced the same
devastation. E very hour a holy fraternity, veiled in white,
accompanied the dead to interment; themselves appearing
84
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? 26 ? A corinne; oritaly.
lik e the ghosts of those they followed. The bodies, -with
their faces uncovered, are borne on a k ind of litter. O ver
their feet is thrown a pall of gold or rose-colour satin;
and children often unconsciously play with the cold hands
' of the corpse. This spectacle, at once terrific and familiar,
is graced but by the monotonous murmur of a psalm, in
which the accent of the human soul can scarce be recog-
nised. O ne evening, when O swald and Corinne were
alone together, and he more depressed than usual by her
altered manner, he heard, beneath the windows, these
dreary sounds, announcing a funeral: he listened awhile
in silence, and then said, " Perhaps to-morrow I may be
seized by this same malady, against which there is no
defence; you will then wish that you had said a few k ind
words to me on the day that may be my last. Corinne,
death threatens us both closely. A re there not miseries
enough in life, that we should thus mutually augment
each other' s? " S truck by the idea of his danger, she now
entreated him to leave R ome instantly; he stubbornly
refused: she then proposed their going to V enice; to this
he cheerfully assented: it was for her alone that he had
trembled. Their departure was fix ed for the second day
from this; but on that morning O swald, who had not
seen Corinne the night before, received a note, informing
him that indispensable business obliged her to visit F lo-
rence; but that she should rej oin him at V enice in a fort-
night: she begged him to tak e A ncona in his way, and
gave him a seemingly important commission to ex ecute
for her there. H er style was more calm and considerate
than he had found it since they left N aples. H e believed
her implicitly, and prepared for his j ourney; but, wishing
once more to behold the dwelling of Corinne ere he left
R ome, he went thither, found it shut up, and rapped at the
door. A n old woman appeared, told him that all the other
servants had gone with her mistress, and would not answer
another word to his numerous q uestions. H e hastened to
Prince Castel F orte, who was as surprised as himself at
Corinne' s abrupt retirement. N evil, all anx iety, imagined
that her agent at Tivoli must have received some in-
structions as to her affairs. H e mounted his horse with
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 2fl5
a promptitude unusual to him, and, in ex treme agitation,
rode to her country house: its doors were open; he en-
tered, passed some of the rooms without meeting any one,
till he reached that of Corinne: though dark ness reigned
there, he saw her on her bed, with There' sina alone beside
her: he uttered a cry of recognition; it recalled her to
consciousness: she raised herself, saying eagerly, -- " Do
not come near me! I forbid you! I die if you do! "
O swald felt as if his beloved were accusing him of some
crime which she had all at once suspected: believing him-
self hated-- scorned-- he fell on his k nees, with a despair-
ing submission which suggested to Corinne the idea of
profiting by this mistak e, and she commanded him to leave
her for ever, as if he had in truth beerj guilty. S peechless
with wonder, he would have obeyed, when Theresina
sobbed forth, --
dear lady? S
banish me too;
" O h, my L ord! will you then desert my
he has sent every one away, and would fain
for she has caught the infectious fever! "
These words instantly ex plained the affecting stratagem
of Corinne; and O swald clasped, her to his heart, with a
transport of tenderness, such as he had never before ex -
perienced. I n vain she repelled him; in vain she re-
proached Theresina. O swald bade the good creature with-
draw, and lavished his tearful k isses on the face of his
adored. " N ow, now," he cried, " thou shalt not die
without me: if the fatal poison be in thy veins, at least,
thank H
eaven, I breathe it in thine arms. " -- " Dear, cruel
O swald! " she sighed, " to what tortures you condemn
me! O
h God! since he will not live without me, let not
my better angel perish! no, save him, save him! " H ere
her strength was lost, and, for eight days, she remained in
the greatest danger. I n the midst of her delirium, she
would cry, -- " K eep O swald from me!
here! never tell him where I am! " W
returned, she gazed on him, murmuring, -- "
let him not come
hen her reason
O swald! in
death as in life you are with me; we shall be re-united. "
W hen she perceived how pale he was, a deadly terror
seized her, and she called to his aid the physicians who
had given her a strong proof of devotion in never having
abandoned her. O swald constantly held her burning hands
?
