my only friend hears me, yet sees my tears, is
present,-- our immortal spirits still commune.
present,-- our immortal spirits still commune.
Madame de Stael - Corinna, or Italy
" I am suffering," she said, " from a painful,
perhaps a fatal ailment. " L ucy turned pale; and her
mother resumed, with a more gentle cheerfulness, " My
daughter' s attention has once saved my life, and may pre-
serve it long. " L ucy bent her head, and when she raised
it, her lashes were still wet with tears; yet she dared not
even tak e her mother' s hand: all had passed at the bottom
of her heart; and she was only conscious of a stranger' s pre-
sence, from the necessity of concealing her agitation. O swald
deeplyfelt this restraintof hers, and his mind, so lately thrilled
by passionate eloq uence, refreshed itself by contemplating
so chastely simple a picture. L ucy seemed enveloped in
some immaculate veil, that sweetly baffled his speculations.
During dinner she spared her mother from all fatigue --
serving every thing herself; and N evil only heard her
voice when she offered to help him; but these common-
place courtesies were performed with such enchanting
grace, that he ask ed himself how it was possible for such
slight actions to betray so much soul. " O ne must have,"
he said to himself, " either the genius of Corinne, that
surpasses all one could imagine, or this pure unconscious
mystery, which leaves every man free to suppose whatever
virtues he prefers. "
The mother and daughter rose from table: he would
have followed them; but her L adyship adhered so scru-
pulously to old customs, that she begged he would wait
till they sent to let him k now the tea was ready. H e
j oined them in a q uarter of an hour. Most part of the
evening passed without his having one opportunity of
speak ing to L ady E dgarmond as he designed. H e was
about to depart for the town, purposing to return on the
morrow, when his hostess offered him a room in the castle.
H e accepted it without deliberation; but repented his
readiness, on perceiving that it seemed to be tak en as a
proof of his inclination towards L ucy. This was but an
additional motive for his renewing the conversation re-
specting Corinne. L ady E dgarmond proposed a turn in
the garden. O swald offered her his arm: she look ed at
him steadfastly, and then said, " That is right: I thank
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? 298 corinne; or I taly.
you. " L ucy resigned her parent to N evil, but timidly-
whispered, " Pray, my L ord, walk slowly! " H e started at
this first private intelligence with her: those pitying tones
were j ust such as he might have ex pected from a being
above all earthly passions. H e did not think his sense of
such a moment any treason to Corinne. They returned
for evening prayer, at which her L adyship always as-
sembled her household in the great hall. Most of them
were very infirm, having served the fathers of L ord and
L ady E dgarmond. O swald was thus reminded of his
paternal home. E very one k nelt, ex cept the matron, who,
prevented by her lameness, listened with folded Tiands and
downcast eyes in reverent silence. L ucy was on her
k nees beside her parent: it was her duty to read the ser-
vice; a chapter of the Gospel, followed by a prayer adapted
to domestic country life, composed by the mistress of the
house: its somewhat austere ex pressions were contrasted
by the soft voice that breathed them.
A fter blessing the k ing and country, the servants and
the k indred of this family, L ucy tremblingly added,
" Grant also, O God! that the young daughter of this
house may live and die with soul unsullied by a single
thought or feeling that conforms not with her duty; and
that her mother, who must soon return to thee for j udg-
ment, may have some claim on pardon for her faults, in
the virtues of her only child! "
L ucy said this prayer daily;
but now O swald' s presence
so affected her, that tears, which she strove to conceal,
flowed down her cheek s. H e was touched with respectful
tenderness, as he gazed on the almost infantine face, that
look ed as if it still remembered having dwelt in heaven.
I ts beauty, thus surrounded by age and decrepitude, was an
image of divine commiseration. H e reflected on her lonely
life, deprived of all the pleasures, all the flatteries, due to
her youth and charms: his soul melted towards her. The
mother of L ucy, too, he found a person more severe to
herself than to others. The limits of her mind might
rather be attributed to the strength of her principles than
to any natural deficiencies: the asperity of her character was
acq uired from repressed impulses; and, as Corinne had said.
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? << orinne; O R I TA L Y . 299
her affection for her child gained force from this ex treme
control of all others.
B y ten in the evening all was silent throughout the
castle, and O swald left to muse over his few last hours:
he owned not to himself that L ucy had made an impression
on his heart; perhaps, as yet, this was not the case; hut
in spite of the thousand attractions Corinne offered to his
fancy, there was one class of ideas, that L ucy might have
reigned more supremely than her sister. The image of
domestic felicity suited better with a retreat in N orthum-
berland than with a coronation at the Capitol; besides, he
remembered which of these sisters his father had selected
for him: but he loved Corinne, was beloved by her, had
given her his faith, and therefore persisted in his intention
of confiding this to L ady E dgarmond on the morrow. H e
fell asleep think ing of I
flitted lightly before him. H
the same dream returned;
taly, but still the form of L ucy
e awok e: when he slept again,
at last this ethereal shape
seemed flying from him, he strove to detain her, and
started up, as she disappeared, fearing her lost to him.
The day had brok en, and he left his room to enj oy a
morning walk .
CH A PTE R V I .
The sun was j ust risen. O swald supposed that no one
was yet stirring, till he perceived L ucy already drawing
in a balcony. H er hair, not yet fastened, was waving in
the gale: she look ed so lik e his dream, that for a moment
he started, as if he had beheld a spirit; and though soon
ashamed at having been so affected by such a natural cir-
cumstance, he remained for some time beneath her station,
but she did not perceive him. A s he pursued his walk , he
wished more than ever for the presence that would have
dissipated these half-formed impressions. L ucy was an
enigma, which Corinne' s genius could have solved; without
her aid, it took a thousand changeful forms in his mind' s
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? 300 corinne; or italy.
eye. H e re-entered the drawing-room, and found L ucy
placing her morning' s work in a little brown frame, facing
her mother' s tea-table. I t was a white rose, on its leafy
stalk , finished to perfection. " Y ou draw, then ? " he said.
-- " N o, my L ord," she answered; " I merely copy the
easiest flowers I can find: there is no master near us: the
little I ever learnt I owe to a sister who used to give me
lessons. "
ask ed O
her. " --
S he sighed. -- " A nd what is become of her? "
swald. -- " S he is dead; but I shall always regret
H e found that she, too, had been deceived* ; but
her confession of regret evinced so amiable a disposition,
that he felt more pleased, more affected, than before.
L ucy was about to retire, remembering that she was alone
with L ord N evil, when L ady E dgarmond j oined them.
S he look ed on her daughter with surprise and displeasure,
and motioned her to withdraw. This first informed O s-
wald, that L ucy had done something very ex traordinary, in
remaining a few minutes with a man out of her mother' s
presence; and he was as much gratified as he would have
been by a decided mark of preference under other auspices.
L ady E dgarmond took her seat, and dismissed the servant
who had supported her to the sofa. S he was pale, and her
lips trembled as she offered a cup of tea to L ord N eviL
These symptoms increased his own embarrassment, yet,
animated by zeal for her he loved, he began, " L ady E d-
garmond, I have often in I taly seen a female particularly
interesting to you. " -- " I cannot believe it," she answered
dryly: " no one there interests me. " -- " I should think
that the daughter of your husband had some claim on your
affection. " -- " I f the daughter of my husband be indiffer-
ent to her duties and reputation, though I surely cannot
wish her any ill, I shall be very glad to hear no more of
her. " -- " B ut," saidO swaldq uick ly," ifthewomanyour
L adyship deserts is celebrated by the world for her great
and varied talents, will you for ever thus disdain her? "
-- " N ot the less, sir, for the abilities that wean her from
her rightful occupations. There are plenty of actresses,
* A religious, moral, E nglish gentlewoman propose a romantic falsehood,
so lik ely to wreck its theme on the dangers against which L ady E dgarmond
warned Corinne! This anti-national inconsistency neutralises all the rest of
Madame de S teel' s intended satire. -- Tr.
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? corinne; or italy. 301
artists, and musicians, to amuse society: in our rank , a
woman' s only becoming station is that which devotes her
to her husband and children. " -- " Madam," returned
O swald, " such talents cannot ex ist without an elevated
character and a generous heart: do you censure them for
ex tending the mind, and giving a more vast, more general
influence to virtue itself? " -- " V irtue! " she repeated, with
a bitter smile; " 1 k now not what you mean by the word,
so applied. The virtue of a young woman, who flies from
her father' s home, establishes herself in I taly, leads the
freest life, receives all k inds of homage, to say no worse,
sets an ex ample pernicious to others as to herself, abandon-
ing her rank , her family, her name " -- " Madam,"
interrupted O swald, " she sacrificed her name to you, and to
your daughter, whom she feared to inj ure. " -- " S he k new
that she dishonoured it, then," replied the stepmother. --
" This is too much," said O swald, violently: " Corinne
E dgarmond will soon be L ady N evil, and we shall then
see if you blush to ack nowledge the daughter of your lord.
Y ou confound with the vulgar herd a being gifted lik e no
other woman-- an angel of goodness, tender and diffident
at heart, as she is sublime of soul. S he may have had her
faults, if that innate superiority that could not conform
with common rules be one, but a single deed or word of
hers might well efface them all. S he will more honour the
man she chooses to protect her than could the empress of a
world. " -- " B ethatman,then,myL ord! " saidL ady
E dgarmond, mak ing an effort to restrain her feelings:
" satirise me as narrow minded; nothing you say can
change me. I understand by morality, an ex act observ-
ance of established rules; beyond which, fine q ualities
misapplied deserve at best but pity. " -- " The world would
have been very sterile, my L ady," said O swald, " had it
always thought as you do of genius and enthusiasm : human
nature would have become a thing of mere formalities. B ut,
not to continue this fruitless discussion, I will only ask , if
you mean to ack
nowledge your daughter-in-law, when she
-- " S till less on that account," answered her
owe your father' s memory my ex ertions to
is my wife? "
L adyship: "
I
prevent so fatal an union if I can. " -- " My father ! " re-
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? 302 corinne; or italy.
peated N evil, always agitated by that name. -- " A re you
ignorant," she continuedj " that he refused her, ere she
had committed any actual fault? foreseeing, with the per-
fect sagacity that so characterised him, what she would one
daybecome? " -- " H ow,madam! whatmorek nowyouof
this? " -- " Y ourfather' slettertoL ordE dgarmondonthe
subj ect," interrupted the lady, " is in the hands of his
old friend, Mr. Dick son. I sent it to him, when I heard
of your connection with this Corinne, that you might read
it on your return: it would not have become me to retain
it. " O swald, after a few moments' silence, resumed: --
ask your L adyship but for an act of j ustice, due to your-
self, that is, to receive your husband' s daughter as she
" I
deserves. " -- " I shall not, in any way, my L ord, contri-
bute to your misery. I f her present nameless and unma-
tronised ex istence be an obstacle to your marrying her,
God, and your father, forbid that I should remove it! "
-- " Madam," he ex claimed, " her misfortunes are but
added chains that bind me to her. " -- " W ell," replied L ady
E dgarmond, with an impetuosity to which she would not
have given way had not her own child been thus deprived
of a suitable husband, " well, render yourself wretched
then! she will be so too: she hates this country, and
never will comply with its manners: this is no theatre for
the versatile talents you so prize, and which render her so
fastidious. S he will carry you back to I taly: you will
forswear your friends and native land, for a lovely foreigner,
I confess, but for one who could forget you, if you wished
it. Those nighty brains are ever changeful: deep griefs were
made for the women you deem so common-place, those
who live but for their homes and families. " This was,
perhaps, the first time in her life that L ady E dgarmond
had spok en on impulse: it shook her weak ened nerves; and,
as she ceased, she sunk back , half fainting. O swald rang
loudly for help. L ucy ran in alarmed, hastened to revive
her parent, and cast on N evil an uneasy look , that seemed
tosay," I sityouwhohavemademammasoill? " H efelt
this deeply, and strove to atone by attentions to L ady
E dgarmond; but she repulsed him coldly, blushing to
think that she had seemed to pride but little in her girl, by
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? CO R I N N E J O R I TA L Y . 808
betraying this anx iety to secure her a reluctant bridegroom.
S he bade L ucy leave them; and said calmly, " My L ord,
at all events, I beg that you will consider yourself free.
My daughter is so young, that she is no way concerned in
the proj ect formed by your father and myself; but that
being changed, it would be an indecorum for me to receive
you until she is married. " N evil bowed. -- " I will con-
tent myself, then," he said, " with writing to you on the
fate of a person whom I can never desert. " -- " Y ou are the
master of that fate," concluded L ady E dgarmond, in a
smothered voice; and O swald departed. I n riding down
the avenue, he perceived, at a distance, the elegant figure of
young L ucy. H e check ed his horse to look on her once
more, and it appeared that she took the same direction with
himself. The high road passed before a summer-house, at
the end of the park ; he saw her enter it, and went by with
some reluctance, unable to discern her: he freq uently
turned his head, and, at a point from which the road was
best commanded, observed a slight movement among the
trees. H e stopped; it ceased: uncertain whether he had
guessed correctly, he proceeded, then abruptly rode back
with the speed of lightning, as if he had dropped something
by the way; there, indeed, he saw her, on the edge of the
bank , and bowed respectfully: she drew down her veil,
and hastily concealed herself in the thick et, forgetting that
she thus tacitly avowed the motive which had brought her
there. The poor child had never felt so guilty in her life;
and far from think ing of simply returning his salute, she
feared that she must have lost his good opinion by having
been so forward. O swald felt flattered by this blameless
and timorous sincerity. " N o one," thought he, " could
be more candid than Corinne; but then, no one better
k new herself or others. L ucy has all to learn. Y et this
charm of the day, could it suffice for a life? this pretty
ignorance cannot endure; and since we must penetrate the
secrets of our own hearts at last, is not the candour which
survives such ex amination worth more than that which
precedes it? " This comparison, he believed, was but an
amusement to his mind, which could never occupy it nore
gravely.
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? 804CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
CH A PTE R V I I .
O swald proceeded to S cotland. The effect of L ucy' s pre-
sence, the sentiment he still felt for Corinne, alik e gave
place to the emotions that awak ened at the sight of scenes
where he had dwelt with his father. H e upbraided him-
self with the dissipations in which he had spent the last
year; fearing that he was no longer worthy to re-enter
the abode he now wished he had never q uitted. A las!
after the loss of life' s dearest obj ect, how can we be con-
tent with ourselves, unless in perfect retirement? W e
cannot mix in society without, in some way, neglecting
our worship of the dead. I n vain their memory reigns
in the heart' s core; we lend ourselves to the activity of the
living, which banishes the thought of death as painful and
unavailing. I f solitude prolongs not our regrets, life, as it
is, calls back the most feeling minds, renews their in-
terests, their passions. This imperious necessity is one
of the sad conditions of human nature; and although de-
creed by Providence, that man may support the idea of
death, both for himself and others, yet often, in the
midst of our enj oyments, we feel remorse at being still
capable of them, and seem to hear a resigned, affecting
voice ask ing us, -- " H ave you, whom I so loved, for-
gotten me? " O swald felt not now the despair he had
suffered on his first return home after his father' s death,
but a melancholy, deepened by his perceiving that time
had accustomed every one else to the loss he still deplored.
The servants no longer thought it their duty to speak of
their late lord; his place in the rank of life was filled;
children grew up as substitutes for their sires. O swald
shut himself in his father' s room, for lonely meditation.
' O h, human destiny! " he sighed, " what wouldst thou
have? so much life perish? so many thoughts ex pire?
N o, no!
my only friend hears me, yet sees my tears, is
present,-- our immortal spirits still commune. O h, God!
be thou my guide. Those iron souls, that seem immovable
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? CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 305
as nature' s rock s, pity not the vacillations and repentance
of the sensitive, the conscientious, who cannot tak e one
step without the fear of straying from the right. They
may bid duty lead them, but duty' s self would vanish
from their eyes, if Thou revealedst not the truth to their
hearts. "
I n the evening O swald roved through the favourite
walk s of his father. W ho has not hoped, in the ardour
of his prayers, that the one dear shade would re-appear,
and miracles be wrought by the force of love? V ain
trust! beyond the tomb we can see nothing. These end-
less uncertainties occupy not the vulgar, but the nobler
the mind the more incontrollably is it involved in specu-
lations. W hile O swald wandered thus absorbed, he did,
indeed, behold a venerable man slowly advancing towards
him. S uch a sight, at such a time and place, took a
strong effect; but he soon recognised his father' s friend,
Mr. Dick son, and with an affection which he never felt for
him before.
CH A PTE R V I I I .
This gentleman in no way eq ualled the parent of O swald,
but he was with him at his death; and having been bom
in the same year, he seemed to linger behind but to carry
L ord N evil some tidings of his son. O swald offered him
his arm as they went up stairs; and felt a pleasure in
paying attention to age, however little resembling that of
his father. Mr. Dick son remembered O swald' s birth, and
hesitated not to speak his mind on all that concerned his
young friend, strongly reprimanding his connection with
Corinne; but his weak arguments would have gained less
ascendancy over O swald' s mind than those of L ady E dgar-
mond, had he not handed him the letter to which she
alluded. W ith considerable tremor he read as follows: --
" W ill you forgive me, my dear friend, if I propose
a change of plan in the union of our families? My
x
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? S 06 CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
son is more than a year younger than your eldest daugh-
ter; will it not be better, therefore, that he should wait
for the little L ucy?
of age; but, as I
named my wishes, I
k
I might confine myself to the subj ect
new Miss E dgarmond' s when first I
should deem myself wanting in con-
fidence, if I did not tell you my true reasons for desiring
that this marriage may not tak e place. W e have k nown
each other for twenty years, and may speak frank ly of our
children, especially while they are young enough to be
improved by our opinions. Y our daughter is a charming
girl, but I seem to be gazing on one of those Grecian
beauties who, of old, enchanted and subdued the world.
Do not be offended by this comparison. S he can have
received from you none but the purest principles; yet she
certainly loves to produce an effect, and create a sensation:
she has more genius than self-love; such talents as hers
necessarily engender a taste for display; and I k now no
theatre that could suffice the activity of a spirit, whose
impetuous fancy, and ardent feelings, break through each
word she utters. S he would inevitably wean my son from
E ngland; for such a woman could not be happy here:
only I taly can content her. S he must have that free life
which is guided but by fantasy: our domestic country
habits must thwart her every taste. A man born in this
happy land ought to be in all things E nglish, and fulfil
the duties to which he is so fortunately called. I n coun-
tries whose political intitutions give men such honourable
opportunities for public action, the women should bloom
in the shade: can you ex pect so distinguished a person as
your daughter to be satisfied with such a lot? Tak e my
advice. Marry her in I taly: her religion and manners
suit that country. I f my son should wed her, I am sure
it would be from love, for rio one can be more engaging:
to please her, he would endeavour to introduce foreign
customs into his establishment, and would soon lose his
national character, those prej udices, if you please to call
them so, which unite us with each other, and render
us a body free but indissoluble, or which can only be
brok en up by the death of its last associate. My son could
not be comfortable where his wife was unhappy: he is
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? corinne; or italy. 307
sensitive, even to weak ness; and his ex patriation, if I
to see it, would render me most miserable; not merely as
deprived of my son, but as k nowing him lost to the glory
of serving his native land. I s it worthy a mountaineer to
lived
drag on a useless life amid the pleasures of I taly? A S cot
become the cicisbeo of his own wife, if not of some other
man' s? N either the guide nor the prop of his family!
I even rej oice that O swald is now in F rance, and still un-
k nown to a lady whose empire over him would be too
great. I dare conj ure you, my dear friend, should I die
before his marriage, do not let him meet your eldest daugh-
ter until L ucy be of an age to fix his affections. L et him
lear n my wishes, if req uisite. I k now he will respect
them-- the more if I should then be removed from this
life. Give all your attention, I entreat you, to his union
with L
all ex
true E
ucy. Child as she is, her features, look , and voice,
press the most endearing modesty. S he will be a
nglishwoman, and may constitute the happiness of
my boy. I f I do not live to witness their felicity, I shall
ex ult over it in heaven; and when we re-unite there, my
dear friend, our prayers and benedictions will protect our
children still. " E ver yours,
" N evil. "
A fter reading this, O swald remained silent, and left
Mr. Dick son time to continue his long discourse without
interruption. H e admired the j udgment of his friend,
who, nevertheless, he said, was far from anticipating the
reprehensible life Miss E dgarmond had since led: a mar-
riage between O swald and herself now, he added, would
be an eternal insult to L ord N evil' s memory;
appeared, during his son' s fatal residence in F
passed a whole summer at L ady E dgarmond'
who, it
rance, had
s, solacing him-
self by superintending the education of his favourite L ucy.
I n fact, without either artifice or forbearance, Mr. Dick -
son attack ed the heart of O swald through all the avenues
of sensibility. Thus every thing conspired against the ab-
sent Corinne, who had no means, save letters, for reviving,
from time to time, the tenderness of O swald. S he had to
contend with his love of country, his filial remorse, the
x2
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? 308 corinne; or I taly.
ex hortations of his friends, in favour of resolutions so easy
to adopt, as they led him towards a budding beauty, whose
? very charm seemed to harmonise with the calm, chaste
hopes of a domestic lot.
BOOKXVII.
CO R I N N B I N S CO TL A N D.
CH A PTE R I .
Corinne, meanwhile, had settled in a villa on the
B renta: she could not q uit the scenes in which she had
last met O swald-- and also hoped that she should here re-
ceive her letters earlier than at R ome. Prince Castel
F orte had written, begging leave to visit her; but she
refused. The friendship ex isting between them com-
manded mutual confidence; and had he striven to detach
her from her love, -- had he told her what she so
often told herself, -- that absence must decrease N evil' s
attachment, one inconsiderate word would have been a
dagger to her heart. S he wished to see no one; yet it is
not easy to live alone, while the soul is ardent, and its
situation unfortunate. The employments of solitude re-
q uire peace of mind: if that be lost, forced gaiety, how-
ever troublesome, is more serviceable than meditation. I f
we could trace madness to its source, we should surely
find that it originated in the power of one single thought,
which ex cluded all mental variety. Corinne' s imagination
consumed herself, unless diverted by ex ternal ex citement.
W hat a life now succeeded that which she had led for
nearly a year, with the man of her heart' s choice for ever
with her, as her most appreciating companion, her tenderest
friend and fondest lover! N ow all was barren around
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? corinne; O R I TA L Y . S O Q
and gloomy within her. The only interesting event was the
arrival of a letter from him; and the irregularity of the
post, during winter, every day tormented her with ex pect-
ations, often disappointed. E ach morning she walk ed on the
bank s of the canal, now covered by large leaved water lilies,
watching for the black gondola, which she had learnt to dis-
tinguish afar off. H ow did her heart beat, as she perceived
it! S ometimes the messenger would answer, " N o letters
for you, madam," and carelessly proceed to other matters,
as if nothing were so simple as to have no letters: another
time he would say, " Y es, madam, here are some. " S he
ran over them all with a trembling hand: if the well-
k nown characters of O swald met not her eye, the day wa6
terrible, the night sleepless, the morrow redoubled her
anx iety and suspense. " S urely," she thought, " he might
write more freq uently; " and her nex t letter reproached
his silence. H e j ustified himself; but his style had already
lost some of its tenderness: instead of ex pressing his own
solicitude, it seemed but attempting to dissipate hers.
This change did not escape her: day and night would
she reperuse a particular phrase, seek ing some new inter-
pretation on which to build a few days' composure. This
state shattered her nerves: she became superstitious.
Constantly occupied by the same fear, we may draw pre-
sages from every thing. O ne day in every week she went
to V enice, for the purpose of receiving her letters some
hours earlier: this merely varied the tortures of waiting;
and in a short time she conceived as great a horror for
every obj ect she encountered on her way, as if they had
been the spectres of her own thoughts, re-appearing clothed
in the most dreadful aspects. O nce, on entering the
church of S t. Mark , she remembered how, on her arrival
in V enice, the idea had occurred to her that perhaps, ere
she departed, O swald would lead her thither to call her
his in sight of heaven. S he gave way once more to this
illusion; saw him approach the altar; heard him vow be-
fore his God to love her for ever; they k nelt together,
and she received the nuptial crown. The organ, then
playing, and the lights that shone through the aisle, gave
life to her vision; and for a moment she felt not the
x3
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? 310 corinne; or italy.
cruel void of absence: but suddenly a dreary murmur suc-
ceeded -- she turned, and beheld a bier brought into the
church. S he staggered; her sight almost failed; and from
that moment she felt convinced that her love for O swald
would lead her but to the grave.
CH A PTE R I I .
L ord N evil was now the most unhappy and irresolute of
men. H e must either break the heart of Corinne, or
outrage the memory of his father. Cruel alternative! to
escape which he called on death a thousand times a day. A t
last he once more resorted to his habitual procrastination,
telling himself that he would go to V enice, since he could
not resolve to write Corinne the truth, and mak e her his
j udge; but then he daily ex pected that his regiment would
embark . H e was free from all engagement with L ucy.
H e believed it his duty not to marry Corinne; but in
what other way could he pass his life with her? Could
he desert his country? or bring her to it, and ruin her
fair name for ever? H e resolved to hide from her the
obstacles which he had encountered from her stepmother,
because he still hoped ultimately to surmount them.
Manifold causes rendered his letters brief, or filled them
with subj ects remote from his future prospects. A ny one,
save Corinne, would have guessed all; but passion rendered
her at once q uick -sighted and credulous. I n such a state
we see nothing in a natural manner; but discover what is
concealed, while blind to that which should seem clearest.
W e cannot brook the idea of suffering so much without
some ex traordinary cause; we will not confess to ourselves
that such despair may be produced by the simplest circum-
stances in life. Though O swald pitied her, and blamed
himself, his correspondence betrayed an irritation which
it did not ex plain; wildly reproaching her for what he
endured, as if she had not been far the most unfortunate.
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? CO R I N N E J O B I TA L Y . 311
This tone deprived her of all mastery over herself. H er
mind was disordered by the most fatal images: she could
not believe that the being capable of writing with such
abrupt and heartless bitterness was the same O swald she
had k nown so generous, so tender. S he felt a resistless
desire to see and speak with him once more. " L et me
hear him tell me," she raved, " that it is he who thus
mercilessly stabs her whose least pain once so strongly
afflicted him; let him say so, and I submit: but some
infernal power seems to inspire this language; it is not
O swald who writes thus to me. They have slandered me
to him: some treachery must be ex erted, or I could not
be used thus. " S he adopted the resolution of going to
S cotland, if we may so call the impulse of an imperious
grief, which would fain alter its present situation at all
hazards. S he dared not write nor speak to any one on
this subj ect, still flattering herself that some fortunate
change would prevent her acting on a plan which, never-
theless, soothed her imagination, and forced her to look
forward. To read was now impossible: music thrilled
her to agony; and the charms of nature induced a reverie
that redoubled her distress. This creature, once so ani-
mated, now passed whole days in motionless silence. H er
internal pangs were but betrayed by a mortal paleness:
her eyes were freq uently fix ed upon her watch, though she
lenew not why she should wish one hour to succeed an-
other, since not one of them could bring her aught, save
restless nights and despairing days.
O ne evening she was informed that a female was
earnestly req uesting to see her: she consented; and the
woman entered her presence dressed in black , and veiled,
to conceal, as much as possible, a face deformed by the
most frightful malady. Thus wronged by nature, she
consoled herself by collecting alms for the poor; demanding
them nobly, and with an affecting confidence of success.
Corinne gave her a large sum, entreating her prayers in
return. The poor being, resigned to her own fate, was
astonished to behold a person so lovely, young, rich, and
celebrated, a prey to sorrow. " My God, madam! " she
cried," I wouldyouwereas" calmasI ! " W hatanaddress
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? 312 corinne; or italy.
from such an obj ect tothemost brilliantwomaninltaly! A las!
the power of love is too vast in souls lik e hers. H appy are
they who consecrate to heaven the sentiments no earthly ties
can merit. That time was not yet come for poor Corinne;
she still deceived herself, still sought for bliss; she prayed,
indeed, but not submissively. H er peerless talents, the
glory they had won, gave her too great an interest in her-
self. I t is only by detaching our hearts from all the world
that we can renounce the thing we love. E very other sa-
crifice must precede this: life may be long a desert ere
the fire that made it so is q uenched. A t last, in the
midst of this sad indecision, Corinne received a letter from
O swald, telling her that his regiment would embark in six
week s, and that, as its colonel, he could not profit by this
delay to visit V enice without inj uring his reputation.
There was but j ust time for Corinne to reach E ngland, ere
he must leave it, perhaps for ever. This thought decided
her; she was not ignorant of her own rashness; she j udged
herself more severely than any one else could. Pity her,
then! W hat woman has a right to " cast the first stone"
at the unfortunate sister, who j ustifies not her fault, hopes
for no pleasure, but flies from one misfortune to another, as
if driven on by persecuting spirits r1 H er letter to Castel
F orte thus concludes : -- " A dieu, my faithful protector!
A dieu, my friends in R ome! with whom I passed such
j oyous,easydays. I tisdone-- allisover.
perhaps a fatal ailment. " L ucy turned pale; and her
mother resumed, with a more gentle cheerfulness, " My
daughter' s attention has once saved my life, and may pre-
serve it long. " L ucy bent her head, and when she raised
it, her lashes were still wet with tears; yet she dared not
even tak e her mother' s hand: all had passed at the bottom
of her heart; and she was only conscious of a stranger' s pre-
sence, from the necessity of concealing her agitation. O swald
deeplyfelt this restraintof hers, and his mind, so lately thrilled
by passionate eloq uence, refreshed itself by contemplating
so chastely simple a picture. L ucy seemed enveloped in
some immaculate veil, that sweetly baffled his speculations.
During dinner she spared her mother from all fatigue --
serving every thing herself; and N evil only heard her
voice when she offered to help him; but these common-
place courtesies were performed with such enchanting
grace, that he ask ed himself how it was possible for such
slight actions to betray so much soul. " O ne must have,"
he said to himself, " either the genius of Corinne, that
surpasses all one could imagine, or this pure unconscious
mystery, which leaves every man free to suppose whatever
virtues he prefers. "
The mother and daughter rose from table: he would
have followed them; but her L adyship adhered so scru-
pulously to old customs, that she begged he would wait
till they sent to let him k now the tea was ready. H e
j oined them in a q uarter of an hour. Most part of the
evening passed without his having one opportunity of
speak ing to L ady E dgarmond as he designed. H e was
about to depart for the town, purposing to return on the
morrow, when his hostess offered him a room in the castle.
H e accepted it without deliberation; but repented his
readiness, on perceiving that it seemed to be tak en as a
proof of his inclination towards L ucy. This was but an
additional motive for his renewing the conversation re-
specting Corinne. L ady E dgarmond proposed a turn in
the garden. O swald offered her his arm: she look ed at
him steadfastly, and then said, " That is right: I thank
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? 298 corinne; or I taly.
you. " L ucy resigned her parent to N evil, but timidly-
whispered, " Pray, my L ord, walk slowly! " H e started at
this first private intelligence with her: those pitying tones
were j ust such as he might have ex pected from a being
above all earthly passions. H e did not think his sense of
such a moment any treason to Corinne. They returned
for evening prayer, at which her L adyship always as-
sembled her household in the great hall. Most of them
were very infirm, having served the fathers of L ord and
L ady E dgarmond. O swald was thus reminded of his
paternal home. E very one k nelt, ex cept the matron, who,
prevented by her lameness, listened with folded Tiands and
downcast eyes in reverent silence. L ucy was on her
k nees beside her parent: it was her duty to read the ser-
vice; a chapter of the Gospel, followed by a prayer adapted
to domestic country life, composed by the mistress of the
house: its somewhat austere ex pressions were contrasted
by the soft voice that breathed them.
A fter blessing the k ing and country, the servants and
the k indred of this family, L ucy tremblingly added,
" Grant also, O God! that the young daughter of this
house may live and die with soul unsullied by a single
thought or feeling that conforms not with her duty; and
that her mother, who must soon return to thee for j udg-
ment, may have some claim on pardon for her faults, in
the virtues of her only child! "
L ucy said this prayer daily;
but now O swald' s presence
so affected her, that tears, which she strove to conceal,
flowed down her cheek s. H e was touched with respectful
tenderness, as he gazed on the almost infantine face, that
look ed as if it still remembered having dwelt in heaven.
I ts beauty, thus surrounded by age and decrepitude, was an
image of divine commiseration. H e reflected on her lonely
life, deprived of all the pleasures, all the flatteries, due to
her youth and charms: his soul melted towards her. The
mother of L ucy, too, he found a person more severe to
herself than to others. The limits of her mind might
rather be attributed to the strength of her principles than
to any natural deficiencies: the asperity of her character was
acq uired from repressed impulses; and, as Corinne had said.
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? << orinne; O R I TA L Y . 299
her affection for her child gained force from this ex treme
control of all others.
B y ten in the evening all was silent throughout the
castle, and O swald left to muse over his few last hours:
he owned not to himself that L ucy had made an impression
on his heart; perhaps, as yet, this was not the case; hut
in spite of the thousand attractions Corinne offered to his
fancy, there was one class of ideas, that L ucy might have
reigned more supremely than her sister. The image of
domestic felicity suited better with a retreat in N orthum-
berland than with a coronation at the Capitol; besides, he
remembered which of these sisters his father had selected
for him: but he loved Corinne, was beloved by her, had
given her his faith, and therefore persisted in his intention
of confiding this to L ady E dgarmond on the morrow. H e
fell asleep think ing of I
flitted lightly before him. H
the same dream returned;
taly, but still the form of L ucy
e awok e: when he slept again,
at last this ethereal shape
seemed flying from him, he strove to detain her, and
started up, as she disappeared, fearing her lost to him.
The day had brok en, and he left his room to enj oy a
morning walk .
CH A PTE R V I .
The sun was j ust risen. O swald supposed that no one
was yet stirring, till he perceived L ucy already drawing
in a balcony. H er hair, not yet fastened, was waving in
the gale: she look ed so lik e his dream, that for a moment
he started, as if he had beheld a spirit; and though soon
ashamed at having been so affected by such a natural cir-
cumstance, he remained for some time beneath her station,
but she did not perceive him. A s he pursued his walk , he
wished more than ever for the presence that would have
dissipated these half-formed impressions. L ucy was an
enigma, which Corinne' s genius could have solved; without
her aid, it took a thousand changeful forms in his mind' s
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? 300 corinne; or italy.
eye. H e re-entered the drawing-room, and found L ucy
placing her morning' s work in a little brown frame, facing
her mother' s tea-table. I t was a white rose, on its leafy
stalk , finished to perfection. " Y ou draw, then ? " he said.
-- " N o, my L ord," she answered; " I merely copy the
easiest flowers I can find: there is no master near us: the
little I ever learnt I owe to a sister who used to give me
lessons. "
ask ed O
her. " --
S he sighed. -- " A nd what is become of her? "
swald. -- " S he is dead; but I shall always regret
H e found that she, too, had been deceived* ; but
her confession of regret evinced so amiable a disposition,
that he felt more pleased, more affected, than before.
L ucy was about to retire, remembering that she was alone
with L ord N evil, when L ady E dgarmond j oined them.
S he look ed on her daughter with surprise and displeasure,
and motioned her to withdraw. This first informed O s-
wald, that L ucy had done something very ex traordinary, in
remaining a few minutes with a man out of her mother' s
presence; and he was as much gratified as he would have
been by a decided mark of preference under other auspices.
L ady E dgarmond took her seat, and dismissed the servant
who had supported her to the sofa. S he was pale, and her
lips trembled as she offered a cup of tea to L ord N eviL
These symptoms increased his own embarrassment, yet,
animated by zeal for her he loved, he began, " L ady E d-
garmond, I have often in I taly seen a female particularly
interesting to you. " -- " I cannot believe it," she answered
dryly: " no one there interests me. " -- " I should think
that the daughter of your husband had some claim on your
affection. " -- " I f the daughter of my husband be indiffer-
ent to her duties and reputation, though I surely cannot
wish her any ill, I shall be very glad to hear no more of
her. " -- " B ut," saidO swaldq uick ly," ifthewomanyour
L adyship deserts is celebrated by the world for her great
and varied talents, will you for ever thus disdain her? "
-- " N ot the less, sir, for the abilities that wean her from
her rightful occupations. There are plenty of actresses,
* A religious, moral, E nglish gentlewoman propose a romantic falsehood,
so lik ely to wreck its theme on the dangers against which L ady E dgarmond
warned Corinne! This anti-national inconsistency neutralises all the rest of
Madame de S teel' s intended satire. -- Tr.
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? corinne; or italy. 301
artists, and musicians, to amuse society: in our rank , a
woman' s only becoming station is that which devotes her
to her husband and children. " -- " Madam," returned
O swald, " such talents cannot ex ist without an elevated
character and a generous heart: do you censure them for
ex tending the mind, and giving a more vast, more general
influence to virtue itself? " -- " V irtue! " she repeated, with
a bitter smile; " 1 k now not what you mean by the word,
so applied. The virtue of a young woman, who flies from
her father' s home, establishes herself in I taly, leads the
freest life, receives all k inds of homage, to say no worse,
sets an ex ample pernicious to others as to herself, abandon-
ing her rank , her family, her name " -- " Madam,"
interrupted O swald, " she sacrificed her name to you, and to
your daughter, whom she feared to inj ure. " -- " S he k new
that she dishonoured it, then," replied the stepmother. --
" This is too much," said O swald, violently: " Corinne
E dgarmond will soon be L ady N evil, and we shall then
see if you blush to ack nowledge the daughter of your lord.
Y ou confound with the vulgar herd a being gifted lik e no
other woman-- an angel of goodness, tender and diffident
at heart, as she is sublime of soul. S he may have had her
faults, if that innate superiority that could not conform
with common rules be one, but a single deed or word of
hers might well efface them all. S he will more honour the
man she chooses to protect her than could the empress of a
world. " -- " B ethatman,then,myL ord! " saidL ady
E dgarmond, mak ing an effort to restrain her feelings:
" satirise me as narrow minded; nothing you say can
change me. I understand by morality, an ex act observ-
ance of established rules; beyond which, fine q ualities
misapplied deserve at best but pity. " -- " The world would
have been very sterile, my L ady," said O swald, " had it
always thought as you do of genius and enthusiasm : human
nature would have become a thing of mere formalities. B ut,
not to continue this fruitless discussion, I will only ask , if
you mean to ack
nowledge your daughter-in-law, when she
-- " S till less on that account," answered her
owe your father' s memory my ex ertions to
is my wife? "
L adyship: "
I
prevent so fatal an union if I can. " -- " My father ! " re-
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? 302 corinne; or italy.
peated N evil, always agitated by that name. -- " A re you
ignorant," she continuedj " that he refused her, ere she
had committed any actual fault? foreseeing, with the per-
fect sagacity that so characterised him, what she would one
daybecome? " -- " H ow,madam! whatmorek nowyouof
this? " -- " Y ourfather' slettertoL ordE dgarmondonthe
subj ect," interrupted the lady, " is in the hands of his
old friend, Mr. Dick son. I sent it to him, when I heard
of your connection with this Corinne, that you might read
it on your return: it would not have become me to retain
it. " O swald, after a few moments' silence, resumed: --
ask your L adyship but for an act of j ustice, due to your-
self, that is, to receive your husband' s daughter as she
" I
deserves. " -- " I shall not, in any way, my L ord, contri-
bute to your misery. I f her present nameless and unma-
tronised ex istence be an obstacle to your marrying her,
God, and your father, forbid that I should remove it! "
-- " Madam," he ex claimed, " her misfortunes are but
added chains that bind me to her. " -- " W ell," replied L ady
E dgarmond, with an impetuosity to which she would not
have given way had not her own child been thus deprived
of a suitable husband, " well, render yourself wretched
then! she will be so too: she hates this country, and
never will comply with its manners: this is no theatre for
the versatile talents you so prize, and which render her so
fastidious. S he will carry you back to I taly: you will
forswear your friends and native land, for a lovely foreigner,
I confess, but for one who could forget you, if you wished
it. Those nighty brains are ever changeful: deep griefs were
made for the women you deem so common-place, those
who live but for their homes and families. " This was,
perhaps, the first time in her life that L ady E dgarmond
had spok en on impulse: it shook her weak ened nerves; and,
as she ceased, she sunk back , half fainting. O swald rang
loudly for help. L ucy ran in alarmed, hastened to revive
her parent, and cast on N evil an uneasy look , that seemed
tosay," I sityouwhohavemademammasoill? " H efelt
this deeply, and strove to atone by attentions to L ady
E dgarmond; but she repulsed him coldly, blushing to
think that she had seemed to pride but little in her girl, by
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? CO R I N N E J O R I TA L Y . 808
betraying this anx iety to secure her a reluctant bridegroom.
S he bade L ucy leave them; and said calmly, " My L ord,
at all events, I beg that you will consider yourself free.
My daughter is so young, that she is no way concerned in
the proj ect formed by your father and myself; but that
being changed, it would be an indecorum for me to receive
you until she is married. " N evil bowed. -- " I will con-
tent myself, then," he said, " with writing to you on the
fate of a person whom I can never desert. " -- " Y ou are the
master of that fate," concluded L ady E dgarmond, in a
smothered voice; and O swald departed. I n riding down
the avenue, he perceived, at a distance, the elegant figure of
young L ucy. H e check ed his horse to look on her once
more, and it appeared that she took the same direction with
himself. The high road passed before a summer-house, at
the end of the park ; he saw her enter it, and went by with
some reluctance, unable to discern her: he freq uently
turned his head, and, at a point from which the road was
best commanded, observed a slight movement among the
trees. H e stopped; it ceased: uncertain whether he had
guessed correctly, he proceeded, then abruptly rode back
with the speed of lightning, as if he had dropped something
by the way; there, indeed, he saw her, on the edge of the
bank , and bowed respectfully: she drew down her veil,
and hastily concealed herself in the thick et, forgetting that
she thus tacitly avowed the motive which had brought her
there. The poor child had never felt so guilty in her life;
and far from think ing of simply returning his salute, she
feared that she must have lost his good opinion by having
been so forward. O swald felt flattered by this blameless
and timorous sincerity. " N o one," thought he, " could
be more candid than Corinne; but then, no one better
k new herself or others. L ucy has all to learn. Y et this
charm of the day, could it suffice for a life? this pretty
ignorance cannot endure; and since we must penetrate the
secrets of our own hearts at last, is not the candour which
survives such ex amination worth more than that which
precedes it? " This comparison, he believed, was but an
amusement to his mind, which could never occupy it nore
gravely.
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? 804CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
CH A PTE R V I I .
O swald proceeded to S cotland. The effect of L ucy' s pre-
sence, the sentiment he still felt for Corinne, alik e gave
place to the emotions that awak ened at the sight of scenes
where he had dwelt with his father. H e upbraided him-
self with the dissipations in which he had spent the last
year; fearing that he was no longer worthy to re-enter
the abode he now wished he had never q uitted. A las!
after the loss of life' s dearest obj ect, how can we be con-
tent with ourselves, unless in perfect retirement? W e
cannot mix in society without, in some way, neglecting
our worship of the dead. I n vain their memory reigns
in the heart' s core; we lend ourselves to the activity of the
living, which banishes the thought of death as painful and
unavailing. I f solitude prolongs not our regrets, life, as it
is, calls back the most feeling minds, renews their in-
terests, their passions. This imperious necessity is one
of the sad conditions of human nature; and although de-
creed by Providence, that man may support the idea of
death, both for himself and others, yet often, in the
midst of our enj oyments, we feel remorse at being still
capable of them, and seem to hear a resigned, affecting
voice ask ing us, -- " H ave you, whom I so loved, for-
gotten me? " O swald felt not now the despair he had
suffered on his first return home after his father' s death,
but a melancholy, deepened by his perceiving that time
had accustomed every one else to the loss he still deplored.
The servants no longer thought it their duty to speak of
their late lord; his place in the rank of life was filled;
children grew up as substitutes for their sires. O swald
shut himself in his father' s room, for lonely meditation.
' O h, human destiny! " he sighed, " what wouldst thou
have? so much life perish? so many thoughts ex pire?
N o, no!
my only friend hears me, yet sees my tears, is
present,-- our immortal spirits still commune. O h, God!
be thou my guide. Those iron souls, that seem immovable
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? CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 305
as nature' s rock s, pity not the vacillations and repentance
of the sensitive, the conscientious, who cannot tak e one
step without the fear of straying from the right. They
may bid duty lead them, but duty' s self would vanish
from their eyes, if Thou revealedst not the truth to their
hearts. "
I n the evening O swald roved through the favourite
walk s of his father. W ho has not hoped, in the ardour
of his prayers, that the one dear shade would re-appear,
and miracles be wrought by the force of love? V ain
trust! beyond the tomb we can see nothing. These end-
less uncertainties occupy not the vulgar, but the nobler
the mind the more incontrollably is it involved in specu-
lations. W hile O swald wandered thus absorbed, he did,
indeed, behold a venerable man slowly advancing towards
him. S uch a sight, at such a time and place, took a
strong effect; but he soon recognised his father' s friend,
Mr. Dick son, and with an affection which he never felt for
him before.
CH A PTE R V I I I .
This gentleman in no way eq ualled the parent of O swald,
but he was with him at his death; and having been bom
in the same year, he seemed to linger behind but to carry
L ord N evil some tidings of his son. O swald offered him
his arm as they went up stairs; and felt a pleasure in
paying attention to age, however little resembling that of
his father. Mr. Dick son remembered O swald' s birth, and
hesitated not to speak his mind on all that concerned his
young friend, strongly reprimanding his connection with
Corinne; but his weak arguments would have gained less
ascendancy over O swald' s mind than those of L ady E dgar-
mond, had he not handed him the letter to which she
alluded. W ith considerable tremor he read as follows: --
" W ill you forgive me, my dear friend, if I propose
a change of plan in the union of our families? My
x
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? S 06 CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
son is more than a year younger than your eldest daugh-
ter; will it not be better, therefore, that he should wait
for the little L ucy?
of age; but, as I
named my wishes, I
k
I might confine myself to the subj ect
new Miss E dgarmond' s when first I
should deem myself wanting in con-
fidence, if I did not tell you my true reasons for desiring
that this marriage may not tak e place. W e have k nown
each other for twenty years, and may speak frank ly of our
children, especially while they are young enough to be
improved by our opinions. Y our daughter is a charming
girl, but I seem to be gazing on one of those Grecian
beauties who, of old, enchanted and subdued the world.
Do not be offended by this comparison. S he can have
received from you none but the purest principles; yet she
certainly loves to produce an effect, and create a sensation:
she has more genius than self-love; such talents as hers
necessarily engender a taste for display; and I k now no
theatre that could suffice the activity of a spirit, whose
impetuous fancy, and ardent feelings, break through each
word she utters. S he would inevitably wean my son from
E ngland; for such a woman could not be happy here:
only I taly can content her. S he must have that free life
which is guided but by fantasy: our domestic country
habits must thwart her every taste. A man born in this
happy land ought to be in all things E nglish, and fulfil
the duties to which he is so fortunately called. I n coun-
tries whose political intitutions give men such honourable
opportunities for public action, the women should bloom
in the shade: can you ex pect so distinguished a person as
your daughter to be satisfied with such a lot? Tak e my
advice. Marry her in I taly: her religion and manners
suit that country. I f my son should wed her, I am sure
it would be from love, for rio one can be more engaging:
to please her, he would endeavour to introduce foreign
customs into his establishment, and would soon lose his
national character, those prej udices, if you please to call
them so, which unite us with each other, and render
us a body free but indissoluble, or which can only be
brok en up by the death of its last associate. My son could
not be comfortable where his wife was unhappy: he is
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? corinne; or italy. 307
sensitive, even to weak ness; and his ex patriation, if I
to see it, would render me most miserable; not merely as
deprived of my son, but as k nowing him lost to the glory
of serving his native land. I s it worthy a mountaineer to
lived
drag on a useless life amid the pleasures of I taly? A S cot
become the cicisbeo of his own wife, if not of some other
man' s? N either the guide nor the prop of his family!
I even rej oice that O swald is now in F rance, and still un-
k nown to a lady whose empire over him would be too
great. I dare conj ure you, my dear friend, should I die
before his marriage, do not let him meet your eldest daugh-
ter until L ucy be of an age to fix his affections. L et him
lear n my wishes, if req uisite. I k now he will respect
them-- the more if I should then be removed from this
life. Give all your attention, I entreat you, to his union
with L
all ex
true E
ucy. Child as she is, her features, look , and voice,
press the most endearing modesty. S he will be a
nglishwoman, and may constitute the happiness of
my boy. I f I do not live to witness their felicity, I shall
ex ult over it in heaven; and when we re-unite there, my
dear friend, our prayers and benedictions will protect our
children still. " E ver yours,
" N evil. "
A fter reading this, O swald remained silent, and left
Mr. Dick son time to continue his long discourse without
interruption. H e admired the j udgment of his friend,
who, nevertheless, he said, was far from anticipating the
reprehensible life Miss E dgarmond had since led: a mar-
riage between O swald and herself now, he added, would
be an eternal insult to L ord N evil' s memory;
appeared, during his son' s fatal residence in F
passed a whole summer at L ady E dgarmond'
who, it
rance, had
s, solacing him-
self by superintending the education of his favourite L ucy.
I n fact, without either artifice or forbearance, Mr. Dick -
son attack ed the heart of O swald through all the avenues
of sensibility. Thus every thing conspired against the ab-
sent Corinne, who had no means, save letters, for reviving,
from time to time, the tenderness of O swald. S he had to
contend with his love of country, his filial remorse, the
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? 308 corinne; or I taly.
ex hortations of his friends, in favour of resolutions so easy
to adopt, as they led him towards a budding beauty, whose
? very charm seemed to harmonise with the calm, chaste
hopes of a domestic lot.
BOOKXVII.
CO R I N N B I N S CO TL A N D.
CH A PTE R I .
Corinne, meanwhile, had settled in a villa on the
B renta: she could not q uit the scenes in which she had
last met O swald-- and also hoped that she should here re-
ceive her letters earlier than at R ome. Prince Castel
F orte had written, begging leave to visit her; but she
refused. The friendship ex isting between them com-
manded mutual confidence; and had he striven to detach
her from her love, -- had he told her what she so
often told herself, -- that absence must decrease N evil' s
attachment, one inconsiderate word would have been a
dagger to her heart. S he wished to see no one; yet it is
not easy to live alone, while the soul is ardent, and its
situation unfortunate. The employments of solitude re-
q uire peace of mind: if that be lost, forced gaiety, how-
ever troublesome, is more serviceable than meditation. I f
we could trace madness to its source, we should surely
find that it originated in the power of one single thought,
which ex cluded all mental variety. Corinne' s imagination
consumed herself, unless diverted by ex ternal ex citement.
W hat a life now succeeded that which she had led for
nearly a year, with the man of her heart' s choice for ever
with her, as her most appreciating companion, her tenderest
friend and fondest lover! N ow all was barren around
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? corinne; O R I TA L Y . S O Q
and gloomy within her. The only interesting event was the
arrival of a letter from him; and the irregularity of the
post, during winter, every day tormented her with ex pect-
ations, often disappointed. E ach morning she walk ed on the
bank s of the canal, now covered by large leaved water lilies,
watching for the black gondola, which she had learnt to dis-
tinguish afar off. H ow did her heart beat, as she perceived
it! S ometimes the messenger would answer, " N o letters
for you, madam," and carelessly proceed to other matters,
as if nothing were so simple as to have no letters: another
time he would say, " Y es, madam, here are some. " S he
ran over them all with a trembling hand: if the well-
k nown characters of O swald met not her eye, the day wa6
terrible, the night sleepless, the morrow redoubled her
anx iety and suspense. " S urely," she thought, " he might
write more freq uently; " and her nex t letter reproached
his silence. H e j ustified himself; but his style had already
lost some of its tenderness: instead of ex pressing his own
solicitude, it seemed but attempting to dissipate hers.
This change did not escape her: day and night would
she reperuse a particular phrase, seek ing some new inter-
pretation on which to build a few days' composure. This
state shattered her nerves: she became superstitious.
Constantly occupied by the same fear, we may draw pre-
sages from every thing. O ne day in every week she went
to V enice, for the purpose of receiving her letters some
hours earlier: this merely varied the tortures of waiting;
and in a short time she conceived as great a horror for
every obj ect she encountered on her way, as if they had
been the spectres of her own thoughts, re-appearing clothed
in the most dreadful aspects. O nce, on entering the
church of S t. Mark , she remembered how, on her arrival
in V enice, the idea had occurred to her that perhaps, ere
she departed, O swald would lead her thither to call her
his in sight of heaven. S he gave way once more to this
illusion; saw him approach the altar; heard him vow be-
fore his God to love her for ever; they k nelt together,
and she received the nuptial crown. The organ, then
playing, and the lights that shone through the aisle, gave
life to her vision; and for a moment she felt not the
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? 310 corinne; or italy.
cruel void of absence: but suddenly a dreary murmur suc-
ceeded -- she turned, and beheld a bier brought into the
church. S he staggered; her sight almost failed; and from
that moment she felt convinced that her love for O swald
would lead her but to the grave.
CH A PTE R I I .
L ord N evil was now the most unhappy and irresolute of
men. H e must either break the heart of Corinne, or
outrage the memory of his father. Cruel alternative! to
escape which he called on death a thousand times a day. A t
last he once more resorted to his habitual procrastination,
telling himself that he would go to V enice, since he could
not resolve to write Corinne the truth, and mak e her his
j udge; but then he daily ex pected that his regiment would
embark . H e was free from all engagement with L ucy.
H e believed it his duty not to marry Corinne; but in
what other way could he pass his life with her? Could
he desert his country? or bring her to it, and ruin her
fair name for ever? H e resolved to hide from her the
obstacles which he had encountered from her stepmother,
because he still hoped ultimately to surmount them.
Manifold causes rendered his letters brief, or filled them
with subj ects remote from his future prospects. A ny one,
save Corinne, would have guessed all; but passion rendered
her at once q uick -sighted and credulous. I n such a state
we see nothing in a natural manner; but discover what is
concealed, while blind to that which should seem clearest.
W e cannot brook the idea of suffering so much without
some ex traordinary cause; we will not confess to ourselves
that such despair may be produced by the simplest circum-
stances in life. Though O swald pitied her, and blamed
himself, his correspondence betrayed an irritation which
it did not ex plain; wildly reproaching her for what he
endured, as if she had not been far the most unfortunate.
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? CO R I N N E J O B I TA L Y . 311
This tone deprived her of all mastery over herself. H er
mind was disordered by the most fatal images: she could
not believe that the being capable of writing with such
abrupt and heartless bitterness was the same O swald she
had k nown so generous, so tender. S he felt a resistless
desire to see and speak with him once more. " L et me
hear him tell me," she raved, " that it is he who thus
mercilessly stabs her whose least pain once so strongly
afflicted him; let him say so, and I submit: but some
infernal power seems to inspire this language; it is not
O swald who writes thus to me. They have slandered me
to him: some treachery must be ex erted, or I could not
be used thus. " S he adopted the resolution of going to
S cotland, if we may so call the impulse of an imperious
grief, which would fain alter its present situation at all
hazards. S he dared not write nor speak to any one on
this subj ect, still flattering herself that some fortunate
change would prevent her acting on a plan which, never-
theless, soothed her imagination, and forced her to look
forward. To read was now impossible: music thrilled
her to agony; and the charms of nature induced a reverie
that redoubled her distress. This creature, once so ani-
mated, now passed whole days in motionless silence. H er
internal pangs were but betrayed by a mortal paleness:
her eyes were freq uently fix ed upon her watch, though she
lenew not why she should wish one hour to succeed an-
other, since not one of them could bring her aught, save
restless nights and despairing days.
O ne evening she was informed that a female was
earnestly req uesting to see her: she consented; and the
woman entered her presence dressed in black , and veiled,
to conceal, as much as possible, a face deformed by the
most frightful malady. Thus wronged by nature, she
consoled herself by collecting alms for the poor; demanding
them nobly, and with an affecting confidence of success.
Corinne gave her a large sum, entreating her prayers in
return. The poor being, resigned to her own fate, was
astonished to behold a person so lovely, young, rich, and
celebrated, a prey to sorrow. " My God, madam! " she
cried," I wouldyouwereas" calmasI ! " W hatanaddress
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? 312 corinne; or italy.
from such an obj ect tothemost brilliantwomaninltaly! A las!
the power of love is too vast in souls lik e hers. H appy are
they who consecrate to heaven the sentiments no earthly ties
can merit. That time was not yet come for poor Corinne;
she still deceived herself, still sought for bliss; she prayed,
indeed, but not submissively. H er peerless talents, the
glory they had won, gave her too great an interest in her-
self. I t is only by detaching our hearts from all the world
that we can renounce the thing we love. E very other sa-
crifice must precede this: life may be long a desert ere
the fire that made it so is q uenched. A t last, in the
midst of this sad indecision, Corinne received a letter from
O swald, telling her that his regiment would embark in six
week s, and that, as its colonel, he could not profit by this
delay to visit V enice without inj uring his reputation.
There was but j ust time for Corinne to reach E ngland, ere
he must leave it, perhaps for ever. This thought decided
her; she was not ignorant of her own rashness; she j udged
herself more severely than any one else could. Pity her,
then! W hat woman has a right to " cast the first stone"
at the unfortunate sister, who j ustifies not her fault, hopes
for no pleasure, but flies from one misfortune to another, as
if driven on by persecuting spirits r1 H er letter to Castel
F orte thus concludes : -- " A dieu, my faithful protector!
A dieu, my friends in R ome! with whom I passed such
j oyous,easydays. I tisdone-- allisover.
