I t can only be of service to
those wounds which would cure themselves without it.
those wounds which would cure themselves without it.
Madame de Stael - Corinna, or Italy
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.
Z4
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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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? 354 oorinne; or I taly.
O n the morning of his marriage the hapless Corinne
haunted N evil fearfully; but he addressed his father' s
spirit, confessing that it was to win hit heavenly be-
nediction his B on accomplished thus his will on earth.
R e-assured by these meditations, he sought his bride,
reproaching himself for having allowed his thoughts to
wander from her. A descending angel could not have
chosen a face more fit than hers to give mortality a dream
of heavenly virtue. A t the altar L ady E dgarmond was
even more agitated than her daughter; for all important
steps alarm us the more the greater our ex perience. L ucy
was all hope; childhood still mingled with her youth, and
blended j oy with love. I n leaving the church she leaned
timidly on O swald' s arm, as if to assure herself of his
protection: he look ed on her tenderly, feeling, at the bottom
of his heart, a foe who menaced her repose, and from
whom he had promised to defend her. L ady E dgarmond,
on their return, said to her son-in-law, -- " My mind is
easy: I have confided to you the happiness of my daugh-
ter; and have so short a time to live, that it is a comfort
for me to think my place will be so well supplied. " L ord
N evil was much affected' by these words, and anx
iously
mused on the duties they imposed. A few days elapsed:
L ucy had begun to meet her husband' s eye with confidence,
and mak e her mind k nown to him, when unluck y incidents
disturbed the union commenced under these favourable
auspices.
CH A PTE R I I .
*
Mr. Dick son paid his respects to the young couple, apolo-
gising for not having been present at their marriage. H e
had been ill, he said, from the effects of a fall, though
k indly assisted by the most charming woman in the world.
O swald, at this moment, was playing battledore and
shuttlecock with L ucy, who was very graceful at this
ex ercise. H er bridegroom gazed on her, and listened not
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? CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 355
to Mr. Dick son, who, at last, called to him from the other
end of the room. " My L ord, the fair unk nown, who
came to my aid, had certainly heard much about you, for
she ask ed me many q uestions concerning your fate. " --
" W ho do you mean? " said N evil, continuing his game. --
" A lovely creature, my L ord, although she. look ed changed
by suffering, and could not speak of you without emo-
tion. " * These words attracted O swald' s attention; but
L ucy, perfectly unconcerned, j oined her mother, who had
j ustsentforher. L ordN evilnowask edMr. Dick son
whatladyitwaswhohadthusspok enofhim. " I k now
not," he replied: " her accent proved her E nglish, though
I have rarely found so obliging and easy a person
among our countrywomen. S he took as much care of a
poor old man lik e me as if she had been my own child:
while I
dear O
I taly?
was beside her, I did not feel my bruises; but, my
swald, have you been faithless here as well as in
My beauteous benefactress trembled and turned
pale at naming you. " -- " J ust heaven! " ex claimed N evil,
" yousaidanE nglishwoman? " -- " O hyes:youk now
foreigners never pronounce our language without a certain
intonation. " -- " A nd her face? " -- " The most ex pressive
I ever saw, though fearfully pale and thin. " This de-
scription suited not the bright Corinne; yet might she not
have suffered much, if in E ngland, and unable to find the
being she sought? This dread fell suddenly on O swald,
who continued his q uestions with ex treme uneasiness.
A ir. Dick son replied that the lady conversed with an ele-
gance which he had never before met, that the gentlest k ind-
ness spok e from her sad and languid eyes. " Did you
notice their colour? " ask edO swald. -- " Magnificently dark ! "
The catechist trembled. " F rom time to time," continued
Mr. Dick son, " she interrogated, or answered, me, and
what she did say was delightful. " H e would have pro-
ceeded, but L ady N evil, with her mother, rej oined them;
and O
Dick
swald hastily retired, hoping soon again to find Mr.
son alone. S truck by his sadness, L ady E
dgarmond sent
swald' s circumstances, such a
t is unpardonable, as
* ' E ven had not Mr. Dick son been aware of O
speech before his bride would have been bad enough. I
he k new so much Tit.
AA2
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? 856 CO R I N N E ; O H I TA L Y .
L ucy away, that she might enq uire its cause. H er guest
simply repeated what had passed: terrified at anticipating
the despair of O swald, if he were assured that Corinne had
followed him to S cotland; foreseeing, too, that he would
resume this topic, she instructed Mr. Dick son as to what
she wished said to her son-in-law. Thus the old gentle-
man only increased the anx iety it was too late to remove.
O swald now ask ed his servant if all the letters sent him
within the last three week s had come by post. * The
man ' believed they had,' and was leaving the room; but,
turning back , added, " I remember that, on the ball night,
a blind man gave me one for your L ordship. I supposed
it a petition for charity. " -- " I received none such: could
youfindthisman? " -- " Y es,myL ord,directly; helives
in the village. " -- " Go, bring him to me! " said N evil;
and, unable to wait patiently, walk ed out to meet him at
the end of the avenue. " S o, my friend," he said, " you
brought a letter here for me, on the evening of the ball;
whogaveittoyou? " -- " MyL ord,yeseeI ' mblind; how
wadI k en? " -- " Doyouthink itwasafemale? " -- " E ch,
fine that, my L ord! for I hard weel eneuch that she was
vera soft voiced, though I j aloused the while that she was
greeting. " -- " A ndwhatdidshesaytoyou? " -- " O h,sir,
she said, ' Gude auld man, gie this to O
and there stopped, but syne she added, '
N evil' s. ' " -- " A h, Corinne!
swald' s servant,'
I mean L ord
" ex claimed O swald, and grew
so faint that he was forced to support himself on the poor
creature' s arm, who continued, " I was sitting under a tree
j ust, and wished to do the leddy' s bidding diract, but could
scarce raise mysel, being auld the noo: weel, after giein
me mair siller than I ' d had for lang, she was that free she
lent me her hand, puir thing! it trembled j ust as your
L ordship' s does this minute," -- " E nough ! " sighed N evil.
" H ere, my good friend, as she gave you money, let me do
so too: go, and pray for us both! " H e withdrew.
F rom this moment a terrible agitation preyed on his
mind: he made a thousand useless enq uiries, unable to
conceive the possibility of Corinne' s having been in S cotland
* I wonder he had not observed that Corinne' s bore no post-mark . -- Tr.
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 357
without seek ing him. H e formed various conj ectures, as to
her motives; and, in spite of all his endeavours to conceal it,
this affliction was evident to L ady E dgarmond, nay, even to
L ucy. A ll was constraint and silence. A t this time O swald
wrote first to Caste! F orte. H ad Corinne read that letter, it
would much have softened her resentment.
Count d' E rfeuil j oined the N evils ere the Prince' s
reply arrived. H e said no more of Corinne than was
necessary, yet felt vex ed at their not perceiving that he had
an important secret in his power, though too discreet to
betray it. H is insinuations at first took no effect upon
O swald; but, when he detected that they referred to
Corinne, he was all curiosity. The Count having brought
him to this, defended his own trust pretty bravely; at last,
however, his friend drew forth the whole truth. I t was
a pleasure for d' E rfeuil to relate how grateful Corinne
had felt, and in what a wretched state he had found her:
he ran on, without observing how he agonised L ord
N evil: his only obj ect was that of being the hero of his
own story; when he ceased, he was much afflicted at the
mischief he had done. O swald had commanded himself
till then, but suddenly became distracted with regret; accused
himself as the most barbarous and ungrateful of men; raved
of Corinne' s devoted tenderness; her generosity at the very
moment when she believed him most culpable. H e con-
trasted this with the heartless fick leness by which he had
req uited her; incessantly repeating that no one ever loved
him as she did; and that he should in some way be ulti-
mately punished for his cruelty. H e would have set forth
to see her, if only for a day, an hour; but R ome and
F lorence were already occupied by the F rench: his regi-
ment was about to embark ; he could not forfeit his own
honour, nor break the heart of his wife; indeed, no faults
he might now commit could repair the past; they would
but add to the misery he had occasioned. The only hope
that calmed him was derived from the dangers he was
about to brave. I n this mood he wrote again to Castel
F orte, whose replies represented Corinne as sad, but re-
signed: his pride in her softened rather than ex aggerated
the truth. O swald believed that he ought not to torture
aA3
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? 358 corinne; or I taly.
her by his regrets, after having so wronged her by his
love,-- and left B ritain with a sense of remorse which nearly
rendered life insupportable.
CH A PTE R I I I .
L ucy was afflicted by his departure; yet his recent gloom
had so increased her natural timidity, that she had never
found courage to confide in him her hopes of becoming a
mother; but left it for L ady E dgarmond to send these
tidings after him. N evil, unable to guess what passed in
his wife' s heart, had thought her farewell cold; compared
her silent submission with the eloq uence of Corinne, and
hesitated not to believe that L ucy loved him but feebly;
yet, during his absence, scarcely could even the birth of
their daughter divert her mind from his perils. A nother
grief was added to all this. D' E rfeuil spent a year in
S cotland, strongly persuaded that he had not revealed the
secret of Corinne' s soj ourn there; but he said so much that
implied it, and found such difficulty, when conversation
flagged, in avoiding the theme most interesting to L ady
N evil, that she at last learnt the whole truth. I nnocent
as she was, it req uired even less art than she possessed
to draw d' E rfeuil out upon a favourite subj ect. L ady
E dgarmond was too ill to be present at these conversations;
but when she q uestioned her daughter on the melancholy
she detected, L ucy told all. H er mother spok e very severely
on Corinne' s pursuit of O swald. L ucy was alternately
j ealous of her sister, and indignant against her husband,
for deserting one to whom he had been so dear.
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.
Z4
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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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? 354 oorinne; or I taly.
O n the morning of his marriage the hapless Corinne
haunted N evil fearfully; but he addressed his father' s
spirit, confessing that it was to win hit heavenly be-
nediction his B on accomplished thus his will on earth.
R e-assured by these meditations, he sought his bride,
reproaching himself for having allowed his thoughts to
wander from her. A descending angel could not have
chosen a face more fit than hers to give mortality a dream
of heavenly virtue. A t the altar L ady E dgarmond was
even more agitated than her daughter; for all important
steps alarm us the more the greater our ex perience. L ucy
was all hope; childhood still mingled with her youth, and
blended j oy with love. I n leaving the church she leaned
timidly on O swald' s arm, as if to assure herself of his
protection: he look ed on her tenderly, feeling, at the bottom
of his heart, a foe who menaced her repose, and from
whom he had promised to defend her. L ady E dgarmond,
on their return, said to her son-in-law, -- " My mind is
easy: I have confided to you the happiness of my daugh-
ter; and have so short a time to live, that it is a comfort
for me to think my place will be so well supplied. " L ord
N evil was much affected' by these words, and anx
iously
mused on the duties they imposed. A few days elapsed:
L ucy had begun to meet her husband' s eye with confidence,
and mak e her mind k nown to him, when unluck y incidents
disturbed the union commenced under these favourable
auspices.
CH A PTE R I I .
*
Mr. Dick son paid his respects to the young couple, apolo-
gising for not having been present at their marriage. H e
had been ill, he said, from the effects of a fall, though
k indly assisted by the most charming woman in the world.
O swald, at this moment, was playing battledore and
shuttlecock with L ucy, who was very graceful at this
ex ercise. H er bridegroom gazed on her, and listened not
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? CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 355
to Mr. Dick son, who, at last, called to him from the other
end of the room. " My L ord, the fair unk nown, who
came to my aid, had certainly heard much about you, for
she ask ed me many q uestions concerning your fate. " --
" W ho do you mean? " said N evil, continuing his game. --
" A lovely creature, my L ord, although she. look ed changed
by suffering, and could not speak of you without emo-
tion. " * These words attracted O swald' s attention; but
L ucy, perfectly unconcerned, j oined her mother, who had
j ustsentforher. L ordN evilnowask edMr. Dick son
whatladyitwaswhohadthusspok enofhim. " I k now
not," he replied: " her accent proved her E nglish, though
I have rarely found so obliging and easy a person
among our countrywomen. S he took as much care of a
poor old man lik e me as if she had been my own child:
while I
dear O
I taly?
was beside her, I did not feel my bruises; but, my
swald, have you been faithless here as well as in
My beauteous benefactress trembled and turned
pale at naming you. " -- " J ust heaven! " ex claimed N evil,
" yousaidanE nglishwoman? " -- " O hyes:youk now
foreigners never pronounce our language without a certain
intonation. " -- " A nd her face? " -- " The most ex pressive
I ever saw, though fearfully pale and thin. " This de-
scription suited not the bright Corinne; yet might she not
have suffered much, if in E ngland, and unable to find the
being she sought? This dread fell suddenly on O swald,
who continued his q uestions with ex treme uneasiness.
A ir. Dick son replied that the lady conversed with an ele-
gance which he had never before met, that the gentlest k ind-
ness spok e from her sad and languid eyes. " Did you
notice their colour? " ask edO swald. -- " Magnificently dark ! "
The catechist trembled. " F rom time to time," continued
Mr. Dick son, " she interrogated, or answered, me, and
what she did say was delightful. " H e would have pro-
ceeded, but L ady N evil, with her mother, rej oined them;
and O
Dick
swald hastily retired, hoping soon again to find Mr.
son alone. S truck by his sadness, L ady E
dgarmond sent
swald' s circumstances, such a
t is unpardonable, as
* ' E ven had not Mr. Dick son been aware of O
speech before his bride would have been bad enough. I
he k new so much Tit.
AA2
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? 856 CO R I N N E ; O H I TA L Y .
L ucy away, that she might enq uire its cause. H er guest
simply repeated what had passed: terrified at anticipating
the despair of O swald, if he were assured that Corinne had
followed him to S cotland; foreseeing, too, that he would
resume this topic, she instructed Mr. Dick son as to what
she wished said to her son-in-law. Thus the old gentle-
man only increased the anx iety it was too late to remove.
O swald now ask ed his servant if all the letters sent him
within the last three week s had come by post. * The
man ' believed they had,' and was leaving the room; but,
turning back , added, " I remember that, on the ball night,
a blind man gave me one for your L ordship. I supposed
it a petition for charity. " -- " I received none such: could
youfindthisman? " -- " Y es,myL ord,directly; helives
in the village. " -- " Go, bring him to me! " said N evil;
and, unable to wait patiently, walk ed out to meet him at
the end of the avenue. " S o, my friend," he said, " you
brought a letter here for me, on the evening of the ball;
whogaveittoyou? " -- " MyL ord,yeseeI ' mblind; how
wadI k en? " -- " Doyouthink itwasafemale? " -- " E ch,
fine that, my L ord! for I hard weel eneuch that she was
vera soft voiced, though I j aloused the while that she was
greeting. " -- " A ndwhatdidshesaytoyou? " -- " O h,sir,
she said, ' Gude auld man, gie this to O
and there stopped, but syne she added, '
N evil' s. ' " -- " A h, Corinne!
swald' s servant,'
I mean L ord
" ex claimed O swald, and grew
so faint that he was forced to support himself on the poor
creature' s arm, who continued, " I was sitting under a tree
j ust, and wished to do the leddy' s bidding diract, but could
scarce raise mysel, being auld the noo: weel, after giein
me mair siller than I ' d had for lang, she was that free she
lent me her hand, puir thing! it trembled j ust as your
L ordship' s does this minute," -- " E nough ! " sighed N evil.
" H ere, my good friend, as she gave you money, let me do
so too: go, and pray for us both! " H e withdrew.
F rom this moment a terrible agitation preyed on his
mind: he made a thousand useless enq uiries, unable to
conceive the possibility of Corinne' s having been in S cotland
* I wonder he had not observed that Corinne' s bore no post-mark . -- Tr.
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 357
without seek ing him. H e formed various conj ectures, as to
her motives; and, in spite of all his endeavours to conceal it,
this affliction was evident to L ady E dgarmond, nay, even to
L ucy. A ll was constraint and silence. A t this time O swald
wrote first to Caste! F orte. H ad Corinne read that letter, it
would much have softened her resentment.
Count d' E rfeuil j oined the N evils ere the Prince' s
reply arrived. H e said no more of Corinne than was
necessary, yet felt vex ed at their not perceiving that he had
an important secret in his power, though too discreet to
betray it. H is insinuations at first took no effect upon
O swald; but, when he detected that they referred to
Corinne, he was all curiosity. The Count having brought
him to this, defended his own trust pretty bravely; at last,
however, his friend drew forth the whole truth. I t was
a pleasure for d' E rfeuil to relate how grateful Corinne
had felt, and in what a wretched state he had found her:
he ran on, without observing how he agonised L ord
N evil: his only obj ect was that of being the hero of his
own story; when he ceased, he was much afflicted at the
mischief he had done. O swald had commanded himself
till then, but suddenly became distracted with regret; accused
himself as the most barbarous and ungrateful of men; raved
of Corinne' s devoted tenderness; her generosity at the very
moment when she believed him most culpable. H e con-
trasted this with the heartless fick leness by which he had
req uited her; incessantly repeating that no one ever loved
him as she did; and that he should in some way be ulti-
mately punished for his cruelty. H e would have set forth
to see her, if only for a day, an hour; but R ome and
F lorence were already occupied by the F rench: his regi-
ment was about to embark ; he could not forfeit his own
honour, nor break the heart of his wife; indeed, no faults
he might now commit could repair the past; they would
but add to the misery he had occasioned. The only hope
that calmed him was derived from the dangers he was
about to brave. I n this mood he wrote again to Castel
F orte, whose replies represented Corinne as sad, but re-
signed: his pride in her softened rather than ex aggerated
the truth. O swald believed that he ought not to torture
aA3
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? 358 corinne; or I taly.
her by his regrets, after having so wronged her by his
love,-- and left B ritain with a sense of remorse which nearly
rendered life insupportable.
CH A PTE R I I I .
L ucy was afflicted by his departure; yet his recent gloom
had so increased her natural timidity, that she had never
found courage to confide in him her hopes of becoming a
mother; but left it for L ady E dgarmond to send these
tidings after him. N evil, unable to guess what passed in
his wife' s heart, had thought her farewell cold; compared
her silent submission with the eloq uence of Corinne, and
hesitated not to believe that L ucy loved him but feebly;
yet, during his absence, scarcely could even the birth of
their daughter divert her mind from his perils. A nother
grief was added to all this. D' E rfeuil spent a year in
S cotland, strongly persuaded that he had not revealed the
secret of Corinne' s soj ourn there; but he said so much that
implied it, and found such difficulty, when conversation
flagged, in avoiding the theme most interesting to L ady
N evil, that she at last learnt the whole truth. I nnocent
as she was, it req uired even less art than she possessed
to draw d' E rfeuil out upon a favourite subj ect. L ady
E dgarmond was too ill to be present at these conversations;
but when she q uestioned her daughter on the melancholy
she detected, L ucy told all. H er mother spok e very severely
on Corinne' s pursuit of O swald. L ucy was alternately
j ealous of her sister, and indignant against her husband,
for deserting one to whom he had been so dear.
