Chapter iii.

Oswald's Letter to Corinne.

January 24, 1795.

"You refuse to see me; you are offended at our conversation of the night before last; and you have doubtless formed an intention to open your doors in future only to your own countrymen, meaning probably by this means, to expiate the fault you have committed in admitting to your society a man of another nation. However, far from repenting my sincerity with respect to the Italians, far from regretting the observations which I made to you, whom, deluded by phantoms, I wished to consider as an Englishwoman, I will venture to predict more strongly still, that you will find neither happiness nor dignity should you make choice of a husband from that society by which you are surrounded. I know not the Italian worthy of you; there is not one by whose alliance you could be honoured, let him be invested with whatever title he may. Men in Italy are much less estimable than women; for they possess the defects of the women, in addition to their own. Will you persuade me, that these inhabitants of the South, who so pusillanimously shrink from pain, and pursue the phantom of pleasure with so much avidity, can be susceptible of love? Have you not seen (I have the fact from you) the very last month, an Italian husband at the play, who but eight days before had lost his wife, and a wife whom he pretended to love? They are here not more eager to remove the dead from their sight than to efface the remembrance of them from their mind. The funeral ceremonies are attended to by the priests, as the rites of love are performed by the attendant Cavaliers: ceremonial and custom supply the place of regret and enthusiasm. Lastly, and it is this that principally destroys love, the men of Italy are incapable of inspiring the women with any kind of respect: the latter do not feel obliged by the submission of the former, because their character is not dignified with firmness, nor their life with serious occupation. In order that nature and social order may appear in all their beauty, man must be the protector, and woman the protected; but the protector must adore that weakness which he defends, and reverence the helpless deity, who, like the household gods of the ancients, brings happiness to his home. So it might almost be said, that every woman is a Sultan, having at her command a seraglio of men.

The men are here distinguished by that softness and pliability of character, which properly belongs to women. An Italian proverb says: 'who knows not how to feign, knows not how to live.' Is not that a woman's proverb? In truth, how can the manly character be formed upon true principles of dignity and strength, in a country which affords no military career of glory, which contains no free institutions? Hence it is, that they direct their minds to all the little arts of cunning; they treat life like a game of chess, in which success is everything. All that remains to them from antiquity, is something gigantic in their expressions and in their external magnificence; but this baseless grandeur is frequently accompanied by all that is vulgar in taste, and miserably negligent in domestic life. Is this, Corinne, the nation which you would be expected to prefer to every other? Is this the nation whose roaring applauses are so necessary to you, that every other destiny would appear dull and congenial compared with their noisy 'bravos?' Who could flatter himself with being able to render you happy away from these dear scenes of tumult? What an inconceivable character is that of Corinne! profound in sentiment, but frivolous in taste; independent from innate pride, yet servile from the need of distraction! She is a sorceress whose spells alternately alarm and then allay the fears which they have created; who dazzles our view in native sublimity, and then, all of a sudden disappears from that region where she is without her like, to lose herself in an indiscriminate crowd. Corinne, Corinne, he who is your adorer cannot help feeling his love disturbed by fear!

"OSWALD."

Corinne, on reading this letter, was much incensed at the inveterate prejudices which Oswald appeared to entertain of her country. But she was happy enough in her conjectures, to discover that she owed this to the dissatisfaction he experienced at the fete, and to her refusing to see him ever since after his final conversation on that evening; and this reflection softened a little the painful impression which the letter produced upon her. She hesitated for some time, or at least, fancied she hesitated, as to the conduct which she should observe towards him. The tenderness she cherished for this eccentric lover, induced a wish to see him; but it was extremely painful to her that he should imagine her to be desirous of marrying him, although their fortunes were at least equal, and although in revealing her name, it would be easy to show that it was by no means inferior to that of Lord Nelville. Nevertheless, the independence and singularity of that mode of life which she had adopted, ought to have inspired her with a disinclination for marriage; and most assuredly she would have repulsed the idea, had not her passion blinded her to the sufferings she would have to undergo in espousing an Englishman and renouncing Italy.

We willingly make an offering of pride upon the altar of the heart; but when social prosperity and worldly interests oppose obstacles in any shape, when we can suppose that the object of our love makes any sort of sacrifice in uniting himself to us, it is no longer possible to show him any alteration of sentiment. Corinne not being equal to a determination to break off with Oswald, wished to persuade herself of the possibility of seeing him in future, and yet concealing the passion which she felt for him. It was in this intention that she came to a determination to confine herself, in the answer she should send to his letter, merely to his unjust accusations against the Italian nation, and to reason with him upon this subject as if it were the only one that interested her. Perhaps the best way in which a woman of intellect can resume her coldness and dignity, is by seeking an asylum in her own mind.

Corinne to Lord Nelville.

Jan. 15, 1795.

"Did your letter, my lord, concern only me, I should not have attempted the task of self-justification: my character is so easy to know, that he who might not be able to comprehend it by himself, would derive little aid in his scrutiny by any explanation that I could give him on the subject. The virtuous reserve of the English women, and the graceful art of the French, take my word for it, often serve to conceal one half of what is passing in their souls: that which you are pleased to distinguish in me by the name of magic, is nothing but a sort of transparency of mind, which allows its different sentiments and opposing thoughts to be seen without labouring to harmonize them; for that harmony, when it exists, is almost always assumed—most genuine characters being by nature inconsequent—but it is not of myself I wish to speak, it is of that unfortunate nation you so cruelly attack. Can it be my affection for my friends which has inspired you with this bitter malevolence? You know me too well to be jealous of me; indeed I have not the vanity to believe that a sentiment of this description could have sufficient power to transport you to such a degree of injustice. You repeat the opinion of every other foreigner upon the Italian character, when drawn from first impressions; but it requires deeper penetration, and a more patient scrutiny, to be able to form a correct judgment upon this country, which at different epochs has been so great. Whence comes it that this nation, under the Romans, has attained the highest military character in the world? that it has been the most jealous of its liberties, in the republics of the middle ages, and in the sixteenth century, the most illustrious in literature, and the arts and sciences? Has she not pursued glory under every form? And if now, alas! she can boast of none, why do you not rather accuse her political situation, since in other circumstances she has shown herself different?

"I know not whether I deceive myself; but the wrongs of the Italians inspire me with no other sentiment than pity for their lot. Foreigners have in every age conquered and torn asunder this beautiful country, the perpetual object of their ambition; and yet foreigners bitterly reproach this nation, with the wrongs of a conquered and dismembered country? Europe is indebted to the Italians for the arts and sciences, and shall Europe, turning their own benefits against them, dispute with her benefactors the only species of renown which can distinguish a nation without either military strength or political liberty?

"It is so true that nations derive their character from the nature of their government, that in this same Italy, we behold a remarkable difference of manners in the different states that compose it. The Piedmontese, who formed a little national body, have a more martial spirit than all the rest of Italy; the Florentines, who have had the good fortune either to enjoy their liberty, or to be governed by liberal princes, are mild and enlightened; the Venetians and the Genoese, discover a genius for politics, because their government is a republican Aristocracy; the Milanese are remarkable for their sincerity, which character they have long since derived from the nations of the north; the Neapolitans might easily become a warlike people, because during several centuries they have been united under a government, very imperfect it is true, but yet a government of their own. The Roman nobility being totally unoccupied with either military or political pursuits, must in consequence become indolent and uninformed; but the ecclesiastics, having a career of emulation open before them, are much more enlightened and cultivated than the nobles, and as the papal government admits of no distinction of birth, and is purely elective in the clerical body, it begets a sort of liberality, not in ideas, but in habits, which renders Rome a most agreeable abode for those who have neither the prospect, nor the ambition of worldly eminence.

"The nations of the south more easily receive the impression of their political establishment than those of the north; they possess an indolence which soon softens into resignation, and nature offers them so many enjoyments, that they are easily consoled for the loss of those which society refuses them. There is certainly much depravity in Italy, and nevertheless civilisation is here in a much lower stage of development than that of other countries. There is something almost savage in the character of the Italians, notwithstanding their intellectual acuteness, which too much resembles that of the hunter in the art of surprising his prey. And indolent people easily acquire a cunning character; they possess a habit of gentleness which serves them, upon occasion, to dissimulate even their wrath: it is always by our usual manners that we succeed in concealing an unexpected situation.

"The Italians are sincere and faithful in the private intercourse of life. Interest and ambition exercise considerable sway among them; but pride and vanity none: the distinctions of rank produce little impression. They have no society, no salons, no fashions, no little daily methods of giving effect to minute circumstances. These habitual sources of dissimulation and envy exist not among them. When they deceive their enemies and their rivals, it is because they consider themselves in a state of warfare with them; but in other circumstances they are frank and ingenuous. It is this ingenuousness alone that has scandalised you respecting our women, who, hearing love constantly spoken of, and surrounded by its seductions and examples, conceal not their sentiments, and if it may be so expressed, give even, to gallantry a character of innocence; besides, they have no ridicule to dread from that society in which they live. Some of them are so ignorant that they cannot write; this they publicly avow, and answer a billet by means of their agent (il paglietto) in a formal style on official paper. But to make amends for this, among those who are well educated, you will find academy professors who give public lessons in a black scarf; and should this excite a smile, you would be answered, 'Is there any harm in knowing Greek? Is there any harm in earning one's living by one's own exertions? Why should so simple a matter provoke your mirth?'

"But now my lord, allow me to touch upon a more delicate subject; allow me to enquire the cause why our men display so little military ardour. They expose their lives freely when impelled by love and hatred; and a stab from a stiletto given or received in such a cause, excites neither astonishment nor dread. They fear not death when natural passions bid them brave its terrors; but often, it must be owned, they prefer life to political interests, which seldom affect them because they possess no national independence. Often too, that notion of honour which descends to us from the age of chivalry, has little power in a nation where opinion, and society by which opinion is formed, do not exist; it is a natural consequence of this disorganisation of every public authority, that women should attain that ascendancy which they here possess over the men, perhaps in too high a degree to respect and admire them. Nevertheless, the conduct of men towards women is full of delicacy and attention. The domestic virtues in England constitute female glory and happiness; but if there are countries where love exists outside the sacred ties of marriage; that one among these countries where female happiness excites the greatest attention and care, is Italy. Here men have invented moral duties for relations outside the bounds of morality itself; but at least in the division of these duties, they have been both just and generous: they considered themselves more guilty than women, when they broke the ties of love; because the latter had made the greater sacrifice and lost more. They conceive that before the tribunal of the heart, he is the most guilty who does the most injury. Men do wrong for want of feeling; but women through weakness of character. Society, which is at once rigorous and depraved—that is to say, without pity for errors when they entail misfortunes,—must be very severe upon women; but in a country which has no society, natural goodness of heart has freer exercise.

"Ideas of consideration and dignity are, I agree, less powerful and even less known in Italy than any where else: the want of society and of public opinion is the cause of it: but notwithstanding all that may be said of the perfidy of the Italians, I maintain that there is not a country in the world where more sincerity is to be found. So far is this sincerity from being checked by vanity, that although that country be one of which foreigners speak most ill, there is no country where they meet with a more kindly reception. The Italians are reproached with being too much inclined to flattery; but it must be allowed in their favour, that generally, they lavish their soft expressions, not from design, but a real desire to please; nor can it be alleged that these expressions are ever falsified by their conduct. But it may be asked, would they be faithful to their friends in extraordinary circumstances, in which it might be necessary to brave for them the perils of adversity? A very small number, I must own, would be capable of such friendship; but this observation will not apply to Italy alone.

"The Italians are remarkable for that lassitude which distinguishes the eastern nations; but there are no men more active and persevering when once their passions are excited. These very women, too, whom you behold as indolent as the odalisks of a seraglio, upon some occasions give most striking proofs of attachment. There is something mysterious in the character and the imagination of the Italians, in whom you will find by turns, either unexpected traits of generosity and friendship, or gloomy and formidable proofs of hatred and revenge. They have no emulation, because life to them is only a pleasant summer's dream; but give those men a purpose, and you will see them in six months, develop an unrivalled power of will and intelligence. It is the same with women: what ambition can they feel, to excel in education when the ignorance of the men renders them insensible to its value? By cultivating their minds their hearts would become isolated; but these very women would soon become worthy a man of superior mind, if such a man were the object of their tender affection[21].

"Everything here sleeps: but in a country where great interests are dead, repose and carelessness are more noble than a busy anxiety about trifling concerns.

"Even literature languishes in a country where thought is not renewed by the strong and varied action of life.—But what nation has testified more admiration for literature and the fine arts than Italy? We are informed by history, that the popes, the princes, and the people, have at all times paid to painters, poets, and distinguished writers, the most public homage. This enthusiastic veneration of talent is I confess, my lord, one of the first motives of my attachment to this country.—We do not find here that blasee imagination, that discouraging temper of mind, that despotic mediocrity, which in other countries so effectually torment and stifle natural genius.—A happy idea, sentiment, or expression, sets an audience on fire, if I may say so. By the same rule that talent holds the first rank amongst us, it excites considerable envy; Pergolese was assassinated for his Stabat Mater; Giorgione armed himself with a cuirass when he was obliged to paint in public; but the violent jealousy which talent inspires amongst us, is that which, in other nations, gives birth to power. This jealousy does not degrade its object; it may hate, proscribe, and kill, but it is nevertheless mingled with the fanaticism of admiration, and encourages genius, even in persecuting it. To conclude; when we see so much life in so confined a circle, in the midst of so many obstacles and so much subjection of every kind, we cannot avoid in my opinion taking the deepest interest in a people who inhale, with so much avidity, the little air which the loopholes of imagination allow to enter through the walls that confine them.

"That this confinement is such, I will not deny: nor that men rarely acquire in Italy that dignity, that boldness, which distinguishes free and military nations.—I will even admit my lord, if you choose, that the character of such nations is capable of inspiring women with more love and enthusiasm. But might it not also be possible, that a noble and interested man, cherishing the most rigid virtues, might unite in his character every quality that can excite love, without possessing those which promise happiness.

"CORINNE."

FOOTNOTE:

[21] Mr Roscoe, author of the History of the Medici, has recently published an History of Leo X., which is truly a masterpiece in its kind, in which he relates all those marks of esteem and admiration, which the princes and the people of Italy have conferred on distinguished men of letters; he also shows, with impartiality, that the conduct of many of the Popes has been, in this respect, very liberal.



Chapter iv.

Corinne's letter made Oswald a second time repent the idea he had formed of detaching himself from her. The intellectual dignity, the attractive tenderness with which she repelled the harsh allegations he had made against her country, affected him deeply, and penetrated him with admiration. A superiority, so grand, so simple, and so true, appeared to him above all ordinary rules. He felt that Corinne was not the weak, timid woman, without an opinion on any subject beyond the sphere of her private duties and sentiments, which he had chosen in his imagination as a partner for life. The remembrance of Lucilia, such as he had beheld her at the age of twelve years, agreed much better with this idea;—but could any woman be compared with Corinne? Could ordinary laws and rules be applied to one, who united in herself so many different qualities, cemented by genius and sensibility? Corinne was a miracle of nature, and was it not a miracle worked in favour of Oswald, when he could flatter himself with interesting such a woman? But her real name and condition were unknown to him. What would be her future projects were he to avow his intention of uniting himself to her? All was yet in obscurity; and although the enthusiasm with which Corinne had inspired Oswald made him desirous of espousing her, yet the idea that her life had not been wholly irreproachable, and that such an union would certainly have been condemned by his father, threw his soul into confusion, and racked him with the most painful anxiety.

He was not now so sunk in grief, as before his acquaintance with Corinne; but he no longer felt that sort of calm, which may even accompany repentance, when our whole life is devoted to the expiation of a crime. Formerly, he was not afraid to abandon himself to his recollections, bitter as they were; but now he dreaded those long and profound reveries, which would have revealed to him what was passing at the bottom of his soul. In the meantime he prepared to visit Corinne, in order to thank her for her letter, and obtain pardon for what he had written to her, when Mr Edgermond, a relation of young Lucilia, entered the room.

He was a worthy English gentleman, who had almost constantly resided in Wales, where he possessed an estate. He cherished those principles and prejudices which, in every country, serve to maintain things as they are, and which have a most beneficial tendency, when things are as well as human reason will permit. When that is the case, such men as Mr Edgermond, that is to say, the partizans of established order, though strongly and even obstinately attached to their customs and to their manner of thinking, ought to be considered as men of rational and enlightened minds.

Lord Nelville was startled when he heard Mr Edgermond announced; every recollection of the past rushed upon him at once; but as it immediately occurred to his mind that Lady Edgermond, the mother of Lucilia, had sent her relation to reproach him, and thus restrain his independence, this thought restored his firmness, and he received Mr Edgermond with great coldness. However, he wronged his visitor by his suspicions, for he had not the least design in his head that regarded Nelville. He visited Italy for the sake of his health alone; and ever since he had been in the country, he was constantly employed in hunting, and drinking to King George and Old England. He was the most open-hearted of men, and possessed a much better informed mind than his habits would induce many to believe. He was a downright Englishman, not only as he ought to be, but also as one might wish he were not: following in every country the customs of his own, living only with Englishmen, and never discoursing with foreigners; not out of contempt to them, but from a sort of repugnance to foreign languages, and a timidity, which even at the age of fifty, rendered him very diffident in forming new acquaintances.

"I am happy to see you," said he to Nelville, "I am going to Naples in a fortnight and should be glad to see you there, for I have not long to stay in Italy; my regiment will soon embark." "Your regiment!" repeated Lord Nelville, and blushed as if he had forgotten that he had a year's leave of absence because his regiment was not to be employed before the expiration of that period. He blushed at the thought that Corinne could make him forget even his duty. "Your regiment," continued Mr Edgermond, "will not go upon service so soon; so stay here quietly, and regain your health. I saw my young cousin before I set out—she is more charming than ever. I am sure by the time you return she will be the finest woman in England." Lord Nelville said nothing—and Mr Edgermond was also silent. Some other words passed between them, very laconic, though extremely friendly, and Mr Edgermond was going, when suddenly turning back, he said, "Apropos, my lord, you can do me a kindness—they tell me you are acquainted with the celebrated Corinne: I don't much like forming new acquaintances, but I am quite curious to see this lady." "Since you desire it, I will ask Corinne's permission to introduce you," replied Oswald. "Do so, I beseech you," said Mr Edgermond; "and contrive to let me see her some day when she improvises, or dances and sings to the company." "Corinne does not thus display her talents to strangers," said Nelville; "she is your equal and mine in every respect." "Pardon my mistake," said Mr Edgermond, "as she is not known by another name than that of Corinne, and lives by herself at the age of twenty-six years unaccompanied by any part of her family, I thought she derived support from her talents." "Her fortune is entirely independent," answered his lordship warmly, "and her mind is still more so." Mr Edgermond immediately dropped this subject, and repented at having introduced it, seeing that it interested Oswald. No men in the world have so much discretion and delicate precaution in what concerns the affections, as the English.

Mr Edgermond went away. Lord Nelville, when alone, could not help exclaiming with emotion, "I must espouse Corinne. I must become her protector, in order to preserve her from obloquy. She shall have the little it is in my power to bestow—a rank and a name; whilst she on her part will confer on me every earthly felicity." It was in this disposition that he hastened to visit Corinne, and never did he enter her doors with sweeter sentiments of hope and love; but, swayed by his natural timidity, and in order to recover confidence, he began the conversation with insignificant topics, and of this number was his request for permission to introduce Mr Edgermond. At this name Corinne was visibly agitated, and with a faltering voice refused what Oswald solicited. All astonishment, he said to her, "I thought that in this house, to which so many are allowed access, the title of my friend would not afford a motive of exclusion." "Do not be offended, my lord," replied Corinne: "Believe that I must have very powerful reasons not to consent to your desire." "Ands will you acquaint me with those reasons?" replied Oswald. "Impossible!" cried Corinne; "Impossible!" "So then—" said Nelville, and his emotion rendered him unable to proceed. He was about to depart, when Corinne, all in tears, exclaimed in English, "For God's sake do not leave me unless you wish to break my heart!"

These words, and the tone of voice in which they were uttered, deeply affected the soul of Oswald. He sat down again at some distance from Corinne, supporting his head against a vase of alabaster which embellished her apartment; then, suddenly, he said to her, "Cruel woman! you see that I love you—you see that, twenty times a day, I am ready to offer you my hand and my heart; yet you will not inform me who you are! Tell me, Corinne, tell me the story of your past life," repeated he, stretching his hand to her with the most moving expression of sensibility. "Oswald!" cried Corinne; "Oswald! you do not know the pain you give me. If I were mad enough to tell you all you would no longer love me." "Great God!" replied he; "what have you then to reveal?" "Nothing that renders me unworthy of you," said she; "but fortuitous circumstances, and differences between our tastes and opinions, which existed formerly and which no longer exist. Do not oblige me to confess who I am. Some day, perhaps—some day, should you love me sufficiently—Ah! I know not what I say," continued Corinne; "you shall know all; but do not forsake me before you have heard it. Promise me that you will not, in the name of your father who is now in heaven!" "Pronounce not that name," cried Lord Nelville; "can you fathom his will respecting us? Think you that he would consent to our union? If you do, declare it, and I shall no longer be racked with doubts and fears. Some time or other, I will unfold to you my sad story; but behold the condition you have now reduced me to." In truth, his forehead was covered with a cold sweat, his face was pale, and his trembling lips with difficulty articulated these last words. Corinne, seated by the side of Nelville, holding his hands in hers, gently recalled him to himself. "My dear Oswald," said she to him; "ask Mr Edgermond if he has ever been in Northumberland; or at least if he has only been there within these past five years. Should he answer in the affirmative he may then accompany you hither." At these words Oswald looked steadfastly at Corinne, who cast down her eyes and was silent. "I shall do as you desire me," said Lord Nelville, and went away.

On his return home, he exhausted conjecture upon the secrets of Corinne. It appeared evident that she had passed a considerable time in England, and that her name and family must be known there. But what could be her motive for concealing them; and if she had been settled in England, why had she left it? These questions greatly disturbed the heart of Oswald. He was convinced that no stain would be found in her life; but he feared a combination of circumstances might have rendered her guilty in the eyes of others. What he most dreaded, was her being an object of English disapprobation. He felt sufficiently fortified against that of every other country; but the memory of his father was so intimately connected with the love of his native country, that these two sentiments strengthened each other.

Oswald, having learnt of Mr Edgermond that he had been in Northumberland for the first time the preceding year, promised to introduce him to Corinne that evening. Oswald arrived at her house before him, and made her acquainted with the ideas that Mr Edgermond had conceived respecting her, suggesting the propriety of convincing him how much he was in error, by assuming the most cold and reserved manners.

"If you permit me," replied Corinne, "I will be the same to him as to everybody else; if he desire to hear me, I will improvise before him; in fact, I will appear to him as I am, not doubting that he will perceive as much dignity of soul in this simple and natural behaviour, as if I were to put on an air of restraint which would only be affected." "Yes, Corinne," replied Oswald, "you are right. Ah! how much in the wrong is he, who would in the least alter your admirable disposition."

At this moment Mr Edgermond arrived with the rest of the company. At the commencement of the evening, Lord Nelville placed himself by the side of Corinne, and with an interest which at once became the lover and the protector, he said every thing that could enhance her worth. The respect he testified for her seemed to have for its object rather to win the attention of others, than to satisfy himself; but it was with the most lively joy that he soon felt the folly of all his anxiety. Corinne entirely captivated Mr Edgermond—she not only captivated him by her genius and her charms, but by inspiring him with that sentiment of esteem which true characters always obtain of honest ones; and when he presumed to express a wish to hear her upon a subject of his choice, he aspired to this favour with as much respect as eagerness. She consented without for a moment waiting to be pressed, and thus manifested that this favour had a value independent of the difficulty of obtaining it. But she felt so lively a desire to please a countryman of Oswald's, a man who by the consideration which he merited might influence his opinion in speaking of her, that this sentiment suddenly filled her with a timidity which was quite new to her: she wished to begin, but her tongue was suspended by the emotion she felt. Oswald was pained that she did not dazzle his English friend with all her superiority; his eyes were cast down, and his embarrassment was so visible, that Corinne, solely engrossed by the effect that she produced upon him, lost more and more the presence of mind necessary for improvisation. At length, sensible of her hesitation, feeling that her words were the offspring of memory and not of sentiment, and that thus she was neither able to paint what she thought nor what she really felt, she suddenly stopped and said to Mr Edgermond, "Pardon me Sir, if upon this occasion timidity has deprived me of my usual facility; it is the first time, as my friends can testify, that I have been below myself; but perhaps," added she, sighing, "it will not be the last."

Oswald was deeply affected by the touching failure of Corinne. Till then he had always been accustomed to see imagination and genius triumph over her affections and reanimate her soul at the moment when she was most cast down; but at this time her mind was entirely fettered by feeling, yet Oswald had so identified himself with her fame on this occasion, that he partook of the mortification of her failure, instead of rejoicing at it. But as it appeared certain, that she would one day shine with her natural lustre, he yielded to the tender reflections that arose in his mind, and the image of his mistress was enthroned more than ever in his heart.



Book vii.

ITALIAN LITERATURE.



Chapter i.

Lord Nelville felt a lively desire that Mr Edgermond should enjoy the conversation of Corinne, which was more than equivalent to her improvised verses. The following day the same company assembled at her house; and to elicit her sentiments, he turned the conversation upon Italian literature, and provoked her natural vivacity, by affirming that the English poets were much superior in energy and sensibility to those of which Italy could boast.

"In the first place," said Corinne, "strangers are for the most part acquainted only with our poets of the first rank—Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, Guarini, Tasso, and Metastasio; whilst we have several others, such as Chiabrera, Guidi, Filicaja, Parini, without reckoning Sannazarius, Politian, &c., who have written in Latin, with as much taste as genius; and all unite in their verses the utmost beauty of colouring and harmony; all, with more or less talent, adorn the wonders of nature and art with the imagery of speech. Without doubt our poets cannot pretend to that profound melancholy, that knowledge of the human heart which characterise yours; but does not this kind of superiority belong more properly to philosophical writers than to poets? The brilliant melody of Italian is more suitable to the splendour of external objects than to meditation; our language is better adapted to paint fury than sadness, because sentiments which arise from deep reflection demand more metaphysical expressions, whilst the desire of vengeance animates the imagination to the exclusion of grief. Cesarotti has produced the best and most elegant translation of Ossian extant; but it seems in reading it that the words possess in themselves an air of festivity that forms a contrast with the sombre ideas of the poem. We cannot help being charmed with our sweet expressions,—the limpid stream, the smiling plain, the cooling shade, the same as with the murmur of the waves, and variety of colours. What more do you expect from poetry? Why would you ask of the nightingale, the meaning of her song? She can only answer you by resuming the strain, and you cannot comprehend it without yielding to the impression which it produces. The measure of verse, harmonious rhymes, and those rapid terminations composed of two short syllables whose sounds glide in the manner that their name (Sdruccioli) indicates, sometimes imitate the light steps of a dance; at others, more sombre tones recall the fury of the tempest and the clangour of arms. In fact, our poetry is a wonder of the imagination—we must only seek it in the various pleasures which it affords."

"It must be allowed," replied Lord Nelville, "that you explain very clearly the beauties and defects of your poetry; but how will you defend your prose, in which those defects are to be found unaccompanied by the beauties? That which is only loose and indefinite in poetry will become emptiness in prose; and the crowd of common ideas which your poets embellish with their melody and their images, are in prose, cold and dry, while their vivacity of style renders them more fatiguing. The language of the greater part of the prose-writers of the present day is so declamatory, so diffuse, and so abundant in superlatives, that their work seems written to order, in hackneyed phraseology, and for conventional natures; it does not once enter into their heads that to write well is to express one's thoughts and character. Their style is an artificial web, a kind of literary mosaic, every thing in fact that is foreign to their soul, and is made with the pen as any other mechanical work is with the fingers. They possess in the highest degree the secret of developing, commenting, inflating an idea, and, if I may use the expression, of working a sentiment into a ferment. So much do they excel in this, that one would be tempted to ask these writers, what the African woman asked a French lady, who wore a large pannier under a long dress:—'Madam, is all that a part of yourself?' In short, what real existence is there in all this pomp of words which one true expression would dissipate like a vain prestige."

"You forget," interrupted Corinne sharply; "first, Macchiavelli and Boccacio; next Gravina, Filangieri, and in our days, Cesarotti, Verri, Bettinelli, and so many others, in short, who know how to write and to think[22]. But I agree with you that in the latter ages, unfortunate circumstances having deprived Italy of its independence, its people have lost all interest in truth and often even the possibility of speaking it: from this has resulted the habit of sporting with words without daring to approach a single idea. As they were certain of not being able to obtain any influence over things by their writings, they were only employed to display their wit, which is a sure way to end in having no wit at all; for it is only in directing the mind towards some noble object that ideas are acquired. When prose writers can no longer in any way influence the happiness of a nation—when they only write to dazzle—when, in fact, the road itself is the object of their journey, they indulge in a thousand windings without advancing a step. The Italians, it is true, fear new thoughts; but that is an effect of indolence, and not of literary baseness. In their character, their gaiety, and their imagination, there is much originality; and nevertheless, as they take no pains to reflect, their general ideas do not soar above mediocrity; their eloquence even, so animated when they speak, has no character when they write; one would say that labour of any kind freezes their faculties; it may also be added, that the nations of the South are fettered by prose, and that poetry alone can express their real sentiments. It is not thus in French literature," said Corinne, addressing herself to the Count d'Erfeuil—"your prose writers are often more eloquent, and even more poetic, than your poets."—"It is true," answered the Count, "your assertion can be verified by truly classical authorities:—Bossuet, La Bruyere, Montesquieu, and Buffon, cannot be excelled; more particularly the first two, who are of the age of Louis the Fourteenth, in whose praise too much cannot be said, for they are perfect models for imitation. They are models that foreigners ought to be as eager to imitate as the French themselves."—"I can hardly think it desirable," answered Corinne, "for the whole world entirely to lose their national colouring, as well as all originality of sentiment and genius; and I am bold enough to tell you Count, that even in your country, this literary orthodoxy, if I may so express myself, which is opposed to every innovation, will in time render your literature extremely barren. Genius is essentially creative; it bears the character of the individual that possesses it. Nature, who has not formed two leaves alike, has infused a still greater variety into the human soul; imitation is therefore a species of death, since it robs each one of his natural existence."

"You would not wish, fair stranger," replied the Count, "that we should admit Teutonic barbarism amongst us—that we should copy Young's Night Thoughts, and the Concetti of the Italians and Spaniards. What would become of the taste and elegance of our French style after such a mixture?" Prince Castel-Forte, who had not yet spoken, said—"It seems to me that we all stand in need of each other: the literature of every country discovers to him who is acquainted with it a new sphere of ideas. It was Charles the Fifth himself who said—that a man who knows four languages, is worth four men. If that great political genius judged thus, in regard to the conduct of affairs, how much more true is it with respect to literature? Foreigners all study French; thus they command a more extended horizon than you, who do not study foreign languages. Why do you not more often take the trouble of learning them?—You would thus preserve your own peculiar excellence, and sometimes discover your deficiencies."

FOOTNOTE:

[22] Cesarotti, Verri, and Bettinelli, are three living authors who have introduced thought into Italian prose; it must be confessed, that this was not the case for a long time before.



Chapter ii.

"You will at least confess," replied the Count d'Erfeuil, "that there is one part of literature in which we have nothing to learn of any country.—Our drama is decidedly the first in Europe; for I cannot believe that the English would presume to oppose their Shakespeare to us."—"I beg your pardon," interrupted Mr Edgermond, "they have that presumption."—And after this observation he was silent.—"In that case I have nothing to say," continued the Count, with a smile which expressed a kind of civil contempt: "Each one may think as he pleases, but for my part I persist in believing that we may affirm without presumption that we are the very first in dramatic art. As to the Italians, if I may speak my mind freely, they do not appear even to suspect that there is a dramatic art in the world.—With them the music is every thing, and the play itself nothing. Should the music of the second act of a piece be better than the first, they begin with the second act. Or, should a similar preference attach to the first acts of two different pieces, they will perform these two acts in the same evening, introducing between, perhaps, an act of some comedy in prose that contains irreproachable morality, but a moral teaching entirely composed of aphorisms, that even our ancestors have already cast off to the foreigner as too old to be of any service to them. Your poets are entirely at the disposal of your famous musicians; one declares that he cannot sing without there is in his air the word felicita; the tenor must have tomba; while a third singer can only quaver upon the word catene. The poor bard must make these different whims agree with dramatic situation as well as he can. This is not all; there are actors who will not appear immediately treading the boards of the stage; they must first be seen in a cloud, or they must descend the lofty stairs of a palace, in order to give more effect to their entree. When the air is finished, whatever may be the violent or affecting situation of his character, the singer must bow to the audience in acknowledgment of their applause. The other day, in Semiramis, after the spectre of Ninus had sung his air, the representative of this shadowy personage made in his ghostly costume a low reverence to the pit, which greatly diminished the terror of the apparition.

"They are accustomed in Italy to consider the theatre merely as a large assembly room, where there is nothing to hear but the airs, and the ballet! I am justified in saying that they listen to nothing but the ballet; for it is only when the ballet is about to begin, that silence is called for in the pit: and what is this ballet but a masterpiece of bad taste? There is nothing amusing in the dancing save the comic part of it; the grotesque figures alone afford entertainment, being indeed a good specimen of caricature. I have seen Gengis-Kan in a ballet, all covered with ermine, and full of fine sentiments; for he ceded his crown to the child of a king whom he had conquered, and lifted him up in the air upon one foot; a new mode of establishing a monarch upon his throne. I have also seen the sacrifice of Curtius formed into a ballet of three acts, with divertisements. Curtius, in the dress of an Arcadian shepherd, danced for a considerable time with his mistress; then mounting a real horse in the middle of the stage, he plunged into the gulf of fire, made of yellow satin and gilt paper, which looked more like a fancy riding habit than an abyss. In fact, I have seen the whole of Roman history from Romulus to Caesar, compressed into a ballet."

"What you say is true," replied Prince Castel-Forte, mildly; "but you have only spoken of music and dancing, which do not comprise what we understand by the drama of any country." "It is much worse," interrupted the Count d'Erfeuil, "when tragedies are represented, or dramas that are not termed dramas that end happily: they unite more horrors in the course of five acts, than the imagination could form a picture of. In one piece of this kind, the lover kills the brother of his mistress in the second act; in the third he blows out the brains of his mistress herself upon the stage; her funeral occupies the fourth; in the interval, between the fourth and fifth acts, the actor who performs the lover comes forward, and announces to the audience with the greatest tranquillity in the world, the harlequinades which are to be performed on the following evening; he then reappears in the fifth act, to shoot himself with a pistol. The tragic actors are quite in harmony with the coldness and extravagance of these pieces: they commit all these horrors with the utmost calm. When a performer uses much action, they say he conducts himself like a preacher; for in truth, there is more acting in the pulpit than on the stage. It is very fortunate that these actors are so moderate in their pathos; for as there is nothing interesting, either in the piece or its situations, the more noise they made about it, the more ridiculous they would appear: it might still be endurable, were there any thing gay in this nonsense; but it is most stupidly dull and monotonous. There is in Italy no more comedy than tragedy; and here again we stand foremost. The only species of comedy peculiar to Italy is harlequinade. A valet, at once a knave, a glutton, and a coward; an old griping, amorous dupe of a guardian, compose the whole strength of these pieces. I hope you will allow that Tartuffe, and the Misanthrope, require a little more genius than such compositions."

This attack of the Count d' Erfeuil was sufficiently displeasing to the Italians who were his auditors; nevertheless they laughed at it. The Count was more desirous of showing his wit than his natural goodness of disposition; for though this latter quality influenced his actions, self-love guided his speech. Prince Castel-Forte and the rest of his countrymen present, were extremely impatient to refute the Count d'Erfeuil; but as they were little ambitious of shining in conversation and believed their cause would be more ably defended by Corinne, they besought her to reply, contenting themselves with barely citing the celebrated names of Maffei, Metastasio, Goldoni, Alfieri, and Monti. Corinne began by granting that the Italians had no drama; but she undertook to prove that circumstances and not want of talent, were the cause of it. Comedy, which depends upon the observation of manners, can only exist in a country where we live in the midst of a numerous and brilliant society. In Italy we meet with nothing but violent passions or idle enjoyments which produce crimes of so black a hue that no shades of character can be distinguished. But ideal comedy, if it may be so termed, that which depends upon the imagination, and may agree with all times and all countries, owes its invention to Italy. Harlequin, punchinello, pantaloon, &c., have the same character in every different piece. In all cases they exhibit masks, and not faces: that is to say, their physiognomy is that of some particular species of character, and not that of any individual. Undoubtedly, the modern authors of harlequinades, finding every part ready carved out for them like the men of a chess-board, have not the merit of inventing them; but their first invention is due to Italy; therefore these fantastic personages, which from one end of Europe to the other afford amusement to every child, and to every grown-up person whom imagination has made childlike, must certainly be considered as the creation of Italians: this I should conceive ought to give them some claim to the art of comedy.

The observation of the human heart is an inexhaustible source of literature; but nations more disposed to poetry than to reflection, more easily surrender themselves to the intoxication of joy than to philosophic irony. That pleasantry which is founded upon the knowledge of mankind has something sad at bottom. It is only the gaiety of the imagination which is truly inoffensive. It is not that the Italians do not study deeply the men whom they have to do with; for none discover more subtly their secret thoughts; but they employ this talent as a guide of conduct, and have no idea of converting it to any literary purpose. Perhaps even they have no wish to generalise their discoveries, and publish their perceptions. There is a prudent dissimulation in their character, which teaches them not to expose in comedies that which affords rules for private intercourse; not to reveal by the fictions of the mind what may be useful in circumstances of real life.

Macchiavelli however, far from concealing anything, has exposed all the secrets of a criminal polity; and through him we may learn of what a terrible knowledge of the human heart the Italians are capable. But profound observation is not the province of comedy: the leisure of society, properly speaking, can alone furnish matter for the comic scene. Goldoni, who lived at Venice, where there is more society than in any other Italian city, has introduced more refinement of observation into his pieces than is generally to be found in other authors. Nevertheless his comedies are monotonous, and we meet with the same situations in them, because they contain so little variety of character. His numerous pieces seem formed upon the general model of dramatic works, and not copied from real life. The true character of Italian gaiety is not satire, but imagination; not delineation of manners, but poetical exaggeration. It is Ariosto, and not Moliere, who can amuse Italy.

Gozzi, the rival of Goldoni, has more originality in his compositions; they bear less resemblance to regular comedy. His determination was liberally to indulge the Italian genius; to represent fairy tales, and mingle buffoonery and harlequinade with the marvels of poetry; to imitate nothing in nature, but to give free scope to the gay illusions of fancy, to the chimeras of fairy magic, and to transport the mind by every means beyond the boundaries of human action. He was crowned with prodigious success in his time, and perhaps there never existed an author more congenial to an Italian imagination; but to know with certainty what degree of perfection Tragedy and Comedy can reach in Italy, it should possess a theatrical establishment. The multitude of little cities who all wish to have a theatre, lose, by dispersing them, its dramatic resources: that division in states, in general so favourable to liberty and happiness, is hurtful to Italy. She must needs concentrate her light and power to resist the prejudices which are devouring her. The authority of governments often represses individual energy. In Italy this authority would be a benefit if it struggled against the ignorance of separate states and of men isolated among them; if it combated by emulation that indolence so natural to the climate; and if, in a word, it gave life to the whole of this nation which now is satisfied with a dream.

These ideas, and several others besides, were ingeniously developed by Corinne. She well understood the rapid art of light conversation, which does not dogmatically insist upon any thing, and also that pleasing address which gives a consideration to each of the company in turn, though she often indulged in that kind of talent which rendered her a celebrated improvisatrice. Several times she intreated Prince Castel-Forte to assist her with his opinion on the same subject; but she spoke so well herself, that all the audience were delighted in listening to her, and would not suffer her to be interrupted. Mr Edgermond, in particular, could scarcely satisfy himself with seeing and hearing Corinne; hardly did he dare to express the admiration she inspired him with, and he pronounced some words of panegyric in a low tone of voice hoping she would comprehend them without obliging him to address her personally. He however possessed such a lively desire to know her sentiments on Tragedy, that in spite of his timidity he ventured a few words on that subject.

"Madam," said he to Corinne, "where the Italian literature appears to me most defective is in Tragedy; methinks the distance is not so great between infancy and manhood, as between your Tragedies and ours; for in the changeableness of children may be discovered true if not deep sentiments, but there is something affected and extravagant in Italian Tragedy, which destroys for me all emotion whatever. Is this not so? Lord Nelville," continued Mr Edgermond, turning to his lordship and inviting his support by a glance, quite astonished at having found courage to speak in such a numerous assembly.

"I am entirely of your opinion," answered Oswald; "Metastasio, who is vauntingly called the poet of love, gives the same colouring to this passion in every country and under every circumstance. His admirable airs are entitled to our applause as much from their grace and harmony as the lyrical beauties which they contain, especially when detached from the drama in which they are placed; but it is impossible for us who possess Shakespeare, who has most deeply fathomed History and the passions of man, to suffer those amorous couples, that divide between them almost all the pieces of Metastasio alike, under the names of Achilles, of Tircis, of Brutus, and of Corilas, singing, in a manner that hardly touches the surface of the soul, the grief and sufferings of love, so as almost to reduce to imbecility the noblest passion that animates the human heart. It is with the most profound respect for the character of Alfieri that I shall indulge in a few reflections upon his pieces. Their aim is so noble, the sentiments which the author expresses are so much in unison with his personal conduct, that his tragedies must always deserve praise as actions, even when they are criticised as literary performances. But I find in the vigour of some of his tragedies as much monotony as in the tenderness of Metastasio. There is, in the plays of Alfieri, such a profusion of energy and magnanimity, or rather such an exaggeration of violence and crime, that it is impossible to discover in them the true characters of men. They are never so wicked nor so generous as painted by this author. The aim of most of his scenes is to place virtue and vice in contrast with each other; but these oppositions are not according to the gradations of truth. If, during their life, tyrants bore with what the oppressed are made to say to their face in the tragedies of Alfieri, one would be almost tempted to pity them. His play of Octavia is one of those where the want of probability is most striking. In this piece, Seneca moralises incessantly with Nero, as if the latter were the most patient of men, and Seneca the most courageous. The master of the world permits himself to be insulted, and his anger to be excited in every scene, for the amusement of the spectators, as if it were not in his power to end it all with a word. Certainly these continual dialogues give rise to some very fine replies on the part of Seneca, and one would be glad to find in an harangue or in a moral work the noble thoughts which he expresses; but is this the way to give us an idea of tyranny? It is not painting it in its formidable colours, but merely making it a subject for verbal fencing. If Shakespeare had represented Nero surrounded by trembling slaves, who hardly dared reply to the most indifferent question, himself concealing his internal agitation and endeavouring to appear calm, with Seneca near him writing the apology for the murder of Agrippina, would not the terror have been a thousand times greater? And for one reflection spoken by the author, would not a thousand be generated in the soul of the spectators by the very silence of rhetoric and the truth of the picture?"

Oswald might have spoken much longer without receiving any interruption from Corinne; so much pleasure did she receive from the sound of his voice and the noble elegance of his language, that she could have wished to prolong this impression for hours together. Hardly could she remove her eyes, which were earnestly fixed upon him, even after he had ceased to speak. She turned them reluctantly to the rest of the company, who were impatient to hear her thoughts upon Italian tragedy, and turning to Lord Nelville:—"My Lord," said she, "it is not to combat your sentiments that I reply, for they meet mine in almost every point: my only intention is to offer some exceptions to your rather too general observations. It is true that Metastasio is rather a lyrical than a dramatic poet, and that he describes love like one of the fine arts that adorn life, not as the most important secret of our happiness and our pain. I will venture to say, notwithstanding our language has been consecrated to the cause of love, that we have more profoundness and sensibility in describing any other passion than this. The practice of making amorous verses has created a kind of commonplace language amongst us for that subject; so that not what he has felt, but what he has read, inspires the poet. Love, such as it exists in Italy, by no means resembles that love which is described by our writers. It is only in Boccacio's romance of Fiametta, that according to the best of my recollection, there is to be found an idea of that passion, painted in truly national colours. Our poets subtilise and exaggerate the sentiment, whilst agreeably to the real Italian character, it is a rapid and profound impression, which rather expresses itself by silent and passionate actions than by ingenious language. In general our literature is not characteristic of our national manners[23]. We are much too modest, I had almost said too humble a nation to aspire to tragedies taken from our own history, and bearing the stamp of our own sentiments.

"Alfieri, by a singular chance, was transplanted, if I may use the expression, from ancient to modern times; he was born for action, and his destiny only permitted him to write; this constraint appears in the style of his tragedies. He wished to make literature subservient to a political purpose; undoubtedly his object was noble, but nothing perverts the labours of the imagination so much as having a purpose. In this nation, where certainly, some erudite scholars and very enlightened men are to be met with, Alfieri was indignant at seeing literature consecrated to no serious end, but merely engrossed with tales, novels, and madrigals. Alfieri wished to give a more austere character to his tragedy. He has stript it of all the borrowed appendages of theatrical effect, preserving nothing but the interest of the dialogue. It appears to have been his wish to place the natural vivacity and imagination of the Italians in a state of penitence; he has however been very much admired for his character and the energies of his soul, which were truly great. The inhabitants of modern Rome are particularly given to applaud the actions and sentiments of their ancient country; as if those actions and sentiments had any relation to them in their present state.

They are amateurs of energy and independence, in the same manner as they are of the fine pictures which adorn their galleries. But it is not less true that Alfieri has by no means created what may be called an Italian theatre; that is to say, tragedies of a merit peculiar to Italy. He has not even characterised the manners of those countries and those centuries which he has painted. His conspiracy of the Pazzi, his Virginia, and his Philip II., are to be admired for elevation and strength of thought; but it is always the character of Alfieri, and not that of peculiar nations and peculiar times, which are to be discovered in them. Although there be no analogy between the French genius and that of Alfieri, they resemble each other in this, that both of them give their own colouring to every subject of which they treat."

The Count d' Erfeuil, hearing the French genius called in question, was induced to speak. "It would be impossible for us," said he, "to tolerate upon the stage either the incongruities of the Greeks or the monstrosities of Shakespeare; the French have too pure a taste for that. Our theatre is the model of delicacy and elegance: those are its distinguishing characteristics, and we should plunge ourselves into barbarism by introducing anything foreign amongst us."

"That would be like encompassing yourselves with the great wall of China," said Corinne, smiling. "There are certainly many rare beauties in your tragic authors; and perhaps they would admit of new ones, could you bring yourselves to tolerate anything not exactly French on your stage. But as for us Italians, our dramatic genius would be greatly diminished in submitting to the fetters of those laws which we had not the honour of inventing, and from which, consequently, we could derive nothing but their restraint. A theatre ought to be formed upon the imagination, the character, and the custom of a nation. The Italians are passionately fond of the fine arts, of music, painting, and even pantomime: of every thing, in short, that strikes the senses. How then could they be satisfied with the austerity of an eloquent dialogue, as their only theatrical pleasure?[24] Vainly has Alfieri, with all his genius, endeavoured to reduce them to it; he felt himself that his system was too rigorous.

"The Merope of Maffei, the Saul of Alfieri, the Aristodemus of Monti, and particularly the poem of Dante, although this last author never composed a tragedy, seem calculated to convey an idea of what the dramatic art might be brought to in Italy. There is in the Merope of Maffei, a great simplicity of action, but the most brilliant poetry, adorned with the happiest images: and why should this poetry be forbidden in dramatic works? The language of poetry is so magnificent in Italy that we should be more censurable than any other nation in renouncing its beauties. Alfieri, wishing to excel in every department of poetry, has, in his Saul, made a most beautiful use of the lyric; and one might with excellent effect introduce music itself into the piece, not so much to harmonise the words, as to calm the frenzy of Saul by the harp of David. So delicious is our music that it may even render us indolent as to intellectual enjoyments. Far therefore from wishing to separate music from the drama, it should be our earnest endeavour to unite them; not in making heroes sing, which destroys all dramatic effect, but in introducing choruses, as the ancients did, or such other musical aid, as may naturally blend with the situations of the piece, as so often happens in real life. So far from retrenching the pleasures of the imagination on the Italian stage, it is my opinion, that we should on the contrary augment and multiply them in every possible manner. The exquisite taste of the Italians for music, and for splendid ballets, is an indication of the power of their imagination, and manifests the necessity of rendering even the most serious subjects interesting to them, instead of heightening their severity as Alfieri has done. The nation conceive it their duty to applaud what is grave and austere; but they soon return to their natural taste; however, tragedy might become highly pleasing to them if it were embellished by the charm and the variety of different kinds of poetry, and with all the divers theatrical attractions which the English and the Spaniards enjoy.

"The Aristodemus of Monti has in it something of the terrible pathos of Dante; and surely this tragedy is very justly one of the most admired. Dante, that great master of various powers, possessed that kind of tragic genius which would have produced the most effect in Italy, if it could in any way be adapted to the stage; for that poet knew how to represent to the eye, what was passing at the bottom of the soul, and his imagination could make grief seen and felt. If Dante had written tragedies, they would have been as striking to children as to men, to the illiterate crowd as to the polished few. Dramatic literature ought to be popular; like some public event, the whole nation ought to judge of it."

"When Dante was living," said Oswald, "the Italians performed a distinguished part in the political drama of Europe. Perhaps it would now be impossible for you to have a national tragic theatre: it would be necessary for the existence of such a theatre, that great events should develop in life those sentiments which are expressed upon the stage. Of all the masterpieces of literature, there is not one which depends so much upon the whole people as tragedy; the spectators contribute to it as much as the author. Dramatic genius is composed of the public mind, of History, of government, of national customs, of everything, in fact, which each day blends itself with thought, and forms the moral being, as the air which we breathe nourishes physical existence. The Spaniards, with whom you have some affinity as to climate and religion, are much superior to you in dramatic genius; their pieces are filled with their history, their chivalry, and their religious faith, and these pieces possess life and originality; but their success, in this respect, dates back to the epoch of their historical glory. How then could it be possible now to establish in Italy, that which it never could boast of—a genuine tragic drama!"

"It is unfortunately possible that you may be in the right," replied Corinne; "however, I hope for greater things from the natural impulse of mind in Italy, and from the individual emulation of my countrymen, even when not favoured by external circumstances; but what we most want in tragedy is actors. Affected words necessarily lead to false declamation; but there is no language in which an actor can display so much talent as in ours; for the melody of sound gives a new charm to truth of accent: it is a continual music which mingles with the expression of feeling without diminishing its vigour." "If you wish," interrupted Prince Castel-Forte, "to convince the company of what you assert, it only remains for you to prove it: yes, allow us to enjoy the inexpressible pleasure of seeing you perform tragedy; you must grant these foreign gentlemen the rare enjoyment of being made acquainted with a talent which you alone in Italy possess; or rather that you alone in the world possess, since the whole of your genius is impressed upon it."

Corinne felt a secret desire to play tragedy before Lord Nelville, and by this means show herself to very great advantage; but she dared not accede to the proposal of Prince Castel-Forte, without that approbation of Oswald, which the looks she cast upon him earnestly entreated. He understood them; and as he was at the same time concerned at that timidity which had the day before prevented the exertion of her talent for improvisation, and ambitious that she should obtain the applause of Mr Edgermond, he joined in the solicitations of her friends. Corinne therefore no longer hesitated. "Well, then," said she, turning to Prince Castel-Forte, "we will accomplish the project which I have so long formed, of playing my own translation of Romeo and Juliet," "Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet?" cried Mr Edgermond; "you understand English, then?" "Yes," answered Corinne. "And you are fond of Shakespeare!" added Mr Edgermond. "As a friend," replied she; "he was so well acquainted with all the secrets of grief." "And you will perform in Italian," cried Mr Edgermond; "and I shall hear you! And you too, my dear Nelville. Ah, how happy you will be!" Then, repenting immediately this indiscreet word, he blushed: and a blush inspired by delicacy and goodness may be interesting at all periods of life. "How happy we shall be," resumed he, a little embarrassed, "to be present at such a representation!"

FOOTNOTES:

[23] Giovanni Pindemonte, has recently published a collection of Dramas, the subjects of which are taken from Italian history, and this is a very interesting and praiseworthy enterprize. The name of Pindemonte is also rendered illustrious by Hippolito Pindemonte, one of the sweetest and most charming of the present Italian poets.

[24] The posthumous works of Alfieri are just published, in which are to be found many exquisite pieces; but we may conclude from a rather singular Dramatic Essay, which he has written on the Death of Abel, that he himself was conscious that his pieces were too austere, and that on the stage more must be allowed to the pleasures of the imagination.



Chapter iii.

Every thing was arranged in a few days, the parts distributed, and the evening chosen for the performance in a palace belonging to a female relation of Prince Castel-Forte, and a friend of Corinne. Oswald felt a mixture of uneasiness and pleasure, at the approach of this new scene of triumph for the talents of Corinne. He enjoyed the by anticipation; but he was also jealous in the same manner, not of any man in particular, but of that whole audience in general who were to witness the talents of her whom he loved. He wished to be the only witness of her mental charms;—he wished that Corinne, timid and reserved, like an English woman, should possess eloquence and genius for none but him. However distinguished a man may be, perhaps he never enjoys, without alloy, the superiority of a woman: if he feel an affection for her, his heart is disturbed;—if not, his self-love is wounded. Oswald, in the presence of Corinne, was more intoxicated than happy; and the admiration which she inspired him with, increased his love without giving more stability to his projects. He contemplated her as an admirable phenomenon, which appeared to him anew every day; but even the transport and astonishment which she made him feel, seemed to render the hope of a peaceful and tranquil life more distant. Corinne, however, was of the tenderest and most easy disposition in private life; her ordinary qualities would have made her beloved independently of her brilliant ones; but yet again, she united in herself too much talent, and was too dazzling in every respect. Lord Nelville, with all his accomplishments, did not believe himself equal to her, and this idea inspired him with fears as to the duration of their mutual affection. Vainly did Corinne by force of love become his slave; the master, often uneasy about his captive queen, did not enjoy his empire undisturbed.

Some hours before the representation, Lord Nelville conducted Corinne to the palace of Princess Castel-Forte, where the theatre was fitted up. The sun shone most brilliantly, and from one of the windows of the stair-case, Rome and the Campagna were discovered. Oswald stopped Corinne a moment and said, "Behold this beautiful day, it is for your sake; it is to heighten the splendour of your fame." "Ah, if that were so," answered she, "it is you who would bring me happiness; it is to you that I should owe the protection of heaven." "Would the pure and gentle sentiments which the beauty of nature inspires, be sufficient to make you happy?" replied Oswald: "there is a great distance between the air that we breathe, the reverie which the country inspires, and that noisy theatre which is about to resound with your name." "Oswald," said Corinne, "if the applause which I am about to receive, have the power to affect me, will it not be because it is witnessed by you? And should I display any talent, will it not owe its success to you, who have animated and inspired it? Love, poetry, and religion, all that is born of enthusiasm, is in harmony with nature; and in beholding the azure sky, in yielding to the impression which it causes, I have a juster comprehension of the sentiments of Juliet, I am more worthy of Romeo." "Yes, thou art worthy of him, celestial creature!" cried Lord Nelville; "'tis only a weakness of the soul, this jealousy of thy talents, this desire to live alone with thee in the universe. Go, receive the meed of public homage, go; but let that look of love, still more divine than thy genius, be directed to me alone!" They then parted, and Lord Nelville went and took his seat in theatre, awaiting the pleasure of beholding the appearance of Corinne.

Romeo and Juliet is an Italian subject; the scene is placed in Verona, where is still to be seen the tomb of those two lovers. Shakespeare has written this piece with that Southern imagination at once impassioned and pleasing; that imagination which triumphs in happiness, but which, nevertheless, passes so easily from happiness to despair, and from despair to death. The impressions are rapid; but one easily feels that these rapid impressions will be ineffaceable. It is the force of nature, and not the frivolity of the heart, which beneath an energetic climate hastens the development of the passions. The soil is not light, though vegetation is prompt; and Shakespeare has seized, more happily than any other foreign writer, the national character of Italy and that fecundity of the mind which invents a thousand ways of varying the expression of the same sentiments—the oriental eloquence which makes use of all the images of nature to paint what is passing in the heart. It is not as in Ossian, one same tint, one uniform sound which responds constantly to the most sensitive chords of the heart; the multiplied colours that Shakespeare employs in Romeo and Juliet, do not give a cold affectation to his style; it is the ray divided, reflected, and varied, which produces these colours, in which we ever feel that fire they proceed from. There is a life and a brilliancy in this composition which characterise the country and the inhabitants. The play of Romeo and Juliet translated into Italian would only seem to return to its mother tongue.

The first appearance of Juliet is at a ball, where Romeo Montague has introduced himself into the house of the Capulets, the mortal enemies of his family. Corinne was dressed in a charming festive habit, conformable to the costume of the times. Her hair was tastefully adorned with precious stones and artificial flowers. Her friends did not know her on her first appearance, till her voice discovered her: her figure then became familiar to them; but it was in a manner deified, and preserved only a poetical expression. The theatre resounded with unanimous applause upon her appearance. Her first looks discovered Oswald, and rested upon him—a spark of joy, a lively and gentle hope, was painted in her countenance: on beholding her, every heart beat with pleasure and fear: it was felt that so much felicity could not last upon earth; was it for Juliet, or Corinne, that this presentiment was to be verified?

When Romeo approached to address to her in a low voice, the lines, so brilliant in English, so magnificent in the Italian translation, upon her grace and beauty, the spectators, charmed to hear their own sentiments so finely interpreted, joined in the transport of Romeo; and the sudden passion which the first look of Juliet kindled in his soul, appeared like reality to every eye. Oswald from this moment felt disturbed; it appeared to him that all was near to being revealed, that Corinne was about to be proclaimed an angel among women, that he should be forced to reveal his sentiments, that his claim would be disputed and the prize ravished from him—a kind of dazzling cloud seemed to pass before his eyes—he feared his sight might fail him—he was ready to faint, and retired for some moments behind a pillar. Corinne, uneasy, sought him with anxiety, and pronounced this line,

"Too early seen unknown, and known too late!"

with such a tone of voice, that Oswald started as he heard it, for it seemed to him to be applied to their personal situation.

He could never feel tired of admiring the grace of her actions, the dignity of her motions, and the expression of her countenance, in which was painted what language could not reveal, all those mysteries of the heart which cannot be reduced to words; but which, nevertheless, dispose of our life. The accent, the look, the least gesture of an actor, truly inspired and influenced by genuine emotion, are a continual revelation of the human heart; and the ideal of the fine arts is always mingled with these revelations of nature. The harmony of the verse and the charm of the attitudes, lend to passion that grace and dignity which it often wants in reality. Thus every sentiment of the heart, and every emotion of the soul, pass before the imagination without losing anything of their truth.

In the second act, Juliet appears in the balcony to converse with Romeo. Corinne had preserved, of her former ornaments, only the flowers, and those were soon to disappear: the theatre half-lighted to represent night, cast a milder reflection upon the countenance of Corinne. There was now something more melodious in her voice, than when surrounded with the splendour of a fete. Her hand lifted towards the stars, seemed to invoke the only witnesses worthy of hearing her, and when she repeated, "Romeo! Romeo!" although Oswald was certain that she thought of him, he felt jealous that these delicious accents should make the air resound with any other name than his. Oswald was seated opposite the balcony, and he who performed Romeo being a little concealed by the darkness of the scene, Corinne was enabled to fix her eyes upon Oswald when pronouncing these lines:

"In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond; And therefore thou may'st think my 'haviour light; But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true Than those that have more cunning to be strange. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * therefore pardon me."

At these words—"Pardon me! Pardon me for loving; pardon me for having let you know it!"—There was in Corinne's look, so tender a prayer and so much respect for her lover, so much exultation in her choice, when she said, "Noble Romeo! Fair Montague!" that Oswald felt as proud as he was happy. He raised his head, which tenderness had bowed down, and fancied himself the king of the world, since he reigned over a heart which contained all the treasures of life.

Corinne, perceiving the effect which she produced upon Oswald, became more and more animated by that emotion of the heart which alone produces miracles; and when at the approach of day, Juliet thought she heard the song of the lark—a signal for the departure of Romeo, the accents of Corinne possessed a supernatural charm: they described love, and nevertheless one might perceive that there was something of religious mystery in them, some recollections of heaven, with a presage that she was shortly to return thither; a kind of celestial melancholy, as of a soul exiled upon earth, but which was soon to be called to its divine home. Ah! how happy was Corinne the day that she represented the part of a noble character in a beautiful tragedy before the lover of her choice; how many years, how many lives would appear dull, compared to such a day!

If Lord Nelville could have performed, with Corinne, the part of Romeo, the pleasure which she would have tasted would not have been so complete. She would have desired to put aside the verses of the greatest poet in order to speak the dictates of her own heart; perhaps even her genius would have been confined by insurmountable timidity; she would not have dared to look at Oswald for fear of betraying herself, and truth would have destroyed the charm of art; but how sweet it was to know that he whom she loved was present when she experienced those exalted sentiments which poetry alone can inspire; when she felt all the charm of tender emotions, without their real pain; when the affection she expressed was neither personal nor abstract; and when she seemed to say to Lord Nelville, "See how I am able to love."

It is impossible when the situation is our own to be satisfied with ourselves: passion and timidity alternately transport and check us—inspire us either with too much bitterness or too much submission; but to appear perfect without affectation; to unite calm to sensibility, which too frequently destroys it; in a word, to exist for a moment in the sweetest reveries of the heart; such was the pure enjoyment of Corinne in performing tragedy. She united to this pleasure that of all the plaudits she received; and her look seemed to place them at the feet of Oswald, at the feet of him whose simple approval she valued more than all her fame. Corinne was happy, at least for a moment! for a moment, at least, she experienced at the price of her repose, those delights of the soul which till then she had vainly wished for, and which she would ever have to regret!

Juliet in the third act becomes privately, the wife of Romeo. In the fourth, her parents wishing to force her to marry another, she determines to take the opiate which she receives from the hand of a friar, and which is to give her the appearance of death. All the motions of Corinne, her disturbed gait, her altered accent, her looks, sometimes animated and sometimes dejected, painted the cruel conflict of fear and love, the terrible images which pursued her at the idea of being transported alive to the tomb of her ancestors, and the enthusiasm of passion, which enabled a soul, so young, to triumph over so natural a terror. Oswald felt an almost irresistible impulse to fly to her aid. At one time she lifted her eyes towards heaven, with an ardour which deeply expressed that need of divine protection, from which no human being was ever free. At another time, Lord Nelville thought he saw her stretch her arms towards him to ask his assistance—he rose up in a transport of delirium, and then sat down immediately, brought to his senses by the astonished looks of those about him; but his emotion became so strong that it could no longer be concealed.

In the fifth act, Romeo, who believes Juliet dead, lifts her from the tomb before she awakes and presses her to his heart. Corinne was clad in white, her black hair dishevelled, and her head inclined upon Romeo with a grace, and nevertheless an appearance of death, so affecting and so gloomy, that Oswald felt himself shaken with the most opposite impressions. He could not bear to see Corinne in the arms of another, and he shuddered at beholding the image of her whom he loved, apparently deprived of life; so that in fact he felt, like Romeo, that cruel combination of despair and love, of death and pleasure, which makes this scene the most agonising that ever was represented on a stage. At length, when Juliet awakes in this tomb, at the foot of which her lover has just immolated himself, when her first words in her coffin, beneath these funeral vaults, are not inspired by the terror which they ought to cause, when she exclaims:

"Where is my lord? Where is my Romeo?"

Lord Nelville replied by deep groans, and did not return to himself till Mr Edgermond conducted him out of the theatre.

The piece being finished, Corinne felt indisposed from emotion and fatigue. Oswald entered first into her apartment, where he saw her alone with her women, still in the costume of Juliet, and, like Juliet, almost swooning in their arms. In the excess of his trouble he could not distinguish whether it was truth or fiction, and throwing himself at the feet of Corinne, exclaimed, in English:

"Eyes look your last! Arms take your last embrace."

Corinne, still wandering, cried: "Good God! what do you say? are you going to leave me?"—"No;" interrupted Oswald, "I swear—" At that instant the crowd of Corinne's friends and admirers forced the door in order to see her. Her eyes were fixed upon Oswald, listening with anxiety for what he was about to answer; but there was no opportunity for further conversation between them during the whole evening, for they were not left alone a single instant.

Never had the performance of a tragedy produced such an effect in Italy. The Romans extolled with transport the talents of Corinne, both as the representative of Juliet, and the translator of the piece. They said that this was truly the species of tragedy which suited the Italians, which painted their manners, moved the soul by captivating the imagination, and gave effect to their beautiful language, in a style alternately eloquent and lyrical, inspired and natural. Corinne received all these praises with the sweetest air imaginable; but her soul remained suspended on the words "I swear,"—which Oswald had pronounced when he was prevented by the entrance of the company from concluding his sentence: this word might in truth contain the secret of her destiny.



Book viii.

THE STATUES AND THE PICTURES.



Chapter i.

After the day which had passed, Oswald could not close his eyes during the night. He had never been so near sacrificing every thing to Corinne. He did not even desire to know her secret; or rather, before he was acquainted with it, he wished to contract a solemn engagement, to consecrate his life to her. For some hours uncertainty seemed banished from his mind; and he took pleasure in composing, in his thoughts, the letter which he should write to her on the morrow, and which would decide his fate. But this confidence in happiness, this reliance upon resolution, was of no long duration. His thoughts soon reverted to the past, he remembered that he had loved, much less, it is true, than he loved Corinne; and the object of his first choice could not be compared to her; but nevertheless it was this sentiment which had hurried him away to thoughtless actions, to actions which had torn the heart of his father.—"Ah! who knows," cried he, "whether he would not fear equally to-day, lest his son should forget his native country and the duties which he owes it?"

"Oh thou!" said he, addressing the portrait of his father, "thou, the best friend I shall ever have upon earth, I can no longer hear thy voice, but teach me by that silent look which yet retains such power over my soul, inform me what I am to do, that now at least in thy celestial abode, thou mayest be satisfied with the conduct of thy son! Forget not, however, that need of happiness which consumes mortal man—be indulgent in heaven, as thou wert upon earth! I shall become better if I am allowed to taste of happiness; if I am permitted to live with this angelic creature, to have the honour of protecting, of saving such a woman.—Of saving her?" continued he suddenly; "and from what? From a life of homage, of fame, and of independence!"—This reflection, which originated in himself, terrified him like an inspiration of his father.

In conflicts of sentiment, who has not felt that kind of secret superstition which makes us take our own thoughts for presages, and our sufferings for a warning from heaven? Ah! how bitter is the struggle between passion and conscience, in susceptible minds!

Oswald paced his chamber under the most cruel agitation, sometimes stopping to look at the moon, which in Italy is so mild and so beautiful. The aspect of nature inspires resignation; but it is without effect upon a mind racked with uncertainty. The next day arrived without bringing any relief to his distracted thoughts, and when the Count d'Erfeuil and Mr Edgermond came to visit him, they were uneasy as to the state of his health, so much was he altered by the anxieties of the night. The Count d'Erfeuil was the first who spoke.—"It must be allowed," said he, "that yesterday's entertainment was charming. Corinne is a most admirable woman. I lost half her words, but I understood everything from her voice and her countenance. What a pity it is, that a rich lady should be possessed of this talent! For if she were in humbler circumstances, and unrestrained as she is, she might embrace the stage as a profession; and to have an actress like her, would be the glory of Italy."

Oswald received a painful impression from this speech, and yet could not tell how to make it known. For there was that about the Count, that one could not be angry at what he said, even though it were disagreeable to one's feelings. None but sensitive minds understand those delicate precautions which they owe each other: self-love, so alive to every thing that affects itself, hardly ever thinks of the susceptibility of others.

Mr Edgermond praised Corinne in the most becoming and flattering terms. Oswald answered him in English, in order to relieve the conversation about Corinne from the disagreeable eulogiums of the Count. "I see I am one too many here," said the Count; "well I will pay a visit to Corinne: she will not be sorry I dare say to hear my observations upon her acting yesterday evening. I have some advice to give her, too, upon details; but these details are very essential to the effect of the whole: she is really so astonishing a woman that one should neglect nothing to assist her in attaining perfection.—And besides," said he, inclining towards Nelville's ear, "I wish to encourage her to play tragedy more often: 'tis a certain way to get married by some foreigner of distinction who may pass through this city. As to you and me, my dear Oswald, that idea does not concern us, we are too much accustomed to charming women to commit foolish things; but who knows? a German prince, or a Spanish grandee—" At these words Oswald rose up almost beside himself, and it is impossible to conceive what would have been the issue, if the Count d'Erfeuil had perceived his emotion; but he was so satisfied with his last reflection, that he tripped away lightly, not in the least suspecting that he had offended Lord Nelville: had he known it, though he loved him as much as man could love another, he would certainly have remained. The brilliant valour of the Count, contributed still more than his self-love to render him blind to his defects. As he was extremely delicate in everything that regarded honour, he did not imagine that he could be wanting with respect to sensibility; and believing himself, not without reason, amiable and brave, he was pleased with his lot, and did not suspect there was any more profound way of regarding life than his own.

None of the sentiments which agitated Oswald had escaped Mr Edgermond, and when the Count d'Erfeuil was gone, he said to him—"My dear Oswald, I take my leave,—I am going to Naples."—"Why so soon?" answered Nelville. "Because it is not good for me to stay here," continued Edgermond; "I am fifty years of age, and nevertheless I am not sure that Corinne would not make a fool of me."—"And even in that case," interrupted Oswald, "what would be the consequence?"—"Such a woman is not formed to live in Wales," replied Mr Edgermond; "believe me, my dear Oswald, only Englishwomen are fit for England: it does not become me to give you advice, I need not assure you that I shall not mention a word of what I have seen; but with all Corinne's accomplishments, I should say, with Thomas Walpole, of what use is all that at home? And, you know the home is all with us, all for our women at least. Imagine to yourself your beautiful Italian alone, while you are hunting or attending your duty in Parliament; imagine her leaving you at dessert to get tea ready against you shall leave table! Dear Oswald, depend upon it our women possess those domestic virtues which are to be found nowhere else. The men in Italy have nothing to do but to please the women; therefore the more attractive they are the better. But with us, where men have active pursuits, women must be satisfied with the shade. That it would be a great pity to condemn Corinne to such a destiny, I freely acknowledge. I should be glad to see her upon the throne of England; but not beneath my humble roof. My lord, I knew your mother, whose loss was so much lamented by your worthy father: she was a lady in every respect like my young cousin. Such is the wife, which, were I at a proper time of life, I should choose. Adieu, my dear friend, do not be offended at what I have said, for nobody can be a greater admirer of Corinne than I am, and I own to you that after all were I at your time of life, I doubt whether I could have sufficient fortitude to renounce the hope of becoming agreeable to her."—In finishing, these words, he took the hand of Oswald, squeezed it cordially, and departed without receiving a word in reply. But Mr Edgermond comprehended the cause of his silence, and satisfied with a pressure of the hand from Oswald in answer to his own, he went away, impatient himself to finish a conversation which was painful to him.